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Chapter Text

The first time Julian met a Witcher he was five years old and hiding in one of his favorite alcoves outside Father’s study. He’d seen the strange man led in from the back servant’s entrance and had been enthralled at first sight. He’d always thought the Lettenhove village blacksmith was the biggest and scariest man he’d ever seen. Of course, Julian knew the blacksmith was also the nicest person too, as unlike many people in the Lettenhove household and town, he never got angry or annoyed with Julian when he asked important questions like: how did the forge work, how heavy was his hammer, and why didn’t it hurt the horses when the blacksmith put on new shoes?

Julian loved questions and loved answers even more. His curiosity and ability to soak up new knowledge about anything and everything that caught his attention was both a source of pride and annoyance for the Lettenhove family, although as Julian got older, he had noticed that Father was more apt to sternly order, “Enough Julian!” in a tone that Julian knew meant he’d asked to many questions.

And Julian was fair bursting with questions about the man that had been led into the house and shown to Father’s study. Had he ever been a blacksmith? Why did he carry two swords? Why did he wear leather armor instead of the chain and plate that some of Father’s men did? The most important questions though were: who was he and what was he going to do with Father?

Since Julian knew his father would be very annoyed if he interrupted the meeting – Julian had tried that before and he had earned a sound beating and had been confined to his rooms with naught but the servants to bring him food for three days. It was a lesson well learned and while Father did answer a lot of Julian’s questions, they were inevitability about the duties and responsibilities of being the Heir to the Lettenhove lands, which according to Father was very important.

So, seeing a leather armor-clad man with not one, but two swords being led to his father’s study, Julian decided that even though he wasn’t invited to the meeting, it was his responsibility as Heir to know what it was about.

Creeping down the stairs had been the easy part of his plan. Sliding into the alcove next to Father’s study was harder as Julian had to run the risk of Father or the stranger opening the door before he could get down the small hallway and into the hiding spot.

Luck, however, was on his side as he maneuvered into the shadows behind the bust of Grandfather Cyril Pankratz, a somewhat unfortunate commanding naval officer under the King, who the family story went, had met a beautiful woman on the coast, married her, and had a son. The son was Father, of course, but then Grandfather had returned to the coast and had fallen prey to a Siren and been pulled to the bottom of the sea when Father was only a small babe. Julian used to ask about who if Grandmother was, but after being sent to his room a few times, Julian had stopped asking those questions.

Leaning now against the inside wall of the little alcove, with his ear pressed firmly against the wall, Julian was able to clearly hear everything being said.

“—something in the woods on the east border of the Lettenhove lands is causing a great deal of havoc. Several tenants have reported livestock missing as well as several hunters that went out thinking it was wolves or possibility a bear. The villagers are becoming alarmed as rumors of a monster in the woods is starting to spread. As the Viscount, it is my responsibility to ensure that this creature is dealt with.”

Julian had heard the responsibility speech in various ways in his young life. It was one of Father’s favorites.

The stranger’s deep voice seemed to rumble through the wall. Julian decided he liked it. It reminded him of the blacksmith’s voice. Maybe the deep bass tones were part of being big and scary looking. “Pay the Contract and I will remove your monster. Multiple monsters will increase the price. What can you tell me about what I might be dealing with? Has anyone seen the creature? Has it left tracks? What kind of terrain? Any evidence left behind?

Julian stifled a gasp, practically vibrating in place. The man was some kind of monster hunter. That was why he was wearing armor and carrying two swords. Although Julian was unsure why he needed two. Father’s guards only needed one sword and sometimes an extra dagger. But Julian was glad. He’d heard the villagers talking when he went with his governess Letta on market day. They were all afraid of the monster lurking at the eastern edge of the woods. It was good that Father was taking care of the people by hiring this monster hunter. It made sense to five-year-old Julian now why the man was even bigger and scarier looking than the blacksmith. Monster hunters had to be scarier than the monsters after all.

On the other side of the wall, Father spoke, “We have no witnesses. None of the hunters returned. The livestock is going completely missing but it is easy enough to identify where they are being killed as the fields are bloody and the ground torn up by what looks to be claws. Most of the kills have occurred near the eastern edge of the forest.

“Sounds like a gryphon. Three hundred. Four if it is a mated pair.”

“Really, Witcher? That seems a bit extravagant.”

In his hiding place, Julian breathed out the word – “Witcher” – he had a name for the monster hunter now, but he also winced. Julian knew this about Father as well. Father hated to spend money. Julian didn’t understand it, but it was an often discussed theme when Father talked about Heir responsibilities – never pay hired help more than required lest the commoners get greedy.

He didn’t understand how he was to know what should be paid and how he was to know when someone was greedy. Surely, a monster hunter – a Witcher – would tell a fair price. He was risking his life to hunt the monster after all. A monster that had already killed several regular hunters.

“Three hundred. Four, if a mated pair,” the Witcher said again, voice gravely and even.

“Fine,” Father snapped annoyance evident. Julian winced. He was well acquainted with that tone in Father’s voice. The Witcher didn’t seem scared though. Nothing in the deep rumble of his voice changed.

“Depending on where it’s gone to ground, it may take two or three days. I will return with proof of the kill and for my payment.”

He heard the squeak of Father’s chair as Father stood. The meeting would be over as Father never stood unless it was to dismiss anyone in his office. Julian scrunched down into the shadows and risked peering around the column of Grandfather’s bust at the door to Father’s study hoping to see the Witcher pass by. His heart pounding, he waited and held his breath as the door opened. Up close, the Witcher was even bigger and scarier looking, long grey hair partially tied back, gleaming yellow eyes and a barrel chest that Julian was fairly sure was wider than the whole span of his arms. Hiding in the shadows, Julian sucked in a breath as those yellow gold eyes turned to stare at him. Julian’s own widened in surprise as he realized the Witcher’s pupils were slitted just like the barn cats.

The Witcher was old, he realized, even older than Father with wrinkles and scars crossing a weather-beaten face that Julian thought rather stern before the man winked at him and carried on down the hall as if he’d seen nothing.

The wait until the Witcher’s return was some of the longest days of Julian’s young life. He’d taken to alternating between haunting the upper story windows to look out across the Pankratz estate grounds and skulking around the back servant’s entrance in the hopes that he’d spot the Witcher’s return. He shouldn’t have been afraid though as the Witcher’s return caused such a great uproar in the household that most of the house had turned out and was standing around the back entrance as the Witcher returned with two great bloody decapitated heads tied to his horse’s saddle.

Julian stared around the jam of the door in horrified fascination while the staff bustled around more horrified than anything else. He had so many questions and no idea on how, or even if, he was allowed to ask them.

The Witcher was almost as bloody as his two gruesome trophies but looked as if he’d made an attempt at a quick clean up in a stream somewhere, although Julian could see still rusty looking blood spots trapped in his armor, in his hair and along the creases and callouses that lined his big hands.

What really concerned Julian though was the wound on the Witcher’s thigh that looked like a bite, a bite that matched the teeth of one of the severed heads. The Witcher seemed unconcerned and didn’t even limp and Julian’s admiration was steadily growing. Julian had fallen a few weeks ago and skinned up one of his knees and he’d limped for days as the scabs pulled as he walked.

“Witcher! What is the meaning of this?” Julian ducked around the door at the sound of Father’s raised voice. In his experience it never boded well for anyone. To his amazement, the Witcher stood steadfast against Father’s annoyance, impressing Julian even more.

“Proof of a mated pair of gryphons,” he rumbled, in that voice Julian felt in his chest. “Contract is for four hundred.”

He watched as Father narrowed his eyes. “Three twenty five. That small one looks like a juvenile.”

The Witcher’s lips peeled back from teeth in a silent snarl that had several of the gathered household servants stepping back. “Females are smaller, but fiercer in the fight. More agile. Harder to kill.”

The bite the Witcher had Julian realized was from the female.

Father sniffed disdainfully. “Still small. I’m sure it was hardly worth your time. But very well. We shall settle on three hundred and fifty.” Father flicked his fingers, signaling two of the household guards over.

From the Witcher’s narrowed eyes and deep throated rumble, he noticed the motion as well for the guards, but he made no move. “Three hundred and fifty,” he finally agreed.

Julian doesn’t understand at all. The Witcher defeated not one but TWO monsters. Why would he back down from Father and two guards? Hissing softly in confused outrage, Julian met the Witcher’s eyes around the door jam, seeing a calm resignation that broke something loose in Julian.

Father was wrong and Julian cringed just thinking it, feeling that any minute a hard hand would land the scruff of his neck for his impertinence. But Julian forced himself to think it again. It was wrong. It was about responsibility and trust and his word as the Viscount. He’d always said that as the Heir of the Lettenhove title, Julian had to be better, do better than commoners. But this was cheating. 

He couldn’t confront Father though. He would be beaten and banished to his room for sure. Wrapped in his own thoughts, Julian almost missed Father’s next words.

“I will bring you your coin, Witcher. Get rid of these disgusting heads and do not step one foot into my house.”

Julian’s eyes widen.

Coin.

Father was not giving the Witcher the appropriate coin. But nothing said that Julian couldn’t give him what was owed. Spinning away from the door, Julian raced through the kitchen and up the servant’s staircase as the fastest route up to his room. It had the added benefit of avoiding Father’s journey to his study and the cash box of coins that he knew was kept there.

Running into his room, Julian slid under his bed, small hand grasping for the boards under his mattress to where he’d stashed his small horde of coins. He didn’t have many as he often wasn’t gifted coins for his own use, but he’d had some that he’d been saving. Humming softly with excitement, his fingers finally closed around the leather pouch. Wiggling backwards from beneath the bed, he clutched the bag to his chest. Did he have enough time to count out the fifty owed to the Witcher? Julian was fairly sure there was fifty, maybe even sixty, coin in the small bag but . . . he glanced out the window. Not enough time, he decided. He’d give the Witcher all of it and if it was a little more than required, well the man had been bit after all. The extra could go for a healer.

