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Chapter Text

1231

Age 9

Geralt sighs as he leaves the mage’s tower for good, glad to be rid of Stregobor and the kikimora, and his pocket lined with a little more coin. It wasn’t as much as what the contract promised, Stregobor annoyed that Geralt refused to pick a side in hunting Renfri, but this isn’t the first time he’s been short changed and certainly won’t be the last. Some coin is better than no coin at all, Vesemir always said.

He pauses as he exits the tower, finding a different kid trying to feed a sugar cube to Roach. This one is younger than the girl that led him here. Geralt isn’t great with ages, kids especially, but if he had to guess he’d say the boy is about seven or eight. He’s small and boney, brown hair that’s a dirty tangled mess that resembles more of a rat’s nest, and by the smell of him he hasn’t had a bath in some time. A street kid then, probably an orphan.

The kid is speaking to Roach and doesn’t notice Geralt walk up behind him. “If you plan on giving that to her without wanting to lose any of your fingers in the process, keep your palm open, but your fingers close together.” 

He does as Geralt told him with a nod, giggling as Roach eats the cube. She sniffles his palm for more, and when she doesn’t find any, snorts as she bumpes his head with her own. Geralt grabs her reins and pulls her back before she can take a nip at him. “Hey, be nice.” He growls at her. Thinking that’s that, Geralt starts to lead her away, but is surprised when the kid follows with a grin.

“What’s her name?” He asks, falling into step with Geralt.

“Roach.” He answers, continuing to look straight ahead.

“Like the fish?” 

That gets Geralt’s attention and he glances down at the kid, not bothering to hide his shock. “Yes, actually.”

The boy nods in a serious manner, which looks more like something an adult would do. Geralt has to taper down his amusement, only letting a little smirk show. “Makes sense. Naming a horse after an insect would just be silly.”

“And naming her after a fish isn’t?” He asks, curiosity getting the better of him.

The kid merely shakes his head. “Nope.” Is all he says, not elaborating any further. “What’s your name?”

Geralt tells him, figuring the kid earned it. “Geralt of Rivia.” 

“No, you’re not.”

Geralt raises a brow at him. “Excuse me?”

“You’re not from Rivia, your accent is all wrong. Why would you tell people your from Rivia when you obviously aren’t?” He doesn’t sound accusatory, more like general curiosity like the way he’s been asking all his other questions.

“Well,” Geralt struggles, no one having ever called him on his bluff. “I travel a lot, so I don’t have one single place to call home. I thought Rivia had a nice ring to it.” The boy snickers at his joke at the end. “Tell me,” He pauses, waiting for a name.

“Julian.”

Geralt nods. “Tell me, Julian, how does a street kid from Blaviken know the accent of Rivia and about the common roach? They aren’t indigines to this region of the continent.”

“‘Cause I’m not from Blaviken, duh. I thought witchers were supposed to be clever.” Geralt stops in his tracks. Julian walks on a few more paces before he notices he’s alone and turns around, confused. “What?”

Geralt is starting to get the feeling that this Julian didn’t just happen upon him. “You want something from me.” He doesn’t bother phrasing it like a question. 

He shakes his head. "No…" Geralt frowns, letting his disbelief show. Julian avoids his gaze, staring down at his nails instead. When he glances up and sees Geralt still looking intently at him, he folds. "Stregobor is not a good person. He’s bad, really bad. Like the worst person to ever exist in the whole continent bad. I saw you go into his tower and wanted to make sure you were okay."

Content with the genuine answer, Geralt tugs Roach along again, patting Julian on the head as he passes. “Your concern is well guided, but as you pointed out, I’m a witcher. I know how to protect myself from bad people.”

As Geralt makes his way out into the woods, where he plans on making his camp for the night, he hears Julian follow after him from a distance. He probably thinks he’s being stealthy, darting first between buildings, then trees as they make their way further out of the town. He isn’t though, even Roach can tell he’s following, snorting and trying to turn around for another treat. 

Figuring the kid is harmless, just curious like most kids are, he humors him, letting him continue to think he’s being sneaky. Geralt doesn’t know what to make of this kid. Julian of Not-Blaviken. It wasn’t lost on Geralt that Julian was able to skirt around saying where he’s actually from. Another strange thing is that Stregobor is supposedly in hiding, the man said so himself that he’s using a false name with the locals, but Julian knew who he was. Has an ear for accents too. He’s knowledgeable then, but not malicious. Geralt heard his heartbeat earlier, he was honest when he said he was worried about Geralt’s well-being.

Tying Roach to a tree, he bends down to gather some herbs by a creek. Julian stops too, watching him from behind a tree. He hears his heartbeat fluttering, but not in fear, more like anticipation and excitement. That’s another thing he adds to the ever growing mental catalogue he’s been keeping on him. In the past hour of talking to the kid and being shadowed by him, he hasn’t once sensed a hint of fear from him. Even when Geralt glared at him earlier, something he knows makes grown adults scared of him, Julian only showed guilt at being caught in a lie. There is definitely something different about the boy.

“Did anyone ever teach you it’s rude to spy on people?” He asks into the air, grinding down the herb into a paste. He had been planning to wait for Julian to make the first move, but he started to grow impatient as it became obvious that all he was going to do was watch from his hiding place. 

Julian steps out from his hiding spot, walking up to him. “How did you know I was there?”

“Next time, find a hiding spot that is downwind.”

He wrinkles his nose. “You were smelling me?”

Geralt nods with a ‘hmm’.

“That’s weird. And an invasion of privacy. Can all witchers do that, the smelling thing? What are you making?”

Geralt sighs and pauses with what he was doing. He already regrets calling the kid over. “You invaded mine first. Why were you following me?” He asks instead.

Julian shrugs, sitting down on the log next to him uninvited, ignoring Geralt’s grunt of protest. “My sister grew tired of me and ordered me to go ‘play with the other children’. They’re all really boring though and you’re way more fascinating.”

A sister. So Julian isn’t a street kid, or at least has a family of some kind. “You should listen to your sister.” He goes back to grinding the herb. 

“Why?”

“Because your sister might not react too well if she finds out you’re hanging around a witcher. Most think of me as a monster.”

Julian only shrugs again. “So? Most say that about my sister too.”

Geralt’s head snaps up at that. Before he can question him further, a voice cuts through the forest. A familiar voice.

“Julian!”

Both look to the right to find the owner of the voice emerging from the thicker gathering of trees. Renfri. So that’s what Julian meant by his sister being called a monster too. It also explains why he knew who Stregobor was.

Renfri has her hands on her hips and a glare as she stops a few feet away. “Julian, I told you to stay in town and play with the other children.”

Julian stands up defiantly, placing his hands on his hips like her. “No, you only said to play with the other kids. You never said anything about staying in town.”

Renfri makes a show of looking around. “Do you see any other children around here besides yourself?” She asks rhetorically. “No. Because they are all in town where you should be. Go, before I decide to make you go to bed with no supper.”

“But-”

“Now!” She raises her voice. 

Julian stomps his foot. “I wanna say goodbye to Geralt!”

Renfri sighs harshly. “Fine.” She relents, her voice back to its normal level. “Say goodbye to your new friend, Jules. But then you are to go straight back into town, no complaints.”

Julian nods, spinning around and surprises Geralt as he tackles the man in a hug, little arms wrapped around his neck and face buried in his shoulder. Before he has a chance to react, Julian pulls back and darts over to Roach, pulling out another sugar cube from his pocket. “Take good care of your owner, okay?" He whispers that, probably thinking no one can hear him. Roach nods her head, as if she can understand him and gives him a soft neigh. "Good girl." Julian backs up, giving Geralt one last wave. "Bye, Geralt."

Geralt nods in farewell, watching as the boy runs off in the direction of the town. He listens, making sure he doesn’t try his hand at sneaking again, and once he’s satisfied he turns to Renfri. “Your brother is… interesting.”

Renfri rolls her eyes. “Julian isn’t my brother. He’s a sweet kid though, grows attached to whoever shows him kindness, as you witnessed first hand.” She smirks at him.

Geralt rolls his shoulders, still feeling the phantom weight of Julian squeezing him tight. He doesn’t remember the last time someone willingly hugged him. “He shouldn’t be so trusting. It’s gonna get him killed.”

Renfri wanders over, sitting in Julian’s vacant seat on the log. “He’ll be fine. He’s one of the best judges of character I’ve ever seen. He may play the fool, but don’t underestimate him, he’s got quite the brain.”

Geralt nods in agreement, recalling how quickly he figured out the origin of Roach’s name.

“Now, onto the reason for my visit, you know who I am…”

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Geralt stumbles out of the forest, hoping he makes it to the market in time. He shakes his head, trying to clear the rest of the magical sleep from his mind. He nearly trips over the small form that barrels into his legs, managing to just barely be able to keep his balance.

“Fuck! Wha-”

Julian has his arms wrapped around Geralt’s middle with his face buried in his stomach. He feels a wetness as Julian’s tears soak through his shirt. 

“What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” He doesn’t smell any blood on the boy, but he knows there are ways to hurt someone without spilling a drop of blood. Right now though, all he can smell is the overwhelming scent of salty tears as Julian shakes his head and begins to sob harder, tightening his grip. Dropping his sword, he lightly pushes back on both of Julian’s shoulders so he can bend down to be eye level with him. “Do you know what’s about to happen at the market?”

Julian’s face is red and blotchy from all his crying, and he nods, scrubbing at his eyes.

“What is it? What does Renfri have planned?” The boy gasps for air, fresh tears starting. “C’mon, Julian, talk to me.”

“I b-begged her not to! B-but she d-didn’t listen to me! And-and then those jerks yelled at me to sh-shut up, and then Renfri yelled at me to quit being a b-baby! She’s never b-been so mean to me b-before!”

“The plan, Julian, I need to know what they have planned.” He gives his shoulders a little shake for emphasise.

Julian nods, swallowing his tears. “The guys are gonna start killing everyone in the market until Stregobor leaves his tower and then Renfri is gonna kill him!” After spitting it all out, Julian lets all the backed up tears escape. 

Geralt pulls him into a hug, rubbing his back. “You’re safe now, you did good.” Pushing him back, Geralt looks him in the eye. “Now listen to me, this is very important. I need you to stay here where you’re safe.”

“But-”

“No buts. Promise me you’ll stay out of the market.” Julian sniffs, nodding. “Good.” 

Geralt grabs his sword, rising to his feet again. Before he can leave a little hand grabs his. “Be careful. Those guys are really tough.”

Geralt gently frees his hand, patting Julian on the head. “Wanna know a secret? I’m tougher.” One last pat on the head, Geralt then lets his hand fall to squeeze his shoulder reassuringly before rushing to the market.

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Julian bites his nails as he watches Geralt rush off until he’s gone from view. He manages to stay in place for a solid two minutes before his anxiety becomes too much. He knows he promised Geralt that he would stay out of the market, but the alley by the market isn’t technically in the market. 

Skirting around the market, like promised, he makes his way to the mouth of an alley. A large group is gathered around and he has to push past legs to get through, freezing in shock when he sees what got everyone’s attention.

Bodies. Lots and lots of bodies.

He scans each face, and is relieved to see that they are all the faces of the jerks that Renfri and him were traveling with. No innocent people and definitely no Geralt.

Pushing further past everyone, he follows the trail of bodies until he reaches another alley. Spotting Geralt standing in the middle with his sword pointed forward, he ducks down behind a crate, only peeking his head out enough to see who he’s pointing and talking to.

His heart sinks when he sees Renfri, her sword against a young girl’s throat.

He knew she wasn’t perfect, or even good, but she was kind to him. A few months ago when her and the bandits had raided the caravan he was stowed away in, she was the one that showed him mercy. All the others wanted to kill him since he saw their faces, but she convinced them to let him live. 

He never understood why people referred to her as a monster. She was always nice to him, singing him to sleep and only strict when necessary. But seeing her like this, with a blade to the throat of a child, he starts to understand. He knows what Stregobor did to her, stripping her of her old life and sending all of those men after her. She never told him, but he’s not ignorant or oblivious. He’s heard the whispers, the rumors surrounding her. He didn’t care though. She only did what she had to to survive and he can’t fault her for that.

This though, bringing an innocent girl into the middle of her fight, that’s wrong.

Geralt says something, but he’s too far away to hear what exactly. It makes Renfri angry though, and she pushes the girl to the side, charging at Geralt. Julian stays rooted to his spot, watching as the two fight as equals, each getting their own hits in.

Fighting is too brutish of a word though. What they’re doing is more graceful, more eloquent. It’s like a dance that they both know the steps to and have been rehearsing for weeks.

It finally looks like it’s over as Geralt disarms her, tossing her sword to the side while keeping his own at her throat. He slowly lowers his sword and Julian takes this as his cue to stand when Renfri darts forward with her dagger.

Geralt acts quickly, deflecting her attack like it was nothing and now holding the dagger to her neck. Julian gasps when he sees the dagger flick blood, realizing Geralt wasn’t just holding it to her neck, but in it.

Geralt glances over his shoulder, eyes widening at the sight of Julian frozen in place. “You shouldn’t be here.” He mutters under his breath, setting Renfri down gently.

Julian doesn’t care as he runs forward, crowding in and trying to stop the bleeding. The blood is seeping too fast through his fingers though, and he can see the life slowly fade from her eyes. It’s strange. If it weren’t for the blood, it almost looks like she’s only falling asleep. More at peace than he’s ever seen her. 

She lifts a hand and wipes a tear from his face that he hadn’t even realized had begun to fall. She sends him a weak smile. “Chin up, Buttercup.” Those were the same words she said to him when they first met. He was crying and shaking from the adrenaline of nearly being killed by the bandits when she pulled him aside and told him, “Chin up, Buttercup. The world is cruel, but it only wins if you let it show on your face. Don’t let it win.”

She then turns to Geralt. “The girl in the woods will be with you always. She is your destiny.”

“No!” Julian yells as her chest stills and her eyes go lifeless.

He feels the weight of a hand resting on his shoulder. “I’m sorry.” Geralt mummers behind him, mourning her loss as well.

Glancing up, he feels anger well up inside him as Stregobor struts onto the scene, a sparkle in his eye when he spots Renfri laying a pool of her own blood. When he starts demanding for a cart so he can dissect her, something inside him snaps. Snatching Renfri’s dagger out of Geralt’s hand, he marches up to the mage. Gripping the dagger tightly with both hands to try and hide the tremble he feels, he points it at the man.

“This is all your fault, you- you- Bastard!” He screams, causing everyone in the area to freeze and stare at him. Stregobor only looks amused as he tilts his head, staring down at him. “You killed her! Are you happy?! You kept hunting her and pushing her and now she’s dead because of you! Murderer!”

He has the audacity to chuckle at him. “Actually, if anyone is a murderer here, it’s your friend behind you. Every butchered body in this town was left by him. Now move aside, boy, the fresher the body, the better results I’ll find.”

Stregobor takes a step toward him, and he tightens his muscles in anticipation of using the dagger, when a sword swings over his head, stopping Stregobor in his tracks as it’s pointed at his neck. “If you touch a single hair on either of their heads, yours will be on the ground next.” Geralt growls from above and behind him.

“Have you gone mad?” The mage asks, glaring at Geralt. “Her mutation, it influences people. That’s how she got these men to follow her.” No, Julian wants to scream, they followed her because she’s an incredible fighter and could take anyone in a fight that tried to cross her.

Stregobor continues on, getting the mob of people gathered around to turn against Geralt, none of them knowing how close they had come to being the ones slaughtered. They start yelling things, calling Geralt a butcher and a freak, and he just stands there and takes it.

“No, he’s not any of those things!” Julian yells, trying to defend Geralt. “He just saved your ungrateful arses!” That only gets the mob to turn on him as well, them splitting their insults between both Geralt and him now.

Someone throws a rock, and then all hell breaks loose as the others start to throw things as well. All the stones are aimed at Geralt, him being the bigger target, so Julian yells at them to quit. 

One rock goes wide and manages to hit him on the forehead instead, causing him to yelp in pain. He drops the dagger, his hands going to protect his head from any more hits. He knows it’s bad when he feels a warm, wet, stickiness start to quickly run down the left side of his face.

“Enough!” Geralt booms. Large arms wrap around him and pick him up with ease. He feels more than he hears the next part as he buries his face into Geralt’s chest to keep himself from being hit again. “Leave him be, he’s only a child!”

The crowd seems to obey him out of fear, switching back to insults as their main source of ammunition. Words like “Monsters!” “Witchers!” “Mutants!” and “Freaks!” Are screamed at them as Geralt carries him away, out of town and not stopping until they reach the camp in the woods.

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There’s a loud clatter of metal as Geralt tosses his sword, the dagger, and Renfri’s broach to the side. There is not so much as a peep from Julian at the commotion, the boy having been silent since he was hit with the rock. It’s disconcerting having him be so quiet for so long now. In the short time that he’s known him, he’s always been chattering on about something or asking him questions.

Trying to get Julian to release his tight grip on his shirt so he can set him down on the log and check his head wound proves harder than he originally thought, but he manages to succeed in the end. Julian’s hands are caked with semi-dried blood from when he tried to stop Renfri’s bleeding, and he knows the moment he spots it because Julian’s breath starts to hitch. His heart is beating faster and faster that Geralt is surprised it hasn’t beaten out of his little chest by now.

Figuring he needs to calm him down before he passes out, Geralt tilts his head up and away from the view of his hands. “Hey, look at me.” Julian is trembling like a leaf under his hands, but nods and does as he’s told. “Are you hurt anywhere besides your head?”

He looks confused for a moment before he realizes what Geralt’s talking about, the shock and adrenaline from earlier probably masking most of the pain, and reaches a hand up. Geralt grabs his wrist before he has the chance, lowering his hand back down. 

“Don’t touch. We don’t want the cut to get infected. Now, do you feel pain anywhere else?” Julian shakes his head. “Okay, good. We’ll get you cleaned up and good as new.” Geralt brushes his hair to the side, getting a better look at the cut. It had bled quite a bit, blood all down the left side of his face and narrowingly missed having gone in his eye, but it seems most of the bleeding has stopped on its own now. “Do you feel like you’re gonna be sick? Have double vision?”

“What’s double vision mean?” He croaks.

“Seeing two of everything that should be one.”

“Oh. Then no. To both things.”

Geralt nods. “No concussion then. This shouldn’t need stitches either, but it will probably leave a scar.” 

He goes to stand, but Julian’s eyes widen and he grabs both of his wrists. “No, don’t leave!”

Geralt kneels back down, heart breaking at the depearate cry for him to stay. “I’m just going to grab some things from Roach’s saddlebag that I need. I’ll be in your line of vision the whole time. Is that okay?” He doesn’t try to pull Julian’s hands away this time, letting the kid make the conscious decision to do that. He can see the gears turning in his head before he nods and loosens his grip, letting his hands fall back into his lap.

Geralt makes quick work of gathering all his supplies and fetching a bucket of fresh water from the stream. He cleans Julian’s hands first, not wanting a repeat of Julian’s earlier panic attack, and makes sure to get every last speck of blood from under his nails. Using a new rag, he wipes away the blood on his face, apologizing under his breath when Julian hisses in pain.

Once all the blood is gone, it’s as Geralt expected and only a minor nick. Grabbing the ground up herb from earlier, he scoops some into his hand. “This will sting a little, but it’ll make sure you don’t get an infection, okay?” Julian eyes the paste before nodding. He groans and bites his lip when it touches the cut, but doesn’t cry. Geralt wipes it away as soon as he can and the relief is clear on Julian’s face once it’s gone. “There, all done.”

Julian isn’t looking at him though, instead staring at the pile he dropped earlier, particularly at Renfri’s dagger. Getting an idea, he reaches over to grab it and wipes it clean. “Here.” He holds the handle out to the kid. “I think she would want you to have this.”

He takes the blade, turning it over in his hand and studying it. “Thank you.” He whispers.

Geralt nods, standing so he can take care of his own injuries. He keeps an eye on the boy the whole time, watching him make cuts into the log he’s sitting on. It’s not good for the blade, but he bites his tongue since it seems to be the only thing keeping the kid occupied and calm for the time being.

“Am I a bad person?” Julian asks as Geralt finishes wrapping the final cut on his thigh.

Geralt’s head snaps up, pausing and staring at him as Julian continues stabbing away at the same spot on the log. In the past thirty minutes he’s made progress, creating a small crater and a pile of woodchips at his feet. “Why do you ask?”

“I wanted to kill him,” Julian swallows, the name like poison on his tongue. “Him, Stregobor. I still do. Had you not cut in when you did, I was going to plunge this into his gut for what he did to her.” He digs the dagger into the wood, prying free another chunk. Pausing, he glances up at Geralt for the first time. “Does it make me a bad person for wanting him to suffer a horrible death at my hands?”

Geralt sighs, tying off the rest of the bandage and coming over to sit next to him on the log. “No,” He finally answers, gently taking the dagger out of his hand and setting it on the ground in front of their feet. “That only makes you human.”

Instead of reassuring Julian like he thought it would, it has the opposite effect and makes him pull a face. “I don’t wanna be human. I wanna be a witcher, like you.”

Geralt cocks his head to the side. “Why is that?”

“Because, humans are mean and cruel, while the so-called ‘monsters’ like you and Renfri have only ever been nice to me. I think humans are the real monsters.” Geralt sighs again, not sure how to respond to that. Julian doesn’t seem to be expecting an answer as he copies Geralt’s own sigh and leans against him, eyes drooping. “I’m tired.”

Geralt hesitates, unsure of himself before he relents and wraps an arm around Julian, feeling the kid get more comfortable against his side. “Me too.”

Chapter Text

1240

Age 18

Jaskier squints in the bright light, finally spotting the one and only tavern in Posada. It’s as the farmer described it, sitting squarely in the middle of what looks to be a dried up moat. The very chatty farmer, an old fellow by the name of Hurlbart, had told him how it once was a castle of a very greedy Baron that met his inevitable demise during a peasant revolt many decades ago. He’s already trying to think up a good way of putting the events into song, since that will probably earn him a few extra coins of whatever currency this part of the continent uses by the more patriotic bunch eating and drinking today. 

Seriously, what currency do they use? This is a problem he’s always had since he grew up never staying in one spot. It can’t be crowns, that’s what they use over in Redania. Florens maybe? Or is it coppers? Well, whatever it is, extra money is exactly what he could use right about now, his coin purse being sadly empty for the past week. He should have tried staying in Oxenfurt for a couple days or even making his way north to Novigrad a month ago, but he was angry at the events that had transpired and needed to get as far away as possible from that damn school. So he picked a direction, east as it turned out to be after a coin flip, and started walking, only the lute on his back. 

(And the various daggers he has hidden on his person, but only because the roads are dangerous alone and his family of brutes have drilled it into his head to always have at least one sharp object on him at all times)

If only it wasn’t the middle of summer, he would have gone straight home to Kaer Morhen. Unfortunately the only one that would have been there would be Gramps, the only witcher that stays in Kaer Morhen year ‘round. Don’t get him wrong, he loves Vesemir, but the man would have assaulted him with questions for why he wasn’t at school. Then, once winter came and with it dear old Dad, the two old men would tag team against him. It would just be a terrible time for him, and he would much rather put it off for as long as possible, even if it means he has to sleep in stables because he can’t afford a room at an inn.

His inner thoughts get cut off abruptly as he finds the only way across the moat, a rather sad looking suspension bridge. The ropes are all frayed and some planks are missing in the middle. All in all, it looks like all it would take to knock this down is one strong gust of wind.

It doesn’t help that he’s been deathly afraid of heights since he was eleven and Lambert had dangled him over the ledge of the keep’s wall by his ankles as retaliation for a prank he pulled. He got the last laugh though, because once he went crying to his dad about it, Geralt went to Vesemir, who made Lambert clean out the stables for the entire winter that year.

Jaskier grips both sides of the rope bridge, taking a deep breath. “Okay, Jask, you can do this. It’s just a short walk, one foot in front of the other and you’ll be on the other side in no time.” He mutters under his breath, inching his way along. A breeze comes along and shifts the bridge slightly, causing him to sharply breathe in and freeze. “Right, this might take a little longer than I had originally thought. It’s morning now, so I should be across in time to serenade the public for supper.”

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1238

Age 16

Julian feels his mouth go dry as he stares up at the city gates, his dad getting Roach settled at a stable.

“Roach is done. Ready to go in?” Geralt himself asks, appearing at his side.

Julian swallows, wringing his hands together. “You know what, I’ve changed my mind. I’ll travel with you for another year and-”

Geralt gives him a small shove forward with a chuckle. “Tough. You’ve made a commitment and now you’re going to follow through with it.”

Said commitment being deciding he wants to go to the Oxenfurt Academy. He figured out pretty early on that fighting was not his thing, and that he leans much more on the brains side of the spectrum than the brawns side. Having brute strength is kind of an entry level requirement to being a witcher, and him and muscles are like water and oil. He’s not totally useless in a fight, he is quick and scrapy, but that’s about all he brings to the table. 

With his dreams of being a witcher being dashed, he turned to the next best thing, academia. He learned how to brew potions like a fish to water, devoured all the text on monsters Vesemir had available, and memorised the properties of almost every common plant.

His dad was the one that brought up the idea of him getting a more formal education, something a little more well rounded than what Kaer Morhen had to offer. He then went on to mention that he knew the Dean, something about the guy owing Geralt one after an incident with a siren.

It all happened so fast after that. Geralt wrote the man a letter and the next thing Julian knew, he was getting a meeting with the man personally. Oxenfurt Academy is one of the best schools on the continent, only the best and most elite get to grace the halls here, and yet his dad made this meeting possible.

The place is larger than he ever imagined it would be, giant floor to ceiling windows, echoing marble floors, and beautiful artwork on every wall. The ceilings look like they go on forever above him, and he gets lost as he stares up in wonder.

“Close your mouth. You look like you're trying to catch flies.” His dad grabs his arm, pulling him along. Julian lets him, not bothering to watch where he’s going so he can take in as much as possible. It’s not like he has to worry about bumping into anyone, just being the two of them in the hall. The school is currently between sessions, but he’s sure it’s even more magnificent once it’s full of brilliant minds.

“Dad, just take a moment to look around. Most don’t even get to see this far into the school. The awe-inspiring, breathtaking decor. It’s… it’s…”

“It’s the only time you’ll get to see it if we are late to this meeting because you were too busy gawking at a ficus.”

Julian pouts, but does as he’s told, picking up the pace. The pout is quickly replaced with a grin as they get closer and closer to their destination, stopping in front of the Dean’s office.

Geralt takes a set on the bench. “Alright, good luck.”

It feels as though a lead ball makes its home in the pit of his stomach. “Wait, you’re, uh, not coming in with me?”

Geralt raises a brow at him. “Do you really need Daddy to come in and hold your hand through this?”

Julian snorts, waving his hands about. “What? No, of course not. I’m sixteen, not six. I just think it’s rude to sit out here and not even come in to say ‘hello, how do you do?’ to the guy whose life you saved.”

Geralt grunts and rolls his eyes, but he still stands up. “Fine. I’ll come in for one minute, but then it’s all on you, kid.”

Julian still has that knot in his stomach, but he puts on a smile anyway. “Yes, yes, like most people that have spent a grand total of two minutes with you, I’m sure he’s quite aware of your monosyllabic tendencies. If anything, that will reflect better on me and make me stand out all the more-”

“Hey,” Geralt cuts off his rambling, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Chin up, buttercup. If there’s anyone that can talk their way into something, it would be you.”

“You think so?” He asks, biting his nails absentmindedly. 

Geralt lets, what Julian likes to call, his ‘stern dad face’ show as he slaps his hand away from his mouth. “Stop that. And yes, I know for a fact that you can talk your way into anything first hand. Did I seem like the parental type before you forced your way into my life?”

Julian scoffs. “That wouldn’t be the first word I’d use to describe you. Unless we were talking about Roach, because in that case-”

“Focus, Julian.” Geralt cuts him off. “You were gifted with a silver tongue, now is the time to use it. Now go, don’t make the man wait any longer.”

“But you’re still coming in with me, right?”

Geralt sighs, hanging his head back. “For the love of- Yes, fine. Lead the way.”

Julian smiles, this time more genuine. 

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Jaskier sets up his lute case on a bench by the window, making sure his bangs hang down enough to cover the scar on his forehead. He learned very early on that an audience prefers their bard to have a pretty, unmarred face.

Tuning his lute, he strums the first few chords to his chosen song, then turns around with a flourish. Two verses in, he prides himself on not tripping over his words when he spots a familiar figure brooding in the corner.

Ah, shit. Seriously? Out of all the taverns across the vast continent, and his dad chose to drink at the same one in the middle of bum fuck nowhere that he’s playing at? Well, maybe he doesn’t know it’s him playing? Geralt hasn’t looked up once from his table the whole time. He’ll just finish this song and then leave unnoticed, nobody being the wiser about it.

He must have really pissed some deity off in a past life, because the ending of his performance could not have been more opposite than what he had planned. Despite the captive audience being indifferent to him while he was playing, one dick had to heckle him, which caused more to feel confident in heckling him as well, leading to a few to throw stale bread and other chunks of food at him.

“Ow, stop! Fuck off! I’m so glad I could bring you all together like this!” He snaps without thinking, backing up to his lute case. Great, it will be a complete miracle if Geralt doesn’t notice him now. 

He grabs a few pieces of bread and half of an apple that doesn’t look too bad, not wanting the food to go to waste, and glances up at his dad's table. He still has his head down, staring into his tankard of ale. Taking advantage of the opening he has, he quickly stuffs his lute in its case, then keeps his head down as he beelines for the exit. He’s almost there, the door is in view, and just when he thinks he’s in the clear, he hears a gravelly voice behind him.

“Julian, come back here this instant.”

Jaskier freezes, cursing under his breath. Of course it wouldn’t be that easy, stupid witchers and their stupid enhanced senses.

Forcing a smile, he spins around, making his way back over to his dad’s table where he is still sitting in the same exact position, having not moved a muscle. He leans forward on the empty chair at the table, gripping the back tightly. “Father dear, what are the chances! I didn’t see you here, otherwise I obviously would have come over and said hello. You look well! Have you gotten a new sword? Done something new with your hair? Well, whatever it is, you look fantastic. You look real busy, doing your usual brooding in the corner thing, and I’d hate to interrupt, so I’m just going to be on my way-”

Geralt shifts his eyes up for the first time. “Sit.”

Jaskier clears his throat, doing as he’s told. He slips his lute off his back and onto the floor, wincing as the chair screeches as he pulls it out. “Yup, alright, sitting works too.” Geralt continues to stare at him, not saying a word. Shifting uncomfortably, Jaskier starts to raise his hand to bite his nails, but thinks better of it and lets his hand fall back into his lap. How is it that one stern look from his dad makes him feel like he’s all of ten again? “I know talking isn’t really your forte, but are you going to say anything?” He asks, needing to fill the silence between them.

Geralt sighs. “Why aren’t you in school?” Jaskier opens his mouth. “And don’t try lying to me. You know I can tell when you’re lying, even without hearing your heartbeat.”

Jaskier closes his mouth again, shrugging instead. “I don’t know.” He mumbles.

Geralt scoffs, raising a brow at him. “You don’t know? What, did you fall asleep in Oxenfurt and wake to find yourself in Posada?”

“No, of course not. That would be stupid.” He snaps, feeling his temper rise as he’s reminded of what happened at that damn school.

“Then why are you here, Julian?” His dad asks again, the volume of his voice rising to match his own.

“I don’t want to talk about it! And I’m sick of going by Julian, it’s Jaskier now! Not Julian of Rivia, the little boy witcher or Julian of Creyden or-or the wolf pup! Just Jaskier, your normal bard that gets food pelted at him every so often.”

Geralt stares, not reacting to his outburst. Finally, he’s about to say something when their conversation gets interrupted by one of the tavern’s patrons coming up to their table. “Pardon me, but I couldn’t help overhear that you’re a witcher?” He asks Geralt.

“Sorry, but this is a private conver- Ow!” Geralt kicks him under the table, sending him a glare. “Gods, every bloody time.” He mutters under his breath. This here is exactly why he doesn’t like to be publicly recognized as Geralt of Rivia’s son, people think they can just cut in whenever they feel like it.

