Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jaskier stumbled down the side of the mountain, angry. In fact, he was so enraged that he didn't have the words to describe how mad he was. 

He also couldn’t stop the pathetic whimper he let out. He wasn't just angry. He was seething, raging, but also heartbroken. His heart may as well have been ripped out of his chest and crushed under Geralt's boot. It wasn't like it even belonged to Jaskier anymore. It hadn't for more years than he could count. It belonged to Geralt, and he was a careless fucking fool with it. Which had led to Jaskier stumbling down the side of a mountain with tears blurring his vision and nothing but a blind hope he was going in the right direction. 

His hope paid off when he heard Roach's distinctive sound. At her calls, more tears poured down his face. 

Jaskier rushed the rest of the way to where she was still tied up and pushed his face into her neck. He wasn't sure how long he stood there, sobbing into her coat, but stand there he did. 

Roach, usually a grouchy beast at best, just stood there, her head resting on Jaskier's shoulder as she allowed him to cry his pain out, an almost alien sentinel as he tried to purge the pain he knew he would never be rid of. 

Eventually, he ran out of tears, though his eyes felt heavy and painful. He took one last deep, shuddering sigh before stepping back and gently stroking Roach's nose sadly. "Thank you, girl. Look after him, won't you, though he doesn't deserve it. Or you or me," Jaskier whispered before he pressed a soft kiss on Roach's muzzle. 

He then turned to her saddlebags, roughly, quickly dividing his and Geralt's things. It had been a long time since they had separate ones. Geralt's things often ended up wherever Jaskier wintered, and Jaskier often never made it back from Kear Morhen, though he was never sure why. 

He took great pains to ensure all of Geralt's potions and oils were placed back in his bags, not wanting him to die from lack of them, though a bit of maiming he would heal from wouldn't go amiss. 

Jaskier finally stood there and finished dividing his and Geralt's lives up. He fought hard not to curl up and sob right then and there. He was stronger than that. Could be stronger than a wilting maiden who lost herself to heartbreak. He refused to act like that for a man who had never loved him in any way. Just because he had given Geralt his entire heart, well, he now knew Geralt didn't even consider them friends. It was also painfully obvious that Geralt must not even LIKE Jaskier, though he could never be sure why he had put up with him for so long. 

He let out a mournful sigh that echoed off the mountain and surrounded him, all but screaming his pain back at him before he shouldered his pack and turned to leave. 

As he stepped away, he turned quickly at Roach's distressed whinnies. Not that he could do anything if there was, but Jaskier whipped around, ready to defend her if necessary. But there was nothing there, just Roach pulling at her reins as he walked away from her, from Geralt. 

"Oh, sweetheart, you can't come with me. You have to stay, my lovely," Jaskier whispered as he soothed her, preparing her for him to leave again. He placed another kiss on her muzzle and turned, managing to get a few more steps before she started whinnying and calling out in even more distress. 

"Roach, darling, stop," Jaskier called as he rushed back to her. "Enough, sweet girl, before you harm yourself. You have to stay, and I have to go. He … it appears he only loves fiery mares and violet-eyed women," Jaskier said with a sad, almost desperate laugh. 

He stroked her once more before finally turning to leave and never cross paths with Geralt again; after all, he knew where he wasn't wanted. 

He got even further this time, almost around the bend, before he turned at the horrendous noise Roach was making. She was all but screeching. Thrashing and bucking, trying to rip her reins off the tree. 

Jaskier once again ran back to her. He couldn't allow her to harm herself. 

He took deep breaths as he soothed Roach unsure what to do. He obviously couldn't leave her if she was going to act like this. She would hurt herself, or worse, call a monster down to do it for her when she was tied up and defenceless with no Geralt insight. 

Jaskier stayed there stroking and calming Roach for who knew how long. Still, he was very aware of time slipping away from him and the fact that whilst Geralt could throw him away like he was yesterday's rubbish, he would never do the same for Roach. 

It was then that a cruel, terrible idea came to him. One that had him giggling at its sheer meanness and one he would take full advantage of. 

"Alright, sweet, sweet girl. Let's go," Jaskier said, looking up the path. Not sure if he wanted Geralt to suddenly materialise down it and stop him or to get away with this darling horse that that fool of witcher did not and had never deserved. 

In the end, the light rain that started to drizzle chose for Jaskier. He was already smarting and brokenhearted; he didn't need to be soaking wet, too. 

He removed Geralt's saddle bags from Roach's saddle and attached them high in a tree. Leaving his own water skin and his food, as well as half of their coin that was usually in a shared purse. He may be angry, but he didn't want Geralt to go hungry or thirsty, even if Jaskier knew that, in reality, he could withstand days without either. 

He once again cursed his fool heart for still caring about the jackass before attaching his one saddle bags to Roach and carefully picking his way down the mountain, gaining speed and getting as far away from Geralt as possible as soon as the land levelled out. 

He refused to look back, refused to think about what he had lost, especially when he gave Roach her head, and she galloped away with a heart-sore bard on her back. 

Chapter Text

Eskel and Lambert laughed as they gently pushed one another into the shallows of the ocean as they walked along the beach. It wasn’t often that they met up on the Path, and it was even rarer that it was in a fairly nice destination with decent weather.

Eskel was about to push Lambert into the surf when he noticed Scorpion pull ahead of him and pull at his reins. 

“What’s gotten into him?” Lambert asked with a raised eyebrow. 

“No bloody clue. He never behaves like this. Only when we are almost home,” Eskel said, frowning at his war horse. He was usually such a placid, good boy who was obedient even without Axii. And yet, now he was acting like an untrained colt. 

“Wait … is that?” Lambert asked as he looked off into the distance, 

“What?” Eskel snapped as he tried to control his horse. 

“It’s Roach,” Lambert said as he looked forward at the small figure of a horse in the distance. 

“Oh, thank fuck. I thought Scorpion had lost his damn mind,” Eskel said as he soothed the horse. He was just excited and confused to see Roach. Geralt and he had gotten Scorpion and this Roach the same year and the two were the firmest of friends. “What is Geralt doing at the coast?” Eskel suddenly asked as he looked over to where Roach was. 

“I don’t think it’s Geralt …” Lambert said as he trained his eyes on the colourful blob with Roach. 

“What do you mean by that?” Eskel asked with a sigh. 

“Whoever is with Roach is colourful and we heard them singing, even distantly. Got to be Geralt’s Bard, right?” Lambert asked, looking at Eskel.

“You say Geralt isn’t there?” 

“Yep, no white-haired miserable bastards that I can see,” Lambert agreed.

“He’s probably on a hunt or something then. I mean, I suppose after all these years he would trust the bard with his horses. He would be stupid not to,” Eskel said thoughtfully. 

Lambert didn’t answer. He just veered them away from where Geralt’s pet bard was and back off the beach. “We should go do that contract now and then bother the bard afterwards. Geralt always says it’s obvious when he is in a tavern, and there's only one in a two-day ride of here,” Lambert explained as he walked off, Eskel following after him with a very disgruntled Scorpion behind him, the horse sad not to be meeting up with his friend. “It’s alright, Scorp, we will see her later, alright?” Eskel said soothingly as he, too, turned away from the Bard and Roach, hoping that Geralt also had some fun on the beach the way his horse and bard seemed to be, 

Eskel and Lambert entered the tavern a few days later, hoping Geralt and his Bard were still around. The nest of  Arachnomorphs was larger than either expected but small enough that they made it out with only a few cuts and a mile case of venom poison that a Golden Oriole each had sorted out. It had also helped to regulate Lambert, who’d had to take a potion of

Petri’s Philter to keep up with Eskel and his signs and to stop them both from becoming spider-monster food.

So it was that two grimy and exhausted witchers made their way back to the tavern and entered, expecting the place to hush and kick them out as soon as they stepped foot inside. Not that either minded too much. They were more than happy to camp outside; they were only stopping here to see if Geralt and his flashy bard were still about and, hopefully, to get a pint of ale before they were sent on their way.

“Bard’s here,” Eskel said with a nod of his head in the direction of the brightly coloured man who was prancing around and singing. “Still can’t see Geralt, though …”

“Must be in their room or something. He said they often share, right?” Lambert asked as he headed towards the bar.

“Maybe,” Eskel said, unable to ignore the feeling he had that something wasn't quite right here.

The barmaid barely raised an eyebrow at the filthy witchers as she handed them their tankards and took their coin. Lambert looked at Eskel and shrugged. He wasn’t going to complain about decent treatment.

The bard had been dancing and singing at the top of his lungs when he finally caught sight of Eskel and Lambert. The two witchers watched as his eyes closed for a brief moment, and his smile slipped.

“He’s good,” Lambert said as he watched the bard all but shake whatever that reaction was off and continued with the song he was singing. As far as Lambert could tell, no one else had even noticed that he had slipped, it being barely a moment as it had been,

“Yeah, but … that’s an odd reaction, isn’t it?” Eskel asked Lambert so lowly that only another witcher would have heard him. “Geralt said he was keen to meet any witchers, so why react like that?”

Lambert looked at Eskel in surprise. Geralt had said that his bard was itching to speak to other witchers. Considering Geralt’s almost mono-syllabic nature, Lambert wouldn’t have been surprised if that was true. “Esk …”

“I know. Something is fishy here, and it isn’t the air.”

When the two stopped whispering and finally started paying attention to the bard again, they realised that the song had changed, but so had the entire tone of his music. They could smell his pain and melancholy all the way at the bar as they were, and it rolled off the bard in waves.

“What the fuck?” Lambert asked at the dramatic change in the man Geralt said was usually happy, if petty, most of the time.

It was then that they paid attention to the song the bard was singing and how the heartbreak stench increased with each word.

I hear you're alive… how disappointing.”

Eskel’s brow furrowed at the words, wondering who had hurt the bard for him to be singing this and why Geralt wasn’t here consoling the man that the other witchers knew he loved, even if Geralt was too stupid to realise it himself.

“I’ve also survived no thanks to you …”

“Well shit, someone fucked him over good,” Lambert said with a low whistle, not prickling with the same unease the Eskel was.

“Did I not bring you some glee, Mr. Oh-Look-At-Me?”

“Now, I’ll burn all the memories of you.

“Do you think …”

“Yes, I do, Lambert. He’s talking about Geralt.”

“So you don’t think Geralts here then?”

“No, I do not think Geralt’s here; otherwise we would have seen him by now. He would have realised we were here and come down. And it’s been too long for him to still be on a contract, plus well …” Eskel said as he pointed to a clearly enraged and bitter bard eviscerating their brother in song.

"All those lonely miles that you ride…”

“Now you’ll WALK with no one by your side.”

“he stole the horse,” Lambert said, having to consciously keep his mouth from dropping open. Who the fuck was stupid enough to steal a witcher’s horse? A clearly pissed-off bard, it appeared.

“What makes you think that?”

“Eskel, he is angry, and he has had Roach for days with no Geralt in sight. And did you not hear the way he spat out the word walk? Didn’t Geralt always say he didn't let the bard ride Roach and he had to walk everywhere? Now it looks like Geralt is walking, and from his stories, his bard is petty enough to steal his horse after whatever pissed him off.”

“I don’t think he’s pissed off …”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s hurting. Smell the tears he’s holding back, the pain in that voice. Geralt did something bullshitty again.”

“That’s still no excuse to steal a man’s horse, Eskel.”

“Dunno, depends on what he did.”

“Eskel! He stole Geralt’s horse, and now he is …”

After everything we did, we saw

You turned your back on me

What for d'you yearn?

Watch that Butcher burn.

“He did not!” Lambert growled out, taking a step forward at the word Butcher.

Jaskier had seen them, and he sent Lambert and Eskels a fake and nasty smile as he continued to sing.

Burn, Butcher, burn

Burn, Butcher, burn

Burn, burn, burn, burn, burn, burn, burn, burn

Watch me burn all the memories of you

“That’s our brother he’s talking about.”

“Yeah, I know,” Eskel agreed, his heart already aching for whenever Geralt heard this song and knew what his bard was singing about him. This obviously wasn’t just some petty fight, and Eskel didn't want to take sides, considering the bard had been by his brother’s side for over twenty years, but how could he not when the bard would have known how painful just hearing that word out of his mouth would have been for Geralt?

The applause was instant and overwhelming to both of the witchers as they tried to make their way through the throng of drunken idiots to the witcher. Lambert wasn’t sure if he was going to punch the bastard first or shake him for information, but whatever he was going to do must have been clear on his face because without missing a beat as he scooped up his coin, lute case and tankard Jaskier turned back to the audience, faux smile still in place as he called out, “Ladies and Gentlemen, look. Two witchers. Two heroes. Brave men who have rid you of your monster problem,” his smile becoming a little more real as he saw Eskel and Lambert get mobbed by the friendly tavern patrons.

“Toss a coin to your witchers, oh valley of plenty,” Jaskier belted out before sowing his drink.

By the time Eskel and Lambert had managed to get out of the tavern and away from the crowd, they were breathing heavily. Having never received such a friendly welcome anywhere outside of Kear Morhen.

“Do you think it’d always be like this for Geralt?2 Lambert asked, still shocked over the amount of coin that had been freely shoved into his hands.

“Can’t be. He’s always complaining about the bard and how he makes his life harder,” Eskel replied, unsure if that was true, considering the bard had clearly been angry at Geralt and yet had made sure Eskel and Lambert were well received. Though that was an odd thing to have added on, Eskel thought to himself. Especially considering they hadn’t even gotten close to the bard.

They hadn’t gotten close to the bard, and now he was nowhere in sight … “fuck!” Eskel cursed as he ran around to the back of the tavern to the stables.

“What?” Lambert asked as he ran just behind Eskel.

“The toss a coin song was a distraction. I bet Roach is … Yep, gone!”

“He took the horse again? He really did steal her, didn’t he?”

“Not just Roach,” Eskel added in disbelief when he looked at the stall where Scorpion had been when he put him up for a few hours.

“What do you mean, not just Roach?” Lambert asked before he was side by side with his brother, able to see the two empty stalls next to one another.

Lambert walked towards where his and Eskel’s saddle bags had been left, carefully placed and concealed in the corner before he scowled at where Scorpion should have been. “He stole your horse Esk,” he said aloud, impressed by the balls on the bard and seriously pissed off with him too.

“I can’t believe he stole my horse. I didn’t do anything to him,” Eskel muttered in disbelief.

“Why do you think he stole the bloody horses?”

“I’d have said he stole Geralt’s because he’s obviously pissed. But again, I didn’t do anything.”

“What we gonna do?”

“Find him. I want my horse back”!” Eskel declared as he moved to shoulder his pack, thrusting Lambert’s at him.

“And what about Roach?” Lambert asked.

“I suppose it depends on what Geralt did and whether the bard is taking care of her properly. Either way, we won't know until we find them.”

With that, both witchers set off into the night, following a bard and two stolen horses, hoping they would catch up with him soon and put all this behind them. Hoping that Roach and Scorpion were safe and sound and that the bard, hopefully, felt sorry for having stolen a man’s horse.

Chapter Text

Vesemir had been having a quiet season. It was almost time for autumn to turn into winter, and as hectic as the keep was with all three grown witchers who acted like children, it soothed Vesemir’s soul to have them home where they were safe and could rest during the coldest and most dangerous part of the year.

Vesemir himself was coming up from one of the few villages he still travelled to. They’d had a ghoul problem and had sent Vesemir a pigeon asking if he could come and clear it for them so that when the land eventually thawed out in four or so months, the small surrounding villages wouldn’t be besieged by ghouls that had bred all through the quite sleepy winter when no witchers were about.

