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Saovine, 1263, Oxenfurt
My Dearest Witcher,
I do apologize, but circumstances entirely out of my control forced me to leave the festival a little earlier than we had planned. I encountered an acquaintance who had the influence to make life very uncomfortable for me were I to remain. This is all your fault, for leaving me behind to go hunt whatever it is you’re hunting, and taking your very intimidating biceps with you. I’m not entirely sure where I’ll find good work next, but I’m definitely travelling south, so if you haven’t caught up with me on the road, look to Gors Vellen. Also, if you had the time or inclination, perhaps you could collect the rest of my belongings from the innkeeper? I regret that I fled through a window, and had time only to grab my Lute. Pretty please? I would forever be in your debt, and besides, you owe me for getting you lodgings here in the first place. I already miss you (and my teal doublet) dearly, so hurry up.
Your Bard,
Jaskier
P.S. I’m sorry, I don’t really blame you for leaving to hunt, I know your work helps people, I was just feeling maudlin
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Yule, 1263, Gors Vellen
Jaskier,
The innkeeper here said you were playing out of town this evening. He said he would give you this letter.
Be more clear about your location, I had to try 5 inns.
I caught wind of a haunting to the west of here and will leave immediately. I should see you in three days.
Geralt
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Yule, 1263, Gors Vellen
My dearest, dearest Witcher,
You should have told me in your letter you were leaving my clothes and things with the innkeeper, my sweet idiot! He would have kept and sold it all if I hadn’t smelled my lavender and calendula oil on him. Don’t snort at me, I know you are. My senses are highly honed, I will have you know! After a bit of shouting, everything was smoothed over, but I do expect you to make up for this lapse. Feel free to think creatively of ways you could make it up to me. How could you forget to tell me?? Anyway, it's good to have them back, and perfect timing besides. I have been hired by a traveling caravan leaving today to entertain their guests throughout the journey. It should be around a two week loop to the south border and then northward along the coast. We depart from Dorian, and although it pains me to be parted from you longer, I simply must go. The pay is simply fantastic, and I’ve been needing new boots since you dragged me through the swamp. I’ll save up for new boots for you as well. I don’t know what you’d do without me, honestly.
Your excited Bard,
Jaskier
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Saovine, 1263, Gors Vellen
Jaskier,
Stay put.
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Midinváerne, 1263, Dorian
My dearest Geralt,
You will never believe the good fortune that has fallen into my lap! One of the Caravan guests is an old acquaintance of mine from university, Draig Bon-Dhu. You met him briefly at Pavetta’s feast, though I doubt you remember it. Honestly, I would hardly blame you this time, things turning out as they did, although I do wish you would make more of an effort to remember my friends, as it would do you good to pay attention to people other than me for once. I do also worry when I am gone for so long that you will go and allow others to destroy your reputation again, and put all my hard work sharing your sweet nature to waste. Unfortunately, I must be parted from your warm embrace a little longer, for I have been offered an opportunity to play in the court of Cintra again that I simply must accept. Draig Bon-Dhu is in the employ of Lord Tuirseach, and the betrothal celebration for Princess Cirilla needs another bard. I know you won’t set foot in Cintra, so I’m not going to bother asking you to come with, but do stay in the area. (Please, please, pretty please) You know how I hate having to go hunting all over the country for you. I will be done shortly, and will head back immediately to La Valletta, or wherever it is you send word from. We need this money for the winter, you know we do, so I’m going to ignore all the protests I know you’d be making. I know this last winter you gave much of your food to me. And don’t give me some line about Witchers needing to eat less, I know that’s not long term. This winter I’ll be your doting patron! Do take good care of your handsome face for me, and worry not for your talented, witty, and dashing bard, for I will be back before you know it.
Your Bard,
Jaskier
P.S. You can reach me at Cintra through Dillingen’s messenger outpost
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Eve of Yule, 1263, Dillingen
Jaskier,
Please ensure you leave your missives with a trusted keeper in future.