The ‘poor citizen’ wants to hire Geralt to get rid of some devil that’s been stealing his grain. Jaskier rolls his eyes at the description. He’s gone through every bestiary Kaer Morhen has to offer with a fine-toothed comb and he can say with great confidence that there is no such thing as devils. Most likey this is the work of some common thief wearing a mask of some kind. The area isn’t exactly swimming in wealth, people will do anything if it means extra food and coin, including dressing up as scary ‘monsters’ so landowners will be too frightened to try and stop them.

Geralt is obviously thinking the same thing as he barters for an extra fifty ducat (So that’s what the currency here is) on top of the one hundred the guy already promised him in advance. Without hesitating, he pulls out a coin purse, setting it on the table. “I’ve no doubt you’ll come through. You don’t take prisoners I hear.”

“Yes, yes, he’ll get the job done, but not if you keep standing there blathering to him.” Jaskier stops the idiot from talking anymore, getting too close to Blaviken territory than what he’s comfortable with. 

“Right, um, ‘course. Good luck.” The guy flees back to the bar where he came from, glancing back at him a few times.

The average person wouldn’t be able to spot it, but Jaskier notices the slightest bit of amusement on Geralt’s face as he stands and grabs his swords. “Come with me, Jaskier. Let’s go take care of a devil.” He stresses the use of his new name, giving him pause.

Jaskier blinks before he scuries after him, pulling his lute back on. By the time he catches up Geralt is already out the door. “You know, I, um, don’t mind if you continue calling me Julian in private, it’s just…”

“You’re right.”

Jaskier’s head snaps up. “Pardon?”

Geralt stops before they reach the bridge, sighing. “You know better than most that witchers are extremely disliked. The more outspoken might think it easier to go after the weak human son instead of facing the witcher himself.”

“I’m not weak.”

“I know that, that’s why I said ‘might think’, but I’d rather not give them the chance at all.” Jaskier nods in understanding. “Plus, I remember you mentioning that all the great bards had stage names anyway, correct?”

“Yes, I have mentioned that, I just thought you weren’t listening.”

Geralt lets a small smirk grace his face, patting Jaskier on the shoulder. "I always listen to what you have to say, willingly or not."

"Thanks- Hey, wait a minute, are you calling me annoying?"

Geralt shakes his head, a more genuine smile on his face now, and starts walking again. “Now, why would I say something like that?”

Jaskier gasps, clutching his chest. “Wha- Now, see here- How dare you- I’ve spent two years living with humans, and I’ve learned first hand that that’s not how parents are supposed to talk to their-” He freezes right before the bridge, staring down between the slit of the first plank and the ground. The bridge is swaying hard with the added weight of Geralt, making an ominous creaking noise.

“-askier. Jaskier. Julian!” Jaskier’s head snaps up, Geralt standing a few paces ahead on the bridge. “Are you coming?” He asks impatiently.

Jaskier clears his throat, glancing down once quickly before looking back up, fiddling with the strap to his lute case. “Just, go on ahead without me. I’ll catch up.”

Geralt’s annoyance drops as understanding dawns on his face, followed by confusion. “Are you still scared of heights?” 

Jaskier swallows, nodding minutely. With a sigh, Geralt holds out a hand. It’s Jaskier’s turn to be confused as he stares at the hand. 

Geralt shakes the hand. “Well? Are you coming?”

Jaskier scoffs. “I am not holding your hand as I cross a bridge like I’m some toddler. I will make my way across just fine on my own. I did it once before, I can do it again.”

Geralt growls this time. “I’m sure you can, but we don’t have all day, so swallow your pride and let’s go.” Jaskier thinks about it, then groans as he slaps his hand into Geralt’s. “Thank you. And just so you know, I’m killing your uncle next time I see him for gifting you with this particular phobia.”

“Yes, well, it hasn’t exactly been a stroll in the park for me either.” His breath hitches as he steps on a plank that lets out a loud creak, unconsciously gripping the lifeline in front of him.

“Tell me the ingredients and steps to preparing a swallow potion.” Geralt orders him randomly.

“Now is not really the time for me to brush up on my alchemy!” He snaps.

“Talking will help keep you from panicking. We can switch the topic if you like. Perhaps to why you are out here in the first place instead of in school like you’re supposed to?”

“Fuck, I thought you’d forgotten about that.” Jaskier mutters, making small steps forward like before. He hates admitting it, even in the safety of his own head, but crossing with his dad right there in front of him holding his hand is vastly easier than when he was crossing by himself.

“What was that?” Geralt asks smugly.

“The first ingredient you need for a swallow potion is a drowner brain…”

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9 months later

Age 16

Julian bounces around the room collecting his things, an extra spring in his step. The colder winter months crept up on him, and with it the call for home. Nine months is the longest he’s ever been away from his dad (aside from before he knew Geralt, but that’s a given), and as much as he’s been enjoying all his classes and the new friends, he just really wants to be with his family for the winter.

“I still don’t understand why you chose to attend classes during the summer and are returning home during the dreary, cold time of the year.” His roommate, Valdo Marx, sneered from his side of the room where he’s been lounging on his bed with a book. The shit head is some noble snob that’s had a problem with Julian ever since he arrived. He wasn’t even subtle about it either. When they met for the first time, Julian had extended his hand in greeting, and all Marx did was eye him up and down, then grumble about how the academy will “just let anyone in nowadays.” before walking away.

Julian rolls his eyes, not stopping in his packing. “If you really must know, it’s the only time of year when my whole family is in one place. Believe it or not, but some people actually enjoy seeing their relatives at least once a year.” 

Marx scoffs. “You’re right, I don’t believe it, but it does make me curious. What does your family do for a living that keeps them moving around?”

The silver wolf medallion hiding under Julian’s shirt feels heavy all of a sudden, and he fights the urge to fiddle with it. His sister had said that he was one of the best judges of character she had ever seen, and she wasn’t one to hand out false compliments. His gut had screamed at him to keep his family history far away from this guy and that’s exactly what he’s been doing. He never mentions his family members by name, and always makes sure to have a shirt on to cover his medallion. He’s even gone as far as bathing at odd hours to ensure no one ever sees him.

“They hunt.” He falls back on the lie he uses with other classmates. “Constant herd movements mean never sticking around in one spot, and only settling in the winter when most animals are scarce.”

Marx continues to study him, and Julian is worried he didn’t buy it, when he shrugs. “Huh. Julian of Creyden, the son of a frontiersman. That explains a lot actually.”

Insulted, Julian drops a pair of trousers he was in the middle of packing and spins around in place, hand on his hip. “And what, pray tell, is that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t get your panties in a twist, Creyden. I only meant that it explains your inconsistent gaps of knowledge. At the beginning of spring session, you had not even heard of most of the classic literary books, yet, and trust me that it pains me to admit this, you were more knowledgeable about geography, rhetoric, and arithmetic than most of the instructors here.”

“You really think I’m smarter than our instructors?”

“Repeat that again and I’ll smother you in your sleep. And the only reason you excel in those areas is because, unlike the old men that have sat behind a desk their whole lives, you have practical knowledge from being in the thick of it.”

Julian smirks, crossing his arms and leaning back on his bed. “You’re impressed with me. See, I knew I’d wear you down eventually.”

“Fuck off. Weren’t you leaving to go meet up with daddy?”

Julian puts a hand to his chest sarcastically. “Aw, now I feel truly honored. You remember my plans.”

“More like counting down the seconds until I get the whole room to myself.” Marx grumbles, turning his attention back to his book.

“Eh, I’m gonna go with my thing.” Julian finishes packing the last of his stuff, swinging his pack over his shoulder and grabbing his brand new lute to hang off his other shoulder. It had taken a lot of saving on his end from working at the tavern in town, but he was finally able to afford it along with a case a few weeks ago. “Well then, that should be everything. I shall see you again come spring. Try not to flunk out while I’m away and unable to help you with my superior intellect.” 

Marx doesn’t say anything to that, instead throwing his book at him. Julian dodges it with ease and chuckles, exiting the room with a, “Please, my gramps throws harder than that.”. Sure, Vesemir also has all the strength that comes with being a witcher, but Marx doesn’t know that.

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To say Geralt was shocked to see Julian playing in some random tavern in Posada would be the understatement of the century. Last time he saw the kid, they were parting ways in early spring, Julian eager as always to reunite with his friends in Oxenfurt. 

When Julian had first started attending school, he was worried about Geralt being alone and getting hurt without anyone around to help him. Geralt had assured him that he would be fine, he had survived on his own perfectly fine without assistance for decades, but made a compromise that he would send letters every month or so to ease Julian’s anxiety that he was still alive. With the nature of his work never leaving him in one spot for longer than a week, Julian can’t write him back, but they decided if there ever was an emergency and Julian needed to get ahold of him, the kid would write to Mousesack in Skellige and Mousesack would portal to him and pass on the message.

Luckily, they’ve never had to resort to that, but it does make him curious to what exactly happened in the past few months that would result in Julian leaving the school he loves seemingly out of thin air. It must not be too bad since he hasn’t heard from Mousesack, but that doesn’t exactly narrow it down for him.

“At the very least, tell me if you’ve done something stupid to get yourself expelled.” He speaks for the first time since they’ve crossed the bridge, watching Julian feed Roach half of an apple that he had in his pocket.

Julian huffs, rolling his eyes. “No, I didn’t get expelled. I just got a rather stark reminder of why I prefer the company of literally any other species over humans. And no, I don’t wish to talk about it.” He tacks on at the end.

“Fine with me.” He’s learned that the best way to get information from Julian is to let him decide to talk for himself. The brat’s always had a stubborn streak, and if you push for him to do something he really doesn’t want to do it only makes him dig his heels in deeper. “Why Jaskier?” He asks instead.

Julian’s eyes light up. “It’s the Elder word for buttercup. Do you like it?”

He thinks about how, ‘Chin up, Buttercup’ was the last thing Renfri had said to him, how Julian told him later that that was what she told him whenever he was scared and it would make him feel better. How Julian told him that the first time the kid had seen him seriously hurt after a griffin got a lucky hit in. He was so brave, a little ten year old ordering him to lie down as soon as he limped through the door of their shared room at the inn, saying ‘Chin up, Buttercup.’ in the most serious voice he had ever heard him use, then ran out to go fetch a healer. Geralt smiles at the memory, planting his hand on Julian’s head and ruffling his hair a little. “I think it’s perfect, a good way to honor your sister. Much better than your clothes.”

Julian - or Jaskier, he should get used to calling him Jaskier - bats his hand away. “What’s wrong with my clothes? I should have you know that not everyone is content with only wearing various shades of black.”

“Light blue silk isn’t practical.”

“Oh, well, sorry I didn’t predict I would be hunting a bloody devil today, or any day in my future. Let me just pop on down to the tailor and get a whole new ensemble- oh, wait, we’re in the middle of nowhere.”

Geralt squints, for the first time noticing that Jaskier only seems to have his silly lute slung across his back and nothing else. So he must have either left in a hurry or wasn’t able to pack a bag before leaving Oxenfurt. He files that information away for later.

The field where the so-called ‘devil’ is isn’t too far and they find it relatively quick. Jaskier sticks close to him, only half heartedly looking around. “Well, here we are. Nothing out of the ordinary that I can hear or see, but that’s to be expected since there is no such thing as devils.”

Geralt tries to listen for any other movement in the field for himself, but all he can hear is Jaskier’s sighs of boredom. “Shut up. We both know it’s not devils, but grain also doesn’t just vanish out of thin air. Something, or more likely someone, is taking it and the man that hired me was desperate enough to pay in advance, you know how rare that is.” 

Jaskier groans, and without even looking Geralt knows he’s rolling his eyes. “Yes, I know, you’ve given me this speech about a hundred times now.” Jaskier drops his voice, attempting to mimic his voice. “‘Sometimes there’s monsters, sometimes there’s money. Rarely both.’”

Geralt sees the glint of something in the long grass and hears a whistle. “Watch it!” He shoves Jaskier behind him, feeling a sharp pain on his forehead. “Shit!”

“What the hell? What is that?” Geralt picks up the rather crude looking bit of iron that’s been hammered into a small ball, Jaskier peeking over his shoulder. “Well, that’s something new…” He trails off, staring into the long grass. “Oi, D- um, Geralt, we got company. Horned company. But that can’t be, there’s no such thing as devils, unless… wait, is it-” Jaskier collapses in a heap behind him, footsteps quickly retreating.

“Julian!” Geralt spins around, finding no one else around. Hearing loud footfalls charging at him, he turns his back to Jaskier right as something tackles him, throwing him back a few paces.

“Leave me be!” A male voice yells.

Jumping back to his feet, he walks forward, trying to keep the fight away from an unconscious Jaskier. “You talk.”

The horned… something charges him again, but this time Geralt is ready for it. He plants his feet, then uses the momentum to toss the beast to the ground. He pins him to the ground, getting a better look. He looks like a cross between man and goat. “Of course I talk!” The creature yells.

“What happened with you? Your mother fuck a goat?” Jaskier probably knows what he is, the kid is the biggest nerd he’s ever known. He’s the only one that knows the bestiaries back at Kaer Morhen better than Vesemir. 

“I am Torque the Sylvan, a rare and intelligent creature!” Well, there’s his answer, but it still doesn’t change the fact that he’s been stealing food from the humans.

“You’re a dick. With balls.” He retorts.

“Balls I got from the humans who left out food filled with iron meant to poison me!” The Sylvan gets a hand free and rips a chunk of his hair out. “What, did your mother fuck a snowman?!”

Geralt punches him in the face for that. “You are intelligent, I’ll give you that, so I won’t kill you. But you can’t stay here.”

“Neither can you.” He says mysteriously. Before Geralt can figure out what that’s supposed to mean, he feels a sharp pain in the back of his head and everything goes dark.

0000000000000000

Age 17

When Julian returns to Oxenfurt in the spring for his second year, things between him and his roommate seem to thaw a bit. Marx is in no way nice to him, but he’s also not nearly as rude to him as he was before. They aren’t going to be holding hands and skipping any time soon, but they can have full, civilized conversations with each other without either of them snapping at the other.

By summer they actually choose to hang out with each other outside of class, having drinks together at the nearby tavern. Julian finds out that Marx also dreams of being a famous bard on one of those days.

With their shared love of music, they start playing the lute together. They earn enough money from performances that Julian is able to quit his job at the tavern waiting tables. He even has money to spare to buy new clothes, some nice silk doublets that feel fantastic on his skin and look way better than the crappy brown and beige cotton outfits his father always got him.

He doesn’t want to sound ungrateful, he knows being a witcher isn’t the best paying gig in the world and whatever his father did earn usually went to him growing up. He grew fast, which meant he needed new clothes often. He’s, unfortunately, only human, so he gets cold easier than witchers do, meaning he needed heavy coats. All of that cost a lot, and he would try to tell Geralt that he didn’t need any of that stuff, but Geralt would buy it for him anyway.

Wanting to make it up to him, he learned to sew from the wives of the innkeepers of whatever inn they were staying at while Geralt was out doing his witchering business. Since Geralt never bought himself new clothes, saying the ones he had were fine (They weren’t fine. They had holes and stains and always smelled faintly of onion, no matter how much Julian tried to wash them out.), and that Julian was the kid and deserved new things over him. With his new skill in sewing, he would mend Geralt’s clothes for him instead, getting really good as he grew older and got more practise. (Which in Geralt’s line of business, he got a lot of practise)

Julian tells Marx all of this one evening (Substituting witcher with hunter) as he mends the man’s sleeve at a corner table in the tavern. They are just about to go on and Marx had caught his sleeve on the corner of the table and caused a small tear. There wasn’t time for him to run back to their room and change, so Julian offered to fix it for him.

“Why would you fix his clothes? Shouldn’t your mum do that so you can go out hunting with him instead of staying behind at inns?” Marx asks innocently, admiring Julian’s work.

Julian shrugs. “It was just my dad and I, and he let me go out with him once I was older.”

Marx grows sober. “My condolences, when did you, uh,”

“What? Wait, you think? Oh, no no no. My mother is alive.” He pauses. “Well, as far as I know anyway.”

“Then did your parents separate?”

Julian clears his throat, shaking his head. “There’s something I should tell you, something that no one else here knows and I would appreciate if it stayed between us.” Marx nods for him to continue, taking a sip of his ale. “My, uh, my dad isn’t really my dad. He took me in when I was nine.”

“Orphan?”

“Runaway.” Julian corrects him. “And it’s not what you think, they never hurt me or anything. They were kind. But they also cared more about tradition and decorum. My whole life was planned for me from literally the second I was born. I was extremely unhappy, and after a particularly nasty fight between my grandfather and I, I had had enough. I left in the middle of the night and never looked back.”

Marx clicks his tongue, pointing at him. “You little shit, after all this time of you calling me a noble snob, you realize this makes you a hypocrite, right?”

“You spend half your life sleeping out in the rain and eating rats, then we’ll talk.”

He makes a face. “You’ve eaten rat?”

“Rats, rabbits, just about every fish under the sun.” He lists. “Oh! I’ve had snake once, which I really don’t recommend unless you are literally starving.” He wants to gag just thinking about it. He had been complaining about being hungry once on the way through the Blue Mountains, and Geralt kept telling him to wait because they were almost home and Vesemir would have a meal waiting for them when they arrived. He was tired and cranky though, so out of annoyance Geralt got a snake and cooked it with igni as they walked, grumbling for him to munch on that if he was so hungry. That backfired on Geralt pretty quickly, since they had to stop for thirty minutes while Julian puked his guts out.

“You’re not from Creyden, are you?” Marx asks bluntly.

“Nope. My sister was though.” Shit, he didn’t mean to say that last part.

“Wait, what? You have a sister?”

Julian sees the owner waving them over, indicating it’s their turn on stage. With a smirk, he leaves the conversation there. He stands and pats Marx on the shoulder as he passes. “Our turn. Do try to keep up.”

Marx runs after him, catching up right before he reaches the stage. “You are not leaving it at that. Tell me more afterwards.” He whispers.

“I’ll think about it.” He whispers back, having no intentions of telling him anything about Renfri. He hadn’t even meant to let it slip about her, for that is one wound that has never truly healed. Him and Geralt don’t even talk about her much. He knows Geralt still blames himself for the role he played in her death, but Julian still puts all the fault on Stregobor and has told Geralt as much. Geralt only does his stupid ‘hmm’ that means it’s the end of the conversation whenever he brings it up though and then doesn’t talk for the rest of the night.

He holds steady on his intention of never talking about Renfri again. Marx wasn’t one to give up easy though, and kept pushing him to talk for a week straight. He hadn’t thought about the events in Blaviken for a long time, and Marx dredging it all up didn’t help. It all came to a head one night.

Weeks after his sister’s death, he suffered from terrible night terrors. Every time he closed his eyes and tried to sleep, the moment of her death would replay over and over in his mind until he awoke screaming himself hoarse. Sometimes the dreams would change to Geralt dying instead, or both Renfri and Geralt being killed by Stregobor. Every time without fail though, Geralt would hold him and hum until he fell into a restless sleep. 

As he got older, the frequency of the night terrors would be less and less until he only suffered from one once a year or so.

He’s never had one while in Oxenfurt and away from his dad before, until now that is.

Marx later described to him that it was like he was possessed. All his blankets getting thrown to the floor by his writhing, him yelling and screeching like a dying cat. Not wanting anyone to think that someone was being murdered in their room, Marx got up and tried to shake him awake.

Mind muddied from nightmares and feeling unknown hands grabbing him, he shoots awake and holds the dagger he keeps under his pillow to the throat of his would-be attacker. “I won’t let you take them!” He screams, breathing heavily.

“Whoa, fuck!” Marx stumbles back, putting his hands up in surrender. “Relax, it’s just me!”

Julian blinks, and the form of Stregobor slowly melts into a frightened Marx. His hands start to tremble as he becomes more lucid. The dagger clatters to the ground as he drops it, and he curls in on himself. “Shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean- I thought- I’m sorry.” He settles on, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth like Geralt taught him.

“Are you… are you okay?” Marx asks, staring at him warily from his side of the room.

Julian sniffs, scrubbing at his face. Shit, he can feel tears mixed in with all the sweat. If his roommate doesn’t think he’s a freak for pulling a dagger on him, then he sure will once he sees Julian sobbing like a baby. On top of looking younger than his age, he’s also a couple years younger than most of the students here already. “I’m- I’m fine.” His voice cracks. Clearing his throat, he tries again. “This isn’t the first time this has happened, it will pass on its own. You can go back to sleep.”

Marx stares at him some more, making no move to return to sleep. Instead, he stands and lights the candle on the small table they share. He then pours a cup of water and brings it to him. “Here, this should help.” Julian blinks at the cup in confusion. Marx sighs in frustration. “Oh, come off it. I’m not trying to poison you.”

With a huff of laughter, Julian takes the cup, sipping the water first, then gulping it down. “Thank you.” He says softly, fiddling with the cup. He can feel the adrenaline finally start to fade.

Marx nods, bending down and grabbing something. “And I believe this is yours.” He holds out Julian’s dagger with a hand that has obviously never held a weapon before.

Julian winces. “Right, word of advice, never hand over a weapon pointy end first.” A little more exaggerated then he needs to, he reaches around and grabs the hilt of the dagger after setting his cup on a table by his bed. 

Marx looks relieved to have the dagger out of his hand as he rubs his hands on his sleep pants. “Sorry, I didn’t know.”

Julian shrugs, caressing a finger on the chipped, red jewel fixed to the end of the hilt. He feels a sort of calm wash over him as he holds Renfri’s old dagger. “I owe you an apology. I feel horrible for scaring you like that. I understand if you, uh, want to request a different room placement.” His heart hammers in his chest as he thinks about losing the one close friend he has here. And when the hell did that happen? Somehow the prick has grown on him and he’ll genuinely mourn the end of this friendship. Is this how Geralt feels when humans turn on him? Because, fuck, this feeling is terrible.

Marx scoffs, shoving him over and collapsing on his bed next to him. “Why would I go through the hassle of changing rooms, shit for brains?”

Julian opens and closes his mouth a few times, not expecting this reaction. “Um, I’m not sure if you noticed or not, but I’m a freak. You don’t find it weird that I sleep with a dagger under my pillow?”

Marx shrugs. “Means we probably have the safest room in this joint.”

“I could have killed you!”

“But you didn’t!” 

“But I could have-”

Marx shoulders him. “For Melitele’s sake, relax a little. You’re gonna give yourself an aneurysm worrying about every little thing that could happen.”

That goes against every instinct that was taught to him by both Geralt and Renfri. Not thinking about every outcome is the exact thing that can get you killed. “But-”

“Shut up and go back to sleep. My great aunt Petunia looks more lively than you, Gods rest her soul.” He then reaches over, grabbing one of Julian’s textbooks from the foot of his bed. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep you safe from the ‘monsters’. I need to finish this chapter anyway.”

Julian’s face flushes. “I’m not a child, I don’t need you to protect me from images created from my mind.”

“I don’t mean to sound condescending. Sleep, don’t sleep, do whatever you want. I just know that most people feel better having a familiar presence nearby after suffering a nightmare.”

It’s embarrassing, but Julian knows that to be true from experience. Last winter in Kaer Morhen he had a bad nightmare and woke up alone in his room. Not wanting to bother anyone, he tried to tough it out on his own, but there are no secrets from witchers with super hearing. His father had heard him next door and came in to sit with him. Julian easily fell back asleep to his dad running a hand through his hair and woke up the next morning feeling better. “I don’t want to make you feel like you’re obligated-” He weakly tries to argue.

Marx rolls his eyes, grabbing him and laying his head on his lap. “This is the last time I’m going to tell you to shut up. I’ll even let you sleep with your little security dagger on the condition that you don’t try to stab me again.”

Julian tenses as he’s manhandled, and it takes a few minutes for him to relax completely. The steady flipping of pages and Marx’s quiet mutters as he reads to himself nearly puts Julian to sleep. “This dagger was my sister’s.” He whispers, staring at the way the candlelight flickers on the steel. Marx stops his mutterings and seems to be listening, so he continues. “When I was nine years old she was murdered in front of me.”

He goes into more detail after that, explaining how Renfri looked after him after he ran away and the curse of the black sun that led to her being hunted like a dog. He leaves Geralt’s involvement out, only saying that Stregobor is a master at twisting words and tricked someone else into doing his dirty work for him.

It felt good talking with someone that he trusts about her after all this time, someone that wasn’t involved and didn’t know her personally. With that all off his chest, he falls into a deep, restful sleep.

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Jaskier slowly comes to consciousness to a painful throbbing on the back of his head. Keeping his eyes closed, he carefully tests the binds he can feel on his wrists and finds the rope knotted tightly. Right, no hope of him getting that undone on his own. 

He can feel a large mass tied up behind him as well. As stealthy as he can, he twists his hand around and recognizes the rough hands there. Okay, this definitely isn’t good if they have his dad bound as well. Judging by how still he is, Geralt is still knocked out. 

Holding his breath, he listens for anyone else, but only hears his dad’s slow, steady breaths.

Figuring it’s now or never, Jaskier cautiously cracks an eye open and peeks around. Not seeing anyone in the immediate vicinity, he opens his eyes fully and takes in their surroundings.

They’re in some sort of cave, with a few openings showing blue sky. Okay, not underground then, he can work with that. The one and only entrance to his right is where all of their gear is piled up. Making a quick count, he swears when he notices that they took all four of his daggers.

Yup, okay, time to go.

Twisting himself around, he pats the ground until he finds a sharpish rock and starts to saw at the ropes.

All the movement from him awakens Geralt, who grunts to life. He immediately starts to struggle against their shared bindings, making Jaskier nearly lose the grip he has on the rock.

“Would you quit!” He hisses. “I’m trying to free us.”

“Shut up before they hear you!” Geralt whispers back just as loud.

“‘They’? Who’s they? I thought Sylvans tended to lone wolf it.” He’s ninety-nine percent sure that’s what the bestiary back at Kaer Morhen said on Sylvans at least. “It is a Sylvan, right? I mean, it makes sense. They live in rocky areas and are known to steal grain from villages. Really, I should have known from the start, but Sylvans are super rare and-”

“Jaskier! Less talking and more sawing.” Geralt pauses. “And yes, it was a Sylvan, but-”

There’s a flash in the corner of Jaskier’s eye, and all of a sudden someone is there. There’s a thump and Geralt grunts in pain.

“Beast!” An elf with red hair in a side braid yells in Elder. She grabs the rock out of his hand and tosses it to the other side of the cave.

Another follows her into the cave and starts to mess with his lute. “Oi! That’s my lute! Give it back!” That’s his! He did not humiliate himself waiting tables for a year just for some elf to take it from him.

The elf ignores him, strumming the strings in a way that’s going to snap every single string. The female elf is still kicking Geralt behind him, not holding anything back by the force he feels being transferred to him.

“You shut up!” She spits out at them.

“My Elder speech is rough. I only got part of that.” He sasses back, trying to get some of her attention off Geralt. Geralt nudges him in the back for that.

“Humans shut up.” She says in plain common.

Jaskier rolls his eyes at the human part. “Ah, got it, thanks so much.” He replies in his best Elder. That earns him a swift kick to the gut. He doesn’t care about that though, more concerned about his lute. The other elf puts it over his knee and snaps it in half with a loud thwang. “Fuck, not the lute! Do you know how long I saved up for that?!”

“Forget about the damn lute!-” Geralt yells at him, getting cut off by another kick.

“That is just a taste of what we’ve gone through!” She hits Geralt again. “Everything you humans touch, you destroy!” She grabs Geralt roughly by the hair, bringing his face down to meet her knee with a sickening crack.

“You think you’re special? Huh?” Jaskier asks, getting her to walk around to him. 

“Julian, stop talking right now!” Geralt nudges him again, harder this time.

Jaskier ignores him, continuing on. “Oh, boohoo, the elves are the only ones to be victims of the humans. Do you ever get tired of playing that card? Even while you beat a bound man, too scared to even look him in the eye! Yup, you sure look victimised from where I’m sitting!”

“Shut your mouth, human!”

“Would you quit bloody calling me that!” He snaps.

She crouches down, making a point of looking him in the eye. “What kind are you then, if not human? Human eyes.” She grabs his chin roughly, turning his head to the side. “Human ears too.” Seeing an opportunity, he opens his mouth and bites down hard on her finger. Geralt may have taught him to fight, but Lambert was the one that taught him to fight dirty. She flails, smacking the side of his head until he releases her. “Animal!” She yells in Elder, cradling her hand. He spits the blood out of his mouth, glaring up at her.

“Leave him alone!” Geralt tries to twist around. “He’s a human bard, that’s it!”

She looks Jaskier up and down, seemingly spotting something judging by the little scoff she lets out. She wanders back to Geralt and Jaskier hears her crouch down in front of him this time. “You care about him.” She says calmly. Straining around, Jaskier can see the hint of a cold smile on her face. “And if I had to guess by the matching grimaces and necklaces you both wear that you two are related in some way.” Looking down, Jaskier notices that the top few buttons of his doublet have come undone at some point, leaving his silver wolf medallion in plain view. “He doesn’t have your serpentine eyes, so brothers perhaps? Although he can always have his mother’s eyes-”

She doesn’t get any further than that, getting cut off by Geralt headbutting her. The force sends her staggering back a few paces as she cups her face.

“Ha! Take that, pointy!” His celebration is short lived as she continues to cough, not able to catch her breath. Blood is dripping out of her nose and he frowns at the terrible wheezing. Great, now he feels bad for biting her. “Wait, what’s wrong with her?”

“She’s sick.” A blond elf enters, followed by a Sylvan. He must be the Posada ‘devil’ that Geralt was hired to hunt.

Jaskier lets out a small, “Oh.” Starting to piece together what exactly is going on here.

“Who are you?” Geralt grunts from behind him.

The blond elf ignores them, bending down and giving the sick elf some sort of medicine from a cloth bag. The Sylvan stands tall though, answering for him. “He’s Filavandrel, King of the Elves.” 

Filavandrel shakes his head. “I’m not a king, not by choice.”

“The Sylvan steals for you.” Jaskier voices. Filavandrel looks at him, nodding. “The humans say that you ‘bequeathed’ Dol Blathanna to them before retreating to your ‘golden palaces’, but that’s all a load of rubbish, isn’t it. The victors get to dictate how the story goes, and that sounds much more palatible than ‘mass genocide’.”

Filavandrel is studying him intently now, not acknowledging the conversation between the Sylvan and the female elf.

“Toruviel, no one was supposed to get hurt.” Ah, so she must be the one that hit him over the head earlier. He feels slightly less bad about biting her now.

Toruviel glares up at the Sylvan. “What’s two humans in the ground when countless elves have died?”

“For the last time, stop calling me that!” He calls over to her.

“Stay out of it, freak!” She replies back in Elder.

Jaskier feels his temper truly rise at that. “Oh, you can go fu-”

“Toruviel, enough.” Filavandrel stands. 

At the same time Geralt elbows Jaskier the best he can with their bindings. “I’m serious. Stop. Talking.”

Jaskier huffs, but does as he’s told. He listens as Filavandrel goes over to Geralt, and Geralt tries to argue for his release. He doesn’t want to be freed without his father, and Geralt knows this by the tight grip he has on him as he speaks. The sign is clear that he is to keep his mouth shut and for once he does. He hates it, and is sure Geralt is smelling the tears building up in his eyes, but he bites his tongue.

The topic shifts to adaption, and how if the elves wish to live, they need to adapt as Geralt had. 

Filavandrel chuckles at that. “Adapt as you have, witcher? Bow to human sovereignty and have confused half-blood pariahs like you have?”

Jaskier blinks as he feels tears escape his eyes. He’s never thought of himself as confused, but that’s exactly what he is. Too human to be a witcher, but too much of a witcher to fit in with humans. That’s the hard truth he came to realize in Oxenfurt that he’s been trying to run from. He’s a fool to have thought he could outrun his own existence, even to the edge of the world.

