#My notes for this was literally just “winter at kaer morhen maybe”

[flowercrown-bard]

Birds Still Sing When They Fall From The Sky

part 1  part 2  part 3  part 4 part 5 part 6 part 7 part 8 part 9 part 10 part 11 part 12 belongs to this

Content warning: Memory loss (only briefly and not shown too explicitly) and brief mention of future death (very brief and only in the last section. To skip stop at ““I am with Jaskier,” he said instead of a real answer”)

can be read as a stand alone, I think. Only brief references to earlier chapters

Almost 5k sorry. I blame Lambert for this

“I’ve been thinking,” Geralt said and let his hand trace lazy patterns over Jaskier’s arm. “But I don’t know if it’s a good idea.”

“Promising start.”

Geralt huffed out a laugh. “Sometimes I do have good ideas.”

“Mhhmm,” Jaskier said and snuggled closer to him, his hand coming to rest on Geralt’s chest. “Staying in bed was an excellent idea. So what have you been thinking about?”

Jaskier dragged the blanket further up until it almost covered his whole face, only the eyes peeking out to look up at Geralt.

Geralt hoped Jaskier couldn’t feel his heart speed up uncomfortably. He had been toying with this idea for a while now, ever since he had realised that it would be no use trying to regrow their flowers. The time for that had passed and the air had become too cold for them to sprout.

“You are cold, aren’t you?” He didn’t need to ask that question when the answer was so obvious in the way Jaskier was seeking out his warmth while being buried under a heap of blankets.

“Of course I am. It’s mid-autumn.” His tone took on a teasing note. “Good thing I have a lovely witcher to keep me warm.”

“What if you had more than that?” The question was out before Geralt could stop his mouth. He silently cursed himself. He had meant to ease Jaskier into his idea, not blurting his thoughts out as they came.

Jaskier’s brows knitted together and he rose slightly to get a better look at Geralt.

“I don’t need more than that. You are quite enough for me.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Geralt swallowed nervously. “I meant, what if you had more than one witcher around you? With no flowers to sell, no music lessons and no contracts we won’t have much this winter.”

“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” Jaskier’s words tumbled out of his mouth with all the enthusiasm of a young bird that was soaring up into the sky for the first time. “Please say you’re taking me to Kaer Morhen!”

Geralt sighed. This was exactly why he had hesitated to tell him. “Do you think you will manage there? You know the winters aren’t very … pleasant in the keep. Colder than here.”

“Lucky me then, that I have a lovely witcher to keep me warm,” Jaskier repeated with a playful smirk.

Geralt’s lips twitched up, but his fingers stilled in Jaskier’s hair. As much as Jaskier’s enthusiasm made his heart leap, he needed him to be serious.

“It’s just an idea,” he said carefully. “I haven’t thought much about how to get there yet. I don’t want to disappoint you if it doesn’t work out.”

Jaskier swatted his hand against his chest. “You couldn’t disappoint me if you tried. Not when you’re so sweet suggesting we could go see the family again.”

Geralt’s lips stretched into a real smile at the word family. He had known of course that this was what his brothers and Vesemir were to Jaskier, but there would never come a day where Geralt would tire of hearing Jaskier say it out loud.

“Now, as much as I love being utterly lazy and cosy in bed with you,” Jaskier said while throwing the blankets off, ignoring his own shivering. “I believe we have preparations to make.”

--

“I can’t believe I ever missed this.” Yennefer’s voice cut sharply through Jaskier’s chatter, as he was doing his best to introduce Yennefer and Kris, who had been helping them with their travel preparations, to each other while also being unable to form a coherent sentence out of excitement.

Kris just gave Yennefer a lopsided grin and a nod in greeting.

“I guess you’ll be taking over from here?” they asked, fond exasperation in their voice.

Yennefer scoffed, though her eyes rested softly on Jaskier, not hesitating to steady him should the need arise. “I’m only taking them to their little vacation spot and then I’m off. Nothing could convince me to endure more of this” she nodded her chin towards Jaskier’s ear-to-ear- grin “than necessary. I don’t know how you do it.”

Kris just shrugged, but whatever answer they might have given was cut short by Jaskier’s mock offended gasp.

“You – “ he pointed an accusatory finger at Yen. “You love me and you know it. You just lack the mental strength to compete with my wit and charm.”

Geralt rolled his eyes at them. At least one thing that hadn’t changed, Geralt noted with the hint of a smirk on his face.

“Come on then,” Yennefer said. “We have no time to waste. Any longer and Jaskier might become ancient instead of just old.”

With a sly smirk she turned to Kris, whose eyes widened at the sight of the portal that appeared in front of the cottage at a wave of Yennefer’s hand. They looked on in wonder, as Geralt guided Jaskier through it. The last thing he could hear was a bemused “Enjoy your time off from these idiots” before the familiar headache that came with walking through a portal overtook his senses, only receding when he stepped out to feel frozen forest floor beneath his feet, the wall of Kaer Morhen towering over him.

“Since when are you able to portal so close to the keep?” he asked with a frown once Yennefer had passed through the portal as well.

“Since your bard would break his neck trying to make his way up the mountains,” she said, a look of barely concealed worry on Jaskier, who was swaying and leaning heavily against Geralt. Apparently travelling per portal didn’t get any easier with age. “I will renew the warding spells soon enough. At least until I have to get back here in spring to get you back.” Her lips quirked up. “That is unless Jaskier doesn’t do something to piss me off in the next few hours, making me leave you two to get back on your own.”

“Thank you, Yen,” Geralt said, hoping that his voice conveyed all the sincere gratitude he felt. None of this would have been possible if Yennefer hadn’t answered his letters so quickly, ready to make sure that Jaskier was safe and happy for the winter, even if she didn’t let up with her taunts.

“Just go see the others. I’m sure they’re already waiting for you.”

Yennefer was, of course, right.

The three of them hadn’t yet reached the gates, when they heard a shout of “Get your arses out here! They’re finally here!” coming from inside the keep.

Geralt felt his shoulders relax at Lambert’s unmistakable voice and the last of his tension left him, once he saw his family walk towards him. It had been too long. He hadn’t realised how much he had missed them.

The only thing keeping Geralt from running towards his brothers and tackling them into a long overdue hug was Jaskier, who was still gripping tightly to his arm.

The other witchers stopped their approach, their smiles frozen, when they finally laid eyes on Jaskier.

They stood still, as if Jaskier was a scared animal that could spook at any sudden movement.

No, that was not it. They looked, like they were scared of Jaskier. To anyone else they might look no different than on any other day, but Geralt knew them well enough to see the hints of fear around their eyes.

