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Chapter Text

Jaskier found Geralt alone in their bedroom, his mind and hands busied with a torn shirt that rested over his lap. The witcher’s focus was so absolute that he didn’t even turn his head to look when Jaskier entered through the door.

“Geralt, my dearest darling,” The bard crooned to his wolf, stepping lightly across the room to the bed. “Vesemir is occupied with his studies, and your brothers are busy getting drunk over gwent. Perhaps it’s time we...we take advantage of...Geralt? What are you doing?” He found lust quickly giving way to curiosity as the witcher carried on with his task.

Geralt carefully held a sleek silver needle between his thick, calloused fingers. His eyes, glittering gold in the light of the fire, focused on the garment held in his grasp, as if it were a fleeing stag and they a pair of hungry wolves on the hunt.

“I’m mending.” Geralt hummed simply, never once looking away from his work. Those big powerful hands of his moved so precisely, dragging the needle quickly through the fabric like a knife cutting through butter. His movements were so practiced and natural. It was rather soothing to watch.

“I didn’t know you could sew, dear heart.” Jaskier spoke softly, gazing at his lover whilst Geralt went on with his stitching. The witcher bristled at the statement but only slightly.

“We need our clothes to last.” He explained himself to the adoring bard at his side. “Better for someone to learn to repair them than waste our coin on a tailor.”

Jaskier hummed, observing closely as Geralt worked the last few sutures into the sleeve of Eskel’s crimson tunic. He was good at this. The gaping hole in the fabric had effectively been tied up, and now the sleeve looked as if it had never been ripped.

Geralt’s urgently offered explanation made Jaskier want to role his eyes. Did his witcher really feel ashamed of such a necessary knack?

“You do know what a vital skill this is?” He inquired of his wolf. “Especially for men who are always on the road. Sewing up your own clothes saves a lot of time as well as money.”

“Hmm.” Geralt grunted, seeming to relax again as Jaskier watched over his shoulder. The acceptance from his partner was reassuring enough to let the wolf be at peace in the presence of an audience.

“You’re quite a talent, Geralt.” Jaskier offered gently, running a slow hand across the outside of the witcher’s thigh. “If I didn’t know any better, I would have thought that weathered old tunic to be as good as new.”

“Hmm.” Geralt breathed slowly, bringing the thread to his mouth and giving it a quick bite to break its bond with the needle. He began to tie up the end, making sure that the repairs weren’t made obvious by a poorly fashioned knot.

When he’d finally finished, there was no evidence of damage to be found on the fabric, and Geralt carefully folded the shirt in his lap, setting it aside on the bed.

Jaskier noticed the basket at his wolf’s side when Geralt bent to collect another tunic from its bounty of ruined clothes. This one was black in color, as most of the witchers’ clothes were, and in much worse shape than Eskel’s red top had been.

“Bring me the spool on the mantel.” Geralt requested, the jagged edge that his voice usually boasted reduced to carefully filed steel. “The black thread.”

Jaskier nodded and got up from the bed, hurrying to the hearth. His eyes wandered over the supplies that Geralt had set out to work with. Several spools of different colored thread stood front and center, accompanied by a variety of needles, all various sizes and lengths, a few silver thimbles, and some extra rags to be used for patching more serious damage.

“Fuck.” The white wolf muttered in frustration, collecting his bard’s attention again.

“What’s happened, my love?” Jaskier asked gently, bringing him the spool of dark thread as he’d asked.

A low growl came up from the witcher’s breast as he inspected the shirt he now held. It didn’t take a genius to uncover the issue once they got a good look at the ruined cloth, ripped in so many places that it was hardly holding itself together.

“Little prick’s had this torn to shreds.” Geralt sighed, standing up from his place on the edge of the bed and crossing the room to his wardrobe. “It can’t be helped now.”

Jaskier was about to ask why Lambert’s destroyed tunic required Geralt to go rooting through his own clothes, but in the end there was no need.

“I’ll have to take this in a bit to fit him.” Geralt muttered, mostly to himself, as he pulled one of his own black tops from its hanger and came to sit back down in front of his bard.

Jaskier swore that he could feel his heart melting, watching Geralt take up his needle again and loop the black thread through its eye. Here was the vicious “Butcher of Blavikan” quite literally giving his little brother a shirt off of his own back, without hesitation or complaint, and even mending it with his own hand so that it would fit properly. A butcher indeed. Jaskier nearly scoffed at the thought out loud.