“Adapting is tough, I’m not gonna lie. I fight the monsters that no one else wishes to, human and creature. But you’re wrong about one thing.” Geralt grips his hand, leaning back against him. “Children are stronger than you think. They would never be confused about who they are and where they come from.”

“No, that wouldn’t be fair to them. I’m not going to subject my people to the horror of living in two opposing worlds.”

“Then go somewhere else. Rebuild. Get strong again. Show the humans that you are more than what they fear you to be. If a life is what you require, take mine. But do me the honor of letting my son live on.” Jaskier grips his hand back and squeezes his eyes shut when he hears a blade being drawn. “Everything will be alright, Julian.” Geralt whispers. “I’m right here.”

“Wait!” The Sylvan’s voice cuts through the tension.

“Torque, stand aside.” Filavandrel hisses. Torque, that must be the name of the Sylvan. Well, right about now Jaskier could kiss Torque and pledge to name his first born after the guy.

“The witcher could’ve killed me.” Torque continues. “But he didn’t. He’s different, they’re both different. Like us.”

There’s a shuffle, and he tenses as he hears footsteps near them again.

“If you must kill me, I am ready.” Geralt offers again. “But the Sylvan’s right. Don’t call us human.”

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Age 18

For the first time, Julian is excited to return to the academy for his third year. Sure, he always looked forward to the classes, but at the expense of seeing his dick of a roommate. This time is different though. After he experienced his nightmare and talked about Renfri with the man, he got exponentially nicer to him. He might even say they became best friends.

This is why, when Valdo brought up asking what his true name is one day, he’s tempted to tell him the full truth. Even Geralt doesn’t know his full name.

“It’s Julian. I was honest about that part.” He answers with a shrug, dodging the question.

“Yes, but not the Creyden part. And you said you were some type of nobility, right? That means you had to have a family name. Even the lowest of nobility has a surname.”

Julian looks up from where he’s been changing the strings on his lute. The past winter months in Kaer Morhen were not kind to them. “Why the sudden interest in my old name?”

Valdo sits up on his bed, back to the wall so he can face him fully. “Call it curiosity. You know my full name, and yet I don’t know yours despite knowing you going on three years now.”

“It’s not like I’m purposefully keeping it from you. I haven’t used it since I was nine.”

“So it’ll be our secret. C’mon, I promise I’ll never utter the name outside this room.” 

Julian bites his lip, thinking it over. Valdo has proven himself to be trustworthy. Keeping his word last year, he never told anyone about his nightmares or about his adoption. What’s one more secret to add to the pile? Besides, there’s a chance he’s never even heard of him. “You promise to never repeat the name I’m about to tell you?”

“Cross my heart.”

With a sigh, he answers and hopes this doesn’t one day blow up in his face. “Okay. I was born as Julian Alfred-Pankratz.” The old name feels foreign on his tongue, causing him to cringe.

Recognition is clear on Valdo’s face as his eyes widen. Shit, can’t the universe give him break? “You’re-”

“Yup.”

“But that would mean-”

“Shut up.”

Valdo falls silent as he processes what he just learned. Julian waits a moment until he focuses back on his lute, figuring that’s the end of it. “Do you know that your family has hired every mage their money could buy trying to find you? It’s been nearly a decade, some think you’re dead-” Valdo starts up again.

Julian slams his hands on the table, not regretting the flinch it causes in the other man. “They aren’t my family. And the boy others mourn never existed to begin with.”

“And yet you let them mourn with no closure. No idea what happened to you. Let a mother become sonless all because you selfishly ‘didn’t want the life your parents planned for you’. You are a lot of things, but I never pegged you as cruel and ungrateful.”

Julian stands swiftly, chair being pushed behind him and clatters to the ground with a loud bang. Striding up to him, he stops short, getting in his face. “Do you really think it didn’t hurt having to leave my family behind? I had no choice! My grandfather is a cruel, bitter old man that barely tolerated the union of my parents, but for some reason loved my elder sister. She was his idea of a perfect heir. Then I was born and jumped the line since bloody tradition puts males first.”

Valdo doesn’t back down, shoving him out of his space. “Why not appease him by promising to abdicate? You obviously didn’t want to be the heir anyway.”

“Gee, why didn’t I think of that?” Julian asks sarcastically. “I did exactly that! But he didn’t want ‘the scandal’. Instead he gave me two options; run away and never return, or he would send assassins to make my death look like an accident. ‘Little boys are always so reckless, Julian.’ he told me, ‘No one would blink an eye if they found you bleeding out at the bottom of a long staircase.’.”

By the shocked look on Valdo's face, Julian went too far. For once he doesn't care though. He's angry and pissed and misses his mum. He really misses his mum. Sure, he had Geralt stand in for his father, Renfri for his sisters, even Vesemir as a grandfather that truly loves and cares about him, but never has he had someone fill in the gap that his mother left behind. He’d give anything to see her again and have her hold him. Hell, he’d settle just being able to smell her perfume again, a unique blend of lilac and lavender. 

He tenses up as two arms wrap around him in a hug. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like, you idiot, I’m comforting you.”

“Oh.”

Letting his muscles relax, Julian leans in and slowly returns the hug.

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Once mercily freed from their bindings, Jaskier had to use all his willpower on not collapsing in his dad’s chest with tears of relief in front of their small audience. Instead, he stayed stone faced as he collected his things, minus one lute, and booked it outside with the excuse of getting some air.

Geralt lingered back, taking his time getting his things in order and talking with Filavandrel. He paused to warn him not to wander too far off, then continued his conversation with the elf.

Ignoring the glare from Toruviel as he passes, he manages to find a secluded path that overlooks the valley below. He sits cross legged and leans back against the cliffside, staring off into the distance. Normally being at a height like this would have him hyperventilating, but after all the events of today, he just can’t find it in himself to care. 

Near death events are not uncommon for him and Geralt, considering the way he grew up, but they are never a joy to deal with. Add on him learning what became of the few elves that survived the Great Cleansing and having his stupid humanity thrown in his face, he has enough mental exaustion to go curl up somewhere and sleep for a week.

Closing his eyes, he rests his head back as well and takes in the heat of the sun. A light breeze dances through his hair and he feels the most relaxed he has in weeks.

He must have dosed off for a minute, because the next thing he knows an unfamiliar hand is shaking him awake. He inhales sharply, sitting up straight and looks around for who disturbed him. Filavandrel stands over him, hand retreating back to himself.

“My apologies, I didn’t mean to startle you. May I join you?”

Jaskier blinks, still not fully awake. “Uh, yeah. Yes, of course, Your… Majesty?”

The blond scoffs at the title. “Please, Filavandrel is more than alright.” He takes a seat next to him, and for the first time Jaskier notices he brought a lute with him. Filavandrel notices him staring and looks at the instrument settled in his lap as well. “Your father told me what conspired before my arrival. I know this can’t make up for everything Toruviel put you through, but I hope it helps.”

Jaskier’s eyes widen as Filavandrel hands him the lute, made of beautiful dark wood with golden etchings around the soundhole. “I couldn’t possibly-”

“Please, I insist.”

Jaskier can’t fight the small grin that grows on his face as he takes her into his arms. “Well, if you insist. I have to admit, she is a gorgeous darling.” He feels his medallion start to hum and looks to Filavandrel questioningly. “Don’t mind me asking, but is she charmed in some way?”

Filavandrel doesn’t bother hiding his shock, nodding. “As a matter of fact, it is. You could chuck it off this cliff and it wouldn’t take so much as a scratch.”

Testing each string, he gets to work twisting the pegs this way and that until each note sounds correct.

The elf watches, enraptured as he’s able to quickly tune the instrument perfectly by ear. “I have to admit,” He says once Jaskier finishes. “This gift is not without one condition.”

Jaskier gives him his full attention. “Name it and it will be done.”

Filavandrel takes a moment, gathering his words. “I want you to write a song.” He finally says. “Something that will throw the humans off our scent and make them underestimate our willpower.”

“Wait, you want me to put you guys down? Talk ill of you? I’m sorry, but there must be something else I can do. I don’t feel right spreading lies and slander against ones who don’t deserve it. If anything, the continent should hear of what really happened in Dol Blathanna.”

Filavandrel’s eyes harden. “The last thing I want is human pity. Now give me your word that you’ll do as I asked.”

Jaskier’s mouth goes dry as he forces himself to nod. “I want to go on record that I hate this with every fiber of my being, but I’ll do it.”

The elf relaxes slightly, tension leaving his shoulders. “I apologize for putting you in this difficult position, but you must understand that this will do more good than harm in the long run.”

Jaskier sighs, sliding his finger back and forth on a string. “No, of course, it makes complete sense.”

Without looking, he can feel the heat of Filavandrel’s stare as the elf studies him. “May I give you some unsolicited advice?” Jaskier shrugs, still unable to look at him. “Pardon me for being blunt, but you need to grow thicker skin. Or at least learn to hide your emotions better.”

Jaskier snorts. Like he hasn’t heard that basically his whole life. Renfri always warned him not to let the world know what he truly wanted, since that’s something that could be leveraged against him. Geralt and the other witchers said similar things as well. Honestly, they had a point. He learned that the hard way back in Oxenfurt. “What? So I can be a two faced human like all the rest of them?” He asks bitterly, plucking at a string.

“Only by necessity. Look at me,” Jaskier reluctantly stops his plucking and lifts his head, locking eyes with him. “If you wish to live with one foot in each world, you can’t lash out at every person that doesn’t follow your worldview. You would never stop fighting if that were the case.”

“Maybe I want to fight everyone. All the bigoted, hateful people deserve to be put in their place.”

Filavandrel sighs, looking up at the sky. Jaskier realizes for the first time, he looks like the decades old that he truly is. “Oh, to be young and prideful again.” He mutters to himself, then turns his head to address Jaskier. “You say that now, but after awhile, you just get tired. I’m tired. But I don’t have the luxury of resting because all my people look to me to lead them on the right path. You though, you have the gift of being able to choose your fights. You can walk amongst the humans and blend in. Only pick fights that will benefit you the most. Or better yet, be a voice of reason among them without them ever being the wiser. Do you understand?”

Jaskier takes a moment before answering. He had never thought of his humanity as a gift, only a piece of himself that he wished was never there to begin with. But the way Filavandrel worded it, he can turn his curse into a blessing to help all the nonhumans, his father included. “Yes, I think I do.” He nods, plan already starting to form in his head.

Gravel crunches as heavy footsteps approach. “Ready to go, kid?” Jaskier and Filavandrel turn to their left to see Geralt standing with all his gear.

They both climb to their feet and Filavandrel brushes imaginary dirt from his clothes. “I should be on my way to inform the others of my decision. It was a pleasure meeting you both, and once again, I apologize for our rough first impressions.”

Geralt grunts with a nod, apparently having met his word quota for the day. 

Standing himself and slinging his new lute onto his back, he gives Filavandrel a deep bow. “May we meet again under better circumstances, Your Majesty.”

Filavandrel lets out a deep sigh, shaking his head. “Has he always…” He asks Geralt, trailing off.

“Been a little shit?” Geralt fills in. “Yes, unfortunately.” Filavandrel snorts at that.

“Oi!” Jaskier protests. He’s completely ignored now as the two men walk away from him chuckling. “Hey! That’s not fair, you can’t just walk away from me! Dad!”  

Geralt pauses, letting him catch up. “Let’s go, my little pup, before you find someone else to offend here.” He ruffles his hair as he says so.

Jaskier bats him away. “Oh, fuck off.” He replies with a poorly repressed grin.

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Age 18

Julian taps his fingers on the wooden bar, staring intently at the tavern door. Every time it starts to creak open, he straightens up, only to shrink and sigh in frustration when it’s not who he’s waiting for.

“He’ll be here.” He turns his head back to the tavern owner, trying to assure him as much as himself.

The middle aged man gives him a look of pity. “Fine, I’ll wait two more minutes, but if he doesn’t show in that time, either you go on solo or I hand over your spot to someone who is here.”

“He’ll be here.” Julian says more firmly. The tavern owner shrugs, going off to help someone else. “He better bloody be.” He mutters under his breath once he’s alone, going back to his vigil of the door.

Another minute passes and he starts to get the feeling something is wrong. Valdo is many things, but he is never late. If anything, he’s always early to things. Early to rise, early to class, usually the one early to their shows. Hell, he was probably early to his own birth. So him being now six minutes late is a terrible sign.

“You know, I’ll go check outside to make sure he didn’t get turned around. If you could just hold our spot for just a few more min-”

“You got one minute, bard.”

“Right, of course, I’ll be back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.” Julian scrambles out of his seat, fixing his lute back in place as it slips down his shoulder.

Once outside, the chatter from inside the tavern gets muted by the door closing shut behind him. He looks up and down the nearly empty cobblestone street. He waits way past the one minute mark, and decides to give up once he hears a different performer start up in the tavern. “Well, isn’t that wonderful. You better have a damn good explanation for ditching me.” He says to himself under his breath, starting to walk away.

A scuffle catches his ear and he freezes, listening closer. He hears a thump, then a pained groan as someone tries to catch their breath.

Concerned, Julian peeks around the corner to a side alley. Three shady looking guys are hovering over someone, continually shoving him back against the wall every time he tries to leave like it’s some game. Looking closer, Julian realizes with a start that the poor guy they’re tormenting is none other than Valdo himself.

Well, shit. Shit shit shit. Fighting off these three humans shouldn’t be too tough, by the way they’re swaying and the reek of beer they are piss drunk, but Julian still never likes to be outnumbered.

Ducking back behind the corner, he gently takes his lute off his shoulder and sets it off to the side. Now crouching, he silently slips two daggers out from his boots, and while on the balls of his feet, sneaks up behind the middle guy who seems to be the ringleader.

“I’m sorry to ruin the fun gentlemen, but I’m going to have to ask you to let my friend go,” He holds a dagger against the ringleaders throat. “Before things get ugly.”

Everyone’s attention shifts to him. Valdo spits blood out of his mouth, steadying himself on the wall behind him. 

The main guy stays in place, but doesn’t seem too worried. The other two flanking Valdo smirk and crack their knuckles. “Well, wha’ do we ‘ave ‘ere? A lil boy tryin’ to play ‘ero?”

“Get lost, kid, ‘fore we’re forced to go after you too.” The main one growls.

“Get the fuck out of here, Julian!” Valdo yells, before getting sucker punched by one of the goons.

“How about this,” Julian begins, ignoring Valdo’s pleas that he leave. “All of us go about our business like this never happened, and I won’t kill you where you stand.”

All that earns him is a laugh, and the main guy attempting to elbow him. Julian jumps back to dodge the elbow with ease and manages to get a swipe in under his ear that reaches back behind the hairline as he does so. The guy curses, holding his hand to the cut.

“You can’t say I didn’t warn you.” Julian holds up both daggers at the ready.

“You’ll pay for that, boy.” He growls, swinging a meaty fist Julian’s way. 

It’s slow and uncoordinated, giving Julian ample time to dodge again. They do this a few more times, Julian almost laughing at how pitiful his attempts are to hit him. “Really now, this is just getting embarrassing for you.” Julian taunts, ducking under a fist.

Taking advantage of being low down, he slashes the guy’s left thigh, causing blood to start flowing immediately. He grunts, forgetting Julian and gripping the cut. It doesn’t seem to help as blood leaks between his fingers.

“Now I avoided any main arteries with that cut there, but that bleeding looks bad. I’d estimate you have, oh, twenty, maybe thirty minutes if you’re lucky, to get that stitched up before you bleed to death, friend.” His eyes widen in fear and he starts to limp away. Once he’s gone, Julian turns to the other two. “So, either of you wish to join him? Or are you going to let me and my friend be on our way?”

They shake their heads in fear, making their exit as well, giving Julian a wide berth as they pass.

Once he’s sure they’re gone, he puts his daggers away and offers a hand to Valdo, who's been knocked to the ground. “Are you alright?”

“You-you’re,” His friend is shaking, staring at Julian’s chest. 

Confused, Julian looks down and finds his witcher medallion found its way out from under his doublet during the fight and is now out on display for all to see. “I can explain.” He rushes out, clutching it in one hand.

“You’re a witcher.” He says accusingly.

Heart hammering in his chest, Julian tucks the medallion away and out of sight. “Eh, more like witcher adjacent. Here, let me help you-” He reaches a hand out again, this time getting it slapped away.

“Don’t touch me!” Valdo glares as he gets to his feet on his own, eyes hardening.

Please, please, don’t let this be happening. Julian swipes his tongue over his lower lip, swallowing and backing up. “I’m sorry. I’m still me though, still-”

“You’re one of those mutant freaks.” Valdo says instead. “The kind that enjoys inflicting pain, like that one witcher from the stories, the Butcher of Blaviken.”

“Don’t call him that!” Julian snaps, forgetting trying to play nice. “Geralt is a good and honorable man. If you knew what actually happened in Blaviken, you would know Geralt was saving the town.”

Valdo scoffs. “And how would you know that? Unless…” He trails off, taking a steadying breath. “You’re him, the boy witcher, Julian of Rivia.”

Julian doesn’t bother denying it. “Please, I don’t want trouble. I just want to sing, and write poetry, and make people happy-”

“Yes, because the guy limping for his life just looked ecstatic.” Valdo says sarcastically.

“They were hurting you, I didn’t know what else to do!” Julian exclaims, getting desperate. 

“So you go and get help! Not take matters into your own hands! But I don’t know what I expected, once a freak, always a freak.” He turns, starting to leave.

“No, please, wait,” Julian reaches out, grabbing the crook of Valdo’s arm. “I can’t…” ‘Lose my best friend, my only friend,’ he wants to say, but the words get stuck in his throat. Years from now, he’ll lie awake at night wondering, if he had been able to verbalize those words, if they would have made any difference.

Now though, Valdo yanks his arm back and shoves Julian square in the chest. Not expecting the sudden force, he stumbles back and trips, landing on his ass. 

“I said don’t touch me! And if I ever see your face again, it’ll be too soon!” He yells with a sneer, spitting at him for good measure before stalking away.

Julian bites his lip to keep the tears at bay, clenching his fists so tight he can feel his nails start to dig into his palms. “Yeah, well… well, fuck you too, you fucking arsehole!” He screams at his back. “I hope you get fucking jumped again and your body is left to rot for the vultures!”

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“I’m sorry.” Geralt tells him after he finishes his story of why he left Oxenfurt. After the whole almost dying at the hands of the elves thing, Jaskier, stupidly he might add, had decided to bare his soul and explain what led him to Posada.

Jaskier groans. “Don’t do that.”

Geralt raises a brow at him. “Do what?”

“Finish whatever half-baked lecture slash apology you were about to give me on the importance of seeing the whole school thing through. I tried it, and all it did was reinforce what I already knew, that humans are petty creatures that let their preconceived notions of someone or something overrule the facts that are right in front of their faces.”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “What?” He demands.

Geralt readjusts his grip as he leads Roach along beside him. “Nothing.”

“No, not ‘nothing’. That was your, ‘I have opinions, but I’m keeping them to myself’ hmm. What is it?”

Geralt stops, patting Roach and tying her to the post near the tavern they started at before turning to him with a sigh. “You can do whatever you want to do, Julian. You’re an adult, you can make your own choices. But if you really want my opinion, don’t let one person stand in the way of your future. Like I told Filavandrel, show him that you are more than what he thinks you to be. Don’t let the last two years of your life at that school be for nothing.” Geralt claps him on the back, giving him a small smile. “Besides, what will people do without the songs from the great bard Jaskier in their lives?”

Jaskier can’t stop himself. He flings himself forward and wraps his arms tightly around Geralt, gripping the back of his armour. “I missed you, Dad.” He rests his chin on Geralt’s shoulder and breathes in, having missed his permanent smell of leather, sweat, horse, and onion. (Seriously, he’s never seen the man eat the vegetable in his life, and yet he always smells like it. He knows it’s not a witcher thing, none of the others smell like it, it’s just something that will forever be a mystery to Jaskier)

“Missed you too, kid.” Geralt says softly, threading his fingers through Jaskier’s hair and mindful of the new lute on his back. 

They stay like that until all the tension melts away from Jaskier’s shoulders and he’s ready to pull away. “I just… I really thought he was my best friend.” Jaskier finds himself saying.

Geralt sends him a look of pity, pushing his bangs back and out of his face. “I know. Look, why don’t you stay here and keep Roach company. I’m just gonna go see if I can get any extra supplies for our travels.”

Jaskier nods, glad he’s been spared from having to cross that twice blasted bridge again. Once Geralt is gone, he twists around the lute that’s been on his back and strums a few chords. “Well, girl, are you ready to be the first to hear what is sure to be the next hit of the century?” Roach snorts, lifting her head from where she was munching on some grass. Jaskier takes that as a yes. “Great. Now, do keep in mind that this is a first draft, so be kind with your criticism at the end.”

Taking a deep breath, he strums the first chord and starts to sing the song that’s been tumbling around in his mind ever since his conversation with Filavandrel. “When a humble bard, graced a ride along…”

Chapter Text

1243

Age 21

Jaskier’s last two years as a student at Oxenfurt Academy were, in a single word, boring. After Posada, he went straight back to school with Geralt accompanying him on the journey, the two parting ways once again at the city gates. The summer session was done by the time they arrived, but fall had yet to start, so the campus was virtually empty.

Entering his dorm, he wasn’t surprised to find Marx’s side of the room completely empty aside from a note on a bare mattress. The letter was addressed to him, short, curt, and to the point. Shockingly, Marx covered for his abrupt absence, lying to the professors that he had a family emergency and had to leave right away. He then admitted that he would be dead in that alley if it weren’t for him, and to consider this and his silence about his ‘heritage’ as repayment for saving his life, making them even now.

He mentions something about getting a new room placement after that, but Jaskier quit caring at that point, crumpling up the letter and tossing it in the trash.

It turns out he was telling the truth, Jaskier finds out as he goes around to all his professors. They offer their condolences, give him a light caseload of work, and he gets it done before the start of the next classes, already back on track.

Having lost someone he thought to be a friend hurt, and not wanting to put himself through that pain again, he withdraws from anyone who tries to be remotely friendly to him for the rest of his schooling. He doesn’t go full loner, he’ll be kind, go have a drink or even a shag if the person is willing, but he never says more than his name, always turning the conversation onto them. The unforeseen, and unfortunate, side effect of this is that it earns him the reputation of a playboy. Geralt, the jerk, gets a kick out of that once he hears that particular rumour.

He throws himself into his studies, and his grades reflect that. By the time he graduates in 1242 with a masters of the seven liberal arts, he’s at the top of his class and has a job offer to stick around and become a professor. On top of the good pay he would be making, the offer also includes free housing in the form of a two-story townhouse in the city. After thinking it over and talking with Geralt, he decided to take the job. He’s stuck working through the winter, but Geralt promises to stick close and only takes contracts in Redania and Temaria.

Oh, yeah, he’s also semi famous now? At least his song Toss a Coin is semi famous, but since he composed the song that makes him semi famous by default. He had sung it in taverns along the way as they traveled west, and to say he was shocked to have people request it as soon as he walked into a tavern in Oxenfurt would be an understatement.

By the time he is teaching, he’s composed a few more songs based on his and Geralt’s travels, adding his own artistic flair to the stories. Geralt was not too pleased with that, but did begrudgingly admit that since Jaskier started singing about him, the general attitude toward witchers has become less hostile. Town aldermans and villagers still won’t be sharing a beer with him any time soon, but they don’t chase him out of town the second the contract is completed and there has been a notably less amount of times of him being shortchanged.

The most unforeseen outcome that Jaskier is proud of is that, because he makes sure to accurately describe the different monsters and beasts in his songs, contracts have become much more detailed on what exactly needs to be hunted. His father has been able to go into fights much more prepared now, which is a huge weight off Jaskier’s shoulders.

So, for the first time he can think, life is good. The cold winter winds are blowing outside and he is nice and comfy inside for a change, cozy by the fireplace with a hot drink and a nice book. Yup, things are definitely looking up for him.

That is, until he is interrupted by a knocking at the door. With a sigh, he ignores it and hopes whoever it is will go away. It’s his day off, damn it, and he would like to enjoy it with his three favorite people, me, myself, and I.

The person is consistent though, still banging on his door like it owes them money. Two minutes in and they still don’t give up, causing him to groan and toss his blanket to the side.

“Gods, fine, I’m here. Give my poor door a break, would you?” He opens it a crack, not wanting to let the cold in, and finds a beautiful woman about his age wrapped in a gray fur coat. She has perfectly curled brown hair with light brown skin that he could write ballads about. Her beautifully freckled face is marked with a worried frown, making him open the door a little wider. “May I help you?”

“Hopefully. Are you Julian? Geralt’s son?”

He nods, day for sure ruined now, and opens his door all the way. “Ah, shit. You better come in.”

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1232

Age 10

“Fuck!” Geralt grumbles, slamming the door to their shared room at the inn shut.

“Who pissed in your porridge?” Julian asks from his spot on the bed, not looking up from his work. His tongue is sticking out in concentration as he focuses on threading a needle through one of Geralt’s old tunics.

“Looks like we’re stuck here for the next week. Blacksmith says he won’t be getting a new shipment of steel until then.” His current iron sword had broken in his latest fight, leaving him with only his silver sword. With Julian by his side, he didn’t want to take the kid to Kaer Morhen last winter so he never got the chance to properly reinforce the iron-like meteorite sword like he usually does every winter. 

He’s sure Vesemir would welcome the child with open arms, but he didn’t want to risk a lecture about how the path is supposed to be walked alone. The old witcher would probably push him to leave Julian with a proper human family come spring. That would be the right thing to do, but just this once he wants to be selfish. Reality will set in one of these days, but for now he’s going to enjoy living in this fantasy of domesticity with the kid.  

For the problem at hand, he would rather move on to the next town and find a different blacksmith that actually has the materials to make him a new sword instead of staying idle in this small hamlet, but the closest town is two days away. If it were just him, he’d risk traveling with no sword, but since he has Julian now… 

The kid grew on him. If anything were to happen to him, he doesn’t know what he’d do.

“Ow! Fuck!” Julian exclaims as he pricks himself on the needle. Dropping the clothing, he sticks the abused digit in his mouth.

“Watch your language.” He reminds him once again.

“But you say fuck all the time. You literally just said it as you walked through the door.” He says through the finger in his mouth.

Geralt rolls his eyes, not in the mood to have this argument again for the tenth time this week. Really, he doesn’t care what the kid says, but people tend to give him dirty looks when the small child in his custody starts to swear like a sailor on leave. He points at himself. “Seventy-two.” He then points at Julian. “Ten. Once you’re my age, then you can say whatever you want.”

Julian takes the finger out of his mouth so he can stick his tongue out instead.

“Careful, or someone might get the wrong idea and decide to cut your tongue out.” Geralt says jokingly, reaching under his arms and picking Julian up from the bed with a grunt. The kid giggles as he’s placed on his feet. “You hungry?”

Julian nods with a grin, grumpy mood forgotten. Ah, redirection. By far the best trick he’s picked up to help deal with a stubborn kid like Julian.

“Then lead the way.” Julian doesn’t need to be told twice as he runs past Geralt to the door, little boot covered feet thumping along. Speaking of, he’ll need to get him new boots soon, Julian already starting to outgrow his current ones. They’ll need to be decent ones with all the walking they do, which means they won’t be cheap. Mentally, he puts aside the extra coin it will cost to stay here a week, plus what the new sword will cost. From what he earned on this contract, that doesn’t leave much left for food and boots, but Julian needs to eat and be properly clothed. Thanks to his witcher abilities, he can go a while without eating, but a human child needs two, preferably three, meals a day. Maybe he can work out a deal with the kitchen staff where if he catches his food, they’ll give him a discount.

“Geralt!” Julian whines from the door, stamping his foot and drawing his attention away from his musings. “I’m hungry! Quit being a slow old man and let’s go!”

Geralt raises a brow at him. “Old man? Could an old man do this?” Before Julian could react, he picks the kid up and throws him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

Julian shrieks in laughter, gripping the back of his tunic. He feels a weird sense of joy in the pit of his stomach as the kid gasps with laughter, trying to catch his breath as Geralt settles him on his hip. Mind made up, Geralt silently vows to cut down anyone who decides to take away his- this kid’s laughter.

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Jaskier can feel the headache build up behind his eyes as he listens to the young woman, Triss Merigold she introduced herself as, describes the mess his father got into helping a striga break her curse. Geralt will be fine, thank the Gods, but he needs somewhere to recuperate since King Foltest is ordering the witcher to be out of his castle by first light tomorrow.

Triss seems genuinely upset by this and says that she tried to argue for Geralt to stay with her for at least a week, but the King wouldn’t hear of it. Jaskier waves her off, assuring her that he doesn’t mind in the least and actually prefers to know where his idiotic father is for a change.

She giggles unexpectedly at that.

“What?” He asks, pausing in his work getting his bedroom set up for Geralt.

She smothers down her laugh, clearing her throat. “Sorry, it’s just, you’re not what I was expecting at all when Geralt told me he had a son.”

He’s a little shocked Geralt told her about him. His father is what one might call an overprotective mama bear, or wolf as the case may be. Jaskier was a bit cautious of her when she first introduced herself as a mage, him and mages not having a great track record, but if Geralt felt he could trust Triss enough to tell her about not only his existence, but also where to find him, than she must be one of the good ones. “I’ll take that as a compliment. Let me guess, you were imagining a younger carbon copy of mister grunts-a-lot, white flowing locks and all?”

She looks guilty behind the grin on her face. “A wild imagination isn’t exactly a class they teach at Aretuza.”

“That’s perfectly alright. I tried long hair once. Tragically, I don’t have the face shape for it. And don’t tell my dad this, but I also went blond once as well.”

“How did that work out for you?”

Jaskier sighs, wishing he could go back and tell his past self not to go through with it. “Absolutely horrid. I got called Dandelion for a week straight before I dyed it back to its natural brown.”

They share a smile. “Well, that will just have to remain a secret between the two of us. Dandelion.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. What is with everyone calling him some sort of flower?

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Since the dining hall downstairs is empty besides for a bard playing in the corner, Geralt leaves Julian at a table as he heads to the counter to pay for the extra week and order their food. The older woman behind the counter, the wife of the owner with her gray hair tied back and laughter lines prominent on her face, is understanding about his extended stay and takes his coin for the room. When she tells him the price for the two meals, he falters, glancing at Julian, before paying for that as well. 

She must have noticed his hesitation, because she splits the amount in half and shoves it back across the counter to him. “Oh, dear, I’m sorry, master witcher. It completely slipped my mind. We don’t charge for children’s meals.”

As much as he despises charity, he needs every coin he can spare. With a grateful nod, he returns the coins to his purse, thinking over his next move. “Do you know of any work in the area? Anything at all? I’m not picky.”

She thinks it over, arthritic fingers tapping the counter. “Well, our son-in-law normally does all the handy work around the inn, but he’s laid up with a broken leg. Do you know your way around tools?” 

He nods. With all the work Vesemir has him and the others do on the old, falling apart keep every winter, he could pass as a master carpenter.

“I’ll have to speak with my husband first, but we should have a few odd jobs you can do.” She winks, heading off to the kitchen to send in their orders.

Making his way back to the table, he sits across from Julian who is swaying to the upbeat ditty the bard in the corner is playing, tapping his hands in time with the rhythm.

“You like the music?” He asks, breaking the spell Julian was under. Despite knowing the kid for a little under a year, there are things he’s still learning about him.

Julian grins. “Uh huh. It makes me feel happy.”

“Yeah? Do you know how you let a bard know you like their playing without telling them?” Julian shakes his head. This time without hesitating, he pulls a coin out and puts it on the table between them. “You go and put this in his case.”

Snatching up the coin, Julian jumps down from his seat and runs up to the bard as he finishes the song, setting the coin down in the case that was left out on the table next to him. He bows in thanks to Julian with a large flourish, causing him to giggle. Julian starts talking, asking questions too fast for even Geralt to keep up with. He’s ready to step in, but the bard surprises him by not seeming to be bothered by the kid’s onslaught of questions, answering them all in stride and even seems to enjoy the attention from his little fan.

