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The ride back to Kaer Morhen passes in a blur.
Ciri is neither comforted nor irritated by the creaking of the cart, nor by the muttering of its occupants as they travel. Indeed, she barely notices their presence as she rides hard for the keep.
Kaer Morhen does not feel like home. Nowhere has felt like home since flame roared through Cintra, sparks flying at her feet as she fled its gutted streets, cloaked in ash.
Since then, Ciri has been lost; unsettled and aimless, with nowhere to turn.
The ache she feels for her family has not lessened since she escaped. If anything, the passage of time has left her missing home more than ever.
She misses her grandmother’s smile, and her grandfather’s mischief. She misses the thrill of sneaking out of the castle in search of excitement, secure in the knowledge that safety was waiting for her back within its walls.
She even misses Mousesack’s lessons, even if she cannot quite believe it of herself.
Cintra was her world. Nowhere could ever replace it in her affections. With Cintra burned, and with her family gone, Ciri doubts that she will ever feel at home again.
But Kaer Morhen houses a family, of sorts. It has memories, both frustrating and fond, in equal measure.
As it looms in the distance, emerging from between frozen peaks, a tiny speck of relief blooms in Ciri’s chest.
It may not be her beloved Cintra, with her grandparents and Mousesack waiting with open arms, but perhaps Kaer Morhen could be a home, one day.
The journey takes much from Ciri; more than she is willing to admit, even to herself. It takes hours to reach Kaer Morhen, trekking through the winding mountain paths, and the events of the past few days keep buffeting her thoughts like a gale.
She arrives at the keep scrubbing irritably at her eyes, with her feet as heavy as stone in the stirrups. Exhaustion drapes over her like a thick blanket, and despite the rapid thumping of her heart as adrenaline thrums through her veins, her bed calls to her like a siren.
Despite Yennefer’s betrayal haunting her like a knife to the chest, despite the knowledge that even now Geralt is fighting some horrifying monster, Ciri wants nothing more than to lie down and surrender to sleep.
She cannot remember the last time she felt so tired. Something within her screams out for sleep. It is all she can do to remain awake in the saddle as she finally reaches Kaer Morhen’s courtyard ahead of the group.
A figure stands between the huge doors, watching her closely, illuminated from behind by the light spilling out of the keep.
She longs to rest. It would be so easy to thud down from her horse and stumble into the nearest bed. Surely somebody else would stable her horse. Everyone would no doubt understand when she has been through so much.
Ciri pictures Geralt’s frown, and she sighs.
She forces herself onto her feet and leads her horse into the stables.
She brushes it, as quickly as her exhausted limbs will let her, and makes sure it has hay and water. It nuzzles fondly at her when she gives it a pat, and a quiet, “Thank you,” and she feels glad that she took the time to repay its effort.
Then she ignores her companions as their cart trundles into the courtyard in her wake, and heads for the entrance to the keep.
The figure is still in the doorway, facing her. It has not stirred while she was in the stables.
A brief pang of fear strikes her belly as she approaches, residual panic flaring at the close attention, before a hand rises in greeting.
She has seen the gesture many times before, after hard days spent training. It does much to relax her.
Ciri issues a brief wave in return as she approaches Vesemir.
“Welcome, lass. Where is Geralt?”
“On his way. He’s fighting… something.” Her response is clipped, but though Vesemir raises an eyebrow, he merely nods in response.
“I’m glad to see you again.”
She forces a fleeting smile. Her exhaustion is only growing now that she is on foot, and all she can think of is rest.
She means to make for her room as she walks through the entrance on leaden feet, but Vesemir catches her by the shoulder before she can pass through the doors. His touch is light, not commanding, but there is a knowing look in his eyes that catches Ciri off guard. “When did you last eat?”
Ciri hesitates. It would be easy enough to lie, to claim to have eaten her fill on the journey and then seek out her bed, but the urge quickly fades as the rest of her companions trickle in around her.
Would they call her bluff? Are they the type to protest over mistruths despite having nothing to gain? She has no idea. They have certainly grumbled non-stop through their journey.
In the face of her silence, Vesemir’s hand squeezes gently at her shoulder. “What, has the cat got your tongue, all of a sudden? That’s not like you. Come on, when did you eat?”
“I don’t remember.”
Ciri darts a wary look up at him, preparing for a lecture, but Vesemir merely nods. “Geralt told you to get here as quickly as possible?”
“He did.”