“What are you smiling at?” The witcher raised a brow, though his eyes never moved from the task at hand.

Jaskier rested his chin against his wolf’s shoulder, content to watch him while he labored with his sewing. “It’s just sweet of you is all.” He grinned. “I’m sure Lambert will appreciate it.”

“I doubt it.” Geralt grumbled. “Doesn’t matter anyway. Can’t have him wandering around naked. It’d make us all look bad.”

“We’ll agree to disagree on that.” Jaskier gave a naughty chuckle against the witcher’s ear. “Personally, I’d enjoy it if all of you lovely witchers were to wander around naked.”

“No.” Geralt muttered, the hint of a smile playing at the corners of his lips. “If that came to be, the fool who mends all of our clothes would be rendered useless in his own keep.”

“Oh, I doubt that.” The bard giggled, playing with a long strand of snowy white hair. “I can think of several other uses for said fool’s talented hands.”

“Hmm...Your blue doublet needs patching in the collar.” Geralt reminded his beloved then, settling into his work on the black tunic. “Fetch it for me. I’ll fix it once I’ve finished with this.”

Jaskier looked stunned.

“Geralt, I meant...”

“I know.” The witcher stopped him. “I can show you how talented my hands are later. First I need to finish with all of this...Bring the doublet. I know it’s your favorite. I don’t want you to have to throw it out.”

Jaskier did, and as promised, Geralt mended the collar to near perfection.

“Better?” He questioned when Jaskier pressed a hard kiss against his mouth.

“Oh, darling, it’s perfect...” The bard nearly sobbed. “Pieced back together by the hand of my dearest treasure.”

There was a song in this somewhere. Jaskier was sure of that.

He vowed to find it later, once he was finished giving his compliments to the handsome tailor in his bed.

Chapter Text

“Hello, Jaskier.” Eskel smiled warmly when the door to his makeshift workshop opened slowly, wooden frame scraping against the castle’s stony floors.

When the bard stepped inside the room, he was taken aback first by the heavenly aroma of mint. It was a bit more subtle than he was used to, but the smell was definitely still there.

“Have you been pilfering my bath oils, wolf?” The bard inquired of the scarred witcher, who laughed as he busied himself with a large cauldron bubbling over the hearth.

“Not this time, no.” Eskel assured the curious human, beckoning Jaskier forward when he lingered in the doorway. “Come in.” He told him. “I could do with some company.”

Jaskier approached the fire as soon as the invitation was offered, watching with great fascination when Eskel cast a small igni sign to give the boiling pot a bit more heat.

“Bee’s wax.” The witcher answered the bard’s first question before it could even be asked. “That’s what’s in the cauldron. I’ll have to strain it once it’s boiled long enough.”

Jaskier raised a brow, more questions forming a nice orderly line upon his tongue. “What exactly are you doing with bee’s wax?” He began.

Eskel was all too eager to show him his work, taking the bard by the hand and leading him over to a second fire burning from a pit made in the middle of the floor. Another cauldron, this one smaller with less bubbling, was placed above the simmering flames. It contained a wax like substance as well, though it looked to be a bit whiter in color.

Next to the second cauldron, a massive oaken table sat with several tools that Jaskier couldn’t make out placed upon it.

“Eskel, what in Militele’s name are you...”

“Shh, just wait and I’ll show you.” The witcher assured the bard, taking up a strange wooden rack from his table of mysterious devices. The odd object had several long pieces of thin rope hanging from its base, and Jaskier watched with wonder as Eskel lowered them down into the cauldron of wax. When he pulled the rack back up again, Jaskier began to understand.

“You’re making candles.” He announced his conclusion aloud. “I’ve never actually seen it done before. You had me baffled, dear wolf.”

Eskel snorted, taking the rack of dripping across the room where a few others of it’s like were hanging from the wall. “This castle is huge and we burn a lot of light.” He explained. “Can’t afford to buy our own candles so I make them myself.”

Jaskier’s eyes drifted curiously to the remaining tools on Eskel’s work table. Most of what was left unknown to him were the rows of empty wooden cups lined up neatly near the cauldron.

“What are these for?” He asked.

“Ah, those are special.” Eskel replied, stirring the wax with a massive wooden paddle before he moved on to a third cauldron, this one the smallest, that contained the smell Jaskier had caught upon entering the room.

