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“I didn’t know Jaskier was fae.”
Geralt looks up at Ciri. She’s wrapped in his cloak, swamped in the too-big fabric that’s been stitched up many times through the years, and holding a familiar leather-bound journal that’s scratched across the cover from the years. He stands and wipes the bit of bark dust from the firewood on his breeches, moving toward her.
“How do you know Jaskier?” he asks, and then, frowning, adds, “Jaskier is fae?”
She nods. “He played at my name day celebrations and visited in the winter before Nilfgaard,” she answers, easily, like she hasn’t disrupted Geralt’s heart and gave explanation to a few of Jaskier’s peculiar behaviors. “I just didn’t know he was fae.” She points to the first page of the journal; he only notices now that it’s opened. “It says so right here.”
Ciri holds the leather book out to him and he takes Jaskier’s journal in hands that are trembling. The bard—his bard, because that is who he is, Geralt’s just as much as he is the bard’s witcher—has made himself scarce since the mountain, which is what Geralt wished for in a fit of anger and annoyance.
But.
For over two decades, he and Jaskier have shared their travels, their coin and their paths and their memories. For over two decades, they have lived in one another’s breast pocket, even when they weren’t together for months, growing with each other even when they were apart. It feels terribly uncomfortable, like an achingly-sweet bruise on the heel of his foot, to not be with Jaskier or know the next time they will cross paths.
It’s his own fault, though.
He runs his fingertips over the leather cover as reverently as he allows. The tips of his fingers are so calloused that he doesn’t feel the velvety smoothness of the cover, but that’s fine. He hasn’t seen Jaskier in months— everything bleeds together now that he avoids civilizations on his way to Kaer Morhen. This is all he has left of his bard.
He opens the book to the first page. There, in Jaskier’s slanted, incredibly messy handwriting, it reads, It’s been days, and this fool still hasn’t sniffed out that I am fae. What kind of witcher is he if he hasn’t noticed? Perhaps the spell my grandmother taught me is too potent. Or maybe it’s the human part of me that is obscuring his knowledge. Never mind all that, though—it’s okay. There’s no harm in not telling the man yet, is there? After all, he kills monsters, and that is what I am, wrapped in pretty packaging. No, I’ll not tell him just yet. I want a life of adventure first, and then, only when I’m satisfied, will I tell him.
Geralt inhales. Fuck.
*
Ciri sleeps at his side, curled beneath a thick blanket of fur; her head is pillowed on his thigh and her hand is shoved around his back, gripping the fabric of his cloak for a tether. The fire burns low, warm and quiet, yellow-orange-red, and the few animals that crawl around in the night are mindful of the campsite, curiously coming close before darting away in the next second.
Jaskier’s journal sits on Geralt’s lap, open.
He’s written a lot through the decades they have known one another; the journal must be magic to hold the memories of over twenty years in its pages without running out of sheets or smearing ink through their shared trials. Every page is filled with words that flow like the lazy crepitating creek behind Kaer Morhen, covering Geralt in a sheath of placidity. There’s tiny drawings here and there, ugly figurines that must be Geralt with his swords or Jaskier with his lute or Yennefer with darkened balls of magic at her hands; lyrics to songs Geralt has never heard lay in the margins, scribbled in a hurry, as if there was a fear that what was flashing in his mind this instant would be gone in the very next moment.
Geralt reads the passages quickly, taking in every word like a starving man. Jaskier has written about him, about himself, about Yennefer and Ciri and traveling across the continent for years, going to the edge of the world and back again at any beck and call from Geralt. His commentary isn’t lacking, and every thought he has ever had appears to be written on these pages.
When he’s finished reading the last entry, written just before the incident on the mountain, he closes the book and sets it to the side. He’s full of information, of feelings that don’t belong to him—it’s as if there is a leak in his heart, and everything he has held back for decades is suddenly flooding his system, and there is nothing he can do but be swept up in the flow.
Jaskier cared so much for him, and Yennefer, and Ciri. Jaskier gave and gave and gave; it’s clear in the pages, his selflessness to hand his heart over to those who don’t appreciate his depth of affection with no demand to have that devotion returned.
And yet—and yet, Geralt was so terrible to him.
He closes the journal and sets it next to him. He shifts until he’s comfortable, pulling his cloak and the furs tighter around Ciri’s body, pressing the palm of his hand against her cheek affectionately, before drifting off into a light sleep.
*
He dreams of this—
His hair is the color of cleaned bone. I quite like it.
—and this—
The tales lie. There is no parade waiting to welcome the weary warrior home or a meal in celebration of a felled enemy. Instead, there is badgering for proper payment and sniffing meals to check for poison and keeping a weapon beneath a pillow for easy reach and sleeping in the stable with the horses. The stories we are told as children are lies—nothing more than fabricated legends that make us eat our vegetables so we may become strong like the falsified people we are supposed to idolize. The real world does not like different. The real world is so cruel to its heroes.
—and this—
He looks so soft when he doesn’t think anyone is looking.
—and this—
Sometimes, people forget what I am capable of. I am whimsical and loud and frivolous, but I am intelligent and strong and fierce. It’s like they cannot see past the bard to the man beneath. Then I remember that, for them, the man beneath the bard has never existed. And so, when I am surrounded by a group of men in an alleyway, I know what is going to happen. I know and I fight, and I walk away with blood on my knuckles and teeth, and I wash before any questions can be asked.
—and this—
He is my friend, and I do not care if the entire world damns me for my choice.
—and this—
Yennefer is a force of nature. She is powerful and determined and fearless, full of beauty and intelligence and rage. She makes me quiver. I believe that, if the situation were different, she would be someone I would love to be friends with. But destiny has never been kind to me and I would not like to harm the gentle camaraderie the two of us share for something that is not requited.
—and this—
Ciri is a lovely child, fat and happy and full of love. She cackles when I sing and seeks me out to play dolls with her and often climbs to the highest tower with me to watch the sun set below the horizon. Geralt would adore her, I believe. And she would love him.
—and this—
A young boy thanked Geralt for finding his sister’s bones and burying them by giving up his favorite toy. It’s old and weathered, and yet Geralt held it cradled to his chest as he was knelt down on his knees as if it were priceless. Before we left the village, though, he placed the toy next to the grave he dug hours ago for the bones of the young woman he found. I asked him why and he said witchers cannot hold on to tokens because they will slow them down. I wanted to sob.
—and this—
I know Geralt feels safe when he starts to talk in his sleep.
—and this—
I know in the spaces between my spine bones and meat of my heart, and in the breadth of my soul in the center of my being. It’s why I found Geralt in that tavern years ago, and why our paths continue to cross. Offer me riches, fame, legend—I will walk away and find him instead. We will always come back to one another because we are bound by choice and not destiny, and that is powerful.
—and this—
I love you. I love you. I love you.
—and he is nothing except the words in Jaskier’s notebook, made of memories.
*
Faintly, Geralt hears a soft giggle, between one easy dream and the next, and then there’s a sudden chill cupping his face and he jolts awake, shifting away from the cold touch. Ciri laughs once more before Geralt opens his eyes, blinking the sleep from his vision.
She sits before him, bundled tightly in furs. Behind her, the trees stand tall as blue pre-dawn light sifts through the limbs, not quite as iridescent as Jaskier’s eyes but beautiful, still, in its glory.
“Ciri.” He clears his throat, thick with sleep. “It isn’t smart to wake me up like that.”
Ciri grins. “You wouldn’t hurt me,” she says, and it’s true, terribly and incredibly true, and it reminds him of Jaskier and his lack of self-preservation and he wonders if it’s the connection of destiny that has Ciri unafraid of him or if it is her free choice. Unconsciously, he finds the journal and curls his fingers around the leather. “You’ve been sleeping.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s nice to see you rest.” She pushes to her feet, stomping in boots that are too big for her. Geralt winces and decides that he’ll use the coin he gets from his next contract to purchase a pair of boots that actually fit his child surprise. “I got breakfast.”
He grunts and sits back against the log. “Did you?”
“Yes.” She grabs up the hares at her feet and shows Geralt her bounty. “I checked the traps you set and gathered them up, as well.”
“You did well.”
“Thank you.” She grins and shows him her teeth. She’s a feral child who has already clawed her way into his heart; he never imagined stepping into the role as a guardian for someone so innocent and pure would feel this natural. “Did you read it?”
Geralt’s attention flickers to the journal next to him. “Yes,” he says. His voice is quiet.
“May I?”
He curls his fingers around the edges of the journal and holds it close. “Why?”
She sits down next to the fire and begins to skin the hares. “I know him,” she answers absently. “He used to write me stories to read when he was gone and quiz me on them when he returned.”
Geralt considers her request for a moment. He has no doubt in his mind that the stories Jaskier has written in his journal are those that Ciri would not wish to read, but he can’t blame her for having hope and clinging to something familiar to her after everything that she has been put through.
“Later,” he promises her, pushing to his feet and wrapping himself in the cloak tossed over a fallen log.
“Okay.” There’s no bad temper in her words—she accepts everything that he says as the truth. She trusts him implicitly, which is a horribly wonderful truth. “Will you tell me about him? He told me the best stories and spent time with me during banquets, but I never knew he travelled with you.”
