Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He was losing track of time. He knew how bad that was.

Shaking on the cold, dirty floor of the dungeon room, he knew he had been in Nilfgaard's clutches for at least two weeks.

He had been performing his newest hit ‘Burn Butcher Burn’ in a small coastal town, singing out his heartbreak to enthralled locals that called for encore after encore. Long after it had grown dark, he wandered out of the tavern, drunk off his ass, humming to himself and trying to find a place to sleep, as the tavern didn’t have an inn. He heard the faint sound of footsteps behind him and expecting to see a fan or townsperson, he turned with a drunk smile on his face. His eyes widened as he saw three men with armor behind him, and he tried to scramble away but they were too fast. They grabbed him and stuffed a foul-smelling cloth into his face, making him light-headed. The last thing he registered was their cruel faces and the feeling of someone throwing him over their shoulder like a sack of potatoes.. When he finally came to, he was chained in a cold and dank basement. His captors had started lightly - pointed questioning accompanied by punches and kicks while he sat unable to move away, chained to a wall.

“Where are Geralt of Rivia and his Child Surprise?”

He technically wasn’t lying when he said he didn’t know for sure—he would take the name Kaer Morhen to his grave.

They grew more and more aggressive and cruel as he continued to resist. Punches turned into cuts, kicks began breaking ribs, with the added pleasure of burns and other assorted breaks. After each session, he was left on the cold stone floor with a threadbare blanket and on rare occasions stale food . He shivered through infection-fueled fever while his tormentors laughed cruelly from above.

Through all his pain, he did the only thing he knew how to do. He sang.

He laughed as he exclaimed that he was only doing what they wanted. He was telling them about Geralt of Rivia. He told them about the Witcher fighting Strigas, Kikimores, Bruxae, and the ever terrifying Leshy incident. He recounted bar fights and long roads, little ditties that he had only sung around campfires with said Witcher. He kept locked away how Geralt wanted nothing to do with him and had basically told him he hated his company, because as much as he despised himself for it, he was loyal. If they were focusing on what he might know, they weren’t focusing all of their attention on finding Geralt and Ciri.

Ciri, who he had played for every winter in court until she was 14. Ciri, who always wanted to hear more about his adventures. Ciri, who wanted to play games with him and asked him to sing her to sleep. Ciri, who he told to never tell her grandmother about what he was about to tell her, lest he was never allowed back. She listened with wide eyes as he whispered tales of a knight to her, with white hair and golden eyes. This knight and his brothers would always protect her if she needed it. A knight that had two swords, one silver and one steel; who rode a chestnut horse and knows everything there is to know about wilderness survival. As they huddled together he told her about how grumpy the knight was, but how kind. With him, she would never go hungry, she wouldn’t know thirst and she would never have to worry about danger. Tugging on his sleeve, she asked if the knight would teach her all of his skills. He had smiled softly at her and assured her that he would. Before he left at night, he always told the girl that if she was ever in danger, to look out for men with golden eyes and silver necklaces in the shape of a wolf’s head.

On the morning of what he believed to be the fifth day, a mage walked in behind the soldiers. He could tell she was a mage right away, her cold beauty and cruel painted smile reminding him strongly of Yennefer.

She delved into his mind, leaving a trail of agony in her wake. In a last-ditch effort to protect himself, he mentally projected his voice as loud as he possibly could while tucking the important memories she was looking for into fragmented moments from his youth. The only thing that she had been able to get from him that day was an emotion. She looked down at his broken body cruelly. “You love him,” she taunted. As she and his tormentors walked away, a single tear fell from his eye.

That night he was startled awake by bangs and yells in the hallway outside his door. A large silhouette burst through the door, golden eyes settling on him. “Jaskier.” Geralt let out while rushing towards him. Jaskier sobbed in relief as his savior placed a hand on his cheek. “Geralt” he rasped back “you came.” The Witcher let a small smile slip in “I did. Before we go, what did you tell them?” Jaskier let his head loll as he smiled weakly. “Nothing of course. I would never betray you and Ciri, you must know that. That girl is so sweet.”

His eyes widened in horror as Geralt’s face turned cruel. “That’s a start, what else do you know?” His hand shifted from his cheek to his neck, squeezing.

A tear fell. “You’re not Geralt.”

As his vision went dark, the last thing he heard was “Are you sure?”

The visions continued. It was always Geralt but sometimes he had others with him.

Some were more convincing than others.

A few times he had Ciri with him, the girl’s excitement to see him quickly turning into cruelty as she asked about his loyalty. Yennefer came occasionally, ready to help but quickly using her powers to hurt him, Geralt encouraging her on in from the corner of the room. It broke his heart when they kissed passionately in front of him. Sometimes he was led out until he was a few miles away, allowed to ride Roach before he realized it wasn’t real.

He was the most convinced when other Witchers were there as well. Sprinkled in, just as he imagined them from Geralt’s sparse descriptions, other wolves helped Geralt reach him. Eskel was kind to him, Lambert joked and Vesemir helped treat his wounds. Then they turned cruel, helping Geralt hurt him.

He stopped reacting to the rescue attempts.

Four more tried to get him to react.

Two more on where he gave no reaction before it was given up and he was left in his cell.

Time passed in a blur.

He didn’t react at all this time when he heard yelling and crashing from above him. The clashing of swords made him brace himself for more tricks. This was taking longer than usual, but maybe they were trying to make it more believable. His mind was drifting when he heard clanging, agonized yelling mixed with screams of determination. He huddled closer to the corner and strained his ears to hear what was being said between all the commotion.

“These assholes!”

“Why even start this stupid fucking war?”

He heard the door to the hall open. “Hey!” a voice yelled, assumingly towards its compatriots, “I think they have a prisoner down here!”

He quickly closed his eyes until he could only see a sliver of what was happening as footsteps approached him. They stopped just outside his door and he saw a silhouette decked in armor and swords.

His heart rate picked up.

“Melitete’s tit on a loaf of moldy bread.” the man breathed, breaking open the door and slowly walking towards him.

The man crouched down a few feet away from him. “I know you’re awake,” he told him gently.

He reluctantly opened his eyes and looked into golden ones. He stared into a face he didn’t recognize at all that was staring back at him just as startled. He slowly leaned closer, scrutinizing the Witcher who was looking more and more uncomfortable by the second. The man had blue dyed leather armor with steel guards, and Jaskier observed that his short brown hair was a shade or two darker than his own. His eyes zeroed in on the medallion hanging from around the Witcher’s neck.
“Look.” the armored man started, “I know that this isn’t the usual reputation of Witchers, but I need you to know that I’m not going to hurt you. We don't hurt innocents and if Nilfgaard hates you enough to do… this… you must be a pretty damn good person.” He joked weakly. Jaskier continued staring. The Witcher took a breath to speak again but Jaskier beat him to it. “You’re a Cat,” he stated in a gravelly voice that he didn’t quite recognize. The Cat froze, “You know about Witchers?” he asked slowly, absentmindedly clutching at his medallion. Jaskier nodded and the Cat winced. “Look, I know the reputation, but-”

“Aiden?” a voice called from the doorway. Another Witcher stood there, uncertainty staring at them. He had darker skin and a beard. “What happened to him?”

The Cat - Aiden, apparently - stood quickly and whispered hurriedly in the other’s ear. The other froze and peered towards him around Aiden’s shoulder.
He turned “Hey. This is Coën, from the school of the Griffin. Can you tell us at least why they wanted you so we know how to protect you?”

Jaskier shut down immediately. He stared at them intensely before deflating, he was so done with fighting. He just let his eyes wander past the illusions that wanted to know his closely held information. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw the Witchers exchange a look before Aiden reached for him. He flinched back harshly and whined against the pain, his tears finally overflowing. He brokenly started humming “You Think You’re Safe” slowly, waiting for the pain to start. After a minute of nothing happening, he peeled his wet eyes open, only to see two startled faces.

“What the hell did they do to you?” Coën whispered.

He let out a sob and curled closer into himself. “Don’t act like you didn’t do this, Fringilla,” he hoarsely yelled at the illusions. “I've told you I don’t know where the princess is, so stop with the illusions of rescue. Just kill me,” he begged to the ceiling.

The Witchers made a sound in the back of their throats, harmonizing with each other.

“Fringilla was in your head?” Coën asked him, carefully scooting closer from where he had sat down on the floor. Jaskier ignored him but it did not deter the Witcher at all. “Why would Fringilla, a mage notorious for her hate of Witchers, give you an illusion that a Witcher from one of the most hated schools” he gestured to Aiden, “and a Witcher from a school that is almost extinct, come to save you? We don’t even know you,” he reasoned.

Jaskier wanted to believe him so badly, but he wouldn’t break. Aiden sighed, “Will you at least tell us your name? I can’t keep calling you a sad man in my head,” he groused.

No way was he telling them the name he was most widely known as, real or fake as they were. “Julian.”

The Witchers nodded, got to their knees, and reached towards him. He flinched back and bared his teeth involuntarily, not knowing what they were doing getting that close. They quickly sat back on their haunches and raised their hands in surrender. “We’re just going to get you out of those chains, Julian, so we can get you out of here.” Coën soothed like he was a scared, abused, street mutt that he was trying to feed food out of his hand.

A small part of his brain whispered to him that that's exactly what he was now. A scared and abused animal that craved care but was too traumatized to accept it.

He kept a close eye on them but shifted as much as his broken body would allow to give them better access to his chains. With a lot of cracking noises and no use of a key, he was free.

They grabbed his arm and tugged him up before he could resist, then immediately released his arms when he let out a choked scream. He caught himself on the wall and breathed in raggedly. He turned to look at them and just as quickly looked away again, recognizing their body language.

With their hands hovering close to him, not sure whether to help or to leave him alone, he was painfully reminded of Geralt. Whenever he had gotten hurt on hunts that Geralt had both told him he could come on and ones that he could not, if he was not seriously injured, Geralt never seemed to know what to do. Whenever Jaskier was distressed, hungover, or going on a rant that he didn’t understand, Geralt had a constipated but concerned face and hovered his hands close by. These Witchers had their Geralt impression down pat.

He slowly, painfully made his way out of his cell with the Cat and Griffin trailing slowly behind him, protesting his walking on his own. He could feel their hands reach out, ready to catch him if he fell. He ignored them, wrapping more armor around the walls surrounding his heart. He struggled through the stone hallways, frequently using the walls to drag himself forward. Every time the Witchers tried to help him he struggled away from them, vocalizing his discontent without words. They backed off but continued their hovering.

He ignored it as well as he could, but there were dead Nilfgaardian soldiers everywhere. And where there were dead soldiers, there was blood. It pooled around their lifeless bodies, the indication that dozens of people had perished in this raid. Seeing monsters dead was one thing, and even if the men had been doing monstrous things, they were still men.

No matter the atrocities he was sure they had committed, he could only guess that they had family. Who was he to revel in their deaths when their sons and daughters might be wondering where their father was.

He kept disgusted—scared—noises back, stepping through pools, keeping tears back as he heard the squelch and felt the blood slowly seep into his boots that had been worn away to fabric wrappings for his feet.

They walked slowly through an archway where he stopped at the sight of about a dozen Witchers, who were all already looking at them. He couldn’t quite make out their medallions so he couldn’t tell their schools, but he could tell that they were not all from the same schools, as they seemed to be standing in separate groups. He let out a heavy sigh at Fringilla's elaborate ruse but silently went along.

There was a group of six lithe but muscled Witchers, all in armor that was brown leather that was in the style of Aidens instead of Geralt’s bulky black.

He made a wild guess and assumed they were Cats.

There was a huge, burly Witcher with long dark hair. If he was guessing, Jaskier would say that it would take roughly three seconds for him to snap him in half. He had a long, gray undercoat beneath his huge leather armor. Jaskier had absolutely no idea what school he was from, but— Bear maybe?

He turned his eyes to the next Witcher; before that had thought, “No one would be able to kill me faster than the Bear via brute force.”

He was WRONG.

This Witcher was terrifyingly huge and no matter how angry he was at Geralt, he wanted his F U C K I N G Witcher here with him right now, thank you very much. The huge man was bald, had no sleeves, knee-high boots, some blue leather that he had no idea what monster was from but he would bet his lute that it was very dangerous because it wasn’t dyed and—

He turned to Aiden and Coën quickly and lost his balance. They were already next to him so they caught him before he got very far. “Can we find my lute?” he asked urgently, momentarily forgetting his fear and disregarding his conviction that what was happening wasn’t real. “It’s Elven and it’s my most prized possession, please—”

“You mean this thing?” a Cat interrupted. Jaskiers head snapped towards him and, once his vision cleared, his eyes watered yet again. It was a little banged up and there was blood and dirt on it, but his lute was whole. He went to grab it, but Coën pushed him into Aiden and went to grab it for him. He snatched it from the Griffin and held it close to his chest. He hadn't seen it for so long, and no matter how bad his broken fingers hurt, he longed to play again. He had started to think up a song during his captivity, and he was itching to put it on paper.

The voice in the back of his head told him that he didn’t have to wait, he could just let the sounds building in his chest burst out and run free, but he refused to let the mage know how strong his bardic gift was. He looked up when someone's throat was cleared, startled.

The Witchers were all staring at him like they were expecting something. He looked sideways to Aiden, who looked back expectantly. His face must have said something, “you want me to tell them?” he questioned. Jaskier, still not really sure what he was supposed to be saying, just nodded.

Aiden ushered them all towards the door and started explaining that his name was Julian and that the Witchers didn't know why Nilfgaard wanted him but he needed protection from Fringilla.

So far, they weren’t sold but didn’t see him as any sort of threat so they were just going to let it slide. They lead him through hallways, basically ignoring him except for some assessing looks while Coën and Aiden helped him to walk after he relented, not being able to walk by himself anymore.

The hallway opened to a large entryway with solid oak doors.

A tear slipped down his cheek as he walked out the doors of his prison. The smell of grass and dirt filled his nose as he sank to the ground. He buried his hand into the ground, sobbing as he felt his fingers sink into the dirt. “It feels real,” he whispered.

Coën gently pulled him up, ignoring his flinch at the contact. “We have to go,” he apologized. “Backup could be here at any time and we need to get you out of here.” They all piled onto horses and into wagons waiting just past the tree line. Jaskier perched on the back of the very last cart while Aiden and Coën rode their horses behind him. There was an awkward silence between them as Jaskier slowly retreated into his head. He watched mindlessly as the trees went by, unaware of the passage of time until there was a hand on his shoulder. He jumped and shrunk back. The hand was removed from his shoulder quickly and he focused on the worried look from Aiden. “We are making camp. We got you some bedding and dinner. Come sit by the fire?”

He pulled himself up and out of the wagon with Aiden's help and cautiously made his way to the Witcher camp, feeling multiple stares focus on him. The large men were all crowded around a large fire, caring for their weapons. He was suddenly very worried about the large camp with the big, crackling fire bouncing light across trees as a beacon shining throughout the woods.

Then he remembered he was supposedly making camp with the most dangerous living things in the woods.

“Do I need to do anything to help?” he asked quietly to the group, not wanting to be unable to pull his own weight. The reply came from the one he least expected it from.

The bald imposing Witcher snorted “If you want to do something, let someone look at your wounds. A dead bard is a fucking useless one.”

Jaskier brought his head up to stare. “I—Alright?” He stammered out. The Witcher grabbed something from his pack and threw it at the bard. “Someone else do it because I sure as shit am not.”

“Thank you—?”

The Witcher looked subtly startled at the implied question. “Letho,” he responded.

Jaskier nodded “What school?” he asked hesitantly. Letho raised a brow.

“Why do you want to know?” he challenged. “Need to know who to trust? Sorry bard, but you’re probably with the least trustworthy band of Witchers you could possibly have saved your scrawny ass.”

Jaskier felt a spark of his old self come to the surface in the moment that it took him to respond, his mouth working faster than his brain.

“If I was worried about trustworthy Witchers, I would not have kept the information I know of Cirilla, Geralt, and Yennefer to myself, and I certainly would not be traveling with the Cat Caravan, a Griffin and what I suspect to be a Bear. You are the only one I can’t figure out, so if you would be so kind as to let me know who could snap my neck if I get too annoying, that would be delightful.”

His eyes widened and his body tensed. Not only did he mouth off, but he admitted to knowing information on the whereabouts of Geralt, and about knowing Cirilla.

The other Witchers grew still and silent, all of their yellow eyes focusing unwaveringly on him. The oldest-looking Cat Witcher stood and walked in front of him, sword in hand. Jaskier shrunk back as he leveled it under his chin delicately.

“Explain” he threatened quietly—levelly..

“Explain what?” he choked out, scared out of his mind. The blade pressed a hair closer. “What did Nilfgaard want from you, bard, and how the hell do you know of Geralt of Rivia’s Child of Surprise?”

At this point, he knew he didn’t have a choice. Fringilla or not, they were going to kill him if he didn’t talk. Suddenly he didn’t want to die.

“ I was at the betrothal feast where Geralt claimed the girl as his Child of Surprise. Pavetta had taken a shine to me and invited me back frequently, but Pavetta wasn’t the only one who took a shine. Princess Cirilla loved it when I came to visit and perform in the winter. Once her parents passed, Ciri became even more attached and I spent almost a month there every winter. I knew that Queen Calanthe had forbidden talk of Witchers, but I also knew that her close-mindedness would be her downfall one day. And the girl is so kind and strong-willed, and we were very close, so I didn’t want her to suffer because of her grandmother. I did research at the Oxenfurt library, I am an alumni and teach classes there sometimes. Ciri wanted me to sing her to sleep frequently so I would sing her as many songs about Witchers as I could get my hands on, and she promised not to tell Calanthe. I told her stories of Witchers that I found and anything about Geralt of Rivia that I could get my hands on. I told her that if anything were to happen and she needed protection, how to spot a Witcher, especially Wolves. I—also wrote some very political songs against Nilfgaard”

The sword dipped off of his throat slightly. “Anyone heard a lie?”

The clearing was silent other than the fire crackling. The Cat took the sword from Jaskiers throat, and he let out a breath in relief.

Letho gave him a predatory grin from across the fire. “I like you,” he stated, breaking the silence. Jaskier nodded but stayed shrunk back, just in case. Coën rolled his eyes and grabbed the bandages, getting up to work on Jaskier’s wounds and breaking the awkward stalemate around the fire. “He’s a Viper. Don’t worry about him,” he told him gently, slathering on something foul-smelling onto his bruises. He felt around his rib cage and when Jaskier let out a choked scream he nodded grimly. “Two broken ribs,” he told him. “We can’t wrap them but they will heal on their own eventually if we don’t agitate them too much. You have to keep breathing deeply to get enough air into your lungs so you don’t get pneumonia. These broken fingers though, we need to splint them.” Jaskier felt his heart rate speed up, but nodded for Coën to continue. “I'll set them as fast as I can and Aiden will splint them as I go.”

Aiden came up beside him with strong, straight sticks in his hand.

“Are there any other breaks?” he asked Coën quietly. He shook his head without looking up. “There are some fractures that we will have to splint, too, but it will hurt less than the setting. Your knee is probably sprained or something, I can’t quite tell, but wrapping it should keep it. You have some burns here, here, and here, which you probably already knew, but we need to keep an eye out for infection. We need to keep an eye on these cuts too.” he gestured to the cuts across his torso and back. Jaskier nodded, resigned.

The two Witchers crowded around him, and Jaskier was suddenly nervous for more than one reason. “Ready?” Coën asked. “3, 2,” he started setting. Jaskier opened his mouth to scream but another Witcher came out of nowhere and shoved a belt between his teeth. He bit down and his screams became muffled. Aiden worked quickly after Coën, wrapping the sticks into splints around his fingers expertly. It only took them about five minutes, but Jaskier felt his head go light.

“Hold on, just a little more checking.” Aiden soothed. They wrapped his knee tightly after feeling around, setting it how they wanted. They disinfected his cuts and burns, and by the time they were done, he looked to be half made out of bandages.

“Well this certainly isn’t ideal,” he muttered.

“ Lambert will have a field day with you when we see him next, Julian.” Aiden laughed suddenly.

Jaskier froze. He was no longer as sure as he had been about the realness of what was going on. Lambert was a name he had known—before.

“You alright Julian?” Coën reached his head around Jaskier’s shoulder to look at him. Jaskier shielded his thoughts and responded. “Yes. I've heard that name before and I know he’s a Witcher, but I don’t remember anything else.”

Coën gave him a disbelieving look, but let it go. The other Witchers must have taken that interaction as a sign of some sort, because they set their weapons down, talking and snarking at each other. Two of the Cats were cooking a deer, which he hadn’t noticed them catching, but he was hungry and wasn't going to question it.

A voice in the back of his head that sounded distinctly like Fringilla wondered if they would let him eat. He was an unexpected guest and a general burden. He should be fending for himself. He decided to wait until they offered him food, to eat. He wouldn't take any for himself.

Coën finished cleaning his wounds just as all the food was ready and he got up and joined the fight for food with the others. They each took a potato and went after the deer with their own knives, while Jaskier was forgotten in the shadows. They all settled in for a rousing meal, yelling at each other and laughing uproariously.

He felt dread pool in his stomach. He was so hungry.

He slipped his lute case onto his back and crept away painfully towards the creek and started to look around, looking for—ha! Watercress. He grabbed it and started chewing. He wandered back until he found a suitable tree with thick lower branches. He painfully hauled himself up and onto a limb. He sat with his back to the trunk and made himself as comfortable as he possibly could be while still able to see the fire from where he was. He clutched his lute securely to his chest like the cloth animals children use for comfort.

He had never been allowed one.

He needed to take care of himself, as he knew the Witchers could leave him at any time, only keeping him around for information that he would refuse to give. He was only half sure of reality at this point.

He curled towards himself as safely as he could and tried to get a wink of sleep.

Chapter Text

“Julian, what the fuck are you doing?”

He woke with a start, almost falling off his branch and dropping his lute. The Witcher looking up at him caught it, then followed its path to look up at him. He noticed it was still dark outside when he could see the glow of the fire bouncing off the trees. The Bear huffed, reached up, and towed him off the branch.

Jaskier screeched in pain and shock as he was roughly set on the ground. The Bear rolled his eyes and led him towards the others. “Ivo? You get him?” Aiden yelled without turning around. “Yeah,” apparently–Ivo responded. “Idiot was asleep in a tree like a crazy person. Or, you know, like a Cat.”

The Cats all turned their eyes on him and one threw a knife at him in spite. Ivo caught it effortlessly and threw it back. He led Jaskier towards the fire and a plate was shoved into his hands. “Eat,” a Cat commanded, and another dumped a blanket and a cloak at his feet. “I'm Axel. This is Gaetan, Joël, and Brehan. The others have left, and we will soon as well. We have places to be and can’t be stuck in one place all winter, especially not in the mountains. We are heading south for the Winter, so you can borrow some of our heavier clothes to survive in the mountains.”

Jaskier stared up at him in shock. Axel gestured towards his food then retreated. He slowly started picking at the deer meat and some potato scraps.

“Julian, why didn’t you eat something and come sleep by the fire?” Aiden asked sharply. “You must be hungry and cold, not to mention in pain from sleeping in a fucking tree.” Jaskier shrunk back and picked at the food.

Coën sighed.“What he meant to say,” he jabbed Aiden in the ribs, “is that we saved you some food, we hope you like it, and we found you something comfortable to sleep on while you heal.”

Jaskier nodded but didn’t look up. He hesitantly put a piece of venison in his mouth and almost sobbed. He was so hungry. He started shoveling food into his mouth, eventually scraping his plate clean. He briefly looked up, only to freeze. All the Witchers were staring at him in confusion. “If you were so hungry why didn’t you eat earlier with the rest of us?” the one he presumed to be Joël asked.

Split-second bullshitting time. The best lies started with a grain of truth.

He shrugged. “I know Witchers need more food and I didn't want to deprive all of you of it after you had saved my life. Besides, I can fend for myself and find my own food tomorrow.”

They all gave him a strange look but shrugged and continued their conversations. He breathed a sigh of relief and ate the other food that Aiden had placed on his plate after he was done with his first serving. He quickly finished the second serving and set his plate down on the log next to him. He arranged his blankets close to the fire and lay on top of them. He listened to the faint chatter surrounding him and slowly fell asleep, his body believing he was safe while his brain did not. He was going to get as much sleep as he possibly could to be sharp for the tricks that might be played tomorrow.

Jaskier woke up from a dead sleep to a hand on his shoulder, making him jerk violently awake. He hissed in pain, which was quickly becoming a theme in his life.

“Sorry, sorry,” Aiden said, retreating. “We’re leaving soon. We let you sleep as long as we could, but you need to get up now.”

Jaskier nodded and looked around him interestingly. “Where is everyone?” He asked. The Caravan seemed to be gone. “They told you they were leaving,” Aiden reminded him. “We were taking out as many Nilfgaardian strongholds as we could before we had to separate for winter, and the one you were in was the last one we could raid together before the frost came. They will probably take out some smaller ones on their way to where they are going, but.”

“I didn’t think that they would be leaving so soon,” he muttered. If there were less people for him to rely on, he would trust the individuals faster, which would make it harder when they betrayed him.

“Come on. Coën and Letho are waiting.” Adien told him, leading them to his horse. Jaskier was confused at that.

“Why wouldn’t you go with them, and why did Letho stay?” he questioned the Cat as he started to help pack up.

Aiden sent him a toothy grin. “Letho is going the same way we are, but me and Coën? We have invitations to Kaer Morhen straight from the Wolves.”

Jaskier froze. “Kaer Morhen?” he whispered, horrified.

Aiden nodded, and his face got a little harder. “Lots of things have happened to them, bard. I trust you and Coën trusts you, but the Wolves have been burned once and will not take kindly to be burned again. Don’t spill our secrets.”

Jaskier recoiled, “I would never!” he replied indignantly without thinking too much about what he was admitting. “I already know more than most humans, and the rough location of Kaer Morhen. I was ready to take the information to my grave, and I would have if you all hadn’t saved me.”

Aiden gave him an appraising look, and then nodded decisively. “Good,” he responded shortly.

Jaskier snorted. Witchers seemed to have a strong inclination for short sentences in the face of emotions, no matter the school. He deflated when he remembered. “Besides, i'll be out of your hair into whatever town we pass by soon,” he responded as he finished tying his blankets to Aiden’s horse.

The Witcher gave him a startled look. “You’re… coming with us to the keep? We can’t let Nilfgaard capture you again, and you can help us find and gain the trust of the Princess. Besides! I have a feeling you will fit right in with the Wolves.” Aiden snorted at him. “Don’t be stupid, Julian, you’re part of this.” He gave a feral smile “You’re stuck with us now.”

Jaskier bit back a scathing response and nodded. He was just going to roll with this and see where it took him. His stomach was full for the first time in months, so it couldn’t be that bad.

“Hey! Everyone ready to go?” Letho’s voice floated from the woods. Aiden rolled his eyes and mounted his horse. Jaskier made to walk next to him but the Witcher held out a hand.

Jaskier stared at it dumbly, before Aiden sighed. “Come on up. You’re not walking as long as we will be traveling. I’ll walk later but you—you are riding.”

Jaskier grabbed his hand and they maneuvered him up into the saddle, and Aiden steered them towards where Letho’s voice came from. They spotted him on a path between the trees, Coën right next to him on his horse. “Hey Julian!” he called out, angling his horse towards them. “Have a good sleep? You were out like a light.”

Jaskier nodded slightly from behind Aiden “I did, thank you Coën.”

Letho snorted. “If we are done with the pleasantries, we need to get moving if you all want to get to your super secret hideaway on time.”

Coën snarled. “There is a reason why it is such a secret, asshole, and you know it.”

"I know, I know," Letho sighed as they turned towards the path.

The day passed slowly. Aiden got off the horse after a couple of hours, leaving Jaskier to ride alone. The Witchers conversed in low tones, while Jaskier watched the trees go by soaking in the nature he had been deprived of. They made camp much the same way they had the night before, and started off again in the morning. He switched between the three Witcher horses, sometimes riding with them, and sometimes without, but never walking.

They continued on this routine for three more days. When he asked them why they were bypassing towns the Witchers told him they were going to hopefully meet up with Lambert at a predetermined location; a thought that watered the seeds of fear growing in his heart. How Lambert came across to Jaskier would either help solidify or melt his conviction of the realness of the world.

They finally reached the small town where they would be meeting the Wolf, much too soon for Jaskier’s liking. He took deep breaths as they rode along the one main street. He noticed that he could see the mountains in the distance, rising up imposingly in blue-gray mist. They reached the tavern and Jaskier’s heart almost stopped.

Coming from the most backwater tavern to ever exist was another bard’s rendition of ‘Toss a Coin’. His fingers itched for his lute, to go in and show the inferior bard how the song was meant to be played. Hell, to even use his gift to show him up even more. Aiden rolled his eyes as he helped him dismount Coën’s horse. “I know the bard Jaskier is popular and that song has helped our reputation, but it is not a good song,” Aiden grumbled.

Jaskier gasped in shock and indignation. “I’ll have you know that it is a great song, and that's not how it’s supposed to be played anyway!” he screeched. The Witchers all looked at him and Letho smirked. “You think you can go in there and do it better?” he challenged.

He felt a twinge of despair rush through him. “I can’t,” he told them shortly. “My fingers are still healing and I don’t want to bring more attention to us than four Witchers in the same place will provide. But—” he gave Letho a smarmy grin “Tonight I will give you all a private acapella concert.” He wiggled his brows and Coën shoved his head to the side and laughed. “Once your fingers heal then, Julian.”

They all slipped into the tavern and grabbed a table in the back, in the shadows. Coën ushered him into the booth by the wall first and slid in after him, while the other two actually placed their backs to the door. He furrowed his brows. “Don't you two want to face the door? I can move?” he asked them.

Letho shrugged, “Coën can watch the door, and if anything happens, your face is an open book.” Jaskier shrugged, but decided to let it go. They ordered a round of drinks and some cheap food. Jaskier sat and listened as they discussed where they would go from here. Letho was going to see if he could find any other Vipers and maybe some Manticores, then hole up in Skellige. They were going to regroup after waging war on the Nilfgaardians and keep an ear out for the Princess, but also relax for the winter. Aiden and Coën were talking about what they would need to get for the trek up the mountain.

“Julian, we need to get you new boots for the snow.” Coën commented. The other two agreed, “your feet will fall off with those.” Aiden stated in his ale. They decided that the Witcher hand me down cloak would be enough, but he needed a new outfit. There would be clothes for him in the keep, but on the way up there he would probably die without new clothes. It was a grim reality.

“I'll pay you back once I can play again.” He promised them. “I make good money performing and good winter clothes are expensive, as well as the food and bandages. I’ll pay you back.”

Coën and Aiden just looked at him. “Don’t worry about it.” Aiden mumbled. Coën nodded “Just stay alive over the winter, sing us a few songs, and help out and you’re all good.”

“Be glad they are the ones taking you up. I would make you pay me back plus extra,” Letho told him matter of factly. Jaskier gulped but Aiden slapped him on the back of the head.

“Dick” he muttered.

They idled for another two hours, until the sun started sinking below the mountains in an array of beautiful colors. They retreated into the rooms that the Witchers had rented for the night, Jaskier adding it to the mental tally of things he was definitely going to be paying them back for, no matter what they said. Aiden and Coën were sharing, while Letho and Jaskier were together. He followed the burly man into the room, watching as he put down his weapons and started to place all of his things around the room.

They were quiet, not quite sure what to say to each other.

“I’ll pay you back.” Jaskier told the room quietly. The Viper turned to look at him. “For the bandages and some of the food. I'm pretty sure that I owe you about 20 coppers.” He turned back and got into his bed.

They both puttered around before Letho quietly replied, “You don’t owe me money.” “Just survive the winter and come find me next season and travel with me to the next town so I can see you perform.”

Jaskier stared at him for a while. “Alright,” he agreed equally quietly. He smiled softly, “I'll write a new song for you.”

Letho didn’t look at him but nodded and grabbed something from his pack and the conversation was over. They quietly existed around each other until Jaskier was too tired to stay awake. He bundled himself into the bed and felt tears burn his eyes.

He hadn’t slept in a bed for so long.

He buried his face into the pillow and just breathed. He felt his mind begin to drift into blankness and his body begin to feel as if he was floating.

He could feel anxiety begin to creep up his spine with no preamble. He tried his hardest to shut it down, but it kicked up a notch when he heard a faint voice. “We are getting closer to your Witcher, bard.” Fringilla sneered. “You thought you could get away, but you will die here.”

He shot up, tangled in his blankets and breathing rapidly. He clutched his chest and felt his lungs contract painfully, feeling like he couldn’t breathe. He heard a whining noise begin to grow louder and louder as the room became darker and colder.

“Panic, bard. See where it gets you.” she whispered into his ear.

The door slammed open and he shot off the bed and into the corner, curling into himself as much as he could. The whining grew louder, and Jaskier finally realized that it was coming from his own throat. He buried his head into his arms and covered his neck, unable to hear over the ringing in his own ears.

A hand landed suddenly on Jaskier’s shoulder. He screamed and recoiled. The hand didn’t retreat, instead another joined it and pulled him into a large chest. He started sobbing harder and fighting against the arms. The iron bands masquerading as arms stayed steady, rocking him side to side while one hand patted his back.

The fight abruptly left Jaskier’s beaten body and he fell limply against the wall of muscle he was being held to.

After many long minutes, his breathing began to level out and he became more aware of his surroundings. “It’s alright, Julian. Whatever you think is happening, it isn’t. It was a nightmare, I think.” a voice told him, awkwardly. He pressed his ear to the chest, listening for a heartbeat. After a few minutes of gruff words and too slow heartbeats, he remembered what exactly was happening. Letho was trapping him in his arms and clutching him to his broad chest. He was awkwardly attempting to comfort Jaskier, murmuring comforting things while patting his back like one would pet a scared dog.

It was dark in the room, so he must have fallen asleep at some point and had a nightmare. From the vague remembrance of a door opening, he assumed that the Witcher had been out of the room and heard him panicking. He felt his face heat up in embarrassment.

“Sorry” he whispered while he pulled away. Letho let him go and backed away. “It’s alright, Julian. Everyone gets nightmares,” he replied gruffly and helped him up. Jaskier nodded slightly and slunk back into his bed.

Letho followed behind him awkwardly and hovered over his bed. “Will you be alright?” he asked slowly. Jaskier nodded, but knew that his head was lying in its movements. Letho nodded back and climbed back into his bed and turned over.

Jaskier didn’t sleep for the rest of the night and stirred when the black of the night turned to gray in the early morning.

He crept out of bed and wrapped his borrowed cloak around himself, put on his threadbare boots and tried his best to creep quietly out of the room with his lute in hand. He made his way down the stairs and out the door to the outhouse. He then made his way to the stable. The horses neighed when they saw him and butted their heads against his pockets, asking for snacks.

“Sorry guys, I don’t have anything for you.” he told them softly. He stayed with them for a little longer, making sure that they all had enough water before returning to the tavern. He sat at the same table as yesterday and pulled his lute around. He gently danced his fingers across the frets without putting any pressure on the strings. He plucked gently while humming scales. He lost himself in the slight music he was making, not noticing how the sun rose through the front windows. He pulled his head up as a hand gently rapped against the table. The serving woman stared down at him gently.

“Would you like some tea? On the house.” she asked him softly. He nodded and smiled warmly at her. “Thank you so much!” he told her. She knocked on the table twice while nodding and walked back to the bar. She returned with what he guessed to be extremely weak chamomile tea and set it in front of him. She hesitated in front of him, and he looked up, confused.

“Is everything alright?” he asked her. She bit her lip and looked away. She took a fortifying breath. “Are you alright? If you are in danger, we can try to help you,” she said in a rush. He looked at her, confused.

“Why would I be in danger?” he questioned.

She bit her bottom lip again, looking around before answering. “You came in with three Witchers, and they looked to be telling you what to do and leading you around. I know, logically, that they are not dangerous. The Wolves come to our village a lot before and after the winter and they are always civil, but they are stronger than most everyone. If they are making you do things, we can get you out.” She placed a hand on his shoulder and looked worriedly into his eyes.

He laughed softly and placed his hand over hers on his shoulder. “They saved me, actually,” he told her. “I was kidnapped and they broke me out. They are taking me to a place to be safe. But, thank you.”

She looked at him skeptically, but backed off. “Alright, but let us know if you need help,” she told him before walking back towards the kitchen.

He smiled at her back and continued to play his lute without pressing down as the tavern began to fill with breakfast patrons. After about a half an hour, a door slammed upstairs and everyone looked up as footsteps rushed around. The footsteps ran towards the stairs and three Witchers clad in their sleep clothes burst down the stairs, whipping their heads around wildly. Aiden’s eyes locked onto Jaskier after about ten seconds.

His posture relaxed. “Melitele wept, Julian,” he muttered as he walked over and plopped next to him. The others followed after him and sat down across the table.
The rest of the patrons who were up this early easily returned to their breakfasts, not particularly caring what the disheveled Witchers were doing.

A voice demanding, “What are you doing down here, Julian?” brought him back to the conversation in front of him.

“Keeping my fingers nimble,” he joked weakly, giving them a demonstration.

Letho rolled his eyes and got up. “If you’re not dying then I'm going to get ready.” he told them and walked back up. The other two nodded.

“We will be right back to get dressed, don't go anywhere,” Aiden admonished.

He called for another mug of tea and sat in his corner while he waited. After about ten minutes the Witchers returned, Coën and Aiden in their armor but not with their bags like Letho.

“Alright, Julian, it is time for me to take my leave,” he told Jaskier while slapping him on the shoulder carefully. “Remember to come find me next season, I'm looking forward to a song.”

Jaskier stood up and clapped him on the back–-like he and Geralt had done before separating for the winter. Letho nodded at him when they released each other. He quickly said goodbye to the other Witchers before making his way out.

Once he was out the door, and therefore out of earshot, Jaskier quietly asked the other two, “Do you think he will be alright?”

“Of course. He is the most resilient Witcher I have ever met,” Coën assured him.

They both ordered their breakfasts and one for Jaskier. “So, we are going to do a little bit of shopping after breakfast, see what we can find for the way up,” Aiden said with his mouth completely full, not bothering to even cover his mouth to talk.

Jaksier nodded, and decided to gracefully swallow his food before responding. “I'll come with you guys, I am very good at haggling prices so I may be able to save you some money. Also, tell me what Lambert looks like so I know what to look for?”

Coën smirked. “Yeah Aiden, what does Lambert look like?”

Jaskier looked suspiciously towards Aiden, especially when said Witcher had a slight blush to his face. He leaned forward with his chin on top of his hands, his most innocent look firmly in place, and raised a brow.

Aiden sighed. “He’s about my height, a little taller. He’s got red hair and a scar on his face and—” he paused, then turned suspiciously towards Jaskier. “Anyone can spot a Witcher a mile away, not to mention how many Witchers you know. The eyes and the armor are a dead give away and you gravitate towards us for some god forsaken reason.”

Jaskier smiled slightly. “I just wanted to get a feel for him by how you describe him,” he admitted.

“He's fun, nice under it all” Aiden said at the same time Coën said “He's a grade A asshole.”

Jaskier laughed. “Honestly, that sounds about right,” he told them. “You think he's great and you think he's an asshole, which means he’s my kind of person.” Aiden grinned back, but when he turned to look at Coën, he was confused.

“Coën, are you alright?” he asked hesitantly, not sure why the Witcher looked like he was having flashbacks to battle where he saw his family slaughtered.

“There will be three of you.” Coën whispered into the distance. There was a pause before Aiden started absolutely cackling, tilting his head back.

Jaskier looked at them confused. “—What?”

He had to wait a solid minute before Coën could pull his head out of his hands and Aiden could stop laughing.

“My bet is when you meet him you two will get along like a house on fire.” Coën told him seriously. “From the little bit of personality we have been able to squeeze out of you, and the years of knowing Lambert, you two will make life at the keep… Very interesting.”

Jaskier was suddenly very worried about meeting Lambert. If they were so sure about how they would get along, if there was one person who would see through him, then— he would have to regain his Lettenhove levels of bullshitting. He turned his court smile up to its highest level.

“I'm excited to meet him then,” he told his companions as they ascended the stairs to get ready for their day. “I’ll come sleep in with you, Coën, once Lambert arrives, and he can room with Aiden.” He sent him a wink behind the Witcher's back. As he retreated back to his room to get more suitably dressed - putting on a borrowed shirt - he came to a realization.

Frankly, he was disappointed in how long it took to occur to him. Aiden definitely had feelings for Lambert, there were even odds that Lambert had feelings for Aiden, and there was a 100 percent chance that Coën wanted the two of them to get together. After meeting the Wolf Witcher he would have to decide whether or not to help Coën on his project to get Aiden laid.

He changed his shirt and put his lute back into its case, but decided to forgo the cloak for the day in town. He made his way down and waited just outside the inn for the Witchers. He only had to wait about five more minutes before they walked through the door in all of their armored and weaponed glory. He cautiously pushed his bruised body off the wall and followed them into the town proper. But—what were they doing?

Coën walked to his right and slightly behind him, while Aiden walked to his left and slightly in front of him. He couldn’t see either of their faces, but they must have had something going on, because the villagers took one look and gave them a wide berth. He just sighed and continued on; similar things happened with Geralt. He would walk imposingly next to Jaskier as they walked through towns, not wanting the townspeople to come near them, because the crowds made Geralt uncomfortable.

He sighed and continued on. “Songs will do nothing for your reputation if you contradict them with your grumpy, scary faces,” he muttered to them, knowing they would hear. They continued their trek, Jaskier standing back as they bought bread and jerky. As they haggled over prices, Jaskier let his eyes wander around the square.

A cobbler was setting up shop, and a group of women were placing their clothing wares on display, competing with another shop across the way. He let his eyes wander around aimlessly until he zeroed in on one small shop in the shadows. His breath caught and he had to stop himself from rushing over.

Both Witchers turned and followed his gaze to where he was looking when they heard his breath catch but he didn’t realize, as focused as he was on the small shop. Aiden nudged Coën towards him and they both nodded. Aiden continued to work on purchases while Coën started to lead a startled Jaskier towards the shop.

“Where are we going?” he questioned. Coën just rolled his eyes and pointed towards the small music shop. Jaskier shook his head and tried to dig his heels into the ground. Coën just pushed him harder.

“I can’t pay for anything!” he protested as they got closer.

Coën just pushed him the last little bit. “Don’t worry about it,” Coën told him with finality. As a master of knowing fights he wasn’t going to win, and, as usual, ignoring that instinct, he started browsing.

“A lutenist!” the owner of the store exclaimed excitedly, gesturing too the instrument case strapped to Jaskier’s back. “And one with a wonderful elven looking lute! What can I do for you?”

“I'm just browsing,” he told the kind old man quietly. The man suddenly looked at him very intensely.

“Young man,” he started firmly but kindly. “No one who knows as much as you obviously do about their instrument is ‘just browsing’. I see how well that instrument has been played and loved. That is no trophy piece, that is your livelihood. Tell me what is going on,” he demanded.

Jaskier shrunk in on himself and sighed. “I cannot play,” he admitted. “I was captured in the war because I was playing political songs about how Nilfgaard was wrong, and they didn’t take it kindly. They broke two of my fingers and burned parts of my hands,” he told the man.

The shopkeeper gasped and reached out, beckoning Jaskier to show him. He gently turned his hands over, examining them. “You have dressed and set them well, they will heal but it will take time and you will have to retrain your hands,” he hummed. Jaskier sighed and nodded, already aware of what he would have to do to play again.

He could feel Coën’s eyes on his back.

“I have already started a bit,” he told the man, “with some gentle agility exercises.”

The man nodded in approval. “Good, good. And you have a mighty Witcher with you to keep you safe and fed until you can play again!” he told him, patting his arm consolingly. Jaskier smiled. “Yes, I do!” he told the man, some of his old showmanship sneaking into his voice. It made the old man laugh for some reason.

“Oh! An Oxenfurt graduate! I would recognize that tone of voice and showman’s smile anywhere!” he exclaimed with delight. Jaskier’s smile turned genuine and he laughed quietly. “Yes! I graduated as a master of the Seven Liberal Arts!”

He could see the stars in the man's eyes. “Master of the Seven Liberal Arts? In my store?! Young man, that is one of the most prestigious degrees from Oxenfurt! I’ll tell you what, I’ll give you enough lute strings to last you the winter!” he told him as he turned away and grabbed something from behind him. He presented Jaskier with what he gathered to be three sets of lute strings. Jaskier shook his head vehemently.

“I can’t pay, the Nilfgaardians took all my money.”

The old man shook his head. “No need to pay right now. I stay in Oxenfurt every year for the whole month of August. You can pay me back then,” he told him with conviction. Jaskier felt his heart contract painfully, but he wasn’t going to look the gift horse in the mouth.

“Thank you,” he told the man as sincerely as he could, wrapping his hands around the lute strings and shaking them reverently. The owner just shook his head. “Us liberal musicians must stick together in these hard times,” he told him, voice solid. Jaskier felt his eyes start to sting, but nodded anyway. “I will see you next August,” He promised.

The man gave him a kind look and shooed him off. “Be safe this winter!” he called, as Coën and Jaskier walked back to Aiden, who had finished buying the food. Jaskier turned one last time and waved to the man, who waved back from the shadows.

“Did it go well?” Aiden asked them as they walked towards the clothing section of the market. Jaskier nodded enthusiastically. “I got new lute strings! You have to change them out every month or so for them to stay in tune, but I didn’t have any money. He said I could meet him in Oxenfurt next summer and pay him back, though!” He continued his tirade as they made their way to the cobblers.

“What can I do for you gentlemen?” the man asked as they walked into his shop. “Who needs new boots?”

“This one, Gregory,” Coën said warmly. Jaskier turned to look at him, wondering how he was on a first name basis with the cobbler.

“We come to this town every winter and we need new boots a lot.” Aiden explained.

Gregory gave him a dirty look. “Aiden,” he said warningly.

The Witcher cringed a little. “Are you still upset about it?” he asked meekly.

“Yes,” Gregory said shortly. Jaskier looked back and forth between the two of them, but determining that he wouldn’t be getting an explanation, started looking around the shop. “What are the cheapest boots that you would sell me for a trek in the snow?” he asked conversationally, looking through the selection of leather. Gregory hummed as he joined him in his examination. “I would have to do a size check, but—”

“I know my size,” Jaskier assured the man.

Gregory gave him a skeptical look. “I doubt it. Many boot shops size differently and many people think they know their sizes, but they’re not their proper ones.” Gregory told him judgmentally.

Jaskier snorted. “Good sir, I am far from ignorant,” he stated matter of factly. He then rattled off all the pertinent details for his preferred boots, including the materials he would like used, and style he preferred.

Gregory stared at him in shock, then gave him an appraising look. “You do know your shoes.”

“I told you I did,” he replied testily.

Gregory gave him a look that he couldn’t quite decipher, then turned away. “I like this one,” he told the Witchers as he made his way into the back of the shop. He quickly returned and presented a pair of boots to Jaskier. “Here you are,” he told him while holding his hand out to Aiden. “The usual plus an asshole tax.” Aiden rolled his eyes and gave an over dramatic sigh but handed him a pouch.

It didn’t sound like a coin pouch.

Gregory looked in, gave them a regal nod, and walked away. “Pleasure doing business as always, boys.”

