Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He doesn’t mean to make a habit of it. Really. And it’s not that he minds either, not at all actually. 

It’s just that it keeps happening.

It starts a few months after that dreaded mountain. After he made his way stumbling blindly down the trail, unable to see more than a few steps ahead of him for all the tears in his eyes he refused to weep. After making his way back to Roach, that beautiful, cantankerous horse that had finally, after so many years of bribes and sweet words, allowed him to pat her gently and comb her mane. She had greeted him with a soft snort and a gentle shove of her head into his chest, snuffling at his pockets for the treats he kept there. Knowing that it would be the last time he would be able to, the last time that he would ever see her, he emptied his pockets of all the sugar cubes and flowers he had, scratched her between the ears the way she loved most, and numbly removed his things from her packs, careful not to leave anything behind. No reminders that he existed, no evidence that he had ever travelled with her owner.

And then he left. 

Despite what his appearance may suggest, Jaskier was completely capable of surviving on the road alone. He had done it for months before meeting the Witcher and throughout their frien- acquaintanceship whenever their paths took them separate ways. And so he made his way back across the continent only stopping in towns that he knew Geralt had already passed through that year and would be unlikely to revisit.

It was on the road between such towns that it started. The day had been grey and miserable, raining on and off in unpredictable patterns, and Jaskier was desperately hoping to make it to the next village before the skies decided to open and stay open, finding his patience to have been worn thin by the erratic weather, the low quantity of food in his pack, and the general moroseness that had been hanging about him for the past month. So caught up in his longing for a warm bed and inner grumblings is he ( and really now, he’s beginning to act like a certain grumpy Witcher who will not be named ) that Jaskier is quite badly startled when he comes around a bend in the road and sees a figure collapsed on the ground next to what looks to be the body of a slain griffin. And if he had been startled by that sight, the sight of two swords, achingly familiar, next to the figure is shocking enough that it feels as if his heart has stopped beating. 

But while his heart may have stopped, Jaskier's body seems to move on its own, rushing up to the fallen Witcher and carefully examining him for the injuries he knows must be there. Witchers don’t just collapse like that, they don’t . 

He realises rather quickly, somewhat to his relief, that this Witcher is not the one he has spent so many years trailing after. The biggest giveaway is his dark hair, so very very different to the spun moonlight hair of his past companion, and then the slightly more colorful armor he’s outfitted in. Said armor is just about shredded to pieces across the man’s right shoulder and has done a piss-poor job at protecting the vulnerable skin underneath. Jaskier wastes no time cutting away what remains of the armor blocking him from accessing the wound underneath with the dagger he keeps hidden in his boot before reaching into his own pack for the bottle of fairly good vodka he’s purchased two towns back and the stash of potions he keeps in there.

He had learned how to make potions from watching Geralt throughout the years, perfected the craft over several winters spent in the stillrooms of whichever noble house had welcomed him for the season, and had started brewing and maintaining a stock of the most useful ones in case Geralt ever ran out and needed them. The potions, never Jaskier. That had been made quite clear.

He uses an old chemise of his that had quite unfortunately torn during a rather enthusiastic performance he had put on several months ago to wipe away the truly alarming amount of blood oozing from the Witcher’s back before examining the gashes. They were terribly deep, would have been deadly on a human, and surprisingly clean cuts- easy enough to stitch up once he managed to remove any dirt or other nastiness from the griffin’s talons and slow the bleeding.   

He gently lifts the Witcher’s eyelid, checking to see if his eyes have gone black from consuming too many potions and is relieved to see that they are white around the amber iris, and that he is free to tip Kiss into the Witcher’s mouth without worry of increasing his blood’s toxicity to a dangerous level. 

The potion works almost immediately, stemming the flow of blood from the Witcher’s body and allowing Jaskier to clean the wounds and prepare a sterile needle and thread without fear of the Witcher bleeding out while he works. 

It takes a long time to stitch the man back together, the cuts on his back are long- stretching from shoulder almost all the way down to the small of his back, and Jaskier takes care to make sure his stitches are small and neat, that the scar that will inevitably be left behind is as small and smooth as possible. He has done this many times for Geralt, and though he had not imagined he would ever be tending to an injured Witcher again, he is somewhat gratified that the skills he has learned will not go to waste, that he can at least do this right. 

He wipes the mended skin down with the last of his vodka to ensure that no pesky infection tries to worm its way into the Witcher, douses his hands with the water he has in his pack, then goes about setting up camp where they are. It’s not ideal, with the sky on the verge of dropping yet more rain on them, but Jaskier is not a strong enough man to carry a Witcher with both swords and his pack all the way to the village several hours up the road, and so they will have to make due here. As he goes about collecting wood for a fire he finds a horse some ways away from where the Witcher and griffin lay, a large, black stallion that by the contents of the saddlebags he carries must belong to the Witcher. This horse is immediately friendlier than Roach had been when Jaskier first met her, letting the bard lead him back to his master with nary a nip or kick to his person, which is almost startling. 

It’s hours later after Jaskier has successfully built a fire, set up camp, and even managed to catch a few small hares to roast that the Witcher finally rouses from his unconscious state with a low groan of pain. Knowing that his presence is immediately sensed, Jaskier forgoes any attempts at calmly alerting the man to the fact that he is there and sets about keeping the Witcher from undoing any of his hard work. 

“Lie still lest you rip your stitches, it took long enough the first time and I’m not eager to repeat the process if it can be prevented.” 

The Witcher turns his head slowly towards Jaskier, amber eyes guarded and assessing the brightly-clothed man in front of him. Jaskier huffs, rolling his eyes. He’s had enough scrutiny from Geralt to last a lifetime and isn’t looking for any more from this Witcher.

“You’re welcome, by the way. I know you Witchers tend to be lacking in both manners and words, so I shall assume your thanks and assure you that I expect nothing in return.” This gets him a raised brow from the Witcher, and what could be a small smile tugging at his lips, though the scars that span the side of his face make it difficult to tell.

“We’re not all taciturn, and I do thank you for your help…” here the Witcher pauses, clearly waiting for Jaskier to supply him with his name. Jaksier hesitates, he does not wish to earn the ire of another Witcher on the chance that this one has also taken issue with Jaskier’s songs the way that Geralt had, but he knows that Witchers can smell lies from miles away and so it will do him no good to give a fake name. 

“Jaskier,” he finally supplies after the Witcher’s other eyebrow has risen to match it’s brother.

There’s a flash of recognition in those bright eyes, but the Witcher does not give any further indication that he has heard of Jaskier, perhaps he can smell the nervousness that has risen in Jaskier’s chest. Instead he nods and offers his own name. 

“Eskel, of the School of the Wolf. I’d shake your hand but I get the feeling you’d chew my ear off if I tried to get up.” This is said with what is now definitely a small smile on Eskel’s lips and Jaskier nearly gapes at the slightly teasing tone he uses. A Witcher, teasing someone they just met. Suddenly Jaskier is uncertain which of them was injured and suffered blood loss because he feels that he surely must be hallucinating.    

As if trying to further confuse Jaskier’s sense of reality, Eskel continues to be verbose.

“Thank you again, truly. Most would not be as kind as you to stop and help an injured Witcher. Hell, most would probably take it as an opportunity to finish us off and claim they’d slain a Witcher.” 

Jaskier feels thoroughly off-kilter at the genuine gratitude and kindness he hears in Eskel’s voice.

“Yes, well, that is to say that I am not most people and I appreciate the work that you and your brothers do.” This earns him a knowing smile from Eskel, who, being from the Wolf School, must have heard at least something about Jaskier from Geralt. And yet he does not mention his brother, just requests water from his pack. 

Jaskier takes a moment to examine the stitches on Eskel’s back as the Witcher takes careful, slow sips from his waterskin. Truly, whatever mutagens Witchers were given work wonders as the skin on Eskel’s back has already begun to knit itself back together. It’s somewhat slower than when Geralt’s body heals itself, Jaskier notes, as Geralt would be almost completely healed after a full dose of Kiss and several hours rest. Eskel looks as though he will need at least another few hours, if not a full day to be fully healed. 

Jaskier helps him to sit up, and begins the process of roasting the hares over the fire both so that they may have something to eat and to keep his hands busy. Eskel continues to be surprisingly good company, regaling Jaskier with not only the story of his unfortunate encounter with the griffin, but with several highlights of his years on the Path. All in all, they spend a rather pleasant evening together and the weather grants mercy on them, deciding not to soak them after all. 

The next morning, while they are breaking camp and packing their bags, Eskel clears his throat to get Jaskier’s attention. 

“I, ah, ran into a mutual friend of ours some weeks back,” he says with a significant look at Jaskier, letting him know exactly who the Witcher was referring to, “thought it strange that he was traveling alone this time of year.” 

Jaskier looks away from Eskel’s burning gaze, overwhelmed for a moment by the emotions that thinking of Geralt dredge up. Eskel does not mean to be cruel, this Jaskier knows, but it is still a rather sore topic for him and he’d really rather not go into it if he can.

So he nods, meeting Eskel’s eyes again and gives the weak response, “We, uh, decided not to travel together anymore. Seems we had different understandings of what our companionship was.” 

Eskel, bless the man, does not prod further. He merely nods, claps a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder, and finishes packing, all while the words that had torn Jaskier asunder swirl in his mind. 

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

Chapter Text

The next time it happens, it's with Vesemir. 

It’s been a little over a year since he patched up Eskel and Jaskier has, by another unfortunate stroke of fate, ended up in the foothills of the Blue Mountains. He did not mean to stray so close to the home of the Wolf Witchers, but his wanderings had already been taking him north throughout the summer and the unrest in the south with rumors of Nilfgaardian invasion had made him wary of traveling that direction.

And so here he is. In Kaedwen, right as a rock troll goes berserk. 

It had been lurking in the woods that surrounded a sizable town on the banks of the Gwenllech for weeks, lashing out at unsuspecting travelers who were lucky to escape the encounter with the beast bruised and battered, some with broken bones. 

The unlucky ones didn’t make it out of the forest. 

Eventually there are too many unlucky ones, and the alderman finally decides to post a contract for the troll. Jaskier’s not entirely certain how word makes it way up the river and into the mountains to Kaer Morhen, all he knows is that it did, and that the Witcher who responds makes it there just in the knick of time if you ask him.

The knick of time of course being right as he’s about to be bludgeoned to death by the small boulders masquerading as the troll’s fists.

You see, Jaskier had ventured out into the woods with the intention of using his silver tongue to persuade the troll to leave. He knew from his time spent traveling with Geralt that not all monsters were truly monstrous- that some, like this rock troll, could be reasoned with. He had learned that lesson during their very first adventure together with the Slyvan and the Elves, and again during a particularly troublesome hunt some years later. 

A contract had been posted for a werewolf that had been feasting on the town’s livestock every full moon for several cycles, and the townspeople had grown agitated and wary, afraid of the day when the beast would find them more appetizing than sheep and goats. To Jaskier it had seemed very cut and dry- the werewolf posed a threat to the people and their livelihoods and so it should be dealt with. But Geralt had, metaphorically, smelled something rotten and had set about questioning damn near everyone in the town about any gossip or drama that he could- cheating spouses, tenants not paying their dues, payoffs of any sort, long lasting grudges. When questioned about it, Geralt had explained that there were two kinds of werewolves- those who were born with the condition and could control themselves and those who were cursed and would shift and become feral during the full moon, prisoners to their instincts, but who could also be cured. The evidence pointed to the later in this case, and so the goal wasn’t to kill a fearsome beast, but to help the poor soul who had been cursed and then to scare the daylights out of whomever had been so cruel to their fellow man.

As Geralt had predicted, the werewolf turned out to be a young man who was the bastard child of a seamstress and the husband of the town’s healer, who had not taken her husband’s dalliances lightly and saw it fit to punish the child and his mother. It had taken the Witcher several painstaking days to concoct the cure for the poor boy, and then a rather more enjoyable hour towering over the healer making vague threats before the matter was solved. The townsfolk, however, had not felt the same and had refused to pay saying that the terms of the contract had not been fulfilled and were on the verge of forming a mob when Geralt nodded his head and led Jaskier out of the town, eager to put distance between them before things came to blows. Jaskier had known that Geralt was a far kinder and gentler soul than he let on, but seeing the lengths that the Witcher would go to in order to save an innocent soul had made his heart squeeze in his chest and his affections grow deeper. 

Enough of that, back to what is promising to be a very painful death. 

Jaskier is well and truly fucked this time, ankle snared in the underbrush, troll looming overhead with fists raised and ready to turn him into bard jelly. Jaskier can’t even reach his lute case to try to shield himself from the blows and is both cursing and praying to every god when a blur moves between him and the troll.