But he couldn’t give the coins where Father could see. That would be no good. Father said he would pay at the servant’s entrance, so Julian had to pay somewhere else. Plan decided, Julian raced back down the hall and down the main stairs to the front door. The Witcher would leave through the main gate of the Lettenhove estate. Julian could catch him there before he left.

Holding his breath as he opened the front door, he made sure it didn’t slam behind him as Father said that slammed doors spoke of poor breeding.

Free of the house, Julian took off running again. Main gate in sight, he skidded off the main path and hid behind one of the tall stone columns that held the massive front gates. Sweat plastered his hair to his head and his lungs heaved as Julian waited, shifting impatiently from one foot to the other.

Leading his horse, the Witcher finally came into view just as Julian finally caught his breath. The two gryphon heads were no longer hanging from the horse’s saddle but nothing else seemed to have changed about the man.

As the man drew close, Julian stepped out from behind the column. The Witcher stopped and he and Julian stared at each other for a long moment. Heart pounding, Julian gave his best bow to the Witcher. “I’m Julian Alfred Pankratz, Heir of the Viscount de Lettenhove.” Straightening, he waited but after a long moment realized that the Witcher was not going to introduce himself.

With a small sigh of disappointment at not getting the other’s name, he held out the small coin purse. “I’m very sorry for Father, Master Witcher. I have the rest of the coin owed to you.”

One grey brow arched upwards in what Julian thought was surprise, but the Witcher made no move to take it, but instead began to look around in suspicion, his head cocked to the side as if listening for something while his hand flexed and curled at his side.

It took a moment to realize that the Witcher thought this was some trick and that maybe guards were hiding nearby. “It’s just me, Master Witcher. I promise.” Stepping forward, he held the purse out again. “Father didn’t give you what was promised. Father says it’s important that we always protect the Lettenhove land. That it is our duty. You killed the monsters.” Julian eyed the bite mark on the Witcher’s thigh. “You got hurt and bled for Lettenhove. It was wrong of Father not to give you what you earned.”

Taking another small step forward, Julian was almost close enough to touch, but knew that would be unwise. He also realized just how big of a man the Witcher really was. Julian was in absolutely and delighted awe. Another long moment passed as Julian kept his hand outstretch, bag sitting in his open palm. The whole thing reminded him of when Father’s chief Huntsman had first introduced Julian to the estate’s fierce stag hunting dogs. He’d had to hold very still and let the dogs come to him, hackles half raised and rumbles in their chests. It had been very hard to hold still but worth it in the end when the dogs had finally accepted him and let him run his hands over their rough coats. Just like the great hounds, the Witcher finally accepted him and leaned down to take the bag from Julian’s hand.

He couldn’t help it and beamed up at the man, grin so wide his cheeks hurt. “Thank you, Master Witcher,” he said with another perfectly formed small bow, just as he’d been drilled by Mother and Father.

With a sigh, the Witcher inclined his head at Julian. “Vesemir.”

Not able to contain his excitement, Julian bounced on his toes, but unlike Father, the Witcher didn’t reprimand him for his breach of dignity. “Thank you, Master Vesemir,” he said, before throwing a short, sloppy bow and turning to race off back towards the house. He hadn’t been gone long, but it wouldn’t do to be caught out of the house without permission.

Chapter Text

The second time Julian met a Witcher, he was ten years old and far away from the Lettenhove estate. He was visiting his cousins for the summer while his parents and younger sister were away at the Redanian Court.  He couldn’t say it was a great summer, but it wasn’t the worst summer either. He had enjoyed the relative freedom that he had gained with being away from Mother and Father.  His uncle, Count Lindenstein, was just as strict in his attitudes as Father, but Julian had noted that he indulged his heir and Julian’s oldest cousin in ways that Father never indulged Julian. A tiny bit of that indulgence had been extended to Julian and he basked in it. Of course, like any good noble son, Julian knew there was a price to pay for that indulgence.

Today, his cousin Piotr had summarily decided that they were going on an adventure to save a fair maiden from a dastardly dragon. Piotr, being four years older than Julian, did a lot of summarily ordering around, but Julian had determined that it was just easier to go along than to put up a fuss when Piotr decided on what they were going to do. So, Anna, Piotr youngest sister, was recruited to be their damsel in distress, and Piotr, Julian, Anna, three Lindenstein guards and Anna’s governess all rode out to one of the remotest parts of the Lindenstein estate with food for the day.

Piotr was tolerable, if not a bit of bully, but Julian figured that came with the territory of being both four years older and far more muscular than Julian’s slight frame. Which was why Anna was currently perched on the lowest branch of a great oak tree and Piotr and Julian were ‘sword’ fighting with two wooden practice blades.

Julian had been designated as the black knight in league with the dragon currently holding Anna hostage while Piotr was, of course, the hero of this drama. Julian didn’t care one way or another about being designated the villain but did wish that Piotr would stop taking the smiting of the evil doer so seriously.

It wasn’t that Julian didn’t know how to use a sword. At ten, Julian had been taking sword lessons for the past two years. He hated them. The sword felt loo long in his hand, the balance was wrong, and he was always forgetting his follow-through. He had wanted to learn knife fighting, something that utilized his quickness and agility because even the Pankratz Swordmaster acknowledged that Julian was never going to be overly muscled and would tend towards tall and lean. Father however, stated in no uncertain terms, that no Pankratz was going to learn knife fighting like a common tavern brawler and that had been the end of the discussion.

Now, as Julian took a solid thwack to the calf from Piotr’s wooden sword, he rather wished he’d been able to learn the knives. He wasn’t stupid. He knew that a knife against a sword was a losing battle, but from Julian’s point of view, a thrown knife could kill a swordsman and allow Julian time to run away to someplace safer. He didn’t consider himself a coward, just someone who knew what he was capable of. He was competent with the sword. The Pankratz Swordmaster was excellent and made sure Julian could utilize his weapon without stabbing himself in the foot. But Julian in all his ten years of wisdom and experience had decided that he would never be brilliant with the weapon and had no desire to put forth the effort to ever try. Now, if Father would let him practice more on his music lessons, oh, then Julian could and would strive for brilliance.

Unfortunately, that currently left him in a losing battle against a stronger, more trained opponent who was determined to beat him into the ground, kindred or not.  Julian had also not missed the smirks on two of the guard’s faces as their young master did his aforementioned smiting of pretend evil.  Bastards.

In the midst of getting the snot beat out of him was when Anna screamed, her pre-adolescent voice high pitched and terrified. Julian, Piotr and the guards all stopped, the governess rising up on her knees from where she’d been resting on a blanket with the food near the edge of the clearing. Anna, high in the tree, was pointing beyond the meadow clearing and continued to scream.

From the tree line came something out of one of Julian’s nightmares – it resembled a wolf, but a bigger, rangier and scarier, in the same way that stag-hunting hounds resembled the fluffy lap dogs that the nobility favored. This one though had a long gash along its side that dripping a thick viscous blood.

Anna screamed again as the wolf-thing bore down on the governess. It was on her in seconds and the poor woman didn’t even have a chance to get to her feet.  The thing didn’t stop but took several bounding leaps before launching upwards at one of the guards, taking both the guard and his horse down in a rolling ball of snapping teeth, blood and screams – both man and horse.

A second later, a rider clad in black thundered into the clearing. He was pitched low on his horse’s neck, one hand holding a gleaming sword parallel to the ground. Julian heard him yell, “Get them out of here.” The wolf creature was already up and charging towards the second guard only to be blocked by the man in black.

Julian heard someone shout, “Get the heir!” and saw the guard nearest to Piotr grab him up onto his saddle and turn his horse towards the Lindenstein estate. The last guard turned his horse toward Julian.

Anna

Anna was still in the tree. If those things could jump or climb . . . Julian pivoted on his heel and took off for the tree. He was only vaguely aware of the last guard swinging his own horse around and racing after the first, abandoning him in his race to get to Anna.

Thundering hoofbeats sounded behind him as he ran and suddenly the back of his clothing was yanked tight as he was flung through the air into the lower branch of the tree. He let out a pained grunt as he fought to hold onto the tree limb he’d been flung against.

“Higher!” the man yelled before pulling his second sword and slashing at the lower branch, breaking it off with a single swing.

Julian scrambled up on another limb. “Anna, go up higher.” Catching the next limb, he climbed upwards until he was sitting close to Anna and he could straddle a branch and look down. The Witcher, because it had to be a Witcher, had slid off his horse to take a position in front of the tree.

The wounded creature was pacing in front of him, but Julian’s eyes were drawn to the mangled remains of the governess and the guard, and the blood splashed ground. The monster hadn’t killed to eat but had killed to main and rend. Its snout was covered in blood and gore up to its ears. Snarling its displeasure, it advanced on the Witcher. The man stood at the ready, sword in hand in a relaxed ready stance that Julian could only ever dream of imitating.

From his vantage point high in the tree, Julian caught movement at the edge of the meadow clearing. Horrified, he counted four more of the creatures move out from the tree line. “Witcher!” Julian called. “Four more coming.”

Something sounding very much like a growl drifted upwards to where Julian was perched. The Witcher darted froward, catching the attention of the wounded one, blade flashing in a deadly arc, as the he sidestepped and pivoted on his heel before bringing the blade down in an arc that severed the head of the thing.

Anna whimpered on the branch above him. “Don’t look, Anna dear. Just keep your eyes on the tree trunk. It will be okay, I promise.  I’ll get you home.”

At least, Julian hoped he would because the four other creatures were now on the Witcher, the air filled with shrieks and growls as they circled the man like a true wolf pack. One darted forward to draw his attention while the others tried darting in from the back and sides.

Even telling Anna to look away, he couldn’t. The Witcher was a quicksilver dance of deadly grace as he spun and parried snapping jaws and kept the wolf-things back. Compared to this man, Julian’s Swordmaster was just a man waving a blade around. This was the brilliance Julian knew he would never achieve.

