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Chapter Text

Jaskier had been doing quite well for himself after Geralt had thrown his little temper tantrum. He’d gone from city to city, performing in courts and taverns alike, drinking away his anger and hurt and finding comfort in the arms of the willing men and women along his path. 

At first he’d been waiting for Geralt to find him, to apologize for being such a brute, but six months into it he’d stopped waiting around. Another half year had seen the strangest plague known; something that turned humans into something nonhuman. They grew wings and gave up humanity for something other .

Jaskier, knowing a thing or two about plagues, had made it a point to avoid large cities for awhile and stuck to smaller towns that showed no signs of the affliction. While waiting for the plague to die down, he had seen some of humanity’s worst, and then been witness to atrocities that had no adequate descriptors for their depravity. 

These people had been neighbors, family, friends, and here they were selling their loved ones for coin or tying them to a tree to carve off their new appendages while they still lived or experimenting , and, and…

Jaskier had no issues with nonhumans.

But he had a new appreciation for how terrifying humans could be to what they did not understand.

He’d been so careful, living mostly in the woods and only popping into towns for supplies, but with the spreading word that the mage responsible for the curse was dead, well…

Spells died with their casters, didn’t they?

So he had gone to a larger town for the first time in almost a year, performed to his heart's content, and fully intended on staying for at least a month. He was going to have so many baths, so much sex, so much ale, so much everything he’d been missing in those stupid woods.

So he’d stayed at that inn in Ard Carraigh, ignored the stuffed wings hanging from the walls like trophies, and did his best to enjoy city life. He sang every night, raked in money from patrons, and overall greatly enjoyed his stay.

Except two weeks into his stay he’d woken up with a slight, spreading pain in every one of his bones, blurry eyesight, and a horrid itching in his back.

It could have been nothing.

But.

But Jaskier had heard enough of the stories to know the symptoms.

‘ Should your bones grow weak and weary,

Your back in pain, your vision bleary;

Lock you away unto your house

And keep far from your beloved spouse.

Bones will creak and bones will grow,

Be sure to lie you still and low.

One month of pain will you endure

Before your wings in full mature! ’

Jaskier had, after all, written that little singsong that outlined them so that healers would know what they were looking at, to prepare for the influx. But mostly so that the afflicted would know to get to safety before...well. Before .

Song was a great way for people who could not read to learn.

He had been so proud of it when he had come up with it on the spot for those children, but currently it was just bouncing around inside his own head, mocking him.

Stupid, stupid . He should have waited longer before going into town; if there was one thing his travels with Geralt had taught him, it was that magic never followed its own rules and Destiny was a bitch.

And if Jaskier had it, then that meant that everyone who had been at his performances had been exposed. It would be a simple matter to track them back to the bard, and Ard Carraigh was not known for its kindness to nonhumans. Not since Roche had been declared King. Especially since Roche had been declared King.

Even if it was just a flu, staying was not advised.

It was time to go .

Grabbing his belongings, Jaskier had sauntered down the stairs and ordered a meal, apologizing for his sudden departure, but he had simply run out of inspiration! He just had to get back on the road and see new places again!

The innkeeper had nodded and, although sad for his departure, had given him the meal. 

It was rather hard, Jaskier thought, to act like one was not eating in a hurry when one was, in fact, eating in a hurry.

By the time he’d made it to the gates, there had been some panicked cries. By the time he made it out of the city, he could hear the soldiers breaking down doors and dragging civilians kicking and screaming into the streets.

He only let himself have his panic attack later that night, when he was safely away from civilization and it was just him and his lute.

“Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit !”

What was he supposed to do? Where was he supposed to go? Perhaps he could stay in the woods? 

No, hunters from Ard Carraigh would be on his trail once they realized what happened. And then there were the bandits, which...no. Jaskier had no intention of being anyone’s slave.

So he had to keep moving.

He had about a week, maybe a few days more, before he was rendered immobile and unable to defend himself.

Problem; there was literally nowhere within that timeframe that could feasibly meet his needs for safety, both before and after his Curse had run its course.

Fuck, the one time he needed Geralt and-wait.

Jaskier paused.

