Archive of Our Own

A Chance, Just One

Warm drizzle, the sort that fell just at the cusp of autumn, when the leaves were only just beginning to turn, dampened Geralt’s cloak, weighed down his boots. In his hand, Roach’s rein had long since become slickened, so much so that he’d had to remove his gloves merely to keep his grip on her. Behind him, a shadow followed, bedraggled and slow, feet dragging furrows into the sodden mud beneath their feet.

     Geralt withheld a sigh, resisted the urge to reach out and comfort his child surprise. Constantly glamoured into nothing more than a shadow, a blemish in the environment that the eyes skipped over, like they would skip over a divot of erosion in a brick, a wood-knot hole in a fence, Cirilla could only be interacted with safely hidden outside of town. The illusion only held if Geralt acted as if nothing were there, resisted the urge to offer his own cloak when hers was already bundled tightly around her, pretended like he couldn’t see her, pretended that she didn’t exist.

     It wasn’t a game he liked, but to protect her, it would have to suit. Nilfgaard was on the march, moving ever northward, and they were barely outpacing the forces, the destruction wrought. So little time did they have, that Geralt was willing to put this unsound plan of his into action.

     At first, it had seemed like simplicity itself to find an unpopulated area and contact Yennifer through the xenovox she had left in his charge, but it wasn’t long before Geralt realised how difficult would truly be. Urban areas were too dangerous. Anybody could be a Nilfgaardian spy, could sell information of a witch coming to visit a Witcher to Nilfgaard forces, and it was fairly obvious who both Witcher and witch would be.

     Worse, forests were just as unsafe to work with. Being so close to the levelling of kingdoms, Geralt and Ciri could barely pass a day without seeing caravans of people fleeing the carnage. And where there weren’t people – and oftentimes where there were, too – there were monsters. Geralt could hardly use the xenovox while he was battling for both his and his child surprise’s life.

     With seemingly all options out, Geralt was left to find somewhere safe, in as fast a manner as he could. He had been beginning to give up hope, beginning to think that he would have to transport Ciri all the way across the continent to Kaer Morhen himself, whilst somehow managing to outrun Nilfgaard, all the while searching for a certain silk-clad bard along the way. A daunting task, one he assuredly felt couldn’t be done.

     But then Geralt had met a Witcher from the School of the Manticore, a man named Vekhet. They had camped together in a storm under an overhang, water splashing from the ground and back up towards their faces, anointing them in the new, darker world. Ciri had been wrapped up and tucked away in the shadows, as hidden from sight as possible, though Geralt had been keenly aware of her fear scent. He knew that Vekhet would have been, too. He had sat there tense, bristling for most of the night. Eventually it had been Ciri herself who had soothed him, who had crept out of the shadows and into the golden ring of firelight. With pinkened fingers, she had reached for his wrist, had run soothing fingers over his forearm until he had relaxed just slightly, just enough.

     It had allowed room for conversation, stilted though it may have been, and while Vekhet had not heard nor seen any evidence of a somewhat flamboyant travelling bard on his travels, he had heard of a safe place for Witchers, had stayed there himself, had recommended it. Lettenhove, home to the Viscount de Lettenhove. Julian, Vekhet had declared. The name had seemed familiar to Geralt, but try as he might as he sat next to the crackling fire, the rushing sound of hammering rain outside the shelter of their little camp lulling him, Geralt could not recollect where he heard it before.

     When they had parted ways, Geralt had taken all of three hours before he had altered his and Ciri’s course. Originally, he had been planning to sweep past Lettenhove on principle, on the fact that he had heard the name Julian before, in context with Lettenhove, but he couldn’t place why. Unnerved by it, avoidance had been his chosen strategy. But Ciri had begun to look sick, a slight shine to her skin that suggested a fever sheen. She had been stumbling so much that Geralt had plucked her up and put her atop Roach, despite her vehement protests that she wanted to walk, and within minutes she had been dozing. Geralt had realised that they needed to rest, badly so, and Lettenhove had not been far.

     It had taken days, days in which Ciri had only got worse, but by the time they reached the gates of the city she had slid herself from Roach’s back and started to trip and fumble along behind him. Geralt wanted to tell her to get back on Roach, to stay secure and unnoticed above the crowds, but inside the city he couldn’t. Ciri had known what she was doing, and Geralt could only grind his teeth in taciturn silence.

     Together they trekked on, Ciri having the good sense to step where Geralt had stepped after he had drawn attention the tracks she was leaving behind, silently and gruffly, merely a finger of his pointing them out.

     Hardly anybody was outside, Geralt noted, most using the rain as an excuse to pack up their market stalls early, as an excuse not to have to ply their trade late into the night. Above, the sky was darkening, and inside the windows were brightening, flickering light creeping through gaps in the shutters, a path picked out for them by flame.

     Those few who were still outside, quickly deconstructing stalls or rolling barrels onto carts, spared them wary looks as they passed. Though Geralt supposed they were only for him, Ciri passing unnoticed behind her. Only those with the sight would be able to see her, and ordinary humans did not have the sight. Changelings, half-elves, half-anythings really, but when Geralt scented the air he could smell only work-wearied humans, sweat-salty and rain-dampened.

     With their way unimpeded by the late evening market, Geralt and Ciri made good time through the city, soon leaving the muddied streets behind for straw-strewn paving, puddles catching the flames and throwing them, beautiful patterns dancing on the walls in time with the raindrops. It was the sort of place Geralt imagined a lovelorn woman walking down in one of Jaskier’s ridiculous romances, the books he picked up in one town and left behind in another, tucked tidily on the washstands of the rooms they shared. A jolt ran through Geralt like a crossbow bolt; he didn’t know if Jaskier still did that, if Jaskier could even afford to carry more than the bare minimum with no mount to share the burden.

     Quashing his feelings under the next step of his boot, Geralt led them until the streets were no longer strewn with dampened stalks of straw. Instead, they were clean swept, inviting, beckoning, all winding towards a massive courtyard opening up before the large sprawl of a manor house. The doors were closed. Geralt was not going to let that dissuade him.

     Steeling himself, he traversed the stairs, one foot after another. Behind him, Ciri stumbled upwards, her freezing fingers catching on the edge of his armour, her weakened arms barely managing to hold her weight. Geralt wished he could steady her, but the door was opening before him, a servant standing just behind it, a nervous look in her small blue eyes. There was something almost delicate about her face, caught in the golden glow of candlelight, the blue of her eyes both familiar and not at the same time.

     When she didn’t talk, simply shut the door behind him and Ciri without even calling for a stable hand for Roach, Geralt cleared his throat, explained, “I heard the Marquis welcomed my kind.”

     “Tha’ he does, Sir,” to Geralt’s surprise, the woman bobbed a hurried curtsey to him, wringing her calloused hands in her apron. “I’ll warn him of your entrance, Sir, and get you a stable hand an’ all.”

     Her speech was accented, lower-class, but to the Witcher’s surprise she didn’t sound as nervous as she looked. Rather, her voice rang clear, as only someone used to speaking their mind and getting little in the way of reprimand for it did. The way she moved, the way she wrung her hands, must have been unease at standing still, because the second she turned to move away, curly blonde hair escaping from its pins as she hurried, her entire demeanour changed, her fidgety nature falling by the wayside.

     “Right,” Geralt muttered to the empty room, her form already having rounded a corner and disappeared. “I’ll just… wait here, then.”

********************

Not too long later, the servant was back, more curls than before escaping from underneath her cloth cap. Though still in good spirits, she looked wild and harried. She ushered Geralt after her with a smile on her lips, as if she thought they were playing a game. Geralt might even have been amused by her antics, were it not for the very sick young girl following after him.