While still keeping half an ear on the conversation, Geralt lets himself relax back in his seat, glad for the small break from the human tornado Julian is. He’s pure energy, always going from one thing to the next with little to no break in between. This has never annoyed Geralt, if anything it only makes the kid even more endearing to him, but even he needs a moment alone to catch his breath. The only other time he gets to himself is when he’s fighting a beast, and during that he is literally out of breath.

“You look like you could use this.” A pint of ale appears in front of him, along with the older woman from earlier. She gives him a soft smile, wiping her hands on her apron. “On the house.” She adds.

He frowns, not touching the drink. Free food for Julian, he’ll take, but not something as frivolous as a drink for himself. “I couldn’t possibly-”

“Please, I insist. I always give a free pint to my employees.”

“So that means…”

She nods. “You got the job. My husband and I are desperate to get the roof over one of the rooms fixed before the weather changes, and there are a few other things my husband Armem can go over with you in the morning.”

“Thank you. Your kindness is appreciated…” He pauses, waiting for a name.

“Innah.” She fills in the blank.

“Thank you, Innah. My name is Geralt, and my son is Julian.” He nods to where the kid is still with the bard. He had put his instrument, a lute by the looks of it, around Julian’s shoulders and guided the little hand to the proper place to play a note. With a nod from the bard, Julian drags his other hand down on the strings and a single chord plays out. It’s nowhere near as clear as the bard’s was earlier, but it’s recognizable.

As if sensing Geralt is watching him, he looks up and sends Geralt a face splitting grin. Geralt returns the grin with a more subdued smile of his own, giving the bard a thankful look. The bard acknowledges him with a nod before turning his attention back to Julian for the impromptu music lesson.

Geralt has never been more grateful for the general ignorance people have about witchers as Innah doesn’t question that he has a son. Most people don’t. Only a few know about witchers being sterile and that makes his life that much easier. He’s sure if others knew the truth, that Julian is a random kid that stuck himself to Geralt’s side and most likely has a family of his own somewhere on the continent, they wouldn’t be nearly as friendly to him.

For now, he enjoys the warm feeling the lie brings when he gets to claim Julian as his own.

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Once everything in his home is set, Triss opens a portal, off to get Geralt. A few moments pass before the same portal opens again, this time Geralt limping through with an arm slung around Triss’ shoulders. Seeing her struggle with the mountain of a man and trying to juggle Geralt’s things, Jaskier rushes over to Geralt’s other side.

Together, they ease Geralt onto the bed, both the bed and Geralt groaning in protest. Gesturing to the end of the bed, Triss sets down Geralt’s armour and saddlebag.

Geralt looks… not great. Sure, he’s seen his father in a lot worse shape, but he’s definitely seen him in way better shape. He does have to give Triss credit, it looks like she did a good job patching him up. The stitch work isn’t exactly at the level he would have done, no one is at the level he is at except for the top healers on the continent, but the lines are close together and even. His hair is down, and judging by all the dirt and grime on Geralt, Jaskier is wishing he had put a towel down on the bed first.

Jaskier clicks his tongue, shaking his head. “You, father dearest, need a bath. And while you soak away all this filth, I’ll have to wash these sheets out. Honestly, you’re worse than a puppy enjoying its first rain shower. Did you just plop down and roll in the mud?”

Geralt glares, along with an ineffective growl. They both know that’s never worked on Jaskier. If anything, it reminds him more of a grumpy cat. Geralt’s probably just keeping up appearances in front of their guest.

Jaskier rolls his eyes, sweeping his arm at Geralt as he speaks to Triss. “See what I’ve had to put up with? I humbly offer up my home, and most importantly my bath, and all I get in return is grunts and pointed looks.”

Triss hides a smile behind her hand, but the small chuckle she lets out gives her away.

“You’re about to put up with more.” Geralt breaks up the jokes. “I need you to go back with Triss to Vizima to get Roach.”

Jaskier’s smile drops. “Nope, no way. You must’ve gotten hit on the head one too many times by that striga if you think I’m going to freeze my arse off riding that horse from Vizima to Oxenfurt in the middle of winter.”

“Jaskier…”

Jaskier groans. “That’s a two days ride, at least. And I have a job now, you can’t just expect me to drop everything and go fetch your damn horse.”

Geralt raises a brow at him. “I’m in no condition to get her. Would you rather see her left in the care of some random innkeeper?”

Jaskier lets out a long sigh of defeat, running a hand through his hair. “I’ll need a few hours to prepare. I wasn’t joking when I said have work. Just so you know, you’ll owe me big time for this.”

“Consider it as repayment for all those years that I spent raising you. Feeding you. Housing yo-”

Jaskier waves his hands in the air. They’ve had this ‘argument’ more times than he can count. Geralt knows how grateful Jaskier is that he took him in all those years ago, and Jaskier knows Geralt wants nothing in return. “Yeah, alright, you made your point.” Before heading downstairs, because apparently he needs to get ready for a two day journey, he feels a little vindictive and sticks his tongue out.

Geralt smirks at him. “Watch it, or someone might get the idea to cut your tongue out.”

Jaskier flips him off without looking as he walks down the stairs, which earns him a chuckle.

“I’m starting to see the family resemblance.” He faintly hears Triss say. Geralt replies, but by now it’s too muffled from the floor between them for him to make out any words.

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Armem treats him well. He’s older than his wife Innah and has a back bent forward with age. Normally Geralt likes working in solitary, but Armem makes good company as he hands Geralt the tools he needs to do the repairs around the outside of the inn. He wasn’t sure at first about leaving Julian alone in the inn, planning on having him stay within sight in the field behind the inn, but the heat of the summer made Julian grouchy and begging to stay inside. Innah stepped in as they argued about it over breakfast. 

(More like Julian argued at Geralt as Geralt silently ate his porridge. He didn’t want to push his luck and have Innah and Armem rescind their offer because they didn’t like to see the scary witcher yell at a kid, no matter how much the brat deserved it.)

“He can stay with me. As long as he doesn’t mind keeping an old woman like me company.”

Julian looks up at Geralt with wide eyes. “I don’t mind. Please, Da’, please.”  

Geralt avoids looking at Julian, knowing he will cave if he keeps looking at him any longer. Instead he turns to Innah. “Are you sure? He can be a bit of a handful.”

She waves him off. “I have a grandson about his age, I know what I’m getting into, young man. Plus I can use the extra pair of hands.” 

Geralt snorts at the young man comment, knowing he has a few decades on her at least, and turns to Julian. “Fine, you can stay, but you will listen to everything she says. No complaining, no cheeky comments, just you on your best behavior. Got it?”

Julian nods, grabbing both of their empty breakfast bowls. “Where should I take these, miss?” He asks Innah with an innocent smile.

She chuckles, pointing at a door behind the counter. “The kitchen is just through there. Thank you for the help Julian.”

He slips off his seat, running to the kitchen, bowls in hand.

“Walk!” Geralt calls out to him as he stands, a sigh escaping him. Julian seems to listen as he slows down, disappearing through the door to the kitchen. “Thank you again for watching him. If he gets to be too much, just send him outside to me.”

She waves him off, ushering him outside where her husband should be.

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While Jaskier is downstairs preparing for his departure, Triss helps Geralt to the tub set up in the corner behind a room divider. Assuring her that he can handle undressing without assistance, she goes to dispose of his old bandages to give him some privacy. By the time she returned, he had just gotten comfortable in the near boiling water.

She sets a clean pair of clothes on a small table across from the tub that she must have gotten from Jaskier. He’s learned from Geralt’s last visit here to keep a spare set on hand.

“So, you never told me your son Julian and the famous troubadour Jaskier are one in the same.” She smiles playfully as she starts to hum the chorus to Toss a Coin.

Geralt groans, dunking his head under the water and rinsing out his hair. If it also has the added bonus of getting away from that fucking song, then that’s for him to know. When he resurfaces, he wipes the water from his eyes and is glad to hear that the mage has quit humming, but she still has a look of mirth on her face that reminds him suspiciously of Jaskier. He has a feeling he never should have introduced these two, striga wounds be damned.

“I love my son, so believe me when I say that that is the most irritating song he has ever written in his life. And that’s including the Nan the Hag one about backalley abortions.”

Triss snorts. “I find that hard to believe. He wrote that, along with about a dozen other songs, in honor of you. I think it’s sweet.”

“Try hearing it for three years straight every time you enter an inn or tavern, you won’t think it’s so sweet then.” He scrubs at some stubborn dirt on his arm, hissing as some soap gets in an open wound.

“Whatever you say, oh great White Wolf.” A deaf person can hear the disbelief in her voice.

Pausing in his washing, he looks up at her. “Do you know why he changed his name from Julian to Jaskier?”

She shakes her head, her grin leaving her face at the serious tone shift.

Geralt takes a breath. Jaskier probably wouldn’t like it if he knew Geralt was talking of him. For as much as the kid talks, he never likes to say anything about himself. To this day, Geralt still has no idea where he came from before Renfri. Every time he tried to ask, he would clam up, finding a way to change the subject. “I’m assuming you know witchers are sterile and can’t have biological children of their own?” 

Triss nods, not saying a word. 

“Well, then that means you know more about witchers than the common person. Before Julian’s silly little song about the White Wolf, I was more commonly known as the Butcher of Blaviken. With Julian, despite him having human eyes, many thought he was a mutant too. They thought he was cute as a child, but once he got older, Julian of Rivia was seen as a mutant freak and the son of a killer. He had a friend he was close to that turned on him the minute he found out I raised him.”

Triss takes a seat, folding her hands in her lap. “That must have been hard for him.”

“He was crushed. From then on he changed his name to Jaskier to avoid being associated with me, and I was glad he did. He was safer for it. But now with him singing about me all the damn time, the whole cycle has started over again and ‘Jaskier’ is also known as the witcher’s bard.”

“You’re scared he’s going to get hurt again.” She doesn’t pose it as a question, so he lets his silence serve as an answer. “Geralt,” She rests her hand on his arm to get his attention. “You did an incredible job raising a brave, strong, and kind young man. I can’t claim to know exactly what you’re going through, not being a parent myself, but I do know what it’s like to rely on a parent. I can assure you, he has his full trust in you to be there when he needs you.”

“Hmm.”

She pats his arm, standing up again. “I’ll let you finish. I should go see if Dandelion needs any help.”

He cocks his head, making a questioning noise. “Dandelion?”

She waves a hand in the air. “It’s an inside joke. I promised I wouldn’t say anything.” With a nod, she disappears to the other side of the room divider and a moment later he can hear light footsteps heading down the stairs.

He shakes his head as he gets back to washing himself. An hour together and they already have inside jokes? Yeah, he definitely regrets letting those two meet.

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Geralt climbs down the ladder, wiping the sweat from his brow. Getting most of the small repairs done yesterday, he reserved today to working on the hole in the roof. Today was even hotter than the day before, and since he spent the whole time on the roof, he convinced Armem to head inside. The old man wanted to keep him company, and Geralt appreciated the offer, but he can tell by the red flush on his face that the heat was bothering him.

Around noon, Julian brought him out a light lunch and some water, courtesy of Innah, and the two talked as Geralt took a break in the shade.

Julian did most of the talking, going on about how much fun he’s been having working in the tavern with Innah. At a particularly slow part of the day, he talked about how she even started to teach him how to sew so he wouldn’t prick his fingers.

Geralt nods in the right places, content with listening to Julian animatedly switch between topics as they munched on some grapes.

“Geralt?” Julian’s tone shifts as he calms down, causing Geralt to glance up from his lunch at him.

“Hm?” He motions that he’s listening.

“I know we can’t, but I wish we could stay here. Everyone is nice and no one calls you mean names.”

Geralt frowns down at him, watching as Julian pulls clumps of grass and gathers them in a little pile. This is the reality he’s been trying to avoid for the past ten months. The life he leads is not fit for a child, going from town to town hunting monsters for meager coin and dark looks to show for it.

This quaint little hamlet is where Julian belongs. They had come upon it by accident, its isolation and distance from any type of civilization leading to it being left off most maps. Their isolation had been a blessing, since none of the residents seem to have recognized him as the Butcher of Blaviken.

The first time he had been called that, only a few weeks after the incident in question, he shrugged it off and ignored the person. Being a witcher, he’d grown used to insults being flung his way. Julian on the other hand… 

Well, Geralt hopes to never be on the wrong side of Julian’s temper.

It was like a switch flipped. One minute, Julian was sleepily clinging to his cloak, having not been sleeping well from nightmares, as he was in the process of getting them a room, and the next thing he knew the kid was wide awake and across the room quicker than a bolt. 

Seeing the room reach for their weapons, Geralt rushed over and grabbed Julian, carrying the brat out without a word as he continued to yell things that no nine year old should know about, resigned to finding somewhere to camp outside of town.

Shaking his head free from the memory, Geralt sighs, not sure how to respond to Julian’s confession. Deciding on not saying anything, he runs a hand through the kid’s now short brown hair. “I should get back to work, and so should you. I’m sure Innah is missing her little helper.”

Julian pouts at him, too perceptive for his own good, but doesn’t argue. Instead he gives him a quick hug before gathering their plates and running back inside.

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After soaking for longer than he needed to, Geralt finally forced himself out of the bath once the water started to cool. 

Triss must have been listening at the base of the stairs, because right as he takes a seat on the bed after drying off and getting his trousers on, she walks up the stairs with a bundle of clean bandages.

He lets her fuss with redressing his wounds, keeping an eye on Jaskier as he bounces from place to place in the room getting ready. He knows he’ll have to make it up to him for this later. Winter is not a fun time to travel, and that makes it double for a human, but there’s no one else he trusts with Roach. Hell, the only two people that can ride that stubborn mare without getting bit are him and his son. The only consolence he has is that it’s a relatively short ride between the two cities.

“Thank you. For getting Roach.” He mutters, Triss’ words from earlier swimming around in his head. 

Jaskier looks up from where he’s been writing at his desk. “You know, in the past twelve years, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say those words. Didn’t think you were capable of it, to be honest.”

Geralt huffs, rolling his eyes. “Fuck off.”

There’s a knock at the door downstairs, getting Jaskier’s attention. “Ah, there’s the usual gruff exterior you like to pretend you have. I was worried you were replaced with a doppler there for a minute.”

“Go answer your damn door, Jaskier.”

Jaskier stands, slowly making his way to the stairs. “Just for that, I’m not going to tell you where I keep the good vodka hidden.”

Geralt doesn’t even need to think about it. “It’s on the bookshelf, behind Lunin and Tyrss’s The Arcane Mysteries of Magic and Alchemy.” That’s where Vesemir keeps his really good alcohol, and with all the time the kid spends with Vesemir in the winter, he has a pretty good idea that he picked up the same habit.

Geralt smirks as Jaskier misses a step, sputtering. “No- Why would- I’d never-” Geralt raises a brow at him in amusement. “Fine, but if even a single drop is missing, you are paying to replace it.” Jaskier points at him before continuing on his way down the stairs, the knocking at the door getting more persistent now. “Hold your bloody horses. Jeez, it’s like the midday market here today.”

Geralt and Triss share a look at Jaskier’s mutterings as Triss finishes off his final bandage around his neck where the newly human former striga had bit him. She didn’t bother putting bandages around his middle, since those were used to hold his ribs in place as they healed. He can tell that the bones have fused now, and all that’s left is the bruising. 

She stands from the edge of the bed, handing him a clean tunic. “Now where did you say he hid his good vodka? I could use a stiff drink after yesterday and I assume you could too.”

He’s about to answer when he pauses, cocking his head to the side.

“Wha-”

“Hush.”

He closes his eyes, straining his ears. Voices are being raised downstairs, mostly Jaskier yelling by the sound of it, but he can’t quite make out the words until two sets of footsteps bring them closer.

“-n’t know why you came here. I left word that I would forward my lesson plans straight to my office.” He doesn’t sense any fear from Jaskier, mostly irritation. There’s something else too, but Geralt can’t put his finger on it. Maybe worry? What would he be worried about though?

“I was in the neighborhood, thought I’d save you the trouble. I wouldn’t have bothered if I knew you’d be such a dick about it, Creyden.” A male voice replies

The two appear at the stairs, Jaskier leading. The man behind him looks slightly older, but not by much, with nice clothing, if a bit more muted in color compared to Jaskier. He’s about to say something else when he freezes, staring at Geralt. He can hear his heart rate rise at the sight of him and the scent of sour fear hits the air.

Jaskier turns back around, crossing his arms and huffing. “Oh, by the way, I forgot to mention I have company. Wait a minute, I did mention it and why I offered for you to wait outside.”

The stranger breaks his gaze with Geralt, instead turning to glare at Jaskier, and just like that, the fear turns to anger. “Were we looking at the same weather out there? It’s practically a white out with all the snow coming down. Do you want me to catch my death?” Now that he mentions it, Geralt can see fat flakes of snow mixed in with his curly hair, his shoulders damp from the already melted snow.

Jaskier tilts his head to the side, feigning consideration. “Well…”

The man’s face goes red as he purses his lips in anger, a reaction Jaskier was going for judging by his little grin.

“Want to introduce us to your friend there, Jask?” Geralt cuts in before they resort to physical blows.

The two turn their glares to Geralt. “He is not my friend.” They say in sync before glaring at each other again.

“Right…” Geralt looks between the two. “That still doesn’t answer my question. Should I start guessing names at random until I land on the correct one?”

Jaskier sighs, shifting his weight and uncrossing his arms so his hands can rest on his hips. “This is my colleague and former classmate, Valdo Marx. Marx, I assume by the look on your face earlier that you recognize my father, Geralt of Rivia. The lovely woman is Triss Merigold, court mage to King Foltest and the reason my father isn’t bleeding out somewhere in an old castle.”

There’s an awkward pause after the introductions are made, Triss being the one to break it. She nods in greeting before making an excuse to head downstairs, probably wanting to flee the tense atmosphere of the room.

Geralt recognizes the name as the little shit that hurt his son. He enjoys the way Marx shrinks at his glare, wishing he could do more, but knowing Jaskier he would be pissed if he actually hurt him in some way. The two may not be friends anymore, but Jaskier has mentioned that since they started working together at the academy that they’ve reached an ‘understanding’. They don’t want their feud with one another to affect the students in any negative way, so when it comes to work they do the mature thing and put it aside.

Still doesn’t mean Geralt has forgiven him.

Jaskier groans, rolling his eyes and letting his arms fall to his sides. “Well, this is gonna be a barrel of laughs, I can just tell.” He turns away from the two of them, sitting down at his desk and picking up the quill he was using earlier.

“Maybe if you did your lesson plans in advance, I wouldn’t have had to come and breathe down your neck in the first place.” Marx makes one last glance at him before deciding to cross the room over to where Jaskier is, leaning back against the desk. He crosses his arms, keeping his body facing Geralt, but looks down at what Jaskier is working on. Probably the infamous lesson plans. 

“I’ll have you know, I do plan ahead. I just never bother writing it out. What’s the point? It’s all in my head.”

Marx shakes his head. His eyes then narrow at something written down. Not asking for permission first, he grabs the paper and holds it up to get a better look. “Gods above, your spelling is still atrocious. How you managed to be top of our class I’ll never know.” Jaskier snatches the paper back, a pink tinge to his cheeks.

“His spelling is correct, just outdated.” Geralt finds himself growling out, offended on his behalf. Two sets of eyes find their way to him. “Witchers live to be old. The one that taught me spelling is over three hundred years old. I never bothered to learn the new spellings and just taught him what I knew.”

The closest description to Marx’s face that Geralt can think of is how Julian looked when he was a boy and Vesemir gave the kid a verbal tanning for running in the kitchen and knocking over a bottle of his favorite rare wine. It takes all his self control to keep his face in a frown and not let his satisfaction show.

He must have let something show, because Jaskier glares at him and mouths a, “Be nice.” to him, before turning back to Marx. He makes some remark about the other’s handwriting being worse than a five year old’s. With a weak grin, Marx rises to the bait and soon enough the two are trading insults back and forth like nothing happened.

Geralt only watches in confusion, trying to figure out the puzzle that is his son.

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It’s dark by the time Geralt finishes with the roof. Entering the inn room as silently as he can, he nearly trips over the boots laying in the middle of the floor. With a curse, he puts them to the side. His bad mood doesn’t last long as he smiles fondly at the sight on the bed. Julian is propped up against the headboard, head at a terrible angle as he sleeps. It’s a bad habit, trying to stay up for Geralt, and always fails no matter how hard he tries. At least this time Julian had managed to get his sleep clothes on first. Geralt learned the first time that it’s better to just let Julian sleep in his day clothes for the night rather than try and wake him to change.

As quiet as possible, Geralt quickly changes himself. Once he finishes, he carefully lifts Julian up and tucks him into the bed properly. That done, he picks up the rest of Julian’s clothes that he had left haphazardly around the room, folding them and putting them in their correct places.

He’s gone way too soft for his- this, damn it, this kid. If he left a mess like that when he was Julian’s age, Vesemir would have made him run the training course all morning.

Hearing a groan, he turns around to find Julian sitting up, bleary eyed and blinking at him. “I-” His speech, thick with sleep, gets interrupted by a yawn. “I was gonna get that. I was jus’ resting my eyes for a minute.”

Geralt chuckles, blowing out the candle Julian had left lit and climbing into the bed next to him. What has become another habit, the boy curls up against his chest like a cat searching for warmth, gripping his sleep shirt. Geralt had been reluctant to all the close contact at first, not used to it, but he found that the nights Julian slept clutching him were the nights he didn’t have nightmares.

This arrangement was fine during the cold winter months, but now the heat of the summer months at night means he awakens soaked in sweat. He’s found that he doesn’t mind though, staring down at Julian as he cuddles into a comfortable position on his chest. If a little discomfort means the boy gets a full night's rest, then it’s worth it.

Julian is the priority. Not himself and his stupid desires.

That’s been running through his head all day, ever since lunch and Julian expressed his wish to stay here. Geralt’s not blind, he’s noticed how the past few days Julian’s been happier than he’s ever seen the kid.

Kids his age need stability, not the life on the path with an old, grumpy witcher. They need a life with parents that come back home everyday. When he leaves Julian alone in an inn room to go deal with a contract, he has no way of knowing if he’ll return. How long would Julian wait if he got killed? A day? Two? A week?

If he got killed on a contract Julian would be all alone and that breaks the heart he didn’t know he still had.

They say witchers can’t feel human emotions, and at this moment Geralt wishes desperately that that were true. It would make what he knows he has to do that much easier.

Something touches his face, and he blinks as Julian’s small hand pulls back damp.

“You were crying.” He whispers. “Did ya have a bad dream?”

Geralt swallows the lump in his throat, using the hand not pinned by Julian to wipe the rest of the tears from his face. “Yeah. Yeah, I did.”

Julian pouts. “I’m sorry. Want me to hum like you do for me when I get nightmares?” Without waiting for an answer, Julian puts his head back down and starts humming.

Making sure to keep his tears in check this time, he holds Julian close and buries his nose into his hair, trying to commit his scent to memory. Soon the humming stops, and he’s sure Julian’s fallen asleep judging by his slow, steady breaths, until he hears a small voice, so quiet that if it weren’t for his witcher hearing he’s sure he wouldn’t be able to hear it, say. “...love you, Da’.”

Geralt freezes. Sure, he’s heard Julian call him… that name before, but only when there are others around. When it’s just the two of them, it’s always Geralt.

Well, fuck. This just made things that much harder.

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Playing the middleman between Valdo and his father is the last thing Jaskier feels like doing. Valdo constantly looks like he’s about two minutes from pissing his pants at all times, and his father isn’t helping the situation any by never dropping his scary face, the one usually reserved for the worst behaving nobles and aldermen.

A year ago Jaskier would have said fuck it and let Geralt continue doing his overprotective shtick, but things are different now. After they graduated and were both offered teaching positions, Marx asked to meet for drinks.

Jaskier was hesitant at first, the two having not exchanged more than a handful of sentences in the past two years, but decided to hear him out.

Marx started with a stilted apology, regretting the way he reacted to the knowledge of his… unique upbringing. The wording caused Jaskier to snort and almost choke on his ale in laughter. A glare from the barmaid aimed at their table is what finally broke the tension between the two.

After that, their friendship finally started to repair itself and one year later it’s nearly back to what it was before.

The thing is, Jaskier never told Geralt any of this. To be fair though, Jaskier never thought in a million years that Geralt and Valdo would be in the same room together.

His father isn’t exactly the forgive and forget kind of guy, especially when it comes to someone that, embarrassingly, brought Jaskier to tears. 

‘Incorrect’ spelling aside, Jaskier speeds through writing out the last of his lesson plans, wanting to get Valdo on his way before Geralt glares the poor bastard to death. With one more pointed look at his father, he walks Valdo downstairs and to the door. Triss is flipping through the book he had left by the fire.

“It was lovely meeting you.” She says politely, leaving the book where she found it.

Valdo bows slightly, a glint in his eye that has Jaskier rolling his eyes. “I must admit, meeting you brought forth a warmth on this cold, dreary day.”

Triss blushes lightly while Jaskier audibly groans. “Fuckin’ hell, that has to be one of the worst come ons I’ve ever heard in my life.” She ignores his commentary, shyly waving at Valdo as she climbs the stairs. “Are you done?” He asks flatly once she is gone.

“What have I told you about relaxing a little, Creyden? It’s just a little harmless flirting.”

Jaskier crosses his arms, not amused. “Do you have any idea how rare it is to have someone go out of their way to help a witcher? I’d rather you not scare her off with your advances.”

Valdo finally seems to have caught on, dropping all pretenses. “Fine, it’s not like I’m going to be in Vizima at any point anyway.”

“Well, good. Anyways, this should only take two days tops, please try not to ruin all of my students' progress before I return.” Valdo doesn’t laugh the way Jaskier expected him to at the joke. He doesn’t even smile. Instead he frowns with worry, focusing on the papers in his hands. “Hey, what happened to relaxing a little? I will return. This isn’t the first time I’ve traveled on my own and certainly won’t be the last. Besides, I’m not going as Jaskier, the greatest bard to ever live. No, instead I’ll be going old school as they say.” Pulling out his medallion, he lets it rest on top of his doublet, throwing in a wink for good measure.

“Two days?”

Jaskier smirks. “Careful, you’re starting to sound like you care.” At his blank face, Jaskier drops the smirk to a more natural smile and sighs. “Two days, not a minute more.” He reassures his friend.

The reassurance helps a little by the looks of it. “Alright then, safe travels.” With one last look, Valdo nods before departing out into the cold, the door clicking shut behind him.

Well, that’s one fire out, now he has to go deal with the bonfire upstairs. Wanting to delay that confrontation for a little longer, Jaskier takes his time collecting food from his kitchen.

Gods, what is wrong with him. Why did he think keeping his rekindled friendship with Valdo a secret would be a good idea? Oh, right, it probably had something to do with his father giving Valdo the ‘if looks could kill’ glare.

There’s only so much stalling you can do before it becomes obvious, so Jaskier braces himself and marches up the stairs, bag of bread and dried meat (and a few sugar cubes for Roach, she’s had a rough few days after all) flung over his shoulder. Two sets of eyes flick up to him once he reaches the top of the stairs, one much more displeased than the other. They had been in the middle of a conversation, one most likely about him judging by the way they both went silent the second he showed his face.

Swallowing and looking down at his feet, Jaskier fiddles with the strap of his bag. “Listen, Dad, I could explain-”

“We’ll talk when you get back. We’ve monopolized enough of Triss’ time.”

Jaskier sighs. “Alright.” So, clearly not in the talking mood. Excusing himself behind the room divider, he quickly changes into some plain clothes that are more comfortable to travel in. He hears a hushed argument, but doesn’t pay it much mind since he can’t make out the words.

As he walks back out into the main room, Triss nudges Geralt in the arm with a glare, careful to avoid any of his injuries. The grumpy face that he had on earlier has dropped and he’s pointedly looking right over Jaskier’s shoulder. “You don’t need to explain if you don’t want to.” He says flatly, clearly rehearsed. “You are an adult, technically, and you can make your own choices on who you want to associate with. Even if they are a bag of shit,” He mutters the last part under his breath.

Jaskier’s eyes flicker between Triss and his father. “Well, thank you for your, uh, clearly genuine thoughts on the matter, but not to worry, I’ll explain more fully when I return, so as not to, how did you put it? monopolize Triss’ time any further.”

Geralt grunts. “You have your silver daggers? I heard rumours of foglets in the swamp areas north of Vizima.”

“I never leave home without them.” Jaskier says as he pulls his cloak on.

“That won’t be thick enough. Wear mine.” Geralt reaches over to where his own cloak is draped on a chair, tossing it at Jaskier without even waiting for a reply.

He just barely manages to catch it before it slips to the floor. It wouldn’t have mattered much if it did though, Jaskier thinks as he wrinkles his nose at the smell. “Do you ever wash this? What, are you testing a new witcher technique where you kill monsters with offensive odors alone?” Despite his complaining, he sheds the, in his own opinion, perfectly fine cloak, for the stinky rag that’s older than he is and is larger than his own slimmer frame.

… And if it happens to be warmer than the one he was wearing, well, that’s for him to know and his father to never ever find out.

“Make sure you keep the hood up and covering your ears.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “Yes, father dearest.”

“And don’t have Roach go straight into a gallop. I’m sure she hasn’t been exercised in the past few days and I don’t want her to pull anything.”

Jaskier throws his head back, sharing a look with Triss. She wisely stays out of it and pretends to be busy as she prepares the teleportation spell. “Yes, yes, I know. I swear, you love that bloody horse more than me.”

“Of course. She doesn’t sass back at me.” The upturn of his lips betrays the sincerity of that statement. “Come here.” Once Jaskier gets close enough, Geralt pulls his hood on, straightening it. “Be safe. Avoid the main roads, bandits are always more desperate in the winter.” Jaskier lets himself be pulled down into a rare hug, basking in it and returning the hug gently to avoid any of his injuries.

“I will.” Jaskier lingers until his dad reluctantly pulls back, staying seated on the bed as Geralt brushes his hair back.

“And Julian? You know I love you more than the horse.”

Jaskier smiles, which turns into a smirk. “I should hope so.”

Geralt smacks him on the arm. “Enough sentiment. Get going. At this rate spring will arrive before you.” 

Jaskier stands, collecting his bag. “Fine, I can see when I’m no longer wanted.” He points at him. “I was serious before, don’t you dare drink all my good vodka.”

“I won’t. As long as you don’t give Roach all those sugar cubes I know you hid in your bag.”

“I don’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about.” Jaskier lies. “Alright, chop chop! It’s as the man said, we should leave before spring can grace us with her presence.”

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As if sensing something has shifted, Julian seems to make it his mission to stick himself to Geralt’s side everywhere he goes the last few days. Geralt, for his part, tries desperately to distance himself from the child, for both of their sakes. Growing closer will only make what Geralt knows he has to do harder on both of them. Julian, too clever for his own good, picks up on Geralt’s silence and becomes complacent to being Geralt’s unheard shadow. 

Despite only knowing the boy for the past week, Innah notices the change in the boy’s behavior, but doesn’t comment on it. She does send a subtle look of confusion to Geralt one evening, but he shakes his head and motions not in front of Julian. She understands, moving on to serving a different guest.

The next morning he makes his way downstairs, Julian once again at his side, to Innah waving him over to the counter.

“Mornin’, boys. I have good news for you. The smithy was just in and told me to pass on the message for you that he’ll have your sword done this afternoon. I bet you’re inchin’ to move on to a more lively town, Geralt.”

Geralt glances down at Julian, who looks about as despondent to the news as Geralt expected him to, then back at Innah. “I have to admit, it has been a nice change of pace, right kid?” He pats his shoulder, not getting much of a response.

“Mmhm.”

Geralt sighs, ruffling his hair. He catches Innah glace between them. “Julian, would you mind going into the kitchen and helping Armem peel some potatoes? His eyesight isn’t what it used to be.” She asks him sweetly.

“Sure.” He agrees flatly, slowly making his way to the kitchen, a stark contrast to how he had run in with joy only a week ago.

Once the door is firmly shut, Geralt turns back to Innah, taking a deep breath. It’s now or never. “I need to ask a large favor of you, something you have every right to say no to, especially coming from a stranger you’ve only known for a week.”

