Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Over the years, Jaskier has had many names. 

He is born Julian Alfred Pankratz. He is the fifth son to his father, the Viscount of Lettenhove, although no one bothers to call him that. It was too much of mouthful, Julian supposes, compared to the way ‘Bastard of Lettenhove’ flows so beautifully off the tongue. Julian spends the first five years of his life under that moniker. He is the forgotten child, kept secret from court life because he is a disgrace. His mother, his lovely, ailing mother, dotes after him, but his ‘father,’ would rather pretend that he does not exist. His siblings share their father’s sentiment. Julian is not of them and therefore he does not exist. 

It does not help that there is something that is just not right about Julian. He starts walking a few months too early. His eyes—cornflower blue, his mother’s favorite—are just a little too bright, too knowing, for a child. 

“Probably his half-breed whoreson of a father,” his nursemaids used to whisper. 

At age seven, Julian’s mother dies and thus he dies with her. His mother’s protection had been the only thing protecting him, apparently, because a few days after her funeral, his father dumps him out at the front door of the Griffin school.

That is when Julian Alfred Pankratz, ‘Bastard of Lettenhove,’ becomes just ‘Julian.’

Julian is never meant to survive the trials. In comparison to the other boys, he is a runt. He has always been a sickly child—a delicate little bird, as his mother used to call him—while his peers have already been hardened by training and a hardy diet of red meat and crushed grain. His mentors have little patience for Julian’s softness. 

Julian is the only one from his apprentice group that has clear memories of his mother, of his life before the Witcher school, and while his peers are envious of him for it, he sees it as nothing but a weakness. What good is having memories of a life you can never return to? What good is remembering the beauty of song, of music, when you will never sing again?

“Song will get you killed, Julian,” his mentors all told him. “Witchers are silent because our lives depend on it. Music is unnecessary—it will lead to your death, do you hear?”

Silence. Yes. A word that has never been a part of Julian’s vocabulary before but would be now. That was how all things were, apparently, for witchers. 

Don’t do this or you’ll die. Do this and you’ll die. Die, die, die. 

Julian is certain that his teachers are just waiting for him to do just that—die. He’s sure that they’re waiting for him to give in to his vulnerability, for him to run away into the woods because he will never be strong enough to be a witcher. 

But Julian doesn’t. Julian doesn’t because he clings to the idea that maybe, just maybe, he can prove himself. Maybe he can finally be useful. Maybe he can be wanted. 

“Maybe this way you can actually become something other than a waste of space, Julian,” his father had told him before he left him on the Griffins’ doorstep. So Julian survives. It’s not until the second anniversary of his time at the Witcher school that his peers accept that he’s here to stay and then Julian makes friends for the first time in his life. And that, somehow, makes all the pain, all the torture, worth it. It does not matter to the other apprentices what sort of blood flows through his veins, elven or not, because to them he is just Julian. Nothing more, nothing less, and somehow it is enough. 

But this one blessing, too, is taken from him. Julian watches all but one of them die at the trial of the grasses. He and Coën finish out the last of their training with the three or so other boys that have survived. Then he too is taken from Julian. 

Witchers are a dying breed, and the Continent is vast. It doesn’t make sense for two witchers to travel together when they cover so much more ground apart. So Julian bids goodbye to his friend and sets out on his journey alone.

Life on the Path is a lonely one. 

He doesn’t talk to many people, save for the few tense exchanges that he has with the town aldermans and the even more rare occasions where he’ll run into another Griffin on the road. 

At first, the adrenaline rush of the hunt is enough to keep Julian on his blazing bath across the Continent. For the first time in his short life, he feels like he has purpose, that he has meaning. Julian knows that he’s helping people, even if said people do not appreciate him.

But after a few decades, ‘Julian of Redania’ comes to have the same, deprecating ring of ‘Bastard of Lettenhove.’ Julian is good at what he does—his training has made sure of that—but that makes no difference to the humans of the towns and cities he visits. 

“We don’t want your kind here.”

“Mutant.”

“Half-breed.”

“Why pay you for a deed that you created to do?”

Julian can no longer count on his hands the number of times that he has been chased out of a town with the threat of a stoning. At every door, he is met with nothing but mistrust and the stench of fear and Julian is just done with it all. 

On a hunt near Poviss, Julian reaches his breaking point. He has just finished off the kikimora that has been terrorizing the local town. Its blood still stains his hands red, dripping warm through his fingers, when Julian looks at the felled creature and tilts his head to one side. He crouches down, watching it as it heaves out its last breath. Jealousy of all things rises up his throat.

“What I would give to be you,” he says wistfully, “a mindless beast, put out of his misery.” Because that is the only way out for him, isn’t it? There is no life for a witcher outside of the Path. They are nothing more than sharpened weapons, ready to be used to fend off the continent from evil, and nothing else. 

And so Julian resolves to track down a sorcerer that he knows owes him a few favors. He finds him just outside of Posada, in a little cottage overlooking the town. 

“Are you sure?” the sorcerer questions him, eyeing him with something that Julian hesitates to place as concern. Julian hunches his shoulders. 

“I’ve been on the Path for over eighty years now. I think I deserve the rest,” he explains, looking down at his hands. 

The sorcerer fiddles with his jewelry, a nervous tic. “There are other ways to go about this, Julian.”

“Like what?” Julian hopes the sorcerer will forgive him if he’s a little impatient. He’s been tired of this life for decades—he’d rather not have to wait another moment. 

As an answer, the sorcerer takes off one of his rings: a large, silver thing with bright yellow citrine at its center. He slides it across the table to him. “A glamour,” he says simply. 

“A glamour?”

“A new body. A new face. A new life,” the sorcerer offers, “and it is reversible. Better than death, is it not?”

Julian considers it for a moment. “Alright,” he says slowly. “What do I need to do?”

And so, at age one-hundred and two, Jaskier is born. 

“Never let this be taken from you,” the sorcerer warns him, pointing to the ring on Julian’s middle finger. “If this leaves your person or if it breaks, you will lose everything.”

The new, unnamed man just nods, running his fingers over smooth skin and cotton-soft hair with awe.

“What will you name yourself? You cannot go as Julian of Redania any longer, after all,” the sorcerer points out. 

Looking out the cottage window, the man sees the bright yellow heads of summer buttercups, shining in the sun. “Jaskier,” he decides finally. “My name is Jaskier.”

Julian is determined that Jaskier will be different. 

Jaskier will be liked. 

Jaskier will be wanted. 

Thus, he builds himself anew. He douses himself in expensive perfumes and scents to mask the smell of witcher. He dresses in fine silks and satins that are soft against his skin. He indulges in expensive creams and lotions that keep his new body completely scarless and perfect. 

Never again, he tells himself as he looks at his perfect, flawless hands. Never again. 

For the first few years, he just wanders around aimlessly, spending the gold that he has saved up over the decades bit by bit. He tries to avoid the same cities he used to frequent often as a witcher for fear that someone may recognize him. 

Yet, after five years, Jaskier finds himself drifting back to Redania anyway and enrolls in Oxenfurt Academy. He has always loved music, after all, and the lute just fits so beautifully in his hands. He decides while he’s there that he wants to try his hand at being a traveling bard. Being a court musician seems too boring, too safe, anyway, and there’s a part of Jaskier that still burns for adventure. 

Jaskier starts his journey where he began—Posada. The little town hasn’t changed much in the decade that Jaskier has been away. He swings by the local inn to test out a rather raunchy tune that he’s just finished writing. 

And that is where he meets Geralt of Rivia. 

Jaskier’s mid-performance when he catches sight of him and sure, it wasn’t Jaskier’s best performance to date—far from it, really, but he still counts it as a win that the disgruntled crowd throws bread instead of stones at him. Free food is free food, so Jaskier stuffs his pockets and saunters over to the man’s booth. 

“I love how you just sit away in the corner and… brood,” he says and immediately winces. Not his best opening line, but Jaskier cut himself some slack—this is the first witcher he’s seen in a while, anyhow. The witcher barely spares him a glance. 

“I’m here to drink alone,” he bites out.

Ah. He’s probably from the Wolf School, then, Jaskier thinks. They never emphasized social etiquette with the same intensity that the Griffins did, anyway, and in Julian’s past encounters with Wolves, it definitely showed. Still, against his better judgement, Jaskier finds himself sliding into the seat across from him. 

He takes a deep breath. It’s a habit, really, picked up from years of his time as Julian. The witcher smells unpleasant—like horse and unwashed skin and… onion? But underneath that, there’s something else. He smells of warmth and fresh-cut wood. He smells of rain and forest. He smells like home. 

Home. Jaskier has never had a home before, but there’s no other way to describe it.

“I know who you are,” Jaskier says as he follows Geralt out the door. Of course Jaskier knows. Geralt of Rivia, Butcher of Blaviken. How could he not? 

Oh, now Jaskier is fascinated. He sees so much of himself in Geralt—the same hopelessness. The same deep-seated need to be wanted, to be loved. Jaskier will never leave Geralt now. He could not help Julian, but maybe he can help this poor White Wolf. So Jaskier follows him and accepts the literal punch to his groin, trailing after Geralt’s horse as they pursue the so-called “Devil of Posada.”

Of course, everything goes tits-up. 

There’s a moment with the elves when Jaskier is sure that he will be found out, but then the elven king takes mercy on him and labels him a human without batting an eye. And Jaskier plays the role of the fumbling bard well—he spouts pretty verses and struggles helplessly in ropes that he should have easily been able to break. 

When it’s all over, Geralt does his best to push Jaskier to the side. He grumbles at him, ignores him, but Jaskier knows a lonely soul when he sees one so he stays. 

Along his travels with Geralt, Jaskier becomes less a role that Julian plays and more of a person. He is Jaskier in the flesh—flashy, effusive, too much —but he is also Jaskier in the mind. Julian’s time as a witcher becomes more of a vague memory; it’s easy for Jaskier to just pretend that they happened to someone else because being Jaskier the bard feels more real than Julian ever did. 

Jaskier is not Julian. Julian is not Jaskier. 

Bit by bit, Julian fades into the background. He is no longer the feared Julian of Redania; he is Jaskier the traveling bard, the delight of all, the lover of many. And Jaskier basks in it—the easy affection that humans share with each other. He takes more than his fill of it because Jaskier has been without it for far too long. He charms barmaid after barmaid to bed with him, much to Geralt’s annoyance, because he will never tire of warm skin pressed against his own, of a steady heartbeat against his chest as he falls asleep. He fills the air with song and mindless chatter just because he can. 

Singing and aimless conversation will get you killed as a witcher, but as a human? As a human, such things are part of life, part of living. 

And somehow, Jaskier falls in love along the way. He falls so deeply, so hopelessly, in love with Geralt of Rivia because the witcher is home to him and Jaskier has never had a home before. All at once he hates it and loves it. He revels in the feeling because gods, he doesn’t think he’s felt so utterly consumed before. But he hates it, too, because he’s mostly certain that his emotions will earn him nothing but pain. 

Nevertheless, he spends the better part of the next decade trailing after Geralt like a lovesick dog, relishing those small scraps of kindness that Geralt so begrudgingly hands out to him.

Jaskier’s downfall starts with a djinn. 

After the disaster of the Cintrian ball, Jaskier doesn’t see Geralt for a few years. And Jaskier almost prefers it this way because a year after the Law of Surprise fiasco, he hears about the fall of the Griffin School. He may resent his time as a witcher, but Jaskier still mourns the loss. He can only assume that the entire keep had been buried in the avalanche. So many centuries of knowledge that had been collected by his brethren—all gone. 

Jaskier can only hope that Coën is still out there somewhere. Where will he go now for the winter, since the Griffin Keep has been entombed under hundreds of feet of earth and ice?

When he runs into Geralt again, the man is doing something that is certifiably dangerous and stupid, so Jaskier tries to distract him out of it, because why the fuck would you pursue a fucking djinn to help you sleep?

But Jaskier’s still a little pettish from all the grieving that he’s done and perhaps he comes off a little too strong, because his attempt ends as it seems all things do with Geralt—with blood on his hands and pain. 

The world goes a bit hazy for Jaskier afterward. He vaguely remembers Geralt hauling him up and holding him close as he saddles Roach. The desperation in his voice, the fear in his eyes, makes Jaskier wonder idly if perhaps Geralt might actually care. At some point, he must have passed out, because when he comes, Geralt is nowhere to be seen and there’s a very pretty but very terrifying sorceress looming over him. Her eyes narrow and her painted mouth forms a perfect ‘o’ when she realizes he’s awake. 

“Julian of Redania,” the sorceress says, surprised. “Oh, I remember you.”

Jaskier doesn’t have much time to panic about how she recognized him so quickly and the consequences that might arise from it because then the witch has a knife to his throat. Jaskier decides that the lady is absolutely unhinged when she demands him to make his last wish to the djinn that he most certainly does not have control over. 

Things go decidedly downhill from there.

Jaskier has experienced heartbreak before. He writes countless ballads about it, lives and breathes it, savors that exquisite pain that accompanies lost love and rejected affections, but with Geralt, it’s different. There is nothing beautiful about the way the air is pressed out of his chest as he looks into the window of the destroyed house, seeing Geralt and that witch entwined together. 

When Geralt returns to him, glowing with satisfaction and stinking of lilac and gooseberries, the chasm in Jaskier’s chest only grows wider. 

Geralt no longer smells of home and Jaskier feels like a ship without an anchor. 

It will be fine, he tries to tell himself. She’ll get bored, eventually. She’ll leave, Geralt will grumble and sulk for a few weeks and then everything will go back to normal. 

But Destiny just laughs in his face and spits on him, because Geralt, stupid, stupid Geralt, uses one of his wishes to bind himself to that sorceress. 

Jaskier begins to feel that same bone-aching weariness that he had felt decades before as he watches Geralt run to the arms of his witch over and over again during the coming years. 

Julian begins to seep into his thoughts again and there are times when he’ll wake up, hand ready on a sword that he knows is not there. But Jaskier wants to stay. He wants to cling to this persona he has spent years perfecting because people love Jaskier. People want Jaskier. 

So Jaskier pushes Julian back. He buries him under a thick fog of alcohol and sex and prays that his heartache will go away. 

It doesn’t.

Jaskier hits rock-bottom six years later. 

Jaskier doesn’t even know what he’s doing on the dragon hunt. He has followed Geralt here, of course, but he knows that Geralt is only following Yennefer. He knows that Geralt would abandon him without hesitation if Yennefer so much as suggested it, but Jaskier still hopes. He still hopes that maybe, just maybe, his twenty-odd years trailing after Geralt haven’t amounted to nothing. 

“The crow’s feet are new,” Yennefer snipes as they climb up the mountain. There’s an undercurrent to Yennefer’s taunt that makes Jaskier stumble over his words.

There are no crow’s feet at his eyes, Jaskier knows. There aren’t any wrinkles at all, really, and that must be what Yennefer is getting at. 

Your glamour is getting old, she’s trying to tell him. Sooner or later, people will begin to notice that you haven’t aged a day in twenty years. 

Jaskier masks his panic with a cutting remark. Yennefer scoffs lightly but Jaskier knows that she can see right through him. They’re going to have a talk soon—Jaskier can feel it. 

