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They’re still so new to each other. A thread of destiny binds them both, entangled and knotted. And yet still, they both keep to themselves while on the road. A perfunctory conversation might spark up about the weather or their travel plans for the next day. And Jaskier might just have to claw out his own eyes at one more shaking attempt from the Witcher to meet the girl’s eyes.
Jaskier can talk to anyone; especially grumpy Witchers who don’t have an ounce of social etiquette in their bodies. Fair, their conversations used to be one-sided affairs, with Jaskier rattling on about just about anything that came to mind. But time passed and cracks in the Witcher’s resolve formed and more and more words could be lured out of him either over dinner in some roadside tavern or around a campfire nestled in the forest.
And he knows the princess. She might have only been a child, barely a few summers old, but he knows her. There was the vaguest shine of recognition in her eyes when they stumbled across him in Redania. He can still see how Geralt’s eyes refused to meet his eyes he stumbled through an apology. Those same eyes flooded with love and warmth once they were upstairs, Jaskier clambering on top of him as they fell on to the bard’s bed.
But this is fucking torture. Geralt is quiet and emotionally unavailable at the best of times, but this is just ridiculous. So who is to blame him when Jaskier keeps the lion cub close to his side. They talk about court life, even when the cub’s eyes sting with tears at memories coursing through her like blood. Jaskier plays her songs, lilting her to sleep on those nights where the shadows are particularly cruel and looming.
All the while the Witcher watches, keeping them both in the corner of his eye as he leads them through the countryside and towards Kaer Morhen.
When the cub is asleep and both of them are sure that nothing can reach out and disturb her, they lie in their own bed. It’s safer for all of them to share a room. And it saves on the thinning gold in their pockets. They need it for cloaks and winter clothes and provisions to help them up the mountain. And being an arm’s reach from the cub settles Geralt. He can sleep knowing that she’s nearby.
Jaskier settles his cheek on Geralt’s chest. The familiar slow thump of the Witcher’s heart greets him. It’s not a particularly cold night. Others have been worse. But there’s still a chill in the air that nips at them. Wearing long-sleeved shirts and breeches, and bundled beneath blankets and furs, they manage to keep warm.
The bard sighs, nuzzling into Geralt’s chest. “How long until we get to the keep?”
One of the Witcher’s hands slips underneath the back of Jaskier’s shirt. Warm fingers brush against the small of his back. “A day, maybe two.” The mountains are so close, arching up towards the sky and almost blocking out the sun. Sharp sudden gales tumble down from the mountain. But halls warmed with well-fed hearths wait for them at the summit.
They can’t see the keep. It’s shrouded in thick forests and a charm, shielding it from prying eyes.
Jaskier yawns. His arm slung over Geralt’s middle tightens as he tries to mould himself to the Witcher’s side.
Across the room, a small body buried underneath a mound of blankets shuffles and eventually settles again. Geralt turns his head. Golden eyes scrutinise over the mound for a moment. Jaskier’s fingers brush Geralt’s side. “She has nightmares,” he whispers, keeping his eyes on the sleeping cub. Geralt hums. I know. Perching his chin on the Witcher’s chest, Jaskier sighs. “And I know you do too.”
A thick blanket of silence settles over them.
“You should talk to her about it,” the bard continues, testing the words slipping from his mouth. “I’m sure she’d appreciate someone understanding what it’s like.”
The body underneath him is still. Under his cheek, Jaskier feels the Witcher’s heart start to quicken and stutter.
He gentles a hand along Geralt’s chest, settling and soothing. “She’s yours now,” he mumbles, afraid to rouse the cub on the other side of the room. “And you have a good heart. You’ll make sure she’s safe and well-cared for. But you need to stop being afraid of her. She’s not the prim and proper princess you think she is.”
Geralt sighs. “Hmm.”
Fuck it. Jaskier returns to his original position, nestling in for the night. Maybe Vesemir can knock some sense into him.