His heart clenched as Eskel turned his face slightly, a vain attempt to hide his scars in the shadows. Coën unfolded his arms, hunching his shoulders to make himself appear smaller and less threatening, while Vesemir did his best to ease his frown into what might have looked approachable and welcoming for a witcher, but for anyone not knowing them, would still seem like a threatening scowl.

Lambert was the only one, who did nothing to hide the tension in his body and his strained expression.

For a moment that seemed to stretch into eternity no one said a word. Geralt could hear his brother’s stuttering hearts and held breaths.

The unspoken ‘What if he doesn’t remember us?’ hanging heavily in the air.

An indignant snort next to him broke the silence.

“It’s been a while since my beauty has left anyone speechless for that long,” Jaskier said with a wink, not a hint of uncertainty in his tone. “Or maybe you don’t even recognize my handsome face under all these wrinkles?”

“Fuck, buttercup.” Lambert was the first to release his breath in a sharp laugh, laden with relief. “You haven’t changed a bit, have you?”

Jaskier’s answering laugh was enough to ease the tension out of the others. Smiles took the place of tense frowns and they finally got to embrace after years of being parted, only breaking away from each other when Jaskier’s shivering became too hard to ignore and he was ushered inside by Vesemir.

--

Jaskier hadn’t said anything about it, but it was obvious that he was aching. Winters were always harder for him and the sudden change in the climate - travelling from the mildly chilly south to the frozen north in a manner of minutes – left Jaskier shaking and pulling a grimace he was barely able to hide at every movement he made.

Yennefer clicked her tongue disapprovingly when Jaskier insisted that he was fine. She would hear none of his complaints, when she brought forth something that looked almost like candy, but judging from the face Jaskier pulled when he swallowed it, tasted nowhere close to the delicious treats he always liked to sneak.

It was worth it, though, to see the poorly concealed expression of pain fade from Jaskier’s face.

His steps were still slow and a bit wobbly at times, but Jaskier made it back to the library where the others were sitting, ready with blankets and a roaring fire in the hearth, without even once groaning in pain.

“What did you give him?” Geralt asked Yennefer quietly, once Jaskier had nestled himself under the blanket with Eskel, swatting away Eskel’s attempts at draping the blanket in a way that wouldn’t leave an inch of Jaskier bare.

“It takes away some of his pain. Triss showed me how to make it.”

Geralt perked up, willing his heart not to speed up in foolish hope. “It’s healing him?”

Yennefer sighed and leaned back, her eyes boring into Geralt with fierce seriousness. “I know what you’re thinking. Stop it.”

“I wasn’t –“

“Of course you were. Yes, it’s healing him in a way. It makes sure he is feeling a bit stronger and makes it so that Jaskier won’t hurt that much. But what he has is nothing that can be healed. Not permanently.”

Geralt felt himself deflate, even though he had known nothing would ever come of this train of thought. “He will still age.”

“As he should.” Before Geralt could speak up again, she gave him his answer. “I can do nothing about his mind either. I won’t alter any part of who he is. And this is who he is now.”

“Our lives have been made longer.” Geralt wasn’t sure why he said it. One could hold a sword to his throat and still he wouldn’t subject Jaskier to even half of what had been done to them. It just…Geralt had to at least voice it, even as he knew the thought would be leading nowhere.

“You don’t want that for him,” Yennefer said softly.

“No. I don’t.”

“He doesn’t want that either.” She paused, letting her eyes drift over to Jaskier, who was talking animatedly about their garden, describing the flowers in vivid detail and imagining with a dreamy expression how pretty wolfs and the griffin would look with flowers in their hair. “I talked to him about it, did you know? Must have been almost a decade ago. I offered to look into magic that could prolong his life. Do you know what he said?”

Geralt grunted, not sure if he wanted to hear it.

“He said his songs gave him all the immortality he could want. He said he was allowing himself to make the selfish choice and grow old.”

Geralt scowled, but swallowed down against the lump in his throat that was making his words come out choked. “Nothing selfish about being human.”

“Many would disagree.”

Laughter rang through the library as Jaskier brought one of his anecdotes to conclusion, his warm eyes landing on Geralt with a smile that showed off all of his wrinkles in their full beauty.

Something that had been pressing uncomfortably on his heart came lose in Geralt’s chest. “Nothing selfish about being happy then.”

Geralt’s eyes didn’t leave Jaskier, even as Yennefer reached out for his hand and offered the little comfort with her touch that she could. He skin felt smooth against his. Geralt missed the wrinkles of Jaskier’s fingers.

“I wouldn’t have had to see you grow old and aching all the time, if we had stayed together.”

“No,” Yennefer agrees. “But neither of us would have been as happy as you two are and as I am with Triss.”

“Nothing selfish about being happy.”

--

Yennefer had barely left the keep to go back to her own happiness, when Jaskier called out for him to get the thing they talked about.

Geralt dodged his brothers’ questioning eyes. Jaskier had spent too long agonizing over this to spoil it for him. Immediately after sending the letter to Yennefer asking her to help them with a portal, Jaskier had started gathering ideas for this, even writing them down, so as not to run the risk of forgetting anything.

Jaskier was practically vibrating with excitement, when he took the bag from Geralt under the curious eyes of the others.

Geralt shooed Eskel off his seat next to Jaskier and took it in his stead, ignoring the only mildly scolding look he received.

“Vesemir, you are first,” Jaskier said brightly and held something out for the eldest witcher, who accepted the gift with a lifted eyebrow. His eyes widened almost imperceptibly when he read the cover of the book.

“Bestiary of serpents and other sea-dwelling monsters,” Vesemir read out loud. “Where did you get this, lad? There is barely any reliable information of sea creatures out there.”

Jaskier’s smile turned sheepish, but there was a boyish glint in his eyes. “Don’t judge a book by its cover.”

Vesemir obliged, opening a random page. For a heartbeat his expression didn’t change, before he burst out into laughter.

“This is the stupidest stuff I’ve ever read,” he snorted, before glimpsing at the shelf designated specifically for books featuring hilariously incorrect descriptions of various beast – most of which had their origins in Jaskier’s songs – where this bestiary would undoubtedly find its new spot of honour.

Geralt stayed quiet, as the rest of the witchers received their gifts and Jaskier’s eyes shone brighter with each smile he got out of his friends.

A knitted blanket for Lil’ Bleater, who by now barely deserved that name anymore that earned him a soft look from Eskel.

“Can’t let her get cold,” Jaskier said with a shrug. “We old folk must stick together.”

A pin with a greenish yellow gemstone called Griffin’s Eye that Jaskier had bought from a fisherman who had found it in the sea, for Coën. Jaskier explained that it could be worn in a beard, just as some people would put jewellery in their hair, though Jaskier didn’t fail to sternly remind Coën that there was no need to hide his scars beneath his beard, as he was just as handsome as the rest of the witchers.

