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ghostinthelibrarywrites · 2 years ago

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Lay my curses out to rest

This was originally supposed to be my fic for the "Party" prompt for Witcher Summer Camp, but it spun wildly out of my control, so here we are a week and 15K words later. You can either read it below or here on AO3.

Rating: M

Warnings: canon-typical violence

Word count: 15K

Relationships: Jaskier & Yennefer; Geralt/Yennefer; Geralt/Jaskier; Pre-Geralt/Jaskier/Yennefer

Summary: Yennefer is delighted when she arrives at the estate where she’s been hired to provide entertainment for a Midsummer party and finds Geralt there. She’s less delighted that he’s accompanied by his blithering twit of a bard.

But when she refuses to help the marquess undo a family curse—a curse that will kill anyone who meddles with it—the marquess and his sorceress lover seek to gain leverage on her. Except it’s not Geralt they target; it’s the blithering twit of a bard.

***

When Yennefer arrives at the Marquess de Fellston’s estate and finds—among the bustle of servants preparing for the Marquess’ Midsummer celebrations and the guests arriving—a stablehand leading a familiar chestnut horse by the reins, a warm glow of anticipation settles in her chest. Yennefer knows little of horses, but the way the stablehand cradles the hand not holding the reins to his chest and the nervous way he keeps glancing at the horse tells her that she knows this particular beast—and its owner.

She tamps down on her girlish swell of excitement. In the year since Rinde, she’s run into Geralt a half dozen times. She shouldn’t feel giddy just at the thought of seeing him again; it’s unbecoming of a sorceress of her age and life experience. There’s a reason she never used to keep lovers for more than a night or two, not since Istredd. But there’s something about Geralt that she just can’t shake.

Smoothing down her skirts, she makes her way towards the estate, dodging around servants and guests. The marquess’ estate, which is located on a cliff overlooking the sea far below, is constructed of bleached stone that seems to sparkle in the sunlight. It almost hurts to look at, so Yennefer averts her eyes in time to see a lanky, exhausted-looking middle aged man hurrying towards her.

“You’re Lady Yennefer?” he asks.

“Piotr, I presume.” She’s exchanged a half-dozen letters with the marquess’ steward over the past fortnight as they arranged the particulars of the three-day long Midsummer party. She’s here to provide the entertainment, both during the festivities and afterwards.

“A pleasure.” He bows over her hand perfunctorily, then straightens up. “We were hoping you would arrive yesterday.”

“I was delayed in Gors Velen.” Another lead in her search to regain her womb that proved fruitless, but Piotr doesn’t need to know that. “My apologies.”

“It’s no bother,” Piotr says in a tone that indicates that it was indeed a bother. “There’s just much to do before dinner tonight. We have upwards of forty guests arriving today, with twenty more arriving in the morning, and there’s the matter of the enchanted lanterns and the swans—”

“All spells I can cast within minutes, I assure you.” Yennefer can’t quite keep the irritation out of her own voice.

He blinks at her owlishly. “Of course. Imogene of Hagge recommended you highly.”

It takes Yennefer a moment to place the name, because she hasn’t thought of Imogene of Hagge since she left Aretuza. Imogene was a few years below her and Yennefer never cared much for the girl, who she found an empty-headed, simpering suck-up. “Imogene recommended me?”

“She’s a close personal friend of the marquess’ family. She’ll be arriving tonight.”

Which begs the question of why the marquess is paying Yennefer an exorbitant amount to enchant lanterns and swans and host a magical orgy at the conclusion of the festivities when he has a family friend who would presumably do it for free. But Yennefer isn’t one to turn her nose up at coin, so she smiles and says, “How delightful. I look forward to seeing her again.”

“Excellent,” Piotr says. “Now, if you’ll come with me, I can show you to your room and then we can get started with the preparations for dinner.”

“Of course.” Yennefer falls into step beside him and he leads her down a corridor and up two flights of stairs to her guest chamber, a luxurious room with a stunning view of the ocean and the courtyard below. She’s admiring the view when the sound of lute music floats upwards.

Yennefer lets out a long sigh. She should have known that if she saw Geralt’s horse, that meant that Geralt’s other uncultured, bitey beast would be in attendance. It’s not like Geralt would willingly attend a three day long Midsummer celebration on his own.

Glancing downwards, she sees Jaskier, dressed in an eye-scalding shade of green and sitting on one of the stone benches in the courtyard, serenading two giggly young noblewomen with a saccharine love song. As if feeling her eyes on him, Jaskier glances up. To Yennefer’s immense satisfaction, he’s so startled when he sees her that he bungles a chord. Face flushing, he returns his attention to the two dewy-eyed young women.

Behind Yennefer, Piotr clears his throat. “Lady Yennefer, if we could…”

“Of course.” Yennefer steps back from the window. She has a party to prepare for. She’s sure she’ll see plenty of Geralt’s bard in the coming days, whether she wants to or not.

***

Jaskier finds Yennefer while she’s in the ballroom, enchanting lanterns to glow different colors. She’s so focused on the task at hand that she doesn’t realize he’s coming until she hears a bray of, “I thought I felt the chill of a demonic entity in the air. What are you doing here?”

“What does it look like?” She doesn’t turn at his approach. “I should have known when you were in residence when I saw party guests bleeding from their ears.”

“Oh, you can’t blame that on me. Proximity to pure evil tends to do that to people.” Jaskier leans against the wall in front of her, grinning in that way that tells her he thinks he’s being far wittier than he is. It’s a typical expression for him.

“What are you doing here, bardling?” Yennefer enchants a lantern to glow a soft blue and puts it down on a table, where a servant immediately whisks it away to be hung in the proper place. “And is Geralt around, or has he finally seen sense and told you to fuck off?”

“I’m here to provide entertainment for the festivities, of course,” he says. “And the marquess hired Geralt to deal with a nest of harpies that have been mauling the occasional fishermen nearby. You haven’t been swooping around, menacing sailors, have you?”

“No, but I did hear some chicken-like squawking from the courtyard earlier.”

“Oh, don’t be so hard on yourself. With some proper vocal training, your voice may not sound like the screams of a thousand damned souls.”

“I can’t imagine you have much experience with proper vocal training, bardling.”

Jaskier puffs up like an outraged peacock, chin jutting out stubbornly. Yennefer isn’t sure what Geralt sees in this ridiculous little lordling who has followed him around for nearly two decades. Jaskier is silly, vain, a terrible flirt, and far too sure of his own talent. She can’t imagine he’s much help to Geralt on the Path, given that he reportedly faints at the sight of blood and once managed to catch himself, rather than a rabbit, in a snare. She’s heard he’s a good lay—though the opinions of sheltered, bored noble wives must be taken with a grain of salt—but there are plenty of good lays out there and most of them are far less of a bother.

“I’m surprised to see you, Yennefer,” Jaskier says. “I would think the longest day of the year would be terribly trying for blood-sucking creatures of the night.”

“I’m here to provide entertainment,” Yennefer says.

He frowns at that. “You’re not hosting the orgy I've heard rumors about, are you? Only, I was looking forward to that.”

“I am.” She smiles benevolently. “Don’t worry, if you manage to stay out of my way for the next three days, I won’t give you the ears and tail of an ass to match your personality.”

“I think I’ll refrain,” he says. “There will be other orgies not orchestrated by denizens of darkness.”

“And other orgies that have lower standards about whom they admit.”

Jaskier draws himself up in offense, then catches sight of someone over her shoulder. His expression immediately softens. “Geralt! I have a new contract for you. The castle is under attack by a terrible beast with cloven hooves and horns.”

Behind Yennefer, there’s a sigh. “Hey, Yenn.”

Yennefer turns to find Geralt behind her, his armor crusted with dried saltwater and worse things. There’s a strong odor of dead fish in the air and the satchel in his hand is dripping on the marble floors. The servants who pass shoot him dismayed looks. Jaskier brushes by Yennefer, then hesitates, like he’s debating between pulling Geralt into a passionate embrace to prove a point to Yennefer or sparing his doublet. He compromises by leaning forward, keeping a foot of space between his and Geralt’s bodies while he presses a single, chaste kiss to the witcher’s lips.

“How was the hunt, darling?” Yennefer hears him murmur.

Geralt’s lips curl into a little smile. “Uneventful. Harpies are dead.”

“And you’re not hurt?”

“If I say yes, can I get out of this party?”

“You’re upright, so no.”

“Then I’m fine.” Geralt sighs theatrically, meeting Yennefer’s eyes.

Yennefer is surprised by how strongly she wants to close the gap between them and kiss him, saltwater and ichor be damned. Something in her always seems to settle when she’s in Geralt’s presence. If she were the romantic type, she would say something ridiculous like it’s because she feels at home when she’s with Geralt.

Luckily for everyone, she leaves the dramatics for Geralt’s bard.

“What are you doing here, Yenn?” Geralt asks softly, his gaze warm and intent on her face.

“I’m here on the marquess’ behest,” Yennefer says. “Enchanting lanterns and swans for the decorations.”

“And hosting the enchanted orgy.” Jaskier sounds aggrieved.

“Hm.” Heat flares in Geralt’s gaze.

Yennefer has the sudden and childish urge to stick her tongue out at Jaskier like a little girl.

“Master Witcher.” Piotr comes rushing up, looking even more stressed than he did when he greeted Yennefer earlier. “I was expecting you in my office, not…” He gestures around at the party decorations. “Please follow me, sir.”

Geralt looks a little surprised, like he’s just realizing that he brought a dripping bag of harpy heads into a ballroom. “Of course.” To Yennefer, he adds, “Will I see you later?”

“If you’re at dinner tonight, most likely.”

“I’ll be there.” His lips quirk into a smile before he turns away.

“Oh, of course.” Jaskier bustles after Geralt and Piotr. “When I ask you to be social, it’s all, ‘I’m a witcher, witchers don’t attend nice parties, Jaskier, because we’re dark and broody. Look at me brooding broodily in this corner.’ But when she asks you…”

Yennefer snorts and shakes her head, turning back to the lanterns so that no one will see the smile she can’t quite contain.

***

About an hour into the dinner that’s kicking off the Midsummer festivities, Yennefer has ascertained that the Marquess de Fellston, a stocky, florid-faced man in his mid-to-late forties, doesn’t have a single thought in his head that doesn’t pertain to horses, dogs, or wine. He at least has decent taste in wine, which is the only thing that keeps a smile on Yennefer’s face while she listens to him blather on about his prized stallion. She’s higher up the table than she would have expected, seated directly across from the marchioness. There’s an empty table setting to her left, which no one has commented on.

It’s a warm, humid night, made bearable only by the cool breeze coming from the ocean, which makes the enchanted lanterns hanging above them sway softly. The swans that Yennefer spelled to be utterly docile and to sing beautifully gambol around, their white feathers glowing in the blue, pink, purple, and green lights. It’s a lovely set up, which almost makes up for the fact that Lord Szimon is an utter bore.

Jaskier and Geralt are far down the table, seated among a cluster of noblewomen, whom Jaskier appears to be attempting to charm out of their skirts. Next to Jaskier, Geralt is doing a poor job of concealing his misery in a silver doublet that complements Jaskier’s bright blue ensemble. Every time Yennefer glances their way, she catches one or both of them staring at her. Whenever she catches Jaskier’s eye, she flashes a smile that shows all her teeth, knowing it will scare him shitless. Sure enough, he flushes and looks away.

“Do you have a horse, Lady Yennefer?” Lord Szimon asks Yennefer.

She takes another sip of her wine. “No, I’m afraid not. I find portaling a more reliable form of transportation.”

She doesn’t have to look down the table to sense Geralt’s incredulity at that.

“I’ll have to take your word for that.” The marquess chuckles, then looks up with a smile. “Ah, Imogene, you made it!”

“Apologies, my lord,” a girlish voice says from behind Yennefer. “I lost track of time. Hello, Yennefer. It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

Yennefer turns around in her seat. When she knew Imogene of Hagge at Aretuza, she was a tiny, sandy-haired thing with a freckled face. Now, Imogene is a petite, delicate-boned woman with hair that’s more gold than sandy and a dewy complexion that’s completely devoid of freckles. With her unnaturally large, bright blue eyes and rosy, heart-shaped face, she looks almost doll-like.

Imogene sweeps over to kiss Yennefer on both cheeks, enveloping her in the scent of vanilla and lavender. “It’s been far too long.”

“Has it?” Yennefer wants to ask, because she never had the impression that Imogene liked her any more than she liked Imogene when they were in school. Instead, she asks, “What brings you to Fellston? Last I heard, you were in Verden.”

“I’m an old friend of his lordship and his family,” Imogene says. “I’ve taken a leave of absence from Verden to help out with a family matter.”

Well, Yennefer supposes that explains why she was hired to deal with the party when there’s another sorceress in residence. Imogene seems to be otherwise occupied.

“But I’ve been so looking forward to catching up with you since Szimon told me he had hired you.” Imogene lowers herself into the chair next to Yennefer, not seeming to notice her slip up. At her use of the marquess’ first name, the marchioness goes thin-lipped and gestures for a servant to pour her more wine. It’s the first sign of emotion Yennefer has seen from the marquess’ wife all night.

“Tell me what you’ve been up to since Aretuza,” Imogene says.

Yennefer smiles wryly. “I’m sure all the interesting bits have already made their way through the Brotherhood rumor mill.”

“Oh, I don’t listen to gossip.” Imogene waves one dainty hand, if she wasn’t the most gossipy little snitch Yennefer had ever met in their Aretuza days. “Though I would love to hear why you left Aedirn so suddenly. Especially with how hard you campaigned to be sent there instead of Nilfgaard. Poor Fringilla’s never recovered from being spurned so publicly by Virfuril, you know.”

Yennefer’s gaze flicks down the table. Geralt is watching as Jaskier tells some story that involves a lot of dramatic hand gestures. Only the fact that he has his head cocked slightly to the side, a furrow in his brow, tells Yennefer that he’s most likely listening to her conversation, not Jaskier’s.

“I’m afraid there’s not much to tell.” Yennefer takes a quick sip of her wine. She won’t entertain Imogene and the marquess with a lurid tale of assassins and dead queens, especially not with Geralt listening. She doesn’t want him to learn of her greatest failure this way. “But tell me what you’ve been up to, Imogene. How fares court life in Verden?”

Luckily, some things haven’t changed—Imogene is still only too happy to talk about herself. As Imogene launches into some tale about the Verdeni king, Yennefer tunes her out as easily as she tuned out the marquess’ babble about horses earlier. The only thing she can’t tune out is the feeling of Geralt’s gaze on her.

***

After dinner, Jaskier begins to perform. Despite her barbs to the contrary, Yennefer has to admit that his voice is decent. If it belonged to any other performer, she might even say ‘good.’ His mellifluous voice floats across the garden as couples dance together, the lanterns swaying above. The musical swans have been herded away by the servants, but the occasional stray feather still floats across the grass. Yennefer can feel Geralt still watching her as she moves through the crowd. She’s wondering how she could dance with him without drawing too much attention when a hand touches her shoulder.

She turns to find the marquess standing behind her. “My lord,” she says, dipping into a curtsy.

“How are you enjoying the festivities, Lady Yennefer?” he asks.

“They’re delightful.”

“You outdid yourself with the decorations.”

“I’m so glad they’re to your liking.”

“If I could have just another few moments of your time.” Lord Szimon glances around. “I have a matter I’d like to discuss with you in private.”

Yennefer smothers a sigh. She should have known that it was too much to ask to be paid a king’s ransom to enchant some lanterns and host an orgy. Of course there would be some complication that he wants to discuss with her privately—be it an inconveniently pregnant mistress or an heir that bears a startling resemblance to the steward (not that Piotr seems like the type to carry on a torrid affair with the marchioness, but one can never be sure.) Or he’s about to make a pass at her and she’s going to need to turn her employer into a snail.

“Of course, my lord,” she says. “I’m at your disposal.”

Across the garden, she catches Geralt’s eye. He raises an inquisitive eyebrow and she gives a single shake of her head. If the marquess is up to something, Geralt and his swords won’t solve the problem. She’s almost relieved when she sees Imogene detach herself from the lordling she’s been dancing with—smiling prettily and apologizing all the while—and cross the garden to join Yennefer and the marquess.

“I thought we were going to wait until after the party tonight, Szimon,” she says, taking the arm the marquess offers her.

“Time is of the essence, my dear.” Lord Szimon pats her hand. “There’s no use delaying.”

“Delaying what, my lord?” Yennefer asks.

“It’s easier to show you,” he says gravely. He suddenly looks much older and more tired than he did at dinner, without a single trace of the jovial man who yammed about his horses and his hunting hounds.