And they do. On the first night, after they’ve set up camp and Geralt has meandered his merry way into Yennefer’s tent, the sorceress joins him at his spot on the edge of a cliff. 

“Does he know?” Yennefer asks him.

“No,” Jaskier spits, angry, because she smells like Geralt and love and he hates it. “No he doesn’t. He never will.”

“Hm,” Yennefer says in lieu of a response. She rests her chin on her hands, looks at him from the corner of her eyes.  “He will, eventually.”

Jaskier shakes his head, adamant. “He won’t.”

The sorceress just gives him a look, like she knows more than he does, and retreats back to her tent.

Jaskier is sure that things can’t go worse, but then—

“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!”

Jaskier takes a shaky step backward. Geralt doesn’t mean it, he tries to tell himself, but he knows that that isn’t true. Suddenly, it’s like he’s seven years old again, looking into his father’s eyes as he shoves him through the doors of the witcher keep. 

Julian the bastard, Julian the witcher, Jaskier the bard—can no version of him truly be wanted? 

He takes one last breath, lets the scent of the home that was never his slide into his lungs, and leaves Geralt. 

“I can help you,” is the first thing that Yennefer says to him once he stumbles down the mountain, eyes still rimmed red and Geralt’s parting words still ringing in his ears. 

Never trust a sorceress, his mentors have always told him, but Jaskier is weak and wanting so he just meets her violet stare and croaks out a pitiful “How?”

Yennefer’s expression stirs with something akin to sympathy, as if Jaskier is a rain-drenched stray that has been scratching helplessly at her door. Kindly, more kindly than she’s ever spoken to him before, she bids, “Give me your hand, Jaskier.”

The softness in her voice makes that yawning cavern in him split wider, so he follows her instruction obediently. Jaskier expects her to give him some potion, some magical salve that he can take that will make all the pain go away. Something that will numb his mind. Something that will help him forget. 

Instead, Yennefer snatches the ring off of his hand. Before Jaskier can react, she throws it to the ground, grinds the vibrant yellow jewel underneath her spiked heel. 

“No!” Jaskier screams, diving to the ground, but it’s too late. The stone crumbles, the magic contained within it fizzling out around him. “No, no, no,” Jaskier says to himself, voice cracking. He runs a hand down his cheek, feeling the roughness of his skin, the bumps and ridges of long-healed wounds. “No, no, please, I don’t want to go back,” he whispers, half-hysterical now. “Gods. I’m not ready to go back—”

“Julian,” Yennefer interrupts. Jaskier doesn’t listen, breath coming out of him in wracking sobs as he watches decades of scars retrace themselves on his skin. He stares at his hands, at the white scar tissue that slashes over his knuckles. His hands, which had once been soft and lovely and perfect for the lute. He tries to envision it now, these battle-worn fingers plucking at the delicate strings of his instrument. He can’t. 

Oh gods, he can’t. 

“Julian,” Yennefer repeats, louder, “Julian, stop. ” Something about her voice, the hard authority in it, makes a piece of Jaskier shatter—

—and Jaskier obeys. Or rather, Julian does. Julian blinks away the tears blurring this vision, getting to his feet. The sun is too bright in his eyes and the previously-light scent of Yennefer’s floral perfume stains the air, cloyingly sweet. Julian takes a shuddering breath anyway, grounding himself. It takes a moment to speak, tongue tracing the tips of his teeth, now too sharp to be entirely human. “Did you have to do that?” he asks wearily. Yennefer offers him an apologetic look but Julian knows insincerity when he sees it.

“You needed to stop hiding,” she tells him.”Jaskier’s days were numbered, anyway. A little bardling wouldn’t have survived the war that is coming.” 

Julian sighs heavily. “I would have liked more time. I enjoyed being Jaskier—”

“Funny, your previous tears and theatrics say otherwise,” Yennefer cuts in dryly. Julian levels her with a glare. 

“—and now I can never go back,” Julian finishes. 

Yennefer cocks her head to one side. “You’re so dramatic, bard—or should I say, witcher . Perhaps, when the dust settles and this war is over, you can return,” she proposes, gesturing vaguely. “I can make another glamour for you. Perhaps not one so complex, but it will be passable.”

The casual way that she says this—like going back to being Jaskier after being Julian again is something that is easily done. Julian remembers how hard it was to decide to leave the Path in the first place. How many years had it taken for him to finally give in? Ten? Twenty? He remembers how many mental blocks Jaskier had constructed to keep Julian at bay. Could he do it again? Julian isn’t sure. 

“Jaskier died here,” she suggests, kicking at a pebble with her shoe. “A fitting end, don’t you think? A foolish romantic dying after the grand rejection of his love?”
Yennefer isn’t trying to be cruel—or maybe she is; Julian has never been at reading her—but her joke still stings nonetheless. Yet the thought of it is so ridiculously appropriate: Jaskier, the foolish, love-struck poet, dying from the poisoned food of love. A sour but accurate finale to this chapter of his life.  

“So he did,” Julian agrees. He looks out at the mountain, stretching so high above him. “It’s beautiful. He wouldn’t have any complaints” He. Already, Jaskier feels so far away from Julian. There will be no going back from this, that much Julian understands. 

Yennefer makes an approving noise. She tosses him her bag. “You’ll need this.”

Julian catches it with ease. “What’s this?” 

“Some old armor from your school that I nicked off of some merchants a few months ago,” she explains. “You’re a Griffin, correct?”

Julian looks at the contents of the bag. So Yennefer had been planning this move for a while, then.“Yes.” It has been two decades since Julian last wore something like this. He pulls out a navy leather vest, the material worn but soft. The mark of a Griffin has been etched onto the back, wings unfurled and talons extended. The faint afterimage of a bloodstain remains on one of the sides. Julian wonders which of his brothers this armor once belonged to. Tamo, perhaps? He was never the most careful of fighters. 

“Well, come on,” Yennefer prompts. “You can’t stay in those frivolous silks forever, now can you?”

I wish I could. But Julian just nods. “Thank you,” he says, although he isn’t sure that he means it. “What do you need me to do?” Because there has to be a catch. If Yennefer truly believes that she has ‘helped’ him, then she must be after something. 

“Smart man,” she remarks, a tad patronizing. Yennefer flicks one of her perfect curls back. “Nothing at the moment, Julian. But I will call you when I do.” She nods at the xenovox that she stored away in the pack. 

“I see.” There’s nothing else that Julian can think to say. 

Yennefer snorts. “Gods, you’re so much quieter now.” Julian clenches his jaw to keep himself from doing something stupid like punching the woman who has just stolen his life away from him. “Go on,” she urges, “get a move on. The others should be arriving back here shortly and you don’t want them to find you in this state, do you?”

"Fair point," Julian concedes, "as always." Yennefer ignores his jab, swiveling around in a dramatic fashion to leave. Julian can feel the sizzle of magic as a portal opens. 

“And Julian?” Yennefer calls over her shoulder. Julian turns back to look at her. “How do you feel?”

Julian pauses. The pain, the grief, has left him, leaving him bereft. He feels empty, now. Jaskier had always felt so much, been too much, but Julian? With Julian, it is all too easy to set his emotions off to the side. Emotions, like luxurious satin sheets and decadent cakes, are not necessary for the Path. “Nothing,” he replies and gods, somehow that is so much worse. “I feel nothing.” 

“Good. So I did end up helping you, didn’t I?” Yennefer says, sounding pleased. 

Julian watches her portal away before replying, deadpan, “No, you didn’t.”

Nevertheless, he knows that Yennefer is right. His time as Jaskier, pleasant as it was, was always going to come to an end. Perhaps now is the best time for Julian to return, for who is Jaskier without Geralt? Jaskier had always needed home, needed Geralt, but Julian does not. Julian has survived without a home for decades. He can do it again. 

Julian sets to work destroying any evidence of his life as Jaskier. It will be easier for him to move on without the reminders, he reasons with himself. He changes back into his armor and tears his old clothing into strips. Some of it will be useful as bandages, but most of it is not. He builds a fire, feeding the remaining scraps into the flames. 

His hand hesitates as he wraps it around the neck of his lute. Jaskier's lovely girl—Julian knows he would have died for her. 

As one final favor to Jaskier, Julian does not burn the instrument. Instead, he buries it, and it’s almost like he’s burying Jaskier, with each fistful of earth that he piles on top of it bringing him farther and farther away from his previous life.

The sun is just starting to dip below the clouds when he’s finished and Julian knows he should leave soon to avoid Geralt. It would be too messy to have to explain all this to the other witcher, and the man had made it perfectly clear just hours earlier that he’d rather not see Jaskier—or Julian, for that matter—ever again. 

“Jaskier died here,” Julian repeats to himself, “if he ever truly existed.” He lingers for a moment, watching the expensive silk of his doublet burn in the fire, before turning and heading back to the Path. 

Chapter Text

Taking contracts again isn’t easy. Julian ends up making the same, rookie mistakes that he had made when he had first started out over a century ago. He smiles too much at the locals, causing them to shrink away from his sharp teeth, from his scars. He lingers too long after contracts, ignores the burning stares of the uneasy villagers, and ends up being chased out of an inn with nothing short of pitchforks and torches. That only happens once, though, because at least Jaskier had done something to improve the public image of witchers. 

All in all, the Path is as tiring and aggravating as he remembers it, but it gives Julian an excuse to continue running from his problems. Whenever he gets news of Geralt, he heads in the opposite direction. Witchers were never meant to travel together, anyway. 

It takes a few weeks for Julian to save up enough money to buy a horse because, witcher or not, he’s still slower at getting to contracts on foot and he’s still slightly rusty from years of relying on Geralt for protection. He buys a handsome, reddish-brown stallion that the seller doesn’t particularly care for—the horse’s coloring is just a little too bright that it’s been off-putting to other buyers, apparently. 

Perhaps the horse is too flashy, but Julian gets a pretty good deal for it and he really doesn’t care what color his horse is as long as it has all four functioning limbs. On a whim, he names the horse Gregory, or simply Greg, for short, because Julian is a firm believer that horses should not be named after fish. 

Yennefer checks on him a few times a month, mostly to keep tabs on where he is and whether or not he’s in danger of dying, but Julian looks forward to her calls nonetheless. There’s something comforting in the way that Yennefer treats him. She still teases him and riles him up with witty banter and cutting remarks. She still talks to him as if he’s Jaskier—as if he’s still human—and Julian is grateful for it. 

The fifth time that the xenovox in Julian’s pack buzzes, he’s at an inn a few miles outside of Kovir. He does a quick sweep of the room, but most everyone is too busy getting drunk to pay him any notice. As usual, the xenovox gives him no option to accept the transmission before Yennefer’s voice rings out from the device. 

“Kovir, Julian? Really?” 

Julian frowns. “What’s wrong with Kovir?” 

There’s a long pause before Yennefer replies, as if she has to think about her words. “The aldermans are especially pissy over there”— dear gods, Yennefer sounds almost concerned for his well-being— “so be careful.”

“Are you speaking from personal experience?” he teases. 

“Perhaps,” Yennefer hedges. There’s a story there, if Julian cares enough to wrangle it from her. And surprisingly, Julian does care.

“Do you think you could portal over?” he asks, drumming his fingers against the table nervously. 

“To Kovir?”

“Yeah.” Yennefer goes quiet for a few moments and Julian is sure she’s going to refuse. Then the inn door swings open and the sorceress sweeps her way in, dressed impeccably in a plum-colored gown. Half of the men in the tavern stop what they’re doing to stare at here and Yennefer curls her lip in disgust. She slides into the seat opposite of Julian, propping up her pretty face in one manicured hand with a bored frown.

“What did you call me over for?” 

Julian signals for a round from the barmaid, who gives the two of them a distrustful look before setting two tankards in front of them. What is he supposed to tell her? That he was lonely and she was the only one that he really knew anymore? That was bound to get a laugh from her.“I’m not sure,” he says instead. Yennefer raises one perfect brow. 

“You’re not sure?” she echoes mockingly. Julian purses his lips. 

“Just-just continue with whatever you were talking about,” he suggests, waving a hand dismissively. “At least now that you’re in front of me it’ll be easier to tell when you’re making fun of me.”

Yennefer just gives him an unimpressed look. “You had me portal hundreds of miles for a little chat? Did it not occur to you that I have so many better things to do?” she snaps, but Julian just rolls his eyes. 

“Well, you came, didn’t you?” he points out. Yennefer makes an indignant noise, opening her mouth to object. Julian just nudges one of the drinks toward her. The sorceress glares down at it. 

“That… I did,” Yennefer concedes, tone grudging. She takes a drink from her ale and winces. “Well, misery loves company, I suppose.”

Ah. Her shoddy split with Geralt must still bother her, then. 

“Amen to that,” Julian says, taking a drag from his mug as well. He immediately regrets it. “This tastes like absolute shit,” he mutters, pushing the tankard away. The sorceress sniffs in disdain. 

“Next time, call me over when you’re in a tavern with better alcohol,” Yennefer gripes. Julian sneaks a glance at her. 

“Next time?” 

“Don’t push your luck, bard,” she warns, but there’s a smile twitching at her lips anyway. 

“Witcher, you mean,” Julian corrects her. 

Yennefer gives him a long, indecipherable look. “No. Bard.”

From there, something akin to a reluctant friendship forms between them. Julian knows that Yennefer would rather die than admit that she actually likes him, but he doesn’t mind. Unlike with Geralt, Julian doesn’t need her to like him. Yennefer understands him, understands what it feels like to experience the duality of being feared and being praised for beauty, and that’s more than enough. 

They are, setting aside their obvious shared experience with the disaster that is Geralt, very similar, after all. So when Yennefer calls on him for help almost a year after his return to the Path, Julian can’t help but feel anxious for her. Their conversation is brief and hurried but it’s enough to set Julian on edge. 

“Sodden Hill,” she tells him, “hurry. ”

He has never heard her so worried and so Julian does. It takes two days days of hard riding to get to Brugge and it’s all that Julian can do to get Greg into the stables to let him rest. He can still make it to Sodden Hill by midday tomorrow, if he’s lucky. 

Greg probably needs a few hours to regain his strength, so Julian swings by the local inn to ask if there are any contracts that he can pick up. Brugge is known to be a quite progressive area, anyhow, so Julian thinks he’ll have some luck getting decent pay. It helps that the innkeeper doesn’t glare at him when he walks in. 

“We don’t have anything for you, sorry,” he says. “Half the town is already cleared out, preparing for Nilfgaard. We had a cockatrice problem, but another witcher has already gone off to take care of it.”

“Another witcher?” he echoes thoughtfully. Could it be Geralt? Last Jaskier had heard, the witcher had escaped from the Cintrian prison during the Nilfgaardian invasion. 

The innkeeper redirects his attention back to the corner of drunks that have begun singing lewd lyrics just a little too loudly. “Yeah. A witcher and some girl. His daughter, perhaps.” 

Not Geralt, then. The man always preferred to travel alone. Julian just nods. 

“Any chance I can trouble you for a pint, then?” he asks hopefully. Perhaps a few decades before, he would have been laughed out of the tavern, but now the innkeeper just raises a brow.

