Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

They had been on the Path for about two months when Ciri is separated from Geralt.  

It’d been completely undramatic in a way, at least initially. There’d been no monsters, no bandits or wicked sorcerers to blame, just Ciri being tired and frustrated of being looked upon as if she’s some defenceless and innocent child. It’d been months of Geralt leaving her behind while he went out on hunts as if she needed to be protected from the horrors of the Path. 

So, one night she disobeys Geralt’s orders about staying in the clearing where they’d made camp while he’d gone out to set up rabbit traps for their dinner. She tries to follow him, to prove that she could be of use too by returning with a rabbit of her own, but it is still early spring and dusk enshrouded the forest in darkness quicker than she’d anticipated, which meant she quickly loses sight of the witcher’s trail among all the tall trees and thick moss covering the forest floor.  

Ciri has been lost in the woods before while running away from Cintra and Nilfgard, and she’d brought the sword Geralt had gifted her when they’d left Kaer Morhen so she could defend herself on the Path, so she doesn’t panic. Instead, she tries to use the stars to navigate her way back to camp like Geralt had tried to teach her these past weeks. But she’d never gotten good at distinguishing the star signs from one another, not beyond the one that was a smaller cluster of stars supposed to be the seven cursed sisters and the one looking like a wheelbarrow, and Ciri fears that she might be getting more lost than she had been initially by heading in what she thinks is south-east. 

“Geralt?” She calls into the trees, unsettled by the unnatural silence around her which is only disturbed by the creak of tree branches complaining in the wind and the fluttering of bird wings. There’s no answer and she turns on her heel as her heart stutters with fear, hoping to be able to retrace her steps back to camp.   

Then she’d come across a beast. At first, she’d thought it to be a hurt animal by the heavy breathing and pitched whines coming from the undergrowth, and she approaches it carefully because while not used to the wilderness yet, she isn’t stupid enough to not know danger lurked around every corner. The creature leaps out at her — a warg, too big to be a wolf — and Ciri barely dodges its wicked fangs by diving out of the way and running away as fast as her legs can carry her. 

It chases her through the trees and further away from camp. The animal is hot on her heels, snapping at her feet with powerful jaws that’d crush her bones if they caught up with her. She has nothing to defend herself with against the beast either, having dropped her sword in surprise when the warg had leapt at her, leaving her with but the small dagger strapped to her hip that’d only serve to make the oversized wolf more angry than inflict actual harm.

Adrenaline has her heart beating like a rabbit’s in her chest as she runs, jumping over rocks and branches littering the ground nimbly like she wouldn’t have been able to only a year ago, Lambert bullying her through that obstacle course being her saving grace right now. If only she hadn’t dropped her sword, then she could have —

Ciri only glances behind her for a second, but it’s enough for her to miss the mudslide that makes her boots disappear from underneath her and sends her tumbling down a steep hill and into the river down below. 

The warg’s angry howl at having lost its prey rings in her ears as she’s carried down the ice-cold river, but Ciri is no longer concerned about the beast as she struggles to keep her head above water, the undercurrents keep pulling her below the surface. Spluttering and gasping for breath, she collides with a log and grabs onto it in desperation, barely holding on with fingers that are quickly turning stiff and blue from the frigid water. Through sheer willpower she doesn’t let go, although she has no concept of time as she clings onto the log being tossed ruthlessly between rocks and lumber, the dips and waterfalls of the river unforgiving as it trashes her makeshift float around. It feels like she’s been clutching onto it for hours when the currents slow into a languid stream, exhaustion wracking her limbs as she hauls herself onto land on her hands and knees, still coughing up water that's lodged itself in her lungs.

Ciri is freezing and soaked through, and she knows she can’t stay wherever she’s been washed ashore. Hunger is gripping her now too, making her fatigued as she’s becoming all too aware of the empty pangs in her stomach reminding her that she’s not eaten for hours. 

On staggering legs, he tries to retrace her steps, to follow the river back upstream on foot, but the last drop in the river is too steep and too high for her to climb and she’d be asking for a premature death if she tried to scale the tall mountain shoulder. So, she follows the escarpment into the woods in hopes it’ll at some point dip enough for her to manage to crawl up it, to no avail as the brae seems to go on for miles and miles.

For a brief moment, Ciri is tempted to give up; to sit down and cry from exhaustion, to wait until Geralt finds her and proves to her he’d been right about her not being ready to venture out into the wilderness by herself – that she’s indeed the defenceless child she desperately tried not to be. She’d even happily take his soft concern and disapproval without comment or snark, just nod dutifully and promise she wouldn’t defy his orders like that again.

But then, she stumbles upon a clearing. A clearing where someone had set up camp, a dead firepit sitting in the middle, surrounded by a bedroll unfurled on the ground and a pack resting next to it. It doesn’t seem abandoned, the firepit still spitting small, pitiful plumes of smoke as if it’d been put out not that long ago, but Ciri can’t see or hear the sound of any people nearby either. 

“Hello?” She calls quietly as she steps into the clearing cautiously, prepared to run at any moment if anyone actually responds. “Is there anyone here?”  

But no one answers, the forest is as quiet as before, but this time Ciri feels emboldened as her growling stomach drives her further into the clearing and sneaks a peek into the pack sitting next to the firepit in hopes that there might be food there. 

There’s nothing extraordinary inside; the pack’s contents mostly consisting of clothes and blankets, and no food. Though, reaching into the bag, she feels her hand brush against soft material at the bottom underneath it all – fine silk, she realises, which is unusual for travellers out in the woods like this, though it’s too dark and the material too far down into the pack for her to see exactly what it looks like. Then, amidst all the silk, her hand grasps around something solid and she pulls it out; it’s a small clay jar about the size of her fist. Curious, she removes the lid to smell its contents and it smells like food; like herbs, spices and garlic, and something else she can’t place.

However, before Ciri can identify the scent, there’s the snap of a branch close by and the sound of soft footfalls approaching. Scrambling to her feet and without thought of hiding the evidence of her snooping in this person’s belongings, Ciri dives into the hollow of a tree, underneath the roots of the large oak towering protectively over the clearing like one of those treant creatures Geralt had once told her about. Peering out of the small gap between the roots and the ground, Ciri is only able to see a pair of large boots step into the camp and towards the pack she’d just so unashamedly snooped into.  

The person kneels by their pack and curses, the sound seeming to reverberate through the clearing and shatter the quiet Ciri didn’t even realise had fallen as she hides with baited breath. The stranger – undoubtedly a man judging by the size of him – starts to pull his belongings out of his pack to see if anything is missing, and curses again, this time loud enough for Ciri to hear the incensed, “ Son of a whore! ” 

Feeling her heart skip a beat, Ciri crawls further back into her hiding spot while still clutching the stolen jar with white knuckles. Just then her stomach rebels on her by growling loudly in protest at its lack of food, making her freeze in place. 

Again, she holds her breath, and for a second she thinks she’s gotten away with it when she hears the man’s voice once more, this time much closer; “You know, if you are intending to steal someone’s food, I’d advise you to at least steal something that’s edible. Or at least find a better hiding spot.” 

Heart now in her throat, Ciri looks desperately down at the jar in her hands that had smelled like garlic and spicy herbs. What is it then, if not food? 

“It's a healing salve,” he continues, as though hearing her unvoiced question. “It might quell your hunger, though I doubt it’d be worth it for the stomach ache it’d also give you.”

He doesn’t sound hostile or unfriendly, she thinks, but Ciri has been tricked before thinking back to the doppler that’d stolen Mousesack’s face. She remains deathly still, not daring to move. If she’s lucky, he’ll give up when he realises she won’t come out. He’s too big to fit between the roots of the oak anyway, so the only way for him to get her is if she’d come out willingly. 

“Here,” the man says, when he gets no response from her. “I’ll trade you for it.”

A small pouch is tossed right outside the opening of her hiding spot, its contents spilling out – food – as if in silent peace-offering. Her mouth waters at the sight and smell of it, and it’s so tempting to accept the small gift to fill her growling belly.

Peering out between the roots once more, she sees the tall silhouette of the man seated a safe distance away on a tree stump, as if giving her space to come out if she dared to. It was a simple yet gentle kindness that made Ciri trust that this man didn’t mean her any harm, and while Geralt would probably scold her for her recklessness, she pokes her head out of her hiding spot to retrieve the small gift he’d offered. 

As she reaches for the pouch of food in exchange for the jar, their eyes briefly connect across the clearing; green meeting striking blue that shines despite the gloom of spring night. Those eyes seem to twinkle knowingly, though there’s no trace of malice or deviousness there, which makes Ciri release a breath of relief she hadn’t even realised she’d been holding. 

It’s easy for her to drop the jar after that, though she doesn’t forget to snatch the pouch with her as she crawls back into her hiding spot inside the hollow of the oak. Clutching the gift close to her chest, she examines its contents properly; dried jerky, heavily salted by the looks of it. Ciri is hungry enough to take a tentative bite of one, throwing caution to the wind and not much care for the possible consequences of the food being poisoned. Immediately, she notices that it tastes exactly like the same type of jerky Geralt always keeps in his pack too, and Ciri feels like she could cry all over again with the pang of regret and longing it leaves in her chest.

“You can come out, you know. I’m not going to hurt you,” the stranger tells her after Ciri has shoved down another two pieces of jerky, having not moved from his seat on the stump.

While he’d been kind to her so far, Ciri knows it’s foolish to blindly trust this man who she’s never met before. She’d relied on the kindness of strangers in the past, but by doing so she’d been taught several painful lessons about the cruelties of life, which in turn had left their mark on her childish naïvity and faith in people . And surely Geralt must be out looking for her by now, so this time she won’t need to possibly endanger herself for her own survival. 

Geralt would come for her, she knows it.  

“Suit yourself,” he says when she doesn’t respond, seeming unbothered by the silent rejection.  

He sits for a while longer, and Ciri knows he is watching her just as closely as she is watching him – as much as they’re able to see during the black of night anyways – until he gets to his feet, yawning dramatically as he stretches. “Just don’t kill me in my sleep, if you’d be so kind,” he tells her, walking the few steps it takes him with his long strides to get to his bed roll and tucks himself under the covers. “Good night.”  

Ciri sits and listens for a long while, waiting, although not entirely sure for what. Maybe for this strange man to fall asleep, though she suspects he won’t be sleeping a wink that night with her still lurking so close by. Ciri waits for hours until her eyes start to slip shut with exhaustion despite the frigid night air of spring curling around her ankles, and her clothes still damp from her dip in the river. 

By the time she awakens from her involuntary nap – with a jolt when her head lolls uselessly against her chest like a puppet with no strings – the first lights of morning have started peaking in through the vines and roots of the old oak that had housed her overnight. The forest is quiet around her and she risks slowly crawling out of her hiding spot, only to find that her good samaritan has packed up camp and left while she’s been asleep, though leaving her another gift of jerky and a blanket right outside the tree’s entrance. 

Ciri feels an odd pang of bitter regret at that, at having been left behind without a word of goodbye, though she’s not entirely sure why. It’s not like she’s entitled to feel that way after having rejected the man’s kindness out of suspicion – healthy suspicion, but suspicion nonetheless. 

Gathering the kind gifts in her arms, she starts walking, trying to retrace her steps and find her way back to her and Geralt’s camp, but seeming to only get more lost in doing so. She considers backtracking and trying to traverse the steep hill, but she knows that even if she could manage to climb that last waterfall, the river had been part of a larger network of bodies of water and it’d be hopeless trying to find the right vein to follow back to her and Geralt’s camp.  

So, Ciri walks for four days, following the edges of a beaten path she’d stumbled upon – but not on it, in fear of who she might encounter – but unable to recognise any of the landmarks along the way. She sleeps in tree hollows and underneath cliff overhangs, wrapped up and protected from the elements in the scratchy blanket the stranger had given her. The jerky lasts her for two and a half days, though she eats it sparingly and lives off foraging when she can, mindful that she might not be eating sustainable food like it for some time. 

All the while, she wonders if Geralt is searching for her as she does him; if he tried to track her and lost her scent when she fell in the river. Ciri knows he’s probably worried sick and that she will get an earful when they reunite after he’s stopped fussing over her well-being. She really hopes the Witcher is okay. Strangely enough, she also feels her thoughts drifting to the stranger in the woods, wondering where he’d gone off to. The grudging bitterness of not having been told goodbye – and perhaps a wish that he’d taken her with him to keep her safe – still lingers, but she pushes it to the back of her mind, knowing that it’s silly to feel that way over someone she doesn’t even know the name of. 

Eventually, she comes upon a small settlement that smells like fish and saltwater, and is bustling with life. It’s with a dejected feeling she realised that it’s a fishing town, meaning they’re close to the sea and she’s walked westwards instead of eastwards towards Carreras where she and Geralt were originally headed. 

Once again, she wants to curl up and cry, but she can practically hear her grandmother reprimanding her from beyond the grave about her lack of decorum not fitting for a princess. A princess would think about solutions to her predicament, not just see insurmountable problems. So she swallows her tears and locates this town’s notice board, hoping that perhaps there’s some witcher contracts there, that maybe it’d attract a familiar face – even if it’s Lambert of all people – but there’s nothing beyond menial work, which Geralt or any of his brothers wouldn’t even spare a second glance.  

Ciri’s stomach rumbles threateningly then, reminding her that she’d only lived off the forest and jerky for the past few days, so while the baker isn’t looking she risks nabbing a small and steaming loaf of bread, the smell of which made her mouth water. But while the baker doesn’t notice her, someone else does: a young town guard with a rusty sword strapped to his hip and an older looking fellow, a guard too by the crest on his jerkin, with a meaner set to his mouth than his colleague. 

“Oi! You there, what do you think you’re doing?” The young one exclaims as he spots her slipping the loaf into the makeshift bag she’d made of the stranger’s blanket. 

Immediately, Ciri starts running. She weaves between shoppers and vendors alike, ducking under stalls and around street corners, following the sounds of seagulls and scent of saltwater down to the harbour. In a town such as this, she might be able to lose them among all the traffic of bustling sailors and crates being loaded on and off ships. 

At the harbour, it’s not as busy as she’d hoped. There are people there, but it’s a lot more open than she had anticipated with few places to hide. She cowers behind a crate with the makeshift bag pulled tight to her chest. Ciri knows it’s not an ideal hiding spot, knows she’ll be detected at any moment, but she needs to catch a breath and come up with a plan, an excuse of some sort so the guards don’t throw her in jail for a single loaf of bread.  

A voice separates itself from the rest of the buzz of the harbour and for a brief second her heart flutters as the hope that Geralt is nearby passes through her, but is quickly crushed as it’s too loquacious to be the witcher’s rough growl.  

“She’s there! Get her!”

Yet, it’s familiar all the same and her eyes are drawn to a tall figure standing haggling with a merchant. While his features and body are obscured by a nondescript cloak with its oversized hood pulled up, Ciri still recognises that melodic voice and the blue flash of eyes underneath the dark cowl. Before she can give herself time to doubt her actions, she scrambles to her feet and runs to him, practically throwing herself at the stranger from the clearing as if they’d known each other their whole lives. It’s undoubtedly a foolish risk to trust him to protect her, but he’s been nice to her before, and it is better than wherever these guards are about to take her. 

“Father!” She exclaims, infusing all her feelings of longing after Geralt into the statement. It’s easy to sound desperate when it’s all Ciri has been feeling these past days.  

The stranger blinks down at her and her arms wound tight around his waist, his features wrapped up in confusion before he glances up to see her predicament. His eyes widen at the sight of trouble, flickering with distrust. For an awful second Ciri thinks he’s about to throw her to the wolves as a hand lands heavily on her shoulder and pushes her away, but instead of revealing her bluff, he kneels in front of her while still keeping a firm grip on her. 

This up close to the man, Ciri is struck by his large, kind eyes, but moreover the unnatural, almost ethereal quality to them; his pupils larger than usual and the blue of his irises turning almost black around the edges, making his eyes appear almost a vivid vitriol. 

“There you are! I’ve been searching everywhere for you, darling,” he exclaims, loud enough for the guards to hear. “I’ve told you plenty of times before, you can’t rush off on your own while I’m not looking as much as your heart yearns for trouble.” 

His acting is surprisingly good, the concern he’s laced his voice with filled with the stern kind of warmth Eist would usually reprimand her with. Even more surprising is how easily he's gone along with her little lie as though he’s used to vowing excuses and theatrics on the spot in order to help others, no questions asked. 

“Sir, is this your daughter?” The young guard asks as he catches up to them, his run slowing down into a jog before stopping completely a few feet away, a frown etched onto his smooth features. He can’t be much older than Ciri by the looks of it, his face still holding onto some stubborn baby fat around the cheeks and his skin irritated with razor bumps and spots.

“Ah, yes. What can I help you with, officers?” He asks, getting back to his feet and adjusting his hood so a little more of his face is showing, but doesn’t fold it back entirely. It’s as though he doesn’t really want to be seen. Ciri understood all too well, wishing she had her own cloak to hide her blonde hair with, but it’d been abandoned at her and Geralt’s camp along with the rest of her belongings. 

The older one comes in tow, breathing heavily yet somehow managing to look sceptical between the two of them. “I struggle to see a resemblance.” 

Ciri can understand this. In the harsh light of day, they carry little resemblance to each other. He is so tall she has to crane her neck a little to look at his face which is all sharp features and angles. He’s also surprisingly lean with a rich brown hair colour and a matching, thick beard that could rival Lambert’s own. He is wearing muted colours underneath the cloak, plain breeches with an off-white chemise tucked into it that has a plunging neckline revealing a hairy chest. 