Looked toward the mountains, in the direction he for some reason knew with absolute certainty was northeast.

Geralt had only told him once, when he thought Jaskier too drunk to remember anything, that his home was a week northeast of Ard Carraigh.

It didn’t take a great leap to realize he had been talking about Kaer Morhen.

It was only the start of Autumn, and if Geralt only went back during winter then...then Jaskier had time to recover from the Curse enough to leave before anyone actually got back to the keep. It would be abandoned, untouched by outsiders, probably have some provisions, and there would be no one there to...take advantage of the situation.

But he didn’t really know where it was, just knew the direction. Hopefully he would be able to spot the trail, or the Witcher tricks used to hide it. Hopefully he wouldn’t get waylaid by bandits on the way there and get sold to a brothel as a commodity. Hopefully, once he got there, there wouldn’t be any wild animals lounging around in the absence of people.

It was a plan that was full of holes.

But Jaskier didn’t have that many options.

The first four days were much of the same; wake up early, wince because fucking everything hurt, eat, and immediately start moving again, trying to outrun any possible hunters.

Day five, six and seven were worse.

His chest felt like something was eating it from the inside, his collarbone felt like it was broken when it was decidedly not, he could barely see five feet in front of himself, and he knew with absolute certainty that his back was beginning to split and bleed.

But still he pushed on. The only thing guiding him was his ever stronger growing sense of direction, and the fact that he had nearly walked past a trail that glittered strangely in his vision.

He could only assume this was the trail he was looking for. What other trail would be hidden with magic?

He decidedly did not think about witches or any monster that would be capable of the same feat as he followed the trail.

Day eight and nine he could barely see at all, and was staggering from tree to tree, and could only see the trail. Literally. He could only focus enough to make out one thing and, in his desperation, locked onto the trail.

Day ten he ran into a large door.

Maybe. 

He assumed it was a door, at least, before he fell backwards onto the grass and blackness started creeping into his vision from the impact against his back.

The last thing he saw was a blurred shape leaning over him before his eyesight gave out entirely.

Well shit.

He thought he started to cry, but with his consciousness fading he wasn’t too sure.

He had been so sure he’d outran the hunters.

“Don’t wanna be...slave.” Fell from his numb lips. Or maybe it didn’t.

He couldn’t tell anymore.

And then he was engulfed in the darkness.

Chapter Text

Vesemir had been fully intending to start his stay in Kaer Morhen with some exercise. Maybe enjoy the peace and quiet. Read some books. Start taking stock of what needed to be bought for provisions. Take the time to cook decent meals. Sleep in his own bed.

Normal stuff people did when they got home from a long time away at work.

He had not been anticipating calming down his horse as something ran into the gate with a resounding thud .

It hadn’t sounded like a siege weapon, Vesemir thought as he crept toward the gate, drawing his sword. It hadn’t repeated, either. 

So probably a deer or a wolf then; dazed and confused and, if the former, about to be dinner.

Opening the gate however, Vesemir’s nose was assaulted by the scent of...pain. Fear. Despair/weakness/hopelessness.

And the unique scent of a human becoming something... other .

A cacophony of scents he hadn’t smelled since the days of the Trials.

Shaking off the memories, the old Witcher stepped fully out of the keep and looked down at its source.

A young man with minimal supplies, clutching a lute case and staring at the sky with eyes that were quickly becoming vacant.

And then the kid started to cry.

“ Don’t wanna be...slave. ”

It was quiet, barely there. A plea for peace by isolation or death.

Shit.

That…

The scents were making a lot more sense now.

He’d seen the cruelty of humans toward the new race in his travels. And that was what it was; a brand new race. It may have started out as a curse, but somewhere along the way someone Divine had to have gotten involved, and the Winged Ones were as much of a race as elves or humans were. The rate of infection was down, almost completely gone, and the witch responsible had been put down.

But still they remained.

Vesemir knew they weren’t going to disappear or turn back into humans; he’d been around too long to not recognize a permanent change in the world when he saw it.

The kid was unconscious now; and how horrid that he’d fallen asleep believing himself to wake up a slave or worse.

Or maybe it was a blessing.

