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Her life was never going to be normal.
She was born under extraordinary circumstances into an extraordinary life.
He wonders what would have happened if they weren’t at that banquet. Would Pavetta have been married to Crach an Craite, like the queen wanted? What would have become of Duny? Would he have stilled charged into the banquet hall, ready to lay claim on what was bound to him by destiny? What would have happened to Ciri, freed from any tie of fate to anyone?
The questions that stalk around the shadows of his mind keep him up most nights. Even road-exhausted and with a comforting Witcher warmth pressed up along his back, keeping him close, Jaskier finds himself not wanting to be dragged underneath by sleep. Dark things wait for him there. He’s seen Geralt wrestle with enough terrors to last a lifetime. And Ciri is just as bad. The nights have been quiet recently. He suspects the lavender and chamomile oil he picked up from a town’s apothecary is helping her.
But regardless of how her life might have turned out different, he’s set on giving her as many normal experiences as he can. Sometimes it’s taking her into the markets of a town, letting her walk on ahead and browse store windows and displays. When they’re in Kaer Morhen, it’s letting her run around the battlements and trying not to laugh as four stern-faced, glowering Witchers suddenly being wrought with fear at the thought of her slipping.
Of everything to find at Kaer Morhen, she likes the forest the best. The keep lies back against a mountainous peak, with a thick forest covering the other sides like a shroud. Unlike the forests elsewhere, there aren’t any monsters to be found here; one of the benefits of having Witcher groundskeepers.
He keeps an eye on her as she strolls ahead, mostly following the path, but weaving between thickets of flowers she hasn’t seen before. Vesemir’s morning lessons in the library must have taken some effect; Ciri occasionally points at a thicket or shrub, guessing names of what it could be. She always gets them right.
She never picks them. That was Vesemir’s only rule: if you’re not sure, don’t touch. And she never does. But her hand drifts over brightly coloured petals and thorn-riddled stems. She points at a new plant; a vibrant violet standing out against the green leaves that pillow it against the ground. “Pringrape?” she shouts back to them.
Jaskier hasn’t the faintest of clues, but Geralt nods. A faint smile ghosts his lip. It’s nothing much. Most wouldn’t even be able to see it. But Jaskier has spent too many years around the Witcher not to know his tells.
Jaskier nudges Geralt’s shoulder with his. “So,” he says idly, “how do you think she’s doing?”
Their hands brush as they walk. Every so often, Jaskier swallows a thrill threatening to run up his spine whenever one of Geralt’s fingers hooks with his, hanging on. Geralt hums. “She’s learning,” he says simply, keeping his eyes on her as she ventures further down the trail. Geralt cranes his neck. “Stay on the path!” he shouts after her.
Jaskier chuckles. “She’ll be alright,” he says. Despite that, though, they do quicken their pace a little bit. Through thick tree trunks winding around the trail, he still manages to spot a flash of a blonde braid darting between them. And with Geralt’s senses as sharp as they are, he can’t imagine Ciri managing to get too far away without them noticing.
Geralt, though, keeps his eyes narrowed and focused.
Everyone within the keep has given her something. Vesemir has built a fortress of books within his office, helping her take in centuries of learned things about monsters and alchemy. She hated it, at first; preferring to be outside with Geralt and the others, sword in hand, and learning how to fight with them. But over Geralt’s dead body did he want any trace of steel or silver going near Ciri just yet. She has a sparing sword; still metal, but with blunted edges and a softened pommel.
Eskel and Lambert have been with her for most of her sparring lessons. Jaskier makes sure to stay by the forge or the stables, watching with a glint in his eye at how much effort it takes for a Witcher to gentle their movements; especially when facing the might of a girl cresting into her teenage years. They teach her what she needs to know; how to block, parry, keep your stance, and how to hit the best spots on the body. But she gets knocked over and hit in the arm or leg or side, and her afternoons are spent soaking in an oatmeal bath to ease her muscles.
But she learns.
Birds chatter overhead as they walk. Even with spring cresting, most of the trees by the keep have kept their green leaves. The thick canopy overhead and branches heavy with leaves shield them from the worst of the breeze rushing up along the mountain.
