Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

For years Jaskier walked beside Geralt, and it took nearly a dozen before the man ever mentioned Kaer Morhen. It was a quiet moment after a quiet day, when Jaskier mentioned that there wasn’t much he missed of home but sometimes he wondered what it would be like to return. Geralt, uncharacteristically conversational, said he returned home to Kaer Morhen most winters and he still wasn’t sure whether he missed it in the interim. Since then, Jaskier had taken any mention of Kaer Morhen like a pearl in his pouch, held precious and secret and far from any of his ballads. He held it precious and secret just like his hope that someday, if he was patient enough, Geralt might return his friendship enough to let him see it. Now as the walls of the keep finally surrounded him, he could not take in a single ancient stone for the rage that blinded him.

“My heart is not what it was when you first started trying to murder me on sight a decade ago, witch,” he hissed as he kept step with Yennefer, “so you’ll have to stop this humorless and violent teasing.”

“I am in no mood to tease you – it would not serve anyone to give Geralt forewarning of your arrival and let him piss and moan and drive us all mad. You had to come, and his opinion was not part of the equation. And well,” she says picking at the gathered debris on her skirt, “he will know about it now if you keep tossing a lung about it.”

He whispers viciously as he followed her, “Did you think that this would end in anything but blood and tears? My blood and tears specifically?”

“It is delightful to see that you are still this dramatic in your old age,” she answers, “but as a matter of fact I don’t really care about your blood or your tears.”

“Oh! Oh, she doesn’t care! Imagine my surprise,” he shouts.

“This isn’t about you,” she tells him with finality, “this isn’t about either of you. This is about Cirilla.”

The reminder gives Jaskier pause, and he licks at his chapped lips. He finally looked around the great hall they stood in, gathering his thoughts.

“I was happy to come and help her when I thought Geralt had agreed to the plan, when I thought it was his idea. What makes you think he’ll let me any where near his Child Surprise – what makes you think anything I have to teach her will be worth what you are about to put me through?”

“I told you already, Cirilla will not survive on Chaos and sword slinging alone – her enemies play the cruel games of words that you are skilled at, not to mention her formal education is lacking. She deserves better than to simply survive as we have been forced to.”

They stare at each other in a stalemate that lasts long enough for their masks to fall, for them to see each other – strangers with their fates entwined, never meant to be close and yet unable to escape each other.

She takes his chin and pulls it up like an old demanding aunt taking stock of a young debutante. She frowns, her voice quiet and sincere, “You really do look very tired Jaskier.”

“I really am very tired Yennefer,” he answers simply, “and I really am getting old.”

“You’re a bardling yet,” she says with the whisper of a smile.

There is a pointed cough and Jaskier feels his stomach, heart, and other viscera at his throat. When Yennefer looks over his shoulder her face eases into her mask of grace and superiority.

“Vesemir,” Yennefer she greets, “I got the bard.”

Jaskier squares his shoulder and sets on a smile as he turns to see an older man who was once very handsome and is now very old and scarred. His eyes are still very attractive indeed.  The elder Witcher nods with quite a pleasant smile for someone who raised Geralt of Rivia.

“Master Jaskier, we are honored to receive you at Kaer Morhen,” he says with deep sincerity, shaking his hand fiercely, “It has been nearly a century since we’ve welcomed a bard.”

“The honor is entirely my own,” he says with a short bow.

“It has been a balm to hear the praises of witchers sung from town to town,” he says, taking him by the shoulders, “you have made all of our Paths that much lighter.”

“Melitele’s tits this is exhausting, I feel like I’m back at court,” she groans, with a roll of her eyes.

“Well, that is precisely why Master Jaskier is here, isn’t that right? To bring some courtly grace and some diplomatic malice to the child.”

“I suppose,” Yennifer sighs before her eyes roam over Jaskier, “you look worse than usual bardling, you should lie down.”

“As backhanded as that is I think I should,” Jaskier mutters, “especially since instead of Geralt’s silent disdain I now have to put up with his surprised ire.”

“You’ll put up with neither tonight,” Vesemir informs him, “I’ve sent him away on sundry errands. Supplies before his brothers come home – it’ll give you time to settle.”

“That is very considerate,” Jaskier says with an exhausted smile, “though perhaps I should see my young charge.”

“You will need all of your energy for the cub,” Vesemir laughs, “come, I’ll take you to your rooms.”

 Yennefer does not say goodbye as she walks away towards a staircase in the direction opposite where Vesemir leads him. They walk silently for a few moments before Jaskier can no longer help himself.

“I have always wanted to visit the keep,” he starts, wishing he could stop sounding like a schoolboy in his eagerness, “every crumb of information inspired a thousand poems – though of course I have never set any to ink or shared them. I know how important secrecy is.”

“Geralt must trust you a great deal,” Vesemir nods as they walk, “it is all we have left, Jaskier, we do not hold it jealously for the sake of it.”

“I understand,” he says promptly, “I mean… I probably don’t, but I hope to prove myself as trustworthy as Geralt once found me.”

If Vesemir notes the past tense of his statement, he makes no mention of it, instead falling easily into a tour of the wing they currently find themselves in.

By the time they reach the door Vesemir has indicated as his, Jaskier is briming with inspiration.

“You know,” the old man says with a knowing smile, “if ever there was a place where you could recite and sing of Kaer Morhen, it is within her walls. Perhaps your stay will bring some lightness to all of us and not only the child and Geralt.”

Jaskier hides the stab of pain at the implication that Geralt might be glad to see him, instead he offers another simple bow and thanks Vesemir for his hospitality before fleeing into the room.

“Oh, you fool,” he whispers to himself as he falls into a nearby seat, “you bloody heartsick fool, you should have run. Why don’t you ever run?”

His exhaustion wraps around him like the furs he sinks into, the room is warm and smells like cinnamon and spice and sleep takes him before he can chastise himself further.

Chapter Text

Vesemir’s sitting room is as comfortable as that of any noble lord’s much to Jaskier's surprise. After he woke from his afternoon nap he wandered about until Vesemir found him and pointed him to this sitting room, which is warm and full of books, including the bestiary Ciri is meant to be committing to memory. Her voice is no longer tiny like sleigh bells but still bright as he remembered and Jaskier looks up from the wide tome on the table to see her standing by the firelight, Yennefer at her shoulders like a dark cloak.

“Dandelion? You’re Geralt’s bard?” The words sting him, but he does not flinch.

Yennefer’s hands grasp on the girl’s shoulders, and there is nothing about Yennefer of Vengerberg that he would ever call soft except perhaps the way she holds the child in front of her.

“I do not like surprises,” Yennefer says darkly.

“You are a mistress of hypocrisy,” he mutters loud enough for her to hear as he walks softly to them, “sometimes we use different names for the sake of anonymity – don’t we Miss Fiona Street Urchin? Nonetheless I apologize for the deception, my friends know me as Jaskier your humble bard.”

He gives her a sweeping bow and Ciri’s smile is shy but not chagrined, “So you’re not a traveling scribe?”

“I was when I visited Cintra in the winter,” he concedes bopping her nose, “and I have missed you little one.”

“Explain yourself bard,” Yennefer snaps, pulling the girl closer to herself.

“What is there to explain? I wanted to look in on Ciri from time to time,” he shrugged, “I could not do so under my more common name, nor could I approach court without getting arrested by her majesty. I found a way.”

“Why did you want to look in on me?” Ciri asked in wonder.

“So that when Geralt worried, which was often, I could tell him that you were certainly a safe and happy princess in your grandmother’s court without a hint of doubt in my heart,” he says with a small smile.

Yennefer releases the girl who immediately gravitates closer to him, “He worried about me?”

“You were never far from his mind,” he promises, “of course he never believed my reassurances had any merit, but I like to think he slept better for it.”

