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hopefultingle · 3 years

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Geralt’s Other Half (pt. 1)

A woman who goes by the name of Hope, one day gets taken into a world she has thought was only on television. The longer she stays, the more she realizes that maybe this place wasn’t unfamiliar to her after all. In which two complete opposite’s are connected through Destiny without even knowing.

In this story it doesn’t go by the show or games at all, I kind of made a twist on it. I’m not 100% knowledgeable on the witcher because I’ve only ever watched the show, so I’m sorry if it’s a little rough. Also, you can change her name and read it as an x reader if that is better for you

Angst, slow burn, asshole geralt, soft Geralt, protective Geralt, jealous Geralt, jealous reader/OC, 18+, violence of course, happy ending

Ever since Hope was a little girl her life had felt off balance, like there was something... missing. She could never pin point exactly what she was missing, but as she aged this feeling grew and eventually she felt like she didn't belong in this world of hers at all. There was a feeling deeper inside her that made her feel like she was meant for something greater, like she was meant to be somewhere that was way out of her reach.

Life became tiring for the poor girl, constantly having to fake her smiles, her happiness, and her determination for what lies ahead of her. Never knowing if this soul sucking feeling would ever leave or if she was just cursed with it for the rest of her shitty life, but she has always hoped it was the latter. Sometimes while she's sitting there writing her little stories to escape the grim reality she lives in, she would think about how her life would be ten times better if she were to just be transported into an entirely different universe, maybe then the feeling that's been weighing on her for the past 20 years would finally be able to dissipate.

Though life is never that easy now is it? At least, that's what she thought until the utterly unexpected happened.

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A white cloud of smoke leaves the petite girls plump lips as she tries to warm up her tiny frosted fingertips. The weather has turned to absolute shit in the past few days, climate change has really begun to fuck up the planet and she sadly had to suffer earths mighty wrath this horrible evening. Maybe only throwing on a thin sweater wasn't her best decision, she thinks to herself as little flurries of snow begin to fall around her and cover her body as she continues to speed walk down the busy street. Her meeting with her mother is far from what she would like to be doing right now and she would more than love to slow her pace to lengthen the time before she has to come face to face with the woman. Sadly, the weather though, seemed to be on her wretched mothers side. So here she was speed walking as fast as her little legs could carry her.

"Why must this world hate me?" She mutters out between her chattering teeth and like usual she doesn't get an answer, only a few odd stairs from the people walking by her.

The familiar exquisite looking cafe comes into view and she cant help, but roll her eyes like she always does when it comes into view. Her mother has always enjoyed ravishing in her husbands money and so she requests to meet at the most expensive cafe in town every. Single. Time.

You'd think Hope wouldn't mind, but no, she really minds, extremely minds. Her mother has no regards for money or other peoples struggles when it comes to herself. She expects and expects from her poor daughter, but leaves her hanging high and dry when it comes to finance or literally anything for that matter. Hope was almost homeless in her first year of college, which her mother had forced her to attend in the first place, because of the non existent funds she was qualified for and of course she didn't get a dime from neither her mother nor her step father. So Hope had to drop out to work a shitty 9-5 job just to be able to pay for her small, run down apartment and even then she barely could afford it. Therefore, yes, she really fucking minded seeing her wretched mothers infuriating face in a, 20 dollars a drink, cafe. Heavens forbid could she pay even a cent for a small drink for her, but no, she never does. So, the poor girl has to sit there starving and thirsty while listening to her mom berate her for her life choices.

As she begins to come to her last steps before being in front of the entrance, a weird feeling begins to swell from somewhere deep inside her. Her eyes furrow in confusion at the odd feeling forming, it was becoming even stronger than her constant feeling of being off balance and out of place. Instead of dwelling on it though, she puts it to the very back of her mind and writes it off as anxiety of the situation that was about to come. Her fingers wrap around the door handle and yanks the door wide open, a welcoming chime signalling everyone of her arrival. She spots her mother at a table dressed up in her expensive pencil skirt, with her silk tank and her long, furry, white coat that always makes Hope want to jump out a window at the sight of. The thing is horrendous and embarrassing, she never understood her moms infatuation with the thing.

She takes in a frustrated breath before stepping through the doorway, but instead of stepping into the familiar warm cafe, she steps into a... tavern?

Eyes wide in shock, her ears barely pick up the sound of singing coming from a certain bard just a little ways away. The muffled loud voices of the people spread throughout the room echo in her mind as she quickly whips her body around to look back through the wide open door that she had just stepped foot through. Instead of seeing the familiar street she's memorized like the back of her hand, she sees an unfamiliar dirt road filled with a few people in corsets and clothing that she's only ever seen in movies that are set in the medieval times.

"What in the bloody hell?!" Those words leave her mouth in a shout just before the feeling of a soft hand resting upon her shoulder causes her to jump in her shoes and spin around to face the stranger who touched her. Fear and shock pool around her orbs as she stares into a familiar man's eyes, but she can't even begin the fathom where she's seen him from before because there's no way in hell she's ever met the man in her life.

"Are you quite alright, little maiden?"

His British accent shocks her even more, that's when her ears begin to finally take notice on everyone else's bellowing voices around them and notices that they all seem to have the same accent as the man standing right in front of her.

Brownish, redish, curls shimmer back and forth as the scared woman shakes her head all while blubbering like a fish trying to breathe in air on the surface.

"I- yes I'm ok it's just..." her breath hitches as her heart begins to race, "where are we?"

The bards eyes finally leave the girls shocked face to rake over her small body. Never has he ever seen a woman like her, her garbs are something that no one he's ever crossed or bedded has ever worn.

She takes notice of the shift in emotion on his baby like face as they continue to stand there staring at each other in shock and amazement.

Just a few feet away from the two, a grumpy Witcher finally begins to take notice of his annoying companion's absence. It's become a somewhat norm to block out the bards obnoxiously loud voice, and so, he doesn't notice when that said bard had stopped singing and yapping in his ear.

"Fucking, bard." Geralt grumbles out before swivelling his massive top half around to skim his eyes across the room. He straight away finds the blokes god awful, greenish outfit, which almost makes him roll his eyes, but the petite figure in front of him causes him to freeze in his own skin. His chest starts to fill with that familiar feeling he has always awoken to after dreaming of that sweet girl who haunts him while he sleeps. He doesn't know what or why it happens, but it always does. Until now he didn't even think twice about it or who she was, thinking that his cursed mind had made up such a heavenly woman to torture him with, but no. Here she was. Standing there in those ridiculous, but oddly attractive clothing, and talking to the moronic bard.

"Fuck."

Without another thought, the massive Witcher stands up while keeping his eyes on the girls petite figure like she would just up and disappear the second he removed them. It's still hard for him to believe that his girl is actually here and a real breathing person. A grunt leaves his throat at his minds ridiculous thoughts of her possibly being his. As his feet take him closer and closer, a heavenly scent wafts through the air and into his nose. The smell is a mix between the soft smell of lavender and the strong, delicious, smell of pomegranate. The scent is so addicting that he doesn't even notice when he's made it to the duo.

The boy in front of Hope clears his throat while resting his hands on his hips and the next words to leave his mouth are said like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "We're in the city of Cintra, of course..." he pauses, "are you sure you are ok because what in the gods name are you wearing?!" She bites her lip nervously not understanding what the fuck is happening. Cintra? Where the fuck could that be? She thinks to herself as a giant figure catches her hazel doe eyes. With a flicker of her eyes, she catches the witchers gleaming yellow and orange ones and something inside her chest ignites like a flame. Her lips part slightly as their gazes stay locked.

Once he makes it to where he could reach out and touch her, he is then finally awoken from whatever daze he was put in. Locking eyes with her beautiful ones has made him able to put a name to the feeling in his chest. Belonging.

As the man her eyes are staying locked with is realizing this feeling, she is also realizing that her feeling of off balance has been completely wiped and replaced with that same electrifying feeling. She belongs here, wherever here is. Cintra? This massive man? This odd boy? She couldn't say, but she just knew that she had finally escaped that hell she had called a life and was about to finally begin the one she is meant to live. She doesn't know how she knows, she's just going by what the feeling running through her is telling her. She is meant to be here, meant to follow this breathtaking man with a stone cold face and somehow that excites her more than scares her. She has never been known to be the sane type of person after all.

"Hello?! Earth to the Witcher!" Jaskier snaps his fingers in front of the mans blank face causing an annoyed grumble to come from him and almost a second later, a death glare follows once he finally breaks eye contact with the woman.

With a clear of the throat she shakily holds out her hand in greeting, "Im Hope by the way, and you guys are?"

The two stare at her hand like it grew a face of its own, but she continues to keep her hand there awkwardly. When she finally about to pull it back dejectedly, the gruff, but attractive man, hesitantly does as she does. With a small smile she softly latches her hand around his and gently shakes it. A jolt shoots through each of them at the contact.

"Geralt." He grumbles out softly.

His voice sends chills down her spine and it takes every bone in her body to not physically shiver in pleasure. Who knew a man could look and sound like a Greek god. There's no way a man like himself could be anything, but that.

She smiles. Really smiles, for the first time ever and Geralt takes notice of this.

An odd feeling fills his chest which causes him to take his hand back quickly.

Her smile falters a tad, but it still stays as she says, "it's a pleasure to meet you."

She then turns towards the bard, and as her eyes really take him in, she freezes in realization.

Wait a minute, she thinks, there's no way...

She quickly turns back to Geralt in utter shock and says, "you're that Geralt of riv.. rivya? Uh-" Jaskier quickly cuts in, "Geralt of Rivia, yes! It seems she's heard of my song, aye Witcher?"

Geralt rolls his eyes and refrains from punching the bloke in the stomach after he had obnoxiously jabbed his boney elbow into the side of his stomach. "Your song is wrong and sounds like horseshit, Bard." Hope can't help, but to giggle at their light hearted interaction, which ends up doing things to the mans insides that he's never felt or ever wanted to feel before he found her. Her laugh sounds like soft wind chimes to his ears-

"M'no I haven't... well I have. That's just not how I know, it's because I'm very fond of watching compilations of the two of you..." she decides to keep the part of her being more fond of watching edits of the sexy Witcher, not wanting to embarrass herself in front of him anymore than she already has.

Jaskier looks at the odd woman like she's grown two heads and she looks right back at him with a soft smile that Geralt can't seem to stop staring at. "It's hasier right? Or something along those lines..." Her right hand shoots up to scratch the back of her head nervously. Hopefully the bard isn't too hurt by her butchering his name. She never had been one to be good with names, it's always been something she's embarrassed about.

His mouth opens and closes like a fish breathing in air, "it is Jaskier, little maidan!"

Geralt cant hold back the deep chortle that leaves his mouth which causes the bard to glare at him, "this isn't funny, Geralt!"

"Hmm. I find it quite amusing."

Hope quickly cuts in. "I'm so sorry! I didn't mean-"

The threes conversation is rudely interrupted by an angry mans shout.

"Hey! Yous better get outta the door way before I kick yous all out!"

Jaskier is quick to apologize and quickly ushers, or more like attempts, the Witcher to the bar with Hope following not too far behind. That's when her eyes take their time to roam over the broad mans back, never in a million years would she have ever thought she'd be here staring at the Geralt of Rivia. This shouldn't even be possible, but here she is.

He's got a very nice back, she thinks.

Her eyes begin to ascend lower and land on a certain area that she probably shouldn't be looking at.

And an even nicer ass, she blushes while quickly looking away.

The two men sit on a stool while Hope stands behind them awkwardly. She's not sure if she's welcome to sit beside the large man or if he'd rather her leave them be. She also remembers how annoyed he could get with Jaskier. So, If that's the case then where the fuck would she go? She hardly knows anything of this world, one step outside and she'd most likely be killed. With a nervous bite of her lip, she timidly sits on the stool that's close to Geralt. While doing so, her arm lightly brushes against his and his body goes ridged at the feeling the contact causes. This goes unnoticed by her of course, and she mumbles out an apology.

It's quiet among the two of them as Jaskier starts singing and wooing the woman next to him. What a fool, she thinks to herself as an almost silent giggle leaves her lips at the sight of a tall man standing up behind the woman, which causes Jaskier to splutter out apologies.

A gruff sigh is heard from Geralt. This makes her eyes switch to looking at him and she feels herself slightly melt at the sight of him. How can this brooding man that kills things for a living and who she had literally just met, be already making her feel this way. Then again she's always known that shes the type to fall too quickly and too hard for all her life. Even though, this time it feels different... almost feels like these feelings were meant to blossom. She's taken out of her thoughts by Geralts gruff voice speaking to her.

"Hungry?"

She looks away in embarrassment when those beautiful golden eyes meet hers. Jesus Christ Hope, you gotta stop staring at the poor man, she scolds herself.

"No, uh no. It's ok, I wouldn't want you to use your money on me."

He doesn't listen to her and instead gets the barmaids attention. The girl gives him a disgusted look, "what you want mutant scum?"

Rage swells in Hopes chest, wanting nothing more than to punch the hideous woman in her face for speaking that way to him. Though, instead she chooses to send her sharp daggers. She had honestly forgotten how disgusting people could be towards him in this universe.

Geralt looks over to her out of the corner of his eye and can't help, but think of how cute the little woman is when she's angry. She's like a kitten.

"I'll take a baked potato and two ales."

The barmaiden just crosses her arms.

"An abomination like you ain't deserve a crum of-"

Hope can't take it anymore and slams her soft palms against the wooden table, the rage from before is boiling and she wouldn't be surprised if smoke was coming out the top of her head.

"Who the fuck do you think you are?"

The woman's shocked eyes meet her slitted ones. The whole room falls silent, while all eyes fall on her, but all she can see is red and that god awful wrench of a woman.

"You have no fucking right to talk to him like that, you fucking goblin. If anything you don't deserve Jack shit for your nasty ass attitude! How fucki-"

"Hope..." Geralt grumbles.

"-ng dare you even say those disgusting-"

"Hope." He says in a more sharper tone.

Jaskier is now standing behind the two nervously, he can feel the heated stares of some of the men around the tavern. Oh this is bad, he thinks.

"Geralt is a-"

"Hope!"

Geralt shouts louder this time, making the small woman jump and look at him with a look of fear and shame.

"Who the fuck does this whore think she is?!" One of the men shouts causing a few others to join in with him. Fear washes over Hope like a freezing ice cold waterfall.

"Gentlemen! Gentlemen! There's no need for such hostility, it was all just a misunderstanding. Right little maidan?" Jaskier tries to quickly diffuse the situation while wrapping his arm around her shoulders comfortingly.

Geralts massive build stands up abruptly while letting out a threatening growl. Without turning around he barks back, "you better watch your mouths."

Jaskier chuckles nervously knowing that this could only get worse the longer it goes on, the brute is known to have a short temper as of lately. He quickly starts taking Hope with him to the front entrance just in case things escalated, he didn't want the poor girl to get in the middle of it all.

"Geralt! Let's just leave, it's not worth the time" Jaskier hollers at him. Geralt seems to pause for a second before throwing a pouch of coin onto the table.

"For the ale," he grumbles out angrily in distaste and then makes his way over to the two. Shouts of protests and slurs are thrown at the three as they finally barge out of the Tavern and out into the cool fresh air.

Hope takes a few steps away from the two before hunching over with her hands on her knees. Short breaths leave her airway as her heart tries to calm down, she didn't expect things to escalate like that.

"Well that sure escalated quickly. I thought they ought to have your heads on a stick and fed to the wolves if we didn't leave." Jaskier paces back and forth as Geralt watches Hope out of the corner of his eye in slight worry.

After a minute her breathing finally evens out and so, she slowly stands back up into a straight position. Her eyes then fall to the ground in shame, "I'm so sorry... I don't know what came over me."

A faint sigh leaves Geralts lips. Jaskier turns around to watch as the man takes a few slow steps up to her. His eyes then drop to Geralts hand as it hesitantly lifts to rest on her small shoulder. Shock is what Jaskier feels at the small inkling of affection the Witcher is showing. Not once has he seen him comfort anyone. Not even Yennefer, and those two had some weird thing going on.

Hope tenses for a split second before her body melts at the feeling of his large hand touching her. "You need to be more careful..." a hint of worry is laced in his voice and she looks up into his beautiful eyes.

"I know, especially since I'm not from here, but..." her eyes close and a sad sigh leaves those captivating lips of hers that Geralt can't seem to stop staring at now.

"What that woman said was very uncalled for and I wasn't about to let it slide. You don't deserve to be treated like that, Geralt." Her eyes open once again and they stare into each other's souls. He felt like she could see every inch, every little nook and cranny, of his soul. Like she could see past his thick and never ending wall that he's kept up ever since becoming a witcher. This scared the shit out of him. "Hmm."

His hand slides off her shoulder before beginning to make his way down the street to an inn.

She watches his retreating figure with worried eyes as another hand gently pats her back. She looks to the side of Jaskiers face and asks solemnly, "is he mad?"

He shakes his head and starts walking, "the brutes not much for words so do not fret. Now come, wouldn't want to leave a little lady to fend for herself, now would we?" A smile graces her face at his playfulness, she's always liked that about his character. She gently shakes her head before lightly jogging up to his side so that they can walk together.

"You know Jaskier..."

He side glances at her and hums in question. "You're quite funny and adorable," a bright grin spreads along his features causing a little giggle to escape from her. "Well I've been told often that I am quite the charmer, lil lady."

Jaskier feels a light jab against his shoulder, "oh yeah, I'm sure you hear that all the time you frog." The shocked face he makes reminds her of the scene where Geralt told him about his opinion on his singing and she can't help, but let out a loud laugh. "You and Geralt are utterly ridiculous! A frog?! I do not look like such a slimy foul creature!" He shouts in slight anger and hurt, which causes a loud snort from the Witcher who is now just only a few paces in front of them, "are you sure your mother didn't fuck a frog, Jaskier?"

He storms ahead in fury causing another set of laughter from Hope. Geralt secretly slows down his steps to let her little legs catch up to his, and she gives him a smile that he catches out of the corner of his eye. He fights himself as a tiny smile forms on his face as they begin walking at a normal pace again. Up ahead Jaskier halts and whirls around on the two, "no you know what! I demand an apology right this instant!"

As they pass him on each of his side Geralt hums while Hope giggles and rubs his shoulder, "I'm sorry, froggy."

A full on smug smirk graces Geralts face now as Jaskier chases after them while cussing them out. Hope looks up at him and can't help, but to be blown away by his smirk. God she's falling way too hard and too fast, but she can't seem to find a care in the world.

It felt right.

It felt like destiny.

#geralt x reader #geralt z rivii #geralt x oc #geralt of rivia #jaskier #the witcher #geralt imagine

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cherryjuicegf · 4 years

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the spaces where our garden grew wild

He cuts through the branches, desperate, but they grow back, thicker and thicker and almost hiding that raven hair, that red doublet behind their leaves. He grunts and shouts and pants and his sword rips the air like paper. He sees them again. Or is he?

Black, isn’t her hair? A chain.

Red, isn’t his doublet? Blood.

Oh, he’s too busy, too focused on the thorns. Of course he would, they have hurt him too much by now not to notice them. Yet he doesn’t hear the voices anymore. He doesn’t hear the screams. He doesn’t hear his name.

And when he does, it’s too late.

A study in gardening.

11.3k, angst with a happy ending, cw temporary character death, blood & gore, nightmares

The sky looks beautiful, she thought. She never did that, didn’t usually stop to look at the sky. It’s admittedly not what she was doing right now either. No, it was not. She just had to look somewhere, to avert her eyes from the road to where the wind blew. So that it dried the tears threatening to fall from her eyes.

She had shed tears. All the way down the mountain, every step, every tree. Every tear another droplet of trust wasted on the ground. Oh, those were too real. As if to compensate for all the moments that were fake.

Lovers. She was too old to believe this time would be different.

The sky looked indeed beautiful. Red and pink and orange, and the sun, although still not set, painted it with its rays as if they were brushes flowing on blue paper. Red. Her eyes caught movement behind her, albeit far, still, it’s as if she sensed it. The same taste of tears, the same cracking of a heart. She cleared her throat and turned her head, only slightly. Only to catch full sight of the bard standing for a moment there, behind her, his eyes piercing her just like the first daylight pierces through a closed window. Still, he was silent. And the way he looked at her. Just like he always did, yes, with indifference and rivalry. She knew mutual feelings when she saw them. But if she looked deeper, there was something else too. Something new.

Empathy. Gentleness.

His eyes were flooded. She said nothing though, only stared back at him without bothering to change her harsh look. It was the only one she afforded right now. So he lowered his look swallowing and nodded faintly at her. Like a greeting. And turned around, continuing down the mountain.

She looked at the sky spreading in front of her again. She never expected to share mutual feelings with the bard except for resentment maybe. She couldn’t even if she tried; he was too much of an idiot. She smiled at herself, for some reason. It was comforting, as bad as it sounded. Having someone to hurt with. Despite the thorns.

High on the mountain, the wind blew harder. The Witcher stared at the distance. Deep breaths shaking his shoulders, his nostrils flaring, his heartbeat a bit faster than usual.

What I am missing.

Too much. I’m missing too much.

There they go, there they go.

The night was warm, as warm as an early spring night could be, the last patches of snow still lingering on the roadside. It’s silent except for the chirping of a bird that had forgotten to return to its nest, enchanted by the first blossoms embellishing the trees, knowing that something so beautiful was worth singing for. It’s silent. Except for the whetstone dragged on the sword blade with slow, as though rhythmical with the birdsong movements. Geralt didn’t raise his eyes from the blade. Devoted to his work, knowing that if he allowed his mind to wander, it wouldn’t come back, lost in the paths of his mind, so many more than the one he was supposed to follow.

He was a Witcher. There was no other Path.

Yet there was. More than one, more than he dared to admit. And he was too afraid, too broken to follow any of them.

His eyes didn’t look away from the blade. But the mind is a strange enemy, attacking from the inside. From the heart.

He glanced at a faint scar on his forearm. A small smile, could be a laugh, escaped his lips. One would say it was one of the scars he’d gained on the big hunts, killing a monster unheard of. That’s what the songs said. That’s what Yennefer thought, that night in the tent, as she was peering at his body as if admiring a gallery of outstanding art. It had been no hunt though. No monster. It had been a damn thorn in a healer’s garden, ironic as it sounded. Yennefer had laughed when he told her. Gods, she was so beautiful when she laughed.

“Geralt of Rivia, the mighty Witcher, scarred by a thorn. An unorthodox way to be injured, for someone like you.” She smiled. “What’s next? Are you going to die from a garden pitchfork?”

Geralt huffed and shook his head, imagining a death quite different admittedly. Like the ones of previous Witchers, heroic or not, still defending what they had learned to defend. It’s not like he could avoid Destiny anyway. He would like to. He stared at Yennefer and took a deep breath, letting his eyes wander for a moment only to return to her. “You know”, he muttered, “I’m thinking it would be nice if one day I indeed retired. Maybe as a stableman,” he paused to hear Yennefer’s chuckle. “I’d like to have a garden. A normal life,” he smiled, “one that you’re a constant part of.”

She looked at him, her smile a little fainter now, a playful glint in her eyes. “Are you asking me to retire with you, Geralt?”

Her voice made him melt. He raised an eyebrow. “Only if you want.”

“Well,” she sighed and raised her eyes on the ceiling as if already thinking about their life, “it’s a nice dream. Something to wait for, even if it never comes. And anyway,” she shrugged, “a garden would be nice.”

He took in her scent. Lilac and gooseberries. Of course. One of his favourite scents, and those were barely five. How can I dream of a garden, he thought, when I have one right in front of me? A garden wild and beautiful and fragrant. It had its thorns, every garden does. Some of them he’d grown himself. But he wouldn’t let them get in the way.

He raises his sword cautiously, ready for anything to show up from behind the dense bushes. His steps are slow, silent like a cat’s as if scared that if he makes any noise, he’ll be unable to hear anything else. Anything resembling that whisper he’d heard less than a minute ago, a whisper that, stable as it was, sounded scared, hollow. He knows that voice. Gods, he knows it and he also knows he would hear it calling his name for the rest of his days without ever wanting it to stop. But not like this. Oh, not like this.

A sharp glint catches his eye some meters away from the spot he is standing, something shining on the ground, between the wild branches and the thick foliage that embraces wilted flowers, lilacs and roses, the remainders of a garden once blossoming with care. He approaches. He knows, before he thinks about anything else, like an instinct, he knows. And thinks, gods, how much he’d like to have no idea.

He lowers on one knee, ducks under the bushes and reaches for whatever is blinding his eyes as if reflecting the rays of a nonexistent sun, a sun that once had been. And as his fingers trace cold silver carved with a shape he’d felt so many times under his fingers, his heart flutters. A black velvet ribbon. An obsidian star.

Oh, how real it feels.

He hears his name again, flowing with the breeze, only now it’s trembling and suddenly louder and he stands on his feet, sword raised and the branches grow in front of him and he looks around, lost, desperate, encircled by leaves and thorns and bushes and flowers turning red as though painted and he cuts and searches and searches for a way out and then the earth trembles with a familiar voice screaming.

“GERALT!!!”

He stumbled close to Roach, reached for the saddlebag, groaning, arm pressed around his abdomen. He searched inside the bag, caught a small bottle and chugged it for dear life. He didn’t bother returning it to its place, instead, he threw it on the ground and searched inside the bag again for bandages, swearing when the only thing his hand brushed on is a cloth that definitely wasn’t a bandage. He didn’t really care though as his vision blurred in the light of the fire and he pulled the cloth as he fell on his knees, tying it around his abdomen with trembling hands. His breath shortened and if his head hit the ground hard, he was already unconscious to feel the pain.

When he did feel the pain throbbing in his head, he was already met with the first daylight, blinded. He squinted and made to sit up, grunting when he felt a sharp tugging at his abdomen. He fell back again and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. It’s silent. Except for Roach snorting and walking closer to him, lowering her head to nuzzle in his hair, making him huff. It’s silent. And, as hard as it was to admit, there was no other exception.

And how he missed that exception now.

He swallowed, looked up at Roach and put his arms against the ground, trying to sit up again. He did, barely, and shuffled to the closest tree to rest again the trunk. Then he lowered his eyes on the wound. The white cloth had gone red with blood, but at least it had dried. He untied it to reveal a red scar across his abdomen, almost healed yet hurting him still. He sighed, ignored the pain that caused. And made to throw the cloth aside.

Only that he didn’t.

He stared at it, felt the texture. Silk. He had no reason to own a silk white cloth. Or maybe he had. As he unfolded it, he recognized a white shirt, embroidered with little flowers on the collar. A red stain was painting the front side and some of it reaching the back, ruining it completely. He stared at it, gritted his teeth. His hands were clutching it, tightly, just like he always wished to do. Yet it did next to nothing serving as a substitute.

“Come on, Geralt, it will suit you.”

“No doubt.”

“Do not mock me, you idiot. You have never tried.”

Geralt peered at Jaskier leaning against a tree beside him. His hands were moving feverishly, intertwining green stems, tight as not to fall apart. Colourful flowers were slowly forming a crown, yellow and light blue and a little bit of red, buttercups and forget-me-nots and carnations. It was beautiful indeed and definitely where his attention was drawn on, and not on the skilled hands and strong fingers brushing against the petals. He swallowed.

“Back at home, we have a wonderful garden,” said Jaskier without being asked, as he always did. “Even you would be impressed if you saw it. That’s how I learned to make flower crowns.”He tightened the last knot and sighed, taking a look at his work as if gazing at the greatest painting. Then smirked at Geralt and stood up. “There you go.”

Before Geralt managed to protest the leaves were falling in front of his eyes. He snorted, fixed the crown on his head less than eagerly. Then looked at Jaskier. Well, probably he was wrong before. Now Jaskier looked as if he was gazing at the greatest painting. He felt his cheeks burning.

He’d never considered flowers for anything else than their abilities and yet, if he was to see that smile on Jaskier’s lip’s again, he would consider them as so much more. He thought he could even let Jaskier show him their home garden.

It would be a nice meeting point.

“GERALT!!!”

He turns around, terrified, but not as much as the scream he hears now for the third time. Voices and screams and whispers that make him shudder as if feeling their fear. And it’s not just one now, it’s two, and he knows those two voices better than the back of his hand. And how he wishes he didn’t. He walks through thick branches and leaves and flowers that wilt the moment he stands close to them, as if he is the reason for their death.

Oh, he is.

His eye catches a glimpse of red among the bushes and he thinks it’s a rose or any other kind of flower he didn’t give a damn about. And yet, and yet, he stands closer and suddenly it’s not a flower at all, it’s just a piece of clothing, torn and achingly familiar. He approaches, runs his fingertips over it, his heart thumping inside his chest. It’s silk, and red, and although he knows the colour of that specific doublet he also somehow knows that there’s something more on it than the garment’s colour.

He hears the voices again. And again, and again, as if blowing with the wind that hit him out of nowhere and he looks around and it’s green, branches and leaves and then oh, flowers still alive. He feels a wave of relief for a moment, only to have it drained of him again when he realizes the flowers are buttercups and forget-me-nots and carnations. And the moment he seems to realize it, the flowers wilt.

And anyway, a garden would be nice.

Back at home, we have a wonderful garden.

Figures. He sees figures behind the branches and for a moment he thinks he can reach them. Craves to reach them, hearing their voices call him, screaming, weak, terrified but cold, so cold as if they already come from ghosts. He sees them now, yes. Raven hair. A bright red doublet. Shadows and yet their images are so clear in his mind. The last gaze he shot them, that’s what he sees. The tears prickling in violet eyes, the ones that used to enchant everything they laid their gaze upon. The tightened lips that struggled to swallow a sob, the ones that used to calm the wildest waves with their song. He raises his sword, cuts through the bushes. His skin is torn by thorns. He’s exhausted. He doesn’t care. He has to reach them, he has to.

Blood flows between his feet as he cuts and cuts as though trying to reform a garden grown irreparably wild. It’s not too late, it can’t be. It’s his blood, he thinks, it’s the thorns. They come closer, oh they do, he can reach them, he can grow the garden back beautiful again, he can, he will. He cuts through the branches, desperate, but they grow back, thicker and thicker and almost hiding that raven hair, that red doublet behind their leaves. He grunts and shouts and pants and his sword rips the air like paper. He sees them again. Or is he?

Black, isn’t her hair? A chain.

Red, isn’t his doublet? Blood.

And when he does, it’s too late.

When he does, he’s kneeling. Crawling. Reaching. Black hair sinking in blood. Violet eyes, wide-open, a moment ago frightened. Now lifeless. He can still smell the lilac and gooseberries. Or does it come from the garden?

A white shirt drenched in blood. Blue eyes staring at him, the void, everywhere, nowhere. If he touches his lips he can still hear the songs. Or is it the voices?

He’s small, shrinking suddenly, curling to himself. Blood. A chain. He’s shaking. Eyes looking at him. Accusing him. He closes his eyes, his ears, whimpering. Do not feel, do not feel. Witchers don’t feel. Witchers don’t feel, Geralt. Who are you? Where are you? What have you done?

There they go, there they go.

A sob. Then, slowly, hoarsely, desperately, a scream.

Geralt screams and jerks up on his bedroll, shaking in terror.

The sun was shining with a warmth fit as a goodbye from the last days of April. Light poured from the windows, brightening the whole room and Yennefer found herself unbothered to close the curtains. She looked outside the window, let the sun blind her eyes. Sighed. Maybe she should get out more, she thought, as much as she refused to admit it. Get some air, not the one blowing inside the house, getting trapped between walls. She needed fresh air, away from whatever smells Vengerberg brought to each corner, she wanted to go into the forest, sit down, take a deep breath. Rest, for once, or better, give a fitting end to the rest she was getting the past months.

It’s not that she felt comfortable at home anyway. It was good, having a place to retire for a bit, to remember what it’s like to live like a normal person. Be nothing more than a random lady strolling at the market, at least then she fit there, belonged somewhere, even if it was nothing but a shopping crowd.

Still alone nonetheless. Unimportant.

She was a fool. She knew she was, as she felt her eyes getting wet and blamed it on the sun. Nobody smart plays fair. She knew that, always did. Still, she thought that maybe, this once, it wouldn’t harm to hope for something more, to play fair, to give life a chance. She shook her head, laughed at herself. She was as foolish as then, picking up a daisy, hoping for something, everything, anything a little girl could hope for. She was a little girl. A child. What else can a child ask from the world other than to be something for it, for someone? Something important. Was she a child, then, still?

She was not, she knew. Yet, oh how bare had she laid her daisy, and how cruelly were its petals ripped apart and thrown on the air. She had played fair. But Geralt was smart, smarter than her. And nobody smart plays fair.

She sighed again and turned around, sat on her bed. She would go to the forest tomorrow. Today, she could use some sleep. If she managed to get any.

A loud knocking on the door made her realize sleep would wait for a bit. When she saw who it was from the window, she realized sleep was now out of the schedule. She swallowed, waited for a bit. Maybe he would go away. He wouldn’t know if she was there anyway.

Another knock, louder. “Yennefer? Please, open the door!”

Something in her stomach dropped at the sound of his voice. Did she really want him to leave? After all those times she saw how he…

Before he could knock another time, she pulled the door open and stood still, as still as the man in front of her, his hand raised ready to knock and his eyes wide. Like that, in his bright yellow doublet, he looked ridiculous. He is, she corrected herself and raised an eyebrow. “Jaskier.” Her voice was stable. As if she didn’t feel a weight coming off her shoulders.

That same weight seemed to abandon Jaskier’s shoulders as well but he didn’t have the intention to hide it. He let out a loud sigh. “Oh, thank the gods!” He looked around, breathless, and then back at her, for the first time unable to utter any words.

Yennefer frowned in confusion and smirked. “I wouldn’t say the same for you.” She paused, waiting for a comeback to her sarcasm but, as she saw Jaskier just standing there, looking at her as though he was looking at a ghost, she knew something was wrong. And as she noticed the dark circles under the bard’s eyes and exhaustion draining his otherwise bright look, she feared that this something might be more than familiar. She tilted her head. “Why are you here, bard?”

Jaskier stared at her for a couple of seconds as if he had forgotten why he was there in the first place. Then he lowered his look, cleared his throat. “Can I come in?”

For some reason, even before he had finished the sentence, Yennefer had already stepped aside to let him pass. She closed the door behind her and if the food of the spying neighbour was burning on the frying pan, well that was none of her business. She turned around, faced the bard, crossed her arms on her chest, and waited. And oddly, so did Jaskier. But he was never the patient type anyway. He huffed and shook his head, rolling his eyes. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

Before she could even reject the thought of asking him what he meant since she didn’t really care, he went close and threw his arms around her, holding her tight. Hugging her. He was hugging her.

