#even then geralt had to promise NOT to look for more djinns and NOT to piss off powerful witches

[dandeliont3aandsageleaves]

Adding onto this cause I keep thinking about it:

Geralt comes home one year smelling like Djinn magic and Jaskier loses his mind because how dare someone else mark his Wolf.

The Witchers all think "this is it. The crazy fae is going to curse us all" as they prepare for a fight but before anyone can move Jaskier is breaking the bond between Geralt and Yennefer that the djinn caused.

Geralt is then whisked away into the keep as he's aggressively pampered and lectured on the importance of Common Sense. Jaskier proceeds to follow Geralt out onto the path come spring cause he'll be damned if he lets another creature hurt someone that belongs to him.

Fic idea where Jaskier is a fae who keeps breaking into Kaer Morhen despite everyone's best efforts.

He doesn't want to hurt any of them (obviously), he just thinks the Witchers are cool and wants to shower them with affection. So he breaks in every winter and brings them food and helps fix up the keep and makes sure they're okay and sings them songs.

The Witchers are understandably very upset and freaked out by this random fae breaking into their home every winter. They spend so long trying to ward the keep against him, they try chasing Jaskier away, there are multiple attempts on his life. Jaskier just laughs and boops them on the nose before fluttering away. They end up reluctantly accepting him like one of those wild foxes trying to domesticate themselves.

Jaskier then starts kidnapping leading other Witchers to Kaer Morhen and the keep eventually fills up with very confused, very grumpy Witchers and a very satisfied fae who's happy with his collection.

[thedreamlessnights]

Accismus - pt. 6

{previous chapter} || {next chapter upcoming}

Geralt of Rivia x gn!reader (Eventual NSFW)

Synopsis: On the journey, you and Ciri bond, and she and Geralt give you some training. A series of unexpected things occur. The road goes ever on.

Warnings: Graphic descriptions of major injuries and death, mentions of vomit, mentions of personal injuries. Intense scenes of fighting, multiple mentions of blood, graphic description of a monster death, moderately graphic descriptions of a corpse. Spoilers for The Last Wish (in particular, The Lesser Evil story). While prior knowledge of that book and story is not needed, I highly recommend it - it's a masterclass of writing and exposition.

Word Count: 8.4k

A/N: I am very, very excited for you all to see this chapter. I feel as though we're finally reaching the heart of the story - the scenes I've wanted to write since the very beginning, when I first had the idea for Accismus. I hope you'll all enjoy this segment (though many of you may also hate me afterward). Comments are incredibly encouraged and appreciated! Without further ado...

Leaving Novigrad is nothing but chaos. It’s sheer, overwhelming, and somehow endearing, but nonetheless chaos. 

As soon as the three of you are on your feet, there’s a desperate rush of teasing, goodbyes, and demands of letters, as if it’s just now sunk in that you’re actually going. There are calls for a final round of drinks, goblets of honeyed mead being shoved into open hands, wishes of luck murmured over the rims of glasses. 

Dandelion starts chattering as fast as he can about the djinn, too fast to give you any room to speak. He squeezes your shoulder and promises the ballad will be his best one yet, then assures you that you’re welcome to return at any time you’d like - which is so kind you don’t even know how to respond. Luckily, he doesn’t give you the chance. He’s off to chat with Zoltan about something.

You, Ciri, and Geralt try your best to lug your things to your horses in the midst of everything, but the two of them keep getting pulled away. Just as you’re thinking you’ll get out unscathed, Priscilla pulls you into her arms for a hug, and you nearly drop your bag in shock.

“I wanted to ask if you’d join us for Yule,” she says, giving your shoulders a tight, comforting squeeze before she pulls away. “Only if you’re interested, of course,” she adds quickly. “You’ve been such lovely company! I know we’ll all miss you just as soon as you’re gone. If you could manage it, we’d love to have you. There’ll be no ballads, I swear it.”

Your throat feels tight. “Thank you,” you tell her, forcing a smile. “I’d love to.”

As soon as you’ve said it, you know that you’ll have to be there. If not to see them all again, then to avoid disappointing her. Was it really just a few days ago that you and Geralt were in that cave, hiding out from the rain? When you had been telling yourself to shut him out, to not tell him a thing more about yourself? It seems years away now - as if the train of thought had been washed away the moment you’d stepped inside the Chameleon. 

At your answer, Priscilla beams at you, and with a final squeeze of your shoulder, escorts you out the door. “Stay safe, all of you,” she says.

Then, Dandelion is shouting out something else about the ballad, Eskel and Lambert are snickering over something about Geralt and a broken leg, and the three of you are finally, truly off. 

For the first time, you have something to look forward to after you and Geralt find the djinn. If only your hands would stop shaking.

From the very beginning, the journey out of the city is different than the one coming into it. Your days do not pass away in lengths of unbearable heat or blistering palms. Not that the heat is not there, of course, but it’s more manageable in fair company, when you feel less of a burden and more of a friend. 

If Yennefer’s presence had been a shard of ice, then Ciri’s is a warm glass of mead, filling you up from the inside out. Geralt clearly cares tremendously for her, and it’s not long before you do, too. And how could you not, coming to know her? 

Everything comes and goes in a blur of sun and moon - strengthening hands on the reins and calluses being built, Ciri’s witty, snippish remarks, and Geralt laughing, laughing, at her tales of being a witcheress. Somewhere in between, you’re being roped into talking about yourself. 

Geralt may not push about your past - or who you are at all, really - but Ciri wraps her inquiries in innocent questions that have you talking much longer than you’ve realized. Then, with your throat raw and hoarse, you’ll finally notice her tricks and - with no small sense of betrayal - drop off in the middle of a sentence. 

“What?” she’ll laugh. “Go on!”

And then you’ll be talking again.

You can’t stand to speak about certain parts of your past, so you talk about everything else - tales of your rambunctious childhood, memories of your parents that aren’t painful enough to silence you.

You tell them about your father raising horses, and how the first gift you can remember was a mare named Mead - the same one you’ve named your current horse after. You tell them about being five, imagining you were the village’s doctor, going from door to door with a piece of wood and noting down ‘illnesses.’

You’d even pretended to treat your father’s case of ‘measles’ - which was nothing more than a scrape on his arm - with a mysterious plant which had turned out to be poison ivy. It had given you both a horrible rash for a week. 

Your mother had tried to be stern then, but couldn’t hide her shaking shoulders from you as she rubbed soothing creams over your arms, concocted from the herbs in the gardens in front of your home. Nor could she hide the fond smile she gave you afterward, gently brushing her thumb over your cheek.

From then on, you’d been banned from touching mysterious plants - which led you to reading books instead. Your parents had been educated, and they’d taught you how to read, too. You’d gone around, begging neighbors for any spare works they could spare. It had been before the war, and times had been different - the people, too. More willing to share, even in Velen, where need bled into the very soil.

Every chance you’d gotten, you’d read and reread books about gardening, history, healing, and anything else you could get your hands on. When you were old enough, you worked any odd job you could, because you wanted to become a doctor. Cleaning, gardening, finding lost items. Mending torn clothes, fetching something from the next town over, catching a fish someone needed for a meal. You’d done it all. Everything you could.

“Busy as a bee, weren’t you?” Ciri muses with a smile. “Buzzing around from place to place.”

You can’t say her description is inaccurate. In those times, you hadn’t been still for a moment. Becoming a doctor had been your lifeblood, the reason behind every action you made. It was planted in you, a root that would not come out.

And, for the first time since you left The Chameleon, your words choke in your mouth, and you can’t speak - not about that. You leave the story there, and Ciri doesn’t question it.

 But you feel Geralt’s eyes on you, those warm, inspecting eyes that never seem to leave you. You wonder what he’s thinking. You’d give anything to know. 

Just a few days after you’ve set off, Geralt and Ciri take to training you. Even with two witchers, they explain, it’ll be good for you to learn. A real sword is too advanced to start with, and neither of them have practice ones, so Ciri shows you basic defensive actions, dodges, and escapes, and has you repeat them until they’re instinctive. Then she has you practice them in more depth, in various scenarios. 

“That’s it,” she says. “Keep spinning. Buzz around! Just like a bee!” 

Eventually, that shortens down into a two-worded application of the phrase. “Shift left! Faster! Buzz - bee!”

Any time you’re paired with her, you do alright. Not perfect, but enough to draw a look of pride when you successfully disarm her or escape her grip. She’ll give you a tip or two, then have you do it again. 

“How was that?” you ask afterward, panting.

She grins at you, a twinkle in her eye. “Perfect. Just like a bee.”

With Geralt, it’s a different story. 

Every time you’re paired with him, even before you’ve started, you freeze up. Your mind goes completely blank, as if the sight of him wipes your memory clean, wipes every instinct away. It’s even worse when he touches you. All you can seem to think about is the warmth of his body pressed against you, and even though you try with all your might to remember what to do, your movements always end up jarred and clumsy. 

“Try again,” he says softly, over and over. “One more time.” It’s never unkind, but he’s strict, drilling the moves into you with an intensity that you can only describe as fear. He’s worried about you. 

“Gotta use more force,” he says. “C’mon, faster. No, the other arm. Remember what Ciri said?”

You do. Buzz around like a bee. But if you’re a bee with him, you’re certainly a dead one. Your body just will not move the way you want it to, no matter how hard you try. This sort of thing goes on until you’re both exhausted, and you turn in for the night. And, naturally, when Ciri practices the same moves with you the next morning, they come naturally. 

“Well done, busy bee,” she says.

And there are Geralt’s eyes again, fixed on you. Golden. Piercing. Almost teasing, as he raises his brows. And you know he knows. 

For the fleeting moment when your gaze meets his, you regret not kissing him when you’d had the chance. More often than not, you’ve caught yourself ruminating on the softness of his lips, on how they might feel pressed against yours. On his hands, warm and sure, tracing a path down the small of your back. 

Then your mind rushes back to you, and you remember why you hadn’t. Your reasoning seems less and less sound when he’s looking at you like that.

Most nights of the journey are spent outside, but there’s the occasional inn that you come across, and none of you can resist the chance of a warm bed. You and Geralt share a room as you had before, and Ciri takes her own. That’s the only moment of awkwardness you can feel, when the three of you bid each other good night - but it’s brief and fleeting, and there aren’t any moments of tension with you and Geralt like before. Even if you might wish for it.

The inns are rare, and the farce you’ve put up for yourself is bearable. Usually, the three of you sleep in shifts, and the two of them drill it into you to wake them if you hear or see anything. 

You never do, not in those nights under the stars, keeping alert in the progressively cooling air. There’s never anything but the three of you and open air, the soft sounds of Geralt and Ciri breathing. It’s the one time you seem to get for yourself, and you come to look forward to it. Being able to think, without Geralt or Ciri watching you, you can almost pretend that the djinn isn’t real. 

Almost.

As time goes on, something between you and Geralt slowly shifts. Ciri is a buffer, too clever for anything to slip by her, and Geralt would never do anything while she’s here - not even if she’s ten minutes away, gathering some food for the journey. 

There seems to be a silent agreement that settles in. You don’t know what it will be like, in those days after she’s gone, but you do know with an absolute certainty that nothing is going to happen while she’s with you. And, with the lessening number of inns that show on the journey, it makes for very little room between you and Geralt. Not enough room for romance, that’s to be sure.

Thoughts of kissing him fade. Your eyes still linger - on his sure hands, strapping up food to Roach, on the scars of his arms, soft and pink - but you’re quick to catch them. The message there is clear. Not now, it says. It’s not the time. 

Maybe not ever, you think, a deep pit in your stomach.

Eventually, with this sort of emotional blockade put up, solidifying, you’re able to do the defensive moves even with Geralt. They collectively decide that you’re ready to move on to something else. The further on you go, the more dangerous the roads are.

Initially, Ciri tries to give you a dagger. Unfortunately, as soon as she hands it to you, your hands start sweating so much that you can barely grip it. It might be helpful if you didn’t feel like throwing up every time you look at it - much less holding it. Geralt finally notices the way you’re trembling and takes the thing away.

Which means you must resort to other methods of protection. As soon as the three of you come across a town with a blacksmith, you’re set up with your own crossbow, equipped with bolts. Thankfully, this turns out to be a success. You’ve worked with a bow before, after all, and Geralt and Ciri make you take turns shooting it while riding on Mead, hitting random targets until you’re very pleased at your aim.

And, of course, Ciri can use a crossbow bolt to hit a piece of wood mid-air. Like father, like daughter, it seems.

When the three of you cross over the border of Kaedwen, the mood changes. You’re not sure why. There’s something deeper, something veiled in the air. You spend your nights tense. Your dreams turn feverish, plagued not only by visions of a dagger in your hand, but by the cave you’d seen that night in Novigrad.

The deep, dark pit seldom leaves your mind. You grow so weary of it that your eyes turn desperately to your surroundings as the three of you ride, pleading for something else to attach to. Rain falls heavily and fog chokes the pathways, making it hard to see.

And, for the first time, the three of you come across some danger. 

For a first event, it’s not much. It could be much worse, really. Just a few ghouls, eating a decaying corpse. No bandits. No giant centipedes bursting out of the ground, or swarms of nekkers ready to claw you apart. 

Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself. It doesn’t stop your immense sense of discomfort, the sweat pilling up on your palms, trickling down the back of your neck as you mindlessly put an arrow toward your bow.

You hate monsters, but there’s something in particular you hate about necrophages. Something… unsettling about the way they crave rotting flesh. Only one thing lies between them eating you, and it’s your loss of life. Not exactly an encouraging thought.

As the three of you ride in closer, your stomach starts churning at the smell in the air. Death. You’d give anything to never smell it again.

Being at the front of the line, Ciri leaps off her horse and kills three of the ghouls in a quick, clean motion. Then she looks at you. “Just one left,” she says, motioning to one that’s a little further down the road. “Go on, Bee, give it a shot!”

“Ciri,” Geralt says, hand tightening a little on his sword. Hesitation brims his tone. “Gotta be careful.”

She simply shoots him a look, eyes twinkling. “Aren’t I always?” she asks.

You know the answer to that, and you don’t like it. You also do not want to do what she’s asking. You can barely stand to look at the remaining ghoul for a second longer, much less target and kill it. Then again, you really should know how to defend yourself. And if you can’t kill a ghoul, you’re almost hopeless with anything else.

“I’ll do it,” you tell them.

Mead is shifting uneasily under you, so, with your heart pounding like a drum, you swing off the saddle and tighten your grip on your crossbow. You can’t seem to remember how to breathe. Geralt’s silence and his gaze on your back aren’t helping.

It’s the ghoul dashing near you that rouses you. Your heart starts thrumming even faster, as if your mind has finally comprehended the fact that there’s not only disgust but danger here, and you grab the bow and attempt to do what you know.

In, out. In, out. You notch an arrow and take aim. These are natural movements, ones you’ve repeated, and they should come with ease - but this situation is anything but natural. The thing keeps running in circles, distracted by Ciri, who evades its attacks with clean, fluid movements. 

She’s clever, steering clear enough to give you a good aim, letting you predict its movements without worrying about hitting her. She’s putting herself in danger for this, and waiting for you, and you need to shoot. 

So you do. You line up the ghoul in your sights, take one more deep breath, and your hands shake like a leaf as you finally pull the trigger. A split-second later, there’s a horrific, sick sort of noise, a terrible splatter that you can’t bear to watch. You keep your eyes on the ground and tremble in silence.

“Well done!” Ciri says. “Excellent shot!” 

When you look up, the ghoul is dead. You'd actually hit it - something you didn’t think you could do - and on your first try, at that. You give a weak smile at Ciri’s enthusiasm, but can’t turn away from the ghoul’s body. 

Blood is spilling onto the ground like dark wine, sickly metallic in the air. The uncannily humanoid face is twisted up in agony, frozen in death. And, worst of all, it’s laying a few feet from the corpse it’d been eating. This close, your gaze takes in every terrible detail. Your throat goes tight.

These are scraps of someone, someone who was like you, now laying in the dirt. Someone who lived, breathed, loved, someone now unidentifiable, rotting and alone. What a terrible way to remain in this world - nothing but a bloody, stinking mass of bones on the roadway. And, for the life of you, you can’t look away. The image burns deep into your mind even as you shut your eyes.

It’s become hard to breathe. The scent of death is burning through your nostrils, choking through your senses. You’re shaking worse than ever. Geralt is saying something, but you can’t hear him - your heart is thundering in your ears, and your stomach is turning again, and all at once, you bend over and vomit up your breakfast.

Geralt swings off Roach and is instantly at your side, gently patting your back. “Hey,” he says soothingly, softly. “You alright?”

You can’t manage an answer. Your knees don’t feel steady. You have to fight the urge to reach out and grab onto him, choosing to plant your hands on your knees as you retch instead. 

Ciri is quick to join the two of you, sheathing her sword. “Not to worry,” she says, her tone bright as ever. “That’s the adrenaline, Bee. You’ll adapt over time.”

You spit the acrid taste out of your mouth and wipe your face with your sleeve, tearing your eyes away from the corpse with all the strength you have. You’re still trembling.

What you want is a hug. You really, really just… want to be wrapped up in a warm pair of arms and held. Squeezed tight, like Priscilla had squeezed you. But neither Geralt nor Ciri can read your mind, neither of them have really hugged you before, and you’ve just been vomiting up your breakfast - so of course they don’t hug you. 

“What - what were you saying?” you ask Geralt, voice as shaky as you feel. “Before? I didn’t hear you.”

“Told you that was a good shot,” Geralt says. “Gotta aim higher, though. Hit it a little low.” He’s taken to rubbing your back instead of patting, and the action feels so nice that you’re half tempted to lay down in the dirt with your exhaustion and let him keep doing that. 

But the smell of death is still in the air, and if you don’t get away from here soon, you’re sure you’ll throw up again. 

“Thank you,” you shakily tell Geralt, attempting to straighten up.

He watches you closely, tensing - as if he’s waiting to catch you. “Could take a break, if you need,” he says. 

You quickly shake your head, starting shakily back toward Mead. “Not here.”

He must understand - he can smell it too, after all. Stronger than you can. Much, much stronger. How does he stand it? But, from the look on his face, maybe he doesn’t stand it at all. Maybe he simply survives it, because he must.

Geralt gives a nod, helping you up onto the saddle with a firm hold that seems to sear into your skin. “C’mon, Ciri,” he says. “Let’s get out of here.”

It’s not much longer before Ciri’s time with you comes to an end. 

You can hardly believe it, when she pulls to a halt and announces that this is where you must part. She hasn’t said it, but the fact that she’s parting with you instead of going all the way to the caves, it’s clear - this is urgent business. 

Gods, are you going to miss her. It seems as though just yesterday you’d been at Dandelion’s inn, sipping on honeyed mead, saying your goodbyes. Yet, here you are, and you’ve arrived at Ard Carraigh, and she’s going. Can this be real? Had those days - a little over a month, if you’re counting correctly - slipped under your fingers so quickly, unnoticed? 

Yes, they must have, because there’s a numb, aching loss in your chest that only could have come from coming to know her. Worst of all, there’s a terrible feeling that you’ll never see her again - one that pulls deeply at your gut. You can’t stand it. You’re so tired of regrets that you pull her close without thinking and hug her, and she hugs you back tightly.

“Thank you for letting me travel with you, Bee,” she says. “I hope we’ll meet again one day.”

“We will,” you stubbornly tell her. “I’m sure we will.”

She pulls away and gives you a smile, and you watch fondly as she steps over and hugs Geralt. 

“Take care of yourself,” he says softly.

“Always,” she replies, grinning at him. She steps back, grabbing the reins of her horse, Kelpie, then swiftly mounts up onto the saddle. “Good luck, you two!” she calls, waving. “I’m sure you’ll sort everything out, and Dandelion will have a lovely ballad to sing!”

You wave goodbye and watch as she rides off, leaving you and Geralt behind. And, in her absence, there’s a large, gaping hole.

You and Geralt do your best to fill it, but you can tell it’s still there. Furthermore, you can tell Geralt is constantly tense - and that does nothing to soothe your addled nerves. You two still have a ways ahead of you, and despite your newly formed skill with the crossbow, your unease remains.

Mostly, you spend the days quiet, and struggle to sleep at night. Geralt does the same. You miss Ciri’s chatter, her warmth, her ease of getting you to speak. Without her, everything is strange and much too silent, much too eerie.

During your night shifts, you keep alert, rubbing warmth into stiff hands. With clouds covering the stars, you often turn your eyes to Geralt - murmuring things in his sleep, brow creased. Sometimes, you’ll catch a few words, a repeated whisper as soft as the wind. Ciri. Yen. And, only once, another name - Visenna. 

When he jerks awake, hand automatically reaching for his sword, you scoot back from him - not afraid, but a little space won’t hurt. After a long moment of staring at you, realizing there’s no danger, Geralt relaxes and takes over the shift from you. And you don’t sleep any better than he does.

Three days after Ciri has gone, the two of you come upon more danger. It’s in a small town, one reeking of trouble, and you’d be tempted to shy away from it - if the growling in your stomach wasn’t so prominent. The two of you are riding through when you see him - a boy, no more than eighteen, laid on the ground. He’s surrounded by a small crowd, face red and pained, blood soaking his tunic. 

And, for reasons neither you nor the gods can explain, you don’t think for a second before you jump off your horse and dash toward him. Thankfully, Geralt is right behind you. 

“What is it? What happened to him?” you ask breathlessly. 

“Bandits, likely,” someone replies, voice hushed. “Been worse than usual, of late. The lad came riding up, yelling something about being attacked. Slumped over. Fell straight off his horse into the dirt.”

As you push further in, the crowd starts to separate, people fleeing back into their homes for safety. But you can’t leave this boy here. You can’t. There’s a voice at the back of your mind, shouting out something you should remember, but you can’t hear it past the rush of blood in your ears.

When you lift up the boy’s tunic, you find a great deal of bruising, surrounded by a deep, seeping wound in the abdomen. Without hesitation, you scramble for the bandages in your pack and press them against the wound, applying pressure. 

The boy yelps in agony, hands clawing at yours hard enough to draw blood, tears coursing lines in the dust on his face. “Stop,” he groans, “stop it! Gods, it hurts - stop!”

He’s thrashing about with so much force that you can barely keep the bandages on him, much less apply the pressure you need. Blood is pouring out of him, staining the grass under him.

“Geralt,” you pant. “Help me - hold him down!”

But Geralt doesn’t. He simply stares at you, unmoving, an indiscernible look on his face. 

“Help me!” you cry, attempting to press harder. “He’ll bleed out!”

When he finally kneels next to you, you sigh in relief, watching as he grips the boy’s shoulders and holds him still. Finally able to apply the pressure you need to, your mind spins, trying to remember if you have a needle with you. A wound like that… it’ll need to be cauterized, too. Stitched up as quickly as possible.

But the boy’s face has gone blue now, and he’s started gasping. Too much blood loss - no, no, no, please. His body shakes with spasms, breathing going ragged. You desperately try to staunch the bleeding, to keep what blood he has left in him from spilling out. “Stay with me,” you tell him, muscles wound so tense you can barely breathe. 

But after another horrible round of jerking, the boy’s breathing falters, and he goes still. And then… then, there’s silence. Only silence. Not even the call of a bird, or the stir of the wind. Just… nothing.

The unbearable quiet is interrupted by the soft sound of Geralt saying your name. Slowly. Cautiously, as if he’s testing the waters of your reaction. Then he releases the boy’s shoulders and rises to his feet.

“No,” you say numbly, refusing to look at him. You keep your eyes only on the boy. “You can’t go - I won’t let you!”

Fiercely blinking back tears, you start a series of resuscitation compressions, pushing strong, even movements into the boy’s chest. “Stay with me,” you say helplessly, panting out the words. “You can’t go!”

You work methodically, desperately, waiting for the boy to revive, praying for it. But the body stays motionless under your hands, lifeless, still warm. Your arms are searing from the effort and tears are streaming down your cheeks, blurring your vision. 

You can’t fix this, your mind is telling you. There’s no chance.

But you can’t stop. You can’t.

Suddenly, there’s a pair of arms behind you, pulling you off the body. You start clawing, lashing out like a wild animal, screaming and kicking with all your might. “Let me go!” you shriek, wriggling around, beating your fists out until they make an impact on something. “Let me go, you - you bastard!”

“He’s gone, Bee,” Geralt says calmly, his voice soft in your ear. “A wound like that? Nothing anyone could do. C’mon. Gotta get you cleaned up.”

But his soothing tone only makes you more wild, more feral. You scream and kick and claw some more. He gently sets you in a sobbing pile onto the ground, and by the time you come into contact with the soft, fragrant earth, his words have set in. The truth of them, that deep down you already knew. You pull your knees toward your chest and weep.

Kneeling down next to you, Geralt places a hand on your back, rubbing slowly - the way he had after the event with the ghoul. You’ve realized what your mind was screaming at you, now. You wish you’d listened. 

“There’s - there’s something wrong with me,” you sob softly. The words are bitter in your mouth, acrid. Tears are choking in your chest, slow to die out, leaving you wracking painfully. “Everything I touch… That’s why I can’t go back to Oxenfurt. I just make things worse.”

Geralt’s touch pauses for a moment at your words, but only briefly. He goes back to rubbing your back. “Did all you could,” he says gently. “Didn’t make it worse. He would have died anyway.”

You shake your head. “I hurt him. He needed comfort, and I hurt him because I wouldn’t stop. And it wasn’t only him,” you choke. “It’s everyone, Geralt. I try to help, but it hurts people. I should just stay out of it. I try to, I really do, but it still just… happens.”

“People getting hurt like that, dying - that isn’t your fault,” Geralt says. 

“And how can you know?” you ask. The words are bitter, spitting from your tongue like venom. You regret them, but the anger doesn’t die away.

Geralt sighs, letting his hand go still on his back. “Know it because I used to think like you,” he murmurs. “Never got involved, if I could help it. Thought I made things worse. Maybe I do. Don’t know, sometimes.” He pauses for a moment, contemplating his words, inhaling sharply. “Couldn’t stay away, though,” he says. “Figured it was better to try.”

His words shock you into complete silence. They carry such an intense vulnerability that it numbs you down, every nerve, every sensation. You lay on the ground, stiff as a board, taking it in. He’s never talked to you like this, so openly. Your sobs shudder to a halt and you close your eyes, breathing heavily. 

He knows, then. He knows what it’s like. Not everything, of course. Only you could ever know that. But the sickly, squirming pit of guilt in your stomach - Geralt knows what that’s like. And he’s somehow lived with it for decades.

“C’mon, Bee,” he says. “Gotta get you cleaned up. Ought to bury the body, too, before the necrophages smell it.”