“He didn’t know about your Cintran winters,” Yennefer surmises.

“Well, it wasn’t all winter,” he says, avoiding the obvious and taking a seat, “just a quick visit to see the princess in good health, playing young men out of their coin.”

“Yennefer says you’re to be my tutor,” Ciri says as she takes a seat and pulls him alongside her, “that I must learn things other than Chaos and stabbing.”

“Well Chaos and stabbing are very noble pursuits” he grins, “but you will move in many circles when you grow, and we all want to see you well prepared for them.”

“The bard is right,” Yennefer sighs, “it would do you no good for Vesemir and I to divert any of our lessons to things like history and politics, but that does not mean you should neglect those studies.”

“I promise to not make them as dreadfully tiresome as they sound,” he says with a squeeze of her hand, “but no lessons tonight. Why don’t you tell me about your time here?”

Vesemir joins them with that morning’s bread and hard cheese while Ciri continues a seemingly inexhaustible epic of her journey to Kaer Morhen. Jaskier basks in the warmth of the room, the surprising sweetness of the bread, and the sound of Ciri’s voice.

Here in the quiet of this night, in the certainty of his place among a pupil and two tutors, it nearly feels like those happy days in Oxenfurt when all was books and songs and ink and there was no war raging and the heartbreak did eventually pass. In the morning the war will still be there, his heart will remain broken, but perhaps there will still be happy days despite it.  

Ciri’s voice softens little by little as Yennefer runs her fingers through her hair.

“Time for bed, duckling,” she whispers.

Jaskier knew, of course he did, because Geralt did speak to him more than he spoke to anyone else. He knew that Yennefer’s one desperate wish, misguided as it might have been, was to be a mother. Now she had that and maybe she had what Jaskier wanted to boot and had discarded it for this which was her true wish. He couldn’t begrudge her that – he wanted to, wanted to be petty and jealous and angry and maybe he was but… he still smiled to see her kiss the top of Ciri’s head and look at peace.

“Let me get the cub to bed,” Vesemir says, so softly you’d never think the man had been slaying every vile thing on the continent for a hundred years.

Once they’re gone, Jaskier turns to her.

“You know my sister was married when she was her age,” he says conversationally.

“That is why she is here,” she says, disgust clear in her tone, “to be kept safe.”

“Safe from marriage?”

“Safe from the world.”

“But not for long,” he says sadly.

“No, not for long.”

He takes a deep breath and sighs it out, “Geralt will tell me to leave come morning. He’ll be… you shouldn’t let her see him like that.”

“I imagine he hurt you terribly,” she says in what she must imagine is a comforting tone.

“Do me a great big favor and don’t imagine it at all. It is, as the poets say, what it is. I am here for Ciri and to honor my hallowed duty to the education of free persons.”

“Very well,” she says, “I understand.”

“I hope you do. I won’t be sniffed at as a jilted lover or a scorned sweetheart because I am neither.”

“Noted.”

“Do not mock me, Yennefer.”

“Don’t behave in such a mockable way,” she smiles, tired and genuine.

“I’m going to bed,” he says as he rises, “can I ask you a favor?”

She inclines her head, “You made the duckling smile, and I am feeling generous.”

“Do not call me his bard. Call me an idiot, a fool, a moron. Whatever pleases you,” he says with what is probably too much emotion, “Don’t call me his.”

She nods and lifts what’s left of her wine towards him, “Goodnight, moron.”

His shoulders fall the tiniest bit in relief, “Goodnight, witch.”

Chapter Text

He might have overslept were it not for the clashing of swords paired with the bright light of dawn that crawls through the window. Most first days are exciting for him, especially the first day of a new course when he meets the hungry minds of his students. Most first days of a new course don’t include Geralt of Rivia’s impending rage, however. He was probably exaggerating of course, which was the root of it all – it was much more likely that Geralt would be annoyed. Oh no, Cirilla has brought the stray bard into the keep how will we ever get rid of him now.

Groaning he hauls himself out of bed and into his clothes, trying to fill himself with determination to be an educator first and a mess of a human being second. At least today.

Cirilla had a classroom of sorts where Yennefer gave her lessons and they had agreed it would be best to contain what they could of her education there. He laughed quietly and wryly as he plucked books from shelves and composed a lesson as he went. Who would have ever thought he would be a colleague of sorts to one of the most powerful mages on the continent?

He opens the classroom windows wide to let in the morning chill, something to wake him up properly before he leaves the safety of a room that definitely does not contain Geralt. He could return to the keep at any moment, is the problem. Jaskier could be going about his first morning here in total peace and then he would be there and what, really, is he doing here? He should leave. He should just take his things and leave before this goes any further.

“Jaskier? I’m done with my morning practice, won’t you come down to breakfast before our lesson?”

He turns to Ciri with a nervous smile that he hopes she isn’t quick enough to discern just yet, “That would be excellent, lead the way.”

Ciri chatters about how exhausted she is without really looking exhausted at all, about how she has morning and afternoon lessons with Vesemir and between those Yennefer tends to teach her something – whatever strikes her fancy that day.

“What will we learn?”

Jaskier smiles genuinely at her question, loving the way she unites them in the pursuit of knowledge.

“We’ll start by testing your Elder,” he says noting her pursed lips with a laugh, “I see… a bit rusty?”

“I don’t see the point of it is all.”

“The point of Elder? How ever will you be a magnificent mage without a strong grasp of Elder Speech? Not to mention it’s the root of the more ancient languages of the continent.”

“I know,” she frowns, looking older now than ever, “like Nilfgaardian.”

She says it with true scorn which Jaskier notices with some surprise. He shouldn’t be of course, but then he is reminded that he is not here to educate some young lady or other to be a goodly member of court. He is here to educate Cirilla of Cintra, the very key to the conflict that rages in the world around them.

“Yes, but we won’t complicate ourselves with Nilfgaardian just yet, though we’ll get there – Elder takes precedence as a root.”

She looks mutinous but is interrupted before she can kick up a fuss by the arrival of Yennefer.

“Good morning duckling, Vesemir give you a good run today?”

“He’s no business being so spry at his age,” she giggles, “but I almost had him twice!”

“I see you are sharing your age prejudices with the child,” Jaskier quips, taking a surprisingly fresh-looking peach in his hand, “is this real?”

“Of course, it’s real,” Yennefer says with a roll of her eyes, “they’re just from elsewhere.”

Jaskier raises his eyebrows and throws it up to catch with a shrug, “As long as they’re not from Underhill.”

“Jaskier says I need to learn Elder properly.”

“You do.”

“Seems a waste of time,” Ciri declares as she takes a roll of bread, “what do I need to learn Elder for?”

Jaskier takes a deep bite of his peach dripping juice over his shirt like a toddler, “Ayd f'haeil moen Hirjeth taenverde.”

“What does that mean?”

Yennefer snorts but smiles rather knowingly at Jaskier.

“It," he says pointedly, "is what I hope to teach you.”

After a couple of rolls and a swig of apple juice Ciri hops out of her seat, “Can we go down to meet Geralt and Roach later?”

“No sense in that,” Yennefer says before Jaskier can react, “he’ll be back when he is back.”

“Right,” Jaskier says as he stands with a sudden burst of energy, “you or I?”

Yennefer raises a single eyebrow but waves her hand at him, “You can have her after breakfast while her mind is fresh from morning practice.”

“Sounds rather morbid but alright,” he says with glee, “off we go young fresh mind, bring some of those peaches with you.”

His mood brightens the girl’s own and her earlier surliness about seems to have dissipated after some food and banter. In the classroom, they go over what grasp she has of the language and discuss what some of her favorite subjects were with her previous tutors. Calanthe certainly trained the child at her skirts in the business of terrifying her court but was no slave to her education, especially considering how often Ciri simply ran off to the town square to play with the village children.