Yennefer follows Imogene and Lord Szimon as they lead her from the gardens and across the sprawling grounds of the estate, until the sound of Jaskier’s singing fades into the distance. No one says a single word. Yennefer can feel her patience waning as they walk through the gates of a graveyard, past rows of marble tombs. As they approach a tomb with a statue of a woman gazing up at the sky serenely, her hands clasped to her chest, atop it, Yennefer stops in her tracks. Malevolent magic emanates from the tomb.

“You feel it?” Imogene asks.

“How could I not?” Yennefer swallows back the urge to back away. “Marchioness Lizbeth Henrietta Karoline Piotrski Demaz de Fellston,” the name on the tomb reads. Tiny animal bones—birds, squirrels, rabbits, and rats—litter the ground around it. Yennefer wonders if one brush against the marble of the tomb was enough to kill them.

“My great-grandfather’s first wife,” Lord Szimon says. “She and my great-grandfather were married for nearly twenty years, in which they tried and failed to conceive a child. When she caught a chill and died one winter, my great-grandfather remarried the day his year of mourning was complete. My grandfather was born nine months later.”

Yennefer hums noncommittally. It’s a common enough story.

“Lizbeth’s sister, Lillian, was an Aretuza-trained sorceress,” Szimon continues. ‘She accused my great-grandfather of having had Lizbeth killed.”

“Did he?” Yennefer asks.

Lord Szimon looks affronted. “Of course not. By all accounts, he was a good and honorable man.”

Yennefer manages not to laugh at that. “I take it Lillian didn’t agree?”

“She cursed my family,” Lord Szimon says. “She told my great-grandfather that his family line would die out within a hundred years. He didn’t take her seriously, but he, my grandfather, and my father all only had one child each, and all died before their fiftieth birthdays, either from illness or accidents. I’ve been married to dear Gertrude for twenty years now and the gods haven’t blessed us with a single living child. I fear the curse is behind it.”

“How long has it been since the curse was cast?” Yennefer asks.

“It will be exactly a century the day after Midsummer,” Imogene says softly. “In three days, the marquess’ family line will die out forever. We fear that means that Szimon…” She trails off, looking at the marquess worriedly.

Yennefer had a feeling the answer would be something like that. “And Lillian? It’s been ninety-nine years. She may be willing to let go of old grudges and undo the curse.”

Lord Szimon grimaces. “When I was a boy, my father contracted a witcher to kill her, thinking that would undo the curse. The witcher brought us her head and my father dropped dead of a brain bleed right in front of him.”

“Some curses die with their caster,” Yennefer says. “Others only become stronger.”

“So Imogene has told me.” Lord Szimon smiles wanly at Imogene.

“Curses of this nature always have an anchor of some kind.” Imogene nods to the late marchioness’ tomb. “We believe that the anchor for this curse is the statue of Lizbeth.”

Yennefer glances up at the serene statue. “Then you need to destroy it.”

“I’m afraid it’s not so simple,” Imogene says. “Take a look.”

Yennefer has no desire to take a look, but she also refuses to look like a coward in front of Imogene. Tentatively, she takes a step forward, reaching out with her own chaos to examine the dark magic encasing the tomb. It feels like sticking her hand in what she expects to be lukewarm water and find it boiling. With a cry, Yennefer stumbles backwards. The marquess puts a hand on his back to steady her, but she shakes him off.

“How many mages have died trying to destroy that statue?” Her voice wavers as she forces herself to remain upright.

Imogene doesn’t bother denying it. “Three. And I was nearly the fourth.”

“And I suppose you were hoping I would be the fourth instead?”

“There must be a way around the spell,” Imogene says. “Surely a mage of your skill could manage it.”

“Is that what you told those three dead mages?”

“None of them had half the skill of Tissaia de Vries’ favorite student, Yennefer.”

Yennefer’s lip curls. “Flattery won’t convince me to die to undo this curse. Neither will goading me. We’re not girls at Aretuza anymore and this isn’t a game of Truth or Dare.”

“You’ll be compensated for your troubles.” Lord Szimon looks lost. All the color has drained from his face. Yennefer gets the sense that she was his last hope and she would feel sorry for him in any other circumstances.

“I have to be alive to collect my payment,” Yennefer reminds him, forcing her voice to gentle. The marquess seems like a bit of a fool who cares too much for horses and lets his head be turned by a pretty sorceress, but he doesn’t deserve to die for the sins of a great-grandfather he never knew. “I am truly sorry, my lord. When the very act of trying to undo the curse would kill anyone who attempts it before they can succeed, there’s nothing to be done.”

“Of course there’s something to be done.” Imogene’s dollish features go hard and cold. “For the right price, anything is possible.”

Yennefer bares her teeth into a smile. “If you truly believe that, Imogene, then it seems you learned nothing in your time at Aretuza.”

Lord Szimon steps between them, putting a conciliatory hand on Imogene’s arm. “It’s alright, my dear. We knew it was a long shot.” To Yennefer, he adds, “I understand. I suppose I was hoping for a miracle. A childish hope, I know.”

Imogene visibly collects herself, her sweet smile returning. “Of course. My apologies, Yennefer. I was… overcome.”

Yennefer nods her acknowledgement, but doesn’t offer either of them any comforting words. Platitudes won’t save the marquess’ life and his family line. If Lillian’s words were true, nothing will.

***

“What did the marquess want earlier?” Geralt asks much later, watching with sleepy eyes as Yennefer pulls on her dress.

“He wanted assistance with a family matter.” She turns so he can see her lace up her dress in the front, enjoying the way his gaze tracks the movement of her hands. “Unfortunately for him, what he wanted me to do can’t be done.”

“And how did he take it?”

“Well enough.” Seeing the concern in his expression, she adds, “He didn’t threaten me, if that’s what you’re worried about. He doesn’t strike me as the type. And I think he knew it was a long shot before I even got here.”

“Lots of people can become the type to make threats if they feel cornered,” Geralt says.

The show of concern would make Yennefer bristle if it were coming from anyone but Geralt. “All the threats in the world won’t make what he wants possible and he seems to realize that. The only danger from this weekend is that I may portal myself into the sea if he keeps talking about his damn horse.”

“What’s wrong with talking about a horse?” Geralt looks wounded.

Instead of answering, Yennefer leans forward and kisses him, slow and sweet. When she pulls away, she says, “He strikes me as about as dangerous as Jaskier. I don’t think I have anything to worry about.”

“You never know.” Geralt’s lips twitch. “Jaskier can be dangerous. He managed to knock out a bandit once. Accidentally, but he says it still counts.”

Yennefer snorts and goes to look for her shoes.

“You could stay the night,” Geralt says carefully.

Yennefer pauses in the middle of pulling a shoe on. “Won’t your bard object?”

“He’s off with some baroness. I doubt he’ll be back tonight.”

Yennefer glances around the room. It’s a good deal smaller than her guest chamber and without the ocean view, but it’s still a perfectly serviceable room, with a comfortable mattress and a window overlooking the grounds. Geralt’s armor is drying in the windowsill, along with a buttercup yellow doublet of Jaskier’s. Toiletries are scattered across the bedside table, along with a few empty potion bottles. A pair of Jaskier’s smallclothes lie on the ground and his notebook is open on the table, one of Geralt’s gloves used as a placeholder. Everywhere she looks, there are signs of a life spent together.

She should have invited Geralt up to her room, but it seemed impolitic at the time to traipse through the hallway together. She’s not ashamed of her relationship with Geralt—whatever it may be—but she has no desire to have it become the center of party gossip.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she says, realizing that he’s still waiting for the answer. “I believe there’s boating in the morning. Will you be there?”

Geralt snorts derisively. “Unfortunately. Though I don’t know what the marquess wants with a witcher on a sailing expedition.”

“Possibly to fight off all the sea monsters that Jaskier wakes with his high notes?”

Geralt’s lips twitch.

“Why accompany him if you detest these things so much?” Yennefer asks. “A three-day-long party must be your nightmare.”

Geralt shrugs. “It was important to Jaskier. And I just felt like I should be here.”

“To stop him from losing his balls to a jealous husband?”

He lets out the long sigh of a man who has had to deal with far too many jealous husbands and Yennefer laughs, eliciting a smile from him.

Geralt stands to cup her face in his hands, his calloused fingers gentle against her skin. “You’re not happy to see me?”

Yennefer casts a pointed look at the rumpled bedsheets. “What about that told you that I wasn’t happy to see you?”

His lips twitch. “Don’t want to get in the way of your work here.”

“Enchanting swans and administering magical aphrodisiacs? How could you interfere with such important job duties?” She brushes a kiss over his lips. “I’m always glad to see you.”

“So am I.” The words are so softly and earnestly spoken that they make something inside Yennefer clench.

“Goodnight, Geralt,” she says, kissing him one last time before she turns to go. He doesn’t try to convince her to stay again, but she feels his eyes on her back as she slips out of his room and makes her way down the hallway, back to her own bedchamber. For a moment, she considers turning around and spending the night in the warm circle of his arms, but she shakes the thought away. She doesn’t want to spend the night in the room he’s sharing with Jaskier.

When she reaches the staircase, she finds Jaskier coming down the stairs, humming to himself. He hasn't noticed her yet and he's wearing a tiny smile, either reminiscing about whatever lady's bed he just left or anticipating the witcher's bed he's returning to. His chemise is unlaced indecently low, showing off a good deal of chest hair and a livid love bite on the hollow of his throat. His hair is rumpled, like someone has been running their fingers through it, and his eyes are sleepy and content. It's a rare, unguarded moment, without the bard's usual winking pretension, and Yennefer suddenly wishes she hadn't seen it.

And then he looks up, catching sight of her at the foot of the stairs, and the mask slides back into place. “Yennefer! Fancy seeing you here. And so far from the sewers, too.”

Yennefer doesn’t give him the satisfaction of an eye roll. “Tonight’s paramour grew tired of you already, I see.”

“Ah, Agnes.” He claps his hands to his chest. “A true jewel. We spent several hours of brilliant passion together and would have spent more, but her betrothed’s father is a generous sponsor of Oxenfurt Academy, so it seemed wise for me to not be seen leaving her bedchamber.”

“Naturally." Yennefer brushes by him and starts up the steps. "How fortunate for her that she was spared more of your company.”

“And you’re slipping out early,” Jaskier says, falling in behind her. “I thought I was going to have to sit in the hallway and listen to you yowl. I do hope that your quick departure doesn’t mean Geralt has been turned to stone under your gaze?”

She glances dismissively over her shoulder. “No, it means I grew tired of looking at your smallclothes strewn across the floor.”

“Would you rather see them on me?” He waggles his brows.

Yennefer arches an eyebrow. The bard usually doesn’t have the nerve to stare a little too long, never mind flirt. “I would sooner lose my eyeballs to a flesh-eating fungus.”

“Probably for the best. I would hate to end up with another knife to my balls.”

“The night’s still young.”

“Yennefer, you flirt.” Jaskier bats his eyelashes.

Yennefer pauses at the top of the stairs. “What are you doing, bardling?”

“Walking you up to your room. Naturally.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s the gentlemanly thing to do.”

She snorts indelicately. “You’re about as much of a gentleman as Geralt’s horse.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment. Roach is the picture of good manners and chivalry when she knows she’ll get a carrot out of it.”

“I have no need for your chivalry, bardling,” Yennefer says. “And I’m more than capable of walking myself to my own room.”

She turns and starts down the hallway, thinking that will be the end of that conversation. To her consternation, Jaskier follows.

“It’s occurred to me,” Jaskier says. “That Geralt does things for me that he doesn’t want to do all the time.”

“Well, I know he does you regularly.”

“And he damn well enjoys it, thank you. I mean, he comes to parties like this and bardic competitions and the like. He hates it all, but he does it because it’s important to me. And you’re important to him.”

“Do you have a point, or do you just relish the sound of your own voice?"

“Both can be true, Yennefer," Jaskier says primly. "It seems that if Geralt is willing to subject himself to noble parties and dancing for me, then I should be willing to subject myself to your company for him."

"What?" Yennefer turns on him. He's smiling at her magnanimously, like a prince who just bestowed a single copper on a street urchin and will spend the rest of the day feeling like Lebioda himself.

"Geralt is very fond of you," Jaskier says. "I'm not sure why. In fact, I'm quite concerned that you may have scrambled something when you took control of his mind and forced him to commit a hanging offense. But I digress. Geralt cares for you, I care for Geralt, and it's Midsummer, a season of joy and charity. So I'm willing to put aside my completely rational dislike for you, Yennefer, and attempt to be your friend."

Yennefer stares at Jaskier. Jaskier smiles back at her beatifically. With a sigh, Yennefer turns away. "Goodnight, bardling."

"Most people do like me, you know," he says, softly, like it's a secret. "You would too, if you got to know me."

"Would I?" Yennefer whirls on him and crosses the scant distance between them, enjoying the nervous way his throat bobs at her sudden proximity. "And what is it they like about you? Is it the songs filled with jokes about cocks and breasts? The doublets that you seem incapable of buttoning up correctly? The entirely unearned arrogance?”

He smiles broadly, though there's a flicker of something that may be nervousness in his eyes. "You have two more days to find out."

"Geralt cares for you, though I think that may be evidence of too many blows to the head. Out of respect for that, I haven't portaled you to the middle of the Korath Desert and left you for the vultures. That doesn't mean I have any desire to be your friend, bardling. This is one sacrifice you don't have to make for love."

For a moment, she thinks that Jaskier might actually be hurt. But then he ducks into a little bow. "Ah, I suppose it's probably for the best. Too much time in your company and you may drain me of my youth and beauty."

"I think I'm about a decade too late for that, bardling."

"Oh, Yennefer." He smiles sweetly. "I would ask if I'll see you at breakfast, but I don't think the kitchens here serve the tears of the innocent."

"Nor do they serve stale bread that's been shoved into pants."

His jaw drops. "Geralt told you about that? That swine."

Yennefer doesn't tell him that Geralt never told her anything of the sort. Jaskier, wide-eyed and eighteen, fumbling nervously as he said, "You wouldn't want to keep a man with bread in his pants waiting," is a memory that always makes Geralt smile. She's heard him think of it every time he watches Jaskier eating a piece of bread. His thoughts are always particularly loud when he's thinking fondly of his bard.

“Just go back to your room, Jaskier.” She takes the last few steps to her room, resting her hand on the doorknob. “Geralt will be pleased to see you.”

She can picture it—Geralt sitting up in bed when he hears the familiar tread of Jaskier’s steps in the hallway, the little smile that will curl his lips when the door opens and his bard comes sauntering in. Jaskier will throw himself dramatically down on the bed, no doubt complaining about how unbelievably cruel Yennefer was to him, and Geralt will run his fingers through his hair and hum occasionally to show he’s listening.

Jaskier gives her a strange look and she wonders if her expression has revealed too much. “Sleep well, Yennefer. I take it the marquess has provided a lovely coffin for you to sleep in?”

Yennefer steps inside and closes the door in his face.

***

Yennefer gives out tonics for hangovers at breakfast the next day, which nearly all the guests partake in. Lord Szimon, who looks distinctly worse for wear after what Yennefer imagines was probably a sleepless, anxious night, takes two doses of tonic for himself. Jaskier doesn’t take one, even though Yennefer overhears Geralt urging him to take one.

“You just said your head was hurting,” Geralt tells his bard from the other end of the table. Yennefer wouldn’t be able to hear them without magical assistance.

“Yes, but I have a long day of performing ahead of me and I don’t trust her not to have put something in it to ruin my voice.”

“Why would I waste magic on something so unnecessary?” Yennefer asks him telepathically, making Jaskier squawk and drop the butter knife he was just using to spread marmalade on a scone. Geralt gives Yennefer a quelling look, though his lips twitch in amusement.

After breakfast comes the sailing, which the marquess begs off, claiming a queasy stomach. The rest of the nobles pile into a pair of large sailboats captained by local sailors. Yennefer calls dolphins to swim alongside the boats, leaping and twirling in the water to the delight of the guests. Jaskier is there, providing background music on his lute while a pretty little redhead who must be his baroness from the night before gives him cow eyes. Geralt stands at the railing, keeping an eye on the horizon for any sign of trouble, though Yennefer sees him stealing fond looks at Jaskier.

Imogene joins Yennefer at the stern, an absurd hat perched on top of her golden ringlets. “I feel like I should apologize for last night,” she says.

“Whatever for?” Yennefer barely spares her a glance, focused on the dolphins leaping out of the water.

“I was needlessly unkind.” Imogene leans over to peer at the dolphins. The hat must be magically affixed to her head, because it doesn’t go flying into the waves. “I’m sure you would help if you could. I just hoped you would see something I hadn’t, that maybe I’m too close to it and so I’d overlooked something obvious.”

“There’s nothing to overlook. The curse is very powerful and very simple. You try and undo it, you die.”

Imogene nods grimly. “Szimon is… very dear to me. It will be terrible to lose him.”