Nothing about the man should give Ciri a reason to pause, yet there’s something familiar about those large blue eyes of his that make her feel like she’s seen them before. It’s an old type of familiarity, like a long-since forgotten memory itching in the back of her brain, but she can’t put her finger on it. The only thing she knows is that those eyes make a sense of comfort settle in her chest; making it easy for her to put her trust and faith in the hands of this man even if they don’t know each other. 

“Takes after her beautiful mother, as you can see. You’re not the first, and likely not the last to notice, my good man,” the stranger says, placing a hand back on her shoulder. His words are companionable, though there’s something dangerous and weary in his tone, barely perceptible yet still there. “Now, officers. You didn’t tell me; to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

“She’s stolen a loaf of bread off the baker. It can’t be tolerated,” the younger guard squeaks, attempting to sound authoritative but failing miserably. 

Ciri looks up at the stranger with big eyes she knows always made Eist and Mousesack let her get away with the most mischievous contrivances. “Yes, but I was so hungry. Jerky is hardly filling, father,” she pretends to complain, using her most put-upon voice in hopes the stranger takes the hint that they’ve already met before. That he’s already been kind to her before. 

It has its desired effect as his eyes gleam immediately with recognition, his hand twitching a little where it’s resting on her shoulder. His easy smile gets a little edge to it, his lip curling back to reveal perfectly straight, white teeth as he pretends to scold her, “Darling, we spoke about your thieving ways . First that poor fellow’s camp and now this. What would your mother think? We’ll have to have words when we get back home.” 

“Of course, father,” Ciri replies, hanging her head in faked guilt so the guards don't see the self-satisfied smile threatening to pull at her lips at having somehow managed to pull this off. 

The stranger’s attention turns to the guards who are watching the whole display. “Can I pay the baker back? I’m afraid the wife would not be pleased if I returned from a day at the market with only a loaf of stolen bread and no daughter. You know what they say: happy wife, happy life.” The shaggy-looking man looks practically pained as he says it, but thankfully the older guard doesn’t seem to notice the stranger’s discomfort as he laughs heartily.  

“Aint’ that right.” The guard seems more at ease immediately, fooled by the man’s bluff. What an idiot. He shrugs, his body relaxing as his face splits into a charmed grin, revealing several missing teeth of his own. “I will let her off with a warning this once if you pay the baker what is owed, but don’t let me catch her doing that again, sir. Your wife will hear about it.”

The younger of the two guards looks between Ciri and the stranger hesitantly, eyes distrustful. “Lieutenant, I don’t think –”

“Trust it won’t happen again, my good man,” Ciri’s fake father replies quickly to the older lieutenant, effectively shutting the younger guard up, reaching for his purse. “Now, how much do we owe the fellow?” 

Ciri watches the guards walk away with the man’s money, the younger of the two being pulled away by his lieutenant with some protests, feeling a little smug for having gotten away from the encounter. Who knew she was an aspiring actress? Maybe after all this destiny and saving the world debacle is over with, she could attend Oxenfurt university. Maybe she’d study music too, for the hell of it. Her grandmother would probably be rolling in her grave as she never seemed to enjoy the arts much – gods know why, though Ciri suspects it has to do with her mother’s betrothal because that’s the last time any bard from outside the walls of Cintra were invited to play at court. Queen Calanthe was paranoid of everyone after that night, allegedly.  

Destiny has a way of dashing her hopes quickly however, as she feels the stranger’s hand slip from her shoulder and is propped up on his narrow hip instead. The cheery and companionable persona he’d portrayed to the guards falls away too as he frowns down at her. “So you are the little cretin who crashed my camp.” 

Immediately cowed, she kicks at some pebbles that’d wedged themselves between the planks of the docks. “I didn’t – Yes, I’m sorry about that,” she says, finding herself unable to meet his eyes. “But I was telling the truth just now. I was starving and I didn’t have anywhere else to go.” 

“Most of us don’t,” the man answers cryptically and starts walking away. 

Ciri is suddenly filled with fear as she watches the stranger leave. Something within her is screaming not to let him go again; he could keep her safe. He could help her find Geralt. She rushes after him. 

“Thank you for the jerky,” she says, clutching onto her makeshift bag still full with the bread that was going to taste a little more bitter now than before. “And the blanket. As well as helping me with those guards. I am not sure what would have happened to me there.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“Can I come with you?” 

“No,” he says, not sparing her a glance. “You already owe me five coppers for the bread you stole, and I can’t imagine it’ll be less expensive to have you follow me around. More mouths to feed and all that. As you kindly reminded me, you’ve already made a substantial dent in my jerky supply.”

Ciri has to run to keep up with his long strides. It reminds her of having to keep up with Roach’s steady trot, the man keeping a disturbingly similar pace to the horse. “I won’t be a burden, I promise! I can fish and make traps for food. I won’t be in the way.” 

“I highly doubt that, princess.”

The words send another jolt of fear through her, though for different reasons than before. Princess . He said it so casually, but he doesn’t seem to have recognised her as the Lion Cub of Cintra. He couldn’t possibly have. Nilfgaard may have taken Cintra but has yet to breach the borders of Sodden, so few people this far north know she is still alive. She is being irrational, he had used nicknames for the guards too, that is all it was. Ciri decides to plough on. 

“Please,” she begs, planting herself in front of him to act as a physical barrier, forcing him to stop. “I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

“Melitele’s tits , you’re persistent. Isn’t your…” His left hand does something complicated in a strange flourish, as though grappling for the right word. “... actual father, here somewhere?” It doesn’t sound like the word he’d been searching for, the common honorific somehow sounding foreign in his mouth. 

“I was with him,” she admits, thinking about Geralt because he is the closest thing to a father she has now. “But… we got separated.” 

The stranger raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “So, now you’re looking to adopt a new one?”

“No, but I… like I said, I have nowhere else to go. It’ll only be until I find my father again, then I won’t bother you anymore.”

Maybe it’s how pathetic she sounds that makes the man sigh rather dramatically and look towards the skies with an air of someone thrice his age. “This is some well-deserved retribution shit then, I take it?” He mutters resignedly to the heavens, almost too quiet for Ciri to hear. “One annoying tit for another annoying tat?” 

Ciri scrunches up her nose, confused. “What?” 

“Never you mind, princess,” he sighs again, massaging his temples with his knuckles as if he’s getting a headache – and she notices his right hand is wrapped tightly in gauze and bandages, but wisely keeps her questions to herself about it. “Fine, you can come. Just – don’t be in the way.” 

She beams up at him, relief flooding her for reasons she can’t quite put her finger on. “My name is Fiona,” she says, the lie rolling off her tongue without any conscious effort. 

“Hm.” The stranger’s grunt reminds her too much of Geralt, and she really hopes he’s okay. “Julian.”

“Julian,” Ciri repeats, rolling the foreign name over in her mouth. It doesn’t quite suit him, she thinks, but she decides to keep that opinion to herself. After all, who is she to pass judgement on someone else’s name and character when she doesn’t even know them? 

“Well?” Julian calls ahead, having started walking back towards the market and away from his new charge without her notice. “Are you coming or not, princess?”

Chapter Text

As it turns out, Julian is a reticent man, but not in the same way as Geralt. While the witcher is the strong and silent type by choice, Julian’s restless nature suggests that he wasn’t always like this. He constantly fidgets, shaking with unbridled energy and making noise, though rarely uses his words to do so. Sometimes, he’ll open his mouth to say something to Ciri, but then seems to think better of it and his jaw will click shut into a scowl. For some reason, Ciri feels like he’s inflicting some sort of punishment upon himself by not allowing himself to speak his mind, but she has no idea as to the cause of this strange self-flagellation and she isn’t going to inquire about it either. 

He’s a reserved man too, which is another quality of his that doesn’t quite seem to fit him, though Ciri isn’t sure why she knows this either. It might have to do with that first night they met, the gentle kindness he’d treated her with then. Or maybe it’s the way his eyes will shine with something kind and knowing as he shares his meals and blankets with her – even though he’s rather dramatic in the way he goes about it – that makes Ciri think his reservedness is a matter of self-preservation more than anything. 

Julian also prefers to sleep in the wild underneath open skies. When Ciri asks him about it, he mutters something about the bustle of cities and villages being too loud for him, too many people and prying eyes, though Ciri knows it’s just an excuse he makes to try to protect her from the grisly truth. She knows with the current way of the land, venturing into the larger towns and cities aren’t safe for anyone; because while Nilfgaard may rule the South with an iron fist, the Northern kingdom’s blatant xenophobia and classism made the dark woods with all its beast the favourable option to the uglier monsters persecuting the nonhumans inside city limits. 

Because what Julian is becomes obvious the very first night they spend together. 

Ciri had been following him past the city gates and out into the forest outside the fishing town where he’d saved her from the guards. They walked mostly in silence, the only sound being that of Julian humming quietly to himself while he seems lost in deep thought as he walks ahead. Ciri doesn’t mind as she follows the cloaked man deep into the woods, used to silence after having travelled with Geralt for several months already. 

Once they arrive at the camp already set up, Julian throws the bag he’d been carrying into town on the ground along with the little tinder and kindling he’d collected on the way next to the dead fire pit. 

“Welcome to my humble abode,” he says drily, gesturing grandly around the clearing that contains his few, scarce belongings. He points towards the bedroll that has been unfurled on the ground. “I don’t have a spare bedroll, so you’ll take mine until I can acquire a new one for you.”

Ciri shakes her head violently, some of the hair in her braid unravels itself. “Oh no, I can’t possibly –”

“You can and you will,“ Julian interrupts her. “I won’t be dealing with any vengeful fathers because their daughter got sick while in my care. I’ve had my fair shares of angry fathers, brothers and cuckold husbands in my time, but I’ve been staying on the straight and narrow for a long while now and I won’t allow this to lead me astray — even if the circumstances now are a little different than usual.” He tilts his head with a quirk of his brow, eyes distant as if reminiscing about some old times long since past Ciri probably should know nothing about. 

Blinking at him in confusion, Ciri settles on the realisation that it’s best not to ask Julian what he means by that. Instead she asks, “Where will you sleep?”

Julian gestures silently to the ground as he unfastens his cloak. As the dark material slips from his shoulders, Ciri realises that the man hasn’t removed his cloak the whole day, and she feels her eyes widen as his hood finally folds back to reveal elongated, pointed ears peeking out from between his unkempt brown locks of hair. 

An elf.

Ciri can’t quite suppress the gasp the sight elicits from her, not quite sure why she’s as shocked as she is by this revelation. She’d seen his eyes, had seen the unnatural quality to them, yet it hadn’t occurred to her he’d been anything but human.  

“I didn’t know you were an elf,” she whispers, mostly to herself though he seems to pick up on it nonetheless. 

“I’m not,” he replies offhandedly, though Ciri notices how his shoulders tense as he folds out his cloak on the ground to protect him from the frost still seeping from the soil during the spring nights. Then, he says a bit more defensively, back turned to her, “Is that a problem?”

“It’s not a problem,” she says hurriedly, shaking her head again, making even more strands from her braid fall out and curl around her shoulders. She tucks one of the wayward strands behind her ear. “I just… didn’t know.” 

“Right.” 

Ciri might not have met many elves in her time – only Dara, really – but she knows enough to recognise one when she sees one. It feels important to say how she feels about it, to let him know it doesn’t matter to her. That she doesn’t hold the same narrow minded prejudice shared across the continent. That she doesn’t share the opinions of her grandmother, despite the queen’s best efforts to enforce her policies onto Ciri. 

“I had a friend who is an elf. His name is Dara,” Ciri says, though it somehow makes it sound more like she’s trying to defend herself in that statement rather than the desired effect of assuring Julian. 

Julian must hear this too, because he sighs deeply and sits down heavily onto his cloak, dragging a hand through his long hair. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?” 

“I don’t want you to think it matters to me, if we’re going to be spending time together until we find my father,” she says earnestly, chewing on her lip. She sits down on his offered bedroll, and pulls her knees up to her chest, hugging them tight. “I’m sorry about what the humans have done to your kind.”

“I told you, I’m not —” Julian snaps with a scowl, before looking away. In the slowly fading daylight, dusk creeping up on them, his eyes seem to shimmer with emotions. “It’s a long story. Let’s just say that appearances can be deceptive, alright?”

He sounds bitter, angry, and Ciri isn’t sure what she said to offend him, though it hasn’t been her intention. She wisely keeps her mouth shut as he stews; she’s used to Geralt’s moody episodes and knows if she just sits perfectly still it’ll either pass or further the conversation. While she knows that she might not be entitled to it, she hopes that it might urge the man to put whatever is bothering him into words. 

Just like she suspected, Julian seems to deflate a little when she doesn’t speak back at him, his expression softening. “Fuck . Sorry, princess. I’m just…times have been tough as of late. You’ve had the displeasure of meeting me at a very strange time of my life. It’s not your fault.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Ciri asks hesitantly, not used to adults confiding in her. 

“No,” he says quickly, closing his eyes and cradling his bandaged hand close to his chest. His brows knit together and he blows a harsh breath out through his nose. “Not right now at least. Another time, perhaps.” 

“Okay.”

That seems to be that, and so they avoid the larger towns and cities as much as they can. Ciri doesn’t complain, as it isn’t truly safe for her to venture into those places either at the risk of being recognised. However, she knows they will eventually have to take some risks if she has any hope of finding Geralt. Where else could she possibly start to search for him or his brothers if not in towns that enlist the particular skill set of witchers? 

So, when they do actually venture into any settlements because of low supplies or coin, she beelines to the notice board to check for witcher contracts. All the while, she isn’t oblivious to Julian’s knowing looks from underneath the cover of his hood, those eyes feeling like a heavy weight on her shoulders when she isn’t able to hide her disappointment when there are no contracts or any signs of witchers in the surrounding areas.  

Julian is always the most cautious when they first venture into a town, sizing up the guards several yards away from the town gates as if he is expecting an altercation at any moment. Most times, the guards barely spare them a glance as they are too busy neglecting their duties over a game of cards, though Julian never seems to relax until hours later when they’re well outside the town limits once more. 

Ciri understands why when they overhear the tail-end of a conversation between some guards by the entrance talking over one such card game. 

“Yeah, they rounded them up like cattle,” one of them says, as he puts down a card onto the pile gathered on the makeshift table between the men. “The sight was pretty horrific. I almost felt sympathetic towards the poor bastards by how they were hauled off in ropes and chains.”

The other guard, with his helmet off and chewing loudly on some brown gunk as he regards the pile of cards with distaste, huffs. “The elves are savages, the lot of them. Not any better than my dog who eats his own shit. Ain’t nothing to feel sympathy for. ” 

The first guard to speak shrugs, uncaringly. “Sure. But they were useful, weren’t they? Who will dig the coal from the mines now, if not them? Or collect poppies from the fields?” 

Unwillingly, Ciri feels tears gather in her eyes as she imagines the horrors they’re describing, as well as how abhorrently they talk about the elves as if they’re nothing more than animals. She’d known the elves were being persecuted, chased from the land which were once theirs, but there’s knowing, and there’s knowing , and she thinks she understands Julian’s apprehension with visiting the towns a little better now and she scolds herself for not really realising before. 

“Anyone else. The elves were stealing honest work from this town by their mere existence, and the Alderman, the fucking elf-sympathiser, let them to it too. I say, leave some honest work for the rest of us.” The guard spits out the brown gunk from his mouth, the disgusting blob landing onto the ground not far from where Ciri is standing. “Now, put them in the whore houses, that’s a different story. It's all those creatures are good for, with those deceptively pretty faces of theirs, if you ask me.” 

A heavy hand lands on her shoulder, making Ciri jump. She hadn’t realised she’d become frozen, stopping in the middle of the road to listen to the conversation. The loud heartbeat pounding in her ears, from anger and fear, makes her almost deaf to anything but the conversation taking place between the guards in front of her. 

“Come, Fiona. We should go,” Julian says, not unkindly though there’s a tenseness around his eyes that is putting her on edge. “They’re not going to have the supplies I need here. Let’s try our luck in the next village.”

When they find towns Julian deems safe enough and dares venture into, the elf takes on the odd menial job to line his pockets. However, with his nonhuman appearance, people are hesitant to employ him and Julian is wary of peeling back his hood to reveal his features and ears, fearing that they’ll be ratted out to the local authorities. It makes getting honest work complicated and most times, his employers short him on his pay after a completed job that reminds Ciri too much of the way people treat Geralt after saving them from monsters. 

The actual execution of the jobs Julian does manage to argue himself into is further complicated by the fact that Julian’s right hand is wrapped tightly in bandages and seems to cause him a lot of pain — for reasons Ciri knows their still fragile, tentative relationship won’t allow her to ask about yet. It makes the simplest of jobs difficult for him to complete, causing both him and his employer a great deal of frustration and upset.  

Ciri takes it upon herself to help him when she can— or is allowed to by Julian, the man seeming annoyed by her help, brows knitting together as he scowls while he complains with half-muttered words about not being a useless damsel in distress. The complaints don't really seem directed towards her, though it’s apparent the elf doesn’t allow the blow to his pride to have a little girl help him no matter how much he needs it. Still, he lets her tag along to most jobs he takes upon himself, seeming hesitant to let her out of his sight now that she is under his care.

But then, one early morning, while they’re out throwing and pulling fishing nets a bit further down the coast with a local fisherman, Ciri simply can’t just stand by anymore, Julian’s pride be damned. 

The elf is currently struggling to secure a rope to one of the empty kegs that marks the beginning of said nets and keeps them afloat. The spring weather is unforgiving and the sea is rocky, making the task difficult enough with slick ropes and cold fingers, but with his bandaged hand tightening the thick cord around the wooden kegs is practically impossible. 