     “This way, this way,” the servant hurried, leading them towards a large set of doors, behind which Geralt could smell roast meat and herb-seasoned vegetables. Someone had been or was currently eating well behind those doors. “Master Julian said ter put you in here, see, but he said he might no be in there when you go in, but tha’ he definitely will be in there soon. I’ve sent a stable boy ter look at your horse, by the way. So in you go, now, Sir, if you would.”

     With that, she threw the doors open wide, stepping aside to let Geralt and Ciri enter first.

     “Thank you, Ailma,” said a very familiar voice, and Geralt’s heart caught in his chest. He knew that voice. Knew it very, very well. Refused to look. A gesture, a casually waved hand suggesting departure. “If you would, please, Ailma.”

     “Right you are, Master Julian,” Ailma bobbed another cut-short curtsey, a smile still playing around her lips, and shuffled backwards out of the room, pulling the doors shut behind her.

     Silence fell.

     It stretched, heavy, almost oppressive. It wrapped itself around Geralt, sinking into him, right down to his very bones, and every desperate hope, every apology over-thought out in the dark, every moment he had turned to one side ready to share a comment, a glance, expecting to find Jaskier and finding nothing and nobody at all, nothing but the silence, lonelier than it had ever been, sank down with it. Frozen, he could do nothing.

     “Not even a hello for me, Geralt?” Jaskier asked, rising from his seat before the remains of his meal, picked at, barely touched. “It’s been months. Surely you’re not still angry.”

     “Not angry,” Geralt agreed, lips numb. His mouth barely moved; his vocal cords stifled. He doubted Jaskier heard him at all. Louder, so the bard could hear, he added, “Relieved.”

     “Are you, Geralt? Truly?” Jaskier asked, though he didn’t sound convinced. Geralt supposed it was his own fault; he hadn’t even conjured up a smile for the man. Though, Geralt was certain that the time they had been parted was not long enough for Jaskier to have forgot that Geralt was not one for emotional displays. He wasn’t certain that he had the mental fortitude to even encourage an uptick of his lips right then.

     Upon Jaskier’s reaction – a slight flinch, and then those blue, blue eyes turning away, sliding over the room – Geralt knew that his attempt had failed. It must have looked just as forced as it had felt.

     Silence fell between them, broken by nothing but Jaskier’s breathing, his heartbeat, and Ciri’s own heavier breaths. Behind him, Ciri shifted, and Geralt noticed that Jaskier’s eyes flew in her direction. By all accounts, it didn’t make sense. Geralt had tested the glamour to ensure it had worked multiple times; those without the sight could not see the princess.

     But then, Geralt supposed, Jaskier had travelled with him for a very long time. It would be only in keeping with Jaskier’s aptitude – Geralt had never missed it, as much as he had pretended that the man was a mere fool – for Jaskier to notice a place where his eyes slid easier over reality, where they couldn’t even focus.

     When Jaskier’s eyes slid away after a few moments, with no change of expression, no hint that he had actually seen a young girl standing behind Geralt, he breathed a silent sigh of relief.

     “Why are you here, Geralt?” Jaskier sounded tired, all of a sudden, and he turned and sank into the chair skew to the table, elbow resting on the arm as he rubbed his forehead. “I get the feeling it wasn’t to see me.”

     “I didn’t know you would be here,” confirmed Geralt, drawing a step nearer. Then, because Jaskier deserved to hear it, to understand, “I am glad to have found you, though.”

     “Why wouldn’t I be here?” Jaskier asked, forehead still resting on pressing fingers. In the candlelight of the room, his face was thrown into deep shadows. He looked as tired as Geralt had remembered seeing him only once, after he had fallen ill on the Path, shadows like harsh bruises under his eyes. “Geralt, you knew where to find me.”

     “No,” he shook his head just once, sharply. He hadn’t known where to find Jaskier. That was why he had been searching, why he had been so stressed while transporting Ciri northwards. He had hoped that Jaskier had had the good sense to move north, too, but he hadn’t known. Ardently, he had hoped that they would encounter Jaskier on the Path, that he would be able to give his apologies, bring Jaskier with him, bring him where it would be safe, but he hadn’t known. “I didn’t know.” Then, because if he wanted to prove to Jaskier that he should come, he was going to have to learn to be more articulate, “I believed you would be on your way to Oxenfurt by now.”

     “It doesn’t take all autumn to travel to Oxenfurt, dear,” Jaskier straightened, waving away that concern. But though a pet name had absently fallen from his lips, the way it had used to while they had travelled together, he didn’t look happy. Upset had settled into his features, his lips having tightened, his eyes hardened. “Is there a reason you thought I would not be here?”

     Repressing the urge to sigh, Geralt pointed out, “No.”

     “Articulate as ever, Geralt,” Jaskier drew himself up out of his chair, his bruise-purple silks shining darkly in the candlelight. It reminded Geralt of the colour of internal bleeding, a painful death. It didn’t suit his – the – bard. When Jaskier finally drew near, close enough to reach out and touch if Geralt dared, he asked, “Why are you here, then? What drew you to Lettenhove?”

     “A Witcher,” Geralt admitted, mind desperately trying to think of what to say, of how to explain. “He said, the Viscount is friendly towards my kind.”

     “And so he is,” Jaskier nodded, drawing back a few steps. Geralt tried not to let his breath rush out of him. He had taken a large inhale when Jaskier had come close, had smelled that odd burnt-sugar and wildflower smell that was purely Jaskier, that had been Jaskier ever since they had met, no matter how many different herbal or floral soaps he had tried. That smell had always been there, lingering, a constant in Geralt’s life. Now, as Jaskier backed away, he found himself to be missing the subtle intensity of it all over again. “Which Witcher did you meet? Not Ithmi? I had hoped he had left the area, for the safer paths to the north.”

     “Vekhet,” Geralt said, then expanded as much as he could, “School of the Manticore.”

     “And he was heading south?”

     “How do you know?” Geralt asked, eyebrow raising, ready to step back if a threat emerged. This was Jaskier, but there was no telling about the Viscount, nor about Jaskier’s willingness to trust complete strangers.

     “You came in through the south gate, Geralt.” Jaskier’s tone had gone flatter, devoid of all emotion now. He clenched his hands around the edges of his unlaced doublet (Geralt wanted to ask if he ever bothered to lace them up, outside of royal occasions, but knew the question wouldn’t be well-received), fingers going white with how tightly clenched them, material crumpling under his curled fingers. “There were no spies. Ailma told me you came in through the south entrance.”

     Feeling ridiculous, Geralt merely conceded the fact, one hand coming to wrap around the strap to his scabbards, tight across his armoured chest.

     “Hmm,” he hummed, then allowed his gaze to wander around the room. It was small, intimate, clearly made for the Viscount to have meals with only his closest family or guests. The walls were draped in forest green curtains, golden tassels and fringing catching the candlelight, throwing a glow around the room. Rain beat on the expensive glass windows, picking up. In the centre of the room, the table was dark, spread with candles and foliage décor. Notably, there was only one place set. Fixing on it, Geralt asked, “Is the Viscount coming?”

     “’Is the Viscount coming?’” Jaskier echoed, voice hard. When Geralt turned to face him again, he looked more betrayed than Geralt had ever seen, more so even than he had on that thrice-damned mountain, where Geralt had tried to chase him off. Hadn’t just tried, but succeeded. “Did you really ask that question, Geralt?” Unwavering, Geralt stared at him. He wasn’t sure where he had gone wrong. “Did you really listen to nothing I ever said? Did you pay so little attention that you cannot even answer such a question for yourself?”

     Riled by Jaskier’s words, the waver in them, Geralt found his own defence bubbling up. It spat from his mouth, violent in its delivery. He hadn’t thought that these truths, when he had delivered them, if he had ever delivered them, that he would deliver them like this.