Coën snorted and gestured for Jaskier to put on his new boots while Aiden yelled, “Enjoy it you old wanker!”

“Still younger than you,” Gregory called from behind the curtain separating his store from the back room. The Witcher made an affronted noise and looked offended as Coën dragged his overdramatic ass out the door and Jaskier followed.

“What did you pay him with?” Jaskier asked as they walked away. The Witchers averted their eyes. “Some… special spices that he can’t get from anyone else,” Aiden told him shiftily.

Jaskier furrowed his brows and then his face smoothed out. “You give that man drugs in exchange for boots? Aiden I'm not surprised, but Coën, I expected better!” he admonished.

The Witcher, whom he thought had a stronger moral compass, shrugged. “The old man likes to get high and we like boots. It’s a symbiotic relationship.”

Jaskier just sighed and the group continued on their way, but before they could reach the clothing store that they were heading towards, Aiden’s head snapped to the left and he smiled. “Lambert’s here,” Coën whispered to Jaskier in a sing-song voice.

Jaskier snickered as Aiden blushed. “Leave off,” he muttered as they walked back to the tavern to intercept the Wolf.

As they came into view of the stables around the back of the tavern, Jaskier could see a large man with short cropped red hair, two very scary looking swords and black armor with his back to them tending to his horse.

His back was only to them for a second before he turned and locked his eyes on them, giving Jaskier one of the weirdest senses of deja vu combined with overwhelming relief, as he made his way towards them.

Even without the armor, the scars, the swords, the eyes and the medallion, he would have known that this man was a Wolf.

A coil in his chest that he didn’t even know had been there relaxed so fast that it almost left him winded. This is what the illusions were always missing, and he felt more firmly settled into reality. He couldn’t even place what it was, what made the Wolves who they were, what he saw that made his soul settle more firmly into his body. He knew, without a doubt in his mind, that this was one of Geralt’s brothers.

He continued to stare as Lambert enthusiastically greeted the other two Witchers, greeting Aiden with a hug and a “Kitty!”. After a minute without even looking at him, he finally asked, “Are you going to keep staring at me, or are you going to tell me who the fuck you are and why the hell I kind of recognize your scent?” Lambert asked him in a tone of voice that he was twenty years familiar with.

Jaskier froze, but the other two groaned. “You Wolves and your stupid mutated senses and better discipline,” Aiden grumbled, but he didn’t look as put out as he sounded.

Lambert made a mocking face and turned to look at Jaskier. “Well?” he demanded as he walked closer until he was about a foot away and staring straight into his eyes.

“Um, hello? My name is Julian. I—just, um, you interested me with your mannerisms, and I have no idea why you would recognize my smell?” Jaskier rushed out.

Lambert raised one eyebrow at him. “My mannerisms interest you,” he stated with a deadpan voice, stepping closer threateningly. The other two Witchers looked between them nervously.

It was time to get along like a house on fire with the red haired Witcher, who he suddenly wanted to like him.

“Just trying to see if you're as big of an asshole as Coën said you are.” he said nonchalantly, staring straight back into his eyes, not feeling threatened in the face of what was obviously an attempt to intimidate him. “As to why you may know my scent, well, I tend to make my way around the Continent to as many brothels and courts as will take me.” he told him smugly.

Lambert barked out a laugh and slapped him on his shoulder before the other two could catch his hand, despite Coën getting close.

But as much of an aloof asshole he had been told the Witcher was, he was also a Wolf. Jaskier opened his eyes from his cringe away to see that he had stopped his hand about a millimeter above his shoulder, and was slowly pulling it back.

“What the hell happened to you?” he asked, seriously. “They were trying to stop me and you reek of fear right now, not to mention that neither of them mentioned you earlier this year.”

Jaskier stayed in his slightly cringed away position, but started to explain. “I was captured by Nilfgaard, too—”

“Nilfgaard?!” Lambert growled at the other two. “You took him from a Nilfgaard stronghold?” he ranted.

“Just fucking listen to him,” Coën growled right back. Lambert turned his rage filled eyes back towards Jaskier, and waited for him to continue.

“They captured me for information about Geralt of Rivia, Princess Cirlilla of Cintra, and Yennefer of Vengerburg. I am a Master of the Seven Liberal Arts at Oxenfurt so I had access to their extensive library, and I read quite a lot about Witchers.” He took a fortifying breath.

“I visited Princess Cirilla for a few weeks almost every winter while playing in the Cintran court, and was there performing the night of the betrothal feast. I know she is Geralt of Rivia’s Child of Surprise and I knew that if something ever happened to Calanthe, Mousesack, or Eist, that she would need to know who to go to for safety.”
He took a breath but held eye contact before continuing.

“When it was safe and we were alone, I told her about all the good things I knew about Witchers and some of your adventures. I played her some of the songs that the bard Jaskier wrote, and she loved them so much. She had so many questions, and one day she asked me why I was telling her all of this. I told her that if anything ever happened to Cintra, I wanted her to be safe.”

“Even if nothing ever happened to Cintra, when she became Queen she should know that Witchers are good men and would be able to provide counsel. Then, I told her what I thought would be the most important thing for her to know. I told her that if anything ever happened to her and she needed help, to find a man with yellow eyes, armor, two swords and a wolf medallion. She had to tell them that her name was Princess Cirilla of Cintra and she needed help. I told her that you all would help her. Nilfgaard found out.”

Lambert stared at him for a while, eyes searching his face. “You may have saved that girl,” he told Jaskier with conviction. He nodded and straightened, “That was the goal,” he told him sincerely.

Lambert nodded and clapped his hands together. “Alright, that's enough with the emotional shit. I’m hungry and want an ale. Let's go.” He led the way into the tavern, where Jaskier noticed the young barmaid from earlier was gone, leaving a few older staff for the late breakfast, early lunch crowd. The older waitstaff all stopped and stared, groaning at their entrance.

“Lambert, you break anything else and we will have problems!” an old woman yelled from behind the bar.

The Witchers laughed along with the rest of the patrons and Lambert walked over to the woman. “No promises, Rosie,'' he said while he gently patted her hand where she had grabbed him.

She placed her hand over his and sighed. “I know, but I’ll make you pay for something one day. Take your table in the back, and we will get you boys set up for day drinking.” She flitted her eyes to Jaskier. “Except for you, young man. I know these Witchers well and they forget to bathe themselves, not to mention others. I'll get the girls to draw you a bath while these three compare cock sizes.” She told him while she rounded the bar and started to lead him towards the stairs. The Witchers squawked indignantly at her back.

“We do not compare cock sized Rosie!” Coën complained.

She turned to him, unimpressed. “You buy telling me that comparing the monsters you killed and your new scars isn’t the same thing as regular men comparing cocks?”

The Witchers looked away and quickly shuffled away to their corner. “That's what I thought,” she muttered as she led Jaskier up the stairs. She sat him down on the bed as some girls brought up buckets of steaming water for his bath.

“So tell me what you are doing traveling with those bastards, dearie?” she asked him, perching next to him. He smiled at the term of endearment disguised as a swear.

“They saved me,” he told her. “I was being held captive by Nilfgaard for singing political songs, and they busted me out.”

Rosie looked at him pointedly. “I don’t appreciate liars, boy.” she told him harshly. He blanched and stared. “I know I cussed at those boys, but they are my boys, and if you’re planning on hurting them we will have issues.”

“I'm not going to hurt them,” he assured her immediately. “I just—Can you keep a secret?” he asked her meekly. She gave him a weird look but nodded.

He took a breath.

“I am Jaskier the bard,” he whispered to her so the Witchers downstairs couldn’t hear.

She gasped quietly. “Do they know?” she asked in an equal tone.

He shook his head. “I got hurt because of who I am, and what I know. They used a mage to dig into my mind and it was all I could do to keep the name and vague location of their keep to myself. They would have Geralt come to save me, but it would all be in my head. Sometimes they would take the description of what Geralt had told me of his brothers and have them come to get me. Then they would all leave me, after.”

He took a fortifying breath through his tears and continued.

“Sometimes they would take me out like they had saved me and that's how they found a place that Geralt might have gone. When I figured it out, they brought me out of it and tortured me again,” he whispered brokenly, as he showed her his hands.

Rosie had her hand over her mouth and slowly reached her hands to ghost over his hand. “Dear Gods,” she whispered. “No wonder you didn’t want them to know.” She looked him in the eyes “I know that this might not mean much, but I can promise you that this is not an illusion. I have lived 75 years of life and am sitting here talking to you right now.”

He let out a watery laugh. “Thank you,” he told her, sincerely. “I am so much more sure about this reality since I met Lambert.” She gave him an incredulous look, at which he shrugged.

“I traveled with Geralt for twenty years. I don’t know how I didn’t realize it before, but there was something about the illusions that was missing for the Wolves. The moment I saw Lambert, I knew it was there. I would have known he was a Wolf even without the eyes, scars, armor, and swords. I think it may be the way that they carry themselves that cannot be faked or replicated. I could immediately tell that he was Geralt’s brother,” he told his captivated audience of one.

She took both of his hands. “I have met all of the Wolves. I know exactly what you are talking about,” she reassured him. “And I’ll tell you what it is. I've known them all since I was a girl, since this is the closest village to their keep. All of the remaining Wolves were trained by Vesemir, since they were newly mutated at the time of the siege. Vesemir taught them everything, which means they all picked up his mannerisms. They hold forks like him, I've noticed, they walk like him, and they all have the same base fighting style. Vesemir took them down here all the time and they would watch as he bartered and sold, then they would copy him.” He listened to her story. She laughed “You know how baby ducks follow their mothers in the little line, like she is their north star? That is how Lambert, Eskel, and Geralt followed Vesemir. They still return home every winter, but I know that if Vesemir moved then those boys would go wherever he went for the winter.”

She pulled him to her side, and started petting his head. “I'm guessing they are taking you up with them, so I will tell you a few more things so you don’t make a fool of yourself.” She told him and she tweaked his ear gently.

“They all act like their birth order. Eskel is the oldest and acts like it, the middle is Geralt, and Lambert, as you may be able to tell, is the youngest. Vesemir acts as their father, and they will never admit it, but they act like his sons. As much as they try to deny it, they all love each other. The trek up into the mountains has killed people, but those boys will keep you safe, and we will send you up with plenty of supplies. Hmm, what else… Oh!” She gave him a sly look and whispered straight into his ear. “The town has a bet going when Aiden and Lambert are going to get together. The other Witchers are in on it.” She pulled back and winked.

They continued to sit, Jaskier leaning against her as the bath slowly filled before she spoke again.

“I have to ask.” she stared hesitantly. “Does Geralt know you are alright? If you have traveled with him before, he must know that you are missing, and be looking for you.”

He stiffened. “We had a falling out,” he admitted. She whipped her head around and stared at him.

“Boy, what do you mean you had a falling out?” she questioned in disbelief. “I've heard that boy talk about you while he was drunk off his ass in my tavern, and you have him wrapped around your little finger.”

Jaskier laughed humorously. “He blamed me for everything wrong in his life, and then left me on the side of a mountain.” he told her in a monotone.

She gave a heaving sigh. “That boy, I swear. Emotions shoved so far up his ass, I'm surprised he hasn’t thrown them up yet. When he passes through here on his way up, I'm going to give him a piece of my mind.”

Jaskier pulled himself off. “No! Don’t do that, please!” he begged. “Don’t even tell him I was here, please. I want him to come up to the keep, and my presence would only deter him. I can avoid him once he’s up there and he will be safe. And besides, he had told me these things before but I never listened. He told me to stop talking, stop singing, stop following him, but I never listened. He had to be that direct for me to listen,” he told her in one breath.

She stared at him in disbelief, then the same look that Coën had on his face when Jaskier had brought up Lambert to Aiden, came over Rosie’s. “You boys are all so stupid, I’m surprised that you are still alive,” she muttered.

He gave her a winning smile. “I live to surprise,” he joked. She rolled her eyes and helped him up, nudging him towards the bath.

“I’ll keep your secret, Master bard,” he blushed, “but remember, the longer a secret is kept, the harder it is to keep it. Those boys will take care of you no matter what.” She made her way to the door, but turned back one last time at the threshold.

“Stay safe, bard. Come back and sing for us in the spring.” She tapped the frame twice and closed the door behind her. He stared at the door for a while, then turned to the bath. He would have to ask the Witchers why the women kept tapping the surfaces next to them twice.

He stared at the bath for a minute. It would be his first bath since he was captured.

He stripped down and unwrapped his bandages. He didn’t look down at his bruised and cut body as he slowly placed one leg in then the other, then quickly lowered himself in. He let out a moan and sunk into the water up to his chin. It was warm and filled with floral-smelling soap. He started to scrub himself down, watching the bathwater turn a gray sort of color. He continued scrubbing in the water that was beginning to go cold.

He heard a knock. “Julian?” Coën’s muffled voice came through the door. “I have some clean clothes for you, I went shopping. Can I come in? I can also warm the water back up.”

Jaskier considered for a minute, before calling for him to come in. Coën walked through the door, then paused, staring. “Huh,” he said, then stepped forward awkwardly.

Jaskier raised an eyebrow. “What?” he asked indignantly, staring at the Witcher. Coën shook his head and set the clothes down on the stool next to the bath.

“Sorry, it’s just… This is the first time I've seen your face clean,” he told him. Jaskier lifted a hand up to his face, absentmindedly.

“Huh,” Jaskier muttered, echoing Coën’s earlier words.

“Do you want me to reheat the water?” he asked awkwardly, peeking at the muddy water.

Jaskier shook his head. “No thank you, it's already dirty, I'll just clean my hair then get out.”

Coën nodded. “Alright, I'm just going to give you a rundown on the plan. We are going to spend the night here, and you should probably rest for the rest of the day anyway, the path up is a hard one. We will leave tomorrow after breakfast, alright?” Coën told him.

Jaskier nodded. “I'll get a good sleep and bundle up tomorrow morning,” Jaskier told him with faux brightness. Coën nodded and made his way back to the door, but paused around the same place Rosie did. What was it with people and standing in his doorways?

“Did… Rosie didn’t give you a hard time earlier, did she?” Coën asked. Jaskier gave him a confused look. Why would Rosie give him a hard time?

“Well, she tends to give people traveling with us a hard time. She is very wary of people after the siege. I just wanted to make sure you were alright,” he muttered, studying the look on Jaskier’s face.

Jaskier smiled, “We had a nice chat,” he told him honestly. “We came to an understanding.”

Coën raised his eyebrow. “Somehow, you two coming to an understanding scares me more than her threatening you.” he deadpanned. Then he was gone, the door closing behind him.

Jaskier shrugged and then started to wash his hair, and he knew it was the right decision to wash his hair last. The water quickly became more disgusting than he could bear. He grabbed the threadbare towel and quickly dried himself off. He grabbed the garment on top of the stack, and was shocked by its weight. He had never had underclothes this thick. He pulled them over his newly sharp hip bones and pulled the equally thick chemise over his boney shoulders. The outer clothes that he pulled on after were possibly the thickest clothes that he had ever worn and coupled with the cloak he may even be too hot.

But… he realized then that he wasn’t hot at all, maybe a little warm, but not hot. In fact, he was the most comfortable he had been in a while. He toweled off his shaggy hair and bundled himself under his blankets.

He was so comfortable and warm that he realized he couldn’t remember the last time he had been so cozy.

Another knock came to his door, but unlike Coën, Rosie didn’t ask for permission to enter, she just barged through the door like she owned the place.

Well, she did own the place, after all.

“Girls! Come drain,” she called. They grabbed the tub and dragged it over to the window, and dumped the water into the alleyway. He raised a brow, but it was efficient so he didn’t say anything. Once they were gone, Rosie shoved a bundle onto his lap. “For your trip up,” she told him loftily. He unwrapped two furs and some preserved fruit.

“Thank you,” he breathed out. She looked at him regally and didn’t reply. “Rosie?” he started “Once I start making money again, can I pay the people around here in advance for things that the Witchers will buy so they don’t have to?”

Her face softened immediately. “Of course you can, dear, but I expect that this will not be the last time you come for the winter,” she told him as she breezed out the door.

He blinked after her, not quite sure what to do with what she had said. There were a lot of things today that he didn’t know what to do with. As he shook out the furs to lay on his bed, something rectangular came flying out onto the very edge of the mattress. He crawled over and grabbed the book, and flipped it to read the title. He wiped a tear off his cheek as he read “A Collection of Bardic Tales.”

He owed this town so much.

He buried himself beneath the blankets and furs and clutched the book to his chest.

“Julian!”

Jaskier felt his shoulder being shaken, and bolted up, hissing at the stretch. He immediately recognized Lambert standing over him. He waited till Jaskier regained his wits until he spoke again. “It is time for dinner, come on, we already ordered you something. Well, we ordered you food and Rosie laughed in our faces and made you something else.” He led Jaskier out of the room that now had Coën’s belongings in it and down the stairs to the raucous main tavern. He slipped back into his place in the booth after Coën sat up and gestured him in. Lambert plopped down in a chair that—Jaskier smiled—was very close to Aiden’s chair.

He looked at the food placed in front of his place at the table and grinned. Rosie had made him a shepherd's pie with mashed potatoes. He looked towards the bar and found her smirking at him. She saluted and nodded at him to eat his damn food before she came and shoved it down his throat.

“Alright.” Lambert declared from his sprawled position, “bard, pay attention.” Jaskier dramatically turned and gave Lambert his best over-the-top ‘I’m paying attention to you’ look. Lambert barked out a laugh but continued. “So, tomorrow we will leave for the mountains, but there are some things you need to know.” His voice suddenly became more serious. “We call the pass ‘The Killer’ for a reason. You listen to us and trust us, we will get you through. You fuck around, and you will die. The same thing at the keep, we have rules. You follow them, you live. You break them, you die. And that is not saying that we will do it—the mountain will do it. There are wargs and hydra in the forest surrounding, but we have been dealing with them for years. They will probably be the ones to kill you. If you go where you are not supposed to in the keep, we will not be the ones to punish you, the places will most likely collapse and you’ll die. We will go over all the rules when we get there.”

He suddenly leaned closer and stared straight into Jaskier’s eyes. “There are, however, some rules that we will personally kill you if you break.” Aiden and Coën were suddenly protesting but the two kept eye contact. Jaskier nodded seriously for Lambert to continue, which made the other two peter out.

“You tell anyone our secrets, you write about things that you didn’t run by us for your songs first, or you try to hurt us? I will personally help kill you.” Lambert promised in a deadly serious voice.

Jaskier responded in kind. “If I ever do that then I hope you do kill me.”

Lambert raised a brow and gave an approving nod. “Eat your dinner before it gets cold,” he said as he leaned back into his relaxed position. They nodded at each other and the tension was broken.

“What the hell just happened?” Aiden whispered, looking between them.

“I told you,” Coën muttered into his stew. “There are three of you now.”

Lambert just laughed and took a big swig of ale, while Jaskier dug into his shepherds' pie. As their meals began to exist more in their stomachs than on their plates, the other bard started to perform. Rosie caught his eye and she raised a brow. “Not very good,” he mouthed at her and she shook with silent laughter. The others looked between them and Lambert’s face slowly became more apprehensive.

“What?” Jaskier demanded, defensive.

“You just told Rosie that he isn’t very good… do you think you're any better?” Lambert taunted.

Jaskier gave him a flat look. “I am a master of the Seven Liberal Arts, a degree that I got from one of the most prestigious universities on the continent. I doubt that he went to university at all.” he told the table deadpan. “Of course I can do better, but I cannot play until my fingers heal.”

Lambert's face immediately lost his feral glint and he adopted a chagrined expression. “Alright, bard,” he told him. “But once those fingers heal, I want to see a bard smackdown, those things are hilarious.”

Jaskier laughed. “Yes, we are known for being petty bastards,” he agreed. Lambert took a swig and looked to the others.

“Remember when Geralt told us the story of his bard’s feud with that other bard… Something Marx I think his name was? That was amazing.”

Jaskier didn’t let his shock show outwardly, but he was screaming internally.

Aiden lost it. “Oh my gods, yes!” He turned towards Jaskier. “You went to Oxenfurt, so you must know about his and Marx’s feud!” he laughed.

Jaskier plastered on a smile and nodded. “Yes, they were competing for the top of their class in Oxenfurt,” he agreed. Coën shook his head. “We know that, but the stories Geralt told us were much more interesting,” he chuckled.

That got Jaskier curious. “What stories did he tell you?” he asked as innocently as he could.

The Witchers' grains grew. “Oh, where to start!” Aiden said with over bubbling enthusiasm.

“Oh!” Coën started “So, apparently, they were both in the same tavern trying to perform in Toussaint, and Geralt watched them hurl insults at each other for almost four hours in an intense ‘musical battle for the title of Best Bard.’. They never settled on a winner that night, as Valdo went too far and Jaskier tackled him. Geralt had to pull him off the other man, grabbed his lute, and pulled him up to their room. Geralt heard Jaskier seethe and invent new swears for another fifteen minutes before he tired himself out and fell asleep. Geralt thinks that Jaskier won by a considerable margin because, apparently, Valdo’s songs were either not his or ‘uninspired’,” Coën told Jaskier. The other two laughed, and then Aiden brought up a bar fight he had been in, and Jaskier was left to his thoughts.

He still couldn’t believe that Geralt had told his brothers about him. It was a funny story in hindsight, but he had gathered that it wasn’t the only one he had told. He continued to be lost in his thoughts about why Geralt would talk about him if he hated his company so much? He continued to mull it over as he excused himself and left the Witchers to their drinking, and his feet brought him to his room as his brain was lost elsewhere. He climbed into bed on autopilot and mulled everything over until he started to fall asleep. His last thought before he fell into a troubled sleep was, “Filingless pie my ass.”

Chapter Text

Jaskier woke suddenly, remnants of a nightmare fading slowly. He looked around and jumped when he met a pair of tired yellow eyes in the dark.

“You alright?” Coën whispered into the dark.

Jaskier let out a shaky sigh. “I will be,” he whispered back.

Coën nodded. “Try and sleep a little more,” he told him as he lay back down.” There are another two or three hours till we have to get up, get as much sleep as you can.” Coën ended with a yawn and soon went still.

Jaskier lay back down uneasily, bundling himself more securely in his furs and mushing his face into the pillow. He closed his eyes and after an uncountable number of minutes, he fell into an uneasy half-sleep.

He roused when Coën got up, and they both pulled their things together in companionable silence.Coën strapped on his armor, while Jaskier packed his supplies as tightly as he could into a saddlebag to make it as easy as it could be to carry. He strapped his lute onto his back underneath his cloak and picked up the bag and waited while Coën strapped on his swords. They make their way down the stairs and out towards the stables. The other two Witchers didn’t seem to be up yet, so they fed the horses, not talking and disturbing the dawn peace. They brushed down the horses, then checked their shoes and tack. Once assured that everything was set for their departure, they returned to the tavern to grab breakfast. As they made their way to the front door, they saw a tired-looking Rosie talking with the other two Witchers in the otherwise empty tavern. They slipped into their booth and listened as Rosie told them to be careful, made sure that they had everything, and fretted about how cold the winter was supposed to be.

A young man brought them breakfast, while Rosie, undeterred by the intrusion, continued to pepper them with worries about their trip up the mountain. The Witchers didn’t say anything against it, just assuring her that they would be fine. Yes, they had enough food, no, the pass was not too dangerous for Julian, yes, they would keep an eye on him, yes, Vesemir would have enough food for them and even if they didn’t they were Witchers and could hunt some measly deer.

Jaskier smiled into his porridgel. If Vesemir was their father, Rosie was their mother. They finished quickly and stood up to leave, and Jaskier noticed for the first time how big the men were, compared to her, but they hunched in one themselves to be smaller for her, less intimidating. Jaskier smiled softly but sadly, knowing that they didn’t need to and damn if he wasn’t going to get them to stop doing it.

Rosie pulled them all into strong, warm hugs, lingering as if she never wanted to let go of them. When it was Jaskier’s turn, she pulled him down to her level and smashed his head onto her shoulder. He held her gently and she flicked his ear. “Hey!” he complained. “I'm not going to break, Julian. Give me a real hug,” she admonished. He smiled into her shoulders and wound his arms around her waist.

They pulled away from each other and she pulled the four of them in front of her. “Take care of each other,” she told them seriously. “Keep him alive,” she told the Witchers, pointing at Jaskier. She then gestured to the three other men and turned to Jaskier. “Don’t let them forget to do basic human things like bathing and sleeping, instead of drinking themselves into unconsciousness.”

“Hey!” the Witchers complained, talking over each other. She made affronted shushing noises at them as they sulked at her.

“You know I'm right,” she said. “Besides, arguably it will be harder to keep this one alive,” she griped, pointing at Jaskier. The Witchers snickered and Jaskier just shrugged.

She wasn’t wrong.

She followed them out to the horses and wrung her hands on her apron as they packed up. “There are three horses, and four of you,” she observed, with concern. Lambert sighed and walked back over to her. “We can’t ride the whole way, and one of us would have had to walk anyway. Julian will be riding as much as he possibly can on my horse so he doesn’t jostle his injuries, and Scorpion is the most experienced on the trail. He could probably make his way up safely without me,” he soothed her gently.

Knowing that acknowledging his emotional output would make him pissy, Jaskier pretended to not have heard what he said but was secretly touched by his care towards his safety. Rosie nodded and followed Lambert to the group checking over the tack for herself. She tugged and re-fastened cinches and ties, but eventually nodded, satisfied.

She took a fortifying breath. “You’re ready,” she decided. They each gave her one last hug and mounted their respective horses with Jaskier starting behind Aiden until they got to the mountain. Rosie waved to them as they started down the path out of town.

Before they could be out of sight, Jaskier turned to look at his new favorite woman in the world. She was standing alone in the middle of the road, and he caught the back end of her wiping her eyes on her sleeve. She gave him one last private wave, and he raised his hand back before they turned the corner and she was gone. He turned back as they all rode in a group.

“Gods, I love that woman,” Aiden told the group softly, getting hums of agreement. Jaskier rolled his eyes in exasperation, but figured they could work on better expressing their emotions to others over the winter. The forest surrounding them was dense, and he looked as closely as he could into the trees. He didn’t see a lot of wildlife.

“Uh, guys?” he asked hesitantly. They all turned their attention towards him, he could see but continued to keep their heads on a swivel. “I don’t see any wildlife. Why?” he questioned.

“There have never been very many animals here,” Aiden assured him, still not looking back.

“Alright, but why?” Jaskier asked in exasperation.

He felt and heard Aiden sigh. “The only people who go this far in the woods are Witchers, and most animals besides horses don’t like us. As weird as it is, cats are especially scared of us,” he muttered to him.

Jaskier felt his face contort in sadness that they couldn’t have the joy of petting animals. He stayed silent after that.

He continued to watch his surroundings, noticing that they were slowly gaining altitude as they climbed an incline, and it was getting colder. They rounded a bend in the path, and Jaskier saw a break in the trees up ahead. As they got closer and closer he craned his head to see through it.

His breath caught in his throat as they rode by. He hadn’t realized how far they had gone. Through the break in the trees, he could see the village below waking up, looking like his sister's doll village from when they had been kids. He turned his head to continue to look out the break as much as he could while they continued up. “It's just going to get harder from here,” Lambert called from in front of them. “Today will be fairly easy, really just forest, and we will make it to the cave at this rate. Tomorrow will be hard, Julian.”

With that foreboding message, they continued up the mountain.

They paused briefly for lunch and a water break, then continued on with the Witchers walking and Jaskier now on Coën’s horse. They went a little slower, but Lambert said that they were still making good time. Jaskier and Lambert passed time by passive-aggressively bickering, the other two pretending to be exasperated but adding their opinions when they had one about their random topics. It became colder the longer they trekked, and Jaskier couldn’t quite tell what factored into it more, the weather or the altitude. The trees thinned out the further the sun sank down and more rocks rose up around them.

They broke through the trees and suddenly there was no barrier on their left, and it dropped down on a soft decline. They made their way on a winding path around the side of the mountains, the Witchers leading their horses, and Jaskier was horribly reminded of the trail up the mountain to the dragon.

As the sun sank down below the highest mountain peak, they rounded another corner and were faced with a cut in the rock. Lambert led them to it and Jaskier was suddenly very worried about his sleeping arrangements, but once he was in the cave, his fears were put to rest. The cave looked small on the outside, but was more than big enough for three horses and four people.

There were already logs and a fire pit put into the middle of the cave, signifying that it had been used by Witchers past. There were even blankets folded in the corner, although they were dirty. They set about shaking them out and setting up camp, Coën lighting the fire and Aiden pulling food out of their bags. When the fire was crackling happily in the pit and the food was rationed out, Aiden approached Jaskier with bandages.

“Time to re-check,” he declared as he plopped down. Jaskier sighed and pulled his shirt over his head, and Aiden hissed in sympathy. “They are definitely healing,” he told him while he poked around and Jaskier tried not to flinch away. The other two watched impassively as Aiden cataloged his injuries for him. Bruised ribs, general bruised skin everywhere, strained knee which didn't feel good, hurt walking for too long, but wasn’t about to fall off. His right pinky and left thumb were both broken, and his left pointer was fractured but healing. The rest of his fingers were superficially bruised. He also had a black eye but his face was intact. He wrapped his ribs and slathered his hands in a foul-smelling paste and wrapped them after splinting his fingers. Coën handed him dinner, but Lambert continued to stare as he carefully tugged his shirt back on. Jaskier awkwardly curled in on himself and carefully ate his dried fruit, a chunk of bread, and a couple pieces of jerky. They ate in silence and watched out the small mouth of the cave while the sun painted colors in the sky as it descended.

Jaskier noticed that the Witchers were not nearly as relaxed as they had been at Rosie’s. They were on alert, even though he knew that they were trying to keep it from him. They had their swords on their backs still and their armor was still on.

As they finished their meals, the three spread out and started doing the camp tasks without even conversing. Coën started rooting through the bags, Aiden watered the horses, and Lambert stood in the mouth of the cave, seeming to stand guard. After finishing with the bags, Coën dumped Jaskier’s blankets in his lap, patted his head, and moved towards Lambert. Aiden finished a minute later, walked past Jaskier, and without breaking stride, he, too, ran a hand over his head. The three Witchers stood in the mouth of the cave and talked quietly to each other and watched the outside intently. They seemed to decide with a nod, Aiden and Lambert walking back towards him and Coën sat in the middle of the doorway and placed his sword across his lap.

“What’s he doing?” he asked them as they walked towards the fire.

“He's keeping watch,” Aiden told him absently as they sat down next to each other, crisscrossed with their silver swords placed across their laps. “We are going to meditate and he will tell us when it is our turn to take watch,” Aiden explained. “Coën is on watch first, I’m on second and Lambert is on third.”

“What about me? Shouldn’t I take a watch?” Jaskier asked, knowing he could at least look out and alert the Witchers if he saw something.

Lambert snorted, not even bothering to open his eyes. “Not a chance,” he responded, and just like that, the conversation was over.

Jaskier lay with his face to the fire and the other two men and tried his hardest to relax and fall asleep. He watched as they slipped into meditation and Coën’s posture got more alert. He slowly drifted off, knowing he was safe.

He wasn't sure how long he had slept when he bolted awake, but Aiden and Coën were the ones meditating and it was pitch black outside. He continued to pant as Lambert stood up and made his way towards him. Jaskier looked up at him through teary eyes as he slowly crouched down, and they just looked at each other.

“Are you alright?” Lambert asked him haltingly.

Jaskier laughed, quiet but wet. “I'm crying dickwad, I'm obviously doing great,” he sarcastically whispered. Lambert gave him a closed-mouth smile and sat down next to his feet. “Do you… need anything?” he asked in the same tone.

Jaskier huffed and shook his head. “Just a nightmare.”

Lambert looked away uncomfortably and Jaskier twiddled his thumbs awkwardly. Lambert took a breath and fixed him with a look.

“I know this is probably not what you are worried about, but I can make you a promise. I will protect you up here, alright? This mountain will not kill you and the keep will not kill you. Once spring comes, Nilfgaard will not kill you. I can promise you. Just… just listen this winter, and everything will be fine.” He placed a hand on his ankle.

Jaskier smiled brightly through his tears. “I know,” he promised. He laughed wetly and swiped his hands over his eyes. “I trust Witchers, you all aren’t a threat to anything that isn't a threat to you, and you actually protect people. That's what fighting monsters is all about—protecting people. Honestly, I think you guys are kind of like knights. You guys are honestly probably better than most of them.”

Lambert stared at him like he had grown a second head and turned green. “You are a strange man,” Lambert said incredulously. “You must be short a fucking marble, but I appreciate the hell out of what you just said and I will pay you money to give that shpiel to everyone else in the keep in front of me.”

He got up and Jaskier smiled widely at his back and flopped back down triumphantly. He groaned as he landed, forgetting his injuries, and he saw Lambert's shoulders shaking silently with laughter from where he was sitting. “Asshole,” Jaskier muttered, but quickly got comfortable again and lay where he could see all three Witchers from his spot next to the fire. He watched Coën and Aiden breathe and Lambert’s head swivel, keeping watch to ensure their safety. He slowly slipped back into oblivion, watching the men who he hoped here his friends and just breathing.

Chapter Text

When the morning—if you could even call it that, seriously, Witchers need to learn to sleep in—came, the Witchers woke him up, shoved some bread and meat into his hands, and shoved him up onto Scorpion. They had packed up while he slept, and were chomping at the bit to leave, just as the gray of dawn was beginning.Jaskier was tired, and thought this early departure time was fucking bullshit. He strapped his lute to his back, however, and allowed himself to be hauled onto the horse.

Lambert led Scorpion on foot, with Aiden in the middle and Coën bringing up the rear. After about an hour of climbing the mountain, Lambert paused and turned to Jaskier. “Alright Birdy, it's about to get difficult. We are going to see snow soon, and with snow comes ice.”

Jaskier raised a surprised brow. “Birdy?” he asked incredulously. Lambert shrugged as he turned back around. “Aiden is kitty, Coën is Coën because I have been threatened with bodily harm, but if I could I would call him Griffy. The amount of people that call me Lamb despite protests is absolutely astronomical. So, I thought to myself, what animal is the bard? Well, birds are the only animals that sing, I'm pretty sure, so. Birdy.” Lambert defended.

Jaskier grinned. “I like it, therefore I will allow it,” he declared regally. He heard the two behind them laugh and Lambert gave him a thumbs up over his shoulder. Jaskier laughed along with Coën and Aiden. Once they rounded the next ridge, the laughter died in his throat. There was a valley cutting through the mountains, absolutely covered in snow. He saw a thin bridge of rock at the far corner, connecting the two sides.

The only problem was he had to crane his neck to even see it. “We have to climb about 2,000 feet in altitude,” Lambert yelled to him over the wind that shot like an arrow through the valley. He braced himself and tucked his cloak around himself tighter.

They didn’t talk for the rest of the way up, too focused on the zig-zagging, sharply inclined trail. He clutched tightly to Scorpion's withers, but not nearly enough to hurt. He made the mistake of looking down, once, and felt his heart jump to his throat then fall to the pit of his stomach. Lambert must have sensed his fear, because he broke the silence to yell, “Don’t worry Birdy, I won’t let you die—you have to help me piss off Eskel.”

Jaskier was too terrified to respond, because that would mean moving a part of his body, and he wasn’t going to risk it. They finally arrived at the base of the natural bridge, and Lambert helped him dismount. He clutched onto Lambert’s arm, who surprisingly didn’t make fun of him, just led him to the side of the path near the mountain and set him leaning against it. The Witchers led the horses over and made him drink water. They surrounded him, facing him and putting his back to the mountains, checking him over.

“I’m alright,” he told them weakly. “Just hoping I don’t fall to my death.”

Coën placed a gently consoling hand on his shoulder, but the two assholes rolled their eyes. Eye-rolling was becoming a running theme within their little group. “You are literally surrounded by Witchers. You are not going to die if we don’t push you off the fucking cliff,” Aiden griped.

“Ignore him,” Coën said, flicking his ear. “He gets pissy.”

“He gets pissy,” Aiden mocked in a squeaky voice. Coën threw his head back and sighed dramatically, and Lambert threw his hands up.

“I'll throw the both of you off the fuckin’ mountain,” he said. “Julian, got on the damn horse. You two lead yours. We are making it over this Godsforsaken bridge, and no one is going to fall to their deaths,” he said with finality and pulled Jaskier over to his horse.

Before he helped him up, he placed a gentle hand on his arm. “If you want, you can close your eyes the entire way. I'll get you over, you don’t have to do anything,” he told him softly. “We can stop over there if you need to. It’s safe.”

Jaskier nodded his understanding, deciding to risk his life before he even got on the bridge.

He burst forward and wrapped Lambert into a quick hug.” Thank you,” he told him and quickly pulled away, not wanting to overstay his welcome.

Lambert’s eyes were wide but before he could react, Aiden was yelling “Hey!? Are we doing hugs!? I want hugs!” Jaskier laughed and turned around in time to wrap the oncoming Cat in his arms.

“Are you less cranky now?” he joked. Aiden nodded happily.

“Coën! Come get a hug, these are great!” he enthused as he bounced back to his horse. Coën smiled indulgently and gave Jaskier a quick squeeze.

“Don’t worry” he assured him, holding his shoulders and looking into his eyes. “We’ve got you.”

Jaskier nodded. “I know, I trust you guys.” He got three blinding smiles and was helped onto the horse. “Let's do this,” he declared as he closed his eyes.

“You’ve got it Birdy.”

He felt Scorpion begin to move and he tried not to hold still. A hand patted his ankle, and then he felt the wind become harsher.

He tried to fight it, but he could feel himself disassociating. It was cold and harsh just like the stone in the cell. When it was cold, it made the blood clot on his skin faster, it hurt when they ripped him up off the ground, it made the chains burn like they were hot instead of cold and he could almost feel them against his limbs and neck, it meant they were going to hurt him, and he didn’t want to hurt again, he wasn’t going to tell them anything,he wasn’t going to betray Geralt even if he hated him,he was going to die down here, he almost wanted to die because no one was going to save him and—

He felt himself being pulled off of whatever he was sitting on and started screaming and struggling against the hands on himself.There were too many, and they were strong and trapped him, and he couldn’t fight them off, and he wasn't going to say anything, he wasn't ,he wasn't, hewasnthewasnthewasnthe—

“Julian! Julian, you’re ok!” he heard being yelled.

“You can't trick me!” he sobbed. “You can’t!”

He continued to sob but stopped struggling, knowing he couldn’t break free from his captors. He just let them take him wherever they were going to. He kept his eyes shut, and went limp. One picked him up under the shoulders and knees and walked with him. He let his mind wander, hoping that if he went far enough that he would be far enough away that whatever they did to him didn't hurt.

When he became aware of his surroundings again, he was warmer and he heard mumbling. They were trying to lull him into a false sense of security. He continued to pretend to sleep and strained his ears to hear what they were saying.

The voices, they sounded familiar, but not like Nilfgaardians? They certainly didn't have the right accents. Where did he know those voices from?

He continued to listen for another minute before he recognized the cadence of their voices. He bolted upright and looked around wildly until his eyes landed on the Two Witchers that had saved him and the Witcher that was a true Wolf and tried to hide his emotions but they burst out at the seams. He gave a shout of delight and, ignoring his injuries, launched himself at them.

Coën caught him and they all let out distressed sounds. “Julian? Are you back with us?” He nodded into the uncomfortable but comforting armored shoulder. He blindly reached out a hand in either direction until they were grabbed by other hands.

“You guys got me out,” he sighed with relief, snuggling as much as he could into the rough armor.

“Um, yes?” Aiden said from behind him hesitantly. They didn’t say anything else, and he eventually pulled back from all of them to look them in the eyes.

They were staring at him with the most concern he had ever been faced with. He curled into himself.

“I'm sorry about all that,” he whispered. “I know it was dangerous for me to have freaked out like that, I didn’t mean to. I'm sorry.” He wrapped his arms around himself and waited for them to speak.

“Julian. Where did you go?” Coën asked gently, opening his arms in invitation. Jaskier buried himself back into Coën’s lap.

“It was sometimes so cold in the cell that the blood congealed to my skin and the stone floor, and then they would rip me off of the floor and it would reopen all my wounds at the same time. The chains got so cold that it felt like they were burning me. I just—it was suddenly so cold up there and it was like I was back there,” he whispered.

“Melitele wept, Julian,” Aiden breathed while Lambert let out a wounded sound. They moved closer to him and closed their arms securely around the two of them. He sighed contentedly.

“This is warm,” he told them softly. They all hummed in agreement and continued to hold him. He felt his eyes water and he pulled them as close as he possibly could and relaxed. Who knew dissociating like that could be so exhausting?

“Will one of you tell me a nice story?” he muttered. Lambert gave a truly impressive sigh, but started to tell him about a midsummer festival he went to where he tried a bunch of new foods. He kept his voice low and soft, rubbing his hand over Jaskier’s arm soothingly. Jaskier listened to Lambert talk about eating a walnut for the first time and found that he was nodding off. He let himself be soothed and lulled into sleep. The last thing he heard before he dropped off was Lambert bitching about how apples taste so different when they are cooked than when they are raw. It soothed him.

The next morning, the Witchers very not subtly kept an eye on him before they deemed him good to travel. He knew he had put them behind schedule yesterday, but he could not push them to go faster that morning for the absolute life of him. By midafternoon, they stopped and found a place for camp and stopped for the night right then. No matter how much complaining he did, they wouldn't budge. They piled blankets over him and stuffed him with a rabbit that they caught.

“Thank you, my darlings,” he praised them, joking to disguise the honesty.

They left him alone for a good fifteen minutes after that. Success.

When he was settled, they crept back into his space. It was nice while it lasted.

He was still not allowed to sit a watch, so he lay down to sleep. “Will we be able to make it to the keep, tomorrow?” he asked through a yawn. Lambert walked past him on his way to do something or other, but again ran a hand over his head on his way past.

"We should, but we go through the Killer tomorrow, so try and get some good rest."

Jaskier sighed but started to relax his body. He would be ready.

He was woken that morning again before the sun was up. They hustled him up and into all of the clothes they had for him, and then he was tugged into another thick shirt and his cloak, but they worked together to add a blanket under his cloak to use as a second layer of insulation.

“Here you go, Birdy!” Lambert shoved some food—toasted bread with fruit—into his hands. He let out a sound of delight and took the breakfast treat. He ate quickly, but when he reached the last bite, he hesitated.

He held the last bit out to Lambert. “You want it?” he asked. Lambert stared at him, then shook his head.

“No? It’s for you?” he told him, confused.

Jaskier shrugged. “You made it for me so I wanted you to be able to taste what you made,'' he said.

Lambert just got up and shook his head while helping him up. “Just eat your damn food Birdy,” he griped while leading him back to Scorpion.

Jaskier snickered and popped the last bite into his mouth. “Thank you, Lamb!” he sang. Lambert whipped around to look at him and raised his eyebrow.

“Seriously?” he asked.

Jaskier nodded enthusiastically and Lambert rolled his eyes a truly inordinate amount, but he still helped him haul himself onto Scorpion.

“Alright, fuckers,” Lambert declared, looking at the other three men. “Looking at the sky, it will probably snow this morning and this afternoon. It’s going to get cold as balls and we need to get to the keep by nightfall. Let's go.”

Lambert led them through ravines and up slopes. He moved them cautiously but efficiently, reminding Jaskier at every turn that he could close his eyes if he wanted. The wind continued to howl and around mid-morning, Lambert’s predictions came to fruition. The wind brought blinding, thick snow that made Jaskier bundle down as far as he could into his cloak and had him reminding himself frequently of where he was. He turned his head to the right, looking around only to the right because if he looked to his left he would only be seeing a wall of rock.

“....Fuck,” he breathed as he caught sight of what he assumed to be the Killer.

“You see that?” Aiden yelled from behind him. “That's the Killer!”

Jaskier sighed and nodded, asking himself why he did these kinds of things to himself. They slowly made their way through the thickening snow towards the base of the final stretch of trail. It was nearing midday, and it wasn’t getting any brighter with the clouds as thick as they were, when they finally looked up at the dangerous path. Lambert paused them and looked back to the other three. “Aiden, Coën, keep an eye out!” he yelled over the wind. They nodded back, but Jaskier was confused.

“What are they looking out for?” he yelled over the howling.

“The snowbanks up there.” He pointed to the cliffs above them. “If they start to look unstable we need to get to shelter.”

Jaskier nodded shakily and they continued on. They cautiously made their way up, Lambert leading their group past hidden boulders that would break a horse's ankle. There were times when they had to haul up steep inclines and Jaskier had to plaster himself on Scorpion’s back so he wouldn’t tumble all the way back down the mountain. He kept his eyes glued to the ground and Lambert in order to not panic, and watched as the Witcher expertly placed his feet in precarious places.

Because he was keeping his eyes down, he saw things he wished he didn't.

There were small mounds buried in the falling snow - some were longer than others. He knew exactly what they looked like, and exactly what they probably were, especially when he saw the rusty hilt of a sword poking out of a larger mound. He shivered and looked away, only to see long gouges in the rock.

He wrapped his blanket cloak tighter around himself, not only to keep out the cold but to keep out the spirits haunting the pass. As they precariously made their way up the mountain,Jaskier got colder and colder and had to take deeper breaths the further they went up to keep from getting light-headed and dizzy.

He started to lose feeling in his feet, first. Then, no matter how much he rubbed his hands together in his gloves, he started feeling the tingling in his fingers. He puffs warm breath onto his gloves in a vain attempt to keep them warm. He pulled the hood of his cloak tighter over his ears and head, trying to keep his face warm. He just needed to make sure he never stopped shivering. He knew that's when he needed to get truly worried.

“Just hang on a little longer, Julian, just over this ridge and we will be able to see it!” Lambert yelled through the snow-filled winds.

Jaskier hung on.

Oh, how it was worth it. They crested the ridge, and Jaskier drew in an awed breath and used it to let out a sigh of relief. About halfway down the valley to their right, surrounded by huge slabs of granite, was a large stone castle with a massive fire roaring in the central watchtower. The bridge leading to the keep spanned over a sheer drop, and he could see sprawling training grounds on the other side. He spotted crumbling turrets, one of the walls had crumbled and opened straight into the massive chasm. He could imagine how amazing it had been in its heyday.

Lambert led them down the winding path. It was about halfway down, as evening started to set in, that Jaskier felt his shivering start to peter off. He took a deep breath but didn’t say anything, because if they hurried down to get him warm, it increased the risk that they would all get hurt by carelessness.

He tried to warm himself up as they made their way down the winding path down the ridge, and towards the gate. They crossed the slightly crumbling drawbridge, and he began to panic as he stopped feeling the cold and lost feeling in his extremities. He deemed it safe enough to finally tell the Witchers, not having to yell to be heard from the safety of the valley.

“I can’t feel my hands and feet, and have stopped shivering.” He called out as nonchalantly as he could.

Lambert whipped around with wide eyes and he heard Aiden start swearing at him.Coën yelled over both of them,“Why didn’t you say anything earlier, idiot?!”

They rushed him across the bridge with Lambert jogging next to Scorpion instead of in front of them, and Jaskier could hear him muttering about idiot bards with no sense of self-preservation. Jaskier knew that he should be more worried, but he was just tired and wanted to get off the horse.