Don’t just address them to “The Witcher”. It could cause confusion, and others could read them. Luckily for you it was just Lambert. This time.
For future letters, please keep it professional. Although I have been lenient with your flowery nature, base habits, and tendency to both exasperate and exaggerate, you have crossed the line. Certain others could get the wrong impression that we are friends.
Which we are not.
Perhaps it is better we spend some time apart.
Contact me only in greatest need. And keep it short.
The White Wolf of Rivia
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Imbaelk, 1263, Dillingen
Bard,
I have found myself in the area around Dillingen again, and might stay here for a while. Your last missive said you would be here two weeks ago, yet I have learnt you never passed through.
Let me know if you can no longer be reached through this correspondent.
The White Wolf of Rivia
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Imbaelk, 1263, Dillingen
Bard,
I have sent this to multiple locations, so don’t mind it if you get a repeat.
I have found myself in southern Temeria again, and would be amenable to an information exchange, as I assume you know the area well by now.
If you have moved on, please let me know.
Respond quickly.
You never know when I must change my plans.
Geralt The Witcher
P.S. I have been curious about the political climate across the border, so respond even if you are held up in Cintra, or elsewhere I am not welcome, I will come.
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Eve of Birke, 1263, Dillingen
Jaskier,
A bard of your description was noticed travelling to the north.
I will come to you, just as soon as you send word. I will go where you lead, as I currently have no other plans, and could use the work fending off all the trouble you attract.
Geralt
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Birke, 1263, Dillingen
Dear Jaskier,
Are you well? I heard a local bard of your description had been beaten to death in a back alley because some drunkards didn’t like his songs. I heard another has been travelling with a small child. I heard yet another was a spy for Nilfgard, or maybe kidnapped by them.
I would not mind if you sent word, even if it wasn’t urgent. Truly.
I do think of you as my friend, and I know you’ll eventually need me to bail you out of trouble anyway.
Geralt
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Birke, 1263, Dillingen
Jaskier
I’m sorry
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Belleteyn, 1263, Dillingen
Jaskier,
Please. It is I who needs you, rather than the other way round. It always was.
I grow more worried by the day. I miss you as well. I miss waking up to and Roach bickering, and I miss meeting all the wonderful people who are drawn to you, and I miss your stories by the fire, and I miss your voice.
I miss having someone, not just somewhere to return to after a hunt.
If you are able, please contact me. Even if it is to write me about your inane poetry.
Or even to tell me we will no longer be companions.
Your Witcher,
Geralt
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Geralt had been tracking this faint scent for miles. He half thought it was only his imagination leading him on a goose chase ever deeper into the Brokilon forest. He hadn’t seen or smelled a human settlement in nearly two days. But on he forged, legs marching mechanically, face tilted towards where every instinct told him his wayward bard lay. It had been a long four months of no word from Jaskier, over half a year. Over half a year, bored, angry, and most of all, heartsick. That was his fault, without a doubt. He only hoped nothing terrible had happened to Jaskier in the intervening time. That would also be his fault, but an unforgivable one this time.
Perhaps he was simply being punished. The bard was certainly petty enough, all things considered. If that was the case -- and he desperately hoped it was -- Geralt could say he had well and truly learnt his lesson. It had taught him more than he was willing to admit to anyone, himself chief amongst them.
In the distance Geralt heard a peal of laughter. A child’s. Unexpected. But he was too close now, and whatever family was hidden in the woods here was at least worth investigation. Perhaps they had seen his bard, had more substantial traces for him to follow.
He had no need to silence his footsteps, they were as quiet as the rest of him always was when on a hunt, yet Geralt found himself holding his breath as a wooden structure came into view. There was a dirt clearing around it, bare and practical. The sun was high, and not even the dense and towering trees could shadow the bright blonde of the little girl’s hair as she played in the yard.