     “I know enough,” he stepped closer to Jaskier, forgetting Ciri, forgetting to be vigilant for the Viscount’s entry, forgetting everything but the words forcing their way out of his mouth. “I know you’re not as incompetent as you pretend to be, I know that you have a rivalry with a bard named Valdo – one you wished death upon. I know you know how to use a sword, and a dagger, and ride a horse, though you rarely ever do because you don’t like it. I know you don’t like your father; I know your mother used to call you ‘little Julek’; I know you chose soaps based on my senses; and I know you followed me for twenty-two godsdamned fucking years, Jaskier!”

     A slow blink, then a step back. Jaskier’s expression cracked open, revealing something soft and vulnerable underneath it. His lips parted, tongue darting out to lick at them, candlelight catching on the wet left behind.

     Just as suddenly his expression stitched back together, closed off, hardened.

     “You know all that, and yet you couldn’t listen to the most basic fact I ever gave you?” He asked, arms moving awkwardly, as if he weren’t sure where to place them. Fists rested on his hips for a moment, then palms splayed across his thighs, before his fingers curled back around his open doublet.

     “What fact?” Geralt asked, exasperated. More because this apology wasn’t going how he had hoped it would go, late at night when he had let himself think about it, but also because of Jaskier’s melodramatics.

     “My name,” Jaskier stressed, looking around as if he would garner support elsewhere. Geralt checked behind him, looking to Ciri, and saw a surprising amount of sympathy for the bard on her fevered, dirt-smudged face, and something akin to recognition. It almost seemed that she wanted to run to the bard, to throw her arms around him and not let go. Geralt dismissed it as nonsense, his own imagination, and turned back to Jaskier.

     “Your name is Jaskier.” Geralt said, then, “Why would you need another one?”

     “Jaskier isn’t my real name, Geralt,” Jaskier sounded infinitely hard done by. “I’m Julian. Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove.”

     At first, understanding refused to set in. Geralt simply told him, “You were Jaskier.” Then it dawned on him, and he cocked his head in surprise, eyes widening. “You’re the Viscount?” 

     “I’m the Viscount,” Jaskier confirmed, spreading his arms wide, almost mockingly.

     Julian Alfred Pankratz. It ran through his mind, ringing bells Geralt hadn’t known were there to be rung. Julian Alfred Pankratz. I’ve heard that name before.

     Then, “At the mountain. You introduced yourself as that.”

     Jaskier flinched so slightly Geralt almost didn’t see it, then threw his arms in the air dramatically, turning a circle. Always performing. “He remembers. Finally.” Almost bitterly, he muttered, “And I’ve introduced myself as such a lot more places, besides. In front of you, no less.”

     “Jaskier,” Geralt’s voice was practically a growl. Letting his hand drop back to his side, he bowed his head, raised it again, looked a waiting Jaskier directly in the eye. “I came here for a reason.”

     “I rather suspect you did, yes.” Again, Jaskier’s eyes darted to where Ciri stood behind Geralt, though they flicked back to Geralt quickly enough that he was assured the bard couldn’t actually see her, even if he knew something was there. “So be a dear and tell me what it is, and we can end this farce of an interaction.”

     “Jaskier,” Geralt grit his teeth, his voice more gravel than clarity.

     When Jaskier simply urged him on with a gesture of his hand, Geralt lifted one of his own, urged the princess closer with two fingers. Tripping forward to stand behind him, her tattered cloak brushed against his legs. A small hand came out to grip at the lacing on his armour, clammy and trembling. Geralt was surprised she was even still on her feet, and cursed the fact that he had let his reunion with Jaskier get in the way of getting Ciri sorted, settled, safe.

     Lifting his hand, Geralt reached for the necklace around Ciri’s neck, knocking her hood back as he lifted it from its spot nestled between her collarbones. It caught briefly on her chin, her nose, but then came away, lifting the glamour from her, leaving her standing tucked slightly behind Geralt, trembling, shivering.

     Not even an intake of breath hinted at Jaskier’s surprise. Geralt turned back to him.

     “Cirilla,” he introduced, “My child surprise.” To her, he said, “Jaskier.”  

     Jaskier’s eyes, which had been fixed on Ciri with so much sympathy, flicked to Geralt quickly, then back to the child. Holding a hand out, Jaskier beckoned her forwards, urging her to his side. She took a few halting steps to him, then began to hurry, reaching him and flinging her arms around his ribcage, her face pressing firmly into his chest. He let out a wet chuckle, hand coming up to comb gentle fingers through her hair.

     “Oh, darling, I thought I recognised you standing there,” his tone was warm and soft, a small, saddened smile flittering around the corners of his mouth as he gazed fondly down at the princess. “I’m so sorry, Cirilla. But I’m glad this great lump managed to find you.”

     “Ciri,” she croaked, pulling back just enough to look up into Jaskier’s face. “Please call me Ciri.”

     “Oh, Ciri,” Jaskier cooed. He brushed his fingers over the back of her cheeks, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear before his fingers crept up to her forehead, resting there over the sweat-sheened skin. “Of course.” Guiding his fingers to the back of her head, Jaskier urged her into burying her nose against his chest again, eyes seeking out Geralt’s over her head. Very quietly, Geralt could hear muffled sobs, bitten back but still emanating from the girl in Jaskier’s arms. Her shoulders were shaking, and Jaskier’s palm moved to her back, hushing her softly before he said, “You’re very sick. What has Geralt been doing with you?”

     “Nilfgaard was not far behind,” Geralt defended, stepping closer. Close enough to press a hand to Ciri’s back. Jaskier’s fingers bumped his, then snatched upwards, weaving back into Ciri’s curly hair. “We couldn’t afford to stop.”

     “Lucky you made it here, then,” Jaskier declared, evidently putting aside his differences with Geralt for a moment. Grateful for it, the Witcher tucked aside the guilt he felt, the desire to talk things out with Jaskier, and focused on the girl huddled between them, weeping and feverish. “There will be at least a short time to rest.”

     “Nilfgaard wasn’t far behind us,” Geralt reiterated.

     “We have at least the night,” Jaskier argued, pulling Ciri closer to himself. Geralt wondered where that closeness between them came from, but filed it away as a question for later, if Jaskier would grant him a later, grant him that boon. There was enough care in Jaskier’s actions that he didn’t register them as a threat; not that he was worried Jaskier would sell the two of them out anyway. “Come, hand me the glamour. I’ll take you to a bedchamber you can use to recover your strength in. We won’t be far, Ciri darling, but you need to rest.” Drawing back, Jaskier tipped Ciri’s chin up, looked into her trusting eyes. “You’ll be safe, I swear it.”

     Ciri bit her lip, froze, then nodded. Giving her an encouraging smile, Jaskier held out his hand towards Geralt, fingers closing towards his palm a few times in encouragement. Geralt dangled the glamour over Jaskier’s palm, then dropped it. At the same time, Jaskier was tucking more hair behind Ciri’s ear, and Geralt was cursing the easy familiarity they shared, wishing he could be anywhere near as comforting as Jaskier was. He had been useless with her sickness, other than keeping her out of Nilfgaard’s clutches, just as he had been useless with Jaskier’s sickness many years previous.

     With the glamour disguising Cirilla once again, Jaskier pulled back from her, though he took her hand. To Geralt’s surprise, Ciri reached to link their own hands together, her hot-cold fingers curled around his. Her big grey eyes were fixed on him when he looked down at her, and she gave him a weak and most definitely unhappy smile. Then, with Jaskier leading the way, they left the intimate dining room and headed towards the stairs, towards Jaskier’s promised safety.

…………………………….

Ten minutes later, Geralt found himself ensconced in a well-situated room, perfect for defence. It was dark, the wood almost black in colour, but touches of Jaskier’s sometimes bizarre taste decorated the room. On the wall to Geralt’s left, his back to the door, was a window seat, cushions of riotous colours turning it into a reading cranny. On the bed to his right, carvings in Jaskier’s inaccurate hand wrapped around the posts. One looked suspiciously like he and Yennifer kissing, scratched out with angry, violent scores. Geralt narrowed his eyes at it, but refrained from comment.

