#also yes hello i have risen from my grave once again to deliver you a pony

[kanpallero]

best pone unlimited

[dhwty-writes]

Chapter 15 - A Broken Solitude

Hello lovelies, I am back with another chapter. I'm so glad that the last one was so well received - especially the oath and Yennefer. Maybe I'll be tempted to write a short prequel about Jaskier and Yennefer and how they got down the mountain? We'll see how it goes. I also want it to be known that this chapter was filed as "Geralt vs. the Doublet" in my WIP's. You'll see why shortly. 

Unfortunately, I also come bearing bad news: sadly, @persony-pepper will be unable to continue betaing this fic due to personal reasons. So, I guess if any of you is interested in doing that going forward, shoot me a message? I also have to announce that this is the last pre-written chapter and I am experiencing a minor wave of writer's block atm, so the next one might take a while. I apologise in advance. Have fun reading the chapter!

Summary: While Geralt is still wrestling with the implications of Jaskier's impending wedding, a new Pankratz sister comes to town. Surely, everything will be fine, right? Right.

Read on AO3

prologue | previous | next

Geralt couldn't fucking sleep. It wasn’t a new problem, he was well aware of it. Maybe Jaskier even had a point when saying that worries were the cause for his temporary insomnia. The fact that he hadn’t so much as blinked since swearing himself to his not-friend was a pretty good clue. 

But it wasn’t just that or the quiet noise that drifted towards him from behind closed doors. It wasn't as simple as Jaskier's confession of his impending marriage either, or the godsawful anger that seared through his body whenever he thought of it, or even the glaringly obvious lack of music, which was a rather vicious thorn in his side.

Why wasn't there music? There should be music. A dirge, maybe, playing in the distance. A requiem, to mourn the death of the Viscount’s freedom, his happiness, his soul. One last song to bid farewell to Jaskier the Bard. It would have been a welcome relief to drown out the silence that rang far too loud. 

Geralt wasn’t stupid. He knew that was what it was. Jaskier had left him on that mountain, but he had never reached Lettenhove. Instead Julian Pankratz had risen from the dead, instead of staying in his grave where he fucking belonged. This marriage was nothing but another nail in the bard’s coffin. 

And if that wasn’t enough, each passing day revealed more of the nightmarish monster that slumbered beneath Lettenhove's pretty facade. Geralt suspected it only just began rearing its head. 'He shouldn't have to,' was the mantra of madness that kept Geralt sane that night. 'He shouldn't have to, he shouldn't have, he shouldn't.'

He remembered his first instinct when he saw Jaskier again: ‘A curse. It had to be a curse.’ What else could shut him up, after sixteen years of grunts and insults? What else could make him lay down his lute, stop his singing, drive him home, if all the horror of the Path hadn’t been able to? 

In a way, Geralt supposed, it was a curse. Not a proper one, of course, they were very different. But like one of those Jaskier used to sing about, pretty curses for pretty princesses that would be broken with a true love's kiss.

Only that this one wouldn't be. He wanted it to be, very much so. Maybe he even prayed for it to be, as stupid and futile as it was. A curse, he could do something about. A curse, he could break.

But this? This self-inflicted purgatory Jaskier was living in, dragging him deeper and deeper down the stairway of living hell with each passing day? There was nothing he could do about that.

Because Geralt had delivered him there and now Jaskier did not want to be rescued by him - if he wanted to be rescued at all. ‘He’s not being dragged,’ he thought glumly, ‘he follows willingly.’ He didn't have to choose this way, and yet he did because of... what exactly? Because a miserable witcher had showed up on his doorstep and their friendship was still important enough for him to sacrifice nothing short of his soul for that? Surely, that couldn't be it.

'It isn't,' he thought as he watched the sun rise on another day of misery. 'It's not for you that he's doing this, you heard him yourself.' And why would he be? He got a pretty young wife, a secure position and maybe even a new title out of it. Many people would do more for less. It shouldn't bother him as much as it did.

That was true for a lot of things. He had no right to be bothered by this marriage, nor did he have any right to resent the young lady that had overtaken his own place at his bard’s side. Nor should he be complaining about the very comfortable rooms he was residing in, that so clearly had belonged to someone much higher up the social food chain of Lettenhove than a jumped-up witcher. He tried not to think too much about who the noble in question had been. The answer to that question only made him uncomfortable.

He heard Jakub quietly knock on Jaskier's door to announce the looming arrival of one Lady Justyna of Kerton. The Viscount sighed along to the quiet whisper of silken sheets. "Alright then," he answered, "let the mummers' farce begin. Fetch me my motley, will you?" There was a joke in there, one that Geralt didn't quite get, too preoccupied with his own thoughts.

The news that yet another of Jaskier's sisters would join them in Lettenhove had left a sour taste in Geralt's mouth. He wasn't sure what to expect. But if Janina's delight, Józefa's indifference and Jaskier's jumpiness were anything to go by, he doubted it would be a pleasant experience for him.

