#road to kaer morhen fic

[artistsfuneral]

The Road to Kaer Morhen - p.1

Whereas the country of Kaedwen was a bit infamous for its unforgiving winters, people rarely talked about the summers in the north. If anyone had cared enough to ask, Jaskier would've happily stated that the summertime up in the mountains was just as character-strong as it's opposing season. A weird statement for the bard, since Jaskier tended to call summer his favorite season, but unlike the norm it wasn't the steadily rising temperatures that were bothering him. It was the light.

After many years of travel his body had become accustomed to wake with the spreading brightness of a new day and rest when the sun hid behind the horizon. It was an incredibly useful habit that allowed him to get the most out of each beautiful summer day and catch up on rest as well as rightfully sleep through every single one of Marx' morning lectures during winter at Oxenfurt. Problematic about this was, that the kaedweni summer sun had yet to understand that Jaskier needed at least seven hours of his beauty sleep. To think clearly and to keep his impulses in check, because who was he trying to fool – he always looked pretty no matter the circumstances.

The part with the impulse control was the hardest one, he mused as he took a bite of the glazed sweet roll he had not intended to be his breakfast but enjoyed none the less. Due to the lack of shutters on the windows of his temporary bedroom, he had been awake dreadfully early and left the inn at the same time the owner of the bakery across the street had opened his doors and windows. The baker turned out to be a very charming man that had not only taken pity on Jaskier's oh so grim situation and spent the morning listening to the bard's idle chatter, but had also gifted him not one but two of the heavenly sweet rolls because 'they came out too crooked to sell'. Jaskier had thanked the baker by kissing him on the cheek and left once the first tired customer knocked against the door.

Licking the white sugar glaze from his fingertips, Jaskier strolled towards the town's daily marked were the vendors set up all kinds of stalls. From farmers and butchers to tailors and leather workers, Jaskier was sure he could make out almost every major profession which was absolutely perfect given this was the last big town he'd travel through before finding his way to Kaer Morhen. Or at least trying to do so.

It wasn't like Geralt had ever taken him to his wondrous witcher winter home before, or given him a map for that matter. Geralt had only asked him once, which felt like a lifetime ago, if he'd like to spend a winter at Kaer Morhen. Back then Jaskier, much younger and always so caught up in his own affairs, had listened to Geralt's bland description of a more crusty than rustic, crumbling and freezing fortress and had gently told the other man that he very much appreciated the thought but was fond of all of his toes and rather spent his winters in Oxenfurt. After a long moment of contemplated thinking Geralt had then told him that Jaskier, should he ever find himself in honest trouble, would find his safety at Kaer Morhen. That is, should he ever manage to find the keep, which certainly wasn't guaranteed given the fact that Geralt had never given him any true directions. What he had memorized instead was a list of obscure waypoints, like 'the big mossy rock', the 'jumping tree branch' or 'the cliff that looked like a raccoon'.

The bard could only hope that if he made it to the gates, the grandmaster of the keep would count being wanted by the entirety of the nilfgaardian army, the Redanian Secret Service essentially telling him he was on his own, his flat at Oxenfurt being broken into and an assassination attempt almost succeeding whilst he was playing at the Baron of Yspaden's name day, as 'troublesome enough' to let him stay. Especially since the latest incident had him storming out of Yspaden in such a hurry that he hadn't had time to change out his packs. As a result he was walking around the kaedweni landscape in his best court apparel which – if his unexpected travel companion, who was still peacefully asleep at the inn, was to believed – made him look like a peacock in a chicken coop. Trying to blend in with the rest was comically impossible, so Jaskier had straight out given up on that and instead done what he did best. He let his hair grow out, called himself Dandelion the Poet, performed his new songs even louder and strutted around the world like he owned it. Until now it had worked perfectly well. He just needed to spent the rest of his coin at the market for some might-come-in-handy supplies, collect his friend and would be on his way towards the rocky wilderness where nobody would dare to follow him.

Should be simple enough, shouldn't it?

The current problem being that Jaskier had no idea what those supplies should be and his coin was already limited from buying all the usual essentials for traveling. Looking around his eyes caught various things that seemed like good possibilities. Like a long roll of rope for example, Geralt always insisted on carrying rope with them in case one needed to secure something, say, a still bleeding monster head to a poor horse or a bard to a tree to keep him from following the witcher on a hunt. A second coat was always an advantage, especially since his companion at the inn didn't have one, but then again it was summer and the days and night were warm enough. Additional food wouldn't be a bad choice either, dried meat and fruits wrapped in beeswax sheets could last a while and if carefully portioned keep them from going hungry on days, but Jaskier was quite proud of his foraging skills and cooking usually wasn't a problem for him. He sighed and looked around further. A sister of the nearby temple was selling blessed charms to be placed on the little shrines of Melitele that could be found at almost every crossroad. The little parchment packages with herbs would be a good idea but Jaskier also incredibly fancied the the beautifully crafted hat with it's wide brim and ornate feather.

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✨🌿🌼✨

Hi there! I'm so excited for this!!! ❤ and as always

please tell me if you (don't) want to be tagged!

@mirrorthoughts @dwintu @whump-der-it-is @beneficialfondue @sinfulpetgirlrd @chaoticfandomthot @fingons-rad-harp @basilikum7 @siriusly-the-best-bi @snailqueen42 @cowboybuttconnoisseur @reluctantbroodingdads @starlghtstarbrite @merthurmagic @wren-of-the-woods @araglas1989

#the witcher #witcher #artistsfuneral about the witcher #road to kaer morhen fic #jaskier #jaskier the bard

[finleycannotdraw]

this post from @0dde11eth inspired me lmao

go through the notes on that post to find some of the continued inspiration :)

tl;dr sleep-cuddly geralt is a headcanon you can pry from my cold dead hands!

#the witcher #finley cannot draw #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier the bard #jaskier pankratz #geralt x jaskier #the witcher netflix #the witcher fanart #LOOK I NEED THEM TO BE SOFT OKAY!! #imagining this is either at kaer morhen (cause jaskier would be cold and also probably scared of fire) or just in hotels during their #homosexual 20 year road trip #or both #ooh maybe I’ll write a fic who knows

[wren-of-the-woods]

Hello! Thank you so much for what you do- could I please have some recs for geraskier fics where geralt is the one pining harder?

Here you go!! I wasn't sure how to categorize who was pining harder in all of these (since our boys are masters of longing lol) but these are all stories where Geralt loves Jaskier very much, and I highly enjoyed them all!

~

favorite by @asweetprologue (Rated G, 5.8k)

Jaskier gets Geralt a gift, and it makes Geralt realize he doesn't know enough about what Jaskier likes. He forms a plan to figure it out.

i’ll kiss you slow by @paintedcrayons (Rated T, 4.9k)

Geralt is not being creepy. He’s not. He’s just looking out for his friend (with a questionable choices in lovers). Lately, Geralt has started to notice the way people treat Jaskier’s affection like a means to an end. They kiss him only to move to the next step, dance with him as pretense to get him into their beds. He would like nothing more than to kiss Jaskier for the sake of it. (He does.)

time and time again by @samstree (Rated G, 5.2k)

Marriage proposals, through the years.

The Best Laid Plans by @dhwty-writes (Rated T, 5.5k)

Geralt is in love with Jaskier. In order to finally get him to admit his feelings, he devises a ten step plan with Lambert, Eskel and Vesemir.

A Friend in the Wild by @samstree (Rated G, 1.6k)

In which Geralt acquires a tiny friend who wouldn't stop following him.

Weak and Wanting by @sociallyawkward--fics (Rated T, 36k)

Geralt had thought that inviting Jaskier to Kaer Morhen after all these years would be a good thing. What he didn't plan on was his brothers deciding to have a little fun with their situation. Lambert and Eskel really needed to stop meddling in things they didn't understand, especially when it came to his bard.

Tell It With Your Heart by @bambirex (Rated G, 2.5k)

While Jaskier always says what's on his mind, Geralt works a little differently. That doesn't mean he cannot tell Jaskier how he feels - he just does that without words.

Repeat After Me by @onwardorange (Rated G, 7.3k)

All it takes is (nearly) three years, two meddlesome brothers, and one exasperated sorceress to get Geralt to admit his feelings for Jaskier.

Love Me Better, Send A Letter by @rebrandedbard (Rated T, 12.5k)

Geralt and Julian have been exchanging letters since participating in an inter-school pen pal program in high school, and Geralt has been pining away for Julian for over a decade since meeting by chance one faithful day in Posada. Between work and Ciri, he hasn't had much time for travelling, but he and Julian still exchange their letters faithfully. Finally, Julian's equally busy life coincides with Geralt's long enough for a short visit, and Geralt has the chance to finally introduce Ciri to the man she knows only on paper. Things would be perfect ... if Julian's visit didn't fall within the week of the concert of Ciri's favorite musician, Jaskier.

Music is no solution by @thecrownprincessbride (Rated T, 4.3k)

Jaskier has self-doubts, and Geralt is there for him.

A Careless Omission by @samstree (Rated T, 5.4k)

Jaskier reveals he has a type. Geralt behaves strangely.

Highway Angel (To the Dark I Said Pour and Forgot to Say When) by @fangirleaconmigo T, 2.8k

Geralt is a long haul truck driver. With long stretches on the road away from his family, and with no one to keep him company but his loyal dog Roach, he has to brave most of his life completely alone. Then one day, just as he is passing the city of Oxenfurt, he turns on the radio and hears a voice.

zero for ten by @yaelathewordsmith (Rated T, 10.4k)

The blue-eyed boy on the school's cricket team seems determined to bowl Geralt out. The worst part is, he isn't even fucking trying. * Or, the ten times Jaskier held Geralt's heart in his hands without knowing, and how Geralt grew to want him to keep it.

~

(You can find my other reclists here!)

#geraskier #the witcher #geralt #jaskier #geralt x jaskier #witcher #twn #wren recs #these are the ones i found searching my bookmarks but i'm sure there are many other good ones! so recs in the notes are highly welcome #it looks like there's a pining geralt tag so you could check that out too if you want #also i only noticed after i put this together that samstree is on it three times #you're the master of geralt pining jin XD #some of these probably appear on my other lists too but they fit the category so here you go! #thank you for this ask by the way!! i'd forgoten how much fun reclists are! #and i'm happy you thought of me <3 #reclists

[crashdevlin]

Don't Hide (A Witcher fic)

Author’s Note: This is part three of my Witcher series, which started at Opposites Don't Attract and continued to Left In the Cold 

Summary: Y/n finds herself in Poviss, living an almost-normal life in the North. A blizzard leaves her stuck.