Jaskier buries his nose into his scarf.
Suddenly, an arm coils around his shoulders, keeping him close to Geralt’s side. Heat blooms from where they’re pressed. “Are you cold?” Geralt asks.
Jaskier shakes his head. “No, I’m alright.” Because if he starts complaining, then Geralt might turn them around and head back to the keep’s hearths. And he doesn’t want to bring Ciri away from the adventure she’s having weaving through tree trunks, finding more and more things to try and identify.
But the arm around him tightens. A chaste kiss is pressed to his temple. He’ll blame the flush colouring his cheeks on the cold.
They get to Oxenfurt just in time for Belleteyn. The city always has life flowing through it, no matter the season, but the festivals are always the beating heart. One of the city’s seneschals asked for Geralt specifically. A letter arrived to them not long after they left Kaer Morhen. The first village sitting at the foot of the mountain always seems to collect and store mailings intended for Witchers so they have something to get started with as soon as their hibernation is over.
The thought of walking through Oxenfurt’s gates again set his heart ablaze. The city always called for him just before the winter set in, a call that he would usually answer and take. But Ciri needed him more than ale-eyed students struggling to stay awake and at attention.
There’s a familiarity that settles into his bones the second the gates open for them. Ciri is by his side, hand brushing his as they walk. She’s always just an arm’s reach away, just in case.
“Welcome to Oxenfurt, princess,” he says with a smile, offering his arm.
Her laugh is becoming more and more light as the days go by. Terrors, while still linger around her, don’t have such a deep hold of her anymore.
The streets are as familiar to him as his own skin. The smells of breads and pastries drifting out of bakeries, the screech of metal against a stone at a nearby blacksmith. The chattering of people flowing up and down the street.
It’s just as busy as he remembers it. The city’s square is already decorated; a large stage in the middle, with bunting streaming from it and weaving around lampposts. Stalls are built around the edge of the square, sure to be full with food and flowers. Even the bonfire’s cauldron is set, perched near the stage, to be lit at midnight.
Ciri watches all of it, mouth slightly opened in awe. Jaskier squeezes her arm. “When the music starts and people are dancing,” he says, “it’ll be like nothing you’ve ever seen.”
Ciri blinks. “Can we go?” she asks.
Jaskier lifts a shoulder. “I can’t see why not. We’re here, aren’t we? It would be a shame if we didn’t attend.”
And he can feel the Witcher bristling behind him; an argument brewing on the tip of his tongue. But Jaskier stops them, moving just out of the way to let Geralt have a look at Ciri, at how earnest her eyes look. He lifts his chin. A small challenge. Are you really going to say no to that?
Geralt glowers at him. A long sigh escapes his nose. “We can go,” he mutters, holding up a hand at Ciri’s delighted grin, “but you’re staying close by.”
Ciri readily agrees, slipping out of Jaskier’s arm to rush towards Geralt, arms open. Her hug is tight and she all but buries her face into his chest. Geralt stiffens slightly, but relaxes after a time. He’s getting better at the hugging thing, Jaskier has noticed. For all the touch they share, it’s different when it’s with Ciri. Even with him, it took months for Geralt to touch him without worrying about being too brash. Ciri’s head barely reaches his chest, and she looks so small when Geralt’s arms envelop her in a gentle hug.
Jaskier offers her his arm again. “Have you ever been to Oxenfurt before, princess?”
She shakes her head, slipping her arm around his.
“Well, you have the best guide at your disposal,” Jaskier beams. Looking over his shoulder, he nods to Geralt. “You can meet us back at the seneschal’s house after your hunt.” Because if Jaskier ever wins an argument between them, he likes to leave it at that, and put as much distance between him and Geralt as he can before the Witcher tries to win it back.
The second the sun starts to fall over the nearby hills, the lanterns are lit and the music starts. Freshly washed, and with some borrowed clothes from the seneschal’s family, they step out on to the street. Geralt keeps to his usual garb; knowing that Jaskier has dressed him before, and he would rather not have a repeat.
