#road to kaer morhen fic | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

bard-llama · 1 year ago

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WiP Thursday AKA I was busy Weds: Petty Drama at Kaer Morhen

So I'm running out of things to post because I have been absorbed in this fic that has decided that it will both be very long and that it will not be separate chapters/the chapters will be massive. Like seriously, it's already 17.5k and we're in the first of 4 arcs/chapters. So figured I'd share a few scenes. (Warning for length 'cause I have no restraint.)

Summary: Before going to find Ciri, Geralt sought out allies to help him in the battle against the Wild Hunt, the battle to save his daughter. Unfortunately, he didn’t think to share the list of who all he was inviting with anyone – and it turns out, <i>many</i> of his friends actually hate each other. Nonetheless, they must work together to fight off the coming army.

(Apologies in advance for the formatting. Gods I hate how tumblr has changed.)

Arriving at Kaer Morhen

Now, finally, Roche and Ves were winding up the road to Kaer Morhen – and it turned out, they weren’t the only ones who had come to Geralt’s aid. In fact, quite a number of people seemed to have gathered in the keep to defend Geralt’s daughter – but neither Geralt nor his daughter were actually present yet.

“Once they arrive, it’s go time,” Eskel, one of Geralt’s witcher brothers, explained. “The Wild Hunt won’t be far behind.”

“How does Pretty Boy know so many people, anyway?” Lambert, another witcher, groused. “Even witchers from other fucking schools!”

“Oh?” Roche asked, genuinely curious.

It was at that moment that the fucking witcher who had killed Roche’s King walked in as if Geralt hadn’t said that he’d ‘dealt’ with the Kingslayer. Roche’s knives were in hand instantaneously, even though his odds of winning against a witcher weren’t great.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Eskel held his hand up. “We’re all here for the same purpose.”

The Kingslayer looked him over with little change in his expression, as though Roche had both gone unrecognized and been judged unimportant.

Roche snarled. “He killed Foltest!”

Eskel and Lambert both blinked in surprise. “He did?”

The Kingslayer shrugged shoulders that were ridiculously thick with muscle and even without the witcher mutations, he could probably take Roche down easily.

That didn’t mean Roche wasn’t ready to fight.

Ves stood beside him, blades at the ready, prepared to back him. It made him hesitate, swallowing hard. He was willing to go down fighting – but he couldn’t bring Ves down with him. The Kingslayer could probably kill them both without breaking a sweat.

Roche grit his teeth so hard his temple ached. This was Foltest’s killer. He couldn’t just let him get away.

But he also couldn’t get Ves killed. Not to mention, they were about to face an invasion by the Wild Hunt and the more bodies they had, the better.

Even if one of those bodies had murdered Foltest?

His hand was wrapped so tightly around his dagger that it was shaking, knuckles bloodless.

“Vernon Roche,” said a voice behind him that he hadn’t expected to hear ever again.

He whirled around. “Iorveth!”

Sure enough, the elf who had long been his enemy stood in the doorway of the witchers’ keep, looking at him with an arched eyebrow and half a smirk.

“Geralt invited you!?” Ves sneered in disbelief.

Iorveth tilted his head in greeting. “He failed to mention who else he was asking.”

“Yeah,” Roche grunted, noticing suddenly that his heart was racing in his chest. Why? Because he was ready to fight the Kingslayer… right? It couldn’t be just because Iorveth had appeared. “You and the fucking Kingslayer,” Roche grit out, turning away from Iorveth to glare at the hulking witcher.

It occurred to him that that meant turning his back on Iorveth, but he didn’t really think anything of it until Iorveth stepped up beside him, glare just as fierce as his own.

It was weird how standing shoulder to shoulder with Iorveth and Ves both just felt right.

“Letho,” Iorveth spat, hands on the hilts of his swords.

“Still alive, elf?” the Kingslayer greeted casually.

“No thanks to you.”

The Kingslayer just shrugged.

“Okay,” Eskel began, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Clearly Geralt knows a lot of people who hate each other. But you came for a reason, and that reason isn’t to fight each other. So you can leave or you can stay, but there will be no fighting except against the Wild Hunt.”

Ves growled, low in her throat, gaze darting to Roche’s. Roche licked his lips, aware that she was asking for orders. Which option would they choose? Would they leave – leave Geralt in the lurch? Or would they stay – stay and fight alongside the man who had murdered King Foltest?

“Fine,” Iorveth agreed to the terms, and suddenly the decision was easy to make.

“We’re staying,” Roche confirmed, though he didn’t let up in glaring at the Kingslayer.

Ves grumbled under her breath, fingers tight around the harpy talon she was wielding. If he wasn’t mistaken, that was one of the poisoned ones, too.

Would poison even work on a witcher?

“Great,” Eskel said tonelessly. “So let’s all lower our weapons, yeah?”

It was difficult to do so and it happened slowly. The whole while, the Kingslayer – who had never bothered to even reach for his weapons – looked unconcerned.

“So, just to be clear,” Lambert said, “all of you are enemies? And yet also friends with Geralt? Seriously?”

“Fucking witcher neutrality,” Ves muttered.

“Well,” Eskel said, looking exasperated, “come in, I guess. We have no idea how many more people to expect, but there’s plenty of room. The others are around somewhere.”

“How many others, exactly?” Iorveth asked, tension in his shoulders.

“So far? Nine,” Lambert grunted. “Mostly annoying sorceresses.”

“Oh?” Roche perked up, stepping into the living area and wondering if–

“Roche!” Triss Merigold, King Foltest’s favorite Court Mage, beamed at him from the other side of the fire. “It’s good to see you alive,” she said, too genuinely.

“You too,” he murmured, stepping closer.

Given permission, she lunged at him in a hug. “I’ve been hiding out in Novigrad,” she said. “It’s been awful.”

“Yeah,” Roche agreed. The way all their lives had gone since Foltest’s death was definitely awful. “We’ve been fighting Nilfgaard.”

“Of course you have,” Triss squeezed her arms around him and pulled back with a smile. “And – is that Iorveth?” she asked suddenly, looking past his shoulder.

Iorveth, the fucking bastard, waved.

“Apparently Geralt has a lot of friends,” Roche huffed. “Including the fucking Kingslayer.”

Triss’ face was grim. “Yeah. But we need all the help we can get.”

Roche’s grunt of agreement was begrudging.

Keira, another of Foltest’s mages, wiggled her fingers in greeting. She was looking a little worse for wear, actually, and she must have been able to sense his thoughts, because she scowled at him.

“Triss chose Novigrad to hide in. I chose Velen.”

“Ah.” Roche, who had been fighting in Velen the past several months, understood immediately. Velen was a fucking shithole. And he should know – he’d been born there!

“Who else is here?” Ves asked.

“Oh, well, there’s Yenn, she’s another sorceress. Yennefer of Vengerberg,” Triss said. “And Vesemir. He’s an older Wolf Witcher. Then Zoltan and Dandelion, you’ve met them. Ermion is a druid from Skellige and he apparently came independently of the new Skelliger Queen’s brother and childhood friend, Hjalmar and Folan.”

“The – Skellige has a Queen?” Roche blinked. News had been a little slow out in Velen, but damn, how did he miss that?

“Cerys an Craite,” Keira nodded. “The jarls chose her as their Queen. She’s working to unite the Isles.”

“Oh. Wow.”

“Yeah. Her brother brags about her a lot, even though he got passed over for King.”

“Huh.”

“It’s annoying,” Keira said, and Roche’s lips twitched.

“That everyone?”

“Oh, and Avallac’h,” Lambert said. “He’s an elf, but not like a normal elf? I dunno, he’s very holier than thou about it.”

“Not like a normal elf?” Iorveth repeated, tone unimpressed.

“I am Aen Saevherne,” a voice said and Roche turned to see a tall silver-haired elf walking down the stairs that led into one of the towers.

“What does that mean?” Roche asked with a frown. He’d researched a fair amount about elves during his former work as a Scoia’tael hunter, but he could recall nothing of an ‘Aen Saevherne’.

“The best translation would be ‘elven sage’,” Avallac’h said.

Iorveth’s eye narrowed. “You have magic?”

“Beyond what you are capable of understanding,” Avallac’h said, and his standoffishness turned off more than just Iorveth, who glared.

Iorveth’s hatred of all things magic was rather notorious, actually. And here they were, surrounded by magic users – sorceresses and sages.

“There are other elven mages,” Roche pointed out. “So what makes you different?”

“I am from the world of the Aen Elle,” Avallac’h said proudly.

Roche, to whom that meant absolutely nothing, asked, “what are the Aen Elle? ‘Cause you’re Aen Seidhe, right?” he directed at Iorveth.

Iorveth hummed in agreement, watching Avallac’h carefully.

“On my world,” Avallac’h said, “it is elves who are the conquerors. We have never been subjugated.”

Iorveth’s fingers curled around his swords again.

“To be fair,” a new voice said, and Roche turned to see the dwarf he’d met in Flotsam when all the Kingslaying crap went down. Zoltan Chivay, standing next his ostentatious bard, looked them over with an arched eyebrow and continued, “elves were conquerors on this planet, too. Humans just did it better.”

“Chivay,” Iorveth spat with even more venom than the Kingslayer had gotten. Roche was surprised.

“Iorveth,” Zoltan responded flatly, unimpressed.

“You know each other?” Triss asked in surprise.

“Unfortunately,” they both said.

“How?” Dandelion the Bard asked, seemingly just as surprised as all of them.

Zoltan shrugged, “I’ve lived a long time.”

Iorveth scoffed softly, still glaring bloody murder. It was a glare that hadn’t been turned on Roche at all, Roche suddenly realized. The Kingslayer and Zoltan were openly hated, but the way Iorveth looked at Roche was different.

What did that mean?

“For fuck’s sake,” Eskel said, exasperated. “Does Geralt know anyone that doesn’t hate each other?” He shook his head. “Anyway, you guys can take any free room you come across. Make sure you check for cracks in the walls. We’re working on getting the keep patched up before the battle.”

“Great,” Roche said flatly. “Thanks.”

When Iorveth and Roche are catching up after ending up rooming together

“So you’re like… legit now? Except for the part where the rest of the North still considers you wanted?”

“The ‘rest of the North’ is basically just Redania now,” Iorveth pointed out, “and they have bigger concerns.”

Roche frowned. Iorveth wasn’t wrong, but that didn’t mean he had to like it.

Once, Temeria had been the forefront power in the North. And now…

“Why?” he found himself asking in a whisper.

“Mm?”

“Why did you help kill him?”

“Him – Foltest?” Iorveth checked, unconcerned.

Roche’s eyes narrowed. “Who else?” he bit out. “You helped the Kingslayer escape after killing my king.”

“And then got betrayed by him,” Iorveth pointed out.

“But before that betrayal, you were working together,” Roche said. “Why?”

Iorveth held his head high. “King Foltest was a threat to elves everywhere. Now he’s not.”

“Now Temeria is falling apart,” Roche snapped.

“Boohoo,” Iorveth scoffed. “Temeria was built on the ruins of my country, dh’oine. But you don’t even know what we were called, do you?”

Roche blinked. “Uh. No?”

“Dùthaich,” Iorveth said. “My country lasted five millennia before humanity destroyed it. So forgive me if I’m hardly heartbroken that the kingdom that replaced us has fallen.”

“It hasn’t fallen!” Roche protested. “Not yet!”

“Because you and your men are fighting off Nilfgaard?” Iorveth’s arched eyebrow was dubious, and it made Roche scowl.

“Yes. We will do whatever we must to save Temeria.” Roche closed his eyes with a sigh, acknowledging, “who’d ever have thought that we’d change positions, huh? Me as the rebel fighting against the odds and you all official now, serving a human monarch and everything.”

Iorveth snorted. “Don’t think anyone saw that coming.”

“And yet, here we are.” Roche rubbed his face, tired and worn. It had been a long time since he’d had something as comfortable as a bed to sleep on, and weariness pulled at his body.

“Here we are,” Iorveth echoed, and he could feel the weight of the elf’s gaze on him, though he couldn’t seem to manage opening his eyes to look. Iorveth huffed an amused breath. “Go to sleep, Vernon. I’ll wake you for dinner.”

If he had any sense, Roche would not decide to sleep with his enemy right there – but somehow, letting himself drift off to sleep was easy.

And Iorveth kept his word, though deciding to wake him up by playing a loud note on his flute right in Roche’s ear was entirely unnecessary.

“Dinnertime,” Iorveth smirked.

“Motherfucker,” Roche swore.

Iorveth laughed, leading the way out of their room and back down towards the common area of the keep.

Dinner was interesting. Roche chose to sit next to Triss and Keira, because he actually knew them, and they were sitting across from Dandelion and Zoltan, who he found acceptably friendly. So he didn’t think anything of it when he took his seat – except Iorveth sat next to him, glaring at Zoltan once more.

When Ves showed up, she leveled him with an unimpressed look and squeezed into the space between him and Triss when Iorveth refused to move.

Roche rolled his eyes with a huff, shoving Iorveth over so that he could scooch aside and leave Ves more room.

Iorveth grumbled, but moved closer to the Skelliger archer that was sitting across from what was apparently the brother of the Skelliger Queen.

The witchers all sighed, taking their seats with the Kingslayer farthest from Roche. Thank fuck. The standoffish elf and a dark haired sorceress who must’ve been Yennefer of Vengerberg sat at the end of the table, and she waved her hand with a murmured spell until the stew started dishing itself out, bowls floating down the table to sit before each of them.

Roche thought it was pretty cool, honestly, but Iorveth had a sour look on his face, glaring at his food like it might bite him.

The Skelliger Queen’s brother – what was his name again? Something with an H? – laughed. “Yeah, it’s weird,” he agreed. “But it tastes the same.”

“It’s a rather frivolous use of magic,” the druid sitting next to Dandelion sniffed.

“Yeah, but it’s still cool,” the other Skelliger said.

“It’s practical,” Yennefer of Vengerberg’s sharp voice corrected.

Triss met Roche’s gaze and rolled her eyes, passing him some bread. He bit back a smile, amused.

So this was who they would be fighting the Wild Hunt with. It should prove interesting.

The fact that a fight didn’t break out over dinner was, frankly, miraculous and entirely due to the oldest witcher’s fiercely disappointed gaze that made all of them falter. That probably said something deeply psychological about all of their relationships with father figures, but Roche decided it wasn’t worth dwelling on.

They made polite conversation (stiffly, in some cases), and Roche paid attention to all of it, eager for information that could help him get a sense of his companions.

He was already learning a few interesting things.

Dandelion and Zoltan had apparently been to this mythical land of equality that Iorveth was helping to build, and the way they talked about its Queen was eye-opening, though for Zoltan, his praise of the Dragonslayer was interspersed with snide remarks about the Scoia’tael. What was interesting was that Iorveth’s praise was just as open, even though this Dragonslayer was a human.

How the fuck did this human woman convince Iorveth to not just unite his people and bring them to her aid, but actually build this country alongside her?

“Saskia is not like any dh’oine you’ve ever met,” Iorveth said easily.

Roche crossed his arms. “Oh yeah? What makes her so special?”

“She has integrity,” Iorveth said, voice flat. “She actually lives by her values and respects all people as people.”

“So what’s she doing affiliating with you?” Ves asked sharply.

Iorveth’s spine went straight in offense, and Zoltan barking a laugh did not help. “She has a point.”

“Zoltan!” Dandelion hissed, shooting a glance at Iorveth, who looked ready to kill and was not faltering under Vesemir’s disappointment. “Vergen would have fallen without the Scoia’tael’s aid.”

Zoltan sniffed in disdain and Iorveth’s glare sharpened. “All we have ever fought for,” Iorveth bit out, “is the right to live in peace.”

“Ha! And what do you know of peace? You’ve been at war for two hundred years!”

“And you’ve colluded with murderers for two hundred years,” Iorveth spat, lips twisted with disgust.

“And what are you?” Zoltan snorted.

“Everyone here has killed,” Hjalmar, the Skelliger Queen’s brother, pointed out. “We’re literally here to fight a war.”

“Well,” Lambert said, “except the bard. Actually, why are you here again?”

“Excuse you,” Dandelion sniffed. “I am here for an even more important reason – to chronicle the fight against evil itself!”

“How much of this chronicle will be founded in fact?” Triss asked sardonically.

Hjalmar snorted. “Geralt insists half your songs are bullshit.”

“More than half,” Yennefer said.

Dandelion tutted. “It’s called creative liberty!”

Roche couldn’t help his smile, biting back a laugh.

“So,” Triss began, looking between Zoltan and Iorveth, “you’ve known each other for two hundred years?”

“No,” Iorveth half-snarled, “it’s been two hundred years since we’ve spoken.”

“I could have happily gone another 200,” Zoltan said.

“Likewise,” Iorveth growled.

“So you knew each other well, then,” Ves observed. She seemed intrigued by whatever was making Iorveth so stiff and combative and Roche internally groaned. This was definitely going to end badly.

“Yeah, you could say that,” Zoltan grunted.

“It is only in fairly recent times that elves and dwarves have come to be allies,” the druid from Skellige observed.

“Indeed,” Vesemir stroked his mustache thoughtfully. “I seem to recall that when I was young, there was a great kerfuffle over an elf and a dwarf daring to be together romantically. It was a big deal. Lotta people from both races disapproved.”

Iorveth cleared his throat, looking determinedly down at his stew, and Roche frowned. “Wait a minute.”

“No,” Triss breathed. “No way.”

Iorveth’s face and ears were slowly turning red, and Zoltan was also pointedly not looking at anyone.

“You and Iorveth!?” Dandelion shrieked. “Really!?”

Zoltan coughed, not answering.

“Damn, never would’ve called that coming,” Keira laughed.

“Huh,” Vesemir gazed contemplatively at both Iorveth and Zoltan. “If I remember correctly, both of those involved were said to be minor celebrities.”

“Oh?” Dandelion looked curious. “Well, Zoltan’s a very well known warrior, but Iorveth’s notoriety came later, didn’t it?”

Iorveth’s lips pressed together like he was resisting correcting them. Which kind of made Roche think that they weren’t completely off base.

“You’re a musician, aren’t you?” Roche asked, nudging Iorveth. “Ever get famous from that?”

A muscle in Iorveth’s jaw flexed.

“Damn, okay,” Lambert chuckled. “So how’d you end up hating each other?”

“None of your fucking business,” Iorveth snapped.

“You’re the one airing out your drama,” Ves said.

Iorveth’s growl was impressive enough to raise hackles around the table, but instead of attacking, he retreated, grabbing his bowl and pushing away from the table, stomping off.

Zoltan very obviously rolled his eyes, muttering, “as dramatic as ever.”

He refused to say anything more on the topic and the conversation moved on without Iorveth, though Roche couldn’t help but dart looks at the door the elf had left through, feeling oddly worried. Not that Iorveth needed – nor wanted – his concern, but…

The next morning

By the time the sun rose, they felt it was safe to venture out in search of fresh food. Roche was sure they both had food supplies – but he, for one, was sick and tired of jerky. The prospect of even just leftover stew beat army ration packs. By a lot.

They were in luck – not only was there leftover stew, but apparently the Skelliger druid was a fan of baking and there were fresh pastries, too.

“Help yourself,” he invited.

“Thanks,” Roche murmured, biting into warm bread with a pleased little sigh. Yeah, he had missed real food.

Iorveth led the way to the dining hall, where they sat next to each other at the big empty table. Iorveth was more conservative in picking at his food – but Roche devoured it quickly and then was left debating if he could go back for seconds.

“Here,” Iorveth grunted, holding out his bread.

Roche blinked. “You sure?”

“Are you hungry or not?” Iorveth shrugged.

Roche was, so he took it – just as Dandelion and Zoltan walked into the dining hall with their own bowls of food. Dandelion didn’t seem to notice much – but the way that Zoltan looked at Iorveth and the way Iorveth’s ears turned red made Roche think there was something unspoken going on.

“What?” he asked.

Zoltan just shook his head, taking a seat across from them. “So, what’ve you been up to since the whole Kingslayer business, lad?” he asked Roche.

Roche shrugged. “Fighting off Nilfgaard. Not terribly exciting.”

“Have you heard what I got up to?” Dandelion asked excitedly. “To help Ciri, I pulled off a heist!”

“You failed in pulling off a heist,” Zoltan clarified. “And Geralt and the rest of us had to save your ass from the Temple Guard.”

“Eh,” Dandelion dismissed. “Details.”

Zoltan rolled his eyes expressively. Roche couldn’t help his snicker.

He’d finished his stew and his bread – and Iorveth’s bread, too – but honestly, he was still hungry, so he slipped back into the kitchen with a murmured explanation and got more food. When he returned, Iorveth and Dandelion were talking about music, and for some reason, Iorveth’s words stuttered when Roche plopped the bread he’d fetched for the elf on top of his bowl.

“All good?” he asked warily.

Iorveth flushed, nodding and picking up the thread of his statement – but again, the way Zoltan was looking at Iorveth and the way Iorveth continued to turn redder made Roche think there was something more going on.

“What?” he asked Zoltan.

Zoltan shrugged. “Good bread,” was all he said. But there was a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips and Iorveth cleared his throat, shifting his weight uncomfortably.

Roche frowned. “Uh. Yeah, it is.”