“Well, apart from Geralt, of course. He’s the prettiest,” Jaskier said with a wink. “But I am biased, so that hardly counts.”

A little wooden figure of a cat that Jaskier had begged Geralt to make for Lambert.

“For when you miss Aiden.”

It earned Jaskier a “Fuck off”, but Lambert’s attempt at disguising his softened eyes with outrage had no one fooled.

“That’s everything,” Jaskier said, beaming at the way Lambert, Eskel and Coën were running their fingers over their gifts to feel the texture and Vesemir was already thumbing through his book with a chuckle on his lips.

“Not quite,” Geralt said, clearing his throat uncomfortably.

When Jaskier gave him a confused look, Geralt pulled a little shard of sea shell out of his pockets and placed it on the sill of the fire place.

“It’s for good luck. For our second home.”

--

Despite what Lambert had said to welcome Jaskier, there was no doubt in any of the witchers that Jaskier had changed.

Geralt could see it in their expressions, when they weren’t sure how they should talk to Jaskier; in the way they wouldn’t shove him playfully anymore like they used to for fear of hurting him.

Eskel had always been gentle with Jaskier, but it was strange seeing Lambert and Coën walk on eggshells around him.

It was hard to miss that Jaskier noticed as well.

At first he didn’t pay much attention to it, but after a while, Geralt couldn’t help but notice Jaskier flinching, whenever Lambert went to pat his back only to change his mind last minute. He couldn’t unsee the way Jaskier’s face fell when Coën opened his arms as if going in for a hug to then let his arms fall limply and awkwardly, before Jaskier could fling himself into his arms.

The whole idea of coming to Kaer Morhen had been that Jaskier would be around familiar faces other than Geralt’s; that he could be with people who knew and loved him from before.

“They just need time to get used to it,” Geralt said in what he hoped was a soothing voice, after Lambert had cut himself off from making a cutting taunt and left before Jaskier got the chance to say anything. “They won’t be idiots throughout the whole winter.”

Jaskier cracked a weak smile. “They’re always idiots.”

“Of course they are.” Geralt leaned in conspiratorially. “Are you going to pass up on your chance to take advantage of that?”

Jaskier’s eyes, already sparkling in mischief were answer enough.

The next days were filled with harmless, but incredibly annoying pranks Jaskier pulled with the help of Geralt.

It was almost like old times, when Lambert and Jaskier would try to outdo each other to prove that they were the superior nuisance. With the small difference of course, that no one dared to take revenge on Jaskier.

That is, until one fateful morning, Lambert stormed into Geralt’s room, scratching his arms frantically.

“You!” He pointed accusingly at Jaskier, whose delighted grin was half-hidden by the blanket. “You have gone too far.”

“I don’t know what you’re accusing me of,” Jaskier said with the shit eating grin of someone who knew very well what they were being accused of and that they deserved every bit of it. “I am only a helpless and innocent old man after all.”

Lambert snorted. “Innocent, my ass. You put fucking itching powder into my shirt.”

“Oh, is that what it was?” Geralt had to repress a snort at Jaskier’s big eyes and not-at-all-innocent tone. “I must have misread the label. Old and fragile as I am.”

“Fuck off, buttercup.”

“That is no way to talk to your elders, young man. Truly, if only I wasn’t so – Hey! Put me down!”

Lambert didn’t pay his protests any mind, kicking the bedroom door open with his foot.

Geralt followed them, conveniently ignoring Jaskier’s calls for help that were broken off by his own laughter.

The sounds of mirth too were soon replaced by an undignified shriek, as Lambert unceremoniously, yet carefully dropped Jaskier into a pile of snow in the court yard.

Geralt stood to the side, leaning against the doorway, content to watch in amusement as Jaskier enacted his own revenge by throwing snow at Lambert. Geralt was only forced to join in when some stray snowballs not so accidentally hit him in the face as well.

He knew Jaskier’s hands would be freezing soon and they would spend the rest of the day making sure Jaskier didn’t catch a cold, making him drink tea and bundling him up in a blanket in front of a warm fire.

But for now, Jaskier got to enjoy the snow and the knowledge that Lambert was back to being the annoying bastard that he was always meant to be.

--

After that, the tension in the keep eased away steadily. Geralt’s brothers were still hovering over Jaskier, ready to jump to his aid at any minute, but after Jaskier had started loudly complaining about ‘young people these days’, they had taken to making it into a game of who could keep an eye on Jaskier the longest without being spotted or betting playfully scolded.

Coën didn’t exactly win with in a rout, but he certainly managed to secure his place close to Jaskier, when one day after supper, he just picked Jaskier up and started carrying him to wherever he wanted to go.

Jaskier’s delighted laugher mingled with half-hearted protests made Geralt’s heart swell.

“No, Coën, put me down this instant! I refuse to get carried about like a sack of potatoes!” He struggled in the griffin’s arms, weak enough to make it clear to anyone watching that he wasn’t truly trying to escape. “If you don’t let me down now, I will annoy you into letting me go!”

Coën chuckled at the threat and only tightened his grip. “Don’t be ridiculous, bard. I used to give Ciri piggyback rides all the time when she was around. If I could manage that rascal, I sure as hell can manage you.”

“Are you challenging my ability to be a nuisance?” Jaskier asked with a glint in his eyes that promised trouble.

Safe to say, Jaskier made good on his threat to be as bothersome as possible. And safe to say that with every attempt at annoying him that felt closer to how Jaskier had been as a young man, Coën seemed to take more joy in carrying him around.

Geralt feared it would take the entire winter to determine which one of them would win this battle of stubbornness.

--

Seeing Jaskier interact with his brothers as he had always done before lifted a weight from Geralt’s shoulders, he hadn’t been aware he had been carrying.

Still, there were days, even weeks at a time, when Jaskier retreated into that far-off place in his mind. He still teased the witchers, still laughed and was happy, but there was something off about it.

Geralt couldn’t be certain if Jaskier’s relationship with his family was still the same because he knew that he had loved them for years, or because he wasn’t aware of how much time had passed since he had last been in the keep.

After all, being surrounded by men who still looked the same as they had decades ago was bound to mess with Jaskier’s head, especially when every so often, he seemed to lose all sense of orientation and time on his own.

On days like these, Geralt could feel the pitying looks of Eskel and Coën burning into him.

Lambert was the only one who didn’t fuss over Jaskier when he got that distant look in his eyes or treat Geralt like a thin sheen of ice that could shatter at the lightest pressure. He had always been one to throw explosives at frozen lakes.

Lambert closed off himself, becoming gruffer than ever.

Geralt was almost grateful for him. As much as he appreciated Eskel’s concerned touches on his shoulder telling him that he was there if Geralt needed him, he didn’t want pity, didn’t want his family to treat him like he was about to break.