“I’m sorry.” Yennefer is surprised that she means it, just a little. She doesn’t like Imogene, but she doesn’t wish her grief.

“I’ve known it was coming for years,” Imogene says. “And now the day I’ve been dreading is nearly upon us and I find that I’m not ready at all.”

“It’s hard to be ready for something like this.”

Imogene sighs. “I suppose you’re right. Up until last night, I hadn’t even let myself consider that we wouldn’t find a way to fix the curse.”

Yennefer has nothing to say that will be helpful, so she stays silent.

“Love makes us foolish,” Imogene says with a wistful little smile. “I’m sure you know how that is, Yennefer.”

Yennefer glances over her shoulder and finds Geralt watching her and Imogene, his expression impossible to read. The wind is ruffling his long white hair and with the sea and the blue sky behind him, he looks like the romantic hero of a ballad. Jaskier is watching Geralt, a look of unabashed tenderness on his face as he croons a love song.

“No,” Yennefer lies. “I’m afraid I don’t.”

***

Yennefer spends the rest of the day on alert, just in case Imogene recovers from her brief moment of being almost sympathetic and decides to heap some unpleasantness on her. It never comes. When they return from sailing, there’s a luncheon, followed by a tour of the marquess’ portrait gallery and a ride around the grounds. That evening, there’s dinner and dancing in the atrium. It’s a cloudy night, but Yennefer has enchanted the glass ceiling to sparkle with stars, so bright and vivid that they look close enough to touch.

In addition to Jaskier playing, there’s a band, which gives the bard opportunities to mingle with the other guests. Yennefer watches him dance with a matron who is easily twice his age, flirting outrageously until the woman is smiling and blushing like a schoolgirl. Yennefer will never understand how many people are charmed by the bard’s peacocking. His flirtations are clumsy and overwrought, and yet they seem to work on a surprising amount of his targets.

“Having fun?”

Yennefer startles at the sudden appearance of Geralt at her side. She didn’t even notice his approach. “I’m bored out of my mind. You?”

He snorts. “What do you think?”

Yennefer looks at him sideways. Tonight’s ensemble is a deep blue with gold embellishments that match Jaskier’s own doublet. “You didn’t enjoy the festivities today? Sailing? Gazing at portraits of the marquess’ long dead ancestors?”

His lips twitch. “The ride was fine.”

“Your beastly horse bit three other horses and a viscount.”

“She bites a viscount at least once a week. She’s used to it.” Geralt casts a pointed look at Jaskier.

“He’s a viscount?” Yennefer frowns as Jaskier dips the matron dramatically.

“The Viscount de Lettenhove.”

Yennefer pauses with her glass of wine halfway to her lips. “Lettenhove is one of the wealthiest holdings in Redania.”

“Hm.”

“And he’s a bard?”

“Says the noble life isn’t for him.”

Yennefer watches Jaskier, shining in his golden doublet, looking entirely at home among the fine lords and ladies on the dance floor. “Your bard makes no fucking sense, Geralt.”

Geralt snorts. “Tell me about it.”

Yennefer takes a sip of wine as the song ends and Jaskier bows low to his dance partner.

“You’ve been watching him all night,” Geralt says.

Yennefer turns to him. “Pardon me?”

Geralt’s face is inscrutable. “And you were watching him on the boat.”

She feels caught out, even though she knows she hasn’t done anything wrong. “I’m simply making sure that he doesn’t ruin the party with his buffoonery.”

“Hm.”

“Unless you want me to read your mind, you’ll have to decipher your hums for me.”

“You two would probably like each other if you tried,” he says.

Yennefer laughs, short and sharp. “Leave the jokes to your bard. They suit him more.”

“You have more in common than you think.”

Yennefer briefly considers never letting this man into her bed again, then remembers the marvels his tongue is capable of. “Like what?”

“Beautiful, stubborn, passionate about the things you care about, a fondness for Est Est.” Geralt nods to the glass of wine in her hand.

She takes another sip, because she’ll need it to get through this conversation. “Everyone whose taste buds haven’t been ruined by witcher potions has a fondness for Est Est.”

Geralt shrugs, as if conceding the point. “I just think you’d both be surprised if you got to know each other.”

“The most surprising thing about Jaskier is how absurd he can be on a daily basis,” Yennefer says acidly. “Part of my role during this party is to make sure that everything goes smoothly. Given Jaskier’s tendency to stick his cock where he’s not supposed to and cause diplomatic incidents, keeping an eye on him is just good business.”

Geralt hums again—most days, she finds his hums endearing, but they are getting on her nerves right now—and glances back towards the dance floor. “Ah, fuck.”

With a suspicion that her point in being proven, Yennefer follows his gaze and says, “Fuck.”

Jaskier is dancing with Imogene, smiling down at her a little dazedly. Imogene is wearing a deep purple dress with a plunging neckline and silver detailing that looks like stars. She’s peering up at Jaskier through her lashes, smiling prettily. The marquess, who is seated at the table and appears to be entirely ignoring his wife, is watching them with a furrow in his brow. He doesn’t seem angry, not yet, but he doesn’t look entirely happy.

“I’m starting to think your bard must have a magical ability to find the worst possible person for him to fuck and immediately start trying to fuck them,” Yennefer says.

Geralt nods. “He’s been fucking me for a decade.”

“A rare moment of good sense,” Yennefer says, surprising both of them. The song starts to draw to a close and she hands Geralt her glass of wine. “I’ll handle this.”

“Yenn—”

“Don’t worry, Geralt, I’ll make sure his balls stay attached.” Yennefer crosses the dance floor, weaving around the swaying couples. She reaches Jaskier and Imogene just as the last notes of the song play. “Bardling, it’s almost the end of the night and you owe me a dance.”

Jaskier blinks at her stupidly. “What?”

“Oh, don’t tell me you don’t have the time,” Yennefer says with a pout. “I’ve been looking forward to this all night.”

Imogene laughs, high and tinkling. “Oh, we can’t disappoint dear Yenna. It was a pleasure to chat with you, Jaskier.”

Jaskier looks between them like a rabbit that’s found itself caught between two foxes. “The pleasure was all mine, my lady.” He presses a kiss to Imogene’s hand.

She dips into a curtsy. “Enjoy your dance.”

“Yennefer,” Jaskier says carefully as Imogene slips away.

“Shut up and start dancing.” The music starts up again and the couples around them start to dance. Of course it’s a Toussainti-style dance, one of the ones where the partners have to practically be entwined together through the song. Yennefer was hoping for a nice Skelligan stomping dance, which would only require the occasional touch of their hands.

With visible trepidation, Jaskier puts one hand on Yennefer’s waist while taking her hand with the other. “I’m not sure whether to be flattered or threatened right now.”

This close, it’s impossible to ignore how much taller the bard is than Yennefer. She always pictures him as a much smaller man than he is in reality. Just another thing to add to the long list of the ways in which he’s irritating. “Bardling, I mean this as a genuine question, but are you really enough of an ignoramus to get cozy with your employer’s mistress, who is a sorceress to boot?”

Jaskier makes an outraged noise. “I wasn’t getting cozy with her, Yennefer. She asked me to dance. We were having a very pleasant conversation until you—”

“She was toying with you, like a griffin with a horse,” Yennefer snaps. “She wants something from me that I can’t give her. I don’t know what she thinks dancing with you would accomplish, but strategy has never been Imogene’s strong point. There’s a reason she was sent to Verden, where nothing more exciting than the occasional attack by dryads happens.”

“Or perhaps she’s enjoyed my music, sees how dashing I look in this outfit—don’t roll your eyes like that, witch, you know I look good—and wanted a dance with a handsome, talented man.”

“Then why was she dancing with you?”

Jaskier laughs as he twirls her around to dip her. It occurs to her that he could drop her if he were feeling petty, but he doesn’t. “Thank you for swooping to my rescue so heroically, but I had no intentions of doing more than dancing with Imogene tonight. For one, I already have my arrangements for this evening worked out.” He casts a pointed look at the redheaded baroness. “And for another, I know by now that sorceresses are far more trouble than they’re worth.”

“Have you?” Yennefer spins around to press her back to his chest. One of his hands comes to settle on her torso. When she turns her head, she can feel the silkiness of his doublet against her cheek. “You seemed to be enjoying your dance with her quite a lot.”

Jaskier clears his throat. “Well, she is delightful company and was very complimentary of my music. It is nice to know that some sorceresses can appreciate the arts.”

“When you start producing art, I promise I’ll appreciate it.” Yennefer breathes in hard through her nose, reminding herself of her objective. Jaskier smells of honeysuckles. “She may seem sweet and smiley, but she’s as cutthroat as any of us who graduated from Aretuza. If she wants something from you, then you need to be careful.”

To her relief, the dance requires Jaskier to turn away from her. They dance back to back for a moment, the back of head pressed between his shoulder blades.

“And what about you?” Jaskier asks.

“What about me?”

“You saw me dancing with a sorceress who you suspect of having ill intentions towards me—though if we’re being honest, I think you may just be projecting—and you rushed over here to my rescue, even though you haven’t been shy about how much you dislike me. So, what exactly do you want from me, Yennefer?”

They turn again to be face to face, one of Jaskier’s hands settling on Yennefer’s waist while she rests a hand on his shoulder. There’s barely a hair’s breadth of space between them.

“What would I want with you?” Yennefer asks, annoyed with how far she has to look up to meet Jaskier’s eyes. Surely there’s a way to spell him shorter. She’ll have to look into it.

“That’s what I’m trying to find out.” His eyes drop to her lips. “Because I can’t think of a single other reason you would come rushing to my rescue.”

Her mouth is dry. Now that she thinks of it, she doesn’t think she’s had any water in hours. “I did it for Geralt.”

“Magnanimous of you.”

“If keeping you breathing keeps him happy, then I’ll do what I can until you inevitably get into trouble that no one can get you out of. Like fucking the wrong sorceress.”

“Oh, please.” Jaskier’s lips twitch. “Like she’d be any match for you.”

Yennefer blinks, taken off guard by his easy confidence in her. She knows that she could cast circles around Imogene, but Jaskier has no way of knowing that. When someone clears their throat loudly, Yennefer realizes that she and Jaskier have stopped dancing, holding up the part of the dance where the dancers are supposed to promenade around the dance floor, spinning together. The other dancers shoot them puzzled looks as they move around them.

Jaskier laughs, sounding a bit strained. “Toussainti dances are far too complicated for my taste. Who can keep track of all those steps?”

“The Toussainti, allegedly.” Yennefer releases his hand and steps back. “Just don’t be stupid, bardling.”

He flashes a tight-lipped smile. “I think it might be too late for that.”

Yennefer turns and stalks away as the last notes of the song plays. Geralt is waiting exactly where she left him, still holding her glass of wine. His eyebrows have crept up so high that they’ve nearly disappeared into his hairline.

She takes the glass of wine from him and downs it in one gulp. “Meet me in my room in twenty minutes.”

“Hm.” Geralt’s eyebrows suddenly creep higher.

“Don’t even start,” Yennefer tells him and sweeps away, party forgotten.

***

Geralt comes to her room as instructed and they fuck against the wall hard enough to send a painting crashing to the floor. Afterwards, she fucks him with a wooden cock until the headboard begins to creak ominously under his grip. They don’t talk about the marquess, Imogene, or his damn bard, which is exactly what Yennefer needs from him.

She thinks about asking him to stay, but she doesn’t. He presses a kiss to the corner of her mouth before he slips from the room and returns to his bard.

***

The next day is relatively uneventful, given the busy day before. Besides a hunting expedition in the afternoon, which Yennefer isn’t expected to join, there’s nothing to do until dinner that night and the orgy afterwards. She appreciates the opportunity for a few hours of rest; she slept restlessly the night before and is feeling groggy today. The heat and humidity of the day isn’t helping.

She was contemplating inviting Geralt to spend a lazy afternoon in bed with her, but when she seeks him out, she finds him saddling up Roach.

“You’re going hunting with the others?” she asks, surprised. A hunting party with a band of nobles who can most likely hold a rapier doesn’t sound like Geralt’s forte.

Geralt wears the expression of a man being marched to his execution. “There have been sightings of a pack of wolves in the area and the marquess is worried it’s wargs. He wants me along for extra security.”

“What about Jaskier?”

“He gets to stay here, the lucky bastard.”

Yennefer snorts. She’d like to lean in to kiss him, but they have an audience in the stablehands who are rushing about, saddling up the nobles’ horses. “Look at the bright side. There could be a warg attack, which might cut things short.”

Geralt’s lips quirk into a smile. “It’s not like you to be an optimist, Yenn.”

“I do try.” She brushes her fingers along the curve of his wrist. “At least there’s tonight to look forward to.”

The look he gives her is full of heat. “You’re going to participate tonight? Figured you’d just sit back, like you did in Rinde.”

“There was no one in Rinde I wanted to participate with.”

“Hm.” He also looks like he wants to kiss her, but he holds back. “Guess this party isn’t that bad then.”

“You just need to get through hunting with a bunch of nobles first.”

He grimaces. “Once spent two days trapped by an overly friendly rock troll. This can’t be worse.”

“You underestimate nobles.” She lets her hand brush his one last time and returns to the castle.

***

Yennefer gets an entire two hours of peace. She’s taking a nap in her chambers when a rap on her bedroom door has her jerking awake, disoriented.

“Lady Yennefer?” It’s Piotr, sounding even more harried than he usually does.

“Just a moment.” Yennefer takes a minute to smooth down her hair, adjust her dress, and make sure there’s no drool on her cheek—sorceresses aren’t supposed to drool or get bedhead, after all—before she goes to open the door.

Piotr stands in the hallway, wringing his hands. “Apologies for the interruption, Lady Yennefer, but you’re acquainted with Jaskier the Bard, correct?”

“Unfortunately.” Yennefer already dislikes the direction this conversation is taking. “What’s happened?”

“I’ve been trying to locate him for an hour,” Piotr says. “His lordship has hired a troupe of dancers to accompany Jaskier’s singing this evening. The dancers are here to rehearse and Jaskier is nowhere to be found.”

Yennefer frowns. “And he’s not in his room?”

Piotr shakes his head. “The last anyone saw him was at breakfast. Could he have accompanied the hunting party?”

“I doubt it.” Yennefer remembers all of Geralt’s stories of Jaskier growing faint at the sight of blood. “He’s not much for hunting. The baroness, the redheaded one, is she around?”

“Lady Agnes?” Piotr blinks owlishly. “She and her grandmother skipped the hunting expedition. They’re in the gardens, I believe.”

“Good,” Yennefer says. “I’ll look into it.”

Piotr looks so relieved that she worries he’s going to start weeping on her. “Thank you.”

Yennefer heads down to the gardens, where she finds Lady Agnes sitting on a bench while an elderly woman throws morsels of bread to the ducks that float in the pond.

She wastes no time with niceties. “Have you seen Jaskier?”

The baroness’ eyes go wide for a moment before she darts a glance at her oblivious grandmother and adopts a look of offended dignity. “The bard? I’m not sure why I would.”

Yennefer barely manages not to roll her eyes. If the girl wants to sneak around behind her betrothed’s back, she’s going to need to get better at lying. “You don’t have an angry father or brother who may have found out what you’ve been getting up to the last two nights?”

Agnes’ face turns a mottled red. “I don’t know what you’re implying.”

Yennefer wants to shake her. She forces herself to smile. “I don’t care who you’ve been bedding, my lady. That’s none of my concern. My only concern is if Jaskier is either being buried in a shallow grave as we speak or is somewhere facing the threat of imminent castration.”

“Of course not.” Agnes looks back at her grandmother, who is humming one of the songs Jaskier sang last night as she feeds the ducks. “I’m only here with my grandmother as a chaperone, and her mind isn’t what it used to be. She wouldn’t notice my… dalliances if I were having them right in front of her.”

“Thank you,” Yennefer says and turns on her heel without another word, returning to the castle. Could Jaskier have gotten into genuine trouble? Or did he just find a sunny corner to compose somewhere and fall asleep? But that would be unlike him. The bard might be a feckless fool, but he wouldn’t have earned his reputation as a bard if he slept through rehearsals and vanished on his employers.

“Fucking hells, Jaskier,” she mutters to herself as she starts up the stairs. She’s going to have to check Geralt and Jaskier’s room, just in case Piotr missed something. “What have you gotten yourself into?”

She doesn’t notice anyone behind her until cool fingers press to the back of her neck and chaos jolts through her like a lightning bolt. Yennefer just has a moment to think, of fucking course, before everything goes dark.

***

Yennefer comes awake with a gasp. She looks around wildly to find her wrists shackled in front of her and the statue of Marchioness Lizbeth towering over her, smiling serenely up at the sky.

“I’m sorry, Yennefer,” Imogene’s girlish voice says. “I didn’t want this to be necessary.”

Someone whimpers in response.