For a moment, he can’t breathe, not because he’d winded himself in the fall, but because the figure that has slammed into the troll is carrying two distinct swords and has silver hair tied up in a familiar style. 

For a moment, he thinks Geralt has come to save him. 

But then the Witcher makes the sign for Quen, shielding himself and Jaskier from the onslaught of blows and Jaskier gets a better look at his saviour.

The wider build, the shorter stature, how he’s not dressed head to toe in black. Grey hair, not the silver-white locks he’s come to associate with safety. So no, not Geralt- not that it really matters in this moment, Jaskier’s just glad that any Witcher showed up at all.

The troll retreats a few meters after pounding unsuccessfully at the magical shield and begins to fling rocks and chunks of earth at them instead. Not that it works, the projectiles hit the shield and bounce off in random directions all while Jaskier and his saviour remain safe inside. This carries on for several minutes before the Witcher glances behind himself and addresses Jaskier. 

“Shield will break soon. Run when it does.” It’s said in a gruff voice and with a tone that demands obedience, no room for rebuttals. Jaskier, though not typically one for blindly following orders, nods his head with a quick “yes sir!” and finally manages to extract his foot from where it's been trapped and get his feet beneath him. 

A particularly large mass of earth crashes against the barrier, breaking it, and is sent back at the troll with even more force than it was thrown, pummelling its body and giving Jaskier and the Witcher both opportunity to move. The Witcher goes dashing towards the troll, silver blade drawn, side-stepping out of the way as more rocks are lobbed at him. Jaskier takes off in the opposite direction, trying his best to put some distance between himself and the fight that he cannot contribute to and finds a sturdy tree to hide in. He can’t recall if Geralt ever told him that this particular beast can climb, but given it’s stooped form and considerable weight he doesn’t think it’s likely. 

From his perch, Jaskier’s view of the fight is mostly blocked by leaves, and so he has to rely on the sounds alone to gauge its progress. There are grunts and snarls from both the troll and the Witcher, the odd twang of a silver sword connecting with the rocks that cover the troll’s back, crashes as more heaps of dirt and rock are thrown, a vociferous swear from the Witcher as one of the troll’s attacks presumably lands, a piercing squeal followed by silence. 

And then, “You still there lad?”

Jaskier clamores down from his hiding spot and trots back over to the Witcher, who has removed the creature’s head and is wiping his sword off on its soft underbelly. Who has a branch sticking through his gut and is looking particularly grumpy about it, though not panicking the way that Jaskier would be if he’d been speared through his midsection. In fact, the Witcher seems to be looking over Jaskier for injuries, which besides his ankle feeling rather sore and some small scrapes on his hands from when he caught himself during his fall there are none. 

“You alright there?” The Witcher asks, and though Jaskier appreciates his concern he is really rather more worried about the branch that is skewering the man in front of him . 

“Nevermind me! You’re the one who’s been turned into a Witcher kebab!” Jaskier squawks, gesturing to the wound. The Witcher looks rather surprised at this, as though he either hadn’t noticed the injury or didn’t expect Jaskier to care. Sheathing his sword, he merely gives a low hum and turns to go gather his horse from where it had run to during the fight.

A heavy sigh draws Jaskier’s eye from the body of the troll back to the Witcher, who is standing next to his horse, potions bag turned upside down, with a pile of broken glass and a small steaming puddle at his feet. A stray rock must have hit it sometime during the battle and shattered the bottles within. Jaskier had dropped his own bags when he fell, but a quick look tells him that everything is intact, including his own collection of potions and mending supplies. 

“Excuse me? Master Witcher? I don’t mean to be presumptuous, but might I offer you one of my own potions? I traveled with a Witcher for quite some time and haven’t been able to shake the habit of keeping a few with me at all times.” This earns him a sharp look from the Witcher, who seems to be reassessing him from his earlier scrutiny before giving him a slow nod.

“You may offer it, but I may decline to take it.” 

With that permission Jaskier fishes a bottle of Swallow from his bag and a bottle of the strongest alcohol he has and offers them to his saviour. The Witcher uncorks the potion, takes a careful sniff before nodding approvingly and downing the whole thing. Then, with another heavy sigh, he wraps a hand around the portion of the branch protruding from his front and yanks the whole thing out with a grunt and a sickening squelch. 

Which is apparently all he feels is necessary to do to tend to the wound before turning back to his horse and retacking his empty bag. 

“Oh no. No no no no no. I don’t think so! Even with a full dose of Swallow that will be bleeding for hours! And you need to clean it!” Jaskier sputters, utterly indignant that even this more seasoned Witcher takes such poor care of himself. Shouldn’t he be wizened? Have enough sense and wits about him to know that his body needs more care?

He only receives a raised brow and yet another assessing look from this outburst and Jaskier tilts his head to the heavens and prays to any god for strength. 

Witchers . Honestly. 

“At least let me close the wound, you did earn it from protecting me after all.” Jaskier offers before peering at the Witcher’s medallion. Another wolf. Given the wrinkled visage and air of authority, Jaskier is willing to bet that this is the mentor Eskel told him about, the oldest remaining Wolf Witcher and closest thing he and Geralt have to a father. Eskel had made out to be reasonable, at least when compared to Geralt, so it shouldn’t be impossible to convince him to let Jaskier treat him. 

“I’ve tended to Eskel and Geralt before, I’m rather skilled at putting Witchers back together.” Jaskier adds with what he hopes is a convincing smile. He is rather good at patching up Witchers, but he’s not quite sure how the old Wolf is going to take the news that his pupils have been letting a human help them at their most vulnerable.

 He’s fully expecting to be brushed off and is preparing another tirade when the Wolf huffs a breath of laughter and says, “Thought you might be that bard. Alright then lad, do what you will.” 

He lifts his arms in permission, allowing Jaskier to step into his space and get a better look at the hole in his middle. It’s rather gruesome, and Jaskier is once again astonished by Witcher pain tolerance. He would be on the ground gasping in pain, but the grizzled Witcher doesn’t even flinch as Jaskier begins cleaning the wound. 

Muscle memory and experience guide his hands, freeing Jaskier’s mind to other pursuits. Either Eskel or Geralt, possibly even both, has mentioned him to the other Witchers. He has a reputation, a seemingly favorable one at that, among the Witchers despite any and all shit-shoveling he may be responsible for. So that’s good, right? No need to worry about running into any Wolf Witchers and meeting the business end of their sword. Not that he was worried before, from what he has gleaned from Eskel and Geralt, Witchers are mostly bark and very little bite when it comes to actually hurting humans. Perhaps then this older Witcher may be open to sharing a few stories with him the way Eskel had, though he doesn’t seem to be quite as friendly. Still, a Witcher who has naturally gone grey must have been around for centuries at the very least and has likely seen more things than Jaskier can hope to imagine. What a fountain of inspiration he may be for a humble bard!

Jaskier gathers his courage, and with as casual a tone as he can manage asks, “Might you be Master Vesemir, sword tutor extraordinaire and Head of the School of the Wolf?” 

The Witcher, who had been keeping a careful eye on Jaskier’s hands as he worked, raises his gaze to meet the bard’s.

“Aye, that’s me. Though I don’t know if I can be called ‘ extraordinaire’ if I can’t beat the pups’ sloppy form out of them.” Jaskier is a little dumbfounded at this. Geralt is the best swordsman he’s ever seen, easily capable of beating anyone who would challenge him. To call him sloppy indicates that this Witcher is even better, which is truly astonishing to think about.

“Yes, well- I was wondering if you would mind terribly telling me about some of your hunts? I don’t mean to pry, but I’m certain you have the most astounding tales to tell and I’d rather not earn your ire chatting your ear off while I work.” This earns him a small, wry smile, and yes, Geralt has most definitely complained about him to his tutor; Eskel seemed to enjoy Jaskier’s ramblings if the smile on his face had been anything to go by. 

“Just one, bard. It better not end up a song.” Jaskier grins, and moves to begin stitching the front of Vesemir’s wound closed as Vesemir sighs before launching into a rather amusing tale from his early days on the Path.

When he’s done, Jaskier earns a pat on his shoulder for his efforts, and finds himself once again grinning at having earned some measure of approval from Vesemir. He’s not expecting anything else, perhaps a “farewell” as they part was, so he’s rather surprised when Vesemir speaks again.

“You have my thanks bard, for this and for aiding my sons. Kindness is not a gift often bestowed to Witchers while on the Path, I am gratified that they have been given yours so freely. Should you find yourself in peril again, know that you may call on the Witchers of Kaer Morhen.” 

With that, Vesemir retrieves the troll’s head to collect the bounty, mounts his horse, and gives Jaskier a final nod before setting off towards the town. 

Jaskier, mouth possibly hanging agape, watches until he can no longer see the Witcher. Who apparently very much approves of him and is even somewhat concerned about his safety. The thought loosens some of the old knots in his chest, and he turns down the road, humming the beginnings of a song about a fierce old wolf with a tender heart.

Chapter Text

Lambert finds him next. Jaskier has just finished a rather impressive performance in a rather unimpressive tavern in northern Temeria, and has found himself a rather cozy table tucked next to the hearth to settle at and eat his hard earned meal. He’s about to tuck into his food when the chair opposite his scrapes across the floor and he looks up to meet unfamiliar amber eyes. 

“Tell me bard, you the one who writes those godsawful songs about Witchers and got the great White Wolf’s knickers in a twist?” He asks with a quirk of a brow and a sly smirk that suggests he knows exactly who Jaskier is and is hoping to rile him up. 

A quick glance confirms that this is yet another wolf Witcher, and that somehow Eskel and Vesemir took all the brains and manners for themselves and left the other rather unpleasant qualities to the remaining Wolves. He’s bumped into Eskel another two times since his encounter with Vesemir and the rock troll, and each time has been a delight. Truly, if life had been kinder, Eskel would have made an excellent bard with the way he tells stories and can coax laughter out of Jaskier, one any court would have been lucky to have. But alas, life is cruel and not every Witcher can be as good company as Eskel or Vesemir. 

“Only if they have made your purse heavier and your days brighter.” Jaskier responds with as much cheer as he can muster. Sure, this Witcher is looking to piss him off, but from what Eskel has told him Lambert, and this must be Lambert, last of the Wolf School, is a fair bit like a porcupine- all prickly defensiveness hiding a soft underside. Jaskier is not looking to be a pincushion tonight, raised as his spirits may be from his performance, so he’ll bite back any quips that may temp his tongue and be as sickeningly sweet and polite as he can be. 

Lambert seems surprised to not have received some sort of snark or rebuttal if the slight slip of his smirk and the quick blinks he takes are any indication. And then, quick as it left, the cocky visage is back as the Witcher leans back in his chair and puts his feet up on the table right next to Jaskier’s food. 

“Can’t say I’ve enjoyed hearing that coin song in damn near every tavern I walk into, it’s a fuckin’ earworm if there ever was one. At least there haven’t been any new ones about Geralt in a few years, though I’m not sure the one about the old man can be considered an improvement.”

Jaskier does his best not to bristle at this, Unyielding Guardian is a good song, one he’s quite proud of, and it makes him happy to sing it unlike a fair few of his older songs regarding a different Witcher. He still sings them, because nothing brings in coin quite like the tales of the White Wolf, but there’s always an ache in his chest when he does, and he always feels a bit rubbed raw when he’s done. He’s only written one new song about his old travel companion since they parted ways and he’s kept it close to his chest, only singing when he’s certain he’s alone and the terrible raw feeling inside needs a way out lest it begin to fester and rot. 

“Perhaps then a song about you is in order?” 

“ Well , if you’re going to sing shitty songs about Geralt and Vesemir, the very least you could do is sing a shitty song about a Witcher who’s worth his salt.” Lambert says, smirk stretching into a feral grin.

A patron who has perhaps imbibed a bit too heavily of the tavern’s wares picks that moment to make his way across the room to their table and make his displeasure at a Witcher’s presence in his town known, nevermind the fact there’s a contract posted in the town square for a kikimore queen and her soldiers that have started nesting in the swamps nearby. 

Jaskier is doing his token best to calm the man down and dissuade him from further insulting Lambert when the fool decides to spit on the Witcher’s face and is promptly hauled up against the nearest wall by his collar. The tavern goes silent and Jaskier begins to worry because this is not good but Lambert merely shakes the man and snarls “You’d be wise to refrain from such behavior in the future if you’d like to keep your manhood intact, you louse,” before dropping him on the ground like a sack of bricks and storming out of the tavern, muttering curses and insults as he goes. 

