Chapter Text
“And this is for when you’re cold and it’s raining. And this one is for when it’s too warm out, but you’re pale so you need to shield yourself from the sun anyway. And this one is for-”
“Renfri, love, I’m not going on vacation, I can’t take all of these jackets with me.” He chuckles as the younger wolf’s wide eyes turn wider at his refusal of the clothing pile that she’s pushing onto him.
“But you’ll catch your death in the mountains!” She whines and he pats her on the shoulder.
“I’m sure I can leech warmth off of Geralt if push comes to shove. I’m certain it won’t be cold enough for that, though.” He reassures her, looking out the window to see that the wind has begun picking up as if it is trying to prove him wrong.
It had been warm so far. Then again, he had woken up with his nose buried in the hollow of Geralt’s throat and that sensation has been stoking the flame inside him for a couple of hours now so maybe it wasn’t as warm out as he originally thought and it was just him.
“Leave him alone, Ren.” Geralt grunts as he closes the clasp on a strap that stretches across his chest – the strap that is holding two very impressive swords against his broad back.
“I just want him to be prepared!” Renfri hisses at Geralt and the wolf swats her away as she tries to poke him in the ribs.
“He’ll be fine.” Geralt looks over and scans his outfit critically.
They’re both decked out in leather and thick materials that are dark in colour and easy to move in. Somehow, it looks like a uniform on Geralt and like an unfortunate theatre costume on Jaskier. He feels silly in the peasant-style black shirt and the high-waisted leather trousers. However, he feels slightly less silly when Geralt hands him a shortsword and a dagger to tuck into the sheaths on his hips, and a knife to put into the sheath on the thigh strap. The sword is lightly curved and intricately decorated with what one back home might call Celtic designs and knots. It’s beautiful and Jaskier’s only slightly afraid of it. He thinks he might just use the dagger and knife instead; those are familiar weights in his palms, they’re something he knows. The only downside is that he has to get up close and personal with whomever he’s – well, trying to end. Though, he’s never taken a life before and he’ll see to it that it remains so if he can help it.
He hasn’t notified Geralt of this yet, of course, but he hopes that the wolf isn’t expecting him to do anything of the sort. He hopes Geralt knows him well enough by now to know that he won't take a life willingly.
“Julian,” Geralt calls, voice suddenly too loud and spearing through the thoughts clouding his head.
He startles, looking up at the wolf that seems to be looming over him again, blocking out the rest of the armory in Yen’s castle. For someone in charge of a peaceful town, she sure does have a lot of weapons for just in case.
“Hm?” He asks lightly and it only serves to make Geralt look more worried so he tries his best to ground himself back in the present. No use in letting his thoughts drift like that, now especially.
“You – you’re alright, yes?” The wolf places a gentle hand onto the side of his neck, warm and solid, an anchor. It’s a similar gesture in spirit to his own fingers wrapping around Geralt’s wrist. He appreciates it even if it doesn’t really help the other issue he’s having – the one with the unwarranted affections.
“Yeah, yes. Good. Can’t be bad now, right? I’m not backing down and I’m not giving up. We’re gonna be fine, lads, we’re fuckin’ aces.” He shakes his arms out, dislodging Geralt’s hand in the process. He can do this. He can help and he will help. For Ciri and for Geralt.
“Somehow I don’t think he’s fine,” Renfri whispers and Jaskier elects to ignore her for the time being as he hoists his bag up and over his shoulder.
“All set, boys?” Yennefer wrinkles her nose as Geralt grunts in reply. The closer they get to their mission, the less verbal the wolf is. Jaskier can’t blame him – not everyone can spare brain cells on holding pointless conversations like he can, he's practically an expert.
“Aye, aye, m’am.” He salutes her and she shakes her head at his antics. “Awaiting your command.”
“Right, then.” She waves towards the door. “Down we go, into the basement.”
“The basement?” He tilts his head, mind briefly flashing to all of the horror movies he’s ever seen.
“Can’t exactly use the public portal now, can we?” She chuckles. “This is a delicate matter and it requires a bit of discretion. Even knowing I’m helping you do this could upset the peace.”
“This place was declared the neutral zone because of the war, right?” He traces his fingers along the smooth, warm walls as they walk down a corridor.
“Yes. It was somewhere people who were prosecuted on both sides, but wanted nothing to do with the war, could settle. A safe haven, guarded by strong magics and accessible only through certain portals by certain people.” Yennefer looks properly smug at that and there is no doubt that she had played a big part in securing the city.
There’s only one problem, though.
“So – if there was no war, there would be no need for this place?” He asks, causing her to falter. “I mean, this place is a safe haven for war refugees, essentially. But if there was no war, they would be free to go home if they wanted to, yes?”
“I suppose,” She looks away from him as if sensing where he’s going with this particular conversation thread.
They pass through a door and start going down some nicely-lit stone steps. “So, if the war stops, any and every city will become a safe haven because there would be nothing to run from.” He hums. “I sure hope there’s a way to end the war, then.”
“Jaskier,” Geralt mutters darkly and he shrugs at the wolf. He’s right and they all know it. Yennefer’s pacifism is understandable, all things considered, but really, if she could help aid the armies in their fight then – well, maybe she should be out there fighting with the rest of them instead. Especially since the king is planning a new attack on the kingdom of Cintra and soon, too. She should, by all means, be going with them and helping them get Ciri back.
“You don’t know what I’ve already given to this war, human.” She sneers and he hears Geralt growl from behind him.
“You’re right, I don’t. I just hope that you know that you’re not the only one that has.” He straightens up, emboldened by his invincibility and Geralt’s large form at his back. “Ciri alone gave her childhood to it, Geralt gave his freedom, Renfri almost gave her life. I know you’ve suffered but so have many, many others - on both sides. Most were not as lucky as you to find sanctuary in this place.”
Yennefer’s eyes spark with indignant fury and her hands glow in the dim light of the cavernous basement. She’s riled up and dangerous and Jaskier hopes that Geralt doesn’t try to protect him from the onslaught of magic he is sure is going to follow but – but somehow doesn’t.
Instead, Yennefer lets out a short scream and directs the magic at the circle of rocks on the floor, lighting it up blue. “Piss off, human.” She grunts and angrily stomps up the stone steps, away from him and his big fucking mouth.
“Well, that was delightful.” He snorts and turns to Renfri who is looking rather miffed at the moment.
“She’s just mad she can’t hurt you,” She concludes and Jaskier nods, accepting the ready-made excuse easily. “Nobody’s ever dared to speak about it to her but we – we all know that this place has a time limit. Sooner or later, this won’t be a neutral zone anymore, and instead it’ll belong to whichever side wins.”
“It will go to ruin unless we save Ciri and get her back to Cintra.” Jaskier adds, nodding solemnly, and Geralt grunts.
“And we kill the king.”
“And we what?” He spins on his heels so fast he almost gets dizzy, staring wide-eyed at the wolf in surprise.
“Yes,” Geralt nods slowly. “You’re right. This impending second war needs to be stopped, we have to nip it in the bud. The only way we’ll be able to do that is by eliminating the king. The rightful heir to the throne is Thaddeus and nobody takes that boy seriously, nobody trusts him to lead a kingdom of that size. So it will fall into Pavetta's - as Václav’s child’s mother's hands, and she’ll dissolve Nilfgaard’s territories and return them back to their original rulers.”
“Geralt, that’s-” He swallows the rest of his sentence because Geralt is right. The only way to stop the war is to cut down the source of the animosity.
“The king’s council is made up of conquered rulers and they all hate him. They would have gotten rid of him already, too, but. But the king is protected by magics nobody can get through. It’s – several attempts have been made but there was nobody that could do it. Even the sorceress that had done the spells failed and was promptly executed.” The older wolf speaks as Renfri circles around the portal and comes back to stand next to him.
“What Geralt is trying to tell you, I think, is that – well, Jaskier, my friend.” She looks uneasy as she breaks off the at the end of the sentence, eyes shifting from him to Geralt and back. “Is that – you’ll have to be the one to do it.”
“I what?!” He shrieks. “When was this decided? Why haven’t you told me any of this? Considering I’m pretty fucking involved, I think I should have known about it!”
“Just now,” Geralt says simply and Jaskier balks again.
“Now?!” He feels faint, he feels like he’s going to pass the fuck out. “I should have kept my damn mouth shut! This is what Valentin was always talking about, isn’t it?! One day my fucking mouth is going to get me murdered and this is how it happens! During an attempted assassination on a king of a land I have no ties to whatsoever!” He grips his hair in frustration as tears spring to his eyes.
“Jaskier, you know I wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t our last hope.” Geralt’s hands cup his face. “I know this is asking a lot of you, far more than you owe us. But – if you had the power to end the war, would you? Will you?”
This is – this is huge. It’s monumental. It’s asking Jaskier, a simple human, a singer-songwriter, a son of a European mob boss, to potentially save a world; to save an entire continent because he’s the only one that can. And well – he’d be a proper hypocrite if he said no, wouldn’t he? What with all the preaching he’d just done to Yennefer, he would be a colossal fucking asshole if he chose to sit back and stay out of it when he’s the only one that can help.
“I’ll do it.” He blurts out and both wolves pause. “I know. I’m the only one that can. I’ll do it.”
“You – well.” Renfri clears her throat. “I guess I’ll see you two when I see you, then.” She rushes in between the two of them to hug him and he barely has time to squeeze her back before she’s giving Geralt a hug too and scampering up the stairs after Yennefer. He thinks he sees her shoulders shaking with silent tears but he’s not sure.
“Alright,” He claps his hands together, “Let’s do this.”
“Jaskier, I-” Geralt chokes down words and Jaskier shakes his head to stop him from uttering them.
“Save the heart-to-heart for after, love. I swear I’ll still be around to listen.” He grasps the other’s wrists and lowers the wolf’s hands from his face. “Come on, let’s go get our kid back.”
“How did the war start?” He asks as they step out of the half-demolished portal in a town that’s mostly ruins and overgrown grass.
“I told you; the king wanted more power.” Geralt grunts, whacking his big hunting knife through some vines to clear their path.
He shivers; it’s definitely a little chillier here than it was in the safe haven. He huddles closer to Geralt, leeching the body heat that the other emanates in waves. “No, I know about that part but. The humans chasing out the elves, committing fuckin’ genocide against them. What’s up with that?” He hisses, feeling his stomach roil in disgust just thinking about it, thinking about how humans destroy everything no matter the universe.
“The humans came here ages ago,” Geralt starts in a low, pensive rumble. “In the beginning, it was only the elves. Then the humans, they came from your world.”
“What? How?” He falters a little in his steps, watching as Geralt’s shoulders hitch up with irritation.
“One of the elven sorcerers fought with one of the kings over the rights to the throne. To get revenge, he opened up a portal between the worlds. He slowly educated the humans about magic and our world, bringing them over group by group. The humans brought armies with them and eventually overtook the king’s land. They continued coming until the elven sorcerer, having realized what he’d done, closed the portal. But it was too late by then,” Geralt sighs and turns to look at him. “That was the beginning, Jaskier. Your people started the war.”
“Oh, absolutely, that definitely sounds like something they’d do.” He admits grimly, clenching his hands at his sides to stop them from trying to reach out towards the other.
“They didn’t actively try and slaughter the elves, but the elves wouldn’t leave their lands quietly. Then the prosecution started and, well, when they were done with that that, the rest of the elven features were either bred out of families or were banished towards the more elf-friendly lands.” Geralt’s gaze is grim and serious and Jaskier gulps, feeling a little guilty even though he had absolutely nothing to do with any of that.
“I suppose it would only be fitting, if I were the one to end the war, then.” He smiles weakly and Geralt gives him a long, stern stare that seems to pierce straight through Jaskier – or at least that’s what it feels like - like a knife through the chest, almost.
“I’m sorry.” Geralt’s gaze softens, a hand reaching out to run through Jaskier’s messy hair fondly. “I was not implying that it is your fault, little lark.”
He swallows heavily, heartbeat picking up considerably at the gentleness of the action and the words and the fact that Geralt understood why he’d been silently upset. "I know, darling, I know.”
Geralt remains silent for a couple of more moments before he continues hacking away at the too-tall grass in front of him and the vines descending from above.
“Who’s the queen, then?” He thinks back to Todd, his castle, and his court of fools that seem very put-upon. “Who’s Todderick’s mother?”
“An elven queen from one of the overtaken kingdoms.” Geralt grunts, “She died giving birth to Thaddeus.”
“Was she a sorceress? Is that how it works?” He huffs as a bird flies above his head, loudly crowing in protest because they’re upsetting the nature there.
“No, it is not inherited.” Geralt hums, “The ones who can do magic truly are known as the Sources. Magic is chaos incarnate, if a child is known to be able to harness it, it is sent to a school so that it can learn to control it. Otherwise they are at risk of going mad.”
“That’s grim,” He looks down at his own hands and wonders if he would have been one of those individuals if he were born here, in this world. It would certainly be an inconvenience.
“The schooling is rigorous, long, and many don’t make it through till the end.” Geralt adds and Jaskier winces. He’d definitely be better off being regular.
“That’s even grimmer.” He hums solemnly as they lapse into a comfortable silence filled only with the sound of Geralt's knife meeting the local flora.
This process of fighting their way through the thicket continues for about an hour and a half if Jaskier’s estimates are correct, and then they’re finally emerging riverside. In comparison to just a moment before, Jaskier finds the sound of water far too loud.
“We go upstream,” Geralt points left with his knife. “The river leads to a small lake where it dips underground and under the mountains.”
“Cool,” He eyes the emerald water warily as he follows Geralt’s lead. “What are your plans for when we get to where Ciri is being kept?”
“Hope for the best?” Geralt shoots him a grin and Jaskier chokes a little on his next inhale.
“Hilarious, really.” He shudders, thinking about just how probable it is that Geralt has no plan at all.
“Once we get into the keep, I'll need to scent the place and try and locate Ciri. It is likely that we’ll have to observe the keep for a while before we even get to go in.” Geralt shakes his head in annoyance and Jaskier can imagine why – the wolf really isn't the waiting type.
“Surveillance, right, okay.” He nods, he can do that. That should be easy enough, right?
“Nothing will happen to you, Jaskier, I promise.” Geralt sounds determined enough but, well, you never truly know, right?
“Absolutely not.” He crosses his arms over his chest as Geralt hauls the newly-acquired deer carcass in his mouth towards the large body of water. The wolf gives him a mean look and starts the shift back.
“It’s magic, Jaskier, you’ll be fine.” The now-human still has blood all over his naked front and doesn’t seem to be bothered by it much.
Jaskier wishes it didn’t make for an attractive sight but – well.
“Yes, exactly! It’s magic, which means it won’t work on me and I'll drown and then die!” He’s very close to stomping his foot against the ground. What else is he supposed to do when a magical wolf tells you you’re going to have to walk on water because the cave you need to get to is apparently inaccessible from anywhere else?
“Hm,” Geralt looked out and over the inky blackness of the unnaturally-still water. The river flow slowed down a while back and the place where it meets the lake looks frozen in time – it's quite beautiful but Jaskier can’t really care when he is being asked to pull a Jesus and walk on water.
“Perhaps you are right.” Geralt tugs the carcass up and, in an impressive display of strength, throws it into the water whole. The thing hits the surface with a wet splat and then doesn’t sink even an inch – almost as if it had landed onto concrete or ice. Then – then the water starts bubbling and gurgling, thick, black tendrils rise up from the water to drag the deer under and all Jaskier can do is splutter in shock.
“What the actual fuck, mate?!” He cries out, looking at Geralt accusingly and with an increasing sense of dread settling into the pit of his stomach.
“An offering to the lake spirit, for safe passage. We should not be disturbed now.” The wolf nods, satisfied, as he pulls his clothes back on. “Come, I'll carry you.”
“Ugh, I hate this.” He did not, in fact, hate this. What he hated was how good it felt to be carried around in Geralt’s big arms, and how comfortably warm the wolf was. He hates the feeling of being dependent on someone, even if that someone was a hunky wolfman. Especially if that someone was a hunky wolfman. His life was a mess.
He holds his arms out obediently and Geralt scoops him up like he weighs next to nothing. He hurriedly wraps his legs around Geralt’s waist and the wolf shifts him to the side so that he’s resting on the wolf’s hip like a damn toddler.
“This is beneath me – if the lads back home could see, I'd never fuckin’ live it down.” He whines, feeling his cheeks heat as the wolf jostles him into a firmer hold.
“You have friends back home?” Geralt intones and – oh, my god! Geralt’s just cracked a joke!
“My, my, Geralt. When did you get so funny?” He bares his teeth at the wolf and Geralt retaliates playfully by doing the same – except, Geralt’s canines are much sharper than his and it’s honestly kind-of hot. Christ, he truly is depraved.
“And, anyway, yeah I have friends. Well, a few of them, I guess. Not a lot of people are willing to risk being associated with me.” He shrugs, looking down into the opaque water below Geralt’s booted feet.
“Why?” The wolf tilts his head to the side and Jaskier sighs. Cute.
“Well, they’re always either scared of my shady background or they don’t want to be exposed to the spotlight – the fame. And then, there are the ones that just want to take advantage of it, of course. So there’s really only a few people back home, in London, that I trust.” He taps his fingers along the wolf’s shoulders in an abstract rhythm, thinking idly about those he's left behind.
“That is – unfortunate. And you chose this life?” Geralt asks again and Jaskier realizes that the wolf is making small talk to keep his mind off the water below - it’s not exactly working, but he appreciates the effort so he keeps answering.