When the towering peaks of Kaer Morhen loom over them, the sub sinks in on herself. Geralt has his hands full with Roach, the mare recognising home and what it means. Rest. Jaskier glances over his shoulder, frowning as wide blue eyes gape up at the keep. He stretches out a hand. The cub almost shrinks away from it. “It’s alright,” he says through a sharp gust of wind. The girl slowly takes his hand, interlinking gloved fingers. Her grip is tight. Frightened. She’s been in a constant state of it ever since she met Geralt. Who could blame her? Destiny dug its claws into her when she was barely forming inside of her poor mother. Everything she’s ever known has been stripped from her, and now here she is, letting destiny drag her along down a path she can’t navigate.
Witchers descend upon Geralt the moment the gates of the keep groan shut behind them. The usual greetings ring out; did the Temerian king’s daughter really get turned into a Striga? You said that we could go drinking in Redania? Where were you?
Jaskier’s own greeting is gentler. A firm hug from Eskel, who thankfully doesn’t lift him from the ground like other years. Lambert settles a hand on his shoulder, a leering look in his eye as he asks when did Geralt finally get down on his knees and beg for the bard back.
And then golden eyes land on the small figure behind Jaskier. Eskel, always the more approachable of the two, lifts his chin in greeting. “And you must be the princess we’ve heard so much about.”
The cub is frozen, shuffling back behind Jaskier. Her eyes fall on to the gravel beneath her feet. The girl’s hand is still locked to his own. Jaskier gives it a gentle squeeze. It’s okay. You’re safe.
Lambert clicks his tongue. “Get your ugly mug out of here,” he nudges Eskel to the side. “You’ll give the poor girl nightmares with a face like that.”
The words might have stung once. Buy now, Eskel rolls his eyes and shoves back against his brother. “Like yours is any better,” he grumbles.
Vesemir meets them in the main hall. It looks the same as last year, and the years before. Armchairs and small wooden tables scattered around, with some pushed up in front of a roaring hearth. It's home. He can’t imagine what it must feel like to Geralt or the other Witchers, but for him, he can finally breathe and let his shoulders drop.
The princess keeps close, stuck to his side and watching everything with wide eyes.
Vesemir’s gaze gentles when he spots the cub. “You all must be hungry from your climb,” he addresses all of them, but keeps his eyes on the girl.
Dinner is roasted venison with winter root vegetables and ale. The Witchers fight amongst themselves for portions, not alike the same wild wolves out in the hills that fight over a fresh kill. Jaskier turns to the cub. “Here,” he helps her load an ample plate. She seems happy enough, offering him a small courteous smile when he fights off Lambert for some slices of venison.
Geralt watches them, quietly eating his own dinner and keeping his bard and cub in the corner of his eye. He still won’t actually look at the girl, or even breathe in her general direction. Not out of malice. He wouldn’t have stumbled into that forest in the first place if he was only going to treat her unkindly.
He’s afraid. He’s just as afraid as she is, but he’s afraid of her. A child, his own to protect and rear and harbour against every bad thing within the world; a world that’s quickly filling with more bad things as the days go by. If Jaskier wasn’t here, gods only know what he would do.
Jaskier picks at his dinner. The Witcher can face countless horrifying creatures from the depths of all the hells, but cowers at the presence of a child only a few summers old.
He could laugh.
Eskel eventually pulls him away, rambling on about new books he found out on his travels. Aged and worn, the leather is thin and pulled and the spines threaten to snap. But he’s never been able to turn down reading material – especially on Eskel’s recommendation.
Vesemir has the cub. She likes and trusts him just enough to be led around the keep and shown everything it hides. Though he still looks down every hallway he passes, hoping to see the girl and make sure she’s okay.
With a crooked arm laden with books, Jaskier strolls towards the main hall. The nights are long and draw in quickly, and the winds that whip against the stones of the walls are harsh and bitter. Voices float up through the corridors. They stutter Jaskier’s steps for a moment. Keeping himself to the shadows of the hallway, he peers inside the great hall. Two figures sit in front of a roaring hearth, a warm glow cast over both of them.