     “This is your room,” Geralt remarked instead, moving to stand on a cowskin rug.

     Jaskier’s surprised expression turned to one of mild annoyance when he saw the boot prints Geralt had left on the rug. He tutted, then turned back to the fireplace he was kneeling at, ready to light a flame. Preparing himself to use igni, Geralt soon found it would be superfluous. Jaskier had already got a fire lit, adept from travelling so long with Geralt, he supposed. He tried to school his expression into something approving.

     “Oh, don’t give me that look,” Jaskier groaned, rising to his feet. Ciri was standing near the doorway, and he crossed the room to her, extending a hand out to draw her further into the room. She went willingly. “I didn’t learn how to light a fire because of you, Geralt. I learnt to light a fire because I had to travel without you. I absolutely would have left you to use your magic every time, otherwise.”

     “Hmm,” Geralt responded, not missing the way Jaskier rolled his eyes to the heaven’s. But there was nothing else to say, except that he was sorry, and he knew it wasn’t the right time for that, not with Ciri needing care. If there was one thing Geralt knew about Jaskier (and he knew a lot, loath to admit it as he was), it was that Jaskier was far more practical than he let on, and far more likely to sort out someone else’s messy feelings before his own. Especially if children were involved.

     “Come, darling,” Jaskier drew Ciri towards the bed, throwing his hand to the side in an odd gesture. When Geralt didn’t immediately get it, the bard threw an exasperated glance over his shoulder, blue eyes unimpressed. With a meaningful nod towards a washstand supporting a bowl, pitcher and cloth, Jaskier turned back to Ciri, drawing the blankets back with one hand as he waited for her to divest herself of shoes and cloak. Encouraging her to lie down on the bed with the other hand, he soothed, “Let’s get you settled.”

     Crossing the room, the Witcher had a wet cloth in hand within seconds, returning to Jaskier’s side with it in almost an instant.

     Plucked from his grip, the cloth quickly made its way to Ciri’s face, Jaskier cleaning the muck, grime and sweat from her skin in soothing strokes, before taking the cloth and folding it the other way, clean side out. Gently, he placed it on her forehead, before brushing his hand back, smoothing her hair to her head.

     “Rest,” Geralt told her, wanting to feel useful. “We’ll be here.”

     “We certainly will not,” Jaskier told him, and Geralt didn’t miss the way Ciri tensed, opened her mouth to protest, grey eyes widened with panic. Shushing her, Jaskier furthered, “We will be in the room next door, darling. Geralt and I have a lot to discuss, and us doing so in here would only disturb you. You need to get your strength back. As Geralt says, rest. I swear you’ll be safe.”

     It took a moment, Ciri studying them with her wide, clouded eyes, but eventually she gave a tiny nod, her chin set, resolute. From the corner of his eye, Geralt noticed the way Jaskier’s smile curled upwards, the corners of his eyes crinkling. In the firelight, it almost seemed as if his irises were glowing, almost seemed as if his ears were tapered to points, but when Geralt turned his head to look at him fully, it was just Jaskier standing there, as ordinary and extraordinary as he had ever been.

     “Rest,” Geralt said again, pressing his hand to the bed near to where Ciri’s rested. “You will be safe.”

……………………………

To Jaskier’s word, they really did only move next door, though Jaskier disappeared for a few moments to get Ailma – apparently a particularly trusted servant – to watch the door to Cirilla’s room while pretending to wait on the two of them. Geralt was tense while he waited for him, and it surprised him to realise that the only reason he felt safe within the manor was because Jaskier was there to vouch for him, in some ways to defend him. It felt strange to realise, so he tried to quash it, to secret it away inside him, even from himself.

     Despite his efforts, he still relaxed when Jaskier came through the heavy door to the room, his doublet laced up all the way, his expression wary. Clutched in his hands was his lute, though it didn’t seem as if Jaskier had any intentions of playing it. More, he seemed to want something held between them, almost like a shield. That realisation made Geralt’s lip curl. Jaskier’s expression became more apprehensive. Geralt could have cursed.

     Already sitting in an overly ornate wingback chair – one that didn’t seem to be to Jaskier’s taste – it wasn’t surprising when Jaskier sank down into the one across from him. Both chairs were turned inwards, sat on a curve around the fireplace. This one was empty, only the glow of the candles Geralt had discovered on the mantle lighting the room.

     Silence fell between them, charged. Jitters seemed to run through the bard’s body, and he kept opening and closing his mouth, almost as if he wanted to say something but kept thinking better of it. Or perhaps he was cowed by Geralt’s expression. He tried to school it, soften his features, to encourage conversation. From the concerned twitch Jaskier gave towards him, he suspected that he hadn’t managed to do a very good job.

     Sighing, he eventually broke the silence, admitted, “I need to contact Yennifer.”

     “Of course you do,” Jaskier’s tone was almost bitter, and Geralt didn’t wonder why. Jaskier had never had the best relationship with the witch, and he didn’t think that the last time they had met would have helped matters. Jaskier was intelligent. He would have worked out very quickly that Geralt’s outburst had had very little to do with him, and very much to do with her. A sigh escaped the bard’s lips, heavy with disappointment, before he waved his arm magnanimously, said, “Get on with it, then.”

     Pulling out the xenovox, Geralt did just that. Ignoring the comments Jaskier was muttering (“I’ve never seen one of those up close.’ And “They look rather disgusting, don’t they?”), Geralt activated it, used it to contact Yennifer. To his relief, she was quick to respond, though she sounded tense. Hurrying him, after duly berating him for contacting her when she had specifically told him to leave her be, she fell silent when Geralt explained the situation. Finally, after so long Geralt began to suspect she had decided not to come, she admitted that she was rather busy, that she would be where he was soon, and that he should give coordinates.

     Without thinking, Geralt told her to meet him at the Pankratz manor in Lettenhove, ignoring Jaskier’s spluttered protests.

     “I’ll be there,” Yennifer informed him, and then she left. Geralt didn’t know how he knew, he simply did, but he was aware he would be getting no further answers out of her that evening.

     “Well,” Jaskier commented eventually, plucking a single string of his lute. “That sounded like it went swimmingly.”

     “Jaskier,” Geralt growled warningly, before sighing. It wasn’t the bard’s fault that he had ruined things with Yennifer because of his wish. Besides, the situation they were in now, Jaskier angry and prodding at Geralt in his softest areas, was because of Geralt’s lashing out. It would serve no purpose to shout at him more. Biting his tongue on his snappish retorts, he instead offered, “Come with us.”

     “Excuse me?” Jaskier asked, one hand slapping softly against the lute in surprise. A dull thumping arose from the action, a shockwave of surprise cresting the air.

     “To Kaer Morhen,” Geralt continued, not daring to look at the bard.

     Instead, he trained his gaze on the candles, watched as the wax dripped into a puddle where they rested on the candelabras, as the flame guttered and flickered in the draft from the window.

     “And why should I do that?” Jaskier asked. A haughtiness had crept into his voice, but Geralt was sure it was a cover. There was something achingly vulnerable underneath, soft and delicate, the yolk behind the bard’s cracking shell. “What purpose would it serve, after you so desperately wanted me to take myself off of your hands?”

     It was an opening to an apology, he knew that, but the words wouldn’t come. There was no way he could think of to fix the hurt he had caused, no reality he could fathom where Jaskier would actually forgive him for what he had said after mangled attempt at an apology. Certain that he would put his foot in it, that he would only make things worse if he attempted to display his regret, his guilt, Geralt bypassed it entirely.

     “Nilfgaard might come after you.”