He tucks the journal back into his saddlebags, next to one of the trinkets a child gave him years ago, and says, “Yeah.”
*
He tells Ciri of meeting Jaskier in Posada—his version of the events; the truth, no matter how brittle and unexciting they may be. She wrinkles her nose when he tells her of the food the patrons of the bar tossed at Jaskier and laughs at Jaskier’s childish ramblings on his approach. Her brows furrow when he tells her of the elves, and how they smashed Jaskier’s lute to pieces in front of him, but then she grins, toothily, when Geralt tells her of the replacement he was given and he strummed the damned instrument for hours before the two of them stopped to camp.
His stories start off there, and they quickly bleed into everything he can remember; two decades worth of memories surface in his mind, not a single detail forgotten, as big as the words Jaskier yelled as he ran for his life and as small as the color of the stitching on Jaskier’s doublets when he was amassed in his performances, and he tells all of them to Ciri—every single thing. She reacts and absorbs his words, bitten off as they are, and clings to them, begging for more when they stop for rests.
She looks at him with wide eyes, doe-like and innocent, and he melts into her, giving her everything she asks. He ran from her for so long—over a decade. He feels foolish for doing so. His insecurities never took into account the fact that she would adore him as she does.
Jaskier was right. All the passages he wrote of Ciri in his journal, how she would love Geralt and how he would cherish her, are true. He wishes desperately to tell his bard that he was right.
They travel several miles before they bed down just after dusk. They make camp together, building the fire and situating the bedrolls and setting the traps for breakfast before they eat a bit of dried fruit and meat. He talks until he is hoarse, answering all the questions he’s asked, and then, when Ciri’s resting her head in his lap and he’s running his fingers through her hair, brushing out the knots, he reads Jaskier’s journal again.
*
Today, Geralt told me of Blavikan.
(Geralt remembers this particular memory very vividly.
“You let the world think you’re a heartless murderer,” Jaskier tells him, entreatingly, as he meets his eyes across the fire. “But you aren’t.”
Geralt laughs, only once, in a way that Jaskier has only ever heard. “No,” he says. “I’m afraid I’m just an average, normal murderer.”)
It continues with, I think he expected my perception of him to falter. If he tells me the story of his terrible nickname, then surely I would leave him, too, as everyone else has, right? But no. No. I heard his laugh for the first time today and it did not sound like a coldblooded murderer. Even if it had, I would not care—I made my choice that moment. All the world can burn, and I will not leave him to suffer unless he asks me to.
*
It startles Geralt, deep in the meat of his heart, to know that Jaskier cares for him beyond that of a friend. He’s always thought, perhaps, that Jaskier never counted him as off limits—to have that confirmed and expanded on, though, is as delighting as it is humbling.
Geralt does not deserve the love of Jaskier. He has run from his responsibilities for decades, hiding behind rumors started by malicious villagers and nobles in order to hide what little bit of humanity he was clinging to away from the world. He got so caught up in pretending to be something he was not that he lost himself for so many years.
So, no, Geralt does not deserve the love of Jaskier. Not yet, at least.
*
A few days later, they come into a village. It’s small and quaint; children play in the horse-trodden roads and their parents work in stalls close enough to keep at least one ear on them. Geralt is paid little attention—his presence in villages has become unremarkable over the last two decades, spurred on by Jaskier’s desire for a proper bed—and Ciri, dressed in his overlong cloak with the hood pulled up to cover her telltale hair, keeps her head down as she rides atop Roach.
They find the inn quite simply, pushed just off the side of the main road and nestled between the tavern and bakery. The stables are behind it, ran by two young men who look so similar that they can’t be anything but brothers; they aren’t scared of Geralt, meeting his eyes even though they have to bend their head back to look up, and Geralt tips both of them as much as he can spare in hopes they will pay Roach at least the same respect as the other horses.
As he heads toward the inn, with Ciri’s hand clasped in his, he sees one of the boys pull an apple from their pant pocket and feed it to Roach. It almost makes him smile.
The inn is ordinary, decorated in decade-old tapestry with windows colored yellow from housing many patrons over the years. There are a few people spread about, sitting at tables and nursing mugs of ale and bowls of porridge, by the smell. The innkeeper is behind the bar, wiping clean dishes with a cloth rag.
He approaches the bar, Ciri tucked into his side. “We need a room,” he says.
The innkeeper does not startle. “Payment upfront,” they say, continuing their mundane task of cleaning the mugs. They raise their eyes and appraise Geralt and Ciri, offering a low whistle. “Food, bath, and lodge for your horses, as well?”
“One horse.”
“Aye.” The innkeeper nods. “It’ll be the first door on the left just beyond the stairs. Go on up and put your things away, and I’ll have bathwater brought up to your room in a moment.”
Geralt digs a few coins out of his purse and sets them on the counter; the inn keep nods and pockets the money, and Geralt finds Ciri’s hand once more and leads her through the room, up the stairs, into the first room on the left.
It’s not as bereft as Geralt assumed it to be. A bed large enough for the both of them is placed in the center with two twin tables on either side; a table is against the wall, next to a wardrobe with a crooked door, and a set of chairs pushed beneath. A wooden tub is off in the corner, hidden from the view of the window, with a curtain that can be pulled for privacy.
Geralt can already hear footsteps coming up the stairs; they will be here in a moment to fill the tub with water.
“Get on the bed, Ciri,” Geralt tells her, motioning to the far corner of the room. He digs a dagger from her pack and presses it into her hands. “Hide this beneath your skirts and use it if I tell you to, okay?”
She nods, quiet and reserved, and does as she is told, perching on the farthest side of the bed and hiding the dagger beneath her skirts. Geralt tosses her a small book from his pack that Jaskier forgot; she catches and opens it just as there is a knock on the door.
It’s the two boys from the stables.
They offer Geralt minimal greeting, toting three rounds of buckets full of warm water to fill the wooden tub. When they’re finished, Geralt gives each of them a coin a piece; their eyes brighten and their grins broaden, and they clap one another on the back as they leave the room and bound down the stairs.
“That was nice of you.”
“Hmm.” Geralt shuts the door behind the boys and turns the lock. “They remind me of me and my brothers.”
“I didn’t know you had brothers.”
Geralt smiles, kind of. He used to have many, but the numbers have dwindled throughout the years and now he only has two. And they are assholes—he loves them dearly, would die for each of them, but they are terrible brats and when the three of them get together, it is utterly chaotic. Vesemir handles it as best as he can.
“Eskel and Lambert,” he answers the question she hasn’t asked yet. “Eskel is the same age as me and Lambert is a bit younger. We were raised and trained by Vesemir, the oldest wolf left living.”
“Will I meet them?”
Geralt nods. “Yes, Ciri. You will meet them.” He gives her what he hopes passes as a smile. “Now, you’re first. Take your time, clean behind your ears, and use that soap in my bag to wash with.”
She nods and hops up from the bed, heading toward their bags. She pilfers about she finds the bar of soap and the last relatively clean pair of clothes she has left. Geralt wishes, then, watching her forage through what measly belongings she has, that he could supply her with everything she wants—intricate novels or embroidered gowns or baths every night to wash the dirt and grime of the road off her.
But then he sits on the bed, relaxes against the flat feather pillows, and sees her dagger, carved from bone and silver, and he smiles because his child surprise is not one to be tided over with royal life’s simplicities. He thinks she rather likes their treks in the wilderness; gods know he cherishes every moment spent with her.
“Here.” Ciri stands next to him, holding Jaskier’s journal in her hands. He takes it from her, mildly confused. “You read it every time we have a moment to rest. I figured you would want to read it while I’m bathing.”
“You’re observational skills are improving.”
“No.” Ciri flashes him a mischievous grin. “You’re just predictable in your old age.”
Geralt raises a brow. “Oh, the young lady has jokes.”
“I’ve learned from the best,” she replies and her grin broadens until it stretches her ruddy, wind-burned cheeks. She hurries to rush behind the curtain, pulling it across and tucking it tight on either side. “I bet you’ve read his journal so many times by now you can recite the entries.”
Geralt’s tiny small falls as he fingers the edges of the journal. “Perhaps,” he muses, slipping his thumb beneath the cover and flipping to a random page. He reads the first sentence of the entry and almost laughs aloud at what he finds.
“Read me your favorites, please?” Ciri requests. “You don’t have to, but I would like for you to.”
Something clenches in Geralt’s chest; his shoulders tighten and he shuts the journal, holding it closed until his knuckles turn white. He takes a deep breath, holds it until his ears begin to ring, and then lets it out in increments, along with his grip on the journal.
It isn’t an impossible request, truly, but it feels as if it is. There’s something about holding the journal in his lap, the only thing he has left of Jaskier, that makes him wish he were able to sob as he did as a child. Reading it doesn’t feel like an invasion of privacy—rather, it feels like rebirth, like a baptism of sorts.
With this in his possession, it doesn’t feel as if he’s lost Jaskier as much as he originally thought.
Ciri splashes in the water. “Geralt?”
Geralt clears his throat. “Of course, cub,” he says, not nearly as flabbergasted at his readiness to indulge her anything she asks as he probably ought to be. He opens the journal’s front once more and turns to one of the pages he marked on the first night. “‘There is a fine line between stupidity and loyalty, and Geralt walks it delightfully well.’”