“Maybe I should ask Eskel?” Geralt sighs, taking a measured sip of ale.
Lambert huffs. “Eskel is the worst person you could ask,” he chuckles, almost to himself. “Eskel’s kid left him a fucked up face. Though, I doubt your one could do something like that. She’s a little lamb.”
A guttural sound crackles through the air. It takes Jaskier a second for him to recognise it as a growl. “She has magic,” Geralt rumbles, “powerful magic that could level this keep and the mountains. She’s anything but a lamb.”
Lambert holds up his hands. “Gods, alright.”
A moment of silence sits over them for a moment. “I don’t know how to keep her safe,” Geralt mumbles after a time. The tired rasp of his voice shudders through Jaskier. He fights every muscle in his body wanting to drive him forward and offer comfort to his Witcher. But this is the most he has spoken about the girl and his feelings in weeks.
Geralt sighs. “What am I to do with her? Bundle her on to a ship and sail to the western lands, and never come back?”
Lambert snorts. “Nothing that drastic,” he lulls. The fire crackles in front of them. “I’ve heard the whispers...about Nilfgaard. If war is coming, we’ll stay well away from it.”
The Witcher code. Never get involved. We’ll keep ourselves up in our crumbling castle in the mountains and let the Continent below turn to shit.
But this war is coming because of the girl. What then? Maybe fleeing the Continent doesn’t sound like the worst idea...
Lambert sits forward, bracing his arms on his knees. “Listen,” he says, “you’re here now for the winter. Not many know about this place. No one is going to come looking for you up here. Let her have the winter.”
Every so often, something in Lambert’s mind aligns to flood the man with good ideas. Or even just the right words to say – especially to someone like Geralt, who broods and simmers in his own thoughts for hours or days or weeks on end.
The white-haired man hums, taking one last measured sip of ale.
The mountain air is fresh and crisp. Even though it can bite at bared skin it not chased away by the warmth of a hearth, Jaskier appreciates being able to breathe in deep lungfuls of it. A mug of tea is cradled in his hands, staving off the worst of frostbite to his fingers. It’s a different world up in the mountains. The forest sings with wind and birds, and every so often, Jaskier hears a piercing cry of an eagle soaring through the sky. The trees around the keep ripple with each lap of wind that brushes them.
“One could be forgiven for thinking that the world is going to shit.”
A light laugh bubbles out of his throat. “One could,” he hums. A warm, bared chest moulds to his back. Strong familiar arms coil around him and cross over his stomach.
Then let’s just stay here, he thinks as his head rolls back on to Geralt’s shoulder. Lips dust light kisses along the lines of his neck, earning a rattling shiver out of the bard. Let’s just stay here. Fuck the rest of the world. It can all burn.
Geralt’s chest rumbles. “Why are you awake this early?” he asks into lightly bruised flesh. They haven’t managed to leave marks on the other since finding their way back together. That one frantic fuck in that roadside tavern was the only time he could get his hands back on Geralt’s skin. Since then, he’s been mindful of youthful eyes.
But the winters are long and offer time away from the rest of the world, and there are wolves here that can protect lone lion cub. So what if Jaskier wants to monopolise on his time with his Witcher.
Jaskier sighs. His eyelids flutter shut at the light scrape of teeth along his neck. “I was enjoying the view,” he says idly. His head lolls to the side as Geralt buries his nose into the crook of his neck.
Geralt huffs a laugh. “So was I.” His hands wander, palming down the thick blanket Jaskier managed to snag from the foot of their bed and wrap around himself before stepping outside. He’s not as insane to slip out of their bed bare. Grabbing one of Geralt’s shirts and a blanket, he shuffled out on to the balcony overlooking the courtyard. It’s still early enough that no one else within the keep has awoken yet. An oddity for the Witchers. Usually, he’s the last one to wake, usually to the rumblings and movement in the hallways outside.
But this early in the season, Vesemir lets his pups rest.