'Here's to hoping it's better than the last visit for Jaskier,' he thought. The day of the oath still haunted him in his waking hours as well as his sleep, with the look of pure agony in Jaskier's eyes when he had told him of his betrothal out of his head. He just couldn't forget how the whole keep stank of onions and tears, mingling with Jaskier's smell that was as familiar to Geralt as his own. Or the way Jaskier's pinkie finger had trembled in his grasp, the way Jaskier's hands had closed around his, to pin him to the present with nothing more than a gentle squeeze. The way Jaskier had looked at him, a plethora of scented emotions swirling around them, cupping his cheek, caressing the outline of his cheekbone with his thumb-

"Fuck." Geralt sat up with a start and forced himself to get out of bed. He needed a bath. A cold one, preferably.

He cursed again when he heard Jaskier race down the stairs, and busying himself with... whatever he was doing in his study. So, a lick and a promise had to do and Geralt had to rely on his discipline to will the hot feeling coiling in his stomach away.

But even with his shortened ablutions  he wasn't quite fast enough. He crouched before his chest in nothing but his breeches when his door burst open. "There you are, witche- ah," Jaskier stopped mid-sentence.

Since the Viscount couldn't see him, he allowed himself to smirk. "Told you to knock, my lord," he mumbled and pulled out a fresh shirt that he pulled over his head.

"Well, yes," Jaskier responded, stumbling only a little over his words, "and I also told you that I can go wherever it pleases me. My castle, remember?" 

“I remember.” He dug out a quilted doublet he didn’t know he owned and began fiddling with the buttons.

"Now, where was I?” Geralt could hear the finger fidget he did so often now. Another one of the jittery days, then. “Right, you need to hurry up. My sister's almost at the gate, or so I am told, and you will greet her."

He rolled his eyes and rose to his feet, closing the front of the doublet in the process. "Of course, my ngh-" He turned and his words failed him.

Geralt would've been glad to say the first thing he noticed about Jaskier was his flushed face. Alas, that was not the case. 'He's wearing colour,' was the first thought that crossed his mind, closely followed by: 'Fuck.' After sixteen years of peacocking he should be used to this. After more than a month of mourning garb, though, it still came as a shock.

The Viscount de Lettenhove stood before him in all his glory. Of course, he was wearing the cursed red chemise again, that had drawn his eyes to Jaskier like a fucking target painted on his chest. 'Fuck.' Instead of black, Jaskier wore green, a frivolous velvet doublet embroidered with goldthread that didn't have any buttons. 'Of course, it doesn't have any buttons.' He supposed the silk lacing fit Jaskier and his chronic immodesty, that had been suspiciously absent the past weeks. The  thigh-high boots the matching breeches were tucked neatly into, made Geralt's mouth go dry. He counted it as a small blessing that at least the shirt was buttoned up properly.

"Are you quite done yet?" Jaskier huffed and that was when he first noticed the blush burning bright on his cheeks. Geralt liked to imagine that he himself didn't look quite as flustered. His hopes weren't very high, though. "I know you glare at every speck of colour as if it's attacking you, personally, but I am, quite frankly, not in the mood today. So, you'll have to get used to it again, no matter how bad of a look you think it to be."

"I don't," he heard himself say before his brain had the chance to catch up. "It's not as offensive as the black."

Jaskier opened and closed his mouth like a stranded fish. “Hmm,” he said after a while.

“Hmm,” Geralt agreed, too preoccupied with how the light caught on the intricate goldwork with Jaskier’s every move for a conversation. He shifted from one foot to the other, showcasing the glittering strings that tied doublet and breeches together and Geralt couldn’t tear his gaze away.

"Can we go now?" Jaskier interrupted his musings once again.

"Do you want me to greet your sister barefooted," he shot back, "my lord?"

He just sighed and leaned against the door frame, waving his hand in boredom. "Get a move on, then. We haven't got all day."

"Yes, my lord," Geralt mocked and put on the soft stockings Ana, Marin's mother and the head cook, had gifted him before pulling on his boots. It was weird to be dressed all in new clothes. It felt like they didn't really belong to him. But it was nice, too. Nice to be given things. And not to worry about holes in his socks.

"Ready?" Jaskier asked impatiently.

"Ready, my lord," he confirmed. Jaskier turned and bolted immediately.

He quickly caught up with him. It wasn’t hard. Jaskier was very distracted that morning, staring down the stairs at nothing at all. He didn’t even notice Geralt approaching. Instead he started fidgeting again. He'd done that before, Geralt knew, and he recognised it as a tell-tale sign for the bard to lunge for his lute and start plucking at the strings. Only that there was no lute in sight. Only that he wasn't a bard anymore.

