#COËN IS NOW THE ONLY ONE WHO KNOWS

[lassieposting]

Jaskier is fucking appalled by the animal-naming habits of every single witcher within three (3) days of arriving at Kaer Morhen

This is a man who named each individual mouse in his prison cell. And now he finds that it's not just Geralt, who keeps buying chestnut mares and naming them all Roach like some kind of imagination-deficient walking time loop.

It's Lambert, the absolute cretin, who always names his poor animal Horse, as though it needs a fucking reminder, because "it's a fucking horse, songbird, it doesn't need a fucking name".

It's Vesemir, who's spent at least Geralt's entire lifetime leaving his horses with whatever name they had when he bought them, even when it's entirely inappropriate for a witcher's mount. Geralt remembers learning to ride on Vesemir's big black gelding Samson, which is not terrible as horse names go, he supposes. But Samson was succeeded by Dame Bubbles III, who was named by her previous owner's eight-year-old daughter, and even Vesemir himself can't keep a straight face at the memory.

It's Coën, who's always named his horses after food, which seems terribly mean. Rump-Steak is actually very sweet, nipping habit aside.

And then Eskel comes home, right as Jaskier is comforting poor Rump-Steak ("Never mind, dear boy, my parents named me Julian and I turned out alright") and finally, here is a man with some sense. Lil Bleater is not the most creative of names, but Eskel picked it himself, and his horse has a suitably witchery intimidating name even if he's a sweet soft boy who gets bullied by Miss Roachie. Someone around here has a brain cell - thank heavens!

(This is a very wrong-footing introduction for Eskel. He's not used to having strange men drowning in Geralt's fluffiest fur-lined cloak stalk up to him before he's even got in the door, addressing him by name and demanding to know what he calls his horse. But he's delighted to be pronounced "the only one around here with some bloody sense", asks Geralt, "Is this your bard?" and promptly explodes laughing at the thought of Geralt getting henpecked every time he names a new Roach for twenty fucking years)

#the witcher #kaer morons #geraskier #jaskier #the witcher headcanons #netflix witcher #eskel is alive because i said so

[aramblingjay]

After summers of fasting I feel hunger at last Geraskier, touch-starved, bed sharing (2K)

They meet that spring. And the one after, and the one after, and the one after, until it’s six winters later and Geralt leads Roach down the trail from Kaer Morhen with his saddlebags stocked full of human-safe potions and spare lute strings and a bright maroon doublet too small to have the faintest hope of fitting him.

ao3

The first winter he returns to Kaer Morhen, Geralt is asked to describe Jaskier.

“We hear you’ve started traveling with a companion,” Eskel says over dinner. Lambert and Coën go a little too still in the corner to not be listening, and even Vesemir subtly turns his head in their direction—everyone’s been wondering, evidently, and Eskel has been chosen as the best person to pose the question.

“Yes,” he agrees, taking another bite of whatever it is Lambert has decided to pass off as dinner. Some kind of meat, perhaps? It powders in his mouth like chalk.

To his credit, Eskel doesn’t ask who the companion is. “What are they like?” he asks instead, and Geralt doesn’t miss the they. It protects him implicitly the way Eskel always has, assuming nothing, allowing him to reveal exactly as much or as little as he wants, and Geralt is reminded all over again why he’s never been able to deny Eskel anything.

Including this, so he tries to find the right words. It was never his strength, even back when he still had red hair and brown eyes and knew of Witchers only as a fiction told to scare disobedient kids, but it’s even harder now.

“He’s—”

The first description which comes to mind is loud, but that isn’t quite right. Jaskier is loud only in the sense that Geralt is always aware of his presence, a whisper of citrus and jasmine beside him. And he hums incessantly, sometimes accompanied by the twang of his lute, sometimes not—but it isn’t the kind of overbearing, obtrusive singing that loud would suggest. Jaskier’s music is just there, a constant background, as familiar to him now as the chirping of birds and rustling of leaves in the wind.

He’s a bard, Geralt considers saying, but that doesn’t capture the essence of Jaskier, almost suggests he’s nothing without a tune on his lips.

He’s brave. Certainly, he’s the first human Geralt’s met that has never, not once, smelled like fear around him, even when Geralt’s eyes are inky black and he’s more monster than man. But Geralt doesn’t know if that’s bravery or foolhardy, and besides, true bravery is to run toward that which you fear. To not feel the fear at all—that’s something else entirely.

He’s different. True. Not nearly enough to explain.

“He’s kind,” Geralt says finally, and it feels right. There is no kindness to be found here at Kaer Morhen—even Eskel, for all his protectiveness, is not kind. No Witchers are, no Witchers are allowed to be. But Jaskier is the opposite of a Witcher, vivacious like no one Geralt has ever known before, impulsive and free-spirited and wholly kind.

Eskel’s eyes go strangely soft. “Oh, Wolf,” he murmurs, so low only a Witcher could hear.

Geralt looks away. “Anyway, I doubt I will see him again come spring.”

It’s not a lie. Jaskier has undoubtedly moved on to pastures new, wintering in Oxenfurt or Lettenhove or some other place that Witchers wouldn’t set foot, somewhere bright and lively to keep the chill at bay. The chance that their paths will randomly cross again once Geralt comes down the trail in a few months’ time is slim, and he doesn’t expect Jaskier to wait for him either. Jaskier is kind, but not infinitely so, and surely spending another year on the Path beside a Witcher who grunts more than speaks is the last thing he wants.

It’s not a lie, but the words taste bitter on his tongue anyway.

-

They do meet that spring. And the one after, and the one after, and the one after, until it’s six winters later and Geralt leads Roach down the trail from Kaer Morhen with his saddlebags stocked full of human-safe potions and spare lute strings and a bright maroon doublet too small to have the faintest hope of fitting him.

Geralt dismounts Roach outside The Wolf’s Snout, a grimy-looking inn with a half-broken fence surrounding it, five days’ trek from the bottom of the trail. It is further than he usually travels before stopping—the Kaedweni innkeepers closer to Kaer Morhen are more used to Witchers popping in than those this far out.

(But Jaskier mentioned this inn to him last year, so. Here he is)

He has yet to meet Jaskier in the same inn twice, but somehow they always find each other in one establishment or another on the outskirts of Kaedwen. Geralt no longer doubts whether their paths will cross, the question is only when.

Though he knows Jaskier tends to winter close to the coast, he does not ask how or why Jaskier ends up in Kaedwen every spring. Such a gift is too precious to jeopardize, either by his clumsy questioning or his even clumsier acknowledgment.

Geralt steps inside the inn to a raucous dining area, every available table surrounded by men with red cheeks and loud voices, clearly well on the ale. A good bard would make a pretty coin or two here, he thinks idly, and wonders if that’s why Jaskier mentioned it.

The innkeeper is a short, wiry woman with sharp eyes that rake him from top to bottom as he approaches her.

“Room for the night?” he asks, careful to speak just loud enough to be heard over the din. The innkeeper will know, of course, but nobody else seems to have clocked that he’s a Witcher, and the longer he keeps it that way the smoother his stay will be.

“I won’t be having any trouble here tonight,” she says, but her voice isn’t hostile.

“I won’t give you any.”

A corner of her mouth lifts. “And payment up front. How many nights you staying?”

Several coppers lighter, Geralt ends up in a rather spacious room at the very end of the hall, complete with a bed large enough for two (or one broad Witcher), a second small bed pushed up against a window, a fireplace, and a round tub. The main bed even comes with a feather-padded blanket for warmth. Compared to his usual accommodations, it’s a veritable palace.

He scowls, and dumps his saddlebags in a corner. All this luxury is largely wasted on him, and does little to fill the hollow in his chest that has only grown with every step away from Kaer Morhen.

There’s not much to do here besides take in the finery and rest, so he casts Igni to light a fire and settles into the bed rather quickly. Some dinner would be nice, perhaps, but everything smelled a little too salted and seasoned downstairs—normally he can stomach just about anything, but several months of pampering over winter have narrowed his palette considerably, and it’ll take at least a few weeks time to remember how not to give a fuck again.

Sleep finds him almost immediately after that. It should be one of the most comfortable nights he’s had outside the keep in recent memory, but the emptiness of the room aches in his chest like a physical, tangible thing.

-

He wakes to citrus and jasmine and a voice he would know anywhere.

“She told me you were in—ah, Geralt. Here you are. Lovely to see you again after a long winter.” Jaskier steps further into the room until he’s fully illuminated by the firelight. He looks good, Geralt surmises, well-fed and looked-after. “Don’t mind me. Coin is short and this room is entirely paid for, so I’ll be here for the night.”

It’s phrased as a statement but intended as a question.

Geralt just grunts his assent and drifts back to sleep smiling.

-

They fall into the familiar routine just as they have every year before. It’s comfortable, safe, easy.

Geralt kills monsters and Jaskier sings about it.

Jaskier sleeps with fine ladies (and more than one fine lord), and Geralt scares away their angry spouses with a well-placed intimidating look.

Geralt keeps them safe, and Jaskier keeps them fed, the coin he earns from one night of performing usually triple what Geralt could even hope to earn from a single contract.

Jaskier smiles at him and worries after him and touches him with a care no one’s taken since he was a boy, and Geralt tries to understand what it all means.

The ache in his chest is an old, forgotten thing.

-

Their seventh spring, he once again stops at The Wolf’s Snout.

(He’s never waited in the same inn twice before, until now, but he refuses to consider what that might mean)

This time, he’s awake. Waiting up, one could call it, though the very idea is preposterous—Witchers don’t have anyone worth waiting up for, and the chance to sleep in a bed is a precious commodity on the Path. No one is coming home to a Witcher.

But then there’s a lyrical knock at the door—two taps, and then a faster three, the beat of a song he doesn’t know—and Jaskier is there. Framed in the doorway, dressed from head to toe in bright blue and green that should irritate his eyes but doesn’t, not in the slightest, only makes something loosen in his chest that’s been taut for too long.

Jaskier is there. Here. With him, again, for the seventh spring in a row, despite it all.

“You’re awake,” Jaskier says, and his voice is missing some of its usual brightness, its usual whimsical nonchalance, but it’s so good to hear all the same.

“Hmm.”

And Jaskier shouldn’t be able to read what that means, just like he shouldn’t be here in a beaten-down inn along the forgotten backwater of Kaedwen about to step into a room already occupied by a Witcher, but Jaskier is brave and different and kind and entirely incapable of ever doing what he should.

So of course, Jaskier only says, “Yeah, me too,” like he hears the words Geralt doesn’t even know how to form in the privacy of his own mind, and steps over the threshold.

It feels significant, somehow. A bigger step than across a single plank of wood.

He stays silent, watching as Jaskier drops his bags in a heap by the door and undresses down to his smalls in the half-darkness.

There’s only one bed in this room. Geralt asked for a room and the innkeeper offered this one and he didn’t spend more than a second thinking about it before accepting. Witchers can’t be picky, and Jaskier has slept on the floor many a time—they both have, on cold and dirty forest floors far more uncomfortable than anything this inn could offer.

But.

“What are we doing here, Geralt?” Jaskier asks softly, hovering by the edge of the bed but making no move to come closer.

Geralt doesn’t have an answer. But he shifts just slightly on the bed, an invitation—and Jaskier lies down in the open space next to him, no trace of fear anywhere in his scent even now—and for the first time since the mutagens burned away every part of the boy he used to be, Geralt wants.

-

The next year, Jaskier doesn’t come.

Geralt waits at The Wolf’s Snout for a fortnight, until he can’t delay going back on the Path any longer, and then another day just to be totally, completely sure.

Jaskier never comes.

He packs up his things, never considers leaving behind the human-safe potions or the lute strings or the too-small doublet even though they add weight to Roach’s pack—just shoves it all into the bottom of his satchel along with his emotions and his hopes and the weird sense of betrayal he has no right to feel, and walks the Path.

Alone, as he was meant to.

The ache is back, a monster under his skin. He feels cold and tired and empty, but a Witcher isn’t made to break, so he puts one foot in front of the other in front of the other until it’s winter again.

He collapses into Eskel’s arms the moment he’s back in the keep, grateful to still have one person who hasn’t left, and his eyes burn.

If he could cry—he can’t, so it doesn’t matter. But if he could, he would probably drown.

-

It’s foolishness, to go back to the same inn. It’s foolishness, and Geralt is not a fool, but he can’t help himself.

Just to be sure. Just to be absolutely certain Jaskier has left this life, left him, and then he’ll walk the Path and never ever return here again.

But he opens the door to his preferred room, an extra three coppers per night now but worth it just for the memory of having slept beside Jaskier in this bed, and it isn’t empty.

Jaskier is there.

His hair is longer. He’s dressed in deep maroon, and there are bags under his eyes like he hasn’t slept in days, and he smells like he hasn’t showered since he left wherever he’s been for so long—and he’s the most beautiful thing Geralt has ever seen.

“Hi,” Jaskier says, tentatively, like he’s not sure if he’ll be welcome. Like Geralt hasn’t spent the last year withering away at the prospect of never seeing him again.

“Jaskier.” He can’t find any other words. He can’t think of any that matter more than this, saying a name he thought he’d have to bury in the deepest corner of his mind forever, lest the mere memory of it reduce him to dust.

“Sorry I wasn’t here last year. It’s a long story involving—”

“Come here,” Geralt whispers, cutting him off. His voice breaks, but it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter, all that matters is Jaskier standing on the other side of the room. “Please.” Witchers don’t beg but he isn’t a Witcher in this moment, just a man, old and weary and aching. “Please.”

“Oh, Geralt.” Jaskier is front of him in a flash. “Darling, I’m right here. I’m right here, I promise.”

That familiar hand reaches out and rests on his chest—he feels it, the slightest pressure when those long fingers brush against his tunic, the searing warmth of Jaskier’s skin on his own even with two layers of cotton in between.

Citrus and jasmine, the jackrabbit beat of Jaskier’s heart, and that soft, gentle warmth—Geralt closes his eyes and comes home.

#the witcher #geraskier #geraskier fic #geralt of rivia #jaskier #*fic #*writing #apparently the trailer inspired me and now i’m doing a bunch of geraskier writing?

[wren-of-the-woods]

Love, Joy, and Kittens

When Geralt and Yennefer finally get a room at an inn after weeks of travel, Jaskier expects to spend a calm evening with his lovers and sleep in a real bed. This plan is derailed when they find an unexpected creature in their room. Or: In which Geralt, Yennefer, and Jaskier meet a kitten. Established Geraskefer, 5k, rated T. Also on AO3!

Jaskier was having a lovely week.

Ciri had gone off with Lambert and Coën. According to Lambert, they were “having some uncle-niece bonding time.” Jaskier had suspected that this would involve a large number of explosives, cursing in various languages, and very little room for anything else, so he had suggested that he, Geralt, and Yennefer travel alone for a time and rejoin them in a few weeks. The relief on Geralt’s and Yennefer’s faces at the idea had been highly amusing. 

The three of them had been wandering the Path for almost a week. It had, for the most part, been wonderful. Jaskier got to spend time with his lovers, singing at them and making them laugh. He got to appreciate their beauty all day long. He got to spend every night cuddled up to the two of them, reveling in the warmth and safety.

However, he did not get to do any of this cuddling in an actual bed.

Their financial reserves were not exactly plentiful and, with Ciri gone, they did not have any real reason to prefer the comfort of an inn over the convenience of a bedroll in the woods. Jaskier understood all of this perfectly well. This did not mean he was happy about it. 

He may have complained about it a little bit, but, well, he was a bard. If Yennefer and Geralt didn’t want to hear a little whining now and then, they shouldn’t have brought him along. 

Jaskier hadn’t expected anything to come of his grousing. Jaskier had been wrong. 

After a particularly long day of travel, Geralt and Yennefer apparently came to an unspoken agreement. Geralt led Roach into the first town they came across and Yennefer headed in the direction of the inn. Jaskier’s confused and halfhearted objections (“What? Yen, that’s not really necessary, I know we don’t have much coin. I’m really fine, I swear!) were met with firm denial (“Shut up and let us spoil you, idiot), so Jaskier deemed it best to give in.

He made as though to protest at the price the innkeeper named for the single room that was apparently available, thinking to offer his services as a bard in exchange for a discount, but Yennefer cut him off before he could. She handed over the money and nodded in approval when Geralt began to drag him upstairs. She followed them shortly after.

“I still think I should have performed,” Jaskier was saying. He tugged halfheartedly at the grip Geralt had on his hand, though he could not claim that he really minded the touch.

“You’re exhausted,” said Geralt. 

“I think that, as irritating as the innkeeper was, this town does not quite deserve your half-asleep caterwauling,” said Yennefer with a smirk as she came up behind them. 

“Hey! I’ll have you know that you two are the only ones who I grace with my half-asleep caterwauling. Everyone else gets only my performance voice or my drunk caterwauling. Sleepy Jaskier is a gift that only you two get to see.”

“We’re grateful,” said Geralt, “But you really should sleep. Without singing.”

“Just because I’m not a great and powerful magical being doesn’t mean I can’t handle a little fatigue, Geralt.”

“Yes, and acting like a child who doesn’t want to go to bed is such a good way to prove your strength,” said Yennefer.

“Excuse me,” Jaskier said as they approached their room, “I act only with the greatest of grace and—”

A mewling sound from the other side of the door cut off his words.

It was soft enough that Jaskier barely heard it, but the way Geralt froze and stared at the door was enough to assure him that he was not imagining anything. He blinked.

“What’s that?” he asked.

Yennefer was frowning. “I don’t know, but be careful.”

“Is it magical?”

“I don’t think so.”

“It doesn’t smell like a monster,” Geralt agreed.

“Who knows what the innkeeper put in there, though?” asked Yennefer. “It could be a trap.”

“Yes. Be careful.”

The three of them stood there for a moment, staring at the door. It occurred to Jaskier that they would likely look rather comical to an outside observer.

“Well? Are we going in?” he asked.

After a moment of hesitation, Yennefer stepped forward. Slowly, carefully, she opened the door and peeked inside the room. She was silent for a long moment.

“Well? Is it dangerous?” asked Jaskier.