“Well,” he says with a smile, “you’re not a blank slate but we have a lot of room for exploration. Now before our time is up, I would like to review your grasp of modern history.”

Ciri’s grasp of the events leading up to the current conflict are no better than those of a milkmaid who heard it from a tanner who heart his mum talk to his gran about it over drinks. Still, it is too early in the day and their tutelage to overwhelm her with such things.

“Thank you,” he says at the end of her choppy summation of the surrounding kingdoms, “this will help me map out our next few lessons very well.”

Ciri smiles, happy to be thanked it seems. Jaskier knows not many do so to their pupils.

“Must I really call you Master Jaskier? I mean… isn’t that a bit silly?”

“It is a bit, but it will help, for there are times when you will very much want me to hush up and sing a song and I do promise I am quite happy to do so anywhere else in the keep. But here I must have some title to keep us progressing. Are we agreed?”

Ciri considers that, “Outside this room we are friends, but within it you are my teacher. I understand. Then… will you call me Cirilla here and Ciri outside the door?”

“Most certainly a fair agreement, Cirilla,” he says with a deep vow, “it will be a pleasure to share the knowledge of free persons with you.”

“Thank you Master Jaskier,” she says, with a mischievous smile, “may I be dismissed?”

He laughs, he should have seen it coming, “Yes, you may.”

She stands and gives a courtesy before opening the door and hopping over the threshold.

“Oh Jaskier?”

She grins waving her fingers just outside the room. He tries to keep a somber countenance but fails miserably, looking markedly at his feet within the room, “Yes, Cirilla?”

“I really like my new teacher,” she grins, “I’ll tell you all about him over supper.”

“I look forward to it,” he smiles, and then she’s off, skipping like the child that she is down the halls of Kaer Morhen.

He spends the rest of the day exploring the grounds, passing by the door of the classroom later to find it closed, likely occupied by Ciri’s afternoon lesson with Yennefer. He must make note to set certain days when the child is allowed to keep her own time, to pursue books of her own choosing and while away the day as she pleases.

“I thought Geralt would be back by now,” Ciri says over supper which they have in the kitchens as they had done breakfast, “do you think he’s alright?”

“Most certainly,” Jaskier says without thinking before he snaps his mouth shut. Vesemir catches his eye but Jaskier cannot discern the meaning of his look.

“Do not fret child, if he isn’t back tonight, he’ll be back tomorrow,” he says and then his head snaps up like a predator hearing prey.

“Is that him?” Ciri asks, bounding to her feet.

“Mmm, it is,” Vesemir nods.

With a wide smile Ciri runs out of the kitchen, no doubt towards the vestibule to welcome Geralt home. The stew Jaskier had so been enjoying suddenly threatens a reappearance.

“Breathe,” Yennefer whispers, her eyes heavy on him.

Quietly, eyes on the table and hands clenched he whispers, “Would it be terribly cowardly of me to put off the inevitable one more night?”

“You will find no judgement here, Master Jaskier,” Vesemir says solemnly, “though if I may I do think you make it worse for yourself – building up nerves in that imaginative head of yours.”

Jaskier offers the flicker of a smile.

“Go,” Yennefer prompts, “Ciri is surely already telling him all about it. Take the night for it.”

Jaskier nods and excuses himself, hurrying up to the room that already felt like a safe harbor for himself which surely in itself was a mistake. He closes the door behind him and leans against it. He feels like a child, he feels too old for heartache like this, he feels like if he can strain his ears enough, he can hear the rough tenor of his voice in the halls of his home asking why Jaskier is in it.

“For Ciri,” he whispers, wrapping his arms around himself and breathing deep, “for Ciri.”

Chapter Text

He wraps himself in the bed furs and braces himself for the wind chill as he pushes the window open, a terrible habit he should shake before winter. The clash of swords had woken him again, perhaps that is the sound that stands in for bird song this high up in the mountains. As he leans out to watch Ciri’s morning practice, he feels no shock or pang of heartache at the sight of Geralt. His hair is shaved at the sides and pulled tight at the top, a style he’d only worn once or twice before. He moves like dancing and Jaskier can see the bones of Vesemir’s training in it. He wonders if years from now, someone will say the same of Ciri – a lineage of swords. There’s a song in that.

He feels oddly calm from his perch at the top of the world, watching the witchers and the princess train.

“Good morning,” he calls down. The three below drop their swords and turn up toward him, Ciri’s smile is wide and Veremir’s nod is welcoming. Geralt’s eyes meet his like a question that Jaskier is not inclined to answer.

Ciri waves with her wooden sword which cannot be good protocol, “Good morning Jaskier!”

“Would you bring whatever Yennefer has conjured in the way of fruit up to the classroom? I have lessons to prepare.”

“I’ll see you there!”

Jaskier waves, carefree and light from the safety of his windowsill, and turns back into the room.

There, that wasn’t difficult at all now, was it? Now he only had to keep several dozen meters distance from Geralt until the man went on the Path in a few months and all would be well. No, he won’t be childish. He’ll simply go about his business. He’ll be civil, he’ll be pleasant even. He lets his thought turn in circles until Ciri knocks on and opens the door without pause.

“Pears,” she announces, “and some warm bread as well.”

“Thank you Cirilla.”

“You are most welcome Master Jaskier,” she says with a smile.

“Now, today we’ll be reviewing one of my favorite poems in its original form –”

“Elder,” she sighs.

“Indeed,” he grins, “but it was very well translated into Common – a lot of its imagery was maintained, so I think it will be useful for us as a basis.”

“Why I can’t I just learn the incantations that Yennefer teaches me?”

“Because understanding the foundation of things, their parts and rules, helps us create from them something new. Yennefer may teach you an incantation and what it does, but if you do not master Elder of its own right, you could never say… make your own incantation.”

“That’s never possible!”

“That would be a question for your Mistress of Chaos. But for now, let’s read the poem in Common first, take a seat.”

Despite her protestations, the girl is diligent in correcting her pronunciation and curious about roots, prefixes, and borrowed words.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“I would be rather horrid in this task if you could not.”

“Why did you agree to come and teach me? I thought… I really thought it was because you wanted to see Geralt, but I’ve noticed you haven’t been looking forward to his return and you didn’t exactly look excited to see him this morning and...”

“Perhaps this conversation is better suited for the outside of the classroom, but… I came to teach you because … Yennefer does not easily ask for help or care about things, but she wanted to help you. Because I believe in the liberal arts and their importance. Because Cirilla, someday you will be a very powerful woman – whether you are a sorceress or a Witcher or a queen. I came to teach you because I would like someone of your power to be a person of deep thought and compassion and I hope to play a part in that for you.”

“Oh. That’s… that’s rather a lot more to do with me than I thought it would be,” she says with a blush.

“Rather a lot of things will be about you I’d wager,” he smiles, though the words are somewhat terrifying.

There’s a knock on the door, strong and short, and really not a lot of people who it could be. Ciri jumps to her feet and lets Geralt in. He smells like sandalwood and his hair is the kind of silver white that can only be held for a few hours after he bathes and Jaskier wants so badly to be anywhere else...

“Jaskier.”

“Master Jaskier,” Ciri corrects.

“That’s alright Cirilla”

“No,” she insists, “Geralt, in here he is Master Jaskier – he is my tutor in the liberal arts.”

“Of course,” Geralt answers, sounding amused in the softest ways, “Master Jaskier – a word?”

“Cirilla that will be all for today,” he says as evenly as he can, “practice the poem for recitation.”

“Yes, sir.”

Ciri takes her scroll and hurries out of the room, the door clinking closed behind her.

“You’re here.”             

“Sharp Witcher senses at work.”