Lambert led them quickly to the giant gates and reached for the rope by the wall and rang the bell attached to it in a pattern, then turned towards them. Aiden and Coën had already dismounted and were pulling him off Scorpion as gently as they could. They pulled off his gloves, each of them grabbing a hand and rubbing them in between theirs. Lambert nodded at them and turned back.

“Vesemir! Open the damn door! We’ve got a hypothermic human!” He yelled at the door. Jaskier couldn’t even bring himself to laugh weakly, just huddled into the warmth that the Witchers provided. Lambert came back up to them and berated him while he took his own cloak off and piled it onto Jaskier.

“You stupid bard, this isn’t something that just sneaks up on you, you had to have known! Why didn’t you say anything earlier?” he griped, rubbing his shoulders.

“Didn’t want to rush you, then you would get hurt,” Jaskier muttered out quietly to the Witchers. Coën sighed as the other two gaped at him.

“Julian, we would have been fine. We were going slow so that nothing happened to you. We could have got you down here faster.” He told him softly.

Before Jaskier could respond, the gates groaned open. Lambert turned with a grin. “Old man! Good to see—ESKEL!” he called, making his way towards the gates. The older-looking Witcher looked at them with poorly masked fondness as he watched Lambert charge over and pounce on a second Witcher at the gate, who Jaskier assumed to be Eskel.

Jaskier smiled softly as he watched the family reunion, seeing what Rosie meant when she said that Lambert was the youngest and Eskel was the oldest. Vesemir looked past them and frowned at the other three.

“A human? You brought a human?” he asked incredulously to Lambert as he went to help the Cat and Griffin drag Jaskier through the gates. “When I said you could bring these two I didn’t mean you could continue to bring strays.” He griped.

Jaskier felt a cold hand of fear grip at his heart. He struggled to stand by himself and looked Vesemir in the eyes. “I will help around the keep. I won’t be a burden. You won't even see me if you don’t want to. Please, don’t send me back down the mountain,” He rambled haltingly to the eldest Witcher, who sighed and shook his head.

“If Lambert has brought you up here, you have already passed the hardest test of character,” he assured Jaskier as he helped him across the snowy courtyard into the keep. “You four take care of the horses, I've got the human,” he ordered over his shoulder to the younger Witchers. They waved their hands in acknowledgment and slowly started caring for the horses. Vesemir sighed as they breached the doorway “They are going to wait until they can’t hear us anymore, and then they are going to start wrestling in the snow like the pups they are,” he told Jaskier in a voice that can only be achieved by seasoned fathers. Jaskier laughed weakly and tried to walk more of his own volition.

Vesemir shook his head and got himself a better grip on the bard. “You can prove yourself later. For now, accept the help,” he told him gruffly. Vesemir led him through another pair of large doors and plopped him down in front of a roaring fire.

“I’ll grab you some food, you take off all those wet layers and get as close as you can to the fire,” yhe Witcher ordered as he walked away to where Jaskier assumed the kitchen to be. He stripped off his gloves, boots, socks, and two over cloaks. He lay them the best he could to dry by the fire and pulled the blanket off his shoulders, down over his legs. He unstrapped his lute, opened the latches, and let the ambient heat from the fire warm up the frozen instrument. He scooted himself up as close as he could to the large fire, his knees flush against the bricks of the fireplace, his feet tucked securely under himself and his hands stretched towards the flames.

His mind was wandering slowly away when a hand gently grasped his shoulder. He flinched spectacularly and whipped around, only to see Vesemir standing over him with a bowl, fixing him with an unimpressed look. He gave the Witcher a sheepish smile in exchange for the steaming bowl of soup. He watched as the large man made his way over the slew of Jaskier’s wet clothes and towards a large chair to the side of the fire.

Jaskier ate with cold-fingered clumsiness, going as fast as he could as it started to warm him up from the inside. He slowly gained more feeling, tingling painfully through his limbs, and his shivering returned harshly until he was warm enough that it tapered off. As he finished his warm meal, was slightly warmer, and could feel his limbs again, Vesemir spoke up.

“How did you come to be traveling with those three, human?” he asked conversationally, but Jaskier could hear the underlying tone. The seasoned Witcher was assessing him, and the testing had already begun.

“It’s a long story,” he warned, but he knew that Vesemir would make him tell it, anyway. Just as he thought, he gestured to continue.

“Start with your name.”

“My name is Julian, and I went to Oxenfurt and graduated as a Master of the Seven Liberal Arts. I am a traveling bard and was playing for the court, the night of Princess Pavetta's betrothal feast. I continued to play for the Cintran court every winter and sometimes visited during the year. Cirilla loved my playing and was enamored of me. I played for her every night I was there, and some nights I would be woken up and told that the princess had a night terror and was requesting that I come to sing her to sleep. I developed a close relationship with both princesses, and I made my way to Cintra immediately once I heard about the passing of Pavetta and Duny. Cirilla attached herself to me for a week, in her grief. The following winter I started to tell her stories in the dead of night, about the heroics of Witchers after she promised not to tell a soul outside the room. I sang to her about Witchers slaying monsters and protecting towns, and told her about Geralt of Rivia among other Witchers. She was starstruck and demanded a story every night.”

He paused to catch his breath and smiled. Vesemir looked at him calculatingly, not sure how this pertained to how he came to be traveling with Coën, Aiden, and Lambert, but didn’t interrupt him.

“The next winter when I came back, she demanded even more from the year's tales that she had missed. I had gathered many stories from the continent as I traveled. Halfway through the winter, she asked me a question I would never have expected. After telling her a truly riveting story of Geralt saving a town, she asked me in a whisper if I thought that one day he would come and teach her to be a Witcher.”

Vesemir’s eyes widened but he said nothing.

“I knew at that point I had to tell her some harsh truths, so, in the cover of darkness with her cuddled into my side, I told her about how society treats people they deem different, and what young men had to go through to become a Witcher. She was crying quietly by the end, but the first thing she asked me after I finished was, ‘Are they ok now? After the trials, do they hurt anymore?’ I told her that no, the trials didn’t hurt you anymore, not mentioning how much it hurts to fight monsters. After collecting herself, she told me with all of her ten-year-old might, that when she became queen, she would make it so Witchers were welcome in Cintra, as well as anyone else who wanted to come. She would even ask the Witchers if they wanted to be in her council! ‘They were so noble, like knights, so they must be good!’ she told me. I told her she could ask, but she would have to foster good relations first. She looked at me like I was crazy ‘of course I would!’ she told me indignantly. ‘I want them to be my friends!' I didn’t have the heart to tell her otherwise. The last thing I told her that night was that if something, anything, ever happened to Cintra, or if for some reason she didn’t feel safe, to do what I was about to tell her. I told her to disguise herself, especially her hair, and then to listen to the people around her. She should listen for word of a Witcher, and find a man with sturdy armor, golden eyes, two swords, and a wolf, griffin, manticore, or bear medallion. If they had a different medallion, she should watch them for a while and determine if she thought she could trust them. She was to then get them alone and then tell them that she was Princess Cirilla of Cintra and she was looking for Geralt of Rivia for help. They should take her to him.”

He took a fortifying breath.

“I went back every winter until Cintra fell. I tried to find her, but—” he trailed off for a moment, “Nilfgaard found me first. They had discovered that I was close with the Princess, and knew a lot about Witchers. They tortured me for information, but anyone who had met that sweet little girl wouldn’t betray her. So, they had their mage, Fringilla, dive into my brain to find the information directly, but singing loudly in your head is a great distraction technique,” he joked weakly. Vesemir’s face was impossible to read but he didn’t tell Jaskier to stop.

“I didn’t give them anything,” he promised, looking straight into his eyes. “I know the names of most of you, and that you have a keep called Kaer Morhen in the mountains, but I have been saved and taken care of by Witchers before, and so I was prepared to take this place to my grave. I almost did,” he admitted quietly. “Witchers save us all the time, someone had to at least try to save you.”

Vesemir stared at him, seeming to peer into his very soul. Jaskier stared back, shrinking slightly by the intensity.

He finally spoke. “You knew that there was a keep in the mountains where, if a Wolf found the girl, he would take her, even knew the name, and you didn’t tell the people torturing you. If you know the name, you probably know Witcher's weaknesses, and about our potions. You know about the trials, You gained the trust of the Cintran Princess for us under her grandmother’s nose and you somehow resisted a mage poking around in your mind.”

“...Yes?”

Vesemir nodded slowly and walked with purpose over to Jaskier, crouching down to look him in the eye. He held out his hand.

Jaskier hesitantly placed his hand in his and Vesemir shook it tightly. “You did good, Julian,” He praised. “There is a very good chance that you saved all of us.” He stood back up and started to gather the cloaks and help Jaskier up. He stumbled up and looked at the old Witcher, confused as to what was happening

Vesemir turned towards the bard, “You have proven yourself, and you are welcome here any winter you so choose. It is time for you to heal, and the winter is for just that. Let's get you set up in a room. Come.”

Jaskier stumbled behind him like a lost duckling, trying to remember the many twists and turns that lead to his room. Finally, they came to a door and Vesemir led him inside. “Eskel is two doors to the left and the three idiots are across the hall. Gods know how many rooms they will be taking up, but there are three, just in case.” He grabbed logs from the basket in the corner and set them in the fireplace, casting igni. He plopped the fabric in his arms on the bed.

“Are you betting on Aiden and Lambert getting together, too?!” he questioned enthusiastically.

Vesemir heaved a sigh. “At this point, I'm not entirely convinced we shouldn’t ask if it’s the three of them together and just call it a day.”

Jaskier paused and considered. “Interesting,” he muttered.

Vesemir rolled his eyes. “If you want in on Eskel’s scheme to make those three happy, go for it, but I should warn you there will probably be a second scheme by the time winter is through. If Geralt shows up with his Child of Surprise, he will most likely be pining, too.”

Jaskier felt his heart contract painfully but played it off. “Really?” he asked with fake enthusiasm. The Witcher stared at him with mild horror. “There are two of you.”

Jaskier laughed. “They keep telling me that.” Vesemir chuckled, “I’ve only known you for half a night, but I'm not surprised. Yes, Geralt has been pining after his travel companion, but he’s stupid so he won’t do anything about it.”

This confused Jaskier, as he had seen Yennefer and Geralt go at it many times. Could it have just been casual fucking, and Geralt had fallen in love? He decided not to dwell on it, lest he start to break down.

Vesemir showed him how to slightly open the tough window to make it less musty, helped him beat the dust out of the blankets a bit, and then asked if he wanted to come back down to the dining hall or if he was going to retire for the night. Jaskier opted for the latter.

“Knock on one of the boy’s doors when you are ready for breakfast, and they will make sure you don’t get lost. If they aren’t in there, yell. One of us will hear you. We will make sure all your wounds are healing tomorrow and then we can put you in the library. You said you’re an Oxenfurt graduate, so your task for this winter will be to fix it up,” Vesemir told him on his way out.

Jaskier smiled,the library sounded like the perfect job for him. He hobbled his way towards the bed and placed his lute down before collapsing into the thick furs. He took another cursory look around the small room. It was square, with a bed set in the corner of the wall that housed the door. The opposite wall held the fireplace, a basket with cut wood in the corner next to it. The final wall held a large window, an alcove with a cushion below it. He struggled up and over to the alcove and plopped onto the cushion.

The view was amazing, and the cubby was a wonderful place to take it in from.

He could see almost the whole courtyard from his perch, the torches in the courtyard gave off an unnaturally bright light onto the snow. He guessed all the lights in the keep had been enchanted in some way, as they were much brighter than expected. He could see a corner of the stables, and the crumbling facade of stone that was going to keep him safe this winter. He could see the faint darker outline of the Blue Mountains surrounding them, and he realized he could probably see the top of the Killer and the path down to the bridge.

He would be able to see Geralt and Ciri coming a literal mile away.

He had known that he would face Geralt this winter, but it didn’t truly sink in until that moment. He curled into himself and for a moment wished horribly that he had holed up with Yennefer this winter. He sighed, but knew that he would be seeing a chestnut mare with a white-blonde girl riding and a white haired head atop a suit of armor walking beside them. His heart hurt with how much they would look like a family just because of their hair.

He cringed, thinking about how his identity fraud would come tumbling down around him the day that they walked through those doors.

He could come clean—he knew that—but he was enjoying being Julian. When he was Jaskier, he was Geralt’s bard, but he wasn’t that anymore, and would never be again. He could never go back to the life he had before the war, and he knew that if he told the Witchers that he went by Jaskier, they either wouldn’t believe him, or they would immediately think of him as the man Geralt would have talked about him as. That is, if he talked about him at all.

He guessed that if he had said anything, they would want to stay far away from him so as not to have to listen to him. So, if he didn’t want that reputation on Julian, he had to be careful. He would talk and be sarcastic enough to keep the men entertained, but not enough to be annoying. He would fix up the library as well as he possibly could. He could help cook and re-supply their potions for them. He would play when his fingers healed, and never use his gift to give him away.

He would make it so they would want him around even if Geralt didn’t, enough to make them not send him back down the mountain by himself in the middle of winter.

He hauled himself back onto the bed and quickly fell into a dreamless sleep that can only be achieved by true mental and physical exhaustion.

Chapter Text

He blinked his gummy eyes open to the sun streaming into his room. He sat up slowly while rubbing his eyes and watched motes of dust fly through the sunbeam as his mind started working again. He smiled as he realized that he had slept through the night without a nightmare.

He carefully stretched his arms over his head and raised to his feet slowly. As he was bending to grab his socks and boots, he noticed bags set by the door and Lambert's cloak gone. He cocked his head and grabbed them, bringing them towards the table at the right of the window. He tipped one of the bags over and shook out the contents.

It contained… clothes that looked to be his size?

He pulled out a few thick tunics and pants, woolen doublets and trousers, and knitted long socks. He tucked them into the drawers embedded in the table and turned his attention to the second bag. He reached in and grabbed more fabric. He pulled out underclothes,a towel, and Two scarves tangled up together and again put them in the drawers. Before he could shake the scarves out, he felt something solid wrapped within the warm yarn.

He gently unraveled the scarves to reveal two vials of soap, a small rag, a shaving blade, and an actual bar of soap. He kept those on the table and stuffed the scarves into the top drawer, planning to find a mirror to shave. He placed the bags back next to the door and returned to his task of lacing up his boots. He knew by the angle of the sun that the Witchers were definitely up already, so he didn’t even bother trying to knock on their doors. He wrapped his cloak tight around himself and set out down the hall. He remembered that from the door he had to turn left, and then… left at the end of the hall… and…

He continued walking around the hallways, taking hallways that he thought he remembered. After about a half-hour of wandering, he was met with a large set of doors. He pushed as hard as he could and worked the doors open,grinning in awe when he saw the interior.

The library was amazing. Large windows were pouring harsh winter light onto the huge bookshelves lining the walls between them. Similar to his room, there were dust motes dancing through the rays of sunlight. He plodded over to the windows and found that he had an unobstructed view of the mountainside. He could see the sharp slopes of the valley below, evergreen trees reaching to the sky. He felt like he was standing on the edge of a cliff, the keep perched precariously on the mountain, but he knew that they wouldn’t fall.

He made his way slightly to the side and sat down on one of the many chairs placed in front of another large fireplace. Large fireplaces seemed to be a staple of the keep.

He looked calculatingly at the shelves, debating. He would have to go through the books and see how they were already organized. He doubted that he could organize them by author, as there was a very good chance that there were many journals or books without a recorded author. He couldn’t organize them completely by age, as then they wouldn’t be able to find the books quickly. He decided that he could probably organize them by subject, and then subcategorize them by how they were written. Start with a case or five on bestiaries, then sub-categorize them by specific monsters. He would have a separate section with journals that were more bestiary than journals.

He could do another section on creatures that were not monsters but still existed, like Witchers, mages, humans, elves, etc. and he would organize them the same way as the monster section. He would dedicate Witcher journals to their own section. They might have books on potions, so he would have to make a section for that.

He would work shelf by shelf and figure out what subject each book was on and put them in their own pile, and then once a shelf was cleared off completely he would start organizing. He decided he would do a general organization system.

General subjects put those into subcategories and organize the subcategories by age. He would organize them by fiction vs nonfiction, but he guessed in a Witcher keep there would be no fiction in a library focused on what could be life or death.

But before he started, he needed food. He deliberated for a moment, then had an inspired idea about how not to get lost and wander aimlessly. After he grabbed some old ash and dirt from the fireplace so he could make himself path markers, he started on his way. He marked a bit of ash on every corner that he turned, and when he saw his marks again, he wiped them off and went the other direction. After a good deal of wandering, he peeked through a decent-sized doorway and sighed in relief. He recognized that if he went through this small hall, he would be in the dining hall. He dropped his dust mixture and started aggressively wiping his hands against his pants. He was still looking down at his hands, trying to clean them while he walked through the door. He looked up after he passed through the doorway, only to be met with a pair of startled eyes.

He took a moment to take in the Witcher that he never got to examine the night before. The first thing that caught his eye was the lines of scars running down his tanned face, going from above his eyes and down to his chin. He carefully forced his eyes not to linger on the scars and moved to the rest of the Witcher, not wanting to make the unknown man uncomfortable. He noted with muted glee that he had spikes on his red and brown vertically striped leather jacket. He had just above shoulder-length straight brown hair and a squared jaw. As intimidating as the man looked, he had seen the sleeves stretching across the man’s broad forearms wrapped securely around his little brother, welcoming him home. He smiled warmly.

“Hello, you must be Eskel!” he told him brightly, plopping down across from him.

Eskel smiled politely but warily. “You're the human that they brought, Julian right?” he asked quietly. Jaskier could tell immediately that he was being assessed with an intensity and thoroughness that only a Witcher could achieve. He refused to back down.

“Yep!” he popped the p. “The one and only. Now, I've heard from the lovely Vesemir,” Eskel snorted, “that you, my dear Witcher, will be an amazing ally in the arduous mission to get our favorite idiots together.”

Eskel let out a surprised bark of laughter. “You did, did you? It would be good to have some backup besides the old man,” he whispered conspiratorially. Jaskier grinned manically.

“Oh, yes I would like to help. I've only known them for two weeks and I'm already thoroughly done with them.”

Eskel drummed the table with both hands. “This is the beginning of a beautiful friendship,” he declared.

Jaskier felt the smile on his face grow more real. “I think so too,” he responded, honestly. The Witcher nodded and got up.

“I've got some repairs I have to do, but do you need me to take you somewhere so you don’t get lost?”

Jaskier shook his head. “No, thank you, I know how to get back to the library.”

Eskel smiled and shrugged. “Alright, see you later Lark,” he agreed easily, then he was gone.

Jaskier immediately deflated. He sagged against the table in pain. When he sat down as harshly as he had, he had jostled his injuries too much. He let himself recover for a minute then painfully pushed himself out of his seat and started to make his way back to the library, forgetting why he had been there in the first place.

He slowly pushed himself from ash smudge to ash smudge, but finally collapsed onto a dusty but cushy chair back in the library. After the pain-filled haze lifted, he smiled sleepily and carefully stretched. The sun had moved slightly, and was now shining directly onto his chair. He arranged himself more comfortably and stared tiredly out the windows to the small part of the valley he could see.

His mind wandered from where he was and what was happening, and kept him from realizing that his sunbeam had moved completely across the floor and it was coming in weaker. He saw, but didn’t comprehend, the trees shaking with the wind as it howled through the valley. He didn’t notice the frost starting to form in the corners of the windows and his breath becoming visible.

He was snapped out of his haze violently, when the door was slammed inward—Lambert, Aiden, and Coën pounding through. He blinked stupidly as they bolted towards him, but he couldn’t understand what they were asking him through the daze of his mind, no matter how hard he tried. He could see their lips moving rapidly and feel his cloak as it was wrapped tighter around him.

“What?” he asked weakly. He heard them all groan.

“Birdy, your skin is freezing!” Coën griped, as the other two were still cursing at him for his stupidity. He let himself be led along through the identical hallways into what looked to be a mix of a healer’s and an alchemist's workshop. He looked around in wonder at all the herbs and what he assumed to be monster parts hanging to dry. He spotted Vesemir, whose hands were grinding herbs, but whose eyes were locked on his,with a judging look on his face. Jaskier looked down bashfully, not quite sure what he did wrong, but sorry for it.

“You were supposed to come to see me as soon as you woke up so I could treat your wounds better than these three idiots could on the path. Did you even eat today, boy?”

That’s what he forgot.

“Sorry,” he muttered quietly. The old Witcher sighed but beckoned him forward. He sat on the table and gestured to Jaskier to sit, as well.

“Would you like them to stay or to go?” Vesimir asked, conversationally. Jaskier smiled softly and looked at the three Witchers huddled together off to the side while trying their hardest to stay out of the way.

“They're good, I'm glad they're here,” he told him but looked at each of the younger Witchers in turn as he spoke. They grinned at him, not even embarrassed, but proud of themselves. That was something he was going to keep looking into, how the Witchers acted like the animals they were named after. Like all animals, they perked up when they were praised and were proud of themselves when they took care of someone.

Vesemir had him take off his shirt for him to inspect the wounds on his chest and back. He worked impassively while the others stared awkwardly. He sighed “You have all seen it before, quit it,” he ordered. They looked away sheepishly, and started taking over what Vesemir was doing before they crashed in. He watched them start to make what he was supposed to be Cat, Golden Oriole, and Kiss potions.
Before Lambert could truly start mixing, Vesemir interrupted his process. "Feed your pet bard first, boy."

Jaskier made an affronted noise. “I'm not a pet, nor a child,” he complained.

Aiden snorted. “We will stop when you can prove that you can take after yourself, Birdy,” he teased, as they walked out to get him food. Jaskier sat awkwardly for a minute before Vesemir pulled back and looked him in the eyes.

“Your fingers are broken, so you need to be careful. I know you’ve been doing exercises on your lute, and you need to stop until they heal more.” Vesemir continued over Jaskier’s attempts to protest. “If you don’t let them heal, they won’t heal properly, and you won't be able to play the same again.”

Jaskier nodded meekly. “Alright,” he conceded. The Witcher put his fingers into proper splints, then moved on to his knees. After making a tsking sound, he rubs a salve on the injured muscles, making them tingle coldly. As he was working, Vesemir delivered a shocking sentence.

“Bard, if you need a potion to help with your nightmares, we have something that might work.”

Jaskier’s mouth hung open in shock. “I… What? How did you know?”

Vesemir snorted and rolled her eyes. “You were tortured for gods know how long, psychologically and physically. Of course you have nightmares.”

Jaskier hung his head in shame. “Yes please,” he whispered. Vesemir nodded and finished wrapping a bandage around his knee, then walked over to the line of shelves. Jaskier watched him idly from his place on the examination table as the old Witcher rustled around the bottles. He reached the one in the back that he was looking for and brought the dusty bottle with the blue liquid towards him. Jaskier took it, and looked at it skeptically.

“Are you sure this is safe for humans?” He asked, turning it around.

Vesemir nodded. “If it wasn’t, half the boys wouldn’t have made it to the trials.”

Jaskier looked at the bottle with new appreciation. “Alright. Thank you, Vesemir,” he told the man, sincerely. The man nodded and gathered a few more vials that he placed in Jaskier’s coat pockets, then helped him off of the examination table and led him towards the door.

“You need to take these, but not on an empty stomach. They will help you heal and reduce your pain. Let's go see if the boys have managed to rustle something up.”

He let Jaskier lean on his arm as they walked towards the kitchen, making idle chit-chat. Vesemir asked him about his time at Oxenfurt and Jaskier asked him about some of the history of the ancient keep. As they got closer, Vesemir paused and rolled his eyes.

“What?” Jaskier asked, not sure what he had said to cause the reaction.

“You’ll see.” the Witcher told him, followed by a long-suffering but affectionate sigh.

As they turned another corner, Jaskier smiled, confused, as he heard what Vesemir was talking about.

“THAT'S NOT ON ROSIE’S LIST OF APPROVED BARD FOOD!” he heard Coën yell, followed by a crash. Vesemir led him through the door to the dining hall and sat him down as they continued to listen.

“FUCK YOU!”

“YOU WISH DICKHEAD!”

“It can't be too hot, Aiden, I swear to gods…”

“He can’t FUCKING eat that.”

“That's too messy, shithead!”

They continued to listen to the chaos as Eskel walked in with a raised eyebrow.

“What's happening?” he asked. The noise in the kitchen stopped and the heads popped around the door frame. They stared for a minute.

“…How much of that did you guys hear?” Aiden asked.

“All of it,” Vesemir responded dryly. “Did you boys happen to make tea?”

The three Witchers in the kitchen groaned and turned back, returning a minute later with a plate of food, cups, and a pot of tea. They set the food on the table so they could all have a late lunch. The Witchers had cut plain white bread into small squares that could be paired with dried fruit and soft cheeses. There were some soft cuts of potatoes on the side, as well as assorted vegetables.

“What did you mean when you said ‘Rosie approved bard foods’?” Jaskier inquired around his bite of food. Lambert huffed and rolled his eyes, and the other two shoved more food into their mouths.

“While you were sleeping in the tavern, Rosie came to the table and grilled us on what food’s good for humans to eat, how often you have to eat, and some other different things. She actually gave us a notebook with stuff written in it called ‘The Care and Keeping of Bards'’”

Jaskier was struck with an intense sense of fondness and curiosity. “Can I see it?” he asked.

Aiden choked on his food. “Never in a million years,” he swore. Jaskier looked at him, confused.

“Why not?” he whined.

“You’ll try to tamper with it,” Coën replied.

Jaskier gasped dramatically. “I would never.”

He got five pairs of disbelieving yellow eyes staring back at him. He pouted. “I wouldn’t do it that much.” he amended.

They continued the meal, Veseimer telling the Witchers what needed to be repaired over the winter, how Eskels goats are thriving, how they are going to have to go hunt and cure the meat. They explained to Jaskier that he shouldn’t go to the west wing towers, as they were crumbling, nor out of the keep as there was only one way in and it might take a while for them to find him. He was under no circumstances allowed to eat or drink something that they didn’t see him eat in case there was something in it that would kill him. They had put out a basket of food in the kitchen of safe snacks. He was amenable to all the rules set out for him, as they were all for his safety. After they had cleared the plate and had drunk all the tea, they herded Jaskier out to the courtyard.

Literally, Lambert and Eskel were herding him, Coën, and Aiden. The three of them were crowded between the two wolves, who periodically shoulder-checked them into a group in the middle of the hallway. The Wolves shifted from walking next to them, too in front of them, and then next to the group again, all while making the three keep pace with each other. Aiden and Coën had rolled their eyes but were just going with it, but Jaskier was confused. It didn’t even look like Eskel and Lambert understood what they were doing, as they were keeping up a conversation and didn’t talk to each other about when they were moving. He assumed it had something to do with the Wolf mutagens, like how sheepdogs kept the livestock safe by keeping them together.

His heart swelled with fondness as he went along with the herding and turned his attention to the other two Witchers. Aiden was seemingly content with the herding. If he was going with the Witcher mutagens theory, then Cats didn’t have packs but did well with trusted social groups. He was joking with Lambert, both messing around and content.

He turned his attention to Coën but realized that really the only thing he knew about Griffins was that they were territorial. Coën looked relaxed as he walked, but Jaskier could see the ever-present air of power around the Witcher.

He looked between the four of them, and that’s when he realized. Eskel and Lambert may be herding the other three, but all four were surrounding him. When the Wolves were in front of and behind him, the Cat and Griffin were to his right and left, and vice versa.

He covertly rolled his eyes and sighed internally. This was one of the safest places for him in the world, they didn’t need to be doing this. As sweet as their concern was, they needed to chill the hell out.

They herded him through doors and passageways and to the main hall and out the door. They led him towards the training area and he turned to Coën, confused. “What are we doing?”

“…Training?” Coën asked, looking to the others for confirmation. They looked back at the bard with raised eyebrows.

Jaskier sighed. “I know you all are training, but why am I here?”

The Witchers' faces smoothed out and they grinned.

“We,” Eskel started, leading him towards what he assumed to be the weapons shed, “are going to train you to defend yourself.”

Jaskier let out a huge sigh and the Witchers stared at him in confusion and slight hurt. He took pity on their baby animal eyes and held up his splinted and bandaged hands.

He had never seen as many Witchers freeze and stare at something that wasn’t a monster before.

“You totally forgot,” he deadpanned.

“We totally forgot,” they chorused back at him guiltily. He let out a pitying breath.

“I don’t feel like walking. Lambert, carry me to the library. You all gather some firewood and come with us so we can sit and be warm.”

They haltingly started moving around until Jaskier clapped at them and pointed towards the wood buried under the waterproof skins that kept them dry. The Witchers quickly got a few logs each and Jaskier jumped onto Lambert's back.

The bastard didn’t even stumble, just adjusted his grip, and started forward. Jaskier rested his head against Lambert’s shoulder and marveled at how comfortable he was. He was inhumanly warm like Geralt had been, and his stride was smooth so Jaskier didn’t jostle. He didn’t have to cling to the Wolf like he had when others had carried him like this, he was held that securely. He slumped against the Wolves back, basically giving him a hug from the back. Lambert grunted slightly but said nothing.

He watched idly as the stone passed by through twists and turns and tuned out the mumbling voices of the men around him. The Witchers opened the library doors ahead of them and lit the fire as Lambert dropped him into the closest chair. The Witchers sprawled around the chair, a mix of sitting and laying in front of the warm fire. They sat in comfortable silence as the fire crackled merrily in front of them.

“Will you sing us a song?” Aiden asked quietly, trying not to break the ambiance. The other Witchers turned lazily to look at him, Lambert tilting his head back from his place against his legs. Jaskier smiled and tamped down his fear. He didn’t have to use his gift or sing one of his own songs. He could sing whatever he wanted and give nothing away.

He took a breath and started humming, building softly into singing.

There will come a soldier, who carries a mighty sword
He will tear your city down, oh le oh le oh lord
He will tear your city down, oh lei, oh lai, oh lei, oh lord

He ran his hand through Lambert's short hair and relaxed fully into the cushy chair. He watched as the other Witchers started to slump into their positions and their blinks became longer.

There will come a poet, whose weapon is his word
He will slay you with his tongue, oh lei, oh lai, oh lord
Oh lei, oh lai, oh lei, oh lord
He will slay you with his tongue
Oh lei, oh lai, oh lord.

He continued to hum the choral part where he would have been playing his lute. He smiled softly as a soft rumble started up from a half-asleep Aiden’s chest.

There will come a poet, whose brow is laid in thorn
Smeared like oil like David’s boy, Oh lei, oh lai, oh Lord
Oh lei, oh lai, Oh lei, oh lord
Smeared with oil like David’s boy
Oh lei, oh lai, oh lord
Oh ley~ Oh Ley~ Oh ley~ oh lord~
He will tear your city down, oh lei, oh lai, oh lord

The Witchers around him were all purring softly at this point, stretched out on the furniture or on the floor in front of the fire. He continuously sang the chorus softly, smiling at the men who had saved him.

Oh ley~ Oh Ley~ Oh ley~ oh lord~
Oh ley~ Oh Ley~ Oh ley~ oh lord~
Oh ley~ Oh Ley~ Oh ley~ oh lord~
They will tear your city down
Oh lay~ Oh Lay~ oh lord~

He trailed off as his eyes got heavy and the last thing he heard before dipping off into a soft sleep was the Witchers bathed in vibrant colors of the sunset and the orange of the fire, purring winding through the library.

When he woke, he was swaying. He sleepily batted around but heard a voice talking to him gently. He felt the sway of walking and realized belatedly that he was being carried. He burrowed into a warm chest and drifted into a half-sleep. He felt himself be placed gently on a bed. He snuggled down into the covers and mumbled happily when he cracked his eyes open and saw the figure start the fire in the corner. He closed his eyes again and mumbled happily as he relaxed and sleep began to claim him again. He felt a hand run through his hair and he smiled into his pillow.

“Thank you,” he whispered out before he fell asleep yet again.

____________________________________________________________________________

As the keep slept in warm oblivion, a Witcher, a witch, a girl, and a horse bundled down for the night at the base of the Killer.

As soon as the first gray rays of sunlight rose in the morning, the group carefully made their way up the mountain. The girl was bundled up as much as she could possibly be, the mage warming the air around them.

The bard slept through the group cresting the hill and making their way down. He missed Aiden seeing them making their way down the path from a turret. He missed Coën quietly opening his door, but slowly backing out, letting him sleep and heal. They would be here all winter after all. He missed Eskel and Lambert opening the gate and going out to meet their brother on the bridge. They dragged the exhausted group inside and took the fire.

He missed the misleading conversation that was about to happen.

Chapter Text

“Geralt!” Eskel yelled as he and Lambert ran to their brother, meeting him at the base of the bridge. The Witcher smiled slightly and clapped each of them on the back.

“This is Yennefer, and Ciri,” he told them as he helped the girl down from Roach. The brothers looked them over and nodded, having heard about the Child Of Suprise briefly many winters ago. Lambert grabbed Roach’s lead and Eskel led them back across the bridge, where the other three were waiting. Ciri continued to stare at the large men as they went, but walked confidently next to them, the only sign she was uncomfortable was the grip she had on Geralt’s hand. The witch walked imperiously next to them, but the Witchers could tell that she was tired. Of course, that didn’t stop them from keeping a sharp eye on her, still unable to trust many mages.

Geralt greeted Vesemir, and as he opened his mouth to introduce Ciri, he froze and his eyes scanned the courtyard. The other Witchers were immediately on alert, looking around for what had caught Geralt’s attention. He shook his head slightly.

“It's nothing, I just… thought I smelled something,” he told them absently, still looking around. They gave each other concerned and incredulous looks over his head but shrugged it off as exhaustion. They were bundled inside the stables, helping to untack Roach and gather their luggage before they trudged inside. The Witchers lead the way to the dining hall with the roaring fire and set an already made breakfast in front of them. Ciri sat close to Geralt and watched him take a few bites before she copied him. The others exchanged exasperated looks, Geralt was already teaching the girl his bad habits.

Aiden perked up and leaned forward energetically. The other occupants of the table startled as Aiden’s smiling face suddenly was closer. “Julian’s here!” he told them excitedly.

The three newcomers paused and gave him a confused look. The other Witchers, save Vesemir, were all smiling widely now too. Vesemir was calmly drinking his tea, watching.

“Who?” Geralt asked roughly.

Lambert waved a hand at him. “You probably don’t know him, but the girl should!” he gestured for Aiden to continue, as he was almost vibrating with excitement. Ciri gave him a distrusting look.

“Julian! He told us that he came to the Cintran court every winter and sang to you. He went to Oxenfurt and did some fancy degree and is now a bard. He sang to you about Witchers! We found him locked up and hurt in a Nilfgaardian cell and he told us everything, and so we brought him here for you.”

Ciri had frozen and stared at him in fear. Geralt turned to her. “Ciri? Are you alright?” he asked urgently, Yennefer reaching towards her in confusion.

“I don’t know anyone named Julian,'' she whispered to the Witchers, fear lacing her words.
Everyone in the room froze, hearts rabbiting suddenly. They all stared at Ciri with wide eyes.

“Are you sure?” Vesemir told her stonily, leaning forward.

Ciri shrunk back but nodded seriously. “The only bard whoever came to visit me in Cintra was Jaskier.”

The oldest Witcher nodded grimly. “Boys, go get him.” He ordered. Lambert, Aiden, Coën, and Eskel stood up as one with murder in their eyes and exited the room. They stormed their way to the second floor and to the bard’s room where he was still sleeping peacefully.

Jaskier woke suddenly to his door slamming open and Witchers filing into his room, looking furious.

“Guys? What's wrong?” he asked earnestly.

Instead of being given an answer, he was growled at and ripped from his bed. His breath started coming faster and his heart rate picked up. “Guys?” he questioned hysterically and he was pulled down the hallway. They yanked him harshly, agitating his wounds.

“Stop! What are you doing, you're hurting me!” he shrieked as there was a harsh pull down the stairs. He was suddenly turned and slammed against the stone painfully. A hand clamped on his mouth, muffling his scream, and his eyes locked onto Lambert’s blazing ones.

“You are about to be hurt so much more, you traitor,” Lambert told him in a deadly voice. The other three had posted themselves around the wolf and were looking at him with just as much malice, and Jaskier finally understood. A tear leaked from his eye, Lambert, and Aiden adopting harsh smiles, like predators that had caught their prey.

Fringilla had tricked him.

His breath hitched and he knew that begging would do nothing against what was about to happen as he was dragged down the stairs. He sobbed as he realized that he had given away the location of the keep—of Ciri—to Nilfgaard. He had killed the remaining Witchers.

He sobbed and whispered apologies, ignoring the growls that apologies would get him nowhere. They busted open the dining hall doors and threw him in. He landed on the hard stone and felt something in his chest crack, metaphorically and physically. He curled in on himself and waited.

Geralt heard the heartbeats just before they came through the doors, and no. It couldn’t be. He was rising out of his chair as the doors flew open and a body was flung onto the stone floor harshly.

It was like his heart had stopped, then Ciri and Yennefer were suddenly next to him, staring in shock.

Curled in on himself in the floor, with hair longer than it ever had been on the Path, clothes plainer than they had been in twenty years, an actual beard, and shoulders hitching with pained sobs, was Jaskier.

Vesemir had stalked over next to the bard and the others surrounded him. Before they could get any closer to the man on the floor, Geralt was there. He ripped the other Witchers away and then hovered his hands over the shaking form from where Geralt had slammed onto his knees next to the bard. Yennefer crouched on his other side and Ciri flung herself down next to him and looked for a place where he didn’t seem hurt.

“Geralt, get them away from the traitor, what the fuck do you think you're doing?” Vesemir barked, moving to pull him away. Geralt turned and growled, blocking Jaskier with his body until the stalemate was broken by Jaskier, himself.

“Don’t touch me! Don’t fucking touch me, Fringilla, I'm done, just kill me you psychotic bitch, you got what you wanted!”

Geralt whipped around, looking for the aforementioned mage, ready to kill her.

“She's not here,” Yennefer told him. “I tried to touch him, see how hurt he was, and he reacted.” She turned to the surrounding Witchers. “Where the hell did you find this idiot?” They looked at her confused, but still visibly angry and ready to finish what they started.

“He’s a Nilgaardian spy, how the fuck are you so calm about this and trying to care for him?! You told us you didn’t know him,” Aiden hissed, the last part aimed at Ciri. She looked up at him with teary eyes, then she was getting up and leaning into his face.

“His name is not Julian!” She screamed, power creeping into her voice. Geralt tried to calm both her and Jaskier at the same time but she shrugged him off and got closer to the Cat. “That is Jaskier and you hurt him, you… you… you, asshole!” She quickly kicked his shin and then shielded Jaskier much like Geralt had been doing earlier.

The Witchers all froze, Jaskier still yelling periodically, Yennefer still trying to get steadily closer, Geralt hovering, unsure what to do, and Ciri summoning the most menace a fifteen-year-old girl could against centuries-old monster hunters. Vesemir walked towards her and she bared her teeth. He wa however an unphased veteran of angry, violent, teens and looked at her right in the eyes.

“Cirilla, are you telling us that the man on the floor is the Continent-renowned bard, Jaskier, who came and played at the Cintran court every winter and accompanied Geralt for twenty years?” he asked, neither voice nor face betraying any emotion. She nodded warily and continued to stare at them, untrusting.

Geralt finally turned from his—no, not his - the bard and stared murderously at his brothers.

“What the fuck happened to Jaskier?” he demanded, voice deadly.

Aiden stepped up slowly to the aggressively poised Wolf and told the story from the beginning. How he had found an untrusting Jaskier badly beaten in a Nilfgaardian cell. How the bard was traumatized and didn’t believe that this was reality. Coën helped him describe the trek to the village, how Rosie had taken a shine to him. Lambert was silently staring at Jaskier as the two described taking Jaksier up the Killer, his nightmares, how bright he had made the keep, Eskel chiming in with a numb tone from time to time.

“You formed those emotional bonds with him. Knew what he had been through, and still threw him onto the ground with broken ribs and made him believe that he was back to being tortured?” Yennefer yelled from where she stood after not being able to get through to the bard at all. She slowly advanced.

“I don’t even like the sing-songy twat and I know he’s loyal and harmless. I’d saved his life before I ever even knew him, just like you!” she seethed. “I've had a long ass couple of months and someone needs to get him calm enough for me to heal him or I'm going to lose it.”

No one moved until sparks started coming off the exhausted and emotionally charged witch. Geralt slowly approached the curled man and crouched down.

He hesitated, and gently placed his hand on Jaskier’s shoulder as the others formed a close circle around them. Jaskier immediately started struggling weakly against the hand. Geralt pushed through and tried to gently but insistently shift Jaskier around. He ignored his wailing and weak hits, but when Jaskier locked eyes with him, tears on his face, and he whimpered out, “Don’t hurt me using his face,” Geralt immediately removed his hands and backed off. Suddenly he was seeing a Jaskier with shorter hair and a red doublet. He blinked and Jaskier in the present was looking at him heartbrokenly.

“We are here, I didn’t even mean to bring you here. I didn’t even say anything but you still got it from me. Just let me be done,” he begged. “Let me be done.”

Geralt felt his heart constrict as he stared at the broken man. Yennefer came up next to him and Jaskier immediately zeroed in on her, shaking his head and his body. He tried to move away from her and more tears flowed.

“Not again,” he begged. “Fringilla, don't do it again,” he pleaded to Yennefer, not just looking at her, but also begging at the ceiling and the walls. At things that only he could see. His roaming, begging eyes lead him to zeroing in on a spot over Geralt’s shoulder.

“No,” he whispered, horrified. “Don’t do this. Please don’t make me look at her and see what I did,” he begged, looking back and forth between Geralt, Yennefer, and the spot over his shoulder. He looked behind him and felt dread creeping up and realized that Jaskier was begging not to see Ciri. Ciri, who was crying, staring at Jaskier, frozen in horror.

“Jask?” she questioned quietly. He looked back at her and watched as she inched closer.

“Oh, princess,” He whispered. “How I wish I could see if you were ok. I wanted to see how you grew up to be an amazing Queen of Cintra. I'm so sorry, darling. I'm so, so sorry. I wish to see you wherever we wind up after we die, but not for a long time.”

Ciri sat down next to him and hovered. “Can I hold your hand?” she whispered. He gave a pained smile and held out a hand. She took it gingerly and they just looked at each other.

“I missed you,'' she whispered into their space, and they all watched in fascination as they looked at the two of them. They seemed to be in their own little world.

“I miss you, too,'' he told her. She let more tears fall.

“You don’t have to miss me anymore Jaskier, I'm right here.” she pleaded. He smiled brokenly.

“I wish that were true,'' he whispered to her.

She sobbed and he opened his arms. She gently curled up next to him and placed a gentle head on his shoulder. He hummed lightly and placed his arm around her.

“This is a good way to die, right here,” he whispered. They all froze and several wounded sounds resounded around the room. He ignored them and just looked at the ceiling. They tried to move forward and reach him, but threw discretion out the window when he whispered that he could feel it coming.

The fight seeped out of him and he finally allowed Yennefer close. She placed her hands over him.

“Can you make it fast?” he asked the ceiling. Yennefer touched his forehead and his breath immediately evened out in sleep as she put him under.

Everyone in the room let out a breath and stared.

“We fucked up,” Coën told the room quietly. Geralt whipped around.

“Of course you fucked up!” he yelled at them. “You threw a tortured man onto the ground and gave him flashbacks!”

Aiden bristled. “If you didn’t know him, you would have done the same thing!” he yelled. “We thought he was lying to us and was trying to bring Nilfgaard here! This is not completely on us!” he defended.

Coën nodded “We brought him here and we were furious because we thought he tricked us and brought ruin to your home. We will gain his trust again.”

“We won’t be able to,” Eskel said quietly from the sidelines with Lambert next to him.

“Geralt said one truly mean thing once and Jul— Jaskier left. We did something. If we, on the off chance, regain his trust, it will take a long time.”

They all looked towards Geralt, who nodded in confirmation.

“Fuck.”

Chapter Text

Jaskier woke up warm and comfortable. He stretched and rolled over, looking contentedly out the sliver of the window he could see.

He frowned when he slowly took stock of his body and realized that it didn’t hurt. He brought his hand up towards his face, and realized that there were no more splints and bandages on his fingers. He patted himself down and realized that there were no bandages anywhere.

The bubble of soft wakefulness popped harshly as he remembered what had happened the morning before. He felt his heart rate ratchet up and his hands began to shake. His thoughts began to spiral away from him in his panic, and he burrowed himself into the covers. Gods, he was so stupid.

He led them straight to the keep. Straight to Ciri.

Straight to Geralt.

He sobbed as he thought about what was going to happen to him now. Fringilla had left him here, in this hallucination, for some reason, maybe to give him some sort of cruel reprieve before she continued the torture again.

Well. He wouldn’t make it easy for them, he decided.

He stood up and after getting his bearings, quickly made his way to the cabinet that held his clothes. He pushed and tugged the heavy piece of furniture until it was in front of the door to the room, and then tugged the chest at the foot of his bed with extra blankets in it against the cabinet. He looked around wildly and caught sight of the basket of wood and threw the logs on top. Anything that would act as a barrier. He quickly shoved his lute, a blanket from the bed, and the fire poker under the bed frame, before wedging himself after them.

He snorted hysterically as he remembered how he used to hate confined spaces. All he had wanted to do was to be free from Lettenhove, and then from Oxenfurt. The Path was his only reprieve from what had promised to become a dull existence. Now, a confined space backed into a wall meant that no one could sneak upon him. There was security in the known, the routine. On the Path there was no place where he would be safe. Not anymore.

He wedged himself securely into the corner below the bed and gripped the poker securely in his right hand. He lay in wait, watching the sunbeams dance with silent tears tracking down his face. As false as it was, he would not see the sun in captivity when they tired of him and he was thrust back into the reality of his cell, where there was nothing but darkness. They would snatch his thoughts, memories, and resilience right from him.

He paused. …snatched…

He jerked and worked his arm forward and up until he could grasp the sheet from the bed and quickly ripped a strip off before retreating back into his self-made cave. He tied one end of the sheet securely around his wrist and then the other around his poker. He wrapped and tied until there was almost no room between the two.

He grinned viciously at the thought of what he could do with his new undetachable weapon. He clutched it tightly and looked out of his hidey-hole to where he could see both the door and the sun filtering in from the window. The dust floating serenely was putting him in a peaceful trance.

As he mindlessly followed the dancing particles with his eyes, he was reminded of why he chose his name. Dandelions could go anywhere, and they could survive where they landed. He could grow roots anywhere he wanted and fly past on the summer wind where he didn’t. He could be a buttercup, beautiful, but poisonous.

Both could grow anywhere they wanted, were beautiful, and—most importantly—were wild. They never grew in just one climate or region. He could go anywhere, and be anyone.

He couldn’t anymore, right now, not in the current political climate, and his… predicament. He smiled almost hysterically when the thought that he hoped to be reincarnated as a bird flew through his head.

He continued to drift until…

The door handle jiggled and he froze, shifting his attention to the door and barely breathing. Someone tried to push the door inwards, and it banged against the dresser. They pushed harder and he barely heard the banging through the roaring of blood rushing through his ears.

“Jaskier!? Jaskier, let me in!”

Fake Ciri was back.

