#he never once expresses feelings for ciri herself as a person

[boundlss]

it genuinely does amaze me how collectively wrong people at large are always about cahir. i have a lot more to say about this than in that post even but i'm not here to flood my rp mutuals dash with complaints and common misconceptions.

[witcher-and-his-bard-archive]

on ao3

All his life, Jaskier has only wanted to be enough. In forty years, he’s found a lot of people he can't please no matter how hard he tries, but never any who are willing to try in return. He's too loud, too annoying, too much. There are also a startling number of people who want him only as a placeholder - a bed warmer, an entertainer - before quickly ushering him from their lives once they've had their fill. As a child, it was devastating every time he was told to be quiet or to find someone else to talk to. As an adult, he thought he'd grown numb to disinterest or fleeting interest, but then he'd met Geralt.

With Geralt, he thought he had finally found someone who might keep him. Even if it wasn't perfect, even if Jaskier still found himself longing for more, Geralt allowed him to stay. His jabs didn't hurt the way others did and after some time they even started to sound fond coming from his Witcher. And he was truly happy for the first time in a long time.

But good things are not meant to last. Not at least, for Jaskier. And on the top of a mountain north of Barefield, Geralt had proved without a doubt that Jaskier wasn't numb to heartbreak.

But that seems like a lifetime ago, now.

When their paths had crossed again, it was by complete accident. Jaskier had been in Oxenfurt over the winter to regroup after a difficult autumn and he'd headed back out into the wilderness late. It was a routine of sorts, setting out on the road after winter, and he'd followed the Pontar east, heading nowhere in particular. The last person he had been expecting to come across was his Witcher.

But there they both were; Geralt with his child surprise in tow and Jaskier with nothing but the lute on his back and a notebook overflowing with verse after verse of heartbreak. Ciri, at least, had been happy to see him, but it was plain to see Geralt didn't share her enthusiasm. She is the reason for their (somewhat forced) reconciliation, not some change of heart or some grand apology; just a lost little girl clinging to whatever sense of normalcy she can find. And an unwilling father trying to give it to her.

Lucky for him, Jaskier is a familiar face to the young princess and Geralt had agreed when Ciri had asked for him to come along with them. And it's not all bad; travelling with companions is much less lonely than travelling alone and he and Geralt have made things work between them, enough at least, for Ciri's wellbeing.

But there's a feeling Jaskier gets right before he's ousted from someone's life, a tingling sort of ache right in the pit of his stomach, and he's been feeling that for months now.

Spring has faded into summer and their little group carries on. They keep to the path most nights, camping amongst the trees or tucked away under a shelf of rock or in an abandoned cave. Jaskier doesn't know the whole story, but he knows Nilfgaard is looking for Ciri and as good a protector as Geralt is, he's unlikely to defeat an entire Nilgaardian troop should they run into one. So he keeps them away from town unless they need to replenish their supplies or the weather is too bad to allow for sleeping outside. On those occasions, they prepare in advance. Geralt will go ahead and ensure the room is ready and whatever else they need, while Jaskier will wait behind and do what he can to disguise Ciri. She's the most important thing in Geralt's life now and if he can't make amends with the man himself, he'll do what he can to help Ciri. At the very least, it gives him a sense of purpose and keeps him from feeling quite so out of place with them.

Tonight is a camping night. Geralt is asleep already and Ciri appears to be if she isn't, but the grass is damp and cool beneath them and Jaskier can't get comfortable. In the morning, their bedding will be damp at best and that means packing damp bedding and sleeping on it again tomorrow night. He's mulling over the idea of hanging his bedroll over a tree branch and lying directly on the grass - at least it will save him one night of discomfort - when Geralt stirs across from him.

Jaskier looks up, instinctively alert, but Ciri is still peacefully asleep and there doesn't appear to be any sign of danger. Geralt's face is twisted though, pinched tight in pain or fear and Jaskier recognizes the expression. For years, he'd been there to soothe Geralt’s discomfort, to curl up against him and run a hand up his chest until his breathing evened out again and the pain eased from his face. Geralt’s nightmares have never been uncommon, but since joining up with him again, Jaskier has noticed a marked increase of uneasy nights for the Witcher.

But he's no longer in a place to soothe him and so he watches regretfully as Ciri blinks awake and props herself up to look at him. She crawls from her own bedroll and in a practiced motion, slips between Geralt's arms, pressing herself up against his chest. She whispers something that Jaskier can't hear and he squeezes his eyes shut as Geralt hums sleepily against her hair.

He aches to fill that space against him once more, to be able to soothe the turmoil in Geralt’s heart, to give Geralt anything. He used to be the one who could ease his pain, but he's been replaced. And he can't blame Geralt for it; he was never a very good travel companion, but he did try and he'd like to be able to try again, but that doesn't seem to be the way things are going for him.

"Who is she?" Ciri asks, only just loud enough to Jaskier to hear her. "Who's Renfri?"

"I don't know," he breathes, low to keep his voice steady, "Geralt met her before me and he doesn't talk about it."

Ciri makes a disappointed sound and Jaskier doesn't have to be able to see her face to know she's scowling at the man wrapped around her. He would be too. Geralt does so much to protect the ones he loves and yet refuses to accept anything in return. Jaskier understands the frustration and once upon a time, he'd developed a method of tricking Geralt into doing things for himself, making it seem like it was for the good of someone else. He makes a mental note to tell Ciri about it.

Once Ciri and Geralt are settled once more, Jaskier slips from his bedroll, picking it up and hanging it in the hopes that it will dry some before morning. He's awake now, his head swimming with things unsaid and what ifs and he knows he won't sleep any time soon, so there's no point in trying.

He crosses the camp as silently as he can to where the horses are tethered and he settles himself between the thick roots of a tree, leaning back against the trunk. Roach leans down to him, nudging his shoulder and Jaskier looks up to find both of them looking at him, Jaskier's own horse with her head over Roach's back to see what he's doing. She gives a snort of confusion and Jaskier just looks up at her with a forced smile that does apparently nothing to appease her curiosity.

For some time, he just sits there, wondering where exactly he went wrong in his life until eventually, cold and emotionally exhausted, sleep overtakes him.

At first, Jaskier had hoped that this distance between them was just a side-effect of Geralt adjusting to parenthood and he tried to help in any way he could. But he can't teach Ciri to fight and Geralt knows more about herbs and how to use them than he does, and otherwise, Ciri is mostly self-sufficient. Other than her magic, which Jaskier soon learns, she's being trained in as well.

Yennefer blows back into his life in a big way on a sunny afternoon in mid-summer. She seems softer than the last time they'd seen each other and she smiles when she spots Ciri practicing with a wooden sword next to the river. Jaskier has learned well enough in the past not to disturb her, so he keeps quiet and continues with his task of gathering firewood. He hadn't understood at the time, why Geralt had wanted to make camp so early in the day, but it seems clear now that this was an arranged meeting place and he doesn't suspect they'll be leaving again before morning.

So while Geralt is busy with Yen and Ciri, Jaskier may as well make himself useful. Maybe he can't be emotionally available to Geralt the way he used to, but he can still help. So he sets off deeper into the trees, intent on finding enough wood to keep them going for the evening. But when he returns to the smell of smoke and a crackling fire, his heart sinks. As he sets his gathered firewood down, his only solace is that no one seems to have noticed him and he's able to slip away again quietly.

Yen travels with them after that. She doesn't seem concerned about Jaskier's presence and, on occasion, she'll even speak to him without sounding inconvenienced. It's more than she's ever offered in the past and considering his tenuous position with them, Jaskier's almost pleased about it.

But with Yen comes more training for Ciri, this time in magic, which means she has less time to listen to Jaskier play or tell him about her adventures with Geralt. Which is fine; she's still young and she needs to be able to understand her power as much as she needs to be able to fight with a sword. So Jaskier takes another step back.

After the mountain incident, Jaskier had hoped someday that things might go back to normal for him and Geralt. Now, despite Yennefer's improved attitude toward him, their relationship seems tenser than ever. And after a couple of weeks travelling with Yen, Jaskier starts to wonder if he really fits with them anymore.

But he can barely complain, what with Ciri having lost everyone she ever knew and loved. And Yen's history. And Geralt's inability to enter certain towns without being shouted at and called a monster. In relation, Jaskier's problems are not that bad. It doesn't stop it from hurting, but it stops him from talking about it because he doesn't really have a good enough reason to be upset. And his relationship with Geralt is already strained at best, he doesn't want to make things more complicated between them and end up losing Geralt again, maybe for good this time.

Only keeping things to himself is harder than it seems because Jaskier constantly feels unwanted and unneeded. Because Geralt has Yen and Ciri, Ciri has her training with both of them, and Yen never really much cared for him to begin with. So where is he supposed to fit in with that? What can he do for them that someone else isn't already doing? Everything he used to do for Geralt has been taken over by someone new and as the days drag on, Jaskier begins to wonder if he's not just hindering them by tagging along.

But where would he go without him?

They're all sitting around the fire one night after Ciri's gone to bed and Jaskier's writing in his notebook, trying to force the lyrics to a ballad that just doesn't want to come. He has the tune, but he can't quite get the words right, so he hums under his breath, trying to work through it as Geralt pokes at the fire.

"Jaskier," Geralt grunts and Jaskier looks up at him, surprised and a little nervous. "Be quiet, Ciri's asleep."

"Oh," he says, "right."

He shuts his notebook and measures his breathing, trying to keep from getting too upset. It makes perfect sense that Geralt would ask him to be quiet, Ciri doesn't sleep well a lot of the time and he shouldn't disturb her when she does. It still hurts, but he packs his things back up and turns in for the night.

Geralt seems unfazed but Jaskier lays out his bedroll right at the edge of their camp and settles in. He doesn't know what else to do with himself; whatever he and Geralt once has is clearly gone now, everything is about Geralt and Ciri now or just about Geralt, off on his own to provide for a child he never wanted. There’s no room in his life for Jaskier now that he has Ciri.

As he lies down, he tries to think back to before Geralt, but he doesn't remember what he did with himself back then. He was young and foolish and a very different person than he is now. And even after, when he and Geralt were separated but still friendly, Jaskier would write about him or sing about him and tell stories about their adventures together. But it was all about Geralt. For two decades of his life, everything centred around Geralt and now he's faced with the prospect of losing him completely.

Geralt is a simple man; he needs food and coin and sex - most nights he won't even blink at sleeping out in the rain. Jaskier can offer him none of those things when they're staying away from towns, so why is he still here? He wants what they used to have when he could at least keep Geralt company during the long nights. Now, he can't even offer him that. Things can't go back to the way they used to be because Geralt has Ciri now and Yen is back in his life and Jaskier just... is.

And every time he tries to think about what he did wrong, he can only picture Geralt's face on the top of that mountain, how angry he sounded when he told Jaskier he wanted him gone.

Jaskier looks at Ciri, curled under Geralt's spare blanket, and he knows Geralt blames him for this responsibility that he never wanted. And maybe it is his fault because Geralt never would have been at the banquet otherwise. And maybe Yen leaving was his fault, too because Geralt never would have met her if Jaskier had just left the damn djinn bottle alone. Maybe all of this is his own fault. Jaskier lays his head down, fighting back tears as he wonders how he could have single-handedly ruined the one good thing that life ever gave him.

Summer fades into autumn and things only get worse.

Yen joins them again when the air starts to cool and Jaskier finds the only thing left for him to do is to distract Ciri when Yen and Geralt disappear off on their own. He doesn't want to think about what they get up to and he's certain Ciri doesn't want to know. The pair of them share a tent, which Jaskier is thankful for only because it means he shares with Ciri and he would prefer that to sharing with either Geralt or Yen. Ciri trusts him and when they're alone she still likes to sit and listen to him sing, plus the one perk of travelling with a sorceress is extravagant magic tents.

When it starts to get really cold, Jaskier's thoughts turn back to Oxenfurt. If he's going to go back for the winter, he needs to leave soon before it gets too cold to travel. He knows Geralt is taking Yen and Ciri to Kaer Morhen with him and he doesn't think he could stand spending the entire winter with them, even if he was invited.

He gives it a couple days' consideration before deciding he can't bear this any longer. He'll go to Oxenfurt for the winter and come spring he'll just have to figure out how to move on with his life because all of this is too much. Ciri has both Yen and Geralt now, and if he thought being in love with Geralt was hard before, it's nothing compared to how it feels now.

He's in the middle of organizing his things for the long ride out to the coast when Ciri finds him. She comes up and plops herself next to him, peeking over to see what he's doing.

"We're not leaving yet," she says, "why are you packing?"

"I have to go."

"You aren't coming to Kaer Morhen with us?"

"No."

He doesn't elaborate because he can already feel his chest contract and he has to be able to hold it together for a little longer. Ciri huffs and as she walks away, Jakier's hands still on his pack. He doesn't want to leave her and he feels bad about it, but it will be better for all of them in the long run.

Jaskier finishes packing and getting Buttercup saddled and he's just about ready to leave when Geralt approaches him. Jaskier hasn't spoken to him about leaving, but since he and Yen rarely talk to him, he didn't think he had to. But Geralt rests a hand on his forearm and when Jaskier turns to look at him, he seems conflicted.

"Ciri wants you to come with us," is all he says and Jaskier deflates a little. He was so close to making a clean break, but Ciri has lost so much and if she wants him there, who is he to deny her a little familiarity? He doesn't say anything to Geralt, but he unslings his lute from his back and leans it up against the tree and it seems to be enough.

But they travel to Kaer Morhen and once Jaskier is over the stunning scenery, it's just more of the same only warmer. The guest room in the keep is spacious and the fireplace is more than enough to keep him warm, but he stands at the top of the stairs and as he looks around, his shoulders slump. He and Geralt have always shared a room, even when an abundance of coin would have made it easy to rent two rooms. Jaskier didn't really expect to be sharing with Geralt after everything but knowing it wasn't even a thought hurts.

He reminds himself that he's doing this because Ciri wanted it and urges his feet to move, crossing to the bed in the centre of the room. At least when he needs a place to escape to, he can come here and not want for warmth or inspiration. His balcony has a beautiful view of the valley and so long as he's willing to fill it himself, there's a large tub to one side of the room. He's stayed in much worse places all in all, and he's grown accustomed to spending a lot of time alone. Maybe it won't be so bad.

But once everyone has arrived, he realizes he was wrong. The Witchers are friendly enough, even the two from other schools who Jaskier has never heard of before. Ciri tells him one of them is Lambert's boyfriend and it was a big scandal last year when he showed up. Jaskier's heart just sinks, realizing even Ciri is included in all of this and he knows nothing of them. He's not even sure which one Lambert is because Geralt has never been a very descriptive person. It’s just another reminder of what he’s lost and he forces a smile to keep from showing his feelings.

Watching them all finally gathered together in the main hall, Jaskier realizes he's made a mistake in coming. He felt like an outsider with their little group travelling the wilderness, but it's nothing to the way he feels now. Like an intruder, an interloper who's snuck his way in when no one wanted him. Even the reminder that Ciri asked for him doesn't help now because Geralt has his old family and his new family and what could a bunch of Witchers and a sorceress possibly want with a bard?

He has enough rations left in his pack that he skips supper the first night. He can't bear to listen to Geralt talking to everyone when Jaskier can barely get a few words out of him these days. Some things just aren't destined to be. Sometimes it's better to let something die than it is to suffer meaninglessly.

Jaskier slips away up to his room and goes to sit on the balcony. The weather is still fairly decent, warm enough that the cold doesn't get to him until after dark. It's only when he returns inside that he realizes he only has one lit candle and it's too dark to look around now. So he strips out of his clothes and climbs into the cold bed, blowing out his single candle before curling in on himself and shutting his eyes.

In the morning, Geralt and Eskel set out to clear some mine or other of kikimores. Jaskier doesn't come down from his room until later that evening and the only joy he gets from it is catching the tail end of Eskel's story about the mine. But that doesn't last long, so he makes his way down the halls because if he's going to be staying here a while, he might as well get to know the place.

But barely half an hour into his exploration and just as his nerves are starting to settle, Jaskier comes upon a room with an open door. He doesn't look in, but he hears Geralt's voice, grumbling about something or other and then Yen mumbling, just get in the damn bath so I can wash this shit out of your hair and something inside him that was just barely holding on shatters.

That one hurts more than anything. It had taken him years for Geralt to be comfortable enough to let him stick around while he was in the bath. Longer, even, to let Jaskier take care of him the way Yen apparently does now. Something sticks in his throat and as soon as he rounds the corner, he slumps against the wall, choking back a sob.

All he ever wanted was to love him, in whatever way Geralt would let him, but this is almost worse than being told to leave. This time, Geralt won't even do him the service of telling him he wants him gone, this time he'll just replace him slowly but surely, finding someone new to do all the things Jaskier once did for him. This time, Jaskier doesn't need to be told to leave; he can tell when he's not wanted.

He waits three days, ensuring he has enough supplies, before seeking out Yen. She won't care enough to tell anyone right away, but she cares for Ciri, so if Ciri asks after him, she'll know. Plus, if he tells Geralt he’s leaving, he'd have to see the utter lack of emotion on his face, and he couldn't bear that.

Jaskier makes his way down through the courtyard without interruption, stopping at the stables to bid farewell to his horse. He hasn't had her long, but she's been good to him and he hopes she'll be just as good for Ciri.

For hours, Jaskier walks, recalling the path from memory, then just as it gets dark, it starts to snow. And once it starts, it doesn't stop and he's forced to take shelter in the first place he can find. It's cold and hard to trudge through the deepening snow and he didn't consider how hard it would be to find food up in the mountains. But none of that matters because the only place he can find to sleep is a cave, the entrance just barely visible to him in the dark, and when its resident comes home, he's liable to be eaten before he has to set out again.

He tries to build a fire, but the only wood he can find are the small trees just outside the mouth of the cave and they're soaked from the snow. Bitterly, he thinks that it's never this difficult for Geralt and at once, something clicks into place.

This isn't his life. The reason he doesn't fit is because he doesn’t belong. He tried to make it work and maybe for a little while he did, but he belongs in the city, not out in the wilderness. The reason he doesn't fit is because he's trying to be something that he's not. He's a bard, not an adventurer.

With a sigh, he sinks to his knees and wonders if he'll make it through the night. Maybe he should have waited at the keep until spring. He's never been out on his own like this - not so far north in unfamiliar territory -, but even now the thought of staying up there with Geralt and Yen makes his stomach turn. So he pulls his knees up against his chest and wraps his blanket around him. He tries to sleep, but the wind howls and snow blows in through the mouth of the cave and he just ends up damp and cold and miserable.

Jaskier hadn't realized he was asleep until a sound near the mouth of the cave wakes him. Assuming it's whatever lives here, he's thankful that at least the cold will no longer be a problem for him. He doesn't want to die, but being eaten by a monster is better than slowly freezing to death. But when he opens his eyes, there's a person at the mouth of the cave, not a monster. The first thing he thinks is who the hell is out in this storm? but it doesn't take long before he has an answer.

"Jaskier?" Fuck. "Jaskier, are you in there?" He wonders if he's quiet if the monster might come back and eat him after all.

"Yeah," he mumbles and it's all he can manage, but he knows Geralt will hear. And he does. And he pushes through the snowdrift, breathing heavily as he drops to his knees before Jaskier and hauls him into his arms.

"What were fucking thinking?" he growls and Jaskier winces at the anger in his voice, but then he's being pulled forward against Geralt's chest. "Idiot. You're frozen."

"Snow," Jaskier mumbles, not quite sure what to do with his arms. He doesn't know what's happening, but it ages before Geralt moves again, though he never stops telling Jaskier he's an idiot. That much, at least, feels familiar.

When he does finally pull away, Jaskier can barely see him in the dark but he knows Geralt can see him. Which means he can see his puffy eyes and he probably knows how scared and confused he is right now. And he hates it. He wants to push him away, but Geralt is warm and Jaskier is freezing and he finds himself swaying back toward his body. And after a quick once-over, Geralt lets him.

Once he's apparently satisfied that Jaskier isn't in immediate danger, he settles against the wall of the cave and pulls him into his lap.

"Why didn't you light a fire?" he asks and most of the anger has left his voice, replaced with soft concern.

"Couldn't get it lit," Jaskier shrugs, "wet wood."

For a while, Geralt is quiet again, tugging Jaskier's blanket up around him and just holding him. It doesn't occur to him until much later that Geralt is trying to get his body temperature up.

"What are you doing out here?"

"Hmm?" Jaskier had nearly drifted off, wrapped in the warmth of Geralt's body, but the question startles him awake again.

"Why did you leave without telling anyone?"

"I told Yen," he offers, but he knows it's weak.

"You told-" Geralt scoffs, exasperated and Jaskier can't figure out what the big deal is. No one wanted him there, anyway.

"Why are you here?" he counters, "why didn't you just stay in the keep?"

Geralt stills and Jaskier turns to look at him, knowing he won't be able to see much in the dark, but it feels better having this conversation face-to-face.

"Why the fuck do you think, Jaskier?" And Jaskier just looks at him because he doesn't know. He can't fathom what brought Geralt out here in the storm. Because even if he did come to retrieve him out of some kind of sense of responsibility, surely he wouldn't risk leaving Ciri without a caretaker. When he doesn't answer, Geralt gets very quiet.

"Where were you going?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Oxenfurt."

"You'd die before you got there," Geralt exclaims, the anger returning to his voice with a vengeance.

"I brought provisions. Where's Ciri?"

"With Eskel and Lambert. Why would you just leave without telling anyone?" Geralt asks and Jaskier realizes in this context, that anyone means me.

Jaskier pulls away from him, irritation winning out over the desire to be warm. "Because I didn't really think anyone would care," he says "I don't belong anymore, not since-" he sighs and readjusts so he's sitting across from Geralt. "What happened on the mountain can't be fixed, Geralt. And I told Yen, I figured she'd pass the message along."

Geralt lets out an exasperated laugh and Jaskier wants to slap him for it. He never should have come up here in the first place.

"Jaskier, if anything from that day is irreparable, it's my relationship with Yen. We only travel together because of Ciri, because it's beneficial for both of us."

"So why do you keep me around then? What good am I?" He doesn't mean for it to come out, but it does and he holds his ground, hoping he looks more determined than he feels.

"You're my friend, Jaskier. And Ciri loves you. You're the only one who feeds Roach those little sugar cubes she likes so much. You know, she gets snippy with me now if I don't have them for her. I even think Yen is beginning to enjoy your company." Geralt's voice softens and he reaches out, tentatively brushing Jaskier's hair away from his face.

"What about you?" Jaskier asks, trying to keep the unsteadiness from his voice.

"Do you really think if I didn't want you around I would have let you follow me out of Posada? Roach could easily have outrun you if I wanted to." His hand slips to cup his cheek and Jaskier barely resists shutting his eyes. It feels too close to intimacy, but he knows Geralt better than to think this is anything real. But he's forgotten what it feels like to be touched so softly and when Geralt bundles him back into his arms, Jaskier sinks into it despite his reservations.

"Jaskier," he breathes right next to his ear. "That day on the mountain, I was angry because Yen was right about me and I didn't want to face it. I had to take responsibility and then you-" he exhales deeply, tucking his head into the crook of Jaskier's neck. "I was struggling with my… feelings. I felt like I'd somehow forced you to stay with me the way I did with Yen. I couldn't bear to hear the same things from you so I-"

"Pushed me away?" Jaskier asks.

"Hmm,” Geralt says and his voice is tense with understanding. “You left tonight because of me."

"I didn't think you wanted me around anymore," he mumbles and it's not until Geralt shifts that Jaskier realizes he's got both hands fisted in his cloak. "I thought I'd save myself having to hear it from you. I didn't want anyone's pity."

Geralt hauls him up into his lap so the only way for him to sit comfortably is to wrap his legs around Geralt's waist. For a moment, that ferocity is back, but then Geralt tugs the blanket tighter around him, holds him closer.

"Why wouldn't I want you around?"

"You have Yen and Ciri and the other Witchers, what could you possibly want me for? Everything I used to do for you-" he chokes on a sob and curses himself for it before burying his face in Geralt's shoulder. "Everything I did for you, someone else does now."

"What are you talking about?"

"Just... everything. All the things I used to do for you. When you don't sleep because of your nightmares, Ciri goes to you. When I tried to get wood for the fire it was already done when I got back-" he sighs and shifts away from Geralt a little. "The other night in the bath, Yen-"

"Yen?"

"I heard you," Jaskier says, "you don't have to hide it now. I know. It doesn't matter that much I just... I don't know what I can do for you when everyone else is doing what I used to do."

"Jaskier you don't need to do anything. You're my friend. And Yen- that's not what you thought it was. "

Jaskier isn't quite sure what to do with any of that, but when Geralt tugs him close again, he lets himself be held and buries his face in his shoulder. Geralt allows it, letting one hand slip up between his shoulder blades and bringing him closer. They stay like that for some time and Jaskier's heart aches for more than he should want. This is so much more than he ever expected but now with Geralt wrapped around him, he wants more.