“Yeah. I mean – it's tough but... I needed to get away from what I was, from what they were trying to make me, so becoming known was how I chose to – rebel, I guess.” He lays his head onto the other’s shoulder and lets himself relax a little at the knowledge that Geralt is keeping him safe.
“One of my neighbours, Alessia, she’s one of my best friends. She was with me and my other friend, Ryan, when – well. I hope she’s not too worried.” He grips the other’s shoulders a bit tighter than before at the memory resurfacing.
“Jaskier - what happened? Why were you at the manor if it is not your home? Why were you alone?” The wolf asks gently and, considering what they’ve already shared with each other background-wise, he supposes that he owes it to the wolf.
“I just wanted to have a night out. I don’t - I don’t go out often, and with someone I don’t know even less but... my manager introduced me to these people and said I should mingle or whatever. And then they brought friends who brought friends and they wanted to go to the part of town that wasn’t really the... best.” He recalls the club perfectly, so much clearer than most of anything else that had happened that night.
“We got drunk, they took me to another bar – er, tavern – that was even worse. Some people in there recognized me as the Count’s son and since I didn’t have any security with me, decided it would be a good idea to kidnap me and hold me for ransom. Um – keep me until my family pays them for my release.” He huffs, feeling the icy slide of terror running down his back as he recalls the night. “To be honest with you, I'm not entirely sure my father would have paid them at all.” He chuckles drily at the thought.
“That’s -” Geralt clears his throat and Jaskier feels the vibrations of it. He chuckles because yeah, grim.
“I know. But I wasn’t going to let them take me without a fight so, um, I started a fight in the club and dipped. I ran out to the car but I was, unfortunately, still sloshed.” He leans back to look at Geralt’s profile as the wolf scowls. “The only thing I could do was steal a car and attract as much attention while they chased me through town so that they’d be forced to retreat. Then I crashed the car.”
“You -” Geralt starts and Jaskier pats his cheek.
“I was fine, nothing but a few bruises. But father wasn’t thrilled. Flew out the cavalry to London to collect me and to keep the news about me almost being kidnapped on the down-low. it was all very hush-hush. Flew me back to the Old Country and locked me up like a damsel.” He wonders if Geralt will understand the Disney reference.
“That - was it permanent?” The wolf nudges his cheek with his nose and Jaskier scratches at the base of his skull in return.
“It’s supposed to be until things calm down but – after all of this, I don’t know if I'm going to be able to return to being famous. I – it's not the same anymore.” He tangles his fingers into the other’s soft hair and Geralt’s voice rumbles pleasantly.
“Prepared for a quiet life, then?” Geralt’s arms tighten around him and Jaskier wiggles happily in place.
“Perhaps; never thought I'd retire at such a young age.” He glances behind him and sees that they’re approaching the little alcove in the mountainside. It’s noticeably colder here but he’s being kept warm by Geralt’s body heat - something he's becoming quietly addicted to.
“Age matters very little here,” Geralt huffs quietly and Jaskier wonders what exactly that is supposed to mean. “Alright to walk?”
“Yup, lemme down.” He wiggles free as Geralt steps onto solid ground again.
“Maybe I'll write a novel about all of this when I get back. Make some money off of that.” He stretches his legs, bending at the hip to make his spine pop. Geralt makes an unidentified noise behind him and he nods. “Yeah, that’s a bit too on the nose, huh?” He grins and winks in Geralt’s direction. He looks up at the mountain and at the birds nesting in the crevices of the rocky cliffside.
“We should – uh, the cave is over there.” Geralt announces grumpily and stomps away to the right.
“Huh,” He wonders what the sudden attitude change is about. It's probably due to how close they’re getting. Right, time to get serious, he should follow the wolf's lead.
The cave they enter is damp and dank and everything you’d expect a cave to be. It’s not exactly Jaskier's favourite spot he’s been to - and that includes prince Toddy’s dungeon. He winces away from a dripping stalagmite with a grimace.
“Have to say, not my idea of a good first date.” He chuckles uneasily as his voice echoes and a bat flies past them. He tugs at the strings holding his shirt closed at the sternum nervously. He winces at himself for his choice of words briefly but he knows that Geralt can’t possibly understand the concept of dating and what his words entail - which is a little sad, but understandable.
“Nothing in this world is easy and this quest to save Ciri will be no exception.” The wolf rumbles, his deep voice sounding a bit haunting due to the cavernous space that surrounds them.
“I expect nothing less, Geralt, worry not.” He wheezes uneasily in an approximation of a laugh, feeling the sweat that’s beaded at the nape of his neck slide down his back.
They lapse into silence and Jaskier takes in the chambers of the mountain’s innards again and is disappointed to find that nothing has changed since the last time he looked around. Huffing, he counts their steps and finds that two of his are one of Geralt’s lumbering strides. The action only amuses him briefly, though, and he’s back to feeling jittery and nervous and the cave is only getting darker. Geralt looks at him apologetically as Jaskier stumbles over a rock and bumps into his back.
“It’s not your fault, love, some of us are human.” He smiles, patting the other’s shoulder reassuringly and the wolf just grunts. Then, he finds himself being picked up and put back onto the wolf’s hip.
“Christ, this again?” He whines – more for propriety’s sake than anything else.
“Just until it is light enough.” Geralt reassures him and he nods, trusting the wolf to keep him secured in his hold.
Well, at least now he’s going to be preoccupied with trying not to drift off as Geralt carries him through the complicated maze of tunnels lead by scent only instead of focusing on the feel of Geralt's body between his legs.
It takes a while for the darkness to dissipate some, but when it does, Geralt still keeps him in his arms. And continues to do so until they reach the exit to the cave. Though, it's not exactly an exit, but rather a break in the rocky cliffside that overlooks the fortress where Ciri is being kept.
Geralt quickly scans the horizon and all of the keeps with his keen eyes and nods to himself. Jaskier has gotten absolutely nothing out of his own glance but trust or whatever, right. He needs to trust Geralt.
“Geralt, what do your wolf eyes see?”
“Once we’re inside I should be able to approximate the number better but for now I can see at least four guards near where Ciri is. This, of course, doesn’t account for the King and the sorceress, Fringilla.” Geralt grumbles quietly and Jaskier looks back out over the castle for the last time before they enter the cave again. "Ciri's in the tallest keep."
“Do you think the witch has something in place to let her know when enemies are near?” He questions, not willing to believe that the king would be so sloppy with security.
Geralt pauses. “Possibly. If they think that someone knows where Ciri is being kept or if Thaddeus had notified them of our escape, it is very likely.”
“Toddy wouldn’t,” He concludes. “Too much of a chicken-shit to admit to daddy that he lost prisoners.”
“Perhaps,” Geralt agrees and then continues walking. “We’ll know soon enough.”
“Great,” He hides his face from the dark in the crook of the wolf’s neck.
“If they know, we’ll think of something else. I won’t make you go in if they’re up in arms. The element of surprise is all that we have at the moment.” The wolf’s big palm runs up his back in a comforting gesture and Jaskier appreciates the affection that the gesture projects.
“Yeah, alright.”
The catacombs underneath the fortress are just as damp and dank as the caves had been. He’s seriously not a fan and he’d certainly never thought about a career as a spelunker but here he is regardless.
The whole thing is a maze, honestly, and he’s amazed at the ease with which Geralt travels through the confusing corridors. It’s not as dark as the caves, though, so he’s fortunately fine walking on his own. That doesn’t mean that he’s not still firmly clinging to Geralt’s back like a lost little toddler. It’s embarrassing, really. But, well, it’s either that or getting stabbed by the first guard that they come across so he’ll hold his tongue and follow instead of leading.
“These stairs lead up into the main building of the castle. I can’t hear anyone up there so I'm assuming that there were no security measures in place – but, that doesn’t mean you can relax yet.” The wolf looks at him seriously and Jaskier rolls his eyes.
“I’m not a child, Geralt. I know what danger is. Stop worrying about me and get to the rescuing part of this quest.” He pushes the other up the first few stairs, relenting only when the wolf continues walking on his own.
It’s a tense sort of silence now that the easy part is over. It's a tense silence that they need if they’re to be sneaking around a heavily-guarded keep. It serves as a good reminder of what Jaskier isn’t supposed to be doing and that is babbling. And, oh, how he wants to babble. He wants to open his mouth and spew useless bullshit like he usually would, he wants to waffle until his throat is dry because he’s nervous and he’s terrified.
The halls of the keep are somehow more devoid of life than the caves and the catacombs combined. Even though the walls are decorated sparsely, there is nothing on them to indicate that someone is living, or has ever lived, in the building. There are no fires lit in the sconces on the walls, there are no decorative vases or even dead flowers. It’s frankly unsettling and he feels the dread seep into his bones as they move silently down more halls than he can count.
“I don’t like this,” He hushes, trying to keep his eyes focused on his surroundings lest someone sneak up on them.
“Hm?” Geralt opens a door and motions for him to wait.
“It’s too quiet. They're either sure that nobody is coming or they know we’re here already. Either way, something’s up.” He whispers, lurking after Geralt’s large form.
“They can’t have known we’re coming, and even if they do, they don’t know you’re immune to magiks and spells. It’s alright, this keep is mostly deserted.” Geralt respond and Jaskier thinks that he’s really trying to sound patient and gentle but that he’s failing marginally on the patient front. He can’t blame the wolf for it, really. He, himself, is getting annoyed at his own antics as well, but it’s not like he can turn off the part of his brain that worries constantly.
They make it up a couple more floors without any interruptions and come to where Ciri is supposedly being kept – like a princess in the tallest of towers, forbidden from ever leaving, from seeing the light of day or breathing in fresh air.
“While there was no spell preventing us from getting into the keep, there is probably one preventing entrance, and preventing Ciri from getting out of the room she’s being kept in.” Geralt turns to him as they come up on the second to last door that’s keeping them away from Cirilla. “I can’t hear anything past this hall.”
“I need to be the one that goes in,” He concludes and Geralt nods.
“There are two guards in front of the next door, I can go as far as getting rid of them but then you’re on your own.” Geralt’s hands cup his face again and the wolf touches his nose to Jaskier’s forehead. It feels like a blessing of some sort and he steels himself for what is to come.
“I can’t sense beyond the last door. Take your dagger out and be careful.” The wolf waits for him to comply and Jaskier clutches at the handle with all his might.
The door opens and before he can react, Geralt already has the two guards subdued – possibly dead – on the ground. He blinks away the dread and rushes down the hallway, sidestepping the bodies and Geralt’s longsword.
“Alright, you can do this.” He whispers to himself and straightens up, loosening his shoulders and preparing for the worst.
The door starts sparkling a faint green when he presses a palm against it. There is no lock on it, no knob either, just the sheen of magic that has no impact on Jaskier other than looking pretty and sparkly and making his eyes water a bit. Though, maybe that last one is from the nerves.
He pushes the door open a smidge and peers inside. The room is hexagonal in shape and there is a bed on the right of the door that is occupied. There’s also a guard snoozing on a chair on the left that Jaskier prays doesn’t wake up while he’s trying to get Ciri out of the room. He closes the door behind himself and every sound falls away. The silence is unnatural and he can’t hear Geralt’s steady breathing anymore. A chill runs down his spine as he creeps across the floors and towards the princess.
He winces as his eyes fall upon her frail form. She looks like she hasn’t been sleeping well and there’s a bruise on her cheek that looks relatively fresh. One of her hands is clutching at a dagger that is not one of the two decorated ones that she usually had with her back at the mansion. He wonders if they’d confiscated them and thinks that it’s very likely that they had done just that. He takes in shallow breath and places a gentle palm on her shoulder.
Immediately, she startles up with the grace of someone who’s been barely sleeping for more than two weeks, and has the dagger under his throat. He reacts with muscle memory before he can stop himself from making rash movements and disarms her with the ease of the last two times and suddenly – he has two daggers in his hands and Ciri’s wide eyes staring at him.
“Little Dove,” He hushes and her eyes fill with tears as she flings herself at him.
“Julian,” The sound is muffled by the material of his shirt but he hears the heart-wrenching tone of it anyway.
“I’ve got you, love, I’ve got you.” He reassures, gripping her into a tight hug that lasts until the sleeping guard starts stirring. He releases her, then, worried that they’ll get made.
“We need to get out of here,” He looks around the room for anything to throw over Ciri’s form because she’s only in her nightgown and finds a red cloak hanging from a set of antlers on the wall. He throws it over her shoulders and she ties the strings around her neck to keep it in place.
“Jaskier, the room is spelled, I can’t leave.” She whispers regretfully.
“The door was made to be a gate of sort, right?” He can only assume that this is how the magic here works but when Ciri nods he knows he’s made the right deduction.
“Then, when the door is open, the barrier is broken?” He walks over to it carefully and pulls it open by a piece of loose wood. Her eyes widen as she spots Geralt looming in the hall.
“How?” She rushes towards him, hands fluttering over his front as if looking for some magical artefact that had to have helped him.
He hands her back the dagger he’d taken and smiles gently. “I’ll explain later.” He nudges her into Geralt’s awaiting arms and closes the door behind them.
Geralt is hugging Ciri just as hard as he had and he can’t blame the wolf; not when the only thing he wants to do is huddle the both of them close to his chest and maybe make them some proper food back in the mansion.
“They’re going to be coming for us,” Ciri tugs out of the wolf’s hold and looks at him with her fiercest gaze. “The moment we step out of the fortress, Fringilla will sense it.”
“We know,” Geralt nods, “Can you open the portal to Sodden Hill?” Ciri looks unsure for a moment before nodding with a determined set to her shoulders.
“Good, then we need to get to it.”
“It’s – all the way on the other side of the fortress, across the courtyard.” She looks behind her at the room they’d just left and Jaskier wonders if he’s missing something.
“Dove,” He croons, “What is it?”
“If I use my magic, she’ll know.” Ciri grips her wrist, the one covered in bandages and he wonders what exactly had they done to her while she was prisoner. He feels the anger inside him boil up slowly, rising bile into the back of his throat at the thought of anyone hurting her.
“We’ll have to act fast then,” He says, turning his eyes to Geralt. “You clear the path, I’ll cover you. We need to get to that portal.”
“Yes,” Geralt nods then places a kiss onto the top of the sprog’s head. “Stay behind me at all times.”
“No powers until we reach the portal, we need the head start.” He hugs her once again briefly before nudging her after the wolf.
It’s slow going but eventually they make it down from the keep and out into the courtyard. They’re hidden by the keep’s shadow for now but the moment they step out of it, the guards on the walls will be able to spot them if they just look down. So... they better not give them any reason to look down then.
They stick close to the walls, trying to keep out of the line of sight but it’s still slow progress and he can’t help but wish that they could just make a run for it. He was never the most patient. But – but. He’ll be patient this one time, for Ciri’s sake if not for his own safety.
They’re almost at the door to the building when a guard emerges from an archway in the wall that they’d just passed.
“Hey!” The guard barks out and Jaskier’s left with only the one option.
He turns around quickly, panic coursing through his veins as he slams his free palm over the man’s mouth and drives the dagger into the space between the protective metal covering the guard’s midsection. Blood rushes through the gaps in his fingers as it comes up and out the man’s mouth. He pushes the rapidly loosening body back into the dark archway and lets the man slide down the wall. His hands shake as he steps back. He – well.
“Fuck,” He mutters to himself, blinking rapidly as he starts feeling dizzy.
“Jaskier,” Ciri tugs on his sleeve and he focuses on that point of contact to keep his wits about him.
We’ll acknowledge this later, he thinks faintly to himself and turns back to continue heading towards portal. Geralt eyes him with something akin to shock in his eyes but he ignores the look in order to open the door for them. He peers inside before allowing the wolf to enter first and ushering Ciri after him.
The inside of the building is identical to the keep they’d just escaped from to the point where Jaskier is scared, only for a moment, that they hadn’t left the building in the first place. But, instead of going up a staircase, Ciri takes them down a hallways and then down a set of rickety, wooden stairs. The wood creaks with their every step and Jaskier winces every time the sound echoes too loudly.
Instead of a circle of stones in the ground, this time there are wooden boards covering something that looks like a very deep hole in the ground. He shudders at the thought of jumping in and breaking both of his legs. And bleeding out. Like that guard that he fucking stabbed probably is. Oh God, oh no.
A chill goes up his spine as Geralt starts tearing away at the floorboards. He can’t think about it – he can’t allow himself to spiral into blind panic, there’s simply no time for that. So instead, he focuses on the sound of alarm coming from the building above.
“We have to hurry,” Geralt pulls out the last board and the hole is fully revealed and – yup, they’re probably going to have to jump.
The door atop the staircase rattles and someone calls for a sorceress – they’re coming and fast.
“Quicker than we anticipated.” He mumbles, gently pushin Cirilla towards the portal opening. “Come on, love, the sooner we’re out of here the sooner we’ll have some actual fire power on our side.”
“What do you mean?” She holds out her hand towards the ring of white tiles that surround the hole. There’s a concentrated look on her face so he’s loathe to break her focus. Her hands, unlike Yennefer’s and Toddy’s, glow a faint white as the portal opens and blinding light rushes downwards, into the hole.
“One of Geralt’s old buddies went to Cintra, we’re being expected by some very powerful magic-y people back in Sodden.” He finally says after the portal has already been opened.
Ciri’s eyes are wide when she turns to him; they’re sparkling and filled with tears. “They’re there for me?”
“Oh, Ciri, darling.” His heart breaks all over again at the disbelief in her tone. “Of course they are, they’re there to help us and keep you safe, little Dove.” He tugs some of the pale blonde strands of hair behind her ear and she gives him a shaky smile.