“Jaskier, I know I was… I was wrong, of course. But until Yennefer … I didn’t realize that I had crossed an irrevocable line I expected us to find one another somewhere on the continent and have a pint and call each other idiots and be on our way but I was wrong and I – I am sorry, Jaskier, I am.”

He stands there for a moment letting the words wash over him. He bides his time so that he can accurately identify the emotion that is blooming in his chest and when he has finally got it, he waits another wordless moment to find the exact thing he needs to say.                                                                                                                                                                               

“I am a beautiful momentary snowflake on the mountain of your long, long life and you… you are every song that I will ever be remembered for. The enormity of that chasm, the insignificance of my whole life. What are twenty years but a day to a Witcher?”

Geralt stands stunned, more so than if Jaskier had brandished a blade at him just moments ago. At least there’s that he supposes, at least he is not predictable.

Geralt’s hand opens and closes in a spasm at his side – a nervous gesture, he knows. His hand is empty, and it longs for his sword but there is nothing for it. There are only words. Geralt loathes it when there is nothing to fight.

“Speechless,” Jaskier scoffs, “keep your silence, I’ve come to prefer it.”

He breathes hard, spurred on by his anger he realizes, by the kind of rage that can only be born of deep feeling, “I find that I have spent the whole of my short desperate life devoted to you and am confronted with the inevitability that you will forget me. And that oh… that I am too vain for, Geralt, that I can never forgive.”

“Jaskier,” he would not come closer, but Jaskier hears him all the same, “What I said was cruel and it was untrue and unfair.”

“I know that Geralt.”

“You are dear to me Jaskier,” he says as he finally comes closer, and grabs hold of his arm.

“I know that too,” he realizes as he speaks, “What I do not know is how to mend what you broke; I wish I did. I wish a lot of things.”

“Allow me to try and repair it.”

“I do not have more years to waste on longing for you Geralt.”

“Not a single one of your breaths is a waste,” he says and gods but it almost sounds like pleading, “despite my insistence otherwise.”

“Twenty years of insistence can do things to a man,” he whispers, “and that is all I am. Perhaps you should have spared me a tender word twice per decade.”

“I could not see how grievously I harmed you,” Geralt says under his breath.

“How invisible I must have been, then. This is a miserable exercise,” he decides, “let me go Geralt.”

“You’re leaving?”

“Kaer Morhen? Ciri? No. But I am leaving you now, Geralt, I am using the same two feet that took me when you dismissed me like a stray dog. Let me go.”

Geralt releases his arm as if burned and Jaskier doesn’t know if he is shaking in rage or nerves but he is raging and does not regret it as the door slams loudly in his wake.

Chapter Text

“But how can a marriage be a stronger unifying event than a conquest? And don’t start on the power of love – I’m serious – as lovely an idea as it is, how can a contract be stronger than force?”

“There are several points to that and of course there are many who would say no contest that a unification by force is always more… effective than one through a marriage treaty. But the truth is that both can fail if they discount the most important component of a nation. Its people.”

Ciri looks rapt so he doesn’t wait for her probing questions to continue.

“See, an attack – a conquest, it by nature breeds anger in the conquered. It breeds rejection of the conqueror, and it breeds revenge. When land is united through conquest, through war, the wheels are already set in motion for rebellion. From the first clash of the sword.”

“And marriage?”

“You don’t see a difference?”

“I don’t.”

Jaskier grins, “That is quite perceptive. How many unions did you witness at court?”

“Some five or so.”

“Unhappy brides?”

“One tried to jump out of my window.”    

“And what about the ceremonies?”

“The bards were never that great, perhaps Grandmother had banned the best from Cintra.”

Jaskier winks at her and walks back over to his desk, “But do you recall the days surrounding the wedding? The festivals at the square? The gifts of sweet bread and cured meats to the common folk?”

Ciri nods.

“You are correct in that there is a similarity between union through conquest and marriage – there is a sacrifice of freedom, of individuality, of agency. But war and conquest deprive a whole country, a whole people, of those inalienable rights. Marriage…”

“Just sacrifices a bride,” she says, making an angry note on her journal.

“Cirilla.”

“Yes, Master Jaskier?”

“I am teaching you history now, do you understand?”

“I…think so?”

“History is to be learned from; it is not necessarily to be repeated.”

She smiles, her eyes bright as morning stars, “I understand.”

He grins, poking her nose and moving to grasp his lute, “Why don’t we learn a song to end our lesson today…”

Kaer Morhen is a grand old place, so it really is very simple for Jaskier to wander the halls, at times humming and others strumming, without coming across another soul. By the same token, because Kaer Morhen is large and empty it is also very easy for Jaskier to overhear things that he perhaps shouldn’t.

“The others will be home soon enough; you’ll be busy and need to focus on your own training,” Vesemir says in a tone that brooked no argument.

“I am not implying that you don’t have all of the knowledge that she needs, only that I could take some of it on. Yennefer is right –”

“You say that very often,” Vesemir laughs.

“Ciri needs as many tools as we can give her,” Geralt presses, “as much information as –”

“Oh, I see what this is about.”

“No, you don’t.”

Vesemir chuckles deep and honest, “Look at you all of twelve and wanting to be ginger.”

“This isn’t that.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Then focus on your own training and Ciri’s tutors to their work. All three of us.”

“Hmm.”

“And where in the hell did you pick that up, you sound like a horse. I know I didn’t neglect your education.”

“Roach is my constant companion, perhaps I picked it up from her.”

Vesemir chuckles again, “That’ll happen when you behave like an ass.”

“I’m not discussing this with you.”

“Of course not,” the man sighs loudly, “pour me more ale.”

The conversation turns to the Path and whether Ciri will be accompanying Geralt on it, another topic they disagree on. Jaskier picks up his strumming again continuing to wander the halls. Unbelievable really, a declaration of broken-hearted rage and all Geralt took from it was that perhaps he’d like to give teaching a shake. Half of his life gone on a man who only remembers they’re friends every other decade.

“Will you stop that endless strumming, it echoes,” Yennefer hisses at him when he turns a corner.

“The whole Keep echoes, I checked. So, if you and Geralt are going be keeping each other’s company please mind your volume.”

“Oh, don’t do the jealous bard, it looks worse on you than that shirt. Besides we don’t anymore, for Ciri’s sake and what is left of my peace. Now get in here.”

Jaskier eyes her workroom suspiciously before she yanks at him by the insulted shirt and pulls him in.

“This is a nice…lair you have here… is that jar breathing?”

“Never mind that,” she says as she leans against a table, “Ciri told me about your lesson today.”

“Oh?”

“Yes.”

“And this prompted you to shove me in your dark scary witch’s room?”

“I think we should coordinate what we teach her,” she says calmly.

He crosses his arms, shifting his stance from defensive to curious, “How do you mean?”

“It’ll help from driving her to distraction if we can keep a through line in what she’s learning, at least in so far as we can. When she told me about your lesson, I taught her some theory of merging and mending, how forcing matters creates a tension in chaos that instantly produces the reaction that will sooner or later pull the spell apart. Its why healing is such an arduous and energy taxing process.”

“You have to work with the natural rhythms and inclinations of those involved ...”

Yennefer smiles and gives a nod, “But unity through force chain reacts into disintegration.”

“Good then, I’ll bring some notes on my lessons down to supper.”

“You’re joining us?”

“A man cannot live on air and beautiful words alone. And no, I am not hiding up in my room just because Geralt is here.”

She hums, “I did hear it wasn’t his anger that we had to be worried about in the end.”

“Oh, you heard?”

“He’s an idiot,” she says as she pours him some wine, “You shouldn’t hold it against him.”

“He’s very intelligent,” accepting the drink, “which makes his obtuseness hurt all the more.”

She takes a deep drink and a breath to follow it, “So how long will you torture him?”