When Geralt finally pulls himself away, he regards Jaskier for a moment before running a hand down his arm.

"Are you warm enough," he asks and Jaskier nods because even if he wasn't, he can't take much more of this before he breaks and says or does something he'll regret. "We should get you back to the keep and into a warm bath."

The idea of a bath is tempting, but more so is the idea of staying here in Geralt's arms for as long as he's allowed. Stil, Jaskier lets himself be pulled to his feet and led toward the mouth of the cave.

Their return to the keep is quiet and Jaskier isn't sure anyone else even realized he was gone until Geralt pauses and doubles back on himself, heading toward his own room rather than the guest room.

"Eskel's got a bath ready," he says by way of explanation.

"How did he-" Jaskier starts but he realizes the answer before he can finish. They were probably keeping watch, waiting for Geralt to return.

"I told him to," Geralt says, approaching the door and stepping back so Jaskier can enter the room first. It's darker than the room he's staying in, but there's a balcony off the far wall that lets in a little light, and candles placed on every surface. The bath is at the right side of the room and Geralt guides him toward it.

"It shouldn't be too hot," he says, "so it doesn't shock your body, but there's more water boiling by the fire if you need to warm it up."

"Thank you," Jaskier whispers. Guilt curdles in his gut and he pulls the blanket a little tighter around his shoulders. He's still cold and eager to get into the tub, but more than anything he's dreading having to get undressed in front of Geralt. Luckily, he's spared that embarrassment.

Geralt claps a hand on his shoulder, lingering just a moment too long. "I'll find you something to eat," he says, "try to warm up."

Jaskier nods dumbly, waiting until Geralt has left the room to let the blanket slip from his shoulders. To say he doesn't understand would be an understatement. He's never seen Geralt like this, not even with Ciri, and a part of him wonders if he didn't freeze to death in that cave and this is some sort of weird afterlife. But the water is hot against his skin, a little too hot to begin with and his skin tingles as he slips into the bath and shuts his eyes. And Geralt's hands felt real, right down to the callouses. But it all seems a bit off.

Jaskier has been hypothermic before, more than once, and it wasn't like this. He's left Geralt in much worse ways than this and it's never ended with him in a bath drawn especially for him. But Jaskier isn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth, so he warms himself up without even having to use the extra water and upon getting out of the tub, realizes all his clothes are cold and soaked.

Frowning, he looks around the room and spots Geralt's pack dumped on a chair in the corner. Surely, Geralt wouldn't mind if he just borrowed some of his clothes. Just for a little while. Jaskier is the one who washes them anyway - or he used to be. His heart sinks again, but he pushes away the feeling, crossing to pull clean clothes out of the pack.

They fit him surprisingly well and they smell like Geralt which is both comforting and nerve-wracking all at once. The blanket is wet now too, so he hangs that with his clothes where they won't drip on anything important and heads down to the kitchen.

Geralt isn't there, but he can hear him shuffling around on the opposite side of the fire, so Jaskier settles himself at one of the tables to wait patiently. He doesn't hear Eskel approach, so he must already have been there, talking to Geralt, but their conversation suddenly gets louder before something crashes to the floor.

Jaskier keeps quiet, trying not to listen in because he knows it's not his place, but they're arguing in earnest now and Geralt sounds passive and ashamed in a way that's very unlike him. Then there's a grunt from Geralt and Eskel says, "you didn't fucking tell him," like he’s only just realizing this. Jaskier focuses very hard on a knot in the tabletop.

It's an accusation, not a question and it's followed by heavy footsteps coming toward him. He tenses up, not prepared to deal with an angry Geralt, but it's Eskel who comes through the door. He pauses when he sees Jaskier, gives him a sympathetic sort of look and mumbles something that sounds like goodnight before continuing onward up the stairs.

Jaskier sits and waits and eventually, Geralt appears through the doorway with two bowls of stew and rolls. He sits next to him, pushing one of the bowls toward him and Jaskier tries not to show just how hungry he is. They sit in companionable silence, which is more than he can say for the last few weeks and Jaskier settles. When they're finished, Geralt is the one to speak first, angling his body so he's facing Jaskier but not looking directly at him.

"It's getting late," is all he says but Jaskier understands. He moves to take their bowls away but Geralt rests a hand on his wrist and takes the bowls from him. "I'll meet you upstairs."

Jaskier nods slowly, not quite understanding. He makes for his own room, climbing up as far as the staircase goes and pushing the door open. He's quite frankly exhausted and doesn't even think to get changed before climbing up onto the bed. The snow on the balcony lights the room well enough, but he fumbles with a candle for a few minutes anyway before giving up on that idea. He's alone in the dim room for a few minutes before Geralt knocks on the door and Jaskier mumbles for him to come in.

Geralt comes to sit on the side of the bed and Jaskier's heart feels like it's pounding out of his chest. He doesn't know what to say or even how to process what they've already said, but in his need to fill the silence, he blurts out, "why do you and Yen share a tent?" And it's the last thing he means to say and he does want to know, but this is not at all the time.

Only Geralt smiles. It's a small thing, barely a quirk of his lips, but it's there and for the first time in forever, Jaskier feels comfortable in his presence.

"Because Ciri asked to share with you. You're a good memory for her, one of the few she has of home."

"Oh."

"Before you came back, she shared with Yen." Geralt looks down at him and the almost-smile turns to confusion. "You're wearing my clothes."

"Mine were wet, I can change if-"

"No," Geralt interrupts and Jaskier can feel his eyes on him, taking him in, "it's fine."

"Oh. Right. I'll wash them in the morning then."

"You don't have to, they look good on you. You should sleep now, though. Goodnight, Jaskier."

Jaskier's heart thuds. He doesn't want to let Geralt go before he gets a chance to finish their conversation from earlier. "Geralt?" he asks and the Witcher turns back to him in the dark. "If it's not too much to ask, could you stay? Just for a little bit?"

Geralt doesn't say anything, but he comes back, pulling off his boots before climbing up onto the bed next to him. He lays still and Jaskier doesn't reach out and touch, as much as he wants to.

Geralt is the first to move, shifting onto his side and reaching into the space between them.

"Can I-?" he asks and Jaskier nods without hesitation, unsure of what's being requested. Seemingly pleased with his consent, Geralt's hand slips over his side and around his back, nudging him a little closer as he gets comfortable. Jaskier doesn't know what to do with himself.

It's too much and not enough all at once and he wants to pull away, but he doesn't want to break this moment of trust. So he pushes through, presses into the touch and tips his head down to keep Geralt from seeing the mess of emotions that are sure to be plain on his face. Not that he wouldn't be able to feel them anyway, but still.

"I'm sorry things have been different since you came back," he breathes. "Sorry if I made you feel..."

"Unwanted?" Jaskier offers and Geralt winces at the word, his arm pulling just a little tighter around Jaskier's back.

"Mmm."

"Are we... okay?" Jaskier asks tentatively, finally risking a glance up at Geralt's face.

"As long as you don't do that again," Geraly mumbles, "you... scared me tonight. I've been thinking so much about how to protect Ciri that I didn't consider losing you."

"You won't," Jaskier promises. "I won't." He moves closer, testing Geralt's limits, but his guard seems to be down tonight; Jaskier presses right up against him before Geralt so much as moves. And then, it's only to hold him closer.

He must have been genuinely worried, Jaskier thinks, to allow this right now. Which is the only reason he says the next thing that comes out of his mouth.

"I didn't mean to worry you," he says softly, slipping one hand up to cautiously rest against Geralt's chest. "I didn't think-" he shakes his head, pushing away the thoughts, "well, I didn't think you would come out after me. I'm sorry."

"Maybe..." Geralt starts then turns his head away like the words are difficult for him. Jaskier braces himself for something he doesn't want to hear, trying hard not to pull away defensively, but Geralt surprises him. "Maybe we both need to be better at saying what we mean."

Instead of drawing away, Jaskier slips his hand up to rest against the side of Geralt's neck. This is absolutely uncharted territory for them and he's not quite sure what to do here. What do you do when the least communicative person you know says you should talk about things more. But he's not wrong and Jaskier's touch seems to relax him a little, so armed with that information, Jaskier presses forward.

"You're right," he says. "So if we're going to... say what we mean, I should tell you that all of this with Ciri and Yen and everyone up here - it scares me, Geralt." Geralt opens his mouth to speak, but Jaskier just shakes his head. "Please just let me finish. Yen is a sorceress. Even if your relationship with her is over, she will always be a part of your life. Ciri has powers I can't even begin to comprehend. Your brothers and the others- they're Witchers, Geralt. All of them will be with you for years to come and all of them have been with you - barring, Ciri - for years. How can I live up to that? How can I possibly find a place in your life when soon I'll be gone and they'll just-" he chokes on the last word and can't bring himself to continue.

Words are his livelihood and yet when he needs them the most, they seem to fail him entirely. Luckily for him, Geralt is accustomed to non-verbal communication and understands. But in the faint light of the room, he looks like he wants to retreat, to pull away and forget everything he said before. He doesn't and Jaskier realizes this is just as difficult for Geralt as it is for him.

"Jaskier," he shuts his eyes and Jaskier holds his breath. For one awful moment, everything is silent, then Geralt speaks again, quiet and soft. "Everyone else in my life has been brought to me by forces outside of my control. I never chose to become a Witcher, to be brought here as a child as raised with dozens of other boys who would never make it to adulthood. I never intended to bind myself to Yen - Djinn are tricky and bend wishes to their own amusement. And Ciri- how was I to know Pavetta was already with child when I claimed the law of surprise?"

Jaskier wants to remind him of the multiple other occasions in which the law of surprise has gifted someone a child, but he doubts this is the place to bring up Geralt's mistakes.

"But you," Geralt continues, speaking slower like each word is pulled unwillingly from his lips. "You came to me on a whim. I could have left you in Posada, ridden away and left you in the tavern." He sighs, tips his head up so his forehead presses against Jaskier's. "But I chose not to. I chose to let you come with me. And I regretted it, in the beginning."

"I certainly hope you said nicer things to Yen when you found each other again."

Geralt huffs a laugh, just the fainted sound in the dark, but his breath is warm against Jaskier's cheek. "Let me finish."

"Do you promise you'll say nicer things about me?"

"Hmm, maybe."

"Fine then, finish your story."

"I regretted it, in the beginning, but it was still my own choice, mine to regret. Over time I grew... attached. That first time you left me was the first time I really felt lonely since undergoing the trials."

"You leave your brothers every spring," Jaskier says, an attempt to mask the hammering of his heart.

"I do, but so is the life of a Witcher. It's the way it's supposed to be. There's no room for loneliness. There were no rules attached to you and so when you left it seemed too quiet."

"Are you... are you saying you like having me around?" Jaskier asks, the hopeful tone in his voice a backdrop to the thudding in his chest.

"Yes," Geralt replies, "I dread the winters when I come up here alone."

"Then why do you? And why did you say Ciri wanted me to come?"

Geralt makes a noise that sounds something like embarrassment and Jaskier's sure if he could see properly, he would be blushing.

"I'm sorry," he says again, "I couldn't ask because if you said no I- but I knew you'd never say no to her. She told me you were leaving and I knew if I let you go I wouldn't see you again."

"You idiot, you could have just asked me. I follow you into swamps and monster dens and worse- why would I say no to spending the winter here?" He shifts to run his fingers along Geralt's jaw and sighs. "You're my-"

"Friend?" Geralt offers and the sound of that word on his lips makes something warm swell in Jaskier's chest, but he remembers his promise to speak plainly.

"More than that" he admits. He ducks his chin, unable to look at Geralt while he speaks, this time. "I tried so hard to just be a good friend to you, but it's always been more than that. I don't expect anything from you, of course, but you said we should-" He's cut off by gentle fingers tracing the line of his jaw and he shuts his eyes, waiting for the inevitable downfall. But it doesn't come.

"Jaskier," he breathes, "if you're worried about your place in my life, this is it." Geralt tips his head up and their lips brush against each other just for a second, but Jaskier is certain his heart stops beating altogether.

"Geralt?" he whispers but it comes out as an uncertain whimper. Geralt hums in response, shifting to cradle Jaskier's head in one hand, and he presses in again.

This time Jaskier knows it's intentional. The lips against his own are warm and soft, whispering silent promises and asking for the same in return. Jaskier responds tentatively, but as soon as he does, Geralt is gathering him up against him and his uncertainty vanishes.

He's seen Geralt kiss before, but this is nothing like that. Geralt kisses him with a passion that speaks of years of repression and guilt, begging for forgiveness for something Jaskier hadn't realized he was even doing. And Jaskier forgives, tangling his fingers in Geralt's hair and submitting readily when Geralt rolls him onto his back.

Geralt gets a knee between his thighs and Jaskier's breath catches as Geralt's hand slips under the hem of his borrowed shirt. He'd be more than happy to lay here and let Geralt kiss him senseless, but when Geralt's teeth graze against his lip, Jaskier groans, effectively shattering the moment.

Geralt draws back, looking down on him and Jaskier slips his hands around the back of his neck. "Do you mean that?" Jaskier asks, “about me belonging with you?” Geralt nods.

"Of course, if you want to leave, I'll take you back to Oxenfurt, but I'd prefer if you stayed here."

"Right here?" Jaskier asks, sprawling under him against the mattress.

"Right here," Geralt confirms with a soft smile. "With me."

[bookersebastien]

i'm really sad after season 2, i used to ship yeralt so much and now it just feels empty. he doesn't forgive her, he doesn't empthasize with her pain or loss at all, he doesn't truly love her. i really thought he did :(.

i don't agree with that. they both still love each other so much and that's what i saw in that last scene. the hurt and pain they're experiencing is only because they love each other still. yennefer is still the only person he trusts with ciri, why else would he tell yennefer that she is to train ciri. yeah it could be because he knows she is a very powerful mage, and yes she is the only one who has been able to help ciri channel her magic, but he would never give someone access to ciri if he didn't absolutely trust them. but yennefer also broke his trust, he knows why she did, and i do think he feels her pain because he knows how much having magic meant to her, but her means of trying to get it back is not something he can just forgive just because she sacrificed herself. he still trusts her because she stopped when she realized what she was doing and tried to get ciri away from the monolith, nearly died trying to remove voleth meir from ciri's body. but he can't forgive her, not yet anyway. she knew how much ciri meant to him, looked him in the face as she escaped from rience with ciri, she knew geralt well, she knew he would not take on this child surprise unless it was something important, something worth him falling into this mess for, and she still nearly gave ciri up to someone who would use that power to become so much more dangerous

yennefer is sitting with geralt and ciri once the battle is all over, they're a family now. yennefer will have to earn back his forgiveness but she still has his trust or she'd be thrown out of there without a second thought. he admitted to her that they needed something more to keep them together, because destiny intertwining their lives wasn't enough, but with ciri, they are choosing to choose to be in each other's lives. there is love there still, but there's too much other feelings for them to be able to express or even acknowledge it. season 3 will hopefully bring geralt and yennefer closer together, build trust more and have them create a relationship that may or may not go back to being romantic but will at least be filled with mutual trust, respect, and love

[samstree]

Dark Bird (1/?)

Geraskier, 3.5k, The Time Traveler’s Wife AU, a sequel to You are too well tangled in my soul

Also on AO3.

There’s safe house, and there’s Yennefer’s safe house.

It’s really more of a castle on the outskirts of Novigrad, and none of them knows how she acquired it. Remembering the major’s townhouse in Rinde, it’s probably wise not to ask. One look at the fancy decoration and luxuries in it, Jaskier almost wishes he’s the one with dangerous powers who needs to stay for training.

The protective wards are so well-designed that the only way in is through Yennefer’s portals and hers alone. If Geralt had any doubt regarding Ciri’s safety here, it certainly disappeared after he’s seen the place.

Alas, a letter from home calls for Jaskier’s return. After dropping Ciri off, they need to set off to Lettenhove immediately.

Home. It’s the word that fills Jaskier with longing and dread at the same time. Sleep has been eluding him since the sorceress brought news of his father’s death.

Geralt would want to bid Ciri goodbye before they leave, so Jaskier offers to ready Roach and gives them space.

“Are you sure you have to go?” Ciri’s voice is muffled in Geralt’s chest when she squeezes the hug tighter.

“I’m sorry, cub. But Jaskier needs to go back to Lettenhove.”

“No, I—” she pulls away, reluctantly. “I know he doesn’t have the best memories of that place. Something about his father. That’s why he’s been so down since the letter. And scared too. Why does he have to go if he’s so scared of it?”

From a distance, Jaskier can only catch pieces of the conversation. He startles at how perceptive the young girl is. The idea of Ciri being so worried sits wrong in his stomach. She has been through enough.

Roach snorts next to him like she’s judging him for eavesdropping.

Geralt replies softly into Ciri’s ear while tucking away her unruly hair. Jaskier can’t hear anything without appearing too suspicious. No doubt the words are only meant for his child and no one else. Finally, the girl relents. “Just take care of him, Geralt.”

The witcher gives her a solemn promise before beckoning Jaskier over.

Ciri also pulls him into a tight hug that borders on painful. The girl hasn’t realized how strong she’s become over the past winter. Constant sword training with all the wolf witchers has given her enough strength to hold her own against any common soldier or two. She’s grown taller too, so much so that her hair is all over Jaskier’s face and tickling his nose. He wonders how much taller she’s gonna be when they see each other next.

“Keep Geralt between you and monsters.”

“Keep Yennefer between you and trouble.” Jaskier smiles at her adorable little frown. “And don’t you worry about me, poppet. You are too young to have worry lines.”

The front gate of the mansion creaks open, and Yennefer herself steps out. “Ready?”

Geralt leaves a quick kiss on Ciri’s head and nods at the sorceress. With a heavy heart, Jaskier steps through the portal after the witcher and his mare into the forest of Redania. Behind them, where the mansion should be, stands a crumbling ruin, disguised from the eyes of travelers.

“What did you tell Ciri?”

A smile flashes through Geralt’s amber eyes. “Knew you were listening in.”

“Apparently not, if I didn’t catch anything.” Jaskier pouts, but it’s hard to distract himself from the bubbling dread of returning to his childhood home.

Geralt hums, studying his bard. The witcher must have seen through his pretense because the next thing he knows Geralt is squeezing his shoulder reassuringly.

“I told her you’ll be all right,” Geralt says. “That I’ll be there to make sure of it.”

Staring into the warm molten gold, Jaskier almost believes it.

 *

The ground thaws. Life returns to the Continent after a long winter.

They arrive in Lettenhove on a warm morning, walking side by side through a stretch of meadows. The dandelions have declared spring’s arrival, peppering the ground with sparks of sunlight.

Geralt remains beside Jaskier, steady and solid just as he has been throughout the journey. They knock on the door.

“Master Julian!”

The guard leads them into the great hall. Servants greet him with a name that has been buried for over twenty years, and it catches Jaskier off guard. Everything here, the estate, the title, his father’s fortune, it all would have been his had he not leave. So would the crushing expectations of being a noble. As much as Jaskier seems to fare better with them than the witcher, he knows too well about the back-stabbing nature of those elites.

A warm hand falls on the small of his back, Geralt’s eyes meeting his in support.

“All right?”

Jaskier opens his mouth to reply, only to be interrupted by heavy footsteps and a surprised gasp.

“Julian?” God, it’s been too many years since Jaskier has seen his mother. Jaskier startles at how much she’s changed – her hair has gone completely white, her skin lined with wrinkles, but her eyes are a striking blue. “It’s been so long. I couldn’t believe it when they told me it was you. Oh, Julian. It’s so good to see you again.”

“Hello, mother.” He smiles tightly, suddenly forgetting what to do, so he lets her pull him into a tentative hug. Jaskier cannot remember the last time his mother hugged him. It’s unexpectedly nice, in a way that he never knew it could be.

“You missed the funeral.”

“I’m sorry. It must be difficult for you.” Jaskier feels his mother tense up when she notices Geralt’s presence.

“This is my…companion, Geralt of Rivia.” He pulls away, gesturing to the witcher. Her posture immediately changes into a more serious one, her back stiffer. Her sharp blue eyes, identical to Jaskier’s own, look up and down the witcher with an untrusting expression Jaskier has seen one too many times in his lifetime.

“I didn’t know you would bring a witcher with you,” she frowns.

You look so much like your mother, Julian. Especially your eyes. Everyone they used to meet told him that. Right now, it brings him anguish that those eyes so similar to his are looking at Geralt with such hostility.

“As I said, he’s my companion. That’s why he’s here with me.”

“Julian, you know his kind is not welcome here. Your father would never approve—”

“My father has passed, mother. I will not have him insult the person I love anymore.” She flinches at the word love. Whatever illusion of warmth between them is disappearing. “You don’t have to side with him anymore.”

They stand in stone-cold silence. The pounding of his heart and his quickened breath are all Jaskier can hear.

“He brought a witcher in case of monsters,” Geralt chimes in unexpectedly, “Though I find more of them among those in high positions. You wouldn’t have those in Lettenhove, would you?”

Her lips tighten at the insinuation. “Is that what you’re here to do, Julian? As soon as your father is gone you come home to insult us, and what? You’ll take your inheritance and go back to being a jester and dragging the Pankratz name through the dirt? Have you no shame, no sense of responsibility to your family?”

Jaskier lets out a dry laugh.

“I haven’t used the family name for decades. Everything I have right now I built for myself.” He takes a deep breath to collect himself. “As for the other thing, you don’t have to worry. I’m not here for the inheritance, or the title or anything you believe is important enough to fight over. No, I’ll make sure none of it will ever have any power over me, then I’ll be out of your hair.”

Her face turns pale out of humiliation, but Jaskier feels no sense of triumph. He’s not here to cause her more grief. Instead, he just feels hollow, tired, like he just traveled across the Continent for a battle that he already lost.

“Very well. You will remain in the estate until the transition is complete.” She straightens her back. In her dark mourning clothes, she almost looks as respectable as any noble pretends to be.

“Have a nice day, mother.”

An older handmaid comes to lead Jaskier away to a guest room. There’s no need for any more exchanges.

“I’m sorry for your loss.” Geralt nods to the Dowager Viscountess curtly, before turning to follow. His hand circles Jaskier’s waist again as their footsteps pick up. Jaskier releases a shuddering breath he’s been holding in at the touch, and if he’s leaning on Geralt a little bit too much, the witcher does not seem to mind.

 *

Ferrant settles into the job like a puzzle fitting into place, Jaskier muses as he takes another sip of the fine Toussaint wine. With all his natural ways in court, his cousin is easily the most suitable out of all the Lettenhove children to take the title of Viscount.

Some people are just born to become leaders, to deal with politics and decide the price of tea. Jaskier is lucky, he reckons, that Ferrant is just here with all the experience of running an estate, waiting for him to hand over the title.

Once he’s home and determined to renounce everything, the course of action becomes unexpectedly clear. Ferrant moved into the estate immediately and took over most of the things he was already seeing through. At the time, he was the one to arrange Father’s funeral when Mother was stricken with grief.

The process only lasted two weeks, and Jaskier is more than willing to cooperate just to hasten his departure. Now the last thing required is holding a banquet to announce it to the world, with Ferrant as the Viscount for the first time.

At this point, it’s just formality, one that Jaskier has to attend to show deference to the next head of the family. In his peripheral vision, he can see Mother smile at something Ferrant said. They are both at the top table, playing the perfect host to the first celebration since the funeral.

Geralt has been the most supportive Jaskier has ever seen him. Even his usual grunts have disappeared no matter how many nobles from the Northern Kingdoms are gathering at this hall to prod him with inappropriate questions.

They are seated at the side with Geralt next to Jaskier, shadowing him as if there’s danger hidden in these nobles’ fancy sleeves.

Not only does this place dredge up bad memories of Jaskier’s past, it seems to make Geralt uneasy as well. The witcher is always checking on Jaskier or staying close protectively as if this house can still hurt him. Even now, as they sit in front of an abundance of food and drinks, Geralt is still tense, ready to strike anyone who as much as looks at Jaskier wrong.

In the din of the room, the hired singer is playing some classical melodies so the guests can start to dance. It’s a young musician he’s never seen at any competitions, and he almost snorts into his drink at the immaturity in his playing. The buzz of the alcohol relaxes his limbs, making everything light and fuzzy and soft around the edges.

If Jaskier can’t play at his own goodbye party, he’s determined to make the most of it.

“Come on.” He pulls Geralt to his feet and leads him into the dance floor. The witcher raises an eyebrow in question but complies.

Jaskier places his chin on Geralt’s shoulder and holds him close. His witcher responds in return, pressing a hand right between his shoulder blades, his warm breaths ghosting over the shell of Jaskier’s ear.