Geralt’s heart pounded, throat tight, and he drew closer, and closer. This was inadvisable, but the familiar, comforting smell was still there, tied to the girl and all around the house. He crept ever nearer, gaze fixed in the distance, absentminded in his path, when he stepped wrong and sent a loud crack of a stick echoing through the clearing. The girl’s head shot up, spotting him immediately. She didn’t freeze, or scream, or even look particularly surprised. In fact, it was Geralt himself who froze, eyes locked with hers. She looked him up and down, discerning, unfrightened.
He was nearly certain that he had never seen such a girl before, but some odd familiarity in her looks and mannerisms kept him frozen, unmoving for a fraction of a second. Foolish. Amatuer. His uncharacteristic blunder had cost him, and he was far too far away to stop the girl as she turned her head and shouted,
“Bard! Your Witcher is here!”
Geralt felt that something had been off since he set off in this direction, away from Jaskier’s beloved towns and taverns, and the odd feeling only intensified at her words. Things weren’t making sense. Nothing about Jaskier’s long silence, this mixed scent in the middle of the woods, or this little girl made any sense at all. Was she a relative of Jaskier? The hair and sharp nose held no similarity, but he had seen stranger families. Of greater import, how did she know him on sight?
Geralt’s thoughts were silenced as a figure raced around the corner, clumsily catching himself on the side of the house. He straightened to gape openly at Geralt, showing all the shock the girl had not. His knees and hands were muddy, and he was dressed in unbecoming drab browns. It looked unnatural on him, not like the Jaskier Geralt knew, though he now questioned how far that knowing extended.
But he had answered one question, his most pressing one. Jaskier was alive, and had not shown himself in any town because he had been living here. He was safe.
“Geralt! What- How- How did you get here?” Jaskier’s voice came out high and strained, but he didn’t look too upset, merely surprised. He carried on speaking, apparently uninterested in waiting for Geralt’s reply. “Did you track us? Of course you did, I bet we left a bit of a trail, though we did try our best. Unless. Geralt!” Now his voice became chiding, face squinting up in mock disgust. Geralt used to find that tone rather annoying, but now could not help but notice a fluttering in his chest. He would battle twenty strigas to keep hearing Jaskier scold him. “Did you smell us? That’s disgusting, and you know it. Ciri, come away from the creepy Witcher. He has boundary issues.” At that, Geralt did manage to interrupt them.
“Boundaries? Me?” A derisive snort followed to complete the sentiment, though Geralt truthfully held only relief in his heart at Jaskier’s playful tone, already caught up in the bard’s rhythm. He stepped fully into the clearing, leaving the shadows that might have prompted Jaskier’s “creepy” comment, and allowing the hazy afternoon light to fall upon him. Under Jaskier’s gaze the rays felt almost unseasonably warm to Geralt, who felt the sudden urge to bask in their light.
With the movement, his gaze fell once more on the little girl who had not, in fact, budged an inch at Jaskier’s command, remaining firm between the two of them, little fists clenched tight. Her dress was a little cleaner, but a matching drab brown. The silence grew tense as they locked eyes, Geralt looking away from her first. This was another question he found he needed an answer to, and Geralt’s patience for any avoidance Jaskier might attempt had been wasted weeks ago. He had once thought they had no secrets between them, but they had much to discuss now that had clearly too long gone unsaid. He hoped a question would be enough to prompt Jaskier in the right direction, to stop his pussy footing around.
“Your daughter?” Not the most delicate way to start that conversation, he would admit. Words had never come as easily to him as they had to Jaskier, but even he could wish to have thought of something slightly better to say to break the sudden silence. He had no clue how to even begin asking why Jaskier had left him, had ignored him, had run away to a desolate clearing in the middle of nowhere with a child.
“Daughter? Sure. I suppose that would be the easiest way to put things, as I am her current guardian.” Jaskier gave an endearingly awkward laugh, ducking his head, and scrubbing a dirty hand through his hair. “But, actually, the truth is that she’s yours.”
Geralt stared at him blankly, waiting for whatever joke the bard was going to make. To his growing concern, Jaskier only looked to be waiting for Geralt’s reply, grin fading.