Vesemir could already smell the blood coming from the kid’s back, hear the wheezing as his lungs changed to accommodate their new form.

Hear the bones cracking softly as they changed to better suit his new species.

Just like before.

Just like with the children, and the Trials, and those stupid fucking mages -

Sighing, he leaned down and picked the kid up.

Here he had thought he was done playing nursemaid.

He could almost hear Destiny laughing at him, the bitch.

If Vesemir had to describe what it was like watching a human turn into another species, he would describe it as two and a half weeks of pure hell.

The kid couldn’t eat, couldn’t wake up fully, could only vomit when he forced something down, couldn’t make it to the bucket to piss-it really was just like old times.

And the whole time his body just kept changing . 

The wings had started out ridiculously small, but exploded in growth, desperately trying to match the height and build appropriate for someone of his size.

That had taken a week, and the screams had torn through the keep’s walls in an eerily reminiscent fashion of earlier times.

After that things had...calmed down. In as much as they could, given someone’s very species being changed against their will. Vesemir had to admit that the plumage coming in did look like it would be very beautiful when it was done growing.

But pretty or not, he had been awake almost every single day; only meditating or surviving on short cat naps for over a week. When it had been the Trials, there had been others who would trade in shifts to watch the boys.

But it was just him.

He was so tired he felt like he could cry, and that wasn’t even supposed to be possible.

It had been around the week and a half mark that Eskel had returned. Normally Vesemir would have gotten onto him about daring to leave the Path too early, but the older Witcher had been so relieved for some assistance he had just shoved the younger Witcher at the Winged One and staggered into his room for some sleep.

Eskel was a smart lad. 

He’d figure out what to do.

Chapter Text

Eskel was confused and afraid.

He had been fully prepared for a lecture and punishment in the shape of infinite chores for the winter months as a penalty for returning so soon.

But the past year or so had just been...harrowing. It had been harrowing. Towns and cities trying to hire him to kill innocent people because they’d up and sprouted wings, coming across bandits with Winged Ones chained to each other, their wings at odd angles, helping Winged after Winged escape to isolated camps hidden far from other people.

In the end he and the other Witchers he had run into, of which there were quite a few more than he’d thought, had started running a system to evacuate the Winged to safety and bring needed supplies to their camps and blossoming towns.

But after so much human cruelty Eskel just...hadn’t been able to keep to the Path. He couldn’t make himself do it. He needed a break.

If that meant pissing Vesemir off and doing chores for the rest of his life, then fine. He’d do it.

Instead the older man had given him a fond shoulder squeeze, steered him into a chair next to a bed occupied by a new Winged still undergoing his transformation, and left.

So Eskel sat.

Staring at the labored form of the Winged in the bed next to him.

Was this...was this supposed to be a test? Did Vesemir find out he’d been getting involved in politics, trying to protect the Winged? Not focusing on the Path?

What was the right answer if it was a test?

Was there a wrong answer?

What-was that Vesemir’s snoring he heard?

Eskel paused, head tilting as he started to relax.

Yes, it was. The old man really was asleep.

So...he really had just been watching over a random Winged and needed some sleep.

Eskel looked over the newcomer curiously.

It looked like the worst of the transformation was over, and thanks to Vesemir it looked like this man was going to come out of it better than almost everyone else. Vesemir had given him a support network, probably forced him to eat small bites and drink, cleaned off the worst of the sick, and overall made sure he was safe.

Just like he'd done for Eskel, and Lambert, and Geralt, and so many other boys before them.

Even Eskel could see the parallels. More than likely Vesemir had come across the Winged mid transformation and taken the man somewhere safe, remembering the Trials and feeling the need to assist.

As it stood, all Eskel could really do was take a dampened rag and wipe off the sweat from the stranger's face. Most of the worst was behind them. They just had to wait for his body to finish up the smaller changes.

However, the man would need a proper diet to recover.

Eskel stood up and leaned over the wings, looking at the growing plumage and trying to discern whether these were the wings of a songbird or a carnivore and-yes, he knew that pattern.

A lark.

It would need to be grain based then.

He'd helped enough of the Winged to know their dietary needs.

So he found some paper and started writing out what they would need for the Winged's food supply, recovery, and clothes that would fit around his new appendages.