They were already deep in their cups, when Geralt couldn’t help but voice his thoughts. Eskel and Coën had left him and Lambert to drink alone after one too many jabs from Lambert, when the others had become too obvious in avoiding talking about Jaskier, who had spent the day staring into the fireplace mesmerised, only moving when Geralt urged him to eat.

Lambert scoffed at Geralt’s clumsy thanks for not pitying him.

“Well, he’s my friend too, isn’t he?”, Lambert said, gripping his tankard tightly, scowling at is as though it was the cause of all his problems. “The others might have forgotten that Jaskier’s not only your family in their ridiculous selflessness, but I for one am pissed that sometimes my friend doesn’t recognise me.”

Those words startled Geralt out of his drunken haze. “Being pissed off is selfish?”

“Don’t know. Don’t care.” Lambert’s scowl deepened. “That’s what I’ve always been called though when I got pissed. I was pissed when I was dragged to this shithole as a child. I was pissed when I was send out to save people who would spit at me. I don’t fucking care if my anger is selfish.”

Unbidden images of Geralt storming away from Jaskier because he couldn’t handle seeing him like a shell of himself, fought their way to the forefront of Geralt’s mind. Images of Jaskier holding him close when it all became too much for Geralt.

“Good. You have every right to be angry.” Geralt said, eyes boring into Lambert’s. “But just for the record. It’s not - It’s not selfish. Or if it is, then we both are.”

--

More often than not, it was like old times. Once everyone had gotten used to Jaskier disappearing into his mind every once in a while, the old routine was back. Evenings were spent with Jaskier prodding everyone for details of their hunts or sitting in the library together while Jaskier played his lute, for as long as his joints allowed him too.

Yennefer’s medicine did not work miracles. She had made that abundantly clear before she had left, but it gave Jaskier the chance to make music for longer than just a few minutes before the ache in his fingers would force him to stop.

In the mornings, Jaskier would watch them train and spar with a familiar spark in his eyes.

Seeing Jaskier perched on a bench, nestled in a blanket to keep the cold at bay with an expression of pure joy was worth enduring Lambert’s merciless teasing about Geralt getting slow and lazy in his time off the Path.

Geralt couldn’t deny it, the long absence of any real fight was showing, but it felt good to spar with his brothers again.

He had been unsure how Vesemir would react to his decision of giving up hunting for a while, but all his old mentor did to acknowledge it was frown when Geralt got bested by Coën for the third time in a row.

“Retirement is no excuse for sloppy footwork.”

--

As the snow started to thaw and the witchers grew restless, itching to go back on the Path, Geralt found himself in Eskel’s room, sitting together on the bed like they had when they had been children.

Despite Eskel’s multiple attempts of talking to Geralt about Jaskier’s state, Geralt had successfully managed to avoid this conversation. Until now.

It was different knowing that soon their time here would end and their paths would split again, Eskel going off to risk his life and Geralt tending to flowers and taking walks on the shore with Jaskier.

It was good talking to Eskel. Talking to anyone, really, but Eskel had always known what to say and how to comfort people.

He didn’t ask about Jaskier. Spending the winter months with him had answered all questions better than Geralt could have done. Instead, Eskel asked about Geralt. How he was handling the quiet life, if he was alright, if there was anything Eskel could do to help him.

It was so close to how they used to talk before the trials and then after their first year on the Path.

Just like back then, Geralt didn’t know how to reply. How was he handling all of this? He didn’t know. Maybe it was alright not to know.

“I am with Jaskier,” he said instead of a real answer. Eskel nodded, as if that meant anything to him. Maybe it did. Geralt knew that it meant everything to himself.

“How will you manage after?” Eskel said carefully, tone blank, but one of his hands rested on Geralt’s shoulders, grounding him.

Neither of them explicitly said it, but they both knew what ‘after’ meant. After Jaskier was gone. After there was no quiet life on the coast left for Geralt to return to.

Geralt didn’t answer for a long time.

“I don’t know,” he said finally, leaning into Eskel’s touch. “But I will manage. Somehow. We still have time. For now, I am going to plant flowers and watch him smile and be happy.”

Eskel gave him a long look, but didn’t reply.

Maybe it hadn’t been fair for Geralt to escape the path and build this new life. Maybe it had been selfish to turn his back on the world and let his brothers continue on their own.

He thought of sea shells on window sills, of laughter and soft smiles, of flowers and toes that dug into sand until the sea washed his doubts away. He thought of Jaskier’s hand in his, squeezing lightly as if to say I am still here. Thank you for being here with me.

Maybe Geralt was selfish for choosing Jaskier and maybe he was stupid in refusing to think about what would come after. But for now, it was enough to have Jaskier’s smile and his blue eyes in his life and just be happy.

[dhwty-writes]

A Health Hazard

This took a lot longer to write than it had any right to. The first 1.5k words were written in under 2 hours, the rest in thrice that time. I'm done with today and this prompt. Written for day 3: Reading by the fire/cuddling by the fire of @witcher-and-his-bard‘s winter prompts Have fun!

Summary: Geralt of Rivia is bored. This hasn't happened in forever. Literally. He learns to understand Jaskier's whining a lot better. 

Warnings: none, besides the fact that this is unedited

Read on AO3

All things considered, it had taken a surprisingly short time for the impossible to happen. Apparently, all that it took was three weeks. Three weeks cooped up in Jaskier's generously-sized lodgings in Oxenfurt with nothing to do and lo and behold, Geralt of Rivia was bored. Bored! Could you imagine that?

It hadn't been so bad in the beginning. After five days he finally hadn't felt the need to rise with the sun and had let Jaskier kiss him goodbye, running late for a lecture, while he turned over and slept in. He couldn't remember when he had last done that. Truth be told, he couldn't remember if he'd ever done that.

Certainly not since he'd gotten to Kaer Morhen; there was no slacking in the witchers' keep. He briefly wondered if passing out after a fight and waking up days later could count as sleeping in. Probably not.

No, sleeping in was something for the safe and comfortable, and for the first time since he could think Geralt could count himself among them. All thanks to Jaskier, of course, who did his best to spoil his lover rotten. All on the cost of the Oxenfurt Academy, naturally.

The Academy spared no cost or effort to ensure the comfort of their lecturers—and Jaskier wasn't just any lecturer, he was probably the most popular bard on the continent. Geralt had first realised that Jaskier was rich when he had seen his personal study, stocked with books right up to the ceiling. Most of them were beautiful leather-bound tomes, written by hand with detailed pictures. He had felt a bit faint when discovering that some of them were in the second row.

No matter what Jaskier said about gifts from colleagues and magical innovations called a printing spell, books were immeasurable luxuries. And the bard owned close to a hundred of them. Personally.