“So you did. Good.” He pats her shoulder and withdraws his hand to cross his arms. Ciri sees a comforting shadow of Geralt in the gesture. “And now that you’re here, you have time to eat.”
“I’m tired, Vesemir,” she blurts. She vaguely gestures towards mountain pass, trying to encompass the hard ride she has endured with a wave of her hand. “I’d rather sleep than eat.”
Vesemir nods again. “I bet you would. But how well d’you think you’d sleep on an empty belly?”
She scowls. “I’ve endured worse.”
“Oh, I know all about what you’ve endured. And what wouldn’t you have done for a bellyful of stew in those times?” Vesemir’s eyes meet hers; he looks fond, rather than pitying, but she looks aside as her stomach churns regardless.
What has Geralt told him? What awful tales has he passed on in that stilted way of his?
Ciri takes a deep breath. She is stronger than whatever stories precede her. She will make sure of that.
“Nothing I wouldn’t also have done for a good night’s sleep.” She draws her shoulders down and forces herself to meet Vesemir’s gaze. “I can eat in the morning. The stew will taste just as bad then as now.”
He laughs softly. “I suppose you’re right.”
“Then goodnight, Vesemir.” Ciri turns and moves towards her room, ignoring the curious stares of her gathered escort as they linger in the entrance.
“Geralt would want you to eat.”
The words are no louder than Vesemir’s usual speech. He does not shout them, nor are they issued as pleas.
He merely says them, and they hit Ciri squarely in the chest.
She sags.
Then she does her best to ignore his chuckle as she turns on her heel and heads for the dining hall.
***
She is finally going to her room after dutifully wolfing some stew when she notices something on the edge of her hearing. It takes her a long moment to realise that it is not part of the usual sounds of Kaer Morhen.
Ciri has become used to the click of boots on stone, and the perpetual whistle of the wind around the crumbling battlements. She has learned to drown out the skittering of rodents and the distant rumbling conversations of the keep’s inhabitants.
She is not used to hearing singing here.
She halts and cocks her head as she listens. A man’s voice raised in song, soft and sweet, floats between the stones of Kaer Morhen and teases around her as gently as breeze in summer.
Ciri hesitates for a long moment as wonder and weariness battle within her, with her head tilted in the direction of the sound and her body turned towards her bed.
Her mouth opens in a yawn wide enough to crack her jaw. Some part of her demands that she gives into her tiredness this second, that she retreats from the world into the soothing warmth of her bed and the comfort of slumber. Fatigue has a firm grasp on her, its fingers tightening around her bones and demanding satisfaction.
But it is so very odd to hear such lightness in Kaer Morhen.
She cannot conquer such exhaustion, but her curiosity manages to allay it, for the moment. In the end, hearing music in Kaer Morhen is so completely strange that she cannot help but investigate the source.
Ciri knows the passages of the keep well by now, but it is dark, and thoughts fight through her foggy mind with difficulty. She has to backtrack several times as she tries to follow the music; the drifting melody leads her into rooms where the floor has collapsed to the open air, and corridors which end in a pile of rubble.
Eventually, she emerges onto the castle walls.
Her breath catches in the freezing air, emerging from her lungs in puffs of steam as she looks curiously towards the source of the music.
He is sprawled beneath the stars, his legs crossed at the ankle and his upper body propped against the wall in an insouciant slouch. A fur is draped over his shoulders and pools in his lap, a resting spot for a half-empty bottle. His clothing is colourful, as are the fading bruises on his face.
Ciri nods to herself as the moonlight reveals his features. Right. This is the man Geralt asked to bring her to Kaer Morhen.
The song pauses for a moment as he raises the bottle to his lips and takes a large drink, his throat bobbing, before he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and continues to sing.
His voice is gentle, and filled with feeling; sadness, yes, and regret, but there is an edge of hope to his words. It feels different, hearing the song without stone walls muffling the sound. With nothing between them to rob it of its power, his voice strikes hard against Ciri’s heart.
“Cast not your eyes upon him, lest he kiss you with his sword.
Lay not your heart against him or your lips to ease his roar.
For the song of the White Wolf,
We'll always sing alone.”
Ciri takes a startled breath as her chest tightens against a sudden rush of emotion.
Suddenly, all the feelings she has tried to ignore recently swell within her: the rising hope that came with finally harnessing her chaos, the vicious stab of betrayal as Yennefer attempted to apologise for using her, the burning anger of realising that one who loved Geralt so much could still ruthlessly exploit his trust.
