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dreamofbecoming · 2 years

Text

bitten lips and broken hands

the incomparable @wren-of-the-woods tagged me in a totally innocuous wip ask game, and although i had no current wips, this apparently triggered my latent gifted child programming and i ended up staying up all night to write this

so thank you wren from the bottom of my heart, and i hope all y’all enjoy whatever the fuck this is

geraskier/implied pre-geraskefer

rating: t

wc: 6500

ao3

Geralt is drunk. Properly drunk, too, not just the lights are all brighter and the jokes all funnier drunk. Perhaps not quite oh dear, is that the floor? How did it get all the way up he- drunk, but certainly in the vicinity of I might not remember deciding to homestead in this ditch on the side of the road, but surely it was a good decision and I stand by it drunk.

In his defense, he’s quite sure he’s earned it. They all have, after everything. So many of his brothers dead, blood soaking into the stone floor again, throwing him back to the Sacking...he snatches the bottle from Lambert and downs another swig of White Gull to cut off that line of thinking. That’s why they’re getting drunk, to stop thinking about it. Getting maudlin, while on brand, defeats the whole purpose. Ciri is safe, gone to bed hours ago, and he got Yen settled into an empty room (near Vesemir’s, who promised to keep an ear out in case she tried anything unsavory) after supper before heading back down to get pissed with his brothers, so there’s nothing keeping him from what he’s definitely earned.

Vartok and Tolbert are already passed out, drooling on the floor in front of the fire, but Geralt and Eskel and Lambert have at least another bottle to get through.

“So whas- wash- what’s the deal with your bard, anyway? The fuck’d you bring him here for?”

“Lam, don’ be a fuckin’ prick, hey? Bard’s nice enough. Likes Lil Bleater! ‘s good people!”

“’as how I know he’s mad! Nobob- boby- nobody likes that bloody monster! Fuckin’ menace she is.”

“Don’ fuckin’ insult my damn goat, you ass! Yer jus’ cross she got into your room las’ year. ‘s yer own fault! Told you! Shut the door! Pass the damn Gull, Wolf, quit hoggin’ it.”

“Those were bran’ new boots! Fuckin’ beast! You still owe me new ones, ya prick. The fuck was I talking about anyway?”

Geralt is only half listening to the familiar bickering, so Eskel has to stop guzzling from the rapidly emptying bottle to answer. “Bard,” he nods decisively, going back to the bottle.

“Right! Bard! The fuck were you thinking, Pretty Boy? Fancy type like that, all, all frilly and shit, what good is he in a wisher- witcher keep? Tossing rocks about in the middle of fights? ‘ sides, dunno why he’s still hangin’ around you anyway, din’ you chase him off? Don’ belong here, that one.”

“I know,” Geralt laments. He does know. It’s why he never invited Jaskier here to winter with him, despite the many and myriad hints he pretended not to pick up on over the years. He knew from the moment he met Jaskier that this place, with its ghosts and bloodstains and drafty corridors and broken edges and broken witchers, was no place for someone like his the bard. Someone bright and vibrant and joyful. Kaer Morhen was none of those things. Even whole and full of life, it had been a cruel and a hard place. A place of dead children and frightened youths and cold men. No, he had never wanted to see Jaskier in these halls if he could help it.

“Din’ have much of a choice, y’know. Yen ‘s all-” He waves his hand vaguely about in an approximation of the chaos that was the days following the mess at Nenneke’s. “Hadta get Ciri back. Wouldn’ta brought him here otherwise.”

In hindsight, he’ll probably blame the drink for the fact that he didn’t register the familiar scent of sweat and parchment and almond oil, but the truth is, he’s so lost in thoughts of Jaskier already that he assumes it’s only in his head.

It is not. Eskel whaps him on the shoulder in alarm, trying to cut him off, but it’s too late. Jaskier stands motionless in the doorway for a moment before he whirls on his heel and vanishes into the hall, the tray of food he had obviously very thoughtfully prepared for them clattering to the ground behind him.

Geralt abruptly feels very sober. Jaskier’s face, eyes huge and brimming with tears, expression utterly crushed, is going to haunt him, he knows. It’s like the mountain all over again.

“...whoops?” Lambert tries, though he does look genuinely contrite, for Lambert values of contrite, anyway. Granted, he’s already out of his seat and gathering up the scattered food onto the discarded platter, shoveling a roll into his mouth straight off the floor, so Geralt takes his remorse with several grains of salt.

“G’wan, you hafta fix it! Go talk to him!” Eskel shoves him off the couch, gesturing frantically at the doorway where Jaskier disappeared from.

Geralt’s reflexes are slow, and his brain hasn’t quite caught up with the situation, but as the shock starts to wear off, hot shame followed by cold dread settles into his limbs, sending him stumbling down the hall towards the bedrooms. The molten pit of shame in his gut writhes even harder when he realizes he doesn’t know which room Jaskier has been staying in, hasn’t even gone to see him once since arriving, not even to check on him after the battle. Gods, he’s an awful friend.

Shoving down feelings that will do him no good right now, he tries to shake off some of the lingering alcohol haze not burned off by adrenaline and focus on Jaskier’s scent as it leads him through the winding corridors of the keep, tainted as it is by the scent of saltwater tears and moldy grief.

He finds him on one of the lower levels, in a cramped little room off a side hallway without even a hearth. There are no torches lit, but a magelight Yen must have cast sometime before supper glows over the desk, though why she would use her freshly-restored, still-regenerating power on something like that, Geralt isn’t sure.

What’s worse, Jaskier is packing.

To be fair, there isn’t much to be packed, but he’s carefully stacking notebooks into a satchel Geralt recognizes as dwarven design, which he assumes Yarpen and his people gave to him on the way across the Continent.

“Jas-”

“I hope one more night won’t be too much of an imposition,” he interrupts. “Yen’s already asleep, I checked, and after what she went through today, it seemed unchivalrous to wake her just to ask her for a portal off the mountain. You have my word I’ll be-” Jaskier’s voice, already thin and warbling from tears, breaks for a moment before he recovers, “I’ll be off your hands just as soon as possible. I never intended to intrude on a place I...I don’t belong.”

His back is to the witcher, and Geralt can see the quiver in his shoulders as he grips the desk with white knuckles, the strain of holding himself together causing him to shake where he stands. His choice of phrasing does not go unnoticed, hitting its mark like Geralt is sure it was meant to. It twists in his belly like poisoned dagger, burning and tugging.

“Jas that wasn’t- I didn’t- fuck. Fuck! I’m too fucking drunk for this.” He finds himself all at once overwhelmed, the grief and the shock and the guilt and the fear and the fucking White Gull and now the thought of the inevitable loss of Jaskier all running into each other and piling up and taking his legs out from under him. He sits down hard on the bed, his face in his hands.

There’s a long pause, then a rustling and a clinking sound he barely registers, before Jaskier’s voice, much close than before, says, “Here.”

When he looks up, the bard is standing before him, eyes red and cheeks tear-tracked, expression hard. He’s holding out a vial. Geralt takes it on instinct, body not needing input from his brain to trust that anything Jaskier gives him is safe to consume.

“It’s White Honey, not Wives’ Tears, but it should still help.”

“Where- why? How?”

Jaskier shrugs. “Guess I never got out of the habit of carrying the basics. Vesemir let me nick a few from the stores here, since all my things in Oxenfurt have probably been picked off by now.”

Bewildered, Geralt drinks the potion down. It isn’t as instantaneous as Tears would be, but alcohol is close enough to toxicity that he still feels his head start to clear. There’s so much he wants to address about everything Jaskier just said, but he has no idea where to start.

“Didn’t mean it like that, y’know. I swear. I didn’t.”

“Forgive me if that doesn’t make me feel better, Geralt. How the fuck did you mean it, then? How exactly am I meant to take hearing that I don’t belong here, and you wouldn’t have brought me if you had another choice?”

Fuck. That does sound really bad out loud. Geralt never meant for him to hear any of that, but that’s no excuse.

“’s not- ugh. It’s not that you don’t- it’s here, Jas, not you. Here doesn’t belong with...fuck. I hate this. You know I’m no good at this!”

Jaskier continues to lean against the desk, arms crossed. He raises one eyebrow, and Geralt knows no help is coming. He isn’t being let off the hook this time. He puts his face back in his hands with a groan. He almost wishes he hadn’t taken the Honey, maybe alcohol would loosen his tongue enough to help explain to Jaskier why he should want to get off this mountain as fast as possible, why belonging here was the last thing Geralt wants for him, wants for anyone he loves.

(He balks a little at the word, but inside his own mind, at least for now, it’s easy enough to ignore. And it’s not like he hasn’t know its true for years; its just one of the many things he decided a long time ago to pretend weren’t happening to him. The Child Surprise and the djinn wish came back to bite him in the ass, but surely it can’t hurt to ignore this lesson one more time, right?)

“You don’t belong in this place, just like- just like you don’t belong with me, ok?”

The moldy, rotten scent of grief and hurt swells so quickly Geralt almost sneezes. He looks up in alarm to see Jaskier staggering back towards the wall, away from Geralt, a look on his face like the witcher had just carved up his sister in front of him. He looks gutted. Fuck, that hadn’t come out right either, had it?

“Well, witcher, that certainly does clear things up. I suppose I should thank you for refraining from screaming my faults in my face this time. I apologize for having inflicted my presence on you for so long, then. Message received.” Geralt winces at the epithet, always before so soft in Jaskier’s mouth, so full of affection and admiration, now sharp and bloody on his lips.

“Wait, no, fuck, that isn’t what I meant!”

“No need to explain any further. You can go back to your brothers now, I’m sure they’re missing you. I can finish packing on my own. I’ll be gone in the morning, you won’t have to suffer me any further.”