Ciri’s laughter rings out in the stale air of the room.
*
After Ciri finishes bathing and dresses, Geralt takes his turn. He uses the soap and oil Jaskier left to scrub himself clean and soften his hair, remembering how naggingly insistent Jaskier was about Geralt taking care of himself in the most mundane ways. It pleases Geralt deeply to smell so thoroughly of Jaskier—like lemongrass and mint and honeysuckle—and he soaks in the scent for far longer than is necessary, pretending that all is well and Jaskier is here with them, on the bed with Ciri making her laugh.
It’s nothing more than a dream, really. Geralt wants it with a ferocity so disturbing he can feel it in his fingertips.
Once he’s finished, dressed, and strapped a dagger to his thigh, he leads Ciri downstairs for dinner. They take a seat at a table in the corner beneath the window; the barmaid waltzes over, takes their orders, and returns with a mug ale for Geralt and one of water for Ciri. Bowls of thick stew follow and Ciri digs in with an appetite that could rival Lambert’s after a particularly deleterious hunt.
Geralt hides his smile in the collar of his shirt. “Slow down, Fiona,” he admonishes her, gently. “It isn’t going anywhere, and we can get you more if you’re still hungry after.”
She meets his eyes, screwing her face into an ugly expression at the use of her alias. “We’re running low on coin.”
He doesn’t ask how she knows; she’s shown herself to be a clever, diligent young woman ready to challenge him at every bend and curve.
“We have enough for you to have a second helping,” he tells her. “You need not worry about the amount of coin we have, cub. I’ll take a contract as soon as I can.”
She frowns. “I don’t like when you do that.”
“Do what?”
“Risk your life killing a monster to save people who aren’t appreciative.”
Geralt snorts, simultaneously fond and bewildered at the passionate mouth on his child surprise. “You sound like someone I know.”
“Jaskier?”
He nods. “Yes,” he says, half-smiling as he recalls the first time Jaskier started a brawl for him. And the second, and the third, and the one when Yennefer joined in, as well, and lashed out at anyone who had an unkind word to say about witchers.
“Smart minds think similarly.”
“You and I have very different definitions of that word.”
Ciri gasps, mock-offended, and dissolves into giggles when Geralt’s foot finds and lightly kicks hers beneath the table. He watches her for a moment, completely caught up in the warm way her unabridged joy makes his chest turn into an inferno of affection and adoration.
He should not have waited so long to meet her. He’s ashamed that he did.
“Are we going to find them?”
Geralt takes a drink from his ale. “Who?”
“Yennefer,” Ciri replies. She has slowed down eating, thankfully; her bowl is nearly finished and Geralt meets the barmaid’s eyes, signaling for another helping of the stew. “And Jaskier.”
Apprehension causes him to pull his eyes from hers and glare down at the ale in the mug he’s gripping in his hands. He waits for the barmaid to bring Ciri another helping of stew before answering.
“Yennefer and I are linked by destiny, which means you and her are linked, as well,” he explains. “She is the most powerful sorceress I know, and she will be able to help you with your Chaos more than I ever could.”
“She was at Sodden.”
“Yes.”
“Many mages died.” Ciri takes a drink of her water. “How do you know she wasn’t one that was buried in that fire?”
Geralt’s lips quirk. “I would have felt it, right here,” he says, putting a hand over his heart. “It would’ve ripped me apart, I think, if she had died in that battle.”
And not only because they are linked by destiny, he’s realizing. But also because they are linked by choice—he wishes to have Yennefer in his life as a permanent fixture and he hopes with all his heart that he may be able to right all the wrongs he has forced upon her. She is his friend; he cares for her like he cares for only a few others.
“I think that’s how my grandmother felt when Eist was killed in battle,” Ciri ponders, mostly to herself. “She tried to keep all of it from me, but I saw the light in her eyes go out and I knew she would never be the same.”
Geralt frowns. “Ciri?” he says her name, just above a whisper, so nobody else can hear it but her.
She sniffles—which is just awful, really. “Perhaps it’s for the best that she fell when my kingdom burned. How lonely it must be, to be left living while the other half of you has gone.” She wipes her nose with the sleeve of her cloak before giving Geralt a dazzling, toothy grin. “I’m glad they weren’t apart for long. And I’m glad Yennefer hasn’t left you, too.”
“Yes,” he agrees, discreetly clearing his throat. This child is a masterpiece. “I am glad, too.”
“And once we find her, we can find Jaskier, as well.”
Geralt’s guts churn. “Ciri,” he begins, delicately, “my priority is to get you to Kaer Morhen, safe and in one piece. If we stumble into Yennefer along the way, that will be convenient, but we cannot keep away from each other for long. We will run across one another sooner rather than later.”
“And Jaskier?”
He averts his eyes once more. “What of him?”
“Are the two of you drawn to one another by destiny, too?”
Not destiny, Geralt thinks ruefully. Only the freewill of choice brings us together.
“No. Our meetings are often happenstance, not guided by destiny.”
Ciri considers this for a moment. “Very well,” she says, primly, pushing her empty bowl away and reaching for the other. “If your priority is to get us to your home safely, then my priority is to find Jaskier and bring him with us.”
A piece of Geralt’s heart breaks off and falls, settling in the pit of his stomach at the insistence and ease with which those words were spoken. “Fiona, I do not think—“
He is cut off by the faint sound of lute strings being plucked a few tables away. The melody is quiet—more of a rehearsal of sorts than anything—but Geralt knows the tune instantly, having been the first person who ever had the privilege to hear it.
He stands, so abruptly he nearly topples the chair over, and pivots. His eyes search the room frantically, glancing over maudlin patrons who avert their attention to the bard who is perched atop the table in the middle of the space. His blood rushes in his ears, uncomfortably loud and full of rage.
It is not Jaskier. The bard has a talent for mimicking Jaskier’s tune nearly perfectly, but their hair is the color of wheat and their eyes are big and brown in their freckled, pale face.
Geralt sits down once more, taking a rather large sip of his ale. He winces when the bard starts to sing.
Ciri huffs. “It looks like finding Jaskier may be one of your priorities, too,” she says, not unkindly, and kicks Geralt’s shin beneath the table.
*
Geralt paid no mind to the footsteps lingering just outside the door until he hears the lock being picked.
He jolts out of bed, dislodging Ciri’s head on his shoulder. She wakes, confused and worried; she opens her mouth to ask a question but Geralt hurries to hush her.
“Quiet.” He motions to the corner of the room, where the moonlight doesn’t reach. “Hide.”
She nods, grabbing her dagger from beneath her pillow and falling easily from the bed to curl into the corner. She gives him a small smile, quick and fierce, and he nods, once, bending to pull his steel sword from beneath the bed.
He tiptoes toward the door, watching the knob rattle. He listens, noting that there are two heartbeats, aggressive and quick, and is conflicted to know that these intruders do not smell of sour vengeance or ripe anger.
How odd.
He readies himself, spreading his legs and bending his knees and holding the sword out before him, prepared for a fight.
The lock gives way a moment later. The knob turns slow, like cold honey, and when the door is pushed wide Geralt is perplexed to see that it’s the stablehands. They walk inside, clearly scared of Geralt’s sword but refusing to back down, and shut the door behind them.
He puts the sword down at his side. These boys are of no threat—he knows them all too well, it feels.
The taller boy meets Geralt’s eyes. “They are coming for you.”
“Who?”
“Nilfgaard,” the other boy replies, barely above a whisper. Geralt can hear Ciri’s terrified gasp, followed by the quickening of her heart. Still, though, she stays hidden, and he loves her for that. “The village sent a messenger when you arrived to alert the camp nearby.”
“You must leave before they get here.”
Geralt cocks his head to the side, considering. “Why should I believe a word the two of you are speaking?”
“A mutual friend sent us to check in on you and your daughter,” the first boy answers, stepping a bit further into the room. The moonlight, full and reaching like bony fingers from beneath the grave, touches eyes that shine with an inhumane glow. Geralt sees a mischievous grin, and a blood-tipped sharpness, and he knows, suddenly, and is filled with a peculiar sense of longing. “He will be upset to hear that you did not listen to his two favorite brothers.”
Geralt grins so large his cheeks hurt.
“Ciri,” he calls, motioning for her to stand and come to him. She does, hurriedly, and tucks herself against his chest. “Gather your things, quick and quiet. We must leave.”
They dress and pack, guided by the bone-white moonlight. The boys keep watch, one at the door and one at the window; Geralt observes them, openly, and notices that they hold themselves solidly, belaying the fact that they are more than simple stablehands.
Geralt wants to laugh. He should have known. And yet, even after all this time, his bard still surprises him.
“Your horse is saddled and ready,” the smaller boy says, holding the door open once Geralt and Ciri have gathered their meager belongings. “She is waiting for you in a grove of trees just beyond the village.”
“Thank you,” Geralt says, gruffly, but—he knows no other way to show his gratitude. He has never had to learn another way. “Thank you. I—“
“We must go.” The other boy appears, brown eyes wide. “Nilfgaard is approaching fast.”