Even more outrageous, she hugged him back. Not because she felt her heart returning to her place. Not because he was the first friendly face she’d seen in months. Not because he was alive in her arms. Definitely not. Only because, as soon as they relaxed a bit in each other’s arms, he started trembling and, after a moment, he buried his face in her shoulder. She frowned but, for some reason, she knew exactly how he felt. Someone to hurt with, she thought. Even if she didn’t show it. She swallowed. “Jaskier.”

Jaskier took a shaky breath and suddenly his arms were gone, he took a step back and wiped his eyes. “Yeah, uh, sorry, it’s just--” He trailed off, his voice choked in his throat, quivered. A bitter chuckle escaped his lips. “I just-- I saw you… I saw--”

“Hush.” He felt a hand on his shoulder and another one, guiding his hand away from his face, letting some stray tears fall. Yennefer looked at him and nodded. If she remembered what she saw too and if her eyes sparkled a bit in the sunlight, he noticed but he didn’t have to say anything. She squeezed his hand. “Hush. I know.”

Oh. She knew too well.

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hannibard · 4 years

Text

Waiting for You

My @thewitchersecretsanta gift for @ofxwordsxandxletters. I tried my best to incorporate the things you said you liked and I sincerely hope you enjoy. Happy Holidays!!!

Crossposted to AO3

Pairing: Geralt x Jaskier

It was early afternoon when Geralt made it back to the village covered in monster guts. It wasn’t a particularly difficult hunt, but it did take him quite a bit of time to actually find the cockatrice before killing it, so he returned later than he had originally planned.

The villagers quickly stopped chatting with each other when they saw him and made sure to avoid him as he and Roach passed through a dense road on their way to the alderman’s house. He had been on the path for many years and by now he was used to their hateful gazes along with the rotten stench of fear they always seemed to eminate.

He dropped the pouch containing the cockatrice’s head on the alderman’s threshold and accepted his meagre payment from the man, without having to exchange a single word with him, before going straight for the inn he and Jaskier were staying at.

He left Roach at the stable next to the building and made his way inside, expecting to find the bard singing to a bunch of drunkards, having started his set already, but when he entered the common room, he found it empty and with only a hint of Jaskier’s smell, meaning it had been at least a couple of hours since he’d last been there.

The witcher ignored the small pang of worry in his chest and hurried upstairs to their shared room. He threw the door open with a little too much force and looked around. The bard wasn’t inside as he had hoped, despite all his stuff was still being in the same place he had carelessly thrown them when they first arrived the day before. Even his lute, aka his most prized possession and love of his life, was here and he rarely ever went somewhere without it.

Geralt pinched the bridge of his nose and took a few deep breaths, suddenly feeling stupid for caring this much. Jaskier was a grown man after all. He could do whatever he wanted and Geralt had no right to keep him by his side, despite how much he secretly wanted to, but it wasn’t the right time for such thoughts.

Anyhow, Jaskier was probably off with some barmaid or stablehand that had caught his fancy and had decided to skip his usual performance seeing as they had more than enough coin saved up as of late.

Assuming his friend would be back after he’d had his fun, Geralt started on his typical post-hunt routine: placing his swords and pack on a corner, taking off his armor (though this time without the help of a certain someone’s skilled fingers), calling for a bath and a meal to be brought up and after he was both clean and fed, kneeling on the bed and meditating.

By the time he was done with everything, the sun had long set and with his enhanced senses Geralt could hear the rest of the inn’s guests getting ready for bed, but his bard had yet to return.

Feeling as though enough time had passed for his feelings of worry to be reasonable, the witcher went downstairs to the bar. He placed his empty plate and tankard on the counter and as a man got reluctantly closer to take them away, he asked:

“Have you seen the bard that was with me when I arrived anywhere?”

The man was startled to be addressed but he looked back at Geralt.

“I think he went to play gwent at ‘The Rusty Rapier’ with some guys around midday.”

Jaskier’s skills in gwent were notorious to involve quite a bit of cheating, and since it had been so many hours since he went off, Geralt had a bad feeling about this.

“How do I find this tavern?”

He was given directions by the other man and after going back up to the room to take his swords, he went straight to that place hoping nothing bad had happened to his bard, though he doubted that was the case since neither of them was ever that lucky.

.......

Locked inside an abandoned shed, Jaskier was sitting on the ground, hugging his knees and trying to calm himself down while rocking back and forth in a rhythmic motion.

When he was first thrown in here by the men he had tried to scam, after they’d given him a small beating and taken all the coin he had on him (thank Melitele he had left his pouch at the inn) it was still day outside and he could see clearly around him because of some holes on the shed’s wooden ceiling. And Jaskier was mostly fine at that point, just cheerfully singing to pass the time and waiting for his dearest friend Geralt to come rescue him.

Sure, the few wounds and bruises he had (admittedly deservingly) acquired from his gwent-playing buddies stung a bit but it was nothing compared to what some cuckolded husbands had done to him in the past. Plus, ultimately both in this case and all the previous ones where he’d been roughened up by someone he had brought it upon himself, so he couldn’t really complain.

And yeah, singing was always more fun when he had his lute with him but that wasn’t enough to faze him, he could easily make do even without any instrumental accompaniment. He was a professional musician after all.

But as the hours went by, one after the other, the light from outside started dimming, the temperature dropping and his optimism dying, Jaskier grew more and more anxious. He has always hated the dark ever since his childhood and the whole situation was making him recall old memories that he had tried his best to forget.

By this point he had run out of his own songs to sing and had moved on to the ones he had been taught at Oxenfurt, his voice much weaker than before.

He went to rub a hand over his face and noticed that it was slightly trembling, together with the rest of his body and even though it was very cold, he suspected it was only half the reason. He clenched his eyes shut and rested his forehead against his knees, hugging them closer to his torso. He really fucking hated the dark.

Deep breaths Julian, he though as he dug his nails to his upper arms in order to distract himself and sighed. You have no reason to fear. Geralt will probably be here soon and then both of us can leave this godforsaken place behind in the morning.

Except… what if Geralt didn’t come? What if he used this chance to finally get rid of him? After all it was a well-known fact that the older man only barely tolerated his presence.

Sure, Jaskier’s songs had helped lesser the prejudice that existed against Witchers and made it easier for him to find work, but that didn’t mean he needed Jaskier in his life, he’d made that perfectly clear from the start of their acquaintance. Hell, he still refused to even call Jaskier his friend for fucks sake. The bard had thought they’d grown closer over time but maybe that was only wishful thinking.

Jaskier was only a burden and a nuisance to Geralt, and he couldn’t deny that no matter how much it hurt to admit. Still, the bard loved and cared for him anyways. He always had since that fateful day in Posada.

He might have attached himself to the witcher’s side for mostly selfish reasons at first, but he quickly realized how kind and caring he was behind his tough exterior and how low his self-esteem had become from decades of dealing with humans’ contempt and so he had vowed to do everything in his power to create a better world for him.

And although he knew this love wasn’t mutual and that he should have been content by being able to stay with him, even if only as a travel companion, a small traitorous part of him would always crave for more...

Nevertheless, if the witcher was aware of Jaskier’s feelings towards him he probably would have ditched him in some backwater town a long time ago, and so the bard was careful to lock them up inside his chest and never let them show.

But what if he had been careless? What if he let his touch linger while washing Geralt’s hair a little too long? What if he had written a few too many love songs recently with references to ‘luscious silver hair’ and ‘perfectly sculpted biceps’?

Perhaps the reason Geralt hadn’t come yet was because he had left the village without him as his way of letting Jaskier down gently.

Or even worse, what if he’d gotten hurt? Cockatrices (as the witcher suspected the monster he was sent to kill this time was) were fairly easy for Geralt to handle if they were by themselves but accidents could always happen.

What if he was bleeding to death from a fatal wound right this moment when Jaskier had no way to find and help him? If he wasn’t such an idiot and gotten himself in this situation, he might have been able to save him.

All those what ifs were making Jaskier more and more distraught and he could feel tears fill his eyes. He buried his face in his hands and started sobbing quietly, no longer able to continue his singing when suddenly the door was kicked open. The musician looked up abruptly, but he couldn’t make out who was in front of him because of the darkness.

“Jaskier?!” yelled a very familiar gruff voice.

The bard’s eyes widened, and he wiped his tears with the back of his hand. “G-Geralt? Is that you?”

The witcher dropped to his knees beside him. “Yes, it’s me.” He said and started running his hands all over Jaskier’s body, checking for injuries. “You don’t seem badly hurt. Can you stand?”

The bard nodded and got up with his friend’s assistance. It was a bit hard since he felt as if his legs had turned to putty after staying in one position for so long but after leaning on the wall for a moment, he was able to take a few trembling steps. Geralt helped him get outside and onto Roach’s back before climbing to sit behind him. “How do you always manage to get in trouble?” The witcher asked as Roach started galloping towards the village.

Jaskier gave a weak laugh in response. “Must be a talent. How did the hunt go? Are you hurt anywhere?”

Geralt sighed and shook his head. “How you had time to worry about others when you were in that situation evades me.”

“Don’t avoid the question!”

“…The hunt went well and I didn’t get hurt.”

“Promise?” the bard asked, knowing the older man had a habit of hiding his injuries from him.

“Promise.”

Jaskier smiled softly and leaned on his chest, all of a sudden feeling very tired. “Good. How’d you find me?”

“I paid a visit to ‘The Rusty Rapier’ and asked about you. After a bit of threatening, the men you cheated at gwent told me where you were.”

“Heh…Took you long enough.” Jaskier grumbled.

“I thought you were just fucking someone’s wife or something, didn’t expect you to be locked in a shed.” Geralt answered but he sounded somewhat apologetic.

Jaskier chuckled. “I was kidding big buy. Thanks for coming.”

Geralt just hummed in response and the bard could feel the vibrations of it on his back as he dozed off.

.......

When he woke up, he found himself back at the inn’s room. He was laying on the bed in his nightclothes and as he sat up, he noticed that his wounds had been bandaged. The sight brought a small smile to his face. He was about to get up when the door opened and Geralt walked in, carrying a bowl of what seemed to be stew and a tankard of ale. He looked surprised to see Jaskier awake. “You’re up.”

“So it seems.”

The witcher placed the food on the table. “How do you feel?”

Jaskier thought about it. “A bit sore.”

Geralt huffed a laugh. “That’s to be expected. Come.”

Jaskier obeyed and got up, making his way to the table. He sat down and started eating eagerly, only now noticing how hungry he was. When he was done, he pushed the empty bowl away and looked up at the older man. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me, thank the innkeeper that had to get up and prepare this in the middle of the night.”

“No, not just that. For everything.” He said nodding towards his bandaged arm. “And… I’m sorry for always causing you trouble.”

The witcher looked a bit taken aback by that but he quickly schooled his expression. “It’s fine.”

Jaskier gave him a lopsided smile and looked down on his hands that were resting on his lap. Geralt waited a bit to see if the bard would say anything and when it was apparent that that wasn’t going to happen, he took hold of the bowl and tankard and went downstairs to leave them somewhere for the innkeeper to find in the morning. He also dropped by the stables to check on Roach.

When he returned, the bard barely noticed his presence. He was still sitting in the same position, not having moved at all, looking dazed and forlorn. Geralt’s brows furrowed in worry and he sat down on the bed.

“Jaskier.”

The musician didn’t turn to look at him, still distracted by his own thoughts. “Hm?”

“What’s wrong?”

Jaskier blinked rapidly a few times and looked up at him. “Nothing’s wrong.”

Geralt sighed and rubbed his face. “You’ve been a bit… out of it. Since I found you.” The witcher had never been good with words, that was Jaskier’s job. But he desperately wanted to help his friend, so he pushed on. “I’ve just never seen you so uh. Quiet. You’ve always been unfazed by any situation, cracking jokes even when that griffin dislocated your shoulder.”

The bard glared at him “Well I though you fucking preferred the quiet.” he snapped and then immediately regretted it, his gaze softening. “Sorry… it’s just-” He cut off himself and sighed. He got up and came to sit next to the witcher. “You might laugh at me when you hear this but… I’m afraid of the dark.”

That definitely wasn’t what Geralt expected. “What? How’s that even possible? We’ve made camp in the woods countless times and you always seemed perfectly fine.”

Jaskier let out a nervous laugh. “That’s because you were there with me. I don’t have an issue when I’m with others but when I’m alone I just kind of lose it. Oh, and there’s also a bit of claustrophobia sprinkled in there.”

“Hm. I never would have guessed.”

The younger man snorted. “Well it’s not like I advertise it.” He scratched his cheek and bit his lower lip. “So that’s why being in that shed affected me this much. Anyhow, I’ll be over it by morning probably.” He bumped the witcher with his shoulder. “Don’t worry, my silly little phobias won’t delay our schedule.”

Geralt immediately felt guilty for making his friend think he would care more about being back on the Path than his mental wellbeing. He frowned and took one of the bard’s hands in his own, giving it a little squeeze. “Jask, if you need more time I wouldn’t mind staying here for a few days longer. I-I just want you to be ok.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened and he looked as if he was about to cry. “Oh Geralt… This means a lot to me. Thank you.”

The witcher smiled at him and gave him a look that seemed full of affection, though Jaskier didn’t dare hope. “Anytime.” He coughed to clear his throat. “So… Do you want to talk about it? Your fear of the dark?”

“Well… There’s not much to say really… It started when I was very young, and my parents decided that to keep me from becoming even more of a disappointment they’d have to find new, stricter ways to punish me for my wrongdoings.” He ran his free hand through his hair. “And one of them was locking me inside a dark storage room for days, without giving me any food until they’d deemed that I had learned my lesson.”

Jaskier was retelling all that casually, as if he was talking about the weather but Geralt was horrified by his words. He always had a hunch that the bard likely didn’t have the best childhood- being a disowned noble and all- but he never guessed that it was actually that bad.

Because how could someone that didn’t receive any love as a child be so full of it as an adult? How could someone that grew up in such a joyless environment be able to spread happiness and laughter wherever he went? How could he wear his heart on his sleeve, letting anyone he met just take it from him and trample it down if he knew better?

“Jaskier that��s fucking horrible, how could you call the fear all that trauma has instilled in you just ‘silly little phobias’?!” His voice raised with each word he spoke, and he was yelling by the end of the sentence.

The bard flinched away from him and avoided his gaze. “Because it’s all in the past Geralt. It’s stupid, to be this affected by it still.”

The witcher was at a loss for words. Jaskier was a pretty talkative guy, always chatting about one thing or the other, but he rarely ever mentioned his family and now the older man could see why, even if he couldn’t completely relate.

Part of him would always resent his mother, Visenna, for abandoning him and thus leading him to the life of a witcher but even still, he had retained many nice memories from their short time together. Instances where she hugged and comforted him or sung him a lullaby to sleep, he treasured all of them dearly.

Because at the end of the day, even though it might not have been as strong in comparison to other mothers, Geralt knew in his heart that Visenna loved him.

And knowing that Jaskier probably couldn’t even be sure about that (because how could a parent that starved their child willingly for days and locked them up have any capacity for love and affection? With that being only one of the punishments) was paining him more than the bard could ever imagine. He wanted nothing more than to envelop him in his arms and protect him from the cruel world they were forced to live in.

He was perfectly aware of what all this meant of course. He might have been bad at dealing with emotions but after the first few years of travelling together, even he couldn’t continue to deny the feelings held towards Jaskier.

It was almost inevitable really. After spending so much time with someone like the bard, with his gorgeous smile and cornflower blue eyes, his easy-going attitude, his beautiful singing voice, someone that had not once been afraid because of him and that had stood up for him when others treated him unfairly, he was bound to fall in love.

“It’s not stupid Jask.” He said after a long exhale. “You’re so strong to have gone through something like that. Most people would have broken under such circumstances.”

Jaskier didn’t look convinced and he smiled wryly while shaking his head. “It’s music that saved me y’know. Whenever I was locked up, I would start singing the melody to whatever few songs I knew, and during those times I could almost forget the hunger and the cold and all the expectations I had failed to meet.” He sniffled and rubbed his eyes. “That’s why I decided to become a bard later on. So that I’d be able to create music too, and maybe help other people when they’re feeling down and give them hope through it.”

When the bard finished speaking, Geralt brought his free hand up and wiped a stray tear that had slid down his cheek. “You’ve done a wonderful job so far. I know I don’t say it much, but I really like all your songs. Yes, even the ones about me.”

Jaskier snickered inelegantly, surprised by his words. “You might regret admitting that darling cause I’m never gonna let you live it down.”

Geralt chuckled. “Hm. True that.” He said and gave the musician a small sad smile. Jaskier rolled his eyes elbowed him in the stomach.

“Oh come on, don’t make that face now! Honestly, if I knew you’d be this affected I wouldn’t have told you.” He said teasingly, trying to make this conversation a bit more lighthearted but the witcher wasn’t having it. He grimaced and maneuvered his body to better face the bard.

“Of course I’m affected Jaskier, how could I possibly not be?! To me you are...” He stopped himself before he could finish that sentence. Nothing good would come if he revealed his feelings to Jaskier. Such a bright person that had their whole life ahead of them would never be interested in a witcher. The bard had helped him see himself in a better light in recent years but that didn’t change the fact that he was a monster, a mutant killing machine that was undeserving of the kind and sweet musician.

Jaskier, unaware of Geralt’s internal monologue, tilted his head the side, looking simultaneously curious and adorable. “…To you I’m what?”

Geralt avoided his gaze. Even in the best-case scenario, the witcher could only hope that the bard would take into consideration their friendship and long history together and not show his disgust too much. Maybe even begin a relationship with him out of pity, but it wouldn’t last long.

Geralt had seen the way Jaskier’s previous flings had gone. He always fell head over heels for some random person that he met during their travels and spent a few weeks, or months at most lavishing them with attention but after that time period passed, he’d fall out of love just as quickly and leave his ex-paramour behind as he rejoined the witcher’s side.

It always secretly pleased Geralt, making him feel superior. Because even if he could never really have Jaskier, not like those other people did, at least he had the knowledge that the younger man would always come back to him. It helped lessen the sting of his jealousy.

And if he ever were to be the recipient of Jaskier’s attentions, no matter how nice it could be at first, he wouldn’t be able to bear it when he became the next person Jaskier left behind, especially after getting a taste of everything he ever wanted. That would only serve to haunt him in his dreams.

But the bard deserved to know. He had just laid down his heart and let Geralt see him at his most vulnerable state. That meant he trusted him enough to do that and the witcher wanted to show him how much he appreciated it by in turn showering him with all the love and affection he held for him. So he took one large breath to brace himself and let the truth out.

“To me you’re everything.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened but he didn’t pull away. “Huh?”

Geralt started tracing circular patterns with his thumb on the other man’s hand. “It’s exactly as I said. When I first met you, I thought you were just a stupid kid looking for adventure and easy coin, and that once you had a taste you’d go back where you came from. But you never did. You stuck next to me through thick and thin, no matter how much I tried to push you away or treated you like shit. You were like an angel, entering my life out of the blue and improving it in every aspect.”

“I hadn’t even realized how lonely I was until you came along. Back then I only focused on my job as a witcher, not really caring if I’d make it out alive whenever I fought a monster. But nowadays I’m extra careful and I try harder just so that I can see you again. You’ve made life worth living again Jask and I… I love you.”

Jaskier just stared at him with his mouth hanging open.

He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Was it possible that he was still locked in that shed and had begun to hallucinate from the lack of food? Because this whole situation definitely seemed too good to be true.

He pinched himself hard on the arm for good measure.

“Ouch!” Yeah no, it was real. “Are-are you serious?”

Geralt pursed his lips and nodded, looking almost comically grim. He could hear the other’s heartbeat start to pick up.

“And I understand if you feel uncomfortable and want me to be gone by morning, I’m not expecting anything so-hmph!” He was interrupted as Jaskier’s lips crashed onto his. The witcher froze, not able to comprehend what was happening right away but when he did, he wrapped both arms around the other man’s waist and kissed him back with vigor.

When they eventually had to break apart, they were both breathing heavily and Jaskier rested his forehead on Geralt’s, chest heaving, and felt an involuntary shiver run up his spine. “Gods, I’ve wanted to do this for so long.”

The older man brought his hand up and started petting his hair gently, feeling giddy and a little nervous. “Me too.”

This had gone much better than expected and no matter how things turned out in the future, he would never regret this moment.

Jaskier pulled away to look him with the brightest smile on his lips, his eyes crinkling in the corners with the force of it. “I love you too dear heart, I have since the day we met.”

Geralt blinked in shock. “You have? But you never said anything and you’ve been in a thousand relationships since then.”

“That’s because I never expected you to feel the same way! No one else could ever compare to you witcher and now that I have you, I’ll never look at other people ever again.”

Jaskier laced their hands back together and brought them up to his mouth, giving a kiss on the back of the witcher’s palm, letting his lips linger for a few seconds. “I promise.”

With all his worries gone, Geralt grinned at his bard and pulled him to his chest for a tight embrace.

They sat there like that for a long time, just basking in each other’s presence and their close proximity.

“…We’re both pretty stupid aren’t we?”

“Pffft, we sure are.” Jaskier said as he nuzzled his lover’s chest when a thought entered his mind. “By the way, how long has it been since you last slept?”

“Two days give or take.”

The bard looked up at him horrified. “What the hell Geralt! We have to fix that immediately.” He said and blew out the few candles that were still lighting the room, before pushing the witcher to lie down on the bed and joining him. They curled around each other on their sides, torsos facing, and Jaskier buried his face on Geralt’s neck as the older man pulled the blankets over them. When they were settled, he wrapped his arms around the bard and tangled their feet together.

The younger man was about to fall asleep when he heard the witcher’s deep voice calling his name.

“Jaskier?”

“Yeah?”

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you since before this whole thing happened.”

“M’listening.”

“…Do you want to come to Kaer Morhen with me for the winter?”

Geralt held his breath as he waited for a response. It came in the form of Jaskier pulling back slightly, only to give him a long, gentle kiss.

“Of course I’ll come darling.”

The witcher was relieved and felt excited for the months to come. He smiled softly even though he knew the other man couldn’t see it. “Then we’ll have to buy you one of those thick woolen coats you hate sometime soon.”

Jaskier groaned. “Fuck. I guess it’s worth it.” He gave him one last kiss before closing his eyes once more. “Goodnight love.”

“…Goodnight.” Geralt replied and then dozed off to the best sleep he’d had in decades.

#witcher secret santa #2020 #geralt of rivia #jaskier #geraskier #the witcher #gerlion #dandelion #julian alfred pankratz #fanfiction #text #hurt/comort #whump #love confessions #getting together #idiots to lovers #mutual pining #angst with a happy ending

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mypoisonedvine · 4 years

Note

3, 11 with geraskier x reader with some bottom!jaskier please or if you're not comfortable with that than jaskier x reader 👉👈

3. "No I do not always cum in my pants, that was the first time."11. "Sit on my face immediately."

Ugh, anon, your MIND. It’s too powerful. Sorry this took me so long to get to but I like to think it was worth it because I’m so happy with how this turned out.

“Yes, Geralt, please don’t stop,” you moaned. Your head began to fall back but his strong hand caught it and pulled you to him. He didn’t kiss you, but held you so close that your lips just barely brushed his and his eyes scanned your face.

Sometimes he liked to talk to you, but in times like this, he said it all with just a look.

He pulled your hips closer and thrusted into you as deep as he could, both of you groaning and sighing as he moved slowly but forcefully.

As you straddled his legs you were able to push your chest against his and even after all the times you’d done this, you never got over how wonderful it felt to have his bare skin against yours.

He used the hand on the back of your neck to pull you closer until you were wrapped around him in an embrace, your face nuzzling into his shoulder. His lips brushed against your ear and his breath made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

“Jaskier is just outside the door,” he whispered to you, and you hadn’t expected yourself to smile, but you did.

“Witcher senses coming in handy?” you asked.

“I think he’s heard us, and can’t decide if he should leave,” he assumed.

“Jaskier, are you out there?” you called out. No answer. “You can come in.”

The door opened and he jumped when he saw you two entangled together on the bed.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-” he stuttered.

“It’s fine, just shut the door,” you told him coolly.

He started to leave.

“No, I meant shut the door behind you,” you clarified. He stepped back in and you could see his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths.

“Geralt, you don’t mind, do you?” you asked him coyly.

“No,” he growled, not because he was angry but because he knew that you knew how much this turned him on. He was a bit of an exhibitionist, and wanted more than anything for everyone to know how good he made you feel.

You began to move your hips and Geralt let out a little gasp, the hand on your hips gripping you with enough power to leave a mark.

He must have sensed your desire to become more talkative for the sake of amusing and teasing Jaskier, because he kissed you deeply, biting down on your lip. You moaned, and words of approval stirred through your mind but never really managed to verbalize by the time they reached your mouth, just coming out as gasps and whimpers.

Even with Jaskier there, as your orgasm overtook you it felt like you and Geralt were the only two people in the world. You weren’t able to maintain much thought through it, but you were aware of two highly important things: one, Geralt was kissing down your neck, surely able to not only feel and see but smell your orgasm on your body, and two, he was not anywhere near done with you and would make you come several more times before he stopped.

Both were completely true. Somewhere between your third and fourth orgasm, you fell back onto the bed, limp and too weak to hold onto him anymore. Of course that didn’t deter him, and he just changed his angle so he could slam into you roughly. As much as you very much appreciated his generally-altruistic approach to sex, keeping it cool and calm as he brought you to orgasm again and again, you loved when he got desperate like this, so caught up in chasing his own pleasure that he loses sight of being gentle and simply takes what he needs from your body.

As your head fell to the side you saw Jaskier in the corner, pressed against the wall as if he were stuck to it, his neck and teeth bared. You’d never seen him quite like that before, and so far, you were enjoying it.

You wanted to grin at him, act coy and sexy and dominating, but you were too close to coming and you were sure your eyes gave away how thoroughly Geralt had taken control of you.

You knew Geralt was close, and you knew he knew you knew he was close. And you were close too, and the reverse applied there, of course.

Your back arched off of the bed, even though it made your muscles ache. Once again, words failed you, and you must have tried a hundred times to say ‘Geralt’ or ‘yes’ or ‘right there’ or ‘fuck’ but it all turned to screams of pleasure.

Geralt growled as he spilled inside you, pushing in as deep as he could (as always) and emptying himself completely before pulling out with a groan.

He leaned down and pressed his forehead against yours, his eyes fluttering shut. You stayed that way for anywhere from ten seconds to two hours, broken from the trance when you heard a little whimper from the corner. You turned to see Jaskier sporting a sweat-laden brow, flushed cheeks, and a curious wet patch on his trousers.

“Oh,” you sighed with a smile. He hissed in a breath through his teeth but said nothing. “Is that… something that happens to you often?”

He swallowed dryly, and you watched his Adam’s apple bob as he did it. “No, I do not always come in my trousers. That was, er, the first time.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt said with a deep, growling voice-- but what else is new, right?

“I think he wants a little taste, my love,” you explained to Geralt.

“A taste of what?” he asked darkly.

“A taste of you, of course. Who wouldn’t, after seeing that?” you smiled.

“You wouldn’t be offended?” he asked with a raised brow, and your smile grew.

“Not so long as I can watch.”

The two of you looked over to Jaskier who looked some mixture of shocked, confused, and horrifically turned on.

“Would you like to take her place, bard?” Geralt offered.

Jaskier nodded quickly, and you giggled. Geralt leaned back and you rolled to the side, wanting to get an up-close view of this affair.

"Strip, and come over here," Geralt commanded Jaskier. He did, the removal of his trousers revealing a flagging but still half-hard cock, covered in his sticky release.

He awkwardly sauntered to the mattress, taking a seat on the edge.

“On your hands and knees,” Geralt ordered, and your body was so familiar with his commands to you that you almost did it yourself.

Jaskier gulped and obeyed, his head falling between his shoulders.

Geralt’s breathing came through in low growls as he ran his fingers over the other man’s skin, stopping to graze a fingertip over his opening. Jaskier whimpered, so quiet that only you would’ve heard it if it weren’t for the witcher senses.

Geralt reached around to slick his hand with Jaskier’s arousal, and you watched the bard’s face carefully, understanding exactly how he felt, having been there yourself many times.

Geralt pressed two fingers into Jaskier’s hole suddenly and both of them gasped, though Jaskier’s was much louder.

“Tight,” Geralt observed simply. Jaskier bit his lip and you hadn’t realized it but you were biting yours too. Even having just come so many times, you felt arousal stirring under your skin, and you hesitantly slid your fingers between your legs. You felt Geralt’s cum leaking out of you and you pushed it back in with your fingers, taking in a sharp breath when you breached yourself.

Jaskier looked to you and watched you do it, and you wondered if the movements of your fingers inside yourself mirrored Geralt’s touch inside Jaskier.

“More,” Jaskier whispered, and you weren’t sure if he was talking to you or Geralt. You pressed a third finger inside yourself anyway, just in case. No amount of fingers could replace Geralt’s cock, or any part of Geralt, but it was as good as you were going to get any time soon.

“Gonna fuck you now,” Geralt announced, or maybe it was a warning, or maybe it was a question.

“Yes,” Jaskier hissed in encouragement, or maybe it was agreement, or maybe it was an answer.

Instead of lifting himself up and fucking Jaskier in the position he was already in, Geralt laid back and guided Jaskier to ride him, who seemed quite keen on the idea. Geralt spent much too long rubbing the head of his cock along Jaskier’s entrance and not nearly enough time pushing his hips down until he sank onto him, but when he did, it was worth the wait.

“Fuck,” Jaskier groaned.

You watched in awe as Geralt’s cock was enveloped, and you suddenly wondered how your own body managed to fit him because he looked... awfully wide from this angle.

Strong hands on Jaskier’s hips guided him up and down, and you could tell Jaskier was trying to move faster but Geralt was keeping him at bay, and you smiled. Still a tease, of course.

It was just as you had that thought that Geralt looked over and saw what you were doing, his nostrils flaring as he watched you finger yourself, his own cum coating you.

“Sit on my face immediately,” Geralt ordered you, though the breathiness of his voice killed a bit of the tough-guy act.

“Don’t need to tell me twice,” you mumbled as you got up and straddled his head. You weren’t even all the down when he grabbed your hips and pulled your body onto his mouth. Instantly his tongue was inside you and his lips and teeth were dragging over every sensitive area between your legs (plus a few you hadn’t even realized were there).

You were turned to face Jaskier and you watching him bounce on Geralt’s cock was quite a sight to behold. Maybe it was the way his muscles moved under his skin as he rode Geralt, or maybe it was a bonding moment that only those who have shared the same lover at the same time could understand, or maybe it was some weird jealousy thing, but you leaned forward and pulled Jaskier into an open-mouthed kiss. He reciprocated instantly, and Geralt must have seen and either gotten really into it or really jealous because he sucked on your clit hard, forcing you into a nearly-screamed moan against Jaskier’s lips. Jaskier’s hands wrapped around your waist and he deepened the kiss, gladly accepting every noise you let out into him.

You reached between you to fist at Jaskier’s erection, finding it plenty hard but apparently rather sensitive as he instantly let out a stuttering moan at the touch.

You pumped him furiously-- you would’ve done more teasing but with the way Geralt was moving his tongue inside you, not only were you sure that Geralt wanted you both to come very soon, but you were also sure that he would get what he wanted.

Jaskier began to breathe quickly, and each breath became a whimper. You were so focused on him that you hadn’t even noticed your own noises until you found yourself moaning Jaskier’s name desperately.

Geralt didn’t seem to care for that, and punished you with a light-yet-intense bite to your inner thigh. It was either the way you said his name or the way you sounded as you yelped from the bite that made Jaskier fall over the edge, his cum spilling over your hand and down onto Geralt’s stomach.

It was either the way he sounded when he came or the feeling of his warm seed on your fingers that pushed you over the edge as your inner muscles clenched and your orgasm shot through you faster than you had expected.

Geralt stopped his movement just long enough to issue a warning.

“I hope you weren’t expecting a break. I’m not done with either of you yet.”

#geralt x jaskier x reader #geralt x reader x jaskier #geralt x reader #my writing

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do-androids-dream-ao3acc · 4 years

Photo

This one is for @aloe-casia, who is ShyTrush on AO3 – a brilliant writer who always leaves much too cute comments on my fics. And (drum roll) I had a beta for this, namely @the-cooler-king-finnigan who is King_Finn on AO3 and also a brilliant writer. Wait a second, fan mode is setting in *SCREAMS*. Okay okay. So, the ask was as follows:

Could I, perhaps, submit a prompt for you? I love when you write Emhyr looking after Geralt after he’s been injured or sick, so my prompt is Geralt whump, poisoning, and Emhyr being competent and taking care of Geralt afterwards and making sure he’s comfy.

Now, hear me out. Emhyr truly is competent, isn’t he? He dragged Geralt out of the danger zone here, he pushed back his bones here, he was willing to tell a lie to make Geralt feel better in this fic, he held back his hair when the aftereffects of Geralt’s concussion took hold of the latter here and he even managed to take influence on him in, well, let’s say, a dream in this fic. Poison is nothing he can’t handle. Or is it?

This one’s called “Oh my beautiful disaster” (lyrics from “World on Fire” by Slash), read it under the cut or on AO3. 6688 words (I’m sorry, it somehow grew bit by bit) and I’d rate it G, I guess.

"You don't have to do that, you know."

Geralt's voice sounded a little nervous. But the knife at his throat was probably a good reason to be.

"I believe I do," was Emhyr's calm reply. "You're scratchy. You've been claiming for days that you don't have time to shave, and you refuse to let the servants do it."

"You won't let them touch your neck either," Geralt returned.

He sat bare-chested in front of the mirror; behind him stood Emhyr with a towel in one hand and the razor in the other.

"Which is why I have decades of experience doing it myself. Now hold still."

Emhyr set the knife precisely.

"I could still do it myself," Geralt replied.

"I don't know why a razor makes you so nervous," Emhyr said reprovingly.

"I think it's more the fact that you're holding it."

"By which you mean to imply that you don't trust your husband? That's bold, considering you've just established that I'm the one with the knife, my dear."

"It's a golden blade. It's decadent. It's probably just decorative and blunt."

"Feeble," Emhyr muttered, dragging the knife slowly along Geralt's chin. "I’m about to believe this bush on your face is starting to appeal to you."

Against his will, Geralt grinned at Emhyr's reflection in the mirror.

"It seems to bother you. That's quite entertaining."

Emhyr raised his brows.

"In this game, I think I have the better hand," he returned. "I've got the knife."

Slowly, the blade continued to scrape along Geralt's neck, and the latter had to admit that Emhyr was indeed handling it skillfully. He began to relax, trying to see it for what it ultimately was: a courtesy of his spouse. Anyway, he didn't understand why he had such a strange feeling about it. Maybe it was because his medallion felt unuasually warm on his bare skin. Geralt almost casually reached out a hand to touch it. Suddenly, he winced.