“Jaskier, would you fucking listen to me? I don’t mean I don’t want you here! Of course I want you here! I always want you here!” Geralt is shouting now, desperation flooding him with adrenaline that feels remarkably like familiar, comfortable anger, and he leans into it.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean? You just told me I don’t belong here in your home, I don’t belong by your side, you only allowed me here because you had no choice, your brother called me useless and you flat-out agreed with him, how fucking dare you tell me you want me here! It’s cruel to toy with me like this, Geralt! You’re many things, but I’ve never known you to be cruel before, so please just go and let me take myself off your fucking hands in peace!”

Geralt feels frantic, out of control. Jaskier is slipping through his fingers and he doesn’t know which words to pick to stop it from happening. The thought that just an hour ago, he was planning out the best way to take the bard down the mountain as soon as the snow cleared, to send him back to a better, safer, happier life, a life without Geralt in it, doesn’t occur to him. Everything is blanked out by terror, leaving only the singular thought that he has to make Jaskier stop looking like that, stop smelling like that, has to fix what he keeps breaking.

“You don’t belong with me because you belong somewhere better, you fucking moron!”

Hm. Not quite the tone he was going for, but closer than before, at least.

Jaskier has stopped moving altogether, and is staring at him in something like shocked incredulity. At least he’s stopped shoving potions into his satchel, which is something.

Geralt can see Jaskier trying to formulate a response, emotions shifting rapidly across his face as his scent fluctuates wildly, pingponging from rage to hope to hurt and back again. Eventually he seems to settle on flat indignation.

“I’m going to need you to elaborate on that, Geralt. I have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about.” Based on the expression on his face, Geralt doubts that, but apparently being forced to articulate himself is his punishment for being an ass.

“You don’t- you aren’t- ugh. You’re good, Jaskier! You’re light and laughter and softness. You’re pretty silks and rich foods and shiny jewelry. You play for kings and queens, you have Oxenfurt panting after you every year to teach more classes, you’ve had half the pretty people on the Continent in your bed, and every one of them has begged you not to leave! I’ve known it since we met, Jaskier, you don’t belong on the Path. You don’t belong in the damp and the muck and the blood and the shit. You don’t belong with a fucking Butcher! I tried so hard, Jaskier, for so long, to make you leave. To make you see that you deserve more. Deserve better. I don’t know why the fuck you kept coming back, but I thought after the mountain I had finally done it, I had finally made you see. But I was weak and when Yen fucked me over I got scared, I came to you because you’re the only person I know who would keep coming back, who I could trust with Ciri because you kept picking me for all those years when I didn’t deserve it. But you were supposed to be gone! You were supposed to be safe! You should have been happy in Oxenfurt without me, and instead I dragged you back into this nightmare and almost got you killed and now you’re stuck in this horrible keep full of the ghosts of dead witchers and my idiot dickhead brothers and I can’t even get my shit together enough to be nice to you! Why the fuck are you here, Jaskier? Why the fuck do you want to belong here? It’s fucking terrible here! You should be somewhere better!”

Geralt collapses back onto the side of the bed, having gotten up to pace at some point during that monologue, most of which was less conscious speech and more “ripped straight out of his ribcage by some unseen force.” Fuck, he’s actually winded. He hasn’t shouted that much without stopping since the Trials, he doesn’t think.

Jaskier is staring again, eyebrows nearly touching his hairline and his mouth hanging open. Geralt very carefully does not think about Jaskier’s open mouth, in much the same way he has carefully not thought about Jaskier’s mouth for the last 15 years or so.

It takes a moment for Jaskier to gather his thoughts, and Geralt thinks it might be the longest moment of his life thus far. He fights the urge to fidget with his hands, a nervous habit he didn’t realize he had picked up from the bard until after the mountain, and thereafter made a deliberate effort to squash.

Finally Jaskier seems to come to some internal decision, and he nods to himself before meeting Geralt’s eyes squarely. “I have a number of questions, Geralt, but the first and most consequential is this: who the fuck do you think you are?”

“Wh- huh?” Apparently Geralt has spent all of the words he had available, which isn’t terribly surprising given the circumstances. That isn’t where he expected Jaskier’s reaction to go, though.

“I said, witcher, who the fuck do you think you are, to decide for me the company I should keep and the kind of life I should lead?”

Well, shit. “That’s not- I wasn’t-”

“Because the last person to try that was the Count de fucking Lettenhove, darling, and I assure you, it didn’t work for him, either.”

Geralt blinks. His brain latches onto the pet name, which seems like it must be an improvement over witcher spat with such vitriol, even if it still sounds distinctly like an insult in that tone. He fights to regain some of his footing in this conversation, which is rapidly changing directions to somewhere he did not expect and is not prepared for, to no avail. Luckily, or perhaps unluckily, Jaskier isn’t done.

“Do you really think me so shallow? So soft? That I’m nothing but silks and sex and a pretty face? Do you think the university wants me to teach because I’m- what was it Lambert called me? Frilly? Do you know what I was doing in Oxenfurt before you found me? Because I assure you, dear heart, I wasn’t fucking lounging about on featherbeds drinking Toussainti wine!”

Geralt’s brow furrows in confusion, which seems to stoke the bard’s ire from embers to a conflagration.

“You fucker, that is what you fucking thought! You never even fucking asked, you utter ass! I was bloody tortured for you and you want to send me back because, what, you think whenever I’m not with you I’m fulfilling my life’s fucking purpose as a vapid, foppish little brat? You don’t fucking know me at all, do you? I can’t fucking believe you right now!” Jaskier’s face is flushed with anger, teeth bared and scent spiking burnt and bitter.

Geralt’s thoughts have all screeched to a grinding halt, the room fading out around him as his focus narrows completely to the man before him.

“Tortured?” His voice quavers in a way that would probably embarrass him if he could think about anything but Jaskier’s voice on a loop in his head, tortured tortured tortured. He’s had this nightmare before, a dozen times and more.

Jaskier seems to bring himself up short, confusion flashing briefly across his face. “I- yes? Yen said she told you...I thought that’s why you came for me?”

“She said. She. She said you were “in some trouble.” The guard outside the jail said you were locked up for peeping. I just assumed…”

Jaskier’s face has gone flat and blank again, and the rotten smell of hurt is swirling in the air again, mixing unpleasantly with the burnt anger smell and turning Geralt’s stomach.

“You just thought I had done something stupid and selfish and probably involving my dick, and never thought to question it or ask me if I was alright.”

“I- yes. I mean no, I- I should have- I- Jaskier, please, what happened?” He isn’t proud of the pleading note in his voice, but the longer he waits for answers the stronger the urge gets to throw himself off the tallest tower the keep has, or grab Jaskier around the middle and wrap him in blankets and never let him out of his sight, neither of which he thinks would go over well with the other residents.

A note of uncertainty creeps into Jaskier voice and demeanor, which Geralt finds somehow more painful than the anger. “I- there was a mage. He was looking for you. Well, I think ultimately he was looking for Ciri, but he knew he needed to find you first. And I guess I’ve done quite a good job tying our reputations together over the years, and I wasn’t exactly hard to track down, so I guess…”

A mage…“Firefucker.”

Jaskier huffs a laugh, a bitter, unhappy thing. “An appropriate moniker. I see you ran into him eventually.” He looks up in sudden alarm. “I didn’t- Geralt, I didn’t tell him anything. I swear I didn’t. I mean, I said you told me of a witcher keep, but I told him that the fortress in the mountains was a story I made up, and even if he took that and ran with it, I never even said which mountains! I promise, Geralt, I’d have died before I let him hurt you, or Ciri, I swear it.”

Geralt isn’t sure how many times his heart can break in a single day, in a single conversation. Surely it can’t be many more after this, can it?

“I...I’m not worried about that, Jaskier. In fact, if anything like that ever happens in the future, you tell them everything. Whatever they want to know. You tell them everything you know, before you let them hurt you, Jaskier, please, promise me you’ll tell them.”

Jaskier’s eyes seem older than Geralt has ever seen them, full of a boundless sadness he never wants his bard to have to feel ever again. “You know I can’t promise that, my dear. If I had to do it over, I’d do it all again. I’d suffer him burning my fingers clean off before I let him anywhere near you.”

Geralt reaches for Jaskier’s hand automatically, only realizing at the last moment that he might not welcome the touch. He withdraws his hand reluctantly, trying to subtly angle his head instead to see Jaskier’s fingers where they’re tucked under his crossed arms.

“Are you- did they- how-” Luckily Jaskier seems to have retained his fluency in Geraltese, and holds out his right hand for inspection. The skin is shiny and red, obviously burned, but definitely in the later stages of healing. There are no open sores or blisters, and he winces in discomfort but not pain when he stretches the mottled skin by splaying his fingers out.

“Yennefer was kind enough to take a look at them earlier, once we were sure none of you were being stoic idiots and hiding injuries. They’ll be alright eventually, she thinks. And it isn’t like I have a lute to play at the moment, anyway, so it’s no great hardship to rest them while they heal. I had some trouble writing earlier, but I didn’t put all that effort in school into being able to write with either hand for nothing. You needn’t worry about me, Geralt. I’m fine, I promise.”

Geralt is quite sure he isn’t fine at all. None of this is fine. Every part of this is setting off a screaming klaxon in his head of wrongWrongWRONG and he has no idea how to fix any of it. The choice of room suddenly makes a great deal more sense, though, as does the magelight. Geralt feels a sudden, fierce rush of gratitude for Yen. Even though he’s still furious with her, and it’ll be a long time before he trusts her the way he once did, she’s obviously been taking care of Jaskier where he has failed utterly in doing so, and he’s desperately thankful that at least his inattention hasn’t left Jaskier completely alone. He isn’t sure when the two of them got as close as they clearly are, but upon reflection, he finds no jealousy, only gratefulness and a hint of chagrin that he has so clearly failed where the two of them have succeeded in making each other happy.

Jaskier is still holding his injured hand out between them. Geralt moves slowly, waiting for any sign that Jaskier doesn’t want him near, reaching out to grasp it gently, careful of the inflamed skin. Jaskier lets him, sitting down beside him on the edge of the mattress.