Dandelion didn’t seem to notice anything was amiss, enthusiastically greeting the witchers who filed in with their own bowls of food. Roche glared at the Kingslayer on principle, but was largely ignored.

Lambert yawned widely as Eskel greeted the rest of them. “Good morning.”

They all mumbled greetings back, and in that time, Ves and the sorceresses appeared, looking far more put together than was reasonable for such an early hour.

“Saw someone approaching the keep,” Ves told the witchers.

“Another one?” Eskel groaned.

“Another blade at our backs is a good thing,” Vesemir reminded him, pushing up from the table to go open the gate.

“Who do you think it is?” Dandelion asked. “I mean, Geralt only knows so many people… right?”

“More people than I woulda thought,” Eskel mumbled and Lambert snickered.

Several minutes later, Vesemir returned, followed by another witcher, though this one had a cat medallion instead of a wolf. “This is Aiden,” Vesemir began.

“Seriously!?” Eskel threw his hands in the air as Lambert straightened. “How does he know so many other witchers?”

Lambert coughed. “Um. Actually.”

“He said he was here for Lambert,” Vesemir said, leveling a raised eyebrow on the youngest witcher (who was probably still at least twice Roche’s age).

“Yeah,” Lambert agreed, explaining nothing. “Food’s through there.” He pointed at the kitchen and Aiden glanced at the rest of them, amusement on his face, before shrugging and going to grab a bowl.

“Since when do you have a friend?” Yennefer asked, not at all quietly.

“Rude!” Lambert huffed. “I have plenty of friends!”

“Yeah?” Eskel challenged. “Like who?”

“Like Aiden,” Lambert frowned at him, crossing his arms. “And Mathies of Novigrad and Alicia Typ and Tiphany Holga and–”

“Aren’t those all bartenders?” Dandelion asked. “I’m pretty sure Mathies of Novigrad works at the Golden Sturgeon.”

“And Alicia Typ is at the Seven Cats Inn,” Zoltan nodded.

“Oh fuck you,” Lambert scowled.

“Supplying alcohol is precisely what makes them friends,” Aiden said, reappearing in the dining hall and sliding into a seat next to Lambert.

“What about Tiphany Holga?” Vesemir asked, the look on his face like he was deciding how disappointed he should be in Lambert.

Roche could answer that one. “Might not be the same one,” he prefaced, though the name was fairly unusual, “but the only one I know is a whore in Murivel.”

There were some raised eyebrows around the table and he shrugged.

“Whores make the best spies.” That and his mother, Madame of the Clarabelle brothel in Vizima, liked to make Roche hand out pamphlets on worker’s rights when he traveled to other places.

“That is true,” Iorveth said.

“Huh,” Zoltan said. “Noted.”

“See, I told you my patronage of the various pleasure houses across the continent is for a good cause!” Dandelion laughed.

“Yes,” Triss said, a slightly patronizing smile on her face, “I’m sure the whores learn a great deal of intel from you.”

“Actually…” Roche had to say.

“Yeah, see!” Dandelion pointed at him. “I totally supplied good intel for Roche in Flotsam!”

“You wrote your reports in iambic pentameter,” Roche said. “But the information was good.”

Iorveth tilted his head. “Dandelion spied for you?”

“Yeah, on Loredo, the shitstain who ruled Flotsam. He’s dead now.”

“Good riddance,” Dandelion and Zoltan both said.

“Wait,” Triss said, “is that why Dandelion almost got hanged in Flotsam?”

“Absolutely,” Dandelion said far too quickly.

“Loredo said it was because you burned down a watchtower,” Roche said, lips twitching.

“Seriously!?” Triss – and several others – groaned.

“It wasn’t my fault!” Dandelion insisted. “Honest!”

“So how did you burn down a watchtower?”

“Really, it was their fault for leaving a candle unattended!”

“What, did you trip over it?” Iorveth asked sardonically.

Dandelion flushed. “No!”

“...seriously!?” half the room asked.

“It wasn’t my fault!” Dandelion said again.

“Wow,” Aiden laughed. “You’re Dandelion the Bard, right? I’d heard stories, but…”

“How does Geralt put up with you?” Lambert asked bluntly.

“To be fair,” Keira interjected, “does he?”

“Geralt always shows up just in the nick of time!” Dandelion enthused.

“In the nick of time to save this idiot’s ass,” Zoltan said.

“Yeah, sounds about right,” Yennefer snorted.

“Hey!” Dandelion pouted and the rest of them laughed.

“How do all of you know Geralt, anyway?” Eskel asked. “I mean, I know he’s got a thing for sorceresses, but what about the rest of you?”

Yennefer, Keira, and Triss all puffed up in offense.

“Geralt’s an old friend of Clan an Craite,” Hjalmar, the Skelliger Queen’s brother, said, startling those who hadn’t noticed his arrival. His friend, Folan, waved tiredly to them. “And Ciri’s practically clan herself! We had to come!”

“Yes,” the Skelliger druid – what was his name? – agreed, coming into the dining hall with a final batch of pastries. Roche took several. “Cirilla was my ward as a child, but I have also known Geralt for a very long time. Since before he became a witcher.”

Everyone paused, staring at him. “Really?” someone asked, barely any breath to it.

The druid dipped his head. “We met when we were both very young. He stayed with the Druid Circle in Ard Skellig for a time. We became good friends. After he left, I did not see him again until after the Trials. After he had been changed.”

“Oh.”

An awkward silence fell for a moment and Ves broke it by loudly explaining, “we met Geralt when he saved King Foltest from an assassin.” She glared at the Kingslayer, who had no doubt been in league with the other witcher assassin.

“Oh, is that where the ‘Geralt killed a king’ story came from?” Eskel asked.

“No,” Roche scowled, “that happened when someone murdered the King and left Geralt to take the blame.”

“Hardly my fault he was the only witness,” the Kingslayer shrugged. “Was a surprise to see him again, though.”

“...you knew him before that?”

“We fought the Wild Hunt together.”

“You did?” Iorveth asked, clearly surprised. “You’ve fought the Wild Hunt before?”

“Yup,” the Kingslayer said casually. “The School of the Viper was founded to defeat the Hunt. It was lucky Geralt ran into us during his hunt.”

“...Geralt was hunting the Wild Hunt?” Vesemir asked.

“This was before his amnesia,” the Kingslayer said. “He was chasing the hunt to rescue Yennefer of Vengerberg, who had been taken.”

Yennefer grimaced.

“Does that have to do with how we saw you and Geralt die in Rivia?” Dandelion asked, voice unusually sombre.

“Say what!?” Roche wasn’t alone in yelping.

“It was terrible,” Triss said quietly. “There was a pogrom. Yennefer and Geralt both – we were just in time to see it…”

“About six months later,” Eskel murmured, “we found him outside Kaer Morhen, with no memory of who he was or where he’d come from. Or that he’d died.”

“So… what happened?”

“Ciri,” Yennefer said. “I don’t know how she healed us, but she brought us to a kind of… pocket universe, almost? It was strange. Good, but strange. Until the Wild Hunt appeared.”

“They took her,” the Kingslayer filled in, “and Geralt followed. He found me, saved me from a slyzard attack. In return, I shared what I knew about the Hunt and joined him in his quest.”

“And then?” Keira asked.

“We found them,” the Kingslayer shrugged. “We fought them. They weren’t wraiths, as we’d always thought, but mortal beings who bled under our blades.”

“Oh, well that’s something at least,” Iorveth hummed, and Roche had to admit – he felt a little bit better about signing up to fight the Wild Hunt knowing that they could actually be killed.

“So what happened?” he asked.

“There were too many. Then Geralt made a deal with the leader of the Hunt – his soul in exchange for Yennefer’s.”

Triss inhaled sharply and Yennefer’s expression was almost pained.

“Indeed,” Avallac’h, the standoffish elf who had arrived at some point without any of them noticing, said. Roche was not the only person to jump. “Gwynbleidd rode with the Hunt for a time, though he does not remember it, nor is he likely to.”

“He said he’d recovered his memories!” Dandelion said.

“His memories, yes. But not memories of the Hunt.”

“So… how did he escape?”

“Zireael,” Avallac’h said simply, as though that meant anything to any of them.

“...Swallow?” Iorveth translated uncertainly.

“It’s what he calls Ciri,” Eskel explained.

“And who is Ciri, exactly?” Ves asked. “I mean, Geralt’s daughter, yes, but…?”

“Ciri is… special,” Yennefer said. “There is a power in her blood that is matchless amongst all others.”

“She is the Lady of Space and Time,” Avallac’h said.

“...and that means–?”

“The Elder Blood gives her the power to traverse the spheres,” Avallac’h said.

“Like… she can travel through time!?”

“Theoretically, yes. She has certainly traveled to worlds at different points in their existence. Whether she has visited her own world’s past, I do not know.”

“Are you fucking for real?” Lambert sputtered.

“Zireael’s power is unlike anything you have ever seen before. It spans beyond your ability to comprehend. It is–”

“–exactly why the Wild Hunt is after her,” Yennefer interrupted.

“Indeed,” Avallac’h agreed. “The damage they could do with her power at their disposal is far greater than you can imagine. Eredin intends to subjugate all living beings under his power.”

“Eredin. That’s someone in the Wild Hunt?”

“The leader, and King of the Aen Elle. Though he arrived at power through treachery and deceit. We cannot let him take Zireael.”

“Okay,” Roche agreed solemnly. They’d already been planning to protect her, because she was Geralt’s daughter – but if she was more than that, then that just gave them extra motivation.

“So the Wild Hunt are… elves?” Hjalmar asked.

“Aen Elle elves,” Avallac’h nodded primly. “Their purpose is to find and capture slaves to serve the Alder Folk. Now, though, they are interested only in Zireael. She would change everything for them.”

“How so?”

“The Wild Hunt travels to various worlds, and abducts its inhabitants. They do so through the power of their Navigator, Caranthir. He is able to create stable portals that a vanguard like the Wild Hunt can move through.”

“And Ciri changes that… how?”

“Zireael’s power more than outshines Caranthir’s. With her, they could portal entire armies at once, enough to conquer a world.”

“Wow,” Lambert said. “So what you’re saying is, Ciri is mad powerful.”

“That is correct.”

“Wild.”

“How did Geralt end up with a daughter like that?” Iorveth asked.

“She’s his Child of Surprise,” Yennefer said with a small smile.

“Her mother had powers, too,” the druid said, “though not to such an extent, I do not believe.”

Roche blinked. “You knew her mother?”

“Indeed. I served her grandmother for a great many years.” Something sad crossed his face.

“...who’s her grandmother?” Ves dared to ask.

“Queen Calanthe of Cintra,” Hjalmar was the one to say. “Married to Eist Tuirseach, Jarl of Skellige. That’s how I know Ciri. When we were little, she used to spend the summers in Skellige.”

“Wait,” Roche said slowly, “Geralt’s daughter is Cintra’s Princess!?”

“Yeah.”

“Wow.”

“You think you know a guy,” Iorveth muttered under his breath and Roche had to bite back a snort.

“How do you know Ciri, then?” Vesemir asked Avallac’h.

“I have tried to teach Zireael how to harness her power,” he didn’t answer.

“...right,” Vesemir said eventually, the look on his face dubious. He wasn’t the only one.

“So how’d you get involved in this?” Eskel asked Iorveth. “Aside from apparently knowing and despising several other of Geralt’s friends.”

“Letho killed Foltest,” Iorveth said, glaring daggers at the witcher again, “and then went to ground with the Scoia’tael as we prepared to attack Henselt. Before Letho betrayed us and slew many Scoia’tael,” he growled, “Geralt accompanied Vernon to confront us.”

“And me,” Triss interjected, frowning at Iorveth. “I was there too. And stopped you from killing Geralt and all of us!”

Iorveth just shrugged. “Geralt eventually came to assist the Scoia’tael in our task, and fought at our side in Vergen.”

“‘Course,” Roche couldn’t help but say, “he also fought at our side, so really, that witcher neutrality is kinda bullshit.”

Eskel snorted.

“Some bullshit,” Lambert laughed. “You’re all here, aren’t you?” Roche did have to concede that. He was here – even though Geralt had also worked with Iorveth and the Kingslayer… he was here, because Geralt had asked him and defending Geralt’s daughter was worth it.

Later, in the famed Kaer Morhen hot springs from Iorveth's POV

Admittedly, Iorveth had been hoping to find Vernon in the hot springs at some point during this journey – but he hadn’t been expecting for that time to involve Vernon overheating and very clearly ignoring his health.

Iorveth hadn’t thought about it before fussing over Vernon – but the way Vernon slapped his hands aside quickly reminded him of their proper dynamic. He was Vernon’s enemy. He wasn’t supposed to worry about the dh’oine.

Not even when it was clear that Vernon had lost a lot of weight from the last time Iorveth had seen him.

Iorveth knew food was hard to come by while hiding out in the forest as an outlaw rebel – but he hadn’t really previously put together that that was what Vernon was doing. Their roles had solidly flipped – and now Vernon was the one starving in a fight against the odds while Iorveth was associating with human royalty.

It was weird.

Still, Vernon retreated quickly, making it clear he did not want Iorveth’s concern, and Iorveth drew back, trying to pretend that didn’t hurt.

Of course Vernon didn’t want his concern. Why would he? To him, Iorveth was just another enemy. One who he was sharing a room with, yes – but even that, Vernon seemed to attribute to Iorveth being weird more than anything else.

Iorveth could live with that. He knew he didn’t have a chance, after all. But seeing Vernon once more, when he’d truly thought he might never do so again…

“Oh,” Dandelion said, and Iorveth abruptly remembered that he was not alone. “He doesn’t think you’re together,” Dandelion said slowly, “but you want to be.”

Iorveth cringed, unable to protest, but also fully aware that his affection was hardly a good thing.

“Hmm,” Dandelion hummed. “Well, at least now he knows it’s an option. But we can do better than that!”

Iorveth blinked. “What?”

“Well, obviously you need help wooing your man,” Dandelion flapped his hand, then brought it to his chest with a flourish, “and I am a connoisseur of wooing! So surely I can help!”

“I – what?”

“Well, he didn’t even realize that he was being wooed!”

Iorveth’s mouth opened to protest – and then he closed it, recognizing a losing battle. Instead, he sighed and asked, “why would you help me?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Dandelion shrugged. “This romance has the makings of a marvelous ballad! But it must have a happy ending!”

“…is there any way I can convince you not to sing about my love life?” Iorveth asked, already despairing.

“Nope!” Dandelion popped the ‘p’ enthusiastically. “So, let’s talk plans! What have you tried so far? Obviously you’re sharing a room – and you gave him food, which he reciprocated!”

Iorveth flushed, remembering that moment. He was positive it meant less to Vernon than it had to him – but having gone without enough food for so long, sharing it was a big deal. And for Vernon to fetch more food and offer him a roll back…

Well. To Vernon, it didn’t mean much. But to Iorveth, it kind of meant everything. And from the way Zoltan had looked at him and Dandelion’s words now, it was clear that had not gone unnoticed.

Which was embarrassing as all hell, and Iorveth flushed darkly, sinking down to hide in the hot water. “I’m not – I’m not wooing him,” he felt the need to point out.

“You should be,” Dandelion replied easily. “We all might die soon. May as well shoot your shot, right?”

Iorveth frowned at him, but he was already enthusiastically coming up with ideas on how Iorveth could better show Vernon that he loved him.

Sighing, Iorveth resigned himself to the loss of his dignity.

Which was good, because Zoltan Chivay entering the hot springs definitely meant that his dignity would be dying a painful death. His relationship with Zoltan was… complicated, and there was a great deal of bitterness on his part due to the way they’d ended things last they’d spoken… but Zoltan also knew him better than most people alive could claim to, which meant he could see right through Iorveth’s attempts at maintaining poise.

“What trouble are you getting into now?” Zoltan asked Dandelion with amusement on his face, only glancing at Iorveth in greeting.

Iorveth internally groaned.

“Zoltan!” Dandelion grinned brightly. “You’ll join us, won’t you? We gotta help Iorveth win his man!”

The amusement on Zoltan’s face increased and Iorveth could feel his ears flushing. “You really don’t,” he tried to protest, but Dandelion ignored him.

“Vernon Roche, huh?” Zoltan asked. “Really!?”

“Shut up,” Iorveth grumbled, blushing brightly enough that now he was the one on the verge of overheating.

“Well, there’s no accounting for taste,” Zoltan shrugged, unconcerned. “But he has no earthly idea that you’re interested.”

“He’s not supposed to,” Iorveth had to say.

“Well, that’s dumb,” Dandelion said. “How can he respond if he doesn’t know?”

Iorveth opened his mouth to answer, but wasn’t sure how to point out that Vernon very likely wouldn’t respond positively to affection from his enemy.

“What about Saskia?” Zoltan asked. “Does she know about him?”

Iorveth flushed darker, nodding jerkily. Yes, she did – and it had been embarrassing beyond belief for her to confront him over his ‘obvious crush’. Which, he contested, was not obvious at all – but she hadn’t been swayed.

“And?” Dandelion prompted.

Swallowing hard, Iorveth thought about how to answer. The actual truth was that Saskia, as a dragon, had no interest in monogamy with him. In fact, there were several other people she was interested in (including Zoltan, but for his own peace of mind, he ignored that), though she had minimal time to pursue anything at all.

“Saskia is human,” he lied, picking his words carefully, “but she grew up in Vergen around primarily dwarves. Older dwarves, too,” he added, because while most of those in the Scoia’tael had been pretty young, Vergen was an old city and there were still some dwarves living there who had been at its founding. “Culturally, she shares more in common with dwarves than humans.”

Not least because she’d actually spent relatively little time around an average human. Most of her exposure had been through joining the army and going through officer’s training under King Demavend of Aedirn. Which meant that occasionally, she did things that she thought was ‘normal human behavior’, but that actually gave everyone in the vicinity heart palpitations. Like that time she had walked through fire before Iorveth had known she was a dragon and was thereby largely impervious to fire (and, in fact, drew strength from it).

“Dwarves are great,” Dandelion agreed cheerily, “but what’s your point?”

“Dwarves are polyamorous,” Iorveth said bluntly.

“Ooooooh,” Dandelion nodded while Zoltan hummed in agreement. “So there’s no expectation of exclusivity?”

Iorveth shook his head, flushing. It wasn’t like his regard for Saskia wasn’t commonly known – but it was still embarrassing for his love to be the topic of local gossip. His love for Saskia – and his love for Vernon.

Most people were probably surprised he was even capable of such an emotion. He still kind of was, honestly.

It was one thing for Saskia, who inspired him and brought out the best in him. But Vernon Roche? The man who had once been in charge of eliminating the Scoia’tael?

And yet, the same magnetic draw that Saskia held, Vernon had. He couldn’t ignore either one of them for a second.

And not just because it might lead to missing the knife when it came to stab him in the back. With Saskia, he was confident there was no hidden knife at all. With Vernon… well, he wasn’t sure, but he kind of hoped that there wasn’t one.

Vernon had willingly slept in his presence. Multiple times, even. And just as Iorveth hadn’t attacked Vernon while he’d been vulnerable – Vernon had not attacked him. That meant something… didn’t it?

“So what’s Saskia think of Roche?” Zoltan asked, lips twitching in what was definitely amusement at Iorveth’s plight.

Iorveth scowled at him. Truthfully, Saskia’s thoughts could be summed up as ‘if you think there’s something worth loving about him, Iorveth, then I’m sure there is’, but Iorveth was absolutely not admitting that.

“Why do you even care?” he demanded.

Zoltan shrugged. “You and Roche aren’t that different,” was all he said.

Iorveth’s eye narrowed into a glare.

“Mortal enemies who succumb to their feelings of true love~” Dandelion’s voice was singsong. “Oh, it’s so romantic! Definitely has the makings of a hit!”

Iorveth was horrified. And mortified. “Please no.”

“Yeah,” Zoltan sighed, patting him on the shoulder with a large hand. It was the most they had touched since their last fight 200 years ago. “That ship has sailed. There’s no reining him in now.”

“Oh gods,” Iorveth muttered, sinking deeper into the water to hide his red ears.

Zoltan laughed and Iorveth would be lying if he said the sound didn’t make something in his chest hitch – but it also, 100%, made him hate Zoltan even more. Asshole.

“It’ll be beautiful!” Dandelion insisted. “I already have the beginning melody. And a strong chorus shouldn’t be hard. Hmm, something about the journey from hate to love.”

Iorveth’s groan was despairing. There was no way this would end well. But what the fuck – they were probably going to die in a few days anyway when the Wild Hunt came. And… it was kind of nice that they were helping him. Annoying and embarrassing and obnoxious, definitely – but also nice.

Dandelion had the perfect plan for how to woo Roche. It was a subtle plan, one that could be built upon – but it was perfect!

What was it? Well, everyone knew there was nothing more romantic than the dulcet tones of his voice in a sweet love ballad. As such, any time Iorveth and Roche were in the vicinity together, Dandelion broke out his best love songs.

“Seriously?” Lambert burst out after a full day of this. “We’re about to fight for our lives against some weird fucking elves and you’re singing about true love? Really!?”

“Lambert doesn’t believe in true love,” Aiden added in an undertone, earning himself an elbow in the gut. He didn’t seem to notice.

“What?” Dandelion shrugged, tuning his lute. It was just the slightest bit off. “Do you want something more upbeat? I can do that.”