Ciri feels a little seasick herself, though the nausea coiling in her gut has more to do with how the fisherman is eyeing Julian with distaste as the elf is gritting his teeth while doing his best to fasten the complicated knot. She wants to help, is almost desperate to, her own heart twinging with guilt and sympathy for the man who has taken her under his wing. Yet, she knows he won’t accept it if she simply offers, so she has to be clever about it. 

“Julian?” She asks, having to shout to be heard among the crashing waves to get the man’s attention. When his blue eyes meet her green ones, she nods in the direction of his work. “Can you show me how?”

Julian’s hair is whipping around in the wind despite being tied back in a messy knot and putting his pointed ears even more on display, making him seem even less human than before. Yet, the sight of his lips quirking up in a barely-there rueful smile as if he sees straight through her chicanery makes her heart swell a little. 

“Sure, princess.” 

Together, they make quick work of it. Julian is a surprisingly good and patient teacher as he demonstrates how to properly tie what he calls a rolling hitch knot, and he secures the rest of the fishing nets to the kegs with her help so seamlessly as if they’ve always been a team. Soon enough they find themselves back on dry land, their pockets lined with new coins and even a couple of cods from the fisherman as thanks for their efforts – the fisherman giving Julian a meaningful look with a nod in Ciri’s direction as he hands the fish to the elf. 

Julian, his pink cheeks barely visible underneath the hood of his cloak which he’s draped back over himself, seems more pleased than Ciri had seen him during their short acquaintance. As they are exiting town, he ruffles her hair that is sopping wet, just like his. “Where did you learn to tie knots like that, huh? I think that poor piscator will have trouble freeing his nets from his floats after you had your turn with those ropes.” 

She beams at him, without the innocence she knows is expected of a lost girl like herself. “I just have a good teacher.”

Ciri isn’t sure if she is imagining it, but his expression seems a little less guarded than before. 

At night, they hardly ever light fires. The only exception to this unspoken rule being when they cook whatever they’d been able to forage or catch that day, and Julian is always quick to stomp out the embers once they’ve served their purpose.  

“Fires attract things in the dark,” he mutters one night when Ciri doesn’t ask, a few days into their acquaintance. 

Things, not animals. She wonders what he means by that, yet she still doesn’t ask. After being shut down that first night they’d spent together, when Ciri had asked if Julian wanted to talk to her about whatever he’s struggling with, she learned not to. 

It’s better this way, she tells herself. Getting attached to this man would only cause her heartache when she eventually had to leave him; whether it be if she is reunited with Geralt or when it becomes too dangerous for him to be associated with her. Nilfgaard might have been temporarily stopped in Sodden, but it’s only a matter of time before they find a way to track her down. If not them, then the fire mage they’d all encountered in Ellander, and Ciri doesn’t want to know what kind of horrors the fire fucker would inflict upon Julian to get to her. Julian isn’t Geralt after all. He is merely an elf who she unwittingly has tangled up in a destiny that burdens her with responsibilities she’s never wanted.

Spring is slowly shifting into summer though, so Ciri is capable of surviving without a fire to keep her warm at night. The heat of day is beginning to creep into the evenings and nights, heating the ground underneath her borrowed bed roll and blankets, and warming her skin. 

However, the warming nights don't keep away the night terrors. When she closes her eyes, fire licks from behind her lids as she watches Cintra burn over and over, the screams of her people as they’re sliced down in the name of the Great Sun echoing in her ears. Amongst all the chaos, she sees her grandmother lying dead in a puddle of her own blood, merging with the rest of the blood pooling in the streets of her home, her eyes hollow and her limbs twisted and mangled. Other times, she finds herself alone in dark woods, fog dancing around her feet as humidity sticks to her skin. In front of her is a small cabin with no doors that calls her name, a voice wispy and weak, along with the words “... Turn your back to the forest, hut, hut. Turn your front to me, hut, hut .” 

During those nights, she’s startled awake by her own fear, a deadly scream trapped in her throat that doesn’t quite escape her, though she can feel her chaos thrashing underneath her skin to be released at a split-second if she so chooses. It’d most likely kill every living thing in the near vicinity if she let it, including Julian, who is sitting on the ground with only the unlit fire pit separating them and regarding her with that same knowing look he shoots at her when there’s no witcher contracts in town. 

“Bad dream?” He asks quietly one night, as though speaking any louder might have the same effect on their environment as the scream still lodged in Ciri’s throat. 

Ciri swallows, trying to catch her breath and still her rapidly beating heart as she gets her bearings. She nods, not trusting her voice to speak right then, afraid of the chaos still coursing through her veins like fire.

He regards her for a long moment, his bright eyes glinting in the moonlight that serves as the only source of illumination in the clearing they’ve set up camp. “Do you want to talk about it?” 

“No,” she croaks, repeating the rejection he’d said to her that first night back at him. It’s not intentionally malicious, meant more to protect herself from opening those floodgates that would be talking about the horrors she’s witnessed the past year, though she can still see the elf slightly wince as she pushes him away. 

“Alright,” he tells her, voice just as even as before. “Go back to sleep, princess. I’ll wake you up if I hear you get restless again.”

Ciri wants to ask Julian if he isn’t going back to sleep either, but judging from the dark grooves underneath his eyes that are visible even in the dark, she doubts he has been asleep at all in the first place. She discovers later that Julian doesn’t sleep much at all. Not only are his tired eyes a visible sign of his exhaustion, but every time she startles herself awake from her night terrors he’s always right there, safe and solid not too far from her and wide awake. 

Julian always keeps a respectful distance from her those nights, but is always close by and within reaching distance should Ciri need it – which the girl doesn’t. He isn’t Geralt and thinking that he can fill the hole the witcher has left in her heart is both foolish and childish, because Ciri would find him, she would. Yet, Julian remains the only steady presence in her life as of right now, and she appreciates the quiet if a little awkward comfort he provides by just being there when she wakes up. Julian doesn’t say much during those times, but when she closes her eyes to go back to sleep, she is lulled into a dreamless rest by a tender voice humming softly in the distance. 

After close to a month of travelling with Julian, Ciri grows tired of the quietness between them during their travels just like she did with Geralt. She is itching to speak to the elf even if she has no real intention of getting attached to Julian, and so she does. Ciri tells him everything she can between the heavens and the earth as long as it isn’t anything of significance that may reveal who she is. She tells him about Dara, of Mousesack and her grandparents – although she deliberately never mentions their name or position, lying about the small details that really don’t matter.

Deliberately, Ciri never mentions Geralt, because for some reason it hurts to talk about him. She thinks it might have to do with the guilt churning in her gut; that she hasn’t found him, that she is somehow betraying him by letting Julian into her life too. It’s silly to think that way, of course. Geralt would be grateful to the elf that he’d kept her safe, in his own strange and quiet manner. Ciri wonders if Geralt would let Julian join them on their travels if she asked the witcher once they’re reunited; she wonders if Julian would want to tag along if offered. 

Currently, said elf is leading her across a shallow brook. He is waddling in front of her with his boots and their pack clutched in his hands, sweat sticking to him as the sun beats down. Ciri thinks he might be getting sunburn on his ears too, though it’s hard to tell in the bright light of midday. 

“Do you always talk this much?” Julian interrupts her suddenly, while she is telling him about how she used to dress up as a boy to sneak out and play games in town square with her friends. 

The water is cold on her bare feet and the slippery rocks on the water floor are digging into her soles, but the question still makes Ciri stop short in the current, biting her lip as her heart skips a beat. “Is that bad?”

Julian stops too, and turns around to regard her for a moment as the only sound surrounding them is that of the trickling water and birds chirping happily overhead. Then, he shakes his shaggy head with a slight fond tilt of his lips that she’s never seen there before. “No. I suppose I’m just not used to having a chatty companion, is all.”

Something about his tone and the way his eyes go distant makes Ciri think he’s lonely, which would make sense considering everything she knows about Julian so far. Ciri wonders if he’d been alone for long and if that’s why he seems so sad all the time. 

“You were telling me about a game of knucklebones, princess,” he says, that tilt of his lips still there as he nudges her in the back to signal to her to continue walking. 

Ciri doubles her efforts to fill the silences. 

As summer approaches at a rapid speed, their visits to towns and villages are becoming even less frequent. The unusually sticky heat this season is making it unbearable to wear much beyond their chemise and breeches – and even that seems too much as Ciri feels the back of her shirt glue itself to her spine with sweat – meaning that Julian would probably get heatstroke if he were to wear his cloak for prolonged periods of time. It also makes them seem suspicious, him wearing his hood up while the sun is glaring down on them, attracting too much unwanted attention from citizens and guards alike. 

The fact that they’re avoiding towns is concerning though, because Ciri doesn’t know how else she has any hope of finding a witcher? The likelihood of crossing paths with Geralt on the road is improbable at best with how big the continent is, and the sightings of him are few and far between. 

She briefly considers leaving Julian’s company to more actively pursue Geralt’s trail, but not only does she know this would be a hopeless venture considering the witcher never stayed in the same place for too long, but something within her is hesitant to leave the elf who has been taking care of her behind too. Maybe it’s the child in her that’s scared of being alone again, maybe it’s destiny, but she clings onto the feeling like a lifeline that is the only thing keeping her from drowning. 

Ciri is starting to lose track of how long she’s spent in Julian’s care when he teaches her how to skin a rabbit. 

After a fairly successful trapping where they’d caught no less than four rabbits one day, he simply hands her one of them with utmost conviction while looking at her expectantly. “You told me when we first met that you wouldn’t be in the way and I don’t exactly have plenty of hands to go around, so it’s about damn time you skin your own rabbit.”

Geralt had shown her how to before. Had shown her how to clean out the guts without puncturing any of the rabbit’s intestines or gallbladder – because yuck – and how to properly remove fur and skin without making a mess of the edible parts of the animal. But, Ciri is ashamed to admit she hadn’t really paid attention then; she’d been much more intent on her swordplay than hunting skills, having taken for granted the prospect that Geralt would always be there to help her with such menial tasks. In hindsight, she had acted a bit like the spoiled brat everyone expected a princess to be, making shame burn low in her gut at the thought. 

Julian seems to take some pity on her when she’s just staring down at the dead animal in her hand helplessly, uncertain how to start skinning the thing. 

“Here. Let me show you.” 

Without waiting for her reply Julian shoves the knife into the rabbit’s belly – and Ciri gags a little when she hears sound of blood squelching and bones crunching – slicing the animal’s gut open all the way to its neck with ease. His movements are practised as he works, even with only one knife-wielding hand and the sole of his boots as leverage to keep the rabbit steady on the slab of stone between his legs that he uses as a work surface to prepare their meal. 

Ciri tries her best to copy his movements, wielding her own dagger – the one Geralt had gifted her – with far more clumsy movements than the elf next to her. Yet, under Julian’s watchful eye and some struggling with the uncooperative animal underneath her hands, she eventually manages to successfully have a skinned rabbit that doesn’t look too dissimilar to Julian’s.

“Good job,” he praises her as he looks it over with a critical eye, reminding Ciri too much of her tutor back in Cintra. “We might make a decent trapper out of you yet.”

The elf also shows her how to use various herbs and spices for cooking that she’s never seen Geralt use. The flavours reminds her of the gamey stews and meats she was served back home, in Cintra, and it makes her heart warm. She’s surprised how simple he makes it seem, considering how nice it is. 

When Ciri tells Julian so, it earns her a soft, rare laugh and an equally soft reply. “I taught myself over the years what worked and what didn’t. I used to have a… companion, before. He didn’t much care for small luxuries like it. Not until he met me anyway, though I can’t imagine he’s maintained the particular habit after we parted.” There’s a bittersweet smile on his face as he says it, his eyes far away as if reminiscing of old times. 

Ciri wonders who this companion is and where they are now to evoke such apparent sadness in Julian. The elf usually seemed so guarded to the point of defensiveness that it’s hard for Ciri to imagine him any other way, but she is starting to suspect that it might not have always been the case. If so, then when did this Julian – the one she’s getting to know, her Julian – come to be? What could possibly have happened to make him so disenchanted by and isolated from the rest of the world? 

“Who was your companion?” She asks, the question tumbling out of her mouth before she can even consider whether it’s impolite to pry about the matter, although she’s getting this sinking feeling all her questions regarding the elf in front of her have to do with this simple question.

The vulnerable smile on his face vanishes instantly. “Someone I considered a friend, though he didn’t feel the same way,” he replies, voice clipped. Julian sniffs disdainfully. “We parted a long time ago.”

Ciri doesn’t consider having her suspicions confirmed as a victory. In fact, it leaves a bitter taste in her mouth that makes her wish she’d not asked at all, because there’s nothing that she could possibly say to that which would make things better. 

“I’m sorry,” she tells him, not entirely sure if she’s apologising for her nosiness or because of Julian’s painful admission. 

The elf’s mouth presses into a firm line as he glares down at the sprig of thyme clutched in his grasp. “Don’t be,” Julian tells her, sounding hoarse. “Sometimes, people just aren’t what you thought they were and it’s unfair to try turning them into someone they’re not. It’s how you push people away.” 

“Okay,” Ciri says, because there’s nothing else to say.  

It’s only later Ciri realises that Julian had actually confided in her with something. Something of value, that he obviously nestled close to his heart judging from the sorrow that had seeped out of him like a bleeding wound. That definitely shouldn’t feel like a victory, and yet… 

When Ciri goes to bed that night, she can’t help but sneak a glance over at Julian who is sitting against a tree and admiring the stars twinkling down on them with the barest hint of a smile ghosting his lips. She vows quietly to herself then that whoever this old companion of Julian’s was, she wouldn’t make the same mistake as he had.  

While on the path, Julian starts to actually pay attention to her chatter. 

Ciri is surprised to notice he’s actually a good conversationalist when he wants to be, and even more surprisingly, an even better listener. He’ll nod along to her stories and ask questions when she falls silent, somehow managing to uphold the conversation without actually adding much to it at all. 

Sometimes, he will even ask questions about things that relate to past stories that she’d told, when Ciri thought he hadn’t been listening. The first time it happens it almost floors her, because she’s used to Geralt’s form of quiet listening, but she hasn’t been used to having someone actually engage with her in that way for a long time now. It’s like adding fuel to a fire making Ciri unable to shut her mouth even if she tried, revelling in the attention.

Judging from the knowing smirk Julian has on his face when he does it, he seems to be enjoying it too.  

The elf starts sharing stories of his own as well. However, Ciri notices that Julian never touches upon anything personal. Nothing of real value to him, like he had that night when talking about his old companion.  It’s always about everything and anything else; the weather, politics, economics, philosophy, sometimes even poetry of all things – and Ciri had never pegged him for a renaissance man, though the elf continues to surprise her on a daily basis. 

As it turns out, Julian has quite extensive knowledge of a lot of things. He teaches her which roots and berries are edible and which are poisonous, the properties of plants and how to use them. He shows her how to ferment cherries to make wine, then swiftly makes her swear that she’d never admit to her father who had taught her that particular skill. Ciri also learns that whatever food they have stored in their packs are to be kept separate from camp, preferably hoisted far up into a tree, to prevent animals from taking a chomp of either their rations or their poor behinds – Julian’s exact words on the matter, not hers, although Ciri had spent a good time laughing at the imagery the particular description had evoked in her mind. 

“Didn’t your father ever teach you these things?” he asks while hoisting up their spoils from fishing far up into a tree, his eyes trained on the sack of food as if carefully deliberating whether it’s up high enough to be safe from hungry predators.

Ciri is thankful for it, because it means he doesn’t see how she fumbles with the end of the rope she’s busy securing to the tree’s roots in surprise. She composes herself quickly, though it doesn’t stop the stutter slipping from between her teeth, “He tried, b-but…” During the time they’d spent together, Julian had never asked her about Geralt before, though the innocent question made her throat grow thick with unspilled tears. “I’m afraid I wasn’t a very good student.” 

“Hm.” Julian hums absently, seemingly deep in thought. “I don’t believe that. In the short while we’ve known each other, you’ve picked up on things most people don’t learn throughout an entire lifetime.”

The praise doesn’t do anything to quell the shameful tears threatening to spill, but if Julian notices, he doesn’t say anything about it. Instead, he reaches silently for the rope held uselessly in her white-knuckled grip and secures it to the root like he’d shown her earlier. 

“Some skills can’t be taught when it isn’t strictly a necessity,” he tells her as he tightens the rope one final time, with a grunt. “There are some teachings that we can only learn when we hit a point in our lives where we are forced to, lest we perish.”

“Is that how you learned all these things?” Ciri asks as she sits down, voice small as she glances up at their ration dangling safely high over their heads, the burlap sack swaying gently in the wind. 

“My old companion taught me a lot; how to hunt and how to live off nature, how to stay safe. Or at least he tried to. I was admittedly busy being a contrarian by doing everything I wasn’t supposed to and getting into trouble.” Julian lets go of the rope now that is secured to the tree, and sits down next to her, his long legs stretching out in the grass as he looks up at the sack, chewing on his bottom lip thoughtfully. “But surviving – true survival – that is something I had to teach myself when I branched out on my own.”

“Isn’t it lonely though?” Ciri asks. The question that had been nagging at her practically from the first time she’s met Julian, only reinforced when he’d told her about his old companion. “I would be lonely if I spent all my days secluded to the confines of the forest by myself.”

“You just answered your own question, princess.” 

Ciri can’t help but feel disappointed at being so obviously turned down in attempting to understand her guardian a little better. “Oh.”

Julian sighs heavily, harshly through his nose. “There’s no point in dwelling on the past, because the only direction we’re headed is forward anyway. The best and only thing we can do for ourselves is make the most of the here and now.” Then, he attempts a comforting smile, though it’s a little too crooked and fragile at the edges. “And right now, I am here with you and therefore I am not lonely, am I?”