Fine, Jaskier huffed, doing up the last of the buttons on his doublet, you’ll stick out like a sore thumb, but if you want to be like that then go ahead.
The seneschal has a hoard of daughters ranging in ages. Even though Ciri has spent the last few months in a loose tunic, synched at the waist with a belt, holding her wooden sword, and a pair of breeches, her eyes glisten at the promise of one of the girls lending her a dress. There’s a grand affair made of it all. Jaskier watched, smiling, when the older girls, all around Ciri’s age, bundled her upstairs and into one of their rooms to get ready for the festival.
The pack of them walk down to the square together, but the seneschal and his wife are pulled away by other notable gentry within the town, and the children scatter to go with their friends. One of them, a girl called Lyra, stops and stretches a hand out to Ciri. “Would you like to come with us?” she asks, nodding to her friends.
Ciri chews her lip for a moment, looking up at both of her guardians.
Jaskier offers her a small smile. “Do you want to?”
Ciri nods.
Jaskier sets his hand against her back, nudging. “Then go,” he says into her ear. At her quick glance to Geralt, Jaskier nods. “I’ll deal with him. Go. Have fun.”
And Geralt’s eyes haven’t left her since she first slipped away.
Jaskier tries to hide his smile behind his hand, but he knows how his eyes crinkle.
“Why did you let her go?” the Witcher asks through a clenched jaw. He cranes his neck, looking through people gathered within the main square for that tell-tale light blonde hair. She hasn’t gone that far, gathered with Lyra and her friends by one of the food stalls. Lyra is beside her, pointing out everything the vendors have to offer.
Jaskier lifts a shoulder. “Because no one would have come near her if they saw your sour face nearby,” he says simply. “She’s been in the company of adults for the past few months. I’m the next youngest in our little group, and I’m forty, Geralt. She needs to spend time with people her own age.”
If there’s a response to what he said, Jaskier doesn’t hear it. The music drones on, with one of the resident city bards taking to the stage for another set of polkas and reels. Jaskier’s fingers drum against his thigh. He’d like to be up there. Taverns and inns have been his scenes for the past few weeks. Before that, it was four Witchers and a princess hidden away in the mountains. It’s been a while since he’s played to a crowd bigger than thirty.
But he’d rather not bring too much attention to them. Neither of them has heard any whispers of Nilfgaardian movements for the past few weeks. No news could be good news, but the air doesn’t sit right whenever Nilfgaard is involved. Vesemir managed to find out as much as he could, but still, he’d rather not have a fanatic’s armies bursting through the city walls, wrenching Ciri away, just because he wanted to perform.
His hand is stilled. Looking down, he finds Geralt threading their fingers together. He squeezes back. “Belleteyn is the lover’s festival, you know?” he brushes against Geralt’s ear.
Geralt rumbles. “It’s also the time to cast lovers aside.”
“You’re being such a dickhead, do you know that?” Jaskier snips, trying to wrench his hand back from Geralt, but the Witcher has a firm grasp on him. When his arm tries to circle his shoulders, Jaskier shuffles forward, almost standing up from their place by one of the fountains. “No! You say such hurtful things and then try and win my affection back by being soft—Are you laughing?!”
He’s pulled and lands with a huff into Geralt’s lap. The Witcher’s arm threads around his waist; but his grip is loose. One that Jaskier could get out of, if he wanted to. Though, he looks down at the soft golden eyes glancing back up at him and he finds it all slipping away. Geralt catches his chin between two fingers, bringing the bard down for a kiss. It’s short and chaste and just enough to ignite a spark in his blood. He wants to coil his arms around the Witcher, pull him closer, but even at a fertility festival, what he wants to do to Geralt might be considered too much.
So he stays there, perched, resting against Geralt’s chest. The Witcher plays with his hair, carding his fingers through it.