Yennefer sits up, blinking sleep from her eyes. Imogene stands in front of her, well away from the cursed tomb, flanked on either side by two burly men with swords. These aren’t the polished, uniformed castle guards, but men with the bearing of trained mercenaries. On his knees in front of Imogene, a sword at his throat, is Jaskier. He’s bound and gagged, wearing the buttercup yellow doublet that she saw drying in the windowsill of his and Geralt’s room the other night. Blood stains the gag and the neckline of his doublet. There’s an ugly bruise on his cheek and his nostrils are crusted with dried blood.

“Yennefer,” he says through his gag, blue eyes enormous with fear.

Yennefer snarls and throws out her hands, a spell on her lips. Nothing happens.

Imogene smirks and nods to the shackles around Yennefer’s wrists. “Dimeritium. We’ll remove them if you cooperate.”

“What the fuck is going on?” Yennefer demands.

“I hoped that coin or compassion would sway you, but you’ve forced my hand,” Imogene says. “Destroy the statue to break the curse, or your lover dies.”

Jaskier cries out against the gag and Yennefer glances around to ascertain that Geralt isn’t kneeling nearby with a sword at his throat. “What are you talking about, Imogene?”

“Don’t play stupid.” Imogene’s lip curls. “It doesn’t suit you. I saw the bard walk you to your room the other night. I saw the love bites you left on his neck and smelled your perfume on his sheets. I saw the way you looked at each other when you were dancing last night. I know what you are to each other.”

Yennefer can’t help it. She tips back her head and laughs like she hasn’t laughed in years. When she’s able to breathe again, she says, “What you know wouldn’t fill a thimble, you ninny.”

Imogene’s mouth drops open in a little o of outrage. “You—”

“Does Lord Szimon know you’re doing this?” Yennefer assumed that the marquess wasn’t the type, but it wouldn’t be the first time she miscalculated.

“Of course.” Imogene sniffs.

“But he doesn’t have the stomach to do it himself? He needs to leave you to do his dirty work?”

Imogene’s face turns red with anger. “It would draw too much attention if we both missed the hunting expedition.”

Yennefer tries another tactic. “You’re making a mistake. What do you think Geralt will do if he returns from the hunting expedition and finds that you’ve taken his bard? They used to call him the Butcher of Blaviken for a reason. Do you need a demonstration of why?”

The mercenary with his sword to Jaskier’s throat throws Imogene a nervous sidelong look.

Imogene smiles prettily. “The witcher won’t be a problem.”

The smugness in her expression sends a wash of cold fury through Yennefer. “What did you do?”

“Let’s just say that he’s going to suffer a terrible accident on the hunting expedition. It’s unfortunate, given what useful creatures witchers are, but necessary.”

Jaskier makes a wordless noise of anguish and Yennefer feels the bottom drop out of her stomach. Swallowing back her growing fear, she meets Imogene’s too-blue eyes and says levelly, “If a single hair on Geralt’s head is harmed, I promise you, there isn’t a single place on this Continent where you’ll be safe from me. If he’s dead, then so are you.”

Trepidation flashes across Imogene’s features. “If you make a single move against me, then the bard is dead.”

She’s right, Yennefer knows. Even if they remove the dimeritium cuffs, Imogene could snap Jaskier’s neck before Yennefer manages to cast a single spell. “I already told you, Imogene. There’s nothing to be done. If I could break the curse, I would, but I’ll be dead before I finish my attempt and your curse will remain unbroken.”

That dollish face shows not a single flicker of mercy. “I believe that if you start undoing the spell around the tomb, then I’ll be able to finish what you started.”

Yennefer barks a laugh. “So I die and then you get the glory of undoing the curse yourself?”

“It’s not about glory for me, Yennefer.” Imogene’s mouth works. “It’s about love. I wouldn’t expect the likes of you to understand, if you’re about to let the man you love die on your behalf.”

“The bard is nothing to me,” Yennefer bites out. “He’s not my lover, he’s not my friend. He’s nothing but a pest.”

Imogene’s lips pinch together. “Fine, then. Kill the bard.”

Jaskier chokes as one of the mercenaries grabs his hair, jerking his hair back, while the other draws back his sword to strike. He stares up at the sky with shock and terror, chest heaving with his frantic breaths, bound hands trembling in front of him. Yennefer isn’t trying to read his mind, but an image pops into her mind as if he’s screaming in her head. It’s Geralt, standing in the doorway of the room he’s sharing with Jaskier, looking immensely put upon.

“I’d rather get eaten by wargs than watch a bunch of lordlings use their hounds and falcons to hunt and take all the credit.”

“Don’t be silly, Geralt. Their servants use the hounds and falcons to hunt and the lordlings take all the credit.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“Well, no, but there might be a warg attack to give you a break from all the nobles. And you’ll get to spend time with some new horses. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

In the memory, Geralt smiles. “The marquess does have some fine horses.”

“There you go! Ignore the nobles, lavish attention on the horses.”

“That would make Roach angry.”

“Roach is far too sure of her place in your affections. Some uncertainty would be good for her.”

There’s so much love in the memory, so much longing, grief, and terror. If Geralt has fallen victim to Imogene’s trap because Yennefer underestimated her and Lord Szimon, then she owes it to him to keep his bard alive. And if Geralt did survive and he returns to find that Jaskier has died because of a stupid misunderstanding, it will crush him. Yennefer can’t let that happen.

“Stop!” she shouts.

The sword arcing towards Jaskier’s exposed throat pauses mid-swing. Jaskier sags, shoulders shuddering.

“I’ll do it,” Yennefer says through gritted teeth. “I’ll most certainly die in the attempt, you’ll fail at your attempts to finish my work, and this will all be for nothing, but I’ll do it.”

“No!” Jaskier yells through his gag, startling all of them. “No, Yennefer, don’t!”

Yennefer is taken aback. She expected Jaskier to beg for his life, to plead and cry for mercy. He’s always struck her as a consummate coward, always ready to hide behind Geralt at the first sign of danger. But despite the terror in his eyes, he keeps going.

“Don’t do it!” He shakes his head vigorously and the gag slips down over his chin. “Yennefer, you know that when you’re done, they’ll just kill me anyway. Just run. Find Geralt and—”

“Enough,” Imogene snaps and one of the mercenaries drives the hilt of his sword into Jaskier’s cheek. Jaskier’s head snaps around with a pained cry.

Fury rises up in Yennefer, hot and sharp. “Do not fucking do that again,” she tells the mercenary, who takes a step back from her, eyes going wide.

“Yennefer, please.” Jaskier’s voice cracks. “Don’t die for me. You don’t even fucking like me. You’ve never showed even the tiniest inclination for self-sacrifice before, so why would you start now?”

Imogene seizes him by the chin, forcing him to look at her. “Bard, if you say another word, I will have my men cut your tongue out.”

Jaskier looks up at her, eyes bright with defiance. “Just to clarify, will I still get the rest of my payment for the party? Because if you cut out my tongue, I really can’t be held responsible if I can’t fulfill my end—”

She shoves the gag back into her mouth and whirls on Yennefer. “I’m going to take your chains off now. Remember, if you try anything, we’ll kill the bard.”

Yennefer meets Jaskier’s gaze. He doesn’t cry out, but he shakes his head, eyes silently pleading. She looks away from him and holds out her bound wrists to Imogene. “Let’s get this over with.”

***

Yennefer flexes her hand as she stands in front of the tomb, looking up at the statue. The woman in the statue looks impossibly young, her expression smooth and untroubled. She has her hands spread out, palms facing upward, like she’s trying to catch something falling from the sky. Mindful of the tiny animal bones surrounding the tomb, Yennefer doesn’t touch it as she circles around it, examining it from all angles.

“Come on, Yennefer,” Imogene says. “Let’s not take forever. I’d like to change before dinner.”

Yennefer grits her teeth. “It will take however long it takes.”

“I hope you aren’t planning on stalling for time. That won’t end well for Jaskier.”

“And this will end well for him otherwise?”

“Of course,” Imogene says. “If you do what I say, he’ll be free to go. We’ll even pay him extra for the trouble.”

Jaskier snorts loudly.

Yennefer can’t help but share his skepticism, but there’s nothing she can do but try to survive the curse breaking so she can get him to safety. And then hopefully find a still-living Geralt and save him too. Tentatively, she reaches out to the curse with her own chaos, shuddering as it immediately starts to suck at her magic. That’s how it will kill her, she knows. It will eat through her chaos and then her life force, leaving her a hollow husk just like the little bones on the ground. Behind her, Jaskier whimpers. She can’t tell if the sound is from pain or fear.

She’s not sure why she does it. Maybe in what’s probably the last moments of her life, she decides that the company of an irritating bard is better than being alone. “You know, if you refrain from being obnoxious, she might let you live,” she tells him silently. “Imogene isn’t a natural-born killer.”

Jaskier recovers from his shock at the voice in his head quickly. “Yenn, don’t do this. You don’t even like me. I’m pretty sure you loathe me.”

“I’m not doing this for you.”

“Then what, for Geralt? He wouldn’t want you to do this either.”

Yennefer says nothing.

“Yennefer, seriously.” He sounds desperate, even in his mind. “If you die for me, I’m going to have to write a nice song about you. Don’t do that to me.”

He’s trying to joke, but the thought is too laced with dread for it to be effective.

“You can just change the lyrics of the one about the violet-eyed she-demon who eats men’s souls. That will do nicely as a funeral dirge.” Yennefer grits her teeth as the curse fights her. Already, she can feel her knees wobbling under her. “Since when do you care if I live or die? I would think you’d be glad to get rid of me. Less competition for Geralt’s affection.”

Jaskier is deep in thought for a moment; she can feel his conflict. Yennefer doesn’t look into his mind. Finally, he tells her, “I never disliked you because Geralt loves you. He and I have always taken other lovers. It’s just that sometimes I think he loves you more than he loves me and it makes me want to curse you with an unfortunate skin condition.”

Yennefer swallows. “He doesn’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do.”

She doesn’t want to put it all into words, so she shows Jaskier. She shows him the way that Geralt watched him last night while he danced, the softness around the witcher’s eyes that he shows so few people. She shows him the way Geralt always picks up scented soap for Jaskier whenever he passes through a market, even if he has to go out of his way to get it. She shows him the way he shakes his head at street musicians, always finding them wanting compared to his bard.

“You’re always near the forefront of his mind,” she tells Jaskier. “He’s always thinking of funny anecdotes he’ll need to tell you, or thinking about how you would love a pastry he’s eating if you were there with him. You have a life together.”

She tries not to add the, “A life that doesn’t include me,” but she fears it slips through her mental walls.

Jaskier sighs audibly. “He thinks of you all the time too.”

He shows her the way Geralt closes his eyes, breathing in deeply whenever they pass a lilac bush. He thinks of Geralt’s eyes tracking a dark-haired woman through the crowd, his expression falling when she turns around to reveal a pale, heart-shaped face with dark eyes. He shows her Geralt, his hair slick with his sweat and his eyes out of focus, clearly under the effects of some horrible venom, calling out her name while Jaskier clutches his hands and tries to soothe him.

“It took me years to get him to call me his friend.” There’s such exhaustion in the thought that Yennefer can’t help but feel a swell of pity. “And barely a year after knowing you, he’s in love with you. I don’t know how you do it.”

“It’s just lust, bardling.”

“You can look into his mind. You know that’s not true.”

“Just because he thinks it’s love doesn’t mean it is.” Blood trickles from Yennefer’s nose and the hands hovering in front of the statue tremble. It takes her a moment to remember that they’re her hands.

“It won’t last,” she adds. “It never does. He’s not the first man to believe himself in love with me. They eventually realize that I’m not the dream woman they’ve put on a pedestal and they turn on me.”

Istredd, Virfuril, so many others. It’s happened time and time again. But she knows it will hurt most of all when it’s Geralt turning on her.

“Geralt’s not like that. When he cares about someone, he doesn’t just stop. He tries so hard to act like the big, tough witcher, and it’s entirely nonsense.”

Yennefer tries to laugh, but she doesn’t have the breath for it. “Anyone who’s seen him with his horse could tell you that.”

“You know, I think you’re right. I’ve spent all this time worrying that it’s you he loves the most when in reality, it’s Roach who is the threat.”

“I’m less interested in biting your fingers off.”

“To her credit, she’s never held a knife to my balls. Though I think that’s more because of a lack of opposable thumbs than a lack of desire.”

Yennefer can feel the curse starting to weaken under the force of her magic. Maybe this will work. Maybe she’ll be able to get both of them out of this alive.

Her vision is starting to go blurry. The statue is suddenly much taller. With a jolt, she realizes that she’s fallen to her knees.

“You can still run,” Jaskier tells her, sounding desperate. “You can still save yourself.”

For the first time, she glances back at him. He’s still kneeling there, face pale and eyes too wide and bright. There’s a sword at his throat and Imogene stands directly behind him, certainly ready to use him as a human shield if Yennefer tries to attack her.

Suddenly, Jaskier cries out in agony, back arching in a way that human backs aren’t supposed to arch. Yennefer sees Imogene holding out a hand and demands, “What the fuck are you doing?”

“You’re distracted, Yennefer,” Imogene says icily. “I can tell the two of you are communicating when your focus should be entirely on the curse. Should I remove the distraction?”

“If you kill him, you lose all the leverage you have on me.” Yennefer’s voice doesn’t come out as forceful as she’d like. She’s having trouble focusing on Imogene. “And I will kill you.”

“So then I won’t kill him. Maybe I’ll just break his back. He’ll never walk or hold a lute again, but he’ll live.”

Jaskier moans, face screwed up in pain.

“Imogene, stop.” Yennefer tries to lurch to her feet, but she can’t. She crumples to the ground, barely managing to catch herself before she falls into the tomb. “Listen, you twat, I’m trying my hardest and I nearly had it before you started making threats. If you’d like to kill us and take over, be my guest, but then you’ll die finishing what I’ve started and we’ll all be dead.”

Imogene’s jaw works, but she releases Jaskier from the hold of her chaos. He sags into the grass and curls up into a ball, heaving with pained breaths.

“Jaskier?” Yennefer thinks.

Jaskier raises his head from the grass to look at her. His eyes are blazing with tears as the mercenary lays his blade against his throat.

“When this is over, you owe me a song,” she tells him and turns to throw everything she has at the cursed tomb.

***

Yennefer can tell that she’s dying. She can feel her heart stuttering erratically in her chest, her lungs working too hard to suck in too little air. She hurts like she hasn’t since the Ascension, her body suffused with a bone-deep agony that won’t let up, not even for a moment. She won’t be conscious for much longer, she knows. She would welcome unconsciousness if it didn’t mean failure. The curse is breaking apart under her magic, but not quickly enough. She’s dying far faster than the curse.

Behind her, Jaskier is yelling through his gag, still begging her to stop. Imogene has given up on trying to threaten him into silence.

Yennefer wonders how long it’s been. She wonders if it matters. She wonders if Geralt still lives. Maybe if he’s dead, his spirit is here somewhere, watching her fail his bard.

Behind her, there’s a howl of pain. Yennefer wrenches herself backwards, away from the tomb, and turns around. The mercenary who had his sword to Jaskier’s throat is clutching at the bloodied stump that was once his hand. Said hand lies in the grass a few feet away with the mercenary’s sword abandoned next to it, another, far finer sword sticking out of the ground.

If Yennefer were the crying type, she might burst into tears of relief. She’s not the crying type—nor does she have the energy left to cry—so she gasps, “Geralt.”

The second mercenary turns and charges Geralt comes vaulting over one of the nearby tombs, his silver sword in hand and a grimace of pure fury on his face. It’s a pathetically quick fight before Geralt decapitates the man with one swing of his sword and turns to face the surviving mercenary. Sobbing with pain, the one-handed man snatches his sword off the ground and lurches towards Geralt. Geralt backhands him so hard that teeth fly from his mouth as he goes to his knees, then drives the hilt of his sword against the mercenary’s temple. The man crumples, unconscious.

With a snarl, Geralt whirls on Imogene.

“Don’t come any closer!” Imogene shrieks, one hand wrapped around Jaskier’s throat as she hauls him backwards. Jaskier lets himself be dragged across the ground, eyes wild with panic. “I promise, witcher, I will kill him if you come near me.”

Geralt freezes, his eyes flicking between Imogene, Jaskier, and Yennefer. “If you hurt him, you won’t leave here alive.”

Imogene bares her teeth. “I’m just trying to save the man I love, but I wouldn’t expect a beast like you to understand that.”

“You have no idea how well I understand that.” Geralt glances over at Yennefer. She must look truly pathetic, because horror flashes across his face.

Imogene takes advantage of his moment of distraction, raising her hand to throw a spell.

