Archive of Our Own

The stepmother said, "It's no use. You are not coming with us, for you have no clothes, and you don't know how to dance. We would be ashamed of you." With this she turned her back on Cinderella, and hurried away with her two proud daughters.

Now that no one else was at home, Cinderella went to her mother's grave beneath the hazel tree, and cried out:

Shake and quiver, little tree,

Throw gold and silver down to me.

Then the bird threw a gold and silver dress down to her, and slippers embroidered with silk and silver. She quickly put on the dress and went to the festival.

Grimm’s Fairy Tales - 1812                

Manticores - generally easier to slay when there wasn’t a prince running around like his head had been cut off. 

Geralt reached out and snagged the cuff of the prince’s tunic. “Stay down.”

The prince, wide-eyed and fiercely beautiful , nodded, before going to duck behind a tree stump. Where the prince’s guards were, Geralt had no idea. It was unfortunate that a Witcher had to come to the rescue of the crown prince, but Geralt wasn’t just going to leave him to die. 

The thought hadn’t even crossed his mind, when he had heard a scream, followed shortly by a manticore’s roar. The first thought that had crossed his mind was damn. The second one was to run in the direction of the roar. 

Geralt had spent the better part of a week tracking this manticore, and of course, the prince, the fucking heir to the throne, stumbled upon it on a jaunt through the forest without his guards. 

Geralt hadn’t even had the time to down a potion before tackling the prince out of the way.

He huffed as a dodge forced him to drop his sword. Daggers it would be then- no Witcher went anywhere without silver daggers tucked into their boot. 

“Look out!” The prince shouted. Geralt whirled around just in time to avoid being hit by the manticore’s barbed tail. He snatched one of the daggers from his boot, and charged. If he had had more time to prepare, perhaps to even sneak up on the beast, he would have been able to smash the manticore’s tail – eliminating some of the danger – but there was no time for planning now. 

The beast roared as Geralt leapt into the air, but still, the dagger went cleanly into the manticore’s eye. It whipped its head back and forth, pawing frantically at the blade. 

Geralt wasted no time in grabbing his sword once again, before rushing up to the beast’s chest and stabbing it. He attempted to dodge out of the way as the manticore’s claws swiped at him, but still got caught across the chest.

The manticore gave one last powerful screech as Geralt withdrew the sword, and then stabbed it again, only a few inches away from the first wound. Once more, Geralt had struck his sword through the manticore’s third and final heart.

He didn’t necessarily have to pierce the third heart, but that was more of a precautionary step. 

Geralt took a step back, working hard to regulate his breathing. 

“Gods above,” a hushed voice said. Geralt’s breath caught in his throat, but he did not startle – he had already forgotten about the prince. “You saved my life!” 

Geralt turned to face the prince, who was now coming out from his hiding spot. He appeared to be unharmed, albeit red in the face. And Melitele, he was beautiful. His eyes were bright and blue, and his lips were curved up into a smile – near death experience apparently already forgotten. 

The prince scrambled over a tree stump to get to Geralt, either not hearing or not caring for Geralt’s dismissive grunt. Geralt glanced at him once more before wiping his blade in the grass, trying to get as much of the blood off of it as possible. 

“Kind sir, you must grant me your name, you saved my life, I owe you my-” The prince cut himself off as Geralt raised back to his full height, which while being only a few inches taller, certainly made the prince look smaller. Instead of cowering, like Geralt expected him to, the prince’s cheeks flushed a deeper red. “Hi.” 

Maybe he had hit his head. Geralt looked, but saw no obvious head wound. Perhaps he was simply dropped on the head as a child. 

“I am afraid I became separated from my guards while walking, but they were just in that-” the prince vaguely gestured to the area behind him. “Direction, so-”

“The closest main road is the other way.” Geralt said. The prince faltered, looking in the direction that Geralt was pointing in. 

“Aw, Gods. Alright. Don’t suppose you have any idea how far of a walk it is, do you? I was lost for a bit, but then when I caught sight of the beast, I started running, as any sensible person would-”

“Running only aggravates them. It enjoys a chase.” 

“Oh. Well then. My point still stands, how long of a walk is it?” 

Geralt looked at the prince for a moment longer – Witchers didn’t have much business in the ways of the kingdom. Actually, Geralt was certain that the kingdom would pay him and his brothers in coin to stay out of the kingdom entirely. 

But he still knew a thing or two.

Like, for instance, he knew immediately that the prince in front of him was Prince Julian, perhaps one of the people in the kingdom that Geralt would be slain on sight just for standing near. 

Triss, the mage in a village nearby had told Geralt of the prince’s charm, and penchant for colorful clothing, but she had severely undersold his beauty. 

“Half a day.” Geralt finally said, once he realized he had been silent for too long. Prince Julian heaved a sigh.

“Alright, I suppose. Once again, I must ask for your name- to save a life is no simple favor.” 

Geralt grunted, and strapped his sword to his back once again. The prince continued to ramble as Geralt turned to inspect the manticore, only to break off into a shriek. That did make the Witcher startle, but when he turned back, the prince was staring at Geralt’s side.

When Geralt looked down, there was blood weeping through the scratches in his armor. Right.

“You are injured! Are you in terrible pain? Oh Gods, I do not carry any cloth or herbs on me-” Geralt grabbed the dagger that was still stuck in the manticore’s eye. Prince Julian stopped his rambling to gag softly at the sight, but recovered as Geralt was wiping the dagger against his pant leg. He would have to come back for the beast’s head.

“Come.” Geralt said. Prince Julian squeaked, but followed. 

“Are you- are you just going to leave that there? Are you going to lead me back to the road? Good sir, I truly do owe you many thanks,” 

“Hm.”

“You could start, perhaps, by giving me your name?” The prince was steadily keeping pace with Geralt, alternating between looking at Geralt and the ground. He narrowly avoided tripping and falling directly onto his face on multiple occasions, if because of skill or sheer luck Geralt wasn’t sure. 

There was no way that the man didn’t know he was a Witcher- could the prince truly be that sheltered? Geralt dared a glance out of the corner of his eye, to see the prince still smiling at him. Geralt had to reach out and grab him by the collar of his shirt before he stumbled over a raised tree root. 

“Well, my name is Jaskier. Actually, it’s Julian, but most call me Jaskier. Julian’s the family name, you know?” Prince Julian- apparently Jaskier, continued. “You do not seem to be the chatty type, which is fine. Gods above know that I have enough chatter for the both of us.” 

He laughed out loud at the look Geralt gave him. 

“I know, I know! I don’t get out a lot- hazards of being-” this time, when Jaskier fumbled, it was his words and not his feet. “Being… being as handsome and charming as I am!” 

Geralt raised an eyebrow. So he was withholding his status – fair, as Geralt wasn’t planning on offering any information in return. 

“What were you doing out in this neck of the woods, anyway? I hadn’t thought anyone lived this far off of the path.” Jaskier continued. Geralt kept his eyes on the path ahead of them. It would be a short walk to guide them back to the main road, and from there the prince should be capable of taking care of himself. 

“Hunting.”

“Ooh, hunting! For deer, or-”

“The manticore.” Geralt cut him off. Jaskier’s eyes widened even more, a feat that Geralt hadn’t thought was possible. 

“The manticore- that beast you just killed? Gods above.” For once, Jaskier seemed like he was stunned into silence.

Briefly, anyways. 

“How did you track it?” Geralt shrugged. 

“Footprints, scent. Get to know its feeding pattern, and follow along.” Geralt paused for a moment as Jaskier digested the information. “Plus, your screams helped.” 

Jaskier snorted, jabbing an elbow into Geralt’s side.

“I wasn’t screaming that loudly,” he protested. Geralt nodded, in faux agreement. 