"You should hold still. See, now I've cut you."

Emhyr snorted disapprovingly, bent down, and wiped a tiny drop of blood from Geralt's neck.

"What is it now?"

Geralt shook his head.

"This feels strange. Like it's vibrating, and then it's not. It's never done that before."

"Hmm," Emhyr mused as he continued to work on Geralt's beard with concentration.

"What do you think it means?"

Geralt still held the medallion with one hand. His gaze was absent as he answered, "I don't know. Maybe it's..."

He didn't get to complete his sentence. Suddenly, Geralt rolled his eyes into the back of his head, stiffened, then slid off the chair. Emhyr pulled the razor away just in time.

"Geralt? What is... Geralt!"

Emhyr couldn't prevent Geralt from falling, collapsing on the floor. He was immediately beside him, grabbing him by the shoulders, but now Geralt began to twitch uncontrollably. His whole body tensed up, his hands aimlessly hitting the floor. His neck stretched out; only the whites of his eyes were visible. His head began to hit the ground now, too, and Emhyr knelt beside him, placed Geralt's head in his lap – which wasn't easy, his twitching body continually threatening to slip away – and held his hands tightly. Then he yelled, "GUARDS!"

—

When Triss, alerted by the guards, came rushing into the room, the sight almost chilled her to the bone. Convulsions ran through Geralt's entire body. Emhyr held his hands to prevent Geralt from hurting himself, but the sheer force of the spasms was already bloodying his heels on the stone floor. She had never seen anything like it. Instinctively, she knelt on Geralt's shins and put her hands on his chest.

"How long has this been going on?" she asked.

Emhyr seemed surprisingly calm, but by now, she had known him long enough. His voice might be serene, but the hint of worry in his eyes was unmistakable.

"Five minutes," he replied with astonishing certainty.

He had probably counted the seconds, Triss thought. She couldn't blame him. Her hands ran over Geralt's body. Invisible strands of powerful magic pierced his unconscious mind, examining the workings of his body, searching for clues.

"What happened before?"

"A shave, nothing more," Emhyr replied tersely.

As if that were an expected answer, the sorceress nodded and took Geralt's restless head between her hands. In extreme concentration, she narrowed her eyes, then snapped them open in surprise.

"That's strange," she murmured. "It feels like poison, but then again, it's not. Maybe a spell to strengthen... What else did you do? Was anything different than usual?"

Emhyr frowned.

"I wouldn't know..."

"The razor," she interrupted him. "Where is it?"

A shadow crossed Emhyr's face, and he looked around quickly.

"The blade was new," he replied. "It fell to the ground when.... it must be here somewhere."

Sure enough, he spied the razor he had dropped, right next to the overturned chair. Reflexively, he reached out a hand for it, but Triss immediately snapped at him, "Don't. We should get Adan."

—

The witcher, swift as ever, was summoned in no time. Although he had no idea what to expect, he did not dwell on surprise or pointless questions. He immediately went down on his knees, checking Geralt's pulse on the carotid artery. The feline bent over, pulling back Geralt’s eyelids, then looked at Triss.

"Looks like an extreme reaction to poison, but..."

She pointed to the razor on the floor with a curt movement of her head. Adan looked around quickly, noticed the dropped towel, took it, and picked up the knife with it.

"I touched that, and I'm fine," Emhyr broke the silence.

"Then it's something with the blade, but better safe than sorry," Adan returned.

He held the razor close to his eyes, and his gaze became somewhat absent. Nobody knew what he was doing, but suddenly he stuck out his tongue, pressing the knife against it. Triss hissed his name, yet he held out his other hand, an unusual gesture that signaled her to let him. When he finally looked at the sorceress, his eyes had a strange gleam – at least it seemed that way to her.

"Definitely some kind of poison," he said. "But that's not all."

Triss nodded.

"I think it's a spell. For enhancement, maybe. A double safeguard? A bit much for a simple razor."

"Now, it's not that simple," Adan replied. "I, for one, do not own a pure gold razor. So it's yours?" he turned to Emhyr.

The latter suddenly raised his head as if a startling thought had occurred to him.

"It was one of the wedding gifts.... this morning, my knife broke, and I sent Meredid to get a new one. He said he remembered seeing one among those things – the gifts are still being cataloged, but it caught his eye."

"A strange wedding gift," Triss said grimly.

"That's what I said, but he replied that, on the contrary, it was particularly thoughtful."

"Not merely because of its value," Adan said, immediately catching on. "But because it is especially personal. Something that would touch the Emperor on a daily basis. Kind of quirky, though."

"That's more than quirky," Triss protested.

"It doesn't matter. The crucial question is who it came from," said the witcher – and he was right.

"We can examine this later," Emhyr said urgently. "I demand to know how we are going to help Geralt."

Geralt's erratic movements had slowed a little, but his spasms had by no means ceased. Adan pulled a vial from his pockets. Of course, even at this late hour, he was fully equipped. Never was he without his armor, his swords, or anything of his equipment at all, even in the palace.

Triss held him back.

"We don't know what will happen if you use one of your potions."

"Because of the spell? We don't know what kind of magic it is either," he returned. "And the poisoning is clear. We can start with low doses."

"He's not a lab rat. That could be dangerous."

"Doing nothing seems more dangerous. And apparently, your magic can't dissolve the other one either."

"Not right away," Triss replied defensively.

Emhyr had had enough of this strangely familiar-looking repartee.

"You can argue later," he said sharply. "I've seen the effects of this potion often enough. Let him try it."

Adan jumped up, telling Emhyr, "We need to switch places for a minute. You should continue to hold his hands down."

Apparently, he had hit just the right note; at any rate, Emhyr asked nothing further, letting go of Geralt's hands, retreating, and gently resting his head on the floor. Then he slid to the side and put his hands on Geralt's wrists again. Adan knelt behind Geralt's head, placing his fingers on his chin and jaw in a peculiar way, and then began to squeeze them both. Adan let go with one hand, pulled the cork out of the vial with his teeth, and carefully dribbled a small amount into Geralt's now open mouth.

Everyone seemed to be holding their breath. Suddenly, the room became very quiet, except for the strange sound of Geralt's twitching body grazing the floor, regardless of their attempts to hold him down. Slowly, the convulsions subsided until he finally lay still.

But beyond that, nothing happened: the dark veins that had emerged at his neck and other parts of his body had not changed, his eyes were closed, and he did not respond to Triss' soft words as she leaned over him.

"I could increase the dose," Adan suggested, but there was an air of uncertainty in his voice. Something was happening here that was beyond everyone's control.

Triss shook her head.

"We have to find out what kind of poison caused this. And what spell."

"That means you can't do anything for him?"

Emhyr's voice had a piercing tone to it. He was still clutching Geralt's wrists, although the latter was now lying perfectly still.

"Poison needs an antidote," Triss explained. "Healing magic also knows an universal counteragent, but I would have to prepare it yet. However, since the potion didn't work, I'm afraid that won't get us very far. Mostly because of the apparent link to a spell. That's why we need to examine the blade..."

"...and identify the poison, and the spell," Adan finished her sentence. "To make a specific antidote. If we work together, it will be faster. I'll find out where the knife came from."

"In the meantime, we'll try the conventional way; we'll make a decoction, try poultices and a sweating cure.... Someone has to be with him at all times."

"We'll take turns," Adan said.

"I'll stay here," Emhyr suddenly interjected. "I'll stay with him; you can show me what to do."

Triss glanced at him.

"This will be a lengthy and unpleasant business," she replied. "It could take us several days to make the antidote. I'm sure it's not life-threatening, at least not for him – in a way, we should be glad you didn't use the knife yourself. Still, it's going to be difficult."

"Is that supposed to scare me off? He's my husband," Emhyr said coldly.

"You have other responsibilities as well," the sorceress reminded him.

It was her duty to tell him, and her status gave her the unique right to do so, but neither did she like doing it nor did he want to hear it. It was unusually clear on Emhyr's face.

"I have a whole staff of advisors," he objected, not without a hint of defiance in his voice that no one had ever heard from him. "I'm not disappearing. Still, there's nothing that can't be postponed or delegated."

Those were unfamiliar words coming out of his mouth, but Triss couldn't say she didn't understand his motives. Yet, she said, "I can send for Ciri."

"Absolutely not," Emhyr replied sharply. "She will make a tremendous fuss, and in that condition, she is no help to me."

What he actually meant, Triss suddenly realized, was that he himself was just incapable of concentrating on anything other than his spouse's well-being. But he couldn't possibly admit that.

"Fine, but we'll still take turns. Even you have to eat and sleep," she decided.

—

Together they laid Geralt on the bed, and Triss inculcated Emhyr to keep him warm, have water ready in case he woke up (not wanting to predict as to when that would be), and otherwise just watch him. But Emhyr would not have required this advice; he did not take his eyes off him. He felt an unfamiliar nervousness rising within him. Often enough, he had seen Geralt wounded and without consciousness, but this seemed so uncertain: neither did they know who had done this to them, nor what the ultimate consequences would be. Especially with Geralt, he thought, not without anger, because obviously, the poison had hit the wrong person. Not for the first time.

So he kept busy to distract himself from such thoughts. He had the fireplace lit, although it was no longer cold enough for it, covered Geralt with two blankets in accordance with the advice of his court sorceress and simply waited – for some change. Emhyr didn't know if he should believe that one could sweat out poison, and probably that was simply an additional safeguard, and yet he wanted to use every means at his disposal – knowing that those same means were limited.

And that was probably the worst part of it. Over time, he had acquired amazing skills in dressing wounds, and he knew how to relieve pain. He didn't like any of it, but he'd be damned if he was going to tell Geralt how to live his life. Both had agreed on that some time ago. They circumnavigated some issues in their lives with the extraordinary certainty of seasoned sailors, without harm. Emhyr was sure they would be able to handle this as well. He sat down next to Geralt on the bed, stroked one of those unruly strands of hair out of his face, and took his right hand in his own. Slowly, he traced the engraving of Geralt's ring with his forefinger. That was what made him stay, no matter what.

Night fell, and while shadows of candles and fires flitted across the walls, Emhyr held Geralt's hand and watched his face. He appeared to be asleep, but his features lacked their usual relaxed quality. This had been going on for many hours now, and while nothing had changed on the outside, it was obvious that he was getting more restless. The fingers Emhyr held trembled every now and then, and the muscles in his face flinched as if he were in a profound yet unpleasant dream. Sweat had long been standing on his forehead, which was not surprising given the heat in the room. Emhyr himself accepted the warmth stoically. He would not admit any weakness, he never had, and he definitely would not do so now. Still, it felt unfortunate that he couldn't do anything. He observed, but there was nothing to see.

It was already past midnight, and Emhyr had gotten up to walk around so he wouldn't get tired. His mind was rattling with a list of things he would turn over to his advisory staff the next morning; a dozen items to do on his schedule, documents he could sign even as he sat here, and the like. And yet, he noticed instantly when Geralt opened his eyes. Immediately he was at the bedside, sitting on the edge, reaching for his hands.

Geralt's gaze was unsteady as he tried to sit up, and confused when he realized he failed right away.

"Stop it," Emhyr said softly, letting go of his hands and gently pushing him back. Geralt's chest was wet with sweat; he had somehow managed to slip off the covers in the few minutes when Emhyr hadn't been looking. "Just lie still. Everything is fine."

It was one of the few lies he had ever told his husband, but the circumstances probably justified it.

"We fixed that gap in the wall a year ago, but it broke again," Geralt said.

His voice sounded clear, but his words made no sense to Emhyr. It did not matter.

"You can fix it again," he replied, hoping that his voice alone would affect him, as it often did.

At least Geralt no longer tried to sit up. He seemed to become a bit calmer, although still confused. His eyes had a strange gleam, and his pupils flickered like those of a drug addict.

"Ciri needs to practice the feint again," he said, and that stung Emhyr a little. Clearly, Geralt was very, very far in the past. He wondered if he even remembered him in this condition. Certainly, he didn't even recognize him.

Carefully, Emhyr leaned against the headboard of the bed, retook Geralt's hands, and replied, "I suppose she should."

Geralt's lids fluttered, then he closed his eyes again, but his sleep remained fitful.

—

At some point, Emhyr must have dozed off, too, because the next thing that entered his consciousness was his aching back and the fact that Triss was standing over Geralt, wrapping fragrant sheets over his thighs.

"Ah," she said as soon as Emhyr noticed her, "it's good that you had some sleep. Can't have been much though, you should lie down again, a little more comfortably perhaps."

"Any news?" he asked as he stretched and glanced at Geralt's face. For now, he lay still, but his muscles still seemed tense.

"Some ingredients are missing for the decoction; we will get them in the morning. Then the protocol officer will also arrive, who manages the records of the wedding gifts."

"The feline could well have kicked him out of bed to get this information," Emhyr muttered.

Triss glanced at him.

"Don't exaggerate," she said. "It's only a matter of a few hours, and we won't get anywhere without the ingredients anyway."

"But until then, Geralt won't get any better," he replied heatedly.

"But neither will he get any worse," the sorceress returned calmly.

As for the rest of the night, she was to be proven right. Emhyr was careful not to fall asleep again, and he stoked the fire himself when it threatened to go out toward morning. The heat in the room was unbearable now, and he had rolled up his sleeves. Meanwhile, Geralt had additionally developed a fever, which Triss had described as "excellent". Emhyr, however, could find nothing excellent about the sight of his husband lying there drenched in sweat, occasionally clenching his hands as if he were still trying to fight invisible forces even in his sleep. His cheeks, usually so pale, were reddened more by the fever than by the warmth in the room; just another expression of the unnaturalness of the whole situation.

At some point, he had begun to utter soft noises, a strange mixture of incoherent words mixed with something between sighs and groans. Emhyr had taken his place next to Geralt again and grasped his hands, vaguely hoping that he would feel the touch and calm down. He barely heard when the door opened. Adan was basically very quiet, yet Emhyr wondered how much time had passed. Had he been about to fall asleep again?

Silently the witcher stepped closer, pulled up Geralt's eyelids to check his pupils, and felt his pulse, but neither told him anything new.

"He seems stable, but we need the antidote as soon as possible."

"Do you now know what poison it was?"

"We're working on it. We'll know more shortly. The antidote is still missing a few basic ingredients; we've sent someone out to get them. However, only when we know what poison it is can it be finished. But we now know who the gift came from."

Emhyr sat up straight and ran a hand through his hair. He was aware that he might not be particularly presentable, but that was unimportant.

"From whom?"

Adan shrugged.

"A Nilfgaardian nobleman, a minor duke or something. Just being brought in for questioning."

When Adan told him the name, it didn't ring a bell.

"I should be there for the interrogation."

"You should get rest. Not here, if possible," the witcher replied.

"I suppose this suggestion comes from my court sorceress?"

"And from your security advisor."

"I'd say he's overstepping his authority."

Adan tilted his head.

"Is it not a matter of security if the Emperor overexerts himself?"

"Don't overdo it," Emhyr said, and the authority in his voice was unmistakable. "Come back when there is actually something new, or until I have one of you summoned. In the meantime, I will take care of my husband. Understood?"

Adan remained unimpressed. Naturally. But he nodded and replied, "I will tell the court sorceress so."

He turned to leave. Quietly, Emhyr said, "You will not be spared her scolding."

It almost sounded like an apology.

"Well, neither will you," Adan said lightly before leaving.

—

After a while, Emhyr began to reconsider his decision. It wasn't because he was getting tired – he had enough experience in staying awake for various motives. But because it became increasingly difficult to assess Geralt's condition. His restlessness had increased to a point where Emhyr feared that his erratic movements would once more turn into terrible spasms. Triss had advised him to bring the fever down a bit and forgo the fire since this treatment was not working. She continued to try herbal poultices, but even there, she had not been very confident. The things didn't last long anyway since Geralt tossed and turned too much.

Emhyr counted on the fact that they would soon find out what this strange linking of a spell with poison was all about. There seemed to be no improvement in Geralt's condition, and even if his court sorceress was convinced that it was not a life-threatening situation, Emhyr was not entirely confident. It was perhaps all too easy for him to forget that he still had a witcher before him. But Geralt had told him things that would have chilled anyone to the bone. He had told things that were neither stories nor legends, and they had spoken of a great deal of suffering. Surviving was a doubtful gift; he knew that very well. Emhyr didn't know if Geralt was in pain; he seemed very far away now. But the possibility alone gnawed at him. He didn't understand why anyone would go to the trouble of securing such a simple object – which he had only used at all by chance – with so much hatred. The poison alone would undoubtedly have killed him. It made no sense.

Emhyr had sat down on the bed again, he had begun to stroke Geralt's hair gently. Usually this calmed them both. Geralt still felt hot, he almost appeared to be glowing, and nothing Emhyr could do seemed to change that. Carefully, he ran a moistened cloth over Geralt’s parched lips and his forehead. Geralt's face twisted briefly, but that might mean that he felt the touch as much as that it disturbed him in the middle of a dream. Emhyr imagined that these were not pleasant dreams, but he forbade himself such thoughts. Worrying wouldn't help Geralt either.

As if to distract himself, he slowly stroked Geralt's hot cheeks with his fingertips. What came next happened so quickly that it would be difficult for him to recall it later.

Geralt's right hand shot forward and grabbed his wrist. His eyes opened, but they seemed to look right through Emhyr with a dull gleam. He sat up, and the grip tightened painfully.

"Geralt," Emhyr said softly, reassuringly, but he should have known better.

He realized what was going on at the same moment he made his next mistake. Emhyr raised his other hand to grasp Geralt by the shoulder – a harmless touch meant to let his husband know that it was him, that he was here, that all was well, even if it wasn't. Geralt jumped up, pushing Emhyr forward without letting go of his wrist. When his feet touched the ground, he swayed briefly, but it didn't stop him. Yes, Emhyr knew what was going on, he really should have known better. At that moment, Geralt behaved no differently than a wounded wolf snatching at the hand that was trying to help him – because his instinct told him that such a thing never happened.

Actually, they had left that behind for long. Emhyr had learned his lesson not to startle the sleeping witcher, and the latter had, at some point, learned to put trust above instinct, at least when they were together. However, Geralt was so very out of it, so very unaware that he did not recognize him or his surroundings. The wolf's instincts said fight or flight, and the grip on Emhyr's hand told him that he had chosen fight.

"Geralt," he tried again, his voice a sole assurance that all was well, although that seemed a massive lie, "let go. Please."

Not even the softness of his tone, reserved for special occasions known only to Geralt, or the word that so rarely crossed his lips, triggered anything in the witcher. Geralt looked around frantically as if searching for an exit – flight, after all, Emhyr thought fleetingly – but since he didn't really seem to register what was happening, he turned back to Emhyr. The latter was doing his best not to look threatening, and although Geralt was only holding his wrist, he knew that one movement would be enough to break it.

"You're safe," he said, his voice expressing confidence he didn't feel.

It seemed like the biggest mistake to even approach him. Suddenly, Geralt's second hand was on his neck, and Emhyr’s free hand lay over it in a desperate attempt to relieve the pressure. His back hit the wall and his breath caught. Dark spots began to dance before his eyes. His mind demanded oxygen as much as his lungs, but still, a thought flashed in him. Something Geralt had shown him, he and Ciri, they had both insisted on teaching him something he had thought was superfluous. He hadn't tried it; he had found it ridiculous – with a whole army of guards and soldiers, with two witchers and Ciri (if she was ever present) and an extremely capable sorceress, what would he know such a thing for?

And yet, some part of him could recall the knowledge now. Geralt was not standing quite securely, it was apparent. He wasn't putting any weight on his leg that had been broken twice; in stressful situations, it hurt more than usual, and he suffered from nightmares. And this was probably a particularly bad dream. Almost instinctively, Emhyr moved his right foot directly against Geralt's slightly retracted leg. He thrust in a movement that had been precisely described to him, hitting a point that had been tried to inculcate in him.

Geralt did not fall, the kick had not been strong enough, but surprise and force threw him off balance. He let go of Emhyr's neck, but not his wrist, and Emhyr tried to free himself. He pulled, Geralt faltered, and Emhyr tried to kick again. His only chance seemed to be to throw Geralt entirely off balance. Only now did it occur to him to yell for the guards outside the door. Once they were in the room, he could order them to get the sorceress, and if they couldn't restrain Geralt, the other witcher as well.... He stepped forward, but this time Geralt seemed to have sensed his movement, and he pulled him to the side. Emhyr stumbled, but because Geralt was still holding his wrist, they both swayed. Geralt pushed him off with force, but he was too weak to stay on his feet any longer, and in the fall, he pulled Emhyr with him. Geralt's confused face was the last thing Emhyr saw; then he banged his head on the edge of the bed.

—

He came to on the chaise longue in the salon. A damp cloth lay on his forehead, which he pushed aside almost angrily. There wasn't even a bump to be felt. The woman knew exactly how much he hated her magical healing, at least on himself. Emhyr slowly stood up, walked to the open door, and leaned against the frame, feeling slightly dizzy. Merigold and the feline were standing in the bedroom. The sorceress noticed him immediately.

"For goodness sake, can't one of you lie down for a while?"

Emhyr ignored her tone and asked, "What of him?"

Geralt lay in bed again, not moving.

"He hurt himself and you," Triss replied angrily. "From now on, you won't stay alone. Lie back down; you had a laceration, you'll still be dizzy. I'll go and finish the antidote. Adan can tell you what we learned."

"Geralt will not hear what happened, just so we're clear," Emhyr said seriously.

Triss narrowed her eyes.

"Stop blaming yourself. It was pure coincidence that Geralt got the poison, and an accident that it had such an effect on him."

She noticed that Emhyr was about to say something, but she interrupted him immediately, though much more gently.

"I agree that he doesn't need to know what happened. I don't think he will remember either. But you are both seasoned enough not to let guilt define you all the time."

"You still have amazing ideas about the duties of the court sorceress," Emhyr countered, but he didn't sound upset.

Triss shrugged, but as she walked past him, she said quietly, "But I know her rights pretty well."

She left him to Adan, who, as he noticed, was holding a small vial.

"What is that?"

Adan placed the empty vial on the small table next to the bed and replied, "Just a sedative. He knocked out two guards before I arrived. You might have to muddy the waters – I mean, if the Emperor's consort attacks him and then lashes out on the guards, it might stir up the rumor mill quite a bit."

Emhyr only snorted contemptuously – he definitely didn't have the nerve for that now. He stepped closer, pulled a chair, and sat down at the bed. Geralt now looked reasonably peaceful; he could only hope that it stayed that way.

"Doesn't the remedy cause any complications?" he asked.

"Frankly, we can't know for sure," Adan replied a touch too honestly for Emhyr's taste.

"But you know more about the poison now?"

"Oh, yes. It wasn't effortless to find out because the spell kind of overrode it. I'm still wondering what purpose..."

"The poison," Emhyr reminded him impatiently.

Adan scratched his head, one of the few gestures he had grown accustomed to that clearly showed he was unsure.

"It's a strange mixture of easily obtainable toxins. Even ratsbane was among them, but also a veritable quantity of mushrooms and... well, flowers, like nightshade plants."

"What exactly is strange about that?"

"All of these are things that can be obtained from herb stores or alchemists, or you can simply gather them yourself from nature."

"So the perpetrator knew what they were doing."

"Not necessarily; they just knew where to get the poisons," Adan objected. "I'll have the herbalists and other stores in the area questioned, but I suspect they didn't buy any of it. The selection is pretty random. There were also a few re-identifiable kinds of grass in the mix and one or two non-toxic substances that weren't carriers or otherwise served a practical purpose."

"And that gives us what insight?"

Adan shrugged.

"That's the question. I don't know yet."

A long silence followed. It might have lasted for hours; Emhyr had long since lost his sense of time. He continued to sit there and, perhaps in a fit of defiance, had reached for Geralt's hands again. It still soothed him to clasp those fingers tightly, to stroke over them with his own, hoping that somehow, sometime Geralt would notice.

Adan had been standing there leaning against the wall for what seemed like an eternity. It was almost strange that he, who could nearly never keep his mouth shut, was so quiet. He held a worn, tattered little book in his hand, in which he wrote something down from time to time. Whenever he lifted his eyes, he glanced briefly at Geralt's motionless figure; then seemed utterly lost in thought once again.

Suddenly, he pushed himself off the wall, noisily slammed his booklet shut, and shouted, "I've got it."

Already he was on his way to the door when Emhyr called after him, "What?"

Adan turned and looked at him as if noticing him for the first time.

"I know who made the poison. Or at least how I can find him. It's someone from the palace. I have to go, but you shouldn't be alone. I'll let the guards know; Triss won't be ready yet..."

"Don't you dare," Emhyr said sharply, but the witcher was already out the door.

—

Emhyr threw out all the guards, even if it probably meant incurring the holy wrath of his sorceress. But since she did not show herself, he assumed that the production of the antidote was proceeding. He desperately needed good news now, progress in many ways. He needed the certainty that something would change because every minute that passed seemed to bring Geralt suffering. Emhyr knew Merigold would have objected; she would have said that no one could understand what was going on inside him. But Emhyr did not sense it that way. He felt a hot forehead when he stroked over it. Saw closed eyelids twitching as if in a dream. Squeezed hands that did not return his pressure.

How long could anybody, any witcher, possibly resist a mixture of strange poisons? All that remained for him was the hope that the antidote would have the promised effect, even though the unknown spell had mixed with the poison. As he watched Geralt, he thought about something they both knew: that there would always be unknown threats hovering over them both. That peace was fragile not only in the empire but also in their lives. They had agreed to brave the coming storms together against all odds. Their connection was unique and perhaps the strangest imaginable, but it worked. It was the best thing that had happened to him in infinite years, on so many levels, and he knew that Geralt felt the same way. Just maybe not now, because now he might feel nothing at all, and that hurt.

Time passed agonizingly slowly. Minutes flowed into hours, and everything around him became blurry. Therefore, it was probably no wonder that Emhyr flinched when Adan suddenly stormed into the room. To be more precise, it was as usual: from one second to the next, he was there, as if one had simply blinked a heartbeat too long and missed his appearance.

His interim silence forgotten, he immediately sputtered, "Triss isn't here yet? Damn, so we still don't know anything about the spell? Anyway, now we know who poisoned the razor. You'll never guess."

"I don't usually have to guess," Emhyr replied with enough disapproval in his voice that even Adan caught it.

"Well, I suppose not," he returned. "It's not mysterious at all, either. An emissary, which explains why there were so many different poisons – he started collecting during his missions. Seems to have collected the stuff like some resentment built up inside him. His motive..."

"The wedding?" asked Emhyr, although it didn't sound like a question.

"I guess that was the last straw," the witcher confirmed.

"How strange that my security advisor could miss this," Emhyr said. As usual, his sarcasm didn't catch on with Adan; would he never learn?

"This bloke has been with the court longer than I have," was the calm reply. "And you realize that human emotions will always find a way to overcome the best security measures."

"Of which you are the best example," Emhyr returned snappily, even though he knew Adan was right.

"Last time I checked, I wasn't human."

Emhyr raised his brows in surprise.

"Funny."

"What?"

They stared at each other for a moment, and Emhyr thought that Geralt would definitely have found that hilarious.

A moment later, Triss stood in the room, and the first thing Emhyr noticed was the vial in her hand. Slowly he stood up. She saw his look and nodded.

"I am ready. But you two will never believe who caused the spell."

"Another one with a long-held grudge?" muttered Emhyr.

Triss looked at him in surprise.

"On the contrary. The same Nilfgaardian noble who made the gift turned to a local wizard. It wasn't to curse the knife. He asked for a harmless enchantment. What it does is almost ridiculous: it embellishes the gift, so to speak, making it more attractive. This is also the reason why Meredid immediately noticed the razor and why he remembered it. Spell and poison were both of similar quality and strength and mixed in such a way that identification took its time."

"We should check if this noble and the emissary knew each other," Adan replied, updating Triss on his discoveries.

"I don't think so," the sorceress said afterward. "The nobleman wanted the spell to rise in favor. His rank and reputation are a bit shady. We could clarify how the emissary got the knife, but once he saw it, the spell will have made him think it was a good object for his vengeful desires."

"Pure coincidence, then," Emhyr said musingly.

"Just as unpredictable as emotions," Adan agreed.

"Let's deal with this in more detail later," Triss urged. "I have an antidote, and I'm pretty sure it works."

Pretty sure was not enough for Emhyr, but he said nothing. Filled with tension, he watched Adan take the potion and administer it to Geralt.

"How soon will this take effect?" he asked.

"I hope very quickly," she replied, basically voicing his thoughts. "And with no side effects," she added.

"You mean as opposed to witcher's potions?" Adan remarked as he set down the empty vial. "It might have looked worse without it."

"I don't think it compares."

"You started it, after all."

"Shut up, both of you," Emyhr said without raising his voice.

Adan and Triss gave each other an almost guilt-ridden look, but at least it caught. For a while, everyone just looked at Geralt, spellbound. But for a while - nothing happened.

Emhyr's impatience increased to new, unimagined heights. Triss nervously plucked at her fingernails. Only Adan still seemed unimpressed. He had gone down on his knees beside the bed, two fingers permanently on Geralt's carotid artery, his gaze highly concentrated.

The silence in the room became more and more oppressive. Emhyr gave his sorceress a look, which she avoided.

"Look," Adan said suddenly.

He pointed to the protruding veins on Geralt's neck. Slowly, very slowly, they lost their unnaturally dark color, receding like snow melting in the sun. Wherever on his body this visible testimony of the poison had formed, the same thing happened. Triss put a hand on Geralt's forehead, then nodded.

"Almost over," she murmured.

"Normal pulse," Adan confirmed after a while.

Both stepped back, but still, all seemed to hold their breath together. The tender sprout of hope that had formed not only in Emhyr had become a real seed.

Shortly after that, Geralt opened his eyes. When he saw them all standing there, he jerked back, straightened up on his elbows, and spluttered, confused as if after a long slumber, "Have I overslept? Did I miss something? Why are you all standing there? Shit, my head… did I forget that we got wasted? What are you all looking at! Damn, I have to pee."

Triss involuntarily started giggling.

Adan said, clearly relieved, "What an idiot."

Emhyr looked into Geralt's puzzled face, and this time he did not hold back his smile, which only increased the latter's irritation.

"Careful, you're insulting the Emperor's consort. However, it is true."

How peculiar, that he somehow sounded pleased.

#writing #fanfiction #Emhyr x Geralt #Geralt x Emhyr #Emhyr/Geralt #Emralt #witcher 3 #a03 fanfic #whump fic #witcher fanfic

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thunder-the-ranger-wolf · 3 years

Text

Threadbare Hopes

Guard Change Is... Something Else

It took him two weeks to step out of his room. In that time, he slept a lot more than he ever had in Duke Velen's castle. He ate less than he ever had in his life. His stomach churned when he dared to partake in solid fare, so he asked for soup and broths and light foods, like the sliced bread that came with the soups brought to an invalid.

He'd never thought of himself as such, but he certainly felt like one now. There was no reason for him to. He'd eaten adequately in Redania. Velen would be shunned if he had been found to starve his castle's inhabitants. Especially when he was known to have a spouse. So Julian was unsure as to why his body was reacting like this, but he certainly wasn't going to ask anyone. The last thing he needed was someone finding out who he'd been and what that meant.

He bathed. Of course. There was a bin of water that had been set aside for him to sponge himself when he’d first gotten there, and he continued to use it. The privy in his room had a faucet, miracle of all miracles. Some of the privies in Velen’s castle had, but not all of them. Sometimes, Julian had used the wrong ones and had to go all the way down to the kitchens to wash his hands afterward.

Granted, he was always welcome in the kitchens. He’d been ushered in after one too many times of using the wrong privy and eventually he’d become a familiar face. The cooks figured that if he was going to be around, why not ask him to taste things? Which Julian had no problem with, of course. No problem at all. Tasting turned to learning what ingredients were used, turned to preparing those ingredients for the chefs to cook, turned to learning how a whole meal was made, right before his eyes.

“Perhaps… Perhaps I could do that here. Every Witcher in the place can’t exactly fit in the kitchen, so maybe…” Maybe whoever was in the kitchen wouldn’t mind an extra mouth to feed if that mouth came with a ready pair of hands.

Those were the intentions with which Julian took the first steps out of his room.

They did not get him very far.

“Finally going somewhere, eh?” Julian did not scream. He did not stiffen. He stuffed his emotions as far down as they would go (please don’t show please don’t show please don’t show-) and turned to face the person who’d spoken.

“Good morning to you too, good sir.”

“Well, now I know what Remus was talking about. No one here is good anything, least of all a sir. Or madam, for that matter. Just call me by my name.”

“Which is…”

“Aiden of the Cats.”

“Do all of you introduce yourselves by School?”

“To humans who don’t know us, yes.”

“And to those who do?”

“Just by first name. Witchers don’t have last names. We don’t hail from anywhere. Closest thing we all call home now is this place.”

“This place being Kaer Morhen.”

“Exactly.”

“Surely you grew up somewhere. Learned your trade somewhere? Witchers aren’t born with swords in their hands and magic running through their veins.”

“Witchers aren’t born at all. We’re made.” Aiden snorted darkly.

“And here I was wondering what your parents looked like, to produce those eyes.”

“Don’t remember. Don’t particularly care.”

“Fair enough. My parents weren’t the most fond of me, either.”

“That why you came here?”

“I came here to escape a marriage.”

“Shit.” Aiden scowled. “Wolf won’t like to hear that. Means people will be looking for you.”

“Doubtful. The suitor went through partners like one would a hunting dog. I was never useful to them, anyway, so there is no one who would care to look for me. Or know, for that matter.” Julian scowled as he turned on his heel. “Now, if you could be so kind as to lead me to the kitchens.”

“Hungry? About time you got something for yourself.”

“I suppose you’ll see when we get there.” Julian snorted, amused.

This Aiden fellow presumed to know quite a bit about him, and Julian wasn’t sure what to make of that.

“To the kitchens we go!” Aiden bellowed cheerfully.

Julian followed Aiden without fanfare, down the twists and turns that vaguely reminded him of the maze that was the sewers. This maze was dry, at least. And there were multiple levels to it, apparently.

Julian couldn’t begin to map this particular maze. Not when there was so much more to it and no one to lead the way. He’d have to stick close to a Witcher and hope they didn’t steer him wrong. He’d done it before, he could do it again. And hopefully learn as he went along.

At least he was dry here.

“The kitchens, good sir!” Aiden chirped after a while.

Julian could barely hear him over the hustle and bustle of the sprawling place before him. Velen’s castle had been of a similar size, but there were far fewer people doing far fewer things. It was just the two of them, after all.

Duke Velen wasn’t required to host anyone, likely because of the atrocities he’d been committing in his dungeons.

Julian had taken his meals solo, either in his rooms or in the dining area, for weeks until he realized that no one else would eat with him and sought to rectify that. At any rate, he was used to a busy kitchen. But this… this was more like the kitchens of his childhood home.

