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“Jaskier,” Geralt's quiet call from his left pulled his focus away from his lute and the open noon sky to the road ahead of him.
“What?” Jaskier asked, not ceasing his running of scales. He didn't see anything, which meant the witcher had likely heard or smelled something on the breeze. Geralt didn't seem to be distressed though, Jaskier noted, observing his posture.
“Children 'or the hill.”
Now that was odd. They were only a mile or two away from town, but for children to be without a parent- it wasn't unheard of, but it was unusual. So Jaskier gripped the neck of his lute a little tighter and lengthened his stride.
Sure enough, when they crested the hill, three children, a rather large cart, and a stubborn mule came into view, stuck in the small valley. A young boy was struggling to urge the ass onward, while two girls pushed at the cart from behind to no avail.
Jaskier turned a pleading eye and pouted at Geralt. “They're only babes, we can't leave them.”
“Hmm.”
That was the only blessing Jaskier needed to hear, and then he was marching down the hill, careful not to turn his ankle on any loose stones.
“Halloo,” He waved experimentally, trying to gather their attention. “You've seen too few winters to be traveling alone. Are you alright?”
The elder of the two girls turned to him first, pausing in her frantic and full-bodied shoves at the wagon, but the boy who had been leading the mule was charging him before she could say anything.
“Don't look at my sis'er you!”
Jaskier narrowly avoided being on the receiving end of the child's presumably very hard head, “Wouldn't dream of it, ankle-biter.” Jaskier laughed. “I only mean only to offer assistance, you seem to be quite stuck.”
He could already feel the extra swell of protectiveness rising in his chest. Synchronously, he was reminded of his youth: how he'd fought to protect his older sister, Maribella, from the prying eyes that came to court as she grew.
“Cadby,” The taller girl scolded, “Leave the man alone, he's just a bard.”
“Jaskier, the bard,” he nodded, and bowed low with a swoop of his arm that had the youngest girl giggling, “At your service.”
When Jaskier looked up from his bow, Cadby no longer had his fists raised, and was instead gawking at the figure that was casting an enormous shadow over them.
“And this,” He said, straightening, “Is my companion, Geralt, the witcher, of Rivia.”
“The White Wolf.” The boy's mouth had fallen open, and he continued to stare as Geralt threw a leg over the saddle to dismount.
“Is the wheel intact?” He asked, bypassing the child's wonder.
“I- I think so,” The girl, clearly the oldest of the three spoke in reply. “We've just been caught in a hole. ”
When Geralt knelt by the wheel to examine their predicament, the youngest, who had been clinging to her sister's skirts broke free to touch his hair.
“Isolda, why is his hair so white? He looks younger than Papa, Papa doesn't have white hair.”
Jaskier didn't miss the way Geralt stiffened in surprise at the touch, but he also didn't miss the softening in his profile- a tell tale sign of one the rare smiles Jaskier had become so fond of.
“Eva it's not nice to ask questions like that.” Isolda admonished, bending down to tug at her arm. She didn't appear to be afraid of Geralt as a witcher, rather she was wary of him as a stranger. A lick of pride heated in Jaskier’s chest at that.
“Mm.” Geralt stood. “If we lift the cart up and out we might be able to save the wheel, but several spokes are cracked.” He motioned for Jaskier to step forward.
“Help Cadby pull the mule,” Jaskier directed, ushering the girls away from the end of the wagon. It was empty, save a few barren crates, and Jaskier wondered again what they were doing out here by themselves. He swung his lute around so it settled on his back.
Together, he and Geralt heaved the cart up, despite it's vacancy, the weight was not insubstantial. When they had it up, Jaskier let out a strained but celebratory whoop. Of course fate wouldn't let them off so easy, and when they placed it back on the ground there was a terribly loud crunching sound.
“Ahh fu-” Geralt began, but was silenced by Jaskier punching his arm. He raised an eyebrow to question the bard.
“Not in front of the children.”
“They've likely heard worse.” Geralt said flatly.
“No need to add to it, don't be a brute.”
“No, no, no, this is terrible. How're we gonna get home to Mah now?” Isolda's hands were clutching at her hair as she paced. “He finally trusted me to bring the cart to and from the market myself and this is how I repay him. He needs the potatoes before daybreak tomorrow!”
“We'll help you get home.” Geralt said, and Jaskier blinked in surprise. Normally he would be the one to suggest these things, and Geralt would grouse about being slowed down (though Jaskier secretly believed he didn't mind it all that much).
“Oh he'll never forgive me, and Mah will be so disappointed, I don't even have dinner for you two. What will we do?” Isolda was pacing back and forth frantically, seemingly oblivious to Geralt's offer, as she continued to ramble.
Eva crept close to Geralt and pulled him down to whisper in his ear, though she did it rather loudly.