“I’m sorry, Jaskier. I’m sorry I sent you away, I’m sorry I wasn’t there to protect you from this. I’m sorry you were hurt because of me. This is the opposite of what I wanted. I hoped you would be safer without me. Happier. This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“There you go again, martyring yourself on the altar of other people’s choices. When will you learn, Geralt? You’re so desperate to push away anyone who gets close, because you think you’re some kind of curse on our lives. That’s bollocks. We stay because we want to. We sacrifice because we want to. We risk danger because we want to. Because being around you is worth it. We’re not asking for protection, or saving, or glitz and glamor. We’re only asking to stay. Because we want to. Because you’re worth it, you unbelievable moron. Stop trying to make everyone else’s choices for them, for once.”

He isn’t sure he can wrap his head around that right now, so he doesn’t try, but he does tuck it close to his heart for safekeeping, to turn it over in his hands later like a precious stone. He’s still holding Jaskier’s hand, and he squeezes gently for lack of a better response.

“I am sorry, you know. For what I said in Caingorn. It wasn’t true. None of it. I shouldn’t have lashed out when you were just trying to help.”

“You know it was never about what you said, right?”

Geralt makes a questioning noise, and Jaskier rolls his eyes.

“I’ve known you for 25 years, shithead, you don’t think I know how you get when you’re angry? You don’t think I can tell when you’re pissed at yourself and taking it out on whatever’s nearby? You think I haven’t heard worse insults from you than a bunch of blatant falsehoods and a melodramatic declaration of never wanting to see me again? Please, I got more cutting rebukes from my kid cousins growing up. Yes, it was shitty, and yes, it stung in the moment, but I never took it to heart.”

Fearing to know, but needing the answer all the same, Geralt asks, “What, then? I heard the song, you know.” The sharp intake of breath tells him Jaskier knows which song he means. “In Aedirn, in some backwater town. There was some nobody bard there, but even if he performed it terribly, I could tell it was yours. I had thought about looking for you once I got Ciri settled, but when I heard that song...I knew there was no fixing it. I knew you hated me properly, after that. So if it wasn’t what I said, what was it?”

Geralt hears the hitch in Jaskier’s breath and smells the salt of his tears, but he can’t bring himself to look up for this. He can’t bear to be looking into those blue eyes he loves so dearly as Jaskier explains how Geralt managed to destroy the best thing in his long, wretched life. He does hold his hand a little tighter, and hopes it’s enough to keep him here.

“I’m sorry for that. I needed to write it, but I should never have played it for anyone. I never meant to, really. You never should have heard it, and I’m sorry you had to. I was angry when I wrote it, and bitter, and...well. Heartbroken, I suppose. It’s no excuse, though.”

Geralt has a lot of questions about that, actually, but he still needs an answer to the one he already asked. “Why did you write it, then? If it wasn’t...what was it, Jaskier? What did I do?”

“You didn’t come back.”

He does look up then, confused, searching Jaskier’s face for clarity. He looks haunted, and desperately sad. He apparently reads Geralt’s need for clarification on his face, and continues.

“It was hardly the first time you got angry and took it out on me because I was the closest target. Not that that’s a great pattern in itself,” Geralt winces in agreement and apology, “but it wasn’t anything I wasn’t used to. I knew the routine- you get mad, you lash out, you cool off, you give me the biggest portion of supper or a sweetbun from the market or swing towards a town sooner than we have to instead of apologizing out loud, I forgive you, we move on.

“I figured I would head back to the camp, let you cool off for a few hours, and then try again. Of course, then I talked to Borch and got the bones of what had happened, and I realized it was bigger than I’d thought, and you might need longer to calm down, so when I realized you weren’t coming back right away, I managed to tag along with the dwarves on the way down. I grabbed the essentials out of Roach’s packs and set up at the inn at the foot of the mountain. I’m not sure if you noticed, but I left nearly all our coin with you. I only took enough for a night’s room and supper, since I was too tired to play after the hike down.

“I waited for you, Geralt. I stayed posted up there for three weeks. When you never came, I thought maybe you had just needed even more time alone, so once I’d overstayed my welcome there I started making my way towards Oxenfurt- the long way, mind, I swung all the way inland to Ard Carriagh, hoping to catch you on your way home for the winter. I made sure to be as loud and ostentatious as I could, so you’d be able to track me down when you were ready. Months I waited, Geralt. Months.

“I didn’t accept that you weren’t coming back for me until spring. That’s when I gave up.” Geralt’s heart cracks for what must be the dozenth time tonight, but he doesn’t dare interrupt. “I ended up at the Seat Of Friendship, looking for some kind of community, of purpose, to fill the space you left. That’s when I wrote- well. That’s when I wrote that song. And it was good, there. I missed you, I was hurt, but I felt safe, and appreciated, and understood. It was like being a student again, surrounded by other artists, all feeding off each other’s creative energy. And then…” He takes a deep, shuddering breath, and clutches Geralt’s hand tight enough to hurt anyone who wasn’t a witcher.

“It was a massacre, Geralt. It was like nothing I’ve ever experienced. I didn’t- I couldn’t-” He breaks off again, choking on a sob. Unable to stand it any longer, Geralt tucks an arm around his shoulders, pulling him tentatively closer. Jaskier crumples, collapsing into Geralt’s chest and clutching at his tunic as he sobs into his neck. Geralt rubs soothing circles into Jaskier’s back, like he used to sometimes when they shared a bedroll and Jaskier would wake them both with nightmares of a childhood he refused to discuss.

Long minutes later, Jaskier’s weeping slows, cries quieting to whimpers. He draws back from Geralt’s shoulder enough to swipe the sleeve of his doublet over his face, blotchy and red and tear-stained as it is. Geralt is reluctant to move his arm from around Jaskier’s shoulders, but luckily Jaskier only settles more comfortably into his side, still sniffling. Geralt savors the solid warmth of him against his side as he waits for him to be ready to continue.

“There was nothing I could do to save them. I barely made it out alive myself. I’ve never felt so fucking helpless, Geralt. So useless. I had to do something. I’d have gone mad if I didn’t. So, I took some of the coin from my father’s coffers, and bought a tavern in Oxenfurt, right on the pier. I managed to leverage my spywork to coax some more coin out of the Redanian Crown, and used that to set up a smuggling network with some old connections from my school days and a handful of likeminded survivors of Bleobheris, and I became the Sandpiper.

“The song was never meant to be public, truly. Right after I bought the pub, before the network was fully set up, I was...struggling. Owning a bar means pretty much unlimited access to alcohol and I...well. I don’t remember a lot of those first few weeks, really. I woke up one particular morning with no memory of the night before, until I was playing my set that night and people started requesting Burn, Butcher, Burn. Apparently I’d been feeling especially maudlin the night before and I played it while I was blackout drunk. There was a witcher in town, as I recall. Something about a monster in the sewers under the university, I was trying not to pay a lot of attention. He was a Bear, if the rumors were correct, but still close enough to set off unwanted memories, and send me to the bottom of several bottles.”

Guilt and resentment war for dominance in Geralt’s gut, churning violently. He wants to stop Jaskier, doesn’t want to hear any more, but he can’t, and he knows he shouldn’t.

“It was never meant to get out. My life’s work has been erasing the Butcher of Blaviken from history entirely. I was angry, Geralt, I am angry, but I never wanted to use that name against you. Never that. I am truly sorry for that.”

Geralt can hardly believe that after everything Jaskier has just explained, all the anguish Geralt had caused with his selfish, childish actions, that Jaskier is still apologizing to him. Sure, he hates that fucking song, but it isn’t like he hasn’t earned the name, both times apparently.

“You don’t- I’m not- You don’t owe me an apology, Jaskier. I would deserve it just for wounding you, now doubly so for not realizing just how deeply I had. I can’t...I don’t know how to fix it, Jaskier. I don’t know how to make it up to you. How can I fix it?”

Jaskier sits back, drawing his leg up onto the bed between them to better face Geralt head on. Geralt mourns the loss of contact, but holds Jaskier’s clear blue gaze with his own, hoping against hope that he’ll get to keep at least this, if nothing else.

“Are you going to send me away again?”

Geralt grimaces, but concedes it’s a fair question. “I thought it was the best thing for you, Jaskier. The safest thing. I only wanted you to be where you would be happiest.”

“That’s not your fucking call to make, witcher, and it’s not what I asked. Are you going to send me away again, yes or no?”

“No. Part of me still feels like I should, but I don’t think I could if I tried, anymore. I had been planning to, but when I came in here and you were packing, I...I’ve only felt fear like that when Yen took Ciri. Maybe it’s weak, but I don’t want to lose you again, Jaskier. I don’t want to be without you.”

Jaskier’s eyes are swimming with tears again, but his scent is full of cautious hope, telling Geralt he finally said something right.

“You’re a bastard and an idiot, and I want to stab you a little bit for that answer, but I’m going to focus on the positives because I’m fucking exhausted. We can deal with the rest tomorrow.” He pauses, uncharacteristically self-conscious. “Will you...will you stay with me tonight? I just- the nightmares used to be easier with you there, on the Path, and I thought, if you were alright with it, we could-”

Geralt takes pity and cuts him off. “I’ll stay. Do you...would you come to my room instead? The bed is bigger, there. There’s a hearth, but I can put it out if you need. It should be warm enough with an extra fur or two, with two of us in the bed.”

The sour smell of embarrassment fills the air as a blush creeps up Jaskier’s neck. “That obvious, huh?”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Jaskier. You were hurt with fire, fear is a normal reaction. It should fade eventually, and I’ll help you in the meantime. We all will. You already have Yen wrapped around your finger, if she’s conjuring you magelights.”