“It’s just that – they’ve never come for me before so…” She trails off with a shrug.
“I’m sure they would have but the amount of politics… Things are always more complicated than they appear.” He pets her soothingly and she closes her eyes at the gentle gesture. “But trust me when I say that they’re all there now, because we asked and because you deserve to be saved.”
“Thank you,” She looks up at him again. “You and Geralt have been through quite a lot since the last time I saw you, huh?”
He rubs the back of his head, “You have no idea.”
“You’ll have to tell me about it sometime, when we’re not being hunted and all.” She pats his cheek like he’s the child here and he chuckles, having missed the peculiar way in which she held herself more than he thought he did. And he’d thought he missed her plenty already.
“Christ, kid, I’m sorry it took us this long.” He hugs her but then Geralt is there and his eyes are mean and serious again.
“We’re leaving.” Is all that the wolf says before both Jaskier and Ciri are being hoisted under the wolf’s arms. Geralt jumps into the pit and Jaskier lets the familiar sensation of weightlessness overcome his senses.
The portal they come out of is in an attic this time. It’s an interesting change of pace. Or, well, it would be if the ceiling wasn’t so damned low.
“This is inconvenient.” He rubs at the bump forming on his head, feeling a little woozier from this portal than the other two he’d gone through.
The door for the attic bursts open and –
“Get away from the portal, now!” A voice shouts from the opened door and he feels himself being grabbed by Geralt again and tugged out of the way as the portal begins glowing red and shaking apart. It crumbles in on itself, disappearing in its entirety before his very eyes.
“Come on, quickly. That won’t hold them off for long.”
“Yen?!” He yelps because he’s finally seeing who had burst into the room. “What the fuck?”
“Less talking, more running down the stairs.” She tugs on his arm and he follows post haste, letting his legs do all the thinking for now as the four of them hurry down the tower they’re in. The stairs creak under their combined weight and Geralt has to reach out and steady Cirilla so that she doesn’t topple over her own two feet.
The stairwell gets dark before the light of the breaking dawn reaches his eyes. He shields them from the sudden change of lighting. Geralt nudges him forward when he stalls and he lets himself be herded towards an open courtyard and – really, do all of these castle-like structures look the same everywhere in this stupid world?!
“Jaskier! Geralt!” An over-excited voice reaches him, followed by strong arms wrapping around his neck and he smiles. It’s only been a little over a day but Renfri’s acting like they haven’t seen each other in years.
“Glad you could make it,” He hugs her back as the sounds start filtering in properly. There are about thirty people milling around the courtyard preparing for battle.
“Well, couldn’t let Yen do anything stupid on her own now, could I?” Her grin is sharp and she latches on to Geralt next.
“How long do you think we have?” Vesemir arrives with a steady gait, armour similar to Geralt’s on his shoulders and two swords on his back. There’s a woman next to him whose posture is poised and dignified and Jaskier’s mildly afraid to meet her eye.
“Maybe twenty minutes, maybe less. The portal disappearing should keep her from triangulating the location for a new one. But they’ll be here within the hour, that’s for certain.” Yennefer sighs, turning finally to look at Ciri. “Hello, there, you must be the princess.”
“My apologies, but I don’t seem to know who you are.” Ciri’s eyes hold a touch of awe in them as she takes in the assortment of gathered sorcerers and sorceresses.
“I don’t suppose you would, no. You were only four the last time I saw you.” Yennefer kneels and holds out a canteen filled with water. “My name is Yennefer, former overseer of the neutral zone Dzakh’ovo, currently unemployed and standing up for what is right.” She looks at him pointedly as she says the last part and Jaskier puffs out his chest proudly, feeling a little dumb with gratitude and relief that he’d managed to get through to her. Boy, this is going to suck ass if they lose.
“Nice to meet you, Yennefer.” Ciri bows a little and Yen’s smile melts into a fond expression. Everyone’s always so helplessly charmed by the little sprog that Jaskier feels better about his own mother hen instincts.
“Wish it was under better circumstances.” The sorceress nods and hands Ciri a bagel for her to munch on to get her strength up some.
“Cirilla,” Geralt starts slowly and Jaskier can hear how tense he is just from the tone of voice he’s using. “We’ll need you to freehand portal to Cintra.”
“Geralt,” Yennefer warns as Ciri stills.
“We don’t have time, Yen. We don’t have time to trek to the nearest gate and you just destroyed the portal here.” Geralt growls, looming over them in his anger.
“They would have already been here if I hadn’t!” She yells back, violet eyes sparking with unleashed power.
“Yennefer,” The unnamed woman lays a hand on her shoulder and Yen deflates. “You’ll show her how to open the portal, will you not?”
“Yes, Tissaia.” She grinds out through clenched teeth.
“Good.” The – if he remembers correctly – head sorceress or whatever turns to him and does the head-tilt thing. “You must be Jaskier.”
“That I am, madam.” He does a little curtsy and she smiles.
“Renfri and Yennefer notified me of a slight change in plans.” She eyes the two suspiciously and Jaskier nods.
“But this has no effect on the part of the plan where Ciri gets to Cintra as soon as possible and safe at that.” He crosses his arms over his chest and then promptly winces when Ciri makes a wounded noise.
“What? What is the plan? You’re not coming with me?” She latches onto him with all of her strength. “You’re staying here where they’ll be fighting?!”
“Oh, love, don’t worry. I’ll be right behind you, I just have to stay here and watch over Geralt for a bit. You know he’s useless without me.” He tries to smile reassuringly but by the way Renfri winces in the background, he thinks it’s safe to say that he’s failed on that account.
“You’re lying,” She sniffles, her expressive and pale eyes glowing faintly in that unnatural, magical way.
“I am, yes.” He admits, hugging her closer. “But if I tell you what I’m staying for, then you’d make me leave. And I’m afraid that it is imperative for me to stay.”
“Promise you’ll come after me later?” He voice is frail and thin in a way he hasn’t heard it before.
“I’ll see you again, don’t worry.” He passes her off to Yennefer who is looking a little constipated – who’s got a kind expression on her face.
“Come on, princess, I need to show you some texts that’ll make it easier.” The sorceress tugs the sprog away and Cirilla looks reluctant but complies with the silent gesture.
“Get some food in ya’,” Vesemir tips his head to the side where a table with baskets is set up and Jaskier thinks this is all very quaint despite the threat of the impending battle looming over them. “You’ll need the energy,” And in a true hurried fashion of someone who’s needed all over, he ambles away with a wave.
“I don’t think I can eat anything.” He admits as he gazes upon the selection of pastries and dried fruits and various nuts.
“Nerves? This must be your first battle, then.” A curly-haired woman, that’s sorting through the selection and keeping it orderly while people pick and choose from the spread, asks. Her ears, he notes, are pointed. It's rather very charming.
“Well, more like my first war but by far not my first battle.” He grins shakily and the sorceress chuckles.
“Triss,” Geralt nods in greeting and she raises an eyebrow at him, causing him to step back behind Jaskier a little. Well, that’s certainly interesting.
“Do all of the pretty sorceresses around these parts want you dead or?” He crosses his arms over his chest and stares at the wolf until his shoulders haunch in shame.
“Oh, I wouldn’t kill him – just maim him a little.” Triss grins and holds out a hand. Jaskier thinks she’s waiting for a handshake before remembering that they don’t do that here and then places a gentle kiss on the back of it instead.
“Jaskier, I presume? Pleasure to make your acquaintance. Any man that can get Yen to stop being a stubborn windbag is alright with me.” She winks and he feels his cheeks heat up at the flattering attention.
Everybody milling around seems entirely too casual about the incoming threat and he wonders how many wars they’ve all been in. Seems like they’ve seen their fair share if they’re this relaxed. There are preparations being made, of course; walls are being fortified, projectiles are being stocked up on and Mousesack’s explosive arrows are being distributed. Everyone is tittering around the place, radiating nervous energy. And Jaskier is there, absorbing it all like a shitty little orange sponge. Triss eyes him for a moment before nodding and handing him a hot beverage.
“We’ll keep you safe, Jaskier.” She smiles and he can do nothing but nod.
“Thank you.” He chuckles and takes a step back until Geralt is pressed against him, a comforting presence. “I’m not asking you to promise me anything just that – that you get Ciri to Cintra preferably in one piece. She – she takes priority any day.”
“Julian,” Geralt grunts in distress and he huffs in amusement.
“I’ll be fine, Geralt.” He turns around to meet the wolf’s eyes and sucks in a sharp breath at the sheer amount of worry in them. “Hey,” He reaches up and pats the wolf’s cheek. “We’re in this together, mate, yeah? No sense in worrying now.”
Geralt looks like he’s going to say something profound and intense but the sound of a horn pierces the steady murmur of the pre-battle atmosphere, causing everyone to erupt into an uproar of panic.
“Shit!” Triss yelps. “They’re here already!” Dropping her plate, she books it towards the wall – moving impressively fast for someone in heels and a dress.
“Showtime,” He sucks in some more air and joins the exodus of foot soldiers moving out of the courtyard before Geralt can do something stupid like try and stop him. Renfri joins his side shortly, though, and he smiles when she pats his back.
The clinking of armour merges with the sound of horses and weapons and – well, queen Pavetta certainly sent more than a singular squad. Sprawled all over the clearing in front of the fortress’ gates was a decently sized army – at least what Jaskier assumes is a decently sized army; it’s not like he’s ever seen one in real life before to have some point of reference for it. He keeps moving even though he wants to do nothing more than backtrack. He can’t stop either, there are as many people marching behind him as there are in front of him and there are… there are portals opening all over in front of him, some 500 meters away that remind him of a movie he'd seen once.
Both forces come to a halt and the king steps out of the line of his soldiers. He’s a tall man with dark hair cropped close to his head at the sides and peppered with grey; he stands ramrod-straight and proud in his dark armour, head held high and a golden crown decorating it. Next to him on the right is a dark-skinned woman with a mean look in her eyes and a charcoal robe covering her frame; looking for all intents and purposes like she’s ready to murder them all. On the king’s left is a lanky knight with a bow and a quiver on his back, he looks faintly ill but stands still as a statue – a possible problem.
“Emhyr, what an unpleasant not-surprise.” Tissaia takes a step out of the line-up and is quickly followed by a man he doesn’t recognize and Mousesack with his beard trimmed and hair slicked back – the man look like he actually put in the effort to look good for this wretched event, the bastard.
“Give me back the child and we can pretend none of this ever happened.” The king bellows, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword in a threatening manner.
“That would be a waste of preparations,” Mousesack calls back, his grin visible even back from where Jaskier is standing – way, way back where he’s standing.
“You are not going to win this. Lives will be wasted. You can prevent this... if you just hand over the girl.” The king asks again and, really, the way that the man speaks is as graceful as the man’s aging figure, it's no wonder he's captured the loyalty of every man in his army. The king seems composed and poised but – Jaskier isn’t fooled. The angry tilt to his impressive eyebrows is a dead giveaway that he is about to snap like a twig if someone denies him again what he thinks is his.
“He’s quite the charmer, huh?” He asks Geralt as the wolf shoulders his way into standing next to him.
“Filthy warmonger,” Renfri spits on the ground and Jaskier winces as the glob of snot lands near his foot.
“Never mind,” He moulds himself to Geralt’s side as the wind picks up, it’s a chilly morning filled with fog and animosity.
“We’re not giving you anything, Emhyr. This war ends today.” Tissaia’s voice is like cold steel, powerful and solid, unyeilding.
“So be it.” Emhyr raises an arm and when he lowers it, another war horn sounds and the battle cries of both sides as soldiers rush each other fill the air.
“We need to get closer to the king!” Geralt shouts and pushes him behind his bulk. “Stay near and get your sword out.”
It’s frantic, trying to get through an active battlefield. It’s loud and chaotic, there’s blood spraying everywhere and arrows trying to find their next victim hurtling through the air. He feels the adrenaline inside him mixing with the fear and terror of what his eyes are seeing. Death everywhere, screams of anguish and pain all around him. It shakes him to his core but he can’t stop now. Geralt is tearing through the enemy forces with a single-mined purpose, followed closely by Renfri's figure that weaves between the soldiers with an unnatural amount of grace, slashing and slicing. And Jaskier – all that he can do is hold his sword in his hand and hope that no-one tries to attack him outright.
He sidesteps a sword being swung in his direction and winces as it imbeds itself into another man’s leg.
“Sorry!” He yells over his shoulder as Geralt tugs him back into a steady jog. His muscles ache as he keeps moving but there is no time to stop. There are people dying all around him and he can’t even stop to process of he’ll break down. He feels it building inside of his chest but there is simply no time. There always seems to not be enough time and it’s such a switch-up from where he was before, in the mansion, with time to waste, that it’s giving him a headache just thinking about it.
Someone manages to tackle Geralt to the ground and Renfri rushes to help the wolf out. This, unfortunately, leaves Jaskier open and standing between two enemies that are brandishing swords at him as balls of fire soar through the sky like meteors. An arrow hits the man to his right, imbedding itself in the man’s chest and then promptly exploding the soldier’s upper half. Jaskier and his other opponent both scream in horror at the onslaught of gore. He stands stock-still and gags as the enemy runs away in the other direction. His knees shake as he drags his eyes away from the gruesome sight and focuses on his primary mission. He still has to kill the king.
Another solider comes flying his way, a yell bellowing out of his mouth and Jaskier blocks his sword swing with his own weapon easily. The man seems tired and Jaskier isn’t keen on stabbing anyone else so he pushes the man back, advancing with short and powerful strikes like Geralt had shown him until the man trips over a corpse and falls back on his arse. He knocks the butt of his sword onto the man’s helmet, disorienting him as he gets away.
He’s lost sight of Geralt at this point and he realizes that not many of the soldiers on their side have made it this far into the opposing side’s territory. He’s only one of the dozen or so others that are engaged in duels scattered about this far in. With the corner of his eye he sees Triss and Tissaia, along with another sorceress he doesn’t know, surrounding Fringilla. The woman seems frantic as she realizes that she’s being outnumbered and Jaskier knows then, in his gut, that there’s something coming.
An arrow buzzes past him, sent off by the knight standing still at the king’s side. It hits a man behind him and the king’s right hand man seems puzzled as to how the arrow had missed Jaskier in his entirety.
Magic-enhanced arrows, he thinks as relief rushes through him. He would have certainly been a goner were it not for his weird immunity thing. He hears his next attacker coming before he sees him so he’s able to throw himself to the side as the man tries to swing at him. He recovers quickly, wincing as pain laces through his battered sides. He trades blows with the sweaty man who’s already bleeding sluggishly from a wound on his head. He kicks out as the man rears back for another clumsy, two-handed swing and catches the man’s knee, sending him toppling. He’s exhausted, he doesn’t know if he can reach the king but he keeps going. His opponent, seemingly, doesn’t have the same mentality and remains defeated on the ground.
He looks up and meets the dark eyes of the man of the hour and he swears the king knows exactly what is coming. Because the man sheds his useless cloak and unsheathes his sword, ready to join the fight and heading straight towards Jaskier with obvious intent. Jaskier is panting but the king’s gait is strong and relaxed, like he’s taking a leisurely stroll through a garden rather than a bloodbath. Jaskier hates him on sight.
“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised you two had escaped my son’s watch.” The king’s mouth flattens out into a disapproving line and Jaskier scoffs.
“I can’t say that Toddy presented much of an obstacle, no.” He bares his teeth at the king, putting his sword back in its sheath and pulling out the twin daggers – this needs to be a fight up close and personal.
The king’s frown deepens, his eyebrows lowering in distaste. “That is not that surprising either.”
“You know, maybe if you treated your kid better, you’d incentivise him to try harder and be better.” God, there goes his stupid fucking mouth again. “Really, I mean. I know I’m no child psychologist and that behavioural psychology hasn’t been invented here yet, but like, the positive-negative feedback thing? Totally works. Maybe you can even pull a Pavlov Dog on him and train him to, like, respond smarter to certain sounds or whatever-”
“That is enough.” The king barks, “I know not what you speak of, foreigner, but I will have no word of it any longer!”
“Whoa, that’s a little right-wing of you, mate.” He chuckles uneasily, trying to cover up the fear that’s made a home for itself in his gut.
Now or never, Jules, his brother’s voice rings inside his mind and he’s violently thrown back to when they were ten and practicing stabbing. His brother had had height on him at the time, was three years older, too, but Jaskier had still been deluded into thinking that what they were doing was right back then and Valentin wasn’t even remotely ready for the fury of his younger brother. He remembers how it felt to sink his knife into his brother’s arm and how the older boy had howled in pain. He remembers thinking then that he’d never want to do that again to anyone. And yet here he is now, tasked with killing a king. He’s going to have to do a lot more than stab if he is to defeat the king.
“Hey, quick question,” He raises his daggers in a battle stance. “What happens when other, bigger invading forces come for your sorry arse? You do know that your precious Continent is, like, a speck in the grand scale of things, right? Things might be different here, but yonder mountains there’s whole other civilizations out there.” He grins as the king’s eye twitches in irritation.
“Jaskier.” Geralt’s warning growl reaches him and he feels a sense of calm wash over him at the irritation and exasperation in the wolf’s voice.
“What? I was just asking!” He centres himself as the king eyes him warily.
“No one is making it over the mountains, boy.” The king raises his sword and Jaskier has a spare second to exhale a laugh and a ‘that’s what they said about the Alps’ before the king is hurtling towards him with a powerful strike.