“She gets like this sometimes, Mah and Papa just wait for it to pass.” And Eva patted him once on the leg, as though this was the most normal thing, and sat down on the ground, her red skirt puffing up around her tiny legs.
Except that it didn't seem okay to Jaskier at all.
* * *
Geralt watched as Isolda continued her frenzied pacing. Panic rolled off her shoulders like a billowing cape and the stink of it was nearly suffocating. Her two siblings seemed to think nothing was the matter, content to sit scribbling little characters into the dirt.
He looked to Jaskier helplessly, who sighed and nodded.
Geralt watched as he carefully lined up his pacing with hers till he was able to put a gentle hand on her arm.
“We'll help you get home, it's alright. Don't worry, it's alright.” He said to her quietly, taking her hand in his.
Geralt was reminded all at once how large and strong Jaskier was. It was normally hidden by his swaths of colorful clothing, the high-pants that narrowed his waist, his lute playing accentuated his delicate wrists and long fingers. But here, with his doublet abandoned with Roach, and his sleeves rolled up, he looked much less like the boy Geralt had met and much more like a man, a very lean and fit man. The way he was clearly struggling not to tower over Isolda only added to the sight.
“I promise you won't get left after dark. You farm can't be far from here, Geralt and I will make sure you get there safely.” Jaskier rubbed at her shoulder.
Geralt wished, and not for the first time, that he had Jaskier's skill with language, with emotion. He was too slow, too clumsy, and by the time he managed to get something out it always seemed to be too little, too late.
Jaskier carefully, giving her ample opportunity to pull away, pulled her into an embrace. Tentatively, he stroked her hair. “That's it. Breath with me, it's alright. We'll get you home.”
After a few moments, she withdrew from his hold.
“You must think me to be terribly silly and helpless,” Isolda hiccuped, scrubbing tears from her face. She blinked quickly and took a few deep breaths. “I'm alright. I'm fine- I just get overwhelmed. Thank you for your kindness.” She offered a curt nod to the two of them, clearly embarrassed, and brushed away invisible dust off her tunic. “We're only a few more miles up the road.”
* * *
Isolda seemed to have calmed herself down quite quickly, Jaskier noted, though he paid attention to the little tremble lingering in her hands.
He'd known several people while at Oxenfurt who had similar attacks when caught unawares by a situation, though she had handled it with much more practice and determination than they had. He'd done his best to learn how to comfort them; it wasn't as easy to attempt such a thing with a stranger, people had different needs in such states. But the redness was easing out of her cheeks, and the sweat that had gathered at her temples was drying.
“Jaskier and I will take turns aiding the cart. It won't be quick, but we'll get there.”
And so they set off. Together, he and Geralt managed to lug it up the hill, and after a short pause to catch their breaths, they continued up the road. It was thankfully much easier to guide the wagon forward. Jaskier and Isolda took the first shift, despite Geralt's protests.
Roach followed, just behind them, and he was thankful she was so well trained. She wouldn't go near the children, which was just as well because she'd likely bite them, the curmudgeon that she was.
Cadby explained as they walked that they were a family of potato farmers and their father had enjoyed a surprisingly lucrative few days at the market. He'd underestimated the amount of stock needed and hadn't realized his error till it was too late.
“And that's why Mah says to always count yer tatoes.” Cadby concluded, kicking a stray rock off the side of the road.
“Always count your potatoes.” Geralt echoed with a sage nod. “You'd do well to heed her warnings.”
“Do you count your tatoes, sir witcher?” Eva asked, with a tug at Geralt's leather clad arm.
He waited a moment before answering, and Jaskier could see the moment his gruff resolve broke.
“I do. When I was a boy, not much older than you, we learned that lesson the hard way also.”
“We?” Cadby questioned from up front where he was leading the ass.
Jaskier readjusted his grip and turned just slightly so he could better observe the small smile that played across Geralt's lips.
“My brothers at the wolf school.” Geralt paused, his voice warm, and then he continued. “Once, long before I walked the Path, one of my teachers forgot to count out our potato barrels.” He broke off with a chuckle, “Vesimir had to go down the mountain in the middle of winter to buy more,” Geralt took a deep breath, trying to end his laughter, “When he got back he looked half dead. There was more ice in his whiskers than hair. He looked like a snowman.”
Eva snorted and chided, “His Mah never taught him to count his potatoes.”
Geralt's smile slipped. “He didn't have a Mah to teach him those things.”
“No Mah?” Cadby spoke up.
“No.” His voice was soft.
Eva reached out and grabbed for Geralt's hand when she asked, “Do you have a Mah?”
“I told you, it's not polite to ask questions like that.” Isolda said from where she carried lifted the cart beside Jaskier.
“I do.” Geralt murmured, and he was looking at Eva so tenderly that Jaskier was almost jeaous. “But I have not seen her since I was very, very little.”
“That's sad.” She replied very seriously. “I can't imagine life without Mah.”
