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The first words out of Lambert’s mouth as he walked through the keeps doors of Kaer Morhen were, “Did you hear the fucking song?”
Eskel, who had arrived a couple days earlier for the winter, was sitting at one of the long tables, quickly looked at his brother with a hungry grin. “Holy fuck, yes.”
Lambert stalked to sit down heavily across from Eskel, his face fixed into a shocked expression. “I have never made so much coin in one season.”
“Where did it come from?” Eskel asked. “How the hell did Geralt get a song?”
Lambert threw his hands up. “I don’t know!” He slumped, dropping his chin to his fist. “I want a song,” he grumbled.
Eskel shook his head. “There’s no way Geralt would tell anyone any of his contracts. The most he shares is the name, sword, dead. And that’s fucking it.”
“You think a bard just made it all up?”
“Why would they though? Why would anyone just willingly sing the praises of witchers?”
Lambert huffed, giving his brother a disbelieving look. “What, Geralt made a friend? A friend who’s a bard who wrote a song about him?”
Eskel stared at him. Then he started laughing. “Okay, fine. Hell, I don’t know Lambert. We’ll just wait until Geralt’s back, then ask him.”
“Well,” Lambert said, crossing his arms. “I don’t care how it happened if it means I make this much coin every season.”
Geralt made it to Kaer Morhen almost two weeks later. As soon as he opened the door his brothers cornered him like prey. But Geralt didn’t budge, only sending them a disgruntled look. “What?”
“What’s the deal with the song?” Lambert asked, his eyes narrowed. Geralt stared at him, an eyebrow raised. Eskel thought he looked like his horse when he came back from a hunt covered in just a bit too many guts. Heh.
“What song?” Geralt grunted.
“You know what I’m talking about.”
“I don’t know shit.”
“I’ll sing it. I’ll fucking do it.”
“The hell are you on about.”
Lambert raised his chin defiantly, to Geralt’s disdain, and cleared his throat. “Toss a coin to your-”
Geralt shoved his brother's shoulder roughly, causing Lambert to protest. Loudly.
“Fine! Fine,” Geralt growled. Lambert’s mouth shut in anticipation, a feral grin overtaking his features. “Yes, I know the song. What about it?”
“Who wrote it?” Eskel asked, beginning to smile as well. “How did it happen?”
Geralt sighed. “A bard. Wouldn’t leave me alone.”
Lambert scoffed. “What, so a bard just annoyed you into writing a song?”
Geralt’s silence was so, so loud. Then he huffed, shouldering his way past his brothers into the keep. Eskel shot a look at Lambert, who was grinning widely.
“This is pretty in character for you, Geralt,” Eskel said as they followed their brother farther inside. “So, they nice? You make a friend?”
“He’s not my friend,” Geralt grumbled. Eskel rolled his eyes. Typical.
“Right, clearly. Well, if you see him again, thank him. Me and Lambert have never gotten so much coin in a season.”
Geralt nodded, his head obviously somewhere else. He walked away, and behind his back Eskel turned his head to Lambert. “What’s up with that?”
Lambert shrugged, watching Geralt as he walked away. “I dunno. Maybe the bard was actually an annoying little shit, wouldn’t be that hard to believe.”
“Why would he write a song about a Witcher though?”
“Fame? Coin? Trying to get in his pants? I don’t fucking know, Eskel,” Lambert said, rolling his eyes. “Whatever. I’m not questioning it, unless Geralt says it’s a problem.”
Eskel shrugged. “Alright then. I was just hoping he made a friend.”
See, Geralt wasn’t the type to make friends. Witcher’s were the same, in general. But with Geralt it seemed as if he actively avoided it. Like he deserved to be alone for the rest of time. He had always been quieter than most, but after Blaviken, well… Geralt only hurt himself more by believing that’s all he deserved. Being alone.
Eskel wished this bard could be something more to Geralt. Even just someone he could trust. Eskel sighed. If only.
-
The next year, more songs were sung about Geralt. When questioned, Geralt only replied just the same as last time. Annoying bard. Annoying songs.
Eskel was doubtful. If Geralt really hated him, he could easily abandon the guy. When asked, Geralt had replied succinctly. “Stubborn,” he had said.
Fine, fine. Geralt had no friends. Wonderful.
The Witchers ate dinner together like always, telling stories of their time on the path. Lambert across from Eskel, Geralt at his side, Vesemir at the head. A fucked up little family, if you will.