The attempt at levity works, drawing a chuckle from the bard as he looks up at the light hanging above their heads. Geralt notes with vague interest that it apparently followed Jaskier across the room when he moved to sit by Geralt, meaning it will probably also follow him up to Geralt’s room, eliminating the need to make Jaskier anxious with torches. Geralt will have to track Yen down tomorrow and thank her, anger or not. She really has come through for Jaskier, and that’s a debt Geralt can never repay.

The newfound camaraderie between the bard and the witch raises some interesting possibilities for the shape of his relationships with both of them eventually, but that’s a thought for far, far in the future. He has bridges to construct and trust to rebuild with both of them before that’s worth thinking about, and Ciri will have to be all of their first priorities for a while yet, but it’s nice to have something to look forward to. Geralt had almost forgotten what being hopeful for the future felt like, he’s spent so long running from it or assuming he didn’t have one. It’s nice, he thinks. Strange, but nice.

But that’s for later. For now, he has a bed waiting for him, and a bard to fill it with him, and the promise of at least one more day without that bard fleeing Geralt’s brutish ways down the mountain. He has a daughter to train in the morning, and brothers to tease for their inevitable hangovers, and a father to thank for looking out for his bard while he couldn’t, and a witch to start to reconcile with.

It’s enough, for now. It’s enough.

#the witcher #twn #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #dandelion #julian alfred pankratz #eskel #lambert #the witcher fanfiction #my writing #i’m sorry they talk so much #i always start out with such grand ideals of being funny and poignant #and then it’s just two dumbasses spouting exposition at each other for 3k words #if i could make them stop i would #snaksofhdbkaksjd i just! realized i forgot about coen!!!#he’s uhhhhh asleep already whoops #my brain has so thoroughly classified him as Not A Wolf that i fully forgot he should be there at the start of this ahhhhh i’m so sorry coe

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spilledbutter · 1 year

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do you guys ever imagine the kaer morons dressing up as various beasties during all hallows’ eve because I do

#can you tell I can’t sleep #asi rambles #kaer morons #eskel #geralt #lambert #coen #ciri #vesemir #witcher #the witcher #wiedzmin #twn #the witcher netflix #tag yourself I’m the leshy

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spacecores · 1 year

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am i going to die mad about witcher netflix?

yeah

if i lived in sj still would i egg the netflix offices from the freeway exit?

also yeah

#allie.txt #twn critical #it's a big stupid building on winchester blvd with a gate in front #but fuck all from the back lol #every time i think about the yen & ciri plot line from s2 specifically i want to spew blood #along w other things but that makes me the most mad #coen only good part about km in s2 love him so much #grabs the pieces i like and hisses at the rest of it

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luxeberries · 1 year

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will literally never get over this moment. everyone else flirting and fondling and having fun and all coen wants is to be held. the way she's cradling his face, the way he's holding onto her tight enough to keep her close but loose enough that she could leave. like he's soaking up all the warmth and affection he can before she's had enough. god,,

#the witcher #coen twn

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pterodactylterrace · 1 year

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Wanna play a game? It’s called “How Many Ways TWN Has Messed Up”

It’s easy to play. You just list the biggest misstep you can think of. Unfortunately there is no winner. Only losing.

Replaced the LEAD

Geralt and Jaskier’s mountain fallout

Yennifer trying to sacrifice Ciri

Jaskier not aging over the course of decades

Vesemir trying to mutate Ciri

Eskel was a huge prick

Lambert was not

Eskel cosplayed Groot then died

Wolves ate the Grootskel instead of the usual funeral pyre

Only four Wolf Witchers remain. Who are all these people?

Coen isn’t a Griffin

Roach is a bay mare. Why does he have a black stallion(?)?

Kaer Morhen is very hard to get to and only the Witchers know the way. Unless they’re hosting a very drunken hooker party, because who cares about consent?

Please, feel free to continue on.

#twn #henry cavill #Paul bullion #yasen atour #freya Allen #Basil eidenbenz #anya chalotra #joey batey #kim bodnia #Geralt of rivia #lambert #eskel #vesemir #yennifer #Jaskier

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fandom-junk-drawer · 3 months

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What Jaskier sees while watching the Kaer Morons do repairs to the Keep.

#the witcher #twn #the witcher netflix #the witcher headcanon #jaskier #julian alfred pankratz #geralt #geralt of rivia #geraskier #eskel #coen #lambert #vesemir #aiden #kaer morons

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incorrect-quotes-at-random · 1 year

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Ciri: Alright, who’s hogging the Netflix account? I’ve been locked out all week!

Coën: Sucks to suck! I’m already on the 8th season of Friends!

Geralt: Not me.

Ciri: Don’t lie. I know it’s not Jaskier or Lambert.

Geralt: It’s not me, really!

Ciri: …

Geralt: …But it might be Yennefer…

Ciri: You gave Yennefer access to our Netflix account!?!?

Geralt: She wanted to watch Orange is the New Black!

Ciri: I’m going to kill you.

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witcherthingies · 2 years

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First Flight

witchers experience flying for the first time... mixed results.

“Okay so!” Jaskier claps his hands, gathering attention from the witchers. “As you all know, the world is a lot bigger than you thought.” Laughter rings out. “And as good sorceresses as our mages are, having to portal to literally the other side of the world is a bit of a strain for them.” Yennefer grimaces at this, as if hating the idea of her magic being limited in such a way. “Which is why, for the first major patrol being sent to Moscow, we are going to send them in a plane.” An unease settles throughout the hall, witchers shifting uncomfortably. They all learned what a plane was from their teachings, but that doesn’t mean they like or exactly trust them.

“I will be with you all the entire time, and we’ll even be using a private jet to limit interactions with the public, and really this is a sort of test run to see how you fare before engaging in longer flights.” The time between Koltsovo, the closest airport from them, and Moscow was about two and a half hours, a perfect short trip.

“We will be assigning the witchers tonight and will inform you tomorrow,” Geralt now speaks up. “But whoever we choose will be expected to be professional and cool-headed.”

“Remember the entire world will be watching us,” Jaskier drops into a more serious tone. “You will be representing all of the witchers and set a standard which will hopefully allow the other countries to have us enter in order to protect their people.” There’s a chorus of White Wolf through the hall, then chatter strikes up again as they return to their supper.

The witchers end up being as follows: Eskel, Artek, Coën, Treyse, Auckes, Merten, and Stefan. As many school heads as possible, and those thought best fit to represent the other schools. For as much of a witcher mission as this is, it is also a diplomatic one.

Yennefer is kind enough to portal them to the base of the mountain, where a large transport van is waiting for them, as well as a Russian escort.

Well good to know the Russians are at least tolerating us, Jaskier thinks to himself as he greets the soldiers. Eskel has been in a car before, so he’s at least familiar with the sudden acceleration and deceleration, the constant hum of the engine, and the general trapness of it all.

The others, however, are not used to it.

“Too fast,” Artek grumbles out, a vice grip on his traveling bag, the poor large bear is hunched in his seat and having to close his eyes at every turn.

“Makes traveling a whole lot easier, though.” Stefan stretches out, seemingly unperturbed by the vehicle. “An’ we won’t smell like horse shit.”

“What about the other monsters along the road?” Coën questions quietly. “Normally we’d be able to deal with whatever other monster we come across, now we seem to pass right by them.”

“For now that is for the best,” Jaskier speaks up, lounging against Eskel. “Monsters will no doubt figure out how to rip open the top of cars soon enough, but we want to prevent that as long as possible by encouraging quick trips where you don’t get out unless absolutely necessary.” Engineers and manufacturers were already hard at work to find ways to monster-proof their vehicles and other devices, though they are limited in how exactly to test that sort of thing.

They reach the airport with ease, the caravan pulling up right to the base of the jet, where the stairs were already lowered. There was very little public at this small airport, which meant damn near no reporters or cameras flashing at them, but Jaskier knew what would wait for them in the major international airport of Russia.

Normally a private jet would only have one flight attendant, if you could even call them that, they were more concerned with fetching you drinks and refills than safety. But Jaskier had requested a full staff of the best trained flight attendants available, he knew he’d need all the help he could get.

He and the flight staff do their very best to prepare the witchers as much as possible. Before the pilots even turn the engine on they explain how it will be rather loud and they might feel the vibration beneath them, but that is completely normal. They explain how as they climb in altitude so quickly they will feel the change in pressure, mostly in their ears, as if cotton was being stuffed in.

“Chewing on gum will help alleviate this side effect,” Jaskier explains and hands out a pack to everyone. Many have experience with gum, understanding (after a few disastrous incidents) that it was purely meant to be chewed not eaten like fucking candy.

The pilots roar the engine to life, and just about every witcher jumps at the sudden assault of noise, hands reaching for any nearby weapons. They taxi for a couple of minutes, allowing the witchers to get used to the feel, buckling seat belts and clutching armrests, and Merten damn near stuffing the entire pack of gum in his mouth.

Then they reach the runway and Jaskier is fully ready for the shitshow that follows. The plane speeds up, faster and faster, the g-force forcing their heads back against the rest. Auckes has his eyes squeezed shut, entire body taunt like a bowstring. Treyse looks a particularly nasty shade of green that Jaskier is surprised he hasn’t vomited yet, and Jaskier swears he can hear Coën praying behind him.

They climb and climb higher in the sky, causing poor Treyse to open the sick bag he was handed, confirming that he must have a nasty case of flight sickness. But eventually they level out, blessedly with little to no turbulence, and the flight attendants cheerily tell them all that the first hardest part was all done.

“As fucking horrible as this is,” Stefan finally speaks up, needing to shout from the noise. “And this is truly horrible. Why the fuck humans would willingly do this is beyond me... The view isn’t that bad.” Jaskier turns, seeing the crane leader gazing out the small window, others following suit. Even after flying hundreds of times, Jaskier is still amazed by the view from thousands of feet in the air, so he could only imagine the shivers running down the witcher's spines as they gaze out.