“Coin first, witcher, and then your ale,” he grunts. Julian grins, slapping the payment on the counter. Perhaps things have changed, then. He sits back with his drink, taking a sip of admittedly half-way decent ale and wincing as the drunks hit a particularly high note. This will probably be the last moment of peace that he’ll have in a while, if Yennefer’s panicked xenovox message had been any indication. Julian tries to enjoy it. 

Of course, his moment of peace is really just a moment, because just as Julian is taking a second sip from his drink, the inn door flies open. 

A young girl hurries in, making a beeline for the innkeeper.

The innkeeper barely spares her a glance. “Is it done already?” he asks. The girl shakes her head vigorously, small hands gripping the front of her cloak, agitated. 

“My… father—the witcher—needs help,” she explains hastily. Julian watches her curiously. Witchers are sterilized during the Trial of the Grasses. Being his adopted daughter is also unlikely. Witchers walk the Path alone. Obviously the girl is trying to hide something. 

The innkeeper shakes his head. “The witcher was supposed to take care of the monster, not get in trouble with it.”

The child just stares back at him hopelessly. “But—” The innkeeper turns away. Julian sighs. 

He’s really in a hurry, but Julian isn’t one to just ignore one of his brethren when they’re calling for help. Setting down his ale, he walks up to the girl. 

“It’s not often that a witcher needs saving,” he begins gently. 

Strangely enough, there isn’t a hint of fear in the girl’s expression when she turns her attention to him. She looks completely unsurprised by the scars on his face and the two large swords strapped to his back. 

“No,” she admits. “No, it’s not.” Julian hand goes up to check his medallion, just in case. The metal stays silent. 

Human, then. Interesting.

“Where’s your father now?” he ventures. 

“He’s in the woods off the road. A ten minute walk, I think.”

Julian nods. “I know the area.” 

“Please,” the girl beseeches, and that wide, dewy look in her eyes makes Julian crumble. “Please, help my father.” Julian knows that he has to get to Sodden Hill as quickly as possible, but there’s something about this child that makes it hard for him to refuse her. 

“What is your name?” he asks her, voice soft. 

The girl hesitates for a moment. “Fiona,” she says, sounding uncertain. 

“Alright, Fiona,” he says, aiming for that soothing tone of voice that Jaskier was always so good at, “I’ll do what I can to help him.”

“Thank you,” she says, tense posture relaxing. “You can borrow my horse,” Fiona offers. Julian just waves her off as he walks toward the door. 

“I’m quieter on foot. If your father is as near as you say he is, it should be no issue getting there without a horse.” Turning to the innkeeper, he smiles. “I’ll take care of the cockatrice, good sir,” he assures him. “Just get this little lady a hot meal, will you?” He tosses a few coins onto the counter. “It’s on me.”

Without waiting for an answer, Jaskier dashes out of the inn, settling into a steady sprint to the patch of woods that he knows all too well from the numerous contracts he used to take here. He’s just at the edge of the forest when he catches wind of it. 

There’s a scent in the air—linseed and sun-warmed leather—that is so achingly familiar. Something in Julian stirs as he breathes it in and at once he knows why. 

Well, fuck. Of course it had to be Geralt. And the girl that had gone to him for help was probably Princess Cirilla, his Child Surprise. So he had gone back for her, then. 

The coward in Julian is tempted to just turn around and run in the other direction. Geralt can handle himself, probably. It shouldn’t be anything to worry about, right? But the sounds of fighting and the smell of Geralt’s blood are too strong for Julian to turn away from. 

Sending a quick ‘fuck you’ to the universe, Julian creeps closer to the clearing a few feet into the woods and pulls up the cowl of his tunic to hide his face. The glamour hadn’t done much to change Julian’s features—it was made to just cover up only the most inhuman parts of him—so he needs to be careful. Someone who had known him for twenty years would probably be able to recognize him still. 

But then again, Geralt is Geralt, so Julian isn’t sure if that assumption holds true for him. Regardless, he’s not going to take any chances. 

As he ducks behind a thicket of bushes, Julian sees the cockatrice first, because how can he not, it’s fucking huge. He’s not sure he’s ever seen one so big, but even still, a witcher of Geralt’s caliber should have been able to fend it off, no problem. 

But the issue is that Geralt isn’t. The witcher’s movements look too slow, too sluggish, as if he’s fighting on no sleep. Which he probably is. Julian spots a few not-so-shallow gashes slashing the man’s sides and he decides that he should probably step in. 

Maybe it isn’t the smartest decision to jump immediately on the cockatrice’s back, but Julian is in no hurry to get between a very tired Geralt and his sword, so he digs the heels of his boots into the sides of the beasts’ back and tries to hold on. Luckily, Geralt had done a decent job at wearing out the creature, because the cockatrice just manages a few rather harsh bucks and an ear-splitting shriek before Julian finds a nice place to bury his sword. 

“Get out of the way,” he yells at Geralt. He plunges his blade into the monster’s spine, twisting it in before ducking out of the way as the cockatrice’s head swings back to bite at him. Julian can feel its hot breath against his face as he pulls out his other sword and plunges it into the soft flesh of its throat, keeping his eyes closed as he digs the blade deeper into its maw. Blood sloshes warm over his hands and the cockatrice goes slack underneath him. 

The beast slumps to the ground with thunderous cash. For a moment, Julian is afraid that Geralt has gotten trapped underneath it as well, but then he sees a flash of white hair off to the side. He breathes a sigh of relief, jumping down from his place on the cockatrice’s back. With a clean sweep of his sword, he cuts the cockatrice’s head off and puts it away in a sack to bring to the alderman. Only then does he trust himself to speak. 

“Are you alright?” he asks Geralt. He feels foolish as he pitches his voice lower, but Julian doesn’t want to risk it. 

Geralt grunts in affirmation before getting up from his kneeling stance, expression stony. Typical. 

There’s no ‘ thank you,’ but Julian isn’t expecting one. 

“Who are you?” Geralt barks. Julian almost snorts. The White Wolf is as blunt as ever, it seems. “I haven’t seen you before on the Path.” 

“Different schools, witcher,” Julian replies casually, “and it’s a large Continent.” He just gets a skeptical exhale of breath in response. Before Julian can stop him, Geralt rounds on him so that they stand face-to-face. Gold meets cornflower blue and Julian’s slow-beating heart stutters a beat. 

Julian meets his inquisitive stare, unflinching. It’s unwise because he just knows that Geralt will somehow see too much, but there’s something brewing in Julian’s gut, something red-hot and ugly, that pushes him to shrug off Geralt’s hand and stand his ground. 

“Griffin School,” he reveals tersely, crossing his arms over his chest, “and you’re a Wolf, I presume?” 

Geralt is too occupied with searching the little bit of his face that Julian’s covering leaves exposed to give him the answer he already knows. Geralt’s eyes widen a fraction and his nostrils flare, scenting him. 

Fuck. Julian should have thought about masking his scent. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Certainly, he’s missing the flamboyant, floral perfumes that Jaskier always wore, but he knows that underneath all of that, Julian smells the same. 

Geralt is onto him in an instant, pushing Julian roughly against a nearby tree. “What have you done with him?” he growls. The display would be menacing if Julian hadn’t just watched him get his ass handed back to him by a cockatrice.  

“With whom?” Julian fires back. Right , Geralt of Rivia is as thick as a brick . Maybe if Julian plays dumb, this can all blow over. Julian doesn’t want Geralt to know who he is, but Jaskier does. Jaskier wants to be recognized by the man with whom he had shared all of his human years with. Jaskier wants to be seen. 

But.

Jaskier died on that mountain, Julian reminds himself. Never forget that. 

Geralt’s sword is pressed up against his neck now and wow, Julian forgot how quickly things escalated with the other witcher. “Where is Jaskier? What have you done with him? ”

Julian considers just remaining silent because surely, Geralt will notice how stupid he’s being, threatening one of his own over a scent. But then the silver of Geralt’s blade kisses his skin in warning and Julian curses. Well, the jig is up.

“Oh, fuck me,” he spits emphatically, “and fuck this.” Shoving Geralt away, he draws the cowl off of his face. Julian lifts his chin, glaring back defiantly, and oh, Geralt looks like he has just seen a ghost. The witcher hazards a step back, dropping his sword, the scent of surprise rolling off of him in waves. 

“Jaskier…”

Julian’s breath hisses through his teeth. “I’m not—”

“Jaskier,” Geralt breathes out again, sounding so soft, so lost, that something in Julian wavers. If he were Jaskier, he probably would have immediately jumped into the other’s arms, perhaps slapped the man for his rudeness from before. But Jaskier is not real. He was never real, so Julian just flings the excess blood off of his sword and sheathes it, trying to ignore the burning emotion that stirs under his skin. Geralt reaches out to touch his face as if to make sure that he’s really there. He pulls short of his scars and Julian grimaces. “Jaskier, what happened?” 

Julian goes still. He isn’t sure it is that speaks next—Julian or Jaskier—but regardless, he’s angry. 

“What are you referring to, Geralt?” Julian asks. “What happened to me ? Because last I saw you, you didn’t couldn’t give a damn about my wellbeing. What is it that you said to me? ‘If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands’ ?” Julian laughs, the sound sharp and cutting. “Well, I suppose that you got your wish then. Jaskier has been taken off your hands. No need to worry over him anymore,” Julian snaps.

Geralt looks devastated, an expression that is so incredibly foreign on his features that Julian is torn between laughing and bursting into tears. “Jaskier—”

“Don’t,” Julian cuts him off because fuck, he’s really in danger of breaking right now. He’s done so well at shoving away the last remnants of Jaskier over the past few years but Geralt… Geralt seems to bring it all back. “Don’t,” he says again, quieter this time.

The adrenaline from the fight seems to leave him then. Julian takes a deep breath. He’s tired and there’s a gash on his side that needs its stitches cleaned. He’d rather not get into another row with Geralt now. So he just smiles, a brittle thing, and extends a hand.  “Best to forget about Jaskier, Geralt,” he tells him, tone firm. “My name is Julian—Julian of Redania. Pleasure to meet you.”

Geralt just stares at his hand, at the scars that criss-cross patterns over his skin, and makes no move to accept it. Julian rejects the urge to stomp his foot like a petulant child having a temper tantrum. He doesn’t have time for this. He needs to make sure that Geralt is well enough to continue protecting Cirilla and then he needs to go. He has a debt to repay and Yennefer needs him. 

Julian jerks his thumb behind him. “We should head back to the inn so I can look at your injuries,” he proposes. When he begins the trek back to the main road and hears no footsteps behind him, Julian turns back. The other witcher is just standing there, staring at him with a kind of intensity that sends a shiver down Julian’s spine. “Come on, Geralt. There’s no sense in dallying. Your child surprise is worried sick after you.”

At that, Geralt mutters something unintelligible under his breath and retrieves his fallen sword, trudging after him. 

Silence hangs over them for the entire trip back to the inn, thick and oppressive. Julian makes no move to fill it—that had always been Jaskier’s job, anyway. Oddly enough, he can sense Geralt getting more and more agitated as the quiet continues. When they arrive at the inn, Julian leaves Geralt to reunite with his Child Surprise while he collects the payment from the alderman and checks up on Greg. When he returns, Geralt is sitting close to the princess and they’re speaking in soft tones to each other. Jaskier is hesitant to interrupt their moment, but he needs to look at Geralt’s wounds before he leaves.

“Mind if I cut in, Fiona?” he asks, strolling up to their table. He throws a playful wink at her to know that he’s in on the charade. Judging by her giggle in response, Geralt must have told her about him. 

“Of course Jaskier,” she says. Julian forces a smile and prays that it doesn’t come out as a grimace. 

“It’s Julian, actually,” he corrects her kindly, “and thank you. I’ll have your father back and mostly in one piece, I promise.” That earns him another laugh and Julian revels in it as he takes Geralt by the elbow and marches him up the stairs. 

As soon as Ciri’s out of earshot, he says, “Don’t worry, Geralt. This won’t take long. I just need to make sure you won’t die of infection and then I’ll be out of your hair forever.”

Geralt just grunts in response. Julian’s time as Jaskier has trained him well at translating the many nuanced meanings of Geralt’s grunts, but this one makes him pause. It’s a remorseful grunt, which is a puzzling choice. But Julian shakes off the thought. There’s no use in getting his hopes up in the presence of the greatest letdown of his life. 

“Armor off,” Julian commands as soon as they enter the room that he has rented. Geralt raises a brow but does as he is told, slowly stripping off his shoulder plates and vest. While he’s doing that, Julian rustles around in his pack, getting out his medical supplies. 

Geralt is still unstrapping his arm guards when Julian has assembled everything he needs, so he just shrugs and decides to patch himself up first. Rolling up his undershirt, Jaskier holds the end of it between his teeth as he cleans the sutures that he had hastily done after his last hunt a few days ago. The alcohol stings on the wound but Julian has had worse. Better to have some pain now than infection later. Thankfully, Geralt is done undressing when Julian finishes. 

He looks up to Geralt watching him as if he’s never seen him before. There’s even a slight squint to the other’s eyes that gives Julian the impression that he’s some sort of exotic animal in a menagerie that Geralt is trying so desperately to make sense of. 

“What?” Julian demands. Geralt just presses his lips together and says nothing, averting his eyes. “Sit down.” Julian points to the bed. “I’ll get a washcloth.”

Julian flushes out the grime from Geralt’s cuts in silence. It isn’t until he’s finished sewing up Geralt’s more grievous wounds that the silver-haired witcher bothers to speak. 

“I thought you dead,” Geralt tells him as Julian dabs a rather offensive-smelling salve over his fresh stitches. Julian can only manage a half-hearted shrug. 

“As you can see,” he says mildly, “I am not.” Geralt shakes his head vigorously. 

“You don’t understand,” he protests, “I found your clothes, burned to ashes. And your lute—your lute was buried underneath the dirt. You would have never left it behind—”

“ Jaskier would never have,” Julian interrupts. Geralt seems to ignore him— as per the usual . 

“—how could I have known that you had not been killed?” And oh, Geralt has absolutely no business sounding as distraught as he does. 

“I didn’t think you cared,” Julian replies, although he is well aware that Geralt does. That was part of the reason why he had left those little clues behind in the first place; Jaskier had wanted Geralt to hurt, to mourn, because he had been the one to kill Jaskier and bring Julian back. 

Julian almost hates him for it. 

Geralt makes a defeated noise. “I did,” he says tightly, as if admitting the fact is so difficult for him, “ I do. ”

Julian almost drops the jar in his hands. Jaskier had waited twenty years to hear Geralt say that and had never gotten it. But once Jaskier is dead, Geralt is here, looking so remorseful, so cowed. 

I did. I do, he says.

Well, Julian thinks bitterly, men always sing more sweetly for the dead, don’t they? 

Julian knows what Geralt is expecting. He’s expecting Jaskier to leap up from his side, to embrace him, to pour out his heart because what Geralt has just admitted is earth-shattering—

—but Julian is not Jaskier. 