“What’s in this?” The bard wondered, tugging at Eskel’s sleeve to get his attention.

The witcher smiled and lifted the iron pot from its spit. “Mint and lavender.” He answered. “It’s supposed to be relaxing. Or so I keep hearing, anyway. Seems to work...Watch this. I’ll show you what the molds are for.”

Jaskier stepped back to give the crafting wolf his space, and Eskel moved over to the table with the little cauldron. He tilted the bowl upward with cautious hands and then one by one, the wooden cups that lined his work surface were filled with the scented wax.

“Ohhhh those are the bigger candles then.” Jaskier smiled. “They smell incredible. Very potent and calming.”

“I hope so.” Eskel hummed, returning the empty cauldron to its rightful place before he stepped over to the largest again and stirred it for awhile. “I make the lavender mint candles for Lambert.”

Jaskier nodded, understanding without having to ask anything more. “I suppose they probably help to settle him.” He guessed.

“After a fit. Yeah.” Eskel confirmed, joining him again at the table and placing a gentle hand against the small of the bard’s back. “Geralt likes to use them too sometimes. He lights them when he goes off to meditate...Anyway, most of the stuff I make here is just for lighting the halls. Keeps Vesemir’s study lit all hours of the night too.”

“You’re quite an accomplished craftsman.” Jaskier smirked up at the much larger witcher.

“Nah,” Eskel blushed, nervously rubbing at the back of his neck as he took a seat at his table. “Just tryin to help out the family. It’s nothing special.”

“I respectfully disagree, my sweet wolf.”

Eskel chuckled and waved his hand, motioning for Jaskier to sit down with him. “I could teach you a few things if you want.” He offered, taking up a small knife with a thin, flat blade and then carefully removing one of the newly formed candles from its mold.

“I would be delighted to learn anything you wish to reveal.” The bard assured the witcher, watching as rough, massive hands began to carefully sheer the delicate wax into a perfect shape. “You have very steady hands, witcher.” He smiled at Eskel.

“It’s a blessing.” The wolf replied, moving his knife gently to trim unwanted wax from the candle’s top. “Steady hands give you plenty of control with signs.”

“That’s why your magic is so strong, I’d imagine.” Jaskier hummed, entranced by the witcher’s careful efforts. “Those steady hands are good for a number of things.”

Eskel blushed again, letting out another chuckle. “Looking for attention, huh?” He asked Jaskier. “Is that why you came to find me?”

“Actually Vesemir wanted me to tell you that dinner was nearly ready.” The bard confessed. “But I must admit, attention does sound lovely. If only we had the time.”

Eskel stopped working and turned a pair of playful golden eyes to the human. “Sit down.” He offered, patting his knee. “You can help me finish these then we’ll go to dinner...and then I’ll give you all the attention you want.”

Jaskier grinned and moved to sit in Eskel’s lap. There, he was shown exactly how to trim the excess wax from a finished candle, and once he’d made a few of his own, Eskel offered him a handful to keep.

“These are lovely.” Jaskier told him, picking out the few candles that he wanted. “I really am impressed by your talent, my dear. You should be proud of yourself.”

The witcher shook his head. “Like I said, I’m just helping to look after the family.” He insisted again, gently lifting Jaskier from his lap and then getting up from his seat to join him. “Any way I can do that, It’ll be done. No questions.”

Jaskier placed his hand into Eskel’s own. It was much larger, even more massive than Geralt’s, and the calluses and scars on the Witcher’s skin were heavy and hard to miss. Power beat within him, stronger than any man. He could do so much damage with such hands. Yet, he could also create. He could be gentle and controlled and put away all of the power in his bones when required.

And Eskel loved. He loved his pack so very much. The fact that he’d gone to so much effort strictly for the benefit of his father and brothers was not something that was lost on Jaskier.

“You’re the most darling witcher that’s ever lived.” The bard told Eskel as the witcher allowed himself to be pulled towards the door. “Has anyone ever told you that?”

Someone really should. Eskel deserved all the love he could handle.

Chapter Text

It was entirely by accident that Jaskier found his way to the forge below the castle.

He’d been unable to sleep and figured a short walk would help to tire him out. There were a few parts of the witchers’ keep that he hadn’t gotten a good look at anyway, so he set off on a bit of a late night expedition.