“So, I’m tracking through the woods, not a sound but my own breathing,” Lambert said, leaning forward. “A werewolf, is what the man told me. Possibly 2. So I’m being careful, as always you know me, when I hear a sound. A scratching. And I’m thinking, ‘Here we go, there’s the fucker.’ I raise my sword, lunging through the grass, and there!” Lambert paused theatrically, his hands held up in front of him in anticipation. “The biggest goddamn raccoon I’ve ever seen scratching its ass in the woods.”
Eskel snorted, grinning behind his ale. Vesemir shakes his head. “They get stupider every year, boy.”
“Exactly! Wanted to give me a shit in of coin for it too. A raccoon with a butt rash.”
Eskel laughed, and took another swig. A few moments passed, and he looked to his brother, and noticed Geralt was staring at his own ale with a soft smile on his face. Eskel nudged him with his boot.
“What are you smiling about?”
“Hey!” Lambert protested, dropping his food. “I’m sure he just liked my raccoon story, didn’t you Geralt?”
Geralt raised his head, his lips twisting down. “Hm.”
Eskel rolled his eyes. “Come on, out with it.”
Geralt met his eye, before looking down again. “Just imagining what Jaskier would do with that story.”
Vesemir furrowed his brows. “Jaskier?”
Geralt grunted. “Bard.”
Lambert grinned. “Hell yes. That bard would adore my stories.”
“A song about an ass scratching raccoon?” Eskel said incredulously. “What, you trying to get him booed off the stage?”
“Everyone would love that song, Eskel. You’re just a bitch with no taste in music.”
Eskel tackled him.
-
Geralt had arrived at Kaer Morhen before the other two the following year. Only Vesemir was there to greet him. Finally, blessed silence.
Geralt pulled the old Witcher into a hug, before Vesemir pulled back suddenly. “What’s on your shirt, boy?”
Geralt looked down at his black shirt. He had forgoed the armor this morning, in an attempt to not aggravate his injured arm. “What do you mean?” He asked.
Vesemir raised a brow, and pinched the fabric over Geralt’s shoulder. Geralt pulled it down to look at it with narrowed eyes. And then he saw it, a brilliant yellow flower sewn over the seam.
He sighed. Jaskier.
Geralt huffed, fixing his shirt. “It ripped. Bard offered to fix it. I didn’t know he’d sew a fucking flower.”
Vesemir was smiling, looking at his wolf fondly. “Maybe you should wear flowers more often, Geralt. I think it looks nice.”
“Hm.” Geralt shuffled past the Witcher, dropping his bag onto the table.
“So, this bard,” Vesemir began casually. Geralt resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “You see him every year?”
Geralt grunted. “Yes.”
Vesemir nodded, humming in response. “That’s nice.”
Geralt blinked. “…hm."
-
“He won the bardic competition this year.”
Lambert paused, looking at Geralt. “Really?”
They had been discussing music, oddly enough. Which they preferred when they entered a tavern after a long hunt. Eskel liked the fast paced jigs, livening up the gloom of a monster-ridden town. Lambert, surprisingly, liked the softer ones. Softly sung, maybe about love, or a soft moment seldom found on the Continent. Geralt’s response was short.
“Songs that are true.”
This of course turned the discussion to the infamous Jaskier.
“Huh,” Eskel replied. “Good for him.”
“Wish I could actually hear him sing,” Lambert huffed. “I only hear the knockoffs.”
Eskel nodded, then was struck with a memory from months ago. “Once I found some bard trying to pass off Jaskier’s music as own. Once he realized what I was, he shut up real quick.”
Lambert laughed, but Geralt gave him a knowing look. “Was it Valdo Marx, by chance?” Geralt asked.
Eskel raised his brows. “It was, actually. How’d you-?”
Geralt scoffed, trying to hide a smirk. “He’s Jaskier’s rival, apparently.”
Eskel grinned. “Well, he was shit.”
“I’ll be sure to tell him,” Geralt said. “Not that his ego needs anymore boosting.”
Eskel figured it was good the bard had confidence if he spent his time with a Witcher. He wondered if the bard was ever scared of him.
Lambert gripped Geralt’s shoulder tight, leaning forward. “Why don’t you bring him for the winter sometime? We could use some entertainment.”
Geralt’s face twisted as he grimaced. “Hm.”
“Damn, what’s that face for?” Eskel asked.
“I doubt he’d want to,” Geralt replied. “Probably not a good idea.”