Sometimes, Julian spoke in riddles full of cryptic and flowery language that Ciri couldn’t make sense of and was too scared to ask what he meant. This, however, is not one of those times, and Ciri feels a fragile smile of her own that mirrors Julian’s spread across her face and her heart fills with budding warmth. “No, I suppose you’re not.”

If Julian briefly tenses when Ciri leans over to place her head on his shoulder, the young girl doesn’t say anything about it as they settle into a companionable silence while enjoying the late summer sun.

Chapter Text

Before Ciri knows it, monsoon season is upon them, hitting the coast with the biggest downpour of rain the continent has seen in nearly thirty years. The dreaded weather limits their mobility and sequesters them in caves and naturally occurring alcoves they can find in the wild. 

While Ciri is no stranger to living under less than ideal conditions, Julian is – surprisingly – not. He’s grumbling the whole while, his mood as foul as it had been when Ciri had first met him. The fierce scowl on his face as rainwater seeps into his clothes while they search for shelter for the night reminds her of a particularly disgruntled cat, and just like with cats, the princess decides that during those times it’s best to leave the man be until his mood has improved and his clothes are dry again. 

In extension of that, Ciri also shouldn’t be surprised to learn that the elf would willingly splurge his hard-earned money on luxuries such as inns over a little bad weather, but lo and behold, they start to frequent towns once more to do just that. 

He even buys her a new cloak to protect her from the rain showers, ignoring her feeble protests about not spending his scarce coin on her. 

Currently, they’re seeking shelter from the pissing down rain in some tavern, where they’re enjoying their first meal in weeks that isn’t fish- or rodent-shaped. Or, Ciri is enjoying it, Julian is too busy glaring daggers at the young bardling currently performing in front of a small crowd, playing songs about the White Wolf – about Geralt of all people, and gods , she hopes he’s okay wherever he is.  

When the young bard starts playing ‘ Toss a Coin ’ Julian starts stabbing his peas with a viciousness reminiscent of a furious Calanthe, making the vegetables fly everywhere except on his fork where they’re supposed to be. Ciri eyes one pea with interest as it rolls across their table. She hates to see food go to waste, but she is definitely not picking it up from the sticky, dirty surface that functioned as their dining area. 

“Do you not like it?” She inquires as the pea rolls off the table and lands onto the filthy ground below. 

“It’s grating on the ears. Their lute is out of tune and their pitch is entirely wrong,” Julian huffs, some of the anger seeping out of him as his attention is turned to her and not to the music that fills the entirety of the tavern. “He’s butchering the fucking song.”

“I thought he sounded okay,” she mutters, although eyes the lute in the bard’s hands curiously before turning that same assessing look towards Julian; eyeing the hood currently concealing his pointed ears as if it might reveal something to her. Do elves have some sort of superior hearing that she doesn’t know about? 

“They don’t. I would know,” he says sourly without any other explanation. 

When she doesn’t reply Julian sighs heavily, throwing his fork onto the table and pushing the reminder of his meal towards Ciri — it is only half-eaten, she notices with some concern. “Besides, the song is disgustingly bigoted and the songwriting is just cheap.”

“Is it?” Ciri asks, frowning as she tries to listen to the lyrics. Perhaps it is, though she must admit she’d never given it much thought. The song was one she’d grown up hearing around her all the time, but because of that its meaning had sort of been lost on her, she supposes. At least not beyond the heroic portrayal of the witcher in it. The bard that wrote it – the infamous Jaskier, the White Wolf’s old travel companion if rumours are to be believed – did a lot for Geralt’s and other witcher’s reputation by composing and making it as popular as it’d become. 

Embezzled poppycock, her grandmother would call it. Meanwhile, it sounded like a great adventure in young princess Cirilla’s ears.

“It is,” Julian nods empathically, jostling his hood and revealing a little more of his face in the torchlight. He looks contrite. “It reflects immaturity and ignorance, is what it does. If it’d been produced today, I can promise you it would have been written differently.”  

Ciri stabs a carrot on her plate with her fork and pops it into her mouth. She chews it carefully as she considers the elf sitting opposite her. “You’ve given this a lot of thought.”

“I’ve had a long time to think about it,” Julian replies, his voice turning serious and weighty. “Stories carry power, Fiona. Many great nations have fallen to the songs of battle cries, and many new ones have risen to the songs of hope and prosperity. Tales of star-crossed lovers can unite a people or tear them apart, and a song revealing a bleeding heart can become as deadly as a wielded sword in the wrong hands.”

Julian’s words could so easily have sounded like a rehearsed spiel, Ciri thinks it would have if it’d been anyone else lecturing her about stories, but coming from him it sounds almost poetic. There’s a definite passion there that she’s not heard from the man before, and she can tell that the elf cares a great deal more about this than he originally lets on. 

To see the man so fervent makes her smile, despite herself. “I didn’t know you were a romantic.” 

“I’m not. Not anymore.” The elf’s attention settles once more on the bard prancing around the tavern like a particularly proud peacock. He sighs, resting elbow on the table and using it to prop his chin up in the palm of his hand. “I fear that I’ve become unbearably crotchety and cantankerous in my old age.”

“You’re not that old,” Ciri says diplomatically, even though she has absolutely no idea how old Julian actually is. Elves aged differently, didn’t they? For all she knows, he might very well be over two hundred years old, or he might be just passing thirty. It’s hard to tell underneath all his… scruff. 

Julian snorts, though his eyes are still trained on the troubadour dancing between tables. “Flattery will get you nowhere with me, princess.”

Ciri knows this is a lie. While she doesn’t pay Julian a lot of compliments – their relationship doesn’t allow it to occur naturally – she notices how he preens at the smallest of affection she shows him, even if he does his utmost to try to conceal it from her. Julian craves it more than most people Ciri has met, yet for some reason he continuously denies himself of it. She cannot help but wonder why.  

“I’d like to hear your story sometime,” she tells him, her attention settling back on the bard too. It’s as much a declaration that she cares for him without openly saying it.

The elf’s vibrant blue eyes flick back to her, shimmering in the tavern’s torchlight as realisation dawns in those expressive depths. He smiles softly at her, his white and flat teeth barely peeking out between his lips. “Sure, princess. Sometime.” 

It isn’t much later before the music dies down, and as the bard receives tempered applause from the crowd, he suddenly steers towards their table which makes Julian go rigid next to Ciri.

“Excuse me?” The bard says as he approaches. He can’t be older than twenty, with long curly locks that frame a pretty face. He bows in Julian’s direction. “I am sorry to disturb you during your dinner, but I simply had to sate my curiosity. Aren’t you –”

“You’re mistaken,” Julian snaps at the bard, throwing his tankard back as he drains the rest of his drink. 

“But –”

“I told you no,” Julian cuts the bard off sharply, slamming the wooden cup onto their table with a bang . “Now, fuck off.” 

They immediately leave afterwards. To Ciri, it feels like running away, though she has no idea what exactly they’re running away from . Though, she doesn’t dare question it as she watches Julian’s eyes flicker with paranoia as they exit the small town underneath the cover of the heavy rain shower pounding down hard onto cobblestones beneath their tattered boots. 

The downpour persists as they walk into the next town over a few days later, where Julian is trying to barter for ingredients for his salve. He’d been running low, and Ciri can tell he’s in pain by the tight pinch to his face, but the gods don’t seem to favour the elf this day as the vendor turns his hateful snarl towards them. 

“Don’t want your coin or your kind here,” the merchant, a lanky man about as tall as Julian and with just as worn clothes, growls as the elf approaches him.

Julian, to his credit, remains surprisingly calm and friendly at the face of this prejudice. “Coin is still coin, no matter who pays it. I’ll be out of your…hair quicker too, if you accepted my business.”  

The vendor shakes his, ironically bald, head. “Not if the imperialists have anything to say about it. It’s a crime to barter with non-humans these days.”

“Since when?”

“Since you all became outlaws. Just be thankful I don’t fucking report you to the king’s men, knife-ears.” At this the man spits at Julian’s feet, the disgusting blob of saliva landing on the elf’s boots with a silent, unsatisfying splat . “Now leave, before I find my carving knife to round off those pointed ears of yours myself.”

“ Fine .” Julian angrily tugs his hood over his face, effectively concealing his ears once more. Ciri isn’t sure why he’d let it fall back in the first place, though it was almost like he’d just…forgotten to pull it back up.  

“Why did he call you knife-ears?” Ciri asks Julian quietly as they walk away, mindful of the crowd of people around them. She’s having to jog to keep pace with his quick, angry strides – once again reminding her too much of Roach – which she hasn’t needed to do for some time, Julian having obviously been mindful of adjusting his pace when spending time with her. 

Julian gestures to himself vaguely, though he doesn’t slow down his walk. “It’s a slur. To elves. Surprisingly, one of the kinder ones.” For a brief moment, that seems to be all that he has to say about it, but then, “I’ve been called worse. I’ve heard worse directed at other, more unfortunate souls.”

“When was that?” Ciri doesn’t mean for her voice to sound as sharp as it does, but the idea that this happened often makes her skin boil with righteous fury. 

“I’ve come across a lot of elves in my time,” he says, as though it actually answers her question.  ”You hear things, oftentimes things that aren’t very…pleasant.”

“Bigoted, you mean,” Ciri says frowning, and glares over her shoulder at the vendor who is still watching them carefully as they walk away. She wants to stick out her tongue at him, though she resists the childish inclination, knowing that it might provoke the baldheaded idiot to rat them out like he’d threatened to. 

Julian takes a deep, shaky breath, and in doing so betrays more than he probably intends to. “Yeah.”

“I will never understand how people can treat others this way,” Ciri confesses earnestly, adjusting her own hood to protect herself from the rain and onlookers.  “Whatever did the elves do to the humans? Or any non-human for that matter.” 

“No one is ever irreproachable, Fiona,” Julian tells her gravely, voice lowering as well as his gaze as one of the town guards out patrolling pass them by, careful to avoid catching their attention. 

It sounds like the kind thing her grandmother would tell Ciri when the queen deemed her too young to understand the intricacies of a world in political disarray; to Ciri, it feels too much like a dismissal, which makes an unexpected hurt well up inside her chest. 

“But you don’t deserve to be treated this way! No one does!” She cries loudly in her upset – too loud, drawing the attention of the guard that had just been about to turn the corner – and Ciri feels tears start to well in her eyes as she realises what she’s done as she watches the guard turn towards them agonisingly slow. “Oh no! Julian, I –”  

Julian notices it too, but instead of fear flickering in his eyes there’s a steely determination there as he crouches in front of her so he’s at her level, seemingly unconcerned with the mud and rainwater soaking through his trousers. 

“No, you’re right,” he tells her, voice calm and soothing. “I am the one who is sorry.” 

“But –” 

The guard is approaching calmly, clearly assessing the situation, and fear starts bubbling up inside of Ciri like a festering wound. It had been foolish that they’d come here, it’d been foolish to let her emotions get the best of her. Geralt had always tried to teach her to think before she reacted as a way of getting control of her chaos, but Ciri had always been driven by her heart and not her head – something she’d prided herself on before, but now it looks like her recklessness could get Julian captured. 

Shipped off like cattle, those foul guards all those weeks back and several towns over had said. Savages , they’d called them.  

A scream is building up in her throat as her fear mounts into terror, but she can’t let it out. While it might kill the guards, it’d kill everyone in the nearby vicinity too – innocents, children and women alike. It’d kill Julian , who has somehow managed to carve out a place for himself in her heart, not too far from where Geralt’s is nestled protectively at the very core of it. 

“It’ll be alright, don’t you worry,” Julian reassures, wiping tears rolling freely down her face in a surprisingly tender gesture that quells the chaos brewing inside her if only a little. His tone turns into a conspiratory whisper then, sounding confident in a way she’s not heard him during their short companionship. “We’ve done this before, remember?”

Ciri nods quietly, not trusting her voice at that moment. 

“Okay,” he breathes almost silently, thumbing away a few more wayward tears. He gives her a smile that is just a little shaky underneath the bravado and grime from spending weeks on the road, before pushing himself back to his feet and turning to face the guards who are now openly staring at them. 

“Ah, good sir, what a pleasure! Lovely day, isn’t it?” Julian says joyfully, gesturing around himself theatrically with fluid movements that come almost too naturally to him. 

The guard scowls at Julian while rain falls in turrets from his helmet and into his eyes, clearly unimpressed by the elf’s put-upon grandeur. “Is there a problem here, good sir ?”

“Oh no, no-no. Absolutely not.” Julian shakes his head, his shaggy wet mane of hair glueing itself to his forehead with the movement. “My daughter and I just had a minor disagreement, is all. She’s at that age, you know, where I say left and she goes right, just out of principle alone. Doesn’t matter if her choices make her jump off a cliff willingly, as long as I told her not to.”

A stone settles in Ciri’s gut at that, Julian not knowing how right he is in his statement. It had been exactly the reason why she’d gotten separated from Geralt in the first place. So much time has passed since then, and she’s nowhere nearer finding the closest thing she has to a father and Geralt must surely have given up searching for her by now.

The guard eyes Ciri warily as tears continue to flow freely down her cheeks, the thought of Geralt doing nothing to stop them from falling now. Still, the man’s scrutiny makes her uncomfortable and she winds her arms around Julian’s waist, pressing her tear-streaked face into his side to hide her misery from view. 

Julian’s body turns rigid in her arms, but it only makes her tighten her hold on him even more, the physical contact a surprising balm on her turbulent mind. “I’m sorry,” she hiccups, not entirely sure for what or to who she’s apologising exactly – it could be to Julian or Geralt, her grandmother, Dara or Mousesack, for getting lost, for failing so miserably at her destiny, she doesn’t know – but it sounds and feels sincere, like it’d been resting on her tongue and just waiting to be said aloud. “I’m so sorry.”

But then, surprisingly, Julian kneels in front of her again and pulls her close, wrapping his strong arms around her and lets her tuck her face into his neck, his injured hand resting securely on the back of her hood in a tender gesture Ciri knows would usually be used to thread his fingers through her hair.  

“Hush, dear heart. Just breathe,” the elf – her guardian, whispers into her ear, rubbing circles into her back with his good hand. “It’s fine. You’re fine.”  

Ciri can’t remember the last time she’d been held like this, but it only makes her cry harder, the comfort breaking the dam of feelings she’s been holding onto since she got lost from Geralt. Perhaps even some of the things before that, with everything that had been going on since Cintra burned; she hadn’t really allowed herself to feel the pain of losing her home. 

“Enjoy the rest of your day,” the guard grumbles stiffly at them and walks away, though it falls on deaf ears as Ciri continues to cry into Julian’s neck. 

Their act hadn’t gone as smoothly this time as the first one all those months ago, but Ciri can’t muster up enough energy to care as she hugs Julian tightly in the middle of the street, mud, rain and tears seeping into both their clothes while passersby pointedly ignore the crying girl who is clinging to the elf like her life depends on it.

They don’t talk about it afterwards, but Julian’s edges appear a bit smoother than they had before and the tightness around his eyes a little less prominent.  

Ciri feels more at ease too; some of the tension she hadn’t even been aware of carrying had seeped out of her along with her tears, and her determination to find Geralt had been renewed. Furthermore, her relationship with Julian appears more relaxed than it had been, and she finds herself ignoring that little voice in her head that sounds disquietingly similar to Geralt that is telling her to keep the elf at a safe arm’s length. 

They’re sitting around their small camp one evening, when Ciri finally builds up the courage to ask the question that she’s been desperate to know since her and Julian’s first meeting. “What do you need the healing salves for?” 

Julian, who is currently sitting on the ground while grinding garlic and dried marigolds between two flat smooth rocks, stutters in his movement a little as if startled by the question. He frowns down at his hands, but then resumes his work. “Why do you want to know?” 

It’s a good question, she supposes. Ciri hasn’t really examined the reason as to why exactly she has been curious about it, as she assumes he’s using it for his injured hand. Despite all their time travelling together, Ciri has never seen the elf apply it, as though he’s been hiding whatever is concealed beneath those white bandages from her. She supposes that there’s a sort of morbid curiosity there, about what he’s trying so hard to keep from her by going to such lengths as to use the salve when she’s not present. Moreover, she wants to know how to treat whatever injury the man has, perhaps in some misguided idea that she might be able to repay him for everything he’s done for her some day if the elf ever needs it. 

“Hand me the white myrtle, would you?” He tells her when she doesn’t reply immediately, hand outstretched expectantly towards her.

Ciri fishes the ingredient out of the sack sitting next to her – by now well-acquainted with how Julian’s storing-system works – and pushes the bundle of the small flowers into his waiting grasp. 

“I suppose I want to know in case you need my help with it,” she tells him as she watches him rip the flower petals from the stem and dump them into the garlic-marigold paste.  

Julian’s work comes to a halt once more, though this time deliberately rather than the startled stutter her question had caused. With a sigh, he drops the rest of the shredded petals into the mix and tosses the remaining myrtle to the side carelessly, the movement sudden and sharp. 

“The salve is for healing,” he tells her, obviously trying to use this as a learning opportunity for her judging by the patient, lecturing tone he attempts to adopt, but isn’t quite succeeding. Julian gestures to the paste he’s currently making. “It’s made of your standard ingredients such as garlic, marigolds, buckthorn, ginger, aloe, among other things. There’s a couple of magical herbs in it as well — expensive magic herbs so it’s a good thing you didn’t eat it way back when, otherwise I might have to charge you for it.”

Expensive… strong , he means, Ciri thinks. She’d spent enough time around Mousesack to know the difference. She also notices he didn’t answer her question. “Is it for your hand?” she asks carefully, aware that she’s pushing the unspoken boundaries between them by asking, but not willing to let it go. 

Julian sighs again, a harsh and measured breath out through his nose. But then, instead of replying, he starts to slowly unwrap the appendage from its confides with an expression that suggests he’d rather be anywhere else but here. 