Pairing: Geralt x Reader 

Word count: 2330

Story Warnings: a bit of angst, confrontation, some kissing

~~~

Poviss was cold. A Northern mountain territory with residents who weren’t used to outsiders. They were surprised when a witcher approached the gates of Tredam, but you just set your eyes on the snow beneath your boots and stepped past the guards. Your first instinct was to find the tavern, but you stopped at the town message board first. Maybe to find a job. Maybe to find a place to stay. There were several notices for missing cats and dogs, but the page that caught your attention said Shak for rint. 2 rooms plus outhous. Shit at keeping out cold but has a pit. Build a fire. Find me at Bicages Inn. Ask for Liam.

You pulled the parchment down and folded it, tucking it into your shirt. You adjusted your cloak and headed down the mud and stone covered main road through Tredam, eyes on the sign hanging from a building in the distance.

"Yer a witcher?" The man at the bar named Liam barely looked at you as he spoke and you could imagine him wanting nothing to do with you...until you realized that his accent was Skelligen and he wore no symbol of clan loyalty. An exile. An outsider, just like you.

"Yes. I'm just looking for a place to lay low for the winter."

"Ain' there a spot yer kine go ta fer the cold months? Off ta the East?"

Your lips went thin as you pressed them together for a moment. You cleared your throat and looked toward the barman, who nodded at you and grabbed a mug to fill it for you. "I'm not welcome at Kaer Morhen." You pulled your medallion out of your cloak and dangled it where he could see the cat head. "Cats are banned. Lucky me, I'm an outsider even from the other outsiders."

"Heard things 'bout Cat witchers."

"All true," you interrupted. "Foul, chaotic, rude, quite insane, the lot of us. Fortunately, I've denounced much of my teachings. Which is why I'm not in the Southlands with the Cat Caravan."

"Yew got a hundred florins?" he asked after several quiet moments. You nodded. "Yew can have the cabin 'til first thaw, then. Have yer drink an' then I'll take yew to it."

"Thank you," you said quietly before taking a seat on the stool beside him.

The cabin was deep in the woods outside Tredam and it was small, a bedroom and a kitchen and sitting area, but it was more than enough for you. Liam left you alone. You made witcher potions. You cooked in the firepit. You did small jobs around Poviss to earn coin for liquor and food. It was the closest to the simplicity of normal peasant life as you'd ever experience.

Once they got used to your presence in their town, several of the people of Tredam were fairly welcoming, offering smiles and greetings when they saw you. They knew your name. They knew your drink order at the tavern. They knew which herbs you needed before you walked into the apothecary. They knew what book you were reading that week and had suggestions for what you should buy next. They accepted you. No wonder Liam felt comfortable in Tredam.

The second storm of winter was much worse than the first, leaving you stranded in your cabin. Your horse, Daisy, was boarded in the stable behind the tavern and, though you missed your animal companion, you were grateful for that. She would have frozen in the blizzard. You, however, were at least alive in the cabin, fire blazing, bundled in cloaks and blankets.

You sensed movement outside the log walls of the cabin and your brow furrowed. The snow had been falling without stopping for hours. Who, in their right mind, would be out in that sort of weather? And why hadn't you heard them approach?

You stood and grabbed your steel, immediately thinking of Joel. It would be just your luck that Marchioness Woudsly sent another witcher your way. You couldn’t kill another of your brothers. You would die first. But if it wasn't a Cat…

You opened your door with your sword ready and gasped as your eyes fell on the white-haired Wolf you left behind months before. You froze, fingers gripping the handle of your sword as he looked down at you, snow whipping around him on strong wisps of wind.

"Are you going to kill me or invite me in?"

You blinked at him a few times before you sighed and lowered the sword, stepping out of the doorway and dropping your eyes to the wood floor. He stepped in and shut the door, shaking snow off of his hair and shoulders. You bit into the inside of your cheek as you sheathed your sword. What were you supposed to say to him? Did he come to Tredam to find you? Was he on a job? Were you the job? Would Geralt ever take a contract like that? Not against a human, but you weren't human and if he thought you murdered the Marquees…

"What are you doing here, Geralt?" you asked, pulling your cloak around you tighter.

"Did you expect me to stay in Kagen?"

"N-no," you stumbled, moving closer to the fire and avoiding the amber eyes staring at you through the dim light of your cabin. "But I didn’t expect you here, either."

"Obviously." You ignored the tone of his voice as you sat on a small wood stool and warmed your fingers near the fire. He watched you for a few moments before moving to lean against the wall. "You never came back."

"Obviously," you responded, shortly.

"Why?"

You tucked your hands under your cloak and stared at the flames. How the hell were you supposed to answer that? How were you supposed to tell the great White Wolf, the Butcher of Blaviken, the most famous witcher of the time, that you were too bloody sensitive to be baited into a heartbreak at his hands? How could you tell him that you'd never recover from the fall? How could you tell him you'd regretted riding away since the moment you mounted up?

"Why not?" was the answer that escaped you. Not much of an answer, but it didn’t get you killed so it must have worked well enough.

He let out a small sigh and shook his head. "I didn't take you as a coward."

Your eyes went wide, anger immediately racing through your blood. Rage heated your face. At least you weren't cold anymore. "Excuse me?"

"You got scared and you ran away," he accused. "You're a fucking coward."

You leaped to your feet, glaring up at him. "Nothing about you scares me, Wolf!"

He just glared back at you. "Could have fooled me, Feline."

"Oh, fuck off!" You scoffed and threw your hands up. "What the hell are you doing here, anyway? Can't you take a fucking hint? I don't want anything to do with-"

"Liar," he interrupted, stepping closer.

"Gods, you are an arrogant son of a bitch, aren't you? I left you in Kagen because I didn't-"

"Because you're a coward."

"I'm not a--what kind of witcher do you take me for?" He just tilted his head, looking down at you with that frustratingly handsome face. You let out an angry grunt and turned away. "You are infuriating! I came here to get away from you!"

"You admit you ran away to hide, then?" You didn't even have to look to know he was smirking.

"I'm not hiding!"

"Yes, you are."

"I am not!" You whipped back around, glaring at him again. "You need to leave. I don't want you here. I don't want you around. I don't want a wolf in my home-"

"You don't have a home, Cat." He pushed back away from the wall and stepped right in front of you. "This is just a cabin you rented to hide."

"Fuck off, Geralt." You grabbed the cold iron of the door handle and pulled it open. Snow piled up on the doorstep, halfway up the frame. In just the short time he'd been in your cabin, the storm had gotten worse. You couldn’t send him out in that. "Fuck."

"Guess you're stuck with me."

You slammed the door and looked from the fire to the bedroom door. It was the only place to get away from him, but were you willing to risk the cold?

You certainly tried. You wrapped your cloaks and blankets around you on the wool-stuffed mattress in the bedroom. You held out stubbornly, listening to Geralt breathing beside your fire, until the cold overwhelmed you. It was your fire, after all. Why should he get to enjoy it while you froze your tits off?

You refused to look at him as you dropped to the floor beside the fire, grateful for the warmth flowing into your limbs. You sat in silence for what seemed like hours, tension settled over you as the wind roared outside.

"I waited for you," he said, eventually. You kept your eyes on the fire. "I knew you weren't coming back after the second day, but I waited."

"Then you're a fool," you responded quietly.

"A fool to hope, I agree." You rolled your eyes. 'Hope'. He couldn't have really hoped you'd come back. "I waited a week. Until the bard came back to tell me you'd ridden North."

You shook your head. You told Dandelion not to involve himself in your business.

"Geralt…"

"Why?"

You closed your eyes and bit the inside of your bottom lip. Maintaining silence on the issue at hand probably wasn't feasible. Not with him stuck in your cabin. Your hiding spot...because, really, he was right wasn’t he? You were hiding from him…and here he was.

He waited for your answer, didn't press. Witchers were nothing if not patient.

"You don't want me, Geralt," you said, looking over the flames at him. "I'm just a stray Cat that you play with sometimes. I'm not…"

"Don't bring up Triss and Yen."

"How can I not?" You pulled your cloak around you tighter and hugged yourself. "You think I'm just going to ignore them? Or any of the others? You have a type, Wolf. Sorceresses for relationships, whores for fun. Which category do you suppose I find myself in?"

He hummed and focused his eyes on the fire. "Do you...know why I'm called Butcher of Blaviken?"

You didn't understand why he was asking. Everyone knew the story...and anyone with an intimate knowledge of witchers, especially of Geralt, knew that he'd had no choice. "Of course."

"I don't think you do."

"Well...then enlighten me," you urged, curious as to how that massacre had anything to do with the conversation you were having.

He was silent for a few moments before he let out a small groan and looked up to catch your eyes. "There was a woman...Renfri. Not a sorceress...not a whore...a princess." Your jaw dropped a little. "She was one of the princesses marked as harbingers of Lilit. She managed to escape when she was taken to be killed. She was...beautiful, resourceful…"

He looked back down to the fire. "When I met her, she was the leader of a group of bandits. A princess, who should have been a queen by all blood-rights, was stealing for her supper."

"The bandits that you…"

He nodded in answer to your question. "She was determined to get revenge on the mage that ruined her. She asked for my help. I asked her to…" He shook his head. "I asked her to walk away, let go of it. She couldn't. She went after him...any means necessary...go through all who stand in her way...me included. She wouldn’t stop."

You licked your lips and leaned forward. "She was consumed."

"She was the first woman I felt anything for. I didn't think I could feel before her." He looked over at you. "She made me feel...and I had to kill her."

Your throat clenched around the sudden rise of emotion, your brain replaying Joel attacking you. You looked away, tears welling up in your eyes. "I had a brother. I left him behind at Dyn Marv. He was offered a contract on me." You swallowed thickly. "He wouldn't stop either. He was so angry with me."

You took a shaky breath and sighed it out. "I feel, Geralt. And I know you feel things too, but it's different. It's different for me. I'm not a wolf. I can act like I'm just like you but I'm not."

"You don't make sense." He stood and looked down at you. "You know I feel for Yen. You know I feel for Triss. But when it comes to you, I'm a wolf so I'm heartless."

You opened your mouth to argue but he kept talking. "I do feel for you. I care about you and knowing you left me waiting for you in Kagen hurt. Knowing that you decided to hide from me hurt. So tell me, Cat, if I'm just a wolf with no emotions, why was I compelled to find you? Why did I have to see your face again? Why couldn't I stop?"

You stood slowly, on shaking legs. “It’s...just…” You licked your lips, trying to find words, but finding none.

He reached out and grabbed your shoulders, looking down into your eyes. “Don’t.” He leaned down and lightly pressed his lips to yours. He felt like fate. You reached up and wrapped your left hand around the back of his neck, pulling him down to kiss you harder. “Don’t hide,” he mumbled into your mouth as he pushed you back into the wall.

Heat enveloped you as his body pressed into yours. The cold of the blizzard was forgotten. The fear of the future was forgotten. For a moment, everything was okay and you didn’t need to hide.

#cassie writes stuff #witcher fanfic #geralt x reader #witcher!reader

[limerental]

limerental's themed self-rec lists

read my old fics, you cowards! these are majority witcher fics, because i have an illness.

silly goofy modern au

how long we were fool'd - jaskier/yennefer(&geralt)

married neighbors yennskier, suburban dad!geralt, modern witchers, little kid ciri, aroace geralt, relationship misunderstandings, borzoi roach, supernatural mystery, some canon-typical violence, found family nonsense, and my own clairvoyance in writing yennskier husband-wife but it was spring 2020

(don't) poke the sleeping dragon - jaskier/yennefer/geralt

a retelling of bottled appetites but it's a nerdy fantasy music festival, copious drug use, yennefer's sick wizard van, unicorn edibles, golden dragon dildos, outdoor sex, geralt getting pegged and double penetrated, a dialogue only threesome, accidental yearning old friend geraskier tenderness, and someone once told me they wouldn't read this fic because yen had her tits out in the summary and i will always remember that criticism for the rest of my life

as if you were a mythical thing - yennefer/geralt

old married couple, dom/sub dynamics, sex unicorn mention, geralt is very vanilla but loves his kinky wife, and he's too autistic about horses not to ruin ponyplay with horse facts

this one might hurt

long on the road & how light carries on - geralt/jaskier (eventual geralt/regis in the sequel, plus many platonic relationships)

the 80s trucker/hitchhiker au that got away from me, vietnam vet trucker geralt, aging hippie musician jaskier, AIDS crisis, terminal illnesses, dealing with mortality, falling in love, road tripping, copious american geography, period-typical queer community issues, and then... life after loss, aging, grief and mourning, queer and traumatized family dynamics both found and otherwise, finding love again, and watching the sun set on a life well lived

in dark and twisted braids - fringilla &/ yennefer

aretuza school days slumber parties, girlhood crushes, pining, unrequited love, i shook a sorceress and intergenerational trauma fell out, the inherent adolescent horror of making lasting decisions about your future when you are barely 18 but even worse because there's war and violence and permanent alterations to your body and forced sterilization and your little schoolgirl crush on someone you thought was a friend ends in betrayal and bloodshed and you end up on opposite sides of the war and she never even looked your way or thought about you and--

then send down the storm - aiden/lambert, lambert/geralt(/yennefer)

witcher roadtripping, just guys being dudes, horse stuff, winter at kaer morhen polyamory but different, ~trauma~, the mortifying ordeal of accepting you deserve more from life and also of being known, but it's too late (or is it?), grief and mourning and loss and love that was worth its loss, and also, the character death(s) are largely temporary.

aw that just ain't right :/

the witch in her tower - eskel/yennefer(/geralt)

dark fic, fairytale elements, hurt no comfort (mind the tags), morally dubious heartbroken yennefer, pining and years of yearning for geralt eskel, unrequited love, non-consensual mind control during sex, flashbacks to messed up witcher child abuse and violence and cruelty, the inherent horror of mutated and manipulated little boys becoming men who think they can't or shouldn't love paralleled with the inherent horror of enchanted and manipulated little girls becoming women who-- you get it.

the flesh calmly going cold - geralt/jaskier

this one's gross for real, a hunt gone wrong, hurt NO comfort, major character death and it's gross and tragic, gore, necrophilia, organs lovingly described (and jizzed on), basically it's just like that scene in twn where filavandrel exploded but if francesca humped his goo after. sorry.

blood of the covenant (water of the womb) - geralt/&renfri, geralt/stregobor

supernatural pregnancy body horror as revenge, ......pregobor, black sun princess trauma and curses, apocalyptic monster fetus imagery, it's about women and violence against women and evil men suffering for inflicting that violence mostly, and also the evils of standing by and watching evil happen. also, yes stregobor is magical yucky bella swan pregnant and then bad stuff happens to everybody.

#my fic #self-rec #witcher fic #themed rec lists yay! #the last three have dead dove themes technically but not like. idk i've changed my mind on what constitutes dead dove in this fandom #basically there's gore and body horror and some non-con in the last few #the tone difference from the first to the last is SO funny

[jaskierswolf]

Another bullet fic because the idea is stuck in my head but I don't have the spoons for another long fic rn. CW: angst, illusions and questioning reality.

Jaskier gets kidnapped sometime between the mountain and finding his way to Oxenfurt by a powerful mage who's trying to get information on Geralt/Kaer Morhen.

The mage is able to replicate the mountain arguement over and over again, keeping Jaskier stuck in an endless loop of his worst nightmare.

Only sometimes the mages lets Jaskier think he's escaped or "Geralt" comes to rescue him, but of course it isn't really Geralt and Jaskier is forced to watch "Geralt" die before the loop begins again.

Sometimes Geralt says he loves Jaskier before ripping his heart apart.

Or it's Yennefer, treating him like a friend for the first time in his life until she too turns out to be fake.

The experience leaves him broken and confused, questioning his existence, but he never gives up any information, not even when "Geralt" kisses him and tells him it's okay. Not even when he truly thinks he has been rescued.

And then when the witch is finally dead, Geralt is standing there with love confessions on his lips and Jaskier feels sick because how can he trust it?

Nothing feels real, nothing is real. He's probably still in the dungeon.

Eventually Geralt manages to earn his trust, finding ways to ground Jaskier, to beat the illusions. Smells and tastes work best, but even then it's hard.

Cue long road to recovery and perhaps Jaskier staying with Geralt at Corvo Bianco, somewhere neutral that the witch never asked about.

They never go to Kaer Morhen, but it's okay. Geralt manages to build a new home, with his family, his brothers, and this way Jaskier's friends can visit too.

It's not perfect and he's never quite the same as he was, but Jaskier learns to trust in his love for Geralt, and he knows, deep down, that Geralt loves him too

#the witcher #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier pankratz #wolfie's witcher writing #I really like this idea but it would be so long if I wrote it

[bard-llama]

WiP Thursday AKA I was busy Weds: Petty Drama at Kaer Morhen

So I'm running out of things to post because I have been absorbed in this fic that has decided that it will both be very long and that it will not be separate chapters/the chapters will be massive. Like seriously, it's already 17.5k and we're in the first of 4 arcs/chapters. So figured I'd share a few scenes. (Warning for length 'cause I have no restraint.)

Summary: Before going to find Ciri, Geralt sought out allies to help him in the battle against the Wild Hunt, the battle to save his daughter. Unfortunately, he didn’t think to share the list of who all he was inviting with anyone – and it turns out, <i>many</i> of his friends actually hate each other. Nonetheless, they must work together to fight off the coming army.

(Apologies in advance for the formatting. Gods I hate how tumblr has changed.)

Arriving at Kaer Morhen

Now, finally, Roche and Ves were winding up the road to Kaer Morhen – and it turned out, they weren’t the only ones who had come to Geralt’s aid. In fact, quite a number of people seemed to have gathered in the keep to defend Geralt’s daughter – but neither Geralt nor his daughter were actually present yet. 

“Once they arrive, it’s go time,” Eskel, one of Geralt’s witcher brothers, explained. “The Wild Hunt won’t be far behind.”

“How does Pretty Boy know so many people, anyway?” Lambert, another witcher, groused. “Even witchers from other fucking schools!”

“Oh?” Roche asked, genuinely curious. 

It was at that moment that the fucking witcher who had killed Roche’s King walked in as if Geralt hadn’t said that he’d ‘dealt’ with the Kingslayer. Roche’s knives were in hand instantaneously, even though his odds of winning against a witcher weren’t great. 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Eskel held his hand up. “We’re all here for the same purpose.”

The Kingslayer looked him over with little change in his expression, as though Roche had both gone unrecognized and been judged unimportant. 

Roche snarled. “He killed Foltest!”

Eskel and Lambert both blinked in surprise. “He did?”

The Kingslayer shrugged shoulders that were ridiculously thick with muscle and even without the witcher mutations, he could probably take Roche down easily. 

That didn’t mean Roche wasn’t ready to fight. 

Ves stood beside him, blades at the ready, prepared to back him. It made him hesitate, swallowing hard. He was willing to go down fighting – but he couldn’t bring Ves down with him. The Kingslayer could probably kill them both without breaking a sweat. 

Roche grit his teeth so hard his temple ached. This was Foltest’s killer. He couldn’t just let him get away.

But he also couldn’t get Ves killed. Not to mention, they were about to face an invasion by the Wild Hunt and the more bodies they had, the better.

Even if one of those bodies had murdered Foltest?

His hand was wrapped so tightly around his dagger that it was shaking, knuckles bloodless. 

“Vernon Roche,” said a voice behind him that he hadn’t expected to hear ever again.

He whirled around. “Iorveth!”

Sure enough, the elf who had long been his enemy stood in the doorway of the witchers’ keep, looking at him with an arched eyebrow and half a smirk. 

“Geralt invited you!?” Ves sneered in disbelief. 

Iorveth tilted his head in greeting. “He failed to mention who else he was asking.”

“Yeah,” Roche grunted, noticing suddenly that his heart was racing in his chest. Why? Because he was ready to fight the Kingslayer… right? It couldn’t be just because Iorveth had appeared. “You and the fucking Kingslayer,” Roche grit out, turning away from Iorveth to glare at the hulking witcher. 

It occurred to him that that meant turning his back on Iorveth, but he didn’t really think anything of it until Iorveth stepped up beside him, glare just as fierce as his own.

It was weird how standing shoulder to shoulder with Iorveth and Ves both just felt right.

“Letho,” Iorveth spat, hands on the hilts of his swords.

“Still alive, elf?” the Kingslayer greeted casually. 

“No thanks to you.”

The Kingslayer just shrugged.

“Okay,” Eskel began, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Clearly Geralt knows a lot of people who hate each other. But you came for a reason, and that reason isn’t to fight each other. So you can leave or you can stay, but there will be no fighting except against the Wild Hunt.”

Ves growled, low in her throat, gaze darting to Roche’s. Roche licked his lips, aware that she was asking for orders. Which option would they choose? Would they leave – leave Geralt in the lurch? Or would they stay – stay and fight alongside the man who had murdered King Foltest?

“Fine,” Iorveth agreed to the terms, and suddenly the decision was easy to make.

“We’re staying,” Roche confirmed, though he didn’t let up in glaring at the Kingslayer. 

Ves grumbled under her breath, fingers tight around the harpy talon she was wielding. If he wasn’t mistaken, that was one of the poisoned ones, too.

Would poison even work on a witcher?

“Great,” Eskel said tonelessly. “So let’s all lower our weapons, yeah?”

It was difficult to do so and it happened slowly. The whole while, the Kingslayer – who had never bothered to even reach for his weapons – looked unconcerned. 

“So, just to be clear,” Lambert said, “all of you are enemies? And yet also friends with Geralt? Seriously?”

“Fucking witcher neutrality,” Ves muttered.

“Well,” Eskel said, looking exasperated, “come in, I guess. We have no idea how many more people to expect, but there’s plenty of room. The others are around somewhere.”

“How many others, exactly?” Iorveth asked, tension in his shoulders.

“So far? Nine,” Lambert grunted. “Mostly annoying sorceresses.”

“Oh?” Roche perked up, stepping into the living area and wondering if–

“Roche!” Triss Merigold, King Foltest’s favorite Court Mage, beamed at him from the other side of the fire. “It’s good to see you alive,” she said, too genuinely.

“You too,” he murmured, stepping closer. 

Given permission, she lunged at him in a hug. “I’ve been hiding out in Novigrad,” she said. “It’s been awful.”

“Yeah,” Roche agreed. The way all their lives had gone since Foltest’s death was definitely awful. “We’ve been fighting Nilfgaard.”

“Of course you have,” Triss squeezed her arms around him and pulled back with a smile. “And – is that Iorveth?” she asked suddenly, looking past his shoulder.

Iorveth, the fucking bastard, waved. 

“Apparently Geralt has a lot of friends,” Roche huffed. “Including the fucking Kingslayer.”

Triss’ face was grim. “Yeah. But we need all the help we can get.”

Roche’s grunt of agreement was begrudging.

Keira, another of Foltest’s mages, wiggled her fingers in greeting. She was looking a little worse for wear, actually, and she must have been able to sense his thoughts, because she scowled at him.

“Triss chose Novigrad to hide in. I chose Velen.”

“Ah.” Roche, who had been fighting in Velen the past several months, understood immediately. Velen was a fucking shithole. And he should know – he’d been born there!

“Who else is here?” Ves asked.

“Oh, well, there’s Yenn, she’s another sorceress. Yennefer of Vengerberg,” Triss said. “And Vesemir. He’s an older Wolf Witcher. Then Zoltan and Dandelion, you’ve met them. Ermion is a druid from Skellige and he apparently came independently of the new Skelliger Queen’s brother and childhood friend, Hjalmar and Folan.”

“The – Skellige has a Queen?” Roche blinked. News had been a little slow out in Velen, but damn, how did he miss that?

“Cerys an Craite,” Keira nodded. “The jarls chose her as their Queen. She’s working to unite the Isles.”

“Oh. Wow.”

“Yeah. Her brother brags about her a lot, even though he got passed over for King.”

“Huh.”

“It’s annoying,” Keira said, and Roche’s lips twitched. 

“That everyone?”

“Oh, and Avallac’h,” Lambert said. “He’s an elf, but not like a normal elf? I dunno, he’s very holier than thou about it.”

“Not like a normal elf?” Iorveth repeated, tone unimpressed.

“I am Aen Saevherne,” a voice said and Roche turned to see a tall silver-haired elf walking down the stairs that led into one of the towers. 

“What does that mean?” Roche asked with a frown. He’d researched a fair amount about elves during his former work as a Scoia’tael hunter, but he could recall nothing of an ‘Aen Saevherne’.

“The best translation would be ‘elven sage’,” Avallac’h said.

Iorveth’s eye narrowed. “You have magic?”

“Beyond what you are capable of understanding,” Avallac’h said, and his standoffishness turned off more than just Iorveth, who glared.

Iorveth’s hatred of all things magic was rather notorious, actually. And here they were, surrounded by magic users – sorceresses and sages.

“There are other elven mages,” Roche pointed out. “So what makes you different?”

“I am from the world of the Aen Elle,” Avallac’h said proudly. 

Roche, to whom that meant absolutely nothing, asked, “what are the Aen Elle? ‘Cause you’re Aen Seidhe, right?” he directed at Iorveth.

Iorveth hummed in agreement, watching Avallac’h carefully. 

“On my world,” Avallac’h said, “it is elves who are the conquerors. We have never been subjugated.”

Iorveth’s fingers curled around his swords again. 

“To be fair,” a new voice said, and Roche turned to see the dwarf he’d met in Flotsam when all the Kingslaying crap went down. Zoltan Chivay, standing next his ostentatious bard, looked them over with an arched eyebrow and continued, “elves were conquerors on this planet, too. Humans just did it better.”

“Chivay,” Iorveth spat with even more venom than the Kingslayer had gotten. Roche was surprised. 

“Iorveth,” Zoltan responded flatly, unimpressed. 

“You know each other?” Triss asked in surprise. 

“Unfortunately,” they both said.

“How?” Dandelion the Bard asked, seemingly just as surprised as all of them. 

Zoltan shrugged, “I’ve lived a long time.”

Iorveth scoffed softly, still glaring bloody murder. It was a glare that hadn’t been turned on Roche at all, Roche suddenly realized. The Kingslayer and Zoltan were openly hated, but the way Iorveth looked at Roche was different.

What did that mean?

“For fuck’s sake,” Eskel said, exasperated. “Does Geralt know anyone that doesn’t hate each other?” He shook his head. “Anyway, you guys can take any free room you come across. Make sure you check for cracks in the walls. We’re working on getting the keep patched up before the battle.”

“Great,” Roche said flatly. “Thanks.”

--

When Iorveth and Roche are catching up after ending up rooming together

“So you’re like… legit now? Except for the part where the rest of the North still considers you wanted?”

“The ‘rest of the North’ is basically just Redania now,” Iorveth pointed out, “and they have bigger concerns.”

Roche frowned. Iorveth wasn’t wrong, but that didn’t mean he had to like it.

Once, Temeria had been the forefront power in the North. And now…

“Why?” he found himself asking in a whisper.

“Mm?”

“Why did you help kill him?”

“Him – Foltest?” Iorveth checked, unconcerned.

Roche’s eyes narrowed. “Who else?” he bit out. “You helped the Kingslayer escape after killing my king.”

“And then got betrayed by him,” Iorveth pointed out.

“But before that betrayal, you were working together,” Roche said. “Why?”

Iorveth held his head high. “King Foltest was a threat to elves everywhere. Now he’s not.”

“Now Temeria is falling apart,” Roche snapped. 

“Boohoo,” Iorveth scoffed. “Temeria was built on the ruins of my country, dh’oine. But you don’t even know what we were called, do you?”

Roche blinked. “Uh. No?”

“Dùthaich,” Iorveth said. “My country lasted five millennia before humanity destroyed it. So forgive me if I’m hardly heartbroken that the kingdom that replaced us has fallen.”

“It hasn’t fallen!” Roche protested. “Not yet!”

“Because you and your men are fighting off Nilfgaard?” Iorveth’s arched eyebrow was dubious, and it made Roche scowl.

“Yes. We will do whatever we must to save Temeria.” Roche closed his eyes with a sigh, acknowledging, “who’d ever have thought that we’d change positions, huh? Me as the rebel fighting against the odds and you all official now, serving a human monarch and everything.”

Iorveth snorted. “Don’t think anyone saw that coming.”

“And yet, here we are.” Roche rubbed his face, tired and worn. It had been a long time since he’d had something as comfortable as a bed to sleep on, and weariness pulled at his body. 

“Here we are,” Iorveth echoed, and he could feel the weight of the elf’s gaze on him, though he couldn’t seem to manage opening his eyes to look. Iorveth huffed an amused breath. “Go to sleep, Vernon. I’ll wake you for dinner.”

If he had any sense, Roche would not decide to sleep with his enemy right there – but somehow, letting himself drift off to sleep was easy.

And Iorveth kept his word, though deciding to wake him up by playing a loud note on his flute right in Roche’s ear was entirely unnecessary.

“Dinnertime,” Iorveth smirked.

“Motherfucker,” Roche swore. 

Iorveth laughed, leading the way out of their room and back down towards the common area of the keep. 

Dinner was interesting. Roche chose to sit next to Triss and Keira, because he actually knew them, and they were sitting across from Dandelion and Zoltan, who he found acceptably friendly. So he didn’t think anything of it when he took his seat – except Iorveth sat next to him, glaring at Zoltan once more.

When Ves showed up, she leveled him with an unimpressed look and squeezed into the space between him and Triss when Iorveth refused to move. 

Roche rolled his eyes with a huff, shoving Iorveth over so that he could scooch aside and leave Ves more room. 

Iorveth grumbled, but moved closer to the Skelliger archer that was sitting across from what was apparently the brother of the Skelliger Queen. 

The witchers all sighed, taking their seats with the Kingslayer farthest from Roche. Thank fuck. The standoffish elf and a dark haired sorceress who must’ve been Yennefer of Vengerberg sat at the end of the table, and she waved her hand with a murmured spell until the stew started dishing itself out, bowls floating down the table to sit before each of them.

Roche thought it was pretty cool, honestly, but Iorveth had a sour look on his face, glaring at his food like it might bite him. 

The Skelliger Queen’s brother – what was his name again? Something with an H? – laughed. “Yeah, it’s weird,” he agreed. “But it tastes the same.”

“It’s a rather frivolous use of magic,” the druid sitting next to Dandelion sniffed. 

“Yeah, but it’s still cool,” the other Skelliger said. 

“It’s practical,” Yennefer of Vengerberg’s sharp voice corrected. 

Triss met Roche’s gaze and rolled her eyes, passing him some bread. He bit back a smile, amused. 

So this was who they would be fighting the Wild Hunt with. It should prove interesting.

The fact that a fight didn’t break out over dinner was, frankly, miraculous and entirely due to the oldest witcher’s fiercely disappointed gaze that made all of them falter. That probably said something deeply psychological about all of their relationships with father figures, but Roche decided it wasn’t worth dwelling on. 

They made polite conversation (stiffly, in some cases), and Roche paid attention to all of it, eager for information that could help him get a sense of his companions. 

He was already learning a few interesting things.

Dandelion and Zoltan had apparently been to this mythical land of equality that Iorveth was helping to build, and the way they talked about its Queen was eye-opening, though for Zoltan, his praise of the Dragonslayer was interspersed with snide remarks about the Scoia’tael. What was interesting was that Iorveth’s praise was just as open, even though this Dragonslayer was a human. 

How the fuck did this human woman convince Iorveth to not just unite his people and bring them to her aid, but actually build this country alongside her?

“Saskia is not like any dh’oine you’ve ever met,” Iorveth said easily. 

Roche crossed his arms. “Oh yeah? What makes her so special?”

“She has integrity,” Iorveth said, voice flat. “She actually lives by her values and respects all people as people.”

“So what’s she doing affiliating with you?” Ves asked sharply.

Iorveth’s spine went straight in offense, and Zoltan barking a laugh did not help. “She has a point.”

“Zoltan!” Dandelion hissed, shooting a glance at Iorveth, who looked ready to kill and was not faltering under Vesemir’s disappointment. “Vergen would have fallen without the Scoia’tael’s aid.”

Zoltan sniffed in disdain and Iorveth’s glare sharpened. “All we have ever fought for,” Iorveth bit out, “is the right to live in peace.”

“Ha! And what do you know of peace? You’ve been at war for two hundred years!”

“And you’ve colluded with murderers for two hundred years,” Iorveth spat, lips twisted with disgust.

“And what are you?” Zoltan snorted.

“Everyone here has killed,” Hjalmar, the Skelliger Queen’s brother, pointed out. “We’re literally here to fight a war.”

“Well,” Lambert said, “except the bard. Actually, why are you here again?”

“Excuse you,” Dandelion sniffed. “I am here for an even more important reason – to chronicle the fight against evil itself!”

“How much of this chronicle will be founded in fact?” Triss asked sardonically.

Hjalmar snorted. “Geralt insists half your songs are bullshit.”

“More than half,” Yennefer said.

Dandelion tutted. “It’s called creative liberty!”

Roche couldn’t help his smile, biting back a laugh. 

“So,” Triss began, looking between Zoltan and Iorveth, “you’ve known each other for two hundred years?”

“No,” Iorveth half-snarled, “it’s been two hundred years since we’ve spoken.” 

“I could have happily gone another 200,” Zoltan said. 

“Likewise,” Iorveth growled. 

“So you knew each other well, then,” Ves observed. She seemed intrigued by whatever was making Iorveth so stiff and combative and Roche internally groaned. This was definitely going to end badly.

“Yeah, you could say that,” Zoltan grunted. 

“It is only in fairly recent times that elves and dwarves have come to be allies,” the druid from Skellige observed. 

“Indeed,” Vesemir stroked his mustache thoughtfully. “I seem to recall that when I was young, there was a great kerfuffle over an elf and a dwarf daring to be together romantically. It was a big deal. Lotta people from both races disapproved.”

Iorveth cleared his throat, looking determinedly down at his stew, and Roche frowned. “Wait a minute.”

“No,” Triss breathed. “No way.”

Iorveth’s face and ears were slowly turning red, and Zoltan was also pointedly not looking at anyone.

“You and Iorveth!?” Dandelion shrieked. “Really!?”

Zoltan coughed, not answering. 

“Damn, never would’ve called that coming,” Keira laughed. 

“Huh,” Vesemir gazed contemplatively at both Iorveth and Zoltan. “If I remember correctly, both of those involved were said to be minor celebrities.”

“Oh?” Dandelion looked curious. “Well, Zoltan’s a very well known warrior, but Iorveth’s notoriety came later, didn’t it?”

Iorveth’s lips pressed together like he was resisting correcting them. Which kind of made Roche think that they weren’t completely off base.

“You’re a musician, aren’t you?” Roche asked, nudging Iorveth. “Ever get famous from that?”

A muscle in Iorveth’s jaw flexed.

“Damn, okay,” Lambert chuckled. “So how’d you end up hating each other?”

“None of your fucking business,” Iorveth snapped. 

“You’re the one airing out your drama,” Ves said. 

Iorveth’s growl was impressive enough to raise hackles around the table, but instead of attacking, he retreated, grabbing his bowl and pushing away from the table, stomping off. 

Zoltan very obviously rolled his eyes, muttering, “as dramatic as ever.”

He refused to say anything more on the topic and the conversation moved on without Iorveth, though Roche couldn’t help but dart looks at the door the elf had left through, feeling oddly worried. Not that Iorveth needed – nor wanted – his concern, but…

--

The next morning

By the time the sun rose, they felt it was safe to venture out in search of fresh food. Roche was sure they both had food supplies – but he, for one, was sick and tired of jerky. The prospect of even just leftover stew beat army ration packs. By a lot. 

They were in luck – not only was there leftover stew, but apparently the Skelliger druid was a fan of baking and there were fresh pastries, too.

“Help yourself,” he invited. 

“Thanks,” Roche murmured, biting into warm bread with a pleased little sigh. Yeah, he had missed real food.

Iorveth led the way to the dining hall, where they sat next to each other at the big empty table. Iorveth was more conservative in picking at his food – but Roche devoured it quickly and then was left debating if he could go back for seconds. 

“Here,” Iorveth grunted, holding out his bread. 

Roche blinked. “You sure?”

“Are you hungry or not?” Iorveth shrugged.

Roche was, so he took it – just as Dandelion and Zoltan walked into the dining hall with their own bowls of food. Dandelion didn’t seem to notice much – but the way that Zoltan looked at Iorveth and the way Iorveth’s ears turned red made Roche think there was something unspoken going on. 

“What?” he asked.

Zoltan just shook his head, taking a seat across from them. “So, what’ve you been up to since the whole Kingslayer business, lad?” he asked Roche.

Roche shrugged. “Fighting off Nilfgaard. Not terribly exciting.”

“Have you heard what I got up to?” Dandelion asked excitedly. “To help Ciri, I pulled off a heist!”

“You failed in pulling off a heist,” Zoltan clarified. “And Geralt and the rest of us had to save your ass from the Temple Guard.”

“Eh,” Dandelion dismissed. “Details.”

Zoltan rolled his eyes expressively. Roche couldn’t help his snicker. 

He’d finished his stew and his bread – and Iorveth’s bread, too – but honestly, he was still hungry, so he slipped back into the kitchen with a murmured explanation and got more food. When he returned, Iorveth and Dandelion were talking about music, and for some reason, Iorveth’s words stuttered when Roche plopped the bread he’d fetched for the elf on top of his bowl.

“All good?” he asked warily.

Iorveth flushed, nodding and picking up the thread of his statement – but again, the way Zoltan was looking at Iorveth and the way Iorveth continued to turn redder made Roche think there was something more going on.

“What?” he asked Zoltan.

Zoltan shrugged. “Good bread,” was all he said. But there was a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips and Iorveth cleared his throat, shifting his weight uncomfortably.

Roche frowned. “Uh. Yeah, it is.”