Oh. Bee. He’d called you that several times now, hadn’t he? In the midst of everything? You hadn’t quite processed it then, but now that your brain is working… it’s always been Ciri, calling you that. Geralt has never called you Bee before today. 

You give a nod at his words, feeling a little calmer, intending to sit up. Your muscles are slow and aching, and you’re still trembling. Geralt shifts and reaches toward you, and you reach back, thinking he’s offering you a hand up. What you’re not expecting is for Geralt to lift you into his arms and carry you. But that’s what he does. 

He picks you up like you don’t weigh an ounce and carries you to the nearby inn. His arms are strong and sure, and you lean your face into his chest, too weak to resist the temptation.

“Need a room,” he tells the innkeeper.

They don’t argue with him.

You don’t take in much of what happens right after that. You know you’re set on a bed, and the innkeeper comes and goes a few times before Geralt kneels in front of you, dabbing a clean cloth into a bowl of water. 

He keeps searching your face, looking for something. You only start registering what’s happened when he finally starts speaking.

“What you said before…” He pauses, hesitating. “At Blaviken. I felt like you do, afterward. Kept thinking - should have stayed out of it. Tried to, before that. Tried for a long time after, too. Guess, in the end, I couldn’t.”

He takes your hand in his, gently scrubbing away some of the dried blood. “I was passing through, on the way to Yspaden,” he starts. You sit unmoving, afraid you’ll break the spell of his words. 

“Stopped at Blaviken on the way,” he continues. “Brought in a kikimora, hoping there’d be a reward. There wasn’t. But the alderman told me to bring it to the wizard - Stregobor. I’d met him before. He didn’t pay me for the kikimora, but he invited me in. Wanted to ask for my help. Wasn’t exactly on friendly terms with him, but I listened.”

He sighs heavily, looking up at you. “Ever heard of the Curse of the Black Sun?” he asks.

You blink in surprise. “I… I have,” you reply, swallowing hard. “I read about it. It was a prophecy, wasn’t it? During an eclipse, sixty girls would be born, made servants of the goddess Lilit, and bring the end of the world?”

He nods. “Yeah. That’s the one.” His face tightens with anger - just a flash, but enough to jar you. There are so many situations where he’s been completely composed even in the face of chaos, of pure frustration. What on earth could have made him so angry?

“These girls,” he slowly goes on, “people were convinced they were demons. Stregobor talked about mutations, insane tendencies… changes in the internal organs, unidentifiable tissue, cruel and aggressive behavior. People who believed the prophecy used it as a justification for murder. They did autopsies, studying the corpses, claiming it was for the greater good. One of them… they vivisectioned her.”

Your reaction is instantaneous. You jolt as though you’ve been slapped. Vivisection? What the hell were they thinking? They’d murdered and tortured these girls just because of the day they were born? Frankly, you couldn’t care less about their internal organs or behaviors. That doesn’t sit well with you.

“Gods…” you say faintly.

Geralt’s jaw clenches. “The girls - they weren’t easy to pick off. After a time, they started locking them in towers, instead. Isolating them. But some would escape. Others died.” He stalls, lost in thought for a moment. “Stregobor had once been sent to supervise one of these girls - a princess of Creyden. Renfri.” 

Pain flashes over his eyes at the name, as if it wounds him to say it. Perhaps it does. Even so, he continues.

“Her stepmother, Aridea, had been told by one of Nehalania’s Mirrors that Renfri would kill her and a number of others. They sent a huntsman to kill her. She escaped. Tried to kill her multiple times after that, too. Poisoned apples. Assassins. They failed. 

“When Renfri came across Stregobor again, she recognized him - knew what he’d done. So she pursued him, wanting revenge. Tracked him down to Blaviken, where he’d locked himself in a tower at the edge of town, used a spell to keep anyone out unless he wanted them to get in. He asked me to kill her. I refused.”

As if he’s just remembered what he was doing, he goes back to cleaning the blood off of you - but it’s clear his mind is still far away. “I met her,” he says. “Renfri. The alderman couldn’t arrest her - she was protected by King Audoen. But she wanted to talk to me. Snuck into my attic later that night, told me what happened to her. Asked me to kill Stregobor. Told me it was the lesser evil.” 

He shakes his head. “Stregobor told me that, too - when he asked me to kill Renfri. But I told her that I wouldn’t kill Stregobor. And that I wouldn’t stand by, letting her slaughter innocent people to get to him. I asked her to leave Blaviken; to stop seeking revenge, because she wasn’t going to kill Stregobor. She gave in. Told me she would leave the next morning and never return.”

His expression has gone permanently pained now. His hand rests on your arm, frozen mid-action. “The next day, I told the alderman that Renfri and the gang she’d brought along with her were going. And he told me… told me one of her men had been at the massacre at Tridam, three years before. Hadn’t heard of it, but he told me what happened.

“A group of thieves were captured by the Baron of Tridam. The remnants of their men seized a ferry of innocents - demanded he set them free. When he refused, they killed hostages one by one until he finally released the prisoners. And… Renfri had mentioned that to me. ‘The Tridam ultimatum.’ I hadn’t known what it meant at the time, but… when I heard it, I realized what was going to happen. And I ran for the market.”

Geralt’s face has gone deathly white. “When I got there, Renfri’s men were waiting for me. All of them except her. She’d gone to the tower to talk with Stregobor. Left a message for me, though. ‘Choose. Either me, or a lesser.’”

He finally sets the cloth down, too distracted in his story to clean. His words sit in the air, tinged with a regret you can almost feel in the air, thick, and heavy. But why? you think. Surely it had been right of him to do? You listen to him go on, scarcely breathing.

 “I made my choice. I killed them. All of them…” he says. “After it was done, Renfri showed. Asked me if I was sure I made the right choice. I told her it wouldn’t be another Tridam. She told me that it wouldn’t have been. Stregobor had refused to come out. Even told her she could butcher Blaviken and the neighboring villages, but he still wouldn’t leave his tower… I told her to go. She wouldn’t. We fought…” 

He closes his eyes and shakes his head, unable to finish. You don’t need to hear it to know.

“People stoned me, afterward. The alderman stepped in. He asked if… if that was my idea of lesser evil. What was necessary. I told him it was… Didn’t know what else to say.”

He inhales sharply, looking out the window. “He told me to leave, to never return. And I did.”

His words fade into silence. Something in your chest aches so deeply that you can’t even speak. It throbs, pitching amidst the knots of guilt built into your ribs. The Butcher of Blaviken. That’s what they call him, now. Because of that. It haunts him, everywhere he goes.

“Geralt,” you finally whisper, resting a hand on his arm. He inhales sharply and stands, gently pulling from your touch.

“We should bury the body,” he says softly. You follow him without a word out to the grass. 

You’re still mostly covered in blood, and now you’ll be covered with dirt. The sun is brutal and the air is sticky, and you can still smell the iron on you, sharp and nauseating. The two of you find shovels and take to digging, your hands reddening from the effort, sweat dripping down your neck. Tears course down your cheeks. And you don’t stop digging until it’s done.

A makeshift grave, marked by a pile of rocks. You hadn’t even known his name. He’d been so young… The town members are still hiding in their homes. No doubt watching you, though.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur to the grave, hoping the boy can hear you wherever he is now. “What you sought in life, may you find it in death. Rest peacefully.”

After a long moment of silence, you and Geralt go back to the inn, this time to properly wash off the blood and dirt. The guilt cannot be scrubbed with it, but it pains you less. Maybe because it doesn’t pain you alone.

The next morning, the two of you are off again. There’s quiet between you, but not uncomfortable. Both of you are grieving. Your thoughts go over Blaviken again and again. Then, hesitantly, over your own past.

You’re going to have to tell him. You don’t know how, or when, but you will. Now that he’s told you about Blaviken, it’s as if something’s come loose. You can no longer keep it in, the way you’d once resolved to. You keep catching yourself opening your mouth - trying to find a way to speak. But the timing isn’t right. It just isn’t right.

The further into Kaedwen you get, the colder it is, and it’s especially brutal that night. It may be blistering hot in the days, but the nights turn icy as death, unnatural and unsettling. The chill bleeds into your bones. Makes you want to curl into a ball and never move again.

And, of course, there are no inns around. You set up your bedroll and try your best to keep warm, but even with the fire Geralt makes, shivering takes a hold of you. It’s not long before your teeth are chattering. You ache for the Chameleon, for the warm, soft feather bed you’d slept on. Your eyes grow heavy, but sleep won’t take you.

When Geralt rests a hand on your shoulder, you jump about ten feet into the air, startled.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you,” he says. “You’re shivering.”

“I’m alright.” It comes out between chattering teeth. You don’t need to see his face to know he doesn’t believe you.

“Come here.”

You force yourself to sit up, giving him a look. He raises his brows, patting the bedroll next to him. Surely he doesn’t mean… no, that can’t be it. It’s closer to the fire, that’s all.

With frozen fingers, you pull your bedroll toward Geralt, laying it next to his. It’s a little better now. 

Geralt lays down next to you, tilting his head up to look at you. “Get over here,” he says. “Got me worried you’ll freeze to death.”

Your heart starts racing. Fuck. If only he couldn’t hear it. If only the warmth of his arms wasn’t so appealing. You crawl over, resting yourself at his side, and he automatically wraps an arm around you and pulls you closer, into his chest.

Gods, he’s warm. Heat practically radiates off of him. You can’t stop yourself from sighing in relief, tucking your face into his neck. This close, you can smell the smoke on his skin, the hints of wood and earth and sweet leaves, mingled with hints of his sweat.

It’s already overwhelming enough to have him holding you like this. You practically stop breathing when his hand goes to the back of your neck, wrapping it in more warmth, callused fingers that you truly believe could rival silk on your skin. His thumb rubs a slow, soothing motion in the space behind your ear, and you inhale sharply.

Him touching you like this - well, it’s making you cry. Tears start to spill onto your cheeks and you try hopelessly to stop them, terrified that he’ll pull away, stop what he’s doing. But, even though he must know, he doesn’t stop. He keeps touching you, the way you’ve so desperately needed to be touched, and you relax little by little. 

After a few minutes, your brain is barely there - melted, as though your body has become liquid. Your thoughts swirl into the heavy grip of sleep, and the world slowly fades away.

For once, you don’t have nightmares.

When you wake the next morning, you’re still in his arms. You can hear the crackling embers from the dying fire behind you, and you can feel Geralt’s breathing - even, steady. His hand still rests on your neck.

You never want to move. You know you’ll have to, but you don’t want to. For a while, you close your eyes and lie there in a meditative state, so content you’re practically purring. Then, Geralt jerks awake, and to your absolute dismay, he lets go of you and sits up, looking alarmed.

The explanation for that comes very quickly. There’s a group of men on horseback riding toward you. You can’t see them, but you hear them, crashing through the trees, clearly not caring if you know they’re coming.

“Geralt-”

“Grab your bow,” he says, pulling out your sword. His voice is low and firm. “Get behind me.”

You do as he asks. Your hands are shaking, but you force yourself to breathe slowly, readying an arrow. You try not to imagine what sound it will make, if you’re forced to kill.

As the men crash out of the woods, you can see that there are three of them. They circle around your camp, whooping and shouting before they come to a halt, grinning down at you with a smile that makes you want to recoil. You step closer to Geralt.

“Look at this, lads. A camp!” one of them says. “What’ve we got here?” He casually rests his hand on his sword, and you can see Geralt stiffen. The speaker is missing an eye, and he reeks so badly that you can smell him several feet away - sweat and whiskey and gods know what else.

You wait for Geralt to respond, but he says nothing - and what could you possibly say?

“Oy!” one of the others shouts. This one is wearing a red vest, stained with something that looks terribly like blood. “You fuckin’ deaf? We asked you a question!”

Still, Geralt says nothing, but his hand tightens on his sword.

“Won’t speak to us, eh?” the third asks. With the authoritative way he talks, he’s clearly the leader of the group. He leaps from his horse, bounding with nimble steps toward you and Geralt. His teeth are black and his hair is matted, and a jagged scar runs down his neck. “I’ll make you talk,” he says. “Could use some entertainment, couldn’t we, boys!”

“Aye, we could!” the man with one eye says, sliding off his horse to join the leader. “Been nothing but sniveling cowards, lately. I bet that grey one would put up a fight.”

And put up a fight, Geralt does. 

He slashes so fast you barely see the blade move. All at once, the one-eyed man is crumpling to his knees, blood pouring down his abdomen. The leader draws his sword and leaps back, snarling. 

“A lot of nerve, you have!” he says. “You’ll pay for that!”

And, suddenly, everything turns into chaos. The leader strikes, and instantly, the air rings with the sound of blades. The man with the red vest urges his horse on and gallops around, yelling out insults, slashing in your direction. You barely manage to dodge them.

Geralt is preoccupied, so - despite your shaking - you turn your bow toward the red vest and shoot. It hits his shoulder, and he cries out. His horse startles, bucking below him before it throws him off, vanishing into the woods. You’re hoping he’ll stay down, but he gets to his feet all too quickly, favoring his right leg and spitting insults.

You grab another arrow and try to load it up, but you’re too slow, too slow, why couldn’t you have just taken that dagger-

In a moment, he’s on you, shoving you to the ground and knocking the wind out of you. The djinn is tugging, tugging - Geralt’s dancing the line of acceptable distance - and you blindly scratch at the man’s face, gouging your nails into flesh until you hear a scream. His grip slackens, and you prop your feet up on the ground and force your hips up, throwing him off of you - one of the moves Ciri taught you. 

Gasping and stumbling to your feet, you dart in Geralt’s direction, but a hand catches your shirt and drags you back, momentarily choking you before he pins you to a tree.

Blood is streaming down his face. “I’m going to fucking kill you,” he says. “I’m going to tear you into pieces, you hear me? You’ll wish your mother never popped you out!”

In the midst of your panic, you have the sense to knee up into his bollocks. Pain radiates through your leg, and despite the howl he lets out, he doesn’t let go. More crashing comes from the woods - more bandits, presumably. The look on his face practically spells it out.

For a moment, he’s distracted, slightly tilting his face toward the woods and easing his grip. Taking your opportunity, you slam the base of your hand into his nose with as much force as you can possibly muster. His knees buckle and he stumbles back, cupping a hand over his face.

Limping away, you catch a glimpse of Geralt - standing over the now-dead leader, panting but seemingly unharmed. More men pour in from the trees and slink in, raising weapons, and he readies his sword - but you know there are too many, just too many, and as a hand snatches around your waist and pulls you away, the world begins to crumble.

Nausea sets in, a turbulent dizziness, the world crumbling apart - too far! He’s too far! Something cold slices your arm, and the smell of blood hits you. You throw your elbow backward and make contact with bone, stumbling away and vomiting, knees buckling as the djinn’s wish takes hold. Your palms hit the ground.

Geralt lets out a cry of pain - the kind that can only mean he was hit. You call his name and helplessly crawl forward, trying desperately to get closer. Then, just as the djinn’s symptoms stop, something strikes the back of your head. 

Blinding pain erupts through your skull, and Geralt shouts with you as you crumple to the ground. Everything has gone blurry - the voices around you are muffled, but you can see Geralt, laying on the ground and barely moving.

We’re going to die, you think, cheek pressing into the soft dirt under you. Colors spin before your drooping eyes and the urge to vomit again comes and goes. We’re going to die, and it’s my fault.

 A heaviness takes over you. The pain is lulling you away, taking you somewhere far from this place. In the last moments, as the world fades, you hear screaming - multiple men screaming - and noises that can only mean death. 

Then, everything turns to darkness.

tags: @henryownsme @madamemelancholysstuff @fullmoonshadowwrites @darkscrossfire @beforethepen @julijal @ailynyan @ivuravix @enrapturedbythemoon @angie2274

[a-case-of-attachment]

Rating: T

Pairings: Geralt x Jaskier

Warnings: people treating Witchers like dirt ~ protective Jaskier ~ swearing ~ mentions of blood and injuries

The Lover ->

<- The Hunter

Geralt gritted his jaw, hands curling into fists on the bar top as he tried to keep his anger in check but it was getting hard and harder with every word that was coming out of the inn keeper’s mouth. “We ain’t got room for your kind freak,” he spat out, arms folded across his chest and looking at Geralt like he was the scum of the earth.

Geralt was used to this or he had been used to it but travelling with Jaskier had made him soft, these sort of things happening so rarely now that he had almost forgotten that so many people still hated his kind. Almost but places like this reminded him quick enough. Jaskier wasn’t with him now, had gone running back to the countess de Stael just after the incident with the djinn with nothing more than an enthusiastic wave as he practically ran towards her awaiting carriage they had come across by chance and a promise to meet again soon but that had been months ago.

Not that Geralt cared.

It was better without the bard’s constant noise and habit of finding trouble when there shouldn’t even be any. It wasn’t like the silence was grating on him or that on the long and lonely days he missed Jaskier’s warm and ever optimistic presence or that he had started to talk to Roach more just to fill the silence. Geralt was doing fine on his own but in situations like this Jaskier and his flamboyant way of talking would have come in useful for once. He had a way with words that could either end up with him getting exactly what he wanted or a punch in the teeth. Either way he would probably have better luck then Geralt currently was.

He was tired, covered in monster guts and swamp water and had a gouge on his side that needed cleaning and then probably stitches. Geralt knew he looked a mess, like the monster people often called him but he had just freed the villagers of a Kikimore infestation that he had already been underpaid for by the alderman and his patience was beginning to wear thin. He didn’t want much just a hot bath and something to eat and drink. Sure a warm and dry place to sleep would have been a welcomed luxury but he would settle for the bath and food but the inn keeper wouldn’t even give him that.

“I just want…” he started but was cut off by the sound of several chairs scrapping across the floor, the gentle mummer of chatter dying. “You heard him freak, we ain’t got room for the likes of you here”. Geralt sighed at the gruff voice, able to tell that at least three men stood behind him. They all reeked of drink and anger, ready for a fight that Geralt didn’t want to have.

Resigned to his fate Geralt pushed away from the bar, mumbling a quiet thank you to the inn keeper as he went. He could feel everyone’s eyes on him as he left, hunching his shoulders and curling in on himself in an attempt to make himself seem smaller. He really wasn’t in the mood for a fight or to be chased from the town whilst being pelted with rocks so he would go quietly, using this as a good reminder as to why he shouldn’t let how Jaskier was with him cloud his judgment of other people.

Feeling dejected and stupid for it Geralt made his way back to the stable where he had left Roach. He had already paid for her lodging for the night but he didn’t want to have to come back for her in the morning and risk getting stoned for it. It was a shame, she could do with a good nights rest as much as he could but these things happen and thankfully the stable hand had already fed her. She wasn’t happy about it, huffing and nudging Geralt in the shoulder but she is a good horse and with a slight tug on her reigns she follows after him.

“That’s it girl. Next time I promise we’ll stay all night,” he mumbles, stroking down her snout as he leads her down the road and back towards the woods. It’s a lie, a promise he couldn’t keep and they both knew it, Roach huffing and nudging his shoulder again. This part of the continent wasn’t very friendly to Witcher’s though and Geralt doubted they would have any better luck at the neighbouring villages in the next few days.

That was fine.

He would manage.

Like always.

“Geralt?” He stopped at the familiar voice, head snapping up and in the direction it had come from. There in the middle of the dirt road stood Jaskier. The confusion on his face quickly morphed into excitement and even in the dark of night Geralt could see his blue eyes lighting up. “GERALT!” he exclaims loudly, throwing his arms wide and before Geralt really knew what was happening Jaskier was pulling him into a hug, arms squeezing tightly and patting him on the back.

Geralt grunted, not even having time to react before Jaskier was pulling away, clasping Geralt by the shoulders and smiling widely. “It has been to long my friend,” Jaskier beamed. “Not your friend,” he grunted back automatically, so used to giving that response after all these years despite it no longer being true. Jakier waved him off, stepping back and still smiling brightly as if he hadn’t heard Geralt. “Are you just on your way out or in my dearest Witcher? In I would assume looking like that but it doesn’t matter, regardless of what one it is I insist you join me for a drink. I simply must know what you have been up to these last few months,” Jaskier took Roche’s reigns he spoke, leading the mere back towards the stables they had just come from, the horse gladly following after him at the prospect of getting to return to the warmth and comfort she had been taken from.

“I don’t think…” Geralt started to protest, following behind the bard and eyes darting around the darkened streets, looking for any sign of villagers who would want chase him off with pitchforks and torches. “I simply must insist Geralt,” Jaskier cut him off as they walked back into the stables and towards the bemused stable hand. “You back already?” he grunted, eyeing them suspiciously. Jaskier looked between the two of them, frowning slightly before realisation seemed to dawn on him but Geralt would put money on him not coming to the correct conclusion.

“No rooms left at the inn?” he asked as he passed Roach off to the stable hand along with a couple of coins. Geralt would have told Jaskier not to bother, that Roach’s stay had already been paid for but the boy snatched the money up quickly and was leading the horse away before he could, only just giving Geralt enough time to slip his saddle bags off before she was gone. “No,” he growled, glaring at Jaskier but it didn’t seem to bother him.

Technically Geralt hadn’t lied. There had been no room for him at the inn, even if there had been empty rooms available.

“No bother. I already have a room and you my friend could do with a nice hot bath and something to eat, my treat for killing whatever it is that you are covered in,” Jaskier wrinkled up his nose in disgust as he gestured to Geralt, already on his way out of the stable and back up the road towards the inn. Geralt should say something, should warn the bard that he wasn’t welcomed here and he might find himself out on his ass for bring Geralt back with him but he was tired and sore and he had a small flicker of hope that Jaskier would do what he does best and use his face words to confuse the simple locals and get Geralt into his room without too much trouble.

Geralt trailed after Jaskier, listening to the man ramble on about how the countess had once again left him but this time it had been in Jaskier’s best interest because her cousin had shown up not long before his departure and the man had wandering hands that always seemed to have a fondness for Jaskier’s pert bottom, as the bard so eloquently put it. Geralt just grunted, barely listening to the words as he gripped his bags and tried to make himself look as small as he could.

Jaskier was still talking when he pushed the inn’s door open, the whole room going quiet when Geralt stepped through the door but Jaskier didn’t seem to notice, strutting right up to the bar and leaning against it, smiling brightly up at the man who was scowling at Geralt. “Evening kind sir, I would like a bath please and two bowls of hot stew sent up to my room along with two cups of your finest ale,” he tipped his head back slightly, his bright eyes finally looking up at the inn keeper, only for his smile to fall when he noticed the look on his face. “I’ll tell you the same thing I told ‘im-” he jerked his head towards Geralt, his scowl deepening, “-we ain’t got room for his kind”.

Jaskier stood up straighter, his frown deepening as he looked around the room and taking in the hostility that was directed all at Geralt. “Right,” he mumbled, something dark flashing behind his eyes as his frown twisted. Geralt knew that look, it was he same look he got every time someone insulted Geralt or implied he was less simply because he was a Witcher. It also normally ended up with him getting in a bar fight and Geralt was too tired to take on the ten men that filled the tavern.

‘Jask,” he sighed, every intention of telling him not to worry, that Geralt was fine but like always Jaskier was quicker with his words than Geralt would ever be. “Do you not require coin to run this establishment?” Jaskier turned his cold blue eyes back to the inn keeper, his voice just as cold and seemingly taking the man by surprise. “Yes but,” Jaskier cuts him off, talking over whatever he was going to say but Geralt suspected it would have been a slur on him and his kind. “And do you not rely on the patronage of passing travellers like myself and my friend to earn said coin?” Geralt could feel the tension in the room, could smell the anger and fear but just at the edges something else was starting to creep in, people already shifting in their sets as if they knew where Jaskier was going with his little rant.

The man crossed his arms over his chest, his beady eyes narrowing at Jaskier as he grunted his response, “what is your point bard?” Jaskier smiled slightly, something soft yet some how full of mischief that wouldn’t be out of place when he was in the middle of playing one of his more risqué little ditties. It seemed out of place here where no one was singing along, full of alcohol and joyous in spirit. “I don’t know if you know this but I’m quite famous, wrote a popular little ditty called Toss A Coin, maybe you have heard of it?” Jaskier paused for effect, his eyes sweeping across the room and taking in the uncomfortable look on more than a couple of the men’s faces. So that forsaken song had even made its way to this hell hole.

“It’s quite amazing the power a simple little song can have, so imagine the damage that could be done to an already nameless little shit hole that is nothing more that a mud stain on a map if a song started to circulate about how unwelcoming and vile the people there are. I hate to imagine how quickly said town would fall into ruin, wouldn’t you?” Jaskier said it all with a light and friendly voice, as if he was having a conversation about the weather with an old friend but his eyes stayed cold and angry, fixed on the inn keeper and almost daring him to assume Jaskier was lying about his prowess.

The smell in the room changed once more, anger spiking but the rancid smell of fear began to grow. Towns like this relied heavily on passing trade, selling their wears and skills to those who passed. Its what got them through the long and harsh winters, what kept their families fed and safe and Jaskier was threatening that safety, their livelihoods and all in the name of Geralt’s honour. Sometimes he thought that Jaskier was wrong in the head, making unnecessary enemies because they didn’t treat Geralt how Jaskier thought he should be treated but it also brought a warmth to his chest, his heart beating just that little bit faster for a second or two. Jaskier cared enough to defend him, wanted Geralt to have the luxury of walking the Path and not having to fear he would be turned away or chased by an angry mob. He wanted people to see Geralt how he saw him, a hero, a defender, a person and he wouldn’t settle for anything else.

“What do you want bard?” the inn keeper gritted out between clenched teeth, looking at Jaskier like he wished him dead. Jaskier smiled brightly, his cold anger disappearing as he went back to his normal, cheery self. “As I was saying, my friend here as kindly just rid you of a…” Jaskier looked at Geralt expectantly. “Kikimore,” he grunted, rolling his shoulders and standing a little straighter now that he could feel things shifting in his favour. “A Kikimore, how ghastly. How lucky of you poor, defenceless people that a helpful Witcher come along and got rid of the vile beast before it could eat you all,” he raised his voice, letting it carry across the room and his eyes quickly flickering around the room. The men shifted, an unease settling on them that Geralt would liken it to guilt if he thought the men of this town had it in them to feel anything other than contempt towards him.

“After all that hard and dangerous work you can see that my friend is in desperate need of a hot bath and food and some fine ale so if you could have two bowls of hot stew and two mugs of your finest ale sent up to my room that would be much obliged. Oh and the hot bath as well”. Jaskier looked at the man expectantly, that sickly sweet smile still on his lips. The inn keeper grunted, clearly annoyed by the whole situation. “Cost extra and it better stay in the room,” he jerked his head towards Geralt but didn’t look at him, keeping his angry glare on the bard. Jaskier rolled his eyes but took out his coin purse, laying a few down on the bar top that the man snatched up quickly.