The urge to grasp his pinkie finger again was nearly overwhelming. Or better yet, to hug him tight, that all the tension pent up in Jaskier's body could seep deep into Geralt's bones. He’d done that before, too. It had been uncomfortable at first and he had growled and snapped at him. Only when even that hadn’t discouraged Jaskier, he’d learned to accept it. To anticipate it even.

‘How ironic,’ he thought, ‘to think how I hated it then and how I wish for it now that I’m not allowed to anymore.’ He didn't even have to ask to know that. "Nervous, my lord?" he asked instead.

"No," Jaskier replied and fiddled with the signet ring on his finger, "why would I be? She's my sister, after all."

Geralt raised his eyebrows at that. 'You tell me, my lord.' "I had the impression that your relationship with some of your sisters is rather strenuous."

Jaskier gasped indignantly. "Now thats-" He faltered and winced. "- probably true.” He looked almost pained when he dragged his focus back to their way downwards and began walking again. "There won't be anything to fear from dearest Konwalia, though. She loves me."

'I've heard that one before,' he thought but couldn't find it in him to act annoyed. "Hmm," he answered.

Jaskier scoffed, not very impressed. "Go on, witcher. Speak your mind. I can hear you mocking me even so."

He smiled. Of course he could. "I was just reminiscing on all the times you said this in the past, my lord," he answered. "And how often it led to us spending the night out in the rain."

Jaskier laughed and pushed the door to the courtyard open. "Well, you're in luck, Geralt," he said and spun to hold it open for him. "The chances of that are minimal."

Geralt snorted and stepped out into the freezing morning. Next thing he knew, the Viscount was on the floor, writhing and yelling, and shoving at the stranger who had tackled him.

Geralt cursed. How had he not seen that coming? He was a witcher, for fuck's sake. Fuck, he had just sworn to Jaskier that he would keep him safe and now this: "Get off me!" Jaskier shouted and kicked his legs. "You're crushing me, you horrible, horrible person! And ruining my doublet besid- no, not the sides, I’m ticklish, fuck- godsdammit, Geralt-!"

He was on the attacker a heartbeat later, pulling her off his Viscount. "Oh, you dirty son of a whore, get your hands off me!" she screeched in turn and slapped at his wrists, not that it did her any good. "Unhand me, you brute, you swine, and let me punish my brother for his crimes!"

'Brother?' Geralt looked at Jaskier who was slowly getting to his feet and mercifully looked unharmed. Using the distraction in her favour, the woman stomped on his foot, which made him loosen his grip. She spun, kicked him in the balls and when he doubled over, she pressed a tiny dagger against his throat.

She stared at him defiantly. Geralt stared back. Blinked in confusion. He looked at Jaskier. Back at her face, an exact copy of Jaskier's features. The Viscount doubled over with laughter. "What?" Justyna of Kerton snarled and pressed the blade harder into his skin, almost hard enough to draw blood.

Jaskier slung an arm around her shoulders and kissed her on the cheek. "I missed you, Konwalia." He grinned and Justyna of Kerton grinned, too, and for a moment it was like seeing double.

It took his brain an embarrassingly long time to catch up with what was happening and to drop his hand. "Apologies, my lady," he mumbled, "I didn't realise who I was talking to."

"Obviously not." She turned up her nose at him, but didn't lower her dagger. "Who do you think you are, mangling me like that?"

Jaskier sighed and took a step back. "You know who he is," he answered and waved his hand. 

She narrowed her eyes, her gaze burning with icy fervor as she took him in. "Oh, I know who you are alright. You're the man who stole my brother from me.” Finally, she sheathed the blade, the gods knew where, and extended her hand. “Well, I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Geralt of Rivia."

“The pleasure is mine, Lady-” Geralt bowed to kiss her hand, but Jaskier's sharp whisper stopped him, too quiet to be heard by any human: "Don't touch her rings." 

He halted, eyeing and sniffing the pretty jewels warily. He nearly hissed with disgust when the stink of several lethal poisons assaulted him. Hemlock, cyanide and lily-of-the-valley. “Konwalia,” he said, thoughtful.

Justyna scoffed. "You're no fun," she accused her brother, as she withdrew her hand.

Geralt straightened himself and quirked an eyebrow at Jaskier, who crossed his arms. "I won't let you kill my witcher."

"Please," she rolled her eyes. "He's a mutant. It wouldn't have killed him."

"I won't let you incapacitate my witcher either. I-"

Whatever he had wanted to say next, was quickly drowned out by a squeal: "Mother," a boy in dusty travel clothes called, "look at what Daria is doing!"

Daria, he supposed, was the girl in Ciri’s age balancing precariously on the railing of a trough to evade the grasping hands of a nursemaid. "What? You told me I’m so dirty, it'd be easier to dunk me in the horse trough!" Daria shouted defiantly. "I'm dunkin' myself!"

