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Geralt couldn’t ride through the main gate and stable Roach in her usual stall. If any guard saw a stranger come into the courtyard riding his horse, they’d stop him with an arrow in his eye, no question asked – he hoped they would, at least. That’s what they were paid for.
Fortunately for him, despite what his outward appearance would suggest to any passer-by, he was Geralt of Rivia, and this castle was his daughter’s main residence. He knew every way in and, most importantly, every so-difficult-no-one-bothered-to-guard way in.
Ciri grunted softly as she hoisted herself up but, as she slid down the inner wall, a grin was splitting her face. “We should do that more often,” she declared, sighing in satisfaction. “It reminds me of training in Kaer Morhen.”
Geralt returned her smile, ignoring the slight puzzled feeling that hadn’t left him ever since Ciri’s appearance had shifted into a glamour. The woman in front of him, talking of training and Kaer Morhen, didn’t look like his daughter and, if it weren’t for his nose picking Ciri’s otherworldly natural scent, he figured the puzzlement would’ve long ago slipped into uneasiness. As Ciri didn’t have witchers’ sharpened senses, it had to be even weirder for her.
With Ciri as Empress of a big part of the Continent now, it had been a long time since witchers had returned to the Blue Mountains for the winter. The last time Geralt had gone, a few years ago, the ancestral keep was barely holding itself together, becoming the obvious symbol of a bygone time. No one had taken the truth harder than Ciri, as the place would always be associated to a happy time for her, and Vesemir.
As for Geralt, the blow had been considerably eased by having already gotten his own safe heaven in Corvo Bianco, where he intended to take Jaskier for the foreseeable future. A surprise, a well-deserved vacation, just the two of them.
Thus, word had already been sent to Corvo Bianco’s butler, and Roach was waiting for them not far from the main gate, her bags full for the journey. The glamour was to keep the surprise of their early return until the best moment, and see his mate’s reaction.
Yen had rolled her eyes at him as she’d handed Ciri the charmed talisman, probably reading his mind and finding a bit too much about his plans than she’d wished. “Now you must tell him I’m behind this, to make up for that. I want him to know who he has to thank.”
It had been Ciri’s idea, at first. No one expected them back for a few more days, and so she’d snatched the chance to look and listen around her court and people alike, unnoticed and unbothered.
They parted ways before the main keep’s front door, as agreed. At this hour, Jaskier would be playing in the gardens, Geralt imagined, or somewhere in the library, both places easily accessible when one already knew the keep inside and out.
Despite checking every corner and alcove, however, Geralt didn’t find Jaskier anywhere. He was about to go looking in the stables, check whether Pegasus was there or not before taking his next action, when he happened on Ciri.
“You’ve not left yet,” she said, sounding happy to have found him. “His lordship is in the audience room.”
Suddenly, and especially after seeing with his own two eyes the queue leading to Jaskier’s public office – he had another, in his apartments, without any of the decorum and sobriety the public one demanded –, he was glad for his plan to take Jaskier away for a few days.
Court and responsibilities were a burden Jaskier had shouldered admirably ever since he’d agreed to become the Empress’ omega consort, taking a huge thorn out of everyone’s paw altogether. It had, at the same time, also taken a load off Geralt’s mind, to know his mate was finally, officially considered mated, in the eyes of the law, the religion, and the rest of the world, and not a loose omega wearing a well-bitten bond on his neck, but with no suitable alpha in sight.
Witchers, after all, weren’t considered apt to be bonded to. People claimed a variety of reasons to justify that law – some funded, others not – such as their inability to be bitten, due to their fast healing, making a bond bite impossible to be recognizable. And, as much as time changed most things too quickly for Geralt’s taste, it remained desperately too slow on others.
He knew Jaskier hadn’t cared one iota about people’s opinions of his sex life, or mated status, not ever – even before he’d fallen in Geralt’s bed or, as it’d happened, his bathtub, for the first time. He knew it hadn’t weighted in the balance when Jaskier’d decided to take on Ciri’s offer. That he’d agreed mainly because it’d been something in his ability to do, and because he knew it’d help.
Theirs was a sham arrangement, a cover. But the cover of Ciri’s name held more power than any of Geralt’s bites, their definitely mated scent, or Jaskier’s words, despite how much they wished it’d be different. But mentalities shaped laws, perhaps more than laws shaped mentalities, and Ciri couldn’t act and reform without the approval of her council and people, not if they hoped to make time catch up any time soon.
Ciri and he didn’t have to wait long. They stepped inside Jaskier’s office with the next group, claiming a spot at the corner of the room. Audiences usually lasted half an hour, and were the occasion to mingle, if one didn’t want to listen to every complaint or declaration of the group they were in. In the late mornings, it was mostly nobles showing up for the audience.