“Right, because if you were screaming that loudly, your guards wouldn’t have to worry about being total shit at their jobs.” Geralt half expected the prince to take offense to the statement, but Jaskier continued to smile.

“True. Who knows what we are paying them for- I’m quite certain that they all would have shat themselves the moment they saw the manti- mantis- mantricorn?”

“Manticore.” Geralt corrected.

“Manticore, yeah. But you seemed quite unruffled, hmm?” Jaskier continued. “But, being unable to surprise is a good trait in a savior, I presume.”

“Savior.” Geralt repeated dryly. Jaskier shot him a cheeky smile. 

“Of course! You saved my life, thus, you are my savior. Do you not like the title?”

“Hm.” 

“You really won’t tell me your name?” Jaskier huffed when Geralt once again refused to answer. “Fine, alright. But tell me- do you like music?” 

The conversation, as one sided as it was, went on. Jaskier chattered about seemingly every thing to pop in his head, content with Geralt’s one-worded answers. 

Geralt was finding himself having to repress a smile on more than one occasion. The prince was surprising him- he was witty, and had a preference for fruit tarts, unless they were apricots, which he utterly detested. 

Jaskier told him about his affinity for music. Geralt told him about the last time he was in town, how he had heard a song that sounded like what his childhood was like, just through the mournful twangs and hymns. Instead of laughing him off, Jaskier listened, and asked gentle questions. 

Jaskier didn’t ask about Geralt being a Witcher, so Geralt didn’t ask about Jaskier actually being Prince Julian. 

They had fallen into a comfortable silence when Geralt heard a snapping of a branch in the distance, followed by the crunching of multiple footsteps. Geralt already had one of his daggers out, an arm pushing Jaskier behind him.

“Wha-” Jaskier started to squeak, but cut off the noise when Geralt hushed him. 

A group of people came walking in their direction- quieter than a common villager would know how to be, but not quiet enough to get past a Witcher. 

“What is it?” Jaskier hissed. Geralt caught a glimmer of silver through the trees, in the distance. 

“How many people were escorting you through the forest?” Geralt asked, just as softly. Jaskier scrunched up his face in thought before responding.

“Four. No- five. Five. Why? Do you see them?” 

Geralt dropped his defensive stance, nodding. 

“Right through those trees. They haven’t noticed us yet.” 

“Oh,” Jaskier said. Geralt glanced at him out of the corner of his eye – did he sound disappointed? Geralt would have assumed that he was thrilled to be back with his guards, on the way back to his home in the castle. “Well then.”

“Go.” Geralt instructed, taking a step back. Or, he tried to take a step back, but Jaskier moved with him, frowning.

“What do you mean? Come with me.”

Geralt immediately felt his defenses rise. He shook his head, and once again turned to leave. 

“Wait, no,” Jaskier said, his hand finding Geralt’s wrist. Geralt was still holding the dagger. He couldn’t pull away without risking cutting the prince. “Come with me.”

Geralt looked into the prince’s eyes, trying to understand. Come with him? To where, the castle? Witchers weren’t allowed on castle grounds, especially Witchers who showed up uninvited with manticore blood still smeared on them. 

“Prince Julian!” 

The guards were getting closer. Jaskier had a desperate look on his face. Why was he so set on getting to know Geralt? He was a mutant, a murderer, a horrid creature. Only slightly better than the manticore, but not at all human. 

Geralt did the only thing that he could think of to do. 

He dropped the knife on the forest’s floor, before breaking out of Jaskier’s grasp.

Then, Geralt ran. 

“How the hell-” Lambert was saying, as he came through the door. Geralt looked up from the single dagger he was sharpening. 

Dropping the other dagger wasn’t his smartest plan, but the warmth of Jaskier’s hand around his wrist made his brain buzz every time he remembered it. It had only been a few days, and his efforts to stop thinking of the prince had ultimately failed.

“I thought we were too far up to get solicitors.” Lambert continued. 

“What?” Eskel asked, walking over to greet their brother. Lambert held out an envelope, with a bright red stamp on the bottom of it.

“A ball, for the princeling. Apparently he’s looking for a partner, and has decided that a three nights ball is the way to find it.” 

Eskel snorted, taking the paper and reading it more closely. 

“Three nights… Says here he’s looking for his savior. The hell do you think that means?” 

Geralt’s heart skipped a beat in the most uncomfortable way. He barely kept from dropping his dagger. His hands trembled, so he shoved them under the table, away from his brother’s lines of sight. 

“Who knows. He’s an odd duckling, that one. Last I was in town, he was in the square, playing with a fucking band. He had a lute and everything! The prince !” Lambert said, making the two laugh. 

That was certainly Jaskier they were talking about. Jaskier’s savior… They couldn’t be speaking of Geralt, could it? 

“You think I could show up to the ball, win the princeling’s hand?” Lambert asked, stomping his snow-covered boots as if he was trying to dance. Eskel laughed and reached out to cuff him on the neck, but Lambert dodged, continuing his ridiculous imitation of a court dance. 

“You show up in those old rags, the prince will have you killed on the spot.” Eskel finally hooked an arm around Lambert’s neck and began to rub a fist into his hair. Lambert yelled at him, trying to break free from Eskel’s grasp by trying to skin his teeth into Eskel’s forearm. 

You saved my life, thus, you are my savior. That was what Jaskier had said, but there wasn’t a chance in Hell that the prince was looking for someone like Geralt.

“I’ll have you know that I have been considered to look quite dashing,” Lambert muttered, once he was free of his older brother’s hold. 

“Considered, sure. The first ball’s tonight, so you might want to get your dress ready. By the end of the nights, he’s to be married.” Eskel retorted. “Hey, Geralt, have you finished the chimney yet?” 

Geralt looked up from where his hands had continued to shake, even under the table. 

“Hm- yes. I have.” Geralt said, lying through his teeth. He had completely forgotten it was his turn to clean out the chimney- it was a pain in the ass, especially in the winter. 

Eskel gave him a look, making it clear that he knew his brother was lying, but elected not to say anything about it. 

“Going outside.” Geralt said, pushing his chair out, snagging his single dagger and brushing past his brothers. He paused only to pick up the paper that Lambert had brought in. Eskel made a move to follow him, but was quickly distracted by something Lambert said that brought them both into a fight yet again. 

The cold winter air sent a chill down Geralt’s spine. He let the cool air enter his lungs as he trudged further out into the snow. It was early enough in the winter that it was only snowing on the tops of the mountains, namely the place where Kaer Morhen was tucked away, but the lands below were only experience minor freezes. 

Geralt pushed himself, only stopping to take Roach out from the stables. She whinnied at him, annoyed to be taken from the warmth of the stables out into the cold, but he passed her an apple that he had tucked away. 

They walked side by side down the path, only getting off once the line of trees thickened. 

One positive side of being a Witcher, of being raised like this, was knowing these forests like the back of your hand. Geralt didn’t have to hesitate before walking through the bramble. For a moment, he realized he was walking in the direction of where he had met Jaskier, and forced himself to take a hard left turn. 

“Hello, Witcher.” 

Roach huffed as Geralt pulled her to a stop. Vesemir would not be pleased if he knew that Geralt allowed a witch to sneak up on him. 

The witch in question stepped out from behind a tree. Though it was cold, she was dressed ornately in a beautiful, shining dress, and her dark hair was tumbling in curls behind her shoulders. 

Purple eyes, the hair the color of a raven’s feather… “The witch who wanders the mountains.” Geralt greeted. The witch smiled at him, and came closer. His medallion trembled lightly as she approached, but not enough for him to worry. 

“What wonderful chances led us to meeting in these woods?” She asked, coming up to Roach, and gently petting her. 

