Chapter Text
The ground was icy and hard under Geralt’s boots, the leather of his gambeson stiff from the cold under his fur cloak.
The trail was littered with skulls, half buried and crumbling with the passage of time. Kaer Morhen was close, so close he could almost feel the dilapidated walls around him, he could almost feel like a boy in training again.
He was leading Roach with slow and careful movements, eyes vigilant, when a voice called out to him.
“Wolf! It is good to see you!”
Eskel walked up to him, under his arm a freshly killed boar that had just started smelling of death.
Geralt had to stop as soon as he saw Eskel, his perceptive eyes taking in the other’s face.
The once handsome features of Eskel’s face were marred, an ugly pink mark ran down his cheek, reaching for his chin and splitting his lips, one corner of his mouth scarred down into an unnatural snarl that clashed with the rest of his kind face. The scar was deep, unbroken and messy. He felt his breath stop in his throat for a moment.
“That bad?” Eskel asked, a sigh of resignation escaping from his disfigured lips.
“I’m not gonna lie, yes, that bad,” Geralt said, after considering his words. Scars were a given in their line of work, some were bad, some worse. This one fell into a third, horrible category. “What got you? It looks like a blade cut.” Eskel was the closest thing to a brother he had, they went past the trials together, survived together. It had to be a cut made with a knife, or a dagger, so no monster. But what human could get close enough to a Witcher to leave a mark like that?
His mind went to an uncomfortable place, to eyes almost like his own and cat medallions.
“It was a blade; it’s a long story, wolf. But I have all winter to tell you. The road must have been rough, you came in late, plenty of snow has already fallen.”
Geralt nodded, thankful for the change of subject. He did want to hear the story but possibly not while sober.
“Who’s wintering this year?”
Eskel shrugged, both resuming their walk towards the keep. “The usual few: Vesimir, Coën and Lambert. Oh, talking of Lambert, steer clear of annoying him for a while, he’s bitchier than usual. Threw my boots out into the snow this morning, I have no idea why or what spurred it on. Coën is trying to find out, he’s been on it for a week, I think his underpants are next to get wet and cold first thing in the morning.”
Geralt smirked, all in order on that front, Lambert lashing out at nothing, Coën trying to be helpful, and Vesimir… “How’s the old man?”
Eskel made a face, they were almost at the gate. “Took my face in worse than you. Called me sloppy,” Eskel imitated Vesimir’s voice. “How did you let anyone get that close? It’s a disgrace! How slow did you get this past year?!”
Geralt scoffed, amused. “He worries a lot, you know him. Don’t be a child about it.”
Eskel pouted, or at least tried to, the left side of his lip did not move out of its permanent downturn. “I’m not sloppy,” Eskel said pointedly. Geralt knew how much pride Eskel took into his swordsmanship. He was always on top condition, always ready. If Geralt did not have his extra mutations he was sure he wouldn’t stand a chance against the other.
“You’re not sloppy. But you are now, officially, a pain to look at.” He laughed as Eskel’s free hand punched his arm.
“We’ll see how pretty you’ll look after tomorrow’s morning drills,” a new, familiar voice said. Vesimir stood just behind the gate, his sharp eyes on them, a grey beard covered his face, but Geralt could tell he was smiling. “Good to see you, wolf.”
.
.
.
The room was warm, a fully stocked fireplace lined the stone walls with red light, the long table at the centre of the room was filled with bread, cheese and wine, a fortunate acquisition on Coën’s part on one of his last contracts.
Vesimir was sitting close to the fireplace, carving a new mortar out of a block of wood. Eskel and Coën were drinking together, their conversation easy and cheerful, although you really couldn't have known by just looking at them. Both of their faces were partially turned to the fireplace, making Coën’s old pox-marks and Eskel’s new scar stand out, their eyes reflecting the firelight in an opaque sheen.
Geralt and Lambert sat opposite to one another, a game of Gwent always made the evening pass quicker, although being on the losing side was a new experience for Geralt.
“I’m telling you Geralt, you’ve just really gotten shitty at cards, it feels like I’m stealing candy from a toddler,” Lambert said and grinned, moving the coins from the middle of the table to his side. A yawn tore out of him as he stretched, covering his mouth with a hand.
“I haven’t gotten any worse, you’ve gotten better. Who taught you to use the monster deck?”