Still, Geralt had been hesitant, at first, to make use of the private bath that came with the four-room apartment, or to call upon a servant to fetch him things. That was until Jaskier had told him outright how much they paid him for a single lecture, let alone several of them each day for months. If they were willing to pour that much money down the drain, he couldn't really feel bad about it.

So, the following days and weeks Geralt allowed Jaskier to teach him how to enjoy himself. He learned how to sleep in, indulged in almost daily baths, spent his days reading novels and poems out of Jaskier's personal collection. He didn't protest when the bard ordered too much food. Didn't comment on the overabundance of sweets—he even admitted he liked it. And when Jaskier asked for too exotic spices he only raised his eyebrows.

Once he had even ventured into the extensive Academy library—Geralt had never seen so many books in one place in his entire life—to find a collection of chivalrous legends Jaskier had told him about. He had been welcomed by an overly polite librarian, who had gone ahead to recommend him a dozen other books with the same topic, complete with annotations noting upon all the different possible interpretations. And if that hadn't been enough, he had been offered to take them with him. All of them. At once. As long as he liked. With no credentials but the name "Pankratz". He couldn't fathom how the library hadn't been robbed empty yet. When he had told Jaskier so, he had only laughed and kissed him gently, calling him a silly witcher.

It all had culminated when later that day, after Jaskier had ordered their dinner to be brought up to their rooms, it had been Geralt to stop the servant by the arm and ask for a bottle of wine.

"Right away, sir," the servant had answered. "Do you have any preferences?"

"Umm-" After a quick glance back to Jaskier, who had smiled encouragingly, he had added: "Est Est?"

He had half expected to be reprimanded, but the servant had only looked at him as if that had been obvious. "The year, sir. Do you have any preferences for the year?"

"I hear 1260 was especially good," Jaskier had piped up and that had been the end of that. They had had a very nice evening and an even nicer night, albeit neither of them had gotten a lot of sleep.

The problem was that since then over a week had passed. Geralt had read through all the books he had borrowed and leafed through a number of volumes of Jaskier's personal collection. He wasn't feeling like reading anymore. He had visited several taverns to play Gwent, but that too was interesting only for so long.

He had taken Jaskier up on his offer and accompanied him to a few lectures, but that had grown boring, too. Of course, he could talk about his adventure and the content of the poems, but that wasn't what Jaskier and his students were talking about. Instead, they lead very heated discussions about rhymes and metaphors and what Jaskier called a meter ("It's like a rhythm, Geralt."). But in the end, he didn't care if the rhyme was a pair or not, or if the rhythm was an asbestos or a dromedary or something.

He flopped down on the couch with an uncharacteristically dramatic sigh. Jaskier had returned from his last lecture an hour ago and was now holed up in his study doing... something. As if him being away all day wasn't bad enough, he had to continue working afterwards!

Geralt sat up with a start. Shit, was that how Jaskier felt all year round on the Path? It was a horrifying thought; no wonder the bard was so whiny all the time. Well, Geralt was different. He certainly wouldn't stoop so low. No, he definitely wouldn't whine.

 ~*~

 "Jaskier," Geralt whined from his place on the extra armchair they had acquired the previous day. "Are you done yet?"

The poet mouthed some words along while he frantically scribbled them down on yet another snippet of parchment. "Almost, darling, give me a minute," he muttered absentmindedly just like he had half an hour ago.

Geralt threw his head back and groaned loudly. He was going mad; he was sure of it. It was not normal for people to go such a long time without someone charging at them with swords or claws or dirty underwear. It could not be healthy. "D'you think I should talk to Shani?"

"Yeah, yeah," Jaskier mumbled under his breath, flipping through the hundreds of pages of notes he was keeping.

"Hmm." So Jaskier agreed that boredom was a serious health hazard. He drummed his fingers on the armrest. Maybe he should go do it right away?

He got to his feet and was almost at the door when he halted. No, it was late already, sundown a few hours past. He walked back to the armchair. But maybe-

"Geralt," Jaskier said with a heavy sight and put down his pen. "Love. You're pacing." 

"Really?" The witcher grit out. "Wouldn't have noticed."

"Can you just-" He rubbed at his temples. He looked incredibly tired. "I'm sorry, five more minutes, alright? Then we can do whatever you want, what d'you think of that."

"Hm." Geralt thought that was bullshit and that Jaskier should take a break.

But the poet was too engrossed in his own mind to even hear it.

'Alright then,' he thought and sat back down, arms crossed. 'Five more minutes.' He could manage five minutes of meditation. Easily.

He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing, waiting for the calm to settle over him. What followed were probably the longest five fucking minutes of Geralt's life.

No sooner were they over that his eyes snapped open and he rushed over to his bard, holding him close from behind and nuzzling against his neck.

Jaskier chuckled softly. "Hello there. Five minutes over already?"

"Yes," Geralt said resolutely. "What're you writing anyways?" he asked, trying to peer over his bard's shoulder.

Still scribbling, Jaskier answered: "A novel, dear."

"A novel?" he replied and pulled back a little. "Since when?" Jaskier never wrote novels. Songs and poems, yes, and on one memorable occasion a play, too, but they had both agreed that it was horrid and that he should stick to shorter stuff.

He shrugged and slammed the piece of paper onto one of the piles. Apparently, there was an order to the chaos. "The day before yesterday, I think? Didn't really pay attention."

Geralt snorted. That went without saying. "Please tell me you didn't write all that in-"

Jaskier gasped softly and pulled up another sheet of paper. "Shh, give me a minute, love, else I'll forget this sentence. Oh fuck, this is so good-"

He bared his teeth. "You said-"

"Please, Geralt," Jaskier begged. 'Fuck.' The cursed bardlet knew damn well that he couldn't resist him; not with the pure desperation in his voice.

So, Geralt contented himself with grumbling displeased and pressing his nose against Jaskier's neck, while he waited for the scratching of the quill on paper to finally subside.

Thankfully, it didn't take too long for Jaskier to slam the quill down and forcefully push the paper away. "Done," he declared, exhaustion plain in his voice. "I'm done for today."

He raised his eyebrows. "You sure?"

"Y-yeah. I'm sure." The tiny pause was enough for Geralt to know that, no, Jaskier wasn't done in the slightest. If not for him the poet would probably stay up until the early hours of morning, crafting one masterful line after the other. Until he'd inevitably collapse from the exhaustion, smudging the ink of his uppermost sheet of paper all over his face.

He couldn't fathom how much self-control it cost Jaskier to turn around and ask: "So, what is bothering you so terribly, my beloved witcher?"

Geralt glared at him defiantly. It took him all of three seconds to cave. "I'm bored," he complained and frowned.