“Alright,” Julian acknowledges because that is all he can do. “Alright, Geralt.” The other witcher looks even more upset by this, if all possible. “Give me your arm,” Julian orders. He doesn’t have time to dissect the shit storm that is Geralt’s emotions. “I remember the cockatrice getting you there.” Geralt doesn’t listen, instead catching Julian’s hand as he reaches for him.

“I can fix this,” the other witcher assures him fiercely, tugging him closer. 

“What are you talking about?” Julian replies, starting to get irritated again. “Careful, you’re going to tear your stitches—”

“I can fix you ,” Geralt insists. He’s gripping his hand so tightly that Julian can feel his bones creak. “This curse, I know I can find something that can break it—”

Julian wrenches himself out of his grip. He has heard enough. “There’s nothing for you to fix, Geralt,” he grounds out and gods, this is just what he had feared. Is that how Geralt sees Julian? Is that how everyone sees Julian? As something broken, something that could be fixed, erased away, so that only the good parts, only the Jaskier parts remained? Of all people, Julian had thought that Geralt would be the one person that understood. 

But of course. Even that expectation had been to high for Geralt of fucking Rivia. He is just the same as everyone else. Julian straightens, squaring his shoulders. 

“ This” —Julian gestures to his scars, to his slitted eyes— “is no curse. This is not something that can be undone, Geralt .” Geralt flinches at his tone but Julian isn’t done. “You can’t just come back to me and try to play the role of the white knight again, all because you’ve so conveniently decided that Jaskier was worth keeping around. This is who I really am, Geralt. See me and accept that.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt starts, pleading. Julian scoffs. The stupid man really can’t take a hint, can he?

“Jaskier was nothing but a pipe dream, Geralt,” Julian reminds him coldly, even as Jaskier cries out at his words and tries to claw back up his throat. But Jaskier is dead and can never return. Julian swallows him back, voice wavering only slightly. “And you need to wake up from him, as I have.”

With that, he turns away from him. He doesn’t want to see the crestfallen look on Geralt’s face. “There’s a bath waiting for you down the hall. I would take advantage of it before it gets cold.” 

All Julian gets in reply from Geralt is a pained sound before he exits the room entirely. 

julian defends geralt by astraaeterna 

geralt meets julian by captnsunshine

Chapter Text

Annoyance still itching at the forefront of his mind, Julian decides to head downstairs to check on Ciri before setting out. He supposes he will do this one last favor for Geralt before he goes. The girl is still where he and Geralt had left her—sitting in a booth at the corner of the room and trying to appear as inconspicuous as possible. 

He drops the pouch of money in front of her and signals the innkeeper to refill Ciri’s plate. 

“Thank you,” the princess tells Julian as he places another bowl of stew in front of her. She looks dreadfully thin as her small hands tear off a piece of bread, dipping it in the rich broth. Julian just smiles, tucking into his own portion. 

“It’s always good to take advantage of a good meal while you’re in town,” he says. “Gods know how you’ve managed to get down the unseasoned atrocity that Geralt calls food up until now.” Ciri offers him a tiny, cheeky grin. 

“It’s not so terrible,” she lies. 

Julian snorts derisively. “No need to fib, darling. I’ve experienced first-hand Geralt’s cooking, so I well understand your plight.” The girl considers him thoughtfully. 

“He’s talked about you, before,” Ciri tells him. Julian barks out a skeptical laugh.
“All bad things, I presume,” he jokes, but it falls flat. Ciri just tilts her head to one side. 

“No. He said that you two were friends.” Julian nearly chokes on his stew. 

Friends. What a lying bastard. Is that how Geralt is trying to paint himself? A kind, sympathetic hero who had put up with an annoying bard and even was so gracious as to call him a friend? Julian half-wishes that Geralt was right in front of him again, if only he could slap the man into the next week. How dare Geralt speak such pretty lies about the fucked up dynamic that Jaskier and he had shared. How dare Geralt pretend as if the shit he had spewed on that mountain hadn’t happened. 

He wants to ingratiate himself with his child surprise by saying that he and Jaskier had been friends, huh? Julian won’t give him the satisfaction. “Well, that’s news to me,” Jaskier says at last. “In all the years we traveled together, he’s never mentioned that to me.”

A carrot escapes Ciri’s spoon, sloshing back into her bowl. ‘How long did you two travel together?”

The witcher just laughs, they sound hollow. “Twenty years.” The princess freezes, jaw dropping. 

“Twenty years?” she echoes. 

Lifting a shoulder in an attempt at a shrug, Julian looks down at the table. “Well, twenty years isn’t much in the lifetime of a witcher.” He looks up quickly, raising his hands. “But don’t get me wrong, Fiona. You’re different. You are his child. You will be everything to him.”

“But you were his friend.”

Julian smiles sadly. “I was his nothing. ” He spies Geralt making his way down the inn stairs and gets up from his seat, fixing on a bright expression. “Aha! The man of the hour,” he calls to Geralt with false cheer. He will keep up appearances, for the child’s sake. No need for two surly witchers, really. Turning back to Cirilla, he gives her a mock-bow. “I fear that I will have to take my leave now, fair Fiona,” he declares grandly, taking her hand and dropping a kiss to the back of it. “Perhaps our paths will cross again soon,” he says, although he sorely hopes that they won’t. Then he all but runs out of the inn as he hears Geralt call his name. 

He heads for the stables, intent on heading off to Sodden Hill before he loses his nerve and falls back into Jaskier’s old habits again. It’s all too tempting, the allure of companionship, of not travelling alone, but Julian knows what a fool he would look like if he fell for that mistake again. He walks up to Greg’s stall. 

“You up for another day of hard riding, boy?” he asks, patting him on his flank. Gregory just neighs, head reaching back to nuzzle into Julian’s hand in search of a treat. Julian laughs. “I haven’t got anything for you this time, sorry. Next town we hit on the journey back, I’ll buy some oats,” he promises. Greg huffs, disappointed, and Julian laughs. 

The sound of heavy footsteps behind him makes Julian tense. Geralt. The other witcher approaches him slowly, loudly, letting him know of his presence. 

As much as some part of Julian is tempted to turn around, he keeps his focus on Greg, attaching his pack and making sure that the fastenings of his saddle are secure. If Geralt wants to talk, he’ll talk. Julian won’t do the hard part for him. There’s an awkward minute in which Julian can hear Geralt nervously shifting his weight from foot to foot. Once it becomes clear that Julian isn’t going to break the silence for him, Geralt clears his throat. 

“What’s his name?”

Julian almost scoffs. He’s surprised that Geralt cares enough to ask. “Gregory.”

“Gregory?” There’s a hint of a smile in the other witcher’s voice but to Julian it just sounds mocking.
“Yes, Gregory, ” Julian says defensively. “It’s a fine name for a fine horse, no matter what Yen says.”

“Yennefer?” Geralt’s shock is palpable. “You’ve talked to her?” There’s something guarded in the other’s words, something unsettled, as if Geralt is uncomfortable with this new information. Julian ignores the irrational pull of jealousy that tugs in his gut. That was Jaskier’s problem—not his—and he’d like to keep it that way.

“Occasionally,” Julian replies blandly. “She’s the one who landed me into this mess in the first place. Makes sense that she’d want to keep this old Griffin sane, I suppose,” he mutters. Geralt takes a step closer. 

“Do you know where she is now?” Julian inwardly snorts. Of course. Geralt’s only looking to run into Yennefer’s arms again. He turns to face the other man for the first time. Well, he’d rather do whatever Yennefer needs of him and then clear out as quickly as possible—he’d rather not get dragged into whatever mess Geralt and Yen get themselves into. 

“That’s where I’m going now—Sodden Hill,” Julian informs him, swinging a leg over Gregory’s saddle. “Yennefer called in a favor and I am loath to refuse the calls of powerful, pretty women.”

There’s a flash of dissatisfaction that flies over the other’s features, lightning quick, before Geralt nods, going over to Roach and readying her saddle. 

“What are you doing?” Julian asks, confused. Geralt barely spares him a glance. 

“Coming with you,” he answers shortly, as if it was obvious. Julian balks. 

“What—why?” Julian's grip on Gregory’s reins becomes white-knuckled. “You should be taking Ciri away from Nilfgaard, not straight to them.” The other witcher just grunts. 

“The princess needs to learn how to control her powers,” he tells him. 

“Ah,” Julian manages. So that’s what it is. “She needs Yennefer, then.” And you do too. 

Geralt looks away. “Yes.”

Julian grits his teeth and smiles. “I see. I’ll go ahead of you, then. Hopefully, I can clear out any threats along the way to make it easier for you.”

Geralt makes a frustrated sound. “No. We’ll travel together.” In classic Geralt fashion, it’s not so much a suggestion as it is an order. 

Annoyance lights hot in Julian’s chest. “Don’t make this mistake, Geralt,” he cautions. “I am not yours to order around. I followed you around those twenty years because I wanted to, not because I had to.” Giving Greg a pat on the side, he leads him out of the stables, intent on leaving the other man hanging. Geralt is quick to stop him. 

“That… that’s not what I meant,” he amends, catching up to him easily. Geralt meets his eyes, willing Julian to believe him. 

“Then what did you mean?” Julian prompts sharply. Geralt had had twenty years to stall and force out half-hearted niceties. Jaskier might have been willing to humor him, but Julian is not. 

The expression on Geralt’s face is an interesting mix of exasperated and constipated. The bone of his jaw jumps as the man works up the nerve to say, “I don’t want to lose you again.”

Huh.

For what it’s worth, Julian is mildly impressed. That admission alone probably took a few years off of Geralt’s life, judging by how taxing it appeared to have been for him. Nevertheless, it is going to take far more than a pitiful heart-to-heart for Julian to let Geralt in again. The man’s already ruined one of his lives, why should Julian give him the chance to ruin another? So Julian just sighs, shaking his head. 

 “You can’t. The man you’re chasing after is a ghost, Geralt,” he says, as softly as he can. “Let him be.” Perhaps Julian should have been crueler, because Geralt just leans in closer, looking determined.

“Then let me chase after you. ” 

Julian’s breath catches in his throat at the raw earnestness in the other’s voice. There’s a chance that the other man’s claim is just another ploy to get Julian to trust him so that Geralt can get Jaskier back. But Julian has always been weak for pretty words—that had been Jaskier’s forte, after all—and that one, soft part of Julian is so desperately lonely that he can’t help but nod. 

“Okay,” he allows, voice fragile. He draws Gregory back, a safe distance away from Geralt. Gods, the other witcher made it so difficult for him to think. “Two witchers are better than one, I suppose,” he says, a little too shakily. “To protect, Ciri, of course.” 

“Good,” Geralt replies. He’s smiling, now, in that infuriating, self-assured way that he does when a hunt goes his way. For a second, Julian is afraid that he’s played right into Geralt’s hands, that the other witcher has just been waiting for him to run back to his side and had acted so regretful and upset because he had missed being able to hurl his abuses at someone. Julian sets his jaw. 

He’ll draw his line in the sand now before Geralt kicks it into his face again. 

“But don’t think that this is over, Geralt. This” —he points to the space between them as if to make a point— “is nowhere near enough to repair what you tore to shreds on that mountain. Don’t expect me to go on playing happy families with you just because you’ve learned to string two nice sentences together.” 

That smug smile vanishes and suddenly Julian can breathe again. Geralt nods in response, expression tight. 

“I know. I’ll go get Ciri.” Don’t go, goes unsaid. 

Julian allows himself a small smile—he has said his piece. Now it’s Geralt’s turn to listen and follow. “I’ll be waiting.”

On the road, Cirilla rides with Geralt on Roach and Julian flanks them. At first, Julian’s tempted to let the stifling silence that hangs over them go on, but then he thinks about the girl. How difficult must it be for her? Her city has been burned to the ground, her people slaughtered, her own family decaying on the battlefield and in the streets—and now her only chance at salvation comes in the form of a grumbling, taciturn witcher. 

The child must be very strong, Julian thinks to himself. He pities her, even though he knows that that is not what she needs. What she needs is a distraction. Something, anything, that will keep her mind off of the horrors of the past few weeks. So Julian begins to talk. 

He talks about everything but he does not talk as Jaskier would. He does not talk about frivolous things like women and wine and clothes. No, Julian is determined to distance himself as far as he can from Jaskier. It will make it all easier. In the end, he was always going to be Julian. Trying to be Jaskier again, fleeting and sweet as it was, will bring him nothing but heartache. Julian also worries that it will make it harder for Geralt to accept the reality that Jaskier is gone. 

Gone. Dead. All the like. 

So instead Julian tells Cirilla about the plants by the roadside. He tells her about which plants are poisonous and which ones will soothe wounds and assuage hunger. He tells her about his more exciting encounters with the mythical beasts of his contracts over the century. At first, he isn’t even sure if the princess is even listening and considers stopping—perhaps Cirilla prefers the quiet, too?—but then she turns to face him, expression questioning.

“And then what happened?” she asks, a sort of tentative curiosity tinting her voice. “With the manticore?”

For a moment, Julian is so surprised at her reciprocation that he almost falls off of Gregory. He manages to pass it off as a minor flinch and Cirilla giggles. Julian shoots her look of mock-hurt. 

“Sorry,” she apologizes kindly, “I didn’t mean to laugh.”

Julian cracks into a grin. “Psh, princess. No need to apologize. Geralt’s laughed at me plenty before,” he says. And sue him if he sounds a little bitter—Julian thinks that, for Jaskier’s sake, he’s earned it. From the corner of his vision, he watches as Geralt’s hands tighten on the reins. Julian’s mood lifts a little bit. He nudges Greg into a faster canter, smiling. “Anyway, about that manticore…”

They continue riding until the sun is low in the sky. If Julian were alone, he’d be tempted to ride on into the night, dangers be damned, but Geralt gives him such an irritated look when he suggests it that he drops the idea. Perhaps Geralt really is that concerned that he can’t protect Ciri by himself. 

“Sorry, Yen,” he murmurs under his breath as he dismounts Greg, leaving him to graze on the few patches of dry grass that remain untouched by the early winter frost. Hopefully whatever she needs him for can wait one more day. 

“Is she in trouble?” Geralt asks. Julian sighs. 

“I don’t know,” he tells him honestly. “You know Yen,” he continues, gesturing vaguely, “she’s a secretive woman. Getting anything actually useful from her is like pulling teeth from a wyvern. But she sounded so worried.” Julian licks his lips, anxious. “You know what? Maybe it’s a good idea if I do keep going. I can probably make it Sodden Hill before morning—” 

Geralt cuts him off with a withering glare. “It’s not safe.”

“Yeah, I know that, Geralt,” Julian replies, cross. “Believe it or not, some of us have more than two braincells to rub together—”

“I don’t want you to go,” Geralt interrupts impatiently, “where I cannot follow.” Julian splutters. 

“Oh, now you are all about following—”

“ Julian. ” Something about the way that Geralt says his name, like a plea, a prayer, makes Julian stop. It’s the closest to begging that he’s ever gotten from Geralt. “Please.”

Well. Julian’s chest tightens painfully. 

Please. He doesn’t think that Geralt’s ever used that word with him before. 

Geralt has once again thrown him straight into uncharted waters. Julian has experienced a plethora of Geralt’s moods: anger, frustration, disappointment, disapproval. But this one, this new expressiveness of Geralt’s, is something that Julian is in no way prepared for. 