Dandelion didn’t seem to notice anything was amiss, enthusiastically greeting the witchers who filed in with their own bowls of food. Roche glared at the Kingslayer on principle, but was largely ignored. 

Lambert yawned widely as Eskel greeted the rest of them. “Good morning.”

They all mumbled greetings back, and in that time, Ves and the sorceresses appeared, looking far more put together than was reasonable for such an early hour.

“Saw someone approaching the keep,” Ves told the witchers. 

“Another one?” Eskel groaned. 

“Another blade at our backs is a good thing,” Vesemir reminded him, pushing up from the table to go open the gate.

“Who do you think it is?” Dandelion asked. “I mean, Geralt only knows so many people… right?”

“More people than I woulda thought,” Eskel mumbled and Lambert snickered.

Several minutes later, Vesemir returned, followed by another witcher, though this one had a cat medallion instead of a wolf. “This is Aiden,” Vesemir began. 

“Seriously!?” Eskel threw his hands in the air as Lambert straightened. “How does he know so many other witchers?”

Lambert coughed. “Um. Actually.”

“He said he was here for Lambert,” Vesemir said, leveling a raised eyebrow on the youngest witcher (who was probably still at least twice Roche’s age).

“Yeah,” Lambert agreed, explaining nothing. “Food’s through there.” He pointed at the kitchen and Aiden glanced at the rest of them, amusement on his face, before shrugging and going to grab a bowl.

“Since when do you have a friend?” Yennefer asked, not at all quietly.

“Rude!” Lambert huffed. “I have plenty of friends!”

“Yeah?” Eskel challenged. “Like who?”

“Like Aiden,” Lambert frowned at him, crossing his arms. “And Mathies of Novigrad and Alicia Typ and Tiphany Holga and–”

“Aren’t those all bartenders?” Dandelion asked. “I’m pretty sure Mathies of Novigrad works at the Golden Sturgeon.”

“And Alicia Typ is at the Seven Cats Inn,” Zoltan nodded.

“Oh fuck you,” Lambert scowled.

“Supplying alcohol is precisely what makes them friends,” Aiden said, reappearing in the dining hall and sliding into a seat next to Lambert.

“What about Tiphany Holga?” Vesemir asked, the look on his face like he was deciding how disappointed he should be in Lambert.

Roche could answer that one. “Might not be the same one,” he prefaced, though the name was fairly unusual, “but the only one I know is a whore in Murivel.”

There were some raised eyebrows around the table and he shrugged.

“Whores make the best spies.” That and his mother, Madame of the Clarabelle brothel in Vizima, liked to make Roche hand out pamphlets on worker’s rights when he traveled to other places.

“That is true,” Iorveth said. 

“Huh,” Zoltan said. “Noted.”

“See, I told you my patronage of the various pleasure houses across the continent is for a good cause!” Dandelion laughed. 

“Yes,” Triss said, a slightly patronizing smile on her face, “I’m sure the whores learn a great deal of intel from you.”

“Actually…” Roche had to say. 

“Yeah, see!” Dandelion pointed at him. “I totally supplied good intel for Roche in Flotsam!”

“You wrote your reports in iambic pentameter,” Roche said. “But the information was good.”

Iorveth tilted his head. “Dandelion spied for you?”

“Yeah, on Loredo, the shitstain who ruled Flotsam. He’s dead now.”

“Good riddance,” Dandelion and Zoltan both said. 

“Wait,” Triss said, “is that why Dandelion almost got hanged in Flotsam?”

“Absolutely,” Dandelion said far too quickly.

“Loredo said it was because you burned down a watchtower,” Roche said, lips twitching. 

“Seriously!?” Triss – and several others – groaned.

“It wasn’t my fault!” Dandelion insisted. “Honest!”

“So how did you burn down a watchtower?”

“Really, it was their fault for leaving a candle unattended!” 

“What, did you trip over it?” Iorveth asked sardonically.

Dandelion flushed. “No!”

“...seriously!?” half the room asked.

“It wasn’t my fault!” Dandelion said again.

“Wow,” Aiden laughed. “You’re Dandelion the Bard, right? I’d heard stories, but…”

“How does Geralt put up with you?” Lambert asked bluntly.

“To be fair,” Keira interjected, “does he?”

“Geralt always shows up just in the nick of time!” Dandelion enthused.

“In the nick of time to save this idiot’s ass,” Zoltan said.

“Yeah, sounds about right,” Yennefer snorted.

“Hey!” Dandelion pouted and the rest of them laughed.

“How do all of you know Geralt, anyway?” Eskel asked. “I mean, I know he’s got a thing for sorceresses, but what about the rest of you?”

Yennefer, Keira, and Triss all puffed up in offense. 

“Geralt’s an old friend of Clan an Craite,” Hjalmar, the Skelliger Queen’s brother, said, startling those who hadn’t noticed his arrival. His friend, Folan, waved tiredly to them. “And Ciri’s practically clan herself! We had to come!”

“Yes,” the Skelliger druid – what was his name? – agreed, coming into the dining hall with a final batch of pastries. Roche took several. “Cirilla was my ward as a child, but I have also known Geralt for a very long time. Since before he became a witcher.”

Everyone paused, staring at him. “Really?” someone asked, barely any breath to it.

The druid dipped his head. “We met when we were both very young. He stayed with the Druid Circle in Ard Skellig for a time. We became good friends. After he left, I did not see him again until after the Trials. After he had been changed.”

“Oh.”

An awkward silence fell for a moment and Ves broke it by loudly explaining, “we met Geralt when he saved King Foltest from an assassin.” She glared at the Kingslayer, who had no doubt been in league with the other witcher assassin.

“Oh, is that where the ‘Geralt killed a king’ story came from?” Eskel asked.

“No,” Roche scowled, “that happened when someone murdered the King and left Geralt to take the blame.”

“Hardly my fault he was the only witness,” the Kingslayer shrugged. “Was a surprise to see him again, though.”

“...you knew him before that?”

“We fought the Wild Hunt together.”

“You did?” Iorveth asked, clearly surprised. “You’ve fought the Wild Hunt before?”

“Yup,” the Kingslayer said casually. “The School of the Viper was founded to defeat the Hunt. It was lucky Geralt ran into us during his hunt.”

“...Geralt was hunting the Wild Hunt?” Vesemir asked.

“This was before his amnesia,” the Kingslayer said. “He was chasing the hunt to rescue Yennefer of Vengerberg, who had been taken.”

Yennefer grimaced.

“Does that have to do with how we saw you and Geralt die in Rivia?” Dandelion asked, voice unusually sombre. 

“Say what!?” Roche wasn’t alone in yelping.

“It was terrible,” Triss said quietly. “There was a pogrom. Yennefer and Geralt both – we were just in time to see it…”

“About six months later,” Eskel murmured, “we found him outside Kaer Morhen, with no memory of who he was or where he’d come from. Or that he’d died.”

“So… what happened?”

“Ciri,” Yennefer said. “I don’t know how she healed us, but she brought us to a kind of… pocket universe, almost? It was strange. Good, but strange. Until the Wild Hunt appeared.”

“They took her,” the Kingslayer filled in, “and Geralt followed. He found me, saved me from a slyzard attack. In return, I shared what I knew about the Hunt and joined him in his quest.”

“And then?” Keira asked.

“We found them,” the Kingslayer shrugged. “We fought them. They weren’t wraiths, as we’d always thought, but mortal beings who bled under our blades.”

“Oh, well that’s something at least,” Iorveth hummed, and Roche had to admit – he felt a little bit better about signing up to fight the Wild Hunt knowing that they could actually be killed.

“So what happened?” he asked.

“There were too many. Then Geralt made a deal with the leader of the Hunt – his soul in exchange for Yennefer’s.”

Triss inhaled sharply and Yennefer’s expression was almost pained.

“Indeed,” Avallac’h, the standoffish elf who had arrived at some point without any of them noticing, said. Roche was not the only person to jump. “Gwynbleidd rode with the Hunt for a time, though he does not remember it, nor is he likely to.”

“He said he’d recovered his memories!” Dandelion said.

“His memories, yes. But not memories of the Hunt.”

“So… how did he escape?”

“Zireael,” Avallac’h said simply, as though that meant anything to any of them.

“...Swallow?” Iorveth translated uncertainly.

“It’s what he calls Ciri,” Eskel explained.

“And who is Ciri, exactly?” Ves asked. “I mean, Geralt’s daughter, yes, but…?”

“Ciri is… special,” Yennefer said. “There is a power in her blood that is matchless amongst all others.”

“She is the Lady of Space and Time,” Avallac’h said.

“...and that means–?”

“The Elder Blood gives her the power to traverse the spheres,” Avallac’h said. 

“Like… she can travel through time!?”

“Theoretically, yes. She has certainly traveled to worlds at different points in their existence. Whether she has visited her own world’s past, I do not know.”

“Are you fucking for real?” Lambert sputtered.

“Zireael’s power is unlike anything you have ever seen before. It spans beyond your ability to comprehend. It is–”

“–exactly why the Wild Hunt is after her,” Yennefer interrupted. 

“Indeed,” Avallac’h agreed. “The damage they could do with her power at their disposal is far greater than you can imagine. Eredin intends to subjugate all living beings under his power.”

“Eredin. That’s someone in the Wild Hunt?”

“The leader, and King of the Aen Elle. Though he arrived at power through treachery and deceit. We cannot let him take Zireael.”

“Okay,” Roche agreed solemnly. They’d already been planning to protect her, because she was Geralt’s daughter – but if she was more than that, then that just gave them extra motivation.

“So the Wild Hunt are… elves?” Hjalmar asked.

“Aen Elle elves,” Avallac’h nodded primly. “Their purpose is to find and capture slaves to serve the Alder Folk. Now, though, they are interested only in Zireael. She would change everything for them.”

“How so?”

“The Wild Hunt travels to various worlds, and abducts its inhabitants. They do so through the power of their Navigator, Caranthir. He is able to create stable portals that a vanguard like the Wild Hunt can move through.”

“And Ciri changes that… how?”

“Zireael’s power more than outshines Caranthir’s. With her, they could portal entire armies at once, enough to conquer a world.”

“Wow,” Lambert said. “So what you’re saying is, Ciri is mad powerful.”

“That is correct.”

“Wild.”

“How did Geralt end up with a daughter like that?” Iorveth asked. 

“She’s his Child of Surprise,” Yennefer said with a small smile.

“Her mother had powers, too,” the druid said, “though not to such an extent, I do not believe.”

Roche blinked. “You knew her mother?”

“Indeed. I served her grandmother for a great many years.” Something sad crossed his face.

“...who’s her grandmother?” Ves dared to ask.

“Queen Calanthe of Cintra,” Hjalmar was the one to say. “Married to Eist Tuirseach, Jarl of Skellige. That’s how I know Ciri. When we were little, she used to spend the summers in Skellige.”

“Wait,” Roche said slowly, “Geralt’s daughter is Cintra’s Princess!?”

“Yeah.”

“Wow.”

“You think you know a guy,” Iorveth muttered under his breath and Roche had to bite back a snort.

“How do you know Ciri, then?” Vesemir asked Avallac’h.

“I have tried to teach Zireael how to harness her power,” he didn’t answer.

“...right,” Vesemir said eventually, the look on his face dubious. He wasn’t the only one.

“So how’d you get involved in this?” Eskel asked Iorveth. “Aside from apparently knowing and despising several other of Geralt’s friends.”

“Letho killed Foltest,” Iorveth said, glaring daggers at the witcher again, “and then went to ground with the Scoia’tael as we prepared to attack Henselt. Before Letho betrayed us and slew many Scoia’tael,” he growled, “Geralt accompanied Vernon to confront us.”

“And me,” Triss interjected, frowning at Iorveth. “I was there too. And stopped you from killing Geralt and all of us!”

Iorveth just shrugged. “Geralt eventually came to assist the Scoia’tael in our task, and fought at our side in Vergen.”

“‘Course,” Roche couldn’t help but say, “he also fought at our side, so really, that witcher neutrality is kinda bullshit.”

Eskel snorted.

“Some bullshit,” Lambert laughed. “You’re all here, aren’t you?” Roche did have to concede that. He was here – even though Geralt had also worked with Iorveth and the Kingslayer… he was here, because Geralt had asked him and defending Geralt’s daughter was worth it.

--

Later, in the famed Kaer Morhen hot springs from Iorveth's POV

Admittedly, Iorveth had been hoping to find Vernon in the hot springs at some point during this journey – but he hadn’t been expecting for that time to involve Vernon overheating and very clearly ignoring his health. 

Iorveth hadn’t thought about it before fussing over Vernon – but the way Vernon slapped his hands aside quickly reminded him of their proper dynamic. He was Vernon’s enemy. He wasn’t supposed to worry about the dh’oine.

Not even when it was clear that Vernon had lost a lot of weight from the last time Iorveth had seen him. 

Iorveth knew food was hard to come by while hiding out in the forest as an outlaw rebel – but he hadn’t really previously put together that that was what Vernon was doing. Their roles had solidly flipped – and now Vernon was the one starving in a fight against the odds while Iorveth was associating with human royalty.

It was weird.

Still, Vernon retreated quickly, making it clear he did not want Iorveth’s concern, and Iorveth drew back, trying to pretend that didn’t hurt.

Of course Vernon didn’t want his concern. Why would he? To him, Iorveth was just another enemy. One who he was sharing a room with, yes – but even that, Vernon seemed to attribute to Iorveth being weird more than anything else.

Iorveth could live with that. He knew he didn’t have a chance, after all. But seeing Vernon once more, when he’d truly thought he might never do so again…

“Oh,” Dandelion said, and Iorveth abruptly remembered that he was not alone. “He doesn’t think you’re together,” Dandelion said slowly, “but you want to be.”

Iorveth cringed, unable to protest, but also fully aware that his affection was hardly a good thing. 

“Hmm,” Dandelion hummed. “Well, at least now he knows it’s an option. But we can do better than that!”

Iorveth blinked. “What?”

“Well, obviously you need help wooing your man,” Dandelion flapped his hand, then brought it to his chest with a flourish, “and I am a connoisseur of wooing! So surely I can help!”

“I – what?”

“Well, he didn’t even realize that he was being wooed!”

Iorveth’s mouth opened to protest – and then he closed it, recognizing a losing battle. Instead, he sighed and asked, “why would you help me?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Dandelion shrugged. “This romance has the makings of a marvelous ballad! But it must have a happy ending!”

“…is there any way I can convince you not to sing about my love life?” Iorveth asked, already despairing. 

“Nope!” Dandelion popped the ‘p’ enthusiastically. “So, let’s talk plans! What have you tried so far? Obviously you’re sharing a room – and you gave him food, which he reciprocated!”

Iorveth flushed, remembering that moment. He was positive it meant less to Vernon than it had to him – but having gone without enough food for so long, sharing it was a big deal. And for Vernon to fetch more food and offer him a roll back…

Well. To Vernon, it didn’t mean much. But to Iorveth, it kind of meant everything. And from the way Zoltan had looked at him and Dandelion’s words now, it was clear that had not gone unnoticed. 

Which was embarrassing as all hell, and Iorveth flushed darkly, sinking down to hide in the hot water. “I’m not – I’m not wooing him,” he felt the need to point out.

“You should be,” Dandelion replied easily. “We all might die soon. May as well shoot your shot, right?”

Iorveth frowned at him, but he was already enthusiastically coming up with ideas on how Iorveth could better show Vernon that he loved him. 

Sighing, Iorveth resigned himself to the loss of his dignity. 

Which was good, because Zoltan Chivay entering the hot springs definitely meant that his dignity would be dying a painful death. His relationship with Zoltan was… complicated, and there was a great deal of bitterness on his part due to the way they’d ended things last they’d spoken… but Zoltan also knew him better than most people alive could claim to, which meant he could see right through Iorveth’s attempts at maintaining poise. 

“What trouble are you getting into now?” Zoltan asked Dandelion with amusement on his face, only glancing at Iorveth in greeting. 

Iorveth internally groaned.

“Zoltan!” Dandelion grinned brightly. “You’ll join us, won’t you? We gotta help Iorveth win his man!”

The amusement on Zoltan’s face increased and Iorveth could feel his ears flushing. “You really don’t,” he tried to protest, but Dandelion ignored him.

“Vernon Roche, huh?” Zoltan asked. “Really!?”

“Shut up,” Iorveth grumbled, blushing brightly enough that now he was the one on the verge of overheating. 

“Well, there’s no accounting for taste,” Zoltan shrugged, unconcerned. “But he has no earthly idea that you’re interested.”

“He’s not supposed to,” Iorveth had to say. 

“Well, that’s dumb,” Dandelion said. “How can he respond if he doesn’t know?”

Iorveth opened his mouth to answer, but wasn’t sure how to point out that Vernon very likely wouldn’t respond positively to affection from his enemy. 

“What about Saskia?” Zoltan asked. “Does she know about him?”

Iorveth flushed darker, nodding jerkily. Yes, she did – and it had been embarrassing beyond belief for her to confront him over his ‘obvious crush’. Which, he contested, was not obvious at all – but she hadn’t been swayed.

“And?” Dandelion prompted.

Swallowing hard, Iorveth thought about how to answer. The actual truth was that Saskia, as a dragon, had no interest in monogamy with him. In fact, there were several other people she was interested in (including Zoltan, but for his own peace of mind, he ignored that), though she had minimal time to pursue anything at all. 

“Saskia is human,” he lied, picking his words carefully, “but she grew up in Vergen around primarily dwarves. Older dwarves, too,” he added, because while most of those in the Scoia’tael had been pretty young, Vergen was an old city and there were still some dwarves living there who had been at its founding. “Culturally, she shares more in common with dwarves than humans.” 

Not least because she’d actually spent relatively little time around an average human. Most of her exposure had been through joining the army and going through officer’s training under King Demavend of Aedirn. Which meant that occasionally, she did things that she thought was ‘normal human behavior’, but that actually gave everyone in the vicinity heart palpitations. Like that time she had walked through fire before Iorveth had known she was a dragon and was thereby largely impervious to fire (and, in fact, drew strength from it).

“Dwarves are great,” Dandelion agreed cheerily, “but what’s your point?”

“Dwarves are polyamorous,” Iorveth said bluntly. 

“Ooooooh,” Dandelion nodded while Zoltan hummed in agreement. “So there’s no expectation of exclusivity?”

Iorveth shook his head, flushing. It wasn’t like his regard for Saskia wasn’t commonly known – but it was still embarrassing for his love to be the topic of local gossip. His love for Saskia – and his love for Vernon. 

Most people were probably surprised he was even capable of such an emotion. He still kind of was, honestly. 

It was one thing for Saskia, who inspired him and brought out the best in him. But Vernon Roche? The man who had once been in charge of eliminating the Scoia’tael?

And yet, the same magnetic draw that Saskia held, Vernon had. He couldn’t ignore either one of them for a second. 

And not just because it might lead to missing the knife when it came to stab him in the back. With Saskia, he was confident there was no hidden knife at all. With Vernon… well, he wasn’t sure, but he kind of hoped that there wasn’t one. 

Vernon had willingly slept in his presence. Multiple times, even. And just as Iorveth hadn’t attacked Vernon while he’d been vulnerable – Vernon had not attacked him. That meant something… didn’t it?

“So what’s Saskia think of Roche?” Zoltan asked, lips twitching in what was definitely amusement at Iorveth’s plight.

Iorveth scowled at him. Truthfully, Saskia’s thoughts could be summed up as ‘if you think there’s something worth loving about him, Iorveth, then I’m sure there is’, but Iorveth was absolutely not admitting that. 

“Why do you even care?” he demanded.

Zoltan shrugged. “You and Roche aren’t that different,” was all he said. 

Iorveth’s eye narrowed into a glare. 

“Mortal enemies who succumb to their feelings of true love~” Dandelion’s voice was singsong. “Oh, it’s so romantic! Definitely has the makings of a hit!”

Iorveth was horrified. And mortified. “Please no.”

“Yeah,” Zoltan sighed, patting him on the shoulder with a large hand. It was the most they had touched since their last fight 200 years ago. “That ship has sailed. There’s no reining him in now.”

“Oh gods,” Iorveth muttered, sinking deeper into the water to hide his red ears.

Zoltan laughed and Iorveth would be lying if he said the sound didn’t make something in his chest hitch – but it also, 100%, made him hate Zoltan even more. Asshole.

“It’ll be beautiful!” Dandelion insisted. “I already have the beginning melody. And a strong chorus shouldn’t be hard. Hmm, something about the journey from hate to love.”

Iorveth’s groan was despairing. There was no way this would end well. But what the fuck – they were probably going to die in a few days anyway when the Wild Hunt came. And… it was kind of nice that they were helping him. Annoying and embarrassing and obnoxious, definitely – but also nice.

--

Dandelion had the perfect plan for how to woo Roche. It was a subtle plan, one that could be built upon – but it was perfect!

What was it? Well, everyone knew there was nothing more romantic than the dulcet tones of his voice in a sweet love ballad. As such, any time Iorveth and Roche were in the vicinity together, Dandelion broke out his best love songs.

“Seriously?” Lambert burst out after a full day of this. “We’re about to fight for our lives against some weird fucking elves and you’re singing about true love? Really!?”

“Lambert doesn’t believe in true love,” Aiden added in an undertone, earning himself an elbow in the gut. He didn’t seem to notice. 

“What?” Dandelion shrugged, tuning his lute. It was just the slightest bit off. “Do you want something more upbeat? I can do that.”

“That is so not the issue,” Keira muttered, but her lips were twitching with amusement. 

“No, no, it is an understandable criticism,” Dandelion said generously. He thought about his options, humming a few lines before hitting on the right one. “All right, let’s go energetic!” He strummed his lute hard, opening with a long vocalization.

“Ugh,” Lambert groaned, and Dandelion was above pettiness, but he made a note to get back at Lambert for that at some point. Maybe a White Wolf ballad with a cameo?

“So,” Triss said loudly before any of the witchers could get violent, “why are you singing love songs?”

“Why, my dear Mage Merigold,” Dandelion said grandly, “because love is in the air tonight!” He paused thoughtfully. That had the makings of a good lyric.

“Where?” Lambert grumbled.

In the corner, trying to avoid drawing attention to himself, Iorveth was blushing darkly – and also keeping his own attention focused on Roche, who was bobbing his head absently as he cleaned several knives, Ves sitting next to him. 

“Everywhere,” Dandelion answered Lambert with a bright grin. “For in the face of almost certain death, there can be no force more powerful than love!”

Eskel snorted. “That sounded almost profound.”

“Because it was!” Dandelion pouted. 

Zoltan snickered. “What’s everyone’s favorite love song, then?” he asked.

Lambert’s scoff was disbelieving, but Keira appeared amused and answered. “I always liked The Power of Love,” she said, and Dandelion was delighted to take the prompt and dive into the song.

Keira laughed, singing along with the upbeat melody. Lambert’s emphatic groan just made Dandelion grow louder. 

“What about songs from different areas?” Roche asked when they finished. “Know any good Temerian songs?”

“Of course!”

“I was always a fan of La Vie en Rose,” Ves said, meeting Dandelion’s eye with a smirk like she knew exactly how much he hated playing horn. The song could be played on lute… but it had been made famous on trumpet. The people expected a trumpet. 

“That really needs a piano accompaniment,” he hedged. 

“I think we have a very old piano in storage somewhere,” Vesemir mused. 

Internally panicking, Dandelion searched for a distraction. (He had a trumpet and could play the song, of course… but trumpets sucked. They always made his lips hurt.)

“You know that was originally an elven song,” Iorveth said haughtily.

“Nu uh,” Ves frowned.

“But it’s French,” Roche said, head tilted in consideration. “French was the first language of the human settlers of Temeria, I thought. Not Elder Speech.”

“True,” Iorveth nodded, and Dandelion was hit with the sudden thought that he had been there when all this had happened. Weird. “It was adapted from a song in Elder. Beatha an Ròs.”

“Huh. Are the lyrics very different?” Dandelion couldn’t help but be curious. 

He knew he’d walked into a trap the moment Iorveth met his eye. “Not sure,” Iorveth said casually, “haven’t heard the human version in a lot of years.”

Ugh. Now he was going to have to play it, wasn’t he?

The others seemed to have picked up on Dandelion’s reluctance and Triss encouraged, “why don’t you play it, Dandelion? Then Iorveth can compare.”

Her words were innocent, but the twitching at the corner of her mouth proved that she knew exactly what she was doing.

Dandelion pouted.

“Are we having a concert?” Hjalmar wandered in and asked, looking enthused. “I play some mean drums!”

“Yes! Let’s have a concert!” Dandelion jumped on the excuse. “We can showcase hits from different areas! What’s Skellige’s best love song?”

“Hmm,” Hjalmar actually stopped to consider it.

“Red is the Rose, for sure,” Folan, his friend, said instantly. He began a soft melody, voice surprisingly nice. 

Red is the rose that in yonder garden grows, Fair is the lily of the valley; Clear is the water that flows from the Boyne But my love is fairer than any.

“Eh,” Hjalmar interrupted. “I mean, it’s good, but is it the best Skelliger love song?”

Folan frowned, and Dandelion sensed an argument on the horizon. Usually he would disrupt such a thing – but if it could get him out of playing trumpet…

“Maybe Galway Girl?” Hjalmar suggested.

“Red is the Rose is way better!” Folan insisted. “It’s soft and romantic and slow enough to dance to.”

“You can’t dance to that!” Hjalmar put his hands on his hips. “The most you could do is sway awkwardly and that’s boring!”

Triss and Keira both bit back snorts at that. 

“Plus, the song is sad! It’s about two lovers being unable to be together!”

“To be fair,” Folan said calmly, unbothered by how worked up Hjalmar was, “most Skelliger love songs are actually tragedies.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Folan nodded. “There’s a lot of going off to war and being separated and stuff. At least, that’s most of what Draig Bon-Dhu sings.”

Dandelion tried not to scowl at the mention of the Skelliger bard that totally hadn’t beaten him in a competition. 

“What about Aedirnian love songs?” Zoltan asked Yennefer, who looked up from the book she’d been examining.

“What?”

“Know any good Aedirnian love songs?” Dandelion pounced on the opening Zoltan had provided. 

“Mostly boring court songs,” Yennefer said dismissively. “Or your ridiculous twaddle,” she aimed that remark at Dandelion and he sent her a shitfaced grin.

“I believe you mean my incredibly moving and talented compositions, thank you very much.”

Yennefer snorted derisively. 

“Where else do we have people from?” Triss asked, looking around. “Letho, you’re originally from Nilfgaard, aren’t you?”

“Technically,” Letho the Kingslayer drawled, “the School of the Viper is located in the Tir Tochair mountains on the border of Geso.”

“Aren’t the people of Geso known for being particularly… barbaric?” Iorveth asked sardonically.

Letho’s smile was all teeth. “That’s Gemmera, actually. Famed for the ferocity and strength of their warriors.”

“It’s all Nilfgaard,” Keira dismissed with a sniff.

“So’s half the North,” Letho said genially. 

That made everyone scowl, arguments breaking out, and all in all, while they had undoubtedly learned more about each other, very little wooing actually happened that night. 

Dandelion sighed and strummed a forlorn melody. Several people were shouting at each other, so there was little point in gracing them with his wondrous voice. 

Hmm. That gave him an idea for a ballad about the woes of having one’s voice ignored. The tragedy of it was downright heartbreaking, and the crowds of Novigrad would love it, he just knew.

Distracted from his quest to help Iorveth woo his man, Dandelion pulled out his notebook and began to compose, to the background of loud yelling about where Nilfgaard could stick it.

--

Ves' POV of soaking in the hot springs with the other women

“So, Ves,” Triss said eventually as they soaked. “What’s going in with Roche and Iorveth?”

“What do you mean?” Ves asked, playing dumb mostly because she had no idea how to answer. 

“Well, they’re supposed to be enemies, right?” Keira arched an eyebrow. “And yet, they’re sharing a room? And they bicker like an old married couple.”

Ves grunted. She couldn’t deny that, unfortunately. She sighed, shaking her head. “I don’t know what Roche is thinking,” she said, “letting that viper so close.”

“I think Letho is the viper,” Triss joked. “But it’s certainly odd. I’ve barely seen them apart from each other since they arrived!”

“Ugh,” Ves agreed. The Scoia’tael scum had certainly been sticking too close for her tastes. She didn’t know how Roche stood it. 

“Pretty sure the ridiculous bard has interpreted their enmity as love,” Yennefer said. 

“Ooooh, is that what the love songs were about?” Triss shook her head with a laugh. “Dandelion truly is ridiculous.”

“I mean, I can’t blame him,” Keira said. “They act like they’re in love or something, don’t they?”

“Don’t be absurd,” Ves dismissed. “Roche could never love an elf.”

“Well, he sure acts like it,” Yennefer replied, voice cool. Weren’t there rumors that she was part elf?

“Okay, but what about Iorveth and Zoltan? No one saw that coming, right?” Triss arched an eyebrow. “If an elf and a dwarf can have so much history…”

Ves frowned, the thought settling uncomfortably. “Technically, they never actually confirmed everyone’s assumptions,” she pointed out, but it was a weak defense. 

Keira snorted. “Never would’ve thought a killer with Iorveth’s reputation could turn so red.”

They all chortled at that, recalling the way the elf’s ears and face had flushed a dark scarlet. 

“Zoltan, of all people, too!” Triss giggled. “I mean, he hates the Scoia’tael! His type is – is Dandelion, for fuck’s sake!”

“Well, we don’t know what Iorveth was like before fighting humanity,” Yennefer pointed out. “Maybe he was like the bard.”

“No way! Iorveth!?”

Yennefer just shrugged. “He was, apparently, a famous musician. From what I’ve seen, Dandelion is rather representative of such a career and the type it draws.”

“Well,” Triss said slowly, “you’re not wrong. But… really!?”

“What I wanna know,” Keira said, “is what’s up with Lambert and Aiden?”

“Oh?”

“I mean – Lambert isn’t exactly the friendliest guy around. And this guy appears, the only one that Geralt didn’t invite? That says something.”

Ves’ lips twitched, grateful to be off the subject of Roche. “What about Aiden’s response to Lambert complaining about love songs? He ‘doesn’t believe in true love’? That says something.”

“It does!” Keira agreed emphatically. “But what is the question.”

As they began to theorize, Ves couldn’t help but think about their implications about Roche. It couldn’t be true. Surely it couldn’t be true.

How could Roche love an elf? A Scoia’tael elf, no less!

He couldn’t, was the answer. He knew what they’d done to her. He could never sympathize with them.

Nonetheless, she had to admit that Iorveth’s behavior did kind of point to being interested in Roche, even if Roche could never reciprocate. 

“Ves?” Triss called and she realized that she’d zoned out. “You okay?”

She nodded, flushing slightly �� but most of her brain was still distracted with the question before her. “Why doesn’t Roche tell Iorveth to fuck off?”

Keira laughed. “If anything, he probably wants to tell Iorveth to fuck him.”

“You take that back!” Ves snarled.

“Whoa, whoa,” Triss held up her hands placatingly. After a moment, she added, “Keira has a point, though. I mean, I don’t think Roche would actually go for Iorveth… but him and Iorveth acting like an old married couple is very much mutual.”

“You don’t think he would?” Yennefer asked. “Because Iorveth is an elf?”

“A Scoia’tael elf!” Ves spat. 

“He doesn’t seem like he minds,” Keira shrugged, and Ves scowled heavily at her. 

“The Scoia’tael are nothing but disgusting barbarians,” Ves snarled. “Roche would never sully himself with their ilk.”

“Wouldn’t he?” Yennefer asked.

“How about a bet?” Keira proposed.

“What?”

“You’re certain Roche could never go for Iorveth,” Keira said simply, “we disagree. So… how about a bet to see who’s right?”

“I’m not gonna bet on Roche’s love life!”

“But you don’t think there’s anything going on there anyway,” Triss pointed out. “So why not find out for certain?”

Ves’ lips pursed. “You do remember we’re here for an actual purpose, right?”

“Yes,” Yennefer said primly, “and when the Wild Hunt comes, we will be ready. But in the meantime, we may as well entertain ourselves.”

“...what would this bet look like exactly?” Ves hedged.

Keira shrugged. “We could help Dandelion’s ridiculous matchmaking attempts and see if it works?”

“It won’t,” Ves said firmly.

“Then there’s no harm in trying, right?”

Ves frowned, disliking the idea, but not really having a good reason to disagree. They didn’t really need her agreement anyway.

“Fine,” she spat. Then she decided that she’d soaked for long enough and rather wanted to be away from these people now. Maybe sorceresses weren’t that bad – but they had to be wrong about Roche. They had to be.

--

Later, from Triss' POV as she and Keira conspire on how to set Iorveth and Roche up. Also, there are some notes where I haven't got the words quite right. Please ignore. (and suggestions welcome)

It was really silly, but right now, what Triss missed more than anything was Foltest’s wine collection. She’d become accustomed to enjoying drinks that actually tasted good. 

Witchers, it would seem, did not care if it tasted good or not. They did not invest in high quality liquor. 

So when Keira suggested a drinking game to loosen Roche and Iorveth’s tongues, Triss didn’t exactly leap at the idea. But it would be nice to have an evening of fun, even if she would have to scrape all of her tastebuds off come morning. 

“Yeah, all right,” she agreed. 

If they were going to die soon, they deserved to cut loose for a little bit beforehand.

Vesemir declined with a heavy sigh. “I’ll start brewing a hangover cure,” he said, longsuffering.

“You could participate,” Triss offered.

He chuckled. “No, I think I shall avoid admitting to all the folly of my youth.”

“Indeed,” Ermion, the Skelliger druid, said when asked. “I believe I am too old to relive those days.”

Avallac’h said nothing, ignoring her when she’d tried to invite him. She didn’t feel the need to try too terribly hard. 

Hjalmar and Folan were positively delighted at the opportunity to get shitfaced, and they eagerly gathered everyone up to play, letting the witchers sort out what alcohol they had available. 

It was fairly late by the time they finally settled down, sitting around the fire with their drinks of choice. Not that there had been much choice, but at least shitty wine was better than Lambert’s home-brewed pepper vodka. Even if Dandelion and Zoltan were both drinking it without a change in expression.

It was still better than Lambert’s other concoction – the gauntlet, equal parts spirit and White Gull. It could get even a witcher wasted and would likely kill an ordinary human. It was for that reason that only the witchers elected that one.

Roche and Ves, predictably, were drinking Temerian rye. Keira sipped the same wine Triss was drinking and was managing a better job of not showing her disgust than she was. Hjalmar and Folan had brought some kind of Skelliger mead, and they were generously sharing with Iorveth, who passed around a pipe in return. Elves were always said to have good weed, and she could now confirm it.

It had been a long time since Triss had gotten high. Much less cross-faded. 

The stresses of preparing for a battle they were likely to lose bled off her with each hit, and she was the one to actually start the game.

“Never have I ever,” she began with deep gravitas. The others fell silent in response, waiting to see if they would need to drink. “Streaked naked through a crowd.”

Dandelion huffed, as she knew he would, but obediently took a shot. Hjalmar did too, grinning and looking prepared to regale them with the story. 

Wanting to avoid that, she nudged the person next to her – who just so happened to be Iorveth, because he was always next to Roche these days. He was sitting a little too close now, even, and Triss held back a smirk. 

“Name something you haven’t done,” she prompted the elf.

“Uh. Never have I ever…” he paused to think and Triss elbowed him again, for extra motivation. He grunted, shifting away from her, but did finally finish, “slept with a sorceress. With good reason.”

Triss scoffed, taking a large gulp of her wine. She wondered if he realized who else would drink at that. Keira, Dandelion, and Roche were the only other ones, and Roche’s face was a little red as several people turned surprised looks on him. 

Triss watched Iorveth’s face as he put the dots together and turned a scowl on her. It was actually mildly terrifying, but she refused to be cowed, smirking instead.

“Never have I ever,” Roche said loudly, and from the look on his face, she knew this one would be targeted to try to divert attention from himself. “Had a wanted poster issued for myself.”

Iorveth rolled his eyes, drinking his mead. Lambert and Aiden also drank, which successfully drew attention away from Roche. 

“Why aren’t you drinking, Kingslayer?” Ves barked.

Letho smiled genially. “I was never caught. There were no wanted posters for me.”

“What about now?” Roche asked, eyes narrowed.

“The Emperor don’t bother with writing down his enemies’ names,” Letho said, entirely casual. 

On the sidelines, Yennefer snorted. She wasn’t part of the game, instead preferring to read what she was pretending was some old archaic text but what Triss was pretty sure was actually erotic love poetry. 

It earned Yenn some glares, and she shrugged, not bothering to look up from her book. “He’s right. Wanted posters indicate that you can’t keep order on your own. Nilfgaard does not use them often. They simply pay the right people and make the problem disappear.”

“Charming,” Lambert said. “Next.”

Ves pursed her lips, glaring at Letho. “Never have I ever been paid to kill a monster.”

The witchers all drank, and then it was Dandelion’s turn. He nudged Zoltan. “Never have I ever lost all my money in a gwent game and had to auction off my trousers.”

Zoltan laughed, taking a long swig. Lambert also took a drink, which earned him a few looks.

“I remember that,” Aiden chuckled. 

Zoltan wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and shot a grin at Dandelion, words clearly designed to target the bard. “Never have I ever [something absurd Dandy has done].”

Dandelion drank – but so did Lambert, and several people arched their eyebrows.

“I was very drunk,” Lambert shrugged. 

“When was that?” Aiden asked.

“Remember? That time outside Mirt.”

“Oooh,” Aiden laughed after a moment, “yeah, you were shitfaced.”

“Exactly how often do you two work together?” Eskel asked, frowning at them.

Lambert shrugged, not answering. “You’re up, Skelliger,” he said to Hjalmar.

“Never have I ever slept with anyone not human,” Hjalmar said. The nonhumans in the room, predictably, drank. So did all the witchers, which brought up the question…

“...do witchers count as human?” Triss reluctantly asked. 

“I say no,” Aiden shrugged.

Triss took a sip of her wine. Dandelion, Keira, Roche, and Ves also had to drink, though the look on Ves’ face indicated she wasn’t happy about it. It was probably best not to ask. 

“That was a good one,” Folan said cheerily. “Got almost everyone!”

“So what’s yours?” Hjalmar’s grin showed off a gap in his teeth. 

“Hmm. Never challenged my sister to a race in front of everyone – and then lost.”

They all laughed as Hjalmar drank with a grumble.

“You’re up, Letho,” Eskel prompted.

“Hmm…” Letho’s smile was sweet and Triss didn’t trust it for a second. “They say you’re a whoreson, don’t they?” he said conversationally. Roche’s spine snapped straight. “Never have I ever had sex for money.”

Roche’s fingers curled into a fist, but he took a drink, and Triss noticed that Iorveth actually looked surprised. 

“What if it wasn’t for money, per say?” Dandelion asked loudly, and Triss was pretty sure he was intentionally drawing attention away from Roche’s clear discomfort.

“I did once sleep with a woman to steal her necklace,” Aiden said contemplatively.

“Ooh, was that the sapphire one?” Lambert’s laugh was more of a cackle than was probably appropriate. “That one sold for a lot.”

“Mmhm,” Aiden hummed, grin turning wicked. “Never have I ever jumped off a roof for a bet.”