The effect was instantaneous and his expression grew soft. "Oh, my dear, I'm terribly sorry."

There was something about Jaskier's voice, something about his touch, about the way he brought Geralt close for a gentle kiss. Something that made him go from wanting to believe his words so badly to actually believing them.

The smile on his bard's face was nothing short of adorable when he asked: "Anything I can do about it?"

"Hm." Well, he could think of quite a few things to bide their time.

Before he could voice any of them, though, Jaskier continued: "Yeah, that's what I thought." He stood up and took his hand. "Come on, Geralt, I'm dead on my feet. Let's get somewhere more comfortable, then we can figure that out."

He gladly let himself be led. As long as it meant spending time with Jaskier, he was hardly about to object. The poet flitted around their apartment, collecting pillows and blankets, while he sent Geralt off to heat the kettle and get them some tea, all the while humming with excess energy.

Not fifteen minutes later Geralt found himself on the floor in front of the fireplace with a lapful of bard who was cursing quietly whenever he sipped his too-hot tea and inevitably burnt his tongue. Geralt couldn't help but smile as he cradled his Jaskier closer to his chest.

"What's your novel about?" he whispered into his ear.

"Oh, it's a romance!" he replied cheerfully.

Geralt pulled back, a horrible thought dawning on him. "Jaskier...," he growled. "Please tell me you're not writing a romance novel about us."

"Well," the poet drawled and Geralt groaned. So that was a yes. "I am not writing about Geralt of Rivia, the witcher, and Jaskier the bard."

"But?"

"But it might be that the two protagonists are a chivalrous monsterslayer and his loyal painter companion."

"Jaskier...," he pleaded even though he knew it was useless.

"What? In my defence, it was you who dragged in the knightly ballads!"

"Hm." That was a shit defence and they both knew it. Unwilling to start an argument, though, he just pulled Jaskier closer against his chest and leaned his forehead against his shoulder. "Tell me more."

And tell him more he did. Thank the gods it was so easy to get Jaskier rambling. He told him about the two protagonists, Eric and Dandelion, who had met shortly after the artist had abandoned the court; he had been living at, to find real inspiration out in the world. He was, apparently, entirely insufferable and a notorious womanizer-

"What?" Geralt interrupted him with a quiet chuckle. "Next you tell me he set out into the world to draw nude portraits of all his lovers."

"Oh no!" He felt Jaskier tense up before even the lament had left his mouth. "Oh, fuck, Geralt, that's brilliant, I-" His mouth snapped shut. His eyes flitted around nervously as he was obviously contemplating what the worse fate was: abandoning his lover or risking the loss of an idea.

Geralt quickly made the decision for him as he opened his arms. "Go on, bard," he said with a soft smile. "Write it down before it's gone again." He had lived with Jaskier long enough to become well acquainted with all of his sorrows.

The smile he got in return was almost worth it. "You're the best, I love you, I'm so sorry," he blabbered, scrambling to his feet. He pecked him on the mouth with a quick: "Be right back."

'No, you won't,' Geralt thought adoringly as he watched him bolt to his desk. "Just bring something to write with when you do!" he called after him and leaned back against the couch. He couldn't quite bring himself to wipe the lopsided grin off his face.

It was going to be a long winter. But he wouldn't have it any other way.

[owillofthewisps]

maybe winter, maybe winter

notes: surely you didn’t think i was going to make a post about geralt sewing and then not write it, right? and then @ambivertomnivore and i were talking about her excellent stardew valley fic (on Ao3 under dreaminglestrade!) which lead to talking about winter and then i realized i hadn’t written anything set in winter.  and winter is my favorite season so i had to right this wrong.

with apologies to anyone who actually knows how to sew.

am i ignoring kaer morhen for winter? you bet.

title is from regina spektor's 'sellers of flowers'

also if i disappear it’s animal crossing. it’s always animal crossing.

rating: teen? maybe even gen?  it’s literally just fluff. like. sappy fluff.

pairing: geralt of rivia x reader (gender neutral)

word count: 1.3k

winter comes with the type of cold that taps into your bones, freezes the marrow of you solid.  but with winter, so too comes your Witcher.  and on a chill winter night, you watch your Witcher mend. 

You aren’t sure what wakes you.

It could be the soft crackle of the fire, the logs snapping like little bones under the flames’ teeth, a gritted warning to the chiming icicles still dripping from your roof. In the deep clutch of winter, the fire blazes bright against the blurred haze of the drifting snow, against the wicked fingers of the frostbitten wind. It spits and sputters in the velvet dark of the night. It could be that which wakes you.

More likely, though, what wakes you is the empty space beside you. Hazily, you realize you’ve crept into the middle of the bed in Geralt’s absence. The warmth he’s left in his wake is like the sun barely peeking through clouds, just a hint of heat. You shift. The blankets - old, worn things, but still thick enough to bundle over you while you sleep, enough to keep winter’s chill touch at bay - have been carefully tucked in around you.

You roll over and cushion your head against your arm. The firelight burnishes Geralt into something otherworldly, the edge of a dream, the light playing over his skin and his scars like a lover’s touch. It colors him soft orange and gold, and you think of the witch-hazel that heralds his return to you, how the spidery sunrise petals glow bright against the soft gleam of the frost. You drink him in.

He’s sewing, you realize, the needle an unerring blade in his deft fingers. Small, tight stitches, ones that will hold steadfast even against his bulk. There’s a few finished shirts folded neatly on a nearby stool. He works steadily on the shirt he’s mending, and as the fabric flutters, you get a glimpse of the garment draped over his knee.

It’s one of your dresses. You’d caught it on a mislaid nail not long ago, torn a rip in it like ice splitting on the river. The stitches are carefully delicate, the thread almost an exact match for the fabric. The ache catches in your ribs, tucks careful into the gaps of the bones.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you murmur.

Those golden eyes flash to you. “No.” The needle jabs through the fabric.

You hum. He sleeps better in the winter, but there is no true cure for the thoughts that prick him awake.

“Can I stay up with you?”

“You should sleep.”

“I will,” you say, because sleep is still tugging at you, still swirling like snowflakes across your skin. “I like being in the quiet with you.”

And it is quiet. Not silent, for sounds spill through your home: the fire pops and crackles; the winter wind scratches at your shuttered windows with sharp, bitter teeth; the carved wooden walls of your house creak and moan as they settle. It does not diminish the hush draped over the two of you, a soft cotton shroud to block out the sounds of the outside world.

You stay curled beneath the blankets as Geralt works. Even such a small movement makes his muscles shift beneath his skin, the play of them entrancing.

The window pane rattles as the wind rises to a howl. The chill seeps through the glass, settles over you like a layer of frost. You finally slip from bed. You pad to Geralt, the floorboards frigid beneath your toes, and drape yourself over his back.