Geralt perches his chin on Jaskier’s shoulder, golden eyes looking out on to the expanse of forest that steeple down the mountain. He rocks them both, ever so gently as to not to spill Jaskier’s tea. It’s a lightly spiced thing for his voice, sweetened with honey. “Come back to bed,” the Witcher rumbles. His voice is still rasped with sleep. Tilting his head just enough to catch a look at his Witcher, Jaskier has to swallow a laugh at the sight of sleep still clinging to Geralt’s eyes and hair.
The version of Geralt that no one else has seen. His stomach used to sour at the thought of maybe a passing flame lingering in the morning, being able to see Geralt’s crow’s nest of hair or how he spends five minutes stretching out his arms and back as soon as he gets up. But there’s a softness in Geralt’s eyes that he’s sure no one else has seen. Too many people on this stretch of land hiss vile and cruel words at him, others flat out refusing to let him rest in their towns or villages. How anyone could hate him, Jaskier truly doesn’t know. He’s lost sleep to it, thinking and wondering how acrid peoples’ opinions of his Witcher have become.
Well, he’s here to undo all of that.
Geralt catches one of his hands, tugging him haphazardly back towards the bed. Geralt’s room is just as he left it last winter; a four-poster bed, once-neatly made up with fresh linens and furs lining the foot of the bed; a desk with parchment and an inkwell; worn-leather bound tomes stacked in shelves. A room that’s been lived in for years; more years that Jaskier has been alive, probably. He revels in the idea of a younger Geralt laying claim to this room, perched high up in the keep and overlooking the forests shrouding the mountains. The keep seems to stretch on for miles in every direction, wrapping around the mountain, or the mountain wrapping around it. Even in the winters that Jaskier has spent up here, he’s fairly certain that he hasn’t found most of the rooms within the keep. The upper levels aren’t for his eyes. Not that they’re truly off-limits or anything; but the upper levels haunt Geralt, and Jaskier doesn’t want to know why.
Sleep-soft Geralt merely slips underneath the mess of sheets and waits for Jaskier to do the same. The bard throws the blanket coiled around him to the foot of the bed. Most of the furs were kicked off during the night, if not before it. He can’t remember how much blankets Geralt reached for once they were warm and sated and Jaskier stared at the canopy of the bed trying to catch his breath as sweat began to cool on his skin.
The second Jaskier slips underneath the sheets, his hip is encircled by a familiar, firm arm. A light laugh bubbles out of his throat as he’s tugged back to Geralt’s front; the Witcher’s chest warm and moulded against his back. The worst of the winter chill gets shaken away once Geralt coils around him. The Witcher’s nose buries into the junction of his neck and shoulder, breathing in lungfuls of scent and letting it coat the roof of his mouth.
A slumbering wolf spends its winter in his bed, and Jaskier can’t find a fault with it.
A few quiet moments pass them, with nothing breaking it other than the gentle wash of wind over the treetops outside, or the sounds of the horses nickering out in the nearby stables. The other wolves will rise soon enough; staggering out to the courtyard below to take blades to whetstones and hone their fighting against each other.
Until then—
Jaskier buries his nose into his pillow, pressing back against Geralt. A shiver rattles through him at the soft rumble that vibrates through Geralt’s chest.
He’s almost asleep. His eyelids drooping, barely able to hold themselves open any longer.
Then he hears it.
The softest of knocks against the door.
It’s enough to have Jaskier roused awake again, turning his head slightly to prick his ears at the noise.
But Geralt lifts his head, contorting half of his body towards the door. It’s too soft of a sound to be any of the pups – Eskel knocks firmly, wanting both Jaskier and Geralt to right themselves before he enters (because he’s learned his mistake from past years). And Lambert never knocks, preferring to just barge in, regardless of whatever state of dress, or undress, both Geralt and Jaskier are in.
And Vesemir calls out for them, a gruff voice that thunders through the hallways and still makes Geralt stand to attention.