“That is so not the issue,” Keira muttered, but her lips were twitching with amusement.

“No, no, it is an understandable criticism,” Dandelion said generously. He thought about his options, humming a few lines before hitting on the right one. “All right, let’s go energetic!” He strummed his lute hard, opening with a long vocalization.

“Ugh,” Lambert groaned, and Dandelion was above pettiness, but he made a note to get back at Lambert for that at some point. Maybe a White Wolf ballad with a cameo?

“So,” Triss said loudly before any of the witchers could get violent, “why are you singing love songs?”

“Why, my dear Mage Merigold,” Dandelion said grandly, “because love is in the air tonight!” He paused thoughtfully. That had the makings of a good lyric.

“Where?” Lambert grumbled.

In the corner, trying to avoid drawing attention to himself, Iorveth was blushing darkly – and also keeping his own attention focused on Roche, who was bobbing his head absently as he cleaned several knives, Ves sitting next to him.

“Everywhere,” Dandelion answered Lambert with a bright grin. “For in the face of almost certain death, there can be no force more powerful than love!”

Eskel snorted. “That sounded almost profound.”

“Because it was!” Dandelion pouted.

Zoltan snickered. “What’s everyone’s favorite love song, then?” he asked.

Lambert’s scoff was disbelieving, but Keira appeared amused and answered. “I always liked The Power of Love,” she said, and Dandelion was delighted to take the prompt and dive into the song.

Keira laughed, singing along with the upbeat melody. Lambert’s emphatic groan just made Dandelion grow louder.

“What about songs from different areas?” Roche asked when they finished. “Know any good Temerian songs?”

“Of course!”

“I was always a fan of La Vie en Rose,” Ves said, meeting Dandelion’s eye with a smirk like she knew exactly how much he hated playing horn. The song could be played on lute… but it had been made famous on trumpet. The people expected a trumpet.

“That really needs a piano accompaniment,” he hedged.

“I think we have a very old piano in storage somewhere,” Vesemir mused.

Internally panicking, Dandelion searched for a distraction. (He had a trumpet and could play the song, of course… but trumpets sucked. They always made his lips hurt.)

“You know that was originally an elven song,” Iorveth said haughtily.

“Nu uh,” Ves frowned.

“But it’s French,” Roche said, head tilted in consideration. “French was the first language of the human settlers of Temeria, I thought. Not Elder Speech.”

“True,” Iorveth nodded, and Dandelion was hit with the sudden thought that he had been there when all this had happened. Weird. “It was adapted from a song in Elder. Beatha an Ròs.”

“Huh. Are the lyrics very different?” Dandelion couldn’t help but be curious.

He knew he’d walked into a trap the moment Iorveth met his eye. “Not sure,” Iorveth said casually, “haven’t heard the human version in a lot of years.”

Ugh. Now he was going to have to play it, wasn’t he?

The others seemed to have picked up on Dandelion’s reluctance and Triss encouraged, “why don’t you play it, Dandelion? Then Iorveth can compare.”

Her words were innocent, but the twitching at the corner of her mouth proved that she knew exactly what she was doing.

Dandelion pouted.

“Are we having a concert?” Hjalmar wandered in and asked, looking enthused. “I play some mean drums!”

“Yes! Let’s have a concert!” Dandelion jumped on the excuse. “We can showcase hits from different areas! What’s Skellige’s best love song?”

“Hmm,” Hjalmar actually stopped to consider it.

“Red is the Rose, for sure,” Folan, his friend, said instantly. He began a soft melody, voice surprisingly nice.

Red is the rose that in yonder garden grows, Fair is the lily of the valley; Clear is the water that flows from the Boyne But my love is fairer than any.

“Eh,” Hjalmar interrupted. “I mean, it’s good, but is it the best Skelliger love song?”

Folan frowned, and Dandelion sensed an argument on the horizon. Usually he would disrupt such a thing – but if it could get him out of playing trumpet…

“Maybe Galway Girl?” Hjalmar suggested.

“Red is the Rose is way better!” Folan insisted. “It’s soft and romantic and slow enough to dance to.”

“You can’t dance to that!” Hjalmar put his hands on his hips. “The most you could do is sway awkwardly and that’s boring!”

Triss and Keira both bit back snorts at that.

“Plus, the song is sad! It’s about two lovers being unable to be together!”

“To be fair,” Folan said calmly, unbothered by how worked up Hjalmar was, “most Skelliger love songs are actually tragedies.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Folan nodded. “There’s a lot of going off to war and being separated and stuff. At least, that’s most of what Draig Bon-Dhu sings.”

Dandelion tried not to scowl at the mention of the Skelliger bard that totally hadn’t beaten him in a competition.

“What about Aedirnian love songs?” Zoltan asked Yennefer, who looked up from the book she’d been examining.

“What?”

“Know any good Aedirnian love songs?” Dandelion pounced on the opening Zoltan had provided.

“Mostly boring court songs,” Yennefer said dismissively. “Or your ridiculous twaddle,” she aimed that remark at Dandelion and he sent her a shitfaced grin.

“I believe you mean my incredibly moving and talented compositions, thank you very much.”

Yennefer snorted derisively.

“Where else do we have people from?” Triss asked, looking around. “Letho, you’re originally from Nilfgaard, aren’t you?”

“Technically,” Letho the Kingslayer drawled, “the School of the Viper is located in the Tir Tochair mountains on the border of Geso.”

“Aren’t the people of Geso known for being particularly… barbaric?” Iorveth asked sardonically.

Letho’s smile was all teeth. “That’s Gemmera, actually. Famed for the ferocity and strength of their warriors.”

“It’s all Nilfgaard,” Keira dismissed with a sniff.

“So’s half the North,” Letho said genially.

That made everyone scowl, arguments breaking out, and all in all, while they had undoubtedly learned more about each other, very little wooing actually happened that night.

Dandelion sighed and strummed a forlorn melody. Several people were shouting at each other, so there was little point in gracing them with his wondrous voice.

Hmm. That gave him an idea for a ballad about the woes of having one’s voice ignored. The tragedy of it was downright heartbreaking, and the crowds of Novigrad would love it, he just knew.

Distracted from his quest to help Iorveth woo his man, Dandelion pulled out his notebook and began to compose, to the background of loud yelling about where Nilfgaard could stick it.

Ves' POV of soaking in the hot springs with the other women

“So, Ves,” Triss said eventually as they soaked. “What’s going in with Roche and Iorveth?”

“What do you mean?” Ves asked, playing dumb mostly because she had no idea how to answer.

“Well, they’re supposed to be enemies, right?” Keira arched an eyebrow. “And yet, they’re sharing a room? And they bicker like an old married couple.”

Ves grunted. She couldn’t deny that, unfortunately. She sighed, shaking her head. “I don’t know what Roche is thinking,” she said, “letting that viper so close.”

“I think Letho is the viper,” Triss joked. “But it’s certainly odd. I’ve barely seen them apart from each other since they arrived!”

“Ugh,” Ves agreed. The Scoia’tael scum had certainly been sticking too close for her tastes. She didn’t know how Roche stood it.

“Pretty sure the ridiculous bard has interpreted their enmity as love,” Yennefer said.

“Ooooh, is that what the love songs were about?” Triss shook her head with a laugh. “Dandelion truly is ridiculous.”

“I mean, I can’t blame him,” Keira said. “They act like they’re in love or something, don’t they?”

“Don’t be absurd,” Ves dismissed. “Roche could never love an elf.”

“Well, he sure acts like it,” Yennefer replied, voice cool. Weren’t there rumors that she was part elf?

“Okay, but what about Iorveth and Zoltan? No one saw that coming, right?” Triss arched an eyebrow. “If an elf and a dwarf can have so much history…”

Ves frowned, the thought settling uncomfortably. “Technically, they never actually confirmed everyone’s assumptions,” she pointed out, but it was a weak defense.

Keira snorted. “Never would’ve thought a killer with Iorveth’s reputation could turn so red.”

They all chortled at that, recalling the way the elf’s ears and face had flushed a dark scarlet.

“Zoltan, of all people, too!” Triss giggled. “I mean, he hates the Scoia’tael! His type is – is Dandelion, for fuck’s sake!”

“Well, we don’t know what Iorveth was like before fighting humanity,” Yennefer pointed out. “Maybe he was like the bard.”

“No way! Iorveth!?”

Yennefer just shrugged. “He was, apparently, a famous musician. From what I’ve seen, Dandelion is rather representative of such a career and the type it draws.”

“Well,” Triss said slowly, “you’re not wrong. But… really!?”

“What I wanna know,” Keira said, “is what’s up with Lambert and Aiden?”

“Oh?”

“I mean – Lambert isn’t exactly the friendliest guy around. And this guy appears, the only one that Geralt didn’t invite? That says something.”

Ves’ lips twitched, grateful to be off the subject of Roche. “What about Aiden’s response to Lambert complaining about love songs? He ‘doesn’t believe in true love’? That says something.”

“It does!” Keira agreed emphatically. “But what is the question.”

As they began to theorize, Ves couldn’t help but think about their implications about Roche. It couldn’t be true. Surely it couldn’t be true.

How could Roche love an elf? A Scoia’tael elf, no less!

He couldn’t, was the answer. He knew what they’d done to her. He could never sympathize with them.

Nonetheless, she had to admit that Iorveth’s behavior did kind of point to being interested in Roche, even if Roche could never reciprocate.

“Ves?” Triss called and she realized that she’d zoned out. “You okay?”

She nodded, flushing slightly – but most of her brain was still distracted with the question before her. “Why doesn’t Roche tell Iorveth to fuck off?”

Keira laughed. “If anything, he probably wants to tell Iorveth to fuck him.”

“You take that back!” Ves snarled.

“Whoa, whoa,” Triss held up her hands placatingly. After a moment, she added, “Keira has a point, though. I mean, I don’t think Roche would actually go for Iorveth… but him and Iorveth acting like an old married couple is very much mutual.”

“You don’t think he would?” Yennefer asked. “Because Iorveth is an elf?”

“A Scoia’tael elf!” Ves spat.

“He doesn’t seem like he minds,” Keira shrugged, and Ves scowled heavily at her.

“The Scoia’tael are nothing but disgusting barbarians,” Ves snarled. “Roche would never sully himself with their ilk.”

“Wouldn’t he?” Yennefer asked.

“How about a bet?” Keira proposed.

“What?”

“You’re certain Roche could never go for Iorveth,” Keira said simply, “we disagree. So… how about a bet to see who’s right?”

“I’m not gonna bet on Roche’s love life!”

“But you don’t think there’s anything going on there anyway,” Triss pointed out. “So why not find out for certain?”

Ves’ lips pursed. “You do remember we’re here for an actual purpose, right?”

“Yes,” Yennefer said primly, “and when the Wild Hunt comes, we will be ready. But in the meantime, we may as well entertain ourselves.”

“...what would this bet look like exactly?” Ves hedged.

Keira shrugged. “We could help Dandelion’s ridiculous matchmaking attempts and see if it works?”

“It won’t,” Ves said firmly.

“Then there’s no harm in trying, right?”

Ves frowned, disliking the idea, but not really having a good reason to disagree. They didn’t really need her agreement anyway.

“Fine,” she spat. Then she decided that she’d soaked for long enough and rather wanted to be away from these people now. Maybe sorceresses weren’t that bad – but they had to be wrong about Roche. They had to be.

Later, from Triss' POV as she and Keira conspire on how to set Iorveth and Roche up. Also, there are some notes where I haven't got the words quite right. Please ignore. (and suggestions welcome)

It was really silly, but right now, what Triss missed more than anything was Foltest’s wine collection. She’d become accustomed to enjoying drinks that actually tasted good.

Witchers, it would seem, did not care if it tasted good or not. They did not invest in high quality liquor.

So when Keira suggested a drinking game to loosen Roche and Iorveth’s tongues, Triss didn’t exactly leap at the idea. But it would be nice to have an evening of fun, even if she would have to scrape all of her tastebuds off come morning.

“Yeah, all right,” she agreed.

If they were going to die soon, they deserved to cut loose for a little bit beforehand.

Vesemir declined with a heavy sigh. “I’ll start brewing a hangover cure,” he said, longsuffering.

“You could participate,” Triss offered.

He chuckled. “No, I think I shall avoid admitting to all the folly of my youth.”

“Indeed,” Ermion, the Skelliger druid, said when asked. “I believe I am too old to relive those days.”

Avallac’h said nothing, ignoring her when she’d tried to invite him. She didn’t feel the need to try too terribly hard.

Hjalmar and Folan were positively delighted at the opportunity to get shitfaced, and they eagerly gathered everyone up to play, letting the witchers sort out what alcohol they had available.

It was fairly late by the time they finally settled down, sitting around the fire with their drinks of choice. Not that there had been much choice, but at least shitty wine was better than Lambert’s home-brewed pepper vodka. Even if Dandelion and Zoltan were both drinking it without a change in expression.

It was still better than Lambert’s other concoction – the gauntlet, equal parts spirit and White Gull. It could get even a witcher wasted and would likely kill an ordinary human. It was for that reason that only the witchers elected that one.

Roche and Ves, predictably, were drinking Temerian rye. Keira sipped the same wine Triss was drinking and was managing a better job of not showing her disgust than she was. Hjalmar and Folan had brought some kind of Skelliger mead, and they were generously sharing with Iorveth, who passed around a pipe in return. Elves were always said to have good weed, and she could now confirm it.

It had been a long time since Triss had gotten high. Much less cross-faded.

The stresses of preparing for a battle they were likely to lose bled off her with each hit, and she was the one to actually start the game.

“Never have I ever,” she began with deep gravitas. The others fell silent in response, waiting to see if they would need to drink. “Streaked naked through a crowd.”

Dandelion huffed, as she knew he would, but obediently took a shot. Hjalmar did too, grinning and looking prepared to regale them with the story.

Wanting to avoid that, she nudged the person next to her – who just so happened to be Iorveth, because he was always next to Roche these days. He was sitting a little too close now, even, and Triss held back a smirk.

“Name something you haven’t done,” she prompted the elf.

“Uh. Never have I ever…” he paused to think and Triss elbowed him again, for extra motivation. He grunted, shifting away from her, but did finally finish, “slept with a sorceress. With good reason.”

Triss scoffed, taking a large gulp of her wine. She wondered if he realized who else would drink at that. Keira, Dandelion, and Roche were the only other ones, and Roche’s face was a little red as several people turned surprised looks on him.

Triss watched Iorveth’s face as he put the dots together and turned a scowl on her. It was actually mildly terrifying, but she refused to be cowed, smirking instead.

“Never have I ever,” Roche said loudly, and from the look on his face, she knew this one would be targeted to try to divert attention from himself. “Had a wanted poster issued for myself.”

Iorveth rolled his eyes, drinking his mead. Lambert and Aiden also drank, which successfully drew attention away from Roche.

“Why aren’t you drinking, Kingslayer?” Ves barked.

Letho smiled genially. “I was never caught. There were no wanted posters for me.”

“What about now?” Roche asked, eyes narrowed.

“The Emperor don’t bother with writing down his enemies’ names,” Letho said, entirely casual.

On the sidelines, Yennefer snorted. She wasn’t part of the game, instead preferring to read what she was pretending was some old archaic text but what Triss was pretty sure was actually erotic love poetry.

It earned Yenn some glares, and she shrugged, not bothering to look up from her book. “He’s right. Wanted posters indicate that you can’t keep order on your own. Nilfgaard does not use them often. They simply pay the right people and make the problem disappear.”

“Charming,” Lambert said. “Next.”

Ves pursed her lips, glaring at Letho. “Never have I ever been paid to kill a monster.”

The witchers all drank, and then it was Dandelion’s turn. He nudged Zoltan. “Never have I ever lost all my money in a gwent game and had to auction off my trousers.”

Zoltan laughed, taking a long swig. Lambert also took a drink, which earned him a few looks.

“I remember that,” Aiden chuckled.

Zoltan wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and shot a grin at Dandelion, words clearly designed to target the bard. “Never have I ever [something absurd Dandy has done].”

Dandelion drank – but so did Lambert, and several people arched their eyebrows.

“I was very drunk,” Lambert shrugged.

“When was that?” Aiden asked.

“Remember? That time outside Mirt.”

“Oooh,” Aiden laughed after a moment, “yeah, you were shitfaced.”

“Exactly how often do you two work together?” Eskel asked, frowning at them.

Lambert shrugged, not answering. “You’re up, Skelliger,” he said to Hjalmar.

“Never have I ever slept with anyone not human,” Hjalmar said. The nonhumans in the room, predictably, drank. So did all the witchers, which brought up the question…

“...do witchers count as human?” Triss reluctantly asked.

“I say no,” Aiden shrugged.

Triss took a sip of her wine. Dandelion, Keira, Roche, and Ves also had to drink, though the look on Ves’ face indicated she wasn’t happy about it. It was probably best not to ask.

“That was a good one,” Folan said cheerily. “Got almost everyone!”

“So what’s yours?” Hjalmar’s grin showed off a gap in his teeth.

“Hmm. Never challenged my sister to a race in front of everyone – and then lost.”

They all laughed as Hjalmar drank with a grumble.

“You’re up, Letho,” Eskel prompted.

“Hmm…” Letho’s smile was sweet and Triss didn’t trust it for a second. “They say you’re a whoreson, don’t they?” he said conversationally. Roche’s spine snapped straight. “Never have I ever had sex for money.”

Roche’s fingers curled into a fist, but he took a drink, and Triss noticed that Iorveth actually looked surprised.

“What if it wasn’t for money, per say?” Dandelion asked loudly, and Triss was pretty sure he was intentionally drawing attention away from Roche’s clear discomfort.

“I did once sleep with a woman to steal her necklace,” Aiden said contemplatively.

“Ooh, was that the sapphire one?” Lambert’s laugh was more of a cackle than was probably appropriate. “That one sold for a lot.”

“Mmhm,” Aiden hummed, grin turning wicked. “Never have I ever jumped off a roof for a bet.”

Lambert rolled his eyes and drank. Dandelion also drank, and was entirely shameless about it.

“All right,” Lambert cracked his knuckles, waggling his eyebrows at Eskel as he said, “never have I ever slept with a succubus.”

Eskel flushed lightly, grumbling as he downed his drink. Dandelion and Zoltan also drinking wasn’t really a shock, honestly – Geralt almost certainly would have, too, were he here – but Letho was a surprise.

He just smiled, saying nothing in the face of their curiosity.

Eskel glared narrowly at Lambert. “Never have I ever [something ridiculous Lambert did in a fit of anger or something].”

Lambert scowled, taking a drink.

“My turn,” Keira said, looking each of them over contemplatively. Triss hoped she was thinking of how to target Iorveth and Roche, because that was supposed to be the whole point of this.

Plus, it was fun.

“Never have I ever written a poem or song,” Keira said. Dandelion drank, of course, but Iorveth did too, and the look Roche cast his way was curious.

And then Lambert surprised all of them by taking another shot.

“...really?” Eskel asked, dumbfounded.

“I was super drunk,” Lambert defended. “It wasn’t very coherent.”

Aiden didn’t say anything, but the way he bit his lip against a smile made Triss wonder.

It was her turn again and she thought about what to say. The whole point of this was to help push Iorveth and Roche together, so…

“Never have I ever,” she hiccuped, “had sex in a tree.”

“Really?” Iorveth scoffed. He drank – and so did Zoltan.

“Seriously!?” Dandelion’s voice was a little too high pitched.

Neither of them met anyone’s gaze.

Iorveth cleared his throat. “Never have I ever had a business venture fail in less than a day.”

Zoltan scowled, drinking.

Roche looked between them, something odd in his expression. But when he spoke, it was clear who he was targeting. “Never have I ever,” he said, voice a tad mischievous, “worn a fancy ball gown and spilled wine all over it.”

Triss’ frown may have more resembled a pout as she drank. What was interesting was that Lambert also drank – and at this rate, the witcher was going to end up the first one wasted. Him or Dandelion, who drank as well.

“Really?”

“It was a lovely dress!” Dandelion said. “Shame the wine couldn’t wash out.”

Zoltan laughed. “You looked stunning, as I recall. Until you tripped and fell out the window after spilling the wine all down your front, anyway.”

“Lies,” Dandelion said easily. “I still looked smashing even then!”

Now they all laughed, turning to Ves for her turn.

“Never have I ever,” Ves began, glaring at Iorveth, “been chased out of town under threat of death.”

Iorveth’s look was cool as he drank, accompanied by all the witchers – oof, Triss maybe should have guessed that – and Dandelion and Zoltan, who, honestly, she had expected.

“What about you, Dandelion?” she asked, trying to move them on.

“Hmm.” Dandelion shot what he probably thought was a sly look at Iorveth and Roche. “Never have I ever shared a room with my sworn enemy.”

Iorveth and Roche both rolled their eyes, drinking. Surprisingly, Keira also took a sip and Triss looked to her friend in surprise.

“At Aretuza, remember?” Keira said. “Way back.”

“Ooooh, yeah. Whatever happened to that girl?”

“Nothing interesting, I’m sure,” Keira said tartly.

“All right,” Zoltan hummed, considering his words. Then he smirked slightly and said, “never have I ever kissed a royal.”

From the way he was smirking at Iorveth and how Iorveth rolled his eye in response, Triss figured that was targeted at the elf – but it had some other casualties. Slinging back her own drink, she caught the look on Ves’ face as she glared down at her shot glass – and saw the way her fingers shook as she reached for it.