He grunts, but he turns to you when you place a finger under his chin. You lay a gentle kiss on his lips. He chases you as you pull away, and you laugh low and sweet as you return to him. It’s mellow and tender, and the two of you melt into each other for a moment.

You pull back but stay draped against him, feel the rise and fall of his breath as his broad back expands under you. Geralt smoothes out the fabric he’d crinkled under his fingertips and picks up the needle once more.

You watch. The needle gleams like moonlight, the same silver sheen of his sword, and it flickers like water, flashes like lightning as it pierces the fabric.

“Who taught you?” you ask, half-muffled by his frostbite hair.

Geralt grunts.

You let the hush fall again, watch him sew a few more stitches, and say: “Will you teach me?”

His hands fall still.

“You don’t have to,” you say, nosing against the shell of his ear.

Geralt starts his work again, pierces the silver needle through the soft, worn fabric of the shirt like it’s the hide of a beast. Then he sighs and sets the mending aside. You slide into the open cradle of his arms, let him tuck his broad frame around you like a shield.

“Do you know the basics?” he asks.

“No.”

Zy is the one who mends. She laughs each time you bring her a torn shirt or skirt, the sound high and fluting, and so you have never bothered to learn.

Geralt sighs, the wind of it stirring the hair at the nape of your neck. “How you survive is beyond me at times.”

“Pure spite, usually.”

He huffs. “Come here.”

“I am here,” you say, leaning up to press a kiss against the carved marble of his jaw.

He grunts and wraps a large hand around your wrist. He tucks the shirt into your grasp and pricks the needle through fabric.

Geralt leads you through the stitches without many words. It’s for the best; hazy with sleep, they will likely slip your mind. He nudges you here and there, guides you back into smaller stitches. The fire’s warmth licks over you. When you reach the end of the rip, he presses a kiss against your neck and retrieves his mending.

“It’s all crooked,” you say, tracing a finger down the wobbly line of it. “I should have gotten a scrap for this. Show me how to take them out?”

“Leave it.”

“Geralt, it looks like a child mended your shirt.”

“No,” he says. He runs a gentle finger over the repaired tear. “It looks like you did.”

You go still.

Unperturbed, Geralt folds the shirt and tucks it away. He waits. You reach out for the final shirt. He presses a kiss against the curve of your spine as you lean forward, his lips burning through your shift. The wind howls, but it is not the raging winter of a few weeks ago.

“The crocuses will come soon,” you murmur. You had loved crocuses once, the way the verdant stems pushed through dirt and snow alike to unfold gloriously bright, deep plum with just a touch of golden stamen. You love them still, you suppose, but to gain them means to lose him again.

You recline back into the cradle of Geralt’s arms. He grunts, but simply shifts so he can continue to sew with you tucked into him. You lean up, press your lips against the edge of his jaw, soft against the hard line of him. “The snow’s starting to melt.”

“They aren’t here yet,” Geralt says.

You hum.

The hush settles over you again. You can feel sleep settling over you, can feel your eyelids drooping. Geralt shifts, moves you so your drifting form is braced against his chest. You turn just enough to press your cheek against the muscled brawn of him.

He sighs. You can feel the play of his muscles as he sews.

“Her name was Astrid.”

“Hmm?”

“The seamstress who taught me. She saw that no one would take my coin.”

“Oh,” you breathe. You tuck yourself against him even more, wait to see if he’ll find it in himself to give you another piece of him.

He does.

The winter wind twines around your home, shrieks like something ungodly, something bitter and dying, but neither of you hear it.

You sit by the fire with your Witcher, and you listen to him mend.

taglist: @fairytale07 @1950schick @stretchkingblog97 @ayamenimthiriel @nonamejustshame @msgeorgiarae @bumblingandblooming @sageandberries-png @hina-chans-stuff @alwayshave-faith

[witcherdoaks]

Spring Day: Ghost

Word Count: 2,080

Warnings: None, just a short intermittent chapter 

Previous post in the series: A Brief Reunion

Masterlist: Spring Day

Ciri located Geralt and Yennefer along the path when word reached her of the bard’s passing. The young woman refused to leave Geralt’s side for which Yennefer was thankful. To Ciri, Jaskier had been an odd comfort, a tie to her royal life with all his fussiness and knowledge of high society manners, but more than that, he was a reminder to fuck all and live life. She was no stranger to death, so his death meant she’d have one more name to carry with her until her own demise. Now it was her turn to look out for Geralt as best as she could without making the witcher feel claustrophobic.  

For his part, Geralt pulled off a convincing act if one wasn’t paying attention. More than once his shoulders would tense, and he would quickly excuse himself whenever a different bard attempted renditions of Jaskier’s songs at taverns. Then there were the people who knew the bard would travel with him in spring and summer telling him it was such a shame the talented young man had passed. Ciri noted all of this and the manner with which the Witcher avoided towns and people even more, so she was relieved when they made it to Kaer Morhen that winter, especially after that trip to Oxenfurt. 

The famed academy had received news of the bard’s passing in mid spring. They sent word for Geralt to head to the campus by the beginning of summer, so the pair reached Oxenfurt some weeks after that. Geralt looked positively green as he was led through the halls to Jaskier’s living quarters. Ciri had offered to deal with the officials and everything else about the visit, but the white wolf turned her down. He had to do this himself, he said. 

“Professor Pankratz left you his possessions in the event of his passing, lord knows why,” the stick thin old man said in a tone that revealed he knew the why and very much disapproved of it.

Geralt only nodded stiffly while Ciri glared daggers at the man. Eventually they reached their destination, and the old man told them that any items left behind would be repurposed for the university or would be discarded. They had only four days to go through everything. For the size of the office and living quarters, it was a lot. Books were piled high on every corner of the rooms, most of which Geralt knew he would never need but had to convince himself not to take as they would serve the university well. There was also no possible way Roach and Ciri’s stallion would be able to take everything. The young woman recommended rifling through the tomes regardless; it had been her grandmother's habit to place papers or other in between pages of books. Maybe Jaskier was the same. 

Several books later, they had many dried flowers in between sheets of paper and cotton. Eventually Geralt found a rather large book where the dried flowers were probably destined for. As Geralt turned the pages, he realized there were herbs and other dried medicinal plants  placed carefully in pockets on each side of a page. Annotations and captions filled the pages next to the specimens, detailed descriptions of their properties and the occasional wayward comment. The bard must have spent a great deal of time developing the book. 

“We should take that one,” Ciri said, looking at the contents from over his shoulder. Maybe it would prove useful in the future. 