Tears well in her eyes. Ciri does her best to stifle her shaky sigh as she tries to fight them back, but the sound is enough to catch the man’s attention.
His singing drops into a startled shout, and the two of them jerk back from each other at the same time. His eyes widen and fix on hers as he scrambles backwards across the ground on his arse, his abandoned bottle clinking on the stone and spewing its contents.
She might find the sight of him comical were she not trying furiously to stop herself from crying.
Instead, she bites her lip hard enough to sting, wills her emotions to settle, and steels her gaze on his.
There is a tense moment where neither moves, before the man sags back on his elbows. “Fuck!” he cries, the tension bleeding from him as he sprawls boneless on the stones. “How long have you been here?”
Ciri just breathes for a moment, until the tightness in her chest lessens. Her lip is throbbing, and her heartbeat thrums in her ears, but her cheeks remain stubbornly dry. It is only a tiny victory, but she clings to it, nevertheless.
When she has done what she can to collect herself, she answers. “Perhaps a minute. I wanted to know who was singing.”
“So you snuck up on me, did you?” he sputters. He gathers his limbs beneath himself and pulls himself upright with surprising grace, then points an accusatory finger at her. “With your bloody… sneaky ways! Why bother talking to someone when you could just loom over them and stare? Oh, yes, you’re his protégé, all right. Forever where you shouldn’t be and never where people want you to be, I bet.”
Ciri huffs, surprised by both the aptness of the description, and the nonchalance with which it was applied to her. “Something like that.”
“Well, it was me.” He looks her over, his gaze bright and curious in the moonlight, before he sniffs dismissively. “Singing, I mean. Who else would be singing around here? I can’t imagine all these witchers going about their days with a merry tune on their lips. I’ve never heard Geralt so much as hum.”
“He’s not the singing type, no. I didn’t mean to surprise you,” Ciri offers. She stoops to pick up his bottle and hands it out to him like a peace offering. “I’m sorry. I’ve just never heard music like that before. Not here. Not anywhere. I had to see who…”
“What do you mean, ‘who’? Geralt hasn’t mentioned my music, then?” The man watches her for a long moment, his eyes narrowing as he searches her features, before he sighs. Tension sets into his shoulders and he smiles tightly. “No, of course he hasn’t. Why would he? It’s not like I’m anybody, is it?”
Ciri’s stomach sinks as he reaches out to take the bottle from her and drains what little remains within. His words are light, accompanied by a laugh, but they ring hollow. She must have offended him.
Should she remember this man? Geralt is hardly a man of many words. She feels sure that she would recall anyone he mentioned, especially somebody as incongruous as a musician, but perhaps fatigue is affecting her memory.
She peers at his face, hoping to piece together his identity, but as the seconds drag out, nothing comes to mind.
Eventually, she swallows her pride in the face of his strained smile. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean any offense. Should I know you?”
“No, no. Well, actually, yes, you should,” the man says, and suddenly there is a broad smile on his face. It does not reach his eyes.
He bows low, waving a hand ostentatiously through the air. “You should know me if you’re a girl of good taste, but especially if you’re not. I am Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, better known as Jaskier, and I have no doubt you know some of my songs, even if you don’t actually know the genius behind them himself. Myself. It’s me.”
Jaskier straightens up and reaches out to shake her hand. His fingers are icy on hers. Ciri wonders how long he’s been out on the walls of the keep, singing into the night.
“Nice to meet you,” she says, as politely as she can manage through the haze of exhaustion and bewilderment. “I’m sorry I didn’t realise who you were.”
Despite the introduction, she still doesn’t know who he is, really; it’s hard to picture this strange, florid person having any reason to be at Kaer Morhen. Presumably Geralt knows him, as she can’t imagine him handing her off to a stranger, but she cannot fathom the two of them existing in the same place.
Perhaps Kaer Morhen employs a jester? It seems a laughable idea, but her tired mind cannot find any other reason for him to be here.
Jaskier waves her off with the same charming smile. It vanishes when he tries to drink from the bottle again.
He sighs when he realises it is empty, and shrugs tightly at her. “It’s not like it’s your fault, is it? You can’t be expected to recognise me if Geralt hasn’t said much about me. It’s not as though he’s ever been capable of stringing more than two words together without me there to help him. Or nothing more complicated than ‘kill, pay’, at least.”