     A heavy sigh, and then, “Geralt, it would serve Nilfgaard no purpose coming after me. If you didn’t know the Viscount de Lettenhove was travelling with you for countless years—” Geralt wanted to break in, to say that it had been twenty-two, that he had known that, that it had mattered, but he didn’t – “then I fail to see how Nilfgaard forces will know to come after me.”

     “You’ve been allowing Witchers to stay,” he couldn’t keep that tone out of his voice, the one that hinted of jealousy. He wasn’t jealous, of course not, but still… Jaskier was his bard. Or he had been.

     “Yes, dear,” the bard waved him off with a lazy hand, sinking back into his chair. “And you don’t need to sound so jealous about it. In fact,” he continued, tone as casual as if he were commenting on the weather. Geralt barely contained his flinch. “You have no right to sound so jealous, after what you said to me. But I still fail to see how that would lead Nilfgaard to me.”

     “Vekhet was going south.” Frustration was building within Geralt. It was almost as if the bard were deliberately failing to see his point. He was definitely bringing up the mountain on purpose. “Nilfgaard is south.”

     “How astute an observation,” Jaskier plucked a few notes out on the lute, looking thoughtful. A wicked gleam came into his eyes suddenly, that blue that was always just a little too blue in low lighting flashing with something akin to spite, just for a moment. “I have to say, I haven’t been introducing myself to all of them as your bard. Because I’m not, I’ll have you know. I haven’t even been introducing myself as Jaskier, for that matter. So again, you’re going to have to come up with a better reason than Nilfgaard if you want to persuade me to go to Kaer Morhen with you.”

     Jaskier was pushing for an apology and Geralt knew it, but still the words would not broach his tongue, would not escape his lips.

     Desperately, he tried, “Lettenhove will fall.”

     It was only after he said it that he worried it had sounded too cruel, as if he had no faith in Jaskier’s abilities to lead, to protect.

     “Of that, I have no doubt.” It seemed Jaskier hadn’t been offended, at the very least. Geralt breathed in deeply, relieved. “But I am away to Oxenfurt in the winter, to teach. You weren’t wrong about that, even if you had the timing out, dear.”

     “Hmm,” Geralt raised an eyebrow at that. Leaning back, he belatedly realised he was still wearing his swords, his armour, and he reached a hand up to unlatch his blades from his back, let them lean against the chair he was sitting in, still too armoured to lean back comfortably.

    “Yes, yes,” Jaskier’s eyes rolled, his lute shifting until it sat upside down in his lap, strings to his thighs as he brushed his thumb over a carving of the Wolf School medallion that Geralt remembered to be there. “You think war is more important than learning. Some don’t always share your views, you great lump.”

     “They know you as Jaskier in Oxenfurt,” Geralt pointed out.

     For the first time, the bard actually appeared to be listening. Ear tilted towards Geralt, he reached down into his boot and pulled out a steel blade, one that Geralt recognised well. Hilt decorated with buttercups and dandelions, Geralt knew it to be one of the extortionately expensive daggers he had commissioned for Jaskier, back before they had fallen apart so drastically. Letting out a surprised breath, Geralt let his widened eyes meet Jaskier’s, before the bard’s fell away, back to the bottom of his lute. A ringed thumb brushed over the wood, before Jaskier brought the blade to it, ready to carve.

     Before he could stop himself, Geralt was reaching out, stilling the bard’s hand.

     “Don’t ruin it,” was all he said. “It is a beautiful lute.”

     “You don’t know the first thing about lutes,” Jaskier said, presumably just to be contrary, though he did move the lute from his lap, laid it down gently by the side of his chair. Dagger still in hand, he turned it over and over, then said. “They’ll be looking for me because they’re looking for you. I’m right, aren’t I?”

     This was something Geralt could apologise for, and though he had never done so in the past, it would be a start to do so here. He could work up to the real apology due. “Sorry.”

     Jaskier jerked at that, turned wide eyes on Geralt, before he chuckled almost bitterly, “I never thought I’d hear you say that to me.” Then, because he always had to have an answer ready, and because Geralt still hadn’t earned a yes, hadn’t earned the peace of mind it would give him if Jaskier would just go to Kaer Morhen with him, Jaskier added, “I’ll change my name, then. I’ll travel the north as Dandelion, become the new best bard on the continent, steal my own crown. Granted, I’ll have to change up my style a little, perhaps grow out my hair, maybe a beard, but I could do it. Go in disguise, I mean. And travel alone. I’m not as useless as you like to think, Witcher. I may be far from as at home with a sword as you are, but I do know how to use one, and have been getting some more pointers lately besides. These daggers have been used before, and not just for carving. I can stitch wounds, light fires, even set traps to hunt, should need arise. I shall be fine. You go to Kaer Morhen with Cirilla and Yennifer. I’ll stay here, where I won’t be shovelling any shit.”

     Hitting just as hard as Geralt suspected Jaskier wanted it to, the bard’s last sentence lingered in the air around them, coiled like a tiger, heavy as a tombstone. Neither moved to speak afterwards; neither dared. Geralt was fully aware that he would not get anything out of the bard without apologising, and Jaskier seemed content to sit and wait in the unbearable silence between them until he got the apology he desired. Fear that it would be a long night settled over Geralt like a shroud, weighted, constricting.

     Eventually, he broke, asked, even as he phrased it without questions, “Cirilla was glad to see you.”

     “And I her,” Jaskier was quick to respond. When Geralt turned to look at him, he was peering at Geralt shrewdly. “Just because you ran away from your destiny didn’t mean I did, Geralt. I played in Cintra every year for her birthday, and sometimes for other occasions, too. Did you not notice? I rather thought you had, you know.”

     Thinking back on it, Geralt had been aware that Jaskier had disappeared from his side for a few weeks at roughly the same time every year. He had thought nothing of it – Jaskier came and went as he pleased, and they often spent a few weeks apart here and there throughout the year – but now that the bard was mentioning it, Geralt did suppose that it made sense. Jaskier always had been more enticed by the idea of destiny than he, waxing poetic about it, passing off his fondness for it as adherence to the arts.

     “I didn’t get to know her well,” Jaskier continued. His brows were drawn, an almost concerned look resting upon his features. Leaning over the arm of the chair, he lowered his voice, as if in confession. “I didn’t want to steal your place in her life, Geralt, but to know that you managed to get to her in time, it is a weight off my chest. I would thank you, except that it is exactly what I knew you would do, and that you didn’t do it for my sake at all – especially since you didn’t even notice that I had been keeping an eye on your child surprise.” Thoughtfully, he paused, leaned back. “I suppose she was so relieved to see me because I am a familiar face, and one that you said she could trust, too. Honestly, Geralt. This is really your own fault.”

     “Hmm,” he agreed, wanted to tell Jaskier that he hadn’t been angry, had merely been surprised. The words died on his tongue, just like most other things he had ever wanted to say to the bard, every compliment, every offered nicety, every observation he had thought Jaskier would appreciate. Keeping a distance had protected him; until he had made the distance too far, had wrenched the thread looping them together asunder, had torn the breach too wide.

     “Oh, don’t give me that, Geralt,” Jaskier actually reached out and batted Geralt’s armoured bicep with the back of his hand, a gentle tap like he had used to give. Too fast, he withdrew his hand, curled it back towards his lap, wrapped the fingers softly around the blade held by his other hand, flirting with the pain it could draw. More subdued, he tried to patch things up, bring levity into their conversation, “You’ve been a veritable fountain of words this evening, Geralt, especially compared to your usual taciturn self. Please don’t return to your usual boorish grunts and hums now, I beg of you.”

     Geralt grunted, opened his mouth, froze, bit his lip. Then, “I’ve been.” He paused, tacked on. “Trying.”

     “Trying what, dear?” Jaskier asked, head tilting like a bird.