Stefan seems content with continuing to stare out the window for the entire flight, barely even touching his food and drink in favor of studying each and every spec of land beneath him. Aukes, seemingly not a fan of heights, closes his window and sits back to try and meditate the time away. Slowly the others relax in their seats, left to their own devices as they wait.

It finally allows Jaskier privacy with Eskel, curling up next to him, making sure to give him as much attention as possible. “I’m sorry it has to be this way, love.” He presses a kiss to his unscarred cheek. “But the majority of the world right now has seem to just accept queer relationships as a normalcy. I fear what would happen if we introduced all three of us as lovers...” He knew they wouldn’t be able to be public with the three of them, needing to leave Eskel as the seemingly purely right-hand to the warlord.

“I know, catmint.” Eskel reassures, lips against his soft hair. “Can’t say I like it, but I understand why it has to be done.” That was one of the more heartbreaking things to teach the Witchers, Jaskier decides, that for all this world has advanced, it has gotten only more and more bigoted in their morals and acceptance.

Two hours later, they are flying over the great city of Moscow. The others are looking out their windows again, taking in the sheer size of the city, the architecture and colors-

“Not half bad,” Treyse comments just loud enough for Jaskier to hear, making him snort in laughter. The flight attendants tell them they will soon be landing and begin instructing them in what to do and how it will feel.

Poor Treyse has a hand clutching another sickbag, just in case, the others sitting ramrod straight with hands gripping the armrests hard enough to cause the plastic to bend and crack.

Jaskier isn’t ashamed to admit that he’s a little proud of Treyse managing to make it all the way until the first jump of the wheels hitting the tarmac before vomiting into the sack. His mere human senses are sharp enough to pick up the pure relief that spreads throughout the cabin as the plane slows, the engine lowering to a purr. Of course they couldn’t be taxied to an actual terminal - no - Jaskier sighs in resignation as he sees the steps being lowered to a swarm of reporters and paparazzi and security and even a few dignitaries.

“Here we go...” He sighs out, taking the front as he leads the witchers out and into the public eye.

#thingywritesthingies #twn #the witcher #witcher 3 #modernized awau #modern awau #eskel #geralt of rivia #jaskier #artek #coen #treyse #auckes #flying #flight sickness #cw vomiting

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kuwdora · 1 year

Note

WIP GAME tell me more about “witcher allergies” pls

Alright, so this is an idea/scene that I have that I haven’t put on AO3 yet cause part of me wants to include it in one of my longer Leshkel stories. But I probably should just leave this as a standalone scene since it’s pretty funny on it’s own. My Scrivener doc says I created this allergies file in January of last year. That’s how outstanding some of my WIPs are, omg. 😭

The idea is that you turn a mutated witcher into an ancient monster of the woods and that witcher-leshen pollen might affect the immune systems of only witchers. 🤧 And some witchers more than others. Here is a draft that's still rough but gets the point across. 😆 (yo it's scary to put my ideas into the light of day. Hope you like?? Want to see more? Let me know.)

Seasonal Allergies

TWN. post-Voleth Meir. Leshen Eskel AU

Gen, but implied Geralt/Eskel, maaaybe vaguely implied sex pollen.

~1300w

Jaskier reached the great hall and found Ciri and Yennefer sitting across the table from Geralt and Coen, chatting with one another. Coen was hunched over his bowl of food, looking utterly miserable like he hadn’t slept a wink, and Geralt looked like he was ready for a nap.

“Fancy meeting you all here for a spot of dinner,” Jaskier said. “Training going well?” Jaskier asked and Ciri nodded distantly.

Jaskier picked at his food and the loudest godsdamned sneeze he’d ever heard erupted from the table, startling him so much that he dropped his knife.

“Whaaat the!” he said, looking around the table.

Coen’s face was in his palms and the witcher sighed morosely. Jaskier eyed the tatter of scars on the man’s head, the slouch of his shoulders. The witcher sniffled. Sniffled.

“Are you sick?” he asked and Coen sighed again and leaned back to pull wadded linen from his thigh and blow his nose which surely looked like a yes.

“I thought witchers don’t get sick,” Ciri said.

“They don’t,” Jaskier said. He looked at Geralt. “In twenty years the only time I have seen this one sneeze was when he was clearing his nostrils of selkimore guts.”

Ciri pulled the spoon from her mouth and gently tapped it against her plate, her face twisting in thought. “My friends—the ones I used to play with on the streets when I back in Cintra—they used to have a rhyme whenever one of us got too sick to come out and play,” she said.

“Sixth sneeze, let me breathe, selkie please,” Ciri rhymed. She tapped out a beat on the table and Jaskier smiled a little, the pride warming his chest. He never thought it was the smartest or cleverest rhyme, but it had been memorable enough that she could recall it all these years later. Jaskier happily tucked that pride away.

“That was you?” Ciri asked, her eyes flicking from Geralt to Jaskier and back again. Jaskier grinned.

“Sure was,” he said. He was about to reminisce for her, but he glanced at who Geralt barely nodded, and Jaskier lost his train of thought. Geralt still looked half-asleep at the table.

Lambert came stomping his way over with his plate of food steaming mug. He looked far from sleepy.

“Fucken hells,” Lambert growled, obviously congested, and sat down on Jaskier’s other side. Jaskier recoiled when the ginger witcher wiped his nose on his sleeve.

“They’re allergies,” Yennefer said and that didn’t make a lick of sense to Jaskier. He looked at Lambert and back to Coen. Sickness didn’t make sense either, he supposed, but Geralt was still sitting there sleepy-eyed between the two of them.

“Witchers don’t have allergies,” he pointed out.

“It’s the pollen,” Yennefer said and Jaskier frowned again.

“What pollen? I haven’t sneezed since we got here,” Jaskier said and finally took his first bite of the stew. “And it’s the middle of winter.”

His stomach growled and Coen blew his nose on a rag. The sound made Jaskier lose his appetite.

Ciri looked between Coen and Lambert with an amused pity.

Yennefer, on the other hand, was looking at Geralt with a knowing twist to her lips and Jaskier was equal parts curious and confused.

“Jaskier, do you know what animal has the longest orgasm and how long they orgasm for?—And don’t bother saying claiming it’s you,” she said, preemptively rolling her eyes at hi.

“Isn’t it the goat? Because they’re horny. With the horns and,” Jaskier paused, eyeing Ciri for a moment, not sure what the protocol was for discussing animal genitalia and orgasms in front of a Princess. But Yennefer was the one who had asked, “the giant goat balls?”

Jaskier’s heart skipped in surprise again the force of Coen’s sneeze rocked their side of the bench.

“The average length of a pig’s orgasm is 30 minutes. It can sometimes last up to an hour and a half,” Yennefer said carefully, her eyes leveled on Geralt. Jaskier frowned and looked at Geralt who inhaled and he did sound a little congested now that Jaskier was listening.

“Okay… what’s that have to do with pollen in winter?” Jaskier said.

“The average pollenating season of most trees last anywhere between 2 to 5 months depending on the region,” Yennefer said just as Coen was blowing his nose again.

“That tree?” Jaskier eyed the medallion tree which looked quite dead to his eye, but then again he didn’t know much about trees.

“The tree,” Coen mumbled sadly, which was of no help to Jaskier.

“Eskel?” Ciri asked and Yennefer nodded.

“Uh,” Jaskier said and frowned. “What?”

“Eskel is part leshen,” Ciri said as it was obvious…which it was. “Leshen are part tree, part monster,” she added.

“There’s… leshen pollen. In the keep?” Jaskier asked and looked around. “Why aren’t we sneezing? Do you have allergies?” he asked Ciri and Ciri shrugged, showing no sniffle as far as he could see or hear.

Jaskier sniffed. “I’m inhaling leshen tree pollen now?” He couldn’t see any of it or smell it for that matter.

She nodded. “Didn’t they teach botany at Oxenfurt?” Yennefer asked.

“Wait… Pollen, tree. Seeds. Seeds spread their—seed to reproduce and—” Jaskier said and Yennefer’s grin broadened. Jaskier looked at the two witchers again, trying to connect the sneezy thoughts to Yen’s words. “Does that mean Eskel… is orgasming?”

“Fucken hells,” Lambert muttered.

Ciri looked amused and concerned and Yennefer was smiling behind her mug. Jaskier peered over at Geralt who was not sneezing, nor did he seem sniffly.

“Are you still immune?” Jaskier asked.

Geralt took a deep breath and looked over at Jaskier for the first time. It was a strange sight to behold: yellow eyes that were red-rimmed and almost puffy, but he was inhaling like he couldn’t get enough of the air. Like he was scenting blossoms in spring. Clear nostrils, but still affected somehow.

“No,” Geralt said and Yennefer cleared her throat.

“Geralt and Eskel have been working together understand his new leshen anatomy, haven’t you Geralt?” Yennefer asked. It was mild and leading in a way that Jaskier didn’t have to see the way she raised her eyebrows in mirth. Jaskier looked back at Geralt who avoided both Jaskier and Ciri’s eyes and instead ate another bite of food.

“The pollen shouldn’t bring anyone to harm,” Geralt said and took a bite of food, giving Yennefer a brief look that was both pleading and amused.

“Is it because you went through the Trials twice that it affects you differently?” Ciri asked.

“Different? Different how?” Jaskier asked and Yennefer’s smile grew. Before Jaskier could ask another six follow-up questions, the doors to the courtyard opened. He only managed to identify the approaching witcher as Tolbert from the axes hanging from his belt because his face was covered with an unusual helmet. There was a clear plate for his eyes and two knobs protruding from his face.

Lambert sat up so suddenly that Jaskier’s bowl rattled on the table and pointed a spoon at Tolbert. “Oi, where the fuck you get that contraption?”

Tolbert sat down next to Ciri but didn’t take the helmet off. On closer inspection it looked more like a mask with thick straps that kept it firmly attached to his face.

“Dwarf named Avlaf. S’what they use in Mahakham,” Tolbert said and his voice was thick and muffled. Lambert leaned forward, nearly twitching and tried to swipe it from Tolbert’s face. Tolbert punched Lambert in the elbow.