Jaskier didn’t waste any time, getting behind Geralt and shoving him towards the stairs. He could stop him if he wanted to but Geralt allowed the weaker man to direct him to the stairs but Jaskier stopped half way up, he anger getting sharper again. “Oh and no extra bodily fluids, my friend here will know,” he patted Geralt’s shoulders as he spoke and Geralt turned his head to glare at the inn keeper, playing his part in Jaskier’s little intimidation. He would know, always knew when people spat or pissed in his food or drink. It was disgusting but it happened, though no one had yet been stupid enough to try it with Jaskier. Geralt would have made them regret it if they had.

Jaskier didn’t give the man a chance to answer, pushing Geralt back up the rest of the steps before slipping around him and heading towards his room at the end of the corridor. Geralt had only just gotten into the room before he started fussing over him, hands flittering about him but not touching all the gore that clung to him. “Jaskier,” he grumbled, his tone heavy with disapproval. He appreciated the other man’s efforts but Geralt really wasn’t worth the trouble he could get into.

Jaskier scoffed, rolling his eyes at Geralt as he headed to the door when a loud bang came. “Oh hush, they were being bigoted assholes and after you saved their ungrateful lives as well. They should truly be ashamed of themselves,” he didn’t even look at the three rather burly and angry looking men on the other side of the door as he yanked it open, holding it ajar as they brought in a bath tub and the first few buckets of what Geralt could already tell was tepid water.

They didn’t look at Geralt as they placed the tub in front of the already lit fire and then quickly disappeared. Jaskier left the door open, obviously optimistic that they would continue to fill the shallow tub and not leave it with the inch or two of water that was in it. “Still,” Geralt grunted, knowing that Jaskier would understand what he was trying to say without him having to use the unneeded amount of words that Jaskier was so fond of. Geralt could take care of himself but Jaskier was human and if anything happened to him because of Geralt, well he didn’t really know what he would do.

Jaskier sighed, heading towards Geralt as the men came back with multiple buckets and continued to fill the bath. He stopped in front of Geralt, looking up at him with a mix of fondness and exasperation. “Its nothing Geralt really. You know I hate how these people treat you, plus what are friends for if not to help each other out in difficult times,” he spoke softly, hands hovering above Geralt’s chest as if he was going to put his hands on him but seemed to have thought better of it.

“Not your friend,” Geralt grunted but he could feel a small smile tugging at his lips, no heat to his words. Jaskier smiled at him, understanding what Geralt was truly trying to say. “Of course, how silly of me to forget that Witcher’s don’t have friends,” Jaskier teased, any lingering anger subsiding as the smell of wild flowers and summer got stronger, Jaskier feeling happy. Geralt liked that smell, wished that he could bottle it for when the other man wasn’t there, for when he came to places like this with people who only saw a monster. It would be a good reminder that there was at least one person out there who cared, one person who he could make happy, who didn’t think him anything more than a man.

They stood there for a long moment, staring into the others eyes and smiling, neither of them really paying attention to the men filling the tub until someone slammed the door closed and Jaskier jumped back, clearly surprised by the sudden noise. The bard laughed nervously, stepping away from Geralt and towards the bed and his own bags, rifling through them in what Geralt thought was an obvious attempt to make himself seem busy. “Well? Come on now Geralt, into the tub before the water gets cold. When was the last time you had a proper bath any way, your hair looks like a rats nest. You need to start looking after yourself better Witcher or you will end up having to cut that precious hair of yours off and wouldn’t that be a travesty,” he called over his shoulder, brandishing a hand behind him towards the now filled tub.

Geralt smiled as he began to work on the buckles of his armour. Jaskier had started to hum, that same sad and wistful tune that he had been working on for a couple of years now. The tune was so familiar by now that Geralt instantly felt himself relax. He had missed this, Jaskier’s gentle nagging and soft humming though he would never admit it to the bard. It was rare to have someone show this much concern for him, even among his brothers and it made him feel warm and wanted to have such attention.

Geralt made quick work of stripping out of his armour and clothes, leaving them to the side to be dealt with latter. Jaskier truly was a good friend and Geralt knew he was lucky to have someone care about him the way Jaskier did. Not many Witcher’s got that and he should tell Jaskier how grateful he was for it but words were never his strong point and he didn’t want to fuck it up. He always felt actions were better than words anyway and he hoped that from his actions Jaskier knew how he felt.

“By the gods Geralt, why didn’t you say someone had tried to gut you like a fish,” Jaskier screeched loudly.

Fuck.

He had forgotten about the gouge in his side.

[omg-im-such-a-masochist]

Masooooo! I have a headcannon idea between these two fineass men 🥵😍

The reader is an actress who is Damian's girlfriend and is casted as Yennefer of Vengerberg in The Witcher on Netflix, He's excited to watch her in the show but gets insanely jealous of Henry aka Geralt of Rivia; her love interest

OMG OMG OMG, okay, this is EVERYTHING! Because I’ve been both obsessed with The Witcher on Netflix (also discovered a very unhealthy crush on Henry Cavill 🤣) and I love Damian so 👀 This will be fun 😂

@ziasaph , @alyhull , @theworldofotps , @wrestlersownmyheart , @new-zealand-chic , @cuzimacomedian , @whenimakeitshine1234 , @aerynscrichton , @thealliasylum , @crowleysqueenofhell , @irish-newzealand-idian-dutch , @ava-valerie , @sultryfandoms

You did it!

The most important script of your whole career was in your hands

And you couldn’t contain your excitement

So the first thing you did was call Damian

“What’s up, mami?” His breathing was heavy and you could hear Rhea and some other guys in the back screaming and laughing

“Did I interrupt your set?” You asked as soon as you heard him putting the weights back down on the rack

“No, it’s so okay, baby. I needed a break anyway” He chuckled “You sound excited, do you have any good news?”

“Guess who you’re talking to?”

“Ummm....My girlfriend?” He cackled

“Incorrect, my dear sir” Your voice now had a slight English accent and it didn’t pass by unnoticed to Damian’s ears

“Shut up! Y/N, you better not be playing with me”

“I’m not” You squealed in excitement

“You did it? You did it! See? I told you you would get the role! I’m so proud of you!” His scream was so loud that you needed to take the phone away from your ear for a few seconds

In the back, you could hear Rhea and the other guys doing a “yay, she got it” chant

Damian promised you that you would celebrate when he was back home and so he did

Once you were back from the celebration date (where you spent most of the time talking about Henry and how amazing he was)

You were ready to show Damian the first scene of Yennefer and Geralt together

Simon, one of the editors, who became a big friend of yours had edited the first scene of you and Henry together and so he let you borrow the scene on a dvd so you could show Damian

Since you didn’t know what scene it was, you were also excited as you pressed play

The scene was one of your recent ones. The djinn scene.

You were topless while your character, Yennefer, and Geralt had an argument

The next scene was followed by a pretty heavy make out/sex scene

Anyone could see the chemistry between you and Henry

The Director, as well as the other cast members, almost always pointed it out how natural you two were as a couple and how convincing you are together

“And out of all scenes” You muttered under your breath and watched as Damian gulped

He was having an internal debate and wasn’t sure how to feel about it

The rational part of him was incredibly proud of you. He knew how much you wanted this role and how much it would help you career-wise

But the emotional part of him was furious and jealous. You were so good at acting that it almost looked like he was watching you cheat on him right in front of his eyes

He knew that it wasn’t the case, but fuck, it was so convincing! The way you and Henry acted towards each other, as two lovers would, was driving him insane!

Sensing his uncomfortableness, you turned off the tv

“I’m sorry. If I knew that was the scene, I wouldn’t even have brought the dvd home”

Damian unclenched his jaw and took a deep sigh “You don’t have to apologize, mami. I’m the one who has to apologize to you” He kissed the back of your hand softly “You’re a great actress and it shows” He huffed at the last part “It’s just weird seeing you with another person in such a natural way that....”

“It looks like I’m cheating on you?”

“Sort of...it’s the natural response of my instincts, I guess. And well, they could’ve chose someone more attractive than Henry Cavill” He mocked

You slightly giggled at his sour joke and completed for him “And the fact that he’s pretty makes you even more insecure”

“I’ll work it out” He mumbled

“Hey, I don’t want you to feel guilty about it, okay? You’re having a natural response and I understand. I would feel the same if they ever put you in a romantic storyline with one of the girls”

Straddling his hips, you held his face with your hands as you spoke

“Even though Henry has the English charm, you know my weakness lies on the Puerto Rican swag, right?” You teased him

“Really?” He smirked “So there’s no space in your heart, or panties, for the posh Prince Charming?”

“Oh please, a posh Prince Charming is overrated! You know my heart, and panties, belong to a certain Hispanic rocker” You smiled before kissing his lips

[jaskierswolf]

I'm in a Yennskier mood, and I know you didn't list it as a pairing, so could I have some platonic cuddles? You don't have to make it romantic. I just want some cuddles please 🥺

I didn't list it as a ship no, I've almost been converted, but I still prefer them as friends so... here we go! It can be read as pre-relationship if you'd like.

CW: brief mention of hoey in a bard typical manner, This is possibly informed by season 2 but not canon compliant. _

Yennefer never thought she'd be glad to see that fucking idiot of a bard, but one look at him and she knew that the dragon hunt had hit Jaskier just as badly as it had for her. It took one to know one, and Jaskier was clearly nursing a broken heart. If the complete change of fashion and haircut hadn't given it away, then the songs would have tipped her off. He was still in the angry denial stage of the break up it seemed, whereas Yennefer was having regrets.

She was so fucking mad.

It was the djinn wish making her have regrets, pulling her back to Geralt. Perhaps that's why she'd followed the noise of his bard.

"Bard," she called over to the figure by the bar.

Jaskier spun around, arms wide and flailing as always, and blue eyes more piercing than she remembered. "Witch," he countered.

They fell into an unexpected embrace. Yennefer wasn't even sure who had initiated it, but for once the bard was quiet, an unspoken shared grief between them for the love they had both lost.

"Come, Yennefer, I have a room and a tab at the bar. Let's drown our sorrows together, as old enemies," Jaskier finally announced, gripping her arm in a rare display of affection.

She smirked, rolling her eyes. "Careful, Jaskier, that almost sounds like we're friends."

"Oh the horror!"

"The wine better be good," she added. "If there's one thing you were good at it was finding the best bottles in a shit hole."

With another wild flick of his wrists, Jaskier cried in mock offence. "Oh, ho, ho! I think you'll find that I have many a talent, dear friend."

"Friend?"

"Fuck!"

_

Jaskier's room was small, but as promised he had two of the finest bottles of Est Est in the tavern, a favour from the owner... apparently, and soon they were both happily merry, exchanging brutal insults as was their norm. For once, the target wasn't each other.

If Geralt ever returned to them, he really should watch his back. The bard wasn't as spineless as Yennefer had first thought, and she would enjoy seeing the idiot take the witcher down a peg or three.

"Look," Jaskier cried, stumbling around the room with a wine bottle in hand as Yennefer lounged on his bed. "I won't forgive him easily, but gods, he's fucking pretty. Maybe- maybe I can at least suck his cock just once before I get angry?"

Yennefer snorted. "Don't waste your breath on him, bard."

"But- but Yen," Jaskier whined, collapsing onto the bed next to her.

And... oh.

They were cuddling. Maybe Jaskier was drunk than she thought, and he had curled up into her side like an affectionate cat. It wasn't... unpleasant. In fact, she rather enjoyed his company. It had been too long since anyone had treated her with kindness. So tentatively she wrapped an arm around his shoulder, cracking open the door to this new friendship. Gods only knew how much they both needed a friend after the hardships of the last few months.

_

Taglist: @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde, @comfyswitcherblanketfort, @fontegagrilledcheese, @dani-dandelino, @dapandapod @damnbert @officerjennie @feraljaskier @geralt-of-riviass @kueble @gilberik @llamasdumpsterfire @wherethewordsare @trickstermoose67 @alllthequeenshorses @skai6 @karolincki

[westmoor]

the hart

(«- the fox. «- the hare)

(3.6k, shifter!jaskier, geraskier. some angst, some anxiety, some whump and violence - and healing.)

Destiny had favoured him, or so he’d thought.

Jaskier had been a different creature then. For the creature he is now, the world has little mercy.

Whatever courage youth had given him, darting down secret alleys on daring quests in the streets of Oxenfurt, skittering past the guards of his childhood estate to chase whatever whims the night presented, it’s all gone now.

Driven out by the dying light of day, vacant darkness with its tendrils crawling closer, growing longer, lean and frail. Grasping until they find him, take and remake him, warping his body to this shape he doesn’t recognize. And at last, plunging his world into one of twisting nightmares, undulating breaths hot and heaving through the grass, and the shadowed beasts stalking, searching, as the last remnants of his fortitude slips away under his feet.

Silence, he thinks, is the only mercy spared for creatures like him.

Beyond the concert of the dawn chorus, the lyric of a nightingale at dusk, the mourning of wolves calling their distant brethren as the season grows colder, there’s another world of sound. Imperceptible to all but those that live in frequent danger, that hold their breath and press their bellies to the ground in fields and meadows, straining their ears for a sign to flee.

Sudden fluttering of wagtails and startled sparrows. Squirrels hoarsely chattering above. Watchful rabbits drumming in the thicket, ordering their children underground.

He tries to wield it, to wrap himself in it. If he stays in this voiceless creature long enough, breathes quietly enough, perhaps the savagery that trails the luscious scent of prey in his tracks will go on by, and forget about him altogether.

Perhaps if he is good enough, hides deep enough - perhaps he can forget, too. Forget about foxes and hares and men with infections in their hearts, about whichever sickness has taken hold in him.

Or perhaps his luck runs out, like it so often does for those whose lives are favoured more by chance than destiny. Then, well, that is just a different sort of silence.

But for Jaskier, when chance fails him and he finds himself outwitted and caught in the jaws of that ultimate mercy, silence doesn’t come.

Instead, what finds him is a threadbare cloak, a smouldering campfire, a red mare, and the steady hands of a witcher.

--

They make it back to the little clearing he had run from, Jaskier’s cloth-wound body bundled in Geralt’s arm like something precious.

As shock begins to lose its grip on his mind, peeling back the layer of numbness he’s been afforded, the pain comes seeping back. With every step and jostle, something rattles in his chest. His joints move, but they move wrong.

He doesn’t know if bones this brittle are made to heal, or if this is just a body built for breaking. The icy wet that trickles through his coat is almost a distraction.

It hurts so much. It should hurt more.

He doesn’t even have a voice to whimper in.

It’s not until he’s lowered gently to the ground that he realises where they are, recognizes the low-hanging branches and the saddlebags piled haphazardly where he’d last seen Geralt standing. Recognizes too the wave that now, his panic bled out into the musty leaves somewhere on the forest floor behind them, feels more like shame. Thought battles instinct in his frayed mind and he knows he cannot run, but he cannot stay, and -

And had he been an excess burden in Geralt’s life before, then now, surely -

For eyes as wide as his, meant to discern between friend and foe at a league, any feature this close might as well be cruel. The details of his face are unclear as Geralt leans over him.

But he does know movement. Feels the fingertip that strokes the divot in his forehead. Geralt speaks, but the tone is clearer than the words, and it isn’t harsh. While passing over dirtied fur, easing down his ears, the other hand moves into the space between them and makes a sign.

Just like that, Jaskier’s world grows small again.

Slowly, the phantoms crouching at his vision’s edge recede, forced back beyond the shadows of the trees, kept at bay by scant firelight. Mighty trunks stand sentinel, barring their return.

Gone is the endless sky and the swift death that soars there. Gone too are the open fields and the dangers that prowl them, pointed snouts pressed to the ground, wetting their tongues at the scent of his injury.

He only knows what moves within this temporary refuge - tonight in the forest, tomorrow in the field - and the rounded silhouettes of those that could, but would not harm him.

There is no grand reckoning. No speech or lofty monologue, no words to twist or tones to ring false. Geralt doesn’t beg for forgiveness, makes no excuses, but he talks - low and smooth, for as long as Jaskier is awake to hear it.

The words will have faded from memory by dawn, but their essence remains - the solemn promise made that night, heard by none but the tall pines, a red mare, and himself. The one wrapped around him like a cloak, applied in layers of soothing honeyed balm over claw marks and wounds before it is spoken into existence: That no new hurt will find him here.

It’s a tedious process, but Geralt is right: his body does heal. Though the first week or so is spent under a dim fog brought by his witcher’s hand, it requires a restraint he never knew he had to hold out until his flesh starts to knit together.

Once his bones grow strong enough not to snap under the pressure as they twist in their fastenings, he finds the gap between one form and the other, and wills it open.

The transformation, though not always voluntary, had always come easy. This does not. It feels like fitting an old key, like forcing a lock that’s threatening to rust shut, throwing his weight against it in the hopes that the bar gives before the hinge.

He takes his first breath in the ribcage of a man like one saved from drowning. It burns and strains, and he is dizzy with the sudden height - but relief floods him like a tidal pool, and drowns out every other sensation.

When he looks up, Geralt is there, holding his clothes and lute, the things he’d left behind when they became too much to carry.

That becomes a pattern.

I am healed, he tells himself, and tells himself until he believes it, once his shoulder bends and deep breaths come painlessly. He believes it when he sings the songs of great grey beasts and their mountain brothers, terrible monsters and greater heroes, piecing together their stories bit by bit.

I will be healed, he decides, and tries to forget the songs about moorhens’ clucking and black little paws through the dew. Putting those pieces together not because they fit, but because they must, and tries to lose the ones left over.

But more often than not, Geralt is there and he picks them up, one by one, and hands them back in all the right order.

“You weren’t a hare when we met,” Geralt states one evening, in a moment of relative quiet - as quiet as their evenings are, one tuning his lute and the other sharpening the hunting knife he’d just tried to give Jaskier a lesson in wielding.

As if conjured by the mention of its name, Jaskier’s heart sets to beating. Although many unsaid things had become topics of conversation lately, neither had tried putting words to that. He suppresses the nervous shudder that crawls along his neck.

“I’m not a hare now either,” he says, and though it’s phrased in jest, it’s a reminder more than anything else: That he is not prey, and he will not run.

Geralt dismisses it with a grunt, and Jaskier knows that wasn’t what he had meant. There was a question in that statement, one of the dozens he himself had pondered over years, though he’s not sure which one exactly. Luckily, they all have the same answer.

“I don’t know,” he says, and the pressure at the back of his throat and how the words in his head refuse to conform into sentences tells him whatever comes next will be a ramble. While he’s never had trouble speaking frankly, honesty is harder. !I don’t know when or why or… how. Not how it started, even. I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t - or when I didn’t - whatever I am.”

He’s aware that he’s stopped playing. Looking at his hands still poised over the strings, he wills the stream to slow, and tries to find solid ground to stand on. Geralt, bless him, gives him time.

“I believe it changed, though,” he continues once the whirling pool in his stomach has settled, when he’s less at risk of going under. “When we were in Rinde - perhaps later? I felt as though I’d come apart. Like a music box shattered on the floor and put back together, looking just like it had before, but the melody not playing the same.”

“In Rinde,” Geralt repeats, frown deepening with something akin to guilt. “Do you think the djinn, or Yen…?”

Jaskier has thought about it. Still thinks about it, when it all comes seeping through a bedroom window, when the sweet beckoning of the wind outside becomes curses. When it raps at the glass and taunts him for hiding his face in borrowed blankets or warm skin of a stranger, laughing at his cowardice. He remembers going out of tune, dissonant thrumming at his core at the disturbance of foreign magic.

“Yes,” he says.

But he also remembers Geralt’s gaze falling on another, losing the weight of it and coming unmoored. A beautiful sorceress, soft arms wrapped around rough, hushed voices ringing in unison. Seasons shifting and roads turning under his feet as he followed that to which he had tethered his dreams and aspirations. He remembers the scent of smoke and hunt and howl, and laying claim to a home, to a heart that wasn’t offered.

“But I think it was me, too,” he finishes. “I think the djinn - or Yennefer - or something may have pulled my pegs loose, so to speak. But the shape I took, that was mine.”

He’s always found it curious - if sometimes unfortunate - how words not intended to be spoken aloud but come by their own volition often seem to manifest more strongly than those initially planned. How much harder they are to ignore.

Curious, too, how a thing once named becomes tangible and must, at least in concept, adhere to the rules and limitations of the real world. How it can be touched and held, put away and taken out, turned over until it stops hurting.

The nights grow long in the wilderness, and the passing of summer shortens the days. And while he is no longer driven to bolt from his skin in fits that feel like madness, the whispers of the dark still tinge the air he breathes with the sweetness of rock-rose and blackberry. There are nights when it becomes inevitable, when he knows before the sun has set that the carefully balanced scales of temptation and trepidation will tip, and he will spend the hours of darkness trapped within this animal that cannot sing.

But even then, there is respite.

An index finger easing the tension of his furred head, careful strokes to coax his ears from their rigid stance, from turning at any sound real or imagined. Palms coming settling over his temples, roughened fingertips on bare skin, providing solid walls against all that feels too vast to comprehend, and reducing his world to just what can be held between two hands.

If the drumming of rabbits is his signal of peril, the signal of peace becomes the rhythm of a slow and steady heart, beating faithfully in the chest just beneath his ear.

It’s there, in the secluded space between their bodies where he draws circles to match the caresses over the small of his back, that he finds the courage to unearth the fragments of what he once was, mismatched bones and unmoored thoughts and instincts all he has been unable to lose, and starts to mold them back together into something recognizable.

As the thing that has sprouted and grown lush from the ruins of what was between them matures and turns vibrant, so do the leaves.

Autumn brings abundance the likes of which he has barely known. Roadsides overflow with wildberries to rival the richest vineyards of Toussaint. Cider sweet as honey pours in every tavern in their way, pressed apples picked from branches hung so low to the ground they must've sighed with relief at the loss of their burden.

Yet no sun-warmed apple cider shines as golden, nor has any Toussaint wine rendered him as drunk as his lover’s eyes or lips on his. At his side, in his arms, Jaskier finds the hollow indentations of a former self still vacant, still waiting. And the corresponding edges, worn smooth like river rocks over time, fall into place with such ease he wonders how they ever came apart at all.

There, safe under Geralt’s gentle touch, the wild may call all it wants.

--

Another forest’s edge, another contract, another waning moon.

Jaskier stokes the fire, tending to the warding light, wondering idly whether flames ignited by a Witcher’s sign hold more power than those lit by mere mortals. He likes to think they do. If he leans into it, he can easily convince himself of Geralt’s grounding presence remaining long after his footsteps are lost in the undergrowth. Behind him, Roach grazes in a patch of clovers, her calm tempering even the most skittish of his natures.

It is still, stiller than it has been for a while. The slight gale that picked up at the setting sun has dwindled to a breeze. He thought about unpacking his lute near an hour ago, but wouldn’t risk disturbing the sanctity of the evening, its melody would feel too far out of place in the arrangement of grasshoppers and midnight warblers.

Even to his human senses, animals of bush and green play in concert - from the whip of a falcon’s wings to the complaints of adolescent woodgrouse reluctant to leave their natal clutch - unknowingly orchestrated, and all of them distant. None, no matter their place in nature's hierarchy, dare test their mettle against the ever-present sense of death and danger that shrouds the dwelling of a witcher.

They stir and fuss, some waking while others settle down to sleep, until they don’t.

Jaskier’s buried instincts know it before his waking mind does, the urgent shift in pace and tune, discordant notes of prey’s first warning.

He listens intently.

It must be large, or voracious, or both. Seldom does a simple beast inspire such disquiet, word of its advances sending ripples of caution to every ear that knows to harken.

Be quick, they say, or be quiet.

Though he can’t make out the movements of the thing itself, the tell-tale cries and rattles of other creatures point its path. A bird takes wing, then another, each one closer and all too close to their camp.

Roach stands frozen, nostrils flared. He thinks he can hear it now. Smell the stench of its breath if he tries, make out its shape in there amongst the trees, moving with far too much stealth for anything that size. Too large for a cat, too quiet for a bear.

It closes in, so near now that a crouch, a leap, might take it into their midst.

Jaskier holds his breath. There is nothing else to do. Not as a fox, or a hare, or a man. Nothing to do but wait.

Whether real or supplied by imagination, he hears it scuff at the ground, draw a deep lungful of scent down into its massive body. And then it moves - away, back into the woods.

For a moment, he welcomes the silence, rushing elation that fortune has yet to claim his debts. But realization doesn’t follow far behind.

No wild thing would come upon a witcher by accident. None could miss the scent of one, and none should come so close to it before changing their mind, unless...

The lone hunter, whatever its goals, has picked a fresher trail: Geralt’s.

It’s ill-advised. More so, it’s stupid. The knife feels foreign in his hand.

He’s not such a fool that he thinks he can fight it, or that the blade or his ability to wield it would make any difference at all. But he must do something, needs to try. If only he can warn Geralt, call out in time and let him know before the beast can pounce…

But it moves fast, and his eyes are slaves to the light, inadequate under the ceiling of leaves and branches. Soon, he hardly knows if he follows it at all.

Every fiber of his being wills against abandoning this last shred of defense, but he knows he has no choice, not if he is to make it.

The knife lands with a thump, the soft ground cushioning its fall. For the first time in a long time, by his own volition, Jaskier shuts his eyes and folds his frame in on itself, opening them to a world tall and vast and all too sharp.

Speed is on his side. This is a body made for running, and run it does. By whatever force his kind is blessed, by fate or chance or both, nothing stands in his way. Though moments wasted on doubt comes at a price, and though he covers ground thrice as fast, he can’t gain it all back.

His vision is wide. The white of Geralt’s head, back turned as he brings his weight down to end the last of the ghouls, lights it like a beacon.

And the ragged shape, hulking even where it’s coiled to spring, attention locked to Geralt’s undefended back with an intensity that swears violence. Canine eyes do not glow, but in that moment, in his world of ash and shadow, Jaskier swears the werewolf’s eyes shine red.

And a hare’s cry, no matter his haste, no matter how shrill, holds no power to them.

He sees everything at once.

Glints of teeth under snarling lips as it jumps. The flash of the witcher’s blade as it swings too high, going clear of the werewolf’s head.

Its jaws lock at his side, tearing through armour and sinew into muscle, grating against bone. Jaskier has never heard a sound like this. Not from man, or from beast. Not from Geralt. It's sheer anguish turned vocal.