So that just leaves—
And the knock sounds again, this time even more muffled and shy. Before he can say anything, Jaskier watches the Witcher slip out of bed. He grabs a loose pair of breeches from the floor somewhere and slips them on, padding over to the door while tying the waistband. Jaskier grabs the blankets, lifting them up as far as his chest.
Geralt cracks the door open, just enough for him to peer out into the hallway. His shoulders tighten slightly. He says something. Soft mumbles leave his lips, all too quiet and mushed together for Jaskier to make out.
So he sits up, pressing his back against the mound of pillows piled up against the headboard of the bed.
Geralt hums, glancing back into the room. He regards Jaskier for a moment before turning back to the hall. Letting the door open, Geralt steps back into the room and somewhat awkwardly gestures with his hand for someone to enter.
Jaskier cranes his neck. He blinks at the sight of the lion cub pausing at the portal of the door. Jaskier’s shoulders drop at the sight of her, still clad in a light linen shirt and breeches she’s been using as sleep-clothes. Her hair is half-tamed back into a bun, but long stray strands of honey-coloured hair dust her cheeks.
Her cheeks are flushed, but her skin stands so pale against the dark greys of the limestone walls that he wonders if it’s even a flush at all. Jaskier sits up a bit straighter, letting the sheets pool at his lap. “Good morning, princess.” His voice is nothing more than a rasp, so he clears his throat. “What’s wrong?”
Even in the faint water light of the morning, he can see how red her eyes are. Her lips are pressed into a thin line, barely quivering as she tries to separate them to talk.
Geralt lets the door click shut. “She had a nightmare,” he says, his words trembling slightly. Looking down at the girl, Jaskier watches him blink at the sight of her looking back up at him. “And she wanted to come in here. Right?”
She bites the inside of her cheek, but nods after a moment.
Jaskier loosens a breath. “Well, that’s just fine.” He shuffles further over from the middle of the bed. It’s still a mess of tossed about sheets and furs, but it’s comfortable and warm, and probably what the girl needs. He pats the freed up space.
She regards it quietly for a moment, before she breaks out into a half-sprint. She scrambles up the foot of the bed and slips in beneath the sheets. Jaskier lets her gather as much of them as she needs. His chest tightens at the sight of two blearily blue eyes glancing up at him.
Nightmares have been plaguing this girl ever since they’ve started travelling together. And he doesn’t wonder why. He wasn’t anywhere near Cintra when it fell, but rumours spread as quickly as the fires. He remembers refugees arriving into the city, shuffling in like lost sheep, clutching at each other and whatever they’d managed to bring with them out of the city before it caved in on itself.
And this little lion cub witnessed all of it. Actively hunted by an unknown man for an unknown reason. This world is too cruel for someone like her, and he hates it. He wishes she could have grown up in the world before, but even some of that was rotten.
Ciri nestled into the spare sliver of space between his side of the bed and Geralt’s. She sets her hands under her cheek, struggling to keep her eyes closed for more than a few seconds at a time. Jaskier glances over. Geralt slowly pads over, cautiously regarding the bed and the girl nestled in it.
He could laugh. But he won’t. Geralt is as skittish as an alley-cat; one sharp movement or sound and he’ll run downstairs to the kitchens or to the courtyard, despite only being clad in linen breeches. But eventually, he slips back underneath the sheets. He keeps a sliver of space between him and Ciri, but does lie on his side facing her, and Jaskier.
Golden eyes meet his over the girl’s head.
Jaskier thins his lips. A look shared between them tells the Witcher all he needs to know.
It’ll be fine.
She is trusting you to look after her.
He isn’t sure how long it takes him to fall back asleep. But he wakes when the sun is a bit stronger, and when the sounds of crashing swords drift up from the courtyard. Jaskier barely swallows a yawn before movement in the corner of his eye catches his attention. He lets his head roll.
Ciri lies awake, looking out of the balcony window. Shadows have started to settle underneath her eyes, gaunting her face into something sickly.