One of them, whose face Geralt could only half-distinguish from where he was standing, had jumped in front of the desk and was already explaining the whys and whereabouts of a different that linked him to his neighbor.
Sitting on his favorite armchair, Jaskier was listening with polite interest, and caught Geralt’s attention effortlessly.
It was strange, and a little bit funny, to be able to gaze at his mate while Jaskier remained completely unaware of his presence in the room. It reminded Geralt, not that he ever forgot, of how Jaskier saw him, all the ways he showed he loved him, his consideration and his affection, faced as he was with their absence.
He’d looked Geralt’s way barely twice, even as tiredness began to pull at the corners of his eyes and he began to play with his pen as petty squabbles made way to noble announcements. Knights leaving for quests, betrothals, births or weddings, invitations or flaunts, every occasion was good to take.
Not far from Geralt and Ciri – who was paying much closer attention to everything that was going on – a man was readying himself to speak. He and his friend were murmuring amongst themselves, loud enough for a witcher’s ear.
It would’ve flown past Geralt’s head, had the mention of a gift, associated with his mate’s birth name – not his lordship, not even master Julian – not made his mind zero on the conversation.
“You should’ve brought a lute, or an instrument, or a fucking book of songs,” the friend chided. “We’re in public. What if you get rejected?”
Geralt’s brows furrowed as the gift-giver huffed. “Why would I? I told you what Athelardus said.”
“People here say Athelardus and he aren’t on good terms at all.”
“Even so,” the gift-giver shrugged, “I know omegas. I know what they want. I mean, look at him, see how lonely he looks like.”
“His alpha’s away.”
“Precisely.” The purr, that satisfied sound rolling over the word had the hair at the back of Geralt’s head rise, his shoulders and back tense up. Next to him, Ciri threw him an interrogative look. Geralt shook his head once, his fists and jaw clenching as he kept on listening.
“That, or he’s nearing his heat.”
“Either way; her loss, my gain.”
He couldn’t intervene, despite wanting to, could only wait and drag the cocky alpha out should Jaskier demand it.
Could only scowl at the tip of his boots, and glare at the other’s back when he brushed past them to go post himself in front of Jaskier, an insufferably smirk on his face as he bowed deeply.
“My lord, it’s a pleasure to be back to you. I’m ser Reynaud of Blackwick, I’ve just returned from my trip on the Sansretour.”
“Ser Reynaud, welcome back. I trust your journey was at the same pleasant and exciting. Sansretour… it must’ve been. But, you’ve returned.”
“Indeed I have, my lord, and not empty-handed.”
“Oh?”
The blank politeness on Jaskier’s face and tone threw ser Reynaud off for a moment, even though he tried to hide it. Geralt wondered if he thought it’d be that easy, to seduce a mated omega, one – officially – bonded to the head of the new empire of Nilfgaard. It baffled him.
Of course, the confidence, the attempt at seduction didn’t entirely surprise him. He’d lived long enough, he knew some people wanted the challenge of going after mated partners. Jaskier had, once. He’d witnessed the flirting, the stares and the propositions aimed at Jaskier in towns and villages alike, even after Geralt had bitten him and both of them had smelt of a long-lasting bonding.
But it had stopped after Jaskier and Ciri’s official bonding. People had gotten the memo and had stopped propositioning his mate, believing they could be better than a witcher.
Surely ser Reynaud’s journey hadn’t been that long… Yet here they were.
“Yes. I found this merchant in a small village in the Corbieres, sailors have a nose for that kind of things, and I immediately thought of you.” Jaskier’s eyes flashed with excitement as ser Reynaud fished out a pouch from his inside pocket and opened it in a flurry. Inside was a ring. Perfectly crafted, with a polished stone in its middle. Unpleasantly similar to the sorts exchanged between mates at weddings. “It’d honor me greatly, if you were to accept it,” ser Reynaud added.
A few people, including Ciri, gasped. If Geralt hadn’t trained himself out of most of his instincts, he would’ve growled out loud at the other alpha’s gall.
Jaskier’s excitement snuffed out of his eyes and he lifted a brow, his face returning to its blank polite look. “How fine a craft,” he drawled out. “By all means, ser Reynaud of Blackwick, go ahead, come closer. Open that drawer, put it there-” Ser Reynaud complied. Inside it, baubles jangled. “-with the others.”
Around the room, more or less muffled snickers accompanied Jaskier’s last words. Only Ciri, still frowning, Geralt, who took a step forward and glared at the pile of various sized, various colored rings, and ser Reynaud, stammering and blushing, didn’t share in the mirth of what appeared to be a long-lasting inside joke.
“With my thanks,” Jaskier concluded, suddenly chipper. He stood up. “Ladies and lords, dames and sirs,” he said, absentmindedly playing with the ring on his ring finger. The one Geralt had given him, all those years ago, “if there’s nothing more, I think we can call it a day.”