“You want to leave your boy here.” Her tone isn’t accusatory or angry, just a sad acceptance.

He nods, unable to voice the affirmative. Innah has been so kind to him, kinder than most usually are to him. He figures he owes her the whole truth, not just the half-truth he’s been spewing. “I lay no claim to Julian. We don’t share a drop of blood. I only took him in to keep him safe, and now the safest place for him is here, not on the path with a witcher. I know you don’t have much to spare, but I can send coin whenever possible-”

Innah lays her wrinkled hand on his, looking small and fragile compared to his own large, scarred, and callused one. The hands of a mother, he realizes faintly.

“If that’s what you think is best for your boy, I understand.”

He pulls his hand back, out of her reach. He can’t meet her eyes as he stares down at the hand, her touch still burning him. “I told you, he isn’t mine.”

“Love, look at me,” He shifts his eyes up reluctantly, a tiny part of him hoping the sight of his inhuman eyes will get her to back off. She surprises him again by not flinching, instead resting a hand on his cheek. “Family is more than the blood that runs through our veins. I think you were meant to find that boy because you need him just as much as he needs you.”

“Like destiny?” He asks ruefully, Renfri’s last words ringing in his head. The girl in the woods will be with you always, she is your destiny.

She caresses her thumb on his cheek before taking her hand back. “If you truly believe leaving him here is the best thing for him, then of course we’ll take care of him as if he’s our own. But I’m not sure how well he’ll take you leaving him.”

Pushing away all of his regret, he mentally reminds himself that witchers aren’t supposed to have emotions. “He’s young, and has known me for less than a year. Next year at this time I’ll be but a passing thought, and by the time he grows up he will have forgotten all about me.” He hopes. He certainly won’t have forgotten Julian by then, probably never will if he’s being honest.

She nods, not looking that convinced, but not fighting him on it. “If you say so, dear.”

Geralt clears his throat. Because he has a tickle. Definitely not to clear the knot he feels formed in his throat. Because witchers aren’t supposed to have emotions. “I need to go tend to my horse, I won’t be long.” 

With that, he marches out of the inn, only feeling like he can breathe again once he has his fingers wrapped in Roach’s mane. Burying his face in her mane as well, he takes a few deep breaths, her familiar scent helping to center him.

“I am doing the right thing.” He says into her neck. “Fuck what I want, being here is what he needs.” Roach huffs, her warm breath tickling the back of his neck. “Don’t. You only want him around because he sneaks you extra treats when he thinks I’m not looking.” She lowers her head to rest on his shoulder. Using his free hand to wipe the wetness that has gathered in his eyes, he lays his face back on her. “Yeah, I’ll miss him too.”

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One day alone in his son’s house and Geralt is already feeling restless. Long ago, he would have welcomed the silence and solitude, but ever since that brat entered his life, he’s become used to constant noise and chatter. He looks forward to it even. 

During the four years when Jaskier was in school were the loneliest he’s had in a long time. Winter became his favorite season during those four years, since that was the only time he got to see the kid. And during the warmer months, he had spent more on paper and ink than he ever had in his life, finding the letters he wrote to Jaskier cathartic in a way he never expected it to. The words just flowed easier on paper, and the one-way conversations were what he looked forward to the most.

It wasn’t always one-way though. Even though Jaskier couldn’t write him back, he would save the letters and then once they met up at the end of fall, he would comment on the things he had written about like there was never a one to nine month gap between the initial response and its reply.

Last year, when Jaskier had graduated, Geralt had just assumed that the two would go back to traveling together like the four year gap had never happened. Looking back on it now, that was very naive of him to think. He always knew Jaskier was bright, and him graduating at the top of his class only proved it. He should have known all the offers of employment would be at his son’s feet, ripe for the taking.

Sticking around in one place to teach is the last thing Geralt expected him to do though.

When Geralt asked him why he decided on becoming a professor of all things, Jaskier had shrugged, getting a little bashful. “Unlike everyone else, I never had to pay a copper piece to study here. The Dean had paid my tuition in full and never asked for anything in return. So to answer your original question, when he offered me the position personally, I guess I just owed it to him to accept.” 

Geralt understood completely. One of the traits Jaskier had picked up from him was his dislike of charity. 

So for the last year, Geralt has been sticking close and only taking contracts in the area. About once a month or so, he’ll stop in to check on Jaskier and make sure he’s alright, will spend a day or two together, and then will move on to the next job.

Now he’s the one stuck in one place as he waits for Jaskier to return, a strange switch of roles for the two. He has to give it to Vesemir, the worry and uncertainty that is flowing through him is a terrible feeling, and his son is only going to be gone for two days. The old witcher has to wait a full eight months to find out if any of his boys were killed.

Not liking where this string of consciousness is heading, he forces himself to his feet and slowly makes his way down the stairs, gripping the railing tightly. Pausing at the bottom to catch his breath (A little voice in his head that suspiciously sounds like Jaskier is teasing him about his age catching up with him), he turns and starts for the kitchen.

He is halfway across the sitting area when a knock sounds at the door. Figuring whoever it is they are here for Jaskier, so he ignores it.

Continuing on to the kitchen, whoever they are pauses in their knocking, but Geralt can still hear their heartbeat as they loiter outside. The heartbeat is unsteady, raising in what seems to be worry. It almost seems familiar, but Geralt can’t quite place where he’s heard it before. Since his fight with the striga two days ago, his mind has been fuzzy as his body tries to heal.

There’s one more knock, then pause, before the person on the other side sighs and starts to unlock the door from their side.

Shit. It’s too early for it to be Jaskier. Even with perfect weather and riding Roach at full speed, there is no way he could have made it back this fast.

He grips the knife he was using to cut the bread, tense, when the door opens with a creak only to show that dick Valdo Marx. With a growl, Geralt sets the knife down none too gently.

“The fuck you doing here? Jaskier told you he wouldn’t be back for another day.”

The scent of fear is back, but only faintly. Marx’s eyes briefly flicker to the knife as he stomps the snow from his boots. “Hello to you too. And would it be that difficult of a concept to think I’m only checking up on you?”

“Bullshit.”

“You caught me. I’m missing a page from Julian’s lesson plan. I’ve checked everywhere else it could possibly be and it didn’t turn up, so it must have been forgotten on his desk upstairs.” He comes into the room further, warming his hands at the hearth.

Geralt returns to slicing his bread. “Then get it and go.”

Marx stays where he is. “You don’t like me.” He observes.

Geralt snorts at the understatement. “No, I generally don’t like people who shove my son down and call him a freak after he saves their life.”

Marx winces, and Geralt can’t help but look up when his senses are assaulted by the bitter scent of shame. “I-” He starts before stopping himself. Geralt waits as he finds the words, curious how he could possibly try and talk himself around this one. “You cannot begin to understand how much I regret what I said that night. The way I behaved was inexcusable. I know I don’t deserve the second chance Julian has given me. I’m not taking it for granted, believe me.”

Geralt grunts. “There’s something we can agree on. You don’t deserve it.”

Marx bites his lip, marching up to him so the counter is the only thing between them. He doesn’t even flinch when Geralt looks up to glare at him. He has to give it to him, the boy has guts. That, or he’s just incredibly stupid. “I grew up in a very close-minded household. I was taught that witchers were bloodthirsty savages barely a step above the monsters that they are hired to kill. So when I saw him fighting those men in the alley, a grin on his face, and learned he was raised by a witcher, I fell back on my old way of thinking.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I want you to understand. Julian is my best friend. I spent two years unlearning all the things I thought I knew about witchers and replaced them with the stories Julian had told me about his ‘frontiersman’ father. I put aside my bias so I can have my friend back.”

Geralt slams the knife down, taking pleasure in the flinch he finally got out of him. “You love him.”

“Yes, I do.” He says without hesitation.

“Then if you truly love him you would stay out of the picture for good before you hurt him again. If it’s a good fuck you’re after find someone else.”

Marx wrinkles his nose. “It’s not like that. The love I have for him is brotherly. Familial.”

“He already has a family. One that loves him unconditionally!” Geralt’s voice steadily grows louder as his temper rises. He knows he promised his son that he would trust him and respect his choices on who he wanted to spend his time with, but he can worry about that later.

“You can yell at me all you want, I’m not losing him again!”

“Why the fuck do you care so much?! There are a million people you can go attach yourself to! Why does it have to be my son?!”

“Because he’s my cousin!”

They both freeze at the confession. Marx snaps his mouth shut, looking like he wishes to be able to retract what he just said. The silence sits between them heavy, neither wanting to break it. It’s as if neither of them comment on it, then they can pretend it never happened. 

But you can’t unring a bell, and once words are said, they can’t be taken back.

Geralt sighs. There’s only one reason he can think of for why Marx looks so worried. “He doesn’t know, does he.” There’s no point in phrasing it like a question. Marx swallows and shakes his head.

“We only met the once, when he was three or four. My mother, his father’s sister, they weren't very close. I only remembered him when he told me his original name. It was a really big deal when he went missing shortly after his ninth birthday.”

Well, if they’re telling truths here, he might as well say his. “Julian’s never told me anything about his life before he came into my care, not for a lack of trying.” Marx bites his lip. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to force you to say anything. If Julian wanted to tell me about his past, he would have done so already.”

Marx takes a breath, relief clear on his face. “Thank you. And I don’t mean to put you in this position, but…”

“I won’t mention anything to him. I don’t make a habit of telling secrets that aren’t mine to say. But I believe you should think of telling him sooner rather than later. If he somehow finds out in a way that isn’t from you, he won’t take it well.”

“I understand. I will, when the time is right.”

“Good.” Geralt pauses, shifting. “I think I saw some papers on Julian’s desk, you can go look.”

Marx bows his head. “Thank you.” He hesitates, thinking over his next words carefully. “I am sorry that we got off on the wrong foot. I’m sure my past actions left a bad taste in your mouth, but I hope I can change your first impression of me, with time.”

“Perhaps.”

And, surprising himself, Geralt truly means it.

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Geralt spends the rest of the morning tending to Roach and getting his things packed on the horse. His saddlebags feel oddly empty without all of Julian’s things in them. He still packs Julian’s things in the little rucksack he’s had since he was with Renfri, but he slips the bag to Innah while Julian is distracted.

She sighs, making her opinion known once more. He avoids eye contact with her, not wanting to see the disappointment on her face.

Julian sticks to his side as Geralt walks to the blacksmith, once more uncharacteristically silent. Geralt flinches when Julian grabs his hand suddenly with a surprisingly tight grip. He shouldn’t allow this, it’s only going to make things harder, but he can’t make his hand pull away. Julian is going to get his heart broken either way, he supposes, he might as well allow the boy this little comfort beforehand.

The handholding makes his business with the blacksmith a little tricky. When he tries to free his left hand, Julian stubbornly refuses to let go. Luckily the blacksmith is understanding, chuckling a little and patiently waits as Geralt checks the sword’s weight with one hand, making sure to keep it away from Julian. During this time, the blacksmith smiles at Julian, but the boy only frowns at him and hides half his body back behind Geralt, a difficult thing done with their hands still linked together.

“Sorry, he’s a bit shy.” Geralt lies as he finishes testing the sword, knowing Julian usually loves talking with strangers that are polite with him. The blacksmith doesn’t take offence, instead helping him juggle holding the sword and getting the correct amount of coins out of his purse with only his right hand free.

New sword sheathed and on his back, the two make their way back to the inn. 

“Julian…” Geralt starts to say once they are far enough out of earshot of the blacksmith. “You know that wasn’t very nice how you acted back there.”

Julian continues staring straight ahead, a pout still on his face. “So? It doesn’t matter. I don’t need to listen to you anymore.”

Geralt pulls the boy to a stop. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Julian finally yanks his hand free, crossing his arms and glaring up at Geralt. “I overheard Innah and Armem talking. You’re abandoning me here!”

A few people stop and stare at them in the street as Julian raises his voice. “Fuck,” Not wanting an audience, Geralt leads Julian into an alley and lifts him up onto a crate so they are eye level. “Julian, you know I only want what’s best for you. You said it yourself that you like it here, and you’ve made friends with Innah’s grands-”

“Fuck Innah’s grandson! And fuck this place!” Julian screams.

“Hey,” Geralt warns him firmly. “I’ve told you to-” 

“No, I’m not going to watch my fucking language! I wanna stay with you!”

“You can’t!”

“Why?”

Geralt huffs, lowering his voice again. “Because I’m the adult and I said so. It’s too dangerous.”

“So teach me.”

“What?”

Julian straightens his back, putting his shoulders back in a way that Geralt guesses is him trying to make himself bigger. “Teach me to fight. I already have my sister’s dagger, I can fight!” The declaration is ruined by his voice cracking and the tears pooling in his eyes.

Geralt shakes his head. “I’m not going to teach you to fight. You’re too young.”

“Please!” Julian cries, tears flowing down his red cheeks freely now. “I’ve l’st ev’ry’ne! I c-c’n’t lose you t-too! Please!”

Geralt is close to tears himself now. “Julian, kid…”

Julian flings himself at Geralt, wrapping his arms around his neck, face buried in his shoulder. “Pl’se, Da’, I need you.”

Geralt can’t help himself. He wraps his arms around Julian too, picking him up to hold him closer and digging a hand into his hair. He remembers what Innah said and kisses him on the head. “I need you too, but I also need you safe.” He whispers, trying to calm him down.

Julian isn’t listening anymore, his tantrum and breakdown having quickly drained him. He fights through the exhaustion, still gripping him tight. “Don’ leave me… don’ leave me… don’ leave… me…”

Geralt gives him a quick squeeze, not wanting to wake him. “I promise, I will never leave you.” He whispers. Innah will certainly be pleased to hear about this when he goes to collect Julian’s things from her. 

And she is positively glowing when he returns with Julian asleep in his arms and asks for his bag so they can head out. With a grin, she picks up the bag from behind the counter and hands it over to him. Before she does though, she winks at him. “I told you.” Is all she says.

He slings Julian’s bag over one shoulder, careful not to wake him. “I still think he would have a better life here than always on the move with me.”

“A safer life maybe, but not a better one. For either of you.” She rubs Julian’s back, her other hand resting on Geralt’s shoulder. “You two are going to have an incredible life together, trust an old woman on this, young man.”

Geralt smirks. “You know, I’m much older than you. Makes the young man comments much less impactful.”

She taps him on the cheek. “What is age, but a number?”

Geralt chuckles lightly. “Thank you for everything, Innah. I’ll forever be in debt to you.”

“Take good care of your boy there, and I’ll consider us even, Geralt. Now, safe travels to you two.”

Geralt nods, feeling lighter. He doesn’t tend to remember the people he meets while on the path, the many faces blurring together over the years, but he has a feeling he’s never going to forget this kind woman and her husband. This only confirms that these two would be the only people on the continent he would ever trust with this- his kid.

Who knows, maybe him and Julian can come back and visit again in the future.

Petting Roach on the nose, she nuzzles Julian first before nudging him in the side, away from bumping Julian. He glares at the mare as Julian slowly starts to wake up, sitting up a little in his arms. He pats Roach on the nose, a little uncoordinated, his other arm still slung around Geralt’s neck.

“Hi, R’ch.” He greets the horse, voice thick with sleep.

“Want to sit up front or behind me?” He asks as he puts Julian’s pack in one of the saddlebags.

“Front.” He answers after a pause.

Geralt lifts him up, placing him in the saddle before jumping up behind him. Without a word, he hands Julian the waterskin, figuring after all the crying that he must be thirsty. His guess is correct as Julian drinks the water like no tomorrow, not stopping for breath until half of it is gone.

“We aren’t stopping when you have to pee in twenty minutes.”

“Yes, you will.” He says matter-of-factly, handing back the waterskin. He’s right, Geralt will stop, he thinks as he puts the waterskin away. He won’t tell Julian that though, he’ll just conveniently also have to go then too. 

Julian leans back against his chest, boxed in by his arms. “Can I hold the reins for a bit?”

“No.”

Julian leans his head back, eyes wide. “Please, Da’?” He asks, drawing out the word.

Geralt sighs, unable to resist. Julian should know how to ride Roach anyway, he reasons, in case they get split up somehow. “Fine, but sit up straight. Good posture is just as important with riding a horse as it is in a fight.”

Julian spins around as best he can with a huge grin, forgetting the reins. “You’re going to teach me to fight like you?!”

Geralt nudges him to turn back around, handing him the reins. Julian does so without any protest, practically vibrating with excitement. “I’m going to teach you how to defend yourself.” He corrects. 

Julian ignores that, throwing a fist into the air and nearly hitting Geralt in the face. “I’m gonna be the best fuckin’ witcher ever!”

“Language.” Geralt reminds him. Julian calms down a little, snuggling back into his chest. “No more sleeping. You’ll be up half the night at this rate.”

Julian nods, laying his hand on Geralt’s. “Love you, Da’.”

This time Geralt doesn’t hesitate. “I love you, too, my little pup.” 

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It’s late in the evening on the second day when Geralt wakes to hearing the lock on the door downstairs disengaging. Sitting up, he hears Jaskier stomping up the stairs quickly, making it to the second floor in record time. Once he reaches the top, he stops, staring at Geralt.

“Is your arse on fire?” Geralt asks.

Jaskier shakes his head, eerily quiet.

“Then why are you running? Did you not learn your lesson about running indoors when Vesemir’s fancy wine bottle met its untimely end?”

Instead of laughing, that only seems to make things worse as Jaskier’s bottom lip trembles and tears well up in his eyes. Before Geralt can ask what is wrong, Jaskier rushes forward and collapses on the bed next to him, a tangle of long limbs as he buries his face in Geralt’s chest.

On instinct, Geralt wraps his arms around him, rubbing his back. “Hey, what’s the matter, pup? Are you hurt?”

Jaskier shakes his head, tears and snot smearing on his tunic.

“C’mon, then, sit up. Tell me what’s wrong.” A horrible thought comes to mind. “Is it Roach? Is she okay?”

With a little help from Geralt, he gets Jaskier to sit up. He folds his legs under him and sniffs, shaking his head again. “She’s a’right. Happy an’ eating in a stable as we speak.”

Geralt releases the breath he was holding. “Good. Now tell me, what happened? You’re acting like someone died.”

With shaking hands, Jaskier reaches into the pocket of his cloak, pulling out a necklace?

Oh. Oh, no. Shit.

With everything after the striga and getting settled here, he had completely forgotten that he had put the wolf medallion in his cloak pocket to take back to Kaer Morhen next winter to put with the other fallen witchers’ medallions. 

Jaskier’s red rimmed eyes start watering again. “Who-whose…?”

“Shit, Julian, don’t worry, it wasn’t anyone you knew.” Geralt grabs his shoulders, pulling him into a hug. “As far as I know, your uncles and Vesemir are fine, safe and sound at Kaer Morhen.”

“But then whose is it? It’s a wolf medallion, your school. I’ve met all the surviving school of the wolf witchers at least once.”

Geralt sighs, leaning back against the headboard and bringing Jaskier with him. “Remus.”

“Remus,” Jaskier mutters the name to himself. “Wasn’t he that older witcher I met my first winter at Kaer Morhen? The one that hated me?” He asks, fiddling with the chain.

Geralt lets out a soft, sad chuckle, remembering the yelling matches between the two that lasted all winter. “He didn’t hate you.”

“Well, he certainly didn’t like me.” He grumbles.

Geralt pets his hair before resting his chin on top of his head. “You were the first human at Kaer Morhen since the sacking, he just reacted poorly. I’m sure if he got to know you better, you two would have gotten along. Just look at you and Lambert, the two of you fought like cats and dogs at first. Now you two are as thick as thieves.”

Jaskier looks like he wants to say something, but thinks better of it, snapping his mouth shut and handing Geralt the medallion back. “Remus was a really strong witcher, yeah? And yet this striga managed to kill him. That could have been you. You could’ve died and I wouldn’t have even known it. I would have just carried on doing fuck all, not knowing anything was wrong until… until you never showed up again…”

“Julian, quit that. I’m fine, I’m right here with you. The reason Remus isn’t here is because he was cocky and didn’t do his research. He thought he was going against a vukodlak, not a striga, and was ill prepared.”

“Still. Come spring, I’m quitting my job and joining you on the path again.” With that said, Jaskier sits up and pulls his boots off, dumping them on the floor. 

Geralt sighs. “You can’t just quit, I thought you liked this job.”

“‘Liked’ being the operative word, as in past tense. It was fun at first, but now I’m getting bored, and I haven’t written anything new in months. I need new material for my songs, and a new audience while I’m at it. I’m well known in the Oxenfurt area and maybe a place here or there, but I want all of the continent to hear my voice. That won’t happen if I’m stuck behind a bloody desk for the rest of my life.”

“You’ve thought this through? It’s not just some whim you’re following and you’ll come to regret later?”

Jaskier takes the cloak off next, then shuffles around to face him, pulling his knees up to his chest. “I only signed a one year contract with the academy and never renewed it, Dad. No matter what this was going to be my last session teaching.” That statement is followed up by a yawn, reminding Geralt that he did just get back from a two day journey, and if judging by the bags under his eyes, is exhausted.

“Why don’t we talk about this more in the morning, get some sleep for now.”

Jaskier nods in agreement, rubbing his eye. “Can I stay here with you tonight?”

“Sure, of course.” Geralt scoots over, making room for him and lifting the blanket so Jaskier can crawl under. 

Once under the covers, Jaskier clings to him like he did as a child, right down to the tight grip on his shirt. At least it’s winter and not a hot summer night. “I’ve missed you, Da’.” Jaskier murmurs, eyes fluttering shut.

Geralt holds him tight, never wanting to let go. “I’ve missed you, too, my little pup. Get some sleep now.”

Chapter Text

1249

Age 27

Geralt isn’t sure how he lets himself get pulled into these situations. The day started like any other. He went to complete a contract on the outskirts of Cintra, a selkiemore that had been causing the local fishermen trouble. When he returned after slaying the beast, he wasn’t surprised to find Jaskier quizzing the locals on the events of the fight. According to his son, a blind rocktroll could give better descriptions than him.

It took less than a minute for Jaskier to spill the truth. 

He had been invited to play at Princess Pavetta’s coming of age banquet at the Cintra royal palace. “And,” Jaskier continues as Geralt washes his mouth out at the bar with a pint of ale. “I was allotted one guest to join me. What do you say? A single night, enjoying both my beautiful singing and the wonderful palace food that has been masterfully crafted, of which very few get to have the privilege to grace their tongue-”

“Find someone else. You know I don’t fuck around with royalty.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “Yes, I’m quite aware, but I figured since this is my first time playing in a royal court that you would make an exception, just this once for your favorite, most loyal son, and would lend moral support with your presence?” Despite being the same height, Jaskier leans down on the bar so he has to look up at Geralt, eyes wide and his pout on full display. The little shit knows exactly what he’s doing, but this time Geralt is not going to cave. Nope, no royal balls for him.

The next thing he knows, he’s sitting in a bath, Jaskier dumping a bucket of warm water over his head.

“You’re not going to regret this, believe me.” Jaskier says with glee as he sets the bucket down.

Geralt grunts, rubbing the water out of his eyes. “I doubt that.”

“I told you, it’s only one night bodyguarding your favorite son, and then we can head off to Kaer Morhen for the winter. Easy-peasy.”

Geralt turns in the bath to face him. “‘Bodyguarding’? What happened to lending moral support?”

Jaskier sucks in a breath. “Well, about that, there may be a lord or two in attendance that I’ve had a slight misunderstanding with in regards to the relationship status of their spouse.”

“Damn it, Jask. What have I told you about warming beds that don’t belong to you? If you feel the need to wet your dick, find a whore.”

Jaskier flushes. “And I’ve told you, I need there to be a genuine connection with the person I lay with. Paying them so they have artificial feelings for me just doesn’t do it for me.” He turns his back, fiddling with bottles and other bath salts on a hutch.

Geralt sighs, taking pity on the kid and changing the subject. “That still doesn’t explain why you need me to protect you. You could easily defend yourself against any noble with a grudge.”

Jaskier spins back around, a hand on his hip. “Duh, I could take all of them in my sleep, but the thing about being a bard, I can’t let others know that. People expect their bards to have a pretty face and a prettier voice, that’s it. They want to be able to let their guard down and listen to lovely music. If word gets out that I can fight better than their own personal guards, then no one would fully let themselves relax around me and I would be out of a job.”

“Sounds to me you need to find a better profession.”

“And what, pray tell, could you see me doing instead? Teaching was a bore. Sure, I still do the occasional guest lecture at Oxenfurt when funds are low, but I would sooner carve my brain out with a dull spoon than do that full time again. Being a witcher like you is fun, but there are only so many jobs you’ll let me accompany you on, me being too human and squishy made sure of that. This is the only trade where I get to have fun and travel around, and well, I like being liked.”

Geralt can’t argue with that. All his life, Jaskier has loved being the center of attention and hates being pinned down in one place for too long. Geralt dreads the end of winter, when every year without fail, the kid becomes a complete menace with cabin fever. He also prefers that the worst Jaskier deals with is harsh criticism from a tough crowd instead of stones and pitchforks that Geralt has to deal with. “Still, I don’t like that you have to hide a part of yourself.” He settles on.

Jaskier crouches down, resting his forearms on the rim of the tub. “It’s not the worst. And I’m not hiding that part of me all the time.” He starts to fiddle with his medallion, the silver catching and reflecting the candle light. “I started teaching Valdo how to defend himself.”

Geralt raises a brow. “Really. And how’s that working out with your friend?” He can’t help but let his emotions show when he says the word friend. It’s been six years since he found out about the two being cousins. Six years of him having to keep his mouth shut about that because the guy has been too chicken shit to tell Jaskier the truth.

Jaskier doesn’t know any of that though, mistaking his annoyance at the two being friends. “Oh, hush, you grumpy old arse. He’s my best friend and I’d rather not see him getting jumped again when I’m not there to protect him.” He flicks water at him to add emphasis.

Geralt blinks at him, not reacting to the childish act. “If he’s so tough now, why didn’t you ask him to accompany you? Surely he would blend in better than my ‘grumpy old arse’.”

“For your information, I did ask him first. He said he had a prior engagement and couldn’t get out of it. So then I tracked down Uncle Eskel, but he was busy too. Uncle Bert just laughed in my face, so as the event drew closer, I had to settle with you.”

“Don’t I just feel special.”

Jaskier shoots up, wandering around the tub again. “Oi, don’t you start. Thirty seconds ago you were complaining about having to go in the first place. You don’t also get to gripe about being my last choice.”

“I don’t remember agreeing to anything. I’ve told you many times that I don’t get involved in the petty squabbles of men.”

Jaskier barks a laugh, making Geralt glare at him as he circles the tub once again. “That has to be the biggest lie you’ve ever uttered, and that includes the time you once made me believe if I ate enough carrots then I would have as good of eyesight as you.”

Geralt snorts at that. Jaskier was the worst at eating his vegetables and that little white lie was the only thing preventing the kid from getting scurvy until Lambert spilled the beans. After that he had to go back to hiding the carrots in the stew like before. Glancing around, he notices for the first time that his clothes are missing. “Where the fuck are my clothes, you brat?”

“I sent them to get cleaned, you ungrateful lout. Besides, where we’re going, you need something a little nicer than that black tunic that’s only being held together by sweat and prayers.”

Geralt beckons him forward. “Come here.”

Jaskier squints suspiciously at him. “Why?”

“Do it, or I won’t go.”

With mild grumbling, Jaskier does as he’s told, crouching down again. Quick as a flash, Geralt reaches out, dunking his head under the bathwater.

Jaskier flails, yanking himself back out. He sputters, spitting water out and rubbing his eyes. “Dad, you fucker! I just cleaned my bloody hair, and now it’s ruined from your selkiemore guts water! I have to wash it all over again now!” He whines.

Geralt lets the chuckle escape that’s been building in his chest. “Oops.”

Jaskier is the perfect picture of a drowned rat as he glares at Geralt.

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The whole ride to the palace is spent with Jaskier consulting his song book, trying to create the perfect order for playing. Geralt barely listens, not knowing a thing about the importance of which song is played when. To him it doesn’t matter, they’re going to be heard either way, who cares about the when. He’s learned the hard way not to voice that opinion though, Jaskier once giving him an hour long lecture on why it does, in fact, matter that went way over his head.

Instead he rides slightly ahead on Roach, a lead behind him to guide Jaskier’s horse Pegasus as well.

(“Pegasus, really?” Geralt had questioned a few years ago when Jaskier had picked out the white colt.

“You named your horse after a fish, you don’t get to judge me.”)

On the way into the hall milling with people, Geralt tries to stretch against the doublet Jaskier forced on him, earning him a whack on the arm.

“Quit it, you’re going to tear the stitching.”

Geralt scowls, relaxing his arms. “This thing is too tight. How am I supposed to ‘defend’ you if I can’t even lift my arms above my head? I believe you told me this was supposed to be ‘easy-peasy’.”

Jaskier grins, holding up a hand. “Oo, yes, perfect, keep looking like that. No one will dare try to do anything to me with a scary mug like that.”

“Jaskier!” He hisses.

“Calm down, all you have to do is stick close to me and pretend you’re a mute. As long as no one knows you’re a witcher, you’ll blend right in. Are you sure you don’t want to tuck your medallion in under your shirt?”

“Julian…”

“Alright, fine, do what you want.”

A shout interrupts the two. “Geralt of Rivia, the mighty witcher!” Well, shit, there goes no one knowing he’s a witcher. A few conversations around them pause, openly staring at him.

“Ah, shit.” Jaskier mutters, mirroring Geralt’s own thoughts.

Mousesack, an old druid friend of Geralt’s, raises a glass and approaches the two with a huge grin. “Geralt, I haven’t seen you since the plague.” 

“Good times.” Geralt greets him dryly.

Jaskier must recognize him as well, because he seems to shrink a little as he subtly tries to hide behind Geralt. It doesn’t work though as Mousesack’s eyes light up in recognition. “Well, I’ll be, is that you, Julian?” The druid elbows Geralt. “Your boy seems to have grown to be quite the bonny lad.”

Geralt steps to the side, taking great pleasure in Jaskier’s embarrassment. “His pretty face is the reason I was dragged to this thing. He’s stuck his fingers in one too many pies that don’t belong to him.”

“Dad!” Jaskier squacks as Mousesack barks a laugh. “And it’s not Julian anymore. I prefer the name Jaskier.”

Mousesack regains his composure, clearing his throat. “And tell me, is that why you’re here dressed like a sad, silk trader?” He gestures to Geralt’s clothes with a poorly hidden grin.

Geralt turns to glare at Jaskier, who starts to fiddle with his lute case. “What? I thought the blue brought out your eyes.”

“Go get set up, kid. The adults are talking now.” Geralt pats him on the shoulder.

Jaskier rolls his eyes, adjusting the lute case on his back and turns to leave in a huff. “The nerve. What is possibly one of his only friends on the continent shows up to this thing, and he decides to ditch me in favor of him.” He grumbles.

Mousesack shakes his head in amusement, leading Geralt along. He fills him in on the politics of the banquet. Apparently, even though Queen Calanthe has to hear out every plea for her daughter’s hand in marriage, she has already made a backroom deal and promised the marriage to the nephew of a high ranking Skelliger.

They pause their conversation as a herald gets everyone's attention. “May I present, The Crowned Princess of Cidaris, Nefari Pankratz, her daughter Princess Ellin Alfred-Pankratz, and her nephew The Honorable Valdo Marx.”

Out of habit, Geralt always keeps at least a small amount of his attention on Jaskier, most of the time to make sure he doesn’t stir up trouble. Right now, his son’s heart is beating faster than he’s ever heard it. Glancing his way, Jaskier is over in the corner where the other musicians are, lute halfway out of its case, completely frozen as he stares at the main entrance. Worry is clearly painted on his face, but what could he be worried about? Unless… 

What was it that the herald said? Her Nephew. If Marx and Jaskier are cousins, and Marx is also the nephew of this princess, then that means Jaskier is…

It’s like a bucket of ice water was just dumped on his head at the realization. Oh, Fuck.

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1230

Age 8

“Away, you beast! You shall not harm this city and its people anymore!” Julian thrusts his ‘sword’ forward, plunging it into the heart of the dragon.