Lambert rolled his eyes and drank. Dandelion also drank, and was entirely shameless about it. 

“All right,” Lambert cracked his knuckles, waggling his eyebrows at Eskel as he said, “never have I ever slept with a succubus.”

Eskel flushed lightly, grumbling as he downed his drink. Dandelion and Zoltan also drinking wasn’t really a shock, honestly – Geralt almost certainly would have, too, were he here – but Letho was a surprise.

He just smiled, saying nothing in the face of their curiosity. 

Eskel glared narrowly at Lambert. “Never have I ever [something ridiculous Lambert did in a fit of anger or something].”

Lambert scowled, taking a drink. 

“My turn,” Keira said, looking each of them over contemplatively. Triss hoped she was thinking of how to target Iorveth and Roche, because that was supposed to be the whole point of this.

Plus, it was fun.

“Never have I ever written a poem or song,” Keira said. Dandelion drank, of course, but Iorveth did too, and the look Roche cast his way was curious.

And then Lambert surprised all of them by taking another shot.

“...really?” Eskel asked, dumbfounded.

“I was super drunk,” Lambert defended. “It wasn’t very coherent.”

Aiden didn’t say anything, but the way he bit his lip against a smile made Triss wonder.

It was her turn again and she thought about what to say. The whole point of this was to help push Iorveth and Roche together, so…

“Never have I ever,” she hiccuped, “had sex in a tree.”

“Really?” Iorveth scoffed. He drank – and so did Zoltan.

“Seriously!?” Dandelion’s voice was a little too high pitched. 

Neither of them met anyone’s gaze. 

Iorveth cleared his throat. “Never have I ever had a business venture fail in less than a day.”

Zoltan scowled, drinking. 

Roche looked between them, something odd in his expression. But when he spoke, it was clear who he was targeting. “Never have I ever,” he said, voice a tad mischievous, “worn a fancy ball gown and spilled wine all over it.”

Triss’ frown may have more resembled a pout as she drank. What was interesting was that Lambert also drank – and at this rate, the witcher was going to end up the first one wasted. Him or Dandelion, who drank as well.

“Really?”

“It was a lovely dress!” Dandelion said. “Shame the wine couldn’t wash out.”

Zoltan laughed. “You looked stunning, as I recall. Until you tripped and fell out the window after spilling the wine all down your front, anyway.”

“Lies,” Dandelion said easily. “I still looked smashing even then!”

Now they all laughed, turning to Ves for her turn. 

“Never have I ever,” Ves began, glaring at Iorveth, “been chased out of town under threat of death.”

Iorveth’s look was cool as he drank, accompanied by all the witchers – oof, Triss maybe should have guessed that – and Dandelion and Zoltan, who, honestly, she had expected. 

“What about you, Dandelion?” she asked, trying to move them on.

“Hmm.” Dandelion shot what he probably thought was a sly look at Iorveth and Roche. “Never have I ever shared a room with my sworn enemy.”

Iorveth and Roche both rolled their eyes, drinking. Surprisingly, Keira also took a sip and Triss looked to her friend in surprise.

“At Aretuza, remember?” Keira said. “Way back.”

“Ooooh, yeah. Whatever happened to that girl?”

“Nothing interesting, I’m sure,” Keira said tartly.

“All right,” Zoltan hummed, considering his words. Then he smirked slightly and said, “never have I ever kissed a royal.”

From the way he was smirking at Iorveth and how Iorveth rolled his eye in response, Triss figured that was targeted at the elf – but it had some other casualties. Slinging back her own drink, she caught the look on Ves’ face as she glared down at her shot glass – and saw the way her fingers shook as she reached for it.

Roche stole it out from under her, downing her shot and his own. The set of his jaw very clearly dared anyone to make anything of it. 

There was surprise on several faces, including Iorveth and Zoltan’s. Dandelion, who had also taken a shot, swayed into Zoltan’s shoulder, barely held up.

Folan coughed loudly. “Does kissing Hjalmar’s sister as a kid count? She is Queen now.”

“It counts!” Hjalmar said immediately, and something loosened in Triss’ shoulders as their collective attention turned the Skelligers.

“My turn!” Hjalmar's voice was gleefully. “Never have I ever… had an orgy with more than five people.”

There were some laughs in response as Dandelion, Zoltan, Roche, Ves, Keira, and Triss all drank.

“You lucky bastards,” Lambert muttered. 

“Hmm,” Folan chewed on his lip for a moment. “Never have I ever fallen in love with someone I shouldn’t,” he said, and Triss wondered if he’d caught on to their attempts at getting Iorveth and Roche to loosen up.

Iorveth glared at everyone as he drank, much to Roche’s clear surprise. Dandelion let out a exaggeratedly lovestruck sigh, as if fondly remembering the one that was prompting him to drink.

“What kind of question is that?” Hjalmar scoffed. “Bro, you’re totally in love with my sister!”

Folan flushed red. “There’s nothing wrong with that! We grew up together!”

Triss giggled.

“Your turn, Viper,” Keira prompted.

Letho’s smile was slow and cold. “Never have I ever,” he drawled, “gotten my second killed.”

This time, Iorveth’s scowl was murderous and Triss winced, remembering the beaten form of the elf who had pleaded with her and Geralt to warn Iorveth of the way Letho had doublecrossed him. Ciaran hadn’t lasted long enough to see the Scoia’tael reclaim the prison barge he’d been on.

“Hey,” she snapped, “let’s keep it friendly, guys, come on.”

Letho just shrugged.

Aiden cleared his throat a little too loudly and obligingly moved the game along, targeting Lambert as he said something about drunkenly falling out of a tree. Lambert retaliated, but next was Eskel, who seemed delighted to poke fun at Lambert. 

At this rate, Lambert was likely to be the first to drop out, and he clearly knew it from the way he half-pouted, grumbling under his breath.

Keira and Triss both designed their questions to highlight the way Iorveth and Roche were sitting with their shoulders pressed together, helping keep the other upright. They were all more than slightly soused at this point, though the Skelligers had drank less than the rest of them.

“Man, our lives are clearly not interesting enough!” Hjalmar lamented before adding, “never have I ever lived more than 30 years.”

“Oh come on,” everyone except Ves and Folan grumbled, taking their shots. 

“All right,” Zoltan said, “Dandelion’s done.”

“What?” Dandelion protested. “I’m fiiiiiiiine,” he slurred. “I could do thish all niiiiiight.” He tried to stand and promptly collapsed onto the floor in a sprawl. “Or not.”

“Should we help him up?” Keira asked uncertainly.

“Nah,” Zoltan said.

“I like the floor,” Dandelion giggled. He then began to drunkenly hum various melodies, actually providing kind of a nice backdrop for the game.

Lambert was the next one to drop out, slumping heavily onto Aiden. Aiden laughed and bowed out, dragging the no doubt heavy carcass of the drunken Wolf upstairs.

Keira’s eyes followed them curiously, but Triss was distracted by Roche getting her with ‘never been seasick’. Vision going double, she decided maybe it was time for her to concede as well. 

Iorveth and Roche dropped out after the same statement – never been knocked out, of all things. They stayed in place, holding each other up and giggling stupidly at the rest of them. 

The look on Ves’ face clearly showed her displeasure with this, but she didn’t seem to know what to do. She’d drunk a fair amount, but still seemed surprisingly stable, words not slurring at all when it was her turn. 

It only took a few more questions to knock out Keira and Eskel both, leaving the Skelligers, Ves, Zoltan, and Letho as the last ones standing.

--

And that's all!

You know, I was gonna talk about the plan for where the fic is going, but this is already super long oops. It's gonna be fun, though. I'm approaching the end of the 1st arc, then we have the Battle of Kaer Morhen and its aftermath, which includes Roche receiving a message from Dijkstra about the opportunity for a 'Free' Temeria. Since several of those present have kingslaying experience, this leads to Vernon Roche, Ves, Iorveth, Letho, Zoltan, and Dandelion all going on a road trip to Novigrad together 😂😂😂 I'm looking forward to it. There's going to be much drama and some angst and some eventual reconciliation and making out lol

#wip wednesday #rorveth #iorveth x roche #the witcher

[kell-be-belle]

You Don’t Have to Sing it Nice (But Honey Sing it Strong)

Geraskier, Modern AU, Rated T, 25,000K 

Tags/Warnings: Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Anxiety Disorder, Panic Attacks 

Summary:  

Jaskier didn't know why he was here. His manager could have sent him to a tropical island with white sand beaches or a mountain chalet overlooking a quaint vineyard and yet he had been sent to the middle of nowhere. After a recently developed panic disorder has left him unable to perform, famed music sensation Jaskier is sent to the therapeutic farmstead of Kaer Morhen where their animal therapy program has become nationally renowned for its success. Jaskier doesn't care much for the dirt or the smell or the animals, but the soft yet disgruntled program manager, Geralt, might just make the damage to his wardrobe worth it. A fic in which Geralt is, for once, the emotionally competent one and Jaskier is in desperate need of some self-love.  

AN: My entry for the @jaskierminibang though it didn’t end up being as mini as I originally planned, haha! I collaberated with the wonderful and talented @the-painted-prince and their art is so tender and lovely I swear it could make my heart burst! And, as ever and always, a shoutout to my dear friend and beta-reader who wishes only to be refered to as Waldo Larx who is not Valdo Marx in a fake mustache who is not Priscilla in a fake mustache. Much love, I hope you all enjoy the fic!

[Artwork Here] [Read on Ao3] 

****

Blind. Jaskier was blind. The light shone with intensity enough to burn away all semblance of color and shape from his vision. The world washed away in the deluge of white flame as if it had never existed in the first place. And the ringing. Oh, the ringing. It pierced through his skull like the sharpened point of an awl, split through the bone and brain matter like too soft wood. He could not remember what it was like to live without its incessant shriek like a banshee dogging his every step. Claws in his chest. Electricity in his blood. Every fiber of Jaskier’s being screamed in protest of the wrongness of each sensation and yet he was powerless to do anything to relieve it. And just when he thought he would be crushed by the onslaught of sensations, Jaskier woke with a start.

It took a moment for Jaskier to orient himself. The smell of leather, filtered sunlight, the subtle rock and sway of tires over the roadway. Car. He was in the car. Jaskier couldn’t remember falling asleep, only the cool press of the glass on his forehead as he looked out the window. He must have been out for some time. Where before there had been signs of civilization, now there was almost nothing. Quaint little neighborhoods with family run shops had given way to a sprawling emptiness. Nothing, but wide, flat fields spread from either side of the solitary road with boundless expanse of the sky blue and bright above them. 

“Gods, what fresh kind of hell…” Jaskier couldn’t recall ever being in a place so devoid of anything. How anyone could bear to live in this environment was beyond him. To do so voluntarily was even more so. It was intimidating, the thought of nowhere and nothing stretching on and on and on. The interior of the car felt suddenly excruciatingly small. Jaskier could feel his lungs grow tight, feel his heart flutter helplessly in his chest. He forced himself to regulate his breathing, following the pattern he had learned. In, one, two, three. Out, one, two, three. Within a few moments, he felt his muscles loosen and his heart steady. That hadn’t been so bad. He had been able to pull himself out of it. Perhaps all this pomp was unnecessary, afterall, and he was on his way to this wilderness for nothing. Jaskier thought briefly about telling the driver to turn around, to take him back to the familiar crowded and grime ridden streets of Oxenfurt where things made more sense and a decent latte wasn’t an rarity. But then he thought better of it and sunk into the seat as he pulled his phone from his pocket.     

Entering the passcode on his phone, Jaskier sighed as he began to swipe through the unconscionable amount of apps that cluttered his screen. Games, social media, and the like. He always promised himself that one day he would go through them all, but that day, of course, never seemed to come. He checked the weather, completed a couple crossword puzzles, and sent a Snapchat back to his older sister. He was pleased her vacation in Toussaint was going well, but that didn’t stop the pang of jealousy that wedged itself between his ribs. He wished desperately to be the one on a sun-drenched veranda overlooking Beauclair, a glass of est-est in hand. Oh well, there was nothing to be done now. He would just have to make the best of… well, whatever this place was.

Jaskier’s thumb hovered over the blank space of the search bar, the cursor blinking in and out of existence. He chewed his lower lip thoughtfully, considering the wisdom of typing in his own name. He knew what would come up. Anticipated it in the way one anticipated the results of a concerning blood test. But there was a sick sort of curiosity that boiled thick and tar-like in the pit of his stomach and, against his better judgment, Jaskier acted on it. 

34-Year-Old International Pop Sensation, Jaskier, Suffers Fit at Music Festival

Valdo Marx Slams Long Time Rival Jaskier After On-Stage Breakdown 

The End for Jaskier? Pop’s Golden Boy Stepping Back from the Stage. 

Shocked and Heartbroken: Thousands of Jaskier Fans Left Confused as Pop Star Cancels Upcoming Tour. 

Jaskier flung the phone across the seat. He turned and pressed his head once more against the cool window, doing his utmost to fight back the tears that burned at the corners of his eyes. He felt foolish, like a child who had been told explicitly not to do something dangerous and was now suffering the consequences of a wounded pride. A phantom voice in the back of his mind chastised him with the quintessential ‘I told you so.' Jaskier closed his eyes, the remnants of his dream floating to the surface like oil in water. No, it wasn’t just a dream. It was a memory, too. Fragmented and skewed, but mostly as he remembered. Bright lights. Deafening sound. His senses bombarded from every angle to the point where even a single additional stimulant would send him careening off a cliff into complete and utter madness. 

Jaskier focused on his breathing. In, one, two, three. Out, one, two, three. 

The car lurched, startling Jaskier from his trance. The world outside the window was no longer moving, he noticed. The driver had pulled the car along the shoulder, idling beside the turn-off to a stretch of road running perpendicular to the one they were on currently. 

“Alright, Mr. Pankratz.” Jaskier struggled to not pull a face at the driver’s use of his actual name. “The retreat is just down that road there. The owner should be around shortly to collect you.” 

“Wait, are you not-” But the driver was already climbing out of the car, ambling around the car to divest the trunk of Jaskier’s luggage. He already had the first suitcase out and was struggling with the second by the time Jaskier emerged feeling apprehensive and more than slightly pissed off. “Can’t you just wait here until the owner arrives?” asked Jaskier tersely. 

With a great deal of effort, the driver hauled out the suitcase and dropped it next the first with a huff, “It’s a long drive back and I’ve another appointment to get to. Not to worry, he’ll be along any minute now. We agreed on a two o’clock meeting time.” 

Looking down at his phone, Jaskier noted it was just shy of two o’clock. “Be that as it may, I would really appreciate it if you could-” But it seemed this man was determined to do nothing beyond getting himself back into the coolness of the air-conditioned car and out of this wasteland of a landscape. 

The driver was already climbing back into his seat as he called over his shoulder, “Good luck, Mr. Pankratz. Have your manager call us when you need to be picked up again.” And with a frustrated scream stuck behind his teeth, Jaskier had no choice, but to watch the man shift back into gear and rumbling down the road and away. 

“Call us when you need to be picked up,” Jaskier parroted in a nasally, mocking tone, “Fat chance of that happening. Piss off.” Jaskier pulled out his phone, fingers flicking over the keys with shocking speed as he shot off a message to his manager. Knight Riders Limo and Taxi service would most certainly not be getting his business again. 

The sun blazed down from the cloudless sky hot and merciless. Not five minutes he had been standing out here and Jaskier was already beginning to sweat. He could feel it under the curtain of his bangs, beading at the nape of his neck. He looked down at his phone again. Two o’clock. He looked down the road. It was lined by post-and-rail fencing and Jaskier ambled over to lean against it, rubbing his sweaty hands nervously over the thighs of his jeans. What if this man didn’t show up? What if Jaskier had just been abandoned out here like an unwanted dog by its owner? A bird called somewhere from the sky overhead and Jaskier’s mind filled with visions of great, shadowy buzzards circling in preparation to feast upon his corpse when he inevitably died from exposure. Just when Jaskier’s mind started to careen off into a tangle of possible worst case scenarios, a low rumble began to crescendo into the empty air.                   

Down the fenced road, a truck of indeterminate color was growing closer. Jaskier tugged his suitcases closer to him both out of wariness and a desire to save it from the vertible dust storm following in the wake of the tires. The truck rumbled up alongside Jaskier, the cloud of dirt catching up and hazing the air around him. He coughed, trying to clear the worst of it with the frantic flapping of his hand. Jaskier cracked open one eye, getting his first glimpse of the driver. It was a man and a startlingly attractive man at that. Chiseled jawed and dimple chinned with hair pale enough to nearly be considered white pulled back in half-up style. He sat sprawled in the driver’s seat with a casual grace, one hand on the wheel and the other resting on the ledge of the open window. “Jaskier, I presume?” he said, his voice the rumble of a distant thunderstorm. 

Jaskier stood there rather dumbly, lips parted and cheeks dusted with the beginnings of a blush. “Y-yes, Jaskier. I mean me, I mean I-I’m Jaskier. Jaskier is me.” It was a wonder Jaskier didn’t bite through his own tongue with that jumble of speech. Not his most eloquent of greetings, but it had been a rather long couple months and Jaskier had not been feeling much like himself. Jaskier cleared his throat. “And you are?” 

“Geralt.” It sounded more like a noise one made when they were disgruntled rather than a name. Jaskier wondered if he had heard right, but the last thing Jaskier wanted to do was make this meeting any more awkward by asking the man to repeat himself. 

“R-right, and I’m assuming you’re from-” 

“Kaer Morhen Therapeutic Farm and Retreat.” He reached into the pocket of his flannel shirt, produced a business card and held it out to Jaskier between two fingers. His movements were so effortless and smooth, it actually made Jaskier a bit hot under the collar. Taking the card and scanning the embossed print, jaskier was relieved to find he had heard the man right.  

Grinning shyly, Jaskier said, “Well then Geralt I appreciate your transparency. Imagine if I had just climbed into a truck with some random passerby. I could’ve been in quite the mess.” 

“Of course. I wouldn’t worry too much about strange characters out this far. The coyotes are far more of a threat than any deviants.” Geralt chuckled when he said it, but Jaskier’s disturbed expression must have caused need for further clarification, for he quickly added, “You don’t have to worry much about them either. They’re way more afraid of us than we are of them.”  

Shoulders sagging with relief, Jaskier sighed, “That’s grand. Sorry, just a bit apprehensive about, y’know, all of this.” He gestured vaguely to their surroundings: the flat, barren terrain that was as familiar to Jaskier as the surface of the moon. “You know, when my manager told me I was being sent somewhere for my, uh, health, I had imagined someplace a bit more tropical. Or mountainous. Perhaps beside a vineyard or-” 

“I know it’s not the first thing that comes to people’s mind when they think of a retreat, but once people give it a chance they come to realize that farm life holds its own kind of relaxation.” Jaskier doubted that. There couldn’t possibly be anything relaxing about dirt and sweat and animals that bayed, nipped, and shit everywhere. But Geralt had such a look of sincerity on his face and Jaskier loathed to discourage him. “Let me help you with your bags.” 

“Oh, that’s kind, but-” Jaskier found his words caught as Geralt opened the door and hauled himself out of the truck’s cab. He had already found Geralt’s face rather handsome, but seeing the man in all his glory was a different beast entirely. The two of them were of a height, but Geralt had just enough of an edge on Jaskier that he looked down at him from over the line of his silvery lashes. Perhaps farm life held some appeal. It seemed to do wonders for the physique if Geralt’s were any indication. 

After loading both his possessions and person into the truck, Geralt hooked a quick turn and drove them back down the road from which he had come. Jaskier doubted a truck this old and well-worn had functioning air conditioning, but even if it did Geralt didn’t seem to feel the need to use it. All the windows were rolled down, the air blowing warm and dusty through them. Sweat rolled between Jaskier’s shoulder blades, gathered under the waist of his trousers. He sincerely hoped it wouldn’t be this way his whole stay. He certainly preferred the heat to the cold, but that didn’t mean he enjoyed being a sticky, sweaty mess either. 

Jaskier attempted to make small talk. Another thing Geralt didn’t seem entirely inclined towards, either. Perhaps he was more used to listening than talking, given his profession, but the man answered most of Jaskier’s questions with hums or murmurs. If he did choose to actually speak, it was relatively concise. Not in a rude or abrupt way, but almost like he only used exactly as many words as what was necessary. No more, no less. Jaskier was not sure if he found it off-putting just yet. It was certainly a break from what he was used to since Jaskier himself tended to use twice as many words as what was needed. Sometimes even double that.

With time, two buildings started coming into view. They were by no means large, but in comparison to the flatness of the surrounding landscape, they seemed nearly like skyscrapers. One building was most certainly a barn. Jaskier could see several animals in the pen surrounding it, all snuffling in the short, scrubby grass. 

Geralt pulled the truck up along the second building which was clearly the house where he lived- where Jaskier would be staying. It was a long ranch-style affair, clearly built to accommodate several people. Together, he and Geralt hauled his luggage in through the front door, leaving it beside the threshold for the time being. A hallway branched off from the main living area, stretching far enough that Jaskier almost couldn’t see where it ended. Several doors lined each side, perhaps ten in all. Some were closed and Jaskier wondered if he was not the only one currently staying here for the program. 

“Bedrooms and bathrooms are down that hall. The living room is a common area for everyone. You’re welcome to borrow any of the books," explained Geralt. Jaskier’s eyes roamed briefly over the wall of shelves, picking out a couple familiar spines. There was a large sectional sofa wrapped around a coffee table as well as a couple of plush looking arm chairs. There was no television or at least not one where Jaskier could see it. He thought that was a bit peculiar, but didn’t have much time as Geralt continued through the living room into what looked like a dining area. The table was long and wide, easily able to accommodate a dozen people. 

“We have all our meals together and take turns helping with the cooking. The kitchen is through here,” said Geralt as he took Jaskier down the length of the table and through a threshold where the hardwood floor gave way to black and white linoleum.        

There was the clatter of a spoon hitting the ceramic bowl, the splash of milk and half soggy cornflakes hitting the table beneath. Jumping at the sound, Jaskier looked up and found himself face-to-face with a girl. Teenager seemed too generous an identifier, though she was clearly old enough to not be strictly referred to as a child. Her mouth hung agape as she blinked at him, face framed by two messy braids. 

Every inch the girl’s face has flushed a violent shade of red, mouth twitching as she struggles to form words, “You… you’re-” Oh. Jaskier became acutely aware of where this was heading. His main demographic was pre-teens to mid-twenty-somethings. And judging from the glittering of her eyes, this girl was not one of his more casual listeners.

Geralt, either entirely unaware of the situation or just determined to not acknowledge it, introduced the two of them with a cursory, “Ciri, this is Jaskier. Jaskier, this is my daughter, Ciri.”  

Jaskier cleared his throat, lifting his hand and wiggling his fingers in greeting. “Ah, hello there. I’m Jaskier, oh, well I suppose your father just said that. But in any case, I’m Jaskier and I’m delighted to make your acquaintance.” 

One beat of silence. Two. Jaskier’s skin was beginning to itch. Were this silence to carry on a moment longer he simply thought he would scream just to fill it with something. Fortunately, things did not come to that. Someone, however, did end up screaming, it just wasn’t himself. 

“Oh. My. God. Dad!” Ciri sprung from her chair, the legs scraping against the linoleum floor in a way that set Jaskier’s teeth on edge. “You never said Jaskier was coming here!” 

“I told you this morning that we had someone coming in for the program.” 

“Yeah, but you never said it was Jaskier!” she shrieked, fists curled and tugging at the ends of each of her braids as if they were her only tethers to reality. Dancing from foot to foot, Ciri vibrated with a level of energy that Jaskier knew to only be attainable by enthralled young girls. He had been on the receiving end of it enough times to know it was a force more powerful than anything mother nature could design. “Marilka is going to be so jealous! Her face is going to turn all red and sweaty like it does whenever she’s upset.” Judging from her glee, Jaskier was willing to bet that Ciri was not on good terms with Marilka. 

“No,” Geralt interjected, swift and terse, “You won’t be telling anyone he’s here. Not Marilka, not Adda-” Ciri sucked in a breath, preparing to make her rebuttal, “and not Dara.” 

Gasping like a hooked fish, Ciri cried, “Not even Dara?” 

“Not even Dara.” 

With a dramatic sigh, Ciri deflated like a spent party balloon. “Fine, I won’t tell anyone.” Which earned a look of approval from Geralt, but it was short lived as she continued, “But Jaskier, I was wondering would you… would you maybe sing one of your songs for me later?” Jaskier’s heart leapt into his throat, his ribs clenched around his lungs like a vice. 

Scrambling for a reasonable excuse and finding none, Jaskier just stood there. His mouth jumped, working to form words he didn’t know to speak, “Ah, well you see, that is uh-” 

“I’m such a big fan of yours. Maybe even your number one fan! Please just one song?” pleaded Ciri, her eyes bright and glittering as if the entirety of her happiness in life hinged upon his answer. Ringing began in Jaskier’s ears. He tried to breathe, but it felt as though he were trying to get the air through a twisted garden hose. If this kept up, Jaskier feared where it would lead. Not ten minutes in this place and already he was falling apart.     

“Ciri.” Geralt, blessedly, intervened. The sound of her name felt like a bite, like the snap of a dog who had been goaded one too many times. Even Jaskier found himself flinching. Ciri looked down, scuffing the toe of her shoe against the floor as she purposefully avoided Geralt’s disappointed glare. His voice was low and smooth once more as he explained, “You know that’s not why Jaskier is here. I want you to apologize to him.” 

Startled, Jaskier stammered, “O-oh, that’s not really necessary I-” But it seemed he was getting an apology no matter his thoughts on the necessity of it. 

“I’m sorry, Jaskier,” muttered Ciri, eyes still cast down at the floor making her look rather small and chastened. Much more like the girl was and not the young woman she was so close to  becoming.

“Think nothing of it, dear heart.” She perked up at Jaskier’s use of the endearment, her eyes glittering as if they were brimming with stars. As ceaselessly remarkable as it was to be admired in such a way, Jaskier couldn’t shake the feeling of hands at his throat. He swore he could feel the fingers pressing into his skin. Could imagine the shape of bruises they would leave. Not wanting to dampen her enthusiasm, Jaskier pondered another way he could appease Ciri. “Perhaps later you and I can sit and have a chat, hmm? And anything you want, I’ll sign.” And that seemed to brighten her a bit, much to Jaskier’s relief. 

Quietly, Ciri gathered her cereal bowl and brought it to the sink, running the tap to rinse out the remnants of milk and cornflakes.  

“Hey, come here,” called Geralt, holding out one arm. He motioned with the subtle twitch of his fingers for Ciri to come to his side and she did with minor reluctance. She was obviously still sore about being scolded in front of her idol. Geralt wrapped his arm around her shoulders, drawing her close and pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “I’m sorry for snapping. Have fun at school and please not a word to anyone, alright?” Ciri muttered an affirmation and pulled away, but not before Geralt could give her hair an affectionate ruffle. Her freckled nose wrinkled as she grinned back and Jaskier felt himself endeared by the display. After placing her bowl in the dishwasher, Ciri was gone. 

Sighing heavily, Geralt rested his hands in the curves of his sculpted hips, “I’m sorry about that. She’s a good kid, but she tends to get caught up in herself.”  

Jaskier fixed a smile, a skill he liked to think himself rather adept at. “Oh, think nothing of it. No harm done.” Geralt hummed in response. Something about its tone told Jaskier that he was not entirely unconvinced that some damage had been done. “So, I’ve met your daughter. I hope I’ll have the honor of meeting your wife as well.”  

“No wife, but I’m sure you’ll meet the rest of my family before the evening is out.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry, I just assumed,” replied Jaskier, pretending that there hadn’t been a spark of excitement with the answer. 

“No worries. Divorced, actually. We’re still friends though and share custody of Ciri. She’ll go back to stay with her mother in the fall.” Turning back towards the hall, Geralt beckoned Jaskier with a tilt of his head and said, “C’mon, why don’t I show you to your room?”

The wheels of Jaskier’s suitcase ground against the hardwood floor as Geralt took them down the door lined hallway. The five doors at the top of the hallway were shut, most likely belonging to Geralt’s aforementioned family, while the remaining four at the end were left ajar. Their interiors looked empty of any personal effects leading Jaskier to the conclusion that he was, indeed, the only one currently here for the program. It was both comforting and disquieting.                

“Alright, so this’ll be your room,” said Geralt as he lugged Jaskier’s suitcases to the second to last door, “It’s not much, but I hope it’s comfortable enough for you.”

It certainly wasn’t much. A narrow twin-sized bed pushed against the wall with a nightstand beside it. A simple chest of drawers and a desk situated in front of the room’s only window which lacked any kind of view beyond the empty expanse of flatland the house was situated on.  

Jaskier could think of several hotel rooms he had stayed in that were far more accommodating. Were he just a bit taller, Jaskier would’ve been able to stretch the width of the room from toes to fingertips. He silently thanked his manager for persuading him to pack light as he sidled inside and tucked his guitar in the corner, Geralt following behind with his suitcase. Geralt was saying something about towels and sheets, but Jaskier was only half paying attention. His mind was rife with a thousand other thoughts, most of which centered around the growing sense of worthlessness eating away at his heart.           

Geralt held out his hand, palm faced up and expectant. What on Earth was he waiting for? Jaskier couldn’t imagine Geralt desiring something as inane as a high five, but Jaskier’s mind supplied him with no other possibilities. Fortunately, before Jaskier could make a complete and utter fool of himself, Geralt uttered a single word, “Phone.” 

“What?” squawked Jaskier indignantly. 

“Your phone,” repeated Geralt. “We have a strict ‘no phone’ policy for all guests when they stay here. We find it damaging to the therapeutic atmosphere. I thought you were informed about it.” 

Clutching the little device against his chest, Jaskier stammered, “N-no! I mean, I don’t see what my phone should have to do with anything. Besides, I’m a rather busy man. Well connected. I can’t imagine the fuss it would cause if I wasn’t able to keep up with it all.” He wouldn’t be able to check his social media or the various tabloids. How else would he be able to gauge the public’s opinion of him? Surely they would ask questions about his absence and that would lead to speculation which would then lead to a veritable hailstorm of articles claiming he had been kidnapped or murdered- or worse- that he was in rehab. Just the thought of removing his finger from the pulse of the world made Jaskier break into a sweat. He fought to keep his voice calm as he said, “I’d really rather just like to keep it, if you don’t mind.” 

“I’m afraid I have to insist,” contended Geralt, pressing his hand forward with its open, awaiting palm. 

Grappling for another excuse, Jaskier squeaked, “Madeleine! My manager, surely she’ll need to keep in contact with me.” 

“She is fully aware of our policies here. If she needs to contact you for any reason she has other modes of doing so and I’ll be sure you’re alerted.” 

Jaskier barked a laugh, trying to mask his growing sense of hysteria. “That’s far too much trouble for all involved parties. Let’s try and find a compromise, shall we? The phone stays in my possession, but I promise not to look during our, uh… well whatever it is we’re doing here.” 

“Therapy.” 

“Right, our therapy. Does that sound agreeable?” Jaskier plastered on his most charming smile, hoping it would provide some amount of leverage in support of his case. 

Geralt, however, seemed not the slightest bit moved by Jaskier’s allure. He lips pressed into a flat line as he sighed, “Jaskier, I understand that this is a difficult thing for you. I want you to feel comfortable here and I can tell that taking your phone puts that in jeopardy, but I have to urge you to let me put it somewhere safe. You’re here because you want to get better, right?” 

With a hot spike of embarrassment piercing through his chest, Jaskier snapped, “I’m not sick.” 

“I’m not saying you are. However, you’re not feeling your best right?” Which was something Jaskier could hardly disagree with. He wouldn’t be here were it not for the fact he was, inarguably, not feeling his best. When Jaskier nodded, Geralt continued, “Alright, that’s what we’re here to work on and I’ve found that phones tend to detract from that. With that in mind, I would really like for you to let me hold onto your phone, but I don’t want it to become a source of discomfort. So I’ll give you the choice, hold onto your phone and accept that it may hurt your recovery or give it to me with the promise that I will let you know the instant something important comes up.” 

Despite his stature and intimidating appearance, Jaskier was finding Geralt to be rather disarming. Perhaps it was in the evenness of his speech or the steadiness of his gaze, but there was something about Geralt that made the buzzing in Jaskier’s skull feel less volatile. He hadn’t known the man for more than an hour and already Jaskier felt as though Geralt truly had his best interest at heart. Jaskier looked down at the phone in his hand. His face stared back at him in the blackness of the inactive screen and he couldn’t help taking notice of the darkness beneath his eyes, the sunkenness of his cheeks. This wasn’t him. How long could Jaskier continue to wake every morning and see himself changing before he reached the point where he could no longer recognize himself? 

Like ripping off a bandaid, Jaskier thrust out his hand. The strain in his muscles wordlessly implored for Geralt to take the phone before he could change his mind. With a quick and gentle movement, Geralt did so and buried it away in the back pocket of his jeans. “Thank you for trusting me, Jaskier.”

“Let’s not dwell on it or I fear I may change my mind.”     

****

That evening, Jaskier joined Geralt and his family for dinner. Two brothers, one older and one younger, who worked in town, but helped run the farmstead as well. The older of them, Eskel, was a mountain of man yet had a soft disposition and the kindest eyes Jaskier had ever seen. He made a great effort to make Jaskier feel welcome and at ease. The younger, Lambert, was on the coltish side and had sarcasm in spades as well as a talent for cooking. Divine did not feel like an adjective typically used to describe meatloaf, but Jaskier felt it appropriate with this one. Lastly, there was Geralt’s father, Vesemir. In some moments, the man appeared to be as old as time itself and as immeasurably wise, but then his eyes would glimmer with a waggishness that belied someone of a much younger constitution. 

All in all, they seemed like a lovely family. The group of them even all sat down to a game after dinner, a card game called gwent. Jaskier had heard of it, but never played himself, however Ciri was more than enthused to show Jaskier all the rules. She stuck to Jaskier’s side like the spiny seeds of a burr bush, though she, thankfully, did not mention anything else about his music. No requests for songs or autographs or tales of his life in the limelight. Geralt must have talked to her again and for that he was secretly grateful.           

Later that night, as Jaskier shuffled down the hall with toothbrush and towel in hand to prepare for bed, he caught a glimpse through a cracked doorway to the room that must have belonged to Ciri. The walls were painted a mossy green and adorned with an amalgamation of photographs and sketches and magazine clippings. A bewildering peek into the mind of a teenage girl. Ticket stubs, prize ribbons, and… posters. Jaskier’s chest tightened at the all too familiar sight of himself. Not one, not two, but three versions of himself all younger and brighter and lovelier than the Jaskier of today.    

Jaskier remembered the photoshoot where the series had come from. It had been promotional for his Heaven is Here tour five years ago. He had been at the top of his game, then. Sold out shows. Nightly guest appearances. Basking in all things gilded and glittering and golden like a god at a feast set out in his honor. It should have been a fond memory. A reminiscence of all he had seen and done and accomplished. Yet, all Jaskier could think about was how much deeper the lines of his face had looked in the mirror when he brushed his teeth.The nubs of gray that peeked through his stubble.  

Shuffling down the hallway a little faster, Jaskier hoped to outpace the shadows of his thoughts as they crawled after him with outstretched fingers.

Back in his room, Jaskier closed his eyes and drew a collective breath. In, one, two, three. Out, one, two, three. The tightness in his chest loosened a little, but still he felt unsettled. Jaskier looked at the room around him. Spare and functional, yet with small touches that hinted at the attempt of making it more welcoming. Watercolors of lush farmland on the walls. A lavender scented candle and a packet of matches. A chunky, seemingly hand-knit blanket draped over the foot of the narrow bed. 

Organization. Jaskier tended to live his life in a chaotic cluster of belongings packed hastily into traveling cases, but his therapist had suggested grounding. Setting roots. It was true, his stay at Kaer Morhen would not be long, but the tempest of his unease could be settled by surrounding himself with the familiar. His clothes, his books, his baubles, and bits. Setting his traveling case on the bed, Jaskier dug his hands in and began unpacking.              

Jaskier’s fingers whispered against the silken fabric of one shirt, folding it with as much care as he could, “I’m so sorry, my love,” he crooned to the garment, “this is not the treatment you deserve, but when needs must.” With no proper closet, Jaskier had no choice other than the small chest of drawers that sat opposite his bed. It was a sturdy piece and smelled faintly of the cedar it was fashioned from. Creases would remain a concern, but at least Jaskier’s clothes wouldn’t smell, too. 