He was not the best at stitching, but he'd seen enough clothes being sewn by Winged to know the basic layout to adjust already existing clothing.

Vesemir awoke approximately 13 hours later, just in time to make dinner for himself and the younger Wolf.

Said younger wolf was quietly staring at their newest charge, bucket of water at his side and a damp towel draped across the kid's eyes.

The older wolf placed a bowl of stew next to him and moved towards the Winged One.

"Never thought I'd be doing this again." Vesemir sighed, laying a hand on the Winged's face to make sure he was no longer running a temperature.

"It always looks so painful." Eskel murmured, leaning back into his chair.

The older Witcher looked him over.

The boy was ragged, haunted. Eyes anywhere, any time but where they actually were. He looked thin; underfed and overrun.

He looked like he needed a long talk to get whatever had happened out of his head and into the air, plenty of food, and a soft bed.

"Do this often then?"

What proceeded was an outpouring of what amounted to a truly shitty year. While it warmed Vesemir's heart that other schools were assisting in keeping the new race safe, it just jaded him further upon realizing exactly what humans were doing to their ex-kin.

And nonhumans were partaking in the cruelty, in the name of misplaced vengeance. Which was. Well.

It did not bode well for the newest race.

In the end, he'd gone down to the food cellars and grabbed them both a drink.

Perhaps being able to save one of the Winged from the fate that so many faced would be enough to ease Eskels guilt.

“We were able to help this one, though. Where is the nearest camp?” They would need to drop him off among his own kind, where he could be taught how to better handle his new body.

But instead of looking relieved, Eskel looked even more concerned.

“Ard Carraigh saw to it that there’s nothing in Kaedwen. And even then, those camps are subject to raids and constantly move.”

They paused and looked at their charge as one, a heavy silence filling the air.

“Then he stays until one of us leaves for the Path,” Vesemir decided, “For the safe escort through Kaedwen.”

Neither mentioned that, for the Winged, there was no isolated place, no safe destination waiting for them. For the new race, there was only strife and pain.

But they would cross that bridge when they came to it.

First they had to ensure that the Winged in front of them would have a protected space to accommodate his new body.

Chapter Text

It was two weeks of blinding pain, being sick at seemingly random intervals, and huge memory gaps. The only consistent thing was someone holding his hand through the worst of it, and he could remember someone cleaning him when he couldn’t hold anything down or in.

And then, sleep.

Jaskier came to in increments.

Sound first; quiet, with a fire crackling somewhere nearby. Birdsong in the distance, carefully muted in the way that only windows could do. The pages of a book turning. A man humming. The rhythmic sound of what sounded like firewood being chopped echoing very faintly.

Feeling second; light sheets draped over his lower half. Soft bed underneath him. He was lying on his side. Tired muscles, aching and sore and a bone deep exhaustion. His back felt heavy, the muscles there and in his chest the worst off. Something feathery tickling the back of his neck and arm every time he tried to alleviate the aching. Overall his body felt heavy.

Smell third; garlic, sage, rosemary. All the things needed to fight and prevent infection. Clean sheets. Leather and oil the faint scent of sweat. Fresh bread and jam. The smell of stagnant air that was the trademark of a building that had not been used in quite awhile. The smell of old sick that had been cleaned.

Blinking his eyes open, Jaskier finally got the full picture.

There was an older man seated across from him, who had been reading a book but at the moment met the Bard’s eyes steadily.

Witcher eyes.

Huh.

The room he was in was relatively plain, as far as rooms went. 

Shifting, he attempted to sit up-and immediately almost fell backwards at a very odd angle, a weight he was not used to pulling him down. He would have fallen completely, if the old Witcher had not launched himself forward and grabbed the Bard’s arm to stabilize him.

“Careful, don’t want to break them.”

Jaskier frowned, leaning forward and managing to sit up with some help, the heavy weight shifting slightly every time he tensed his muscles or relaxed them, or thought of making it move. He didn’t know what this man was talking about, was there something delicate behind him? Why was it on the bed? Who was this man in the first place?

Where was-?

It all came flooding back.

