#Jaskier wintering at Kaer Morhen is one of my biggest Witcher weaknesses

[hummingbee-o0o]

Parting Gifts (Winters at Kaer Morhen 1)

The wind changes and the first whiffs of thaw begin to flicker in the air. Up in the peaks of Kaer Morhen the ice and snow still hold unmoved, but Geralt can smell the spring stirring in the foothills when the wind blows just right.

Eskel, Lambert and Vesemir can smell it too. His brothers pace like he does, knowing soon they’ll start making ready. Vesemir smiles, small and restrained, and hides in his study more than usual. The old man does get a bit misty sometimes when it’s time for the three of them to leave.

Except it’s not three this year. It’s four.

Jaskier, for all his lack of Witcher senses, seems to feel the spring in the air too. He keeps singing about flowers and mornings, entire landscapes crafted out of song, the plucking of his lute strings somehow fresh like a stream.

It’s his first winter at Kaer Morhen and it’s been... good. More than good. Kaer Morhen doesn’t have much luxury to offer, and most of its splendour has crumbled away when viewed up close, but it has plenty of fire in the hearth, a steady routine of filling meals, soft beds with furs and blankets for comfort, and all the hot water for bathing one could want.

To Geralt, these things are a luxury, never mind that they take turns peeling vegetables and chopping wood (Jaskier turned out to be remarkably skilled at both and was put to work accordingly), but there had been a thorn of anxiety prickling somewhere in the back of Geralt’s mind as he led Jaskier up the mountain, walking ahead to shield him from the worst of the snow billowed in their faces by icy cold winds. Jaskier is no stranger to sleeping rough on the road and making do with whatever food can be found in leaner times, and he does it with cheerful indifference or colourful swearing and whinging. But Geralt had worried that Jaskier might expect Kaer Morhen to be... well, more. More than what actually awaited him. He seemed to have built it up into a heroic fantasy of a fortress in his mind, and the higher they climbed and the more Jaskier shivered and murmured comforting things to himself about food and bedding, Geralt worried that he would be disappointed.

As it turned out, he needn’t have worried. Jaskier gasped his awe when the keep first loomed into view, and ate three helpings of the thick, hot stew they were greeted with. Even tired, he was delighted to meet Eskel and Lambert and Vesemir, and he grinned when Geralt was teased about finally bringing him along. And when at last it was time to retire after the final and most gruelling stretch of their journey, Jaskier slept like a log, in Geralt’s bed, in Geralt’s arms, wrapped in furs and blankets and snoring lightly into Geralt’s chest.

Winter drags slow and lazy, its days filled with chores and sparring and idleness, but it still comes to an end. And as much as Geralt enjoyed having Jaskier here, with him, safe and warm and filling the keep with his cheerful voice, he’s also looking forward to resuming their life on the Path. To warmer days and new sights and having Jaskier all to himself again – as quietly happy as he is that his brothers and Vesemir have taken to Jaskier so much, he’s looking forward to it being just the two of them again.

Eskel is the one to head out first, as he usually does, braving the mountain pass while it’s still snowed over. He exchanges embraces with Lambert and Geralt, and then he pulls Jaskier into one as well.

“For you,” he says, putting something small in Jaskier’s hand. “Thank you for my songs. I... look forward to hearing them on the road.”

“Oh,” says Jaskier, surprised but clearly touched. “Thank you, that’s quite terribly sweet of you, my friend!” He turns the small gift over in his fingers, a little confused (from where Geralt is standing it looks like a coin, but he has enough dignity to not strain to try and get a better look). “This is very, erm... what is it?”

Eskel grins.

“Relax. Geralt will tell you what to do with it. Just... something to keep you safe out there.”

Geralt bristles, because he’s very much dedicated to keeping Jaskier safe just fine, fuck you, Eskel – but he tries to stamp out that impulse.

“I must say, your brother is a darling,” coos Jaskier later, once Eskel is gone, and for all the teasing aimed at Geralt, there’s genuine warmth in his tone.

“Hmm.”

“Oh, come, come, you know you’re my favourite... so, my dear, what am I supposed to do with this? I’m intrigued!”

Geralt recognises the small metal disc engraved with protective symbols the moment it’s placed in his hand.

“An amulet,” he says. “Sew it into a bag or a case and it puts a mild protective charm on what’s inside. Helps keep things safe for travellers.”

And Jaskier does so love his lute. And of course Eskel noticed. It's... good. That he cares. Jaskier deserves care. Which is why Geralt hums and smiles a little as Jaskier trills his delight over his gift and proceeds to sew it into his lute case, tongue sticking out as he sits on their bed, dressed for sleep.