Lambert rolled his eyes. “Nah, it’ll be fun. Think about it!”
Geralt didn’t respond, but he looked lost in thought. Eskel looked at Lambert with a brow raised.
Ever since meeting that bard Geralt has been… different. More willing to speak. Kinder. More open. It was strange, and they didn’t know how to react to it. Eskel wasn’t used to it.
He distantly realized that Geralt may feel the same.
-
“He won’t wear the right fucking shoes.”
Lambert burst out laughing. They had been venting about their respective seasons, naturally. Look, being a Witcher was a rough gig. The least they could do was vent to people who would actually understand.
“No matter how many times I tell him how shitty his boots are, he doesn’t stop. It’s not like he doesn’t have the coin, he’s always buying something. But those fucking boots-“
Eskel was laughing now too. Vesemir, bless him, was listening with an open expression.
“-Bard’s been doing this for years but still doesn’t want to change his boots for fucks sake.”
“You could buy him new boots?” Vesemir asked.
“Or just leave him behind-“ Lambert interjected, but Geralt ignored him.
“I did, Vesemir. Fuck. He’s too, ‘emotionally attached’ or some shit.”
“Well, humans and their emotions, you know,” Vesemir said with a knowing look.
Geralt grunted. “More like Jaskier. He’s got more feelings than I knew existed.”
Lambert's brows raised. “Sounds complicated.”
“Are you two friends now?” Vesemir asked curiously.
Geralt sighed. “No.”
“How?” Lambert asked. “It’s been years, Geralt.”
“Doesn’t make us friends.”
“What, he a dick or something? He insult your hair? Your muscles? Roach?”
Geralt glared at him. “No, Lambert. We’re just not.”
Vesemir hummed thoughtfully. “Whatever you feel is best, boy.”
Well. That’s bullshit. Geralt wouldn’t know what’s best if it bit him in the ass.
So Eskel told him just that.
Geralt put him in a headlock.
-
Vesemir didn’t know what to think of Geralt’s bard. That’s what they had taken to calling him, Geralt’s bard. Of course Geralt wasn’t too pleased to hear that. But about the bard… he seemed stubborn, like the wolf said. After all these years Geralt came back to Kaer Morhen with more stories and comments about Jaskier. It was always random, when he brought him up. Geralt wasn’t one to tell stories. But whenever a topic came up that reminded him of his bard, he tended to say so.
Apparently, Jaskier was a talkative one. Vesemir didn’t know how Geralt dealt with it, considering the fact that if conversations went on for too long between the wolves, he would just walk away without a word.
Vesemir wondered how Geralt acted around his bard. He hoped the wolf treated him well.
Breakfast in the keep was a rowdy thing. The Witchers were used to getting up early, so they tended to be fairly energetic early in the morning. The boys surrounded each other at their table, stealing food and chatting anyway. Geralt, however, was fiddling with his spoons under the table.
“The hell you doing, Geralt?” Lambert asked, breakfast still in his mouth. Geralt sighed, holding his spoons over his thigh.
“Trying to figure out how to play these.”
The other Witchers stared at him. “…uh, what?” Eskel asked with a laugh. Geralt grunted.
“I don’t really know, Jaskier can play these like an instrument.”
“Ooh!” Lambert said, grabbing spoons for himself. “I want to try.” He then started slapping his leg with them. Aggressively.
“Well that’s not it,” Vesemir said idly. Lambert stuck out his tongue.
Eskel then decided he had to try as well.
And now three Witchers sat around their table aggressively smacking spoons against their legs.
Vesemir didn’t bother hiding his laugh at their growing frustration.
“He makes it all look so easy,” Geralt said, dropping his spoons on the table.
“How many instruments can the boy play?” Vesemir asked curiously, thinking back to what Geralt previously mentioned. A lute, for sure. He didn’t know what else.
Geralt scoffed. “So fucking many, I’m sure I don’t even know them all.”
“Seems smart,” Eskel said, now hitting his spoon on the table instead. Geralt grunted.
“Doesn’t even seem like anything unusual to him, he just enjoys it,” Geralt said quietly. “But he doesn’t mind that I don’t know any of it. Just offers to teach me, if I want.”
Vesemir hummed in response, thinking about this young bard who seemed never to have shown anything but respect to the Witcher.
“I want to meet him,” Lambert added. “Seems too good to be true.”
“He’s annoying,” Geralt replied quickly, like it was simply muscle memory.