It was a tight fit, but Jaskier managed to wedge everything he brought into the drawers. He lined his shoes by the door, stacked his books on the window sill, arranged his pens and notebooks on the little desk. Setting his hands on the notch of his hips, Jaskier stepped back and admired his handiwork. It wouldn’t stay neat for long- Jaskier gave himself two days at most- but it felt good to be settled. Soothed the itch that burned under his skin. 

For a moment at least.

Tucked in the corner, just beside the dresser, sat the hard case that housed Jaskier’s guitar. He had thought about not bringing it, back when he had been deciding between which shirts and jackets and rings seemed appropriate for the rustic ambience of his little getaway. However, the thought of not bringing it filled Jaskier with an emptiness that outweighed the apprehension of having it with him. Yet, its presence mocked him now. In the quiet of the night he could practically hear the strings singing to him. Calling out in a desperate plea to be played, but Jaskier’s palms grew slick. His knuckles locked up. The very thought of feeling those strings beneath his fingers made the fear swell inside Jaskier like the rising tide of a storm he had no hope of weathering.

Fighting desperately not to retch against the bile of his panic, Jaskier snatched his guitar case. He shuffled like a silent thief through the sleeping house and out the back door. He didn’t know where he was going or what he hoped to accomplish. All Jaskier knew was the thought of being confined in that cell of a room with the void of his case sucking in all the light made him feel ill. 

The darkness of the night spread ahead of Jaskier like spilled ink. It seemed endless. Nothing but the isolated silhouettes of trees and rocks. Then, like the beacon of a lighthouse at the edge of the sea, Jaskier was drawn to the floodlights of the barn. He was not overly fond of the idea of leaving his most precious possession amongst a mass of common farm animals, but he could not have it in the house. The strings would sing to him through the floorboards, haunt his dreams with their mournful twang. 

Moths were fluttering dazedly in the light as Jaskier came to a side door bearing a nameplate with the words ‘tack room’ over the threshold. He had absolutely no idea what a ‘tack room’ was nor did he know what was stored there, but it at least seemed devoid of any animal life. Jaskier was correct in his assumption and learned that ‘tack’ must have been a catch-all term for the various trappings of horses. Saddles, blankets, bridels, and the like. 

Skittering around the edges of the room, Jaskier searched for a place to stash his guitar. Someplace dry and concealed enough that he couldn’t be easily stumbled upon. The last thing he wanted was someone touching his cherished instrument with their greasy, inexperienced hands. Cursing under his breath, Jaskier was nearly ready to give up in search of another hiding place when he noticed a ladder resting against the wall in one corner. Setting down the case, Jaskier climbed up for a cursory glance, finding the area to be nothing more than a hayloft. He could hear the shuffle and huff of the animals in their stables beneath the floorboards. It was warm and dry albeit a bit dusty, but still suitable enough for the storage of his prized instrument. 

It took more effort than Jaskier anticipated to lug the case up the ladder behind him. He was red faced and sweating by the time he slid the thing across the floor of the hayloft. Resting with his hands on his knees, Jaskier took a moment to catch his breath. There was a brief moment of clarity. An instance where Jaskier paused and wondered to himself, was this something he was really doing? It felt as though this was crossing a boundary, taking him down a level to which he had never stooped before. This guitar was his most prized possession. The thing with which his entire life hinged. What kind of person would he have become had he not found the thing all those years ago tucked away in the attic of his childhood home, in need of a good tuning, but a fine instrument nonetheless. Jaskier looked around the dark and dust of the hayloft and noticed the irony of it. 

Jaskier carried the case to the back wall. No one would be able to see it from the ground, but Jaskier didn’t know how often this place was visited. With some effort, he pushed a couple of bales in front of the case to block it entirely from view. With many much more easily accessible bales, Jaskier doubted anyone would find the thing. He was confident his guitar would stay safe and hidden for the duration of his stay. With the dark deed completed, Jaskier pricked his way back down the ladder and to the house, hoping that now, just maybe, he would be able to settle down for the night. Wishful thinking.  

****

Jaskier had not been asleep long. The small, unfamiliar bed had not been kind to him and not even the hand-knit blanket had been enough to change that. Paired with general insomnia, Jaskier spent the majority of the night cycling through reading the same paragraph in his book fifteen times, arranging and rearranging all the bedclothes in a bid to get comfortable, and staring up at the ceiling in a mix of contemplation and existential dread. Eventually, exhaustion caught up with Jaskier and dragged him down into a fitful slumber like a wolf taking down a hare. It had been two hours at the most when Jaskier was awoken by a knock at the door. 

Grumbling, Jaskier rolled over and pulled the hand-knit blanket tighter around himself. He had begun to drift off again when another knock came, this time, louder. Jaskier opened one eye, taking in the room around him. It was still dark, though the faint glow behind the curtains determined that dawn could not be far off. 

“What fresh hell…” Jaskier reached out, smacking his palm against the surface of the nightstand until he found the alarm clock, struggling to make sense of its arms and notches with this sleep addled brain. It was just after five in the morning. No one sane could be up at this hour. Only insomniacs and masochists. 

Again, came the knock. 

“Sleeping, come back later,” Jaskier called back to his unwanted visitor, nestling back down into the cocoon of blankets as if the swaths of cotton could keep the world at bay. Still, the knocking persisted. Jaskier did his best to ignore it, to clear his mind and drift back off into the ether of sleep, but the steady rhythm of the knocking cut through him to the point where he swore he could feel its beat vibrating in his very bones.

With an aggravated cry, Jaskier thrashed in the blankets, wrestling to extricate himself from their folds and give whoever was at his door a piece of his mind. “If that knocking doesn’t stop this instant, so help me, I’m going to take my foot and shove it up your- Geralt.” 

Jaskier nearly choked on the name as it lodged in his throat like a stone. Geralt arched a brow at him, the corner of his mouth twitching in what was nearly a smile. Something about this must have been amusing to him, but he was doing his best not to show it. 

“Morning,” he rumbled, “best be getting yourself ready. Breakfast is on the table and Lambert will have a fit if you let it go cold.” 

Jaskier blinked slowly, his sleep deprived brain processing at the speed of molasses on a frigid winter’s day. Geralt was already dressed for the day. Slim jeans tucked into tall leather boots and a t-shirt that accentuated the dips and curves of his musculature in the simplest yet most enticing of ways. Perhaps it was the result of his sleeplessness, but Jaskier found himself staring for longer than what could be considered appropriate. The sound of Geralt clearing his throat brought Jaskier back to himself albeit pink cheeked and more than a tad embarrassed. 

“Um, sorry I, uh… just save me a plate or something? I’m not particularly hungry right now and I think I’m just going to treat myself to a couple more hours of sleep so…” He trailed off, fully expecting for Geralt to offer a gesture of understanding and then leave Jaskier to his devices.

“Sorry to disappoint, but this is when we start the day around here.”    

“Well, I didn’t really get the best sleep last night.” 

“When the morning chores are done you can have a nap if you’d like. Sometimes I even take one myself.” 

Jaskier huffed, frustrated by Geralt’s lack of sympathy. At the risk of seeming like a diva, Jaskier was not accustomed to much opposition. It wasn’t that he expected to have his every whim indulged, but a couple more hours of sleep hardly seemed like an exorbitant request. Madeleine hardly ever roused him before noon if there wasn’t a good reason like a flight to catch or a particularly nice brunch setup. And seeing how neither of those seemed to be involved, Jaskier wasn’t inclined to give in. 

“Look,” sighed Jaskier. “I understand that you’re just doing your job. You’ve been hired to do whatever it is you do here and I am going to be as sensitive as I can be to that, but there are some boundaries that aren’t meant to be crossed and that is most certainly one. I am international best-selling artist and-”    

“Alright.” 

“-you’re just going to have to- wait what?” Jaskier stopped himself short, brows furrowed as he blinked up at Geralt and parroted, “Alright?”

“Alright.” Geralt affirmed with a nod. “If it’s something you feel that strongly about, then we can compromise. Does another two hours sound alright?” 

Jaskier almost felt too stunned to speak, caught off guard by Geralt’s amenity. Jaskier had been expecting a bit more resistance, had been prepared for it, but now that it was unnecessary he felt a bit like a small dog who had made a big fuss over some baseless sound. Chest puffed, hackles raised. “Ah, yes, that sounds agreeable. Thank you for, uh, understanding.”

“Sure thing. I’ll come back and get you then.” And then Geralt was gone, boots clunking against the hardwood floor. Jaskier spent a few moments staring at the space where Geralt had been, the hall feeling abnormally empty without his bulking frame, before he slipped back into his room and between the sheets of his bed. 

Breathing a heavy sigh, Jaskier sunk into the mattress and closed his eyes. He waited for sleep to take him. Waited for that creep of darkness to drag him under into the bliss of unconsciousness. It lingered in the back of his skull, but seemed content to stay there never advancing. Jaskier tossed from one side to the other. Flipped the pillow and flopped onto his back. Pulled the blankets up to his chin and then pushed them down below his waist. Jaskier made a strangled noise, somewhere between a howl of frustration and a raging roar. He rolled himself out of bed, shoved his limbs through the first shirt and pair of pants in his drawer, and stalked out to the kitchen.  

The Rivia family was situated around the table laughing and talking and passing around platters piled with thick hotcakes, fluffy scrambled eggs, and glistening bacon. The very picture of familial bliss. Jaskier felt like an intruder. A stormcloud encroaching on a clear blue sky. Everything in him told him to turn away, to retreat back his solitude and leave them to their chatter and merriment. The thought was traveling from his brain to his muscles, his shoulders and hips twisting as they angled to take him away. 

“Jaskier.” Jaskier stopped still, looked up to see Geralt peering at him over the rim of his coffee cup. “Good morning. I’m happy you decided to come join us.” Jaskier grinned sheepishly, picking at a loose thread sticking out from his shirt cuff. 

“Jaskier!” Ciri popped up from her seat, her hair fluffy and sleep tousled and wild around her pale face. “Come here, come here! Geralt set your place up next to me!” 

Sure enough, when Jaskier stepped towards the table, there was an empty plate placed before the seat next to Ciri. A mug of coffee was steaming beside the plate ready and waiting to be loaded down with cream and sugar. Jaskier looked over at Geralt who just sipped surreptitiously at his own coffee, his lips curled in a benign little smile. Jaskier wasn’t sure how to feel about that just yet, but he was leaning towards something positive. 

Lambert barked something about how the hotcakes weren’t getting any hotter and that prompted Jaskier to slide into his waiting seat. Without having to make any requests, Jaskier’s plate was loaded down with food before things continued on without the barest hitch. Everyone welcomed him into the fold of their company as if he had never been apart from it. And it felt surprisingly good to be surrounded by it, all the brightness and revelry. It dulled the ache in Jaskier’s heart, made him feel a little lighter. For the first time, Jaskier thought that maybe, just maybe, this place may actually do him some good.         

*****

Jaskier was uncomfortable. It was not that he disliked animals, but he had little experience with animals and what he had was not particularly positive. His mother had a cat while he was growing up. An over-glorified pom-pom with a face flat enough to look comical. She used to sit on the top of the fridge, waiting for unsuspecting victims to walk by so she could assault them with her hisses and batting paws. An ornery cat was one thing, but this… this was an entirely different animal. Pun mostly intended. 

Jaskier yelped as a donkey swung its head over the stall of its door and let out with a bray loud enough to make his ears ring. At nearly the same moment, one of the goats skittered by him, bumping into Jaskier’s legs with enough force that it nearly toppled him arse-over-tits into a water trough. While the majority of his person was spared, Jaskier still suffered a wet sleeve and groaned as he held it out from himself like it was diseased. It could have been. Gods only knew what sort of bacteria lived in that trough.  

Geralt emerged from around the corner, a bale of hay perched on his shoulder as casual as anything. Were Jaskier’s shirt not now sopping wet up to the elbow, he would have appreciated the ripple of Geralt’s muscles as he tossed the bale down in front of the donkey’s stall, “Let me guess, that was Lil’ Bleater.” 

“‘Lil’ what now?” parroted Jaskier, pulling his arm out from the damp sleeve so he could ring the water from it as best as he could. 

“The goat, white and tan? Mischievous little thing. He knows that you’re new and that's just his way of saying ‘hello,'” 

“I suppose I’ve received colder welcomes, but I’ve certainly gotten warmer, too.” Jaskier wrung out whatever water he could from his sleeve and slipped his arm through it once again. “Are there more of those around? Should I have my guard up?” 

“We have twelve goats,” said Geralt, opening the door to the donkey stall and pushing the hay bale inside with the press of his heel. “-but most of them are nannies so they’re more docile. Lil’ Bleater is the only billy goat so he thinks he has to act tough.” Geralt walked down the hall a bit and retrieved a pitchfork from a hook. “Alright, Polka here needs to get her stall mucked and then have some fresh bedding put down.” 

Dumbly, Jaskier took the pitch fork as Geralt handed it to him, blinking like a deer caught in the headlights. “Wait… you want me to do what?” 

“Muck the stall.” 

“Muck? Muck as in shoveling shit? Oh no, I think not. There’s got to be something else I can do. Perhaps something not quite so up close and personal?” 

Geralt shared an amused look with the aforementioned Polka before saying, “You know, the whole point of animal therapy is to kind of be up close and personal with the animals. That’s why it’s called ‘animal therapy.'”

With an indignant huff, Jaskier snapped, “I could very well garner that for myself, thank you, but must this be the task I’m given? Can’t I- oh, I don’t know- do literally anything else?”  

“Fine, then how about we try something else first?” Jaskier watched as Geralt rested the rake against the wall, walking down to the end of the stable and to the door to what Jaskier now knew was the tack room. Dread seized Jaskier as his thoughts flooded with the memories of last night. The macabre tableau of burying away his guitar in the upper loft as if were a corpse in need of disposing. Geralt wouldn’t find it, would he? It wouldn’t have gotten there on its own accord and that would lead to questions which would lead to a confrontation which would- oh wait, Geralt was coming back. A bucket swung from his hand and was filled with what appeared to be brushes and combs. 

As he approached Jaskier, Geralt reached into his pocket and said, “Here, you’re going to need these.” Electricity spiked down the length of Jaskier’s hand as Geralt took it within his own and shoved a collection of hard, gritty lumps into the cup of his palm. 

Jaskier stammered, “W-wait, what-” but before he could make any further inquiry Geralt released his hold and turned to open the stall door nearest the end of the stable. The latch gave way with a resounding clunk. Geralt slipped inside and, despite his apprehension, Jaskier slipped in after him. There was a particularly threatening looking rooster strutting in his direction and Jaskier had no desire to be left alone with it. 

Out of the frying pan and into the fire, or so the expression went. 

The goats had been one thing and the donkeys had been another, but here Jaskier found himself confronted by yet another beast entirely: a horse. Jaskier’s heart stuttered in his chest, his first thought being for how alarmingly large the creature was. It was one of those things where one could not possibly fathom the scale of it until you had seen it in person like a skyscraper or a redwood tree. Pictures and film did absolutely nothing to prepare you for the sheer enormity of the thing as you stood next to it. 

Intimidated, Jaskier turned to slip back out the stall, but then he remembered the rooster that waited outside with its blade-sharp beak and hesitated. It was just enough time for Geralt to appear beside him, a steadying hand pressing on Jaskier’s shoulder. 

“Easy now,” he whispered, his breath warm against the side of Jaskier’s face. “No need to be scared, she’s not going to hurt you.” Geralt clicked his tongue and the horse raised her head, shoots of dry hay twitching between her lips. Jaskier inadvertently squeaked. “It’s alright, Jaskier. You still got those sugar cubes I gave you?” 

Remembering the hard lumps Geralt had shoved into his hand, Jaskier looked down to find he was indeed holding sugar cubes. However, the clench and sweat of his grasp had transfigured them into something closer resembling blobs than cubes. Jaskier grimaced, the half-melted sugar stuck sweet and sticky in the creases of his palms. 

“Alright, now hold out your hand.” 

“Geralt, I don’t-”

“Trust me.” Swallowing thickly, Jaskier raised his hand an inch. Two. Then three. All while Geralt uttered encouragement into his ear like the serpent to Eve, “Good, now keep your palm flat. Thumb tucked in. Perfect, just like that.” Intrigued, the horse took a step towards Jaskier’s offered hand, her hoof making a distinct clop on the hard floor. Jaskier shrunk back and were he not so apprehensive about the horse, he would have blushed at the fact that he had pressed himself into the curve of Geralt’s chest behind him. 

As she drew closer, Jaskier could not stop himself from taking notice of how pretty she was. Her coat was a warm and glossy chestnut. Her wide, dark eyes were rimmed with rows of lashes full and delicate enough to put any high fashion model to shame. A stripe of bright white accentuated the length of her face, a lock of hair falling artfully across her forehead. Jaskier did not know much about horses- in fact, he knew next to nothing about them- however, were he asked, he would say there was no finer specimen. 

The horse huffed softly, nostrils flaring slightly as she brushed her muzzle against Jaskier’s outstretched hand. He sucked in a gasp, his entire body going rigid. He wanted to move, but felt unsure whether it was wise. Jaskier wasn’t looking to be stomped or kicked to death, thank you very much. “O-oh… h-hello there, lovely." laughed Jaskier nervously. Compliments would not win him any favors in this situation, but he supposed they couldn’t hurt either. 

“Jaskier, this is Roach. Roach say hello to Jaskier.” The horse continued to snuffle against his hand, her breath warm and wet against his skin. Jaskier yelped quietly as Roach’s lips twitched and plucked the cube from his grasp, nickering as she crunched the sweet between her teeth.       

Chuckling, Geralt said, “That wasn’t so bad, now was it?” Indeed it wasn’t, but Jaskier would rather choke on his own tongue than admit it. If Geralt’s growing smirk were any indication, it seemed Jaskier didn’t need to anyway. “Like humans, she has her moods, but she’s a good girl and a couple of sugar cubes is a surefire way into this little lady’s heart.” ‘Little Lady’ did not seem the appropriate diminutive. Roach was enormous and not just in stature, Jaskier was noticing. She was quite round as well, particularly around her middle. 

“Goodness, then how many must curry your favor with sugar cubes to be as…” Jaskier trailed off, carding through the catalog of his vocabulary for a palatable euphemism, “voluptuous as yourself?”    

As he smirked, the dimple in Geralt’s chin deepened in a way that could only be appropriately described as delectable. He said, “It's a bit rude to be commenting on a lady’s weight, don’t you think?” 

Excuses fell from Jaskier’s mouth in a broken jumble like puzzle pieces tossed carelessly from the box, “Well, I- that is to say- I didn’t mean-” his cheeks flushed petal pink with embarrassment and perhaps a bit of something else.  

“Relax, I’m only joking with you. She’s definitely on the heavier side right now, but it’s not from too many sugar cubes. Roach is pregnant.” Geralt explained, smoothing his palm against the curve of Roach’s swollen flank. The horse nickered and tossed her head playfully, clearly enjoying the attention.

“Ah, that does rather make a bit more sense.” Now that Geralt had said it, Jaskier felt rather silly for not having realized. Geralt must have thought him some sort of fool. “Well, then I suppose congratulations are in order. Despite the pride on your face, I assume it’s safe to say that you’re not the father?”

Huffing a laugh, Geralt replied, “Definitely not. No, that was Scorpion; a stallion we were fostering for a couple of friends. He was struck so thoroughly by Roach’s beauty and charm that he cleared a five foot fence just to get to her.” 

“Oh, the romance, the scandal,” Jaskier gasped facetiously, “Well, good for you girl. Motherhood is no easy road, but at least you can’t say you didn’t have a bit of fun, eh?”

“Maybe too much fun,” Geralt rumbled back, reaching into his bucket of supplies and producing a stiff bristled brush. Holding it out for him to take, Jaskier had to pretend as if the brushing of their hands didn’t, once again, send a jolt of pleasure down his spine. 

Geralt explained the importance of grooming. How the act of it was a form of bonding and a way of showing affection. He demonstrated the proper technique, working along the grain of Roach’s coat with broad strokes. As filthy as it all felt, Jaskier had to admit he did find it somewhat soothing. The methodical strokes of the brush, the soft huff of Roach’s breath. It was easy to let himself melt into the movement, to let all other things fall away like the debris from Roach’s coat. Perhaps there was some benefit to this animal therapy after all.                    

It was peaceful for a time, but Jaskier’s restlessness was a wild and untamed thing. It wasn’t long before the need to fill the silence overwhelmed him and he blurted, “So how did all of this,” he gestured vaguely to the barn around them with its exposed ceiling beams and bundles of sweet smelling hay and four-legged occupants, “become what it is? I mean, was it always a therapeutic farmstead?” 

With a wordless hum, Geralt looked pensively into the gleam of Roach’s freshly brushed coat as if it were a mirror capable of reflecting his thoughts. In the absence of an answer, Jaskier’s mind supplied its own. He must have overstepped a boundary. Crossed some hidden perimeter between what did and didn’t constitute as an acceptable line of questioning. An apology rose in the back of Jaskier’s throat and had just about reached his lips when Geralt, at last, replied.

“I had a difficult childhood. Spent a lot of it in the foster care system, moving from house to house. Family to family. By the time I was adopted by Vesemir, the damage of that upbringing had taken its toll.” 

Jaskier’s mouth went dry, like a riverbed after a drought had robbed it of its last drop of water  “O-oh, I… I’m sorry I didn’t-” 

“No, don’t apologize,” Geralt interrupted, gentle yet firm. “It wasn’t an easy part of my life, but pretending it didn't happen is more damaging than acknowledging it. Besides, it kind of segues into how Kaer Morhen got its start.” He smiled a little and that put Jaskier more at ease. Loosened the knot in his belly. Geralt continued, “Vesemir already had the ranch when he adopted me. Old man has a soft spot for things that no one else wants. Animals. Children.” 

Roach snorted, craning her neck and bumping her velvet soft muzzle against his shoulder. Geralt smiled and smoothed a hand down the white stripe on her face. Roach seemed to lean into his touch, her eyes dark and placid like a lake carved deep into the Earth. Jaskier may not have had much experience with animals, but empathy was something that transcended between all living things like the light of stars through the gloom of space. And empathy was something where Jaskier had experience in spades.   

 “Working with the animals was good for me. Animals are different from people. They don’t have judgments over where you’re from or how you speak or dress or act. As long as you’re good to them, they’ll be good to you.” Jaskier had never thought about it that way. There had to be a certain kind of respite in knowing that you could be looked upon without condescension. Roach didn’t know the things Jaskier had been through. There was no way that she could. She only knew that he had shown her kindness and returned it with a little sigh and the bump of her muzzle against his shoulder. 

“Perhaps I was a bit presumptuous and for that I apologize,” Jaskier hummed, quiet enough that he hoped only Roach could hear. “You may just grow on me yet.” She flicked her ears, munching away on the bucket of oats Geralt had retrieved for her. Jaskier couldn’t claim to know what she was thinking, but he got the feeling that he was forgiven.   

Something shifted beneath Roach’s flank where Jaskier held the brush, making him yelp in surprise. He stepped back, watching with fascination as it happened again. Thrill tingled in the tips of his fingers as Jaskier breathlessly asked, “Was that… the foal?” Geralt’s smirk was answer enough. An irrepressible grin spread across Jaskier’s face. He placed the brush on the wall and eagerly pressed his palms against Roach’s flank once more. For several moments his hands rose and fell only with the steady pull of her breaths before he felt a light flutter and the distinctive shift of the foal turning within her belly.  

“Geralt,” blurted Jaskier, his eyes glittering bright and delighted, “We need to bring Roach more sugar cubes. A box of them. No, three boxes. No, a truckload of them!”     

****

It became routine these mornings with Geralt. It still took some coercion and more than a few wake up calls, but still Jaskier would roll out of bed and take his place at the table and breakfast with the Rivia family. Afterwards, they would head out to the barn and fill the hay sacks and oat bins, change out the water in the troughs and make sure all stalls were clean and fresh for their residents. Jaskier still didn’t care for mucking out stalls, but he did at least become a little less sensitive to it. As long as he didn’t let his thoughts linger too long on the fact he was shoveling shit, he found it was manageable. 

It was all becoming manageable, actually. Enjoyable even. Jaskier began to look forward to heading out to the barn in the mornings. He would take his time and greet every animal. They were much less intimidating than Jaskier first thought. He still had a healthy amount of respect for them, but he felt much more comfortable maneuvering around them, giving little pets and scratches and sneaking sugar cubes. His pockets were now always filled with sugar cubes. 

Most mornings, it was just Geralt in Jaskier working in tandem to complete the daily chores. Lambert and Eskel both worked in town while Ciri was often at school. Sometimes they worked in companionable silence and others they conversed. They talked about all manner of things and Jaskier was surprised to find that Geralt was rather open. Jaskier’s experience was limited, but the other therapists he had seen were tight lipped about themselves, which made sense. But there was something refreshing in hearing about Geralt’s life. It made him feel less distant. More like a friend and less like a counselor. 

Jaskier learned Geralt had attended university in Rinde where he earned his psychology degrees. It was also there that he met the woman who would eventually become his wife.  Geralt never revealed why they divorced and Jaskier didn’t ask.He showed Jaskier a picture once and Jaskier found himself entranced by the shine of her dark hair and unusually colored eyes. He thought of Ciri with her green eyes and ashen hair and wondered who on Earth she took after since she bore no resemblance to either of her parents.

The answer came almost two weeks into Jaskier’s stay at Kaer Morhen. A group of children came to the farm, brought in by a local group home. They got to help with small chores like feeding and grooming and when the work was done they were offered rides on the ponies and donkeys. It was heartwarming to see the way their little faces lit up with joy. Ciri seemed to know some of the children and at first Jaskier believed it was just from the repeated visits, but eventually learned it was because she once lived among them. Ciri had once been like them, just a child visiting Kaer Morhen. Geralt had taken to her so thoroughly that he called the home the very next day to begin arranging for her adoption. Jaskier most certainly didn’t get a bit misty eyed hearing the story, not one bit.         

Jaskier was beginning to like the bucolic lifestyle. It felt good to be steadied by routine instead of tossed around by the chaos of his life in the limelight. There were certainly times where the anxiety gripped him, when it sunk its taloned fingers into the flesh of his heart and refused to let go, but he was finding it happened a little less often. A little less keenly. And for a brief time, Jaskier let himself believe that maybe he was healing. He couldn’t yet bring himself to think about returning to the stage and he often found himself forcefully pushing away the knowledge that his guitar was still sitting hidden in the hayloft, but still it felt as though something were changing. As if he were changing. And Jaskier clung onto that with the desperation of a drowning man holding tight to the debris of a shipwreck. But Jaskier’s calm was only surface level. Ignoring his problems wouldn’t stop them from existing. Pushing them to the back of his brain didn’t banish them entirely. And it was only a matter of time before that became apparent.

Three weeks had passed since Jaskier’s arrival at Kaer Morhen and the weather was turning. Most nights had been mild, but tonight the wind seemed to blow hard and bitter. It howled outside the house, whispered through the gaps in the window seams. A storm was no doubt brewing somewhere beyond the barren horizon, drawing closer like an enemy battalion. Despite this, the night was still a pleasant one. After a delicious dinner of beef stew followed by warm apple turnovers, Jaskier and Ciri had settled into the living room for a game of gwent. 

Seated on cushions around the coffee table, Ciri was taking her sweet time deliberating on her next move. Jaskier yawned dramatically, stretching his arms high above his head, “Goodness, this whole night will have passed before you finally decide on your move.” Ciri’s head snapped up, her brows furrowed and bottom lip puckered in a pout. It made Jaskier laugh. “Fine, fine, I’m going to see if there’s any more of those turnovers. If you haven’t made a move by the time I get back I’m calling this round.” Ciri looked panicked, shuffling her cards hurriedly between her little fingers. “And don’t look at my cards while I’m gone!” Called Jaskier over his shoulder as he circled round the dining room towards the kitchen.   

Geralt was standing in the kitchen as Jaskier came around the corner, startling him  “Oh, Geralt, I thought you were out in the…” Jaskier trailed off as Geralt turned to look at him, breath hitching in the back of his throat. His heart faltered in its steady march behind his ribs. There was something in Geralt’s expression that unsettled Jaskier, something in the tight set of his jaw and the smoldering burn of his eyes. Not as keen as disappointment, but something adjacent. Jaskier hated it.

“What’s going on?” Ciri materialized beside Jaskier, peering around his shoulder to see what had caused the shift in his demeanor. She shrunk into herself. No doubt sensing the tension seeping into the air like a drop of blood in water. “Dad, is everything alright?”     

“Everything’s alright,” assured Geralt, giving her a weak smile. “I just have to talk to Jaskier for a few minutes. Do you mind giving us some privacy?” Uncertainty shined in her eyes as she looked between the two of them, hands clasped over her chest. “Just a few minutes, then I promise you can go back to your game.” Jaskier did not know what Geralt wanted to talk to him about, but he did know that he desperately wanted Ciri to stay. To be the buffer between him and that devastating look in Geralt’s eyes. Ciri took one step back, then another, and then she was gone. 

The tension swelled thick and humid, permeating into every crack and crevice of the room. Jaskier felt crushed by it. It pressed against his body like the palms of hundreds of hands all desperate to touch him. Desperate to tear him apart. He wanted to say something, anything, to diffuse the tension, but it pressed into his lungs stopping him from collecting enough breath to speak. Just when he thought he could take it no longer, Geralt stepped to the side, revealing to Jaskier the hard shell of his guitar case propped up against the edge of the table. Jaskier inadvertently shrunk back, the heel of his boot scuffing hard on the linoleum floor. It was like a creature of the night recoiling at the sight of a holy relic, overwhelmed by its divineness. 

“I found it in the upper loft,” muttered Geralt, one brow arched as he rested his palm on top of the case. "Do you know how it ended up there?” 

The heart in Jaskier’s chest churned out the rhythm of his pulse with a sickening chug like an engine on the verge of breakdown. Jaskier croaked, “My room. Too much, not enough space.” It would have seemed a legitimate reason had the words not sounded as though they were fighting their way up his throat.

“We could have found a space for it," replied Geralt, cool and smooth as water over stone. He was rather good at that, wasn’t he? Challenging all of Jaskier’s justifications and knocking them back as if they were flimsy as cardboard. It drove Jaskier mad. Was Geralt oblivious or just blatantly obstinate to the fact that Jaskier didn’t want to delve into yet another quandary?  

Shame burned through Jaskier like an inferno. Sweat formed in the hollow of his throat. His cheeks flushed red and indignant as he ranted, ���It belongs to me, doesn’t it? It shouldn’t matter where I choose to put my own possessions. I could set it on the roof or bury it in the backyard or even toss it in the yawning maw of an active volcano if I so desired.” Something was happening to Jaskier. Something had crawled under his skin, tightened in his muscles. It filled his mind like a smoke and painted his vision with a vicious shade of red.  

Geralt remained calm, his hand half out in a placating gesture, “Yes, that’s true. You could do all of those or none of those things. I just know that it’s something precious to you and I’d hate for it to be damaged.” 

“So what if it was?” snapped Jaskier, wild and savage like an untamed animal, “Maybe then it wouldn’t taunt me so.” Were Jaskier in any reasonable state of mind, he would have noticed the concern that tightened Geralt’s features. Wringing his hands together, Jaskier whispered, “I could hear it, you know, singing to me in my room. It wants me to play, but I know that I can’t. I’ve tried. Dozens of times, hundreds of times, I’ve sat with it cradled in my lap and every time I place my hands on the strings it all feels wrong.” 

Geralt said nothing, only waited as Jaskier continued to rave like a madman held fast in the grips of his own lunacy. “I don’t understand why it happened. From the moment I first held it, it had always felt as easy as breathing. No thought, only function. And now? Nothing. Gods, have you ever felt such an emptiness? Such a deep and utter disconnect between who you are and the person you know yourself to be?” Geralt didn’t understand. Couldn’t understand. It was agonizing to no longer recognize the person staring back at you in the mirror. They had your clothes and your face and blinked when you blinked, but it felt so hideously disjointed.  

Jaskier pressed his face into his hands. The world felt like a riot around him. A cacophony of lights and colors and sounds that felt more like a crowded street and less like the empty living room. His nerves were shredded and frayed. His sanity was held in place by little more than a thread and that was breaking fiber by fragile fiber. 

Geralt kept himself as small and non-intimidating as possible as he stepped towards Jaskier, his weather bean palm still held out in a constant gesture of amity, “We can talk more about that, I promise. We’ll work through all of those feelings, but I think it’s important we try to calm down first.” He took another step forward, fingers stretching mere inches from Jaskier’s wrist.     

“Don’t touch me!” Jaskier could barely recognize the sound coming from himself. Someone else was using his voice, conducting him as if he were a marionette. He would never scream like that. Would never shrink away from Geralt’s outstretched hand like an abused animal. Something was making him behave like this. But it did not matter, whatever possessed Jaskier had him firmly by the throat and seemed unlikely to leave him. 

Geralt lowered his hand, but still held it out in a placating gesture. “Alright, I’m sorry, Jaskier. I should have respected your personal space. I can tell you’re upset and I only want to help you. I think you’re having a panic attack and I want you to know that I’m here for you. Why don’t we try taking some deep brea-” 

“No!” Jaskier bellowed like a tantruming child, hands balled into fists at his sides as he wailed, “Everyone is so desperate to make me well and it’s not happening. It’s never going to happen. Can’t we all just be done with this miserable business?” 

“That’s not true, Jaskier, and you know it," asserted Geralt, “We’re working on it and we’ll keep working on it. You’ve already made so much progress-” 

“What progress?” cried Jaskier, his face burning fever hot as he struggled not to weep, “I still can’t play! Still can’t sing! What use am I if I can’t do the one thing I was put on this Earth to do?” Geralt opened his mouth, fully prepared to rebut Jaskier’s self-deprecating triad, but Jaskier declared the dialogue finished.        

Jaskier stormed through the living room, the gwent cards fluttering in his wake where they lay abandoned on the coffee table. He didn’t even notice Ciri, curled up on the corner of the couch with a throw pillow clutched in the curve of her body like a life preserver. It was a wonder he even found the door to his room in the blindness of his grief. But he did, somehow, and Jaskier slammed the door shut behind him with the magnitude of the approaching thunder.

****

Jaskier could not sleep. He rolled from one side of the mattress to the other with the springs groaning beneath him. He stuck one foot out from beneath the covers when he became too hot and pulled it back in when he came too cold. The clock on the bedside table heralded the ever persistent march of time with a tick tick tick. Insomnia had been no stranger to Jaskier in recent months. Tonight, however, came packaged with something else: guilt. It gnawed in the pit of Jaskier’s belly like hunger. Not the paltry feeling-somewhat-peckish sort of hunger either, but the all consuming sort. The sort that tightened against bones and made him feel hollow and frail. 

After slamming the door shut, Jaskier had collapsed back against it and slid down until he could feel the hard surface of the floor beneath him. The door lacked a lock, but even through the haze of his outrage Jaskier knew, deep down, that Geralt was not the type who would infringe upon his privacy. There were moments of clarity throughout the throes of his breakdown, that Jaskier swore he could feel Geralt’s presence just outside the door. As if he were only waiting for Jaskier to seek out his comfort. In those moments, Jaskier desperately wished to open the door. To let Geralt take him in his arms and shower him in all the reassurance he craved. But there was no way Jaskier could, not after he had been so hordenously cruel to Geralt.    