It takes a while for the tense atmosphere to disperse, and Jaskier finds that his good mood has been thoroughly soured. Still, he has a hot meal to eat and very little idea on how to console this newest Witcher, he doubts that Lambert would welcome his efforts if he did try, so he settles back down at his table to eat and think and try to recover some of his previous cheer. 

He’s just finishing his meal when a conversation a few tables away catches his ear and makes his heart start to pound in his chest. 

“...bet we’d be able to take it down, once it’s gotten rid of the other monsters of course.”

Oh no. No no no. Witchers may have superhuman strength and reflexes, some magic, and the ability to drink vile concoctions that would kill a normal human to boot, but they’re not infallible. They can be killed, have been killed by humans before when enough of them get together and overwhelm the monster hunters. And it seems that these ungrateful cretins are looking to do the same to Lambert. 

As carefully and casually as he can, Jaskier listens to the rest of their conversation, trying to pick up on the details of their plan, and makes his way out of the tavern and into cool night air. 

He needs to warn Lambert. 

He has no idea where Lambert has skulked off to. 

Shit.

He has two options: spend hours searching every inn and the surrounding woods for the wayward Witcher without any guarantee of actually finding him, or he could wake up before the sun and make his way to the swamps where he knows for certain Lambert will be and risk death by kikimore. 

Only one option guarantees that Lambert will hear his warning, and so with a deep sigh and worry knotting in his chest Jaskier returns to his rented room, resolving to wake early and find Lambert in the morning. 

Jaskier had bemoaned his hatred of swamps countless times to Geralt during their travels. In his humble opinion, there’s not one redeeming quality about them: the soft, wet earth that slides under one’s boot and threatens to suck it in, the ever-present fog and damp air that smells like decay, the layer of scum that rests atop the water and obscures what lays hiding in its depths. Not to mention the sheer number of foul creatures that have decided that they make lovely homes. So stumbling his way through one in the early dawn light puts him in a rather nasty mood to start.

Then he’s nearly suffocated by the thick mud the moment he reaches the kimimore nest as Lambert is flung by one of the creatures into him and they are both sent sprawling and he is pushed into the earth by the Witcher’s considerable weight. Lambert recovers faster than Jaskier, is back on his feet and jumps back into battle before Jaskier is able to get his wits about him. 

By the time Jaskier manages to extricate himself from the mud, Lambert has killed all but the queen and finishes her off with an impressive and frightening combination of Aard and bombs that Jaskier has rarely seen Geralt use during hunts. 

The silence following the queen’s dying screech doesn’t last long, Lambert whirling around with a snarl on his face and eyes gone black from potions.

“Damn it bard! No wonder Geralt got rid of you if all you do is sing bad songs and nearly get yourself killed!” He spits at Jaskier, advancing on the man until they’re nearly chest to chest. “Do me the same favor and fucking get lost! ” 

“All I wanted was to warn you that there is an ambush potentially waiting for you back in town,” Jaskier says, swallowing around the lump forming in his throat, “I was trying to help.”

He knows that he was never more than a nuisance to Geralt, that what he had thought to have been his closest friendship was an entirely one-sided affair, but it still hurts to be reminded how little he meant to the Witcher. Of how useless he has always been. 

Whatever Lambert’s reply might have been is cut off when a crossbow bolt goes whizzing past their heads into the trees beyond them. Immediately, the Witcher whirls around, sword raised and eyes scouring the tree line for signs of their attacker. It’s terribly still for a moment, and then a barrage of bolts and arrows comes flying from the trees and Jaskier is once more pushed into the mud by Lambert’s dense body landing on top of him. The Witcher lets out a low growl and some quickly muttered curses before hauling Jaskier to his feet and pushing him in the direction opposite of their attackers. 

“Run!” He barks at Jaskier, giving him another shove to get him moving in the desired direction before stooping to grab Jaskier’s bag from where it is slowly being devoured by the mud and following after him. 

Jaskier’s not sure how long they’ve been running or where they are in relation to the town when they finally stumble into a cave hidden from view by low-hanging branches and vines. This, if the packs against the walls and the remnants of a fire near the mouth are anything to go by, is where Lambert has been staying. Jaskier never would have found him had he decided to go searching last night. He turns to the Witcher to crack some joke about wolves and caves and the words fall dead on his lips as he takes in the truly alarming amount of blood covering him.

There are several bolts sticking out of the Witcher’s chest and legs, one just above his elbow, and more lodged in his back that Jaskier somehow didn’t notice during their mad dash and finds as he frantically flutters about trying to figure out what the full extent of the damage is. If it weren’t such a dreadful situation he might make a quip about how the Witcher now truly resembles the porcupine he’s been compared to, as it is his focus is firmly on how best to go about removing all the projectiles without causing Lambert to bleed out. 

Seemingly having had enough of Jaskier’s fretting, Lambert brushes the bard away and heads towards his packs. Or, at least he tries to, but his legs tremble beneath him and Jaskier is just able to catch him under the arms before he crashes to the ground and sits him down as gently as he can. Lambert, the stubborn bastard, tries to brush him off but Jaskier is not having any of it. It’s likely the great buffoon caught at least a few of those bolts with his body so they wouldn’t pierce Jaskier’s, if the notable trend toward gallantry and self-sacrifice he’s seen in the other Wolf Witchers holds true for this one. 

“Oh no you don’t, let me help you infuriating lummox!” He admonishes when Lambert makes yet another feeble attempt towards his things, growling at Jaskier when the bard is easily able to shove him back down. That, paired the truly extraordinary amount of blood covering and flowing from the Witcher, causes the direness of the situation to fully settle in Jaskier’s mind and he quickly scrambles over to where Lambert dropped his bag, dumping its contents on the ground so he can get to his healing kit faster. 

When he looks back at Lambert, the Witcher’s eyes have slipped shut and he’s breathing too slowly and shallowly for even a Witcher. With some curses and prayers, Jaskier launches into the task of carefully removing all the bolts from Lambert’s body, pouring Kiss into every puncture and hoping that a more direct delivery of the potion will staunch the outpouring of blood faster than if he’d spilled it down Lambert’s throat. It seems that one of the archers had been quite lucky and managed to pierce one of the arteries in the Witcher’s leg, the bolt had been both the cause of most of the blood loss and had also acted as a sort of stopper, keeping him from bleeding out immediately. 

Jaskier wonders, not for the first time, if it would not be better to let some men fall prey to the monsters that Geralt and his family are hired to hunt. If it would rid the world of a greater evil. 

It’s nearly two days later when Lambert finally wakes up. Jaskier has been carefully pouring small doses of Kiss and Swallow and even a little White Raffard's Decoction just to be sure that the bleeding has stopped and Lambert is truly healing and not just in a coma. He’d also managed to pry Lambert from his armor so he might rest more comfortably and done his best to clean it and patch the holes in it. He’s been trying his best not to worry, reminding himself that much like Eskel and Vesemir, this Witcher will take longer to heal than Geralt. But it’s hard not to panic when Lambert hasn’t even twitched , the only movement the slow and steady rising and falling of his chest as he breathes. He only notices that the Witcher has woken because of how intently he’s been staring at him, sees that his breath comes a little faster, his eyes open the smallest bit before shutting again. 

“Guess I’m not dead. Or this is a really shitty afterlife.”

Despite the insult, Jaskier feels a smile stretching across his lips as relief finally allows him to relax and slump against the wall behind him.

“No, not dead. Though if you were then I would quite obviously be an angel sent to welcome you with song and cheer, it’s hurtful that you would think otherwise.” This earns him a snort as Lambert rolls onto his side before slowly sitting up. When he meets Jaskier’s gaze, he gives a small nod and Jaskier knows that’s as close to a ‘thank you’ he’s going to get from the man. 

“Well, if you don’t mind, I’m going to sleep for the next week. Wake me up if your life needs saving again.” Another snort and another nod as he settles down on his bedroll. Lambert takes up his sword and whetstone and Jaskier falls asleep to the familiar, rhythmic sound as Lambert sharpens his sword. 

The sun has set by the time he wakes, and Lambert has apparently gone hunting if the venison roasting over the fire is any indication. He shuffles closer, not quite a part of the waking world yet and watches the flames in silence. Across the fire, Lambert’s leg is bouncing and he can’t seem to decide if he wants to cross his arms or not. He glances at Jaskier, his to have his gaze dart away when Jaskier tries to meet it. Perhaps if he’s been more awake Jaskier would have tried to set Lambert at ease, or offer some sort of opening for him to express whatever is eating at his nerves, but as it is he can barely keep his eyes from drooping shut and is rather startled when Lambert lets out a loud huff and says, “You didn’t have to, you know, do that. I, uh, would have been fine. Without your warning.”

Jaskier blinks at him for a moment before he realizes what is happening. 

“True as that may be, I was still worried. I know you lot are hardy and damn near impossible for us mere humans to kill, but I wanted to make sure you were safe.” 

“I don’t need your protection. And now they’ll be after you too.”

“Not the first time a town has turned against me for caring about a Witcher, certainly won’t be the last.” Jaskier says with a shrug. Lambert doesn’t seem to know what to say in response, and so they go back to staring at the fire. 

The silence lasts as they eat, and though he is perfectly capable of sitting quietly for many more hours a question has been nagging at him for a while.

“You could have killed them. Those men.” He knows this to be true, it’s not the question he’s been wondering at but Lambert seems to understand his implication anyway. 

“Coulda, woulda, shoulda,” Lambert grumbles, “but Vesemir doesn’t want another Blaviken to deal with and I’d get an earful from him and Eskel about how they’re ‘disappointed, not angry’ or whatever, and Aiden would-”

“Aiden? I didn’t realize there was another Wolf roaming around.”

“Aiden’s a Cat, not a Wolf.” 

“I didn’t know the schools were friendly with each other.”

“They’re not. Not really. Witchers aren’t supposed to have friends.”

“And yet you do.” Lambert frowns, and Jaskier decides to move on to a different topic, eager to learn what he can about his new companion. 

They end up traveling together for a few weeks, both heading west for a while before heading their separate ways. It’s a fair bit like it was traveling with Geralt at the beginning, the hesitancy to talk, the confusion when faced with kindness, but Lambert is loud and brash where Geralt was quiet and thoughtful and after time seems more willing to accept Jaskier’s friendship than Geralt ever was. They part ways with laughter and playful insults, and Jaskier feels lighter than he has in weeks.

Chapter Text

Jaskier is not as much of an idiot as Geralt believed him to be. Sure, he could be rather foolish sometimes, but that did not make him a fool . 

This, however, may be the most idiotic thing he’s ever done. 

Bravest too, but idiotic nonetheless. 

You see, Jaskier has been slowly but surely making his way across the Continent toward Cintra in the year since the Dragon Hunt. Nilfgaard has steadily become more than just a threat looming on the horizon, and despite what faith Jaskier has held for Geralt’s noble heart to lead the Witcher in the right direction, the fear that his Child Surprise would be left to suffer at the hands of the White Flame had lodged so deeply in his chest that he had to do something . 

Well, something more than visit her every year for her name day and sing her songs and tell her tales and act as a confidant as he has for the past twelve years.

But, as it turns out, armies tend to move rather quickly when they’re looking to conquer a kingdom, and they do so without much forewarning. 

So Jaskier doesn’t manage to make it to Cintra before it falls or before the mages defend Sodden Hill. He does make it to the former lion’s den in time to see Nilfgaardian soldiers returning from Sodden dragging lines of captives in behind them with hands in shackles. 

Sees Yennefer among them, looking far, far worse than he’s ever seen her, than he ever could have imagined her looking. Something had to be wrong. Yennefer, with all her pomposity, would never allow herself to be shackled by or to anyone. It was why she and Geralt had blown up so spectacularly. 

He’d managed to sneak into the city by donning a rather cunning disguise as a rather ordinary man. There were droves of men entering the city from the homesteads that had been trampled under the foot of Nilfgaard and recruited into their ranks in varying degrees of willingness. It was easy enough to slip in among them and look exhausted from travel given that he was indeed exhausted from his travels.

A soldier was directing troops new and old alike on where to go, but in the mass of bodies Jaskier had no issue slipping into the group that was setting up their things across the square from the captives. 

The crack of a whip and the scream from the unfortunate man on the receiving end cuts through the air, leaving a moment of silence in its wake before the rabble returns. Despite the commotion going on around them, the captives have been surrounded by a semicircle of guards who are keeping a watchful eye on those who stray too close to their quarry. 

He’ll have to wait until nightfall, or for a break in the guards’ rotation to get to her… If she actually needs his help, and this isn’t some clever ruse that she’s concocted. Which is possible. 

No. Those cuffs. He’ll blend in to the crowd and bide his time. They had to slip up eventually.