“I’m… not sure,” said Yennefer. Geralt stepped forward with a frown to lean over Yennefer and peek in the room as well.

“What the fuck?” said Geralt.

Jaskier’s heart pounded. He tried to get a look inside the room, but it was effectively blocked by the bodies of his witcher and witch. He stood on his tiptoes. It was no good.

“What is it?” he asked again. “A trap? A monster? Please don’t tell me we have to find somewhere else to sleep. My feet are already killing me. Why aren’t you saying anything? Is it gruesome? Can I see?”

With an irritated glance at Jaskier, Geralt stepped back. A little shakily, Yennefer opened the door and entered the room. Jaskier shoved past her and saw, sitting directly in the center of the room’s only bed—

A tiny, fluffy, orange kitten.

Its head was almost comically oversized for its body. Its tail was neatly tucked around its paws. It was looking at them with an adorably bewildered expression, appearing rather like it had just been woken up from a nap. Jaskier thought it could probably have sat in one of Geralt’s hands with very little trouble.

Jaskier stared at it. It stared back.

Jaskier burst into uncontrolled, delighted laughter.

Yennefer shot him an irritated look. Geralt shuffled awkwardly behind him. This only served to make Jaskier laugh harder.

“A kitten!” he wheezed when he caught a breath between giggles. “You were so nervous— You paranoid bastards— I cannot believe— It’s just a tiny kitten!”

“It might be a trap,” Geralt protested weakly.

“You could probably eat it in a single bite if you wanted to, Geralt!”

“That’s morbid,” said Yennefer. She sounded amused.

“And you!” said Jaskier, wheeling around to face her. “You said you didn’t know if it was dangerous! Yennefer of Vengerburg, the most powerful and feared mage on the Continent, was unnerved by a tiny little cat!”

“I can strangle you, Pankratz.”

Jaskier was overtaken by another fit of giggles.

The kitten mewled again, this time sounding rather disgruntled. Jaskier whirled around to face it.

“Oh, you poor dear. Did we wake you up from your nap? What are you doing here, anyway? Where’s your family?”

“It’s a cat,” said Yennefer. “It can’t understand you.”

“Oh, I thought it was a terrifying supernatural being capable of destroying nations.”

“On second thought, maybe strangulation is too good for you.”

Ignoring her, Jaskier approached the bed. Slowly, he held out his hand towards the kitten. It sniffed his fingers then mewled again. Gently, Jaskier stroked its head with a finger. Its eyes went wide. For a moment, Jaskier thought he had gone too far, but then the kitten pushed up into the touch. Jaskier’s heart positively melted. He kept stroking its head, unable to help the grin that spread across his face.

Behind him, he heard Geralt slowly sidle into the room. The kitten did not react.

“Are you sure it’s a real cat?” Geralt asked Yennefer. Jaskier glanced back to see him staring at the kitten, almost transfixed. “Cats don’t like witchers.”

“I don’t feel any magic,” Yennefer admitted.

“It’s kind of hard to be afraid of someone who’s halfway across the room and looking like a frightened pigeon, even if you’re a cat,” said Jaskier.

Geralt scowled and ignored him. “It can’t stay on the bed forever. We need to sleep there.”

“That is an issue,” said Jaskier thoughtfully. He turned to the kitten. “What are we going to do with you, hmm?”

“Again, it can’t understand you,” said Yennefer.

“Ignore them,” Jaskier told the kitten. “They do not understand the concept of whimsy.”

Slowly, Jaskier shifted so he was sitting on the bed beside the kitten. It did not seem overly bothered by the change. Jaskier moved to stroke its back. It looked content. Very gently, Jaskier brought a hand under its ribcage and picked it up, moving his other hand to support its hind legs and then cradling it against his chest. It mewled confusedly and squirmed a little, looking up at him, but he kept stroking it and it settled within a few moments.

He could feel its tiny chest rise and fall against his hands as it breathed. Its fur was slightly matted in places and it could probably have used a bath, but at that moment, Jaskier could not have imagined something softer or more pleasant to touch. It closed its eyes. Jaskier felt his heart melt a little more at the trust it was showing him.

He glanced up at Geralt and Yennefer to see them still on the other side of the room, looking at him with something that looked startlingly like awe.

“You can come over here,” he said instead of giving in to the flustered feelings trying to overwhelm him. “No need to cower.”

“I don’t want to scare it,” said Geralt, and Jaskier’s heart broke a little.

“You won’t scare him,” he said.

“Him?” asked Yennefer, raising an eyebrow.

Jaskier shrugged. “I’ve decided it’s a he. Orange cats usually are, I think.”

“How do you know I won’t scare him?” asked Geralt, returning them to the original topic.

“He can probably smell you perfectly well from here. If he was going to be scared, he already would be.”

Geralt hesitated. “I don’t know how to act around cats.”

“That’s okay. I’ll show you.” When Geralt still hesitated, Jaskier looked to Yennefer. “Come on. What are you waiting for?”

Yennefer frowned at him. “I’m not scared. I just don’t want to get fleas.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes. “I’m sure you can magic away fleas as easily as blinking. Get over here.”

After a quickly-hidden second of trepidation, Yennefer stepped forward. She looked at the kitten. The kitten, after a moment, looked at her.

“Mew?” he said.

Yennefer looked back at Jaskier, seeming uncharacteristically uncertain. Jaskier had to hold back a laugh.

“Come on,” he said. “Pet him.”

Slowly, Yennefer reached out to stroke a hand over his head. He blinked up at her, rather bemused.

“Keep going,” Jaskier said encouragingly.

Yennefer continued to stroke the kitten, first his head and then his back. Within a few moments, he settled and closed his eyes. He looked very content. Yennefer stared down at him with shock and a tiny bit of delight.

Jaskier decided that it was time for her to ascend to the next level.

“Here,” he said, and handed the kitten to her.

Jaskier had seen Yennefer achieve feats of unimaginable bravery. He had seen her fight her worst fears with determination, seen her battle hordes of monsters that might have made even the most skilled of witchers hesitate, seen her face down armies without flinching. Yennefer was brave. She was powerful. She was, in a word, incredible.

She was also looking down at the kitten he had just placed in her hands with an expression that could only be described as terror.

“I don’t know how—” she started to say, then cut herself off with a panicked gasp when she had to fumble with the squirming kitten to keep him from falling. He mewled indignantly.

“It’s okay,” said Jaskier, reaching forward to help. “I’ll show you. Here, you put your hand where it’ll support his weight, under the ribcage is good. Yes, just like that. Now you— yes! You’ve got it.”

Yennefer ended up sitting on the bed beside Jaskier, carefully cradling the kitten to her chest with both hands. The kitten was rather disgruntled by the whole affair, at first, but when Jaskier gently encouraged Yennefer to free a hand and continue stroking him, he settled down. He snuggled into Yennefer’s arm. After a few moments, his eyes slipped closed.

Yennefer’s eyes widened. She swallowed.

“Is he sleeping?” she asked hesitantly, her voice so soft it was almost a whisper.

“Yeah,” said Jaskier, feeling a grin spread across his face. “He’s taking a nap.”

“Oh,” she said softly.

She sat there for a long moment, quietly stroking the kitten. She seemed unable to tear her gaze away from the tiny, fluffy body in her arms. Jaskier found himself unable to tear his gaze away from her. She pet the kitten so gently that it was almost painful to watch, care and tenderness written into her every movement. Her expression could only be described as awe. In that moment, Jaskier was unable to think of anything that could possibly be more beautiful.

After a few long minutes, she looked up. Geralt was still standing against the far wall of the room, watching the little group on the bed with what appeared to be a mixture of fondness and longing. Yennefer took one look at his expression and sighed.

“Get over here,” she said. Jaskier nodded. Geralt, after a moment’s hesitation, obeyed.

His approach was slow and silent. When he came within a few paces, the kitten stirred, looking up at him with his ears slightly flattened. Geralt froze. Jaskier hushed him and scratched him under the chin, while Yennefer kept her hand resting on its back. That seemed to do the trick. The kitten settled back down into Yennefer’s arms. Jaskier gestured Geralt closer, and at his behest, the witcher sat down cautiously on Yennefer’s other side.

The kitten was still awake and watching Geralt with a little bit of wariness, but he did not seem overly bothered by the witcher’s presence. Jaskier internally cheered.

“You can pet him,” he whispered to Geralt.

“I don’t want to scare him,” Geralt said again.

“You won’t. Yennefer and I will help.”

A little bit of Yennefer’s uncertainty returned. “I can try, but—”

Jaskier waved her off. “Nonsense. He already likes you. Go ahead, Geralt.”

Geralt hesitated. “But—”

Jaskier rolled his eyes. “You can make fun of me if I’m wrong. I take responsibility for any and all kitten-related disasters. Go ahead.”

Geralt huffed, amused. Jaskier hid his smile by looking down at the kitten.

Slowly, Geralt crouched down so his head was more or less level with the kitten. He swallowed, reached out, and gently ran his head down the kitten’s neck and back.

“Mew?” said the kitten. He looked up at Geralt. He blinked.

“Keep going,” said Jaskier softly.

Geralt stroked the kitten again. When he did not panic or run away, Geralt did it again.

“He’s soft,” he whispered, entranced.

“Yeah,” said Yennefer, her voice equally quiet.

They both stared down at the kitten, who was content in Yennefer’s arms as Geralt stroked him. The kitten looked very small and helpless beneath Geralt’s big hands, but did not seem particularly bothered by that fact. Jaskier felt himself growing a little teary-eyed at the sight.

“Do you want to hold him?” Yennefer asked after a few moments.

Geralt’s eyes went wide. He glanced at Jaskier, nervous. “Do you think I can?”

“I do,” said Jaskier. “He already likes you, see?”

He gestured at the kitten, who was meowing in quiet protest at the fact that Geralt was no longer petting him. Geralt looked back at him. His face softened.

“I suppose,” he said. He looked up at Yennefer, then back at Jaskier. “Will you help me?”

Yennefer nodded.

“Of course,” said Jaskier. “Here, Yen, you can hand him to Geralt just like how you picked him up. Just support his weight— yeah, there you go. Geralt, you do the same thing.”

After a few moments of fumbling and a few disgruntled mewls from the kitten, Yennefer managed to deposit him in Geralt’s hands. Jaskier had been correct; he could have sat on just one of Geralt’s hands without too much trouble. Geralt was carefully cupping him with both of his anyway. The sight made Jaskier struggle not to dissolve into an unhelpful puddle of affection.

“What now?” asked Geralt, sounding almost as nervous as he had when Ciri first asked him to help her with her hair.

“You can put him in your lap, if you want,” said Jaskier. “You might want to get comfortable, though. Cats don’t always like to move once they have a nice person to sit on.”

After glancing at the bed consideringly, Yennefer crawled up to lean against the rather rickety headboard and patted the spot beside her. “Come on. I think we can all fit.”

Jaskier scooted up to sit near her, leaving space for Geralt between them. Geralt glanced up at them, then down at the kitten in his hands. The kitten had started to nibble on one of his fingers. After a moment of consideration, Geralt cautiously got to his knees on the bed and hobbled over to them, being careful to keep the kitten from being jostled. He settled in between Jaskier and Yennefer and set the kitten gently in his lap. The kitten flailed a little at the new position, but it took only a few moments for him to settle on one of Geralt’s thighs.

“Keep petting him,” Jaskier said encouragingly.

Geralt obeyed. On his other side, Jaskier saw Yennefer resting her head on Geralt’s shoulder and looking down at the kitten. For several moments, the three of them sat in content silence. Then—

“It’s vibrating,” said Geralt, sounding adorably terrified.

“Oh!” said Jaskier, delighted. Now that he was paying attention, he could hear the faintest of rumbling sounds from the kitten. “He’s purring, Geralt. That means he feels safe and content. He’s happy.”

“Oh,” said Geralt. His voice was filled with awe.

“We made him do that?” asked Yennefer. She spoke softly, as though trying not to interrupt the kitten’s purrs.

“Yeah,” said Jaskier, matching her tone, “We did.”

Yennefer smiled. It was not an expression of triumph or of power, not assured or sarcastic. It was not the smile she liked to show to the world. It was small and soft, tender and a little uncertain. It was directed at a small ball of orange fluff lounging in a witcher’s lap. Jaskier knew at that moment that no song he could write would come close to describing her beauty.

“I wonder where his family is,” Yennefer mused after a long few moments of content silence. “He can’t have gotten here all by himself, can he?”

“We can ask the innkeeper tomorrow,” said Jaskier. “Looks like he’s alone at the moment, though.”

“He isn’t,” said Geralt.

Jaskier blinked. “Please don’t tell me there are more cats hiding under the bed and you didn’t tell us, Geralt.”

“No.” Geralt looked rather embarrassed. “I just meant… we’re here. So he isn’t alone.”

Jaskier gave the kitten a thoughtful look. “I suppose that’s true.”

Yennefer looked back and forth between Jaskier. A small frown appeared on her face.

“He might have a family,” she said. “You can’t just take him.”

“I wasn’t going to!” Jaskier protested. “I just think he can stay with us tonight, is all.”

Yennefer looked at him skeptically. “That’s what you said when we found you trying to hide a baby griffin in your backpack.”

“That was one time—”

“It was extremely memorable and also idiotic. I am not letting you live it down anytime soon.”

Geralt casually removed one hand from the kitten to cover Jaskier’s mouth, muffling his indignant response and reducing his words to spluttering. Yennefer giggled at the sight, and Jaskier felt the fight drain out of him at the sound. Sensing his surrender, Geralt removed his hand and started to pet the kitten again before it could stop purring.

“The griffin thing was stupid, but this isn’t a griffin,” Geralt said diplomatically. “I think he can stay the night if he wants to.”

Yennefer subsided. “I don’t see why not.”

The kitten mewled a little. The three of them glanced down to see him resettling himself on Geralt’s legs, apparently having decided that he could make himself more comfortable than he already had.

“We’re going to have to move him eventually,” said Yennefer reluctantly. “We need to sleep somehow.”

Jaskier considered that for a few moments. “Maybe we can put him on one of the pillows. As long as no one rolls over in their sleep, he should be all right.”

Geralt looked doubtfully at the bed. The three them of sitting side by side were already rather squished.

Jaskier rolled his eyes in Geralt’s direction. “I don’t see you offering any better ideas.”

“I think we can make it work,” said Yennefer. “We’ve slept in smaller places.”

“All right,” said Geralt.

“I suppose we should lie down, then,” said Jaskier. Though he was reluctant to break the moment, he was still sleepy and knew that they needed to rest if they wanted to get anything done the next day.

After a few moments of shuffling and some rather disgruntled sounds from the kitten, they managed to get settled in a way that was comfortable for everyone. Geralt was on his side with an arm thrown over Jaskier’s waist. Jaskier was on his back so that Yennefer could lie half on top of him in the way she sometimes preferred. The kitten was curled up on a pillow behind Yennefer’s head. Jaskier’s arm was around Yennefer’s shoulders to keep her from rolling over in the night and crushing the kitten. 

Yennefer was warm and heavy on top of Jaskier. Geralt’s breathing was slow against his side. Jaskier drifted off within moments, feeling safe, loved, and content.

  ~

  The next morning, Jaskier was awakened by tiny and very sharp claws kneading directly on his bladder.

He yelped and flailed, trying to sit up. He was not very successful. This was mostly due to the fact that his right arm was trapped under a warm body and there was a thigh pinning his legs down. The kneading continued. Jaskier squirmed again, more frantically. He tried to free his arm to remove the pressure on his bladder, but—

Yennefer yelped as she went tumbling off the bed and thumped onto the floor.

Geralt sat up like a shot, looking around frantically and reaching for a sword on his back that was not there. Jaskier, now free, wasted no time in sitting up and gently but firmly removing the kitten from his person.

Geralt glanced between Jaskier, the kitten, and Yennefer, who had managed to sit up enough for her head to poke up above the edge of bed.

“...What?” asked Geralt weakly.

“Yeah, Jaskier, what the fuck?” asked Yennefer.

She clambered back onto the bed, giving Jaskier her most ferocious glare. The effect was slightly ruined by her spectacular bedhead.

Jaskier gestured emphatically with the kitten in his hands. “This fucker was poking me!”

Geralt frowned. “Why did that mean Yen had to fall out of the bed?”

“She was trapping my arm. I was desperate. Sorry, Yen.”

Yennefer glared at him. “I could turn you into a toad.”

“Listen, if I hadn’t removed him from my bladder we would have had a much worse situation on our hands.”

Yennefer looked at Jaskier’s apologetic face. She looked at Geralt’s expression of confusion and fond exasperation. She looked at the kitten, who looked distinctly unrepentant.

Unable to help herself, she dissolved into giggles. Jaskier was rather alarmed for a moment — had she just come up with a magnificent punishment for him? His face must have done something interesting, because Yennefer looked at him and started to laugh even harder. Behind Jaskier, Geralt chuckled a little as well.

“How did he even get to your stomach?” he asked. “He would have had to crawl over Yen’s head without waking her.”

Jaskier looked thoughtfully at the kitten. “He’s a master of stealth, I suppose.”

That sent Yennefer off into another round of laughter. Jaskier found himself unable to keep from joining her with his own helpless giggles.

Geralt looked between the two of them and shook his head fondly.

“I’m going to get us breakfast,” he said, leaving them to their merriment.

Jaskier and Yennefer had caught their breath and mostly regained their composure by the time Geralt returned with some food. Yennefer had the kitten in her lap and was petting him absently. He looked very happy with himself.

“I asked the innkeeper about him,” said Geralt, gesturing to the kitten with the hand that was not carrying their food. “She says he’s been hanging around the inn for a week or so, being fed scraps by the guests. No sign of any family, but he seems to be doing well enough. He’s healthy.”

“Is the innkeeper fine with him being here?” asked Yennefer.

“She doesn’t mind him as long as the guests are happy and he keeps some mice away, but she’s had some complaints about him sleeping on beds. She might have to find a way to get rid of him if he doesn’t stop.”

Jaskier looked down at the kitten, pensive. “I hope she doesn’t have to. It would be a shame to keep him away from people if he likes them.”