“These mountains belong to the Witchers.” Geralt said. The witch cocked an eyebrow at him.

“Do they now? What, are you going to behead me for stepping on your land?” 

Geralt didn’t take the bait. 

“No. But it was no chance that brought you here. No one comes here unless they know what they are looking for.” 

The witch smiled delightedly. Her eyes lingered over the makeshift stitch job that Geralt had to do over his chest piece, until his new chest piece would be finished. Before he could snap at her to stop staring, she stuck out her hand. 

“Yennefer. Witch of the mountains, as I’ve been called.” 

Geralt eyed her hand, but aside from a fancy ring, the handshake seemed to be just that. He shook it. 

“Geralt.” 

“Geralt,” Yennefer purred. “Now. How can I help you?” 

“You were the one who sought me out,” Geralt pointed out, but Yennefer only laughed again. 

“I only followed the aura of someone in need. It’s been so lonely out here, all alone in the cold.” Geralt held back a shiver as Yennefer circled, inspecting him. “I thought it might be in order to play a bit of fairy godmother, how does that sound?” 

Geralt eyed her suspiciously. 

“Come along, dearest, and tell me your troubles.” 

Geralt stayed put. Yennefer pouted for a moment, before striking, reaching out to snag the paper out of Geralt’s clenched fist. Having expected the witch to attack him in a different way, the paper came easily with Yennefer as she danced back in the snow. 

“The prince’s ball- what a surprise! Does the Witcher yearn for love?” 

Her tone of voice was malicious- she was making fun of him. He tried his best to cover up his flinch, but she glanced up at him. 

“Or, does someone yearn for your love? I heard that the prince had to be rescued from a beast, around the same time that a Witcher killed a manticore. You saved the prince’s life, didn’t you? And now he wants to be wed?” 

“He doesn’t want that.” He doesn’t want me. 

“It does not seem like that to me,” Yennefer replied, waving the paper in the air. “Why are you not dressed? You can’t go to the ball looking like that.” 

“I’m not going to the ball,” Geralt informed, before making a grab for the paper. Yennefer laughed again, dancing out of the way. She was becoming quite annoying, Geralt thought. 

“Why not? Here- as your fairy godmother, I’ll bless you with a handsome suit, hmm? Perhaps a new ride?” 

“Don’t touch her,” Geralt warned, as Yennefer looked significantly at Roach. But the first part of Yennefer’s statement lingered in his mind.

“You could do that?”

“What, change your horse into a unicorn? Perhaps, but likely not. I doubt your horse would like it much.” 

“No. Change appearances.” 

That got the witch’s attention back on him. 

“I can. Depends on how much you are looking to alter. Clothes, no issue but physical appearance… That will take much more. A full glamor, at least.”

“What’s your price?” 

“Now why does the Witcher want to change? Looking to get rid of your white locks?” Yennefer was once again close enough to reach out, and touch a strand of Geralt’s hair. “I thought you would want your prince to recognize you.” 

“He doesn’t want a Witcher.” Geralt told her. “If you could make me look different, I would give you- anything.” One of Yennefer’s eyebrows raised. 

Geralt knew that offering anything was likely a mistake, but if he got to see Jaskier again, have that glowing smile directed at him once again… Perhaps it was worth it. 

“How interesting,” Yennefer drawled. She was now close enough that their chests were nearly touching, but Geralt forced himself to remain still. 

They stared into each other's eyes. Geralt refused to break eye contact, no matter how uncomfortable he was becoming. Eventually, Yennefer seemed to find the answer that she had needed in Geralt’s face, and took a step back.

“Quite dramatic, I must say,” she muttered to herself. “Fine. I can change your appearance, but only for the night.”

“Three nights.” Geralt cut in. Yennefer glared at him, but nodded. 

“Three nights. The magic will only hold for less than six hours per night. When the clock strikes midnight, the spell will wear off and you must come and meet me to get it done once again. In order for me to do this for you, you must grant me passage through the mountains.”

“These mountains?” 

“No, the mountains across the continent- of course these mountains,” Yennefer snapped at him. “The hold that you Witchers have over these lands are extremely powerful, a magic that many people still do not understand. If you grant me passage, I can channel the magic I need in order to complete your silly little spell.”

“You won’t hurt anyone?” Yennefer rolled her eyes, but nodded. 

“No, I won’t hurt anyone. Need me to swear it?” 

“No,” Geralt said. “Three nights, you will do this for me? Make me look more… Human?” 

Yennefer nodded. “I don’t think it’s a good idea, but if you will grant me passage, and allow me to wander, then I will do this for you.” 

Geralt wracked his brain for any other sorts of loop-holes that might exist. 

“Take it or leave it.” Yennefer insisted, sticking her hand out. “I can turn you into a handsome human for the next three nights. It will last for only a few hours, and when the clock strikes midnight, back to your Witcher self.”

“Fine.” Geralt grumbled. As his hands met the witch’s, wind whipped against their faces. Geralt grit his teeth, feeling the weight of the deal settle against their shoulders. It was done. 

“First,” Yennefer said, dropping his hand and stepping back. “We change the Witcher into man,”

Geralt’s chest tightened, but not with any sort of familiar sensation. The cloth around his chest was genuinely tightening, and when he looked, the ugly stained leather was shifting, and changing.

It wasn’t just his armor that was changing, Geralt realized belatedly, his body was as well. The white hair that framed his face was receding from his view, and darkening rapidly. His chest suddenly seemed smaller, but he was quickly distracted by the dark suit that was melding over his armor. 

It was a silver suit, with a black shirt with buttons underneath, and it was tight. 

Yennefer waved her hand again, and suddenly, there was the shimmering visage of a man in front of him. Geralt instinctively flinched back, and the man did as well. The cold air whipped against Geralt’s neck, making him shiver. 

The witch had created a mirror- when Geralt reached up to touch his cheek, so did the other man. This man… Was different.

He had raven black hair that was swept back, and short enough to hardly reach past his ears. His shoulders were not as broad, and instead of his armor he was wearing a suit that was held together by a single button across his midriff. Under the suit, he was wearing a black shirt that was also strained at the buttons. 

Was he shorter? Geralt tried to glance at Yennefer to gauge it, but was distracted by the striking blue that was staring back at him in the mirror. His eyes were blue.

Geralt’s heart squeezed with an unnamable emotion. 

“Is this-” Geralt tried to choke out, but Yen shook her head. 

“This isn’t what you would have looked like without the mutagens, no. More of my own creation.”

“Hm.” Geralt bit back the thoughts that begged to be considered. He slipped the wolf medallion off of his neck, and put it in his pocket.

“There.” Yennefer said, after a few more minutes had passed. “I even got your horse a special gift.” 

Geralt turned, half expecting Roach to be white, instead of her chestnut color, but instead, Yennefer had given her a nicer saddle, and managed to weave flowers into her mane. Roach looked distinctly unimpressed, and tried to mouth at the flowers that were dangling from her. When that failed, she huffed. 

Roach’s snout bumped into Geralt’s head, and she started to try and chew at his new hair. He brushed her off gently. 

“Now, off with you! The spell only lasts until midnight, do you hear? Once the clock strikes midnight, you are back to your Witcher self, and I won’t be able to give you back the glamor until the next day.”

“Midnight. Understood.” Geralt repeated. He pulled himself onto Roach’s saddle, giving her a moment to stop trying to eat her own mane. He looked at Yennefer, wondering if he should thank her. Before he could, the witch shrugged at him.

“I think this is a horrible idea, but who listens to witches anymore?” 

With that, Yennefer vanished. Geralt blinked at the place that she was just standing, before tugging at Roach’s reins. 

“Come on. We are going to the castle.” 