Eventually turns out to be far longer than Jaskier had the patience to wait for. It’s been three days since he spotted Yennefer and the guard rotation has been both immaculate and utterly faultless, not one soldier has nodded off at their post, or gone to take a leak without first getting someone to cover their spot. Hells, Jaskier hasn’t even seen them so much as talk to each other while on duty. He’s going to need a distraction. 

He’s far more used to being the distraction than trying to set one up from afar. Whenever Geralt had needed something loud, flashy, and impossible to ignore Jaskier would step up to the task. He had gotten quite good at it before his presence was no longer wanted at Geralt’s side. Indeed, if it ever had been. The point is he knows exactly how loud, flashy, and impossible to ignore a distraction will need to be to even tempt the guards away from their prisoners long enough for a rather dexterous bard to pick the locks on a certain sorceress’ locks. From there he imagines Yennefer will rain hellfire down on the Nilfgaardian troops and they’ll be able to stroll quite peacefully from the newly liberated city.

It goes nothing like he imagined. His distraction- a large group of resentful farmers who had lost their lands during the first wave of the invasion and were quite eager to introduce their fists to the soldiers’ faces- get things off to a rousing start by rioting quite marvelously in exactly the wrong place . The guards aren’t lured away, in fact even more come pouring into the square when the commotion gets under way and Jaskier decides fuck it and goes running into the fray. The guards are largely occupied with suppressing the farmers and he manages to make it all the way to the captives before a hand catches the back of his jerkin and he’s slammed to the ground. Pain lances through his head and skull where they’ve connected with the cobblestones and Jaskier lets out a weak groan as he is hauled up and flipped onto his front. The guard who grabbed him and is roughly forcing his arms behind his back when there’s a jangling of chains, a shout, a thud and a grunt, and the man slumps to the side off of Jaskier. He turns to see Yennefer standing shakily above him, having apparently struck the guard over his head with her shackles. Jaskier scrambles to his feet and steadies the sorceress before pulling his tools from inside his jacket and setting to work on the locks. 

The metal, when he touches it, seems to make his hands sting and looks to have left welts where it has been rubbing against Yennefer’s skin. Her hands are covered in painful looking blisters and the skin is a bright, painful pink. For all that seems to be strange with the metal, the locks themselves are rather simple and it only takes a few short moments before they open with a click and a feral grin breaks out across Yennefer’s face. 

“I’ll take it from here, bardling.” It’s said with such malicious joy that Jaskier shudders, but steps to the side all the same as Yennefer lets loose a stream of flame so hot that Jaskier is fairly certain his eyebrows are singed, if not completely scorched from his face. He stares in a sort of terrified awe as soldiers are consumed in the blaze. A gentle hand on his elbow brings his attention back to the other hostages, and he sets to freeing them as well.

From there, it’s just a lot of chaos. 

There are bursts of several kinds of magic hurled at the Nilfgaardian soldiers, and Yennefer is continuing to turn those in her line of sight to ash. Between the rioting farmers and the newly freed mages, the guards are so thoroughly occupied that some of the other civilians feel comfortable enough to start looting the nearby shops. Jaskier manages to scrabble away from the worst of the havoc over to where some horses have been hitched and frees a pair, leading them closer to where he’d last seen Yennefer, and using all the best techniques he’s learned from having to soothe Roach on the rare occasion that she was left in his care. Or, he in hers as it was always stated. 

“Yennefer!” he calls into the madness, pulling the horses as close as he dares. Sure, things are working out in their favor at the moment, but he would really like to get as far away from Nilfgaard’s stronghold as soon as possible. 

He’s about to call out to the sorceress again when a split seems to form in the very air next to him, growing into a swirling gape that distorts the light that hits it. He takes a few steps back in fear of the desolation that this new magic might cause before there’s a sharp shove between his shoulder blades and he goes tripping forward.

“ Go! ” Yennefer hisses in his ear and shoves him again in the direction of the magical circle she’s summoned. 

There’s a terrible twisting feeling as he stumbles through, and he’s fairly certain that the bread he had for breakfast is going to make an unwelcome reappearance with the way his stomach is churning. He breathes deeply through his nose for a few minutes, eyes squeezed shut, until the feeling passes and he’s confident he won’t blow chunks all over his shoes.

“What the fuck was that? ”

He doesn’t recognize the clearing they have, apparently, portalled to. There are flowering trees all around that leave a sweet scent in the air, but are completely out of season for early autumn. A small burbling steam feeds into a pond full of clear, sparkling water. On the other side sits a small stone cottage with a cheerful red door. The tranquility here is a jarring contrast to the frenzied square they had been in moments ago, and it takes Jaskier a moment to realize that he is still holding onto the horses’ reins, that the horses were transported with him, and that Yennefer is slumped against one and starting to slide towards the ground. 

“Yennefer? Yennefer!” He rushes forward to catch the sorceress before she can collapse and feels his gut lurch when her head lolls to the side and he sees the blood streaming from her nose and ears, sees how pale she’s gone. A quick glance around reaffirms that the only structure to be seen is the cottage and his best bet of getting Yennefer the help that she needs will be inside. 

Carefully as he can he carries the limp woman inside, startling when the door swings open on its own. There’s no one to be found on the other side and Jaskier surmises that the cottage is either enchanted or haunted but finds that he doesn’t care which way it is so long as there are herbs inside he can use to stem the flow of blood. 

Inside is a rather small, if not exuberantly plush home. Most of the cottage seems to be taken up by the kitchen and living space, with only two doors leading off into other rooms. There’s a desk pushed into one corner that is nearly overflowing with sheets of parchment and bottles of things he can’t identify at first glance. An overstuffed chaise covered in seemingly endless pillows and throw blankets dominates the living space. There are shelves stuffed to the brim with books and trinkets that line the walls, and a large table bearing various trimmings sits in the kitchen. 

He hurries across to the couch, setting down the sorceress as gently as he can before rushing to examine every herb and bottle he can find. To his vast relief, there is a small amount of a human-safe healing potion, if the label is to be trusted, on the desk and he slowly pours the scant amount into her mouth, taking care that she doesn’t choke on it. The bleeding begins to slow before finally trickling to a stop and Jaskier feels like he can breathe again for the first time since they stepped through Yennefer’s portal. He wipes away the rest of the blood with one of the rags from the kitchen before turning his attention to her hands.

The welts around her wrists have shrunk, but the blisters on her hands have only gotten worse since the last time he saw them. Some have popped and are oozing a clear liquid while new ones seem to be forming before his eyes. It must have been the fire, he realizes, that caused them. Yennefer created magical flames so hot and strong that they burned her past the point that a potion could heal them. As for the welts, he’s not sure what was on those shackles that would have caused them but he’s willing to bet it was also magical in nature. 

There isn’t more healing potion to be found in the house, and he’s not even sure that it would work on Yennefer’s remaining wounds, so he sets about creating a salve for her hands and wrists, gently cleaning them with water from a well he finds behind the cottage before applying it and wrapping her hands in bandages. 

He’s done as much as he can for now, and the adrenaline that has been carrying him since the morning dawned is quickly dissipating, so he slumps down against the couch, grabbing a pillow from the plethora of cushions and a blanket from the end of the chaise and is asleep nearly before he’s finished swaddling himself.   

A tight grip on his shoulder yanks him from his dreams into a near state of panic before he realizes that the hand belongs to Yennefer and he is not about to be attacked. Or, he’s probably not going to be attacked. 

“Get up bard. I won’t have you lying about and getting in my way. Either make yourself useful in the kitchen or go be an obstacle somewhere else.” He thinks she means for it to sound more harsh than it comes out, and perhaps it lost it’s bite from the weariness he can still see in the lines of her face, but Jaskier has seen Yennefer nearly die from trying to force a djinn to inhabit her body and be perfectly snide afterwards. Perhaps it’s a bit cocky of him, but he thinks it’s because she’s trying to be nice. Well, nice for Yennefer. 

He gets up with a groan, rolling his neck and trying to stretch out the aches that have settled in from sleeping in an inadvisable position. He manages to crack what feels like very nearly every vertebrae in his back before shuffling into the kitchen. 

There are piles of root vegetables and herbs on the table next to a knife and a pot, and it seems that ‘making himself useful’ means to make them something to eat. Which, fine, he is rather hungry, but he’s also fairly certain that Yennefer could have magicked everything into pieces if she really wanted to. Then again she could also turn him into some unsightly creature, so he sets about his task with minimal grumbling. 

“So you do have some useful skills, here I thought you just strutted about and let Geralt do all the work.”

“I’ll have you know that I am excellent at trapping game and am perfectly capable of taking care of myself. In fact, I managed to fend for myself for three days in a swamp while tending to a wounded Witcher.” Yennefer raises a skeptical brow at this but seems to take him at his word. 

They fall into an uncomfortable silence. Jaskier would normally have no qualms about filling it with idle chatter but things between Yennefer and himself have always been tense and moments away from becoming hostile. Now that he’s in what appears to be her home it’s probably in his best interest that he hold his tongue. 

“What brought you to Cintra?” The question startles him a bit, having assumed that Yennefer would appreciate the quiet. 

“I was there to check on the Child Surprise, maybe try to get her out of the city before Nilfgaard breached the walls,” he swallows around the lump that lodges itself in his throat every time he thinks about sweet Cirilla and the terrible fate that may have befallen her. Gods, he hopes she made it out in time.

“Geralt has you running errands for him now?”

“Ah, no. That is to say that he didn’t ask. Doesn’t know.” Another skeptical look. 

“I’ve been visiting her. Every year since she was born. Had to make sure nothing happened to her while Geralt was,” he waves his hand, gesturing to indicate the Witcher’s entire being, “off being Geralt.” Yennefer lets out a soft snort at this. 

“Off being a stubborn fool you mean.”

“Yes, I suppose I do. I hope he was able to pull his head out of his arse before it all went to hell. I know he didn’t want her but she needs him. Especially now.”

It falls quiet again between them, but less tense. Yennefer seems to be as far away in her thoughts as Jaskier is- thinking about a young princess and a Witcher with the heart of a prince. 

Jaskier stays at Yennefer’s cottage for another week. Each day he looks over her hands and wrists, checking to see if the potions and salves are working, and by the third day the marks are all but gone. She looks as impeccable as ever by then too, but puts up with his fussing with surprisingly good grace. They’re not quite friends when he leaves, too much of their personalities clash for them not to get on each other’s nerves and though they, rather haltingly, managed to talk about the disaster of the Dragon Hunt, the bad blood between them from years of competing for Geralt’s attentions has yet to fully wash away. Yennefer, in a moment of uncharacteristic concern, did shove a small metal box into his hands with instructions to only use it if he were to find himself in peril once more.

One day , Jaskeir thinks sliding into the saddle of one of the horses, waving goodbye to Yennefer as he steers the gelding away from the cottage, one day we might be friends . 

Chapter Text

He doesn’t want to be here. In fact, this is the very last place on the Continent he wants to be. He would rather be back at the top of that accursed mountain than take a single step onto these lands. 

But. 

The Witcher slung over the back of Pegasus’ back is far more dead than he is alive and Jaskier needs to get him somewhere safe before he can pump the ailing man full of more potions and hope for the best. So he grits his teeth, squares his shoulders, and struts like he owns the place right up to the front gate of the Lettenhove estate. 

He might actually own the place now, come to think of it. His father had more salt than pepper in his hair the last time he saw him, all those years ago before he became a bard, it’s entirely possible that the old bastard finally bit it and the deed was passed on to Jaskier without his knowledge. 

Scratch that. It’s far more likely that he’s been disinherited and the estate has gone to one of his cousins instead. If that’s the case, he hopes it's one who found his antics as a child more amusing than irritating, and doesn’t share the rest of the Continent’s hatred of their protectors. 

The guards at the gate seem wary of his approach, which is fair considering the fact that Jaskier himself is covered in blood and there’s a mostly dead man on the back of his horse. He stops far enough away from them that hopefully they don’t feel as though he’s going to attack them, relatively unarmed as he is, and calls out a greeting that is largely ignored. 

“What business have ye here?”

He takes in a deep, slightly shaky breath, then projects across the small distance in a calm and clear voice, “I am Julian Alfred Pankratz, by birth I have a right to enter these lands as I please.” The name tastes sour on his tongue, he hasn’t used it much since he became Jaskier: Master of the Seven Liberal Arts. It never fit him well, even as a child it carried a weight he did not want to bear. He tosses the signet ring that, despite all things, he’s never been able to bring himself to get rid of, to one of the guards and waits for their evaluation. After a moment in which Jaskier can feel his stomach start to creep into his throat, the guard makes a gesture with one hand and calls out, “Welcome back Master Julian. Lettenhove is pleased to receive you.”