“Fuck!” He shouts as the force of the strike that he’s just blocked travels down his arms and makes his spine tingle. He may be immune to magic but he’s certainly not immune to brute force. He recovers quickly, though, the enhanced healing aspect of the whole shebang helping him along.
Blow after blow, all he can do is block. He tries to look for an opening but the king’s guard is seemingly always up. He’s sweating profusely and it’s dripping down the side of his face, making his shirt stick to his back. His arms struggle under the force of the blows and his thighs burn from the strain. He is most definitely not in shape for this.
“You might as well quit now, boy, there is no winning for you.” The king grins savagely, his teeth stained red from the elbow Jaskier had managed to land.
“We’ll see about that.” He hisses, rolling his shoulders and preparing for another round of attacks.
“Very well, then.” The king straightens up, runs a hand through his hair and waves an arm towards where Fringilla is still, somehow, fighting off the sorceresses trying to detain her.
She looks over to them and nods at the king. And then – in a flash of light and a gust of thick smoke, she’s gone. Triss screams something and Tissaia envelops them in a protective shield of some sort as the black smoke begins spreading across the battlefield but it’s no use, the shield doesn’t hold against the dark magiks involved.
Jaskier watches as Cintra’s forces start dropping like flies, being choked by the thick fog. It enters their lungs and the tides turn so fast that his heart starts hurting. Geralt growls as he goes down somewhere behind him and there’s a piercing scream that makes the blood in his veins freeze. He turns around slowly, afraid of what he’ll find.
Sure enough, a little red blot is running down the hill from the keep rapidly. Moving through the smoke that is slowly killing their soldiers.
“NO!” Geralt screams back and Jaskier sees the crackling of energy around Ciri before everything goes to shit.
He throws himself at the wolf to stop him from rushing towards the panicked child and Geralt struggles as Cirilla continues running towards him. The wolf is weak, he trembles in Jaskier’s arms as the smoke climbs his body and starts dragging him under.
“No, no, no, no.” He whispers frantically as the wolf’s eyes cloud over.
“Finish – it.” The wolf chokes out and Jaskier’s scream is accompanied by the one that Cirilla releases once she’s close enough to see what’s going on.
Her scream doesn’t stop when Jaskier’s does, though. No, she continues screaming and the screaming only grows louder and higher in frequency. The air around her ripples increasingly and the win picks up until Jaskier is barely standing on his two feet. She’s not supposed to be here – she was supposed to be in Cintra already, she was supposed to-
“Cirilla!” The king shouts, “Stop this foolishness and come home!”
And that, well, that was the wrong thing to say.
Cirilla’s eyes flash pure white and she spreads her arms, the red cloak she’s wearing rippling around her. Her mouth is open but there’s no sound coming out of it now. People, objects, enemies start floating in her vicinity and Jaskier clings to Geralt’s form, trying to stop him from floating up with the rest. The king stands still, protected, but the black smoke lifts a well, lingering in the air and trying to reform.
Cirilla’s mouth snaps shut and the moment her teeth clack together, a shockwave sends all of the floating weaponry and soldiers flying. The wave spreads, clearing the smoke completely and knocking all of the king’s soldiers off their feet in one fell swoop. The shockwave leaves trees uprooted, ground overturned, cracked and scorched but the king remains standing, protected. But so does Jaskier.
The moment that the king starts heading towards Cirilla, Julian acts. He grabs his discarded daggers and rushes at the king. He tackles the man and feels the piercing pain lace through his abdomen only for a moment before he’s screaming and stabbing both of the daggers into the man’s chest with vigor he didn't know he possessed.
“Fuck you!!” He wails, tearing his throat raw as the king stares up at him in horror.
He pulls one of the daggers out, a trail of blood following the motion in an arc, and stabs it through the other’s neck. He watches, impassively, as blood gushes out of the open wounds, dirtying his hands, staining them red again.
“H-how?” The king gurgles, choking on his own blood as it seeps out of his mouth.
“Di–diplomatic immunity.” He chuckles and then coughs, splattering blood down onto the king’s face. Oh, no.
“Jaskier!” Cirilla shrieks and he stands up automatically, only then is he made aware of the fact that he’s been impaled because the blade slips free and out of his body. His hands clutch at the wound where the king’s sword had run him through, it’s bleeding steadily and profusely.
“No! No, Jaskier!” Cirilla meets him halfway to where Geralt is slowly coming to, eyes wide and filled with fear.
“It’s over, princess, you – you can go home now.” He smiles, dropping down to his knees as she cups his hands with her own. Her eyes glow again but nothing happens.
“I – I can’t heal you, the magic – it’s not responding.” She babbles, tears streaming down her face as he feels the cold seeping into his bones, one terrifying wave after another. This is it, this is how he dies. This is what his life had been leading to, death in a fantasy land at the hands of an evil king. He – he doesn’t regret it. He doesn’t regret anything and he knows this now. He feels bad about being mean to Nate and about his relationship with his brother but he doesn’t regret it. He'd change it if he could, though, he'd do some things a little differently, he'd apologize to a few people.
“This is the end of the road for me, little Dove.” He grins shakily as the edges of his vision grow darker, thankfully, there is no pain anymore.
“Jaskier,” Geralt croaks, sounding wrecked as he wraps an arm around his middle to keep him steady. “Jaskier, you…”
“I did what I had to, love. Don’t – don’t worry about me.” He coughs again, feeling weaker by the second. “It’s been a pleasure fighting with you both. I’m – I’m glad I met you.” He cups Geralt’s cheek and kisses Cirilla’s forehead for the last time.
“Jaskier, no!!” Ciri screams and Jaskier’s world goes dark again.
He gasps, springing up with a sharp inhale that sends him into a coughing fit, throat dry. His eyes are clamped shut and his heart is beating wildly in his chest as he tries to gather his wits about him. He can’t – he can’t open his eyes, his limbs are paralyzed. There is noise buzzing inside his head and his body is pulsating where he sits.
He tries to calm himself down, he counts backwards from a hundred by sevens until he can feel the fabric underneath his hands, until it's tangible again. It’s soft but worn, familiar.
He opens his eyes and sobs. He – he’s back in the mansion. He’s in his own bed, staring out the dirty window into the forest behind the house. He’s faintly aware that he’s crying, that there are tears streaming down his face, but he does nothing to clean up.
Was it all a dream?
He looks down at his hands and, for a second, he sees red. He sees thick blood, his own, the king's, the guard's. Warm and sticky and turning black on his fingertips. But it’s gone as soon as he blinks the next moment. There’s a hollow ache in his chest that grabs his attention, that distracts him from the terrifying thought that he may have just been stabbed through with a sword. That he might have just actually died. Worse yet, that it might have all been a useless, surrealistic dream.
Getting up on shaky legs, he goes to the next room and finds no proof that Ciri had ever stayed there. None of the dresses she wore, none of the shirts she’d cut up to fit her, there’s nothing in the closet and the bed is stripped bare. The noise of TV static in his mind grows louder until it crests and then falls silent as he finds no signs of Geralt there either.
There’s a ringing coming from downstairs and he pads over to the staircase, barefoot and in his flannels like nothing’s wrong, like his legs aren't shaking and his knees aren't threatening to buckle under his weight. The clocks on the walls say that it’s 4 a.m. and he scrubs a hand over his face, frowning at the stubble gathered on his jaw.
He finds his phone dropped under the ugly divan in the sitting room and frowns at the incoming call.
“Nate?” He clears his throat forcefully when he finds himself parched and moves towards the kitchen.
“Oh, thank God! What the hell, Julian?! I’ve been trying to reach you for three days!” Nate’s voice comes through loud and clear, and Jaskier winces at the tone. Three entire days?
“Shit, sorry, I lost my phone. It was in the, um, greenhouse. I was having a smoke out there just now and finally heard it.” He lies because he can’t explain the three-day absence, can he? There’s no possible way that he’s been gone for three days only – it had been weeks. Because, surely, this means that he had been gone and that his time with Ciri and Geralt (God, Geralt!) had been real. That it hadn’t been a dream or an elaborate, sleep-deprivation induced coma. He hopes.
“Jesus, Julian,” Nate breathes out heavily. “Valentin refused to talk to me about what happened at the house and he’s been holed up in his apartment ever since, and I just – I was worried. I was so worried.”
“Shit, Nate, I’m sorry.” He leans up against the kitchen island heavily then peers down. There’s still a dent in the side, the wood still cracked where Geralt had barrelled into it that first night. It’s real. It has to be.
“Just… what happened?” Nate pleads and Jaskier wonders how much sleep he’d lost trying to reach him. “I tried going to the mansion but the road’s blocked. We’re waiting for the emergency services to send someone to clear the uprooted trees from the path.”
“We got into a fight,” He responds honestly. “It got physical and I almost fell over the banister.” Talking about it seems so mundane now, after everything, even though he’d been livid back then. Spending days on the run, in danger, getting stabbed and killing a man puts things into perspective or so it would seem.
Nate sucks in a sharp breath. “Julian.”
“It’s fine, no harm done, yeah?” He reassures the other, finally moving towards the sink to get himself a glass of water. “You’re in the night shift, right?”
“What? Oh. I – I didn’t realize it was this early. Are you alright? Why are you awake?” Nate’s tone turns concerned again and Jaskier sighs. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be okay again but he can’t exactly say that.
“Yeah, had a weird dream so I woke up. Don’t worry about it.” He eyes the glass of water. “Listen, I’ll talk to you at a decent hour, the phone’s about to die.”
“Yeah, alright. Go to sleep and call me when you’re rested. Night.”
“Night, Nate.” He hangs up and downs the glass of water. Nate didn’t say anything about Cirilla. He didn’t mention her at all. It was almost like he didn’t even know about her. Like she didn’t exist.
He washes out the glass and puts it on the drying rack. Real or not, it matters very little. What he’d been through, what he realized and what Geralt and the rest had taught him, that’s what matters – that’s what’s real. He should – he needs to talk to Valentin. He needs to make things right and he’s not going to do that by sitting on his arse and avoiding responsibilities.
There is much to be done.
Alone again in the mansion, Jaskier gives in to the urge to drink himself stupid for two days before he grows tired of that, too. Then he sits at the piano and plays until his fingers cramp and his arms hurt enough for him not to be able to lift them for a while. Living alone in the big house hurts so much more this time around. There is no quiet patter of feet or claws against hardwood floors, there is no piano music drifting through the house unless he’s the one playing it. There is no sound of pages being turned and the quiet murmur of Cirilla’s voice as she reads out loud.
It’s horribly depressing and Jaskier hates it all over again.
Then, the Count dies before Jaskier has the time to speak with Valentin who seems to be avoiding everyone and not just him.
Nate comes for him four days after he’d woken up from his death and left everything that he’s come to love and cherish behind. The quiet rumble of his car alerts Jaskier to his presence and he waits in the dusty foyer for the man to make his way into the house.
The moment he sees the pity in the other’s eyes as he opens the door, he knows what this is about.
“He’s dead.” Jaskier states, briefly wondering if this correlates to his murder of king Emhyr.
“I’m sorry,” Nate takes off his hat and scrunches it between his hands.
“Why?” He tilts his head, perplexed. “He was a bad man. He was sick. He’s threatened you on multiple occasions. He’s mistreated his people and his family, your family as well. There’s nothing to be sorry for, he was a piece of shit.”
“Jaskier,” Nate’s eyes widen. “Jaskier, he was your father.”
“Yes and that is a fact that I am immensely sorry for.” He waves the other to follow him and leads them through the gallery and into the piano room. He spares a glance to the big portrait of Queen Calanthe, ignoring the way it makes him feel hollow-er than usual, as they pass. He sits and starts playing, a sombre tone to occupy his hands while Nate speaks to him about whatever it is that he’s come here to speak to him about.
“What happened?” Nate asks again and Jaskier smiles.
“Let’s just say that I’ve had some time to think about things. That last encounter with Val really opened up my eyes to certain aspects of life I was willfully ignorant about until now.” He hums, frowning as the pedal sticks – he’ll have to fix that later.
“Will you talk to him?” Nate’s puppy eyes were always impressive but there is no need for them now.
“Yes,” He agrees easily. “I’ll even come to the funeral. But, only to catch him there. He’s refusing to answer my calls.”
“Yeah, Marina says he’s kicked her out of the apartment. He’s not letting anyone in.” Nate looks away from Jaskier and there’s such pain in his expression that Jaskier’s resolve almost cracks. Almost.
“Now that’s just rude. To keep the wife away? An overreaction.” He sighs. “We exchanged strong words, yes, but – nothing that should cause this sort of behaviour.” No, what caused it is probably the fact that he’d almost killed Julian and then taken it too lightly. Jaskier is still angry about it, yes, but it’s one of his lesser worries at the moment.
“Julian – you’re… something’s wrong.” Nate crosses his arms over his chest and Jaskier misses the next note of the sonata.
His fingers clang against the ivory keys and the notes ring out through the empty room. “Yes. I suppose there is. I just – I can’t explain it, Nate, not without sounding completely batshit insane, mate.”
“You seem… stable, solidified, in a way you weren’t before. More serious.”
“Oh, trust me, I’m as unstable as ever. I’ve just had my eyes opened, like I said. It’s fine, don’t worry about it. Everything will be fine.” He smiles faintly, not managing to muster up the strength to give a full grin.
Nate looks at him for a couple of moments in silence before nodding. “The funeral is in two days. I’ll come get you then.”
The funeral is a solemn, dignified affair, and yet nobody cries. The widow, their stepmother Ana, throws the first fistful of dirt as the archpriest reads the eulogy someone official enough had written. The members of the Count’s council, those that are still alive and able to stand, are gathered on one side, watching the proceedings with contempt in their eyes.
He himself, Nate and cousin Yara stand by the newly-minted gravestone. It’s a tacky thing, the gravestone; adorned with the Count’s picture, framed in a round, golden, gilded frame situated the middle of the marble monstrosity, it looks mildly horrendous. There’s a spot free in the grave next to the Count’s shiny coffin where his wife will be laid to rest when she dies.
Here lies Anatol Pankratz II, the Count.
He grazes the golden lettering with a critical eye, annoyed at the distasteful display of wealth in a country that’s falling apart.
His brother is there, too. He’s hiding in the back, standing under a tree nearby, draped in black from head to toe and doing an admirable job of looking like the grim reaper. His wife isn’t with him, though. Marina’s probably back home in Serbia by now, telling her family that the Count has passed and that the empire will be left suspended until the heirs can take over.
The funeral is pathetic, in his actual opinion. It’s all a sham. Every one of these men who were on the Count’s council had tried to kill him at least once. His new wife hates him, too; she’s happy with the money she’d been left – Julian can see her hiding a smile – but she’s also a potential threat to the inheritance. He can’t blame her, he’s just not looking forward to what comes next. (The fact that he and Valentin will have to decide whether she gets to live long enough to spend it or not).
He rubs the sleeve of his shirt over his face to wipe away the sweat. It’s still warm outside and the fact that it’s three in the afternoon isn’t helping.
“Jesus, he couldn’t have died in a month or so? This is unbearable.” He murmurs, only loud enough for Nate and Yara to hear. Yara chokes back a snicker and Nathaniel glares at him mightily. There’s nothing left to say as the archpriest finishes his speech so he turns to where Valentin is standing, observing his brother.
“I’m surprised you’re even here.” Yara notes, “Heard about London.”
“Yes, well, there are so very few freedoms we're allowed when it comes to this family.” He sighs, checking his phone to see how much time had passed. “It’s also the only time I’ll be able to catch Val.”
“He’s being difficult,” She frowns, green eyes trained on the lone figure by the tree as well.
“Yes.” He pockets his phone and pulls out the pack of smokes instead. Walking towards his brother, he lights one up.
“You’re not crying,” He says, smiling around the cigarette as Valentin rolls his eyes.
“Nobody is,” The older responds and Julian thinks about how he must be boiling under his stupid black suit jacket.
“No, they’re not. They’re bloody happy.” He offers the cigarette to the other and Valentin takes it, inhaling the smoke gratefully. His hands are shaking, Julian notes. “As they should be. I am. Aren’t you?”
“Julian,” The other warns and he snorts.
“We need to talk.” He turns to face the other fully. “I’ve thought about a lot of things over the past few days. I have… ideas, let’s say.”
“Ideas?” Valentin raises an eyebrow, arms crossed over his chest now, rightfully suspicious.
“Yes, ideas.” He looks around to see the graveyard workers shovelling dirt into the hole and filling the grave back up. In a couple of days, a black marble frame will be placed around the plot and covered with two heavy slabs, sealing the Count off forever. “We’ll talk more after the reading of the will.” He nods to his brother and tosses him the pack of smokes, he definitely looks like he needs them more than Jaskier does.
“That’s the most civil I’ve seen you two being in a while.” Yara joins him on his trek to Nate’s car.
“Yes, well. You’ve been gone for quite some time.” He smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “And so have I.”
“In the event of my death, should it be violent, my empire and all that it entails, sans the house and the part that will be left to my wife regardless of the circumstances of my death, will fall into the hands of the council and shall remain there until the heirs have ascended to their rightful place.” The lawyer drones on. It’s been half an hour already and the late Count’s office they’re in has no AC, it’s getting stuffy.
“In the events of my death, should it be of disease or old age, my empire and all that it entails, sans the house and the part that will be left to my wife regardless of the circumstances of my death, will be inherited by my sons.” The lawman frowns down at the paper and then looks up at them.