“See something you like?” Aiden wondered.

“Thinking of what to ask and how to ask it.” Julian replied honestly.

“You could start by introducing yourself to the closest person and asking them.”

“Thank you, Cat Aiden.”

“Cat Aiden?”

“If you’ve no surname, then you at least deserve a unique title. Almost everyone here is a Witcher, but I doubt most of you are Cats and I doubt further that other Cat Witchers share your name, common though it may be.”

“Fair enough.”

“Do you take issue with it?”

“It’s better than Good Sir.”

“Feel free to say otherwise, and thank you for the advice.” Julian admitted.

He squared his shoulders, pushed down his anxiety, and stepped forward into the fray of the kitchen.

#threadbare hopes: the jaskier as oliwia au

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trillian-anders · 4 years

Text

bewildered

pairing: geralt of rivia x reader

warnings: angst, fluff, smut

word count: 4k

description: part 3 of 3. you’d wanted nothing to do with him, and he respected that. it was deserved. but something called him to you. and he needs to bring you home.

Spring was coming. The snow finally melting, but the ground just beginning to thaw. Pretty soon Geralt would be able to sleep outside without being uncomfortable. He’d be able to get more done. Make more money. Leave Kaer Morhen for longer than a week at a time.

Truth be told he didn’t think he would make this place his home. The stone walls held bad memory. This was the place his mother had left him. Where he took his trials. Where he became the monster that he was today. But, Vesemir reasoned with him, free lodgings are better than paying for somewhere to stay all winter. And being as though they were the last of the Witchers, this property was theirs after all.

It was also harder to move around now that he had Ciri. The girl was smart, but naïve. Talented, but impulsive. This home would give her stability for training. Something she dreaded.

“I don’t understand why I have to learn all of this.” She would whine, the old tomes and books, memorized by Geralt in his youth, now to be memorized by her.

“You won’t succeed in fighting monsters if you don’t know everything about the monster.” Vesemir would shake his head at her when he wasn’t falling asleep in his chair.

Ciri would use those moments to sneak off, train combatively like Geralt had been teaching her. Running the obstacle course that he’d built for her. She loved doing that. The book learning not so much.

It was one of those days, Vesemir found fast asleep that he found Ciri outside practicing with a dummy in the courtyard. Her form was improving, but still sloppy. Her footwork needed more practice and she needed to build more muscle in her arms to properly wield the sword, but she was improving and that was a good sign.

“Keep your core tight.” He called, arms crossed and standing a comfortable distance behind her. “Focus, precise movements.” She was agile, having learned to flip and maneuver her way around even if her footwork was often a misstep. She’ll get there. “Steady.”

The trees were barren and air crisp. Watching Ciri practice, focused. The wind picked up, a whisper in the air.

Something was wrong.

Geralt didn’t know what it was, but he could sense it. A shift. A change. Something was very, very wrong. His fingers reached into his pocket, brushing against the metal coin there reassuringly. Thumbing it between his pointer a forefinger.

When the ground thaws. He’ll soothe his conscience.

…

He found himself outside of your home. For the first time in a long time. It looks less taken care of, vines crawling up the sides imbedding themselves in the walls. The garden was dry, dead plants, overgrown weeds. The small little pond you’d made for yourself, the fish dead, a layer of scum over top.

The door was open and half of its hinge.

He stepped through the familiar home. Room to room. Cobwebs and dust over every surface, bottles and jars smashed or dark and their contents sour. You obviously hadn’t been here for a very long time, but it looked as though you’d left on your own accord. Your clothes and jewelry were gone. The tiny baubles he’d noticed on your vanity gone as well. But how long have you been gone? And where were you now?

He travelled on. Different towns, villages. Beast after beast, listlessly hoping that the trail of bed crumbs would be you leading him back. The heavy coin in his pocket would put a shadow on that thought. You gave him the thing you used to bring him to you before. He flipped it through his fingers, looking at the shiny metal sides, polished from the constant worrying.

He was sore, soaking in a bath and looking at it. The cuts on his arms and legs burning from the heat, but he can’t focus on that. He’s focused on this coin.

He couldn’t remember the story you told him. You having been just a girl and him handing this coin to you. He’d probably been a new Witcher then. Fresh from his trails, out on his first couple hunts, just having left the nest. He couldn’t pull the memory from his mind. It was so long ago now.

He could feel the magic in it, infused in every little bit of this metal. Your magic. It had given him solace, late nights, long bouts of travel, he rubbed it and it soothed him, pacifying his subdued emotions enough for him to focus. It was when he thought of this that he realized,

He knew how to find you.

The village wasn’t far off from where your old home had been, and he’d felt foolish for it. Small and secluded. Tiny little houses in sporadic distances from the main square. The square bustling with life, vendors selling vegetables and grain from their farm. Flowers and metal trinkets from the blacksmith, behind him an array of weapons and household wares.

He wasn’t welcome here and he could feel it as soon as he stepped into the small village. Their looks odd, their wallets clutched in to quell their nerves. But he paid them no mind. He could see you, just across the way. Thin white linen dress, hair down and soft, holding a woven basket you were slowly filling with vegetables. He grew closer as you switched over to the little flower cart, smiling and charming, talking to the male vendor.

His cheeks red with rosacea and belly round he seemed keen on you. You were laughing at a joke, head thrown back. He’d never seen you so carefree before, so happy. You had baby’s breath in your hair and a rose to your cheeks. He almost stepped away, left entirely. Like maybe getting rid of him was the best thing you’d ever done for yourself.

But it’s gone from his mind when you meet his gaze, your eyes bringing him in, a soft smile on your lips. He stops before you and you turn to him,

“Y/N…” Your brow furrows, lips pulling into a frown.

“I’m sorry, sir.” You step back from him, “But do I know you?” This feeling, he’d only felt it once before, what feels like a lifetime ago now. The abandonment of it. You look genuinely confused. He shakes his head,

“No, I’m sorry…” He sighs, “I’m—”

“Witcher.” A terse voice, men pulling up to his left. “You’re going to have to come with us.” His eyes stay on you as you look upon the men, the tug of your bottom lip between your teeth. You give him a strange look and walk away, leaving the square, and headed to where he would assume your home was.

He turned to the men, their leader jerking his head toward the pub. So it wasn’t a beating, but a job proposition.

“Do you know her?” One of the men asked him, “You seemed pretty keen.” His teeth were yellowed, skin black with dirt. Geralt sipped on his ale, answering, focused in on the man who just dropped down in front of him. “I bet she tastes of honey.” Geralt’s jaw set, a glare shot at the man who sunk into his seat, Cheshire grin dropping.

“Something has been in my fields every night.” He says, “I’d pray you a pretty penny so it would stop hawking my grain.” Missing grain. Geralt was ever the public servant.

How could you forget him? Had you done this to yourself? Erased your mind of him? Or had someone else done this to you? Was your memory lost forever or easily retrieved? He sighs, trying to focus on the task at hand, but he can’t. Should he even try to bring your memory back?

A shift in the night, he could hear it. Noise from the silo. His hand on the hilt of his sword. He walked around to the other side, the moonlight illuminating the open door. He sighs, the grain thief isn’t a hungry beast, but someone from the village. He sheathes his sword, coming around the corner and seeing a dark cloaked figure hunched over and shoving grain into a burlap sack by their feet. He sighs, the noise halting the figure’s movements.

“The man who owns this land isn’t too happy that you’ve been stealing his grain.” The figure moves, turning to face him, cloak hood falling from their face.

It’s you.

“I’m sure.” You huff, “He seems perfectly happy to let those on the outer banks starve though, maybe you should talk to him about that.” He was stunned by you. You looked different, fresher, healthier. You’d been eating more, getting more sun and in the moonlight, he felt struck by you in a way he couldn’t have expected. You looked at him for a moment before tying the burlap sack shut, “You seem to know me… Witcher.” Cheeky. That hadn’t changed.

“You remind me of someone I once knew.” He watched you abandon the sack, stepping towards him.

“Was she beautiful?” You muse, a cheeky grin. A light in your eyes he hadn’t ever seen.

“Absolutely enchanting.” He breathed, missing your heat when you take a step back.

“So you wouldn’t mind carrying this grain for me then?” You laugh at the look on his face, but he finds himself shouldering it and following you down the hill and into the woods.

An enchantress. That’s what you’d always been. A mage, a king’s mage, a mage for the people, no. You were an enchantress and you belonged here. Flitting about in the trees covered with moss and barefoot leading him to a small home. The first stop of many to portion out enough grain for the family to have bread.

You’re their fairy godmother. A blessing. He watches the mother hold you and offer you animal fat from their last hunt, something you decline, but appreciate, nonetheless. He follows you house to dilapidated house, the poor families inside ever so grateful for the blessing of your stolen grain. You mock him for giving up his fealty so easily.

“I should be jealous of this girl.” You jest. “She must get whatever she wants from you.” He huffs,

“I haven’t seen her in a while.” He admits, watching you balance on a log across a small stream, heading back towards town and leading him home.

“You seem smitten,” You jump from the log, landing on your feet and turning to him, watching him cross, “Why haven’t you seen her?” Sorrow burrowed into his chest as he watches you continue onward, the beautiful dress you’d been wearing earlier now mud dipped and you seem so without care.

“I said something in anger,” He sighs, “Years ago, I fear she doesn’t want to see me again.” The edge of the town grows closer and you take him to the left, walking the length around it.

“Did you apologize?” You ask, the stone streets meeting your feet once more. He follows you through the winding road, house pushed further back towards the wood. A miniature version of the home he’d found abandoned, complete with a little pond out front.

“I hadn’t the chance.” You look at him strangely.

“Hadn’t the chance or wouldn’t take it?”

The home is much cozier than your old one. A single room with a fireplace on the far right wall, your bed on the far left. A small table and chair, kitchen area with dried herbs hanging over top of the small butcher’s block counter that had vegetable scraps from the dinner you must’ve eaten before going out to steal and distribute grain.

“Mason, the man who owns that land will surely be wanting a head brought to him.” He watches you take a cloth and wash your feet. You look up at him from beneath your lashes. “Are you going to turn me in?”

He shakes his head, “No.” You shrug, tossing the rag into your basket of laundry.

“Then you better get hunting.” But he didn’t want to leave you. You seemed so happy here, so content, but he couldn’t help it. He couldn’t leave you like this,

“Do you really not remember me?” He asked, gruff and serious. You look at him strangely,

“What are you talking about?” You ask. “I’ve just met you today.” He shakes his head,

“No, I met you for the first time nearly fifty years ago.” Your brow furrows and you shake your head.

“I’m not even fifty years old…” You step back from him, “I think you should leave.”

“I’m not leaving.” He states, “You’re a mage, you know magic, you did this to yourself?” Why couldn’t he just walk away? Why did he need to tear you from this so badly? You shake your head, hand coming up to hold the side of it. “You erased your memory?”

He could see your eyes moving behind your closed lids. Searching. “You need to leave.”

“I need to take you back to Vesemir, he’ll know how to help you.” Your eyes opened, red and weepy, a drop of blood drips from your nose and you faint.

Geralt rushes to catch your dropping body, saving your skull from clipping into the kitchen bench. He’d have to take you to Kaer Morhen, Vesemir would be able to help him break this spell.

…

This bed was much richer than your own. Comfortable to the point you could sink into it almost to the floor. You’d never felt anything so rich in your life. Your body feels like lead, hard to move, but then again you didn’t really want to. You were so comfortable. Laying on your belly, a hand on your back playing with the ends of your hair, braiding and then taking it out, then re-braiding.

You hum, vision clearing, looking at the drawn curtains. A crackling fireplace in the corner makes the cool summer night a little too warm.

It was a little girl, humming behind you and braiding your hair. Her hair stark white, skin tanned and ruddy from playing in the summer sun, scratches on her cheeks and you’d later notice on her knuckles and fingers.

“Ciri.” A harsh whisper. “Leave her be.” The voice familiar and a deep growl. A quiet huff of annoyance and the bed shifts you can hear her step towards Geralt.

“I’m helping her wake up.” She says in a terse voice.

“She needs to rest.” His annoyed reply. The heavy door behind him closes and you slowly roll over to look at him. He’s staring at the ground, a strange expression on his face.

“I’m surprised you came looking for me.” You mumble into the sheets. His eyes snapping to yours.

“You erased your memory.” A statement. A fact. You hum, stretching your sore limbs. “Take it easy, you’re not going to have all your faculties yet.”

“You weren’t supposed to go looking for me.”

“Why not?” He asked. “I didn’t mean what I said and you know it.” You sink back into the sheets, unable to fully move.

“Is this your home?” You ask. He steps closer, taking a seat on the edge of the bed.

“I lived here when I was a boy.” He shrugs, “This is where they trained us.” He hears your sharp intake of breath. “It’s just us here, Ciri, Vesemir, and me.”

“Not Yenn?” He glares at you.

“She’s never been here.” You roll onto your back, looking up at the canopy above you. “Why did you erase your memory?” He watches you for a moment, silent and unanswering.

“It made it hurt less.” You admit, “I didn’t want to live that life anymore.” You look at him, his brow pulled in concern.

“I’m sorry for what I said.” He sighs, “I shouldn’t have—”

“But you’re right.” You scoff, “Both times I pushed you away… the last time you wanted to stay…”

“But it wouldn’t have been right of me to do that…” He sighs, “I wasn’t in a good place to give you what you wanted.”

“Are you ever?” You sit up against the headboard, wiggling your toes to regain feeling.

“No…” He looks at you quietly for a moment, “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“I know.”

“Are you ever going to be happy?” He asks, you look at him for a moment. The defeat in his voice.

“Why does it matter to you? Is this your guilt?” You look around the room, a large basin to bathe in, the fireplace growing close to embers, a desk messy with papers, but what would he even need to write?

“My guilt?” Your eyes roll back to his.

“That fuels you to need to make sure I’m happy. Which didn’t stop you from bringing my memory back.” A spell, crudely done on yourself. A nice ten or fifteen years, you’d remember. But you’d get to live life away from it for a while, and you did. “So guilt and selfishness then? Guilt needing to make sure I’m happy but selfish enough to make sure I can’t be happy without you? Why?” You wanted him to say it. This strange relationship the two of you had, if you could even call it a relationship.

This was the third time you’d seen him in nearly fifty years.

“What is this?” You ask him, “Why can’t you let me go?”

“I don’t know.” He shakes his head, stepping from the bed, “I don’t know.” Rubbing his eyes. His fingers fumble with something in his pocket, “You’re just so…”

“So…? What?” His golden eyes they’re so piercing. They make a shiver go down your spine.

“Bewitching.” He steps to the edge of the bed and you meet him there, shifting shakily to your knees. His fingers find the ends of your hair, still partially braided from Ciri. “I’m selfish enough to want you here.” He says, “With me.”

You settle back on your heels, head tilted back looking up at his face. “You’re soft.” He rolls his eyes, knowing the subject was far too intimate for you, something to be broached later, maybe once he plies you with mead maybe soaking bath. “I’m hungry.”

…

Geralt watched from under the stone archway. Ciri was practicing, you are standing a safe distance behind her, observing. Ciri seemed infatuated with you, she wanted to show you everything she learned, everything she knew. You helped her focus, Ciri able to sit longer in her studies, explain things to you about different creatures that you pretended not to know.

You braided her hair out of her face and she chattered to you at mealtimes.

“The girl wants a Mother.” Vesemir said to him as they both watched you instruct her to keep her back straight,

“Good posture helps with combat.” You would tell her. Ciri would roll her shoulders back, her footwork improving. Less sloppy.

Your eyes would meet his every once in a while, a knowing smirk on your face before he steps out to join the two of you and you make your exit with a trail of fingers against his back.

“The trial of the grasses.” You whisper by candlelight, facing him in the bed you’d been sharing, your fingers tracing the shape of his cheekbones, “Barbaric, and cruel… it’s fortunate that no one should have to go through that ever again.” Your thumb pressed between his tense brow.

“Ciri will never have to go through that.” She’s powerful, the girl.

“She won’t.” You wrap yourself in further, legs curling up under your nightdress. “She’s strong.”

“She is.”

“I would have never pictured you as a father.” He huffs, rolling onto his back.

“Neither would I.” You hum, looking at his profile.

“She wants to make you proud.” His eyes move to yours. “I have a feeling that she already does.”

“You can’t leave her.” He says, “You’d break her heart.” Your fingers scratch against the sheets between you.

“I can’t stay here.”

“Why not?” Propped up on his elbow, body half hovering over yours. “Make this your home, come and go as I do,” His fingers disappearing in your strands, “Just always come back.” A gentle tug, pulling your face to meet his.

It was soft. Unlike previous kisses. The passion bubbling under your skin, the emptiness you’d felt from the absence of him being drowned by his mouth. The blunt fingernails digging into your spine as you lay above him, kissing.

Those same fingers bunching the skirt of your nightdress up your thighs as you straddle his hips. The hard length of him pressing against you. You gently rock your hips against his, grinding yourself on him, softly moaning into his mouth. He gently rolls you over, pressing your back against the sheets and kissing his way down your neck and to the tops of your breasts, palming them, before sinking his hands under your nightdress and slipping your undergarments down and off. The thin gown slipping off your shoulders to lay open.

His lips meet your belly, tracing their way down, down, to press against your hips, large rough palms tracing down your legs to grip your thighs and part them for his gentle assault. Those amber eyes meet yours, tongue dipping between your thighs. His arms encircle your hips, hands gripping them tightly, letting you rock against his face.

The grind and friction on his tongue making your legs shake. His grunting and moaning, tongue tracing expertly placed circles on your clit. Your fingers unravel his hair, fingernails scratching at his scalp as your back arches in climax. Whining with his continued licks, wet tongue overstimulating your sensitive flesh. He lays a kiss on your mons, trailing his lips back up your body to capture your mouth, the sweet tang of you shared between you both.

You pull at his shirt and he allows you to lift it from his body, tossed carelessly to the side, before helping you with his trousers. His skin bare above you, touching yours in comfort. He wraps himself around you, warm and strong. His heavy cock resting on your belly as his lips meet yours again and again.

Your fingers in his hair, he adjusts his hips, the tip of him pressing against your entrance before you feel that familiar burn and stretch, whimpering into his mouth as he breeches you. He’s on his elbows on top of you, chest to chest, connected. Intimate. His face pulls away from yours as he begins to slowly thrust, and as your eyes drift closed, he says,

“Don’t look away from me,” a plea or a demand, you couldn’t be sure, but when you opened your eyes and looked into his it felt so raw, so real. His hips meeting yours in a steady smooth pace. This wasn’t like before. The hurried and animalistic chase towards climax. The rushed fuck you’d gotten from him twice before. This was far more intimate, far closer, far too exposed. “Don’t look away.”

You could feel your eyes watering, body trembling as he ground himself against the most sensitive spot inside you, “I can’t.” You whimper his fingers intertwined with yours, pressing them down into the bed.

“Don’t run from me.” A whisper on your lips as the tears began to run down your face, dripping down your temples and into your hair, “Stop running from me.” He lays a soft kiss to your lips. You were getting close, so close.

Your hands tightened, squeezing his as you tumbled over, a blabbering mess of words leaving your throat, soothed by a searing kiss from him as his hips picked up a faster motion, chasing his own release now. It wasn’t long after that his hips stuttered against yours, his seed painting your womb, but his body staying close. He kissed you, again and again. Slow and soft.

“Tell me you’ll stay.” A whisper into your mouth, he was soft inside you, your legs still wrapped around his waist. His eyes searched yours, thumb coming down to wipe at the tears coming from your eyes.

“I’ll stay.”

taglist // @msgeorgiarae @bookish-shristi @saturnki @jennmurawski13 @geeksareunique @the-soulofdevil @tinmunky @gifsbysimplysonia @alwaysbenhardysgirl @beck-alicious

#geralt of rivia #geralt x reader #geralt of rivia x reader #henry cavill #the witcher

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billyspotato · 4 years

Text

Welcome Back [Part 2] - Geralt of Rivia

Words: 2.278 words

Type: Fluff

Summary: You and Geralt talk about him leaving and once he sees you talking to Ciri, he realizes something.

Warning: English is not my first language. Sorry if I misspelled something.

Part 1 Part 2

A/N: Gif’s not mine :)

It’s been a few hours since Cirilla and Geralt have gotten to your cottage. They’ve eaten their dinner. Ciri devoured her bowl faster than you expected. It’s been some time since she ate something not made by Geralt, which always ended up cooling down in a matter of seconds because of how cold the forests would be, every single night.

Now, Ciri had been laying on your poor excuse of a couch in front of the fireplace, sleeping like an angel, under all the blankets you offered. She missed having a pillow, so once her head fell on the somewhat soft fabric, her eyes closed and her breathing became softer.

You and Geralt on the other hand have been sharing a bath, like the old times, for the past few minutes. Silence was what surrounded you two as your back leaned on his naked chest and his fingers explored your soft skin.

Once you would lean your head back relaxing, Geralt would lean his on yours, making you almost sigh.

Even if you still felt your heart squeezing with the idea of him leaving you for more than a year, your love for him was much more. Since he had stepped foot in your home, you had noticed how much you had missed every single thing about him. Physically and mentally.

His arrival in the village had traveled all the way to a near-by town, making men interested and some shaking in their boots. The idea of a Witcher entering one of their pubs or even one of their wife’s bakeries, was terrifying to them. How could someone like you, an innocent and small mortal girl, not fear a man like Geralt, even after listening all the terrifying tales about Witchers when growing up.

Geralt’s hand lands on your shoulder, making you snap out of your thoughts, but you still don’t move. As his fingers traveled their way to your collarbone and then carefully around your neck, he moves your head up for you to look at him.

Your eyes land on his making you want to hold in your smile. Your hand then reaches out of the warm water to wrap around his wrist.

You move slightly up, making your lips collide with his for a matter of a few seconds. As you pull away, you couldn’t help but remember every memory from the past.

You believe that since he had left, you grew as a person. You don’t depend on Geralt, his swords, or his inhumane strength anymore. You had learned how to stand your ground and even how to fight, something Geralt introduced you to. But that shows you that staying away from him wasn’t only a painful and lonely experience but also, a learning one.

Geralt leans down to peck your lips once more and you let him. His hand falls from your neck, running through your skin, and you turn slightly on his lap, taking his face into your hands as your lips started to move slowly and taking the kiss into a whole another level.

His hands travel into your hips, helping you turn completely to him. As your hands now move into his wet white hair, you straddle his naked lap as your chest is pressed into his, by Geralt himself.

Everything surrounding you is silent enough to make the sound of the water the loudest of them all. The room would be completely dark if it weren’t for the candles that you had lit before getting in the water, and your window has been slightly opened to let the suffocating steam of the bath fly away.

A sound, coming from the other room, travels into the bathroom, make you two pull away from the kiss and carefully listen, in complete alert.

Your hands go down Geralt’s hairy chest to pull yourself away from him as you two listen to the silence that now filled your home once more.

“Probably Ciri” You tell him in a whisper.

Geralt hums in response as his amber eyes continue focused on the closed wooden door. He’s focused of the sounds surrounding him, even the ones outside of the cottage but his ears don’t catch anything, only wind.

Once you two come with terms that it was probably Ciri moving on the couch, Geralt looks at you again, taking a tighter hold on you and making you giggle.

“Still want to take a risk even if she might be walking around the house?” You ask while pulling away once more.

“She isn’t” Geralt says slightly louder than you, struggling to keep his deep voice in a whisper.

“Still ruined to mood, Geralt” You say with a teasing smile on your face, while he scowled at you, “That’s what happens when you bring a child home”

With that, you stand up from the bath and Geralt’s hand fall from your body. You step out of the water and walk over to the towels that sat at the wooden table, his eyes never leaving your body.

As you wrap the towel around yourself, you turn back to Geralt with a smirk. You walk back to his side and peck his lips before talking.

“If you made me wait a year and a half for you two to come back, you can wait one more night” You say with a teasing tone.

A slight smile shows on Geralt’s face as you kissed him once more before walking away, making him groan lowly in annoyance while looking at the candles around him. You really just tricked a Witcher.

(…)

After some time, Geralt got out of the, now cold, bath and walked over to the bedroom. You’re laying on the middle of the bed, half asleep while hugging the pillow, wearing only a thin baggy white shirt under the covers.

Geralt puts on some pants and walks to the bed, taking in the sight of you.

He, then, sits down and pushes you slightly to the other side of the bed, making you open your eyes, coming back from your light sleep, and groan in annoyance.

After ignoring that, he pulls himself under the covers and you crawl on top of him right in that same second, making him smirk at the ceiling. His arm wraps around you as you lay your head on his warm chest, and he pulls himself and you slightly to the middle of the bed, so somebody (you) will wake up on the ground tomorrow morning.

His eyes close as he tries to relax after so many practically sleepless nights, and your fingers start to trace the scar on his chest, making his body almost irrupt into chills over the feeling of your soft digits against his most sensitive skin.

“Will you be here when I wake up?” You ask, this time, louder than a whisper.

Geralt couldn’t help but notice how that simple question made his feeling of guilt deepen. He’s not over the fact that he left you all alone for so long, and the fact that you are already questioning if you’ll see him once again tomorrow, only shows how unsure you are of his reason to reappear.

“Yes” Geralt answers, making his chest vibrate under you.

With that, your body slowly relaxes on top of him and his hand comes up to your hair, massaging your scalp lightly while completely lost in his thoughts.

Your, now, softer breathing collides with his neck and he looks down at you to find you softly asleep.

As Geralt’s thoughts heaved his head, the familiarity with the pillows and the covers under him made him slowly relax, muscle by muscle. Concentrating in your breathing and the beating of your heart against his chest was the last thing he had to do before he closed his eyes once more and fell into a deep sleep.

(…)

You wake up to a knock on your front door and you take a deep breath before opening your eyes. Who in the hell knocks on someone’s door this early?

Once your head lifts off the hard surface, that you then notice that is Geralt’s chest, you roll out from on top of him and get up from bed. Thinking of a few words you want to scream at whoever is at the door.

You throw a jacket over yourself, hiding your choice of clothing, and walk out of the room, walking past an already awake Ciri, onto the door.

The unlock of the door made the knocking and the some pounding stop and the cold wind hits you as you open the wooden door.

A total of five men look up at you and you recognize some of the faces right away, most of them are men from this village, but the rest, are from somewhere else, you’re not sure.

“How can I help you gentlemen?” You ask with a sarcastic tone, annoyed with the horrible way you found yourself to wake up to.

“Did we wake you, miss?” One of the men from this village ask you.

“You sure did” You say while leaning on the doorframe and wrapping the cloak closer to you.

“We’re deeply sorry, miss” Another man says, “These men have been trying to find where the Witcher is staying, they say they have some type of services for him. I assumed he’s staying with you”

As the men start talking to you about how much they can pay Geralt, Geralt himself starts to wake up from his rock-state of sleep.

The Witcher was still half asleep once he noticed how empty his chest and bed have gotten, making his eyes open quickly and sit up.

The idea of you leaving, being some sort of Karma was the only thing going trough his head as his senses are still trying to get to him. The bedroom door was mostly closed as the cold wind travelled inside and collided with Geralt’s warm form, waking him up to reality slightly.

After he calmed himself down from the scenarios that continue to play over and over in his head, his ears pick up the sound of footsteps coming from the living room. Assuming it was Ciri, he gets up from the bed and quickly puts a shirt on.

Once the bedroom door is open, he notices how ridiculous he was being inside that same room.

He looks over at Ciri, who is sitting down on the couch with the left-over food from yesterday and a book in her hands, before he looks over at you, with your back to him and kept on talking about coins and gold to somebody.

“I can give him enough gold for him to buy a castle if he wanted to” One of the men exaggerates once more, making you sigh at his words.

“You don’t get it miss, I need him to do this for m- Oh shit” The man says, his eyes widening, almost jumping out of his skull.

You, assuming that Geralt is now standing behind you, turn around to find the white haired Witcher staring down at the men.

“They’re all yours” You say while holding your hands up in defense and walking away from the door. Nobody deserves this type of conversations so early in the morning.

You run back in the bedroom and change clothes quickly since you felt extremely uncomfortable with the idea of being practically half naked when talking to five men. Once walking out, you see Geralt stepping out of the house and leaving the door slightly opened, probably trying to get more privacy.

“Good Morning” You tell Ciri as she bites into a pear.

“Hi” She says sweetly as she looks over at you. “Are we going out to get anything to eat for today?”

“Probably, at least to get bread, yeah. We don’t have any left” You say while looking at your kitchen, finding the basket, that usually holds fresh bread, empty.

Ciri makes a small dance in her head as the words come out of your mouth and you sit next to her on the couch.

“Want to do anything else today? It looks like Geralt is going to be occupied for a good few hours” You ask her, and she nods, agreeing with Geralt’s lack of time for today.

“Do you have any ideas?” She asks excitingly.

As Geralt walks back in the house and closing the door behind him, he notices the two of you talking. He decides not to intervene as you two laugh at each other’s ideas and jokes and walks over to the kitchen to get a glass of water.

It wasn’t in his plans to come back with a child when he had told you ‘goodbye’ the time he left you in this exact home. But he can’t disagree with not hating the idea.

Even if Ciri is not his biological child, you welcomed her as she was truly his, and that fascinated him.

He had agreed with the fact that you are surely too good for him since he had met you, but the truth is, it’s not only him that matters anymore. He has Ciri to take care of, to look out for, to protect. The same way he swore to himself he would protect you.

He had left you once and he is sure he won’t do it ever again. The sight of you with the child destiny decided on assign him to, makes him even more sure of how he made the right choice in coming back.

He loves you, and, no matter the circumstances, love will always bring him back to you. The same way you will always wait for him, always.

- - - - - -

Tag List: @radaofrivia @ohjules ( @iloveyouyen ) @gearhead66 @mimaligrl

I tagged people that asked for part 2, not only the one’s that requested to be in the tag list. Hope I didn’t forget anyone!!

- Not, gonna lie, I’m so proud of these last paraphs -

- - - - -

🌸✨Sorry, but I’m not writing in this account anymore. Go check out my new one @twinklelilstarkey✨🌸

#the witcher #the witcher imagine #the witcher imagines #the witcher x reader #geralt of rivia #geralt of rivia x reader #geralt of rivia imagine #geralt of rivia imagines #henry cavill #henry cavill imagine #henry cavill x reader #netflix

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thefishmongersdaughter · 4 years

Note

Hi do you still take prompts and turn them into ficlets? I have a bomb ass idea. So yeah, Geraskier, duh. But Jaskier is a demiGod and didn't know about it for most of his life bc his mom never told him she had an affair. Even Yennefer couldn't crack the code. Now, he has a mortal body that becomes more and more Godly with age and praise from performances (in it's way a God worship) After the mountain Geralt tries to apologize but Jaskier is salty and uses newfound magic to shut him out.

[Ah! I love this idea! Hopefully I do it justice:]

Even as a young boy, Jaskier had found power in performance. Whether it be through poetry, singing or storytelling, he found himself charged and motivated by the attention of others. It was as though their gazes alone could convert appreciation into pure energy, feeding it back into Jaskier until his performance became a fully sustained exchange of passion and reaction.

In his younger years, the feedback was modest at best, violent at worst. His craft was unpolished, ruddy... But with Geralt as a muse, he found himself singing more often, and by extension improving. He didn't notice the way his songs flourished, or the way his poetry grew deeper roots apparently by some miraculous gift; to him, it was explained away by practice and a good source of inspiration.

By the time Jaskier found himself at Geralt's side on the mountain, he had gained notoriety throughout the region. Tavern goers remarked on the time 'Master Dandelion' graced their humble Inn, many hummed familiar songs under their breath as they went about their days - all of them unaware of the quiet worship they were paying to the son of Dionysus. Most oblivious of all was the deity himself.

But he began to suspect in the days following Geralt's rejection on the mountain top.

Without audience, shunned and dismissed, he felt a weakness in himself that went deeper than fatigue or weariness. He was invisible, surrounded by unfeeling earth and sky. By the time he descended to the neighbouring region, he found that his hair was greying at the roots, crows-feet resting at the corners of his eyes... In a week, his decades of life seemed to catch up to him. And he realised that he had reached his 35th birthday without so much as a laughter-line until now.

Curious, he found his way to the nearest bar and offered a performance for free. The barman accepted, confused but grateful to have the revered bard in his tavern, all the more so if his performance would be free.

And oh how Jaskier played.

Songs of heartache, lust, yearning. Every syllable seemingly plucked from thin air and constructed into perfect harmony. Jaskier breathed in the attention of the locals, feeding that energy back tenfold in his performance, reaping back that energy once more. It was hypnotic... Empowering.

By the time he had finished playing (more by necessity than desire), Jaskier felt stronger and his visage had grown young once more. He understood.

And he grew reckless.

The ballads of Jaskier were recited in every city hall, songs shared and adopted by travelling bands, poems carved into tree trunks as their influence took hold. Jaskier traveled far and fast, leaving hymns and psalms for his own gain. It was an unending spiral of creation and harvest - his songs growing sweeter as his power developed, in turn providing him with more attention and reverence.

Geralt had regretted his actions on the mountain from the moment he saw Jaskier's silhouette against the skyline... And it seemed like a cruel form of torture to be surrounded by his bard's music at every turn. Each song he heard, every tale he was told, all of them seemed to have come from Jaskier... by the fourth or fifth town, he refused to believe it was coincidence. And celebrity had not developed to such levels in this region since time began. And suddenly, he realised that his little bard had not aged as other men aged, didn't sicken with altitude so long as he was singing, never tired of walking so long as there were tales to tell.

He understood too.

And he needed to stop Jaskier before it was too late.

Three summers passed before Geralt found him, surrounded by a crowd that looked more like an army than simple townsfolk. He stopped and listened, watching the ethereal quality of Jaskier's movements, the inhuman clarity of his eyes.

He was breathtaking. Like a diamond cut just-so, so that every angle cast light in the prettiest way.

Forcing his way through the crowd, Geralt met resistance as people tried to get as close to the make-shift stage as possible. In the end, Geralt had no choice but to cast a sign and force them back by magic. There were gasps and shouts, and Jaskier's music faltered, stopped.

"Jaskier, you must stop this!" Geralt called out, his gaze fixed on the once beautiful but now alien figure of charm that stood before him. "You have them under your spell and you know it! You cannot be their god."

"Funny," Jaskier smiled, but it was brittle and hateful. "There was a time when I would have worshipped you, Geralt. And I did, for the longest time. But I'm done walking in your shadow. I have my fame by my own hand this time. I don't need you!"

At this outburst, the crowd seemed to swell and the locals began to press in. Geralt renewed the sign and marched forward, aiming for the edge of the stage. But hands clawed at him, drawing him back. They were protecting their idol, either by command or out of jealousy that Geralt might get closer than them. Closer to greatness. To Jaskier.