The winter is a time for rest; for the wolves of the mountain and for the bard. And it should be for her too, regardless of what else is happening with the world.
Jaskier clears his throat. “How are you feeling?” he rasps.
The Witcher on the other side of the bed still slumbers. Well, his eyes are closed. Whether or not he’s asleep, that’s anyone’s guess.
Ciri blinks, letting words sit on her tongue for a moment. She eyes the balcony door. It isn’t until another clatter of swords rings up does he frown. “You’re alright,” he gentles, coaxing the girl’s eyes back to his own. “You’re safe. It’s Eskel and Lambert training.”
It does settle her. Realisation washing over her that she’s safe. She’s harboured high in the mountains with wolves protecting her.
The body on the other side of the bed rumbles. Jaskier looks over just in time to see Geralt lift his head from the pillow, half-squinting eyes glancing around. When they land on Ciri, he wakes up a bit more. He rubs at his face, sighing, and flopping back on to the bed, staring up at the canopy of the bed.
Ciri shuffles into the bed, burying her nose into the pillow. Sleep tries to wash over her again. Gods only know how much rest has been stolen from her by night terrors. Jaskier settles on his side, tugging more blankets up to cover her. “Sleep, little cub,” he rumbles. “We’ll be here when you wake.”
Useless, the lot of them.
Jaskier huffs as he tightens and tunes the strings of his lute. He keeps the pack in the corner of his eye, regarding them quietly as they show the princess the proper grip for a sword – a wooden, sparring sword – and how to stand. And she learns quickly, earning high praise from Vesemir who watches from the nearby stables. He tries not to overbear on his pups teaching, but the odd encouraging comment to the cub is helpful. Ciri seems to perk up that bit better at them.
But in terms of emotions—
Another nightmare tried nipping at her as she dozed between him and Geralt. One that had her breath thinning and her shoulders trembling. Geralt bolted awake, quicker than Jaskier could resurface back to consciousness, and dealt with it. Jaskier slowly waded awake, lulled by the gentle rumbles of the Witcher talking. His eyes refused to open, stinging slightly at how sleep wanted him to stay under. But he listened to Geralt gentle and calm the lion cub trembling between them. You’re in Kaer Morhen, he whispered. Jaskier cracked an eye open just enough to make out Geralt carding his fingers through the girl’s hair. She still slept, her face contorted in a grimace as a night terror tried to run her down. Geralt’s lips barely move as he mumbles, it’s winter. You’re with me, and Jaskier. There are people here who love and want to protect you.
It’s not like that now, with other wolves around. Whatever had crept in and took the place of Geralt this morning didn’t linger. Jaskier looks up just in time to see Eskel and Lambert stepping into the small dirt arena. Their usual steel and silver swords have been swapped for dulled sparing ones. Jaskier knows from experience that they’ll still hurt if either of them were to get hit with one, but it will never draw blood.
Ciri stays to the edge, fidgeting with the sword in her hand. It’s a tad too big, weighted for a stronger arm and grip, but she manages just fine. Geralt stands nearby. His arms are firmly folded over his chest as he watches Eskel and Lambert spar. Sparring swords clatter with dulled claps, but still, Jaskier looks to the girl. She seems fine. She watches intently, squinting when Eskel pirouettes away from what could have been a nasty lunging hit from the other wolf. She’s attentive and even glances up at Geralt when he offers some short pointers to his brothers.
Jaskier’s fingers still over his lute strings. Maybe fighting in front of a refugee isn’t their greatest idea—
But he blinks at Ciri striding confidently into the arena. Eskel and Lambert both show her the grip for a sword again, fixing the position around her fingers around the handle.
He cranes his neck, getting a better look at the girl. As soon as she’s ready, she falls into line beside Eskel, showing her how to stand with her feet rooted to the ground – but always ready to drift and leap away.
She...she looks fine.
The faint shadow of night terrors that had spent weeks plaguing her is nothing more than wisps carried away by the winds tumbling into the keep.
