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“Eskel?” Geralt calls.
“Yes?” comes the muffled response from inside the house.
“Why is Roach wearing a scarf?”
“Because Lil Bleater would eat it,” Eskel replies, as if that makes perfect sense. He comes out of the house with his phone in hand, tapping at it with a little frown. “Why they make these damn icons so small…oh, good girl, Roachie, sitting so well!”
Roach pants happily, looking very pleased despite the thick red scarf looped several times around her neck. Eskel holds his phone up and takes several pictures of her, then tucks the phone away and goes over to unwind the scarf and give her a treat.
“Why,” says Geralt, who has been waiting with what he thinks is rather remarkable patience, “did any of our animals need to be wearing a scarf?”
“Mostly because you won’t,” Eskel says, bearing the scarf off into the house with a triumphant air.
“...But I’m wearing a scarf?” Geralt says, baffled. He is, too, a battered old thing that Eskel made for him years ago when he was first learning to knit, deep green and incredibly soft. Roach hops to her feet and wags her tail hopefully, and Geralt shrugs and grabs an old tennis ball out of the basket on the porch, flinging it out into the snow-covered back field. Roach barks in glee and gallops off after it, leaping through the snow like a salmon going upstream. The snowbanks are taller than she is in places, and she vanishes into them with happy little barks, emerging again in sprays of white fluff.
Geralt isn’t terribly fond of shoveling as much snow as they get up here in northern Kaedwen, but he has to admit watching Roach enjoy it is a decent recompense.
Lambert comes trudging up the path from the workshop and stops on the porch beside Geralt, stomping the snow off his boots and snorting amusement as Roach comes gallumphing back with the tennis ball held proudly in her mouth.
“Drop it, girl,” Geralt orders, and is deeply pleased when Roach immediately deposits the ball at his feet. Drop it has been one of the harder tricks to teach. He bends down and rubs her ears, beaming. “Oh, good girl!”
“Finally got the hang of that one, has she?” Lambert says.
“Hm,” Geralt agrees, and scoops the tennis ball up, launching it out into the snow again and grinning as Roach flings herself off the porch in gleeful pursuit. “You got any idea why Eskel was taking pictures of her in a scarf?”
“The fuck?” Lambert says, one eyebrow arching towards his receding hairline. “Like - the dog wearing the scarf? Not Eskel?”
“The dog,” Geralt confirms.
“Uh,” Lambert says, blinking several times. “Nope. No fucking clue, sorry.”
He kicks the last of the snow off his boots and heads into the house; a few moments later, Geralt hears Aiden yelp, “Gods damn it, you bastard, your hands are fucking cold!”
Geralt leans against a post and watches his dog frolic. It’s quiet out here today; all the goats are staying in the barn, thank you very much, utterly uninterested in the cold wet stuff all over the ground, and the snow muffles everything. The mountains rising above their little farm are dark beneath the blanket of white, the pines patches of green among the snow. It’s very peaceful, if he ignores the sounds of his brother and brother-in-law having a wrestling match in the kitchen.
There’s the crunch of tires in the driveway out front, and then the slam of a car door. Geralt snorts softly and doesn’t bother trying to suppress a smile. So much for peaceful. Here comes chaos.
Roach whirls from where she’s been rooting around in the snow for the tennis ball and sprints off around the house, barking in overwhelming excitement. She comes back a few moments later, dancing in eager circles around a small figure bundled into a puffy yellow winter coat, with a blue scarf wound around her neck and a hat with an enormous blue pompom on its tip.
“Papa,” the figure cries, and Geralt grins and opens his arms, going down on one knee. Ciri lunges up the porch steps and hugs him as hard as she can. “Mama took me ice-skating and I only fell down once!”
“Better’n Lambert does,” Geralt says, smirking.
Ciri giggles brightly. “And Uncle Julek fell down eight times,” she adds.
“I thought we were keeping that a secret,” Jaskier objects as he comes around the house. “You pinky-swore!”
“Oops,” Ciri says, giggling harder.
“Oops, she says,” Jaskier sighs. “Your daughter’s a snitch, Geralt.” He crouches down to greet Roach, who takes the golden opportunity to lick his face, wagging so hard her whole back half moves. “Bleh, Roachie, do you have to?” Jaskier rubs the dog behind the ears despite his protestations, chuckling fondly.
“Do you know why Eskel was taking pictures of her in a scarf?” Geralt asks, because that sort of weirdness does have a pretty good chance of being Jaskier’s fault somehow.
“Oh good, he’s trying it!” Jaskier says, and gets up, patting Roach one more time, to hurry into the house. “Eskel! I hear you have pictures!”
“...What,” Geralt says plaintively. “Do you know what this is about, cub?”
Ciri shakes her head. “Did you say Roachie had a scarf?”
Geralt nods.
“Weird,” Ciri concludes. “I bet she looked awful cute, though. Here, Roachie girl!” She fishes another tennis ball out of the basket and tosses it - quite well for an eight-year-old - and Roach yips and hares off after it happily.
Collecting lost tennis balls when the snow melts in the spring is always an entertaining chore.
“Did I hear you say someone put Roach in a scarf?” Yen asks, stepping delicately out onto the porch. She’s wearing one of Geralt’s coats; it comes down to her ankles, and the fur lining the hood almost hides her face. She only ever wears such things here, at the farm - only lets herself be inelegant and comfortable here. It makes Geralt’s heart turn over every time he sees it, because he knows how hard it is for Yen to show any vulnerability at all. That she trusts him and their whole motley family enough to forget about being perfectly put together at all times is an incredible honor.