Julian bites the inside of his cheek to keep from clobbering Geralt over his asinine head. Why must this man make everything so much more difficult? Where had this concern been on that mountain top? Hell, where had it been during Jaskier’s two decades of travelling with him?

“That’s awfully honest,” he gets out. Geralt looks off to the side, refusing to meet his curious stare. “Fine. You win this round, Geralt. I’ll stay with you for the child. But at first light, I’m heading off, with you or not.” Giving Geralt a perfunctory pat on the arm, Julian walks away. 

Julian isn’t exactly sure where he’s going, but he figures that a good few minutes of crashing around in the woods will help clear his mind. He’s pretty sure that he remembers a river or something nearby, anyway, and he’s due for a good wash. Unlike Geralt, Julian has a good grapple on his personal hygiene and understands the benefit of not smelling like death warmed over when meeting with potential clients. 

“Fantastic,” he murmurs to himself as he pushes through a wall of thickets. Just as he had thought. The sound of running water greets his ears and there’s a clean smell in the air. All good signs that the water’s safe. Returning back to camp, he sets his pack down. “There’s a stream a couple meters from here, if you want to wash off,” he suggests to Ciri. The princess nods vigorously. 

“Yes, please.”

Geralt makes a disapproving noise. “No. Ciri needs to stay where I can protect her.” Julian closes his eyes for a moment and counts to ten. 

How on earth is this man that dense? 

“Oh, and what am I? Chopped liver?” he fires back. “Please, Geralt. Do you know how old I am? How long I have been on the Path, doing exactly what you do?” He steps closer, successfully breaching Geralt’s personal space. Only this time, he won’t let Geralt force him out of it.

Julian can practically see the gears turning behind Geralt’s eyes. “We’re going to bathe,” Julian reiterates, raising a challenging brow at Geralt. “After all, some of us didn’t have the luxury of a bath at the inn.” Geralt lets them off with a displeased grunt. Stripping off his swords, Julian takes Ciri’s hand and leads her down the dense hedging to the small stream. It’ll be a little cold since winter is approaching, but Julian supposes he can warm up the water.

“Was it wise to leave your weapons behind?” Ciri asks nervously as Julian ducks behind a boulder to give her some privacy. 

“Don’t worry, darling,” he assures her. “I’ve still got my knives.” He sticks his foot out from behind the makeshift divider, slapping his boot for emphasis. Ciri giggles. 

“Okay.”

“You’ll always be safe with me,” Julian promises because gods, he already cares for this girl so much. He can’t wait for Yennefer to meet her. Yennefer, the woman who wants nothing more than to be a loving mother, and Ciri, the child whose mother’s affections have been long lost. Two missing pieces, fitted together. “Now come on,” he urges. He casts igni into the water, heating it up. “The water will be warm, I swear on it.”

He hears Ciri dip a tentative toe in the water and gasp. “It’s hot!” she exclaims excitedly. Julian laughs. 

“Only the best for you, princess.” 

He lets her bathe first, only leaving the cover of the boulder when Ciri tells him that she’s done. Then he walks her up to Geralt before returning to the stream for his turn. Hastily, he recasts igni before stripping off his armor. The hot water feels like heaven against his tired muscles. He’s tempted to stay for a while, but Julian has a funny feeling that Geralt will come looking for him if he’s away for too long. The thought alone of such an encounter is enough to push Julian to rush through the rest of his makeshift bath and hurriedly pull his trousers on. His shirt will have to wait—it’s gotten a little bit gross from the cockatrice blood, so he’ll have to wash that. 

When Julian makes it back to the campsite, he’s pleased to see that Geralt’s hunted their dinner for the night already. 

“Do you need help?” he asks. Geralt pauses from skinning the deer to give him an incredulous—well, incredulous by Geralt’s standards—stare. The other’s eyes dip from his face to his bared chest before Geralt looks back at his hands. 

“I thought you hated getting your fingernails dirty,” Geralt grouches. 

“Funny, I didn’t think you were listening,” Julian mutters to himself, working a hand through his wet hair. “Well, Geralt,” he says, sitting down across from him and taking out his own knife, setting to work, “today is your lucky day, stumbling upon Julian, the humble witcher, who doesn’t give a damn about his grubby mitts.”

Julian sincerely doesn’t mean the comment to be a dig at the other man, but Geralt’s lips twitch downward anyway. 

Once the animal is prepared, Julian goes to start the fire. Ciri pauses in her attempt of finger-combing her locks to join him once it’s made, holding her hands to it. Reluctantly, Julian has to shoo her away so that Geralt can set up a spit to roast their meal, but Julian wraps his travelling cloak around her to make sure that she stays warm. While Geralt cooks their dinner, Julian tries to beat out the rest of the dampness of his shirt. He’s rather unsuccessful, but Julian tugs the clothing back on anyway because he’d rather not scar Ciri more than he already has at this point. 

Mercifully, Julian adds a little bit of spice from the remaining store that he has in his pack to give the meat at least some semblance of flavor. Judging by Ciri’s unoffended look when she accepts the share that Julian pushes into her hands, it doesn’t go unappreciated. 

Ciri’s still struggling with the wet knots of her hair by the time that they’ve finished eating. Something warm and fond stirs in Julian’s chest and he sighs. 

“I can braid it for you, if you like,” he offers. Ciri lets a small smile creep up her face, a genuine one. 

“Really?”

There’s a childish hope in her voice that makes Julian’s heart squeeze. “Yeah.” He hasn’t completely forgotten every skill that Jaskier had picked up. The princess scoots over to him. Gently, he begins to comb through her hair. “Something practical or something fancy?” he asks her jokingly. 

“Fancy?” Ciri repeats. 

“Practical,” Geralt grumbles from across the fire. “We’re going to be on the road.”

“Well,” Julian begins indulgently, neatly parting Ciri’s hair, “there’s no rule that says that you can’t have both.” As his fingers expertly twine small sections of her blonde locks together, the start of a complicated plait, he finds himself humming. It’s an old tune, one that his mother used to sing to him when he would wake up, frightened by a storm. 

“Geralt told me that you play the lute,” Ciri says out of the blue. Julian’s fingers falter in her hair. 

“Not anymore,” he admits. 

“Why not?” It’s Geralt who asks. There’s a layer of something in the other’s voice—grief, perhaps?

Julian tries for a smile. “No one likes a bard with scarred hands, I’m afraid.” That earns him a pained sound from Geralt. “It’s alright,” he lies. “There’s no need for me to play for coin, anyway. Witchers are made for contracts, not the arts, right?”

Geralt doesn’t deign him with a reply, so Julian returns his focus to the princess. “Why do you ask?”

“I was wondering if you could play me something,” Ciri admits, sounding sheepish. “It’s been so long since I’ve heard music.” That quiet, plaintive note in her voice makes Julian cave. He’s always been such a pushover when it comes to children. 

“Well, I may not play the lute anymore, but I can still sing,” he offers. Ciri beams and all at once Julian is struck by how much he’s missed this—being seen . Ciri looks into his eyes and she does not see a monster. She does not see Jaskier, either. She sees Julian and for the first time in months, Julian feels like that is enough. That he is enough. 

He swallows the lump that has formed in his throat. It’s a dangerous game, getting attached, because he knows that the other shoe will drop sooner or later. Geralt will drop this whole repentance act and abandon him again and Julian will lose Cirilla. “I haven’t sung in a while, mind you,” he warns, “but I’ll try my best.” He can sense Geralt watching him raptly, now. Julian isn’t sure what to think about that, so he doesn’t. 

At first, his voice starts off hoarse and out of practice, but after a verse of two he relaxes, voice evening out. He finds himself singing an old ballad that his mother had been fond of—one about an elf and his doomed mortal lover whom he must watch grow old and withered as he stays forever young. It’s a sad, bittersweet song, but Julian doesn’t know if he has the mind to sing a happy one. 

By the time he’s finished, Ciri’s plait is done and she’s fast asleep with her head in his lap. Carefully, Julian shifts her off of him and places her on her bedroll. When he looks up, he catches Geralt staring at him. 

“What?” He points to Cirilla’s hair. “Do you want me to braid your hair too?” Geralt exhales in his attempt at a laugh.

“I’ve missed your singing,” Geralt admits, feeding another log into the fire.

Julian scoffs. “Oh, have you? Not fillingless pie anymore, is it?”

Julian is tempted to check if Geralt’s feeling alright when the witcher just takes a breath, looks him in the eye, and says, “No.”

Well, great. Geralt has finally learned how to communicate like a proper adult, which makes Julian’s intention to trample out his lingering feelings for him just that much harder. Julian presses his lips together. A stilted silence falls over them for the next few minutes as Julian redirects his attention to cutting up the remaining meat and storing it away for later. Geralt isn’t satisfied with his reticence, however. 

“How old are you?”

Oh, two questions in one night? What did Julian do to be so lucky?

Julian cuts a piece of meat and chews on it thoughtfully. “One loses track, after a while,” he says honestly. He peers over the fire at Geralt, assessing. “I would say a little bit older than you, though. My lot was one of the last to come out of the Griffin School.”

Geralt hums. “1250. I heard about the avalanche. Must’ve been hard for you.” Julian shrugs. 

“Getting my throat sliced up by a djinn helped take my mind off my grief,” he cracks out. Geralt falls silent. Julian isn’t expecting an apology—he’s already gotten more out of Geralt in the past twenty hours than he has in twenty years, after all. He figures that the other witcher has used up his word quota for the entire week at this rate. 

But Geralt surprises him, again. 

“That… was a mistake.” One would think there was a striga sitting on his chest with how strained he sounds. Julian cocks his head to one side. 

“Is that an apology, dear witcher?” he asks quietly. Geralt clears his throat, uncomfortable. 

“The first of many,” Geralt grits out. How painful this must be for him, Julian muses. “I owe you that much.”

That, you do. Julian fiddles with his knife, tapping the flat side of the blade against his finger as he tries to reconcile the belligerent man from the mountain with the vulnerability that he sees before him. 

“You’ve changed,” he remarks. Geralt’s eyes flit to his.

“So have you.”

Julian laughs. “Now, that is the understatement of the year, my friend,” Jaskier Julian says before catching himself. He sobers. “Sorry.” 

The look on Geralt’s face is dangerously soft. “Don’t be.”

Chapter Text

True to his word, Julian is up with the sun the next morning. He packs up his things as quietly as he can, intending to slip away unnoticed while Geralt and his child are still asleep. It will be easier this way, he convinces himself. 

But, of course, Destiny decides to throw a flaming wrench to his plan. 

Julian is slipping the last clasp of his bag into place when he realizes his mistake. Certainly, Julian can be quiet, far quieter than any human could ever fathom, but Geralt knows what it means to be fully silent. He feels rather than hears Geralt come up behind him. 

“Geralt,” he acknowledges as he turns to face him. “Good morning.” The other witcher’s expression remains taut. 

“You’re going.” It’s an observation, not a question. 

“I’ve wasted enough time as it is,” Julian insists. He can sense another argument coming, hanging sharp in the air like the acidity of rain. Geralt just frowns. 

“I’ll go wake her.” We’ll go together. 

“Don’t. She needs the rest,” Julian tells him, “and so do you.” Geralt looks like he wants to object but Julian doesn’t give him the chance. “Serve your penance some other time, Geralt—”

“—this isn’t about penance. ” Frustration burns in Geralt’s words. Julian’s brows pull together. 

“It doesn’t matter. Cirilla is your first priority, Geralt,” Julian reminds him. “Destiny has bound her to you and you know that I’m loath to go against destiny.” Geralt actually flinches away from him. 

Destiny.

There it is. That single word that Geralt hates so vehemently— destiny. Julian expects Geralt to snap at him, to finally drop this pretense of niceness and gut him once more with his words. Geralt will spit on him, leave him behind, and Julian will be alone again. 

Perhaps it will be better that way. 

Witchers never travel together, after all. It’s not natural. 

“What if this is our  destiny?” Geralt asks, much to his surprise. There’s a firmness to his question, but it’s determination, not anger. “Us, travelling together. Twenty years is a long time to keep finding each other, no?”

Julian bites back the instinctive response that he had tracked Geralt down all those times; there had been no cosmic power magically shoving them together, only Jaskier himself. Instead, he replies, “And since when were you an expert on destiny?” 

Geralt opens his mouth to speak and then seems to give up, shaking his head slightly. Julian sighs. 

“Look, I’ll meet you there, alright? At Sodden Hill. I’ll only be a few hours ahead of you, I promise.”

“You’ll stay,” Geralt says before amending himself. “You’ll wait for us there?” he repeats, this time as a question. A proposal, not a command. 

“Yeah.” Geralt doesn’t look convinced and Julian offers him a wry smile. 

“I’m not made of smoke, Geralt,” Julian snarks. “I won’t just blow away in the wind and vanish forever.”

The look in Geralt’s eyes says it all—

But you could. You already have. 

The white-haired witcher digs a hand in one of his pockets, drawing out a small bundle and pressing it into Julian’s palm. “For good travels,” Geralt explains gruffly.

There’s something that’s wholly too intimate about the way that Geralt’s fingers linger against his, the phantom of a caress. Julian jerks back as if burned. It’s no good, feeding a fantasy that’ll only drive him mad. Geralt’s fond expression shutters closed at his rejection. 

Julian looks down at his hand. It’s a piece of Jaskier’s lute, he realizes. Geralt must have chipped a piece off as a souvenir to remember him by. He’s been keeping it well kept. The fragment of wood is still polished and well-oiled and there’s a piece of string fed through the middle as if Geralt has taken to wearing it around his neck. 

Oh. 

Julian wonders why Geralt has it. Did he take it for luck? To remember a rather mouthy companion that he had begrudgingly allowed at his side for two decades? Geralt may have hated him, sure, but Julian knows that the man has a strong enough sense of respect to honor someone who had devoted his life to him. He pictures Geralt tucking the little piece of wood underneath the thick wool of his underclothes as he prepares for a particularly difficult hunt. Did he think of Jaskier, at that moment? Julian closes the thought as soon as it opens—Geralt probably didn’t. 

Or did Geralt take it as a reminder of his failure? A reminder of that fact that he couldn’t even manage to keep a pesky human alive. Did he sleep with it, clenched in his fist, as he dreamed of Jaskier’s fate? Bloody, torn apart by wolves? Crimson teeth, stained scarlet by the hands of bandits? Did he feel pity, thinking that Jaskier had died alone? 

Numerous questions strain at Julian’s lips, but he pushes them behind his teeth. He turns the wood over between his fingers. “Thanks.” He’s not sure what else he can say. 

Geralt nods, movement stilted. Judging the conversation to be at its end, Julian mounts his horse and prepares to leave. But Geralt isn’t finished. 

“I need you to stay, next time,” Geralt says lowly. Julian risks a glance back down at him. The first rays of dawn paint the other’s features in a soft pink glow. Jaskier would have composed something ridiculously sentimental about this moment, probably. Julian is tempted to let him. 

‘I’, Geralt had said. Not ‘we.’ Julian wets his lips. 