He stayed as quiet as he possibly could, breathing shallowly while trying not to choke on his tears. Her—t’s voice got more frantic, trying to lure him out by using one of his greatest weaknesses. The voice grew more shrill and he was horribly reminded of Pavetta’s betrothal feast debacle. It continued for a minute more before the figment yelled something that made his blood run cold. Audibly further from the door, as if it had taken a step back and turned its head, the voice of the loveliest girl he had ever met yelled for Geralt and Yennefer.

He stifled another sob in his hand and readied his poker, angling it outwards. He waited anxiously as he heard the voice trying to convince him to come and open the door. He finally heard multiple pairs of feet barreling down the hallway towards his room.

“Ciri?! What's wrong?” Geralt’s muffled voice asked in a worried, but caring tone that Jaskier had only heard a few times in their twenty years of travel. And, oh, how that fact smarted.

“I tried to open the door but I can’t, and I can’t get him to talk back, and I can’t hear him!” The figment’s wet voice replied.

The door was immediately tried, and when it didn’t swing open, more force was applied. The dresser barely moved, just enough for Jaskier to see a sliver of sturdy boots and worn pants.

“Jaskier?” Geralt called, confused, and he pushed harder on the thick door and many heavy things in front of it. The door crept open more and more, giving Jaskier the sight of more boots next to Geralt’s, helping him push in the limited space. Jaskier grit his teeth as he realized that he would have to try, and subsequently fail, to defend himself against the whole keep’s worth of Witchers. They were able to create enough space for a figure, he assumed Aiden—the slimmest aside from Ciri—to slip through. The dresser and chest were dragged away from the door quickly and suddenly there were seven pairs of boots, one smaller than the rest, and one pair of lace and satin slippers standing in his room, all fourteen shoes facing the bed.

“Birdy?” came Coën’s voice softly. Coën slowly crouched down, his knees coming into view, and hovered his hands awkwardly out in front of himself. He hesitated.

“Jaskier?”

Tears continued to run down his face hearing his nickname out of one who he had considered to be one of his closest friend’s mouth. He stayed completely silent and waited for Fringilla to make the next move. There was a sigh and another pair of large boots made way for knees as fake Coën’s stood back up and moved back.

“Jaskier, can you please come out?” Geralt asked. Jaskier sneered and stayed silent. There was a collective sigh around the room and suddenly he was making eye contact with a horizontal Geralt. He hissed and shrunk back into his cave of covers and lute.

“Jaskier, please, come out so we can talk?” he asked as gently as he could, reaching his hand into Jaskier’s cave in an attempt to coax him out. The bard grinned ferally at the opportunity, quickly lashing out and stabbing wildly at the offending limb. Geralt grunted in pain and retreated quickly.

“Fuck, Jaskier!” he growled as he held the bleeding hand to his chest. The others started clamoring around him, not sure what had happened, but knowing Geralt was bleeding. There was swearing as he saw Yennefer quickly crouch down and try to place a hand over the injury. He shrugged her off.

“Don’t waste your magic, Yen, it will heal soon, it's not that deep.”

She huffed but backed off, and another pair of hands dragged him into a sitting position.

“What the hell happened?” he heard Lambert ask, crouching down and peering at his brother’s wounded hand.

“Bastard has a fire poker,” Geralt grumbled, wrapping his hand in the sheet hanging off the bed. Vesemir’s voice sighed and the sound of a hand landing on his shoulder was heard as Eskel crouched on his other side. Ciri plopped down next to him and put a hand on his forearm.

Jaskier suddenly realized what flavor of torture Fringilla had cooked up. She was giving him a front-row seat to look into—but not touch—the perfect family that he ached to be in. He had been given a taste to get him well and truly hooked, and now it had been taken away, and the one thing he wanted and couldn’t have had increased tenfold. He hunched closer in on himself and tried his hardest to cry quietly as he felt more and more horrible. His breath hitched involuntarily as another face slowly lowered itself into his field of vision.

“Hey, Jaskier,'' Aiden's look-alike whispered softly, half-cocked toothy smile in place. Jaskier growled again and pushed the poker with as much force as he could towards Aiden.

Aiden, who was a Cat.

They were called cat-like reflexes for a reason.

He caught the poker in a harsh grip and tugged. Jaskier cried out as he was pulled with it, but it didn’t deter Aiden at all. Jaskier started screaming and struggling against the tug.

“Let me go! Let me the fuck go, Fringilla, I swear to Gods I’ll start again! I know you’ll hate it but I’ll start again!” he screamed at the top of his lungs as he was pulled from his sanctuary. He was ignored and the poker was swiftly cut from the knots tying it to his wrist. He ignored the hallucinations that were trying to talk to him in what they assumed to be calming voices, took a deep breath, and started.

Not as much singing as screaming in tune, he started to sing the song he had written in captivity.

SOOOOOOOOOOOOO
LOCK ME UP AND SOCK ME UP
AND THROW AWAAAAY THE KEEEEEEY
GOOOOO F U C K Y O U R S E L F
YOU WHORESON
CAUSE YOUR THROUGH FUCKIN’ WITH ME
3 4 AAAAAAANNNNNNNNDDDDDDDDDDDDD

He continued the verse over and over again, clenching his eyes shut and flailing around, determined to make it as difficult for Fringilla as possible. He felt himself be clutched to a chest in an effort to restrain him, until he had multiple pairs of hands on him, holding him. A hand clamped itself down on his mouth while another stroked his hair, but he continued as best as he could.

He felt fingers on his temples and he started projecting his song as loud as he could in his head. The mage didn’t let up and he eventually heard something that made him go silent.

“Jaskier! Stop, it’s us! I wouldn’t be able to speak to you like this if Fringilla was controlling this!” he heard echoing through the caverns of his mind.

“That's what you want me to think!” he screeched back.

He and Yennefer continued to scream circles at each other in his head. She was arguing that it was real, he was out, and he was in Kaer Morhen. He told her to kindly go fuck herself. If he kept this up, Fringilla would slip up and he would have his chance. She forced his eyes open so he had to look directly into the worried and confused eyes of six Witchers, one girl, and one bitch, who were all crowded around him. He spat into Geralt's eyes, who was the closest. The Witcher dodged quickly and it landed on an unimpressed Lambert’s pants.

Geralt had Jaskier’s torso restrained, Coën and Aiden had his legs, while Eskel was hovering on the other side to restrain his arms if he escaped. Jaskier snarled at his captors.

“This was definitely a more unique and convincing strategy,” he snarked, struggling fruitlessly. “You had me for a while, I was skeptical, hoping that it would be real, but damn you really screwed it up here at the end.” He bared his teeth and looked directly into yellow eyes that were twenty years familiar.“Go fuck yourself, Fringilla, you’re not getting anything else from me. You said you were going to kill me soon, so… Follow. Through.”

The Witchers reeled back in shock, loosening their grip just enough, and suddenly he was free. He sprang up and was out the door before they could react, Witchers or no, and he was fast. He sprinted down corridors with the sole thought of going to the crumbling wall.

He had heard once that if you died in dreams then you would wake up.

He heard footsteps pounding behind him, and men yelling, but he had always been faster than Geralt, even if just by a little. He careened around corners that were now familiar to him and burst through the main doors and into the snow.

Just feet away from the gaping hole he was tackled to the ground.

He was turned over to see Aiden’s enraged face—and oh how similar it looked to his worried face but he knew better now—looking down at him, the other Witchers skidding to a halt around them. Jaskier struggled against the grip as Aiden sat on him and eventually pinned his wrists to the ground after a round of hand slapping.

“What the actual shit, Jaskier?” the Cat screeched, inches from his face, eyes roaming his face before locking eyes intensely with the bard.

Jaskier stared back dispassionately, not even struggling. Aiden raised a brow, still waiting.

“You’re proving my point you psychotic bitch,” he deadpanned, feeling the cold seep in. Hmmm. Maybe he could go the hyperthermia route. Much slower and unpleasant, but would still get the job done. He just sat and listened to Aiden yell profanities and the others pace around. He was suddenly pulled up and hustled towards the door of the keep and he whined, trying to push himself back into the snow. It was a futile effort as he was thrown over the Cat’s shoulder and lugged inside. He half-heartedly pounded on his back, then sighed and went limp. He was placed down in front of the fire in the dining hall and he turned to find all the Witchers facing him, Yennefer and Ciri nowhere to be seen. He snorted as he realized that the girls were not going to be a part of whatever happened.

He stared at the men who were sitting around him, unimpressed. Well, except for Vesemir, he was sitting in the chair that he had been in the first night and staring unblinkingly at the bard.

Maybe if he kept up the cocky unbothered act, his heart wouldn't feel like it was about to burst out of his in fear and misery.

“Jas-”

“Shit a brick and choke on a dick!” he interrupted Geralt brightly, not looking at him. The Witcher sighed and Eskel tried this time.

“Ja-”

“GOOOOO fuck your SEEEEEEEELLLLLFFFFFF!!” he sang with a manic smile on his face. They continued trying to talk to him, and he kept interrupting loudly. The room was becoming more and more tense as he became more and more aggravating.

Maybe if he annoyed them enough the second shoe would drop. He would be prepared, it wouldn’t be a surprise. Maybe there wouldn’t be any late-night visits like the guards had done.

Vesemir’s voice cut through the yelling, making everyone’s voices die in their throats.

“Enough. All of you get out.”

There were immediate protests but Vesemir held up a hand and sent them a stern look. “I am going to try to have a civilized conversation with the bard, and you all are plain aggravating. Get out or we will go somewhere else.”

With grumbling and more than a few backward looks, the door closed behind them.

Vesemir and Jaskier stared at each other in silence. The fire crackled—a sound that would have been comforting in any other circumstance.

Vesemir lowered himself into his chair, maintaining eye contact, and waited. Jaskier had no idea what his angle would be, but was not excited to find out. After what must have been ten minutes of uncomfortable silence, the older Witcher spoke the one thing Jaskier would have never expected.

“I'm sorry, Jaskier. We shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions so quickly,” he said gruffly.

Jaskier broke. A sob escaped his lips and he curled in on himself. He looked at the illusion with increasingly blurry vision. “What do you want, Fringilla?” he asked in a soft, wet voice. “You already took everything.”

The illusion looked at him sadly, a look ruined by how constipated it made him look. “There’s nothing we can do to convince you that Aiden and Coën got you out, is there.” It wasn’t a question.

Jaskier laughed without humor. “Let’s pretend this is real—and I have to tell you, this isn’t the first rescue I've had. There were twenty illusory rescues before this one. Sometimes they got me out and would lead me down a road that I felt safe on, but when I asked them if we were going to, say, Redania, I was back in the cell and they were yelling to tell the soldiers to go to Redania as fast as they could. I never said anything about this place,” he gestured around, “because I had never thought that I would be brought here and it just never felt right to ask.”

He broke eye contact and looked towards the fire.

“This is probably the last illusion. You can find out more about them all, but I've never met any of them. I only know what Geralt told me, and who knows if he is coming here, maybe he’s holed up with Yennefer or Triss somewhere.”

He saw Vesemir nod out of the corner of his eye. “He did arrive here, they arrived two days ago. Ciri said she didn’t know any ‘Julian’. We presumed, and we shouldn’t have. Yennefer put you under and healed you. She put you in a healing sleep and said you would wake up naturally. Of course, you decide to wake up the one time someone is not in the room with you. They were supposed to be taking hour shifts, but there were probably at least three of them in the room with you at a time. When you woke up they had gone to get breakfast and were getting some food that they could feed you when you woke up. Geralt was looking through the notes about feeding you and adding points when we heard Ciri yelling from upstairs. We thought we had another few hours or even a day before you woke up. Yennefer couldn’t see anything strange or fractured in your head, so she deemed you mentally sound.”

Jaskier let the words stew around his head for a while, still staring into the fire.

“I read in a book once that if you die in a dream you wake up.”

“It doesn’t work, we’ve tried.”

He looked at the older Witcher, intrigued. “There was a book in the library that said that too, and multiple boys tried it when they had nightmares. They would go to each other crying saying that they had an extremely painful death. It took them forever to wake up and they couldn’t determine reality for quite a few minutes. I've heard them say that they would prefer to have a nightmare.”

Jaskier nodded absently. “You know, I never really had nightmares about the things that happened to us on the trail, because Geralt was always with me and wouldn’t let me get hurt. I had nightmares about other things, but nothing that would kill me. So, I didn’t know.”

What the illusion didn’t need to know was that he didn’t trust a word coming out of its mouth. If he would wake up by dying then they would tell him he wouldn’t. But, then again, this wasn’t a normal dream and he may just die and then come back. He would have to think about it more.

Vesemir nodded and added something, himself, about Geralt. “He did talk about you. The first winter he came back after he met you, he griped about how annoying you were, but I caught him reading about human injuries and ailments constantly. Every winter that he came back he told us stories about you, like how you won a contest in Oxenfurt, or how you had helped him fight a ghoul after it had bitten him. He told us how guilty he felt after the djinn, when he was drunk off his ass on White Gull. He told us about how you compose songs by the fire. He hated it when you got hurt and tried his best to make salves from what he knew in the lab. I stopped him after he thought he could make you a human-safe version of Kiss and almost blew the whole lab up.”

A snort punched its way out of Jaskier, and he briefly forgot his fear. “That I can see. He is horrid at making and maintaining his own potions, so I watched him do it a bunch until I could do it myself. I don't think he ever realized that he never ran out,” he admitted warily. After all, if they knew such mundane things like the djinn or the competition, then they would already know the potions he knew.

Vesemir raised a cautious brow, his body tense. “You know how to make potions?”

Jaskier took a deep breath, figuring it wouldn’t be a big deal to tell her a little bit. After all, she was already in his head and knew it anyway. “Rebis is a basic substance and is used in potions like Black Blood, Cat, Swallow, and White Honey. Quebrith is in Bindweed, Cat, De Vries’ Extract, Full Moon, and a host of others. I made Golden Oriole, Swallow, and White Honey the most, so he could heal.”

The fire crackled in the silence that was left behind by his statement. Vesemir was giving him an unreadable look and he shrunk back slightly.

“How that boy survived without you is beyond me,” the Witcher finally grumbled as he stood up. He extended a hand to the bard, who flinched and stared at him incomprehensibly. “Let's get you some food,” he told him. Jaskier looked at the hand untrustingly before using his own power to get up. The Witcher didn’t acknowledge the refusal, and ust led him to the kitchen. He followed warily and watched with a piercing eye as the Witcher collected food for him. A piece of bread, some cheese and meat, and a tankard of weak ale.

He gingerly grabbed the offered food and shoveled the half sandwich down before chugging the ale. He finished quickly, and saw Vesemir giving him a look that he had seen on the cooks at Lettenhove when he ate too fast or too grossly. He shrugged unapologetically and they stood in uncomfortable silence before Jaskier made an executive decision.

“Even mental projections are pushy. I'm going to go and wait for them to find me.” The eldest Witcher kept his brow raised but nodded for him to go. He was careful to not actually turn back on the projection until he was out the door and walking aimlessly through the halls, exploring more without the burden of hurting extremities. He had to make a mental list of ideas where he could hide. He poked his head into abandoned bedrooms in disrepair. He found a few of what he supposed would be meeting rooms or the Witcher version of sitting rooms. He found lavatories and training rooms. There were doors deeper in the keep that had locks firmly in place. He walked past them without stopping. He had been wandering a while, when he found a room with chests in it and realized that they were full of clothes made for young boys and teenagers.

He gulped and walked away, not wanting to look through dead men’s clothes.

He wandered back to where he assumed his room was, and when he finally found the hallway, he made a beeline towards his room. He closed the door behind himself and sank against it.

His room looked as it had been the day he had been dragged out of bed. The dresser was in its spot, and so was the chest. His bed was made and there was a small bowl of water and a mirror on the dresser. He smiled weakly and made his way over. He grabbed the soap and razor from where he had stashed them and carefully wet his face and lathered up. He slowly and carefully shaved his sideburns, then moved to his cheeks. He carefully shaved the prickles of his neck, only considering for a second before remembering what could happen to him if he did try. He wet a small towel and used it to pat his face clean of soap and loose stubble. He cleaned the blade and used it to oh so carefully cut tufts of mouse-brown hair from the halo around his shoulders. He couldn’t get it too close at this point, but he could definitely take a few inches off.

Halfway through his task the door slowly crept open and he whirled around to face the intruder.

Lambert froze and stared at him unblinkingly, clutching the plate in his hand tighter. Jaskier was immediately on edge and stood taller, tense. They continued to stare, and even though Jaskier was the only one with a conceivable weapon on his person, he was not naive enough to think that he could beat the Witcher.

“Jul- Jaskier. Good to see you lucid.”

“Imaginary Witcher, good to see you unarmed,” he replied, scathingly.

The figment winced, as if it could feel, and advanced slowly. He silently held out the plate, and when Jaskier ignored it, he sighed and placed it on the bedside table. He kept his back turned to the bard, his shoulders tense before he slowly turned back with an unreadable look in his eyes. He walked up to Jaskier and stopped a step away.

Jaskier grew tenser, but only more confused when the Witcher opened his mouth.

“We’re sorry, Birdy. You never gave us any reason to believe that you were lying or trying to hurt us. You told us many hard things and your heart never skipped a beat, your scent never changed, and our medallions never hummed. We never considered that you might have just gone by a different name for discretion. So. We’re sorry.”

Jaskier snorted inelegantly. “You know, Fringilla, this is the one that had me convinced.” Lambert let out a confused noise and watched Jaskier as he walked around him in a circle, unnerved. “You really captured the essence of Witchers in a way you never did before, especially this one. I was so sure with this one, the first time I saw him I was so relieved that he was an actual Wolf. I couldn’t stop looking at him, trying to find out what exactly it was that had convinced me. Rosie told me what it was that night, but of course, she isn’t real either.” That thought made his heart clench painfully.

“That's why you kept staring,” Lambert breathed out, startled. Jaskier snorted and swung the razor around. “Of course, you're attractive, but I am much smoother than staring. Besides, you're not quite my type.”

Lambert nodded in vague understanding but kept an eye on the blade. “Why don’t we put the weapon down, Birdy?” he asked. Jaskier snorted.

“And be unarmed? I don’t think so. It’s my mental projection and I've decided that I'm going to make the rules.” He flicked the blade in his face.

Lambert gave him an assessing look before nodding slowly. “Would… you like a knife?”

Jaskier froze and stared at him, convinced he had misheard. “…Excuse me?”

“A knife. You want one? We have a ton and you can pick a few out and we can get you some belt sheaths. So. You’d feel safer. Therefore… knives?”

Jaskier looked at him in shock before smiling ferally. “Yes, I would like a knife. Lead the way.”

Lambert turned and led him down a few corridors before they ran into Aiden, who immediately zeroed in on Jaskier.

“Birdy! Are you ok? We thought you had a head injury, and you thought we weren’t real, but couldn’t like, hear any of us so we didn’t know what to do, so we probably weren’t the most compassionate, and we’re sorry- Woah!” He had gotten closer, and once he was within range Jaskier lunged with the razor clutched in his hand. Aiden lept back with a screech but paused when the bard didn’t come after him. The Cat looked at a resigned Lambert in barely concealed shock and hurt.

“Why did he try to slit my neck with a razor?!”

“I'll explain later,” Lambert said in a monotone before leading them both deeper into the keep.

“Wheeere are we going then?” Aiden asked, switching between walking forwards and backward to look between the two.

“To get me a knife!” Jaskier exclaimed cheerily and brandished his inferior blade at the Cat in a move that was supposed to be threatening but fell woefully short. Aiden raised both brows before whipping to look at the Wolf.

“Are you INSANE?”

“He felt unsafe!”

“Now I feel unsafe!”

“You… have your own knives?”

Aiden groaned in frustration but relented and followed them. They reached what had to be one of the many armories and they stood back to let Jaskier choose. He slowly walked around the room and picked up many different knives before settling on a few. Lambert silently held out a belt that could have sheathes strapped to it. He attached two of the ones he had picked out and put three others in a bag that he had found. He flounced out of the room, the two others following behind him as he made his way back to his room. He dropped off one of the large knives that he had stored in the bag as well as the razor that he had taken out with him. He grabbed his lute and made his way to the library, the two Witchers still following like little ducklings.

When they reached the library, the Witchers cautiously sat on armchairs while Jaskier placed his lute down and disappeared into the shelves. They quietly used igni to start a fire that would slowly warm the library and listened to the bard putter around. They continued to glance at each other warily but slowly relaxed their posture until they were comfortably seated in their chairs.

“So, are you going to tell me what's going on now?” Aiden asked in a voice that only a Witcher could pick up. Lambert let out a sigh.

“He thinks it’s still not real and we are all mental projections. He thinks that they have already found out everything that he knows, so they are just keeping him in here for shits and giggles to torture him. I think he said ‘it’s my mental projection and I get to choose the rules.’ I gave him a knife because I'm hoping he’ll cut himself at some point and realize that the pain is different, and… I want him to feel safe. He wouldn’t try to stab a child, and we are all Witchers, but it's still a sense of security. We just have to try and help him find his way back into reality.”

Aiden nodded slowly, considering. “How… do we do that?”

Lambert sighed and aggressively rubbed a hand over his face. “I have no idea. But we tell Eskel, Coën, the Witch, and the girl, they will have ideas. Geralt will be useless. Vesemir will try to stay out of it but he’ll inevitably get involved.”

Aiden snorted humorlessly. “So have a plan, then throw it out the window and wing it?”

A sigh. “Probably.”

Once Jaskier had disappeared around the shelves, he let out a shaky breath and started to work. He quickly found a hiding space between the shelves for each of the other two knives, and began to plan his next move. He had one of four choices.

First, he could try to escape the keep, and make his way down the mountain. Second, he could try the death route. Third, he could just ride out this hallucination. Fourth, he could find ways to hide and avoid everyone, biding his time until it was actually safe to travel back down the mountain.

He kept his breathing even and walked around aimlessly to keep the Witchers unaware until he came to a decision. The only thing wrong with the death route is that something much, much worse could happen, afterwards. Similarly the mountain had a very high chance of killing him. As of right now, he really didn’t want things to get worse.

So that left him with option three or four. Well, technically he could do both.

He knew that there were rooms deeper in the keep that he could flit through and hide in, hopefully even some with locks which his room woefully did not have. He could keep his knives, and sneak out for food stores when he was hungry, as well as books to keep him occupied. He could compose songs.

He wouldn’t have to see anyone.

He almost growled in frustration. He just couldn’t understand what was happening. There had been no hurts, other than what they claimed was a misunderstanding and for which they apologized. They seemed to be trying to win back his favor, but he still hadn’t seen Geralt who he knew would be the bearer of his torment. Why weren’t they hurting him in any way, why were they biding their time? And most importantly, why was he still in the illusion?!

Fringilla now knew how to extricate knowledge from his mind, and had thoroughly done so. He knew nothing else, nothing pertinent to catching them, anyway.

He knew how to care for Geralt’s armor and how he liked his hair to be brushed. He knew that Geralt didn’t like too many seasonings on his food, as his palate was stronger. He knew Ciri had dressed up to play knucklebones on the streets and had a small Bardic Gift that he had been teaching her how to use. All of his other knowledge had nothing to do with their location, however. He was standing in their location trying to find a way to not die or get his heart broken.

He put his performer's face back on, placed a few books in his bag, and shuffled his way out of the shelves.

“I’m going to the loo, be back soon,” he called imperiously on his way out, disappearing before they could reply. After a minute or two of listening for steps around himself and checking every which way, he made a break for it. He quickly shucked his loud shoes and placed them in his bag before taking off into the bowels of the keep. He slipped occasionally but continued on, breath coming in shorter and shorter gasps as his fight or flight response irrationally kicked up.

What if they were following him? What if he was being unconsciously herded into where they wanted him?

He kept going and going until there were no more windows and the temperature went down. There was wet moss growing in corners and there were only a few torches lit every once and a while, but mold collected around them.

Finally, he found what he was looking for.

He skidded to a halt in front of the sturdiest wooden door he had seen down here with a solid lock on the handle. He snatched a torch off the wall and yanked the door open and closed behind him, swiftly locking it. When he turned to examine the room that he had stumbled into, he breathed out a sigh of relief. It wasn’t as wet in the stone halls, and there were tables with mattresses strewn about. While he didn’t know why, he wasn’t going to think about it and was immensely grateful that they were there. He searched until he found the lone sconce in the wall, placing the torch in, before starting to settle in. He may not have meant to find such a home base, but he had and he wasn’t going to give it up.

He began the slow and physically taxing task of dragging the tables and mattresses where he wanted them. Two tables went by the door to help barricade and the others he arranged in a semi circle against the back corner and piled all the mattresses inside the ring of tables and on the floor like the forts like he and Ciri used to make. He would have to sneak out and get blankets and the rest of his things, but it was slowly shaping up. He could see the whole room from the faint light and had enough room for everything to have a place.

The food would go to the left on top of the table there, his lute went in the corner that he would sleep in. He started stacking the books in the side that faced the door in a mini library. He would need his strings, and his clothes he would fold up and place on the tables. He could make himself a comfortable blanket wad for sleeping and warmth. With enough blankets he wouldn’t even have to worry about getting cold. He knew where the weapons were now, so he could definitely grab himself some others for defense.

He grinned manically as he sunk down into the pile of old mattresses. Fringilla seemed to have trouble finding him when he wanted to hide, which meant that he was growing stronger here.

He paused.

If he was getting stronger and more independent of Fringilla, perhaps he could actually get away with his plan. He could be the metaphorical ghost that haunted the keep until spring came and he could—well—spring himself out of this miserable place.

As the thought came into his head he groaned in frustration and wished he had something he could throw. He could do this, but only maybe. How was she doing this? Was this all in his head? He couldn’t figure out how in the world she wouldn’t just find him, or what her angle was, or even if he was more powerful in his head now because he was becoming self-aware! What if this was half real and he was in a ruined castle somewhere and she had conjured the illusions and was enjoying watching him prattle around like a rat in a maze.

He did his best Geralt impression, growling at his surroundings and still wishing that he could have some form, any form, of hint about what was going on. He let out a weak, strangled sob as he wished feebly that she would just break the illusion. He considered briefly trying to use his gift, just to see, but he couldn’t stand to feel his gift fail again. He… he couldn’t, the only thing that had kept him alive for years, feeling it start to build then putter out hurt him more than any form of torture could. It was a bone-, no, a soul-deep ache that left him gasping for breath. He turned to grab his lute and cradled it close to his chest as a mother would a babe.

At least he had some semblance of this normal life, some grasp of music.

He smiled weakly as his healed fingers deftly opened the case and he pulled out his prized elven possession. His nimble fingers strummed the strings and he winced slightly at the out of tune sound. He quickly fell into the muscle memory that came with playing the same instrument for years and used his musicians ear to quickly tune it. He decided to save off putting new strings on it for now, as it would be so much better to wait until he was comfortable here and could safely play for hours breaking in the new strings.

He would have to find a way to know the time, lest his plan sail, wreck, and subsequently sink to the bottom of the ocean. He had no idea how, and would have to wing it the first few days, but he would figure it out. He guessed that he had about four hours until sunset, and another two before the Witchers retired.

That was more than enough time to play his lute then take a nap. His fingers fell into the familiar warm ups, scales running up and down the fretboard. Before he could think about what song he was going to play, he heard his chorus for ‘Her Sweet Kiss’ ring through the room. He played the melancholy songs through slowly, more contemplating, than it was meant to be.

He was going to have to avoid the beautiful couple like the plague of 1216 that had haunted the coastal cities for years. Those years he had stayed with either Geralt in the warmer months and Triss in the colder months because he, quote, “couldn’t be trusted on his own.”

Back to his point, it hurt just as much to see the couple being affectionate as it did to have his gift fail. When they kissed, leaned on each other, did things that Jaskier could never have with the Witcher, it hurt a place deep in his soul. He expected that with Ciri there, it would be even worse. Geralt and Yennefer parenting her, was overshadowing Jaskier’s own relationship with the girl. He was used to being a sort of older brother, and then a surrogate parent after hers had passed. They would have so much more to teach her, and knew everything he knew, so she wouldn’t need him in here or even if he did get out.

The inhabitants of the keep, then, in order of avoidance:

Level one were Vesemir and Eskel. He could deal with them, they were the oldest, and hadn't done anything drastic to him. Level two were Aiden, Coën, and Lambert. Those three were on thin fucking ice, and were one small creak away from being on level three. They were the most likely to hurt him physically. Level three were Geralt, Ciri, and Yennefer. He couldn’t stand to see them, and they had, hands down, the highest potential for emotional manipulation over him.

So, he could probably handle running into level ones all the time, he would try to avoid level twos. He may be able to see them, but would lose his shit if he had to talk to them. Making even eye contact with level threes, though, might send him into a spiraling panic.

So, now all he has to do is take a nap and sneak out, and he may not have to leave his safe room for days.

He bundled into his shirt and cloak and wrapped himself around his lute, trying to stay warm in the cold room. He shivered in the cold dark, humming to himself in an attempt to soothe his frayed nerves.

He could do this.

Chapter Text

He could not fucking do this. Melitele's tits, he couldn't do this. He had changed his mind and would like to go teach at Oxenfurt with Essie, thank you very much.

He had awoken to a light knocking at the door before it slowly pushed open and a hulking figure crept in. He peered at the Witcher from between mattresses and watched as he maneuvered around his barricade of tables and settled on the floor a good few feet away from him.

"Hello, Jaskier. I brought you some food, water, books, and clothes," Eskel said in his rough voice, but with a soft tone. He continued to stare warily as the Witcher piled said things in front of himself, then got more comfortable in his sitting position. Eskel didn't look at him directly, even though he definitely knew where he was, and began talking.

"Aiden and Lambert noticed you were gone after they finished staring at each other longingly, and went to go get Coën, who possesses the single brain cell they share basically all the time. He smacked them and told them to use their senses because they are Witchers, and they started trying to find you. Vesemir, of course, intercepted them and dragged them by their ears to the training grounds where he gave us all some grueling practice while yelling at us to use our senses because 'Gods damn it all, you are Witchers and should be better at using your senses. I raised three of you and whipped the other two into shape. Come on, faster! Use your fucking noses for once!'"

Eskel laughed slightly.

"He was right, of course. After he sent us to go wash up, Lambert, Aiden, Coën, and Geralt were all going to come find you with me, but Vesemir told them absolutely not. He said, 'Eskel will go, he has at least half a brain on his shoulders. Three nuisances, follow Geralt and I, we are going to make a good new impression on Cirilla. You may not antagonize her or the witch or you will be running walls so fast your heads will spin. Then you can go do chores. The witch and I will see where the princess is academically and then we will create a balanced lesson plan between fighting and learning.’ Geralt was about to open his mouth to say he could help when, without even looking, Vesemir said, 'you didn't know where Rivia was until I showed you and you all had the experience of blind toddlers in that town before I showed you how to act like semi-functional beings.' "

Eskel pulled an unseen bag from his shoulder and pulled out a tunic, needle, and thread while continuing.

"Geralt ignored him and told us the most wonderful thing! You're a professor! He said that once you were feeling better you may be able to help Ciri to gaina royal education, since you visited so often and are apparently a Viscount. That was a shock, as well, by the way. Ciri told us that she didn't know how to lie, the other day, she knew how to twist and embellish the truth. Geralt almost had a heart attack right then and there, because apparently you did a whole lesson on that in Oxenfurt, and the students had to convince each other of the most ridiculous things that were based in truth. When you met back up in the spring and you told him about it, then gave your example, and he was half convinced that cockatrices really were purple and bright pink by the end. He asked her to please never do that and she just looked at him innocently and said 'do what?' That girl will be an absolute terror and I cannot wait too see it. Anyway, they went to actually go interact with her and not be bastards, and I came to see you. You found a pretty good room here, these are old tables from the main hall that were just cluttering the place up without anyone to sit on them, and old mattresses so we could keep them at least semi nice but there's really nothing we can do to truly preserve them.”

He paused for a few minutes, falling into his mending intently. Jaskier crept back down into his nest and thought. It was definitely strange, but so far nothing bad.

“Geralt really wanted to come find you, even though he wouldn’t say it,” Eskel said quietly, not looking up.

Jaskier froze and one of his eyes twitched. What? Why would Geralt want to see him, he made his point perfectly clear on the mountain. Besides, Fringilla knew perfectly well that he was the best equipped to hurt him, emotionally or physically.

“When he told us about what he said to you on the mountain, he curled his shoulders, you know what his shoulders do when he feels guilty? He was doing that. And.”

He took a breath.

“You made him happy. He used to come back every winter looking more haggard than the year before. His hair was always dirty and he was thin. Especially after Blaviken. But then he came back in 1213, and he looked healthy, and you know how much Witchers need to look healthy. We were all shocked and he started griping at us about how annoying you were, but I could see through it. The mends in some of his clothes were not his stitching, and he had new leather hair ties that he wouldn’t have bought himself. The year after we heard your songs circulate, and from then on he looked better every time he came up for winter. His armor was getting better, more expensive and kept him safer. He said that you helped him buy some of them, you insisted on it even. His hair was clean, and when you would braid it for his journey up, he would keep it in as long as he could. He told us stories about how you would try to help on hunts, get him paid the agreed upon amount, and would stitch his wounds. I don’t think you realize how much that means to him, to any Witcher. Having someone you can rely on to stitch you up and take care of you while you heal, it’s an amazing feeling.”

Jaskier was clutching himself tightly, wishing upon all wishes that what he was saying was true.

Eskel laughed without humor. “When the plague hit, he was so stressed those two winters. He was so scared that you would get sick while you were with Triss and he wouldn’t be able to help, and when he realized that there would be nothing he could do against the sickness if you got it on the Path with him anyway, he almost blew up the whole keep trying to make a human safe version of Kiss. Vesemir just about tore him a new one before he explained what he was doing. Then Vesemir took pity on him and taught him about human sickness. He tried to keep the soaps and oils you gave him a secret from us. Lambert found out and gave him hell for it, before he realized that they were scentless and Witcher friendly. He got Aiden and Coën some the following year and denied getting any for himself, but we all knew he did.”

Eskel fell silent again and looked at him for the first time through the crack the bard was peeking through. “He doesn’t know how to express himself, and I’m not going to fix his fuck ups for him, but he does miss you and regrets what he did. I'm sure he’s prepared to do just about anything to get you to talk to him.”

They stared at each other for a moment before Eskel cut his eyes down to the food and back up to the bard. “Would you like some?”

Jaskier didn’t make a sound and continued to stare. Eskel sighed and nodded before going back to his mending. They sat in silence for a while, the enchanted light still flickering. Eskel barely moved except his hands, but Jaskier moved periodically, still keeping his eyes locked on the Witcher.

“Maybe I could bring Lil’ Bleater next time?” he asked conversationally after a while. Jaskier shrunk into himself in fear, thinking about all the weapons that could be named that. Eskel’s eyes shot up to Jaskier’s when the fear scent hit his nose, before he smoothed his face out and pretended not to notice, and kept talking.

“She’s my goat, and she’s been following me around for a while. She's a pain in the ass, but I love her, against my better judgment. She tends to bring a smile to people’s faces, one way or another. If there is such a thing as reincarnation, then she has certainly mastered it. Once she gets old and gives out, after a few months or years another one starts following me and has the same temperament. It’s like how Geralt always finds new Roaches. I swear, they get more and more grumpy every generation. Ciri should be glad she came already named, or else she would be named Roach as well.”

Jaskier let out a laugh before he could stop himself. He clamped a hand over his mouth but Eskel was just smiling and continued his work. They lapse into silence again before Eskel finishes his sewing and stands up.

“I'm going to go now, come find me if you need something, yeah? There's a good bit of food here and enough clothes to keep you warm. I’ll come back at lunch tomorrow, and maybe we can start a book?” He waited a minute for an answer before turning and leaving, shutting the door quietly behind him. Jaskier let out a whooshing breath and sagged back. That didn’t go as badly as it could have, but it was confusing. After all, a goat?

He pushed himself up and over the tables and mattresses, making his way to the pile of supplies. He takes stock of what he was brought. There were four shirts, four pants, three pairs of socks, and five blankets. There was also dried meat and fruit in a bag with a water skin. He brought the food over first, arranging it on a table in his fort. He then lugged the blankets and clothes over and started to arrange them. He made—well, he made a nest—in his predesignated corner. He lounged slightly and smiled in contentment. He folded his clothes from his nest, and placed them safely on the other side of the mattress before hunkering down.

He lamented a moment for his fine clothes. His silken doublets and embroidered robes were sorely missed. If he ever got out of here, if he ever got his finances straight, he was going to buy himself some new clothes in Oxenfurt. He couldn’t wait to see his friends there again, Priscilla and Essi would surely be excited to see him. The poor women didn’t know where he was, if he was ok. He winced guiltily at the thought.

And his students! Oh, his poor students. He had so many pupils return to his classes, even after they graduated, and of course he let them sit in. They found him all over the continent by following rumors when they needed something, and he always helped. He huddled in on himself as he thought of how he couldn’t help them find lodging, or decreased rates, or offer advice to any of his wonderful pseudo children. He tried so hard to provide them with a loving parental figure when they had none, just like he had none as a student. He wanted to show them all that they could become anything that they wanted, and didn’t have to bow to the parents that had made their lives miserable. The amount of parents he had stood up to was innumerable. Oh, the people who thought that he was banned from so many courts just because he slept around were laughable, but it was an amazing alibi for the students whom he had fought for in those very courts.

He had many people to care for outside of this infernal hellscape and its realistic counterpart. He just had to survive until he could find a way out. He would settle in Oxenfurt, where he would be safe surrounded by people who cared about him, not ones who told him that he shoveled the shit onto their lives and that they would be better off without him. If these fake Witchers thought trying to butter him up to Geralt for some reason would be effective, they were sorely wrong. He had been angry, upset and, yes, heartbroken, but he had healed as much as he could. It was still beyond painful to see him and witness others getting the care for the Witcher that he had craved, but it would be easier to let go of him this time.

What the bard didn’t know was that Geralt was sitting just outside the door, reacquainting himself with the familiar heartbeat inside, letting it and his breathing wash over him so he could retrain himself to hear it from far away. He had gotten rusty, not having heard it in so long and not having someone to constantly keep an ear and nose out for, but it was like swinging a sword. He could be hurt for a while and not use it, but the motion quickly came back.

He leaned his head against the stone. When Eskel had walked out of the door he had sent him an exasperated but sympathetic look, pet his hair in passing, and disappeared around the corner. Geralt growled and bared his teeth at his brother. Listen, he knew he was repressed and actually needed to talk to the bard, but Eskel didn’t need to say it like that.

He would have to give him space until he felt safer, because he knew that he would make it worse. Hopefully, by handling the temperament of a teenage girl, he could remember how to deal with Jaskier’s mood swings. Hopefully.
Ciri was definitely making him deal with his own emotions more, when he got ‘growly’ she teared up and shut down instead of getting in his face and yelling right back or not acknowledging him until he ‘civilized himself’.

He was gathering things that he knew Jaskier liked, and having people he would actually trust to give to him. He was having an exasperated Yennefer conjure some nice, but still warm, clothes for him. He had been telling his brothers how much food the bard needed, and some of his favorites. Unfortunately, Jaskier’s all time favorite thing was the spring, and he couldn’t quite bring that to the wintery keep.

He sighed again and tilted his head back, thinking. He had to think of a way to get Jaskier to use his gift, and then get him to talk to him, even if it was to yell. Yelling at him about the mountain was better than the silent staring or yelling at him like he was Fringilla. That had been one of the most horrible things he had heard in his long life, Jaskier yelling at him, but not seeing him.

It had hurt Ciri beyond measure as well. Once Vesemir had banished them from the dining hall to talk to Jaskier, he had gone to see her and Yennefer from where they had been left behind in the run outside. Ciri had been sobbing horribly, Yennefer trying her best to comfort the girl. He had held her as she cried, her wet voice asking what was going on with Jaskier. He explained the best he could, before Lambert and Aiden were yelling for the bard. Before they could make a frenzied lap around the keep, Vesemir had intercepted and scolded them. Geralt agreed with what he had said, glad to have a chance to spar with his brothers and express what he thought of their stupidity.

He turned his head to press an ear against the heavy door before sighing and pushing himself up. He would drive himself mad sitting out here, and the temptation to go in and do something, anything to help his oldest friend was becoming overwhelming. He let out a small huff of laughter, remembering how Jaskier had said that he was his ‘very best friend in the whole wide world’. It was one of the things that he had missed the most from his bard, his ‘Jaskier-isms’, as he had heard a woman—Essi he thinks—call them when he had been in Oxenfurt once.

He made his way through the halls and towards where he guessed the others were. He stopped outside the dining hall and lurked in the shadows as he listened. Eskel was giving a recounting of how Jaskier was doing, Vesemir was taking in his words solemnly, Lambert and Aiden were brooding while listening next to the fire, and Coën was standing behind the two looking ready to knock their heads together if they opened their mouths. Yennefer and Ciri must be off doing whatever it is girls and witches do, he had no idea.

He slinked into the room as Eskel finished and went to the side of the room where he knew his mood would be most embraced. Coën threw his hands up while grumbling about stupid Witchers and stalked over to Eskel and Vesemir when he saw Geralt aproaching Lambert and Aiden. They sent him a sidelong look as he deposited himself down and the collective brooding intensified. Vesemir rolled his eyes, continuing to write in his notebook and consult the books surrounding him. Eskel shot him a look, then cut his eyes to the two next to him, peering finally at Vesemir’s books. Geralt knew that his brother wanted him to come help with whatever they were researching, but he was not in the mood. Eskel continued to shoot more pointed looks his way, but before he could put words to whatever he was doing with his eyes, the doors creaked open.

Ciri bopped through the doorway, Yennefer following more regally behind her with books in her arms. Ciri quickly sat so close to Geralt that she was practically on his lap, and he just pulled her closer. She felt tense for a moment before she hesitantly reached a hand slowly towards Lambert. His eyes cut to it and something unreadable crossed through his eyes before he took it gently. It was almost comical to see how his large hand dwarfed her small one. He took a breath and suddenly brooding Lambert was gone and the annoying little brother he was more familiar with was in his place. He gave her a sideways grin and tugged her towards him, running his knuckles roughly over the top of her head, ruffling her hair. She squawked in faux outrage and tried to flee to Aiden’s side of the floor, the two of them jovially playing keep away with the princess. She shrieked with laughter, finally looking her age as she roughhoused with the youngest Witchers. The eldest two looked on from their spots and tried to hide their smiles but failed. Geralt let out a large sigh and heaved himself off the ground and towards the research he had tried to be convinced to help with earlier.

He wished he had gone over earlier when he saw what the books were about. The books ranged from ‘The Origins of the Bardic Gift’, ‘Recorded Bardic Gifts’, ‘Sirens and the Bardic Gift’, and ‘Strongest Recorded Bardic Gifts’, interspersed with journals, all covered with dust. Before he could pick up ‘Sirens and the Bardic Gift’ because come on, it was Jaskier and that made an odd amount of sense, Yennefer slammed another into his chest. He caught it as she let go and looked at the title. Despite the current situation, he felt his lips twitch.

‘Half a Century of Poetry’ by Julian Alfred Pankratz.

He remembered when Jaskier had given him this copy with a big fanfare, but Geralt could see how much he wanted him to like it. He had carefully wrapped it, lugging it with him that year before bringing it up to the keep and adding it to the library. Jaskier had been astonished when he asked where the book had gone and Geralt had mumbled he put it in the Kaer Morhen library. He looked up to see Yennefer staring at him expectantly.

“...What,” he said with little intonation, wondering what she wanted. She let out a sigh like he was a particularly annoying and slow child.

“Have you read this before, Geralt?”

Oh course he had. Multiple times. “I've skimmed it.”

Yennefer rolled her purple eyes. “We need to know if there is anything in here that could point us in the right direction. Collectively, we know very little about the Bardic Gift. There are studies on it but it hasn’t been relevant to us, before now. As much as bards like to talk, there is only so much information we could get from them. They don’t want us to know for some reason, and Oxenfurt is the hub. Point us to any direction your ‘skimming’ may have directed you in this book that might be helpful and we will look at those pages.”

He nodded impassively and turned to several pages, placing paper to keep place before skipping to another page. He remembered some pages that had stuck out to him and sections where the Gift was mentioned. After he had finished, a paper and quill were shoved under his nose and he was instructed to write down anything and everything he knew about Jaskier’s gift, specifically.

- Can imitate nature sounds
- Animals like to listen, except Roach who just tolerates it
- When concentrates, can affect emotions, can make an audience feel what song ‘means’
- Likes to play lute along with Gift orchestra in woods and beach, but song never attracts monsters
- Image ripples randomly, but never in large crowds. It looks like heat waves coming off around him
- Can imitate anything he’s heard, and things he hasn't. It’s how he composes
- Likes singing to water
- When gets to emotional, Gift bursts out without control
- Has a habit of using it so there is ‘background music’ for fight
- Can make voice sound different, but doesn’t like doing it
- Beds more people when using power during performances then without it
- Sometimes looks different when he sings. Eyes look slightly brighter, teeth are sharper, skin looks a little more tan. Medallion only went off in the woods, beach or Oxenfurt.
- Thought it was a monster and the differences were imagination.

He looked up from his writing to see the others staring at him, Ciri, Lambert and Aiden having migrated over.

“That’s a lot,” Lambert commented, looking over his shoulder. He grunted in response and slid the list to Vesemir. They all watched as the oldest Witcher read the list, his brow getting higher and higher. He hmm’d before looking up at Geralt.

“There are old stories that have been passed down through generations, old wives tales whispered in the dark,” he started wearily. The rest leaned forward curiously. “It’s rumored that the Bardic Gift is actually repressed Siren genes passed down through generations. It has been proven that in half-sirens, ones with certain… personality traits got stronger gifts and from what I’ve heard, your bard certainly fits the bill. Sirens went to ground years ago, I haven't heard of any since 905. I have no idea how his Gift is so strong without a more recent siren ancestor.”

He turned the list and an open book towards the group. “Look. He even has some traits that aren’t on the list, but he has everything that is listed. Can you think of anything in his lineage that would make him stronger, or any events that he may have told you about?”

Geralt shook his head. “I can’t think of anything. I knew he was more powerful than a normal Oxenfurt graduate with the Gift, while he hasn’t shown the full extent of his powers to many people, he has shown Oxenfurt how his Gift is a bit stronger than usual. He likes to lord it over Valdo Marx’s head. I doubt I have heard the extent of his powers, and I doubt that even he knows the true extent of his Gift.”

Vesemir nodded slowly. “What is his family name? Since he’s a Viscount, there may be a family tree in the library for us to check.”

“His birth name is Julian Alfred Pankraz.”

Vesemir’s eyebrows rose at an alarming rate and Eskel choked on air.

“Pankraz? Are you sure?” Vesemir asked incredulously. Geralt nodded, one hundred percent sure.

Eskel let his head drop into his hands and groaned. “We will never find out for sure how strong the genes are or which generation they come from then.”

Eyebrows were raised, even Yennefer seemed dubious. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Geralt, you remember telling us about how your bard likes to sleep around? It’s a strong family trait,” Eskel said, muffled by his arms. Geralt sputtered while Aiden and Lambert burst into strained laughter, Coën looking at them unimpressed.