“Eskel did,” Geralt says. “Because Lil Bleater wouldn’t and apparently I wouldn’t either? He didn’t really explain.” He stands, knees creaking a little, and bends to kiss the tip of Yen’s nose, that being one of the few bits of her face he can actually get to at the moment.
“Huh,” Yen says, and leans against him. Geralt puts an arm around her shoulders and nuzzles at the soft fur poking out of the hood of the coat, and they stand there watching their daughter for a few quiet moments. Ciri has chased Roach into the field, and they’ve both abandoned the tennis ball in favor of romping about in the snow, giggles and happy yelps ringing out in the crisp air.
“Look look look!” Jaskier calls, coming tumbling back out of the door, brandishing a phone in one hand. Eskel’s phone, in the case Lambert got for him last Yule that says Goat Dad in fancy font, rather than Jaskier’s own neon-paisley-patterned abomination.
“Jaskier!” Eskel yells from inside, and Jaskier giggles and ducks in front of Geralt, holding the phone out triumphantly.
The open page is of an online shop of some sort - Geralt, who prefers to avoid shopping online whenever possible, isn’t sure which one - featuring Roach wearing the crimson scarf, and under it, Handmade cashmere scarf (dog not included). The price off to the side is sixty crowns, which…Geralt hasn’t bought himself a scarf in a while, but that seems reasonable, given the work he knows goes into making them. Eskel and Geralt shear the goats, and the whole family helps card the wool; Lambert dyes it; Aiden and Vesemir spend most of their evenings spinning; and Eskel does the knitting.
Geralt hadn’t realized Eskel was selling his work online, but it’s a pretty good idea, really. Sales at the weekly farmer’s market have been slow recently; Eskel makes good scarves, so everyone in town who needs one has one, and they take ages to wear out.
“Why Roach, though?” he asks as Eskel shoulders out through the door and makes a grab at Jaskier, who dodges with a cheerful yelp.
“Because cute animals help things sell,” Jaskier explains, skipping nimbly around to hide behind Yen. Yen rolls her eyes but lets him do it. “Lil Bleater would’ve been better because it’s her wool - well, some of it anyhow - but she’d eat it.”
Which is true enough, but... Geralt raises an eyebrow at his brother. “I’m not a cute animal.”
Eskel snorts. Jaskier laughs. “The other thing that helps sell products is handsome models!”
“And you hate cameras,” Eskel says, shrugging. “So I’m trying a few with Roach, and a few with Aiden, and we’ll see which ones sell better. Give me my phone back, songbird.”
“Yes, dear,” Jaskier lilts, and slips out from behind Yen. Eskel takes the phone from him, puts it carefully away in his pocket, leans in and kisses him gently, and then shoves him neatly off the porch into the enormous heap of snow Geralt piled up this morning while he was shoveling the paths to the barn and the workshop. Jaskier flails madly, squawking in indignation, and is immediately pounced on by Ciri and Roach, who are delighted to have a new playmate.
“Betrayal! Treachery! Foul play! Bad form!” Jaskier yowls, and then makes a very high-pitched noise as Ciri crams snow down the back of his jacket.
“Ciri,” Geralt says, sighing. Yen is muffling laughter behind her hand.
“Dreadful child, absolutely horrid,” Jaskier sniffs, hauling himself out of the snow pile with Ciri tucked giggling under one arm. “Also, your lips are almost as blue as your pretty scarf, o fiercest of wolf cubs, so I’m calling it time to go warm up.” He hands her up to Geralt, who scoops his daughter up by the ankles and dangles her upside down. Ciri flails happily, squeaking with laughter; her hat falls off, and Jaskier grabs it before it can get soaked by the slush around their boots.
“Goodness, you are a bit blue,” Yen says, stifling a laugh. “Put our daughter down, Geralt. It’s about lunchtime anyway.”
“What’s lunch?” Ciri asks as Geralt swings her carefully upright and sets her on her feet.
“Tomato soup and grilled cheese, but only for people who wash up and sit at the table and don’t put their cold fucking hands on my ass gods damn it Lambert,” Aiden hollers from the kitchen, half drowned out by Lambert’s gleeful cackling.
“Soup!” Ciri says happily, and goes stampeding into the house. Geralt wouldn’t have thought one little girl could stampede, but that was before Ciri. Now he knows better.
“Take your boots off, you little barbarian!” Yen calls, following their daughter in.
Geralt snorts. Eskel shakes his head, chuckling. “I don’t know how she expects Ciri to be anything but a little barbarian, growing up around us.”
“I beg your pardon, I am a paragon of civilized behavior,” Jaskier says, sticking his nose in the air as he tucks himself under Eskel’s arm. Roach comes over to lean against Geralt’s legs, giving him a pleading look. Geralt leans down to ruffle her ears.
“Could maybe hang some scarves on the side of the goat stall, where they can’t reach,” he suggests.
“Oh, now that’s a good idea,” Eskel says, grinning.
“You could use it as your shop header!” Jaskier agrees, nodding enthusiastically. “Can we get the scarves hung up high enough that the goats can’t get at them?”
“If you don’t get in here, I’m feeding your lunch to the goats!” Aiden calls, and Eskel laughs.
“Figure this all out after lunch,” he says, and ushers Jaskier ahead of him into the house. Roach gallops after them.
Geralt takes a moment to look out over the formerly-pristine snowfield, now all hummocks and trampled divots from Roach and Ciri’s play, and smiles to himself. Not peaceful, no - but all things considered, he had rather have joy.
He rubs a hand over the softness of his worn old scarf, and goes to join his family at the table.