Riding to the castle’s front entrance upon Roach was overwhelming, to say the least. He had to navigate the cobblestone roads, weaving in and out of dozens of carriages. There were elegantly dressed couples walking up the road to the castle as well, none of them giving Geralt the time of day.

It was a good thing, he supposed. He wasn’t outwardly out of place.

He was shorter, if only by a few inches, but he had to adjust his seating on the saddle. He wasn’t lacking his Witcher abilities, he could still hear the small talk that the couple a few carriages away were having- something about some scandal from a neighboring kingdom. He could also smell the heavy cloud of perfume that was sitting in the castle before he even dismounted Roach. 

A stableboy came up and took Roach away, with a cautious nod to Geralt. Geralt tried not to growl at him, and flipped him a coin. 

The grand stairs leading up to the castle seemed to be a long warning to something bad. Not only were the stairs wide, spanning nearly the width of at least two houses, but each step was adorned with a different collection of flowers, in nearly every color possible. 

Ladies were escorted up the stairs by men in fine evening wear, and though they were climbing a staircase that looked like it could rival the Trail, all of them seemed to be in high spirits. 

The castle loomed over them, white and gold and majestic. 

Geralt grit his teeth and began the climb. 

By the time he reached the top, a squire held out a hand. Geralt had to rifle through his pockets for a moment before producing the letter that had been stuck to the front of Kaer Morhen’s door earlier that day. The squire studied it for only half of a second before handing it back. 

“Your introduction, sir?”

“Oh.” Geralt’s mind went blank. “No. No- I- no.”

The squire frowned at him, and Geralt elected to just move past him, trying his best to blend in with the crowd of nobles who were clustered at the mouth of the ballroom. The scent of perfume was almost suffocating, so Geralt tried to breathe carefully through his mouth. 

Before him was a brightly lit ballroom. Couples spun around on the dance floor, all adorned in pearls, lace and bright colors. He instinctively looked around the perimeter of the room, but all that was to be found was more people, this time in dense crowds hovering over tables filled with lavish meals. At the front of the room sat three ornate thrones, but they all were empty. 

Geralt allowed himself another deep breath before entering the ballroom fully. 

It was too much- this was a mistake. All he had to do was find the stables, get Roach, and escape into the night. All of this was a mistake. He would tell the witch to not worry about the rest of the spell, though he would allow her to roam where she desired- a broken promise with a witch was not something Geralt liked to entertain the thought of. 

The cold air was bracing, as he slipped into one of the courtyards. He glanced at the clock tower that rose above all of the kingdom’s village. It was not near midnight, not by a long shot. He had survived proper society for all of thirty minutes. 

He had also managed to draw undue attention to himself. People whispered as he passed, a few even being as blatant as to point him out with their fingers. The ballroom was a cacophony of noises and scents, all overwhelming him enough to make a break for the nearest door. 

Geralt hadn’t even been able to find Jaskier. The prince wasn’t on the dance floor, nor was he lingering by the band, where Geralt had half expected him to be. 

In total, this entire thing was an error, a dream that Geralt should not have tried to indulge in. He should just find Roach and go home- he would have to wait until midnight before entering the keep, otherwise his brothers would never let him live it down, but the sooner he was out of here, the better. 

This train of thought carried him through the courtyard, and directly into a shadowy figure who was moving through the hedges. Geralt stopped himself just before he ran into them, but the breath from his lungs was stolen when the figure turned around. 

Prince Julian was just as beautiful as Geralt remembered. The crown on his head did nothing to distract from his elegance- if anything, it made him look more regal. 

For a brief moment, Jaskier smiled at him, just as he had smiled at him in the forest. Geralt found himself smiling back, the expression foreign on an even more foreign face. 

But as Jaskier studied him more, the smile faltered, before disappearing completely. Jaskier was still smiling, now it was a cold, unfamiliar thing. Geralt’s heart clenched. 

“Apologies,” Jaskier said. “I thought you were someone I knew.” 

How could Jaskier say that? Sure, Geralt looked different, but wasn’t this what Jaskier would have wanted? A more human appearance? Someone who wasn’t born and raised to be a monster, a killer?

Unbeknownst to Geralt’s mental spiral, Jaskier continued. “Quite the party, is it not?” He stepped out from the hedges. The light from the glass windows shone through, lighting his silhouette in a glow. “All of these people are here to rub elbows and drink more wine than they could ever afford.”

“I was under the impression that they were here for you.” Geralt said, doing his best to recover. His new face was softer, in a way that made him worried that all of his thoughts were displayed perfectly clear on his face. “Your Highness.”

Jaskier turned back to Geralt, scowling playfully. 

“So my cover was blown. Tell me, was it the outfit? Too flashy for a commoner?” 

“It was the crown.” Geralt lied. Jaskier raised a hand to the crown as if he had forgotten he was wearing it. 

“So it is,” he murmured. He inspected Geralt closer. “You really do look like someone I know. Don’t suppose you have a brother?” 

“Not one that would be caught dead within a fifty mile radius of a ball.” 

Jaskier laughed. He took quick steps, walking back until he was nearly chest to chest with Geralt. 

“Would you like a tour?” 

“Of the hedges?” Jaskier snorted again. Geralt tried to console himself with the fact that he could still make the prince laugh. 

“No. Of the castle- or the courtyards, at least. I think I might die if I have to spend another moment in that stuffy room.” 

“We can’t have that happen,” Geralt said. He turned to follow as Jaskier moved through the dark. “But isn’t this party for you?” Jaskier laughed again, but this time it was a sadder noise. 

“Sure. Came home, told my parents, and instead of supporting me or whatever normal parents do, they decided to throw a ball for me. Three nights, so I can find someone who I’d actually want to court, then get married off to. Never mind what I have to say on the matter.”

“I thought you had already found your true love,” Geralt asked, thinking back to what the invitation had said. 

“Who truly cares if I have?” Jaskier said in response. His dancing around the answer, the answer that Geralt really wanted to hear, made Geralt’s stomach turn. “This is my grandmother’s garden.” 

In the night, and so close to winter, the garden was rather unimpressive. Still, Geralt tried to make his grunt sound at least mildly interested. 

“Your reaction could be taken as an act of treason,” Jaskier commented idly, before flouncing away. Geralt had to keep his mouth from gaping open as he followed. 

Walking around the courtyard with Jaskier was… Nice. They made small talk, but Geralt couldn’t help but compare the man in the woods to the prince in front of him. Jaskier was so open, and the conversation flowed easily, regardless of Geralt’s social shortcomings. But Prince Julian was not. 

He was friendly, of course, and the conversation was pleasant, but every word from him felt as if it was carefully selected. 

This wasn’t Jaskier talking to him. This was Prince Julian, heir to the throne speaking to him.

But Geralt couldn’t fault him- was Geralt not masquerading in a similar if not the same way? 

“I must apologize again,” Jaskier was saying. They had circled the entire palace, and were now in the same spot where they had started. “For how I acted when we first met. But you are right. I suppose I am waiting for my real, true love to show up. I mean, there was someone I was expecting- no, hoping to show.”

“True love,” Geralt repeated. 

The door that Geralt had slipped through earlier burst open, and a burst of party-goers streamed through. 

“Well, who knows if true love’s a thing. But I believe in connection. I believe in how I feel.” Jaskier peered at Geralt’s face. “You really do look like him, but you aren’t.” 

Bong.

The large clock tower attached to the castle began to ring, with almost thunderous claps of noise.

Geralt held his breath as the crowd began to come over to them, all chattering over each other. Bong, bong, bong, bong. the bell rang. He squinted up into the sky, trying to see what time the clock read. It couldn’t be midnight already, could it?