"Gods have mercy on the parents of clever children," Justyna groaned and rolled her eyes. "Not before you greet your uncle, you won't!” She shouted. “You two come over here right this instant!"

The boy obeyed right away, scurrying over to hide behind Justyna's skirts. But the girl needed more begging by her nurse and shouts by her mother before finally running over. Not before giving one of the two ponies in front of the stable, a pat on the neck, Geralt noted. Justyna’s three guards standing with the five horses watched the scene with thinly veiled humour. No other nobles, though.

"Your husband is not joining us?" Jaskier voiced the question that occupied Geralt's mind.

Justyna sighed exaggeratedly. "Alas, I fear he is still in Goldfurt," she answered cheerily, "where he is annoying our beloved brother-in-law terribly and teaching my eldest all his horrible fibs."

Jaskier looked startled for a moment, before he continued: "And he can stay there as long as he likes, so long as he doesn't come here."

Justyna smiled and mussed her son's hair. "Indeed, he can."

"Here's to hoping my husband dearest doesn't grow tired of yours," Janina shouted from across the courtyard and knocked on the wooden door. "You look good, Justynka. I am glad to have another sensible person in these halls."

Józefa and Ciri were with them, too, and they looked upset at that. But Justyna was quick to answer before the youngest Pankratz sister could protest: "As if I've been sensible for one day of my life," she sighed and opened her arms to stiffly hug Janina and Józefa after. "Ah, there you are." She smiled fondly as Daria slid her small hand into hers. "Go on now, be nice guests and greet Lord Lettenhove."

The two children looked up at her with wide eyes, then glanced over to Jaskier. 'The same blue eyes all Pankratzes share,' he noted. The Viscount smiled and took a step forward while Geralt backed up a little, trying to look as unintimidating as possible. 

Jaskier's niece let go of her mother's hand and his nephew came forth from behind her skirts to greet him with a nice bow. "Thank you for allowing us to stay at your keep, my lord," Daria said and if he strained his ears, Geralt could hear Jaskier's heart skip a beat. "It is a pleasure to meet you."

"Oh, no, d- madam," Jaskier said. He took her hand, to raise her from her curtsy and kissed it gently. "The pleasure is all mine. I hope you may forgive the mishap that is failing to make your acquaintance until now."

She pursed her lips, obviously straying from the carefully rehearsed protocol when she said: "I might. If you're a nice uncle, Lord Lettenhove."

He laughed and reached out to mess up her already tousled hair. "I will have to make an effort, then, little Lady Daria." She grinned widely, and Jaskier turned to his nephew: "What about you, sir? I'm afraid I didn't catch your name."

The boy straightened himself, but his eyes continued darting around, not daring to settle on his uncle. "Julian of Kerton, my lord, if it pleases you," he said far too quickly.

Out of the corner of his eye, Geralt saw Jaskier's mouth forming a silent 'Oh'. Honeyed happiness trickled through the air, as he carefully looked over to Justyna. She smiled and nodded.

Jaskier gulped and dropped to one knee before the boy. "Now that will lead to some confusion, huh?" He laughed nervously.

Justyna clicked her tongue. "How were we supposed to know either of you would grace the halls of Lettenhove? Go on, Julek, and let your namesake give you the hug he owes you."

If Jaskier looked nervous, then Julian did so doubly so, glancing back to his mother thrice, before finally wrapping his small arms around the Viscount's neck. He startled just like Geralt, when Jaskier sniffled quietly. "I'm sorry," he whispered, hugging his nephew tighter. "I'm sorry I'm late."

There was a simultaneous scoff from all three of his sisters and some muttering about 'idiotic men who didn't know how to apologise' or something of that kind. Truth be told, Geralt stopped listening as soon as Jaskier introduced his 'Cousin Fiona', and once more related the unlikely tale of their reunion. 

Absentmindedly he wondered, when it would be acceptable for him to make a quiet escape. Three siblings had set him on edge already. Four was definitely nothing he was equipped to deal with.

Just when he was about to leave, there was a tug on his sleeve. When he turned, he saw Daria looking up at him with curious eyes. "Who are you?" she demanded to know.

"Geralt of Rivia," he responded with a nod of his head. "At your service, madam."

"Are you the witcher mother talked about?" she continued. "The one that stole Uncle Julian? Did you really steal him? Why did you return him?"

"I... am?" he answered cautiously, not entirely sure how to address any of those questions.

He was still trying to figure out how to answer them when she already babbled on: "Why d'you look so weird? What happened to your eyes? Why's your hair all white? Only old people have white hair, but you don't look old. Why don't you look old? Can I have white hair, too? It looks wicked."

"No," he growled, but she didn't even flinch.

"You can't tell me no!" she exclaimed. "You said you're at my service, so you can't deny me!" 

“Aren’t you scared of me?” he asked with raised eyebrows.

She stood with her hands on her hips. “I am Lady Daria of Kerton,” she informed him, “and you have no right to frighten me.”