Vesemir scoffed. “Right, so annoying you can’t help but talk about him whenever you get the chance.”
Geralt narrowed his eyes, glaring at the old Witcher. “I don’t.”
Lambert and Eskel just shared a look.
Seems like no one had a good read on this bard. Not even Geralt.
For years, Geralt had come back to Kaer Morhen with more things to say about Jaskier. He had never done anything like this before, unlike the others. He was a loner, through and through. Vesemir silently thanked this mysterious little bard.
-
It didn’t last.
The next year, Geralt wouldn’t say a word about Jaskier. Anytime anyone asked, he would snarl and snap until they backed off. He was being a little bitch, honestly.
Eskel called a family meeting minus Geralt. They hid in the stables. Roach wouldn’t snitch.
“Okay, what the fuck happened?” Eskel began, looking at the others worriedly. Around them, horses neighed and whinnied their own frustrations.
Lambert threw up his hands. “I don’t know! Geralt won’t say anything. And I haven’t heard a thing out on the Path; bards are still playing his songs without crying or anything so I doubt he’s dead.”
“That’s where your mind went? That he died?” Eskel asked incredulously, glaring at his brother.
“Humans die, Eskel! It's a possibility!”
“I feel like Geralt would be mourning if he died, not being pissy.”
“This could be how he mourns!”
Vesemir finally held up a hand to silence their arguments. The two wolves looked to their elder. “We need to think of what’s most likely. This bard’s been traveling with Geralt for decades, he’s not just going to roll over and die.”
Lambert and Eskel silently agreed.
“Could he have just gotten hurt?” Lambert asked. “That’s happened before, right? Something with a djinn?”
Eskel hummed. “Yeah, but Geralt seemed fine after that. Mad, sure. But now he won’t even let us mention Jaskier, something’s different.”
The other two nodded, looking down in thought.
“Could he-“ Eskel started, wringing his hands together. “Could he have just left Geralt? Decided he didn’t want to travel with him anymore?”
Vesemir blinked. “That… could warrant his reaction, I suppose.”
Lambert groaned. “Fuck, no. I don’t think so. It’s been, what, 20 or so years? No one would just up and abandon a guy unless they were really a dick.”
Eskel shrugged. “Yeah. I dunno.”
“I don’t think this speculation is going to do us much good,” Vesemir said. Lambert muttered a few curses about the old man always ruining their gossip, but he was silenced with a glare. “We can’t know unless Geralt decides to tell us. Let’s just back off a bit, maybe he’ll come to us,”
Yeah, okay.
……
He didn’t. He definitely didn’t.
Geralt didn’t so much as speak the word ‘bard’ the whole winter, only brooding and moping before leaving once more for the path. The other Witchers could only watch as he didn’t allow himself a bit of happiness like he had found with Jaskier.
The wolves lived not knowing how to help, or whether they could help at all. They didn’t know a thing.
-
When Ciri found Geralt, she couldn’t get a read on the Witcher. He was reserved, never shared too much of himself if he could help it. But it was clear he cared about her.
They started traveling together. Geralt said he was taking her to Kaer Morhen, the home of the Witchers. Where they were created. Ciri was a bit anxious, but it was better than being dead, she supposed.
She missed Cintra.
Ciri was on Geralt’s bedroll. The Witcher didn’t have one, he could sleep just about anywhere he had said. And he could always just meditate, apparently. Weirdo.
But Ciri couldn’t sleep. She was so, so tired. But she couldn’t bring herself to close her eyes and see everything she knew and loved be destroyed, again and again.
She sighed, fiddling with her sleeves. She could see Geralt sitting next to her, staring at the fire.
“Geralt?” She whispered. Geralt grunted in response, turning his head slightly. His eyes practically glowed in the firelight. “I’m sorry.”
His eyebrows furrowed. “What do you have to be sorry for, Cirilla?”
She clenched her jaw. She didn’t know what she was doing, this was ridiculous. She should just shut up now, let Geralt brood or whatever it was that he did. But her mouth betrayed her.
“I miss my home,” Ciri said softly. Geralt didn’t reply for a moment. He looked back at the fire, the flames making shadows on his face.
“Even the smallest things,” Ciri continued, like the Witcher cared. “The smell of the flowers in my room. The sounds of everyone eating dinner. Oh,” she smiled, long forgotten memories coming back to her, “I miss the music. There was always so much of it, from so many different people. It was beautiful, Geralt. I miss it.”