"Jaskier, stop them! This isn't you..." He pleaded, refusing to draw steel against the people Jaskier had enchanted. "I was wrong... I'm sorry."

Jaskier scoffed and moved to sit on the edge of the stage, feeding on the desperation of the crowd and letting it consume him too. Geralt could see the way the emotions bled and melded in this space, feeding Jaskier and amplifying over the crowd.

"You're sorry? Geralt, I don't give a shit whether you regret every word you said to me. I don't need you. Not anymore."

Geralt braced himself, changing his focus and redirecting the sign. The crowd surged in on him, but his focus was on Jaskier's mind: narcissism, power, greed, ego, pride, passion... And hurt. All of this, every single word of praise, every moment of attention was being used to cover over the hurt. The hurt that Geralt had caused.

"No, you don't. But I need you," Geralt said calmly. Jaskier looked to him, a retort balanced on the tip of his tongue, but Geralt continued, fighting to keep his place as hands pulled at his armour and limbs. "Without you, I'm just a Witcher. But when I'm with you, you change me. You make me better than I am, all because I want to make you proud. I want to be better for you, Jaskier."

The crowd stilled as Jaskier stood, uncertainty and distrust in his eyes. "You don't want me. You just want someone to make you feel good."

"No," Geralt shook his head. "I want you. Please, Jaskier... Does this really make you happy? This fame? This power? Isn't it exhausting?"

Hesitation. Geralt could see it in Jaskier's crystalline eyes.

"Travel with me... As you are. No bells or whistles. Just you... You're enough as you are. You don't need to be worshipped to matter," Geralt pleaded, able now to step up onto the stage and reach for Jaskier's hand. "You always mattered to me. Always."

Jaskier's eyelashes fluttered as something in the air shifted and broke. He staggered and leaned into Geralt, feeling overwhelmed and too seen. "Take me somewhere private?"

Geralt nodded, drawing his cloak around the bard and walking him away from the crowd. There would be time for apologies, time for promises... But for now, it was enough to love and be loved as they were.

#dandelion #geraskier #jaskier #geralt x jaskier #geralt of rivia #geralt x julian #the witcher

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flowercrown-bard · 4 years

Text

Birds Still Sing When They Fall From The Sky

part 1 / part 2 / part 3 / part 4 / part 5 / part 6 / part 7/ part 8 / part 9 / part 10 / part 11 / part 12 / part 13 / part 14 / part 15 / part 16 / part 17 / part 18 / part 19 / part 20 / part 21 belongs to this

content warning: metion of past character death, a grave

(Still not the final chapter)

His stomach twisted into knots and a lump sat heavy and thick in his throat, making it hard to breathe.

He didn’t want to do this. He had avoided it for months now, as much as he could. The loud laughter and clapping coming from the tavern almost made him flee as he had done embarrassingly often before.

One look at Roach made him reconsider. Her head hung low and her fur was matted with dust from the road. She deserved some rest in a nice stable.

As much as Geralt didn’t want to admit it, he needed the rest just as much.

The dread turned into an ache as the cheering from inside died down and the bard stroke up a new song. The only consolation he had was that the singing wasn’t accompanied by a lute.

The notes that drifted to him as he put Roach in the stable, whispering in her ear that he would be back in a moment to take her bags off once he had secured her place here, had a strange quality to them.

With a pounding heart and tense shoulders, he pushed the door open, his eyes scanning the crowed room in an attempt to find someone who could tell him the cost for a box in the stables.

Instead, his eyes found the bard as if they were drawn to them.

He froze and his breath got stuck in his throat.

Someone shoved him from behind to close the door, but Geralt didn’t care. He couldn’t take his eyes off the woman who had been Jaskier’s student not so long ago.

Sera.

As suddenly as his body had stopped moving, he was overcome with the urge to move, to leave.

This was the first familiar face he had caught sight of since he had left the coast.

It was suffocating and filling his mouth with the taste of bile.

He should never have come here. There was a reason why he avoided taverns and bards.

Still… it had been so long since Geralt had been surrounded by music that didn’t stem from his own pathetic attempts at playing, and it wasn’t the painful sound of a lute being strummed.

A powerful yearning took hold of his heart, rooting his feet to the spot and making it impossible to flee.

Maybe…. maybe there would be no harm in staying, only for a bit to ease the bruising grip the music had on his heart. There was no need to speak with Sera. It had been a long time since she had last seen him. The chances of her recognising him - grimy and unkempt as he was - were slim and even if she did, there was no reason for her to approach him.

He could just stand here, hidden in the shadows in the corner of the pub room and listen for a bit.

Only one song.

One song turned into another.

With each note Sera teased out of the heavy looking instrument Geralt could understand a bit better what Jaskier had meant when he had said she was better than him. The idea was still outrageous, of course, and perhaps it had just been too long since Geralt had heard any music to compare it too, but Sera was good. Great, even. She was charming the audience with easy smiles and winks that rivalled Jaskier’s.

Though the invisible hand choking him had eased its grip on his throat as the songs progressed, it came back in full force as she took a bow in the same sweeping manner as Jaskier had always done.

It was too much. Geralt couldn’t stand to watch any longer. He had to escape the acidic guilt of enjoying another’s performance when it had taken him so long to show any appreciation for Jaskier’s music.

He stormed out of the tavern, uncaring of the patrons he shoved to the side.

Blindly, he stumbled into the stables, where Roach’s ears pricked up at the noise he made.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly and opened her box. “We have to go a little bit further. I promise I’ll find a nice stable for you.”

“Isn’t this one nice enough?”

Geralt didn’t flinch at the amused voice behind him, but it came damn close. What a pitiful excuse for a witcher he was, if a simple song sufficed to get him so distracted.

His shoulders slumped and he turned around, facing the bard who was leaning against the wall with crossed arms and a cocked eyebrow.

“Thought you could leave without giving me a review?” She pushed away from the wall and came closer, a teasing smile on her lips that was so unfitting to how Geralt felt that he almost drew back. “Or maybe my singing was so bad that you left because of it? The most scathing review of all.” She left a pause and huffed when Geralt didn’t seize the opportunity to correct her. “Jaskier wasn’t lying when he said you had no appreciation for a good performance.”

Knowing that the words were untrue didn’t sooth the ache in Geralt’s chest. There had been a time when Jaskier truly had believed Geralt to be unimpressed by the music he offered him. He couldn’t allow the thought that maybe he had never given up the belief, to fester.

The thought alone was enough to take away all ability to speak.

“Don’t think you could escape unnoticed,” Sera said, still so lightly, so carefree. She had no way of knowing what had happened. If only Geralt was so lucky. “I have to tell you even if the white hair and the swords weren’t a dead give-away of who you were, the dramatic exit would have been enough to draw anyone’s attention. And you know how much we bards love drama.” Her expression grew a tad annoyed and if Geralt’s mind wasn’t screaming at him to leave and never turn back, he might have been impressed at how patient she was to the unresponsive man who was little less than an old acquaintance. After a brief pause filled with awkwardness that even the most confident person couldn’t ignore, she was openly grasping at straws. “You are still doing with witcher business then?”

Geralt’s fingers twitched. “Not still. Again.”

Sera’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh. Why did you go back to hunting?” Geralt flinched. There hadn’t even been a moment of confusion as to what might have made him give it up in the first place. He prayed she figured out what him hunting again meant as well. It would hurt to see the realisation flash over her face but anything was bearable, as long as he didn’t have to say it. “Talkative as ever. Care to come back inside for a talk with an old friend? It’s been forever since I last heard from home. How’s Jaskier?”

This time, Geralt was unable to repress the finch. Even in the dim light of the stable, it couldn’t have escaped Sera’s notice.

Her eyebrows drew together and she made a step forward as if to steady him, when her eyes fell on Roach and the bags she was still carrying.

“Oh.” The sound was soft, almost apologetic. Geralt didn’t have to look to know her eyes were locked onto the lute Geralt had been too weak to leave behind. There was no mistaking as to the reason why he had it with him. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

For some inexplicable reason the voice telling him to go quieted down. Everything did. His pounding heart, his staggered breath, the nervous scrape of Roach’s hooves. The words spoken so plainly, saying so directly what no one else had dared to say the way it was shifted something in Geralt.

His shoulder’s sagged, as if a weight he had been carrying with him had finally been taking off. No, not taken off, but shared.

Geralt nodded brusquely, before repeating the words that should burn his tongue but for some inexplicable reason soothed his heart. “He is dead.”

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. It was almost ironic, a bard not finding the right words. Or maybe it was her knowing when to be quiet.

After what felt like an eternity, she spoke up again. “I think he would have liked that you carry the lute with you.”

Geralt grunted. “He would have mercilessly mocked me for it.”

“Of course he would have,” Sera said with a half-smile. “And then he would have sighed over how romantic it is that you keep it around.”

“It’s not romantic. It’s-“ Geralt cut himself of. He didn’t know what it was. His tongue wanted to say ‘pathetic’. A word he had used more and more often lately to describe himself, but something about the way Sera looked at the lute, so similar to how Jaskier had done it, made the words taste like ash on his tongue. “I just didn’t want it to rot somewhere. I’m just taking it with me until I find better use for it.”

His heart skipped a beat and his eyes widened unnoticeably for a human. He cleared his throat, but couldn’t get rid of the rapidly forming lump that made his voice raspy when he choked out, “Do you want to have it?” Say no. Please say no. “I think…out of anyone, he would have wanted you to have it.” And in contrast to Geralt, she would actually know how to play more than one song so simple and pitiful that it was a shame to force such an instrument to sing it.

Something strange happened with Sera’s face. “I think it’s right where Jaskier would have wanted it.” Her tone was flat, but something sincere and soft resonated in it. “I was never allowed to even hold his lute, always practicing with my old one. And he was right about the lute not really being the instrument for me anyway.” Her smile became full. “I am far more happy with my hurdy-gurdy.”

A heavy sigh of relief rumbled through Geralt’s chest. He didn’t care that Sera saw. If she judged him for his reaction, she didn’t show it.

Instead she cocked her head to the side. “Speaking of which, I’ll have to get back on stage soon. Come back with me. If only until my break is over.” Her eyes narrowed and roamed about his face. Geralt felt strangely self-conscious under her scrutiny. “Have you eaten yet?”

Geralt shrugged. “I’m not hungry.”

The calculating look didn’t leave her eyes, but without waiting for Geralt to take the chance to leave, she stepped past him and started to unload Roach. “Well, I am. And I would really appreciate the company.”

Entering the tavern for the second time, this time without the tension but instead with a smiling bard guiding him to a table in a corner, the room seemed more welcoming somehow. Less suffocating and constricting.

Sera gave the barmaid a disarming smile, when she brought her some stew and complimented her on her singing.

Geralt shifted in his seat. “It all worked out for you then? With Oxenfurt and seeing the world?”

A wistful expression flashed across Sera’s face before it was replaced by a small quirk of her lips. “It did. It’s not quite what I expected, but it’s wonderful.” There was the barest hint of hesitation, before she added, “I couldn’t have done it without Jaskier.”

A smile tugged at Geralt’s lips. “You seem to be doing fine on your own.”

Sera seized him up in contemplation and Geralt couldn’t shake the feeling that she chewed longer than necessary on the chunks in the stew to give herself some time to figure out what to say next.

“Doesn’t mean it’s not nice to have support.” With a nod at Geralt she added, “Or to meet a friendly face every once in a while.”

Geralt snorted at that, but he couldn’t hope to mask the sting Sera’s words sent through his heart. As much as he wished it weren’t so, he couldn’t deny that there was truth in her words. Geralt didn’t want company. He didn’t need it. Clearly, he was better off on his own.

But there was no denying that this was the first time since he had been with Jaskier that he sat in a tavern like normal people did, no rush to find the next contract, no anxiety spiking up about hearing music.

Though he did his best to hide his thoughts behind an impassive mask, some of it must have slipped through, for Sera put the spoon down and leaned forward, taking in the details of Geralt’s face.

“What about you? How are you doing on your own?” She didn’t let Geralt’s non-comital grunt deter her. “Looks like you had some rough hunts.”

She didn’t even try to conceal the way her eyes raked over his torn and dirty clothes and lingered on the new scars adorning his face, some of which were still fresh and burning pink.

Geralt felt strangely exposed and vulnerable under her gaze.

“Witchers have a rough life.” It sounded more defensive than he had aimed for. Geralt resented the hint of bitterness and remorse that hopefully slipped Sera’s notice.

She looked at him a little longer, before leaning back with a sigh. Almost dismissively, she pushed the still half-full bowl of stew towards him.

When Geralt raised an eyebrow, she cracked a smile. “I’m already full and it would be a shame to let it go to waste, wouldn’t it?”

Geralt glowered at her. He would be an idiot not to see what she was doing. Still, when fake-innocent eyes looked back at him, he relented and picked up the spoon.

He wished he could say the stew wasn’t doing wonders. He wished it wasn’t filling and warm and delicious with spices that Geralt hadn’t used when roasting his own meals over a fire somewhere in the woods.

A smug smile danced across Sera’s lips, but it softened before Geralt had the chance to feel stupid because of it.

When Sera didn’t comment on Geralt wolfing down the meal, Geralt was overcome with the burning need to fill the silence.

“It’s nice to be with a bard who doesn’t try to steal my food for a change.” As soon as the flat joke left his mouth, he tensed up, the all too familiar guilt digging its ugly claws into his chest.

He shouldn’t joke. Least of all about Jaskier. It was disrespectful and wrong to laugh about him, even if Jaskier had made many a joke on Geralt’s expanse. Even if Jaskier would have gasped in mock outrage only to prove Geralt’s point by stealing more of whatever Geralt was eating.

Still, when Sera let out an undignified snort, the guilt receded the tiniest bit to make place for an unexpected warmth.

Geralt could do nothing to stop it. Talking about Jaskier like this felt good, better than it had any right to. It wasn’t a grand speech about Jaskier’s big accomplishments or a solemn reminiscence of some defining moments of his life. Remembering the way he used to steal Geralt’s food was something small, barely worth mentioning. Yet it was something so fundamentally Jaskier that Geralt yearned for more.

But it was wrong. He had no right to smile and waste time sitting in a tavern.

Geralt hadn’t noticed the way he tensed up, his grip on the spoon turning his knuckles white, until Sera laid her hand on the table next to his, not touching him, but close enough that there was no way for Geralt not to notice her presence.

“It’s alright to miss him, you know,” she said in a tone that was painfully gentle. “You are allowed to feel things.”

A huff escaped Geralt. “Heard that one before.”

Sera lifted an eyebrow and the corner of her lips turned up. “Are you accusing me of unoriginality?”

Her tone was so full of mock indignation that Geralt couldn’t stop his own smirk. “I would never. I’m just saying that you are the not the first person to tell me that.”

“Am I the first person you are going to listen to?”

Geralt’s heart missed a beat, but his smile didn’t drop. The reply that he was good on his own lay on his tongue. He just had to say it. It would be so easy. He had said it before, whispered it to himself time and time again when the road got too long and the nights too quiet.

The words didn’t come; they were supplanted by a voice inside him – quiet at first, then insistent and growing louder with every passing second that he didn’t deny Sera’s words – telling him to listen to her, to Eskel and Kris and anyone else who had told him that there was nothing wrong with what he needed. Above all else, it told him to listen to Jaskier.

Slowly and with what felt like inhuman strength, Geralt nodded.

Immediately, shame rose in him. He knew it was irrational, it must be when so many people had told him it was alright to admit to needing them, but after spending so much time with the freedom of only relying on himself, it felt restricting.

He lowered his eyes to the stew before he could see Sera’s face transform into a relieved and proud smile, no doubt.

She let him be for a while, only speaking up when Geralt got too tense, getting lost in his darkening thoughts, to reminisce of something Jaskier had once said or the way his descriptions of life as a travelling bard had helped her find her footing.

It was soothing. Often Geralt wouldn’t know how to respond, only answering with hums and the occasional nod, but Sera seemed content to let her own voice become calming background noise.

It was nice to have someone talking to him for a reason other than giving him a contract.

After another stretch of silence, Sera spoke up again.

“Have you visited his grave since you left?”

There was no judgement in her tone, no hidden accusation, but Geralt still flinched.

He couldn’t bring himself to say the shameful truth out loud or even shake his head. His silence was answer enough.

Sera didn’t press, didn’t tell him what he already knew himself.

Instead Sera sighed. “I miss the sea sometimes.” Her eyes snapped to Geralt. “Don’t get me wrong, I don’t regret leaving. Life as a bard is wonderful, but sometimes I just think it would be nice to go home again. Only for a little while.”

Geralt cleared his throat and before he could think better of it, he reached into the saddlebags that had been standing beneath the table and dug in deep, searching for what he had buried with no intent of digging it back up any time soon.

His jaw worked as he held the sea shell out to Sera.

“It’s… you hold it to your ear.” The words were clumsy and awkward and nothing like the loving instruction Jaskier had given him when he had presented the shell to Geralt.

It did nothing to dim the smile on Sera’s face as she listened to the sounds of her home with closed eyes. There was something about the way her expression softened. Perhaps she finally understood what she hadn’t when she had written her first song.

She must be thinking the same thing, for when she put the shell down, she exchanged it for her hurdy-gurdy and played a few notes of a vaguely familiar song about home.

“Jaskier would have loved to hear you play that song. On that instrument,” Geralt said, the hints of a smile dusting over his lips.

“Maybe I should go home again. Play my song for him.” Sera looked up as her hands stilled, letting a note that so clearly demanded to be followed by others ring through the air. “If I remember correctly, Jaskier once told me to get myself a witcher? We could travel together to the coast, if you wanted to?”

Geralt’s mouth went dry and something stirred in him. The note begging for the song to be continued echoed in his mind.

When Geralt took too long to answer, Sera stood up and gripped her hurdy-gurdy tighter.

“Listen, Geralt, I’ll have to continue with my set. I promised the barmaid that I would sing a ballad for her after my break. How about you think about it and tell me your decision when I come back.”

Geralt’s eyes followed her as she took up her place at the centre of the tavern again and slipped into the light-hearted persona of a performer.

Her offer repeated in his mind over and over. She had left it up to him. Had asked if Geralt wanted to.

He didn’t.

But his mind drifted to Eskel’s offer of travelling together. He thought of how Kris had told him that he didn’t have to be alone when he had knocked on their door in the middle of a storm and drenched to the bones.

He thought of a different bard seeing him all on his own and deciding that he needed a friend.

A hurdy-gurdy was no lute. Its music had none of the light playfulness or solemn clearness of a plucked lute. It was heavier and could not easily be played while walking.

But the soft humming next to him, when Geralt and Sera started their journey back to the coast – back home – brought a smile to Geralt’s face, not big enough for Sera to recognise it as such, but sincere enough for Geralt to know that he had made the right decision.

Travelling with the bard was different than being on his own.

She told him to take breaks far more often than he would have if it were just him. She refused to sleep outdoors more than necessary and always made him order a decent meal when they took a break at a tavern, allegedly because she was uncomfortable being the only one eating.

Geralt might be stubborn, but he wasn’t stupid. He saw what was going on.

Unwittingly – or more likely with full intention – Sera got him to take care of himself.

Though Geralt grumbled when the breaks they took or the nice beds made him restless and filled him with guilt, he felt lighter than he had in a long time.

Geralt had never heard the song in its entirety. Of course, Geralt knew that it would be good. After all, it had secured Sera a place in the Academy of Oxenfurt.

But as he was listening to Sera sing it now, Geralt couldn’t shake the feeling that no one had ever truly heard the song, not the way it was meant to be played.

As the hurdy-gurdy wept and Sera sang of a lonely old lighthouse that would shine brighter when a traveller came by and shared a piece of the world with it, the waves that sounded like home provided the harmony.

As the melody dimmed and spoke of the traveller leaving again to face the storm-tossed sea and stony roads, a witcher stood next to her, roughened up from months on the road.

And as her voice soared as the lighthouse’s shine reached even the darkest path despite the distance, keeping the traveller company until its light would beckon him home once more, a breeze ruffled the flowers on a grave, colourful and wild and straining towards the sun.

There was no doubt, no one had ever heard the song quite like Geralt did in this moment. Though the metaphors and intricacies of the melody were lost on him, Geralt felt something in him shift as he listened, his eyes fixed on the place where Jaskier lay buried and that looked far too bright to be a place for loss.

When the last note of the song faded away, it took Geralt a while to find his voice.

“He would be proud of you.”

“As he would be of you.”

Geralt’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t do anything worth being proud of.”

“You’re here, aren’t you?” When Geralt didn’t reply, Sera gave him a long look, before she finally said, “Remember what he told me about never selling myself short? Just because he isn’t here to tell you that he is proud of you doesn’t mean you are any less worthy of his or your own pride.”

Never forget I love you. How often had Jaskier said it? How close Geralt had come to forgetting.

A lump formed in his throat, making it hard to breathe. His chest grew tight and a something sharp stung in the corners of Geralt’s eyes.

He turned his face away from Sera, as the first tear fell. No human should have to see a witcher cry. No witcher should know how to do it in the first place.

Geralt hadn’t known. For months, he hadn’t known how to let go of the emotions that had built up inside of him and that he had tried to hold back, building the dam higher and higher with each contract he took to lessen the hurt.

Now he learned it again.

His shoulders didn’t shake, no audible sob left his mouth and his legs didn’t crumble beneath him.

And yet he cried, as he hadn’t been able to in a long time.

He barely registered how Sera told him that she would head over to her parents’ place and left him to his tears.

He was alone again, but this time it was different. This time, he allowed himself to let the tears fall freely, the feelings he had tried so hard to repress flooding him alongside memories of smiles and gentle touches and wrinkles and youthful ambitions.

He didn’t speak to Jaskier’s grave, not in the way he had heard of other people do. Nothing he could say would be something that Jaskier would have liked to hear.

Geralt hadn’t looked at the sunrises or taken note of the wildflowers’ colours.

Instead of the guilt that he half-expected a determination took hold of him. He would do better, be better. Next time, he would come back with stories that would have lit up Jaskier’s eyes and made him reach for his quill.

For now, there was only one thing he could say to Jaskier that would have made him smile.

A call was all that was needed to get Roach to lift her head in curiosity and trod over to him.

A smile flickered over Geralt’s lips as he reached up to pat her on the neck.

“This is Roach,” he said softly. “She likes music and getting scratched behind the ears.”

There was nothing more to say, but Geralt thought it would have been more than enough to make Jaskier coo over Roach.

The image of Jaskier’s brilliant smiles whenever he managed to win over one of Geralt’s horses made a warm fuzzy feeling grow in his chest. Without thinking much about it, Geralt reached out to brush his fingers over the petals of a bright blue flower.

With a soft snort, Roach leaned past Geralt and bit the flower off.

Geralt shouldn’t have laughed. He should have gotten mad and made sure Roach stayed well away from the grave, but he didn’t try to quench the laugh that welled up in his throat.

Too close were the similarities to the time when Jaskier had offered a different Roach flowers to be braided into her hair only for her to eat them straight out of his hand.

Jaskier had laughed then and Geralt had the feeling that he would do the same now.

Oh, he would definitely have loved this Roach.

Still, when Roach took Geralt’s lack of reprimanding as invitation to eat more of the flowers, Geralt gently pushed her away.

As much as Geralt was sure Jaskier wouldn’t have minded her feasting on the flowers, the garden had been his pride and joy and Geralt couldn’t watch it get ruined before its time once again.

Especially when not only the grave but the whole garden was in bloom. In fact, it looked as if someone had taken good care of it, as some of the plants were cut back as if to help them grow.

The frown that creased Geralt’s forehead smoothed into a tiny smile.

He wandered somewhat aimlessly through the village. The strange and vaguely unpleasant feeling he got when he met other people’s eyes without glowering or turning away himself, lingered, but it wasn’t as strong as it had been, when his old neighbours now greeted him with a smile and nod.

Finally, his feet carried him to the market place. It was less busy than oft times before, but the smell of recently cut flowers that whiffed his way was strong as ever. The only thing that contrasted his memory was the lack of enthusiastic calls, praising the flowers or offering them up for free.

When the vendor’s eyes finally found his they widened in surprise before the skin around them crinkled with joy.

“Geralt!” Kris called out, setting aside the flowers they had been rearranging on the table. There was neither discomfort nor pity in their voice. “I did not expect to see you here today.”

The ‘today’ that was added not as an afterthought but as naturally as if it had always been a certainty that Geralt would return one day, made something in Geralt soften.

“And I did not expect you to pick up my old business.” It was true. If Geralt had ever thought about what Kris might be doing now, this was not something that had ever crossed his mind, but seeing them like this felt strangely right.

Kris shrugged a bit sheepishly, but not without a proud smile. “What can I say, I always liked taking care of people. So why not take care of your garden as well and continue what you and Jaskier started here?” They rubbed the back of their neck a bit uncertainly, leaving a smudge of dirt on their cheek as he brushed the skin there. “I am not very good at it yet, but I like doing it and I’m learning.”

“It took us three tries to get the flowers to survive more than a week the first time around.” When Kris’ expression lifted at Geralt’s words, he added, “Jaskier had a book about gardening. It should still be in the cottage somewhere… You could have it if you wanted to.”

“I would love to! It would make this so much easier. It’s been so hard to figure out how to grow the garden. Don’t even get me started on the damage the last storm left.” Their voice drifted off. “But I can see why you two continued doing it.” They picked up a small white flower and twirled it between their fingers. “Handing out a little happiness with each flower, you know?”

They held the flower out for Geralt.

Geralt hesitated, before taking it. “Don’t tell me you too give flowers away for free.”

Kris let out a chuckle. “Only to old friends.”

After talking with Kris some more, Geralt kept strolling around town. He had to force himself to slow down and every once in a while he had to follow the urge to go into a shadowy alley to breathe deeply and close his eyes until the restless feeling that made his fingers twitch and told him to go do something, to find a distraction and hunt until exhaustion made his mind fall into emptiness, receded enough to let him continue.

It was hard, but he gritted his teeth and thought of Jaskier and of how Geralt hadn’t had anything nice to tell him about what he had seen.

As he turned around a corner, something barrelled past him in a flurry, followed by cheerful cries of “Don’t go!”

Geralt stepped aside, just in time to let more children run past him. He watched them with furrowed brows as they shouted at each other in voices that almost seemed like an imitation of the over the top players Geralt had seen in the theatres Jaskier had dragged him to.

“I’m having none of it!” The first child screamed as she dashed into the next street.

Something about it felt strangely familiar, but no matter how much Geralt wracked his head he couldn’t put his finger on it.

Geralt watched the horde of children disappear around the corner, when the smallest one of them stumbled.

Without hesitation, Geralt went over and helped the little girl up.

She gave him a toothy grin, before her eyes widened.

“You are the White Wolf!” Geralt was taken aback by the sheer amount of glee in her voice. When Geralt nodded, too perplexed to do anything else, her face split in the biggest grin. “Do you want to play with us? If I tell the others that you’re here, maybe we can play ‘Monsters run and Witchers hunt’ again.”

Geralt’s heart leaped at the words and he let out a startled laugh.

“I don’t think I would be any good at that game.” While the girl assessed him critically, Geralt threw another look at the other children who were still shouting theatrically at each other. “What are you playing now?”

The girl’s eyes lit up. “Right now, the little siren is swimming to the deepest, darkest part of the ocean.”

Geralt drew back when the pieces finally shifted into place. He only hesitated a moment, before saying, “To find the sea witch?”

The girl nodded. “Yes! The sea witch is evil, but the siren isn’t, even if the adults say all sirens are bad. She falls in love with a pretty prince and saves his life.”

Geralt’s insides twisted into a knot. “Maybe the prince saved her as well.”

For a moment the girl’s eyes grew wide, before she pulled a grimace. “No, I don’t think so.”

She opened her mouth to say something else, when a call cut her off. “Piwonia, come on, we need you to play!”

The girl threw Geralt a toothy grin, before running off to where the little siren was just meeting the prince.

Geralt watched her go and the knot in his chest unfurled as the name Piwonia jogged some distant memory he had almost forgotten, of a baby named after a flower Jaskier had grown and that Geralt of all people had held in his arms years ago – a child too young to have ever heard Jaskier tell the tale of the siren and that still found joy in it.

When Geralt finally tore himself away from the story he had heard so many times, it was the tiniest bit easier not to let his mind fall back into the familiar emptiness.

There was one more old friend Geralt had failed to visit here. Something he couldn’t wait to make up for.

He stood to the side and watched in amusement as his old Roach carefully approached his new one.

The difference between the two horses couldn’t have been more obvious, the old girl huffing in much the same way she had often done when Jaskier had skipped ahead on the road, while the younger horse dashed around her and threw her head back in excitement.

Geralt watched them get to know each other and once the novelty of meeting the other horse wore off and new Roach got more interested in the grass and flowers she was allowed to eat, Geralt approached his old companion and stroked her nostrils.

“We’ll come visit you more often, Roach.” His lips quirked up when the new Roach made a snorting noise at the sound of her name. “And you’ll learn to love her too, I promise.”

It didn’t take Sera long to answer the knock on her parents’ door, as if she had been expecting it. Geralt suspected, that possibility wasn’t as unlikely as it might have seemed to him some weeks ago.

She looked at him expectantly, her eyes trailing down to what Geralt was holding in his hands.

“I needed to find a book,” he said and shifted his weight to one foot while holding up the notebooks in his hand. “and found these. I don’t know if they would be of any use to you, but… they have some new songs Jaskier had written in the past years and …” he broke off, suddenly unsure of how to explain the need to get them out into the world when just a few months ago, the thought of parting with any of Jaskier’s possessions had seemed like an impossible feat.

“And it would be a shame if they would be unsung?” Sera supplied for him.

She took one of the notebooks from him and thumbed through it.

“I don’t know if you can use them,” Geralt repeated. “They are…Jaskier wasn’t at his best when he wrote them, but those were the notes that were the most legible.”

“I do. I could absolutely use them.” She cocked her head to the side. “What about the other notebooks? The less legible ones?”

“I thought I could bring some of them to Oxenfurt.”

Sera snorted, a grin splitting her face. “And let the scholars wrack their heads trying to decipher it?”

“Something like that.”

He didn’t need to tell her about his plans for the other books. The ones he would take to Kaer Morhen, where Eskel could appreciate the poetry about life on the path like no scholar ever could and Vesemir could chuckle to himself over the horribly inaccurate descriptions of monsters in the verses.

Least of all did anyone have to know about the one notebook Geralt intended to keep for himself. The last one Jaskier had ever written in; the only one that wasn’t filled until its last pages.

Geralt had no delusions about his unskilled hand and his lack of fitting words to describe what he saw, but maybe, by filling the pages himself he could give Jaskier some of the world back that he had gifted to Geralt.

It was a silly thought, but one that wouldn’t leave Geralt alone, until he grabbed the notebook and put it on the top of his bag, right next to the seashell that would no longer be buried in the depths of Roach’s bags.

“So when are you planning on leaving for Oxenfurt?”

Geralt lifted his brows. “Are you asking to be polite or is there a different reason you want to know?”

A sly smile stole onto Sera’s face. “For someone who claims to know nothing of the art of words, you are far too good at reading between the lines.”

“I had a lot of practice listening to bards trying to trick me into agreeing to stupid ideas. So, what is your stupid idea?”

If Sera was offended, she didn’t show it. “We could continue to travel a bit. Only until we reach Oxenfurt.” She pointed a finger at his face. “And just so you know, it’s a brilliant idea.”

The twitch of Geralt’s lips wasn’t strong enough to be noticed by anyone who hadn’t known him for years, certainly not enough for Sera to recognise it as the amused smile that it was, for she continued talking. “Did you know that when I left for Oxenfurt, Jaskier told me to find Valdo Marx’ plaque of honour and defile it?”

Geralt folded his arms in front of his chest. “You didn’t do that.”

“Maybe not. Maybe I did. But if you came with me, I could show you where the plaque is and you could find out for yourself. Or do the job yourself.”

Geralt huffed and made sure to make his smile show this time around. “You really are following in Jaskier’s footsteps, aren’t you?”

“Not really.” Sera’s brows knitted together and she turned the notebook in her hand in contemplation. “I’m not doing this out of some sense of obligation or wish to be exactly like my teacher. I am not looking to steal his muse ether. It’s not my fault that you are such good company.”

Geralt huffed, but strangely enough, he didn’t feel the need to correct her.

As if sensing that she was close to victory, she smiled. “So, when did you say we were going to Oxenfurt?”

No matter how carefully Geralt scanned the walls of Oxenfurt Academy, he couldn’t find a single sign that there was or ever has been a plaque of honour for Valdo Marx.

Geralt’s lips twisted into a tight smirk and he was sure the students that heard him curse that damn bard that tricked him hurried past just a little faster, unaware of the humour in his voice, while Sera wore a horribly self-satisfied grin when Geralt finally gave up looking for the plaque she had either made up or managed to make disappear, before she scurried off.

She didn’t say where she was going and Geralt didn’t ask. Maybe they would find each other again in a tavern later. Or maybe Sera would go back to the friends she undoubtedly had here and forget all about Geralt being in Oxenfurt.

Then again, he had thought the very same thing was going to happen multiple times with Jaskier and every single time he had been proven wrong.

Only this time, when Geralt walked the streets of the place that Jaskier used to call his home, no one would call his name in excitement and tell him to wait up for them so they could pack their things before heading off together again, hurrying to gather all of his oh so necessary quills and notebooks.

Sera was to stay here for however long she pleased and Geralt would be off once he had done what he came here for.

A fond but heavy feeling lay like lead in Geralt’s stomach. Here he was, resolute to give away Jaskier’s notebooks that he had worked so long on.

Taking a deep breath, Geralt entered the academy building, the one winding labyrinth that Jaskier has had to guide him through for a change, until he reached the library.

Until the moment he laid eyes on the librarian, he hadn’t been sure whether or not he had hoped that the library would be empty and he wouldn’t be forced to watch another person hold Jaskier’s possessions in their hands.

For a moment, Geralt stood rooted to the spot, until he pulled himself together and marched forward with determination, though his heart beat painfully in his throat.

The librarian eyed him with disdain as he got closer and Geralt could feel his heart sink with every step, his hold on the bag which held the books tightening, until finally he stood in front of the librarian.

He wished Jaskier were here. He wouldn’t just stand there silently and so obviously out of place. Geralt needed to leave, to get out of this room, this building, this city he didn’t belong in. But first he would have to face the impossible task of explaining himself.

He steeled himself to speak, but the words never left his mouth. Instead, he thrust the bag out, holding it out to the librarian. When they didn’t react, he shook the bag a little.

Finally, the librarian reached out, their curiosity or drilled-in manners winning out.

It was almost like handing over part of Jaskier himself. Geralt wanted to hang on, to not let go. Slowly, painfully, his hands loosened their grip on the bag.