Something in him breaks, then.

Like an old joint, once healed wrong and calcified, cracking open to swing freely. It hurts at first. The snap, burning white-hot and blinding. And then: Euphoria.

His body regresses to the confines of a man, and beyond. The change is too fast to feel, too fast to track.

A new form, new instincts bursting through before he knows how to tame them. Fear gives way to fury. By the time he knows he is moving, he has already moved.

It takes no thought at all to lower his head. To align his skull and spine. Leap from his spot.

The impact ought to hurt, but it doesn’t. There’s an audible crack as something breaks, but not from him. Neither is the inhuman yowl that follows, sound reverberating through the forest.

The smell of blood fills his lungs. He doesn’t balk at it.

His face runs warm, runs wet. Twisting to free himself of frantic limbs and mottled fur, he shakes his antlers to strike again. This time, he finds the wolf yielding, limping back just shy of his sharpened crown. When it flees, he thinks to follow, to make up for every night and every hour spent in terror, driven underground by lesser beasts than this.

But Geralt’s scream still echoes in him, the sound of it a weight he cannot bear, couldn’t move under had he tried.

In the moment it takes to hesitate, doubt rears its head. Face awash and prongs painted red with the blood of another living thing, he feels about as far from the self he has learned to accept as one can come. To anyone else, he must look monstrous.

But when he turns, Geralt isn’t looking at him with disgust. Not with scorn, either. Or pity, or any other thing Jaskier had thought he’d face if he spoke the truth of his nature all those years ago.

Geralt raises the arm at his uninjured side. Had Jaskier been smaller, and softer, he would’ve slipped under it, curled up in the hollow at his witcher’s throat and stayed there, felt his heart beat and his chest rise until morning came to see them hale.

Instead, Geralt steadies himself with a hand on his neck and draws close. Giving more of his balance Jaskier than perhaps he means to, but no more than Jaskier can hold, his breaths so deep they might as well be sobs.

There are words to be had. Answers to be found. Leagues to walk, and promises to keep.

Soon enough, winter winds will sweep down across the continent, summons ringing from empty halls in far northern mountains, and they will answer.

But for now, Jaskier is home.

For now, the witcher leans his forehead against that of his hart - or fox, or hare, or bard - knowing that neither will follow that path alone.

At the edge of the woods and throughout the field beyond, rabbits cease their drumming, and the first few songbirds wake to herald the dawn.

--

Sorry for showing up half-assed four months late?

Tag list: @llamasdumpsterfire @stinastar​ @elliestormfound​ @justjess94​ @fontegagrilledcheese​ @dani-dandelino​ @honeysuckletook​ @underwaterattribute @ahhhhhhdonna @biitumen @cinary @saphiramalbec @lilbanili @sulkyshengshou @blooodymoon @dapandapod @kuripon @samstree

@tsukuyomi-selene and @herostag asked to be tagged for this one in particular, I think?

[railroad-migraine]

Ask: I was wondering if I could have an overly fluffy Jaskier x reader where the reader is asexual and he wants to know why, the reader kinda hints to what happened and then later on her sees the one who did it to her? Jaskier goes absolutely APE and then comforts the reader? Maybe have a love confession since I am a SUCKER for those xD

This ask was incredibly personal to the requester, and I wanted to keep the topic respectful and honest while not graphic. I hope you enjoy.

TW// implied past s*xual ab*se, but very minor

~ Poet

Jaskier

Jaskier, ever since the day he met you, has been in an awe-like state. Your friendship was fast, becoming travelling companions after you swooped in and saved his hide from a drowner - he'd strayed a little bit too far from Geralt's camp and everything had escalated from there.

And while on the road, and in a bard and a witcher's company, the broad topic of lovers eventually came up - be it related to true love, destiny, djinns, witches, or casual dalliances, a lot was overshared during a night of heavy drinking.

Leaning into Jaskier's side in the tavern booth, you managed to find your voice and revealed your experiences haven't been as fortunate - the sexual aspects of relationships don't appeal to you, and your view is only reinforced by a past incident.

Grimacing at the sudden sour taste in your mouth, and the now sobered look on Jaskier's face, you briefly explained how someone you once trusted threw it back in your face with a bitter encounter. The travelling minstrel at your side let you speak as little or as much as you liked, eyebrows cinched and leaving a crease between them as he listened intently.

That night, he promised that as he lived and breathed, he wouldn't dare let anyone do something like that to you again. His sincere expression and voice softened the table's tone, and he rested his hand on top of yours, giving a reassuring squeeze.

Not even a month later, breezing through a village on the way to one of Geralt's monster contracts, you stopped dead in your tracks at the sight of an unwelcome ghost from your past, just walking about and living a normal life without consequences. Words failed you when Jaskier asked what was wrong, and all you could do was give a pointed look, his gaze following your to the individual across the street.

A moment passed. Then two. Then, without any warning, the bard at your side rolled up his sleeves, and stepped forward to give a ''stern talking to.'' What happened next was fast, short lived and nasty. Jaskier ended up receiving a bruised jaw and a broken lute, but he came out of that brawl unscathed in comparison to his opponent.

Dabbing a damp cloth to his face in your bedroom back at the inn, you asked him why he'd do such a reckless thing, chastising but grateful - he merely stilled your hand by gently holding your wrist and pressing his lips to your palm, so tenderly it made your heart melt. Few words were said after that, but everything slotted into place from there.

"My darling, could you love a reckless man such as myself?"

He has never pressured you into anything you're not comfortable with. The thought has never crossed his mind - there is so much more to life than sexual intimacy. He appreciates the domestic aspects of the relationship you form together - simply sharing a meal, strumming his (new) lute to your voice, and joining in with local festivities during celebrations are some of the moments he loves most in the world. The Continent is home to you and him, and the life you've made together; not just gloom and pain, but hope and eventual healing <3

[avid-reader12]

I Promise

Summary: Jaskier can't find Geralt. Geralt doesn't know how to apologize.

Rating: T, angst, fluffy ending

Melitele’s tits, this fog is thicker than that ale at the last inn, Jaskier thought, straining his eyes. Can’t see a fucking thing, where’s Geralt?

A darker shadow rose up in front of him, stopping him in his tracks. It was much too large to be Geralt – and was that growling he heard? Maybe the best course of action would be to turn around and look for Geralt somewhere else.

Just as he turned, something-someone reached through the dark fog and grabbed his ankle, ripping his leg out from under him. Jaskier hit the ground hard, yelping in shock. Whoever it was slithered back into the inky darkness by the time he scrambled around.

“Geralt!” he cried out. No sense in being quiet now, whatever lay in the fog knew exactly where he was. Nothing but the shifting mist and shadows answered him.

He scooted back a few feet, trying in vain to see through the haze. Maybe Geralt was already hunting whoever hunted Jaskier. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d been used as bait, but it was the first time he’d ever been so terrified.

For a moment, everything stood still. The fog seemed to have settled, the growling died out, even the dark swirling shadows vanished. His heart pounded in his chest, betraying him in the quiet. Maybe whatever was out there decided he wasn’t worth the trouble. Maybe Geralt had dealt with it, monster or human, and any moment he would come sauntering through the darkness, eyes black from Cat, a most welcome sight. Jaskier would hug him with everything he had (stoutly ignoring the witcher’s protests) and sleep a little closer tonight. Any moment now.

“Geralt?”

A heavy hand clamped tight on his shoulder. Jaskier nearly jumped out of his skin, turning to face his witcher, retort already on his lips for scaring the shit out of him. But as Jaskier turned, it wasn’t Geralt’s hand on his shoulder. Instead, it was Borch Three Jackdaws, staring down at Jaskier with cruel indifference. His fingers dug into Jaskier’s shoulder as he tried to slip out from under his grasp. Borch’s grasp turned painful.

What the hell is he doing here? Where’s Geralt?

He opened his mouth, and smoke poured out with his words. “Your witcher isn’t coming.” His eyes turned golden as Jaskier tried to stand, trying to put some distance between them. His fingers gripped tighter, Jaskier’s bones protesting. “Your witcher isn’t coming little bard.”

With a cry Jaskier wrenched himself free of the man’s grasp, his shirt torn and bloodied. He stumbled to his feet, backing away. Borch drew closer, unnaturally still as he walked. The fog closed in on them, sinking deeper, stinging the holes in his shoulder. He backed into the darkness, not daring to take his eyes off Borch.

His voice came out deeper now. “Your witcher isn’t coming,” he repeated. Tears distorted the threat in front of him, but he refused to blink them away. He couldn’t take his eyes off Borch.

“Geralt!” Jaskier cried out. Or he meant to. His voice, which he had known and wielded for years, confident and assured, the only thing no one could take from him, came out little more than a croak. “Geralt?” he tried again. There was barely more than nothing to his voice. His heart was pounding louder, his pulse in his ears deafening.

Borch was getting closer faster. Jaskier didn’t know what was behind him, but he couldn’t take his eyes away to look, even if he could see through the fog. The shadows from earlier joined in behind Borch’s looming figure.

“Geralt!” Jaskier rasped out again. His hand flew to his throat, and it was swollen, so swollen. He could feel blood trickling out of his mouth. That damned curse from the djinn was back, and Jaskier couldn’t breathe.

“Your witcher isn’t coming bard.” Borch’s voiced echoed around him as his eyes glowed gold, piercing through the fog and straight into Jaskier. The shadows behind him grew darker and the growled. The fog swirled faster around him. His shoulder stung like someone threw him in salt, his heart beat so hard it hurt, and his throat grew tighter. He couldn’t breathe.

He stumbled and fell backwards. Borch loomed over him, growing with every second. The shadows melded with the fog and surrounded them. Jaskier tried to take a deep breath to scream, but nothing could get past his throat.

“Geralt!” Jaskier threw everything he had into that scream. It should have come out strong and loud and piercing. Instead, there was nothing, not even a rasp. Still clutching his throat, he tried scooting away, the tears scorching paths down his face.

Geralt where are you?

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

Geralt slipped his whetstone back into its pouch, satisfied with the sharpened edge. He cleaned his blade once more, catching glimpses of his reflection in the low firelight, before slipping it back into its scabbard. He tuned his attention now to his armor, taking note of all the little signs of wear. He paid extra attention to scrubbing the leftover stains, he didn’t want any residual smells to betray him.

Behind him Roach flicked her tail and gave a little huff, reminding him she needed attention too. “I’ll get to you in a minute.” He smiled as she nudged his arm begging for another treat. He didn’t give in this time.

The fire in front of him died further down, but he ignored it. It wasn’t really for his benefit; he’d have sooner done without it. The moon shone so bright, the full disc casting its ethereal light over the plains. He could see all around them, listening to the grasses softly whisper in the breeze and the nocturnal creatures going about their lives. The serenity, the tranquility was a welcome refuge from the bustle of the city they left earlier that day. Buildings and people packed too close together, a cacophony of smells and sounds, all bright lights and sharp sounds and sharper words and insults.

He put his armor away for the night. It could use more cleaning, but that could wait until morning. He took a deep breath, chasing away the sour smells that still stung his nose. Sweat and fear and hatred so thick he couldn’t cut it no matter how sharp his swords. But they were long gone now, and he was surrounded by cool earth and horse and his own familiar scent.

He turned back to Roach, debating if it was too late to give her some much-needed attention. But she had fallen asleep while he was cleaning. He smiled again, watching her sleep for a few more moments before starting to turn in himself for the night.

He made sure the fire was out, noticing it was a touch chillier than he first realized. He wondered if he should give Jaskier another blanket. His eyes drifted to the bard, curled up fast asleep on his side, his arm pillowing his head. Jaskier was tougher than most gave him credit for, including Geralt. Still, it couldn’t hurt.

He laid an extra blanket over the bard, and then unrolled his own bedroll. He laid flat on his back, listening to the night around them. He heard Roach’s quiet huffs as she dreamed, and the steady beat of Jaskier’s heart. It surprised him how quickly he’d gotten used to Jaskier’s sounds again, gotten used to his smells and movements and how he didn’t stop talking. But he found it didn’t get on his nerves nearly as much as it had before Caingorn.

He had missed his bard, missed the way he filled Geralt’s days with light and music. He missed the way Jaskier never stopped making some sort of noise, whether inanely babbling or singing, or just his unnaturally loud heart beating in his chest. Before he found it annoying, like he found almost everything about Jaskier in those days, but now it was soothing and reassuring.

He’d meant to say he was sorry. Sorry for everything he said, everything he did, and everything he didn’t say and do. But in all the hurry to get out of the city it went unsaid, again, and now in the quiet darkness, the weight of those words and his conscience wouldn’t let him sleep.

But he couldn’t just wake up Jaskier and bare his soul. For some reason those words lodged themselves in his throat and refused to move past his lips. No, he’d try again in the morning, when they were both awake and refreshed and the new day brought new chances. He closed his eyes again and shifted, trying to get comfortable.

Something shifted. Geralt stirred but lay still for a moment, trying to figure out what woke him. It didn’t take long. It was Jaskier, and his too loud heartbeat. After years of travelling together, he knew what the bard’s pulse sounded like when he was asleep. He also knew what it sounded like when he was in danger.

Roach was still asleep, and his medallion was still on his chest. No one else was around, but Jaskier’s heart beat loud enough to wake the dead. There was a shuffle as he moved in his sleep. Geralt sat up.

Jaskier was curled into a ball, his legs all twisted in the blankets. His arm was bent awkwardly under his head and his face was screwed up in terror. He was nearly panting, and he let out a little whimper, almost like a word.

For all his faults, Jaskier was a solid sleeper. The only time he shut up was when he was unconscious, never talking in his sleep, rarely having nightmares. But this one looked bad, Jaskier had worked himself up into a sweat. He reeked of terror and pain. His legs tensed, and he whimpered again, sounding more like words.

Geralt crawled closer, reaching out to lightly touch his shoulder. He wasn’t prepared for the violent jerk Jaskier gave, almost like he’d been burned. His heart pounded faster, and his whimpers turned into a name. “Geralt.” To anyone else, it would’ve been too muddled to understand.

Geralt braced himself and grabbed Jaskier again, more firmly this time and gave him a shake. “Jaskier. Wake up.”

Jaskier gave a shudder, flinching hard in his sleep. “Geralt!” Still slurred, but much clearer this time.

“Jaskier, it’s just a nightmare. Wake up,” Geralt tried again. He gave another light shake, nearly flinching himself when Jaskier’s hands flew up to his own throat.

“Geralt!” Terror plain in Jaskier’s cry sent a pang through his heart. Whatever horrors his mind conjured up were gripping him tight, torturing him. He’d just have to grip him tighter.

Geralt lifted Jaskier up into his arms, half out of his bedroll and crushed him to his chest. He buried his nose where neck met shoulder, breathing in his smell, breathing past the acrid scent of fear to get to the heart of Jaskier. “I’m here Jaskier. I’m right here,” he whispered.

He didn’t expect Jaskier to hear him over his nightmare. But his bard gave a shudder, and then a gasp. He flailed for a second, hands scrabbling over Geralt’s shoulders, his legs still tangled in the blankets.

“Wha-No-Get-Geralt,” his voice came out broken and weak, and Geralt could smell the tears.

“Shhhh. It’s alright I’ve got you.” He gripped him tighter, rubbing circles in his back with his thumb.

Jaskier gave another shudder, and for a moment Geralt thought he’d shove him away and curse him out. Given how he’d treated him on the mountain, he deserved it. But instead Jaskier let out a sob and held on tight, chest heaving and limbs shaking.

“Geralt,” he whispered, so wrecked it threatened to break Geralt’s heart. He clung to him for dear life, crying into his shoulder.

Geralt let him for a minute and then adjusted them, pulling Jaskier into his lap. His bard struggled, his hands turning into fetters on his shirt, but Geralt just shushed him. “It’s alright. Just readjusting.” He let him settle in his embrace for a moment, listening to his heartbeat return to normal. The stench of fear would linger a little longer, but it wasn’t as overpowering now.

“Let’s get those blankets off you.” Still gripping Jaskier tight with one hand, he pulled the twisted blankets out from around Jaskier’s legs. Now freed, his bard curled closer into him, trying to fit every inch of himself in Geralt’s lap.

“Don’t leave.” Had Geralt been human he would’ve missed the little plea amongst the heavy breaths and sniffles.

Geralt returned his other hand back around Jaskier and rested his head atop his bard. Amazing how someone nearly as tall and built as himself could curl in and become so fragile and small. He held him tighter and let out a low hum. “It’s alright. I’m not going anywhere.”

Jaskier shifted in his arms, turning to face the witcher, eyes red and his face tearstained. “Promise?”

Geralt cupped his face, brushing away a tear. His heart felt fit to burst with all his words unsaid and swirling emotions he couldn’t seem to express. He still didn’t know how to dislodge them from his throat. But he crushed Jaskier back to his chest, trying to pour everything out through touch. His bard still felt too warm, too stiff, too scared until he whispered into his hair. “Promise.”

Jaskier let out another sob, trying to bury his face further into Geralt’s chest. Geralt breathed in the sweet smell of relief emanating from his bard and repeated, “I promise.”

[lesdemonium]

Error Pining

Rating: T Ship: Geraskier Word Count: 2750 Summary:   When his djinn wish goes wrong, Jaskier finds himself unable to speak without excruciating pain. Geralt tries to fill the space himself. AN: a gift exchange fic written for @smuggsy for @thewitchersecretsanta. thanks so much for giving me an excuse to write physical whump for jaskier!

read on ao3  Before their argument, Geralt had been hazy, unfocused, and in dire need of sleep. He was still in dire need of rest, but now every sense was on high alert. The smell of blood and pain was so sharp, so strong, it left a metallic taste in his mouth and he just barely resisted the urge to try to clear his tongue of it. His eyes went wide, wild, as he tried to find the source of the blood. In a distant sort of way, he registered that he had been cut in their scuffle, but it wasn’t his blood he smelled. It was Jaskier’s.

Jaskier was doubled over, clutching at his neck, the djinn bottle long forgotten on the ground. His eyes met Geralt’s and he opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out before he was blinking away tears and dry heaving onto the ground. The hand around his throat was so tight Geralt wondered at how he could breathe, had a wild thought that maybe it was Jaskier’s own hand that was causing his scent to spike in pain and fear.

“Jaskier, what’s happened?” Geralt asked, bending over and hauling Jaskier back up by the collar of his doublet. Jaskier went, and when he tried to speak again, only a weak whimper came out before his face contorted in pain. His hands scrabbled at his throat and his eyes were so wide Geralt felt like all he could see was white, white, white.

“We’ll fix this, whatever it is,” Geralt promised him. Jaskier nodded weakly back.

They made it to the elf, Chireadan, who was less help than Geralt was hoping for. He asked Jaskier questions, and every time Jaskier attempted to answer, the same bitter taste of blood and pain and fear settled heavily within Geralt. The third time it happened, Geralt nearly punched Chireadan. Couldn’t he see this was hurting Jaskier?

“He can’t talk,” Chireadan finally settled on, and the look Geralt gave him must have been murderous, because he took a step back when their eyes met. “I can’t tell you more than that. Its origin is magical, and I have nothing that can reverse it. Something is ripping apart his throat whenever he talks.”

Jaskier let out a muffled hum, a desperate sound, that soon choked out and was replaced with the heavy scent of blood. 

“Sounds like not only when he talks,” Geralt said, and Chireadan’s grimace seemed to agree.

They were sent to a witch, Yennefer, but she wasn’t much help, either. She tried through the night, with Jaskier in a deep sleep, but when he awoke, nothing had changed. 

“I can’t do anything until you open your mouth to speak, bard,” Yennefer told them, and to her credit, she did look at least a bit remorseful. Or perhaps simply annoyed her magic couldn’t solve it. “Since I highly doubt you want to be singing as I fix you, there’s not much I can do for you.”

“Then how do we fix this?” Geralt asked, his voice tight.

Yennefer smiled and patted Jaskier’s hand condescendingly. “Have you considered a vocational change?”

They left, Jaskier silent and mourning beside Geralt. Yennefer’s advice was to track down another djinn, as Jaskier was unable to make the wish himself. Geralt thought this was a fool’s errand, and that Vesemir would be more help.

“I’m sorry, Jaskier,” Geralt said as they laid down to sleep that night.

Jaskier’s response was to turn over and go to sleep.

--

Traveling with a silent Jaskier was difficult for both of them. Every time Geralt looked at Jaskier, he seemed dimmer. At first, he still played his lute, but as they continued to travel and Jaskier’s throat continued to rip itself apart whenever he made even the softest hum, even that seemed to lose appeal to the bard. In taverns, Jaskier stared down at his mug, surviving the evening until he could turn in.

Geralt found he missed the sound. The silence beside him was uncomfortable, and made Geralt feel hollow. This felt as if it was his fault, as if he was the one hurting Jaskier whenever he made a sound. If he hadn’t been looking for the Djinn in the first place, Jaskier’s wish wouldn’t have backfired, and now Geralt wouldn’t have become acquainted with Jaskier’s forlorn face.

It took three days for Geralt to start talking, instead.

“Did I ever tell you about the griffin I fought outside Carrera?” Geralt said, offhand, as they traveled one day. 

He chanced a glance at Jaskier, only to find the bard staring back at him, a curious expression on Jaskier’s face. Jaskier’s lips were pressed tightly together, as if he was trying to remind himself not to speak up, and he squinted at Geralt. He looked almost suspicious. Geralt didn’t blame him. It wasn’t often that Geralt offered up his stories without a request, but Jaskier deserved something, and Geralt couldn't take the silence anymore.

So he told the tale, sparing no detail. At some point, Jaskier took out a notebook, and furiously scribbled the tale down. Often, Geralt had to stop, think about what sort of questions Jaskier would normally ask him, and try to answer them on his own. By the end of his tale, Jaskier was smiling. Despite his discomfort, Geralt smiled back. The remainder of the day was easier to bear.

As they traveled, Geralt told Jaskier of his contracts, as many as he could think of that Jaskier hadn’t already been there for. When he couldn’t think of a new story, he explained to Jaskier the difference between the vampire types, or the exact effects Swallow had on him. He felt silly, like he was play-acting as a professor, but it made the time go by faster. It also made Jaskier lighter, brighter, and eased something inside Geralt.

At night, when they were safely at camp, Jaskier began to play his lute again. Initially, they were the same songs Geralt had heard before. Jaskier’s songs, famous ballads written by other bards, lively drinking songs. As their travel wore on, though, Geralt began to hear songs he had never heard before. Soft, mournful things. Jaskier never met Geralt’s eye when he played these songs, but he did sit close to Geralt, so close that sometimes their arms would brush as Jaskier shifted up and down his lute. Geralt liked these songs best. He hoped, one day, he would get to hear Jaskier sing them.

These nights made Geralt brave.

“I ran into Eskel here, once,” he said. Jaskier didn’t stop playing, but he did look up, his eyes wide, his face open. “I don’t cross paths with the other witchers as much as I would like. You would like Eskel. He plays nice far better than I could. Doesn’t need a bard around to keep him in line around nobles.”

Jaskier bumped Geralt’s shoulder and they shared a grin. Geralt turned his gaze back to the fire and took a deep breath, but a moment later Jaskier nudged him again, this time with his knee.

“Yes, okay,” Geralt said, nodding. “I’ll go on. We were in the trials together. He’s the closest thing I’ve ever had to family.” Until now, his mind helpfully supplied. Geralt cleared his throat, as if to smother the thought. “You really would like him. He’s… thoughtful. Polite. Keeps his temper better. A better witcher, too. He’d make a better subject for your songs.”

Jaskier stopped playing abruptly. He placed his lute gingerly back in its case, then leaned into Geralt’s side. His arm snaked around Geralt’s, intertwining them before he fit their fingers together. Like they belonged there. Like their hands had always been meant to hold each other.

When Geralt looked up, his mouth felt dry. Jaskier’s eyes were so big, so beautiful, and he felt like he could see everything Jaskier couldn’t say in them. Geralt swallowed, heavily, and tried to speak for them himself.

“I’m.” He paused, wet his lips, tried again. “I’m glad you’re here. You make it easier. I feel less… alone.”

Geralt looked away, now. Back at the fire. Jaskier didn’t nudge him back this time, and didn't try to get his attention. Instead, he hesitated only a second--Geralt could feel the way he started, then stopped, then started again--and rested his head on Geralt’s shoulder. They stayed like that until Jaskier’s yawns could no longer be ignored, and they had to turn in for the night.

--

Geralt missed Jaskier’s voice most in the morning.

It was no secret that Jaskier was terrible when he first woke up. Grouchy, whiny, wheedling every which way. He hated mornings and he hated getting up early and would always be dead to the world for the first hour or so that he was awake.

Despite this, he always wished Geralt a good morning, even if it was gruff and his smile was more of a grimace. As he started to wake up, he’d often tell Geralt about his more ridiculous dreams. Often, Geralt was sure he had fabricated them entirely, just to make Geralt roll his eyes.

Now, Jaskier always woke up in pain. He’d groan first thing in the morning, or whine, or make some other sort of noise, and immediately his entire body would seize up in pain. Geralt had gotten softer in his approach to waking Jaskier up, trying to ease him into consciousness, to avoid the pain. It worked sometimes, but Jaskier was still too hazy upon first waking to remember why he couldn’t make noise. Then his eyes would fill with unshed tears as he desperately held out his hand for the waterskin. It didn’t seem to help, but at least it was an action Jaskier could take.

They survived. Hearing Jaskier’s silence never got easier, still left Geralt feeling hollow, but it became easier to fill the silences himself. Jaskier got better at expressing himself through the way he touched Geralt. Geralt had a feeling that had never been a skill Jaskier lacked, per se, but that he had only recently been allowed to touch Geralt. Now, he was taking his fill.

Geralt wondered how much time he had lost without Jaskier’s easy affection.

To get Geralt’s attention, Jaskier would grab his knee as Geralt road Roach, or press a hand between Geralt’s shoulder blades. He fingered Geralt’s sleeve nervously when they were in taverns and he had nothing to do with his hands. He would take Geralt’s hand as they walked through a crowd so they didn’t lose each other.

Geralt’s favorite touches, though, were still in front of their campfire. The trees around them, the stars in the night sky, the light of the fire and the way it crackled, all of it was beautiful, but it was nothing compared to the way Jaskier leaned against Geralt. Jaskier pressed himself into Geralt’s side, often allowing Geralt to wrap his arm around Jaskier’s shoulder or waist. Jaskier would play his lute, would play his soft, lovely songs, that had grown more hopeful as time went on. Geralt would tell Jaskier stories about growing up, about trouble he, Lambert, Eskel, the other wolves, had gotten into. He told Jaskier about the trials and let Jaskier comb his fingers through Geralt’s hair to comfort him, though Geralt insisted he didn’t need comforting. He told Jaskier about Renfri, about Blaviken, about his mother. Geralt told Jaskier everything.