Yennefer snarls and throws her own hand out with the last bit of strength she has left. Imogene shrieks as she’s lifted off the ground, jerking away from Geralt and Jaskier. She flies through the air, kicking and screaming, and lands against the cursed statue with a resounding crack. Both Imogene and the statue crumple to the ground. Imogene stares at Yennefer blankly, her eyes vacant and her neck hanging at an impossible angle.

“Yennefer!” Geralt comes rushing towards her. He must have cut through Jaskier’s bonds, because the bard stumbles after him, yanking the gag out of his mouth.

“I’m fine,” Yennefer tries to say, but words aren’t working right now. Her cheek is pressed to the grass, but she has no conscious memory of deciding to lie down.

“Hey, Yenn.” Geralt gathers her head into his lap. His hands are shaking. “Hey, you’re okay.”

“I’m not a fucking horse, Geralt,” she wants to say. Much to her consternation, words continue to not work.

“What happened?” Geralt asks Jaskier.

“Cursed tomb.” Jaskier grabs Yennefer’s hand, pressing his fingers to the pulse point on her wrist. “Imogene tried to force her to undo the curse, even though it was going to kill her. Fuck, I told her not to, Geralt.”

Geralt’s jaw works. “You’ll be okay,” he tells Yennefer. “You’re both okay.”

Yennefer opens her mouth to tell him that she knows that, thank you, but then darkness begins to cloud her vision. The last thing she’s aware of before unconsciousness steals over her is the fact that the cloud of malevolent magic from the tomb is gone.

***

Yennefer wakes to a horse chewing on her hair.

“Ugh.” She tries to push away its snout, but her arms are too weak. “I will turn you into a coat.”

“No, she won’t Roachie,” Jaskier calls. “Keep up the good work, girl. You’re doing great.”

“I have room in my wardrobe for two coats, bardling.”

“I have to say, your threats are more… threatening when you’re fully conscious.”

Yennefer leverages herself up onto her elbows to glare at him. “I’m conscious enough to skin you alive, you—”

“Jask, stop giving Yennefer a hard time.” Geralt appears out of nowhere, tugging Roach away from Yennefer’s hair.

Jaskier sniffs. “Fine. I suppose she did save my life.”

“A mistake I won’t make again.” Yennefer rubs her bleary eyes and forces herself to focus on her surroundings. Jaskier is sitting on the other side of a crackling campfire, lute slung across his lap. It’s full dark and they’re in the middle of the woods. Around them, insects hum.

“How are you feeling?” Geralt crouches down beside her, handing her a waterskin.

“Like shit.” She accepts it gratefully, taking a long sip. When she’s drunk her fill, she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and asks, “Where are we?”

“About two miles east of Fellston,” Geralt says.

“That close?” Yennefer doesn’t like the idea of being within easy riding distance of the marquess' estate.

“Didn’t want to ride any further, not with you unconscious. And they’re too busy at Fellston to send guards after us. The marquess is dead.”

“What?” Yennefer remembers the sudden absence of the curse. “How?”

“We didn’t get the full story,” Jaskier says. “Because we only stopped by the estate long enough to grab our things and get the fuck out of there. But it sounds like the marquess noticed Geralt leaving the hunting expedition, must have realized Geralt was onto him, and came galloping back to the estate to warn his lady love. Only, he got thrown from his horse and broke his neck instead.”

Yennefer lets out a hoarse laugh, letting her face drop into her hands. When she looks up, she finds Geralt and Jaskier both looking at her with concern. “It was all for nothing. Jaskier and I nearly got killed, and the marquess would have been dead and the curse completed before I managed to undo it.”

“I’m not crying any tears for him.” Carefully, Geralt tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear. “I could tell he was up to something as soon as we left on the hunting expedition. He was nervous, kept trying to keep me distracted.”

“I’m glad,” Yennefer says. “Because there was a trap for you somewhere along the route. You were supposed to die in a terrible accident.”

Geralt doesn’t look particularly surprised by that revelation, just resigned.

“We’re all alright.” Jaskier strums a chord on his lute. “That’s what matters.”

Geralt hums in agreement, looping an arm around Yennefer’s shoulders. She leans her head against him, letting her eyes fall closed. He smells unpleasantly of horse and onions, but he’s alive. She can feel his witcher slow heartbeat beneath her cheek.

It would be a perfect, peaceful moment, if not for the damn bard.

“There’s a song in this, I think,” Jaskier muses aloud. “Tragic lovers who know their days together are numbered because of a generational curse. But their love becomes something dark and eventually, their attempts to undo the curse get both of them killed. It’s almost romantic that they probably died within minutes of each other, don’t you think?”

Yennefer sighs. “They don’t deserve one of your songs, bardling.”

“Yennefer, that’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me.” She can hear the smile in his voice. “Just for that, I’m going to make the song I’m writing for you my best work yet.”

Yennefer’s eyes snap open. “You are not writing a song about me.”

He shoots her a shit-eating grin. “You asked me to.”

“Yes, because I thought I wouldn’t be alive to have to listen to it.”

“It’s too late.” Jaskier strums a few notes on his lute. “It’s already well underway. It just needs a few more stanzas and maybe some fine-tuning.”

“Bardling, I swear on all the gods—”

“I’m sorry, Yennefer, I can’t hear you over the sound of my composing.”

“Geralt,” Yennefer growls. “Please remind your bard of how mortal and easily killed he is.”

“Geralt, please remind the witch that there are people who pay me hundreds of crowns to write songs about them and she should be honored to be getting one for free.”

“Free? I nearly died for you, you pissant.”

Geralt starts shaking under Yennefer’s cheek. It takes her a moment to realize that he’s laughing at them.

“Going to go catch something for dinner." He drops a kiss on Yennefer's forehead and rises to his feet. He's still laughing, eyes crinkled with the kind of unabashed mirth Yennefer rarely sees him display, until he disappears from sight in the trees.

Jaskier and Yennefer stare after him. Finally, Jaskier asks, “Is he alright? He didn’t hit his head during his valiant rescue of us, did he?”

“Not that I noticed.” Yennefer shakes her head. “And I don’t think Imogene hit him with a spell.”

“No, I don’t believe so. He’s been acting perfectly normal up until now. Perhaps he’s just overly tired.”

“That must be it.” She studies the bard, taking in the shadows under his eyes, the ugly bruise on his cheek, and the rubbed raw skin around his wrists. “Are you okay?”

“Never better.” His answering smile is far too wide. When he sees she’s unconvinced, he sighs. “I thought that I was going to watch you die and then they were going to kill me too to get rid of the witness and that Geralt was either going to die alone in the woods somewhere or come back to find us dead.” His voice cracks. “Fuck, I was scared shitless.”

“So was I,” Yennefer admits.

Jaskier puts his lute down to scrub a hand over his face. “Thank you for not letting them kill me. But next time, just let them kill me. Don’t nearly die for me again.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” she says. “Next time, I will absolutely let you die.”

He looks at her with an expression that’s far too serious for his normally ridiculous face. “No, you won’t.”

She feels strangely exposed under his gaze. “I saw the way you looked at each other when you were dancing last night,” Imogene said when she was issuing her ultimatum. “I know what you are to each other.”

That makes one of us, Imogene, Yennefer thinks. Jaskier is an arrogant, pompous, vain peacock of a man who loves the sound of his voice far too much. He’s a bother and a pest. He’s utterly insufferable.

He also begged Yennefer to save herself, rather than save him. The sight of a sword at his throat scared her like nothing has in a long time.

“What you said earlier,” she starts to say.

Jaskier grimaces. “In my defense, I thought I was going to die. We’re all allowed to be a little melancholic when faced with imminent death.”

“Geralt does love you,” Yennefer tells him before he can get overly dramatic. “You make his life better by being in it. I don’t know how or why, but you do.”

A tiny smile flickers across his face. “So do you. He smiles more since he met you. Sleeps better too. I also don’t know how or why, but you seem to bring him peace.”

Yennefer’s throat feels too tight. She looks away.

“He needs both of us,” Jaskier says. “I think the loss of either of us would hurt him greatly.” He pauses. “My loss would hurt more, of course—”

“Bardling.”

“I’m sorry, Yennefer, but I’m feeling very warm and fuzzy towards you right now and it’s making me uncomfortable. They did hit me quite hard in the face back there. Maybe I’m concussed. Maybe my brain is bleeding and I’m dying.”

“A brain bleed could only be an improvement for you.”

“Fuck off.”

Yennefer laughs. A moment later, Jaskier joins in. They laugh for a long moment, the sound bouncing off the trees around them, for far longer than the conversation called for.

Finally, Jaskier calms down enough to ask, “Was Geralt right? Are you and I destined to be friends?”

“Gods, I hope not,” Yennefer says, only half-lying. “But if he is right, we can never tell him.”

“Well, of course not. He’d be insufferable.” Jaskier taps a finger against his lute. “That being said, if we are friends, I’m going to have to write you more than one song.”

“That’s really not necessary.”

“I’m afraid it is. That’s just how I show my love for my friends.”

“I take it you don’t have many friends, then?”

“Rude and uncalled for, witch. I didn’t say all the songs had to be complimentary.”

“That’s a lovely lute you have there. How would you like it if I turned it into something more useful? Like a carrot for Roach?”

“Don’t you… you wouldn’t dare… Geralt!”

***

Yennefer falls asleep not long after eating the squirrels Geralt brought back for dinner, regrettably before she works up the energy to turn Jaskier’s lute into a carrot. When she wakes, the fire is banked, the night has cooled considerably, and Geralt and Jaskier are asleep next to her. Yennefer is curled against Geralt’s side with her head on his shoulder, one of his arms wrapped around her waist. On Geralt’s other side, Jaskier snores loudly, the sound barely muffled by the fact that his face is squished against Geralt’s bicep.

She studies both of them for a moment, feeling far too full of two many things. Tomorrow, they’ll have to get far from Fellston. Conversations will need to be had. She’ll have to find a way to distract Jaskier from his songwriting goals. Perhaps by feeding him to a wyvern, though that would make Geralt grumpy.

Jaskier snorts and reaches across Geralt, his hand settling on Yennefer’s waist. She goes still. His hand is a heavy and strangely familiar weight. She can feel the rasp of his calluses through the thin fabric of the chemise he leant her to sleep in. It’s odd, she thinks, that he would reach out for her in sleep, like her presence comforts him.

She shrugs his hand off. A moment later, he grumbles in his sleep and his hand lands in the same spot.

Yennefer sighs and cuddles closer to Geralt, resigning herself to dealing with clingy bards for a night. She can always kill him in the morning.

***

She doesn’t kill him in the morning.

***

Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed, please consider leaving comments or kudos on AO3.

Tag list: @kueble @mollymawkwrites @feral-jaskier @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde @dawnofbards @thisislisa @mosaicscale @tsukiwolf42 @rockysstupidity @fontegagrilledcheese @kuripon @help-i-need-a-cool-username @julek

#the witcher #pre-yennskier #pre-geraskefer #jaskier x yennefer #geralt x jaskier x yennefer #geralt of rivia #jaskier #yennefer of vengerberg #ghost's fic #ghost's writing

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blackberrywars · 2 years ago

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Campfire - Jaskier/Suffering

SFW prompt fill for day 2 of the @witchersummercamp event!!! Many thanks to my lovely beta @hellinglasses and a big fuck-you to netflix

Rating: T

Words: 2848

Pairing: Pre-Relationship Jaskier/Geralt/Yennefer, Geralt/Yennefer, Jaskier & Ciri

Tags: Angst, Arguing, Self-Worth Issues, Emotional Trauma, Physical Trauma, Hunger, Protective!Jaskier, Toxic Relationships, Parenting, Geralt Always Says The Worst Possible Thing, Yennefer Is Defensive

Summary: Jaskier has a front-row seat to watch the two people he loves most destroy each other, and as much as he hates it, he can’t leave Ciri alone when Geralt and Yennefer are so destructive. He lights the fire himself and gives them a piece of all of our minds.

Read on AO3

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Keep reading

#reblogging with my delightful beta #and her delightful tags #jaskier #ciri #geralt #yennefer #pre-geraskefer #angst #witchersummercamp

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team-science · 3 years ago

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Chapters: 1/4 Fandom: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier, Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier, Jaskier & Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier/Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier/Yennefer of Vengerberg Characters: Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier, Yennefer of Vengerberg, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon Summary:

It has been one year since the battle at Kaer Mohren.

Jaskier's travels have taken him all over the Continent, and he writes to share a festival and party with Ciri, Yennefer, and Geralt. Far off place, promises to be the safest place on the Continent for them to come, get away from it all for a little while. Can't be any trouble in sight, Jaskier promises.

Of course, Jaskier has a secret motive for this seemingly harmless trip. Can Geralt, Yennefer, and Ciri get him out of trouble once he's got himself into it?

Excerpt Chapter One:

They can’t stay at Kaer Mohren forever. This is the perfect excuse.

On top of being cold, disgusting, dreary, and overall a pitiful excuse for a place to stay, it also makes them nothing short of sitting ducks. One too many prying eyes up in the mountains, and all of the Continent will be on them.

Which, quite frankly, is an absolute relief for Yennefer. Between the wary looks of the Witchers she’s healed and the accusing stares of the Witchers whose names she’s refused to even learn, she knows she’s not welcome here by its residents. And Geralt---

Geralt. His gaze speaks volumes but says absolutely nothing at all.

He could trust her again, she thinks. One day. If she starts to teach Ciri well enough, if she shows the girl she’s really and truly on her side. If she just gives the girl everything in the way she always thought she wanted everything then, maybe then, she might be able to earn his trust again.

There is a difference between reasonable and realistic expectations, Jaskier would say. He would say it over a glass of wine, while sitting his feet on a stack of her books. He would tell her that earning forgiveness over time was a totally reasonable expectation. After all, her and Geralt were practically immortal. She had all of the future to prove to him that she could do it.

But is it realistic? Can the Witcher really and truly forgive?

#yennefer #jaskier #geralt #the witcher #yennskier #geraskefer #geraskeir #the witcher season 2 #pre-ot3 #i don't know i just had to write a lot of fanfiction okay

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jaskierslastbraincell · 4 years ago

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He's wearing a dark leather band around his wrist, under the sleeve of his dark gray shirt, and she knows it's not the kind edgy kids wear to their first metal concert. The stitching is too neat, the leather too high quality, and the ring on a side too sturdy to be decorative. This is meant to use. To be used. She must be staring too much, because he catches her gaze and there's a warm cocky smile spreading on his face.

"Do you like it ?"

"Is it one of mine ?"

Geralt shakes his head, the smugness in his smile slightly fading. Good.

"Good. Don't touch my stuff."

"Is Jaskier part of your stuff ?"

"Don't bring Julian into this."

"Yes Ma'am."

His voice isn't the mocking tone she braced for, instead it's threading on the edge of raw, and sends a flash of affectionate cruelty down her spine, along with the urge to yank him by the leather cuff, quickly smothered.

"You have no idea what you're asking for."

"How can you be so sure I don't ?"

"I know."

She doesn't.

She doesn't even want to be right.

But she'd be a fool if she took him at face value and she's not a fool. Too many men thinking it's easy, that it's just playing dressup, taking a high pitched baby voice and simply letting her spank them before they can fuck her. Too many men thinking they can turn her, bidding their time before they try to get her on her knees because that's the most humiliating they can think of.

That's why she stopped doing it for free. Of course some clients are like that too, but those are just that, stupid one-time clients she can put on a blacklist to warn colleagues and sisters. Stupid clients don't leave her angry at the whole world and feeling like she's too twisted to be loved by anyone but herself.

She doesn't want Geralt to be like them, but it doesn't matter what she wants. What matters is that there is a man, standing in front of her, trying to bait her, testing her boundaries, that's what matters, not how sincere he looks and not how much she wants to bite. Metaphorically and litteraly.

"You're right."

Unexpected.

"I don't know what to expect. I'm not even sure what I want. But this..."

He brushes his fingertips upon the fabric that surrounds the leather cuff, with such care and deference it makes Yennefer want to pin both his hands behind his back.

"Looks important to you. And I think it would help me understand you and Jaskier better."

An icy shiver shakes her spine at the mention of Julian's name, and she holds back a snarl. She'd warned him to leave Julian out of it. Baiting her into play is a thing, a thing she is used to deal with, but Julian is different. Julian and his stupid little fuzzy heart are not to be toyed with.

Geralt doesn't seem fazed by her reaction, and caries on with that same calm and cautious tone she wants to hate.

"You look important to him, too."

"That's none of your business."

"You both look at me like you want to eat me whole, and he looks at you like you're ripping his heart appart when he catches you. I think it's my business to know what I'm getting myself into."