Yennefer patted Jaskier’s shoulder. “I’m sure he’ll be all right.”

Yennefer reached for the bread that Geralt was carrying and began to eat. Geralt passed another portion to Jaskier. The three of them munched their food contemplatively, looking at the kitten.

“I feel like we should name him,” mused Jaskier. “Calling him ‘the kitten’ in my head is starting to get weird. I need something to shout when I’m reprimanding him.”

“What do you want to call him, then?” asked Yennefer.

“I don’t know! What do you think?”

They sat quietly for a few minutes, the silence only broken by the kitten’s purrs.

“Well,” said Geralt when no one offered any ideas, “There’s always Ro—“

“No!” shouted Jaskier and Yennefer simultaneously.

Yennefer smacked Geralt’s shoulder. “Not Roach. You can name all the horses you want, but I draw the line at cats.”

Jaskier nodded. “We can think of something better. I believe in us.”

Geralt subsided with a huff. There was another moment of thoughtful silence.

“Cirilla the Second?” suggested Yennefer.

Jaskier flopped back down onto the bed, buried his face in a pillow, and groaned loudly. “I loathe you both.”

“I don’t see you having any better ideas,” Yennefer protested. Jaskier groaned again and rolled onto his back.

“What have I done to deserve this?” he asked the ceiling.

“Is that an insult or a compliment?” asked Yennefer with a smirk.

“It can be both.”

“I’m not so sure. That would require complicated things like nuance and finesse. I am not sure a bard of your caliber could keep up. Perhaps we need someone more practiced, for instance Vald—”

“How about Mackerel?” Geralt said loudly and rather desperately, cutting Yennefer off before disaster could strike.

Jaskier and Yennefer both fell silent. They looked at Geralt. They looked at the kitten. They looked back at Geralt.

“Is your entire repertoire of names made up of fish?” asked Yennefer, and Jaskier burst into laughter.

Geralt looked on with some disgruntlement as Jaskier’s guffaws slowly faded into giggles.

“What?” he asked. “It’s a decent name.”

Yennefer rolled her eyes. “Retrospectively, I’m grateful you didn’t go back to claim Ciri when she was young. The poor girl would have ended up saddled with the name Perch.”

“You are an idiot,” said Jaskier to Geralt. “An utter and complete moron. I love you.”

“Hmm,” Geralt said, flustered.

“Do you have any better names, Jaskier?” asked Yennefer.

“Absolutely not. Mackerel is hilarious. We’re keeping it.”

Yennefer sighed but failed to hide her smile. “Oh, fine.”

They finished their breakfast in companionable silence. When they were finished, they sat on the bed for a while longer. It was comfortable, after all, and they were in no particular hurry. Jaskier determinedly did not think about any other reasons he might have for not wanting to leave the inn.

“We can’t stay here forever,” Geralt said eventually, reluctant.

Yennefer sighed. “Yeah, we’ll have to get going if we want to meet Ciri and Geralt’s idiot brothers in time.”

Jaskier hauled himself to his feet.

“Let’s get to it, then!” he said with false cheer.

With practiced ease, they packed up their things. They were ready to leave within minutes.

They did not leave.

The three of them dithered in the room. Geralt gazed out the window. Yennefer checked corners for anything they might have somehow lost. Jaskier fidgeted with his notebook.

“Well,” said Yennefer, “I suppose it’s time to go.”

She went to stand in the doorway. Geralt and Jaskier joined her.

None of them moved.

They looked back at the kitten, who was once again on the bed. Mackerel looked back at them. He meowed.

Yennefer heaved a deep, longsuffering sigh. “We’re taking him with us, aren’t we?”

Geralt sighed. “We might.”

Jaskier whooped so loudly that it startled Mackerel. He darted back to the bed and scooped the kitten up in his arms. Mackerel mewled in complaint.

Jaskier stroked his head in apology. “Sorry for startling you, darling, but you’ll be much happier about it soon. You’re coming with us! You’ll get to see the continent. You’ll get to experience all sorts of varied and delightful table scraps. It’ll be lovely.”

Across the room, Jaskier heard Yennefer trying to stifle a laugh. He ignored her.

“You’ll get to meet so many people,” he said to Mackerel. “You’ll get to explore the world. You can meet our family, too—”

Jaskier cut himself off with a gasp and turned to Geralt and Yennefer, his eyes shining. “Ciri is going to love him!”

“Oh,” said Yennefer with a grin. “Oh, she really will. This is going to be great.”

Jaskier nodded enthusiastically. “This is going to be the best decision we’ve ever made, I can feel it.”

“What do kittens eat?” Geralt asked reasonably, looking rather exasperated at their antics. “We can’t just let him starve.”

“We’ll figure it out,” said Jaskier. “He can’t be that hard to feed.”

Yennefer nodded. “He’s been living off scraps and what he can catch so far. I’m sure he’ll be all right.”

“It’ll be dangerous on the path,” said Geralt.

Jaskier scoffed. “Mackerel is a smart cat. He can take care of himself.”

Geralt looked as though he might protest again, but at that moment, Mackerel meowed. Geralt looked down at the tiny ball of fur in Jaskier’s arms. Jaskier saw the exact moment Geralt’s last arguments drained away in the face of the adorable creature in front of him.

“I suppose he can come,” said Geralt with a sigh.

Jaskier whooped again. Mackerel meowed. Yennefer laughed. Geralt, seemingly despite himself, smiled.

The three of them shouldered their packs, Jaskier passing Mackerel to Geralt to free his hands. They left their room. On their way out of the inn, Yennefer stopped to let the innkeeper know they were taking Mackerel while Geralt retrieved Roach from the stables. The innkeeper seemed happy enough with the idea and waved at them with a smile as they left. 

They set off on the Path, with Geralt leading Roach and Yennefer and Jaskier walking beside him. It was just like any other day in the last week — except this time, there was a tiny orange head poking out of one of Roach’s saddlebags, and Yennefer was having a hard time suppressing a smile. Even Geralt looked visibly content. 

Jaskier’s lovers were happy. They had, somehow, despite everything, adopted a cat. Despite Yennefer and Geralt’s persistent issues with attachment and commitment, they had agreed to take a kitten with them on their travels for no reason other than sentiment and sympathy. Jaskier was so very proud of them. 

Stopping at that inn was the best decision they ever made. 

#the witcher #geraskefer #jaskier #yennefer #geralt #the witcher fanfiction #geralt x jaskier x yennefer #this is the third thing i've posted in as many weeks which is wild #wren writes #i wrote and edited this very quickly so idk how well-written it is but i'm fond of it #self-indulgent fluff my beloved <3

[winters-mistress]

Moonlight and Rosepetals

By now, Ciri is convinced that Geralt arms are the safest place in the world. Being held by arms so thick and muscular and warm, being pressed against a solid, secure chest that dwarves her and keeps her protected and hidden from the world and all its failures. He had started out as a protector, an enigma that was strong and sturdy and grizzly and grumpy, but over the months he has mellowed into this protective, attentive, gentle giant that spends hours in the evening holding her close to ward off the cold air.

Her eyes close and she leans her weight onto the witcher. She's laying on his chest, his arm around her, using him as a large pillow. Geralt doesn't seem to mind, he only brings her closer. He doesn't notice the increase of weight, of course, she's puny compared to his size and stature. His arm shifts across her shoulders, pulling her closer as he relaxes on the chaise they've found themselves in after a lovely dinner of salmon that Coën and Eskel had caught that morning, with buttery potatoes, roasted root vegetables and a firey vinnegary sourkraut that nearly blew her socks off. Lambert's creation, of course.

Speaking of the red headed devil;

"Look at you, mother hen." He says, a boyish grin on his lips as he watches the two of them together. "Who would have thought that the thing that would tame the great white wolf would be a little lion cub."

Geralt's eyes open slowly, and he leans his head over to his brother at a leisurely pace. "Even the pup could put you on your ass, knobhead. She'd go for the throat, mind you." He rumbles, smirking.

Lambert throws up both middle fingers. "Could not." He grumbles. "Little one can't even pull an Igni."

"Maybe not, but she can blast you to hel if she wants to." He smirks as Lambert flips him off again.

"Fuck off. Go back to cradling your pup, mother hen. We all know how you act when the slightest chill goes through these halls. You attack her with a swaddle of blankets so much so the poor kid nearly suffocates." Lambert rumbles, grinning as Geralt rolls his eyes and huffs. "Can't have the pretty little princess getting sick, now, can we?"

"Even if she was, she'd still be well enough to thrash the likes of you. Didn't she get a hit on you a couple days ago on the training grounds?"

"Lucky shot." Lambert grumbles. "Can't properly attack the kid, now, can I? Or you'll have my balls as souvenirs."

Geralt chuckled loudly, throwing the empty bottle at Lamberts head, the whole room laughing when it bounces off his forehead and clatters to the floor.

"Dickhead!"

#geralt and ciri #the witcher netflix #geralt of rivia #cirilla of cintra #fanfiction #witcherfanfiction #dadralt #ciri is his baby #geralt is the best dad #i love him #uncle lambert #lambert witcher

[lambden]

Hey, what do you say about Coën/Lambert, arranged marriage AU? Thanks, Ledgea!

well this is certainly not three sentences and is in fact 900 words. the idea GRIPPED me i love u i’m sorry i never adhere to any writing challenge properly

-

The steel head of Lambert’s axe buries itself in the old wood of the training structure. Lambert wishes his blow would have brought the whole damn thing tumbling down the mountain. Maybe then Vesemir would be angry enough with him to call off today’s proceedings, and Lambert would have another night to plan his getaway.

Not that he particularly wants to get away from here— that’s the problem. All these years spent growing to trust a group of people the way he thought he never would, and now he’s to be given away like a prized sire. He would turn and run if he didn’t know for a fact that it would break his brothers’ hearts, and Vesemir’s too. So he resigns himself to chopping wood that definitely isn’t meant to be chopped, and angrily shouting all the while.

“You haven’t changed,” says a gentle, nervous voice; Lambert looks over expecting to see someone much younger. It is, sure enough, a familiar face— but the face and body have changed so much. He remembers playing knights with a young kid who bore that same soft timbre, a kid from a faraway land who only visited a few times before blinking out of Lambert’s life forever. However, that kid had cemented himself in Lambert’s memories and not only by being a big softy; Lambert remembers especially enjoying their time together as Coën knew all the weirdest, scariest details about monsters.

Coën. That had been his name, right? Lambert takes in his changed appearance. His chin and cheek are marred by scars, the remnants of some past skin condition, and his frame is slender but strong. He’s not as wide as Lambert but he’s got some muscle. He looks every part the knight that they used to imagine he was, from the chain mail to the weathered boots.

“Coën,” Lambert says, stumbling towards him before he can think any better of the impulse, pulling him into a hug. The other man stalls for a second before reciprocating the embrace, and Lambert is delighted to find out he was right about those muscles. Not that he’ll ever be able to act on this knowledge, he remembers with no small amount of bitterness. “You here to rescue me?”

“Rescue you?” Coën makes a show of glancing around the empty training grounds; that’s right, he had been a smarmy little know-it-all, Lambert forgot! Lambert always had a thing for smugness; must be why he liked the kid. “You don’t seem particularly endangered.”

“And yet,” he laughs coldly. “My days as a free man are numbered. I’m to be married off to a Griffin at sunset.” The hand-embroidered beast on Coën’s chest suddenly stands out, and Lambert realizes aloud: “Suppose that’s why you’re here. You part of the delegation?”

“I’m part of the sacrificial offering,” Coën corrects him. “I’m to be married to the youngest Wolf at sunset, so I fear we’re in the same boat, my old friend.”

Lambert’s stomach does a sort of flip, and he inhales sharply. “Fuck. The very same, then.” Coën frowns, his brows growing close together, and Lambert quickly clarifies, “I’m the youngest Wolf.”

“Fuck,” echoes Coën. On his lips, it sounds softer than it ever has coming from Lambert. Lambert can’t stop staring now that he knows the truth— he had imagined some young asshole Griffin that would take great pride in making Lambert his groom without any care for him. But Coën is one of the most caring people Lambert has ever known. He forces himself to rethink the situation as the confused man stammers, “How could you be the youngest? You’re— you don’t look young at all! I mean, not— you’ve certainly grown—“

“As have you,” Lambert grins rudely. “I must admit, Keldar’s description was beyond vague. Had I known that you were my betrothed—“

“What, you wouldn’t be fighting with a pillar at the top of a cold mountain?” Coën laughs, happy and surprised. Lambert just watches him, struggling to keep from smiling too widely and scaring him off. “Yeah, well, if I’d known, I wouldn’t have bitched so much on the way up here.”

“Right.” A very terrible idea rises to the top of Lambert’s mind, and as he is so often prone to do, he immediately seizes onto the notion and sets his heart on making it happen. “You know what? I think I know how we can really piss off both Vesemir and Keldar, and get out of this stupid arrangement. Did you ride on horseback up here?”

-

“Leave it to Lambert to ruin his own arranged marriage by fucking eloping,” Eskel marvels. The keep has never been busier what with the extra wedding guests and everyone running around looking for the two grooms, but Lambert’s brothers know better than to try to seek him out. The only way to find Lambert once he’s gone into hiding is to wait it out— that, or offer a really high cash reward so he can turn himself in. And they just lost a very prosperous deal, so they don’t exactly have the funds for that.

Geralt just takes a long drink from Lambert’s ceremonial wedding wine in response.

Up at the head table, where the young Wolf and Griffin would have exchanged their vows, Vesemir and Keldar instead exchange an amused— and triumphant— look. The plan went better than they could have imagined.

#originally this was only the last three paragraphs but i . i had to #lambcoen fic #lambcoen #lambert #coën #ledgea #asks #drabble meme #my writing

[islenthatur]

A Leshen’s Roar

Jaskier stood in the back of the hall far away from the others and shifted uncomfortably, hands fiddling with the woven gold bands around his wrists that he had made long ago to hide his Self from magical means. Geralt’s eyes found his as he, Ciri and his brothers all gathered ales and food, his head tilting in question.

Are you well?

He gave his Witcher a grin and nodded, it was a complete and utter fucking lie but still, it eased Geralt. Being here in these halls felt wrong all kinds of it, the magic of the Old Wards that protected this place itched under his Glamour-skin. Yet, he would endure like always. Geralt had begged him quiet in the night when he and his child surprise stumbled across him, startling him bad enough that if it wasn’t for Geralt’s fast reflexes and Jaskier’s own and age that the roots he sent tearing towards them would have struck true.

Geralt had been asking him for years to join him in Kaer Morhen even knowing the truth, he steadily rejected the fact that Jaskier would not be welcomed in his home with the same vehemence as Jaskier defending Witchers against humans

This time he agreed because he was a fool with a fool’s heart. There was still something hollow between them after the mountain, even with an apology but… no, there had been something broken between them since the Djinn and that fucking wish twisted Geralt so far up in the Witch’s presence… yet, Jaskier couldn’t refuse, not with the way Geralt looked at him, not when there was so much tenderness in those eyes directed at him.

He hadn’t looked at him like that for a very long time.

“Thank you,” He whispered to the polite Witcher – Coën – when the Griffin brought him a plate of food and an ale.

The Witcher dipped his head in reply and went back to the others while Jaskier leant against the wall and watched, a smile pulling at his own lips as they began to break out in cheerful stories. He couldn’t help but inch closer, coming to stand by Geralt and laughed as Lambert grew utterly animated in the midst of a fabulous story that Jaskier itched to write down.

Vesemir hummed as he moved to stand at the centre of the table, waiting till all eyes were on him. He cast a look at each other them, lingering on Jaskier for a beat longer than expected but still. "Each of your faces here is enough cause for a celebration. You're safe, made it back home in one piece… mainly. That is enough for me."

"Here's to another Winter together," Coën added a small grin on his face, cup raised in toast.

"To arguments over who gets cleaning duty!"

"To the breath in our lungs!"

Geralt hummed as he raised his own mug of ale, a twitch of a smile on his lips. "To the brothers."

"To forgetting the fucking path!" Eskel's voice booms in the hall. "For one fucking night!"

Something dark twisted in Jaskier as he turned with a smile to the new Witcher, the one Geralt was most eager to see. His favourite brother that he spoke of often, one that Jaskier was eager to meet as well to gather some embarrassing stories… yet that pleasure died as he took note of the man before him.

He looked like a Witcher, carried all the marks of one but everything about him was wrong. The air vibrated around him as Geralt moved closer to hug his brother, pausing as Jaskier’s hand clenched tight around his wrist with strength he knew the bard rarely used.

“You are not welcome here.” The voice that rumbled from the bard has Geralt stiffening, it was a tone he had only heard several times and it was when Geralt was truly in dire need or danger. Inhaling deeply he tried to sense what set off Jaskier for Eskel still looked like his brother, acted like his brother… but he knew that Jaskier’s senses were much more attuned to creatures than Geralt’s so with that in mind Geralt stepped back, hand going for his silver sword.

“What the fuck…/”

“Now see here bard!”

“Geralt?”

Several voices spoke out as one but Geralt ignored all to lock his eyes on Jaskier who’s eyes seemed to burn a brilliant blue, never wavering from Eskel who stood frozen in the spot.

“Jask?” He inquired slowly, hand gripping the hilt of his silver sword tight but did not draw it yet. “What is it?”

Blinking Jaskier turned his eyes ever so slightly towards Geralt, a spark of resignation in his eyes that made the Witcher’s stomach drop, he knew that look. It was an apology. Before Geralt could do anything Jaskier’s form twisted, the gold bangles on his wrist dropping to the floor with a plink.

“Release him youngling.” Jaskier snarled his voice warbling into the sound of creaking wood and a raging brook, his skin twisting to bark as horns began to sprout.

The others began to move, their hands drawing their own weapons as Jaskier’s form finally finished taking shape. Geralt moved and snarled, hands forming Quen as his brothers and mentor hurled daggers towards Jaskier’s back. “Stop!”

“Stop!? He’s a fuckin’ Leshen that you brought into our home and is about to kill our brother!” Lambert snarled as he charged forward, but Geralt didn’t allow him to get further than several feet before kicking out with all his force and a muttered apology.