Jaskier very nearly sags with relief, only managing to hold on to his posture to maintain the charade that he is unfazed by his return. The gates open with nary a creak as he leads Pegasus and the not-quite-dead Witcher forward.

“Send for the steward, I shall need a bath sent to my chambers immediately, along with any old sheets from the napery.” The request is met with quick acquiescence, and a guard goes trotting off toward the manor ahead of him. As he passes through the gates, his ring is returned to him and seems heavier on his hand than it used to. When they reach the steps leading to the doors, Jaskier carefully pulls the Witcher down off of Pegasus. He’s a fair bit slighter than any of the other Witchers Jaskier has met, and between the blood loss and the adrenaline pumping through Jaskier’s veins, he’s easily able to carry him. He orders one of the remaining guards to remove the saddlebags and have them placed in his rooms before heading inside. 

There’s something almost suffocating about these halls, despite the large windows and high ceilings. Perhaps it comes from the many portraits of past Viscounts that line the halls, looking down on him with disapproval, the same way they did when he was a child. He tries not to dwell on the feeling or the memories of this place that threaten to break from the prison he’s locked them in at the back of his mind. He has a job to do and ruminating on past pain will not help him do it. 

The journey to his old chambers is longer than he remembers, though that may be due to the Witcher slung over his shoulder and bleeding down his back, ye gods, does how does the man still have blood left in him? When they finally make it to his old chambers, there are sheets covering the furniture, making the room look as though it is full of ghosts. In a way it is for all that he has been haunted by his past. He can only hope to keep this Witcher from joining the dreams that have died here. 

He can’t do much, not without more potions to staunch the bleeding and heal the Witcher from the inside out. Even once Jaskier manages to brew more potions the Witcher still may succumb to his injuries or to the toxicity of the very things meant to restore him. But doing nothing is not an option, so he cleans the wounds as best he can, packs injuries with herbs and slathers poultices on the less concerning wounds. There are too many lesions for Jaskier to take the time he wants to carefully stitch them shut and he resigns himself to sloppier stitches in favor of getting more shut.

Somehow, the man is still breathing when Jaskier ties off the last of his thread- tiny, shallow breaths that hardly move the Witcher’s chest, but it’s enough for Jaskier to keep going. He has the components for either one dose of White Raffard’s Decoction or White Honey in his bag, the question is, which does he brew? White Raffard’s will pull the poor sod further from dying of blood loss, but the toxicity is high and may well kill him. White Honey will negate any toxicity from the potions Jaskier has already given the Witcher, but will likewise negate their other effects. 

Does he poison the man? Or let him bleed out?

Jaskier looks the man over again. It’s hard to tell if his ashen pallor is from the potions or the bleeding. The spiderweb of black veins about his eyes is certainly from the doses of Kiss and Swallow that were tipped down his throat. The bandages are spotted with blood, but is it enough to risk more toxicity? Has the Witcher healed enough that he can risk removing the effects of the potions already coursing through his blood?

No. It has to be White Raffard’s. The Witcher was still losing too much blood with the other potions, getting rid of them now would do him no good. Jaskier set about his brewing, opening a window to let out some of the foul fumes and hoping that the Witcher has a high tolerance for potions. 

He’s in the town trying to find the necessary items he needs to make more White Raffard’s and White Honey, and to buy more clean sheets to replace the ones he ripped into bandages when he hears it. Something almost imperceptible to those who had not spent years studying languages, syntax, and pronunciation. 

An accent. 

A Nilfgaardian accent. 

And it’s paired with an inquiry about him .

As several Witchers would say, fuck .

He finishes his business as quickly and calmly as he can, trying to avoid drawing attention to himself. He’s dressed again in bright finery, having foolishly not expected Nilfgaard to have seen through his disguise and be looking for him this far north. As if plain clothes and a bit of soot on his face would make the White Wolf’s bard unrecognizable. 

So far as he can tell, he’s not followed back to the estate. But he was wrong about the lengths Nilfgaard would go to trying to find him, and every day he spends here is another opportunity for them to stumble upon him and the Witcher in his care. He needs to leave. 

It takes longer, far longer, than he would like to brew potions for the road, change the Witcher’s bandages, and get their things packed and loaded onto Pegasus. Jaskier does manage to convince the old stable hand who taught him how to ride as a child to let him take a cart, which gets padded with as many old sheets and blankets as he feels comfortable stealing before the Witcher is carefully loaded onto it. 

He would wait for the cover of night to leave, but the threat of being discovered at the manor is terrifying- Jaskier would never be able to drag the Witcher through the maze of hallways and out to the stables before someone caught them, even if he did use the secret passageways out of the house. So they leave in broad daylight, Jaskier hoping with each stamp of Pegasus’ hooves that he’s made the right decision, and heads north.

They manage to make it a few hours up the road without incident. Jaskier had pushed Pegasus as hard as he dared, holding the reins with a white-knuckled grip the whole time. The only reason he risked stopping is because the Witcher needs another dose of potions and he’s not so talented a rider to be able to administer them from the saddle. He’s tipping the last drop of White Raffards into the Witcher’s slack mouth when he notices that the birds have fallen silent in their trees and an uneasy silence has fallen. 

He’s spent enough time traveling with Geralt to know that nothing good ever comes when things go silent.

The potion bottle is empty, but he keeps holding it to the Witcher’s lips, moving his free hand toward one of his bags and the small metal box that it holds as casually as he can. Perhaps he can trick whoever is out there into thinking that he is unaware of their presence long enough to grab it. 

His hand is clammy when it finally touches the cold edge of the box and he takes a moment to dry it on the inside of the pocket before grabbing the box and bringing it to his lips. He flips open the thin lid, and, as loudly as he dares, he whispers to the box, “Yennefer, I need your help.”

The snap of a branch breaking has him whirling his head toward the sound. There’s a man standing in the road a stone’s throw away from where Jaskier is crouched over the Witcher. He looks harmless- no visible scars or weapons, a soft look of concern on his face. But Jaskier has seen what cruelty hides behind kind visages and is far too on edge to not be suspicious.

“Hello there! Is your companion hurt? I’m a healer traveling from a few towns over, I could take a look at him if you would like?” And there it is again, that soft, subtle shaping of words that marks the man as Nilfgaardian. 

He swallows hard, willing his face to relax so it won’t show the fear that has started to climb up his throat. He tries to remember what Geralt had taught him to do when cornered, but he can’t just throw his knife at the man and ride away- he doesn’t know how many others are lurking in the woods, what weapons they may have, if he’s been surrounded.

Well, he’s always been good at improvising.

“Why thank you, but it’s quite alright. I’ve already taken him to see a healer and-”

“Nonsense! It never hurts to get a second opinion. Here now, I’ll just check those bandages for you-”

The man steps forward, making a quick gesture with his hands that sends two thin blades slipping into his grip. Jaskier draws his own knife with his free hand, the other still clutching the little box. The undergrowth rustles as more Nilfgardiaans emerge from their hiding spots, each dressed in a full set of armor and weapons. 

“Please, Bard Jaskier, drop your weapon. It will be much less painful for you if you do.”

“Somehow I doubt that.” He wants to look at the box, to see if it’s changed in some way that might help him. He knew he should have asked Yennefer more about what it was or how it worked, but at the time he was too shocked that she had even given it to him to say more than a startled ‘thank you’.

From behind the cart he hears another soldier step closer and throws his knife into the bit of unprotected skin between his helmet and chest plate. The man makes a sickening gurgling sound as he collapses that Jaskier knows will haunt his dreams if he makes it out of this alive. He pulls his lute case from its place in the cart, spinning to slam the butt of it into the face of the next soldier that approaches him. 

He does quite a good job for a while, manages to break several noses and kick in some family jewels before the lute case is ripped from his hands and the instrument tumbles to the ground as the latches come undone. It makes a discordant twang as it hits the dirt and Jaskier doesn’t hesitate before grabbing it by the neck and swinging it at the unarmored man.

The neck snaps after it meets its mark twice. 

The third time the body begins to crack.

Each time the lute hits home a cacophony of sound spills forth that sounds as desperate as Jaskier feels. There are more soldiers than he can hope to fend off even if he managed to grab one of their weapons. They’ve been toying with him, he knows; only ever attacking one at a time when they could have easily overpowered him if they attacked all at one. He’s not sure why; perhaps they were curious to see what he was capable of, how a measly bard had managed to create such chaos in Cintra?

On his fourth swing, they stop playing with him. He’s tackled from behind as the body of his lute splinters further. His hands go out instinctually to stop his fall, but the weight of the other man on top of him forces his arms to collapse. He lands on what remains of Filavandrel’s gift, and feels it shatter beneath him. 

He’s dragged up to his knees, and though he struggles to break free the hands on his hair and wrist hold him with a bruising grip that he cannot shake. 

“You should have come quietly, bard. Perhaps then we would have spared your companion.” The man, the first to approach him, says, taking a moment to wipe away some of the blood steadily dripping from his nose. The sight would normally bring a sense of vicious glee, but the only thing Jaskier can feel in that moment is dread. 

“Please,” Jaskeir begs, knowing that it will be fruitless but needing to try nonetheless, “leave him be; he has nothing to do with this.” 

“True as that may be bard, I find I am not in a merciful mood. May this serve as a reminder in the future of the White Flame’s might.” The soldier makes a quick gesture to one of his men, who starts towards the cart and unsheaths a wicked looking dagger as he goes. Jaskier tries again to break free, but the hands holding him only tighten in response, pulling some hairs free from his head. 

His mind is a panicked swirl as he tries to think of a way out of this situation. Surely there must be something that he can do or say-

The air next to him splits and begins to swirl. A familiar, impractical shoe comes through and Jaskier feels like he can breathe again. He chokes out a laugh as he sees confusion and fear wash over the faces of his attackers. 

They are right to be afraid. 

Yennefer steps onto the forest road, hands blazing, and immediately lets loose a flurry of fireballs that have the soldiers scrambling for cover. 

“Through the portal. Now. ” She hisses, and even from this distance Jaskier can see the strain that using her chaos is taking on her body. He tries to go as fast as he can but Pegasus dragged the cart and it’s quarry down the road and he’s not leaving this Witcher behind. 

Blood is starting to trickle from Yennefer’s nose by the time he’s managed to convince his wayward horse to go near the sorceress again and the portal is looking like it might disappear at any moment. As he steps through, Jaskier doesn’t think about where the portal is going to take him, he just knows that it will be somewhere far away and safe. 

Chapter Text

Well, he was right about it being far away. 

When he steps through the portal, Jaskier can see mountains rising high above the treeline, so close that they threaten to block out the sky. It’s also much, much colder here than it had been near Lettenhove, he can see his breath despite true winter still being a number of weeks off. Yennefer comes stumbling through the portal half a step behind the cart looking pale enough that Jaskier is afraid she’s going to fall over on the spot. He guides her to sit on the back of the cart and gets a sharp look for his efforts, but Yennefer doesn’t actually protest his manhandling. She must be as worn out as she looks. 

“Right then,” He says, turning to look around again. As far as he can tell, no one managed to follow them through the portal or track them to their new location. In fact, it doesn’t seem like there is anyone around for miles- it’s generous to call the thin strip of dirt they’re on a path , nevermind a road. “Yennefer, where exactly did you-” when he turns back to the sorceress it’s to see that she’s succumbed to her exhaustion and is sleeping practically on top of the not-yet-dead Witcher. 

He lets out a sigh, a hand coming up to brush the hair back from his forehead as he thinks about what to do. The mountains look familiar, but he doesn’t know if Yen was trying to get them to some hidden mountain safehouse or to a small town nearby where they aren’t likely to be found by roving soldiers. 

The promise of isolation, of not being found and not having to worry about being ratted out wins him over, and he guides Pegasus further up the trail towards the mountains. He’ll find a good spot to camp for the night, tend to the sorceress and the Witcher, and try his best to find a bit of peace during this time of war. 

By the grace of the gods he manages to find what looks to be an ill-used camping spot several miles from where they portalled to. The ground is mostly clear of debris and there’s even a stand for cooking over a fire. Curiously, there’s also a pan that has been left behind but Jaskier is not about to look a gift horse in the mouth and merely sets it right-side-up in the stand as he goes about setting up for a more comfortable wait. 

So far as he can tell, Yennefer is unhurt and likely collapsed out of exhaustion, which is not a good thing but it’s certainly better than having two grievously injured traveling companions. The Witcher appears to be the same as he ever is— all but dead if it weren’t for the tiny rise and fall of his chest. His bandages will need changing, but not immediately, so Jaskier is free to slump down against a tree and let the terror from the day shake through him as it’s been want to do. At least , he thinks, trying to give himself some measure of reassurance, we’re so far from anything that no one will find us here . And it’s with that thought that he lets himself give in to his exhaustion and rest for a while. 