“Come.” There is a fleeting touch to his elbow, there and then gone. “We will guide you away and distract the soldiers.”
Geralt nods, pensively awed. He takes Ciri’s hand in his and follows along after the boys. They take them down the servant’s stairs at the back of the inn, through the kitchens and past the innkeeper’s office; the backdoor opens into an alleyway that smells of piss and spunk. It bleeds into another alley, and then another, again, lit only by the moon, and soon they are out of the village, being pushed into a soft bush that gives way to a clearing.
In the middle of the clearing, shining and pleased with herself, is Roach. She’s standing in a circle of dandelions, a wonderfully painful reminder of Jaskier.
Geralt lifts Ciri onto Roach’s back, following after her. The boys have streaked away, barefoot and showing off their sharp teeth; Geralt urges Roach into a trot, thankful that Ciri can’t hear the blood choking the soldiers as they are ambushed by the two boys.
It occurs to Geralt, at that moment, that he never asked for either of their names.
*
Without all the memories swirling about in Geralt’s mind, he thinks it might hurt less to know that Jaskier is selflessly keeping tabs on him even after the awful words he said on the mountain.
*
I will never criticize Geralt for the decisions he makes that leads him into Yennefer’s arms because I know how difficult it is to ignore the direction your heart wishes you to travel in. I just wish, truly, that they would be kinder and gentler with one another. They are two of my greatest friends—whether they know and believe it or not—and
Yennefer, I want to say. Yennefer, hold Geralt in your hands gently and tenderly and softly. He is strong, but he has been hurt, and his heart is shattered in more pieces than he lets on.
And to Geralt, I want to say, Be careful with her. She is ruthless, with blood-stained lips, and I don’t think she would hesitate to lick your blood from her fingers.
*
When they find Yennefer, she is wading in a trickling brook of water and using the sleeves of her torn gown to wipe away the dried blood and ash on her face and body.
Geralt watches her for a moment, taking her in as a whole—as the most powerful mage on the continent—and then in pieces, bloodied cheeks and red-rimmed eyes and shredded clothing and raw fingertips.
It feels—liberating, almost, to see her. To feel the tight string of worry release just as abruptly as it was pulled.
Ciri looks up at him. “Is that her?”
“Yes.” Geralt nods. “This is Yennefer.”
Yennefer steps out of the water, walking closer until she is right in front of the Geralt and Ciri. “Geralt?” she speaks his name, tired and exhausted and, inexplicably, relieved. Her eyes widen, and then, “Geralt!”
She falls forward. He catches her—he will always catch her—and holds her close, gathering her in and pressing her cheek into the meat of his chest, just above his slow-beating heart. She wraps him in her arms, scratching broken nails into his armor, and lets out a noise that rattles his soul.
He brushes his hand atop her head. “I’m here,” he says, whispering the words into her matted, bloody hair. “It’s okay, Yen. I’m here. I’m here.”
He doesn’t know how long he holds her. Seconds bleed into minutes, minutes give way to hours—there is no use in measuring the passage of time when it doesn’t matter, truly. He would stand there, probably, for a century if it was what she asked of him.
Djinn wish or no, Geralt cares for Yennefer. Deeply. Such devotion cannot be fabricated, merely heightened.
Eventually, her shattered sobs drift into hiccuped breaths and she turns, pulling away just a bit, to look at Ciri, who has stayed by their side, unflinching and silent, the entire time.
“Cirilla?” Yennefer asks, quietly. There is an undercurrent of stupefied mystification in her voice—she’s wearing her heart on her sleeve and the dark pink blush on her cheeks is beautiful.
Ciri nods. “Yes,” she says. “I—“
Yennefer cuts the young girl off when she reaches out, grabs her shoulder, and pulls her into Geralt’s chest, too.
*
My parents ask after Geralt, often. They’re so old—more than two centuries, I think, but they have never discussed it. My sisters and I tease them for it, but I think all of us wish to have a partnership that lasts over time, too.
*
Later that night, after all three of them have eaten their fill of fish and Ciri has bedded down with her head in Geralt’s lap and her hand twisted in the skirts of Yennefer’s tattered dress, Geralt and Yennefer lean close together and speak, whispering beneath their breath as to not disturb Ciri.
“How badly are you hurt?”
Yennefer shrugs. “Not terribly,” she replies, encircling her left wrist with the fingers from her right hand. The dark skin is blemished, red and angry, as if she’s been burned from fingertip to elbow. “I escaped and that’s what matters.”
Geralt nods, detecting the somber tone in her voice and deigning not to reply. He chews at his bottom lip and runs his fingers through Ciri’s hair, undoing the snarls that have tangled at the ends. He wishes, again, that it was agreeable to allow her a proper bath at least once a week—her hair, the color of yellow starlight, is too beautiful to be weighed down with dirt and sweat and mud and rain.
“She’s beautiful.”
Geralt turns his attention to Yennefer. “She is, isn’t she?” He smiles and it startles something loose in Yennefer because she huffs a laugh and finds his hand, interlacing their fingers and bringing them to her mouth. She kisses the top of his hand, pressing so hard he can feel the teeth behind her lips. “Yen?”
“Jaskier and I stumbled into one another a few years ago, after the mountain,” she says, just above a whisper. “It isn’t the first time I’ve seen him by himself, but it’s the only time I was terrified. I thought you were too late to save her.”
“I almost was.” His admission is nearly lost in the ruffling of the leaves on the trees. “I thought you had died at Sodden.”
Yennefer grins, ruefully. “I am not so easy to kill,” she says, laughing softly before sobering. She lays her head on his shoulder, pressing into him. “I think, perhaps, I should have died. I burned everything.”
“That was you?”
“Yes.” She nods, once. “I did not know what else to do.”
“That’s okay.” He turns and pushes a hard kiss onto the top of her head, thankful that she is as alive as that fire was. “You did what you had to do to survive.”
She makes a noise in the back of her throat and leans closer to him. “Where are you two headed to now?” she asks, changing the subject.
“Kaer Morhen.” It doesn’t cross Geralt’s mind to lie—he trusts Yennefer with his life, as if she is part of his soul. “It’s the safest place I can think of.”
“Smart.”
“Come with us.”
Yennefer snorts, unpleasant. “Geralt.”
“Not—not like that,” he hurries to remedy, stuttering over his words. “You matter to me, far more than I can put into words, and I want you safe, too.”
She looks at him, hard; the sun has set and the moon has risen, shining as bright as a falling star and illuminating the firm expression on her face. “I will think about it,” she acquiesces, and Geralt breathes in, harshly, knowing that is all he can ask of her.
“Thank you,” he says, relieved, and offers her what he hopes is a smile. She returns it, gently. “I never apologized to you.”
“No, you didn’t.” Her smile grows. In it, he can’t see any malicious intent, which gives him a hope that soars in his chest. “You can now, if you wish.”
He nods, clearing his throat. “I’m sorry,” he says, simply. He can’t find a need to be dramatic and overly-frivolous in his apology—that is for Jaskier and Jaskier only. “I didn’t think about the pain my wish might cause you and I did not trust you to handle the djinn by yourself. I couldn’t see past my worry for your wellbeing and I let that cloud my judgement. I didn’t—I didn’t think, Yen, and I am sorry.”
Yennefer is quiet for a moment. Her brows are furrowed and her lips are pursed; Geralt can see her pouring over his apology in her mind, and just when he’s beginning to worry that it won’t be enough, she says, pensively, “No, you did not.” She smiles, then. “I will come to your home with you.”
“Yeah?”
She nods. “I’ll train Ciri,” she promises. “Gods know she’s going to need help with her Chaos.” She laughs, privately, and he thinks she may be reminiscing her times at Aretuza. “And I will look for a way to destroy the wish you made, too. I don’t want it.”
“I—“
“I know that not all of what we feel for one another is a product of the wish,” she begins, “but when I am away from you I feel more myself than I do when I am at your side.” She squeezes his hand, reminding him that she is tethered to him so intimately. “Do you understand that?”
He nods, swallowing around the lump in his throat. “I do,” he says, half-stunted.
“Good. Thank you.” She exhales loudly. “I care for you, deeply, but I cannot go back to what we had before. Neither of us benefitted and we deserve better.”
She does, certainly. “Yes, we do,” he agrees anyway, deciding it best to avoid an argument that his self-depreciation would surely bring about. He knows it’s something he needs to work on, but his priority right now is keeping those he cares for safe—working on himself can wait, dammit. “You said you ran into Jaskier.”
“I did.”
Geralt chews on his bottom lip. “How is he?” he asks, hoping he doesn’t sound too invested in the answer.
By the look on her face, though, he knows that he hasn’t succeeded in keeping his eagerness at bay. “He was doing well when I saw him,” she answers. “It was a few years ago, though. I’m not sure now but he’s a resilient bastard. I’m sure he’s fine.”
“Did you know he’s fae?”
She nods. “He hid it well. He spins a powerful glamour.” She notices the confused expression on his face and wrinkles her brow. “Did you not know?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “Not until I read his journal, that is.”
“His journal?”
“He left it in my saddlebags after the mountain, I think.”