Jaskier cared not for the fight behind him as he advanced on Eskel, his roots twisting to hold the being in place as rage simmered under his bark. Dandelions and buttercups wilted along his moss covered arms as he reached forward, his magic swirling.

“THIS ONE IS MINE!” Eskel snarled in a twisted warble that stilled the others behind him.

A dark laugh escaped Jaskier’s lips, the sound of grinding bone and snapping branches. “No youngling, he is not… he’s mine.”

A wretched snarl escaped Eskel’s lips as Jaskier’s power rippled out of him in a screech, his body arching back, arms splayed open as Jaskier burst into a flock of crows to swarm around him, looking for the infection. This Leshen was from an old Sphere, one that Jaskier was born to, for it to twist a being this way. The Leshen’s of this world were twisted, wrong… not as powerful but Jaskier was old, far older than this creature and he reached within the Witcher and grasped the fleck of twisted rotting wood that inched towards his heart and yanked.

Everything about the rotting wood was wrong, powdery like crumbling stone but sparkled like—like stellacite. His heart stuttered as he swung his head around to gaze at Ciri, remembering one night of her waking up screaming, burrowing into his arms and sobbed out the harrowing story of how she escaped Cintra, what her scream could do and that it toppled the monolith.

If this got through, then… fuck. What else got through?

Steeling himself Jaskier turned to the wriggling arm and felt the roar build up, releasing it as it reached its bubbling point and shattering the slivers of the Youngling that dared to harm something of his Beloved.

Everything spun as Jaskier let his magic release, letting his form shrink back down enough for Geralt to slip the bangles over his hands once more and solidifying him to his preferred human body. Exhaustion crept up on him as he moved Eskel, who was now unconscious, towards them all with is vines.

“He’s alive, will be unconscious for a while. The youngling was trying to Twist him into a Leshen- formować. If left to fester then Eskel would have died and in his place the puppet of the Youngling.” Jaskier explained broken, toneless as he moved to stand behind Geralt slightly. “He will be well now, sore but well.”

#Leshen Jaskier #Non-Human Jaskier #Geralt/Jaskier #the witcher fanfiction #I should be writing for Mark of a Viper but this #Ficlet #the witcher fandom #jaskier dandelion #geralt of rivera

[yenn-atreides]

Like a flame (a Witcher story) - part IV

Pairing: Lambert x F! Mage reader

Warnings: mild swearing, Lambchop being Lambchop

Genre: fluff, angst, h/c

Read the previous parts here:

‘Y/N, can we talk?’

‘Piss off, Lambert…’ you muttered under your breath as you filled your bowl with stew.

‘What did he do?’ Geralt asked, his brow knitted into a frown.

‘Leave it alone.’ Eskel huffed, clearly regretting what he did.

‘I’ll tell you what he did, Geralt.’ you said. ‘Lambert here, got himself hurt on purpose so he could be the centre of attention.’

‘What!?’ Coën shouted, ‘Are you mental?’

You all sat down around the same table and Lambert made sure to sit opposite of you, he was desperate.

‘Idiot.’ Geralt grunted and hit the back of Lambert's head which caused the ginger witcher to curse under his breath.

‘Why would you do such a thing?’ Vesemir asked, he wondered whether his youngest son has lost his mind. Lambert didn’t answer and just kept trying to make eye contact with you.

‘He wanted to spend time with her.’ Eskel said, which caused Geralt and Coën to snort.

‘Yes and you helped him.’ you snarled, making sure the others knew he was complicit.

‘Unbelievable…’ Geralt grunted.

‘Exactly.’ you said and glanced over to meet Lambert’s keen amber eyes. They made you feel weak and caused your cheeks to flush but you kept a deadly glare. Your eyes could have burst anyone into spontaneous flames, and Lambert looked broken when he saw your fiery gaze.

‘And you still helped him, or who tended to him??’ Coën asked.

‘He couldn’t stitch it up himself, so yes.’

‘You’re soft.’ Geralt said and rolled his eyes.

‘Can’t we just leave it behind, princess? I told you I’m sorry…’ Lambert tried.

‘Don’t call me princess.’ you spat and angrily spooned some horrible stew into your mouth.

‘’You are both so stubborn!’ Coën sighed.

‘And you are all as stupid as you’re tall!’ you yelled and left. The food was disgusting and you didn’t feel like eating so you were more than glad to escape. You were absolutely livid, but also more attracted to Lambert than ever. You hated yourself for it, and even though he was an idiot and too horny for words, you still loved him.

———————————————————————

You had spent some time with Sage and Roach and it was already late when you came back inside. You had managed to slip out without anyone noticing so Geralt and Vesemir - the only ones who were still in the hall, were surprised to see you.

‘Y/N, what are you doing still up?’ Vesemir asked, ‘I thought you had gone to bed.’

‘I was with Roach and Sage.’ you said with a thin smile. ‘I gave them hay and water so don’t bother going out again.’ you added.

‘Hm.’ Geralt grunted, ‘Thank you.’

‘It’s fine. At least they don’t vex me.’ you huffed.

‘Lambert is sorry, you know.’ the white-haired witcher said, ‘He’s an arse but at least he’s sorry.’

‘That’s something…’ you said.

‘It’s a start.’ Vesemir smiled kindly.

‘Night.’ you said and walked towards the stairs. You crossed the laboratory and saw the mortar standing in the exact spot where you had put it down before Lambert. The leaves and twigs were only roughly crushed and just a few strips of cloth had disappeared. He had done a terrible job at patching himself up it seemed, too bad for him.

You walked up the stairs and saw Lambert standing in the hall, about to enter his room. He hadn’t seen you yet, and he was grabbing at his shoulder with a grunt: he was in pain.

‘I can hear your heartbeat, little witch.’ he said and turned around to meet you with a little smile. He tried his best to hide his agony but it was no use.

‘You’re hurting.’ you said with a calm tone.

‘Yes…’

‘And do you know whose fault that is?’

‘Yours, because you left me untended to.’ he snorted.

‘Fuck’s sake…’ you moaned and sped up to go to your room, you didn’t want to see him anymore.

‘I was only having fun, I’m sorry.’, he was almost stuttering now.

‘I know you’re sorry, but just let me be. I’ve had enough of you.’ you said, your voice had a slight bend in it. It made you feel ashamed, he could not, under any circumstances, find out that you pitied him. That was your problem: you yearned for him, you wanted him so badly it hurt. You walked past him and your side brushed him, and suddenly you felt his hand on your arm.

‘Please…, you can’t stay mad at me. No one can.’

‘You think you’re so irresistible, don’t you?’ you yelled. ‘And I definitely can, watch me.’. He was right, he was impossible to ignore. You opened your door and heard a ‘Night, Y/N.’ before you slammed it shut.

#witcher netflix #geralt of rivia #the witcher #toss a coin to your witcher #witcher geralt #jaskier #yennefer of vengerberg #yenneferthewitcher #the cavillry #henry william dalgliesh cavill #henry cavill #lambchops #netflix lambert #lambert x reader #witcher lambert #witcher imagine #vesemir #witcher coen #kaer morons #kaer morhen #cirilla of cintra

[dreamofbecoming]

“sleep now, she pleads

Chapter 4 (1) (2) (3) (AO3)

When Eskel finally made it back out onto the training grounds after his chat with Jaskier, he could sense the hostility rolling off Lambert in waves. He didn’t know what his little brother’s problem was this year, but it was obviously something, because this level of seething rage was out of character, even for him. He hadn’t been like this since the Trials—when they lost Voltehre, Eskel thought Lambert might burn the keep down with the force of his grief and anger alone.

It was no use until he wanted to talk about it, in any case. He and his brothers could needle and cajole as much as they liked, but no one would get a word out of Lambert until he was ready, so Eskel heaved a sigh and settled in for a long winter of drama and unpleasantness.

Still, no need to subject the little one to that unpleasantness, if they could help it. The bard was right about that, at least.

“Oi, Cub!” All the heads in the courtyard snapped up in his direction. “With me today, Wolfling. Coën, you too.” He jerked his head in the direction of the side yard, where the rest of the keep should be fairly sheltered from the fallout should Ciri’s magic prove particularly explosive. Again.

Lambert growled and spat at Eskel’s feet, but turned back to Vartok with his sword raised without issue. Ciri threw a few nervous glances behind her as Coën guided her forward with a hand between her shoulder blades, but the three of them were soon out of sight of the main training yard.

“Alright, cub, we’re going to start you on your Signs today.”

“I thought I had to go to Nenneke for that?”

Eskel grinned. “Nah, Geralt might need to outsource his magical instruction, but our Wolf was never as good at Signs as me, anyway.”

Coën rolled his eyes in amusement. “I guess you’re not bad, for a Wolf. Maybe you should have been a Griffin, brother.” Eskel laughed at the well-worn joke.

“Why do you think you’re here? Can’t have a proper magic lesson without a Griffin.”

Ciri looked back and forth between them, expression fading from affront at the insult to her Father of Surprise and warring instead between confusion and amusement at their banter.

Coën eyed her appraisingly. “What do you know about witchers, girl?”

Ciri just looked at him flatly, arms crossed. The scarred witcher did look a little sheepish at that.

“Alright, fair enough. Stupid question. What I mean is, what have Vesemir and Geralt taught you about the different witcher schools?”

Ciri’s brow furrowed. “Only that there are seven, but you all split off from the School of the Wolf originally. And not to trust Vipers or Cats.” Coën’s expression twisted uncomfortably at something in that response, but Eskel set aside his curiosity and turned his focus back to Ciri.

“The different schools don’t just have different medallions. We have different training styles and skillsets, and even different mutagens.” She lifted her brows at this, interest clearly peaked. “Coën here is only an honorary Wolf, he’s actually from the School of the Griffin.”

Ciri leaned in to inspect Coën’s medallion before rocking back on her heels. “So you have different mutations than Geralt and the others?”

“I do. My senses aren’t quite as advanced as the Wolves’, but the mages at Kaer Seren created a formula that boosted our ability to manipulate Chaos, so our Signs tended to be much stronger than other schools, and some of my brothers were even able to expand the number of Signs they could do, although new ones rarely worked for anyone but the witcher who invented them.”

“Since Coën and I have the most magical experience here outside of the mage, we’re going to spend some time figuring out what you’re capable of and going over techniques for control, alright?”

Ciri looked apprehensive, but nodded anyway.

“For these lessons to stick, they have to be regular, so from now on we’ll be trading off days. Physical training with the whole keep as usual every second day, magic lessons with Coën and me in between. Sound good?” Another nod. “Good. Alright, step one is we need to learn how to shape our hands correctly.”

Several hours later, Ciri still hadn’t successfully performed a Sign, but she had laughed out loud when Eskel’s Igni singed off one of Coën’s eyebrows, so Eskel was counting the whole morning as a win.

----

Once he had carried his sleeping brother back up to bed (and left a tray of food beside him before scarfing down some cold venison and cheese of his own), Eskel headed to the library. Jaskier was tucked into a windowsill, intermittently plucking at his new lute and scribbling in a notebook balanced on his knee.

Curious, he paused in the doorway. Jaskier hadn’t noticed him yet, and Eskel hadn’t gotten to hear the bard play at all this winter, much less compose something new. None of them had, actually— the awkwardness driving him to keep Geralt at arm’s length also compelling him to keep his art hidden away from everyone in the keep.

Eskel had been hearing Jaskier’s songs on the Path for decades, but always from lesser bards in taverns all over the Continent. He wasn’t ashamed to admit he considered himself a fan, and since he imagined the ballads were probably leagues better from Jaskier’s lips, he couldn’t deny his excitement at the opportunity to hear the master bard himself play.

Geralt had always grumbled and complained about Jaskier’s singing, but Eskel knew his brother better than anyone, and he certainly knew him well enough to tell when he was posturing to conceal genuine emotion. Geralt hoarded the bard’s music to his heart like a dragon’s treasure (though Eskel would wager his last coin he had never said as much to his friend’s face; Eskel was well aware that out of all his brothers, few had gotten an ounce of emotional intelligence, and Geralt most decidedly was not among them), and he imagined Jaskier’s talent must be impressive to have ensnared his stoic brother so.

Perhaps it was a violation of privacy, eavesdropping like this. But then, he reasoned, Jaskier had taken great pains thus far never to play within earshot of any witchers, which made composing now in a common space like the library nearly an invitation in itself, so Eskel brushed off the faint feeling of guilt and settled in to listen.

There was an overwhelming kind of intimacy to this, to watching the melody take shape in the air as Jaskier strummed thoughtfully at his instrument and tried out different chords, testing and repeating phrases here and there. He wasn’t sure Geralt realized how incredibly privileged he was to have been party to this backstage process for so many years. Maybe that was part of the problem.

The song Jaskier was working on seemed to be a lullaby of sorts, melancholy and haunting. As he listened, though, Eskel realized the lyrics spoke of a muted sort of hope, of the comfort offered by a loving hand, even knowing it won’t take away the pain.

He wasn’t sure what he had expected, but he was vaguely surprised the song didn’t appear to be about Geralt, actually. It might have been, but something about it felt...softer, somehow, than the sorts of things Jaskier had written for the Wolf in the past, or might be writing about him now, after whatever exactly it was Geralt had done to drive them apart. He continued to listen as Jaskier sang softly of reaching out a helping hand to a struggling loved one, of the strength inherent in gentleness and devotion.

‘Cos I’ll darn you back together

When you think that you’re bereft

And you’ll wail, you’ll scream, but I’ll never stop

‘Cos it’s all that I have left

Eskel was almost alarmed to find the words on Jaskier’s tongue sticking in his chest, clogging his throat and causing his eyes to fill. His medallion was still against his chest, or he might suspect Jaskier of sorcery, or siren ancestry, or...something. But, he supposed, skill of Jaskier’s level was a kind of magic in itself, if merely a more human kind of power.

Clearing his throat to announce his presence, he stepped fully into the room. Jaskier looked up from his composition book, slightly startled, but his expression melted into a grin at the sight of the witcher in the doorway, which was vaguely baffling in its departure from Eskel’s usual reception from humans surprised to see him.

“Oh! Eskel, darling, I didn’t notice you there. Come to tell me more about witcher harassment rituals?”

“Come now, bard, I can’t give away all our secrets so soon, can I? I have to at least pretend to make you work for it,” he shot back, quietly delighted at the fact that the teasing repartee from this morning was apparently not just a fluke. He settled into a dusty armchair facing the window where Jaskier sat.

“Oh, you’re as bad as Geralt. You know, I’m convinced half the “witcher traditions” he told me about were just excuses to get his way without an argument. I don’t believe for a moment you actually have a hierarchy based on hair color for who gets the last sweetbun, Eskel, I simply don’t. Now I finally have other witchers to check his sources and it turns out you’re all in on the scam! Shameful, that’s what it is.”

Eskel burst out laughing at that. It absolutely sounded like something the Wolf would pull. He always was a little shit, and he nearly always got away with it, because no one ever suspected that stony face of mischief.

“Tell you what, my friend. I’ll make you a deal. I’ll answer any questions you have about pranks our Wolf may or may not have pulled on you, if you play us a song after dinner tonight. We could use a little levity around here.”

Eskel hadn’t meant for his proposition to make the smile fall off Jaskier’s face like that. Alarmed, he backpedaled immediately. “Obviously you don’t have to play for us if you don’t want to, Jaskier, I don’t meant to pressure you. I just thought it might be nice, I only heard a little before I came in here but you sounded lovely, and I know it’s been a while since you had an audience, and Geralt was always saying how much happier you were when you got to perform, I just thought—“ Alright, he was panicking. This was panic. Time to calm down. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up. Forgive me?”

Jaskier still looked slightly distressed, but his expression was growing more apologetic by the moment. “No, Eskel, you’ve nothing to apologize for. It was a perfectly reasonable suggestion, you said nothing wrong. I just...well, you said it. It’s been a while since I played for anyone, you know? A lot has happened since then, I’m just not sure if...maybe not tonight? I want to, I swear, and I will, I just...need a little time? To get properly acquainted with this little darling,” he held up the lute, “and get back into the spirit of it, I think. Plus, today has been really lovely, actually, and I’m rapidly growing quite fond of you, but I’m not sure the others would even want to hear me play, truthfully. I think right now I would feel like I was imposing, and that never makes for a very engaging performance. Is that...is that alright?”

It was obvious that the explanation wasn’t the whole truth, but Eskel was in no position to demand Jaskier give up his secrets, especially about something so personal. “Of course. Take all the time you need. Obviously you never need to play for us at all, especially after Lambert and the rest have been such pricks the whole time you’ve been here. We’ve hardly earned the privilege, after all.”

Well, now that he’d brought it up, that was something that should probably be addressed properly. “I...I am sorry, about that, by the way, for what it’s worth. We’ve none of us been kind to you, and you’ve done nothing to deserve our behavior. I told myself you would have fought back harder if you minded, so I didn’t need to step in, but that was cowardly of me. I’m ashamed I let a guest be treated so poorly in our home, especially someone so important to our brother. You deserve better, from all of us. Geralt included. I hope you can give us another chance to make a better impression.”

At the end of his impromptu little speech, Jaskier was gazing at him with something that might be called fondness, which should have been ridiculous from someone who had only been speaking to him for less than a day, but Eskel found he was beginning to sympathize more fully with the Geralt who had come home those first few years dazed and bewildered by the sheer force of Jaskier’s implacable affection.

“Thank you, darling. Your apology is very much appreciated, though hardly necessary. After all, you yourself were never cruel to me, and truth be told I don’t even blame the others, really. I’m an outsider here, and you’ve all just been through an unthinkable tragedy. It’s natural that they should be uncomfortable with my presence here. I don’t mind simply staying out of their way as much as possible. They’ve a right to their home, and I meant what I said this morning. I don’t want to step on any toes. I have Yen, and if it’s not too presumptuous to say, I think I have you, now, and one day soon I hope to have Ciri, that’s more than enough friendship for me to get by.”

“Not including Geralt on that list?”