Roche stole it out from under her, downing her shot and his own. The set of his jaw very clearly dared anyone to make anything of it.

There was surprise on several faces, including Iorveth and Zoltan’s. Dandelion, who had also taken a shot, swayed into Zoltan’s shoulder, barely held up.

Folan coughed loudly. “Does kissing Hjalmar’s sister as a kid count? She is Queen now.”

“It counts!” Hjalmar said immediately, and something loosened in Triss’ shoulders as their collective attention turned the Skelligers.

“My turn!” Hjalmar's voice was gleefully. “Never have I ever… had an orgy with more than five people.”

There were some laughs in response as Dandelion, Zoltan, Roche, Ves, Keira, and Triss all drank.

“You lucky bastards,” Lambert muttered.

“Hmm,” Folan chewed on his lip for a moment. “Never have I ever fallen in love with someone I shouldn’t,” he said, and Triss wondered if he’d caught on to their attempts at getting Iorveth and Roche to loosen up.

Iorveth glared at everyone as he drank, much to Roche’s clear surprise. Dandelion let out a exaggeratedly lovestruck sigh, as if fondly remembering the one that was prompting him to drink.

“What kind of question is that?” Hjalmar scoffed. “Bro, you’re totally in love with my sister!”

Folan flushed red. “There’s nothing wrong with that! We grew up together!”

Triss giggled.

“Your turn, Viper,” Keira prompted.

Letho’s smile was slow and cold. “Never have I ever,” he drawled, “gotten my second killed.”

This time, Iorveth’s scowl was murderous and Triss winced, remembering the beaten form of the elf who had pleaded with her and Geralt to warn Iorveth of the way Letho had doublecrossed him. Ciaran hadn’t lasted long enough to see the Scoia’tael reclaim the prison barge he’d been on.

“Hey,” she snapped, “let’s keep it friendly, guys, come on.”

Letho just shrugged.

Aiden cleared his throat a little too loudly and obligingly moved the game along, targeting Lambert as he said something about drunkenly falling out of a tree. Lambert retaliated, but next was Eskel, who seemed delighted to poke fun at Lambert.

At this rate, Lambert was likely to be the first to drop out, and he clearly knew it from the way he half-pouted, grumbling under his breath.

Keira and Triss both designed their questions to highlight the way Iorveth and Roche were sitting with their shoulders pressed together, helping keep the other upright. They were all more than slightly soused at this point, though the Skelligers had drank less than the rest of them.

“Man, our lives are clearly not interesting enough!” Hjalmar lamented before adding, “never have I ever lived more than 30 years.”

“Oh come on,” everyone except Ves and Folan grumbled, taking their shots.

“All right,” Zoltan said, “Dandelion’s done.”

“What?” Dandelion protested. “I’m fiiiiiiiine,” he slurred. “I could do thish all niiiiiight.” He tried to stand and promptly collapsed onto the floor in a sprawl. “Or not.”

“Should we help him up?” Keira asked uncertainly.

“Nah,” Zoltan said.

“I like the floor,” Dandelion giggled. He then began to drunkenly hum various melodies, actually providing kind of a nice backdrop for the game.

Lambert was the next one to drop out, slumping heavily onto Aiden. Aiden laughed and bowed out, dragging the no doubt heavy carcass of the drunken Wolf upstairs.

Keira’s eyes followed them curiously, but Triss was distracted by Roche getting her with ��never been seasick’. Vision going double, she decided maybe it was time for her to concede as well.

Iorveth and Roche dropped out after the same statement – never been knocked out, of all things. They stayed in place, holding each other up and giggling stupidly at the rest of them.

The look on Ves’ face clearly showed her displeasure with this, but she didn’t seem to know what to do. She’d drunk a fair amount, but still seemed surprisingly stable, words not slurring at all when it was her turn.

It only took a few more questions to knock out Keira and Eskel both, leaving the Skelligers, Ves, Zoltan, and Letho as the last ones standing.

And that's all!

You know, I was gonna talk about the plan for where the fic is going, but this is already super long oops. It's gonna be fun, though. I'm approaching the end of the 1st arc, then we have the Battle of Kaer Morhen and its aftermath, which includes Roche receiving a message from Dijkstra about the opportunity for a 'Free' Temeria. Since several of those present have kingslaying experience, this leads to Vernon Roche, Ves, Iorveth, Letho, Zoltan, and Dandelion all going on a road trip to Novigrad together 😂😂😂 I'm looking forward to it. There's going to be much drama and some angst and some eventual reconciliation and making out lol

#wip wednesday #rorveth #iorveth x roche #the witcher

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artistsfuneral · 1 year ago

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The Road to Kaer Morhen - p.8

this turned out longer than expected so most of it, the fanart and the vote are under the read more so people don't have to scroll past this for 5min

✨🌿🌼✨

It was good that Cat Witchers were already considered a bunch of madmen, otherwise Aiden would've started to worry for his sanity as he watched Jaskier's blue eyes light up with joy. “Good, because I have already named them!” Of course he had.

Following the bard on wobbly legs to where the four horses grazed, Aiden almost forgot about all that had happened a couple of hours prior. Then he accidentally kicked his foot against a stray helmet and the clattering sound of metal reminded him of the fresh cuts across his chest and the awful ache in both his shoulders and he couldn't help but to stare at the back of the bard's head, wondering what exactly a protector was.

But then Jaskier turned and smiled at Aiden with such incredible warmth that his heart fluttered inside his chest and he found himself mimicking the smile without the all too familiar voice inside his head telling him, warning him not to and he suddenly understood that despite it all, despite the horrors of having seen what Jaskier could do if angered, despite not knowing and therefore not understanding how or what or why Jaskier was who he was- Aiden wasn't afraid of him. Aiden trusted him. Aiden, who – much like any other witcher – from the very first day of his training had been taught, no, had been drilled to never trust anyone on the path that wasn't one of his own brothers. He knew of the world's cruelty, had learned first hand not to seek comfort and friendship where he wouldn't find it, but Jaskier- Jaskier was different. How long had they been traveling together? A month? A month was a time hardly worth mentioning, passing in the blink of an eye for someone who would possibly live up to three, maybe four hundred years or longer. Sure, Aiden was on the younger side of the Cat school, only having followed the Call of the Path for around sixty or seventy years, but even compared to that a month was nothing. And yet-

“Are you alright, sunshine? Are you in pain? Should you have rested more before getting up? We can take it slow, you know, no pressure.”

Aiden chuckled, “I'm fine, Jask, no need to worry. Simply got lost in my thoughts for a moment.” Not so easily persuaded, the bard gave him a look that was eerily similar to Lambert's 'don't bullshit me' face. Thankfully Aiden knew how to deal with that. “You said you already have names for the horses?” Success. Jaskier's face lit up again and he took hold of Aiden's hand to gently pull the witcher along. “I have! Or at least for three of them, I'm not quite sure what to name the fourth one, but I still want to introduce you to them!”

The horses waited at the sidelines of the camp, heads rising curiously as the two men made their way over to them. Untacked except for their bridles they stood closely together, showing that they had been traveled together long enough to form a bond between them. Jaskier had been right, they were friends, given the way they bumped their heads together. Aiden hadn't owned a horse in some time now, so the prospects of riding again had him smiling, even if he still believed four horses to be excessive. Though, all complains he had went right out the window when they reached the small herd and almost immediately a soft nose bumped against his head, warm breath tickling against his skin. Jaskier laughed warmly and gently nudged the big horse head away from Aiden's face, so the witcher could properly look at it. “That's Sprout,” the bard dutifully introduced Aiden to the tricolored pinto. “I'd say he's the youngest, certainly acts like it, but from what I've seen today the others keep him in check quite well.” Aiden hummed, taking in the gelding's lively eyes. He was the smallest of the four, his mane and tail cut short like it was custom for military mounts. He was pretty, almost too pretty to be ridden by a soldier, not that that was the case anymore, but it still seemed a bit odd.

Next to them one of the two bay horses snorted at him, making Aiden turn towards it. Jaskier rolled his eyes fondly and petted her neck. “This feisty lady is Roachie.”

“You're kidding, right?” One truly had to be a fool these days to not know the name of the White Wolf's horse. Jaskier had written several songs about Roach after all. “Certainly not,” Jaskier grinned. “They share the same color, the same temperament and I think it is time I get a Roach of my own. Can't be the Witchers' Bard without a Roach now, can I?” Aiden hid his face in his hand and giggled like a child. It was so stupid, such a petty thing, but at the same time the most brilliant name Jaskier could've come up with. “Alright then,” he grinned at the bard, “Roachie and Sprout. Who's next?”

“Chicory!” Jaskier said and wiggled his finger in front of a sheer mountain of a horse. A kaedweni draft, if Aiden was correct. It had that distinct gray color that ranged somewhere between a dapple gray and a grulla silver. The soldiers must've obtained it somewhere along the border from a farm and used it as a carrier or cart horse afterwards. The name Jaskier had picked fitted the horse perfectly. “She's a mare too, definitely on the calmer side I'd say, but given her size she'll be able to handle the boys just fine.” Introducing himself to Chicory by softly petting her rosy nose Aiden was reminded of the horse he had learned to ride on. “Our caravans are pulled by draft horses, they're good animals, sturdy too. I always liked them better than other breeds,” Aiden admitted. Jaskier bumped their shoulders together in silent reassurance. The witcher hadn't told him yet what exactly was going on with the Cats, but from what he understood so far the school of the Cat was going through some disagreements concerning the leadership, fractioning it into two or three sides and a handful of witchers that preferred not to intervene and therefore split off with the rest of the Cats for now. Aiden was one of them.

Turning towards the fourth and last horse, the second bay that was almost identical to Roachie except for the missing blaze, Jaskier sighed. “And this is the little fella I couldn't seem to find a name for. He's a bit more careful than the others, needed some convincing before I could give him a treat, but nothing I came up with really fit him.” Aiden hummed in agreement, seeing the shyness Jaskier had spoken of, but also the strong legs and firm muscles underneath the gelding's timid character. Unlike the other three it was almost obvious that he was a military mount. The poor thing was, in a way, so horribly normal that he'd be entirely invisible surrounded by other horses and that thought made Aiden gasp. “He's Horse!” Jaskier slowly turned his head towards the other man and blinked in confusion. “Uh- yes? He's a horse, well done, Aiden.”

“No, listen, Jask. He's Horse, like Geralt's horse is Roach and Lambert's horse is Horse.”

“Lambert's horse-horse? Huh?”

Aiden slapped his hand against his forehead. “No, Lambert named his horse Horse,” he explained, over-pronouncing the name. Now it was the bard's turn to gasp for air. “That poor Horse!” The two men blinked at each other once, twice before bursting into a loud fit of giggles.

After taking their time to get to know their new horses, Jaskier and Aiden tacked them up, going for the simple brown reigns and saddles and avoiding anything that looked too much like the redanian horse armor. They hopefully wouldn't encounter anyone else on their way to Kaer Morhen, but better safe than sorry. For now, Jaskier and Aiden would ride on Roachie and Sprout, securing their packs on Horse and Chicory. The plan was to swap the animals' tasks every few days, the rotation hopefully keeping their spirits up and prevent any sores or strains.

Jaskier's little looting session was thankfully providing them with everything they needed to take care of the horses for weeks, if not two months. Not that they planned on taking so long to search for the Wolves' keep, but you never knew. Aside from that Jaskier had scraped together whatever bits and pieces of armor Aiden could use in the future, some additional food and water skins and miscellaneous items like a bigger cooking pot and a nice set of knifes that would do them good. They stored everything in the horses' saddle bags, keeping just a handful of their belongings in their own packs. Jaskier of course, kept his lute close to him, just like Aiden refused to remove the swords from his back.

For a while the two rode through the underbrush of the forest, leading the horses in a circle to hide any possible tracks, then followed a well used deer trail further east until it came to a natural stop next to a small, rocky stream. Allowing the horses to drink, Jaskier turned in his saddle to find Aiden's eye. “How are you holding up, sunshine?”

Aiden, who's shoulder's had been aching for quite some time now, sighed loudly. “I'll live. Think, I will drink another Swallow and fight through it. We lost a couple of hours because of me, so we should keep riding until night falls.”

“I will ignore the fact that you said it like it was your fault Vizimir's toadies caught up with us and remind you that the sun will not set for at least four or five hours.” Jaskier replied, while Aiden fetched the reddish potion out of his sea sack and proceeded to drown it in one go. The bad rolled his eyes, “I mean it's not like our arrival at Kaer Morhen is expected on a agreed upon day, since we – you know – aren't expected at all. If Vesemir is at the keep at all. As stingy as Geralt is with details, I at least know that his father still hears the Call from time to time. So really, we don't need to hurry.”

Aiden gave him a deadpan look. “Have you forgotten why we're trying to find Kaer Morhen in the first place? We aren't looking for a summer house, Jaskier, we are refugees hoping the grandmaster of the Wolves will hide us from the rest of the continent. If not for you being- well, you, I'd still be chained to that tree right now. So can we just ride on and get enough distance between us and everything that's trying to fucking murder us? Please?”

please like and reblog if you voted

✨🌿🌼✨

I gave up when it came to drawing the saddles, that shit just didn't want to be drawn, so use your imagination to make their tack more realistic pls 🤫

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blackberrywars · 2 years ago

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For the fic writers game. 🍑 And 🫐 of course 🤣

AHHH thank you so much for playing dear! I'm sorry it took so long but @halehathnofury, here it is! My most beloved Opinions

🍑 If you could make a connection between your favorite character and another work you care about (whether a crossover/fusion or a wonderfully “pretentious” literary reference) what would it be? How would it work?

Well, I think you and I both know that it's Lambert. And this question makes it difficult because I really can't think of another character quite like him, especially a male one —someone so deeply hurt but still expressive, who wants better but has given up hope on it, simply resigned to clinging to what he knows. He's loud and angry, but he makes it very obvious that it is from a place of grief. He finds loves, but is always waiting to lose them. It's an archetype I've usually only seen in older characters (which......... Vesemir parallels, anyone?).

That being said. "Pretentious" literary reference.

Frankenstein's monster. Born on a able, brought forth by a magician who was so desperate to see if he could, he never stopped to wonder if he should. He's made of a dozen different parts, but none of them matter anymore, except for the fact that they matter the most —they make him human, make him long for all the things humans long for. A family, a lover, kindness. Good meals and warmth. But his rebirth, no matter the parts (the history) that make him human, has made him a monster in everyone's eyes. Lambert may not have murdered his makers, but then again, they were dead pretty soon. If he hadn't had the better influences of his mother and the Wolves... who knows what he'd do.

Additionally, because it's a favorite of mine:

Mad Max from Fury Road. Is part of this inspired by the similarity between Tom Hardy's and Lambert's luscious, smoochy lips? Yes, of course. But also, it once again brings up the theme of having his humanity eviscerated by his environment and the people around him, and, even when he does find some solace, still resigning himself to his reality. Spoilers for the movie, I guess, but Max is pretty goddamn feral for most of the movie, and everyone around him dehumanizes him, to the point of him being turned into a human blood bag. He snaps at everything, because everything has been a threat. Furiosa and the Wives eventually ally with him, and show kindness. He returns it, but at the end, he still moves on. Rebuilding Citadel life isn't for Max, the way Geralt's Corvo Bianco life isn't for Lambert. It will take something else.

🫐 What’s your favorite underrated thing in your fandom? (A ship that only you seem to write for, a character there’s almost no fics about, a trope that criminally hasn’t been written yet, etc.)

In a general sense? The School of the Bear. I swear, it's not even me just being horny on main for large, hairy men, but the logistics of Arnaghad's philosophy really have so much potential. I've written a little about this before, but mostly in references. Essentially, yes, Arnaghad is poisoned by hyper-independence, but considering what reliance on kings/mages got the other schools, he kind of has a point. And if he didn't realize that, or care about witchers' lives, he wouldn't have founded a school about it. He would have just fucked off. He truly believes his method is the best way to keep witchers alive, even if he probably killed the most trainees on the way.

It's a really fucked-up, cruel kind of care that Arnaghad has.

By contrast, I feel like a lot of the fics about the Bears either take the minimal lore we have at face value or soften it to a considerable degree, and I enjoy both approaches. They make sense, especially when writing angst or fluff/smut, respectively. The latter is especially combined with a kind of post-sacking era, which makes sense; it's a bit like most Kaer Morhen fics, where the focus is on the members after the school itself has fallen, rather than when it was actually running. And believe you me, I adore those fics, especially the ones by @round--robin with the wonderful OCs. They are delightful. But something I would also love to see is some writing on Haern Caduch while it was still in operation. My heart hurts just thinking about it.

#berry's games #the witcher #the witcher fanfiction #lambert #school of the bear

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restless-witch · 2 years ago

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Better Not Wake The Baby - Part 2.... ish - The Spring...ish

Fic Summary: Jaskier isn't helpless. He'd been a shepherd before. He'd killed a wolf before. He'll slaughter again if that's the price of freedom.

Rated M: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, really gross attitudes towards omegas, abusive relationships, references to fucking

This fic was current up and to part 17 of Honey - Sometimes the Tunnel Only Leads to Darkness and after Better Not Wake The Baby- Winter. You'll enjoy this fic more if you’ve read them <3

Witcher 3 + Netflix / This part is rated M / Incomplete

Make your moan of your lot in life Split your mind half crazy Gouge your eyes with a butter knife But it better not wake the baby

-The Decemberists - What a Terrible World, What a Beautiful World

hey y’all, I’m what the kids call trash going through a dry spell of writing... it’s slow going on both my fics but I wanted to share a bit of the next chapter of Better Not Wake The Baby. The way I’ve been structuring it in my mind has been on the four seasons plus another winter- as I’ve plotted it out now, Winter (last posted- 3.6k) is pretty much complete. Spring has swollen up to 5.6K already and I expect it to probably double. Summer should be short- I’ve only got 300 words written and I really don’t expect much to happen. The second Winter is 5.6k and will also probably double.

Below is a little bit of spring that I can share without spoiling anything or a major cliffhanger and below THAT are just little bits of the other seasons for you to chew on :)

Thanks @oldandkinky for letting me play with Honey-verse!!! It’s such an enticing place to explore

Spring

Lambert leaves, then Eskel and the last storms, and Vesemir starts calling Geralt down to sow the gardens with manure. During the day, Vesemir sends Jaskier out to forage for the herbs and mushrooms he can identify; at night, Jaskier tucks himself between Geralt's legs with a book. He learns to suppress the shudders as Geralt's hands start to play with his cunt and widens his sprawl as he ruts against Geralt's cock. Jaskier clutters his mind with the sources of alchemy ingredients and sweetens his scent with memories of blackberries and fields of rye and the freedom of ambling a flock across Lettenhove. Geralt softens even more as arid misery gives way to the tedium of tallow and rosemary.

After what's certainly the last frost, radishes already unfurling from the hard ground, Vesemir and the goats are the only ones to see them off.

Vesemir gifted Geralt with all the little conveniences of a mated couple; a larger bedroll and kettle to share when they made camp, an ornamental medallion Jaskier might wear if he behaved back from the days Witchers did have sweethearts on the path, a new ledger to record their travels.

Geralt has packed up Roach and Vesemir has loaded Jaskier down with a novice witcher's kit; a gambeson and leather cuirass to keep him safe from bandits, a brick of honey and nuts and figs to supplement their field rations, a copy of their novitiate's songbook to help him remember the sprawling roads and names of beasts and plants.

The descent from Kaer Morhen is worlds easier than before: they bypass The Killer entirely, taking the smoother paths long since opened up by early spring slides and storms.

The two pick a path through the Blue Mountains through Kaedwan down into Aedirn.

During the day, on the Path, Jaskier croons his way into a modicum of freedom. The days come in starts and stops: unlike the grueling endless days of the last fall. The day Geralt taught him to sew up his thigh is a breath, the day Geralt presents him with a crown of aphrodisiac flowers stretches on endlessly, and the regular fruitless tupping beside the road becomes a dull hum threading the weeks together.

Since Jaskier proposed "courting", they've struck a number of bargains; though Jaskier isn't sure Geralt would think of them that way. Geralt stops taking the fertility treatments, holding off when Jaskier gently asks about the strain of heavy pregnancy or a newborn taking the path to the keep. Jaskier begins learning songs from tavern bards and the novitiate's songbook and practices singing for the hour after they lunch.

He sings to the boundless skies- swallows his envy of the thrushes and spits out his own song of gliding through the spring.

Summer

He can't control the groan that escapes him when a foot nudges into his back: he looks up into a pair of golden eyes and knows he is absolutely completely fucked because if there was one thing the Witchers of Kaer Morhen could agree on- it's that the Cats are fucked in the head and not above blood sport. he doesn't feel fear, more like a bit of humor, because he'd hardly expected to make it this far and he's waiting for his death like a punchline.

Fall

"It used to be a treat for the novices to be taken down the mountain," Vesemir says lightly, "and with your temperament, I imagine you'll want to pick between millet and oats."

Jaskier snorts. He does- he can't stand oats.