“You give me too much credit, the man crushed my heart under his heel, and he didn’t even realize it until you smacked him upside the head.”

“I just glared at him really,” she grins, “but really.”

“I mean it, this is the root of it all – he is my world, and I am at best a… a – ”

“Shovel full of shit?”

“When did he tell you that?”

“When he expressed his regrets for being an ass on that mountain and begged me to come help with Ciri.”

“Of course, he needed no prompting to apologize to you,” he scoffs.

“We’re too similar,” she shrugs, “it makes things easier and impossible all at once.”

“I meant what I said, I’m too old, I’ve wasted too long. I’ll make a legacy at Oxenfurt or maybe even with Ciri,” he says, “but another twenty years at his side just to become that one bard that annoyed him for a few decades? He’ll forget everything about me, he’ll forget my name.”

“What good will a legacy be when you’re dead, Jaskier. You have what, three years left in you?”

“Oh, shut up you witch, I’m forty.”

“What will your corpse care if Geralt remembers the color of your eyes or the sound of your voice – you’ll be dead. But will you have lived a life you want away from him?”

“Maybe,” he says with a frown down at his empty cup, “I’ve hardly ever been anyone but his friend, his bard. I told him and I’ll tell you too, I am too vain to know that I mean so little to him.”

She refills his cup and hers as well, “You’ve never fucked him, have you?”

With a roll of his eyes, he sets his cup down firmly and makes to leave the room.

“Oh, come now,” she laughs, “I know you’re not a prude!”

“I am not but you are a braggart,” he says pointing at her, “and I won’t hear it.”

“Well, you’ve seen enough of it,” she giggles into her cup.

“You rode him in broad daylight without a wall where was I supposed to look?!”

“Oh sit,” she says waving at him, “sit sit.”

“Why are you so friendly all of a sudden?”

“I told you, Ciri.”

“She’s having you be nice to me?”

“You make her happy,” she says, “Geralt and I make her feel safe and you make her happy. We all do what we’re good at.”

“Mmm,” he sips from his cup again, “she loves you.”

That makes Yennefer smile, “She’s going to be fantastic. She already is.”

“A Sorceress Witcher Queen,” he grins.

“Whatever she likes,” Yennefer agrees, “whatever pleases her. What pleases you, Jaskier?”

He takes a long drink and sinks into his seat, “A crowd singing my words, a good fuck, Geralt’s eyes across a warm fire.”

Yennefer hums into her cup again, “I think I’m looking forward to winter.”

Closing his eyes, feeling warm and dizzy with drink, Jaskier thinks he agrees.

Chapter Text

In all their years together, Jaskier could not recall a time in which they were simply in a place at once without coming together. He found Geralt or Geralt found him and seeing each other at the distance of a market, or a massacre made them a pair once again – a unit of purpose. Here at Kaer Morhen things are not the same – or perhaps Jaskier is not the same.

Geralt is here and he is here. They see each other and speak to one another. They inhabit this space together, but they are not. It feels unnatural, like a rope aching and crying out to snap.

Jaskier watches in silences and the corners of his eye that Geralt holds himself differently here. He is not unguarded but rather stronger, louder, and surprisingly full of questions he is unhesitant to ask. Jaskier observes as he consults with Vesemir on creatures and strategies, on the combination of potions, and on the routes that have fallen from use in the Path. It is beautiful to witness and intimate too, a sense of safety, a wolf showing his belly in his cave.

“Master Jaskier,” he asks from the threshold, leaning heavy against the stone, his shoulders low with the comfort of it. There is a dusting of snow on his shoulders and the chill of the forest on his cheeks.

Jaskier averts his eyes, feeling his own cheeks hot and his eyes stupidly stinging, “Geralt you don’t have to call me that.”

Geralt is still standing there, silent, and soft and there for minutes on end before taking a seat across the desk from Jaskier.

“Why did you ask Ciri to?”

“She’s my pupil,” he answers readily.

“You don’t use the title at Oxenfurt.”

“How would you know?”

Geralt smiles, mischievous like at a banquet full of drunken fools losing gold, “Because your Rhythms of the Sacred series was held in a very large hall.”

Jaskier feels the wide stretch of his eyes, “Geralt of Rivia you are a lying bastard.”

He shrugs one shoulder, his eyes still amused.

“You were not there!”

“No, I just came into town the next day,” he nods, “of course.”

“Why would you sit in my hall and not say a word?”

“Because I was there to learn. And I recall you did not stand on pupils calling you Master, then.”

“It was many years ago,” Jaskier swallows.

Geralt’s voice drops its amusement, it turns somber like asking a mayor why he waited so long to call for help as his village went to wreck, “Why is Ciri different?”

Jaskier knows his own speed is naught to a witcher, he knows there’s nothing he’s accomplishing here but a tantrum, but he still has a letter opener to Geralt’s cheek losing perhaps the only element of surprise he will ever have against him in his whole life and yet he can’t hold back the rage that swells like a wave in him again.

“You are a bastard and an arsehole and you don’t think I’m worth my weight in shit. You think I treat Ciri any different, any lesser, because of you? Because I’m spurned? How dare, you Geralt – I swear if it’s the last thing I do I’ll cut your fucking tongue out if you imply something so repulsive ever again.”

Geralt is nonplused because of course he is because what can this stupid bard and his little letter opener do but have a fit? His hands are so damned soft and so blasted warm when he touches them to Jaskier’s wrist, pushing the offending little blade away from him.

“Jaskier,” he grumbles, not in anger but frustration, “that isn’t it.”

Jaskier throws the tiny sliver thing down in disgust and growls at him, “Then what?”

“I just want to know,” he says, low like he means it, “I don’t think you’re wrong to. I don’t think she shouldn’t. I was surprised you didn’t do so at the Academy.”

Jaskier looks away again though he refuses to feel ashamed of his rage but feels stupid all the same.

“You earned it,” Geralt continues, leaning in as if Jaskier hadn’t just threatened to slash at his face like a frightened cat, “more than the title you were born to. But I still want to know. Why did you ask Ciri to separate your friendship from your teaching?”

He scrapes gently at the woodgrain of the desk that stood between them, part of him wanting to dig deeper until his nails bled, part of him wishing it was as soft and giving as the earth they use to tread on together.

“I can’t help her if she doesn’t respect me,” he whispers, eyes on the claws he’s made of his hands, “and I don’t want her to be friendless and alone. Friendship and respect don’t always hold hands, you see. I can be two of me. I could be three if she needed me to be.”

Geralt frowns, the small one – uncertainty. They hold their silence too long and uncomfortable but there isn’t any running from it, there is a large keep that is still too small and a long winter that will end too soon. It seems the silence will consume them here, but Geralt clears his throat and leans back on the seat all the same, “I have a question of astronomy.”

He laughs out in mirthless surprise, “I beg your pardon?”

“That is why I came to see you here,” Geralt continues as if nothing had happened at all, as if they sat in the courtyard of Oxenfurt after a lecture, “– I recall reading your summative scroll on the music of the spheres and thought perhaps…”

Jaskier shakes his head like a child refusing supper and holds up his hands, “You… Geralt you’ve read my work? On purpose?”

“I have,” he confirms.

“When?”

“Whenever I come across it,” he says, head tilted in a show of soft confusion, “it’s held widely enough if there’s a library of any notable size to be found.”

Jaskier swallows, heart fluttering in his chest like a midnight moth. Thoughts fight in his mind – a show for forgiveness, perhaps. But isn’t that so much more than he really hoped to have? Should that be enough, he wonders.

“Your question?”

“The war has disrupted the routes, so I’ve been using-”

“Celestial navigation, yes,” Jaskier interrupts, unable to help himself, “yes I know. You turn to it when the land markers are disturbed.”