The others walked out as Jaskier busied himself sorting out his papers. Geralt observed him, trying to decipher which pile was the record of this morning’s audiences, and which was the thoughts and verses scribbled during the boring moments. He was still frowning, eyes regularly returning to the hidden drawer, on the opposite side of all the others. So the whole room could peer at its insides when it opened, not just Jaskier. For maximum effect.
His fingers twitched, itching to open it again and stare harder at its content, as if it’d bring him answers.
The truth was, Geralt had no idea about all those rings. Had no idea it was a thing at all, and apparently one common enough that Jaskier had created a little spectacle around his rejection.
He gulped, feeling like a fool.
On the other side of the desk, looking every bit the Empress’ consort, the Viscount and Oxenfurt professor and eminent alumnus he was, his mate stopped his paper shuffling and glanced at Geralt. “Is there something the matter, mister…?”
His initial plan with the glamour had lost some of its appeal. Geralt’s gaze returned to the rings’ drawer, almost despite himself.
This time, Jaskier noticed it. “You’re free to pick one of your choice, if you want to.” He put the lower pile of papers in the register book, and took the other with him. “Some… bestowers still come, from time to time, but most haven’t shown their faces back here since their generous donation.” He snorted, and smiled, looking pleased with himself. “No one here ought to miss any, if that’s what you’re worried about. Some are rather pretty, and I can assure you all of them are expensive. Whoever you plan on giving it to will be happy.”
“I don’t- Did all of them proposition you?” How could he’d have missed it? Did it bother Jaskier? What else had he missed? How long had this been going on? Why hadn’t Jaskier told him? Had he and it had simply flew past Geralt’s head?
Jaskier laughed, not looking annoyed. Then again, Geralt currently wore the face of a stranger. “They did, yes.” Once again, Geralt’s throat ached with the urge to growl.
He had to swallow it back at least twice before feeling comfortable opening his mouth. So focused he was on not acting like an ill-behaved mutt, he didn’t think about his next words and babbled, “Fuck, Jaskier, I’m-”
Jaskier’s eyes went round before they squinted suspiciously. “Have we ever met? I can’t seem to remember your name but you feel familiar.”
Sighing, Geralt’s mouth twisted in a small smile. He muttered the incantation Yen had given him and felt the glamour tear apart.
Jaskier’s eyes widened even more before recognition dawned on his face and lighted it up with the strength of a bonfire, warming Geralt up to his core.
“Geralt! You’re here? Sweet Melitele,” Jaskier shoved his papers back on the desk and rushed around to throw his arms around Geralt’s shoulders, “I’ve missed you.” He punctuated the statement with a kiss, letting it linger slightly more than was reasonable with the door unlocked.
They both were frustrated when they had to break the kiss. Geralt’s hands moved to cup Jaskier’s hips, thumbs sneaking under his doublet, relishing on the familiar feeling of a skin-warmed shirt. He hummed when Jaskier took a step back to meet his eyes, but still kept his arms loosely wrapped around his shoulders.
“What are you doing here? I thought you’d be gone for a couple of days more, at least. You could’ve warned me, I’d have sent someone, or something. How long have you been here? Why didn’t you say?”
“I wanted to surprise you.”
Jaskier huffed out a laugh, his eyes crinkling. “And what a delightful surprise it is! Almost enough to completely forgive you for making me believe I wouldn’t see you before the end of the week.”
“Almost enough, hm?”
“Yes. Don’t worry though, witcher mine, I’ve got some ideas on how you can assure yourself to be forgiven.”
“I think I’ve got a few as well.”
“Not surprising. Great minds think alike, after all. Do yours involve you, me, and whatever flat surface is available on the other side of a locked door?”
“Partly.”
His grin turning sly, Jaskier’s eyes trailed down Geralt’s face, chest, down to where their bodies were pressed together and then back up, leaving a trail of burning fire in his wake. “Well, I can’t say I wouldn’t be amenable to pretty much everything you have in mind, dear. What’s your idea?”
“It involves Roach and Pegasus, a two-days trip and a few days of break in Toussaint, just you and me.”
“Oh, Geralt, I love you,” Jaskier moaned, the sound making Geralt wish they were at Corvo Bianco already, or somewhere secluded, in the middle of nature, just like the old times. “I’m sending word to have Pegasus prepared. Should I do the same for Roach? We’re leaving right now, aren’t we?”
“We are. And she’s already saddled and ready to go.”
“You’re amazing. You have the most wonderful ideas, and I love you,” Jaskier said, rushing to the corridor in search of the closest household worker.
Alone inside the office, the memory of his mate’s arms around him, Geralt’s eyes found their way back to the ring drawer. The previous itch came back and, this time, he acted on it and opened the drawer.
The rings had no answer for him, no matter how hard he stared at them. They didn’t disappear either.