Another of the things darted forward. Julian’s warning shout cut off, as the Witcher raised his free hand. From his hand flame ignited, engulfing the creature. The other three backed off, retreating out of the range of fire and sword. All three of the creatures were wounded now to some extent. To Julian’s dismay, the Witcher was also steaked with blood, but he couldn’t tell if it was the Witcher’s or the creatures.

Two rushed forward this time, the Witcher darting towards them to slip between the rushing pair. His sword flashed out again, taking off the front leg of the closest one before he spun and stabbed the second through the neck. With one down and the other hobbled, the Witcher retreated back a few feet, drawing in great breaths of air as he waited the next attack. It came quickly, the uninjured creature taking the lead with a leaping snarl that knocked the Witcher to his knees, only for the man to roll with the attack and stab upward into the unprotected underbelly of the beast with a knife that suddenly appeared in his hand. Coming out of the roll to come up on one knee, the knife was thrown – hard – embedding itself in the eye of the last creature, who went down without a sound.

The Witcher stayed kneeling long enough for Julian to wonder how injured the man was before he surged to his feet in a more graceful fashion than any man had a right to who had just fought four monsters.

Julian found he was breathing almost as hard as the Witcher below him just from the adrenaline of watching the fight.  He was fairly sure they could get down out of the tree now. “Anna, come on, we can get down now,” Julian called up to his cousin. 

Wide, frightened brown eyes stared tearfully at Julian. “No.”

“Come on, Anna. The monsters are dead. That man down there is a Witcher. He saved us. It’s okay.”

Anna shook her head and Julian glanced downward to the Witcher standing below their tree.  He decided to change tactics. “Anna, you want to go home, don’t you?”

She gave him a small nod.

“Good, you see that man down there. He’s going to take us home. But first we have to get down, okay?”

She eyed the long climb down and shook her head again.

“I’ll help you.” He held his hand up to her. “I’ll be with you the whole way and I’ll make sure you get home.”

“Promise?” The word came out in a plaintive whisper that hurt Julian’s heart.

“Promise.”

Grasping her leg, he guided her foot down to a sturdy branch. Slowly, branch by branch, they headed down. Halfway down, the Witcher let out a loud whistle that startled Anna into freezing in her downward journey. Hoofbeats sounding from the distance, assuring Julian he was only recalling his horse, so he urged Anna to continue the climb downward.

Below them, the Witcher swung up onto his horse and positioned the animal under of the branches. “Lower her down to me, boy.”

A bolt of excitement went through Julian. He knew that deep rumbling voice. It was his Witcher – Vesemir.

Anna’s eyes however went wide with fear at Vesemir’s words, and she frantically shook her head no, eyes welling with tears.

“I promised, remember. It will be okay.” Julian took hold of both of Anna’s hands and bracing a foot against another branch, swung Anna down into the Witcher’s arms.

“Now you, boy.”

Julian was fairly sure he could jump the remaining distance, but Vesemir’s tone was not one Julian particularly felt like challenging, especially since Vesemir was bloody, possibly wounded and probably still on edge after fighting whatever those things were.  Stepping down from the branch onto the saddle, he let Vesemir wrap strong gloved hands around his waist and lower him to the saddle and then to the ground.

Anna promptly threw herself at him and buried her face into his chest, her shoulders shaking with quiet sobs.

Julian addressed the Witcher over the girl’s shaking shoulders. “Thank you Master Vesemir for saving us from those . . . those- “

“Wargs.  Mage bred wolves. Bigger, meaner, smarter.”  The Witcher’s head cocked to the side.  “Do I know you, boy?”

Still rubbing Anna’s back in a hopefully comforting manner, Julian gave the other man a rueful grin. “My apologies, Master Witcher. I should not have been so familiar as you have no reason to remember me. I’m Julian Pankratz. You hunted a pair of mated gryphons for Father, the Viscount de Lettenhove.” Julian hesitated then added, “He didn’t honor the Contract.”

Recognition lit the Witcher’s eyes. “But you did.”

He nodded, then decided to switch attention from himself. Patting Anna on the back he said, “This is my cousin Anna, daughter of Count Lindenstein. He holds the surrounding lands and villages. The other boy the guards took was Piotr, his first born and heir. They will send reinforcements once they get to the Manor house.”

Vesemir nodded. “Good. Stay with her. I need to check the-“ Vesemir’s eyes landed on Anna, and he stopped.

Julian nodded, turning her toward where the Witcher’s horse stood and away from the bodies – human, horse and warg – that littered the clearing. Behind him he could hear the Witcher moving around. It sounded as if he was dragging something heavy and Julian swallowed against the bile the wanted to rise up in his throat, but Anna was still plastered against him, whimpering softly and he had to be strong for her.  He would be strong for her.  Long moments later there was a whoosh and Julian jerked around to see a pile of, well, a pile, go up in flames.

“The guard?” he asked softly.

Vesemir shook his head as he came back to them, a bloody looking leather bag in hand  “Can you direct us back to this Manor?”

Julian thought, “I think so.”

Vesemir hummed slightly under his breath in acknowledgement. “We’ll go. Best to meet the rescue party so they don’t get any ideas. Can you both ride?”

Grimacing, he nodded. He was not always the best with horses. “Yes, but not well.”

“We will take it slow then. You’ll need to keep her in the saddle.”

“I can do that, Master Vesemir. We are much appreciative of what you’ve done.”

The Witcher seemed to startle and Julian wondered if it was because he’d acknowledged his name or because he’d thanked him. Neither answer really sat right. “Before we head out, are you injured? Should we take care of you first?” Again, Julian got that startled reaction.  Maybe he was just misreading the Witcher, and it was some other emotion?

“I’m fine,” came the gruff, but Julian thought, sincere answer, but he still gave him the side-eye, looking him over carefully.

“Not to question, Master Witcher, but you are covered in a lot of blood. Are you sure, sir?”

“I’m fine,” he repeated, voice dropping. Then added, “Witchers heal quickly.”

“Oh.” There were so many questions that Julian wanted to ask but one look at Vesemir’s tense demeanor and Julian swallowed them down, but he still filled that bit about healing quickly away in the back of his mind.  He found the Witcher fascinating.

Turning his focus back to Anna, he gave her shoulder a little shake. “Hey Anna?”

His cousin was still plastered against his chest but at least she wasn’t crying anymore. “Come on, Anna. Master Vesemir is going to take us home now, okay?”

She nodded against his chest. Over her should, Julian caught Vesemir’s eye. “Can you help Anna up?”

He didn’t give any warning. One minute she was clinging to Julian and then next she was sitting in the saddle. The movement so swift and smooth Anna didn’t even have time to gasp. A few seconds later Julian was ensconced behind her and the only thing he could wonder at was how strong the Witcher was.  It was another tidbit to file away.

“Hold on.”

Sitting behind Anna, Julian wrapped one hand around her waist and grasped onto the saddle with the other. Vesemir led them at a fast walk as Julian occasionally pointed out directions. Within thirty minutes a cadre of Lindenstein guardsmen, led by the Count himself rounded the bend.

“Papa!” Anna called at the sight of them, bringing everyone to a halt.

“Stealing children, Witcher?” The words were laced with such venom and hatred that Julian rocked back in the saddle.

“No, Uncle. He saved us from the wa-wargs.” Julian’s tongue tripped over the still unfamiliar word. “You should have seen it. Master Ves-“ Julian’s words stumbled again, something about the hostility in the air changing his words from the more familiar Master Vesemir to the more formal Master Witcher. “The Master Witcher saved us. He fought and killed five of them. He was amazing. He saved us,” he repeated.

“Save your breath, boy. Just hand me the girl, quickly now.”

“But-“ He looked between the Witcher and his uncle’s hard expression and sighed.  This was another thing he didn’t understand, and he burned with unasked questions.

But he did as directed and helped Anna down into Vesemir’s arms. Father had been rude and somewhat condescending when he’d contracted the Witcher, but Julian had come to recognize he was that way with all he considered to be beneath him.

This . . . this was cold hatred.

As Anna ran to her father, Julian climbed down from the horse’s back with little grace. His Uncle had dismounted and swept Anna up in his arms, carefully checking her over for injuries. Anna had started tearing up again, but Julian figured that a lot had happened for a sever year old and she probably deserved a good cry.

Uncle handed Anna off to one of the guards, before turning back to face the Witcher, Julian still at his side. “You killed one of my men and the children’s governess,” he snarled.

Julian opened his mouth to defend Vesemir only to stop as a heavy gloved hand landed on his shoulder.

“The pack of wargs killed your people. Almost killed your heir and daughter,” his voice was low but carried, a man who never had to rage or shout to command attention. “I took Contract with the village of Linden to track and kill the pack.” One greying brow rose, “Isn’t Linden part of your lands, Count Lindenstein? Surely the Lord of the land would have been informed of dangerous monsters roaming his dominion?”

Two dangerous men – one of privilege and the other of power – stared as the tension rose around them. Julian shifted on his feet, unsure of what was happening. The small movement drew the eyes of everyone but the Witcher, and Julian flushed in embarrassment under the scrutiny. But the movement seemed to break the silent tableau and he let out a small sigh of relief.

Vesemir’s hand dropped from his shoulder as his uncle asked, “You unhurt, Julian?”

“Yes, I’m fine, but for a bruise or two.”

“Then come. Mount up with one of the guards.” Uncle’s gaze shifted and he spat at Vesemir's feet. “Get off my estate, Witcher.”

Julian turned to formally bow to the Witcher, the depth signifying acknowledgement from one of equal rank to another. “I’m afraid I have no coin this time, Master Vesemir,” he said softly, “but thank you for saving us.”

The Witcher snorted softly, a breath of sound that sounded like amusement to Julian. “Safe journey as you walk your Path, boy.”

Reluctantly, Julian walked from his side and by the time he’d clamored up on the back of a guard’s horse, the Witcher was already gone.