He had to repress a quiet chuckle. 'Oh, you're Jaskier's niece alright,' he thought. 'No fucking sense of self-preservation.' "Is that so? Didn't your mother tell you, witchers steal children and turn them into monsters?"

Her eyes grew even wider. "You can do that? Can I be a witcher, too? Are there girl witchers? Can you steal me, so that I don't have to marry someone? Mother says, that's what you did to Uncle Julian. I'd rather be a white-haired witcher than marry someone. And I already know how to swing a sword!" She gasped and quickly clasped her hands over her mouth when she realised what she'd said. "Oh bother," she mumbled, "I wasn't supposed to say that."

He tilted his head, intrigued. "Why not?"

"Father says, a lady mustn't bear arms."

"Hm," he answered. 'Arsehole,' he thought. "And what does your mother say?"

"That a true lady knows where to hide arms from idiot men's view." Her eyes gleamed mischievously. "Did you know that I can hide ten blades on my person without father noticing?"

That made him chuckle. "I did not, madam. Do you think it wise to entrust that information with an idiot man?"

She frowned and cocked her head. "No. But you don't look like an idiot."

"I'm very glad to hear that."

Daria crossed her arms. "Will you train me now?"

Geralt shrugged. "I fear that is not up to me to decide. You'll have to ask your mother about it. And your lord uncle. It is his service I am sworn to."

"Very well," she answered and tossed her braided hair over her shoulder. "I will ask."

He already feared she was about to ask right then and there, when Justyna of Kerton came to his rescue: "Daria," she called, "time for your dunking. In a bathtub."

"Later," she acquiesced. "I will ask later." She and her brother quickly vanished between four chattering Pankratz siblings, leaving him alone with Ciri.

His child surprise beamed at him. “Can we train? Please?”

As if he needed any encouragement. “Meet you back here in half an hour,” he told her and went to change and get his own training sort.

“Daria is fun,” Ciri announced as soon as she came barrelling into the courtyard again. “She said you’ll train her, too. Is that true?”

He glared at her. Fucking great. “Maybe.” His voice sounded far too soft for his liking. “You’d like that?”

“Oh, I’d love that!” Ciri spun in a circle and giggled childishly. “I’d love to have a friend.”

“Hmm,” he grunted. “You’re not here to make friends. You’re here to train. Start with the drills.”

She sighed and took her basic stance, moving effortlessly through the footwork Geralt srilled into her. “Why can’t I do both?”

“Making friends gets you talking,” he recited Vesemir’s words, “talking gets you sloppy.” He nudged her food with his sword, adjusting the position slightly. “Sloppy gets you killed.”

“But Geralt!”

“First rule of training?”

“Listen and do as you’re told,” she mumbled.

“Right. D’you need your mouth for that?”

“No.”

“Then shut it and get moving.” She pulled a grimace he knew he should reprimand her for. Somehow, he couldn’t. “Alright, I’ll do it with you.” That always seemed to cheer her up. Together they moved through the basic drills until they were rudely interrupted by Justyna of Kerton.

“Continue,” he told Ciri and walked over to Jaskier’s sister, who was eying his student with interest.

"So, it is true," she said.

"My lady?" he prompted.

"Daria told me you were willing to train her."

Geralt sighed. "Would you believe me if I said those were not my words?"

She laughed and shook her head. "I'd be disappointed if they were. She's a good liar."

"You sound proud," he said as disapprovingly as he could.

"Lying is a very useful talent for people like us," she answered secretively.

"Nobles?"

"Noblewomen," Justyna clarified.

"Hm," he answered. "Lower, cublet," he shouted to Ciri, who thought she could cheat by not making proper use of her knees, "I want to see a right angle!"

"So, will you?" Justyna inquired.

"Will I do what?" he asked irritated. Using a whole lot of words without saying anything at all seemed to run in the family.

"Train my children."

"The boy, too?"

"Unfortunately, yes." Justyna wrinkled her nose in disgust. "I fear the same people that forbid my daughter from picking up arms, also dictate that my son must. Despite their contrary natures."

He scoffed. "Your daughter can store ten blades on her person without anyone noticing.”

“So she can,” she agreed. "And one day, that’s what will bring people to listen to her. If she knows how to use them. So?"

He looked down at her and raised an eyebrow. "As the intelligent woman I know you to be, you should know that I hold no power here. Ask your brother."

"You are just like him, absolutely no fun," she pouted.

"I'm sure your sisters will be happy to agree. If you excuse me now? I have a job to do." Without looking back, he walked over to Ciri to correct her posture. She was cheating again. "You know you're doing yourself no favour with that, hm?" he said as he tapped her feet to get them wider apart.

She lost her balance with flailing arms and his hand shot out to steady her. "But it hurts," she complained.