He broadens his stance, crosses his arms to pointedly push up his chest, and glowers sullenly in her direction. “Fuck off, bard,” he grinds out, making his voice low and flat.
Ciri’s laughter surprises even her. She cannot remember the last time she felt in good enough humour to laugh. Something tight and knotted unwinds fractionally in her stomach. “Very good. It’s like he’s here.”
“Ah, thank you, my lady!” He bows deeply again, flourishing the empty bottle in the air, and when he straightens up, he is wearing a smile; it is smaller than the grin he had previously plastered in place, but somehow more believable. She finds herself returning it instinctively.
He stoops to pull the abandoned fur around him again, arranging it with fussy tugs as he cocoons himself. “I don’t do a lot of impressions, but I’ve got Geralt down, right? I mean, preferably I’ll stick to singing for my performances, but I reckon if I got a room full of people who know him together, I could cobble something out of that.”
“I bet everyone here would enjoy it,” Ciri suggests. She hesitates, still mulling over his purpose at Kaer Morhen, before she adds, “But I’m sure they’d love to hear your singing, too? You’re very talented.”
“Yeah, I know I am,” he grins, before he looks around at their surroundings, and grimaces. “But if my career has come to performing in the arse-end of nowhere, freezing my nipples off for the burliest group of bastards I’ve ever met, I’ll not be best pleased.”
A frown pulls at her brow. “You don’t perform here often, then?”
“Here?” He laughs incredulously. “You think I could make a living here? Listen, I’ve had more than my fair share of adoring fans, let me tell you, but I don’t think they’d be too willing to follow me all the way to the arse end of nowhere!”
He waves his wine bottle at the looming scenery, as though to illustrate her folly, and gives her a patronising smile that leaves her bristling. “No, I follow the crowds. I go where the music leads me.”
“Naturally.”
He certainly notices her derisive snort, but this time he does not leap to offense. Instead, Jaskier grins, wicked and sharp, the lines around his bruised eyes creasing in amusement. “But can you imagine Vesemir’s face if he opened their portcullis and found a gaggle of people ready to throw their undergarments at me? I can’t imagine he’d think to charge a door fee!”
“I suppose not.” Now she laughs along with him, more in bewilderment than humour, but it feels good regardless. Fatigue pulls at her, weighs down her limbs, but her mood lightens as Jaskier tilts his head back and laughs into the night.
Before too long, he calms. He pulls the fur more tightly around himself, and asks, “So, what should I call you? I know who you are, obviously, but what do you prefer to go by? You probably don’t answer to Child Surprise, do you?”
He grins at her, the expression no less charming than it was previously, but a ball of ice thuds into Ciri’s stomach regardless. Her eyes widen in astonishment, and she takes a step away from him. “How do you know about that?”
“What? What do you mean? How does anybody know about it?” Jaskier’s smile falters, briefly, before he affects a nonchalant wave of his hand. “Obviously, I was there when it happened. Geralt must have told you that much about me, right?”
Ciri stares at him in shock. It is all she can do to shake her head.
It seems ridiculously implausible that this man, with his sharp tongue and his garish fashion, could have been involved in something so fundamental to her life.
The mere idea of it is insane. Surely the people present at such an event would be those of monumental importance to her life. Her parents, her grandparents, Mousesack, Geralt… It seems laughable that this odd person, this stranger would also be present in that company.
And yet how else could he know about it? It is just as laughable to think of any of that group willingly sharing one of their deepest secrets with him; this peacock, who seems to use five words when one will do, who apparently makes a living from performance.
How can he know? How can this person know something so important about her, without her knowing him?
Ciri watches in silence as Jaskier’s nonchalant expression screws up tightly. “Are you serious? Geralt has really told you nothing about me?”
Disbelief battles anger in the curl of his lips and the drawing of his brows, but she is perceptive enough to see something else flare beneath it all, fast and sharp; a flash of hurt in his eyes.
Ciri has been through enough to know by now that some wounds are worn on the spirit, rather than the flesh.
She swallows around a dry, cracked feeling in her throat, and shakes her head again.
Jaskier throws his hands up, and the moonlight glints off the bottle, a star burning briefly in his grasp as he turns his face to the heavens and yells. “Of course he hasn’t! Why would he bother to tell you about me? Who am I, after all? It’s not as though I was his only fucking companion for a decade, is it? It’s not like I matter!”
His voice cracks.