There was a knock at some point in the early evening, the shuffle and clink of something outside the door. Jaskier did not investigate, but something told him if he had he would’ve most likely found dinner waiting for him. The thought of consuming even a single crumb left Jaskier nauseated enough to leave it be. Instead, he spent the night wallowing in his own malaise within the four walls of his room. Disassociating in the desk chair for a time before moving on to crying in the corner and eventually to sprawling face down on the bed and holding his breath until spots danced behind his eyelids. Eventually he resigned himself to sleep, but had only managed to doze for an hour out of pure exhaustion before he was up again. 

Flopping onto his back, Jaskier stared up at the ceiling. The shadows formed and dissolved and reformed into a series of amorphous shapes on the pale painted surface. How could he have acted like that? It was not unknown for Jaskier to be taken by fits of passion, but whatever had happened earlier had been entirely foreign. Alien. He found that he could only remember it in pieces like he had been a passenger in a rolling car and all he had seen were flashes of the accident through the shattered windows. Geralt tried his hardest, but he hadn’t been able to mask the hurt on his face as Jaskier had smacked his hand away. His expression floated in the darkness of Jaskier’s mind, pale and apparitional. Jaskier wondered if it would haunt him forever in the same way the strings of his guitar still sang to him through the shell of its case. 

It was around two o’clock when Jaskier found he could ignore the call of nature no longer. The house would no doubt be asleep at this hour and Jaskier was confident in his ability to pop down to the washroom undetected. Donning his blanket like a cloak, Jaskier slipped from his room, his sock clad feet almost soundless on the hardwood. Jaskier conducted his business as quickly as he could though he took a moment to indulge in a few splashes of cold water to his hot, tear swollen face. When he emerged, Jaskier made to go back to his room, but stopped at the sound of a cough from the direction of the living room. That cough could have been anyone. Perhaps not Ciri since it had sounded distinctly male, but aside from that it could have been anyone. Vesemir, Lambert, Eskel… Geralt. 

There was a saying that curiosity killed the cat and Jaskier had found that idiom to be truthful more often than not. It was curiosity that drove him down the hall and away from the sanctuary of his room, to peer as covertly as he could around the corner and into the living room. Of course it was Geralt. It had to be Geralt. He was tucked cozily into the bend of the sectional, his features illuminated by the screen of the tablet perched in his lap. Despite everything, Jaskier felt compelled to sit beside him, to nestle himself into the curve of the couch and the curve of Geralt’s shoulder and let everything else melt away. Jaskier’s face heated at the thought. Judging by the furrow of his brow, Geralt was deeply focused on whatever it was he was doing and ought not to be disturbed. Jaskier turned, resigning himself to go back to his room, but the floorboard creaked beneath him like an old crone drawing her last breath. 

“Jaskier?” 

Cursing inwardly, Jaskier wrapped the blanket more securely around his shoulders and slid from around the corner into view. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you. I didn’t know anyone else was awake.” Jaskier’s tongue felt heavy behind his teeth, felt clumsy as it shaped itself around his words. “I could go back to my room if you want.” Some small, desperate part of himself hoped that Geralt would decline, but Jaskier would not be surprised if he didn’t. He had been unspeakably cruel to Geralt when the man had shown him nothing less than the utmost patience and kindness.     

“No, you don’t have to go back to your room. Unless you want to, that is. But I would very much like it if you came and sat with me.” And that made Jaskier’s heart flutter, his steps lighter as he crossed the darkened room to where Geralt sat.    

“How did you know it was me?” 

Geralt turned his gaze away, the curtain of his untied hair falling against the side of his face. He swiped his tongue over the curve of his lips, taking his time to choose his words carefully. “Almond,” he uttered, after he had cleared his throat. “I’ve noticed you use almond oil on your hands before bed. I could smell it from down the hall.”  

As conspicuously as what was possible, Jaskier brought a hand to his face, pressing his nose against the back of his knuckles and breathing in the scent. It was faint now, but still there. Almond. Jaskier’s heart fluttered. “O-oh, I didn’t realize it was so strong. I’m sorry.” 

“No," snapped Geralt with enough intensity to make Jaskier flinch. Geralt’s lashes were nearly translucent in the glow of the tablet screen as he blinked up at Jaskier, as if he himself were surprised by the intensity of his own voice. “I mean, there’s no reason to be sorry. I like the smell, it’s… calming.” 

Jaskier found himself smiling, felt it tugging at the corners of his mouth as if by invisible strings. Geralt smiled, too, and that only served to make Jaskier's smile grow. The muscles in his cheeks were growing tight, he had to rein himself in or fear his face splitting in two. “What are you doing up so early? As I recall, your day doesn’t start for another three hours.”  

“Sort of. I wanted to check on Roach. She seemed agitated this afternoon and I’m thinking tonight is the night.” 

Clapping his hands together, Jaskier gasped, “Oh, the foal! Let me see.” Jaskier strode over to the couch and plopped himself beside Geralt, too enthralled by the excitement of Roach’s potential labor to care about their proximity. Geralt shifted slightly and angled the screen towards Jaskier. Jaskier had to squint a bit against the brightness, but he easily recognized the stall Roach called her own. The mare herself was standing in the corner opposite the camera, pawing at the ground irritably with her dark tail swishing. 

Suddenly, Roach kneeled forward onto her front legs, her whole body following in the motion as she threw herself onto the hay covered floor and rolled onto her side. Jaskier’s breath caught, fear spiking sharp and bitter in the back of this throat. “It’s alright," came Geralt’s low, soothing voice. The weight of his hand pressed warm against the curve of Jaskier’s knee and that made his breath catch for an entirely different reason. “Don’t worry, that’s normal. Helps the foal get in position for birth. She’s done that three times in the last hour which makes me think she’s having regular contractions.” 

“What do we do?” Jaskier squeaked, the panic rising in his voice, “Do we wake the others or call the vet or-” 

Geralt hushed him with the quiet exhale of breath from between his teeth. “It’s alright, Jaskier. Roach will be fine. Most foalings happen without anyone even noticing. She has the instincts she needs to see this through on her own.” His thumb was brushing against Jaskier’s knee, back and forth like a metronome keeping time. “Still, I’m going to head out there and get her tail wrapped, make sure she has everything she needs and-”

“I’ll come with you.” The words were leaving Jaskier’s mouth before the thought had even fully processed in his mind. 

Blinking mystified, Geralt replied, “You don’t have to do that. It could be a long night and you should go back to bed.” 

“I’m coming with you and that’s final," he said with a determination that left little room for argument. Jaskier softened slightly, bringing his hand to cover Geralt’s where it still rested against his knee. Geralt’s knuckles were rough, milled by the toil of his work and the sensation sent a jolt down Jaskier’s spine. “Please, Geralt,” he hummed, soft and reverent, “I want to be there for her. I want to be there for you.”  

Geralt’s lips parted slightly, the edge of his teeth visible in the space between. Jaskier couldn’t help wondering what it would be like to delve into Geralt’s mouth, to feel the edge of those teeth along the flat of his tongue. There, in the curve of the couch with shoulders brushing and hands overlapping, it would have been easy to close the last sliver of distance between them. As easy as blinking, as easy as breathing. Natural and right as if there had never been in a time in their lives where their lips hesitated to meet. 

The screen on the tablet dimmed before turning off entirely and plunging Geralt and Jaskier into darkness. It felt oppressive after the burn of the light, but the weight of Geralt’s hand on his knee kept Jaskier grounded. “We uh, we should get going.” Geralt coughed. 

The molten gold of Geralt’s eyes burned like the afterimage of the sun in Jaskier’s mind as he nervously laughed, “Yes, right, of course. Can’t forget about our damsel in distress, now can we?” He slid forward off the couch, effectively dislodging Geralt’s hand. And Jaskier had to pretend as though it didn't kill him to do so, that the shape of Geralt’s palm didn’t still burn against his skin like a brand.  

****

Roach huffed hard, her nostrils flaring and moisture beading beneath the fringe of her forelock. She tossed her head, lips drawing back over her teeth as she let out with a piercing whinny. Jaskier longed to comfort her, sweep a hand down the length of her neck and whisper words of encouragement. Geralt, however, was apprehensive to allow him in the stall; not because he didn’t trust Jaskier, but because he didn’t trust Roach. She could be a bit ornery even at the best of times let alone while in the throes of labor and something told Jaskier no amount of sugar cubes would charm her.

There was no other choice for Jaskier other than to sit by, chin resting atop his folded arms over the stall door. His fingers drummed against the wood in an aimless rhythm. The bouncing of his heel against the concrete joined in. Jaskier couldn’t say he had ever seen a baby be born human, horse, or otherwise and the anticipation of it left him feeling more than a little on edge. His every nerve felt alight with anticipation and it bled from him like an open wound. 

Geralt, however, was as calm and collected as could be. He maneuvered around the stall with a languid grace as distributed fresh hay over the floor and freshened Roach’s water. Afterwards, Geralt wrapped her tail with a thin piece of cloth, ensuring it stayed clean and out of the way during the delivery. Now, Jaskier watched as Geralt stood by Roach’s side, wiping down her sweating flanks with a dampened cloth and whispering soothing sweet nothings. It was quite possibly the most tender thing Jaskier had ever witnessed. Something inside Jaskier told him he should be jealous that the object of Geralt’s affections was a horse, but honestly he was just fascinated. Amazed, even.    

“Alright, it’s showtime,” Geralt huffed breathlessly. Whether from apprehension or excitement, Jaskier couldn’t tell, but he was willing to bet it was a combination of the two. “You’ve got this, girl. I’ll be right here.” And Jaskier found himself hiding a grin behind the screen of his hand, feeling hopelessly endeared to Geralt and his little encouragements. 

After exiting the stall, Geralt perched himself next to Jaskier close enough that their shoulders brushed. It felt comfortable. It felt right. Like their proximity had never been limited to anything more than three feet. And tith the smile still playing on his lips, Jaskier sighed, “It’s incredible.” 

Geralt arched a brow, his golden eyes glimmering quizzically as he stated, “It’s just nature. It happens all the time.” 

“No, not that,” huffed Jaskier with a small laugh. “I mean you and Roach. The bond you share, it’s unlike anything I’ve seen before. I’ve traveled round all the world, met hundreds upon hundreds of people of every color and creed, yet I can confidently say that I have never seen anything like it.” 

Grinning shyly, Geralt chuckled, “That makes it sound a little weird.” 

“How dare you,” Jaskier gasped in mock affront, shoving his shoulder against Geralt’s, “Here I am trying to deliver poignant sentiment and here you are sullying it with jokes alluding to beastiality.” And Geralt laughed, free and truly. It was a sound sweeter than anything that could be made with notes or strings or keys. A strand of Geralt’s hair fell loose from its tie and Jaskier felt the overwhelming urge to tuck it back behind his ear. To feel the strands of it slip between his fingertips soft and fine as spider’s silk. Jaskier had to turn his thoughts elsewhere before he decided to make a fool of himself and act on them. “So, how long until we have ourselves a foal?” 

“By this point, I’d say somewhere within the next half-hour or so. Not much more we can do now except wait.” 

Jaskier hummed, nipping mindlessly at the uneven edge of one fingernail. With not much else to be done and with little distraction, Jaskier’s mind couldn’t help wandering. He thought about earlier, about the ease with which Geralt had moved on as if the events of earlier simply hadn’t happened. As if the night had carried on with laughter and light and they had all gone to bed with full hearts. As much as Jaskier wanted to pretend, to let himself live in such a pleasant dream, the guilt still weighed heavy in his heart. He felt he had to say something. Anything. Even if it was just a simple word of apology. 

“You know,” he began, feeling the warmth of Geralt’s attention shift to him. It made him squirm.  “This, um… this may not be the best time, but-” Geralt made no move to stop him, only waited patiently for Jaskier to swallow the doubt in his throat and continue, “I just wanted to apologize for earlier. You’ve been so kind and I know you were just trying to help me and I was, well, a right cock about it.” Geralt exhaled sharply through his nose, like he had suppressed a laugh. Jaskier felt he should have been upset, but that couldn’t have been any further from the truth. He found it endearing to know a silly little word like ‘cock’ could make Geralt laugh. It made Jaskier feel a bit more confident, helped to ease the tension in his heart. “Tomorrow, I promise to work harder to better myself. I would hate to disappoint you or hurt your reputation.” 

“Thank you, Jaskier.” Geralt’s voice was warm and honey sweet, seeping into the cracks of Jaskier’s world weary soul like a balm, “I appreciate your apology and I honestly want to apologize myself.” 

“Oh, no you don’t-” 

“I do. I pushed a boundary I shouldn’t have and for that I am sorry. Aside from that, Jaskier, I…” Jaskier looked up at Geralt then, saw the fervor burning molten bright in his eyes as he said, “I want you to get better for yourself. Not for your manager or your career or your fans and most definitely not for me or my reputation. I want you to think of doing things in the scope of your own sake. No one’s importance should be above your own and I desperately want you to see that.”

Jaskier was left speechless, an accomplishment very few could lay claim to. Anyone that knew Jaskier knew that he loved often and freely. He loved his family. He loved Madeleine and the crew who helped him in his work. He loved the thousands of nameless, faceless strangers who had, mystifyingly enough, deemed what he did a thing worth devoting their affections towards. But in those loves and all of their facets, Jaskier couldn’t say he had ever really thought to  reflect it inwards. He loved himself enough, or so he believed. He thought himself rather handsome, particularly about the eyes. He dressed well, spoke well. He liked to think himself at least moderately talented since he wouldn’t be where he was if he were mediocre. It was an arguably healthy mix of conceited and humble. 

But those were superficial things. Appearance, talent. When Jaskier looked in the mirror, did he think about things like patience and understanding? On his worst days, did he simply allow himself the grace of being human? No. He beat himself senseless over it. Every day he spent curled in his bed, every night he spent lying awake, Jaskier punished himself. There was no reason for him to feel as he did, no good one, anyways. Destiny had been kind to him far kinder than most. To feel the way that he did felt ungrateful. Selfish. And Jaskier wasn’t sure how to work past that. 

“Geralt, I don’t-” Began Jaskied, but Geralt lifted a hand to quiet him, his expression suddenly hard and grim. Jaskier trailed off, examining Geralt’s face for the reason for his sudden sobriety. Geralt leaned forward over the top of the stall, eyes narrowing as he looked intently at Roach. She kneeled down into the hay, flanks heaving, breath ragged. Something shone bright on the floor near her backside and Jaskier was horrified to find it looked like blood. “T-that’s normal, right?” asked Jaskier, doing his best to dull the edge of panic that cut through his voice. “That’s supposed to happen, right Geralt?”  

The line of Geralt’s jaw tightened as he murmured, “No, something’s not right.” 

“What do you-” But Jaskier was unable to finish before Geralt was throwing open the door and rushing into the stall, nearly slipping on the hay he had so meticulously laid out in his haste. He lowered himself as he made to approach Roach, murmuring lowly as he smoothed a hand along her damp, heaving flank. He peered over Roach’s side, to the place where her foal was beginning to emerge. The intake of his breath was sharp as freshly broken glass.     

“Jaskier!” There was a look of unbridled fear on his face as he turned back to Jaskier, a wide white sea around the gold of his iris. “Run back to the house! Get Eskel! Tell him it’s a red bag!” There was such alarm in his voice. It raised the hair on the back of Jaskier’s neck, awakening his most primal instincts of fight or flight. 

“Wh- I don’t-” 

“Now, please!” And that finally sent Jaskier running, his feet moving before his brain had even fully caught up. Jaskier’s lungs burned as if filled with fire. His muscles screamed as he pumped his arms and legs in a desperate struggle to get to the house as quickly as Geralt’s plea demanded. The path seemed to stretch out in front of him, the darkness and fear skewing reality into a waking nightmare. The house felt miles away. Centuries could have passed in the time it took for Jaskier to reach it.    

Bursting through the house as if the very hounds of hell bit at his heels, Jaskier tore down the hall and stumbled face first into Eskel’s door. He pounded on the wood with the flats of his palms, pleading for help. Eskel emerged not a moment later, sleep tousled and bleary eyed, but alert enough. He settled a wide hand over Jaskier’s shoulders. Urged him to take a breath. Once Jaskier had composed himself enough to convey Geralt’s message, however, Eskel was gone. Disappeared like the assistant in a magician’s vanishing act. Were his heart not galloping in his chest, Jaskier would have been impressed that a man of Eskel’s size could move with such speed.

Despite the burning of his lungs, Jaskier turned and followed as quickly as he could. By the time he returned to Roach’s stall, Eskel was already kneeling in the hay beside Geralt. Something flashed in Eskel’s hand like quicksilver. Jaskier belatedly recognized the object as a pocket knife and nausea rose up the back of his throat. He wasn’t sure what they were going to do with that and if he thought too hard about it he was sure he would start dry heaving. 

“Jaskier.” Jaskier still felt himself lost in that nightmare, so much so that he barely recognized the sound of his own name. It took him a moment to locate Geralt, his pale, panic-stricken face swimming into focus. “I’m going to need your help. Try to keep Roach calm, can you do that for me?” 

With his heart like a stone caught in his throat, Jaskier choked, “I don’t know if I can.” How could Geralt ask something so impossible of him? He could barely keep himself calm and Geralt knew this. 

“Jaskier please.” The desperate crack in Geralt’s voice broke Jaskier’s heart in a way he could never have fathomed until that moment. It pierced through the gaps in his ribs like an onslaught of arrows discharged from the bows of an army. It drew Jaskier into the stall. Drew him to the space beside Roach like the moon drawing the ocean from the shore. Jaskier kneeled in the hay, the stalks prodding through the fabric of his trousers. 

“Sssh, it’s alright, love…” He tried to sound reassuring, but his voice sounded thin and quiet. Roach tossed her head, a grunt low in her throat. Her damp forelock fanned out across her face and Jaskier gingerly brushed it away with a trembling hand. White ringed the outer edge of Roach’s normally placid eyes. Her nostrils flared as she huffed in pain and alarm. 

Something strange happened at that moment. Jaskier felt himself connected with Roach, connected on a level he had never before with any human being. There was such fear in her eyes as she looked up at him, fear that somehow seemed not much unlike his own. A mirror image, practically. She didn’t understand what was happening and felt herself betrayed by her own body and that was not so different from Jaskier when the panic clenched his heart and seized his lungs. No one should have to experience that, human, animal, or otherwise. He wanted desperately to spare her that pain, but there was little he could do, almost nothing he could offer. 

Except one thing.        

Jaskier felt himself brought back, taken to a time and place long before any of this. Before Geralt and Kaer Morhen, before the breakdown that brought him there, before even his fame which was, if he was speaking honestly, perhaps the beginning of it all. Jaskier thought back to a simpler time. A time when the scope of the world was restricted only to the confines of the village in which he grew up, to the four walls of the bedroom of which was his only domain. 

The wind howled outside Jaskier’s window. Julian. He had just been Julian, back then. Trees scraped the glass with their barren branches. In the play between the dark of the night and the light of the moon, their shadows looked like claws reaching out ready to snatch him from his bed. Julian screamed, throwing the blankets over his head with the kind of naivety only children were capable of. In his fright, he did not notice when the bedroom door opened. Julian squeaked as the bed dipped beside him, but calmed when he caught the familiar scent of his mother’s hand oil. Almond.

“Oh, little lark,” she crooned, lifting the shroud of his makeshift armor and passing a hand through his downy hair, “why don’t you sing with me?” And Julian would nestle himself into the circle of her arms and as his little heart slowed its skittish pitter-patter he would sing along with her. 

And here, back in the present, as the man Jaskier was now, he sang the same song he had all those years ago.           

“There… beneath the willow tree… I learned a lot about the way of things… I learned that everything has breath inside…” Jaskier’s voice was tight, the higher notes cracking beneath the strain to his underused vocal chords. It was a bit out of his natural range, though not impossible. He wanted nothing more than to stop. The melody felt like it was being wrung from him like water from a cloth, twisted tighter and tighter to squeeze each and every drop from him. 

And yet, still, he sang. Sang as if all life depended on it. Like the sun would blot out the moment his thready notes ceased. Jaskier didn’t know to which measures Geralt and Eskel were resorting to, to save Roach’s foal and, quite frankly, he didn’t want to either. He focused solely on the warble of his song and the comforting of Roach. Jaskier smoothed the palm of his hand down the length of her sweating neck. Brushed aside the damp strands of her mane and crooned his little song. 

Jaskier had sung the song nearly three times through before being drawn by Geralt’s whispered,   “Jaskier.” And he could not recall ever hearing his name spoken more softly, more reverently than in the way it fell from Geralt’s lips. A prayer as if Jaskier were a thing worth that devotion. 

Dazedly, Jaskier turned towards Geralt. The world around him felt dim and hazy around the edges in the way it did in a dream. For whatever reason, Jaskier found himself captivated by the fall of Geralt’s hair. Several of the silvery strands had fallen free of their tie and curled against the sides of his face like rogue bolts of lightning. It seemed the clearest thing in all this mist and distortion.      

Geralt’s hand reached for him slowly, tentatively, with outstretched fingers as he whispered, “It’s alright, Jaskier. It’s over.” He touched those fingers against the back of Jaskier’s hand with the lightest of pressures, feeling him out like Jaskier was a wild animal that could turn and bite given the wrong move. When Jaskier did not flinch from his touch, Geralt pressed onward. The warmth of his hand slid gradually over Jaskier’s own. It sharpened  the edges of the world around him, bringing the reality of what had just occurred back into focus. 

“The… the foal-” Jaskier gasped, voice teetering on the edge of hysteria. Geralt hushed him and stroked the back of his hand with measured movements. The sensation of his calloused palms was soothing in a way Jaskier hadn’t expected. Like little waves lapping at the ocean’s shore.  

“It’s alright. Everything is alright. Look.” He angled his shoulders, allowing Jaskier to look past to where a damp, wrinkled shape lay shivering in the hay. Jaskier kneeled forward, squinting as his eyes struggled to make out the details. Short, wiry hair and gangly legs. A small narrow face emblazoned with the white patch of a star. The foal let out with a soft whine, ears flicking back and forth in a mix of curiosity and alarm. 

Breath catching in his throat, Jaskier gasped, “Oh… oh, dear thing…” The world outside was so bright and loud compared to the cushioned dark of its mother’s womb. It was too much to grasp, all the sounds and colors and scents. It was a familiar kind of terror, so much that Jaskier could feel it growing in his own chest like a rot. Lifting a trembling hand, Jaskier reached out. If he could only comfort it. Show it that it wasn’t alone in this riot of existence.  

Geralt took Jaskier’s hand and cradled it against his chest, thumb brushing against the back of it in the same soothing motion he had been making all along as he whispered, “Watch.”

Roach had sat up, craning her neck back to look at the miserable little creature that lay beside her. She knickered quietly, nostrils flaring with the huff of her breath as she sniffed at the foal. It shrunk back a little, at first, but recognition seemed to dawn in its dark eyes. Like it had found its way, the sight of the shore after a storm. Roach knickered again low and adorant as she began to nuzzle at her foal, licking soothing stripes over its little face. The foal leaned into the comfort and safety of its mother’s touch and snorted with contentment. To have witnessed something like this, the first tender moments between a mother and her newborn, was nothing short of miraculous.           

“It’s a boy. We have a colt.” 

With a breathless laugh, Jaskier collapsed onto his backside. His legs had given out from beneath him, the adrenaline of the ordeal draining his system and leaving him as weak and unsteady as the foal in the hay. He laughed again because he did not know what else to do. It came from him in short, erratic bursts. Geralt was not laughing with him, his mouth flat and tight and colorless. Where was his joy? They had skirted the edges of disaster, Geralt should have been positively jubilant. And yet he sat there, disheveled and forlorn.  

The world was growing increasingly blurry and panic spiked in Jaskier’s chest, but when felt the first hot droplet roll down his cheek he knew what was happening. Jaskier was crying. It started with a whimper and wheedled its way up his throat like an escaping bubble of air. He clapped a trembling hand over his mouth, a vain attempt to stop the next whimper as it followed immediately in the wake of the first. Jaskier’s breath hitched painfully in his chest, his whole body lurching with the force of it. 

Jaskier could no longer see through the blur of tears, but he could still feel Geralt’s hand clasped around his own as he whispered, “It’s alright, Jaskier. Don’t fight it anymore. Let it out.” Jaskier tried to speak, but it was impossible to get his words past the emotion lodged in his throat. He wanted to tell Geralt that he couldn’t do it. That he feared if he finally let this emotion go that there would be nothing left to him once it was gone. Sadness though it was, what would be left of Jaskier if it no longer weighed down his heart? It was all he was now. All he knew how to be. 

Curling in on himself, Jaskier keened as he struggled to keep it all locked away. It was so painful, like trying to hold fire in his hands. There was no going forward and yet no way back and Jaskier sat there trapped in the space between the two of them. Pulled ceaselessly by their gravities to the point where he swore he could feel his bones creak under the strain of it. He was no star. He was no god. He was just a man too weary and spent to hold himself together any longer. 

But he didn’t have to. 

Geralt crawled towards him, enveloping Jaskier in a slow, deliberate embrace. Jaskier could have backed off, could have wriggled his way out like a wary rabbit with a snare, but he didn’t. He sat there and let Geralt take him in the circle of his arms, his body like an anchor holding Jaskier fast against the rising tide of his emotion. A sob wrenched itself from Jaskier’s throat, raw and jagged like a ripped seam. 

“I’m here,” Geralt hushed, his voice that low rumble of distant thunder. He rubbed the space between Jaskier’s shoulder blades, rocked him back and forth like a babe in the cradle, “I’ve got you.” And it was like a lock being opened. With Geralt’s assurance, with his weight and his warmth, Jaskier finally gave in. Let himself be dragged under into the depths of his grief. Another sob tore itself free and then another and another until the barn was filled with his desperate cries. And as much as it felt like being torn limb from limb, somewhere deep, deep inside him Jaskier felt just the smallest bit lighter.  

****

In the aftermath of everything, the calmness of the night seemed all the more still. No crickets sang their song nor fireflies flickered with light. Not even the wind dared blow the gentlest breeze, the grass tall and unruffled against the dark curtain of the sky. It was serene in an unexpected way. Normally, Jaskier found this sort of stillness unbearable, compelled to fill it with movement or sound to drown out the deafening roar of nothingness. But here, perched atop the top rung of the corral fence, Jaskier felt oddly calm. Numb, perhaps, seemed the more appropriate term. 

Jaskier’s tears had since dried, but his cheeks still felt sticky with their residue. His eyes still burned with their salt. The sobs wracked his body for what felt like hours, burning through him and leaving him hollowed out like the weariness after the rage of a fever. Jaskier had suppressed his grief for so long that now that he had released it he felt empty. The weight of it in his heart had been a strange sort of comfort and without it now he felt untethered. 

“Jaskier.”

Jaskier blinked slowly at the sound of his name. It sounded strange in his ears, like he suddenly could not comprehend it being a thing that belonged to him. Something slipped around his shoulders and the weight and warmth of it brought him a little clarity. It was a blanket, not the same as the one that sat folded on the end of his bed, but definitely of the same make. Geralt came into Jaskier’s line of sight, his shirt changed and his hair freshly tied back. “I thought maybe you were cold. You were shivering.” 

“Oh… I hadn’t realized.” Jaskier’s fingers were feeling a little less numb, but at his core he still felt chilled. Jaskier had the feeling it was something that could not be solved by a blanket. 

Geralt climbed up and perched himself on the fence beside Jaskier. They were close enough that Jaskier could have leaned into Geralt and nestled himself against the shape of his side if he only had the mind to. Geralt allowed a few beats of silence to pass before he asked, “Are you feeling a little better now?” 

Jaskier shrugged his shoulders, the tassels of the blankets bobbing against his chest with the movement, “I don’t know just yet. I’m not really feeling much of anything at the moment.” 

“That’s pretty normal. That was a lot of emotion to deal with at once and it can leave you feeling spent.” Whether or not that was a comfort, Jaskier was not sure. It was a relief to know that what he was experiencing was normal, but it did not make the sensation of apathy less unsettling. For Jaskier, someone who had always prided himself on his empathetic prowess, it was especially bewildering.               

Silence lapsed between them once again as Geralt waited patiently for Jaskier to collect himself. “Was there ever a real danger or was it a fabrication meant to break through to me?”

“No, that was real,” Geralt replied gravely. “Roach was delivering the placenta before the foal. Had we not worked as quickly as we did we could’ve lost him.” Jaskier lifted his head, looked across the field to where Roach and her colt were huddled just outside the stable. The colt teetered his way across the grass, inspecting the blades with curiosity. Jaskier imagined, for a moment, a world where the colt didn’t exist. Where he had never taken a breath or seen his mother’s face or felt the grass tickle his muzzle. It made Jaskier unbearably sad. 

Guilt roiled hot in Jaskier’s stomach as he whispered, “I’m sorry. That was a terrible thing for me to say. I know what Roach means to you.” Jaskier was still learning the ways of Geralt’s wordless language, but he suspected his responding hum forgave Jaskier’s cruelty. It was far more than what he deserved. And still, it did not seem that Geralt was done with him. 

“Thank you," breathed Geralt, soft and tender as he had earlier. 

“Whatever for?” rasped Jaskier in dismay. As far as he was concerned, his contribution to the situation had been modest at best. 

“I couldn’t have delivered the foal on my own. You’re the one who ran for help. And then you kept Roach calm. No doubt she was terrified and your actions helped soothe her enough so we could work.” Geralt’s voice grew thick, then. Perhaps it was just the refraction of the light from the retreating moon, but Jaskier swore he could see Geralt’s eyes growing damp. “Honestly, I can’t even think about what would’ve happened if you weren’t there.” 

Something fluttered in Jaskier’s heart then. The phantom of some emotion that his spent little heart just wasn’t ready to feel again just yet. Jaskier breathed, “Ah, well, then I suppose it was my honor. I’m happy just to have helped.”    

Silence lapsed between them though it did not feel uncomfortable. It felt like breathing room. Like a moment of reprieve. Together, Jaskier and Geralt sat in companionable silence as they watched the colt explore the world with wonder. It was a heartening sight.  

It was Geralt who first spoke again. “That song you sang… it was beautiful.” 

“My mother used to sing it when I was child.” Jaskier breathed a quiet laugh, “Strange, I had almost forgotten it until now. I remember it used to make me feel so safe.” 

“Then maybe that’s why it came to you. Something in you knew that you needed that feeling," offered Geralt. Jaskier hummed in response. “How did it feel, to sing again?”

Tugging the blanket tighter around himself, Jaskier shrugged once again and said, “I don’t really know. It’s all a right sort of mess at the moment, but I think I feel relieved? I had been so terrified for so long that I had been abandoned by the muses and to find that I had not truly been lost, that combined with-” He paused, waving his hand in a sort of vague all encompassing gesture- “everything, I’m afraid it was a bit too much.”

The sky was beginning to change color now. Less of a black and more of a gray. Dawn could not have been far off now and after the endlessness of this night, the prospect of seeing the sun again lightened Jaskier’s weary heart. The night, however, was not yet finished with Jaskier. If Jaskier wanted to greet the dawn as a new man, there were still some demons in need of exorcizing. 

“Geralt?” Jaskier received a hum of reply. “I want to tell you about what happened.” 

“You’ve been through enough tonight, Jaskier. Don’t feel that you have to do more than what you’ve already done.” 

“No," bit Jaskier, his voice sharper than he intended, like the prick of a needle. Jaskier licked his lips, steadying himself with a slow breath. In, one, two, three. Out, one, two, three. “I’m sick of ignoring it. I’m sick of pretending it doesn’t exist in the hopes that it’ll magically disappear. I need to confront it right here, right now, or I fear I may never be able to move forward.” Jaskier turned to Geralt, his teeth worrying into the soft flesh of his lower lip as he said, “Will you listen?” 

Without even a moment of hesitation, Geralt replied, “Of course. Always.”          

“It started a couple of years ago,” began Jaskier, his voice a tight whisper. “I started getting these jitters before performances. My fingers felt wrong, like the joints were locking up. It spread to cramping in my muscles. My whole body felt taut like an over-tuned string. I’d pace backstage, jump and shake and do anything to make it feel as though I weren’t slowly petrifying. For a while, I was able to ignore it, but then it spread to my lungs…” Jaskier pressed a hand against his chest, massaged his fingertips absently into the hard plate of his sternum. 

Geralt did not touch Jaskier, but shifted ever so slightly closer to his side. The warmth of his presence beside Jaskier was enough of a comfort without being overwhelming to his frayed senses. Jaskier knew, however, were he to only reach out that Geralt would not hesitate to meet him. He swiped his tongue over his lip before he choked out, “It felt like I couldn’t b-breathe.” Even now he could feel that familiar vice, his ribs closing around the tenderness of his lungs like the teeth of a bear trap.  

“Deep breaths, Jaskier, steady breaths,” Geralt rumbled low and soothing, like a great house cat purring in the lap of its owner. “You’re safe here, remember that.”  

Nodding his head, Jaskier drew a breath through his nose and pushed it out between the purse of his lips. In, one, two, three. Out, one, two, three. When the snare of his ribcage loosened, Jaskier continued, “I went to the doctor. Several doctors, actually, fearing that something was horrifically wrong with me. After all the serendipity of my life, I believed fate had come to knock me from my perch. But my tests came back normal. Passed the evaluations with flying colors. I was fit as a fiddle in every physical way which, of course, left only one conclusion…” Jaskier could still remember the look on the doctor’s face, the flat press of his lips, the furrow of his graying brows. Pity. He had looked at Jaskier with such pity that one would’ve thought he had diagnosed Jaskier with a terminal illness. The memory made his skin itch. Set his teeth on edge. 

“Just because an illness is categorized as mental does not make your physical symptoms any less legitimate," assured Geralt.   

Jaskier laughed, a bitter thing like the snap of a twig. “That certainly isn’t the way I was made to feel about it. He made it seem as though it were a thing I could simply will away. Something as mundane as resisting the urge to drink excessively or eat a second helping of cake.” Jaskier pressed his face into the curve of his palms, pushing his fingers up to rake through the sheaf of his hair. “And I tried, I really fucking tried, but it was bleeding into everything. I started having trouble sleeping, I didn’t even want to think about eating, and that just made everything worse. A vicious, unending cycle.   

“They tried giving me medication and even that was like petrol on a campfire. I swung violently between so dazed I could barely keep focused and so restless I felt ready to jump out of my own skin.” Jaskier clenched his fists in his hair, centered himself on the pull of his scalp. The numbness inside him was wearing, like nerves reawakening in a sleeping limb.  

“It got to the point where I dreaded performing. Was utterly petrified of it. Would I be able to make it through without breaking down? Would my fingers fumble on the frets? Could I collect the breath needed to sing? There were hundreds of people- thousands, tens of thousands- all there to see me perform. Me. And I felt like I couldn’t remember the words to my own songs. Couldn’t remember the chord progressions I had written with my own hands.” 

Jaskier began to tremble, starting in the bounce of his heel to his knee then up and through him like the shifting of tectonic plates becoming an earthquake on the surface of the Earth above. “And then came that festival, oh that bloody festival. I had been going on my fourth night with no sleep and was subsisting on a diet of coffee to combat the exhaustion and protein shakes because I couldn’t bear to eat anything solid without it feeling like a rock in my stomach.

“And Madeleine, dear thing, was trying everything she could to help me, but I was entirely shot. The only thing that could have helped me at that point was a hard blow to the back of the head, honestly. Madeleine tried to convince me to back out, but I… I couldn’t do that. I was the headliner, Geralt. The headliner! Thousands of people had waited all day and paid good money just to see me."