“Okay,” he accepts, and it’s not quite right—Julian isn’t supposed to sound this breakable. He was made to swing silver and steel, to slay monsters, not to sit atop his horse like some delicate princess pining hopelessly over her gallant knight. “Okay,” he tries again, more evenly. Geralt steps closer, too close. 

“Swear it.”

Julian can’t look away. Gold against blue. Blue against gold. “I swear it.” His slow heart is beating faster, now, loud enough that surely Geralt can hear it. 

Geralt dips his head, gives his arm one last squeeze, and then lets him go. Julian urges Gregory into a fast pace, the cold wind stinging his face enough to numb the hot blood rushing to his cheeks. 

No matter how much he wants to, he doesn’t look back.

Getting to Sodden Hill is the easy part. He takes the smaller, wood-lined paths through Lower Sodden. Even though he’s quite confident that he would be able to take down any Nilfgaardian scouts should the need arise, there’s no need to stir up trouble when he’s running so late already. The roads are oddly quiet and Julian is sure that it’s not just because of the early hour. The silence is unearthly, really. The birds in the trees—if there are even any—have no song for him today. Nature itself seems to have halted as if holding its breath, waiting for some final blow. 

It’s the aftermath of powerful magic—that much is unmistakable. And this magic has that special breed of chaos within it that just screams of Yennefer’s doing, so Julian presses on regardless of how much his skin crawls. 

As he crosses the Yaruga into Upper Sodden, all Julian can smell is smoke. He dismounts Greg, cutting an easier path for the exhausted creature through the undergrowth. A heavy, slate-colored fog blankets the nearby treeline, thick with char and the smell of ruin. The scent of burnt wood and flesh intermingle together, so strong that Julian pulls up the front of his tunic to block it out. 

Yes. Definitely Yennefer’s doing—trial by fire and all that. Julian just hopes that she hasn’t gotten burned by her own flames. 

Jaskier contemplates how poetic that would be—what a lovely song it would make. Julian promptly shuts that line of thinking down. No sense getting panicked now. 

It takes a few minutes of trekking through ravaged forest until Julian sees the beginnings of green. He runs blindly for it, trusting Gregory to follow at his own pace. He breaks through the lush, untouched woods and spots a glimpse of pitched tents through the dense plant growth. Impatiently, he shoulders toward it. 

Of course, he’s in so much of a hurry that he doesn’t notice the wards surrounding the encampment until he unceremoniously smacks right into them. It’s not one of his finest moments to be sure, but he still thinks that the condescending laughter that erupts from behind him is unwarranted. 

Well, fuck . Julian should have known that she would be here. 

Dusting himself off, Julian gets to his feet and dips his head in greeting to the woman who has seemingly materialized from the surrounding woods. 

“Tissaia.”

“ Julek, ” Tissaia mimics. “You look like shit.”

Julian pulls a face. “You don’t look so good yourself, witch,” he replies, gesturing to her bandaged abdomen. He’s rarely seen her so disheveled before—the buttons of her outer coat haphazardly done and her hair pulled up in a messy braid. “Did I miss all the action?”

The sorceress just sniffs in disdain. “Nothing you could have done to help, anyway, witcher or not.”

Julian shrugs off her insult. 

“You’re here for Yennefer, I presume?” Julian cocks his head to the side. 

“How did you know?” 

Tissaia sighs in that exasperated-yet-amused way that she’s perfected over the decades. “She told me you were coming. As her concerned mentor, I decided to wait for you to make sure you didn’t get your moronic self killed right on our doorstep.”

“Should have known that she’s one of yours,” Julian mutters to himself. He wonders how he hadn’t made the connection sooner.  “Is she alright?”

A small wrinkle forms between Tissaia’s brows. She waves her hand, undoing the wards. “She’s in no danger of dying, if that’s what you’re asking. But saying that she’s ‘alright’ is a bit of a stretch.” She nudges him through the threshold of the camp. “Now come along, witcher. I can’t keep these enchantments down forever.”

With only slight hesitation, Julian crosses into the campsite. He looks around at the numerous funeral tents grouped at the center of the clearing, the white linens blinding in the harsh sun. He imagines Yennefer in one of them, motionless and cold to the touch on a stone slab, cocooned in burial cloth. A pit forms in his stomach. 

I should have been here. Tissaia glances back at him as if reading his thoughts. 

“No use beating yourself up over this, Julian. I’m sure you have committed innumerable failures over the decades, but this is not one of them.”

A response of ‘thank you’ doesn’t really feel appropriate, but Julian tries it anyway. Tissaia just brushes him off with a lazy flick of her hand. Julian doesn’t want to waste this rare, generous mood of hers, so he decides to push his luck.

“I have some… companions that I believe are following me, if you would be kind enough to allow them within your protective wards for the night,” he says. 

“That White Wolf of yours?” Tissaia’s disgruntled expression tells him exactly how she feels about that. 

“He’s not mine,” Julian defends, all too quickly. Tissaia lets out a skeptical ‘ hm. ’ “ He has a child with her,” he elaborates. “The princess of Cintra.” He sees surprise flicker in Tissaia’s eyes. Her lips thin out. 

“Fine,” she relents after a pause. ‘For the child.” Julian resists the urge to comically sigh in relief. 

“Thank you.” 

The sorceress casts him an appraising look over her shoulder. “At least you Griffins have kept your manners,” she observes grudgingly. She grabs him by the elbow and drags him to one of the tents. “In here,” she directs, moving aside the cloth divider and gesturing for him to enter. 

Julian isn’t prepared for the sight that greets him. At the back of the tent, Yennefer lies still on a cot, swathed in clean white sheets and still managing to look paler than them. Her entire body is covered in bandages, the scent of herbal poultice and healing magic strong in the air. The only sign of life to her is the faint rush of breath slipping past her lips. 

“Yennefer?” he calls out, hesitant. 

“Julian?” Yennefer rasps, struggling to rise. Tissaia clucks her tongue and gently pushes her back down. 

“Unfortunately,” Tissaia confirms. “I found your little witcher wandering around like a lost sheep outside of our wards. Fell flat on his ass after he ran into one of them.”

Yennefer manages a reedy laugh. “Hm. Sounds like him.”

“Uh, excuse me, ” Julian cuts in hotly, “I can hear you, you know.”

“I’m well aware,” Yennefer quips, sounding more like herself. 

Tissaia lets out an amused sound. She fusses over Yennefer’s dressings for a few moments longer before shoving a jar of balm into Julian’s hands. 

“Make yourself useful and prepare more bandages,” she tells him, throwing a stack of fabric strips in his general direction, “seeing as though I’ll have to keep a lookout for your white wolf and his child now.”

“Thank you,” Julian says, sincere. Tissaia just deigns him an unimpressed look and exits the tent, leaving them alone. 

Despite the time that they have spent together over the past year, Julian is unsure of where exactly he stands with Yennefer. He hovers awkwardly next to her cot, hands clasped behind his back.“Sorry I’m late,” he manages. 

Yennefer closes her eyes again. “ Late is an understatement, Julian.” There’s a layer of warmth to words that encourages Julian to pull closer. His hand finds hers. 

The witcher laughs sheepishly. “Blame my tardiness on Geralt and his child surprise, then. I would have been here last night, if I had had my way.”

“Hm.” The sorceress manages a smile. “Pay for drinks next time and I’ll call it even.”

“I think I owe you more than a round of drinks, Yen,” Julian jokes. Yennefer snorts. 

“Oh, it won’t be just ‘a round of drinks,’ Julian,” she assures him haughtily. “I plan to drink you under the table next chance I get.”

Julian crosses his arms. “As if you could ever. ”

“Did you forget what happened in Poviss?” Yennefer points out. 

“I was already ten ales in by the time you arrived,” Julian protests, indignant. “Don’t try to feed me that false narrative, witch.”

Yennefer gives him a smug smile. “I still won, though.” Julian rolls his eyes. 

“Yes, o’ great sorceress, you won with a handicap.”

“A win is a win, Julek,” Yennefer sing-songs. The witcher groans. 

“Sweet Melitele, she told you too?”

“Mm-hmm. It was Tissaia’s way of a ‘thank you’,” she reveals, “for the whole ‘almost dying’ part of our victory.” Julian furrows his brow. 

“About that,” he starts, “was all that burned forest your doing?” 

“A terrible side effect of absolutely obliterating the Nilfgaardian army, yes.” Yennefer’s violet eyes flicker to his. For a split second, Julian gets the impression that he’s looking at someone far older, far more worn than Yennefer is. There’s an age-old weariness in her eyes, the toll of drawing so much power from chaos. 

“Tell me you’re not planning to do it again,” Julian pleads. Yennefer redirects her gaze to the tent’s ceiling. 

“Mm. Don’t think I could even if I wanted to.”

Julian makes a face. “That’s not exactly a ‘no,’ Yen.”

“Worried for me, are you?” Yennefer teases, clearly deflecting. 

“Yes,” Julian replies unabashedly. “I care about you.” The sorceress’s expression remains blissfully blank, but Julian can read the shock coming off of her in waves. 

“I rather think that we’re friends now, whether you like it or not,” he says. “Or something like that,” Julian adds hastily. Yennefer reaches for his hand and squeezes, still not looking at him. 

“Something like that,” she echoes. “Give me a few years of your growing on me and we’ll see about the ‘friends’ part.” 

Julian shrugs. “Fair enough.” A smile crinkles the corners of Yennefer’s face. 

“So what kind of trouble have you been up to since we last spoke?” she asks, shooting him a look that is vaguely reminiscent of a child awaiting a bedtime story from her parents. “Barring, of course, the elephant in the room.”

Ah. The white-haired, grunt-prone elephant. Julian tries for a smile that somehow ends up as a wince. 

“Nothing particularly interesting, I’m afraid,” Julian informs her. “Although I did take down a particularly large nest of nekkers a week or two back. Nasty little bastards, really. They were terrorizing a poor village that had moved too close to find a new water supply. Picked off a few farmers before I managed to get there.” 

He then proceeds to relay all the details of the hunt that he can remember. Julian doesn’t bother to embellish the rather bland story—that had been Jaskier’s job. Nevertheless, it takes a decent amount of time to get through the entire tale. Julian hopes that he’s managed to bore Yennefer to sleep by the end of it, but he’s out of luck when Yennefer just opens her eyes when he finishes the account and offers him a polite frown.

“How eventful,” she remarks drily. Julian laughs, putting aside a neat stack of bandages that he’s finished. 

“Well, contracts haven’t been very frequent as of late. The war going on and winter approaching and all that,” he explains. Yennefer quirks a brow. 

“Well, I suppose that would explain how two witchers could stumble upon the same contract, then.” 

“You—” Julian clasps a hand to his forehead, as if that alone would keep the sorceress out. “I thought I told you not to go poking around up there.” Yennefer has the grace not to openly laugh at him. 

“Relax. I don’t need to read your thoughts to put two and two together,” Yennefer asserts. “You’ve been avoiding Geralt like the plague the past few months. It makes sense that you two would happen upon each other by pure accident.” 

Julian grumbles. “It’s not my fault that I couldn’t say ‘no’ to his Child Surprise.”

“Neither could Tissaia, I suppose,” Yennefer agrees. Julian laughs. 

“You know, you’re really so much nicer when you have enough pain-relievers in you to knock out two grown men,” Julian comments.  Yennefer swats at him. 

“Oh, shut it,” she demands hazily, only reaffirming his point when she flops rather-uncharacteristically back on her cot. 

“No can do—” A muffled thud sounds from far off outside the tent. Jaskier immediately steps in front of Yennefer’s cot protectively. Several rather loud shouts follow and Julian relaxes. He’s quite familiar with that particular tone of shouting. 

“Geralt’s here,” he says. Yennefer shoots him a ‘ no shit’ look. Tissaia’s commanding voice rings out next, probably trying to restore order to the chaos that Geralt has likely just unleashed. Once things quiet down, Julian sits down again. 

“Do you want to see him?” Julian offers. 

“No.” Julian tries his best to hide his relief, but judging by the way that Yennefer laughs at him, he’s rather unsuccessful. 

“I think he misses you, you know,” he tells her, not to guilt her but to let her know. After all, Julian still wants the same thing that Jaskier had, all those years ago—for Geralt to be loved, to be wanted. Even if it cannot be by him. Yennefer shakes her head. 

“He misses the finality of it all,” she explains matter-of-factly. “He bound us together without my consent because he is a coward. The man may scorn Destiny but he is lost without it.” The sorceress turns her head to stare at him intently. “I was the safe option—”

“Yennefer, you are the opposite of the ‘safe option,’” Julian interrupts, “and I mean that in the best way possible.” Yennefer rolls her eyes. 

“I mean ‘safe’ in the sense that I am near-immortal,” Yennefer clarifies. “He doesn’t have to worry about protecting me or watching me grow grey and leave him. Geralt chose to do what he did as a way to avoid pursuing something that scared him.” Julian can’t help but scoff at that.

“Nothing scares Geralt.” Yennefer just looks at him with thinly-veiled curiosity. 

“Many things do,” she insists, words slow, purposeful. “Perhaps you just haven’t been paying attention.” 

Jaskier would have objected to that because by gods he had spent nearly twenty years analyzing and memorizing everything about Geralt. The very accusation that Jaskier hadn’t been paying attention is preposterous. But Julian just tilts his head. 

“I suppose,” he replies mildly.  Yennefer sighs. 

“Tell me about her—the girl,” Yennefer bids, voice growing more tired. 

Julian still doesn’t know much about Cirilla, but he tries his best. He tells Yennefer about her quiet bravery, about that fire of hers that is so much like Calanthe’s and yet so much warmer, so much brighter. He’s rewarded by Yennefer’s soft smile as she drifts off. 

“I’d like to meet her, I think,” Yennefer murmurs dreamily before her eyes droop closed. Julian smiles, bringing up the sheets to tuck them under her chin. 

“Rest well, Yen.”

By the time Julian steps out of Yennefer’s tent, the sun has begun to dip below the treeline, tainting the sky a dusky orange. He finds Greg already stabled in a makeshift barn and surmises that Tissaia must have carted his luggage off somewhere without telling him. 

Typical. 

As if by magic—which it probably was, to be completely frank—Tissaia strides up to him out of nowhere. 

“Oh, there you are,” she says sharply, sounding a hair away from breaking her calm facade. “You sure took your time. Come with me,” she orders. “Your… travelling companion has been rather anxious to see you.”

“I see.” Geralt is probably anxious for news about Yennefer’s condition. Well, that would explain Tissaia’s sour mood. 

The sorceress herds him into one of the tents at the edge of the clearing. All but shoving him through the entrance, she follows him inside and snaps, “Are you happy now, witcher? I wasn’t lying.” She pushes him forward. “Julian’s still here.” 

Geralt looks him over, checking him for injuries, and makes an approving noise. Tissaia scoffs, waving her hands dismissively at the white-haired man. 

“God, I forgot how nonverbal you lot are,” she grouses.
“That’s because you’re used to me, dear,” Julian reminds her. Tissaia rolls her eyes. 

“What have I done to be so lucky?” Julian grins at her. 