She turned back to Geralt, and found he was watching her with an unreadable look in his eyes.
Geralt hummed. “It’s alright to miss it, Ciri.” He raised his head, looking far away. “I… miss things too.”
“Like what?” Ciri asked curiously, desperate to know anything about the man destiney ruled she would meet.
“Hm.” Geralt didn’t meet her eye, still looking far off into the night. “Music, like you.”
Ciri felt herself smiling, even if she didn’t particularly feel happy. “Can you tell me more?” She asked, knowing it was unlikely. But Geralt surprised her.
“Jaskier,” Geralt muttered. “A bard. Used to travel with me. Turns out… I miss his music. I miss…” he cut himself off abruptly, clenching his jaw.
“What happened to him?” She asked softly, silently fearing the answer.
Geralt sighed. He was silent, unmoving. Until- “You should get some rest.”
Ciri huffed. “Come on, Geralt-“
“Shh,” he said as he began to lie back. “Maybe I’ll tell you in the morning.”
Ciri crossed her arms. “You know damn well you’re not telling me shit.”
Geralt snorted. “Goodnight, Ciri.”
-
Lambert was on his way to Kaer Morhen yet again. Hopefully, if the weather permitted, he would be back the next day. But ohohoho.
He was damn well happy he stopped at this tavern.
The bard in the corner finished retuning his lute, then cleared his throat. “And lastly, I will close my set with Master Bard Jaskier’s newest composition, a story of betrayal, and just a dash of heartbreak. Here! Is Burn Butcher Burn.”
Lamberts quickly turned his head to the bard performing at the tavern. Lambert didn’t recognize him, why would he, but this. Oh this he had to hear.
The Witchers knew exactly who the Butcher was. They were willing to bet Jaskier did too.
I see you’re alive,
How disappointing.
Lambert choked on his ale.
Holy fucking shit.
Lambert's eyes never left the bard as he belted the song, energy in every lyric. The bard finally made it to the end, standing in the corner of the tavern on the final word, resulting in uproaring applause.
Lambert distantly knew that Jaskier sang it better.
He also knew that his brother was an asshole.
This song… ohhh he knew Geralt fucked up. He should’ve known. He fucked up the best thing to ever happen to him.
Lambert slammed down his tankard, ale sloshing over the sides, but he didn’t care.
He was making it to Kaer Morhen tonight.
Hours later, Lambert bust open the doors of the keep with a bang, and watched Geralt turn to look at him in annoyance. Lambert glared. “What. Did you do.”
-
“What song, Lambert?” Geralt asked tiredly.
“Your bard!” Lambert yelled, throwing his hands into the air, pacing back and forth in front of the Witchers. And a little blonde girl he elected to worry about later. “Fucking hell, Geralt. Your bard you won’t so much as mention wrote the break up song of the century and you don’t know what you did?”
Geralt glared. “That’s not what I said,” he growled.
Lambert wanted to punch him in the face.
“The song, Geralt. Burn Butcher Burn. Your bard’s fancy new song that’s the biggest hit to ever roam the continent.”
Eskel laughed. “I can’t believe I haven’t heard it.” The girl nodded vigorously.
“Are we talking about Jaskier?” She asked.
“Yup,” Lambert said, turning to look at her for the first time. “How do you know about Jaskier?”
“Geralt mentioned him once,” she said, shooting a look at the wolf. “But jeez, he made me think he was dead or something, the way you talked about him, Geralt.”
Geralt grumbled, pointedly avoiding eye contact.
“Okay seriously though,” Lambert said. “He’s fucking pissed. I mean-“ he cleared his throat. “I hear you’re alive, how disappointing.”
Eskel choked on his drink.
Ciri snapped her head to Geralt. “Ooooooooooooh.”
Lambert continued. “I’ve also survived, no thanks to you.”
“You’re a horrible singer,” Geralt muttered.
“I mean seriously!” Lambert cried, opting to skip to the worst parts. “All those lonely miles that you ride
Now you'll walk with no one by your side
Did you ever even care
With your swords and your stupid hair?
Now watch me laugh as I burn all the memories of you”
Geralt was holding his head in his hands. “Fuck.”
Everyone else stared at him. He raised his head slowly. “I fucked up.”
Vesemir shook his head, speaking up for the first time since this started. “Well, boy. You gonna fix it?”
-
Geralt was gone the next morning.