#Fic #Extract #Pre-#Geraskefer #Mention of sex work #Gods I struggle writing Yenn's pov #But I love her so much

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limerental · 4 years ago

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the sheer volume of aus my brain juggles on any one day is SO MANY but it’s particularly high today

#i counted and there were fucking... like five or six aus discussed today #anarchist au #horse instructor autistic geralt au which was attached to the anarchist au #fake marriage scam yennskier #soft modern geraskefer ft memes and snuggling au #goddess yen and worshipper jaskier au but meets my god jaskier pre transformation yen au

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littlestsnicket · 1 year ago

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a sweet kiss (but without the pain and irony this time)

this actually may not be a repost? (if i posted it before i didn’t tag it properly…) anyway, look it’s my first witcher fic! sort of pre-geraskefer

snippet:

She places a hand on Geralt’s steady, muscular shoulder and he tips his head back to look at her, careful not to unbalance Jaskier who has sprawled to let most of his weight rest against Geralt’s side. She kisses him chastely on the mouth and she’s certain he would blush if he were capable of it. Yennefer repeats the gesture on Jaskier, smirking dangerously before she presses their lips together. Jaskier lets his head tip back against Geralt’s shoulder and graces her with a brilliantly guileless smile and she cannot help but smile back at him. She doesn’t think she’s ever smiled sincerely at the bard before.

#the witcher #repostober 2023 #geraskefer

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dreamofbecoming · 2 years ago

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bitten lips and broken hands

the incomparable @wren-of-the-woods tagged me in a totally innocuous wip ask game, and although i had no current wips, this apparently triggered my latent gifted child programming and i ended up staying up all night to write this

so thank you wren from the bottom of my heart, and i hope all y’all enjoy whatever the fuck this is

geraskier/implied pre-geraskefer

rating: t

wc: 6500

ao3

Geralt is drunk. Properly drunk, too, not just the lights are all brighter and the jokes all funnier drunk. Perhaps not quite oh dear, is that the floor? How did it get all the way up he- drunk, but certainly in the vicinity of I might not remember deciding to homestead in this ditch on the side of the road, but surely it was a good decision and I stand by it drunk.

In his defense, he’s quite sure he’s earned it. They all have, after everything. So many of his brothers dead, blood soaking into the stone floor again, throwing him back to the Sacking...he snatches the bottle from Lambert and downs another swig of White Gull to cut off that line of thinking. That’s why they’re getting drunk, to stop thinking about it. Getting maudlin, while on brand, defeats the whole purpose. Ciri is safe, gone to bed hours ago, and he got Yen settled into an empty room (near Vesemir’s, who promised to keep an ear out in case she tried anything unsavory) after supper before heading back down to get pissed with his brothers, so there’s nothing keeping him from what he’s definitely earned.

Vartok and Tolbert are already passed out, drooling on the floor in front of the fire, but Geralt and Eskel and Lambert have at least another bottle to get through.

“So whas- wash- what’s the deal with your bard, anyway? The fuck’d you bring him here for?”

“Lam, don’ be a fuckin’ prick, hey? Bard’s nice enough. Likes Lil Bleater! ‘s good people!”

“’as how I know he’s mad! Nobob- boby- nobody likes that bloody monster! Fuckin’ menace she is.”

“Don’ fuckin’ insult my damn goat, you ass! Yer jus’ cross she got into your room las’ year. ‘s yer own fault! Told you! Shut the door! Pass the damn Gull, Wolf, quit hoggin’ it.”

“Those were bran’ new boots! Fuckin’ beast! You still owe me new ones, ya prick. The fuck was I talking about anyway?”

Geralt is only half listening to the familiar bickering, so Eskel has to stop guzzling from the rapidly emptying bottle to answer. “Bard,” he nods decisively, going back to the bottle.

“Right! Bard! The fuck were you thinking, Pretty Boy? Fancy type like that, all, all frilly and shit, what good is he in a wisher- witcher keep? Tossing rocks about in the middle of fights? ‘ sides, dunno why he’s still hangin’ around you anyway, din’ you chase him off? Don’ belong here, that one.”

“I know,” Geralt laments. He does know. It’s why he never invited Jaskier here to winter with him, despite the many and myriad hints he pretended not to pick up on over the years. He knew from the moment he met Jaskier that this place, with its ghosts and bloodstains and drafty corridors and broken edges and broken witchers, was no place for someone like his the bard. Someone bright and vibrant and joyful. Kaer Morhen was none of those things. Even whole and full of life, it had been a cruel and a hard place. A place of dead children and frightened youths and cold men. No, he had never wanted to see Jaskier in these halls if he could help it.

“Din’ have much of a choice, y’know. Yen ‘s all-” He waves his hand vaguely about in an approximation of the chaos that was the days following the mess at Nenneke’s. “Hadta get Ciri back. Wouldn’ta brought him here otherwise.”

In hindsight, he’ll probably blame the drink for the fact that he didn’t register the familiar scent of sweat and parchment and almond oil, but the truth is, he’s so lost in thoughts of Jaskier already that he assumes it’s only in his head.

It is not. Eskel whaps him on the shoulder in alarm, trying to cut him off, but it’s too late. Jaskier stands motionless in the doorway for a moment before he whirls on his heel and vanishes into the hall, the tray of food he had obviously very thoughtfully prepared for them clattering to the ground behind him.

Geralt abruptly feels very sober. Jaskier’s face, eyes huge and brimming with tears, expression utterly crushed, is going to haunt him, he knows. It’s like the mountain all over again.

“...whoops?” Lambert tries, though he does look genuinely contrite, for Lambert values of contrite, anyway. Granted, he’s already out of his seat and gathering up the scattered food onto the discarded platter, shoveling a roll into his mouth straight off the floor, so Geralt takes his remorse with several grains of salt.

“G’wan, you hafta fix it! Go talk to him!” Eskel shoves him off the couch, gesturing frantically at the doorway where Jaskier disappeared from.

Geralt’s reflexes are slow, and his brain hasn’t quite caught up with the situation, but as the shock starts to wear off, hot shame followed by cold dread settles into his limbs, sending him stumbling down the hall towards the bedrooms. The molten pit of shame in his gut writhes even harder when he realizes he doesn’t know which room Jaskier has been staying in, hasn’t even gone to see him once since arriving, not even to check on him after the battle. Gods, he’s an awful friend.

Shoving down feelings that will do him no good right now, he tries to shake off some of the lingering alcohol haze not burned off by adrenaline and focus on Jaskier’s scent as it leads him through the winding corridors of the keep, tainted as it is by the scent of saltwater tears and moldy grief.

He finds him on one of the lower levels, in a cramped little room off a side hallway without even a hearth. There are no torches lit, but a magelight Yen must have cast sometime before supper glows over the desk, though why she would use her freshly-restored, still-regenerating power on something like that, Geralt isn’t sure.

What’s worse, Jaskier is packing.

To be fair, there isn’t much to be packed, but he’s carefully stacking notebooks into a satchel Geralt recognizes as dwarven design, which he assumes Yarpen and his people gave to him on the way across the Continent.

“Jas-”

“I hope one more night won’t be too much of an imposition,” he interrupts. “Yen’s already asleep, I checked, and after what she went through today, it seemed unchivalrous to wake her just to ask her for a portal off the mountain. You have my word I’ll be-” Jaskier’s voice, already thin and warbling from tears, breaks for a moment before he recovers, “I’ll be off your hands just as soon as possible. I never intended to intrude on a place I...I don’t belong.”

His back is to the witcher, and Geralt can see the quiver in his shoulders as he grips the desk with white knuckles, the strain of holding himself together causing him to shake where he stands. His choice of phrasing does not go unnoticed, hitting its mark like Geralt is sure it was meant to. It twists in his belly like poisoned dagger, burning and tugging.

“Jas that wasn’t- I didn’t- fuck. Fuck! I’m too fucking drunk for this.” He finds himself all at once overwhelmed, the grief and the shock and the guilt and the fear and the fucking White Gull and now the thought of the inevitable loss of Jaskier all running into each other and piling up and taking his legs out from under him. He sits down hard on the bed, his face in his hands.

There’s a long pause, then a rustling and a clinking sound he barely registers, before Jaskier’s voice, much close than before, says, “Here.”

When he looks up, the bard is standing before him, eyes red and cheeks tear-tracked, expression hard. He’s holding out a vial. Geralt takes it on instinct, body not needing input from his brain to trust that anything Jaskier gives him is safe to consume.

“It’s White Honey, not Wives’ Tears, but it should still help.”

“Where- why? How?”

Jaskier shrugs. “Guess I never got out of the habit of carrying the basics. Vesemir let me nick a few from the stores here, since all my things in Oxenfurt have probably been picked off by now.”

Bewildered, Geralt drinks the potion down. It isn’t as instantaneous as Tears would be, but alcohol is close enough to toxicity that he still feels his head start to clear. There’s so much he wants to address about everything Jaskier just said, but he has no idea where to start.

“Didn’t mean it like that, y’know. I swear. I didn’t.”

“Forgive me if that doesn’t make me feel better, Geralt. How the fuck did you mean it, then? How exactly am I meant to take hearing that I don’t belong here, and you wouldn’t have brought me if you had another choice?”

Fuck. That does sound really bad out loud. Geralt never meant for him to hear any of that, but that’s no excuse.

“’s not- ugh. It’s not that you don’t- it’s here, Jas, not you. Here doesn’t belong with...fuck. I hate this. You know I’m no good at this!”

Jaskier continues to lean against the desk, arms crossed. He raises one eyebrow, and Geralt knows no help is coming. He isn’t being let off the hook this time. He puts his face back in his hands with a groan. He almost wishes he hadn’t taken the Honey, maybe alcohol would loosen his tongue enough to help explain to Jaskier why he should want to get off this mountain as fast as possible, why belonging here was the last thing Geralt wants for him, wants for anyone he loves.

(He balks a little at the word, but inside his own mind, at least for now, it’s easy enough to ignore. And it’s not like he hasn’t know its true for years; its just one of the many things he decided a long time ago to pretend weren’t happening to him. The Child Surprise and the djinn wish came back to bite him in the ass, but surely it can’t hurt to ignore this lesson one more time, right?)

“You don’t belong in this place, just like- just like you don’t belong with me, ok?”

The moldy, rotten scent of grief and hurt swells so quickly Geralt almost sneezes. He looks up in alarm to see Jaskier staggering back towards the wall, away from Geralt, a look on his face like the witcher had just carved up his sister in front of him. He looks gutted. Fuck, that hadn’t come out right either, had it?

“Well, witcher, that certainly does clear things up. I suppose I should thank you for refraining from screaming my faults in my face this time. I apologize for having inflicted my presence on you for so long, then. Message received.” Geralt winces at the epithet, always before so soft in Jaskier’s mouth, so full of affection and admiration, now sharp and bloody on his lips.

“Wait, no, fuck, that isn’t what I meant!”

“No need to explain any further. You can go back to your brothers now, I’m sure they’re missing you. I can finish packing on my own. I’ll be gone in the morning, you won’t have to suffer me any further.”

“Jaskier, would you fucking listen to me? I don’t mean I don’t want you here! Of course I want you here! I always want you here!” Geralt is shouting now, desperation flooding him with adrenaline that feels remarkably like familiar, comfortable anger, and he leans into it.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean? You just told me I don’t belong here in your home, I don’t belong by your side, you only allowed me here because you had no choice, your brother called me useless and you flat-out agreed with him, how fucking dare you tell me you want me here! It’s cruel to toy with me like this, Geralt! You’re many things, but I’ve never known you to be cruel before, so please just go and let me take myself off your fucking hands in peace!”

Geralt feels frantic, out of control. Jaskier is slipping through his fingers and he doesn’t know which words to pick to stop it from happening. The thought that just an hour ago, he was planning out the best way to take the bard down the mountain as soon as the snow cleared, to send him back to a better, safer, happier life, a life without Geralt in it, doesn’t occur to him. Everything is blanked out by terror, leaving only the singular thought that he has to make Jaskier stop looking like that, stop smelling like that, has to fix what he keeps breaking.

“You don’t belong with me because you belong somewhere better, you fucking moron!”

Hm. Not quite the tone he was going for, but closer than before, at least.

Jaskier has stopped moving altogether, and is staring at him in something like shocked incredulity. At least he’s stopped shoving potions into his satchel, which is something.

Geralt can see Jaskier trying to formulate a response, emotions shifting rapidly across his face as his scent fluctuates wildly, pingponging from rage to hope to hurt and back again. Eventually he seems to settle on flat indignation.

“I’m going to need you to elaborate on that, Geralt. I have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about.” Based on the expression on his face, Geralt doubts that, but apparently being forced to articulate himself is his punishment for being an ass.

“You don’t- you aren’t- ugh. You’re good, Jaskier! You’re light and laughter and softness. You’re pretty silks and rich foods and shiny jewelry. You play for kings and queens, you have Oxenfurt panting after you every year to teach more classes, you’ve had half the pretty people on the Continent in your bed, and every one of them has begged you not to leave! I’ve known it since we met, Jaskier, you don’t belong on the Path. You don’t belong in the damp and the muck and the blood and the shit. You don’t belong with a fucking Butcher! I tried so hard, Jaskier, for so long, to make you leave. To make you see that you deserve more. Deserve better. I don’t know why the fuck you kept coming back, but I thought after the mountain I had finally done it, I had finally made you see. But I was weak and when Yen fucked me over I got scared, I came to you because you’re the only person I know who would keep coming back, who I could trust with Ciri because you kept picking me for all those years when I didn’t deserve it. But you were supposed to be gone! You were supposed to be safe! You should have been happy in Oxenfurt without me, and instead I dragged you back into this nightmare and almost got you killed and now you’re stuck in this horrible keep full of the ghosts of dead witchers and my idiot dickhead brothers and I can’t even get my shit together enough to be nice to you! Why the fuck are you here, Jaskier? Why the fuck do you want to belong here? It’s fucking terrible here! You should be somewhere better!”

Geralt collapses back onto the side of the bed, having gotten up to pace at some point during that monologue, most of which was less conscious speech and more “ripped straight out of his ribcage by some unseen force.” Fuck, he’s actually winded. He hasn’t shouted that much without stopping since the Trials, he doesn’t think.

Jaskier is staring again, eyebrows nearly touching his hairline and his mouth hanging open. Geralt very carefully does not think about Jaskier’s open mouth, in much the same way he has carefully not thought about Jaskier’s mouth for the last 15 years or so.

It takes a moment for Jaskier to gather his thoughts, and Geralt thinks it might be the longest moment of his life thus far. He fights the urge to fidget with his hands, a nervous habit he didn’t realize he had picked up from the bard until after the mountain, and thereafter made a deliberate effort to squash.

Finally Jaskier seems to come to some internal decision, and he nods to himself before meeting Geralt’s eyes squarely. “I have a number of questions, Geralt, but the first and most consequential is this: who the fuck do you think you are?”

“Wh- huh?” Apparently Geralt has spent all of the words he had available, which isn’t terribly surprising given the circumstances. That isn’t where he expected Jaskier’s reaction to go, though.

“I said, witcher, who the fuck do you think you are, to decide for me the company I should keep and the kind of life I should lead?”

Well, shit. “That’s not- I wasn’t-”

“Because the last person to try that was the Count de fucking Lettenhove, darling, and I assure you, it didn’t work for him, either.”

Geralt blinks. His brain latches onto the pet name, which seems like it must be an improvement over witcher spat with such vitriol, even if it still sounds distinctly like an insult in that tone. He fights to regain some of his footing in this conversation, which is rapidly changing directions to somewhere he did not expect and is not prepared for, to no avail. Luckily, or perhaps unluckily, Jaskier isn’t done.

“Do you really think me so shallow? So soft? That I’m nothing but silks and sex and a pretty face? Do you think the university wants me to teach because I’m- what was it Lambert called me? Frilly? Do you know what I was doing in Oxenfurt before you found me? Because I assure you, dear heart, I wasn’t fucking lounging about on featherbeds drinking Toussainti wine!”

Geralt’s brow furrows in confusion, which seems to stoke the bard’s ire from embers to a conflagration.

“You fucker, that is what you fucking thought! You never even fucking asked, you utter ass! I was bloody tortured for you and you want to send me back because, what, you think whenever I’m not with you I’m fulfilling my life’s fucking purpose as a vapid, foppish little brat? You don’t fucking know me at all, do you? I can’t fucking believe you right now!” Jaskier’s face is flushed with anger, teeth bared and scent spiking burnt and bitter.

Geralt’s thoughts have all screeched to a grinding halt, the room fading out around him as his focus narrows completely to the man before him.

“Tortured?” His voice quavers in a way that would probably embarrass him if he could think about anything but Jaskier’s voice on a loop in his head, tortured tortured tortured. He’s had this nightmare before, a dozen times and more.

Jaskier seems to bring himself up short, confusion flashing briefly across his face. “I- yes? Yen said she told you...I thought that’s why you came for me?”