“You know, your Child Surprise? Actually, wait, let's do this right.” He turned, tugged the girl to his side and gave a little bow, Bard’s flourish and all. “I would like to present to you Crown Princess Cirilla of Cintra, and your lawful Child by Surprise. She is of course likewise pleased to meet you, Witcher Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf.” Here he gave Cirilla a stern look, his manner unashamedly parental. Geralt knew in that moment he would kill, or die, for either of them in a heartbeat, even if she weren’t his Child Surprise. Cirilla merely acquiesced with a bob in Geralt’s direction, though she didn’t look particularly impressed.
“Hm.” Geralt acknowledged her with a nod and a grunt, as was his standard. It disguised the dryness in his throat better than words would. This was… More complicated than he had anticipated. He thought he felt a headache beginning and his brows pinched together as he fixed the bard with a steady gaze, unflinching and ready to press for more information. Jaskier avoided his gaze in a practiced motion, instead turning around and tugging Cirilla along with him.
“Why don’t we continue this inside? It’s getting towards evening, and I’ve got to get dinner on the stove.” Without pausing for a reply he darted into the dark doorway.
Geralt had never been one to say no to a meal, and he hadn’t been specifically banned from joining them, so he followed. As he brushed passed the girl into the house, she caught his arm. It was surprise more than her strength that forced Geralt to stop and listen as she hissed up at him.
“I’m watching you, Witcher. Lay one wrong hand on poor Dandelion and I’ll knife you.”
Hmm. Maybe his child after all. Or at least, not too influenced by Jaskier just yet. His curiosity at how they came to be here, together, swelled higher, as he continued past her without further pause or acknowledgement. He had no intention of hurting Jaskier, so the threat did not need to be addressed. Her suspicion of him could wait until he knew where he and the bard stood.
When he entered the dim home, eyes adjusting without effort or delay, he saw immediately the lowly state of the house’s two rooms. Although Jaskier liked the finer things in life, and complained loudly of any and all minor discomforts, Geralt knew for a fact he was tougher than he pretended. Jaskier had been there willingly, after all, sleeping side by side with Geralt in bogs, rainstorms, winter snow, and even insect swarms.
Even so, Geralt was surprised at the state of things, of where Jaskier had chosen to settle, temporary or not. The floor was dirt, barely packed down, there were no windows even on the far side to let in light or a breeze, and the single large bed taking up one corner, the only piece of furniture, was pitifully covered in dank bundles of straw. Dilapidated could not begin to encompass it, and Geralt’s heart squeezed painfully in his chest as he made his way further in. How long had they been living here? That they were on the run or in danger went without saying, Cirilla being who she was, but to go to this extent? Things needed to be resolved sooner rather than later, no matter how intent Jaskier seemed to be on avoiding any real discussion.
Jaskier was crouched in the opposite corner near a cast iron stove with coals long gone dark, and a dented wooden wash bucket, scrubbing his hands. Geralt felt his throat closing up as he approached, nearer than they had stood in over half a year. Why were these things always so hard for him? Geralt could say more to him, ask anything, learn more. Just one word. That’s all he needed to get out.
Jaskier had surely heard his approach, yet remained intently busy with scrubbing every last speck of dirt from his long fingers, not turning a hair. His hands looked as though they had seen many a hard day's labour, but the familiar lute calluses were gone. Geralt swallowed once, then again, hoping that his feelings would be heard in his voice.
“Jaskier?”
Jaskier gave a little huff, but remained turned around, hands unceasing as he responded.
“I suppose I owe you an explanation. Of some sort. Most of this is on you, mind, and I’ll not have any of your grumbling at me. If you’d have been there, you’d have done the same, so you owe me, fair and square. Of course you weren’t there, because you never are, and now look where that got me. At least I’ve got Ciri, us abandoned have got to stick together you know.” He gave a slightly more bitter huff this time, not quite a laugh. “But I don’t suppose you care about my excuses, do you-”
Geralt didn’t know what to make of what the bard was saying, didn’t know what was happening, not really, but knew when Jaskier had begun to spiral. This time the words came easily, without thought.