In reality, his friend grabs the stick and nestles it between his arm and chest, giving the illusion that he was stabbed. “Bleh! No, you’ve defeated me!” He falls onto his back, twitching.

Julian slumps his shoulders. “Olci, I’ve told you, dragons can’t talk.”

Olci sits up in the grass, their game forgotten. “They can too!”

“No, they can’t!”

“Yes, they can! My older cousin, whose friend’s brother is a knight said so!”

Julian crosses his arms. “Then your cousin is a liar! Because dragons. Can’t. Talk!”

“Yes, they can!”

“No, they can’t!”

“Yes, they can!”

“No, they-”

“Julian!” A feminine voice calls out, interrupting their argument. “Blessed bride, what the devil are you wearing?” His mother walks out to meet them in the garden, her purple gown flowing in the slight breeze.

Olci jumps up from the ground, bowing. Julian on the other hand stays as he is, looking down at the patchwork brown tunic and trousers that are a little big on him. “Olci let me borrow his clothes, mum, that way mine don’t get dirty. Isn’t that brilliant? I thought of it all on my own.” He grins, proud of himself. 

His mum only frowns though, glancing at Olci. “Olci, I believe you are needed in the kitchens. Run along now.”

“Yes, Milady.” He bows once more to her. “Milord.” He bows to Julian before running off.

Julian waves goodbye to his friend. His disappointment turns to a hardened glare as he looks up at his mum. “No fair, it was my turn to be the dragon next.”

She grabs his arm, pulling him along. “You shouldn’t be seen playing with him. If your grandfather found out about this-”

Julian digs his heels in, yanking his arm back. “So? Olci is my friend! Who cares if he’s the son of my chambermaid? He’s the only boy my age that I get to talk to.”

“Keep your voice down!” She hisses, glancing around. With a sigh, she lowers herself to his level. “Dear heart, this is just the way things work. You are a prince, the future ruler of this kingdom, there are certain expectations that are set for you that you need to follow.”

Julian crosses his arms. “That’s dumb. If I’m going to be king one day, then- then, I’m going to change that rule and be friends with whoever I want.”

The frown eases off her face and into a smile. Her eyes still look sad though. “Is that so, little one? Well, if you want to be king, then you’re going to have to change out of these clothes and into your own.” She stands again, holding her hand out to him. “Come along, we have guests arriving soon and you need to be ready. I believe you have half the garden in that hair of yours.” 

Julian giggles, taking her hand. “That’s silly.”

She squeezes his hand, causing him to look up. “You also have to promise me that you’ll not play with Olci again, for his sake. He could get in trouble if the wrong person saw you two together. Understand?”

“But-”

“Julian,” She says sternly.

“Fine…”

“I’m sorry, my dear heart, but you’ll find other friends. I promise.”

He tries to cling to his mother’s words, her promise that he’ll find others. He lets himself be led back to his chambers, where his chambermaid is waiting with a tub of heated water and fresh clothes laid out. As he strips out of the borrowed clothes, her back to him to give him privacy, he hesitates before making the split second decision to tuck the patchwork brown clothes back behind his dresser, out of sight and only where his small arms can reach.

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Cold dread makes its home in the pit of Jaskier’s stomach. He can’t make his limbs move, can’t take his eyes off the two women across the hall from him. Not just any two women though, his mother and little sister, of whom he hasn’t seen since he was nine.  

Eighteen years is a long time to go without seeing his family. Ellin, Elli he used to call her, was only a little girl when he left. Younger than him by three years, she was all grins and had hands that were always sticky, no matter how many times she was wiped down. He remembers the lisp she had, causing her to call him Ju’an because the L sounds were still too elusive for her.

Now she’s grown to be a beautiful young woman with long brown hair that curls at the ends like his own when it gets too long. And her hair isn’t where the resemblance stops. She has the same sharp blue eyes as him as well, a trait they both inherited from their mother. Similar face structure too.

As a child, he vaguely remembers people commenting on the fact that the two of them could have been twins. He always denied it, not seeing it himself, but now… 

He needs to make sure to steer clear of her, lest everyone here starts getting suspicious. It would not be good for his reputation if rumors start to spread about him being a royal bastard. That would be just a little too close to the truth for him.

Glancing at his mother, he realizes with a start that she looks a lot older than the image that’s been frozen in his head for the past eighteen years. He’s not an idiot, of course he knew she would continue to age, but knowing and seeing are two very different things. She has more wrinkles around the eyes and mouth, and what was once rich chestnut hair is now lined with grey hairs.

The part that makes his chest tighten the most though, is how much of that is nature age and how much is it from the grief of having to lose a child?

He doesn’t even get to contemplate on the fact that apparently Valdo is his cousin and the fucker had to have known and never mentioned anything to him, as he is pulled out of his thoughts rather roughly by a tug on his arm. His lute drops back into its case with a muted thud in his shock. He follows the hand that’s gripping his arm, so tightly he can already feel it starting to bruise, to its owner, a short, stout man with a grimace.

“Are you the bard known as Jaskier?” 

Jaskier glances at the hand holding him in place, cursing himself on letting his guard down. If Lambert found out he wasn’t alert enough to notice this lout sneaking up on him, his uncle would probably piss himself laughing before forcing him to do drills blindfolded for an hour straight. “Ah, well, I suppose that is what some people call me, but it’s not my given- whoa!”

The lout shoves him with all his weight, invading his space and making him back up until his back hits the wall. “Something about you reminds me of a scoundrel I once saw fleeing my wife’s chamber!”

“Um, well-”

“Drop your trousers!” He demands.

Jaskier pauses, not expecting that. “What?”

“I didn’t get a proper look at the little shit’s face,” He hisses. “But that pimply arse I’d remember anywhere.”

“Oh, uh, well,” He stutters, looking around. This here is exactly why he had his father come along, and now he is nowhere to be seen. He literally had one job and he isn’t doing it. He knew he should have pushed Lambert more to join him instead.

A hand rests on the lout’s shoulder, getting his attention. “Pardon me, my lord, I have to apologize for my friend here.” Valdo plasters on a smile, easing his way to Jaskier’s side. “This unfortunately happens far too often. You see, despite his pretty face, it couldn’t possibly have been him that you chased off from your wife’s bed.”

Jaskier tries to inch away, but gets stopped by a hand grabbing the front of his doublet. The lout turns his glare to Valdo as he holds Jaskier in place. “And what has you so sure that this shit stain wasn’t the one doing unspeakable things to my wife?”

“Well, for one, he has a certain… aversion you could say, to the fairer sex. In fact, he much prefers his partners to be more aggressive than the common lady is capable.” At that, Valdo pointedly looks at the hand still pressing into Jaskier’s chest.

The lout yanks his hand back as if he’s been burned, face red either in rage or embarrassment Jaskier isn’t sure. He grumbles a few choice words under his breath before glancing at the two of them and stomping off.

Jaskier straightens his doublet, glad that’s over with, and heads back to his lute without a glance in Valdo’s direction. 

“Oi, a certain two word phrase would be nice. I just saved your hide back there.” Valdo follows, leaning on the half wall where Jaskier had set his lute and its case down on.

“Fuck off.” He mutters as he starts to tune his lute.

“While being a two word phrase, that isn’t exactly what I was looking for.” He pauses, most likely waiting for him to laugh at the joke. When all he does is look up and glare at him, Valdo’s grin drops from his face. “Listen, I was gonna tell you-”

Whatever he was going to say next gets drowned out by trumpets, followed by the herald announcing the presence of Queen Calanthe herself.

“I don’t have time to listen to your bloody excuses, I have a job to do, cousin.” He spits the title out, letting his hurt show with the single word. His anger leaves him at Valdo’s flinch. “We’ll talk more when I have a break.” He adds as a soft apology.

He nods. “I’m sorry.” 

“I know.”

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After being properly cleaned and dressed, Julian is shepherded along to the grand hall, standing at attention between his two sisters as their grandfather receives the guests for tonight's banquet.

“Did you have fun playing with the little peasant boy, little brother?” His older sister Maera whispers, keeping her green eyes forward.

Julian clenches his fist from where it’s hidden behind his back, biting the inside of his cheek. Just because she is four years older than him, it makes her think she can boss him around however she likes.

“We’re supposed to stand here quietly.” He whispers back instead, not rising to the bait she is obviously laying out for him.

“Of course.” And he thinks that’s the end of it until she starts up again. “I’m only asking out of curiosity. You looked pretty upset when Mum had to drag you in to look more presentable. I’d say you even looked… comfortable in the peasant’s clothes.”

“Quit calling him a peasant, he has a name and it’s Olci.” He finally snaps, causing Maera to smirk.

“Enough you two.” Their mother glances back at them. “Pay attention.”

“Yes, mother.” They both say, Maera’s smirk becoming a harmless smile.

His sister stays quiet for good now, both of them watching as the Cintran king and his teenage daughter are led in next.

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As Jaskier plays a song he hadn’t planned to play until later in the evening (thank you oh so much Callie, you’ll be paying for that later) he takes a survey of the room. Geralt finally shows himself again, leaning against the same wall that he was boxed into earlier by the prick. Valdo is speaking softly next to him, and this is one of those times where Jaskier really wishes he had a witcher’s sense of hearing so he could listen in. 

A tankard slams onto the Skellige table, echoing through the hall as all conversations hush to listen in on the argument. Jaskier stops playing as well, knowing it’s best to let the two lords have the room.

Jaskier has to fight back a snort at their boasting. Like either of the spoiled little nobles have faced so much as a large spider, let alone a manticore. Manticores like to hunt in packs and tend to just be the guard dogs for something much worse. He’s read quite a few accounts from past witchers that manticores make packs with large trolls and the like, working together to defend their shared territory. If they have come across a single manticore and somehow managed to bumble their way through killing it, it was probably already at death’s door to begin with.

“Enough!” Queen Calanthe puts an end to their argument, doing the one thing Jaskier knows his father hates and asking for his ‘Professional witcher opinion’ on who is telling the truth in front of everyone.

“Neither.” Geralt grunts out, much to the verbal outrage of the two Skelliger lords.

Things get hairy when one of the lords brings up the butcher nickname, which makes Geralt glance up at him for the first time. Jaskier minutely shakes his head. There is a time and place for pushing back, and it’s not worth it on this little whelp. Filavandrel would be so proud of his restraint, He faintly thinks.

“Fuck off the witcher, Drund. We all know you’re just pissed because you got called out on your bullshit.” Valdo cuts in, earning a laugh through the hall. Jaskier nods in thanks, which Valdo returns with a smirk.

The Queen isn’t done playing with Geralt yet, wanting him to tell the story of how he ‘slayed the elves at the edge of the world’. But, much to Jaskier’s annoyance, he declares that to be bullshit too, instead telling the true tale of the events.

“But what about the song?” Someone calls out.

“Yeah, the song.” Jaskier grits out, glaring at Geralt to shut up. Filavandrel only asked one thing of him, one thing, and Geralt is cocking it all up.

“The only elven blood spilled that day was from when the bard bit one, and even that is more damage than what the rest of you lot could manage.” Geralt finishes, taking a sip of his ale.

Jaskier feels his face heat up as all eyes turn to him now. He ducks his head when Calanthe studies him a second too long, before she scoffs. “Any man willing to paint himself in the shadows of his failures will make for far more interesting conversation this night. Come, witcher. Take a seat by my side as I change.”

As the queen leaves, Jaskier leaves the minstrels to play on their own, setting his lute down in its case. He makes a beeline to Geralt, who is not looking very pleased. Before he has the chance to say anything, his father beats him to it.

“I need to talk to you in private, Your Majesty.” He hisses.

Jaskier winces, his mouth going dry. “Ah, fuck. You told him?” He whines to Valdo, who raises his hands in surrender.

“Don’t you dare blame me, he figured it out on his own. I only, may have, confirmed it.”

“Talking. Both of you, now.” Geralt growls, firmly placing his ale on the half wall and turning away, expecting them to follow him.

They glance at each other before tailing after him, where he leads the three of them to an empty servant's corridor. The two watch against the wall as Geralt paces before them, muttering under his breath about irritating brats.

“You know, Dad, I was only a prince, so my official title was actually Your Highness, not-” Jaskier swallows as Geralt turns his glare to him full force. “Right, sorry, not helping.” He apologizes meekly.

The anger radiates off Geralt in waves as he continues his pacing for another minute, taking calming breaths that he had taught Jaskier to do when he was a kid. Finally, he stops his pacing, looking less blinding-white-rage-angry and more your-general-run-of-the-mill-angry. “Julian, why did you never think to tell me you are royalty?”

Jaskier shakes his head, shrugging his shoulders.

Geralt sighs and crosses his arms, the rest of his anger leaving him. “Not good enough, kid. I need a verbal answer.”

Jaskier bites his lip, shaking his head again as the words get stuck in his throat. Such a simple answer of not wanting to be sent back to that horrible, stuffy place would mean admitting that he didn’t trust Geralt to never abandon him. He knows it’s stupid and irrational and his father promised he would never leave him... but what if he did?

“His grandfather, the king, threatened, to his face, to have him assassinated.” Valdo comes to his aid. “That’s not exactly something someone wishes to talk about.”

Geralt uncrosses his arms, letting them drop to his sides. “What? Is that true?”

Jaskier nods, making sure to keep his tears in check. He can’t go back out and play in a few minutes with his eyes red and puffy. His courtly reputation is already in tatters thanks to his cousin and father tonight.

Cousin. Melitele’s tit’s, it’s just now hitting him that he has a cousin. And it’s Valdo.

He punches Valdo in the arm, hard enough to leave a bruise. “Ow! What was that for?!” He rubs his arm where he was hit.

“Why did you never tell me you were my cousin, you fucking cock?!”

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Julian silently eats at the high table with the rest of his family, wishing this meal would end already. As the night goes on, everyone starts moving about as they finish their meals, the packed hall smelling more and more of wine and fancy ales as the adults get steadily more drunk.

They are getting loud too, making his head start to have a dull ache. The sound soon bothers Elli too much, causing her to get upset and their parents taking her to be put to bed. He begs his mum for him to be able to leave too, but she makes him stay with his grandfather and older sister. With a kiss on his head, she tells him to go mingle more before readjusting a squirming Elli on her hip and taking her leave with his dad.

With a sigh, he mixes around what’s left on his plate, watching everyone dote on Maera as she shows off some dance she learned last week. When she finishes, everyone claps, yelling and slamming their tankards on the tables.

It’s not fair. He learned that dance too, plus the next steps, but his grandfather doesn’t care. It’s always been Maera this and Maera that. She’s the perfect grandchild that can do no wrong in his eyes.

And then there’s him. Stupid Julian who just isn’t smart enough, or pretty enough, or fast enough, or whatever other little flaw his grandfather decides to pick at that day.

Stupid old man, he isn’t even subtle about his preference for his sister over him. Everyone in this room knows it. Even right now, he’s parading her around while he sits alone at the table still.

Having enough, he stands, slipping out of the hall unnoticed like he usually does. Servants pay him no mind as he walks through the corridors, knowing that if he walks like he has a purpose they won’t stop him.

The room he reaches is his favorite. It’s an old drawing room that smells of dust and mothballs, and the fireplace hasn’t been lit in ages, but it’s quiet and faces out to the ocean. He lights the candles with the matches he stored here some time ago, and then opens the windows to air the room out. 

It’s dark out, and the cold breeze from the oncoming winter makes him shiver, but the smell of saltwater in the air is worth it. Grabbing a blanket off the couch, he shakes it out before wrapping it around himself and curling up on the window seat. He gets hypnotized by the crashing of the waves, watching them by the full moon’s light.

“Well, this is quite the cozy little hiding spot you’ve found for yourself.” A female voice he doesn’t recognize says behind him.

With a start, he spins around to find the princess of Cintra leaning in the doorway, Calanthe he thinks her name is. She looks a little older than Maera, and has the same bossy air about her as well. He only blinks at her, wanting her to go away, but also not wanting to be rude and outright telling her that.

She rolls her eyes, coming further into the room and shutting the door behind her with a click. “Relax, I’m not going to tattle on you. I just needed to get away from all the stupid drunken idiots.” She flops down on the couch, creating a cloud of dust that she chokes on.

Julian can’t help the chuckle that escapes him as she coughs, face red and eyes watering. Once she regains her senses, she sends a glare his way. “You think that was funny, ankle biter?”

Julian sits up, letting his feet hang down. “The great Princess Calanthe, defeated by a dusty couch. I can hear the ballads now.”

“Oh? So the ankle biter does possess the power of speech. Close that window, ankle biter, I’m freezing my tits off here.”

Julian does not do as he was told, crossing his arms instead. “I was here first. Find a different room if you don’t like it. And stop calling me ankle biter.” With a huff, she stands and Julian thinks she is finally going to leave him alone, but instead she comes toward him, pushing past him to latch the window shut herself. “Oi, I said no!” He pushes at her arms, to no effect.

“Tough shit, ankle biter.” She says in passing as she starts to wander around the room, running a finger along the old books.

“I said, stop calling me that!” He forgets about the window, jumping down from the seat to follow her around. “If you keep calling me ankle biter, then I’ll start calling you names!”

She pauses, looks him up and down, then snorts and continues on her walk around the room. “Call me whatever you want, ankle biter, it’s not like I haven’t heard them all before. Bitch, psychopath, unlady like, gentleman jack, I’m immune to them all.”

Julian wasn’t expecting her to be so blunt. He was just going to call her a meanie, not any of those words. “Then… then… then, I’ll call you... Callie.” He panics, saying the first thing that comes to mind. 

He braces for her to start laughing at him, but instead her eye twitches a bit before it goes away and she scoffs. “Is that the best you got, ankle biter?”

Julian smirks. “It seems to be doing the trick, Callie.”

Her face darkens, until it cracks and she starts to laugh. “You’re not so bad, ‘Lian.”

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Geralt reluctantly takes his seat to the right of the queen’s empty chair at the high table. Being forced to come to this damn horse and pony show was bad enough, but having to play nice with the royalty is not what he signed up for. He still can’t picture a young version of his son up here, having to stay still and smile and nod. Julian was a whirlwind of activity back then and still is. Even now he’s wandering around the hall, his lute in hand and dancing around to his own playing.

He looks like he doesn’t have a care in the world, smiling and skipping to the rhythm, but Geralt can see the tension in his jaw, and the way he keeps subtly glancing in the direction of his family’s table. His other family, from before Geralt and the other witchers. A real mother, and sister, and cousin.

Gods, Prince Julian of Cidaris. That does explain how the kid knew about the common roach when they first met. Cidaris is a kingdom on the coast, north of Brokilon Forest, that mainly relies on fishing for the majority of their economy. From what Geralt knows, which isn’t much to be honest, King Ethain is supposed to be well loved, and is considered a fair and just ruler. It’s hard to picture someone like that threatening to have a child, his own grandson, killed. But this just proves that a person never knows what truly happens behind closed doors.

Nobility, and royalty especially, are experts on masking their true intentions. That’s why Geralt tries to avoid them. They may have deeper pockets when it comes to contracts, but it’s not worth dealing with all their bullshit. Most of the time. Like usual, Julian is the only exception. 

Speaking of, Jaskier pauses in his playing as the queen makes her entrance again, this time her bloody armour replaced with a clean dress. Jaskier bows in respect, and the rest of the hall, minus Geralt, stand before she sits, motioning for everyone to be seated and for the music to continue. With a short nod, Jaskier continues on, not missing a beat.

“Not one to stand on ceremony, witcher?” She asks with a smirk.

“Not the ceremonial type.” He grounds out.

“A blind man could see that. So tell me, if you aren’t the ceremonial type, then how did you find yourself at my daughter’s wedding feast dressed like a...?” She trails off, snorting at his outfit. He is never letting that brat dress him again. He’s pretty sure there are flowers on the doublet. Knowing Jaskier, they’re probably buttercups.

Geralt sighs, watching Jaskier with his eyes. “I’m protecting the bard from vengeful royal cuckolds.”

“Hm, from your tale, it sounds like he is quite capable of taking care of himself.”

“He’s more worried about his ‘courtly reputation’. I believe his exact words were, ‘People expect their bards to have a pretty face and a prettier voice, that’s it’.”

She pops a grape in her mouth, nodding. “Understandable. If word got out he was raised by a pack of witchers then he wouldn’t get the chance to play in even the lowest of courts.”

Geralt’s head shoots up. “He’s not-”

“You have been the best conversationalist I’ve had in weeks, please don’t ruin it by playing the idiot now.” She cuts him off.

Geralt glares at her, keeping his fists hidden under the table. “What do you want?”

She shrugs off his glare, sipping her wine. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist, witcher. I’m glad your little pup can hold his own. I’m envious even. My daughter can’t stand to wield a blade, she inherited her father’s more diplomatic views.”

“I don’t know about that, it seems the good queen is just as capable holding a conversation as she is a blade.”

“What they say is true, you witchers are observant. Care to point out any other observations?”

Geralt studies her. He has a feeling this whole thing was a trap from the beginning. Fucking royalty. He’s serious, never again, not even if Jaskier begs him. “I don’t think it’s a coincidence that you chose the only bard that has close ties to a witcher.” She opens her mouth, no doubt about to give him the sales pitch. “You can save your breath. I’m not for hire as a bodyguard, and neither is my son.”

She closes her mouth, pauses, before starting again. “I don’t need something as mundane as a bodyguard, I have plenty of those. I’m only saying, surely if all goes to hell here tonight, I can count on you to strategically remove certain irritants that may present themselves?”

Geralt has to give it to her, she is nothing if not persistent. “Hey,” He turns to her for the first time this evening, looking her in the eye. “I can’t help you.”

“We’ll see about that, witcher. Everyone has a price, you just need to find the right… motivation.”

“Bribe me, torture me, do whatever you want to me, but leave my son out of it.”

“Calm down, the bard will be fine, you have my word that none of my guards will touch a hair on his pretty little head.”

Their conversation ends as the first of the men start to make their case for why they should get the princess’s hand in marriage.

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Julian and the Cintran princess forge a truce, sharing the room with the same goal in mind to avoid all the irritating party guests. Calanthe, Callie Julian has taken to calling her much to her annoyance, lit a fire in the hearth and dusted off an ornate chest set that was in the corner.

“You play, ankle biter?” She asks, dragging the table over by the fireplace as Julian opens his window again.

“As long as you don’t mind losing, Callie.” He smirks over his shoulder.

She only rolls her eyes as she takes a seat. “I think I liked you better when you were playing the part of a mute.” 

He wasn’t just talk, she soon came to realize. She made the mistake of not trying too hard, earning him a quick victory before she knew what was coming. 

“Not bad, for a little kid. Hope you know I won’t go easy on you now.” She puts her pieces back in place.

“Maybe this match will last ten minutes instead of five this time.”

She smirks, glancing up at him. “You’re a cheeky little bugger, aren’t you.”

“Only saying what’s true.”

This time Calanthe seems to actually put some effort into this match, pondering her moves more carefully this time. They last for about thirty minutes before they declare it a draw, each only having their kings left.

He starts putting all the pieces back as she leans back in her seat, one arm draped across the back. “Tell me, do your tutors keep you updated on the current political climate? You obviously have a mind for strategy.”

Julian shrugs. “Some.” He admits, making the first move. By ‘some’, he means the current kingdoms, their rulers, and their boundaries. He doesn’t want to admit that he’s overheard his grandfather order his tutors to ‘take their time’ with him and to not ‘push’ him by presenting him with things he may not understand. He doesn’t understand why, he’s smart enough. Maera may be the ‘gifted’ one, but he’s not simple. If anything, he’s smarter than her. He took a peek at her studies once, and he was able to understand all of it just fine.

She hums, resting her chin in one hand as she moves a piece. “Well, in case you were unaware, Verden recently became a vassal state of Cintra. Part of the deal my father made with them is that our army would aid them if so needed-”

“-In exchange for free trade between Cintra and Verden.” He recites. 

“Exactly. The reason Verden wanted our help to begin with is because that so-called kingdom of merchants and pirates, Kerack, decided to have a pissing match, taking cheap shots at their northern border.”

Julian nods. He’s heard his grandfather and parents complain about Kerack and they’re new self-appointed King Osmyk. He’s been causing skirmishes on their southern border too, and attacking any fishing ships that stray too far south. 

“That means our kingdoms have a common enemy right now.” Calanthe continues on. “I’m not supposed to know this, but I overheard my father talking with his advisors. To avoid an all out pointless and costly war, he wants to set up an iron clad alliance between our two kingdoms so Kerack will get intimidated and stand down. He thinks, and your parents agree, that a merging of our houses will send a strong enough message.”

Julian wrinkles his brows, looking up at her and forgetting their game. “Merge our houses? Like a marriage? But you’re an only child and I only have sisters.”

Calanthe rolls her eyes, a sigh of frustration leaving her. “Do I really need to spell it out for you, ankle biter? Once we are of age, we are to be married.”

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“... And how long would you last? A year? A month? A day?” Jaskier can’t help but laugh along with the others as Calanthe finishes giving the Nilfgaardian lord a verbal dressing down in front of everyone, the young lord leaving the hall in a huff. It seems Callie’s tongue has only gotten sharper with age.

As the herald announces the next potential suitor, Jaskier uses the break to head to the back of the hall where Valdo is standing up against a wall. “How’s the arm?” He teases softly, not wanting to face Calanthe’s wrath for ‘interrupting’. Even he is man enough to admit that he is terrified of the woman.

Valdo rubs his arm, glaring at him. “There really was no need for you to bloody hit me. Were you raised by wolves?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I was.” He says sincerely, tapping his chest where they both know his medallion hides under his doublet and chemise.

Valdo groans, rolling his eyes. “Walked into that one, didn’t I.”

“A bit. I just couldn’t resist. People ask me that more than you think and I’ve been dying to tell them yes with a straight face.” Jaskier lets himself be nudged with a shoulder, letting the jokes fall flat. “In all seriousness, I’ll let the whole cousin thing go if you tell me what you’re doing here. Last you said in your letter, you couldn’t make it to this shindig because you got called home.”

Valdo crosses his arms with a sigh. “My mother wrote wishing me to return home urgently. I get there to find my auntie telling me that King Ethain is ordering me to throw my hat in the bloody ring for Princess Pavetta’s hand.”

“Wait, you’re here as a suitor? Why you? No offence, but you’re the third son of a Viscountess, you don’t even have the title of lord. Surely my grandfather has higher ranking nobles at his disposal that have a better chance than you.”

Valdo snorts. “Wow, thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“You know what I mean. Calanthe is only looking at what you can bring to the table power wise, not how pretty your face is.”

“And you would know, considering it’s your fault I’m here.”

“Wha- How- Yes, please explain how exactly you being dragged here is my fault.”

“King Ethain is still obsessed with an alliance with Cintra. The alliance that fell through when you ran away and didn’t marry Calanthe like you were supposed to. With no male heirs of his own, Ethain turned to your father’s side of the family. Me to be exact. If the marriage can’t be someone of royal blood, he wants it to be at least someone related to his family through marriage.”

Jaskier lets his head fall back, causing a dull thud. “Fuck. Whoever said people mellow with age is a bloody idiot. Did the old man tell you why that alliance was formed in the first place?” With a shake of his head, Jaskier rolls his eyes. “No, of course he wouldn’t.” He mumbles to himself. “Back then Kerack was still a new kingdom. One that was power hungry for any land they could get their hands on and people willing to fight to the death for it. What they lacked in numbers they made up for with passion, one man for a cause equals one hundred for pay and all that.”

Valdo nods, catching on. “Kerack has settled down since they’re army was slaughtered a decade ago by the dryads. The people blamed the king and had him beheaded. Last I heard they have a council that runs things now and have been peaceful ever since.”

“Precisely. Kerack is no threat, so if you bring up that old alliance to Calanthe she’ll mock you right out of this hall worse than that Nilfgaardian.” Jaskier does a double take when he notices Valdo staring at him. “What?”

“For someone who hated all this, you certainly have a knack for it.”

Jaskier gives him a light whack on the arm. “I do still hate all this, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know my way around court politics. And if you want my advice for dealing with her,” He gestures with his head at Calanthe, who looks bored out of her mind on the throne as one of the suitors drones on about his pedigree. “Be honest, and whatever you do, don’t feed her shit. She’s wading through enough of that tonight, and you being humble will work in your favor.”

Valdo lets out a long breath, slouching against the wall. “Tell me the truth, I don’t stand a chance, do I.”

Jaskier shakes his head. “If I were to put money on it, I’d say there’s a better chance that horses will sprout wings before Calanthe picks you.”

Valdo barks a short laugh. “Yeah, figured as much.”

“Quite the pessimistic view you have there, darling.” A female voice comments, joining them. Lilacs and lavender are the first thing Jaskier smells, instantly transporting him to when he was only a child. He never thought he’d smell that again, the smell of warmth, and happiness, and most importantly home.  

He’s grateful for the lute hanging in front of him, giving his hands something to hold and center himself. It takes all his willpower to force a smile on his face and gives his mother a short bow. “I prefer the term realistic optimism. A pessimistic bard would be bad for business.” 

Good thing regular humans can’t hear each other’s heartbeats, because right now it feels like his is about to beat right out of his chest. It’s loud enough to get Geralt’s attention, who looks his way from the high table. Jaskier glances up at him to reassure him that he’s okay, which earns him a minute nod.

His mother chuckles, the corners of her eyes wrinkle in a way Jaskier doesn’t remember as she smiles warmly. “I suppose it would. Valdo, care to introduce me to your not-pessimistic friend?”

At the sound of his name, Valdo jerks to attention as if he was spacing out. “Right, of course. Auntie, this is the bard Jaskier. We attended university together in Oxenfurt. Jaskier, this is my aunt, Princess Nefari of Cidaris.”

“The pleasure is mine, Your Highness.” Jaskier keeps his smile plastered on his face, saying the words he knows are expected of him. Even after eighteen years, he still finds it surprisingly easy to fall back on proper court etiquette. 

“Mine as well.” She turns her attention to Valdo. “Dear, I believe it’s your turn next.”

Valdo takes a deep breath. “Goody.”

Nefari rubs his arm. “Relax. No one is expecting you to win her hand. All you can do is try your best.”

Jaskier and his mum, and he still can’t believe he’s standing right next to his mum, watch as Valdo walks forward, standing next to the herald as he waits for the previous suitor to finish his pitch.

This is worse than being apart from her, having her by his side, so close he can touch her, but unable to reach out. Why did he even agree to this? The amount he’s being paid isn’t worth all this. From now on, he is never playing in a royal court again. He can scratch any court in Cidaris out as well, as well as the surrounding kingdoms if he wants to play it safe.

As he gets lost in thought, she surprises him by striking up conversation again. “I’m sorry, but have we met before? You seem so familiar to me.”

“Oh, ah, no, nope, never. I just have one of those faces I suppose. This is my first time playing for a royal court, so there is definitely no chance we could have met before.” Fuck, shit, shut your mouth, Jask!

“I suppose you do.” There’s an awkward pause as she studies him once more, before turning her attention back to Valdo.

He should walk away from her right now, that would be the smarter thing to do. As hard as it is for him, he can’t tell her who he is. According to Valdo, his family has already grieved his loss. They’ve grieved and moved on, and it’s not his place to reopen that wound for them.

Besides, they would expect him to be Julian again, and that isn’t him anymore, never really was to be perfectly honest. He enjoys being Jaskier the bard.

He jumps as she starts up again. “Here’s what I don’t believe, there is no way this is your first time in a royal court. I’ve seen a bard or two in my time, and you handle yourself like a seasoned professional. Where are you from, if I may be so bold as to ask.”

Jaskier’s brain seems to freeze as he tries to come up with a place. Anywhere in Cidaris is definitely out. Rivia is a bit too close an association with Geralt. Creyden or Oxenfurt could work, but those two seem to just fly right out of his head at the moment. “Aren’t we all just children of this continent?” He lands with, mentally cringing at his own words.

She chuckles. “Spoken like a true traveling bard. I should return to my daughter, but it was a pleasure talking to you, realistically optimistic bard Jaskier.”

“You as well, Your Highness.”