Of course, Vesemir had agreed. These villages and their villagers were kind to him and his boys. Paying Vesemir with long-lasting foods and silage for the few animals he kept at Kear Morhen. They had grown up seeing witchers come through their villages twice a year their entire lives and Vesemir knew that it wasn’t these villagers who had attacked them during the pogroms. No, these villagers and their people had suffered too, for daring to be kind to witchers. For arguing that no, they wouldn’t slay the ones who kept them safe. They did not condone anyone murdering children regardless of who or what they were going to grow up to be, and they had suffered for it.

The last village before the mountain pass had once been a small town. It had taken a few generations for it to grow again, for the people to finally have enough of a population to start expanding. Vesemir had made it known that he and any of his boys were more than happy to help them with any monster problems they had. In fact, the village’s ghouls and wraiths were often used as a warm-up for Geralt, Lambert and Eskel when they left the keep. The three younger witchers raced around the area for a few days, killing anything that might be a bother between the start of spring and the beginning of winter, with Vesemir destroying anything that bothered the villagers in the meantime.

The co-dependency worked well for all involved, and it was an unwritten agreement that no one watched which way the witchers went when they left the final village. The Path was deadly, so the pigeons were the only way to alert Vesemir to their predicaments and that no matter what, no human was to step foot on the trail known as The Killer for a reason, or they would be seen as a threat.

Which was why Vesemir was surprised to hear the sound of a small herd of horses when he was almost at Kear Morhen’s gates. It was also why he was surprised to see a colourful man shouting at both the horses and the now empty keep. Shouting for Vesemir in fact.

“How do you know my name?” Vesemir growled out from behind the man. He was satisfied with how the man jumped and whirled around, hand on his chest as his heart rate skyrocketed.

Vesemir had to admit to himself that he was slightly impressed with how quickly the man regained his composure, and his glare reviled that of any witcher. Vesemir was also surprised when the man opened his mouth and started to shout at him, with no hint of fear (short of surprise) in his scent.

“Fucking witchers! Can’t be normal about anything, can you? No! You are too big to be silent, and yet you manage it anyway. You have to creep up on people and don’t get me fucking started on your shitty witcher scowls. I bet they teach you that in puppy school, too, right?” The man ranted.

Vesemir watched as the man became more and more heated up, his face going red as he continued to insult witchers, specifically wolf witchers, right to Vesemir’s face.

“Wait, you met Coen?” Vesemir finally interrupted when he recognised the lone griffon’s name in the middle of the man’s rant.

“Yes, I have, and he is charming. Unlike the manticores and the vipers and every Melatite damned wolf I’ve ever met or had the grace to travel with. And yes, I’m lumping you into that category, too, Master Vesemir. After all, I have just traversed the Path known as THE KILLER, and I’m still stuck outside your keep doors whilst you sit there gawping at me. It is, quite frankly, rude. Not that I’m surprised by the lack of manners from a wolf witcher of all people at this point,” the man added with a tilt of his head, somehow looking down his nose at Vesemir whilst being on the ground looking up at the ageing witcher.

“Now, I have a lot of horses and I would like to get them into the very large stable you have, please?” the man all but ordered Vesemir, even if he tacked please on the end of his statement.

“And how do you know we have a large stable?” Vesemir asked, his frown growing as his suspicious nature did, too.

“Because I am not an idiot, good sir!” Jaskier snarked back, well and truly done with this conversation. “I am here to hand over all of these lovely horses and be on my way.”

“Why would you bring them here? How did you even know where to find us?”

“You say that as though it’s hard to find you? Your super secret needs to be more secret, to be honest. The wolves head back here every winter. There is a village before this mountain that praises witchers. It really isn’t hard to figure out,” Jaskier said with a roll of his eyes. That first year Geralt had told him he was south for the winter, Jaskier had hit the Oxenfurt libraries, and lo and behold, there was mention of the pogroms and a witcher keep in the Kaedwenian mountains and from there, it hadn’t taken much to figure out his route and where his home was. Not that Geralt knew Jaskier knew. Well, he would soon, Jaskier supposed. Especially when he saw all the horses bar Roach in the stables when he returned for the winter, and Jaskier was once again long gone.

“Just who are you?” Vesemir demanded once again. Still surprised by the lack of fear and the sheer impertinence of the young man before him. Humans hated witchers. They needed them and still treated them like shit, and yet this one was arguing with Vesemir, hands on his hips as he glared at the oldest living witcher. Vesemir was both amazed by his gall and shocked by his fearlessness.

“Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhoven at your service, Master Vesemir,” Jaskier said as he presented himself with a perfect courtly bow. “Now, there were a … few … mishaps, and somehow I acquired a lot of horse. I was hoping I would be able to stable them here?”Jaskier tried again. He really wanted to just leave the horses and gallop away into the sunset long before anyone came to find them.

“Look, lad ...”

“Sir, I am tired. I have made it up here, and I wish to leave the horses with you. I am not above just leaving them right outside of your front gate. So please, either let me in to stable them or let me be on my way,” Jaskier finally snapped. He and Vesemir were just going around in circles, and he was sick to death of witchers and all the bullshit that came with them. How he wished he could tell his heart the same thing and have it actually accept that it was done with one witcher in particular.

Vesemir smelt no decent on the male before him. Just tiredness and sadness. With a sigh, he decided to let the boy in; after all, there were horses hanging around his front gate, and they at least deserved to be somewhere comfortable whilst he tried to get more information out of the lad. “Very well, Julian, give me a moment,” Vesemir grunted before finally getting off his own horse and pushing his way through the herd of 9 horses Julian had. For a moment, Vesemir believed he recognised a few of the horses but then shook his head at his own fancy. After all, how would he recognise the horses of a random noble who was obviously up to something? If he wasn’t, he wouldn’t be up at a witcher’s keep in the first place.

It took some time for Jaskier to stable eight of the nine horses with him, keeping Roach aside and having made sure Scorpion was in the midst of the others, sure that Vesemir would recognise the two quickly if he really looked. He peeked out of the stable to see Vesemir was nowhere in sight before he kissed all the horses on their muzzles and then took Roach’s reigns in hand. He was surprised she didn’t fight him on wanting to stay in the stall that was clearly hers, but she was just as adamant about following him this time as she had been up on Caingorn. “You’re a good girl, aren’t you?” Jaskier crooned to her, smiling as she nuzzled at his hair. “Yes, you are, and I know you deserve as much a rest as the others, but we have to go,” Jaskier told her as he walked out of the stables, ignoring the other horses as they fussed at his leaving, especially Scorpion.

Jaskier had made sure their stall doors were thoroughly locked. He was not at all surprised by how intelligent witcher horses were, yet he was still surprised by how adamantly they wanted to follow him for whatever reason. If only their owners (and possibly a white-haired witcher Jaskier was NOT thinking about) were as intelligent as their mounts.

“And why do you have to leave?” Vesemir asked from the shadows he had been hiding in as he listened to the man go about the task of settling the horses. Vesemir was old, but he wasn’t stupid. He recognised half the horses in his stables and wanted to know where their witchers were. He may have also taken a bit of perverse joy at the man’s reaction once again.

“For fucks sake! We just spoke about this. Bastard witchers and your sneakiness and your bullheadedness and your inability to not be such arseholes!” Jaskier turned around, shouting at the aged witcher, his temper well and truly unable to be stopped now. “You would think you would all be fucking grateful. You’re absolutely not welcome for all the time and effort I have put into fixing your reputations. None of you. Bar Coen, who is a wonderful gentleman, and you don’t deserve him! The rest of you, fuck you all! You can rot in your ruin of a home. In your belief that you don’t deserve better. In the way you antagonise every fucker who tries to aid you because you are all so fucking old and bitter and jaded that you would look at the man who wasted 20 pissing years trying to make your lives better and treat him like shit! I don’t just sing of the Bastard White Wolf, you know. I have songs for all the witchers I have met. Songs about witchers in general. I turned that Melatite damned awful lullaby into an actual lullaby that mothers now sing to soothe their children instead of scare them, and you are all such jackasses that instead of thanks, I get insulted, ridiculed and thrown away on top of a fucking mountain. Oh, and when Letho comes to collect his horse, remind him that my lack of witcher muscle does not make me weak, but his inability to not be a prick makes him weaker than I will ever be,” Jaskier finished, heaving deep breaths and ignoring the tears falling down his face.

Jaskier had met more witchers in the last 5 months since he had been without Geralt than he had in the 22 years he had travelled with the other man, and every one of them he had spoken to were dicks. He understood they weren’t treated fairly. Jaskier, more than anyone, understood how they were shunned from human society. He had walked beside Geralt as it had happened to him in real time. He had tried to shield the witcher from the aggressiveness of some humans. Had stood between Geralt and loss of pay, of being stoned out of towns and villages alike. In one memorable incident, Jaskier had even stood in front of a knife aimed for Geralt’s back and still had the scar to prove it and yet almost every witcher he had met didn’t know a good thing when they saw it. They didn’t know how to say thank you or how to keep their mouths closed. Instead, they opened them, and spitefulness spewed forth from each and every one of them. All of it had been aimed at the man who had tried (and succeeded in many ways) to change their lives and image for the better, and this was the thanks he got?

Well, fuck them all!

After he had gotten his breath back and wiped his eyes on his doublet, Jaskier raised his head as high as he could hold it, bowed gracefully at Vesemir, grabbed Roach’s reigns and started to move forward again. “I thank you for stabling the horses, Sir. I’m sure their owners will be along shortly, and as such, I shall not be here. None of the witchers have been harmed. I would never even dare to try. I wouldn’t ever want to, regardless of how rude you and your kin are,” he said with what little dignity he had left.

Jaskier’s heart ached at not only his treatment at the hands of the others but also at all of his remembered faults, and the reasons why Geralt had finally thrown him away after all these years. “You do not have to worry. I have sworn off witchers permanantly from now one. No more songs, no more trying to help you all. I will leave you all in peace and I hope you fair well Master Vesemir, that I truly mean.”

“Wait, are you Jaskier? The bard?” Vesemir asked, now understanding why the man before him seemed so familiar. Vesemir may not have met Jaskier before, but Geralt had come home every year covered in the bard’s scent, and Vesemir had heard nothing but wonderful things about the bard’s aid from both Lambert, Eskel and Guxart the few times Vesemir had met up with the other older witcher. From what Guxart had said, Jaskier had spun the Cat’s penchant for assassinations and thieving into heroic ballads of saving wronged spouses and reclaiming already stolen artefacts. Jaskier had turned their less-than-ideal reputation into one that Guxart had said many of his Cats now took pride in. Especially one of Guxart’s favourite kits, Dragonfly, who was called the Widow-maker and was one of the few surviving female witchers. She was asked for by more and more women in need of an escape they could only achieve through their husband’s death.

Vesemir had been pestering Geralt to bring the bard up to the keep for the last 10 years or so, ever since they had realised he was not just enacting a passing fancy and was, in fact, helping all witchers. A fact Geralt didn’t seem to have realised somehow, even when his brothers had mentioned how much easier their Paths were.

“Come on, boy, it’s starting to get late. Let Roach rest for the night, and I can find you a room to rest in. You look like you need a peaceful sleep. There is just you and me here, and breaking your neck going down The Killer in the dark is foolish,” Vesemir said as he gently took the Roach’s reigns out of a now emotionally drained Jaskier’s hands.

Well, Vesemir knew who he was now, and Jaskier figured he might as well have a good night’s sleep before he faced the music of turning up at the man’s keep with a whole herd of stolen horses.

Jaskier stood in the centre of the courtyard as Vesemir settled a now content Roach. He was only half paying attention as Vesemir led him up the stairs in the keep. “You will have to have one of the boy’s rooms for the night. I haven’t got any of the others ready as we weren’t expecting Coen this year either,” Vesemir explained as he walked Jaskier into a corridor with doors on either side.

“You will be now,” Jaskier giggled, almost hysterical now.

“Aye, and a whole bunch of others, it seems. But not to worry. You can help me set them up tomorrow before you disappear down the mountain again. Now, you have the choice of Eskel, Lambert or Geralt’s room,” Vesemir told the exhausted bard gently.

“I can’t… What about in front of the fire in the hall?” Jaskier asked with uncharacteristic nervousness as he peeked at the three different doors before him.

“Boy, the Hall is no place to sleep, even as a witcher. Let alone as a part human,” Vesemir said sternly but gently; Jaskier, however, reared back, standing to his full height as he looked at Vesemir worriedly.

“How do you know that?” he whispered.

“It’s obvious. You don’t smell fully human. Are you saying none of the other Witchers know? Geralt doesn’t know?” Vesemir asked in disbelief.

“I … well, I didn’t stay around the others for long. I happened across them in different towns and villages and didn’t stick around. I also didn’t mean to take their horses,” Jaskier admitted as he deflated in on himself and looked at the ground, looking very much like a misbehaving pup to Vesemir.

“We can talk about how and why you have all of the horses in the morning. Tonight, you need to sleep. But first, how did Geralt not know you weren’t human?”

“I … wasn’t of age yet. I was barely of age for a human when I met him, and I hadn’t fully aged for what I am when we first met, so I don’t think I smelt like anything other than human when we met. And then he was just … used to me I guess,” Jaskier admitted.

“Still no excuse. Especially when you spent every winter apart. How old are you? And how old were you when you met Geralt?” Vesemir asked, intrigued now. He knew that Geralt had punched the boy not long after their first meeting, and even now, Jaskier looked like a fresh-faced youth and had to have at least another 20 years beneath his belt from when he had first met Geralt.

“Ahh … Well, I am currently 39. I am almost in my 40th year,” Jaskier admitted.

“And Geralt didn’t realise you do not look like a 40 year old human?” Vesemir asked incredulously.

“I don’t think he cared enough about me to notice anything but how annoying he finds me,” Jaskier answered with a bitter laugh.

Vesemir knew there was a story there, a painful one that would explain the bard’s scent of pain and heartbreak. But he also knew the boy was exhausted and needed to sleep. He would get the full story from him the next day after he had rested and hopefully slept knowing he was safe.

Vesemir realised that Jaskier was not going to make the decision of where to sleep, and so he did it for him. Walking until he stood before Geralt’s room and opened the door,inviting the bard inside. “Sleep boy. It makes no difference to anyone but you where you sleep, so rest,” he said, clapping a friendly hand on the bard’s shoulder before waiting for him to enter.

Vesemir heard Jaskier’s sharp inhale as he realised whose room he was in, and he walked away when he heard the sound of suppressed sobs.

Vesemir went to get a tankard of ale and sit before the fire, the sound of the bard’s sobs ringing in his ears. If the boy was this miserable, once again, Geralt had done something stupid, and Vesemir would find out why. After all, someone who had unwittingly been such a good friend and ally to Witchers for 20 years deserved all the support and comfort Vesemir could provide them. As one of the oldest Witchers still alive, Vesemir was sorely disappointed in the younger generation of Witchers.

Vesemir knew he was slightly sheltered from the pains of the Path, barely leaving the keep as he did now, but he remembered. He had walked it when there had been no Jaskier. When people had never been happy to see them. When you were as likely to be killed in your sleep than paid, and his pups and the younglings from the other schools had treated Jaskier in this manner?