Everything except about the way his heart hammered in his chest as Jaskier looked at him. Everything except how he sometimes dreamed of Jaskier’s voice, and woke up with a longing he couldn’t put to words. Everything except how he wanted, more than anything, to kiss Jaskier, but couldn’t be sure what Jaskier wanted.

“Can I… be honest with you?” Geralt asked one night. 

Jaskier turned to him just enough to roll his eyes at Geralt. As if Jaskier could stop him, the look seemed to say. Jaskier turned back to his lute, but his playing got softer, as if he was trying to give Geralt the space to speak.

“Right,” Geralt said. He paused, took a deep breath, rubbed the hem of Jaskier’s shirt between his fingers. “I don’t. I don’t know if Vesemir can help.”

Jaskier stopped playing and stiffened somewhat. But he didn’t turn around, didn’t put his lute down. Only stopped and waited.

Geralt swallowed thickly. “I hope he can. I think he’s our best bet. But, short of finding another djinn for me to make a wish… I don’t know how fixable this is. Unless we went back to Yennefer and had her heal you while you sing--” Jaskier let out a shiver and the stench of fear overwhelmed Geralt. “I know. It’s not good. But I don’t know how else to fix you if Vesemir has no ideas.”

Jaskier took a deep breath. He remained stiff against Geralt, but now he started playing again. His song was sad, mournful again, and Geralt’s heart ached with it. He wished, more than anything, that he could fix this.

“I’m not giving up,” Geralt whispered, some time later. “We’ll find something else to try. We’ll fix this eventually.”

The sound Jaskier made wasn’t quite a scoff. It was more a sharp exhalation, dismissive and--maybe Geralt was reaching here--a bit wounded. Geralt lifted his hand, hesitated a moment, then ran his fingers through Jaskier’s hair. Jaskier leaned back into the motion, until his head fell back on Geralt’s shoulder.

“I mean it, Jask,” he said. His mouth felt dry again. “I miss your voice. I miss the lyrics that would go with your songs, even the ridiculous ones. I miss your jokes, your incessant complaining, the way you flirt with everyone and sometimes wink at me as you do it.”

Jaskier pulled away, and Geralt froze. Apparently, he had overstepped somewhere. He forced himself to look at Jaskier, but instead of discomfort or disgust, he found shock. Awe. Jaskier put his lute away, his fingers lingering on the clasps of his case, then he returned to Geralt’s side. After another moment of hesitation, Jaskier shifted, climbing over Geralt’s lap. Jaskier cradled Geralt’s face with feather-light touches as he leaned in, pressed their foreheads together.

“Jaskier, I--” Geralt started. 

Geralt trailed off, then wrapped his arms around Jaskier’s waist. He didn’t know how to accept this from Jaskier verbally, he didn’t know what to say, but he could hold him. Jaskier let out a relieved breath, and Geralt felt the gust of air against his lips. Geralt touched his fingers to the corner of Jaskier’s mouth. Jaskier pressed a hand to Geralt’s heart.

“You’re so much better at words than I am. I wish--” He trailed off again, thumbed along Jaskier’s cheekbone, held the back of his head. “You can’t tell me what you want.”

Jaskier’s breath sounded almost like a laugh, just before he leaned in to touch their lips together. The kiss was short, simply a way to test the waters. Jaskier pulled away, only for Geralt to drag him back in for more. Jaskier sighed into Geralt’s mouth and Geralt swallowed the sound, wished desperately he could hear more, wanted to see what all he could pull from Jaskier’s throat.

It was this thought that had Geralt pulling away. Jaskier’s eyes looked hazy, his smile dopey and big, as he stroked the side of Geralt’s face and his hair. He looked the happiest Geralt had seen him in months, since before the djinn had taken away his voice. Geralt kissed him again. And again. And again. Jaskier accepted every time.

“I wish you could talk. I want to hear your voice,” Geralt whispered into Jaskier’s mouth.

Jaskier whined a little, then reared back, just as Geralt flinched away, his arm suddenly burning. Jaskier’s hands flew to his throat and Geralt ripped back his sleeve to see a second mark, just beside the long-forgotten injury he had gotten when they squabbled over the amphora. Geralt’s eyebrows furrowed as he considered the mark, wondered after what in the world caused it, only for his focus to be dragged away by Jaskier.

“Geralt,” Jaskier said, and his face broke out into the most brilliant grin. “What--I can talk again. It doesn’t hurt at all!”

Jaskier was still laughing as he dragged Geralt in for another kiss, which Geralt readily accepted. This time, he didn’t hold back any of his sounds. Each one was more beautiful than the last.

[bamf-jaskier]

Okay so I’m going to try and do a comparison of some of the major scenes between Geralt and Yennefer in Bottled Appetites vs The Last Wish. 

Warning: this is a very long post and I tried to keep it as short as possible but Geralt and Yennefer is the relationship that is mainly focused on in both the short story and the show so there’s..a lot of content here. 

Now, before I really jump in it’s important to note that the show is basically the spark notes version of the book, there’s a lot of missing content in the show mostly because the book just has so much more complexity so for a brief timeline:

Jaskier is injured

Talks to Chireadan 

Meets Yennefer

Take Bath Together 

Yennefer mind-controls Geralt and send him off to go fight some council members

THEN this is where the show and book differ 

In the books, Yennefer’s mind-control has more obvious consequences and Geralt gets into legal trouble and there’s a whole scene with some town leaders threatening Geralt and Jaskier. (Although it is important to note Yennefer in the books has a back-up plan to save Geralt)

As well when Geralt goes to stop Yennefer in the books from capturing the Djinn  she portals away with Geralt and they hate-crash a Noble’s party before having a conversation and fighting the Djinn again, Geralt makes his third wish and then they have sex 

So basically the townspeople sub-plot is removed in the show and the Djinn fight is streamlined into one-scene instead of multiple. Now understanding that, let’s get into the scene comparisons. 

Geralt Meeting Yennefer:

The Last Wish:

“You parried my spell,” she finally said. “You're not a sorcerer; that's obvious. But you reacted exceptionally fast. Tell me who you are, stranger who has come in peace. And I advise you to speak quickly.”

“I’m Geralt of Rivia. A witcher.”

Yennefer leaned out of the bed, grasping a faun—engraved on the pole—by a piece of anatomy well adapted to being grasped. Without taking her eyes off Geralt, she picked a coat with a fur collar up off the floor and wrapped herself up in it tightly before getting up. She poured herself another mug of juice without hurrying, drank it in one go, coughed and came closer. Geralt discreetly rubbed his lower back which, a moment ago, had collided painfully with the wall.

“Geralt of Rivia,” repeated the sorceress, looking at him from behind black lashes. “How did you get in here? And for what reason? You didn't hurt Berrant, I hope?”

“No. I didn't. Lady Yennefer, I need your help.”

“A witcher,” she muttered, coming up even closer and wrapping the coat around her more tightly. “Not only is it the first one I’ve seen up close but it's none other than the famous White Wolf. I’ve heard about you.”

“I can imagine.”

“I don't know what you can imagine.” 

She yawned, then came even closer. “May I?” She touched his cheek and looked him in the eyes. He clenched his jaw. “Do your pupils automatically adapt to light or can you narrow and dilate them according to your will?”

“Yennefer,” he said calmly, “I rode nonstop all day from Rinde. I waited all night for the gates to open. I gave your doorman, who didn't want to let me in, a blow to the head. I disturbed your sleep and peace, discourteously and importunately. All because my friend needs help which only you can give him. Give it to him, please, and then, if you like, we can talk about mutations and aberrations.”

She took a step back and contorted her lips unpleasantly. “What sort of help do you mean?”

“The regeneration of organs injured through magic. The throat, larynx and vocal cords. An injury caused by a scarlet mist. Or something very much like it.”

The Show:

Yennefer: And quite a bit more. You’re immune.

Geralt: You must be the mage.

Yennefer: Yennefer of Vengerberg. 

Geralt: Hm. Chireadan didn’t mention that, uh…

Yennefer: What did he fail to mention?

Geralt: We need your help.

Yennefer: “We”? [Geralt looks to Jaskier who gives a feeble wave.] Just a friend, I hope? [Geralt looks back at her.] Your heartbeat, it’s extraordinarily slow. You’re… a mutant.

Geralt: A witcher. Geralt of Rivia.

Yennefer: The famous White Wolf! [Standing up she steps close to Geralt.] I thought you’d have fangs or horns or something.

Geralt: I had them filed down.

Yennefer: [chuckles] First time I’ve seen a witcher up close. [She circles him, looks him over.] What little spells can you cast with your hands? Call it professional curiosity.

Geralt: Please, Jaskier here needs immediate attention. And then, if you’d like, I’ll indulge your curiosity all night long.

Yennefer: It won’t take all night. But I’m sure we can find a way to fill the time.

Geralt: [holding up the small sack with the pot’s shards] He was attacked by a djinn.

Yennefer: A djinn?

Geralt: Whatever’s wrong with him, it’s spreading. [Yennefer takes the sack and inspects the contents.] Fix it and I’ll pay you. Whatever the price.

Yennefer: You’ll have to do better than juice. [to the undulating figures] "Ragamuffin"!

In the books there is no orgy sequence, instead Yennefer has been mainly just been fucking with the merchant Beau Berrant, who in the show is the Mayor of Rinde. The apple juice sequence occurs in both adaptations and Geralt goes to Yennefer. In the books, Yennefer is alone in Berrant’s bedchambers, in the show she is in the orgy sequence. If you read the passages, they share the same bare bones. Yennefer tries to bespell Geralt, he is immune, she comments on his mutation, Geralt asks for help. 

Yennefer and Geralt have the same flirtatious overtones in both adaptations. Honestly I don’t have much to say here because it parallels relatively well as far as characterization goes. I will say I prefer the book’s prose but I also understand that the show has more simplistic writing and wording. 

Anya Chalotra has fantastic energy in playing Yennefer and the tension between the actors in this scene are quite apparent. 

Bathing Together:

The Last Wish:

She entered the bath-chamber just as Geralt, sitting naked on a tiny stool, was pouring water over himself from a bucket. He cleared his throat and modestly turned his back to her.

“Don't be embarrassed,” she said, throwing an armful of clothing on the hook. “I don't faint at the sight of a naked man. Triss Merigold, a friend, says if you've seen one, you've seen them all.”

He got up, wrapping a towel round his hips.

“Beautiful scar.” She smiled, looking at his chest. “What was it? Did you fall under the blade in a sawmill?”

He didn't answer. The sorceress continued to observe him, tilting her head coquettishly.

“The first witcher I can look at from close up, and completely naked at that. Aha!” She leaned over, listening. “I can hear your heart beat. It's very slow. Can you control how much adrenalin you secrete? Oh, forgive me my professional curiosity. Apparently, you're touchy about the qualities of your own body. You're wont to describe these qualities using words which I greatly dislike, lapsing into pompous sarcasm with it, something I dislike even more.”

He didn't answer.“Well, enough of that. My bath is getting cold.” Yennefer moved as if she wanted to discard her coat, then hesitated. “I’ll take my bath while you talk, to save time. But I don't want to embarrass you and, besides, we hardly know each other. So then, taking decency into account—”

“I’ll turn around,” he proposed hesitantly.“No. I have to see the eyes of the person I’m talking to. I’ve got a better idea.”

He heard an incantation being recited, felt his medallion quiver and saw the black coat softly slip to the floor. Then he heard the water splashing.

“Now I can't see your eyes, Yennefer,” he said. “And that's a pity.”

The invisible sorceress snorted and splashed in the tub. “Go on.”

The Show:

[Later, in the bathroom, Geralt takes a bath while Yennefer keeps him company]

Yennefer: Fishing for a djinn seems an extreme measure to remedy sleeplessness.

Geralt: When extreme measures seem reasonable, yes, I’m desperate.

Yennefer: And yet you didn’t ask me to help with that.

Geralt: Looming death kind of jumped the queue. Now I’m wondering if I can afford you. Have I accidentally agreed to indentured servitude? [Yennefer notices his scars.] Go ahead, ask about them. Everyone does.

Yennefer: Everyone else is boring. [She undresses and steps into the tub.] Turn around.

Geralt: [Tries to look at her in a mirror, but Yennefer moves it with magic so he can’t see] That’s cheating.

Yennefer: Nobody smart plays fair. Tell me, are all witchers similarly blessed? [She sits down so they’re back to back.] Come now, you promised.

Geralt: Hm. I haven’t conducted a survey, but I’d hardly say we’re blessed.

Okay!! Now I can get more into the characterization differences because oh boy are there some here. First, Yennefer mentions Triss in the books which I would have loved to see in the show but the main thing here is how they objectify each other. In both adaptations, Yennefer notices Geralt’s scars when they begin to bathe together but in the books, Yennefer uses it as a way to pry more into the biological functions of Witchers whereas in the show she uses it as a way to talk about their shitty childhoods. 

This ties into how the show, instead of focusing on the more biological aspects of Witchers, focuses on the tragic backstory of the characters. Of course, Lauren is of the mindset (like much of fandom) that Witchers are more animalistic while Sapko really pushes the idea that Witchers are creations of science so it makes sense the show wouldn’t want to talk about Witcher science as much. 

As well, in the books, Geralt is rather respectful to Yennefer, promising to avert his gaze and she ends up turning invisible so she can objectify him but he can’t objectify her. It places Yennefer in charge and the obviously more powerful force in the room. 

In the show, Geralt tries to take a peak at Yennefer and they sit back to back, establishing them as equals. And this is no mistake. In the books, Yennefer is quite a bit older than Geralt, she is powerful mage and Geralt is just a guy. Yennefer is the one in power in their relationship and that is obvious in every aspect of their relationship. 

The show made Geralt 32 years older than Yennefer. They push a narrative of Yennefer and Geralt being on more equal footing (or even at times go as far as to make Geralt seem the more mature and older one which we will see later with Yennefer not being aware of the Wish). 

This reverses a lot of the show/book dynamic where instead of Yennefer being the dominant one she is on equal footing with Geralt. Of course, this is likely due to Henry Cavill being around 37 and Anya Chalotra being around 23. Hollywood is allergic to the older woman/younger man dynamic that is seen in the books so making Yennefer seem younger is not a problem specific to The Witcher but with Hollywood at large.  (Not to say it isn’t still bad to see this perpetuated in the show because it is)

Yennefer mind-controlling Geralt:

The Last Wish:

“He's asleep,” said Yennefer. “And dreaming.”

Geralt examined the patterns traced on the floor. The magic hidden within them was palpable, but he knew it was a dormant magic. It brought to mind the purr of a sleeping lion, without suggesting how the roar might sound.

“What is this, Yennefer?”

“A trap.”

“For what?”

“For you, for the time being.” The sorceress turned the key in the lock, then turned it over in her hand. The key disappeared.

“And thus I’m trapped,” he said coldly. “What now? Are you going to assault my virtue?”

“Don't flatter yourself.” Yennefer sat on the edge of the bed. Dandilion, still smiling like a moron, groaned quietly. It was, without a doubt, a groan of bliss.

“I already knew what you were like,” she continued, “after exchanging a few words with you in Beau's bedroom. And I knew what form of payment I’d demand from you. My accounts in Rinde could be settled by anyone, including Chireadan. But you're the one who's going to do it because you have to pay me. For your insolence, for the cold way you look at me, for the eyes which fish for every detail, for your stony face and sarcastic tone of voice. For thinking that you could stand face-to-face with Yennefer of Vergerberg and believe her to be full of self-admiration and arrogance, a calculating witch, while staring at her soapy tits. Pay up, Geralt of Rivia!”

She grabbed his hair with both hands and kissed him violently on the lips, sinking her teeth into them like a vampire. The medallion on his neck quivered and it felt to Geralt as if the chain was shrinking and strangling him. Something blazed in his head while a terrible humming filled his ears. He stopped seeing the sorceress's violet eyes and fell into darkness.He was kneeling. Yennefer was talking to him in a gentle, soft voice.“You remember?”

“Yes, my lady.” It was his own voice.

“So go and carry out my instructions.”

“At your command, my lady.”

“You may kiss my hand.”

“Thank you, my lady.”He felt himself approach her on his knees. 

Ten thousand bees buzzed in his head. Her hand smelt of lilac and gooseberries. Lilac and gooseberries…Lilac and gooseberries…A flash. Darkness.

The Show:

Yennefer: If you wake him before he’s healed, the spell won’t take. That’s no way to treat a friend, Geralt.

Geralt: You want the djinn, but the amphora’s broken. The djinn’s already long gone. [Suddenly the candles around the sign flare up.]

Yennefer: [rubbing perfume onto her wrists] Do go on. Tell me how stuff works. The djinn is tied to this plane and its master. How many wishes did the bard express before he lost his voice?

Geralt: You need Jaskier to make his last wish so you can capture it.

Yennefer: So that’s… two then.

Geralt: The djinn will fight you. If you try and bend it- [He breaks off, clears his throat then inhales.] Ah… That scent… Lilac and…

Yennefer: Gooseberries. [Geralt exhales sharply.] Tough to get in your head. You have a strong will, but you can’t contend with me. Sorry I couldn’t be direct, I knew you’d fight it. [She leans up to kiss him, bites on his bottom lip until it bleeds.] And I do love a good old-fashioned trap.

Geralt: [slurring] A good old-fashioned… nap. [His eyes flutter shut.]

I mentioned how the show is a spark notes? Well, in the books Yennefer finds out through interrogating Geralt in the bath how many wishes are left. As well, in the books Yennefer is much more physically violent, again asserting the idea that she is the dominant one in the relationship and that she is in charge. 

Honestly, the show softens Yennefer quite a bit in this scene. While she does bite his lip, it’s slowly and not particularly violent. In the books, she is compared to a vampire, grabbing his hair, pulling him down. 

It all ties into the softer, younger version of Yennefer we see in the show vs the books. She is not as aggressive in the show and also not as dominant. Again, this could be due to the actor’s age difference but I also think it ties into Hollywood’s avoidance of placing women in a position that is above a male character. (Especially with Henry Cavill as Geralt, he would be unlikely to play a more subservient role to a woman purposefully considering some of his past statements about Me Too). However, having Yennefer as less aggressive also might make her more relatable to the audience and have her be more likable. At least, that could be what the writers were going for but I’m not psychic and I couldn’t tell you for sure. 

Geralt trying to save Yennefer from the Djinn:

The Last Wish:

“Yennefer saw him, jumped up and raised her hand.

“No!” he shouted, “don't do this! I want to help you!”

“Help?” She snorted. “You?”

“Me.”

“In spite of what I did to you?”

“In spite of it.”

“Interesting. But not important. I don't need your help. Get out of here.”

“No.”

“Get out of here!” she yelled, grimacing ominously. “It's getting dangerous! The whole thing's getting out of control; do you understand? I can't master him. I don't get it, but the scoundrel isn't weakening at all! I caught him once he'd fulfilled the troubadour's third wish and I should have him in the sphere by now. But he's not getting any weaker! Dammit, it looks as if he's getting stronger! But I’m still going to get the better of him. I’ll break—”

“You won't break him, Yennefer. He'll kill you.”

“It's not so easy to kill me—”

She broke off. The whole roof of the tavern suddenly flared up. The vision projected by the sphere dissolved in the brightness. A huge fiery rectangle appeared on the ceiling. The sorceress cursed as she lifted her hands, and sparks gushed from her fingers. 

“Run, Geralt!”

“What's happening, Yennefer?”

“He's located me…” She groaned, flushing red with effort. “He wants to get at me. He's creating his own portal to get in. He can't break loose but he'll get in by the portal. I can't—I can't stop him!”

“Yennefer—”

“Don't distract me! I’ve got to concentrate…Geralt, you've got to get out of here. I’ll open my portal, a way for you to escape. Be careful; it'll be a random portal. I haven't got time or strength for any other…I don't know where you'll end up…but you'll be safe…Get ready—.” 

... (description paragraph skip)

“This way!” shouted Yennefer, indicating the portal which she had conjured up oh the wall by the stairs. In comparison to the one created by the genie, the sorceress's portal looked feeble, extremely inferior. “This way, Geralt! Run for it!”

“Only with you!”

Yennefer, sweeping the air with her hands, was shouting incantations and the many-colored fetters showered sparks and creaked. The djinn whirled like the bumble-bee, pulling the bonds tight, then loosening them. Slowly but surely he was drawing closer to the sorceress. Yennefer did not back away.

The witcher leapt to her, deftly tripped her up, grabbed her by the waist with one hand and dug the other into her hair at the nape. Yennefer cursed nastily  and thumped him in the neck with her elbow. He didn't let go of her. The penetrating smell of ozone, created by the curses, didn't kill the smell of lilac and gooseberries. Geralt stilled the sorceress's kicking legs and jumped, raising her straight up to the opalescently flickering nothingness of the lesser portal.

 The Show:

[In the bedroom]

Yennefer: [still chanting in Elder]

Geralt: [as he enters, Yennefer lifts a hand in his direction.] Don’t! I’m here to help you.

Yennefer: [lowers her hand] I don’t need your help. You’re free. No longer under my spell.

Geralt: And yet here I am.

Yennefer: You seem to want to meet your end.

Geralt: As do you.

Yennefer: [groans] The djinn isn’t weakening. The bard expressed his last wish, but it’s- [screams] it’s getting stronger! Go!

Geralt: That’s because I’m the one with the wishes.

Yennefer: You? You’re the djinn’s master?

Geralt: Yeah.

Yennefer: Well, what are you waiting for? [She screams as her bones crack.] Make your wishes!

Geralt: Becoming the vessel for the djinn will have you lose control, not gain it! Can’t you see what this is doing to you?

Yennefer: True transformation is painful.

Geralt: Release the djinn! I’ll give you my last wish!

Yennefer: You heroic protector… noble dog, permitting my success so long as you command it yourself. Fuck off! I’ll do this myself!

Geralt: Damn it, Yennefer! Tell me what you want!

Yennefer: I want everything!

[In the bedroom, Yennefer’s eyes have gone red, her voice distorted]

Djinn: [speaking through Yennefer] Make your wish! You can have anything you want! You could choose not to be a witcher. What do you desire? Immortality? Riches? Fame? Power?

Geralt: I wish… [The rest of his words are drowned out by the wind. Yennefer falls forward and the wind calms down. Geralt pulls up his sleeve to reveal the third cut.]

Yennefer: The djinn… Wh- Where did it go? [The house groans and creaks, and the two look to the ceiling as it crashes down.]

Yennefer still craves power and wants for everything in the show. In the books, she is more established and wants to try and control the Djinn. This is why when Geralt comes back for Yennefer, both versions express surprise at why Geralt would come back to help after they cast a spell on him but Netflix!Yennefer tells Geralt to fuck off on the basis she doesn’t want a man controlling her life (tying into the Strong Female Character Trope) while Book!Yennefer wants Geralt out of danger first and foremost.

Of course, much of this in the show is likely a response to try and subvert the “damsel in distress” stereotype and while the books have Yennefer as the dominant one and in control, showing that she in not in distress, the show has her explicitly point this out because she is not established as the dominant one as much as in the books. 

The show constantly is more overt with its themes that the books which are far more subtle. 

Yennefer is mad at Geralt and then they have sex:

The Last Wish (Warning this is rather long and I even tried to shorten it without removing content!!):

“You moron!” Yennefer yelled, trying to scratch out his eyes. “You bloody idiot! You stopped me! I nearly had him!”

“You had shit-all!” he shouted back, furious. “I saved your life, you stupid witch!”

She hissed like a furious cat; her palms showered sparks.

Geralt, turning his face away, caught her by both wrists and they rolled among the oysters, seaweed and crushed ice.

“Do you have an invitation?” A portly man with the golden chain of a chamberlain on his chest was looking at them with a haughty expression.

“Screw yourself!” screamed Yennefer, still trying to scratch Geralt's eyes out.

“The wish, Geralt! Hurry up! What do you desire? Immortality? Riches? Fame? Power? Might? Privileges? Hurry, we haven't any time!” He was silent

“Humanity,” she said suddenly, smiling nastily. “I’ve guessed, haven't I? That's what you want; that's what you dream of! Of release, of the freedom to be who you want, not who you have to be. The djinn will fulfill that wish, Geralt. Just say it.”

He stayed silent.

She stood over him in the flickering radiance of the wizard's sphere, in the glow of magic, amidst the flashes of rays restraining the djinn, streaming hair and eyes blazing violet, erect, slender, dark, terrible…

And beautiful.

All of a sudden she leaned over and looked him in the eyes. He caught the scent of lilac and gooseberries.

“You're not saying anything,” she hissed. “So what is it you desire, witcher? What is your most hidden dream? Is it that you don't know or you can't decide? Look for it within yourself, look deeply and carefully because, I swear by the Force, you won't get another chance like this!”

But he suddenly knew the truth. He knew it. He knew what she used to be. What she remembered, what she couldn't forget, what she lived with. Who she really was before she had become a sorceress.

Her cold, penetrating, angry and wise eyes were those of a hunchback. He was horrified. No, not of the truth. He was horrified that she would read his thoughts, find out what he had guessed. That she would never forgive him for it. He deadened that thought within himself, killed it, threw it from his memory forever, without trace, feeling, as he did so, enormous relief. Feeling that—

The ceiling cracked open. The djinn, entangled in the net of the now fading rays, tumbled right on top of them, roaring, and in that roar were triumph and murder lust. Yennefer leapt to meet him. Light beamed from her hands. Very feeble light.

The djinn opened his mouth and stretched his paws toward her.

The witcher suddenly understood what it was he wanted.

And he made his wish.

... (time skip)

Yennefer, slightly flushed, knelt by him, resting her hands on her knees.

“Witcher.” She cleared her throat. “Are you dead?”

“No.” Geralt wiped the dust from his face and hissed.

Slowly, Yennefer touched his wrist and delicately ran her fingers along his palm. “I burnt you—”

“It's nothing. A few blisters—”

“I’m sorry. You know, the djinn's escaped. For good.”

“Do you regret it?”

“Not much.”

“Good. Help me up, please.”

“Wait,” she whispered. “That wish of yours…I heard what you wished for. I was astounded, simply astounded. I’d have expected anything but to…What made you do it, Geralt? Why…Why me?”

“Don't you know?”