Jaskier blinks at familiar golden eyes looking across the training arena to him. He’s sheltered from the worst of the winds. Even heavy, rain-laden clouds tumbling down the higher peaks of the mountain threaten to burst. But the gaze from his Witcher blooms more warmth through him than any nearby forge or hot spring.
Geralt’s lips twitch in that barely-there smile he shows when others are around. Deeper ones are for Jaskier, when they’re alone and laughing into kisses and letting hands drift. His face warms as he drops his gaze back down on to his lute. Fumbling fingers twitch as they try and pull at strings. Melodies and lyrics have been shy so far. But he’s sure something will come along with the changing winds.
The forests that shroud the keep from prying eyes have their secrets. In the winters that drift by, Jaskier has learned more and more of them. There are no monsters here – Vesemir’s daily patrols have weeded out the last of the monsters trying to live up in the higher peaks.
Even though it’s been a few years, Jaskier is sure that he hasn’t even scratched the surface of the forest. It’s as thick and engulfing as the mountains themselves. It took him a while to learn the layout of the keep. In those early winters, he kept to an established path and didn’t venture anywhere else. That was an invitation to get lost. And the forests are the same. There are paths that run through it – worn walkways of dirt that Vesemir takes on his rounds, footfalls embedded so deeply into the earth, that paths have been left behind.
So Jaskier keeps to them. It’s one of the warmer days, but he still stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jacket. Doublets and showier ornaments of clothes have no place being up this far. He swaps them out for shirts and cloaks of wool and linen. Even then, he bristles at a sharp, nipping wind whipping through the trees.
He woke to an empty bed. The worst way to wake up, in his own opinion. Even worse still, he ran his hand over the vacant side and frowned when it was stone cold. His Witcher has gone wandering. A short pad down the hallway and he discovered the same thing had happened to the lion cub; an empty bed, messed and crumpled blankets spilling down and pooling on the floor. And her sparing sword was gone.
He’s checked the usual places. The springs below the keep, the arena, the library. Vesemir caught him on his way down to the kitchen, grunting that the wolf and cub had left just as the sun rose, heading out to the forest.
And Jaskier has a pretty good idea of where they've gone.
The path is well-worn. A small lake sits in the middle of the mountain, rainwater running off and pooling in one of the deep-set cracks into the hills. Geralt took him to see it once. It was a nicer winter day, like today, where the early morning mist still dusted the top of the water. It was peaceful. A moment where he forgot that the Continent beyond the mountain was starting to seize in on itself.
And now, this is where they’re hiding from the wildfires.
The forest eventually thins as he steps out on to a small clearing. Looking out on to the lake, he scans his eyes around the rim of it. Only a handful of steps away sits the Witcher and his cub. Both of them sit cross-legged, slumped over in a hunch, and picking idly at the forested grass around them. Their lips move, and Jaskier’s ears twitch at the sound of humming of words, but he can’t make anything out.
He keeps his footfalls light, barely disturbing the grass and gravel below his boots.
Voices become clearer as he approaches.
Ciri snaps off a long piece of grass, threading it through her fingers. “I miss them,” she mumbles. She’s only a handful of summers old, but she sounds so tired. And Jaskier’s heart tightens.
There’s a hum. “I’m sorry that you didn’t have more time with them,” Geralt says. His voice is tight as he keeps his eyes out on to the small lake. He probably knows Jaskier is there. Maybe he heard him coming through twigs snapping under his boot as he came out of the forest. But he doesn’t turn to the bard. He looks at Ciri’s hands, watching idly as she knots the blade of grass before tossing it away.
A silence settles over them, like the mist dusting the face of the water. He pauses when he’s only a few metres away, still giving the two of them their space. The cub hasn’t spotted him yet. She keeps her attention on picking grass blades and clods of dirt.