This was how Jaskier found him, when he walked back with a spring in his steps.
The steps and the spring faltered, and it twisted something in Geralt’s stomach, to hear his mate pad the rest of the way to him, to wrap his arms around Geralt’s middle and press himself along his back.
Jaskier rested his chin on Geralt’s shoulder and nosed along his throat. “What’s going on?” He didn’t press for the explanation besides that, knowing Geralt as well as he knew how to play his songs. It was coming nonetheless, because Geralt knew him as well as he knew his swords. “I refuse to see that frown for the next days, I’m warning you,” he informed Geralt. “So you better let out what’s troubling you before we leave.” Jaskier didn’t have to wait long.
“Do you want those?” he asked, carefully, settling himself for… any answer.
Thankfully, he didn’t have to wait long either. “I don’t,” Jaskier replied, assertive and clear where Geralt was quiet and tentative.
“Would you like that kind of gift? From me. That kind of ring?”
“I don’t see why I would. You know me, dear, if I wanted something from you specifically, I’d have told you. Or I’d have bought it myself, from whatever part of the Continent I wanted,” he added, for Geralt’s sake. “Besides, let me remind you in case you’ve forgotten, I already have one of ‘that kind of ring’. One from you, even. See?” He waved his left hand in the air, near Geralt’s face, to prove his point.
On his forefinger was the blood-red stone he’d found digging in an arachas’ nest of all things, the one which turned almost blue when the light hit it right, mounted on a shiny gold circlet. It was similar in size and style to all Jaskier’s other rings, and the obvious inspiration to the ones piled in the drawer, save for the crest he’d designed a couple years ago that he wore on his right hand, and the ring on his left ring finger. The one Geralt had made.
It was well-worn, the skin underneath obviously paler, made of silver. It looked simple, especially compared to the others.
Geralt had two. One commissioned in a rush to Oxenfurt Academy’s closest free craftsman, to be ready the same day, the other ordered to “the best there is” that they came back for four months later. Geralt had kept both, despite Jaskier’s disfavor with the former. Not on his hands, because it was unpracticable as well as counterproductive, but always with him.
“I haven’t forgotten.”
“Good.” He laid a kiss between his shoulder’s blades.
“I had no idea,” he finally confessed.
Jaskier let out a soft sigh and stepped around, moving between Geralt and the open drawer and meeting his eyes, one hand coming up to cup the side of his jaw. “Because it’s not important to me.”
“They all come here, bearing you courting rings and I don’t know what other gifts when they come back from whatever travel they’re doing-” while I-
“Geralt-”
“- while your mate comes back and is empty-handed.” It didn’t feel right. And, to top it all, Geralt had no idea about it until it had to happen under his nose. And that didn’t feel right either.
“Okay, well that’s not true. By coming back, you bring with you the best gift I could ever want, that is: yourself.”
“That sounds… I don’t know, presumptuous of me.”
Jaskier snorted. “Not more than when you start talking about yourself in the third person in the middle of the conversation.”
“I do that so you get to see me with a more objective point of view.”
“Excuse you, I am very objective when you’re concerned! I’m all the objectiveness you need. And, listen to me, because on this my word is law: you’re not being presumptuous. And you’re not empty-handed.”
“I’ve got no ring.”
“Fuck the rings. I don’t care about the rings, I already have yours. You don’t need to give me another. I wouldn’t be able to wear it, anyway, there’s no room, not if I want to move my knuckle there.” Moving his left hand between them, he bent his ring finger at the same time, as if to illustrate his point. “Which I do. And,” he added, a bit softer, “if it bothers you, that I keep them, then I’ll get rid of it. The drawer, the rings, all of it. I thought it was nice to have it, really drives the point across and this way I don’t have to take the rings or touch them at all – you know that’d be enough to read into for some. But if it bothers you, I’ll find another way. I can do that.”
It took a few seconds, but Geralt shook his head. “It doesn’t.”
“Alright. That brings me back to my previous point: you’re not empty-handed, dear. Let’s say I even agree your presence is not a worthy gift in and of itself – which I don’t – but let’s pretend. You’ve still not returned empty-handed. But with the promise of a holiday. Of rest, of good food and better wine, of sex and leisure and a place to ourselves. To be true, that gift has considerably brightened my future. More than any baubles you might’ve brought back with you because you’d feel like you had to. More, because you did it to make me happy. Am I not right?”
“You are.”
Jaskier hummed and closed his eyes, smiling the lazy smile he did when they woke up together. Tilted his head just like he would for a good morning kiss. A fond smile of his own curling his mouth, Geralt brushed their lips together. “You should say ‘Jaskier, my gorgeous, sexy, and radiant mate, you are always right’ next time.”
“Jaskier.”
“Yeah?”
“Let’s go.”
“Yeah. Yeah that works, too.”