'The trials hurt, pup,' he remembered Vesemir's response to those words, 'this is nothing.' But when he opened his mouth, the words couldn't seem to come out.

'It's a stupid phrase,' he thought. 'There are no trials anymore.' And even if there were, nothing in this world and the next could bring him to subject her to their cruelty. He tried not to think about how Vesemir had been able to do it to all of his pups.

"It will stop hurting," he told her instead.

"When?"

"When you get used to it." He poked her in the side and she giggled. "Once we get some muscles on you, you'll hardly notice it. From the top."

Both of them were lost in the almost meditative trance that came with drills, when suddenly a loud voice cut through the silence: "Jaskier!" Justyna called.

Geralt groaned quietly. 'Gods preserve us.'

The Viscount was dressed in a green riding cloak and heading to the stables, where Marin was already waiting for him. Apparently, they were about to restart their daily rides. "What?" he asked, mildly irritated.

"Nothing at all, brother. I just wondered whether or not your witcher might be persuaded to train Daria and Julek, too?"

"Sure," he replied with a smile, as he mounted his horse, "why not? Are you alright with that, Geralt?"

He shrugged and looked down at Ciri. "Fine," he replied begrudgingly. "Might be nice for Fiona to have some company."

"It's settled, then. Marin?"

"Ready, my lord." The Captain of the Guard was already in his saddle, his horse prancing a little.

"Where are you going?" Justyna asked.

Jaskier shot Geralt a quick glance. "I can't tell you," he replied cautiously. 'Great,' he thought. He hated the damned secrecy. "But you are welcome to come with me."

"And I would love to! Wiktor, my horse."

Geralt sighed and turned back to a grinning Ciri. "What?" he grumbled.

"You're staring," she informed him.

"So?" He knew he was fucking staring. How was he supposed not to stare?

Her grin grew even wider. "So, nothing. I really like Jaskier's new doublet. Don't you?"

"You little menace," he growled, "you're doing this on purpose."

"Maybe," she drawled.

"If you've got time to pull my leg you're not training hard enough. Again!"

It was the early afternoon, when Jaskier and Justyna returned from their ride — without Marin, though. He could hear them from a thousand yards away, talking animatedly about everything and nothing at all.

"Again," he grunted at Ciri, who was drenched in sweat, her dark-dyed hair clinging to her forehead. She groaned loudly but did what she was told all the same.

Geralt didn't really pay attention, much too preoccupied to listen to Jaskier and his sister. "As the good friend that I am I told him to talk to me," he related as they rode through the gates. "A futile attempt, I'm well aware. I hadn't been able to get him to talk for a full decade, but my inebriated past-self still believed in miracles. And then — can you imagine? — he asked whether or not I had sung to her before she left!"

She snorted. "Unbelievable."

"I know!" He hopped from his saddle and handed his reins to Wiktor. "But that's not even the worst part. He told me, my singing was like, and I quote, "ordering a pie and finding it has no filling"."

"The audacity!" Justyna gasped and clutched at her chest. “Your witcher should really learn to respect his fellows.” As if he wasn’t fucking standing right there.

He didn't catch Jaskier’s response, for there was a sharp pain in his shin that demanded his attention. He looked down to where Ciri had hit him with her wooden sword. "Ow."

"You're not even paying attention!" she complained.

"Not true. I was paying attention. I chose to ignore that blow."

"Lying is a sin and a crime," she told him.

"Good that I heed neither king nor god, then. Again."

Ciri groaned again but did as she was told. Geralt's attention was already elsewhere again, as Jaskier and Justyna laughed loudly and Geralt couldn’t help but scowl. He should be thankful, he figured. Thankful that Jaskier was happy again. Why did it make him even sadder?

“Are you alright?” Ciri asked quietly, as more snippets of conversation drifted over to them.

“Deliver our dinner up to my study, if you will,” Jaskier told some servant. “And see to it that my liquor cabinet is restocked. There are some celebrations in order."

'Oh, fuck no,' he thought and paled. Geralt was well aware of Jaskier's usual manner of celebration. They began with a tankard of ale and bawdy songs. A few hours of prancing and at least one pint stolen from Geralt in tiny sips later, he would stop singing and start drinking vodka. One drink had him chattering, four and he was draped over Geralt, and after that he took on the strenuous task of spilling every secret he knew, to anyone who would listen. The end normally came with sunrise, at least one vomit spell and Jaskier in some stranger’s bed. The handle of his sword creaked dangerously in his clenched fist.

“I am,” he told Ciri, forcing himself to sound as calm as possible. “That’s enough for today. Go and get changed.”

She hesitated. “What about you?” 

“I’ll stay for just a bit longer. Go now.” She gnawed on her lip and he had to look away. He couldn’t bear the pity in her eyes. After a quick squeeze of his hand, she took off all the same.

When he looked up, the courtyard was deserted and it felt as if Geralt was suffocating. "Fuck," he grunted and angrily kicked the horse trough. He really needed to get a grip. 