They make it to the hamlet in the late afternoon and it's almost evening before they find a house with spare supplies to barter: a merchant is due to make his last trip of the season soon, but the locals are reluctant to turn over their cushioning after the augur predicted an early freeze. Jaskier goes into the last house alone at twilight and drives a hard bargain. Vesemir fails to hide a fond glance when Jaskier slips the fat purse of crowns back into his breeches and wordlessly starts filling Wielki's packs with salt, hops, yarrow, slippery elm, saltpetre, and other provisions. He went back to the homestead and came out with two sacks of millet.

Winter

"What's my real name Geralt?" the pace of stabbing quickened, the grooves on the table between his fingers deepening as Jaskier's voice became a jab as well, "You saw it on the papers I signed when Nenneke took Essi in her care. What's my name?" Geralt didn't answer. Jaskier rammed the dagger where his palm had been only seconds before, fast enough Aiden nearly dove for a bandage, "Call me whatever the fuck you like then- it doesn't make a difference to you."

A/N- kind words and messages are always appreciated <3 thank you for reading

Rough and tumble ragged drafts on tumblr here: Actual Fic Better Not Wake The Baby

This fic is based on OldandKinky’s Honey-verse and you can also find them here: Honey-verse on Ao3 and OldandKinky on Ao3

and if you like my writing, I’ve also got “Varieties of Exile”

#geraskier #honeyverse #jaskier #geralt #geralt of rivia #vesemir #fanfic #fan fic #actual fic better not wake the baby #geralt/jaskier #geralt x jaskier #witcher au #the witch writes

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finleycannotdraw · 2 years ago

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this post from @0dde11eth inspired me lmao

go through the notes on that post to find some of the continued inspiration :)

tl;dr sleep-cuddly geralt is a headcanon you can pry from my cold dead hands!

#the witcher #finley cannot draw #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier the bard #jaskier pankratz #geralt x jaskier #the witcher netflix #the witcher fanart #LOOK I NEED THEM TO BE SOFT OKAY!!#imagining this is either at kaer morhen (cause jaskier would be cold and also probably scared of fire) or just in hotels during their #homosexual 20 year road trip #or both #ooh maybe I’ll write a fic who knows

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asweetprologue · 3 years ago

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from what i’ve tasted of desire

first post season 2 fic! of course I immediately wrote a fix-it, because these boys still haven’t talked about their feelings. needless to say, this contains spoilers for season 2 and the season 2 finale in particular.

read on ao3

Jaskier’s coat has a hole in it.

After everything, it should be trivial. The bodies of half the remaining witchers—Geralt’s brothers, his family—are laid across the tables in the main hall. The grey stone is stained with black streaks where they fell, like the veined marble of a mausoleum floor. Beyond the doors, he can see Ciri sitting on the broken rampart, Yennefer leaning close, their heads bent together. Exhaustion and grief press close and heavy around them all.

It shouldn’t matter that his jacket has a hole in it. He’s not hurt. He’s alive, and so is Yen, and Ciri, and—and he’s fine. Compared to what everyone else has been through, no hurts or discomforts of his should even register.

But. This is his only coat. The only thing he owns, really. Geralt plucked him out of that cell and he’s only got what’s on his back: one pair of trousers, a couple of shit boots not meant for the road, one shirt with a badly patched ax hole in it, a tattered vest, and one coat with a massive tear running from the small of his back and halfway up to his right armpit, bursting the seam. He’s lucky that whatever tore the heavy leather open didn’t tear him open with it.

He makes his way back to his room that evening with heavy feet. He knows he should have stayed, probably, to help everyone clean up longer and maybe sing to lift their spirits. But he doesn’t have a lute anymore, and he’s so tired.

The room he found for himself is small, and on the outside wall of the keep. There’s a crack in the ceiling to the right of the bed, and when he looks directly up he can see three pinpricks of light against the blackness of the northern sky. The mountain chill seeps into the room insidiously; he’s only glad it isn’t snowing. Still, the moth eaten blanket he’d rustled up does little against the cold, and his thrice damned fucking coat has a fucking hole in it. He can feel the chill against his back when he curls his feet up under the blanket. He doesn’t have any socks. They’d worn out on the way to Kaer Morhen and he’d finally had to throw them out.

Gods above, it’s fucking cold.

After tossing and shivering for an hour, Jaskier finally pulls himself out of the bed with a groan, dragging the blanket with him. Maybe if he can find a lit hearth somewhere he can get warm enough to pass out. After a moment of hesitation he grabs the bottle on the nightstand. There isn’t enough left in it to knock him out—thanks for nothing, Jaskier of yesterday—but maybe it will at least warm him up. His bones ache with the cold, and his bare feet burn where they touch the icy stone.

There’s still a fire burning in the main hall, but that’s not happening. People might still be there, and the room smells like iron and ozone. He stands in the hallway for a moment, chewing his lip in thought. Maybe the lab, though he isn’t sure it would be that much warmer. Maybe he could just find another room? He wishes, for a fervent moment, that he could just go find Geralt. His fingers are stiff where they hold the thin blanket around his shoulders, and the barely healed burns along his index and middle finger ache along his joints. If he could just find Geralt and curl up next to him with the excuse of warmth, maybe this would all be alright. He knows he shouldn’t want that anymore, because Geralt left him and he’s barely apologized and Yen is back and he told himself he wouldn’t do this anymore, but—

He’s so cold.

The kitchens. There’s an idea.

He makes his way quietly through the halls, though he has no doubt that if any witchers are awake they’ll hear him moving about. The kitchens are tucked off of the main hall, far enough away that he can’t hear whether people are still moving about in there. He doesn’t want to know, entering through the old servants’ entrance in the hall instead. The kitchens of Kaer Morhen are large, as they would be in any keep, but clearly under-utilised. Several work tables line the long room, but only the one at the far end has cooking utensils left on it. Various herbs and spices hang from the ceiling, alongside dark pots and pans worn lopsided with age. On the far end of the room, the hearth emits a gentle glow that has Jaskier sighing in relief.

The fire is banked; only glowing embers remain. A small pile of wood sits next to the fireplace, and Jaskier eyes them warily. He should add a few to the embers, get a real fire going to warm himself up. But his fingers burn, and the memory of a flame licking up the side of his palm and the thick smell of his skin bubbling makes him hesitate. It’s warmer here already. Instead, he sits against the warm stone of the hearth and digs his teeth into the cork of his bottle.

The wine goes too quickly, but it does leave him feeling slightly warmer, fuzzy around the edges. The stone against his back isn’t too cold, but the floor is freezing. He tries to arrange his worthless coat underneath himself, wishing he still had his traveling gear. A bedroll would do him wonders right now. He’s still shivering a bit, and he can’t feel his toes. He should add another log to the fire, but he’s just… tired. He wants to sleep, and forget how heavy and empty he feels for a moment.

He dozes fitfully, for a time. He can’t say why he wakes, but when he does it’s with a racing pulse. For a moment he doesn’t know where he is or what woke him—a flame dancing on the tip of a finger fills his mind—and he flails. A hand catches around his wrist, and it’s so warm he shudders almost violently. “Jaskier,” Geralt says, and Jaskier stills.

He blinks a few times to orient himself, and finds Geralt crouched on the floor in front of him. “Geralt,” he says, adrenalin flashing through his veins and chasing away some of his exhaustion. “What’s wrong?”

“Why are you in here?” Geralt asks, eyebrows pulled low over his unsettling eyes. Jaskier’s stomach turns over nervously.

“Sorry,” he says, swallowing. “I—If you need me to leave—”

Geralt is still holding his wrist. It’s unbearably distracting, burning against his cold skin. Geralt shakes his head. “It’s fine, Jaskier. I just wanted to make sure you’re alright. I was in the hall, I heard someone come in here. Thought it might be Ciri.”

Of course he didn’t come just to check on Jaskier. He forces down his disappointment with age old practice. “Of course,” he says, finally pulling his wrist from Geralt’s grasp. Geralt lets him go easily, and it hurts as much as it ever did. “Well, I’m fine, thank you.”

“Why are you in the kitchens?” Geralt asks, and eyes the empty bottle to Jaskier’s side. “Raiding the wine stores?”

“I did that yesterday. Most of it’s poison,” he grumbles. “I was cold. If you must know.” He wants to snap it, feels irritated enough, but instead it just comes out hoarse and tired. He leans his head back against the wall behind him and wishes the fire was warmer. “My room has a hole in the ceiling.”

“Most of them do,” Geralt points out. “You should wear something warmer to bed.”

Jaskier raises a hand to press his palm to the center of his forehead. “I’ll keep that in mind next time,” he says dryly. “Point me in the direction of the nearest seamstress and I’ll be sure to ask for a pair of her thickest woollen socks. In the meantime, I’m afraid I’m making do with what I’ve got.”

Geralt is quiet for a moment. Jaskier has his eyes closed, but he can feel the witcher’s heavy gaze on him. He refuses to meet it. “You should have said something.”

Now Jaskier does open his eyes, if only to glare. Geralt is soft in the low light of the flickering embers, his eyes dark honey. A cloying feeling rises in Jaskier’s chest, and he wants it to be hate but he fears it’s something else entirely. “And when was I supposed to do that?” he asks sharply. “Before or after your Child Surprise got possessed and murdered half the people who live here? Somewhere on the road between Cintra and Kaedwin? Should I have asked my jailer before we left Oxenfurt? Or maybe I should have thought to pack a bag before I was—” He stops, biting his tongue.

Geralt’s mouth twists. So beautiful, Jaskier thinks with despair, and he hates himself. He hates all of this. He hates that he’s in this stupid drafty dead keep in a coat that has a hole in it. He hates that Ciri hasn’t said more than two words to him since they met. He hates that his lute is gone, even though he couldn’t play it anyways right now with his hands as they are. He hates that Yennefer is easy to get along with, that her hands fit so nicely in his, that he can’t dislike her easily anymore. He hates that Geralt speaks in kind, soft words to Ciri and speaks so plainly to Yen, because why, why couldn’t he ever do that with Jaskier? And he hates that he’s so weak, that he’s here again after he told himself he’d never fall back into all this bullshit, because Geralt said I need your help and Jaskier is weak and wanting. He always has been.

For a moment Geralt looks like he’s going to say something, and then he stands. Jaskier feels something like relief, and also much like grief, leaving him cold and exhausted. But then a hand is thrust down into his face. Jaskier blinks at it and then looks up at Geralt. He wonders if the wine was stronger than he thought, because Geralt is looking at him expectantly and Jaskier can’t for the life of him imagine what he wants from him. He never could figure out what Geralt fucking wants. “Come on,” Geralt says, wiggling his fingers. Jaskier reaches up and takes them on automatic, his head buzzing with empty static.

Geralt’s hand is so warm, almost painfully so, and as he pulls Jaskier to his feet the burns on his fingers drag against old callouses. He hisses, and Geralt reaches for his elbow as Jaskier pulls his hand away to shake it out. “You’re hurt,” Geralt says, all soft eyes and concern. Jaskier wants to scream.

“It’s nothing,” he says, unable to stop himself from holding his injured hand to his chest. It’s not serious. It’s been weeks since the mage, even though at times Jaskier still feels like he’s back in that room, pinned down like an ant under a magnifying glass. His fingers have mostly healed. The blisters broke and scabbed over while he was in the little cell in Oxenfurt, and he was lucky they didn’t get infected. His pointer finger especially is still red and raw around the tip, the underside right where he would pluck the strings of his lute, if he had one. Yennefer has her magic back, so he might even be able to ask her to remove the tender, shiny skin so he can play easily again. He just… hasn’t had a chance to ask.

Geralt pulls his hand towards him, and Jaskier is powerless to resist him. His palm falls open, bare for Geralt’s inspection. “These are old,” Geralt says, surprised. He runs a finger across the burns, gentle. Jaskier resists a shiver.

“Two weeks,” Jaskier admits, not pulling his hand back. There’s no point. “I thought Yennefer told you.”

Geralt’s face is blank for a moment, and then shifts subtly—just a tension in his jaw, around his eyes. Jaskier doesn’t think anyone else would recognize it. Or maybe that’s not true, and he only wishes it were. “She told me you ran into trouble in Oxenfurt. With the firefucker. Damn it Jaskier.”

“I didn’t tell him anything,” Jaskier says, peevishly. “Not that I had much to tell.”

“That’s not what I—” Geralt shakes his head. His shoulders are squared off as if for a fight, but he’s careful as he cradles Jaskier’s fragile fingers. “Come on,” he says again, his other hand pulling to guide Jaskier along by his elbow.

He doesn’t know where they’re going. Geralt leads him from the kitchen and down several halls, up a flight of stairs, beyond the little niche where Jaskier’s derelict room is located. He’s only been in the keep for less than seventy two hours, and it truly is a maze. The wine probably doesn’t help. By the time Geralt has led them down the third hall, Jaskier is well and truly lost.

They finally stop in front of a heavy door, which Geralt promptly pushes open. This part of the keep is in better repair; most of the sconces are lit, and a few dusty tapestries cover the stone walls to keep out the cold that seeps relentlessly from them. The room that Geralt drags him into is dark, but a moment later it springs into shape around them as Geralt twists his fingers into a quick igni. Jaskier does his best not to flinch.

The room is only barely bigger than the one Jaskier left, but it’s better outfitted. A soft fur rug covers the floor, another spread out on the four poster bed. A high wooden table sits against the back wall, the pool of melted wax around its unlit candle threatening its other occupants—loose papers, several quills, an old tome, some empty bottles. Geralt’s armor rests on a stand in the corner, his swords resting in their scabbards against the wall nearby. A tall armoire sits against the closest wall, but Jaskier can see several articles of clothing strewn carelessly about the room—a shirt on the back of the desk chair, a pair of boots next to the foot of the bed, one knocked on its side. This, Jaskier realizes suddenly, is Geralt’s room. The realization wakes him up more than anything else that has thus far transpired, chasing the last of the wine from his blood.

“What—” he starts, not even sure what he’s about to ask. Geralt doesn’t wait, pushing him to sit on the bed while he goes over to the armoire. “Geralt,” Jaskier says, almost distracted by the relief of the warm rug under his freezing toes. “What are you doing?”

Geralt doesn’t respond, only humming softly as he digs through the wardrobe. Jaskier huffs, pulling his knees up to his chest so he can dig his numb toes into the warm furs covering the bed. The room is already warming up with the fire going, and despite his curiosity he can feel himself growing drowsy. His eyes flutter shut of their own accord, only to snap open when something hits him full in the face. He splutters as it drops into his hands, and Geralt’s warm, grovely laugh fills the small space.

“What’s this?” Jaskier asks, spreading the fabric.

Geralt is already turning back to the wardrobe, pulling out a few more items. “It’s a shirt,” he says, voice still loose with amusement. “One that hasn’t been used for target practice.”

“Hilarious,” Jaskier deadpans as Geralt dumps another bundle of cloth into his lap. He tosses the pants aside in favor of the shirt, laying it out so he can start shucking his coat and vest. As he does so, he glances over the proffered loans, expecting to see worn out shirts patched from old fights. Instead he sees a neat cotton undershirt with a high collar and embroidery across the shoulders. The pattern is familiar, a floral motif—

Jaskier stops halfway out of his vest. “Hold on. Is this… mine?”

Geralt also freezes where he’s still digging through the wardrobe, holding one sock in hand like he’s been caught stealing it. He winces. “Erm. Got left behind in my things a while ago.”

“Several years ago,” Jaskier corrects. “These trousers are mine too! Why do you have these? Have you been stealing my good clothes all these years?”

Geralt turns away, head ducked low as he apparently becomes invested in his search for the other sock. “Not my fault you left them in my bags,” he mutters.

“Why do you still have them?” Jaskier wonders aloud. They would never fit Geralt, not with his broad shoulders. He strips his own shirt off, and immediately grimaces. He’d love to burn it, but he can’t afford to, unless Geralt is hiding a few more of his lost wardrobe pieces in there. He quickly changes into the new shirt, sighing in relief at the feel of clean, warm cotton against his skin. He stands to quickly change into the pants, which are worn soft with age. He remembers using them to sleep on the Path, what feels like a lifetime ago.

Geralt finally steps back to the bed as Jaskier sits down again. The fire has warmed the air of the room significantly, but without his coat, patchy though it may be, Jaskier finds himself suppressing shivers again. “It didn’t feel right to get rid of them,” Geralt says, shifting slightly from foot to foot. “I liked…”

“Liked what?” Jaskier asks. Geralt huffs, as if frustrated, and drops to his knees before the bed. Jaskier has a truly terrible moment where he nearly spreads his thighs open on instinct, a frankly implausible wave of arousal rising in him. He presses his knees together tightly, but Geralt isn’t even looking. He’s reaching down to cup Jaskier’s ankle in one hand, pulling his foot forward. Jaskier watches, aghast, as Geralt gently slides first one, and then the other sock onto his feet. They’re warm, and surprisingly soft. Once he’s done, Geralt smooths his hands up behind Jaskier’s calves. He leans his forehead against Jaskier’s knees, like a worshiper coming to prayer. Jaskier doesn’t know what to do; he feels as frozen and immovable as a statue in a temple.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt says, hushed. Jaskier swallows, and the sound is embarrassingly loud in the quiet room. “I know I said it before, but… I’m sorry, Jask. Not just for the mountain. For everything.” He lifts his head, looking up to meet Jaskier’s stunned gaze. “I’m sorry I didn’t see you. I’m sorry I’m still not.” One of his hands pulled away from Jaskier’s calf to hover over his burnt fingers where they’re clenched tightly in the bedsheets. “I missed you.”

Mortifyingly, Jaskier feels his eyes burning. His vision blurs, obscuring the image of Geralt’s open, pleading face. He turns his face up towards the ceiling, trying to keep any tears from falling. “You know,” he says thickly, “when that fire fucker had me tied up to a chair, he kept asking me where you were. And I was relieved, because you never cared enough to show me your home. I wanted you to ask me to come here with you, for years. But you never did, and I was glad because if you had I would have known where you were, where Ciri was. And I thought, isn’t that pathetic, that I’m so happy you cared about me so little, because I still didn’t want to be the reason you got hurt.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, hoarse, but now that he’s speaking Jaskier can’t stop. It’s like it’s cracked him open, and his mouth is moving so quickly he barely knows what he’s saying.

“You left me on a mountaintop. You told me you never wanted to see me again. And you were always—You were always so closed off, and I thought, that’s just how Geralt is, he’s reserved, that’s fine, but it’s not even like that. You talk to Yen, I’ve seen you with Ciri and Vesemir. You just didn’t like talking to me, is that it? We’ve known each other for twenty years. I spent half my life following you around, and you never even told me that you thought I was your friend. I’m sorry I’m always the one getting you into shit situations, I’m sorry I asked you to come with me to the ball and I’m sorry I fucked up with the djinn and I’m sorry I elbowed my way into your life and didn’t leave you alone and that you hated me there so much. But you’re the one who came to find me, alright, so don’t go blaming it on me this time. I don’t even want to be here. I don’t.” He pants, chest heaving. He looks down at Geralt, whose face is carefully blank aside from the slight wrinkle between his eyes. He looks gutted.

“Then why did you come?” Geralt asks, soft. He’s still kneeling before Jaskier, hands on either side of Jaskier’s thighs. The contact is warm through his new pants—his old pants, which Geralt kept.

Jaskier’s throat constricts, and against his will a tear slips free. He can feel the hot trail of it down his cheek. “You fucking know why.”

“You haven’t forgiven me,” Geralt counters, and it doesn’t sound accusing, it’s just a fact. And he’s right. Jaskier feels like an open wound of anger and hurt, and he can’t imagine allowing Geralt close enough to try to apply a salve yet.

“No,” he agrees, mouth twisting. “I can’t. Not yet. But I still—” He sucks in a breath. “I want to help.”

“I don't want to keep you here if it’s not where you want to be,” Geralt says. He’s looking at Jaskier with a deeply familiar expression. Guilt. Always guilt.

“It is,” Jaskier says, even though he knows he said the opposite not half a minute ago. “I don’t want to leave. I just. I want… I don’t want to feel like you think I’m a nuisance to have around. I don’t even know why you want me here anyways. I’m not a fighter, Geralt. I can’t do magic. I don’t even have a damn lute anymore, and my hands—” He has to stop, the tears cutting him off. He feels more slide down his cheeks, but he refuses to let the sob caught in his chest escape.

Geralt lifts his hands, his palms coming up on either side of Jaskier’s face. His thumbs skim over the skin beneath Jaskier’s eyes, collecting the dampness there. His expression is unreadable and enormous. Jaskier takes two shuddering breaths, the force of them racking his frame. “Jaskier,” Geralt says, quiet and demanding and earnest. “I didn’t come find you because I needed someone to fight for me. I needed someone I could trust.” He pauses, staring into Jaskier’s face. It’s probably a mess, splotchy and red from anger and tears. Geralt doesn’t seem to notice. “I missed you,” he says again, not a trace of embarrassment in his face or tone. “I just wanted you with me. If you don’t want to be here, if you can’t forgive me, I understand. But I want you here. I do.”

Jaskier crumples. There’s nowhere to go but further into Geralt—as always, as always—so he ends up falling forward until his face is pressed into Geralt’s neck. Heavy arms come up around him, two huge palms sliding along his back. The tears come in earnest, and the sob he was keeping trapped in his rib cage falls from his mouth in heaving gasps. He’s been cold for so long, and Geralt is so warm, holding him close. He makes soothing sounds into Jaskier’s hair, mouth pressing softly just behind his ear, and if anything that just makes Jaskier cry harder. He can’t remember the last time he felt cared for, wanted.