“And you read it?” she demands, scoffing. She doesn’t wait for an answer, only breathes out through her nose to show him her disappointment. She keeps hold of his hand, though. “That is an invasion of his privacy. Whether he left it with you on purpose or not, you shouldn’t have done that.”
“I know,” he agrees, embarrassed for multiple reasons. “I know that, Yen. But Ciri handed it to me, and she had already opened up to the first page, and I read it, and I couldn’t help myself. It was all I had left of him.”
When he says it aloud, it sounds shallow and childish. Perhaps it’s because he doesn’t have the patience to gather and organize his thoughts into pretty words or maybe it’s because he is a selfish bastard who takes and takes and hasn’t learned how to give yet—it doesn’t matter. It’s the truth.
“He wrote about you,” he says, after another moment.
She barks a laugh so horrifically loud it unsettles Ciri. She makes a noise and twists, but Geralt pats her head, soothing her into stillness. “I can’t imagine it was good.”
He shrugs. “Read it.”
“Geralt.”
“You don’t have to read it all,” he says, removing his fingers from Ciri’s hair and reaching to pilfer through his bags. His fingertips touch the familiar front of the journal and he pulls it out, feeling a shadow of warmth wash over him as if Jaskier were here, at his side. “I’ll show you the parts where you’re mentioned.”
The look on her face is cautious but she takes the journal from his hand, anyway. “You have the entire thing memorized, huh?” she teases, but when Geralt doesn’t react she flickers her gaze up to him and blinks, nonplussed. "Oh. You do.”
He refuses to focus on the stunned tone of her voice and instead flips the journal open, turning to one of the pages that made his heart fat. “Start with this,” he instructs, pointing at the entry on the page.
Yen reads more than what she’s supposed to.
She closes the journal gently, clutching it in her hands. “He sure does have a way with words, doesn’t he?” she jokes, but it’s shaky and there’s a dark blush high on her cheeks. She meets Geralt’s eyes. “He loves you.”
Geralt nods, jerky. He has nothing to say—no words can compare to the way Jaskier has spun their life in his journal.
Yennefer hands the journal back to him, watching as he tucks it into his bag once more. “We get Ciri settled at Kaer Morhen,” she begins, with a finality that makes Geralt quiver and smile, “and then you and I are going to look for our bard.”
*
If people were colors, I think Yennefer would be purple. But not one single purple—oh, no, this enigma of a woman is every shade of purple, lavender and violet and lilac and plum and mulberry. Each color is a different emotion; she wears them interchangeably and it is stunning to see.
I have a favorite, though. Orchid, the color of her eyes when the light from the moon or fire hits her just right. She glows like a goddess, worthy of worship. I think that is when she is the happiest.
*
“You aren’t going to lose me, Geralt.”
Geralt looks up at Yennefer, putting his knife down. He raises a brow, prompting her to continue.
She huffs, crossing her arms. “When I find a way for us to break the djinn’s curse, you are not going to lose me,” she repeats, slowly, allowing Geralt to absorb each word one at a time. “You are one of my dearest friends and our relationship is more than that of a curse.” She smiles, crookedly, looking like a bright-eyed child all of a sudden. “The next time you need reassurance, you ignorant man, all you need to do is ask.”
He snorts. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he says, but his chest feels lighter, a negative weight gone, and he returns back to field dressing the rabbit with a smile on his face.
*
After that, time bleeds together in a pleasant haze. They risk a village to purchase Yennefer a horse; her and Ciri share, following Roach on the gelding they’ve dubbed Warrior, and the days are filled with gentle laughter and the nights are reserved for kind encouragement as Yennefer begins to teach Ciri how to control her chaos.
They travel from dawn to dusk. Ciri sleeps between Geralt and Yennefer on most nights; they talk over her, ghost-soft, until they are tired enough to rest themselves. Meals are eaten on the road and breaks are taken liberally; Yennefer and Ciri team together to raise Geralt’s hackles but it’s all in good fun and he doesn’t stay mad at them for long, especially on the nights the three of them sit on fallen longs and admire the twinkling fireflies.
It isn’t nice, but it is something. Something good, granted to them in their hellish trek to safety. Geralt has never seen Yennefer smile as brightly as she does when she is with Ciri. He wants to imprint the image in his brain, fold it away and tuck it safely somewhere that nobody can touch.
*
Geralt kneels down at the edge of the shallow stream and brings his palms together, splashing his face with the water he has gathered. The coolness feels heavenly on his heated skin, rinsing off the layer of sweat that’s been collecting since well before dawn. It’s been unusually hot for this late in the season; there will be one more thunderstorm before summer leaves and autumn begins.
He splashes his face twice more before standing and shrugging off his swords. “The water’s fine,” he calls to Ciri and Yennefer, who have stayed back to unsaddle the horses. “We can probably camp here for the night.”
Ciri wrinkles her nose and looks up at the sky for the position of the sun. “But it’s still early.”
He smiles at her, holding his arm out to her and drawing her close. “Yes, it is, cub,” he praises, pressing a kiss to the top of her forehead. “But it’s okay to quit early sometimes. There’s no harm in it.”
She beams up at him, grinning brighter than the light reflected on the moon, and pulls away to kick out of her boots and roll the legs of her breeches up to her knees. She darts into the water, gasping at the chill, and then, once she’s accustomed the temperature, she frolics about, kicking up and laughing until she is soaked to her thighs.
He smiles to himself, absolutely taken with his child surprise. The regret he felt at first for not going to her when he first found word of her birth has faded, slowly, through the days. He has her now and that is what matters the most.
Yennefer comes to stand beside him, staring into the side of his face until he gives her his attention.
“Yes, Yen?”
She blinks, once. “I want an inn tonight,” she tells him, matter of fact.
“There’s one a few miles ahead.”
“Good.” She kicks out of her boots and lifts the skirt of her dress up; she steps into the creek, hissing at the coolness, and looks over her shoulder to meet his gaze. “I’ve grown tired of washing off in streams and creeks.”
“It isn’t as bad as you’re making it out to be.”
She scoffs. “Of course not,” she says. “It’s worse.”
“Yen’s only saying that because she slipped and fell in the creek yesterday,” Ciri calls from down the streams. She’s leaning over, poking through the water-logged plants at the other edge of the bank. She grins at Yennefer. “Was I not supposed to tell him that, Yen?”
Geralt laughs when Yennefer blushes. “I can’t believe I missed that.”
“I’m glad you did.” Yennefer huffs. “You would have been insufferable.”
“I can be insufferable just as much right now.”
Yennefer’s violet eyes glint. “You would not dare.”
He grins. “Watch yourself, Yen.” He motions to the slippery green rock beneath her feet. “One wrong move too fast and you’re going down again.”
“How dare you?” Yennefer narrows her eyes at Geralt before turning her attention to Ciri, who’s cackling fiendishly down the way. “You traitor!”
Ciri says something in return, ever one with a snarking comeback, but Geralt cannot hear it because he is too busy laughing.
*
The three of them wander into the nearest village a few hours later, ushered along by the howling of wolves and distant claps of glee from the tavern. It sounds vaguely of thunder and rain; the voices of people singing along is similar to the beating of hail. Geralt always thought it was a sort of superpower, really, that Jaskier could handle a crowd of rowdy drunks.
While Yennefer haggles for a room, Geralt takes Ciri’s hand and leads her to an unoccupied table far enough away from the other patrons. A waitress ambles over, careful and bashful, and takes their order for dinner. Three bowls of hearty stew are brought to the table right as Yennefer returns, holding her head high as she takes a seat and digs in.
They eat with very little fanfare, asking for seconds and thirds; they’re too tired to speak, instead laughing lightly as they nudge each other’s shoulders when the bard performing for the evening fails to reach the notes that Jaskier always can.
After their bellies are full and Ciri is slouching against Yennefer’s side, yawning hugely and fighting sleep, the three of them head up the stairs and toward their room. They do as they always do when they’re sharing a room: Ciri and Yennefer bathe together first, behind a lilac purple privacy curtain that Yennefer whisks up with a flick of her wrist, and then the two of them, soft and puffy-red from the water, sit and plait one another’s hair on the bed while Geralt rinses off.
He gives Ciri and Yennefer the bed—not because he has some sort of weird complex with chivalry, but instead because he has gotten so accustomed to sleeping on the hard, uneven and unforgiving ground that it’s difficult to get a night of quality rest on mattresses made of hay and feathers that are so soft it feels almost as if he’s laying on a cloud.
Geralt drifts off to sleep, ushered into a dreamless rest by the faint sounds of Ciri and Yennefer’s giggles as the rain pours down from the sky.
*
The Solstice is approaching quickly and Mother insisted I return home to spend it with the family. I think she expected me to have lived out the wanderlust in my heart over the years I’ve spent traveling with Geralt, but I proved her wrong.
That first night, I washed in the room I was born in. It’s nothing special, peppered with knickknacks that I wish to keep from my travels and strewn with all my sheet music and clothing, and I thought of how nice it would be to have Geralt’s things among my things in my room. I imagined myself running out of a fresh tunic and using one of his, and wearing it throughout the day, and I imagined laying down beside Geralt that night and cuddling close and finding out where my last clean shirt had gone.