Vesemir finally stood to go fetch pen and paper. He needed Guxart to help him with this. Whatever the bard was, he was a very emotional being. Something Vesemir, and wolves in general, had issues with due to their own mutations. Guxart, however, had raised and trained hundreds of Cats in his lifetime. Many who often teetered on the tightrope between too emotional and bat shit crazy. If anyone could help him, it would be the Grand Master of the Cats. Vesemir would even allow him to bring his younger kits if needed. It would do Kear Morhen some good to see some young blood after so long. Besides, Vesemir knew he would need all of Guxart’s help when the small group of angry witchers turned up to claim their horse.s And having seen both Roach and Scorpion in the group, well, he knew they would be along shortly, and he was sure it was only their disbelief at having their mounts stolen that kept them so far behind the bard. After all, no one stole a witcher’s mount. Especially after the song Jaskier had written and spread around the Continent about how a witcher’s horse was trained with magic and enchantments. That a witcher’s horse could not be taken against their will, and if someone managed it, then a curse would be laid upon them and their families.

It had been a catchy song, and from what Geralt had said, it had been written after Roach had been stolen once when both Geralt and Jaskier had left her in town alone, safely stabled, or so they had thought. It was something that had never happened to them again (or any witcher, as far as Vesemir knew) since the song had become famous.

No, whether they admitted it or not, all witchers owed much to Jaskier and Geralt most of all.

Chapter Text

Vesemir had never been more grateful for the rain than he was right now. It had been raining almost nonstop for five days, meaning that Jaskier was stuck at the keep as it was much too dangerous for the lad to travel back down with less-than-perfect visibility. It also meant that Vesemir had convinced the boy he would have to wait at least another three days as the Killer would need to dry out, too. If Vesemir was hoping for another downpour in those three days, well, that was between him and the Gods he wasn’t sure he believed in anymore.

He had sent his fastest pigeon to Guxart as soon as dawn broke after Jaskier’s arrival, and he had sent the mangy moggy enough coin to get a mage to transport him to the village at the bottom of the mountain. 

He hoped Guxart would use it. He needed him here yesterday.

Jaskier was perfectly polite. Polite in the way of nobles who were insulting you with every look they gave you. Whatever Geralt had done had really soured the bard’s feelings towards wolf witchers, and Vesemir would knock his pup off his feet the first chance he got. How he had fucked up with a man that had put up with him for 2 decades, Vesemir did not know, but he was going to find out. Or at least, he hoped he would as soon as Guxart got here.

For now, Jaskier had been keeping himself occupied in the library Vesemir had shown him. He had also finally admitted whose horses he had.

He had Roach, who was Geralt’s, of course. He also had Scorpion, but Jaskier had admitted that he had seen Lambert with Eskel, even if he hadn’t actually spoken to Geralt’s brother.

He also had Poison, who was Letho’s giant shire horse. Jaskier had said he had left Coen’s horse as the Griffon didn’t deserve to have his stolen. Amazingly, Jaskier had met another Griffon witcher. As far as the wolves and Coen knew, they had thought Coen was the last of his school, and Jaskier had been sure to ask Vesemir to make sure Coen knew that an Evangarde of the Griffon school had a mount named Sapphire, and she was the pretty bay in Vesemir’s stables.

There had also been two Manticores, one whose name Jaskier hadn’t caught and who was apparently a bigger arsehole than Letho.

The other Manticore had been named Ziran, and his mount was named Sand. Jaskier was all but ready to cry at the terrible naming practices of witchers and had very snidely said he was glad they were infertile. Imagine what they would have named their children otherwise. Vesemir had wisely kept shut and decided that when, or it, Jaskier ever became friendly with Geralt again, he would tell the bard the tale of the name Geralt first picked for himself.

According to Jaskier, there had only been one Bear witcher. He had a mixed-bred horse, but they were huge. Jaskier didn’t know that horse’s name and so had taken to calling it Teddy, as in Teddy Bear. 

Vesemir couldn’t wait to see what Holm, the Bear Witcher, made of the name of his mount, considering the huge gelding refused to answer to anything else now.

Last but not least, Jaskier had met three different Cat witchers on the PathPath. Aiden, who he knew was Lambert’s lover (and wasn’t that news to Vesemir, but well, considering Guxart would be sharing Vesemir’s quarters, he didn’t have a leg to stand on when it came to having a Cat lover) and who like Lambert didn’t own a horse Jaskier had said he thought he would get on with Aiden if he hadn’t been rude. Whilst some bards decided to dabble in sex work, Jaskier was not a prostitute and refused Aiden’s propositions. Jaskier hadn’t been sure f Aiden was serious, if he and Lambert had an open situation or if he was just an arsehole, but Jaskier hadn’t stayed to find out after his set. He had turned tail, grabbed the horses and left as the crowd accosted a “noble Cat witcher.”

Of the other two Cat witchers, Jaskier said one was named Kiyan, who owned the pretty little thoroughbred who Jaskier was sure was stolen as the brand on its left hip was covered, but who was Jaskier to question a horse thief, even if he was more of a horse acquirer than a horse thief. A statement that had left Vesemir puzzled but not yet curious to push Jaskier to explain. He was willing to wait for Guxart before he pushed the bard, and  Vesemir figured two witchers were better than one when it came to quiet a slippery bard.

And the bard was slippery.
 
He also hadn’t explained who the last Cat witcher he had “acquired” a horse from was, and Vesemir hadn’t realised until Jaskier had retired for the evening. Vesemir had to hand it to the bard. He was good at what he did, though. Vesemir supposed that anyone who managed to change a volatile public’s opinion on witchers had to be good at speech-craft, something not many witchers were, and it had shown in the last decade or so.

So it was with great relief that Vesemir noticed a familiar figure walking up The Killer towards the keep on the second day after it had stopped raining, meaning the bard was still in Kear Morhen.

Vesemir just hoped that Guxart could get the story from the boy because Vesemir still knew nothing, and it was annoying him.

“I hope you have a fire going. I’m fucking freezing,” was the first thing Guxart said to Vesemir in almost two years.

“The fires are always going, you daft prat,” Vesemir retorted, but his smile betrayed his happiness at seeing his sort of partner.

“Hello, love,” Guxart said with a smile as he allowed Vesemir to pull him into his arms and sniff at his neck. Not stopping until he heard some mumbling coming from the stables.

“More like bloody dogs …”

“Oh my. is that the boy?” Guxart asked with a huge smile now as he listened to Jaskier rant to himself about the idiocracy of wolf witchers. 

“Does he know …”

“Oh yes. He’s well aware I can hear him. Aren’t you Jaskier?” Vesemir raised his voice at the end so the bard could hear him, unable to keep his eye-rolling to himself. If Vesemir had thought he could get away with it, he would have had Jaskier running the walls for his cheek, but he was well aware that the impudent boy would just laugh at him and leave earlier than Vesemir wanted him to. The fact he was trying to keep Jaskier here until the other witchers arrived wasn’t a secret between the two of them, and as adamant as Jaskier was that he wasn’t going to be here, he also wasn’t an idiot with a death wish, and so he hadn’t tried to leave yet. Still, Vesemir was aware that the closer they came to winter, the sooner the bard would just up and disappear, probably with Roach in tow.

“Good afternoon, Master Vesemir. I was just settling the horses,” Jaskier said brightly from inside the stables before the sound of the stable work filled the air.

“Ohh, I like him already!” Guxart whispered with a laugh.

“You would. He’s as mercurial as your crazy litter. He would have fit right in as a Cat,” Vesemir admitted before he grabbed Guxart’s bag and wrapped his arm around the other witcher, leading him to the keep.

As they passed the stables, Guxart stopped, lifting his head to scent the air before his eyes landed on the stable. “Why is Catnip in your stable?” Guxart asked as he stepped forward.

“Catnip, my horse,” Guxart growled as he stepped forward to see his horse being fussed over by a dandy of a boy.

Guxart had laughed when he heard that Vesemir had needed help with a slip of a bard, but he wasn’t laughing now, considering his horse had disappeared around three months ago.

“Jaskier, why do you have Guxart’s horse?” Vesemir barked as he stepped into his own stable.

“Oh, is that his name?” Jaskier asked with a disdainful sniff as he looked at the new witcher, undaunted by his green-gold stare. Jaskier had been dealing with that hatred-filled star for over twenty years. What was this witcher going to do, kill him? As though Jaskier was bothered, plus Roach would kick him, Jaskier had no doubt about that. Possessive mare that she was, she had decided early on that Jaskier was hers, regardless of what both Jaskier and Geralt told him.

“Yes, she’s mine, boy,” Guxart growled as he went to his horse, who ignored him in favour of watching Jaskier move around doing the chores that needed to be done.

“Not anymore, old man!” Jaskier growled back.

Guxart was taken aback at the sheer audacity of the boy. He was in a witcher’s keep, with stolen witcher’s horses, and he was giving Guxart attitude. Guxart had a similar thought to Vesemir and swore he would make the boy walk the tightrope for his cheek the first chance he got.

“You didn’t mention you had spoken to Guxart,” Vesemir cut the uncomfortable silence with a question.

“I didn’t,” was all Jaskier replied.

“Then why did you steal his horse if he wasn’t rude to you?” Vesemir prodded. He knew he had told himself he wouldn’t prod the bard, but well, Guxart was here now, so he could help with some of the prodding.

“He doesn’t deserve a horse!” was all Jaskier said before turning his back on both witchers and picking up his pitchfork again.

Guxart marched forward and grabbed the bard by the shoulder. “Why, you little …”

Guxart stepped back as Jaskier turned, his eyes now shining a molten red, flames flaring in them. The bard’s nails had grown to claws, and he swiped at Guxart before taking a step backwards until he hit the wall and tried to calm down and control his breathing.

“I apologise. It has been a long time since I have reacted in such a manner, but well …” 

Well, what?” Guxart demanded from beside Vesemir, and now the other witcher had pulled him back, looking at Jaskier in a different light. Vesemir had assumed that Jaskier was part elf, or part selkie or something pretty but all but harmless, or at least harmless to a witcher. However, the boy had flame-red eyes, pointed teeth and black-tipped claws. Whatever else the bard was, he appeared to be poisonous. Vesemir didn’t want either him or Guxart to be slashed by them, especially when the bard was clearly trying to calm himself down and had reacted on instinct rather than aggression.

“What are you, boy?” Guxart demanded, and Vesemir had a mind to shove the old idiot straight into the Path of the boy’s claws to see if that would fix his partner’s idiocracy. So much for Jaskier getting on with Guxart because they could relate over emotions or some such; then again, Vesemir thought as he cocked his head to look at the boy before him properly, maybe that was why he had worked so well with Geralt until for some reason they hadn’t. Considering that Geralt was twice grassed and came to the witchers much younger than most child surprises (not that Geralt was a child surprise, his mother had willingly waited on a stretch of road she had somehow known Vesemir would be traversing and willingly handed him over and little 3-year-old Geralt had been so confused, holding on to the bucket his mother had bid him hold, the bucket that Vesemir knew for a fact was nestled in the bottom of Geralt’s wardrobe even after all these years)

Twice grassed and willingly abandoned with few memories of his mother, Geralt had abandonment issues flying of him and so had taken to closing himself off. The bard himself seemed to have his own abandonment issues if what Geralt said could be believed, and yet he had allowed himself to flow in the other direction. He loved everyone but himself, and if Vesemir wasn’t mistaken, he loved Geralt still even though it pained the boy.

One stunting himself so he didn’t feel, and one crippling himself so he felt it all. No wonder they had been drawn together, and Vesemir was almost desperate to know what had sent them running away from one another and why.

Before he could get to the bottom of that situation, though, Vesemir trusted the boy; how could he not? But he still needed to know what he was. He had a duty to this place and to his pups to know if they would all make it out of the winter alive if one of them threatened Jaskier.

“I know you wanted help with him, to figure out what happened between him and your prized pup, but my kits are coming soon. He will be a danger to them!” Guxart declared as he glared at Jaskier, his arms folded in a display of intimidation that had worked for Guxart for nigh on 200 years and yet had no effect on the bard before him.

“Unlike some people, I do not hurt children?!” Jaskier hissed as he glared right back at Guxart.

“Excuse me?”

You are excused. I do not speak to those who harm children, And I assure you, I saw you with my own eyes!” Jaskier continued.

Vesemir looked between Jaskier and Guxart, confused and unwilling to pick a side when both looked like they could and would throw him through the stable wall if he picked incorrectly.

“I saw you!” Jaskier sneered at the cat witcher. “I watched you. I understand the training. I am a noble child. I understand discipline. I am an unwanted and all but useless mixed-bred noble child. And I understand that Cat witchers are the only ones still making witchers and that you’re running awfully low on the things needed to do so. Like the rest of the witchers, you will be unable to make more very soon, and considering what I saw, all I can say is that I am glad! How dare you? How dare any of you? You felt that pain; you screamed those screams yourselves. You forced Geralt and his generation of witchers to feel it too, with different combinations and different kinds of mutagens and yet you continue to do so. And then … you dare mill them? Put the children down like dogs in the street because they lash out with their newly enhanced senses that they don’t understand. You disgust me, Guxart. So yes, I stole your horse. Yours was the only one I willingly took because someone who treats children that way doesn’t deserve anything to care for. They are unable to care!” Jaskier growled out, the sound rising as the bard’s voice did. The horses, including Catnip, suddenly looked at Guxart as if they would eat him alive.

“What are you?” Guxart asked again, his hand now on his daggers, sure that this would come to a physical confrontation he may not actually win.

“Tired Guxart. I am 39 years old, and I am tired of being myself. I am tired of others taking advantage of children who have no say or no power to protect themselves. I am tired of being a mutant. Though, of course, I am only one, or at least only visibly one, when I am enraged. Those children that you have changed, mutated, and whipped into something else, something other, had no choice. Just like I did not, and I am telling you both that I may support the witchers on the PathPath, but that was before I realised you were still torturing children. Does Geralt know you are still making them? Lambert? From what Geralt told me, if he finds out his lover knows that you are still torturing children, it will not go well for either of them.” Jaskier asked, though sure he wouldn’t get an answer.

“Now, I am more than happy to leave the two of you, and this keep in a moment. Just allow me to fetch my things. Thank you for allowing me to stay, Master Vesemir. I would say it was a pleasure to meet you, Guxart, but I rarely lie,” Jaskier added with a disdainful sneer as he walked past the two witchers, making sure to bash his shoulder into the Cat witchers. 

With his head held high, Jaskier walked into the keep, leaving Vesemir and Guxart standing there, staring after him almost slack-jawed.

Vesemir wasn’t sure how long they had both stood there before he finally blurted out, “What the fuck, Gux? I thought you weren’t doing any more trials and that the trainees were just that, already grassed kits?” Vesemir asked, turning to look at his lover, hoping that the bard was incorrect.

“It wasn’t quite what the bard thought,” Guxart said quietly.

“So you put some kits through the trials?”

“No! We did not. I would not have allowed it had I known,” Guxart beseeched Vesemir to listen to him before jumping to conclusions like Jaskier had. Not that Guxart blamed him if he had seen what Guxart had been forced to do, though how the boy had gotten close enough to the caravan to see that happen, he wasn’t sure and would be looking into it in the future if he possibly could. He wasn’t surprised by the boy’s animosity towards him. If he was honest, Guxart was surprised that animosity was only aimed at him in particular and not witchers as a whole, considering the boy was aware of things that no other non-witchers were and was rightfully disdainful of their population growth tactics.

“So what?” Vesemir asked, still unsure what was going on, but for Guxart to react like this, it was something big.

“We swore, along with the other schools, that we would not make more witchers. And we haven’t. Our youngest witcher kits are almost 20, almost ready to walk the PathPath. But we are the only witcher school that is easy to find. We still get child surprises, including those of other schools. We also get orphans who try to steal from us. We have a whole host of human children who now live with us. Children who will remain human but are being trained to be warriors, to protect themselves. But …”

“But what? What are you not telling me, Guxart?” Vesemir demanded, no longer willing to be kept in the dark about what Guxart and Jaskier both knew and he didn’t.