He should have known better, really. 

When he wakes, it’s to the cold touch of a blade against his neck. His arms have been bound around the tree, preventing him from being able to reach the dagger in his boot. 

“Forgive the restraints, but I couldn’t risk you haring off. Now, tell me, how is it you came to be in possession of a Witcher and a sorceress, both incapacitated? Far as I can tell, you’re human enough that it would be near impossible for you to overpower either.” 

Were it not for the sword at his neck, Jaskier might have cackled at the implication that somehow he had kidnapped Yennefer and the Witcher. As it was, the sharp edge was rather effective at killing his humor. He hoped he would not follow suit. 

“It’s a rather long story that really starts several decades ago, but the short of it is that I found him mostly dead outside of Novigrad and decided to help. I’ve got a soft spot for Witchers you see, mostly the lupine ones but I’m open to making new friends. And she, well, she portaled us out of a rather sticky situation to wherever it is that we are and promptly dropped off, leaving me alone to make sure they both don’t die.” 

The Witcher, for this man must be with those distinctive cat-like slits in his eyes, though they are not the same golden-yellow that Geralt and his kin possess, but rather a shade that dips into green, kneeling in front of him listens quietly and with good grace before nodding and sliding his sword back into its scabbard. Jaskier is worried for a moment that this Witcher has decided to just leave him tied to the tree, the fear compounding when he walks out of Jaskier’s line of vision. 

“Please,” he says, trying to twist around and see where the Witcher has gone, “I promise you I mean them no harm. I’ve tended to Eskel! And Lambert and Vesemir! They’d all vouch for me I’m sure of—“

The ropes that had been tethering him to the tree go slack and he nearly groans at the relief from the strain. 

“My apologies. If you are in need, I have a salve that will soothe any burns.” The Witcher, to his credit, does look a bit remorseful, his pockmarked face pulling into a contrite expression.

He checks his skin over for any spots that might have been rubbed raw and is pleasantly surprised to find that there are no new additions to the bruises that the soldiers had left behind. Still, this Witcher, whoever he is, did tie him to a tree. After all the shit he’s been through in recent weeks, it’s going to take a bit more than an offer of salve for Jaskier to trust him; soft spot for Witchers or not.

“No, but thank you.” Better to be polite, Jaskier figures. Not that many of the other Witchers he’s met have cared much for manners. 

The Witcher nods before speaking again, “I am Coën of the Griffins, it is an honor to meet you, Bard Jaskier.” 

Just like that, Jaskier can feel his hackles rising again. In the past, it would have been immensely flattering to be recognized on sight. Nowadays he likes to keep his anonymity when he can. It’s safer to not be the White Wolf’s bard; perhaps it always has been. 

Coën seems to pick up immediately on his unease, raising his hands and curling his shoulders in to look less threatening. He’s seen Eskel do the same thing when dealing with wary townsfolk and had thought it endearing at the time. Now, with this Witcher, it does little to calm his nerves. 

“Again I must apologize. It seems that I have made you nervous. I come by your name honestly, Master Bard. I too am a friend of the Wolves, and upon your disclosure of your association with them, I was able to make the connection between the bard from the tales that have been told to me and the bard I found with a near-dead Witcher in his cart.” 

Jaskier uncurls slightly from the defensive hunch he had unconsciously fallen into.

“Coën, you say? Of the Griffins? What business have you with the Wolves?” 

Coën’s bearded face quirks into a lop-sided smile. “Indeed you have met the Wolves, not the most friendly bunch are they? With reason I suppose, though Eskel has always been kind,” There’s a quick flash of something across his face, but it’s gone before Jaskier can decipher it, “My home, Kaer Seren, was destroyed many years ago and Master Vesemir was kind enough to issue me a stadning invitation to winter with them in Kaer Morhen should I find myself at loose ends. I do not make the journey every year, but often enough that I have heard tale of the Witcher’s Bard.”

As Coën speaks, Jaskier feels the tension in his body easing away. He could use an ally right now, one somewhat more capable than his currently unconscious companions and his own exhausted self.

“I can’t imagine Geralt had particularly much to say about me, Coën of the Griffins,” Jaskier quirks a smile at the memory of Geralt’s rather taciturn nature before his lips quirk down into a frown, “or that what he had to say was particularly flattering.”

“Please, just Coën, Bard Jaskier. And yes, Geralt is rarely one to speak at length but,” Coën pauses to smirk a little, something a bit more mischievous than how he’s presented himself thus far, “his brothers are quite willing to spice the wine so to speak in the name of loosening his tongue.”

Jaskier can’t help but smile at the image of Lambert and Eskel snickering as they spike Geralt’s drink with White Gull. Geralt, on the rare occasion that he got deep into his cups in front of Jaskier, was a rather verbose drunk. 

“Very well, Coën.  If you’re willing, I would greatly appreciate your help keeping that other Witcher alive.” He knows that there is a painful history between some of the schools, having been given instructions from both Geralt and Eskel to walk the other way should he encounter any Vipers while alone, though from the sounds of it things are amicable between the Wolves and Griffins. Lambert, oddly, did not seem to hold the same wariness of the other schools that his brothers did. “I have done my best but I am no healer and certainly not as good as another Witcher.”

“The other Witcher, Aiden, is something of a friend of a friend, I will assist you as best I can.” 

Oh. This is Lambert’s Aiden. It makes the stress of caring for the stranger that much more worth it, knowing he’s been helping someone important to the prickly Wolf. They work in relative silence, with Coën humming one of Jaskier’s longer and less fancied ballads under his breath. It’s flattering, really, and helps Jaskier to shake off the last bit of wariness from the day’s events. He joins in, and together they have new batches of potions bubbling away in half the time it would have taken Jaskier alone.

Coën, Jaskier is not afraid to admit, is better at tending to wounds than he is. Under his swift hands bandages are inspected and replaced in record time, salves applied, stitches checked, and herbs packed in under a quarter of a glass. Aiden doesn’t look better per se, but between the new round of potions and whatever is in the salve that Coën applied he’s looking a little less terrible. 

Yennefer, thankfully, looks to just be in need of rest, so they make her as comfortable as they can before turning their attentions toward making camp for the evening. 

“The Blue Mountains.” Coën says with no preamble. At Jaskier’s confused look, he clarifies, “that’s where we are. The Blue Mountains, just over a day’s journey to Kaer Morhen.” 

Jaskier can’t help but look around, as if he might catch a glimpse of the fabled home of the Wolf Witchers. He sees nothing but the towering shape of the next mountain peak and the evergreen trees around them. 

“Oh. I’m not sure why Yennefer decided to portal us here.” 

“I didn’t,” comes the soft rasp of Yennefer’s voice from where she’s been laid out next to the fire, “you were thinking so loudly of what made you safe that my focus slipped and the portal shifted to here instead. I was going to bring us to one of my houses.” Jaskier thinks that his face must rival the flames of the fire with how hotly it burns. Coën gives him an inquisitive look, but doesn’t say anything. 

Yennefer, blessedly, turns her attention away from Jaskier and his hopelessly pining heart and focuses instead on Coën. “You Griffins must be rare birds; I’ve yet to run into another before you.” 

Just like that, all the ease in Coën’s joints disappears, as if he were a puppet whose strings were pulled tight by his master. 

“Indeed we are Lady Yennefer. It is my understanding that I am the last of my kind,” he rises as he speaks, “if you’ll excuse me, I believe we are in need of food for the evening and I believe there is a grouse rustling about several furlongs away that will meet our needs.” 

Jaskier wants to say something, to apologize for Yennefer’s inquiry, to ease the pain and loneliness that Coën must feel, but the Witcher is gone before he can string two words together. The last of his kind , ye gods the thought of being so alone in the world is too much to even imagine. Even after everything, being tossed out of his family home like so much trash, told not to come back until he was ‘ready to give up his foolish fancies and distasteful ways’, even then Jaskier still had his cousins, still had the option of coming home. Coën doesn’t have that, will never have that, and Jaskier’s heart bleeds for him. 

He already has half a verse composed in his head before he consciously decides that he’s going to write a song for the Griffins. Next to him Yennefer is shaking her head in what could be amusement if she ever deigned to feel such a plebian emotion. He ignores her, digging through his pack for his songbook, certain that if he doesn’t get the words down on parchment that they will be lost forever. 

He loses himself in his writing, and is surprised when he looks up at Coën’s return to see that the sky has started to go dark. He’s even more surprised to see Coën pull small packets of dried herbs from his bag that the Witcher rubs onto the grouse before setting it to roast in the pan above the fire with some mushrooms and wild onions. It’s a good, simple meal, and after the day he’s had Jaskier doesn’t put up much of a fight when Coën declares that he’ll keep watch over them. He falls asleep nearly before he’s settled on his bedroll, and dreams of a hidden castle in the mountains. 

“We’re nearly there! Should be able to see the keep once we round the bend!” Coën calls from the front of their motley crew, voice nearly lost to the wind whipping past them. They’ve been traveling all day, sharing light conversation to pass the hours, but that stopped abruptly with a polite but firm request from the genteel Witcher for silence. Apparently, there may be a monster nearby, but Coën seemed confident that if they kept quiet enough they would not disturb it.

Jaskier feels conflicted. On one hand, they’ll be out of the biting winds, out of potential danger, and off their feet soon which will be an enormous relief; on the other, Kaer Morhen is Geralt’s home , and while Vesemir himself gave Jaskier a standing invitation to visit, the dragon hunt is not so far behind him that he no longer feels the venom that was in Geralt’s words, that he’s forgotten that Geralt wishes to never see him again. 

It’s a bit late to turn back now. 

Just as Coën said, Kaer Morhen creeps into view as they round a sharp turn on the narrow mountain pass. It looks like something out of a fairytale, and Jaskier is left gaping for a moment. The keep is carved directly into the side of the mountain, the line between the two indistinguishable at this distance. In the fading light it’s difficult to get a good look at the whole of Kaer Morhen, but the little that Jaskier can see is impressive. A thick fog has rolled in with the cool evening air, cloaking the keep and adding to its air of mystery. 

“Typical witchers,” Yennefer snorts from her place inside the cart, “finding the most remote and dramatic places to hide away from the world.” 

“Should only be another quarter hour or—” Coën starts, but is cut off by a terrible screeching sound. A dark shadow passes overhead, briefly blocking out the dimming light. 

“Get down low, now. If I say run, you run.” It’s jarring to hear Coën speak in such a clipped, curt manner, and that more than anything alerts Jaskier to how dangerous whatever the creature in the sky is. He helps Yennefer down from the saddle and crouches as best he can while still trying to lead the horse down the slim path. 

There’s another screech, this time much louder, and it nearly drowns out Coën’s shout to, “ Run! Get to Kaer Morhen! ” 

Jaskier knows better than to try to argue with that. He tugs at Pegasus’ reins, but the horse is rearing up and bucking in turns, trying to dislodge Jaskier’s grip and the cart fastened to his withers. Jaskier loses his footing, sharp rocks biting into his knees, but he manages to keep a hold of the lead and begins to usher the horse away from the impending danger. 

He risks a glance back at Coën, just in time to see the beast swoop from the sky. 

It’s massive, easily twice the size of a packhorse, with tremendous talons and ferocious fangs that look like they could tear an armored witcher into ribbons, never mind a bard in his third-best silks. 

Never in all of his years trailing after Geralt has Jaskier seen a monster quite like this. He thinks, distantly, that this must be one of the creatures that forbid Jaskier from watching him fight. He didn’t understand then why Geralt was so stubborn about it.

He understands now. 

Had he not seen Borch in all his draconic glory, he might have thought this was a dragon but this beast is something different, feral in a way that Borch was not and it terrifies Jaskier. 

The fear coursing through his body turns his limbs heavy and clumsy as he tries to stagger away, making the already arduous task of guiding Pegasus and the cart up the narrow path even more challenging. The monster seems to only have eyes for the horse, ignoring Coën’s jeers and taunts in favor of pursuing its prey. Were it not for the Witcher lying prone in the cart, Jaskier might have suggested they just let the beast have its dinner, though he would feel guilty about sacrificing Pegasus to save his own skin. But with Yennefer and Aiden in such close proximity they’d be taken along with the horse and Jaskier can’t let that happen. 