As his hand is slowly revealed to the dimming light of the summer sun, Ciri finds herself having to withhold the shocked gasp that threatens to tumble out of her mouth at the sight. 

Parts of his right hand are discoloured into angry pinks and whites, the skin knotted with scarring in some places and absent in others, exposing the glistening, charred fat and muscle underneath. Three of Julian’s fingers appear to be almost permanently curled into a claw-like grip by scar tissue. The pointer finger seems to have taken the biggest brunt of the damage, the digit missing down to the second joint. 

“What happened?” She whispers, having to tear her eyes away from the burn and focus on his face instead.  

There’s a bitter lilt to his voice as he explains, “A sorcerer.” His gaze is far away and he flexes his burned fingers experimentally, but the movement seems tight and unresponsive, as if the digits don't want to obey him. It also seems painful as his nostrils flare with a harsh gust of air. “He tortured me for information. About a…dear friend of mine.”

Ciri doesn’t have to ask to know that Julian’s dear friend was his old companion. So instead, she asks, “Could another sorcerer fix it?”

“Maybe. Probably not. I know no mage is capable of regrowing organs, and I assume the same applies to limbs,” Julian readjust his seating position so he can let the burned hand rest limply in his lap. His fingers – or what is left of them – twitch as a cool breeze dances through their camp. “And even if they could, they usually require a lot of money which I also – inconveniently – do not have.”

“Does it hurt?”

There’s a long silence that is enough of an answer for Ciri, who can practically hear him deliberating whether or not to tell her the truth. He must know that too, because he settles on a breathless, “Yeah.”

Ciri silently vows to herself then, that once she reunites with Geralt she’ll ask him to contact Triss, if they could get ahold of her. And if not the redheaded sorceress, then Yennefer might be able to do something as the woman is a proficient healer and a skilled alchemist even without her magic – and while Ciri still has some unresolved trust issues with the woman after she tried to give her to the Deathless Mother, the princess wouldn’t let her distrust of Yennefer impinge Julian’s chances of getting better. 

Last Ciri heard, Yennefer was hiding from the Brotherhood somewhere to the east of Mahakam, having travelled there after winter thawed and when Geralt and Ciri had set out onto the Path. Ciri would contact the woman and ask for help now if she could, but the xenovox she’d been bestowed upon the sorceress’ departure is currently residing at the bottom of her bag which had been left alongside the rest of her belongings back at camp all those months ago. 

“We’ll fix it,” she promises, determined in a way she’s not felt in a long time. “I know of someone who could help, so you don’t have to be in pain.”  

Julian hums patiently as you would with a child who is making promises they can’t keep. It’s the same thing Mousesack would do during her lessons when she got particularly heated during discussions, when he thought she was being naïve. 

“I promise.”

Perhaps she is being naïve. Ciri knows there is pain worse than that which is physical, and she knows that sometimes the physical pain serves as a distraction from those wounds that fester on a person’s soul. Other times, those physical wounds serve as a reminder to a hurt soul of their past mistakes, the owner unwilling to heal them lest they forget why they acquired their injuries in the first place.

Looking upon the elf as he silently returns to his work, Ciri can’t help but wonder which category Julian fits into. 

Monsoon season passes, much to both Ciri and Julian’s relief, who haven’t had a proper dry set of clothes for the past few weeks due to the unrelenting downpours. Now though, the air is humid and clammy around them as they’re trekking through a meadow, though it’s a welcome change from the constant rain, so neither elf or princess dare complain about this shift in climate. 

Ciri has opted for walking barefoot to feel the soft grass and warm soil underneath the soles of her feet, while enjoying how the low-hanging, afternoon sun warms her pale face and turns it a flushing red. 

Even Julian had shed his cloak in the heat and is only wearing his thin chemise, with his sleeves rolled up past his elbows. His face is flushed a healthy pink like hers, as well as the points of his ears, and his posture seems more relaxed than it has been in quite some time. 

Overall, Ciri feels quite content at that moment. The constant ache in her heart that misses Geralt is still there, but right then it feels pale and distant in the soft and peaceful lull of a summer evening alongside Julian who is humming quietly to himself under his breath. 

As they’re walking, something small gleams in the grass and catches Ciri’s eye, and she crouches down to pick it up so she can examine it more closely. It’s a rock shaped like an arrowhead which fits inside her palm. It looks like gneiss in colour, but its surface glitters in the sunlight, something about it speaking to her very soul.    

“Hey Fiona, why are you –” Julian calls when he notices that she isn’t following, but then stopping himself short as he notices her find, face turning curious. “What do you have there?” 

Silently, Ciri holds it up into the light and hands it to him. She almost expects the elf to scoff or do that thing adults do when kids find something as uninteresting as a sparkly rock, but instead he turns the stone in his palm, gracing his thumb over the surprisingly smooth surface.

Julian’s brows climb upwards and he whistles. “Well, fuck. That is some find, princess.”

“What is it?” Ciri asks curiously, stretching her neck to see the rock too. 

“It’s dwarven ore,” he says, amazed. He looks around the meadow they’re trekking through with a thoughtful yet curious expression, his lips jutting out slightly. “I’m guessing this is an old dwarven trade route. They must have dropped it by accident during their travels.”

Ciri shapes her mouth around the words silently. She knows enough about different resources and commerce with human and non-humans alike; knows that Calanthe had talked about the durability of dwarven ore for their armour mail and their weapons, but hadn’t cared enough to learn more about it than that. 

“It’s called Mithril in Elder, meaning grey glitter. It’s very valuable,” Julian continues, the elder rolling off his tongue as naturally as if it was his native language – and Ciri supposes it is him being an elf, but sometimes it’s easy to forget that when he sounded like he grew up on the borders of Kerack. He presses the object back into her palm. “Make sure to keep it somewhere safe on your person.” 

“I will,” Ciri says, amazed. She isn’t entirely sure if it’s because of her newfound treasure or this brief insight into another part of Julian's strangely extensive knowledge of seemingly everything. “I didn’t know you spoke Elder.” 

Instead of brushing her off with some half-witty, biting comment which she expects, he smiles sheepishly. “Yeah, well. It’s not a gift that is much appreciated these days, you could say.”

Ciri nods in understanding, turning her gaze back at the glimmering ore in her hand, transfixed by how it sparkles beautifully in the sunlight. The object is captivating, a polished treasure with real value, though she doubts that any merchant this side of Temeria would be able to truly appreciate it for what it was. A treasure of the heart then, she concludes, and takes Julian’s uninjured hand to press the object back into his grasp. “I want you to have it.”

For a second, Julian blinks at her incredulously, then shakes his head and tries to draw his hand back. “Nono, no. I can’t possibly. It’s yours, you found it.”  

“Yes, and? I found it, which means I get to give it to whomever I please,” Ciri tells him with all the regality she can manage as she lifts her chin up defiantly. “And it's a gift. It’s rude to reject a gift. Everyone knows that, it’s just common courtesy.” 

“Honestly, I’d rather you –” 

“I won’t take no for an answer.”

Julian rolls his eyes though he does it with an amused smile on his lips. “Of course, your highness . Please forgive me for my indiscretion and for offending you so,” he says, and makes a mockery of a curtsey. 

With a haughty sniff and hands upon her hips, she says, “You’re forgiven.” 

“Praise Melitele,” he jokes and reaches out to ruffle her hair, messing up her braid in the process. “Thank you, darling. It’s a lovely gift.”  

“You’re welcome!” She beams at him, and if she feels an overpowering warmth in her heart later when Julian attaches the glittering ore to the gold chain around his neck already housing a ring and a tuning fork much like a proud parent would…well, then no one needed to know. 

Despite the passing of the monsoon season, the weather had been particularly temperamental that summer. So when clouds start to gather overhead threateningly and promising another storm brewing some days later, Ciri can feel the hairs on her arms rise. 

Thankfully, they find shelter in a cave, Julian throwing down their packs just outside it and announcing that it’ll do until the morning when the rain has passed by. He then orders her to stay by their packs and set up a campfire – a chore which had been assigned hers early on during their travels together, though Ciri only recently understood why – while he heads into the undergrowth to catch them some dinner.

She’s using her dagger to dwindle away at some kindling she’d gathered for the fire when Ciri hears the bushes by their makeshift camp rustle, though it sounds too big to even be the tall man that Julian is. Feeling her heart stutter, Ciri gets to her feet slowly and clutches onto her dagger like a lifeline. 

“Julian?” She calls against her better judgement, hoping the elf will jump out of the bushes and laugh for having managed to scare her while yelling ‘gotcha’, even if that isn’t Julian’s style at all. “Is that you?”

A loud roar rips through the forest, in the direction from where Ciri had heard the noise, startling all other wildlife nearby as birds in the trees fly away from the horrible sound. Ciri barely manages to dodge out of the way as a massive beast covered in scales comes tumbling out from the undergrowth and into their camp, charging right into an old oak that groans upon impact with the monstrous thing. 

Scrambling back onto her feet, she turns towards the beast once more, uncertain if she’d be able to get away in time if she makes a run for it. Ciri has never seen such a thing before, even while travelling with Geralt who made a living hunting things like it; a small head is sitting on a body as big as a barn and is covered in what seems like impenetrable armour-like scales, though it’d been deceptively fast for its massive size. Besides, Julian is still out there somewhere, and Ciri doesn’t want to imagine what will happen if he makes it back into camp and she’s gone to be replaced by this massive, scaled mole-looking thing. 

The beast roars again in her direction when it collects itself from the impact with the tree, and Ciri grips her dagger a little tighter. However, a stone comes flying through the air between Ciri and the monster, clattering loudly against the cliff housing the cave and making the beast halt in its charge towards Ciri. Its small head whips blindly towards the noise and roars once more, tumbling towards the cliffside rather than towards her with its enormous weight, making the ground underneath Ciri’s feet shake violently.

On the other end of the clearing is Julian, gesturing wildly at her to get her attention. ‘ Don’t move,’ he mouths at her with wide eyes. ‘Blind,’ he continues silently, waving a hand in front of his eyes, before he puts his index finger to his lips telling her to stay quiet. 

At seeing Ciri’s nod, Julian slowly crouches down and picks up another rock, larger and heftier than before, and throws it into the cave – the cave that’s actually not a cave at all, but this beast’s massive burrow by the looks of things now that Ciri actually cares to examine the structure. The stone hits true, clattering against the rock walls and echoing from inside. 

The beast roars, sounding angrier than before as it thrashes towards the noise that is invading its home, disappearing from view as it tumbles into the darkness. 

Ciri is frozen in place, almost as though spelled there by Julian’s silent command, watching the cave mouth with trepidation as if expecting the monster to come tumbling back out again and crush her. A long-fingered hand grabs hers quietly, startling her out of her reprieve though she only sucks in a sharp breath at the sudden touch. 

Julian’s footfalls are silent, like that of an assassin, as he’d snuck over to grab their packs, shouldering the belongings that they thankfully hadn’t managed to set up properly before the beast had invaded their camp. 

‘Follow me.’

It’s the quickest and most silent escape Ciri has ever made, and she holds her breath for most of it as Julian leads her through the forest with the skill of a great pathfinder, guiding her every step by avoiding anything that might make any noise. 

The oppressing, tense silence makes it feel like they’re walking for hours even though it’s only a few, painstaking minutes before Julian deems it safe enough to whisper, “That was too fucking close for comfort, princess.”

“Quite,” Ciri agrees in a breath, voice pinched. 

Julian stops in his tracks, his intense gaze raking over her as though searching her for something. His large blue eyes settle on her arm. “You’re bleeding,” he says, dumping their belongings onto the ground.  

Ciri feels a little faint as she settles her own sight onto her forearm. A deep cut, the length of her dagger, has slashed her arm open and peeled back some of the skin. As she becomes aware of the wound it starts burning with a searing, throbbing sort of pain. Ciri feels tears prick at her eyes despite trying to toughen through, the hurt and fear overwhelming her. 

“I think I fell on my dagger when that…thing crashed into our camp,” she explains as Julian guides her towards a fallen log, instructing her to sit so he can inspect the wound. She tries to keep her voice steady, though it wobbles threateningly despite her best efforts. “What was that? I have never seen anything like it.” 

“A shaelmaar. Usually lives underground, but the monsoon season has been particularly heavy this year and probably forced it to the surface,” Julian says as he prods at her oozing wound, in that well-crafted, easy tone that made him sound like his extensive knowledge was inconsequential. He frowns down at the cut as it’d personally offended him, before fishing out some of the healing supplies he usually used for his burns. “I’ve only seen one once before, when – well, it’s not important. They’re blind, but they’re tough and dangerous. Their scales are nearly impenetrable, so that dagger wouldn’t have done you any good except anger it. It’d be like stabbing it with a toothpick.”

Ciri does her best to pay attention as he patches her up; watches him clean the wound thoroughly before fishing out a sterilised needle from his kit to sew her peeled, bleeding skin back together. She has to avert her eyes as the needle pierces her flesh, feeling a little nauseous at the sight. To distract herself, she watches the ground with newfound interest as she asks, “How do you know all this?” 

While Julian’s extensive knowledge about this new foe Ciri had just encountered is impressive, she isn’t referring to just this incident; he knows too much , about everything. He knows too much about life on the path and its monsters, both beast and man as though he’d lived it for a long time; he knows enough about healing and herbs to overshadow the common village healer; how he speaks so easily about different academical arts and rhetorics as if the knowledge is worthless and not something people work years to accumulate. 

Who is this elf ? 

“Also not important,” Julian dismisses, his voice is slightly louder now as they put distance between themselves and the monster. With dexterous fingers, he ties together the thread he’d used to sew her wound and wraps a bandage around her arm with the same proficiency of any healer Ciri’s ever met. 

Ciri feels frustration push its way past all her other emotions, and she pulls her arm out of his grip. “No, I want to know. It’s not fair that you keep all these secrets from me, you promised you’d tell me. What are you so afraid of?” 

Julian frowns, the corners of his mouth turning downwards underneath his thick beard, but whatever reprimand or protest about to come out of his mouth is drowned out by a loud roar in the distance, making both him and Ciri freeze up as the brewing argument evaporates from both their minds. 

“ Fuck! ” Julian exclaims through a harsh whisper, volume once more dampened and his body language tense. “We can’t keep going on like this. I can’t risk endangering you like that again, Cirilla.”

Chapter Text

Another week and they are trekking through yet another forest in another part of the continent. Ciri knows they’re headed east now, judging by the positioning of the sun and the stars — turns out Julian is good at navigation too, having spent time teaching her properly after learning about how she got separated from her ‘ father’ — and she feels like he’s leading her somewhere, but she doesn’t know where or when as they’ve not seen civilization for a couple of weeks.

In the excitement of running away from the gigantic mole-rat – or shaelmaar, as Julian tended to correct her with –  she hadn’t had the chance to ask Julian how he knew her name, had in fact barely registered it as they sneaked through the woods for hours in silence while her heart beat too loudly in her chest, drowning out all her thoughts with its deafening pounding. But then, when they’d settled down to sleep a safe distance away from the action, the realisation hit her like an enraged troll and she lay awake thinking about it while staring wide-eyed at Julian’s slumbering back across their small campsite. 

Ciri had been thinking about it all week, but hadn’t known how to breach the subject once the elf had referred to her as Fiona the next morning like nothing had happened at all. It almost makes her believe she’d imagined the whole thing, Julian’s slip-up, but parts of her knows with certainty what she’s heard. Acknowledging that hurts, but beyond that she doesn’t know how to feel about the matter – betrayal most certainly, but beyond that? Ciri thinks she should feel something else, like fear and terror at the prospect of him knowing who she is and where he’ll take her, but she doesn’t. Because she cares for Julian probably more than she should, trusts him even though he’d been dishonest with her for reasons beyond her knowledge. 

Maybe the reasonable thing to do would be to run away, or to shout and scream her sense of betrayal at him until he told her the truth. Yet, Ciri thinks that if Julian had malicious intentions, then surely he would have used that to his advantage by now? They’ve been travelling together for months , and not once has he given Ciri reasons to doubt his motives. After all, she’s the one who’d invaded his life, not the other way around. In fact, if she recalls correctly, he’d been actively trying to discourage her from tagging along, which makes more sense now that she knows that he knows who she is. Perhaps he’d been worried about the repercussions of her presence, or perhaps he’d been worried about endangering her with his, with him and his kind being persecuted by the entirety of the Northern Kingdoms.  

Still, it doesn’t negate the fact that Ciri is feeling torn and shaken up. She doesn’t know where they’re going and she is struggling with her emotions because betrayal still burns hot under her skin, and Julian is barely speaking with her . 

Because Julian seems shaken up too, though for different reasons than hers. He’s not answering any of her questions and he’s become increasingly tense the more they head eastwards. Somehow, Ciri doubts the elf’s tenseness has anything to do with her, judging from his shifty looks and the general anxiety he seems to be exuding as they trek along the beaten paths and dusty roads, the monsoon season having not hit the land as hard this deep into the country as it had the coastal towns they’d ventured this summer. 

It’s not until they come upon a quaint little cottage covered in moss and flowers in the middle of the woods that she understands with a sinking feeling what is happening. While she’s never visited the place before, the familiarity of it is undeniable. While old and frayed as though it’s been lingering there for years, the magic simmering in the air surrounding the cottage carries a distinct quality to it that’s only reminiscent of the essence of a certain sorceress. Still, despite its age, the magic seems to serve its purpose as the door to the cottage is thrown open to reveal Yennefer, who is looking a lot more pristine but not much more well-rested than last time Ciri had seen her. 

The sorceress is wearing a long black dress with a high collar that is detailed with curved silver stitching and long sleeves that cover her arms. Her hair is delicately quaffed into a braid resting over one shoulder, and her face is clean and make-up free, making her violet eyes contrast beautifully with the black of her dress and hair. 