The hammering he could hear from the main hall and the common area where he often sat with his wolves in the evenings. It was rather loud and sounded as if it were coming from below the castle floors, where the hot springs flowed into the bathing area.

From there, came the discovery of a secret chamber that laid beneath the keep, and of course, being deadly curious of this new revelation, Jaskier had been forced by his own unreasonable wonder to explore the room.

“What the fuck are you doing in my forges, lark?” Lambert was on the defense as soon as Jaskier had let himself in through the doors.

The bard, however, was unfazed by the young wolf’s prickly tone.

“I wasn’t aware that this castle had a working forge.” He hummed, eyes wandering across the room to try and take in everything he possibly could.

Swords, axes, and all manner of weapons were hung from the stone walls. A massive forge, heated and crackling with bright red flame, lay in the center of the space. At its right, there was a barrel filled with icy water, and to the left, a polished stone table held a bounty of newly finished metal work. Lambert was standing there, a smithy’s hammer in hand, staring at Jaskier with dangerous eyes.

“You know, when most people come across a secret room in a castle that isn’t theres, they at least knock before barging in.” The witcher was quite obviously not pleased with this sudden intrusion, and really Jaskier couldn’t blame him.

“Forgive me, darling.” He pleaded gently. “Curiosity got the better of my reason, I suppose.”

“Hmm.” Lambert gripped his hammer tight and stepped back over to the forge, getting back to work on what seemed to be a shoe for a horse. “Look around then but don’t touch anything.” He grumbled at the bard, who nodded straight away.

“Of course.” He agreed. “I’ll be quick about it, I promise.”

That’s what he intended. It truly was. However, being the person that he’d always been, Jaskier simply couldn’t help but ask every question that came to his mind, prolonging his stay in Lambert’s forge until every query was satisfied.

“These swords here...” The bard inquired first, coming across a rack of shimmering blades that were stored into a special rack for weaponry. “Did you make them yourself?”

“Every last one.” Lambert confirmed. His tone was still sour, but the pride hidden beneath that couldn’t be missed. Not by Jaskier.

“Lovely work, my dear. Absolutely beautiful.” The bard praised the youngest witcher. He liked that, even though he would probably never confess to it. “Geralt never told me you were such a talent. Shame of him! I would have commissioned something for myself.”

Lambert snorted at that and Jaskier turned to look at him with accusing eyes.

“Something funny, my wolf?” He inquired with a raised brow.

Lambert was quick and to the point, blunt as ever with his opinions. “You couldn’t wield a sword, Jaskier.” He smirked as he hammered another horseshoe into its proper shape. “I doubt you could even hold one properly.”

Jaskier’s jaw dropped and his hands dropped to rest threateningly against his hips. “Well someone needs a nap!” He huffed at Lambert. “I’ll have you know, my darling pup, that you are speaking to a master fencer!”

“Fencers don’t use real swords.” Lambert smirked, amused at Jaskier’s posture and outraged expression. “There’s are skinny and useless.”

“Skinny and...! Well! You are very fortunate, sir, that I find you so appealing!” Jaskier declared bravely.

“I’m just telling you the truth.” Lambert chuckled. “Maybe you ought to try something smaller. A dagger maybe.”

“Let us just agree to disagree on this matter.” Jaskier muttered, properly embarrassed. He turned again to look over the weapons that Lambert had made. There were many, and all were equally lovely, but one in particular caught Jaskier’s eye.

It was a silver blade, long, thick, and sharp, the kind that most witchers carried. However, the handle of the sword had been crafted into something quite spectacular. The metal was gilded, glittering bronze lighting up in the face of the forge fires, and the very end of the hilt had been painstakingly wielded into the detailed shape of a growling wild cat.

“I said don’t touch anything.” Lambert growled out another warning when Jaskier moved to stroke the shimmering sword. He hadn’t even realized that he’d reached for it but he pulled his hand back immediately at the witcher’s request.

“It’s beautiful.” He offered, an apology for his overstepping Lambert’s clearly laid boundaries. “The handle is so precise.”

“Special order.” Lambert grunted. “Keep away from it, alright? It’s important.”

Jaskier nodded and stepped away from the swords, moving next to a wall that was filled with metal plates for armor. “You aren’t recruiting a secret ring of assassins, right?” He asked Lambert as he gazed at the sheer number of armor pieces littering the room. “That might be something I’d have to mention to Vesemir.”