The music slows and they sway gently to the rhythm. The light has dimmed as the night drags on. For a moment Jaskier can pretend they are dancing alone by campfire instead of being watched by countless prying eyes.

“Our last night here.”

“Hmm.”

“I’m sorry about that guy earlier,” Jaskier winces at the memory.

Geralt’s answer is almost drowned out by the music and the crowd. “The baron? It’s fine.”

“It’s not. He asked if you drink baby blood to stay young.” Jaskier is offended on Geralt’s behalf just by how laughable these rumors are.

“Jokes on him. I’m older than his grandfather.”

Jaskier lets out a chuckle. “And yet, my dear witcher, you haven’t aged one bit since the day I met you.”

“Haven’t I?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Haven’t I really?” Geralt murmurs again. Jaskier untangles from their tight embrace to see the witcher’s worried frown. “All these years, for all you've seen me misplaced in time. Do I never look older than I am now?”

Jaskier touches Geralt’s cheekbone, where the long scar will be.

“You look older, sometimes.”

“But by how much? Can you tell?”

Jaskier’s eyebrows scrunch up in return. “What brought this on? You’ve never cared about your looks. Has vanity finally overcome you in old age, my love?”

Geralt tilts his head at the teasing.

“Not vanity, Jask. I don’t care if the years will show on my skin. If I’ve learned one thing about you–” He presses a kiss at the corner of Jaskier’s left eye. “—these lines only make you more beautiful. No, I was just wondering…Do you know what is the oldest you’ve ever seen me?”

Jaskier blinks. He has seen a much older Geralt, steady and sure of himself. But that Geralt is also battle-worn and weary, with aching joints that won’t heal fully. He keeps a mental map of all Geralt’s scars, the ones already here and the ones that will be. Sometimes he presses gentle kisses to those phantom scars that are still just unmarred skin, as if he can soothe them in advance.

But no, he doesn’t know which version of Geralt is the oldest. Marking the years by scars is too imprecise. Whatever magical intervention, blessing, or even curse that makes time travel possible for Geralt, it has apparently been here throughout his life. Chances are it will continue to happen until the day he dies.

When we slow and get killed, Geralt said those words a lifetime ago. An untimely death will always loom over a witcher’s path even if there isn’t a war raging out there. A chill runs down Jaskier’s body. He’s suddenly seeing all these little pockets of stolen time in his memory in a new light. There’s no telling if he’s already seen Geralt at the end of his life—

“Hey,” Geralt interrupts his spiraling. The room is suddenly too stuffy and Jaskier struggles to take in air. Added with the wine from earlier, his stomach turns with nausea. The room spins under his feet.

“Shit. I didn’t mean to upset you, Jask. Ah…forget about it. Let’s get some air.”

Strong hands steer Jaskier away from the dancing couples. They slip through the crowd as quietly as possible. At the back of his head, he knows court etiquette demands his presence in the hall, but any potential protest is shushed by Geralt’s murmuring.

A cool breeze from the garden hits Jaskier, and he leans into his witcher under the stars, still panting but not as violently.

“I’m okay. We should go back.”

“Shh, it’s okay. No one will notice. After tonight, you’ll have nothing to do with them. Geralt’s hands reach under Jaskier’s doublet, resting on the chemise, the warmth of his palm seeping through the thin fabric. “You’ll be free, completely.”

A high-pitched laugh comes through the open door, probably Ferrant telling a cheesy joke to impress the ladies.

“Thank you for being here with me.” Jaskier rests his forehead against Geralt’s temple. “I don’t know what I would have done if I came alone.”

“Hmm. You are strong enough, Jaskier.”

“Am I?” Jaskier says mockingly. “I… There’s always this…chasm that I couldn’t bridge. The longer I was away from home the more I forgot why I was so unhappy here. I kept wondering…if I really was so miserable? Was there really nothing good here? Sometimes it feels like my memories are false, that everything was fine all along.”

“Jask.” Geralt’s jaw tightens, his voice lowers dangerously, but Jaskier knows the anger is not directed at him. “I cannot speak for your entire childhood. But from what I saw, what he did to you was not something any parent should do to their children.”

“It wasn’t that bad.”

“If you need to convince people it wasn’t that bad, it was bad enough.”

Jaskier hums, nuzzling into Geralt’s neck. The witcher’s muscles are tense, but the warm skin there smells faintly like the lavender soap they share.

“I suppose,” he muses.

They stand under the stars, listening to the distant music until the night whiles away and guests start to leave.

Mother stands in the doorway, her silhouette framed by the warm candlelight. A chill sends goosebumps down Jaskier’s spine as she turns away, disappointed for the last time.

Geralt ushers him back to the guest room and starts a roaring fire. That night Jaskier falls asleep in the safe embrace of his lover. Those nightmares of old he dreads never come. When the witcher’s gravelly voice drags him out of sweet oblivion before dawn, Jaskier feels rested for the first time since he stepped foot in this town.

He will never be Julian of Lettenhove again.

 *

“You woke me up at some godsforsaken hour for this?”

The lake glistens under the rising sun, lapping at the shore in the quiet of the morning. Roach is soon distracted by the wild flora and nibbling on them happily.

Geralt is standing by the water, all wide shoulders and strong arms. A few strands of silver fall out of his ponytail and sway in the gentle breeze. Jaskier hides a little gasp. Every now and then he gets hit in the face by how beautiful his witcher is.

“We are leaving today.”

“I’m aware.” Jaskier smiles, feeling warm and fuzzy under the morning sun. “We didn’t pack everything just to have Roach carry them back to the house.”

“Wanted to see this place.”

“Didn’t know you to be spontaneous,” he teases. “And, darling, you’ve been here a million times.”

“Hmm. But not by choice.” Geralt purses his lips, bending down to pick up a flower. “It’s nice. Nicer, when it’s on my terms.”

Jaskier’s grin spreads as he takes off his boots to roll up the end of his breeches. The coldness sends goosebumps down his back when he steps into the shallow water.

“Come on then.”

It reminds him of the coast of Cidaris. He misses the tang of salt and the roaring waves. Maybe he’ll ask Geralt to come with him again.

A splatter hits Jaskier in the face and he squeals with indignation. The witcher splashes more lake water towards him with a cocky smirk. Jaskier retaliates with equal force and it turns messy very quickly.

“These are nice clothes, you heathen!”

The witcher attacks fiercely, though Jaskier knows he must be holding back, or he would never stand a chance. Regardless, Jaskier is the one who ends up soaked and almost falling. Lucky his witcher is there to drag him ashore.

Geralt helps him out and takes off the doublet as their giggling dies down. Jaskier hasn’t felt this light since he got here so he lies down on the grass and lets the sun do the rest of the drying.

“I was wrong.”

“Hmm?” the witcher plops down next to him, blocking the sunlight. Jaskier shifts to rest his head on Geralt’s thigh.

“There are good things about Lettenhove.” He revels in the feeling of Geralt’s fingers running through his hair, the ends still a little wet. “This lake. I used to come here hours before you showed up, even if I knew the precise time. Think about all the poems I wrote here… See that tree? My early works were all created under that tree.”

“Don’t you ever get tired? Waiting for me, back then and…later?”

The pad of Geralt’s thumb traces the shell of Jaskier’s ear. He thinks back on the years, the heartbreak, the lonely walk down a mountain, but then those images were replaced by the reunions, by a passionate kiss and the crinkle around those amber eyes when Geralt pretends not to care for Jaskier’s cheesy puns.

“Silly witcher. You are worth the wait,” he murmurs, “I’d do it all over again, you know? As long as we have a future together.”

The wind shifts and Geralt’s smile softens. There is something somber in the way he observes Jaskier’s face. It’s like he might forget it the next moment if he pays any less attention. “We do,” he responds.

Jaskier plunges to tackle Geralt to the ground and kisses him with an inch of his life, kisses away the slight worry at the corner of his mouth.

After all, they have the rest of their lives ahead.

[when-a-humble-bard]

in ways that can’t be said

Summary: Geralt lives in a very dark and violent world. Good things are few and far between. He doesn't know what it means, really, to be in love.So when he falls in love with Jaskier, it happens slowly. Gradually. Reluctantly.Or, 10 moments where Geralt falls a little more in love with the bard no matter how much it scares him. Geraskier.

Companion piece to this fic but can be read separately.

Word Count: 6961

Warnings: canon-typical peril and violence, blood, injury, death mention (but no actual death), light Geralt whump, feral!Jaskier, headaches, fear of sensory overload, cursing, interpretation of canon scene with shipping lens, Yennefer makes a brief appearance, Ciri is part of this at one point, emotionally constipated Geralt, and then emotionally-overwhelmed Geralt, lots of softness and hurt/comfort elements, let me know if other warnings should be added.

A/N: These two have so much story to explore together, and I’m apparently just along for the ride. Edited by yours truly, so all mistakes are mine.

Read on AO3!

...

I.

Geralt is on his second ale when the bard starts his set. The Witcher stays tucked away in the corner of the tavern where he usually prefers to sit, as it provides a decent vantage point of the room. That it also encouraged other people to leave him alone was, really, just an added bonus. Tonight seemed to be no exception that rule. Jaskier had sat across from him and jabbered on as he always did—his energy especially heightened given that it was right before a performance—but he had been the only one to engage the Witcher in conversation thus far.

The bard usually burned off his excess energy during his set. Geralt finds himself hoping the bard doesn’t expend too much of that energy, as they needed to head out early in the morning. Tired Jaskier was an even chattier Jaskier, and Geralt wasn’t sure he had the patience for it.

Jaskier is standing on the small stage across the tavern. Through the haze of idle chatter and drinks being poured at the bar, Geralt listens to Jaskier finish tuning the lute. The final string the bard plucks sounds slightly higher pitched than usual to the Witcher. He sees the tip of Jaskier’s tongue poke out between his lips in concentration, adjusting something on the instrument. He plucks it again. It sounds right to Geralt now, and the bard seems to agree if his satisfied nod is anything to go by.

He starts off with a popular tune—the one about the daughter of a fish merchant—and Geralt turns his attention to the venison and potatoes the barmaid sets in front of him before she quickly ducks away. Geralt stops paying close attention to Jaskier’s performance as his mind drifts to the rumors he’d caught wind of regarding a wraith. The trick would be finding someone who could confirm or deny the rumors; and if confirm, then someone who would pay him a fair price to deal with it.

He could also go kill it himself and hope to be able to sell it for parts, perhaps. That was riskier business, though. Still, Geralt considers the merits of it as Jaskier performs.

“Bard!” A sharp voice yanks Geralt from his thoughts. An older man, with thinning blonde hair and a stocky build, has leapt to his feet and immediately claimed the attention of the room. “If you keep singin’ the praises of the fuckin’ Butcher of Blaviken, I’ll break that fuckin’ lute o’er your fuckin’ head.”

Geralt’s jaw works. He’d always hated that name. He hates how it follows him like a shadow, the way it makes his arms feel heavy with Renfri’s unconscious weight every time he hears it. Still, it’s not a fight worth starting when he needs work and the man’s worst offense is using a name that travels with Geralt like a curse he can’t get rid of. He flexes his grip around the tankard in his hands instead.

“Sir,” Jaskier says, an odd and barely constrained edge to his voice, “the White Wolf is widely regarded as a hero across the Continent.”

“The Butcher ain’t no hero,” the man spits. “Just a monster gettin’ off on the sufferin’ of others.”

It’s an unoriginal insult, Geralt thinks. The Witcher’s lips press into a thin line before he swallows down more of the ale in front of him. If Jaskier is smart, he’ll let it go. He’ll stick to the songs in his repertoire that aren’t about Geralt, and he should still be able to charm the audience enough to earn a bit of coin for his trouble.

But Jaskier is—evidently—not a smart man.

“Bold words coming from someone who is too much a coward to face down the wraith plaguing his own town. The only thing you have less of than honor, sir, is shame. You slander the name of the very person ready to risk his life so that your crops don’t wither.” The bard’s eyes are aflame with indignation so strong it brings Geralt up short. “You call Geralt of Rivia a monster, but he is twice the man you will ever be.”

It’s such an impassioned, sincere defense… and all Geralt can do in the silence that seems to echo in the tavern after it is stare at the bard as something knots in his chest.

One of the man’s friends tugs on his arm and he sits again. Jaskier’s gaze doesn’t waver as he starts the next song.

“When a humble bard…”

II.

Jaskier drops a bucket of water onto his head, and Geralt hums at the welcomed shock, scrubbing the metallic, rancid scent of selkiemore off his face. The water smells faintly of rose, which the Witcher knows to be Jaskier’s doing. It’s… pleasant, if unnecessary.

“Now now,” Jaskier chides, “stop your boorish grunts of protest. It is one night of bodyguarding your very best friend in the whole wide world. How hard could it be?”

Geralt glances over at the bard. “I’m not your friend.” He wasn’t sure what Jaskier was to him, but friend seemed like the wrong term. It didn’t fit right in his mouth as a way to describe the bard.

“Oh, oh really? Oh, you usually just let strangers rub chamomile onto your lovely bottom?” Geralt levels a glare at Jaskier, but the bard seems unphased. “Yeah, well, yeah exactly. That’s what I thought.”

It’s all Geralt can do to not roll his eyes, watching Jaskier cross back to the salts and oils in front of him as he rambles. “Every lord, knight, and twopenny king worth his salt will be at this betrothal. The Lioness of Cintra herself of Jaskier’s triumphant performance!”

It’s a deflection at best, even as Jaskier throws some added salt to Geralt’s bath, and the Witcher just stares at the bard framed in the candlelight around them. He has the feeling Jaskier may be hiding something. Or rather, trying to redirect attention from something else.

“How many of these lords want to kill you?” Geralt asks flatly.

Jaskier’s façade deflates just a bit. “Hard to say,” he replies, and Geralt is reminded once again of how openly honest Jaskier tended to be. “One stops keeping count after a while. Wives, concubines, mothers sometimes.”

Geralt could do without the list, really. It sends a twist of unexpected annoyance through his chest. Jaskier notices—but then again, he’d always had this habit of paying more attention to Geralt’s expressions than most humans did. The Witcher isn’t sure why.

The bard sits on the edge of the tub, framing Geralt’s form with his outstretched hands. “Ooh, yeah, that face! Scary face. No lord in his right mind will come close if you’re standing next to me with a puss like that.”

Geralt reaches for his ale—he’s really not drunk enough to deal with this—when Jaskier snatches the cup out of his grip.

“Ooh, on second thought…” Jaskier continues, because he never seems to stop talking really, “might want to lay off the Cintran ale. A clear head would be best.” He pats Geralt’s shoulder as he stands.

It an unusually casual touch and Geralt’s skin tingles with it even after Jaskier steps away. Still, Geralt tries not to dwell on it. “I will not suffer tonight sober,” he growls, “just because you hid your sausage in the wrong royal pantry. I’m not killing anyone. Not over the petty squabbles of men.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” comes Jaskier’s voice from behind him. “You never get involved. Except you actually do, all the time.” Geralt snaps his gaze over to him, but he can’t find it in himself to argue with the bard on that point. Perhaps Jaskier had a point. At least on that front.

Jaskier crosses back in front of him. “Ugh,” he continues. “Is this what happens when you get old? You get unbearably crotchety and cantankerous?”

Geralt sighs, pulling his arms off the edge of the tub in the hopes that it will ease the way his shoulder is still tingling slightly from where Jaskier had rested his hand on it a moment ago.

“Actually, I’ve always wanted to know. Do Witchers ever retire?”

“Yeah,” Geralt snaps. “When they slow and get killed.”

“Come on,” Jaskier says, his voice softening just a little. “You must want something for yourself when all this monster hunting nonsense is over with.”

“I want nothing,” Geralt replies immediately. Instinctively, more than a legitimate answer. He hadn’t wanted anything for a very, very long time. And anything he may have wanted at one point certainly had proved itself impossible for a Witcher like himself to achieve, so what even would be the point to desire it in the first place?

There’s a waver to something in Jaskier’s eyes that puzzles the Witcher, but it’s gone before Geralt can put a name to it. “Well, who knows?” the bard says, crossing to the tub to crouch in front of Geralt. Jaskier is abruptly close like this, facing Geralt head-on while the Witcher sits in the wash basin. Geralt averts his eyes. “Maybe someone out there will want you.”

The idea that someone might want him one day like that—like how Jaskier is suggesting—sends a thrill of something almost like fear through the Wticher’s stomach.

“I need no one,” he replies immediately. Then he looks back at Jaskier. “And the last thing I want is someone needing me.”

“And yet,” Jaskier says softly, meeting Geralt’s gaze unwaveringly. “Here we are.”

And that—well. The almost-fear feeling in Geralt’s stomach turns to something a little less sharp. A little warmer. No less terrifying, and yet somehow… nice.

Geralt tears his gaze away, desperate for a distraction from that feeling. “Where the fuck are my clothes, Jaskier?”

III.

Geralt has lost track of just how many performances of Jaskier’s he has sat through over their years of travels together. He knows the bard’s musical repertoire nearly as well as he knows monster classifications. So really, the Witcher does not have an explanation, even to himself, of why this time is different.

But the bard is making his rounds, strumming his lute with a practiced ease, singing an exaggerated song about Geralt fending off a bruxa with one hand tied behind his back… and Geralt can’t take his eyes off him.

The Witcher had never enjoyed being the center of attention. A part of him had gotten used to it a long time ago—in his line of work, looking like he does, one has a nasty habit of drawing unwanted gazes—but he’d never sought it out. Then there was Jaskier, who thrived in environments just like this one, where he could command the center of attention. He thrived in backwater village taverns full of people desperate for mediocre ale and a good story.

And Geralt has to give credit where credit is due—Jaskier can spin a good tale. The bard reveled in it, even. Geralt hadn’t asked him, but he could tell from the man’s unrelenting enthusiasm that as much as Jaskier was a performer, not all of it was an act. There was an earnestness to him every time he sang. A genuine belief that what he was doing mattered.

Geralt takes another bite of the stew in front of him, his gaze not wavering as Jaskier finishes the song to enthusiastic applause. He grins, thanks the crowd graciously, and launches immediately into the next song. And still, Geralt watches.

The bard had discarded his blue doublet several songs ago, tossing it into the seat across from Geralt as he passed. Jaskier’s off white shirt is tucked into the blue pants that are several shades darker than his eyes, and those eyes are really what Geralt keeps finding his own gaze drawn to. Eyes that are vibrant with energy and life when they briefly meet Geralt’s across the room.

There’s a very unexpected, soft squeeze in Geralt’s chest.

The bard had always radiated light and joy on a level that Geralt privately thought outshone most other humans. Jaskier is a beacon—evidenced by the near-blinding grin that the bard throws to him before turning away—and Geralt feels the odd urge to shy away from it. As if that light might expose all the parts of him that he’d spent years hiding away.

But Jaskier is nothing if not relentlessly and stupidly persistent. And he seems—had always seemed—entirely unaware of how rare his own vibrancy truly is. It is an integral part of him that chooses again and again and again to share with others. And no matter how much they take from him, Jaskier seems to always have more he is willing to give.

It seems like a kind of selflessness to Geralt, and the tightness in his chest gives a sharp, aching clench.

IV.

Geralt and Jaskier end up at the same party completely by accident, really. The Witcher didn’t even know that the bard was in town; the last he’d heard of Jaskier’s recent exploits had him giving a guest lecture at Oxenfurt. Geralt had been passing through Temeria when he was approached and none-too-kindly asked to attend the king’s banquet. Geralt had almost turned the offer down—he didn’t like being seen as some novelty to be ogled at—but the promise of good food and decent drink didn’t sound horrendous, and besides. The king had demanded it, and Geralt really didn’t want to deal with the bloodshed that could’ve resulted from his refusal.

So he begrudgingly attended, and did his best to stick to the outskirts of the collection of boisterous ladies and lords that had amassed in the banquet hall. He’d seen Jaskier the moment the bard stepped into the room—sporting a golden doublet and a beaming grin—and Jaskier had seen him almost as quickly. There’d been a flicker of surprise, but then Jaskier was being asked to play a song to start things off, and he’d busied himself with performing.

The food is good, Geralt will grant that much, and the wine is some of the best that he’d consumed in a long time. He’s ribbed for a story or two by curious nobles, and Geralt tells them enough to pass for stiff politeness and little else. Jaskier had always been the one to fill in the details. Besides, Geralt finds that he doesn’t like telling them to the men who appear to only listen until they feel insecure in their own manhood.

Jaskier wasn’t like that, Geralt finds himself thinking. Jaskier listened for other reasons. Always attentive. Always… enthralled. Even when he was “stingy with the details”, as the bard often accused.

The party has stretched for hours when Jaskier finally takes a break and Geralt sees him starting to weave through the drunken crowd towards him. Geralt takes a long swallow of wine and arcs an eyebrow at the bard as he approaches. Jaskier smells of honeysuckle and sweat, his doublet open to reveal the light blue shirt underneath.

Jaskier’s eyes are bright, but there’s a slight crease between his brows. “How are you managing, Geralt?” he asks, with far more sincerity than Geralt is prepared for.

Geralt arcs a brow at him.

Jaskier just tilts his head, then gestures vaguely to the drunken dancing the attendees are doing. “It seemed a question worth asking, given tonight. It’s rather loud, even for me, and Temeria always overseasons their food in my opinion, not to mention the smells involved what with sweat and ale and food. I can’t imagine the assault it is on your… Witchery senses.”

Geralt stops, blinking at him. Jaskier was worried that he—a Witcher—was… overwhelmed? Geralt wonders if he should be insulted, but he isn’t. There’s an odd feeling in his gut, something warm that isn’t alcohol, that stirs at Jaskier’s explanation. Geralt doesn’t know what to say. He just stares at him.

Jaskier holds his hands up as if in surrender. “Forgive me for checking in on a friend.” He drops his hands, the tilt to his head returning and his gaze… softening somehow. “You’ll tell me, though, won’t you, Geralt? If it gets to be too much?”

Suddenly, that soft, concerned look in the bard’s eyes is too much. Geralt looks away and distracts himself by taking a swallow of wine. “Hm,” he agrees.

V.

Geralt hears Jaskier scream something that sounds almost like his name before he even feels the bite. The sharp jaws clench around his thigh and Geralt grits his teeth, swinging blindly with the silver sword. It makes contact with the basilisk enough to make it shriek and pull back. But it already released venom, and Geralt feels it pulse with a blinding pain.

His vision swims. His knees buckle, slamming into the stone floor of the cavern.

“Fuck.” The world tilts sideways as the rest of him falls.

A voice, high and panicked and oddly familiar, is yelling something distantly. Far away. Too far away to help him, really.

He has to get up. He has to. Geralt grinds his teeth and pushes against the ground with as much strength as he can manage. He gets his chest off the ground but his legs won’t cooperate and then suddenly someone is leaping over him and snatching the silver sword beside him.

“You want him? You’re gonna have to go through me, fucker.”

Jaskier?

Geralt watches in a haze as the bard lunges at the basilisk with the silver sword in his hands.

“Jaskier!” he shouts, because the bard is stupid and reckless and he is going to get killed.

But the bard doesn’t respond, and Geralt watches as the blade flashes in the dark cavern. The Witcher struggles to push himself up but now his arms won’t even support him and he’s going to die, but first the world is going to make him watch Jaskier die and that thought fills Geralt with a cold, desperate dread.

“Jaskier!”

There’s a sick squelching sound and when Geralt looks, he sees the bard is up against the creature with the hilt of his sword buried into the basilisk’s chest. It screeches and thrashes, and Geralt’s breath chokes in his throat. But Jaskier is nothing if not nimble, and he rolls to avoid the wings that whip around towards him. The screeching gets louder for a moment. The creature stumbles. Collapses.

There’s a sudden, echoing silence that is filled only with the sound of Jaskier’s labored breathing and, at least for Geralt, his pounding heartbeat.

“Jask—” Geralt rasps, wanting to ask if he’s injured but his voice cutting out with the sharp burst of pain as the venom seizes.

He’s going to die.

“Geralt.”

Jaskier is suddenly right above him. When did that happen?

Geralt feels Jaskier brush a hand back through his hair and cup his head. Something is getting pushed against his lips.

“Drink it, darling,” Jaskier murmurs, so softly that Geralt wonders—perhaps deliriously—if the bard is even aware that he’s just called Geralt darling, of all things.

When he looks back on this moment, Geralt will say that the venom coursing through his system made his thoughts hazy and his will pliable. That his weakened state is why the warmth in his chest happens even before the potion Jaskier is forcing to his lips reaches his mouth. It has nothing to do with that term Jaskier used.

Nothing at all.

VI.

It’s the soft gasp that really gets Geralt’s attention, causing him to halt Roach and glance at the bard beside him. They have maybe about two hours before sundown and had spent most of the day traveling along this road headed towards Kaedwen.  Jaskier had filled most of the long hours with aimless chatter and half-composed songs. Geralt half-listened, grateful for the familiarity of the lilt in the bard’s voice even if he wasn’t constantly tuned in to the precise words the bard happened to be rambling on about. He’d missed the way Jaskier filled the silence since their parting after the dragon hunt.