Jaskier wrung his hands together, the nails of his left hand leaving little pink lines where they scratched over the back of his right. “My fans, they mean everything to me. They’re the loveliest people and I would still be busking on street corners and playing wedding receptions were it not for them. And so, the show went on. I… I can’t remember everything from that night. It’s like flashes from a drunken bender or a nightmare. I remember the lights being inordinately bright. The jack on one of the amplifiers must not have been plugged in correctly and it was buzzing in my skull like a scream. I was so dazed I couldn’t remember which song we were opening with… I think I played a few chords, but after that it’s all…” Jaskier’s words trailed off, disappearing into the air like wisps of smoke. He stared vaguely off into the distance, the world in his periphery bleeding into an amalgamation of shapes and shades of blue and gray. He felt himself drifting, floating somewhere between awareness and oblivion.        

Then, in the gentlest of tones, Geralt asked, “Tell me, Jaskier… when did you stop singing for yourself?” 

“I-I don’t…”

Geralt’s brows furrowed, his eyes bright and gleaming as they bore into Jaskier and he reiterated, “When did you stop singing for yourself?”

Jaskier found himself at a loss, bewildered by Geralt’s strange question. Of course Jaskier sang for himself and always had. It was his greatest passion, his most laudable talent. He had been born with a song in his heart and he had been singing it from the moment he had drawn his first breath. Sure, Jaskier could have been something simple and mundane like an accountant or a teacher, but he had chosen this life because it was meant for him. Music was not only a passion, it was the sun at the very center of his being. The thing around which all others revolved. Without it, Jaskier would not be Jaskier. 

Seeing Jaskier’s confusion, Geralt tried to clarify, “Earlier, when I talked about looking at things through the scope of yourself, this is the thing I mean. Implying that you stopped singing for yourself entirely may be an extreme. I know it’s still something you love, but there came a point where the expectations of your career overpowered it. It wasn’t only about creating music for the love of it, it also became about fulfilling your contracts, performing, selling albums, and satisfying your fans. That’s a lot of pressure.” 

Tugging the blanket tighter around his shoulders, Jaskier looked away. What Geralt was saying did make a lot of sense, but it still felt wrong. Felt wrong in the way an improperly sized coat felt wrong. It kept out the cold and staved off the rain, but the sleeves were too long and the hem dragged in the mud. “But I… those were the things that motivated me. I wouldn’t have pushed myself so hard had I thought there was no one who wanted to hear me…” 

“I understand and it’s good to have things that drive us, but… think, when’s the last time you sang just for the fun of it? Where you didn’t think about where a song would place on the charts or whether it would play repeatedly on the radio?” 

Jaskier opened his mouth, prepared for an answer to appear like magic on his tongue, but nothing emerged beyond a weak puff of breath. He carded through his most recent memories, then further going back weeks, months, years all in a desperate search for an answer. He came up with nothing. Every whistle, every hum, even the mindless drum of his fingers seemed to always hold an underlying purpose- what could be made from it? Could this melody become his next hit? Could this rhythm make for a good baseline or a drumbeat? Jaskier couldn’t recall a recent time where he simply let the music flow through him without thought of what it could become. To just let it out into the world without pretense or expectation. To do nothing more than revel in the release and joy of just making noise.  

The fence creaked beneath them as Geralt shifted his weight, drawing Jaskier back to the present, “Gods, you’re right,” He wheezed like the breath had been knocked from him, “you’re right about all of it. I love making music, always have and always will, but I can’t remember the last time I just enjoyed it for what it was. Where I just sang for the fun of it…” 

“Alright, then how about we try it?” suggested Geralt and Jaskier blinked at him, bewildered by it. 

“Wait, you mean… like now? Like, right now?” 

The corner of Geralt’s mouth twitched, pulling up into a charming little grin. “If you’re feeling up to it. It could be anything. A jingle from a commercial or a couple scales. It could be the most random assortment of notes you can think of. The first that pops into your head. Don’t think about the things it could be, just enjoy it for what it is.” 

And Jaskier felt very small then, like a child standing at the edge of the pool working up the courage to dive in. He could swim, he knew that he could, yet the deep blue of the water’s depth made him doubt himself. Could Jaskier let go of all his doubts and insecurities to just let himself sing? A weight settled warm and steady just above Jaskier’s knee. He looked down to see Geralt’s hand, placed just as it had been earlier in the living room with his thumb brushing against the ridge of the bone. 

Jaskier closed his eyes and drew a steadying breath, doing his best to relax the muscles in his neck and shoulders. He opened his mouth, felt the shape of the sound where it sat stuck at the base of his vocal chords. He willed it up, fought to expel it from his throat not much unlike, he thought with mild disgust, a cat trying to cough up a hairball. Jaskier swallowed thickly. “S-sorry, this is harder for some reason. It felt easier when I had less time to think about it…” And Geralt didn’t shame him for it. Only waited patiently, his thumb keeping up its short, even strokes against Jaskier’s knee like a metronome keeping time. 

Trying again, Jaskier gave his throat a good, hard clearing. He just had to jump. He just had to make a sound. The longer he sat there thinking the harder it would become. The deeper the water would seem.  

 The note burst from Jaskier’s lips like a firework, quick and exuberant. The sound of it echoed into the night, startling the colt and interrupting his grass inspection. He raised his fuzzy head, his ears perked and attentive. Jaskier grinned at Geralt sheepishly, “S-sorry, that wasn’t very good was it?” 

“Did it make you feel good?” Asked Geralt and, tentatively, Jaskier nodded his head. Then with all the tenderness and sincerity in the world, Geralt replied, “Then it was beautiful.” And that made Jaskier’s heart flutter, quick and brilliant like bird wings. It couldn’t have been true, but still it emboldened him. And so he tried it again, finding it somewhat easier this time around.

One note turned into two turned into three until Jaskier was singing whole melodies. He sang all the scales from major and minor to harmonic and melodic. He sang the jingle for Little Whiskers cat treats. A Tousaintoise nursery rhyme meant to help children learn their colors. An old Redanian folk song his grandmother used to sing whenever she made potato dumplings. An assortment of arbitrary notes spanning from the heights to the depths of his vocal range and everywhere in between. 

At some point Jaskier had slid from his perch on the fence and had wandered into the grassy field. He puffed out his chest, raised his chin, and threw open his arms. He swayed and spun, the blanket still wrapped around his shoulders like a shawl with the tassels bouncing against his chest. And he sang and sang and sang. And it felt fresh and new. It felt worn and familiar. His voice was raw and weary from disuse, but Jaskier found he didn’t care much. The joy it felt to just sing, to make noise for nothing else other than the fuck of it made him feel alive in a way he hadn’t felt in months. 

By the end of it, Jaskier was flushed and panting, the chill of the early morning air turning his breaths into clouds of mist. It felt like clouds of smoke, like he was breathing fire. And Jaskier tipped his head to the sky where the first rays of dawn were cutting into the fading gray of the night and simply let himself be in that moment. Simply let himself exist. No past, no future, just the present. 

Jaskier turned back to Geralt, the man looking back at him with such a look of pride it made his heart swell. This man, this man had saved him. What rotten work it must have been, but he hadn’t given up. Never faltered in the conviction that Jaskier was capable of experiencing happiness once again. What Jaskier had done to earn that kind of devotion, he didn’t know, but whatever it was he couldn’t have been more grateful to Geralt who stood there with the breaking dawn casting his pale hair in soft shades of pink and gold. He was beautiful, so very beautiful. 

Crossing back to the fence, Jaskier took Geralt’s hands within his own and in a moment of blind euphoria pressed his lips to Geralt’s knuckles. “Thank you,” He uttered, his voice teetering on the edge of a whimper, “You helped me find my song again.” 

It may have been the reflection of the early morning light, but Jaskier could’ve sworn Geralt’s eyes looked wet. He didn’t get to inspect further for Geralt was tugging on Jaskier’s hands, drawing him in against his chest and holding him in an embrace. With his head a little clearer, Jaskier could enjoy how it felt to be fitted against Geralt’s frame. The dips and curves of their bodies seemed almost matched to each other, like two halves long separated made whole once again. Jaskier tucked his chin in the crook of Geralt’s shoulder and breathed in the fullest breath he could, holding onto it and the feeling of his chest flush against Geralt’s. The sun at last broke over the horizon as they stood there locked into the circle of each other’s arms. And it felt like a revelation. The long night had at last ended and here, once again, was the sun. 

Geralt stumbled forward into Jaskier, his grip growing instinctively tighter in an effort to keep them both from falling forward. Jaskier lifted his head and was shocked to be met with Roach’s white lipped muzzle. She had appeared behind Geralt, nickering and bumping her head between his shoulder blades in a bid for his attention. 

Jaskier chuckled, reaching his hand out behind Geralt and running a hand up the stripe of Roach’s face, “Oh, I’m so sorry, my love. I didn’t mean to steal Geralt from you. If anyone should be getting all the affection it should be you.” And Roach snorted in response as if she agreed. Geralt and Jaskier reluctantly extricated themselves from each other. Geralt’s warmth still lingered over Jaskier’s chest and he felt cold without it. He wrapped the blanket more tightly around himself, but it did little to help. It wasn’t the sort of chill that could be fixed by something like a blanket. 

Reaching his hands under the curve of her jaw, Geralt pressed his forehead to Roach’s and Jaskier found himself once again struck by the bond the two of them shared. “That’s my girl,” He murmured, sliding his palms down either side of her neck in long strokes, “You did so well.” And she snorted in approval, clearly enjoying his ministrations. 

The foal stood just behind his mother on his new, unsteady legs. It was obvious his mother was comfortable with this company, but it seemed he was not yet sure what to make of them. Jaskier kneeled down to make himself seem more approachable, holding out a placating hand and clicking his tongue, “C’mon, sweetling, no need to be afraid.” The foal swished his tail, flicked his ears. He took a step forward and then one back, caught between his curiosity and his fear. In the end, it seemed his curiosity won out and he stumbled to Jaskier and pressed his soft muzzle into Jaskier’s waiting palm.             

“Little guy’s gonna need a name," said Geralt, brushing a hand down the colt’s stiff mane. “Any suggestions?” 

Jaskier blinked. “You want me to name him?” and Geralt confirmed with the incline of his head. “Wow, what an honor. Alright, little one, what shall we call you? There’s absolutely no pressure since this is only the name you’ll have for the rest of your life, so…” Jaskier looked the colt up and down, trying to draw up some inspiration. His coat was a shade or two darker than his mothers, his frame lean and lanky, and he had a patch of white between his eyes that looked a bit like a blossoming flower. Jaskier hummed, pressing a knuckle against the bow of his lips as he thought and eventually said, “Dandelion. A spot of brightness in an otherwise dark landscape and resilient as all hell.”  

Geralt hummed appraisingly, “It’s settled, then. Dandelion it is.”

****

“You don’t have to sing it right, but who could call you wrong? Just put your emptiness to melody, your awful heart to song. You don’t have to sing it nice, but honey sing it stro- o-oi knock it off!” Jaskier yelped as he teetered precariously from his perch at the top rung of the corral fence. It didn’t help that he had his guitar in his lap and was trying desperately to keep it from slipping his grasp and falling into the mud below. 

Dandelion looked rather pleased with himself, snorting and swishing his stubby tail as he nudged playfully at Jaskier’s legs. Jaskier was not paying him enough attention and he wanted Jaskier to know it. Grinning despite his close brush with catastrophe, Jaskier laughed. “You cheeky little thing! Fancy yourself a critic, now do you?” Dandelion flicked his ears and nickered. “Oh, I see how it is. While I value your opinion as a friend, I’m choosing to ignore it because you’re only a week old and haven’t been exposed to enough music to really know anything.”

It seemed Dandelion wasn’t interested in any form of intelligent conversation, only silly times. He rubbed his fuzzy head against Jaskier’s legs, flicking his ears and snorting hot, damp breaths. It was rather endearing up until the moment Dandelion started to nip at the leg of Jaskier’s trousers. “Little scamp! Just wait until your mother hears about your naughty behavior. I assure you, she won’t be pleased.” 

A high whistle pierced the air. Dandelion bolted upright, ears perked at full attention. Across the field, Geralt was striding towards them with Roach loping dutifully beside him. “Speak of the devil. You’re in for it now, love.” But Dandelion didn’t care much for anything else Jaskier had to say. He took off across the field, tossing his head and letting out peals of high pitched whinnies. He skittered around Geralt and Roach, his little hooves kicking up the dirt. Geralt grinned, ruffling Dandelion’s short, wiry mane as the foal pranced by and settled himself beneath Roach for a little midmorning snack.

Jaskier watched as Geralt continued towards him, pretending not to be mesmerized by the sway of his hips or the otherworldly glow of his hair in the sunlight. Folding his arms over his chest, Geralt leaned beside Jaskier on the fence. The smell of his cologne carried on the breeze and made Jaskier lightheaded in a pleasant, drunken kind of way. “Look at you. Becoming a morning person are you?” Geralt asked with amusement.   

“It’s a wonder how a couple good nights of sleep can change a man. Truly. I hardly recognize myself without the bags under my eyes.” Geralt shook his head, but his exasperation was nothing more than a ruse to mask his endearment. Jaskier’s heart fluttered with thrill at the knowledge that he was getting under Geralt’s skin.  

“All packed?” asked Geralt, something flashing in his eyes as they looked out across the field. Jaskier could not explain it, but it made something tighten in his chest. 

“Just about,” replied Jaskier, somewhat solemnly. The room he had called his own for the last month was clean of his belongings save for the few items he would need in the morning before he was collected. It felt bittersweet. Jaskier was never meant to stay here forever and his leaving meant that he was recovered enough to return to his normal life. Still, he couldn’t help the twinge of melancholy as he took his books from the windowsill and his shoes from beside the door. Jaskier’s clothes had smelled like cedar as he packed them into his traveling case. He wondered how long the scent would linger. How many times would he be able to press his nose into the folds and remember something simpler?      

“Feeling nervous?” asked Geralt, his brow arched. 

Shrugging, Jaskier replied, “I would be lying if I said I wasn’t, but it would be as much of a lie to say that I wasn’t excited as well. I feel ready to get back out there. To take what I’ve learned here and start things fresh.” In his heart of hearts, Jaskier was an artist. An entertainer. He thrived off the attentions of an adoring public in the way a flower thrived in the shine of the sun. And, beyond that, Jaskier had a more magnanimous plan in mind for his grand return to the stage. “I want to share my story. Full exposure, no modifications or redactions. Once, I would have been ashamed of my condition, but I’m not now. I think it’s important to be candid about what has been happening and why I was gone.”

Geralt looked surprised, brows raising as he cautioned, “That won’t be an easy road, you know. As unfortunate as it is, the world isn’t very kind or understanding towards those struggling with mental illness.” 

“I know,” Jaskier affirmed, tossing Geralt a sprightly smile, “but I’ve never found any interest in taking the easy road. Besides…” and Jaskier grew pensive then, staring into the creases of his palms. His skin had grown thicker in the last month. A testament to what he had endured here and how it had made him stronger. “It’s important to share a story like mine. If what you say is true and millions of people are struggling as I am, then those people will need an advocate. Surely not everyone will have someone to help them through it like I’ve had you. If I can help just one person through my song or my speech or my actions, then I will be satisfied.”  Geralt smiled at him with all the radiance of the sun. It was enough that warmth pooled sweet and content in the pit of Jaskier’s belly. 

“I’ve got something for you.” Geralt dug into his pocket and withdrew a cellphone. Jaskier’s cell phone. He very nearly didn’t recognize the thing despite it bearing his signature buttercup print case. Geralt held it out, and Jaskier, hesitantly, took it. After a month without it, the shape and weight of it felt strange within his grasp. “Figured you’d be needing it back. You’re going to have to keep in touch with us somehow.”  

An ache swelled in Jaskier’s heart. Having his phone back felt like a finality, a reminder that this little dream was coming to an end. But it was bittersweet, because even though his time at Kaer Morhen was ending, it seemed Geralt was not through with him yet. Chuckling, Jaskier said, “Have you any idea what you’re inviting? I’ll be texting you constantly.” 

“Ciri’s always complaining about how bad I am at it. It’ll give me the chance to practice.” 

“I’m utter rubbish at remembering time changes, too. I’m sure at some point I’ll end up calling you at an absurd hour by mistake babbling about a beach I visited or something else trival.”

“Like the animals don’t already keep me up at all kinds of hours? I’m used to it. And I haven’t traveled much so I’d be interested to hear about some of the places you go.”

Jaskier sighed, “Very well, then allow me this in return. Each show, every show, I’ll make sure everyone in my entourage knows that you’re to be given unrestricted backstage access wherever I am. And I can arrange anything else you require, as well. Flights, hotels. There’s no limits for you, dear friend. I’d move heaven and Earth if only you asked it of me.”

Geralt chuckled, a soft sound like the rumble of thunder, “Have you any idea what you’re inviting?” And, were he a braver man, Jaskier swore he could have kissed that man silly. Oh, that would have taught Geralt a lesson in being a smartass. But that seemed like a boundary Jaskier wasn’t meant to cross. Or maybe it was. He was still thinking about it.  

 “Oh, I’ve an idea given Ciri’s tenacity, but I feel it’s the least I can do.” Nothing would ever feel adequate enough to express his gratitude to Geralt and his family, but damn if he wasn’t still going to try. “And perhaps you can even see one of those beaches. The coast can be a lovely place to visit.” 

And Geralt hummed his approval, his eyes warm and clear like honey in the sunlight. And it wasn’t for the first time that day that Jaskier marveled at how truly handsome Geralt was. Geralt’s gaze flickered down to the phone still sitting awkwardly in Jaskier’s palm. “Well,” he began, almost as if it were a challenge. “Aren’t you going to turn it on? I’m sure you’re dying to know what’s been going on in the world since you’ve been away.” 

Jaskier looked down at his phone. The blackness of the screen reflected the world around him. The blue sky and its candy floss clouds. The glass green shards of leaves from the nearby tree. Geralt and his starlight colored hair and his honey colored eyes. “No,” Jaskier finally said. “No, I don’t think I will. I think I’d just like to be here in this moment… with you.” 

With pink cheeks, Geralt cleared his throat. “G-good, good I’m glad you’re putting yourself first. You’ve grown so much since you first came here. Out of all the people who’ve come here for help, I can’t say I’ve ever felt this way about them-” Jaskier’s heart jumped. Geralt seemed to notice the implication of his choice of words and scrambled to clarify, “T-that is to say I… I’m proud of you, Jaskier.” 

And Jaskier’s heart swelled in his chest, full enough that he believed it could lift him from his feet and pull him up into the boundless blue above. It took a moment for him to get a breath in around the girth of his heart, but at least Jaskier breathed, “Wow, I… I don’t know what to say except… thank you, Geralt. For everything.” 

The corner of Geralt’s mouth curled sheepishly as he shrugged. “You did all the hard work. I just gave you a little push in the right direction.” 

Jaskier barked a wet laugh, finding himself feeling rather sentimental all of a sudden. He rubbed the heel of his hand against his eye. “Can’t you just take my thanks? You’re far too humble. I dare say a little egotism might do you some good.” 

Silence settled between them, light and serene like a sheet of fresh fallen snow. They were so close to one another. Geralt’s face was angled up towards him, the sunlight playing off the sharp planes of his face and giving him a softer appearance. His eyes were hooded, translucent lashes shimmering as they brushed the tops of cheeks when he blinked at Jaskier entrancingly. The bow of his lips was such a tempting shape and Jaskier wondered what it would be like to follow the curve with his thumb. With his tongue.      

“Oh, fuck it.” And Jaskier took Geralt’s face between his hands, pressing their lips together in a fervent rush. For a brief, excruciating moment, Jaskier feared that he had perhaps read the atmosphere wrong, Geralt growing still as stone against him. But just as Jaskier was about to pull away, a string of apologies already forming on his tongue, Geralt’s hand snuck behind Jaskier’s head and pushed them back together. He licked eagerly into Jaskier’s mouth, their chins and noses bumping in their passion. Geralt’s tongue tasted like coffee and the scrape of his stubble against Jaskier’s chin made him shiver with delight. He felt like a teenager again getting his first real kiss behind the stands at a football match.       

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier gasped when at last they seperated, cheeks flushed and lips swelling. “That may have been a bit impulsive of me-” 

“No,” soothed Geralt, pressing his hands over Jaskier’s where they had remained bracketed either side of his face. “No, I’ve been wanting to do that for days, but I was trying to be professional.” 

“Fuck that." declared Jaskier unabashedly, making Geralt laugh.   

Leaning forward, Geralt pressed his forehead to Jaskier’s. “Well, if that’s the case, then I would very much like to kiss you again.” The rumble of his voice sent a thrill through Jaskier, sparking in his nerve endings like little static shocks. 

“Oh, I would like very much for you to kiss me again.” Jaskier grinned as he wound his arms around Geralt’s shoulders, drawing him closer and combing his fingers through the silken sheaf of Geralt’s hair. It was just as soft as Jaskier had imagined and that left him feeling absolutely delighted. Jaskier’s fingers were still working through Geralt’s hair as he hummed, “And then I’d like you to kiss me again after that. And again after that. And again after-” 

And Geralt silenced him with the insistent press of his mouth. Jaskier grinned like a fool against the kiss, laughter rising like bubbles in his throat. Somewhere, deep in the back of his mind, Jaskier worried over the logistics of all this. Long distance was not an easy path to take. There would surely be many nights where Jaskier would long for Geralt’s touch and kiss. But Jaskier was doing his best to be a different man, now. Those bridges could be crossed when he came to them, but for now he focused on savoring everything for how it was right then in that moment. The bittersweet taste of Geralt’s mouth, the heady musk of his cologne, the maddening little hums that rumbled in the back of his throat. 

The moment was interrupted by a distinctive snort and Geralt and Jaskier turned in unison to see little Dandelion standing before them. His head was cocked, ears perked in fascination. Geralt sighed with fond exasperation while Jaskier waved his hand at the little colt. “Off with you now, Dandelion, this isn’t something children should see.” And Geralt laughed soft and captivating as he pulled Jaskier in for yet another kiss.

#the witcher #Geraskier #geralt x jaskier #jaskier minibang #jmb2022 #fanficition #hurt/comfort #anxiety disorder #panic attacks #fluff #modern AU

[artistsfuneral]

The Road to Kaer Morhen - p.8

this turned out longer than expected so most of it, the fanart and the vote are under the read more so people don't have to scroll past this for 5min

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It was good that Cat Witchers were already considered a bunch of madmen, otherwise Aiden would've started to worry for his sanity as he watched Jaskier's blue eyes light up with joy. “Good, because I have already named them!” Of course he had.

Following the bard on wobbly legs to where the four horses grazed, Aiden almost forgot about all that had happened a couple of hours prior. Then he accidentally kicked his foot against a stray helmet and the clattering sound of metal reminded him of the fresh cuts across his chest and the awful ache in both his shoulders and he couldn't help but to stare at the back of the bard's head, wondering what exactly a protector was.

But then Jaskier turned and smiled at Aiden with such incredible warmth that his heart fluttered inside his chest and he found himself mimicking the smile without the all too familiar voice inside his head telling him, warning him not to and he suddenly understood that despite it all, despite the horrors of having seen what Jaskier could do if angered, despite not knowing and therefore not understanding how or what or why Jaskier was who he was- Aiden wasn't afraid of him. Aiden trusted him. Aiden, who – much like any other witcher – from the very first day of his training had been taught, no, had been drilled to never trust anyone on the path that wasn't one of his own brothers. He knew of the world's cruelty, had learned first hand not to seek comfort and friendship where he wouldn't find it, but Jaskier- Jaskier was different. How long had they been traveling together? A month? A month was a time hardly worth mentioning, passing in the blink of an eye for someone who would possibly live up to three, maybe four hundred years or longer. Sure, Aiden was on the younger side of the Cat school, only having followed the Call of the Path for around sixty or seventy years, but even compared to that a month was nothing. And yet-

“Are you alright, sunshine? Are you in pain? Should you have rested more before getting up? We can take it slow, you know, no pressure.”

Aiden chuckled, “I'm fine, Jask, no need to worry. Simply got lost in my thoughts for a moment.” Not so easily persuaded, the bard gave him a look that was eerily similar to Lambert's 'don't bullshit me' face. Thankfully Aiden knew how to deal with that. “You said you already have names for the horses?” Success. Jaskier's face lit up again and he took hold of Aiden's hand to gently pull the witcher along. “I have! Or at least for three of them, I'm not quite sure what to name the fourth one, but I still want to introduce you to them!”

The horses waited at the sidelines of the camp, heads rising curiously as the two men made their way over to them. Untacked except for their bridles they stood closely together, showing that they had been traveled together long enough to form a bond between them. Jaskier had been right, they were friends, given the way they bumped their heads together. Aiden hadn't owned a horse in some time now, so the prospects of riding again had him smiling, even if he still believed four horses to be excessive. Though, all complains he had went right out the window when they reached the small herd and almost immediately a soft nose bumped against his head, warm breath tickling against his skin. Jaskier laughed warmly and gently nudged the big horse head away from Aiden's face, so the witcher could properly look at it. “That's Sprout,” the bard dutifully introduced Aiden to the tricolored pinto. “I'd say he's the youngest, certainly acts like it, but from what I've seen today the others keep him in check quite well.” Aiden hummed, taking in the gelding's lively eyes. He was the smallest of the four, his mane and tail cut short like it was custom for military mounts. He was pretty, almost too pretty to be ridden by a soldier, not that that was the case anymore, but it still seemed a bit odd.

Next to them one of the two bay horses snorted at him, making Aiden turn towards it. Jaskier rolled his eyes fondly and petted her neck. “This feisty lady is Roachie.”

“You're kidding, right?” One truly had to be a fool these days to not know the name of the White Wolf's horse. Jaskier had written several songs about Roach after all. “Certainly not,” Jaskier grinned. “They share the same color, the same temperament and I think it is time I get a Roach of my own. Can't be the Witchers' Bard without a Roach now, can I?” Aiden hid his face in his hand and giggled like a child. It was so stupid, such a petty thing, but at the same time the most brilliant name Jaskier could've come up with. “Alright then,” he grinned at the bard, “Roachie and Sprout. Who's next?”

“Chicory!” Jaskier said and wiggled his finger in front of a sheer mountain of a horse. A kaedweni draft, if Aiden was correct. It had that distinct gray color that ranged somewhere between a dapple gray and a grulla silver. The soldiers must've obtained it somewhere along the border from a farm and used it as a carrier or cart horse afterwards. The name Jaskier had picked fitted the horse perfectly. “She's a mare too, definitely on the calmer side I'd say, but given her size she'll be able to handle the boys just fine.” Introducing himself to Chicory by softly petting her rosy nose Aiden was reminded of the horse he had learned to ride on. “Our caravans are pulled by draft horses, they're good animals, sturdy too. I always liked them better than other breeds,” Aiden admitted. Jaskier bumped their shoulders together in silent reassurance. The witcher hadn't told him yet what exactly was going on with the Cats, but from what he understood so far the school of the Cat was going through some disagreements concerning the leadership, fractioning it into two or three sides and a handful of witchers that preferred not to intervene and therefore split off with the rest of the Cats for now. Aiden was one of them.

Turning towards the fourth and last horse, the second bay that was almost identical to Roachie except for the missing blaze, Jaskier sighed. “And this is the little fella I couldn't seem to find a name for. He's a bit more careful than the others, needed some convincing before I could give him a treat, but nothing I came up with really fit him.” Aiden hummed in agreement, seeing the shyness Jaskier had spoken of, but also the strong legs and firm muscles underneath the gelding's timid character. Unlike the other three it was almost obvious that he was a military mount. The poor thing was, in a way, so horribly normal that he'd be entirely invisible surrounded by other horses and that thought made Aiden gasp. “He's Horse!” Jaskier slowly turned his head towards the other man and blinked in confusion. “Uh- yes? He's a horse, well done, Aiden.”

“No, listen, Jask. He's Horse, like Geralt's horse is Roach and Lambert's horse is Horse.”

“Lambert's horse-horse? Huh?”

Aiden slapped his hand against his forehead. “No, Lambert named his horse Horse,” he explained, over-pronouncing the name. Now it was the bard's turn to gasp for air. “That poor Horse!” The two men blinked at each other once, twice before bursting into a loud fit of giggles.

After taking their time to get to know their new horses, Jaskier and Aiden tacked them up, going for the simple brown reigns and saddles and avoiding anything that looked too much like the redanian horse armor. They hopefully wouldn't encounter anyone else on their way to Kaer Morhen, but better safe than sorry. For now, Jaskier and Aiden would ride on Roachie and Sprout, securing their packs on Horse and Chicory. The plan was to swap the animals' tasks every few days, the rotation hopefully keeping their spirits up and prevent any sores or strains.

Jaskier's little looting session was thankfully providing them with everything they needed to take care of the horses for weeks, if not two months. Not that they planned on taking so long to search for the Wolves' keep, but you never knew. Aside from that Jaskier had scraped together whatever bits and pieces of armor Aiden could use in the future, some additional food and water skins and miscellaneous items like a bigger cooking pot and a nice set of knifes that would do them good. They stored everything in the horses' saddle bags, keeping just a handful of their belongings in their own packs. Jaskier of course, kept his lute close to him, just like Aiden refused to remove the swords from his back.

For a while the two rode through the underbrush of the forest, leading the horses in a circle to hide any possible tracks, then followed a well used deer trail further east until it came to a natural stop next to a small, rocky stream. Allowing the horses to drink, Jaskier turned in his saddle to find Aiden's eye. “How are you holding up, sunshine?”

Aiden, who's shoulder's had been aching for quite some time now, sighed loudly. “I'll live. Think, I will drink another Swallow and fight through it. We lost a couple of hours because of me, so we should keep riding until night falls.”

“I will ignore the fact that you said it like it was your fault Vizimir's toadies caught up with us and remind you that the sun will not set for at least four or five hours.” Jaskier replied, while Aiden fetched the reddish potion out of his sea sack and proceeded to drown it in one go. The bad rolled his eyes, “I mean it's not like our arrival at Kaer Morhen is expected on a agreed upon day, since we – you know – aren't expected at all. If Vesemir is at the keep at all. As stingy as Geralt is with details, I at least know that his father still hears the Call from time to time. So really, we don't need to hurry.”

Aiden gave him a deadpan look. “Have you forgotten why we're trying to find Kaer Morhen in the first place? We aren't looking for a summer house, Jaskier, we are refugees hoping the grandmaster of the Wolves will hide us from the rest of the continent. If not for you being- well, you, I'd still be chained to that tree right now. So can we just ride on and get enough distance between us and everything that's trying to fucking murder us? Please?”

please like and reblog if you voted

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I gave up when it came to drawing the saddles, that shit just didn't want to be drawn, so use your imagination to make their tack more realistic pls 🤫

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#the witcher #artistsfuneral about the witcher #road to kaer morhen fic #horses #jaskier #aiden #witcher #witcher aiden #jaskier the bard

[buskerjaskier]

I wrote a new Geraskier fic! It’s dedicated to and and inspired by my good pal @nicestmeangirll !

Here’s a wee snippet:

“How do you feel, my friend?”

‘Like shit,’ Geralt wants to say, because it feels like he’s been trampled by a rather large caravan containing one travelling circus that has at least two domesticated ogres with them. “Like I should get back on the road,” Geralt grunts instead, pushing himself into a sitting position. His side immediately twinges with pain, the raw skin pulling taut around the fresh stitches there.

Jaskier’s cheerful demeanour immediately deflates a little, as though it’d been a carefully maintained facade all along, and he shakes his head mournfully. “You can’t, I’m afraid.”

“Why not?” If Jaskier is about to give him some shit about travelling while injured, Geralt had a few choice words to the bard who should know better after twenty-plus years together. Geralt would heal in the matter of a couple of days, and he’s already on a tight schedule to get back to Kaer Morhen for the winter as he’d pushed it as far back as he’d been able. When he’d dropped Jaskier off, Geralt had given himself exactly ten days to travel up the Blue Mountain before the witcher trail would be practically impossible to traverse, and the younger man knows this.

Jaskier sighs and sets aside the needle and thread on a small stool sitting next to him, also containing a basin, a small bowl with something green and grey inside, and a bloodied cloth. He puts both his hands onto his knees as though bracing himself as he looks Geralt in the eyes. “Because you’ve been out of it for almost three weeks.”

I'm quite happy with it, so please go check it out! :)

#overwintering at Oxenfurt fic #It's an #it'll be about ten chapters #it'll be fluffy with just a dash of angst #because I can't not add some H/C #nicestmeangirl #geraskier #jaskier x geralt #they will be husbands but just don't quite know it #jaskier #geralt of rivia #geralt #the witcher netflix #the witcher #my writing

[blackberrywars]

For the fic writers game. 🍑 And 🫐 of course 🤣

AHHH thank you so much for playing dear! I'm sorry it took so long but @halehathnofury, here it is! My most beloved Opinions

🍑 If you could make a connection between your favorite character and another work you care about (whether a crossover/fusion or a wonderfully “pretentious” literary reference) what would it be? How would it work?

Well, I think you and I both know that it's Lambert. And this question makes it difficult because I really can't think of another character quite like him, especially a male one —someone so deeply hurt but still expressive, who wants better but has given up hope on it, simply resigned to clinging to what he knows. He's loud and angry, but he makes it very obvious that it is from a place of grief. He finds loves, but is always waiting to lose them. It's an archetype I've usually only seen in older characters (which......... Vesemir parallels, anyone?).

That being said. "Pretentious" literary reference.

Frankenstein's monster. Born on a able, brought forth by a magician who was so desperate to see if he could, he never stopped to wonder if he should. He's made of a dozen different parts, but none of them matter anymore, except for the fact that they matter the most —they make him human, make him long for all the things humans long for. A family, a lover, kindness. Good meals and warmth. But his rebirth, no matter the parts (the history) that make him human, has made him a monster in everyone's eyes. Lambert may not have murdered his makers, but then again, they were dead pretty soon. If he hadn't had the better influences of his mother and the Wolves... who knows what he'd do.

Additionally, because it's a favorite of mine:

Mad Max from Fury Road. Is part of this inspired by the similarity between Tom Hardy's and Lambert's luscious, smoochy lips? Yes, of course. But also, it once again brings up the theme of having his humanity eviscerated by his environment and the people around him, and, even when he does find some solace, still resigning himself to his reality. Spoilers for the movie, I guess, but Max is pretty goddamn feral for most of the movie, and everyone around him dehumanizes him, to the point of him being turned into a human blood bag. He snaps at everything, because everything has been a threat. Furiosa and the Wives eventually ally with him, and show kindness. He returns it, but at the end, he still moves on. Rebuilding Citadel life isn't for Max, the way Geralt's Corvo Bianco life isn't for Lambert. It will take something else.

🫐 What’s your favorite underrated thing in your fandom? (A ship that only you seem to write for, a character there’s almost no fics about, a trope that criminally hasn’t been written yet, etc.)

In a general sense? The School of the Bear. I swear, it's not even me just being horny on main for large, hairy men, but the logistics of Arnaghad's philosophy really have so much potential. I've written a little about this before, but mostly in references. Essentially, yes, Arnaghad is poisoned by hyper-independence, but considering what reliance on kings/mages got the other schools, he kind of has a point. And if he didn't realize that, or care about witchers' lives, he wouldn't have founded a school about it. He would have just fucked off. He truly believes his method is the best way to keep witchers alive, even if he probably killed the most trainees on the way.

It's a really fucked-up, cruel kind of care that Arnaghad has.