     In the flicker of the candlelight, his ears tapered to points, his eyes glowed, he looked almost fey. Then Geralt blinked, and the effect was lost. It was only his imagination, the way that Jaskier almost reminded him of a fey creature at times. The way he took so many lovers, the way he loved shiny things, his draw to his own reflection, even his violent nature (Jaskier always said he was a lover, not a fighter, but Geralt had never been in so many violent situations amongst townsfolk as he had been with Jaskier).

     But it was wishful thinking on his part, a hope that Jaskier would never be torn from his clutches by the cruel designs of time. Mortals aged, they faded, they died. Jaskier was amongst their number, and one day he would wither and fade, too. All the more reason for Geralt to get his apology out as soon as he could, to fix whatever was left to fix between them, before the bright flare of Jaskier’s life faded back into the ether from whence it had come. Yet still, Geralt could not force the words out.

     All he could offer instead was, “To speak my mind.”

     Jaskier paused, head tilting the other way. One of his fingers came up to stroke the line of his jaw, hooked over his chin, stayed there.

     “Yes, I rather suppose you have,” here he softened, as if the fight were going out of him. “And I haven’t been helping you, have I?” His eyes met Geralt’s dead-on then, and Geralt knew his next words would be important. “But Geralt, if you truly want to change, truly want me to come with you, truly want this to work, you are going to have to make an effort to communicate. I know I have become well-versed in your well-timed grunts and all your expressive stares – mostly scary face, with how often you direct it at me – but it would be far easier to communicate with you at times if you merely tried, darling. I’m not asking for all the time, or even most of the time, but there are some things that even your monosyllables, packed with meaning as they are, cannot get across.”  

     “I know,” Geralt confirmed, then fell silent.

     There was nothing else to say, to do, merely to wait for Yennifer, for her to take Ciri off their hands, off to safety, make their own way to Kaer Morhen (they had to show any spies that they didn’t have Ciri, and didn’t know where she was, after all), and meet Yennifer there. That was, if Jaskier would deign to travel with him. That was, if Geralt could get his apology out.

     Silence rushed to fill the spaces between them again. With no humming falling from Jaskier, nor muffled frets about his lyrics, his songs, it was almost as if it spilled from Jaskier’s lips, crashing into the air around them like water breaking over rocks, forcing the two of them under, suffocating them. Jaskier’s silence was deafening, and Geralt was compelled to wonder if Jaskier ever found his own silence oppressive, if he opened his mouth to babble so often because he was trying to keep afloat in the ocean of wordlessness between them.

     His wonderings seemed only confirmed when Jaskier began talking again, not too long later.

     “I do want to go with you, Geralt,” he said, “Honestly I do.” His dagger was slipped away into his boot again, fingers deft as they slipped from the weapon to his lute, settling it back on his lap, hiding behind it. “But there would be rules. You would have to prove to me that things would be different.”

     Geralt kept his silence, waited for Jaskier’s conditions.

     “You cannot allow me to be the scapegoat every time something goes wrong in your life, Geralt.” He held his hand up, stopping Geralt’s protesting words in his tracks. “And yes, I know that sometimes things are my fault. That first hunt after Posada, I know the reason you needed to see a healer was because I didn’t stay at the camp like you told me to. I know that what I did with the djinn was reckless and ridiculous – I could have killed a man, and while he is my rival, I shouldn’t have used supernatural means to end him. Lucky, really, that you had the djinn in your control, after all.”

     “Jaskier,” Geralt bit out, barely escaping the flinch that Jaskier’s words had inflicted upon him. He didn’t think he would ever be ready to hear that Jaskier thought what had happened with the djinn, any of it, but especially the part where Jaskier could have died, could have lost his voice, his meaning, his life, was better than what could have been.

     Jaskier paused at his name, but then waved Geralt off, began fiddling with the strings of his lute, busying himself as if tuning it, without actually tuning it.

     “Yes, yes, I know Geralt,” the strings made a discordant jangle as Jaskier became careless in what he was doing, too focused on the words like weapons between them to remember his simple task, to remember how he was defending himself. Geralt wanted to lean forwards, wrap his fingers around the neck of the lute and tug it from Jaskier’s hands, rest it on the floor between them. Together, they would be vulnerable, words flung like bruising rocks between them, but afterwards they would heal. Or lay there dead. He didn’t do that. He didn’t think Jaskier would have appreciated it. “You’re the one who has to live with the consequences, and I appreciate that, I do, but—”

     “Not better,” Geralt ground out, taking the time to fret that his voice had come out angered, a wolf’s growl. “You almost died.”

     “And Yennifer and you got linked together by a wish. I know, dear.” Jaskier finally stopped fiddling with the strings, straightened, looked at Geralt directly. “But my point stands. I can’t be treated as the scapegoat all the time, Geralt. I’m not a travelling money machine. I’m not actually an airhead, though I do act like one sometimes. The things you say hurt, Geralt, because I understand why you say them. I understand that it isn’t even about me, and that hurts.”

    “You’re right,” Geralt bit out, dredging up the words he knew Jaskier deserved. It was time to apologise, whether he wanted to or not, and he knew he was going to make a mess of it, but Jaskier still deserved to hear it, still deserved to know. “It wasn’t about you. The mountain. It was about Yennifer. I didn’t mean to. …Hurt. You.”

     “Well, that apology sounded just as enjoyable as having teeth pulled, Geralt,” Jaskier didn’t even complain, just stated it like a fact. There were no arguments to be made, either. It had felt like he was having his teeth pulled, right down to the ache in his mouth of a ragged hole made that he shouldn’t have, a pain he was promised would fix things, but had only made everything emptier, more painful. “And I hope you know, it not being about me only made it all the worse.”

     A frown pulled at Geralt’s lips, tugging them downwards. That didn’t make sense.

     “But I was angry at Yennifer,” he tried to reason. “At myself. It had nothing to do with you.”

     “It had a little to do with me, let us both be honest, Geralt,” Jaskier countered, “I pushed you when you were hurting, and that was unfair of me. But the way you reacted… That was unfair of you.”

     “You are my.” Geralt swallowed, rolled his eyes upwards, stared at the ceiling. There was a crack that had been hastily plastered over, a mar on an otherwise perfect expanse. Just for a moment, he clenched his teeth hard, then confessed, “Friend.”

     “Of that Witcher dear, I actually have no doubt.” When Geralt turned to look at the bard, there was a smile lingering on his lips. Something about it smacked of gratitude, and Geralt felt something in him wither. A friend should not look grateful, just to be labelled as such. Surprise made Geralt tense when Jaskier reached over, pressing a hand on top of Geralt’s gloved digits. “But I am not, I think, a friend you value so much as you do the few others you have.”

     Silence threatened to loom between them again, so Geralt blurted out, “You never left because of me before.” Wishing he could slap his hands over his mouth, contain the words that were rushing to escape, Geralt clenched his hands into fists on his thighs, breathed in deeply the scent of candle wax and burnt sugar in the air. “I.” Tongue darted out to alight on lip, wet it. He wondered how welcome this next confession of his would be, wanted to withhold it, decided to share it only in the interest of full honesty, “I thought you were safe.”

     “To take your frustration out upon?” Jaskier asked. There was no hint of anger to him, no bottled fury. Even his scent suggested that he was as relaxed as he could be in the situation, only the very slight bitterness of lemons tinging the air, suggesting he was uncomfortable. “Well, Geralt, there is only so much of that a man can take.” Looking slightly nervous, Jaskier shifted in his chair, clutched his lute closer to him. Geralt watched as his fingers tightened infinitesimally around the wood. “In the spirit of full disclosure, I must confess that I would likely have followed you around until age bent me crooked and stole my joints from me, robbed me of my voice, of my spriteliness. I would have followed you anywhere, Geralt, if you had been flinging your accusations at me for me. But you weren’t. You were flinging them at me because you were angry at something else – yourself, more often than not – and I was convenient. I was there. I had never run before. You could be reasonably certain that I would not run in the future.”