“We are the only ones who still had mages,” Guxart admitted.

“Mages? But they said you were all out of mutagens. That they had used them all,” Vesemir growled out.

“We thought they had. I thought they had. We thought this last batch would be the last generation of witchers ever to have been created. And in a way, we were right,” Guxart said, his head bowed, sorrow pouring off him.

“In a way?”

“I … there was an orphanage that was shut down in Novagard. A fairly large one. We got 31 children added to our caravan as the mayor of the city was going to let them starve to death. Some of them were tiny, babes, and some were almost adults. All moved with us, and we tried to find them homes as we travelled, but well, were witchers,” Guxart added with a shrug.

Vesemir understood that he did, but that did not explain the bard’s reaction to Guxart. Just having children wasn’t abusive. So, what was the boy’s issue?”

“Guxart. Tell me,” Vesemir demanded gently from his lover, giving the other witcher’s hand a gentle squeeze as he spoke. 

“I was not there. That you have to believe Vesemir. In fact, I was looking for a way to send you a letter to ask if we could hole up here this winter as we got used to such a huge influx of young ones. I knew Kear Morhen had been handed plenty of infants and toddlers, whereas the children we were given were often pre-teens. I was gone for three days. When I came back …”

“Guxart, tell me!”

“Traycee and the mages had been brewing the potions in secret. They had given it to all the children over 10. There were 13 of them. And they were all in agony. They hadn’t been trained, hadn’t been prepared, hadn’t even eaten nothing but the fungi needed to help facilitate the mutations. Their screams, Ves …” Guxart trailed off as he took steadying breaths lest he throw up again.

“And their bodies … they were twisted. They were more than mutants like the rest of us. Many were no longer there. Vocal cords shredded because they hadn’t been sedated properly. Eyes blind now because they couldnt handle the changes. Organs shutting down before our eyes. They were in so much pain, and so I … I did what I had to. I ignored Traycee and the mages. I cradled each one, and I … My hands have always been covered in the blood of the innocent children we took in, just like yours, but this … this was like nothing I could or would have ever wanted to imagine, and I could not ask someone else to give these young ones the peace they so deserved. Could not ask them to take their blood on their hands when mine are already stained. The bard is right in that I killed them, but it was not to hurt them but to release them from what the mages and Traycee had done to them,” Guxart finished. His head bent and his tears pooling around his feet.

”Guxart, the mages, are they coming here?” Vesemir asked, unsure what to say about what had happened in the Cat caravan but positive that the Cat mages would not be allowed to step foot in his keep.

“They are dead. We ripped them apart,” Guxart snarled out with a snap of his teeth. “And I ran Traycee through myself. How dare he! How dare he go behind my back. How dare he harm those under our protection and all because …”

“Because what?” Vesemir prodded.

“Because he wanted a witcher army. One to wipe out the humans. He wanted to see if it would work if he stole children and changed them under their parents’ noses. He wanted to punish them for our mistreatment, and yet the only ones who were punished were the innocent little ones who became collateral damage to him and the chaos-wielders. My Cats are scared Vesemir. Our mages who most have known their entire lives turned on us. They started treating us as nothing more than experiments at the beck and call, and unlike you, we have no walls to hide behind. No place to hide. We have terrified children who watched their siblings writhe in pain for hours, who knew what had been done to the others, and who are now scared of everyone who does not have yellow eyes. I don’t know what to do,” Guxart admitted from where he was now nestled in Vesemir’s arms, trying to ground himself and forget about the nightmare his caravan had endured only a few months ago.

“Are the children safe?” Vesemir asked.

“As safe as can be with a caravan of witcher. Dragonfly and Axel have taken over caring for them. Neither will allow any harm to befall them. They are slowly following in my footsteps until I tell them they are welcome here, and then they will travel with all haste. We have no place else to go,” Guxart admitted.

“Then it’s a good job that they are already headed this way. It has been a long time since Kear Morhen has housed children. You will have to help me prepare as best we can. I also have it on good authority that there is a group of irate witchers heading this way, too. They can also help,” Vesemir said as he led Guxart back into the keep and into his own rooms. Vesemir knew he would have to speak to the bard as soon as possible and hoped he believed that Guxart’s tale was the truth. Vesemir knew it was; after all these years, he knew when his lover was lying; he just hoped the boy would believe him, too. He still needed to keep Jaskier here, after all. If Vesemir could do anything to stop it, he didn’t want a morose Geralt in the keep over winter. He didn’t want to almost lose his pup again, as they had almost lost him after Blavakin.

Vesemir sighed as he kissed the slighter witcher’s head before tucking him in and settling him for the night before he went to look for the bard to try and clear some of the air.

Chapter Text

Jaskier wasn’t sure if he was going to pull his own hair out in frustration or just go and punch a witcher. Yes, he would probably break his hand as he did it, but he felt it would be worth it to surprise Vesemir and get that snug look off his face.

Vesemir had explained what had happened with Guxart and the children in his caravan, and whilst Jaskier was not sympathetic to the man, he understood Guxart had done what he had to. Still, it was HIS caravan; he was in charge. How did he not know what was happening right under his nose?

Jaskier had met plenty of mages, sorcerers, sorceresses and dryads, had spent plenty of time both with Geralt and without him stopping their ploys, and they were not subtle. Even lovely, sweet as honey, Triss could be a calculating witch, and it was clear when she was being so. And as for those with even more power, especially over those in their thrall, well, body autonomy meant nothing to them, as Jaskier well remembered, so how had the Cat witchers become so stupid as to trust the people who had twisted their ancestors in such a way that more children died than survived to become witchers? It was madness to Jaskier, and once again, he wondered if the mutagens forced upon witchers lowered their common sense capabilities. Having said all this to Guxart had not gone down well, and Jaskier was glad of the little training Geralt had forced him to endure (mainly learning how to avoid those wanting to grab him) as he had evaded the irate Cat witcher before Vesemir had managed to calm his lover down.

And wasn’t that a revelation for Jaskier? If he ever saw Geralt again, and if he deigned to speak to the prick again, he would be rubbing it in that his mentor (all but father figure) was shagging a Cat witcher all over the keep, including on the table in the hall. And no, Jaskier didn’t care if it wasn’t the truth, that Vesemir was actually very reserved with his affection and anything happening behind his closed door. Jaskier wanted to see the look on Geralt’s face when he learnt his pseudo-father was getting off all over the keep. Jaskier wondered if he could get away with ruining the hot springs for Geralt, too. He figured that would be an act of petty revenge well done, considering how much the Wolf witcher not only enjoyed a good bath but adored a hot one.

Not that Jaskier wanted to be here when Geralt and the others arrived, but he wasn’t an idiot, regardless of how people saw him. He was well aware that the strap breaking on his bag, the way his boot developed a hole and the way that Roach’s saddle was suddenly unusable were all a ploy from Vesemir to keep him here until Geralt arrived.

Jaskier knew he could leave without Roach, but well, he didn’t want to. He had walked beside Geralt and Roach for more years than anything else. He had spent most of his life (all of his adult life) with a partner on the Path as he travelled alongside Geralt, and whilst he refused to be treated like that by Geralt ever again, he would not leave Roach here for the witcher. Roach deserved all the treats and spoiling she would not receive with just Geralt. Besides, as much as Jaskier wished he could purge Geralt out of his heart, he knew he couldn’t, and Roach was a real, tangible link between the two of them. Geralt would never let the theft of his horse go (even if Jaskier was still adamant he hadn’t stolen Roach or any of the other horses), and so Geralt would have to trail after Jaskier for the foreseeable future.

Jaskier was aware of how much Geralt loved his horses and how it hurt him each time he had to replace them, but he had also decided that Geralt didn’t deserve this Roach, and she was fine compensation for all the shit Geralt pulled on the bard. If he wanted his horse back, he would have to have a bloody good apology and get Miss Roach back on his side, considering she was the one who hadn’t let Jaskier leave her behind in the first place.

So it was with a heavy heart and a whole heap of irritation that Jaskier walked down to breakfast after realising that it had started snowing. It was only a small amount. Nothing substantial, but it was enough for Jaskier to realise he was not leaving before the rest arrived. Before a whole herd of irate witchers descended upon him. Jaskier refused to be scared, however. He would hold his head up and tell them they should have loved their horses a bit better if they had wanted to keep them.

“You are an arsehole!” was the only thing Jaskier said to Vesemir that morning as he fetched a bowl of porridge.

“How dare you …” Guxart started, already snarling at the snarky bard before him. He stopped what he was saying when Vesemir placed a restraining hand on his arm.

“I am indeed. Any particular reason this morning?” Vesemir asked with a small grin.

“Is it the wolf in you? Can you communicate telepathically with your pack? How to make Jaskier’s life harder? Is that a thing?” Jaskier asked, completely ignoring Guxart and his outburst, his attention on Vesemir.

“It is not. But that would be something, wouldn’t it,” Vesemir said with a soft laugh.

“Well, the only outcome I could foresee for that would be that you all become more insufferable,” Jaskier said as he pointed his spoon at Vesemir accusingly.

“There must be something about Wolf witchers you like, Jaskier,” Vesemir said, this time his tone less teasing and more thoughtful.

“It’s the muscles. You are all very pretty and brawny, but then, I’ve now met a Bear witcher and Letho. So as pretty as you are, well, you ain’t all that,” Jaskier bit put, annoyed that Vesemir hadn’t even allowed him to get to the insulting part of his rant.

This time, Vesemir actually threw his head back and laughed as the irate bard stomped out of the hall, glaring at Vesemir as he did so.

“Why do you allow him such disrespect? If he had been one of our kits …” Guxart said as he growled at where the bard had just been sat.

“Then he would have been dead, or a witcher and Geralt wouldn’t have been able to break his heart,” was Vesemir’s reply.

“So what? You will allow his blatant rudeness to you in your home because you feel sorry for him?”

“I don’t feel sorry for him. Not really. I feel guilty that he is hurting because it was one of my pups who hurt him after staying by Geralt’s side for so long. Yes, the bard is not human, but he is young. He isn’t even 40 Gux. Wolf pup witchers don’t even start on the Path until just after their 30th year. That boy was alone long before that, and he latched onto the first person who showed him kindness. That affection grew into what it is today, and for whatever reason I still do not know about, Geralt hurt him more than the bard will admit. He isn’t angry. He is trapped and lashing out. But he has done more for us than anyone in our history, including ourselves. He has been singing of us, changing opinions of us, fighting for us all of his adult life, and the least he deserved is to be allowed to blow off a small part of that anger at me, considering I all but raised Geralt, now he is somewhere safe. I don’t think the boy has ever had anywhere he feels safe, apart from beside Geralt and look how well that has turned out for him,” Vesemir said sadly, looking at where Jaskier had stormed away from him, from the mannerisms that Vesemir knew Geralt shared with him. How could he not, after almost 100 years of being raised and nurtured (if that was what they could call how all young witchers had been raised) by Vesemir?

“The other Wolves would have said you had gone soft,” Guxart said quietly as he looked at his partner, surprised by how much Vesemir had grown since they had last been able to spend any tangible time with one another.

“They would, but they are dead, and I am not. They died at the hands of those we were pledged to save. They died old and bitter and angry, and Jaskier was right with some of what he said when you first arrived. We did feel the pain our youngsters feel. We did share that pain with them, the screams that haunt us because we know why they are screaming, what they were enduring. I know how Geralt, Eskel and Lambert were treated as they grew because I was one of the ones who treated them so harshly. Lambert hates this place. Hates being who and what he is, and yet he was never given a choice. His father threatened to kill his mother if the boy ever went back. He had no choice, and we trainers twisted it, so the boy thought if he didn’t become one of us, he would have been cast aside. And the worst part is that he would have been, too. He would have been killed or thrown out to try and survive alone, once again cut from all he knew. I do not know what Geralt told Jaskier, but the boy is smart. We all know Geralt doesn’t talk much, and so for Jaskier to be able to spin such tales means he pays attention to more than I expect even Geralt understands. And what’s more, he has something we seem to have lost along the way, Guxart. He is more empathetic than any being I have ever met, and I am almost 300 years old. That boy is a blessing to witchers, and so if he wants to shout at me, he wants to be rude; well, it isn’t hurting me. And hopefully, it will allow the boy to see he can stay here, that he will be safe, and I shall make sure of it.”

“Even when the others come?” Guxart asked, surprised at Vesemir’s defence of the bard.

“Especially when the others come. How they could all be rude to the one helping them live a better life is beyond me. And they will find that if they can not be kind to the bard, well, they will not be welcome here.”

“Even Geralt?”

“Especially Geralt! I do not know what he did. I wish I knew. I wish I could figure out what happened between the two of them, but I do not. All I know is that Jaskier brought my son back to life, and now Geralt has done something to strip the happiness from a person’s presence he once described as “the feeling of the sun on your face after the winter chill leaves you.” And my goodness, if he wasn’t right. Jaskier has been unhappy here, miserable and tetchy, but that’s nothing new for these old walls or for me and my old bones. I wish him to know that he is always welcome here, that this place can be safe for him too, just as it is for us and will be for your caravan, it seems. He will not get treated with disdain for being different here. I will not allow it. He has all but raised himself apparently, and what a man he seems to have raised himself to become. Whatever Geralt did, I shall not cast him out or ridicule him. That isn’t my place, but it also isn’t my place to refuse a place of safety for one who deserves it. One who sees us clearer than we see ourselves.”

With that, Vesemir settled into quiet contemplation, not realising that Jaskier was standing in the corridor outside the hall, hands covering his mouth as tears fell down his face.

This was why Jaskier loved witchers and wanted the world to see them for the good people they were. Jaskier just hoped that when Geralt did arrive, Vesemir would be true to his word and wouldn’t allow him and the other witchers to rip Jaskier apart limb from limb or that Geralt wouldn’t break his poor, abused heart all over again.

Chapter Text

Vesemir awoke with the ground almost covered in snow and worried about his pups and the fact that none had made it back yet. He and Jaskier had expected them back long before now, and Vesemir could see the worry Jaskier was trying to hide. Vesemir had to give it to the lad; he was a phenomenal actor, but one didn’t get to Vesemir’s age without being able to read people, and the lad had been as worried as he, though unlike Vesemir, he hadn’t said it out loud.

Which was why Vesemir let out a sigh of relief (and of frustration) when he rushed down to the hall at an unusual sound echoing in his keep, grateful for whatever distraction the bard was causing now.

“Why is Roach in my keep?” Vesemir shouted as soon as he turned a corner and saw Jaskier leading her through the corridors of his home.
Jaskier ignored both Vesemir’s words and his glare as he continued to trot Roach through the keep, spreading her scent everywhere.

“Jaskier?” Vesemir growled out as he followed along behind the bard, ready to commit murder if the horse dared defile his home.

“Good morning, Vesemir. How are you today?” Jaskier asked with a bright (fake) smile as he continued to walk the horse around the corridors.

“Jaskier, I will not ask again,” Vesemir growled out when the corridor finally opened enough for him to get in front of the horse and grab her reigns, stopping her from moving forward again.

“Fine, she just needed a walk,” was Jaskier’s answer.

“Inside my keep?”

“Well, it’s cold outside, and I’m just a poor, weak, mostly human bard,” Jaskier answered with a disarming smile, one that worked on Vesemir as well as a witcher’s intimidation tactics worked on the bard.

“Jaskier, lad …”

“Fine!” Jaskier shouted before he lowered his head and mumbled something that even Vesemir’s enhanced hearing couldn’t pick up before leaning against the wall and petting Roach’s head as she nuzzled into him.

“Jaskier?”