Lambert’s eyebrows furrowed. “No one.” His voice was curt, he stood up and collected his cards off the table, leaving the money he had won off of Geralt. He disappeared quickly into the dark corridors of the fortress, a low growl echoing into the now silent room.
“See Coën? Your underpants may yet live to see another day. Not sure about Geralt’s though.”
Coën shot him an apologetic expression at Eskel’s words and raised off his chair. “Sorry wolf, don’t know exactly what got his panties in a twist, he probably met some lass and it ended badly. He gets really hissy when talking about this past year.”
Geralt nodded, his mind going once again towards a blue-eyed Witcher. Why was he thinking of that now of all times?
“A Witcher’s path,” Vesimir said from his seat by the fire, his eyes sill following his own hand as he carefully worked the wood, “Is lonely, there is no respite, and companionship is short-lived. We can only count on our skills and our blades. If Lambert has to learn that the hard way, so be it.”
To Geralt it sounded rehearsed, like the old man had probably told himself just that a million times before.
The path was a silent place, and the weeks he had shared with Jaskier had been filled with words and jokes; the other Witcher had endless stories to tell, every single one of them embellished, they all sounded like fairy tales.
Sometimes, at night, if the air was calm enough, the breeze clean of the stench of monsters, Jaskier would play his lute.
Geralt could tell the other knew what he was doing, most likely he had learnt as a child and never forgot, the melodies were easy to follow, often full of rhythms that Geralt felt in his bones, other times full of sorrow and melancholy.
Jaskier sung those latter songs in a language Geralt did not speak, but recognised, elder speech; every second he spent with the other witcher left him with more questions, more uncertainties.
Geralt thought he would probably never know. He and Jaskier had split to winter in different places, and would most probably never meet again.
The path was, after all, a lonely place.
-.-
-.-
-.-
Fucking hell.
Jaskier was out of breath, the steep climb down the rocky cliff got worse the further into the start of winter you were to return to the fortress, and he was incredibly late, the seaweed was slippery and the tide high. The waves crashed under him in a thunderous boom, promising death to whoever wasn’t strong enough to hold on.
He did, however, have to count his blessings.
A pack filled with rations and furs was on his back, along with his lute and some good alcohol, and the entrance to the school was in sight. Fucking finally.
With a final jump, he landed on the thin strip of rock that served as the entrance, the water below him was black and cold, uninviting and other. Light footsteps walked up behind him, the sound almost completely drowned by the sea.
“You’re finally here! I almost thought you wouldn’t come this year.”
Jaskier turned and smiled at the familiar face. “And then who would beat you at Gwent?”
The other Witcher, Aiden, laughed, his red hair a mess of curls on his head, his pale and handsome face was full of freckles, yellow eyes smiling with mirth. “You might be a better Gwent player, but I can still kick your ass in training.”
Aiden had been in the same group of boys as Jaskier when he had faced the trials. Out of the twenty boys that had been trained only three had survived.
“Is Gaetan here? Haven’t seen him in a while,” Jaskier said.
Aiden nodded, taking Jaskier’s pack off of him. His eyes stopped at the lute and he frowned. “What’s that for?” Aiden was inspecting the instrument, Jaskier had taken to play it quite a bit more since he and Geralt had parted ways. He loved the sound it made, and even bought a few books on the subject in the hopes of getting better. Somuch for selling it.
“Got it during a contract. Long story.”
Aiden raised an eyebrow, but did not comment further. “Let’s get inside. Gaetan did mention you, something about owing you one?”
Jaskier’s mind went back to the last time he had met the other Witcher and the disastrous contract they had taken together. Yeah, owing me one is about right.
The inside of the cliff was dry, but the stone floor was uneven, long bridges stretched between the alcoves that served as rooms in complete darkness, no torches lined the walls. A dangerous environment for the young trainees.
Jaskier can still remember his first time walking along those bridges, his human eyes unseeing, no railings for his hands to hold on to. The Witcher that had taken him walking a few paces before him, back turned. He was scared of falling back then, of meeting his end at the bottom of the abyss of rock below him.
He remembered longing for the comforts of his old home, his mother’s warm embrace, her ornate dresses and expensive perfumes stifling the world around him.
He remembered being the shortest out of his group, the slowest, the last one to learn to climb the walls properly.
And the grasses—
No, I don't want to remember the grasses.