     “I know.” Bowing his head, Geralt let his hair fall forwards, let it hide his profile. “Jaskie—”

     The door flew open, thumping against the wall and making both Witcher and bard jump. Jaskier, to Geralt’s surprise, threw his lute forward with a cry, and it was only Geralt plucking it from the air and setting it gently aside as he turned to face the interruption, that saved the delicate instrument. Somewhere deep inside of Geralt, the hope that Jaskier had known that he would do that, had not fumbled after his lute because he knew that Geralt would do that, unfurled, rearing its ugly head. 

     “Master Julian!” It was Ailma, hair even more dishevelled than before. The hemline of her skirt was ripped now, too, hanging ragged, tangling around the tips of her shoes. Geralt heard Jaskier tut when he spied it. “There’s a woman a’ the door, said Athoy. He says she’s a beauty, wi’ pretty purple eyes and the most lovely dress you ever did see, an’ all.” She lowered her voice, eyes darting to Geralt before flittering back to Jaskier. “Athoy says she’s here to see the Witcher, Sir. Says tha’ she said the Witcher migh’ have a bard, Sir. I think she migh’ be lookin’ for you too, Sir.”

     “Yennifer,” Geralt said, in unison with Jaskier. They shared a glance, one steeped in resignation for Jaskier, though Geralt could feel nothing but a weight lifted.

     “Thank you, Ailma.” Jaskier rose, taking his lute from Geralt as he strode towards the doorway. Deftly, he gestured for Geralt to follow. Stooping to pick up his swords, he paced after Jaskier, almost growling when Ailma didn’t move out of the doorway in time. “Though that’s quite enough with all these ‘Sir’s. What have I said about it?”

     “I know wha’ you’ve said, Sir,” Ailma hurried along after them, tripping on her ripped hemline. Almost barrelling headfirst into Jaskier’s back, she was arrested only by Geralt reaching out to steady her. To his surprise, she didn’t flinch back or panic. No sour fear-scent diffused into the air. She just sent him a grateful smile, then continued following Jaskier like a duckling following its mother. “But the Earl does insist so, and I don’ want to cross him, if it’s all the same to you, Sir.”

     “The Earl’s not here.”

     “And the walls have ears.”

     To Geralt’s surprise, Jaskier let out a chuckle then, letting himself into Ciri’s – his – room. “Yes, I do suppose you’re right there, Ailma.” He paused in the doorway and looked back at the maid, one hand on the door, the other clutching his lute. “Do fetch up our darling witch, wouldn’t you? I suspect she isn’t feeling very patient.” When Ailma nodded and hurried away again, hands gathering up the folds of her skirt, her ankles and most of her calves very clearly on display, Jaskier beckoned Geralt inside, slipping into the fire-warmed room. “Come Geralt, let us wait and see what catty remarks Yennifer has for us today.”

……………………………….

Ciri had not stirred from the bed by the time Yennifer entered. Instead, she had swaddled herself in the blankets, caught them up around her and rolled with them until only a few locks of her hair were poking out from the sheets. Belatedly, Geralt realised that it was the first time she had found herself surrounded by finery since her kingdom fell, the first taste of home she had had in a very long time.

     So comfortable – or, more likely, dead to the world – was she, that she didn’t even murmur restlessly when Yennifer entered, Ailma behind her.

     The witch threw Ailma a sort of withering glance, slammed the door behind her before Jaskier could even get a thanks in for the woman, and threw her assessing, disapproving gaze around the room.

     “Jaskier.” Yennifer’s eyes skipped over Geralt, her mouth hardening into a thin line, her tone harsher than Geralt remembered. Obviously, she had not forgiven him for his djinn wish yet. Not that Geralt blamed her, though he regretted the fact that she was taking her ire out on Jaskier instead of him. “Geralt found you, then.”

     “What, nothing to say about my crow’s feet?” Jaskier sniped. Geralt met his eyes, shook his head. Jaskier knew full-well he didn’t have any crow’s feet. The sheer number of pots and bottles he had carried around in Roach’s packs was testament to that. “And what do you mean found me?” Jaskier seemed confused. Standing behind his corner desk, fingers of his free hand tangled into the lacing of his doublet, Jaskier stood defiant. “Although I do suppose that if you mean he accidentally stumbled into me upon his travels, then yes. Yes, you’re right.”

     “No,” Yennifer disagreed, a drawl in her voice. Her words dragged slightly, lounging between them, as if she had not a care in the world. “He was looking for you.”

     “I assure you, witch,” Jaskier countered, laying his lute carefully on the desk before him, then placing his hands on his hips. “He found me accidentally. He wasn’t expecting me to be here at all.”

     “And why would he expect you to be in Lettenhove?” Her tone was withering, the way her violet eyes fixed on Jaskier mocking, yet still bored. As if Jaskier were barely worth her time. “He was looking for a travelling bard, Jaskier, not a poorly decorated manor house.”

     Geralt was mollified. “You didn’t know he was a viscount, either.”

     “A viscount?” Genuine surprise seeped into Yennifer’s tone, and she peered at Jaskier through the firelit room with renewed interest. “You never told me that, bard.”

     “I was saying it all the time at the mountain!” Jaskier threw his hands up, his voice rising dramatically. “I was saying it all of the time. ‘I’m Julian Alfred Pankratz’. ‘I’m Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove’! Didn’t you hear me? Were none of you paying attention? Ever? I introduce myself by my title all the time!”

     Yennifer declined to speak, instead looking at Jaskier with a curled lip. Her expression only broke when the blankets on the bed unfurled, a small hand emerging, then another, and then a face poking out.

     “Jaskier?” Ciri asked, uncertain. Then, “Geralt?”

     When her eyes cleared, Geralt watched as they darted around the room fretfully, before coming to land on Yennifer. The princess froze, eyes widening, before darting to the side. Meeting her eyes, Geralt saw the question in them, the silent plea for assurance of her own safety, and Geralt was astonished at how relieving it was that he could give it to her. Nodding his head, he placed the swords he had been carrying down on the ground at his feet. Seeing so, Ciri relaxed, though only marginally.

     “Geralt?” Yennifer asked, the first time she had directly acknowledged him since she had arrived.

     “Yennifer,” Geralt responded, and new from the way Yennifer’s eyes widened that she had understood from his answer that the girl on the bed was exactly who she thought it was. As if in explanation, he added, “She has magic.”

     “Of course she does,” Yennifer said, obviously remembering the story of Ciri’s mother, Pavetta. “Would you care to explain why you called me to Lettenhove on such a foul night? Your explanation earlier left a lot to be desired.”

     Geralt glared at her. He knew she wasn’t that stupid.

     From the corner of his eye, Geralt watched as Jaskier, with a wearied sigh, gestured to his reading nook.

     “Take a seat, Yennifer,” Jaskier said, dropping heavily into the intricately carved chair (this time, not by Jaskier’s hand) behind his desk. “I fear we have much to discuss.”

……………………………

It had been with many hugs – far more than Geralt had ever suspected he would receive from the young woman – and gentle farewells and explanations for the princess, before Ciri and Yennifer had disappeared back through a portal, back to wherever it was Yennifer was laying low. On the one hand, Geralt was glad to see Ciri go, glad to watch as she portalled away into safety’s embrace. On the other, it meant that he was on his own again, with only the tense silence between him and Jaskier as company.

     “Did you mean it?” Geralt asked, watching as Jaskier fussed over the bedsheets.

     Fishing out the damp cloth from between the folds, Jaskier hummed in question, then looked up to meet Geralt’s eyes. This time, his eyes weren’t too blue in the firelight, but rather just enough, soft, gentle. Almost lulled back in time, back to days they had travelled together, had exchanged kind moments in firelit rooms, Geralt cleared his throat, stared Jaskier down.