Chapter Text

The third time Julian met a Witcher he was fourteen and newly arrived in Oxenfurt. As one of the youngest students ever invited into the college, Julian had been requested to arrive three weeks ahead of the next session in order to move in, meet with several of the professors and become oriented to both Oxenfurt the city and Oxenfurt the College.

Julian had been there one week and already knew that he wanted out of the housing provided to the noble sons and daughters attending the college and wanted in the dormitories provided to the more common students even if it meant giving up some of the comforts provided to those nobles, and secondly, that he was going to have problems with some of the older students who saw his age, talent and intelligence as threats to their own standing. He’d already had two run-ins with a group of early returning third year students. The four to one odds had not gone in his favor. The fact that the group had also consisted of noble sons meant that Julian’s recourses for stopping the harassment were somewhat limited. As the de Lettenhove heir, he did have some privilege and leverage that could be brought to bear against second and third sons, but he was loath to use that power. It left a bad taste in his mouth and there might come a day in the next four years when he would really need it. It was best not to squander resources to quickly.

Now that he was settled in the tiny university apartment assigned to him, complete with two rooms – one tiny one for a servant Julian refused to bring along – and trying to avoid his tormentors, Julian had taken to roving the city in the early morning hours as tradesmen and shopkeepers were opening the shops for the day. He especially enjoyed visiting Violetta’s as the owner had taken a liking to Julian and let him snag any of the previous days pastries if he was willing to help her set up the tables and chairs outside her bakery.

Julian had just waved goodbye to Violetta, four slightly stale pastries in hand, when one of the grates to Oxenfurt’s sewer system abruptly exploded upwards. Stumbling backwards before landing on his ass in the street with a startled and rather undignified squawk, he just managed to thankfully save breakfast. Violetta’s pastries were not to be wasted.

Before he could get back up to his feet, a dirty hand shot up out of the hole to grasp the edge. A second hand covered in something slimy came into view and with a heave, a thoroughly disgusting looking Master Vesemir climbed into view.

Julian just sat and stared for a long moment. He knew he looked ridiculous sitting on his ass in the middle of the street, his mouth open in shock and pastries in one hand, but all his thoughts had just shuttered to a halt. At least until Vesemir raised his head and where Julian would normally expect two piercing yellow gold eyes, all-encompassing inky black stared back at him, faint black lines trailing from across his temples. For some reason, that kickstarted Julian’s brain – and tongue – back into gear.

Scrambling up to his feet, he gave the Witcher a short bow. “Good morning, Master Vesemir. I’d offer you a hand, but I’m afraid even good manners will only go so far when you are covered in” – he gestured with the hand holding the pastries and wrinkled his nose – “whatever that is.”

Vesemir cocked his head to the side, eyes squinting against the early rising sun. “Julian Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove. Once again in a place I least likely expect you to be.”

Julian grinned widely, some at the Witcher’s dry sarcasm, but mostly at being remembered. It had been four years after all. The Witcher could have met thousands of people in that time. That he remembered Julian set off something warm beneath his breastbone.

Vesemir levered himself up to his feet and Julian realized the man was truly covered in filth. “Master Vesemir, not to presume to much on our short acquaintance, but what are you doing here?” He waved a hand at the open sewer cover and added, “In the sewers of Oxenfurt.”

“Contract,” he said, flicking a wrist covered in slime at the ground, leave a wet splat against the cobbles that made Julian swallow hard against revulsion.

“Ah, something creeping beneath the school and city.”

“A whole lot of somethings,” the other man sighed, wrinkling is nose is obvious disgust.

Julian looked around the street, a few others up at this early hour were beginning to stare and knowing that soon it would be filled with people, a somewhat mad, but possibly brilliant idea, occurred to him. “Um, Master Vesemir, not to state the obvious, but people will soon be out in the streets.” He jerked a chin in the direction of the lookers. “You are already beginning to attract attention. My rooms are but a short distance away. I can offer a bath.” He held up the pastries. “And some slightly stale but still exceedingly delicious pastries.”

Black eyes narrowed in suspicion. “And why would do you do that?”

Julian fidgeted a bit under that inky black stare and cleared his throat a bit nervously. “It would be my honor to provide assistance. You did save my life last we met.”

Those eyes narrowed even more, and one grey brow went up.

Julian lasted only a few seconds before he broke. “Okay fine. I have questions. Lots of questions. Questions from when I was FIVE. And . . . and, ahhh, why are your eyes black? Have you ever been a blacksmith? And why two swords and are the stories true that Witcher’s age slower than humans and you said that you heal faster and how does that even work?” Julian slapped his free hand over his mouth to stop the thousand other things we wanted to ask. “Sorry,” he murmured from behind his fingers.

Both of Vesemir’s brows were now raised, the expression on his face unreadable, but then the Witcher snorted in clear amusement. “Very well, boy. A chance to clean this muck off would be appreciated. Lead on.”

Julian grinned, bouncing slightly on his toes, a habit he’d never outgrown much to Father’s consternation. He led the Witcher to his small apartment, keeping up a steady stream of chatter about what he’d done since the warg incident, his plans for university, his love for the city he’d only been in a week and anything else that crossed his mind. That Vesemir was largely silent except for the occasional hum of acknowledgement didn’t bother him in the slightest. The older man showed none of the signs people usually showed when Julian’s exuberance became annoying, so he felt free to continue.

Finally, back to his apartment, he ushered the Witcher inside with a bow and grand flourish. It was small; the Witcher’s considerable bulk and sheer presence making it seem even more so, but Julian was thrilled. “The rooms aren’t grand but appointed well enough.” He pointed to a wooden divider screen. “Tub and wash basin behind there. There is some kind of magic something or another in the depths of the basement that controls hot and cold water. Spigots over the tub control it. It’s probably the one luxury I’ll miss when I ask to move rooms over to the dormitories.” He pointed again, “Main room, two sleeping rooms through there. Each floor has a dining hall. We are responsible for keeping our own rooms cleaned but there is basket that can put out in the hall, and they will clean clothes and return them. Small but home.”

The quick tour over, Julian fidgeted a bit before setting the pastries down on his small table, very aware that the Witcher was staring at him with an intensity that Julian could practically feel against his skin. It was rather unnerving to be the focus of that regard. “Master Vesemir?”

The Witcher shook himself, as if roused from deep thoughts. “A bath sounds good,” he said and began stripping off his weapons and armor, there in the main room. Julian’s eyes grew wide as the pile grew larger with the sheer mass of destructive weapons. Not, Julian decided, that the Witcher needed any of it. Even down to his begrimed pants and shirt, Julian knew the man could kill him with one hand.

With a nod, Vesemir slipped behind the screen on noiseless feet and Julian heaved a sigh before whispering to the empty room, “Melitele preserve me, I have no idea what I’m doing.”

Rousing himself to do something useful, Julian surveyed the stacked pile of armor and truly mountainous pile of weapons – he counted six different daggers of different varieties – all of it as slimy and dirty as the Witcher had been. He would start there. Well, certainly not start. Even he knew that touching Vesemir’s weapons and armor was a sure way to get himself killed in painful and probably messy fashion. He wasn’t completely stupid.

He started opening cabinets in the small area he used to store various items and brought out a wash basin, several cleaning rags, soap and the bottle of oil he used for his instruments. If it was good enough for delicate woods, it should work well enough for leather. He laid it all out on the small table with the pastries.

He turned as Vesemir stepped back into the room, a bathing sheet wrapped around him, his rinsed and wrung out clothing in one hand. Julian stared. Naked, but for the sheet wound around him, Vesemir looked even larger, like one of the statues of the old heroes that lined the bridges. The scars painting his skin lending him a dangerous air even more that the pile of knives and swords decorating his floor.

Julian noticed with an embarrassed flush that Vesemir was regarding him with amusement again, like he was a particularly entertaining puppy. Mortification got him moving. “Hand me your clothes and I’ll hang them to dry, if you like.” He gestured to the cleaning supplies laid out on the table. “While you wait, I figured you’d want to clean your gear. I may have been terrible at swordplay, but the Swordmaster at Lettenhove did at least beat into my head the necessity of cleaning my weapons clean.”

Vesemir passed his clothes over with a hum of appreciation and Julian wanted to beam at the Witcher, feeling very much like that entertaining puppy.

After taking care of the clothes, he took a seat across from the man, watching as his hands methodically cleaned his gear. He wanted to offer to help but figured he’d not earned that trust. Yet. He so desperately wanted to.

“Ask boy.” The words were blunt almost harsh, but Julian could still hear the amusement.

He let out a huff of breath. Vesemir clearly knew his name. “I’m fourteen. I’m not a boy.”

Vesemir let out a bark of laughter. “I’ve seen over two hundred long years. You could be an old man in your dotage, and you’d still be a boy.”

Two hundred? The words seem unreal. To live that long seemed to Julian to be both a blessing and a curse – to be able to see all the wonders of the world and yet know that everyone and everything will disappear to dust long before you will. It sounded lonely to Julian. Yet, the thought births Julian’s second brilliant idea of the day, one that has him practically vibrating with excitement.“

“You said you are on Contract for the University?”

Vesemir grunted something that Julian took to be an affirmative, his gaze still on his armor. “Joint Contract for the city and University. Zeugls in the sewer. They feed on waste and filth. Hard to kill. Reproduce easily and if it overruns its environment, it will come up above to start hunting. Wolf School has a standing Contract to come pare down the numbers every decade or so.”

Julian gets distracted from his purpose by the thought of monsters running around in the sewers. “Why not just eradicate them once and for all?”

Vesemir runs a finger along a loose piece of boiled leather and scowls. Julian is fairly sure – okay, sort of sure – that the scowl is directed at the weak point in the pauldron and not at his question. “In small numbers they keep the sewers clean. It’s a beneficial symbiosis.”

He thinks of creatures coming up from the sewers into hundreds of students ill prepared to handle them. “Until it’s not.”

He gets a rumbling hum in return. “It’s easy enough work. Good coin though. City and University historically honor the Contract.” He glances pointedly down at his armor. “Just messy.”

“How long will it take?”