The curse, Ard Carraigh, the race to get to Kaer Morhen, passing out to a shadow looming over him.

His attention snapped fully to the Witcher in front of him, pulse picking up. He’d heard of Witchers assisting the Winged they came across, but he hadn’t actually witnessed it, and what if this one was one of the mercenary ones Geralt had been so fond of warning him about? The weight on his back drew up closer to him, feathers prickling the backs of his arms and neck when his wings-because they were, and he wasn’t human anymore-started puffing up.

“ Get away from me .” Jaskier almost didn’t recognize his voice, for how long it’d been unused while he had been out of commission. It was more of a hiss, no trace of his usual friendliness, nothing like what it was supposed to be. But he was so scared . He couldn’t fight against this man if he was imprisoning him; he was a Witcher for fucks sake.

But the old man just raised his hands in surrender and slowly stepped back, one hand lowering enough to tug out his medallion and-wolf school. He was with the Wolf School.

Jaskier’s feathers started flattening out, his pulse started calming down.

He...he could trust the Wolf School, right? That was Geralt’s. Even if Geralt didn’t want to see him anymore, the man had a pretty solid set of morals, as few as they were.

Refusal to hurt anyone who hadn’t done anything wrong was one of them.

“My name is Vesemir,” the old Witcher said, very carefully making no movement that could be perceived as threatening, “And you are in Kaer Morhen. I found you unconscious outside, and brought you where you’d be safe. No harm will come to you here.”

Jaskier’s wings began to drop lower and fall away from his body, though his eyes never left the Witcher.

Slowly, his hands reached over his shoulders one at a time, and ran over the length of each wing, checking for breaks. Finding nothing, he proceeded to move the massive things to check for any abnormalities in the bone structure or any grinding. What jerky movement he could do in such an enclosed space with brand new limbs revealed that nothing was wrong with them. When he deemed it safe enough, what with the lack of broken bones, he glanced down to check them visually; none of the primary feathers had been cut.

Jaskier and Vesemir stayed in silence for a few minutes, giving Jaskier enough time to take it all in.

“Why are you helping me?”

Vesemir gazed back unflinchingly.

“Because you needed help. It wasn’t the first time I’ve helped a child through changes that painful.”

Jaskier wrinkled his nose.

“Not a child, though.”

The old Witcher just snorted and picked up his book from the floor, marked where he’d been, and set it to the side.

“Something tells me you are not nearly as old as me. Can you stand? You haven’t eaten anything substantial in half a month.”

The Bard scooted to the edge of the bed and swung his legs off of it, testing their stability before shoving himself up and off-and right into Vesemir’s arms.

It had been a good thing the Witcher had known to be there; Jaskier’s wings were a new weight he wasn’t used to, and threatened to pull him back down. With some work, Jaskier found his new balance and took a couple of tentative steps forward, the old Witcher walking backwards to give him room to walk but also stay in catching distance.

Jaskier felt a little bit ashamed at the swell of pride when he could walk, but mostly he was just relieved that he could actually do it. 

In a way that felt a bit like he was relearning to walk, Jaskier let Vesemir guide and hover over him all the way to the kitchens. His wings, new as they were, hung low and the tips of his primaries brushed against the ground constantly. The bard assumed this was the equivalent of poor posture, but he was so hungry he couldn't bring himself to care. It wasn’t like he knew what to do with the damn things.

Sitting at the bench was a whole new experience that had involved his wings snapping out when he overestimated how much effort would be needed and consequently knocking everything off of the table, almost setting his feathers on fire when the stretched out wings almost went into the hearth, and trying to figure out how to balance on one leg while the other went over the bench.

In the end, Vesemir had been forced to support Jaskier’s weight and let the bard lean one wing against him in an effort to regain balance. 

“I can think of a few exercises to get you used to your new center of balance.” The older man placed a bowl of stew in front of him, a gleam to his eye Jaskier did not like at all.

This was going to be like relearning how to sword fight, he could feel it.

It was exactly like learning how to sword fight.

Everything hurt, he kept falling on his face, and his instructor kept laughing at him when he thought he wasn’t looking.

And that was just relearning how to walk to where the other resident apparently was-the one with clothes for him.