“Careful with that.” The words escaped Geralt without meaning to. Without the bag to hold, his hands felt too empty.

The disdain on the librarian’s face turned into incredulity at his words and then when they chanced a glance at the contents of the bags into firey outrage.

“That is no way to carry books!” They took one out of the bag as carefully as if it were a delicate butterfly.

Geralt kept his face impassive, but if Jaskier were here, he would have grinned at the librarian’s boldness, reprimanding a witcher in full armour.

Maybe there was something about Oxenfurt that made its scholars lose all self-preservation. Though more likely it was Jaskier’s influence seeping through his other home.

Geralt watched as the librarian thumbed through the book, the crease on their forehead growing with every passing second.

“What is this?”

Geralt leaned forward to see which book they held in their hands and this time he couldn’t hide the grin.

“Those are Master Jaskier’s.” When the librarian’s eyes widened, he added, “You’ll have to sort through that one. A storm messed up the loose pages and who knows in what order they truly belonged.”

As he left, he almost could imagine Jaskier’s glare at the back of his neck that he had actually dared to make good on his playful threat to publish his works in messed up order. On the other hand, there was no doubt that once Jaskier had an ale or two he would have cracked up about the thought of the professors wracking their heads over trying to get his notes in order only to find out they were children’s stories. If he were here, he probably would have even spread false rumours about the correct order and sit back to watch in delight as the professors debated over his work.

But Jaskier wasn’t here. Geralt had to make do with telling Sera about it.

She grinned and toasted to him, but she wasn’t Jaskier. No one was.

Oxenfurt was a city of arts, of stories and of music. Geralt should have known that sooner or later, under the cheering of the crowd, a bard would make their way to the middle of the tavern and strike up a song on their lute.

Sera didn’t try to stop Geralt when he stormed out of the room to get Roach and escape the tightness in his throat that threatened to choke him, the sound of the lute haunting him like a wraith.

He was grateful that Sera didn’t push him to stay. But as he left Oxenfurt behind, he found himself already dreading the lonesomeness of the path ahead of him.

#and thus the healing begins #the librarian is not amused with Geralt walking in in full armour probably making a lot of clanky noise #so when i wrote that the lute wasn't really for sera i fully intended to make her play the hurdy-gurdy because i think the name sounds funny #i kind of regret that now that the story has gotten far more serious than i intended #im going to excuse that decision by saying that Geralt's theme on the soundtrack is played by a hurdy-gurdy #also hurdy gurdies are amazing #im going to move tomorrow and who even knows how bad the internet will be at my new home #so maybe there won't be an update tomorrow #geraskier #but lets hope for good internet #geralt #witcher #witcher fanfic #fic #my writing #grief #accidental multichapter #Birds still sing when they fall from the sky

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lokispettigerr · 5 years

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To Summon A Witcher: Geralt x Reader Chapter 1 (NSFW) Smut

Summary: Reader lives and works in one of the most romantic cities in the US, Charleston, SC. However, because of the city's colored past, romance isn’t the only thing that can be found there– it is said that ghosts, goblins, ghouls and the like make the city their home. When Reader meets one of these creatures she has to get the help of someone not quite so human in order to be free, but he frees her from much more than she ever expected.

Taglist: In reblog

Word Count: 1769

Warnings: This shit spooky, fam. Graveyard, and corpse mention.

A/N: This is the first-ever Geralt fic I have written. I hope you enjoy it! Leave me your thoughts in the comments or in an ask!

“Yeah, it’s this huge guy with stark-white hair, golden eyes, and seriously, a body that could pick me up and snap me like a twig,” I told my best friend, Genny.

“Sounds hot. I’m not sure I understand where this is a problem?” She swirled the coffee mug around, stirring up the settled liquid in her latte. “I mean, unless you are waking up to find that these dreams with the ‘Daddy-white-haired-tree-man’ are really wet dreams that soak your covers through… I could see that as being a problem.” She laughed a musical beautiful laugh. I danced around her comment, not wanting her to know how I felt when I woke up from the dreams of the mysterious man or the nature of some of the dreams which truly did feature bare skin, hard muscle, and moans that rang out in unison.

“Genny, I have never seen this man before in my life, yet he has been in every dream I have had for months now. I just don’t know what it means.”

“Sure, but you’ve had to have seen him somewhere.” She looked around us now, glancing all about the outside patio of the coffee shop that was nestled between a bakery and a uniquities store. People were milling about, their arms full of shopping bags or clutching briefcases or talking on their cell phones. “Honestly, I want to see this guy.” Genny licked her lips. “Maybe he is nearby right now,” she whispered, “Either that or he was the main stud on some porn. Yeah, that’s likely it.”

I stared at her blankly. Why did everything have to come back to sex? I mean, to be fair things always came back to sex for the both of us and this was likely one of the reasons why we enjoyed each other's company so much, but this was serious. Dreams mean something, or so my mother taught me to believe. And I couldn’t help but think that the man in my dreams had something to do with my current predicament. After all, they had started shortly after things took a turn for the worse.

I’d felt it on more than one occasion, and lately with the way things were going whatever beasty was following me seemed to only be growing stronger.

It had first started on a cold, wet day. The rain had been steadily falling for more than a week, but that day the wind was stirring maddeningly and there had been a tornado warning.

When the storm began I was at work and after the numerous alerts and warnings, me and my coworkers were all told it would be best if we left. In my rush, I dashed out of the door with only my keys.

I had forgotten my bag and my phone and all the contents that I had slowly collected over the years and kept in a satchel as a sort of talisman to ward off evil spirits and the like that seemed to want to attach themselves to me.

The satchel contained an odd assortment of things: a small vial of salt, a clay statue with its own strikingly unusual appearance, a stone of jet, a globe of labradorite, and the tooth of a black cat that all helped me to feel safe, to be protected and to walk unnoticed throughout the world-- at least in the realm of those things not living.

From childhood, I noticed shadows, without shape or form. Most of the time they were harmless. As I grew older, I became more aware of other creatures and entities. The shadows would go from playful to predatorial.

I quickly grew scared and when my mother found out she took me to see a children’s therapist. The apparitions did not stop, they poured forth latching onto my fears, my desperation and hopelessness. It was as if I had become a house for them to dwell within.

I became haunted.

I passed through the hands of multiple therapists, too many to even count. None of them could help me. I was a child becoming a teen that was out of their depth. They either pitied me, despised me, or feared me.

Eventually, my mother heard tell of a spiritual healer, who was no more than a witch, yet she was the only one who could help.

Instead of claiming that I was delusional or sick, the healer praised me for my abilities and told my mother I was gifted, however, the healer sensed the dark energies threatening to consume me and crafted the satchel that had been blessed and enchanted with wards to keep me safe.

And from then on, I carried it with me wherever I went.

That is, until the day the tornado hit.

I’d left work feeling hopeful that I would make it home before the storm became dangerous. But the further I went, the harder the storm raged. I lived in an aged and historic town and was lucky enough to be within walking distance from my work. A few blocks and I would have been home.

I dashed through the rain, taking care not to slip and hurt myself. My keys jangled loudly against my hip.

Rainwater was pelting my eyes and I had trouble seeing. I was soaked. Lightning flashed while thunder rumbled threateningly.

If I would have left a few minutes earlier from my work maybe things would have been different.

If I would have not forgotten my purse with the enchanted satchel within maybe things would be better for me.

Being a human means making human mistakes and mistakes breed consequences that are not often too kind.

I’d rounded a corner at the French district, splashing through puddles when I came to the wrought iron, overgrown with ivy and tangled weeds, entrance of the graveyard.

People often said the graveyard was haunted, cursed.

There were ghost walks and spirit tours that brought groups of people to this very cemetery so they could “Oooo” and “Aahhh” and romanticize about all the horrific deeds that had taken place here. They would return home or to their inns or their taverns and tell the stories they had heard over a beer with a friend, or sitting in front of their fireplace, or tucked into a cool bed on a winter night.

The locals all knew this cemetery was bad news, nothing good ever came of it except for the endless revenue of the ghost tours that the cemetery enticed.

I planned to continue on down the block, straight past the graveyard, but a harsh streak of lightning cut through the sky overhead and thunder cracked so loudly I could feel it deep within my very bones.

Though I cringed at the thought, I knew that if I cut through the graveyard I would be home in half the time.

I gulped and with a look of harsh determination on my face, I ran into the graveyard, pushing my body through the gate.

It closed behind me with a harsh clang, but I continued.

I wasn’t interested in taking my time like some of the tourists do when they come here to meander and ponder while they look at the ancient graves, too old to even have names or dates on them, or too overgrown with tangled foliage for anything to be made out.

There was a worn path beneath my feet, and the rainwater had caused it to be treacherously slick with red clay mud. It threatened to be surpassed and covered in its entirety by tall and leggy green weeds. They slapped relentlessly at my calves and thighs as I ran through.

The weeds made me run blindly. I thought if I stayed on the path it was safest, but I was wrong.

My foot caught on a thick, twisting root that lay horizontally before me. It snaked from one set of graves to another, likely gaining nourishment from the rotting corpses underneath the ground.

I fell, catching myself on the heels of my hands. My pants leg was ripped open and a sharp, sudden pain could be felt above my knee.

I sat up, thoroughly covered in mud and grime from the cemetery, my hair completely soaked through, my clothes stuck against my skin and inspected the gaping wound above my knee. It wouldn’t need stitches, but as soon as I got home I would have to place some butterfly bandages on the wound, or it was sure to leave an ugly scar.

A wet warmth spread along the skin of my knee as my pants soaked up the blood that was pouring forth.

Just then the wind gushed maddeningly, causing the trees in the graveyard to sway and the grey Spanish moss to dance. The trees creaked and groaned with their movement.

Nearby I heard a clicking noise and I couldn’t place it to anything natural. I shifted, sitting up straight, remaining still so I could hear whatever the noise belonged to.

A shadow crossed my periphery and I turned my head towards the movement.

Whatever it was, was using the headstones to hide and shifting between them, manipulating the shadows of the graves to appear “natural”.

But the feeling of dread I had that I often associated with the shadow beings from my past was all too familiar.

My hands fumbled around for my purse. I would grab the enchanted draw-string satchel and would put an end to this shadow thing coming after me.

It was then, I realized my mistake. I had left my purse at work.

“Shit!”

The clicking grew louder and before me, the shadow began to take form.

I knew I couldn’t turn around. All I could do now was keep moving forward, towards home-- towards safety.

The shadow-being before me darkened, swirling and shifting menacingly, and I rose to my feet charging through it.

When I passed through its still collecting form, I felt a cold that seeped into my bones and gripped with a deadly claw around the deepest parts of my being. It was as if, in doing that it knew me. Everything about me.

My darkest desires, my deepest fears, my hopes and my failures.

I ran from the storm.

I ran from the graveyard.

I ran from the shadow that threatened to abolish me.

Things have been a nightmare since and the depression I was treated for long ago with the help of the spiritual healer is slowly lurking back.

I am certain the shadow beast followed me home, and what I am most uncertain of is how to get rid of it.

**** Hope you all enjoyed chapter 1! Please get this fic out into the tumblr verse by reblogging, commenting, and even sending asks if you feel like it! If you would like to support me head on over to my Patreon where you will get access to my fics before anywhere else and much more! Or fuel me with Ko-fi! Until next time! Peace, Loki’s Pet Tiger

#geralt fanfic #geralt #geralt of rivia #the witcher #geralt x you #geralt x reader #geralt lemons #geralt smut #lpt #geralt fanfiction #henry cavill #henry cavill fanfic #henry cavill x you #henry cavill geralt #henry cavill fanfiction

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angst-fairygodmother · 4 years

Note

May I requesr reader x the witcher? Reader has a major anxiety attack over something and Geralt tries to calm them down. They end up passing out in his arms (partly from being exhausted, partly from hyperventalating). He makes sure that they don't fall. Their skin is clammy and pale. Their pulse is fast. Geralt keeps an eye on their pulse and is relieved when it starts to slow down. When they wake up, he comforts them. Fluffy ending please. (Sorry if its too specific) Thankyousomuch !!! 🥺🥺🥺

A/N: Anxiety and panic attacks are such...unique responses to stressors that it’s a struggle to capture what they’re like for someone else, but I hope this was something at least akin to what you were looking for. Word Count: 1429 Content Warning: anxiety attack descriptions

You had been travelling with Geralt for long enough that the monsters didn’t seem to faze you anymore. It didn’t matter how fearsome or horrible they seemed to be, you stared them down unflinchingly as you fought beside your witcher friend. And though he would be the last to admit it, he had come to rely on your stoic presence watching his back.

That reliance was precisely why neither of you were prepared when it struck. A griffin had swooped low over the road, shrieking, its great flapping wings nearly knocking you to the ground with the force of air. And then, as quick as it had dropped out of the sky, it was gone again like it had never been.

“Shit,” you heard Geralt mutter, his amber eyes scanning the skies in case the creature came back.

Eventually, he seemed satisfied and you moved on, but you couldn’t get the vicious leonine creature out of your mind. Every shift of cloud that blocked the sun, every rustle of the trees in the forest to your left, every skittering of rock on the slowly rising hills that you rode through was the griffin coming back. And it had proven itself not only powerful, but fast. There would be no way to react in time, no way for Geralt to draw his sword even with his witcher reflexes, let alone you with your ordinary human ones.

“Geralt,” you called to your travelling companion, your stomach clenching. Familiar with the signs, you knew what would come next and tried to minimize the damage even as your mind grew fuzzy. “Can we stop?”

“We still have a few hours of light,” he said absently, not even glancing back over his shoulder at you. “At the very least we need to find somewhere less open.”

You swallowed thickly, your mouth and throat feeling desert-dry and tight. Blood rushed in your ears loud enough that you barely heard your own trembling voice.

“No, Geralt. We need…I need…”

‘Where had the air gone?’ you found yourself wondering as spots of black and sparkling light danced across your vision.

It was as if iron bands had clamped tight around your muscles and your lungs, squeezing tighter and tighter by the second.

Geralt’s face suddenly appeared, wavering in front of you, mouth moving though you couldn’t hear the sounds he made.

And then there was nothing.

Geralt had always been pleasantly surprised by your calm and practicality, especially in comparison to his previous travelling companion. You never complained, never hesitated, could take care of yourself. Which was why he’d been surprised by your request to end a day’s travel early, enough that he was keenly focused for signs you weren’t showing him that you might have been hurt. When you started to insist again on stopping, he half-intended to leave you in the dust, an old habit seated in fear of how someone might react encountering him on the twilight road or in a dusky wood. Instead, his sensitive hearing caught on the hitch in your pulse and he pulled Roach to a quick halt so he could check on you.

He only had moments, spent trying to ask you what was wrong as he took in your deathly pallor and pupils blown wide before you collapsed and he lunged forward on instinct to catch you. Gently cradling your upper body, he lowered the pair of you to the ground and laid two fingers gently on the pulse point of your neck. He could hear the way your whole body sped up, taut and poised on the edge of something, adrenaline overtaking you, but it was easier if he could actually feel and count the beats of your heart pumping your blood.

At this stage, there wasn’t much he could do but watch over you until you woke, and he hated himself for it. He should have seen that something was wrong sooner, should have sensed that you weren’t okay and done something instead of trying to brush you off. Gently, he brushed sweat-soaked hair from your face as you lay in his arms.

“Fuck,” he muttered.

The sun was beginning to set behind the distant trees by the time you stirred. Your pulse had normalized earlier, and there had been no signs of other travelers or that the griffin might return, so Geralt hadn’t been worried and decided to just let you rest until you came too on your own.

Disoriented, you sat up slowly, feeling an ache in every inch of your body, but especially in your head, which you clasped between hands rested on your knees with a groan.

“Finally,” Geralt’s soft, gravelly voice said, off to your left.

You turned slowly to face him, puzzled and tired.

“What happened?” you asked.

“You fainted. As for why, you tell me.”

A hot flush crept across the back of your neck and up the sides of your face, embarrassment at what you perceived as your failure to keep up and at the obvious concern and warmth in him. His posture was hunched but not in a way that made you feel closed off from him, as he usually did, and his face was gentle, amber eyes watching you for signs of further distress.

“I don’t…I guess…I let my own mind get the better of me, and I…panicked a little?” you offered with a shrug, trying to dismiss it like a one-time situation rather than something that occurred, if you were being honest, rather often but which you usually managed to keep under control, or at least secret, until you were away from him and free to break down on your own.

“Because of the griffin?”

You were surprised that he was taking the time to ask the obvious questions.

“Yes, I guess. The monsters that fly are all a little more…intense than ones that don’t and this one was so fast and graceful. The thought of being caught out in the open, or anywhere, by it…was too much.”

“Do you…have these kind of…attacks often?”

“No,” you lied again.

He gave you an incredulous look, one that said you were handling things too well for them to not be a familiar song and dance. Still, he didn’t push.

“How are you feeling now?” he asked.

“I’m…okay now. Better. Just tired, and sore. I…if you want to keep moving for a while longer I should be fine.”

“Don’t be stupid. We’ll stop here for the night, and get moving early in the morning to make up the time.”

“Geralt, you don’t have to do that. I can handle it.”

“You’re allowed to have limitations, Y/N. And I’d rather you rest now and be well than push yourself too far and make things worse.”

“Right, I guess it would slow you down more in the long run.”

“That’s not…” he sighed, moving until he was kneeling right in front of you, towering over you. “It’s not just about efficiency.”

“What do you mean?” you frowned, eyebrows knitting together in confusion and privately Geralt found himself amused and rather taken in by the expression.

“I care about you,” he admitted. “I wouldn’t have asked you to come with me if I didn’t. And today, when I thought something was wrong…more wrong…”

He suddenly turned away, jaw clenched as he fought internally over how much to tell you. With a dawning realization and a soft smile, you gently reached up to place the tips of your fingers on his cheek and turn him back to you.

“It’s okay to have been worried, or even scared, Geralt.”

As you spoke, the witcher leaned his forehead against your own, eyes shut. You weren’t sure whether the gesture was one of affection or resignation, but you imagined he probably heard the way your heart leapt from it either way.

“I’m fine, I promise. I will consent to camping here for the night if that will make you happier.”

He let out a long, relieved breath that he no longer had felt like he had to fight you for your own wellbeing, or admit the depth of his feeling.

The two of you sat like that for a while, each breathing the other and finding calm and peace in their proximity, until finally, he rose and set about preparing a camp as if there had been no exchange. You smiled, he was not a man of words, but you knew anyway, and were glad of it, that he was there for you and cared for you, and for now, that was enough.

#this honestly might have been the most challenging request I've gotten so far #but I think it turned out well anyway #I do regularly get it confused whether anxiety attacks or panic attacks are the ones that typically happen without a trigger #so I hope I didn't screw that up #Geralt of Rivia #Geralt x Reader #reader insert #tw: panic attack #tw: anxiety attack #tw panic attack #tw anxiety attack #The Witcher fic

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funkzpiel · 5 years

Text

Smother

The Witcher (Netflix) Yennefer/Geralt/Jaskier Hurt/Comfort, Hanahaki

Also available on AO3.

When witchers die, it’s usually by sword or claw or fang. But the natural death of a witcher doesn’t always include aging. It includes pain. It includes choking slowly. And flowers.

(This is all hot garbage. it was supposed to be short, you guys. SHORT.)

“When do witchers retire?” Jaskier asked, a question littered in a dozen of babbling attempts at conversation as he tuned his lute, eyes on the task at hand. Like conversation was more a habit than an act of intention for the man.

Geralt sighed as he saw to it that Roach was properly taken care of. She pushed her head into his chest, and for a moment he fancied she was urging him to answer. So despite himself, he did. Mostly.

“When they get too slow,” he said, letting the words speak for themselves as to what that retirement involved; namely death. And in a way, it was correct. Only… they often did not slow from age. Or at least, not from age alone. Not that the bard needed to know that. It sufficed to admit that a witcher’s life ended in agony.

Nothing wove a more enticing story than sacrifice, after all. Even the witcher knew that. And that’s all the bard was after, Geralt reminded himself.

A story.

The answer appeared to appease the bard. He chatted on about how a song to improve the man’s legacy was needed now more than ever, then, if the only peace he’d ever know would be that which the coin of townsfolk and nobles might provide him for a job well done. Jaskier rambled at Geralt eagerly, testing lyrics between subtle twists of knobs and strings, all the while mentioning that everyone loved a tragic hero. That his songs would make the man beloved, immortal – or at the very least tolerated instead of driven out of town.

Geralt hummed as he stoked the fire. No need to give Jaskier more then. That half-truth was more than enough to at least get the bard to stop asking his damnable questions.

No need to tell him that witchers only retired when slow if they were lucky.

No… no need for that at all.

— • —

There was no knowing when it might start. Witchers, for all their lore and bestiaries and research, had very little to say about this: the way in which they naturally died. Geralt had looked once, asked once. He received little more than uncomfortable stares about the subject. Not that it mattered. It sufficed to know only what needed to be known. That all living things died, including witchers. It mattered little if it was by a monster’s claws or a beast’s fangs or a mortal’s sword or the slow, gradual suffocation of his own body.

He would die. It didn’t matter how. Regardless, it was inevitable. Regardless, it did not change who he was or what he did or how he did it. Geralt of Rivia was a witcher, and he would hunt until Death took him.

When he was younger, it had been easier to ignore those thoughts. To push them somewhere deep down where they only whispered from time to time. Now?

Seemingly out of nowhere, he found himself wondering more and more about the way witchers passed.

And every time, it left a strangely cold and heavy feeling in his gut. Unidentifiable and uncomfortable. Geralt wondered what that was.

— • —

The first time it happened, Geralt was alone. Not alone as he once had been. Not alone because he chose to be alone. Alone, because no one would have a man who used ill-gotten wishes and spewed nothing but poisonous barbs from their mouth when you tried to comfort him. Alone, in a tub of water to scald the ache from his muscles, he wondered why it did little to relieve the pain. Why still he ached. Why it coalesced around his lungs like a thorn bush.

And then the coughing started.

Small, innocent. More like a hiccup than a fit. But he felt something dislodge from his chest, work its way up onto his tongue, and when next he coughed he felt it land in his palm.

He didn’t quite put it all together. How was a witcher to feel, after all, when they’re supposed to feel nothing at all? He stared at the little blue petal in his hand, fingers trembling, the petal itself framed by a droplet of blood or two.

How was a witcher to feel of death when it stared him in the face? Nothing, he had always assumed. It would be no different than staring down a griffin or any other thing that meant him harm.

Only… this he could not fight.

That stone in his stomach grew heavier, colder. He could avoid putting a name to it all day, but like Fate, it would appear. Death would not be ignored either. At least now he wouldn’t have to worry about his child surprise. The thought brought a rough, rasping bubble of laughter up through his chest; still sore from the petal it had expelled.

His hand fell beneath the water. He watched the petal float, small and delicate, then sink, as all things did eventually.

— • —

The coughing started light and infrequent. Purple and blue petals tumbled from his lips now and then. It didn’t stop him from hunting or fighting. It did not slow him. But Death dogged him, always trailing just behind him, just out of sight.

Perhaps he had escaped Fate after all, he thought one night when the fire was high and yet did nothing to warm the ache from his bones. He threw the petal that he coughed up onto the flames. Thought, just for a moment, that he could smell something familiar when he did.

It passed.

It did not slow him until suddenly, it did. Until a bite from some hell-be-damned creature left him feverish in the back of a kind man’s cart. He dreamt of many things. He dreamt of his mother, who left him. Who saved him. Who said… something about him dying, maybe… He tried to remember.

Large eyes, a mother’s eyes, and yet so foreign to him. Her mouth pulled into a pained twist as she wiped something from the corner of his mouth. He could barely focus enough to see such fine details, but he didn’t need to see it to know what it was. A petal, either purple or blue. He wondered what sort of flower it would be, to have both blue and purple petals.

“I can calm your fever,” she said softly, her hands cold against his brow, “And I can save you from this death,” her fingers trailed over the bite, “But what ails you otherwise… is much more complicated.”

Complicated.

He hadn’t understood or remembered the words at the time. Hadn’t had time, distracted as something indescribable had drawn him from the back of the cart and into the forest. All thought of blossom petals and complications had fled at the sight of her: Ciri, drowning in her overgrown blue coat. Eyes so big they could make up the sky. She had launched herself into his arms, and something strange and unidentifiable – and yet something that had been burning so disturbingly often in his breast these days – alit inside him. Something warm. And if he traced it, it led like a thred right back to her. To her, and out – splitting in two – out and out and…

It was complicated.

— • —

Sometimes the girl cried, often in her sleep. Often when she thought Geralt was sleeping. At first he tried to ignore it. He was not the girl’s father.

But more and more, he felt a thread pull him closer and closer to her. Her soft sobs, muffled bravely into her little fist lest the witcher see and think less of her, softening him more and more each day. How could he ignore those sounds, when they reminded him of her cherub like smile? Reminded him of the fact that children should not have had to suffer as she had suffered?

Finally one night, he sighed – and in doing so, heard her suddenly silence and stiffen, but for one or two errant sniffles. He sat up, ran one hand through his hair, before stoking the fire enough to heat the tin kettle he kept in his pack. With it, he scooped a small amount of tea leaves from his increasingly sparse stash, stowed them into a fine mesh pocket, and dropped the little bundle into the kettle with water. All the while, he felt the girl’s wet eyes on him. Waiting.

“It’s okay to mourn, Ciri,” he finally said, aware of the words to say even after Kaer Morhen beat them out of him. Mourning meant nothing to him, he need not mourn. The boons of witchery. But he recognized a human’s need to express pain. Especially that of a child’s.

And for a time, she did. As the water heat, she wept into her fist. Awkwardly, Geralt let her, unsure of what else to do. Focused, instead, on the task at hand while trying to give her space, as he might an adult. Did children require space? Or less space?

Eventually her weeping lessened to whimpers. Then, to sniffles.

When those too stopped, she shuffled up beside him and pressed close to his flank. He allowed it, due to the chill and the chill alone. Refused to acknowledge that little warm flicker in his chest that had little to do with the fire.

“What are you making?” She asked softly from beside him, staring at the fire as if the heat alone might sear any evidence of tears away.

“Lavender tea,” he groused, pouring the water into a mug lest the girl burn herself with impatience. “To help you sleep.”

She thought that over for a moment, then said, “Thank you.” “Hmm.”

“You don’t say much, do you, Geralt?”

He didn’t answer, hoping that would be answer enough. But like Jaskier, the girl had a knack for filling a conversation by herself. The reminder of him panged, ever so slightly. His chest itched.

“That’s alright,” Ciri said. “Grandmother always says…” She paused. Swallowed heavily, but pressed through it, “Said… a man’s word is nothing compared to his actions. You say a lot, Geralt, even if you don’t actually say a lot.”

He didn’t really know what to think about that. Instead he let her babble until the tea, slowly but surely, lured her back to sleep.

He tried not to think of how little he had left of that lavender tea. It was easier to rest, after all, once the girl had settled and fallen back asleep against his thigh, drooling on his trousers. He tried not to think about the warmth in his chest that flickered every time he looked at her. Fate drawn taut between them.

Tried not to think about what would happen, if he didn’t get her to Kaer Morhen in time.

— • —

Standing before a cheap inn room mirror, he realized he was thinning. Not much, but enough to require him to dig a new hole in one of his belts. He’d have to be cautious, he thought as he dragged a shirt on to hide what he already knew. Cautious not to skip too many more meals. One or two did no harm, and he hadn’t thought he let it get so bad. Lose much more weight and his armor wouldn’t fit right. Ill-fitting armor got men killed.

He tried to eat more, but it was hard to swallow these days. What with the petals coming two at a time these days.

He turned, eyed Ciri still curled like a mouse in the middle of the inn bed. Wearing her clothes and her traveling cloak beneath the blankets because it was a cold night even with the fire. Looking so small. She was his to protect now, by Fate and whatever else.

And yet, even as Fate forced him to her, Death continued to dig into him as well. He wondered if the two ever bothered to communicate. Because only one of them would win at this rate – and he worried what would happen to Ciri when Death won.

All the more reason to get to Kaer Morhen.

All the more reason not to get attached.

He took the chair beside the bed, dug his bare feet beneath the blankets just enough to warm the worst of the chill from his toes, and took back to reading. For once, insomnia aided him. No point in trying to sleep. He’d just wake up coughing petals and scare the girl.

He’d read instead. About beasts, about lore, about myths. The instinct of a witcher to keep their mind sharp and attuned to all that they hunt still prevalent even as he was dying.

— • —

Halfway to Kaer Morhen, Ciri saw the petals for the first time. They came in threes now. He didn’t answer when she asked about it. It was easy enough to distract her with something else she dogged him for relentlessly – knife lessons or stories.

Anything to avoid admitting he was dying.

— • —

Insomnia turned suddenly into a need for sleep so great, it startled him. He found himself taking Ciri to more and more inns, because when he slept, sound did little to wake him these days – and that wasn never a good habit for a witcher or a child in the woods.

He slept like a rock, sometimes only for a little while, sometimes until morning or nearly mid-day. And every time, he dreamed.

He woke with songs in his head and familiar scents – fine courtly oils and perfumes, and lilacs and gooseberries. The sharp smell of a man and the soft, round scent of a woman. He woke, mistaking each time that they would be there beside him and they weren’t.

Again, Ciri asked about the flower petals on Geralt’s pillow, in his hair, at the corner of his mouth. Again, she asked about Yennefer. About Jaskier.

Again, he didn’t answer.

They must ride, now more than ever, for Kaer Morhen. It would seem that Fate’s plan for him was this and this alone. Get the child to the safety of his kind. Train her as he can while they ride. Prepare her as much as possible.

And by the gods, whichever gods there may or may not be, ensure Vesemir promised that the trials of transmutation never come within an inch of Ciri’s life.

— • —

“You were talking in your sleep again.”

He leaned up on an elbow to hack into his hand. What landed there felt more solid than a petal or two, but he didn’t bother to look. Not yet. He kept his hand closed, resting on his stomach as the fit passed, and sighed as he finally met Ciri’s gaze.

“And what did I say this time?” He asked, because she’d tell him regardless.

“Their names. Jaskier and Yennefer. Sometimes dandelion, something about gooseberries... I'm not sure... But... you did say that you were sorry.”

She had stopped asking who they were these days. Instead she just glared at him pointedly, as if he were being obstinately obtuse about something. Like a horse run too thin that wouldn’t drink, even when led to water.

Perhaps that’s what he was.

He cleared his throat, felt another petal come to his tongue. Spat it aside, too weary to be more hygienic or secretive than that. Ciri wrinkled her little button nose.

“Careful. Your face will get stuck like that,” he said, baiting her.

“Will not!”

And just like that, he twisted the conversation away again. If only it had been that easy with Jaskier or Yennefer. Maybe then, things wouldn’t have ended up the way they did.

She stomped off, growling something about food, and Geralt made certain only to smile when her back was to him. It felt… strange, to realize he was not going to die alone. Selfish and yet… appeasing. It made the petals a little easier to cough up.

He opened his hand as soon as he was certain she had well and truly left to find them food from the inn kitchen.

That strange feeling in his gut twisted sharply as he took in the sight of two full flowers – a lilac and a forget-me-not. Purple and blue, spattered with spittle and blood, but no less delicate or stunning. He had never known a witcher to vomit two blossoms before. Of course, trust him to be the lucky one to try it.

And yet, even knowing they were killing him, he couldn’t find it in him to crush them.

— • —

“If you miss them so much, why haven’t you gone off to find them?”

“I don’t miss them,” he groused on reflex. She just glowered at him. Evidently some of Geralt was rubbing off on her. He wasn’t sure if that was a good or a bad thing, but regardless he tried not to think about how that made something in his chest twinge.

When she would not stop asking, he found himself begrudgingly answering with a petal-rough, “It’s complicated.”

“I don’t see what’s so complicated about it,” she huffed, crossing her arms and avoiding his gaze.

She was concerned for him, he realized. She seemed to think finding them would help, somehow. Perhaps take one last regret off his death bed. Well… two.

“You’ll understand when you’re older,” he found himself saying. She glared and refused to speak with him after that. Uncomfortable, but less so than acknowledging the fact that finding Yennefer or Jaskier to apologize was not, in fact, complicated.

And yet, they continued on to Kaer Morhen. As they did, he thought that perhaps he would find them once Ciri was safe. If, of course, he made it that long.

— • —

Ciri began to slip away from the inns while he slept. Never for long. Just a moment… or perhaps longer? He wondered, how long had he slept? He tried not to think about it, because he didn’t quite want to know how bad it had gotten. Plus, Ciri found him alone in the woods that fateful day. She had survived without him once before, and she’d need to be able to live without him once again, when he passed. It was not necessarily a bad thing that she was beginning to take initiative for herself when he slept. Merely disconcerting to find the evidence of lost time.

He asked once what she had been up to.

She lied to him, so sweet and innocently, and Geralt felt a little less worried for her, for when he’d be gone. And as for proud, well… Best not to get attached.

— • —

There was talk of notes appearing in the towns, taverns and inns that led to Kaer Morhen. Slips of paper pierced to trees, left with inn keepers and barmen. But never stuck on job boards.

One note simply said:

Dandelion, Gooseberry, please come. We are headed home. He needs help, I think.

And another:

Come swiftly, he won’t listen to me.

And another still:

Gooseberry, Dandelion… he sleeps too much. He calls your names. I think he is dying of missing you. I’m afraid.

It has been months since they left for Kaer Morhen. Perhaps a month now, that these notes have begun appearing in the towns they’ve stopped in. Some picked up and mocked by drunks. Others, blown away by the wind.

And it was one such note that Fate clings to. It drifted on the changing winds, slipping past trees and dogging the heels of horse hooves without being trampled. It went on a journey, much like Geralt and Ciri’s – a journey home.

A woman with inky hair snatched the little page from the air.

Purple painted nails stood a stark contrast against the torn, weathered page and young handwriting.

Lilac colored eyes read it over thrice, then thrice more.

Then Yennefer of Vengerberg looked out over the field she had been riding through, as though by will alone she might spot Geralt and his child surprise through miles of trees and towns and creatures. A sour wound ached inside her to think of him. It brought a bitter taste to her mouth.

I’m afraid, the child had written.

And the child in Yennefer who had been sold sympathized with that.

Fates be damned, but she did.

— • —

The bard found the note quite by chance. A note, brought to banquet by a noble who found it more a game than a plea – as though the note were some grand riddle for the banquet. Jaskier read the note as it passed around, and instead of adding in to the nobles’ very many stipulations and guesses, he found himself slipping away.

He bartered for a horse, lost himself a rather lovely flask given to him as a lover’s gift, as well as much of his purse and a trinket or too. But he hit the road not long after reading the note. He needed to know if the man was alive. Needed to know what had become of him.