Then Jaskier’s musings had broken off with a sudden, sharp inhale.

“Oh, Geralt, look!” Jaskier breathes with surprising reverence. Geralt doesn’t have time to ask the bard what caught his attention before he’s rushing off into the field of wildflowers just ahead of them, nearly 70 yards away.

The Witcher goes to call out to him, but something makes the bard’s name die in his throat. He watches as Jaskier spreads his arms out as he rushes into the expanse of yellow and violet and blue. The sun sits low in the sky and frames him in a soft halo of light as he rushes delightedly through the flowers. Geralt’s chest warms slightly.

Jaskier looks over his shoulder at him then, like he can sense it, and offers Geralt a dazzlingly bright smile. He kneels then, in the middle of the field as if he’s about to meditate, and his fingers brushing softly against the petals of the flowers around him before he flops onto his back. Sinks into the flowers around him.

Geralt had never really known what it meant to love. He’d read once that most people learn of love from their parents when they’re children, but his own mother had abandoned him to become a Witcher—a process so few boys survived that, really, she might as well have abandoned him to die. Geralt refuses to believe that was what love was supposed to look like. Or how it was supposed to feel.

Earlier in his life, Geralt used to ask. He’d see couples who claimed to be in love, and he’d wonder what that meant. What did it feel like, because Geralt didn’t know. The answers others provided to him were either full of derision—what does it matter, Witcher? You’re not capable of it anyway—or too vague to be of any help—it’s just something you feel, I think.

Then he met Jaskier, who seemed to be brimming with love all the time it was a wonder the bard didn’t burst. He sang songs that talked of love in romantic, elaborate metaphors that Geralt understood at surface level, but that gave him a bit of a headache when he thought too long about them. Jaskier seemed to understand this concept of love so readily and intrinsically that it was, in truth, a little intimidating.

But when Jaskier sits up as Geralt approaches him—flower petals and grass clinging to his hair, his blue eyes sparkling in the near-setting sun, a warm and content smile gracing his lips—the thought whispers unassuming in Geralt’s mind.

Maybe, just maybe, this is what love feels like.  

VII.

“You, Princess, are beginning to take after Geralt with the amount of brooding you’ve been doing today,” Jaskier chimes lightly, but Geralt looks up and sees the crease of concern between his brows. “And that will simply not do, because I can’t very well be surrounded by brooding, angst-ridden individuals, now can I?”

Geralt glances over at Yennefer, who merely arcs an unimpressed eyebrow at the bard. The cottage Yennefer had recently taken up residence in was small and unassuming on the outside. It seemed larger on the inside, more spacious, and Geralt knew it to be the work of an enchantment set on by the sorceress. Ever since Sodden, Yennefer had needed to be careful in her own right about avoiding and evading the ever-growing presence of Nilfgaard. She moved every few months, but had taken Ciri under her wing the past few weeks to teach her control her “chaos”, as she’d called it. Geralt called it magic.

They’d been dropping by to check in before moving on, and Jaskier’s comment wasn’t off the mark. Geralt had noticed it as well.

There were days when Ciri’s quietness rivaled the Witcher’s own. Where the Lion Cub of Cintra seemed saddled with a weight too heavy for a girl of her age. On those days, Geralt thinks he understands more than most would—the dullness in her icy blue eyes is brought on by the fog of grief of losing everyone she loved in a night and watching her city burn as she fled. It reminds the Witcher of how he’d felt following sacking of Kaer Morhen.

But just because Geralt understands doesn’t mean he’s known what to do on those days. He hates it. Hates that he doesn’t know how to help her, because nobody had been there to help him.

Ciri glances up at Jaskier from where she sits beside Geralt. “I just… miss home, Jaskier. That’s all.”

Jaskier’s lips press together in thought, his head tilting slightly. Geralt watches as something brightens in his eyes before he says, “Well, I have just the thing for that.” He glances over. “Yennefer?”

The sorceress looks as surprised as Geralt feels, but Jaskier just quirks a brow at her and Yen smiles faintly before inclining her head. Geralt doesn’t have a clue what silent request the bard has made, but he starts strumming a familiar song on the lute in his hands for several seconds—it’s upbeat, and though Geralt can’t place the title of it, he knows he recognizes it as one of Jaskier’s jigs. A few seconds go by, and then Jaskier’s fingers stop plucking at the strings but the music continues to fill the space.

Jaskier grins, and when Geralt glances at Yennefer, he sees that she’s got a faint smile as well.

The bard sets the lute aside and jumps gracefully to his feet. He extends a hand out to Ciri, his smile soft and sincere. “Will you dance with me, princess?”

Ciri hesitates for only a moment before she takes Jaskier’s hand. Jaskier’s grin brightens, and the two of them fall into a dance that Geralt recognizes as one usually done at court amidst nobility. It doesn’t surprise Geralt that Jaskier knows the dances of court—he has to play them often enough so it makes sense to Geralt that he would also know the steps—but a part of him is surprised when he hears Ciri laughing.

As she and Jaskier spin in circles and the bard adds an extra flourish to one of his steps, Ciri smiles and laughs and something in Geralt’s chest gives a sharp squeeze. Jaskier grins back at her, looking as relieved and content at the spark of mirth in her eyes as Geralt feels, and the Witcher feels a very slight, and unexpected lump in his throat.

VIII.

“Geralt?”

“Hm.”

“Will you let me try something?”

The question is asked surprisingly quietly in the dark forest around them, barely louder than the crackling fire between them. Geralt doesn’t know why Jaskier would be speaking so quietly, but a part of him counts it as a small mercy. Because the pressure behind his eyes that had started this morning had steadily grown to a dull throb up through the top of Geralt’s skull by mid-morning. By late afternoon, the headache wasn’t quite so dull anymore.

Geralt hadn’t seen a need to say anything about it, though. He just rode on Roach and tried to not squint too much against the blinding sunlight that made his head spike. Jaskier had seemed to lose steam in conversation as Geralt was even more unwilling to engage with him than normal. He hoped the bard wasn’t too offended, as by the early evening, it was really all Geralt could do to stay upright on Roach and keep moving forward.

“A new song?” Geralt muses, and carefully manages to keep the internal wince off his face.

Jaskier huffs something that’s almost a laugh. “No. Just… here.” He turns to the bag beside him and rummages through it. Geralt watches in the dim light of the fire as the bard pulls out a small cloth and a vial. He dampens the cloth with part of the contents, then pushes himself to his feet and crosses over. He kneels beside him.

There’s something soft in his eyes, Geralt thinks. Or maybe it’s just the way his face is shadowed that makes his eyes look bigger than normal. “Close your eyes, Geralt.”

And Geralt does. He tries to tell himself it’s because even the firelight is too much with this pounding in his head, but he knows it’s not just that. It’s such a simple, easy request and it’s Jaskier that makes it. So Geralt lets his eyes fall shut.

He feels Jaskier drape the cloth over his face. “Breathe in for me.”

He does. It’s lavender oil, he realizes. The scent is faint, diluted—careful to not be too overpowering, even given his enhanced sense of smell—but it blocks out most other scents around him. Geralt feels part of his jaw untense just a fraction.

“That’s it. Keep breathing.”

He feels Jaskier’s hands brush against his temples, then a slight nudge and some shifting and suddenly, Geralt is being guided to rest his head against something softer than the log it had been on a moment ago. Jaskier’s lap. Through the lavender, this close, Geralt can smell the faint honeysuckle traces that seemed to cling to the bard.

“Let me help,” Jaskier whispers in the dark, and then his fingers are moving deftly against Geralt’s temple, gradually up through his scalp, encouraging Geralt to breathe.

Through the ease of his muscles and the lightening of the tension in his head, Geralt becomes aware that somehow, Jaskier had known exactly what was wrong. Geralt is sure he hadn’t said anything about it, and a headache is hardly a life-or-death situation. But Jaskier knew and, more than that…

Let me help.  

The Witcher feels a little dizzy all of a sudden and so abruptly vulnerable that it scares him a little bit. It sends a jolt of something sharp and electric up through his core but Geralt swallows down the urge to pull away because… it’s nice. This softness, this gentleness that Geralt does not and has never deserved is offered so willingly, and Geralt cannot bring himself to pull away.

Instead, he breathes and listened to Jaskier’s fluttering heartbeat.

IX.

Geralt feels the drops hit the top of his head seconds before the rain begins a steady sprinkle. Geralt isn’t shocked, exactly. The sky had been a flat overcast since this morning, and he could smell the promise of rain clinging in the air as he and Jaskier had gathered herbs about a mile outside of the village they were staying for the time being.

But then the sprinkle turns to a downpour. “Fuck,” Geralt sighs under his breath.

He glances over at the bard beside him, who a moment ago had been rambling about his recent lecture at Oxenfurt regarding the role of narrative music in shaping cultural perspective. Geralt had a feeling that the bard had, in fact, just delivered the exact speech to the Witcher, but he hadn’t minded. Not when Jaskier’s voice carried that familiar, melodic lilt that underscored his excitement and passion on the subject.

There’s a teasing mirth in Jaskier’s bright blue eyes that eases into something softer. Geralt doesn’t know why. For a moment, it looks like the bard—for once—is lost in his own thoughts that he doesn’t speak aloud. It’s… unusual.

Geralt opens his mouth to ask him or tease him—he’s honestly not sure which is about to pass from his lips—when Jaskier cuts him off.

“And you thought the lute case was a poor investment. Well, how do you feel now, Geralt?” Jaskier sets his hand on the strap across his chest, almost protectively. “We still have a mile to go before shelter, and such time for a lute to spend in rain like this…” He shakes his head, his dark hair dripping rainwater onto his nose. “It would be nothing short of an absolute, irrevocable tragedy.”

“Hmm,” Geralt replies, because perhaps the bard has a point. A raindrop unceremoniously drips into Geralt’s eye and he blinks, then shoots a glare up at the sky.

“Not a fan of the rain?” Jaskier asks.

The truth is, Geralt isn’t a fan of the rain. Not really. It makes it harder to see, and it clings to his lashes in a way that makes his already sensitive eyes sting a bit. Which isn’t anything he can’t handle—he’s done it hundreds of times before, he’ll do it hundreds of times yet to come—but the rain would also wash away most of the tracks he’d been hoping to follow later this evening to the kikimora that was terrorizing the town.

“It will make it harder to track—what are you doing?” Geralt cuts himself off when he looks back at the bard, who is half-way to shedding his violet doublet. Jaskier finishes pulling out of it. His dark blue shirt underneath is immediately drenched.

Unfazed, Jaskier rolls his eyes. “You left your cloak back at the inn and I know, though you will adamantly deny it, that the real reason you hate the rain is because it gets into your eyes and makes it harder for your sensitive, Witchery eyes to see. So, here.” He holds the garment out, his gaze looking down the road ahead of them.

Geralt stares at it. This was… ridiculous. Jaskier was sacrificing his own comfort so that Geralt could… what, block some of the rain a bit easier? Not only did Jaskier gain nothing from this but he actively lost something in the name of Geralt’s comfort and… the Witcher doesn’t know what to do with that. It was such a small, simple gesture but there’s a weight to it that Geralt cannot ignore.

Something heavy, warm, soft sits in his stomach as he stares at it.

“Jaskier…”

“Honestly, Geralt, you’ll be doing me a favor. Wet doublets are dreadfully heavy, and as I am already saddled with carrying the weight of this lute and your reputation…” Jaskier glances back then and offers a smile.

It’s a flimsy attempt to make Geralt feel better about accepting Jaskier’s simple selflessness. A part of Geralt wants to refuse. But when Jaskier is smiling at him like that, offering such a small piece of him that doesn’t feel that small to Geralt… well. Geralt finds himself taking the doublet from his hands gently.

And if Jaskier spins away to welcome the rainfall as Geralt holds the doublet above his head to shield the rain, well. Maybe that heavy, warm, soft feeling spreads through him in a way that makes the rain feel not quite so cold and annoying.

X.

Geralt hears it first. There’s the sound of something snapping with a flash of green light behind him and it’s all less than a second but Geralt still feels that he should have been faster.

Because he looks over his shoulder, sees Jaskier hit the ground with the sound breaking bones echoing in his ears.

Jaskier screams.

“JASKIER!” Geralt roars, but panic closes his throat in the next moment. He slashes viciously at the figure in front of him, and the head of the injured soldier in front of him rolls off his shoulders. Geralt growls low in his throat—Jaskier is silent and Geralt is shaking—and hurls the knife at his belt towards the mage almost blindly.

It sinks between her eyes. The sting of copper in the air barely registers to the Witcher because all he can focus on—all he can smell—is the acrid, sharp scent of pain that radiates from Jaskier on the forest floor, several feet away. Geralt’s eyes snap to him before the mage has even hit the ground and he sees the way Jaskier is trembling so hard he’s vibrating but at least he’s moving. At least he’s breathing.

Geralt makes sure the mage isn’t, and then he’s sprinting the short distance to Jaskier and sliding to him on his knees. Jaskier is on his side, his back to the Witcher. As gently as he can, Geralt places a hand on his shoulder and rolls the bard onto his back.

Jaskier whimpers, his face ashen, and the sound turns Geralt’s stomach. The bard’s eyes clench shut.

“Jaskier.”

Geralt’s slow-beating heart is hammering so loud and so hard he wonders if the bard can hear it. This close, the scent of Jaskier’s pain is so pungent and potent that it clogs Geralt’s throat. He dove in front of a spell for you, a voice hisses in Geralt’s mind. That pain should be yours.

“Fuck,” Jaskier manages to wheeze out weakly.

“What the fuck were you thinking, you goddamn idiot?” Geralt grits out, and his voice very nearly breaks. It’s the wrong thing to say—Geralt always says the wrong things. Always, always, always. And always when he’s afraid. But it’s the only ones of the words he can think to say that will push past his tight throat.

“My dear Witcher,” Jaskier replies, his own voice strained but for a different reason, “you’re quite lucky I love you, or else I might be insulted.”

The words echo in Geralt’s mind. I love you, I love you, I love you. Over and over and over. They ring with an ease and sincerity, because Jaskier never did anything by halves, even when he may be dying. Dying. And Geralt feels something breaking inside of him.

And still, the words repeat. I love you, I love you, I love you—Until the words sound less like Jaskier and a lot more like his mind repeating it back to the bard.

“Jask,” he whispers, his throat too tight to even get the bard’s full name out. His hands are shaking a bit, but he thinks Jaskier won’t mind, and he brushes his hand against Jaskier’s face. “You can’t—you…” He can’t just… just say things like that, so boldly, so cavalier.

With a courage that Geralt cannot match.

“Fuck,” he says instead. Because the words that flood him cannot find their way through his chest to his lips.

His swirling thoughts cut out as he sees Jaskier try suddenly to push himself up. Mindful of the damage to the human’s ribcage, Geralt lets the hand on his face slip to the back of the bard’s neck and grabs his less-injured arm to ease him up. Then Geralt just holds on tight. An irrational part of Geralt thinks that if he lets go, Jaskier might really slip from him in a way that Geralt cannot fix.

The Witcher breathes in, and the sharp scent of Jaskier’s pain is starting to lift. Jaskier offers a faint smile. “Not a lethal spell, it would seem.”

A distant part of Geralt goes a little weak with relief. The rest of him wants to shake the bard. “You didn’t know that,” he snaps. Because Jaskier didn’t, he’d just decided to dive in front of a spell that could have been anything. He could have… he almost…

“A moot point, really, Geralt.”

And that… that hurts, in a different kind of way. There’s no regret in Jaskier voice or his scent or his eyes. He would do it again, Geralt knows this, and it terrifies him. Jaskier would risk himself for Geralt.

Geralt shakes his head a little and starts to reply, to ask why, but the breath he takes still has that haze of acridity to it. He frowns instead. “You’re still hurt,” he says. It’s not a question.

Jaskier then has the audacity to wave a dismissive hand. “Some broken ribs.”

“Hm.�� He could help with those, he thinks. His gaze flickers over Jaskier’s chest. He knows how to help with those injuries. The spell wasn’t lethal. Geralt should be feeling relieved and a small part of him is. The rest of him feels like the ground has shifted beneath him and Geralt still doesn’t know how to hold himself steady. I love you, Jaskier’s voice echoes in his mind, but it only makes Geralt feel a little more cracked open. Because maybe Jaskier didn’t mean it. Maybe it was just something he said in the throes of dying--

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, so unbearably soft. He instinctively meets the bard’s gaze. Jaskier’s bright blue eyes are remarkably steady. “I meant it, you know. I do. Love you, I mean.”

Geralt’s breath hitches in his throat. Because here was this remarkably fragile person who had followed him across the Continent for years, had seen the absolute worst that Geralt had to offer… this person who radiated warmth and light and love, so much love, and was everything Geralt wasn’t, and was saying these words so easily. Geralt’s fear had come true—Jaskier’s light had seen the darkest parts of him, but Jaskier chose to love him anyway.

“Jaskier,” he manages, and his own voice has never sounded quite so weak to his own ears. He leans forward until his forehead is against Jaskier because Jaskier was that beacon of light calling to him. Grounding him. “I… fuck.” He can’t find the words again. “Fuck.”

He does the only thing he can think to do in this moment, to try to convey all the words he can’t find. He brushes his lips against Jaskier’s, softly. Afraid to demand or hurt, afraid, afraid, afraid. So he presses his dry, cracked lips against Jaskier’s impossibly soft ones. Questions he dare not ask taste like salt that he passes to Jaskier’s own, and Jaskier answers with silent promises and a breathless little huff of contentment.

Jaskier is more than a beacon. He is a lighthouse, calling Geralt home. And Geralt cannot help but feel that he’d follow that light to the ends of the world.

[do-androids-dream-ao3acc]

Here’s a silly little thing I did on request for @crunadh for the prompt “Healing”. What if love has actually healing powers – or at least Geralt believes it does?

2.183 words, Rated T, read under the cut or on AO3

"Oh. Oh! Yeah, right there. Go ahead, uh... don't stop... a little harder..."

"You're embarrassing," Emhyr muttered, but he actually didn't stop. His hands vigorously kneaded Geralt's back, and the latter's muscles responded to it like butter to sunshine.

"The word you're looking for is enthusiastic," Geralt replied with a groan. "Who knew you were so good at it? You're a natural. Oh, yeah, right there!"

"We have servants for that sort of thing," Emhyr returned.

But he still didn't stop. His fingers squeezed with just the proper hardness to relieve all the tension his spouse had gotten after his training. The same had probably been right by stating that even a horse needed regular exercise and that he needed to resume it. The comparison seemed somehow indecent to Emhyr, but in the end, it was probably apt – a witcher without exercise was useless, and if he had to compare it to anything, it was perhaps to a well-trained soldier, whose skills would rust without regular training. Oh, all these comparisons were useless because in front of him on the bed, completely naked and with tangled hair, lay his husband, and he knew exactly what this sight did to him.

"That's right," smirked the latter now. "But you like it. You like it so much that you..."

He uttered the last words in Nilfgaardian, another thing he had begun to practice again lately. This earned him a hearty slap on the backside.

"Your pronunciation of arse leaves much to be desired."

"Maybe so, but you have healing hands," Geralt growled delightedly underneath him. "You will find..."

He suddenly fell silent. Emhyr, who had noticed that even Geralt's buttocks were tense and had begun to loosen them with a vigorous kneading, asked irritably, "What?"

Deft as a snake, Geralt wriggled around under Emhyr's dexterous hands, accidentally presenting a first success of the latter's efforts.

"You know," he said, unusually serious, "you actually have the ability to make me feel better when you touch me."

Emhyr snorted. If there was one thing Geralt was not, it was romantic; and he had not for a moment supposed that this desire for a post-exercise massage had any meaning other than a new form of foreplay that his witcher loved so passionately.

"It's true," Geralt protested, "healing hands."

"Oh, really?"

Emhyr thought this was nothing more than a strange but somehow cute form of dirty talking, and wordlessly he brushed off his dressing gown.

Geralt's eyes lit up on his reply, "Let me show you what these hands can heal."

                                                        -:¦:-

A few days later, their breakfast was graced by Ciri's presence, who was now back in the palace more often and had begun to take a renewed interest in her future duties. Her morning greeting faltered when she noticed Emhyr's left hand resting on one of Geralt's thighs.

"I beseech you, at breakfast? You can't keep pulling the young married couple card all the time."

Geralt merely grinned, but Emhyr, on whose stoic countenance her insolence bounced that morning, calmly brought the teacup to his mouth and took a sip before answering.

"The leg is aching," he simply replied, and Ciri's expression became compassionate.

The effects of multiple fractures and magical healing were more noticeable some days than others, she knew this, and so Ciri asked with interest, "And that helps?"

"Sometimes," Geralt said. Then he grinned again. "I've told your father before that he has healing hands, but he won't hear of it."

Ciri screwed up her face as if he had made a dirty joke, but then she suddenly mused, "You know, there might even be something to it. I once read about how lovers can actually develop healing abilities when they interact with each other."

"That's nonsense," said Triss, who had just entered the room.

"Well, in this case, I guess you can talk about relief as a priority, but what if there's something to it? Love can release endorphins..."

"Healing is due to the body's own substances, which can be triggered with magic, but certainly not by love," Triss said, and thereupon a somewhat heated discussion broke out between the two, which soon encompassed utterly different topics.

                                                   -:¦:-

The matter was forgotten for a while as everyday life had a grip on them, but like flashlights, it brought itself back to mind repeatedly. Such as when Emhyr – which, given his idiosyncrasy of often poring over papers in an uncomfortable pose until late at night occurred not so rarely – experienced a headache. Geralt, who had already tried in vain hours ago to lure him away from this work to get some rest, had put his hands on his husband's cramped shoulders, pressed a kiss on the back of his head, and looked over his shoulders.

"That can wait until tomorrow," he said firmly.

And Emhyr, quite contrary to his habits of not being distracted from a task, had actually put down the quill, laid back his head, and let his spouse handle his shoulders. Geralt had to think of the countless times Emhyr's presence, his touch, the mere feeling of his hands in his had given him a sense of relief.

"There is something to it after all," he said thoughtfully.

"Hmm?"

"Healing hands," Geralt replied, "What if that really works? On both sides?"

"Don't be silly. There's nothing healing about it. Your fingers just happen to rest on neuralgic points and cut off the pain supply, that's science, Geralt."

Despite the pretentious tone, Geralt had heard exactly the essential point from these words. He leaned over, nuzzled his cheek against Emhyr's, and whispered, "That means you don't have a headache anymore?"

Emhyr looked at him in surprise but had to silently admit that this was true. And he, too, remembered countless occasions when it had been this way – Geralt had a talent for making a difference with a single touch, and no doubt it was the same the other way around. It was intuitive, something neither of them had ever consciously thought about. The soothing effect of a hand, even fleetingly placed on tense muscles. Fingers intertwined, untangling strained thoughts. A firm stroke over the back after a nightmare. The gentle touch on temples that were taut from endless brooding. As Geralt had said: the ability to make the other person feel better just by touching them. He had to admit that there was indeed something curative about it.

                                                       -:¦:-

The implications of these findings, if taken seriously, were remarkable. They both mulled over these considerations without actually talking about it, and almost unconsciously, the mutual touching increased. If the reason they were doing each other well with this was their mutual affection, it only seemed to strengthen it. In other words, Geralt and Emhyr could not keep their hands off each other. As if to regularly reassure themselves that their touches had the desired effect, they touched each other more and more frequently. It was undoubtedly an exciting boost for their love life, which had never suffered from too little attention, but now reached unexpected new heights. It almost seemed as if they wanted to combine true love's kiss with true love's touch, but if they were enchanted, this spell could not be broken.

Although they had rarely hidden their affection, it seemed even more apparent now, and they were seen holding hands in the palace more often than before. It seemed to lift the general mood. As far as Emhyr was concerned, it would have been an exaggeration to say that he displayed certain contentment. But overall, everything seemed as bright and rosy as it should be for newlyweds.

Nevertheless, everyday difficulties had not disappeared, as became apparent one day when Ciri accompanied a limping and cursing Geralt to the infirmary set up by Triss. They had been hunting together – a concession they had both wrested from Emhyr, for Ciri, too, needed a balance to the duties she had, after all, voluntarily accepted. It quickly became clear that this balance could not be found in the ever languishing Movran Voorhis, which had led to some disagreements and the latter's near resignation. After those waters were smoothed, Emhyr had agreed, to the astonishment of both Ciri and Geralt, that she could occasionally accompany him when he took on a contract – nothing too dangerous, nonetheless.

This time, something had gone wrong, and it was only thanks to Ciri's quick intervention that Geralt escaped with a dislocated kneecap and a broken arm, while she herself only suffered a few scrapes. As always, Emhyr had been notified immediately, and he watched the treatment of his court sorceress with a wary eye, holding Geralt's hand.

