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Jaskier barely resists the urge to bang his head on the sturdy kitchen table as Mikael lays out the numbers. The steward looks as weary as Jaskier feels; despite there being an entire country between them and Cintra, the consequences of Nilfgaard's conquest had been felt. A lot of their trade was with the southern countries, and Lettenhove's soil makes for poor crop growth.
It's just the six of them in the kitchen at this time of the night, the household's supper over for hours and most of the servants in bed. Jaskier and his cousin Rosalin, trained to manage estates and households respectively, are sitting with Mikael at one end, slowly working their way through the news and gossip they'd gathered from the trader's caravans heading north. At the other end of the table is a brown haired Ciri, chopping fruit and vegetables under the watchful eye of their under-cook, Warren. Between Jaskier and Ciri, legs thrown across Jaskier's lap where he'd sprawled out, is Raphael, slowly relearning how to juggle with some stolen figs and only one working eye. He's doing surprisingly well, only having dropped them a few times at the beginning. Witchers. Terrifying.
The last couple of months have been a mad dash across the continent, first the short distance to Cintra when he'd heard of the impending invasion. Hoping to be at least of some use (and maybe to see Geralt again), Jaksier'd ended up taking Ciri when he headed North, with Mousesack's relief and approval but also Calanthe's curses ringing in his ears. He'd been back in Cintra every year for the Beltane festival and Ciri's birthday, and as one of the few people able to move more or less unhindered that Ciri knew and trusted, she had fled with him, disguised as his daughter.
They'd been heading through Temeria, skirting Brokilon, when they'd come across a badly injured man on the riverbank. Jaskier had painstakingly taught himself the basics of healing during his travels with Geralt, and Ciri had needed something to focus on, something she could do instead of feeling endlessly helpness. So they helped. Bandaged and set what they could, cleaned and poulticed open wounds, and forced a little broth into him.
He'd quickly lost his deathly pallor, skin returning to a deep tan, wounds fading to scars, and starting to regain weight over the trip to Oxenfurt, safely ensconced in the back of a cart they'd, um, liberated from an empty farmstead near the border. But he didn't wake, muscles spasming, and odd, occasional yells and whimpers, but never reached full consciousness or awareness.
But Jaskier had been familiar both with the speed he healed, much faster than a human, and the scars that spread across his body. So he hadn't been surprised when, on their third day in Oxenfurt, he finally opened his eyes, his left cloudy and blind, but his right an emerald green and slitted like a cat's. Like a witcher's.
He'd been scared and unsure in a way Jaskier had never seen any of his wolves, even badly injured, instinctively snarling and flinching away from both of them. After a few false starts and careful conversations full of pitfalls and references Jaskier doesn't let on that he catches, he introduces himself as Raphael. Jaskier doesn't mention that they both know that's not his real name. Or that he's spent a good few evenings getting spectacularly drunk with Lambert, and has a fair idea of what actually is. But there's a reason he hasn't given it, Jaskier can respect that. So, Raphael it is.
After a handful of weeks, Jaskier’s suite in Oxenfurt, and the city in general, had become claustrophobic. Cintra had fallen and there was a pervasive air of fear, students subdued and markets quiet. Ciri waking in the night screaming, the air around her trembling and the faint smell of lightning. A few quiet discussions later, they were back on the road, this time to Lettenhove.
The unexpected benefit of this was that Raphael was well enough to start retraining himself with weapons. A couple of long knives Jaskier had won at cards a decade or more back, as well as a few smaller throwing knives, one even silver. Ciri had been entranced, she was the granddaughter of the Lioness of Cintra after all, she'd had some weapons training but this was a whole new style to learn. It was good to take her mind off things as much as they could, she had started sleeping tucked against Jaskier’s chest just so she could feel his heartbeat.
And then they'd reached Lettenhove to find that his family was away; some at the King's court and others down in Temeria with the family of his oldest brother's wife. Rosalin, Jaskier’s cousin, a decade his junior, was the only one left as she had been too ill to travel at the time. But then the war had started and they'd ended up trapped by circumstances, need and proprietary.
And that leads them into now, the three of them trying their best to manage the estate and villages as the trade declines, and with it the food stores. They have large flocks of goats and sheep, but almost all the grains and vegetables had to be traded in, usually for meat and wool. Ciri starting training under them for management, then physical and fight training under Stoll, the ex-mercenary who'd taught Jaskier and his siblings as well as much of the guard, and Raphael, who'd decided to stay fot the moment.
Destiny would lead Geralt to Ciri, everyone was sure of that. And Raphael would have a better chance of finding the other wolves (or one certain other wolf) if he stayed with them. Going to Kaer Morhen themselves would be better of course, but neither of them know exactly where it is, and wandering around the mountains under the threat of an encroaching army would not be wise. Especially for Ciri. So the only choice is to trust the Lady of Fate knows what she's doing.
He's pulled back to the present by Mikael's hand on his shoulder as he and Rosalin stand, presumably to retire for the night. Raph removes his legs from Jaskiers lap and offers them a nod as he returns the fruit to its rightful bowl, rolling his shoulders with a yawn. Ciri grumbles as he scoops her up with little effort, almost back to his full strength, but she drops the knife and waves to Warren as they take over.
Jaskier follows them automatically, the three of them have been sleeping in a pile on his oversized bed, Ciri still uncomfortable with being too far from them, even for a handful of hours. He barely even remembers to take off his boots before flopping face first into the blankets and wiggling onto his side, pointedly ignoring Raph's low laugh. Then there's warmth pressed against his back, and a small weight against his chest, and sleep claims him almost instantly.
It doesn't feel like more than an hour or so when he's awoken by a panicked knocking on the door, but he's alone in the bed and bright, midmorning light is streaming in through the partially open shutters.
"Master Julian, Master Julian, there's a Witcher at the gate!"