“She said. She. She said you were “in some trouble.” The guard outside the jail said you were locked up for peeping. I just assumed…”

Jaskier’s face has gone flat and blank again, and the rotten smell of hurt is swirling in the air again, mixing unpleasantly with the burnt anger smell and turning Geralt’s stomach.

“You just thought I had done something stupid and selfish and probably involving my dick, and never thought to question it or ask me if I was alright.”

“I- yes. I mean no, I- I should have- I- Jaskier, please, what happened?” He isn’t proud of the pleading note in his voice, but the longer he waits for answers the stronger the urge gets to throw himself off the tallest tower the keep has, or grab Jaskier around the middle and wrap him in blankets and never let him out of his sight, neither of which he thinks would go over well with the other residents.

A note of uncertainty creeps into Jaskier voice and demeanor, which Geralt finds somehow more painful than the anger. “I- there was a mage. He was looking for you. Well, I think ultimately he was looking for Ciri, but he knew he needed to find you first. And I guess I’ve done quite a good job tying our reputations together over the years, and I wasn’t exactly hard to track down, so I guess…”

A mage…“Firefucker.”

Jaskier huffs a laugh, a bitter, unhappy thing. “An appropriate moniker. I see you ran into him eventually.” He looks up in sudden alarm. “I didn’t- Geralt, I didn’t tell him anything. I swear I didn’t. I mean, I said you told me of a witcher keep, but I told him that the fortress in the mountains was a story I made up, and even if he took that and ran with it, I never even said which mountains! I promise, Geralt, I’d have died before I let him hurt you, or Ciri, I swear it.”

Geralt isn’t sure how many times his heart can break in a single day, in a single conversation. Surely it can’t be many more after this, can it?

“I...I’m not worried about that, Jaskier. In fact, if anything like that ever happens in the future, you tell them everything. Whatever they want to know. You tell them everything you know, before you let them hurt you, Jaskier, please, promise me you’ll tell them.”

Jaskier’s eyes seem older than Geralt has ever seen them, full of a boundless sadness he never wants his bard to have to feel ever again. “You know I can’t promise that, my dear. If I had to do it over, I’d do it all again. I’d suffer him burning my fingers clean off before I let him anywhere near you.”

Geralt reaches for Jaskier’s hand automatically, only realizing at the last moment that he might not welcome the touch. He withdraws his hand reluctantly, trying to subtly angle his head instead to see Jaskier’s fingers where they’re tucked under his crossed arms.

“Are you- did they- how-” Luckily Jaskier seems to have retained his fluency in Geraltese, and holds out his right hand for inspection. The skin is shiny and red, obviously burned, but definitely in the later stages of healing. There are no open sores or blisters, and he winces in discomfort but not pain when he stretches the mottled skin by splaying his fingers out.

“Yennefer was kind enough to take a look at them earlier, once we were sure none of you were being stoic idiots and hiding injuries. They’ll be alright eventually, she thinks. And it isn’t like I have a lute to play at the moment, anyway, so it’s no great hardship to rest them while they heal. I had some trouble writing earlier, but I didn’t put all that effort in school into being able to write with either hand for nothing. You needn’t worry about me, Geralt. I’m fine, I promise.”

Geralt is quite sure he isn’t fine at all. None of this is fine. Every part of this is setting off a screaming klaxon in his head of wrongWrongWRONG and he has no idea how to fix any of it. The choice of room suddenly makes a great deal more sense, though, as does the magelight. Geralt feels a sudden, fierce rush of gratitude for Yen. Even though he’s still furious with her, and it’ll be a long time before he trusts her the way he once did, she’s obviously been taking care of Jaskier where he has failed utterly in doing so, and he’s desperately thankful that at least his inattention hasn’t left Jaskier completely alone. He isn’t sure when the two of them got as close as they clearly are, but upon reflection, he finds no jealousy, only gratefulness and a hint of chagrin that he has so clearly failed where the two of them have succeeded in making each other happy.

Jaskier is still holding his injured hand out between them. Geralt moves slowly, waiting for any sign that Jaskier doesn’t want him near, reaching out to grasp it gently, careful of the inflamed skin. Jaskier lets him, sitting down beside him on the edge of the mattress.

“I’m sorry, Jaskier. I’m sorry I sent you away, I’m sorry I wasn’t there to protect you from this. I’m sorry you were hurt because of me. This is the opposite of what I wanted. I hoped you would be safer without me. Happier. This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“There you go again, martyring yourself on the altar of other people’s choices. When will you learn, Geralt? You’re so desperate to push away anyone who gets close, because you think you’re some kind of curse on our lives. That’s bollocks. We stay because we want to. We sacrifice because we want to. We risk danger because we want to. Because being around you is worth it. We’re not asking for protection, or saving, or glitz and glamor. We’re only asking to stay. Because we want to. Because you’re worth it, you unbelievable moron. Stop trying to make everyone else’s choices for them, for once.”

He isn’t sure he can wrap his head around that right now, so he doesn’t try, but he does tuck it close to his heart for safekeeping, to turn it over in his hands later like a precious stone. He’s still holding Jaskier’s hand, and he squeezes gently for lack of a better response.

“I am sorry, you know. For what I said in Caingorn. It wasn’t true. None of it. I shouldn’t have lashed out when you were just trying to help.”

“You know it was never about what you said, right?”

Geralt makes a questioning noise, and Jaskier rolls his eyes.

“I’ve known you for 25 years, shithead, you don’t think I know how you get when you’re angry? You don’t think I can tell when you’re pissed at yourself and taking it out on whatever’s nearby? You think I haven’t heard worse insults from you than a bunch of blatant falsehoods and a melodramatic declaration of never wanting to see me again? Please, I got more cutting rebukes from my kid cousins growing up. Yes, it was shitty, and yes, it stung in the moment, but I never took it to heart.”

Fearing to know, but needing the answer all the same, Geralt asks, “What, then? I heard the song, you know.” The sharp intake of breath tells him Jaskier knows which song he means. “In Aedirn, in some backwater town. There was some nobody bard there, but even if he performed it terribly, I could tell it was yours. I had thought about looking for you once I got Ciri settled, but when I heard that song...I knew there was no fixing it. I knew you hated me properly, after that. So if it wasn’t what I said, what was it?”

Geralt hears the hitch in Jaskier’s breath and smells the salt of his tears, but he can’t bring himself to look up for this. He can’t bear to be looking into those blue eyes he loves so dearly as Jaskier explains how Geralt managed to destroy the best thing in his long, wretched life. He does hold his hand a little tighter, and hopes it’s enough to keep him here.

“I’m sorry for that. I needed to write it, but I should never have played it for anyone. I never meant to, really. You never should have heard it, and I’m sorry you had to. I was angry when I wrote it, and bitter, and...well. Heartbroken, I suppose. It’s no excuse, though.”

Geralt has a lot of questions about that, actually, but he still needs an answer to the one he already asked. “Why did you write it, then? If it wasn’t...what was it, Jaskier? What did I do?”

“You didn’t come back.”

He does look up then, confused, searching Jaskier’s face for clarity. He looks haunted, and desperately sad. He apparently reads Geralt’s need for clarification on his face, and continues.

“It was hardly the first time you got angry and took it out on me because I was the closest target. Not that that’s a great pattern in itself,” Geralt winces in agreement and apology, “but it wasn’t anything I wasn’t used to. I knew the routine- you get mad, you lash out, you cool off, you give me the biggest portion of supper or a sweetbun from the market or swing towards a town sooner than we have to instead of apologizing out loud, I forgive you, we move on.

“I figured I would head back to the camp, let you cool off for a few hours, and then try again. Of course, then I talked to Borch and got the bones of what had happened, and I realized it was bigger than I’d thought, and you might need longer to calm down, so when I realized you weren’t coming back right away, I managed to tag along with the dwarves on the way down. I grabbed the essentials out of Roach’s packs and set up at the inn at the foot of the mountain. I’m not sure if you noticed, but I left nearly all our coin with you. I only took enough for a night’s room and supper, since I was too tired to play after the hike down.

“I waited for you, Geralt. I stayed posted up there for three weeks. When you never came, I thought maybe you had just needed even more time alone, so once I’d overstayed my welcome there I started making my way towards Oxenfurt- the long way, mind, I swung all the way inland to Ard Carriagh, hoping to catch you on your way home for the winter. I made sure to be as loud and ostentatious as I could, so you’d be able to track me down when you were ready. Months I waited, Geralt. Months.

“I didn’t accept that you weren’t coming back for me until spring. That’s when I gave up.” Geralt’s heart cracks for what must be the dozenth time tonight, but he doesn’t dare interrupt. “I ended up at the Seat Of Friendship, looking for some kind of community, of purpose, to fill the space you left. That’s when I wrote- well. That’s when I wrote that song. And it was good, there. I missed you, I was hurt, but I felt safe, and appreciated, and understood. It was like being a student again, surrounded by other artists, all feeding off each other’s creative energy. And then…” He takes a deep, shuddering breath, and clutches Geralt’s hand tight enough to hurt anyone who wasn’t a witcher.

“It was a massacre, Geralt. It was like nothing I’ve ever experienced. I didn’t- I couldn’t-” He breaks off again, choking on a sob. Unable to stand it any longer, Geralt tucks an arm around his shoulders, pulling him tentatively closer. Jaskier crumples, collapsing into Geralt’s chest and clutching at his tunic as he sobs into his neck. Geralt rubs soothing circles into Jaskier’s back, like he used to sometimes when they shared a bedroll and Jaskier would wake them both with nightmares of a childhood he refused to discuss.

Long minutes later, Jaskier’s weeping slows, cries quieting to whimpers. He draws back from Geralt’s shoulder enough to swipe the sleeve of his doublet over his face, blotchy and red and tear-stained as it is. Geralt is reluctant to move his arm from around Jaskier’s shoulders, but luckily Jaskier only settles more comfortably into his side, still sniffling. Geralt savors the solid warmth of him against his side as he waits for him to be ready to continue.

“There was nothing I could do to save them. I barely made it out alive myself. I’ve never felt so fucking helpless, Geralt. So useless. I had to do something. I’d have gone mad if I didn’t. So, I took some of the coin from my father’s coffers, and bought a tavern in Oxenfurt, right on the pier. I managed to leverage my spywork to coax some more coin out of the Redanian Crown, and used that to set up a smuggling network with some old connections from my school days and a handful of likeminded survivors of Bleobheris, and I became the Sandpiper.

“The song was never meant to be public, truly. Right after I bought the pub, before the network was fully set up, I was...struggling. Owning a bar means pretty much unlimited access to alcohol and I...well. I don’t remember a lot of those first few weeks, really. I woke up one particular morning with no memory of the night before, until I was playing my set that night and people started requesting Burn, Butcher, Burn. Apparently I’d been feeling especially maudlin the night before and I played it while I was blackout drunk. There was a witcher in town, as I recall. Something about a monster in the sewers under the university, I was trying not to pay a lot of attention. He was a Bear, if the rumors were correct, but still close enough to set off unwanted memories, and send me to the bottom of several bottles.”

Guilt and resentment war for dominance in Geralt’s gut, churning violently. He wants to stop Jaskier, doesn’t want to hear any more, but he can’t, and he knows he shouldn’t.

“It was never meant to get out. My life’s work has been erasing the Butcher of Blaviken from history entirely. I was angry, Geralt, I am angry, but I never wanted to use that name against you. Never that. I am truly sorry for that.”

Geralt can hardly believe that after everything Jaskier has just explained, all the anguish Geralt had caused with his selfish, childish actions, that Jaskier is still apologizing to him. Sure, he hates that fucking song, but it isn’t like he hasn’t earned the name, both times apparently.

“You don’t- I’m not- You don’t owe me an apology, Jaskier. I would deserve it just for wounding you, now doubly so for not realizing just how deeply I had. I can’t...I don’t know how to fix it, Jaskier. I don’t know how to make it up to you. How can I fix it?”

Jaskier sits back, drawing his leg up onto the bed between them to better face Geralt head on. Geralt mourns the loss of contact, but holds Jaskier’s clear blue gaze with his own, hoping against hope that he’ll get to keep at least this, if nothing else.

“Are you going to send me away again?”

Geralt grimaces, but concedes it’s a fair question. “I thought it was the best thing for you, Jaskier. The safest thing. I only wanted you to be where you would be happiest.”

“That’s not your fucking call to make, witcher, and it’s not what I asked. Are you going to send me away again, yes or no?”

“No. Part of me still feels like I should, but I don’t think I could if I tried, anymore. I had been planning to, but when I came in here and you were packing, I...I’ve only felt fear like that when Yen took Ciri. Maybe it’s weak, but I don’t want to lose you again, Jaskier. I don’t want to be without you.”

Jaskier’s eyes are swimming with tears again, but his scent is full of cautious hope, telling Geralt he finally said something right.

“You’re a bastard and an idiot, and I want to stab you a little bit for that answer, but I’m going to focus on the positives because I’m fucking exhausted. We can deal with the rest tomorrow.” He pauses, uncharacteristically self-conscious. “Will you...will you stay with me tonight? I just- the nightmares used to be easier with you there, on the Path, and I thought, if you were alright with it, we could-”

Geralt takes pity and cuts him off. “I’ll stay. Do you...would you come to my room instead? The bed is bigger, there. There’s a hearth, but I can put it out if you need. It should be warm enough with an extra fur or two, with two of us in the bed.”

The sour smell of embarrassment fills the air as a blush creeps up Jaskier’s neck. “That obvious, huh?”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Jaskier. You were hurt with fire, fear is a normal reaction. It should fade eventually, and I’ll help you in the meantime. We all will. You already have Yen wrapped around your finger, if she’s conjuring you magelights.”

The attempt at levity works, drawing a chuckle from the bard as he looks up at the light hanging above their heads. Geralt notes with vague interest that it apparently followed Jaskier across the room when he moved to sit by Geralt, meaning it will probably also follow him up to Geralt’s room, eliminating the need to make Jaskier anxious with torches. Geralt will have to track Yen down tomorrow and thank her, anger or not. She really has come through for Jaskier, and that’s a debt Geralt can never repay.

The newfound camaraderie between the bard and the witch raises some interesting possibilities for the shape of his relationships with both of them eventually, but that’s a thought for far, far in the future. He has bridges to construct and trust to rebuild with both of them before that’s worth thinking about, and Ciri will have to be all of their first priorities for a while yet, but it’s nice to have something to look forward to. Geralt had almost forgotten what being hopeful for the future felt like, he’s spent so long running from it or assuming he didn’t have one. It’s nice, he thinks. Strange, but nice.

But that’s for later. For now, he has a bed waiting for him, and a bard to fill it with him, and the promise of at least one more day without that bard fleeing Geralt’s brutish ways down the mountain. He has a daughter to train in the morning, and brothers to tease for their inevitable hangovers, and a father to thank for looking out for his bard while he couldn’t, and a witch to start to reconcile with.

It’s enough, for now. It’s enough.

#the witcher #twn #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #dandelion #julian alfred pankratz #eskel #lambert #the witcher fanfiction #my writing #i’m sorry they talk so much #i always start out with such grand ideals of being funny and poignant #and then it’s just two dumbasses spouting exposition at each other for 3k words #if i could make them stop i would #snaksofhdbkaksjd i just! realized i forgot about coen!!!#he’s uhhhhh asleep already whoops #my brain has so thoroughly classified him as Not A Wolf that i fully forgot he should be there at the start of this ahhhhh i’m so sorry coe

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grymwolfen · 3 years ago

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This. This. This is the Jaskier and Yennefer post-season 2 banter -- and emotional processing! -- fic I've been waiting for. Highly recommend.

by Rlybro

Collection of one-shots set during and after season 2.

“As flattered as I am by this completely unexpected turn of events”, Jaskier said, trying- and failing- to keep a neutral tone of voice, “I really don’t think this is a good idea.” He still remembered what happened the last time he was in a state of undress around her. He heard the water ripple as Yennefer stepped into the bath. “Get your mind out of the gutter, Bard”, Yennefer scolded. “I’m not propositioning you.”

Chapter one: Soft moments between Jaskier and Yennefer where they contemplate about what they’d do if they ever see Geralt again vs What Actually Happened.

Words: 4505, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Series: Part 1 of Of Witchers and Bitchers

Fandoms: The Witcher (TV)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: F/M, M/M, Multi

Characters: Jaskier | Dandelion, Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia

Additional Tags: Collection of one-shots set during/post s2, More characters and tags to be added as I go on, Fluff, I’m European so my spelling is either British or American depending on the phase of the moon, No beta we die like Nilfgaardian soldiers in the woods

#fanfic #the witcher #geraskier #jaskier #pre-geraskefer if you prefer #fanfic rec #or pre-yennskier #yennefer of vengerberg

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awaywithwitchers · 3 years ago

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Okay, but Jaskier being the only person in Geraskefer who knows their birthday bc Yen’s family never considered her birth something to be celebrated, and Geralt has blocked out/forgotten most of his childhood pre-Kaer Morhen (and a lot of what happened at Kaer Morhen too) bc of trauma, and birthdays were actively discouraged within the school of the wolf.