Ciri, observing that Geralt apparently used the touch to nearly break his spouse's hand between a string of juicy curses, which the latter stoically accepted, said at one point in surprise, "Say, you two, you didn't really take that seriously, did you?"

"What?"

"Me, rambling on about the healing power of love the other day. I was just teasing you, but apparently, I started a little something..."

Triss, who had just conjured up a magical ointment for the re-set kneecap with flowing hand movements, looked up at Ciri and replied, "Well, I for one took it seriously."

As all eyes turned to her, the sorceress could not prevent a certain blush from shooting into her cheeks.

"What? It's not so far off, even though I was skeptical at first. So if you were just making it up, Ciri, you were amazingly clairvoyant. Love may release hormones that can relieve pain, among other things – so, for instance, with a touch."

To everyone's surprise, Geralt started laughing, and even Emhyr showed a slight smile.

"It's clear you were messing with us," Geralt said to Ciri. "However, I have to admit; there was something rather stimulating about the idea..."

"Oh please, don't elaborate," Ciri moaned with a disgusted expression. "If I had known that you would become the purest lovebirds after this…"

"I guess you fell into your own trap there, girl," Emhyr opined. "When apparently it can be scientifically proven that there is some truth to your love theory."

"I didn't say anything about it being scientific," Triss interjected. "There are only a few writings by physicians on this."

"Doctors aren't scientific enough for the sorceress, that's it," Geralt sneered but quickly regretted it when she turned to treat his arm.

"We can test out which one you prefer," she replied calmly. "Traditional splinting of the bone as done by barber-surgeons, often with little accuracy, wraps of dubious hygiene and at most weekly dressing changes, as recommended in the now obsolete but still used publication Osseous Therapeuticus. In the meantime, you can try a lot of loving affection; it allegedly promotes the healing process and, in some cases, shortens it. However, some report that the pain is a bit detrimental to libido. Or we might do it my way. That hurts, too, but instead of hoping for a dubious result for about two months, you can move your arm again without any problems in a week. I still recommend holding hands with the other arm, though. "

The others stared at her, speechless, until Geralt, feeling quite powerless at the moment, finally inquired, "You made that book up, didn't you?"

Emhyr, on the other hand, stated, "In this case, I trust entirely in the healing abilities of truly competent hands," which, of course, settled the matter.

                                                      -:¦:-

That evening, however, when they were alone, and it was up to him to take care of his spouse, which essentially consisted of making him comfortable, Geralt couldn't help but remark, "And I still think there's something to it."

"Well," Emyhr commented rather dryly, "it's obviously some dubious science, but this thing about releasing hormones..."

"Not that," Geralt interrupted him. "It's only logical; you can find some writings about it at Kaer Morhen, though these days they might not be considered particularly ethical. Still, I think the idea that true love can heal..."

"That wasn't what Ciri was implying," Emhyr interrupted him, frowning. "Hold on. You knew about this hormone thing and all that all along? But you tried to make me believe in the power of love?"

Geralt made a somewhat embarrassed impression. Emhyr raised his brows – which, depending on his mood, could mean anything from mockery to skepticism to blatant rejection. This time, however, it was something else.

"I would consider that a touch of romance; however, I suspect you had some baser instincts."

With one arm in a sling, Geralt's shrug turned out a bit awkward.

"Well, it worked," he returned. "You were very affectionate lately."

"That's the dumbest thing I've heard lately," Emhyr blurted. "You don't think there would have been any other way to achieve this.... aim?"

"Oh yes, certainly," Geralt admitted bluntly. "But it was more fun that way. And healing it was in any case."

"You're such an idiot," Emhyr muttered, shaking his head. "Why do you think it was healing?"

Geralt grinned, and Emhyr instantly regretted his question.

"Sexual healing."

[elderbloodlore]

Calanthe was not a racist homicidal tyrant: a useless and bitter rant of someone whose favourite character ever got mercilessly butchered.

WHY ARE YOU WRITING THIS? 

Well, let me give you a little bit of a backstory. I first read the Last Wish and the Sword of Destiny in 2012, when I was 14 years old. I instantly connected with the character of Calanthe, and after her death, it took me nearly a year to be able to pick up the saga itself. Ever since, she remained my favourite fictional character ever. As a little girl in misoginistic Poland, I was so lucky to have her as a role model. Because she fought for herself, she took no shit from anybody, she had love and respect of the people around her, and yet she had such tenderness and kindness about her that many strong woman-trope characters are missing these days, and that is exactly what happened to Calanthe when she was being translated to the screen. In 2015 The Wild Hunt was coming out and there were rumours of Ciri being included, so you can imagine my absolute glee and the hope I was filled with to have some more content with that one woman that meant so much to me growing up. And you can imagine my disappointment when all we got about her were a couple tiny mentions, even though the events of the Wild Hunt happen not even a decade after her death. Then the show by Netflix was announced and, once again, I had super high expectations. I wanted to see the wise, kind, beautiful Queen brought alive. December 2019 rolls in, and my hopes are being steamrolled. So here I am, 22 years old and crying over a fictional character, because one of the best written female characters ever (in my opinion) entered mainstream as a bullish, racist, homicidal tyrant. So let me address the biggest changes the show made to my beloved Calanthe Fiona Riannon, the Lioness of Cintra.

THE LOOKS 

That was obviously the first thing that threw me off. I was quite enthusiastic when the cast was announced, but then as the first promo pictures were released, my enthusiasm was slowly dying down. In the books, Calanthe’s looks are adressed very often: 

 “As before, the queen wore emeralds matching the green of her dress and her eyes. As before, a thin gold crown encircled her ash-gray hair.” Sword of Destiny. 

I tried to convince myself that Jodhi May won’t be a bad Calanthe so hard that I actually made this poor ass EDIT to feed my delusions and cheer myself up. In comparison, HERE is my personal favourite art of Calanthe that I find is the most accurate to the book portrayal. 

Even when the first trailer dropped I was still trying to convince myself that even though she has none of her Elder Blood features or her iconic emerald green, that she wore exclusively in the books, she couldn’t be that bad. Right? Wrong. 

THE DEMEANOR 

This is probably the biggest change. Calanthe was one of the wisest, most gracefully-written characters in the entire saga, and I really hoped to see that on screen. She was quick-witted, calculating, but at the same time caring enough to let her daughter choose her own destiny in the end (even if it was to be with a hedgehog-headed man twice her age). Her smiles were said to always be full of kindness, she was acting very proper and clearly cared about her image. I’m not going to be getting too much into it with my own words, let these examples speak for me:

'Ah, Geralt,' said Calanthe, with a gesture forbidding a servant from refilling her goblet. 'I speak and you remain silent. We're at a feast. We all want to enjoy ourselves. Amuse me. I'm starting to miss your pertinent remarks and perceptive comments. I'd also be pleased to hear a compliment or two, homage or assurance of your obedience. In whichever order you choose.' [...]  'Hochebuz,'  said Calante, looking at Geralt,  'my first battle. Although I fear rousing the indignation and contempt of such a proud witcher, I confess that we were fighting for money. Our enemy was burning villages which paid us levies and we, greedy for our tributes, challenged them on the field. A trivial reason, a trivial battle, a trivial three thousand corpses pecked to pieces by the crows. And look - instead of being ashamed I'm proud as a peacock that songs are sung about me. Even when sung to such awful music' Again she summoned her parody of a smile full of happiness and kindness, and answered the toast raised to her by lifting her own, empty, goblet. Geralt remained silent. The Last Wish.

'Aha,' said Calanthe quietly, clearly pleased. 'And what do you say, Geralt? The girl has taken after her mother. It's even a shame to waste her on that red-haired lout, Crach. The only hope is that the pup might grow into someone with Eist Tuirseach's class. It's the same blood, after all. Are you listening, Geralt? Cintra has to form an alliance with Skellige because the interest of the state demands it. My daughter has to marry the right person. Those are the results you must ensure me.' The Last Wish.

‘Very well then. As queen, I shall convene a council tomorrow. Cintra is not a tyranny. The council will decide whether a dead king's oath is to decide the fate of the successor to the throne. It will decide whether Pavetta and the throne of Cintra are to be given to a stranger, or to act according to the kingdom's interest.'  The Last Wish.

'Pavetta!' Calanthe repeated. 'Answer. Do you choose to leave with this creature?' Pavetta raised her head. 'Yes.' The Force filling the hall echoed her, rumbling hollowly in the arches of the vault. No one, absolutely no one, made the slightest sound. Calanthe very slowly, collapsed into her throne. Her face was completely expressionless. The Last Wish.

Guards, armed with guisarmes and lances, ran in from the entrance. Calanthe, upright and threatening, with an authoritative, abrupt gesture indicated Urcheon to them. Pavetta started to shout, Eist Tuirseach to curse. Everyone jumped up, not quite knowing what to do. ‘Kill him!' shouted the queen. The Last Wish.

CINTRA, RACISM AND MURDERING HER OWN PEOPLE 

In the books, Cintra was often mentioned to be obiding by the rules of the elves: 

‘Dear child,’ said Vesemir gravely, 'don’t let yourself get carried away by your emotions. You were brought up differently, you’ve seen children being brought up in another way. Ciri comes from the south where girls and boys are brought up in the same way, like the elves. She was put on a pony when she was five and when she was eight she was already riding out hunting. She was taught to use a bow, javelin and sword. A bruise is nothing new to Ciri—’ Blood of Elves.

There were many elves and dwarves living peacefully within its borders. Calanthe’s two names - Fiona and Riannon, come from her ancestors that are respectively a quarter and a half elf, and known to be that. Calanthe was the one who taught Ciri that non-humans are not dangerous:

‘I’m not afraid at all!’ Ciri suddenly cried, assuming her little devil face for a moment. ‘And I’m not parrotised! So you’d better watch your step! Nothing can happen to me here. Be sure! I’m not afraid. My grandmamma says that dryads aren’t evil, and my grandmamma is the wisest woman in the world! My grandmamma… My grandmamma says there should be more forests like this one…’ Sword of Destiny.

There was no actual reason nor basis for the showrunners to make her racist and make her murder elves. Having her walk into her own daughter’s birthday party, bathed in elven blood, while she knows that the same blood flows in her own veins, at least partially, was completely unnecessary. Even in the polish version of the show from 2001 Calanthe said: 

RELATIONSHIP WITH GERALT 

This probably hits me the most on personal level, because I feel like Calanthe had a huge impact on Geralt’s growth as a character, and with such a drastic change to their relationship, I’m unsure as to he will now proceed to develop. Calanthe was, in large, one of the first people in the books that treated Geralt as anything more than a mutant. Here are some of my favourite scenes between the two, in comparison with how their relationship was portrayed in the show:

"At times, no, for years at a time, I deluded myself that you might forget. Or that for other reasons you might be prevented from coming. No, I didn't want anything unfortunate to happen to you, but I had to take into consideration the dangerous nature of your profession. It is said that death follows in your footsteps, Geralt of Rivia, but that you never look behind you. Then... when Pavetta... You know already?" "I know," Geralt said, inclining his head. "My sincere condolences..." "No," she interrupted, "it was all long ago. I no longer wear mourning clothes, as you see. I wore them for long enough.” Sword of Destiny.

He slowly pushed the cup on the table so that the clink of silver on malachite would not betray the uncontrollable trembling of his arm. "You don't deny it?" "No." She bent to seize his hand with vigor. "You disappoint me," she said, giggling prettily. "This isn't voluntary," he responded, laughing as well. "How did you guess, Calanthe?" "I did not guess." She did not release his hand. "I said it at random, that's all." They broke out in laughter. Sword of Destiny.

"I will not take it. It is too great a responsibility, one that I refuse to assume. I would not want for this child to speak about you the way... the way I..." "You hate this woman, Geralt?" "My mother? No, Calanthe. I doubt that she was given a choice... or perhaps she had no say? No, she had, you know, enough formulas and elixirs... Choice. There is a sacred and incontestable choice of every woman that must be respected. Emotions are of no importance here. She had the indisputable right to make such a choice. That's what she did. But I think about meeting her, the expression on her face then... it gives me a sort of perverse pleasure, if you understand what I mean." Sword of Destiny.

A rosebush grew next to the gazebo. Geralt plucked a flower, breaking its stem and then knelt, his head bowed, presenting the flower in his hands. "I regret that I did not meet you sooner, white-haired one," she said, accepting the offered rose. "Rise." He rose. "If you change your mind," she went on, sniffing the flower, "if you decide... Return to Cintra. I will wait for you. Your destiny will be waiting for you, as well. Perhaps not advitam aeternam, but for some time, no doubt." "Farewell, Calanthe." "Farewell, witcher. Look after yourself. I... I sometimes feel... in a strange way... that I am seeing you for the last time." "Farewell, my queen." Sword of Destiny.

FALL OF CINTRA AND CALANTHE’S DEATH 

We were robbed of so many epic scenes that truly took away from Calanthe’s millitary accomplishments and showed none of the strength and determination she originally had: 

"The Nilfgaardians dealt the first blow," he began after a moment of silence. "There were thousands. They met with the armies of Cintra in the Marnadal valley. The battle lasted all day: from dawn to dusk. Cintra's troops valiantly resisted before being decimated. The king died, and that's when the queen..." "Calanthe." "Yes. Seeing that her army had succumbed to panic and scattered, she gathered around herself and her standard any who could still fight and formed a line of defense that reached the river, next to the city. All the soldiers who were still able followed." "And Calanthe?" "With a handful of knights, she covered the troops' crossing and defended the rear. They say she fought like a man, plunging into the thick of the battle. She was impaled by pikes when she charged against the Nilfgaardian infantry. She was then evacuated to the city. What's in that flask, Geralt?" "Vodka. Want some?" "Well then, gladly." "Speak. Continue, Dandelion. Tell me everything." "The city wasn't properly defended. There was no headquarters. The defensive walls were empty. The rest of the knights and their families, the princes and the queen, barricaded themselves in the castle. The Nilfgaardians then took the castle after their sorcerers reduced the gate to cinders and burned down the walls. Only the tower, apparently protected by magic, resisted the spells of the Nilfgaardian sorcerers. Even so, the attackers penetrated inside four days later without making camp. The women had killed the children, the boys and girls, and fell upon their own swords or... What's is it, Geralt?" "Continue, Dandelion." "Or... like Calanthe... head first, from the battlement, the very top... It's said that she asked to be... but no-one would agree. So she climbed up to the crenelations and... jumped head first. They say they did horrible things to the corpse afterward. I don't want... What is it?” Sword of Destiny.

I understand that this happened because of limited screen time, probably, but the whole Fall of Cintra had been squeezed into what seemed to be a single day, a crushing defeat for Calanthe’s forces, and probably in some way, punishment for her pride. 

AFTER CALANTHE’S DEATH 

While reading the rest of the saga, these little snipits of people talking about Calanthe, mentioning her, often with respect and reverence, mentioning how her people mourned her and swore revange for her, truly kept me going through. I wished that, at the end, Ciri would find it in herself to return home and liberate it, as back then I had no way to spoil myself the ending. In the books, you can really feel the outrage almost all of Continent feels after the murder of Calanthe: 

[...] Cintra is a symbol. Remember Sodden! If it were not for the massacre of that town and Calanthe's martyrdom, there would not have been such a victory then. The forces were equal — no one counted on our crushing them like that. But our armies threw themselves at their throats like wolves, like rabid dogs, to avenge the Lioness of Cintra. Blood of Elves.

[...] Bear in mind that these men left their homes and families, and fled to Sodden and Brugge, and to Temeria, because they wanted to fight for Cintra, for Calanthe’s blood. They wanted to liberate their country, to drive the invader from Cintra, so that Calanthe’s descendant would regain the throne. Baptism of Fire.

In the show, there is none of that. In fact, people seem to be full of disdain and hatred for her, saying things such as: 

which, in turn, fills me with dread for the upcoming seasons, because I can already feel all the further butchery coming my beloved Queen’s way.

IN CONCLUSION

In all honestly, there is very little the Calanthe from the show has in common with the one from the books, the one I originally fell in love with. Which is not to say that Netflix’s Calanthe is not a great character in her own right, because who doesn’t love a badass sword-wielding Queen, but as a portrayal of the greatest ruler within the Witcher universe, and one of, in my opinion, best written female rules in literature, she falls flat, and that’s what pushed me to write this useless and slightly bitter rant, in hopes to maybe interest more people in the original version of Calanthe and maybe, just maybe, prompt some of you to read the saga or, at the very least, the short stories. 

[deputy-videogamer]

Gemini |Part 3|

Pairing: Geralt x Reader, Yennefer x Reader, Geralt x Reader X Yennefer

Summary: Both Geralt and Yennefer take a trip into town in hopes to get some info about the so called ‘Mad Princess’, only to discover that not all stories match. While a dark figure lurks among the forest willing to defend their precious ‘Mad Princess’

Part 2 Part 4

Notes: Sorry for the late post I know people were excited for chapter 3 to be release soon similar to chapter 2, but I had a writerblock when I was writing this chapter, and when I did started to write this chapter again I had to edit the chapter so it can match my what I had in mind. Once again I apologize for the late post and thank you for those who are still willing to read this story even if it was a long wait.

After the meeting with the king, Geralt and Yennefer had gone to the room that they were staying at. The way to their room was awkward between them, if it wasn’t for Yennefer speaking up first.

“If you don’t mind me asking Geralt, who’s the little girl you are with?” At first Geralt didn’t want to respond to her, but in the end had answered her.

“Ciri is my law of surprise during my time in Cintra.” 

“I see. How long have you been with her?”

“Only for a few months. Where have you been since we last saw each other?”

“Places.” Geralt had a feeling that Yennefer won’t reveal where she has been, after all the last time they saw each other they ended in bad terms.

“How come you were brought here? Last time this was a job for a Witcher.” 

“Lucius, is a good friend of mine. As he mentioned before her powers were unstable resulting in her loss control of her sanity. He hopes that with my help, my power can stop hers before she causes any damages in the kingdom.”

The two had reached the room, inside Jasikier was playing his lyre while Ciri was listening to him play. She turned her head when she heard the door open.

“How long are we going to be guests here?” She innocently asked Geralt. 

“Until we can find a way to end the princess' life, but for now I need clues to see what we are up against.”

Jaskier then eyed Yennefer who hadn't left the room., “And she's going to be staying with us?” The raven hair beauty raised an eyebrow at the bard.

“What’s the matter, afraid I would end your life even though I saved yours?” She snapped at him, Jaskier was about to retaliate, but Geralt gave him a look to stop talking.

Geralt had stated that they will go into town to gain information about the princess, to which Yennefer responded she will be going with him to sense if she left any signs of her magic. While Ciri and Jaskier would stay here unless being told otherwise.

The town wasn’t in the worst condition, but it wasn’t also the greatest condition. There were a few homeless people roaming around the area, although at the same time their appearance didn't look like they were nothing more than skin and bones. What was even more surprising was that there was no person who avoided him like there was some sort of plague, instead he was occasionally given gifts from random people.

“Seems like they are more welcoming to witchers than most places.” Yennefer commented, even receiving a few gifts herself.

“It’s either that or they haven’t heard about my reputation.” Geralt looked at the gifts in his hands. One of the gifts he had in his hand was a woman in a fierce stan with two orbs in her hands , mostly likely a mage. 

Geralt knew that some mages were either respected or feared, this one was clearly respected if the people are creating images of her.When he asked Yennefer if she knew this one from somewhere she responded saying she never seen or heard someone like her. It didn’t make sense who this woman was? What did the people see in her? If Yennefer doesn’t know who she was then who is exactly?

“What happened to the cart?” A voice broke Geralt’s thoughts, making him looked to the side. 

Two men were having a conversation one looked like a merchant while the other was the delivery boy who gave the goods. When the silver hair Witcher looked at the cart there were slash marks on the side and some of the crates were semi damaged, but what made him confused was how the man driving the cart was how he looked unharmed compared to the state of the cart.

“I was attacked by some robbers on my way here.” The delivery boy said as he was unloading the crates. 

“Then how were you able to escape if you were attacked by the robbers?”

“A bunch of crows and wolves attacked them. The birds drove some of the robbers away and those who didn’t escape were killed by the wolves.” The merchant had a shocked expression on his face, Geralt thought the merchant wouldn’t believe his story though it was the opposite. The man’s face turned to a soft expression.

“The Princess of the Woods is watching her people.” The man patted the delivery man shoulder then started to help him unload the crates.

Princess of the Woods? Was he referring to the insane princess that they were ordered to kill? But she was insane. Why would she help her people? 

All these questions lingered in Geralt’s head, though he wasn’t the only one who was wondering who was this so-called ‘Princess of the Woods’. Yennefer may not be a Witcher who can identity what type of monster attacked the robbers, though she was curious on why would a monster help these humans, most monster didn’t had a brain to think or have sympathies over humans so what made this monster have humanity in him….unless you were behind all.

“Excuse me, but who is this Princess of the Woods?” Bother Geralt and Yennefer walked up to the two men. Thermechant looked around to see if anyone was looking at them, his eyes met a group of knights that were patrolling the area.

“Not here.” He whispers the two the two, he then gestures to his store so the two could talk iside. “Do you think you can handle the rest and bring it in my store?” The delivery man nodded knowing what the merchant was doing.

Geralt and Yennefer glance at each other when the merchant tells them to follow in his store. Something was wrong, when Geralt looked back to see where the merchant’s eyes landed upon he noticed the knights. Why would he be afraid of the knights?

Inside the merchant had locked the front door, then heading to the window to make sure no one was spying on them. After making sure that no one was following them, he faced the both of them. Both too took note how his expression became all serious.

“You two are the Wicher and the mage that the bastard king requested huh?” The merchant tone was different behind closed doors. “Listen as much as I want to give you every detail the citizens are all being watched.”

“Watched by who?” Yennefer asked the man who then only gave her a disgusted look.

“The king who else. Ever since his daughter left he thinks that she is the insane one, but what kind of king tries to poison his own daughter.”

This new revelation had shocked the two, no wonder Lucius looked so nervous at the idea of killing the princess. “What do you mean he tried to poison his own daughter.”

“You got to ask the mage Lucius for that, but I doubt he is willing to tell you everything.” Lucius knew about this as well? Just what other secrets there are about this kingdom. “My advice is this you can either try to convince Lucius to talk or you can ask the girl yourself.” The merchant pointed his thumb to the woods.

Even though it looked like a normal woods, something about the woods made the woods evil, perhaps it's because you lived there and how they were going in their blindness without anything you could do to them.

“If we were to go after her what would happen to us?” Yennefer looked at the man who only gave them a hard look.

“Many mages and hunters have entered those woods and never return, the only things that remain are the skulls that the crows carry around the kingdom as a sign to not bring any more unwanted guests.”

“What about the citizens here? Have they been attacked by the Princess of the Woods?” Geralt remembers how the delivery man was saved by the robbers.

“She cares for the citizens never once she attacked them even the little children enter the woods only to come out safe.” The merchant sighed. “Listen, there are some witnesses that have actually seen the Princess of the Woods. It's best to ask when there are no lingering eyes. One false move and you just caused that person's death.”

As much as Geralt and Yennefer wanted to keep asking questions with this man, the look in his eyes told him time was up; they couldn’t discuss any further or these ‘eyes’ will start to get suspicious. Before they had exited out the store, Geralt called out to the man.

“Is it alright if I can examine your cart for clues?” The man looked at him in confusion before nodding his head in agreement.

From the inside the cart didn’t look too bad, but it was the outside that got Geralt’s attention, there were slash marks that came from swords that mostly likely belong to robbers along with some claw marks that came from the wolves. There were some traces of crow feathers in the corners of the cart, picking one up Geralt could feel magic swarming around the feather. Magic that was similar to a Leshan. Whomever you are you must have wield strong magic if you can manage to tame a Leshan to do your bidding, if Geralt could even call you a threat. Geralt wondered if this was the reason why Lucius was so nervous during the meeting with the king.

Flashback

The raven hair mage and the golden eye wolf followed the elder mage to the way of the throne room. During the trip Geralt noticed how much Lucius' heart was beating and he knew it wasn’t because he was old. His heartbeat reminded him of someone who was nervous or lying about a topic, the way he walked didn’t also help his problem. Every step he took was quicker than the last almost as if he wanted to get this over with, just want was wrong with this mage. Looking back at Yennefer, the black haired beauty gave him a look that she had also picked up Lucius’s hesitation.

When they reached the door Lucuis a gave a look to the two guards that were guarding each side of the door, both of them opened the doors  The throne room was just like any other boring royal room, grand walls that were lavishly decorated in gold and tapestries with royal curtains surrounding the area. Pillars that reached all the way to the ceiling that god no know how far they expanded, that had plants and decorations that all over the stone, Of course it was his throne room without having a long red carpet that reached all the way to the end of the room where the throne had resided.