Lambert looked up again from his work. “If I were, you’d be the last to hear it.” He told him before giving a jesting smirk. “Those are for us.” He confessed the truth. “Incase you haven’t noticed, a witcher’s armor doesn’t tend to last long. Old silver locks is especially careless with his, so I keep a fair sized inventory.”

Jaskier was quite surprised by this and he blinked at the young witcher as if he were some vision bred of too much ale. “All of their armor?” He questioned Lambert. “You make all of it?”

Lambert hummed a confirmation. “Ever met a smith who trusted a witcher enough to patch his armor?” He growled then. “I haven’t. They don’t exist. That’s why I learned to make stuff here.”

Jaskier frowned, ashamed at humanity once more for their harsh treatment of the wolves. Lambert was frowning as well, his attention focused back on the forge as he gave a series of violent swings with his hammer.

The subject of conversation needed changing.

“What’s that you’re working on now?” The bard inquired, lowering and slowing his voice to what he hoped was a soothing tone. He approached the witcher cautiously, but without any fear for himself. He didn’t want Lambert to feel intruded upon again.

Golden orbs met gentle blues and the fire in the wolf’s eyes slowly began to settle. It was quelled even more so when Jaskier placed a loving hand against Lambert’s. Touch always seemed to settle him more than words ever could.

“Geralt told me that Roach needed better shoes.” The young witcher explained. “Scorpion too.”

That was a half truth. Geralt had uttered such a thing, but it had been to Eskel, briefly, over their morning meal a week before. Lambert had just been nearby, his witcher’s ears picking up on the conversation. Apparently he’d taken it to heart and elected to help his brothers out. Jaskier’s heart swelled at the thought.

“He and Eskel will be glad to miss out on dealing with the local livery men when Spring comes again.” The bard confirmed the witcher’s hopes. “It’s good of you to do this for them.”

Lambert hummed awkwardly and nudged Jaskier away. That was alright. He needed his space and Jaskier understood.

“Right then,” He yawned, stepping back from the forge. “I’ll leave you to your work, my darling. Sorry for the interruption. It won’t happen again.”

Lambert sighed, lifting one last finished horseshoe from the fire with a pair of massive clamps and lowering it into the water barrel to cool. “I don’t mind.” He muttered. “Just knock.”

“I will.” Jaskier promised, blowing a kiss goodbye to the wolf before taking his leave from the forge. “Goodnight, dear witcher.”

A few days later, Lambert found him in the library and pushed a sheathed dagger into his hands. The weapon had a beautifully crafted handle made into the shape of a lark.

“That’s not a toy.” He told Jaskier. “Don’t use it unless you have to or you’ll hurt yourself.”

The bard was at a loss for words for once in his life and all he could utter was a very heartfelt “thank you”.

“Hmm. No trouble.” Lambert assured him, though Jaskier knew better than that. “There’s silver laid into the steel. It’ll work on monsters too if you ever have the need.”

Jaskier didn’t know what else to do but hug the young wolf. The gesture wasn’t returned, but Lambert didn’t pull away. That certainly said something.

Chapter Text

The greenhouse was one of Jaskier’s favorite places in the whole of Kaer Morhen.

Vesemir had a perfectly enviable collection of plants ranging from fruit trees to common garden weeds for potions, and Jaskier was fortunate enough to be the first and only human deemed worthy enough for the knowledge that the old wolf had to pass along.

Botany and an understanding of it was vital to a witcher’s survival, and Vesemir was an expert. Learning from him was an honor that surpassed all others.

“Listen carefully now, lad.” The witcher patriarch advised, beckoning Jaskier to his side where three small potted plants were lined out on the nearest table, awaiting Vesemir’s inspection. “I’ve picked these out today to show you for a reason. I want you to guess why...Can you tell me what these plants are?”

Jaskier could, in fact. Curiously, these particular plants weren’t very challenging to identify.

“Morning glory, marigold, and a very tiny Posadan cactus.” The bard answered with a hopeful glance up at his teacher.

Vesemir nodded. “They’re quite different aren’t they? Complicated, one might say. Each in their own way, ofcourse.”

The old wolf picked up the pot containing the cactus first. It was a small plant, dwarfed by its cousins that Jaskier had seen with his own eyes in the deserts of Dol Blathana, but it looked to be healthy. It had plenty of needle sharp spines and even a tiny pink flower growing from its head.