Geralt hums in agreement, “But it’s been some time – I noticed celestial events that I didn’t know how to account for…”

It is an excuse, of course it is. That doesn’t stop them from sitting for an hour at least, Geralt doing most of the speaking – deliberate and focused, asking questions that sound genuine.  Perhaps they are, perhaps they find themselves in a place where Geralt can accept that he is more than a sword and Jaskier is more than a hollow-boned bird; equals in the way that a stone and a cliff will someday crumble into earth.  

Jaskier has watched Geralt stoke many a fire, has watched the odd consideration he gives the kindling and where on the flame it will be dropped. The part of him that chokes of longing for him, even while he lectures on periodic comets, can see Geralt’s soft prodding questions for what they are, kindling – chosen with consideration for a flame that was left almost to cinder.

Geralt sniffs without need and nods, his hand heavy on his knee as he stands.

“Thank you, Master Jaskier – I think … when the others arrive, they’d be grateful to learn more of this as well. The war won’t quell any time soon and the stars will be all that make sense.”

Jaskier glances out the window, simply for somewhere that is less dizzying to look.

“Yes,” he agrees, but he’s not sure he knows what he’s agreeing to anymore.

Chapter Text

Jaskier is not a very jealous man, but he does feel a stab of envy as he sees Ciri jump into Eskel’s arms with glee at his arrival. Jaskier has never met Geralt’s brother before, but he’s heard stories which he held as preciously as mentions of their keep and so he doesn’t need an introduction to identify the arriving witcher. He doesn’t, however, expect the same to be true in return.

“Bard! You’re wintering with us? Gods, Geralt I thought you’d never bring him up,” the man chuckles as he pulls Jaskier forward into a greeting squeeze.

Jaskier blinks as he is put back down – when was he lifted? – and straightens out his clothing as he gives a short bow, “Eskel.”

“Ah, so he does speak of his brothers while he’s out getting famous on the continent,” Eskel laughs.

“He did,” Jaskier says, instinctively pulling Ciri closer as she comes to hug him round the middle.

“Don’t tell Vesemir and Geralt but Eskel is the most fun to train with,” she stages whispers.

“And where are those grey old men?”

“Watch your tongue boy,” Vesemir says as he enters the hall with Geralt at his heels.

The men all greet each other boisterously and Jaskier can’t help but grin, squeezing Ciri just a bit at his side.

“Bunch of overgrown children, aren’t they?”

She giggles and runs towards them, pulling Eskel to show him something or other further into the keep.

“He’ll get no rest until she’s tired herself out,” Geralt grins after them.

“She’s very at home here,” Jaskier comments, “at your side where she belongs.”

“Hmm,” Geralt agrees, “I think Ciri belongs wherever she may find herself to be.”

There’s a pause and silence between them, but it has been weeks since it was as uncomfortable.

“Eskel’s arrival means the hard winter will be here soon, Lambert and Coen always find each other just before the first heavy snow and cut it close.”

“Are you worried?”

“No, I was just thinking I might go out for some game before it becomes a struggle – would you… would you like to come? We could have Ciri weasel Eskel into letting you ride Scorpion.”

“Would you not rather go hunt with… Eskel? You know, your brother who is also an accomplished hunter?”

Geralt regards him with those eyes, the ones that make Jaskier feel dear – the ones he’d convinced himself he’d never see again.

“No,” he says simply, and gives him a quick and wicked smile before walking away.

That night after a louder supper than usual as Eskel shared some stories from the path, he finds himself in Yennefer’s room, his lengthening hair mingling with hers as they lay on the floor much too deep in their cups.

“It’s quaint of him,” Yennefer mumbles.

“Quaint?”

“I would say sweet,” she says, one arm flailing above as she examines her own fingers, “but I think he might sense the word and die.”

“Perhaps I should just tell him that I’ve forgiven him,” Jaskier whines a bit.

“He knows that” she scoffs.

“Well then he should just stop already.”

“I think he is very much committed to this now that he’s seen you might say the error of his way.”

“You’ve spent too much time with me,” he laughs.

“Ugh you’re right. He’s an ass and he knows it,” she corrects herself, “he’s trying to be less of an ass.”

“I don’t think I have anything to wear out hunting,” he muses, “I really should have packed better before I followed you through that portal.”

“You can borrow a fur.”

“Yennefer,” he gasps, “how scandalously kind of you.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“Too late – you love me dearly. A hundred years from now you’ll mourn me bitterly.”

She raises onto her elbows so that he can only see the black cascade of her hair above him.

“A hundred years? Bardling, you’ve that much elven blood?”

“Mother will take that to her grave so never you mind my blood,” he says imperiously, “pour me more wine.”

“Go model some of my furs,” she pulls herself up with a sigh, “I’ll see if I give you more of my wine.”

He models for her, fun and flirtatious in a way he hasn’t truly allowed himself to be in so long now. Liking Yennefer is so much more fun than hating her.

“You should tell him,” She says as she arranges a chocolate-colored fur around his shoulders, “that you’re sturdier than the average human. He should have noticed already but he can be quite stupid for such an intelligent man.”

“Yes, I know,” he sighs, “but I don’t…it’s stupid but I don’t want that to be the reason that he keeps me around.”

“You want him to love you despite his fear of your short little life,” she says, and there’s judgement there that he maybe deserves.

“I’ve still less of it to waste than any of you,” he says quietly as he looks at himself, her beautiful violet eyes shining back at them from the mirror, “what good will it do to pretend otherwise?”

The next morning before the break of dawn and with a splitting headache he sets out on the hunt.

After a few hours Jaskier sighs in a very put-upon sort of way, “You know I’ve already forgiven you, Geralt there’s no need to bring me out here and be… whatever it is you’re being.”

Geralt holds his silence for a mile or more, not that it surprises Jaskier. This is how Geralt converses some days, slow as molasses with pauses wide as a sea.

“You deserve better from me, Jaskier.”

He doesn’t disagree as he catches up at a short trot to ride beside him, “Be that as it may. You don’t have to… ask me academic questions or take me hunting or – stay out of Yennefer’s bed.”

Geralt snorts at that, “Staying out of Yennefer’s bed is not part of it –”

“Good,” Jaskier says pointedly.

“- because I know it doesn’t upset you that I go to her bed,” he continues, “it bothers you that I am… gentle… with her.”

Jaskier gapes at him, letting Geralt and Roach get ahead of him again before catching up, “That’s… that’s so rude, Geralt. I am not so petty. Is that what… is it too much for you to put up with? Is that why…”

“No,” he says as he comes to a halt, “No, Jaskier there is no reason for the things I said other than my misplaced anger.”

They look at one another, shoulder to shoulder when they’re both mounted. Geralt looks down at his hands on the reigns, “Your desire has never been unwelcomed.”

“It most certainly has,” Jaskier laughs out.

“Hmm,” is all Geralt answers.

“It has been categorically unwelcome,” he insists, “you shoved me out of your bed!”

“You were a child,” Geralt grumbles as he urges Roach forward.

“Excuse me?”

“The last time you made an offer to me,” he says in his lowest graveling tone, “you were a child. We hardly knew each other, and you fucked everything that moved.”

“I resent the implication that I am no longer as free with my love as I once was.”

The ride in silence again, Geralt’s calculated and Jaskier’s stunned.

“Wait, are you saying that –”

Geralt hushes him, but there’s that laugh in his eyes as he points to some tracks on the snow, “Quiet now”

Jaskier follows in perplexed silence for the rest of the hunt and when they return with a boar Ciri celebrates and goes on seven tangents before Jaskier can corner Geralt and ask just what he meant by it all.

Chapter Text

Dinning moved to the old great hall once Lambert and Coen arrived, not because they need the space now but because it made everything settled in a way. The paths were snowed in, and the wolves had come home to their den. They were all not so quietly thrilled to have three new faces to spend the cold months with, even if they did side eye Yennefer with distrust that Jaskier empathized with but also hoped would pass with the days.