At last they arrived in the common room. A few Witchers were there, including Gaetan, but less than he hoped for. Since a good portion of the school had split off only a few of them returned to the fortress. The few instructors and trainees that spent the whole year there were always on edge, anticipating an attack from the ones that had left.
There was a fire going in a corner of the room, the familiar smell of cooked fish and mushrooms filled the air, the room was still dark, but it was easy to fall back into his place, like every winter.
He greeted some of his old instructors and went to sit with Gaetan and Aiden at the long table that sat in the middle of the room, plates full of fish and mugs of beer in front of them.
“Good to see you, shorty,” Gaetan said, his irritated expression present as always, but he had an air of someone who had something important to say.
Jaskier decided to play along. “Hello, baldie.”
Gaetan’s lack of hair wasn’t a stylistic choice, after the trials he had lost every single hair on his prepubescent body, never to regain any of it, but he took it in stride, Jaskier had been veryhappyhe hadn’t been the one receiving that particular variation of the mutagens. His off-coloured eyes weren’t exactly welcome, but way better than losing his beautiful hair.
“So, had a chance to catch up with the dog lover over here?” Gaetan said, pointing to Aiden who, in turn, sent a glare towards Gaetan, clearly the epithet wasn't very welcome.
“Dog lover? Do I have to add zoophilia to the list of fucked up effects of our mutagens or is there a story behind that?”
Gaetan snickered. “It would seem that Aiden, here, fucked a wolf school Witcher. The absolute pervert.”
“Shut the fuck up, will you? I swear I will never get drunk with you again.” Aiden looked deeply embarrassed, but not ashamed. Jaskier smiled at him, hoping to bring his spirits back up, but decided not to share his own wolf-related adventures. He already had a pretty shit reputation after all.
Aiden is a big boy; he can take the heat by himself.
“So, anyways, wanted to talk to you about something. Aiden might want to stay out of the loop for this one, least his newly found wolfish morals be offended,” Gaetan said in a guarded tone, low enough that only the people at the table with their enhanced senses could hear.
Aiden shrugged. “I want to hear what kind of shit you two get up to, so I can steer off clear of it. And, just saying, the wolf school might just have this one figured out: don’t stick your nose in shit if you don’t want to smell it,” Aiden said.
Jaskier hummed thoughtfully but otherwise ignored Aiden’s admonition, turning his eyes back to Gaetan, waiting for him to speak.
“Well then. There is this contract I got from an informant of mine in Cintra. Queen Calanthe herself commissioned it.”
Jaskier and Aiden listened intently, a secret contract from a regent could only mean dirty work.
“There is a knight that has been bothering her: her daughter, the princess, will have to marry soon and there will be a party to choose the husband, the future king. She wants the knight dead before the wedding is announced. The reward is set for 8000 gold coins.”
Jaskier couldn’t help but whistle.
That much gold was enough to get a new set of armour and swords, enough to sleep in inns for a year straight and buy a new horse, not that he wanted to replace Pegasus.
But that much money was enough to have a good few months free of contracts, rent a room in Oxenfurt. Maybe even take a few classes in the academy…
As if they’d ever let anyone like you in.
He had to remember himself. He wasn’t Julian anymore, no matter how much he wanted it.
“Why are you giving this to me? You owe me Gaetan. You don’t owe me this much.”
Gaetan bit his lip, the skin where his eyebrows would have been wrinkled in thought. “I can’t go to Cintra in time. I have other obligations. It’s risky, but one of the best damn rewards I came across in a long time.”
Aiden wasn’t of the same mind. “It sounds too simple. Why does she want that knight dead? It’s going to leave you in a pile of shit Jaskier. It’s a bad idea.”
Jaskier smiled sadly. Do not forget yourself. “I’m not known for my good ideas, am I?”
Their conversation was interrupted by a loud noise on the other side of the hall. Two young trainees were growling at each other, their sharp teeth bared and eyes wild. The older witchers and the rest of the apprentices watched in silence, not bothering to intervene.
“Are they—” Jaskier began.
“From the last batch, yes,” Aiden finished.
“Fucked up that one real good. They’re more monster than anything else. They used fucking vampire blood, the higher kind. Where did they even get it, I have no idea, but it made them too territorial. There were five of them just two weeks ago,” Gaetan said.
Jaskier decided that he had looked at the two fighting boys too long when the smell of mutated blood reached him. He turned his mind back to the discussion he and his brothers just had.
Cintra.