“Ah the great White Wolf and the most powerful sorceress in Vengerberg. Please come in.” The king gestured them to walk more, his voice had sounded like a loving grandfather who would spoil his grandchildren with treats.

Geralt had taken note on how Lucius had remained by the door when the two were called upon. His face was filled with guilt, but why would he be filled with guilt unless there is something more to this request than there should be.

“I really hope the journey wasn’t too long for such a mission.” The king gave them a cornering look.

“Quite quick actually. As soon as I heard Lucius needed some help I came here as fast I could.” Yennefer answered

“Yes, magic is certainly a wonderful thing isn’t.” The king chuckled. “But I’m sure I didn’t request the help of the both of you to discuss magic. It is about my daughter, did Lucius have already informed you two.”

“Y-yes your highness I had already informed them about the princess.” Lucius quickly answered, the poor elder mage didn’t want to repeat the lie again, it was too painful for him to say. Oh how he wish the queen was here so this tragedy didn’t even happen in the first place.

“Is it possible for us to speak with mages that survived the encounter with your daughter?” Geralt looked at the king, the man tightly gripped the arms of his throne before releasing his grip.

“No, after the encounter all the injured mages left when they had a chance to leave. I can’t even send Lucius into the woods, for he could also get killed by the hands of my daughter.” 

“I thank the king’s generosity for my well being.” Lucius bitterly thanked , every word made the mage said made him want to cut out his tongue.

“I had sent help far and wide before many had come to help and stop my daughter, though once they entered the forest they had never returned. How many don’t even come for aid to help my kingdom, the citizens even start to fear the woods believing my daughter would kill them in an act of revenge.”

“Just how powerful is her magic?” Yennefer asked, not believing a single word coming from the king’s mouth.

“Stronger than me.” Lucius answered her. “The day when she lost all control I casted a barrier to protect the king. Her magic was so strong that in minutes my barrier was destroyed, she could’ve ended our lives there instead she fled into the woods.”

“Then why haven’t you taught her how to control her magic?” 

“The mages and I have tried, but as days passed her magic only worsened, by the time we realized that her magic was unstable it was already too late. She lost control over her magic causing her to be unstable.” Lucius explained that didn’t make sense. Yennefer knew that if a high mage like Lucius would sense it and try to control her chaos within her.

None of this made sense to the duo, to a normal person they would easily fall for these stories, but they were normal people. They were telling this to a Witcher and a Mage, people who know the arts of magic and the supernatural. They will play the king’s game, but they will find answers of what’s really going on. They will be huge if the princess is really insane as the king describes.

“We will start as soon as possible.” Yennefer immediately agreed followed by Geralt.

“If it alright may we go around and ask the citizens around to have more information about the princess?” 

“Of course take as much as you need. Lucius will help you as much as possible.” The king gave a gentle smile at the duo, although Lucius' actions said something else. His fists were clenched as his gazed was sharp as a blade piering a man’s body.

“It will be an honor to serve the Witcher and the Sorceress.” 

Flashback Ended 

“Crows and wolves don’t attack robbers out of the blue. Unless they are being controlled by a Leshen.” Geralt showed the crow feathers to Yennefer.

“It's amazing how she can control a woodling creature nonetheless a Leshen.” Yennefer plucked the feathers out his hand. “Makes you wonder what other things are on her side.” 

Geralt hummed in agreement. “The citizens are really cozy here, not a single ounce of fear in them. A completely different story about what the king said.”

“Don’t forget about Lucius.” Yennefer pointed how the leader mage was acting differently during the meeting. “You could practically see the hatred and guilt in his eyes.”

The duo knew that they were tricked, but that didn’t mean the king and Lucius wasn’t fully lying. Whoever you were, you possessed powers that even Geralt and Yennefer couldn’t believe that someone could wield. As much as they want to find out who you were they need more information before marching in your territory. Unfortunately this wasn’t going to be easy as it looks.

At the outskirts of the town, a farmer was tending his crops when he noticed that one of his cattle was dead. The strange part of the cow’s corpse was that there were several claws marks littered on its body almost like it was attacked by a swarm of birds. It wasn’t just him though several other farmers animals had scratch marks just what kind of creature could do this?

Unknown to the farmers just at the edge of the forest, a Leshen was watching as many farmers were examining all their livestocks. The Leshen petted one of his crows that was perched on his shoulders and head, offering it’s finger to one of the crows. The bird hopped on the twig like finger, the other hand showed two strands of hair, one was a silver color and the other was a raven lock. The crow memorized the two stands then flying off to the city to find the owners of the strands of hair. As the bird was no longer in view another bird flew in with something attached to it’s leg. The bird landed on the palm of the Leshen’s hand, pulling the string he read the note that we inscripted in a strange language. It led out a dark laugh after reading what was written in the piece of paper, his alliances are more than willing to defend the ‘Princess of the Woods’ from these invaders.

It just hoped that his little goose chase would be enough to throw them off for a while and if that didn’t work. Well it seems like there will be new skulls to be added in the collection.

@whitewolfandthefox​ @dreaming-about-fanfictions @seanh-boredom​ @dopepizzaenemy​ @charliestufff​ @whotperlinda​ @imdreamingof-you​  @dopepizzabouquetzz @mattiej15

[amysgiantbees]

I need to yell about the Witcher 3 or I’ll explode and I’ve already accidently deleted this once.

The Witcher 3 is enormously sexist. I hate on principle anything that has hard and fast rules according to sex, especially in fictional settings, considering that sex is a spectrum and a social construct to an extent. But Witcher’s only being men makes even less sense since the reason given why is that women are weaker. Which again, is awful and incorrect.

Moreover, all the druids I’ve seen are men, all the Witchers are men, sorcerers can be anyone. Men literally can be anything in the Witcher. Whereas not only are women’s options severely limited but they must deal with societal sexism along with that.

Furthermore, the Witcher is SO white. Not only does it make the character design very repetitive and dull but it’s difficult to distinguish between NPCs sometimes. As well as the obvious racism of wanting to explore fictional racism with elves and dwarves but balking at being anti-racist in the game’s design.

I could also deal without the fat jokes. It really shows that if these white men creating this don’t find historical accuracy edgy or titillating – like including rape and gore – they ignore it. Because from the time periods they were borrowing from there would be less makeup especially in war times, people – including women – would be much hairier, and plus size people would be seen as conventionally attractive. Being plus size meant that you were of a higher class and had the funds to overindulge and not work, and the rich have the time to shape and indulge in the trends. So, they are envied and emulated and seen as more attractive like they are now. Also, there were more people of colour in Europe – the place inspiring this setting – than the Witcher itself has. So, it’s confusing that the modern representation of something is less diverse than the historical setting.

The writers being uninterested in anything that does not relate to them is shown in Ciri’s relationships in the game. Ciri can be practically naked surrounded by other near naked women but her only option for initiating any romance is with a man. She is bisexual but it does seem like the writers would rather ogle than give even representation. Not that her concrete stating that she prefers women isn’t representation. But is confusing when there are two siblings that you can only kiss the male one.

The lack of they/them pronouns is awkward in the dialogue, making it very stilted and grating. As well as actively taking away suspense. I never believed for a second that Uma might be Ciri. Giralt could talk about it all he wanted to, but he kept referring to Uma as HE. So, it was obvious from the beginning that he was the elven man she’d been travelling with. Making the twist instantly ineffective.

Side note, I despise that woman all wear heals constantly. It just looks so bizarre. I can deal with some stylisation, or slightly less than practical travel wear. But stilettos in a swamp? There’s no way a sane person would. It just doesn’t work at all and actively brings me out of the narrative every time there’s a close-up of them.

Also, it is a real cop out that the writers won’t allow their “big strong manly protagonist” wear high drag, just Yen’s pants when the boys are having a night together. If he’s so masculine a dress shouldn’t change that.

The romances are embarrassing. Why does Triss shoot herself in the foot and “friend zone” herself by calling Ciri her little sister? You are interested in Geralt, so even if you don’t want a mother like relationship with Ciri a sisterly one is not particularly appropriate. Do you want Geralt to see you like a child? Considering how immature you can be – which I’ll get to – you’d think you’d try not to make him see you in a paternal, platonic, or just patronising way. It’s confusing why she pretends to be drunk at the party. For one it is very desperate and cringy. Secondly it is very inconsistent with the character that was just confidently taking charge of this mission. Thirdly, you’d think she’d want to show she’d change from lying to him previously *cough* from the inane plot contrivance so the previous game could happen *cough* by being completely honest with him now.

Yennifer on the other hand seems too often come across as more sexual fantasy than fleshed out character. Yennifer’s character is also inconstant. I’m wondering if these men have ever spoken to a woman before. She is motherly, protective, determined, no-nonsense, confident in her convictions and knows her own worth. She’s flawed too, scoffs at people’s cultural and religious practices. Which I wish she grew more from; she could have shown faith in Vesimere from the beginning when it came to his ritual with Uma to show she regrets the garden and interrupting the wake and is trying to be better. Or maybe seeing the usefulness of what Vesimere did could have led to a tender conversation with Geralt about how this has made her see that maybe she should have done some things differently, found a different place to cast the spell, spilt some blood for the goddess. A flawed character is a well-made character but here is where she seems more object than person. When she gets unnaturally angry at Geralt for not wanting sex. Like how dare you do not want to play with the toy that we created. To compare it to another RPG game Dragon Age has its faults but at least the player is always given the option, and never punished for not wanting sex in a romance. Otherwise, I quite like Triss, she kind of necessarily pulls Geralt’s head out her ass but sometimes she is a bit too mean, nut usually with context it’s understandable, I think. Also the unicorn is just gross, like not to yuck anyone’s yum, but it’s nasty. 

Also like if the general insensitivity and ignorance written into the game wasn’t there and there was more than two queer characters as far as I’ve seen, I would think that Elihal‘s portrayal could be nuanced in how gender and sexuality do not dictate gender expression. But considering the game as a whole their character feels very “look at this weirdo” “no homo”. Cowards. 

The ableism is also just abhorrent. They would likely argue that the ableism featured is historically accurate - which I’m not confident that’s true - but then don’t have any representation of visible disabilities or just a variety of disabilities that would be historically accurate. 

Also it’s just disappointing that you don’t get hang out with Triss and Kira at Kaer Morhen during the Uma quest. 

[clintbartonswife]

lips that sing

Pairings: Geralt of Rivia x Jaskier, Cirilla Summary: Now that Geralt knows it’s Jaskier, he’s scared he’ll be rejected again. Geralt just wants his damn bard back. Notes: part two of eyes that plead masterlist

Geralt would later deny the wounded noise that escaped his lips as he stared down at Jaskier, his hands hesitatingly hovering over his body.

“What - how?”

The wolf seemed to sigh, his head lolling back on to the dirt ground defeatedly. The expression on it’s face one he had seen many times before, mostly accompanied with the phrase ‘destiny’s a bitch’.

Deciding to put aside questioning until he could receive what he was sure would be extremely lengthy answers, Geralt returned to kneeling at Jaskier’s side, placing his sword in the sheath on his back before carefully picking him up in his arms.

Jaskier let out a half hearted growl, body tensing in his arms.

Geralt frowned at this, confused. Jaskier knew who he was - knew that he wouldn't hurt him - so why was he acting defensively? He checked his hold on the wolf, making sure he wasn't hurting him, before standing up and heading back to the clearing, mind racing.

Now that he was this close, he could smell it was Jaskier - the familiar scent of honey and wildflowers dulled behind that of wet dog , but still there all the same. Another scent, less pleasant than those Jaskier usually smelt of, one which had his nose scrunching up in distate was that of sour rotting lemons, one which he had never scented on the bard before.

Fear.

The sense of unease from earlier only grew in Geralt’s chest as he lay Jaskier down on his bedroll, eyes quickly darting to Ciri to make sure she was alright.

Jaskier had never smelt of fear around him before, he was sure of it. Not even -

He stopped mid-thought, remembering the previous night, and Jaskier’s growl when the mountains were mentioned. The repressed memory brought with it the knowledge that he had smelt it on his bard before: the exact day he ruined everything.

Jaskier was afraid of him.

As soon as Jaskier was back in human form, he had decided the first thing he would like to do is smack a tree. Or destiny, if possible. Or both. Because fuck destiny.

He had been so close to freedom when that tree - probably prompted by destiny, damn that bitch to hell - decided it was a good time to shed a branch, right on to his head, no less. As he lie there, cursing at the skies above, who else would show up but Geralt, the very man he did not want to see.

Fear washed over him as the realisation filtered through the Witcher’s eyes, his name escaping his lips in a shocked gasp, stilted questions following.

‘Fuck’ he thought, head lolling back in defeat, ‘if he wasn't going to kill me before, he’s definitely going to now. Why couldn't I have just left as soon as we found him’

He withheld his shock as Geralt leant over to pick him up, almost cradling him in his arms, tensing in shock.

‘Is he going to throw me?’ Jaskier thought wildly, mind racing as they began to move back through the forest, ‘Chuck me in a lake? Feed me to wolves? - Wait’

Jaskier’s thoughts were cut off as he noticed the clearing, Ciri’s sleeping form entering his sight. His body sighed in relief, slightly relaxing as he was placed gently on the bedroll.

Jaskier, feeling slightly less like he was going to die at any point, resigned himself to watching Geralt. The Witcher seemed to be lost in thought, eyes absent but body moving on autopilot to prepare for when Ciri woke up, stoking the embers back into a roaring fire and beginning to place stray objects back into Roach’s saddle bags.

He was halfway through picking up Ciri’s cloak when he seemed to snap back to the present, focus returning to Jaskier with newfound urgency.

“You’re hurt” he mumbled to himself, kneeling back down by Jaskier’s side, “I need to check for any damage”

Through his anger at the man, Jaskier couldn't help but feel a little sympathy for him as he watched his urgent motions, Geralt looking the most discombobulated that Jaskier had ever seen him.

He tried to stay still as Geralt’s fingers ran across his body, checking for any breaks or cuts hidden under the fur.

“I’m sorry Jask” he whispered, voice sounding frail - something Jaskier had never heard from him before.

He felt his eyes widen slightly, looking at him in disbelief. Before he could react, the moment was broke as Ciri stirred behind them.

“Geralt?”

“I’m here”

The princess grunted her assent - ‘already learning bad habits from Geralt’ Jaskier noted - and sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

“Where's Dandelion?”

Jaskier let out a yip from where he was half-hidden behind Geralt.

“He’s a bit injured” Geralt explained, “We're going to have to find someone to help”

“Oh no -is he okay?”

“He’s fine, we just need to get him properly checked” Geralt assured her, dodging the whole ‘I’ve been magicked into another animal’ bit that would probably freak her out.

“A Mage? Like Yennefer?” Ciri asked excitedly, “I saw her in my dreams too, remember? Are we going to meet her?”

Jaskier’s stomach dropped at the mention of her name, dread returning to his person as he watched Geralt nod, seemingly reluctantly.

‘I don't see why’ Jaskier thought bitterly, ‘It’ll be a lovely family reunion. All three back together again, and me flung out on my ass again’

“Excellent!” Ciri squealed, scrambling out of her covers, “Let's get going”

“How much further do you think?” Ciri asked from upon Roach, her eyes shining.

“Not long” 

Jaskier could feel the rumble of his words from where he was pressed against his chest, the sensation surprisingly comforting. To his shock, he had to grit his teeth to restrain what could have been a purr escaping from his throat.

‘This just keeps getting weirder’ the bard thought to himself, discreetly looking at the Witcher above him, ‘I wonder what will happen once I’m back in human form’

“She’s close” Geralt said suddenly, head snapping to his left, spotting a small path diverting off from the main road, “Down there”

Ciri just looked at him in awe as Roach followed the direction, “How do you do that? Know where she is, I mean”

“We’re … connected in a way” he sighed, eyes darting around uncomfortably, “I can feel when she’s near. It’s like somethings tugging me towards her”

“Like soulmates?” Ciri asked innocently.

Jaskier barely restrained a growl, though it looked as though Geralt caught it, the sides of his mouth tilting up almost unnoticeably. 

‘I’m glad my pain amuses you’ Jaskier huffed in his mind, glowering at the Witcher.

“No, not like soulmates” Geralt corrected eventually, the humour gone from his face, “I made a mistake - a long time ago - that bound us together. It wasn't fair on anyone”

As he finished his sentence, Jaskier could swear Geralt looked at him, eyes swimming with hidden meaning.

‘Stop being ridiculous Julian. You’re reading too far into it again’

“Oh”

The rest of the walk was quiet, Ciri and Geralt both brewing on the earlier conversation, until a small cottage appeared in front of them on the path. When they were a few feet away, the door swung open, unimpressed violet eyes surveying them.

“What do you want Geralt”

“Just one favour, please. Then I’ll get out of your hair”

Yennefer’s frown didn't waver, staring at the witcher with something akin to disgust in her eyes.

“Please?”

Her expression melted as she took in the sight of Ciri, finally nodding and gesturing towards the cottage with a sigh.

“One favour”

“Fine”

“So the wolf’s new” Yen eventually said, frown intensifying as she stared at him, “And magical - did you know that Geralt?”

“Of course I knew that, why do you think I’m here”

Yen shot him a glare, though stepped closer to Jaskier, hands moving through the air as if clearing cobwebs.

“This was an enchantment done out of spite, and quite a strong one at that. Where did you find him?”

“I didn't. Ciri did, said he protected her until they found me” 

Yennefer just hummed, “It’s the bard isn't it?”

“How did you know?”

“Why else would you come to me? Come on now Geralt don't take me for a fool. What did he do this time?”

Jaskier huffed, getting quite annoyed at being talked about as if he wasn't there, and let out a growl, narrowing his eyes at the witch.

“Still a drama queen it looks like” 

Geralt just sighed, crossing his arms, “Can you help him?”

“I’ll need to try and figure out what kind of curse was used, and from that I should be able to figure out the counter-curse, or at least what needs to be done to break it” Yen said, moving a stool next to the table where Jaskier was lain, now turning her attention to him, “I need to know who did this to you. Can I search your mind?”

‘Certainly not’ Jaskier thought, appalled, rearing his head back as he tried to shuffle away.

“I don't know why I asked” she sighed, rolling her eyes, “Just stay still, this may hurt”

He just huffed, ‘As if she cared about that’

An intense tingling sensation started to crawl over his head, reminiscent of pins and needles, intensifying to the point of incomprehensible pain, making Jaskier whine as his body seemed to convulse slightly.

Ciri, hearing the noise of distress, entered the room, eyes widening at the sight before her, “You’re hurting him!” she cried, “Stop it!”

The pain stopped almost immediately, leaving his struggling for breath. Ciri ran to his side, stroking a hand over his head soothingly. Yen just stared down at him for a few moments, a new understanding clouding her eyes, mixed with something suspiciously close to pity.

‘Shit’

“It’s a curse - though it wasn't meant for him specifically” Yen explained, slightly breathless herself, “It’s made as a punishment for somebody else”

‘Yeah, Geralt’ Jaskier wanted to shout, still annoyed that they thought he had done something dumb.

“Can you break it?” Geralt sounded almost desperate, eyes flicking between him and Yennifer.

‘Desperate to get rid of me’

Yennefer just glared at him, ignoring the question and turning back to Jaskier, her hand moving a few inches above his body, as if scanning him.

“The curse is strong, but I have no doubt I can break it. I’ll need a few days, but yes” She turned back to Geralt, “You’ll have your bard back soon enough”

“Bard?” 

All eyes turned to Ciri, still stood in the corner of the room.

“You haven't told her?”

“I was going to -”

“When? When he was a fully grown man again?”

“...No”

Yennefer sighed, throwing her hands up in the air, “You’re unbelievable. Explain to her for gods sake”

The next day, Jaskier having being moved to a pile of pillows on the floor for the night, Yennefer was confident that she could break the enchantment.

Geralt was stood in the next room, Ciri crowded in his arms as they waited for the counter-curse to be enacted, the whimpers of the wolf slowly turning into more human-like screams of pain.

At one particularly strangled cry, Ciri broke, pressing her forehead against Geralt’s chest as hard as she possibly could. Not knowing exactly how to help, Geralt simply placed one of his hands on the back of her head, murmuring low promises of it being over soon.

The sudden halt to all noise was not as reassuring as Geralt thought it would be, his body tensing as all the worst scenarios ran through his mind. 

“He’s back” Yen said, walking out of the room, wiping sweat from her brow with a proud look on her face. Ciri rushed to give her a hug, knocking her back slightly with the force of collision, “thanks”

“Thank you” Geralt said, sincerity clear in his words.

She nodded once, with a depth of understanding that unsettled the Witcher.

“You should check on him” she nodded towards the door, eyes drawn to the girl held within her arms, “I’ll send her in in a few minutes”

Geralt did as she instructed, opening the door softly, eyes immediately latching on to the familiar figure of Jaskier curled up on the bed.

“You’re ok”

The bard’s head whipped up at the sound of his voice, wincing slightly at the sudden movement.

“Yes, it appears I am” he replied, giving a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, “if it’s alright with you I’ll be here for a few more hours before I get out of your hair - changing forms like that is quite painful”

Geralt frowned as the scent of fear assaulted his nose once more, this time not dulled by that of wet dog. In his confusion it took him a few seconds to register Jaskier’s words.

“Leave? Why would you leave?”

The bitter laugh that escaped the bard cut Geralt to the core, a pain starting to bloom in his chest.

“I’m only doing as you wished, my dear. I believe it was your life’s blessing to be rid of me. Alas, I didn't mean to come across you again so soon, though I suppose that cant really be blamed on me considering the mage wanted to target you”

Geralt blinked. Jaskier kept talking.

“I mean, really, the one time I didn't actually do anything wrong was the one time I got myself in a mess I couldn't get out of - awfully ironic don't you think? Then I found Ciri and I knew I couldn't just leave her, surely you understand that” 

He had started using hand gestures now, apparently feeling better by the second, “and I did try to leave when I found you, I really did, but then Ciri kept calling for me and I’m weak when it comes to that girl - you know she reminds me of my niece, always getting what she wants”

“Jaskier-”

“I did try again yesterday but then the tree dropped its branch on me because destiny is a bitch so that didn't work either. Anyway now I’m back to normal I suppose you’ll want me out of here - I promise I will after a nap”

“Jaskier” geralt growled, stepping closer to the bed.

The fear scent spiked, “Or - or not. It’s fine, I didnt really need a nap anyway. I’ll just get going then, yeah?”

Geralt stopped at the edge of the bed, placing his hand over the younger man’s mouth, “Shut up Jaskier”

A squeak came from behind his hand, so he removed it, taking a deep breath as he prepared to speak.

“I am sorry for what I said on the mountains. It was wrong of me to take out my anger on you. None of those things were your fault, you were just there when I made the decisions”

Jaskier watched in awe as Geralt spoke, eyes widening as the scent of fear started to lessen. 

“I missed you, afterwards. I didn't think you’d want to see me so I didn't look for you - I should have and for that I’m sorry Jaskier”

The bard just sat there, stunned. 

“I don't think I’ve ever heard you speak so much in one go” he eventually said, hesitantly teasing. Geralt could see it for what is was - testing the waters.

“Perhaps I would’ve said more if you had let me get a word in edge wise” he retaliated, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

Seemingly all the reassurance he needed, Jaskier sagged in relief, leaning forwards until his forehead rested on Geralt’s lower stomach.

“I missed you too, my dear Witcher”

They were quiet for a few moments, just enjoying their closeness.

“So you don't wish me to leave?”

Things finally clicked in the Witcher’s mind - the fear was not of him, but of being rejected by him again. With that sudden realisation, Geralt placed a hand in Jaskier’s hair, running it through his locks soothingly.

“Never again, bard”

The moment was interrupted by the door opening, Ciri launching herself at Jaskier with a delighted squeal.

“You were my wolf?” she asked incredulously, “I know you! You came to see me every year”

Jaskier’s grin was back in full beam on his face, “I’m honoured that you remember that princess”

Ciri giggled as Jaskier bowed his head theatrically from his where he was sat on the bed. Geralt stood back and watched the two interact, both full of smiles and laughter, a new lightness in his chest.

Yennefer leant against the doorframe, watching him with a surveying expression.

“Be careful with them” she said, eyes straying over to the pair, “Especially the bard”

Geralt raised his eyebrow questioningly.

“I’ve seen into his mind” she explained, “And that man would do anything for you”

Geralt looked back over to Jaskier, amber eyes meeting cornflower blue, “Hmm”

It took them another two months before they realised they were meant to be, the realisation occurring after a particularly rowdy bar fight in which Jaskier ‘defended Geralt’s honour’ by launching at two men who were speaking ill of him. (Geralt had dragged him into the alley - Ciri was in their room - and kissed him heavily against the wall. He insisted it was mostly to shut him up about his win)

And if Jaskier sometimes still purred when he was happy, or bared his teeth when seeing his ‘pack’ threatened, then who was Geralt to judge? He certainly wasn't complaining about the marking in bed either.