Jaskier’s eyes dimmed a little, and while his smile didn’t fade, it looked suddenly brittle. “I think...I think that’s up to Geralt, truthfully. I don’t want to overstep, or misinterpret our relationship ag— anyway. I’m still his friend. Always. I just don’t want to ask more from him than he’s willing to give, this time.”

Well, shit. It seemed like Geralt had made an even bigger mess of things than Eskel first realized. Not to mention, it appeared Jaskier was capable of just as much emotional incompetence as their Wolf, which Eskel hadn’t been prepared for. He had hoped that Jaskier was simply angry, since then he would be likely to solve things himself once he calmed down and forgave Geralt, but if they were both convinced their affections were unwanted...he feared whatever had caused this rift between them wouldn’t be quite so easily resolved.

“I think that’s something you should discuss with Geralt, little bird, but what I will say is that you should be careful not to underestimate what you mean to my brother. I don’t doubt the Wolf fucked up something awful, and I’d bet my best sword he hasn’t actually figured out how to fix it yet, but don’t assume that means he doesn’t want to. He has a good Gwent face, but he wouldn’t have asked you here if he didn’t want you close. Just...be patient with him. He’s an idiot, but he is trying, I promise you that.” Jaskier still looked dubious, and worse, sad, but as much as Eskel hated seeing the two of them suffering, this wasn’t something he could fix for them. He could only hope they pulled their heads out of their asses and used their words sooner than later.  

“Anyway, that’s not why I came to find you today. I was hoping you would have some time to talk more about Ciri, if that’s alright? There are some things I’m sure Geralt never told you that might help explain some things, and I think together we can work out a better way to raise her than how we’ve been going about it.”

Jaskier seemed as relieved as Eskel was at the subject change, and nodded enthusiastically. “Of course, I’ve been looking forward to continuing our conversation. I’m glad you agree things need to change somewhat around here.” He set the lute and notebook aside and rested his elbows on his crossed knees, giving Eskel his full attention. Eskel was moderately taken aback by the weight of the bard’s focus, but he shook it off and braced himself for the conversation they needed to have.

“I guess to start, I should ask what Geralt told you about the Trials.”

Jaskier pursed his lips, giving the question serious thought. “Hardly anything, if I’m being honest. I know you were all given certain potions and chemicals as children, by mages, which contained mutagens, whatever those are, and changed you into witchers. I know they were incredibly painful and not everyone survived. I know Geralt had...different ones? Or more? I’m not sure, he never went into specifics, and I never wanted to push. He only ever brought it up when he was blind drunk or about to pass out from potion toxicity. It was clear it was something that caused him pain to think about, so I never asked questions. I just made sure I was there to listen the few times he seemed to want to talk. I’m guessing it’s a similarly sensitive subject for all of you?”

Eskel grimaced. “You’d be right about that. Honestly, most of us try not to think about this at all, as much as we can, anyway, but after we spoke this morning I realized that how we grew up is affecting how we interact with Ciri, and I think you’re right that it’s going to cause her harm in the long run, so it needs to be dealt with, as unpleasant a topic as it is.” He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, fighting the long-ingrained instinct to run far away from this conversation. “There were several different Trials, but the one that Geralt spoke of to you, and truth be told the one that caused many of us the most lasting damage, was called the Trial of the Grasses.

“The Grasses were the potions and mutagens that made us all into witchers. You’re right that they were brutally painful, and incredibly deadly. It varied from class to class, but from what the old instructors used to say, the overall survival rate was three in ten.”

“Three in ten? Lived?” Jaskier was white as a sheet, his face aghast. “Gods, all those boys...I’m so...Eskel I’m so sorry. I had no idea, I can’t even imagine. Three in ten, sweet Melitele, I can’t...I’m so sorry. Sorry, please, go on. I didn’t mean to interrupt. Sorry.” There were tears glistening in his enormous blue eyes, and the wave of grief Eskel could smell was genuine. As was, interestingly, the burnt undercurrent of anger. It seemed the bard had spoken truth that morning when he wished he could give them all back what they had lost. Distantly, Eskel marveled at this strange, earnest man, who mourned so quickly and so honestly for boys he never met, and for men he barely knew, who had shown him so little kindness. Geralt had been a fool to chase this man away.

“It’s alright. It’s...we’ve all come to terms with it, in our own way. It’s been a long time. It left its mark, though. It’s why...well, it’s not my place to tell his story, but Lambert has his reasons for being the way he is. He’s an asshole, but he comes by his anger honestly. Truth be told, he’s been worse than usual this winter, even before the attack, so I really don’t think it has anything to do with you personally. Not that it makes it less rude, but I hope you’ll give him a chance, when he pulls his head out of his ass.”

He shook his head, trying to dispel the memories clinging to his thoughts, reminding himself that he had brought this up for a reason. “Anyway, the reason I’m telling you all this is that when we were young, when this place was whole, the Grasses were given to trainees when we were thirteen.”

Jaskier seemed to take his meaning immediately, his eyebrows shooting up his forehead and even more color draining from his face somehow. “Ciri is thirteen. She’s not— I mean, you don’t still have— you won’t—?“ Eskel lurched forward, placing an awkward hand on the bard’s knee to try and reel him back in before he started hyperventilating.

“We don’t have the formulas to make the mutagens anymore, or the ingredients. I mean, there was...uh, well. When Triss was here, she and Vesemir tried an experiment using Ciri’s blood and they did manage to make a dose of mutagens. Ciri said she wanted it, and I guess Vesemir was going to listen, but Geralt stopped them.” He hurried to continue when the bard’s face went thunderous at this revelation, hoping to stem the tide of righteous rage he could see coming. “I don’t think they’ll try it again! They couldn’t without Triss anyway, or, I guess Yennefer could, but I don’t think she would, and I don’t think it’s what Ciri wants anymore anyway. And Vesemir did apologize. He— it’s different for him, than for the rest of us. It’s complicated. No one will be giving Ciri any mutagens, though, I can promise you that. Geralt would gut them if they tried. She will never have to face that pain.” Eskel is breathing hard by the end, having said far more than he intended, but Jaskier just looked so afraid, and so angry, and Eskel just wanted to make him feel better, make him sure...gods, maybe Eskel needed more friends. He’d had this one for less than a day and he was already tripping all over himself to keep him happy. Maybe Geralt wasn’t the only wolf with rusty social skills.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. I promise, Ciri is safe. But that’s why I thought you should know more about the Trials. When we were growing up, this place was full to bursting with boys. Geralt and I were part of a class of fifteen, Lambert had near as many in his year. The year Geralt and I turned thirteen, only four of us made it.”

He closed his eyes against the flood of memories, almost-brothers whose names he couldn’t even recall now, all these years later. Was that a betrayal? Would someone more loyal have kept their memories safe? He could barely even remember Gweld’s face now, all that rose to the surface of his mind when he tried a shock of red hair and the echo of a gleeful laugh. In another century, maybe he wouldn’t even have that much.

A soft pressure on his arm pulled him out of his sullen musings. He opened his eyes to find Jaskier kneeling in front of his chair, tears spilling silently down his cheeks. He didn’t say anything, just met his gaze tenderly and swiped his thumb across the back of Eskel’s arm in gentle, soothing strokes. Eskel was amazed to find how calming the bard’s presence was. He drew in a deep breath and recentered his mind, placing the memories gently to the side and settling back into his skin with a sigh.

He nodded this thanks, and Jaskier shifted into one of the other armchairs next to Eskel’s, leaving the hand on his arm where it was. Eskel should have hated it, unused to touch as he was, should have found it threatening or stifling, but instead he found himself leaning into the contact ever so slightly, hoping with a startling fervor that Jaskier wouldn’t suddenly realize his proximity to a monster and jerk away like a sensible human.

“You learn pretty quick not to get attached, you know? When we were boys, it was like...nothing counted before you survived the Grasses. Everything before you were thirteen wasn’t real; not you, not your brothers, not your dreams, not your feelings. We couldn’t let ourselves care for each other before then, or we wouldn’t survive the grief.”

Jaskier sniffled a little beside him. “Surely that couldn’t be true always, could it? No child can force themselves never to love, it would rip you apart.”

Eskel huffed a laugh utterly devoid of humor. “Of course not. Geralt and I have been close from the moment we met, there was no stopping it. Others, too. But we tried as hard as we could. If Geralt hadn’t made it, I’m not sure I would have survived, even if I passed the Trial.”

He could hear Jaskier’s bitten-off gasp, but he couldn’t bring himself to look up, not while he confessed this, his most secret truth. He carefully didn’t think about why he felt comfortable sharing something with Jaskier that no one but Geralt had ever heard him say aloud. “I think I might have just...given up. I think it was probably the same for him. I knew boys like that, boys who survived the Grasses but not the grief. It’s an awful way to go, just wasting away. No one wanted that. So it’s...an instinct, I guess. To push her away. Something in the back of my head says not to get too close, not to care too much, because she might not make it. I wouldn’t be surprised if the others are struggling with the same impulse, even if they don’t realize why.”

Jaskier was weeping outright, now. He was trying to be quiet about it, but he couldn’t quite keep the hiccuping sobs at bay, and Eskel wished he had more experience providing comfort to humans, or anyone less close to his heart than Geralt, really. At least with his brothers, he could challenge them to a sparring match to burn off some energy, or wrestle them into the hot springs and sit silently beside them in the water until the emotions passed, but he had a feeling those tactics wouldn’t be useful in this instance. He covered Jaskier’s hand on his arm with his own, patting awkwardly.

To his shock, Jaskier responded immediately, turning his hand over and clinging to Eskel’s with surprising strength. Lute-playing hands, he guessed.

“I’m sorry. To...to dump all of this on you, I suppose. I know it’s a lot. We’re alright though, really. It all happened a long time ago, and we’ve learned to live with it. And I’ll speak to the others about being more conscious of how we speak to her, of how we are with her. I can’t promise we’ll all be perfect, but she’s a good kid, and she’s been through enough. She doesn’t deserve to carry all our scars for us as well as her own.” Jaskier squeezed his hand even tighter, somehow, as he slowly got his breathing back under control.

“Please don’t apologize, Eskel. Not for this. What you’ve been through...that you trust me enough to share this at all is a wonder, and an honor I’ll not betray. Thank you, for helping me understand.” He sniffled again, wiping at his face with his sleeve. “Forgive my blubbering, my dear. I’ve always been an emotional sort, comes with the bardic territory, you know. I mean it, though, truly. I’m so very sorry for all you’ve lost.”

His eyes were so big and so sincere, so somber, Eskel would believe him even if he couldn’t hear his pulse and smell his honesty. This was not a man who played at humanity for personal gain, splashing in shallow emotions to gild hollow performances. No, Eskel had known Jaskier properly for all of twelve hours, and he knew as surely as he knew his own name that Jaskier was a man who experienced every feeling that crossed his path in its entirety, who let himself be drowned in sorrow and joy and love and rage every moment of every day. Eskel didn’t know how he could stand it.

The stories of witchers as stone-hearted mutants with all emotion burned out of them were nonsense, of course. Witchers felt emotions just the same as any other man, they were just better at hiding them, at controlling them, at setting them aside to be dealt with later. They had to be, for their own safety. Humans were terrified of witchers— maybe not as badly as before Jaskier had made it his mission to make them all into storybook heroes, but the wariness remained. Sometimes the smallest twitch of irritation was enough to set off a murderous mob, driven by blind fear and the need to kill the threat before it killed them. So witchers were, on the whole, well-versed in keeping their emotions tamped down, invisible and unacted-upon, but this didn’t mean they didn’t feel them. Still, the idea of living life as Jaskier did, buffeted by emotions like a ship tossed to and fro by a stormy sea, sounded exhausting. Eskel didn’t think he could survive for very long like that without going mad. His esteem for the bard’s resilience and strength rose considerably.

He sat quietly, letting the feelings of loss and regret and fear roll through him and off him like water off a duck’s wing, breathing deeply. It gave Jaskier a moment to collect himself as well, especially since Eskel had the feeling he was about to set him off again. He considered not saying anything; he’d shared far more with Jaskier already than he was normally comfortable with. It would be completely reasonable to stop here for the day, fill Jaskier in on the rest later, if at all. But, no, Eskel sighed to himself, the bard deserved more than that. He’d been loyal to Geralt for decades, and he was proving his loyalty to the cub right now, even with how much of a brat she’d been to him. He had earned some trust from Eskel by proxy, at least. And he deserved all the information, especially if he was determined to reshape her relationships with her witcher uncles.

He took another deep breath, steadying himself for what was sure to be an even more painful conversation. “There’s...there’s one more thing you should know about, about how we are with her. About what we’re afraid of. Especially me.”

Jaskier could obviously sense his reluctance for the topic, because he tightened his grip on Eskel’s hand once more and tilted his head in concern. “You needn’t force yourself to share painful things with me, dear Eskel. I’ve hardly earned the right to demand anything from you, and even if I had, I wouldn’t ask for more than you’re willing to share. Don’t push yourself for my sake.”

Eskel managed a tight smile, touched by the concern, but if he didn’t get this out now he never would.

“Geralt wasn’t…I had a Child Surprise, once, too.” Jaskier’s eyebrows shot skyward, clearly not having expected that to be where Eskel was going with this. Eskel kept his eyes trained firmly on the fraying fabric covering the arm of his chair. “She was like Ciri. A princess. I thought— I mean, what could I offer her, you know? Only cold and blood and hunger. She should have had everything. So I ran. Avoided her whole country like the plague. I hoped— I just tried to forget her. I thought it would be better for everyone if she never knew I existed.”

“Hmm, sounds familiar,” Jaskier said, voice rich with humor and only a hint of bitterness.

He took another deep, shuddering breath, trying to shove down the now familiar guilt clawing its way up his throat. Distantly he could feel Jaskier’s thumb brushing softly back and forth across the back of his hand. The sensation was oddly smooth, but he couldn’t focus on anything but the words or he wouldn’t be able to finish the story.

“Did you ever hear of the Daughters of the Black Sun?”

Jaskier’s brow furrowed. “Like Renfri? A little from Geralt, once or twice when he was very, very drunk, and one of my professors at Oxenfurt mentioned the different legends around the eclipse as part of a folklore course I took, but not much more than that, really.”

Eskel hummed in assent. “Renfri was one. That’s why Stregobor hounded her all those years, why she wanted vengeance in the first place. All the girls born under the eclipse, the rich ones anyway, they were targets for anyone who believed that garbage prophecy. Of course, I hadn’t heard of it, not until...until it was too late.”

“She was one too, then? Your Surprise Child?”

“Deidre. Yeah. I left her behind because, what kind of life is the Path for a child? For anyone? What could I possible give her? She was supposed to be a princess, she was supposed to have everything she could ever have wanted. She wasn’t supposed to— I didn’t learn the truth until she escaped that place. She came here, begged us for sanctuary. I tried, I really did, but they came for her and we weren’t, I wasn’t ready.” He closed his eyes against the memories, trying to bring his heart rate back down to normal.

He touched a hand to his face, to the gruesome reminder of his failure that day, lip quirking in a grim smile as he finally met Jaskier’s once again tear-filled eyes. “This was from her. An accident, but one I deserved. I failed her. I failed her from the beginning, but especially that day. And the gods made sure I would never forget how I let her down, not so long as I live to see everyone I meet flinch from the sight of me.”

Jaskier’s breath hitched wetly as he gathered up both of Eskel’s callused hands in his smaller ones. “Listen to me now, dear heart. You did the best you could. I don’t need to know the details to know that you’d have done everything you could for her, Eskel. You’re a good man. A good brother, a good uncle. Geralt trusts you more than anyone alive, and I trust him the same, so I know if there was anything reasonable you could have done to save her, you would have. You made the best choice you could with the information you had available. You’re not to blame for whatever horrors her family visited on her. You can’t carry the weight of their sins forever. If Destiny meant to make her your daughter, that tells me what sort of girl she was. I believe with all my heart she would forgive you.”

Eskel gaped in shock at his new friend. He felt like he couldn’t breathe, like his lungs were trying to climb out through his throat. Jaskier couldn’t mean that. He couldn’t— he didn’t know. Where did he possibly come by such faith, in Eskel of all people? How could he trust so willingly in such a monster, with his failures writ large across his hideous face? He was lying, he had to be. Or mad.

He couldn’t bear to meet Jaskier’s gaze, not while the threat of tears still pressed at the backs of his own eyes, so he breathed in through his nose and focused on their joined hands. He stared at Jaskier’s fingers and blinked a few times, thinking his eyes must have filled without him noticing, but no— the smooth, shiny, red surface of the bard’s elegant fingers remained unchanged. Concern jolted him out of his grief-stricken stupor. Jaskier yelped as Eskel tugged at his hand for a closer look.

“What the hell happened? Did someone here do this? Did one of my brothers hurt you?” Eskel was fuming, the protective rage that rose in him alarmingly sudden and unexpected.

The scent of fear brought him up short.

Jaskier’s eyes were wide, his face stricken. “Please don’t tell Geralt,” he begged, to Eskel’s shock. “It was before I came here, I promise, but please don’t tell him. He’ll only blame himself, I can’t bear to add another burden for him to carry.” He let out a bitter laugh, one far too close to a sob for Eskel’s comfort. “The last thing I want to do is shovel more shit. Yen’s doing her best, it’ll be fine, it has to be.”

“The mage knows about this? Why hasn’t she healed it yet? She’s supposed to have her magic back, isn’t she?”

Jaskier tugged his injured fingers free of Eskel’s grip, cradling them to his chest and fiddling anxiously with the inflamed pads of his fingertips. “She’s still recovering, she says she doesn’t have enough power yet to fix them. Something about magical injuries, I didn’t really understand. Please, Eskel, just promise me you’ll leave it. I’m alright, I swear it. There’s no danger here.”

This couldn’t be allowed to stand. Not after the unfathomable level of kindness Jaskier had shown them all, just today, and every day for the last twenty years. Whatever had happened to him, it was apparently a result of his relationship with Geralt, and therefore a consequence of his compassion for witchers. No. Eskel had to fix this.

“Come on,” he said, taking Jaskier’s uninjured hand and dragging him to his feet.