Perhaps there’d be another song in it for him, he convinced himself, smothering his worry beneath that lie.

— • —

He started to expel as many as two or three blossoms throughout the day, even more at night when sleep left him powerless to obstinately smother them. He woke one night gasping, the flowers larger now. Suffocating, as though caught in a drowner’s clammy grip. Ciri pounded on his back. The relief of those thick flowers tumbling from his mouth quickly erased by the pain – howling like a banshee in his chest. He felt full, stuffed to the brim with flowers. So overwhelmed by them, he couldn’t move – couldn’t even begin to fathom how to express it.

And he realized suddenly, as he wiped petals and blood from his mouth as calmly as he could for Ciri’s sake, that this was not the first time he felt smothered. Out of control. Helpless.

He had felt it before – just as painful and cloying – the moment he drove each of them away.

— • —

Inevitably, they found each other on the road. Barbed and falsely polite greetings turned into delicately shaped hedging conversations until finally, they could ignore it no further.

“So what dangerous and thinly veiled lie are you weaving now? Do you ride to the location of your next mark? Eager to ensnare another knight to make king of some backwater, nowhere land?” Jaskier pried, curiously buried beneath distaste and distrust. He remembered still the fight that had brought Geralt to the brink. He had often wondered, on his lonelier nights, if it had been that fight that had drove Geralt to those painful words… or if it truly had been him. It was easier to blame Yennefer.

“Cute, bard. Why yes, I am currently on my way to my next morsel,” she lied easily, grinning with all her teeth as she asked, “And what of you? Looking for a new ‘tall, dark and handsome’ to hide the fact that you are not the hero of yours or anyone’s story? That’s why you only sing of others, yes?”

Jaskier whistled, the sound itself lyrical as they rode along, still in the same direction.

“Wow. What did he see in you?” Jaskier asked, unable to help himself.

“The better question is what did you see in him?” Jennefer shot back, “Are you so spineless a dog that you would let any handsome face beat you?”

“He did not beat me!”

“Not with his hands, no.”

Jaskier scowled, a storm passing over his face. He broke first in their petty silence that followed.

“He asked for me, if you must know.”

“Oh he did?” She purred, eyes twinkling darkly, “How amusing. He asked for me as well.”

“Because you bewitched him, no doubt.”

Yennefer sighed, eyes rolling as she quickly grew bored of him.

“Yes, because a bard has so much to offer an ailing witcher. No matter, we’ll see who he asked for when we get there. Separately, of course. Good luck, bard. I look forward to seeing if you make it,” she said before she urged horse on, leaving Jaskier to scowl behind her.

— • —

Geralt dreamt of younger days.

He dreamt of Kaer Morhen. Of Vesemir.

Of a witcher, no older than thirty, being carried in on a stretcher. Evidently, he had died not far from home, just a town or two over, and had paid to have his body returned to Kaer Morhen. Not as though he needed the money anyway. What was more surprising was that the townsfolk had actually done it.

He arrived, pale and thin. In the crook of his neck and in the halo of his hair Geralt could remember seeing blossoms. Lilies. Beautiful and white against the body, making the corpse look not so much pale in death as ashen.

“This is the fate of witchers,” he remembered Vesemir telling him later by the fire. “We die by the sword, or by the fang… or else, Fate comes for us herself.”

“Why?” Geralt asked.

“There are many theories. No one bothered with any of them. It doesn’t matter, there is no cure. It comes for some of us early. Some, later. There’s no telling. Perhaps it is compensation for the gifts of a witcher… it comes for all of us, boy.”

“And always lilies?”

“…no. The flowers tend to differ.”

— • —

They met again, at an inn this time.

Seeing her there, framed by besotted men and women alike, Jaskier could hold back his ire no longer.

“Why are you going? I heard your little spat, there’s no love lost between you,” Jaskier asked.

When one of her men stood to address him, she easily waved him off, to Jaskier’s surprise. She waited until her gathering left her before she answered. Leaving her with a table of wine and food that made Jaskier’s stomach cramp in jealousy.

“Oh? And I heard yours as well, bard. Have you forgiven him?” Yennefer replied. Voice like spooled silk even as her eyes twinkled cleverly.

“Well, no, but…”

“Exactly.”

“…but would you? If he asked?” Jaskier pried.

A pause.

“Would you?”

Words surprisingly soft for a mage that had cleared a battlefield by sheer will alone.

“I don’t know, I… Yes. I think I would.”

“Why?”

Why… Jaskier thought that over. Why? He found himself thinking of what he had said to Geralt atop that mountain, before the witcher had banished him from his life. I’m just trying to figure out what makes me happy.

“Because I think I know what I want now… Now that I’ve lived without it.”

“Poetic,” Yennefer snorted.

“You’re avoiding the question, Yennefer.”

Something cold stole across her face. A quiet contempt that rivalled anything Geralt had ever directed his way.

“It’s never bade well for any man who’s tried to force me to do anything, Jaskier. You’d do well to heed that lesson while I offer it free of charge.”

“Is that why he’s called for us? Did you curse him?” Jaskier said, words tumbling from his mouth in a rage despite her warning.

“I will say this once and only once, bard. I did not bring harm down upon the witcher for what he did—”

“—and what did he do, Yennefer? Do you even know?” Jaskier exclaimed, nights of dread and overthinking boiling over inside his body.

She rose, and when the barkeep moved to break them up, it was a simple spell to persuade him they were doing nothing wrong at all. The inn collectively looked away from them. Suddenly, Jaskier felt far more like a mouse between a cat’s paws than a man on equal footing with his opponent. Even so, he held his chin up as high as he could manage.

“He wished my fate tied to his,” she snarled, “He stole my choice.”

“Because you had not stolen his? Forced him to terrorize a town?” Jaskier snapped, “Right? And the way I saw things go down, he saved your life!”

“I. Didn’t. Ask.” She said lowly, darkly, each word punctuated by a wealth of frustrations and experience that went far deeper than one argument. Far deeper than one witcher.

The tableware began to tremble.

“Yeah, well, show me your fucking shackles and I’ll see your way of things. Go on. Where are they? What has he demand you do?”

She clenched her jaw, but around her, the tableware stilled.

“You think you’re so clever, bard, and yet here you are – alone. Perhaps he was right to banish you as he did.”

Jaskier stepped back at that, felt each word pierce his chest. But even as he knew she won, he could not help but part with one last thing.

“Perhaps,” he admitted, “But without a doubt he was fortunate that you lost your mind before you destroyed him with your venomous heart.”

He turned and left. Too awake to sleep, too wounded to eat. No need to rest. He might not be Yennefer of Vengerberg, he may not be helpful to Geralt in his hour of need. But he’d be damned if he let that woman beat him there.

— • —

Daydreams began to cling to him, as though sleeping were not enough. Sometimes he thought he could hear the bard trailing his horse, strumming his lute or chattering idly. Sometimes, he’d even respond. Ciri always clung a little tighter to him, then.

He smelled lilacs and gooseberries always. Always, always, always. It crept up on him with the wind, with Ciri’s shifting in the saddle, whenever a blossom slipped past his lips. Even with Ciri’s concern, and her attempts to distract them both with childish questions and wonder and energy, the world felt entirely too silent. Silent like a grave, he thought once, chuckling feverishly – hadn’t this been what he wanted?

His heart panged.

He hummed a ditty Jaskier had once strummed about the tales of witchers and their lack of emotions.

Curious was the dice Fate cast,

the heart she made for witchers.

Aye, they say love comes to them last,

their hearts too cold and withered.

“Ha, but we know better, don’t we, you gentle giant?” Jaskier teased, breaking off his impromptu song. Geralt remembered hands in his hair, oil rubbed into his back. Kindness, where he only had barbs and broken conversations to offer in return.

Kindness, and the sensation of suffocating – drawing breath, in and out, and yet unable to breathe so long as the bard looked at him that way, touched him like that…

“Hmm.”

“What are you grunting about now, Geralt?” Ciri asked, her head heavy when she pushed it back against his chest to look at him, behind her in the saddle as he was.

“…Nothing.”

“Hmm,” she mirrored back.

— • —

“Another letter, song bird,” Yennefer said, riding up beside him on the rode from seemingly nowhere. Jaskier rolled his eyes to the heavens, forcing his face into a pleasant mask as she finally reached him.

“I have a name, you know,” the bard snapped behind a polite smile.

Yennefer chuckled at that, a mirthful twinkle in her eye that made Jaskier on edge – and yet, the more he ran into her, the more and more he understood how addictive trading clever remarks with her could be.

“Yes. Evidently your name is Dandelion,” she purred, leaning toward him.

“Ah, yes, let’s play that game. Because gooseberry is so much better!” He played along, just to see her rise to the occasion.

“Hush, do you want to read it or not?”

Their game came to a surprising halt, surprising enough for him to drop his antics and focus on the note instead. He read it over. Flipping it, in case there was any more on the back. Frowned.

Gooseberry, Dandelion… he sleeps too much. He calls your names. I think he is dying of missing you. I’m afraid.

He held the note between his fingers before he looked up to catch her gaze, their horses having come to a halt flank to flank.

“Why are you showing me this?”

She watched his face for a long moment, searching for something that made the bard shiver.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Partially I want to see how useful you might be. Partially because our prior spat revealed some… motivations for me. So perhaps it is also a token of gratitude, call it what you will.”

“Gratitude?” Jaskier gaped.

“Yes. I rode to Kaer Morhen before out of a debt for the life he saved that night with the Djinn, whether I asked for it or not. To bring closure to all of… that. But now I’ve realized I cannot let the witcher die until I have some answers. So I suppose if we both must save the witcher – well not both, gods know what you think you’ll do – we might as well ride together instead of annoyingly surprising one another along the way. If you can muzzle your own fangs long enough to travel civilly.”

“Generous of you,” Jaskier snorted.

“I thought so, too,” Yennefer smiled, and again Jaskier was struck by the sudden understanding of how men so easily became ensnared by this woman.

And yet, despite their mutual loathing, the continued on in the same direction and did not part again.

— • —

One night, as he sat by a fire wrapping the gashes a stray griffin had managed to land on him when a coughing fit had made him - for just a moment - stagger. In the end, it hadn't mattered. The griffin had fallen all the same. But even so, the wound stung. A reminder of his words with Jaskier. When do witchers retire? When they slow.

He startled from his thoughts with a grunt when Ciri suddenly slipped from her bedroll, coming over and silently pressing against his flank. He had no more lavender tea to offer. Hadn't, for some time. But still she came to sit with him some nights. Sometimes she spoke, sometimes she didn't. Regardless, this time began to grow on him. More and more, he found it bordering on... pleasant.

"You scared me," she finally whispered, eyes on his hands as he worked the bandage around his forearm. He hummed at that. Felt the warmth in his chest flicker and constrict strangely.

"Griffins are intimidating, but I doubt we'll see another on our way to Kaer Morhen," he said, trying to soothe her.

"That's not what I meant and you know it."

And he did. He did. He finished with the bandage before finally stretching out, warming his feet near the fire.

"I don't want to watch anyone else die because of me," she whispered. He could feel her tremble against his side. Knew it wasn't because of the cold. "I don't want to lose anyone else."

Despite every instinct of his training that screamed for him to keep distance, to no get attached, he gently brought an arm around Ciri's shoulders and said, "I know..."

And not for the first time, he wished he had something better to say.

— • —

Despite Geralt's cruel words, even now Jaskier could not tolerate endless silence. He traded barbs with his traveling companion, or at least, it started that way. But slowly barbs turned into idle chatter. Idle chatter drew out into passionate judging of various courtly men and ladies. Stories of parties gone wrong, banquets gone strange, wild nights. And even, eventually, tales about themselves.

As days passed, Jaskier found that jagged edge of contempt for Yennefer softening inside him. Steadily, like a grind stone, each day peeling another layer from him. He sang songs to cheer her up. Listened as slowly Yennefer offered small bits of herself to him one piece at a time. Tiny, fragile bits that slowly began to make a picture the more of him he collected.

And likewise, he exposed himself as well. Not all at once, not knowingly. But one day they rode and Jaskier realized that they had not once said something venomous to one another. Sharp, cutting sarcasm - sure. But nothing more. The more he knew of her, the more he understood what had driven Geralt and Yennefer apart. What had terrified the woman so dearly as to flee him like that.

At night, they shifted from a fire between them to resting flank to flank. To seeking refuge in another warm body. The sought comfort and warmth at night and during the day, they made a marry match wringing coin from inns along the way - just enough to eat and be on their way. At first it was nothing more than that.

Until a man laid hand on him at a tavern kitchen just as he was going to order food and drink for them both.

"Don't I know you from somewhere, boy?" The beast of a man asked, towering over Jaskier enough to make him gulp. He flashed the man a nervous smile.

"No, I don't think I've had the pleasure," he stammered, trying to free his hand without making a scene. "Just passing through, you see."

The man didn't let him free. Instead he loomed forward, squinting at him, cheeks rosy with drink. Breath hot and sour.

"But you've had the pleasure of my wife now, haven't you?"

"No," Jaskier wheezed, but it was too late. The man, regardless of its truth, had fastened to the assumption like a dog with a bone.

"Aye! She described you. Scrawny boy of a man! You piece of shit, you--" he drew his hand back, high over his shoulder. His fist was balled up more like a mallet than any human hand, in Jaskier's humble opinion. He closed his eyes and tried to shield himself as best he could, one hand still caught in the meaty vice of the other's grip. He waited for the blow to land.

But it never did.

"You'll let my traveling companion go," Yennefer said, appearing from behind the large man, a strange glow to her hands and her eyes - subtle, yet dangerous. "You'll hand us your purse as a token of humility for ruining our peaceful rest here at this establishment. And then you'll go home to your wife and ask her why she let another man lay with her. I promise you'll find it enlightening."

"A-aye," the man said, releasing Jaskier's bruised wrist to relieve himself of his purse - eyes dull and movements slow. Jaskier watched numbly as the man did as he was bid and disappeared.

"Incredible," Jaskier mumbled, then - eyes flitting to Yennefer to ask her why she had helped - he felt time slow as a man drew up beside her. He had a knife in his hand. He'd obviously not taken well to the open display of magic, and while most of the patrons had been content to look away and let sleeping dogs lie, this man evidently couldn't resist the opportunity to avenge his friend.

Jaskier grabbed the neck of his lute as he called to her. Watched as she spun to see the man coming, hands rising, but not before Jaskier had his lute up and swinging through the air. It arced above her, it's wooden body crashing against the man's skull. It made an awful racket. He heard a telling crunch. And then Yennefer took the man's surprise to send a force of will against him, throwing him across the inn and through a table.

Jaskier's chest heaved. His hand trembled around the neck of his lute, the strings cutting into his palms. He could feel that several had come loose.

"We should go, I think," he said, voice shaky, high off the thrill of the fight.

"Indeed," she said, and when she turned back to him, her eyes were alight in a curiously beautiful way.

They didn't stay in that town, but they left it with a heavier coin purse. And as they rode off, Jaskier lamented the death of his lute - it's barreled body cracked and warped.

"A noble death for a noble lute," he crowed dramatically, "Rest well, my sweet friend."

Yennefer eyed him and the lute curiously, something masked in the gesture, before she finally asked, "Would you like for me to fix it?"

His gaze shot up, skeptical and yet...

"Would you?"

She watched him a moment, then nodded.

"When we stop for the night, I shall fix it."

"I... thank you."

She hummed. "For the lute or for saving your ass?"

"The lute, well, both I guess, I -- why did you save my ass, by the way?"

She shrugged.

"No one touches my bard," she said. He grinned at that, something that had been dull in his chest for so long flickering weakly. "Plus, if you can fight like that, I see why Geralt called for you. I can't simply show up alone, can I? He called for us both."

"The girl called for us both," he clarified, still unsure of how Geralt would react when he saw them. "But I... I'm honestly not sure how I'll help. I can hardly swing my lute at every problem."

"Oh? Your lute saved Geralt from his reputation. Saved me from a knife, though I'd likely have stopped it," she grinned, eyes twinkling as she looked at him. "I think you're a lot more useful than you give yourself credit for these days, dandelion."

Jaskier smiled as they fell into an easy banter, eagerly joining Yennefer in her biting comments about the men who had tried to attack them and no doubt their size of their manhoods. It reminded him of the joy of traveling with another.

He wondered what it might be like in a group of four. The thought awoke a sleepy, distant hope in his chest.

— • —

Geralt barely made it to Kaer Morhen.

The estate had just began to creep up from over the hill and tree line when he felt his throat swell once more, worse than before. Thick and bulging. He could feel them in his neck, clogged and demanding release. He wheezed. In the saddle before him Ciri stirred from her nap – twisting just in time to see Geralt fall from the saddle with a loud thump and nothing more.

She scrambled from the horse. Babbled fearfully to Roach, her hands tiny and cold against him as she beat his back, tried to force him breathe.

He vomited a handful of blossoms onto the road that led home. Three full retches of lilacs and forget-me-nots and blood. When the last blossom left his lips, he sucked in a ragged breath of air. It agitated his lungs, and when he coughed next, petals and blood followed.

He could hear Ciri crying, and a roaring of blood and dread in his ears.

The edges of his vision grew ashen and blurry.

He never apologized, he realized. He never saw either of them again. Yennefer. Jaskier.

The blossoms crowding his lungs shivered like reeds in a stiff wind.

He barely saw Roach nibbling and pulling at Ciri’s collar. Leading her away.

He barely saw the road when it rushed up to greet his face.

— • —

Two travelers stopped their horses just outside the touring outline of Kaer Morhen. The anxious stomping of their mares’ hooves cast the little pile of blood dappled flowers that caught their attention to drift idly in the middle of the road.

“Lilacs and forget-me-nots... A shrine, you think?” Jaskier asked.

“In the middle of the road? Unlikely.”

Jaskier followed her gaze to the towering estate ahead.

“Is that Kaer Morhen?” He asked.

“Hmm… yes, Dandelion. It is.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” He asked. Even as he knew.

Yennefer was searching inside herself for that thread of Fate she was certain Geralt had cursed her with. Searching constantly for the answer to one question – was this her will or the will of a witcher’s wish?

Whatever answer she found, it must have been enough to push her forward. When she urged her horse along, Jaskier did not comment. He merely followed, grateful that she had.

Whatever was wrong with Geralt, it was unlikely that Jaskier would be able to fix it. As much as he was flattered to have been included in the note, he knew it was Yennefer that mattered.

He knew that had he not come, he would have easily been forgot.

— • —

Geralt woke in the middle of hurried orders and frantic hands. He was shuffled and rolled from a stretcher to a bed. The room was warm, covered in shelves and cabinets, all glimmering with bottles and herbs and tinctures. He knew this room. He’d been here before.

A weathered hand brushed the hair from his sweaty brow, then plucked a blossom from the corner of his mouth. Geralt’s breath whistled harshly as people scattered, all with their individual orders from Vesemir.

“The girl?” Geralt croaked.

“Safe. She’s safe.”

Three words. Three words, and he let self-control – what little he had of it – slip from him like the strings of a puppet suddenly cut. What strength he had left fled him. He melted into the mattress, keen to enjoy that simple comfort now that his task was done. He waited for Fate to release its hold on him. To feel that final tether cut, his body free of this place.

He waited. And waited. And must have muttered something confused and pained about it, because Vesemir merely placed a damp cloth to his forehead and said, “Not yet, lad. Not yet.”

— • —

Vesemir sat at Geralt’s bedside, twirling the stems of two flowers between thumb and forefinger: a lilac and a forget-me-not. He watched them dance, drying out now from the heat of the room. And then, he finally set them aside to look at the man that occupied Kaer Morhen’s sickbed.

The white wolf, while still towering and broad, looked so small in that bed. Even as his feet did not quite get spared from hanging over its end, he looked small. Young. Like a boy again, almost. Or perhaps that was just the wistfulness in Vesemir.

He had never seen a witcher expel two blossoms before.

Trust Geralt of Rivia to surprise him.

— • —

A small girl stood at the gate to Kaer Morhen as though she alone could protect every soul inside. Her little hands were fisted at her sides, tears in her eyes. She appeared ready to scream, of all things.

“Is that… a little girl? I thought they only took boys here?”

“Yes, Dandelion, your powers of observation continue to astound.”

Hostility melted from the girl like snow thawing. Her hands unclenched. Her teary eyes, if possible, seemed to glimmer with further moisture.

“Dandelion? Gooseberry?” She asked, voice warbling despite how she tried to be brave.

“Aye, child.”

“You found my letters.”

“Letters is a bit of a strong word—ow!” Jaskier snapped, cradling the arm Yennefer had pinched.

“Where is he?” Yennefer asked.

Ciri didn’t say another word. She took off running. And despite their courtly demeanors, Yennefer and Jaskier followed – running.

— • —

“What did this to him?” Yennefer asked, watching Geralt hack deliriously as Vesemir eased him toward the side of the bed where the blood, petals and blossoms might fall harmlessly. He looked thin. Like a starved wolf.

“Nothing,” Vesemir said once the fit had passed, easing the feverish man back into the pillows, eyes already closed. “This is the way of witchers. We die to the blade, or the fang, or this.”

“No, that’s… no,” Jaskier stumbled, searching for any line to hang onto. “Surely there’s a cure?”

“A cure I simply haven’t given him yet?” Vesemir asked dryly, brow raised.

“How has word of this never spread?” Yennefer asked instead. “Have you sought council anywhere?”

“Very few care enough for witchers to be concerned for how they die,” Vesemir said. Jaskier and Yennefer both grew quiet, unable to call it a lie. Not when the bard had spent so long trying to fix that very reputation. Not when Yennefer knew first hand it was true. They’d both been to more than one town affixed with signs warning witchers not to pass through.

“What do we do?” Jaskier croaked.

Vesemir quietly got up to leave, then as he passed brought a hand up to Jaskier’s shoulder, squeezed it, then left.

— • —

He dreamt of a bed that had Yennefer and Jaskier both in it. He dreamt of them at either side of him. Yennefer’s fingers tracing his face, his scars. Jaskier’s hands in his hair, rubbing the aches from his shoulders, his back. Sometimes a small hand found his and held it firmly, as if it alone could lead him home.

Everything smelled of lilacs, gooseberries and forget-me-nots.

And occasionally, of Ciri.

— • —

“We could find another Djinn. Wish him better. Or wish him to be human!”

Yennefer spun on him and were Geralt not cradled so weakly in the bard’s arms, her glare might have been more furious. She growled, “No Djinn.”

“Sensitive,” the bard muttered. She thought about hurting him. He was lucky Geralt was in his lap.

“Then what… there’s nothing?”

“There’s never nothing,” Yennefer murmured, returning to her pacing, fingers flipping through one of many books she had taken from Kaer Morhen’s shelf to no avail. “Merely the unexplored, the unexplained.”

“His nails are blue, Yennefer,” Jaskier said weakly.

“I’m aware,” she snapped.

And when the bard didn’t rise to the bait, instead focused on fussing over the limp witcher in his lap – then, worry bled into fear. Then, Yennefer felt helpless.

— • —

Geralt called for them in his sleep.

It made the bard ache to hear his name said like that. Jaskier whined like the puppy he was, eager to return to his master even after he was struck. It made Yennefer sick to watch, knowing what the man had said to the bard. She scowled, that sour taste back in her mouth.

He called for her, too.

It made Yennefer furious. What right had he to mourn her name after what he did? And yet, she could not make herself leave. Not when she still didn’t know if Fate had forced her life to this point or not. Not when she still didn’t know what he had wished…

And yet still she came to him when he called for her. For reasons she could not explain, she soothed him as best she could. Perhaps she was no better than the bard. Perhaps they both wanted nothing more than an easy excuse to forgive, before it was too late.

— • —

Yennefer left. To do what, she had barely tried to describe and Jaskier had barely tried to understand. He stroked limp hair from Geralt’s brow. Ran a cloth over the worst of the man’s fever.

“Sorry this is the best that I can offer right now. A rag is nothing compared to Yennefer's gifts, but I can’t very well go writing songs about this, Geralt,” he said as cheerfully as he could muster, as though nothing were wrong. As if Geralt only had a cold. As if the man weren’t dying. “Not unless you have a happily-ever-after planned. Otherwise, I’ll get run out of any bar I sing at.”

He waited for the grunt he had gotten used to, even after so long without the man. Waited for a baleful glare, anything. Geralt just kept wheezing, the sound getting threadier and threadier.

The silence drew his false bravado to an exhausted halt. Stirred an ancient ache in the face of more of Geralt’s famous silence.

“I should hate you,” Jaskier whispered. “I want to hate you so much. You know, I thought this would go a lot differently. I used to sit up at night thinking about what I’d say when I saw you again. Had a lot clever words for you too. Now I can’t use them, you bed-ridden bastard. Hardly sporting…”

He pinched Geralt, just to see if he would wake, then immediately felt guilty for it.

“I should hate you,” he mumbled, fingers tracing a scar near the skin he had pinkened with his pinch. “The things you said to me… and I did, for a long time, I think. I did hate you. But the more I thought about it, the more I felt bad for you, Geralt. Everyone says witchers can’t feel, but… I think you can. I think you can, and even you lot fell for that wives’ tale, and now you just don’t know what to do with it all. Bit like a child,” Jaskier laughed weakly. “An overgrown, dual-sword wielding child… I haven’t forgiven you. Not yet. And I won’t, if you die, I won’t. I demand a proper apology. So you better fucking get better, Geralt of Rivia, or I’ll…”

Jaskier blew out a breath, suddenly tired, the fight fleeing him. He took Geralt’s hand, gaze caught where his thumb stroked calloused skin.

“You just better,” he whispered lamely, at a loss for words.

Geralt didn’t answer, so Jaskier filled the silence as best he could. He sang, hoping it lead the witcher home. He'd take a snide comment relating his music to filling-less pie any day if it meant Geralt would live. So he sang. He filled the silence as best he could and waited for Yennefer, feeling helpless all the while.

"Curious was the dice Fate cast,

the heart she made for witchers.

Aye, they say love comes to them last,

their hearts too cold and withered.

But alas, I saw a witcher love,

when he thought no one was looking.

Spared a smile for naught but just his horse,

and whispered kindness when she whickered."

— • —

“How much time do we have?”

“It’s hard to say,” Vesemir admitted. “…not long.”

The words hurt more than Yennefer thought they would. Far more, in fact. For if her fate were tied to his, or her heart relentlessly forced to love him, she should feel relief that his suffering would soon be over. Peace, maybe. Sadness, of course, but not the bitter sort she had lodged up in her chest. It was nothing like the mourning of besotted widowers. No. It was an ugly, cold, twisted sort of sadness. The bitter remnants of a relationship that could have been, but went unfulfilled. And there, beneath it, hatred for ever having wished for something that would tie the two of them together. Hatred, when he knew the life she had led, had tried to escape from. If she were forced to love him, would she be able to feel that hate? Should it even be possible?

What had he wished for?

Soon, she’d never know. Unless she asked.

— • —

It was a simple spell to lure Dandelion asleep. Simpler still to use a collection of herbs from the witchers’ pantry to wake Geralt, if only for a moment. She had never seen a witcher’s eyes so hazy. He appeared barely able to recognize her.

“Yen?” he croaked, sounding as if he expected her to be a mirage rather than a flesh and blood woman. Something in her panged at that. There were petals at the corner of his mouth again. Lilacs.

“What did you wish for, Geralt?”

His brow furrowed, then warped into something she had not expected to see – regret.

“I’m sorry, Yennefer,” he rasped, the words ruined by hacking that echoed in his chest, ugly and painful.

“Geralt, please,” she said, grabbing his face to focus him as the fit passed, “I must know.”

“I couldn’t let you go,” he whispered madly, eyes distant as she rubbed his face, tilted his gaze to her, did anything to keep him with her.

“You bound me,” she repeated, urging him to confirm her fears, her anger, “Tied my fate to yours.”

Would she die if he did, she wondered? Would the flowers come for her, too? They should, were their fates tied, and yet… she was fine.

“Couldn’t let you die.”

There was something urgent in the amber of his eyes as he said that. Something unidentifiable and yet so familiar. It drew her breath to a pause; the intimacy of it frightening.

“What did you wish for, Geralt?” She repeated.

He chuckled, eyes rolling weakly, tiredly. She urged his attention back to her with her hands, the softness of her fingers, a hint of magic.

“Geralt.”

“I wished,” Geralt babbled weakly, easily lost in each word, “I wished…”

As his head lolled in her hands, a voice startled Yennefer like a loud noise might make a cat arch its back. She twisted to look behind her, surprised to find Ciri there in the doorway, watching them, as she said, “He wished Fate give you a second chance.”

Her eyes widened, then narrowed at the little girl. She eased Geralt back into the pillows and asked, “He told you this?”

“He talks in his sleep.”

A second chance…

“A second chance at what?”

“I don’t know… life?” Ciri asked, shrugging.

A second chance at life. A second chance to live her life, a life where the Djinn hadn’t killed her. It would mean their encounters had been by chance, their feelings by chance, their… Their fight by chance. Why had he not said? Why not merely say what his wish had been?

Because… a wish uttered again after having been asked was no longer a wish. How many children refused to tell their wishes due to that fear? A childish fear perhaps made all too real by the risk if it were true. And, unable to tell her the truth, would she have believed him had he denied tying their fates together without admitting the truth?

“You moron,” she snarled beneath her breath, unsure as to who it was for. Him? Herself?

Why would a witcher who hated Fate ever wish to tie her to himself? Why would a witcher who had no choice in his own occupation, his own life, ever steal that from another? Ever steal that from her, a woman who spent her life making up for the decisions that had been taken from her?

She stood suddenly, moving for the door.

“Where are you going?” Ciri asked, startled. And yet, surprisingly, she didn’t move from the doorway. Blocking it, as slight as she was, like a bulldog.

Yennefer considered her question, considered her bravery, and despite her ire at being held up, found a certain fondness spreading in her for Geralt’s child surprise. For the child he had gotten, but she could never have.

“To try and find a cure.”

Her little mouth pursed at that, conflicted. She balled up her fists.

“You better come back,” she finally said.

“I will,” she promised.

“He’s worse when he misses you two,” Ciri explained, as though Yennefer didn’t understand the stakes.

“I will be back before he wakes,” she said, without regard as to whether or not that was possible.

Ciri just nodded at that and stepped aside. As Yennefer passed, she found herself pausing, looking down on the pale little head that had become the witcher’s shadow.

“Take care of him for me while I’m gone, won’t you?”

She glared up at her at that, mouth twisted as she said, “I have been!”

Yennefer just smiled, more and more smitten with this little firecracker of a girl.

Thank Fate Geralt had her with him. Otherwise…

Yennefer refused to dwell on it.

— • —

She showed the two blossoms to many people. Anyone she dared share audience with and a few, even, she should not have. Witchers kept their secrets well, it would seem. No affluent mage she knew of had an answer. Deals and bargains and lies, plenty – but no truthful cure.

She stood on a cliffside overlooking the sea, salt air whipping her hair, as she tried to come to terms with the knowledge that she was too late. Too late to find a cure. Too late in realizing Geralt was an emotionally constipated man-baby prone to fretful wives’ tales and childish beliefs about wishes. Too late in understanding that she had wasted her chance to spend his wish with him.

“Yennefer of Vengerberg?”

She turned slowly, exhausted and hollowed out, to see a woman standing behind her on the bluffs. A plain looking woman, no doubt a humble village witch. Simple, barely talented. It took only one look to see that she was more kind than she was skilled.

“Who asks?”

“Maria,” she said gently, then smiled softly as she said, “Fate bid me finish sending you on your way.”

She stilled at that. Were it not for the honest kindness in the woman’s eyes, she might have thought it a threat. Still did, in a way.

“Send me where?”

“Home,” she said, “To your second chance.”

— • —

Jaskier felt he might vomit as he watched the witcher convulse, mouth full of flowers. He did as Vesemir had taught him and eased the man onto his side so the flowers pose less a risk of choking him. He didn’t realize he was crying as he babbled to soothe the witcher, to soothe himself. Anything to smother the terrible sound of Geralt’s wheezing.

“It’s okay,” he said, over and over, “Yennefer will figure it out. We’ve got you. It’s okay.”

A hot hand grabbed his forearm, so weak for the man Jaskier once saw split a creature clean in half with one slash of his sword. He could feel the heat of Geralt’s fever through his shirt.

“Jaskier,” Geralt croaked, voice so ragged now that to call it a whisper would have been generous.

“Yes? Geralt?” Jaskier asked, eager for his friend to be awake after so long feverish and asleep. “Do you need something?”

“Not a dream?” Geralt rasped.

“No, Geralt. It’s not a dream.”

“You’re here?”

His confusion drew Jaskier’s gut to a tight knot.

“Yes, I’m here.”

“Need to… tell you….”

Geralt grew still and limp, asleep once more, hand still clutching Jaskier’s forearm. The bard pat that hand, then reached to grab the cool rag. He ignored the way his hand shook. Vesemir watched from the doorway. Silent and as close to mournful as witchers ever tended to look.

— • —

Yennefer ran her horse ragged, once again cursing the barriers that prevented her from teleporting into Kaer Morhen. Her horse’s breath sent large, hot plumes out into the cold night. It beat a steady thrum into the ground.

She willed Fate get her there in time. Willed Geralt hold on.

— • —

She found him canted over the side of the bed, Vesemir and Jaskier both holding him up as he purged flowers onto the ground, adding to a little heap already there and growing – fresh, splattered with little drops of red.

His arm shook fiercely where it braced itself on the bed. There was no cognizance in his eyes, just suffering – feverish, confused and pained. Ciri cried, curled in the corner, too afraid to move, too attached to leave.

She knelt beside his flowers, hands cradling his face even as Vesemir bade her leave him be. That he might choke. His throat bulged with regret and pining. Flowers tumbled from his lips. But when she called his name, forcing will into the word, he opened his eyes to look at her. Glazed, aching. Wanting relief in any form – be it cure or death.

She wiped a petal from the corner of his mouth.

“You wished for a second chance for me,” she said. Something akin to clarity cut into his eyes.

“Yennef—” another plume of lilacs spilled from his mouth. His body shook with the effort of purging the blossoms, now fully flowers. She could count his ribs, less than his scars and yet nearly more striking.

“So you cannot die,” she said fiercely, forcing him to look at her, “Because I’ve decided I want you to be part of my second chance, Geralt of Rivia. You are mine. Ours,” she said, looking pointedly at the bard.

“Yennefer, now is not the—“Jaskier started, but Vesemir cut him off with a hand over the bard’s mouth, eyes wide as he said, “You found your answers.”

Yennefer did not answer him. There was no time.

“I love you, Geralt of Rivia,” she said, and then she kissed him. His lips were chapped, his skin hot and clammy. She could feel petals on her lips. He reeked of flowers and death. And yet, in her hands, his jaw ceased some of its shaking. She pulled back to find some cognition return to his eyes.