Tilting his head, Vesemir considers as he puts down the armor and picks up one of his knives. “Two, maybe three weeks.”

“Are they putting you up somewhere? Providing food and a bath?”

He gets a snort at that. “It’s a good Contract. Not that good. I’ve got a room at an inn on the east side of the city.”

Julian breaths out, trying hard to control his rising excitement. He tried for nonchalant but isn’t sure he made it. He knows the east side. It’s the poorer side, probably chosen to keep the cost of lodging and food down. It’s also far from the main branches of the sewer system. “Do Witchers take Contracts for things other than coin? Maybe in trade?”

The black eyes from before had faded back to amber gold and they met his squarely. “Are you propositioning me, boy?”

Only then does Julian realize how his words could be taken. He flails back in mortification. “No, I didn’t mean . . . I’m not trying to . . .” His head dropped into his hands, his face and ears burning in embarrassment. He peeks at Vesemir through his fingers, somewhat encouraged that the man looks amused rather than offended or angry. Julian gets the distinct impression that Vesemir had just teased him deliberately. “Can I start over?”

“Please do.” The words dry like the unwatered white wine Julian is only now beginning to appreciate.

Julian sucked in a breath and held it before letting it out again in a whoosh, hoping that he wasn’t still pink cheeked, but doubting that the gods had that much mercy on him. “If you are amendable, I would like to offer you a Contract. Unfortunately, I don’t have a lot of extra coin, but if you are willing, I would offer you an exchange instead. You mentioned you were staying in one of the inns on the outskirts of city. I have two rooms here. I have access to the student dining hall so free food. This place is close to one of the sewer entrances and most importantly, I have a bath. I would like to offer room, food and bath as payment for the Contract.”

Sitting back, Vesemir crossed his arms across his chest, in total command, like he wasn’t sitting at Julian’s small table, naked except for a bath sheet wrapped around himself. One day, Julian vowed he would be that confident in himself.

“And what are you requesting in exchange for this food, room and bath?”

“Two things.”

That expressive grey brow went up again. Julian was beginning to think that with just that brow and a frown, Vesemir could carry on whole conversations.

“There is a class that all incoming first year students must take. It’s a history class taught by Professor Clairdorn. Clairdorn and the class are legendary, mostly for all the wrong reasons.” Julian reached out to one of the cleaned pieces of leather, toying with it between his fingers. “There is an oral report that must be presented at the end of term, presented to Clairdorn and your fellow students and pretty much half the faculty as they all come to see us all sweat. That report is worth half your grade. Most fail the class the first time. I’ve heard it’s over half now.”

He uses one nail to scratch at something that looks like black blood on the leather piece he’s holding. “I want to pass,” he said, voice low and earnest. “I want to pass with honors.”

Vesemir reaches out and take the leather piece from Julian’s fingers. “And what do I have to do with that?”

“Everyone I’ve talked with, they all say that students pick an event, a point in history, and report on it, droning on in front of Clairdorn and the others. It’s boring and it shouldn’t be. It’s a history class and history doesn’t happen in a vacuum, it breaths, it moves, it shapes music, fashion and language. I want to graduate as a Master of the Seven Arts. So, I had the brilliant idea to present my topic through all seven arts – Grammar, Logic, Rhetoric, Arithmetic, Geometry, Music and Astronomy.”

“And?”

Julian puffed out a bit of air, leaning towards the Witcher in his excitement of his idea. “You said it, yourself, Master Vesemir. You are over two hundred years old. It’s not just dry history found in a moldy book. You were there. You know the songs that were sung at the time, the rumors going around, what the latest fashion were and advances in science and mathematics at the time and what people actually thought about them.”

Julian waved a hand. “I’m mean, yes, I’ll have to find documenting sources and all that, but with your help Master Vesemir, I could weave it all together into a whole. This is the start of my training for what I want to be; a trial, if you will. Will you help me pass my first trial and prove that I’m just as good as the rest of them.” Julian frowns as Vesemir flinches hard for some reason.

“Your first Trial.”

There is something different in the way Vesemir says the word, like he means something different than Julian, but he nods anyway. “Will you help? Will you make the trade?”

Vesemir hums again, neither agreement nor dismissal. “What is your second request?”

Julian focuses on the small pile of knives laid on the table to be cleaned. “I want to learn how to knife fight.”

Chapter Text

The fourth time Julian met a Witcher it was case of mistaken identity, which Julian, or Jaskier, as he was calling himself now that he’d officially set off on the road as a travelling bard, could be forgiven for making.

In his defense, Jaskier was tired, rather hungry, a little bit scared of being on his own for the first time (not that he would admit to it) and the tavern he’d walked into was rather dark. What light there was in the dingy place was mostly coming from the glowing coals in the large front hearth. The case of mistaken identity seemed an easy one to make when he caught the fire-lit outline of two swords and long grey hair tinted red by the fire. To stumble across Vesemir this far out seemed an excellent start to his bardic life, an unlooked-for gift from the gods, and a good omen for his future.

Buoyed by excitement, Jaskier wove between patrons to plop himself down at the table. “Well met, Master Vesemir. It’s been-” Only then, did Julian realize that while indeed a Witcher, this was not Vesemir. “Oh,” Jaskier stumbled back up onto his feet sketching a show bow of apology. “I’m terribly sorry for the intrusion, Master Witcher. I mistook you for a friend.”

Eyes better adjusted to the gloom and with only a table separating them, Jaskier can see that this Witcher, while still a large man, lacked Vesemir’s broad oak tree sturdiness. He was slighter and leaner, holding himself with a willowed grace that Jaskier envied. But he’s clearly of an age with Vesemir, Jaskier noticed, with once red hair faded to grey with only the highlights to hint at its former color. Wrinkles are set in his face and hands amongst the scars to the point that some are hard to tell one from the other.

“A friend?” the Witcher questioned, his voice a baritone to Vesemir’s deep bass notes. “Now how does a slip of a human like you know the mighty Vesemir to call him friend?”

Jaskier shifted nervously on his feet. The words were pleasant enough, even curious, but Jaskier could hear the threat woven through them. “Forgive me, Master Witcher. I meant-”

“Sit.”

There was more than a little threat now behind the word. He sat. He’s not exactly afraid, but not exactly not-afraid either. Greenish gold eyes pin him in place, pupils expanded slightly in the gloom of the room to catch the light. Even as Jaskier watches, those pupils expand further, going round like a barn cat’s when it has found its mousy prey.

“Guxart. School of the Cat.”

Jaskier blinked in confusion as the Witcher went from threat to introduction in the space of a breath. Cat? Jaskier’s gaze slipped down to the medallion against the man’s chest. He’d always noted Vesemir’s necklace and while he’d never asked, had always assumed the silver wolf’s head was just a Witcher thing. But now, he could see that this man – Guxart – had a medallion embossed with a snarling cat’s head.

“W-well met, Master Guxart,“ Jaskier managed to stammer out. Still woefully confused and rightfully nervous, Jaskier spoke before his brain fully engaged. “Uhm. Julian. School of the Bard.”

Really, one of these days, the lack of any filter between his brain and his mouth was going to get him killed. Those eyes narrowed on him. Quite possibly today, he decided, glad he’d given the more formal Julian rather than the name he’d chosen as a bard – Jaskier. If ever Master Vesemir was to hear of his death from this Witcher, at least Vesemir would know it was him.

A small eating knife appeared in Guxart’s right hand, the blade spinning so fast around his fingers that it was a blur of flashing silver. “So again, I ask, how does a bard claim a Witcher as a friend?”

Ah, there Jaskier heard it. Protectiveness. This Witcher would put himself between Vesemir and danger although Julian snorted at the idea of himself being a danger to the likes of a Master Witcher. “You mistake me, Master Guxart. I name myself friend to Master Vesemir, I would not presume to know what he would name me. Although, if I were to hazard a guess in truth, I would be named boy, pup, and sometimes an amusing but otherwise harmless annoyance that asks far too many questions which he suffers to answer with great patience and dignity.” A fond smile he couldn’t contain rose up. “Except when I truly vex him and then he has been known to throw things at my head. Gently, of course, as I am only human.”

Oddly enough, this statement relaxed the hard line of Witcher’s shoulders and slowed the fast spinning blade to something human eyes could follow. “Vesemir and I shared a prison cell for a time. When I annoyed him, he’d flick pebbles from the dungeon floor at my head.” Sharp teeth were bared in a sharper smile. “Not so gently.”

Guxart then stood and stretched, oblivious to how the tavern stilled to silence around them, then swung a pack resting at his feet up onto his shoulders. “Well?”

Julian looked up in confusion.

Guxart snorted. “Are you coming or not?”

Coming or not? Coming with Guxart? He looked at the tavern. Thought about the last time he’d had decent food and a bed, then scrambled to his feet. He’d always been an idiot according to Father and friends and various professors. Fingers clasped tight around his lute, he stammered out, “I- of course. I-- I didn’t realize I was invited to walk with you on your Path.”

Another snort as Guxart led them towards the door, the patrons of the tavern subtly leaning away from the Witcher as he moved. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, little bardling. Vesemir lies two towns to the east where we were to meet.” Those greenish-gold eyes appraised him. “Might be interesting to toss you at his feet. Get enough jokes about what cats drag in.”

Julian huffed out a breath just as they stepped into the afternoon sunlight and started walking. “I’m not a half-eaten mouse. You just want to see if I’m telling the truth about knowing Master Vesemir.”

“As much as humans lie to us, you speak truth.” He jerked his chin in the direction of Jaskier’s boot. “You carry a Witcher’s silver dagger, bardling. He’d not be giving that to just anyone.”

Jaskier was feeling contrary. “I could have stolen it.” Guxart shot him a look, his gaze unimpressed, but Jaskier detected a slight curl to his lips. “Maybe,” he continued, dropping his voice down in a conspiratorial whisper, “I’m a highly trained, super stealthy assassin bard? Or maybe bard assassin? Which one sounds better, do you think?” He reached down to his boot and pulled the dagger and spun it about his fingers, although with much less grace and speed than Guxart has done earlier. “I filched it in a daring raid on Master Vesemir’s quarters while he slept, only leaving a taunting note behind that I now had his nice silver dagger and to catch me if he could.”