“Wh—Eskel! Where are we going!”

“To Yennefer. If it’s extra power she needs, maybe I can help. But I’m not just going to sit here and let that burn fester, not if I can help it.”

“I—really, this is hardly necessary—wait, my lute! Eskel, slow down!”

Sighing, he turned back. “Your lute will be safe in here, hardly anyone but Vesemir, and now the cub, comes in here. Geralt’s asleep, so if you want to do this without risking him walking in on us, we need to go now. Come on, little bird. You’ve helped us, now let me help you.”

Jaskier stared at him for a long moment, searching his face. Whatever he found, it must have been what he was looking for, because he took a deep breath and nodded once. “Alright, dear witcher. Lead the way.”

#the witcher #twn #the witcher fanfiction #ciri of cintra #cirilla fiona elen riannon #jaskier #dandelion #julian alfred pankratz #geralt of rivia #yennefer of vengerberg #witcher eskel #witcher lambert #witcher coen #witcher vesemir #geraskier #dadskier #the amazing devil #songfic #my writing #wip #sleep now she pleads

[g-a-y-b-a-c-o-n]

Lambert: When we first met, I gave my crush my favorite knife.

Aiden: That’s sweet. You gave me your knife when we first met too! I think it’s cute you give all your friends knives.

Coën, confused: You never gave me a knife when we first met?

Lambert: *gives Coën a “god fucking shit god damnit” look*

Coën, realizing what’s happening: Oh. OH.

#the witcher #witcher #incorrect witcher quotes #incorrect witcher #witcher lambert #lambert #witcher aiden #aiden #witcher coën #coën #LISTEN #LAMBERT DOESNT GIVE JUST ANYONE HIS KNIFE #BUT AIDEN CAN ALSO BE SEMI OBLIVIOUS #COËN IS NOW THE ONLY ONE WHO KNOWS

[geraskierficrecs]

Geralt’s Competence Kink

a broken pot can still hold water by MarionetteFtHJM

Despite what his outward code of conduct would have you thinking, Jaskier knows when he is not wanted.

He allows himself the exact amount of three days of wallowing in that small town before he packs his meager possessions and hits the road like nothing happened. In those three days he sings and dances for his food and drink, fucks the pretty barmaid and sleeps off the hangover before heading out in the morning of the fourth day. He travels alone for the first time in a while but it’s alright.

Now, if only people would stop telling him that the Witcher asks about him - that'd be swell.

The Path Not Taken by sospes

Jaskier comes across an injured witcher in a backwoods town, months after the events of the dragon hunt. It all just sort of escalates from there.

strings of fate binding us together by winterbitch

After Geralt blames Jaskier for everything, the bard leaves. He will not cry, he will not break down. He's much more than Geralt's useless companion and he will not let the Witcher ruin him. It's a stroke of luck that he meets another Witcher in Oxenfurt, and finally finds out what's it like to be openly called a friend. Then, they decide to spend winter in Kaer Morhen, and Coën isn't the only Witcher who goes there. It may be Geralt's only chance to apologize to his bard, his friend, his everything. 13 years is a long time to ponder one's mistakes and now, Geralt is desperate to fix what he broke.

Thermodynamic Equilibrium by ArthurtheGatekeeper

Jaskier never would have pinned that big scary brooding Witcher as a cuddler. But he was now being cuddled by the man who'd told him to leave not an hour past. If the man wanted to cuddle he could have just asked. No need to pretend Jaskier had been cold.

Aka Jaskier becomes Geralt's human space heater.

An Incomplete Happiness by BlossomsintheMist

Jaskier is traveling with Geralt when a hunt goes badly wrong and Geralt ends up injured. Geralt soon realizes that the bard can take care of Geralt better than he'd realized, in his own way.

Petrichor by aleatory_fox

“Geralt…? What, by Melitele’s tits, are you doing? The door, man, normal people use a d--... Geralt?” He noticed it now. The feverish sheen on the Witcher’s skin, the alert, skittish look in his eyes and the--. He cleared the distance between them in three strides. Geralt retreated until his back hit the wall with a dull thud, but Jaskier would not be deterred. He shoved his face into the crook of Geralt’s neck and breathed in deeply, his hands gripping the edges of the damp cloak draped over broad shoulders. “You’re…”

“I need… need to ask you… for a…” He clenched his teeth, eyes rolling to the ceiling. Two gloved hands lifted to push Jaskier away from his chest; it felt like trying to move a mountain. Not because Jaskier pushed back, but because every fibre of his being wanted to pull the other way. Ask for a what though? ‘Favour’ didn’t quite fit the bill for what he was about to request, and so he stared at Jaskier with those intense golden eyes, while mentally scrambling for a coherent explanation amidst the brain fog.

Geralt and Jaskier get together, fall in love with Eskel, and learn that it's all right to want (and let themselves have) things.

The Sweetest Poison by AvoidingAverage

“And what do you want in return?  Your freedom? Your safety?”

Jaskier didn’t flinch from her scorn and Geralt could see his knuckles go white with the force of his grip around the small vial.  “Save him.”

The mage stared at him for a beat before letting out a burst of laughter that echoed off the wall like the flutter of vultures wings.  “All this trouble for the Witcher?” she asked incredulously, “Tell me, boy, do you really think he would do the same for you? That he cares at all what happens to the bard who follows after him like a lost puppy?”  She stepped forward, confident as a soldier preparing his death blow. “Oh, I know who you are, bard. I watched you trailing after the Witcher, eager for every scrap of affection or interest he’ll toss your way. I’ve seen the way you look at him.”

Jaskier was breathing heavily now, jaw clenched tight enough that Geralt could see the muscles fluttering with effort.

“Were you hoping this ill-conceived rescue mission would be enough to make him finally notice you?” she murmured with a mocking smile, “Poor little bard--always singing of love but never truly experiencing it.”

#competent jaskier #competent jaskier is my kink #geralt x jaskier #geralt loves jaskier #badass jaskier #geraskier #geraltxjaskier #fic recs #competence kink #hurt/comfort #hurt geralt

[bamf-jaskier]

Comparison of Show and Book Coën

All right folks, you asked for it so here it is. As an avid fan of both the books and show I am so excited to talk about Coen, who is possibly becoming one of my favorite witchers. I’ve done a post on Coen before here that basically goes over his character from the books, but I figured a comparison was in order. 

To start, in the books, Coen only appears in Blood of Elves but does get a mention in Lady of the Lake as a flashback. In the show, he is in episodes 2, 3, 4, 6, and 8. Actually, Coen has more scenes in the show than he does in the books so I’m going to be taking his book scenes and talking about equivalents to that in the show and also touching on how his other scenes in the show influence his characterization. 

To start off with Lambert and Coen training Ciri 

Blood of Elves Chapter 2: 

The girl, agilely stepping along the balance beam, executed a half-turn, cut lightly, and immediately leaped away. The dummy, struck, swayed on its rope.

“Well, at last!” shouted Lambert. “You’ve finally got it! Go back and do it again. I want to make sure it wasn’t a fluke!”

“The sword,” Triss turned to the witchers, “looks sharp. The beam looks slippery and unstable. And Lambert looks like an idiot, demoralising the girl with all his shouting. Aren’t you afraid of an unfortunate accident? Or maybe you’re relying on destiny to protect the child against it?”

“Ciri practised for nearly six months without a sword,” said Coën. “She knows how to move. And we are keeping an eye on her because—”

“Because this is her home,” finished Geralt quietly but firmly. Very firmly. Using a tone which put an end to the discussion.

Blood of Elves Chapter 3:

“Once more, Ciri. We’ll go through it slowly so that you can master each move. Now, I’m attacking you with tierce, taking the position as if to thrust… Why are you retreating?”

“Because I know it’s a feint! You can move into a wide sinistra or strike with upper quarte. And I’ll retreat and parry with a counterfeint!”

“Is that so? And if I do this?”

“Auuu! It was supposed to be slow! What did I do wrong, Coën?”

“Nothing. I’m just taller and stronger than you are.”

“That’s not fair!”

“There’s no such thing as a fair fight. You have to make use of every advantage and every opportunity that you get. By retreating you gave me the opportunity to put more force into the strike. Instead of retreating you should have executed a half-pirouette to the left and tried to cut at me from below, with quarte dextra, under the chin, in the cheek or throat.”

S2 E3 What is Lost: 

Lambert: Nice try, Princess. Admit it. You belong in a castle, not our keep.

Lambert (to Ciri): Gettin’ tired?

Lambert (to Coen): Do you remember wasting your time battling sacks of straw, Coen?

Coen: Can’t say I do.

Ciri: What did you do, then?

Lambert: I don’t think so. Some things are far too scary for little girls.

Ciri: I’m not little, and I’m not afraid.

Lambert: That’s easy to say. But our road is a dark one. Full of dangers. Is that what you want?

Ciri: I want to do what a witcher does.

Lambert: Come on, then.

Coen: Afraid to break a nail, Princess?

Lambert: Give it a try. Go on.

Coen: Are you sure about this?

Lambert: I’m just having a little fun.

(Ciri falls)

Lambert: Still wanna be a witcher?

TIME SKIP 

Lambert: That all you got, girl?

Coen: Come on, Ciri. Let’s go back. You’ve had enough.

There is also a short scene in the main hall of Kaer Morhen where Coen is shown to be training Ciri alone and says, “Again! Good, eyes up, Again!”

Okay so comparing how Lambert and Coen train Ciri in the show vs the books I honestly don’t see many characterization differences here. Lambert is often played as the asshole aggressor when it comes to Ciri’s training (and although this post is for Coen I could certainly do a Lambert comparison as well). Coen plays the more thoughtful, aware character. In the books, there’s the scene above where Coen is training Ciri. He takes time to answer her questions and explain things out. He doesn’t want to push her farther than she is comfortable with. This is seen in the show too where Coen is almost acting as the voice of reason, telling Ciri that she doesn’t have to continue training if she can’t handle it. And Coen is really the only Witcher who is shown to allow Ciri possible boundaries with training if she wants it. 

Then there’s the scenes where Triss is berating the Witchers for not taking Ciri’s overall well-being into account: 

Blood of Elves Chapter 2: 

“You didn’t even know.” She nodded in what was now a calm, concerned and gentle reproach. “You’re pathetic guardians. She’s ashamed to tell you because she was taught not to mention such complaints to men. And she’s ashamed of the weakness, the pain and the fact that she is less fit. Has any one of you thought about that? Taken any interest in it? Or tried to guess what might be the matter with her? Maybe her very first bleed happened here, in Kaer Morhen? And she cried to herself at night, unable to find any sympathy, consolation or even understanding from anyone? Has any one of you given it any thought whatsoever?”

“Stop it, Triss,” moaned Geralt quietly. “That’s enough. You’ve achieved what you wanted. And maybe even more.”

“The devil take it,” cursed Coën. “We’ve turned out to be right idiots, there’s no two ways about it, eh, Vesemir, and you—”

“Silence,” growled the old witcher. “Not a word.”

S2 E4 Redanian Intelligence: 

Ciri: Triss, when do you think we can get started?

Triss: Today. I was hoping you’d help me in the lab. We can get to know each other. I can show you a few incantations. Get a sense for your potential.

Coen:  …and be a great foal to ride, too. Everard. 

Ciri: Good morning. Did you sleep well? 

Coen: Oh, good morning, Your Highness. 

Lambert: Please tell me you lost a bet. 

Coen:Is that a flower in your hair, girl? 

Lambert: Oh, she’s not joking. You never got my rags that clean.

Coen: Yeah, like you ever wash.

Lambert: I don’t need to, Coen.

Coen: Now that’s funny.

(Ciri walks out)

Coen (referring to Ciri’s flower): Thought it suited her, actually.

Lambert: Sure, if she’s going to a ball.

Geralt: What happened?

Lambert: Oh, nothing. She just got her royal knickers in a twist.

Triss: You should be ashamed of yourselves.

Coen: It’s just a bit of fun.

Triss: For who? You dress her in rags. Keep her bruised as an apple. That is, when she isn’t washing piss-pots or your trousers. Does she even have a chemise? Or soap? Or cloth for when she gets her blood? Though, with those mushrooms you’re feeding her, you’ll ruthlessly deprive her of that before too long. You say you’re mutants. That’s why you don’t understand what people feel. But the truth is, you’re choosing to be ignorant arseholes, aren’t you?

Coen: Triss.

Now again I think that the show carries Coen’s characterization along well here too. In the books, the only Witchers that are immediately apologetic of the way Ciri has been treated are Coen and Eskel. In the show, obviously Eskel isn’t seen in this scene (he’s a little more bark than bite sorry sorry too soon) but Coen in, and just like in the books, he’s the only one to reach out to Triss, the only one who looks apologetic. And in the show they even double down on this, with Coen actually pushing back against Lambert making fun of Ciri’s appearance, saying that the flower looked nice on her. 

Finally, from the books we have the scene where Coen is playing a game with Ciri in the background while the other Witchers discuss Ciri and her future

Blood of Elves Chapter 3 

The enchantress turned her gaze on Ciri. The girl was sitting on a bearskin with Coën, tucked away in the far corner of the hall, and both were busy playing a handslapping game. The game was growing monotonous as both were incredibly quick – neither could manage to slap the other’s hand in any way. This, however, clearly neither mattered to them nor spoiled their game.

...

He fell silent and looked at Ciri who, with a joyful squeal, acknowledged that she had the upper hand in the game. Triss spied a small smile on Coën’s face and was sure he had allowed her to win.”

Triss glanced at Ciri, who was shrilly accusing Coën of cheating. Coën put his arms around her and burst out laughing. The magician suddenly realised that she had never, up until now, heard any of the witchers laugh.

...

Coën approached the table carrying the girl piggy-back.

“Wish everybody goodnight, Ciri,” he said. “Say goodnight to those night owls. We’re going to sleep. It’s nearly midnight. In a minute it’ll be the end of Midinváerne. As of tomorrow, every day brings spring closer!”

S2 E4 Redanian Intelligence:

Ciri: I’m not tired.

Coen: All right, come on, you little rat. I’ll play a few rounds of snaps with you before bed. Maybe I might even let you win.

Ciri: Yeah, you wish! Night, everyone.

Geralt: Good night.

Triss: Good night, Ciri.

Lambert: Night.

Coen: Night, all.

Geralt: Good night.

Coen: So, you think you can beat me, do you?

So I would actually like to sue Netflix for emotional damages because they are cowards who did NOT show me Coen giving Ciri a piggyback ride. Fucking cowards. However, I will admit that they did continue his characterization. Coen is just more lighthearted than the other Witchers. He is the one who is honestly closest to Ciri outside of Geralt and will play games with her and try and make sure she doesn’t hurt herself. He will joe around with her but he knows when to stop. When others see her more as a weapon, Coen still sees her as a child. 

I really appreciate that the show managed to keep the heart of the character, in particular his relationship with Ciri. 

Now, the show did add a few things with Coen that I did not expect. When I originally wrote my Coen Primer, I said this: 

Lambert is short and sharp, he tells Ciri what to do but not how to do it. Coën on the other hand takes time to answer her every question and explain things out. It’s important to understand and Lambert and Coën act as foils and parallels for each other in Blood of Elves. You see two Witchers of the same age but with very different temperaments. 

And I guess that Netflix saw that parallel and decided to give Lambert and Coen really strong amounts of “Old Married Couple” vibes. Here’s some examples from the show: 

S2 E2 Kaer Morhen: 

Coen: Lambchop.

[door slams]

Witcher: Here comes trouble!

Lambert: Where the fuck have you been?

Coen: We thought you got lost.

Lambert:  Or killed.

Geralt: Not yet.

Geralt: Sorry.

...

Lambert: So, there I am, freezing my bollocks off in the middle of a grain field for the second straight night, when the farmer’s wife comes sneaking out to tell me that I’m wasting my time. It wasn’t a mora her husband saw leaving that room. No. It was the fucking field hand! Oh, and now she’s wailing, “Oh, what are we gonna do? My husband won’t pay you if you don’t deliver a mora head!” So I pulled out my sword and I said… “Bet he’ll pay double for the field hand’s.”

Coen: Good old Lambchop.

Lambert: She returned with two horses and a fur rug. Best job I had all year. [chuckles]

Vesemir: Each of your faces is cause enough for celebration. You’re safe. You made it back. You made it home.

Witchers: Aye. Hear, hear!

Coen: Here’s to another winter, together.

...

Lambert: Coen! What’s the difference between a witcher and a heap of shit?

Coen: Well, go on, then.

Lambert: Eventually, the shit will stop smelling. [guffaws]

Coen: That joke’s old as the Conjunction.

Lambert: Well, you tell me one, then, you comedic fuck.

Coen: All right.

Lambert: What do you call a witcher with no brains?

Ciri: Lambert?

[laughs]

Coen: Okay, now she’s funny. Oh, Lambert!

Geralt: When you finish this, get some rest. Ciri.

Lambert: Trouble with the pretty, pretty princess?

Coen: Leave it alone.

Lambert: Why should I? He made his choice. Cost us a brother.

Geralt: That wasn’t our brother. Not by the end of it. And bitterness won’t help us find what killed him.

Lambert: Oh, I know what killed him.

Coen: Leave it alone.

I don’t know why they did it, but I will say I am fully on board the Coenchop train, because Lambert calling Coen Lambchop is the cutest fucking thing ever. 

Now, as far as Coen’s backstory goes the show doesn’t actually say anything about it. 

All we know is that this is not Coen’s first winter at the keep which is different from the book, in the books, Ciri coming to the keep is Coen’s first winter there. 

This is how he was described in Netflix’s Timeline: 

One of the youngest witchers in Kaer Morhen, Coen is easily recognizable by his mismatched eyes. Unlike the stubborn stereotype of a witcher, he is (comparatively) more sensitive and diplomatic than the rest of his kin. Somehow, the years on the Path haven’t yet made him as bitter and outspoken as his brothers. 

Still, Coen enjoys cracking coarse jokes and pulling pranks with his pal Lambert -- jests that often come at the expense of Kaer Morhen’s latest addition, princess Cirilla. The year of Ciri’s arrival brings many unexpected changes to Kaer Morhen. Coen and his fellow witchers would never have guessed that they would spend their winter training a princess, or battling a most unusual leshy.