The spell only lasts until midnight , Yennefer’s voice echoed in his head. How had the night gone by so quickly?

“It’s a small world, I suppose.” Bong, bong, bong, bong , that made eight chimes, and still counting - “ He had white hair-”

“I have to go,” Geralt interrupted Jaskier. He didn’t have time to look at the hurt look that was crossing Jaskier’s face, before turning around. The crowd of people had reached them and were surrounding Jaskier, all trying to get the prince’s attention. 

As Geralt ran off into the night, towards the stable, he chanced one look back. Jaskier had been lost in the crowd, but Geralt could have sworn that he was looking in his direction. 

The further he got from the castle, the more he felt the magic wear off. First, his suit once again melded with his skin, transforming back into the armor he had been wearing earlier that day, then his hair started to grow, and quickly flash white in color. 

By the time he reached Roach, he was almost himself again. Roach whinnied at him, but must have understood the sense of urgency, as she broke out into a high speed pace as soon as Geralt was on her. 

The stableboy who was rounding the corner dropped the armful of hay he was carrying when he caught sight of Geralt. 

Geralt had no idea what he looked like at the moment- no doubt crazed. Geralt felt a brief moment of guilt for the boy, but had no time to do anything but urge Roach on. 

The image of Jaskier’s face as Geralt rode off stayed in Geralt’s mind. 

By the time Geralt reached Kaer Morhen, he was fully transformed back into his normal self. The saddle on Roach’s back remained the same, but all of the flowers in her mane had fallen out during their ride back up the Trail. 

It was late enough that his brothers would be asleep. Geralt whispered a quiet prayer to whatever goddess was listening, and creaked the door open. 

Thankfully, someone had recently oiled the hinges, and the door swung open with minimal effort, and minimal noise. 

Of course, all of that was for nothing, as Vesemir was sitting at the closest table to the door, a tankard in hand. He only glanced idly at Geralt as he slipped through the door, before going back to the book that was laid out in front of him. 

Geralt drew himself up to full height, and started to walk past the old man. 

“You were out late,” Vesemir drawled, flicking a page in his book. Geralt worked to keep his footsteps steady. No response would be the best, in Geralt’s case. “I don’t suppose it has anything to do with that ball, in the kingdom?”

“No,” Geralt uttered. He passed Vesemir, halting only when the elder raised a hand. 

“You reek of magic.”

“Had to deal with a witch.” 

There was no way that Vesemir missed the way Geralt’s heart skipped a beat when he stood. 

In the darkness, it was impossible to read Vesemir’s expression. He wasn’t quite a father, not in the way that Eskel and Lambert were his brothers, but he was the one who had raised them, and made them who they were. A certain amount of respect had to be given. 

Though the Witchers were grown men, they still had to uphold certain expectations, such as not interacting or fooling around in the lives of the kingdom, castle or otherwise. 

Geralt watched Vesemir stand up, and met his eyes in the darkness. 

“I want you to patch up the hole in the stables tomorrow.”

“Yes sir.” Geralt said. He waited until Vesemir was done studying him, and had turned back to his book before swiftly leaving the great hall. 

Back in his room, his heart was pounding. His eyes and limbs ached with exhaustion, but he knew that if he fell asleep, all he would see was the prince. Geralt wasn’t sure if he could handle that yet again. 

No- he had to make up his mind. He wouldn’t go the next night. He wouldn’t seek out Yennefer, and wouldn’t go near the castle, near Prince Julian. He wouldn’t. 

Yennefer was in the exact place that she was the last time they had met. If she was surprised that he had shown up for the second night, she didn’t show it.

Yennefer didn’t need words- the smirk on her face spoke in clear volumes. But still, she transformed him into what was becoming a vaguely familiar form. 

Geralt knew she thought he was an idiot, but he didn’t care to ask. He had a plan this time: find Jaskier earlier in the night, and convince him that Geralt was the one he wanted. He just happened to be better, when he looked as he did. 

He was wearing a similar suit, with only the silver thread’s patterns varying from the night before. Yennefer didn’t bother with producing a mirror for him, but through gentle prodding of his own face, he came to the conclusion that he looked the same. He placed the wolf medallion in the same pocket as before.

Still, Yennefer remained silent as Geralt rode off on Roach, just as he had the night before. 

There were only minor changes to the outside decor of the palace, but the inside looked as if it was a different place entirely. The tables full of food and chairs had all been taken out, and the majority of people there were standing in lines, as jaunty music played.

Geralt watched with a sense of horror dawning as the people in the lines bowed or curtseyed to each other, before beginning a synchronized dance.

This was a night of organized dancing. 

Against his will, Geralt’s feet took him down to the ballroom floor. People were dressed more elaborate than the night before, a feat that Geralt hadn’t thought possible. He gave curt nods to the women and men who reached out for him, trying to drag him into the mix, but he had a sense that Yennefer had not included dancing skills in addition to his new appearance. 

It was like an ocean of people, of bright colors and flashy clothing. It was hopeless- there was no use searching for Jaskier. He doubted that anyone could find anyone in here, unless they were both searching for each other.

It was only a dream, that Jaskier would be searching for him. 

All of this was an elaborate way to feel as if Geralt, a Witcher, could fit in somewhere, as if he could be loved. 

Geralt had to accept that he couldn’t. 

He was about to steal a glass of champagne and leave, when a warm hand wrapped around his bicep, and pulled him into the fray. Before he could yank his arm away, potentially punch the offender in the face, he turned to see Jaskier. 

Jaskier was wearing a red suit this time, that had gold thread lacing buttons around it. His crown was still perched perfectly on his head. 

“I’ve been looking for you everywhere ,” Jaskier insisted, handling Geralt into a waltz position. Geralt followed the prince’s lead automatically, placing one hand on Jaskier’s shoulder, and the other clasping Jaskier’s offered hand. “You simply vanished last night, I wasn’t aware that you could move so quickly. I wasn’t aware that anyone could move so quickly in such an outfit.”

“You aren’t aware of many things,” Geralt said. The heat in his stomach curled when Jaskier raised an eyebrow, while still seamlessly leading them in a dance. It took most of Geralt’s effort to not stumble over the prince’s feet. 

“Fair point. Why don’t we get to know each other, then? Starting with, where did you go last night, and why in such a rush?”

“Prince Julian,” a voice interrupted. Jaskier had been spinning the two in such fast circles that Geralt nearly felt dizzy when they halted suddenly. “You must allow me a dance with you, at some point in the night,” 

Jaskier smiled kindly at the man who had stopped them. He was balding, but his clothing indicated that he had more money than Geralt could hope to ever see in his lifetime. 

“Valdo, what a surprise. I wasn’t aware that you had been invited,”

If the man, Valdo, registered the slight, he didn’t react. 

“How could I miss such an event? Now please,” he held out his hand. Instead of dropping Geralt’s, as the Witcher had expected, Jaskier only squeezed tighter. 

“My companion and I have only just begun the night together. Find Lady Isabella, I’m sure she would love to hear about your ambitions to claw your way into good fortune without raising a single finger.” 

Jaskier whirled Geralt away, leaving Valdo sputtering. 

“That wasn’t very princely of you,” Geralt commented once they were thrust back into the center of the dancers. Jaskier rolled his eyes. 

“Valdo wouldn’t know princely-ness if it bit him in the ass.” A woman dancing next to them gave Jaskier a scandalized look. “Additionally, what I said was true. Our night together had only just started.”

Geralt wouldn’t say he enjoyed dancing. He didn’t enjoy balls, either.

What he did enjoy was the way that Jaskier spent the entire night with him. Offers to cut in for both parties were heartily rejected, as were any attempts to pull Jaskier away. They talked about everything, but nothing of importance. Geralt learned more than he would have ever cared for court drama, and Jaskier appeared to be genuinely interested as Geralt quietly told him about the first sword that he had ever made with his own hands. 