“He went to find his bard,” Ciri had said smugly. “You all are supposed to protect me while he’s gone.”
Lambert blinked. “… who are you again?”
-
The next time the doors to the keep opened, it had been weeks. Until finally, Geralt came home. But he wasn’t the only one.
“Should I be nervous? I’m a bit nervous, Geralt,” the bard rambled as they entered through the keep’s doors. “I mean, they’ll love me of course. Who doesn’t? Other than, well, everyone who's ever tried to punch me in the face which, frankly, is a rather surprising number-“ he cut himself off suddenly, his entire body freezing mid-motion. His eyes widened seeing everyone staring at him.
And then he grinned, a brilliant smile that had even Vesemir in shock. “Julian Alfred Pankratz, it’s such a pleasure to meet you all. And you, you beautiful people, since I love you all, can call me Jaskier.”
“Everyone calls you Jaskier,” Geralt said, crossing his arms behind him.
“Well, I do love most people,” Jaskier said, moving further into their home. His coat flowed behind him, a brilliant red that somehow brightened Kaer Morhen itself.
Lambert stood up suddenly, bringing all attention to him. He approached Jaskier with his arms crossed. The bard waved a hand. “You Witchers have a class of some sort on looking intimidating? Because that, good sir, is an art. Truly.”
Lambert now stood directly in front of Jaskier, his head tilted down. And then he grinned, reaching out and eagerly shaking the bards hand with two of his own. “Hi, I’m Lambert, big fan.”
Jaskier laughed. “Well! That’s lovely to hear! It took Geralt decades to be nice to me. Decades, dear friends. I’m so glad I won’t have to write break up songs about the rest of you.”
“You idiot,” Eskel told his brother. Geralt grimaced.
“Did you apologize, wolf?” Vesemir asked.
Jaskier chuckled. “Oh, he definitely did. Practically groveled at my feet. I honestly thought he was about to cry.”
Lambert laughed maniacally. “Good! Melitele knows I wouldn't let Geralt lose the only reason we actually made coin these past years.”
“Oh, all in a day's work,” Jaskier replied. He moved closer to Geralt, who was leaning against the doors. “Of course, my dear isn’t entirely forgiven yet. An apology means nothing unless he tries to do better.”
“Get ‘em,” Eskel muttered. But Geralt just nodded, looking his bard in the eye.
“I’ll do my best,” he said softly.
“And that’s all I ask,” Jaskier said. He turned around, looking back at the table. “Now!” He walked over, and took a seat next to Ciri. “You, darling, I don’t believe I know.”
-
Having Jaskier at Kaer Morhen was a much easier adjustment than expected. His color brightened the halls, bringing a kind of joy they hadn’t found before. Jaskier was bright. He brought optimism wherever he went. They could all see how Geralt grew to care for him.
But, now that they met him, well…
They wondered how deep that care went.
The decades of Geralt tenderly mentioning this bard started to make a bit more sense, seeing how the Witcher looked at Jaskier in person. He was soft for the bard in a way they hadn’t seen before.
Of course, it wasn’t all perfect.
Anytime Geralt caused a minor inconvenience the bard began humming or singing Burn Butcher Burn nonchalantly until Geralt got him to stop.
Eskel thought it was fucking hilarious.
“Please stop asking Vesemir for embarrassing stories.”
“Did you ever even care, with your swords and your stupid hair?-“
“Jaskier.”
Anyway, they were all glad the bard joined them. Geralt especially. His crankiness from last winter practically disappeared when Jaskier sent him just a single look. He could be described as almost… fond.
-
“Did you ever go to the Coast?”
Eskel froze, hearing his brother's voice carry down the hall. It was the dead of night, only silence to be found in Kaer Morhen. Other than in Geralt’s room. But who…
“No,” came the bard's voice, soft in the dark. “I got a little caught up, you know how it is.”
Geralt chuckled softly. “Do you… still want to?”
Eskel attempted to escape their notice, creeping silently down the hall. Melitele forbid he took a walk at twilight.
“I do,” Jaskier said after a moment. “If I ever get the chance.”
Geralt didn’t answer for a moment, his silence heavy in the air. And then-
“We can. In the Spring. If you… wanted to travel with me again.”
Jaskier laughed breathily. “Of course I do, Geralt. You’ve showed me so much kindness I don’t know what to do with.”
“…You deserve much more, Jask.”
Eskel finally decided this was not a conversation he should be present for. He crept past as quickly as he could, watching his breath in the cold mountain air.