[lilith-of-rivia]

Bread and Tarts 💕💕

Paring: Yennefer X Reader 

Word count: 

Warnings: Teeth rotting fluff

Summary: Yennefer comes back to the home of her lover after being away on a hunt with Geralt and Ciri. Shes reminded why she loves the woman.

Request:  Anon:  hey 🌿 some fluff with 11, 13, 16 from dialog where yennefer and reader are trying to cook please 💕

Masterlist

“Are you sure we wont be a bother to the woman?” Geralt’s voice broke the silence as they road. His question being directed to the mage he road with. Yennefer’s eyes rolled before she looked away from the path they were riding down.

“She is one of the sweetest humans I have ever met Geralt. She will not mind.” She could still sense the nerves of her past lover. She knew he was uneasy being in the same room as his ex-lovers new lover.

even though the two had not been romantically involved for many many years, he still had no pleasure in making a new partner uncomfortable, and asking for housing after the hunt was completed made him nervous.

“Does she know about us?” Ciri’s voice was heard behind the pair, Jaskier looking towards the mage.

Yennefer and Geralt even though they were no longer romantic, continued parenting the girl.

“Of course she does, always asks to meet you Cirilla.” Yennefer said looking back at the, young woman.

“And what of the hunk of a witcher you use to sleep with?”

“Jaskier!” Geralt’s voice was harsh as he turned to look at the smirking bard.

“Y/N isn't the jealous type. She knows all of the songs of the Witcher. She is truly a huge fan of the man.” Yen smirked at the man next to her.

“Hmmm.” Was the only response she got.

***

The four riders approached the home in the middle of a valley. It was much larger than Geralt had thought.

The door to the home flew open as Y/N ran out, her butt long [hair color] hair flowing in the soft breeze. Her eyes were bright green, boring into Yennefer’s violet orbs. The smile that stretched over her face made Yen’s stomach flip and heart race. She made her feel things no other creature had.

Yen dismounted her horse and ran to the woman, her arms wrapping around the smaller woman as the clung to one another.

“I missed you.” Y/n whispered to the raven haired woman. Yennefer pulled back, placing her hands on Y/n’s cheeks before smooching their lips together. The sigh of releaf leaving her partners mouth making her smile into the kiss.

“I told you I’d be back.” The sound of others behind Yennefer made Y/n look over her shoulder, spotting the trio her girlfriend traveled with.

“Hello.” The smile on her face surprised the three, her hand was laced with Yennefer’s. In a world like theirs finding bright, bubbly humans wasn't normal.

“Hi!” Ciri was the first to dismount her horse approaching Y/N.

“Oh my goodness! Cirilla? I've heard so much about you. You are even more beautiful than I thought!” Y/N grabbed Ciri���s arm and hugged her tightly, throwing the girl off at first but she quickly hugged her back.

Y/n realized Ciri and looked to the bard and Witcher that traveled with her lover. Geralt felt his breathing get caught in her throat.

“My what an honor it is to meet you Geralt. You are truly a hero.” The words completely threw Geralt for a loop, his eyes bulging from his head. Yennefer couldn't help but snicker at his reaction, knowing her girlfriend was to sweet for her own good. Yen placed her hand softly on her lovers back, laying a gentl kiss on her temple.

“I know I know you do not like being called that, but you've saved so many people, I think you need to be appreciated.” Y/n smiled at him and looked at Yen, her lips in a soft smile.

“Common I’ll show you where you can put your horses. I have a guest home in the back, suitable for the three of you, a bath is also there. The well is in-between the houses, please use as much as you'd like.” The three followed Y/n to the stalls and they put up their floors.

Once the three were comfortable in the guest home Y/n and Yen made their way back to Y/n’s main home. Yen’s hand was placed on the small of her back as she spoke of the garden, the chicken she raised, and the market’s flourishing growth in the town that wasn't far from her home.

“I was going to make bread, and some tarts would you care to help?” Y/n asked as they entered the house, Yennefer placing her things by the door. Her heart felt fuller than ever.

For many years Yennefer was angry that her choice to have babies were stripped from her, no one ever made her feel better. Not Geralt or even Istredd.

But Y/n was different, when she met her at the market in her town on a hunt with Geralt, she new she was different. She made a promise to Y/n that she would always come back to her, she would always be there for her. That was nearly 5 years ago, her promise never wavered.

Yennefer wrapped her arms around her lovers waist, placing a sweet kiss on her lips before she rested her head on Y/n’s forehead.

“Id love too, baby. But I don’t know what I’m doing.” Y/n’s giggle made her heart swell.

Y/n turned to the kitchen and began pulling her ingredients from the cabinets. Flower, jams, fresh fruit, yeast and large mixing bowls Yennefer had brought back to her form Rivia on one of her last adventures.

“Go grab 6 eggs from the coop?” Y/n asked as she tied her hair back away from her face. Yen smiled placing a quick kiss on her lips before going to the chicken coop, on her way out she saw Geralt and Ciri in the field. Geralt calling out moments and direction, a blindfolded Ciri following his commands, her sword falling threw the air.

She opened the gate to the coop walking into the small covering and pulled the eggs from under the chickens behind. She pilled the eggs in her dress before walking to the well, gently placing them in a bucket before rinsing them off.

“She seems nice.” It was Jaskier, startling the mage.

“Lord Jaskier, make yourself known.” Jaskier snickered at Yennefer his arms crossed over his chest.

“But yes, shes more than nice. shes everything to me.”

“I never took you as the forever type. Always figured Ciri would be the only forever love you gave.” Yennefer turned to look at the bard, the clean eggs in her hands.

“I did too, but some times things changed, she was my change. Now, go bathe, you smell like dirty balls.” Her smirk made the bard grown before turning to go to the house to bathe.

“I got them baby.” Yen’s voice carried threw the house as she walked in the front door.

She walked into the kitchen, before stopping dead in her tracks, her eyes wide as she looked at the flower covered kitchen, and her flower covered girlfriend.

“What the hell happened?” She said laughing.

“I couldn't get the bag open, I ripped to hard, it blew up.” Her girlfriend was overly sensitive. Especially compared to Yennefer’s hard scary exterior.

Y/n’s eyes were glossed over with expecting tears, being rather upset over the wasted flower and money, and her ideas of baking bread and tarts for her guests now gone because the main ingredient was covering herself and the floor.

Yennefer quickly placed the eggs on the counter, placing her cool hands on Y/n’s hot cheeks, resisting the urge to smoosh them together.

“Don’t you dare cry, its just flower, angel we can get more.” Y/n’s breaths were hard and ragged as she sniffed back her tears.

“I ruined it,” Her voice broke as those tears fell down, leaving streaks in her flower covered face.

Yennefer wasted no time in wiping tears of her lovers cheeks. The tears mixing with the flower making a paste, causing Yen to chuckle.

“That’s quite gross my angel, your tears are pasty.” Yennefer’s comment made Y/n laugh threw her tears. Y/n new she could be a little over sensitive, but it was what made her, her. Her heart was pure, and Yennefer would do anything to keep that.

“I’m sorry I’m such a sensitive bitch.” Y/n mumbled leaning into Yen’s hands.

“You are not.” Y/n cocked a suspicious eyebrow at her girlfriend, who was smiling.

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not, never would think of it. You are sensitive sure, but its who you are, its how you see the good in everyone. How you see a man like Geralt who is scary and looks as though he could squash you, yet you see him as a hero. You are sensitive yes, but you are not a bitch. You have a heart to pure for the world we live in.” Yennefer’s speech shocked them both, her past life made it a bit difficult for her to express with words how she felt, normally sticking to easy ‘i love yous’ or showing her emotions threw physical touch.  

“The world truly underestimates you, Yennefer of Vengerberg.” Their lips met in a sweet kiss, the flower from Y/n’s face transferring to Yen’s.

“I love you.” Yennefer whispered against her lips.

***

“Thank you all for accompanying us to the market, I’m sorry dinner will be late, due to my stupidity.” Y/n spoke as she, yennefer, Jaskier, Geralt and Ciri walked down the cobblestone path to the market in the center of the town.

“Don’t take this personally, but what do you and Yennefer possibly have in common?” Jaskier’s question was followed by a loud grunt as Geralt smacked the back of his head.

“Our love for plants and animals were what made us comparable, and the rest, is just destiny. We may not be two peas in a pod, but we mold together like two puzzle pieces, I’ve never loved anyone as much as I’ve loved her.” Y/n’s companions didn’t have time to respond to her open heart. She left the grouped being engulfed in a hug by the woman who sold her flower. Geralt walked next to her grabbing the two bags throwing them over his shoulder effortlessly, but gaining some bad looks from those around the town.

“If you all could divert your glares somewhere else, the man is helping, nothing more.” Yennefer spoke, defending her friend and her daughters father.

“Now how about we go back home, and we can all make dinner? A family activity.” Y/n’s sweet voice filled Yen’s ears as she held her hands as the walked.

“Family?” Ciri asked.

Y/n smiled at her and nodded.

“I cannot have children, neither can Yen, my family’s been dead for a long time. Everyone needs a family. If you’ll have me, my home is yours.” Yennefer’s lips pressed to her girlfriend's cheek sweetly.

“A family it is then.” Yen said with a smile bigger than any one had seen.

[lesdemonium]

I’d Be the Choiceless Hope Chapter 16

Ship: Geraskier Word count: 45187 (total) Chapter: 15/16 Summary:  

“Such a nice, beautiful sound,” the fae crooned. “If only he were this way always.”

Julian’s mother stood up. She claimed she was prepared to stop the fae, to protect her baby, but in Julian’s darkest moments he doubted this part of the story. His mother loved him, of that he had no doubt, but she had been young and weary, and even years later, she couldn’t quite get the twinge of exhaustion out of her eyes when she recalled Julian’s infancy. Even if she had been keen on protecting him, the fae was too close, too fast, too set on his plan.

“A gift, for the new mother,” the fae continued. He leaned a hand in to stroke Julian’s cheek. “I give you the gift of obedience.”

As a baby, Jaskier was visited by a fae, who gifted Jaskier’s mother with Jaskier’s obedience. As Jaskier grew older, the “gift” became more of a curse.

Additional tags: AngstAngst with a Happy EndingHeavy AngstUnrequited LoveNot Actually Unrequited LoveAlternate Universe - Canon DivergenceCanon EraNot Canon CompliantCursed Jaskier | DandelionAlternate Universe - Ella Enchanted FusionCurse of ObedienceRape/Non-con ElementsImplied/Referenced Rape/Non-conJaskier | Dandelion Whump

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Geralt was ushering Cirilla onto Roach’s back by the time Jaskier made it downstairs. By this point, he was so weak, he was leaning against a post holding the stable roof up, but still Geralt eyed him warily, like he was dangerous. Jaskier supposed he was.  He stepped between Jaskier and Ciri, and his fingers stretched out, like he was debating taking his sword.

“Don’t come any closer,” Geralt warned, his voice dangerous. “I won’t let you hurt her.”

Jaskier shook his head helplessly. “Geralt, I would never. Not. Not willingly.”

“You tried to kill me.” Geralt pointed an accusing finger at Jaskier.

He had a flat affect, betraying no emotion, as Geralt had spent so many decades training himself to do. Jaskier, however, had spent decades studying his witcher. The corners of his eyes pinched, just slightly, and his mouth was a hard line. Jaskier couldn’t have physically hurt him, though he had gotten close, but Geralt was wounded all the same.

“I’m sorry--the Nilfgaardians--Geralt, they knew,” Jaskier said. “They knew about my curse. Cahir--their leader--he ordered me to kill you. I couldn’t tell you about it. He told me not to. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. You have to know I’d never hurt you.”

Geralt’s eyes narrowed, and he searched Jaskier’s face. What he was looking for, Jaskier didn’t know. Geralt took a step closer, his expression turning more wary.

“You were the trap,” Geralt finally said, his shoulders sagging. “The castle--it was so easy to get to you. I was expecting a trap. But nothing came. Because it was you. They used you against me.”

Jaskier nodded. “I’m sorry, Geralt. I tried to tell you. I couldn’t. I tried to get away from you.” He swiped the heel of his hand over his still-wet eyes, then looked up to Cirilla. She still looked so terrified, the poor girl, and was holding onto Roach as if the horse was her only lifeline. “I’m so sorry I scared you. I had no choice, you see. But I’ll never, ever do that again.”

Cirilla stared at him for a long moment, then slowly, carefully, nodded her head.

“He still needs a healer,” Ciri said, letting herself down from Roach’s back.

“I don’t think--” Geralt began, but Ciri pushed past him to Jaskier.

Ciri tugged Jaskier’s arm around her shoulder and eased him off the post. She was struggling, Jaskier could tell, but still she stubbornly turned them both back in the direction of the inn. Ciri probably would have gone the entire way, if Geralt hadn’t come to Jaskier’s other side and shifted Jaskier’s weight onto himself.

The three of them made it back to the inn in silence. Geralt laid Jaskier down on the mattress again, and this time Jaskier went with no fuss. Jaskier heard Geralt kick the dagger out of sight moments before the healer swooped into the room. She fussed over Jaskier’s wounds and Jaskier, begrudgingly, was the best patient she could have asked for, if only because his compliance helped ease the tension in Geralt’s face.

“Apply these salves twice a day,” the healer instructed, pointing to the ceramic pots she had left on the table. “Let him rest, and he should be mobile again in a couple days.”

When the healer left, an awkward silence filled the room. Each of them looked in a different direction. Ciri out the window, Geralt at the door where the healer had just exited, and Jaskier on his own hands sitting in his lap.

“Here,” Geralt grunted. Jaskier looked up just in time to see Geralt hand Ciri something, then nod toward the door. “The next room. I’ll be able to hear you if anything happens.”

Ciri nodded, sparing one last glance at Jaskier before she left the room. The heavy silence continued after she left, and Jaskier felt suffocated by it. He had never much liked silence, but now it felt particularly insidious, after all that had happened.

“Geralt, I’m so--” Jaskier tried, needing to break the tension in the air, but he was cut off as Geralt put up a hand.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said. He hesitated a moment, then came to the bedside. He sat on the edge with clunky, disjointed movements, and kept his eyes on the floor as he spoke, “I’m so sorry. What I did--and then avoiding you--I was just trying to protect you.”

Jaskier crossed his arms and glared at Geralt. “I don’t need protecting. Especially not that sort of protecting. You promised me you would never.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t know what else to do.” Geralt finally looked up, and he looked so earnest . As if he had never meant anything more in his life. “When I heard they had you--” He scrubbed a hand over his stubble. “I came as fast as I could. I couldn’t imagine--”

“It’s fine, Geralt. It just. It doesn’t matter.” Jaskier looked away from him, staring instead at the pots of salve. It was safer that way. “I’m safe now. So. You and Ciri can go.”

“We’ll stay until you’re healed.”

Jaskier scoffed. “I don’t need your charity, Geralt. I can handle myself just fine while I heal. I’ll only slow you two down, and I don’t want to force you to stay out of some misguided feelings of guilt. I forgive you. We can move on. You don’t have to pretend to want me around.”

He was so focused on stubbornly not looking at Geralt, that Jaskier jumped when Geralt’s fingers cupped Jaskier’s jaw. He tilted Jaskier’s chin back to look at Geralt, then pressed forward to smooth his thumb along Jaskier’s cheekbone.

“Being without you this last year has been agony, Jaskier,” Geralt said, his voice soft. He shifted, scooting closer to Jaskier, and cupping his face between both hands. “I missed you every single second. I regretted what I did every single second.”

Jaskier’s eyes fluttered shut and he let out an audible breath. His heart pounded in his chest and he leaned into Geralt’s embrace. He could stay in this moment forever.

“So take me with you,” Jaskier breathed.

Now, Geralt sounded regretful. “I can’t. It’s too dangerous. I want to, more than anything. But Nilfgaard is after us, and I won’t put you in harm's way. Not again.”

Jaskier opened his eyes again, furrowing his eyebrows at Geralt. “That makes no sense, Geralt. Nilfgaard already got me once. You missed me. I missed you. I don’t know of any safer place than with you.” His hands covered Geralt’s and he pushed himself up to sit on his knees. “I have to go. You have to take me. We can’t--I couldn’t stand to be parted from you again. Not now that I have you here.”

“Don’t--you can’t do this.” Geralt shook his head, thumbing at Jaskier’s cheeks again. “I need you to stay here.”

Geralt looked devastated. His face was pinched as if he was in physical pain and he held Jaskier’s face as if Jaskier was the most precious thing in the world. And still, he did not seem swayed by Jaskier’s words. That would not do. This time, Jaskier was going to win this fight.

“Then order me.”

Geralt blinked. “What?” he asked.

“Order me. Tell me to stay away from you. I will not listen to your suggestions, Geralt of Rivia. If you want me to stay, then you have to tell me to stay.”

“Jaskier, I’m not going to do that to you,” Geralt said, glaring now. “I won’t do that again.”

“Do it. If you want to keep me safe so badly, then fucking do it . Order me to stay.” Jaskier’s voice was firm, brokering no argument. He had learned from the best, after all.

Geralt looked torn. He grimaced, and though he started by shaking his head, as he took in Jaskier’s set jaw and narrowed eyes, he wavered. Geralt was going to lose this one, and they both knew it now.

“Jaskier, stay here. Don’t follow us,” Geralt finally managed, each word taking a great deal of effort.

Jaskier pulled Geralt’s hands away from his face and climbed forward on his knees. He swung a leg over Geralt’s lap, straddling him, and now he took Geralt’s face in his hands. Geralt stared up at him, perplexed, and wrapped his arms around Jaskier’s hips. Jaskier leaned in, dipping his head and stopping just a hair's-breadth away from kissing Geralt.

“No,” Jaskier breathed against Geralt’s lips. “I will not. I go where you go from now on.”

Geralt huffed into Jaskier’s mouth, and his arms tightened around Jaskier. “But, the curse?”

Jaskier shook his head. “I told my truth. I broke it. I love you, Geralt. I am now, and have always been, yours. And I will not let you cast me aside, never again.”

Jaskier felt drunk on this new power. He was free. Geralt’s order had not settled into him like every other order before it had. For the first time in his life, Jaskier was his own person, free to go wherever he wanted, free to say no whenever he cared to.

“You love me,” Geralt said, and Jaskier shivered as Geralt’s thumb trailed over his skin, just above the hem of Jaskier’s trousers. He had missed this entirely too much. “I love you. I love you, too, and I want you safe, even if I’ve done a terrible job of showing that.”

Jaskier’s fingers carded through Geralt’s hair and Geralt tilted his head to capture Jaskier’s lips in a kiss, but Jaskier pulled away. He pulled away far enough to see the questioning quirk of Geralt’s eyebrows. The amber of his eyes.

“You’ll make it up to me. I know you will. Now, ask me to come with you.”

Geralt stared at Jaskier, a small smile creeping across his lips. They drew together again, until their lips just barely touched. For a long moment, that was all they did. They breathed together, Jaskier’s eyes closed as he felt this moment.

“Jaskier, will you come to Kaer Morhen with me?” Geralt whispered.

For the first time, Jaskier had a choice. He had his witcher again. He had his freedom. No one could imprison him or bend his will to their own, ever again. He was his own man, rather than a pawn in anyone else’s game.

Jaskier captured Geralt’s lips in a long, slow kiss, leaving them breathless and wanting more. Geralt leaned Jaskier back on the bed, hovering over Jaskier’s body to keep them close, but let Jaskier rest. Geralt’s hands slipped up Jaskier’s sides, soft but steady, like he was never letting Jaskier go again. Jaskier held Geralt’s face and chased his mouth, knowing, finally, that Geralt was his, and he was Geralt’s. For once, it wasn’t a lie, or a half-truth, or a secret. It was honest, and open, and out there. It was love.

“Yes.” Jaskier pressed a kiss to Geralt’s brow. “I go where you go. Always.”

[witcherdoaks]

Spring Day: Ghost

Word Count: 2,080

Warnings: None, just a short intermittent chapter 

Previous post in the series: A Brief Reunion

Masterlist: Spring Day

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Witcher!” 

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

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

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

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

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

“Dandelion?” Geralt asked, tilting his head. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My dear Priscilla 

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

Geralt blew out the candle and went to sleep.  

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

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

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

My dear Priscilla, 

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

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

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

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

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

Thank you, dear Callonetta. 

Sincerely yours,

Dandelion 

[whimsyetal]

Idea: Ciri ventures out beyond the walls of Cintras capitol city, sometimes- it’s dangerous, perhaps, but she carried a well-made dagger and goes by Fiona or Fion whilst dressed in commoners clothing.

One day, she’s exploring a wilder section of the forest when she comes across a man. His back is turned to her, but she quickly spins around when he hears her approach.

His eyes are yellow-amber, the same shade as the eyes of a wolf that her grandmother once brought back from a hunt. At first, he’s wary, but he spots a curl of hair peaking out from beneath her cap. It’s enough that he, who has only been away from Cintra for a decade or so, recognized her as Pavettas daughter.

He asks her why she’s there, and she responds only that she’s learning. He spots the dagger hidden by her hip, and asks if she’s been trained to use it. She hasn’t.

When she’s older, Grandmother told her. When she’s thirteen, she will begin to learn to fight. For now, a dagger is enough to scare away a common thief.

The man introduces himself as Geralt, Of Rivia. He doesn’t mention that Rivia a place he’s been but once, a ruse taken up by Witcher’s. Geralt tells her that Calanthes reasoning is bull, if she’s old enough to venture on her own, she’s old enough to know how to swing a sword.

He doesn’t call her Queen.

He pulls a dagger that is nigh-identical to hers from where, she can’t tell. Ciri freezes.

Geralt apologizes, uncertain of human interactions but knowing he shouldn’t frighten a child unnecessarily. He shows her a proper grip, how to hold a knife and spin it in her hands to show that she knows what she’s doing with it. He shows her how to block a sword with a knife- using sticks in place of blades, of course. He wouldn’t risk her life for such a simple lesson.

The next day, Ciri goes exploring again. This time, Geralt shows Ciri how to roll away from a sword, and points out the plants necessary for a basic human antiseptic and painkiller. When they stumble across deer tracks during the botany lesson, he shows her how to stalk a dear silently, and demonstrates skinning one, too. When her stomach rumbles, and his igni sign to light a fire causes her to gust winds during the demonstration, he teaches her Axii and Igni and Quen, too. Ciri learns to trust the strange man, who she realizes is a Witcher during one of her history lessons.

When she speaks of this, Geralt teaches her to question the history she is taught. Why were Witchers made? Why did her grandmother lie about the Evellians giving up land? Why do Humans fear mutants, mages, druids, and Witchers? He teaches her Elder, too. Dryads and Elves would take kinder to her if she can speak to them in their tongue, he reasons. Scholars, too.

After a few weeks, Geralt tells her he must move on. A town a few days’ march away has a werewolf problem, and its offered a contract to get rid of it. Them, Geralt tells her. Whoever is killing is a victim of the curse, not the true monster. Silver is to be used, yes, but the person is not the monster; whoever laid the curse is. Steel, he says, is only for humans. Silver for everything else. Do not pull silver on humans.

As he is leaving, he hands her a silver blade. Hide this, he says. Only use it in the greatest of needs.

I will return, he promises. Every spring, I will come for a moon or two to teach you.

He does. Every spring, she eagerly hunts for him. When she is twelve, the year before Cintra falls- not that she knows of that yet, of course, he brings her a blade sized perfectly for her. A Witcher blade, Geralt tells her. Meteorite steel. No human blade will break it, he says. Ciri believes him. She has heard the songs his bard sang of him, the legends that surround him. The blade will serve her well. When he leaves that year, he tells her to tell Calanthe to summon him, if Cintra is attacked. He has heard rumors, Geralt says, of Nilfgaard. Nilfgaard moving troops, marching on kingdoms in the name of the White Flame.

Ciri tells her Grandmother, but is ignored. Cintra, Calanthe tells her, has held firm against all else. Nilfgaard will never be strong enough to march on Cintra. Calanthe lets her keep the blades, though. Her dagger, so close to Geralts. Geralts’ silver knife, and the steel sword. Ciri runs through drills that Geralt taught her.

Ciri is not as certain as her Grandmother. Geralt speaks of kingdoms and town and empires that no longer exist, surviving only in the memories of the Witchers and elves, and perhaps the Dryads, if they cared about human affairs. All kingdoms think they will be immortal, even as they crumble into dust.

There is never a thirteenth spring in Cintra for Geralt to return to. Instead, he comes bearing news of an attack.

Calanthe still tries imprisoning him, still denying Destiny. But Geralt knows of her hatred for Duny, how she blames her daughters beloved for Pavettas early death.