He and Val are the ones seated because there are only two leather chairs in the room, in front of the mahogany desk. Valentin looks like he’s caving in on himself and Julian is doing his best to sprawl as inelegantly in the chair as possible – contemplating putting his feet up on dear old dad’s favourite stack of books that he always kept by the desk. The council is eyeing them all warily because, really, it’s a change of pace and the old bastards live for drama.
“Yes?” Yara asks, waving a hand for the man to continue.
“You shall proceed thusly only, and only if, both Julian Alfred Pankratz and Valentin Jakub Pankratz accept their birthright and choose their third in one of their cousins to make the trusted triad.” The man finishes and puts the papers down, taking off his glasses to wipe them with his tie.
“Well, there goes that.” Valentin mutters, hands fidgeting with his cufflinks as Yara shifts in the background.
“So, if the gentlemen and their trusted third would sign these papers right here, the assets shall be handed over and distributed as prescribed.” The lawyer pushes some of the papers towards them and places a silver pen on top, assuming the third has already been chosen.
“Guess we’re done here,” Valentin pushes himself up and out of the chair but Julian’s not done yet.
“Yara,” He turns to look at the redhead. “Would you accept if we asked you to be the trusted third?”
She gapes at him, mouth open and eyes wide in surprise.
The rule of the three is a particular rule that has kept the family’s empire stable for many generations. Despite what Nate thought he knew, there was a reason that the Count had two sons that wasn’t just the magnitude of the inheritance being too difficult to handle on one's own. It was tradition as much as the triad was.
Have two brothers rule and they’ll be at each other’s throats in a matter of months with this much power involved. But, add a third and the power gets distributed into three parts instead of two who can oppose each other. The third is the one chosen to mediate, to be the link between the two immediate heirs and the council. Anatol and his brother Eryk, Yara’s father, had lead the empire with their uncle’s son, Dawid. Uncle Eryk had died three or so years ago and Dawid had died five years before that. There were no replacements because they were so old already and Anatol, his dear father, knew his time was limited. He’d focused on training Valentin to his best abilities and only managed to give the guy grey hairs instead.
To be asked into the trusted triad was the highest of honours in their family. It is a position of trust, reserved only for those of the best judgement and rationale. It is not something you just spring on someone.
Yara switches to Spanish. “What are you planning?”
“Do you trust me?” He grins at her, trying to project confidence and she sighs.
“Yes. Alright, I’ll do it.” She reaches between the two of them and signs her name in the allotted spot. Julian signs his own up top and then turns to Val.
“Well? Are you going to do it or not?” He implores expectantly and now it’s Valentin that’s looking at him like he’s lost his fucking mind.
Last time anyone gave him that particular look, he’d been introducing Ciri to the concept of brushing one’s teeth every morning and night and – no. He tries not to grimace as his innards seem to pulsate with a wave of pain at the thought of Ciri and Geralt. It catches him off guard how much he misses them all the time. How much he longs to see her bright eyes and hear Geralt's moody grunts.
“You-” Valentin starts but snaps his mouth shut. “Alright,” He takes the pen from Julian’s hand and signs the papers.
“Well, if that is all.” The lawyer gathers the papers again and looks to the council. “You gentlemen are now formally dismissed. Your severance packages will be delivered by the end of the week. Goodbye.”
The former council members, 8 out of the original 12, shuffle out of the room in an orderly fashion and are quickly followed by the lawyer, leaving the three new leaders alone in the office.
“What the hell are you playing at, Julian?” Valentin demands as he gets up to go sit in the freshly vacated spinny chair, Yara taking the leather armchair in his stead. It’s ridiculously comfortable and he sways himself from side to side as he thinks about replying.
“You see, the system of the trusted three works because they all have a common goal. They all wish to see this empire succeed. They all want money and prosperity and power. Oh, the power!” He throws his hands up for dramatic effect. “And you’d told me that the trusted three that you’d have is you, me, and dear cousin Yara who’d lived much the same childhood as we had just – in a different place.”
“What’s your point?” Valentin slams his hands on the table, impatient. “I thought you hated this family? I thought you’d sell us out sooner than you’d admit you were a part of it?!”
“I wasn’t done speaking. Sit. Down.” He grinds out and he must look like he means it because his brother backs off immediately, much to their cousin's surprise.
“As I was saying, a common goal. Now, you see, you’d made a mistake. While you were away with dad whenever we visited uncle Eryk, I was with Yara, talking about how much we despise the cards we’d been dealt and how much we hated not being able to have a normal childhood.” He nods to her and she huffs out a small laugh, obviously remembering the countless hours spent lamenting and whining over how everything sucked and nothing is fair.
“So, you know. Our common goal was to see this whole empire fall while yours was to see it succeed. You’re outnumbered, Val, and you haven’t been paying attention.” He taps his fingers against the table as his brother stares at him in shock.
“If you tear this down I’ll-”
“You’ll what? Go to the police?” He scoffs. “You haven’t chosen your part of the council and neither have I. And we’ll keep it that way. I am not in the mood to have old men thinking they know better than me. Not anymore.”
“What the fuck happened to you?” Valentin asks, disbelief still clear on his face, the features getting more distorted the longer Jaskier speaks.
“Oh, you mean after you almost killed me?” He smiles pleasantly and Yara whips her head to the side with glare aimed at Valentin.
“I had a long, hard, think about what I value in life and what I can do with what I’ve been given. Some people don’t have a choice, but, also, some people turn that non-choice around and make it into something else entirely. And since you’ve given me no other choice but to rejoin this family if I want to remain alive, safe and free, I am turning this choice around.” He spins the chair until he has his hands in one of the filing cabinet’s drawers, pulling out papers upon papers of important documents.
“You have no council that will stand behind you, Val.” He remarks as he looks over some of the more legit-looking deals and business proposals. “You’ve been so worried about being daddy’s perfect heir that you neglected to make friends. And friends, connections, are what make or break an organization like this, you know?”
“Julian, I’m begging you.” Valentin pleads sincerely for the first time in years and something inside Jaskier settles, finally satisfied.
He closes his eyes and breathes out steadily, a smile spreading across his face.
He thinks about Cirilla, how she’d had all of her choices taken away. He thinks about Geralt and how much he’d had to sacrifice just to survive. He thinks about Yennefer and Renfri, Mousesack and Vesemir, even Pavetta and Václav, and how much they have all lost. He thinks about how lucky he is to live in a world where he can actually do something about his own life. He’s been given an opportunity that none of them had been given. He can do something with the power he’s being gifted. There is no magic threatening his life, there is no impossible task he has to complete. All of this power has simply always been his just by the rights of his birth. And he’s finally doing something with it.
“We’re going legitimate.” He turns back around, posture a little more relaxed than moments ago. “We’re turning this into a legal business. There’ll be some corners cut and some loses felt but we’re not doing drugs, organs or exotic animals any longer. You want drugs? Pharmaceuticals. You want organs? Import-export with our big trucks. You want exotic animals? Go fucking – work at a zoo or something.”
Yara lets out a squeal, kicking her legs up in joy. “Jaskier! That’s a wonderful idea!”
“No more poaching, no more prostitution, no more – for fuck’s sake, Val, they’ve been trafficking firearms to gangs and domestic terrorists! And you stood by and watched! You enabled it! Do you want to raise your child like dad raised us? So that they know how to throw a knife and shoot a gun before they even know how to boil water?” He meets the older’s eyes and they’re wide and a little panicked. “You can’t want that for them. Even if you don’t love your wife, you want her to be safe? You want her to go back to her family and be happy, yes?”
“I – yes, of course. Father knew I did not wish to marry, but the corporation it would have tied us to…” Valentin closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Father always wanted things from people. We were never anything more than pawns to him. Uncle Eryk was no better and Dawid was even worse. I know what he did to mother, Val, grandma told me.”
Valentin sucks in a startled breath. “Julian.”
“I know he wanted another son so that the triad could be kept in his family only seeing as he was the firstborn. I know that she couldn’t – not after she had me. And that he chased her out of the country, kept her locked up in a house somewhere where nobody would know her shame. Same as he tried to do with me. I tried finding her but I never could.” He stops the sob from escaping his mouth and bites down on his bottom lip hard.
“Ana didn’t give him any kids either but by the time he’d married her, the problem was with him and, well, she’s a great deal younger than he was even then” Valentin nods, not trying to lessen the hurt because there’s no need.
“I used to resent you because you’d gotten more years to be with mum than I did. I still do. But resentment isn’t going to solve problems. What’s done is done, the damage nigh irreparable. And yet, we still live. We live to make decisions and do things and exist to move mountains or whatever.” He slumps into the chair, forcing his body to relax. "I used to resent you, but now I know that you've always been just as miserable as I was." The silence that follows is deafening almost.
“Are you going to fight me on this, Val, or are you going to help?” He asks again, not wanting to argue any longer.
He thinks about, remembers, Geralt and his strong arms and his kind eyes and gentle smile. He wants. He yearns. And he thinks about how he’ll never have anything like that ever again. But that’s alright, he can live with the knowledge that he’d killed the king and that Ciri is safe to go home now.
“Things are different now that he’s dead.” Yara starts, “The old guard has been honourably discharged and the new shift is young and spry and perky. If anybody is going to make a change, it’s going to be us.”
“You know it’s the right thing to do.” He adds hopefully, smiling as Valentin squirms in his seat because he knows that they have a point.
“Alright, fine! Jesus, stop giving me the puppy eyes, both of you.” Valentin cracks with a mighty, heaving sigh.
“Yes!” He yells, reaching over the desk to high-five Yara.
“It’s not going to be easy.” Valentin grumbles, standing up.
“No, but we’ll do it anyway. Because we’re turning our choices around. Into something good for everyone.” He stands as well, thinking about how he’ll go make them some food after they leave the office.
“You do know that if we do this, you’ll never be able to go back to being a singer.” Valentin’s eyes are sad this time, his tone remorseful and Jaskier - well.
“I know. I think – I think that it never was the right life for me. It was there more to prove to you all that I could make something of myself on my own. The media attention, the always having to be careful, it’s – degrading in a way. I was always told to be myself and not being able to share parts of me with the world made me someone else.” He admits reluctantly, wincing at the truth he’s always known was deep inside him.
“It’ll be difficult to withdraw just like that, sure, but – you know. It looks like I’ll be kept busy for quite some time starting tomorrow.” He grins and hopes it doesn’t come off as shaky as it feels.
He can always write songs at home. He can compose and he can play all the instruments he wants in the comfort of his own home but he can never take back a misspoken word, a rumour proven true or a secret leaked. This is safer, this is better.
“Come on, I’m starving. I’ll make us some food.” He offers, holding out an arm and opening the door to the office to usher them out.
“Holy shit, you can cook?” Yara quips and Jaskier nods with a grin.
Yeah, they’ll be alright.
It takes a while. It takes a long while, half a year to be precise, for them to get the company legalized and back on the right side of the law. It’s been hard work, it’s been battling law and overcoming obstacles he hadn’t even thought of before. It seemed impossible at times but he stuck by them through it all.
He didn’t go back to the mansion. Instead he’d stayed with Valentin and Yara at the Pankratz’s childhood home. It was yet another mansion filled with ghosts and memories that chip away at him silently in the night. At least at his woodland abode he could have remembered moments he'd spent there with Geralt and Ciri and been happy that he’d lived through them but here, in their old home, a house he’d so desperately run from, all he can do is walk through the rose garden when the memories become overwhelming.
Valentin and Yara can find him out there most days, no matter the weather, and Yara even calls meetings in the gazebo by the pond so that he wouldn’t have to feel stifled and suffocated inside their late father’s office. It’s a gesture kinder than anyone from his family has ever offered him. He sees the way Valentin caves in on himself every time he’d sincerely thank Yara for anything. And she’s – well, she’s very different than both of them. Her childhood was similar to theirs, yes, but she also had a kind and loving mother to put balm on her bruises and clean her wounds after.
She’s been good for distractions overall. Her mood is generally less glum than that of the two brothers so Jaskier tends to leech off her good cheer whenever he’s feeling down – whenever he feels like his body is going to try and run without his mind's consent. Because he is tempted, more often than not, to steal Valentin’s fancy Audi and just book it for the forest and the mansion he’s come to associate with Geralt and Ciri, and most importantly: home. He wants his stupid, ugly chairs back and he wants to actually plant something in the greenhouse and maybe get it fixed up proper. But he can’t go back on his word, not now when they’re so close.
He’s sitting in the gazebo again when Yara comes to find him.
“Tomorrow’s the big day. You nervous? Excited? Terrified?” She settles herself down on the table, handing him a cup of coffee.
He accepts the warm mug gratefully, “Oh, I am shitting my pants right now. I can’t believe we did this and that nobody’s tried to murder me yet.” He admits. He’s been twitchy for months now. After a miniscule coup in the beginning from a small group of higher-ranking goons that tried to overtake the power from them and steal from the treasury, that they’d had to stifle rather forcefully, there hasn't been any further attempts on their reformed organization.
“We’re almost home free with this. Tomorrow’s the final signing and then we’ll be fully legal. How do you want to celebrate?” She swings her legs back and forth as she sips at her own cup.
He sighs, looking up at the horizon and the clouds gathered there. It’s cold, the beginning of March, there’s still snow on the ground and the rosebushes are still very dead. He will be sad not to see this place in full bloom, he remembers it being beautiful.
“There’s gonna be rain. We haven’t had a thunderstorm in months.” Not since the last one, not since he’d been taken to the other world, he doesn't say. Because that – he’s still not entirely sure that had even happened.
“Yes, it’s surprising. Usually autumn is full of them here but last year there wasn’t a single one.” Yara tilts her head curiously. “So? A big party, a fancy dinner? Strippers and blackjack?”
“I think I’ll be going home.” He flips the mug onto the table next to Yara and stares at it for a moment before gathering it up again.
“I haven’t seen anyone do that since grandma,” She hums quietly. “Home where?”
He stares at the swirling shapes in the sediment on the sides of the white mug. There’s nothing too distinct there to really, truly, tell a story, and he’s not really good at it either (not like grandma was) but there is one shape he can make out and it causes his breath to hitch: a wolf’s profile, maw open in a howl at the crescent moon.
“The mansion in the forest. I think I’ve deserved a vacation.”
The papers get signed, Yara cuts the ribbon on their new office building and Julian slinks away before anyone can engage him in conversation.
That is, until Valentin tracks him down where he’s having a smoke outside.
“Leaving so soon?” Valentin holds out a hand and Julian passes him the cigarette.
“Nothing for me here. I’ve done all that I can and we – we’ve done what we set out to do. I’m going to the mansion for a little while and then I don’t know. Maybe I go back to London, pick up a few things before moving on to another city.” He watches as the cars pass and huddles further into his military green greatcoat. “I don’t know how to lead a company, Val, I know nothing about business.”
“So you’re – you’re just going to leave? After all this… you’re done?” The older looks apprehensive as he stares at him and really, Julian can’t blame the guy.
“It’s not for me, all of this.” He motions vaguely with his hand, indicating the whole of Poland. “I can never live free here. I can’t love who I want, I can’t dress the way I want. I can’t be who I am, Val, you know that.”
Sexuality has always been a sore topic for their family, especially when it came to him. Because he never wanted to hide that he was attracted to whoever he was attracted to – regardless of gender, race, ethnicity or religion. He never hid that part of himself and for a long while he had the privilege of being protected against threats due to his father being who he was. But he’d never been allowed to act on any attractions so it’d done him jack shit overall.
Where Valentin is concerned, however... well, he’s not entirely sure which way his brother is leaning because they’d never talked about it, but if he had to guess, he’d guess it was neither. However, Val was the one that had to carry on the bloodline as the firstborn, so his sexuality was never a question in the first place. It was an especially sore topic between them. Because it tied into the problem of free will and making one’s own decisions, because Jaskier had always been at peace with his own while Valentin had to press on without question.
“I know you still feel like you have an obligation to the family but - you don’t.” He takes the cigarette back and finishes it off, dropping the butt and grinding it out with the toe of his boot. “I belong out there, in the world. And if you wanted to, you could, too.”
Valentin nods, heaving a sigh. “Just… promise you won’t cut us off again? I hated having to listen to shitty talk shows and reading tabloids just to see what you were up to.”
His chest floods with warmth, a smile making it onto his face, genuine towards his brother for the first time in a long while. Despite everything they’ve been though and how distant they’ve become, Valentin still cared about him even when Jaskier’d made it a point to leave his family in the past. His brother was stupidly loyal even when Jaskier wanted none of that loyalty directed towards himself.
“Yeah, 'course I’ll keep in touch. I’ll text you as soon as I get a new phone. This one’s pretty shite” He pats his pocket and Valentin nods again, seemingly placated.
“See you before you leave the country?” The older asks and Jaskier pulls him into a hug.
“I’ll call you,” He promises and shoves the other away playfully. “Take care, Valerie.”
“Yeah, love you, too, Julianna.” Valentin smacks him on the shoulder then ambles away, his steps visibly lighter.
“That was oddly endearing,” Nate, who Jaskier knows has been standing around the corner waiting for him to finish his smoke for a while now, comments.
“Happy to see us bonding?” He tilts his head up to meet the other’s eyes, they look brighter, the crow’s feet around them not as prominent.
“You know I am,” Nate chuckles and motions to his car. “Come on, it’s freezing out and the wind’s picking up.”
“Smells like ozone,” He hums, letting himself be ushered into the warm interior.
A snowball splatters across the windshield, causing them to jump in surprise.