Her eyes are trained on him as he shouts theatrically to the sky; she sees him glance sidelong at her, and then hurriedly turn his face away. He raises the bottle to his lips and lets out a frustrated huff as he realises yet again that it is empty.
His head bows. He puts a hand over his face, massaging his temples.
Ciri shifts from foot to foot, the scrape of her shoes louder than it has any right to be in the silence that clangs between the two of them.
She doesn’t know what to say.
All can think about is this man, with his gaudy clothing and his sharp humour, riding alongside Geralt, singing and joking and, apparently, remaining by his side for years.
She can’t really picture it. Can’t imagine Geralt, with his taciturn manner and stern set to his jaw, willingly seeking out Jaskier’s company.
She doesn’t think saying as much would help, so she remains quiet. Dragging out the silence doesn’t feel like she’s doing Jaskier a kindness, but it she thinks it is the lesser of two evils.
Eventually, Jaskier sighs. He straightens up and turns towards her, spinning the fur out like a cloak. “You know, sometimes I just want to…” He brings his hands together around the neck of the bottle and mimes throttling a person. His hands squeak on the glass. Ciri winces at the noise.
Jaskier drops the performance with a derisive snort. “Not that it’d accomplish much. Have you seen his neck? Well, obviously, you have. It’s like a barrel made of meat. He probably wouldn’t even notice. And even if he did, knowing him, he probably wouldn’t consider it worth talking about!”
“Conversation doesn’t come easily to Geralt. I suppose you’re right.” She’s not certain that she means it, but exhaustion is pricking at the edges of her again. Her bed is calling to her, louder than ever.
She summons up a smile and holds her hand out sharply. “You can call me Ciri.”
Jaskier gives her a surprised look, which melts into soft laughter after a moment. He sets the bottle down with a tink and reaches out to shake her hand. “Good to finally meet you, Ciri.”
Before she can pull her hand back, he dips into a flamboyant bow and presses a kiss to the back of her hand. She doesn’t know what to say in response, but he grins up at her when he releases her hand, as though they’re sharing a joke, so she laughs.
Then she imagines him doing this to Geralt, and she laughs harder.
She absolutely cannot imagine how the two of them could have been companions, but it is nice to think of Geralt travelling with a source of levity in tow, no matter how implausible it seems.
When their shared laughter dies down to silence this time, it feels less oppressive, somehow.
“Well,” she says after a long moment. She turns and begins walking away. “I’m very tired, so I’m going -”
“- is he here yet?”
She blinks in surprise at the interruption. One foot lands awkwardly on the ground as she twists back to face him. “You mean Geralt?”
“Who else would I mean?” He lets out a resigned sigh as he sits down and leans back against the walls. He shifts in place for a moment, wincing, before he looks up at her. His smile is sharp. “I wouldn’t be hanging around here for anyone else, that’s for sure.”
“What about Yennefer?” She speaks without entirely meaning to, the words escaping her before she can stop herself through the haze of tiredness. He frowns, his lips curling, and she adds, “You must know her, right? If… if you’ve known Geralt as long as you have. What about her?”
“Her?” Jaskier snorts in response. “Yeah, I know her. What do you mean, what about her? She hates me, that’s what.”
Ciri frowns at this. Curiosity plucks at her all over again, tempting, and difficult to resist.
She needs to sleep, very badly. She doesn’t think she’ll be able to stay awake much longer before her body gives up on her good sense and just spills her to the floor to rest wherever she lies. It would be sensible to go to bed now, while she has the energy to make it that far.
And yet…
She suddenly she realises that, yet again, she is in the presence of somebody who could tell her so much about Geralt. Not only that, he seems more willing than most to actually talk.
Ciri has no idea what the next few days will hold. She is not sure how long Jaskier will be welcome at Kaer Morhen, or if he will simply be dismissed the instant Geralt arrives.
She is loath to miss the opportunity to pick his brains while she can.
Ciri spins on her heel and drops down to sit beside him, resting her back against the cold stones of Kaer Morhen. “What do you mean, she hates you? Why?”
He looks at her for a moment, surprise written clear on his expressive features, before he snorts. “C’mon. You’ve met Yennefer, right? You’ve seen what she’s like. Do you really need me to explain? She hates literally everyone.”
Anger immediately swells inside Ciri, and pain with it, mingling sharp and hot together, but she takes a breath and forces herself to calm before it floods her completely.
She thinks about the way Yennefer had seemed to soften slightly around Geralt, as though his mere presence smoothed her sharp edges. She thinks about the smile she had spared only for him, a tender curve of her lips. Remembers the way she spoke his name.