“Oh my gods, I can’t believe it – Jaskier!” 

Yennefer, the usually composed and stoic sorceress Ciri knows her as, practically throws herself around Julian’s neck without any other warning, her arms wound tight around the elf as she nearly topples them both over with the force of them colliding into each other.

After gaining his footing, Julian wraps his own arms around her, though seeming more hesitant and reserved than her in his affections. “Witch,” he murmurs, voice cautiously warm in a way Ciri hadn’t heard before. “I am repelled to see that you’re looking as terrifying as ever.”

The insult earns him a wet laugh from Yennefer whose face looks pinched and guilty as she pulls away, holding the elf at an arm’s length to examine him. “ Fuck ,” she breathes vehemently, her eyes racking over his face with a creased brow. “What happened to you?” 

“It’s a long story,” Julian answers, his own striking eyes flickering over to Ciri meaningfully – and Ciri knows that look, it’s the same one her grandmother had on her face when she didn’t want her to know something.

The sorceress’s gaze follows his and settles on Ciri, who takes a cautious step backwards, still feeling the bitter sting of Yennefer’s betrayal on her tongue despite all the reassurances and apologies from both her and Geralt once the dust had settled after the battle of Kaer Morhen. 

“Of course,” Yennefer nods, her lips pressing together. “It’s glad to see you safe and sound, Ciri. Come inside, both of you. I’ll make sure you’re properly accommodated for. You both smell dreadful and look like you’ve lived off rats and bark for months.” 

Julian shakes his head at the somehow rude, yet kind, offer. “Yen, I’m not —”

Ciri notices Yennefer plants a firm grip on Julian’s shoulder, giving him a rather forceful shove towards the door. “Don’t make me hunt you down, bard. Or better yet, set Geralt on you. He always had a particular skill of tracking you down.” 

Bard. Julian is a bard , Ciri thinks, feeling somewhat detached as pieces of the puzzle that’s been her travel companion for months now materialise in front of her mind’s eye, though leaving her with even more questions than answers than ever before. Apparently not just any bard either;  Geralt’s bard and old companion… but, why had she always assumed Jaskier had been human?

Ciri’s mind is spinning as she follows the two adults inside the cabin that impressively appears much larger on the inside than the squat structure suggests from the outside. There are large rooms with high ceilings and equally high windows overlooking the garden and the forest around them, all littered with displays of various grand pieces of furniture. 

“I will let Geralt know you’re here on the Xenovox,” Yennefer announces once she’s ushered them inside the living room that is just as impeccable and grand as the rest of the small cabin. “Then I’ll prepare baths for you both.”

Nothing seems out of place, except Ciri and Julian who appear even more filthy and dishevelled than before where they’re hovering in the middle of the room’s seating area that consists of deep hues of royal blue velvet, ivories and ebonies. Or at least, that’s what Ciri feels like, who doesn’t dare touch anything in fear that it might dirty the space or anything inside it. 

“Stay,” Yennefer instructs Julian sternly before she leaves them with their cloaks in hand, as though he’s some disobedient dog that’d run away as soon as his owner turned their attention away from him.

Julian — or is it Jaskier? Ciri can’t quite reconcile the name of the bard she’d heard tales about with the elf she’s travelled with for months now — nods, suddenly looking like he might keel over from exhaustion. “Whatever you say, cruel witch of mine.”

They fall into an uneasy silence at Yennefer’s absence, Julian seeming to look anywhere but Ciri who glares at the side of the man’s face. “Jaskier? As in Geralt’s bard?” She doesn’t know much about Jaskier and Geralt’s time together, but it’s impossible not to have heard the songs and tales about the ragtag duo’s grand adventures that seems to haunt whatever town and tavern across the continent – including the one they’d visited themselves all that time back: “I am sorry to disturb you during your dinner, but I simply had to sate my curiosity. Aren’t you –”

Julian has the decency to look contrite as he winces at her accusatory tone. “That was a long time ago.”

“You lied to me,” she tells him. The hurt is undeniable in her voice, though Ciri makes no effort to conceal it.  “About… who you are, and not knowing who I am.”

“I didn’t know it was you the first time around,” Julian protests, frustrated, dragging a hand through his long hair before finally turning to look at her. “And I didn’t lie to you, not exactly. My name is actually Julian, it’s just that most people know me by my chosen moniker rather than that granted to me at birth.”

“You should have told me.”

Julian’s lips press into a thin line. He shakes his shaggy head. “I couldn’t, even if I wanted to – as much as I wanted to. It would have been too dangerous. The current state of the land makes the path treacherous for people like us and the people we acquaint ourselves with. While I can’t protect you from those pursuing you, at the very least I could keep you safe from those pursuing me by keeping you in the dark about who I am.” 

Ciri understands, of course she does. After Cintra fell, her identity had been a poorly kept secret from everyone she’d encountered on her road to find Geralt of Rivia. She’d known then, even at such a young age, that not only would revealing herself to those around her put her at risk of the Black Knight finding her, but potentially inflicting the wrath of Nilfgaard on those that chose to help her too. 

Still, there’s knowing and there’s knowing , and in this case it doesn’t inhibit the strong sense of betrayal and hurt coursing through her. “You should have told me,” she repeats through clenched teeth, head bowed as tears threaten to spill from her eyes and cloud her vision. “You knew I was looking for Geralt this whole time. I deserved to know!” 

“Sometimes not knowing is all that keeps us alive,” Julian says, sounding distressed although his expression is hollow and his eyes distant. “I tried to help you as best as I could.”

Julian’s identity should have been obvious to her if she’d just cared to look , like Geralt had told her so many times in the past. No common elf nor man possessed Julian’s unique and rather odd skill set and knowledge: about his expertise in survival, and his knowledge about beasts that one would only learn after spending a significant amount of time on the Path with a witcher; the extensive knowledge of seemingly every subject underneath the sun and stars that only a person with a rigorous university education would possess; his proficiency in healing after probably having had to patch up Geralt after the witcher’s hunts had gone awry in the past; his knowledge about songwriting and composing, and the sour look on his face when he complained how the other bard’s tune and pitch while playing ‘ Toss a Coin ’ had been entirely wrong in that tavern. 

The list goes on and on, and the more Ciri considers it, the more everything seems to naturally fall into place. Most prominently in her mind is that first night when he’d protested so vehemently about being an elf, a protest that had fallen on deaf ears. There’s also those rare moments when he’d mentioned an ‘old companion’ – Geralt – with longing and sadness lingering in the air around him like a dark cloud that seemed to haunt his every waking moment. 

Gods , Ciri feels like such an idiot for not having realised it before. She’d been so caught up in her own circumstances she’d been rendered blind by the obvious signs before her, and now Ciri looks like a naïve fool in front of the man who she’d come to consider somewhat of a father-figure to her these past months, only second to Geralt. 

It hurts . Ciri wants to scream. 

Julian takes a cautious step towards her. “Cirilla, I –”

“It’s Ciri,” she snaps at him, her voice wobbling threateningly as betrayal and shame continues to sting her eyes with unshed tears. She blinks to clear her vision, and the first drop trails down her cheeks, only for more to follow in its wake. “My name is Ciri.” 

The elf – bard, she doesn’t even know anymore – looks at her in surprise, eyebrows knitting together with worry. “Listen, princess, I didn’t –”

His hand reaches for her then, but before those callused and caring fingers can settle at her shoulder and quell the anger and pain she’s cultivated in her chest, Ciri turns on her heel and storms out of the room. 

“Leave me alone!” 

Later that night, when the sun has long since set and Ciri’s laying in a soft bed in a room she can call her own for the first time in months ; after Yennefer finds Ciri outside sulking while pulling up blades of grass and flowers from the sorceress’ well-kept garden in a childish display of her hurt to frogmarch her into the princess’ first hot bath in months, Ciri is stirred from her slumber by voices drifting in though the half-open window above her bed. The voices are familiar, one female and one male, and Ciri props herself up on her knees in bed to peer through the cabin’s enchanted window that allows her a full view of the garden outside, yet keeps her mostly hidden from the view of the occupants outside unless they look directly at her.  

Sitting on a stone bench covered in moss and vines is Yennefer and Julian, leaning against each other as they shower in the soft light of the moon that makes them glow almost ethereal. The scene is rather romantic, Ciri thinks, who attempts to crane her neck to see their faces which are partially obscured from view by her current angle. 

“Is she okay?” Julian asks Yennefer softly, head turning to bury his nose in her dark hair and closing his eyes. Even from this distance and in the dim light from the moon, Ciri can see the dark lines furrowed beneath his eyes standing in stark contrast with his sun-kissed skin and freckles, making his exhaustion evident.

“Hurt, obviously,” Yennefer replies, seemingly unbothered by the elf’s affections as she swirls a glass of red wine between her well-manicured hands. “You lied to her, don’t expect her forgiveness so soon.”

“I didn’t want to endanger her by being associated with me.”

It doesn’t take a genius to understand that they’re talking about Ciri, who pulls her blanket tightly around herself while her heart hammers in her chest. 

Today had been a whirlwind of emotions she didn’t know how to deal with, constantly tearing her between justified fury and betrayal, pain and hurt that makes her tears threaten to fall at any moment. It makes her want to run away again to find Geralt on her own, while simultaneously making her want nothing more than to forgive both Julian and Yennefer, who could so effortlessly slot themselves into Ciri and Geralt’s makeshift family if they all just dared to try . It has paralysed her from action altogether, making her feel like a helpless child who doesn’t know how to handle herself. 

“Jaskier,” Yennefer says, interrupting Ciri’s thoughts with the sharpness of her tone. “What happened to you?”

“Shit happens to me all the time, so you’ll have to be more specific,” Julian replies drily, lifting his head from the sorceress’s shoulder to take a generous sip from a wine glass of his own.  

Yennefer scoffs humorlessly. “You sound like Geralt. Obviously, I mean after we got separated in Oxenfurt.” 

Julian’s grip on the wine glass tightens. “You mean after I left you at the vessel intended to carry you to safety in Cintra, which I am most certain you didn’t do after I risked my balls – ow! Why, keep your corporal punishment to a minimum, witch, I was just getting to the point,” Julian complains, gently nursing the spot where Yennefer had smacked him squarely in the chest.

“Then get to the point.”

“ Fine . You obviously don’t appreciate my sharp wit, so I’ll give you the short version. After our oh-so-heartfelt departure at by the docks, some magic fucker named Rience nabbed me, smashed my lute and everything, and proceeded to have his wicked way with my poor strumming hand for information which I didn’t have,” Julian says as he continues to rub at his chest, staring absently into his wine glass. Then he turns his eyes to Yennefer and huffs, obviously aiming for levity as he says, “Say, don’t you mages all share an alma mater? Is the topic of torturing innocent minstrels a common conversation starter at your alumni events?”

“I’d appreciate a little less sarcasm, and a little more answers, bard.” Yennefer’s words are biting though her expression has turned soft. Her voice becomes even more hushed then, as she repeats herself once more, “And you know that’s not what I’m inquiring about.”

Ciri can see the sorceress reaching out for Julian, her movements slow as if giving him a chance to pull away before Yennefer’s fingertips come in contact with his skin, barely gracing the pointed, elongated tips of the man’s ears.

Julian visibly flinches, although doesn’t withdraw from the inquiring touch. “I am certain you’re familiar with the work and affiliations of one Chancellor Sigismund Dijkstra, head of Redanian intelligence? Well, I worked for him. He was my benefactor as the Sandpiper.”

Redanian intelligence… Julian had been a spy? Ciri might have needed Julian to teach her about survival these past seasons, but she’s intimately familiar with politics, its branches and organisations. Being an heir to the throne, she had been schooled on it practically since birth, and Calanthe being who she was, had been especially particular about the different politics of warfare . 

“I know of him,” Yennefer replies, her fingers still curled around Julian’s ear. It looks as if the sorceress’s soft touch makes the man shiver, though it’s hard for Ciri to tell from this distance. “Rumour is that Dijkstra is notoriously manipulative and he has informants in every corner of the continent.” 

Julian nods. “He and his men saved me from Rience’s torture, fearing the pissant was someone who wanted information about the operation and revealing Dijkstra’s part in it. I think he feared his powerful position at court was in jeopardy as well as whatever plan he is cooking up with King Vizimir.”

“That doesn’t explain the curse, Jaskier.”

Julian shrugs, though his hand —his burned hand, not occupied with his wine — reaches up and wraps around Yennefer’s slim one still curled tenderly around the elven ear. “Dijkstra said the operation was compromised because of my recklessness at the docks. I genuinely thought he’d kill me to secure my silence, but the arsehole apparently had other plans. Instead, he made his pet mage curse me to look like the people we’d worked so hard to protect.“

Yennefer is silent for a long while, her face serious as she puts the pieces together. “He wanted you out of Redania. Make you a discreditable source.”

“He didn’t want me to be able to show my face anywhere . Not without being persecuted and shipped off like the elves.” Julian chuckles bitterly. “Wouldn’t have thought the old whoreson had a sense of humour, albeit twisted, yet here we are.”

“Yet you dared venture into towns looking like this. There’s no other way you would have been able to acquire all the ingredients for the pain medication you’ve been using.”

“It wasn’t just for the salve. The isolation this curse enforced upon me was driving me insane — which in hindsight is probably another thing Dijkstra intended with it, that clever fuck.”

Yennefer looks sympathetic, lips pressing together with displeasure. “Sounds like the last few months have been rough for you, losing your purpose.” 

“Yeah,” Jaskier concedes quietly. 

Ciri suddenly recalls what Julian had said all those months ago, his words like a painful reminder of her own inability to realise what he’d been trying to tell her: ”Fuck. Sorry, princess. I’m just… times have been tough as of late, and you’ve had the displeasure of meeting me at a very strange time of my life. It’s not your fault.”

“I won’t lie. I’m impressed you managed to bring Ciri here, considering your knack for trouble,” Yennefer admits, leaning back as she consumes the remaining contents of her glass. 

“She’s crafty and driven, unsurprisingly. I can hardly take credit as it wasn’t really my choice. The princess wouldn’t stop following me after I fed her once. Should have known better than feeding a stray, really.” Julian sighs, propping his elbows on his thighs as he folds in on himself, his body language the perfect opposition to Yennefer’s. “I had planned to find somewhere safe where I could drop her off, for Geralt to find her easily, but… I suppose I grew a little attached.”

“You probably saved her life.”

“At the risk of my own.” He drags a hand through his shaggy mane. “I can’t stay, Yen. I haven’t seen Geralt since the dragon hunt.”

A long silence follows as the sorceress regards the bard evenly. “Geralt told me.”

“Then you know why I can’t stay here.” 

Despite her complicated emotions for the man, Ciri still feels a pang of fear at those words. The prospect of Julian leaving without her hadn’t even occurred to her while she’d wallowed in her own self-pity, not even considering that Julian might not want to see Geralt after all this time. She wonders why; what had the witcher done to warrant such a reaction from Julian, who despite his poorly constructed facade of indifference, cared so dearly for those around him?

Yennefer apparently knows all too well as she silently huddles closer to the elf, reaching out to clutch Julian’s hands with the gentleness of which one would treat a newborn kitten. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help you, Jaskier. I searched through the whole of Oxenfurt for you when you got taken, but I was unable to find you.”

“Don’t go blaming yourself now, my dear lady. Let Geralt shoulder the martyr complex, he wears it a lot better than you and me both combined.” With the same gentleness she’d treated him with, Julian lifts her hand and presses a careful kiss to the inside of her wrist. “ Please . It’s not any fault of yours that the world is cruel.”

“Alright.” 

The conversation dies down, the two adults obviously finding comfort in each other as they huddle close together once more. Ciri waits for a moment longer before she decides to resign herself back to bed as seemingly nothing more interesting would come forth from the elf and sorceress, and her knees are getting tired from kneeling for so long. 

That’s when she hears the quiet admission from Yennefer, almost incomprehensible if the world around them hadn’t been so still, “The girl doesn’t trust me.”

Julian makes an inquiring noise, almost sounding half-asleep where he’s sitting.

“I betrayed her and Geralt,” Yennefer says, slightly louder as if gaining some courage now that she’s finally putting her feelings into words. “I was so desperate to get my magic back. I hurt her knowingly and with intent, and I fear I might have done irreparable damage to my relationship with Ciri and Geralt, both.”

“And now?” 

Yennefer shakes her head. “I don’t have my magic, if that’s what you’re asking. Are you finally going to get your gloating in?”

“No, I have nothing to gloat about. I lost my music like you did your magic. I even lost my humanity,” he sounds sad, voice unbelievably soft. “If anything, I think I understand you even better now.”

“You’re still as human as ever, Jaskier. No curse will change that.” 

“The general public begs to disagree.”

“Fuck the general public.”

A frown etches itself onto Julian’s brows, pulling them together as he studies his hands now resting uselessly in his lap. “The curse isn’t purely cosmetic, Yen.”

Ciri wonders what he means by that, but Julian doesn’t elaborate and Yennefer doesn’t ask, so she has no chance to find out without revealing herself to the two. 

“I can try to get in touch with Tissaia,” Yennefer offers, obviously understanding whatever had been left unsaid between them even if Ciri doesn’t. “Although, I fear the brotherhood has its claws set deep into Aretuza too. After my little stunt with Cahir, I don’t have many friends left within its walls.” 

“I know we have this ongoing trend now where we’re risking each other's lives for one another, but don’t endanger yourself for me. I’ve already had altercations with two mages, I’d rather not have the whole brotherhood on my neck too from having to save you for trying to find a cure for me.” 

Yennefer hums thoughtfully, resting her head on one of Julian’s broad shoulders. “I worry Ciri will refuse to stay here if you don’t.”