“Jaskier- I am here now. I am here.” Geralt crouches alongside him on the dirt floor, and laid an awkward arm across his skinny shoulders. Feeling no tension, and sensing no discomfort in the bard, he leaned further down, so he could catch a glimpse of Jaskier’s profile. His eyes were wet and shining, which was neither surprising nor unsurprising. Geralt never could predict Jaskier, nor did he understand most of his reactions. Jaskier showed his emotions easily on his face, yet Geralt could still not decipher their meanings. He knew enough about himself, at least, to know that he had the strength to push forward just a little more, try to expose himself as openly. Taking a bracing breath, he hugged Jaskier a little closer to his side.
“I know that I haven’t always been there for you, even when I should have been. I regret that. I know that you often took on the burden of caring for me and cleaning up after my messes more than I did for you. I regret that also. Most of all, however, I regret if I- no, that I frequently let your friendship and support go unremarked upon. Or- or even mocked it. Jaskier, I’m sorry for not telling you this earlier, and I’m sorry for letting Lambert’s words and my fear guide me, and I’m sorry for not coming after you months ago.”
Throughout his speech Jaskier was unmoving. No tears had actually fallen down his face, threatening in the eyes that still remained fixed in the distance. Geralt considered forcing himself to say more, but Jaskier stirred in Geralt’s arms, beginning to shift away. It was not a decisive gesture, but Geralt was unhappy at the distance, even minor as it was.
“It certainly took you long enough to find us, master tracker. Honestly, I wonder about the songs told of you sometimes. They seem very exaggerated, unrealistic, even. Do you happen to know who may have written them?”
Jaskier’s levity was clearly forced, even to Geralt’s less than perceptive ears. He was trying to change the subject, to avoid the conversation and avoid addressing his own feelings. Geralt had seen him try it many times, and was used to letting it slide, to not pushing. Geralt refused to let Jaskier brush this off as well. He would make the first step towards fixing something that had been broken between them for months. Years.
“Stop. Jaskier, I’ve had enough of us not talking. I sent so many letters without any reply.” Geralt scrounged for the right words, something poetic or witty, but settled on the simple. “I will not leave you again, not ever, not for anything.” He said his final line firmly, clearly. “I love you.”
Jaskier did not seem surprised, only releasing a long breath. His shoulders sagged, in exhaustion or relief, and he swayed a bit forward. Geralt wondered if he should move closer to support him, but Jaskier closed the gap first. He turned into Geralt’s shoulder, resting his head fully, before giving a small sniff. If there were more tears, Geralt was in the wrong position to see them.
“Ciri, would you run go get us some fresh water? I think a moment of privacy would be appreciated.”
“Fine. I’ll be five minutes. Only.” While Jaskier’s voice had come out a little muffled by Geralt’s jerkin, Cirilla’s voice was crystal clear and felt only inches from Geralt’s ear. He didn’t startle overmuch, but knew Jaskier could tell he was unnerved when he began chuckling quietly.
“She really is yours. Silent as the night, and creepy as hell half the time. But just so incredibly cute the rest of it.” Jaskier’s voice was calm and fond, but remained muffled. Geralt was scared to move, heart pounding as the moment stretched on with no response from Jaskier. Brown hair tickled the side of his neck with each breath, that and the warmth along his side making Jaskier’s presence so impossible to ignore. His face felt flushed, but he didn’t allow hope to bloom within him quite yet.
He knew what lust looked like, he had seen and experienced it enough times to know. He was no stranger to the way others, Jaskier included, looked at him. Most mixed it with fear, or distrust, but the lust was there. Likewise he wasn’t truly a stranger to acts of selfless love, of loyalty, or to friendship that ran deeper than seemed possible. Jaskier was first among these examples, few and far between as they were. But right now? What relation those past feelings had to Jaskier’s current regard for him? Their time apart could have changed everything. Could have been because things between them had shifted. Geralt was lost on uneven footing, no idea where they currently stood.