The witchers were most enthralled by Ciri – who wouldn’t be, truly – not only was she a clever and funny child but she was observant, witty, and a quick study with weapons. Witchers were a dying breed, very literally so, and none of these men ever thought they would have the opportunity to train a young one in their ways. Jaskier laughed to watch them argue over who would train the girl in what.

“You’re all shit at close combat,” Lambert declares, “and I’ll not have her tripping over a dagger because you all teach her to drop it.”

“I’m already being taught the dagger,” Ciri says, looking studiously bored by her stew, “I’m very good at it.”

Jaskier smirks into his own dinner.

“By whom?” Coen asks, “By Geralt? The man has two left hands when it comes to short blades.”

“No not by Geralt,” Ciri says, meeting his eyes for permission and grinning when he gives a subtle nod, “hidden blades are part of my Courtly Graces course. We’ll start on the recognition of hidden poisons with Yen’s help as well.”

“What do courtly graces have to do with stabbing and poison?”

“She’s hardly going to have her wine poisoned by a jealous manticore,” Jaskier mutters into his own drink.

“Or be stabbed by a cockatrice at a ball,” Yennefer agrees.

“The bard is teaching her daggers,” Eskel balks, “Geralt you’re allowing this?”

“Jaskier is an expert with a dagger,” Geralt says without other comment, but the slight lift to his lips is there and Jaskier blushes at it.

“Master Jaskier was born a courtier and noble,” Vesemir says, with an air of ending the discussion, “he’s familiar with the kind of monster Cirilla is likely to encounter if she finds herself there.”

The other men seem to take Vesemir’s word as final and dig back into their meals, conversation moving back on to their own experiences on the path – a source of talk that Jaskier itches to take note of.

Yennefer excuses herself just as she drains the last of her wine with a kiss to the top of Ciri’s head.

“Well now that we have a bard,” Coen asks, as the rest all linger around the hearth playing cards and reading and drinking their nightcaps, “will we get some music in this dark old place?”

Vesemir hums, “It’s true, Master Jaskier, you’ve yet to sing your songs for us.”

“As much as I adore a captive audience, I am mindful of not being a nuisance,” Jaskier demurs, “and my lute is back in my room.”

“You can sing just as well without one,” Geralt speaks up, “you can sing in your sleep, Jaskier.”

“Come now let’s have a song,” Eskel prods, as he pours himself another drink, “must be a first time at Kaer Morhen.”

He thinks through his songs, the older much too widely played and tired, the newest much too raw and his to share and decided to sidestep that ditch for the moment. He sidesteps the issue by singing something he picked up on the road to Lettenhove.

There is a roadway, muddy and foxgloved

Whenever I'd have life enough, my heart is screamin'

He doesn’t often feel the prickle of stage nerves, never did truly, but singing here in front of everyone that Geralt cares for in the world makes him feel vulnerable. He feels naked without his lute even though he has certainly sung wearing less and yet he sings despite the nerves.

He finishes his song with a small somewhat self-conscious bow and the small audience cheers and grins and makes comments of gratitude.

“I’ve heard your songs from other bards and found them catchy but now I’m curious to hear them from yourself,” Lambert admits.

“Well, that’s a compliment,” Jaskier grins with a blush.

“I must say I didn’t care for the songs but I appreciated the coin – now though, maybe I won’t mind the songs so much if they come with such a voice,” Coen agreed.

Geralt doesn’t comment but then, he never does, except to say something infuriating about pie. Still, he thinks he’s not quite imagining the glint of pride in Geralt’s eyes as the others praise him. One among his audience, it seems, has been lulled to sleep by his ballad.

“Let me take her up to her room,” Jaskier whispers as he approaches Vesemir against whom she’s fallen asleep.  

“I’ll come with you,” Geralt says, causing a chuckle from some of the witchers which Jaskier chose to ignore.

He walked along the hallways with Ciri’s sleeping form against his chest like a charm of protection against whatever it was Geralt was following him to say. She was no small child, but Jaskier was strong from years of rough travel and could easily maneuver her up the stairs and into her warm bed. He didn’t need this escort and Geralt knew it, which means he wanted something.

Geralt pulled her boots off and walked out of the room in silence while Jaskier unpinned her hair and did what he could for a loose braid. With nothing left to fuss about with Ciri he could only hope that Geralt had left. A ridiculous hope but still.

He closed Ciri’s door behind him and crossed his arms as he turned to face Geralt, “What.”

“It was unfair of me to assume that you understood my silence,” he begins without other preamble, “that I didn’t need to say things that were obvious. Like – I admire you. I respect you. I…”

“Geralt,” he whispers as he pulls the man away from Ciri’s door, “while I have long fantasized about your heartfelt declarations, I don’t actually intend to force you into unnatural earnestness for my forgiveness which I’ll remind you that you already have. I know that it was a mistake despite how real the hurt was. I know that you care for me.”

“I love you,” Geralt says – like it’s easy. Like it was always that easy.

“I am dear to you,” Jaskier quietly corrects.

“You are and you are also loved,” Geralt insists, “you know that it isn’t easy for me to admit as much Jaskier-”

“Alright you love me,” he says somewhat hysterically wanting to stop hearing it for some reason after so many years of aching for it, “I love you as well you, which you know. Now – that’s…enough of that let’s go down and drown this awkwardness in some ale.”

“Jaskier.”

Then Geralt takes what seems like a steadying breath and grabs Jaskier’s hand.

Jaskier looks down at their hands, a hallucination. An impossibility.

 “I told you I’ve forgiven you already, Geralt,” he pleads.

“Will you leave Kaer Morhen with me in the spring?”

The question makes his head snap up to meet Geralt’s gaze once again, “For Ciri’s sake?”

Geralt looks confused by the question. Confused because it’s obvious? Jaskier is overwrought with the desire to flee but if Geralt is trying to be brave then so will he.

“I am a vain man, Geralt. I dread being forgotten – not just by you. By everyone. I dread being your bard because well – because I found myself not yours and then who was I? Who am I without you?”

He turns, not trying to run anymore but not wanting to have this conversation out within earshot of every witcher in the keep. Geralt seems to follow him without question to his rooms at the end of the hall. He follows him into the room without pause and starts speaking as soon as the door is shut.

“You wouldn’t leave Oxenfurt on the year you’d taken on an apprentice, even when I came to seek you out and I could see your desire to come back on the Path you stayed for Essie,” he says solemnly, “for years the elves I’ve met along the path have told me of the resources you’ve attained and have diverted their way – you were captured more than once, Jaskier, you could have died.”

Geralt lets out a breath, long held without Jaskier’s notice, “You came here despite what I had done to you because Ciri needed you, because you’d been looking after her for years while I ran from her - and if that weren’t enough, I know where Yennefer found you.”

“Slandering witch,” Jaskier mutters, sitting heavily at the foot of his bed.

Geralt smiles soft enough to break Jaskier’s heart and it’s so so …fond, “You were worried about your family.”

“I was worried about the village,” he corrects, “unlike my mother. There’s a war on, sometimes a man must show up and make a decree. Such is the law, as stupid as it is. If my sister could be Viscountess, I would just fake my death and be done with it.”

“Only a man like you would think so.”

“What sort of man is that?”

“A good man. Loyal to your friends. Responsible to those who depend upon you. Patient with your love. A companion I can never hope to deserve – but I want to keep trying Jaskier. For however many years of your life you’re willing to share with me now. If there aren’t any more for you to give, if I have exhausted your kindness and your love, I’ll accept that. But I hope that…well, I hope. That’s all.”

Jaskier gapes, “You have never spoken this much in your gods damned life.”

“Few deserve the exertion.”