“Put that away before you stab yourself in the foot.” Guxart wasn’t even trying to hide his sharp grin now. “Do you know who the Cats are?”

Something in Guxart’s voice stills Jaskier fingers and he looks to where the other man walked beside him, the way he carried himself and the fact that only Jaskier’s footfalls sound upon the road. He swallowed hard. But he’s getting no feelings of danger from the Witcher so he continued on. He had placed his trust. Stupid of him or not, he won’t withdraw it until it’s broken. “So,” he began, sheathing the dagger and cheerfully skipping a few steps ahead before turning around to walk backwards so he could face the Witcher, “Well then, as a Cat, and fellow professional, you never said. Assassin bard or bard assassin?”

Guxart is shaking his head in a way that Jaskier has seen most of his life. It’s a sort of combination of exasperation, amusement and disbelief. “Go with bard assassin.”

Jaskier nodded. “It does have a good ring to it. Could be a fabulous ballad. The adventures of a bard assassin instead of the standard boring old highwayman.” He spun back around to face forward before he ended up falling on his ass in front of the Witcher. “Of course,” he calls over his shoulder, “the sight of blood does make me queasy. I may have to fudge a bit on the assassin part.”

“And they say Cats are the crazy ones.”

So they walk. If he was composing a song, Jaskier was fairly sure the line would read: “the fair companions walked in silence.” It’s got a nice rhythm to it. It’s also patently false. Well, on his side at least. The Cat Witcher was remarkably silent and Jaskier really wanted to know how the man walked so quietly even over the leaves and sticks that litter the road. It’s truly remarkable.

But if his companion was silent, Jaskier was not. It’s not that he finds the lack of noise uncomfortable, it’s that it is boring. So, he talks, he hums, he steps deliberately on a nicely dry branch just to hear the crack of sound. He fingers the lute cradled in his arms and most importantly, he asks questions. Mostly for the sake that he’s a curious sort, but also to distract himself from the fact that he’s hungry.

“Not that I’m not grateful for the offer of companionship, but beyond the no doubt amusing imagery of tossing me at Master Vesemir’s booted feet, why are you offering to escort me to a reunion I wasn’t exactly attending to begin with? I truly had no idea Vesemir was nearby.”

Guxart shrugged. “I was meeting Vesemir.”

Julian picked a series of notes that sounded frustrated even to his own ears. “That’s not exactly a reason to pluck me out of a nowhere tavern and invite me along on a journey I wasn’t intending to make.”

Guxart shrugged again, and said simply, “Cat.” Then stopped, eyeing the road carefully. “Here,” he stated, before moving off the road into the scrub.

“Here? Here what? And what does Cat mean? Cat eyes? Cat burglar? Cat Witcher? Cat is not an explanation.”

Guxart was now so far into the bushes that Jaskier could no longer see the man, only hear him. “We camp here.”

Jaskier looked around. This stretch of road looked like all the other stretches of road they had walked past. He fingered the frustration notes again and followed the Witcher into the weeds. A few steps in, he realized that he was on a game path, and picked his way carefully along. He doesn’t go far before a small clearing opened up with the Witcher standing in the middle of it.

“Start setting up camp, bardling.” He raised his nose up into the air and inhaled before nodding. “Looks like we’re having rabbit for dinner.”

“Wait, what? Set up camp how?” His stomach rumbles. “Rabbit?”

Guxart turned to him, and Julian knew that look. Any number of his professors have given it to him over the last four years of study when Julian said something that they thought particularly stupid. He fought down the urge to curl his shoulders up around his ears in embarrassment.

“Bardling, how long have you been walking the Path?”

Jaskier flushed with mortification. He can feel the heat in the tips of his ears. “Uhmm. I graduated Oxenfurt at the end of the spring, and it’s now summer so, two months.”

“Two months and you don’t know how to set camp?”

Hands go to his hips in indignation, his mouth open to defend himself and Guxart is still just standing there with that look upon his face. Julian deflates, hands slipping to his side. “Oddly enough, there aren’t a lot of bards out there. Musicians, yes, but bards, composers, ones who create songs, there aren’t a lot. And what few there are compete like starving wolves over the last rabbit in the warren in order to procure a finite pool of monied patrons and lucrative spots in courts.”

Guxart is still watching him, his expression unreadable. So, Julian wandered further into the clearing, setting down his pack. “There are even fewer who wish to wander.” He let out a soft laugh. “A select few handful that feel the call of towns and cities and places they’ve never been.” Julian shrugged. “If a non-Witcher can hear the call of the Path, then I have plucked the notes of that melody more times than I can count.”

“So, you just picked up your lute and started walking?”

“Well, when you say it like that,” he grumbled. “I will admit that part of the whole plan was less than thought through completely. But there aren’t courses on how to walk the continent. I thought-“

“You thought?”

“You’ll laugh.”

“I’m a Cat, boy. We’re known for crazy. Tell me this tale of bardish foolishness.”

“There aren’t exactly books to explain how to travel. No classes that teach how to survive. So, I saved up what coin I could, memorized a map of the continent and thought that I could stay at inns and taverns and earn enough for food at least until I could make a name for myself and then earn enough to travel at my leisure.”

“Didn’t work out that way?”

Jaskier laughed and desperately hoped that the Witcher couldn’t detect the hysterical edge in his voice. “When I studied the map, the villages looked much closer together. I didn’t realize how slow walking really was. My first night out on the road, I made a small town and its inn. I even earned a bit of coin and they gave me a free meal for playing. The second night . . . “

“The second night went different?”

“Second night was a disaster. I’d rather not talk about the third or the ones that came after.” Tired of the depressing mood, Jaskier clapped his hands together and gave himself a small shake. “So that’s my tale of woe. I’m a wandering bard who has no idea how to survive the wandering. Although I am getting better.” He gestured at the pack at his feet. “Trail rations, proper bedroll and the like. Though, I must say, that if I survive my year and make it back to Oxenfurt, I’m really going to suggest that the university offer a class for wandering bards so that successors won’t have near as much trouble.”

“Why not just give up? Go back to the comfort of Oxenfurt? The Path is no place for those that are not strong enough to survive its dangers.”

“I can’t.” The words rolled off his tongue without reservation. “I can’t explain it, but the Path as you Witcher’s name it, it calls to me. There are stories that need to be told, sights that must be seen, people that must be met.” Jaskier shrugged one shoulder but even he could hear the intensity of his words. “This is what I am meant to do. I know it.”

It’s then he noticed Guxart has placed two fingers on his medallion and is staring rather oddly at him. “Bardling, why did Vesemir give you his knife?”

“I asked,” he said with a somewhat rueful smile. Then waved his hands around trying to form a shape in the air in front of them, as if that could help the next words. “Well, technically I asked for knife lessons. The knife was a parting gift after he spent a few weeks in Oxenfurt on a contract. Plus, there were a group of second years that were being . . . well, let’s just say they were being less than friendly.”

Guxart eyes were fixed on the blade partially hidden within Jaskier’s boot, his expression unreadable. It made Jaskier uneasy for some reason although he had no true reason for why. “Guxart?”

The Witcher glanced up, his pupils once again blown wide as a stalking cat’s. “Right.” His hand dropped from his medallion, and he gave himself a shake. “It will take a few days before we arrive so it’s time to go back to lessons bardling.” He nodded at Jaskier’s pack. “Dump that out and show me what you have and then I’m going to show you how to set up camp and snare some rabbits.”

That was the pattern over the next days as they headed towards Vesemir. Guxart spoke as they walked, pointing out edible plants, various dangers that could befall a lone traveler and drilling Jaskier on his knife work. “You are carrying one of Vesemir’s blades which means that the old dog taught you. Everyone knows Wolves are shit with knives. If you want to know knives, you go to a fucking Cat. Now stop hitching your shoulder forward like that and try again.”

All of which meant that Jaskier was totally unprepared when Guxart sent him off the main road down a narrow game trail only to be pushed at the last minute by a large hand between his shoulder blades. As he stumbled forward to sprawl before an unlit fire ring, he looked up to catch the raised eyebrow of Master Vesemir.

“I brought you a chew toy, Wolf,” came from behind Jaskier.

Vesemir heaved what Jaskier thought to be a long-suffering sigh. “Fucking Cats.”

+++++

Jaskier stays with Vesemir and Guxart for the next three days, the two older Witchers bickering – and occasionally outright fighting – between them as they made plans to walk the Path and attend to a contract further west that will require the skills of both. Jaskier isn’t sure he wants to know what kind of monster would require the skills of two Witchers to deal with and neither Witcher offered details no matter how many questions he asked.

Jaskier – or Julian as Guxart and Vesemir call him – continue the lessons in survival and knife work. The knife lessons leading to more bickering and more fighting between the two. Jaskier finds himself greatly amused as he’s never seen the stoic Vesemir so knocked off his stride. Guxart seems to have a special talent for getting under Vesemir’s guard and Jaskier is taking silent notes on all their interactions.

Their parting is scheduled for the fourth day.

Jaskier expected a firm arm clasp and maybe a clap on the back. Guxart instead grabbed his head, palms pressed to his cheeks and fingers curled over his ears. Jaskier squawked in surprise but had no recourse to move against a Witcher’s casual strength. His noise of protest cut abruptly off as Guxart leaned forward and planted a closed-mouth kiss against his lips before pulling back and releasing him.

Jaskier squawked anew. “W-what? Why? You-“

Guxart laughed at his antics. “Cat,” he said smugly before moving aside.

Arms thrown up in the air, Jaskier let out a small scream of annoyance. “How many times must we go over this? Cat is not an acceptable answer to any and all questions.”

Vesemir stepped forward, snorting softly as Jaskier danced backward in wary indignation. “You aren’t going to kiss me, are you? Because I would find that slightly weird. You’ve known me since I was five.”