“Yenn—” He began, relief somewhere in the words before forget-me-nots took their place, landing in her lap harmlessly.

“Jaskier,” she said, drawing the bard’s attention, “Our conversation from before… Have you forgiven him or not?”

“I have, but I’m no magician, Yen, I can’t—”

“You can. In fact, only you can.”

He stared at her with owlish eyes, then scrambled to action all at once, limbs thin and lanky as he twisted himself uncomfortably to reach Geralt’s face. He brushed petals and blood from the corners of the man’s mouth and took in the face of the man who had been, for so long, larger than life. This man who had wounded him with words and blame and barbs.

“I need… to tell you…”

Geralt had never finished… but he didn’t need to. Not yet, at least.

“I love you,” Jaskier said, eyes caught on feverish amber ones. “I have always loved you.”

A second kiss. In Yennefer’s lap and in the pile beside her, one by one the flowers turned to dust. In the bed, in Geralt’s hair, in his cloths. All of them faded – disappearing as though they had never been.

As Jaskier pulled away, Geralt let out a soft, relieved sigh, finally free of his wheezing. It was his first clear breath in weeks. And with it, his eyes closed – not in weariness or pain, but relief. He melted into the bard’s arms, startling the man before Yennefer could calm him.

“He’s fine, Dandelion,” she said, her hand seeking Geralt’s from beside the bed. “He’ll be fine.”

“How did you…?” Vesemir trailed off, shocked. Ciri slipped past him, worming her way onto the bed to clutch at Geralt, curl into him, hide her face.

“We need to have a talk about your clan’s opinion of feelings, Master Witcher,” Yennefer said politely, words professional even as her eyes howled. “And how it’s killing you all. But we’ll do that all in good time.”

And then she made room for herself on the crowded bed, needing to touch her witcher, her bard, her child-surprise. Because anything that was Geralt’s was now hers, and she felt in her marrow those strings of Fate fettering them all together. The strings she had chosen; anchoring and taut.

— • —

Death of the Pining Flowers, Hanahaki, the Pining Petals, the disease of the lonely… it had many names and yet, few stories and fewer cures. The result of love not returned. Rare but for those who could not move on, and even then, it rarely took hold. But for witchers, born and bred and raised to ignore their emotions, it was a breeding ground for suffering. The more they smothered what they could not understand, the more they buried, the more it grew and festered until it made gardens of their bodies – their hearts, assumed to be hollow by the training and trials that made them, filled with the proof that witchers could, in fact, feel. Petals upon petals of proof.

So full of feelings, in fact, that it killed them.

Cured only when those feelings were returned.

To think, they had almost lost their witcher to petals.

Once he woke, they didn’t let him leave his bed for days. They fed him slowly but surely. Comforted him, nursed him. And Geralt, bewildered all the while, wasn’t quite strong enough to do much about it.

— • —

“You came,” he said to Yennefer, his hands curled in her hair as she lay beside him.

“Hmm.”

She did it to prove a point, and he found it both amusing and frustrating.

“Yen,” Jaskier said from Geralt’s other side, “Be nice, the man just spent months coughing up flowers, he loved you so much.”

She hummed at that again, her gaze moving from Jaskier to Geralt as she said, “Yes, I came.”

“Why?”

“Does it matter?” She asked.

“Yes.”

She leaned back into the pillows at that, eyes lifting to count the beams in the ceiling.

“I hated you… but that didn’t mean I could just sit back and watch you die, either. At first, that was enough, but… I already admitted my love to you, Geralt, how often are you going to demand I reaffirm it? Ask your bard, he’ll sing it for you, I bet.”

Geralt grunted, something close to a chuckle, as he turned to Jaskier.

“And you… why did you come?”

“The gooseberry nailed it, Geralt.”

“Call me gooseberry again and I’ll remove one of your gooseberries, bard.”

Jaskier continued on as if she hadn’t just threatened his manhood. Their familiarity stunned Geralt. Jaskier had not paled at all at the threat. If anything, he smiled.

“But for me, I guess… I never hated you, Geralt. Hated what you said, how you treated me? Yes. But you? …how could I stay away?” Jaskier finally said.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, as if just remembering, “I need to tell you. I…”

He stuttered. His guts coiled, his instincts screaming. Feelings got you killed. He’d miss something, he’d get killed, get them all killed, he’d—

Jaskier waited. Strangely patient.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt said, the words just as choking as the flowers had been, making him shudder even as he felt relief for finally having said it. Like finally cleaning the grit from an old wound, sore but finally healing.

“Well that certainly took a lot out of you,” Jaskier said dryly, one brow arched.

Geralt hung his head, torn between instinct and his lame apology.

“I’m sorry,” he said more firmly. “I… the things I said, none of it was true. You didn’t ruin my life. I did. When I pushed both of you away.”

“Good boy,” Yennefer purred from beside him, patting his shoulder. Making Geralt scowl ever so slightly as Jaskier chuckled, pecking the corner of his mouth.

“Stale, but oddly generous, for a witcher. That’s practically a speech in witcher, isn’t it, Yen?”

“As close to as one we’ll get, I think.” She chuckled.

“You’re both insufferable,” Geralt groused with no real heat.

“Glad to see you’re feeling better, then,” Jaskier grinned.

“Though I’d prefer a little more better,” Yennefer said, her chin on Geralt’s chest as she looked between them all, “So we might all feel better together.”

Geralt grunted, caught between two grinning foxes. Suddenly not alone, suddenly caught with two lovers.

“The girl’s asleep in the chair,” he cautioned, both grateful and mournful about it.

“As I said, when you’re more better,” Yennefer pointed out. “It can wait. We’ve got nothing but time, after all.”

Fate thrummed in the threads that connected them all together, strong and soothing. And for once, Geralt found comfort in that.

For once, he found peace.

#the witcher #geralt #jaskier #yennefer of vengerberg #yennefer/geralt/jaskier #OT3 #hanahaki #hurt/comfort #witcher writing

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lesdemonium · 4 years

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I’d Be the Choiceless Hope Chapter 12

Ship: Geraskier Word count: 32959 (total) Chapter: 12/16 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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The weeks went by, but Jaskier hardly noticed them.

There was a monotony to it all. A familiar pattern. They would come to a town, Geralt would take a contract, they would argue about whether or not Jaskier could come on the contract, and then Jaskier would usually follow Geralt on the contract, no matter the answer. Kill the beast, get the money, find another town. Jaskier would compose his songs, Geralt would roll his eyes, and sometimes they’d fall into bed together.

Now, Geralt noticed things. He sat closer as Jaskier performed, primed to call off any hecklers. He had never bossed Jaskier around when they were intimate, but now he was more wary of it at other times as well. Every time he started to say something to Jaskier, only to pause and restart, Jaskier’s entire chest felt warm with affection. The first few times, Jaskier kissed Geralt breathless, drinking in the way Geralt grew embarrassed and bashful under Jaskier’s attention and adoration. It made Geralt sheepish, though, and soon Jaskier learned to back off. Now, whenever Geralt caught himself, Jaskier reached out to touch him, either with a hand on the witcher’s shoulder, a press of their knees together, or a nudge with his hip.

It took Jaskier a while to notice that something was going on. What Jaskier had thought was just idle traveling, he soon realized wasn’t the case at all. Geralt had brought them to every single township they could reach after they left Lettenhove. He had done so with more painstaking detail than Jaskier had seen him put into any other venture.

Once Jaskier realized this, he then began to notice Geralt slipping away for about an hour, every time they first came to a town. Jaskier hadn’t thought anything of this before, as sometimes Geralt went off to inquire about contracts without Jaskier, but he had never done it intentionally or secretively like he was now.

“Where are you going?” Jaskier asked him in Mayena. Geralt’s face was as stoic as ever, but Jaskier saw something flash in his eyes, just for a moment, before it was gone again and Geralt shrugged.

“Going to talk to the alderman. See if there are any monsters here.”

Jaskier narrowed his eyes. “I’ll go with you.”

Geralt shook his head immediately. “No, you should go secure us a room at the inn. This won’t take long.”

“If it won’t take long, then surely I’ll make it go quicker, and then we both can get the room,” Jaskier argued. “Besides, I negotiate price better than you do, and with how often we’ve been staying in inns, we could use the extra coin.”

They had never stayed in inns as often as they had since leaving Lettenhove. At first, Jaskier had enjoyed it, had loved the hints of luxury they had been able to indulge in unlike ever before. This was what had tipped him off that they were stopping in every town, though. It wasn’t practical to stay in towns as frequently as they had, and the monster contracts were lacking. Jaskier had made far more money than he ever had before, but Geralt was growing restless and Jaskier was wanting for new material.

“No, this town looks busy,” Geralt lied. Geralt had so few tells for when he was lying, but Jaskier knew this was a lie. He knew Geralt. And, he could see for himself that the town did not look particularly busy. “If we wait too long, there won’t be any rooms left. And I want a bath.”

He had wanted a bath in the last three towns, as well, and used that for an excuse for Jaskier to go on ahead. Jaskier huffed, but he knew better than to argue with Geralt now. If he was so insistent on this lie, Jaskier would have to tackle it from a different angle. Jaskier watched Geralt walk away. If Geralt were anyone else, Jaskier would take matters into his own hands and follow Geralt. As it was, though, following a witcher would be impossible.

Geralt slipped into a building--probably to see the alderman--and Jaskier huffed, finally turning toward the inn and stepping inside.

When Geralt returned, an hour later, Jaskier was sitting on the bed in their room. He had left instructions for the innkeeper to direct Geralt this way, and Geralt opened the door to their shared room with a raised eyebrow, silently questioning why Jaskier was here , rather than down in the tavern making coin. Jaskier ignored it.

“What are you doing?” Jaskier asked.

Geralt hummed at him, then set about putting his things away. Jaskier watched him, watched the easy, comfortable way Geralt mixed his own belongings with Jaskier. It was almost domestic. Jaskier wasn’t sure when they had become so comfortable with each other, when they had developed such deeply rooted routines. It was the first time being with someone, reaching comfort with someone, put Jaskier’s mind at ease. And, yet, still it was tinged with something . Their clothes and weapons and mundanity of their lives belonged together, but not their secrets.

“Are you looking for something?”

Geralt turned to Jaskier, his eyebrows furrowed and confusion in his eyes. “A place to keep my scabbard?” he answered, with just a hint of amusement.

“We’ve been in every town since the court. Every single one we’ve passed. Not a single night of camping in weeks, and I know you’re not getting good contracts,” Jaskier said, crossing his arms and leveling Geralt’s amusement with a glare. “You’re sneaking off for at least an hour every time and you’re lying to me. Why? What have you been doing?”

Geralt was silent for a moment, just staring at Jaskier, then he turned and continued unpacking. Jaskier watched his back, which Geralt resolutely kept turned to him, and waited. He would speak. He would explain.

“I’m not lying to you--”

“He says, lying ,” Jaskier bit back.

“You lie to me all the time.”

“I can’t lie to you, remember? Obedience curse!”

“Obedience curse, not honesty curse. You lie all the time, Jaskier, even Lazuli said so--”

“We’re not talking about me right now, we’re talking--”

“We’re talking about both,” Geralt said, turning around. “You’ve been listless. Since Lettenhove. It’s like traveling with a ghost.”

Jaskier gaped at him. “I have not been listless . I’ve been acting just the same--we argue, I perform, we fuck, all of which takes enthusiasm , thank you--are you saying traveling with me has been boring ?”

Geralt shook his head. “The only time you argue now is when you want to go on dangerous contracts. When you’re on those contracts, you are underfoot and in the way, as if you want to get hurt. You’ve so narrowly missed so many--” he cut himself off with a frustrated groan, and swiped his hand roughly across his stubble. “Your performances have been less . I don’t know how to explain it. You get this far-off look on your face and you’re… dreamy, in a way. You go somewhere else.” He shook his head again, and leaned against the wall. “And when we fuck, you do the same thing. It’s a process, nothing more. You aren’t there with me.”

Jaskier listened to all this, growing more and more agitated. He turned away from Geralt abruptly, his face pinching in his frustration. The worst part was that he couldn’t even argue against it. “I don’t see what any of that has to do with what you’re doing,” Jaskier grumbled.

“I’m looking for Yennefer.”

Jaskier’s mouth went dry. Of course. Of course Geralt was looking for Yennefer. Jaskier had made the mistake of thinking his witcher had moved on from all that, that the years they had spent together accounted for more than whatever pull Geralt and Yennefer had developed in the few days they knew each other. Jaskier stood up from the bed, abruptly, and flitted about the room, gathering his things. He was in such a frenzy he didn’t even notice Geralt moving toward him until Geralt had grabbed his arm.

“What are you doing ?” Geralt asked, his voice breathy in his exasperation as he pulled Jaskier to a stop.

“I’m leaving . Clearly if you want other company so badly--”

“That’s not what I--”

“Far be it for me to stop you--”

“Jaskier, would you just--”

“I just thought maybe I was important enough that you wouldn’t have dragged me along as consolation--”

“Jaskier, shut up .”

Jaskier’s mouth closed with an audible click that was more Jaskier’s doing than the curse. The look he gave Geralt was so murderous, it must have made Jaskier’s very skin boil with how quickly Geralt let go of him. His hands went up, as if he was trying to convince Jaskier he meant no harm.

“Shit, Jask, I’m sorry, I didn’t-- Talk freely,” Geralt said.

Jaskier took a deep breath. “What do you want to say, then, Geralt?” he asked. He stepped out of Geralt’s reach, just to show he could. Jaskier had some control here.

“I’m looking for Yennefer to help you,” Geralt started, and Jaskier rolled his eyes. “She might know something about how to break this. Give us somewhere to start. You’re not… yourself. I wanted her to help us find a direction to break this for you.”

There was so much earnestness in Geralt’s face. The corner of his eyes pinched, his mouth made a thin line, and his hands were held out in front of him, palms up. He was struggling, Jaskier realized, and trying hard to find the right words. Whatever had been wrong with Jaskier these past few weeks, Geralt had noticed. Geralt had noticed that Jaskier felt a little dimmer, a little more hopeless, a little more resigned to this being the rest of his life, and miserable because of it. He had noticed more than Jaskier did, and for that Jaskier found himself conflicted.

“So we’ve been going to every town so you can find her?” Jaskier finally asked.

He turned away from the weight of Geralt’s stare. He didn’t want this earnestness. He didn’t want to know that his curse mattered to someone else, to Geralt. It made the feelings he had been trying so hard to keep at arm’s length come closer, overtake him. Geralt wasn’t his. Even if Geralt had sought out Yennefer to help Jaskier, he still thought of Yennefer for help first . Jaskier returned to perch on the bed, feeling empty, just barely held together by the thought, He’s doing it for you .

“I’ve been asking around. No one had heard of her, until tonight. There’s a rumor of a sorceress that sounds like her in Yspaden, so we’ll head there.”

Jaskier gaped at him. He stared long enough that Geralt grew visibly uncomfortable, and took a step forward. Then another. Geralt lowered himself onto the bed and still Jaskier stared at him, until Geralt reached out a hand and tried to touch him.

“No,” Jaskier finally said, jerking away. Geralt’s hand froze, an eyebrow raised. “No, I’m not going to Yspaden.”

“Jaskier, be--”

“Be what, Geralt? Reasonable? No, I won’t. You heard Lazuli as well as I did. Her magic isn’t going to fix this, there’s no other direction. I have to find a way to break it, which if the past entirety of my life isn’t evidence enough that it cannot be broken, I don’t know what would be. But I would really rather not go on a quest to find your sexy sorceress. If you want to go, fine, I won’t stop you. But you will not tell me where I am going next.”

Geralt sighed, and tried to touch Jaskier again. Though Jaskier stayed rigid, he did not pull away this time. Geralt’s hand started on his shoulder, then slid down to his forearm, then tugged Jaskier’s hand out. He held Jaskier’s hand between both of his own, tracing his thumbs over the veins and lines. They were silent for a long time, and when Geralt finally spoke again his voice was soft.

“I’m not abandoning you,” he said. Already, it was too much, and Jaskier’s eyes slipped down to their hands, rather than Geralt’s face. “I don’t want to go without you, but I think seeing Yennefer is a good idea. You said you didn’t know what Lazuli meant. Maybe she does. Or she can point us in the direction of someone who can.” He cupped Jaskier’s cheek, then tilted his face back up, forcing Jaskier to meet his eye again. “Please, Jaskier. I want you to come to Yspaden with me. If she’s no help, I’ll leave off.”

Jaskier pursed his lips, his jaw going rigid as he considered Geralt for a long moment. Then he nodded, just barely, a small enough gesture that had Geralt not been holding his face, he might have missed it.

“Thank you,” Geralt murmured, and pressed a sweet, chaste kiss to Jaskier’s lips.

It was too much, the way Geralt peppered Jaskier with soft, slow kisses. Jaskier felt like a raw, exposed nerve, and every gentle caress of his witcher against Jaskier’s body sent Jaskier ablaze with want, desire, and a blooming of affection Jaskier wanted so badly to dispel. How could Geralt hold him this way, as if Jaskier was precious to him? As if he didn’t know that Jaskier’s sun rose and set with Geralt?

Jaskier would follow Geralt off the edge of a cliff, if only Geralt promised he would take him there. And so, they journeyed to Yspaden. They camped and traversed and went at a breakneck pace. The closer they got, the more haggard Jaskier became, and he knew it wasn’t entirely because walking through the continent was grueling.

Geralt grew more hopeful, the closer they drew to the township. Jaskier tried to pretend it was out of hope for Jaskier. He knew it was because he felt himself drawing nearer and nearer to his sorceress. They would reunite, and Jaskier would be forgotten again.

read chapter 13

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #jaskier x geralt #geraskier fanfiction #gerlion #my writing #i want you guys to know how much trouble i had JUST EDITING THIS TO POST ON TUMBLR #i am having a MORNING #but hoo boy next chapter y'all #lucky number 13

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king-finnigan · 5 years

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I Found Something In The Woods Somewhere - Chapter 2

You can also read this on AO3! M A S T E R L I S T

A/n: Special thanks to @panlesters for being my beta! This is chapter 2 of 3, btw. I’m working on part 2 of my Wasteland, Baby series at the moment, which will start posting about a week (or so) after I’ve posted chapter 3 of this fic, so follow me on tumblr or on AO3 @smol_squish if you want to get notifications for that! As always, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy, and don’t hesitate to leave a like and a comment if you feel like it!

He closed his eyes, tiredness weighing him down, and he considered climbing a tree and sleeping in it, when he heard a small, pained noise behind him. He had forgotten about the fox.

He turned around, sheathing his bloodied sword, and walked over to where the creature was still laying on the fallen leaves. He kneeled down next to it, hand resting against the side, right above its quick heartbeat, fingers threading through the soft fur. He regarded the wound in its hind leg, still seeping blood, bone exposed. He could only imagine the pain it was in.

Slowly, quietly, he unsheathed his dagger. It was still dirty, dried flakes of week-old Kikimora blood clinging to the blade, but it would do the job of releasing the animal from its suffering well enough. He sighed. “I’m sorry it had to go like this, you deserved better.”

He raised the knife, pressing the sharp tip against the pelt poking out beneath his fingers, still curled in the soft fur. The heaving ribcage threatened to impale itself, and the fox made a pained sound. Geralt looked to its head, his yellow eyes meeting those of a striking colour, like the sky on a clear summer’s day, like the ocean in the south, like cornflowers in a spring field. It was a blue he had only ever seen once before.

He sighed, and the fox lay his head back down on the fallen leaves. “I’m sorry,” he said once again, his voice barely more than a whisper. He pushed the blade down, piercing the fur easily, stabbing the creature in its heart. The fox shuddered one last breath, before stilling, the blue eyes staring ahead, unseeing.

The Witcher sat there for a few seconds, quietly mourning the loss of an innocent life, one hand still in the red fur, the other around the dagger, sticking out between the ribs. He looked up again as the clouds drew back, sunlight shining on him. He frowned, when he realized the sky above was just as grey as before, and looked down to the fox, as the light grew in intensity, blinding him.

He raised an arm to shield his face, blinking furiously to clear his vision from the black spots the brightness had caused. He felt the heat on the lower half of his face subside, and he lowered his arm again, still barely able to see anything. He rubbed his eyes, a headache starting to form behind his forehead.

He opened his eyes again, and they widened as he took in the sight before him. His breath stopped in his throat, face growing pale, and he started to tremble uncontrollably.

There, in the dead leaves in front of him, lay Jaskier’s body.

His shaking hands reached up to ghost over the Bard’s bare side, one of them eventually settling on the pale face, skin still warm underneath his fingers. His cornflower eyes stared ahead, to the edge of the clearing, blue and unseeing, the usual spark in them gone, forever. Geralt closed them softly, his hands moving of their own accord.

He felt numb, out of touch with reality as he looked to his right, seeing a gaping wound in Jaskier’s left leg, bone exposed, still seeping a bit of blood. His eyes travelled up to the face again, but stopped as he saw a familiar, silver glint. It was his dagger, still sticking out from between the Bard’s ribcage, where Geralt had pierced his heart.

It felt as though a dam broke inside him, feelings suddenly overwhelming him to the point where he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, couldn’t look away. He had done this. He had murdered Jaskier.

For the first time in his very long life, the Witcher screamed in agony.

҉ ҉ ҉

He awoke with a start, and realized he had fallen asleep while riding Roach. He heard a soft squeak and looked down at the bundle in his hands, blue eyes staring up at him questioningly. “It’s fine, just a dream,” he muttered and looked ahead again. They were on their way to the town of Kirekwall, which wasn’t far from the village that had requested his help with the Kikimora.

He had rushed his way down the hillside, Jaskier wrapped in an old shirt, the wound in his hind leg bandaged. He had asked for a healer in the nameless village, and they had pointed him to Kirekwall, where a Mage supposedly lived. He could see the silhouette of the town, dark against the purple and pink of dawn.

He leaned forward, careful not to hurt the Bard, and thanked Roach quietly for letting him sleep. He leaned back again, slowing the mare down as they entered the town. It was medium-sized, next to a major trading route, which had made the inhabitants rich. Their wealth showed in the clean cobblestone streets, the big, sturdy houses, and their fancy clothes, vain expressions on their faces as they looked at him disapprovingly from clear windows.

He paid no mind to it, instead steering Roach to the first inn he saw. He dismounted carefully, making sure not to hurt Jaskier. He pointed to his mare. “Stay.” She obliged, as always, and he went inside, walking straight to the innkeeper.

“Where can I find the Mage?” His voice was low, demanding, and the pot-bellied man behind the counter cowered a bit, pointing behind him.

“She lives down the street, sir. Purple door, can’t miss it.” The innkeeper winced as Geralt slammed a coin on the bar, sighing loudly in relief as the Witcher went back outside, hushed whispers and lingering stares following him.

He took Roach’s reigns, striding deeper into the town. The innkeeper had spoken true, and Geralt soon found himself in front of a cottage, squeezed between the two-story houses around it. He slammed his fist against the purple-painted door, as he held Jaskier softly to his chest.

No reaction could be heard from inside, and he looked down at the Bard, who cocked his head, squeaking lightly. “Try again maybe?” He seemed to say, though there could be a million different ways to interpret the squeak. A small part in the back of his mind noted the fact that the edges of Jaskier’s irises seemed to rust, an orange-y brown creeping in on the bright blue.

He pushed the thought away, looking at the door once again, knocking it loudly once, twice. This time, he could hear stumbling inside, and the door was swung open wildly.

“What do you w-“ Yennefer’s sentence was cut short by her surprise, as she saw Geralt. She groaned and the Witcher shuffled a bit in place.

“I’m sorry for disturbing you, but it’s urgent.” He hated the way his voice sounded awkward, but Yennefer just rolled her eyes, and stepped aside, purple eyes following him intently as he walked past her, into the cottage.

He found himself in the living room, that doubled as her study. In the middle of the floor stood a large wooden table, littered with books and all sorts of herbs and vials. The shelves on the walls were overflowing with books and potions as well.

With one swoop of her arm, she cleared the table, and looked at him expectantly. “Well go on, lay the Bard down.” He did as she had demanded, looking at her in surprise. She rolled her eyes at him again. “Yes, I know it’s him.”

Geralt shrugged in response, lifting a stack of papers from a chair and putting it on the ground, pulling the chair to the table, and sitting down. Jaskier seemed angered as Yennefer bent over him, poking at his head with one curious finger. The Bard batted a paw at her, growling in warning.

“Well, he still seems to hate me.” She looked up at Geralt. “You sure you want him changed back? I mean he’s a lot less loud right now, and a lot cuter.” That earned her another snarl from the Bard, and she chuckled.

Geralt sighed, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Please, can you help him? At least with the wound?”

She lifted her hands up in defeat. “Fine, fine. I’ll see what I can do to heal him, and then I’ll find a way to break the curse, I guess.” She pointed at him. “But you better leave me the hell alone after this.”

He sighed again, sagging in his chair, as she unwrapped the bandages from Jaskier’s leg. There was no use in telling her this was all a big coincidence, some cruel twist of fate designed by Destiny herself. He tried to ignore Jaskier’s squeaks of pain, sharp, tiny nails burying themselves in the wood of the table as Yennefer cleaned the wound and cast a healing spell.

She pulled up another chair, sitting down next to the Bard, compass in her hands. “Alright, I will make a tracking spell that will lead you to whoever made the curse. Though, for some reason I doubt they’ll be of much help. The spell on Jaskier doesn’t feel hostile, more… pure, good.” Geralt cocked his head.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jaskier swivelled his head between the pair, blue eyes curious.

She sighed, rubbing her forehead a bit. “I don’t think whoever made this had bad intentions. I just… don’t know why they did this, if that’s really the case.” She shrugged, sitting up straight, holding the compass in her flat palms.

She gazed at it intently, muttering a few words in Elder, and the object lit up, a soft light surrounding it. Jaskier looked at it, then at her, cocking his head, ears perked up. A small squeak, and Yennefer rolled her eyes.

“Yes, it works, Bard.” Another squeak, this time lower, more decisive. “Yes, I know it’s still pointing to the north, I can see that. Just trust me, it works.” She all but slammed the compass on the table, and stood up, stalking into her bedroom.

She returned a few moments later with a large piece of cloth. “Here, you’ll need this,” she said as she threw it in Geralt’s lap. He looked at her questioningly. “It’s a baby sling. You can use it to carry the Bard without having to use your hands.” The Witcher decided not to question why she had it in the first place.

Jaskier squeaked indignantly, and she looked at him. “What? Do you seriously think you’re going to be able to keep up with Roach with that wound?” She rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Absolutely not. This is the safest way.”

Jaskier let out a whine, laying his head on his front paws, and Yennefer shrugged, looking at Geralt once again. “Now, go, you need to hurry.” She shot a look at the Bard, lowering her voice. “I don’t know what long-term effects this spell might have on him.”

Jaskier’s head shot up, letting out a long whine, and Geralt swore he could hear panic in the sound. He looked down at the Bard, then back into Yennefer’s purple eyes. He stood up, taking the baby sling, managing to fasten it properly around himself. Jaskier let out a small squeak as the Witcher picked him up by the waist, safely depositing him in the cloth, against his chest.

“Don’t worry,” he half spoke to the Bard, half to the Mage. “I won’t let anything happen.”

҉ ҉ ҉

He had to admit, carrying Jaskier in the sling wasn’t as uncomfortable as he had expected. They were riding north, and once in a while he made a passing comment to the Bard, earning him a squeak or a nudge with the wet, black nose in return. He stared intently at the compass, and after a few hours it started to point to the northeast.

He smiled. She had been right, as always. Her tracking spell had worked. Soft fur tickled his chin as Jaskier looked at the view, head moving from side to side. Another squeak, as the Bard looked at the forest. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” He seemed to ask, and Geralt hummed in agreement. He couldn’t really explain it, but some part of him always found some sort of translation for the squeaks and whines. He had no way of knowing his interpretation was right, of course, but so far Jaskier hadn’t seemed to complain about his responses, so he figured he was pretty spot-on.

More than once he found himself smiling at the Bard’s soft noises, at the warmth on his chest, at the knowledge that Jaskier was safe, for now. He realized he had missed Jaskier, more than he would’ve liked to admit, and his mind flashed back to their painful separation, now over a year ago.

He cleared his throat, and blue eyes looked up at him. “I uh…” He had no idea what to say, but he tried anyways. “I’m sorry, for what happened. On the mountain. I shouldn’t have said those things, I was wrong, and you deserve better.” He stared ahead, not daring to look down at the Bard.

A wet nose touched his chin, and he finally tore his gaze away from the horizon. Jaskier whined softly, voice hopeful somehow. “It’s okay, I forgive you,” he seemed to say. Geralt smiled, relief flooding through him as he saw the familiar twinkle in those blue eyes, rusty brown at the edges of the irises.

҉ ҉ ҉

They rode on for five more days, barely resting, trekking across half the Continent, before ending up in the mountains near Kaer Morhen. The days were growing shorter, wet snow starting to fall as they struggled their way up a mountain path. Jaskier shivered, burying himself deeper into the sling, in search of Geralt’s warmth.

The Witcher worried as they went up the slippery slope. The Bard seemed to have… changed somewhat in the past few days. He had seemed different three times, to be exact. His blue eyes had lost their familiar sparkle, and he had clawed and scratched at Geralt’s armour, hissing as he did so. He had even tried to jump out of the sling once, biting at the Witcher’s hand as it held him in place.

Afterwards, he had acted normal again, all inquisitive squeaks and huffs, blue eyes sparkling and curious as to what had angered Geralt, rust around the irises. The Witcher had just shaken his head, deciding not to worry the Bard with the suspicion that had started to form in the back of his mind.

The compass now shone brightly in his hand as they stopped in front of a small opening in the mountain side, a curtain of vines shielding the cave. He frowned, as the vines usually only grew in the south, and definitely not in this time of year. Surely, some kind of magic is happening here.

He dismounted, pausing for a second before pushing the vines to the side, walking into the cave, hand on his sword. It was warm inside, a firepit in the middle of the stone floor, finely carved wooden furniture around it. Flowers were painted all over the walls, and leaves were drawn on the floor.

A young woman stood at a cupboard, her back turned towards them. Golden curls hung down the back of her forest green dress, and she was about five feet tall. Geralt stood there for a few seconds, unsure of what to do, but her voice rang out, clear as a silver bell. “I’ll be right with you, Witcher!”

She rummaged some more, the rustling of paper and the crackling of fire the only sounds filling the cave. Eventually, she turned around to face the pair, broad smile on her features, light green eyes twinkling in delight. She looked young, around twenty years old, though she was undoubtedly a lot older than that, as almost all Mages were.

Yet, she seemed youthful in another way, as well. Her features were bright with hope, a fundamental belief in the goodness of this world. It wasn’t naivety, as Geralt had seen that many times before. This was a genuine goodness, a truthful kindness, like there wasn’t much left of these days. Somehow, it made him feel lighter, as if he had just stepped on a cloud.

“How can I help you?” Her voice was high and joyful, her features shining like the sun.

“I uh…” He had expected a lot of things, but certainly not this. He couldn’t exactly fight his way out of this situation, demand the spell to be broken. He just had to ask nicely. “My friend here is under some sort of spell, can you help him?” He pointed awkwardly at Jaskier.

The Mage approached, cocking her head at the Bard. She ran a small finger over Jaskier’s cheek softly, and he closed his eyes contentedly, sighing a bit. “I can see that, Geralt of Rivia.” She frowned, the displeased look strange on her young face. “And I can sense that the spell is from my hand.”

She looked up at him, worry in her eyes. He held up the compass. “A tracking spell led us here.”

She frowned again, looking at Jaskier, bright blue eyes meeting green ones. She sighed. “I remember now. I sold a transformation potion to a man who was passing through here, a few weeks ago.”

Geralt struggled to hold back a groan. Great, more searching.

She continued, though: “I told him he needed to put something in the potion, a part of the animal he wanted to turn into, and then create a safe-word.”

His ears perked up at that, and he looked at her curiously. “A safe-word?”

She nodded absentmindedly, a faraway look in her eyes, as though she had been transported back to the day in question, and barely registered the Witcher in front of her anymore. “Yes… Something someone close to you can say, that will make you turn back into a human.” She furrowed her brow, voice turning weak, talking to herself more than to Geralt, tears forming in her eyes. “He told me he wanted to turn into a bird…”

She looked back up at him, her eyes suddenly and surprisingly clear, her voice strong. “He used my magic to hurt someone.” Her hand shot up to grab his arm, her grip vice-like, fire in her eyes. “Find him, Witcher. Make him pay.”

He nodded, eyes wide, and she let go of him, turning on her heel to rummage through the cupboard she had been searching earlier. She returned, yellow potion in hand. She took the compass from his hands, pouring the liquid over it. The object shimmered, the needle spinning around wildly a few times before stopping at south.

“It’s another tracking spell,” she said as she returned the compass to Geralt, “it will show you who did this to your friend.” She took a step back, suddenly, and extended her hand. The Witcher took it, shaking it once or twice, fingers curling around the piece of paper she had left in his palm as she retrieved her hand.

“Good luck, Geralt of Rivia. I really hope your friend becomes human again.” He nodded at her, and in the blink of an eye, she was gone. The cave had become empty, the fire had died out, and the stone walls and floor were barren, bleak in their greyness.

He looked down at Jaskier, who cocked his head. “I don’t know, don’t ask me where she went,” he seemed to say. Geralt shrugged, and left the cave, mounting Roach and setting out to the valley below, tiny piece of paper still clutched in his hand.

҉ ҉ ҉

That evening, by the fire, Jaskier fell asleep next to him, head in Geralt’s lap as he sat there, cross legged, waiting for the moment the Bard’s breathing deepened sufficiently. Carefully, as to not wake the other up, he opened the piece of folded paper he had held in his hand most of the day. The handwriting was neat and round.

“A warning I didn’t want your friend to hear. After ten days the spell becomes permanent. Your friend will lose his humanity and remain an animal forever. You may have already seen changes in his behaviour. Hurry.”

Geralt felt his breath stop in his throat, his heart skipping a painful beat. He hid the note in his sleeve, shaking Jaskier slightly. The Bard squeaked tiredly, and looked up at him.

The Witcher tried to keep his voice steady as he asked: “How long were you a fox before I found you?” Jaskier blinked at him, before gently scratching Geralt’s leg three times. Three days.

Geralt nodded, and tried to keep the panic from his face. Eight days had passed since the spell had been cast on Jaskier. They didn’t have long.

The Bard yawned, and drifted back into sleep, eyes blinking closed, the colour of rust taking up half the irises, closing in on the blue.

#the witcher #the witcher fanfiction #geraskier #gerlion #geralt of rivia #jaskier #yennefer of vengerberg #i found something in the woods somewhere #chapter 2 #mine

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