“There’s movement on the trail. Movement even I can see. They won’t be long, and he isn’t getting her back,” Jaskier said as he lifted his head and glared at Vesemir defiantly.

“She is his horse,” Vesemir reminded Jaskier softly.

“Actually, he may have forgotten, and I wouldn’t usually hold it against him, but I paid for this Roach. I found a place for the Roach before this one and managed the deal as soon as I realised he already adored her. She is, on paper as she is a very expensive horse, mine and I’m keeping her. Geralt can go and put his head in a griffon’s mouth if he thinks I am giving her back!” Jaskier shouted.

“You did a lot for him in all your time together, didn’t you?2 Vesemir asked as he placed a comforting hand on the bard’s shoulder.

“Everything I could, and he just … why did he throw me away?” Jaskier asked before he finally succumbed to the sobs he had been holding onto for months. The thoughts of what did I do wrong flowed through his mind as he was suddenly surrounded by Vesemir’s arms as the older witcher held him gently and allowed the bard to cry out his pain and anguish.

50 years ago, Vesemir would have told the boy to buck up, to get over it, but then he had finally opened his eyes and seen how much pain his own boys were holding in. How Lambert’s anger was a front for the pain he carried inside, how Eskel’s quiet difference was because he was terrified of being pushed away and how Geralt’s stoicism was a defence mechanism. If he didn’t talk, he couldn’t say the wrong thing. And then Vesemir and Guxart had had a huge fight, with daggers and all, with Guxart screaming that Vesemir had never really loved him, throwing Vesemir for a loop. Wolves, real wolves, were loving to their family and to their pack. They provided support and care, not whatever the mages and first Wolf witchers had turned their school into. Vesemir had come a long way in those 50 year and one of those ways was to understand that Jaskier wasn’t weak for showing his feelings, and Vesemir was honoured that the lad had finally shared a little of what had happened between him and Geralt.

“I do not know what happened between the two of you, and I can not tell you how things will settle or if they will, but know this, Jaskier, you are and will always be welcome here regardless of what any other witcher says. This is my keep, and there will always be a place for you here. A home,” Vesemir said softly as he cradled the back of Jaskier’s head and held the slighter man against him. he felt all the tension leave Jaskier’s body as he held on to Vesemir tightly. Vesemir could smell the scent of hope and happiness in the air, and he hoped the bard always smelt like that, as opposed to the scent of pain and heartbreak he had been carrying around for the last few weeks in the keep and probably since whatever happened between him and Geralt. Vesemir had heard the sobbed “he threw me away,” and he was more than ready to knock Geralt into next week. What sort of idiot threw away someone as wholesome and kind as Jaskier? Apparently, one of his pups, Vesemir, thought with a sad sigh.

“Right, if they are on their way, we can not stay in the hall until they get here,” Vesemir said when Jaskier finally pulled away.

“Fine, but he still isn’t having her back,” Jaskier answered petulantly.

“I can see that,” Vesemir laughed as he once again clapped Jaskier’s shoulder. “I have a small garden out through the kitchen. It will be big enough for her to stay in for a few hours, but you will have to hash out what happens with the horse with Geralt soon,” Vesemir said as he led Jaskier and Roach through his halls, still slightly pissed that there was even a horse inside, but in a few minutes he supposed there wouldn’t be.

“She’s still my horse,” Jaskier said stubbornly as he settled Roach into Vesemir’s garden before he trailed behind Vesemir to the front doors of the keep. “Do you think I should go hide with Roach too?” Jaskier asked hopefully.

“You can if you want, but it won’t matter; your scent is everywhere, and they will find you.”

“Well, that isn’t threatening in the slightest. Thank you for that, Vesemir,” Jaskier huffed out, irritated.

“Well, if you didn’t want to face the consequences, you shouldn’t have stolen their horses,” Guxart said, causing Jaskier to jump and grumble under his breath as the other witcher went to stand beside Vesemir.

“For the last time, I did not steal their horses. They just like me better,” Jaskier replied haughtily.

“It isn’t me you have to convince of that,” Guxart said as they watched a group of many, many more than the 8 witchers they had expected, suddenly come into view.

“What the fuck …?” Jaskier trailed off as he tried to count them. At least 30 witchers were heading his way, and half of them looked more than pissed off. “Oh shit …” he muttered as he tried to position himself behind Vesemir and Guxart, hoping against all hope that he wouldn’t be seen but knowing it was a fool’s hope.

Chapter Text

“Vesemir …” Jaskier whispered with despair as he poked the witcher in the back, his hand trembling at the sight of over 30 very unhappy witchers heading right for the keep, and because Vesemir was a bastard who would not let Jaskier hide away, Jaskier was stood right in the very open doorway in plain view. 

“I see them Jaskier. Stay calm,” Vesemir answered, not taking his eyes off the odd-looking group of mixed witchers. Vesemir wasn’t sure if he had ever seen as many witchers from different schools together as he was seeing right now.

“Vesemir …” Jaskier said again. Almost pleadingly. Though what he was pleading for, he wasn’t quite sure.

“Still sure you didn’t steal their horses, boy? Did you steal anyone else whilst you were at it?” Guxart asked as he turned his head to grin at Jaskier, his sharper canines on display as he did so.

For one frightful moment, Jaskier wanted to be as violent as many other people on the Continent. He wanted to extend the claws he kept carefully hidden and slash them across Guxart’s face to see how smug the witcher looked with blood dripping down his face.

Jaskier shook himself off. He wasn’t like THEM. He wasn’t like the people, that so called family of his who had revelled in his pain and torture and enjoyed harming others. It didn’t matter that Guxart was not a defenceless child because Jaskier was a lover, not a fighter, and because he absolutely refused to be anything like they had tried to make him become, anything like his own father and grandfather had paid good money for him to grow to become. He was Jaskier, a Continent-renowned bard and friend. He would not become the monster that lived under his skin and that he was terrified of becoming and so he stuck his tongue out at Guxart instead of maiming him before turning around and poking Vesemir in the back again. “Vesemir, do something …” Jaskier hissed out as the witchers got closer.

“I am doing something. I am waiting for the others to arrive to bid them welcome,” Vesemir said with a long, suffering sigh, as though he was the one about to have to deal with this whole shit show and not Jaskier.

“Or we could leave Guxart out here and just lock the keep doors. How long until they break it down?” Jaskier asked as he finally took a step away from Vesemir and closer to the open corridor behind him.

“Jaskier, I swore I would not allow any to harm you,” Vesemir reassured Jaskier.

Jaskier was about to say something back when a friendly and known voice called out from the group. “Who wants to hurt Buttercup?” with a snarl.

From there, Jaskier could only describe the witcher’s behaviour as a brawl.

He had no idea how or why it had started, but witchers actually rolled into the keep fighting and bickering. Pulling one another down and shouting in one another’s face. Jaskier swore he saw some of them even biting one another.

He took a much bigger step backwards. No way was he getting caught among them. He was quicker than the witchers if he tried, and if any of them so much as came within five steps of him, he was going to be gone and holed up somewhere they would never find him.

He was just about to run when he was suddenly pulled into someone’s strong arms. Jaskier was all but ready to fight himself free when he heard Guxart reprimand whoever was holding him. It was only when he heard their name that Jaskier allowed himself to relax into the hug that had been all but forced upon him.

“Let go of the bard Dragonfly,” Guxart repeated.

“But I don’t want to,” Dragonfly pouted in response.

“You know it’s rude to grab people without permission, don’t you, dear?” Jaskier asked from where he was being squashed against Dragonfly’s armour.

“As if you care, Buttercup,” she replied with a scoff.

“Any other day, I would agree, my dearest Dragonfly, but well …” Jaskier trailed off.

“Oh yeah, you’ve been stealing witcher’s horses, haven’t you, Dandelion?” another voice called out from the now semi-settled group of younger witchers.

“Buttercup? Dandelion? His name is Julek,” Serrit of the Vipers said as he elbowed his way to the front of the group before bowing before Jaskier, completely ignoring Vesemir and Guxart and glaring at Dragonfly and who Jaksier now realised was Enoch of the Bears who had called Jaskier Julek.

“How many names does he have? And is horse thief one of them?” A voice Jaskier had never heard before asked the crowd. Jaskier looked over and noticed it was Lambert. Whilst Jaskier may not have actually spoken to the witcher and had only really glimpsed him that day back in the inn, he was sure he would know that face that all the Wolf Witchers seemed to have anywhere.

Beside Lambert was a witcher Jaskier now knew to be Eskel, and hovering just behind them, his face surprisingly blank, was Geralt.

Jaskier had expected Geralt to be at the front of the charge, ready to gut him where he stood. Instead, he was hanging back as far away from Jaskier whilst still being in the courtyard as possible.

“I didn’t steal anyone’s horse, my dearest Lambert,” was all Jaskier managed to say before every head in the courtyard was looking at him in confusion. Jaskier realised it was because they could all smell lies, and well, whether they believed him or not, he was not lying. “Well, apart from Roach. I absolutely stole her, and I’m not giving her back,” Jaskier amended his statement as he crossed his arms and glared at Geralt, who finally lifted his head to glare back at Jaskier.

“You took her,” Geralt accused.

“Yes, I did. And I’m not sorry,” Jaskier replied, ignoring all of the other witchers listening to this conversation, which Jaskier would have preferred to have had in a much more private setting, or, well, never actually.

“Why are you here?” Geralt demanded, still glaring at Jaskier.

“To return the herd I accidentally acquired,” Jaskier explained.

“So my horse is here?” Letho asked, also glaring at Jaskier, but Jaskier already knew Letho was a dick, so his glare didn’t cut him to the quick like Geralt’s did, even if Jaskier used every bit of acting skill he had ever had to come across as nonchalant when the love of his life was looking at him like he wanted to cut him open and leave him for the drowners to feast upon.

“They are all in the stable,” Jaskier said as he nodded in the direction he had left most of the horses.

“Jaskier …” Vesemir said with a slight note of disappointment in his voice.

“The horses that are to be returned to their witchers are in the stable, Vesemir,” Jaskier said with a defiant jut of his chin.

Geralt was many things, often as dumb as a heap of rocks being one. But stupid or slow on the obvious things was not one of the things Jaskier could accuse him of being, and Geralt had definitely heard what Jaskier had said to Vesemir.

Geralt pointed an accusing finger at Jaskier before stomping off to the stable.

“Aren’t you going to tell him?” Guxart asked, intrigued about how this was all going to end.

“He already knows,” Jaskier replied as he made a point of looking at his fingernails when he heard Geralt’s voice roar out into the quiet of the keep.

“Jaskier, where is my horse?” Geralt shouted as he stomped out of the stable to come closer to the bard.

Jaskier was not and had never been afraid of Geralt, even after he had lashed out and left him atop a mountain. It hadn’t been fear Jaskier felt but pure, unadulterated heartbreak. He wasn’t afraid of Geralt now, but having Dragonfly, Serrit and Enoch standing close to him really helped him bolster his confidence.

It grew even more when Dragonfly whipped out a dagger and pointed it at Geralt. “Oi, leave our bard alone,” she snarled as she took a step forward, putting herself between Jaskier and Geralt.

“Dragonfly, he won’t hurt me,” Jaskier told her quietly.

“You sure? Even now. He’s spitting mad,” she said, still refusing to put her dagger away.

“He may be mad, but he won’t hurt me. At least not physically,” Jaskier reassured her again as he took her hand and gently removed the dagger from it, putting it back in the hidden sheath he knew she wore.

“You stole my horse. I have every right to be mad,” Geralt said, breathing heavily as he glared at everyone. “Where is she?”

“Not here! She’s safe and better off with me. Besides, I bought her, and she is mine,” Jaskier snarled back.

“We shared coin for decades, Jaskier. Just because you actually bought her doesn’t mean she isn’t mine.”

“It wasn’t about the coin, Geralt. It’s about the fact I got her from the estate I own as the fucking Viscount, and yet you didn’t even care to ask how I got such a purebred at such a decent price. Because I brought her off my cousin, you absolute fucking fool,” Jaskier snarled back.

“Wait, you’re a viscount?” Geralt asked, mouth wide open as he looked at Geralt.

“I told you. I told you so many things, and you never listened, and you never cared. You don’t know how to care about anyone but yourself, so you are not having MY horse back. You can forget it,” Jaskier shouted, taking deep breaths to keep his composure.

“Jaskier …” Geralt trailed off, looking at the man before him as though he had never seen him before.

“Don’t! Don’t pretend to care now just because you want your horse back. You can’t have her. She’s mine. You don’t care about anyone but yourself. If you don’t believe me, have a good hard think about yourself, Geralt. Think about your child Surprise who is in a country Nilfgard is heading towards to raze to the ground, and think about your soul-bound bitch of a witch who uses you and treats you like you are a piece of shit and yet still runs back to her, ignoring all of your principals for a bit of sorceress pussy. You have never cared about anyone but yourself, not even the bard who followed you for over 20 fucking years and made life better for you and your brethren. But it doesn’t matter either way because my horse is not yours, and that’s all you are bothered about, right?” Jaskier screamed out. Throwing everything Geralt had accused him of back in the witcher’s face. “If anyone is shovelling shit these days, it’s you, not me,” Jaskier snarled out before pulling his arm free from where Serrit had grabbed it as he unintentionally stalked forward.

Jaskier could feel the parts of himself that he had hidden for over two decades trying to rise to the surface. The pieces of his soul that had been tainted and rotted from inside of himself. He felt his teeth tried to elongate, and his claws itched to rip through his skin and swipe that look off Geralt’s face. That smug, sure look. The one he wore when he thought he was right, and Jaskier was once again being unreasonable. 

Jaskier’s heart was screaming out in pain. He was surprised blood wasn’t welling out of every pore on his body to mark the ground beneath his feet with how much emotional pain he was in, and yet Geralt was still looking at him like that.

Jaskier forced himself to take deep breaths. He needed to breathe. To get away from them all. All of the witchers who had suddenly descended upon Kear Morhen. Actually, why were there so many witchers here, he thought, before actually asking Dragonfly that question?

“Well, I heard some of those idiots were mad at you, and so I wanted to make sure you were alright,” Dragonfly said softly as she came to stand before Jaskier, blocking his sight of Geralt and gently taking his hands in hers as she massaged his knuckles, the way Jaskier had to her when he had first met her and she was struggling with so much over stimulation. Allowing him to focus on the feeling of her hands on his and the repetitive movements she was pressing into his skin.

“I didn’t …” Jaskier trailed off, fighting hard to hold back his sobs now. He just wanted to go into Vesemir’s little garden and hide away with Roach. 

He had known Geralt hated him. After Caingorn, Geralt had made that abundantly clear, but he hadn’t once asked Jaskier if he was alright or why he had even taken the horse(s). He had just gone straight to the anger and accusations. “I spent so long fighting for you all …” Jaskier tried to speak again before he allowed Dragonfly to pull him into her arms as she held him tight. He noticed as Dragonfly made a movement, and he heard Serrit pull out at least one dagger, but he didn’t even care enough to pay attention.

“Should have picked a better witcher, Dandelion,” Serrit hissed out at who Jaskier assumed was Geralt.

“And what is that supposed to mean?” Lambert asked.

Jaskier felt the youngest wolf move forward as he postured and huffed. Jaskier didn’t even need to lift his head from where Dragonfly was cradling him to see it; he had seen Geralt and, to a lesser extent, Vesemir behave in the same way and assumed it was a learned family trait. As well as the emotional constipation and the inability to care about anyone but yourself.

“Come now, Julek, let us get you a cup of tea. You like the honey, yes?” Enoch asked as he gently pulled Jaskier out of Dragonfly’s arm and gently steered him back into the keep.