*
Geralt is counting out a few coins for the bartender when he hears the conversation that is happening between two men several stools down from him. It’s mid-morning and raining, still, even after a week; the inn is slow, sleepy, and he doesn’t have to focus as hard as he often has to in order to gather the details of what is being spoken.
“That bard—Jaskier,” says one of the men. “You know who I’m talking about?”
“Yes.” His companion nods; it’s a movement that Geralt catches from the corner of his eye as he holds onto every last syllable. “Rather talented, that one.”
“He’s dead.”
The man coughs, nearly spitting out the swallow of water he just took. “Pardon me?”
“Yes. Nilfgaard got him, cut him down.” He sighs, solemn—as if he knows Jaskier, as if he knows what kind of bright blue joy Jaskier brings to the world just by his smile. “Jaskier the bard, the one who travelled with the witcher, is dead.”
Geralt’s world burns to ashes, so light that the air carries it away as if it never really existed at all.
*
Like a man possessed, he ambles up the stairs and toward the room he’s sharing with Yennefer and Ciri. As he enters and takes a seat on the bed, they greet him warmly, having not noticed that he is shaking apart at the very seams. When he doesn’t reply to Yennefer’s teasing jibes, she reaches a hand out for him and interlaces their fingers.
“Geralt?” she prompts, easy and slow. Ciri brackets him on the other side, leaning against him heavily, as if she weighs enough to keep him grounded. “What’s happening?”
Brokenly, he tells them what he overheard downstairs. It was a rather short conversation—seconds, at the most—but he starts and stops, and starts again, and his words get jumbled and he trips over his emotions in a haste and he eventually leaves it to Yennefer to read between the lines and understand what he is trying to say.
And she does so beautifully, flawlessly. She is wonderful, brazenly flawed and perfect.
“Geralt.” Yennefer moves to kneel in front of him, gathering both of his hands in hers and holding them against her chest. “Geralt, listen—“
“Yen,” he says, cutting her off, and then, as small as a child, “Yennefer,” and she surges forward, wrapping him in her arms and squeezing so tight that it’s a wonder he can even breathe.
Ciri lets out a choked sob and slithers between them, somehow, and they hold onto her desperately, clinging because it is suddenly clear just how simple it is to never have this sort of thing again.
“It isn’t true,” she says into the wet fabric of Geralt’s shirt.
“It cannot be true,” Yennefer insists. Her voice is heavy and thick; her grip on his shoulder nail-biting and stubborn.
Geralt breathes thickly, uneven. “I have to find Jaskier.” He knows that no one involved as intimately with a witcher as Jaskier is will be treated fairly by those who wish to see them rot; he must find Jaskier, even if only give him a proper burial to a mangled body.
“After. Your obligation is to keep Cirilla safe.”
“Yennefer—”
Ciri’s cracked sob shatters against Geralt’s chest.
“He isn’t dead,” Yennefer insists once more. She pulls her face from his neck and meets his gaze with eyes of purple fire and squares her shoulders. “Do you not suspect that you would feel his death? After all the years you two spent side by side, do you not believe that you’ve forged a bond that even destiny shudders at when she is reminded of the power of true, chosen affection?”
She scoffs and shakes her head. Geralt wonders if she’s comparing their relationship with the one the two of them share separately with Jaskier. He hopes that isn’t the case.
“He isn’t dead.” Yennefer cradles his cheek with one hand and places the other on his chest, right above his heart. “You would feel it, right here. And I would, as well.”
He turns his face into the palm of her hand as his vision blurs.
*
There is a village in southern Redania where they dance in the forest beneath the full moons and believe that nobody is truly dead until all of the ripples they have caused in the world die away—until the wood he chopped burns away, until the treats she cooked are eaten, until the memories they made stop being passed down. The span of someone’s life is only the core of their actual existence.
I believe this. I do wonder, though—the span of my life is long, as it is with all fae, but how long will I truly live? How many years will my stories be told and my songs sung until they fade into nothing but ancient memories from a time long forgotten?
*
Geralt sneaks out of bed that night, pulling the furs up around Ciri’s chin and tucking her in tight. He does the same for Yennefer, too, and smooths the furrow between her brow with the pad of his thumb.
He leaves the village and heads into the woods and walks until all he can hear is the fluttering wings of the insects crawling around in the humid night air. He drops to his knees, lets his shoulders sag, takes a deep breath, and wails until his throat is raw, until he is sure that the forgotten gods buried beneath the ground and at the bottom of the sea can hear his agony and are terrified to turn away from the raw torture that is splitting his soul in pieces.
He hopes that, perhaps, if Jaskier truly is dead and on his way to the afterlife, that he may hear Geralt’s wails and turn around and come back to him, returned to him regardless of what Destiny decided. He does not wish to face what is left of this world without Jaskier’s peculiar shade of blue.
*
Once, I had a dream. It was me, Geralt, and the sea, stretched out before us as far as the horizon and beyond. I watched the sun set below the dark blue water; Geralt’s eyes, the color of sunshine, my favorite hue of yellow, never left my face.
*
The news of Jaskier’s supposed death has spread through the forests and flatlands between each village they visit. With its spread, a dozen false truths have sprung forth, each just as dizzyingly incorrect as the one before it.
Some claim that Jaskier was cut down on a highway by a throwaway soldier, plucking aimlessly at his strings. Others insist he fought hard for as long as he could before a blade was drove through his chest. Still, there are some who are adamant that an archer hiding high in a thick canopy loosed a single arrow that pierced his heart, leaving Jaskier to draw his final breath beneath a starry sky lit by a full moon.
The mismatched stories give Geralt and his girls hope. The spread of information by word of mouth always leads to a bit of hilarious miscommunication, as Geralt is well aware of. Still, though, the inconsistency of the stories give the three of them assurance that Jaskier is well and safe, if a bit banged up.
And if Yennefer has faith in Jaskier’s survival? Well, then, Geralt must, as well.
*
I have spent the last ten winter solstices in Cintra, playing to the court of the queen by day and then sneaking off with the cub at night. She is relentless and rebellious, Cirilla of Cintra—and I adore her so. She is witty and clever, and her tongue is flagrantly sharp and she cackles like the witches in the stories my grandmother told me do.
There is so much bravery and kindness and wisdom and power in her. I feel it, every time she takes my hands and insists I show her the chords to her favorite songs. Knowing her as I do is a privilege, one that I do not tend to ever let go of.
*
Several weeks after they first heard the news of Jaskier’s apparent death, Geralt hands the journal to Ciri.
She blinks down at him from her horse. “Are you sure?” she asks, softly, but there is excitement in her voice, buried beneath exhaustion and stress, and he knows he has made the right decision.
He nods. “Yes,” he says, screwing his lips in what he hopes is a passable smile, and turns to mount Roach.
Yennefer gives Geralt a peculiar look. She doesn’t say anything, though, but she does take the reins of Ciri’s horse to guide her as she reads through the journal in the pale blue light of dawn.
*
I cannot wait for Geralt to meet his daughter.
*
Ciri snuggles close to him that night, burrowing into his side. The fire rages in front of them, cloaked by Yennefer’s magic so the plume of smoke and light from the flame is not able to be seen. He wraps his arm around her shoulders and gathers her close, wondering how in all of the world he resisted loving his daughter for as long as he did.
“What is this about?”
He speaks lowly, softly, even though Yennefer is off, foraging in the forest by the light of the full moon for some sort of herb that grows one week out of the year and only in the southern region of Kaedwen.
“No reason,” she replies, finding one of his hand with both of hers and holding on tightly. “I just missed you, I suppose.”
He hides a laugh, enamored with the innocence of affection. “I’ve been beside you all day, Ciri.”
“Yeah,” she agrees, shrugging. “But you’ve been so far away, too.”
He opens his mouth to refute her claim, but he can’t because he realizes she is right. And not for any sort of unknown reason, but because she has read through the journal in its entirety and has been silent ever since save for this moment.
“I learned a lot about you, and Yennefer,” she continues on, fiddling with the callouses on Geralt’s fingers with her own. “Perhaps more than I should have, but I believe I’m old enough now.”
Geralt brings his hand up to her head and combs through her snarled hair, partly to soothe her but mostly to give himself something to focus on. “And what do you think of me now?” he asks, flippantly, but, really, he is worried—worried that Jaskier’s brutal honesty will have changed something in Ciri’s head and changed her perception of him. Of Yennefer.
And is that silly? Is it silly for him to be concerned about the way his daughter perceives him, as her parent and as a man? He thinks, quickly, of Vesemir, of how that old man never cared one way or another what others thought of him—of his bravery in kindness, of his apparent need to bring the most troubled witchers beneath his wings and give them guidance—and he’s suddenly reminded that he is not Vesemir’s son and Vesemir is not his father.
He is at a loss.
He misses Jaskier terribly, like the phantom ache of a long lost limb.
“I still love you,” she answers, simply—like it’s the easiest thing in the world to speak so plainly. Geralt is terrified of her power. “I just wish you hadn’t waited so long to find me.”
The breath Geralt dragged in catches in his throat. “I’m—“ he starts, stops, and pulls her onto his lap, into her arms. “I’m so sorry, Ciri.”