Jaskier hears Coën say some decidedly impolite words before casting Aard in an attempt to redirect attention to himself. Fortunately for them, it works. Unfortunately for Coën, it works, and the beast advances quickly, letting out another of those horrendous screeches before rearing its head back and spitting something that makes the ground smoke where it lands. Coën manages to dodge the spray, but the thin trail makes it difficult for the Witcher to dodge the spiked tail that follows. Coën takes the hit to his shoulder and Jaskier is certain that he hears the crack of bone snapping even from this distance. It doesn’t stop Coën, the Witcher merely changes his sword to his other hand before lunging at the beast again. 

With the monster thoroughly distracted Jaskier starts leading Pegasus away at a trot, running ahead of the horse as fast as he can while still being cautious of the sharp turns and steep drop offs. Guttural cries and piercing shrieks follow them as they flee, and Jaskier does his best to ignore the sick feeling in his gut from leaving Coën behind.

The Witcher is better off without Jaskier getting in the way anyhow. Just like Geralt always said. 

They don’t make it far before a shrill cry pierces the air. The monster, apparently incredibly displeased that its meal was getting away, with one of its wings bloodied and mangled, crashes into the cart. Aiden and Yennefer are sent flying, only managing not to plummet to their deaths by some quick magic on the sorceress’ part. The injury to its wing prevents the beast from landing properly and it struggles to get its legs back under it. Just as it’s about to regain its footing, Coën appears on its back, moving far too fast for Jaskier’s eyes to keep track. 

With a flash of his sword and a horrific gurgling scream, Coën slits the monster’s throat. There’s a horrible moment where the beast writhes and ichor sprays from its wound, managing to spray Jaskier and Pegasus where the bard has been trying to keep the spooked horse from running off, before it finally stills and slumps lifeless to the ground. 

There’s not even a moment to breathe a sigh of relief before Yennefer is calling out to them. Beside her, Aiden is bleeding anew, wounds having been reopened or worsened in the scuffle. Coën lifts the other Witcher without any preamble and sets off for the keep faster than Jaskier can hope to keep up with. 

He and Yennefer, with no small help from Yennefer’s magic, manage to soothe the frightened horse long enough to cut him loose from the cart and clamber onto his back. Jaskier promises to spoil the horse rotten for all the trouble he’s been put through before spurring Pegasus to chase after the Witchers.

Before they even make it to the gates Coën is bellowing for the other Witchers, a deep, loud sound that makes Jaskier’s teeth rattle and would be truly impressive from a bardic point of view if Jaskier was able to spare a thought for it. The portcullis raises with a groan but impressive speed and three Witchers come dashing out to meet them.

One look at Coën’s burden has Lambert slamming to a halt while Eskel and Vesemir rush past him to assist Coën. 

“ Aiden? ” It sounds like it’s been torn from Lambert’s chest, the name so ragged it almost hurts to hear. 

“We can figure out the how of him living later, pup. For now, we must see to it that he stays alive.” Vesemir’s words shake Lambert from whatever force was holding him in place and together they carry Aiden into the keep. 

Eskel checks over Coën long enough to ascertain that his injuries are not life threatening before turning to follow the other Wolves. 

 And then they’re alone in the courtyard. 

“I’m going to see if I can be of any assistance.” Yennefer announces as she slides from the saddle. She wobbles a little when her feet hit the ground, but her strides toward the keep are steady and even as she follows the trail of blood. 

Together Jaskier and Coën get the horse stabled and brushed. There were few bags attached to the saddle, most had been placed around Aiden to keep him from shifting too much in the cart, so it only takes them one trip to bring everything inside. 

The inside of the keep is less imposing than the outside, and the great hall that Coën leads him to is almost homey with the many rugs adorning the room and the fire burning cheerfully in the hearth. It’s only when Coën is setting the bags down, a wince passing over his face, that Jaskier remembers the injury to his arm. He takes the rest of the packs from the Witcher, ordering him to sit on one of the long benches nearby. Coën doesn’t argue, and deals with Jaskier’s fussing with far better grace than any of the Wolves. 

“Just once I’d like to meet a Witcher and not have to piece them back together.” It earns him a small laugh, slight enough that it doesn’t interfere with Jaskier’s attempts to set the fractured bone. Miraculously, the bone seems to have split cleanly and will heal well so long as Coën rests and keeps it bandaged tightly. 

“My apologies. Though I must admit I am thankful for your experience and expertise.” 

“Yes, well. One doesn’t travel with a Witcher for several decades without learning some useful skills.”

“It seems that you are a man of many skills, Bard Jaskier. I have heard your songs across the continent and they have made my purse heavier, for that alone I am in your debt. Now I am further indebted to you,” He gestures gently at his arm resting in a sling made from Jaskier’s ruined shirt, “Should you need anything within my power to give, I shall do so gladly.” 

With that, Coën excuses himself presumably to take some potions and rest. 

Jaskier is not left alone long, Eskel taking Coën’s place on the bench before it’s gone cold. 

“Aiden is going to be fine. You did a good job keeping him alive and getting him here.” Eskel rumbles at him softly, and oh , isn’t that a relief. He sags against the broad Witcher, the exhaustion of the last few days catching up with him.

“Coën will be fine too. Don’t let him fight anymore… not-dragons? I’m not sure what that thing was, but he shouldn’t fight one, or anything, until that arm heals.”

“Some sort of wyvern, by the sounds of it. Probably won’t see another one up this way till the spring, Coën’ll be healed by then.” 

“Speaking of spring,” Vesemir says, striding into the room, “It would be best if you stayed here, bard. There’s been too much chatter about you, enough that it’s reached my ears. Nilfgaard won’t be able to find you here, only those who know the path to Kaer Morhen can find it.” 

Jaskier wants to turn down the offer, he doesn’t want to impose or be a burden, shoveling shit into the lives of these Witchers they way he did to Geralt, but the look on Vesemir’s face leaves no room for arguments and he is terrified of what might happen if he were to fall into Nilfgaard’s clutches. 

He’s also terrified of what might happen if Geralt returns to Kaer Morhen, that his fragile heart will shatter once more upon seeing the White Wolf. But a broken and beating heart is better than a still one, so he nods his agreement and does his best to memorize the way Eskel takes him to his rooms. 

Chapter Text

He walks in a sort of trance, keeping his mind clear of anything but his next step, the sounds of wildlife around him, the angle of the sun as it descends. If he allows his mind to fill with thoughts the hurt will come rushing back and suffocate him. 

So he walks and he does not think. 

By the time he makes it to Roach the sky has grown dark and gray and the wind is howling through the trees. It is a relief that she is still there, though she oddly does not greet him in her typical manner. Usually, when he’s been gone on a hunt for several days, the mare will hook her massive head over his shoulder for just a moment before pretending that she does not care about his well being. This time, she greets him with a head to the chest and attempts to nip his fingers when he goes to slip the tack over her head. 

“Roach.” He chides, and she settles, though not before tossing her head and stamping her foot. 

“What’s happened, hmm? Are you upset with me, too?” The snort he gets in reply is not very informative, but a few scratches in between her ears seem to ease the greatest of her discontentment. It takes less time to situate his packs, he refuses to give thought as to why, and they are quickly on the Path once more. He does not turn them back towards the town. He does not think he could bear the sounds and stench of humans, not when he is being held together by nothing but the iron grasp he has on his composure.

The days pass in a muted blur. He keeps to game trails and the deep woods, only venturing into settlements when the need becomes great enough. He takes contracts and does not haggle the price, finding an odd sort of peace in the routine.

There’s a simplicity to killing monsters, is there not? The Queen of Cintra had once asked him. 

There is, and for a time he revels in it. 

Eat.

Sleep.

Hunt. 

Walk the Path. 

It is all that he was made for. 

Slowly, he finds he is capable of tolerating the noise and smells and stares that come with civilized life, of bartering over the price of goods and services, of being something more than the unfeeling monster hunter he has been pretending to be. 

In another town the nobility are putting on some sort of festival, he’s not entirely certain what for. The baron has clearly dressed up for the occasion. Or, overdressed as the case may be. The man is decked out in seemingly every piece of finery that he owns and the result is nothing less than an eyesore. He snorts, turning to catch Jaskier’s eye, certain that the bard already has choice words to say about—

Jaskier is not there. 

Jaskier has not been there for months. 

Suddenly the space next to him feels eerie, unsettling, in its emptiness. 

The humor of the moment is gone, lost, obliterated in the realization. Geralt tries not to panic, the bard has wandered apart from him before, sometimes for an entire season. It doesn’t mean anything now.

He checks and rechecks and upends his packs, scattering his possessions carelessly in his pursuit. There’s not a single trinket of Jaskier’s things mixed in. 

Fuck.

Fuck.  

The quiet of the Path is unnerving now that he has noticed the bard’s absence. He finds himself making quiet comments to Roach more often about everything and nothing just to fill the terrible silence. 

He stays in towns more, those that don’t run him out immediately. Lingers in the relative welcome of those that call him White Wolf rather than Butcher. It feels wrong, somehow, to be benefiting from Jaskier’s work without the bard around. It's even worse when, upon catching sight of him, whatever bard that has been busking changes their lineup to sing some of Jaskier’s songs about him. But he cannot drag himself away from these places that treat him with a semblance of kindness. 

Until, one day, the troubadour, playing a portative organ of all things, strikes up a tune that has Jaskier’s mark all over it, and sings about a wolf. 

A different wolf. 

Hmm.  

He shoves down the feeling that threatens to rise up and leads Roach away from the town square. Or he tries to, but the mare manages to pull away and trots over to the brightly dressed man. There’s a discordant sound as Roach bullies her way into the unsuspecting man’s space and nearly knocks the instrument from his hands as she noses at his pockets. The musician is startled by suddenly having a horse in his space and showing keen interest in his trousers, trying to shove her massive head away while also looking frantically about for her owner. 

Geralt is far too old to feel embarrassed, and certainly not about his wayward horse, but his shoulders itch to creep up closer to his ears. He carefully does not make eye contact with anyone as he collects Roach and drops a few coins into the performer’s upturned hat before hurrying out the gates. 

He stops dithering when he hears his newer moniker, chooses to leave Roach tied to a fence or tree if he hears so much as a chord of a familiar tune. It’s easier this way , he tells himself. Easier to navigate the streets without dragging Roach around with him, no need to worry if she’s going to lip at a vendor’s wares. Or if she’s going to harass unsuspecting troubadours. He leaves each place as soon as he has what he needs, staying for a night or two at the longest when the weather turns tempestuous because even though he could handle a night at nature’s mercy, he won’t subject Roach to it. 

Despite his transient ways, the rumors still reach his ears. 

Word spreads quickly through the Continent about Nilfgaard’s march north, how the army is headed straight for Cintra and is razing anything in its path. Geralt has seen war before, many times, but the thought of Cintra falling and his Child Surprise dying brutally turns his blood to ice in his veins. 

He is responsible for them, has been the moment that the claim left his lips. Their blood will be on his hands if he fails to act, to protect them as he should have been doing this entire time. 

He points Roach to the west, and stops running away from his destiny. 

His misadventure in Cintra is a veritable shitshow. From the moment he set foot in the city walls everything had gone wrong. The fake princess, being detained, the invasion. All of it. 

He escapes, but the carnage around him is astounding. There’s little chance his Child of Surprise was able to escape with her life. He has failed her.

The guilt eats at him for weeks, and he can’t stop replaying the events in his mind. If he’d been more cautious, more suspicious, if he’d shown up sooner, the princess might still be alive. His sleep suffers and he grows careless, sloppy, on contracts.

And now, with ghoul venom burning through his veins and blurring his vision, he is going to fail as a Witcher as well. Vesemir would be disappointed. 

At least he has Roach with him. He doesn’t deserve such a good horse, but he’s glad of her company here at the end. 

He won’t be dying alone. 

Or perhaps at all. The farmer has come back, hoisted his limp frame onto the back of a cart and is carrying him away to gods know where.

Yennefer

Renfri 

Visenna 

They flash before his eyes, speak to him, remind him of his failings, of all the reasons he is unworthy of being loved. 

His mind is thick with the fever and his thoughts are like smoke, impossible to hold on to. He wishes for the hallucinations to end. 

Wishes for them to show him kind blue eyes and gentle fingers. But darkness takes hold again and his wish is not granted. 

He lives, miraculously. Wakes with a pull in his chest that demands he go, but where or what to he is not certain until the farmer’s wife mentions a girl. 

The pull in his chest guides him into the woods, deeper and deeper until the house is no longer visible. There is nothing, no one around, and he feels foolish. His Child Surprise perished in Cintra, it would be imprudent to think otherwise. 

He turns to make his way back to the farm when he hears the distant crunching of leaves under foot. He looks back. 

And there she is. 