Geralt holds him until the sobs wind down, until Jaskier is slumped bonelessly against him, exhausted. He’s never felt so tired in his life, he thinks. Not even after walking all the way down that damn mountain. Geralt doesn’t pull away. He just shifts his arms down until they’re under Jaskier’s thighs and lifts. Jaskier clings to Geralt, his fingers clutching at his back, though he doesn’t remember putting them there. The world tilts, and a moment later Geralt is drawing the furs up around them, still holding Jaskier close.

It’s dreamlike. Jaskier feels empty and clean in the wake of his outburst, and the warmth of the furs and Geralt’s body are bliss. He thinks he’s been cold since he turned away from Geralt on that mountain. Sinking into the warmth, he presses a muddled apology into Geralt’s shirt.

“Don't,” Geralt admonishes, and Jaskier can feel the rumble of his voice where they’re pressed together. “I hurt you. You deserve to be upset about it.”

“You didn’t mean to,” Jaskier says, because he knows this. Geralt may be an idiot and he may let his emotions get the best of him, but he didn’t want to hurt Jaskier, not like this. He knows that. It should matter, that Geralt didn’t mean to, didn’t know that he had that kind of power over Jaskier’s heart.

“It doesn't matter,” Geralt says, and that’s true too. “I did it anyways. And I’m sorry. But I’m not going anywhere. Not without you, if you still want to join me.”

Jaskier pushes his face further into Geralt’s chest, breathing him in. He still smells the same. Like horse and iron, campfire, a hint of lilac. Heroics and heartbreak. Just a bit of onion. “I always want to be with you,” Jaskier admits, a bit hopelessly. “I can’t seem to stop.”

“Can’t say I mind,” Geralt says, and he sounds like he’s smiling. “I’ll try not to make it such a chore from now on.”

Jaskier huffs a laugh. “Fat chance,” he says, muffled by Geralt’s shirt. He’s so warm, drowsy and content. It shouldn’t be this easy, but here he is. He’s always been weak when it comes to Geralt. “You’re always going to be a pain,” he slurs.

“Takes one,” Geralt retorts, and his hands come up and smooth over Jaskier’s shoulder blades. One lifts to card through Jaskier’s hair. “Go to sleep, Jaskier. I’ll apologize again in the morning, and you can see if you forgive me then.”

Jaskier shivers awake at that, pulling back a bit. He finds Geralt’s face in the dim light, his eyes bright in the dark. “What if I don't?” he asks, defiant.

“Then I’ll say it again,” Geralt says, and Jaskier’s breath rushes out of him as Geralt leans forward. His lips brush along Jaskier’s cheek. “And again,” skim along his nose, press to his other cheek. Chasing away the tear streaks there. “And again.” A chaste press to his lips, barely a breath. Jaskier feels it in his toes. Geralt pulls back, just enough to look at him. “Until you do,” he finishes. “Or until we die, I guess, or you decide it’s not worth it. I wouldn’t blame you.”

Jaskier laughs wetly. He’s not entirely sure that he’s not dreaming. Maybe he froze to death in his broken little room, or fell into a feverous delirium from his infected wounds in that cell in Oxenfurt. Maybe he tripped down the mountain and broke his neck, and this has all just been the last fleeting imaginations of a dying man. It feels real, though. Geralt’s breath is hot against his face, and he feels so tired it seems unlikely that he could be dreaming. “I guess we’ll find out in the morning,” he says, and lies back down to curl into Geralt’s chest. It feels like a challenge, and he holds his breath as he waits.

Geralt settles back down next to him, with a sigh that sounds fond instead of exasperated. Jaskier wonders if he could find a way to fit the sound into a song. “In the morning,” Geralt agrees, and Jaskier smiles.

It doesn’t feel like healing, not quite. But it feels like the start.

#geraskier #the witcher #the witcher season 2 #twn #geralt of rivia #jaskier #fic recs #my work #witcher #me @ myself stop fucking writing in present tense #this is ooc and I don't :) care :)#my next post is going to be a huge meta analysis of the second season with much critique so uhhhhh sorry #spoilers #witcher spoilers #the witcher season 2 spoilers

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wren-of-the-woods · 3 years ago

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Fic Recs: Jaskier and the Kaer Morons

Y’all need to stop asking for fic recs because I have over four hundred AO3 bookmarks and no self-restraint.

Anway, @moongoddesskiana asked for fics with Jaskier and the Kaer Morons! The brilliant @penandinkprincess recced the first three, all of which are amazing. Then I attempted to filter through my bookmarks and found the rest! Some have more Jaskier and some have more Kaer Morons, but all have at least some of both. There’s a lot of variety, so hopefully everyone can find something they like!

If You Give a Bard a Lute by @ghostinthelibrarywrites (Rated T, 10k, Geraskier)

Jaskier’s father disowns him and takes all his posessions, including his lute. When Geralt finds out, he won’t let it stand, and recruits the other witchers to help them steal the lute back.

If I Must Starve (Let it be in Your Arms) by Igneum807 (Rated M, 31k, Geraskier more or less)

Lambert and Eskel learn how nice it is to be cuddled by a bard. The whole series is absolutely wonderful.

Weak and Wanting by @sociallyawkward--fics (Rated T, 36k, Geraskier)

Geralt invites Jaskier to Kaer Morhen for the winter. Lambert and Eskel decide to play matchmaker.

Chance Met on the Road and How Bold by theimperialbogmonster (Rated T, 1k and 7k respectively, Geraskier)

The two works in a wonderful series. Eskel joins Geralt and Jaskier on the path and manages to knock some sense into them.

How Different Wolves Can Be by SGALOVER (Rated T, 36k, Gen)

Vesemir rescues Jaskier from a brief capture by Nilfgaard and takes him to Kaer Morhen, and Jaskier becomes part of a big witcher family.

Fresh Air by Slayer_of_Destiny (Rated T, 10k, Geraskier)

After a difficult fight that required all of the wolves’ help, Geralt takes them back to where Jaskier is waiting. The other witchers are shocked at this human’s easy acceptance of them.

In the kitchen of a keep in the mountains by ArtanisNaanie (Rated T, 12k, Geraskier)

The various inhabitents of Kaer Morhen as seen through their cooking. The food sections are fascinating and the plot is sweet.

Those songs we sung, those words we flung by persephonesprince (Not Rated, 179k, endgame Geraskier)

Lambert and Eskel adopt Jaskier after the mountain.

Well Met by DahliaVanDare (Rated G, 2k, Gen)

Eskel meets Jaskier after the mountain. Hilarious!

Forest Encounters and Two Witchers Walk Into a Tavern by TheSupernova (T and G, 3k and 2k, Geraskier)

A series in which Jaskier meets Lambert and then Eskel.

The Best Laid Plans by @dhwty-writes (Rated T, 5k, Geraskier)

Geralt is in love with Jaskier. In order to finally get him to admit his feelings, he devises a ten step plan with Lambert, Eskel and Vesemir.

Courting The Bard Of Your Dreams In 3 Easy Steps by bulletincookie (Rated T, 10k, Jaskel)

Eskel falls in love with Jaskier at Kaer Morhen. Now he has to court him.

That Unwanted Animal by @softdarlingjaskier (Rated T, 27k WIP, Jaskel)

Jaskier starts traveling with Eskel after the mountain and they go to Kaer Morhen together. I usually avoid incomplete works, but this one is really good!

Slightly Akin to Wonder by StarsInMyDamnEyes (Rated G, 3k, Gen)

Jaskier is a retired witcher who changed his name. The other witchers don’t realize that this bard is the same person. Absolutely hilarious!

The Kaer Morhen Book Club by @jackironsidesfic (Rated T, 10k, Geraskier)

The Kaer Morons have an annual book club in which they read books about witchers. One year, they find a novel in which a witcher is the romantic lead. AKA: Jaskier is a romance novelist and Geralt finds out. I don’t think Jaskier actually meets the other witchers in this one, but it’s so hilarious I couldn’t not rec it!

and the right to call it home by Chancy_Lurking (Rated T, 11k, Geraskier and Lambden)

Lambert doesn’t trust the human that Geralt has brought to the keep. Things escalate. This one is angsty!

Winter Secrets by C4t1l1n4 (Rated G, 0.7k, Geraskier)

Jaskier overhears a conversation he doesn't think he's supposed to. It's not exactly what he's expecting either.

The Courting Ways of Wolves by @pillage-and-lute (Rated T, 12k, Geraskier)

The inhabitents of Kaer Morhen help Geralt develop a plan for courting Jaskier, which he then carries out. This one has more Geraskier than Kaer Morons but it’s so sweet and funny that I had to mention it!

starlight; star-crossed by @julek (Rated T, 10k, Geraskier)

Jaskier adopts the stray dog that’s been hanging around Kaer Morhen. Geralt absolutely isn’t jealous.

I’m also going to take this opportunity to shamelessly self-promote my own ficlet that I wrote because my love for this trope is uncontrollable!

The Wolves and the Bard by ForestWren (Rated T, 0.5k, Gen with vaguely implied Geraskier)

In which Jaskier discovers that he has, quite by accident, acquired a family.

That’s it for now! Please feel free to chime in with your own fic recs -- I’m always looking for more things to read! <3

Edit: I have other reclists I forgot to mention! They can be found here and here.

Further edit: There is now a part two to this list!

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januaryembrs · 3 years ago

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THE PRINCESS' HONOUR | Geralt x assassin!reader

Description: You, Geralt and Ciri travel to your home in search of supplies for the long road to Kaer Morhen. Things take a turn however when one of your brothers, not by blood but by creed, takes a disliking to Ciri due to his hatred for her grandmother and you are forced to defend her honour.

Length: 6.5k

Trigger Warnings: blood, fighting, swearing, the usual.

main masterlist

MORE OF ‘THE ASSASSIN’S CREED AND THE WITCHER’S CUB' UNIVERSE

Note: This is an Assassin's creed x Witcher crossover fic however I explain each part that fits in with the fic if you are unfamiliar with the logistics.

»»-----------►

The sound of splashing was all the two of you heard as you sat watching Ciri attempt to spear herself a fish for breakfast the way you’d done so effortlessly ten minutes earlier.

You and Geralt never really said much to each other, you found the man quite stoney in fact, though that was a rich observation from someone as quiet as yourself. You took it that he didn’t like you all that much, though it didn’t bother you really, considering you weren’t exactly begging for his attention to begin with. He was attractive, of course you’d noticed, you had eyes for fuck sake.

Yet it was increasingly obvious, despite the fact you both had Ciri’s best interest in mind, that you two were just so different. He was loud, bulking, obvious where you were subdue, sleak, invisible. He won by brute force, you won by clever deviance. He was strong where you were fast. You were affectionate and warm to Cirilla where he was cold and harsh. You were teasing and flirty while he was intimidating and muted.

But somehow you’d found it in you to work together for the past three weeks to transport the princess to Geralt’s home for safe keeping. Somehow.

For a man with such little range of emotion as he was, you found yourself attuned to his slight movements as a way of deciphering what his thoughts were, knowing he would never outright tell you of his own accord. Just as you were now.

Normally, with Ciri floundering around the river as she had been, splashing and squealing as the water flew into her face or something brushed past her leg would have drawn the ghost of a smile onto his face. But not today. He seemed to be preoccupied, amber eyes trained on the girl yet looking through her at the same time. He’d only eaten half his own ration of fruits for breakfast as well, claiming he’d catch himself another fish instead of finishing the black coloured berries you’d all munched down on. This was a man who could eat as well; eat as if his mother never taught him manners, practically inhaling his food.

“You’re thinking very loud, Geralt,” You mumbled, knowing he could hear you anyway, “What’s wrong?”

The way you said his name seemed to snap him out of his trance as he huffed, feeling caught in his internal conflict. “Nilfgaardian’s have moved into the borough we’re supposed to be stopping off at next.” He explained pulling out his map to inspect the tiny, ventricular roads surrounding the town, “The only other option is to cut through the fields and move to the next road, but that adds on an extra week and a half to our ride, which means-”

“Which means we’ll have no food left and with the air getting colder, no source of animals to hunt,” You finished, shuffling over to sit beside him, looking over his shoulder at the worn cartograph.

“Exactly,” He said, mentally noting the way you almost leaned on him to get a better look at the paper. He had never really been within touching distance of you like this, and his nose was filled with a sense of sweet, woodsy smell, something completely unique to the greenery around him. There was no way for you to have used any fancy oils or perfumes like Yennefer always did, his mind of course bringing up the one woman that tortured his mind nowadays with her absence, her… he couldn’t even say it.

He tried to push past the thoughts of her when his senses drew him back in for another gulp of honeyed aired as his head turned to see your bright eyes flicking over the map to solve his issue at hand. He realised the scent wasn’t flowers, or perfume or oils for that matter, it couldn’t be. It was you; your sweat, your natural essence tantalising him at your sudden close proximity. It felt oddly intimate though it shouldn’t have been, it’s not like it was sexually charged or even particularly overwhelming, it was just pure you.

“There’s a hideout my brotherhood uses sometimes in the caves over here,” You said, finger shadowing a vague outline of some drawn terrain near the road you would have to cut through. It drew him out of his odd thoughts, following your gaze to where you were pointing and considering the new option, “There would be stashes of food and drink, perhaps some of my people there to ensure us safe passage.”

He went quiet as he thought about your words. You he could handle. You he somewhat trusted to keep Ciri safe and not stab either of them in the back, but a room full of elite assassins was a different kettle of fish. But what other option did he have? With the cold season rolling in there was no way a feeble human girl like Ciri would make it to Kaer Morhen in the cold conditions on a weak diet. She would need strength, solid meals to get her through the trek to the mountains. She would simply perish otherwise.

“Very well,” He agreed, turning his attention back to where Ciri was still struggling to catch her breakfast.

“I’ll let the brothers know we’re coming,” You said, looking around the trees for your messenger. Lifting your forefingers to your lips, you gave a loud and distinct set of whistles to call him to you instead.

“What are you-” Geralt cut himself off as a small black figure came cutting through the treetops, its midnight black wings swooping down like a demon. He would have grabbed his sword at the somewhat frightening movement, but calmed himself when he saw what he now perceived to be a bird had perched on your shoulder, its beady eyes flickering to look at you with an oddly human nature.

“Tell Augustus I am bringing guests and to prepare keepings for two extra places. We’ll be just a few days' ride,” You spoke to the bird as if it could understand you. Geralt watched with a quirk in his brow, almost prepared to poke fun at your odd behaviour when the bird did nothing but blink at you and hop between its twig-like legs impatiently. You huffed, pulling the tail meat off the fish you had been eating not five minutes earlier and offering it to the bird as payment for your request. Its thick beak almost took your finger off with the force at which it snapped up the meat, pushing off your shoulder and almost smacking you in the face with a beat of its huge wingspan.

“Is that what you mean when you say you have friends waiting for us? Birds?” Geralt asked, a slightly teasing undertone if you looked past the serious, gravelly tone he usually had. You chuckled, shaking your head and tearing off some more fish to have for yourself.

“That was Synin. Like I said, my brotherhood has chaos magic, and chaos brings familiars.” You said, chewing the tender flesh as you explained.

“I thought familiars only served the chaos bearer, not their friends,” The white wolf asked, watching you pull a small fish bone from between your lips before tossing it into the undergrowth.

"So did I. It's not as simple as that though in my brotherhood. We come from a long line of chaos wielders, the earliest of which were able to enchant and design relics which we hold in each of our bureaus for safe keeping. The sheer amount of chaos they were able to put into the relics gives us powers other human's wouldn't have. Chaos wielder's become more attuned to their powers, while normal assassins like me get smaller miracles like familiars," You explained, finishing your fish and throwing the remains back into the river.

You felt his eyes on you, the piercing saffron gaze being a nagging thing you'd felt in your peripheral for the past few weeks. He truly was a beautiful man when you took the liberty to look at him, but the fact he stared so unapologetically unnerved you.

"Why have I never heard of any of these brotherhoods before?" He asked, curious as to how such a huge and important organisation seemed to go unseen for so long, thousands of years you'd implied.

You snickered, meeting his gaze for the first time all day, "We're called Hidden Ones for a reason, Geralt." Something always jolted in him whenever you said his name like that, so soft and gentle, as if you were addressing someone you'd known for years. "I'm ... designed to be invisible. We work in the dark to serve the light,"

He could tell he was making you uncomfortable with the staring, but you perplexed him more the he wished to admit. Yet, he had only ever known stares, looks of fear and anger as soon as he walked into a room. But you, you seemed to almost squirm under his gaze. He guessed it was a side affect of being unseen your whole life.

He almost chuckled to himself out of spite when he realised the irony of it; the woman who remained a secret and the man who the world hated.

»»-----------►

The two horses rode up the narrow path, their cargo beginning to feel the lack of rations they had been surviving on. You were cold and hungry, the word grumpy springing to mind too, though you said nothing to complain from where you sat behind Ciri. The air hurt to breathe in now, cold and dry inside your lungs. Your stomach sore from famine, bubbling with a cry for something to fill it, anything.

The familiar arch of naturally fallen stone that was a tell tale sign you were getting near became visible, and you pulled your reins taut to slow down your horse.

"Wait, we're almost here," You instructed, handing Ciri the reins and slipping off the back of your black gelding, slipping your hood back over your head. "Stay here until I tell you to come,"

Geralt nudged Roach forward to be alongside the young Princess. Her face had paled a lot the past few days with the biting air and lack of food just as he'd predicted. A girl who had only known luxury holdings and four meals a day would of course be the first to suffer from the loss of it, while he guessed you were also hardened to perilous conditions with the compromising profession you had.

He watched your black figure retreat into the woodland. It unnerved him how quickly he had all but blinked and suddenly you were gone. Gone into thin air. He was starting to understand what you meant when you said you were a Hidden One. That's exactly what you were.

He heard some rustling in the thicket near where you’d wandered off to, a little too loud for your expert footsteps. His overly sensitive eyes flickered between every tiny movement between the trees. Even so much as a squirrel darting through the snowied leaves had him reaching for his sword out of skittish fear. He took a breath to try to calm himself down. He could trust you, he kept telling himself.

“Geralt..” Ciri whispered from her place atop your steed, the fright clear in her voice. He followed her line of vision to where a wolf was trailing through the trees, lowering itself to the ground and taking on a prowling pace. Its thick cheeks pulled back into a snarl, its teeth as snow white as its pelt.

Geralt hopped off of Roach, hoping to protect the princess and his horse companion from the creature if it came to it. A white wolf confronting a white wolf.

“Fenrir!” A low, bellowing voice cleared the forest and in an instant, the wolf seemed tame. It’s head shot back to the source of the shout, as did Geralt’s gaze. Through the trees strode three figures dressed in the same hooded, dark cloak you did. From what he could tell, the one on the end seemed to be you, though even with his familiarity towards you, the shrouds made it difficult to tell. The other two were far taller and broader than you, however, and even in the loose fabric Geralt could see thick muscles curving up their arms and shoulders. He just hoped they were friends, not foe. “Come,” The bigger of the two ordered in a voice that even Geralt’s deep voice had met its match. The wolf, now seemingly friendly as a pup, bolted to its master’s side, where it sat obediently.

“Come along,” You commanded gently, turning towards the mountains at the edge of the forest, where Geralt guessed your den was. You left no room for discussion or argument, simply turning with the men you had been speaking with.

The white haired man opened his mouth to argue, but stopped himself when Ciri followed you without hesitation. He had to trust you, he kept telling himself. But only relying on himself for months on the road of solitude had made him hardened to those willing to give him a helping hand.

He just hoped you knew what you were doing.

»»-----------►

You sat in a secluded hall with warm bowls of some sort of venison stew, the three of you quiet as church mice as you slurped back the contents. Augustus and Samuel, the two men that had been on lookout that had damn near unnerved Geralt with their sudden appearance, watched you with amused grins from their place at the other end of the long table.

“You three eat like runts around a carcass,” Augustus commented, reaching out to steal a wedge of bread off the side of your plate. You grabbed the butterknife laying next to the stew and slammed it down between his fore and middle finger, a sign for him to stop right there. It rattled the tale, but neither of you seemed overly fussed about the dent you had left in the slab of wood.

“This runt always beat you in training, don’t forget that, Brother,” You threatened through a mouthful of the loaf. If the other two eaters took notice, they didn’t show it as they carried on stuffing their mouths with the warm food. You would have never guessed Ciri was once a well mannered lady as she barely stopped between bites to guzzle down her cup of milk, traces of it dribbling down her cheek which she wiped rudely with her sleeve before resuming her meal.

Samuel snickered, pouring the princess some more drink, “Goodness, Milady. Surely your wet nurse taught you some decorum in that big castle of yours,”

You and Geralt shot him the same glare for teasing the girl over her eating style, you kicking his shin hard under the table, “I was her guardian for years and I say she’s doing just fine,” You snapped, taking a sip of your mead. Ciri seemed to not have paid any mind to his words anyway, too focused on eating every morsel left in the bowl.

“What was our dearest Y/N like as a nanny?” Augustus asked sincerely as you finished your meal with a satisfied huff. Cirilla looked at the hulking man, as if to eye him up before she spoke. She moved her gaze to you with a smile tweaking at her lips.