When Geralt speaks, it’s a low timbre. Nothing more than a rumble. But Jaskier’s sure that Ciri listens intently. “I don’t want to frighten you, but I won’t lie to you either. The world is dangerous. It’s always been like that. But now, things are getting worse and I’m not sure how you or I or any of us fit into all of this.” The Witcher sighs. A frown creases his brow as he tastes the words on his tongue. “I won’t let anything happen to you. Neither will the others. We’re here to protect you, and keep you safe. You do know that, right?”
Ciri sits still for a moment, but she eventually nods.
He wants to echo Geralt. He wants her to know that each and every one of them inside that keep will fight tooth and nail to keep her safe.
In the short time that they’ve known each other, she has become one of the most precious things to them.
“You will never be alone,” Geralt assures her, stretching out his back and looking back out on the lake. “A sorceress is coming to help you temper your magic. I can help you hold your own against any man or monster that comes your way.”
Jaskier lifts his chin. It isn’t lost on him; everyone has a set role in the girl’s life. She has magic that needs to be reined in. She’ll need to know how to fight her way through armies that come to root her out. And the other wolves can help with that too.
So where does it leave him—
The tips of his ears warm at the sound of his name being mentioned. Geralt doesn’t look at him, but he knows that he’s gently tugging Jaskier into the conversation. “And Jaskier, he’ll be there to make sure you aren’t afraid. You can talk to him. He’s...he’s better at that kind of stuff than I am.” Whether it’s the nipping cold biting at his cheeks or something else, Geralt’s face colours.
“You’re doing okay,” Ciri says, glancing up at him through a curtain of blond hair that has fallen out of its tie.
A soft huff of a laugh escapes him. “Thank you,” he mumbles.
They’ll be fine. He watches them; Geralt stretching his arms back and turning his face to the sky, Ciri picks up a rock and tries to skim it across the water’s edge. It manages two skips before it sinks. The girl clicks her tongue. A smile curls along the length of Jaskier’s lip as Geralt sits forward, plucking up a new stone and showing her how to skim them properly.
A light laugh bubbles out of her when she manages to do it, something that Geralt echoes.
He should go. Slip back among the trees and head back to the keep. But his chest tights at the sight in front of him. His feet are rooted to the ground. He couldn’t move if he wanted to. If anything, something pulls at him to go closer.
He swallows when Geralt glances over to him. Familiar golden eyes that shimmer with the bright mid-morning light. He inclines his head. An invitation to fall in beside them.
Ciri turns too. Her smile turns brighter when he spots him.
He pads over, settling down among them. The morning is still and quiet. Birdsong spills out of the nearby trees. The lake’s water barely moves, even with the breezes tumbling down the mountainous hills.
A shiver rattles through him. An arm coils around his shoulders, tugging him against the Witcher’s side. Warmth blooms through him as the chills are chased away. Within seconds, the cub all but flops back on to his curled up legs. A content smile curls along her lip as she settles back against him, looking up to the sky. He reaches out. His fingers card through her hair.
Geralt presses a firm kiss to his temple. He keeps his lips pressed against the bard’s skin. It chases everything away. The assurance that everything will be fine, they’ll keep their cub safe. High stone walls atop a towering mountain will hide them away until she’s strong enough to fight back whatever is trying to claim her.
He can’t see too far into the future. Not like he used to – fantasies of taverns spilling with ale and wine, while his songs rattle through their walls as lords and kings try and entice him into their keeps for a sack of gold. Then his dreams became simpler – a warm bed and a grumpy, white-haired Witcher to share it with.
Now, all he wants is to survive the winter.
Geralt sets his forehead against Jaskier’s temple. Wind dusts some of the Witcher’s hair against his face, but it carries his scent too. Jaskier chuckles. “I woke to an empty bed this morning,” he keeps his voice low, mindful of the dozing cub using his knee as a pillow.
Geralt huffs a short laugh. “How terrible,” he mumbles, nudging his nose against Jaskier’s cheek.
The bard smirks. He turns, just enough to let the Witcher catch his lips in a kiss. It’s slow and soft and barely anything worth trying to hide from youthful eyes – but it’s home, and safety, and warm. It’s everything.