“It’s like having toddlers,” he lamented. They stuck their tongues out then seemed to realize the point that they were proving.

Yennefer remained unbothered by their antics and continued with the look of curiosity she was shooting towards the oldest Witchers, but before they could explain, Ciri spoke up.

“Acording to grandmother and Mousesack, the Pankraz family would have sex with anything that moved. Fae, Elves, Sirens, Dyads, Nyads, entire households, Mages, Changelings, one was even rumored to have done a Dragon. Grandmother said that they must have had a fetish, the harder it was too fuck, the more they wanted to.”

The entire table stared at her with their mouths open in varying degrees. Of course the toddlers recovered from their shock first, especially after seeing the horror on Geralt’s face. They started laughing uproariously at the pale face and Ciri’s exasperated look.

“I’m not as young as you seem to think I am,” she grouched. That made the two laugh even more, and Coën joined in. Yennefer cracked a sardonic smile while the other three Witcher’s begged Melitele to tell them what they did to deserve the fate of having a teenage menace. Well, Vesemir was also thinking how good it felt to have one of his former teenage menaces know how it feels to be on the receiving end.

Geralt shook his head and resolved to talk to Ciri about it later. “So why are we researching all of this? What is the point?” he asked Vesemir.

“If we know how his Gift works, we can see if we can get him to use it to snap him out of this illusion business.”

Geralt nodded, contemplating. “He has strong control when he is in populated areas, but when it’s just us in the woods he seems to do it instinctually. My guess is he needs to feel safe enough to let his control slip, but… I don’t think he would feel safe enough here.”

They sat in silence, in various states of despair. The only way to get the bard to use his gift was to evoke a strong emotion, a feeling of safety, but all he ever reeked of was fear and resentment. The best way to snap him out of it… was to snap him out of it.

With that sobering thought they turned back to the books, hoping that maybe the answer would be hidden within the pages.

Chapter Text

Eskel did indeed rejoin Jaskier for lunch the next day, bringing some hot food and a book with him. He bravely walked closer and placed the bowl on the table that helped comprise the fort he had created. Eskel acted like he hadn’t just stepped as close as he did, which unsettled Jaskier. He went and settled down on one of the abandoned tables and cracked open the book.

“Geralt mentioned that this was one fo your favorites,” he started conversationally. “Apparently these ‘Goliard’ poets are clergy men—doesn't really peg me as your style—but Geralt says that you appreciate their songs and think that they were actually a lot more rebellious than others think they were. I opened it to a random page just to see, but Geralt was convinced. He even brought me this by himself and told me I should give it to you or read it with you. He made the soup that I brought you, too—insisted it was your favorite. I don’t know what the hell he did to you, but he feels guilty as fuck.”

Jaskier snorted into the soup bowl and rolled his eyes. “He should,” he muttered.

Eskel snorted. “He can be a huge dick sometimes, can’t he? I know he’s my brother, but I think that makes me specially qualified to judge him, and he’s a shitty communicator! That's the fault of the trials though, he was a talkative kid. That's not an excuse, of course, but it’s a reason. He’s going to give you space for now, but once you're ready I’m sure he will come and profusely apologize.”

Jaskier snorted, wondering why the illusion was being so in depth. He knew that the real Geralt would never apologize. He continued to sip his soup and waited to see what else the illusion was going to cook up.

Apparently nothing, as the Witcher relaxed back and brought the book to relax against his thighs. He took a deep breath and started to read aloud. After the first few pages, Jaskier started to relax and let himself drift to lean against the mattress to just listen. As the book went on, Eskel started laughing more and more.

“I can see why you like this,” he chortled as he read a three page long argument about why the arts were the best field of study that contained many opportunities for the arguer to swear. After about an hour of reading, Eskel closed the book.

“Well, I think that's enough for me today. I'll bring it back tomorrow and we can read more? Or I can come back later today if you want?”

Eskel paused for an answer that never came.

“Alright, if you need anything, just yell or come find me. I’ll bring down dinner, I think Vesemir is making venison, rice and rolls.”

He effortlessly jumped over the table and was half way out the door before he turned.

“Just so you know, when you’re ready, everyone has a lot of things to say to you. Geralt isn’t the only one feeling guilty,” he said quietly before closing the door behind him.

After a quiet moment a tear slipped down Jaskier’s cheek and he curled in on himself. He wished beyond all wishes—hell, he’d even fuck with the djinn again—that they would stop making this illusion so inviting. He didn’t even know why they were doing this, there had only been one act of violence so far, and that was when they thought he had betrayed them. So what was Fringilla doing? What could she possibly gain or achieve by having them all be nice to him?

He wasn’t even in true pain anymore since he had found this room, and why didn’t she drag him out? What could she gain by not seeing the rest of the keep or the three that she wanted? He didn’t actually know anything about the Keep except that it was north in the mountains. Mountains were kind of a staple of the north, so who knew where they actually were?

And what about Coën and Aiden? Letho, Ivo, and the Cat Caravan? Did he just make them up? He let out a frustrated yell and tugged at his hair. He abruptly stood and launched himself into the open space of the room and started pacing, grabbing a knife on one of the rotations by the table and stabbing the air in agitation.

He let out another yell and kicked the edge of a table, realizing his error too late as he jammed his toes. He fell to the ground as frustrated and pained tears fell down his cheeks and he clutched his foot. Heedless of how the noise might carry in the keep, he upped his frustration and screamed.

He slammed the handle of the knife into the ground before chucking it across the room before grabbing another and doing the same.

The noises that he was making in distress masked the sound of heavy footsteps rounding the corners.

He was definitely made aware as the door slammed open, showing all three of the young Wolves with swords.

He screamed again and pushed himself backwards as they slammed into the room and started looking around. He kept an eye on them and felt along behind him for one of the thrown knives while the Wolves scoured the room for what possibly could have made the bard scream bloody murder.

Finding nothing they turned back in time to see a knife flying at Geralt’s head. He dodged with ease and took a good look at the bard. Seeing his eyes he quickly started to usher his brothers out.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Lambert yelled, struggling as Eskel trailed behind them, looking back and forth between his brothers and the bard.

“That look right there,” he pointed to Jaskier’s face, “is what has gotten us kicked out of eighty two inns continent wide, chased out of fifteen towns, lead to 105 bar fights and got us banned from Western Poviss.”

Jaskier threw the other knife and an apple at them and started screaming ineligibly again. The oldest and youngest Withers tried to get back in, looking concerned, but Geralt held them back.

“Just let him yell himself out, he needs it. Yell in Elder, Jask, it helps, remember?” he yelled the last part into the room over the shreaking. As the rest of the Witchers came crashing into the hallway, they were met with a strange sight.

Eskel and Lambert were hovering by the door, unsure what to do about the current situation.

Geralt was standing directly in the door frame while streams of Elder, Nilfgaardian and Skellieger jargon flew from the interior of the room. Eskel turned to them helplessly as Geralt just looked exasperated as he stood.

“Yes, Jaskier, I hear you. Everyone can hear you, you are talking so loud and fast the entire mountain can hear you… Yes, I understand that… Ok… Jaskier, I get it, can we go back to common now, pl— ok… Alright, yes, that was a great swear word, but—… Ok… that was colorful…”

Lambert turned back to them. “I didn’t know either one knew so many languages?”

Vesemir gave a long suffering sigh. “Geralt doesn’t. He's half fluent in Nilfgaardian, knows a few words here and there of the others, but he is not fluent enough to know what he’s saying. So I have no idea what they are doing.”

They were silent for a few moments, just listening to Geralt try to placate the angry bard.

“Do we know what set him off?” Aiden asked cautiously, edging closer before Coën grabbed him by his scruff and pulled him back. Aiden pouted as Lambert snickered and Eskel answered.

“Not a clue. He was yelling before we got there and we assumed that he was hurt or someone was attacking him somehow so we came in ready to fight them. He just threw a knife at us and started screaming again before Geralt said something about Jaskier looking like he was going to get them kicked out of taverns in Poviss and herded us out before He started doing… this.”

Vesemir raised a brow. “Kicked out of a Tavern in Poviss, while in the keep?” he asked Eskel skeptically.

Lambert cackled. “Apparently the look on his bard’s face led to them getting kicked out of eighty two inns, chased out of fifteen towns, 105 bar fights and got them banned from Western Poviss.”

Vesemir’s brow climbed higher. “I thought that the songs were supposed to improve Geralt’s reputation, not get them kicked out.”

Lambert gave a feral grin. “I'm pretty sure he means the bard got into fights.”

The raised brow was joined by its cousin before they were lowered in resignation. “I don’t want to know. Let's leave them to… whatever the hell this is.”

“It’s the Geralt and Jaskier version of being an old married couple,” Yennefer piped in from the corner, her body language showing how unimpressed she was, but her eyes telling the Witchers she found the scene amusing.

The Witchers ground to a halt. “They what now?” Coën asked.

The sorceress gave the most elegant snort they had ever witnessed. “These two have been friends for twenty years, spending months at a time with each other. When you do that, you get such an intimate knowledge of the other that you communicate in a different way. You all have your strange battle signals that you have developed together which only you know. That's basically what Geralt's doing. He has heard Jaskier talk so much that he understands his tone of voice and body language as much as his words."

They turned back to see a slew of things continue to be thrown at Geralt from the interior of the room, common slowly creeping back in amidst the Elder and Nilfgaardian.

They watched in morbid curiosity and surprise as the yelling wore off and the Witcher slid the objects across the floor and back into the room.

Just before they were about to head up and leave them to… this, Jaskier broke the silence of the room.

"What are you trying to do here, Fringilla? If your goal was to confuse me to death you are about to succeed."

They watched silently as Geralt let out a breath and lowered himself to the ground, either forgetting they were there or fully ignoring them.

"You may hate me as much as you do her right now, but we are two very separate people, Jaskier."

The rest of the people in the room sat down as well and settled in for the ride.

"Alright fake Witcher, prove it."

"Use your Gift." Geralt leaned forward.

"Not a chance in hell, bitch, try again."

"You once slept with a Duke, his son, his wife and mistress, two maids and a gardener."

Lambert and Aiden snickered while the others raised brows.

"Common knowledge, and how do I know you haven't picked it out of my head?"

"Hmmm."

"Shut the fuck up."

"Your most recurring dreams are about beating or getting beaten by Valdo Marx. You asked the djinn to kill him," Geralt said, exasperated.

"Could have taken that from my head."

"Sweet Melitele! Use your damn Gift!" he threw his hands up.

"No. I'm not done shit shoveling."

Geralt took a deep breath before responding calmly.

"I'm sorry I said that to you. I was angry, and you didn't deserve it, and it wasn't true. After I realized exactly what I had said, I was going to come find you, but I thought you wouldn't want to see me for a while. Then Nilfgaard came and I had to get Ciri after the fall of Cintra, and we picked up Yennefer from Sodden and I took them here. As soon as Yennefer was replenished enough, I was going to have her help me find you and portal you back here so you would be safe. If I had known what was happening to you, I would have come immediately. I'm sorry, Jaskier."

There was silence for a while.

"I wish I could believe that, and I wish that if real him ever said that he would mean it, and that it would make it ok."

A long silence followed.

"I'll prove it to you, Jaskier. Once you know you're here, I'll prove that I mean it. I don't know what I'll have to do to convince you I’m being sincere, but I'll do it. I'll kill Marx and your father if you want."

Silence reigned for a minute, Geralt silently sitting still.

"Leave, Fringilla. I'm done for today."

Geralt took a breath and stood up. “If you need something, just yell. We’ll hear you.”

He stood up and turned his stony face to the group of eavesdroppers. He pulled the heavy door gently closed against the sound of angry hissing coming from inside and pushed the others down the hall. He ushered them silently with a grim face, the Witchers and witch following obediently, still shocked by what they had seen.

“Where’s Ciri?” Geralt asked with no inflection, barely looking at them.

“Whacking at a training dummy. Maybe you should try whacking on an actual dummy,” Yennefer responded haughtily, gesturing towards Lambert. Lambert snarled at her but followed them out to the training ground with his family so they could wail on each other.

Ciri looked up at them once they stepped out of the keep, breathing heavily, but must have seen something on their faces and went back to her training. The Witchers gathered blunt swords for training and paired up as you would expect.

Geralt, Lambert and Eskel started an every man for themselves free for all while Coën and Aiden watched.

Vesemir let out a long, suffering sigh that only a parent could achieve and went to help Ciri with her form, while Yennefer watched imperiously from her stone perch. She watched as Aiden cheered on the violence and Coën watched them carefully to make sure that it didn’t turn too serious too fast.

Soon, the Cat and Griffin grew bored of watching the brothers beat each other with sticks, and Yennefer noted that Aiden nudged the Griffin repeatedly. Coën's eyes finally cut over to the menace and raised a brow at the impish expression on Aiden’s face. Aiden leaned in very close to Coën to whisper in his ear and Coën turned just a little closer and a matching grin spread across his face. They kept a close eye on the three brothers and once they were locked in fiercely with each other, the other two crouched down to the snow.

They quickly formed balls out of snow and winded up, beaning Lambert in the head at the same time.

The Wolves all froze before turning slowly, deadly looks on their faces, towards the crouched Witchers.

“We may have miscalculated,” Aiden muttered, brief fear running through his body at the look on their faces. Very rarely did anyone ever see the three Wolves like this, united and ready for a fight. They stood in a line, stony expressions on all their faces, and stared as the wind blew eerily.

Snow dripped down Lambert’s face.

They flew into action together, the eldest two jumping onto the two on the ground and the youngest brother dropping to create large snowballs.

Coën laughed as he was thrown to the ground by Eskel, who simply sat and held him down, but Aiden screeched as he was crushed by Geralt into the dirty snow and the Wolf basically sat on his chest with a self-satisfied smirk on his face. Lambert cackled as he bound over and handed each of his brothers a hard packed pile of snow. Lambert stood over all of them with a manic grin on his face as he counted down from three before, with a force only a Witcher could produce, snow was slammed into faces with a force only Witchers could endure with no harm.

The wolves were all laughing so hard that they didn’t hear Vesemir sneak up behind them carrying Ciri, who had another giant snowball in her hands. She stuck her tongue out in concentration and when they got close enough she slammed it onto the back of Lambert’s head.

She laughed as he screeched indignantly and they all whipped around to see Vesemir and Ciri looking at them innocently, standing next to each other and looking at the scene in front of them.

“You’re both diabolical. I can’t do anything against either of you!” Lambert whined and Aiden cackled while the Wolves helped him and Coën up. Lambert sent Vesemir a scathing look and went to go lean on Coën, brushing snow out of his hair.

“Go clean up,” Yennefer commented as she passed by and led Ciri away from the men. Once the women and Vesemir were in front of them, they continued to push each other around on the way into the Keep and down to the hot springs.

They sunk down into the steaming water, Eskel and Geralt sitting in silence as the other three did their weird flirting.

“Oh come off it, What would you do without me?! Come on, I’m a leading force in your life!” Aiden goaded at the other two. Lambert and Coën shared a look.

“You play with ghoul innards like they are a ball of string and you chase light. You’re a menace,” Coën said, deadpan.

“But it’s entertaining!” Aiden countered, painting at him. Lambert snorted.

“It is until you get us into fights.”

“You like fights!”

“That's not what we’re talking about right now.”

They stared at each other before launching themselves and wrestling in the water. The two wolves rolled their eyes and quickly got out to leave them to it.

“Are you ok after that?” Eskel asked while they were walking towards their rooms. Geralt rolled his eyes.

”This isn't the first time or the last time we are going to get involved in Lambert’s shit, you know that.”

“You also know that that's not what I was talking about.”

Geralt continued walking ahead and pointedly didn’t look to his side at his brother.

“Isn’t the first time, won't be the last,” Geralt repeated roughly, still not looking at him, and disappeared across the hallway. Eskel sighed and retreated to his room as well, knowing his brother had reached his emotional limit for the day.

The next day, Eskel brought Jaskier breakfast and horrible profanities were yelled at him until he set the bowl of porridge down and retreated back up to the main hall.

“How is he?” Vesemir asked as he saw him. Eskel sighed and looked around, and before he could say anything, Vesemir spoke again.

“I sent the others out to do some repairs, they can’t hear us. Tell me what is actually happening.”

Eskel’s shoulders dropped. “Yesterday made him worse. I should have made Geralt and Lamb stay behind. I thought that the little yelling match he had with Geralt might have helped, but now he is just yelling at me. He seems less scared, but angrier. I'm guessing he’s reaching a breaking point. We need to figure something out, soon.”

Vesemir sighed and rubbed his eyes, nodding. “I had guessed, but was hoping that I was wrong. We have to keep them busy and make sure they don't go down there. There is a good chance that they could make it worse. We also have to prepare for the possibility that he is too far gone.”

Eskel ran a hand through his hair and nodded. He knew that if things took a turn for the worse and they couldn’t do anything, the two standing across from each other might have to deal with things. If Jaskier’s mind didn’t heal, or whatever the hell was happening to him didn’t let up, he might have to stay at the Keep year round with Vesemir.

If he didn’t heal, he would be a living ghost haunting the cold halls, yelling at nothing and not being able to go out on the path, else he wouldn’t survive.

They had to prepare for the possibility that he may not survive anyway.

Eskel took a fortifying breath and nodded at Vesemir when he put a comforting hand on his shoulder. The older Witcher used the hand to push him towards the door, where his brothers are working outside.

He quickly schooled his emotions so his brothers wouldn’t become worried as he opened his senses to the area around the Keep. He smiled as he heard yelling coming from the west tower, and guessed that they were trying to replace the collapsed wall.

He situated himself hidden behind a wall and watched as Aiden and Lambert threw themselves at Coën instead of fixing the wall. Geralt watched without a smile, but Eskel could see the creases around his eyes, giving away his amusement.

When Aiden had ‘overtaken’ Coën, and they were wrestling on the ground as their third was laughing hysterically, a blur of white blonde launched itself at Lambert.

“Lambert!” Ciri shrieked as he tipped her over and held her by the ankles. “Let me down! You promised to teach me some moves!” she whined. Lambert gave her an assessing look from his superior position.

“Did I? I don’t remember that, are you sure you didn’t make it up?”

Ciri gave an affronted gasp and wiggled her way down and dashed to Geralt, looking up at his amused expression. “I want to learn how to fight! Teach me!” She demanded in a tone fit for the future heir of Cintra.

Geralt molded his face into a serious expression and nodded stoically. “Fighting is a good skill to learn. What kind of fighting would you like to learn?”

She blinked at him “The… physical kind? Jaskier has already started to teach me the verbal kind and Yennefer is going to teach me the magical kind.”

Eskel broke into a smile and snuck up behind her, Geralt spotting him out of the corner of his eye. He snatched the girl up and rested her on his shoulder as she shrieked with joy.

“Well, the first rule of fighting in defense, so you need to learn when someone is sneaking up on you and how to get away to regroup and create a strategy. That's the first thing we learned.” Eskel told her with the utmost sincerity.

The others sent him a relieved look. They all knew that running was absolutely not the first thing they were taught, but they were trying to curb the generational trauma.

Triss had taught them that term after she had spent five minutes in the same room as all of them.

Ciri leaned forward to look him in the eye upside down from her perch, before nodding. “Sounds good. When do we start?”

“Tomorrow. Today, we will work on building your strength by helping us repair this wall.” He set her down gently and handed her a pail of spackle. She clutched it tightly and looked him in the eye.

“I’ve got this,” she promised before turning away and starting to direct the others. He smiled gently. He knew she did.

It continued like that for a few more days, with Jaskier screaming at people when they came to give him food, mostly by Eskel, as Jaskier had a tendency to yell less when it was him. They spent their days making repairs to the Keep, training and educating Ciri, educating themselves about the care of humans, and trying their best to figure out what to do about the bard in their basement.

Vesemir, Yennefer and Eskel also spent their days keeping the others from camping out in front of the door separating Jaskier from the rest of the keep, which is what led them to the current situation.

The eldest three of the Keep were standing in the doorway to the dining hall and were just watching the younger men and girl resting near the fire. Vesemir and Eskel had been the first two drawn to the room, hearing the deep rumbles coming from within. Yennefer had seen them pass by and followed along as they quietly walked towards the door.

Inside, the four Witchers were curled around each other with Ciri nestled in the middle. The girl was sprawled half on Geralt’s chest, her hand fisted in his shirt while her back was to Lambert. He was curled towards her and his brother while his two ‘friends’ enveloped them. Lambert was using Coën’s stomach as a pillow while Aiden was curled around him in a way that should be uncomfortable, but there was a small smile playing on his face.

There were three distinct noises coming from the pile—a deep, contented growl emanating from the Wolves. From Coën, it was more like a rumbling hum. Aiden, however, was full on purring, it even seemed like he was vibrating slightly.

Yennefer left first, leaving the air smelling of gooseberries in her wake. Vesemir followed soon after, giving Eskel a smile and a firm hand on the shoulder before disappearing down the hallway. Seconds before Eskel himself turned away, tired gold eyes met his.

“Eskel?” asked Geralt in a gravelly voice, while his arm reached out towards his older brother. Eskel smiled softly at him and walked over quietly before crouching beside him. Geralt stared up at him blearily.

“Stay,” he demanded before tugging Eskel down to his other side. Eskel smiled and threw an arm around his brother that was promptly pulled tighter. Eskel rested his head atop of Coëns legs and when he turned into a more comfortable position he locked eyes with his youngest brother. With a still grumpy face, Lambert grabbed his hand and shut his eyes and settled back against Aiden.

Before he could fall asleep against his exhausted brother, a voice spoke.

“Eskel? Are you awake?” Ciri whispered nervously.

“Yes. Is everything alright, Cub?” He whispered back, wondering why the girl was asking him and not the others.

“You spend a lot of time with Jaskier, right?” She asked haltingly.

He paused for a second, getting a better understanding of the conversation that was about to happen. “Yes, I bring him things to eat and read. Why?”

He heard her take a deep breath before continuing.

“I’m worried about him, and I miss him. Do you think… do you think I will be able to go see him soon?”

Eskel’s heart broke for the girl who had already lost too much, but he knew he couldn’t lie to her. He could cushion the truth.

“I don’t know, Ciri. Some days he seems better, some days he seems worse. We don’t know what it would take to help him at this point. Nilfgaard did a number on him. I'm sure once he feels better he would love to spend time with you. He may not heal any time soon, and we need to be prepared for that. Humans are fragile, their minds even more so, but they are also resilient. It’s a contradiction no one quite understands, and every human is different. We cannot truly know.”

She was silent for a minute. “Maybe… maybe I could go sing for him? He used to sing for me when I didn’t feel good. I know it’s not the same, but it’s the principle, the thought behind it. Maybe it will help trigger his gift?”

He sighed. “I wish, princess, but we don’t know how he would react to that, and we don’t want either of you to get hurt.”

She didn’t respond with words, only clutching at his arm and worming her way closer to Geralt. He could sense how disappointed she was, but couldn’t think of what could make her feel better.

Unbeknownst to the Witcher, Ciri was planning. If they wouldn’t let her go try to help, she would simply have to not get caught.

Chapter Text

The day after the sleepover in the main hall, Ciri started to pay more attention to the habits of everyone in the keep. She realized that while Lambert, Coën, and Aiden wanted to help Jaskier, they knew they shouldn’t try while Jaskier was this unstable. Other than that, at least two of them were together at all times, and they were not exactly stealthy when together. Eskel went to see Jaskier on schedule, three times a day, and then went to do repairs, read, cook, or train for the rest of the day. He wouldn’t notice her going down, unless it was during those three times or when she was training with them. Geralt, Yennefer and Vesemir would be harder to sneak past, as they seemed to know where she was at all times.

That left what was, if she was being honest, one of her better options—faking a nightmare and going to Jaskier for comfort.

The adults were due to have a big drinking night and sleep soundly in their rooms until late morning. She didn’t know what they put in the ‘White Gull’ that they drank, but it certainly knocked them out good after a night of chasing each other around.

It was a couple nights later when Ciri was able to put her plan into action. She waited until the adults had settled in for the evening before sneaking out to visit one of her closests friends. Ciri spotted the door that led to Jaskier’s room, and thought about how strange it was that one slab of wood could separate her from one of the most important people in her life.

She took a deep breath and very carefully thought about the fall of Cintra. It didn't take very long and as soon as she felt properly worked up, she pushed the door open with watery eyes and a slightly runny nose.

In her defense, Jaskier had taught her everything she knew, so this wasn’t entirely her fault. No 15 year old girl came across this skill honestly.

It was dark in the room, but she could still see, and there was a torch sitting in a sconce on the far wall. She spotted a mass of mattresses with tables piled around them. She took a deep breath.

“Jaskier?” she asked in a shaky, watery voice.

Nothing.

“Jaskier?” she called again. “I… I had a nightmare. Will you sing the song?” she asked in her most pitiful voice. She heard a rustle in the mattress fort and had to repress a smile. A sigh rang out and a head popped over the table.

“Ciri, darling, could we do this another night? My singing may be subpar.”

She felt her heart clench at the words. “That's ok,” she assured him in a small voice. “You don’t have to sing. Can I just sit with you then?” She looked at him imploringly.

Their eyes remained locked and she could see his will crumbling like a dry cracker. He muttered something under his breath, rolled his eyes, sighed what sounded like, “Sweet Melitele preserve my sanity,” before he flopped dramatically back. “Come on in, dear.”

She smiled and shuffled over, throwing herself over the wall and bounced on the mattress. She turned over and looked at Jaskier. “Hi,” she whispered, feeling like the occasion called for it.

He looked at her with an unreadable expression for a moment before it melted into fondness. “Hello dear. A nightmare, huh?”

She nodded, and he opened his arms. She leaned into them and sighed in contentment.

“Thank you Jask,” she muttered into his shoulder. He tightened his grip.

“Anything for you, Princess, you know that.” She tightened her grip to match.

They sat like that for a minute, clinging to the last remaining people from their past lives.

“Do you want to tell me what your nightmare was about?” he asked gently.

She took a shaky breath that she didn’t have too fake. “Cintra burning. The man in the black armor. Grandmother. All of it.”

He sucked in a breath. “I'm so sorry, dear heart.” He told her gently. She felt him take a deep breath.

Hush a bye, don’t you cry
Go to sleep now little baby
When you wake - you shall have
All the pretty little horses

Blacks and Bays, Dapples and Grays
A coach, and six white little horses

She froze and felt tears slip down her face. She hadn’t heard the lullaby in forever, and didn’t realize how much she had missed it. Her watery voice joined in on the second chorus and he pulled her back to look in her eyes.

They finished it out together and smiled at each other.

His smile was sad, but she saw something else in his expression that gave her pause. He looked… tired, no, not just tired - exhausted. And scared.

She felt her smile starting to slip. She had hoped beyond all hope that her being normal, he would have been put more at ease, but it seemed like she would have to somehow get him to use his gift.

She had asked about it one time when she snuck herself out of lessons and found him sitting on his favorite bench in the palace gardens. It was mossy stone nestled against a hedge underneath an arch of creeping jasmine. He had been sitting cross legged with the sun dappling his hair a golden color. His eyes were closed and he was swaying to the music that was tinkling gently around him like windchimes.

He cracked an eye open and smiled at her gently.

“Snuck away Ciri?” He asked in a soft voice.

She nodded, slightly guilty at being caught. He just beckoned her to sit, and when she bopped over to him, he put an arm around her and pulled her close.

They sat for a moment, reveling in the moment before she asked.

“How do you do it?”

He let out a questioning noise from the back of his throat, but didn’t look towards her, just continuing to gaze out into the garden.

“The music,” she elaborated. “You are the only one who I have heard do that. How do you do it?”

He smiled softly “It’s called the Bardic Gift. You can't swing a cat at Oxenfurt without hitting someone who has at least a degree of the gift. As far as I know, not even the most experienced truly know why we have it, but alchemists and scholars have done research and have determined that somewhere along our blood lines a siren was introduced. We don’t know why it manifests in performers more, or even if people with the Gift are more likely to become performers.”

He took a breath and Ciri snuggled closer to his side and continued to listen, fascinated.

“I’ve been able to use mine since I was a child, and my parents hated it because they knew that it would make me even more of an abnormality than I already was in their eyes. I learned control early, rarely using it at home, but when out of control, the Gift reacts to emotions. Depending on the level of power a certain person has, it manifests in different ways, like angry music emitting from the air around them when they themselves are angry, or a melancholy tune playing when they are upset. But there are two universal truths. First, if a person feels unsafe or uneasy, then the gift cannot manifest. For example, if I am in a place that I don’t feel safe, or with people who make me feel like I'm in danger, I have trouble with the music. Along the same vein, it can never be forced using magical manipulation. Once Yennefer decided that it would be a wonderful idea to put me into a magical little sleep as retribution for a little… prank that I had played. I couldn’t use my Gift at all and it was one of the most terrifying experiences of my life, darling. Secondly, someone who possesses a Gift cannot use it to play music that they did not write.”

He laughed. “Valdo Marx learned that the hard way and I still revel in that moment.”

Ciri sniggered but stayed silent to let him continue with the lesson that was much more interesting than the math one she had escaped.

“There are three main ways the Gift manifests. The first way is the most common, just music playing without the manipulation of an instrument. It’s what I was doing just a moment ago when you first came by, everyone who has the Gift can do this. The second manifestation is something that only about half or less of people with the gift can use, it is where the music that we produce manipulates the world around us. Like this.”

He pointed to the dirt at their feet and she watched as the noise of a tin flute started up, but it wasn't an all around sound like there was before. Her eyes grew wide in fascination as it sounded close to her ear, ruffling her hair before the dust at her feet started to kick up. The sound was concentrated by her feet, and her mind immediately compared it to the way she could place that a voice is calling from above and far away other than all around her. It whipped up and created a little triangular whirlwind that she saw in the winter when the roots that kept the dirt on the ground died, and the wind blew past itself and created the same shape.

He smiled at her awe and continued on. “Yes, it is certainly a fun skill to use. I can do larger things when the power has built up. It’s almost like how you have more energy after resting for a while, and all you want to do after a lesson is to run.”

She nodded in understanding and he smiled before continuing on.

“The third manifestation is the most rare, and only about 20 percent of people have been able to do it. I've only managed it once or twice in my life, and personally don’t truly like to use it. It is the manipulation of people through your voice, like the Sirens that gave us our Gift.”

He gave a little chuckle, and she could see the sadness lining his eyes.

“I truly hate using it, I think free will is one of the best things Melitele ever gave us. I hate taking that away, but there are some times when it is necessary.”

He took a breath.

“It doesn’t come without a price. It’s draining, I've passed out from using it, and makes you feel like the monster that is part of your genes.”

Ciri made a sound of protest. “You're not a monster!” she denied venomously, clutching her hands to his face and making him stare straight into her eyes as if she could convince him with just her stare.

He smiled gently “I know darling, thank you, truly. Monsters are either the mindless beasts that kill for no reason or they are people that make choices to hurt others. I try my very hardest to be good, and anyone who tries to be good cannot be truly evil.”

He looked at her and she felt as if they were not only talking about Jaskier being a good man anymore. She nodded despite not quite being sure what she was agreeing to.

She snapped back to the present where Jaskier was holding her much the same as he had been on that bench. She snuggled a bit closer and thanked him for the lullaby, hoping that maybe the comfort of her being close would make his Gift easier to manifest.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“That was nice, Jaskier, thank you.”

The girl in his arms told him, snuggling closer and looking imploringly into his eyes.

He had absolutely no idea what to do. She had whisked in and used one of the most pathetic voices he had heard from her to date and wormed her way past his defenses and back into his arms. He clutched her close to his chest and wished the warmth coming from her was real, that the small girl that sang a lullaby with him was real. He missed her so much.

But what was the angle in this? Having her come to him for comfort was the opposite of what usually happened. Maybe the Witchers would be angry that she was down here with him?

He shuddered at the thought, causing Ciri to clutch tighter.

“Jaskier,” she started, again. He knew that voice. That voice got him to do a lot of things.

“I know… I know you said that you didn’t want to sing but… could you… could you maybe sing the coin song with the instruments? It’s… calming. Please?”

Her green eyes looked dark in the weak light, but no less imploring. “Please?”

Her voice cracked, and so did his reservations. Even Melitele didn’t know what might be happening. Maybe it would help end whatever painful thing was happening here, anyway. When the apparition realized that he couldn’t use his gift as an alleged nightmare cure, it would end… this.

“Let me just grab my lute darling, then I'll sing for you.” He reached over to snag his lute and straightened up, tuning while Ciri rested her head on his knee and against the edge of the instrument. Ever since she was a baby, the girl had liked to press against the lute while he played, not only listening to the music, but feeling the vibrations.

He took a breath and began.

When a humble Bard
Graced a ride along
With Geralt of Rivia

His voice broke slightly on the name but he continued on, staring out into the room and preparing for the disappointment he was about to feel when his gift stuttered and burned out.

Along came this song
From when the White Wolf fought
A silver tongued Devil
His army of Elves at
His hooves did they revel

They came after me
With masterful deceit
Broke down my lute and
They kicked in my teeth

While the Devil’s horns
Minced our tender meat
And so cried the Witcher
He can’t be beat

He let the note ring before starting the verse that cemented him in history as the White Wolf’s Bard.

Toss a coin to your Witcher
O valley of plenty
O valley of plenty
Oh Oh Oh

Toss a coin too your Witcher
O valley of plenty.

He stretched the last syllable out for a while, truly preparing himself. At this point in the song it stopped being just his lute, but a violin, an oboe, and a hurdy gurdy.

He reached inside himself. It had been absolute ages since he had actively tried to use his Gift. He felt it bubble up, working its way through his veins and into his limbs, seemingly reacquainting itself to its vessel.

He closed his eyes, let the note go and tried to release the energy.

He was not expecting it to burst out, loud and bouncing off the walls, rustling his hair as it flew by.

His lute fell harmlessly through his fingers and onto the mattress, Ciri shooting up and looking at him in concern.

“Jask? Are you alright?” She questioned, but he could barely hear her over the roaring in his blood and the music bouncing off the walls.

He didn’t acknowledge her, only standing up and climbing over the table and standing in the center of the room. He spread his arms as he felt the violin sweep past him, ruffling his hair. This was the most freeing sensation in all of his years, letting it ebb and flow, sweeping him away on a lazy river tide.

Then he felt something he had only felt a few times in his life.

The lazy river started rushing faster and faster, building up to become a true force of nature. Just like when his parents would forbid him from using his gift when he was younger, his Gift was becoming too strong for an enclosed space. It whipped their hair around their faces, Ciri’s actually wrapping around her face almost like a shroud. The room was shaking from the force of the wind bouncing between the walls with nowhere to go.

It was a bomb waiting to go off.

He ran from the room, Ciri on his heels as it started to burst out of him in waves, rippling through the hallways of the keep as he ran for the doors through the twisting halls. He could feel it getting away from him as the new song grew louder, the eerie feminine humming of his Siren ancestors chasing him, telling him that he was running out of time, a forewarning to what would come.

Then, as he reached the doors, it exploded, knocking them open with the force of it. But he was outside now, so the sound had a place to go. It rushed over the walls and knocked against the heavy gates, bashing them open as well and the snow was blown away, leaving wet dirt in its wake. He stumbled after the rush that was getting more and more corporeal as it went, looking as if the lights that danced in the sky this far north were rushing over the ground.

He fell to his knees on the ledge by the bridge, and watched as his freed gift rushed through the valley. He felt his mouth pull into a smile as tears fell from his eyes, feeling the cold wind on his face with a new appreciation.

Tears fell more rapidly as he felt the ebb and flow in his bones, the connection between him and the out of control sounds still strong. He closed his eyes while tilting his head back, letting the feeling of the music consume him, the song emulating the wind howling through the trees, the ice creaking in frozen rivers, and animals rustling through the ground.

He remembered not having to use this power in all twenty years he traveled with Geralt, as he had never had to suppress it. He had always been able to let it loose whenever he wanted, at camp, on the Path, even in taverns. It had never had a chance to overflow his reserves, he never felt like he couldn’t, or wasn’t allowed, to use it.

After long moments he felt his Gift coming back to his conscious control, re-nestling behind his sternum and a spot in his vocal chords. He clutched himself where it rested, curled in on himself, and listened to his surroundings that seemed oddly silent after the cacophony, legs shifting to bring his knees up to his chest.

He heard multiple pairs of boots shuffling behind him, and he started abruptly.

Boots meant Witchers. Witchers that he now knew were real.

He untangled his hand from his shirt and clutched at the cold, real snow and took stock.

Ciri, Coën, Aiden, Lambert, Eskel and Vesemir. Yennefer. Geralt.

They were all real, and there. They had taken care of him, brought him into their home, Kaer Morhen, the infamous Witcher keep. Not only had they allowed him in, but they had given him free range of one of the most dangerous places in the world. At some level, they trusted him.

And he had lied. He could have told them at any point. What was the point of deceiving them with his birth name? They had cared for him at every step and he had all but thrown their kindness back in their faces. How could they continue to bring him things? Food, books, clothes, knives?

“Jaskier?” Eskel called, disrupting his thoughts. “Are you… alright?”

Jaskier heard a smack come from behind him. “Of course he’s not alright, he’s kneeling in the snow crying after doing whatever the fuck that was,” Lambert admonished.

“Jaskier, it’s very cold out here, would you like a cloak?” Coën asked gently, the ambiance of the brothers bickering a backdrop to the concerned inquiry and the howling wind.

He felt his head nod slightly and everyone fell silent as the crunch of snow crept closer before a body warm cloak descended carefully onto his shoulders. Before Coën could remove his hands, Jaskier shot out his hand and clutched his wrist.

He felt Coën freeze.

“Did you hear the music?” he asked quietly, still staring out into the ravine.

“Yeah, Jask. I did. That was you?”

Jaskier nodded and tugged at the wrist until Coën got the memo and sat down gingerly beside him, but kept a distance.

“Coën?”

“Yeah? You alright?”

Jaskier felt the tears start to freeze on his cheeks.

“Thanks for getting me out.”

“Jaskier, you ran out, remember? You took yourself out here, and we ran after you because we were worried, remember?” Coën's voice had a worried lilt to it.

Hot tears melted the frozen ones and he turned to look at the Witcher, resting his head sideways on his knees.

“I know. I’m thanking you for getting me out of that cell. Aiden, too.” He gave a watery smile as Coën whipped his head around to look at him.

“Julian Alfred Pankratz, or as most of the continent knows me, Jaskier. Nice to meet you, Coën.” He felt around for one of Coën’s hands to shake.

Coën stared at him. “...What?” he asked in a weak voice, whispers reiterating the sentiment from behind them.

Jaskier raised a brow. “Well. I supposed I should reintroduce myself after that whole identity debacle. Can’t have that happening again, it was a hassle for all of us, I think.”

Coën let out a startled laugh and shook his head in bewilderment while shaking his hand in introduction.

“Nice to meet you, Jaskier. Are you… here, now? You’re ok?” He asked.

Jaskier spread his arms. “I’m outside, I’m cold, this is real, and the Witch healed me. I've got fresh lute strings and a soon to be captivated audience. I’m living in luxury, dear.” He sent the Witcher a winning smile.

The Witcher just looked at him, perturbed. He seemed to want to say something but didn’t know how to phrase it. Jaskier just turned his head to look out into the valley and waited for Coën to gather his thoughts.

“Jaskier, are you sure you’re actually… here? You’re not in shock, there’s not adrenaline influencing your… mood?”

It took Jaskier a split second before the hysterical laughter in his chest started to bubble out.

“I have no idea. I know this is real, but I feel a little… floaty.”

“Shock, then,” Coën commented. “Let's get you inside and warm, then to bed for some sleep. We can all talk more in the morning. Perhaps go to the hot springs?”

Jaskier nodded absently “I haven’t had a chance to use the hot springs, yet.” He commented, faintly.

Coën smiled a little weakly and got up. Jaskier blinked up at him confused, the fatigue and adrenaline crash that had been building for days catching up to him.

“Would you like help up?” Coën asked.

Jaskier nodded and grabbed the offered hand. He swayed slightly when he was suddenly upright before Cöen steadied him.

He turned and was faced with the other occupants of the keep. Aiden and Lambert were standing the closest to them. Eskel was standing behind Lambert to the right, Vesemir behind him with the sock clad princess on his back. Yennefer and Geralt were further back, the latter refusing to meet his eyes.

“Witch.”

“Bard. Sorry to see you up,” she told him, but her tone betrayed her. Her eyes glinted at the banter.

“I heard you played a part in that.”

“Hmm, maybe I did, maybe I didn’t. Why would I heal you?”

Jaskier snorted inelegantly. “Who else in this keep would be able to tell you your dress is last season’s fashion, and those shoes are a horrid color? And your crows feet are less than becoming.”

She let out a bark of laughter before she could stop herself. “Well, at least I can glamor mine away. You’re stuck.”

He let out a fake affronted gasp as Coën led him past the duo and into the keep. Bantering with Yennefer had engaged his mind enough to curb his anxiety a little. As they made their way down the winding hallways, he looked around at the footsteps following them.

Aiden had taken Ciri from Vesemir and slung her on his back while the wolves walked in a semi circle around them. Lambert stuck close to Jaskier’s right side while Eskel walked to the left next to Aiden. He felt Vesemir’s presence over his right shoulder, and assumed that if Geralt and Yennefer were still with them, they were walking behind Aiden.

He was again being herded like a sheep.

They paused at the junction where the right would lead them to the damp mattress room that he commandeered, and the left would lead them to his room.

He turned to the left and heard a few Witchers let out an actual sigh of relief as they led him up the stairs.

While they walked, Jaskier took the opportunity to take stock of what had happened in the last ten minutes.

This was real. The arm supporting him was real. Ciri, who was staring at him from where she was resting her head against Aiden’s shoulder, was real. Lambert, who kept sending him assessing looks and creeping closer with every step, was real.

The cold sinking into his bones was very real.

They herded him to the door of his room, but paused once he was through the door, except Vesemir, who silently walked in after him just slightly and cast igni on the wood stacked in the fireplace before walking back out. He knew there was a decision to be made here.

He wasn’t ready yet.

“Goodnight.” He told them with a quiet smile, and closed the door behind him. He took a moment before lowering himself onto bed and under the restored covers. He looked around his room and it took him a minute to recognise the changes.

Well, the lack of them.

His room was back exactly the way it had been his first night. The dresser was on the wall, the chest was at the foot of his bed, and there was wood in the basket. The room was immaculate.

He smiled a little and snuggled down into the covers, revealing how warm and clean they smelled compared to the dank room he had been in previously.

Then he caught sight of what was sitting on the dresser.

He tossed the covers away and got to his feet. He slowly made his way across the cold floor and stood with his hand shakily hovering over the ornately carved but sturdy looking blue leather sheathed knife sitting in the middle of the wood.

He gasped and pulled the knife from the hold of the leather.

His wide eyes reflected back at him through the silver knife that he had seen Geralt buy at a market just before the mountain. He had wondered why the Witcher had paused and had immediately bought it.

He turned it over in his hands before tugging the sheath back on and clutching it to his chest. It was not the type of knife that Geralt would typically use in any type of fight, but as he held it he realized what a perfect size it was for him.

He wondered.

He wandered back to the bed and plopped down, set the knife on the bedside table, and fell backwards onto the bed.

This was all tomorrow's problem.

Chapter Text

When Jaskier startled awake the sky was dark, but the moon cast an eerie glow through his window, its high position in the sky telling him he had hours before dawn. The embers in his fireplace were dying, adding little warmth and little light. He slipped from his bed and shuffled over, still half asleep, and stacked more logs onto the coals. He used the fire poker to shift them closer together and blew until a log caught.

He pulled his legs up to his chest and stared into the beginnings of flames as he dissolved into thought.

The adrenaline of the evening had worn off and now he was faced with the harsh truths of his situation. He was snowed in with six Witchers who felt obligated to help him but didn’t trust him. They liked and trusted Julian, but Julian was dead now. He felt a hysterical laugh build in his chest. Julian had been real for the longest time, so maybe it was the ghost of Julian that had traveled up the mountain with the Witchers. Maybe it was a completely different person? Who even was he anymore, under all of the facades and the stage presence? He clutched his legs tighter.

How could they trust him, he wondered, and how could he feel comfortable around them? If Geralt hated him after twenty years, then it was only a matter of time before the others caught on. And who would he even be here? Ciri might like him now, but he was only with her for a few weeks at a time, not months, and she only knew him as Jaskier, the cheerful traveling bard and sometimes professor. She would become agitated with him, too, once she met the jaded man he had become.

Maybe he had always been jaded, a little crazy. Cracked at the seams. After all, who traveled with a Witcher, yelled at powerful people, and stared monsters in the eye as Geralt fought them, all while scribbling furiously in his notebook?

A lunatic. A lunatic did that. A crazed man with delusions of glory and adventure continued to write songs about monsters and monster hunters, expecting to change prejudices that had been hundreds of years old before he was even born.

Aiden had even told him when they heard the other bard in the tavern that ‘Toss a Coin’ was a shitty song. If the people who it was meant to help hated it, then how could it actually be good? People still threw things at him, and chased them out of towns. He curled his knees up tighter and dug his forehead into his kneecaps. A small voice in his head told him that he should have known, ‘fillingless pie’ didn’t come out of nowhere, after all.

He would just have to be quiet this winter, not cause a scene, and wait it out. He would have to accept a professorship at Oxenfurt or plead Lettenhove to take him back. He didn’t want to, gods, from the bottom of his soul he didn’t want to. He would have to become a stuffy professor or a chess piece for politicians to play with, but he might have to. He would lose himself even more if he took on any of those roles, but as he stared into the flames he wondered if he even knew himself at all. He had killed Julian in bloody satisfaction to become Jaskier, but Jaskier was slowly retreating. Jaskier went to Posada and became the ‘White Wolf’s Bard’. Jaskier could go wherever and do anything. He was a stubborn but beautiful weed.

Who was he now? Who was he going to become? Viscount de Lettenhove? Professor Pankratz? Or would he end up in a small village and live out his days in monotony?

He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and took a deep breath.

He pushed himself to his feet and trailed back to the bed before his eyes caught on the bedside table and he froze. The knife he had seen Geralt buy was sitting where he had left it.

He gripped the hilt with white knuckles and looked down at it. He realized what he should have realized earlier. It was a good size for him, but it was also a good weapon for Ciri to grow into. Geralt had probably seen it and impulsively bought it for his Child of Surprise. It was ornate but sturdy enough for a princess warrior.

A sad smile crossed his face. Geralt had probably gifted it to Ciri who had in turn put it in his room because she thought he might like it. He crossed the room and put the loaned weapon gently on the dresser before tugging open the top drawer. He pulled out one of the knives he had stashed there and the mirror he put to the other side. He propped the mirror against the wall and braced his knees against the ground so he was eye level with it.

He meticulously cut bunches of hair off, going shorter and shorter until he was satisfied. Small tufts curled at his nape and around his ears, but he sighed. He truly needed a wash. He stood and brushed the loose strands on the floor into a pile before pulling soap out of the cabinet it had sat in then opening the second drawer.

He removed new underclothes and a warm shirt and pair of pants from the second drawer. He hesitated, forgetting where he put his socks. He yanked open the bottom drawer and riffled through more clothes before reopening the top. He carefully removed the sharp things from the top before tossing the rest around.