“She was the best,” She replied sincerely, “She always had the best stories, always stole treats from the kitchen for me whenever I asked, was always there for me when court got too much,” Her young, green eyes that seemed to have aged a decade under the pressure looked at you with pure adoration that you had missed so fucking much.

You opened your mouth to respond to the girl’s sweet words when the sound of more footsteps entering your hideout echoed through the dark corridor. A tall, lithe figure you knew to be Markus led the group, followed by a small, feminine body you guessed was his sister Kaya, seeing as they were never parted. The final body was relatively short, but his snow white robes were unlike the black or deep green cloaks the rest of you wore. You immediately straightened in your seat seeing your Master walk into the room, as did the other two assassins sitting at your table.

“Leandro!” You said, shocked by his appearance at the den after so many years. Usually an assassin of his status remained in the bureaus, training newer followers the ways of your creed. It was unusual for him to be this far out.

You stood from your seat immediately, as did Augustus and Samuel, and Ciri cocked an eyebrow at your behaviour. Even to her grandmother, you had never spoken of someone with such high respect. It was odd to hear you hold someone to authority. She had always thought your brotherhood was equal, though the difference in Robes and the way the other two men had reacted also told her otherwise.

You walked before him, dipping your head down in a sign of respect and offering your hands to him as though he were a priest. Geralt also found this odd, but the two of them remained quiet as the newest pair of assassins came to join them at the table.

“Who’s this?” The tall man asked, pulling his hood down to reveal a gaunt, tanned face, a stubble beard making him look older than he was. He watched Geralt with hawk-like precision, eyes trailing down to the pendant he held around his neck with sheer curiosity. “Who the fuck brought a Witcher into our midst?”

“This is Geralt and Ciri, Y/N’s guests for the evening,” Samuel piped up as the smaller of the two drew down her hood.

Ciri almost gasped when a black cat hopped up onto the table in front of her, circling around her bowl for any scraps it could steal. The woman tsked at the feline’s cheeky movement, and it moved away from the princess as if commanded to do so. The young girl followed the voice up to see a deep pair of brown, almost black, eyes looking at her with intrigue. She was beautiful, yet she held the same coldness about her skeletal features as the man who she had entered with.

You, Ciri had noted, seemed to have the same stoney facade, but it only took one look into your eyes, the way you looked at her, to see a softness that told her you were still a safe place for her.

“We don’t allow guests,” She replied tersely in a foreign accent, the same one the other new man had spoken in. Combined with the fact they shared the same olive skin tone, high cheekbones and round eyes, Geralt guessed they were related to one another.

“Play nicely, Kaya.” Augustus chided the woman, “Y/N and them were starving to death. They needed safe keeping, which is exactly what our dens are for, are they not?”

The woman hummed under her breath, taking a chunk of bread out the centre of the table and chewing it viciously as if it would hold her tongue for her.

Geralt’s head whirled to where you stood, praying you would come back to help them with whoever these unsavoury characters were that had joined what was once a calm meal time. He watched you speaking with the hooded man, Leandro you had said, a dark look on your face.

“Things are grave in Cintra,” He spoke in a wisened, and surprisingly old voice. "I assume that’s why you have bought the Princess to us?”

“I found them on the road leading out of Redania while I was tracking a Keeper. Cirilla said she had to escape with the Witcher as Calanthe had been terminated.” Geralt eavesdropped on your conversation easily with his elevated sense of hearing.

Hearing you use the word ‘terminated’ made Geralt tense up. He had almost forgotten that outside of Ciri, death and murder barely bothered you in the slightest. Even the girl’s own grandmother, the woman who you’d work for for years it seemed, was just collateral damage to you.

He didn’t know why it bothered him so much, it wasn’t like he was any better.

“We will take care of the cub, she is afterall an innocent,” Your master said, letting go of your hands to cup your face. He tipped your head forward to kiss your hairline.

The action wasn’t affectionate, not in the way a lover would kiss you, more like a parent or a holy gesture. Geralt felt wrong for watching it.

It was then that the older assassin’s focus turned to the white wolf. His hooded head turned to Geralt, who made no move to hide that he had been staring at the two of you, before you walked over to the table to stand next to your guests.

“We’ve never had a Witcher in our midst before. I apologise if my acolytes are a little unwelcoming. We seem to have that effect on people,” Leandro joked, his oldened voice quiet and shrewd.

“We’re very grateful for your hospitality,” Geralt responded, his eyes drifting to where you were stood, suddenly seeming quite submissive to your superior.

“You have been taking care of my little crow,” He gestured behind him to where you huffed but held your tongue, “A friend of our brotherhood is a friend to us all.”

“I’m not quite sure we’re friends, but he is welcome nonetheless,” You said, moving back around the table to take your seat next to Ciri.

“Not friends?” Augustus asked, sipping his mead with a cheeky grin, “Lovers?”

You kicked him also in the shin hard as Ciri snickered. “No, just acquaintances,” You hissed, eyes narrowed in anger.

Geralt seemed to have the same unamused face as he glared at your brother for the joke, which only made Ciri laugh harder. He was in no mind to want a woman, not with Yennefer’s death still ringing his heart with pain.

“I hope you appreciate our boys’ humour. They act just as any other brothers and sisters do, always teasing,” Leandro said, taking his seat at the head of the table, “Tell us Geralt, how did you come across the Princess of Cintra?”

Markus’ head whipped to your master at those words. “The Princess?” He asked, voice veiled with something unknown. Something angry. He looked to you for confirmation, and you raised your brow at him in a challenge.

You were worried about this when the twins had walked through the door. You knew their parents had been wiped out in a siege led by Queen Calanthe when they were only young. You had hoped, stupidly you might add, that they would show some more decorum for your guests, perhaps even held their tongues until Cirilla was out the room before they confronted you about bringing the child to the den.

But the twins were never good at holding their tongues, nor were they ones to be subtle about their upset.

Both their heads snapped to Ciri’s now startled form, clear realisation in their eyes as to who the small, blonde child was that desperately needed two protectors.

“Princess?” Markus seethed again, standing from his place at the table, “You brought the Cintran cub into our brotherhood,” He said, the venom laced in his tone as he glared at Ciri. You felt her tense up behind you, as Geralt reached for his sword on instinct.

You stood also, your cup knocking over with the force at which you rose. “Watch your tone, Markus,” You spat. The man towered over you easily, his long figure looking like a demon in the shadowed lowlights of your hideout.

“I knew you stooped low enough to work for the bitch queen, but to have us serve her as if we were pets is a disgrace,” Markus fumed, his nose scrunching with every word in disgust, as if Ciri’s very presence was a bad smell to him.

Things seemed to move in a flash from there.

At his words, Ciri, being the fiery girl she always was, stood with the same vigour you had, ready to defend her grandmother’s honour even if it would be in vain. Markus would no doubt crush her within seconds, but she wouldn’t sit there and take it like some coward. She was not a coward.

She was a lioness of Cintra.

Geralt stood as well, grabbing the young cub out of the way as you flew at the man you shared a creed with, tackling him out of his seat and onto the floor.

He instantly flipped you over his head, pressing down hard onto your chest with his solid knee, knocking the wind out of you.

“You’ve forgotten our first tenet, brother,” You grunted through him attempting to choke you, “Stay your blade from the flesh of an innocent,” You recited, grabbing his cloak by the neck and using it as a lever to roll the two of you over so you held him down instead.

“Calanthe destroyed my city, she burned down our fields,” The man grumbled, and it was then that he drew his hidden blade from his wrist. You hopped off him, the two of you standing as you realised the severity of how nasty this fight was getting.

Ciri, with whatever fight she had in her for the man who had cursed her grandmother seemed frozen now, realising that this would not end well for anyone in the room. Smartly, she kept her mouth shut. Kaya seemed to watch her brother in silence, brooding as if to assess his next moves boredly.

“Cirilla is under my jurisdiction, Markus,” You said, putting yourself between Markus and Ciri. “If you wish her harm, you will have to take me down first. You know that,”

He seemed to hesitate as if to consider it first, as if to realise who he was talking about. You were his sister in arms, you had trained together since you were young, taken the creed together. You were family to him.

But the anger in his eyes told you all you needed to know. There would be no bargaining with him, no pleading. It was beneath you anyway, but it would make no difference if you were to. The vengeance inside him for Queen Calanthe's wrongings was too deep, a wound that would never close.

“Then so be it,” His poisonous words resigned you to the reality of what was happening. There was no leaving this, he would hurt Ciri the first chance he got.

You would rather die than have that happen.

And so you drew your blade and the two of you came together in an explosion of fury.

»»-----------►

The fight had been brutal. Even with Geralt’s enhanced eyesight, he struggled to keep up with the two of you, as you’d both moved so fluidly, so rapidly, it was clear to see the two of you were elite killers. He was starting to think you’d been taking it easy on him the day the two of you had fought, but maybe it was just because Markus had threatened Ciri that you were fighting with such ferocity.

“I’m sorry,” After Leandro had broken the two of you up, claiming Ciri had every right to remain unharmed being the innocent civilian she was, he had sent the two of you to your designated quarters with a stern look that sent you both scarpering without a word of protest. Ciri had begged, pleaded with your other brothers to do something, to stop the fight, but they were smarter than to get in the middle of you two. It was a bloodbath on both sides. So there you sat in your room, Geralt attempting to stitch up a nasty cut on your shoulder blade, as Ciri watched with a crestfallen face.

“Whatever are you sorry for, silly girl?” You asked, your voice somewhat reassuring but the white haired man could tell it was hiding a groan of pain as he pierced your skin with the needle.

“You would have never had to fight with that man if I weren’t here.” The blonde girl uttered in a tiny voice, and you could see she was fiddling with the hem of her dress as she always did when she was nervous.

You sighed, fingers balling into a fist as Geralt pulled the needle out your flesh and tightened it to close the wound. He knew he was heavy handed, but he really was trying to help, trying to be as gentle with you as he possibly could with his enhanced strength.

“Ciri, he’s my brother. We get into fights like that,” You said, half lying to spare her the truth. Yes you got into squabbles with the people you had grown up with to call your brothers and sisters, but that had turned very nasty, very quickly. You usually ended up simply pinning someone to the ground, not drawing blood or at least so much of it. “Believe it or not, not all of us were raised with royal manners.” You joked, and it drew somewhat of a smile out of her, though her eyes still seemed upset. “Besides, he didn’t hurt me that bad.”

Lie, Geralt thought, though he appreciated you sparing the girl’s feelings. He had watched the two of you slashing at one another with those blades in your vambraces, pulling others from various pockets on your body as added weapons. He had watched you knock the blades out his hands with precise kicks, spinning with ease in the air with the trained skill of an acrobat as you dodged his own attempts to disarm you.

He thought you were beautiful. He hated the circumstances, but gods you looked glorious back there. His heart had been in his throat as he held Ciri behind him to keep her from harm, watching each and every quick movement with tense muscles, praying you didn’t falter, which you almost never did.

But the moment he felt physically sick, the moment he thought you had been struck hard enough to not to get back up, was the moment he was dying to ask you about. Markus had managed to grab you mid air as you flew out of the way of his attack, one arm around your neck to stop you in your tracks. In just a split second, he took you to the ground, his full body weight on your ribs, both his hands around your throat, squeezing.

The sound of surprise you had made was one he would likely not forget. You had wheezed out all the air in your lungs, crying in shock like a wounded animal. You had scrambled to grip the floor of the den with your boots, trying anything to gain the leverage you needed to flip him off you, but he just held you harder.

“Stay down!” He’d roared in your face and your throat made such a horrid choking sound as you attempted a scream in retaliation. Geralt couldn’t see what had happened between the two of you, he guessed you had swung at him with your hidden blade once more, but whatever it was it managed to give you time to knock him off and take a greedy gulp of air.

That hadn’t been the end of the fight, but had for sure thought you were a goner then.

You had gotten some good hits into him too; slicing his face up a bit, a good, deep cut to his stomach region. But that horrible sight where he thought you weren’t getting back up, and he was frozen in his spot in order to defend Ciri, reverberated around his head like a twisted echo he couldn’t escape.

Soon after, Ciri announced she was going to her own bed, though you guessed she just wanted to be alone in her solemn mood. Leandro had assured you he would send Markus and Kaya away while your guests were here to prevent any more conflict, so you were happy for her to wander the hallways to her own room.

The two of you were left in silence as Geralt silently stitched up the last of your cuts.

“Is it bad?” You dared to ask after a moment, finally allowing yourself to wince as he pulled the suture tight.

“You tell me,” His deep voice was closer than you’d thought, and you felt it almost vibrate down your back with his new level of closeness. You hadn’t realised he was so close, but his words brought a sensitivity to your hearing as you felt them in your bones.

“I’ve had worse,” You mumbled, feeling suddenly as if his deep voice had stolen the momentum out of your own. Something had shifted in the air in his three little words. Things felt close, intense all of a sudden. You were sure the two of you had never been this near before. It felt almost intimate.

You jerked up as he pulled the suture particularly tight, likely to close the wound together seeing as you heard him snip the thread and begin mopping up the blood around your cut gently. “I’m not the best at first aid, I’m afraid,”

“Have you never had to sew up your own brothers?” You asked, as he gently pressed the wet cloth over your sore.

You heard him chuckle deeply, again the noise penetrating your skin as deeply and effectively as the blade had, “We Witchers take potions of healing after battles, anything else our bodies heal quickly enough that it's not necessary. But a human body couldn’t withstand the side effects of the potions. It would have killed you,” He said simply, moving away from you once he’d finished cleaning you up.

He stayed like that for a beat, looking over your back for any other spots he’d missed, though if he were truthful to himself he would realise it was because he could feel the warmth coming off your skin, smell that ludicrously sweet scent he had this morning that had increased tenfold as you’d gotten sweaty during your collision.

“Huh. I’ve only ever met one Witcher before. He was helping clear a nearby town of their werewolf problem,” You said idly, wiping your blade over with the same rag Geralt had used to rid it of the dried blood there. It wasn’t yours luckily, but it would stain your prized weapon all the same.

“Where do you come from?” What was this? Why was he making such smalltalk? Perhaps he felt awkward as you reached behind you to lace up your robes once more, feeling as though he was witnessing you dress yourself.

“Tiggenfurt. It’s a small village under rule by Tigg, though it's closer to Sodden Hill than anything,” You said, pulling the laces to your robes gently taut, trying to avoid your wounds. “How about you?”

Geralt felt his stomach plummet at your response. You didn’t seem distraught as he would expect someone to be if anyone you cared for had been hurt, so he simply hoped and prayed nothing had happened to your home. But he was smarter than to bring it up, knowing if you didn’t know about how Yennefer had decimated Sodden Hill in a blaze, and most likely your home, learning it this way would do nothing but cause you heartache you did not need.

“Rivia,” He replied deeply, feeling as if his mouth had dried with your words. You seemed to sit happily in the silence that followed, and it was then his eyes trailed up to your neck. They stopped there when he saw a large chain of dark bruises around your collar, no doubt from when Markus had begun choking you so brutally.

His hand moved before he could stop it as if he were possessed. It brushed your hair behind your shoulder slowly, to get a better look at the damage done. He heard you inhale quietly, shocked by his touch though the way your eyes closed softly told him you were thankful for his tender hands compared to the brutish ones that had touched you there before.

Geralt’s fingertips touched one of the bruises, more delicate than he or you ever thought he could be. His hands were big and strong, you knew that first hand. He stroked a painfully slow line from below your ear, over your marked skin, to your collarbone. He didn’t know why he did it, neither did you, you just looked so inviting.

A horribly quick thought popped into his head as he touched your skin, watched you eyes close as if to submit to his touch. He wished to kiss you right there. Nothing ravenous like some of his past rendezvous, just a tender, fleeting kiss to your collarbone.

It was then he realised what had made him so eager to touch you. It was only then that he could hear your heartbeat, feel it in his fingertips; as if he you were only real to him that point. He felt that you were just as human as he was. Not a dangerous assassin, mysterious and deadly, cold and unfeeling. You were a woman, you were alive to his touch.

“You should get some sleep,” He said, quickly rising from his seat on your bed as soon as the thought had entered into his tortured head. The white wolf made a move to leave your room with no more room for talk, when you suddenly grabbed his hand to stop him.

And your heartbeat was back, overwhelming his senses like a war drum.

“Geralt!” You rushed, before he could slip from your grasp. He looked back at you, feeling his own heartbeat in his throat, picking up that tiniest bit as he looked at your face in the darkened candle light. He watched your throat bob as you swallowed, wetting your lips with your tongue as you prepared to speak. “I’ll keep us safe, you know that right? I know today was a shit show, but-” You cleared your throat, looking up at him earnestly, begging him to hear what you were trying to say, “I’ll always keep her safe,”

He looked at you, saying nothing but nodding gently. He saw your face fall a tiny bit, his response not being enough to reassure you he believed you - that you were capable of keeping Ciri out of harm's way.

He squoze your hand gently, giving you a ghost of a smile to try and tell you he knew. And with that he left to find his own quarters.

»»-----------►

Assassin’s creed and Witcher’s cub

@ilikechocolatemilkh @captainslugcat @maan24 @freegardenbanananeck @flan058 @james-bucky-barnes-bitch @justicex101 @miiikkeey @tsnelf7 @a-lil-bit-nuts @peterwandaparker @itmejado @hista-girl @sammykb1994 @blueskyredrosegrey @vantae-tea @midnightfury71 @massivewitchfire @angywritesstuff @darkqueenhyde @ab-haya @chaoticvilbakugo @blackcat420

a/n: this was part 3 to my 500 followers celebration. thoughts on the series so far

#geralt of rivia x you #geralt x you #geralt of rivia x reader #geralt fanfic #geralt x reader #the witcher x reader #the witcher fanfic #the witcher imagine #henry cavill x you #henry cavill imagine #henry cavill x reader #henry cavill #ciri #Ciri x you #stars' 500 follower celebration

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cas-kingdom · 3 years ago

Text

An Accidental Purpose

A/N: Set almost 2 months after Geralt finds a baby girl (the same in all my fics) in the woods, and 5 years before he asks for the Law of Surprise. They did Eskel dirty this season so I’m going to try and write as much of him as I can to rectify that. Enjoy!

(The characters are based more on what we see in the show as opposed to the games/books - Eskel’s is mostly from the flashback we saw of him and Geralt, which I adored).

Title: An Accidental Purpose

Summary: Geralt brings the baby he found in the woods to Kaer Morhen to meet Vesemir and his brothers.

Words: 5052

The sight of home had never been accompanied with more dread.

The witcher dismounted Roach, snow crunching under his boots. One arm gripped the motionless bundle to his chest, both a reminder of the real reason he was here, and a repellent of the same thing. He grasped the reins and clicked his tongue, encouraging the horse to walk forward.

Eskel would understand. He relied on that. Lambert would take some time—perhaps a few years, and even then, he was too stubborn to completely rebuke his original opinion. Vesemir…was Vesemir. Geralt was sure his old mentor would set him up by the fire with hot food and good ale, but he also knew there would be questioning glances thrown his way throughout the night, until he broke, and his lips spilled the words he’d bottled up over the past six weeks.

He took a step forward, then suddenly found his feet frozen to the ground, eyes staring ahead. Irritation coursed through him, and he tensed his jaw. “Fuck,” he breathed out, a frosty cloud emanating from his mouth. He could do this. It was home. He had come here every winter, once upon a time, holing out the cold months with his brothers in the only place they were safe. That was why he had returned, after all. She would be protected, and he would finally, with any luck, receive the help he so desperately sought for, however much he fought the notion that he didn’t need it. But each time he toyed with taking a step towards the heavy doors he had opened innumerable times before, he was reminded that the last winter he had been here, was one he could not really remember.

It was his fault. He told himself it wasn’t, life had merely taken him on too many adventures, but he’d passed the road to Kaer Morhen last winter, and the winter before he had spent his coin on an inn in Cintra. The winters before that escaped his mind. Lambert would know how long it had been. Geralt fancied the redhead kept a tally, etched into the rock above his bed, just so he could use it to spite him.

He wasn’t certain why he hadn’t just turned down that path. Perhaps solidarity simply became him. Perhaps that was why some small part of him wanted nothing more than a silent shelter for the night, and he knew silence would become a distant memory the moment any of his brothers lay eyes upon what he held in his arms. No doubt the bigger part of him, the feasibly saner part of him, wanted them all to be there, so he could hear from someone else just how ridiculously fucking stupid he was being and finally believe it himself. But he couldn’t disregard the small part. That was the consequence of a life alone.

The bundle moved, a little mewing noise sounding from beneath the blankets, and he remembered susceptibility to cold was a very human thing. He had ignored the wind as it snapped at the bits of skin his cloak failed to cover, and the snowflakes clinging to his clothes, but he knew this bundle, or what was beneath it, at least, couldn’t do the same. So, he forced himself to move, mindful of the unfamiliarly quick thud of his heart against his chest. A late reunion was better than none at all, he told himself, no matter if he was bringing extra.

He stretched his arm out once he reached the door and grounded himself. “Fuck,” he said again, louder this time, and pushed.

The scent of roasted meat met his nose immediately as the creak echoed throughout the keep. If he weren’t so tense, rigged with consciousness of the night’s impending strain, he would have taken it all in and savoured it with every ounce of his exhausted being. He had not felt the warmth of that hearth in years, blazing with a fire that had thawed many frozen hands and hearts over the decades. Memories returned to the forefront of his mind, filling it with reminders of family, and home, and safety, and the love he seemed to have forgotten for a while.