She leaned over him, touched him. He felt her hair, smelling of lilac and gooseberries, brush his face and he suddenly knew that he'd never forget that scent, that soft touch, knew that he'd never be able to compare it to any other scent or touch. Yennefer kissed him and he understood that he'd never desire any lips other than hers, so soft and moist, sweet with lipstick. He knew that, from that moment, only she would exist, her neck, shoulders and breasts freed from her black dress, her delicate, cool skin, which couldn't be compared to any other he had ever touched. He gazed into her violet eyes, the most beautiful eyes in the world, eyes which he feared would become…

Everything. He knew.

“Your wish,” she whispered, her lips very near his ear. “I don't know whether such a wish can ever be fulfilled. I don't know whether there's such a Force in Nature that could fulfill such a wish. But if there is, then you've condemned yourself. Condemned yourself to me.”

He interrupted her with a kiss, an embrace, a touch, caresses and then with everything, his whole being, his every thought, his only thought, everything, everything, everything. They broke the silence with sighs and the rustle of clothing strewn on the floor. 

They broke the silence very gently, lazily, and they were considerate and very thorough. They were caring and tender and, although neither quite knew what caring and tenderness were, they succeeded because they very much wanted to. And they were in no hurry whatsoever. The whole world had ceased to exist for a brief moment, but to them, it seemed like a whole eternity.

And then the world started to exist again; but it existed very differently.

“Geralt?”

“Mmm?”

“What now?”

“I don't know.”

“Nor do I. Because, you see, I…I don't know whether it was worth condemning yourself to me. I don't know how—Wait, what are you doing…? I wanted to tell you—”

“Yennefer…Yen.”

“Yen,” she repeated, giving in to him completely. “Nobody's ever called me that. Say it again.”

“Yen.”

“Geralt.”

The Show:

[Yennefer and Geralt portal into the room inside the manor, where they first met.]

Geralt: Yennefer? [He gets to his knees and shifts the hair of her face.] Yennefer. It’s me… Geralt.

Yennefer: [She opens slowly her eyes, shoves Geralt away and rises.] I know who you are. What did you do? You stopped me, didn’t you? I nearly had it.

Geralt: You had shit all. I saved your life.

Yennefer: And I saved yours! You let the djinn escape. Who knows what havoc it’ll wreak now that it has no vessel at all?

Geralt: No more havoc than you. Djinns are only dark creatures when held captive.

Yennefer: How can you be so sure?

Geralt: When did you last feel happy when you felt trapped? And if you were going to portal us to safety, you could’ve taken us out of this shit town!

Yennefer: A fine critique if you could make a portal yourself. And it wasn’t a shit town, it was a fine town till you came along. I had a plan!

Geralt: [chuckles] And that was going swimmingly!

Yennefer: It was. Like a drowning fish. [They kiss and begin to have sex.]

I tried to keep it short here, but the show combined multiple scenes from the book here. I do love the fact that they kept the shit-all line, it’s a favorite. Of course, many people have likely noticed the HUGE difference between the show and books. In the books, Yennefer knows what the wish is and she’s aware Geralt tied their destinies together. 

The show keeps Yennefer in the dark about the wish (likely as a way to manufacture tension on the mountain and have it be dramatic tm) and this just further places her as the not-dominant one in comparison to Geralt. I will also say I love how in the books, Geralt gets a flashback through Yennefer’s past and her trauma. It would have been interesting to see that in the show. 

This final scene suffers so much in the show by being so shortened. We don’t see Yennefer and Geralt have a long conversation about the consequences of the wish or what they might do next, they just exchange a few lines about the Djinn which makes the sex scene seem more sudden than in the books. 

Of course, I will give props to the actors for the sexual tension they are able to generate in just a few lines as they move closer to each other (granted this tension is ruined as soon as the music starts playing and Jaskier shows up, making the sex scene humorous instead of impactful). 

The last lines in the book passage where Yennefer asks Geralt to call her Yen just breaks my damn heart and I would do anything to have seen it in the show. The way the books showcase two very traumatized people finally finding each other is just so lovely and I don’t understand the directing decision to have the tone of the scene switch so quickly in the show from serious and impactful to light. It takes away a lot from the characters. 

In the end, the show has Yennefer in a less dominant position in the books and also has her act younger in a sense. This could be due to the actor’s age difference or Hollywood’s allergy to dominant women but despite this, the actors bring a lot of chemistry to the screen (especially in the first meeting/bath scenes). 

I would have liked the show to give Yennefer more agency in regards to the wish, especially considering that is her character arc in the show, but I did appreciate how many scenes paralleled each other and I believe at the end of the day, the show was able to preserve enough of Yenralt to make it a believable pairing in the show and I can see them improving the dynamic they have already established throughout the first season in season 2. 

[flowercrown-bard]

A comforting embrace

Summary: Still thinking that he was the one with the Djinn wishes, Jaskier is overcome by guilt for killing Valdo Marx

Relationships: Jaskier&Valdo Marx, Jaskier/Geralt (background, pining, no actual relationship, unrequited)

angst, hurt/comfort (but mainly hurt), somewhat open ending

Word count: 2773

Content warning: grief, guilt, mention of blood, presumed character death

“I wish very badly to leave this place forever!”

Jaskier was lucky. He was so damn lucky that the Djinn hadn’t twisted his last wish and killed him off right then and there.

One should think a bard, master of words and silvertongue, would know how easily words could be misinterpreted, and yet, in his moment of blind panic, he had blurted out a wish that could have been his end.

He liked to think that Geralt would have cared if Jaskier had died. Maybe not as much as Jaskier had, when he had thought that Geralt had been crushed by a crumbling building, but maybe a teeny tiny bit of devastation would have been appropriate.

Then again, Geralt would have had Yennefer’s arms to find solace in.

While Jaskier was overtaken by the chilling realisation that he could have died by his own words just a couple of minutes earlier, and needed Geralt close to assure him that they were both alright, that nothing bad would happen to them now, Geralt didn’t wast a single thought for Jaskier and instead turned all of his attention to the woman who had held a knife to Jaskier’s throat and had nearly killed Geralt.

The initial surge of relief and pure joy at seeing Geralt alive was quickly dimmed when the events of the past hours came crushing down on Jaskier with a force that took his breath away and squeezed his throat as tightly as the Djinn had earlier.

Jaskier had nearly died. He had come dangerously close to watching his best friend and the man who held his heart in his hands, die. He had to watch said man fall in love with someone else.

And yet Jaskier was lucky.

He had to be, for if he wasn’t, if he were to lose this one last piece of driftwood he was holding onto for dear life, he would fall apart and drown in the terrifying reality of what had happened to him that day.

Jaskier was lucky. Others weren’t.

Jaskier had thought that, when the Countess de Stael had left him for a troubadour, who wooed her with poetry and love songs stolen from Jaskier, he had thought that he had every right to be enact revenge on Valdo.

And he had. A ditty dragging Valdo’s name through the mud. A scathing sonnet about how Valdo was no more a poet than a common ass was. Winning back the Countesses’ heart. All of it would have been revenge that Jaskier wouldn’t have enacted with a smug smirk and satisfaction surging through him.

But this… the thing he truly had done��.

Jaskier’s hands began to shake and abruptly, he turned away from the sight of Geralt and the sorceress together. Even as his breath came short and his heart began to pound against his ribs like the beating of a drum at an execution, Jaskier evaded Chireadan’s concerned questions.

He had to get out of here. He had to leave, to make this right –

There was no making this right. He had killed a man. A simple sentence had been all it had taken and Valdo had been no more.

The fate that Jaskier himself had only narrowly escaped had been inflicted on another man – and for what? Jaskier wouldn’t be able to see the Countess ever again. Not after the wish he had made when he had been drunk on cheap alcohol and bitterness. The thought of her welcoming him with little clothing, that had been so appealing when he had been heartbroken and deep in his cups, churned his stomach now that he thought about it. She wouldn’t have a choice. She would do whatever Jaskier had damned her to do and he couldn’t do that to her, no matter how much his heart ached for a pair of loving arms to embrace him and for gentle lips to tell him that everything would be alright.

Geralt had never embraced him and whatever words he would have for Jaskier, probably wouldn’t be gentle. They still would be enough. Because they would come from Geralt.

Yet, Jaskier didn’t stick around to find out if Geralt ever was going to offer him any comfort.

He took his bags – not that there was much of Jaskier’s that Geralt had taken with him when he had hoisted Jaskier onto Roach and brought him to this accursed place – and his lute and left.

Maybe Geralt would worry when he realised that Jaskier was gone. Maybe he wouldn’t even notice.

With an ache in his chest, Jaskier forced his feet to take him away from Geralt and the happiness he experienced right now. Geralt didn’t need Jaskier, his fears, his doubts and his guilt to drag him down. He didn’t need Jaskier to wish he was in the sorceresses’ place. He just simply didn’t need Jaskier.

He didn’t even know where exactly he was going. Away. That was the most important thing.

It was only, when he reached a small port, where merchant vessels could dock before heading further down the Pontar, that he knew where he needed to go.

It took up most of the coin he still had to his name and a promise to make himself useful on board, to convince the captain of the vessel to grant him passage to Cidaris via the sea route.

The days until he reached the coastal city, Jaskier spent agonising about what to do.

Back in his Oxenfurt days, Jaskier had considered Valdo Marx something like a friend, or at the very least a rival that he enjoyed drinking and joking around with. But decades had passed since those days and now, there was no second chance to rekindle the friendship they had once had.

The troubadour was dead and it was Jaskier’s fault. He had no right to weep over his grave. Yet, Jaskier knew, the least he could do was apologize to the man he had killed. It wouldn’t make anything right. It wouldn’t bring him back to life. But maybe it would make this guilt that lay around Jaskier’s chest like an iron chain, lessen its grip.

He left the ship without saying goodbye to the crew and for the first time in his life, he didn’t enter Cidaris with his head held high and a song on his lips, ready to prove that he was far superior to Marx.

“Where is the troubadour’s grave?” Jaskier asked the first person he came across, an older looking woman with flowers bundled in her arms.

She gave him a strange look – She knew! Somehow she knew Jaskier had killed Valdo! - and handed him one of the flowers she was carrying, a poppy. Red, like the blood on Jaskier’s hands.

“If you’re looking for someone sleeping beneath the earth,” the old woman said with a gentle smile and a pat to Jaskier’s hand, “you should head east. That’s where the cemetery is.”

How fitting. Valdo had always loved the sunrise, had made fun endlessly about how Jaskier was never able to get up before midday.

Now, he would never see the sunrise again.

Jaskier’s heart got heavier with every step he took towards the cemetery. By the time, he was walking the rows, looking for a headstone with the familiar name, his throat was restricted and his eyes burned.

It was his fault.

And now he couldn’t even find the damn grave.

He must have spent hours searching for the grave, before he eventually gave up. It was no use searching for longer. The sun had nearly disappeared beyond the horizon and the poppy in Jaskier’s hand was wilted and crushed from how tightly he gripped it.

With his head hung low, Jaskier left the cemetery. Perhaps there would be a plaque of honour at the court the troubadour had played in? If there was, it wasn’t very likely that Jaskier would be permitted entry to go search for it.

He still went there.

Just as he had thought, the guards didn’t let him in. Jaskier simply nodded in dejection and sat down a little ways off, where they wouldn’t be able to hear him.

His hands trembled, when he took his lute out of her case and began plucking the strings quietly. Quietly, he sang the words of grief and guilt he had come up with during the journey to Cidaris. He didn’t dare sing any louder, lest he found out that his voice wasn’t restored yet. It was shaky and tight and it hurt as he forced the notes past his throat, but he continued singing nonetheless, whether because the dead man deserved the respect or because the man still alive deserved the pain, he couldn’t tell.

The melody was soft and mournful. It wasn’t good enough. If Valdo were here, he would hate it, would despise that Jaskier had written a song for him and criticise it mercilessly. Jaskier would take it. He would gladly accept every jab and insult coming from Marx, if only he was still alive.

But he wasn’t.

All Jaskier could do was play a dirge for a friend who had become a bitter rival and who had been killed over some petty spat.

He wished, more than anything he hadn’t spoken those hateful words to the Djinn. He wished, he was still with Geralt, consoling him about his struggles with his child surprise and probably arguing, but at least they would be there together. He wished Geralt had never found the Djinn. And above all, he wished that Valdo Marx was still alive.

“Good gods, who died to make you sound so maudlin?” A familiar drawl reached Jaskier.

The bard flinched, his fingers missing the right strings and creating a dissonant screech. He whirled around and –

No. It couldn’t be.

“That sounded terrible,” Valdo Marx said with a lopsided smirk. “And I’m not just talking about the ending there. Everybody knows that you shouldn’t use that key for a slow song. It’s just going to make it sound miserable. Speaking of which, what in Melitele’s name happened to your clothes? Not even wearing a doublet and –“ the troubadour blanched. “Is that blood?”

Jaskier stared at him. Slowly, afraid that the vison would vanish if he moved to quickly, Jaskier took a step closer, clutching his lute, his only source of comfort. His eyes raked over the man in front of him. The cocky stance that had shifted as a horrified tension had grabbed hold of him. The blonde curls that were immaculate as always, despite the late hour. That damned stupid feathered hat. It was Valdo Marx. It was impossible.

“You’re dead.” The words leaving Jaskier were barely louder than a breath.

“What?” Marx’ brows drew together and a flash of true concern twisted his face. “Juli- Jaskier, are you alright?”

“I-you – “ Jaskier’s voice broke off with a sob and he shook so badly that his lute would have slipped out of his grip, had it not been held up why the strap around Jaskier’s neck.

In a heartbeat, Valdo was standing before him.

“Give me that,” he demanded with uncharacteristic softness and took the lute away from Jaskier, placing it carefully back in her case. “What happened to you? Are you hurt?” His eyes drifted back to the bloodsoaked chemise that Jaskier had been too distracted to change out of, not that he had had any other clothes with him when he had left Rinde. “Why aren’t you with your Witcher?”

Another choked sound escaped Jaskier. He didn’t understand. How could this be? How was Valdo Marx still alive? Djinns were obligated to grand any wish their master gave them. It had been a wonder that Jaskier’s last wish hadn’t backfired, but there had been no room for interpretation with his second wish and –

Oh.

The truth hit him like a bucket of icewater being flung over his head.

“Jaskier?” Valdo asked, concern making his voice tight, but Jaskier couldn’t react.

He hadn’t been the Djinn’s master. It hadn’t been his wished fulfilled.

He hadn’t been the one who had set a Djinn on someone he had once considered a friend. But –

‘I just want some damn peace!’

His throat had tightened, like a garrotte was pulled tight around it, making it impossible to breath, to speak! Jaskier had looked up at Geralt, so sure that he himself was somehow the reason for what was happening to him. He was so sure Geralt would save him.

It hadn’t been Jaskier’s words who had nearly killed someone he had once considered his friend.

‘Jaskier, you’re okay.’

Geralt had cared. He had been happy that Jaskier was alive. It didn’t matter that not a minute after, he had abandoned Jaskier to risk his life for the witch. Geralt cared that Jaskier was alright…didn’t he?

‘Let’s not jump to conclusions.’

Geralt was his friend. He was…he…

He hadn’t faltered once when Jaskier had begged him not to go into that building again. After it had collapsed, he hadn’t wasted a single moment to let Jaskier know that he was still alive.

When Jaskier had left, had Geralt even noticed?

“Jaskier, snap out of it!” Valdo grabbed him tightly by the shoulders, shaking him slightly.

Jaskier hadn’t been the one who had nearly killed someone he had once considered a friend. Then again, neither had Geralt, apparently. Because it seemed after everything, after decades of Jaskier singing his praises, of him trailing after Geralt like a devoted puppy, after years of Jaskier admiring and loving Geralt more than he had loved anyone else before, it was very likely that Geralt didn’t consider him a friend.

Maybe he could fix it. If Jaskier proved himself useful, if he made sure to be there for Geralt, when his relationship with the witch crashed and burned, perhaps he could save what he thought they had had. He could…he could be a good travel companion. He could become Geralt’s friend. He could-

Cool hands touched his cheeks, interrupting his spiralling thoughts.

“You’re shaking,” Valdo said, all of his earlier arrogance was gone. “Let me take you home. I know we have our differences, but I can’t let you stand here, looking like that.”

There was no bite in his voice, despite the lacklustre attempt at keeping the snark they usually exchanged going.

“Valdo?” Jaskier asked uncertainly, not knowing where to put his hands or what to do.

“I know,” Valdo said, dropping his hands immediately and taking a step back, “that we have our differences. But…we were friends once. If you need someone to talk to, I’m here. I even promise not to turn what you tell me into a song.”

He smiled wryly and Jaskier’s next sob was mixed with an unexpected laugh. When Valdo relaxed at that sound, there was nothing left of the pompous prick that was Jaskier’s most bitter rival. This was the man he had called his friend when they had been younger. This was the man, whose shoulder Jaskier had cried on, when he had gotten his heart broken for the first time, and with whom he had practiced the poems they were going to recite to the pretty medical students who would patch them up when they had drunk too much.

“Valdo?” Jaskier asked and he wasn’t the arrogant bard who sought to take revenge on his rival, anymore either.

“I’m here for you.”

Jaskier’s chin wobbled and before he could think twice about it, he flung himself into Valdo’s arms, burying his head into his chest and soaking the elegant doublet with his tears.

“I’m sorry.” His voice was muffled, but he didn’t stop talking. “I’m so sorry, Valdo. I’m sorry.”

Valdo didn’t reply. But he stroked one hand soothingly through Jaskier’s hair and held him close.

The embrace wasn’t given by the man Jaskier had wanted to hug him, but they were comforting nonetheless. If he could fix what he had broken between Valdo and him, then he could also fix his friendship with Geralt.

For now, though, he didn’t want to think about the witcher who had set a Djinn on him and broken his heart.

He just clutched the fabric of Valdo’s doublet tightly and let himself be held.

He wasn’t alone in this. Not anymore.

Tomorrow – for now, there was hope again for such a thing as a bright tomorrow – Jaskier would tell Valdo everything. And perhaps, if he was lucky, he would get to keep this friend.

As Valdo mumbled soothing nothings into his ear until Jaskier’s tears dried, Jaskier thought that maybe everything would be alright.

Maybe he truly was lucky.

[reveniemus]

geraskefer in exposition

pt “1” | pt “2” | pt “3” | pt “4" | pt "5" of my wolf shifter au series

read them in chronological order here

for @witcher-trick-or-treat, prompt: possession

geraskefer(ish), 862 words, no warnings idt. also on ao3!

While Jaskier is a strong believer in fate, he doesn't think he’s ever really bought into the idea of soulmates. He had always thought it was a crazy concept that you could be cosmically attached to someone for the rest of your natural life, and yet, he has found himself sat in front of a sorceress who has spent a good chunk of their day studying the magic surrounding Jaskier’s newfound powers and has determined it is somehow linked to the white haired man beside him. It had been Jaskier's idea to try and figure it out, so he shouldn't let himself be thrown by the answer, but when Yennefer had sent Eskel and Lambert out, insisting that what she'd found didn't directly impact them (and then threatening to castrate them when they refused to leave the room), Jaskier wasn't sure what to expect.

“You're linked by something ridiculously powerful,” she explains, and Jaskier feels himself float out of his body for a moment at the implications that his life has been turned upside down because this man saved his life. “I don’t know if it’s destiny, fate, or magic. Whatever it is, it was strong enough to muddle the magic from Jaskier’s bloodline and make him a part of your pack.”

"I don't understand," Geralt says in his low, even tone.

Yennefer sighs and gives Jaskier a look that he thinks would be a bonding moment for them if he was feeling more himself. "Do you remember those decades we were linked together by that bloody djinn’s magic?" Yennefer asks Geralt, her eyebrow raised, waiting until he nods to continue, "this is like that, only no one has a say in it," she adds, lilac eyes flickering over to Jaskier, like she doesn't believe Geralt would make that choice for himself.

Jaskier doesn't blame her. He wouldn't have chosen himself to be linked with if he had to pick. It wasn't like a substitute English teacher with dreams of becoming a musician was on anyone's list of qualifications for their dream man.

"So what is it? A curse that links us together?" Geralt asks and Jaskier tries not to think too much about his casual use of the word curse in this regard, because of course Geralt would see it as one.

"It's a connection spell, but an old one," Yennefer says, and Geralt furrows his brow, lips parting like he has a question, but isn’t sure how to ask. "Like, older than he's been alive,” she adds, gesturing to Jaskier, “so this is something you’re bringing into it.”

Jaskier wonders how old Yennefer and Geralt actually are, but decides this definitely isn't the time or place.

"Pavetta," Geralt whispers and Jaskier tilts his head to look at the man.

"Like the mayor's daughter that died in a boating accident years ago?" he asks, an eyebrow raised and Geralt nods.

"My brothers and I saved her and her husband when they were younger, and she went on about..." he trails off, huffing a little.

"About...?" Jaskier asks, scooting closer to Geralt.

"Nothing," Geralt says as Yennefer hums knowingly. "Is there any way to break it?" he asks the sorceress, who hums.

"Usually to break any magic that’s that powerful requires a witch from the bloodline," she says, lacing her fingers together. "Pavetta had a child, right?"

Geralt nods.

"Hold on," Jaskier says loudly, standing between them and holding his hands up, eyes darting from sorceress to shifter. "Calanthe has never even let that child step off their property. What makes you think we would get access so they can break their mother’s spell?" he asks, hands on his waist.

Geralt's eyes glance down at his hands and back at his face. "Do you know what the Law of Surprise is?"

Jaskier nods. "Some old practice where people could promise the first thing they encounter when they get home to someone in return for a big favor, right? Why?"

"Users of magic are still prone to use it," Geralt explains, "and sometimes it's the promise of something they have but don't know they have. After Duny got out of the hospital, he found me and offered me the Law of Surprise as payment for saving his life. He came home that day to the news that Pavetta was with child."

"So Calanthe's progeny..." Jaskier falters as he realizes the gravity of what Geralt is saying.

"Is, by law of magic and destiny, rightfully mine," he finishes for him, and Jaskier sits down on the nearest surface.

"Calanthe is going to be livid about this," Yennefer mumbles, squeezing the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger.

“Great,” Geralt grumbles, sitting up straight. “Where do we start?”

Something turns in Jaskier’s stomach, and he tries not to think about how eager Geralt is to break this bond they apparently have between them. It’s for the best that they do this, really, because Jaskier has no right or need to be a wolf shifter, and if they break the spell, he could go back to his life as it was before he ran into Geralt and his brothers. That’s what he wanted. Really.

[dhwty-writes]

To Hold and Kiss You, Gods Be Damned

Another one of @spielzeugkaiser‘s requests: "secret relationship". I hope you’re happy now

Summary: Geralt apologizes after the mountain and he and Jaskier get together. Still, they have to keep their relationship secret. Hurt, no comfort, implied/referenced homophobia

Read on AO3

Geralt was in love. He knew he shouldn't be; he knew it was dangerous, he knew there were even some who thought it impossible. A witcher in love. Ridiculous. But it wasn't. But he was.

He had fought tooth and nail to prevent it from happening because after one look at that ridiculous bard he'd known it was inevitable. He had tried everything: gruff words and gut punches in the beginning, then more gruff words, a djinn wish to bind him to another (which had almost cost the bard his life, he'd never do that again), more gruff words, shouts, an ugly dismissal. All to no avail.

It was torture being apart from Jaskier, after twenty-two short years of laughter and music, twelve long months of silence followed. Twelve long years of broken-hearted ballads and that was when he knew for sure. When he heard another bard sing and his heart still broke with the ache of it. That was also when he knew that his secret affections were not unrequited. Spring came and he left Ciri with his brothers, and he himself set out again as soon as the snows allowed it.

He rode hard and fast for a different hunt, chasing every trace of his bard he caught. And when he found him in a tavern he fell onto his knees where he sat in a corner, begging him to take him back.

"I thought you didn't want me," Jaskier said with a voice as cold as ice.

"I did. I do. I lied," Geralt confessed, still on his knees, fidgeting nervously with his hands. "I can't- I couldn't- I mustn't lose you. I know it's inevitable. But I thought if I lost you because I chose to, it would be easier. It wasn't. It isn't. Please, Jaskier, I know I don't deserve it, but please, let me love you again."

"Love...?" Jaskier echoed as if he didn't believe it. "You love me?"

"Yes." How could he not?

"Not here," he said decisively and stood. The touch on the witcher's arm was nigh unnoticeable but enough to get him to follow him up to his room.

The door fell shut behind them and Jaskier turned with tears in his eyes. "Tell me again," he whispered.

"I love you," Geralt answered. "I love you; I love you; I love you." It felt almost like a prayer. "Will you forgive me?"

The bard released a shuddering breath. "Kiss me," he pleaded and Geralt did. It was the easiest thing in the world, with his whole body aching for it. It was like breathing. Like suffocating. Like waking up.

Jaskier pulled away to breath and leaned his head on Geralt's shoulder. "Don't do this to me again," he sobbed and Geralt wished he could cry, too. "Don't do this to us again."

"I won't," he promised. "I won't, never again, I swear it."

"How?" he asked agonisingly.

"Come to Kaer Morhen with me," he murmured and cautiously tightened his arms around his waist. "Let me take you home."

"Alright," Jaskier answered and that was all he needed to hear.

They set out at sunrise on the next day, settling into an almost familiar rhythm. Only that everything was different. They travelled together again, that much went unchanged, and Jaskier sang and talked like always. But he had a horse now, too. Apparently singing of heartbreak was very lucrative. And he wasn't the only one talking anymore. More often than not Geralt actually joined in the conversation, giving his opinion on songs, and rhymes, and untrue lines. There was laughter, too. A lot of laughter. It was heaven on earth.

And in the privacy of their room, in the dark of an empty clearing, he was allowed to touch, too. To touch, and kiss, and show Jaskier exactly how much he loved him. As he could, with his deeds instead of words. He never wanted anything to change.

He knew that it would, though. They had agreed upon it on that very first night when Geralt had apologised: neither Ciri, nor Triss, nor any of the witchers needed to know about them. In fact, it was probably better if they didn't. The likes of them had never been welcome in Cintra nor in Temeria. And while there had been witchers known to bed their brothers or other men, he wasn't quite sure how Eskel and Vesemir would react. Or gods forbid, Lambert. He'd be an arsehole about it, just like about everything else.

It was for the better. They would manage. They had managed for twenty-odd years, after all.

So, when they arrived at Kaer Morhen one month and a half later, there were no grand gestures despite what Geralt wanted. No kisses, no hugs, no carrying his bard over the threshold. No shared bed, no lazy kisses and missed meals; not even a wink or a casual flirtation.