And when Jaskier finds out about this, he takes it upon himself to give them each a birthday and to remember and celebrate it every year

#the witcher #geralt of rivia #ciri #jaskier #geraskefer #no matter the circumstances he at least makes sure they get a present and a treat #he throws extravagant parties when he can get away with it #he gives Roach a birthday too #just for kicks

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ghostinthelibrarywrites · 2 years ago

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Could be all our demons

The third installment of the Don't know what's out there series is up! It can be read as part of the series or as a standalone.

Rating: M

Warnings: none

Relationships: Established Geralt/Yennefer; pre-Geralt/Jaskier/Yennefer

Summary: 2020: When Jaskier goes over to Geralt and Yennefer’s house for dinner, he convinces them to tell him the whole story of how they met and fell in love.

1256: With a careless wish to a djinn slowly killing him, Geralt has no choice but to seek out a sorceress for aid. Yennefer of Vengerberg is captivating, beautiful—and definitely up to something. But when he binds their fates together with a wish to save her life, Geralt fears he’s made himself a powerful new enemy.

You can read the first couple of scenes below or find it on AO3!

Novigrad, 2020

Jaskier isn’t sure what one is supposed to bring when invited to dinner by a terrifying nine hundred year old sorceress who openly loathed him not too long ago. He’s had dinner at Geralt and Yennefer’s house once before, but that was a spur-of-the-moment, post-near-death-experience thing. He never dreamed that Yennefer would invite him over, but she and Geralt both seem to have a higher opinion of him than they did before the cursed house debacle.

He shows up on Geralt and Yennefer’s front step fifteen minutes early, clutching a tray of brownies that are definitely homemade and not store bought, a bottle of wine, and a potted plant. In retrospect, he probably should have bought a bouquet of flowers, but the orchid is the same color as Yennefer’s eyes and the florist told him they’re a finicky plant, so it seemed perfect for her. Not that he’s going to ever tell her that.

Geralt answers the door before Jaskier even knocks, presumably because of his enhanced witcher hearing. When he sees Jaskier and his armful, he cocks an eyebrow. “Are you moving in?”

“Well, this is a very nice house, so if you’re offering—”

“I’m not.”

“You don’t know what you’re missing.”

“I know exactly what I’m missing, which is why I’m not offering.”

Jaskier’s lips twitch. He missed the grumpy witcher. “Can you take something? I’m trying not to drop this bottle of wine.”

Geralt plucks the bottle of wine from under the crook of Jaskier’s arm. “Come on in.”

“Love the enthusiasm.” Jaskier trots after him into the house. “It’s good to see you too. How have you been, my friend? Oh I’ve been good, thank you for asking. Just enjoying my winter break and finishing the first draft of my second book—”

“Yenn,” Geralt says, sounding very tired. “Your dinner guest is here.”

They step into the kitchen, where they find Yennefer standing at the stove, stirring a pan of risotto. “Hello, Jaskier,” she says. “Wait until after we’ve eaten to start annoying my partner.”

“I’m doing no such thing.” Jaskier holds up the orchid and the plate of brownies. “I come bearing gifts. The brownies are homemade.”

“Is that supposed to be a selling point?” Yennefer asks.

Jaskier puts the plate and the potted plant down so he can plant his hands on his hips and scowl. “I’m getting a lot of lip from people who invited me to dinner.”

“That was Yennefer,” Geralt says. “I was in Nazair.”

Yennefer rolls her eyes. “I hope you like fish.”

Jaskier’s feelings towards seafood are decidedly neutral. “I love fish. And, uh, I know you like wine.” He nods to the bottle of wine. “I hope it’s okay. The guy at the liquor store said it’s a decent vintage.”

Yennefer takes the bottle from Geralt and sniffs. “You could have done worse.”

“I forgot what a flatterer you are, Yenn. You’re making me blush.”

Yennefer’s lips curl into a smile. “It’s good to see you again.”

It’s one of the nicer things that Yennefer has ever said to him and Jaskier returns her smile, genuinely touched. “Good to see you too. How have things been? Any terrifying curses to break or evil sorcerers to slay?”

“No, but there were drowners in the Pontar River last week,” Geralt says.

“Oh, that’s horrifying.” Jaskier leans against the kitchen counter. “Tell me everything.”

Geralt blinks. “Couple of kayakers went missing. Their bodies were never found, but there were bite marks on the sides of their kayaks.”

Jaskier remembers hearing about the missing kayakers, but not the bite marks. He shudders.

“Found a nest of eight drowners,” Geralt says, uncorking the bottle of wine. “I killed them.”

Jaskier waits a beat for him to elaborate. When the witcher doesn’t, he prompts, “And?”

Geralt looks vaguely bewildered as he pours a glass of wine and slides it to Jaskier. “And what?”

“Give me details! How did you kill them?”

“With my sword.” Geralt shrugs. “Not all monsters are worth writing about. Drowners are like rats, if rats were aquatic and man-eating.”

Jaskier gives Yennefer an exasperated look. She laughs at his dismay.

“Haven’t you had enough excitement lately, Jaskier?” she asks.

“Oh, I’m sure there’s plenty more where that came from.” Because every detail Jaskier learns about Geralt and Yennefer’s lives makes him want to know more. He’s trying hard not to hero worship them, since he knows they wouldn’t appreciate that kind of attention. But it’s hard since every time he’s seen them, they’ve been defending innocent people from monsters or spells gone wrong. And it doesn’t help that they’re the most ridiculously attractive couple alive. Even if they hadn’t saved his life the first time they met, he would still be swooning a little over them.

Jaskier shakes the thought away, because that’s not something he needs to be dwelling on right now. “Anything I can do to help?”

He helps out by slicing up a loaf of bread and testing the wine. The wine is indeed average, though the slice of bread he steals is delicious.

By the time they sit down for dinner, the ball of nervous energy in Jaskier’s belly has diminished somewhat. He watches the way Yennefer’s hand lingers on Geralt’s shoulder as she settles down into the seat next to him, the way his lips curl slightly as he leans into the contact. For a moment, it’s like they could be any couple who’ve been together for a long time, not a powerful sorceress and a witcher.

Then Yennefer notices that she left her glass of wine on the countertop and summons it with a flick of her wrist. Geralt doesn’t even bat an eye. Jaskier tries not to let his own eyes widen, as if he sees glasses of red wine levitate across the room on a regular basis. At random moments, he’s reminded of how old Yennefer and Geralt are, of how they’ve probably seen things that he can’t even imagine and lived more life than he ever will ten times over. He wonders how one can live for centuries, see all the beauty and terror the world has to offer, and still remain relatively normal.

Yennefer looks up and meets his eye. “Stop gawking, Jaskier.”

Jaskier, who thought he was doing a relatively good impression of someone who isn’t having a minor existential crisis, draws himself up. “I thought you couldn’t read my mind.”

“Not with magic, but you have no poker face to speak of. Thank the gods your calling was writing and not acting.”

Geralt snorts.

“Ooh, I could try playwriting,” Jaskier says with a shit-eating grin. “ Gerald and Gwendolyn: The Musical. What do you think?”

Yennefer sends a slice of bread flying at him in retaliation, but it moves slow enough that he can catch it.

“Can you pass the butter too?” Jaskier asks brightly.

Looking amused, Geralt slides the butter across the table to Jaskier. “Yenn said you sent her the sequel.”

“I did and she adored it!” Jaskier beams at Yennefer.

She surveys him skeptically over the brim of her glass of wine. “I said it was pretty good.”

“Which is your version of glowing praise,” he says. “Anyway, I’m waiting for my editor to send me her edits and outlining the third book as we speak. It’s a good thing Pris is back home for break, because our living room is covered in sticky notes and she hates that. Plus, I like having the place to myself. I’ve been ordering obscene amounts of takeout and walking around in my underwear all the time.”

Too late, he realizes that that’s probably not something one says in polite company, but Geralt snorts and Yennefer smiles into her wine, which feels like a small victory.

They lapse into silence, with all three of them focused on their salmon, risotto, and wine. It’s comfortable, but even comfortable silences put Jaskier on edge, so he asks, “How’s Ciri?”

He’s still struggling to wrap his mind around the fact that Geralt and Yennefer’s daughter is the lost Cintran princess of legend, but it’s not like the two of them were going to have a nice, normal daughter.

“Oh, she’s fine,” Yennefer says. “Driving Cerys crazy the last time I spoke to her. She’s gotten it into her head that she needs to learn how to speak rock troll, even though rock trolls have been extinct for three hundred years.”

“Cerys is her girlfriend?”

Yennefer nods. “She was the first female jarl of Skellige.”

“Wait.” Jaskier really needs to stop being stunned by Geralt and Yennefer’s revelations at some point. “Ciri’s Cerys is Queen Cerys?”

“Yes.”

Jaskier looks between them. “Do you have any normal people in your family? Like, a nice cousin who’s an accountant?”

“Why would we have a cousin who’s an accountant?” Yennefer shoots him an incredulous look.

“Would make doing taxes easier,” Geralt says.

Yennefer snorts. “We've never paid taxes, Geralt.”

They exchange looks like it’s an old joke between them, both smiling.

“So, is she a sorceress too?” Jaskier asks.

“No, she’s human,” Geralt says. “We think Ciri doesn’t want her to grow old and die, so she hasn’t.”

Jaskier can feel his eyes growing wider. “Wait, she can do that?” He turns to Yennefer. “Can you do that? Are there a string of people who will just never grow old because you took a liking to them?”

Yennefer shakes her head. “Ciri isn’t like me. The truth is that we don’t know the extent of her capabilities and we probably never will. There’s no one else in the world like her and there never will be. She’s the last Riannon and she never intends to give birth to another. But we know she has some power over space and time, so it makes sense that she’d be able to simply will her lover into immortality.”

“Oh, yes, that makes perfect sense.” Gods, Jaskier really needs to sit down with Ciri some day and get her life’s story. Not for a book—he promised Geralt that he’ll never write about Ciri and he doesn’t intend to break that promise—but just because the more he learns about her, the more fascinating she seems. She may be even more fascinating than Geralt or Yennefer.

“Don’t forget about your salmon,” Yennefer says and Jaskier realizes that he has indeed forgotten about his salmon.

He shovels another bite of fish into his mouth and asks, “So, any other famous historical figures in your family? Should I expect Lara Dorren to be here next time I stop by?”

“Oh no, she’s dead,” Yennefer says. “But Ciri’s her last surviving descendant.”

“ What ?”

***

After dinner, they retreat to the living room with Jaskier’s brownies—which he does eventually have to admit are store-bought—and coffee. Jaskier leans back in an overstuffed recliner that probably costs more than all the furniture in his apartment combined. Across from him, Geralt and Yennefer are curled up on the couch, one of Yennefer’s legs casually draped across Geralt’s lap. It’s adorably domestic, though Jaskier would never dare call either of them “adorable” to their faces.

He knows that he’ll probably have to head home soon, but he’s in no hurry for this night to end. Without the threat of impending death, Geralt and Yennefer are delightful company, once you get past Yennefer’s sharp tongue and Geralt’s scowly disposition. If Jaskier plays his cards right, he can see them becoming not just his muses, but his friends.

“You sound like my grandfather,” he tells Geralt after the witcher spends ten minutes griping about prices in Novigrad.

That earns him a scowl. “Did your grandfather have to spend forty crowns on gas the other day?”

“Oh, I don’t know, I haven’t spoken to him in years,” Jaskier says cheerfully. “But he hates Novigrad. Though I think that’s more because of all the elves than the prices. Grandpa Pankratz is an asshole.”

“Prices in this city have always been ridiculous,” Geralt grumbles. “Only thing that can be said for Novigrad is that at least the Eternal Fire no longer runs the place.”

“Why did you settle here then?” Jaskier imagines that Yennefer and Geralt could be anywhere on the Continent.

“It’s a big city,” Yennefer says. “People don’t pay enough attention to each other to notice that their neighbors aren’t aging. We tried the country life, but the neighbors eventually grew suspicious of us, even with magical intervention. And we tried living in the middle of nowhere, but I was bored out of my mind within a decade.”

“A decade?” Geralt arches an eyebrow. “Try a week.”

Yennefer shrugs unrepentantly. “We have a winery in Beauclair, but we can’t spend more than a few weeks at a time there. There’s a statue of Geralt in the city square and people tend to notice the resemblance if we linger too long.”

Geralt grimaces.

“And I had a cottage in Vengerberg when we first met,” Yennefer adds. “Geralt used to stay with me there in between contracts, but then the political situation in Aedirn got dicey for a while and I had to move on.”

“That’s where you met?” Jaskier asks. He’s heard bits and pieces of the story—enough to know that there was a djinn and an orgy—but he hasn’t heard the whole thing yet. He intended to get it from them at the dinner with Eskel, Triss, Coën, and Ciri, but instead they spent most of the evening talking about the time that Geralt accidentally sold his soul to a demon.

“No, we met in Rinde,” Geralt says. “It wasn’t always such a shithole.”

“No, it really was.” Yennefer gets a wistful look in her eye. “That’s why it was such a lucrative area. The locals were dying for some entertainment.”

“Hence the orgies?” Jaskier asks.

“Hence the orgies.” She nods.

“And what, was the djinn one of the attendees?”

“No, but that would have made the night all the more exciting.” Yennefer dunks a bite of brownie into her coffee. “Would you like to hear the story?”

Jaskier sits forward a little in his seat. “Yennefer, the answer to that question is always going to be yes. I don’t care how boring or inconsequential it is, I’m going to want to hear it.”

Yennefer’s lips twitch and she glances at Geralt. “You should probably start.”

“Do I have to?” Geralt grimaces. “Not much of a storyteller.”

“You’re the one who went fishing for a djinn.”

“Hm.” Geralt sighs, like he already knows he’s lost this argument. Taking a sip of his coffee, he says, “It was six, maybe seven years after I’d claimed Ciri through the Law of Surprise…”

***

Rinde, 1256

Geralt has always been prone to bouts of sleeplessness, even before becoming a witcher. He was a colicky, restless babe, or so his mother used to say. As a trainee at Kaer Morhen, he and Eskel spent most of their nights sitting on the keep’s battlements, talking about the future that neither of them truly thought they’d live long enough to see and looking at the stars. On the Path, sleeping deeply is dangerous, but Geralt is no less restless in places where he knows he’s safe, like Kaer Morhen or the Temple of Melitele.

“A week of no sleep will do to you what a sleepless night will do to a human,” Vesemir told him once when he caught him sitting on the battlement instead of sleeping yet again. “It will slow you down, make it harder for you to think, strategize. You’ll be as much a danger to yourself as any monster or angry mob.”

It’s been over six years since his last decent night’s sleep. It’s been a month since he was able to settle down at night enough to meditate. And Geralt knows that all of Vesemir’s dire warnings about lack of focus and slow reactions are coming true. He was almost bested by a fucking drowner last week and has a brand new scar on his thigh to show for it. If this continues, he isn’t going to survive to make it back to Kaer Morhen for the winter. He’ll just be another witcher lost on the Path, just another name toasted with White Gull.

So when a snotty lordling in Tretogor tried to hire him a few days earlier to find a djinn bottle allegedly thrown into a lake in Rinde, Geralt told the kid that djinns were fairy stories and then promptly headed north for Rinde.

He curses as he pulls his net back, finding only a boot and a single fish that’s too small for eating. Throwing the fish back, he grumbles, “Come on. ”

The lake’s surface is still, offering no clue as to the djinn’s whereabouts. Not even his medallion hums.

Geralt moves a few feet down the lake’s edge and throws the net back in. This time, when he pulls it back, he feels the weight of something caught in it. The first glimmer of hope he’s had in weeks kindles in his chest.

The amphora isn’t anything extraordinary, a simple clay vessel meant to be overlooked. Geralt isn’t sure what the runes on the seal meant, but his medallion hums when he runs his finger over them. He can hear Vesemir’s scolding voice in his mind, telling him that this is a shit idea, reminding him of all the humans he’s seen play with forces beyond their understanding and pay the price. But he’s so fucking tired . He’ll do anything to settle his mind just enough for an hour or two of sleep.

Before he can change his mind, he pops the seal off. Behind him, Roach snorts nervously and stomps at the ground. Geralt can’t see the djinn, but he can feel it, a being of pure power and rage. His medallion won’t stop rattling against his armor.

Geralt closes his eyes, trying to collect his hazy thoughts, and says, “I want to be free of destiny’s bonds. Break the Law of Surprise.”

***

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#the witcher #yenralt #pre-geraskefer #geralt x yennefer #geralt of rivia #yennefer of vengerberg #jaskier #ghost's fic #ghost's writing #don't know what's out there verse

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