His presence abruptly halted conversation, heads, perhaps a dozen of them, twisting around to see who of them had been missing. As though they didn’t know. As though they hadn’t known for the past few winters. Someone stood to their feet, a head of untamed ginger curls Geralt would recognise anywhere, and a bellowing laugh resounded around the hall.

“Is that really you?” Lambert asked, taking a long swig from his tankard. “Geralt of Rivia, arisen from the dead, finally home to grace us with his marvellous presence?” He held a knife in his hand, a piece of red meat stuck to the end of it, and he pointed it at Geralt as he took calculated steps towards him. “What took you so long?”

Despite it all, Geralt allowed himself a small smile. He pushed the hood of his cloak back to reveal his white hair. “Is this how you greet everyone now, Lambert?” he asked, indicating the knife, and Lambert shrugged. For a moment, emotions seemed to war on his face—should he clap his brother on the back in a warm welcome or stick the blade in, just a little, to prove an unspoken point?

“Suppose you wouldn’t know,” he decided on, “considering it’s been so long since we last saw each other.”

There was a moment of complete silence, filled only with the two witchers staring straight at each other, neither budging. Then, Lambert cracked, and his lips broke into a grin. He took a step forward and grasped Geralt in a hug. “It’s good to see you, brother,” he said around a laugh. Geralt drew the bundle into his chest as much as possible, careful not to let it get crushed between them. “And you’re well?”

Geralt rose a brow when Lambert drew back, grasping his shoulders at arm’s length. “Do I look it?”

“Fuck no. But you’re home. We thought you dead, you know?”

“I’ve come close to it, believe me.” He briefly glanced around the room, noting the diminished numbers. He knew it hadn’t long turned winter, and witchers were still to arrive, but there were usually more. He wouldn’t question it. Not now, anyway.

“That’s not how he greeted me, by the way.”

Lambert scowled as Eskel came forward. “You were here before me, shit-for-brains.”

“Ignore him,” Eskel told Geralt, a grin on his lips, “he’s just overcome by emotion. You know how he is.” He opened his arms wide, expertly ducking Lambert’s swing, and Geralt, unsurprised with the peace he felt at the mere sight of one of his oldest—and most open-minded, which was important here—friends, accepted his embrace. He discreetly shifted the bundle once again, absently searching the room over Eskel’s shoulder for Vesemir. Geralt would take in any advice he was given, but Vesemir’s he would value most.

“Geralt?” Eskel spoke quietly in his ear.

“Yes?”

“There is a tiny hand sticking from your pile of blankets.”

Geralt glanced down. Sure enough, a pink hand was stretched out, curled into a fist. Eskel stepped back and fixed him with a look while Geralt covered it again with the blanket. He looked up, likes creasing his forehead. “I need to speak to Vesemir.”

“He’s in his room.” Eskel’s eyes flicked between Geralt and whatever he was holding. He so clearly wanted to ask questions, but he let it go for the moment, jerking his head in the direction of the corridors instead. “Come on.”

The hallways in the keep had always been cold, but the witchers had learnt to look past that and see it as a sanctuary. A place they could call home. Once, the sound of the howling wind during the winter had been masked by the noise of laughter and cheer, but now, as Geralt followed Eskel, feeling oddly like a chastised child, the silence between them did nothing for the eeriness he could hear outside. Eskel didn’t turn once, likely absorbing the information he had and piecing together the information he didn’t have. And Geralt, his arms wrapped around the bundle of blankets and human, wondered not for the first time if he’d made a mistake.

They stopped outside Vesemir’s room, and Eskel knocked once. “Had a run-in with a wyvern,” he explained, glancing over his shoulder for just a moment. “He was sleeping it off, last we checked. Though that was two days ago.”

Geralt huffed in as much amusement as he was currently capable of. A muffled “yeah, I’m still alive” sounded through the door and Eskel pushed it open with a chuckle. Vesemir was sat at the edge of his bed, pulling on his boots.

“I’ll join you for dinner in just a moment,” he said, pausing when he lifted his head and caught sight of Geralt. His eyes went wide, then they relaxed, and he smiled in a mixture of joy and relief. “Geralt. You’re home.”

Geralt wanted nothing more than to grasp his mentor in a fierce hug. Since the moment he’d been stuck with the baby, he’d ached for Vesemir’s words of wisdom that always seemed to pierce through whatever instability he had accidentally created. Though he doubted they would be the words he wanted to hear, he knew they would be true. But he desperately wanted this out of the way.

“I am,” he said. Vesemir stood to his feet, smile faltering when Geralt didn’t move to properly greet him. Geralt briefly glanced at Eskel, who was standing silently by the side of the bed, arms crossed, eyes expectant.

“I would appreciate some help,” he said bluntly. There was no point in being avoidant, and Geralt knew it. He pulled the blankets back enough to reveal the little face of a sleeping human baby. Eskel’s mind had already worked it out, but the sight of the baby in the witcher’s arms caused his brows to leap anyway. He visibly swallowed and heaved a deep breath, propping his hands on his waist.

Vesemir, meanwhile, stayed where he was. His expression hadn’t changed much, apart from the widening of his eyes. Geralt found himself desperately searching for a reaction—he didn’t honestly care what it was, he just needed something. Instead, the room was enshrouded in a ridiculously painful silence that had Geralt shifting absently from foot to foot in a display of discomfort he never felt.

“I found her almost two months ago in a basket in the woods,” he rushed to explain, as though the others had been readying to speak. “She had no one, so I took her.”

Eskel cleared his throat. “And you’re, what, in the process of finding someone to take her from you?”

Geralt stared at him.

Eskel stared back, genuinely confused. Then, a realisation seemed to cross his face, and he dipped his head. “Then…are you looking for someone to tell you this is not going to end well? That you, a witcher, cannot possibly be considering keeping this human child? Because you’ve certainly come to the right fucking place.”

“No.” Geralt’s voice hardened. “I don’t want that. At least, I don’t think so. Fuck.” He averted his eyes and grit his teeth. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

The baby gurgled and in an action that had become surprisingly instinctive over the past weeks, he moved her, settling her head against his forearm, and covering her with the blanket once again. Eskel and Vesemir looked on with no small amount of alarm and surprise written on their faces. The latter uncrossed his arms and took slow steps towards Geralt.

“You’ve had the child two months?” he asked. He stopped and looked thoughtfully at the baby. “She’s alive. You obviously know some of what you’re doing.”

“I feed her, protect her, and keep her warm. That’s it.”

“How do you deal with the crying?”

“She’s usually quiet.”

“What do you feed her?”

“Cow’s milk. She doesn’t like goat’s.”

“How do you fight?”

“I haven’t fought since. I’ll figure something out.”

Eskel reached out, touching the hand he’d noticed earlier with his fingertip. The baby latched onto it, and Eskel glanced up at Geralt, their eyes fearful for a reason they weren’t yet entirely sure of and would only come to understand in the years ahead.

Eskel sniffed, not removing his finger. “Have I told you this isn’t going to end well?”

A corner of Geralt’s lips turned upwards, just as the door swung open and a mostly unwelcome voice broke the settling atmosphere.

“What’s this, hey? You finally come home and then fuck off like—the fuck is that?”

Eskel gently shook his finger free and turned to face Lambert. “You know what a baby is, Lambchop. You’re not far from one yourself.”

Lambert ignored him, for once in his life, his eyes fixed on the baby in Geralt’s arms.

He crossed his arms and grinned. “Where’d you dig this scrap up? I’d ask if you got a whore pregnant but…” He laughed, bending to peer at her. “Claim the Law of Surprise recently by any chance, Geralt?” At the silence which followed, he straightened and turned, tossing his arms out wildly. “What? Did Coen stick a kick me sign on my back again? I’ll kill that damn—”

Eskel cleared his throat and rubbed at his eye. “Geralt wants to keep the baby.”

Lambert looked from Eskel, to Vesemir, to the baby, and back to Geralt. Then, he laughed, a guffawing sound that lasted a second before his brows furrowed and he shook his head in disbelief. “That’s a good one. Now, Geralt, if you want food, the meat’ll be gone by the time—”

“He’s serious, Lambert.”

Lambert stopped mid-speech, his hand in the air. He looked about ready to laugh again at what he assumed to be a joke, but he quickly clocked the faces around him and dropped his arm. “Well, I’ve really heard it all now.”

Geralt flecked his free hand. “Lam—”

“Are you out of your fucking mind, Geralt?” Lambert’s words were sudden and harsh, an almost hiss to them that had the baby jolting awake. Her wide blue eyes stared up at Geralt, who’d turned away from Lambert with a growling huff at nothing other than the fact the witcher had frightened her, and her bottom lip began to tremble. A whimper came from her mouth, and then she began to sob. Geralt fancied it was the only thing capable of making his heart twist, and he did not like the fact it was happening here, now, in front of those who wouldn’t possibly feel the same. She didn’t wail, or shriek like the babies he heard in the villages, not unless she was tired or hungry. Instead, she managed to perfectly portray her emotions through her teary eyes and wobbling lip, something he instantly felt the need to protect.

Before he could do anything, Eskel was beside him, no words of permission coming from his lips as he took the baby from Geralt’s arms, blanket and all, and held her in his own. Geralt watched, part of him overjoyed that Eskel wished to hold the baby he’d only minutes ago been questioning, and the other part acutely aware that this was the first time she’d been taken from him.

“Let’s go over here, shall we?” Eskel’s attention was fixed entirely on the baby as he carried her to the end of the room. He took his medallion from around his neck and gave it to her outstretched hands. “Look at this. Shiny, yeah? Here, you take it.”

Before Lambert could speak again, Geralt steeled himself and grit his teeth, grounding out his words.

“I found her close to death and I am now keeping her alive.”

“That’s not your responsibility. Your fucking responsibility is to rid the Continent of its monsters, not protect some human child who’d be better off with its own kind. It’ll get killed, and if it doesn’t, you’ll get killed for worrying about it more than yourself.”

“She’ll be fine. As will I.” He breathed out a quick sigh, pressing his lips together in irritation. “I felt a…I don’t know. A connection with her—”

Lambert’s hollow laugh interrupted him. “If everyone took in who they felt a connection with, I’d have fifty wives.” He stepped forward. Geralt was taller than him, always had been, but he didn’t let it phase him. He glared up at him and poked his chest. “There’s a reason we were made sterile. We were created for a purpose. No child deserves a mutant as a parent. How do you expect to do your job with that attached to your side?” He didn’t look back, merely jerking his head behind him, and Geralt flicked his gaze to where Eskel was watching the exchange with sharp eyes as the baby chewed obliviously on his medallion.

“You’re a witcher, Geralt.” Lambert’s words had admittedly softened, but he didn’t mean them any less. “You’ll always be a witcher. That baby doesn’t belong to you any more than you—than we—belong to humanity.”

The room fell silent. Geralt had felt like raising his fist to Lambert. Now, he didn’t know what he wanted to do. He knew he was right, yet he wanted nothing more than to ignore him anyway.

There was another little gurgle, and Eskel coughed into his fist. When Geralt and Lambert turned to him, rose a brow in the direction of the bed. “Vesemir?” he asked. “Anything to say?”

Geralt had almost forgotten Vesemir was even in the room. He’d been so caught up in his anger at Lambert that he’d overlooked the fact Vesemir’s opinion was the only one he truly wished to hear.

Vesemir hadn’t moved at all, other than to cross his arms over his chest somewhere amid Lambert’s tirade. His expression was a mixture of veiled amusement and residual surprise, his eyes flicking between all three. At their sudden quietude, he huffed and stood to his feet. “Well, it is my room.”

Geralt watched as his mentor walked to Eskel and peered at the baby. “Has she a name, Wolf?”

“No.”

He glanced over his shoulder, a glimmer in his eyes, but said nothing more.

Lambert rolled his eyes. “Are you going to tell him his brain has turned to shit?”

“Seems you’ve done enough of that already,” Vesemir stated as he turned to face him. He shared a brief look with Geralt who, for all his face was expressionless, seemed to possess a franticness inside. Because they both knew why Geralt had really brought the baby to Kaer Morhen, and they both knew that if Vesemir didn’t approve, Geralt would feel a trouble in his heart for the rest of his life.

Vesemir dipped his head. “This is a big mistake, you know,” he told him simply. “But…sometimes, bad things, big mistakes…put us on the path to good fortune. You have indeed lost your mind, Geralt. But if you’ve come here for help, you know I will listen.”

Lambert looked as though his head might burst. He brought both hands up and dug them into his hair, spinning to stare at each supposedly insane witcher. He shook his head in disbelief. “You’ve all lost your fucking minds,” he said, heading for the door. “And I need a fucking drink.”

They watched him leave, hearing him yell something incomprehensible in the corridors.

“He’ll get over it,” Eskel said. “We’ll find him a kikimora to kill or something.” He was still holding the medallion, his fingers keeping it steady while the baby sucked on it methodically. Her tiny hands wrapped around his fingers and if he was bothered by it at all, it wasn’t obvious. He held the baby easily, like he’d done it before, and it looked…natural. That was the only word which came to Geralt’s mind.

“Have you?” he asked suddenly, hopefully. “Gotten over it?”

Eskel gave him a look. “Geralt, are you sure about this?”

“Not really. But at least if it all goes to shit, you can both say you told me so.”

"Ha ha,” Eskel said humourlessly. He sighed audibly but relented all the same, pointing a finger at Geralt. “I won’t be a nanny,” he warned, “I have a reputation, you know. But—” He grumbled something under his breath and shrugged, a ‘fuck it’ motion, if you will. “I’ll be Uncle Eskel, if she wants.”

Geralt took in a deep breath and nodded. “I—she does—she will. Thank you, Eskel.”

Vesemir put a hand on Eskel’s shoulder, and Eskel took it as a silent indicator that his mentor wished to talk to Geralt alone. “I’ll…” He shifted the baby in his arms, attempting to tug the medallion from her mouth but valiantly failing. Pressing his lips together in a thin line, he nodded in affirmation to himself and headed for the door. “We’ll be in my room.” As he passed Geralt, he stopped, hesitated, and leaned over, lowering his voice. “Are you sure sure, Geralt? We can go into Kaedwen and find someone—” Geralt gave him a look and he half-forced a smile, clapping his brother’s back. “Find some cow’s milk. That’s what we’ll do.”

The door shut behind him and Geralt rolled his shoulders, reaching up to drag a tired hand down his face. Vesemir chuckled. “How did you honestly expect that to go?” he asked. “Couldn’t have brought home a puppy or something instead? Gods, Geralt.” He sat at the edge of his bed and pat the space behind him, waiting for Geralt to sit. “You say you felt connected to her?”

Geralt hummed. “I don’t know what it was. Is. But I feel something draws me to her. Even now…I know she’s safe with Eskel, but I…I don’t know what’s happening to me.” He sighed, blinking at a blank space on the wall opposite. He had thought of this often. That…whatever, which had pulled him to the baby when he’d heard her cries. It hadn’t just been instinct. He didn’t have much of that left, and he’d never felt anything remotely parental. But if she were any other baby, he felt he could have easily left her with the woman in the tavern he’d gone to after he’d found her. At least, that was what he thought. How could he ever really know?

He closed his eyes.

“You remember I spoke to you of Renfri?”

“The cursed princess?”

He nodded. “She told me I wouldn’t be able to outrun the girl in the woods…that she is my destiny.”

Vesemir mulled his words over for a moment. “You think this is her?”

“Could it be?”

He shrugged and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, a familiarly contemplative look on his face. “Maybe,” he agreed with a short nod. “Or maybe this is…something else. Something different. Serendipity, perhaps?”

Geralt frowned. “You would go that far?”

“Would you?” Vesemir asked seriously. He sat up. “I see how you look at her, Geralt.” And he had. He’d been silent from the moment Lambert had walked in, not wishing to interject, both for fear of interrupting what needed to happen between the two younger witchers, and genuinely because he hadn’t quite known what to say. Geralt returning home with a baby was the last thing anyone would have expected. It simply didn’t happen. The witcher mutagen didn’t truly wipe away all human emotion as the rest of the world made themselves believe, but it did harden them, both physically and mentally, and while saving a vulnerable baby was believable, keeping it was not. Witchers were not parents. They didn’t possess the qualities necessary for such a thing. They lived in constant fear for their lives, and childminding would only be a burden on that.

But Vesemir had watched Geralt through the whole ordeal. The way his hands hadn’t let go of the baby until he’d properly registered it was Eskel taking her. The way his eyes had constantly flicked Eskel’s way, even while Lambert was sizing him up. The way Vesemir had noticed some unnatural change in his wolf that he’d only figured out once the baby was out of his arms and he reverted to the monster-hunting witcher he had raised and created. When he was holding her, he was different. He didn’t know how, or why. He didn’t think it was a good thing, and he would have, quite frankly, as Lambert suggested, told him his brain had gone to shit, if he hadn’t waited and observed. He was good at that.

“You told me this princess said you would try to outrun the girl, but you would not be able to escape her. Did you try to outrun the baby?”

Geralt blinked still at the wall, his hands in fists on his lap. He knew his relationship with Vesemir allowed for these moments, but they were rare all the same. “I considered giving her to others—”

“That’s no escape attempt,” Vesemir interrupted. “That’s two sides fighting for dominance. No. I think…that this destiny the princess spoke of is still to come.”

Geralt had only briefly considered the idea that Renfri’s words had been linked to the baby. For a moment, he’d wanted to get rid of her just so he could prove to the princess, dead or not, that she’d been wrong, and destiny was a load of crap. He hadn’t been able to do that, and he’d been frustrated at it, at himself, thinking perhaps she really was the prophesised girl in the woods, after which he’d made the journey to Kaer Morhen. He’d thought hearing Vesemir’s words might placate him. He was surprised to find he felt nothing.

“Do you think I can do it?” he asked quietly, genuinely. “Look after a child? I can barely look after myself. Maybe Lambert’s right.”

Vesemir gave a dry laugh. “Oh, he is. He is right. A witcher shouldn’t have parental responsibilities. The life we live is no life for any child. She would be better off with her own kind, with a family whose lives aren’t constantly shadowed by danger and death, and who know how to do it right.” He stood to his feet, smirking lightly at Geralt’s blank expression.

“But I remember when you and Eskel nursed a sick rabbit back to health once. I remember you hiding it in your rooms in the hope that I wouldn’t catch you.” Geralt smiled faintly at that, the memory surfacing. He looked up as Vesemir spoke again, some kind of nostalgia returning to him as he stared into the face of the man who’d raised him. If Geralt had any kind of parental instinct, which he was still mostly sure he didn’t, he’d gotten it from him.

“If any of my men have enough humanity to care for someone that isn’t themselves,” Vesemir continued, “it’s you. It’s still a big mistake, I stand by that, but if you’re sure...” He sighed. “You can’t control everything. Destiny or serendipity…predetermined or coincidence…they have a way of changing you in ways you didn’t know possible. You have those responsibilities now, you’ve chosen them, and as long as you think you can do it, it will work out.” He paused. “Do you think you can do it?”

Geralt stood up. He thought for a moment and heaved a deep sigh. “No,” he admitted. “But I’m willing to try.”

A corner of Vesemir’s lips drew upwards and he crossed his arms over his chest. “You really should give her a name, then. At least before Eskel does it for you. And—” He gently clasped his shoulder, eyes widening. “There is still lots to talk about. Lambert had good points. How will you hunt? How will you keep her protected when you sense danger? I won't let one of my witchers go out into the world without knowing he can fully protect himself. That's not a slight on you, nor the child. But you've chosen a new and difficult path, and I'll always help where I can and as long as my sanity allows it, despite anything I might have against it. I made that oath to myself long ago.” As Geralt’s mouth opened, he shook his head. “Let’s leave it for tomorrow. You need to eat and sleep.”

Geralt felt a rush of emotion suddenly course through him, but he pushed it back. He clasped Vesemir in a hug then, a long-awaited one, and he shut his eyes tightly, satisfied in the knowledge that Vesemir didn’t disapprove enough to be as mad as he knew he could be. Geralt didn’t really deserve it. He hadn’t been home in years, and the one winter he did decide to return, it was with a request for help. But if today had taught him anything, it was that family didn’t care how long you’d been away, as long as you came back. They would stand by you through thick and thin, whether they agreed with you or not. Lambert would not spare him a second glance for the next few days, and Geralt would leave him be. Doubtlessly they’d have a calmer conversation once things settled. Eskel had been quiet with most of his thoughts, but Geralt knew his old friend, and he knew that, despite the protective hold he’d had on the baby, he would still rather she wasn’t here at all. But he, like Vesemir, trusted Geralt enough to know—to hope—that he at least partly knew what he was doing.

Geralt hoped so, too. He hoped it wouldn’t prove to be a big mistake. He hoped this was as far as his destiny would go, and that Renfri’s prophecy, the introduction of a little girl in the woods, had come to pass, and the corner of his brain that had been silently nagging him for thirteen years would let him rest.

And he hoped above all else that it would get easier—that this baby girl would be safe in his protection, and he would be able to do it. To give her a life worthy and deserving of living.

And perhaps give himself one, too.

Witcher Masterpost

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