“I don’t …” Jaskier trailed off once more. Never before had he been so lost for words that he couldn’t even finish a complete sentence.

“it does not matter, Jask. We will make sure they know you are trusted and kind, and if they don’t like it, well, I have enough poison to knock them all out, maybe more,” Serrit said with a sharp grin as he watched the closest witchers step away from him. None of them were stupid enough to try a Viper when they were talking about poisoning them.

Jaskier stopped Enoch before he pulled him fully inside the keep and gripped Serrit’s arm. “Don’t fight them, Serrit. They are your brothers, your cousins. I am not worth you fighting with the rest of your kin over,” Jaskier said softly, forgetting for a moment that all of the witchers could hear everything he said. He was too tired of everything to care if he was honest with himself.

“Dandelion, you are a flower that blooms even in the darkest depths. You are worth fighting the Continent for, even if the wolves are too stupid to understand that,” Serrit disagreed as he gently placed a hand on Jaskier’s cheek and kissed his forehead before ushering him inside with Enoch.

Serrit stood before the door of the keep, Dragonfly beside him, both of their hands poised over a variety of weapons they were not afraid to use.

“There will be NO bloodshed in my Keep!” Vesemir said as he finally came forward, feeling annoyed with himself that he hadn’t had a chance to defend Jaskier the way he had promised. It had just all happened so quickly, and he had been watching for any threatening moves, not the words themselves, adamant no one would harm the boy whilst he was here. Vesemir forgot how much words hurt, especially for one who made their living out of them. “Jaskier is my guest. You may all be guests, too, but you will have to pull your own weight and leave the bard alone. Your horses are in the stable. All safe and sound and probably better cared for than when with you on the Path. Geralt, Lambert, Eskel, with me,” Vesemir barked out, moving to the door where he bowed before Serrit and Dragonfly.

 “May we pass? I assure you the bard is safe in my keep. Any witcher who dares to harm him will be a dead witcher, even if they are one of mine,” he said, ignoring the outrage from his boys behind him.

“Ves, this is our home. Why are you asking them to let us in? Just tell them to move,” Lambert huffed from beside him, already puffing himself up for a fight.

Vesemir took a deep breath, only now having realised how much he had failed his boys. “There are rules, boy. Witcher rules and codes of conduct. They have sworn to protect Jaskier in a Witcher safe haven. That means they get to choose who comes in and out. I never bothered to teach you because there were only the four of us. But believe me, you will be getting lessons,” Vesemir growled out as he grabbed his youngest pup by the back of the neck and pulled him forward, being harsher than he probably should be. “You will respect the rules, and if you are unsure, ask someone Lambert. Jaskier is safe here, and that even means from your sharp tongue; we have a couple of Griffons here; ask them if anyone is unsure,” Vesemir said before letting a red-faced Lambert go. “It goes for anyone else, too. You are welcome to stay, but the bard is Protected!”

Vesemir heard the mutters and mumbles but knew that none of the other witchers would dare to harm a Protected one in the place of Protection. If they did, well, they would be dead witchers.

“Guxart, make sure you tell your kits when they arrive. I want no misunderstandings. From any of you. The bard stays no matter what, even over all of you,” Vesemir snarled out, looking straight at Geralt as he did so before he stormed back into the keep and went to find the boy and sort him out his own room. He had almost forgotten that he had left Jaskier in Geralt’s room, having expected a much warmer welcome from Geralt to the lad.

Vesemir sighed as he followed the scent of misery and pain to find the bard. It was going to be a long winter.

Chapter Text

Geralt lay on his bedroll in Eskel’s room, fuming about the fact that Vesemir had made it clear he was not to kick Jaskier out of HIS room. He had come home for the winter, one) chasing Jaskier but also two) because this was home. His winter sanctuary. Where he was safe from the rest of the world and could relax in his bed, which he had taken almost 40 years to get just right for himself, and yet now he was back on the floor with Eskel snoring in his bed and keeping him awake.

Geralt thought back to the confrontation that had occurred in the courtyard earlier that day. The sheer pain and hurt wafting off Jaskier had almost caused Geralt’s knees to buckle, especially when he realised he was the cause of all that pain and misery.

Geralt was trying to do right by his bard once again. Jaskier was a human and a bard, and he shone in the darkest of times, and he did not need to be shackled to Geralt in any way. Besides, anger was easier than figuring out whatever else he was feeling, what he had been feeling for Jaskier for much too long.

Geralt was a twice grassed witcher, a mutant amongst mutants who, no matter how hard he tried, didn’t know how to be the kind of soft Jaskier needed, the type of soft Jaskier deserved. All Geralt knew was that Jaskier deserved better than Geralt, and if he was too foolish to see that, to rid himself of the witcher who needed Jaskier more than he would ever need Geralt, well, Geralt would do the hard part for the bard.

Jaskier was relatively young; he was clever, beautiful and full of so much life that when he allowed himself to think on it without his emotions clouding his thoughts, he would see that Geralt was right. When Jaskier was over the hurt that Geralt had spitefully inflicted upon him, he would understand that this was for the better, for Jaskier’s own good. Geralt truly believed this; he truly believed that this was the best course of action to keep Jaskier safe, so why did his heart hurt so?

“Stop thinking!” Eskel groaned out from his bed, throwing something at Geralt. Geralt didn’t even try to stop it from hitting him, secretly wishing Eskel had hit him with something that actually hurt.

“Geralt, I can hear your brain form over here, and the stench of guilt on you is overwhelming. If you feel guilty, apologise for whatever you did. If you won’t, then you don’t feel guilty enough and can let me go to fucking sleep.”

“Piss off, Eskel,” Geralt snarled out at his brother, wanting nothing more than to ignore how right his brother was.

“You piss off. This is my room, fuck off and find a different one or bunk in with Lambert and his Cat. I don’t care. Just stop the bloody brooding.” Eskel said from where he was now, half-sitting up in his bed.

“You don’t understand …”

“No, I don’t because you wouldn’t say shit. We all heard the song Geralt. We all heard the bard shouting at you, and we all smelt the tears on him. Whatever fuck up you created, fix it or get over it,” Eskel said before grabbing a pillow and covering his face with it. Done with Geralt, his bard and his bullshit.

“Don’t want to be in here with you anyway, you prick,” Geralt grumbled before rolling out of his bedroll, preparing himself to roam around the halls of Kear Morhen for the night, knowing he wouldn’t get any sleep.

“Good riddance,” Eskel said as he went to settle down before suddenly sitting up once more, head cocked to one side.

Geralt did the same and turned his head to the door. “Is that …”

Eskel scrambled out of bed, and both Geralt and he grabbed their swords before throwing the door open. Then they stood there, swords pointed down as they blinked at the sight before them.

“Is that ….”

“Roach, come here, girl,” Geralt said, dropping his sword.
Roach looked at Geralt, sniffed once and then turned away from him, heading further up the corridor.

Geralt watched in amazement as he saw where Roach had chewed through the rope that must have confined her to wherever Jaskier had hidden her and watched as she didn’t even give him a second glance.

“Damn, even your horse is pissed at you,” Lambert said, startling both Eskel and Geralt out of their dumbfounded staring as he watched the horse walk away from them, paying them as much attention as she would a fly.

“What the fuck did you do to your horse?” Lambert asked, impressed with his brother’s fuck ups.

“Nothing. She was gone along with Jaskier when I returned to her. I didn’t do anything to her,” Geralt immediately defended himself.

“What, when you apparently left him on top of a mountain? What was that all about?” Lambert asked as he watched Roach plod along the corridor.

Geralt wasn’t sure what he was going to say in return when Vesemir’s bellow saved him from having to do so.

“JASKIER, WHAT DID I SAY TO YOU!” could be heard ringing through the keep, and the sound of an angry training master had Geralt, Lambert and Eskel unconsciously straightening up and standing against the wall as they had been taught as children.

Vesemir came storming through the keep, Guxart behind him in what Geralt was sure was Vesemir’s tunic and a whole host of others creeping along behind the two of them, watching what was unfolding before them. Geralt was sure they had never endured a winter like this before in all of their long lives. But then, whenever Jaskier was involved with anything, things got interesting, to say the least.

Speaking of the bard, Geralt watched as a half-asleep bard opened the door to his (Geralt’s) room. Geralt’s breath caught in his throat at the sight of the sleep-tousled bard. It was a scene he had seen for nigh on two decades now, and still, Jaskier took his breath away. Jaskier rubbed at his eyes, trying to bring the world into focus, never at his best when woken abruptly. Jaskier’s sleep-ruffled hair stood up every which way, causing Geralt to have to curl his hands into fists so he didn’t do anything stupid like reach out and try and tame the bard’s hair for him, the way he often had Geralts.

Geralt must have made a noise when he noticed what Jaskier was wearing because every witcher that was milling around turned to look at him apart from Vesemir, who was glaring at Jaskier, waiting for the bard to be able to focus so Vesemir could shout at him, some more.

What could Geralt say to the expectant looks his brothers were giving him? That Jaskier had all but stolen that shirt from him after their third or fourth year on the Path? That he wore it every night to sleep. That it was now a dull grey vs the black, it had been when Geralt had first bought it and the fact the Jaskier still had it and was still wearing it to bed made the pit of despair in Geralt’s gut open even wider and made his heart hurt even more for the painful plan he had created for both his own and Jaskier’s own good.

“What?” Jaskier finally asked when he processed Vesemir glaring at him and all the other witchers staring at him. “It wasn’t me. I was in bed,” Jaskier defended himself quickly, not having a clue what was going on.

“Jaskier, what did I say about horses in my keep?” Vesemir asked with forced patience.

“That they don’t belong in here. What about it?” Jaskier asked, subduing a yawn. He didn’t want to have to deal with any of this. He wanted to go back to bed and cry himself asleep again in his misery, not deal with whatever this was at silly o clock.

Vesemir sighed as he nodded his head pointedly for Jaskier to look behind him.

Jaskier did so, his eyes widening as he noticed the horse waiting patiently for his attention. “Ahh …” he said as he looked at Vesemir sheepishly. “I was absolutely in bed,” Jaskier defended himself once more.

“Take her outside, now. And not in my garden either. I dread to see the mess she made trying to get to you,” Vesemir said, exasperated. He was fast asleep, cuddled up with his Cat, when he heard that infernal clip-clop that echoed through his keep, knowing exactly which horse it was.

“Fine, fine, just let me get some boots on,” Jaskier said with an eye roll. It wasn’t like it was his fault Roach had come to find him, was it?

“Now,” Vesemir barked out, forgetting who he was talking to for a moment.

“When I have out my boots on,” Jaskier snapped back immediately, ignoring everyone as he walked back into Geralt’s room, muttering about bossy witchers and how they could fuck off ordering him around before dawn.

“Does he know …” one of the other witchers asked, eyes wide at the sheer disrespect pouring off the bard.

“He is very aware of how good our hearing is,” Geralt mumbled.

“And he still …”

“He’s got balls of steel,”

“We would have been gutted alive,”

“Can I keep him? He’s pretty and fearless.”

Geralt had ignored the other witchers and their comments until the last one had him standing as tall as he could and growling at the assembled crowd. He may not be able to claim Jaskier as his, but the thought of him just picking up with another witcher hurt Geralt’s very soul.

The others responded to Geralt’s threat accordingly, all growling back. There would have been an all-out brawl if Jaskier hadn’t come out of the room and shouted, “NO, bad witchers!” causing the others to stare at him in that same look of disbelief Jaskier had faced most of his life. “No! No fighting, no brawling before the sun comes out and absolutely NO fighting before my door and in front of Miss Roach. She deserves more respect than that,” Jaskier said as he turned his back on the witchers to coo and fawn over the horse who had somehow broken into the keep to find the bard.

There was an uncomfortable silence before Jaskier kissed Roach and took her reins, leading her back the way she had come, Roach plodding along with him nicely. Jaskier stopped once he was standing beside Geralt and looked at him with his bright blue eyes, emotions swirling in them that Geralt couldn’t name.

“And you, don’t think I don’t know it was you who growled first. Don’t! You may be a bastard, but this is your family. Be nice and behave!” Jaskier ordered before walking through the throng of witchers as they moved out of the way.

“He …” Lambert started before looking at Eskel for help.
Eskel sighed before taking up the mantle Lambert had thrown at him. 

“Geralt, he recognised your growl …”

At that, everyone turned to look at Geralt, who had never been more glad that the mutagens removed his ability to blush because otherwise, he would have been redder than Jaskier’s favourite doublet if he had been able to.

“I …” Geralt trailed off, unsure what to say.

“Let me get this straight: the bard ran around after you for 20 years, right? Improved all of our reputations and sang bloody love songs over you, and he recognises your growl out of all of us. How? How can he know it was yours and not Lambert’s or Eskel’s? You all sound the same to me, and I bloody sleep with Lambert,” Aiden piped up from somewhere in the crowd.

Geralt had nothing to say. What could he say? That Jaskier’s affection for him had never been a secret. His attraction had been there from the start, but Jaskier had been a randy 18-year-old and had been randy at the sight of anyone old enough who had smiled at him. Geralt had known to guard his heart from the offset from the moment when this bright, beautiful young man had latched onto him. He had continued to do so, the very act of holding Jaskier arm’s length away as they got themselves embroiled in scandal and scheme after scandal and scheme until it had all culminated in Geralt pushing Jaskier away for both their own goods.

Contrary to what Jaskier thought, Geralt was very aware of how his bond with Yennefer was tainted, how it was twisted and rotten and yet, having the purest form of Jaskier beside him had made him cling to Yennefer even tighter. After all, he didn’t deserve the sort of love Jaskier appeared to be offering. Geralt was a mutant, a monster, and he had tainted Jaskier’s life enough without causing the bard more harm. As much as Geralt would have loved to remove the djinn bond, as much as he would love to have those blue eyes on him and him alone, Geralt was more than aware that he didn’t deserve Jaskier.

Instead, Geralt looked at those before him and glared, “fuck off!” he snarled out before heading back into Eskels’ room and slamming the door behind him.

“For fuck sake, Jask,” Geralt muttered to himself as he rolled onto his side, missing the weight and the feel of his bard beside him as he had been since he had driven Jaskier away at Caingorn.

Geralt took a few deep breaths to steady himself. Just because Jaskier was here, in his home, sleeping in Geralt’s bed and wearing Geralt’s clothes, it didn’t change a thing. Geralt couldn’t allow it to change a thing. He was doing this for Jaskier, and he was doing it for himself, unable to face the day when his bard aged, when he got too old, when he, like so many others, died in Geralt’s arms. Unlike the others, though, Geralt knew that if, when, that happened, he would be unable to continue. He had hoped that putting this distance between the two of them would help mute his own all-consuming feelings. Instead, he had just made them both miserable and given every witcher on the Continent something to gossip about.

Geralt ignored Eskel as he came back into his room, ignored his brother softly calling his name, ignored Eskel’s sad sigh as he lay there staring at the wall, trying to keep the tears he wasn’t even sure he could still cry at bay. 

Chapter Text

Jaskier was having a lovely dream where he was warm and wrapped in Geralt’s arms. The snuffling of Roach woke him up and pulled him out of said pleasant dreams. He wasn’t in Geralt’s arms. Instead, he was trapped under Roach’s large head as she cuddled him and kept him warm from where she was lying with him in her stable.

“Morning, Miss Roach,” Jaskier said with a sad sort of smile as he stroked the horse’s muzzle.

“What are you doing out here?” a voice asked Jaskier from above him, causing the bard to screech and throw a dagger he kept on him at all times upwards and towards the voice.