“She’s more upset with me than you at the moment,” Julian replies, carding his fingers through Yennefer’s hair.

“That’s not true,” Yennefer protests. “She needs you. And I do too.”

Julian presses a soft kiss to the crown of Yennefer’s head, his lips lingering there for a long moment as he seems to breathe the woman in. Then, he rises from the bench he and Yennefer had been perched upon and stretches his arms over his head. “I think I am going to retire, my dearest wicked witch. I haven’t slept in a soft bed in quite some time, and I intend to rest these weary old bones while I can.” 

“Good night, Jaskier.” 

“Good night, Yennefer.” 

Ciri will never get used to how quickly the man moves, because she’s too slow with her reaction to crouch down as Julian spins dramatically on his heel and strides towards the door, his eyes meeting hers briefly through the windowpane with that frustratingly knowing glint that Ciri has become far too familiar with over the course of the summer. 

Hurriedly, she tucks herself back underneath the covers, laying deathly still while listening intently as the cabin’s door is shut with only a pathetic squeak from the door’s hinges. For a moment, everything is quiet around her and she thinks she might have gotten away with her spying after all, but then the door to her room is pushed open agonisingly slow, the torch light from the hallway filtering into her room like a beacon in the darkness. 

Julian is merely a dark outline in that spotlight, tall and slim like always where he leans casually on the door frame with his arms folded over his chest. “It’s rather rude to spy on people’s private conversations, you know,” he says with feigned nonchalance which seems rather contradictory to his reprimanding words.

“You’d know all about spying, wouldn’t you?” Ciri fires back as her upset with him seeps into her tone, knowing very well she’s sounding like a petulant child. 

“Perhaps. But admittedly, I wasn’t a very good spy, so if you have some pointers for me then I’d be eternally grateful,” Julian replies, seemingly unaffected by her anger. No wonder if he’s been hanging around Geralt for so long, he’s bound to have grown a thick skin by the gruff way the witcher seemed to treat everyone around him except Ciri. 

There’s a lull in conversation as Ciri sits up and pulls her knees to her chest, glaring down at the dully coloured blankets draped over her knees. Yennefer and Julian’s conversation still echoes in her ears; so much had been said without providing her with any real answers, only more questions. One is certainly more prevalent than the rest right then, however: “Are you leaving me?”

Julian regards her for a long moment before sighing, the nonchalant guard dropping somewhat from his features. The elf — or cursed man, really, and doesn’t Ciri feel stupid for not having listened to him tell her that the first night they’d spent together? What else had he told her and she hadn’t listened? — crosses the expanse of the room in a few long strides and perches himself on the edge of her bed. “I am. You belong by Geralt’s side, not mine, as much as it hurts for me to admit it.”

“You belong by Geralt’s side too,” Ciri protests. 

“No, that’s not my place anymore. Besides,” he says, gesturing to himself and his pointed ears. “Looking like I do now puts an even larger target on your backs than you already have. It’d be unwise and dangerous to let an old man such as I tag along. I’d slow you down.” 

“You’re not that old,” Ciri snaps back immediately, repeating the same sentence as she had told him in that tavern all those weeks ago. She isn’t sure why she’s so angered by him addressing himself this way now — or not angry, but hurt and scared . However, it’s easier to deal with anger than facing the fact she’s grown attached to Julian. She understands why she’d been so quick to trust the man now, her destiny being intertwined with his through Geralt, but it doesn’t change how she feels. 

“I’m plenty old enough. I could be your father,” he admonishes her softly. Ciri can tell his fingers are itching to reach out and comfort her, but instead his hand settles uselessly on the mattress between them. 

“I won’t forgive you if you leave.”

“I know,” he replies with something akin to sadness colouring his features. He presses his lips together in a strained smile in an attempt to hide it from her. “Go back to sleep, princess. You should rest while you can.”

Ciri wants to protest, but she’s too exhausted to muster up the arguments to convince him otherwise. Ciri just hopes that Julian, empathetic and kind as he is underneath the well-crafted defence he seems to shoulder like it has the weight of the world to it, doesn’t carry through with his promise. Perhaps, during the night, he’ll change his mind and Ciri will wake up to the scent of breakfast and a lecture about the properties of all of the herbs in Yennefer’s garden rather than the hole he’ll leave in Ciri’s heart with his absence. 

“Sleep tight, princess.”

The next morning, Ciri wakes up to the sun glaring down on her face through her window and the birds chirping happily outside. Sitting up, she peers out the window to see Yennefer sitting out in the garden with a book in her lap, though there’s no sign of Julian anywhere, causing a pang of fear to pierce Ciri’s heart. 

Crawling out of bed in just her nightclothes, she goes out into the garden with hurried and barefooted steps. She approaches Yennefer without hesitation despite the sorceress’s betrayal still fresh in mind, her pace fast and purposeful like Julian’s always is.

“Where’s Julian?” she asks as a greeting, her tone sharp and unforgiving. Ciri understands why Yennefer had done what she did; if anyone could understand the desperation that bloomed like a weed from the feeling of hopelessness from being defenceless and lost, it was Ciri, yet the girl still struggled to lower her guard entirely around the woman despite the profuse apologies Yennefer had uttered to her.  

“Gone.” Yennefer sounds disappointed as she says it, her piercing violet eyes sincere as she turns her attention from the book in her lap to the princess. “I’m sorry, Ciri.” 

Ciri refuses to believe it, but Julian doesn’t reappear for the rest of the day, nor the next or the day after, and neither does Geralt. Yet Ciri sits by the window in her room waiting, waiting, waiting for them to show up. 

Yennefer seems hesitant to infer the origin of Ciri’s newfound moodiness as their relationship still finds itself in rocky terrain at best. The sorceress tries to engage Ciri in conversation, but it quickly becomes apparent that Yennefer is as awkward as Geralt is when it comes to children, although her incompetence is less charming than the witcher’s. There’s an underlying distinct bitterness there that Ciri suspects has nothing to do with her, but her feelings towards Yennefer don’t allow her to ask to sate her curiosity. 

Even still, the sorceress is trying her best with Ciri, who can feel her iciness toward the woman slowly thaw as the days pass by sluggishly in the small cottage. When Ciri isn’t spending her time sitting staring out the window, Yennefer is giving her lectures about magic and Ciri’s chaos that have been severely neglected these past months alongside Julian. She is giving her useful insights and tips even if the sorceress can’t perform the magic to demonstrate herself. There’s tension between them still, but Ciri knows both Geralt and Julian trust this woman, so she will do her best to forgive Yennefer despite everything. 

Yennefer also shows her the garden, introduces her to various domesticated plants and herbs Ciri isn’t familiar with and how to use them in the lab. While Yennefer is full of knowledge, Ciri misses Julian’s teachings which felt more like a patient father showing her the ropes rather than Yennefer’s practical and pragmatic approach. 

At the end of the fourth day, Geralt still hasn’t come for her and Julian still hasn’t returned. Ciri starts to truly believe that the latter actually held up on his promise that he’d leave, uncaring of what it made her think of him. 

Ciri knows something happened between Julian and Geralt for the cursed man not to want to see the witcher; while Ciri knows the witcher can be crass at times, she’s never perceived him as cruel, yet Geralt must had done something bad if it warranted Julian abandoning her rather than face the witcher. Unless, of course, Julian had just been looking for an excuse to get rid of her. That is however simply too painful for Ciri to even consider as she can no longer deny how much she loves the man who has spent the better part of the last few seasons keeping her safe and sound when Geralt could not. 

That night, Ciri falls into a restless sleep. 

Behind closed lids, she dreams of Cintra set ablaze while women and children are crying for help, and the men are being struck down by ruthless, faceless soldiers. This time though, instead of Caleanthe lying dead in the gutter, she’s being pierced by the black knight’s blade right in front of Ciri, her usually fierce brown eyes just two black holes while her jaw unhinges itself into a silent scream. As she is about to throw herself towards her dying grandmother, Ciri’s intercepted by large, black horses galloping across cobblestone, a cage in tow filled with screaming, bleeding people – elves – and among them –

“ Julian! ”   

“Shh, Ciri. It’s alright. I’m here,” a soothing voice shushes her, long fingers carding into her hair to push away her sweaty fringe from her forehead. 

Julian is perched gingerly by her bedside, looking exhausted but as whole as Ciri had ever known him. She fears for a moment he’s another figment of her imagination, but his hand feels solid against her scalp and her rabbiting heart tells her she is very much awake. 

“Bad dream?” He asks, echoing those words from all those weeks ago. 

Those simple, familiar words are enough for the dam to break, and Ciri finds herself crying into the elf’s chest, arms wound tight around his neck as she refuses to let go. 

“I thought you’d left,” she hiccups through her tears, smearing snot onto his shoulder as relief floods her at knowing that Julian is safe. 

“I did,” Julian whispers with a deep sigh, fingers still entangled in her hair. “I walked almost to the border of Vengeberg before I realised I was acting like a coward by running away from my feelings regarding Geralt, and circuitously hurting you in the process.” 

If possible, Ciri only cries harder into Julian’s chest, not having realised how scared she’d been that she wouldn’t see him again. While Geralt she knew was just a question of time – Yennefer had assured her of as much – she had no guarantees when it came to Julian, who is competent in surviving on his own, but not with the same means to protect himself as Geralt. 

What if he’d been caught, like in her nightmare? What would have become of him then? Would he have been executed, with no way for either her, Yennefer or Geralt to know? Would Geralt have wanted to search for him?

“I’m still upset with you,” she tries to scold him, but it comes out just as pathetic as previously as she sits up a little in bed to wipe her eyes.

“I understand,” Julian says, leaning back to give her some space. “It wasn’t fair of me to leave like that, and I’ve been beating myself up for these past few days. I am so very sorry, princess.”

Ciri goes quiet as she studies him. Even in the dim lighting only provided by the moon shining in through the window, she can see the deep grooves underneath his eyes and the tired sheen glossing over his unusually coloured irises. She wonders how long he and Geralt had travelled together and how old Julian actually is, because it’s hard to tell underneath the bushy beard and dark mane of hair. It’s also almost like the scruffiness is deliberate, though Ciri doesn’t know if it’s to conceal his identity or if the curse he’d spoken to Yennefer about had done something else to his appearance. 

Had he looked drastically different before, when he’d travelled with Geralt? Yennefer had after all recognised him, but Ciri hadn’t failed to notice Yennefer’s creased brow as she’d first laid eyes upon him, like she was having trouble reconciling the now-elf with the bard she’d known, and Ciri doubts it has anything to do with his ragged clothes or long hair. 

“You should have told me who you were,” she tells him, eventually. It’s not accusatory this time, though her exhaustion is evident in her voice even to her. As much as it hurts, Ciri understands why he hadn’t told her; it’d been to keep them both safe which she appreciates, though she still wishes he’d entrusted her with his identity nonetheless. It would have saved them both a lot of grief. 

Julian hums noncommittally without removing his hand from her hair, pulling out tangles gently with dexterous fingers. 

It feels nice, soothing, and Ciri rubs at her eyes again, sleep threatening to lull her back into the land of dreams in proximity to the quiet comfort Julian offers her. “Maybe we wouldn’t have had to sleep on rocks and live off squirrel carcasses all summer,” she snarks, though the effect is probably ruined by the jaw-cracking yawn that interrupts her mid-sentence. 

The hand in her hair stills, then. “I rarely am one to fault royalty for their indiscretions,” Julian says deliberately, tone grave, but as Ciri peers up to look at Julian she sees a mischievous tilt to his lip that betrays the seriousness in his voice. “But do I need to remind you that you started it, Fiona .” 

Ciri gapes at him indignant, drowsiness forgotten. “Did not!”

“Uh huh, did too,” he says childishly as he pokes her in her side with a boney finger. “Also, you didn’t seem to mind squirrel carcesses this summer by the way you practically wolfed down every last piece of perfectly seasoned meat like you’d never seen food before, princess.” 

Ciri squirms away from the offensive hand with a surprised squeal. “Julian, don’t — I was hungry !” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Julian mutters dismissively, his obvious exhaustion seemingly dampening his usual snark. 

They delve into a comfortable, familiar silence as she scoots closer to him once more, snuggling into his side. His good hand crawls back into her hair to card its way through her locks, and Ciri sighs content at the contact. She lays there for a long time, just listening to his steady breath and heartbeat, enjoying the comfort of being reunited with her guardian. 

After a little while, she is startled out of the almost meditative state of listening to his heart as low humming fills the room, a soft melody reverberating throughout Julian’s body as he tucks a wayward strand away from Ciri’s face and behind her ear. 

Ciri listens entranced to the tune, only to realise she does know it, which is then quickly followed by the revelation as to exactly why Julian was so upset with that bard at the tavern’s rendition of ‘ Toss a Coin ’. The young man certainly didn’t do the song justice, because even just humming it Julian’s grasp on the tune is so much more melodious and captivating, which makes sense to Ciri now knowing he’d not only written the song but he’d been there: at the edge of the world with Geralt . 

The princess wants to ask him then, about the song and about his and Geralt’s adventures together, but before she gets the opportunity Julian stops humming only to ask, “Did you know, there’s a swamp troll living nearby in Brugge they named Fiona?” 

“No, there isn’t,” Ciri protests with a disbelieving giggle. 

“Sure is,” Julian quips. “Apparently, she used to be a princess just like yourself, but was cursed to be an ogre at night. Don’t ask me why it’s become a permanent thing for her, but I assume she’s happy that way since she isn’t back to her… princessing.”

Ciri chews on that information for a second, though the curiosity of the witcher-to-be within her trumps all the other questions this particular tale has sparked in her heart. “Are trolls and ogres the same thing?”

Julian must recognise this particular trait too, because he snorts a laugh. “Geralt would probably tell you no, but they both smell foul and think rocks are an acceptable dietary option, so I’d have a hard time differentiating them. They’re certainly no beauties to look at either, though Princess Fiona is supposedly exempt from that particular trend even as a troll.”

“You’re lying,” Ciri accuses while she dissolved into more laughter. 

“I’m not! I am brilliant, but I couldn’t make this shit up if I tried,” Julian says, lips stretching into a charming grin that is all flat teeth. “Allegedly, this Fiona character has an enchanted mule that talks too.”

“Now I know you’re lying to me, that can’t possibly be true!” Amused tears begin to roll down her cheeks at the vivid imagery those words instil in her mind. 

Julian’s smile turns soft, one of the few genuine ones Ciri has witnessed on his face during their time spent together. “I tell you nothing but the truth, princess.”

Chapter Text

The next morning, Ciri wakes up to birds chirping outside her sunny window and the scent of fresh potato bread spilling out from the kitchen. For the first time in a long while, she feels well-rested without a terrifying nightmare snapping at her heels to awaken her in a cold sweat.  

Feeling optimistic about the coming day, she gets dressed and lets her growling stomach lead her in the direction of the kitchen. On her quest towards the scent of freshly baked goods, Ciri passes by the open door to Yennefer’s laboratory, where the sorceress is pouring over a large tome with deep focus etched into her features. The expression makes the sorceress look mean and unapproachable, and while Ciri had in the past days been proven wrong about her perception of the woman, Ciri decides not to bother her unnecessarily. 

Julian is nowhere to be seen upon entering the kitchen, but a curious look around the cabin quickly squishes the fear that he’d run off again as she hears the melodic, pleased singing of a raunchy tune and splashing of water from behind the closed door to Yennefer’s bedroom. There’d been plenty of rooms in the cabin, so really, there’s absolutely no reason for the man-turned-elf to be sharing bed chambers with the sorceress. However, Ciri grew up with Calanthe and Eist’s incessant flirting which stripped her of all her bright-eyed, childlike naïveté about what happens between adults behind closed chamber doors — and if Ciri is being completely honest, her grandmother’s flirting was reminiscent of the barbs thrown between the bard and the sorceress. They made an… interesting couple, but while Ciri doesn’t entirely understand them or how Geralt fits into this, she decides it’s none of her business. 

Going back into the kitchen, she slices a large chunk off the fresh potato bread — still steaming when she saws the knife through it — and after lathering it with butter and a sprinkle of sugar, goes outside into the garden to sit on the stone bench she’d spied Julian and Yennefer on the other night. 

As she enjoys the fresh breeze on her skin that feels very much like the first breath of autumn, she reflects upon these new acquaintances she’s made; Ciri can’t help but wonder where they all fit into each other’s lives now, Julian having easily slotted himself into her heart, but he still seems reluctant about his place next to her due to his rocky relationship with Geralt. Ciri doesn’t know how to breach that particular subject with the bard without ripping open old wounds, and Yennefer had been tight-lipped about the whole ordeal when Ciri had tried to ask her in order to get some answers. Perhaps Geralt would tell her if she asked, though she wonders if she’d get the heavily edited version from him in a misguided attempt to protect her — and perhaps more so, himself — or if he would be honest with her in that stilted but patient way of his, deeming her mature enough to be able to handle the truth no matter what light it’ll shed Geralt and Julian in. 

Despite the chilly winds, the sun is still glaring heat down on her back, and she licks her fingers for butter that’s melted off the bread. As she licks the final trail of butter running down her palm clean, there’s the sound of hooves approaching and Ciri looks up to see a large, armoured figure with twin swords strapped to his back appear at the garden’s entrance on a rather familiar dark stallion, and feels her heart stutter violently in her chest. 

“Geralt!” 

A tsunami of emotions threatens to sweep Ciri off her feet as she sees the white-haired witcher jump off the horse and enter the garden, steps heavy and deliberate as he leaves Roach at the gates. Ciri reacts before she thinks as she runs to him, throwing herself around his waist as tears flow freely down her cheeks.