“Why did you wait so long?” she demands, and, oh, she’s crying, tucking her face into the thick cloth covering his chest to hide her hiccuping sobs. “Why did you wait so long to get me, Geralt?”
“I’m sorry,” he says, again, and it becomes a mantra. He whispers it into the top of her head, presses it into her temple as he puts a hard kiss there. “I’m so sorry, cub. I am so sorry.”
“I waited for you.” She fists his shirt and tugs so hard the collar cuts into Geralt’s neck. “I waited for you for so long!”
He shushes her, petting her back and smoothing his hand along her hair. He rocks her back and forth, back and forth, and her wails of anguish turn to whispered proclamations of her forgiveness and love, and she tires herself out, falling asleep in his arms.
When Yennefer returns, she takes one look at Geralt with Ciri nestled in his arms and sits beside them, tucking close and offering silent comfort. He feels gloriously, wickedly at peace; for a moment, everything is perfect, even though Jaskier is not with them.
*
Selfishly, I hope I’m present when Geralt finally meets his daughter.
*
Along the Gwenllech River, just south of Daevon, sits a small farming village. It’s nothing special—there’s no inn or tavern or whorehouse, but there’s a big barn full of straw and fur blankets shoved into a chest in the hayloft for when there are visitors.
When Geralt and Eskel were younger, without their scars and sad eyes, they found the village. They were surprised to be welcomed amongst the folk with open arms, and since that first time nearly one hundred years ago, they’ve introduced Lambert to the descendants of the people who treated the witchers like people instead of monsters and mutants.
Geralt insists they stop for the night. The townsfolk are excited to see him, gushing over the stories they’ve heard and the songs they’ve danced to; Yennefer and Ciri are nervous at first, but then two little boys grab each of Ciri’s hands and tug her to see the puppies their dog had earlier that week and she goes, baffled and laughing, and Yennefer watches after her with a smile on her face that grows when she’s approached by a small group of mothers, young and old, who start chatting with her animatedly.
Satisfied that his girls are occupied and taken care of, Geralt excuses himself for a moment and heads toward the tiny creek just outside of the village. Along the bank is a tall, half-dead pine that sits like a sentinel to the village; Geralt circles the trunk and smiles when he sees two folded letters stuffed inside an abandoned squirrels burrow.
He reaches in and draws out the letters. He unfolds one and begins to read.
Geralt,
The year has been long and tiring, but the coin is overflowing and handed over with increasing gratitude. I believe that to be partly your fault, and I must demand a proper explanation as to what it is you’ve done to bind yourself to a bard, a mage, and a child of destiny, because I am envious of the benefits.
Regardless, I will see you soon, brother. The stories I have to tell and the stories I cannot wait to hear are endless.
Love, Eskel
A warmth hotter than the sun envelops his chest and he smiles so large his cheeks begin to hurt. Eskel is… Eskel is. And that is explanation enough.
The second letter is from Lambert; if Geralt wasn’t sure by the process of elimination than he would be assured by the tone of the words on the page. Nevertheless, Lambert’s short, abrasive words make Geralt laugh.
Hi, jackass. It’s been hell. Can’t wait to see you and Eskel and the old wolf. Take care. Lambert.
Geralt folds the letters after rereading them over twice more each and presses them to his chest, as if he could push the paper through his skin and into his heart. There are no words in any of the languages he knows to adequately describe the amount of affection and care he holds in his heart for his brothers.
He can’t wait to see them.
*
Everything was going well. They’re a day’s ride out from Ard Carraigh and winter was only beginning to set in, teasing like a salacious lover at night beneath candlelight, and everything was going so well.
Geralt doesn’t hear the company of Nilfgaardian soldiers because he’s too busy listening to the way Yennefer’s laugh resounds amongst the evergreen trees as Ciri tells her a miscellaneous story of her times growing up in court beneath her grandmother.
The arrow whizzes past Geralt’s face, nicking his ear spitefully. A second is loosed, whistling through the tree trunks and imbedding in the pine just in front of Ciri. Geralt and Yennefer lock eyes and a hundred words are shared between the two of them before they dismount; Geralt draws his weapons and Yennefer gathers her chaos, replenished nearly completely since their reunion, and chaos ensues.
Ciri is kept is bracketed on either side by Geralt and Yennefer; he bats away incoming swords from unspecified hands and she keeps a lavender-colored barrier of a sort bubbling just a few inches from Ciri’s body. Together, the two of them fight like hell to keep their daughter safe—blood splashes and bones crack, and trees splinter and birds arc down for attack, and still the soldiers keep coming and coming and coming.
The onslaught is endless. Cut one down and three more take their place. Geralt’s arms are aching and Yennefer’s magic is wavering and Ciri is nearly hysterical, gathering her power, and then—
—and then it is all over.
“Jaskier,” Geralt breathes, mystified. He feels almost as if he is seeing Jaskier for the very first time again. “Jaskier, they said you had died.”
Glorious, bloody, alive, Jaskier pulls his dagger from the skull of the last soldier and sheaths it in the scabbard on his hip. “And you believed them?” Jaskier shakes his head with a quiet laugh, striding forward and taking Geralt’s hands in his. Their callouses, borne from two very different professions, sword and lute, touch and scratch; their eyes meet, and Jaskier smiles, and the rage of the world settles and Geralt is not as scared as he was once before. “Sweetheart, you know better than that. I’m not finished yet.”
*
I do not believe myself to be a morose man, but sometimes I cannot help but lie awake at night and think of nothing more than holding Geralt in my arms.
*
The four of them reach Kaer Morhen by daybreak. Geralt wrote to Vesemir weeks ago, promising to arrive for the season early with at least two guests and a multitude of hours spent before the fire after night has fallen explaining everything that has taken place the last decade.
Vesemir meets them at the gates, ruined and ancient as they are, and ushers the four of them up the walk and into the keep with nothing but a sharp, gently perplexed look thrown Geralt’s way. They’re fed a hearty stew full of potatoes and carrots and plenty of water upon entrance; Geralt is sent off to tend to the horses afterward while Vesemir gets to know the three new occupants of his home.
He spends too much time in the stables, mucking the stalls and pitching in fresh forks of hay for the horses. He brushes down Roach, and Ciri’s and Yennefer’s horses, too, and also Vesemir’s stallion just for the hell of it, just to pass time and collect the thoughts that are running viciously through his mind.
Since the ambush that preceded Jaskier’s abrupt return, Geralt has not had time to allow everything to wash over him. He lets it happen now, though, surrounded by horse piss and rain-rotted hay, and he takes a seat on a wooden bucket turned upside down and puts his face in his hands and breathes until the sun is tiptoeing at the horizon and the first snowflake of winter falls.
He has so much he wants to say, so much he wants to do. He never thought something like this could be possible.
This being a family—this being a handful of people that have seen the ugly darkness that lies heavy in Geralt’s soul and have decided to love him anyway.
*
“I showed them to their rooms,” Vesemir says as soon as Geralt walks inside, shaking the powdery bits of snow out of his hair. “They were tired to the bone and very nearly collapsed not long after you ran off to hide from them.”
Geralt blanches, but he doesn’t say anything. Vesemir is right, after all. The old man’s always been able to see through the young boys in his charge and Geralt’s never been any different than his brothers.
“The girl—Cirilla.”
“Ciri.”
Vesemir’s mouth twitches, almost a smile. “Ciri,” he repeats, testing the name. “She is the granddaughter of Calanthe.”
Geralt nods. It’s all he can do.
Vesemir sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I always knew you would send me to an early grave,” he complains, shaking his head. “Just what the fuck did you do to piss off Destiny so much, cub?”
Geralt pours himself a mug of ale, sits across from Vesemir at the table, and lays the past ten years out for the man who raised him. Vesemir listens to everything, nodding along and humming, and when Geralt is finished, the old witcher pulls Geralt into his burly chest and holds on tighter than he ever has before.
*
Before Geralt heads off to his room, he stops by Yennefer and Ciri’s quarters. He’s quiet as he turns the brass knob and pushes the door open just far enough to slip through the crack left behind. Years sneaking in and out of every room in the keep during the night have taught Geralt how to walk with a light foot and he’s silent as he ambles to stand beside Ciri.
She’s covered up to her neck, wrapped in two thick blankets and snuggled in a feather pillow. Her blonde hair—clean, washed and soaped and oiled, probably from Jaskier’s doing—fans out. It’s soft to the touch and fluffy, everything he thinks clouds feel like.
He kisses her on the temple, gently. “I love you,” he whispers into her ear, smoothing the furrow of her brow with the pad of his thumb until her face is at ease.
Geralt stands and quietly makes his way around the bed to stand next to Yennefer. She is laying on her side, curled into the bed. Her hair is down, spread about in a mess of black curls; her lids flutter in her dreams.
He runs the tip of his finger along the bridge of her nose. He wishes, desperately, that he could have been everything that she wished for and more, but he can’t find it in himself to feel guilt for the way they came together. It would’ve happened, eventually, and he’s glad it’s already in the past because the idea of not having Yennefer in his life is something he doesn’t wish to ever entertain.
“I love you, too,” he says to her, pressing his thumb to the bow in her bottom lip. “I love you so much.”