Geralt waits behind the walls, and when Nilfgaard comes, and he knows he cannot defeat them all, a meteorite sword sings in combat behind him. It is Ciri, with Mousesack. Cintra is falling, the Lioness had fallen upon her sword, but the Lion Cub remains.

Mousesack, Ciri, and Geralt travel together. When they collide into Yennefer, weakened from holding Sodden, they help her. In exchange, Yen teaches Ciri how to harness her chaos. How to be chaos and master chaos at the same time, how to use chaos in a fight, how to heal.

Ciri wants to heal- not just her family, bloodied and tired from combat. She wants to heal the refugee her family was born to protect, the starving shoulders running from battle, the damaged emotions Geralt feels he can only express in grunts.

Ciri knows battle and blood and war, and it has hardened her, but it has also softened her. She uses her anger, her roar the Lionesses of Cintra became renowned for, to heal. She lets Yen mother her, talks to Geralt after he trains her. When Ciri learns of the trials to make a Witcher, she wonders at how anyone could could have permitted a child to go through that. She does not mention it to Geralt. They are a family, yes, but the scars Geralt and Yennefer bear are not only written upon their skin. Their scars are thick, and twisted, and bound to them as closely as Geralt and Ciri have been bound since Geralt saved Dunys life. But Ciri does not like it when Geralt back away from conversations, misdirects a question. Falls as silent as a forest when a predator is about.

When Yen mentions a Jaskier, a companion of Geralts’ for many years, Ciri finds out as much as she can. Yen is just manipulative enough to turn their movements to just align with the bards travels. When they finally- finally! walk into a tavern and a man is playing the lute, singing toss a coin to your witcher exactly as he had intended it be sung, Yen helps push the two into a conversation. It is full of apologies, and pain, and a bit more emotional repression than healthy, but in the end the bard is intrigued enough- in Ciri’s story or Geralt, Ciri can’t tell, to follow them. The Bard is strangely ageless, for one usually described as human. His voice is still young, and there is not a crows foot to be spotted on his face, despite whatever Yennefer implies.

When Jaskier joins the party, the four adults talk at nights when they think Ciri is safely asleep. They confide of battles and trials and pain and death, and Ciri cannot remember it all. Now she knows, despite what she has witnessed, why Geralt and Yen did not share all their experiences with her. Still shy of sixteen, they wanted her to keep what little innocence Ciri could hoard within herself. She stops eavesdropping on them, and slowly Geralt and Yennefer and Jaskier and Mousesack heal.

They still have their distance from certain topics, but now they open up. Yen no longer uses biting sarcasm to escape every conversation, Mousesack no longer blames himself for Calanthes death, Jaskier does not dream of rejection by all his family, blood and otherwise, and Geralt, Geralt progresses to speaking sentences. Paragraphs once, even. They heal with each other.

When Ciri had a night terror of Cintras fall, they listen to her too, keeping vigil as she sleeps and waking her when she gets trapped in them. They tell her she is safe now, and Ciri can believe them.

Her seventeenth winter is spent at Kaer Morhen. The four non-Witchers are greeted surprisingly warmly- Vesemir has heard of Geralts child surprise, and is proud to offer Ciri a Witchers medallion when she is able to cross blades with one of the younger Witchers, and come out triumphant. Ciris Skellige-sea blue eyes might not be slitted as her new fathers eyes are, nor the human brown or elvish purple of her other fathers and mum, but she is welcomed among the Witchers as one of them. The youngest Witcher. Perhaps, the first of many born-mutant Witchers, free from the mutagens and trials that killed so many initiates.

Vesemir takes her aside one day, tells her of being a child surprise for an even older Witcher named Dagon. It was not the life Vesemir would have chosen for himself, perhaps, but it has been his for centuries. Vesemir trained generations of Witchers alongside his foster father and mentor. Witchers, he confides, are not emotionless. Instead, they are trained to move on before attachments can be made. Humans do not survive as long as a well-trained Witcher does.

Vesemir looks at her, and says that she is well-trained. That Geralt is too. He says that when she returns to Cintra, to help her people. To be a helper, not an oppresser.

He tells her that her family will always be by her side.

So when the snow melts, and the path clears, Ciri and her family come down from Kaer Morhen. It takes years to rebuild Cintra, to beat back Nilfgaard. To raise another Lion Cub, when Ciri is the Lioness. But it is done.

When Ciri crowns her daughter- named Pavetta after her mother, and similarly gifted with chaos that Ciri taught her to control, Ciri returns to the forests that Geralt first met her in. There, she bids farewell to Cintra. Mousesack stayed with Pavetta, a court Druid determined to protect the Lioness of Cintra for as long as his chaos is able to.

But Yen, and Geralt, and Jaskier stay with her. Ciri walks the Witcher path she learned so long ago for a few years, retiring every so often to the shores of Skellige, just so her bard father can joke about it with her Witcher father. Yen is still arguing with Aretuza, but after a century or so of ‘arguing’ it’s more tradition than anger. Sorcerers are fond of their traditions, after all.

After two centuries with Jaskier, Geralt finally realizes that Jaskier doesn’t age. Yen and Ciri rib him for decades about it, having realized well before Geralt. Jaskier still isn’t certain why, but as long as he can still sing and laugh with his daughter, Witcher and Sorceress, he isn’t going to argue with fate.

In the end, if there can be an end to such a tale, they are content. Their life is no longer filled with pain and cold, but family and warmth, even when they must go hunting.

Geralt once said he never wanted anyone to want or need him.

All are glad that Geralt was wrong.

[corvo-bianco-lilacs]

Part two of Sabrina’s angsty, then fluff induced pregnancy story!

I honestly did not expect that, for one of the least liked characters in the series, that I would feel absolutely heartbroken and grieved by the first part. But I was, and oh for the love of all the gods, did I feel horrible this morning. It also didn’t help that I was up until 3am writing the first part, lol

Anyways, this will be a much happier part.

And, to reiterate from the first part, thank you again @enid--an-gleanna for helping me brainstorm!

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Sabrina didn’t know what to expect from her pregnancy, and had shared her concerns with Yenna, who insisted that her daughter, Lavinia, should stay with Sabrina to keep her company and to monitor her pregnancy. Lavinia had, of course, protested to her mother’s declaration, but after some coaxing from both Ciri and Geralt, and meeting Sabrina in person, she relented and agreed to stay with the red-haired sorceress.

Sabrina had just woken for the day, her body stiff with sore muscles and aches from carrying the little one for the past eight months, but she was glowing as she stepped out into the living area, her eyes scanning for her friend’s daughter. The clang of steel outside caught her attention, and she made her way to the front door to peek outside, catching sight of said daughter hacking into a practice dummy that was enchanted to fight back as if it were a real person.

Sabrina was captivated by Lavinia’s movements, how much she had inherited her mother’s grace while still taking on her father’s trade, the way she moved around the dummy, parrying each swing and cheap hit, how she ducked and dived and how she danced through each counterattack as if it were nothing to her. She tore her eyes away for a moment to glance down at her swollen belly.

“I only hope that I can raise you to be that strong and independent.” She spoke, her voice low, as she ran her hand over the swell, resting it beneath the curve as she leaned against the doorframe.

It was at that point where Lavinia caught sight of her, unenchanting the dummy before glancing over to her, her breathing slightly quickened from her morning practice.

“I’m sorry. I... I didn’t mean to spy.” Sabrina quickly spoke, trying to convey her apologies to the young woman before her. Lavinia shook her head, a playful smirk on her lips.

“I’m not worried about that. I’m more concerned that you’re up and walking about when you should be resting. You’re due at practically any time, and the last thing I would like to find is you lying on the floor when you could be in bed.” Lavinia chastised, making her way to Sabrina’s side.

“But--”

“Besides, mother would kill me if she were to appear and see that I’ve neglected to uphold my end of our deal.” She gently took Sabrina’s arm and lead her back into the living room, easing her down onto the couch. “And I make it a point to never have to receive a verbal, or magical, thrashing from my mother.”

Sabrina chuckled at that, the mood lightening as she relaxed into the cushions and pillow behind her. She watched as Lavinia made her way over to the bookshelf, her hand lingering over the exposed spines of the books before turning her head to look back at Sabrina.

“Which book would you like today?”

“The one from yesterday, which I swear I left sitting over here on the table.”

“You did, I just put it back on the shelf after bringing you to bed last night.”

She grabbed the book, bringing it over to Sabrina and handing it off before asking what she would like for breakfast. She disappeared into the kitchen then, and reappeared a few minutes later with a cup of tea in her hands. Sabrina looked at her with confusion as she accepted the offered glass.

“It’s lavender and oat straw. It’s meant to help alleviate any symptoms of insomnia, which I know can develop over the course of a pregnancy, and anxiousness. This last month is where that all culminates together, so it’s important that I have you drink this infusion daily. Not only that, but the oat straw in incredibly high in calcium and magnesium, and is therefore very healthy for you, especially when it’s infused in a tea.”

“Wow... I’m impressed.” Sabrina spoke, her expression sincere as she looked up at Lavinia. “Where did you learn that?”

“Margarita.”

The admission brought laughter from Sabrina, and Lavinia soon after, both of them settling in as they ate breakfast in the living room. When they were both done, Lavinia gathered their dishes and disappeared into the kitchen once more, leaving Sabrina to her book.

She couldn’t focus on the words, and after several failed attempts, closed the book and placed it on the table beside her, rubbing at her temples to ease her racing thoughts. She had allowed her mind to travel more than once back to the night that she had been assaulted, and it had severely dampened her mood, leaving her depressed and bedridden for several days, unable to even eat small bites of food, and leaving Lavinia no choice but to forcefully encourage her to eat by sitting at her side until she finally relented and ate several bites from the plate. She brought her arms down to her belly, cradling it as she reclined against the couch cushions.

“You are a blessing from a terrible action... I can only hope that I will be able to look at you and not see him... To care for you without the fear of seeing his face reflected in yours.”

A few soft kicks pressed against her arms, and she let out a small laugh, tears slipping down her cheeks. Lavinia returned then, catching sight of the troubled woman. She approached slowly, having heard the story of what had transpired, and sat down beside her, gently placing her hand on her shoulder. Sabrina flinched at first, but sensed Lavinia beside her, and allowed her body to relax. She turned her gaze to the girl, a sad smile coming to her lips.

“I’m sorry...”

“Don’t be.” Lavinia replied, her voice soft as she tenderly took Sabrina’s hand in hers. “You are allowed to feel what you feel... No one is telling you otherwise. The only thing I will point out is that you are suffering in silence. If ever you want to talk, I will listen.”

Sabrina broke, spilling out all of her fears and worries from the past eight months, telling Lavinia how fearful it was to think that her baby would look like the man who had assaulted her, how terrified she was to raise the baby alone, how lonely it had been for her as she went through the whole pregnancy without support outside of Lavinia and her family. She shared how terrified she was to face the pain of childbirth, and how scared she was of being alone when she went into labor. Lavinia moved from the couch and kneeled down before Sabrina, gently taking her hands in hers, resting them against the swell of her belly.

“Will you do me a single favor?” She asked, her lilac eyes gazing up into Sabrina’s dark brown.

“I... I suppose I could...”

“Believe in yourself.”

Sabrina stopped, staring directly into Lavinia’s eyes as she processed what the young woman had just said to her. She blinked a few times, then questioned Lavinia.

“Believe in yourself.” She replied, gently squeezing Sabrina’s hands. “You’ll make a fine mother. You’re more than capable of raising the baby, and mother has offered to help in any way that she can. Plus, I know you have stayed in contact with the Lodge, and there are some with children of their own. You will be fine. You will be okay.”

Lavinia stood from the floor and moved over to gaze out of the window, her own mind clouded with a few stray thoughts, before she turned back to Sabrina.

“Over the last few months that I’ve stayed here, I’ve gotten to know you fairly well. Having watched my own mother deal with dad being gone for many extended days on contracts, and knowing just how much of her pregnancy with my brother he missed out on, I can see how alone you feel. So I’d like to make you an offer, a child to a mother.”

Sabrina gazed at her with confusion, still wiping the tears from her cheeks, before nodding her head for Lavinia to continue. Lavinia came before her once more, dropping again to a knee as she gazed up into Sabrina’s eyes.

Lavinia offered her a smile, her eyes glittering in the morning light, before wrapping her arms around Sabrina’s waist, her ear pressed against the swell of her belly. New tears spilled down Sabrina’s cheeks, one hand covering her mouth as the other came to rest on Lavinia’s shoulder. Nia tilted her head up, gazing into Sabrina’s eyes with the smile still on her face.

“Will you allow me to stand in as an unofficial older sister? Will you take me as your unofficial daughter?”

“Of course I will.” Sabrina cried, her arms outstretched to gather Lavinia into a hug, which the latter accepted. “You’ve just made me... The happiest I’ve been in months.”

“I’m glad... Mom.” Nia replied, her smile mirroring Sabrina’s.

The afternoon passed by in a complete blur, and soon the moon hung in the sky above the cottage. Nia glanced outside, gazing up at the constellations that littered the darkness, a soft sigh passing her lips.

“What’s wrong, Lavinia?” Sabrina asked, struggling to her feet before making her way to Lavinia’s side.

“The placement of the constellations...” She whispered, her eyes locked on the sky. “The crescent moon... It all signalizes change.”

Sabrina gazed up as well, but she didn’t have the same grasp of astronomy as Lavinia did, so she simply admired the purity of the night sky. She took hold of Nia’s arm, giving it a light squeeze to break the girl from her trance. Nia glanced over to her, her eyes searching Sabrina’s as she looked at her, before finally shaking free of her trance.

“Sorry... The night sky is usually a comfort for me.” She whispered, her hand coming to cover Sabrina’s.

“Why don’t we call it a night, hmm? Some sleep will clear your head.”

Nia nodded her head in agreement and walked with Sabrina down to her bedroom, where she helped her ready herself for bed with the snap of her fingers. She helped Sabrina lower herself onto her mattress before she eased her back into the pillows, bidding her goodnight before she began to walk towards the bedroom door.

“Lavinia... Wait.” Sabrina called, her voice soft as she gazed at Nia’s back. She stopped and turned to face Sabrina, confusion in her eyes.

“What is it?” She asked, returning to Sabrina’s side.

“I... I don’t want to be alone tonight...” Sabrina replied, her voice soft as she looked up at Lavinia. “I don’t know why... But I don’t want to be alone.”

“It’s okay... Let me change first and I’ll come right back. Okay?”

“Okay.” Sabrina breathed, trying to make herself comfortable against the pillows behind her.

Her back was acting up, and every little movement seemed to trigger some response from the already tense muscles. She tried to place some of the pressure onto one hip, which aggravated her back, then tried the other, but to no avail. Every twinge that could ripple across her muscles did, so she gave up and settled back as best she could against the pillows. She gingerly ran her hand over the swell of her belly, since the little one was now kicking like crazy. She took some deep breaths to steady her racing heart, but it wasn’t helping. Lavinia returned at that moment, seeing her as she was. A flash of panic crossed her face, followed by fear, until she settled back into a more neutral expression. She made her way to Sabrina’s side, climbing up on the bed beside her and placing her palm against her belly, her eyes glossing over as she entered a trance-like state.

Sabrina watched her for a moment, the kicks of the baby slowing to a dull pain, rather than the intensity they had been before. Lavinia snapped out of her trance and gazed down at her.

“I must contact mother. She should be here.”

“What? Why?” Sabrina asked, taking Lavinia’s wrist before she could leave.

“Because you’ve started to go into labor, and I am in no position to deliver my unofficial sibling.”

Sabrina’s eyes widened, shock washing over her before a small contraction set in. She pressed her hand to the spot, fear replacing shock, and looked to Lavinia for support. Nia came to her side immediately, her own hand placed over Sabrina’s as the contraction passed, leaving her just minutes to connect with Yen. Through their telepathic link, Lavinia was able to update Yen and urge her to come as quickly as she could. She informed Nia that she would be bringing Geralt with her, to which Lavinia said to do what she must, but to come soon.

The familiar hum of electricity came to her ears minutes later, and she watched the front door down the hall expectantly, waiting for her family to come in. Sabrina yelped in pain then, squeezing Nia’s hand as a painful contraction set in. Nia offered her support, returning Sabrina’s hold while gently brushing her hair back from her face.

Yen and Geralt walked in moments later, much to the relief of both Sabrina and Nia. Yen instructed Nia to gather a few supplies, and told Geralt to help her settle in against the pillows. When Nia returned, Yen asked her to pull Sabrina’s hair back from her face, and she did, putting it up into a ponytail to keep it from sticking to her skin.

“Nia, Geralt, sit with her and keep her calm.” Yen spoke, glancing between her husband and daughter.

Both did as they were told while Yen coached Sabrina as she delivered the babe. Her labor was long, painful, and taxing to her body, but she persevered and pushed through until the sounds of her crying newborn rang through the room. She collapsed back against the pillows, her breathing ragged and shallow, gazing down at Yennefer as she swaddled the babe in clean linens.

“It’s a girl, Sabrina.” She spoke, lifting the newborn up so that Sabrina could see her.

She saw the tuft of red hair and her pale skin, and breathed a soft sigh of relief that she hadn’t inherited anything from the man who had sired her. She stretched her arms out towards the infant, and Yenna gently laid her in her arms, easing her down towards Sabrina’s chest. The soothing sound of Sabrina’s heartbeat lulled the baby girl until she stopped crying, opening her bleary eyes to gaze up at the foggy world around her. Sabrina gasped then, fear coming to her face as she gazed down into her daughter’s piercing green eyes.

“Sabrina... Hush... Shhh…. It’s okay.” Yen soothed, her hands on Sabrina’s knees as she spoke, gaining the sorceresses gaze. “Everything else about her is you. Her eyes mean nothing when your traits outweigh his.”

“But--”

“No buts, Sabrina. Take a few deep breaths and look back down at her. Actually see your baby.”

Sabrina did as she was told, steadying her heartbeat as she breathed. When she had calmed back down, she brought her gaze back down to the squirming infant in her arms, taking in the sight of her. It was only then that she saw her daughter, and not just the product of assault.

“She’s... She’s so beautiful...” She breathed, tracing her finger over the girl’s arm.

“She certainly is.” Yen replied, watching as Sabrina fawned over the baby in her arms. “Have you thought of any names?”

“Lavinia helped me decide on a few several weeks back, and I know which one fits her best.”

“Which one did you pick?” Nia asked, gazing down at the newborn with fascination.

“Renna.” She cuddled the girl close to her chest, her happiness radiating off of her. “Welcome to the world, my little flame.”

[riviae]

Geralt/Yennefer angst please? 👀

ask and ye shall receive, anon… if you want sad background music, pls listen to this (x) (note: drabble takes place at the end of the book lady of the lake, which i haven’t actually read, only looked at summaries of… so likely not very accurate. also i added more sadness bc i live off angst apparently) 

It’s a nice dream, Geralt thinks, flashes of another life flickering in his periphery. A sudden shudder of pain rips through his body, bringing him back to the present where he lies with a pitchfork impaled through his chest, a frigid downpour soaking through his armor, his blood mixing with the water to flow in rivulets across the hard cobblestone while a mob of peasants continue their pogrom against non-humans. 

There’s screaming and crying all around him, the sound of boots against stone, followed by the inevitable thud of lifeless bodies. The smell of blood and rain turns rancid as someone is killed to his left, the all too familiar scent of burning flesh cloying his nose. It’s all too much–he knew he wouldn’t die in a warm bed, but dying at the hands of angry human peasants? Dying after everything else he had faced, after everything he had suffered, after being so close to reuniting with his family? Destiny had never been kind to him, but he didn’t think it could ever be this cruel. 

Geralt squeezes his eyes shut, willing himself to return to the warmth he had once felt, to return to the vision that he knew, deep down, was just a dream–because it was too perfect, too good for someone like him, a witcher that was too broken and too dangerous to be anything but a weapon. He was one side of a double-edged sword, lethal to himself and those around him. The opposing side of the sword was Death–it was his shadow, a constant companion on his journey, making ghosts out of anyone who got too close to him. Where he walked, Death followed, waiting. But when he fell, Death came to him, kneeled beside him, and offered him a final gift. 

Geralt dreamed. He dreamed of a sprawling estate. A spacious home. A roaring hearth. Swords and paintings mounted on the walls. A long dinner table covered in fancy silverware and numerous trays of food, steam rising up towards a golden chandelier that hung from a vaulted ceiling. It is his home, he thinks, and the idea of having a place to call his own leaves him feeling warm and content–at peace for the first time in his life.

Just as he passes the threshold, the scene melts away into something even better. Instead of an empty house, he sees Ciri. She’s older and taller, with a witcher’s blade strapped to her back. A wolf medallion sways against her chest as she steps forward, removing the hood of her cape to reveal her familiar ashen locks. She pulls him into a hug with a laugh, her gloved fingers briefly resting at the nape of his neck. She feels real and solid and how he’d imagine her to look all grown up. His daughter. His destiny. 

It physically pains him to pull away even as she gives him a wink. “She’s been waiting for you, Geralt.” Ciri says, pointing to a door to his left and pushing him forward. “Go on, I’ll catch up with you later.” 

Before he can walk through the door, another flare of pain seizes him, bringing him back to the present yet again. The witcher groans, straining to open his eyes and sees that his Yen, his beautiful and deadly storm, is kneeling over him, shielding him from the rain. Tears spill from her violet eyes and she’s yelling at him, hands poised over the wound at his chest, but everything sounds muffled, as if he’s underwater. 

But he doesn’t have to be able to hear to know what she’s saying; it’s written all over her face. Only those who didn’t know Yen personally could ever think that she was a heartless, emotionless woman; Geralt, who knew her best, whose destiny was tied to hers, had always been able to tell how she was feeling when it really mattered. He knew her love for him was deep, deeper and more genuine than he thought he deserved. Now, despite being at the cusp of unconsciousness, he knew what she was feeling as if she had whispered it in his ear. 

She was scared of losing him. She was scared he wouldn’t realize how much she loved him. She was scared that her magic wouldn’t be enough. 

Geralt didn’t like seeing her scared. 

Despite the searing pain, he smiles, using what little strength he has left to raise his hand to her cheek. This close up, he can see the faint splattering of freckles she usually kept hidden underneath her make-up, and he brushes his thumb appreciatively over the more prominent ones. His hand trembles and he can feel her tears falling against his fingers, but he continues to smile, cat-eyes blinking slowly. He pushes back a few curly strands of hair from her face, relishing in the feeling. He always loved her hair–like everything else about her. 

If only he had more time to tell her all the ways that he loved her…

Her attention is solely on healing him, a cobalt glow emanating from her hands as she desperately wills his flesh to knit together, for sinew and bone to reform. He can see the cost of using her magic in such a way, for trying to heal a mortal wound. She was beginning to look feverish, sweat pouring from her brow, her chest quickly rising and falling as she takes in another ragged breath. 

But it wasn’t working. She needed to stop before she pushed herself too far. But how could he get her to stop? He could barely keep his eyes open, each breath rattling past his broken ribs and pierced lungs. 

Geralt struggles to speak, voice coming out as a choked whisper. “…I love you, Yen. But you have to let me go.” 

He watches as her eyes widen, her lips frantically moving as she forces more magic through his body. He is able to tell that she’s saying I love you, and Don’t leave me, Geralt!, and No, no, no!, before he slinks back into the comfort and warmth of his dream. 

I’m sorry, Yen… When he returns to his dream, it’s exactly where he left off, fingers curled around the doorknob. When he pushes open the door, he smells lilac and gooseberries, a scent he’d know anywhere–in his dreams, in death, even if he lost all his memories. 

Yen is standing expectantly, a hand poised at her jutting hip, full lips pulled into a teasing grin. She’s wearing her usual ensemble of black-and-white, her pentagram choker flashing in the light of the candle by the table. 

“Well?” she starts, folding her arms over her chest, her curly raven locks spilling across her shoulder as she tilts her head. “You made me wait a long time, witcher. I thought you’d never show.” 

“Sorry, Yen. I came back as fast as I could.” 

At his expression, the sorceresses’ gaze softens. She steps towards him, brining a hand up to lovingly rub her thumb against the scar at his temple. “It’s all in the past. What matters is that you’re here. Welcome home, Geralt.” She kisses his cheek first, then his lips, lashes fluttering closed as she leans into the kiss. 

Geralt can taste her magic on her lips as it flows into him. It spoke to him in the same way as any of her other gestures of love spoke to him. Through their bond, he tasted the feelings she wanted to convey, those of comfort, love, and contentment. The connection spurs him to wrap his arms around her waist, bringing her as close to him as he can. There’s no pain, no fear, no past, no present, no future. It was just him and Yen–all that he ever wanted. All that he ever really dreamed of. 

It really is a nice dream, Geralt thinks, consciousness fading into nothingness. He doesn’t wake this time. Yennefer’s last breath follows not long after, her hands still pressed to the wound at his chest as she collapses upon him.