One thing that the show and books have in common that drives me up the wall is that they are really vague on where Coen is from. Despite popular thought, in the books, Coen is NOT stated to be a Griffin Witcher. All we know is that he is from the north, Poviss. In the show, despite having a Wolf Medallion, he is never described as a Wolf Witcher. There is certainly the interpretation available that Coen lost his medallion and grabbed a Wolf one. It’s not like his medallion is ever described in the books. 

So in both the show and books his school and past is very up to interpretation, but you what? That’s what fandom is for and I love the variety of headcanons about his past. 

Now this is where I am going to end this analysis, if you have stuck around reading this whole thing, congratulations. If you have you have some of your own thoughts to add, please do, I love discussing meta with people.  Coen has always been a character I am interested in but haven’t seen a lot of content for, so If you are a Coen fan, let me know because I would love to get invested with more content of the character. 

Yasen Atour played the character perfectly, and outside of me missing my piggyback scene, I really liked how they portrayed him in the show. 

Also, as a resource, I have compiled a document of all Coen scenes from the show and books, dm me if you’d like access to it either as a writer or a fan or anything! 

#yes I just said coen instead of coën because I had a LOT to type and different media switches back and forth anyways #but I really love Coen a lot #even more with S2 #Coenchop for the WIN #lambert #coen #the witcher #the witcher s2 #twn #the witcher netlix #the witcher books #meta #myposts

[yeraskier]

okay yes i want to see jaskier develop a relationship with ciri and i want to see how things work out between him and yennefer and i want geralt to stop being a prick and finally be a friend to jaskier but also.

i want them to stay at kaer morhen just a bit longer, just long enough to see how easily jaskier can win over the other witchers. the other ones arent like geralt like… at all? theyre actually relatively social and enjoy jokes and enjoy fun and jaskier is/loves all those things! and maybe he doesnt have that many friends but its because he doesnt care to have that many friends, but

imagine him using all his lovely charm to worm his way into the hearts of a dozen (half a dozen? idk how many are left after that battle) of the most feared people on the continent just like that *snaps*

because he so would. coën would be a sweetheart from the very beginning because he sees that jaskier is one and he likes that. lambert would be taken by jaskier the moment he sees geralt roll his eyes at one of the bard’s jokes. vesemir would always give him that fond fatherly gaze whenever he sees him (and perhaps, mention to geralt at one point that eskel wouldve loved jaskier)

and i dont exactly know the other witchers much or their names but theres no doubt in my mind that they would react the same to him.

they’d all be like who the fuck is this incredibly pretty singing man dressed in bright colors and thin layers in the winter?

and

why the fuck isnt he scared of us, geralt?!?!?! now he only talks more when we growl!

then

wait… hes a little funny. speak more, bard.

everyone eventually lets jaskier in because he’s jaskier. and if he could get through geralt of all people, he can get through the other witchers.

#need it need it so bad #the witcher #jaskier

[witcher-trash]

Weekly (?) Witcher Fic Recs 14

A Contract's a Contract, No Matter How Small (geralt/jaskier, aiden/lambert, mature, wip, 35k) Unexpected side effect of Jaskier praising witchers far and wide: children making the logical jump that witchers can handle ALL monsters. Including such subspecies as the under-the-bed variety. And, well, what are you supposed to say to a child who asks you to fight a monster for them?

A Helping Hand (aiden/lambert, explicit, complete, 7k, omegaverse) Lambert finds an unexpected heat coming on with no one around to help him through it, that is until a handsome alpha happens across his path. The only problem is that the alpha is a Cat Witcher and everyone knows that Wolves and Cats don't get along...right?

A Witcher's Plumage (coën/lambert, explicit, complete, 2k) Wolf witchers are the only ones who wear the old fashioned codpiece ensemble. It has an unexpected effect on Coën, and he's not sure how to deal with it.

Birds of a Feather (coën/erland, mature, complete, 4k) Erland had spent his ruts alone for many, many years now. Ever since... ever since. He was alone by choice, for he was never short of offers. Omegas fresh from their first year on The Path, who thought themselves wiser for their time in the world, would approach their Grandmaster with a bow, giving him their respect before they all said the exact same thing: “Grandmaster Erland, I offer my company. It would be an honor to assist you in your time of need.” But he always turned them away, always.

Lambert's Nightmare (coën/lambert, explicit, complete, 3k) The dreams had never fully abated for Lambert. They weren’t usually the vivid, violent ordeals of his boyhood, when he woke up screaming in the dormitories with Voltehre shaking his shoulders, his face creased in worry. It was as if age and the Path had worn away his sensitivity, leaving behind a callus to protect him from the worst of the horrors he faced on a daily basis. How could you stare down a wraith manifested from the abject cruelty of humanity with any part of a soul left? There was truth to the rumours of soulless Witchers, of that Lambert was certain. So much loss had hardened him to the prospect of losing his brothers on the Path. It was all part of the wider clusterfuck of being a witcher. But when Ciri arrived, they had started again. Or: Lambert experiences troubling dreams when Ciri arrives at Kaer Morhen and fears that her presence will only bring ruin and pain.

Little Bear (lambert/OC, lambert/grayson, explicit, complete, 8k) Getting to know his brother—his actual brother, not just a brother in arms like Geralt or Eskel—was the sort of thing Lambert never imagined for himself, someone who remembered and missed their mother, who shared something with him other than the bullshit of a Witcher's life. It was... fuck, it was good, it made him feel connected to the world again like he hadn't in so very long. Lambert wasn't used to having good things in his life and now he had more people to trust, more people he knew had his back. For the longest time, all he had was Eskel, Geralt, and maybe Vesemir, but the Bears were solid. They didn't say much and pretended not to like each other, but they offered him a place for winter, that wasn't nothing, not to a Witcher.

Lord What Fools These Witchers Be (aiden/eskel, geralt/jaskier/yennefer, teen, complete, 22k) When Lambert brings Aiden to winter with him in Kaer Morhen, Eskel is catapulted straight into his own personal hell. It would be easier if he didn’t like the Cat. Instead, he finds himself falling head over heels for his brother’s boyfriend and trying to hide it from a pack of nosy Witchers. If only Aiden would stop flirting with him...

Mutual Defeat (iorveth/roche, explicit, complete, 4k) Roche glances at the tent door. No one understands this odd dance he has with Iorveth. He knows half think him mad, while the other half think he must have some genius strategy planned out to end the elf in a glorious and triumphant battle, staged to maximise Iorveth’s humiliation and the Blue Stripes’ elevation to infamy. The latter idea is laughable really. There is no planning for Iorveth. He is chaos. Unpredictable, volatile. Roche's opposite in every way, and yet... Or: Roche thinks he has Iorveth right where he wants him. Turns out Iorveth doesn't much mind being there.

No need to speak (arnaghad/erland, gen, complete, 1k) Erland and his bear had their own language, after all, made of small gestures, trinket bought from the Path, quiet moments, and small whispered conversation, it was enough

Parhelia Rewired (eskel/geralt/lambert, mature, wip, 5k) "Almost in position. How's everything looking on your end, Scorpion?" "Five by five from here," rumbled Eskel's voice in Lambert's earpiece as he crept along the darkened corridor, sword at the ready for any unexpected surprises. "Don't forget it's the second hall on the right, not the first," came Geralt's deep monotone. Lambert blew a raspberry into his mic, "This ain't my first fucking rodeo, Roach. Tell me something actually useful - like how you've got our exit plan secured already." "Your exit is clear. Still don't know why you got to pick the call signs." Was it just him or did Geralt sound fucking petulant? Lambert grinned as he glanced around the corner to find the hallway empty as expected. Priceless. "Scout gets to pick the call signs. Paperweight shuts his cakehole, Roach," Lambert chirped back over the line.

Scarred Hearts are Fixed With Love (eskel-centric, teen, complete, 5k) Eskel comes to terms with the new scars on his face with a little help from his family along the way.

Soft Spot (eskel/lambert, explicit, complete, 6k) Geralt cheated during their sparring, and when Lambert calls him out on it, he says his same old famous line. Go cry to Eskel. Which is exactly what Lambert does, and it gets him a beautiful night curled around the leader of their pack with as much comfort as he can stand. Eskel's always had a soft spot for their youngest wolf.

The Bitter Blood Inside (geralt/jaskier, explicit, wip, 50k) The course of Jaskier's life is changed forever more, by the hand of a furious vampire. Geralt is there, the only one who might help him in the trials to come. Whether that be to cure him, or kill him, the bard would always trust his decision. It is only himself he can no longer trust.

time is a dangerous enemy - series (iorveth/roche, iorveth/letho, mature, wip, 14k) Iorveth is feeling his age. After 1,000 years, the face of the continent has changed. He has changed with it- and that isn't always a positive feeling. Considering what he's lost, and what he's gained. Was it worth it?

Tomorrow (eskel/lambert, teen, complete, 2k) Lambert and Eskel meet on the path, and Lambert gets more than he bargained for. Featuring angry, scared Lambert and gentle, protective Eskel.

#the witcher #geraskier #lamden #coën/lambert #coën/erland #lambert/oc #lambert/grayson #aiden/eskel #geraskefer #iorveth/roche #arnaghad/erland #eskel/geralt/lambert #eskel/lambert #iorveth/letho #fic recs

[thearvariblues]

Has Someone Died or What?

An Eskel Fix-It crack we all defnitely need after Season 2.

Please note that I have NOT watched Season 2, and I’m not planning to, but I made my dear, dear friend spoil everything to me.

This fic can also be found on AO3. ;)

*

The courtyard of Kaer Morhen is empty when the two Witchers walk inside with a horse in tow. The smaller of the Witchers looks around, taking in his surroundings, and inhales deeply.

“What a shithole,” he says.

“Hey,” the taller one, the one with a big scar covering almost half of his face, protests, sounding mildly offended. “I know it doesn’t look its best, but it’s still home, you know?”

“What a nice, homely shithole,” the smaller Witcher smirks, playing with a strand of his long black hair that’s pulled up in a high ponytail.

The taller one chuckles.

“Oh, yes. I can see why Lambert likes you,” he says.

“Yeah, I’m extremely good at sucking cock.”

“I can definitely see why Lambert likes you,” the taller one laughs before shouting, “Lambert! Hey, Lambert! Your big brother’s back home and he’s brought you a gift!”

Nothing. Only silence.

“Weird,” the smaller one frowns. “Where’s everyone?”

“No idea. Training, perhaps. Or hunting. Or drinking. Come on. I’ll show you the main hall and then I’ll come back to take care of my horse. Sooner or later, someone will show up.”

“Right. Lead the way, please.”

*

“All right, boys!” Lambert announces, flinging the big door of the main hall open. “Let’s drink again, to honor our dear… Kitty!”

The small Witcher who’s sitting on one of the benches looks up sharply from his mug of ale and grins.

“Wolfie!” he screams. The mug clatters to the floor as the man jumps up and sprints to the group of Witchers, throwing himself straight into Lambert’s arms. “I’m so glad to see you, you prick!”

“Aiden,” Lambert grins, catching the smaller Witcher without much effort and letting himself to be kissed and hugged. “What the fuck are you doing here, you asshole?”

“I told you I would come, didn’t I? Told you I would find a way. No Cats allowed, my ass! I’m here, it’s snowing, good luck trying to kick me out now, you bitch! Oh, hi. You must be Geralt,” he says, looking over Lambert’s shoulder. “Heard a lot about you.”

“Lamb?” Geralt growls, lifting an eyebrow.

“Yeah, uhm. I’ve never mentioned my dear friend Aiden, have I? Well, this is Aiden, everyone, and yes, he’s kind of a, well… Cat. But he’s a nice Cat. Hasn’t tried to kill me once.”

“Impossible,” Coën states. “Even I try to kill you at least once every winter.”

“Try once a week,” Geralt says, rolling his eyes.

“Assholes,” Lambert grunts, still not letting go of his dear… friend. “Oh, this winter is gonna be fun, Kitty! But I still don’t understand how the fuck did you get here?”

“How do you think? I brought him here,” a voice behind the group says, and this time it’s Aiden clattering to the floor with a squeak and a string of swearwords as Lambert drops him in shock.

The whole group of Witchers turns around to stare at the tall man standing behind them, rubbing his hands on his trousers.

“What?” he says, blinking. “That’s how you welcome a brother home? Why are you all staring at me like this? Has someone died or what?”

“Yeah,” Lambert nods. “You did.”

Eskel blinks again, even more confused this time around.

“Come again?” he says.

*

Eskel looks down at the (slightly nibbled-on) body on the ground with his arms crossed over his chest, frowning at the four Witchers standing in front of him with sheepish looks on their faces.

“Whatever it is,” he says, “it doesn’t even look like me.”

“It kind of does look like you,” Aiden, an extra Witcher Eskel wasn’t frowning at, says. “Just kind of… wrong, I mean?”

“Not helping, Kitty,” Lambert mutters.

“And judging by what you said, it didn’t act like me, either. And none of you noticed? None of you trained Witchers thought something was amiss, eh? Were you drunk or high on drugs or what?”

“Well… Yes?” Coën shrugs.

“I’m offended, you know? Offended. That you thought that might be me.”

“Eskel…” Geralt murmurs.

“Especially you. Aren’t we brothers, Geralt? Aren’t we the closest?”

“Now you’re just being dramatic, Esk,” Lambert comments.

“And you, Vesemir?” Eskel scoffs. “Not even you noticed?”

“I’d like to mention. In my defense,” Lambert says, raising his hand. “That I didn’t even interact with… this thing… that much, as I’ve spent most of the evening with the whores he brought.”

“Oh, so that’s why you smell like a whorehouse!” Aiden beams. “I’ve been wondering.”

“I don’t think it was such a good idea to tell him that, Lambchop,” Coën says. “Should we just leave your body here when he’s done with you?”

“No, don’t worry, it’s fine!” Aiden chuckles. “We have an open relationship. That reminds me, Wolfie! I gotta tell you about this bard I’ve slept with a few weeks ago. Completely insane. The second he learned I was a Witcher, he was dragging me into his room. He was really gorgeous, so I didn’t protest much, of course…”

“Not at all, knowing you,” Lambert snorts. “You never protest when it comes to sex.”

“Oh, my Wolfie knows me all too well…” Aiden grins.

“Wasn’t the bard wearing a dark red leather coat?” Eskel says. “And a hat?”

“Yes, that was him! So he got you too?”

“Saw my medallion and climbed me like a tree,” Eskel nods. He pauses, frowns and looks down at the body by his feet. “No pun intended.”

“Brown hair? Blue eyes? Lovely muscles?” Coën chuckles. “Very determined to get into my pants. What was his name again? Began with–”

“Jaskier,” Geralt squeaks, his eyes wide with shock.

“No, that wasn’t it. Julian! Ha. He called himself Julian!”

“As in Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove?” Lambert asks, barely containing his laughter.

Geralt whines, slumping to the ground.

“You know what?” he murmurs. “Leave me here. Leave me here with my poor dead brother…”

“I feel the need to mention that your brother is alive and standing right here,” Eskel says.

Aiden lifts an eyebrow at Lambert, who leans in to whisper something in his ear.

“Fine. Then leave me here to rot with… Whatever this is,” Geralt says as Aiden tries to stifle his laughter by burying his teeth in Lambert’s arm.

“No, thank you. Come on. Get up, you big drama queen,” Eskel sighs, wraps his arms around Geralt’s torso and helps him to get back on his feet.

“Jaskier. Jaskier…” Geralt sniffs.

“You know what, Aiden?” Lambert snorts. “I really think you should have brought the bard along with you. Could have been a very amusing winter.”

“Damn. Didn’t occur to me,” Aiden frowns. “Next winter, perhaps?”

“If you think you’re gonna be invited back, Kitty,” Lambert grins, wrapping an arm around Aiden’s waist. “Come on. Let’s drink to celebrate Eskel’s undeath. And then fuck to celebrate the fact that my Kitty’s here with me.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt whimpers, sagging in Eskel’s arms like a sack of turnips.

“Well, at least we know that Geralt is definitely Geralt,” Coën chuckles, throwing one of Geralt’s arms around his shoulders to help Eskel bear his weight. “Really sorry for not noticing you weren’t, by the way. In my defense, the whores were really kind of distracting.”

“Idiots,” Eskel mutters and rolls his eyes. “All of my brothers are idiots.”

#my fics #the witcher season 2 #the witcher spoilers #the witcher netflix #twn spoilers #eskel #aiden #lambert #geralt #coën #pure crack #humor #fix-it for season 2 #what is this canon everyone keeps talking about? #look if netflix doesn't care about real canon i don't have to care about THEIR canon #lambden #an obligatory mention of jaskier

[on-a-lucky-tide]

The Witchers As Morning People: A Thread

Geralt

This dedicated Horse Girl rises before the sun does. While everyone else is still in the land of nod, Geralt’s trudging down to the stables with a thermos of hot coffee to feed, “turn out” and “muck out” and [insert specific Equine jargon for unpleasant chores that need doing at such an outrageous hour]. By the time everyone else is dragging themselves out from their nests, Geralt’s already rummaging around the kitchen while smelling of soiled hay, sweat and the outside. He’s quietly smug because he’s already done something fulfilling with his day. What have you done? Sometimes he doesn’t shower and he’ll go ‘round smelling of “horse” all day. It’s gross.

Coën

 He’s an early riser too, but for an entirely different reason. For Coën, the mornings are prime time for exercise. He’s that annoying asshole who uses phrases like “the early bird gets the worm” unironically. His Instagram feed is just an endless scroll of health gurus discussing the pros and cons of “fasted exercise” with occasional adverts for protein powders. Depending on your setting, you’ll find him jogging around the estate or running sword drills as the sun rises; he pauses occasionally to huff in a lungful of fresh air and plant his hands on his hips to emphasise the health benefits of a strict sleep and exercise schedule. Breakfast is a smoothie of “green” and raw eggs. He says he enjoys it.

