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Geralt, Lambert, and Eskel came in from training a few minutes after Vesemir had left to fix lunch. The great hall was strangely quiet. It took Geralt a minute to figure out why it was so silent: The tree is bare. The great, black Witcher tree that has grown from beneath the floor of the hall for centuries doesn’t have a single medallion dangling from its branches, jingling gently in every breeze.
He knows instantly what happened: Jaskier. His little dragon loves shiny things and noisy things and shiny, noisy things. But these are medallions. All that is left of dead Wolves. Not bits of tinsel or pretty rocks or cheap coins Geralt let him have for his little hoard. These are relics.
At the same moment, Geralt realizes where Vesemir must be, and from the indrawn breaths he hears next to him, Lambert and Eskel know as well. They are only a hair behind Geralt when he sprints down the hall.
Geralt is rarely afraid. Fear is something he has learned not to feel. And he hasn’t been afraid of Vesemir since he was a young boy, Respectful of, yes. Pissed off at and intimidated by, sure. But not afraid.
But Vesemir is going to kill Jaskier. Actually kill him. Geralt knows Vesemir can hardly stand to look at the medallions that hang from the tree, much less touch them, and Vesemir will literally kill Jaskier for taking them.
Geralt, Eskel, and Lambert fly down the halls at full speed, leaping down the entire flight of the stairwell that leads to where Jaskier hides his little hoard, and Geralt thinks his heart is going to beat out of his chest when he sees the door to Jaskier’s room standing open. He tries to prepare himself to fight Vesemir, to actually try to hurt the only father he can remember, and he wants to vomit at the thought.
Geralt skids to a stop in the doorway, and he freezes. He barely hears Eskel and Lambert fly up behind him.
It takes a moment to understand what he is seeing.
Vesemir is on his knees. He’s kneeling on the cold stone floor, and he’s staring at Jaskier. It’s dim in the room; there’s a single candle making Jaskier’s hoard glow.
The medallions are there. They are cradled, each carefully laid on a piece of silk Geralt bought for Jaskier. It was iridescent, blue and green and silver, woven by special silkworms that only live in a single part of the continent, tucked away in Brokilon Forest, and it’s very, very rare. Jaskier had wept at the beauty when Geralt gave it to him, and Geralt knew he treasured it.
The silk was folded and piled so it held the medallions as if they were lying on an altar, and they shone in the candlelight. They were shining so brightly even in the dim light that they nearly glowed. Geralt realized they had been polished. Jaskier must have cleaned each one separately, rubbing and licking until they were perfectly clean. Not a speck of the dust that had covered them for decades was left. Every silver wolf’s head had been cared for and caressed until it shone.
The little dragon himself was asleep. He was curled in a circle, snoring quietly. His long, gold-scaled body curved around the carefully laid pile of silk holding the shining medallions. His tail wrapped around himself, ensuring that no part of them was unenclosed. His claws were extended even in his sleep. He was protecting them. Loving them.
Vesemir was holding a hand to his chest, clutching at it as if it was paining him. His hands were shaking slightly.
“He’s taking care of them,” Vesemir said. His voice was hoarse, and he took a shaking breath. Geralt saw a tear slip down Vesemir’s cheek. Lambert gasped behind him, and Geralt felt Eskel clutch Lambert’s hand.
“He’ll protect them as long as you let him,” Geralt said, knowing it was true.
A long moment passed.
“Yes,” said Vesemir. “He will.”
Vesemir took another rough breath, then he reached out and softly, gently, ran a thick, calloused finger over the little dragon’s sleeping head. Jaskier hummed in his sleep and curled up a bit tighter, protecting the medallions he held.
“Good lad,” Vesemir whispered. “You take care of them for me.” He stroked his finger down one of the razor-sharp claws protecting the medallions, then petted Jaskier’s head once more.
Then he climbed to his feet and turned around, facing his sons. He met each of their eyes, let them see his red-rimmed eyes without shame. “They’ll be safe with him,” he said. “Let’s go make lunch.”