“Damn kids,” Nate mutters then freezes, one hand halfway on the wheel and the other already on the key. “Shit, Jaskier, what happened to that kid you were housing?!”
Something in his neck cracks as he whips around to stare at the other. “You – you mean Ciri?”
“Yeah, the one you found bleeding in your back yard. The one that tried to stab me.” Nate’s eyes are wild and frantic and Jaskier’s chest rattles with the sound of his heartbeat.
It was real – it was fucking real.
“She, um, found her way back home. No worries.” He clears his throat as Nate nods reluctantly.
“And you let her go?” The other asks and Jaskier smiles sardonically.
“She found her family, Nate, there was nothing I could do.” He’d done enough. He’d done a lot for her. He would have done so much more if only he’d had the time, if only he’d stayed. And he realizes that he would have stayed, yes, if he could have. He’d have stayed if she or Geralt or even Renfri asked. But that isn’t his world and so he didn’t belong there. He was expunged rather forcefully and he has a sinking feeling that he won’t be going back either.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” Nate starts the car. “I’m – I’m sorry. I know you cared about her a lot.”
“I do, I still do. But I can care about her and not have her here with me. A little distance between us doesn’t mean I’ll magically stop caring. And it hurts a little, but – such is life.”
“Profound and depressing.”
“Just… get me home, Nate.”
The winding path becomes bumpier the deeper into the estate’s forest that they go and Jaskier has to hang on for dear life once the pavement almost disappears completely, potholes becoming chunks of missing concrete. The trees only become sparse where they meet the cast-iron, rusted fence that borders a wide berth around the old mansion. The posts for the fence are made of crumbling brick and missing in some places entirely, but the main gate – that is entirely too large and ornate, tacky - still holds true and steady, no matter how much the wind whips at it. It’s a comforting sight.
He gets out of the car and pushes the gates open, relishing in the grating sound they make. The mansion’s been empty for half a year now, there’re weeds growing all around and vines climbing the corners, it somehow remains the same. It could have once been a beautiful summer home in the Old Country, but it is well past its prime now. And yet, he’s not complaining about the outdated-ness.
There is no luggage to haul out of the car this time around. There is nothing to be angry about either. He’s – nostalgic at best. He’ll get over it eventually, he knows, but for a few days more he’d like to wallow in the mansion.
“Christ, this place is still a fire hazard.” He runs a finger along the lone round table that sits there under the idle chandelier in the foyer and smiles when it comes away dusty. “Lovely.”
There large lawn out back, the set of fancy gates in the fence (one wing still uprooted), and beyond that a thick forest that doesn’t let much light through the canopy remain the same and it’s a comfort. It’s the sort of ominous that Julian’s grown up with – and grown used to. All these manors are the same but, to him, this one is just a tad bit more special. Just another half-empty house decaying and heeding laws of a time passed that now holds fond memories and a life that could have been.
“You sure you’ll be okay?” Nate asks, surveying the damaged bannister and the pieces of wood still littering the floor that he hadn’t bothered moving.
“Yeah, I’ll call you when I’m ready to leave, don’t worry.” He smiles and, ignoring the mess left there, he walks out the back door and into the cold day again.
He takes in lungful of air and lets out a little laugh. He hadn’t realized how different the air was here and in the city and how it was all so different to the other reality. He doesn’t miss the other world, not really.
It was confusing and violent and it had none of the comforts he was used to and none of the basic necessities (like indoor plumbing) that he needed on a daily basis. It was grimy and dirty and dangerous, and it wasn’t a world that he thought he could fit in because it simply wasn’t his world. But – but he missed the people. He misses his two people the most. Having grown used to Geralt’s presence being by his side over the past months – be it in wolf form or human form – he feels the other’s absence like a missing limb. And not to even get started on Cirilla and how much he misses her quiet gentleness and her bright and curious mind.
Going back inside, he gathers firewood from the crate by the door and lights a fire in the sitting room hearth. He then picks up one of the books still on the table in the library and dusting it off, he settles in for a quiet night.
Somewhere around the middle of Verne’s The Mysterious Island, he dozes of.
He wakes up with a start, dropping the book onto the ground and shivering despite the greatcoat he still has on. The fire’s gone out and it’s freezing in the mansion.
He realizes that what woke him up wasn’t the cold but the sound of thunder coming from outside. His entire body freezes as the room lights up with a flash of lightning. He stares out the window but there’s – there’s no good view of the back yard from where he's at. Quickly and quietly, he shuffles over to the kitchen from where the forest is the most visible.
He sucks in a sharp breath and squashes down the disappointment he feels when his eyes meet nothing but the dark, midnight sky and the glinting of the greenhouse. The feeling spreads through his body and he does what he’s always done when his frustrations got the better of him – he finds a piano and plays. He plays until the heavy notes are louder than the rain and the storm and the screams he wants to release. He plays until his fingers hurt, until his joints ache and there’s a phantom pain stabbing through his gut. He plays until the sound of grinding, rusted, metal snaps him out of his daze.
“Fuck,” He mutters to himself, pressing his face against the window. He still can’t see much but there is something flickering in the dark between the trees.
His heart starts beating double-time as the rain continues to pour. His mind flashes back to the time he’d found Ciri standing out there and then to the next time when Geralt’s big wolf form had come barrelling through the gates.
Another flash of lightning but this time the sky doesn’t go back to black. Instead, everything stays perfectly lit like it’s not the middle of the night. He gapes, slowly moving towards the door of the piano room and then running through the gallery once he realizes that something’s definitely happening that shouldn’t be happening. He bursts out the kitchen door and into the cold night air only to realize that the rain’s stopped falling. It’s almost like the whole mansion has been enveloped into a protective bubble.
The remaining wing of the rusted gate is wrenched open with a powerful swoosh of something and it flies sideways and out of sight. The sound of a horn – a sound that is entirely too similar to the war horn he’d heard at Sodden – pierces the air and Jaskier’s knees almost give out.
Slowly, figures start emerging from the thick forest one by one.
There’s a petit one, clad in white, that’s running towards him and before he can even comprehend what’s really happening, he’s running towards the gates.
“Jaskier!” The familiar voice cries out and Jaskier is almost taken off his feet by the impact of Ciri slamming into his arms.
He picks her up and spins her around, choking back a relieved sob. “Oh, little Dove, you're really here!”
“Jaskier,” She whispers, tightening her arms around him as he comes to a stop.
“Ciri,” He chuckles as she refuses to let him go. He places a kiss on top of her head and lifts his eyes to see a pretty big entourage that had escorted her here – including Geralt and Renfri and, surprisingly, Yennefer. His stomach clenches as Geralt steps out of the line-up, an almost broken look on his face.
The wolf approaches slowly, hands outstretched as if he’s afraid to touch but he can’t think of doing anything else. So he reaches out as well and lets Geralt join their hug. He feels the other’s arms wrap around him and grip the back of his coat.
“Hello, darling.” He laughs, a wet and messy sound because he’s crying. Tears stream down his face as Geralt noses under his chin sweetly.
“Jaskier,” Geralt grinds out much like Ciri did, tortured and tugging on his heart strings.
“The one and only. I have to admit, you two – you’re a sight for sore eyes.” He breathes out and feels like he can finally do so with the whole entirety of his lungs for the first time since he’d died in the other world.
“Jaskier – we were so worried. You – he stabbed you! And then you just – disappeared!!” She shudders against him, obviously shedding tears of her own if the quiet sobbing he can hear is anything to go by.
“I’m fine, I’m alright. I – what are you doing here, love?” His cheeks ache from how hard he’s smiling, the widest in months.
“We – we didn’t know…” She trails off, looking back at the entourage and at the pale-haired woman standing there.
“Ciri,” Geralt pulls back with a start, almost self-consciously. “Do you want to introduce him?”
“Yes, I’d very much like that. We’ll explain everything later.” She smiles up at him blindingly and Jaskier feels his insides melt. She’s so very precious and Jaskier would die all over again for her to have the life that she deserves.
“Come,” Cirilla takes his hand and Geralt is forced to release him in order for her to usher him closer to the entourage. There are about twenty soldiers standing at attention behind where Yennefer and Renfri are. The younger wolf looks like she’s ready to jump out of her skin as he approaches but also like she’s holding herself back from jumping him and tackling him in a hug – something to look forward to later.
“Jaskier,” Ciri says when they come to a stop in front of the unfamiliar lady. “This is Queen Pavetta, my mother.”
“Oh,” He straightens up, unsure of how to act and decides that bowing would be the most appropriate action. “Pleasure to meet you, Your Majesty.”
“Jaskier,” Her voice is pleasant as she says his name. “It’s so good to finally meet you. I’ve heard much about you and, of course, all that you’ve done for my daughter and my kingdom. I can’t thank you enough.”
“Oh, no worries. It was – well. I wouldn’t say that it was pleasant the whole way through but I would do it over again if it meant that the princess would be safe. It seemed like the right thing to do. So, no thanks necessary, I guess.” He chuckles, running a hand through his hair nervously. The Queen’s got the same piercing eyes as Ciri and Jaskier feels very uneasy with them settled on him so firmly.
“Were it not for you, things would not be as they are now. The kingdoms, they are on their way to recovery. It will be difficult to unlearn the behaviours of the past but we are working towards a peaceful coexistence.” She inclines her head in a nod and Jaskier sees the pointy ears peeking through her long hair.
“So, uh,” He clears his throat. “What brings you here, Your Highness?” He asks and hears Yennefer hold in a snort.
“We wanted to thank you for what you’ve done. I was devastated to find that you’d been – well, not exactly killed, no – in the battle of Sodden. I wanted to honour your memory but Yennefer had informed us, after some extensive locator spells, that you were still alive. So we wanted to bring you back and throw a feast in your honour, erect a statue in your likeness in Cintra.” The Queen sighs, her smile dimming as she runs a hand down the back of Ciri’s head gently.
“Unfortunately, it appears as though you cannot return to the other world. With your untimely death, your body and spirit were expelled from the world and if you are to return – you will most likely die permanently within moments.” She states calmly and Ciri gasps.
“Oh,” He staggers a little where he’s standing, bumping back into Geralt whose presence there is, as always, a great comfort. “Well, um. Yes, let’s – not do that, then.” He can never go back.
Which means – which means that this will be goodbye for who knows how long. And this, in turn, means that he’d been expecting to go back – even if subconsciously. He looks at Ciri then at Geralt, they’re sporting the same look of stubborn sadness – almost like they’d argued this moot point before.
“We decided then, that you shall be knighted here where we can all stay for a little while.” Pavetta waves her hand and the soldiers form two lines, a couple of them unrolling a red carpet as they go. Yennefer wiggles her fingers and transforms a piece of something in her hand into a throne.
“Oh – oh, I should… change? Should I change? I feel like I’m underdressed. Geralt? Do I need armour or something?” He turns in the wolf’s arms and the taller just snorts.
“You’re perfectly fine in what you’re wearing.” Geralt flicks one of the epaulets of the double-breasted greatcoat.
“Just fine?” He teases, batting his eyelashes at the other and Geralt immediately does that weird thing again where his stare grows intense. It has always made Jaskier want to squirm.
“Perfect,” Geralt says with more reverence than Jaskier had expected and it makes his cheeks heat.
He clears his throat and makes the mistake of glancing to the side where Yennefer and Renfri are giving the two of them looks of something that Jaskier refuses to call implicative. Yennefer winks at him and he forces his eyes away from the two of them, ignoring the steadily rising temperature inside his body that is responding to Geralt’s proximity like it needs that very heat to survive.
“Jaskier,” Pavetta calls and he turns to see where the throne had been set up between two torches and at the end of the red carpet. The soldiers are stood down the length of it, ten on each side with two flanking the Queen. “If you’d please.” She motions to the carpet and he nods.
“Go,” Ciri pats his back, bouncing excitedly next to Geralt who is looking very proud with his chest puffed out.
“Oh, Christ. Alright. Time for the accolade, I guess.” He straightens up, tugging at his greatcoat to make it a little less wrinkly. He shouldn’t have slept in it, probably. He flattens down his hair where he feels it sticking up and begins the walk down the carpet. This is the second red carpet he’s been on that didn’t involve Hollywood of the music industry but at least, this time, he’s not about to possibly get murdered. He walks at a moderate pace until he reaches the end of the carpet.
The Queen stands up and holds out a hand for a sword that one of the soldiers by her side hands her. “Please, kneel.” She instructs and he does as commanded. The ground is harsh and cold under his knees despite the carpet there but he bears it – he’s not about to complain about the lack of a knighting-stool.
“Julian Alfred Pankratz, known to us as Jaskier, today we honour you with a title reserved only for those of the bravest disposition and the kindest of hearts. And you, Jaskier, had shown proof of both. For your exceptional bravery, seen in the actions you’d taken during the battle of Sodden and during the days leading up to it-” She lifts the sword and presses the flat of it onto his right shoulder. “And for your overwhelming kindness shown in the ways you’d conducted yourself with princess Cirilla, heiress to the throne, in her time of need, you have deserved the highest of honours.” The Queen lifts the sword and turns it counter clockwise until the same flat side is pressed to his left shoulder. “I dub thee, Sir Jaskier. Arise by the Order of the Golden Lion.”
He stands up on shaky legs, eyes wide as she hands off the sword and accepts a little velvet box. She pulls out an honest-to-god enamel badge attached to a blue ribbon. She steps closer and clips the star-shaped order badge onto his coat. It’s depicts a golden lion surrounded by little sapphires and diamond-like jewels. It looks extremely expensive and Jaskier is terrified of breaking it on accident already.
The Queen leans in and places a kiss on each of his cheeks before gently running her hand over his right one.
“Thank you.” She smiles and Jaskier feels the urge to bow grow stronger.
The protective bubble around them flickers and Pavetta’s expression darkens. “Our time here is drawing to a close. While Cirilla and Geralt may be able to spend more time here, I, unfortunately, cannot due to some former - complications.” She smiles sadly. “I hope that you may live your best life here, Jaskier, and that you are proud with what you’ve accomplished.”
“It was never about pride,” He responds immediately because it’s true. “I just – I wanted her to be safe. I wanted her to have some semblance of normality after spending time with her and realizing that she – well, she deserves the world, really.” He reaches up, brushing his tears away with his sleeve. “I’m very proud of her, though, for never once giving up.” He looks back with a smile and Ciri barrels into him again.
“I’ve missed you,” Ciri whispers and Jaskier sees a complicated expression cross the Queen’s face at the familiarity.
“I’ve missed you, too, little Dove. The mansion’s just not the same without you.” He admits, hating how his entire body goes cold at the thought of remaining in the house by himself.
“I’m – I’m going to learn the arts properly. I’m going to learn and I’m going to be good, and then I’ll be able to come here and visit you regardless of the moon and its colour!” She states with such determination, such conviction, that Jaskier has no choice but to believe her.
“I’ll leave you to say your goodbyes.” The Queen chuckles. “I’d ask you to pass through the portal by morning, Cirilla, there is s till much to be done back home.”
“Of course,” Ciri nods and the Queen excuses herself with a final pat on his cheek, taking her entourage and the props with her.
“She’s lovely,” He chuckles and Ciri nods.
“I don’t really – remember her much. In vague imprints only.” She admits reluctantly and Jaskier’s heart breaks at how familiar that feeling is.
“It’ll be okay, little one. There is time for you to come to know her again, now that you’re reunited. You’re safe now, there’s time.” He smiles, wiping his thumb under her eye and gathering the stray tear there.
“Jaskier!” Renfri calls and he turns to accept the hug and the shoulder punch he knows are coming.
“Renfri,” He smiles, “Yen. Lovely to see you both again.”
“You are a difficult man to find.” Yennefer flicks his forehead as Renfri takes his arm hostage.
“Yes, well, I’m not entirely certain how I could have helped with that.” He chuckles and Renfri rears back to glare at him.
“How about not dying, huh? That sound like a good plan?” She sneers and he grins sheepishly.
“I couldn’t let him get to Ciri, I had to do something.”
“We thought you were gone for good.” Geralt walks closer, settling a heavy hand on the back of his neck.
“I thought I was a goner, but then I – I just woke up here, like nothing happened, and found that only three days had passed.” He shrugs, fighting the sudden urge to hide because Geralt’s got that intense look in his eyes - only this time it refuses to pass after a couple of moments like it usually does.
“The Queen can’t stay out of Cintra for long. She’s sick.” Yennefer says, looking in the direction of the retreating entourage.
“Oh, shit.” He mutters, suddenly scared for Ciri again. “Will she – will she be okay?”
“For now, yes. But she can’t stay away from her druids for long.” The sorceress shakes her head sadly. “I know you want to, but, Cirilla, you can’t stay either.” Yennefer says to the princess and Ciri just burrows further into his arms.
“It’s too much.” Ciri murmurs.
“You’re not alone, though, little Dove. You have Yen and Renfri and Geralt, and so many others that will help. Nobody is making you do this on your own and if they are, then you can bet your crown I’ll be there to smack them upside the head.” He cups her cheeks and kisses her forehead.
“He’s right,” Yennefer smiles gently at the princess and Jaskier knows exactly how it feels to just have your world be turned upside down by the little Dove.
“Thank you.” Cirilla smiles and it’s like the sun is emerging from behind the clouds, bright and hopeful above all.
“What happened to the neutral zone?” He asks next, gently shuffling them all towards the mansion.
Yennefer scoffs, “You know what happened. There’s no need for it any longer. I’m going to be teaching Cirilla at the court of Cintra, along with Tissaia and Triss.”
“That’s better than doing busywork in the neutral zone.” He points out and she rolls her eyes.