Aiden caught it easily and dropped down to his feet as Jaskier and Roach got to theirs.

“What are you doing in here?” Jaskier demanded of the witcher, glaring at him.

“I could ask you the same thing,” Aiden said as he all but stalked closer to Jaskier.

“I was obviously keeping Roach company. You, however, do not have a horse, so you have no reason to be in here,” Jaskier retorted, his hands on his hips as he glared at Aiden. Jaskier was already tired and he had literally just woken up. How he hated witchers sometimes.

“Oh, come now, don’t be like that,” Aiden all but purred out as he stalked closer to Jaskier.

“What are you doing?” Jaskier asked, his voice rising as he moved backwards and around Roach, using her as a shield between himself and Aiden. Jaskier remembered how Aiden had been back in the tavern when he had met him; he remembered how much of a flirt the witcher was, and any other time, Jaskier would have indulged him, but not here. Not in the wolf witcher’s keep where Aiden’s furious lover was and where he didn’t want to cause more trouble for Vesemir than he already had.

“Calm down, little human,” Aiden said in what Jaskier assumed he thought was a soothing voice, but all it did was raise the hairs on the back of Jaskier’s neck.

“Look, whatever your game is, I am not playing Aiden,” Jaskier said, his glare intensifying as Aiden tried to move closer to Jaskier.

Jaskier felt a huge relief when Roach shifted with him, keeping herself between Aiden and himself, her ears flickering in annoyance at the witcher. “Good girl,” Jaskier said to her as he gently patted her neck.

“I suppose she is a good girl for a horse. But you, you look like you could be a good boy for anyone, but especially a witcher,” Aiden said as he stared at Jaskier lavishly.

“Look, I already said I wasn’t interested. If you’re horny, I suggest you go find Lambert or someone else who wants to play with you. I do not,” Jaskier said through gritted teeth.

“That’s no fun,” Aiden pouted as Jaskier denied him repeatedly.

“I do not want you, I do not know you, and I do not wish to converse with you, so piss off!” Jaskier snarled out, already tired of whatever game Aiden was playing.

“Maybe I just want you,” Aiden said with a roguish wink.

“And maybe I will visit the moon. fuck off!” Jaskier shouted as Aiden rounded behind Roach and all but boxed Jaskier in.

Jaskier had never been scared of a witcher before, and he wasn’t exactly frightened now, but he also was very uncomfortable. Before he could say anything, though, Roach suddenly kicked out, sending Aiden flying when her hoof smashed straight into the witcher’s chest, sending him right out of the stable door and into view of all the witchers who had slowly left the keep to start training for the door.

“Of fucking course,” Jaskier sighed as he rested his head against Roach for a moment, praising her before leaving her stall, not wanting her to get caught up in whatever was going to happen.

Almost instantly, there were once again witchers in the courtyard, and many of them, led by Lambert, were growling at Jaskier, looking like they were going to gut him at any moment.

“What is going on?” Vesemir asked, running over from where he had been watching the witchers spar. Geralt and Eskel were close behind him.

Geralt’s eyes widened as he looked between Lambert and Jaskier and saw the pure hatred in his brother’s eyes.

“I swear to all the gods that have ever existed that when you are out of this keep, I will gut you and leave you to bleed out in the dirt,” Lambert snarled from where he was attempting to stalk towards Jaskier, who was standing in the doorway of the stables extremely confused and for the first time in his life, terrified of a witcher.

Geralt smelt that fear at the exact moment all the other witchers did. There was a lot of grumbling, and Geralt felt his heart all but fall out of his chest. He had never smelt that level of fear on Jaskier. Never.

Not when Geralt had first punched him as a fresh-faced 18-year-old. Not when a bruxa had almost eaten him, not when he could barely breathe because of a sleep-deprived wish of Geralt’s that nearly deprived him of his bard entirely. Jaskier had faced so many terrifying and life-ending situations, and not once had he smelt of anything more than concern, whereas right now, Jaskier was clinging onto the doorway of the stable so hard his knuckles went white; he was terrified and trembling, and Geralt knew he should do something. He should intervene, but that smell alone was causing him to panic, and for the first time in his life, his body froze when it should be springing into action, springing to put himself between any threat and Jaskier, regardless of whether the threat was Lambert or not.

“I haven’t done anything,” Jaskier said quietly as he dug his fingers into the wood he was holding on to. Keeping his panic at bay. He couldn’t defend himself here; the witchers would try and kill him, and if he hurt Geralt’s brother, well, any hope he had ever kept hidden in the darkest parts of his heart for a rekindling of any kind between himself and Geralt would be gone, over, never to even be a dream his heart ached for.

“You think you can come in here, into OUR home. Steal OUR horses, act all high and mighty like you do and what, get away with it? Not enough to have Geralt wrapped around your little finger, but now you have to go after someone else’s partner. Then again, it’s not like I’m surprised. Geralt has told us how much of slut you are. He’s told us of how you got them run out of town more often than not. How you shag anything that walks and don’t give a shit about the consequences because you could hide behind him and his reputation as a witcher. That shit won’t fly here, Bard. You keep your fingers and your cock to yourself, or you won’t have them for long,” Lambert hissed out, his hands suddenly full of daggers as Aiden grabbed at his partner’s arm to try and pull him back.

“Lam, It’s not …”

“We can all smell him all over you. I know you would never cheat on me, which means he was making the moves on you. Not enough to rip Geralt’s heart out, is it? You have to try it on with my Cat,” Lambert snarled before launching himself forward. His dagger sliced through the sleeve of Jaskier’s doublet and caused the smell of blood to fill the air before Jaskier managed to move backwards away from the very angry and possibly crazy Wolf Witcher.

“Lambert,” Vesemir barked out as he tried to push his way through the other witchers who were not moving and were standing in the way, gawking at what was going on.

“Lambert, please don’t,” Jaskier beseeched the witcher as he moved away from the other male and further into the stable. “Look, I don’t know what is going on, but I can assure you I have no interest in Aiden. Now stop before you get hurt,” Jaskier all but pleaded as he looked around for help he realised wasn’t coming. Vesemir was stuck behind the other witchers, Geralt was standing there like a useless bloody fool, and Jaskier had no clue where Dragonfly, Serrit or Enoch were, knowing they would run to his defence if they realised he needed it.

“Hurt me? I’d like to see you try,” Lambert spat out before launching himself at Jaskier, the tip of his dagger poised to press straight into Jaskier’s heart.

Jaskier felt it as he lost all control of himself and his emotions, meaning he lost control of his body, too.

Before anyone could process it, Jaskier had transformed before their eyes. He lashed out, catching Lambert on his arm. The gashes caused by Jaskier’s claws went in deep before Jaskier pulled away and kicked Lambert, sending him sprawling away from himself.

There was an eerie silence that fell over everyone. Everyone but Jaskier and Lambert, who were both breathing hard, glaring at one another.

Jaskier felt his chest heave with exertion and panic as he felt Lambert’s blood mixed with his own as it dripped off his claws. “I told you, I do not want your fucking cat!” Jaskier snarled back at Lambert from the corner he had ended up in.

“Your bard’s a fucking monster,” Lambert growled out to Geralt, ignoring the pain of his now bleeding arm as he refused to take his yellow eyes off the bard he was now deeming a threat.

5 deep slices were on his upper arm, only there and not his throat because Lambert had managed to move faster than Jaskier when he had lashed out at him after the first strike. Was Jaskier even considered a bard still if he was a monster? Lambert wondered with a feral smile on his face, relishing in the fact that between himself and all the other witchers, the bard would soon be put down like any other monster they faced on the Path, and Geralt could move on from whatever enchantments the bard had been casting over him for the last 2 decades.

“I … Jaskier?” Geralt mumbled, still blinking, unable to believe the scene before him. The creature before him was clearly Jaskier. They had the same bright cornflower blue eyes as Jaskier, the same high cheekbones, the same scent, only now it had something wild thrumming through it, something that called Geralt towards him even more than Jaskier’s regular scent did, and considering how Geralt had to fight not to bath himself in Jaskier’s scent over the last 20 plus years, that should have been impossible. It called to him even more now, making him want to drown in all things Jaskier if the bard would let Geralt do so.

“NO!” Jaskier shouted, his hands that had been almost steady as they tried to murder Geralt’s brother were now shaking, the drip, drip, drip of the blood falling off them clear for all to hear.

“No,” Jaskier choked out again, this time tears trailing down his face. Geralt wanted nothing more than to take Jaskier into his arms, to hold him tight, to promise him everything would be alright, but how could he promise him that when he didn’t know? What he did know was that he would protect Jaskier with his life, even against his brothers and their kin.

Lambert lurched forward, a sneer on his face, and without thinking, Geralt stepped forward too, pulling his own sword out, ready to protect Jaskier, even from his own brother, if necessary.

Jaskier, however, saw both Geralt and Lambert stepping forward, swords out, and he felt himself hit the floor, his knees banging on the ground as he dropped all his weight on them. “You stop one witcher from killing you because he’s a jealous prick, and now you’re a monster,” Jaskier whispered with a hysterical laugh.

“You are a monster,” Lambert shouted before Geralt could stop him.

“Why? Because I defended myself? Because I’m as mutated as you? Probably even more mutated than you, actually,” Jaskier asked, his heart beating fast enough for all to hear. “At least your father only beat you, Lambert. Mine … ha … mine turned me into more of an abomination than you will ever be, so do it! Cut off my head. Finish the deed he started when I was still quickening inside my mother’s womb. Finish it then. DO IT! ” Jaskier screamed as he tipped his head back, preparing for the death stroke he had been avoiding ever since he had released how very different from other people he really was.

The blow never came, and before anyone could do anything, there was an all-mighty racket from the stalls in the stables. Before everyone knew it, there was a herd of angry horses between Jaskier and every witcher standing before them.

“What the fuck?” A voice Jaskier didn’t recognise called out.

Jaskier looked up to see Roach beside him, and he ended up laughing so hard he choked on it, tears pouring down his face, the words “I’m not a monster!” the only thing Jaskier could say over and over again.

“No, you’re not a monster, Jaskier,” he heard as he finally lifted his head to see Geralt standing before him, as close as he could get, before the horses snorted and snapped at him. “No matter what you look like or what has been done to you, you could never be a monster,” he added quietly.

“Geralt …” Jaskier all but wailed, unsure what he was going to say.

The horses somehow moved in sync, allowing a gap for Geralt to squeeze through.

“Geralt!” Lambert shouted, taking his own step forward, but before he could get to his brother to save him from himself, Lambert found himself blocked off by a very angry Scorpion who was pawing the ground, looking like he would attack Lambert right then.

“You hurt my horse. You won’t be walking for a few weeks,” Eskel growled out from where he had moved forward and was trying to calm his irate stallion down.

“Eskel …”

“I don’t give a shit. Go inside,” Eskel ordered.

“Forget that. Get your shit packed. I warned you what would happen,” Vesemir growled out from where he had finally pushed through the other witchers, having resorted to Ard’ing their arses when they didn’t move.

“You can’t mean that? You would pick that … creature … over me?” Lambert all but sputtered out.

“The only reason you aren’t getting a good hiding is because I know you’re worried about your brother. But look at him, Lambert. Look at that boy and tell me he is a monster. Tell me the boy sobbing on his knees is a danger to anyone here?” Vesemir demanded.

“It’s obviously a trick!” Lambert shot back, his hand shaking with his anger, where he still held the dagger that had Jaskier’s blood on it.

“Get out of my sight,” Lambert heard as he looked towards where Geralt was cradling Jaskier, glaring at Lambert. Lambert had seen that glare many, many times over the years but never aimed at one of them, aimed at him.

“Geralt …”

“Go, Lambert. Jaskier won’t want you locked out of your home but fuck off out of my sight before I do something I will regret,” Geralt growled from where he was on his knees, softly stroking Jaskier’s hair as the bard’s tears fell on his tunic. Geralt said nothing as the claws Jaskier had kept hidden for their entire acquaintance dug into his arms a little, as though Jaskier was terrified that if he let go, Geralt wouldn’t be holding him once more.

Geralt just sighed as he gathered a still weeping Jaskier into his arms. He didn’t deserve to be allowed to hold the bard close, but Jaskier was allowing him to, and Geralt would not allow this moment of trust and sheer despair to be taken for granted. He would never take Jaskier for granted again. 

Chapter Text

Geralt sighed as he returned to his room, where he had left Jaskier sleeping. Prying the bard’s fingers from him had been difficult, Jaskier clutching at Geralt even in his sleep. Still, Geralt had needed to speak to Vesemir, to explain to the other witcher that if he kicked Lambert out in winter, Jaskier would blame himself. Vesemir had reluctantly agreed but had told Geralt that he could explain to Jaskier’s protectors why the man who had attacked him was still allowed to be under the same roof as the bard.

Finding them had been easy, as they had been stalking towards Lambert’s room, ready to gut him in his sleep. Geralt found his head still pounding even now, long after that argument had ended.

It turned out that Aiden was a clever cat indeed, as loath as Geralt was to admit it. He had waited until the three others had seen Jaskier to the stables and then coaxed Dragonfly into a spar, meaning they all joined in at one point, as witchers are wont to do. Aiden had also expertly navigated it so the group of witchers who were on the grounds has started a playful brawl, as opposed to their regular weapons training, meaning that the courtyard was much to loud for any of them, even Geralt with his additional mutations, to hear Jaskier and Aiden’s conversation, let alone the way Geralt knew Jaskier would have told Aiden to fuck right off.
It wasn’t just Lambert facing the other witchers err now because of this; it was Aiden too, and he seemed to be in even deeper shit than Lambert, considering he was the one who had orchestrated the entire situation, refusing to explain to anyone why he had done so.

Geralt had once again had to reiterate how Jaskier would blame himself for this divide, even though all knew it wasn’t his fault and that if they pushed, especially around Jaskier, he would leave, even in the middle of winter. If witchers thought they were stubborn, they had no idea how stubborn Jaskier could be on a regular day, let alone when his emotions were centre stage in his thought process.

Geralt couldn’t help but think of all he had learnt about Jaskier since the day before. Geralt had always assumed that Jaskier had some kind of creature blood in him, after all, even Geralt wasn’t stupid enough not to notice how Jaskier had barely aged. But to have just learnt that he had more than one creature’s blood in him. That Jaskier’s father had experimented on Jaskier both inside and outside of the womb. That Jaskier had spent the first 14 years of his life being tortured and mutated to make an heir that would live longer and do his father’s bidding … well, it made Geralt sick. For Jaskier, though, and not because of the blood running through his veins.

Geralt had to admit, though, that it wasn’t such a surprise that Jaskier had siren blood in his ancestry somewhere, after all, no mere human ever sang as perfectly as Jaskier could. But to find out he had a mix of things in his blood due to his father and magic, and that the highest concentration was of harpy blood, had confused Geralt to no end. How was the beautiful, clever, and talented Jaskier mostly a harpy? Harpies were ugly, cruel, and couldn’t speak for shit, let alone sing the way Jaskier could. It made no sense to Geralt, whilst also making perfect sense considering how viscous Jaskier could be when things that he considered his were threatened. It took Geralt a moment to realise that the thing, the person, Jaskier defended most on the entire Continent, even over his precious lute, was himself ...

Geralt really was a fucking fool, and he knew it, Jaskier knew it, and surely at this point, the entire bloody Continent knew what a twat Geralt was. Yet, it had taken seeing Jaskier whimpering and breaking apart, willing to face death for being the monster only he believed himself to be, for Geralt to realise how much he needed the man before him, how much his life had been worse off since he drove Jaskier away on that stupid fucking mountain.