He triumphantly raised a pair of socks from the mess and put them into the pile he had created. He went over to the chest and rifled through the extra blankets until he unearthed a cloak and wrapped it around himself as he straightened. He grabbed his shoes, putting them on his bare feet then grabbing the pile of clothes before easing open the door. He peeked his head out to make sure the coast was clear before stepping out.

If he were a Witcher, where would he put his hot springs?

He wandered down into the bowels of the silent keep, his shoes making soft shuffling noises. He guessed that they were deep in the mountain, below everything else, to have enough room. He wandered along, taking entirely too much time wandering abandoned hallways before he felt the air start to change.

He noticed the humidity first, the air making his nose hurt less the closer he got. The cold ache of his bones felt slightly less as he hurried towards the source of the humidity.

He pushed a light door open and his eyes widened in shocked excitement.

If there was nothing else good about this winter, there was this calm, steaming water. He could definitely get used to this. Before he stripped and submerged himself, he paused. The pool to his far left was a little less still than the others, bubbles popping up intermittently, more steam rising up from that one than the others. He crept closer but could feel the heat from feet away.

Boiling for Witchers then. He moved onto the next two pools, but before he put his hand in to test, could feel the excessive heat coming from those as well. Still for Witchers then.

The next pool had mild steam wafting from it, and he deemed it safe for his hand. He placed a finger in but drew it back once the heat registered from his nerves. His finger was a light red when he examined it and he quickly moved on to the next pool. He cautiously placed a different finger in, and sighed at the perfect temperature he was met with.

The pool he lowered himself into was smaller than the others, only one smaller with little steam coming off it at all. He guessed that these were where the trainees used to bathe before the trials. He shrunk down as his brain couldn’t help to compare the size of the two pool temperatures to him vs the other members of the keep. The big, dangerous Witchers vs the weak human that was grouped with them.

He shook his head from the thoughts, determined to enjoy his bath.

He quickly got lost in how good it felt to be warm, and belatedly noticed that soft notes were floating melodiously through the humid air.

His body froze as he listened, and he remembered the conversation outside of the tavern when they still traveled with Letho. Although he had written the song for Geralt, he had continued singing it for all of them. The stories that he had pulled from Geralt about the other Witchers inspired him to try and make their lives as easy as possible.

But they all hated it. Aiden had told him to his face that “Toss a Coin” wasn’t a good song, and Lambert had said that his and Marx’s battle was funny instead of a fight for their livelihood. While they did hate each other, Marx and him were both extremely good bards, and if one was consistently one-upped by the other or faltered, their careers would be over.

If one fell out of style, they were done.

If their well of inspiration dried up for even a month, they were done.

One botched performance at any respectable place, they were done.

Jaskier sighed and rubbed his temples. He needed to start composing, find a new muse, and get out of here as soon as the snow started to melt or else he would be done. The war could only buy him so much time or else he truly would have to create another identity.

He sunk into the hot water till just his nose was out and blew bubbles up into the water, brooding.

He let himself stew in his thoughts for a few minutes before pushing himself up and reaching for his soaps. He poured some of the soap the Witchers gave him into his hand and brought it to his nose for a sniff.

He wrinkled his nose when he realized there was no scent to it. He knew Witchers had sensitive noses but he did truly miss his lavender, chamomile and honeysuckle options.

He lathered his body first, rubbing all the dirt from every inch of skin. He sighed in contentment as the dirt fell from his body before he started on his hair.

Once he felt sufficiently clean he sat for another moment, deciding whether or not to stay in the pool, or get ready for the day.

He sighed as he levered himself out of the baths, making a note to himself that he should bring a book next time. He quickly dried himself off before he bundled himself into the layers he brought with him.

He made his way back up around the hallways to the library, feeling extremely proud of himself for the navigational skills he now had around the keep. He picked one of the lights off the wall and brought it with him into the large room.

He browsed the shelves until a few titles caught his eye. An old journal from a mage, a book on myths and legends from Novrigard and a book titled A Treatise on Life.

He quickly set the light back on the wall away from the books in his arms and followed the hallway back to his room.
After putting another log on the fire he brought the blankets and pillows from his bed in front of it into an almost nest. He bundled himself into the blankets and pulled the book on myths into his lap, angled just right to catch the best light from the amber flames.

He had no idea how long he had sat reading, but he had gotten through fifty pages before he realized that his room was slowly becoming lighter. He added another log to the fire, leaving two in the basket before he plunked himself onto the window seat to watch the sun peek over the mountains.

He rested his head against the cold stone, wrapping himself in the blankets he had tugged along with him. He sighed as he shivered slightly, there was a reason that he never went this far north. He handled the cold very poorly, but as he looked out at the sun bathing the mountains he couldn’t bring himself to truly mind the cold seeping into his bones.

He watched the horses start to poke their heads out of their stalls, and the snow shining on the evergreen trees. Once the sun was up enough that the color started seeping from the sky back into blue he sighed and pulled himself up. He banked the fire before putting on his boots and adjusting his cloak before he stepped out the door.

He made his way back through winding hallways until he was standing in the kitchen. It seemed like he wasn’t the first one up, as there was already a pot of porridge hanging from a metal pole over the fire.

He rooted around as quietly as he could before finally finding a bowl and scooping a steaming measure of porridge into it. As he rounded the pot he spotted small bowls with spoons in them on a side table. He spotted brown sugar among them, but had no idea what the others were. The red paste was probably spicy but there was a thick black paste that looked like it could maybe be molasses of some sort.

He shrugged and scooped a bit out with his finger and brought it to his mouth.

“Jaskier, no!” a voice yelled before his wrist was gripped firmly and pulled away from his mouth.

He turned with his arm still in captivity, to face yellow eyes and white hair that had fallen into disarray without Jaskier’s efforts.

Geralt’s chest heaved and his eyes were wider than their normal slits.

“Belladonna.”

Jaskier startled.

“What?” He responded dumbly. He hadn’t remembered that Witchers used poisons like spices and flavoring. He had learned that lesson when at a banquet Geralt had sniffed before switching their plates without explanation. He had held eye contact with the lord while he ate, the lord's face steadily draining of color. After they had left Geralt had explained that his food had been laced with nightshade.

“The paste was belladonna,” Geralt explained, startling Jaskier back to the present, the grip on his wrist strangely becoming more cradling than restricting.

Jaskier watched in a stupor as Geralt reached for a cloth and gently, oh so gently, wiped the belladonna from his finger. Geralt lightly led him over to a basin of water and silently wet the side of the cloth not already stained black with water and wiped his finger one last time.

“Be more careful,” he said quietly.

He hadn’t let go of his wrist.

It was quiet in the room besides the soft crackle of the fire. He stared at the Witcher as Geralt stared at his hand that was now between two rough, scarred ones. He gasped lightly as Geralt ran a finger over his knuckles.

“I’m sorry.” Geralt said, his expression constipated but tone sincere.

Jaskier raised a brow and scoffed, but didn’t tug his hands away.

“That’s not going to cut it at all, Geralt. You threw me away! I spent two decades of my life following you and you threw me out. I thought we were friends and once you said that, I realized that you never once thought that we were friends. You said that the thing that made my livelihood was fillingless pie Geralt! You never once had a good thing to say to me and—”

“You’re human,” Geralt told him roughly.

Jaskier paused, the wind stolen from his sails “Yes, I am. What of it? I’m yelling at you.”

“You’re human. I tried not to get attached, you have a short life span, and maybe if I yelled at you would go away, but you never did and I got… attached.”

Jaskier scoffed and tore his hand from Geralt’s grip, the moment broken.

“And gods fucking forbid you get attached. That’s not good enough, Geralt. I stayed by your side, I helped you, I got fucking attached even though I knew that every contract you went out on could be your last! I spent two decades with you, I know first hand your martyr complex and how emotionally stunted you are. How pathetic do you think I am?”

He was waving his hands as his voice got louder and louder.

“You think I would have truly stayed if I didn’t think you liked me? Do you think I’m that desperate for… for what… fame, inspiration, adventure? I had so many possibilities, Geralt, I could have done so many things. Now all I have is a smashed lute, some songs, and a title as ‘the White Wolf’s bard’ that will do fuck all but get me hurt once I am outside of these walls. You did more than tell me that you hated my company, you basically told me that I wasted my life!”

He screamed the last part, pointing an accusing finger at Geralt’s chest. Geralt opened his mouth to speak but Jaskier powered on, not done yet.

“You dismissed everything I did for you! I patched you up, I stitched your wounds, I washed your hair and tied it up so you wouldn’t get distracted and killed! Do you know how many times I went to look for you after you were late coming back from a contract and saw what I thought was your lifeless body laying in a pool of dried blood? How many times I dragged you back to the inn and made sure you stayed alive? Do you know how many times you would have died if I wasn’t there? Do you know—”

“Thirty two.”

Jaskier’s rant skidded to a halt.

“I have woken up warm and safe in an inn with no idea how I got there and with you hovering thirty two times.”

Jaskier scoffed. “So you noticed one thing that I did. Amazing. Fantastic. You noticed how many times I saved your fucking life, you get a godsdamned knighting.”

Geralt’s face was adopting it’s constipated, ‘I’m angry and don’t know how to express what I’m trying to say’ look.

That look could suck Jaskier’s dick.

“I bet you know almost nothing about me, I bet—”

“I know plenty. I—”

“Oh, yes, I’m sure you know so much, like—”

“What's going on here?” a voice demanded, stopping them both dead.

They both turned to see Yennefer and Vesemir looking at them with raised eyebrows and crossed arms with the other Witchers of the keep peeking behind them.

An angry sound bubbled up from the back of Jaskier’s throat and he pointed his finger into Geralt’s face.

“He’s shitty at apologizing,” Jaskier hissed and tried to shove his way through the door, but he was stopped by an invisible force.

He sent a scathing look at Yennefer, but she didn’t react at all. “You two need to talk, but you obviously need a mediator. Let's go.”

Her magic tugged them into sitting across from each other at one of the long tables, the other Witchers Yennefer sitting on either side of them while Vesemir stood at the head of the table.

“To begin, Geralt, why are you mad at Jaskier?”

Geralt leaned back in his seat with his arms crossed, “I’m not mad, just frustrated that he’s not listening.” Yennefer nodded.

“Alright. Now Jaskier, tell us what Geralt did.” Jaskier felt smug satisfaction that the oldest Witcher seemed to know that it was Geralt’s fault.

“‘Dammit, Jaskier. Why is it whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it’s you shoveling it. The Child of Surprise, the Djinn, all of it. If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands.’” Jaskier relayed in his most monotone voice, staring straight into Geralt’s eyes. You could hear a pin drop in the room.

Jaskier watched as one by one all the eyes in the room went looking back and forth between the two of them. Vesemir took a deep breath but his face remained impassive.

“Context?”

“There was a mountain dragon hunt, and after Yennefer and Geralt had a fight,” Jaskier responded. Yennefer pinched the bridge of her nose from where she seemed to somehow be lounging on the bench seat.

“So, you took all of the anger you had at me and destiny and you took it out on the man that has been singing your praises for years,” Yennefer asked Geralt pointedly. Geralt had a slight look of chagrin on his face, but it was mostly covered by his normal expression. Jaskier had always thought they were in his eyes, the emotions. He had such control over his face and body, but the eyes were the window to the soul. Geralt nodded at the accusation.

“Yes. I was trying to apologize and tell him my reasoning for being an asshole, but he got started.”

Jaskier raised a brow and let out a furious breath through his nose. “ ‘It’s like ordering a pie and finding it has no filling,’ I belive is another little tidbit” he retorted.

The other Witchers stayed quiet, but Jaskier could see the blatant confusion on their faces.

Geralt took what Jaskier assumed to be a calming breath. “I’m sorry. You are not a burden to me. Your singing is good. I’m sorry for taking my anger out on you.”

Jaskier let out a disbelieving huff. “Oh, and again he thinks that will fix everything. Give the man an award, he has basic human decency. What am I supposed to do with that, hmm? You really think a ten second ‘I’m sorry’ is going to make me forgive you for years of belittlement?” he demanded.

Jaskier watched as Geralt’s eye gave a slight twitch and his body tensed. Good. Jaskier knew how to deal with an angry Geralt, but he had no idea what to do with the Geralt who was sitting in front of him.

“What do you want me to do, Jaskier?” Geralt ground out. “I’m trying to use words like you do, to show you that I’m sorry. Ciri grilled me on love languages she had read a book on in Cintra and she thinks yours are words of affirmation and gifts. I said I was sorry and I gave you a knife. What else would you like me to do?”

Jaskier was surprised he could talk with how tightly his teeth were clenched, but then what Geralt had said registered.

“Knife?” he echoed, thinking of the knife he had thought was from Ciri.

Geralt nodded. “You saw me buy it, but I was waiting for a good time to give it to you.”

Jaskier blinked. “I thought that was for Ciri. I thought you had given it to her and she had re-gifted it to me.”

Geralt ran a hand through his hair. “Jaskier, why would I buy Ciri a knife when I had no intention of going to get her? It’s too ornate for me, but you like blue and you could wear it with your weird-ass fancy clothes and not be able to say you can’t bring it because it doesn’t match.”

Before Jaskier could retaliate, Vesemir smacked the back of Geralt’s head. “Patronizing,” he admonished harshly. Geralt cringed and nodded “That was… unkind. I’m sorry. Yes, I bought the knife for you so you could be safe.”

Jaskier looked at all the people around him, the Witchers were giving each other weird micro expressions that he couldn’t even begin to decipher and Yennefer was looking to the heavens as if asking Melitele for patience. Suddenly Jaskier couldn’t take it anymore. He was done with the horrible apology and the audience for his anger.

“Lambert!” he ordered, his tone immediately causing the Witcher’s head to snap towards him. “Human safe booze. Now.”

Lambert was halfway out of his seat before he seemed to realize what he was doing. His brows creased as he looked at Jaskier as if asking what the fuck just happened. Jaskier flapped his hand in a dismissing gesture.

“I’m an older sibling and you’re a younger sibling. That's how that works. Now go get it.” Lambert shrugged and was gone. Before anyone could say anything else, Jaskier raised a hand and stood.

“I’m done for today. I can’t deal with this anymore, this past month has been entirely too long.” He grabbed the bottle from Lambert’s returning hands and turned around.

“I’m going to go get drunk” Jaskier got close to Geralt’s face, stabbing his finger at him with the hand that was holding the bottle, “you try to get your head out of your ass. I’m done.”

With that, the betrayed and angry troubadour walked to his room and proceeded to get utterly smashed. If he shed tears before falling into an uneasy sleep, it was no business of the man who had stomped on his heart.

Chapter Text

Jaskier was nursing a horrendous hangover after his morning of drowning his anger. He groaned weakly and smashed his face further into his pillow, away from the afternoon light. He flopped his hand around his vicinity until his fingers made contact with a bottle. Before he could shake it to see if any liquid sloshed around, he heard a voice come from behind him.

“It’s empty.”

Jaskier groaned again, and threw a finger above his head. “Fuck off, Lambert.”

He heard a slight chuckle behind him and the sound of feet shuffling. A weight settled on the bed by his hip.

“I think I have some work to do on some good alcohol for you, this seems like a nasty hangover, Birdy,” Lambert told him, a hand reaching up and scratching his head. Jaskier groaned in pleasure.

“That’s nice,” he grumbled and shifted himself closer. Lambert hummed in agreement and they sat in silence while Lambert continued his ministrations.

“While I’ll make you some more alcohol, maybe you should lay off a little bit,” Lambert commented almost absently. “Ciri missed you during lunch, and we all wanted to see if you knew how to play Gwent. You had to have drank a lot to have passed out, and while you were having your… vacation in the basement, we all did some reading up on humans and asked Ciri some questions. If humans drink too much, it can permanently harm their live. We want you to be around as long as we can possibly have you.”

Jaskier turned his face out to the Witcher, kept his eyes closed, and gave a defeated sigh. “I’ll try. I might need help not getting too far into my cups, but I’ll try.”

Lambert hummed in agreement and continued scratching. Jaskier snorted. “You’re definitely Geralt’s brother, that’s his patented ‘hmmm’.”

“And you’re definitely his bard. That was a passable impression.”

“Could we not right now?” Jaskier snipped, turning his face back into his pillow. Lambert sighed but patted his head gently in assent.

“This isn’t meant to be patronizing, but can I tell you a story?” Lambert asked quietly, mindful of his hangover. “Yennefer even gave me this hangover remedy to give you,” he sing-songed, and Jaskier heard a liquid swishing around in a bottle as it was shaken.

“You know, whenever someone says ‘not to be patronizing’ or ‘no offense’ they are always going to be both patronizing and offensive,” He grumbled, “but you give me that remedy and we have a deal.”Jaskier sat up with his eyes still half closed and took the uncorked bottle from Lambert and chugged it, grimacing. “By the gods, that was awful.”

Lambert smirked but took a breath and began, while Jaskier’s hangover began to slowly fade away.

“I learned that head rubs helped with headaches because Eskel and Geralt used to do it for me. Before the mutations I used to get headaches after long days. I never really told them I appreciated it, I was always an asshole to them. Still am, mostly. I didn’t know why they continued until I got older and met Aiden and Coën and realized that it was because they loved me. To this day I have no idea what made them look at me and my anger and decide that I was the trainee that they should get attached to.”

Lambert paused for a second and Jaskier wondered what it had to do with him.

“They stayed no matter what I did, they were patient with me. Eskel had gone through the trials before we were close, and so Geralt was the first boy I was close to who went through them. The night before Geralt’s trial we snuck into his room and we stayed there all night. I didn’t cry, I just got angry. I got angry at the elders, the mages, even Geralt, himself. I got angry to mask my concern. I got angry so I didn’t cry. I was worried and I turned it into anger so I didn’t have to deal with it. Once they took Geralt away, Eskel stayed with me. He calmly sat with me as I punched walls and yelled at anything and everything.”

Jaskier shifted to put his head on Lambert’s lap and peered up at him. Lambert was looking through the window and was absently playing with his medallion, while using his other hand to continue to card his fingers through Jaskier’s hair.

“When we heard the screams start to echo through the halls, we were immediately able to pick out his. I didn’t even need the mutated hearing to pick his voice out of the dozen. I had a revelation then. I couldn’t imagine my life without him or Eskel, but I had lashed out because I wanted to make it hurt less when they left. Did Geralt ever tell you about his trials?”

Jasker shook his head, and suddenly understood why Lambert was telling him this. He was trying to explain in words that Geralt didn’t have, why he behaved as he did. He was trying to say it wasn’t just a Geralt trait, the anger. It was common among Witchers. “He hasn’t but I know a bit just through the nightmares. I've woken him up from a few and he told me they were about his trials. He told me they were fatal for most and that's about it. I've really just inferred the rest.”

Lambert nodded. “I won’t tell you then, it’s his story to share. I know he has thought about it though, he asked us a few winters ago if we were alright with him telling you. We were, if he was comfortable with telling you, then we wouldn’t have anything to worry about from you.”

Jaskier sat up then, and leaned against the red headed Witcher’s side. “I understand your story, and why you told it,” he said softly, dropping his head onto Lambert’s shoulder.

“I’m not trying to make you feel sorry for him, or guilty, but I figured you should know the full story, and know that these might as well be family traits,” Lambert said, squeezing his waist briefly before standing. He held out a hand and Jaskier allowed him to help him to his feet. Jaskier smiled weakly in thanks but furrowed his brows in confusion briefly as Lambert reached into his pocket.

“A fire starter,” he explained, holding out the flint and striker. “You can take as much wood from the library as you want and you shouldn’t have to rely on us for warmth.”

Jaskier grinned and took it, placing it near the fire for easy access. “Thanks, Lambert,” he told the Witcher sincerely.

Lambert nodded and slapped him on the back gently. Well, gently for a Witcher.

“Lets go get you cleaned up, ok? I have reached my capacity for,” Lambert gave an audible shudder “feelings today. Let’s go.”

Jaskier let out a bark of laughter and followed Lambert down to the hot springs for the second time that day. He figured he wouldn’t need a book this time if he was with others. Witchers were certainly entertainment enough.

He was surprised when they walked in and were met with the sight of Aiden seemingly asleep on Coën’s shoulder in the boiling pool. Jaskier smiled at the fond look on Lambert’s face as he quietly undressed and slipped into the pool on Coën’s other side. The Griffin cracked an eye open and gave the Wolf a soft smile and raised his other arm in invitation. Lambert ducked under and shifted until he was comfortable and his eyes slipped closed.

Jaskier smiled sadly and started to back away slowly, as to not disturb them, but froze as Aiden’s golden eyes locked onto his.

“Stay.”

The soft request was loud in the silent room.

Jaskier stripped silently by the human pool and slipped in, then turned to lean his crossed arms on the stone ledge to look at the Witchers.

Jaskier sunk lower into the water and closed his eyes, the sounds of the Witchers' purring grumbles slowly getting louder.

He was drifting off, half asleep when he felt a disruption in the water in the pool. “What?” he asked sleepily to whoever was disturbing his cat nap. He heard a chuckle and felt a hand on his shoulder. It took him a moment to place the Witcher with him in his muddied state, but he smiled when he placed the voice.

Eskel.

“What can I do for you?” he asked quietly, trying not to disturb the three in the other pool.

“Just making sure that you don’t fall asleep and drown. The three over there are too wrapped up in their own little world to notice.” the eldest brother told him in his deep baritone.

Jaskier heard a splash from the far pool and two disgruntled squawks.

“I’m keeping an eye on his breathing and Coën’s been tracking his heart. Aiden’s the fastest and would get him if we told him. We’re not going to let anything happen to him, Eskel, you and pretty boy can lay off,” Lambert growled, indignant that his brother would assume that they weren’t taking care of the resident human.

Eskel sighed. “Thanks, Lambert, you just ruined our cover.”

Jaskier cracked an eye, gaze suspicious.

Eskel let out another breath and gestured behind them at the other side of the pool. Jaskier heaved himself up to a proper sitting position, sending Eskel an aggravated look when he saw Geralt sitting in the water across from him.

“It’s your home, I can’t stop you from being here, but don’t pretend you want to be in this pool,” Jaskier groused. “Unlike you, who knows nothing about the people you travel with, I know that you like your baths scalding.”

Geralt exhaled heavily and Jaskier saw his face go through a myriad of different emotions. He pinpointed frustration, agitation, but then was astonished to spot uncertainty, hesitancy, embarrassment, and doubt. If Jaskier hadn’t traveled with and studied Geralt as much as he had, he would have missed them completely.

Jaskier raised a brow as the Witcher grabbed a bag he hadn’t spotted before, and held it out to him.

“I had Yennefer make these for you,” he explained, as Jaskier stared into the cloth bag. “I know that you hate unscented or harsh soaps, and that your favorite scents are lavender, honeysuckle and chamomile.”

Jaskier held up one of the glass vials filled with liquid soap, uncorking the stopper and sniffing. Lavender. He poked further in and found a little tub of white paste. He sent the Witcher a confused look.

“It’s for your hair. Yennefer said that if you leave it in for a while before washing it out, it makes your hair soft,” the Witcher muttered, looking away.

Eskel laughed softly, resting a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder. “Don’t let him fool you, he asked Yennefer to make these specially for you and told her exactly what he wanted them to do.”

Geralt huffed and got up, moving to the hotter pools. Eskel sighed and gave Jaskier a smile before getting up to follow.

“These really are cold, sorry,” Eskel apologized as he sank next to Geralt and the other Witchers in the hottest pool. Jaskier shrugged in assent and reached for all his new soaps.

He couldn’t stop himself from smiling when he saw the small labels on them. He selected chamomile body and hair soap and reveled in the smell of it. Damn Geralt for being nice. He would just have to make it harder for him, then. He would soon run out of basic things he knows about Jaskier.

They sat in silence for a while, the Witchers all leaning on each other and resting in the boiling water while Jaskier took his first fragrant bath in months.

He got bored of sitting in silence after what he guessed to be a half hour and quietly got up to get dressed. He looked back once he was dressed to see two pairs of yellow eyes peering at him. He mimed flipping a book to Eskel and Coën, who nodded in understanding, before he slipped out of the door.

He cast one last look behind him and briefly saw Geralt look at him in a look that he could only wish was longing. He hurriedly fled from the room.

How he wished that fleeting expression was longing. No matter how angry he was at Geralt, he always wanted him to ask him to stay. Geralt never asked him to stay, he always just told him to go. It was always, “no, Jaskier, you can’t come”, “I’m going alone, Jaskier”, “I’ll be gone for a while, Jaskier, go wherever you want”, and his personal least favorite “go away, Jaskier”, with “this is no place for you” occasionally added on.

Jaskier sighed and continued onto the library. The amount of effort it would take to organize it would occupy him for most of the winter. He meandered through the drafty hallways, wishing the secret Witcher keep was not built out of stone into a snowy mountain side. He peered out of the sparse windows as he walked, taking in the snowy mountains, the icy evergreens, and the thick stone walls keeping them safe from the outside world.

Well. That was a thought.

He quickly doubled back a few hallways and made his way to the big oaken doors that lead out into the courtyard. He ignored the freezing wind that tore through his clothes and flapped his cloak dramatically and made his way to the stone. It was old and had obviously been repaired many times, but it was still strong. He laid his hand against it, keeping it steady despite wincing from the cold.

What many of his colleagues with the gift didn’t realize was that everything in the world had some sort of frequency, their own form of vibrations that worked like vocal chords, and they could be manipulated by an outside source. He closed his eyes and listened.

The stone was old, just as he had thought, but there were significantly less new stones then he thought. He listened to how the smooth, mellow tone of the old stone meshed with the strong melodious new stone. A few minutes of listening gave him enough of a grasp on the mixed melody that he felt comfortable mixing his gift in.

He hadn’t used his gift to do this in a while. He had only truly used it on Geralt’s armor, Ciri’s rooms, and some of the older buildings in Oxenfurt that he adored. If he was able to strengthen the natural melody of the material, and add his own little twist, he could make whatever he chose stronger, less prone to the elements, by making the frequency stronger.

He pushed the melody back to the stone, stronger than it had been before, a light humming coming from the stone around his hand, the rest of the keep silent even as the ancient stone could feel its frequency being strengthened. He smiled slightly and added rich baritone melody to interweave with the preexisting song of the keep.

He hummed mellow little tunes as he worked, feeling the vibrations of the stone strengthening around him. He got lost in his task, continuing the loops to ensure that the stone remembered its new frequency, and so he didn’t hear the footsteps coming up to him.

A small hand clutched his arm, and he startled away from the touch.

“Sorry for scaring you,” Ciri said guiltily, looking down.

Jaskier let out a soft laugh. “It’s quite alright, dear, I just wasn’t paying attention. Is everything alright?”

Ciri nodded. “I’m ok. Yennefer was tired of teaching magic today and all the Witchers are napping in the hot springs, so I figured that you and I could do something. What were you doing?”

Jaskier smiled down at her and reached out a hand that she readily took. “I was on my way to the library when I saw the walls out here. Remember when I told you that everything has a natural frequency?” Ciri nodded. “I was just altering the frequency a bit, making it stronger. Just like how I did in yours and your grandmother’s rooms”

Ciri’s eyes widened. “That’s amazing,” she whispered as she followed him back into the keep.

“I was on my way to the library to start organizing, if you would like to help organize. Would you like to accompany me?” he asked as they walked. Ciri shrugged, but didn’t pull her hand away.

They wound through the hallways, Ciri telling him about her day. The Witchers had helped her with sword training earlier, and then Vesemir had taken her out into the woods and showed her how to track. They found a white rabbit and Vesemir let her use the bow he had brought to kill it, since Eist had taught her how to use one. They brought it back and he had taught her how to skin it and Eskel taught her how to cook it. She ate rabbit stew for lunch and let everyone try it.

She had saved him a bit to have with his dinner.

She had played knuckle bones with Aiden and Lambert after lunch, while Coën leaned against the Wolf and discussed his travels with his brothers. Ciri had won a few games before Yennefer whisked her away. Jaskier smiled fondly, knowing the Witchers had let her win.

She gestured wildly as she told him all about Yennefer’s herb teachings, how to make healing poultices, poisons, and how to identify basic edible plants from their poisonous look-alikes.

Jaskier listened raptly to Ciri’s stories as they entered the library and Jaskier used the flint he had squirreled away into his pocket when Lambert dragged him from his room to start a fire to keep her warm. They settled on the plush armchairs as Ciri continued to tell him about her ongoing training.

Once she had exhausted everything she wished to share with him, the fire had burned low enough that he had to add another log.

Ciri leaned her head over the armrest to look at him upside down. “How are we going to organize all this?” she asked, gesturing vaguely to the disorder surrounding them.

“Well, my dear, I am going to put books on land creatures on that far table over there, monsters on the top and harmless on the floor below it,” he gestured to the long tables in the back of the large room. “I’ll do the same with water creatures on the table to the right of it, flying creatures too the left. I’ll put journals in the corner table and then categorize them by topic later.”

She followed him through the shelves as they skimmed over titles.

“Depending on how many books on the fae there are, I might give them their own section, we shall see. What other sections do you think we should add, Princess?” He booped her nose and she scrunched it before laughing.

“Maybe they have books on human stuff? Or maybe about food. Plants! I bet they have books on plants. Their potions, too, so an alchemy section. What do you think?” She gazed up at him for approval.

He grinned in delight. “The most intelligent Princess, indeed! Those are great ideas. How do you feel about starting out sorting on this shelf?”

Ciri nodded in assent and reached for a book. They meandered through the texts on the shelf, periodically pausing to read passages of interest before whisking them off to their spots. The books were what one would expect from a Witcher’s keep, bestiaries and journals detailing all sorts of monsters. They occasionally came across more specific books on the shelf they were wading through, but it quickly became mind numbing.

When roughly an hour and a half had passed and they had only made a dent in roughly half of the shelf, he saw Ciri wander away deeper into the room. He understood that she was used to more fast paced activities and let her go, hoping that she would find an interesting book to read while he worked.

He was truly getting into the mind numbing flow of things when he heard Ciri calling for him. He quickly dropped his book and made his way over to the girl. He hurried over when he saw tears shimmering in her eyes and her trembling hands holding a book. He knelt next to her and held her hands tightly.

“Dear girl, what’s wrong?” he asked softly, taking the book on selkies from her hands. She collapsed into his arms and hugged him tightly.

“I didn’t know that selkies could be controlled by their pelt unwillingly,” she whispered wetly. “A noble that we visited a few times had a selkie wife and he wore her pelt as a cloak. He said that she handed it over willingly for him to keep, but… looking back… I think he took it and kept her. She looked sad but he always said that it was because we usually visited before they went to the ocean for their monthly visit.”

He pulled her close and petted her hair. He hummed slightly while she sniffed, unsure what to say.

“Maybe you can ask the Witchers what you can do, and then once it’s safe you can go get her?” he hinted after a moment.

She sniffed and pulled back. “You think they would? Technically she is inhuman. Maybe they would think she is a monster and would want to kill her?” Ciri worried her lip and looked at him with imploring eyes.

He shook his head “They would help. They only hunt things that have hurt others. I’ve been with Geralt when he took back a pelt for a selkie and helped him to a part of the ocean where selkies are known for being. The poor thing was so weak after so long without it and Geralt let him ride Roach,waded out and held him while he changed into his seal form, and helped him swim around until he was well enough to go off on his own. I think that they would help if she hasn’t hurt anyone just for the purpose of hurting,” he assured her.

Ciri sniffed but nodded. “Ok, I think I may ask them at dinner. Will you help me?” She asked quietly.

Jaskier nodded and pulled himself up. “Of course, darling. I think we are done here for today, maybe we could do something else until dinner? Would you like to explore the keep? Or maybe go to my rooms and I could give your hair a trim? We can go find the others if you like?”

“Let’s walk around? I want to see the keep with you,” Ciri decided.

Jaskier nodded in assent and walked out of the library, leading Ciri as she slipped her hand into his. “Left or right?” He asked.

She hummed in consideration “Hmmm… Left.”

They wandered to the left, meandering down random hallways and opening doors. Most of the doors lead to old rooms, half of them empty or with a collapsed roof. They wandered into Vesemir’s apothecary room, but didn’t touch anything. They poked their heads into the room that Ciri told him Yennefer had claimed for her potions work.

However, Jaskier realized that Ciri was a growing girl and may need different clothes for different occasions.

“Darling, do you have enough clothes?” he asked as they wandered down another hallway. She hummed, absentmindedly.

“I have some clothes that Geralt and Yennefer bought in a town for me,” she told him, her head peering into another room.

Thats what he had thought. He grabbed her hand and led her to the room where he had found chests full of clothes. He figured that the others might not mind if Ciri had more options.

Ciri raised a brow as they came to a halt in front of the door. He opened the door and swept a hand into the room. “Welcome to the Witcher’s version of shopping, Cirilla.”

She opened a chest and squealed in delight at the plethora of fabric. She looked back at him “So, all of these have clothes in them?” she inquired.

Jaskier nodded. “I believe so.”

Ciri smiled and went back to sorting through her options. Jaskier edged into the room and opened another chest, hoping he could find some clothes that he could maybe use to make Ciri something nice. He knew that there were very few opportunities to wear nice clothes in her new life, but she still grew up in luxury and might miss her finery. He could try his best to make her less homesick.

He found a tunic that was not particularly nice but would probably fit her, and draped it over his shoulder. He spotted a few more before moving to the next chest, then the next.

His fingers brushed something soft at the bottom of the latest pile of clothes. He gripped it and pulled it up.

The long, blue pants he pulled out caused him to gasp. The fabric was thick and warm, as well as soft enough to be swishy. It obviously was owned by a taller, thicker boy, but would be wonderful for his purposes. He could tell Ciri the pants were for him, but he believed that he could make a skirt for her out of it, and he could leave a large hem at the bottom, and let it out whenever she grew.

He continued to root around, hoping to find more things for the girl. He found nothing else in the next two chests, but was again extremely pleasantly surprised when he felt soft, thick fabric. He smiled widely when he pulled out a cream poets shirt.

He tucked the pants and the shirt behind a chest to retrieve later and made his way back to Ciri with the other clothes he had found for her.

“I found some things for you, have you found anything?” He asked the girl sitting crossed legged on the floor.

Ciri smiled up at him, nodding. “Look!” she told him excitedly, holding up a thick, light gray pair of pants.

“Do you think you could alter them for me? Maybe you could teach me!”

Jaskier smiled softly. “Of course I can. Why don’t we take these to your room and you can change, then I can braid your hair for dinner?”

Ciri beamed and hopped up with her armful of clothes. Jaskier followed the happy girl as she chattered at him about what she had found and what she could wear them to do. He was quietly happy when he realized that her rooms were up in the sturdiest tower.

“Geralt sleeps in that room,” she told him, pointing at the room at the base of the stairs. She pulled him up the stairs and into her room, gleefully showing him around.

He looked around and smiled when he saw all the blankets adorning her bed and the large fireplace. He saw the plush armchair akin to the ones in the library next to the large stack of wood for the fire. There were multiple candles around the almost circular room and it was made to look more square by the two dressers flanking either side of the fireplace. He knew that she must adore the amount of windows that adorned the stone walls, allowing her to see out in all directions.

She gleefully had him place the clothes into her dresser and organized them as she saw fit. He kicked himself out as she changed and thought about the braids he could do. He assumed she had a brush as her hair wasn’t matted.

He could do a Toussaintois braid, or a Skelliganian braid. Maybe a Cintran crown braid? He would have to ask Ciri’s opinion.

He waited until she called for him in and he smiled softly as he saw her in the light blue tunic and a pair of black pants. She grabbed him by the hand and dragged him to the chair and sat him down. She started a fire with her own fire starter and then darted to one of her dressers and started rooting through the top drawer.

She turned back with a smile on her face, a brush in one hand, and hair oil in the other. He raised a brow as she placed them into his hands and sat cross legged in front of him.

“Now where did you get this?” he asked, holding the vial in front of her face.

Ciri tilted her head back to look at him. “Geralt gave it to me! He had it in his bag and said I could have it.”

Jaskier smiled and withdrew his leftover vial of hair oil from her face. He couldn’t fathom why Geralt had kept it. Ciri seemed to somehow catch onto his train of thought and tilted her head back up, an eyebrow raised.

“Isn’t this the type that you use?” she asked, brow halfway raised. “Did you accidently leave it when you two separated? Why did you two separate anyways, what happened?”

Jaskier knew Ciri well, and knew that this would be a question she would ask, so he had prepared an answer. He wanted to tell her that Geralt had said horrible things, but he was also technically her only family left.

“We got into a fight after he got some bad news. We both said some things but he went a little far and it hurt me, so I left. I think Geralt was getting a little tired of me anyway, so it might have been for the best.”

Ciri turned to look at him fully. “I don’t think it was. I think he misses you, honestly.” Her eyes were wide and imploring, asking him to believe her.

“We will see, dear, but how about we just get you ready for dinner now? I think a Cintran crown braid, what do you think?” he asked, desperately wanting to change the subject.

She gave him a small smile before turning her back to him again and nodding. “Will you play me some music while you braid?” she inquired softly, gripping his calf.

He started brushing her hair back, eliminating the part. Pulling a section to the right he asked whether or not she wanted him to sing or just play her an instrument.

She grinned up at him. “Singing, please.”

He smiled down and tilted her head back down and started to hum the first song that came to mind.

Regrets collect like old friends
Here to relive your darkest moments
I can see no way I can see no way
And all the ghouls come out to play

And every demon wants his pound of flesh
But I like to keep some things to myself
I like to keep my issues drawn
It’s always darkest before the dawn

The braid was coming along Ciri’s head nicely, and as he went he gently tugged out strands to frame her face.

And I’ve been a fool and I’ve been blind
I can never leave the past behind
I can see no way, I can see no way
I’m always dragging that horse around

All of his questions such a mournful sound
Tonight I'm going to bury that horse in the ground
‘Cause I like to keep my issues drawn
But It’s always darkest before the dawn

Shake it out, shake it out
Shake it out, shake it out, ohh oh oh
Shake it out, shake it out
Shake it out, shake it out, ohh oh oh

He tugged at her hair slightly during the chorus for Ciri to turn to the side so he could reach the other side of her head. She giggled and hummed along, not quite knowing the lyrics, but the spirit was there. She stayed still no matter how much she wanted to dance in her seat along with the beat, but Jaskier had done her hair so many times that she knew to stay still.

He let more of his gift seep into his voice, giving it an almost eerie echoing quality.

And it’s hard to dance with the Devil on your back
So shake him off, Woah

And I’m done with my graceless heart
So tonight I’m gonna cut it out and then restart
Cause I like to keep my issues drawn
It’s always darkest before the dawn

He started the chorus as he finished the braid and pinned it to the start. Ciri gleefully joined in this time, but waited patiently as he fussed, making her hair look just so. He let the chorus peter out, letting the melody play softly, and gestured for her to stand. She rose quickly and slammed into him for a hug.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” she exclaimed into his ear, entirely too loud for the proximity. He just laughed, squeezing once before letting her go. She spun around and he finally saw the girl that he had left behind in Cintra roughly two years ago. Her smile was infectious and she was spinning, showing off her ensemble.

He let the music become more up-tempo, not something from Cintra as he didn’t want to ruin her mood, but a dancing song he had heard in a coastal kingdom on the celebration of a lost princesses birth. He had seen a girl with beautiful long hair that day, and she had reminded him of a young, less world hardened Ciri, just like the one in front of him.

Ciri howled with delight like the wolves who had started raising her and pulled him up until they were dancing around the room together. They whirled around, the music getting louder and louder until it reached a peak when the sun finally set behind the mountains to the west, bathing the room in an orange glow.

Ciri let go of his hand and twirled in excited circles until she ran into the bed and collapsed onto it, giggling. Jaskier wound the music down and joined her.

“I do believe that this lovely orange glow means that dinner should be served soon. How do you feel about going down now?” he pressed, holding out a hand to haul her to her feet. She heaved a truly massive sigh for such a small girl, and allowed him to give her a hand.

They walked together down the winding stairs and through the twisting halls until they were pushing through the heavy doors to the sounds of laughter and jeering.

The rest of the keep was already in the dining hall, when the pair arrived. Yennefer was in a chair by the fire reading, while all the others, save Vesemir, played a raucous round of Gwent. The alcohol flowed freely, judging by the mugs next to the Witcher’s elbows.

Jaskier glanced down at Ciri, who was also looking unimpressed by the lack of dinner happening, and they both sighed. Men, honestly.

Jaskier let out a sharp whistle that he knew for a fact cut through any noise and was immediately met with multiple pairs of startled eyes.

“What, Birdy?” Lambert bitched, rubbing his ears with a reproachful look.

Jaskier put his hands on his hips. “It is sundown and you have humans living here, we have times that we eat and it is certainly almost past time for our last meal of the day. I know you can all get away with meditating or odd hours of sleep, but us humans have delicate constitutions for these sorts of things!”

Jaskier saw Ciri open her mouth to protest from the corner of his eye. “Don’t even, young lady. You need just as much sleep as me, if not more. And you certainly need healthy and filling meals if you are going to insist on fighting. Now,” He turned his attention back to the others, “has dinner been made?”

“Vesemir is almost done with it. He’s still at the point of not letting us in the kitchen yet. Give it till mid winter and he will be forcing us to do our part,” Eskel told them, laying down another card and making Aiden shriek with wrath and fall back dramatically onto Coën, while Lambert roared with laughter.

Jaskier’s eyes flitted to Geralt for a split second during the chaos, but paused as he locked eyes. Geralt kept eye contact with the bard as he reached his hand out, snatched up a stack of cards, and threw it across the table in one smooth motion. The Witcher gave him a small nod and broke eye contact, giving the others a totally deadpan expression in the face of indignant reactions.

Ciri took the opportunity made by the game being interrupted to slip in next to Geralt, the other Witchers quieted down when they saw her join their table. Coën smiled at her while Aiden vaulted the table to sit next to her.

“How did you get your hair to do that?” Coën inquired. “It looks very pretty.”

Aiden poked at it with a look of concentration on his face while Ciri beamed.

“Jaskier did it for me,” she informed them proudly. “He did my hair a lot when he visited and he always did it better than my handmaids. He can do all sorts of styles!” She brightened and swung her gaze around the table.

“Jask should teach you all how to do it so you can do it for each other so monsters can’t grab your hair! And it helps it not get tangled!” She told them in excitement.

Aiden shrugged. “If I can get Lamb to sit still long enough, I’ll watch Jaskier do yours and try to do it.”

Ciri nodded at him like she expected nothing else and gestured to Jaskier to sit as she started telling them about her day. She told them how she learned about herbs with Yennefer before finding Jaskier and helping him in the library. She got quiet when she told them she found a book on selkies, and looked at Jaskier with pleading eyes for help. He sighed, and turned to Geralt. No matter how angry he may still be, this was more important.

“Do you remember Amias, that Selkie that you helped, years ago?” Jaskier asked. Geralt nodded seriously and leaned forward onto his forearms, giving Jaskier his full attention.

It had been a while since that look had been turned to him, but he knew that when it was, he would be listened to.

“A Lord in the Cintran territories has a selkie wife whose pelt he has, and seemingly doesn’t allow her to submerge herself into water. Ciri was wondering if you would get her out once it was safe for you to leave here,” Jaskier explained.

Geralt nodded seriously and turned to Ciri. “Yes. Once we can get out of here, we can go and get her,” Geralt told her gravely. “Can you give me any more information?”

Jaskier watched as Ciri recounted as much as she could for Geralt, and the other Witchers listened in earnest. They were invested in learning this new tidbit that might help them in future hunts. Once Jaskier figured they were fully enthralled with what Ciri was saying, Jaskier eased himself up to go make sure the eldest Witcher didn’t need help with dinner.

He popped into the kitchen and found Vesemir ladling something steaming into bowls.

“Need any help?” he asked, walking closer. The eldest Witcher turned and raised a brow, a disapproving look on his face.

“You can take this,” he handed him a bowl filled with warm stew that looked different then the others, “and eat it in front of that girl in there. She made this and wants you to try it, as you missed lunch.”

Jaskier’s eyes found the ground, feeling like a scolded schoolboy. “I know, she told me. I promised her that I would eat it and no matter how it tastes, I’ll eat it.”

Vesemir nodded when Jaskier’s eyes found his. “Good. It tastes alright, but we all ate it to support her efforts. She looks up to you a lot, she barely spoke to us after we had harmed you.”

At Jaskier’s look of protest, Vesemir held up a hand. “There were faults on all sides, and no point in sugar coating. We hurt you more than you hurt us, though. You only lied about your name and kept a few details from us. We are untrusting, but we took it too far. We shouldn’t have let our senses take the backseat, especially those boys. We will all be better about it, if you don’t lie to us again.”

Vesemir held out a hand and Jaskier took it, giving a firm shake. “Deal.”

Vesemir’s eyes showed approval and he took plates and bowls out the door. Jaskier took the rest and followed him out.

He smiled fondly as he saw Ciri perched on the table, cross legged and animatedly recounting a story for her audience of fond-faced Witchers and Yennefer.

Vesemir placed his load down and sat at the head of the table, while Jaskier settled himself a little ways away down the table after setting the rest of the food next to the eldest Witcher for him to distribute.

Jaskier brought a spoonful of rabbit stew up to his lips, and was pleasantly surprised by the taste. It was miles better than his first attempt on the road. It was a little bland, but nothing was burnt or poisoned. After a few spoonful's he noticed it was quiet and looked up.

Ciri was looking at him anxiously, waiting for a verdict.

“It’s good,” He told her with a smile. “Certainly better than my first attempt.”

Geralt snorted from Ciri’s side and nodded, but kept his mouth shut. Jaskier stuck his tongue out and it felt as if something in the air between them thawed out a bit. Not all the way, but a bit. And when a raucous dinner conversation started about hunts from the past years, Jaskier felt something old in his chest unravel, because this is what he always thought family dinners should be like.

He smiled and kept eating his stew.

Chapter Text

Ciri told him her step by step process at stew making as he ate the quarter bowl she had left for him and Jaskier gave her all of the praise her food deserved, plus some extra.

After she had thoroughly explained, Ciri flitted from her conversation with Jaskier to one with Geralt, soon becoming lost in stories told by the Witchers all trying to outdo each other. They recounted hunts not just of monsters, but of game, too. They explained how to track, and the importance of patience. They told her what weapons were best used for what, for both monsters and critters. 

Jaskier tuned them out, choosing to simply watch them with a smile. He would never need these things, as he preferred cities more and whenever he did find himself out in the wilderness, it was usually with others, such as the Witchers before him.

Jaskier soon grew bored and wandered over to where Yennefer and Vesemir were sitting by the fire, talking about magic, a topic that he had no hope of understanding.

Jaskier placed himself in the other open armchair, leaning to the right but keeping his feet on the floor. He smiled as he took in the ambiance of the room, the Witchers recounting tales behind him to an audibly delighted Ciri, Yennefer and Vesemir conversing quietly, and the crackling fire he could only hear because he was so close. 

There was definitely a song that he could make out of this, but he thought that it should have no words. A place like this, with such age, couldn’t be portrayed by words. The place was so ethereal and held so many stories, even the ambience he was in now couldn’t be put into lyrics. 

He remembered some of the songs that his gift had produced in his panic while he ran from the basement room, and they were as good a starting point as any. He would have to use an instrument that was around when the keep was built, but there weren’t very m any to choose from. Bouzouki, maybe. The hurdy gurdy, or the lute. Definitely drums, as they were the oldest instruments of all. 