“This little fellow can be a pain for any plant keeper.” Vesemir began to speak again. “The spines are troublesome. Even with gloves, there’s no guarantee that you won’t be snagged. It’s trouble to raise it as well. Succulents don’t tend to do well away from their homes. They can be temperamental, and resistant to care. No matter what you do, sometimes the plant just won’t want to let you help it.”

He passed the pot to Jaskier, who held it carefully, regarding the spines that stuck out on every inch of the plant.

“Now,” Vesemir continued. “That being said, this cactus hides within it an extremely potent agent of healing. The water of the Posadan cactus is used to cure burns and stop nasty wounds from festering. There is much good in this plant. One must only have the wit and patience to see through to it.”

Jaskier released the jar when Vesemir took it back and soon he found himself presented with another. This new pot contained the marigold flowers.

“Beautiful, aren’t they?” He hummed at his student, who nodded.

“Lovely colors.” Jaskier confirmed. “Such bright yellows. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen any like these.”

“They’re hybrids.” Vesemir informed him. “Different than most others around them, but still, they remain marigolds. The world may see the change but the plant sees it not. It keeps its lovely, gentle form, never seeing fit to sprout spines or brew its own poison...What do you think that makes it, lad? A plant without anything sharp to defend itself?”

“Vulnerable.” Jaskier answered straight away. He began to wonder if they were still discussing plants.

“You’re absolutely right.” Vesemir hummed. “A gentle flower is a vulnerable flower. Prone to damage if it’s not protected...Keeping your heart out in the open for all to see is a dangerous game. It can attract all kinds of unwanted attention.”

Right. So they weren’t talking of plants anymore.

“The marigold hides nothing within.” The witcher father went on with his lesson. “You see a beautiful flower and it’s contents are just the same. It can be used for many potions, most of them meant for healing or peaceful slumber.”

The jars were switched out one last time, and Jaskier was now in possession of the morning glory, it’s magnificent blue and purple flower bloomed out for all to admire.

“These plants are pests to most people.” Vesemir told the bard before him. “They’ve seen them growing up the sides of houses, taking light away from other plants...Sometimes one mistake is all that is needed for one’s reputation to be sullied. Isn’t that right, lad?”

Jaskier nodded.

“Tell me,” Vesemir cleared his throat, reaching out to pluck a flower from both the cactus and the marigold plant at his side. “If every man in this world stopped and took a moment to truly admire the morning glory, what do you think they’d see? What would they remember most about it?”

It wasn’t a hard question. “The flower.” Jaskier replied. “The morning glory’s flower is one of the most beautiful in the world...Not everyone wants to put in the time to see that. They catch one look at the vines climbing up their windows and call to have the plant destroyed...It’s wrong of them to do that. There is life in this plant just as there is life in every human that looks down on it.”

Vesemir’s serious expression softened and he took the morning glory back from Jaskier, carefully snipping a flower from it as well.

“I think you and I understand each other, lad.” He told his pupil. “Now, let me ask you this. What do these three plants have in common? What can’t they live without? What makes them grow? Keeps them from wilting? There’s only one right answer.”

Jaskier looked to the plants. He looked to the flowers cradled in Vesemir’s hands, and finally, he met the old Witcher’s eyes again.

“Love.” He answered. “A tender hand. A patient hand. Something to keep them from falling to the elements.”

The elder wolf sighed deeply and nodded to the bard, offering his hand and the flowers he’d taken from each plant.

The message was clear to Jaskier. Vesemir needn’t have said anything else.

“I love my sons.” He confessed anyway. “I’ve raised them from their earliest days and I know how difficult they can be...They’ve decided to let you into their hearts, lad, to the bond that they share, and I don’t want them damaged. If you don’t think you’re up to the task, I want this to stop. But, if you are, and dammit I hope you are, you have my blessing.”

Jaskier smiled softly and reached to take the flowers from Vesemir’s hand.

“I’ve never been one to shy away from a challenge.” He assured him. “There’s nothing your wolves could ever do to frighten me away.”

A smile spread across the oldest Witcher’s face and he clapped Jaskier on the shoulder in a very fatherly manner. “That’s good.” He nodded his approval. “I want them to have this. I want them to be happy.”

“They will be.” Jaskier promised. He would do everything in his power to be sure of that.