“Well, I will be helping Vesemir train the new generation of wolves now that the Royal Guard has been reinstated.” Renfri puffs out her chest, eyes sparking with excitement.
“A task most arduous but fit for the likes of mighty Renfri!” He slips his hand into hers, twirling her around and through the kitchen door while she laugh.
“You flatterer.” She pinches his cheek and then immediately coos over the interior of the mansion. “What’s this?” She pokes around the fridge until Ciri hops over to show her how to open it.
“Cute,” He nudges Yennefer with his shoulder and she bats him away petulantly. “Oh, come now, Yen. You’re not still mad about what I said, are you? I was right and you knew it.”
“I think that’s the problem,” Geralt interjects before the sorceress can respond. “She’s not overly fond of being wrong.”
“Hmpf,” Yennefer turns her nose up at them and follows Ciri and Renfri out of the kitchen.
“I’m glad you’re alright.” Geralt’s hand makes its way onto the side of his neck and his body sways, relaxing automatically.
“Oh, Geralt. When I saw you go down before Ciri came running – it was horrible.” He gulps, remembering the panic and the searing pain coursing through his body. “I – I was terrified.”
“So was I.” The wolf admits, voice hushed as he steps closer to Jaskier. “I know you did what you did for Cirilla but – it didn’t make me any less angry. For a long while I was angry. At you, yes, for being reckless, but mostly at myself. For not being enough. For not being strong enough or fast enough.”
“No – Geralt, no. it’s not your fault. Darling, you were dying, you couldn’t do anything.” He reaches up, palms against the wolf’s jaw to make the other meet his gaze.
“I know. Yennefer – well, took some time to explain to me that I am an idiot.” The wolf chuckles and Jaskier feels his hopes get dashed at the thought of Yennefer and Geralt rekindling their romance. It’s not fair to Geralt, definitely, and he immediately feels like a terrible person because he should be happy for the wolf.
He extracts himself from the other’s hold with a nonchalant huff as soft piano music begins drifting through the rooms. “Good. I’m glad that at least one of you has a more than a single brain cell.”
“Yes, she was quite persistent about proving her point.” Geralt chuckles lowly and Jaskier ignores the clenching of his stomach at the sound.
He nods towards the door and starts heading towards the piano room where Ciri is playing a familiar sonata. They move silently through the rooms and find Yennefer in the gallery. Geralt continues forward to watch Ciri play while he stops next to Yen who is, predictably, in front of the large portrait of Queen Calanthe.
“This place was a safe haven for her, you know.” She drags a finger down the gilded frame. “The royal family were to retreat here if there was a risk of invasion in Cintra. Only those of the royal blood could open the portal to this world. Though, of course, the bloodlines had been diluted over the years and before Pavetta and Ciri, a lot of the royal heirs couldn’t do magic at all.” Yennefer volunteers the information and Jaskier soaks it all up, still so very curious about the other world.
“Pavetta opened the portals when she had to but it always drained her too much to use magic. She’s rather frail, not fit for the rough world she lives in.” The sorceress shakes her head, shoulders hitching up in an odd, despondent movement. Jaskier doesn’t have to imagine what that feels like because he knows, perhaps better than a great deal of people now.
“The daggers?” He asks, remembering the two weapons that Ciri had come here with.
“They’re not very special but they’re an heirloom. They help channel the magic, draw it to the surface. Ciri was able to recall her supressed magic with them on the night of the new moon and she was able to open the portal here. It’s probably not good for her to spend a lot of time here either.” Yennefer sighs, turning to look at him pointedly.
“This world has no magic.” He recalls the conversation between Ciri and Geralt about curses and how they did not translate well.
“No, it does not.”
“I still don’t understand.” He huffs, “How am I still alive? I died there and then just woke up in my bed like nothing had happened.”
“Magic is always changing. It evolves, it becomes smarter, more adept. It’s also a game of luck for people like you, for humans. In the beginning, humans could pass between the worlds, through the portals, without any consequences. But over time, with their actions, people had forced the magic in the other world to become something new.” Yennefer waves a hand around vaguely. “It evolved and new generations of humans were soon able to use it as well. Humans born there became a part of that world.”
“And I’m not of that world.” He frowns, still so very confused.
“Yes.” She chuckles. “We’ve never tried tracking anyone from this world before. There were only vague references to people vanishing after death, no body left behind, it is widely believed that the first humans were able to establish themselves as invaders due to their immunity to magic. But most of those beliefs were just myths and legends, most were older than the oldest of sorcerers. But it was enough for Ciri to try. So after researching for weeks, we found a spell that might work. And it did.”
“Thank you.” He breathes out. “I – just, thank you, Yen. For taking care of her, for coming here so that I can see that she’s okay for myself.”
She waves him off, a grimace on her face at the honest gratitude. “If I had to hear another oh, but Jaskier says or that’s not how Jaskier reads it I’d have left.”
“Regardless of emotional blackmail,” He laughs, “Thank you.”
“Yes, well, thank you for saving the kingdoms or whatever.” She stares at him for a moment before pulling him in for a brief hug. After a couple of seconds, she pushes him away. “Do you have anything to drink in this place?”
“I’ll make hot chocolate.” He says with an eye-roll and heads back to the kitchen. “Watch the piano, make sure the wolves don’t try and play it. They’re too strong for their own good!”
“Yes, yes.”
He wishes he could say that the hot chocolate and pleasant conversation puts him at ease but he’d be lying if he did.
The entire time that they’re seated in the kitchen, he finds himself choking down tears. This is it. This is their goodbye. In about thirty minutes, they’ll be gone from his life forever.
He’ll never see Ciri and her curious eyes again. He’ll never feel the warmth of Geralt’s bulk against his back again. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be really happy again, either. It’s all rather dramatic and Renfri shoots him more than one concerned glance during Yen’s retelling of the battle aftermath that he ignores. He just sips his hot chocolate and counts down the minutes that he has left with his two favourite people.
He should probably be doing something else with his time. He should be telling Ciri that she’s welcome to visit him anytime she wants and that he knows that she’ll accomplish great things. He should be wishing Renfri good luck with her job as the future teacher and intimidating Yennefer into not being mean to Ciri. He should be – he should be grabbing Geralt’s face and kissing him silly because that’s the only thing of worth he has to say to the wolf.
‘We’ll have a heart-to-heart after’, he’d said at one point, when it seemed likely that he would be able to just blurt everything out in the heat of the moment, in the wake of a victory. It would have been hopeful then, what he had to say. But now, when everything’s so bleak and it feels so final, he doesn’t know if he can say anything at all. If he said something now it wouldn’t be fair to any of them. Ciri would understand, surely, but Geralt would get that stubborn and wrecked look on his face that was always indication of his inner turmoil and Jaskier just couldn’t suffer through that look alone.
The circle outside flickers again and the conversation dims until they’re all quiet.
“It’s time, isn’t it?” He asks, setting his cup down. His hands are shaking, he realizes. It’s rather unfortunate because everyone’s focused on him now and he doesn’t want them to see just how upset he is. He’s supposed to be stronger than this. It’s a happy ending after all, isn't it?
Ciri latches on to him and refuses to let go until they get to the hole in the fence where the gate used to be. She’s crying again, silently this time, and it breaks his heart that they come from such different worlds.
“You’re not staying here,” She whispers.
“No, I’m not. I’ll be leaving soon, too.” He rubs her back in a comforting motion, choking down his own tears again.
“Once a year,” She looks up at him with wide eyes. “Once a year, in the summer, come here and I’ll find you.”
His chest seizes at the thought of actually being able to see them again but he squashes the hope down in order to ground himself in reality. “Ciri, darling, it already takes so much for you to get here that I – don’t risk your wellbeing just to see me once a year for a couple of hours, love.”
“I would.” She says fiercely and the worst part is that he believes her. “I’ll get better, I’ll find another, easier, way.”
“I know, little Dove, if anyone can do it, it’s you. But – but don’t try too hard on my account, put yourself and your safety first. You’re responsible for a lot more than just your own survival now.” He chides gently and hears how the others shift in the background at his words, equally as uneasy and equally as unwilling to tell her a definitive no.
“I’ll still try,” She sniffles, wiping at her eyes with the long sleeve of her dress.
“Thank you,” Renfri steps forward, a hand on his shoulder. “For everything you’ve done.”
He’s done saying his it was nothings so he just nods, for once speechless in the face of sincerity. He pats her hand and nods to Yennefer. There’s nothing left to be said between the two of them. He hasn’t known her for nearly long enough to feel the same remorse he feels in regards to Ciri and Geralt. He still respects her though, he respects her decision to abandon her own safety just because a silly human had stood up to her. It's an admirable trait, being able to admit when you're wrong even if it pains you. He does think that she'll be an excellent teacher for the little Dove.
Yennefer leads Ciri away gently and he finally gets to turn and face Geralt.
He smiles gently up at the big brute. The wolf looks sad. Genuine, soul-rending sadness is written all over his face, etched into the lines of his expression like it'd been put there by rough hands carving clay.
“I’ll be back,” Geralt nods and then – then he leaves.
Jaskier watches, baffled, with his heart in his throat, as Geralt walks away without as much as a goodbye.
A moment - a minute - five minutes - as Geralt's form disappears into the thicket of the forest.
Once he's unable to see the wolf any longer he turns around and marches back into the house, tears streaming down his face as his disbelief turns back into grief. He marches through the kitchen as the shield-bubble-thing dissipates and the blue hour replaces the brightness that the bubble had provided. He marches all the way up the stairs and into his bedroom where he barely kicks off his boots before collapsing into bed so that he can sob into his pillow like a well-adjusted adult.
He doesn’t know how much time passes when he eventually finds himself on the precipice of sleep, slowly drifting in and out of consciousness.
But this doesn’t last for long. He is promptly startled awake by the mattress dipping and his first instinct is to lash out. He swings a fist in a wide arc, the movement cut off as fingers wrap around his wrist firmly, halting his strike to be.
His eyes snap open and meet familiar yellow ones.
“Geralt!” He gasps, arm slackening in the other’s hold.
The wolf smiles and the luminosity of his eyes starts fading, blue bleeding into his irises already. “Your reflexes have gotten better.”
Momentarily, he’s transported back to that room in Toddy’s castle, back to the days of training and trying to outmanoeuvre Geralt. His chest fills with both determination and dread before the feelings leave him in a rushed exhale.
“You still stopped it,” He wiggles his fingers a little until he manages to lace them with Geralt’s. It hits him then that Geralt is still, somehow, inexplicably, here. “What – Geralt? What are you doing here?”
“Said I’d be back, didn’t I?” Geralt smiles at him like he’s a bit daft and, really, he might as well be because he doesn’t understand.
“Yeah, that struck me as odd, not going to lie. Though, I thought you meant it more in a weird, hypothetical way and not literally.” He chuckles and it sticks in his throat, suddenly feeling parched.
“No,” Geralt shakes his head. “I escorted the ladies to the portal and said my goodbyes.”
“You… I don’t understand. Geralt, what are you talking about?” He wheezes, feeling like he’s on the verge of hysterics with how tears spring to his eyes and his heart starts beating double-time at the words.
“What’s bogging you down?” Geralt’s smile is entirely too easy. “I’m staying.”
“Here… with me?” He squeals, fingers now gripping the wolf’s hand rather firmly as he tries to process the new information.
“Yes,” The wolf nods, one of his palms coming up to cup his cheek as his stare grows intense.
“Geralt, mate… that’s not – why?” He asks helplessly, disbelief still coursing through his mind rapidly.
“Mate,” Geralt huffs, a grin curving his mouth at the corners and Jaskier’s a little stumped at how unfairly handsome it makes him look – even more so than usual because he's here in Jaskier's bedroom and, apparently, staying.
“You use that word often. It does not mean for you what it does for me, I know this. But… I’d gotten used to hearing it. I like hearing it. I want to hear it more often.” The wolf looks a little dazed as he admits this and Jaskier’s abruptly very aware that he’d basically been calling Geralt husband the entire fucking time.
He doesn’t get to dwell on this realisation, though, because his brain catches up with what Geralt had said. He likes it?
“I know you can speak well, Geralt, so please speak plainly. For me.” He begs silently, his free hand cupping the one on his cheek.
“There is nothing for me left there. There is no greater purpose for me now that Cirilla is safe. She needs to stop depending on me and this separation will do her some good. I’ll miss her like I’d miss a limb but she needs to do this on her own. There’s nothing for me there.” The wolf leans forward, nose resting against Jaskier’s. “Here, however... You’re here.”
“Me?” He squeaks, fighting the urge to pull away in shock.
“You’re acting like you do not know?” Geralt is the one to pull his head back, a single, impressive eyebrow raised.
“Know what?” He’s pretty sure he knows. He suspects at the very least, has for a while now, but he can’t bring himself to say it, to ask outright because the thought of rejection welds him to the ground with mortification.
“I want to-” Geralt grunts, cutting himself off as the words fail him. “I want mate to mean for you what it means for me. I want to stay here with you.”
“But – your powers.” He falters, his other hand coming up to tangle in the other’s hair. “Your eyes are blue already.”
“I want to be human… with you. Here, in this world where I don’t have to watch out for monsters and men trying to maim and murder me. Where I can spend my time uselessly staring at your weird moving pictures. Where there’s no magic.” Geralt growls the last part of the sentence out.
“You’re staying.” He breathes out. “You’re staying?! You’re staying! With me!” He surges forward and Geralt lets himself be tackled onto the bed. He braces his hands on the other’s shoulders as Geralt stares up at him with a silly look on his face.
“I’m staying. And I’ll help you – with your family. Whatever you need.” Geralt offers and Jaskier is brought back to Earth, back to a reality that includes having to find somewhere to live and occasionally doing work for his brother and their newly-reformed family business.
“I, ah, took care of that actually.” He smiles, lowering his head down slowly towards Geralt's. “I’d had some new experiences that helped put some things in perspective. And seeing as a kid that’s half my age could be brave and selfless when all she’d ever known was suffering, I thought that I should whine less and act more. So that’s what I did. The kingdom of Pankratz is no more.”
“Just because your suffering was different, doesn’t mean it was lesser.” Geralt frowns up at him and he chuckles, nuzzling the other’s cheek.
“I know, love, but it still helped seeing her be that way. I dismantled the Count’s empire and patched things up with my brother in the process. Things are – pretty good right now, I must admit.” He smiles, pressing his lips against the wolf’s cheek. “Thank you, for everything. I don’t know where I’d be if it weren’t for you two.”
“You would have been fine, little lark.” Geralt’s wide palm runs through his hair. “I should be the one thanking you. You’ve done so much for us, for people you’ve never seen before. For a world you don’t belong to.”
“It was the right thing to do.” He responds automatically. He could claim it was for purely altruistic reasons, of course, but deep down inside he knows that all he had done has been purely out of his fear for Ciri and Geralt’s lives. He’d killed and he’d survived so that Geralt and Ciri could live, so that Ciri could be free. Everything else was collateral and that single-minded focus had terrified him. Because it showed his roots better than anything else he’d done, it showed he was capable of being who his father had wanted him to be.
But he’d overcome that. Like Geralt had taught him, he’d used the tools he’d been given and he’d done good with them.
“I couldn’t let the two of you get hurt.” He admits and Geralt smiles again, wide and gentle.
“Thank you.” Geralt repeats and Jaskier musters up the urge to finally stare into the other’s blue eyes.
He’s always hated eye contact. He’s always felt that whoever looked into his wide eyes could see his every thought and his every secret – and God knows he's always had plenty of those. He’s always avoided it if he could. He’d use various tactics to do it, too. He’d fidget and look off to the side, pretend to people-watch while whoever his interlocutor is talked. He’d be on his phone even though he knew it was rude because he never learned to hold his own in a stare-down like his brother had. His eyes were far too expressive for the business they’d been in and his father had always hated that.
But he meets Geralt’s eyes now; lets the other see whatever is there because it’s certainly nothing the other hadn’t smelled on him before.
“How about, as a show of thanks, you finally kiss me. That sound like a deal?” He quips past the lump in his throat and Geralt’s brows furrow.
“I assure you that, if I were to kiss you, I’d be out of more than just thanks.”
“Well, what are you waiting for then?” He challenges as heat pools low in his stomach, the simmering attraction he’s tried to suppress finally being allowed to flare bright and spring to the surface.
Geralt pulls him lower until they’re sharing air between them, warm and stuffy. “You always smell good,” The wolf huffs, “Going to miss the scent of you happy when my powers fade. The scent of the storm when you’re angry, the cloying scent of a burning fire when you’re aroused.” Geralt purrs and Jaskier feels his insides shudder in turn.
“Better enjoy it while it lasts, then.” He presses down, bridging the gap between them and letting his hands slip from Geralt’s shoulders to grip the sheets as their lips meet.
It’s gentle, soft, nothing like he’d imagined before. Granted, he’d only ever imagined it in moments where Geralt looked particularly murderous or intense so those kisses would, naturally, be more violent, raw and animalistic. But this wasn’t such a situation, this was him, and Geralt, finally getting what they want for once.
He sighs into the kiss, tilting his head to the side and into Geralt’s wide palm. The rough, calloused, sword-wielding hands that always seem to know when he needs the grounding touch. The same hands that had saved him, taken care of him and comforted him when he’d been too panicked to breathe properly. He should have realized just how much he trusted Geralt sooner, he should have known that the wolf wouldn’t just leave him by his lonesome and that he wouldn’t be able to let the other go either.