“I’ve forgiven you,” Jaskier insists, but he doesn’t know who he is trying to convince.

“Forgiveness is not trust,” Geralt says, as he comes to stand closer, nearly slotting between Jaskier’s thighs, “I lost your trust.”

“Nonsense,” he says, trying not to sound breathless as he looks up at him, “at most you’ve misplaced it.”

“Hmm.”

“This is my bed.”

“Indeed, you’re observant.”

“I am – I’m very clever and not a child anymore and we know each other, fairly well I might add. Let me continue. This is my bed and so you cannot kick me out of it, do you understand?”

“I do.”

“Do you? Because I am usually much better at this,” he whispers, “but I am asking you to stay.”

“I don’t know if I’m ever any good at this,” Geralt answers, low and graveling, “but I am standing between your legs.”

Jaskier swallows through a tight throat, he swallows his fear and his years of quiet yearning, and he leans up to press his lips to Geralt’s like a drowning man. He’s caught, Geralt’s arms around his waist holding him up and close while his lips answer the question Jaskier has been asking for so long.

Chapter Text

Winter passes too quickly. Geralt’s warmth is a luxury that Jaskier had held precious whenever he was granted it during their years on the road. Now, he can luxuriate in that warmth. He can close his eyes and feel the idle exploration of Geralt’s fingers through the dark hair of his chest, and let a smile play on his face and feel it kissed. He may wake from this, some day. He may find it was all a fae-inspired dream or the sweet escape of his mind in the midst of pain. Right now, there is only the soft breath at the side of his neck and a slow heartbeat keeping time.

“I think I’m not completely human,” he whispers out, as if perhaps the confession doesn’t quite exist.

“Hmm.”

“That’s all?”

“I’m not human at all,” Geralt says, his eyes still closed.

“I might live longer than you accounted for,” he continues, “that’s all.”

He feels Geralt pull him closer, just a bit tighter, “We can account for today and not a day more.”

“Spoken like a poet,” Jaskier smiles, allowing himself to melt into the warmth of furs and love.

“A poet’s lover at most,” Geralt mumbles against his neck, “a bard’s Witcher.”

-

Winter passes too quickly. Ciri picks up language at what would be an alarming rate if it were not so exhilarating to move from the basics of Elder Speech to conversations and songs – oh the songs. She isn’t a prodigious bard, but she still sings sweetly in the way only a child can, and she sings with such joy that it fills the halls. Still, once they come upon their midwinter lesson, he can see the stubborn raise of her chin and knows exactly what is coming.

“No,” she enunciates, looking him squarely in the eye.

He raises his eyebrows in what is actually just a pretense of surprise, “What’s that?

Ciri is on to him and narrows her eyes, “Neén.”

“Weddin,” he sighs.

“Taedh,” she counters.

He turns to cover and swallow back the laugh that bubbles up his throat.

“May I know your objection to the assignment?”

She pushes at her writing instruments to make her point, “I will not write anything in praise of Nilfgaard.”

“I did not task you with writing anything in praise of Nilfgaard.”

“You asked me to summarize the artistic accomplishments of a Nilfgaardian nunnery – what am I misunderstanding?”

Jaskier clears his throat and takes a chair, pulling it up to sit across from her.

“The accomplishments of the Sisters of Alba are works of literature, music, and visual art that have been praised by scholars across the continent for speaking to the grandeur and the romance and the quiet beauty of the common life. They have been created over centuries by women who dedicated themselves to speaking out on behalf of their people, the true Nilfgaardian, the one that works the soil and weaves the cloth. These women hid their names, where others would take great pains to be singularly remembered, so that the lives and joys and sufferings of the everyday person in their land could be not only remembered but celebrated. Some of these women were murdered, for speaking out against their own emperor when he acted without regard for his own people. Cirilla I am not asking you to praise your enemy – because the people of Nilfgaard are not your enemies. I am asking you to learn of the lives of the people that die – miserably and painfully and forgotten - when great grand Queens and Emperors decide to stake a claim on just a little more land.” 

Her squinting glare holds for another moment after his monologue before she huffs out and grabs at her papers again.

“Now that the purpose of your assignment is clear, do you take further issue with it, or may we continue?”

She huffs again, looking like a funny mix between Geralt and Roach.

“No Master Jaskier,” she finally concedes, “please continue.”

“Wonderful! Now where was I…”

Later as the door closes behind them, she holds his hand as they leave the classroom, holds it tight in hers.

“I want to tell you about my favorite teacher, Jask,” she says with a smile, “He always tells me why I need to learn things – it’s because he wants me to grow strong and grow kind.”

-

Winter passes too quickly. The whisky warms his chest almost as much as the chaos that lingers over Yennefer’s skin as she sits cross legged before him, the waves of her hair dark as midnight. He concentrates on the ornate twists and slides of her hair as he hums.

“Is that the one where you liken me to war?”

“Yes.”

“I quite like that one.”

“It’s popular with the heartbroken.”

“I heard another bard sing it,” she comments, “but it didn’t sound right.”

“Likely their voice didn’t crack,” he smiles wistfully, “doesn’t sound right if you’re not holding back a sob.”

She pats his knee and cracks her neck just so and he grins, “Shall I write another? A jaunt, about a drinking buddy with poison lips? No. Something sweet, about mother night cradling a moonbeam to sleep.”

Yennefer keeps her silence, and he continues to slot his fingers through her hair.

“I want Ciri to come with me to Aretuza,” she whispers, “I don’t want to fight Geralt.”

“Two opposing statements if I’ve ever heard them.”

“We don’t know what is out there,” she argues as if he were the one to convince, “Aretuza is many things, but it has never been sieged.”

“She could just as well stay here,” Jaskier counters, “we all could.”

“No, we can’t,” she tells him, although he knows, “winter ends and witchers take to the path. We too must rejoin the world.”

“You’re mad if you think I’ve a better chance of convincing him.”

“You already know I’m mad.”

“Indeed,” he sighs as he finishes the crown he has braided around her head, “I’ll do what I can.”

-

Winter passes too quickly. Soon the snow has melted enough to clear the paths and leave a muddy mess behind. Jaskier will follow Geralt, and Ciri will follow Yennefer and come summer they will meet once again on the coast. Still, they linger, because the warmth of home won’t be found anywhere else on the continent. Still, the time comes, and they gather in the hall for one last warm meal with Vesemir and one another.

“You’ll sing of us bard?”

“You’ll sing my song the most,” Eskel grins, “it’ll be a hit at brothels I bet.”

“Ah but he can sing of the Gentleman Witcher at court,” Coen says, shoving Jaskier gently, “and they would surely like to hear of Lambert’s drinking at pubs.”

“I will sing of all of you,” he promises and if Geralt grumbles juts a bit he will have to remind him tonight that he will sing of him the most, “but tonight I’d like to play a song that cannot be sung outside of these walls.”

He sings of Kaer Morhen, he sings of the ancient sea and the screams and blood within its walls, he sings of the boys who never became men and the men who still had the hearts of boys. He sings of the laughter and the shouts and the singing swords and the family that are held within. He sings of Kaer Morhen, and he doesn’t look away from the tears in their eyes. He holds them precious and secret.

Vesemir stands and takes his lute from him, setting it gently down before he tugs Jaskier into his arms. It is the kind of hug he has seen at the edge of town when a son comes home, it is the kind of hug he thought he might have from the secret father he has never known.

Over his shoulder he can see Geralt’s eyes, golden shining against the warm glow of the fire. He sees what pleases him in them, to be seen and loved and to walk beside him for the rest of his life.

“I know your fears,” Vesemir says quietly, “set them down. This is your home – and you will never be forgotten. Whatever else you will become, here you are Jaskier of Kaer Morhen. Your name will live as long as witchers hold swords.”