“Get your own. I found ‘im through a guard in Vergen. He’ll be able to pretty up your face,” Tolbert said and although half his words were muffled through the mask. Lambert cursed and knocked back half the stein of tea.

WIP Game List

@ghostinthelibrarywrites tagging you since you had also asked about my Leshkel fic in a previous ask!!

#i love my tree boyfriend #so does Geralt #eskel should have survived sobbbb #i will single-handedly fix this with all my feelings okay #leshkel fic #leshen eskel #leshkel #meme #wip game #my witcher wips #writing meme #askdora #my posts #answerdora #textpost #queuedora #sassaffrassa

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dreamofbecoming · 2 years

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“sleep now,” she pleads

hello my loves, i’ve decided to start posting my ongoing dadskier songfic (that’s rapidly turning into The Kaer Morhen Therapy Time Jamboree) here on tumblr instead of just AO3, so please enjoy!

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

Ciri was weak.

She knew this; she could feel it in the way she woke up shaking, tear tracks on her face, afraid she was still locked in the nightmare of everyone she loved turning to ash as she failed to save them, afraid the violence inside her was being used against her will to destroy the last shreds of home she had left. She could see it in the way the witchers looked at her now, somewhere between pitying and wary, like they couldn’t quite trust that she was safe to have around, but they felt bad for her anyway. She could hear it in the way Geralt and Yennefer would stop whispering to each other when she entered the room, heads jerking apart like she wouldn’t notice they had obviously been discussing her behind her back.

She was weak, and being weak was not an option. Not anymore, and certainly not at Kaer Morhen. Her grandmother wouldn’t have stood for this weakness, and she knew the witchers wouldn’t either. Not for much longer. Geralt was holding back their disdain, she knew, out of whatever paternal obligation he felt due to the Law of Surprise, but he wasn’t one for weakness either, so she knew he would only allow her so much leeway before he, too, had to give up on her. She could see the way he looked at Yennefer, the strange mixture of anger and grief and longing she knew must come from the failure the sorceress had shown in giving in to Voleth Meir, even as she slowly gained back his esteem now that she had power again. Now that she was worth something again. Now that she wasn’t weak.

Mostly, she could see the way everyone treated Jaskier. She still wasn’t quite sure why Jaskier was here, how he fit into this life of violence and endurance that was, apparently, her birthright. He didn’t have any power- no magic, no mutations, no skill with weapons or combat. He hardly spoke to anyone, or maybe it was that hardly anyone spoke to him, she wasn’t sure. She wasn’t sure it mattered. The only person he interacted with on any kind of regular basis was Yennefer, who was something of an outcast at the keep herself, so Ciri thought she was probably just glad for someone to order around the stillroom where she holed herself up most days, mixing potions and testing out the edges of her newly-restored Chaos. It wasn’t anything to do with him, specifically, as far as she could tell.

She knew from listening to the witchers gossip (and no, overhearing was not eavesdropping, whatever Mousesack would say) that Jaskier and Geralt were friends (or used to be friends, it wasn’t clear), but she honestly couldn’t imagine why. They didn’t seem to have anything in common. Jaskier was just a human, not even a magical human or a warrior, just a man. There was nothing special about him at all, that she could see. Everyone called him a bard, but he didn’t even have an instrument, and she never heard him singing, plus she’d never even heard of him at court, so how good of a bard could he really be, anyway? Besides, he and Geralt barely even spoke, mostly since Jaskier seemed to all but bolt from any room Geralt entered before the witcher could think of something to say. He did his share of the chores without complaint, but he was always slower than everyone else, and she saw him wincing sometimes when he had to lift things or hold tools, like the very idea of working was painful. And it wasn’t like he had been much use on the trip back to Kaer Morhen, for all that Geralt had trusted him enough to get her home safely from Cintra. Which he had, incidentally, failed to do, since she didn’t even remember the second half of the trip after being possessed, but she knew he didn’t notice anything was wrong until it was too late.

Still, obvious weakness and uselessness aside, Jaskier was, inexplicably, still here, and part of Ciri was glad for it. Jaskier being here meant that she wasn’t the frailest person in the keep, and she hoped the witchers’ contempt would remain focused on the bard rather than on her, uncharitable though those thoughts may have been. It probably wasn’t kind of her to be grateful to have a target to throw under the proverbial wagon, but for all that she was the most magical person on the mountain and basically a grown woman now (she was thirteen, she would be getting her courses any day probably, and she was, for all intents and purposes, the rightful queen of Cintra- she was not a child, Lambert), she still felt impossibly small next to the ancient warriors and experienced magic users surrounding her. So yes, it was nice to be able to point at Jaskier and say, ‘Look, at least I’m not as pathetic as him.’ If this meant that she perhaps participated a little more loudly and enthusiastically in the mocking taunts Lambert and some of the other witchers directed his way, she could hardly be blamed for wanting to be part of their camaraderie. They were, after all, basically her family now.

She pretended very hard that Jaskier’s downcast eyes and slumped shoulders the few times he tried and failed to start a conversation with her didn’t make her feel anything at all.

She could feel Geralt’s disapproving eyes on her once or twice, but he couldn’t possibly understand feeling so powerless and alone, so why should he get to judge her? If he cared so much, maybe he should speak to Jaskier himself once in a while, or train him to use a sword, so at least he would maybe be good for something. She did feel a little guilty when Vesemir called them out in his own gruff way- scowling as he smacked Tolbert upside the head after a particularly mean joke about bards and brothel workers and assigning everyone who laughed extra chores- but not enough to stop. Yennefer was obviously unhappy with them, but just as clearly didn’t feel like she had the standing in the keep to demand changes to anyone’s behavior, so she made her displeasure known by pointedly avoiding everyone but Geralt, Vesemir, and Jaskier, and refusing to heal any training injuries or contribute to meals for anyone else. (This did perturb Ciri, since the only reason Yennefer was even here at all was to teach her magic. Ciri was still a princess at heart, and she didn’t appreciate being ignored, but she let it go for now, since she hadn’t quite forgiven the witch for nearly selling her out to Voleth Meir yet anyway. She would demand her due respect once she felt like she could be in a room with the sorceress without yelling at her, until then she was mature enough to let it lie.)

Still, even with the handy distraction of a droopy human minstrel, she knew she was still unacceptably weak, and she needed to hide that weakness at all costs. She found herself training longer hours than even any of the witchers, starting at dawn and not stopping until the sun had long set and Geralt or Vesemir forced her inside to eat and bathe, no matter how her muscles shook or her vision greyed at the edges. She wouldn’t fail. She was the Lion Cub of Cintra, the blood of Calanthe, she was Ilthilinne’s Prophesied, she was the daughter of the White Wolf, she refused to show weakness.

Even though she pushed herself to the point of collapse, even though she woke up every morning covered in bruises and scrapes and feeling like her muscles would seize up and lock her in place with pain, it was never enough to escape the nightmares. There were so many, now. She dreamed of Cintra burning. She dreamed of Mousesack’s face turned ashen and cruel, sizzling under her knife. She dreamed of her grandmother and Eist and Lazlo and Dara and Geralt and her parents all crumbling to dust, begging her to save them, begging her not to let them die again. She dreamed of looking out through her own eyes like looking out a tower window, unable to move or speak or scream, watching as her hands slit the throats of her friends, as her voice rent the air and tore her family to pieces. She dreamed of being left behind, of Geralt realizing how useless she really was, how impotent she would always be, and giving up on her in disgust. Sometimes she dreamed them all at once. No matter what the dream, she always woke after only a few hours sleep, drenched in sweat and tears, a scream caught in her throat and a sprinkling of dust from the stone walls of her room still shaking to the ground in the wake of her power.

She never got back to sleep after a nightmare, not right away, so she took to wandering the halls at night. She stayed away from the common areas and the bedrooms, choosing instead to explore the more deserted wings of the crumbling fortress. She ghosted through underground corridors overgrown with mold and rot, reeking of decay, with stains on the walls and floors that she couldn’t identify in the scant torchlight but hoped against hope weren’t blood. She picked her way carefully across partially collapsed battlements, hundreds of feet in the air, balanced precariously on fallen stones and rickety steps. She climbed tower after tower, turret after turret, marking the doors to the ones she had seen already but somehow always finding more. Those were her favorites. She would spend whole nights propped against a merlon, staring at the stars and wondering if everyone she’d lost was looking back at her. Those were the nights she was most likely to fail to make it back to bed, and Geralt would come find her in the morning, shivering in her sleep, and carry her back down to set her in front of a hearth until breakfast.

It was one of these nights when she first stumbled across Jaskier. She was climbing the steps to her favorite tower- the one with the view of the lake in the valley below the keep that reflected the stars so perfectly, facing east so she could watch the sun rise over the mountains if she stayed awake that long- when she heard noises coming from above her. No, not noises, music.

Yennefer had regained enough power the week before to portal out of the keep and back, and she had taken Jaskier with her and returned with bags of shopping for both of them (and only them, which Ciri found unspeakably rude. She might not have a kingdom anymore in the strictest sense, but she was still of royal blood- if anyone deserved nice things in this place it was her, surely?)- clothes and bathing oils and, to Ciri’s irritation, a lute. She told herself the annoyance was because now he would be playing at all hours, distracting everyone from their work, and her from her training, but the truth was she worried that if he became useful again as a bard, everyone might then notice how purposeless she was. Her fears had proved unfounded so far, as the bard hardly left his room since their return, only playing when no one was around to hear.

Or, apparently, when he thought no one was around, on account of it being the middle of the night and him being up a tower.

She thought about storming up the stairs and demanding he leave and give her back her spot, but she had to admit she was curious about his music. Geralt had to have kept him around for something; from what she could gather, they had traveled together longer than she had even been alive, and she couldn’t imagine what else he could have been good for. Maybe Geralt just really liked his music? She decided to wait here at the bottom of the staircase, just for a moment. Just to see what the fuss was about.