By contrast, I feel like a lot of the fics about the Bears either take the minimal lore we have at face value or soften it to a considerable degree, and I enjoy both approaches. They make sense, especially when writing angst or fluff/smut, respectively. The latter is especially combined with a kind of post-sacking era, which makes sense; it's a bit like most Kaer Morhen fics, where the focus is on the members after the school itself has fallen, rather than when it was actually running. And believe you me, I adore those fics, especially the ones by @round--robin with the wonderful OCs. They are delightful. But something I would also love to see is some writing on Haern Caduch while it was still in operation. My heart hurts just thinking about it.

#berry's games #the witcher #the witcher fanfiction #lambert #school of the bear

[touchmycoat]

the Witcher fic recs (Nov 2022)

look I've seen at most 4 and a half episodes of the Netflix series, read two chapters of the first book, and seen three stills from the games. This is very much a fandom-first engagement for me. That being said I was talking to roommate about how much we love and miss fic rec lists, hence.

The Road Not Taken by sospes

Summary: 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.

Read this all in one breath; Eskel & Jaskier friendship, Lambert/Jaskier one-night-stand, Geralt's emotional constipation refuses to be relieved until close to the end. Love the Jaskier characterization where he's hurt but practical but vulnerable but capable. So well done, and I would rec the author's other fics too: the tattoo fic, the Jaskier gangbang series, this noncon fic, the wolf!Jaskier fic, etc.

lessons in mouse-catching by foghornjazz

Summary: They say cats have nine lives, but truthfully Jaskier has long lost count of his. Jaskier has always been very good at playing pretend. It gets harder after Geralt’s harsh words on the mountain. It gets harder still when he has to save a rogue Wolf and his Child Surprise from Nilfgaard’s gathering forces.

Dear god, immortal!cat witcher!Jaskier with all the delicious torture whump that this set-up necessitates. Very much a plot fic, super fucking well-written and haunting and kept me on my toes 'til the end—the reveal with the lake really took me out at the knees and had me weeping. Aiden!! Thematic!! Character arcs!! Cannot rec this series enough. Author also has a wonderful EMT!Geralt disaster!Jaskier fic and a delightful football!AU.

Too Much by kalamatri

Summary: Jaskier has always known he loves in a way that is too much. He gives too much of himself, and wants too much in return. Post mountain break-up, Jaskier starts to doubt his value, attempts to drink Novigrad dry and makes the biggest mistake of his life: getting back with his abusive shit of an ex, Valdo Marx.

Buddy, oh fucking boy. You wanna talk about the abusive relationships tag. You wanna talk about a well-paced and devastating descent into emotional, physical, financial, and sexual abuse and then the well-paced and devastating ascent back out. You wanna talk about a fic that blew my fucking mind. I love Lambert in this and how specific his dynamic is with Jaskier. Jaskier gets absolutely fucked up but makes his way back to life, he fucking survives. This fic is so goddamn good.

Emissary by Janekfan

Summary: The way north is being cleared for Geralt and Ciri. Geralt has to reconcile with some new truths about Jaskier.

viper witcher!Jaskier, in which even Geralt buys into age-old prejudice at first. The physical manifestation of the emotional angst is blistering, and I love that getting to Kaer Morhen wasn't the fix-all.

Soap, and the Scents of Home by round_robin

Summary: “Come to Kaer Morhen with me,” Geralt mumbled against Jaskier's neck. “Next winter, come with me.” He sat up, hoping Jaskier might see the earnest request in his eyes.

PORN REC. This whole series is just, chef's kiss. Fics where Jaskier develops relations with every witcher is my bread and butter, especially where touch-starved witchers are involved. Special shout out to the way this fic made me so hot under the collar with Geralt just openly banging Jaskier in the hot springs under the guise of "there's no privacy anyway," pretty much daring Eskel and Lambert to take some for themselves, hello.

Kill Me Softly by safiraneo

Summary: Jaskier isn't exactly happy to dig himself out of his own grave. In fact, he'd very much like to go back in it. Unfortunately, Destiny has other plans.

Dark humor with dead!Jaskier. Eskel takes him back to Kaer Morhen to figure out how to kill him permanently. I grinned and groaned at Geralt the entire way through.

for the rest of my lifelong days by twitcher

Summary: "Goddess," Jaskier says quietly, almost privately, except that his lips hover temptingly close to Eskel's. "You do look just like him, if it wasn't for—" "The disfigured maw?" Eskel adds helpfully, out of habit if nothing else. Jaskier puts a gentle hand on his cheek—the scarred one, gods save his soul—and Eskel leans into the touch involuntarily, like a dog starved for affection. "I was going to say the hair," Jaskier finishes with a hint of kind amusement, and winks.

Short-ish threesome fic that goes through all the emotional beats I want~ I've read a lot of fics that overdo the terms of endearment but this one works for me, I'm very very endeared, and I like the Eskel focus.

a soldier (who carries a mighty sword) by ghostinthelibrary

Summary: Fifteen years after Kaer Morhen became an independent city state and refuge for non-humans, Geralt— who somehow got elected its leader, despite his best intentions— is bewildered when King Vizimir of Redania suggests an arranged marriage between Geralt and his nephew. Eskel is a simple witcher who just wants to live out his retirement from the Path with Geralt. So when his lover gets betrothed to some Redanian viscount, Eskel dons a human disguise and decides to get away from Kaer Morhen for a while. Jaskier has no interest in becoming the husband of the infamous White Wolf; he just wants to be a bard. When he flees the guards escorting him to Kaer Morhen, he’s lucky enough to run into Eskel, a hunter who agrees to escort him to safety. But after only a few days in Eskel’s company, he’s half in love. When Jaskier is forced to go to Kaer Morhen to escape a bounty on his head, he finds the city nothing like the nest of monsters he expected. Meanwhile, Jaskier is nothing like what Geralt and Eskel expected.

Who doesn't love identity hijinks? The set-up is delicious; I'm obsessed with the "oh this man who saved me who is my hero at no benefit to himself is actually the lover of the lord I'm meant to marry, ah, he just wanted me out of the way" reveal that's not actually true but also not not-true enough. The whole series is very well-done!

A history of dragons in popular culture by deputychairman Innermost Depths by bomberqueen17

These two get recced together because they take on the same concept: where Yennefer & Jaskier become drinking buddies after the dragon hunt breakup bitch about Geralt and accidentally on purpose sleep together and instead of playing Despacito he writes a song for her not to make Geralt jealous you understand!

Yennefer/Jaskier makes me feel all sorts of things and these have such good dynamics.

The Path Ahead by EvanHart

Summary: Geralt knows almost immediately that he’s made a mistake when he sends Jaskier away on that godforsaken mountain. He just doesn’t wholly understand why, and by the time he does it’s too late to change things. Instead, he goes and finds Ciri, and together they find Yennefer, and only then does he realise he needs to find Jaskier, too. He hadn’t counted on Nilfgaard finding him first.

The Nilfgaard torture fic where Geralt refuses to believe Jaskier has anything more than a childish infatuation with him (despite 20 years on the road). He hears "Her Sweet Kiss" and kind of goes through it. Yennefer portals "somewhere safe" and that's apparently into Jaskier's care. A classic & well-executed genre of Witcher fic.

A Tale of Two Bards (and also a Witcher) by ForestWren

Summary: Maglor has been wandering the shoreline for literal millennia. He hadn't heard another voice in almost as long. He is, understandably, quite disoriented when a loud human interrupts his perfectly peaceful brooding. After the disaster of the Dragon Hunt, Jaskier goes to the coast on his own. Things don't really go as planned, but who cares? Peace is overrated anyway. In which there are language barriers, found family, guilt crises, several long-overdue realizations, and, eventually, a very confused Geralt.

Silmarillion fans will get a lot more out of this fic than I did but I already enjoyed it so much. The linguistics exploration was super fun and this was the fic that got me listening to The Amazing Devil. Very much a songfic in essence, executed with full character arcs for Jaskier, Geralt, and Maglor.

out in the pouring rain (down on your knees) by SummerFrost

Summary: "Hello, Julian," Yennefer says coolly. "Listen carefully. We are only having this conversation because it’d make Geralt happy and I'm the best wife in the fucking world. You and I should have sex." Jaskier says, "I'm going to need you to elaborate." Or: Geralt's biggest fantasy is to watch someone else fuck his wife. What kind of best friend would Jaskier be if he didn't lend a hand?

I know I already recced this but it's SO. FUCKING. GOOD. HI THANK YOU.

Last but not least, shout out to the Geralt Is Sorry collection that I'm still making my way through. Doing the lord's work.

#the witcher #fic recs #jaskier #my unofficial november goal is to create at least 5 fic rec lists #show some love ;; and refuel my brain #I also don't know where this sudden obsession with the witcher came from but hey #i'm not about to look a gift bard in the mouth

[restless-witch]

Better Not Wake The Baby - Part 2.... ish - The Spring...ish

Fic Summary: Jaskier isn't helpless. He'd been a shepherd before. He'd killed a wolf before. He'll slaughter again if that's the price of freedom.

Rated M: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, really gross attitudes towards omegas, abusive relationships, references to fucking

This fic was current up and to part 17 of Honey - Sometimes the Tunnel Only Leads to Darkness and after Better Not Wake The Baby- Winter. You'll enjoy this fic more if you’ve read them <3

Witcher 3 + Netflix / This part is rated M / Incomplete

Make your moan of your lot in life Split your mind half crazy Gouge your eyes with a butter knife But it better not wake the baby

-The Decemberists -  What a Terrible World, What a Beautiful World

hey y’all, I’m what the kids call trash going through a dry spell of writing... it’s slow going on both my fics but I wanted to share a bit of the next chapter of Better Not Wake The Baby. The way I’ve been structuring it in my mind has been on the four seasons plus another winter- as I’ve plotted it out now, Winter (last posted- 3.6k) is pretty much complete. Spring has swollen up to 5.6K already and I expect it to probably double. Summer should be short- I’ve only got 300 words written and I really don’t expect much to happen. The second Winter is 5.6k and will also probably double.

Below is a little bit of spring that I can share without spoiling anything or a major cliffhanger and below THAT are just little bits of the other seasons for you to chew on :)

Thanks @oldandkinky for letting me play with Honey-verse!!! It’s such an enticing place to explore

Spring

Lambert leaves, then Eskel and the last storms, and Vesemir starts calling Geralt down to sow the gardens with manure. During the day, Vesemir sends Jaskier out to forage for the herbs and mushrooms he can identify; at night, Jaskier tucks himself between Geralt's legs with a book. He learns to suppress the shudders as Geralt's hands start to play with his cunt and widens his sprawl as he ruts against Geralt's cock. Jaskier clutters his mind with the sources of alchemy ingredients and sweetens his scent with memories of blackberries and fields of rye and the freedom of ambling a flock across Lettenhove. Geralt softens even more as arid misery gives way to the tedium of tallow and rosemary.

After what's certainly the last frost, radishes already unfurling from the hard ground, Vesemir and the goats are the only ones to see them off.

Vesemir gifted Geralt with all the little conveniences of a mated couple; a larger bedroll and kettle to share when they made camp, an ornamental medallion Jaskier might wear if he behaved back from the days Witchers did have sweethearts on the path, a new ledger to record their travels.

Geralt has packed up Roach and Vesemir has loaded Jaskier down with a novice witcher's kit; a gambeson and leather cuirass to keep him safe from bandits, a brick of honey and nuts and figs to supplement their field rations, a copy of their novitiate's songbook to help him remember the sprawling roads and names of beasts and plants.

The descent from Kaer Morhen is worlds easier than before: they bypass The Killer entirely, taking the smoother paths long since opened up by early spring slides and storms.

The two pick a path through the Blue Mountains through Kaedwan down into Aedirn.

During the day, on the Path, Jaskier croons his way into a modicum of freedom. The days come in starts and stops: unlike the grueling endless days of the last fall. The day Geralt taught him to sew up his thigh is a breath, the day Geralt presents him with a crown of aphrodisiac flowers stretches on endlessly, and the regular fruitless tupping beside the road becomes a dull hum threading the weeks together.

Since Jaskier proposed "courting", they've struck a number of bargains; though Jaskier isn't sure Geralt would think of them that way. Geralt stops taking the fertility treatments, holding off when Jaskier gently asks about the strain of heavy pregnancy or a newborn taking the path to the keep. Jaskier begins learning songs from tavern bards and the novitiate's songbook and practices singing for the hour after they lunch.

He sings to the boundless skies- swallows his envy of the thrushes and spits out his own song of gliding through the spring.

Summer

He can't control the groan that escapes him when a foot nudges into his back: he looks up into a pair of golden eyes and knows he is absolutely completely fucked because if there was one thing the Witchers of Kaer Morhen could agree on- it's that the Cats are fucked in the head and not above blood sport. he doesn't feel fear, more like a bit of humor, because he'd hardly expected to make it this far and he's waiting for his death like a punchline.

Fall

"It used to be a treat for the novices to be taken down the mountain," Vesemir says lightly, "and with your temperament, I imagine you'll want to pick between millet and oats." 

Jaskier snorts. He does- he can't stand oats.

They make it to the hamlet in the late afternoon and it's almost evening before they find a house with spare supplies to barter: a merchant is due to make his last trip of the season soon, but the locals are reluctant to turn over their cushioning after the augur predicted an early freeze. Jaskier goes into the last house alone at twilight and drives a hard bargain. Vesemir fails to hide a fond glance when Jaskier slips the fat purse of crowns back into his breeches and wordlessly starts filling Wielki's packs with salt, hops, yarrow, slippery elm, saltpetre, and other provisions. He went back to the homestead and came out with two sacks of millet.

Winter

"What's my real name Geralt?" the pace of stabbing quickened, the grooves on the table between his fingers deepening as Jaskier's voice became a jab as well, "You saw it on the papers I signed when Nenneke took Essi in her care. What's my name?" Geralt didn't answer. Jaskier rammed the dagger where his palm had been only seconds before, fast enough Aiden nearly dove for a bandage, "Call me whatever the fuck you like then- it doesn't make a difference to you."

.

A/N- kind words and messages are always appreciated <3 thank you for reading

Rough and tumble ragged drafts on tumblr here: Actual Fic Better Not Wake The Baby

This fic is based on OldandKinky’s Honey-verse and you can also find them here: Honey-verse on Ao3 and OldandKinky on Ao3

and if you like my writing, I’ve also got “Varieties of Exile”

#geraskier #honeyverse #jaskier #geralt #geralt of rivia #vesemir #fanfic #fan fic #actual fic better not wake the baby #geralt/jaskier #geralt x jaskier #witcher au #the witch writes

[tears-and-smiles-ao3]

Petals In A Storm

Chapter 5: Exploring the keep

Fic masterpost

The room was sparse. A meagre double bed with thin sheets, a wooden wardrobe over in one corner, a chair in the other. It was as cold as Yennefer had described.

Now that they were finally alone for the first time in weeks, Jaskier felt like he could breathe properly. He threw himself onto the bed, his face smushed into the harsh linen. He sighed dramatically, then groaned and turned over.

“Fuck, that was horrible. I never want to do that again.”

He meant the portal specifically but the journey itself had been exhausting, more than the average journey on the road. They’d been dragged along here, somewhere Jaskier had always wanted to come to, but now it was soured by everything that had happened between him and Geralt.

It hadn’t escaped his attention that the witcher had walked away without waiting to see if everyone had arrived safely.

Sighing, Jaskier turned again, his hand running up the rough material of the sheet. He just wanted Geralt to care. Why was it so hard for the dumb idiot to wait a few more seconds?

Sam was putting away their clothes into the wardrobe, somehow not feeling as bad as Jaskier. He hummed as he plucked items from their bags and placed them on hangers.

“Would you hold me?” Jaskier asked, pouting. The smile that spread across Sam’s face made Jaskier feel lightheaded, or maybe he was still feeling weird. It didn’t change how secure he felt when Sam sat on the bed and pulled him into his arms.

*

Jaskier had fallen asleep, it seemed. He’d only realised this when he woke up in the bed alone, blinking in confusion. He reached out for Sam but he wasn’t there and Jaskier felt his heart rate increase rapidly.

He sat up quickly, began to push back the covers, then paused. Had Sam put the cover on him? He must’ve done it. Jaskier shook himself and got up, grabbing his coat. He needed to find Sam.

The door creaked when he opened it and he looked out into the corridor. His head turned back and forth before he decided to walk down the left one first. He had lived in a city for much of his younger life, so this must be a piece of cake. Right?

Wrong. Jaskier only realised he had been walking in circles when he saw the same cross-stitched banner of witchers standing in front of a castle at least three times. He knew it was the same one because there was also a small etching on the stonework that said ‘Lambert was here’ below it. He stopped and stared at it. Presumably this was the keep: Kaer Morhen. Was this a real past event or just an imagined one? 

“Lost?” a deep voice called behind him. Jaskier turned fast to see a hulking man leaning against the wall at the far end of the corridor that he had just walked down. Despite it still being light outside, the hall was dimly lit and he couldn’t make out his features.

“Maybe,” Jaskier shrugged, mirroring how the man leaned against the wall. “Who are you?”

“A witcher,” the mysterious male voice said. “And you are?”

“Bard, at your service,” Jaskier declared, bending forward into an elegant bow. When he rose, he saw that the witcher had walked closer. He could see him better as he passed a candle, illuminating his shape. His arms and chest were big, full of muscles that Jaskier immediately longed to have pinning him down. His short dark hair parted down the middle and tucked loosely behind his ears.

It was his face that really fascinated Jaskier. Red rivets winding down the right-hand side of his face, like rivers on a map. He wanted to touch them, let his fingers run over them.

His clothes were brighter than Geralt’s usual attire; a red jacket with black leather stripes and a grey shirt underneath. His broad shoulders were covered in small metal spikes and his thick thighs concealed in black. The whole ensemble made Jaskier’s mouth run dry.

“So, um, I-”

“You’re new here,” Eskel stated, his eyes not quite meeting his own. His hands fidgeted with the hem of his shirt as Jaskier’s eyes raked over him. It was a curious interaction and Jaskier wanted to know more.

“I am, yes. Do I look that out of place?”

Eskel chuckled. His eyes locked with Jaskier’s briefly but they flickered away before he could see the bard arch his back against the wall. Instead, the witcher spoke to the floor. “I guessed. Do you want me to show you around?”

“That would be nice.” Jaskier purred, then bit his lips playfully when the witcher looked up at him again.

Eskel cleared his throat, his eyes diverted once again. “Let’s start through here.”

While the witcher held out his hand to gesture where to walk, Jaskier took the opportunity to strut slowly, emphasising every small step he took. If he was correct in his assumption that this witcher was both shy and interested, he was going to put on a good show. He swayed his hips, then looked back over his shoulder.

Eskel’s eyes flickered up, blinking as if the light was suddenly too bright for him. He looked affected and that made Jaskier grin. Leaning against the wall, he arched his back again, this time the witcher saw him.

“Um, that door up ahead, that leads to armoury. I don’t know how often a bard needs to go there, but there it is.” Eskel waved his hand out, motioning past Jaskier.

Jaskier beamed at him, pushing off the wall and stepping towards Eskel. He let a finger trace down Eskel’s armoured chest. “I am not defenceless, my good witcher.”

He watched Eskel. How a half smile appeared on his face for less than a second. How his fingers were still fidgeting despite his arms being plastered down by his sides like they were glued there.

Jaskier looked over at the door Eskel had pointed at. “So, what else?”

Eskel cleared his throat, then began leading the way again. They walked down another corridor, stopping at a few doors to look inside. There were all residential rooms, though most of them were in a severe state of disrepair. Jaskier didn’t really pay attention after the first two of these rooms, but each time Eskel opened a door, it gave Jaskier a chance to rub up against him. It was adorable how flustered the witcher looked.

Finally, they turned a corner and there were no more doors. Jaskier was almost disappointed, except it gave him an opportunity to eye up Eskel’s delicious thighs without being caught. Not that he cared about being caught.

“Here is the library,” the witcher explained, turning towards a large door and pulling it open. The door groaned as if it hadn’t been opened in a few years.

“Now this, this is what I like to see,” Jaskier exclaimed, marching straight into the room. It should have looked like a large room but with the amount of books stacked everywhere, it felt cramped. Yet, Jaskier delighted in running his fingers across the old tomes. He desperately wanted to dive into them all if time would allow.

“There’s lots of information here. I haven’t read even a tenth of these books in all my long years.”

Jaskier snorts. “You make it sound like you’re ancient.”

“I am ancient compared to a human. Old as bones.”

“Yeah, right.”

The rest of the tour was fairly uneventful, except for Jaskier’s constant flirting. He continued to let his hands rest on Eskel, small touches on his arms or shoulders whenever he held open any door for him. He winked, he licked his lips, he even waggled his eyebrows. If it had been any other man or woman, Jaskier would have at least known if it was working by now. Eskel had been unreadable. Typical witcher.

“This is the closet where we keep all our furs. It can get really cold at night, so take as many as you need.”

“Oh,” exclaimed Jaskier. “How many furs do you have on your bed?”

“I- Um,” Eskel stammered. If a witcher could blush, Jaskier is sure Eskel would be scarlet right now. As it was, it looked like he was sweating, which was something considering this place was cold even in summer.

Picking up one of the furs, Jaskier spoke in a low voice. “This is a spare room, right? Why don’t you show me how to wrap up warm at night?”

“O- Okay,” the witcher stammered, and then picked up a handful of furs and followed Jaskier into the room.

He had assumed that the witcher would be on him as soon as they entered, but he just stood by the door watching him.

“This is a typical bedroom,” Eskel explained. He was standing so close to the wall, like it would stop him from collapsing. “Not much to see, but, well…” Eskel pointed to the bed and swallowed hard. Jaskier took the initiative, walking towards the witcher, pinning him with a flirty smile.

“And how many furs do you have on your bed?” Jaskier asked quietly while running a hand over the bundled material in Eskel’s arms. The witcher flinched but his eyes were fixed on Jaskier.

“Er, I usually have three furs. You probably need five at least.”

“Aren’t there other ways to keep warm?” Jaskier teased. He looked down at the bed, threadbare material covering the straw within, and then winked at the witcher.

Eskel coughed, looking at the floor again. He stepped forward without looking up, dumping the furs onto the bed and arranging them.

Jaskier came up behind him, reaching around to help pull down one of the furs. Eskel froze, his hands pressed down onto the bedding. “What else do you do if you’re feeling cold, witcher?” Jaskier asked, his voice like silk.

“Um,” Eskel stammered. “I usually have a drink. Alone in my room.”

Jaskier smiled, then crawled onto the bed. “And what, dear witcher, if you had company?”

The witcher looked at him, his eyes growing darker, but remaining where he stood, bent over the bed.

“I don’t usually have people in my bed.”

Jaskier frowned for a second, then opened his legs wider. “What about this bed?”

That did it. Eskel put his knee on the bed and leaned over Jaskier. He brought his head down towards him and Jaskier’s breath hitched a little. He expected the witcher to get down to business, like any other lay would do, but he hesitated, looking at his lips. Jaskier licked them, feeling his pulse quicken underneath Eskel’s stare.

“Can I kiss you?” the witcher asked.

It wasn’t quite what Jaskier expected and his hesitation seemed to have the wrong impact. Before Eskel could move back, Jaskier reached out and pulled the witcher towards him and crashed their lips together.

Eskel’s lips were soft against his own, much softer than he expected. He gripped tight to the witcher’s jacket and began moving them backwards up the bed. Jaskier shuffled and Eskel crawled up after him.

“Are you sure you want this?” Eskel asked, slotting his body in Jaskier’s open legs.

“Yes, I do. More than anything,” Jaskier reassured. He leaned up, kissing the witcher again and letting out little satisfied noises while his hands roamed down that magnificent chest. The muscles were bulging, strong and firm and everything that Jaskier wanted. He began unlacing the witcher’s shirt to get his hands on him.

Eskel was still focused on kissing him senseless. His kisses were tender, gentle as his tongue swiped inside his mouth. Jaskier felt breathless, but it didn’t stop him from trying to get the witcher’s jacket and shirt off his shoulders.

“I’ve got a lot of scars,” Eskel warned before Jaskier could finish his task. He pulled his shirt back down but let his jacket fall down his shoulders.

Jaskier just shook his head. “I don’t mind scars.” It was the truth. He’d seen the scars on Geralt, with more and more added each year. The lines defined him, Jaskier thought, it made him beautiful.

He was still shocked to see the mess of scars on the witcher’s chest and stomach for the brief second he saw them. Huge puckered patches covered most of his skin, some bits raised and other bits sunken. If Jaskier had thought his face was like a map, this was something else. They were like sprawling towns, seeking to expand and join up with each other. Towns that had been built on top of each other.

Eskel squirmed, clearly not convinced. “It’s awful to look at. Lets- Let me just focus on you.”

“No,” Jaskier shouted, a bit too loudly. He hadn’t meant to make it a demand, but when Eskel seemed to be curling in on himself, he quickly added, “I mean, only if you want to. I don’t mind scars and I mean that.”

The witcher did mind his scars because he tied up some of his laces, drawing a line under that option. Jaskier wanted to pout, see if he could get his way, but instead pulled the witcher back down on top of him.

Then they were back to kissing again and Jaskier let his hands run through the witcher’s hair. It was also softer than he anticipated. He tugged, eliciting a moan from Eskel, who rutted down hard against him.

“What do you want?” he asked softly.

Jaskier blinked up at him, confused. “What?”

“What kind of sex do you want? Do you want me to touch you or pleasure you with my mouth? Do you want to fuck me?”

Jaskier swallowed. He’d never been asked this before. “Anything, really. You decide.”

The witcher frowned a little, but then he rolled them over and kissed him again and Jaskier forgot all about it. Eskel’s hands gripped tight onto his ass, rocking him forward. He was straddling the witcher, his hands resting on the mattress beside Eskel’s head.

Eskel pushed him up to sit, smiling. “Give me a show. Take off your clothes.”

Jaskier’s eyes darkened. He liked it when all the attention was on him and he was only too happy to oblige. He knew his body still looked good, despite his years. All the walking that he had done, only eating what was caught for the night, had made him much stronger than in his teenage years. He had been in even better shape before his two years holed up in Oxenfurt, but he still looked good right now.

He began removing his burgundy coat. The leather creaked and squeaked as he let it slip off his shoulder. Biting his lips, he moved his hands up to his chest. His fingers began to pop each button on his waistcoat, one by one. He moved slowly, deliberately, with his eyes glued to the witcher’s. 

When he peeled back the waistcoat with both hands, his chest flexed underneath his shirt. He winked then, before letting the material slip soundly down his shoulders. 

His hands moved back up his chest, bringing them up to caress around his neck. He let out a little gasp, then began unlacing the ties of his shirt. As each one fell away, more of his dark chest hair was revealed.

Then, with fingers gripping lightly onto the bottom hem of his shirt, he pulled it up over his head.

Eskel’s eyes were dark with lust as he watched Jaskier’s whole performance. He rolled his hips, rubbing his erection against Jaskier.

“Now, what shall we do?” Jaskier teased. He leaned down, one hand cupping his face as he looked him deeply in his eyes.

In response, Eskel reached between them and began unlacing Jaskier’s trousers. “Let’s get you properly naked.”

Jaskier shivered as he shucked off the rest of his clothes. Eskel’s hands were warm as they ran over his skin, up his thighs, across his chest.

“Now, you, even if it’s just your cock,” Jaskier pleaded. Eskel looked at him for a long second before he nodded. He shifted his hands down to the laces of his breeches and pulled them loose slowly while Jaskier watched. Lifting his hips up into the air, he pushed his breeches down and then pulled his cock out. It was so large, wide and long, that Jaskier felt his eyes widen comically.

”Oh, boy,” Jaskier gulped, his mouth suddenly dry as he contemplated the sheer size. It was larger than any other cock Jaskier had seen. “Well, that’s…That’s a delight.”

“We don’t,” Eskel began, but Jaskier shook his head. He grasped the witcher’s hand and brought it down, urging Eskel to wrap his broad hands around both their erections and start stroking them together.

“We do, we definitely do.”

Tingles ran up Jaskier’s spine as they worked their joined hands up and down in tandem. It felt like an electrical storm brewing within and Jaskier couldn’t help the soft whimpers that left his lips.

He felt Eskel’s other hand run up his chest. His fingers latched onto a nipple and pinched hard. Jaskier gasped.

“You like that?” Eskel asked, his eyes watching Jaskier closely. It was true that he felt a little off kilter, unsure of what the witcher wanted, but he nodded. He wanted this, he really did. In fact, he wanted this like yesterday. He reached with his other hand, searching for his coat pocket to pull out a bottle of oil and then presented it to Eskel.

The witcher stared at the bottle, a frown on his face. It made Jaskier wonder if he had ever fucked anyone before. Surely he knew what the oil was for.

Instead of explaining, Jaskier opened the bottle with his teeth and took the witcher’s right hand in his. He coated Eskel’s fingers with a copious amount of oil and then guided his hand around and behind him. He leaned forward further, giving the witcher more access, ready for his fingers to breach him.

When Eskel didn’t do anything, Jaskier simply pushed down on his hand, sending the witcher’s fingers inside.

“It’s okay, I can take it. I want it,” he reassured. “Just use your fingers to gently stretch me out.” Then he took Eskel’s lips into a deep kiss, groaning as the witcher finally moved his fingers, slowly at first and then a little faster.

It felt strange being the one taking the lead, but the witcher was very responsive and soon had worked him open enough.

Leaning back, Jaskier pulled Eskel’s fingers out and then made him stroke his large, thick cock, coating it in oil. Then, he lifted himself up, positioning himself over the witcher’s cock, and braced himself to sink down.

The head of Eskel’s cock felt enormous pressed against his hole, but Jaskier wasn’t put off. He took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly as he sank himself down. It took a while and Jaskier kept his eyes closed throughout, focusing on his muscles relaxing, welcoming the witcher inside him.

A thumb gently stroked against his skin, Eskel’s hands resting on his hips. When Jaskier bottomed out, he opened his eyes and looked at the witcher. He looked debauched already. Jaskier clenched his muscles, squeezing around Eskel’s thick cock.

“Oh, fuck,” Eskel groaned out, and Jaskier smirked. This was going to be fun.

He began moving, his hips settling into a rhythm as he bounced up and down. His hands settled on the witcher’s chest, pushing a finger underneath the half opened shirt and seeking out the lines that marred his body. Eskel winced as if burned, but Jaskier wasn’t having any of that.

“You’re beautiful,” he breathed, watching as Eskel’s eyes looked up at him, almost reverential.

He continued moving, focusing on the cock deep within him, how full he felt, the drag of it against his inner walls. Being stretched obscenely wide felt amazingly good and he wanted the witcher to know that. Each time he sank back down, he let out a loud moan. The witcher just panted heavily below him.

At some point, Jaskier had let his head drop back and closed his eyes. He was so lost in everything he was feeling that he nearly yelped when he felt Eskel’s broad hands wrap around his cock.

Jaskier wanted this to last longer, but Eskel wasn’t making that easy. His large hands enveloped him completely, and he stroked him so tightly. Fuck, he could feel himself crashing towards orgasm far too quickly.

He opened his eyes and saw that Eskel wasn’t doing much better. His eyes were barely open, his face scrunched up in effort. It took Jaskier’s breath away and he clenched down, grinning at the effect it had on the witcher.

“Fuck, please, I want you to come first,” Eskel begged. Jaskier slowed a little, his eyes raking over the witcher’s face. He was used to pleasuring others and getting his later, if at all, but this was something different. It was curious but he couldn’t focus on it right now. Right now, he needed Eskel to come.

“Let’s race,” he said instead, beginning to ride the witcher faster than before. He could see the sweat drenching Eskel’s forehead, struggling to hold off. It made Jaskier wild with need, whining in pleasure as the witcher stripped his cock at speed.

They moved faster and faster, panting heavily as they crashed towards the inevitable. Jaskier felt Eskel let go first, his cock pulsing within, but he wasn’t far behind. Two strokes later and his body stilled as his orgasm violently shook through him. The world descended into a white blur as his nerve endings were overwhelmed in pleasure. It was the strongest orgasm he had experienced in quite a while.

Eskel was looking at him with soft eyes when Jaskier opened his once more. It was unnerving how they watched him.

“That was pretty amazing, even if I do say so myself.”

Eskel chuckled. “It was not what I expected from my winter at Kaer Morhen.”

That was curious. “Oh. I always imagined it would be fun to be here.”

“It really isn’t.” Eskel said. He reached out and pulled Jaskier towards him, kissing him deeply. “Thank you, I enjoyed this.”

Jaskier scoffed. “You don’t need to thank me.” He pulled back, feeling the coolness of his spend across his chest and noticing how he had ruined Eskel’s shirt. “But we do need to clean up.”

*

Afterwards, Eskel had walked him back around the keep as they headed towards the great hall. Jaskier tried to take in what Eskel was saying to him, but it was never going to stick in his memory. He was going to get very lost the next time he went anywhere in this place.

When they arrived at the great hall, the evening meal was just being served. There were two long wooden tables that lined the room. Long benches lay on each side, and at the top of the right-hand table was a large steaming iron pot. A few bowls sat beside it.

Jaskier could already see that the witchers, who had taken up residence on the table on the left-hand side, were glaring at him. Sam and Yennefer sat alone on the other table. Ah, so it was like that.

“Well, it seems this is where we part,” Jaskier said, giving Eskel a wink. The witcher just walked away, sitting down beside his brothers. The red-haired witcher slid a bowl of food towards him.

Jaskier just shrugged and headed over to sit beside Sam.

“Hey,” Sam said, pulling him in for a kiss. “What have you been up to?”

“Oh,”Jaskier said, as he sat down, catching Eskel’s eyes on the other table, “just getting lost and having to be rescued.”

Sam laughed. “Sounds about right. You have a ridiculously bad sense of direction.”

“Yeah, I would make the world’s worst spy,” Jaskier replied, grinning widely. Sam returned his grin, too, but when he looked over at Eskel, the witcher was staring at his food. He shrugged. Maybe the witcher didn’t think it was funny.

Yennefer took a bite of her food. “No one wants a twit as a spy, bard.”

“Really, witch? I’m sure you’re right. Secrets can only be uncovered in silence, after all.”

He laughed as Yennefer snorted. It was nice to have her around. It felt almost normal if he didn’t look over at the other table, crowded with witchers like they were enemies at war.

Yennefer caught his quick glances. “Bunch of children,” she said. “I wouldn’t worry about them. They’ll get out of their ‘shy phase’ at some point.”

Sam hummed. “The old man is not so bad. He seemed happy to have my help in the kitchen.”

Jaskier smiled up at Sam. So, that’s where he had gone. It was nice to know he had found something nice to do.

“What did you make then?”

Sam pointed to the potatoes and the veg. “The potatoes. Vesemir wouldn’t let me touch the meat. Seems I’m not yet trusted,” Sam said, with a huge smile on his face. “I’ll break him down.”

“Oh, I know you will,” remarked Yennefer.

“How do you know?” Jaskier asked, his voice rising higher than he intended.

“I know,” Yennefer replied, her eyes sparkling.

Jaskier had barely finished his meal before the witchers were cleaning up the place. His plate was unceremoniously pulled from his clutch.

“Bit rude,” Jaskier commented to Sam, who just chuckled lightly. 

“I think you might need to eat faster while we’re here. They seem terribly efficient.”

“I think it’s time we head off,” Yennefer declared and walked out the main doors, with Sam and Jaskier following her lead. Still, Jaskier snuck a look back at Eskel, but the witcher had his back to the door.

#the witcher #jaskier #eskel #sam the baker #jaskel #saskier #jaskier x eskel #jaskier x sam the baker #witcher #geralt of rivia #jaskier minibang #jaskier fanfic #the witcher fanfiction #tears-and-smile-ao3 #my fanfiction #cw: smut #cw: sex

[corancoranthemagicalman]

For the title game: Serendipity and/or An Ounce of Respect?

Oh, friend of friends!! I might have to steal you away for title help in the future these are so clever!!! I feel like I have so many summary ideas for these, but have these two.

For "An Ounce of Respect":

The road to Kaer Morhen is a long one. Paths wind and winds moan along steep slopes of merciless rock. All the while, Jaskier can feel every bone in his body creak. But it's perfectly alright! He can more than hold his tongue, even if he can't feel his toes any longer.

For "Serendipity":

Once was an occurrence. Twice was incidental. But three times? Well. Stede didn't know what to make of that.

Or

In another universe, Stede keeps accidentally running into the most infamous pirate of the Caribbean. Only he doesn't quite know it isn't by accident, and Blackbeard has been searching for him. Oh, and that the handsome man is Blackbeard at all.

Send me a fic title, and I'll make a summary!!

(And thanks for the ask!!)

#!!! this was fun!!! #bard-llama #the witcher #jaskier #gentlebeard #ofmd #ask game #fanfic game #ask c