He heard an appreciative whistle behind him and spun to see Marin stand in the gate, leading his horse by the reins. "Careful now, Geralt," he said with a soft smile, "or you'll scare his lordship's servants again."

"His lordship and his servants can go kiss my arse," he sneered, half hoping to smell a whiff of vinegar at that. But of course, he didn't.

Instead, he laughed, and the amused smell of young wine laced with honeyed happiness filled the air. Without really wanting to, Geralt took a deep breath. It was intoxicating. "I bet you'd like that," he said with a wink and handed his reins over to a stableboy.

"Piss off, Marin," he said exasperated, “I don’t want company.” He was not in the mood for any of his prying questions and clever words.

Unfortunately, that didn't discourage him in the slightest. "Now, now, don't say that too loudly. Else someone's going to believe it."

"I care fuck all about someone's beliefs."

"Stop taking the piss out of yourself," he said unimpressed, "and start telling me what's gotten you so riled up."

Geralt grunted and crossed his arms. He had no intentions of telling him anything. Somehow, the words still tumbled out of his mouth when Marin smiled expectantly: "I can't fucking sleep."

"Oh?" The captain of the guard leaned against the wall. "Lord Julian's finally warmed up to you, then?"

He scoffed. "Still hoping to win the bet?"

"Hm," he said and smiled. "That too, yeah. So, how's the lordly bed?"

"Fuck if I know. Haven't even really talked to him in two days." And with Justyna's arrival he doubted that would change anytime soon. He sighed and drew the sword from his belt. "Drop it. Spar with me instead?" He had offered it, after all. More than once.

He pushed off the wall and went to pick up another wooden sword. "Gladly. I was promised to get my arse kicked, after all.”

Geralt snorted and that’s all the warning he gave before charging. “You seem awfully unbothered by that.”

He laughed and blocked the blow. “My fortieth winter came and went some years ago. I’d be awfully offended if I so much as stand a chance against you.” He grinned and almost landed a strike. “Don’t you dare go easy on me, witcher.”

“Not any easier than I would go on any other human,” he promised and knocked his sword away, pointing his own blade at his throat. “Yield.”

“Again,” Marin demanded with an eager gleam in his eyes. Geralt was happy to oblige and they resumed their positions. After a few rounds, they fell into an easy routine. It was less of a fight and more of a dance. 

“Oh, Melitele’s tits, I missed this,” Marin sighed as their swords clashed again. “Not as good as sinking my sword into some Nilfgaardian’s, but it gets my blood singing all the same.”

Geralt snorted as he sidestepped and dealt a blow to Marin’s backside for good measure. “Are you always this chatty during swordplay?”

“Usually,” he admitted and grinned. “You could try to gag me, though I make no promises that’ll work. I like to know my foe before sheathing my blade in them.”

He raised a suspicious eyebrow. “And I suppose you know all about fighting while gagged.”

“Certainly. I was captured during the war, you know? Had to, uh, fight my way out.”

“Hmm,” he answered. “Again?”

“Definitely.” He raised his sword again. “Wouldn’t want our tilt to end so soon.” Geralt blocked his blows easily, relishing in the silence safe for the clank of their wooden swords.

“Speaking of getting to know my foe…”

“I’m not talking about my past,” he grunted.

“And I wouldn’t ask you to,” Marin said and grazed his thigh with the tip of his sword. “So, about this sleeplessness.”

“Marin,” he grunted annoyed and felt the control on his strength slip. He hit him square in the chest and the human stumbled a few paces back.

To Geralt’s neverending confusion, he laughed. "Come on, witcher, is that all you got? I thought you were angry!"

'I am,' he thought, 'but-' "I don't want to hurt you." His anger always hurt people.

"Don't worry about me, I can take it." He blocked another blow, hard enough that it was bound to hurt. "That's better," he said with a wide grin. "Let your blade talk if you can't."

For the second time that day he answered despite his better judgement: "It's just fucking shit," he grunted and ducked away under a mean blow. "I know I fucked up, but it's like he's a different person. Sixteen years, dammit, and now nothing."

Marin shook his head and used the moment to catch his breath. "I don't think you understand how things here work. Maybe you were friends with him some time ago. Maybe you brought Lady Fiona here. But they're nobility. They're different from you and me."

"Bullshit."

"What happens when they catch you stealing? When you chop someone's head off? When you're a traitor?"

He grunted and lunged forward again.

"I know. But when they steal, it's taxes. When they kill, it's justice. When they act like the backstabbing cunts they are, it's politics. Like it or not, but as long as you're in Lettenhove, you're at his mercy. No matter how friendly he might act with us, we are not the same. He could always decide to fire us or banish us, or execute us. Nothing you can do about it."

"That's stupid. There must be something."