Budding romances spark around the square; Jaskier watches young, shy boys with hats in their hands approach pretty girls, stumbling over their words as they try their hands at vying for affections. There’s a song to be made. Jaskier has words settling into his mind. Every so often, a brush of lips will shake him out of whatever creative ravine he’s fallen into. Jaskier turns his head, catching Geralt’s lips in his. Moments like this have waned over the weeks. When they were safe within Kaer Morhen’s walls, when Ciri had other teachers and guardians watching over her for a few hours, Jaskier and Geralt both stole their time then. But back on the Path, back wandering through the wilds with no real notion on where to go, it’s back to fleeting kisses and touches.
Ciri eventually returns to them, a blush scattered across her face and hair falling from its braid. Jaskier brushes a few strands behind her ear. He’s about to ask her about the night so far – it’s not near midnight yet and the bonfire hasn’t been lit – when he feels Geralt stiffen slightly. Jaskier’s eyes drift over Ciri’s shoulder.
A boy stands nearby, his hands fidgeting in front of him. He looks just about everywhere else but at them. Jaskier slips from Geralt’s lap, sitting beside the Witcher.
“This is one of Lyra’s friends,” Ciri explains, her fingers fidgeting with the skirt of her dress. “Bryn.”
Jaskier vaguely recognises the youth. “Are you studying in the college?” he asks the boy.
“No, Professor.” Bryn takes a tentative step forward, a shaking hand outstretched. “My brother had you as a lecturer last year. For trouvereship and poetry.”
Jaskier nods, shaking his hand. “Ah yes. His were quite an attentive lot, if I remember correctly. Not like those middling years. Did his exams go well?”
“Yes, quite well. I’m planning on going to the Academy myself in a few years.”
Bryn seems well-mannered, with baby-fat still clinging to his cheeks. He’s dressed just as well as all the other children of nobles and well-off townsfolk are. His dark brown hair brushes his shoulders and dusts his eyes. Bryn’s eyes flicker over to Ciri, and then back down to the ground. “I, um, I was wondering, Professor,” his eyes go to Geralt, “Master Witcher, if I could, um, dance with Fiona when, um...when they’re lighting the bonfire. Not that I want to start anything with her. I know what, err, what dancing with the fire means. She’s lovely, but, I understand—”
Jaskier’s smile couldn’t be broader. “I’m sure she’d be delighted,” he says, glancing over at Ciri. “What do you think? It’s up to you.”
Something flashes across her face. Her brows knit together before she nods. Out of the corner of his eye, Jaskier sees his Witcher’s mouth opening. Cementing his hand over it, Jaskier shoos them away. “Go on,” he says.
Ciri and Bryn scamper back to their group. A few officials are starting to stack bundles of hay into the bonfire, assuring that it will catch as soon as they light it at midnight. Jaskier turns back to the Witcher, barking a laugh at his tight glower sent across the town square. “Oh stop,” he says, hugging Geralt’s arm to him. “What harm could a bardling do, hmm?”
“You seemed to do quite a lot of harm during your early years,” Geralt grunts.
Jaskier balks. “I did not do—Geralt, take that back.”
Bell tolls ring throughout the city when midnight settles in. The seneschal and a few people ultimately elected to be part of the festival proceedings bring a lit torch to the bonfire. Jaskier’s eyes light as the hay and wood spark, and a fire takes hold. The crowd rush to gather around it; people holding on to their partner’s hands, fingers interlocked. Some of them start to twirl and dance around the cauldron, others follow their newfound loves to darker corners of the town.
Geralt’s hand finds Jaskier’s. A simple thing, but in Geralt-speak, it’s what he’s willing to share while out in the open. Their kisses are mere brushes of lips and a peck to the arch of cheekbones. But Geralt unravels when they’re alone. When prying eyes are locked out by doors and closed window shutters.
Ciri is swallowed in Lyra’s group, the children laughing brightly
“You’d be forgiven to forget that a war was going on,” Jaskier says lowly.
Geralt hums.
There’s an unspoken agreement between the two of them. They’ll let her have this. The chasing of newfound friends and the very brief sliver of life that should be hers. She’s a child, and she should be a child. But destiny says otherwise.
For one night, at least, Jaskier can uncurl destiny’s fingers from Ciri’s shoulders, and free the girl.