Ah, how Jaskier suffered in the name of fashion.

The other witcher laughed at him for stumbling as well, although there was something haunted behind his gaze. His face was scarred, a valley of ridges giving a brief summary of a fight that had not been in his favor.

Ah, Eskel then.

Geralt had mentioned his brothers briefly, in passing, the same night he had mentioned Kaer Morhen. Not much, but barely enough that Jaskier would probably be able to identify them if he met them.

Eskel was tugging a tunic, one of a small pile, off of the table and presenting it to Jaskier. He looked slightly nervous and just a bit shy about the tunic, and the Winged knew that even if the stitching was crap he would still sing praises about it.

“I spent some time in some Winged camps, so I roughly know how to adjust clothes for you. But they won’t be pretty, I’m not the best with stitching up clothes instead of flesh-”

Jaskier flapped a hand through the air, accidentally tilting his wing on that side out and back and toppling himself into Vesemir’s arms again.

“Don’t concern yourself, my dear Witcher; you tried your best, I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

And it...was. The stitching was rather crude, but with a few adjustments the altered tunic fell around the base of his wings quite nicely, with a quick attachment of extra strips of cloth that Jaskier could easily reach to close the gap at the bottom.

Granted the tunic was a bit longer than what he was used to, but in the kind of winter he had heard these mountains were infamous for, Jaskier was willing to take it if it meant not having the back of his new top spread open with every breeze. It was also a little bland and not really his style, but honestly Jaskier was not anywhere close to complaining. He had seen what normally happened to Winged who had just turned, and this was absolute luxury compared to the fate of most of his brethren.

And-there it was.

The thought that made him need to sit down.

Because he had damn near been…

He was almost…

The thin wheeze that came from Jaskier was undignified, but then so was the way he slouched to the ground to his knees, wings falling open and their bends falling to just below his shoulder to accommodate the floor. It wasn’t comfortable, but he didn’t know what else to do with them, opting instead to ignore the discomfort in favor of cradling his head in his hands.

There was a brief scuffling noise as the Witchers moved quickly to ensure he had not damaged any of the feathers with his dramatics, their hands darting over his wings and gently rearranging until they were in a more bearable position.

The touch was Not Appreciated. Having anyone touch his wings without permission felt...gross. But he bore it; they knew more about his new appendages at the moment than he did, although he was becoming determined to change that. 

He would let himself have this one day, he decided, to have whatever breakdown he needed. But after this he had to learn how to handle himself; he refused to be a damsel. He refused to lie about and let everyone do everything for him, he had to understand his new physiology quickly.

This one day, however, Jaskier allowed himself to be escorted back to his room, where he sequestered himself with his lute and composed a new song to document the changes and the uncertainty.

If he could get it into words, into song, it would be easier for him to process.

But this was the only day he would be entirely dedicated to his breakdown.

It was not the only day he had a breakdown, but it was the only one where he had been incapacitated the entire day from it.

There were others, but the more he spent time with Vesemir in the library learning about Wing Maintenance and anatomy, or spent getting used to his new center of balance, or speaking with Eskel about other Winged and learning a bit about his new culture (namely that it was barely there), the less the breakdowns occurred. 

When his feathers started to get a little more brittle than soft, but only in the wee hours of the morning, Vesemir vanished for almost an entire week before resurfacing with a jar of oil and a handmade tool. Larks weren’t meant for the dryness of Kaer Morhen, nor the absolute chill that was beginning to take effect in the mornings, and he would not physically be able to produce enough oil for his feathers without external assistance.

While he didn’t need to use the oil just yet, it was nice to have it on hand, and Vesemir taught him how to make it on his own.

Eskel taught him how to walk, how to run, how to stretch and control his wings, and the younger witcher did it all with the air of someone who had it memorized. His eyes were shadowed when he ran through the exercises with Jaskier, haunted by visions the new Winged could only guess at and did not want to know.

It was the small slip ups that helped him piece it together whether he wanted to or not.

When Eskel would start to walk him through wing stretches meant for mangled wings.

When Eskel would reach out to steady him and then yank his hands back as though slapped and make himself seem as small as possible.