Instead there were two rooms, two beds, only warmed by the pelts within. For Geralt there was love and warmth, a hug from Eskel, a kiss on the cheek from Triss, Vesemir nodded and Lambert insulted him lovingly, and Ciri clung to him for an entire day.

Jaskier was greeted by the old ruin with all the cold and loneliness Kaer Morhen had to offer. It made Geralt's heart shatter to see him glancing warily at the grey walls, to meet the cold stares with defiance where he should be met with laughing eyes. It was almost enough for him to break his promise and tell them. But not quite.

The bard shot him a lifeless smile and bowed before Vesemir to thank him for his hospitality. Then he went to his knees before Ciri and placed his lute at her feet. "I know that I don't have much to offer, princess," he confessed. "But what I have I pledge to you. I hope that you might accept my oath."

The kneeling bard made everyone in the courtyard uncomfortable and Geralt quickly pulled him to his feet again, careful not to let his touch linger.

After that awkward first meeting life quickly settled back into a familiar rhythm. Geralt took his lessons with Ciri up again, filling his spare time with chores. He barely saw Jaskier safe for the evenings when he had offered to perform for the witchers. But he knew from Ciri that he was teaching her, too. History, literature, and languages, and suchlike. It wasn't like they would've wanted it to be, but at least they weren't apart anymore.

And sometimes there were even nights when they could steal away from the others, fleeing to the top of crumbling towers where not even the other witchers would follow. Only to spend a few precious hours in each other’s arms before they had to go back to pretending.

"I'm sorry," Geralt whispered against Jaskier's lips. "I'm sorry it has to be this way. I'm sorry this is all I have to offer."

"Shh," he soothed and gently stroked his hair. "Don't be. I chose this, too. It's better than being alone. Better than being apart." He kissed him desperately. "Better to know. Better not to fear-" He choked on the words but Geralt knew what he was saying anyways. 'Better not to lie awake at night, fearing our last goodbye was the last to ever come.' Better than nothing.

[jaskierswolf]

Four Seasons

Summary: Jaskier is the god of winter and he gets invited to the four seasons ball. A formal celebration held by the the gods. This is finally the moment that Geralt realises just what Jaskier the bard really is.

Rated: T

Length 1.8k

CW: Jaskier wears a dress, brief mention of gods being genderfluid

Based of this art by @little-piece-of-tamlin. Another @thewitcherbog special!

________

As far as Geralt was aware, Jaskier was just a normal, very human bard. Jaskier had never said as such but people made assumptions, and he was happy to let people go about their day and think whatever made them most comfortable. Most people would be uncomfortable in the presence of a god, or they'd bow down, grovel at his feet, which whilst fun for a short period of time, got horrendously dull very quickly. He was a free spirit, especially during the summer months. Winter was a busier affair but Geralt was always tucked away in Kaer Morhen so never noticed Jaskier’s more immortal side during the coldest time of the year.

Geralt was about to get the shock of his lifetime.

It wasn’t as if Jaskier had planned it but the invitation had come in from Priscilla in the spring and he couldn’t just ignore it. The Four Seasons ball only happened once a century and it had completely slipped Jaskier’s mind, but he wouldn’t just abandon Geralt. The poor witcher might have thought he was dead if he hadn’t turned up at their unofficially agreed meeting place. So Geralt would just have to join Jaskier for the ball, and after that there would be no hiding. He was a guest of honour and gods and mortals alike would bask in the magic of the changing seasons. Most mortals wouldn’t remember the ball afterwards, the magic too powerful for their tiny little brains to comprehend, but those blessed by a god’s favour could remember.

And of course, Jaskier had blessed Geralt. One could not hold a god’s heart and not be blessed.

“You’re quiet,” Geralt grumbled as they made their way up to the rooms Jaskier had secured for them.

“I received an invitation to a party. I was hoping that you might come with me,” Jaskier stammered, feeling the frost creeping through his veins as it always did when his emotions started to get the better of him. He could melt snow and ice with a simple smile, but when he got anxious, things started to get a little frosty. The air temperature outside the tavern had dropped considerably since they’d arrived, but he doubted anyone had really noticed. It was late in the day and the change could be blamed on the setting of the sun.

“Already? Whose partner did you bed this time, bard?”

“Oh haha, very funny!” Jaskier scoffed, ignoring the frost glistening on the windows of their room when they stepped inside. Deep down he knew he needed to get a grip. Pris would be pissed off if he ruined her spring thaw with his own emotions, his poor sister would have to work even harder to counteract the effects of his magic, but it was always more difficult to rein in his magic in the spring. It was still strong from the winter months, and there was an adjustment period.

Even still, the snowfall last summer after the blasted dragon hunt had all three of his siblings up in arms against him. Valdo had to trigger autumn early and the whole harvest had been a mess.

He really should just tell Geralt he loved him and deal with the consequences, but… well… it had been a long time since he had loved like this and he still nursed the heartbreak.

“Jaskier?” Geralt said, snapping him from his thoughts. “What’s wrong?”

He blinked, focussing back into the room. He meant to say “nothing” or something along those lines. Something harmless and easy.

What fell from his lips was another thing entirely.

“I love you, oh bollocks!” Jaskier blurted, clapping a hand over his mouth.

“What the fuck?”

“I’m sorry!”

“No, I mean… Jaskier,” Geralt gestured to the room, there was a snow flurry above them and the windows were completely iced over. He desperately tried to think happy thoughts, the warm golden glow of Geralt’s eyes. The soft growl of his voice whenever Jaskier did something stupid that would get any mortal killed. Even if Geralt never loved him back, the thought of his witcher was enough to soothe his panic. With one last deep breath and a flick of his wrist, the snow was gone, “What the fuck?”

“Oh fuck, Pris is going to kill me,” Jaskier whined. “I- umm…”

Geralt pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed, one hand was holding his medallion and he just looked… well, done? Shit. Fucking cock balls.

“Explain, bard.”

“I love you? Quite hopelessly, I’m afraid,” Jaskier smiled sheepishly, his tongue flicking out to flick his lips, a nervous habit that he’d never quite overcome. “But!” he announced with false bravado, “that’s neither here nor there, it’ll pass. No need to worry about me, witcher.”

“And the snow?”

“Oooh yeah that.”

“Yeah, that.”

“Well, there’s a chance that I might be a god, hypothetically speaking of course. I’ve always favoured the winter months,” Jaskier admitted, flexing his fingers and pulling at his lute strap.

“You hate winter,” Geralt growled, still painfully ignoring Jaskier’s love confession but that was fine. “You always spend the winter in that cushy academy of yours.”

“Not strictly true,” Jaskier sighed, “but are you coming to my ball or not, witcher? My sister has invited us both, apparently I don’t shut up about you, probably part of the being in love thing.”

“No, you just don’t shut up.”

“Rude! Fine, be that way, Geralt. I’ll go alone,” Jaskier huffed, pouting with his whole body in a way that he knew Geralt always fell for. “It’s a shame, I had a perfect outfit planned. Gods don’t play by your rules of gender, and oh you should see me in a dress, I look absolutely divine, quite literally in fact.”

“If I come with you, will you be quiet?” Geralt sighed.

“Now, now, we both know I can’t promise that.”

Geralt groaned before slumping onto the bed, the only bed, and it took Jaskier another half an hour to get Geralt ready for the ball. It helped that he could use his magic now that Geralt knew, but the witcher still fought Jaskier on the pale blue doublet that would match Jaskier’s dress perfectly. No man, mortal or otherwise, could fight Jaskier’s eye for fashion and eventually Geralt gave in. It helped when Jaskier reminded the witcher there would be no need for armour in the presence of gods, there was no monster they couldn’t best, and so reluctantly Geralt left his worn out witcher armour on the bed, and let Jaskier dress him.

“Did you mean it?” Geralt muttered.

“Mean what?” Jaskier asked, cocking his head as his magic weaved through the fabric, subtly marking the witcher as his, no other god could claim Geralt if Jaskier already had, and he just didn’t trust his brother, not after the Countess de Stael.

“You love me?”

“With all my heart and soul, darling,” Jaskier admitted softly, his fingers freezing on the collar of Geralt’s doublet, now printed with buttercups. If one were to look closely they would see the tiny little snowflakes that made up the design, “but I- I understand if you don’t feel the same. I didn’t- I didn’t mean to tell you.”

“Hmm.”

“Is that alright, Geralt?”

“Yes. I- shit,” the witcher growled, “It’s not easy for me, witcher don’t-”

“Oh fuck off,” Jaskier snapped. “ Don’t you fucking dare, Geralt. Witchers don’t feel. Whatever whoreson told you that-”

“I know. I know, but you got hurt, because of me, and seeing you lying there in Yennefer’s bed. I thought I’d lost you,” Geralt snapped, his golden eyes burning with fire.

“And that was the day I lost you… to her,” Jaskier sighed, “I was never in real harm. The djinn magic just hurt this body, and I’m rather fond of this one, but I would have survived.”

“You didn’t lose me, Jaskier. Yennefer, she’s, she’s less fragile, and the wish, my wish,” Geralt shook his head.

“Ah yes, you bound yourself to her, my poor aunt, you call her Destiny, was not impressed with that one, but never mind, dear heart, your destiny is set now,” Jaskier pressed a kiss to Geralt’s cheek. “Of course, I could undo it. Djinn’s magic has nothing on mine, but the bond between you and Yennefer means nothing. It is a tie, not a love potion. I know you love her, Geralt.”

“I love you, Jaskier,” Geralt said all too quickly, and Jaskier froze, his heart racing in his chest and the world spinning around him in a blur. “It was easier to pretend that I didn’t.”

“Oh.”

“Yes.”

“Oh fuck,” Jaskier cried out, whisps of frost dancing through the air around them. “You- you love me?”

“Yes, Jaskier,” Geralt repeated, rolling his eyes and shooting Jaskier a fond smile. “I love you.”

Jaskier beamed, and with a flick of his wrist his doublet and breeches melted away into a beautiful icy blue gown. The fabric was cold against his skin, a mesh of snowflakes so thin that the pale blue fabric was sheer. He left his arms free of sleeves, and winked as he saw Geralt’s eyes go wide as he took in the muscles that Jaskier usually hid under his clothes. He thought about taking on a more traditionally female form to fill out the cleavage in the dress, but he rather liked the way Geralt was looking at him with a dark hunger in his eyes. As he stepped forwards his boots shifted into elegant high heels, a dark navy blue with thin straps around his ankles.

“Jask,” Geralt breathed, “You look…”

Jaskier winked at his witcher, cupping his cheek with his hand. “There, now we match.”

“You’re taller than me.”

With a giggle, Jaskier nodded, looking down at Geralt for the first time in their acquaintance. They’d always been similar in height, but Jaskier’s shoes gave him the edge now. “Well, you are my guest for the evening, and no mortal should rise above their immortal, it goes against court etiquette.”

The witcher scoffed, “When have you ever given a shit about etiquette?”

“Human etiquette, witcher, not the gods’. This is different. This is my home, now come on, Pris will kill me if I’m late again.” Jaskier scooped up his lute, and took Geralt’s hand in his. “Are you ready?”

“No.”

“Hold on tight, darling,” Jaskier grinned.

“Wait, fuck, Jaskier! Not a portal!”

But the witcher’s protests were swallowed up in a flurry of snow as they were transported to the realm of the gods. An echo of Jaskier’s musical laugh hung in the air as the snow settled on the ground as the witcher and his bard set off on their latest adventure.

[seventfics]

Love your writing. Prompt: Jaskier has abandonment issues, which he tries and fails to hide. Angsty shenanigans ensue

[Thank you! ☺️ I normally don’t do prompt requests but this is right up my alley of emotional suffering, so,]—x

So it’s true that Jaskier has everything anyone could ever want in life. He was born into comfort, held status and name, and had the fortune of education, though that last one was beaten into him mercilessly because he was not an easy child. He had it all—

He still has it all, if he wants it. Nothing stops him from returning to teach in Oxenfurt. No one will deny him his family title, of properties or inheritance. On the contrary, he’s earned even more renown by his lyrics and poetry and Continental ballads, his name known to every court and tavern. People flock to him for his tales of the White Wolf—and that too is part of his renown, for he turned the Butcher into a hero at no cost of his own but a few sore throats after eveningfuls of encores—

They invite him for festivals, banquets, courtly affairs. They propose to him, bed him, threaten him out of towns for having bed the wrong person. He is famous. He is the bard Jaskier. And when his fame and his charm are no longer a novelty, people are quick to move on. 

In Lettenhove, in his early years, there was a tutor who praised him for his sharp musical ear. The old man spent many hours of the day showing him the value of the arts, something that left an imprint in his very soul. Not a year later, his parents sent him to temple school to learn his letters. He never saw the old tutor again—

In Oxenfurt, there was a girl who loved him for his voice. She was beautiful and sweet, her laughter like winter bells. By Summer’s end, she found a painter who worshipped at her feet like a dutiful priest at the altar of the gods. He doesn’t remember her name—

There were many like that girl since, and every time, he learned to accommodate a little better to keep them longer, to no avail—

In Posada, there was a witcher who huffed and groused at his company, and yet allowed him to come along on his journey. He was kind in a guarded way, a way familiar to Jaskier—the echoes of someone who has given himself up many times, only to suffer loss and rejection. Heartbreak hangs about him like a cape. And it takes Jaskier some time but he accommodates, learning the witcher’s limits, his preferences, what’s a jest and what’s a jab at old wounds—

 “What’s this, you’re going to hunt the drowners now?”

The witcher is packing his bags neatly by the door. He offers a brief nod. “It’s early. They’ll be sluggish.”

“Give me a moment, I’ll come with.”

He’s given a strange look that says nothing of the sort will be happening. “No you’re not, bard. You’ll get yourself killed.”

Jaskier takes the threat of life in stride. “I’ll hang back, I swear, who wouldn’t want to see the great White Wolf in action!”

Sometimes the witcher huffs, indulging him. Other times, dreadful times, he orders him to stay put. So Jaskier waits in taverns, sitting on his hands. It’s the hardest thing for him to do. To wait. He does not sing, not while his gut twists and his fingers flutter nervously on wood. He simply waits and thinks about all the reasons why his company is but a burden on coin and travel, the witcher so used to traveling alone.

And every time Geralt comes barreling through the front door wet with gore, his mind and his chest empty of all aches.

“Oh thank the gods, you’re—still in one piece,” he says, because shouting you’re back, you’re alive, you didn’t die and leave me behind is far too much of a weight to throw on Geralt’s shoulders, he knows. 

Geralt merely grunts, shaking off some of the grime. “Of course I am.”

 It’s like that. The witcher leaves on a hunt, and on the times Jaskier cannot follow, he waits. Geralt always comes back—if not for him, then at least for the reward. It’s at the end of every crossway where they part face to face, never knowing if they’ll meet again.

And Jaskier continues his own journey, in search not of home, but its opposite. Of a place that will forever change to the years and the seasons and never bore him. Never bore of him. No one should know him any more than he is allowed to know another, except—

Except the witcher Geralt of Rivia who he meets again and again. Knowing him more with every meeting—

—A noise in the forest, distant, and Geralt gets up with his swords from camp.

Jaskier just fumbles, “You’re not just going to leave me here twiddling my thumbs in the dark, are you?”

“I’ll be right back, bard. I have to check—”

—A shared room on low coin, and never a problem between them. Jaskier stirs awake to the bed moving. 

“Sum’thing up? Y’have to go?” He tries to mumble through a dry mouth. Geralt nudges his head down.

“No, I just need to eat. You keep sleeping, Jaskier—”

—A storm, and they’re both holed in a damp cave. Geralt looks ready to throw himself out in the rain and hunt for the Kikimore queen anyway.

“Geralt, please don’t leave in—in this storm.”

Geralt does listen, perhaps because he sounds a bit more shaken than usual. They’ve already gone low on provisions because the rain soaked through their bags. They need the coin. And it would have been fine, if Jaskier hadn’t insisted they go through this town—

Foolishly, dangerously, he becomes attached. Years go by. A decade. Two. There is no one else Jaskier knows more in his life. Geralt’s mannerisms, his expressions, his disquiet. He knows them all in the silence across a campfire, and he hopes he is known in return. 

He hoped at the banquet in Cintra, barely whispering of a need that he dared not tell anyone else. 

He hoped in the chaos of Rinde, of the djinn and the witch, begging for the witcher to choose him first. 

And he hoped in the mountains of King Niedamir. 

And his hope is not enough.

Jaskier knows to bear smiles and jokes for the right crowds, and he knows how to be serious in certain company. He learned to accommodate a little better to keep people longer, of course, to no avail. Even with Geralt—

He should never have grown complacent, believing that things would be different this once. He became attached—beyond attached, beyond need, beyond affection—

“I'll go get the rest of the story from the others,” Jaskier says in parting on that mountain, because if he makes light of it, then it will sluice off his frame like water, undamaging. He can pick himself up to keep searching for that place—of that someone that will never bore of him, that will never forget him and throw him aside.

Despite his efforts, there’s a chasm in his chest. A breathlessness like a wound that doesn’t want to heal. And he lingers at the foot of the mountain when he sees Roach nibbling on dry grass, tethered by the inn’s poor stable poles. 

He doesn’t know how long he stays with her, petting her coat. She indulges him, preferring his company over the stablehand’s. There’s a joke there somewhere, about her being as obstinate as her rider, but he can’t bear to say it. Can’t bear to speak through the stone lodged in his throat—

And he shouldn’t be with her, not if he wants to avoid the witcher who so clearly and plainly told him to take off for good. But Roach is sweet. For once, she doesn’t bite his wrists. Instead she nickers, snuffling his dusty doublet. Maybe she’s learned to accommodate for heartbreak too, as it seems to follow where Geralt goes, whether caused by his hand or brought upon him—

“Jaskier.”

He freezes in place. He cannot turn. To see his blazing expression would be too much—

“Sorry. I won’t be staying. I’m just,” his voice fades as it starts to shake. How can he explain why he’s touching the witcher’s mare, for the simple comfort that she offers in not shying away from his touch?

“Jaskier.”

It is a demand for him to turn. He recognizes it in Geralt’s voice. Jaskier clenches his hands on Roach’s mane—

Refusing doesn’t work, as the witcher takes his shoulder to pull him back—

There are no fixed smiles left in him. No jest, no shrug. He hurts too deeply to put forth the effort. He is the bard Jaskier, but in front of Geralt of Rivia, he’s just alone. He has everything anyone could ever want in life, and not a lick of it matters with no one to stay for him, no one to call a friend—

But Geralt is not angry. He doesn’t quite look like anything except intense, keeping his wide yellow eyes on Jaskier’s own as he grips his shoulder tight. 

“Let me go,” Jaskier says because he cannot take being seen so deeply, so closely, and not being wanted—

“No.” Geralt’s grip turns painful. “You—don’t want me to.”

Something breaks in him at the words—the truth in them—and it burns in his eyes and it burns his throat—and burns to tears shed pressed to black leather, his hands scrambling at the hard surface of Geralt’s armor. 

He doesn’t want to be let go. Geralt holds him to his chest and he feels like stone cracking under pressure. Like gravel being crushed—

“I was angry,” the witcher says, swallowing against Jaskier’s ear, “I didn’t mean it,” tucking his face into Jaskier’s hair, “I don’t want you to go.”

And maybe it’s cruel or greedy but he wants for Geralt to ache like he does. To feel terror at being left behind. At it being Jaskier who walked away—hurting, choked by his own surging feelings—from the mountain first, by his offense—

Another part is relieved. Because Geralt does know him, after everything, after Jaskier’s efforts to know the witcher. He knows him well to strike where it hurts the most. He knew where to tear into with harsh words—

And that by doing so he went too far and tore into Jaskier’s heart too—

There are no apologies, but there are amends. There is a wavering conversation and one more stay at the inn.

At the crossroads they’ll part again, but not with goodbye. Not with tears or screams or hidden fears. They’ll meet again, like they always have. Better than they always have—

Because this time, and every time since, they part with a promise to see each other again.

[falcor-thee-luck-dragon]

Of Monsters and Men

Chapter 10- Before A Fall

Summary: With your heart torn from the troublesome events on the mountain, your mind in swirling with mixed emotions for your Witcher and the violet eyed witch you’re bound to. Now where will you choose to go as a war begins brewing on the horizon?

Warning: some angst, more reader backstory​

Masterlist

You had let yourself wallow in your sadness and anger for some time now upon another far off peak of the mountains. You couldn't look back, you couldn't even bare to turn around and fly yourself into the arms of Geralt after what he had done.

It hurt.

But you couldn't forgive so easily as you'd like to, he had made a promise almost fifty years ago to never let magic manipulate your lives in anyway. To never use dark powers against you, no spells, no enchantments, no sorcerers, nothing that could alter your reality or bend your will. Nothing to bind your very vessel to in any way, shape, or form.

He promised.

He knew your hate for how magic can ruin and destroy with simple words and rash actions. But alas, Geralt made his wish and now it can never be broken. Although you had to admit, the intended sentiment was heartfelt after all. His wish was to keep you bound to Yennefer for as long as you two are alive, his intentions were so that you'd never feel alone when he's gone and dead.

Considering you'll most likely outlive him, unless someone was to slice you open with silver and set your corpse on fire, or better yet. Get yourself mauled to death by a goddamn werewolf, what a way to go, either option not really settling well with you. But perhaps you'd never given it much thought, what would you do after Geralt left this world? You couldn't say, nor did you care to think about it, nor did you want to think about it.

But now, you're forever linked to Yennefer until the end of her days or maybe yours. You could almost laugh, how clever of destiny to bind your cares and concerns with a mage, and forever at that. She's half elf and you're a dhampir, neither of you are aging much anytime soon or even at all for that matter. You may have kept your time in Aretuza and your old friendship with Yennefer a thing of the past, but now you must accept your fate.

Maybe this is destiny?

Hate should not seep its inky talons into your soul, nor should lasting anger burn like dragon fire in your heart. You did once have a good friendship with the lavender eyed sorceress for many years, but your paths had gone separate ways when she was called to court and the mages of Aretuza began to drive you mad with their constant bickering and pettiness with one another.

Your time in the great academy transpired into a violent end when one bold admirer had attempted to charm you with his admittedly strong love potion, you had left those halls half naked and covered in his blood once you'd found the strength to break through the spell. Not one mage had dared make an effort to stop you, they understood their fellow enchanters deathly mistake and for that they let you leave without so much as a word.

You felt disgusted for letting yourself get sweet talked and manipulated by his charming aurora and false heartfelt words. You didn't even notice when he handed you a sweet smelling mystery liquid, it tasted fine going down and within seconds did you feel lust take over your body for the alluring man. But another part of you didn't want how you felt, it wasn't right, it didn't feel right. But he looked so good, and you wanted him, but did you?

In the end you had snapped out of it as half your clothing was littering the floor, he was smiling a triumphant grin from beneath your clothed legs as your fuzzy mind cleared, your heart fuming with rage as he kept oblivious to your realization. A second later did you enjoy hearing his screams of agony as you sunk your sharp pearly white fangs deep into his naked jugular, it all happened so fast. He scratched at your body as you pinned him down and ripped open his stomach, making certain to crush his prized jewels as your last final act of revenge, leaving him bruised and bleeding out upon his bed when you fled the room.

He had taken nothing but your pride. Yet he payed for it with his life.

You could hear his ragged final breaths as you flew down the enchanted hallways of Aretuza, collecting your belongings and fleeing the giant castle before you took it upon yourself to end anymore despicable lives residing in that academy.

You didn't bother telling Tissaia, she would figure it out eventually.

And as for Yennefer, she was living as a mage in luxury.

But as you stand upon this rocky ledge it all seems like a bad dream, perhaps it was just all constructed in a past life? Feels like it, but alas, it is far behind you and Yennefer was gone from the academy when it all happened. It was not her fault, you truly have no right to hate her.

So you won't. Is this still destiny?

Taking a deep breath you slowly let all your troubles and resentments out and into the dusty breeze as you stand high upon the jagged shelf of the mountainside. It's been three days since the taxing events after the dragon hunt, when all truths had been revealed and you had left Geralt in your rage. You'll find him again without a doubt in your mind, when the time is right and your infuriation has subsided. Then you will seek him out and make amends, but for now, as you brood into the sunset you can't help but feel torn to go and speak with Yennefer, you must.

Something just doesn't feel right in the air, you're pinning it on the grand mass of marching Nilfgaardian soldiers you had spotted to the west only yesterday. A great enemy of Cintra, and an impending threat to the innocent lives of nearby villagers. You close your eyes as a soft breeze caresses your face, you've made up your mind, it's time to find your old friend.

No more anger.

-meanwhile in the underkeeps of Cintra-

Geralt leans against a stone wall, listening for the footsteps of Mousesack, doing his best to keep you out of his thoughts for the time being so he can focus on the task at hand. He may not have you in his mind at the moment, but his heart has not stopped feeling dreary with heavy regret and anguish for how you had left him so suddenly.

It's been a week, still too long, he thinks.

He truly did not mean to upset you so, but when he made that wish, his mind was only concerned with keeping you happy for the next thousand years when he rots in the earth and your body flows with life. Though now he feels quite foolish for such a burdensome wish upon yourself, binding a part of your soul to Yennefer and hers with your own. So no matter wherever you two will travel, a strange call to one another will always remain in the back of your minds.

Like a shadow.

Geralt's ears prick with the sounds of rushed footfalls against the stony ground as the mage quickly approaches him from down the long shadowy hallway, "Out of nowhere, you send word to meet you. All this time, I thought you were dead." Exclaims Mousesack as Geralt turns to face him from around the corner.

"I told you last time I was in Cintra that I wasn't coming back."

Mousesack eyes him suspiciously, "Yet here you are." The Witcher hums in reply as Mousesack asks for an answer to Geralt's random appearance, a telling smirk upon his face as he walks closer, "You've come for your Child of Surprise, haven't you?"

"The opposite. I want you to tell me that he's safe and healthy so I can keep on riding."

Geralt turns from Mousesack and begins walking down the hallway as the mage smiles, "He....is a girl." Geralt abruptly turns around at the surprising news, "Princess Cirilla has been raised by Calanthe since her parents died."

"What?" Whispers Geralt, shocked by the news.

"Pavetta and Duny's ship was lost at sea. Have you been hiding your head in the sand?" The greying mage pauses for a moment, brow furrowing, "Why now? Why do you think she's not safe?"

"I saw an army making camp at the Amell Pass. A sea of black and gold." Replies Geralt.

Mousesack nods, "Nilfgaard is set on sweeping the Continent. But since that night at Pavetta's banquet, the Queen's done everything she can to keep her family safe from threats. Shut the walls. Fortified the gates." A shadow flashes against the walls as rushed footsteps befall upon the ground, grabbing Geralt's attention as he leans in closer to the mage, eyes dark.