“How much do I owe you for this?” he asks, gesturing to the beds. The sorceress just shakes her head, patting his hand. 

“No need, Julek. I still owe you for Kerack, anyway.” With that, she sweeps out of the tent. Julian rolls his eyes. Now he knows where Yennefer had gotten her flair for the dramatics from. 

“Julek?” Geralt questions. Julian exhales, stripping off his armor and throwing it into a pile next to his things. 

“It’s a long story,” Julian says dismissively, although it’s really not, “and I’m far too sober to get into it.”

He expects Geralt to press because the other man rarely had any concept of anyone’s boundaries but his own, but he just nods and drops the subject. 

Julian takes the opportunity to look around the small tent. Tissaia has been kind enough to provide Ciri and Geralt with two spare cots to sleep on, one of which the princess is already fast asleep in. 

“Have you eaten?” Julian asks because he’s not entirely sure what else to say. He walks over to Ciri, crouching down next to her. Geralt trails after him. 

“Yes. The sorceress gave us some stew when we arrived.”

Julian nods. “Good.” 

“Must be quite a debt she owes you,” Geralt remarks. There’s a question hidden in there and Julian has half the mind to ignore it. 

Nevertheless, he’s still mildly flattered that Geralt cares enough to ask, so he says, “Yeah. I did a job for her a few decades back. It went sideways—as things always do with sorceresses—and it almost cost me a leg.”

He hears Geralt take a sharp inhale, sounding upset. But what for? Surely, Geralt has taken many contracts like that before? 

“I made it out okay,” he assures Geralt quickly, “if you couldn’t tell.” He gestures to his body. “I made it out with all my limbs.” The other witcher is close enough not that if Julian leant back just a little bit, his head would fall against Geralt’s chest. Julian tries his best not to be distracted by this. 

“How is she?” The cautious way that Geralt’ says ‘she’ lets Julian know that he’s not talking about Cirilla. 

“Alright, all things considered,” Julian replies lightly. “That sorceress burned down half the Nilfgaardian army, did you know that?” Something reluctantly fond seeps into his voice and Julian is honestly past pretending that what he has with Yennefer isn’t friendship. “Almost killed herself in the process, expending that much magic—the chaos should have consumed her entirely, but… well, it’s Yen. I bet that if she ever met Death, she’d kick him in the groin laugh in his face.” Julian rubs his chin, thoughtful. “That would make a good song lyric, actually—” he stops himself because that’s Jaskier talking, not Julian. Clearing his throat, he meets Geralt’s bemused gaze. “But, yeah. I think she’ll be okay.”

Geralt lets out what Julian hesitates to parse as a confused hum. “I thought you hated Yennefer.”

“I don’t,” Julian answers honestly. It’s the truth. Even Jaskier hadn’t hated Yennefer—only envied and feared her. “She’s—well, you know. If you can’t beat them, join them, and all that,” he rambles on. He glances back at the princess. “She wants to meet her, if you’ll allow it.”

Geralt scoffs. “Since when did Yennefer need my permission for anything?”

Julian smiles, brushing away a lock of hair from Ciri’s face. “Believe it or not, Geralt, but the princess is your child now. Perhaps not by blood, but still. She is yours to protect.” He sneaks a look back at Geralt. Julian’s surprised when he finds no bitterness, no indignation, in his expression. So Geralt really has changed in their time apart. 

“Yennefer doesn’t want to see me.” Julian sighs. 

“No,” he answers truthfully. He looks at Geralt, trying to gauge his reaction The other witcher just nods, not appearing surprised. There’s something else in his expression, too—disappointment. That would make sense. Of course Geralt would be disappointed that Yennefer, the love of his life, his destiny, doesn’t want to see him. Swallowing back his own bitterness, Julian stands up. 

“You hurt her,” Julian tells him, crossing the distance between them. You hurt the both of us. “You hurt her terribly, Geralt.” He meets Geralt’s gaze. “But she will forgive you, eventually. Some part of you will always be with her, and her with you—that is a bond that is not easily broken.” Julian means to reassure Geralt that not all his is lost, but Geralt just looks more pained. The White Wolf stares back at him, takes a deep breath—in, out. Geralt reaches out, bridging the small space between them and tentatively brushes Julian’s wrist. When he speaks, his voice is lowered to something vulnerable, raw.

“And you?” Will you forgive me ?

Julian turns his wrist—allows their fingers to touch for just a moment. “All in good time, my friend.” Geralt hums in response and Julian wants so badly to lean in closer, to place his head on Geralt’s shoulder and breathe in the scent of home—

—but he pulls himself short. Wanting Geralt, pining over someone who could never be his, had been Jaskier’s mistake. Jaskier had been good at playing second fiddle to Yennefer’s damned orchestra, but Julian is not.

He takes a step back and doesn’t miss how Geralt’s face falls as he does so. 

That means nothing. All of this—this contrite, these apologies, are nothing but Geralt’s attempts at soothing that inane guilt-complex of his. 

‘Let me chase after you ,’ Geralt had said. Certainly, he hadn’t meant it, had he? The other witcher had been spouting nonsense at the point, grasping at straws to hold onto that last bit of the bard that he had. 

How haunted this man must be, Julian marvels, by Jaskier’s death. 

Well. If Geralt wants to play the penitent sinner, Julian knows that he can do nothing to stop him. There’s a particularly selfish part of him that is enjoying this—Geralt being so open, so remorseful, with him. But Julian understands that it won’t last. Geralt just needs this catharsis—that will be Julian’s job, he decides. 

He will do this one last favor for Geralt; he will accept his apologies, feed him pretty lies of ‘I was never upset’ and ‘I’m okay now’ and ‘I forgive you .’ He will take these bits of kindness from the other witcher but he will not keep them. They are not his—they are Jaskier’s, coming to him a year too late. 

And when Geralt is done, when he feels that he has served his punishment and he is ready to go back to his old ways, Julian will do as he wishes and leave his life forever. 

Closure—that will be Julian’s final gift. 

In doing this, Julian must put aside his feelings. He’s used to it, anyway, so it won’t be a problem. He’ll be a friend when Geralt needs him to be, and a stranger when he doesn’t. It will be painful for him, yes, but Julian has learned from Jaskier’s failure. There will be no room for hoping, this time. 

That he will disappear when this is all over is a foregone conclusion. Julian will miss both of them—Geralt and Cirilla—dearly, but it will be better this way. 

Jaskier is the one who was wanted; Julian is not. He can’t forget that. 

So Julian keeps his distance, pinching his lips together into a poor facsimile of a smile. “Well, I’ll just leave it at that, then. Goodnight, Geralt,” he bids, walking toward the tent’s entrance. Geralt moves after him. 

“Where are you going?” 

Julian looks back at Geralt. “There are only two beds,” he points out, rather obviously. “I was going to stay in Yennefer’s tent, anyway, to keep an eye on her.” Geralt’s upper lip twitches, displeased. The other witcher glances back, surveying the cots. 

“It’s big enough for two,” Geralt grunts, pointing to the beds. Julian purses his lips. 

“I appreciate the gesture, but the princess deserves her own bed after sleeping in the woods for weeks.”

Geralt stares at him as if he’s grown two heads. “That’s not what I—” Geralt draws himself up short with a grimace “—nevermind.” Then he says, in a far kinder tone than Julian would have liked, “Goodnight, Jask-Julian.”

Julian’s chest feels painfully tight as he ducks out of the tent. 

Maybe this will be more difficult than he previously thought. 

lovely fanart by @brothebro on tumblr! this is so gorgeous i'm weeping thank you :)

more fanart by @astraaeterna on tumblr! thank you so so much for continuing to create such lovely work for this fic :)

Chapter Text

The sun is warm against his face today, a far cry from the wintery bite of the past few months. Life has returned to the forest. Birds sing sweetly in the trees. Foxes run underfoot, chasing after voles as they bury beneath warmed ground. 

Julian lets the sounds, the smells—all of it—wash over him. Spring has been a welcome change, even if it means that he will have to hunt again. An old, forgotten part of him aches at the thought of being alone again, far away from Coen and his other brothers. 

In a few days he will be in Poviss again, answering a contract concerning a particularly troublesome Stryga. Coën will go off to the west. Boaz will go to the south. Tamo will head to the north. 

Julian wonders if he will be able to survive another season. If he doesn’t fall at the hands of some unbeatable monster, the sheer monotony of it all will be the death of him, to be sure. He’s approaching his fiftieth spring as a Witcher. His old mentors have told him that that’s when some Witchers began to feel it—the hollowness. A witcher’s mind, however unyielding it has been molded to be, is still human. It is weak, fragile, in a way that a witcher’s body will never be. A witcher’s mind is easy prey to the sinking reality that a harsh, forgiving life of killing and scorn is all there is. 

Julian was created for one purpose—the serve those who do not want him. The thought of it is enough for him to feel ill. 

He doesn’t get much time to wallow in his self-pity, however, because right then something rustles in the underbrush behind him. Immediately, his sword is drawn, the glint of its point digging into the soft flesh of his friend’s neck. 

“Julek.” Coën greets cheerfully, completely unfazed by the blade hovering on his throat. Julian rolls his eyes. 

“Melite, make some noise if you want to keep your head next time,” Julian scolds, sheathing his weapon. 

Coën shrugs unapologetically. “Nothing wrong with keeping a baby Griffin like you on his toes.”

“You’re hardly three years older than me,” Julian complains, but there’s a smile creeping up his face anyway. 

“Only three years?” Coën teases. Julian elbows him in the side, rolling his eyes at the other’s feigned wheeze.

Happy, Julian decides. That is what he feels as Coën sits down beside him, elbow bumping his. It’s not quite the golden, light happiness of his youth. It’s not quite that exuberant fullness that fills the heart—no, the feeling that stirs in his chest is far more subdued, blunted to softness at the ends. It’s a kind of tired warmth and yet it is warmth all the same. 

“I don’t want you to go,” he says before he can stop himself. Sentiment is dangerous. Vulnerability even more so. But Coën doesn’t even bat an eye at his outburst.

“And I don’t want to leave you,” the witcher replies evenly. 

What if you don’t? Julian has enough sense not to ask. “Next winter’s such a long while away,” he complains, even though it’s not true. There’s only about eight good months of hunting season between now and the next time that he’ll see his brothers again, a length of time that is not particularly long by human standards and laughably short by a witcher’s. 

“Well, you know how it is. We griffins fly far,” Coën tells him with a wry smile, “but come winter, we always return home.”

“Sap,” Julian hisses, bumping with his shoulder. 

“It’s true.” Coën bumps him back. “I swear on it.”

“Is that a promise, brother?” The way that Julian says it is far more nonchalant than he feels. Coën reaches over and claps him on the back. 

There’s something all-too-serious about his voice when he assures him, “Always.”

A moment of silence settles over them before the other witcher pokes him in the side. 

“How about one last spar, little lark?” Coën asks, grinning. “For old time’s sake?” The other witcher’s hand is already wrapping around his arm, pulling him to his feet. 

“Nice of you to give me a choice,” Julian snarks without much bite. His companion only laughs, shrugging off his tone and bounding over to the clearing behind him. 

Julian smiles, lets the last of winter melt from his bones, and follows after his friend.

Julian awakens to a pointed wack to the head. 

“Ow,” he groans. The hand retreats, satisfied with his response. 

“Happy dreams?” Yennefer teases, scooting him off of her lap and sitting up. To his surprise, the sickly pale sheen from the previous night has vanished from her face, replaced with a healthy flush. 

“Something along those lines,” Julian agrees, giving her a quick once-over. “You’re looking considerably better today.” Yennefer raises a brow. 

“I’ll choose not to take that as an insult, bard,” she says, sniffing indignantly. “But yes. Magic and all that—very helpful when you’ve had a few scrapes.”

“Half your body had been burned,” Julian points out. Stretching out her arms, Yennefer turns to face him with a cat-like grin. 

“Semantics, dear witcher.” 

Julian shakes his head. “Whatever. I don’t really care, as long as you’re alright.” 

“Saying that I’m alright would be a stretch, really,” Yennefer corrects. “I’ve borrowed enough energy from Chaos to incinerate a regular mage thrice over,” she says blithely. “I probably won’t be able to cast a spell worth shit for at least a few days.” With a wrinkle of her nose, the sorceress begins unpeeling the bandages from her body. Julian tries his best not to gawk as each strip of cotton pulls away to reveal smooth, scarless skin. 

Sorceresses and their tricks. “Good. You need the rest.”

“War does not allow for rest, my witcher,” Yennefer tells him, words succinct. 

There’s nothing that Julian can say in response, so he asks instead, “Would you like to meet her?” 

Yennefer doesn’t have to ask who he’s referring to. Her expression remains indifferent, but Julian knows that she’s interested. 

“In what world would I say no?” she answers. A smile touches Julian’s lips. 

“You’ll have to bear with her guard dog, of course,” he warns. Yennefer lifts a shoulder. 

“That makes no matter. He is all bark and no bite.”

Julian’s lips twitch. “For you, perhaps.” Geralt had bitten Jaskier far more than he would have liked. 

“Perhaps,” Yennefer allows. “But a cornered dog will always fight back, will it not?” The witcher looks down at his hands. 

“Oh, do tell—in what way have I ever cornered the great Geralt of Rivia?” 

The sorceress brushes off his sarcasm, instead electing to stand up from her cot. Julian stumbles over himself to steady her, but Yennefer just waves him off. 

“Geralt and his princess are waiting outside,” she tells him. “Let’s go meet them, yes?”

Julian drapes his travelling cloak over her shoulders and offers her his elbow. “Well, we know full well what happens when we keep the White Wolf waiting, don’t we?”

Yennefer’s laughter is a balm as she slips a hand into the crook of his arm, allowing him to guide her out into the sunlight. 

If Geralt is at all surprised to see Yennefer emerge from her tent near-unscathed, he doesn’t show it. Something like surprise does flit across the witcher’s features, however, when he catches sight of Julian’s cloak on Yennefer’s back and her hand on his arm, but he doesn’t comment. 

“Yennefer,” he greets cautiously, as if he’s unsure whether or not it’s welcome. Yennefer doesn’t bother reassuring him. 

“Geralt,” she acknowledges, not quite coldly, but close. Ciri looks between them curiously and Julian takes pity on them. 

“Why don’t we have a seat?” he suggests brightly, gesturing to a few overturned logs a few meters away. “It seems that you three have much to discuss.” 

Once Julian is sure that Yennefer is comfortable sitting down, he makes to leave. He’d rather avoid whatever drama is going to inevitably conspire between Geralt and Yennefer if all possible. After all, the last time that the two had had a blowup, he’d ended up getting his heart broken and life destroyed all in one fell stroke. 

It doesn’t help that watching the three of them together would just remind Julian that he is replaceable. Geralt, Yennefer, and their child surprise—the perfect family unit. There would be no room for poor witcher Julian. 

But before Julian can offer a flimsy excuse and beat a hasty retreat, Yennefer stops him with an iron-grip on his hand. 

“Now why don’t you join us, Julian?” the sorceress offers, voice downright saccharine. Not giving him much of a choice, she pulls him down onto the makeshift bench beside her. 

“With an invitation like that,” Julian snarks, “how can I refuse?” Yennefer laughs, sharp.