Yennefer had either drawn on incredible acting skills in their time together, or really had been fond of Geralt.
And perhaps of Ciri herself, too. Perhaps.
She breathes out, long and slow, and watches her breath gather in a cloud before she lets herself speak. “I don’t think that’s true. Not everyone.”
Jaskier looks sidelong at her. His eyes glance over her, the movement barely there, but his lips quirk up at the corners in response.
He shifts closer, grumbling under his breath and wincing occasionally, until he has released the fur enough to pool it partly in her lap. His shoulder presses against hers, surprisingly broad and solid, and Ciri realises with no small surprise that she does not mind it.
There is some comfort to be had from this strange man.
She pulls the fur over herself with silent gratitude as Jaskier shrugs. “All right, then. Maybe you’re right. Maybe not everyone. There’s got to be some poor sod she’s fond of, somewhere. Everyone’s got someone,” he allows, with a begrudging wave of his hand, as though dismissing a small detail. His fingers turn to press against his chest, spanning his heart. “But me? There’s no love lost there.”
Ciri gives him a quick, sidelong look. She arches an eyebrow. “What did you do?”
“What? Nothing! Not a thing! What makes you think -”
“- Jaskier.”
He catches her sceptical look and pauses, with his face frozen in an offended mask, before he chuckles. He drops his outrage easily, as though he expected to lose this battle. “Well, you know. She’s a bitch. So am I. It was never going to work, was it?”
“Wasn’t it?”
“And there was that whole djinn… thing… I mean, we weren’t going to be buddies after that, now, were we?” His hands shape the air lazily, as though describing an epic tale.
Ciri watches the movement, struggling to parse whatever he’s implying. Geralt hasn’t mentioned a djinn. She has no idea what Jaskier means.
She opens her mouth to ask, but his hands drop, and he shrugs again. “And then there’s Geralt, obviously.”
Ciri leans closer, pushing the djinn aside, for now. “What do you mean? What about Geralt?”
“Good question,” he murmurs, staring out into the valley. Ciri follows his gaze and realises they are overlooking the courtyard of Kaer Morhen.
Jaskier has stationed himself so he can watch the pass that leads into the keep.
“Everything.” His voice is low, softer than he has spoken since they met. It should not pierce the silence the way it does, and yet.
He blinks after a moment and turns his eyes back to her. “Everything is about Geralt, one way or another. It always bloody is. Believe me, I’ve tried to make that not be the case.” He pauses for a second, then rocks a hand back and forth. “Sort of. I suppose I haven’t tried very hard, if I’m honest, though I’ll deny it if you ever tell him that.”
Ciri gives him a bewildered look, completely adrift in his sea of words, and he laughs. A complicated expression tugs at his mouth, before he sighs expansively, and leans back against the wall. “Anyway. Most things change, given enough time. Don’t you find?”
“I suppose so,” Ciri says slowly. Her mind throws up an image; a sudden flash of her home, as it was before… before everything. Before her world was thrown upside down.
It had hardly taken any time at all. A few minutes, and life as she had known it was destroyed.
Her heart clenches. “Yes. They do.”
“Even things you think are certainties,” he adds. He reaches for another bottle of wine and starts working on the seal. When he speaks again, his tone is lighter, as though he has moved onto sharing frivolous gossip. “You know, she saved my life, the other day.”
Ciri frowns, thrown by his change in manner. Engaging Jaskier in conversation apparently means risking emotional whiplash. “Who? Yennefer? The – the woman you say hates you?”
“I know!” His eyes are wide, reflecting moonlight incredulously. “I was surprised, too! Couldn’t believe it when it was happening! Even now, I have to pinch myself, to make sure I’m still here.” He pauses, wrinkles his nose, and adds, “Still, I suppose it was only fair, because I saved hers, too.”
“Wait, you saved Yennefer’s life?”
“Mmhmm.”
“And she saved yours?”
“Yup.”
“I’m not sure either of you understand what it means to hate someone,” Ciri says flatly, and is surprised when he laughs, long and loud. The sound bounces off the stones and falls into the valley, where it is swallowed by the darkness.
“You could be right!” he forces out, when his mirth has subsided enough to let him speak. “Gods, you really could. I was so sure that I hated her, and that she despised me, but – but then life happens, and you see someone again, and…”
He sighs, the noise frustrated and disgruntled in equal measure, and raises the bottle to his lips.