-
Ciri jerked awake, her breath coming in gasps as she ripped her blanket off from where they tangled around her.
Nightmares again.
She cursed, hating the feeling of burning tears forming her eyes. She didn’t want this. She didn’t want to feel this anymore.
She jumped out of bed, and rushed to find Geralt.
It was stupid, so fucking stupid but she couldn’t help herself from searching for a little bit of comfort on this goddamn continent.
Her feet echoed on the cold stone as she brought herself to Geralt’s door. She knocked softly on the hardwood.
“Ciri?” She heard Geralt call softly, so she pushed open the door. Geralt was laying curled on his side, blearily picking up his head to look at her.
But Jaskier was curled around him.
“I’m sorry!” Ciri whispered. “Sorry, I didn’t know he was here, I’ll go-“
“It’s alright Ciri,” Geralt said, his voice soft. “He won’t wake until noon at least.”
Ciri snorted, crossing her arms around herself in the cold. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“You’re not,” Geralt said, his voice rough with sleep. He patted the space on the bed next to him, and Ciri shuffled over. “Nightmares?”
She nodded, curling up beside the Witcher. Jaskier had an arm wrapped tight around his waist, and his forehead pressed against Geralt’s neck. “He’s a cuddler,” Ciri whispered humorously. Geralt smiled.
“Mmhm. He also squirms, so keep a lookout.”
Ciri muffled a laugh against the blanket. “I didn’t know you too were-“
Jaskier snuffled, wiggling a bit as he tried to bring Geralt impossibly closer to himself. Ciri froze, trying not to wake him.
“He won’t wake,” Geralt said.
Jaskier snorted. “You’re so ridiculous,” he mumbled. Geralt’s eyes widened.
“What the fuck.”
“I’m thinking the same thing,” Jaskier said, eyes still closed as he cuddled his Witcher. “I thought you could hear my breathing or something. Even heartbeat, I don’t know. Come on, impress me.”
“Hm.” Geralt narrowed his eyes. “I think you’re just so annoying, you know when the best time to wake up and be a nuisance is. It’s too powerful for me to pick up.”
Jaskier gasped. “Rude, Geralt rude. Don’t make me start singing again. I will! Don’t test me-“
“Not like I would mind,” Geralt huffed, grabbing onto Jaskier’s hand around his waist. He pulled him close, and closed his eyes. “It’s a good song.”
Jaskier leapt up from the bed, jostling Geralt in the process. “You like Burn Butcher Burn?”
Geralt grumbled, burrowing further into the blankets. Jaskier gasped, shoving the Witcher's arm. “Seriously?! You never deign to tell me your thoughts on my other songs, other than blithering insults, but my epic ‘Geralt ain’t shit’ song is the one you like?”
Ciri stifled a giggle.
Geralt sighed, running a hand over his tired face. “Yes.”
“What the fuck Geralt.”
“Your voice sounds nice.”
Jaskier gasped, his mouth opening and closing rapidly as every emotion to exist flashed across his face. “Well, that’s it. Clearly I must have perished in a heroic and sexy battle, only to be teased in the afterlife by Geralt the demon telling me he likes my voice-“
“It’s nice when you sing angry.”
“Fucking, fuck Geralt. What the fuck.”
Yeah. Ciri grinned as she curled up against Geralt’s chest.
She was glad Jaskier was here.
He was a light that Kaer Morhen had been missing, a note sung in an empty hall making it full of life.
He reminded her of humanity in a way these powerful Witchers couldn’t. While a Witcher wouldn’t spare a second glance at a weed in the ground, Jaskier would waltz in with a bouquet of dandelions and place it in the middle of their dinner table.
He sang everyday, of the little extraordinary parts of life that were so easy to forget.
He reminded her of home.
-
Who was this bard?
Geralt didn’t know for the longest time. He was a nuisance. A fool. A pest.
But over the years… Geralt found himself missing him. Over those old winters before Jask was there, Lambert would tell a stupid joke and Geralt would turn just to see the look on the bard’s face before realizing he wasn’t there.
Geralt… wanted him around.
He didn’t want to be alone anymore.
Finally, Geralt figured it out. He got his head out of his ass. He apologized. He was still apologizing, really. He knew Jaskier had forgiven him, but. He wanted to. He tried everyday to be better.
This bard… was someone he loved.
He loved Jaskier. And he wouldn’t stop.