He bows as she takes her leave, falling back against the wall once she’s gone. He breathes through the urge to puke, shutting his eyes for a moment.

He starts as a hand touches his arm, eyes flinging open to find Valdo back and looking concerned. “Fucking hell, would people quit sneaking up on me tonight?”

He pulls his hand back. “Sorry, you’re not usually this easy to sneak up on. You okay?”

Jaskier swallows the lump in his throat. “I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be? Don’t answer that. So!” He exclaims, trying to change the subject. “Do we hear wedding bells in your future?”

“I think we both know the answer to that. At least I got away with minimal mocking. Queen Calanthe kept calling me curly.” Valdo pats his hair down. “It isn’t that bad, I’ve seen people with curlier hair.”

Jaskier raises a brow. “Only minimal mocking on Callie’s part? She must have liked you then. The whole time I knew her she kept calling me ‘ankle biter’, ‘’Lian’ if she was in a good mood. And she’s never in a good mood unless she has a sword in her hand.”

Valdo snorts. “Ankle biter?”

“Shut it. I was eight and small for my age.”

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Calanthe’s words keep swimming around his head for the next month. There’s no reason for her to lie about them being betrothed, and their union would be a great show of force against Kerack and make any other kingdom think twice before they attacked either of them.

But why does it have to be him?

Other kingdoms just as powerful as Cintra have sons that his sisters could marry. It doesn’t make any sense on why he should marry the future Queen of Cintra. Sure, she’s probably going to be a ruler long before him, his grandfather still in great health and his mother has both youth and health on her side. But eventually they would both be the leaders of their respective kingdoms, meaning they would need to stay in their kingdom. They can’t be married and living together, while also bouncing back and forth between two places. 

He brings this up to her when he sees her again a month later, the two of them once again in the old drawing room with the hearth lit and the window open.

This time her and her father are staying the week, some trade deal she explained. Which really meant long stretches of time where the adults are off working behind closed doors.

“Well, I don’t know about you, but when I’m queen, I’m going where I want, when I want, fuck whoever tries to tell me otherwise.” Calanthe moves her knight, in striking distance of his queen.

He gets his queen to safety, still not convinced. “It’s not fair though, my mum got to marry who she wanted, why don’t I get to choose too?”

“Your mother married the son of a count, it was the scandal of the ages. Word getting out about her being pregnant with your sister is the only reason your parents got to stay together and your father wasn’t found dead from some ‘horse riding accident’.”

Julian pales, forgetting about their game. “What?”

“Hm?” She looks up. “You didn’t know that?” He shakes his head, unable to form any words.

The room all of a sudden feels too hot and he slips from his seat, making a beeline for his window. Calanthe makes some noise of protest behind him, but he can’t hear what exactly over the sound of his own harsh breathing.

He gulps in a few deep breaths of the salty air and it seems to help some. At least the room isn’t spinning anymore. A hand lightly touches his back, fully bringing him back to reality.

“What was that about? You’re not sick, are you, ankle biter? If you barf on me, know I won’t hesitate to toss you out of this window.” Despite her harsh words, this is the most concern he’s ever seen from Calanthe.

Her attempt at a joke brings a short grin to his face before he shakes his head again with a frown, still not able to form any words. Sliding down from the window seat to the floor, he wraps his arms around his legs, burying his face into his knees. A shiver escapes him, where before it was too hot, now he’s freezing. 

Maybe Calanthe is right and he is sick. His stomach hurts, along with the throbbing at his temples, and all he wants to do is curl up in a ball and cry. The heavy weight of a blanket falling on his shoulders helps, and he curls into it. It smells of mothballs and is worn from old age, and yet he feels… safe.

“Seriously, are you okay, ‘Lian?” The question comes from his left as Calanthe settles on the ground next to him.

Julian shrugs his shoulder. “Yeah, or no. I don’t know. Everything became too much.”

“What do you mean? The thing about your father? I honestly thought you knew, it’s the main gossip at most of the stupid feasts I get dragged to.”

“I guess that’s part of it. No one told me any of that. No one ever tells me anything, and I hate it, so much. I hate all of this.” His voice starts to rise on its own accord. Where he didn’t have any words before, now that he’s started, he can’t find a way to stop. Like all the stuff he’s been pushing down is forcing its way up like word vomit. “I hate being a prince! My parents put all this pressure on me to be perfect, the perfect little heir that Grandfather can be proud of, and he doesn’t even like me! Anyone with eyes can see that he prefers my sister over me, and why wouldn’t he?! She’s older, and prettier, and smarter, and- and-”

“Stop!” Calanthe cuts him off. “I can’t speak for that fool, but you are way smarter than that idiot of a sister. I’ve spoken with her before, and let me tell you, I’ve had more stimulating conversations with a tree.”

Julian chuckles a little, but his humor is short lived once again. He takes a deep breath, trying to straighten his own thoughts. “Can…” He starts before pausing, losing confidence. Calanthe is uncharacteristically patient as she waits for him to find his words. “Can I tell you something and you promise not to repeat it to anyone else?” He finally asks.

“I promise not to tell another soul as long as I live.”

He nods, his mouth feeling very dry all of a sudden. “I wish Maera was the heir and not me. I really, really don’t want to be king.” It’s like a weight has been lifted off his chest once he voices that thought for the first time aloud. He sniffs, roughly scrubbing away the tears that start to fall. “You probably think it’s stupid to wish for something like that, but I would trade anything to be able to live my life how I want to, not pretending to be something I’m not. Everyone wants me to be a leader and a ruler, but I’m not. And it’s not because I think I’m too dumb to do it, but because I know I would be a horrible leader. This kingdom deserves someone who, in their heart, wants to lead them.”

“And that’s not you?” Calanthe finishes.

Julian shakes his head, burying his face in his knees.

She sighs, dropping her hand on his head. “Fuck, ‘Lian, are you sure you just turned nine and not ninety? Because that is surprisingly acute for an ankle biter.”

With a grunt, he shoves her hand off him. Figures she makes this all a big joke. He never should have opened his big mouth. “You promised-” He glares at her.

“That I won’t say anything, and I won’t. I may be many things, but I keep my promises. Now if you’re done moping, would you listen if I told you there was a way for you to pass on the throne?”

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Geralt nods in thanks as his ale is refilled for him, glad for small mercies. He doesn’t think he could survive the night sober, listening to all of these nobles beg for power. All their pleas start to blend together, making him bored out of his mind. Now he understands why the Queen enjoys mocking these suitors so much, if you didn’t find something to do to occupy your mind with you would end up falling asleep right here at the table.

Listening in on Jaskier’s conversation across the hall with Marx brings him some entertainment. He had to pinch his leg to keep himself from snorting at the ‘raised by wolves’ comment. Finding out Marx is here as a suitor isn’t too shocking. There are much older candidates in attendance, royal weddings not seeming to believe in age gaps.

Jaskier apparently having been betrothed to Queen Calanthe, on the other hand, is much more shocking. He doesn’t even get the chance to wrap his head around that before Jaskier’s heart rate starts to spike faster than he’s ever heard it before. His eyes scan the hall, finding his son against a wall surrounded by Marx and a woman, Jaskier’s mother to be exact. 

Geralt is ready to get up when Jaskier makes eye contact with him, nodding that he’s alright. He still stays at attention, alert for any trouble that might arise. 

Marx’s attempt is mediocre at best, his heart obviously not in it which Calanthe takes note of, going easy on the boy. Once dismissed, Marx makes his way back over to Jaskier, now alone, talking with him until the color returns to his face.

“You were downright polite to him, in your own way.” Geralt comments into his ale, confident that Jaskier is okay now.

Calanthe snorts. “Oh, witcher, I do love how brutally honest you are with me, it’s a nice change of pace from the usual groveling I have to put up with. Only one other had the balls to speak to me that way.”

“And how did that work out for him? Did he meet his untimely end by rope or blade for speaking ill of the good queen?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.” The sudden shift in tone from light to heavy has him glance at her, but her focus is straight ahead. He recognizes the look as the thousand-yard stare that Jaskier still gets from time to time when they have one of their rare conversations involving Renfri.

Geralt sets his ale down, watching the liquid settle in the tankard. “My condolences. I took a joke too far and didn’t intend to trigger bad memories.”

She snaps out of it, rolling her eyes at him. “Please, what did I just say about groveling? Bard!” She calls out, silence reigning once again as all attention is on her. Jaskier rushes forward, bowing the best he can with his lute in front of him. “I tire of listening to all these appeals for my daughter’s hand for the time being. Play something lively before I fall comatose where I sit.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Conversing with the other musicians that are standing off to the side, they all nod before Jaskier starts playing his lute first, the others following his lead. At the beginning notes of Fishmonger’s Daughter, Geralt has to keep himself from rolling his eyes. He has guts to be playing such a crass song in a royal court. On second thought, with the way the Queen speaks, it does make a little sense. And it does the job of keeping all the randy men in attendance merry and not causing a problem because Calanthe turned their offers down.

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Julian hesitates outside his grandfather’s private chambers. He’s been psyching himself up for this discussion for the past few weeks, practising down to the word exactly what he’s going to say.

When Callie was still here, she had helped him draft his speech, and recommended that he tell his grandfather his intentions sooner rather than later, that way he can know not to waste his time with Julian and that he can have everyone focus solely on Maera. Besides, maybe once the pressure is off Julian, him and his grandfather might actually start to get along.

With one more deep breath, he knocks on the large door, the sound echoing through the empty halls.

A muffled, “Enter.” sounds on the other side. Julian pushes the heavy door open, closing it behind him. His grandfather is seated at his desk near the far wall, glasses low on his nose as he finishes reading a parchment under the light of a single candle. His shoulder length brown and grey hair that’s normally neatly tied back is down loose, a clear sign that he’s about to retire for the night.

Once finished, he glances up, not bothering to hide his shock. “Julian, you should have been in bed hours ago.”

Walking up in front of the desk, Julian squares his shoulders, clasping his hands behind his back to hide their shaking. “I need to speak with you about something.” He’s proud of the way he keeps his voice steady, just like how Callie taught him to.

His grandfather isn’t impressed though (he never is), waving him off with a gesture as he removes his glasses and tosses them on the desk. “It’s late. Whatever you have on your mind can wait until morning.”

“No!” He yells, causing his grandfather to pause as he is in the process of standing. He knows he’ll lose his nerve by morning. “I need to talk to you now.”

His grandfather chuckles, a faint smirk on his face as he sits back down. Julian realizes this is the first time he’s ever raised his voice to his grandfather, and instead of looking mad, he almost looks impressed. “Very well, since you seem to feel so strongly about it, proceed.”

Now that he has the floor, Julian hesitates, suddenly second guessing everything. He still wants to back out from the throne, there’s no question about that, but maybe he should wait a little longer. 

“Speak up, boy.” His grandfather demands, all signs of amusement from his eyes earlier gone.

Julian takes a deep breath. No, he has to do this. “I wish to remove myself from the succession of the crown. Even though customs dictate that males come before females for the throne, Maera is a better fit and more suited for the responsibilities that come with ruling-”

“No.” His grandfather interrupts with an air of finality.

“But I don’t want to be king and everyone likes Maera better anyway! It makes more sense-”

Julian flinches as a fist slabs down on the desk, nearly knocking over the candle. “Enough!” He stands, looming over Julian. “Nobody cares what you want, this is about you not making this family a laughing stock to all the other northern kingdoms. So you listen to me, you insolent little brat, you will do the duties expected of you without complaint. And if you really want to be removed from succession, you have two options the way I see it; either run away and never return, or fail at your duties and I can have assassins make your death look like an accident at the snap of my fingers. Little boys are always so reckless, Julian, no one would blink an eye if they found you bleeding out at the bottom of a long staircase.”

Tears of fear and frustration well up and blur his vision.  “But-”

“Not another word! I think you’re done embarrassing yourself for the evening, don’t you think?”

Julian bites his lower lip, shame welling up in his stomach. “I hate you!” He screams, tearing open the door so hard that it slams against the wall with a loud, echoing bang. Julian doesn’t care though as he runs back to his chambers.

He doesn’t make a sound until he’s safely behind his door, only then does he finally let himself pant and gasp for breath. Between the full on sprint he made through the halls and the crying he was trying to hold back, he collapses on his floor as his sobs come full force now.

His grandfather is going to kill him. Literally.

He’s so stupid. He never should have opened his big mouth. He should have just kept his head down until the old man died and then told his mother that he didn’t want to be king. She wouldn’t have made him ascend to the throne. Why did he think his grandfather would actually care about what Julian wanted anyway?

Oh yeah, because he’s stupid.

And to add on to the pile of stupid, he went and insulted the guy who had just threatened to have him killed. He’s probably sending for an assassin right this second, debating the best way to make his death look like an accident.

What should he do? He doesn’t want to die, but there’s no way his grandfather is going to let him get away with his outburst without punishment.

He wishes Callie was here, she would know what to do. She certainly wouldn’t be curled up in a ball on her floor, that’s for sure. 

If she saw him right now, she would yell at him to stop being such a baby. So with that, he gets his breathing finally under control, then slowly gets to his feet, wiping the last of the tears off his face.

Next, she would tell him to do whatever it took to survive, to keep moving. He can’t just wait like a sitting duck for someone to come and slit his throat. 

Mind made up, he darts to his dresser. He hisses as he scrapes his arm on the stone wall as he reaches back for the old clothes he stored there.

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If later asked, Jaskier will admit that he hadn’t planned on playing Fishmonger’s Daughter. It’s one of his older ditties and one that is more for a tavern setting, not a royal ball. 

He will also admit that he is as petty as they come, and Callie really pissed him off by interrupting his first ballad before he could even get the first notes out. Honestly, she may be a queen and have an encyclopedic knowledge of military strategies, but he’s the one that spent four years studying music and is a Master of the seven fucking liberal arts. He’s pretty sure that makes him the leading expert on what bloody song to play when.

So fine, if she wants something lively, he’ll give her something lively.

Everyone enjoys the song, all singing, clapping, and dancing along, until they aren’t. As this random knight makes his dramatic entrance, Jaskier subtly sets his lute down on the half wall, his other hand unconsciously reaching up to hover over where his medallion is hidden. It’s almost hot on his skin, vibrating like never before. He’s not the only one noticing this, both Mousesack and his father have their backs straight at attention, ready to react at a moment's notice.

Valdo appears over his shoulder, hovering behind him. “What-”

“Oh, bollocks that.” One of the Skelliger men says, marching up to Urcheon and knocking his helmet off. Gasps sound from all the guests, some standing in their shock. Underneath the helmet reveals not a man, but some sort of hedgehog looking creature. Except… 

“What the fuck is that?” Valdo breathes.

“The twelfth bell…” Jaskier mutters under his breath. “It’s a curse. He’s cursed.”

“Cursed? But he looks like a bloody-” 

Whatever Valdo was about to say next gets swallowed up by Calanthe standing, pointing at Urcheon. “Slay the beast!” She commands, her guards jumping to action.

Urcheon knocks the two guards out with ease, claiming Pavetta by law of surprise. An all out brawl breaks out at that point as more guards flood into the hall, swarming Urcheon. He quickly gets outnumbered, pinned down on his back as a battle axe is swung down.

Only to be blocked by Geralt, saving Urcheon’s life.

“Kill them both!” Calanthe orders, many of the guests joining in now too.

“Shit,” Jaskier reaches into his boot, pulling out a dagger and handing it off to Valdo. “Here, take this and keep your aunt and cousin safe.”

“But-”

“Go!” Not wasting anymore time, Jaskier grabs one of the fallen swords off the ground and enters the fray, finding his father quickly. And just in time too, a guard swinging for his back. Jaskier deflects the attack, knocking the guard off balance. “If this is you not involving yourself, I’d hate to see what it’d look like otherwise.” He quips, staying back to back with him.

“What about your ‘courtly reputation’?” Geralt grunts out.

“Eh, I prefer playing in taverns anyway.”

They split after that, protecting Urcheon being the priority. Jaskier’s surprised to see the same Skelliger man, Eist he thinks his name is, that had knocked off Urcheon’s helmet earlier now fighting to protect Urcheon.

He’s less surprised to see Calanthe grab a sword off a guard, killing a man with it. She calls for everyone to stop after that, holding a blade an inch from Geralt’s. “Stop!” She yells again, this time getting everyone’s attention. 

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Renfri pulls back her sword with a sickening squelch, the final body from the caravan falling to the ground with a thump. She flicks the blood off the blade before sheathing it on her belt. Gods, if her poor mother could see her now, how the mighty have fallen indeed.

She takes in the scene around her, the bodies of the men hired to guard this caravan strewn about. "We'll be eating well tonight, boys!" She announces, earning her cheers. She wanders over to the back where Horst was already rummaging around. "Anything interesting?"

"Just the usual, silver platters, some twine-" He pauses, rustling around with something. "Well, well, well, looks to me we got ourselves a little stowaway. Hey, boss, come check out-! Ow, the little fucker bit me!"

A small figure darts at her. She reaches out, grabbing him by the shoulders and holding the squirming little boy in place. 

"Let go of me! Release me at once, or… or…" He cries out, tears running down his face.

"Or what, you gonna bite us all, kid?" She asks rhetorically, tightening her grip on the back of his shirt.

By now the rest of the gang has gathered around, taking in the spectacle with chuckles. Horst jumps down from the back of the caravan, clutching his still bleeding hand with a sneer. "Hold the lil' shitstain still, I wanna finish him off." 

The boy gasps, struggling more in her hold and begging to be let go. “Wait, no, please! I promise I won’t tell anyone about any of you!”

Horst starts flipping his dagger around in his hand. “Sorry, kid, no can do. You saw our faces, which means you’re a little thing we in the business call a liability.”

The small body starts to tremble under her hands, large, watery eyes looking up to her now. Fear painted on his face that’s like a mirror to when she was dragged out by one of Stregobor’s guards. She had begged for her life too. He’s too young for this. She was too young.

“Wait.” She calls out, Horst’s blade inches from the boy’s neck. She crouches down to eye level with him. “What’s your name, boy?”

“...J-julian.” He stutters out, still gasping for breath.

“The hell, Ren?” Horst groans. 

She glares at him. “Shut up, Horst, or I’ll shove that dagger where the sun don’t shine.” He rolls his eyes, but doesn’t say anything, choosing to lean back against the caravan instead. With that taken care of, she turns her attention back to Julian. “How long were you hidden in the back of that caravan?”

“T-two d-d-days.”

She raises a brow, impressed. “And they never caught you?” 

Julian shakes his head wordlessly.

Renfri hums, weighing her options. Horst seems to have caught on to her line of thinking. “Boss, you can’t be seriously considering-”

“You got anywhere to go, kid?” She continues on, ignoring Horst.

Julian glances between her and Horst before settling on her. “No, I have no one.”

“Well, I suppose that settles it then.” She stands, using her knees as leverage. She faces out to the rest of the gang, one hand resting on Julian’s shoulder. “From now on Julian here will be traveling with us. He’s under my protection, so if any of you have a problem with his presence you’ll have to go through me first. Do I make myself clear?”

There are grumbles of agreements all around her as everyone gets back to work scavenging the remains of the caravan. Only Horst continues to stand there with a scowl. She walks up to him, getting in his face. “I said, do I make myself clear?”

For a moment, Renfri thinks this will finally be it and she’ll have to cut him down to make an example, but he flinches first. “Yes, boss.” He grits out, sidestepping around her, but not without first spitting at Julian’s feet. “Lucky fucking brat.” He mutters as he stomps away.

Julian starts at that, his tears starting up again. Once Horst is gone from view she sighs, relaxing her face. Putting a hand on Julian’s shoulder, though lighter this time, she leads him away from all the commotion. 

By now he looks to be standing on pure adrenaline, shaking in place as his sobs wrack his body. Getting down on one knee in front of him, she uses her sleeve to wipe the tears off. She makes a mental note of the stark difference between his raggedy old clothes, versus how clean under his nails are and the lack of calluses on his hands. Maybe we aren’t so different after all , she thinks ruefully.

Putting one finger under his chin, she tilts his head up so their eyes meet. “Chin up, Buttercup. The world is cruel, but it only wins if you let it show on your face. Don’t let it win.”

0000000000000

Jaskier wanders the ruined hall, looking for where his lute flew off to and taking the time to process everything that has happened tonight. Him seeing his mum and sister for the first time doesn’t even rate in the top five anymore, what with all the drama that went on with Urcheon, Pavetta, and Calanthe. Secret love affairs, a double wedding, the law of surprise being good bookends for the tale. He really could write an amazing ballad with all the events, easily topping Toss a Coin as far as popularity goes, but he’s not sure if he wants to.

Geralt unknowingly binding himself to Pavetta’s child through law of surprise really seems to have shaken him to the core. Jaskier has never seen him flee a room so fast as he did, Mousesack following after. There’s no doubt the druid is planning on sticking around in Cintra, especially if this child has any magic abilities remotely close to what their mother displayed here tonight.

And display she did. Jaskier can feel the lump already forming on the back of his head from when he was slammed against the wall. Valdo had checked in with him earlier, returning his dagger and telling him they were all turning in for the night. He also offers for him to join them for breakfast tomorrow, but Jaskier turns him down. Geralt will want to start heading for Kaer Morhen bright and early tomorrow. Plus, Jaskier isn't sure if he could handle being face to face with his old family again, but he keeps that part to himself.

Most of the hall has emptied by the time he finds his lute, buried under some chairs and covered in an unknown sticky substance.

“Oh, darling, look at you. We’ll have you looking, and smelling, good as new, don’t you worry.” He brushes a stray piece of lettuce off, standing once again.

“Is talking to inanimate objects a bard thing or a you thing? Because either way it makes you look like an idiot.” Is asked behind him, making him startle and nearly slip on some food. He catches himself on a sideways table, but just barely.

The sight of Callie standing there with her arms crossed makes him bow, keeping his head down. “Apologies, Queen Calanthe, I thought I was alone-”

“Cut the crap, ankle biter, I know it’s you.”

Jaskier chuckles, passing his lute between his hands. “I don’t- you must have me mistaken for someone else, I-”

She uncrosses her arms, letting them drop to her side. “‘Lian, enough already.”

At her desperate tone he caves, slumping his shoulders. “Hi, Callie.” Without any warning she shoves him, making him stumble back a few steps. “What the fuck was that for?!” He belately glances around, glad to see that they are the only two left in the hall now. He’s sure yelling at the queen would have made more than one guard a little upset with him.

“That’s for my best friend up and disappearing in the middle of the night and not showing up again until eighteen years later at my daughter’s betrothal feast!”

“Sorry I prioritized my life over keeping you informed! My fucking grandfather would rather see me dead than surrender the throne and-” He pauses mid-yelling, cocking his head to the side. “Wait, I was your best friend?”

Callie groans, rolling her eyes. “Men, the lot of you are useless. Why didn’t you come to me for help? I could have protected you.”

“What was I supposed to do, write a letter and wait for you to come save me? There wasn’t any time! It’s like you were always telling me, the number one rule in a fight is to always-”

“Keep moving, yes, I know what I said. You did a brilliant job with that, boy witcher .”

“How-”

“Please, my intelligence officers figured out that Julian of Rivia and Jaskier are one in the same very easily. Maybe don’t have nearly every damn song be about your father, dick for brains.” Jaskier can’t help it, he lets out a snicker. “What?” She snaps.

Jaskier clears his throat, laughter still in his voice. “No, sorry, it’s just-” He chuckles again. “Eighteen years and yet you haven’t changed a bit, Callie. I mean, the wrinkles are new, but no grey in the hair, so that’s a win. Now my mother and sister on the other hand, they’ve changed drastically. Elli is a fully grown young woman now, beautiful as they come. I didn’t talk to her, but I bet that lisp is gone now. And Mum, still as sharp as ever…” He trails off, smile gone from his face. “She said I looked familiar, but there was no recognition in her eyes.” He swallows, looking up and realizing that Callie is giving him the same sad look from back when he was nine and had that break down in front of her. “Have I really changed so much that my own mother can’t recognize me?” He asks, his voice small and weak, scared to know the answer.

Callie easily pries the lute from his grasp, setting it to the side. She rests her hands on his shoulders, squeezing a bit. “My first impression of you was that you were a timid little brat that could be pushed over by a strong breeze.”

Jaskier scoffs, rolling his eyes.

“ But,” She stresses, forcing him to look at her again. “You proved me wrong a minute after I met you. When you stood up to me I saw a spark of something great. The reason your mother didn’t recognize you is because that spark is now a raging fire, burning brighter than ever before.”

Jaskier shrugs, suddenly self conscious. With most people he preens at the slightest compliment, but Callie’s has always been different. He can count on one hand the number of times she complimented him when he was younger. Her bluntness makes even the smallest of praise worth while.

He clears his throat, grabbing his lute again. “I should go. I have an early start tomorrow.”

“Hey,” Callie grabs the crook of his arm. She presses her lips together with hesitation. “I’m glad you’re alive, ‘Lian. My guard will be informed that you’re allowed in any time you like.”

He smiles wryly at the wording. “And my father?”

She frowns, squeezing his arm tighter for a moment. “Don’t push it, ankle biter.”

He smiles, noticing that’s not a no. He’s not worried, he’ll wear her down eventually. “Honestly, Callie, I’m twenty-seven years old. Enough with that nickname already.”

She raises a brow at him. “Are you ever going to quit calling me that ridiculous nickname?”

“Never.” He answers honestly.

“Then you’ll always be ankle biter to me, ‘Lian.”

Jaskier feels a rush of happiness in his chest, glad at least one thing from his childhood is still the same. Without another thought, he rushes forward and wraps his arms around his old friend. “I’ve missed you.”

Callie freezes before reluctantly returning the hug. “Yes, I’ve missed you too. Now let go before I gut you with your own lute strings.”

Chapter Text

1256

Age 34

Jaskier hums as he walks along the river, sipping from his flask. He had heard rumours of a white haired witcher that has gone mad, fishing in the Pontar River for the past few days without catching a single fish. There are a few options that it could be; either Grandpa Vesemir has given up his post at Kaer Morhen to take on a new hobby, his father has suddenly lost the ability to fish, or his father is about to do something incredibly stupid.

Jaskier’s betting on the third option.

What he didn’t count on was how far down the river that his father had made it. He’s lost track of how long he’s been walking, which may be because he’s lost track of how much he’s drunk. A lot probably, considering he had a full flask at the beginning of this trek and now he’s drinking the last few drops.

Spotting a horse tied to a tree, he rushes over to find that it is indeed Roach, saddle bags and all.

“Hello, lovely.” He coos, petting Roach. She butts him on the shoulder in greeting. “Yes, yes, darling, I’ve missed you as well. How has the old sourwolf been?”

Just then Jaskier hears a grunt and a splash, then more splashing as something is dragged along the water, then, “Damn it!”

“Well, that answers that. I’m so sorry to have left you alone with him for the past month, but duty calls,” Roach neighs. “Okay, fine, I may have also stopped in to see the former love of my life and muse, the Countess de Stael before she tragically left me a heartbroken man. But do not fret, my dear heart, you will always be the number one girl in my heart.” She snorts in reply, bumping him more gently this time.

Geralt finally shows himself as he fights his way through a bush, pushing his way down the river a little ways without giving Jaskier so much as a glance before throwing a net into the water.

“Ah, my dearest father, there you are. Don’t you look more… more rugged than usual.” Jaskier spends a moment taking in Geralt’s appearance. Hair is going every which way, clothes are askew more than normal, and the bags under his eyes are heavier than he’s seen in a while. All in all, he looks like shit.

Geralt grunts in acknowledgement, straightening out his net and throwing it back out into the water. “And you are more drunk than usual.”

“More drunk, he says, while looking like he’s just come off a ten day bender.” Jaskier rolls his eyes. “I’ll have you know, I was planning on sharing this drink with you, but I was walking up and down this river for so long looking for you, that I ended up drinking it all myself.” He tips it back, drinking the last sips that the flask has to offer, then throws it off to the side near Roach’s feet for him to collect later. “As I was telling Roach, I’m afraid I’m going to die a broken-hearted man, or a hungry one at the very least. Why don’t we go to a nearby tavern and grab a bite to eat. With all the splashing your doing, I’m sure you’ve scared away all the fish from here to Nilfgaard. You’d have better luck fishing Uncle Bert’s way.”

“I’m not fishing. I can’t sleep.” Is all he says.

“Right…” Jaskier leans against a tree. “Because throwing a net in the water is a great cure for insomnia, how silly of me.” He pauses, hoping Geralt will elaborate further. When he doesn’t, Jaskier sighs. “Dad, talk to me, what’s wrong?”

Geralt finally pauses and sighs. “A djinn.”

Jaskier blinks. “A what?

“I’m looking for a djinn.” He repeats, collecting his net and throwing it back in the water.

“So my ears haven’t deceived me. A djinn, like a genie?” Jaskier lets out a chuckle in shock. “Like those floaty fellas, with the bad tempers and banned magics. The ones that Gramps strictly said to never, ever get involved with ever because of all the horrible things that could happen if you free one, that kind of djinn?”

“Yes, it’ll grant me wishes safely as long as I’m specific.” Jaskier snorts at that, laughing again. “It’s in this river somewhere and I can’t fucking sleep!” Geralt snaps.

Jaskier’s face drops as he realizes this isn’t some joke and that his father is serious about using a djinn to get sleep. 

Geralt turns his back on him, storming off further down the river. “Dad, wait a minute. I’m sorry for poking fun at you, but you can’t seriously be planning on using a fucking djinn to get some shuteye. There are plenty of potions that can even get witchers to sleep for a time, but you know that since you taught them to me. So what could you possibly want a djinn… oh, you can’t be serious.”

“Shut up.”

“If I’ll remind you, you’re the one that asked for the law of surprise as payment.” Geralt flinches, confirming what Jaskier thought. “And how, pray tell, do you plan on wording the wish? That you no longer have a child surprise? Then the djinn will erase the poor child off the face of the continent. Princess Pavetta and Duny are dead, in case you haven’t heard.” 

Geralt freezes, looking up at him with confusion. “How?”

“Drowned at sea, their ship got caught in a storm.” He spits out, closing his eyes at the memory. He was at the castle visiting when they received the news. In all the years he’s known Callie, he’s never heard her scream in pure sorrow like she did that night, the sound still echoing in his ears. “Callie has been through enough, taking away the one piece of Pavetta that she has left will break her.”

“Then I will specify that the child is to be left alive and in the care of his grandmother.” 

“ Her. ”

“What?”

“ Her grandmother. Pavetta had a daughter.” Jaskier sighs in frustration. “We are getting wildly off topic here. Have you ever thought that all of this is merely rubbing salve on a tumor? I mean, we haven’t even talked about that night in the slightest. Was raising me really that horrible that you are defying destiny so as not to do it again?”

“No, of course not, Julian.” Geralt glances at him before throwing the net in the water.

“You know, Mousesack told me all about what he said to you, extraordinary child and calamities that will happen if you don’t follow destiny's will and all that.” Jaskier takes a seat on a tree stump, wanting to get comfortable. “There has to be a reason that you won’t collect the child that belongs to you. Is it because she’s royalty? Because if that’s the case I’d like to remind you that I am also technically royalty. Only technically though, it seems that my crotchety old grandfather had me struck from the family tree and declared dead as soon as he was able.”

Geralt pulls the net in, crouching down to untangle it once again. “Probably for the best. I don’t need two royals wanting my head on a spike for taking their grandchildren.”

Jaskier snorts. “Please, the only reason your head would be on a spike is because you didn’t strike me dead like my grandfather wanted.” Jaskier stands suddenly, physically shaking off that conversation. “Now, enough about my trauma, let’s get back to… wha- what is that?”

Jaskier watches as Geralt pulls an old clay pot from his net, standing up. “A wizard seal.”

“Yes, I can see that, I just didn’t think you’d actually find the damn thing.”

“The djinn,”

In a panic, Jaskier makes a grab for the pot. “Do you mind if I just,” He yanks on one side, but Geralt keeps a tight grip on the other.

“Julian, give it.” Geralt growls.

“No, not until you’ve had a proper nap and have thought things out, then you can have your djinny djinn djinn.”

“Let go.”