Geralt wished he could take it all back. Give his pound of flesh in redemption and turn back time, but he, more than anyone, knew that wasn’t possible, and so he had to deal with the consequences of his actions. Actions that left him slowly wandering back to his rooms, where Jaskier was hopefully still tucked inside and sleeping, to try and get the bard to see how sorry Geralt really was. All Geralt could do was hope that Jaskier would believe him.

It was as Geralt made his way back that he heard arguing coming from one of the rooms close by. He had every intention of ignoring it, after all, witchers were constantly squabbling with one another, until he heard Jaskier’s name mentioned.

Geralt instantly turned away from his own room and headed towards what he realised was Lambert’s room, and the door was wide open, giving Geralt a good view of Lambert and Aiden arguing.

“What do you mean you started it?” Geralt heard Lambert hiss out, his voice cold and full of anger.

“I mean, I heard you. I listened to your griping over the last few decades. I listened to your complaints about how Geralt was madly in love with the bard, and he dangled that love in front of your brother, sleeping with everyone but Geralt. I saw him acting all innocent and pretending to be shy. That he could possibly be acting shyly after everything we knew about him proved he was lying, that it was an act. So I waited until you were all busy and being much too loud to pay attention to one quiet conversation. Well, you were all too loud until Roach decided to get involved and booted me out of the stable,” Aiden admitted, rubbing his hand on the back of his embarrassment.

“So what, you tried to seduce him under Geralt’s nose? Under MY nose?” Lambert asked, clearly upset about this revelation.

“I wasn’t going to actually seduce him, Lambert. I would never cheat on you. I was just going to see if he would fall for it. If he would act like the slag you and Geralt have made him out to be for over 20 years.” Trying to figure out what the fuck he was even doing here in the first place,” Aiden defended himself.

It took Geralt a moment or two to decide if he wanted to interrupt Lambert and Aiden, when Aiden’s following words decided for him.

“So why is he here? A monster in bard form in the keep of monster hunters?”

Geralt didn’t spare Lambert a glance when he used all of his strength to have Aiden up against the wall, a dagger at his throat as he growled at the cat witcher, long and low and threatening. “I dare you to call my bard a monster again!” Geralt growled out into Aiden’s throat, his canines ready to rip the other witcher’s throat out.

He would have to if not for the sheer stench of worry that was coming off Lambert, even as Geralt’s little brother tried to pry him off his lover.

“Geralt, the fuck off my partner!” Lambert snarled out, trying to keep his hands from throttling his brother; he had a knife and his teeth near Aiden’s neck.

“Not if he is still going to be a cunt and call Jaskier things that no one should ever call him!” Geralt declared, though Lambert did feel the shift of Geralt’s muscles beneath his own hands as Geralt slowly released his grip on Aiden.

As soon as Geralt fully released Aiden, Lambert was between the two of them, one hand holding Aiden up as he coughed, fighting to refill his lungs with the air Geralt had deprived him of.

“Have you lost your bloody mind, you twice-grassed bastard?” Lambert snarled out, his body vibrating with violence, violence he knew there was no point pitting against Geralt, as he had always been the strongest and the fastest of them all.

“Just teach him to keep his mouth shut against Jaskier,” Geralt snarled before turning to leave.

“We aren’t the only ones who think shit things about him. You did. From what he was saying, you threw him away without a second thought. What were we supposed to think?” Aiden croaked out.

“That I am a fucking fool, as is everyone who has ever been cruel or belittled Jaskier, everyone who has ever looked at him and not seen him for the gift he is. Myself included.” Geralt snapped before walking away from Lambert’s room and heading back towards his own. To make sure Jaskier was still asleep, safe and sound, wrapped up in Geralt’s furs.

As soon as Geralt opened the door, he realised he had taken too long to return to Jaskier’s side. Jaskier was no longer in his room, and his boots and coat were also gone.  

Chapter Text

Vesemir felt the rumble of contentment rise up in his chest as Guxart nuzzled against him in his sleep. His Cat was warm and soft under the furs with him, their clothes and weapons set away from them, having no place in the bed they hadn’t shared in much too long.

Vesemir thought himself a fool for not inviting Guxart and his more trustworthy cats (and kittens that had arrived a few hours ago and were all settled in the great hall until they could arrange rooms and kit sitters the next day) years ago. He could have been more content than he had in centuries if he had known he would get to sleep beside his Cat every night.

Yes, Vesemir thought with a sigh as he settled against his Cat once more, he was grateful that this appeared to be a permanent situation from now on. More life in Kear Morhen, his Cat beside him and more young ones to teach (even if they would never become witchers, they could still learn to protect themselves and others). With that thought, Vesemir closed his eyes, ready to sleep once more.

“VESEMIR!!!!”

“Oh, for fucks sake,” Vesemir groaned as he turned to bury his head in his pillow.

“You are going to have to deal with him before he wakes the entire keep,” a very sleepy and now irritated Guxart said from beside Vesemir.

“Why me?” Vesemir grumbled, even though he was already out from under the furs and stepping back into his clothes.

“Because he’s your idiot pup and one of my Cats will gut him if he wakes the young ones,” Guxart said with a yawn, stretching when he saw Vesemir shamelessly ogling his naked body spread out on his bed.

“ I’M going to gut the little bastard,” Vesemir groused as he put his boots on, the keep now too cold to walk around without them on.

“If you were going to gut any of them, you would have started with Lambert, Ves,” Guxart said, amused as he wrapped himself in the furs Vesemir had just abandoned, smirking at his partners’ grumbling at having to get up when he had just gotten comfortable.

“Hmm, instead of gutting them, maybe I can just cut their tongues out?” Vesemir asked, his dark humour being used to hide his actual worry of why Geralt was now running through his keep, heading right for his door, someone (probably Eskel) clearly thundering along behind him.

“You won’t know what’s happening until you go find out, and if they bang on this door, I will gut them myself,” Guxart said before completely rolling over and going back to sleep, not even slightly worried about what was happening. If it was a real issue, and not just a Geralt issue, Guxart was sure there would have been someone up here a long time ago, plus all witchers knew to be quiet when an enemy was near by, even Vesemir’s daft pups, so Guxart wasn’t worried and he was to tired to deal with whatever crap was bothering a wolf, they worried about to much in his opinion.

“Fucking traitor,” Vesemir said in fondness as he threw a piece of paper at his now sleeping partner, leaving with a soft smile on his face at the sleepy insults Guxart threw back at him.

Vesemir’s smile didn’t last, though, turning into a grimace as what sounded like a herd of griffons tore through his keep, proving to be Geralt, Eskel, and Lambert behind him. Vesemir wasn’t sure whether they were there to console Geralt on whatever his problem was now or if they were as worried as Geralt seemed to be. Worry that flew off him, causing Vesemir’s nose to wrinkle at the sheer stench of despair coming from Geralt.

“All right, calm down,” Vesemir ordered his three remaining pups, controlling his own heart rate that wanted to skyrocket at Geralt’s anxiety that was in turn fuelling the other two.

“What is the problem now? It’s late,” Vesemir commanded as both Geralt and Eskel started talking over one another. “ENOUGH!” Vesemir barked out, causing all three to look at him in surprise. It had been a long, long time since Vesemir had barked orders at them like this. “Now you are calmer, tell me what is going on? Geralt?” he asked as he stepped towards Geralt and placed a hand on the other witcher’s shoulder.

“He’s gone,” Geralt said. The way he said it sent chills down Vesemir’s spine. It was a keen, a wail, all said in a gruff, hopeless voice, and Vesemir wished he had the kind of relationship with his boys where he could just grab Geralt and hold him tightly, even if this was a mess of his own making.

“Jaskier isn’t gone, Geralt,” Vesemir tried to reassure his forlorn pup.

“Yes, he is. I only left him to talk to you, the others and then Lambert and Aiden. He was fast asleep, and I wasn’t gone more than an hour. When I got back, he was gone. So were his boots and one of my cloaks. He’s gone again, Ves,” Geralt explained, rushing through his words so quickly that Vesemir found it hard to understand him.

“And why would he be gone in the middle of the night? Jaskier is not an idiot, Geralt!”

“He is when he is feeling overly emotional, and I promised him I would be there when he woke, and I wasn’t. I broke the first promise I have made to him since Caingorn. How can he forgive me when I can’t even do as I swore in my own home?” Geralt asked, his heart breaking for having just found Jaskier again and having lost him once more.

“I swear, when that Bard is involved, you forget everything. Including the fact you are a witcher!” Vesemir ground out between gritted teeth.

“What do you mean?” Lambert asked from the back of their little late-night meeting.

“And you two are no better, follow your bloody noses. The smell of lavender is unique to Jaskier in this keep, and it’s heading downstairs,” Vesemir said with a long-suffering sigh. “I’m going back to bed where it’s warm. Jaskier will not have left the keep. Dragonfly is in the great hall with the kits and would have noticed if he had tried to leave. Do you really think she would have let him leave, especially in the middle of the night?”

“You sure?” Eskel asked from where he had been standing behind Geralt in a show of silent support.

“Boys, just follow your bloody noses and your other senses. It isn’t like Jaskier is quiet. I am going back to bed!” Vesemir said before stomping off back to his room, and his fur warmed Cat.

“It’s that easy? You got us all worried for nothing?” Lambert asked as soon as Vesemir was out of sight.

“No one asked you to be worried. You were only worried because you thought you and Aiden had driven him out,” Eskel said to his brother before he put his hands on Geralt’s shoulders and turned the other witcher around, ready to steer him down the stairs as Geralt seemed incapable of making the choice to look for Jaskier on his own.

“What if he isn’t there? What if he has gone? We all know it’s my fault he is so scared and skittish,” Geralt all but whispered.

“Oh, for Melatate’s sake, let’s go find out,” Lambert said as he grabbed Geralt’s arm and all but pulled him down the stairs and towards Jaskier’s scent.

Geralt allowed himself to be pulled along, not believing he would find Jaskier until he stopped in the corridor, his head cocked like the canine he was named for.

“Why have you stopped now?” Lambert asked, annoyed that he couldn’t move Geralt unless he wanted to be moved.d

“SHH!” Geralt hissed as he listened to something only he could hear.

“Twice grassed bastard,” Lambert hissed back. “Whatever you can hear, we can’t,” he added with a long-suffering sigh.

“Stop when you hear it,” Geralt ordered his brothers, who completely ignored Geralt and didn’t stop until they were in the entrance to the great hall.

“Ohh …” Eskel whispered as they all stopped.

Geralt ignored his brothers, watching Jaskier, who was in the great hall as Vesemir had hinted at. He wasn’t gone; he hadn’t left. In fact, he was wandering through the hall and singing to the kits who were restless in their sleep, softly brushing back their hair and kissing them as he walked around them all.

All the witchers in the hall were silent, watching too, though none as transfixed as Geralt.

Hush now, little paws, curl close and rest,

Snow is on the roof, but here you are blessed.

Walls hold out the wind and the fire’s aglow,

And outside the mountain keeps back the snow.

Green eyes, gold eyes, and all in between,

Witchers stand watch, and no foe has been seen.

From Cat to Bear, to Griffin and Viper,

To a Wolf with his sword, there are none fiercer.

Silver is for monsters, steel is for men,

But all blades are gentle when guarding a child.

So dream, little whiskers, safe in the den,

’Neath the White Wolf’s gaze, ‘til the dawn comes again.

Hush now, little paws, no shadow draws near,

While Kaer Morhen stands, there’s nothing to fear.

Geralt watched as his Bard soothed all who heard him, his voice clear but gentle as all were caught under his spell.

“He can’t hate you that much if he is still singing of you as a protector,” Eskel whispered to Geralt, who was standing there, unable to form words or articulate all the things he was feeling. Even after all he had done, all the ways he had hurt Jaskier over the years, here his Bard was proving his loyalty and love again and again. Proving that he may be mad at Geralt (rightly so), but he was far from done with the witcher.

Geralt saw when Jaskier finally noticed them. he continued singing before raising a finger to ask Geralt to wait, that he wouldn’t be long as he took another round of the hall, making sure the kits were all settled.

“You do not deserve him,” Dragonfly whispered from where she had snuck up on the three wolves.

“I never have,” Geralt whispered back.

“You ever throw him away again, they won’t find the pieces of your body,” she hissed, a promise, not a warning.

Geralt nodded to her, showing he heard, he understood and that he agreed with her.

Dragonfly walked away as soon as Jaskier had finished singing one final time and made his way to Geralt, a soft smile on his face. “Hello, Dear Heart,” Jaskier said quietly when he finally reached Geralt.

“Jask …” Geralt murmured, unsure how to express his utter devotion to the being in front of him.

“Cat got your tongue?” Jaskier asked with a playful laugh.

“Not a Cat, but a silver-tongued Bard,” Geralt finally spoke, revelling in Jaskier’s blush.

“Oh, hush, you charmer,” Jaskier muttered back, softly swotting Geralt on the arm.

As Jaskier went to move his hand away, Geralt gently clasped it in his own. “I meant to be there when you awoke. I didn’t mean to be away long enough,” Geralt admitted.

“Don’t worry, Geralt. I knew you wouldn’t leave unless it had been important. Dragonfly told me you went to see Vesemir and then her, it’s fine,” Jaskier replied.

“It isn’t fine. I promised I would be there when you awoke,” Geralt dismissed Jaskier’s attempts to absolve him of breaking his promise to the other man.

Jaskier felt himself melting. “Come on, Geralt, it’s late. Let’s go to bed. This keep is cold and you are warm and tomorrow we will have that talk I know I’ve been putting off. The kits are asleep and I find myself needing my own bed, or rather yours if you wish to share it?” he asked shyly.

“I would love nothing more,” Geralt admitted as he lifted Jaskier’s hand to his mouth, softly kissing the back of it before tucking it into his own arm as he had seen Jaskier do countless times with others, adoring the fact that it was now HIS arm Jaskier was holding on to.

“Come on then. It’s time for all bards and witchers to be abed, especially if said witchers have to have enough words to have a real conversation on the morrow,” Jaskier said as he steered Geralt out of the great hall and back to the room they would be sharing for the night.

As they left, Lambert and Eskel watched them. “Do you think they will be alright?” Lambert asked.

“I do. I think it will take a while, but they have the rest of the winter. I think they will be fine,” Eskel admitted, his heart glad that Geralt and Jaskier were no longer suffering.

“I still want to know how he got all those horses and not just Roach, though,” Lambert almost whined as he and Eskel also returned to their own beds.

“Ask him in a few days. We need to give them a bit of space before we, and especially you, ask him anything. Plus, I think Vesemir wants to kick our arses for not keeping Jaskier safe here,” Eskel admitted with a groan.

“I mean … if he makes Geralt happy, I suppose being forced to run the Killer will be worth it,” Lambert admitted begrudgingly.

“Look at you being all emotionally mature and shit,” Eskel said with a laugh as he pushed Lambert, both of their hearts a little lighter now that Geralt and Jaskier seemed to be finding their way back to one another.

Finally back in his room after having followed his pups, Vesemir pulled his own partner in his arms, knowing Jaskier would no longer fill the keep with the stench of pain and heartbreak. Vesemir knew he would have to deal with his own inability to keep on Bard safe in his keep in the morning, but until then he revelled in the fact that his keep as full for the first time in much to long, there were young ones to teach, to train, to love and his pups were either happy or well on their way to being happy once more.

Not bad, he thought, for beings who were despised outside these walls. At least here they were all safe and loved. All protected, even from themselves and their own actions. In Kear Morhen they were wanted and protected.

They were one big dysfunctional family now, and it was all down to one extraordinary Bard.