Speaking those words to both of his girls, after all this time, is freeing. Part of the oppressing weight on his shoulders has lessened and he feels as if he can breathe a bit deeper, a bit better.
*
How long have I loved Geralt? Since the moment I very first saw him.
*
Geralt isn’t surprised to see Jaskier waiting in his room for him when he finally arrives. He’s wearing a long white night shirt and nothing else; the moon, full and bright, shines through the cracks in the curtains and illuminate him like a god. He seems ethereal, untouchable; Geralt shuts the door behind him and moves no further into the room for fear he’ll disrupt the unearthly atmosphere.
“Jaskier,” Geralt says.
Jaskier turns away from picking through the books shoved haphazardly onto a shelf and gives Geralt a beaming, gorgeous smile. “Hello, dear,” he replies, like a lullaby.
Geralt steps forward and opens his mouth, but he closes it when nothing comes out. It has been so long—weeks that have stretched into months—since Geralt first read that damned journal, and he had something to say for each and every passage written, no matter how terribly it hurt to have his heart splayed open by the gentle and kind words, but now he cannot seem to find his voice.
And, well, that’s normal around Jaskier, isn’t it? There’s just something about the man that keeps Geralt’s tongue tied more often than not.
He wishes to apologize for the way he’s treated Jaskier in the past and swear to be a greater friend in the future. He wishes to divulge the onslaught of emotions that have been mounting inside of his soul since he read the journal the first time. He wishes to thank Jaskier for understanding him in a deep, raw sort of way and never casting him in a negative light no matter how many times he fucked up.
He wishes to express the magnitude of his love for Jaskier and all that he is, in ways he never has before with anyone—not any of the witchers he had flings with as a child, not any of the villagers who asked him to warm their beds, not even Yennefer. But he isn’t sure how.
“Jaskier, I—“
“It’s okay, Geralt,” Jaskier cuts him off and strides forward until the two of them are chest to chest, heart to heart. The smile on his lips is gentle, delicate. Dangerous. “I forgive you. And I have missed you so much, my love.”
He reaches forward and twines his arms around Geralt’s neck, pulling him close and shoving his face into the warmth of his throat. He smells of lavender and pine and honeysuckle. Geralt feels—everything: the hardness and heat of Jaskier’s bare body, hid beneath a thin white sleep shirt, and the fluttering of his pulse beneath his cheek, and the way he bends and folds to mold himself to Geralt until there is not a single space between their bodies.
He falls into the feeling of wholeness with ease. His arms rise and wrap around Jaskier’s waist, holding him so hard the hem of the sleep shirt he’s wearing gathers high just beneath Geralt’s hands. He tucks his face into Jaskier’s throat and breathes, and breathes.
There is so much Geralt wishes to say. So much.
But.
He remembers a passage from the journal, suddenly—
Sometimes I wonder what life would’ve been like if I would’ve met Geralt when we were children. Would I have seen his hair go white? Would it be red or brown? Would he laugh as he played in the mud after the rain? Would we have raced each other up trees to see who could climb the fastest? Would we sneak away after our evening meal and find constellations in the stars with each other?
—and he clings to Jaskier as if he will otherwise drown because, surely, he would be lost in the bottom of the deep blue sea without him.
“It was brown,” he says in a rush that jumbles all his words together until they are nearly incoherent.
Jaskier laughs, lightly, and the breath of his mirth tickles the hair that lays softly against Geralt’s temple. “Pardon?”
“Before the trials, my hair was dark brown. It curled. My eyes were green, like creek water. I laughed a lot. Life was difficult, but I was growing up with Eskel and it was okay. And then Lambert came, and he cried and only hushed when I held him, and I gained another brother.”
“Though I am delighted you’re sharing this with me,” Jaskier says, petting at the back of Geralt’s head, “I’m not sure why.”
Geralt sighs and presses himself into Jaskier, hard, for three more moments before he pulls back and bends to rifle through his bags. He pulls the leather journal free from its hidden place and stands; he faces Jaskier and holds the journal against his chest, as if it’s a shield of the onslaught of confessions that are about to bombard him.
“You left this with me,” he answers, nearly as quiet as the snow that is falling outside the window. “I’ve read every page a hundred times.”
Jaskier folds his arms across his chest and smiles. “What did you find?”
It’s difficult to look Jaskier in the eye, but Geralt breathes as even as he can and does so anyway. “You love me.”
“I do.” He nods, once, resolute and definitive. “I have for ages, it feels.”
“Why did you leave it?”
“It stayed with you.”
Geralt blinks. “What do you mean?”
“I kept it in your bags,” Jaskier answers, much like Ciri had when she admitted that she loved him. He is surrounded by brave, loving souls; it’s a shame it’s taken him so long to realize that. “I thought it was safer there than in mine.”
A surge of white hot fury rages in Geralt’s soul. “I carried this?” he demands, loudly. Jaskier does not flinch at the pitch of his voice, though, as if he ever has save for that cursed day on the mountain. “I carried your memories and your love of me around for over two decades?”
“Yes, my dear.”
“Why?”
“You know why.” Jaskier smiles once more, tender and peaceful. “You’ve read it all.”
Geralt shakes his head. “Tell me anyway,” he demands, uncaring of the selfish bite in his tone. “I want to hear it from your voice.”
Jaskier sighs and takes a step backward. “I wanted you to feel love when I wasn’t with you,” he says, quietly, as he folds his arms across his chest and looks away, off to the side. “That book is made of my memories, and so I thought—“
“You thought it would do. You thought it would work as a substitute for the real thing.”
Geralt is desperate for Jaskier to understand—memories cannot be embraced the same as a body. Memories cannot be held and touched and kissed; memories cannot sit in quiet and peace the same as a body can. Jaskier, alive and present, is worth far more than carting about a book of romantic memories and decades of pining.
“I thought, perhaps—“
“How dare you?” Geralt winces when he hears how biting his tone sounds and asks, after, more soft, “How dare you keep this from me?”
Jaskier looks up, confused, and slants his head. “Geralt?”
Geralt makes a frustrated noise and moves forward, until the two of them are chest to chest once more. “I didn’t—I thought I was unworthy of being loved for so long, Jaskier, and I only just realized that I have been loved all along,” he explains, hurriedly, tripping over his words as he does so. “By Vesemir, by my brothers, by Yennefer, by Ciri, by you. I thought I could never have this.”
“What is this?”
“This.” Geralt reaches out and gently grabs Jaskier’s shoulders, more for a tether than anything. His heart is beating quickly, thumping in his chest; he feels breathless and terrified at the possibility of having everything he has longed for. “Family. Love. I thought—“
“With me.” Jaskier cradles Geralt’s face in the palm of his hands. “Have it with me.”
“Yes.” Geralt nods, laughs. “Yes.”
Jaskier kisses the smile off Geralt’s face sweetly, holding Geralt as if he’s a precious treasure. His lips are soft, chapped; Geralt thinks they’re perfect, thinks Jaskier’s perfect, and his hands fall from Jaskier’s shoulders to his waist where he gathers the fabric of the sleep shirt in his fists until he can touch the bare skin of Jaskier’s inner thighs with his fingertips.
He pushes Jaskier backward, never letting him go, until the two of them hit the bed and tumble onto the mattress. Their lips catch and slide; Jaskier laughs like a child, lovely and bright, and Geralt licks the joy out of his mouth and swallows the noises of pleasure that fall.
They fuck each other slowly, unhurried and reverent. He makes Jaskier come with his hands first, touching slowly and firmly, oiling the palm of his hand and his fingers so Jaskier can fuck forward and behind, whining from filling and being filled. When he comes, his eyes shut and his mouth opens and Geralt is awestruck, unable to look away until Jaskier reaches for him. Jaskier touches his body, too, scarred and broken as it is, with the tips of his fingers first, and then his hands, and then, still, his lips and mouth and tongue, until he is swallowing around Geralt’s cock long after he’s released.
Afterward, they lay together, satiated and bared and sweaty, speaking lowly until Jaskier falls asleep in his arms, cheek smushed into the skin above the meat of his heart.
There is so much more to say, over two decades worth of missed communication that needs to be brought to the surface and understood between them, but that can wait till the morning. There is no need to hurry; they have time.
*
It’s like this—the world is full of stories that have been told for centuries, kept around for years because they offer comfort in times of unknown certainty. But I want to tell a different story. I want to tell Geralt’s story. He’ll be talked about for years with little thought to the man who barked his praises, and that is as it should be. I don’t care to go down in history. That’s for Geralt. As long as they remember who he is, how kind and strong and human he is and how much I loved him, I don’t care about my legacy at all.
*
When Geralt awakens hours later, it’s to the sun on his face and a bed still warm by Jaskier’s body. His scent, pine-crisp and honeysuckle-sweet, lingers like the touch of a god, and he knows he isn’t alone. He rouses and looks around and sees Jaskier in the window, dressed in a pair of cotton trousers and one of Geralt’s shirts. He’s holding his journal in his hands.
“Jaskier,” Geralt says, for no reason other than he simply wishes to.
Jaskier looks up and lays the pen on the page, shutting the journal. “Good morning, my darling,” he says, crawling into the bed once more for a kiss, and Geralt smiles.