Geralt’s other hand makes its way down his side and settles on the jut of his hip, the thumb digging into the vee there, insistent and pointed. He groans, mouth slipping open and vulnerable to Geralt’s exploration. He takes it in stride, enjoying the feeling of his body relaxing properly for the first time in what seems like months.
“I can feel the tension,” Geralt mumbles against his cheek, the hand on the hip moving to his back and kneading at the muscles there. “This place smells like unease and tension even though you haven’t been here for long.”
“Stress is – not fun to deal with, no.” He admits, letting his body drop on top of the other, letting the wolf take his weight because he knows he weighs as much as a bowl of grapes to the other. “But it’ll get better now.”
“How come?” The wolf purses his lips and Jaskier can’t help the grin that breaks out on his face.
“Well, because you’re here, of course.” He croons, tangling a hand in the wolf’s silky hair.
“Sweet.” Geralt hums, eyes closing as he accepts Jaskier’s ministrations.
“And hopefully, soon this place won’t smell of unease and will instead be a little more smoke-y.” He winces at the warmth in his cheeks at his own bold words. He’s not usually forward, though he’s not very shy either. But this is – this is Geralt and this means more than any random hook-up he’s had in the past.
Geralt’s eyes spark yellow for the briefest of seconds and Jaskier finds himself on his back with Geralt looming over him, the white hair curtaining around their heads. He stops breathing as he finally connects the dots on what that intense look on Geralt’s face means. Well – he’s always thought he knew but he was never certain... it seemed presumptuous at the time.
“Why do you look at me like that? What’s inside your head, love?” He hushes, curious and hopeful.
“You,” The wolf growls out the single syllable and it sends sparks down Jaskier’s spine. “Always. All the time. More than you should be. When you’re laughing and smiling, when you’re worried and scared. When you’re just standing still with your hands fidgeting. It’s been you for quite a while and sometimes it gets to be too much. So I have to stop and concentrate on putting the thoughts – away.”
“Oh,” He smiles at the thought of Geralt compartmentalizing when shit got to be too much. It’s sweet and God knows it’s flattering. The words send his heart into a tizzy again and his breathing grows more laboured.
“I hadn’t – I didn’t want to do anything. You were already so distraught and you were in a world where I was the only familiar person around. I did not want to – to trap you. To take advantage.” Geralt’s brows furrow and Jaskier reaches up to rub his thumb against the crease between them, smoothing the frown out.
“That’s very sweet of you, darling, but oh I would have let you do anything you wanted. Because I wanted – something, too. But I thought – I thought that I’d have to leave that world and you behind. So I never let myself, well, think too much about it.”
“But I’m here to stay now.” Geralt lowers himself in a position that is reverse to the one they’d just been in and Jaskier lets his knees part, cradling the other’s hips between them.
“Yes.” He grins, “Which means no more suppressing whatever you’ve been thinking about. Which means – you get to do whatever you’ve been thinking about.”
With another mighty growl, Geralt surges down and bares his teeth against the side of his neck. He wheezes quietly, immediately offering his throat up to the other.
“Too many clothes.” Geralt complains and Jaskier agrees wholeheartedly.
“Yes, yes. Come on, off.” He wiggles in place until Geralt leans back and he can shed his coat. He drops the heavy thing onto the ground and winces as the medal he’d been awarded clinks against the floor. He’s distracted from checking on it, however, because Geralt is taking his dark shirt off and exposing the full breadth of his chest to the cool air of the room.
“Heavens,” He mumbles, forcing himself to take off his own sweater and shirt instead of reaching out and fondling the other like he wants to. He rushes to rid himself of his clothes as Geralt wiggles out of his tight, leather pants.
It’s overall fairly awkward and he almost thinks himself into a panic attack as he takes off his socks but Geralt’s keen senses pick up on the panic coursing through him and he finds himself, once again, pulled back into a strong hug. He relaxes immediately, letting his head drop back until it’s resting on the other’s shoulder as Geralt’s palms press against his stomach and his chest.
“Breathe, little lark.” Geralt croons softly. “It’s alright, I’m here.”
He soaks in the heat radiating off the wolf and revels in the deep rumble of the other’s voice that he feels vibrating against his back. He doesn’t know what set him off but he surmises that it might be the thought that Geralt would leave after they do this which is both ridiculous and unlikely. His issues in regards to being left alone seem to run deeper than he thought - which is hardly a wonder.
“I’m okay, I’m alright.” He repeats out loud, flexing his fingers where they’ve ended up, gripping Geralt’s shapely thighs, to dispel the tingles in them. “Sorry, I – fuck, okay.” He sucks in a breath as Geralt starts tracing lazy patterns across the expanse of his abs. He mentally follows the patterning of the trailing palm and it calms him down more than he thought it would.
“You always worry me,” Geralt mumbles against the back of his neck. “Wish I could stow you away somewhere where no one can hurt you. Where you can finally feel safe.”
“Oh, Geralt.” He brings a hand up into the other’s hair, petting the wolf’s head. “I think – I think that we’re getting there. I think that I’ll feel safe as long as you’re there.”
“Always know what to say, silvertongue.” Geralt chuckles. “So full of words and contradictions.”
“Think someone should shut me up, then, huh?” He challenges now that he’s finally calmed down.
“I rather like the sound of your voice.”
“Geralt,” He whines, wiggling back against the other, trying to get the ball rolling.
“What do you want, little songbird?” Geralt’s nose pushes under the hinge of his jaw, teeth meeting skin again.
“Mm, touch me?” He asks hopefully, fingers tensing against Geralt’s arm that’s still resting across his torso.
“Where?” Geralt’s fingers trail down from his collar bones, pressing against the skin and warming him up.
“Anywhere, wherever you’d like.” He arches his back, encouraging Geralt’s groping as the hand travels down at a lazy pace. He wishes the other would hurry because he really needs to stop thinking. He wiggles back again, pausing briefly when he feels the other pressing into him, at half mast and – well, quite big. He whines, and Geralt’s fingers press into the bruises he’d already left on his hip.
“Wherever I’d like?” Geralt purrs and he nods eagerly.
“Yes, yes.” He shudders with anticipation, cock twitching at the thought of Geralt’s large, firm hands caressing his skin.
Geralt’s hands span across his sides, “Here?”
“Yes,” He nods, looking down where the calloused fingers are tapping a distracted pattern against him.
One of the hands moves to his thigh, kneading the muscle there and he groans. The leg relaxes under the other’s ministrations like the betrayer that it is and he grips the other’s hair firmly. His stomach churns with arousal and it feels like he’s on a rollercoaster, hurtling down a steep slope. It’s gotten significantly warmer in their little bubble since they started but he still feels the brush of cold air against his bare legs.
The hand on his thigh moves inwards, towards his crotch. Geralt hooks his chin over his shoulder so that they can both watch as fingers close around his girth. He whines embarrassingly loud, half from the sensation of the grip and half from the look of it all.
“Here?” The wolf growls, deep and primal and setting off all kinds of bells in Jaskier’s system that are both good and really good.
“Yes,” He hisses. He feels a little pathetic, being reduced to a single word like this but the other’s touch feels so good already that he can barely string together a coherent thought.
He muses idly that this is what weeks, months, of unresolved sexual tension and frustration finally being resolved feels like. He’s light-headed, honestly, on cloud fucking nine. Geralt’s hand moves up slowly and Jaskier winces at the dry drag.
“Fuck, wait,” He pushes the hand away and tosses himself to the side, rummaging through the nightstand frantically until his palm closes around the bottle of lube. He cheers internally and flips around to straddle Geralt’s lap. The wolf huffs, nosing under his chin as he pops the bottle open.
“Slick?” Geralt asks and he hums, slick, a silly way of putting it – very quaint, but it does make a shiver go down his spine. He flushes again and Geralt rumbles – he can only imagine what the other must be smelling.
He wiggles back a little until he has the other’s hard length pressing against his own and then sucks in a breath. He gathers them both up in his hand and breathes out steadily, curbing his excitement at the fact that he’s finally getting his hands on Geralt like this.
“Mm,” The other purrs idly as he starts moving his hand up and down at a languid pace and then Jaskier feels teeth clamp down onto the spot where his shoulder meets his neck.
His entire body jolts forward at the sting of the bite and he swears the teeth feel sharp. But instead of hurting enough to wilt his erection, it only fuels the fire in the pit of his stomach. His hand spasms around their lengths and his stroking falters momentarily. He can just imagine sharp canines piercing skin and Geralt’s lush mouth bloodied red, smearing the precious liquid over his skin.
Ah. Hello, new kinks.
“Oh, hells.” He shudders all over as Geralt licks at the bruise he’d sucked into his neck.
“There,” The wolf declares with a healthy dose of pride in his tone. “Now everyone will know.”
“Fuck,” He chuckles, flush with arousal at the possessive declaration. “Been wanting to do that, huh?”
“Yes,” Geralt admits without pause, hands roaming across his back and pressing bruises into the skin there as well. “Since I first saw you step in front of Ciri to protect her, since I first saw you stand up to the prince and to Yen.”
“Stop name-dropping, you’re ruining the mood.” He whines and Geralt huffs out a brief laugh before his teeth go back to worrying the skin at his disposal.
He refocuses on the task at hand – that being, well.
The nasty squelching sound grows louder as his strokes pick up speed again and he twitches all over as his hand twists around them. Geralt’s groan rumbles through him and he grows dizzy with how fast his blood is being redirected into his dick. He has to stop before he blows his load because this is definitely not how he wants this night to end.
“Christ, Geralt. Gimmie your hand.” He holds the bottle up and Geralt’s blue eyes darken further as he realizes what Jaskier is requesting of him.
“Jaskier,” Geralt growls out briefly before claiming his mouth in another bruising kiss that has Jaskier breathless in a matter of minutes.
The prep is perhaps a little too fast and too rough. Geralt’s hands are big and his fingers thick and Jaskier loses track of time as the other stretches him out. His ears are ringing with the sound of his pulse pounding and his own reedy moans as Geralt’s fingers decidedly do not relent. He feels every push and pull, every bump against that sweet spot, like a jolt of electricity up his spine and like flames licking at his fingertips.
“Perfect,” Geralt praises out of the blue and Jaskier’s eyes snap open to meet the other’s.
“I-” He chokes back a moan as Geralt lifts him by the hips like he weighs nothing and manhandles him until his head is resting on the soft pillow at the headboard and the other is keeling between his legs.
Geralt looks down at him and he shivers at the intensity of the stare. He wants to urge the other to just do something already but he’s afraid to break the delicate and heavy silence that’s settled over them – it feels like velvet against his skin.
“I didn’t even do anything” He whines, hips lifting as Geralt refuses to move.
“No, you don’t have to do anything. You’re beautiful and perfect even without doing anything.” The wolf grins with his teeth sharp and Jaskier has a moment to absorb his words of praise before the teeth clamp down over his hip and he earns himself a matching mark to the one on his neck. He whines, erection twitching and protesting at being neglected.
“Fuck!” He slaps a hand against the mattress. “Please, please, Geralt. Come on.”
“Let me have this,” The wolf continues to ignore his pleas and instead drags his lips down the crease of his thigh and noses at his dick. He – well, there’s very little that’s going through his head at the sight but the thought of getting his length inside the other’s mouth somehow manages to make itself present. But he doesn’t; not today, at least.
“Geralt,” He groans uselessly and it draws another chuckle out of the wolf.
“Alright, love, alright.” The wolf cedes and Jaskier lifts his head up to see the other fisting his own hard length, spreading the slick all over and dripping messily onto the bed.
The prep was definitely a little too haphazard and he winces and hisses at the sting but Geralt doesn’t relent and he doesn’t want him to. He relaxes and accepts the other’s hardness. His eyes are closed so hard he sees stars by the time the other is fully in and his breaths are coming out in short, frantic pants.
“Shh,” Geralt shushes him, form looming over him and a hand brushing hair from his forehead.
He fights to take in air until he finally does so with a great lungful. He focuses on the other’s warmth and the cold air drifting from the rest of the room, focuses on the other’s soft murmurs and words of praise until he finally relaxes.
“Good,” The wolf kisses his forehead and Jaskier finally opens his eyes again. The dawn is breaking over the treeline and the first rays are making it through the big windows, casting Geralt’s body in a faint glow that seems almost heavenly.
He smiles, reaching up and tucking a strand of that pale hair behind the other’s ear. Geralt’s quite beautiful like this – in that rough, ragged way of his. He’s all solid abdominals and bulging biceps, thighs thick and spreading Jaskier’s legs purposefully.
“You can move, love.” He instructs and Geralt bends down to kiss him briefly before leaning back and concentrating on the first few thrusts.
The other goes slow at first. Measure movements that take a lot of self-restraint. Jaskier sees the way that tension laces the other’s frame, almost like he’s a coiled spring ready to release. But he enjoys the slow drag of Geralt’s dick too much to tell him to speed up.
The slow pace is not sustainable, however, because Geralt grows impatient soon. The wolf begins rumbling lowly and Jaskier grins at the dangerous sound, clenching around the other’s hardness and arching his back with a moan that’s more showy than anything.
“Julian,” The wolf warns and Jaskier laughs breathlessly, reaching forward to wipe the drop of sweat that’s making its way down the other’s temple.
“You can speed up, darling, it’s fine.”
As soon as the words leave his mouth, Geralt’s hips start picking up speed rapidly. He finds himself being bounced up and down the other’s dick in a matter of minutes and he can’t even really tell how he ended up in the other’s lap again. Geralt’s thighs put in the work and his hips keep pistoning back and forth and he can’t form anything even remotely resembling a thought again.
He whines, moans and mewls and then bites at the other’s shoulder to keep himself silent because he’s embarrassed. He’s slick with sweat and his erection is rubbing against the divot between the other’s abs and he can’t, for the life of him, hold on any longer.
His hands claw against the other’s back and he moans loudly as the orgasm washes over him. His body spasms and he shudders and it just keeps going, cresting and overflowing for what seems like an eternity. His hands have gone stiff where they’re clutching at the other and Geralt doesn’t stop.
“Close,” The wolf bites out and Jaskier knows that clean-up is going to be a bitch but he doesn’t particularly care about that at the moment. He rides the waves of his orgasm and feels as Geralt finally comes because the wolf stills, buried inside him to the hilt, and releases a sound that is entirely too animalistic to be produced by human vocal cords.
Much to his mortification, Jaskier finds himself on his front with his ass up in the air in a matter of moments.
“What – Geralt!” He squeaks because the other’s fingers are back in his ass, quickly being joined by a tongue. “Oh, fuck!” He shouts as his dick makes a valiant effort at getting hard again so soon.
Instead of cleaning him off, however, Geralt ends up smearing his come along Jaskier’s back in a savage and rudimentary display of ownership that has Jaskier half incensed and half hard.
“You filthy, possessive, incredibly attractive savage.” He whimpers into the pillow as the other finally allows him to drop down and rest.
The other plasters himself to his side and trails his fingers through the disgusting mess.
“Mine,” The wolf declares and Jaskier can’t bring himself to protest.
“Yes, you brute, yours.” He chuckles as the bone-deep exhaustion finally settles over him.
“Now and always.” Geralt’s fucking erection nudges against him and he winces.
“Now and until you piss me off, let me sleep you insatiable-”
“Shh.”
Valentin is eyeing him like he’s lost his damned mind. That, however, is nothing new.
“You’re what?” His brother asks, obviously trying very hard to keep his voice level as to not cause a scene at the airport.
“I’m taking the private jet to London.” He deliberately doesn’t explain the part that the other is perplexed over.
“Yes, that part is clear. I’m still stumped about the part where you’re moving to America to buy a ranch.” His brother’s hand clenches around the pack of smokes in it and the paper crinkles and crumples.
“That’s not what I said.” He rolls his eyes. “You never listen to me. I said: we’re moving to Alaska to open up a wolf sanctuary.”
“Same shit,” Valentin gives in and pinches the bridge of his nose. “You and the gardener-”
“Geralt.”
“You and Geralt, are getting married?”
“Yes, as soon as possible.” He glances back to where the ex-wolf is standing next to the plane. Jaskier had managed to outfit him in a black sweater and a long, black coat and he now cuts an imposing figure that makes people look away in fear wherever he goes.
His brother sighs, obviously put-upon but resigned. “Well, make sure to invite us to the wedding when it happens, yeah?”
“Of course, I’ll need a best man, after all.” He grins and his brother rolls his eyes.
“Take care, Jules, call once in a while.” The other wags a finger in front of his face and Jaskier pulls him into a crushing hug that startles the shorter.
“I’ll text you when we get settled and I’ll even name our first wolf after you.”
“That’s not necessary, I-”
“You’ll be their godfather!”
“Jaskier,” Valens says it as if it were a reprimand but he’s smiling so the effect is lost on both of them entirely.
“Take care, call if you need help, good luck. All that shit.”
“You as well.”
They board the plane and Jaskier finds that Geralt is not very fond of flying inside a giant metal bird. Maybe they’ll get horses for the sanctuary as well.
It’s funny. Thinking about it all seems so easy now when he knows what he wants. A year ago he would have been plagued with the thoughts of his home and his family, and how they hated him and what he stood for. Now, he can only think about a better future that nothing in the world could have prepared him for. What he went through, what he'd done (no matter how horrible or reprehensible, good or virtuous) he wouldn’t change anything about either. Well, perhaps he would have jumped Geralt's bones sooner if he had known that the wolf was here to stay, but other than that, no, nothing.
And for the first time in a long while, Jaskier can say, with a lot of certainty, that he’s happy and looking forward to living his life, and that he has no regrets.