Jaskier drinks until he’s gasping for breath, drops spilling down his chin, then offers the bottle to her. Ciri demurs with a wave of her hand, oddly pleased to have been considered.
“Anyway. I am probably too drunk to be making sense, though some have argued that I don’t make sense when I’m sober, either,” he laughs, and wipes his chin dry with the fur.
She lets him nudge her in the side with his elbow and meets his eyes when he rolls his head to look at her. “Please don’t take any of this bullshit to heart, Ciri. It’s far easier to sing this sort of thing, but I haven’t got the words for it, yet.”
“You don’t seem to struggle with words.” Indeed, he seems full of them, an inexhaustible supply spilling from his lips.
He laughs again, sudden, and sharp. It sounds bitter. “Gods, you sound like him.”
She has no answer, but he doesn’t seem to expect one.
Jaskier takes another pull from the bottle, then gives her another loose shrug. “Words are my business. I know them better than anyone. I’ll get there. Or, if not, I’ll make it sound like I have. Once I find another bloody lute.”
He sighs and waves the bottle lazily through the air to encompass Kaer Morhen in its entirety. The petulant look on his face suggests he finds it wanting. “Rooms on rooms of weapons and potions and hulking great brutes, and not a single damn instrument among them. These people’s priorities are fucked. How the hell do they pass the time when they’re not out brutalizing creatures?”
Ciri imagines Geralt brandishing a lute like a sword, and smiles to herself. She glances down into the pass as though he might be summoned by her thoughts, but sees only the empty road, winding into the valley.
She turns her eyes back to Jaskier. “They train. And drink. That always seems to be enough for them.”
Jaskier’s gaze slides sidelong onto her, his eyebrows raised. Surprise shines in his eyes. “You’re speaking from experience, aren’t you? You’ve been here before?”
“Yes. I… we lived here, for a while.”
“Well, well.” He nods, a short, clipped gesture, turns his eyes back onto the valley. “Aren’t you lucky?”
Ciri has already given up on understanding this strange man. She cannot imagine what about her situation is lucky. She shifts uncomfortably, almost glad of the rough stone against her back to keep her awake through her gathering exhaustion, and asks, “What do you mean?”
He looks at her again. The surprise is gone from his eyes. Something else lurks there, something more muted and difficult to read, but a gentle smile spreads across his mouth. “You don’t even know, do you?”
Impatience strikes. “I might, if you answered a question now and then!”
Jaskier laughs, apparently delighted by her impertinence. He offers her the bottle again, and this time she accepts. The wine is strong, its spices warming her mouth and throat as it sloshes into her belly.
“This place,” he begins, and gestures grandly at their surroundings. His words bounce off cold stone, unheeded by any but Ciri and the moon. “Kaer Morhen. This place is one of the most well-guarded secrets you’ll ever run across. It’s almost a miracle you’ve run across it at all.”
He turns to face her, and his grandiose posturing dims into something quieter; Jaskier shakes his head and huffs a laugh at her frustration. “Except not really, because it’s you, and clearly, he can’t help himself when it comes to you. You’d have to be blind not to see that.”
He cocks his head to the side for a second, taking her in as she glares sullenly in return, before he asks, “How long have you been with Geralt?”
The question takes her by surprise. “You don’t know?”
“I have absolutely no idea.”
“Well, a… a few months, by now, I suppose. Why?”
“And you spent some of that living here?”
“Yes.” She stirs irritably and pulls the wine out of his reach as he holds a hand out towards it. “Why does that matter?”
Jaskier lets out a sharp bark of laughter. There is no mirth in it. “Because I travelled with him for longer than a decade, and today is the first time I’ve even set eyes on this place.”
Ciri blinks. Her mouth falls open. “But…”
Jaskier has fallen silent. It only makes his words seem starker.
Some part of her wonders, uncharitably, if he is relishing the effect, but she cannot deny her astonishment. “But this is Geralt’s home, isn’t it?”
“So I’ve heard.”
“And - and you really travelled with him for all that time?”
“I did.”
“Then why wouldn’t he bring you here?”
“Why would he bring you here?” Jaskier shoots back immediately. He sighs and reaches out to reclaim the bottle. His fingers brush hers as they wrap around the neck; they are gentle, but calloused, and freezing cold against her own. “Because he loves you.”
Resignation settles in his expression. She looks away quickly, and feels his gaze burn on the side of her face.