"Sent assassins!" He growls.

"What?"

"Were you followed?"

"No." Answers Mousesack honestly.

Geralt sneers at the grey bearded man before turning and walking towards the sound of the hidden killers, Mousesack's brow furrows in confusion, "Why don't you just have your lady dhampir Y/N slay them for you and avoid such a wasteful chase? She can't be far now can she, never one to linger from your side for very long."

Geralt halts in his tracks, his mind reeling before he turns an eye to the wondering mage, "She was summoned back to her homeland. Something important, she couldn't say....so I didn't ask. I'm on my own." His voice is gravely as he lies, shifting his attention back to the opening entrance of another hallway to continue his hunt for the assassins. Mousesack left speculating if this tale has any truth to it or not, wisely deciding not to press the subject any further.

——

It hadn't been very difficult to find her, all you had to do was concentrate and let the magic given unto you by the djinn lead yourself into the direction of Yennefer like a compass. When you let it work, it seemed a rather simple task to begin your hunt for the notorious mage.

It took about a week or so to find her, you had decided to travel like a civilized person and ride to her whereabouts on the back of a silver steed. Your horse bringing you to a huge excavation site where a part of the Nilfgaard army is currently stationed, directing their workers and no doubt captured slaves to dig and scrape away at the rocky hillside for whatever the fuck type of obsidian looking rock. You could honestly care less for their troubles, the problems of these people of little concern to you.

After riding down a dirt covered road and past the tired faces of burnt-out workers you stopped by a wooden cart, tying your horse next to another. You finish the knot and step into the road, catching the scent of your friend who's aroma is still fresh, she's close, her trail leading into a nearby makeshift tavern.

"Where are you coming from, my lady?"

You stop in your tracks as a dirty faced Nilfgaardian soldier keeps you from your search, handing him a fake smile you catch his light brown eyes, "Nowhere too interesting I'm afraid."

He nods, thinking hard for a moment, his heartbeat picking up with nervousness, "W-well, if you're here to seek aid from a mage, the, uh...tavern is that way. Good day then." He stumbles quickly in reply, no doubt unnerved by your scarlet eyes and friendly sharp grin.

What a man he is.

And just like that he's gone, smiling contently with yourself and this odd bit of luck, you make for the titular gathering house with cheap ale or perhaps the tavern as it's called. Once you reach about ten feet from the opened wooden door do you stop, the familiar voices of Yennefer and Istredd, her first lover from Aretuza, fill your ears as they speak about their past dealings and Yenn's thirst for power over most things, including their relationship.

More things are said before he stands up to leave, but before he's able to catch you in his sights do you turn around and narrowly miss being found out, he'd definitely remember you. Istredd trudges past, oblivious as you listen to the whispered voice of a new man joining Yennefer at her table. He claims himself to be Vilgefortz of Roggeveen, another mage, of fucking course.

Folding your arms in annoyance you walk over to lean your back against the side of the tavern and listen as he tells Yennefer how Nilfgaard is seeking out mages for their conquests, quietly noting that they should return to Aretuza before any soldiers start asking for their assistance. She sounds doubtful until he lets known that Tissaia and himself need her nonetheless, apparently shits important, who would have thought. You can't help but roll your eyes as Vilgefortz practically sweet talks her, explaining that Tissaia said that Yennefer is the best student she's ever taught.

And that's it, Yennefer's sold.

You could never ignore getting yourself buttered up, huh Yenn.

The friendly mage abruptly stands up, telling Yennefer to meet him in half an hour by the north gate before he says his goodbyes and exits through the opened door, right past you. You watch in curiosity as he walks off before turning yourself towards the entrance and stepping into the doorway, you look down to your right. Making quick eye contact with Yennefer's violet irises, she immediately frowns as you sit across from her, though she is quite taken aback at your random intrusion.

A smirk plays at your lips, "Well aren't you just having the time of your life. Quite popular today aren't we now?"

Yennefer rolls her eyes in annoyance, "What the fuck are you doing here?" She says dryly, you lean back in your chair as a fangy grin breaks out upon your face.

"I could ask you the same thing but....I'm not an idiot. You came back to rekindle that old flame with Istredd, how sweet, honestly. Who would've thought."

"Oh fuck off Y/N."

A light chuckle escapes you, "Don't be so dramatic Yenn, I didn't leave Geralt's ass and travel all this way for nothing...."

"You left him?" She wonders, her brows furrowing, honestly quite surprised.

A telling sigh falls from your lips, "For the time being, I'm still pissed over the whole djinn and his last wish. So here I am, sitting in a shit tavern with an old acquaintance, also...I wanted to make sure you don't hate me. Believe it or not, I do care about you Yennefer, and that's not the magic speaking. So with that in mind, I've witnessed what Nilfgaard has been doing lately and it doesn't look good." You shrug, "Guess I wanted to make sure you where fine."

She glances down at her hands before finding your scarlet eyes, "I can't tell if that's the Aretuza Y/N, or the magic talking." Her voice almost playful.

"Maybe it's both? But can I not give a shit for once about anyone other than myself? I mean look around us." You glance at the tired out workers and Nilfgaardian soldiers before leaning in closer to Yennefer, "Things are changing, soon these valleys will be covered in blood, people fighting for survival, the land ablaze and destroyed from war. I've lived enough lifetimes to have seen it happen over and over again."

She nods slowly, taking in what you're saying, "Yes, so it seems. But last I'd remembered, you've never really cared much for the troubles of other kingdoms. Even your own for that matter."

"I don't." Your reply blunt and to the point, "But this is Nilfgaard, and though I could care less about the reasoning behind their conquests. I know who they seek to bring their wrath upon."

"Cintra." She whispers.

"Yes." You pause for a moment as three soldiers clad in black armor walk past your table and towards the bar, your wary eyes trail them before turning your attention back to Yennefer, "And I'd rather not have innocent lives taken by the hands of filthy soldiers, I could live without smelling blood in the air and the rotting of children's corpses." You let out a breath before leaning in and keeping your voice to that of a whisper, "Geralt's Child of Surprise resides in that kingdom, within the walls of Cintra. I do not care for the little shit in the slightest, but by law this child will be in our care soon enough. Whether I want to meet him or not."

She nods, understanding your concerns for the invading forces of Nilfgaard, "That's quite the predicament Y/N."

"Yes." You lean back once again, folding your arms as you tilt your head to the side, "Almost as intriguing as your own one." You add with a smirk.

"What did you hear?"

"The mage, Vilgefortz of Roggeveen seems to have caught you in his sights. And how interesting, it appears our old friend Tissaia is in need of you after all these long years." You study her face, her lavender eyes downcast as she thinks, "You're going aren't you?"

"I need answers Y/N." Her eyes are on yours once again, "It doesn't make much sense I'll admit, but it's been a long while and I have nothing keeping me here anyways." She confesses honestly, you tap the hilt of your dagger, thinking hard.

"Do as you wish, I will not stop you. Have fun with those self entitled idiots." You sneer, she simply smiles at your usual disgust for the mages of Aretuza. You stare at her, your face falling as you shake your head.

"Yennefer don't."

She leans herself closer to you, her eyes almost pleading, you haven't heard the words but just looking at her can you tell exactly what she's about to ask, "Y/N. Against my better judgment...I'm asking, I guess....would you join me. Please?"

Pursing your lips together you stare at the table before finding her gaze once more, every ounce of your entire vessel screaming for you to say no, though you can't help but feel drawn to follow, "God I hate magic." You mutter, shaking your head.

"You were the one who came to find me after all, remember? Make sure I'm fine and not dead." She muses with a mischievous spark in her eye.

"Well aren't you lucky that I have no solid plans for the next week but brood in the woods and think of all by problems." You deadpan before an apprehensive half smile pulls at the corners of your lips, "Why the fuck not? Lets pay Tissaia a visit shall we."

——

After the debacle of mysterious assassins in the underkeeps of the Cintran castle, Mousesack had saved Geralt from a possible demise when he teleported them elsewhere amongst the grounds. Now the Witcher follows him to find Queen Calanthe and hopefully greet this Child of Surprise he's been promised no matter how much he'd rather not be here. How he wishes you where by his side to lighten the mood, things would undoubtedly run smoother.

He passes under a stone archway leading into a courtyard where the Queen has her back turned to them, she's speaking to her loyal guardsmen while eyeing up the weaponry before her. She moves down the tabled lined with swords, "I want reports from the Amell Pass every hour.." Her head moves right at the sounds of Geralt and Mousesack approaching, her dark eyes lock with Geralt's golden ones. She looks stoic and loathsome to see him again, even after all these years.

Swords unsheathe behind her, "I warned you about coming back. I've been away 12 years and I planned on staying that way till you sent eight men to kill me."

She takes a couple threatening steps forward, "Well, I'm asking you now. Do not do this."

"If you treated me more as a friend then a threat...Do you know the difference anymore?" He pauses as she says nothing, "I'm here to protect the girl."

"Who I've raised as my own." Counters Calanthe, "Why would I give my only heir to someone who never cared enough to come back to her? Move along, Witcher. I'll pay whatever you want." She turns her back to leave.

"I cannot be bought." She trains her irritated gaze back to Geralt, "You should remember."

"Money can't undo the Law of Surprise." Says Mousesack, "Kings who've tried to outbid destiny end up on pikes."

"And if I win the war but lose Ciri, what victory is that?" Challenges the Queen as Geralt takes a  step forward, her men showing their weapons as they stand ready to guard her.

"Maybe that army won't come, and if they do, maybe you'll be ready. But if you have any doubt in your mind that she's safe here, give her to me. Call it destiny, insecurity, what larger forces at work, I don't care. I will take her, protect her, and bring her back unharmed, I promise you that."

"Ciri is all I have left of my daughter." Whispers the Queen, eyes brimming with unshed tears.

"If Ciri survives, then Pavetta lives on too." Geralt leaves it at that, remaining silent as Calanthe's mind reels with what to do next. He can tell just how terrified she is to possibly lose Ciri, however she must make a choice. No matter how difficult it is to make.

"Law of Surprise has been called!" Announces the Queen to her guardsmen and subjects in the snow covered courtyard, voice more softer and solemn now as she faces Geralt, "I'll tell Cirilla myself."

With that said, Geralt was escorted to a separate section of the castle as he awaits the meeting between himself and princess Cirilla. He paces back and forth down the hallway for a good long while until a guard was sent for him. Now here he is, walking towards the door where the Child of Surprise awaits him with her Queen grandmother. Two armored men simultaneously open the large wooden door, Geralt walks into the cavernous room where Mousesack looks up at him while the doors close. They do not say a word to each other.

Calanthe sits, consoling a frightened Ciri who's back is turned to Geralt, she holds the girls hands, "I need you to be brave now, because who are you?"

"The Lion Cub of Cintra." Replies the blonde girl, voice small and fragile.

She then stands, turning around to finally face him. He walks further into the room, golden eyes studying the face of princess Cirilla. She is short and thin, eyes wide and fearful, face pale as a flushed nervousness pulls to the surface, "Pleased to meet you, Princess." Greets the Witcher.

She speaks not once to him, she then abruptly turns to face the Queen by her side, "Can I say goodbye to my friends now?"

"Of course." Nods Calanthe as Cirilla leaves with haste out the side door. Geralt remains quiet as she glares at him, "I'll summon you when she's ready."

Geralt exits through the same doors he came through, he walks down the hallway, pausing a moment as he thinks on the brief interaction. Something just doesn't sit right with him about that girl, she just didn't look how he'd imagined her to be. She can't be Pavetta's child, can she? He shakes off those thoughts and decides to wander down a long torch lit hallway leading out into an opened yard where people are wandering about.

Suddenly the princess runs into view, she races over to a gathering of market kids playing some kind of game, one boy jumps up and immediate pulls her into a hug. "Take care." He whispers as the princess releases him to face a young teen with a cap on their head. She then gifts a small bow, "Your Highness." Before turning around and racing off the same way she came in.

Now Geralt knows the truth.

He leaves the doorway in search of the lying Queen, it takes not long before he's found her walking past some large windows with her ladies by her side. "First, you try and kill me, then you lie to me. I'm just trying to keep Cirilla safe."

"Ciri is safe, with me, until the day she takes over my throne." Queen Calanthe takes a couple steps forward but is halted by Geralt who stands his ground in front of her.

"Listen to me." He advises, voice low and gravely.

"I did listen once." Says Calanthe unbothered, "Let a hedgehog into my court. It got me Pavetta dead. I won't lose Ciri too. So you and destiny can both fuck right off. Because if Nilfgaard comes, will destiny carry a banner into battle? No. We have an army, a navy...and me." Speaks the Queen slyly, starting to walk around Geralt who halts her with a hand to her arm.

"A dynasty can't survive on arrogance alone."

"Says a Witcher. She needs family. You no nothing about that. Your own mother cared so little, she discarded you." Smartly speaks the Queen, "Where is your vampiric lover, hm? She's not even here, gone to see her actual family so I've been told." Calanthe swaggers past Geralt who feels a pang of heartache in his chest for that low blow.

"You lecture me on a mother's love yet you offer up someone else's daughter."

Calanthe stops, "Queen to all of Cintra, grandmother to one." She looks at him over her shoulder, "I won't orphan that girl."

Geralt watches as she begins walking down the hallway towards another opened door, "You're sentencing her to death."

"What I miss?" Asks the intrigued face of Lord Eick.

"Nothing." Replies the Queen as she keeps walking, "Get him out of my sight."

-

Sir Eick walks down a small flight of stone steps with Geralt by his side, they follow a brick path leading down from the castle doors now behind them. Two guards stand at their posts to either side of the wooden entrance as the two men walk across the layed bricks. "I remember when you honored the Law of Surprise. What changed?"

"I had a granddaughter."

"So protect her. What if Calanthe's wrong? What if they come and Ciri is trapped?"

"I fight side by side with my Queen."

"You put too much faith in that woman."

Lord Eick stops walking to look at Geralt, "Well, you weren't there. After Pavetta died, Calanthe would wake up howling in the night. The Lioness, nearly broken. Someone who's able to pull themselves out of that, they'll have my confidence till my final day."

Geralt says not a word, he knows this Lord cannot be reasoned with so instead does the Witcher walk under a small keep, he stops when Lord Eick calls to him, "I need your promise you won't come back."

Geralt slowly turns around to face him, "If I hear Ciri's in danger, you know I can't do that." A second later does two iron cage slates fall into place, locking Geralt into his new little prison.

"I know." Replies the man, giving him one last glance before returning back to the main castle.

Now Geralt really wishes you where here with him.

——

With the aid of Yennefer's ever convenient ability to create portals going from one realm to the next, you, Vilgefortz, and herself made it into the enchanted halls of Aretuza in no time. Though to Yennefer's utter disappointment and your own unsurprised one. It turned out that Tissaia didn't actually ask for Yennefer after all, in fact she doesn't even know that you're both here.

In a fit of anger did Yennefer turn away in search of Tissaia before finding herself down one of the many hallways in this ginormous academy. "I can't fucking believe this. Of course this is how they get me here, I should have known."

"Too bad you can't see into the future, that could have saved us some time."

"Very funny, Y/N." Mutters Yennefer.

"Now come on, you're certainly not the only one between the two of us who'd rather not be here at all." She raises a brow at that.

"You didn't have to join me."

"No, but maybe my curiosity had taken the better of me, and anyways, this place does not hold all terrible memories for me to begin with. This was my home for some time even before you showed up, I did like it here once."

"Well you weren't bought and taken from your family one day without a choice, forced to live here as the lowest of the low. Ridiculed, spoken down upon, lied to."

"No I wasn't, that was saved for you and your magical sisters." She furrows her brows as you chuckle.

"You find humor in our misery?"

"I don't. I find your temperament about the ordeal a tad humorous yes."

"And why is that?"

"Because you had what you needed here to become someone great, and you've survived well by yourself, becoming a powerful mage at that." You add as her frown dissipates, "I remember the first time we met, granted you were unconscious and bleeding on the floor, but after that. When we actually met. I knew you were special then, as I know you are now."

"And how would you know that?"

You playfully bump into her shoulder, "I am a wise and very old woman, I know my looks are deceiving, however I can see through people better then most. I understand them, I can just tell."

"And how could you tell with me?"

"For one, your eyes are purple which is already a huge giveaway. Secondly, you had a prominent physical deformity paired with a rare talent for portal making. I could practically smell your elven blood coursing through those veins before I knew what you looked like. It wasn't hard to tell you were going to be someone."

She stops walking  in the middle of the long hallway, a conflicted expression flashing across her features, "You really thought all that?"

"I always did. I always knew when certain mages would ascend, if I figured you weren't going to make it. I would have told you." Your eyes dart from the ground then back up to her again, "Maybe, and I say just maybe, I've always had a little soft spot for you. Contrary to what you may believe, there is someone who is proud of you...and that's still not the djinn's wish talking. I mean it."

Yennefer breaks out into a small smile, "You're such a sap."

"I can be when I want to." You state half defensibly, "I'm not all just a pretty face and two scary looking eyes."

"Clearly."

Your head turns to the sounds of giggling coming from one of the novice mage's sleeping quarters, "I think your old room is occupied. Hm, I can't say I really care much to meet them. I'm going to see if my old room is still covered in cobwebs or not, see you around."

She gives you a nod, "I'll let you know when I find Tissaia."

Leaving Yennefer to most likely scare the young mages, you begin wandering around the stony pathways until you reach your old room. Stopping at the door, you can hear the sounds of a thudding heartbeat, someone has made themselves a place here. You smile and walk elsewhere, glad that someone could find a nice room to call their own since your absence so long ago.

Finding your way near the room of ascension where many a mage has been turned into an eel to further fuel the place with magic. You can hear the stern voice of Tissaia and the whispering of the novice girls, soon the sounds of their rushed footsteps are heard racing up the steps towards the entranceway. You stand a short distance from the doorway, watching in curiosity as the three young mages meet your gaze while they file out of the hallway.

The pale one with reddish blonde hair halts abruptly in her tracks as her two friends do the same, blue eyes wide in nervous bewilderment at your figure in the room. Your clothing a vast contrast to their usual dark blue uniform, a dagger sheathed at your side, and eyes the color of shimmering rubies staring back at them. They smell of herbs, salt, and magic; heartbeats quickening the longer they stay frozen looking at you.

You gift them a fangy grin and a small bow of your head in greeting, "Are my two acquaintances down there?" You already know the answer, just something said to break their trance.

The one with the healed burns scarred on the side of her face swallows before speaking, "They are. Good day miss." She bows her head respectfully before leading her two friends down the hallway as quickly as they can without running. Apparently you still have that affect on young witches and wizards no matter how long you've been gone from here.

Knowing that the infamous mage had not seen you yet, you decide to keep hidden round the corner to elicit a childish plan that will be worth the trouble getting here. When her footsteps grew louder as she made haste up the steps does a telling smirk come to your lips. Once her red dress caught your eye did you pop out of the shadows, instantly frightening her in your mischievousness. She drew back against the closest wall. Her blue eyes wide as she stared at you in shock, Yennefer appearing in the doorway entrance piecing together what just took place.

Tissaia's heart thuds rapidly in her chest as you take a step forward, eyeing her like a wolf to its prey, "I never wanted to come back here, but just listening to the sweet rush of blood coursing through your veins has made this trip that much better."

Touching her chest she pulls herself from the wall as Yennefer's face breaks in amusement, "Y/N." Replies the heiress bluntly, not an ounce of emotion lacing her words. You simply smirk, tilting your head up as you study her stoic face, those are quite the cheek bones she has.

You feel a brush of air as Yennefer steps closer, "Believe me it wasn't our intention to come back here, most of all mine."

Her eyes of judgment turn to Yennefer, "Then you failed at that, too."

"Look at this place. It's a joke." Scoffs Yennefer.

You laugh, "Letting in girls that can't even do magic, I couldn't smell it all of them...And I already thought this place was pathetic enough. It's really gone down the gutter since I left."

Tissaia remains unfazed, "Sometimes, you have to compromise in order to survive."

"You say I never took responsibility for the way my life turned out. What about you?" Challenges Yennefer, her question left unanswered as multiple mages of all kinds begin walking from one opened doorway to the next, Tissaia abruptly turning around to look as you and Yennefer watch on in confusion.

The fuck?

"It's happening." Whispers Tissaia knowingly before quickly joining the assembly into the desired room, you both have no time to ask what is truly going on before Triss walks into view. Her shimmery peach colored dress flowing as she walks by.

"Triss!" Calls out Yennefer, the familiar mage halts her footing as she turns towards the two of you, a surprised expression crossing her features.

"Yennefer. I tried finding you for years. And Y/N, wow, this is quit a surprise."

"Why are you all here?" You wonder, getting straight to the point.

Her brows furrow in worry, "An emergency conclave of the Northern Mages. Nilfgaard took Marnadal."

"What?" Whispers Yennefer in disbelief.

Triss looks to you sadly, "They're attacking Cintra." Your heart practically catches in your throat, you hadn't expected the Nilfgaardian army to lay siege so soon. It has only been a couple weeks since last you've seen Geralt but your innermost feelings can sense that he's gone to the city to claim that damned Child of Surprise. You had talked about it before the dragon hunt and before you'd made plans to visit the ocean, now it appears like a far off memory when soldiers weren't marching across the land and things were fine.

That idiot better be alive.

Triss quickly departs to join the gathering mages, you can feel Yennefer's conflict within herself to either join them or abandon her duty. She turns to you, her face deep in thought, "Yenn just go. I'll be out here when all is over and done, I can't stand the smell of some of them, it's absolutely appalling."

"Alright then. I'll meet you by the east wing balcony when it's over."

She quickly turns and disappears behind the grand wooden doors, you stop for a moment in the large empty hallway before making your way to the balcony where you can get some fresh air away from all those mages and wizards, their enchanted auroras is almost suffocating at times.

You stand brooding in the light of the half moon as it sits contently from her place high up in the sky. It's been about thirty minutes since you'd left Yennefer to fend for herself among the liars, murders, and tricksters claiming themselves as noble mages of the court.

But you will not let your hate consume you, there are good hiding within their numbers and that may just be enough to keep you from slaughtering every single one of them if given the chance. Gods you have such mixed feelings for this place it's starting to give you a headache.

Drifting away from your more sinister and heavily conflicting thoughts, your ears prick up to the sound of approaching footsteps, Yennefer's no doubt. Leaning yourself against the stone wall, your face turned towards the shimmering ocean, she walks up to your side. Resting her hands atop the stony balcony as a frustrated sigh leaves her lips when she turns her head to you, "You're probably right."

"About what?"

"Coming here, to Aretuza. I should have told everyone to fuck off and then left for a more peaceful part of the Continent."

You chuckle, "You'd get bored, eventually."

An amused huff of air escapes from her nostrils, a small smile upon her tired face, "I hate you sometimes."

"Yeah." You sigh, "Me too."

She side eyes you for a moment, her sights set over the glistening waves, "Well, you're going to really laugh when you hear this."

You raise a brow, "Alright jester, tell me a joke."

"It would appear that Vilgefortz and Tissaia are going with a secret band of mages to fight against the forces of Nilfgaard." She freely lets slip, you turn your head to her when she quickly catches your intrigued gaze.

"Now that. Is hilarious, what are they going to do? Hmm? Create illusions of naked women in hopes that the soldiers will become distracted enough that they can, oh I don't know. Conjure an army of scarecrows to fight for them." You jest with a small chuckle, "These mages are not warriors, most of them have never even welded anything hard besides a kings fucking cock. They don't use fire magic and they find destructive sorcery to be something worth banishing and deeply frowned upon. Again, not much for fighters."

She slowly nods, "I know. That's why I'm asking, would you join us?"

"I have no reason to help them."

"Y/N." She pleads, "Think of what Nilfgaard has already done and what they will do. You even told me that you did, in fact, give a shit because of your tie with Cintra."

"Cintra's fucked."

"What about the Child of Surprise? Geralt even? You told me he's probably there right now. Do you not care for his safety?" Presses Yennefer much to your great annoyance, she's got you there.

"Of course I care that his heart is still beating, he's a fucking Witcher, he'll be fine." You pause for a moment, your crimson eyes glowing like two glistening rubies in the moonlight, "Queen Calanthe has brought this hellfire upon herself and the whole Continent due to her pride and arrogance. Cintra can and will fall in fire and blood, I've seen it all before and I'll watch it happen again."

Yennefer shakes her head, "Sometimes I forget that you're four-hundred something years old, but Y/N listen. I understand that you don't care much for royalty and the conflicts of kingdoms. But the Brotherhood must prevail..."

"That's Tissaia speaking. Why do you actually give enough of a shit to fight?" You challenge.

She looks out upon the vast ocean, a light salty breeze brushing past her face, "What else do I have in this world?" She whispers, her voice almost on the verge of breaking.

You suddenly feel a bit terrible, her words hanging over you heavily, "You want to save your only real home? Dare I ask why, but I don't need to, I already know the answer."

"Tissaia and you have been my only family, this place may be full of shit and lies, but it is a place for people like me who need guidance. And I'd rather not have it fall into the wrong hands, or be reduced to crumbling rocks and ash. Enough death was caused by it's construction already."

You rest your forearms against the smooth stone of the balcony, a huff leaving your lips, "When do we leave then?" Yennefer snaps her full attention over to your casual aurora, wholeheartedly surprised that you've decided to join her.

"Uh, tomorrow, at dawn. We'll travel for a day before boats take us across a bit of ocean. From the shore we'll walk by foot to the Elven keep at Sodden's Hill. Before Nilfgaard can claim it."

This is not how you'd intended to visit the sea shore.

"Right. That would be most unfortunate, well, can't wait to tear the throats out of some Nilfgaardian soldiers. I bet they taste divine." You add slyly, a tinge of playfulness surrounding your words.

"Thought blood wasn't part of your diet?" Retorts Yennefer, nudging your shoulder in a friendly manner.

"I can consume both food and blood to survive, you already know this, I just so happen to eat normal meals because it terrifies people if I were to just suck the life out of a beggar at the table. Tavern goers are not very fond of that behavior if you needed to know."

"Of course." She chuckles, "Well, if we're lucky Nilfgaard will ignore the pass and leave us all be. Though I doubt it will come to that, we're never that blessed."

"No. I guess not. But they will suffer as we have, I'll make sure of it, those unlucky bastards will pay for their kingdom's sins." You say defiantly, "We'll defend Aretuza and this part of the north with our lives...I guess..it's about time I should do something good in the world."

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