It felt like they were spinning forever. Jaskier was clearly an expert, and never made a comment when Geralt fumbled over a move. 

In a way that Geralt had never felt before, he felt a sense of… Safety, in Jaskier’s hold. For some reason, somehow, he trusted this stranger, this prince to guide him well throughout the dance floor. 

When they both tired of dancing, Jaskier led him to a back corner, where the food was. 

Geralt sipped on a flute of champagne, watching as Jaskier inspected the food closely. His fingers hovered over a selection of brightly colored fruit tarts. Geralt knew from their time spent dancing that Jaskier’s hands were soft, and kept immaculately manicured, with hardened bits of skin on the tips of his fingers, from his lute-playing. 

Geralt couldn’t help but stare at the prince, and want . 

It was the want that distracted him, so when Jaskier finally selected an tart filled with an orange tinted jam, Geralt couldn’t help but react.

They both went silent as the tart went splat on the floor. Geralt stared at it, before staring at the hand that had slapped the tart out of Jaskier’s hands. 

Geralt had a brief moment of horror filling him, with images of being kicked out of the ball, dragged out by the arms, while Jaskier stared in horror. Geralt was not fit for life in court- not that he ever had assumed that he was, but with Jaskier, it was easy to pretend-

Jaskier’s shoulders were shaking, and his arms were gripping at the sides of his stomach. Geralt opened his mouth to say something, apologize, or something , before he realized that Jaskier was laughing. 

“Why,” Jaskier wheezed out, finally looking up to meet Geralt’s eyes. They were filled with tears, but he wiped them away easily with the back of his hand. “Why in Gods name would you do that?”

“It was apricot,” Geralt uttered, waving a hand uselessly at the smashed tart. “You don’t like apricots.” 

Jaskier stared at him for one more silent moment, before dissolving into more sputtering laughter. Geralt watched as the prince utterly lost his composure, hoping that no one was watching.

“When did I ever tell you that? You, sir, intrigue me, truly.” Jaskier finally said, wiping the remaining tears from his eyes. “Join me, outside?” 

Geralt nodded, and followed, wordlessly. He put his wine glass down on a nearby empty table, hoping that it wasn’t evident how much his heart was racing. 

The cold air outside was just as bracing as it was the night before. Though Geralt had been having a considerably better time in the ballroom than he had been the previous night, he still felt a piece of him relax out in the open air. 

“You know, you still haven’t told me your name.” Jaskier said. He was close to Geralt, the heat of his body nearly radiating off of him.

Geralt tried to not get distracted by a bead of sweat that was slowly rolling down his temple. He had made all of the dancing that they had done look so effortless, so it endeared Geralt to see that he wasn’t somehow impervious to exhaustion from dancing. 

“I haven’t,” Geralt murmured, letting their bodies drift closer. Their chests weren’t touching, but they were close. 

Bending his head to kiss Jaskier felt as if it was second nature. This was the moment he had been thinking about for days now. To actually press his lips against Jaskier, to taste him-

Jaskier’s hands were on Geralt’s chest, and he was pushing him away, gently. There was hardly any force behind the action, but it was enough to stop Geralt cold in his movements. 

“I can’t,” Jaskier whispered. “I’m sorry.”

Bong , the clock tower rang.

The rejection was akin to a bucket of ice water being dumped over Geralt’s head. He blinked, and before he knew it, he was feet away from Jaskier. 

Jaskier was looking at him, his mouth open, as if he was trying to find the words. 

Geralt didn’t need any words- Jaskier had gotten his point across well enough. 

Bong. 

This time, Geralt had done a slightly better job at keeping track of time. When the bell rang, he knew that he had to go. 

Bong. 

“It’s- it’s not you, really. It’s just that- there is someone out there, and while you do look eerily similar to him, it’s just not the same, and it wouldn’t be fair.” Jaskier rambled, wringing his hands. 

Bong. 

“It’s fine,” Geralt said, his mouth suddenly dry. “I have to go.”

Bong. 

“Wait, you can’t just-” Jaskier started to say, but Geralt had already turned around. This time, he at least knew what direction to go in to find the stables. 

Bong. Bong. Bong. 

How many signs had he walked past? How many things had he ignored? It was clear that Jaskier, Prince Julian , would never truly want a Witcher , a monster, someone who was unfit for such high society.

Geralt had to stop dreaming, had to stop wishing. He wasn’t the type of person to get the things that he wanted in life. That simply wasn’t in destiny’s plans for a Witcher. 

Just as he was the previous night, Vesemir was sitting at the table closest to the door. Geralt resisted the urge to run back out into the cold night, and sat down in the seat across from the elder.

Vesemir raised an eyebrow at him, before shoving the tankard of ale across the table.

"Another rough night with the witch?"

Geralt hummed softly, taking a large sip. The ale was warm, and disgusting. 

"You still stink of magic. Take a bath out in the back if you are going to keep coming back like this." 

"Okay," Geralt said. 

"I'm not going to ask what bull-headed idea that brain of yours has gotten yourself into." Vesemir continued. "I just want to make sure that you haven't forgotten."

Geralt looked up and met Vesemir's eyes. They glinted in the darkness as the eldest Wolf spoke. 

"You are a Witcher, boy. A wolf. A monster slayer. Not many take kindly to that, not any more. It would serve you best to remember who you are first." 

Geralt felt the place on his chest where Jaskier had pushed him away. Where his hands had pressed burned from the memory. 

He sniffed and took another swig of the ale. It was still disgusting, but less so.

Without another word, Vesemir stood up, the chair legs scraping against the stone floors. This time, he didn't have a book with him, and he left the ale with Geralt.

Geralt listened to his footsteps grow softer and softer, the deeper he went into the keep. 

Geralt huffed a breath, catching a glimpse of his white hair out of the corner of his eye.

Yennefer said that the human glamor that she put on him was not a representation of what he would've looked like, without the trials and the mutagens. But what color could his hair have been?

It had been so long since he thought about himself as a child- could he remember the color of his hair, back then?

Did it matter? 

Vesemir was right. He was a Witcher. The medallion lay heavily against his chest. 

He couldn't go back. Not only could he not face Jaskier ever again, but tomorrow was the last night of the ball. After this, Jaskier would be wed, and set up to inherit the throne. 

Geralt was a Witcher. Jaskier was a prince, soon to be a king. 

Geralt couldn't go back.

“It’s the last midnight.” Yennefer said as Geralt approached her. “After this, I’m afraid our deal has run its course.” 

Geralt grunted as he dismounted Roach. The freshly fallen snow crunched under his feet. 

“Have you been able to meet all of your heart’s desires?”

Geralt let his glare respond to the witch’s question. She laughed, before drawing a orb of chaos between her hands. 

“I can’t say I am too disappointed in that- surprised, either. What you desire is not something I can give to you through magic. Might as well embrace-” Geralt felt the tug in his chest as his body shifted for the third time in as many days. “- whatever it is you get from this shape.”

Roach huffed, and butted Geralt’s head with her nose. Geralt managed to wave her off before she started to chew at his hair again.

“This may be the last time we see each other,” Yennefer said. She strode up to him, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. Geralt froze, remaining as still as he could be as her lips lingered on his skin. When Yennefer pulled away, she smirked at whatever expression was on Geralt’s face. 

“Go and get your prince. Or don’t, it wouldn’t matter either way to me.” 

This time, Yennefer was the first to leave, spinning around and walking off into the forest. She was allowed on the mountains where Kaer Morhen hid now, free to practice whatever magic she desired as long as she did not harm or disturb anyone. Geralt hoped that granting her that permission wasn’t a mistake. 