“As he should,” he adds, after a moment. She sees him smile from the corner of her eye, and wills herself to believe it. “Yeah. As he should.”
She bites back an abrupt, irrational urge to say sorry. She barely knows this man, with his extravagant words and showy gestures, but Ciri suddenly suspects that apologising for Geralt’s feelings is the worst thing she could possibly do to him.
Jaskier takes a long drink from the bottle, then his head thunks back against the stone as he turns his face up to the stars. They twinkle merrily, ignoring the two of them. “I’m only here now because of you,” he says, eventually. “Because he needed someone to watch you.”
Ciri turns the thought over curiously, wondering how this fits into Geralt. He never does anything lightly, especially not when it comes to her safety. “Doesn’t that mean he trusts you, then?”
“I…” He trails off as he thinks, and passes the wine back to her in an absent movement. Ciri takes another, smaller sip, relishing the play of spices on her tongue, and keeps hold of the bottle. Perhaps Jaskier has had enough.
Eventually, he shakes his head. A sigh escapes his chest. “I think he trusts that I wouldn’t betray him. Not in any way that would matter. That’s all.”
She watches him for a moment. Yennefer looms in her mind’s eye, smiling that soft, teasing smile that she kept only for Geralt, and Ciri frowns.
Her hands tighten on the bottle.
When she speaks, her words are blunt. “Would you?”
“What?”
“Would you betray Geralt?”
Jaskier snorts. His eyes close and he laughs tilts his head back, sending sharp laughter up at the sky until he trails into another sigh. “No, love. If I was going to betray him, I would have done it a long time ago. Years ago. Back when he…”
He rubs his face, scrubbing at his eyes with the heels of his hands, then turns to her again. Exhaustion is suddenly rolling off him in waves. “But you know what? I can’t think a single thing I could do to him that wouldn’t be worse than the stuff he already does to himself. It’s not like I can ruin his reputation, is it? People already hate him!”
Ciri stiffens. Jaskier rolls his eyes and waves a hand in a dismissive gesture. “Oh, please. You already know that. You’ve travelled with him, haven’t you? How often did you get a warm welcome?”
“People are prejudiced. They don’t like witchers,” she snaps.
“That’s true. There’s lots of bullshit around about witchers. You have a point, there. But people especially don’t like witchers who also happen to be charmless arseholes, do they?” Jaskier asks. His eyebrows arch, his expression knowing and smug. “I bet you’ve seen how he is with people. He doesn’t do himself any favours.”
“Witchers have a bad reputation, that’s all!”
“Sure, that’s part of it, but do you really think people would react the same way to Vesemir if he turned up in their town?” Jaskier snorts. “He’s like if everyone’s kindly uncle picked up a couple of swords! When I got here, I half expected him to slip me some gold and tell me to buy myself something nice!”
“Geralt is kind,” Ciri insists, but she sounds defensive, even to herself.
Still, it quietens Jaskier, who eventually offers a short nod. “Yeah. All right. He can be. To the people he thinks deserves it. But if you’re not one of them…”
He trails off again. Ciri doesn’t bother to fill the silence.
She wonders why Geralt had travelled with this man for so long. She wonders why they parted.
Ciri thinks about asking Jaskier what had happened between them, and imagines herself suffocating under an ocean of words, and still emerging without answers.
She thinks about asking Geralt, and can practically hear his impatient huff.
Instead, she gives in, and allows fatigue to win, for now. Perhaps she’ll be better equipped for that conversation once she gets some sleep.
She stands, drops her half of the fur into Jaskier’s lap, and says, “I think I’ll go to bed.”
“Oh. Right. Yeah. You’re like, a kid, or something. Right.” Jaskier makes another dismissive gesture towards the castle. “You probably should be getting some sleep. Good idea.”
“Good night.”
“Yeah. Night. Sleep well. Sweet dreams, and all that.”
Ciri takes a few steps away, before she turns to look back at him. Jaskier is still seated against the wall, staring out into the darkness. “Are you going to stay out here all night?”
“What are you, my mother?” he asks with a grin. She stares at him until he laughs. He fists a hand in the fur and waves it pointedly. “I’ll be fine. Go get some rest.”
She doesn’t believe him. She leaves anyway.
The sound of his singing resumes as she makes her way to her room, filling the corridors of Kaer Morhen with a soft, mournful melody. It lulls her to sleep when she finally falls into bed.
Ciri dreams that she is dancing.