He also wanted to write songs for all of the people in the room with him, with the same underlying rhythm as they were all family. Yennefer would be mainly violin, he thought, as she had always reminded him of the string family. Grace and beauty that could easily turn sharp and biting. Writing songs for all of them would surely keep him busy in the afternoons. 

For the Witchers, definitely some lute and drums. What else…?

Dulcimers! That’s something he could pull from! A song he had heard and used his Gift to replicate on an island in the north where people who called themselves Vikings rode dragons. He couldn’t believe it when he saw it, and Geralt wouldn’t let him be by himself the whole time, but he had so much fun after he got over his fear. 

But the keep was a dark sort of ethereal place, not like the island. Actual bad things had happened here, he reminded himself. The people who lived within these walls were changed against their wills. 

He brought his legs up to his chest and focused on the happy voices behind him.

This place reminded him in a way of the sacred elven ruins that he had seen during his travels that had become overrun by the forest. Unlike the elven ruins that were covered in moss and trees that had burst through the flagstone, the hallways here echoed around every corner in a symphony of emptiness. The hallways here were colder and felt harsh in a way that even abandoned places didn't. 

His eyes roamed back to Yennefer as his ears tuned into the sound of laughter around the table. Jaskier shifted himself to be able to peer around and look at the others. Ciri was pasted to Geralt’s side, avidly listening to their tales. She gasped in delight after hearing a tale about what Jaskier gathered were Drowners, but he couldn’t be sure. 

He quietly hummed the bare bones of the composition he was working on as he watched. He smiled slightly as he built on it, knowing that it would sound delightfully creepy once he finished and used his gift to play it, especially if he used it in the hallways at night. 

He grinned into his knees as he imagined what Aiden and Lambert would do if he did. If he didn’t scare Coën as well, the Griffin would most definitely find it hilarious. 

He shifted his head to the side and watched out of the two small windows as the ashy gray of post-sunset truly turned into night. He decided it would be acceptable to leave at this point, but just before he could get up unnoticed, the others congregated in the space around him.  

Ciri was talking a mile a minute with an equally excited Aiden, while hanging from Coën’s back. The Griffin swung her off, and onto the furs beside the hearth, before the two joined her, the conversation continuing. 

Eskel and Lambert passed by on his right side, walking close to each other and sending fond looks to the ones on the floor. They settled on the only other chair in the room, one big enough for two if they squeezed together, and watched the ones on the floor while almost silently continuing their conversation.

Jaskier’s lips twitched into a small smile as he watched them, and he settled back into his chair and his thoughts. 

He didn’t know how long he had sat composing in his head, but he did know that when a white haired man in dark clothes sat down silently at his feet, another log needed too be added too the fire. 

Jaskier didn’t move as Geralt silently leaned against the seat of the chair, unsure what to do with the newfound proximity. 

After letting him stew for a moment, Geralt held up a leather bound notebook and pencil with one hand. 

Jaskier raised a brow but took them. “What are these for?” he asked

“You were humming something new over and over, so you were working on writing something. When you don't know where you are going with your song next, you bite the inside of your cheek and your right eye twitches,” Geralt told him quietly. 

Jaskier sat in silence, allowing him time to continue.

“I wanted to give you something once I found you again… but I had to get Ciri here first. I saw these in a traveling merchant's tent.”

He paused, not a muscle moving that Jaskier could see. 

“I was going to find you once winter was over and Ciri was either here with the others or with Yennefer at a safe house. If I had known that you were in danger… that you were not holed up safely at Oxenfurt… I would have come to get you, immediately.”

While Jaskier would deny it, his eyes misted slightly although he said nothing. 

“I’m sorry you got hurt because of me,” Geralt told him quietly. 

Jaskier let out a breath. “I did,” He told the Witcher matter of factly. “I got hurt because of my association with you, but it wasn’t the first time and it probably won’t be the last. But it was my choice. I’m the one who decided to travel with you, to write songs about you and learnt about all of your potions so you wouldn’t die. It was my choice to travel with you for twenty-odd years.”

Jaskier unraveled his legs and carefully rested them next to the Witcher. 

After a moment he felt a hesitant finger on the cuff of his pant leg, and he smiled gently.

“I’m… glad… that you did choose to,” Geralt told him, haltingly, He was still not making eye contact, but the grip on his cuff became more sure. 

Jaskier almost started as he felt something between them start to heal. Some of the tension melted around them. 

“I’m glad I did, too,” he responded gently, shifting to the left so his legs rested against Geralt’s right side. 

Jaskier decided to let the white haired Witcher off of the hook of conversation and cracked open the new notebook. He raised a brow in surprise. There were clean, precise staff lines etched into the sheet. He turned the page only to be met with the same thing. 

Every page was lined in groups of five. .

“How in the world did you find a notebook like this outside of Oxenfurt?” Jaskier wondered. 

Geralt shrugged, “I didn’t.”

The bard let out a disbelieving huff and nudged him with his foot incessantly until the Witcher relented.

“I had some extra time and my swords are straight,” was all the explanation he was given.

Jaskier called bullshit. Geralt didn’t have ‘extra time’. He didn’t even know what a day off meant until Jaskier forced him to take one. He was still shocked that Geralt allowed the notebook to take up space on Roach and that he remembered that there was five lines on a staff.

The Witcher must well and truly be intent on the apology, and he was certainly making it hard to stay mad.

“Thank you,” he told the Witcher quietly before returning to his writing.

Neither noticed how all the other occupants of the room had quieted their conversations and were looking at them out of the corners of their eyes. 

Jaskier continued to work with the quiet lull of conversation as his background music and Geralt leaning more heavily on his legs by the minute. He was really liking the direction that he was taking it, having embraced the lack of lyrics. 

He started with what he liked to call an epic, in this case one that would lead up as if you had just crested the Killer and were seeing the stone fortress for the first time. You could imagine the history, but then remembered the skating as you got closer and saw how parts of it were in need of repair. But then, his audience would be in the halls, and know exactly where they were walking, as there was no other place like this on the continent. 

It would sound old in a way that was new, which he thought was appropriate for his subject.

He was so lost in his writing that he didn’t notice Yennefer eyeing them, waiting for them to truly air out all of their dirty laundry.

“So, Bard,” she started in a tone that had him looking up from his book warily. 

She sipped her wine. “Did you ever get the information you needed to write your song about the dragon hunt? Or did you find something else to write about?” 

Jaskier felt Geralt stiffen against his leg before the Witcher leaned away. Jaskier felt a sudden surge of offense, did Geralt think that he wasn’t justified if he wrote about something else?

He did, but that wasn’t the point. 

“Yes, I did. The dwarves were very helpful, unlike others,” he responded snippily, sending her a biting look.

Before Yennefer could respond with the cutting remark he could see about to slip from her tongue, Jaskier’s field of view was filled by a head of blond hair.

“A dragon?” Ciri asked in reverence, occupying the space that Geralt had vacated, kneeling in front of his chair, ready for a song. 

Jaskier spotted Aiden and Coën creeping up behind Ciri and the other two Wolves were leaning towards him, all with the same look of wary curiosity on their faces, and Jaskier resigned himself to performing.

“I assume you want to hear it?” he asked the princess with a smile finding its way onto his face. She nodded enthusiastically, ready for a song about an adventure she had not yet heard of. 

He took a breath and let his gift gather in his sternum. He let a suspenseful tune build before he spread his hands and swept his eyes around for the proper story telling effect.

The king called on the kingdom, to gather all their best

To slay a mighty dragon because it was his pest

A strange little man came forth to request a deft assist

But the Witcher was quite reluctant, the story had a twist

He stood up from his chair and pulled Ciri up with him, spinning her around. His eyes glinted as he saw how entrapped his audience was, and he took it up a notch, engaging his audience like he usually only would in a raucous tavern.

The golden one with the golden rules

Two warrior belles with all the tools

More dazzling then all the fools 

He got closer to the young girl and made it seem as if he was whispering to her conspiratorially but still allowing the rest of the room to hear.

They showed us we’re all fools

Oh, we’re just fools

He stood up and spun in a half circle, spreading his hands out like he was telling a ghost story around a fire and focused on the Witchers.

The old little man fell swiftly off a cliff and too his death

We sadly mourned the lost, thought we’d witnessed his last breath

He widened his eyes and tilted his head, looking down on the Witchers, the music moving lower to the background, giving his words center stage.

But then he breathed some fire on a goon that came his way

‘Cause he was a golden dragon not a man with temples gray

Eyes widened around him, all waiting with bated breath to see where the story went next. He let the music swell again, giving the already sung chorus new meaning in the wake of the new information.

The golden one with the golden rules

Two warrior belles with all the tools

More dazzling then all the fools 

They showed us we’re all fools

Oh, we’re just fools

He realized in that moment that the song mentioned the fight between Geralt and Yennifer, and panicked for a split second. He would just omit the part about the fight. It would make the song sound incomplete to anyone who knew anything about music, but he doubted they did.

The golden one with the golden rules

Two warrior belles with all the tools

More dazzling then all the fools 

They showed us we’re all fools

Oh, we’re. Just. Fools

He repeated the last chorus and let the instruments sizzle out. 

It was silent for a moment before he was met with hoots and applause. Jaskier smiled at his audience and bowed theatrically. 

He straightened but started as an arm was immediately thrown around his shoulders and shook them around. He turned an annoyed look on Lambert, who was giving him a grin. 

“Well, well, well, that was quite good, Birdy,” Lambert told him, his grin slowly turning more gleeful. He leaned closer, but Jaskier just raised a brow. “Do you take any requests?” he asked, voice jokingly pitched low, as he was the only one of the two who noticed his brother’s almost subvocal growling. 

Jaskier pushed him away with a laugh, but quickly caught sight of a now standing Aiden with a strange look on his face. Lambert seemed to pick up on his new object of attention and turned to see the Cat. 

Before either could say anything, Aiden spoke up.

“That was good. You’re good.” Aiden said, still not looking at him. 

Jaskier was confused, not quite sure what Aiden was doing. Why did he seem almost… regretful?

“Maybe another song that I thought was not so good, is good, because others didn’t sing it right?” The Cat said, finally looking him in his eyes.

Jaskier was confused for a moment before he remembered. In Rosie’s tavern, the first night, there had been another bard, who was singing the song that had changed his life forever, and Aiden had said that it was bad. 

Jaskier gave him a smile. “Not too worry dear! You have never heard its writer perform it, so it is truly understandable for you to think other’s renditions are mediocre.”

Jaskier turned and swept his hand across the room “After all, only three people in this room have heard it, five of you have yet to hear it in my dulcet tones. So!”

He clapped his hands and Aiden’s face lost some of its maudlin expression. 

“Sit down and enjoy the song that thrust me into master bardship!” Jaskier exclaimed, waving the two of them away.

Yennefer groaned and took a large sip of her wine but Ciri’s eyes again lit up. 

“Is it the coin song?!” She asked, waving her hand in the air from her criss crossed position like a school child. 

He could see the other Witchers perk up in interest in their own subtle ways, and he started his second song of the night. He did, however, have some subtle but vital changes planned.

When a humble bard

Graced a ride along

With Geralt of Rivia

He gestured dramatically towards said Witcher.

Along came this song

From when the White wolf fought

A silver tongue Devil

His army of Elves at

His hooves did they revel

They came after me

With masterful deceit 

Broke down my lute and

They kicked in my teeth

He dramatized the scene by draping a hand over his heart and placing the other on his forehead like a swooning maiden, causing the youngests of the group to chuckle.

While the Devil’s horns

Minced out tender meat

And so cried the Witcher

He can’t be bleat

He grinned as he turned too fully face his audience for his new chorus

Toss some coin to your Witchers

Oh valley of plenty

Oh valley of plenty

Oh oh oh

Toss some coin to your Witchers

Oh valley of plenty

He grinned as he saw poorly concealed shock on their faces, even Geralts.

At the edge of the world

They fight the mighty horde

That bashes and breaks you

And brings you too mourn

They thrust every elf

Far back on the shelf

High up on the mountain

From whence it came

They wiped out your pest

Got kicked in their chests

They’re friends of humanity

So give them the rest

Jaskier was having a hard time deciphering what the looks on their faces were exactly, but he could recognize the joy in their eyes, so he kept going. 

That’s my epic tale

Our champions prevailed

Defeated the villain

Now pour them some ale!

Toss some coin to your Witchers

Oh valley of plenty 

Oh valley of plenty 

Toss some coin to your Witchers

Friends of humanity

Toss some coin to your Witchers

Oh valley of plenty 

Oh valley of plenty 

Toss some coin to your Witchers

Friends of humanity

Toss some coin to your Witchers

Oh valley of plenty 

Oh valley of plenty 

Toss some coin to your Witchers

Friends of humanity!

As the last notes rang out, he was met with a pair of arms pulling him into a hard chest. 

“Thank you,” Aiden muttered into his hair, two other pairs of arms fastening themselves around the pair once the confession had left the Cat. 

Jaskier laughed and wrapped his arms around them as best he could.

“Of course, I expect to be traveling with more of you now, and if two of you are in the same tavern I have to have a song at the ready,” he told them, extracting himself. 

He didn’t get too far before Eskel grabbed him for a quick hug as well, having gotten up off the couch he had been sharing with Lambert. 

“It’s a much bigger deal than you think it is,” the eldest brother told him, voice warm as he pulled away but left a steady hand on the bard’s shoulders. 

Jaskier let out a long sigh. “It shouldn’t be as big of a deal as you all feel as it is,” he told them, looking all of them in the eye, even Vesemir, who was still sitting in his armchair. 

“The world should be treating you all as the town at the base of the mountain does. You should have weird friendships along the continent like the one you have with Gregory. People should be taking care of you the way Rosie does. All I’m doing is trying to get the world to see you as we do. You aren’t monsters, you hunt things that are trying to hurt people, and it's one of the most noble things that someone can do. You all constantly put your lives on the line for people and the literal least they can do is treat you with respect and give you places to recover.” 

Jaskier ended what turned into a tirade by draping himself back down into his chair with his legs over the left armrest and folding his hands over his chest, huffing. The two brothers and the two guests stared at him from where they were standing, eyes still wide. Jaskier huffed again and motioned for them to sit.

“How is Rosie doing?” Vesemir asked, breaking the silence and looking at Jaskier intently. Jaskier had a feeling that Rosie wasn’t all he was asking about, but he had no clue what the eldest was trying to decipher.

“She’s doing good,” Jaskier started, feeling the sudden need to sit up straight to answer. “She made me on the first day. She dragged me up for a bath as soon as she saw me and told me that she didn’t believe that I had just been grabbed for writing political songs. She threatened me if I hurt you all and then I told her. It was like trying to lie to someone who already knew all of your secrets,” Jaskier told them. 

Vesemir nodded before turning to the younger Witchers.

“Congratulations, pups. You were outmaneuvered by a 65 year old woman,” he stated, taking a long drag of the mead that had hidden from Jaskier’s vision on a low table. 

Lambert groaned, but before he could say anything, Jaskier snorted. “Rosie also said that certain young Witchers followed another certain Witcher around like lost ducklings whenever they went into town when she was a young girl,” he told them smugly.

Coën was able to muffle his snort into his hand, but Aiden showed no such restraint. He almost fell over with laughter, looking between an affronted looking Lambert, a slightly red Eskel, and a brooding Geralt who had moved to stand almost threateningly behind Jaskier’s chair as the reflection of the flames’ light cut his face into sharp planes. 

Jaskier grinned up at him, not worried about the face he was sporting in the slightest.

 He cupped a hand around his mouth. “They also traded herbs for boots with Gregory,” he faux-whispered up at the White haired Witcher. 

“We all do,” Geralt told him as he looked down with a raised brow. “Or what he calls ‘exotic leathers’ and rubber for his boots. Sometimes fur or whale oil for insulation and waterproofing. Aiden’s just better at finding the herbs.”

“Huh.” Jaskier mused, un-craning his head. In retrospect, the information he had received was not too surprising. 

“Well!” Coën stated, rubbing his hands together. “I think that's enough of Jaskier spilling secrets we didn’t know he knew. Who wants to play Gwent?” 

Geralt shrugged and made his way over to the others as Eskel reached for a box above the fireplace. He tossed it to Lambert and they started setting a game up on the floor after moving the blankets to the side. Jaskier smiled as he watched them argue about this and that, but his eyes quickly cut to Ciri and Yennefer.

They were talking quietly, gesturing back and forth before drawing Vesemir in, who raised his hands in surrender. Finally Yennefer threw up her hands.

“Fine you can stay, but you’d better not be too tired for lessons tomorrow” she warned, giving Ciri a quick hug before sweeping out of the room. Once the witch was out of the room, Vesemir gave her a small smile and a pat of the shoulder before using the grip to gently push her towards Jaskier.

Jaskier smiled and stood up, reaching an arm towards Ciri and leading her over to the couch that Eskel and Lambert had vacated. He sat down next to her and they watched the five Witchers get more and more into their game, especially after Lambert brought over a few bottles. 

He startled as he felt Ciri poke his ribs, and he glanced down to where her head was resting against his shoulder. 

“Can we get a blanket?” She asked in a voice that betrayed her weariness.

He smiled down at her and reached down to the floor for the fluffiest one he could find. Before he could place it around their shoulders, Ciri yawned and flopped down across his lap. He smiled softly and shuffled until they were laying down, Ciri with her head resting on his chest like she did when he told her stories back in Cintra. 

“I’m not sleeping,” she muttered, pulling the blankets tight. “I’m just checking my eyelids for—” She let out a yawn. “—light leaks” 

Jaskier laughed softly and wrapped his arms around her tightly. “Take your time, no one’s going anywhere,” he assured her gently. 

He turned his head to the right and continued to watch the rowdy game which was, despite the noise, soothing. The flames played over their faces, and while he knew that just the fire was plenty for them to see by in the darkness of the room, Jaskier was having trouble seeing anything but what the fire illuminated. In almost every other circumstance he would be more than a little freaked out in a large room that he could only see a portion of, but he was totally at ease laying on a couch beside the Witchers.   

He smiled sleepily as he saw Eskel whack Lambert over the head, who in turn fell dramatically onto Geralt. Ciri definitely had the right idea, he thought, this was a wonderful place to check for light leaks.

Once the moon was high in the sky and the game was done, the Witchers rose from their positions on the floor and turned to the humans on the couch. All of the men smiled as they were greeted with the sight of Jaskier cradling Ciri like a precious doll while she slept soundly on his chest. 

Lambert, Aiden and Coën smiled at the two eldest brothers and waved a silent goodnight as they crept off to either all of their rooms or one, while the remaining two assessed the sleeping pair, knowing without speaking that one would take Ciri while one took Jaskier. Geralt reached for Ciri, ready to whisk her off to bed as Jaskier’s room was on the way to Eskels while Ciri’s was a ways past his, but his brother put a hand on his shoulder and shook his head. 

“I’ve got her,” he whispered at a level that only another Witcher could hear, and he gently pried Ciri from Jaskier’s arms before he gathered her and her blanket up and whisked her off. 

Geralt gazed down at Jaskier, who had now reverted to his preferred sleeping position of his legs halfway curled to his chest with his arms curled up in front of him. 

It did strange things to the Witcher’s heart when he saw it, things that he usually chose to ignore, but now couldn’t help but notice. 

He looked peaceful, his face lax and his lashes fluttering. Geralt had assumed that he would be a restless sleeper, or at least a nervous one when they were on the Path, but he rarely moved at night in any way other than to get more comfortable. 

Geralt crouched down and as gently as he could slid his arms under the bard's knees and around his shoulders. He stood slowly, trying not to jostle Jaskier, and then started slowly walking. 

A few feet outside of the door, Geralt stopped in his tracks as he felt the bard shift. Jaskier burrowed his head into the junction between the Witcher’s neck and shoulder, letting out a soft snuffle before falling still again. 

He continued slowly to Jaskier’s room, taking the stairs as smoothly as he could. It always amazed him when he carried Jaskier how light the bard seemed. He had muscle, sure. No one could walk and play lute as much as he did and not, but he was thin. Geralt had done reading on humans once Jaskier spent the second year traveling with him, and knew that humans had special dietary needs. 

He hunted as much meat as he could and bought vegetables when he had money, foraging for edible plants when he didn’t. The bard had certainly filled out and had more energy the more Geralt fed him, so he had continued the best he could. 

But the bard was light again, despite the hearty food they cooked in the keep. Maybe in the next few days he could go hunting for deer, as that was Jaskier’s favorite meat, and use the nice spices Vesemir thought they didn’t know about to roast it. 

Geralt toed open the bard’s door and winced as he realized how cold it would be in here for Jaskier. He walked to the bed and sat Jaskier down on the pillows and leaned his head against Geralt’s shoulder so he could pull back the furs. He lay the bard down gently and, as he smoothed the furs over him, Jaskier huffed and his bleary eyes flitting around the dark room.

“Geralt?” he asked in a rough voice. 

The Witcher leaned town and nodded while smoothing the hair back from his forehead. “Go back to sleep, Jask,” he whispered.

The bard smiled sleepily. “Hi,” he muttered, eyes focusing just above his right shoulder, and it occurred to Geralt that Jaskier couldn’t see anything in the dark. “I miss you.”

Geralt furrowed his brow. “I’m right here, you don’t have to,” he assured him.

“You are. And I am. But we aren’t at the same time. It’s not us here, I miss the other us,” Jaskier responded, eyes closing. 

Geralt let out a little huff, realizing that Jaskier had no idea what he was saying. “Go to sleep, we will be other us in the morning.” he assured the bard.

Jaskier’s eyes were again closed but his voice was venerable and soft, “promise?” 

“Promise,” Geralt assured him, not sure what he was promising, but making a silent vow to himself to follow through with it.

“M’kay,” Jaskier said, voice hazy and slurred. “M’cold.”

Geralt squeezed his shoulder. “I’ll start a fire,” he assured Jaskier.

He stood from the bedside and stacked logs from the basket into the fireplace and cast a quick igni. He poked the wood until the fire was well and truly going, and then turned back to the bed.

Jaskier was again on his side and asleep, and Geralt watched for a quiet moment as the fire cast soft shadows on his face. 

Geralt slipped out of the room and made his way back to the room at the base of the tower which Ciri resided in. He ascended the stairs and inched the door open, making sure that Ciri was alright before he went to bed himself. Ciri was sprawled out underneath her covers and her own fire was going strongly, and she let out a soft snore. 

Geralt felt his lips twitch into a bemused smile and closed the door once again, assured that the girl was fine. 

He rubbed his eyes and made his way down the stairs, simply changing into a pair of linen sleeping pants before falling into bed himself. As he lay in his bed, a part of him that he refused to acknowledge wished that the people he had checked on before going to bed himself were sleeping safely in the room with him.

Chapter Text

The first thing he registered was the cold. 

Then the fact that he was not on a bed, but a cold floor. 

He tried to push himself up into a sitting position, figuring he just fell out of his bed and he was sore because he had fallen, but screamed and fell down instead of straightening fully. 

He finally opened his eyes. 

No. No no no no no. A tear leaked out of a swollen eye, a wound that he only now felt.

He was laying on the floor of a cold, dark cell. He was chained to the wall, his wrists bleeding and ribs screaming. 

He cried harder from his fallen position on the floor. He shouldn’t have let himself believe, he went too easily. Godsdammit, she had tricked him so well. 

He had just followed them out, not even trying to escape them or attempt staying. He followed them and had wanted to believe so, so much. He had been so, so tired, barely fighting, just seeing where the story of a Cat and Griffin would take him. He had become so pliant, letting them in and forming bonds with not only his rescuers, but Rosie and the Wolves. Not only had she constructed the perfect illusion, he had simply been weak to any modicum of care he could get. 

She had constructed more believable mannerisms the longer that he was out of this Melitele forsaken cell, she must have pulled the memories of Geralt's sparse details from his head and used her own knowledge of Witchers. The journey to the town had given her enough time to make believable Wolves. 

Fuck. He had fallen for it, hook, line, and sinker. 

It had been easier to handle hurting like he was when he had been used to it, but he had been healed for two weeks now, and it hurt.

He curled up into himself and waited. 

It was timeless, the waiting, as the room never got darker or lighter. He was almost relieved as he heard heels slowly clack down the hall, the anticipation the worst part. 

He looked at the door despondently as heels came into his field of vision.

“That was informative, bard. Well done,” Fringilla told him, tone patronizing.

He let out a sob while she crouched next to him and grabbed his dirty jaw, forcing him to look at her.

“That girl adores you so. It’s a true shame what you have repaid her devotion with,” Fringilla taunted, releasing his head with a flick of her wrist, sending it harshly onto the floor. 

Jaskier screamed as his head connected with the stone and she smiled down at him, but the pain felt different. It felt more foggy and distant then the times before, maybe he was going into shock?

“We have no more use for you now, so you get your wish for this to end,” She told him coldly.

He shook his head back and forth and cried from his position on the ground as her heel descended onto his neck, quickly crushing his airway. He struggled as much as his weak body could, but the air deprivation got to him quickly. 

Strangely, it didn’t feel like his air was being cut off—he just knew that it was being done. Maybe he was suffering a brain injury? 

He stopped fighting and the room seemed to go in and out of focus as black crept along his line of sight. The last words he heard were, “We contemplated keeping you alive, truly breaking Cirilla’s spirit by knowing you betrayed her, but then I thought that it would break her more seeing your rotting corpse and knowing she’s the one that killed you.” 

He gasped and shot up, hands flying to his neck, and his eyes wide open.

He was in his room at the keep. The fire was smoldering down. He was sitting on his bed. It was dark outside. 

He was breathing hard as he pulled himself out of the bed into a standing position and looked around. Everything was in place, nothing new and nothing missing. 

A whine crawled out of his throat as he remembered the dream, the dream that had felt too real. The cold and the chains, the floor and the stale air in his lungs. 

But he remembered how the pain felt different. Weaker. Fuzzier.

He swiveled around too where he had stored the blue sheathed knife and quickly pulled it out. The pain was different, right? 

His breathing became harder as he panicked, waiting for the pain to register from where he had nicked his palm. 

He couldn’t tell. He dug the knife in a little harder. 

He choked on a sob. He still couldn’t tell.

He dropped the knife like it had burned him and wrapped his arms around himself. He hunched over at the waist, watching tears and blood drip onto the floor.

Then he had a thought.

Geralt. He would be able to tell if it was Geralt or Fringilla, or Geralt would be able to tell if Fringilla was hitching a ride along in his brain.

He flung his door open and bolted to the right before flying down a flight of stairs. He hooked a left, then a right, making his way almost across the entire keep before he reached the last stretch of corridor.

Just as he was halfway down Geralt's hallway, the door was tossed open and Geralt darted out, sword in hand. He met Jaskier half way and pulled him into the room before slamming the door behind them.

“What's going on? Where are you hurt? I smell blood and your heart is racing,” the Witcher asked grimly, checking him up and down. His eyes lingered on the tears running down the bard’s face and the blood dripping from his fist. Geralt's eyes grew more stony than usual at the sight.

“What. Happened,” he demanded.

Jaskier ignored him and plastered his hands on either side of the Witcher’s face, studying it. The yellow eyes were wide, looking between him and the door, obviously ready for a fight. One hand was on Jaskier’s hip, carefully trying to push the bard behind him and further into the room. 

Jaskier brought Geralt’s face closer to him to scrutinize it, noting how the Witcher’s pupils dilated slightly, but ignored it.

“What is something only you would know?” the bard demanded. 

Geralt ignored him, gently trying to pry Jaskier’s hand off his face. “The blood on your hand. What happened,” he demanded again.

Jaskier ignored him and crushed Geralt's face harder between his hands. “Tell. Me.”

“In Blackbough, Autumm of 1215, a few months before we became aware of the plague, you taught children how to braid by having me sit down and braiding my hair. You showed them over and over again until they got the basics, and while they practiced on each other you somehow braided all of my hair together in different braids. You called it a warrior braid, like the legends of the Valkyries. Before what were supposed to be hard hunts, you would give me Toussantian braids to keep my hair out of my face.”

Jaskier looked into the very confused eyes for another moment, assessing.

Yes. This was him. This was his Witcher. His Witcher who made hurtful mistakes but came running with a sword when he heard Jaskier coming with a racing heart smelling of blood and whose first thought when asked for proof of identity was Jaskier braiding his hair on a peaceful afternoon. 

He let out a small wail and slammed himself into the other’s chest, his hand leaving a streak of crimson blood on Geralt’s pale face and down his neck before it grasped around his shoulder. Tears mingled with the blood as he clutched onto the other and cried.

He felt one strong arm wrap around his shoulders tightly while the other settled loosely around his waist, and he could still feel the sword clutched in that hand. 

He sobbed harder, both in residual fear and relief. Relief not only that it was just a nightmare, but also that the weight of anger was no longer on his shoulders.  

How could he shovel the shit in Geralt’s life when the Witcher adored Ciri so? Or when he was so ready to run and defend Jaskier from an unknown danger? 

He had never truly stopped trusting Geralt who had given him years upon years of safety from every threat Jaskier could imagine, but the Witcher was forgiven now too. 

He held on tighter, trying to focus on just the relief instead of hearing Fringilla’s words in his head.

“Is there anyone coming after you?” Geralt asked, his voice urgent. 

Jaskier shook his head against the Witcher’s shoulder, and felt it relax slightly against his forehead. 

“Is there someone in the Keep?” Jaskier shook his head again.

“Was it an accident?” Again, no. 

“Did one of my brothers or the other two do this?” Geralt asked in a dark voice, slowly moving them further into the room while keeping his grip on the Bard. 

Jaskier shook his head again, focusing on Geralt’s voice instead of the residual fear going through his head. 

Jaskier felt Geralt’s go stiff against him. 

“Jaskier… did you do this to yourself?” What was the point of lying? Geralt could always tell.

He nodded. “I had a nightmare about… everything. The pain is… different, in nightmares then real life.”

Geralt’s sword fell to the ground and his arm wrapped more securely around Jaskier’s waist and squeezed. The bard let out a squeak at the pressure and before he could say anything his feet left the ground.

“What the fu—” Jaskier screeched before Geralt dropped him on the bed. 

“Stay,” he muttered before going to rummage around. Jaskier used the opportunity to look around the room. 

Geralt’s bed was in a little alcove in the right of the room, and there were shelves with potions near the ceiling above him and chests next to the bed. There was a fire across from the bed in the small alcove, making the little space cozy. Outside of the alcove against the far wall to the left there were a few bookshelves, and they were surrounded by more shelves with what Jaskier assumed to be ingredients. Geralt was rummaging around in the shelves before he turned around and walked back with bandages and a wet cloth in his hand.

Geralt carefully lowered himself down to the floor at Jaskier’s feet and reached carefully for his hand. Jaskier met him halfway and let the witcher grasp his hand in a careful grip. It was the same grip that Geralt used every time Jaskier had gotten hurt. 

“I would like to apologize again,” Geralt said in his rough voice, hands still assessing the cuts on Jaskier’s hand, continuously wiping the now sluggish blood from Jaskier’s palm.

Jaskier startled. He barely ever got one apology, and he did truely want to hear what the Witcher had to say. 

“Alright,” he said softly, as if he spoke too loudly, Geralt would rescind the offer. 

Geralt didn’t look at him as he started to talk and wrap his hands. 

“I’m sorry for what I said to you. I was angry at Yennefer. And Borch. And myself. I blamed you for things that I did, things that were never your fault. It wasn’t fair to you, and I wanted you to leave then, so you wouldn’t leave me later. I was trying to control the situation in the only way I could in my anger.”

He took a breath, the bandages done but Geralt kept Jaskier’s hand cradled in his.

“It was like I was watching myself be angry from outside of my body, and as I walked down the mountain I realized what had truly happened. What I did. I should have come after you once I realized you weren’t waiting with Roach at the foot of the mountain. My anger cooled as I walked back down and I assumed that you would be waiting to yell at me. I should have found you once I heard how high tensions were getting around the continent. I’m truly sorry for everything that happened to you while I was being dense.” Geralt finished by releasing Jaskier’s hand.

Jaskier felt a ghost of a smile spread across his face. “Did someone help you with that last line?” He asked softly.

Geralt let out a snort. “Vesemir. He made me practice on him so I wouldn’t get derailed again, but I came up with it by myself. But he did add the dense part.” 

A Jaskier gave a real smile. “I appreciate the apology, and I also appreciate you running to my aid tonight. I forgive you, just don’t do it again.” 

The bard and the Witcher looked at each other, relearning each other’s faces. 

“I like your room,” he tells the Witcher quietly, breaking the silence. 

Geralt's eyes crinkle slightly, but other than that his face doesn’t change. “It’s not mine, usually. The tower is one of the safest and nicest places for Ciri, and it’s where we used to host mages and such when they insisted on coming. This is where one of us would sleep to ensure their sense of safety. It happened rarely, and hasn’t happened in over a century. No one ever stayed while I was training. Vesemir uses it as almost storage now, but left things in here just in case. I have a room closer to yours usually.” The Witcher told him in halting sentences.

Jaskier let out a sad sound. “There wasn’t a room next to yours for Ciri?” He asked.

Geralt shrugged “It’s very… winding… to get here from the main entrance, and there is a secret staircase that leads to a tunnel in the mountain that will take her out onto the mountain. The mages enchanted the mountain side of it so it's impossible to enter through, the person can only exit through it. She would have to make her way down the mountain on her own, but it gives her a fighting chance.”

Jaskier understood. “Good.” 

He knew the Witcher would understand everything he wasn’t saying. Geralt just nodded and stood up.

“It’s late, you should get more sleep. You can… stay, if you want.” Geralt didn’t look at him when he offered.

Jaskier nodded, not wanting to trek back to his room, or to be alone. Their relationship was still healing, but Jaskier still remembered the comfort of sleeping next to the Witcher. It was a safe place to be, in the Witcher’s sleeping arms, knowing that any noise that the Witcher deemed amiss would wake the man up.

But Geralt reached for a pillow and dropped it onto the ground, stretching before lowering himself down. His eyes closed and his back was on the floor.

 “If you need something, just—” He started, but Jaskier interrupted him.

“We’ve shared smaller,” Jaskier informed the Witcher, even though he was sure that Geralt knew. 

A golden eye cracked open, and the air around them was suddenly charged. 

“Are you sure?” he asked, propping himself up on his elbows. Jaskier felt as if his answer would change something, but he was unsure what. 

He nodded.

The Witcher grasped the pillow and stood next to the bed, hovering for a second before placing it down on the side of the bed closest to the door. That was always Geralt’s side, the one closest to the door, and Jaskier assumed it was because the Witcher didn’t trust him to react fast enough to an intrusion. 

Geralt lowered himself down onto the bed in a similar position to the one he had taken on the floor, eyes closed but body stiff.

“Go to sleep, Jaskier,” the Witcher told him, still not opening his eyes. The bard sighed and flopped down, bouncing a little before settling. 

He rolled to his side. Then his other side. He still wasn’t comfortable. He moved onto his back. 

He just couldn’t stay still, nothing was comfortable. 

He was about to groan and start the cycle over again before his body was being manipulated. 

Geralt’s eyes were still closed as he pushed Jaskier onto his right side towards the wall. He used his leg to shove some of the furs between Jaskier’s shins,the way that made sleeping easier for the bard. Geralt wrapped an arm over Jaskier’s torso, pulling him flush against his chest before pulling the largest fur around their shoulders.

“Go. To. Sleep,” The Witcher grumbled in his ear, arm squeezing slightly tighter. 

Jaskier let out a huff more out of principal than anything, but settled into the familiar position. Some nights before, whether it be on the path or in a tavern inn, Jaskier would be unable to settle and Geralt would do this exact thing. It was always more helpful than he thought it would be, as it was not only comfortable, but it felt more safe than restricting. 

Jaskier closed his eyes and relaxed back, letting the soft breathing from behind him and the fire crackling coming from the foot of the bed lull him to sleep.

Jaskier had no idea what time it was when he woke up, since the room Geralt was occupying had no windows. He sat up in the bed and stretched, trying not to feel disappointed when he realized that he woke up alone. 

He sighed as he stood up and made his way to the door. He needed to remember that he wasn’t the only person with the Witcher anymore. When it was just them in towns or on the path, the Witcher never left him alone, as they were all each other had. Here, however, Geralt had options that he definitely seemed to prefer, and Jaskier knew that he would have to learn to deal with that. 

But a small part of him wondered if it would ever be like that again? Would they travel together again, no responsibilities other than traveling to the next contract? He didn’t know. He didn’t know what they would do with Ciri in the upcoming years, or even if he would be a part of it. 

He cut off the train of thought with a huff and made his way out the door and into the maze that called itself a keep. He assumed that it was past sunrise since the bed had been cold and the Witchers seemed to be unable to have mornings that started after the last fragments of night were out of the sky. 

Coincidentally, mornings starting mid morning were Jaskier’s favorite mornings. 

The winding hallways eventually took him to the dining hall, and he just hoped that there was breakfast left.  

He caught sight of Yennefer as he made his way from the door that led into the dinning room to the one that led into the kitchen. She was smirking at him. 

Never a good sign.

He paused “Any food left from breakfast? I seem to have overslept,” he asked, trying to figure out her angle. 

Yennefer raised a brow and turned the page of her book delicately. “They certainly made a point to leave you some, but I do imagine it’s quite easy to sleep in when you are occupying the bed of a Witcher. They do seem quite intent on caring for you today.” 

He wasn’t going to rise to the bait. He wasn’t. 

“I did no such thing, and I’m grateful that they left me some.” He responded, turning his back to her and pushing through the doors to the kitchen, her mocking laugh following him. 

It was porridge again, although he didn’t mind. He just added sugar to it, unwilling to poison himself with the mysterious contents of the other bowls, and walked back out. He settled in one of the plush chairs across from the Witch. He hadn’t talked to her really at all through their time here, and they had left on less than the best of terms, but he decided to try.

At least trading insults with her was amusing. 

“Where is everyone? On my walk over I didn’t hear a peep,” he asked her, settling in to work on his breakfast. 

Her smirk returned. “Oh, Geralt came into the hall this morning with a very specific venture in mind for his brothers, in-laws, and himself. Ciri begged to tag along and Vesemir used it as an excuse to get out of the keep. They will most likely be back by mid afternoon,” she responded, mischief in her purple eyes.

Jaskier’s mind had screeched to a halt at in-laws. 

“In-Laws?!” He asked incredulously. 

Yennefer’s smile turned smug. “The only people that don’t know that Aiden, Coën, and Lambert are together are Aiden,  Coën, and Lambert. Eskel walked in on them all sleeping on each other in various stages of undress and I’ve never seen a Witcher paler. But why make them define it? They’ve found some happiness and will keep each other safe.” 

Jaskier paused in contemplation. “Huh. That makes… a lot of sense.” 

And it did. They were happy as they were, why disrupt the peace? He spooned more porridge into his mouth and sat back in his chair. He peered out the window, trying to gauge the time. 

He frowned. “What are they doing that will take them until afternoon?” he asked incredulously. They were even outside the keep, what were they doing, yelling at the trees?

Yennefer’s smirk never slipped. “I’m sure that they will come show you as soon as they are done. They were very proud of themselves when they left.” 

The bard let out a dramatic sigh and looked at the Witch. “Well, my dear, what should we do with our day?” 

Yennefer snorted inelegantly. “Nothing that you can help with, or that I want you to help with for that matter.” 

She got up and Jaskier followed, suddenly not wanting to be alone. “I’m sure I can help, or at least sit there and tell you what I think you are doing wrong,” he sniped at her as they walked out the door.

Yennefer’s face did something then, an expression that he would describe as fondness on anyone else. She didn’t respond, but she also didn’t stop him from following. She led him to the center of the keep and to a door that had been locked every time he had tried it. 

Yennefer’s hand burned bright purple for a split second before the door swung open. 

It was an almost octagonal room with stairs in the far corner. Instead of stone like the rest of the keep, it was an uncut deep brown wood. Beds were against every wall, sterile cotton resting on every mattress. Yennefer bypassed them all and gilded up the stairs.

“I assume you can find your own way back here, bard.” She called. “Go find something to amuse yourself with, and come back. I’ll be at the top.”

“Do you have a needle and thread up there?” Jaskier yelled from the bottom of the stairs. 

Yennefer’s head peered down from the spiral stairs that wound around the walls. “Do I look like an amateur to you, bard?” 

Not only could he hear the judgment in her voice, he could also feel it seeping into his ears. He gave her a rude gesture and made his way out the door, careful not to let it close behind him. He hastily made the trek to the room that held all of the chests filled with clothes and grabbed what he had set aside for Ciri. 

He threw the blue skirt and cream shirt over his shoulder and did a quick search of the other chests he never got to look through. He found a nice tan shirt as well as a few pairs of similar pants that he would turn into skirts, but they were much plainer in color and made of a rougher fabric.

As he made his way down the hallways back to Yennefer, he was suddenly struck with a wave of sympathy for the eldest Witcher. It was so quiet, walking the halls alone. Every step echoed and he could hear his own heartbeat.

It was stifling.

He walked faster, eager to not be in the cold stone walls alone. He closed the door to Yennefer’s lab behind him, the clothes thrown over his shoulder, and made his way up the stairs.

The stairs took him up into the tower, and he noticed that the walls that the stairs followed were covered in shelves. Flowers, leaves, claws, and many more were sitting in glass jars on the shelves. They were organized in some way that he couldn’t understand, but the jars had less and less things in them as he went up the stairs. 

Half way up he spotted a door that curved with the wall of the tower. That definitely seemed like something he needed to poke his head into. 

Someone must have anticipated someone like him. As he grasped the door and shook the handle it didn’t budge one inch. 

He huffed and dramatically turned away. What fun was an old keep if he couldn’t stick his head in potentially dangerous rooms?

He finally reached the top and took in the lab. A fire was at the far wall with various rods stuck in the stone fireplace above it with multiple pots hanging off them. Herbs were drying from the ceiling in the right corner, and a table covered in small jars, crystals, and candles sat below it. Bookshelves lined the wall next to it, books and weirdly sentient knickknacks stacked within them.

He swears he saw a doll next to a deep purple book turn its head and blink at him.

The left side of the room housed a long table pushed up against the wall, tools, papers and what he assumed to be instructions splayed around, and there were a thin line of windows where he could see the roof of the keep and another tower rising up by the mountain. 

Yennefer didn’t look up from where books were floating around her head while she scratched notes onto parchment. After a particularly violent dot of what he assumed was an ‘i’ she turned to look at one of her books. 

“Your needle and thread are over there,” she told him, waving her quill to the other end of the table. 

Jaskier looked to his left and spotted a small kit at the edge of the table. He examined the two spools of thread and the needle, appreciating the scissors that Yennefer had added. The thread was undyed and thick, so it was off white and the bone needle was thicker than some of the others he had used.

These, however, would be much sturdier and the stitches would last longer. 

He dragged a stool out from under the table and spread the inside out blue pants on the table and put the others in a pile in the corner. He started by carefully using the tip of the scissors too pull the inner stitches and the crotch stitches.

It would look a little strange as there usually only side stitches on skirts, but it would be better than nothing. After painstakingly removing the stitches he started the arduous task of measuring and cutting. He held the garment up and examined it. 

He noted how he would have too cut the crotch pieces but also make sure that it flowed the way it was meant too. He carefully lay the skirt onto the table in the position that he needed it in and tried his best too be meticulous.

He thought it went pretty well.

He stopped for a moment and stretched, looking out the window to gauge time. The sun was high in the sky, but he still couldn’t see it which meant that it wasn’t yet past noon. He had found that looking out into the valley meant that he was facing north, meaning that the window he was looking out of was facing west. 

He shook his head. He had to focus. 

He started to carefully line up the edges where he wanted the seams and threaded the needle. Halfway through his stitching, Yennefer broke the silence. She had moved from the table to the pots over the fire, and they were pots because even in his head he was too scared to call them cauldrons.

“What are you doing, bard?” she asked, not looking away from the fire. 

“Ciri only has nondescript pants and shirts as far as I know, and I thought it might be nice for her to have the option of something at least slightly nicer. I found a room of old clothes and decided to make her some skirts out of loose pants and alter some shirts for her.” He told her, not looking up from his sewing.

Yennefer was silent for a moment. “That’s… a good idea,” she admitted reluctantly. “They certainly won't be lavish or  ornate, but she might like them.”

Jaskier let out a huff. “Thank you for that glowing review,” he told her, rolling his eyes at her laughter. 

He finally connected the two ends around what he believed to be mid day. He stood and cracked his back before he gathered the skirt by the waist and held it up. He smiled in self satisfaction, it definitely looked like a skirt. 

He held it up to his own waist, noting how it fell to his feet while Ciri’s entire body came up to his shoulder. 

How to do this? He cocked his hip and tilted his head as he considered. He could get away with sewing the seams without pins as he just put the edges together, but the hem of this needed to be straight.

Before he could get too much into thought he was startled by Yennefer slamming down a small tin container on the table. She looked straight into Jaskier’s eyes with some of the most intensity Jaskier had ever been faced with.

“Pins for the hem. Make her something nice,” she told him, holding his gaze for a moment before sweeping away. 

Jaskier stared at her back as she retreated down the stairs. He was suddenly very confused. Yennefer had magic and could theoretically get Ciri any lavish dress or skirt that she could want, or she could have done this herself probably better than anything Jaskier was doing at the moment. 

Jaskier was abruptly hit with self consciousness. What if Ciri didn’t like it, or he messed it up? 

He took a deep breath and rolled his shoulders. He wouldn’t mess it up, and if Ciri didn’t like it, that was ok. If she didn’t like it then he would just keep it and sell it or give it to Rosie if she wanted it. He wasn’t wasting his time.

He spread the skirt on the floor this time and looked around for what he could use too measure the length. He made his way to the bookshelf to look for a few long books that he could use, but kept his eyes firmly away from the vicinity of the doll. He wanted to just live in the simple ignorance that came with not actually knowing for sure if the doll had moved. 

He found two long ones and a normal length one that didn’t look like they would curse him if he touched them and brought them back to the skirt. He stacked them down the length, guessing that they were roughly two and a half feet down and started pinning. It was a pain to move them to the left and right, but by the time he could see the sun just in the top of the window he had all the hems pinned down.

He had a little less than a foot of fabric left, and he hoped that she could continue to wear it even when there was no more fabric to let out.

Now that he didn’t have to concentrate as severely as he had when he was measuring and Yennefer was out of the room, he started humming. He was definitely getting along in his song with the goal to capture the creepy ambiance of the keep, but the room did not lend itself to the feeling he was going for. What he was humming was a theme that he could almost guarantee that no other bard had even thought of. 

The safety of being surrounded by Witchers. They were dangerous, ancient, and loud, but he knew that he would be protected. He thought that it would be a nice thing to bring out in the soft moments after dinner. 

He brought in the lute that he had been wanting and clicked his tongue approvingly at the sound and the stitch. He had made the first round of stitches for the hem and had come to a conclusion about the chorus. He was very proud of himself. 

He tied off the thread to start making longer stitches to keep the extra fabric up but easier to let the hem down, later on. He threw his arms up in victory. Score one for Jaskier the bard. 

He turned the skirt right side out and breathed a hefty sigh of relief. It looked like a skirt. Not a finely made skirt, but it was certainly wearable. 