“I don't know any different.” Geralt shrugged, but Eva mumbled something Jaskier didn't quite catch, but recognized as disapproving.
“It wasn't terrible,” Geralt amended. “The cubs and I all had each other, and our teachers were never unkind.”
Eva stomped her foot, clearly dissatisfied. “But did they give you piggy-back rides? Kids need plenty of those.”
Immediately Jaskier knew where this would lead, and he could barely contain his grin as he observed silently. He would bear the burn in his arms for the rest of the journey if he got to see it.
“Yes.” Geralt replied, entirely too stone-faced.
“Really?”
“To prepare us for riding horses.”
And wasn't that just the most adorably ridiculous thing Jaskier had ever heard. Of course there was likely no truth to it; it was probably something they said to make sure the Geralt and the other children didn't attempt to read too much affection into the gesture. Affection that was most certainly present, if the quirk at the corner of Geralt's mouth was anything to go by.
“Papa says I'm too small to ride.”
“Well it's never too early to learn.”
The two of them exchanged a furtive glance, a moment later Eva was swinging high up into the air with a squeal of delight. She landed with a thump, and clapped her hands excitedly.
“What else did they teach you there?” Cadby asked, watching Eva with unhidden envy.
“Sword-craft, basic medicine, reading and writing. Kaer Morhen's library is filled with tomes on monsters of all kinds. Everything you need to survive on the path.”
Oh how Jaskier longed to be free to take notes. Not because he would make a song out of Geralt's childhood, but because he just wanted to put this moment to paper- canvas would be better, he admitted to himself, but he was only a virtuoso of one art. Geralt looked happier- more relaxed, than Jaskier had ever seen him before, it wasn’t a scene he wanted to forget. He seemed just as confident now as he ever was when bearing a sword in hand.
Jaskier wondered for the first time if, perhaps in another life, Geralt would've wanted to be a father.
Unbidden, his mind conjured up a fantasy, one where he and Geralt were settled somewhere outside of a town, it wouldn't matter where- maybe by the coast- with a child of their own. He could imagine it, playing songs to them both in the evening by the fire slowly dying in the hearth, or Geralt teaching them how to defend themselves, because no child of a witcher would ever be helpless. The inevitable injuries that could be kissed away, while they were still at an age where love was the only needed remedy.
He loved traveling, would never be able to stay away from it, not for long, but together they'd have a home to come back too, or a family that meant they were bringing home with them.
Geralt's head whipped round to face him, nostrils flared, and Jaskier was struck dumb by the intensity of the stare. His grip slipped along with his focus and the wagon nearly hit the ground before he recovered.
“Jaskier, what-”
“My hands are just a bit sore, that's all, I can keep going.” Jaskier interrupted.
“You need your hands to support yourself, bard.”
There was that churlishness that Jaskier was so accustomed to.
“And you don't?” He shot back.
Geralt scowled, though the gesture was dulled by the little girl still sitting atop his shoulders.
“Fine. Fine if you insist.” Jaskier caved.
“If we're stopping can I have a ride? I'm tired.” Cadby asked, slowing the cart to a stop. It was a bit of a whine, but one Jaskier wouldn't feel guilty indulging.
“Young mudlark, I think that should be doable.” He chuckled, and set the cart down. Then he attached his lute to Roach and beckoned the boy onto his back with a flourish.
By the end of the hour, and several adventure tales (which Geralt told in much more detail than Jaskier would've thought possible given his own experience), the youngest two were asleep. Cadby drooled on Jaskier's shoulder, and Eva slumped over Geralt's head and snored softly.
The sun was hanging low in the sky, and lit the surrounding plains with a soft glow. The breeze had quieted around the same time as the bairns and birds. Growing out of the distance, a house and tilled fields became visible.
“I can't thank you enough for your help.” Isolda said, after a long moment. “You've been so patient with the little ones, and helping to carry the cart- I don't know what I would've done without you.”
“Wasn't any trouble.” Geralt rumbled.
“None at all.” Jaskier agreed, even though the blisters on his hands and the crick in his back begged to differ, he certainly had no regrets.
Eventually it came time to part.
Jaskier lowered Cadby to the ground, and he wandered to the door, rubbing at his eyes, sleepy and silent. Geralt passed Eva with care to Isolda, and she slipped back to sleep with a pat to his cheek and murmured, “Good-bye kitty man.” And Jaskier certainly didn’t laugh at that, nor the way Geralt blanked.
Alone once more, they continued down the road, now laden with a pleasantly large sack of potatoes, gifted to them by the children's mother by way of thanks, to ease their journey.
Jaskier picked up his lute once more to strum a quiet lullaby- one that contained no words of children, potatoes, or anything related to such lessons. His heart was warm and full, even as he day-dreamed of a future he knew was impossible. A future with a child, and lovely potato garden by the sea.