Vesemir’s face twisted as if he’s tasted something sour. “Not going to kiss you, boy. Come here.” As Jaskier stepped close, the Witcher reached out, one large hand wrapping around his neck to pull him close, forehead to forehead. “The Path is yours to walk now. Step carefully.”

Jaskier gave him a brilliant smile. “Thank you,” he murmured before stepping backwards. “Good luck on your hunt and be careful.”

Vesemir’s horse was already saddled and loaded and neither Witcher was the type of delay parting. So Jaskier swung his own pack up onto his shoulders.

“Boy,” Vesemir called, a note in his voice Jaskier couldn’t quite place, “if you truly want to wander, then you need to see all the Path. Dol Blathana, the Edge of the World wouldn’t be a bad place to start. Take the east trail, when you reach Posada, you have gone far enough. I hear the Valley of Flowers is a sight all should see at least once.

Jaskier shrugged. It sounded like as good a direction as any.

Chapter Text

The fifth time Julian met a Witcher, was the time he stopped counting. Meeting and following Geralt of Rivia moved seamlessly from one day to the next to months and then to years. Although, the five-year-old boy still inside of him wanted to keep track of those meetings as he never failed to thrill at opening his eyes on dawn-filtered morning to see a Witcher – his Witcher – by his side. And while he told Geralt most of the random thoughts that passed through his head, he would never ever share that embarrassing secret.

Just as he had never shared the secret that Geralt was not the first Witcher that he’d ever met. He’s never been quite sure why he’s never told Geralt about Vesemir and Guxart. Well, that wasn’t the whole truth. He has any number of reasons but none of them are quite the full answer. He’d never told Geralt in the beginning of their acquaintance about Vesemir because he’d wanted Geralt to like him, and to allow him to follow along because just being Jaskier was enough and not because Jaskier knew Vesemir and Guxart. He didn’t want special favors or to name drop and most certainly didn’t want Geralt to let him tag along just because the Witcher wore the same wolf head medallion as Vesemir. If Jaskier had mentioned the older Witcher, he’d always been afraid that Geralt would have felt obligated.

But that was in the beginning. As the years turned, he could have brought up Vesemir’s name when Geralt mentioned his brothers or his mentor. Jaskier knew without a doubt that Geralt’s mentor was Vesemir even though he never mentioned the man by name. But then in those early years of establishing trust, Geralt had been cagey with names and places. Jaskier couldn’t fault him for that. And as the years wore on and trust was established and Geralt did mention the old Witcher by name, Jaskier was still afraid. Too much time had passed. It would be odd to mention it now. Or his biggest fear, that if Jaskier was to inquire, Geralt would tell him that Vesemir had met his end from some monster. If Jaskier didn’t ask, he didn’t have to know.

But those are all half-hearted excuses at best and now they are halfway up a fucking goat track Geralt called The Killer in the middle of what Jaskier is positive is a blizzard regardless of what Geralt called it and Jaskier is bouncing between being terrified that a single misstep is going to send him hurtling over the side of a mountain and being terrified of the welcome he will find when they finally reach Kaer Morhen.

Maybe he should have mentioned Vesemir to Geralt.

Geralt, bless his Witcher heart, led them to what Geralt called a cave on the side of the cliff and Jaskier called an indent. But there was room for the two of them to squeeze into the back next to what looked to be a permanent fire ring. It also had enough space to situate Roach and a nameless mule that Geralt had loaded with supplies bought with the last of their coin. Between the curved sides of the indent and the two animals, Jaskier was finally out of the wind for the first time since they had started this hellish climb. He was still freezing but being out of the wind was a welcome blessing.

Teeth chattering, he began to load up the firepit with the conveniently stacked bundle of wood at the back of their shelter, while Geralt saw to the animals. Shifting from foot to foot, he tucked his hands under his wool cloak in a desperate bid to keep warm.

“Come here, bard.”

Tossing all dignity aside, Jaskier didn’t have to be told twice before he scrambled to where Geralt was lowering himself to a sitting position on the ground. Jaskier fit himself between Geralt’s legs, his back to the Witcher’s front. No sooner had he situated himself than Geralt cast Igni on the small stack of wood and wrapped the both of them in their wool blankets. One of Geralt’s arms wrapped around him to present some jerky and flat bread. “Eat,” the words a rumble through Jaskier’s torso like the distance rolling of thunder.

Tucking himself even further into Geralt’s body heat, he took the offered food. “You actually ran this monstrosity?”

A rumble of assent vibrated behind him. “Every week. You left at dawn and had to be back by sundown. Failure meant . . .” Geralt’s voice trailed off as a shudder shook him. Whether memory or the cold, Jaskier didn’t push, so he was surprised when Geralt continued.

“If we weren’t running, we were maintaining these bolt holes with provisions and kindling or carving new ones in the cliff face. Winters here cause rockslides so we were always having to clear the trail and redo the waypoints. Of course, we weren’t running this late in the year.”

Jaskier shivered. “We aren’t too late?”

“No. This is just a snow squall. Thin. Light. It’ll blow itself out before morning. We’ll leave at first light and be at Kaer Morhen by mid-morning. We’ve taken it slow. Don’t like to push Roach when it’s not necessary.”

It wasn’t said that Geralt was also going slower for the sake of one miserably cold bard, but Jaskier knew and appreciated the accommodation. “And there we will find food. And blessed heat,” he added with a sigh full of longing. He swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat. “And your family.”

A hum of amusement. “You sound nervous. Surely three grumpy witchers can’t be that intimidating.”

Oh, he should have definitely mentioned Vesemir.

+++++

Dawn came as it always did entirely too early for Jaskier’s tastes. Resigning himself to the inevitable, he allowed Geralt’s grumbles and no so subtle finger jab to the ribs get him moving. The sun was still too low in the sky for it to be anything but dark here on this godsforsaken mountain but even Jaskier could see the rose of dawn off to the east.

Grumbling himself, Jaskier unwound from Geralt, who while making a most satisfactory heater, did not contrary to appearances, make a very good pillow or bed. Jaskier was rather fond of the softness of goosedown. In a pinch, he’d even settle for a thick straw-stuffed mattress wrapped in tightly woven ticking to ensure that the pointy ends of the straw didn’t poke him in the back. The solidity of witcher muscle was something that in his firm estimation was best appreciated when one also had pillows and soft furs and smooth silky sheets to cushion the hard planes.

That said, comfort be damned and Jaskier was not ever going to turn down the opportunity to sprawl against his favorite delightfully warm, if somewhat uncomfortable Witcher. That was just another secret that Jaskier had no intention of ever sharing with Geralt. So, he twisted and stretched out the kinks from a hard, cold night of sleeping against Geralt, while the Witcher pulled together their meager campsite, got Roach and the mule ready for the trail and dutifully followed Geralt up this little slice of hell known as The Killer.

They stopped about an hour later in another one of the shallow caves carved into the side of the mountain and at a meager breakfast of stale bread and jerky while Jaskier unashamedly sheltered himself from the wind with Geralt’s stalwart bulk.

“How much longer?” Jaskier asked, finishing off the last bite of his jerky.

Geralt’s gaze swung up to the sky and then further up the trail. “An hour or so. We’re making good time.”

An hour. Still time to tell Geralt a story. Tell him about five year old Julian and a bag of coins. About a boy and a tree and pack of wargs, about monsters in the sewers and where a soft Viscount learned how to set a rabbit snare and set a proper fire. But for all Jaskier’s words, the right ones don’t come and anxiety and worry slow his pace with each step up the trail.

“Jaskier, is there a problem?”

The question is asked in the tone of voice that Jaskier knows well means, ‘there better not be a damn problem.’ He knows this tone well. It’s not angry, per se, more resigned to the inevitable chaos but also faintly amused. Geralt uses it when there are significant others chasing him, or when Jaskier touched that pink glowing thing in that hedge witch’s house. I mean really, it wasn’t his fault-

“Jaskier!”

“Right, right! No problem here.” He made an effort to pick back up the pace, swinging his arms to generate some warmth. “So, you said we would be there soon?”

“Yes.” A heavy hand dropped on his shoulder steering him in front of Roach and around a rocky outcropping. “Welcome to Kaer Morhen.”

Jaskier sucks in a breath at the sight before him. The keep . . . fortress . . . castle . . . none of the words seem right, rises above him. It’s dark and brooding and absolutely magnificence and he can already hear the melody of the stonework in his bones. It’s not a bright or happy tune but deep and heavy with blood and dark responsibility, like one of the old Cintran war songs.

He shivers, but not the cold this time; glad for the warm weight of Geralt’s hand on his shoulder.

“Come on, we’ve been spotted.” Geralt jerks his chin forward. “Someone’s down there raising the gate to the courtyard.”

They walk through the open gate of the keep and into a massive courtyard. He hears of whoop of laughter and two men come at Geralt with Witcher speed. He’s lifted off his feet in the tackle but rolls up into a fighter’s crouch with a gracefulness that Jaskier envies. A low growl sounds but Jaskier can’t tell which man it comes from and then the fight is on.

Jaskier kept himself to the side of the roughhousing like any sane man would, protected by Roach’s warm bulk as he watched the wrestling between Geralt and what he assumes to be his brothers. It warmed Jaskier’s soul to see his normally staid and stoic Witcher roll around with such abandon. The mock fight soon ended though with Geralt pinned beneath the weight of the other two, penance it would seem for being the last to arrive.

When Geralt pounded the icy stones of the courtyard with one fist in surrender, the other two quickly scrambled up, hands pulling Geralt back up onto his feet before their attention turned to him. Jaskier found himself suddenly pinned by two pairs of curious golden eyes and he knew exactly how the mouse felt when confronted by a pair of barn cats.

The two witchers stalked forward, there really was no other word for it.

“Looks like a bard,” the taller said, who Jaskier assumed to be Eskel based on Geralt’s descriptions.