“No! Let go, you horse’s arse!” Jaskier struggles while Geralt only holds the top of the pot by one hand. Damn witcher strength and his stupid normal human strength.

He stumbles back a step as the cork to the pot pops off, staying firmly in Geralt’s hand as Jaskier holds the pot. They both wait with a pregnant pause, but when nothing happens Jaskier frowns and tips the pot over for good measure.

“Well, that’s a bit of an anticlimax.” Jaskier says to fill the silence. The wind picks up and the sky darkens, even though it’s the middle of summer and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky this morning. “Or is it?” In a rush so Geralt doesn’t wish anyone out of existence, Jaskier steps forward. “Djinn, I have freed thee, and as of this day, I am thy lord!” He announces. “Firstly, may my cousin, Valdo Marx of Cidaris, be struck down with laryngitis for the duration of the next bardic competition so I may win.” That should be a safe and not permanent wish, what next? “Secondly, the Countess de Stael will welcome me back with glee, open arms, and very little clothing.” One more, and he should be done. Maybe he should wish for Geralt to have a thirty minute nap? “Thirdly,” He gets out before he gets grabbed and pulled from behind.

“Jaskier!” Geralt yells. “Stop! There are only three wishes.”

Duh, like he doesn’t know that. “Oh, please, you always say you want nothing from life, so how was I supposed to know that you wanted three wishes all to yourself!”

“I just want some damn peace!”

“Well, here’s your peace !” Jaskier screams in frustration, smashing the pot to the ground. 

Geralt growls at him, bending down to collect the pieces. Jaskier coughs, trying to clear his throat after all the screaming, but that doesn’t seem to work. In fact, it feels like it’s getting worse. He opens his mouth to say something, but no words come out. It’s like there is a vice around his neck and gets tighter and tighter with every passing second. 

“Da’-” He coughs and gasps again. “Da’, help-” He manages to get out, reaching for Geralt.

His dad finally seems to notice, eyes widening. “It’s the djinn!” Geralt yells, shooting a blast of aard at the water. “Jask?” He asks, turning back when the djinn flies away. “Julian, what’s wrong?”

Jaskier wheezes, opening his mouth to say something, when all that comes out is blood. He stumbles forward, Geralt catching him before he falls to the ground. “Da’, please-” He begs, panic filling him as he grips Geralt’s arm.

“Everything will be okay, Pup, we’ll find help.”

00000000000000000

1232

Age 10

“Da’, Da’, watch this! I can throw this rock really far and make it land on that block of ice out there!” Julian calls out, picking up a large rock and tossing it into the partially frozen lake. He groans as he misses his target by a few feet. “Fuck.”

“Language.” Geralt reminds him, trying not to laugh at the smirk that Vesemir gives him.

“But, Da’, the only people around for miles are witchers, and they don’t care that I swear.” Julian whines.

“The boy has a point.” Vesemir points out unhelpfully.

“We’ve talked about this. You can swear-” Geralt ignores Vesemir.

“When I’m your age. But you’re ancient and I don’t wanna wait that long.” 

Geralt lets out a sharp breath. “Fine. If you can get a rock to land on the piece of ice three times in a row, you can swear whenever you like.”

Julian’s eyes light up. “Easy.” Picking up another rock, Julian throws again, this time missing by even more. “I just need to warm my arm up, but just wait, I’ll get this in no time!”

Geralt avoids Vesemir’s knowing look, busying himself with gathering wood. “Not a word.”

“Calm down, Wolf.” Vesemir chuckles. “I was only thinking that the boy reminds me a lot of another young boy I knew.”

Geralt sighs as they step out of hearing range, but still in eye-shot of Julian. “I know the past few weeks have been a difficult adjustment, but I’m not leaving him in some random town. Julian is my son, and there is nothing-”

Vesemir holds up a hand. “Stop. What makes you think I’m going to make you get rid of him?”

Geralt blinks. “Everyone else has, the biggest advocates being Remus and Lambert. Hell, Lambert’s already suggested that I use the boy as bruxa bait.”

“I’ll admit, I was wary at first. Witchers lead dangerous lives by definition and he is only human. But from what you said, he is determined to follow in your footsteps. If that is true, then the only way I see it is to accept that and give him the tools to defend himself with. Besides,” Vesemir shrugs. “He has your stubborn streak. Even if you were to leave him somewhere, he’d probably just track you down and give you hell.”

“I’m not stubborn.”

Vesemir shakes his head with a grin. “Of course not.”

Geralt opens his mouth to argue when he hears a loud crack, followed by a scream and a splash. “Julian!”

The two turn around just in time to see an arm dip under the water near the edge. “Julian!” Geralt screams again as he runs to the edge, eyes darting back and forth until he sees a small frame sinking deeper into the water. Dropping to his knees, he reaches down into the frigid water, grabbing a small arm. He pulls up on the unmoving arm, not stopping until all of Julian is out of the water and in the safety of his own arms.

There’s a frightening moment where Julian doesn’t seem to be breathing before there’s a small cough, and then his whole body jerks as he vomits up water. “D-da’, I-I’m ss-” The small boy tries to get out between coughs, sobs, and shivers.

Geralt holds Julian close to his chest, twisting a hand in his son’s hair. “It’s okay, you’re okay, I’m here, everything is okay, Pup. Just breathe.” He rubs his other hand up and down Julian’s back.

He’s faintly aware of Vesemir shedding his own coat to drape over Julian. “C’mon, we need to get him out of these wet clothes and warmed up quickly.”

000000000000000

Geralt holds Jaskier close to his chest as they ride Roach to an encampment nearby. He can feel each shuddering breath as Jaskier struggles to breathe, urging him to move faster. Asking for a healer, he’s relieved to find out that the camp does indeed have one with them, an elf by the name of Chireadan.

Geralt slides down first, dragging Jaskier down with him. This healer better be able to help, especially since this is all his fault. He knew messing with a damn djinn was dangerous, but he was so shortsighted that he didn’t think about how it can be dangerous for anyone else.

Jaskier isn’t able to walk much himself, so Geralt ends up mostly dragging the kid to the tent, setting him down in the seat in front of an elven man. 

“Help! He was attacked by a djinn!” Geralt yells.

Chireadan gets straight to work, examining Jaskier’s neck. “A djinn in a bottle? It’s like a fairy tale.” He comments.

“Without the happy ending. Can you help him?”

Chireadan pulls back Jaskier’s doublet to get a better view of his neck. The swelling has gotten worse since Geralt last saw it by the river, and so has Jaskier’s wheezing. Geralt hovers over them, feeling useless that the only thing he can do at the moment is rub a hand up and down Jaskier’s back. “Oh, dear…” Chireadan mutters.

“What? Can you help him or not?”

The elf glances up at him. “I can assure you, I have received the best medical education right here in Rhinde, but,” He looks at his neck again. “These injuries are of a magical nature. I can help with the pain, but it’s a bit like-”

“Putting salve on a tumor?” Geralt finishes, thinking of the fight he just had with Jaskier. Fuck, what if the last conversation he had with his son was the two of them fighting?

Chireadan stands, moving around his tent as he starts mixing herbs. He warns that if they don’t get more help soon that the damage could be irreversible or even lead to death.

“Oh, fuck , Dad!” Jaskier wheezes out, gripping Geralt’s arm.

Geralt leans down, patting him on the back. “Don’t worry, we won’t let that happen.” He glances up, noticing that Chireadan has stopped. “Why did you stop?! You said you could help with the pain!”

“Uh, I am sorry, but I don’t know how to treat witchers. What I’m making is only effective with humans.”

“He is human!” Geralt snaps. “Now help him!”

“Oh, sorry, I just assumed,” Chireadan rushes over, helping Jaskier drink the black liquid. “This should buy him a few hours, but he needs a magical remedy.”

First, Chireadan wants Geralt to take Jaskier to a different town, claiming they have no mage. The lie is so bad that Geralt is sure even Jaskier can hear it. Finally, he admits that there is in fact a mage in town imprisoned at the mayor’s house.

“That wasn’t so fucking hard, now was it?” Geralt growls as he grabs Jaskier, helping him to stand. “C’mon, Pup, we’re leaving.”

“Be careful!” Chireadan warms him suddenly, jumping to his feet. “The mage is powerful and malicious. And quite cunning.”

Geralt fights the urge to roll his eyes as he shoves the elf out of the way. “I’ll go find him.”

00000000000

Lambert hovers out in the hall, leaning back against the wall as he listens to Geralt and Vesemir fussing over the brat in Geralt’s room. Geralt brings home one, stupid little stray, and all of a sudden the brat is being swooned over. Kaer Morhen is for witchers, not annoying little humans that get in the way. 

But no, since it’s Geralt that brought the kid here, everything is fine and dandy. Good old Geralt, the golden child that can do no wrong. 

He doesn’t know what Geralt was thinking, letting a weak little human follow him around. The brat didn’t even survive an entire month here, there’s no way he could survive long term on the path. The kid had fallen in the lake four days ago, and now it seems he’s on his way out the door. Pneumonia, Vesemir had told them at dinner the previous night.

And now it seems they are running out of herbs that are suitable for humans. Great, another child’s death to add to the running tally here in these damn walls, he thinks as Geralt and Vesemir leave the room.

“Lambert, good, you’re here. We need you to keep an eye on the boy as we head down to the lower parts of the forest where herbs are still present.” Vesemir orders him.

Lambert scoffs, staying put. “Why bother? The little runt is just gonna die anyway.”

Quick as a flash, Geralt pins him against the wall, arm against his neck. “Shut the fuck up. Where’s Eskel? He’s better with Julian.”

Vesemir places a hand on Geralt’s shoulder, pulling him back. “Out chopping wood. We don’t have time to go find anyone else, we’re burning daylight as it is. Lambert will watch over him.”

Geralt grunts, taking off down the hall. “Parenthood has made you a little bitch, Geralt!” Lambert can’t help but yell down the hall after him.

The next thing Lambert knows, Vesemir has taken Geralt’s place, pinning him against the wall. “If you know what’s good for you, boy, you’d watch your tongue.” He hisses. “Don’t forget that you were once a little runt as well.” With that, Vesemir pushes off him, stalking down the hall after Geralt.

Lambert scoffs, pushing his hair out of his face. The old man doesn’t know anything about him. This runt may have wanted to be here, but he as sure shit didn’t. He is nothing like the brat.

He reluctantly goes into the brat’s room, wrinkling his nose at the smell of sickness and sweat. The brat is tangled up in Geralt’s pelts, sweat dripping down his face and his chest rising and falling at an uneven rate. There’s a rag that has fallen down that was once folded on his forehead, probably to try and reduce his fever. His eyes are squeezed shut as he writhes around in bed.

With a sigh, he puts the cloth back on the kid’s forehead before taking a seat at the bedside, crossing his arms and sticking his feet up on the edge of the bed.

“Where… Da’?” A small voice asks from the bed, bloodshot eyes staring at him.

Lambert has to admit it, he’s surprised the little weakling has the strength to open his eyes, let alone be awake and speaking. “He went out with the old man to get you meds. Guess you’re stuck with me for the time being.”

“‘M not gonna die.” He croaks.

Lambert blinks. “You were listening?” He asks dumbly.

The kid’s eyes harden as he glares at Lambert. If Lambert didn’t know first hand that witchers couldn’t reproduce he could have sworn that he was looking at a mini Geralt. “The… the only little bitch here will be you… when I get out of this bed and kick your arse.”

“Right…” Lambert drawls. “You know, that would be a lot more effective if you weren’t lying there sweating out half your body weight. Just take a nap so you don’t kick the bucket while I’m in charge of you, runt.”

“Not…” The kid’s eyes start to cloud over, his moment of lucidity quickly fading. “...a runt.” His eyes finally shut, but after quickly checking his chest is still moving up and down.

Well then, the brat certainly has Geralt’s sunny personality. Those two better get back before the kid wakes up again.

000000000000

Geralt can firmly say that this mage was not what he was expecting. Chireadan could have mentioned that he’s a she, along with her imprisoning the mayor and not the other way around. The orgy was also unexpected, along with being incredibly awkward with his son right next to him. He learned his lesson with Chireadan, and this time doesn’t disclose that Jaskier is his son so as to avoid a witcher versus human treatment debate. Although, this mage doesn’t seem the type to mistake a human for a witcher. She pointed out his slow heart rate right away, so she should be able to sense the normal heart rate with Jaskier.

After waiting around downstairs, she comes down to assure him that Jaskier is in a deep healing sleep. He doesn’t sense a lie, but decides to play along with her bath time games just to be safe. He has to admit, she makes for good company, which makes it all the more shocking when she claims that their conversation was payment enough for Jaskier’s cure.

As soon as she says that, he jumps out of the bath, dressing in record time. The clothes she gives him are… tight, to say the least, but not seeing his son is making him anxious.

Jaskier is laid out on the bed, fast asleep like she said. The swelling around his throat has gone down and his breathing is back to normal. His doublet is missing, but his chemise is there, covered in blood still. He can tell it’s an unnatural sleep. Normally, Jaskier is all limbs, sprawling out on every available space on the bed. Seeing him so still, like a plank of wood, is downright eerie.

He lets out a sigh, wishing Jaskier was jumping around right now.

“You doubt my capabilities?” The mage asks from the doorway.

“No, just your intentions.” He says, only half joking. “I said some things to him,” Geralt pauses, remembering the screaming the two were throwing back and forth at each other just this afternoon. This is all your fault, a little voice whispers in his head again. “He’s, uh,” He’s not sure what to say. He barely knows this woman, and yet he wants to spill his guts to her. The only thing stopping him is wanting to protect Jaskier.

“A friend?” She guesses. “I only say so based on your guys’ matching friendship necklaces.” She teases.

Geralt turns to face her. “I’d like it not to be the last thing he remembers.” He changes the subject.

“He won’t remember much if he’s dead.” She says casually. He freezes, trying to listen to her heart beat to see if anything she says rings true. She correctly reads his pause as worry, chuckling lightly. “It’s a joke. He will survive. And recover his vocal talents. Does that satisfy you?”

He’s getting irritated with this game she’s playing again, confronting her for it. It’s just then that he notices the wizard’s seal on her vanity, then the same seal painted on her floor. That’s why she was so interested in helping him the minute he mentioned it was a djinn attack. She has no interest in helping them, only helping herself to the djinn.

“I’ll be taking Jaskier now.” He decides.

 “If you wake him before he’s healed the spell won’t take.” She grins, walking to her vanity. “That’s no way to treat a friend, Geralt.”

He tries to convince her that the seal is broken and the djinn is gone, but she won’t listen to him, instead more worried about her perfumes. 

“Do go on, tell me how stuff works.” She says as she makes the candles flare up. “The djinn is tied to this plane and its master.” She explains. “How many wishes did the bard express before he lost his voice?”

Fuck, that means, “You need Jaskier to make his last wish so you can capture it.”

“So that’s… two then.”

Geralt tries to talk her out of her ridiculous plan, but she doesn’t listen, slowly walking toward him. The closer she gets, the fuzzier his mind gets, making it nearly impossible to form full sentences.

The last thing he remembers before blacking out is lilac and gooseberries, then a kiss.

0000000000000

Lambert is nodding off in his chair when whimpering pulls him back from sleep. 

“Ugh, please…” Glancing over, the whining seems to be from the brat and growing louder by the second. “Stop, stop! Don’t!” Lambert watches as the kid screams, back arching. “Grandfather, please! No!” 

Unsure, Lambert sits up straight, reaching out and shaking the kid’s shoulder. “Runt, quick the screaming. It’s only a dream.”

It’s only thanks to his quick reflexes that Lambert is able to jump back and out of the reach of the kid’s dagger. “Don’t touch me!” He screams, voice cracking. The kid is panting and hands shaking as he keeps the dagger on Lambert. His eyes are unfocused though, so Lambert doubts he can put up much of a fight without the element of surprise anymore.

Still, to make sure that the kid doesn’t do anything rash, he keeps his hands up where the kid can see them. “Whoa, relax, it’s just me. Put the blade down, runt, before you hurt someone.”

The kid starts coughing, coughs that are racking his whole body and cause him to lose his grip on the dagger. It slips to the floor with a clatter, forgotten as he tries to catch his breath. 

Hesitantly, in case the kid has an extra dagger somewhere, Lambert slowly bends down and picks up the dagger, setting it on the small table at the bedside. “That sounds fuckin’ nasty.” He comments once the coughs die down. “Water?” 

Red rimmed eyes glance at him before nodding. Lambert hands the boy a cup that was left out for him. “I can do it.” He rasps, trying to hold the cup himself.

Lambert scoffs, eyeing his shaking hands. “Really? So you can finish your drowned rat impression? You’re old man will skin me alive if he comes back to find you drenched under my watch.” The kid nods again, letting Lambert help him take a sip. “That’s some fancy dagger for Geralt’s taste, I didn’t take him for the jewel encrusted type.”

“It’s mine. It was my sister’s, so give it back.”

“So you can gut yourself like a fucking fish in your sleep? Not a chance, runt.”

The brat glares at him, but doesn’t do anything. Instead, he turns his back on him with a huff and lays down again. “I’m not a baby and I don’t need a babysitter. Leave, I can tell you don’t want to be here.”

Lambert lets out a dry chuckle. “Oh, you have no idea how bad I wanna leave you, but Daddy will gut me if I’m not in this room when they return.” He leans back in his chair again, putting his arms back behind his head. “Yup, better get used to me, spoiled thing, because I’m not going anywhere.”

The brat spins around again, one arm holding him up. “Don’t call me spoiled.”

Lambert rolls his eyes. “You may have the others fooled, but I can spot a posh accent a mile away. ‘Oh Grandfather, please’.” He mimics. “You’re just some spoiled noble that wanted to play at being a witcher. As soon as this gets hard, you’ll go running back home and have everything handed to you on a silver platter once again.”

“You know nothing about me, so fuck off!”

“And you know nothing of me!” Lambert finally loses his temper. “You don’t know that the only reason I became a witcher was because my bastard father sold me to one as payment!”

“Well, my bastard grandfather wants me dead because I told him no! I did everything he wished of me and yet he was never pleased! I was forced to flee my home because of him! Now I finally have a home again and I’m not going to let another bastard take it away from me!”

Lambert swallows the next insult he was about to fling at the boy, studying the kid as he pants. “Well, shit.”

0000000000000

Jaskier gasps awake, swallowing a scream. He reaches up, feeling the swelling on his throat is gone. It still hurts like a bitch, but he can finally breathe easily again. The last thing he remembers is Geralt dragging him through some creepy sex party and something about… apple juice?

Glancing around, he doesn’t see his dad anywhere, and he’s on some extremely comfortable bed with a topless beauty sitting at the end. Maybe after he was healed he was still more drunk than he realized? This wouldn’t be the first time he woke up in a bed that didn’t belong to him with no memory of how he got there.

“Whew, um… Right, good.” He clears his throat, sitting up a little more. “Not to be… untoward or anything, but did we… you know… do the- oh!” She turns around, some symbol painted on her abdomen that he vaguely recognizes. He thinks it’s some sort of entrapment. Whatever the fuck it is, he is not sticking around to find out. “No, no no no no! Definitely did not butter that biscuit!” He scrambles off the bed as she slowly makes her way toward him, reminding him of a cat hunting a mouse. Oh fuck, he’s the mouse, isn’t he!

Keeping his front to her, he subtly reaches behind him for one of his daggers, but finds it missing. Stuttering out some excuse to leave, he scans the room and finds his stuff in a pile on a vanity. Pretending to bump into it, he snatches one of his daggers and keeps it hidden behind his back as he keeps moving.

“Please, I-I-I- really must be going.” Tucking the dagger in the back of his trousers, he stumbles to get his boots on, watching her grab a small knife from a drawer.

“Express your deepest desires and you can be on your way.”

“Well, my deepest desires are currently satisfied, thank you so much.” He gets his final boot on and tries to leave the room, but a force pushes him back against the wall. Great, another fucking mage. “I am really getting tired of you mages!” He hisses to himself.

“How’s your throat?” She asks instead, stalking toward him. “Perhaps you should try some scales?”

“Uh,” He reaches back, gripping his dagger. “ Toss a coin to your witcher, oh valley of- fuck! ” One hand grips his penis, while the one holding the knife goes for his throat. He quickly flings his dagger up to protect his throat, the flat part acting as a shield between his throat and her blade.

She cocks her head, glancing at his blade. “Such a strange thing you are,” She mutters to herself. “No matter, if you want to keep all you have,” She tightens her grip on his penis. “Make a damn wish.” She throws him to the ground, kneeling at an altar in the middle of the room and chanting in elder. “Make it now!”

“I- uh, very much wish to leave this place forever!” He decides on.

Her chanting gets louder while the wind picks up like it did before at the river. In the corner, he spots a shadow appear, flying around the witch. He listens to her chanting more, realizing that with the words and the symbol, she is insanely trying to capture the djinn.

The roar of the djinn is what breaks him out of his stupor, urging him to his feet. “Nope! Fuck no! I am done here!”

Glad that the dagger he had grabbed earlier was Renfri’s, he forgets about the rest of his stuff and darts out of there.

He nearly bumps into Geralt on his way out of the mansion, gripping the older man’s arm. “Dad! Thank the Gods! We need to go!”

“Pup, you’re okay.” He follows after Jaskier, looking worse for wear himself.

“Better than you look, and I nearly died. What the fuck are you wearing?” Jaskier stops, taking in the rather tight looking leather outfit.

Geralt sighs. “Long story. What happened? Why do you have your dagger out?”

“That very sexy, but insane witch happened! I thought you were crazy for trying to find a djinn for some wishes, but she takes the bloody cake for trying to capture the fucking thing!”

Geralt freezes. “Capture? How?”

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “It’s not like I asked her for a demonstration! She yelled at me to make a wish, had an amphora for capturing painted on her abdomen, and was chanting go unto me in elder, I made an educated guess!”

“She wants to be the vessel.”

“Right, sure, thanks for clearing that up, now let’s go!”

“She wants to be more powerful, but she’ll die.” Geralt mutters.

“Well, let’s pray for her on our way out of town.” Jaskier turns to walk away, nodding at the elf healer who is covered in blood? Seriously, what did his father get up to? Noticing Geralt isn’t following, Jaskier sighs, running after him. “Are you perhaps short of a marble?! She’s a crazy witch that signed her own death warrant! Why risk your life for her?!”

Geralt stops, looking him in the eye. “She saved your life, Julian. I can’t let her die.”

Jaskier lets Geralt walk past him, knowing that there’s no way he can change his mind. “Fuck.” He says under his breath.

00000000000000

Lambert doesn’t speak to the kid after that. Geralt and Vesemir return and he takes that as his cue to leave. A week passes and the kid gets better, just like he said he would. Lambert has to give him credit, the kid is a fighter. He thought for sure that they were going to be doing funeral rites this winter.

After his recovery, Eskel and the other witchers (aside from himself and Remus) have begun to warm up to the new addition. It reminds Lambert of when they were children. The first thing they learned was to not get attached to each other until after all the trials were finished. In a way, surviving was the kid’s way of proving that he passed his own trial.

Remus still fights with the kid, memories of the humans attacking still too strong with him, but Lambert only avoids him. He catches the kid sneaking peeks of him at dinner in the great hall, but Lambert always makes a point of sitting away from him.

His avoidance tactics work for another week before the kid corners him out on the training field.

“What do you want?” The kid demands.

Lambert sighs, glancing at the kid before starting his next set. “Peace while I train.”

He hears footsteps leaving so he assumes the kid got the idea and finally left him be, but he’s proven wrong once again when the kid steps in front of him with a practice sword.

Lambert raises a brow at him. “Really, runt?”

The kid says nothing, just gets in the ready position with his wooden sword. 

Scoffing, Lambert shrugs and sheaths his sword, going over to grab one of the practice swords. “Fine, but I’m not going easy on you.”

“Good. I told you I was gonna kick your arse when I got better, and I’d hate to win because you were holding back.”

Lambert can’t help but let out a little laugh at that, smirking. “You’re a snarky little shit. Let’s see what you got.”

The kid comes at him, swinging wide. Lambert blocks each blow easily, letting the kid have a few more swings. He has a decent form, obviously Geralt has taught the kid a few things, but he choreographs his moves too obviously.

Lambert dodges, shoving the kid down from behind and has his sword pointed at him by the time he spins around on his back. “Not bad.” Lambert comments. “I saw your moves from a mile off, though.”

The kid climbs to his feet, brushing snow off. Without a word, he comes at Lambert again. The two go for a while before the kid breaks the silence. “Why haven’t you told Dad about what I told you?” 

“I don’t make it a habit to air other’s shit.” He taps the kid on his stomach, signaling for them to reset. “Keep your middle more guarded. Your center is your most vulnerable area.”

The kid nods, going again. “But he hates nobles and if you tell him then he’d get rid of me like you wanted.”

Lambert sighs, holding up a hand for them to pause. “You repeat this and I’ll make sure you wake to find yourself at the bottom of the lake, but I’ve come to tolerate you. Like a shitty smell that you get used to.”

The kid slowly grins. “You like me.”

“ Tolerate. I tolerate you.”

“Whatever you say, Uncle Bert.”

Great, the others are never going to let that nickname go, he just knows it. “Sword up.” He barks instead. He shows the kid how to feint an attack instead, the kid sticking his tongue out concentration as he copies Lambert. “You know, Geralt may hate nobles, but he’s your old man. He’d never hate you. He’s loyal to a fault, the idiot.” 

He waits for the kid to reply, but he’s quiet for a change. “I want to believe you, I do, but there’s no reason to chance it. I’m done with my old life.”

Lambert studies the kid, watching as he swings haphazardly at the straw dummy set up. “Whatever you say, runt. Your secret’s safe with me.” He rests a hand on his head, ruffling his hair. “Alright, hotshot, I think you’ve shown that dummy who’s boss. At me again.”

Lambert can already see some improvement, feinting attacks successfully more often than not. This time, with a grin, as Lambert dodges, he leans over and flings snow at the kid’s face. As expected, he drops his weapon in order to clear the snow from his face, giving Lambert an opening to tap him in the stomach again.

“No fair, that’s cheating!” The kid whines, picking up his sword again.

“In real fights, there’s no such thing as cheating, only living or being killed. Think a kikimore is gonna pause for you to wipe dirt out of your eyes?”

“Maybe if I ask it really nicely.” The kid grumbles.

Lambert rolls his eyes. This kid really has a mouth on him. “Remember that your sword isn’t your only weapon, everything around you is a weapon if you use enough imagination. And don’t worry about fighting dirty, if you lose your sword, scratch, claw, hell bite your opponent. Do what you gotta do to survive. Now again!”

000000000000

Jaskier stomps (flees) from the mansion, finding Roach hitched near the estate’s entrance.

“Shouldn’t you be more thrilled? Your father is alive, as is the mage.” The elf says.

“Oh, he’s alive alright, along with mentally scarring me for life. I could’ve gone my whole life without seeing him doing… that, thank you very much.” Jaskier grumbles, untying Roach. “Which, by the way, who the fuck are you and why are you covered in blood?”

The elf explains that his name is Chireadan and is a healer that Geralt first took Jaskier to go see. Jaskier has a faint memory of this, being in a tent in pain and something about his throat injury being permanent. Speaking of, Chireadan has them stop for a moment while he checks over Jaskier’s throat, deeming him healed completely.

He dodges the blood question, mumbling something about how Jaskier should ask Geralt, then they split ways, Chireadan back to Rhine and Jaskier staying put. He doesn’t want to wander too far from the mansion so that Geralt can find him, but he also really doesn’t want to be near that place anymore.

After hitching Roach to a tree on the side of the path, he takes a seat himself and decides to go through Geralt’s saddlebags. An hour of organizing, then taking everything out and reorganizing again passes, when finally Geralt comes wandering out of the estate’s entrance.

“Well, look what the cat dragged out. Did you have a nice time?” Jaskier asks sarcastically, standing and brushing the dirt off himself. “Do I have a new mummy now?”

Jaskier takes a lot of pleasure in being able to make Geralt blush lightly. “Shut up.” He grumbles, snatching back his saddlebag. He pulls a shirt out, replacing it with the leather get up he had on.

“Aw, don’t throw that away, you looked absolutely dashing in it. Really brought out your muscles.”

Geralt unties Roach, leaving with her. “Enough. I get it, you don’t like her because she’s a mage. Let’s go.”

Jaskier lets his frustration show, running in front of Geralt and stopping him in his tracks. “Oi, this isn’t just me being petty about bloody witches. She held a knife to my throat in case you’ve forgotten. Out of all the women on the continent, you had to choose the one that tried to kill me! You know, your favorite son in the whole wide world, that ringing any bells for you?”

Geralt sighs. “She wasn’t going to kill you, Jaskier. She needed you because she thought you had the wishes- fuck.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened. “Thought? I was the one- Chireadan, he said to ask you about the blood. Did you? Did you have the fucking wishes?!”

“Julian, I’m sorry-” Geralt reaches out, but Jaskier jumps back, pointing a finger at him. 

“You fucking fucker! I told you djinns are dangerous!”

“I know-”

“No, shut up! I’m talking now!” Geralt closes his mouth, dropping his hand and hanging his head. “Now, all of this was because what? You want to be free of your child surprise?”

“It’s more complicated than that.”

“Then uncomplicate it!” Jaskier throws his hands up. “You nearly had me killed because of this, you at least own me the truth!”

“You want the truth?!” Geralt snaps, but to Jaskier’s credit he doesn’t flinch. “Fine! I don’t want this child surprise for that exact reason! How many times have you almost died around me?” Geralt pauses as Jaskier thinks about it. “The fact that your initial response is not zero means that it’s too many! And I know you chose this while knowing all the risks involved, but this child, this girl, did not! Not claiming her, letting her stay in the safety of her palace is the best thing I can do for her.” Jaskier is speechless as Geralt takes a breath, lowering his voice again. “After I took you in, Vesemir warned me that having a child is like walking around with your heart outside of your body. It nearly kills me anytime you’re hurt. Keeping her at a distance keeps me safe just as much as her.”

Jaskier clears his throat, picking at a piece of dirt in his nail. “I, uh, didn’t know that. I apologize for pressing, I’ll drop the whole thing from now on.” He goes to turn away, but gets stopped by a hand on his shoulder.

He lets himself be pulled into a hug, relishing in having Geralt’s arms wrapped around him like a protective cocoon. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to unload all of that on you. I’m also sorry about the djinn. From now on I’ll listen to you more.”

Jaskier lets himself stay in the hug a little longer before patting Geralt on the chest, pulling back. “Alright, enough sentiments. Gods, you’re so clingy, and I can’t believe you’ve been holding out on me. Gramps has the making of a true poet. He should think about taking up writing. Oh! I could publish it for him, do you think he’d like that?”

Geralt smiles at him, holding a hand on his shoulder. “Never change, pup.”

“And I bet he’ll really like my next ballad. Something along the lines of, And then the daft witcher did make his wish, nearly making his son sleep with the fish.”

Geralt’s smile drops. “Jaskier, no.”

“Oh,” Jaskier laughs. “Jaskier, yes. Gramps is gonna make you do all my chores this winter, hell, maybe for the next five winters.”

“I’m serious, Jask, he’s gonna skin me alive.”

“Oh, I know, and I’m gonna watch. With glee.”

Geralt shakes his head, pulling Jaskier along. “C’mon, let’s go find where you left your stuff.” He gives him a once over. “And a new outfit. You know, I’ve always told you-”

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “I’m not wearing all black. It’s unbecoming as a bard.”

“I’m just saying, black hides all the blood stains.”

“Oh, fuck off. I wouldn’t need to hide blood stains if someone didn’t wish for some peace from me.” Jaskier glances over, seeing Geralt stop in his tracks. “Dad, it’s a joke. I know you didn’t mean for this to happen. I forgive you, so long as you don’t go fishing for anymore djinns.”

Jaskier has seen many emotions on his father’s face over the past few decades, but this is the first time he’s seen him look scared, and something he can’t name. “I hope you know, I will do whatever I have to to keep you safe.”

“Of course.” Jaskier says faintly. 

Petrified. Geralt isn’t just scared, he’s petrified.