He lay it carefully on the stool that he had been sitting in and reached for the shirt. He shook it out and looked at it.

It might actually be unnecessary for him to alter this. The cuffs of the sleeves weren’t too long and could be rolled up slightly. The boy would have been around Ciri’s size but taller. 

However the V-neck, while it could be laced up, was too low for him to allow. 

He flipped it inside out and did a few small stitches to keep them together. He wouldn’t force her to be too modest, so he only sewed it up four eyelet lengths. 

He flipped it back and held it up to the skirt. He smiled. It was a pretty combination that he thought that Ciri might definitely like. 

Before he started ripping the seams on the other pants he peeked out of the window, wondering if he could possibly see anyone walking over the bridge or into the courtyard. 

Nothing.

He sighed and rolled his eyes, figuring that they would be back late, lost in whatever activity that they decided was important enough to brave the cold, snowy mountains. Knowing them, he figured that they were doing some sort of tracking game, like the Witcher version of hide and go seek.

He continued to work through his lighter song and began ripping the seams. He decided that he would rip the seams on all of the pants first, just to get the dull step out of the way. 

Still, as he finished the seams he realized how his body hurt from the hard stool and the harder stone floor. It was time to change locations.

He threw all the fabric over his shoulder while he gathered the sharp implements and thread in his left hand before making his way down the stairs.

The door on the stairs was open as he passed by, but before he could stick his head in, Yennefer was blocking him.

“Don’t get too close. The fumes at this stage aren’t good for humans,” She told him, arms crossed but he could see literal cauldrons steaming on various surfaces. 

“I wasn’t planning on it,” a bold-faced lie. “I was letting you know that I was moving to the library to finish up. 

Yennefer nodded in acknowledgement before closing the door in his face, a typical interaction for them. 

He made his way down the rest of the stairs into the hallway. He turned to the right, which was a straight shot to the library. He dropped the fabric onto a side table by his favorite chair before grabbing the fire starter the Witchers had left here for Ciri and him. Once he had a solid blaze going in the fireplace he returned to his chair.

It was easier this time, making the skirt shape and connecting them and he made it not as monotonous by using his gift. He imitated the sound of wind, bells and whistles just for fun before he made it slightly more challenging. He played songs that he had written, singing half heartedly as he focused on his sewing. 

He had managed to tire himself out and sew the pants into unhemmed skirts before he heard yelling and slamming from the front of the keep. He stood and stretched, taking a quick look outside to see Yennefer’s prediction of late afternoon was right. 

He also realized that he had never changed out of his sleep clothes. He just shrugged, not truly caring at this point of the afternoon and slung the finished shirt and blue skirt over his shoulder. 

He made it halfway to the kitchen before he was met with a startling and worrying sight. 

Eskel and Lambert rounded the corner in a hurry, with spots of blood on their hands, faces, and clothes. They spotted him at the same time, but before they could open their mouths, Jaskier was worrying. 

He rushed up to them and grabbed their faces, demanding to know if they were hurt, but after looking them over, he concluded that they weren't. His next thought was another one of the party. 

“Who’s hurt?! Is it Ciri? It had better not be Ciri, what do we need, do you need a potion?” he continued his tirade for another few seconds before Lambert slapped a hand over his mouth.

“No one’s hurt, we went hunting. We were coming to find you and Yennefer,” Eskel explained.

Jaskier deflated in relief. “Thank Melitele,” he breathed once Lambert had released his hand. “Yennefer is in her lab tower, brewing something in cauldrons and I was told I was not allowed in. One of you can go get her and the other can take me to the kitchen. These—” he gestured to the fabric on his shoulder, “are for Ciri.”

Lambert snorted. “Eskel can take you, I want to see what dangerous things the Witch has going on,” he told them before disappearing down the hallway.

“I think he just doesn’t want to deal with the emotions of gift giving,” Eskel told Jaskier, a hand on his back steering him down the hallway. 

Jaskier snorted in agreement, but he was still a little concerned about what was happening. He had noticed that both Witchers’ pupils were bigger than usual and the closer they got to the dining hall the more noise he heard. 

“Why do I feel like something other than just hunting happened?” Jaskier asked. Eskel smiled down at him.

“The goal was to hunt the deer that live in the woods to the east of the keep. We did that,” The Witcher told him, mischief in his eyes that Jaskier didn’t trust.

“And that's… all?” Jaskier asked, beyond suspicious. 

“No,” Eskel stated, “but you’ll see. Geralt and Ciri are very proud of themselves.”

Jaskier gulped.

They made their way to the dining hall before taking the left to the door to the kitchen where the noise was coming from.

Vesemir was pinching the bridge of his nose as Geralt and Ciri, also with blood on them, were doing something to a large slab of meat with smiles on their faces. 

“It’s a spice rub, Vesemir,” Geralt insisted, Ciri nodding along enthusiastically. 

Jaskier sighed and stepped fully into the room before stopping and putting his hands on his hips.

“What is going on here?” he demanded. 

Ciri and Geralt spun around to look at him, and he noticed that Geralt’s pupils were the same as his brothers. He was quickly in front of Jaskier and grabbed his arm, leading him forward before gesturing to the meat. Ciri was bouncing on her toes in excitement and Geralt was looking at him expectantly. 

“I’m assuming you two hunted this?” They nodded. “Good job, it looks very good.” Jaskier praised, guessing that's what they wanted from him.

Ciri grinned while Geralt stared at him more intently, like he was waiting for Jaskier to get something. The bard raised a brow and Geralt gestured vaguely in response. 

The Witcher sighed. “We got them for you,” He told Jaskier. 

It took Jaskier a moment to catch up and he was suddenly apprehensive of what they had been doing all day. “Them?” 

Vesemir sighed and Eskel laughed as Geralt started to haltingly speak.

“I noticed that you had lost weight. I was concerned. You like deer and we were getting restless. We used it to help train Ciri.” Geralt told him, eyes locked on the bard’s. 

Vesemir rolled his eyes and threw up his hands. “No, you dragged your brothers out into the deep snow to find your bard’s favorite food, Aiden and Coën wanted to come too, and then Ciri pressured us into letting her come. I came to make sure you didn’t over hunt the mountain.”

Eskel was full belly laughing at his brother's affronted face after being called out. 

Jaskier smiled at Geralt and reached up to wipe some blood off the Witcher’s face. It was certainly some of the most innocent viscera he had ever wiped from the other man’s face. 

“Thank you, darling, that was very sweet of you. I do enjoy deer the best. Now, did you two leave Aiden and Coën at the bottom of the mountain?” He raised a brow at Ciri’s slightly guilty look at his words. 

“They are taking care of the other game,” Geralt explained, and Jaskier knew that tone of voice. That tone of voice meant that Geralt was telling the truth but omitting some facts. 

“Geralt,” he warned. “How much game did you all take down?” 

“A few deer, some rabbits, and we spotted some Kikimores,” Geralt told him, looking back into Jaskier’s eyes.

Jaskier put his hands on his hips.

“We each got a large deer, Eskel, Aiden and I got bucks. Ciri was practicing catching rabbits, she caught seven. We spotted two Kikimores and got them both. Aiden is skinning the deer and rabbits while Coën is dissecting the Kikimores for ingredients.”

Jaskier let out a breath. That was a lot of game.

“Alright, well it seems as if everyone has their jobs, so it is time for you two—” He pointed too Geralt and Ciri “to clean the blood off of your faces.” He started pushing them out the door, ignoring their protests that they had too finish cooking the meat for him.

Jaskier missed the looks that Eskel and Vesemir were sending Geralt, looks that asked why he was complaining if he was allowing himself to be herded out the door. He could just stand still and Jaskier wouldn’t be able to move him an inch.

He ignored them.

Jaskier fussed at them as he led them through the hallways and down many flights of stairs until they reached the hot springs. The two stripped down to their underclothes and slipped into the water to get the blood off. 

“I’ll get you two clothes while you scrub. I’ll be right back,” he told them before he disappeared out the door.

He quickly retreated, not wanting them to see the wide, giddy smile on his face. Geralt had remembered his favorite meat and everyone had gone out to get it for him, just because Geralt thought he was underfed.

He made his way only to Geralt’s room, as he already had an outfit for Ciri over his shoulder. He rifled through the trunks by Geralt’s bed until he found a soft tunic and thick cotton pants. He shifted other clothes around before uncovering two pairs of thick woolen socks for the longest haired members of the keep.

His head shot up.

He had a brush and hair oils in his room. He quickly made his way across the keep too gather his supplies. He rifled through his own cabinets to gather his bathing supplies, guessing that there were no soaps in the bowels of the keep. 

As he returned to the springs ten minutes later to see Geralt sitting on the hotter pool facing Ciri who was retelling her favorite parts of hunting with sweeping gestures and wide eyes from the human safe one. He smiled softly and set their clothes on a small rock outcropping and made his way over to Ciri. 

She peered up at him and smiled, her grin only growing when he held up the soaps and oils. She knew the drill at this point and turned her back to him and bopped around in her seat happily. He gathered her hair and started brushing, working chamomile oil into her hair. 

A shadow fell over his shoulder and he looked up to see Geralt. A dripping wet, barely clothed Geralt. 

He quickly averted his eyes and Geralt lowered himself down next to him, watching. 

“What does the… chamomile oil? Do again?” He asked quietly.

“It softens the hair and helps it stay shiny, it also soothes her scalp,” he explained before hesitantly handing Geralt the brush and scooting over, letting Geralt brush his daughter's hair. 

Ciri turned her head in confusion before the most delighted grin came over her face and she whipped her head back forward again so fast that her wet hair slapped Geralt in the leg. 

Jaskier silently corrected small things, making sure he didn’t pull too hard or create a new tangle. It was nice to see Geralt at least try to help the girl. 

After the oil was sufficiently spread in her hair and there were no knots left, Geralt turned to him. “Tell me how to braid it?” the Witcher asked quietly, not wanting to break the ambience that they had created. 

Jaskier smiled tenderly and nodded.

“Most braids require three equal sections and I’ll show you the easiest. Gather her hair all too the back and then feel where her neck is,” Jaskier instructed, watching Geralt gently gather the hair as instructed.

“Now gather the hair that isn’t in front of her neck on each side, and place them over her shoulders. That will give you three very close to even sections. Now take the one on the right, keep it separate from the one in the middle and cross it over. The right is now the middle and vice versa” Jaskier explained patiently.

Geralt approached braiding Ciri’s hair with the same intensity that he scouted for a hunt, and Jaskier couldn’t help but smile.

“Now do the same thing but with the left strand, put it over the middle and replace it. Do the same thing on the right and keep repeating the steps,” Jaskier explained.

Geralt nodded and continued with his task, actually doing a pretty decent job, if a little bumpy.

After tying it off, Ciri was immediately moving. She flipped her hair over her shoulder to peer at it before turning too them with a wide grin. 

“Thanks Geralt,” she told the Witcher sincerely. He smiled at her gently and nodded in acknowledgement. 

Ciri just looked between the two of them before she snagged a towel and was out of the water and making her way to where Jaskier had placed her clothes before he could decipher what the look was. 

“You did good, especially for the first time,.” Jaskier told him while he waited for Ciri to realize. Geralt gave him a small, soft smile before the moment was interrupted.

Ciri was suddenly brandishing her clothes in his face. “Jaskier, what are these?” she demanded, but Jaskier could see a wet film over her eyes.

“Well, when we were looking for clothes for you I found some loose pants and nice shirts, and I altered this one into a skirt and sewed the skirt a better neckline for you. I’m still working on the other skirts,” he explained.

Ciri sniffed. “I’m going to put them on,” she said before continuing to dry her underclothes with the towel aggressively before she carefully put on her new outfit. 

The skirt was a little short and there was quite a bit of fabric from the shirt she needed to tuck into the skirt, but it looked good. 

A tear fell down her check and she quickly wiped it away as Jaskier got up. She threw herself into his arms.

“Thank you,” she whispered into his shoulder. He pulled back and smiled. “Of course dear. I figured you might miss skirts and nicer clothes, and this is the best I could do.”

She sniffed again. “I love them. I did miss them, but I’m not very good at sewing.” 

Jaskier cupped the back of her neck in comfort and led her to the door. “I’ll show you how, I promise. I’m going to help Geralt with his hair and Yennefer wanted to see you. We will meet you in the dining hall for dinner?” 

She smiled and nodded, eyes only a little red. She gave him another hug before disappearing out the door. 

He turned back to see Geralt had moved back to the hotter tub. It was silent again, but not uncomfortable. He sat behind the Witcher, who was also familiar with the routine of Jaskier’s forced hair care, and started to run lavender oil into the pale locks.

He took longer on Geralt’s than he did on Ciri’s for no other reason than that Geralt’s hair was worse. 

He started doing more elaborate braids in Geralt’s hair then what he taught him how to do on Ciri, almost replicating the Valkyrie braid he had done on the Witcher before. It was soothing in its own way, braiding the hair intricately, and Geralt didn’t complain. 

He had no more excuse to continue once every bit of hair was put into a braid, and he sighed internally before placing his hands on Geralt’s shoulders. 

“All done,” he announced, breaking the silence that had enveloped him. Geralt nodded and they both stood so Geralt could grab his clothes, and since Jaskier had snagged him new underclothes, the bard looked away while he changed. 

“Thank you for the clothes, and for making Ciri a skirt,” Geralt said as they made their way out of the cavern and back up the stairs. 

Jaskier shrugged noncommittally. “Thank you for the deer.” 

And really, what else was there to say? They were both safe, Jaskier had forgiven Geralt, and they were going to go make dinner. 

In that moment, they had no need to feel uneasy, they were at peace with themselves and each other. In that moment, they thought they had all the time in the world.

They could have never anticipated that the next morning Aiden would burst into the dinning hall during breakfast, just back from his walk along the ramparts, yelling about an army cresting the Killer.

Chapter Text

The doors to the dining hall slammed open to reveal a wide-eyed Aiden.

“Nilfgaardian troops  have crested the Killer.” 

The room immediately burst into motion, Vesemir barking orders before the Witchers ran out the door, all scattering in different directions. Geralt grabbed a wide eyed Ciri and Jaskier by their arms and pulled them up and out the door.

“We have precautions in place and plans in case this ever happened. We can handle it,” he told them in a harsh voice that Jaskier recognized as his Witcher being ready for a fight.

He ushered them down the winding hallways as fast as they could possibly go, until they reached the base of Ciri’s tower. Before Geralt could push them up the stairs, Jaskier and Ciri dug in their heels, causing the Witcher to turn to them with a frustrated expression.

“Geralt, there has to be something that we can do to help. At least tell us what is going to happen,” Jaskier implored, resisting the pull on his arm. 

Geralt’s face hardened. “We don’t have time for this. You can help by staying where I put you,” he told them before wrapping an arm around both of their waists and picking them up, Ciri’s new skirt flying behind her.

They were up the spiral stairs with supernatural speed before Geralt opened the heavy door and put Jaskier down on the landing, telling him in a firm tone to stay before he went up the final stretch of stairs with Ciri. He ignored her loud protests and locked the final door on her.

He turned back to Jaskier, dragging him to the small alcove stacked with wood. He shoved the wood aside harshly and pulled up on a small handle that Jaskier had never noticed before. He pointed to the ladder that led into the dark.

“This is the escape door that will lead you out onto the mountain. It will take you about halfway down the mountain,” Geralt told the bard, straightening after closing it again and taking Jaskier by the shoulders.

“You see us fall, you get a bad feeling, you see something even slightly suspicious, you take Ciri and you run. Don’t look back, don’t come to check on us. Never come back here. Get Ciri and yourself somewhere safe and stay there. Promise me.” The Witcher stared straight into Jaskier’s eyes. 

Jaskier felt tears leak from his eyes and his breath hitched. “Don’t make me promise that. Don’t make me promise not to come back for you,” the bard pleaded. 

Geralt took a breath before wrapping his arms around Jaskier and squeezing tight, and Jaskier could have sworn he felt a kiss on his hair. Jaskier sobbed.

“There must be something I can do to help,” he implored, although he already knew the most important job he could have was to get Ciri somewhere safe. 

Geralt took a deep breath and pulled back. He reached up and pulled his medallion over his neck. He grabbed Jaskier’s hand and pressed the cool metal into it. 

“You can keep this safe for me,” He told the bard. “You know how it works, use it to your advantage.”

Before Jaskier could respond in anything other than sobs, Geralt grabbed him, unlocked the door that Ciri was pounding against, and shoved him in. Ciri threw the unlocked door open after it slammed after him only to be met with a Quen around the door, pounding on it and shouting as Jaskier watched as the lock slid heavily into place on the door to the landing from where he sat on the floor with tears running down his face. 

Ciri continued screaming increasingly vulgar profanities that she must have learned from the younger Witchers even as the Quen faded and she moved to slamming her fists into the outer door. Jaskier clutched the medallion to his chest and let her tire herself out screaming while he cried.

She let out another shout of anger before she fell to her knees in sobs. They both knew that, even though there were six Witchers and a mage here, this wasn’t the first time that there was an army at the gate, and last time the keep had been full.

Jaskier slipped the medallion over his head with shaky hands before gathering himself on shaky legs and collapsing next to Ciri and wrapping his arms around her. She sobbed louder and went boneless in his arms, one hand clutching the cold metal around Jaskier’s neck. 

Her breath hitched. “I want to watch, I… I have to watch,” she whispered, leaning towards the door that would lead them to her rooms. 

“Me too,” he whispered, pulling them both to their feet. They both felt as if they were the one who had brought ruin upon their family, Ciri by having Nilfgaard after her in the first place, Jaskier assuming they gleaned the location from his mind. They had to watch, to see what they did. They staggered to the windows with heavy hearts, dreading the view outside. 

Jaskier had been to Cintra, to Redania and Temeria, to Aedrin, and more besides. He had even been to Nilfgaard before everything. He had seen soldiers, assassins, militias and the aftermath of each one of them.

He had never seen an army marching to battle, however. They weren't yet at the bridge, but they were closing in, marching three abreast down the mountain trail. He couldn’t see any of the others in the courtyard, or even around the surrounding mountains. 

Ciri leaned against him heavily as they stood, stray tears leaking down her face. They watched behind locked doors and sky-high windows as their ruin marched closer and closer to them. 

Jaskier dreaded the moment when he had to tell her they needed to run, when they saw the Witchers drop and he would have to drag her kicking and screaming down the old ladder. 

Just before the sea of black reached the bridge, Jaskier heard a boom, then a rumble, and finally a sound akin to a thousand horses running. 

On either side of the Killer, snow started flying down the sides of the mountains forming the pass, straight towards the army, who attempted to escape the path of the avalanches. They watched with wide eyes and bated breath as green swirls of magic tried to quell the flow, but the sheer amount of snow was too much. Only half of the army made it to the bridge that led to the keep. The other half was buried beneath the snow. 

Jaskier guessed it was the result of Lambert’s proclivity for fiery explosives. 

Ciri pressed herself closer as they watched, and she clutched his hand tightly when they spotted Yennefer on the ramparts, raising her hands while the Witchers gathered with their swords in hand in the courtyard. 

The army was close enough that the two in the tower could see who was leading them. 

Fringilla was in thick black robes and from what Jaskier could see, she looked unbothered by losing half of her forces. The man next to her, however, seemed much more agitated. He was wearing all black, although he had donned armor in place of robes, and his face was obscured by a full helmet adorned with large feathers. 

Jaskier thought he looked like a pompous twat.

Ciri clutched his arm tighter and inhaled sharply. Jaskier looked down at her and took in her wide eyes and pale face, but before he could ask what happened, she spoke.

“The man with the black helmet. He was in Cintra when… when it fell. He kept trying to kidnap me while I searched for Geralt. He almost succeeded,” she whispered, not looking away from the window.

Jaskier clutched her tightly and they watched Fringilla raise a hand, causing the army to stop.

Then he noticed the Witchers and the Witch.

Yennefer stood on the ramparts, her heavy cape whipping around her and little sparks of purple magic whipping with the wind.

Vesemir, Eskel, and Geralt had pushed open the gate during the avalanche and he spotted Aiden standing on an almost impossible ledge of the crumbling wall of the Keep with a bow and quiver of arrows. The three on the ground seemed to be talking to Fringilla and the man in the black helmet. 

But while Jaskier wasn’t close enough to hear them or read their lips, he was far enough away to see what was happening on the other side of the bridge. He saw two figures scaling down the rock faces and creeping behind the army, each wielding a silver sword. 

He assumed Coën and Lambert had set off the explosions and were going to attack from behind. 

He looked back to where the three wolves were standing and he saw Geralt tense. 

Fringilla raised her arm.

The man with the black helmet raised his sword.

They could hear the army’s battle cry from behind the stone of the tower.

A swell of different emotions overcame Jaskier as he watched the army charge towards the Witchers, but the main feature was helplessness. 

He felt helpless as he watched Fringilla quickly transport herself and the man with the black helmet, presumably a General, behind the Witchers. Yennefer and Fringilla were swiftly hurling magic at each other and the General and Vesemir were immediately locked in battle. Geralt and Eskel tried to hold the bridge, creating a funnel where only four soldiers could fit at a time. 

Aiden was firing as many arrows as he found in a keep that didn’t specialize in archery, to try and pick off soldiers from the middle as he could. That was difficult, however, as there were very few places that were vulnerable to arrows. Coën and Lambert engaged the stragglers in the back, using their knowledge of the terrain to lead them away in small groups and fend them off. 

Jaskier watched with bated breath, they actually seemed to be doing well. Yennefer was keeping Fringilla occupied while Vesemir seemed to be not so much trying to dispatch the General but trying to incapacitate him.  

Jaskier guessed that they wanted to keep him alive for interrogation.

At that moment, there was both a slight win, and a monumental loss. 

Vesemir was able to slam the butt of his sword into the General’s head, just as Fringilla sent a barrage of green magic not at Yennefer, but the wall beneath her feet. 

The wall blasted backwards, and Jaskier could not see where Yennefer ended up in the rubble, but he knew she couldn’t be at full strength after that. 

Fringilla used the opportunity to send Aiden flying off his ledge and to open a portal for the middle of the courtyard for the army to march through. The front half of the army continued to fight the Witchers at the gate, but now they were being attacked from behind as well. Jaskier felt a whine build in his throat, and he had to fight to keep it in.

He lost the battle when Coën and Lambert ran to help but ran into a barrier. He could faintly see their mouths moving in screams as they pounded on the barrier.  

He felt tears soak his sleeve as Ciri began crying harder at the scene unfolding before them. 

As he saw the three Witchers fighting an army, he prepared himself to drag Ciri down the ladder. 

Eskel took a sword to the leg, and Geralt one to the shoulder. Aiden and Yennefer still hadn’t surfaced.  Coën was attacking the barrier with signs while Lambert was hitting it repeatedly with his sword. 

Fringilla  watched dispassionately before she turned to focus on the door to the keep, itself. He assumed she was trying to break the wards Yennefer must have placed.

The three Witchers were separated from each other, fighting desperately.

“Ciri,” he whispered, backing away.

She turned to him with puffy eyes and a red nose, already shaking her head against whatever he could say.

“Geralt made me promise. There’s a secret way out,” he told her softly. “We can’t let them have fought for nothing, and if any of them make it out, they will find us.”

At that moment, Jaskier saw something in Ciri break. She knew that he was right.

“This is the second time,” she admitted in a wet voice, not looking at him as he gently led her away, her eyes still locked on the window. 

He paused. “The second time?” he asked.

She nodded. “When they attacked Cintra, Grandmother was hurt and… she made me leave her. One of her knights got me out.” She paused and looked straight into his eyes.

“He died in Cintra. Promise me that won’t happen today,” she implored.

Jaskier sucked in a sharp breath. He hadn’t even thought about how similar this must be for Ciri, and it hurt his heart to know that she would lose both of her families to a Nilfgaardian raid.

He ushered her down the stairs to the small room that held the trap door. Ciri resisted for just a moment, and Jaskier turned to look at her from where he was propping open the door. 

“Are you sure there is nothing we can do? I can… I can scream,” she suggested.

Jaskier blinked. “Scream?” he asked.

Ciri wrung her hands. “I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone about it until Yennefer found out more about it. It started at the sacking, I just… screamed and things would shake or fall over. I toppled an obelisk. I have horrible control, but I could try?” she asked nervously.

Jaskier took a calming breath. He could yell at them for keeping something like this, never mind something that sounded like a form of the Gift from him later.

“No, Ciri, you shouldn’t. You would have to target just Nilfgaard, or else you could hurt the others, or cause another avalanche. It might not even work and you would give away our location,” he told her in no uncertain terms.

But her suggestion had given him an idea. 

Was it a stupid, reckless, dangerous idea? Absolutely. Would it give the Witchers a chance? 

Yes.

“You can’t scream,” he told her, “but I can sing.”

It had been something that he had thought about for a while. It had started at Oxenfurt when he was reading in the restricted area about accounts of the Gift, and only intrigued him more as he started traveling with Geralt. He knew that the Gift was a result of siren ancestry, and traveling with Geralt introduced him to many beings who could manipulate others. 

Sirens drew sailors and coastal folk to their deaths using their voices. The Fae manipulated people, both mentally and physically. Djinn could manipulate reality and attack with their mind. 

He had found people looking for maney who agreed to help him hone his ability. He never did anything untoward to them, of course, but he led them into lakes, to the edge of cliffs, to picking up knives. He never had them do anything, but he knew he could. He made them raise their hands, using his own arm in a pantomime to make theirs rise as well.

He used his Gift as an extension of himself in those situations, but rarely in any other situation, and never in front of Geralt. He could make people dance, jump on one foot, and raise single fingers. He only did it with their consent and paid them, and he feared that if he ever did so on his travels with Geralt, the WItcher would think that he, too, was a monster. 

But it would certainly be useful now. He had never done more than three people at a time, but he knew that he could target them, maybe even enchanting others into stillness with his song. 

It would take an extraordinary amount of concentration and energy, an amount that would probably do him damage, but it would be worth it if he could do it. 

He stood and looked down at Ciri. 

“I can use my Gift, but it will take a lot out of me and you won’t want to see it. You get in there with this.” He reached over and grabbed a torch from outside the door. “Wait here. If I don’t come and get you, wait until you hear one of the Witchers. If you hear anyone else, start climbing down. You will have to go down the mountain yourself, but go to the town at the base of the mountain. After you get some food and supplies, run to Lettenhove. Go up to the manor in the main town and tell whoever answers the door, tell them, “‘Jaskier przysłał mnie, szukam azylu,’ Alright?” Jaskier instructed quickly.

Ciri looked at him with wide eyes “What? I may be able to help, I won’t just leave—”

“Jaskier przysłał mnie, szukam azylu. Repeat it. Remember it.” Jaskier said.

“But—” Ciri started, but Jaskier interrupted. “Jaskier przysłał mnie, szukam azylu. Say it.”

She sniffed. “Jaskier przysłał mnie, szukam azylu.”

He nodded “Good. Remember that. Now go.”

Ciri sniffed and nodded before climbing down the ladder, and he lowered the hatch behind her.

Jaskier took a breath. The whole ordeal only took five minutes at most, but a lot could happen in five minutes. He ran back to the window and peered out.  Lambert and Coën had switched jobs trying to break the barrier. Yennefer was still nowhere to be seen, and Fringilla was still working on the wards but he could tell that she was almost through. Aiden had reappeared and while Jaskeir could tell he was trying his best to fight, he could also tell he was struggling. He could see blood coating all four Witchers, knew some of it was their own, and while there were copious bodies littering the ground, they were still being overwhelmed by their attackers. 

Jaskeir whipped his head around, looking to see if any of the windows had a latch. He spotted a single panel on the far left with a latch and quickly threw it open before hanging his head out. He grimaced, noticing how thin the air was, but pushed through.

He gathered as much of his Gift as he could in the moment, knowing he would have to draw out everything he had, and pace himself. It bubbled beneath his skin, but he regulated it as he opened his mouth.

He focused on a song that was really just vocals, not only saving energy but keeping his Gift targeted. It was one of the most eerie songs he had ever written, as he had come up with it on a cloudy day on a coastal cliff, a few gravestones being reclaimed by the earth to his right. 

I can hear the cannons calling

As though across a dream

He was glad he made Ciri stay away as everyone on the courtyard paused before looking up at him. He focused on the three soldiers closest to Geralt. If he could make muscles and bones move, who's to say that he can’t make them move the wrong way? 

He flicked his wrist.

And I can smell the smoke of hell

In every stitch and seam

He couldn’t hear their necks snap, even though he was the only thing making sound in the whole valley. 

And like flowers, the bodies tumble

Around this muddied lot

It was a strange sensation then, as he sang more. It was like he could feel every person occupying the space beneath him. He let them become just awareness in the back of his mind and refocused. Three at a time.

I cannot hear them scream

"Forget me not"

Snap. Snap. Snap. Again and again. 

Your voice it carries over

The hubbub and the hum

And it paints the sky and circles high

Like the beating of a drum

He could almost feel the snaps in his soul as they happened on every word. He could feel the exhaustion, but it didn’t worry him. His brain was clouded as he continued, almost like his ancestry was taking over for him. 

You will scream "I won’t forget you"

But I’ll cover my cold ears

It cannot be a lie

If no-one hears

He didn’t know that every person in the valley didn’t hear his singing coming from above, to them it sounded like he was whispering in their ears. 

'Cause although you say good day to me

I know I don’t belong

He was tired. So tired, but he couldn’t stop. It was working, he was helping. It didn’t matter that he felt wrong.

And although you hold my hand and say

"I love you," you are wrong

Because love does not exist here

In this garden, there’s no feeling

It was a distant thought in his tired mind that the Witchers weren’t moving either. He wasn’t going to hurt them, so it was okay that they were under the sway of his song.

And you say the words so often

That I barely know the meaning

Snap. Snap. Snap. His victims joined the Witcher’s on the ground.

And when all the flowers are rotten

And all the cannons shot

I’ll scream, but you won’t hear

"Forget me not"

Snap. Snap. Snap. He was almost done. The thinness of the air wasn’t even bothering him anymore.

And in years to come, you’ll wander

To the place up on our hill

And then you’ll cry to our painted sky

Snap. Snap. Snap. It didn’t matter that he felt wrong, that his vision was blurring and darkness crept around the edges. 

"I loved him then, I love him still"

And you’ll strew some sage and lilies

And roses where I rot

Snap. Snap. Snap. There were only a few soldiers left now. He could make it. He raised his heavy hand before flicking his wrist, finishing them off.

Of all the flowers you picked

I knew you would forget forget-me-nots

He had taken care of the threat. He could rest now. 

His consciousness had faded before his legs buckled, and he had leaned so far out the window, that his body pitched forwards towards the open air.  

Two little hands, whose owner hated doing what she was told, grabbed his doublet and pulled back with her entire body weight. Ciri let out a huff of breath as Jaskier’s limp body fell back into the room and onto her. 

She pushed him off of her and turned to look at him.

She didn’t like what she saw. His naturally pale face and high cheekbones looked gaunt and sick. The skin around his eyes and nose was red like he was sick, and she leaned over to peel open his left eyes, meaning to check his pupil.

She let out a yelp and pitched backwards. His eyes, usually a striking gray-blue, looked almost ethereal in their summer sky brightness. 

She quickly leaned back over, taking note that there was definitely more to the Bardic Gift than they thought, especially when she noticed the medallion resting around his neck vibrating. 

Then she noticed the red burns spreading across the skin around the chain. She quickly slipped it off of his neck and hissed when she saw the red, raised imprints of the chain around his neck. 

That was definitely something to ask about. Jaskier had touched silver and the medallion before, and had never been burned by it. Could it be because of the amount of power he used? She didn’t know, and certainly wasn’t the best person for this, but she was also not the best person for the healing that he needed. 

She pushed herself up and to the window, peering out. 

She gagged. 

Even from the height she was at, it was obvious which soldiers the Witchers had gotten, and which ones Jaskier had.

The Witchers and Fringilla were the only ones standing, she noticed. Vesemir and Eskel, injured but alive, had her backed into the wall with Quen. Geralt, Lambert, and Coën were frantically digging through the rubble of the far wall near the mountain. 

She thought she had cried herself out, but she felt her eyes welling up. Yennefer and Aiden must be in there somewhere, but she needed help too. She needed help, but she needed to wait until they got Fringilla. 

She needed to watch what was happening outside, but she also needed to keep an eye on Jaskier. Frustrated and exhausted, tears fell from her face as she grabbed Jaskier under the arms and dragged him towards the window and propped him up on the wall underneath the glass. 

She kneeled next to him, leaning against his shoulder while peering out the window, waiting. The Witch had swords to her throat now, and she could see the Witchers in the rubble crouching down, pulling two bodies out. Coën and Geralt each had an arm around Yennefer, pulling her up into a sitting position as she leaned heavily against them. Lambert was heaving Aiden away from a large chunk of stone, falling back and taking the Cat clutched to his chest with him. 

Her eyes snapped back to the others when she saw a sharp movement. Fringilla was crumpled at the base of the outer wall, and her placement looked like she had been thrown. 

She sobbed in relief, still leaning against Jaskier’s sagging body as she took in that the Witchers were the only ones standing. She glanced back at Jaskier, and the relief rapidly dissipated. Jaskier’s skin was the same shade as Geralt’s hair and she swore she could see the strange blue of his eyes through his pale eyelids.

She threw her head back out the window “Help! Hey, Help!” she screamed down at the Witchers who had snapped their heads up to her. “Something is wrong with Jaskier!”

That got them moving. Geralt leaned Yennefer’s weight all the way onto Coën, and disappeared through the main doors with Eskel on his heels. Ciri could tell that Vesemir was trying to yell something back, but she couldn’t hear him from the height. 

The Griffin was helping Yennefer to her feet while she swayed dangerously, while Aiden was able to stand on his own and stumbled over to the duo after Lambert gently pushed him. The Wolf went to help Vesemir, throwing the General over his shoulder while Vesemir did the same with the Witch.

She reeled herself back into the tower and focused back on Jaskier. His skin where the medallion had hung was still red, but less inflamed. She leaned over him to peel his eye open again, confirming that his eye still looked strange. 

But she noticed something this time around, knowing that help was coming. 

His pupils were slightly too elongated, too oval like, to be normal. She dropped his eyelid and really looked at the other. 

The points of his ears were barely on this side of too sharp. 

His nails were a little too long, the beds a little green, the points a little too sharp. There was just too much webbing between his fingers, and it was discolored slightly green as well. 

His veins were a little too pronounced. The lightness of his cheekbones was a little too shiny. 

The door that separated them from the outside burst open, and she heard two sets of feet fly up the short flight of stairs before the door to her room almost shattered with the force of which it was thrown against the wall.

Geralt was immediately at her side, clutching her to his chest while he took in Jaskier. Eskel was more reserved, and she knew he had immediately clocked the same things Ciri had. The elder Witcher crouched down and looked at Ciri. 

“His eyes are too blue, and the medallion irritated his skin,” she whispered. 

Eskel nodded, and Geralt let her go to carefully study his bard. She watched as he opened his eyelids, took in the red marks left by the medallion, and spotted the subtle changes she had also noticed. 

“He’s never reacted to my medallion before, but I have noticed when he uses his Gift his eyes look a little brighter. But he used a lot of energy doing… What he did,” Geralt told them, turning the bard’s hands around while scrutinizing them. 

“We don’t know much about the Gift,” Eskel started, doing a more thorough investigation than his younger brother. “We assumed that the Siren genes in his family were much more recent than usual, however the ears are peculiar. They look Fae with those points, Siren’s ears look more like fish fins.” He turned to Geralt with a raised brow.

The Witcher sighed. “Wouldn’t surprise me. He’s fantastic with words, amazing with loopholes. I’ve come across more Fae rings around him than I ever had alone, and he looks at them for too long. Fae and Siren blood. Strange, but very possible for Jaskier.” 

Geralt swept Jaskier’s brown hair away from his face. “His heart is beating in its usual pattern, his breathing has been regular, and—” He reached out and took the medallion from Ciri before pressing both the medallion and chain to Jaskier’s skin. “—he isn’t responding to the silver, anymore. I think he only reacts to the silver when he uses his lineage like that. He’s never been in touch with silver when he uses his Gift. I think right now he’s just exhausted.”

Eskel nodded in agreement and stood up, reaching his hand out for Ciri. “We will keep an eye on him until we figure out everything that’s going on with him, but we need to keep him stable and make sure that he doesn’t get worse.”

Ciri sniffed and clutched the offered arm while Geralt gently picked Jaskier up, cradling him to his chest. She smiled. Geralt was gentler, softer with Jaskier, she noticed, moving when Jaskier hip checked him out of the way and letting himself be pulled along by the arm. 

They descended the stairs, Ciri looking back at the bard periodically as they made their way to the infirmary below Yennefer's lab.

The others were there when they arrived, Yennefer splayed out on one bed while Coën and Lambert were supporting Aiden onto another. Vesemir was leaning over Yennefer, trying to get her to drink something, but everyone who was awake immediately turned to look at them. 

Geralt ignored them and they watched as he gently lowered Jaskier down onto a third bed, pulling the blankets over him and arranging his head on the pillow gently. 

Eskel got Ciri seated on another bed and the room seemed to hold its breath as they waited for Geralt to turn to them. 

Vesemir lost his patience after a full two minutes. “Would you like to tell us what that was?” he asked Geralt.

Geralt didn’t look at them, just continued to brush Jaskier’s hair away from his face. “He saved us, is what happened. Melitele knows what he did to himself in the process.” He sat on the edge of the bard’s bed and just continued to look at him.

“We wouldn’t have made it out. I know it, you all know it. He’s always had some strange habits, but he has never done anything like this before as far as I know. He would never hurt us or anyone who didn’t deserve it.” He finally looked at the others, eyes hard. “You have nothing to worry about from him.”

Eskel sighed, but Vesemir beat him to the punch. He walked over and put a solid hand on Geralt’s shoulder. “We know that. We know he’s not going to do anything to us, but that was a huge display of power that none of us have ever seen before and don’t think I don’t see those ears and fingers.”

The three Witchers on the bed turned to look, Aiden’s eyes half mast. Lambert, however, was giving the bard a scrutinizing look. 

“If he had power like this, why didn’t he use it to get out of the cell Nilfgaard had him in?” he asked, voicing what they were all thinking. 

“They were in his head. They made him see things like rescues and other horrors. He didn’t believe that we were real for a while, and you saw his reaction when we thought he was lying,” Coën piped up, Aiden humming in agreement.

Ciri nodded. “He was about to take me out through the tunnel, but I suggested screaming. He asked what it was and once I explained he got a far away look in his eye before he told me that I couldn’t scream, but he could sing. He said it would take a lot out of him and if he or any of you didn’t come get me, to run to Lettenhove and tell someone in the main house… ‘Jaskier przysłał mnie, szukam azylu’?”

Ciri turned to Geralt, who had interrupted her. “Jaskier przysłał mnie, szukam azylu,” he repeated. “It means, ‘Buttercup sent me, I am looking for asylum.’ I got the same talk. He’s the Viscount there, and despite a mutual hatred, they would help for a time.” 

Ciri nodded in understanding, and Vesemir sighed from where he was tending to Yennefer. 

“We have to wait for him to wake up, keep an eye on him and these two.” He pointed to Aiden and Yennefer. “There is nothing we can do now but make sure they rest.”

Ciri nodded and moved to be next to Jaskier while Eskel grabbed what Vesemir requested, the Witchers on the bed moving Aiden to lay down.

“Do you think he will be ok?” she asked Geralt, quietly. The Witcher gave her a sad look and opened his arm for Ciri to tuck herself under.

“I think so. He’s strong and we will do everything we can. We had a huge win, and I think we will be safe for a while. Now, we just have to wait,” he told her quietly.

Ciri nodded and pulled herself into the Witcher’s lap, both of them watching as the bard’s chest slowly rose and fell. 

They would be ok.

His body hurt. Melitele wept, but his body hurt.

He didn't even want to open his eyes, but he knew he had to wake up. He had no idea how long he had been out, or if the others were in trouble.

He heaved as huge a sigh as he was able before he forced his eyes open. 

He was alone in the infirmary below Yennefer’s study, warm light coming from sconces on the wall, and he had no idea how he had gotten there. But if he was here, that meant that at least one of the Witchers was alive, and they had secured the keep. He vaguely remembered using his Gift more than he ever had before, and he knew that he had… neutralized a good portion of the army, but it all got fuzzy half way through the battle. 

He groaned and draped his hands over his face. That was a huge display of power in full view of monster hunters. 

What was it that Geralt had once said?

Monstrous is monstrous, no matter who is doing it. And sometimes, humans are more monstrous than the monsters. 

And he had killed a lot of people. He had done so while trying to protect the people he cared about, but he had still killed. He didn’t even know how many lives he took.

Suddenly, that was a problem. A huge, undeniable problem. 

He heaved himself up, ignoring the soreness of his body and the strain of his muscles. His eyesight grayed out for a moment, but he ignored it, pushing himself up and off the bed in jerky movements. 

His legs were weak as he stumbled over to the door, heaving it open before tripping through it. He slowly made his way from Yennefer’s tower to the short stretch of hallway that would take him outside. 

He braced himself on the walls of the hallways as he made his way, but groaned as he saw the door leading out. He had forgotten how heavy the damn door was. 

He leaned his entire weight against the door, wincing as it slowly creaked open. The cold hit his weak body like he had run into a stone wall, but he pushed on the main door that led to the cliff overhang where they had fought the army, the same one where he had let loose his powers the first time.

He took a breath.

He opened the door.

There were no bodies, but there was also no snow. The ground the army had fought the Witchers on was barren dirt and stone, littered with scorch marks. 

His brow furrowed. It looked like there had been a fire, or many small ones. Ones that burned hot, ones that were meant to destroy something.

Igni on bodies. 

He gulped. His extracurricular educational endeavors (when he snuck into the locked and guarded restricted section of the Oxenfurt library for fun) told him that it took a significantly hotter fire than Igni to burn bones. He had seen it burn the flesh off of people, but it took a while and it usually just gave them severe burns. 

So the bodies might have burned, but the bones must have stayed. 

He took a shaky breath before he slowly started moving to the edge. There was only one place, one easy and accessible place, that he could think of for the bones to have gone. 

He peeked over the edge.

It was a long way down. That’s why they had built the bridge.

But even from this height he could tell the bones from the snow. They were gray and cream, where the snow was still crisply white. 

If that wasn’t enough proof, snow certainly didn’t form in circular chunks like the many that were there.

Tears that had gathered in his eyes started to fall.  He had contributed to that.  He was the reason that some of the bones were lying there in the snow.

Most. A small voice in his head whispered. He’s the reason most of the bones are down there.

He let out a tiny shriek and threw himself backwards, landing solidly on the ground. 

His breath came in short gasps, his mind going too fast for him to grasp onto any one thought. All he could see behind his closed eyelids were images that he didn’t quite remember, clearly. 

He was up high, watching the army down below. There were only a handful of them left, and he knew that he was the reason all the men on the ground had bent necks. The Witchers were there, but they weren’t fighting, they were just standing. Watching.

He could almost feel their bones as they moved wrong. 

There was a hand on his shoulder, then an arm around his waist. 

He screamed and struggled against the arm around him, but the scene that he was seeing was slowly fading and the rushing sound in his ears was receding. 

“It’s ok, Jaskier, calm down, it’s ok, just concentrate on my voice, you’re ok, just breathe,” Geralt told him as he pulled him up and away from the edge, towards the door back into the keep. 

“I killed them. I’m so sorry I killed them, I meant to but I didn’t want to, I promise,” Jaskier sobbed, clutching the arm around him. “I’m not a monster, I promise.”

The arm around him squeezed, clutching him in a tight hug. “I know. I know, I promise, I know.” Geralt assured him. 

The Witcher picked him up gently and ambled them back to the gate, using the stride that rocked whoever he was carrying soothingly. Mostly the one being carried was Jaskier, and he was subsequently the one who told him how soothing it was. Jaskier called it the cradle amble. 

“The cradle amble,” he whispered shakily, looking up. Geralt smiled slightly and nodded. 

Geralt pushed open the door to the courtyard, and then the one to the keep before he let Jaskier down.

“You always seem to wake up the moment we aren't there.” Geralt told him in that way of his, that told Jaskier he was joking, even if others couldn’t tell. 

“How long was I out?” Jaskier asked as they made their way to the dining hall, hands brushing.

"Five days." Geralt didn't look at him, but connected their hands, squeezing. "Yennefer and Vesemir had no idea what was going on with you, but you would drink water and chicken broth, so we had hoped you were just… regaining your energy. Healing."

Jaskier nodded, squeezing back. "I think so. I just feel tired, achy. A little dizzy. Nothing else."

Geralt nodded, but Jaskier stopped them. He let out a sardonic laugh and looked at the Witcher. "So, how many emotions am I going to be met with, through those doors? Am I going to be burned at the stake?" 

Geralt's eyes widened. "No! Why would you think that? They're just glad that we are all alive," Geralt assured him.

Jaskier sent him a weak smile. "So I'll have someone to take me back down the mountain to Oxenfurt, once the snow melts?" He asked.

Gerlat gave him a weird look. "Of course. We'll all go down together and then I'll take you wherever you want, and then we will continue on," Geralt told him slowly, confused. 

Jaskier glanced up. "With you? What about Ciri?"

It was Geralt's turn to send him a look, both thinking the other was a little slow in this scenario. "Ciri needs to learn how to control whatever powers she may or may not have, so she will go with Yennefer in the spring and summer, and she will come back here with us in the late fall and winter. During the months she's with Yennefer we will travel where you want and I'll take contracts along the way and look for Nilfgaardian information while we go. The others will be doing the same, minus the ‘following you’ part."

Geralt paused. "Unless you… want to go with someone else." He stated, like the thought hadn't occurred to him. 

"No, no, I have no problem traveling with you, I just thought you would be staying with Ciri, and I would have to lay low," Jaskier said, quickly assuring the Witcher.

"Jaskier," Geralt started, and he seemed to be looking for words.

"What we did. We got information from Cahir and Fringilla, and you helped take out about the three fourths of the Nilfgaard army. They sent a lot of soldiers to kill us and capture Ciri, and no one who was in the avalanche got out, and neither did anyone in the courtyard. The others will spread the word to other Witchers who are helping them with the effort, and they will take out the rest. As far as we are concerned, if there isn't a sudden influx of people willing to fight for the Empire of Nilfgaard, they will be as good as done by next summer."

Jaskier blinked. "As good as done?" He asked. Geralt nodded.

"So, we can go to the coast?" Jaskier asked, voice small but hopeful. 

Geralt gave him a small smile. "Yeah, we can go to the coast."

They smiled at each other and pushed through the doors, greeted by everyone else. Jaskier got a crushing hug from Aiden and Lambert at the same time, while Coën looked on fondly before taking his turn. Aiden and Lambert still hovered around, talking a mile a minute about what they were going to do with the rest of the winter, now that they didn’t have to worry about Nilfgaard. Ciri quickly wedged between them as they talked, before replacing Coën’s arms around him and adding her two coins worth of ideas. Yennefer and Vesemir looked at the scene affectionately, and he could feel Geralt’s hand on his shoulder. 

And Jaskier knew in that instant they were going to be ok. They would be ok for the rest of winter, they would be ok in the spring, the summer, and the fall. He would return here, return home , in the winter. 

He would be ok for the rest of his days.