Lambert 

Waking up? Lambert hasn’t been asleep yet. He spent all night running experiments in the stillroom, because during the night is the only time the world is quiet enough for him to concentrate, alright? And besides, going to sleep means he needs to get up, and that’s just fucking horrific. If it’s a modern setting, you know he spent the entire night creating spoof Twitter accounts to harass people he disagrees with about a very niche interest of his. When Lambert does sleep, he is not a morning person and will throw his heaviest pillow at whoever dares to wake him. Occasionally his boyfriend stays over and then they do go to bed at a decent time because Aiden insists on “cuddles”. When this is the case, he’s forced to wake up early because Aiden repeatedly bats him on the face until he gets up to make them food. Lambert has asked why Aiden can’t just grill his own damned bacon, but Aiden just says it’s “better when he does it”. Aiden’s a dickhead.

Eskel 

He sets the alarm half an hour earlier than he needs to just so he can hide under the duvet and enjoy being comfortable. The world has no expectations of him in that beautiful thirty minutes and he can just be. If there’s a lover in his bed, then it's a prime opportunity for some extra snuggles;  he loves nothing more than curling them up in his big arms and snuffling through their sleep mussed hair. When he does roll out of bed, he throws on the ol’ dressing gown and looks far too fucking dashing, I mean, what the fuck (Lambert, chill out). He swans down to the kitchen, grabs some toast or the sugary cereal of the week and scrolls through the news until he’s awake enough to start his day. Eskel’s also one of those annoying pricks that can survive on only a few hours of sleep and function as if he had a solid eight hours. Fuck you, Eskel.

Vesemir 

He wakes up with Geralt, but only because he’s now “old” and “old people” are incapable of waking up any later than five thirty in the morning. If he had a spaniel, he’d walk it in a flat cap and Barbour jacket, and then attend to his beehive - looking at you, @castillon02 - while telling them about his plans for the day. He might even potter around the herb garden a bit, and then he’ll sit in the kitchen with a pipe and newspaper while the rest of the world wakes around him. God-fucking-help you if you interrupt him while he’s doing the crossword. Unlike Eskel and Geralt however, Vesemir will fall asleep in the armchair at five thirty in the evening. It’ll be halfway through a conversation, or he’ll snore over the top of a film so loudly that no one can enjoy it. When someone tries to change the channel - or ask him politely to stop snoring - he’ll snap that he “wasn’t even bloody well asleep”.

Bonus: Jaskier 

“Lark” is an ironic nickname bestowed on Jaskier when the Witchers realised he was an absolute amoeba in the mornings. It takes several vats of coffee and a shower before he can even string a sentence together, and even then it’s hit and miss before midday. He’ll try to stay up all night with Lambert but end up falling asleep face down in some suspect chemicals, and once he tried to start jogging with Coën; he snoozed the alarm eight times before Eskel picked it up and threw it out the window. Jaskier is the antithesis of a morning person. The antonym for “early riser” is just a picture of his face looking half zombified with a string of drool hanging out the corner of his mouth. The first steps outside the warm cocoon of his bed are agony, and he’s not above crawling into the shower on his hands and knees.

#stupid server stuff #cake shop #rawrkinrambles #inspired by GrimmGrimm #who needed extra duvet time #Jaskier #Lambert #Eskel #Geralt #Witcher Coën #Coën

[lambden]

What better way to break in a new blog than by immediately posting fic? In honour of Nightmare of the Wolf, here’s some Vesemir and Filavandrel!

(read on AO3)

M, 2.9K words, no warnings, Vesemir recognizes Jaskier’s lute when he arrives at Kaer Morhen

Vesemir has been expecting this day for decades. It’s rare for witchers to meet a trusted companion out on the Path, and even rarer to find one who wishes to travel alongside them. But the reputation of witchers has changed in recent years, for better or worse. Their focus is no longer on maintaining the traditional practices of their schools, but on protection— of other witchers, and of helpless commoners. Perhaps the humans can sense that change.

More curiously, the folklore surrounding witchers has changed. Vesemir very badly wants to meet the man who has done so much to change the narrative, but years pass and all Geralt brings home every winter are stories. The younger witchers entertain (and tease) him but no one ever asks where the bard goes during the cold months that Geralt spends at Kaer Morhen. Perhaps even Geralt doesn’t know.

Finally, after hundreds of stories of Geralt-and-Dandelion, Vesemir receives a letter one autumn before he himself has even considered the journey home. His chest warms as he reads Geralt’s careful penmanship, noting how the ink blots at the start of each new sentence. The paper and wax are fine, suggesting that Jaskier used his academic connections to perhaps land Geralt a few contracts near Oxenfurt. Geralt’s lettering may be nearly flawless but his message is stilted, reminding Vesemir of when his pups were nervous children. Does Jaskier really make him act this awkward? Their relationship must be serious, then.

I am hoping you will welcome my guest with open arms, or I fear he may freeze over the coming months. Vesemir looks for a signature but there is none, save a very fancy G at the bottom. No returning address has been provided either, and while he could easily pen a missive to Oxenfurt, it’s probably best not to respond. Each day Nilfgaard only grows stronger, and crueler. Perhaps Jaskier has been caught up in their hunger for power. Vesemir folds the letter up and hides it in his saddlebag.

When the frost begins creeping in, the oldest Wolf begins his trek up the mountain. He’s almost always the first one to arrive; Coën had beaten him to it once and apologized for weeks, and Vesemir would do anything to avoid that again. And if he makes an effort to arrive early this year so that he can make the Keep look as important as it is, well… nobody needs to know.

It takes a week and a half before Geralt arrives, Jaskier in tow. Vesemir spends the time flushing out a bat infestation and dealing with the most perishable of his spoils from the past year. The White Wolf seems to bring the cold with him most years but Vesemir, cognizant of Jaskier’s inferior body, made sure to set out enough furs in advance. As soon as he hears Roach’s hooves approaching he starts a roaring fire, and when the inner doors of Kaer Morhen burst open, Vesemir is ready to make a great first impression.

Upon seeing him, Geralt smiles right away, crossing the room to greet him. Vesemir looks him over; no obvious new scars, no missing body parts. Must have been an uneventful year, but… Geralt is here, safe and alive, so Vesemir allows himself some private, selfish, unwitcherly joy. It’s the sort of thing Deglan would have lectured him for. He finds he doesn’t care.

“I got your letter,” he tells Geralt, who nods solemnly. “I thought it best not to reply. Is Nilfgaard on your trail?”

“Our trail,” Geralt sighs, stepping aside so that Vesemir can meet his companion. “Vesemir, this is Jaskier.”

The bard, dwarfed by a large fur coat, moves forward so that Vesemir can properly scrutinize him. He certainly doesn’t look his age, but Vesemir knows he’s travelled as far as any witcher has gone, and seen sights no human should really have witnessed. “Oh, I’ve heard plenty about you, Jaskier. I was wondering when Geralt was finally going to bring you along for the winter!” That makes Jaskier perk up, and Vesemir chuckles. “I promise that no harm will come to you here.”

“Thank you,” Jaskier says. “Geralt doesn’t like sharing much about the other witchers, but I’m sure you must have a wealth of stories for me to hear!” Sure enough, Geralt frowns. “And I don’t know how much help I’ll be with hunting or gathering, but I would be happy to regale you on the coldest nights—” 

And before Vesemir can read into that unfortunate phrasing, Jaskier shrugs off his fur coat to produce a lute. He must have been wearing it strapped around his front on the journey through the mountains, not wanting to condemn such a fine instrument to being jostled around in Roach’s saddlebags. Vesemir squints at the red-brown wood and the golden details under the strings. They almost look like a particular elven design.

Oh. Vesemir’s realization nearly bowls him over. Geralt and Jaskier stare at him, respectively concerned and curious, but Vesemir can’t take his eyes off the lute. “My apologies, I… I forgot something in my chamber. Make yourselves at home, and… I’ll leave you to it.” He leaves without any further explanation, hastening to his quarters and abandoning the pair of them to their own devices. He can still feel their gazes drilling into his back but he suddenly feels weaker than usual.

---

 “I heard there was a witcher skulking around this forest,” the spy says. Vesemir is almost relieved to hear them speak; he’s been glancing over his shoulder for nearly an hour now to try and reveal an invisible pursuer. He should’ve known he was right. Just because the spy doesn’t lumber like a human or reek of magic like a monster doesn’t mean he won’t be in trouble. 

He stops in the middle of the path, still facing forward. He’s got a sneaking suspicion that the second he turns, a very unfriendly knife is going to introduce itself to his ribcage. Or perhaps an arrow, although he hasn’t heard the sound of anything and he’s been listening very closely.

His pursuer approaches. Fuck, they’re light on their feet. If Vesemir was just an average bandit, he’d be done for. He braces himself for an attack, balling his hands up into fists at his sides. The stranger continues, tone still pleasant enough, “Why not stay in town? A warm bed must beat trudging through mud in the early hours of the morning trying to find ground. I’ll give you some advice, witcher; there’s no dry ground. You’re heading towards a swamp.”

“They wouldn’t let me stay in town,” Vesemir admits, already grumpy. He whirls around and sees the stranger; a lean man, just slightly shorter than him. The long hood of their cloak casts a dark shadow over their face, blocking them from view. “If you’re here to rob me, I hate to disappoint, but you’ve followed me all this way for nothing.”

He holds up his empty coinpurse; not to prove himself, just to complain. The stranger titters, a lovely, high-pitched sound like glass clinking against glass, like chimes. Like birdsong. Vesemir’s eyes narrow. “That’s a shame,” they say. “You do love coin.”

There’s something disturbingly familiar about the words. Vesemir decides to gamble with his own life, stalking forward until he’s face to face with the stranger. Up close, his scent is even stronger. Frowning, Vesemir is about to reveal the man’s identity when he does it himself, pushing his hood back. His hair is tied up in complex braids unlike any Vesemir has ever seen, only a few loose strands hanging down over his forehead. But it would take more than a lifetime for Vesemir to forget that face.

“Fil,” he declares, delighted, and doesn’t think twice before crashing into the elf. Filavandrel laughs again and though it makes Vesemir feel a little silly, the sound still fills his heart with joy. He embraces his friend tightly, clinging to him for so long that both their boots sink down into the flooded dark soil of the forest. “What are you doing here?”

“It’s like I told you.” The elf pats the back of Vesemir’s neck, unwittingly sending a shiver down his spine. Vesemir’s grip tightens. “My scouts said I might find a witcher lost in the woods.”

“I’m not lost,” Vesemir grunts, finally pulling away. “I just… don’t know where I’m going.”

“Come to my camp,” suggests Filavandrel. As if he even had to ask.

Unsurprisingly, elves make their camps much differently than witchers do. When they arrive Vesemir doesn’t immediately see any sort of bedroll, and then he feels embarrassed for looking. He never feels this way around anyone else; he can make bawdy jokes with Sven or blatantly hit on Luka, but in the company of Filavandrel aén Fidháil, shame bursts through him so easily.

Maybe he just has a thing for pretty blondes who he leaves behind.

Except Fil is here, smiling indulgently as Vesemir gapes like a fool. “It’s nice,” he finally manages to say. “Want me to set a fire?”

“A campfire, sure. Not a big one,” Filavandrel teases. Swallowing, Vesemir turns to a firepit that the elf must have fashioned himself. He takes a bundle of wood that’s already been cut and easily ignites it, all the while trying to figure out why his heart is pounding so damn loud. Thank fuck that Filavandrel isn’t a witcher.

“Have you eaten?”

“No. You?”

“I was going to have some bread, and go hunting in the morning.” There’s a small noise and when Vesemir turns to look, his friend is holding out a large chunk of bread. It doesn’t even look that stale. Vesemir sees that Filavandrel has taken a much smaller piece for himself and growls about it, but the elf snatches the smaller piece away before Vesemir can lunge for it. “I don’t want to hear any self-sacrificial bullshit about how witchers don’t need to eat. Take the damn bread, Ves.”

“... Fine,” Vesemir relents, cowed. He accepts the bread, fingertips accidentally brushing over Filavandrel’s when he takes it. It’s fucking delicious, melting in his mouth almost instantly. Seeds and herbs have been baked into it too, and Vesemir savours every bite, moaning. “You should quit being a professional elf and start a new life as a baker, fuck.”

“I can do both. It’s an old recipe, needs a stone oven. And what does being a professional elf even mean?” Filavandrel reaches up to shove him, except they aren’t very far away from each other so the push nearly knocks Vesemir off his balance. Before he can tip over onto the grass Filavandrel grabs him by the collar of his gambeson and tugs him back, and, well. Vesemir may be a witcher, but parts of him are still human. 

Neither of them has to say a word; he opens for Filavandrel like he’s been thinking of nothing but this since the second they laid eyes on each other. Honestly, he sort of has. Fil runs a hand over the shaved part of his head, pressing his palm against the back of his neck to pull him in closer. Vesemir moans, chasing the taste of something sweet and acidic and magic. It certainly isn’t the fucking bread.

Afterwards they lie together by the smoldering remains of the fire, both too spent to clean themselves or dress. Vesemir glances over at the cinders and thinks about making an exit soon. It isn’t that he doesn’t want to stay with Filavandrel. He’s comfortable here, especially right now, and his friend always makes his heart feel lighter. But the Path calls to him; lying here without his weapons or armour, Vesemir can nearly hear Deglan’s scolding. And that thought is enough to ruin anyone’s afterglow.

Before he can move, Filavandrel sits up, arching his back. Vesemir turns to watch him, nearly salivating at how he looks in the low firelight. His hair is radiant, and his skin isn’t nearly flushed enough. He’s beautiful. Ethereal. Selfishly, Vesemir wishes that he’d left more marks.

Fil climbs to his feet and crosses the campsite to retrieve something out of reach. Vesemir cranes his neck to try and peek, and Filavandrel laughs kindly at him. “I was just thinking that something’s missing.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” Vesemir says, lowering his head back down onto the ground. “I should have kissed you more.”

The elf pauses at that before finally demanding, “Kiss me later.” A note resounds through the air, clear and beautiful; then a chord, and another. Very soon their little clearing feels more like a fairy circle than a campground as Filavandrel plays music. 

He finally walks into view, still naked, still beautiful. Now holding a lute. Vesemir tries to sit up so that he can properly see the performance but Filavandrel is faster, moving over him and then sitting atop his stomach, resting his back against Vesemir’s thighs. He plays the entire time, fingers moving adeptly over the instrument.

It’s a beautiful lute, probably made of some holy dark red wood. The golden design etched into it is mesmerizing, and the strings could have been plucked from the mane of a unicorn. Vesemir hardly spares it any attention, too wrapped up in the sight of a naked Filavandrel straddling him and singing.

He’ll only realize decades later that the elf was probably trying to court him.

Someone knocks on the door to his chambers and Vesemir jumps to his feet, caught off-guard by the sound that plucked him from his memories. He finds Jaskier waiting outside his room, toying idly with the sleeves of his doublet. Vesemir shakes his head, holding the door open for Jaskier even as he apologizes. “I’m sorry for running out earlier. I meant to give you a tour of the Keep, hopefully Geralt will have stepped up in my absence, but I am sorry—”

“No— please,” Jaskier interrupts. Once more he pulls his lute from around himself, holding it out to Vesemir. “I just… Your countenance changed dramatically upon seeing this, so…”

Fuck. “Yes,” Vesemir sighs, staring at the lute. Jaskier has managed to keep it in good condition after all this time. “I… Filavandrel and I are old friends.”

The bard’s eyes bulge out of his head but he enters Vesemir’s chambers, heading straight to the desk to perch on the edge of the chair. Vesemir finds another chair for himself, moving its previous occupant— a stack of books— onto the floor. In his defence, he hadn’t expected the tour of Kaer Morhen to begin in his personal chambers.

“He didn’t mention knowing any other witchers,” Jaskier hums. “How did you meet him?”

“You’re sure you want to know? It’s sort of a long story.” The bard just nods, eager and polite. Instantly Vesemir can see why Geralt likes him. “Alright,” he obliges, reaching for the bottle of wine on the desk. They’re going to need it. “We met long before you would have been born…”

 ---

 South of Kaedwen, the seasons are more aligned than any other part of the Continent. The winters are crisp, the summers lazy. Filavandrel likes to spend his summers here, where the canopy of trees is thick enough to provide shade but thin enough to provide colour. Everything is verdant, the flowers calling to him as he passes each one. When he was a child he had longed to visit towns and experience human delights like festivals but now he knows better. The elves live off the land well enough anyway.

Some of the younger people in his company these days have that same yearning, and some of them even manage it. One elf who resembles Toruviel always runs off to see some different show, take in some new performance. If Filavandrel thought that she could get away with it, he would pay for her to attend Oxenfurt— she’s very good. And the upside of her risking her life just to listen to music is that she’s got a very good memory, and she always brings the songs back home.

Today she’s singing some new ode to a witcher; not that bigoted anthem of lies that the bastard warbler from Posada somehow spread through the Continent, thank the Gods. This one seems to revolve more around making the right choice, and how a real hero does good deeds not for coin or his own profit, but just to be good. Filavandrel thinks about the few witchers that he’s had the misfortune of contacting over the years, and under his breath he scoffs.

Cheesy chorus aside, the lyrics seem to have some merit. The first verse is all about some terrible monster that was taking young girls, transforming them into half-beasts. The hero witcher’s judgement fails him and he blames himself for years, even losing a lover in the process. Filavandrel scowls; despite his own experiences with witches, he doesn’t want to listen to a song written by yet another prejudiced bard.

Then the third verse lands. The witcher grows old and wise and has children of his own, and he regrets his inaction and he tries to reach out to contact his lover. But at that point his lover, who devoted his life to protecting those in danger, was too busy being King of the Silver Towers. Filavandrel stops dead in his tracks as he realizes which witcher this must have been inspired by.

The elven king huffs, starting to compose a route in his head. He thinks a trip up north is long overdue.

#vesemir #filavandrel #nightmare of the wolf #the witcher nightmare of the wolf #geraskier fic #my writing #hey did anyone else see young vesemir talking to his friend fil in the bath and think we were gonna get a Bath Scene Part Two: The Remix?