To say that the air between them is awkward would be a gross understatement. One would think that Geralt was a failed dance partner who had stepped on Yennefer’s toes far too many times during one waltz with how the woman just looks at him with reluctant politeness. 

“How are you feeling?” Geralt throws out. Yennefer cocks a brow. 

“Peachy,” she drawls. Geralt fidgets, clearly out of his element. Still, he doesn’t break eye contact, which is admirable. This odd staring contest intensifies as Yennefer leans forward. 

“Aren’t you going to introduce me?” she prompts, flapping a hand lazily in Ciri’s direction. The princess straightens. 

“Right.” Geralt’s return to his lap as he gestures to Ciri. “This is my Child Surprise—Princess Cirilla of Cintra.”

“The Little Lioness,” Yennefer marvels, propping up her face in one hand. “My name is Yennefer—I’ve heard quite a lot about you.”

Ciri sits up a little straighter. “You have?”

Yennefer laughs softly. “All good things,” she promises. 

“Courtesy of me, of course,” Julian interrupts proudly. Yennefer snorts. 

“Ah yes, dear princess, whatever would you do without the noble witcher-bard Julian singing your praises?”

Julian splutters, clutching his chest in mock-hurt. “Such slanderous words, witch,” he exclaims. Ciri laughs at their antics. Geralt, on the other hand, looks less than pleased.  

“You’re… friends now,” the witcher observes uneasily. 

Yennefer gives Julian an appraising look. “I prefer the term ‘long-term drinking partner,’” she corrects him, patting Julian’s thigh condescendingly, “but, sure, we can go with ‘friends.’ ”

Geralt’s expression shifts to one akin to a man trying to choke down a particularly nasty beetle. “Gods help us all.” Yennefer hums, pleased with his discomfort. 

“So, dear Cirilla,” Yennefer carries on, shifting back to the girl. “How has travelling with the White Wolf been?”

The princess turns a little pink as all the attention turns to her. Twisting her hands together in her lap, she says, “He has treated me beyond well so far, Lady Yennefer.”

The sorceress’ eyes crinkle slightly with amusement at the honorific. “I am glad to hear that.” 

“Careful,” Julian murmurs to her, too quietly for Geralt and Cirilla to overhear. “Mind the crows’ feet.” 

Yennefer gives him a secretive smile. “My darling witcher, are you trying to insinuate something?” she accuses, loud enough for their audience to hear. 

Geralt is probably observing their banter with that irritatingly confused look of is, so Julian doesn’t bother to look back at him. “Only that happiness becomes you, o’ sorceress of mine,” he jokes. 

“So, tolerable, then?” Yennefer concludes, face contorting in comical surprise. “I guess he’s finally taken up our suggestion of bathing regularly then, Julian,” she comments, turning to look at him. Julian bites back a laugh. 

“You have Jaskier to thank for that one,” Julian tells her, winking at Ciri. “Teaching the mighty White Wolf that soap exists was no easy feat.” 

“A hero in his own right,” Yennefer concurs solemnly. “Saved the noses of hundreds of towns, I bet.” 

It’s fun. Almost cathartic, really, to take the piss out of the man who had caused both of them so much pain. Geralt, for his part, just clenches his jaw and takes it.  

“Ah, yes. May his soul rest in peace,” Julian says carelessly. Yennefer stops laughing. 

“Sore subject, dear,” she reminds him. Across from them, Geralt’s face has turned a shade paler. Ciri glances at him with concern. Yennefer takes the initiative to change the subject—Melite bless her. 

“Where are you heading off to next?” she asks. 

Geralt leans forward, resting his elbows over his knees. “Kaer Morhen.” Yennefer tilts her head to one side. 

“Wise choice. I’m surprised, really,” she says, just a tad too cutting to be joking. The witcher just gives her one of his patented grunts in response. 

“Is it safer?” Ciri pipes up. Julian offers her an encouraging smile. 

“Without a doubt, princess. It’ll be a good place to hole up for the winter so you can train up.”

“Yes. But the princess needs a teacher,” Geralt says shortly, cutting straight to the point. 

Yennefer doesn’t take a moment to consider his implied offer. “I can’t.” She turns to Ciri, giving her a rare, apologetic smile. “Don’t get me wrong—it’s not that I wouldn’t love to get to know you more. I rather think we’d get along like a house on fire if given the chance,” she says. The princess smiles, tentative. Yennefer directs her focus back to Geralt. “But it’s too soon.”

Geralt presses his lips together, expression growing stiff. Yennefer laughs. 

“Not too soon regarding that matter,” she tells him. “Not everything is about you, you great oaf. And I don’t mean that things are just marvelous between us, either. There is still a lot that I cannot forgive you for,” she admits. “But it’s too soon to leave the Brotherhood.” She gestures behind her, where the other mages are still tending to their wounded and burying their dead.

“I’m sure you’re right,” Julian starts, “but you should still join them, once you’re able.” Yennefer narrows her eyes. 

“Are you not going with them?” she asks, tone all-too-innocent. Julian licks his lips nervously. 

“Witchers never travel together, Yen,” he reminds her firmly. 

“Is that so?” she draws out. Julian dismisses the urge to shrink in on himself under her scrutiny as she draws herself up to her full height. “Well, dear Julian, unprecedented times call for unprecedented measures, don’t they?”

Julian forces himself not to look away. “We witchers are spread out enough as it is already,” he says. 

Yennefer’s mouth pinches to an unimpressed line. “But winter is soon, no? There will be little need for witchers for the next three months, at the very least.”

“What little need I will be sure to satisfy, then,” he responds, not willing to concede. I am not sure I will be welcome, he thinks to himself. Yennefer plucks the thought from his head, turning it over with a faint frown before redirecting her attention back to Geralt and his charge. Her smile widens, scheming. 

“Julian,” Yennefer bids with a lazy wave of a hand in his direction. “Do you mind taking Ciri to the nearby stream to wash off? Your witcher and I have something to discuss.” The smile that she sends Geralt’s way is positively chilling. 

There’s not an ounce of bitterness as Julian grins, getting to his feet. “Darling, we’ve already established that he’s yours, if anything,” he murmurs to her. Yennefer hums in agreement but Julian gets the sense that she’s just humoring him. “Let’s get to it, little lioness,” he calls, gesturing for Ciri to follow him. “This may be the last clean stream that you encounter for a while.” 

Yennefer waves them away good-naturedly before swiveling back to face Geralt, expression shuttering closed. 

Judging by the way that the silver-haired witcher’s face pales as Julian walks out of the earshot, he can very well guess that their conversation isn’t pleasant.

By the time that Julian returns with Ciri from their bath, Yennefer and Geralt are gone from the clearing. He parts ways with the princess with a smile before heading to the pavilion where Greg has been stabled. He’s gotten what he came for—Yennefer is safe—and now it’s time for him to leave. Geralt and his child surprise will be well off enough on their own. 

A small voice in the back of Julian’s head tells him that he’s just running away from things. He’s running away from Geralt, his past, and whatever unbelievable present he finds himself in. But leading the troubling life that he has, Julian has learned which fights he is better off fleeing from. 

Still, for all his hopes of a quiet escape, Geralt finds him anyway. 

“Where are you going? It’s almost winter.”

Julian spares him a quick glance. “Not sure yet,” he admits. “Can’t exactly hide away in some king’s court, now can I?” 

Geralt just stares at him, an odd mix of confused and distraught. 

“No need to worry about me,” Julian assures him cheerily, giving him a pointed pat on the shoulder. “I’ll even cut you a special deal—I’ll probably end up wintering somewhere in the Ellander, but I’ll go ahead and clear the roads for you while I’m at it. Make things safer for you and the Princess.” Geralt’s eyebrows draw together but the silver-haired man stays silent. Julian rolls his eyes. 

Drawing the little piece of Jaskier’s lute from his pocket, he hands it back to Geralt. “I think you’d like this back.”

The look in Geralt’s eyes is tormented. “But it’s yours.”

Julian smiles, all teeth. “No. Not anymore.”

That admission seems to have been the straw that broke the camel’s back because Geralt’s features grow stony. 

“Why are you so intent on leaving?” Geralt demands. Julian tilts his head.

“Why are you so intent on getting me to stay?”

“I thought you were dead, ” Geralt says through clenched teeth. He steps forward, looming over Julian even though he only has an inch or two on him. “And when I find you again—” he cuts himself off, the steady control over his voice wavering ever so slightly. One of Geralt’s hands latches on to Jaskier’s, clutching it like a lifeline. “This isn’t the life that I wanted for you.” 

Julian swallows. “Well, you’re about a century too late, Geralt. I have walked this life before and I am doing it again.” 

Geralt’s expression looks aggrieved and all at once he appears so much older, the decades seeping into his eyes. “This is not how I remember you— ” The witcher stops himself but it’s too late. Julian smiles—hollow. 

“Believe me, this isn’t how I wanted you to remember me,” he asserts, far too calm for how much boils inside of him. “I wanted to be remembered fondly, if not vaguely—a warm, faceless feeling that you could come back during hard times.” It’s Jaskier speaking, now, all poetry and flowery language. “I didn’t want you to see me as this. ” Julian wonders if he has scared Geralt with how the other witcher flinches away. 

The fierceness in his words retreats, then. Julian wets his lips. “Do me this one favor when this is all over, Geralt.” The way that he says his name—cradling it on his tongue. So careful, careful. “Remember me as I was, not as I am.”

Remember me I ask. 

Remember me I sing. 

That was how that unfinished song had gone, right? 

“I don’t want to,” Geralt insists, surprising him. The man seems to have regathered his composure. He squares his shoulders and meets Julian’s eyes once more. “This may not be how I remember you but that makes no matter. Don’t let me just remember you, Julian—let me know you.”

Julian’s pulse jackrabbits under Geralt’s fingers. “Careful,” he cautions. “One might just think that you care about me if you keep talking like that.” He’s giving Geralt one last opportunity to back out, to retract his words. Julian’s been playing this conversation like a particularly intense card game and he’s just waiting for Geralt to give up his bluff and fold. 

But Geralt doesn’t. 

“I told you I do. ” The other witcher is clearly angry but Julian understands that it’s not at him. 

There’s a particularly snide comment waiting at Julian’s lips. He forces it back. “I cannot quite find it in myself to believe you, my friend,” he says softly instead. Geralt’s fist goes white-knuckled by his side. Julian looks away. 

“I know you cared for me—for him, ” Julian retracts. “But caring and admitting that you care are two entirely different things, Geralt.” He extracts his hand from the other’s vice-like grip and steps back. “And one year is too short a turnaround for me to just immediately accept that you’ve completely changed.”

“I have. ” 

Julian crosses his arms across his chest. “Have you?” he challenges. “What is one year to us, Geralt, to the hundreds that we have?”

“You are infuriating,” Geralt snaps. Julian barks out a sharp laugh, turning around to pace. 

“See?” he crows, voice climbing almost theatrically in pitch. Here it is. The old cards are finally on the table. “This aggression, this belligerence of yours—it hasn’t really left, has it?” Julian rakes a hand through his hair, tugging at it. “Hell, you almost had me fooled—”

“We keep… we keep doing this, ” Geralt cuts in impatiently. “We keep talking in circles.”

“Not surprised,” Julian mutters. “Takes quite a lot of repetition to get anything through that thick skull of yours.”

Geralt doesn’t take his bait. “I already told you that I… that I care for you.” The way he cringes around the word— care —as if he’s afraid it’ll explode. “You don’t have to believe me,” Geralt acknowledges grudgingly, “but that is how I feel .”

Julian blinks at him. He didn’t think he’d ever hear the words “care” and “feel” come out of Geralt’s mouth in such quick succession. 

“I want you to be safe,” Geralt continues. Julian sighs. 

“I’m no longer some pampered poet that you have to safeguard, Geralt,” he corrects him. Geralt takes a step forward. 

“I know that.”

“I’m no longer such a nuisance.” Geralt’s expression twitches. His response comes out tight with something that sounds suspiciously like remorse. 

“You never were.” 

The number of surprises in just this one conversation is more than Julian can handle. Looking away, he clears his throat. “Now that can’t be right.”

Geralt presses even closer. “One year may be insignificant to us, yes, but this past year has been different.”

“Quieter?” Julian guesses drily. Geralt shakes his head. 

“Longer. Colder. Harsher.” With every word, he draws nearer. Jaskier Julian’s heartbeat quickens. “Perhaps there was less noise without you around,” the other witcher admits, “but there was less of everything else, as well. Everything good.”

Julian lifts his chin, meeting his eyes for the first time.  “That’s quite a confession.”

Geralt nods. They’re close now, so close that Geralt’s face takes up Julian’s entire field of vision. All he can focus on are the gold of the other’s gold, whose shade Jaskier had composed so many verses of poetry. Only now they’re too bright, too full of swirling emotion for Julian to tolerate. Julian raises his hands and places them on Geralt’s chest, not quite pushing him away, but near to it. He isn’t used to this—Geralt’s new insistence to keep invading his personal space. Geralt had always held Jaskier at an arm’s-length, quite literally. 

The other witcher takes his subtle rejection quietly and moves backward. “It needed to be said. I was… I was too afraid before, but it needed to be said.” Julian purses his lips, remembering Yennefer’s words. 

“Nothing scares Geralt.”

“Many things do. Perhaps you just haven’t been paying attention.”

Oh—

Perhaps. 

“Cirilla has done quite a number on you,” Julian remarks, “softening you up.” 

“Yes,” Geralt agrees. “She’s changing me—making me better. And I want to be better.”

For you, hangs unsaid in the air but Julian dismisses it as wishful thinking. 

“I guess it’s never too late to teach an old witcher new tricks,” Julian says, tone aiming for joking but falling somewhat flat. 

“I know that the princess has taken a liking to you as well.”

Julian sniffs. “Yes, well, I’m quite fond of her too.”

“Then come with us to Kaer Morhen,” Geralt proposes. “Give me one winter, Julian. To prove that I’ve changed. That I care.” Julian falters. Witcher’s aren’t supposed to feel and yet, with Geralt so vulnerable in front of him, Julian’s chest feels so terribly full. It’s uncomfortable, the wealth of emotion inside of him, but he has missed this. 

Still, he gathers himself and says, “And if I decide you haven’t changed?” 

Geralt’s shoulders fall. “Then I let you be. I won’t continue chasing after you—after Jaskier.” 

“No,” Julian counters. “That’s not enough. Don’t just let me be. You need to accept that Jaskier is dead, finally. Take the time to mourn him again, if you must, and then move on as I have.” It’s a bit cruel to demand this of Geralt, but Julian knows that it will be better this way. “Those are my terms.”

The White Wolf swallows. His normally-unyielding eyes are pleading. Julian does not give in, though he wants to. Finally, Geralt relents. “Alright.” Julian leans back, out of Geralt’s orbit. 

“Well then,” Julian begins, “I suppose I could accompany you." Geralt graces him with a tentative smile and Jaskier has to remind himself to breathe. "It’s been good to finally talk to you, Geralt. Really," he says. To talk to you as equals, goes unspoken. Geralt tilts his head to one side. 

"And I you."