The younger, which would make him Lambert, sniffed pointedly at the air. “Smells like a bard.”

Eskel’s head tilted slightly, a sly grin playing at the scarred corner of his mouth. “Do bards smell?”

Lambert circled, crowding Jaskier back a step. “Like buttercups, I hear.”

“Leave him alone, you assholes,” that was Geralt sounding both annoyed and amused. “Jaskier, feel free to make up songs about their tiny pricks.”

Jaskier, never one to back away from a challenge, grinned toothily at his overly large stalkers. Taking the initiative, he swept forward into a showy, extravagant bow with all the hand flourishes he could toss in. “Gentlemen, Jaskier the Bard. It is an honor to finally meet Geralt’s esteemed brothers.”

Lambert elbowed Eskel. “Hear that, we’re esteemed.”

“You’re a pair of idiots,” Geralt grumbled. “Quit harassing him and help-“

It was like a silent, unseen signal went out. Geralt’s order died on his lips and all three Witchers straightened to a vigilant attention as they turned back towards the great doors across the courtyard.

Jaskier knew, and for one brief second wondered if he still had enough time to tell Geralt about Vesemir before it was too late. He sighed and turned back to the courtyard as the man, himself, walked silently across the icy stones.

Beside him, he saw Geralt grin in a way he seldom did out on the Path and head towards the older Witcher. Geralt was pulled into a tight hug and even human hearing could hear the murmured “Welcome home.”

As they pulled apart, Geralt swung out an arm to Jaskier to call him forward. “Ves-“ his introduction stumbling to a halt when Vesemir raised a hand.

Stepping away from Roach’s side, Jaskier stood a little straighter, meeting those amber eyes as they swept over him in a searching gaze. Vesemir looked the same to Jaskier’s eyes – as broad and sturdy and timeless as an oak tree.

Whatever Vesemir was looking for, he seemed to find it as Vesemir’s shoulders relaxed minutely. “Julian.”

At that familiar bass rumble, the years fell away and Jaskier felt all of five years old again as he fought the urge to bounce on his toes. Instead, he took another step forward. “Master Vesemir.” This time when Julian swept into a bow, it was plain and unadorned, a gesture of respect rather than a theatrical flourish, deep, graceful and more respectful than Jaskier had given to any Court across the Continent.

A snort of amusement at his display cracked the stern demeanor. “Come here, boy.” Jaskier found himself pulled into the same tight embrace that Vesemir had given Geralt. “Welcome to Kaer Morhen. Although, you’ve cost me fifty gold. That bastard Guxart always said you’d end up here eventually.”

“You . . . know each other?” The question pulled Jaskier away from the embrace. Geralt was staring at him with a bewildered expression.

Anxiety surged. “I . . . I. . . well, I mean. . .”

Vesemir let out a hum of assent so like Geralt’s that Jaskier stumbled his explanation to a halt. “Met the boy long ago on a contract for his father. He was a wee little thing, all big eyes and not a lick of sense.”

“I wasn’t going to let him cheat you,” he huffed in annoyance. “Especially after all those lectures on noblesse oblige.”

“You were five.”

“I was a very responsible five.”

That earned Jaskier another snort of amusement before Vesemir decided enough was enough. “Geralt, see to the animals. Lambert, get that mule unloaded and the supplies brought in. Eskel, get their bags and take them up their rooms.” The orders were snapped out with an authority that brooked no arguments.

As the others jumped to their tasked, Vesemir turned his gaze to Jaskier. “Julian, come with me, you look half frozen.” Spinning on his heel, he headed back into the keep, expecting his orders to be followed without question. Jaskier being no exception, fell into line behind Vesemir’s heels.

Behind him, he heard Lambert. “What the fuck, Geralt?”

Jaskier keeps his composure until the great doors closed behind him, shutting out the cold and the other Witchers but the minute the door closed, Jaskier planted his face into his palms, scrubbing his nails up through his hair. “Geralt is going to kill me.”

+++++

Dinner that night was as awkward and stilted as Jaskier as imagined. Three pairs of golden-hued eyes were watching him with keen interest while Vesemir was sitting back in his chair and watching him flounder with obvious amusement. It was almost like that first lesson in knife fighting in Oxenfurt. Vesemir set an exercise to gauge his quickness, coordination, and any training he’d had. Jaskier had been told to take a dagger and stab him. He’d then spent the next hour trying to do that while Vesemir had dodged, pivoted and laughed his ass off while never once having to use his own blade to deflect a blow. By the end of it, Jaskier was a sweaty mess and Vesemir had stated he hadn’t had that much fun in ages.

Vesemir was definitely laughing at him now. The bastard. But he was a bard, damn it. He’d traveled across the continent and had charmed everyone from the roughest rogues to kings and queens. He could do this.

“So, you met Vesemir as a kid?”

He made a noise of assent to Lambert’s question. “Father had a contract.” His eyes flicked over to Geralt who had been watching him like he was studying a puzzle. “That was the first time.”

“First time?” Geralt’s voice was somewhat strained and face impassive, basically the default expression when Geralt was working through some emotional tangle.

A sigh forced itself up. “We met a few more times after that – when I was a bit older, when I started as a student in Oxenfurt and then once I graduated. Really, not that many times. And I was hardly noteworthy.” He felt a flush crawl up his neck and his gaze slid over to Vesemir’s. “I was always surprised you remembered me when we met.”

Vesemir smirked at him as he raised a grey brow. “Hard to forget being propositioned.”

“I . . . that was . . . you.” Jaskier sputtered, embarrassment heating his face. He heard Geralt mutter something he couldn’t quite catch before he finally found his words. “Master Vesemir, I thought we agreed that we weren’t ever going to mention that again.”

Massive arms crossed over an equally massive chest as Vesemir leaned back in his chair. “I never agreed.”

“You-“ Jaskier huffed in indignation. “Oh, is that how it is?” Jaskier threw up his in hands in a splendid example of offended bard. “Fine then. Guxart was a better kisser anyway.”

Jaskier wasn’t the only one sputtering now. “Guxart?” came from Eskel while Lambert muttered a soft, “What the fuck?”

But it was Geralt that asked the question, his voice more than a little strained now. “You kissed Guxart? The fucking Cat? When?”

Jaskier stuck his nose up in the air and sniffed as condescendingly as only a noble firstborn son could. “Really Geralt, how long have you known me? Been graced with my magnificent presence? Beautiful people adore me. I didn’t kiss Guxart. He, of course, kissed me.”

“What the fuck?” came from Lambert again.

It devolved from there but at least the drinking started.

+++++

“You did all that on purpose.” Geralt accused sometime later when Jaskier had fallen asleep under the combination of wine, a full belly and exhaustion. He was currently stretched out on one the settees in front of the hearth and would be mortified if he knew that he was using Geralt’s thigh as a pillow.

Vesemir chuckled, kicked back in his chair with his feet propped up; relaxed in a way he rarely showed the younger Wolves. “I did indeed,” he said, before taking a long pull on the half tankard of watered-down White Gull in his hand. He waved the tankard in Lambert’s direction. “This was a good batch. Blackberries?”

Lambert returned a lazy, drunken grin from his own place reclined back on a pile of pillows and furs. “Gotta do sumting to make it taste better than fuckin’ acidic piss.”

Eskel, in another chair, his feet propped up on the edge of the settee holding Geralt and Jaskier, turns a puzzled gaze to the sleeping human in their midst. He’s not near as drunk as Lambert, but his words are slow and carefully enunciated. “He’s asleep in a den of Witchers. Like . . . like . . .”

Geralt huffs out of breath. “Like he doesn’t think we’re a bunch of monsters like every other human? Like he can’t imagine not trusting us? Like he isn’t afraid?"

“Boy’s never been afraid,” Vesemir interjects, drawing the attention of the others as he chuckled again. “Second time I stumbled onto him he ran straight to danger instead of running away like any sensible human.

Now it was Geralt’s turn to laugh. “Let me guess, there was a girl involved.” He shook his head. “At least now I know he’s never had a sense of self preservation.”

It’s Vesemir’s turn to look over at the sleeping bard. “You know why? You’ve felt it, haven’t you?”

Geralt reached out and pulled up the fur that had slipped down over Jaskier’s shoulder. “He chases Destiny like he chases the songs he sings.” There is sorrow in his voice as he says the words. “I’ve never wanted him entangled in her clutches.”

“You think you drag the boy down.” It’s a statement, not a question. “Entangle him in your life and the threads of Destiny that bind you.”

Silence swirled around them, heavy and close. When Geralt finally spoke, his voice was soft, barely disturbing the silence. “It’s not my destiny, is it?” A pause. “When did you know?”

Vesemir’s mug is held out to Eskel. “Pour me another.” They wait patiently as his mug is poured and Vesemir takes a drink. “I began to suspect the second time I met him.” He lets out a silent laugh, more air than sound. “You were right, there was a girl. And a fucking pack of wargs. Knew for sure on the third meeting.”

“And the Cat?”

Vesemir took a sip of his drink. “Guxart knew the first time he met the boy.” He shrugged. “Cats have always been more attuned to that sort of thing.” A chuckle rose up. “You should have seen the old bastard. He was ready to adopt the boy and send him back to the Cat’s caravan right there.”

“So, he’s tied to you?”

Vesemir shook his head. “No. Guxart and I think he’s tied to us. Witchers. I don’t think it’s just Wolf School either. Not after Guxart.” His head shook again. “I admit, in the beginning I thought that Destiny had somehow linked me to him. It wasn’t until later I suspected the true nature of the tie. Knew for sure when you started talking about traveling with a bard and I couldn't go to an inn without hearing songs of 'The White Wolf.'  We are a dying breed. There will be no more of us and every year fewer of us remain.” He glanced over at Jaskier again. “What future we will have, what legacy outlives even our long lives, will, I believe, be due to him. He is not our destiny. We are his.”

Vesemir laughed then, a carefree sound that the others rarely heard, breaking the sober mood. “Let me tell you about the first time a Witcher met Julian.”