The Witcher agreed and set the book aside. As he glanced around the room, there were still piles of unsearched tomes everywhere and a disarray of parchments strewn all over Jaskier’s desk. Geralt sighed, tired of looking through tomes in a place that was saturated with Jaskier’s scent. Even with his Witcher senses, he would get accustomed to the smell, chamomile and apple blossom faded into the background, bringing with it unacknowledged comfort. Only for him to notice the scent again and be reminded that the bard was gone. It made Geralt’s throat constrict in that familiar way, yet his eyes were no longer able to express his sorrow. 

“Why don’t you take a break, Geralt?” Ciri asked, placing a hand on his shoulder, bringing him out of his thoughts.  

He glanced at her, and she squeezed his shoulder, giving him a slight nod. Geralt knew he wouldn’t be away for long; he couldn’t let Ciri do all the work, but stepping out of those quarters was quite literally a breath of fresh air. 

Every step took him farther away from the bard’s living quarters, making it easier to breathe and settle his thoughts. There were very few students roaming the passageways. Those that were gave secretive glances in his direction when they thought he wasn’t looking, for which Geralt was grateful. 

He hadn’t been paying much attention where he was going and found himself walking along one of the bridges connecting the two islands eventually. There he stopped, leaning on the stone parapet. The view before him was idyllic, blue hued mountain ranges were peaking above the forest line. His sharp eyes could make out the crystalline snow caps at the apex before they shifted back to the river‘s water, impossibly opaque but not in a murky, muddy way. The Witcher wondered if Jaskier had ever stood here, overlooking the same scene. Would he come here to clear his head, to get away from the students who surely filled the halls in the winter? What would occupy the bard’s mind when he stood here?

“Witcher!” 

Geralt turned in the direction of which his title was called. A woman dressed in orange and green was walking down the bridge toward him. The feather in her red-orange beret was fanning out every so often. 

“I heard you were here,” she cheerfully explained her approach. “It’s nice to meet you in the flesh instead of in a ballad.” 

Her cheerful demeanor slipped from her face as he continued to stare at her, wondering why she had approached him at all. None of the other students had done it. Still she continued past the mounting silence. 

“If you require assistance sorting things out, I’d be happy to extend my stay.” The woman looked almost hopeful as if she wanted him to ask her the favor, “I was passing through to retrieve any parcels Dandelion may have left me.” 

Her voice went soft at the end, and she looked wary now. 

“Dandelion?” Geralt asked, tilting his head. 

“That was what we called him here at the Academy,” she cleared her throat and looked away, “Jaskier, I mean.” 

Ah, here it was. Another facet of Jaskier’s life that Geralt didn’t know. A trivial detail of the bard’s life, which Geralt would have never known had he not met this stranger. THis knowledge left an acrid taste in his mouth. He’d never again be able to discover tidbits of Jaskier from the source itself. All new knowledge of Jaskier would be received from those that knew him. 

Geralt must have been glaring when the woman glanced at him because she took a step away.

“Yes, well, I must be going,” she hurriedly excused herself, “my offer stands, Witcher.” 

A pool of guilt seeped into Geralt’s core, making him grimace. She hadn’t been at fault, and she was only being kind by offering to help. Yet he scared her off. He sighed and started walking back to the living quarters. In the distance, a flash of red orange made a turn into one of the buildings, but he kept walking. It was too late to do anything now, he convinced himself and continued walking.  

When he got back to Ciri, the young woman had made considerable progress with the books and even had some of the students cart off the items they had already inspected. The two of them continued their perusal of the quarters. That which they didn’t need or felt immediately attached to was donated to the academy. Geralt was left with a sparsely used journal, the tome and other nicknacks of the bard’s while Ciri took with her a small ornate table mirror and a scarf she had gifted the bard some years prior. 

It was late evening on their last night at the Academy that Geralt saw the woman again, looking to deliver a package to him. He took the package in hand and accepted the words of comfort that left her mouth, wondering how much of Jaskier she knew, before closing the door on her. 

At night when the candle allotted to him had burned a quarter of the way down, Geralt sat with the bundle in front of him on the table. Ciri had gone to sleep some time ago. It was just him and his thoughts now. The bundle beckoned him, and he reached out to hold it in his hands. It barely weighed anything. The scents coming off it were smoke from a hearth, ink and that woman. It had been with her person for a couple of days at least, so that made sense.

Gently he untied the strings holding the parcel together. As the fabric fell open, the smell of dried ink intensified, yet it now mingled with chamomile and apple blossoms. At the very top of everything was a folded piece of parchment. With one hand Geralt unfolded it and his eyes landed on the topmost line in the bard’s script.

My dear Priscilla 

And that’s all he read. The parchment malformed and wrinkled with the force he used to fold it. The bundle now felt like lead in his hands, but he knew he couldn’t be rid of it. It was still a piece of Jaskier after all, so he rewrapped it and tied the string as securely as he could before shoving the entire thing into his satchel. 

Geralt blew out the candle and went to sleep.  

Even weeks later, Jaskier’s scent lingered on his belongings. 

Of course it did, Geralt had carefully wrapped them in cotton sheets to stow away in his travel bag. He had transferred them to a chest as soon as they reached Kaer Morhen. The bundle the woman gave him lay on the table of his room again. It remained there for a better part of the winter, purposely forgotten in favor of training and renovation of the castle. By now the scent of her was nearly gone, overwritten by the Witcher keep.

It was at this time, months after the incident, that Geralt took the parcel in his hands and unwrapped it with utmost care. Letting the chamomile and apple blossom soothe over his nerves and pounding hear. He smoothed out the wrinkled parchment and opened it to read. 

My dear Priscilla, 

Fate must have smitted me if you are reading this letter. I would hope I’d have died without regrets, but I rather doubt that is the case — at least where our infamous white wolf is concerned in the time I write this letter. 

I could shower you with praises for your natural beauty and talent. Except I fear that would be a waste of time as you already know how even the proudest of songbirds stop to hear you sing. 

Instead I will call upon your vast intellect and sensitivity to make the choice you feel is best, both for him and for my legacy. I leave to you some of my most private compositions. Many of these have not been finished or if they have, are not composed to my quality of my liking. I know you value an artist's integrity and would never betray this trust which I have in you. Unlike that pompous idiot Valdo Marx, seriously beware of him and kick him on his miniscule family jewels  the next time you see him in my honor. 

Back on topic, I’ll leave it up to you whether you wish to keep these writings or hand them off to Geralt of Rivia, who for the last couple of decades has occupied my heart and mind and is the subject of many of the present compositions. 

Please don’t punch him. He has apologized as I’ve told you countless times, and you would only be breaking a hand or wrist if you carry out vengeance in my name. I do not wish for him to hurt more than he is. He hides it well, Priscilla. 

Thank you, dear Callonetta. 

Sincerely yours,

Dandelion