He loves her, immediately and irrefutably. She is his and he will not allow anything to harm her. He folds her into his arms where she is safe from all ails and silently vows to never run from her again.

Chapter Text

Traveling with Ciri, she insists on being called Ciri, is different from anything he’s experienced before. From the beginning she challenges him, asking questions that have him feeling wrong footed and unprepared. He can tell she’s disappointed in his answers, particularly those about Yennefer, but he has never been verbose and he does not wish to lie to her. 

They find out soon enough about the sorceress anyway. 

The battlefield at Sodden Hill is a gruesome sight. Everywhere there are corpses of soldiers and mages and common folk alike are littered across the ground. Smoke rises from deep scorch marks in the earth, mixing with the stench of blood and decay into a nauseating fetor. Atop Roach, Ciri looks even paler, face going ashen at the death and destruction around her. 

They learn that Yennefer was there, that she was the one to turn the tide and halt Nilfgaard’s march into the Northern Kingdoms. 

That she gave her life to give the Continent a fighting chance. 

The knowledge weighs heavy on Geralt. Perhaps if he’d been honest with her Yennefer might have asked for his help. He could have kept her safe. 

Perhaps not. Yennefer had always burned too bright, too hot for her own good.

There’s nothing to be done about it now, and so he points Roach north and tries not to let the guilt consume him. 

Ciri is a good traveling companion. As fine as any royal-turned-vagabond can be. There’s nothing that she isn’t eager to learn. Whatever princessly manners or reservations about getting her hands dirty she may have had have been left in the past. She gathers wood, forages for wild onions and mushrooms and berries with a discerning eye, cautious not to pick any of the poisonous ones. There are no complaints when Geralt shows her how to skin and gut a hare or clean a fish, just endless questions about what he’s doing and why and if she can try too. 

It reminds him of another companion he used to have. 

Their flight away from Cintra to the safety of Kaer Morhen could hardly be considered peaceful, not with the way they both jump at every snap of a twig or rustle of a bush, but other than a few swift retreats from towns where they find soldiers garbed in black armor, the journey is overall rather uneventful. 

Ciri is reluctant to talk about what she’s been through, though Geralt recognizes the haunted look in her eye when she is left alone with her thoughts for too long. He doesn’t pry, figuring that she’ll speak when she’s ready to speak. 

She screams instead. 

It’s a few weeks into their travels when it happens. They had taken rest for the evening in a dense copse of trees far from the road and prying eyes. Ciri had fallen into an uneasy sleep some hours ago, tossing and mumbling half words in her slumber. It’s quiet otherwise. 

And then the quiet shatters. 

He's on his feet, sword at the ready from the moment the sound leaves her lips, looking around for any danger though he can find none. The trees shake and sway from the force of the noise, threatening to flatten around them. The noise cuts off suddenly as Ciri begins to sob. Geralt dropped to his knees beside her, gathering her into his arms to comfort her. 

He holds her as she cries, keeping her tucked up under his chin as he gently rubs her back. The action comes naturally, instinctively, to him and it seems to help Ciri calm down enough to speak. 

“It was a nightmare.” She whispers into his shoulder, shame coloring her voice. That won’t do. 

“I get nightmares. Have for a long time.” Ciri lifts her head, a skeptical look on her face. He meets her gaze evenly. It is the truth and he wills her to see that he is not merely trying to pacify her. She searches his eyes for a moment before resting her head against him once more. 

She takes a deep breath, and begins. 

Ciri tells him about Cintra, about her escape from the citadel and near capture, about running and hiding and never trusting anyone except Dara, about the Dryads and wanting to forget but not being able to, about the man who wore the face of a friend but was not. 

“I won’t let anything happen to you.” He can’t fix the past, can’t take away that hurt, but he can promise this. 

Ciri falls asleep again close to dawn, her breaths slow and even, with no sign that the nightmares will return. 

They carry on. 

Geralt never goes far when hunting, reluctant to even let Ciri out of his sight. He thinks Ciri must hate it, the constant supervision. She wants to prove she doesn’t need coddling, that she can handle herself. 

He doesn’t know how to tell her that she doesn’t have to, not with him around.

“Geralt! I found something!”

At first the fragmented pieces of wood resemble nothing so much as a puzzle, his mind trying to create something whole from the shards. After a moment the curve of the wood and the sparse pegs still dangling from a delicately carved box coalesce into the familiar shape of a lute.

Jaskier’s lute. 

He can hardly breathe around the lump that has become lodged in this throat.

“Do you think it will burn well?”

The fragments of the lute still carry the smell of the oil Jaskier used to keep the instrument gleaming and safe from rain. It’s another punch to the gut. He hasn’t seen the bard in over a year, hasn’t heard a whisper of his ceaseless chattering, or smelled the particular combination of parchment and ink and tea leaves that was Jaskier. 

A smell that had never once gone sour with fear, because Jaskier was never afraid of Geralt. 

“We’re not burning it.” He chokes out, the faintest tremor running through his hands as he gathers the pieces. There is a terrible thought trying to surface in his mind, but he shoves it back down as viciously as he can. Just because they found Jaskier’s lute, broken and discarded, doesn’t mean anything. For all he knows the man could have decided to give up the life of a traveling bard and settle down somewhere. Or get a new lute. It doesn’t mean that the worst has happened.

 A glint catches his eye, just barely visible beneath the splintered fretboard. He pushes aside the wood to uncover the object underneath. 

Jaskier’s dagger. It had been a gift from Geralt, a way for the foolhardy bard to protect himself when the Witcher could not be there. The blade has dulled from both exposure to the elements and use. He searches for the sheath, thinking that perhaps Jaskier left it behind in a bout of carelessness and finds only a small, singed emblem of a blazing sun. 

Nilfgaard.

He stares unseeingly at the bit of metal in front of him as the terrible truth puts itself together. 

Jaskier is dead. Fallen prey to the hands of the White Flame.

Geralt has lost people before, so why, why now, after becoming accustomed to the impermanence of others do his hands shake, do his eyes sting, does his chest ache?

Because he never left , a small voice whispers, not until you made him . And now look at what happened.

This is your fault.

He forces himself to move, giving Ciri the dagger after wrapping it in a strip of old leather from his pack. It’s a better fit for her hands than any of Geralt’s blades, though it is still slightly too large for her smaller grasp, and Jaskier does not need it anymore. She doesn’t say anything, but ties the dagger to her belt with a concerned look in her eye before following him further down the road.

That night she sits close to him. Her curiosity, palpable in the air, goes unvoiced, and Geralt is grateful. He doesn’t think he would respond well if she asked about any of it, and Ciri does not deserve for him to lash out at her. 

The next morning he adds a new step to their routine. Ciri takes to the dagger lessons like a fish to water, throwing herself into learning forms and grips with unexpected enthusiasm. He might have found it amusing if he hadn’t failed to protect the last owner of that dagger. 

He vows to do better with her. 

He doesn’t think he’s ever felt such relief stumbling through the gates to Kaer Morhen, not even after his first year on the Path when he was reintroduced to a world that despised him only slightly less than the monsters that he killed and nearly killed him. They’re late this year, the trip made longer by their doubling back and leaving false trails to throw any Nilfgaardian soldiers off their scent. By the last leg on the Killer the snow had reached his hip, slowing their progress further as he had to wade ahead to create a path for Roach, Ciri sitting in a miserable bundle of cloaks on her back. 

He sends Ciri inside, dropping her at the heavy wooden door to the keep with a grunted order to go in. She doesn’t argue, too cold and tired to do anything other than obey. Roach too is eager to get out of the elements, having wandered over to the stables while Geralt carried Ciri. He’ll be lucky if she doesn’t nip at him tomorrow for what he put her through. 

The same could be said about Ciri. 

He’s greeted by the nickering of several horses as he leads Roach in. Scorpion and Vesemir’s horse are set up in their usual stalls, and there is a third horse that he does not recognize. He settles Roach in the empty stall left for her, across from Scorpion where the randy stallion can look but not touch his mare and next to the unfamiliar steed. Roach gives a warning nip to her new neighbor, but to the gelding’s credit he does not shy away from her acerbic greeting, swinging his head over the short wall separating them and attempting to get closer to give a proper welcome. Roach ignores him in favor of the bucket of oats Geralt has hooked in front of her.

“Lambert finally realize the benefits of a mount?” He wonders aloud, reaching out a hand to allow the dappled horse to smell. The gelding pushes his velvety nose into Geralt’s hands, clearly sniffing around for hidden treats and offended when he finds none. A few well placed rubs to the forehead settle the creature, who endeavors once more to gain Roach’s attention. 

“Hm. Never would have guessed Lambert would be the sort to spoil his mount.” 

“He’s not.” The storm outside is still raging, but evidently not fierce enough to prevent Eskel from coming out to meet him. “And you’re not the sort to bring young princesses home with you.” 

“It’s a long story.” 

“I’ll bet.” He goes willingly into the firm embrace from his brother, sparing a moment to be glad that Eskel has doffed his usual red gambeson with its many spikes; the garment making for some truly uncomfortable hugs if one is not careful about where their arms go. 

“Good to have you home, Wolf.” 

“Good to be home.” He turns to gather the last of his things from Roach’s saddle before aiming for the door. Witcher or not, it’s damnably cold and all he wants to do is collapse in front of a fire. 

“There’s, ah, something you should know.” 

“Eskel, I’m sure whatever it is can wait until I’ve had something to eat, at least.” 

“I don’t think it—”

He hears a shrill scream from inside, and in an instant he’s through the doors and sprinting through the keep. It was supposed to be safe here, Ciri was supposed to be safe—

And she is. There is no danger to her as she is twirled around in the arms of a man whom Geralt would trust his life with. A man he thought long since dead.

“Dandelion!” Ciri chirps from her close-held position. She looks, sounds, smells the happiest that she has ever been in Geralt’s presence. 

“Hello my darling dove, I’ve missed you terribly.” 

Geralt is frozen, feet stuck to the stones as he watches. Another ghost appears before him as Yennefer steps forward to introduce herself. Ciri’s eyes go wide as she shakes the sorceress’ hand, a look of awe spreading across her face.

It’s impossible, but somehow, miraculously, they’re both—

“Alive.” The word tumbles from his lips unbidden, barely a whisper, but with it everything around him comes to a sudden halt. 

“This is what I wanted to tell you about.” Eskel murmurs in his ear, hand coming up to rest on Geralt’s shoulder. 

He’s grateful for the support, feeling as though his knees might give out beneath him at any moment from the relief coursing through him. He thought he had failed them, that he had pushed them away and they had gone to their deaths not knowing how much he regretted his actions.  

He’s bombarded by Lambert, Coën, Vesemir come to say hello and welcome him home for the season.  

When he turns his attention back to the other side of the hall, it’s to see Jaskier slipping quietly out through the kitchen door. He considers going after the bard, but is accosted by Vesemir before he makes up his mind. 

It makes sense that Jaskier would not want to see him, not after how Geralt had treated him. And Geralt is in no condition to give the apology that his actions have warranted. 

It will have to wait. 

He and Ciri are situated at the table closest to the fire, steaming plates of roasted meat and vegetables shoved under their noses with firm orders to eat from the elder Witcher that harbor no arguing. 

Not that Geralt would, the climb and the many weeks of constant vigilance to ensure Ciri’s safety have drained him. The further he gets into his meal, the less he notices the goings-on around him, his body responding instinctively to the safety of the stone walls around him. He nearly startles when Yennefer rises from the table, announcing her intention to go to bed. He hadn’t realized she was still there. 

“Yen—”

“Sleep. We’ll talk in the morning.” He feels it again, that strange pull to follow after her despite her cool tone. It’s nothing like the pull he felt towards Ciri in the woods, something different about the way it insists, demands, he follow, rather than guide him. The sensation has him frowning even as he nods in agreement. 

Besides him, Ciri is nodding off, her head threatening to dip onto her plate even as she tries to stay awake. Sleep is a good idea. The other Witchers are bound to have many more questions than he wants to answer and attempting to do so while fatigued will likely end with yet another person being upset with him. 

Ciri rouses enough to trudge to her room, barely mumbling a “goodnight” before clambering under the blankets and furs. She is asleep as soon as her head hits the pillow. 

Geralt doesn’t fare much better on his ascent up the stairs, leaning heavily against the wall as he goes. The familiar sights and smells of his room ease even more of the tension from his body. He all but collapses on the mattress, lighting the hearth with a lazy Igni as he tugs a blanket over himself. 

The keep grows quiet as the other occupants submit to sleep’s call, and Geralt finds himself drifting off to the distant sound of a familiar heartbeat that has lulled him to sleep for years; better than any lullaby.