He shrugged and parried. "Tell me when you find out. In the meantime, enjoy what you can, shut up about what you can't. You're lucky. You're free to go, at least. For the rest of us, there's nothing out there."

Geralt snorted. "Right now, I can't."

"Why, because you're his lordship's guest? He won't force you to stay."

"Hmm." He drove him farther back. "You sure about that? That bloody oath seemed pretty fucking important to him."

Marin tripped over thin air and landed on his butt with a grunt. "Ex- excuse me?" he stammered.

"Hm?" Geralt said and pointed his sword at his throat. "Yield."

"Yeah, sure." He pushed the blade out of the way and accepted Geralt's hand to get back to his feet. "I just thought you said you're sworn to his lordship now."

"I did."

"Well...," he said slowly, "that changes quite a bit."

"It does." He knew damn well that it did. 

Marin didn’t get the hint to shut up: "He certainly won't fuck you now."

Geralt made a point of slowly sheathing his sword and sat down against the wall to take a large gulp from his waterskin. "Hm." 

"Is that what's been keeping you awake?" Marin settled down next to him and accepted the waterskin. "The oath, I mean." He hesitated for a moment. "I'm sure he'd release you from it, if you asked. He's got a good heart, you know, and-"

Geralt closed his eyes and let his head thump back against the wall. "I know," he interrupted him harshly. “Too soft.” Was his heart supposed to hurt like that?

"Right, I'm so-"

"I can't sleep because I can't stop hearing him," he gritted out, not knowing why.

"Your ears're that good, huh?"

He raised his eyebrows in amusement. "I can hear your mother scolding the kitchen boys from here."

"Really?" Marin whistled through his teeth. "What's she saying?"

"Nothing child appropriate."

That made him laugh. After a moment he said: "So you're frustrated, huh?"

Geralt grunted. "Nothing that should concern you."

"Really? 'Cause I've heard I've got a knack for stress relief. I’d love to take the edge off."

Turning to him he frowned. “Hm,” he hummed quietly as he took in his appearance. The sweaty hair, the flushed cheeks, the lewd grin. ‘Ah.’ The dark eyes that gleamed mischievously. And then the wave of spicy-sweet cinnamon, he inhaled greedily. ‘Fuck.’

For a moment, he thought of Jaskier and his heart ached. He'd missed that smell, omnipresent as it had been on his bard. And now it was back, only all wrong.

It was stupid, he knew. Marin wasn’t anything like Jaskier. Silver strands streaked his hair and crow’s feet adorned his eyes. His hands were rough, his stomach soft and his smile kind. 'This isn't right,' the voice of reason told him. 

‘Like rubbing salve on a tumour.’ He frowned. It seemed like a lifetime ago when Jaskier had told him that. He had been right then, he’d probably be right now. 

But Jaskier wasn't here. He was in his rooms, about to get drunk with the sister he had evidently missed and never mentioned before. 'He'll be fine,' Geralt told himself. 'He'll be happy.' 

Marin's smile faltered. "Look-" he began, but Geralt gave him no chance to finish that sentence. ‘Fuck it,’ he thought and hauled him close by the collar of his shirt.

Their lips crashed together in a bruising kiss. His lips were rough, too, but so were Geralt’s and he’d never cared much about that. It also dispelled any illusion that he was kissing anyone but Marin, which was just as well. 

Marin pulled back slightly to catch his breath. "Oh, good," he said, smirking, "I already thought you weren't interested. "

“Hmm,” Geralt answered and leaned back against the wall, “didn’t know it was an option.”

He threw his head back and laughed, exposing his throat while he did so. Geralt didn’t even fight the urge to lean in and kiss below his jaw. Judging by Marin’s groan and the hands that tangled in his shirt, it wasn’t unwelcome. “I didn’t know you suffered from blindness, witcher. Aren’t your eyes supposed to be keener than any man’s?”

“I’m seeing you just fine,” he chuckled. “Just wasn’t listening.”

“As long as you like what you see.” He craned his head again, obviously waiting for Geralt to make another move. He kissed him again, just because he could. 

This time, a stifled groan from the battlements broke them apart. “Captain!” Borys called, a large smile plastered on his face and that of half a dozen other guards. “Have pity on our eyes and get yourself a room!”

Marin huffed and smiled enticingly. “Alright, alright.” He got to his feet and extended his hand. “What d’you say, Geralt? I’d fancy a night in silken sheets and eiderdown.”

He frowned, unwittingly thinking of Jaskier. Geralt gave him three hours to be drunk as a sailor. He’d be telling stories, humming and laughing, maybe even singing. All of that in his study, where Geralt would hear every word. “No,” he decided firmly and let him pull him to his feet. He couldn’t bear it, neither with Marin nor alone.

So, he grabbed him by the waist and pulled him close. “I don’t care for silk and featherbeds,” he announced and kissed him again. “But I like the sound of a wall between us and those pricks. Lead the way, Captain.”