     “Did you really search for me?” When Geralt just continued staring, Jaskier deflated. Looking down at his hands, worrying at the washcloth between them, he admitted, “Fine. I know that was true. Yennifer wouldn’t have bothered saying it if it hadn’t been.” The bard blinked, seemed to realise that the dampened cloth was between his hands for the first time, and jolted into crossing the room to the washstand. When he reached the dresser, he finally confessed, lip bitten, “In all honesty, Geralt, I don’t know.”

     “You don’t… know?”

     “I don’t know.” The washcloth landed in the water with a splash, some of it spilling over the edge of the water dish and landing on the stand beneath with a gentle patter. “When Ciri asked if she would see me soon, of course I was going to say yes. But… Geralt, you must understand. I do want to go with you.”

     “But there are rules.”

     “It’s not only that,” Jaskier admitted.

     He drew closer towards where Geralt stood, fingers curling back into the lacing of his doublet. He was worrying at it, and Geralt knew he was much more comfortable with his fancy outfits undone. Jaskier always preferred having his chemise on display, had sometimes even removed the doublet entirely when they were far from civilisation, traversing the forests alone. Even for a man evidently brought up by nobles, brought up learning to use swords and ride horses (and Jaskier’s odd, unexpected skillset all made sense now, where they hadn’t for a mere bard), Jaskier preferred the mobility of simple clothing. It was Jaskier’s draw to shiny things and pretty objects that had him wearing the silks and doublets, Geralt suspected.

     A light touch to his cheek drew his attention. It was only then that he realised Jaskier had said something, was searching his face to see his reaction, a lip bitten in fear? Anticipation? Hope? Geralt couldn’t tell.

     “What?”

     A gentle sigh, brushing like fingertips over Geralt’s face.

     “It wasn’t important, dear,” Jaskier whispered, then dropped his head down to Geralt’s armoured shoulder with a groan. Louder, he demanded, “Just tell me you’re sorry.”

     “I am,” with Jaskier asking it of him directly, Geralt found the words were easy, almost tripping over themselves to dance off his tongue. “Jaskier, I’m sorry.”

     Arms wound themselves around Geralt’s ribs, Jaskier’s head rolling until his forehead was no longer pressed to Geralt’s shoulder, but instead his cheek rested there, cradled. Nose tucked into Geralt’s neck, he breathed deep, and it hit Geralt like a shrieking kikimora that in the entire time they had known each other, while they were no stranger to touch, they had never once actually embraced. It was strange. It was new. But Geralt found that with Jaskier so close to him, smelling of burnt-sugar and wildflowers and something almost like reminiscence, he was helpless to do anything but raise his arms, press his splayed-wide palms to Jaskier’s back. With the armour it was uncomfortable, he was certain, but Jaskier didn’t complain. Instead, he just sighed contentedly, shuffled a little closer.

     “How about this?” Jaskier asked, eventually pulling back. His loss left Geralt’s arms feeling empty, his chest just a little hollower. “A trial run?”

     “A trial run?” Geralt couldn’t follow. How had their embrace, the first embrace he’d had in years, ended up here?

     “Yes, a trial run.” The uptick of a smile on Jaskier’s lips had Geralt’s sense of loss dissipating, almost as if he would feel whole as long as the bard before him was happy. “I’ll travel with you until late autumn, when we usually part ways. If you can prove to me by then that things will be different, I’ll come to Kaer Morhen with you.” Then, his smile stretching into something toothy, teasing. “I do want to say hello to your brothers again. They’re ever so nice.”

     “Lambert’s an ass,” Geralt pointed out without thinking, then blinked. Jaskier had met his brothers? When? Why? How? There were so many questions he wanted to ask about the situation, and the faint tugs of jealousy, the faint echoes of fear that Jaskier would decide that one of his brothers was the Witcher that he wanted to follow across the continent, murmured within his chest.

     A hand patted his chest, a chuckle of a laugh accompanying it. “That he is. But Eskel is a sweetheart.”

     “Hmm.” Geralt honestly wasn’t sure about how he was meant to feel about that.

     Jaskier’s chuckles turned into a full-blown laugh, and Geralt found himself relaxing further. Happiness always seemed to be the right expression on Jaskier. That wasn’t to say that Jaskier couldn’t or shouldn’t feel other emotions, profoundly so as he often did, but that Geralt always felt most comfortable when Jaskier was happy, glowing and soft and warm.

     “Alright, scary Witcher.” The way Jaskier called Geralt scary, it always seemed as if he were calling Geralt ‘sweetheart’. Certainly, it never bothered him. In fact, it soothed him to hear the accusation now. “Let’s calm down now. I don’t want you ripping dear Eskel’s head off because you were jealous.”

     “Wasn’t jealous,” Geralt argued, wanting to take a step back from the bard crowding his space. The scent drifting from Jaskier was too alluring, and the Witcher found that he couldn’t take a step back, couldn’t move away from it.

     “Wasn’t jealous my beautiful lute, Geralt,” the bard was teasing him, the playful smile on his face lighting up his eyes, making him look almost fey-like, a wild creature, free. “I thought you were working on this communication thing.”

     “Not if you’re going to be like that,” he countered, then fell silent. Something in him held very still, wondering if Jaskier was going to take the words wrong. What he had said had been meant as a joke, but even to his own ears it had come out sounding wrong, almost strained. It was like a dam bursting open, sending rivers through drought-stricken lands, when Jaskier’s laugh chimed like a bell.

     Still laughing softly, Jaskier moved back further, patted Geralt’s chest once and then spoke, eyes still crinkled in the corners with his mirth, “Come, then. Let us turn in for the night, shall we. We cannot leave immediately, I fear, but I will be happy to host you until I can. I must send a message to Oxenfurt, regretting that I cannot take up my duties as a professor this year, after all. And I must make sure Ailma and her network spread the message that while the Viscount is away from Lettenhove, Witchers ought not stop there.” He sighed, sounding half-way to distraught. “It is a shame, for I dearly loved creating a space for your people to rest their aching bodies, but perhaps it is time for Jaskier the bard to take up his lute, even if only for a few weeks more.”

     “Hmm,” Geralt agreed, for lack of anything else to say. There often wasn’t much when Jaskier began rambling. Usually, his words fell by the wayside, that gentle feeling of comfort, of rightness, the one that Geralt had spent so many years distrusting, wanting gone, springing up when Jaskier’s words washed over him like a stream. Chattering, babbling, a wellspring. Part of the background noise of nature, barely noticed once adjusted to, but sorely – achingly – missed when no longer there. A promise of water for a dying man. The sort of thing a man would go out of his way to find again, and again, and again. The sort of thing he would appreciate once he had rediscovered it – the clarity, the beauty, the way it provided. All were invaluable things. All loved all the more once they had been reclaimed by those that had gone without.

     “Hush, you,” Jaskier responded, pulling away fully but offering his hand. Geralt didn’t take it, still couldn’t, not quite yet. Soon, he told himself. But he didn’t shake the bard off when he tutted and wrapped his fingers around Geralt’s wrist instead, tugging him towards the bed. “We’ll get your armour off you, and then we’ll sleep, and tomorrow, we’ll get it all sorted.”

     Quietly, Geralt hummed again, content.

     While he was aware that not all would be sorted, that he would be on a trial run, that he would have to prove he wouldn’t take Jaskier for granted anymore (and when had that happened, that he had been so used to something good in his life that he could take it for granted?), that Nilfgaard was coming and Ciri was on the run and that Jaskier might not end up Kaer Morhen with him, he was also aware that he had been given a rare gift that night. He had been given a chance; just one. But he wasn’t going to waste it.