The strumming sounded a little...faltering? Or maybe just simplistic. It was just the same couple of chords over and over, she thought, if she was remembering correctly from her music lessons in Cintra. She’d never been particularly interested in music, so admittedly she had never paid much attention in those lessons, but she was fairly certain he was only playing two chords, and relatively simple ones at that. So much for the famed bard of the White Wolf, she snickered silently to herself. Then again, she thought magnanimously, he was several weeks out of practice, and she remembered how hard it had been to build up enough calluses that her harp lessons didn’t end in blood. She supposed she could sympathize with that, at least a little.

A voice filtered down to where she stood in the corridor, echoing slightly off the stones of the tower walls on its way. She had to admit, his singing was...pleasant. Soft and melodic, almost haunting in a way. He obviously wasn’t playing for an audience, and she found the gentleness of his voice at once compelling and uncomfortably intimate. She didn’t think she should be listening to this, but she found she didn’t want to leave.

“You are in the earth of me.

My head’s not yours, it’s mine,

‘Cos you are in the earth of me.”

Something about this song- the words? The melody? The obvious pain in his voice?- tugged uncomfortably at something in her chest. It felt a little like she wanted to cry, but she didn’t know what about. Part of her wanted to run back to her room and never think about this song or this pathetic little man ever again, but she found herself rooted to the spot, straining to hear more.

As she stood here at the base of the tower, the strumming picked up speed suddenly, the melody becoming more complex. It even sounded like he was playing a drum at the same time, maybe he was drumming on the body of the lute in between chords? It must take a lot of coordination and practice to do it so smoothly, to make it sound like there really were two musicians up there. Maybe he was as good as he was supposed to be.

“Who’s left me, he’s left me at last,

And I laugh, and I laugh,

‘Cos laughing right now,

It’s all, it’s all that I have.”

His voice had taken on a whole new quality. He was no longer soft and grief-stricken. There was still something jagged and painful in his voice, but now it was harsh, angry, and there was a bitter laughter in it to match the lyrics. As she listened, the song continued to swell, volume increasing as Jaskier vented more and more anger and fear into his song. The words were more passionate, almost a conversation.

“I can’t do this!

You can!

I can’t do this!

You can!

I can’t do this!

You can!

I can’t do this, you don’t understand!”

The wanting-to-cry feeling was back, stronger this time. She felt like his song was coming straight from her, like he reached into her nightmares and pulled it out wholecloth. For a moment she was furious, thinking he must have written this about her, mocking her. Revenge for all the jokes and taunts she and the witchers had sent his way in recent weeks. But as she listened, it was clear that however much of her own truth she found in it, this song was being pulled out of Jaskier’s soul, not hers. No one could sing something like this, with so much feeling, unless they had experienced it themselves. She wondered what had happened to him, to make him feel this way.

“You’re not a coward ‘cos you cower,

you’re brave because they broke you,

yet broken, still you breathe.”

Her breath caught, hitching uncontrollably over the start of a sob. She didn’t know anyone else felt like that. She thought she was the only one who knew what it felt like to be so scared of being weak, of not being enough, of being too broken to matter to anyone anymore. It felt like he was singing just to her, like he was looking for exactly the words she needed to hear. She didn’t notice when her feet started to carry her up the stairs, needing to be closer to the music.

Jaskier was sitting on the edge of the wall, leaning against a merlon with one leg dangling off the outside. He was facing mostly away from her, eyes closed as he growled his pain to the night sky. She could see his face in profile, the lines around his eyes and his mouth twisted to display the same anguish she could hear in his voice. She leaned silently against the wall, hoping he didn’t look up and notice her before he finished. She wanted him to finish the song. She needed to hear how it ended.

“Where you see weakness,

I see wit,

Sometimes I fall to pieces

Just to see what bits of me don’t fit.”

Slowly, as quietly as she could, she lowered herself to the floor to sit against the wall. She covered her mouth with her hand as she leaned her elbows on her knees, desperately holding in a sob. She couldn’t stop the tears running down her cheeks.

It couldn’t be that simple, could it? Weakness was weakness, she knew that. She had seen it. Her grandmother was strong- she did what she wanted and anyone who tried to stop her she ran through with her sword. That was strength. Strength was taking what was yours, weakness was not being able to stop others from taking from you. Right? That was true here at Kaer Morhen, too. The witchers were strong. They had muscles and magic and swords, and nothing could hurt them as long as they were strong enough to fight it off. Yennefer was strong, or at least she was now that she had her Chaos back. Before, she couldn’t stop people from taking things from her, from forcing her to go where she didn’t want to, from locking her up. Now she had power. Now she had strength, the strength to simply make sure anyone who tried to hurt her got hurt back. That’s what strength looked like. Not, not words. Not wit. Not letting yourself be broken on purpose. Jaskier was weak. Right? He had to be. He had to be, because if he wasn’t, then what was she?

But, Eist had been strong. And he could fight, when he had to, but he hated it. He liked words, and music, and art, and laughing. He liked games. He was nothing like Grandmother, but he was strong anyway, Ciri knew that much. And...and Dara had been strong. He didn’t like fighting either, and he hadn’t wanted to be around her when she brought violence and danger, and he had wanted to give up fighting and forget everything to stay with the dryads, and he had been afraid when he followed her into the forest and again when he followed her out of it, but those things didn’t make him weak. He was one of the strongest people she had ever met. He saved her life more than once. So maybe...maybe strength wasn’t all about fighting. Maybe there were more ways to be strong than just hurting people who tried to hurt you. But what did that make her, then? Was she weak because she was afraid of Voleth Meir, or of the man in the black winged helmet? Of losing control of herself and hurting people she loved? Was it weakness that she missed her family, that she wished Cintra had never fallen and she was still a princess? She was so confused, nothing made sense. Everything hurt so much.

She didn’t realize she had started sobbing until the music stopped suddenly and Jaskier’s shocked and worried voice snapped her out of her thoughts.

“Ciri? Princess, are you alright? What are you doing up here? What’s wrong?” He knelt in front of her, lute discarded on the ground beside him.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt. I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, I couldn’t sleep, and this is my favorite tower, and then you were singing and I wanted to listen and I’m sorry it won’t happen again I’m sorry I’m leaving-” She was scrambling to stand, ready to bolt down the stairs, abashed at having been caught invading his privacy so blatantly. Even if she made a point of being rude to him, this was out of line.

“Dear heart, it’s all right, I don’t mind. Sit, love, you’re going to slip and hurt yourself. Sit down and breathe with me, can you do that? Can you follow my breathing?” She hadn’t noticed that her breathing had gone rapid and shallow and she was struggling to take in air until right now. She looked up at him in a panic, shaking her head frantically.

His blue eyes were soft and kind, his expression open. “It’s alright, Ciri, I’m going to take your hand, alright? Can I touch you?” He waited for her to nod before taking her hand and placing it on his chest. “I’m going to count to four, I want you to breathe in for four and out for four. Feel my breathing under your hand, try to match that, ok? Here we go, that’s it.” He counted slowly, evenly, chest rising and falling smoothly under her hand. Her first few attempts were shaky but slowly the silver spots started fading from her vision and her racing heart gradually slowed. “Good, darling, you’re doing so well. Just keep breathing. Are you feeling a bit better?”

She nodded, feeling even more embarrassed now that she had been so pitiful as to break down in front of him. Especially since he had so readily helped her, been so unflinchingly kind, despite all the unkindness she had shown him since their arrival. She lowered her head in shame, hand falling back into her lap.

“I’m sorry.” Her voice was barely a whisper, but he was still only inches from her, so she knew he heard.

“You’ve nothing to apologize for, Ciri. Anxiety attacks happen to the best of us. They’re perfectly normal, and entirely to be expected given everything you’ve been through. Frankly I’d be more concerned if you weren’t having nightmares and anxiety, at this point. I promise, you have nothing to be ashamed of, alright?” She stared at him, caught somewhere between baffled and indignant.

“Why are you being so nice to me? I’m rude to you all the time, you should hate me.”

He smiled a little ruefully. “I can see why you might think that. But I was thirteen once, too, much more recently than anyone else in this place. I remember what it’s like. How confusing, how chaotic. How important it is to fit in, to be what it feels like everyone wants you to be. Most of the people here don’t think very much of me, it’s only natural you would pick up on that. You’re a clever girl, after all. Besides, you’ve been through gods know how many unspeakable horrors in the last year, of course you need someone to vent it on. I’m the obvious choice. I’m not angry, I promise.”

Somehow this was worse than anything else he could have said. She felt like a monster. How could he be so kind to her? So understanding? How could he just accept that his lot was to be the victim of everyone else’s senseless cruelty and directionless anger? How was that fair?

“That’s not fair! You haven’t done anything except be here and not be a witcher or a mage, that’s no reason to just- just- let everyone hate you! Why don’t you fight back? Why aren’t you angry at Lambert and everyone else at least?”

He huffed a laugh, another wry little smile on his face. “I would say you’ll understand when you’re older, but something tells me you won’t accept that bullshit from anyone, least of all me.”

“Fucking right I won’t. That’s what grownups say when they think you’re too stupid to know better, or when they don’t know the real answer. I’m basically a woman, I’m thirteen! It isn’t fair for everyone to keep treating me like a child!”

“Oh, Princess, I wish I could convince you not to be so quick to grow up. You’ve had so much taken from you, your childhood shouldn’t be added to the list. But you’re right, you deserve a real answer.” He heaved a great sigh and spun around until he was sitting next to her, back against the wall. “The truth is, Ciri, I don’t really think I belong here, either. So I suppose it doesn’t feel worth the trouble to stop everyone else from thinking it, too.”

“Why not? I thought you and Geralt were like, best friends, or something.”