When Eskel froze, staring into the distance, unable or unwilling to move and barely breathed the one time Jaskier tripped and let out a tiny yelp of pain.

Jaskier made sure to spend more time with Eskel outside of training as well, to cement that Winged weren’t the sum of their abuse in the Witchers mind.

Like that, they spent the Fall months. Eskel and Vesemir taught Jaskier how to live as a new species and went about beginning their annual repairs on Kaer Morhen as much as they could, and Jaskier tried to ease Eskel’s trauma as much as possible by living as normal a life as he could and helping out when needed.

They would have training for Jaskier in the morning, chores in the afternoon, and after dinner the Lark would compose and sing for his captivated audience of two, relishing in the new vocal range his altered throat could achieve and showing it off with no hesitation.

It was comfortable.

It was almost enough to make him forget that he could probably never leave Kaer Morhen again, lest he face the terror of the humans at the foot of the mountains.

But when his mind started to go down that line of thought, Jaskier would purposefully drown it out with a new composition.

He had almost forgotten what it felt like to be scared, until Lambert, with all the grace of a drunk farm dog, came crashing into the gate.

Stupid fucking humans with their stupid fucking prejudices and their stupid fucking faces.

This was bullshit.

This was all bullshit.

Coën was clearly trying to be subtle about telling Lambert to calm down, but that was bullshit too.

So what? Someone got cursed, beyond their control, grew some fucking wings , how gods damned terrifying oh no , and their family just fucking wrapped them in a sack and threw them in the river ?

A fucking four year old ?

It had been a gods damn month and the kid still wasn’t talking, and Lambert had nearly earned his own title of Butcher until Coën had stepped in and strong-armed him away from that piece of shit village.

The Wolf Witcher hated it but the fucking Griffin was right; getting the kid away from his abusers was more important than vengeance.

And maybe it had helped the kids' trauma, but Lambert wasn’t so certain. Because sure, he and Coën had managed to teach the kid how to walk again, and how to move his wings, and the kid would wander around and do stupid kid shit like try to eat bugs, but it was a fucking battle to get the kid anywhere near the water, and he still woke up screaming.

So to say that Lambert was pissed was an understatement.

Although perhaps he could have handled it better than he had when he saw the giant doors to his home closed.

Perhaps kicking them and shouting obscenities to the sky was not the most sensible path he could have taken.

He knew this, because almost as soon as he started up his perfectly justified outburst a foreign scent that had slipped by him was suddenly fucking everywhere , and it was tainted with terror.

No one that was supposed to be there would be afraid of Lambert’s explosive nature, so who the fuck-?

Eskel threw open the gate with wild eyes, looking close to murder himself.

“Lambert why ?”

“Why the fuck are the gates closed? Are you trying to keep me out? What the fuck did I do to-”

“ Enough .”

Coën did not raise his voice, but the order had such a final tone to it that both of the Wolf Witchers paused in their argument to stare at him. He stared at them evenly, lightly patting the back and wings of the bundle in his arms as he tried to soothe the kid.

Ugh.

That was his disappointed stare.

Lambert hated that fucking stare.

Turning back to his brother, he decided that he hated Eskel’s stare even more.

“Fucking what ?”

Coën sighed and walked around Lambert and past Eskel, pausing just inside the gate and looking startled before briefly jostling the kid to get him to look at the same thing. The kid blearily peeked out of his hiding place before sitting up fully, overly large black wings puffing up and widening out slightly in surprise. 

Then Eskel got in the way again.

Lambert prepared himself for more yelling, but the look on his brother’s face was not one of rage anymore.

“Lambert what happened?”

There was nothing but concern.

Which was something he was far less versed in dealing with.

So he deflected.

“Who’s up here that gets that scared over a little knocking?”

“Geralt’s Bard, though we didn’t know who he was at the start.”

“ What ?”

Chapter Text

This chapter is to bring the fic back up on the list, due to the fact that I am, at this point, officially abandoning it. I don't have motivation to write this fic, and haven't for years. I can't see myself getting back into the Witcher Fandom. Therefore if anyone wants to take over and finish it, they are welcome to it.

I have the entire fic planned out, and if someone wants to adopt it just reach out and I'll send you the deets.