Lambert leaves next. Normally, Geralt would head out with him, keep him company on the descent, but this year he wants to wait a little longer, to make sure the pass is fine for Jaskier to cross.

On the morning of his departure, Lambert pulls Geralt into his room and shoves something into his hand.

“For Jaskier,” he grunts, because he’s never dealt well with being upstaged.

It’s another fucking amulet, of course. This one is to ward off the evil eye or something along those lines. Geralt can’t help but snort.

“Hey, fuck you,” snaps Lambert. “You’re the one always complaining about how many times you had to save his arse from a cuckolded husband! Or other enemies.”

“Yeah, and I always do save it.”

“You’re not always there! And Geralt, he’s so... you know. Breakable,” Lambert says with concern that clearly shows he’s never seen Jaskier kick a burly mercenary in the crotch.

Geralt has. Twice.

“Fine. Give it to him yourself.” He grins, leaning back against a wall, because he never passes up an opportunity to taunt Lambert.

Lambert hisses, which Geralt is going to chalk up to that mysterious Cat he’s been spending time with.

“Would you stop being a dick for five minutes – honestly, I don’t know what he sees in you!”

“Hmm,” says Geralt, because most days he doesn’t know either, and other days he tries not to wonder about it. “Fine, if you’re going to cry about it.”

“Fuck you!”

Geralt grins. “That’s Jaskier’s job.”

Jaskier may claim to be a lover, not a fighter, but Geralt has seen him handle himself in tavern brawls and other fights plenty of times. Still, Jaskier beams and prattles his delight at Lambert’s thoughtfulness and promptly slips the gift in his pocket. Lambert will definitely bribe his way into another song with this, the bastard.

When at last it’s time for Geralt and Jaskier to leave, Vesemir approaches them with a small, worn-out book in his hands, and Geralt uses most of his willpower to keep his eyebrows from climbing up to his hairline.

“With thanks for caring so for our library this winter,” the old man says, handing Jaskier the book. Something shrewd plays in his eyes. “You’ll always be welcome here, Jaskier.”

It’s a book about the uses of forest plants and mushrooms for poisons and antidotes (mostly poisons), and Jaskier’s eyes gleam eagerly at the sight. Vesemir has always been a sharp judge of character. Geralt bites his lip and turns his head away to hide a smile.

Up in the peaks the snow still lies thick, and Geralt makes sure Jaskier’s new winter cloak (a proper cloak, not a flimsy piece of decoration) is secure around him, but this high up, in the clear blue skies, the spring sun smarts hot already, and Jaskier tilts his face to meet it with a laugh. He sings to snowdrops when, a while down, they find them popping up through the snow, and he tells Roach about all the juicy meadows she’ll soon be grazing on.

“Ah, the freedom of the open road again!” he announces, spreading his arms wide in that way he has, like he’s embracing the whole world. “Don’t get me wrong, my dear,” he carries on, taking Geralt’s hand in his, “Kaer Morhen was lovely, and I’m very honoured to have been invited, but it’s nice to be just us two on the road again, is all.”

“Hmm,” says Geralt, because he understands, and because something still flutters in his chest whenever Jaskier expresses his happiness with staying at Kaer Morhen.

“What’s that I hear you say? I was a delight to have and I should come back every winter henceforth? Why, Geralt, you say the sweetest things!”

Jaskier grins at him, beaming in his face, but there’s a touch of performance about it, and Geralt tugs his hand and pulls him into a kiss.

“Yes,” he rumbles against Jaskier’s lips when they part. “That.”

This time, Jaskier’s smile is brighter than the clear skies above them.

The temperature drops as soon as the sun hides behind the peaks they’ve left behind, so they make camp before it’s completely dark. In their tent, shielded from the winds by a pile of snow (and which, in turn, shields Roach as well), they sit close together under blankets. In the light of their oil lamp Jaskier reads, engrossed in his new book of poisons, flicking eagerly through the pages and worryingly scribbling Valdo next to some entries. Despite the piercing cold and rapid variations in humidity, his lute is kept a little safer by Eskel's amulet sewn into its case, and Lambert’s gift stays tucked into his pocket.

It feels right, Geralt thinks, watching the light play soft and warm across Jaskier’s face as he carefully puts the book away. Geralt has his wolf medallion, something that signifies his bond with his brothers wherever he goes. Jaskier may not have one, but with these gifts, he too now has a link to the other Wolves, something to tie him to them until he returns next winter. And he did say he wants to return.

Pleased with the thought, Geralt pulls Jaskier closer and turns out the light.

(also on AO3)