Eventually, finally, Jaskier gave a low exhale and pulled back. His eyes were still a little red-rimmed, and the half attempt he gave to rub it away had no impact. Geralt waited for him to speak, to ramble or dismiss, but he only leaned forward, and without fanfare laid a soft kiss on Geralt's lips, warm and reassuring and full of sentiment. Jaskier’s hand crept around to the back of his neck and held him there -- not that Geralt would want to go anywhere else. The damp hand tangled in his hair as they kissed once, twice more, then drew back and crouched forehead to forehead, breathing in each other’s air. It was a reversal, for Geralt to do all the talking, and Jaskier to act without words, but Geralt found himself enjoying it.
They rose as one, then broke apart fully as Jaskier turned to attend to the fire, as it had only a small pile of unlit kindling. Geralt, feeling suffused with light and warmth and happiness and all the things he had half considered forgotten to him, thought the least he could do was go hunting for some firewood. He quickly moved to pursue this goal, but turned back around again immediately as he felt a swift swat to his bottom. He caught only the trailing edge of Jaskier’s wide, self-satisfied grin as he pretended to be hard at work poking at kindling. Geralt felt his mouth stretch into a matching smile, less wide, but no less joyous.
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Geralt had helped collect and chop firewood, returned to Ciri helping Jaskier finish the stew, and even set the table before he got another chance to think properly about the other pressing issue. That of his child surprise. Who Jaskier had seemingly spirited away without Cintra even noticing.
Geralt wasn’t a man that could ever be described as diplomatic. At their most generous people might describe him as “blunt”, and at their most honest as “frankly rude”, though far worse things had been said. But he wasn’t politically ignorant by any means -- merely inept -- and Geralt could certainly tell when a country was a political shitstorm in the brewing. Cintra, which he had paid especially close attention to in the last few months, was not that. Cintra was threatened by the North, yes, and other ambitious forces, but their strength had always lain in their internal stability and unshakeable faith in their fierce Queen. Geralt had never felt more confused about how this situation had come to be, as he spooned a painfully familiar, if plain, soup to his mouth and tried not to let his imagination run too wild. He trusted this Jaskier with his ragged clothes and stolen child and familiar soup just as much as he had trusted the Jaskier with his Lute and his fame and his finery. He would always wait patiently and give Jaskier the benefit of the doubt.
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“Planning on eating the spoon too, or would you like another serving?” teased Jaskier, watching with amusement as Geralt sheepishly lowered his bowl from its upturned position above his head.
They had sat down for a surprisingly civilized dinner considering all of the unresolved tension electrifying the air. Even Ciri seemed to have been coaxed into a semblance of reservation, eyeing Geralt with well-disguised suspicion. He assumed her grandmother had more than a little to do with that, but shied away from asking about it directly. Geralt was a practiced hunter and knew that the skill that often got one the furthest was not swordsmanship, but in fact patience.
The table had grown quiet since Jaskier’s jocular admonishment, but not awkwardly so. The atmosphere was warm in the dimly lit single room, and time flew by more easily than Geralt would have believed possible with all of the unasked and unanswered questions crowding the table around them.
Geralt went for a second, and then a third bowl of food. He knew they didn’t have much, but that was only temporary now that he had found them, whether they knew it yet or not. Regardless, Jaskier was as generous as he always was with friends, happily ladling the last of the vegetable stew into Geralt's bowl, and even attempting to cajole Ciri into taking the final half of his own -- complaining the whole while about growing children and witchers. Geralt felt as though his heart had never been so full as it was in that moment.
Ciri began gathering the dishes without being asked, and the easy affection between them was apparent in her ribbing about Jaskier’s cooking skills. Or maybe it really was that bad. Geralt was not known for the refinement of his tastes.
He thought not of his past nor of the nebulous future, gaze fixed upon Jaskier as he brought out his Lute and lovingly tuned what seemed perfectly in tune to his own ears.