It was possible, seeing how the past three days had simply been filled with myriads of mistakes. 

Still, this was his last chance to see Jaskier, let alone speak to him. That is, if the prince would even allow Geralt to come near him, after the disaster that was last night’s ball. 

Was it the human in him, or the Witcher in him that made him so stubborn? 

That was not a question he could find an answer for, not from his brothers, or Vesemir. 

Geralt looked down at his unscarred, soft, human hands. There were no callouses from holding swords. There was a small line of dirt under his thumb’s nail, and he tried to scrape it out. 

Roach huffed again. Geralt tried to rouse up a smile for her, but wasn’t sure if he managed. 

The ride to the kingdom was familiar at this point. Even the steward at the top of the stairs ushered him in without any hassle. 

Geralt attempted to take a moment to breathe in the scene before him, all of the glitz and glamor, but was almost immediately assaulted by a nearby man’s overpowering and rank perfume. He gave up on the moment and walked into the castle’s ballroom for the last time. 

Geralt managed to successfully avoid Jaskier for a majority of the night. Fear kept him from approaching, so he lingered in the sidelines, trying his best to keep Jaskier in his eye's view without drawing attention to himself. 

It felt like shit, to put it plainly, but every time Geralt yearned to reach out, he remembered the feeling of Jaskier pushing him away, and the drawn look on his face. 

Compared to that, watching Jaskier laugh politely at a lady's joke was easier, safer. 

It was when Geralt caught Jaskier with a strange look on his face, that he got worried. Geralt watched as Jaskier excused himself from a conversation with a noble from a faraway lands. The prince then walked directly into a crowd of people, causing Geralt to lose sight of him almost immediately. 

Geralt spared a glance to one of the guards who was supposed to be keeping an eye on the prince. He had to repress a glare when he saw the guard was leaning against a pillar, with a glass of drink in his hand while he chatted up a pretty young lady. 

He squinted back out into the crowd, but saw no sign of the crown, or the prince who was wearing it. 

"You've been avoiding me." 

Geralt didn't jump, for he was a Witcher, and Witchers did not get surprised, or startled. But it took him a moment to school his face into a neutral expression before turning to the prince. 

"Have I." Geralt responded dryly. Jaskier had his hands on his hips, and looked extremely unimpressed. Geralt felt his heart skip a beat at the look, and immediately chastised himself silently. 

"You aren't a very easy man to find, are you aware of that?" Jaskier continued. "The fact that you still haven't given me your name hasn't helped either."

Geralt grunted. Jaskier studied his face for a moment, before holding his hand out again. 

"Come with me?"

Geralt looked at Jaskier's outstretched hand. He looked back into Jaskier's face, the crown that laid atop his head. 

Geralt was always a weak human. 

Jaskier smiled softly at him, when Geralt took his hand. Geralt allowed himself to be led back outside, to the courtyards where they had met for the first time at these balls, with Geralt in this human form. What he expected, what he wanted out of this, what he wanted from Jaskier he was no longer sure of. Especially now that everything was out of his hands. There was only one midnight left, a few spare hours where he could be in Jaskier's presence, have that sunlight beam down onto him. 

"I am to be wed tomorrow." Jaskier started, once they were in the middle of a courtyard. Jaskier settled on a stone bench. "It doesn't matter if the man I'm looking for never shows up- that's the deal. I was granted three nights to find him, and if I didn't, my parents are allowed to marry me off to whoever they choose."

Geralt couldn't help the growl coming from his chest. If Jaskier was surprised by the noise, he didn't show it. Instead, he leaned down to one of his boots and pulled something out. 

Jaskier held the dagger by its hilt. Geralt's breath caught in his throat. Though they weren't enchanted, the twin daggers went together, two halves of a whole. Geralt's dagger burned in his own boot. 

"He dropped this, running. Of course, there are always reasons to run. Gods know that I've run from things once or twice before. You've run, these past two nights." Jaskier recounted, glaring at Geralt lightly. Geralt couldn't formulate a response, staring at the dagger in Jaskier's hands. He didn't realize that Jaskier would keep the blade. 

Why would Jaskier keep the blade?

"So, if I get married off tomorrow, this may be all I have left at my one shot of true love."

"You believe in it?" Geralt surprised himself by asking. Jaskier shrugged, eyes still on the dagger. 

“True love?” Geralt nodded. Jaskier shrugged again. “I suppose. I wanted it. I thought I had a chance at it, that day in the woods. But I'm not sure if we will ever know, huh?" 

"Hm." 

Geralt's brain was spinning. He was so caught up in his thoughts, he nearly missed the rustling that was coming from the hedges behind him. 

It was the hissing that brought him out of his thoughts. Jaskier's eyes went wide, staring over Geralt's shoulder. Geralt spun around, and cursed out loud. 

There was a Devourer. 

Nasty creatures- shaped like haggard old women with a taste for warm flesh. 

With a flash, Geralt pulled out his dagger, wishing that he had his swords. 

Bong.  

The clock tower rang, making both Geralt and Jaskier flinch. It was midnight already, somehow. 

The Devourer hissed. "I was coming to feast on the little princeling, but what a treat! A princeling and a Witcher, all in one meal. Perhaps I should call for my sisters."

"Over my dead body." Geralt snapped, stepping forward. 

The Devourer made a shrill noise that in one life could have been considered a laugh. 

"If that's the meal order, then sure!" She took a step out of the hedges, revealing her tall stature. 

Bong.

Jaskier made a squeaking noise, frozen with a stricken look on his face. 

Geralt lunged in front of Jaskier. In Jaskier’s state of shock, the dagger hung limply from his fingers. Geralt snatched the dagger with ease, already feeling more confident with both blades in his hands. 

Bong.  

The Devourer lunged. 

"Guards!" Jaskier shouted, just as Geralt went in for his first strike. The Devourer blocked it easily, which allowed for Geralt to strike her on the other side. The blade dug into her flesh, making her shriek in pain. Her horrid mouth lolled open, as her tongue snaked out. "Guards?!"

Jaskier's guards were horrifically incompetent, Geralt thought to himself as he ducked his head to avoid a swipe. The Devourer got one hand on his shoulder and held on tightly, claws digging into his flesh. 

Bong. Bong. Bong.  

"What's-" Jaskier's voice was shrill. Geralt looked down, and noticed the fancy suit on him melding away. "You're-"

Geralt grunted loudly as he stabbed the Devourer in the head. She shrieked once again, letting go of Geralt to grab at her head. He staggered back, giving himself a moment to breathe, wishing he had any potions, or any better weapons with him. 

Bong.

There was a clatter of metal as the guards rounded the corner. They were still too far away- the Devourer was moaning, holding her head, but still on her feet. Geralt sucked in another deep breath before jumping at her again, slashing with both of his daggers. 

Geralt felt the wolf medallion in his chest pocket surge, and slip out of his shirt pocket. The sound of it hitting the ground was far away, as Geralt’s blood roared in his ears. All he could think about was Jaskier, Jaskier, Jaskier-

Bong. 

“You’re,” Jaskier said again, and Geralt caught a glimpse of his hair out of the corner of his eye- it was black only on the tips, but was graying, and rapidly turning white once more. The skin on his hands was hardening, and coming to shape around the daggers’ hilt more comfortable. 

All it took was one last slash across the hag’s throat to make her crumple into a pile of haggard flesh. 

Bong. Bong.  

The thundering metal racing against the stone came closer, until it halted. 

Bong. 

Bong.  

“Your highness,” One of the guards said. “Are you alright-”

“You.” Jaskier said. When Geralt turned to look at him, Jaskier’s eyes were wide, and locked onto his face. 