“So did I, once. Now I’m not really sure what we are, or if we were ever really anything at all. But he said he needs me here, so here I shall stay until he changes his mind.” He wasn’t looking at her, instead staring out at the nearly-full moon, but she could still see the sadness etched on his face.

“But what about you? What do you want to do?” He barked a laugh for reasons she didn’t really understand, a harsh, angry thing. It reminded her of his song.

“You’re the only one who’s asked me that, dear heart, did you know? Well, except Yen, but against all odds and possibly my better judgement, she is, unfathomably, my best friend these days, so that barely counts, it’s basically her job.” He sighed again, propping his chin on his hand, arms braced on his knees. “I don’t rightly know what I want, Princess. Truthfully I haven’t been thinking about it much.”

“Because you’ve been writing that song instead?” That hadn’t been the question she’d meant to ask, but she really did want to know about the song, so that was alright probably.

He looked at her sharply, eyebrows raised. “I...I suppose it is. How much of the song did you hear, Ciri?”

She looked at the floor between her feet, unable to meet his eyes when confessing such a greivous violation of his privacy. “I’m not sure, it was very soft and quiet when I got here though, and it only started getting louder after I started listening. How did you make it sound like you had drums at the same time?”

He grinned, which was...not the reaction she was expecting, and stretched across the tower floor to grab his lute. “That’s a trick I taught myself when I was a student, mostly to show up one of my classmates who insisted that real music needed to be played by a full quartet at least. I told him if you couldn’t make good music with the instrument in front of you, then you couldn’t make good music at all. And then I proved I could imitate the sound of multiple musicians by myself anyway, and it made him fucking furious! It was brilliant. Putting Valdo in his place was always my favorite part of school. And honestly, I think it can be very evocative to have more than one sound going, but I’m certainly never going to tell him that. Besides, I was right, music is about the musician, not the instrument. Instruments are tools. I loved my old lute more than I love my own leg, but I’m perfectly capable of making music without it, any good bard is. Why, Geralt can tell you, when he picked me up from jail before we found you in Cintra, I was playing a pair of spoons! And quite brilliantly if I do say so myself. Music is about the feeling. The sound is a means to an end. A very important means, but the real trick is to be able to use the sound to tell a story or create a feeling. You can use any kind of sound, you know? A good musician can make you cry using nothing but a whistle! Some of the most honest music I’ve ever heard comes from ordinary people, peasants, no training, no instruments, just their voices, their hands, singing to themselves as they go about their lives, and it’s- Ciri it’s beautiful! It’s not trying to be anything it isn’t. There’s no pretension, no vanity, just music for the joy of music. That’s what it’s about, you know? That’s why I love it. My classmates didn’t understand why I wanted to be a traveling bard instead of securing a court position, but out there, in the world, that’s the only place music has any soul! At court it’s all just- sound. Noise. Empty, you know? My parents didn’t understand. They’d have disowned me for disgracing the family by playing for “filthy common tavern-goers” except I’ve only got sisters, so they’ll have to give the estate to my cousin Ferrant if they do, and they hate Ferrant. Even more than they hate me, which is saying something. It doesn’t matter though, I’ll never go back. I’d rather be penniless and sleeping in the woods, as long as I have the music, you know?” He looked at her expectantly, his eyes clear and glittering, a bright smile on his face.

She blinked at him. That was...so many words. So very many words. More words than she’d heard anyone say since she got here, combined. Lambert had made a few cracks about Jaskier never shutting up, which hadn’t made any sense to her until this moment.

His eyes went wide, and a flush rose rapidly to fill his whole face. “Oh, oh no, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to talk so much at you. I do that sometimes, I ramble. It drives- drove Geralt crazy. I’m so sorry!” He looked genuinely upset, like he was worried he’d offended her somehow. She wasn’t sure why, but she sort of hated that he looked like that. Sure, it was a little overwhelming to suddenly have all of that information dumped on her, but it was sort of nice, too. She liked hearing someone be so passionate about something other than monsters and killing and the balance and order of Chaos, Ciri, you’ll have to understand these concepts when we start our lessons so I expect you to have read these texts in full by then. It was nice to hear someone just be...happy about something. To be excited about the world, instead of telling her all the reasons she should be afraid of it. She wanted to communicate this to Jaskier, but she wasn’t sure how.

“Don’t be sorry, I don’t mind. It was kind of a lot, but it’s nice that you’re passionate about something. No one here is happy about things, they talk about what to expect in the world, on the Path, but it’s all warnings and training, and ‘don’t do this, Ciri, don’t say that, Ciri, never lose sight of your sword, Ciri, don’t talk to strangers unless you have to, Ciri, they probably want to sell you to Nilfgaard.’ It’s exhausting. It’s nice to hear someone be excited about traveling and meeting people. I don’t really understand music at all, I was never very good at my lessons and Grandmother decided they were a waste of time, but I really liked the song you were playing. It was pretty, but also, it sort of...hurt? But in a good way. I don’t really know.” She flushed, embarrassed. That was so much more than she meant to say. He probably thought she was an idiot, now.

“Thank you, dear heart. That’s very nice to hear.” When she looked up, he was smiling at her softly. “And the song...that’s how it’s supposed to feel, so I’m glad you connected with it. I wrote it about- well, never mind what I wrote it about, what matters is that you enjoyed it. You’ve had a very hard year, I’m glad I could offer some catharsis.” He was fidgeting with his hands, running his thumb in circles around the pads of his fingers, when he flinched suddenly and hissed.

“What’s wrong? Are you hurt? Is it calluses? My fingers hurt so much when I had to learn how to play the harp, and I know you haven’t played since you got here, did you lose all your calluses?”

“Uh, no, it’s not- um. It’s not my calluses, although that’s an excellent guess, and I can definitely relate to the pain of learning the harp, I hated the harp in school, could never get the hang of the elbows, but, uh. It’s nothing. Not to worry, nothing worth fretting over. I’ll be just fine.” He didn’t look just fine. He looked flustered, and a little scared, though why he would he scared she couldn’t imagine.

“That’s silly, the others are just going to notice at breakfast anyway, they can always smell when I’m in pain. It’s so annoying. I don’t know how they expect me to get stronger if I don’t train harder, and I have to get hurt in training if I want to get better. I wish they wouldn’t fuss. But you might as well let me look now. I’m pretty good at field medicine, Geralt said so. He let me help him sometimes while we were on the road from Sodden the first time. I’m good, I promise!” She made a grab for his hand but he yanked it back before she could reach it. He looked…he looked crushed, for some reason. What had she said to make him look so sad?

“It’s, uh. You know what, don’t worry about it, Princess. I’m sure you’re an excellent medic, I’ve dressed enough of Geralt’s wounds to know how much skill that takes, but I promise they won’t notice. Or at least, they won’t be too worried. They haven’t the whole time we’ve been here, so it really is fine.”

“Why wouldn’t they care? Geralt at least will, and I think Vesemir likes you. Wait, what do you mean, the whole time? Have you been hurt since we got here? Was it…,” she quieted a little, shame sweeping through her. “Was it the battle? Did you get injured while I was...when I…,”

His eyes go wide, and he grabs her hand, tilting her chin up to look at him with the other hand. His skin feels strange where his fingers rest on her cheek, smooth and rough at the same time somehow.

“Darling girl, do not apologize for anything that happened that day. You are not responsible for what Voleth Meir did with your body, you are every bit as much a victim of her violence as the rest of us. You did nothing wrong, do you understand me? Please do not think that any of that was your fault, please promise me.” His blue eyes were so big and round and earnest, swimming with tears. How strange to think those tears were for her. She didn’t understand this man at all.

“It was my body, though. And...and I could hear Geralt calling, but I didn’t want to leave. She made me think I was back in Cintra, and my family was alive, and I knew it wasn’t real, but I still wanted to stay. I let her hurt all those witchers, just because I wanted to stay. I was selfish, and childish, and weak, and it was my fault if you got hurt.” He still had a hand on her face, so she closed her eyes to escape his scrutiny instead. This man had been nothing but kind to her when she didn’t deserve it, but this was surely the last straw. She didn’t want to see the concern in his eyes turn to disgust. There was a reason she hadn’t told anyone the truth about the dream world Voleth Meir locked her in.

“Oh, Ciri. Sweet child. I’m so sorry you had to go through that. I’m so sorry she forced you to lose them twice, that wasn’t fair. That must have hurt so much. Have you been carrying around that guilt, all this time?” She squeezed her eyes shut tighter, feeling tears leaking out between her lashes, and nodded slightly. “Oh, love, you poor thing. It was not your fault, do you understand? Please hear me now, even if you don’t believe anything else I say. You are not to blame, alright? She was a monster, and she hurt you, and she hurt your family, and you sent her away. You saved us all, darling. It was not your fault.”

There were strong arms around her, holding her tight to a deceptively broad chest, and she realized she was shaking. “Shh, darling, it’s alright. That’s it, it’s ok. It’s all going to be ok. I’m so sorry, love, it will be alright.” He murmured more reassuring nonsense to her as he rocked her gently back and forth, just like Grandmother used to when she was very small. Eventually he started humming softly. She was distantly startled to realize that she recognized the tune, an old Skelliger lullabye. Eist used to sing it to her when she couldn’t sleep. The sound made her cry some more, but luckily he seemed to understand and he didn’t stop, just gathered her closer to his chest and kept humming.

Eventually her sobs tapered off and she found herself on the edge of sleep.

“Come on dear heart, up we come. There we go. Let’s get you back to bed, shall we?” She should maybe have been surprised when he stood with her still in his arms, one behind her back and one under her legs, easy as anything, but she was too tired and comfortable to care. She was vaguely aware of a faint twanging sound as he slung his lute across his shoulder without even shifting her weight, and then of the moonlight disappearing as they descended the stairs, but she was so soothed by the rocking motion of his steps and the steady beating of his heart that she didn’t remember dropping into a dreamless sleep before they even reached the bottom.

For once, she had no more nightmares that night.

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