Geralt couldn’t look at Jaskier in the eye- instead, he cast a glance at his body. Not only was he back to his normal form, he was drenched in a smattering of Devourer blood. 

He was a Witcher. 

He was a monster. 

He didn’t want to know what the look on Jaskier’s face was saying. Geralt looked up long enough to spot a gap through the guard’s formation. The poor excuses for guards were all focused on Jaskier, which meant they couldn’t move quickly enough to stop Geralt from rushing through their numbers. 

Jaskier made a yelping noise again, which was quickly followed by more clattering metal. When Geralt had put enough distance between him and the prince, he braved a look behind him.

Geralt nearly tripped over his own feet. 

Jaskier was chasing after him, an almost angry look on his face. His arms were more flailing than they were pumping, but the prince was managing to keep a surprisingly close distance to Geralt. 

When Jaskier saw Geralt looking back at him, an intense look crossed over his face, and he seemed to run faster , something that Geralt hadn’t presumed was possible. The prince seemed small, especially when they had first met, but he was surprisingly strong. 

It was unfortunate that Geralt would never see him again. 

Jaskier may be fast, but Geralt had made this run two nights in a row- he knew the shortcuts. He easily jumped over a low bush, and scaled a fence. It took less than a minute for him to get into the stables, and locate Roach. The stable boy knew him well enough to keep Roach tied to a post loosely, as his first night Geralt almost ripped the entire post out of the ground in his haste. 

Roach was also used to this, and almost immediately broke out into a run, the second they had cleared the stable doors. 

“Hey! Stop!” A breathless voice called. Geralt saw Jaskier nearly tripping over his own feet as he skidded in front of the stables, waving his arms. “Stop!” 

Geralt didn’t stop. He quietly urged Roach to go faster, and forced himself to not look back. Jaskier’s calls faded long before the sound of his voice in Geralt’s mind did. 

Vesemir was sitting at the table, once again. This time, Geralt walked past him without a single look. Whatever the old man had to say, Geralt already knew. 

Geralt locked himself in his room for the rest of the night. 

Vesemir was an old, old man. He had seen many things in his life, and had seen many things that he wished he never had. Being the last of his kind was not something that could be carried lightly. It burdened him with every step on the Path. 

Vesemir was an old, old man. But he knew his wolves, perhaps better than they knew themselves. Geralt, slinking back to the keep just before dawn, reeking of magic and sorrow- it would take a fool not to notice something was wrong. But Witchers weren’t Witchers to discuss their feelings- Vesemir thought he had made that plenty clear the second night that it had occurred. 

Still, Geralt went out again, to wherever it was he was. And he came back, just as disturbed. 

Vesemir had half a mind to go beat some sense into the boy, but was stopped by a knocking on the door.

Someone was knocking on the front door of Kaer Morhen, the home of Witchers. 

Vesemir looked around, as if Lambert would jump out, before explaining why he thought such a thing would be a hilarious joke. 

The knocking continued. 

There was only one thing to do in such a situation, Vesemir supposed, pushing back his chair, and making his way to the great wooden doors. 

Whoever was on the other side knocked for a third time before Vesemir finally reached the doors. He pulled at the iron ring, and as the door swung open, a rush of cold air seeped into the keep. 

Vesemir stared at the young man in front of him. He had large blue eyes, not too different from a puppy’s, and his lower lip was bitten to hell and back. He was holding something silver in his hands, which he seemed to be rubbing without realizing. 

“Hello! You are- well, this is the home of the Witchers, is it not? I mean, obviously, yes, it is, because wow, look at this place, and wow, what a climb it is to get up here-”

No one should know how to get up here unless they knew exactly what they were looking for. The boy’s face looked vaguely familiar. Vesemir started to look closer at him, before the silver thing in his hands caught his attention. 

“I’m looking for a Witcher. A specific Witcher, in fact. White hair, a bit burly, terse on the words?” The boy continued. He looked into his hands as if he was surprised to see the item there. “Oh, this is his, I suppose.”

Geralt’s wolf medallion glinted off of the sunlight. It swung in the air, from where the boy was holding onto its chain. It did not slip Vesemir’s notice, the careful way that the boy handled the piece, as if it was made out of gold, or diamond. 

“Geralt’s around the back,” Vesemir found himself saying. 

“Geralt,” the boy breathed. He brightened up, bowing his head towards Vesemir. “I can’t thank you enough for this, truly.” 

“Ah,” Vesemir said, already turning around. “Remind him it’s his turn to cut the firewood.” 

There was a crunching in the snow, and the boy was gone. 

Vesemir was an old, old man. But perhaps he hadn’t seen everything, for the way that boy looked when he spoke of Geralt, it looked something a bit like love. 

But what could Vesemir know? He was just an old Witcher. It was up to his wolves to make the changes to their lives, if they wanted it. 

Geralt had to cut the firewood. He knew this, knew that if he didn’t, Eskel would complain, and Lambert would threaten to burn Geralt’s favorite wooden chair. 

He had to cut the firewood, but he still stayed out in the back of his home, striking the wooden dummy with his daggers. Bruises were forming on his arms as he pretended to block strikes, and dodge unseen enemies. 

All he could hear for miles was the sound of his own panting breath, so when he heard the crunching of snow, he paused. It wasn’t the sound of his brother's footsteps, nor Vesemir’s. Had Yennefer come to strike another deal? He had lost more than he had gained from that deal, not to mention his medallion and his dignity.

Geralt stood up, turning away from the dummy.

It wasn’t Yen who stood behind him. 

“You left this.” Jaskier said, holding Geralt’s wolf medallion out. Its shiny surface reflected the cold winter light of the mountains.

“How did you get here.” Geralt asked, though his gruffness made it come out more like a statement. He awkwardly cleared his throat- he hadn’t said a single word since arriving back at Kaer Morhen last night. 

“A witch showed me the way. Said to call you an idiot when I see you.” 

Geralt stepped away from the wooden post, looking briefly up into the sky. He wasn’t sure if he should be thanking Yen, or cursing her name. 

“And the man at the front door- was that your father?- he told me to remind you to cut the firewood.” 

The snow crunched as Jaskier walked closer to him. Geralt looked down as Jaskier came within arms reach of him. He wasn’t wearing any of the fancy regalia that he wore at the balls- instead, he was wearing a loosely tied white poet shirt, similar to the one he had been wearing the day they met in the woods.

“I will cut the firewood.” 

Jaskier paused, looking at him. “Are you taller?”

“Yes.” Geralt wondered idly if a dragon could swoop down and take him away at that very moment. 

“Hm. I thought so.” Jaskier said, continuing on. 

He was also shivering, Geralt noticed. His skin was pimpled with goosebumps. He dragged his own furs off and placed them over Jaskier’s shoulders. The prince did not flinch. 

“You know, I knew you were a Witcher the first day I saw you in those woods.” 

Of course he did, Jaskier was not an idiot. If Geralt had learned anything about the prince in the past three nights, it was that he was only an idiot about some things, but not all. 

Geralt opened his mouth, determined to say something, but the words failed him, as they often did. 

Jaskier didn’t say anything, but he watched Geralt’s face closely. After a few moments of silence he dragged his thumb underneath the chain, and lifted it up. 

Geralt had to gently bow his head so Jaskier could slip the chain around his head, as the medallion thunked against his chest. It was warm, he noted. Had Jaskier been holding it his entire journey up?

Jaskier didn’t let go of the chain- instead, he tugged it gently, beckoning Geralt’s head even closer. 

“I don’t know why you did what you did,” Jaskier said, his breath hot against Geralt’s face. “But I think I like your hair like this better.” 

Geralt only had time to huff out a laugh before Jaskier dragged their faces together for a kiss. 

fin