“Ciri. You’re okay,” Geralt says, kneeling down to pull Ciri even closer to his strong torso. He smells of leather, horse and onion, like he always has. “I’ve been searching everywhere for you.” 

“I’m sorry!” Ciri sobs, feeling the guilt she’s been carrying these past months wash over her like a cold shower. “So, so sorry!”

Geralt pulls away a little, frowning with concern. “What for?” 

“It’s my fault I got lost! I didn’t do as you said, and then I couldn’t find my way back to you! I tried to look for you everywhere, but I couldn’t, and I was so scared that I had you worried!”

For a long while, Geralt’s cat-like eyes search here while his expression does something complicated. He must find whatever he is looking for, because after another moment Geralt hums understandingly and pulls her back into a hug. “When I found the warg near the camp, I was worried something had happened to you,” he explains into her hair, slowly stroking her heaving back. “But not once have I blamed you for what happened. You have nothing to apologise for, Ciri. I am just glad you’re okay.”

Now, it’s Ciri’s turn to pull away from the embrace, heart starting to rabbit in her chest for reasons unbeknownst to her. “I wouldn’t have been if not for Julian.”  

“Julian?”

“Hello, Geralt.” 

Julian is standing in the doorway, leaning on its frame with arms crossed over his chest and a body language that exudes frigidity. 

Gone is his thick beard to reveal a rather youthful-looking face, and his long hair has been trimmed and tamed into a shorter cut that makes his elongated ears even more prominent now that they are no longer concealed underneath a shaggy mane. He’s wearing different clothes too; the muted earth tones he usually wears replaced with something Ciri could imagine Yennefer having fitted him in. The deep plum of his chemise and dark trousers are of good quality, though furthermore it’s colours she could see the sorceress in, as if the woman had staked her claim on the bard. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt says in a flat tone that reveals none of his emotions, although his eyes are wide and naked with it. “I’m glad to see you.” 

Julian huffs, but doesn’t move to greet the witcher, instead his eyes settle on Ciri. “And I’m glad to see you two reunited. I didn’t intend to stick around for it, but suppose I grew a little fond of our little princess.”

Normally, Ciri would have responded at Julian’s dig at her pride, but there’s something in his tone that’s too reminiscent of that guarded way he spoke to her upon first meeting that makes her hesitate. She knows it has little to do with her this time — and probably never did, knowing what she knows about Julian now. Ciri recalls how Julian had spoken about the witcher with Yennefer, knows there’s still an open wound that weeps for the bard, and possibly the witcher too judging from the regretful and guilty expression on his face. So, Ciri just offers Julian a weak smile and a nod, glancing at the door wondering if she should let the men have some privacy. 

In the end, it’s not her decision to make as Geralt asks Julian, “Can we talk?” 

Julian’s eyebrows raise incredulously. “ Now you want to talk?”

“Jaskier, please.”

“Fine.” Julian’s lips press together displeased, though he turns to Ciri who is watching them uncertainly. “Why don’t you put the kettle on for us, princess? We’ll join you inside in a minute.”

Geralt nods in her direction, as if urging her to go on in. “It won’t take long,” he assures Ciri, though the witcher doesn’t seem to be entirely convinced by his own words.

“Alright,” she concedes slowly, letting her feet drag as Ciri trails back inside, hoping to catch the tail end of their conversation.  

“It is good to see you again, Jaskier.”  

“Wish I could say the feeling is mutual.”

Their voices fade out of earshot as Ciri steps inside with a hint of bitterness, only to find Yennefer in the kitchen already, slicing the loaf of potato bread into smaller pieces. 

Yennefer doesn’t spare her a glance as she gestures towards the stove where a boiling kettle is already sitting. “Take the tea outside. The weather is too nice to stay inside, don’t you agree?”

Offering the sorceress a smile, Ciri silently removes the kettle from the fire and adds in the tea leaves, before putting it onto a tray with several mugs. As she is about to leave, Ciri hesitates in the doorway before she turns to the sorceress with the hot kettle in hand. “Will you be joining us?” 

The quirk of Yennefer’s lips is subtle but warm as she finally looks at Ciri. “Darling, I wouldn’t miss this show for the world. Now return to them before Jaskier strangles Geralt with one of his lute strings.”

Making her way back outside, Ciri pushes the door halfway open to see the two men sitting on the stone bench. They’re both obviously tense and uncomfortable sitting so close to each other, even to Ciri who has never seen them interact before. Furthermore, they haven’t seemed to notice her yet peering out half-hidden inside the cottage, despite Geralt’s super human senses. Though, in fairness to Geralt, he seems rather preoccupied with handling Julian’s volatile emotions than to pay much attention to her. 

“Jaskier, I –”

“ Don’t ,” Julian snaps, despite being folded in on himself, head cradled in his hands. “Don’t you dare fucking apologise, Geralt of Rivia. Don’t make me forgive you while I’m still trying to pick up the pieces that my life has been since you decided to kick me to the fucking curb like some mut you decided wasn’t worthy of your time anymore.” 

“That’s not –”

“Wasn’t it? Because I distinctly remember you wrongly blaming me for all your misfortunes.” Julian replies furiously and pushes himself up from the bench to face Geralt, waving a finger in front of witcher’s nose as if he was brandishing a sword. “You called me a shit-shoveller , witcher.” 

Ciri frowns, tray still in hand as she watches the men argue through the half-open door, Geralt exuding the aura of a mourning man, his usually massive figure seeming somewhat small underneath Julian’s anger as the elf continues to gesture wildly around him in his fury. It’s a testament to how upset both men are that they still don’t notice her presence, even if they aren’t expecting her to return so soon. 

“I didn’t mean it.” Geralt shakes his head. “I should have never blamed you for my shortcomings. I was just too much of a fool to see my part in it all.” 

“At least there’s something we can still agree on; you being a fool that is,” Julian scoffs, blowing his newly shortened fringe out of his eyes.

Arguments have always made Ciri uncomfortable, despite being the granddaughter of the Lioness of Cintra who would call any man a fool with a mean grin on her face, consequences be damned. No, Ciri is soft in that regard much like her mother allegedly, preferring to end conflicts rather than start them, especially when it was conflict between people she loved dearly. However, as though reading her thoughts about intervening between the two men before this particular argument escalates further, Yennefer silently appears next to her to rest a hand on her shoulder and shake her head at Ciri. 

‘ Wait,’ the sorceress seems to tell her. ‘ Give them a chance.’

Ciri’s grip on the tray tightens, but she abides by the silent command, turning her attention back to the witcher and bard arguing in the garden. 

“I want you to travel with me again – with me and Ciri, both – if you can find it within yourself to forgive me,” Geralt says softly, elbows resting on his knees as he leans forward to look at Julian through his lashes. 

Julian throws his head back then, laughing loudly, though it’s cold and cruel. “Un- fucking -beliveable! The pure audacity. I see where the girl gets it from, although admittedly, she is much more charming about it than you.”  

Geralt’s lips press together, displeased. “I’m sure you’ve been a fine influence on her in that department.”

“Fuck you!” Julian exclaims, throwing his hands up into the air in exasperation. “What the fuck do you expect of me, Geralt? To just swoon and jump back into your arms, as though you never said all that shit to me? We spent the better part of twenty years together – that’s over half my life, by the by, if you’re wondering – but I was just a nuisance to you in the end, responsible for all your misery. Nevermind the fact that you blamed me for your child surprise too, which turns out to be the most wonderful young girl that adores you. I pray to Melitele you realise how much you mean to Cirilla, and that you don’t push her away because of it.”   

“Ciri means a lot to me too,” Geralt objects, and Ciri feels her heart stutter in her chest at the fierceness and honesty with which the witcher says it. 

Julian must hear it too, because he seems to lose a little steam and deflate at the admission, a heavy sigh leaving him. “She’d better. She’s spent all summer looking for you.”

“You didn’t help her look?”

“I was busy keeping us both alive,” Julian gestures to himself. “As you can tell, I’ve got some new assets since our last parting that don’t exactly allow me to mix well with the human crowd these days. The princess was left to her own devices in that regard.”

“That’s not true!” Ciri protests, unable to hold her tongue any longer as she steps into their little solitary bubble. It effectively bursts the tension between the two as both men turn rigid when they become aware of her presence. “You helped me look, leading me to every notice board we could find along the coast of the Northern kingdoms. I know visiting all the towns we did was a big risk for you, but you did it anyway so I could look for Geralt.”

“What did I just tell you about spying on other people’s conversations the other day, princess,” Julian reprimands her with his hands on his hips, though Ciri has a feeling he’s more embarrassed than actually mad at her. 

She sticks her tongue out at him as she puts the tray down on the bench next to Geralt, the metal tray scraping slightly against the stone as she does so.   

“Boys, if you can’t play nice then Ciri and I will enjoy our treat in peace. The only bitterness I will endure during a nice day such as this is my tea, you can take your petty emotions elsewhere,” Yennefer tells them superciliously as she follows Ciri into the blistering sun, neatly folding up her skirts and settling down onto the bench next to the tray and opposite Geralt. 

“But –” The men try to protest in unison, but the sorceress swiftly and efficiently cuts them both off. 

“No buts, come back when you’ve made up,” Yennefer says firmly, as she pats the seat next to her while looking at Ciri. “Ciri dear, come eat. The gods know you need it after living off berries and rats with a hopeless, inexperienced minstrel these past months.” 

“Oi! I’ve been doing my best –”

Yennefer dismisses Julian with the wave of her hand. “Yes, that much is evident as you look even scrawnier than her. Now go. The quicker you resolve things the quicker you can eat.” 

Ciri finds her respect for Yennefer increase tenfold as she watches Julian and Geralt grumble between themselves as they retreat into the little cottage without further protest. From experience, she knows how bullheaded they both could be, but Yennefer’s intimidating, no-nonsense attitude towards them both is apparently quite effective. 

While Geralt still obviously had affection for Yennefer due to their past relationship, making their easy acquiescence seem less strange, Julian is still very much an outlier in his relations to Yennfer and Geralt both, and Ciri had become intimately familiar with exactly how bullheaded and obstinate the man could be when he wanted to. Then again, Ciri had busted Julian inside Yennefer’s bed chamber that morning, which perhaps didn’t make it that odd to see the bard comply with the sorceress orders so readily after all. 

Ciri had resigned herself once again to the adults’ relationships being none of her business. However, that doesn’t mean she can’t sate her curiosity about it, and she feels her face split into a devious grin. 

“So,” Ciri asks innocently, dragging out the ‘o’ until Yennefer levels her with an inquiring, impatient look. “What’s going on with you guys?”

“Say what you mean,” Yennefer tells her, as she starts to lather up a slice of potato bread with butter for Ciri before handing it to her. 

Ciri accepts the food gratefully. “I noticed Julian had slept in your room this morning.”

“You’re too young to concern yourself with such questions,” Yennefer replies. 

“I haven’t heard Julian hum, let alone sing during our whole time travelling together.” It’s true. Sans last night where he’d quietly hummed for her, Ciri hadn’t heard Julian as much as whisper a trace of a song lyric. Being a bard by profession and purpose in life, it’s a good indication how badly Julian has been hurting these past months. 

Yennefer eyes her for a moment, but then her lips quirk up into an amused smirk. “Jaskier is but a man and like most men, he is easy to please.”

“Ugh, forget I ever asked.” Ciri pretends to gag which prompts a rare laugh from Yennefer that sounds like tinkling bells.  

Yennefer puts one of her delicate tea cups to her lips to hide the amused smile there from view. “Asked about what?”

Strangely enough, Ciri doesn’t see either Julian or Geralt for the rest of the day. Or at least, not until late evening when Ciri actively seeks them out before she retires for the night, finding them both in Yennefer’s ridiculously large bed; Julian curled up in Geralt’s arms with his head tucked underneath the witcher’s chin, his breathing steady and eyes closed as he leans into Geralt’s body heat. While Julian appears to be asleep, Geralt certainly isn’t as his eyes lock with Ciri’s as she peeks inside the room. 

“Is he okay?” Ciri asks quietly, worried about disturbing Julian’s rest when she can’t recall ever seeing him so at peace. 

Geralt’s eyes travel from hers to Julian’s slack face, turning fond as they gaze upon the bard. “He’s fine. Just exhausted.” 

“I don’t think he’s been sleeping well,” Ciri says, recalling all those times she’d woken up from a nightmare only to find Julian sitting across from her and already awake, eyes hollow as he’d barely slept at all. 

“Jaskier…” Geralt sighs as though he’s carrying all of their collective troubles on his shoulders. “He’s been through some things, like all of us.” 

“Except he was alone,” Ciri states, not intending to sound as harsh as she does, though it’s difficult not to when the reality is as bleak as it is. 

Geralt nods, solemnly. “I fear that is my fault. I blamed him for all my troubles, and by doing so pushed him away. I wasn’t a good friend or companion to him.” Ever so gently, the witcher brushes a stray piece of hair away from Julian’s face as his own expression softens along with his voice. “He had you towards the end though; insisting you’d been the only thing tethering him to his sanity these past months. You saved him.”

Ciri shakes her head in denial. “He saved me, not the other way around.” 

“You need to understand, Jaskier is a creature of empathy. He needs people just as much as they need him, if not more so. Solitude is the cruellest punishment that anyone could have forced upon him.” 

“I don’t understand how anyone could do such a thing to someone,” Ciri says, gaze settling onto Julian’s elven ears and sharp features. She feels anger looking at them now; not because her view of Julian or the elves has changed, but rather because someone could act so maliciously towards someone else. Whoever had done this to Julian knew him well enough to know how detrimental such a thing would be for him; how isolation would drive him to insanity or make him desperate enough to endanger himself to relieve his own loneliness. 

In response, Geralt looks at her with the same softness he had reserved for Julian. “I am thankful that you don’t understand. It means you’ve managed to preserve your kindness in a world that is anything but.” He extends his hand towards her then, the one not currently trapped under Julian’s weight, in a silent invitation.

Without hesitation, Ciri steps into the room and into the bed, curling into Geralt’s side opposite Julian and sighs contently. 

“Have you two made up then?” she asks quietly, mindful of the sleeping bard opposite her. Ciri tries to sound indifferent about it, but it’s difficult considering the worry that Julian will eventually leave them because of his conflict with Geralt has been gnawing at her ever since they arrived at Yennefer’s.

To his credit, Geralt’s body is completely still next to hers, not revealing if the blunt question affects him in any way. “Forgiveness isn’t always so easily earned, Ciri. However, I plan to do everything in my power to make amends with Jaskier.” 

“He was really angry with you,” Ciri says after a moment of chewing on Geralt’s words. She recalls the morose way Julian talked about his old companion and the obvious betrayal he’d felt about their mysterious parting. Despite the evident hurt in his entire demeanour when Julian referred to Geralt in their past conversations the bard had still remained loyal; withstood unspeakable torture, even though Julian could have so easily saved himself in that scenario, but he didn’t , which must mean something. “But he missed you more than he was angry, I think.”

“I missed him too,” Geralt replies, softly. “And I missed you as well, Ciri. The Path has been too quiet without you both these past months.” 

Ciri tucks herself impossibly closer to the witcher, pressing her face into his strong shoulder and lets herself relax as she listens to Julian’s steady breath. The familiarity of the men’s presence makes her feel like everything has been set right with her world; it feels like home, like family, and Ciri hadn’t realised how much she missed this before it had been returned to her.   

They lay there in silence for a while until something that has been bothering her for a long while surfaces to the forefront of her mind. “Geralt?” she asks reluctantly, not certain how the witcher would respond to her question and not sure if she’s entitled to ask.    

Geralt makes an inquiring noise that sounds already half-asleep, though the way his grip tightens around her tells Ciri he’s listening. 

“Julian’s hand… it’s because of me, isn’t it?” 

The connection between the fire mage they’d encountered in Ellander and the one who burned Julian’s hand had taken her a little longer than it should have; the realisation had only really hit her these past few days as she’d waited for Geralt and Julian to return to her, when all she had time to do was think. 

Julian had, at the time she’d gathered the courage to ask him about it, told her the mage had wanted information about a dear friend of his – Geralt – although the fire fucker had ultimately been after her in Ellander, and Julian probably knew that too. He’d been there at her parents’ betrothal after all, knew Ciri’s connection to Geralt through destiny, and yet he’d risked so much to not betray them.   

Rience, Julian had told Yennefer with so much ill-conceived venom parading as sarcasm that Ciri had been surprised it hadn’t been leaking out between his teeth. The man that had tortured the bard, mutilated his hand and by doing so caused him a lifetime of chronic pain – once again, someone is hurt because of her. Safe to say, the realisation had been a jarring one as guilt had settled beneath her ribs like a hollowed ache that’s slowly rotting away in her heart.

Geralt’s arm tightening around her once more makes her realise that she’s crying, soaking the sun-bleached black material of his shirt dark with her tears. 

“Hush, Ciri. It’s alright,” Geralt soothes her in that low growl of his, pressing his nose into her hair. “Jaskier doesn’t blame you for it, and neither should you.”

“But he’s in pain,” Ciri protests, letting the unsaid ‘because of me’ hang between them like a suffocating weight. 

“He is, true,” Geralt concedes gently. “However, he has made his choice, and has made his peace with its consequences. I doubt he’d want you to feel regret for something he doesn’t.”

Before Ciri gets another chance to open her mouth again, there’s a sour grumble from the opposite side of Geralt and a bandaged hand that reaches out to hers. Startled, Ciri’s gaze settles on Julian’s face whose bright blue eyes are half-lidded and glazed over with sleep. “Geralt’s right, you know, and he knows a thing or two about martyr complexes. I’d do it again if I had to, if it meant you were safe.” 

At the loss of anything else to say, Ciri can only wipe uselessly at her tears as she whispers a feeble apology, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.” 

“’s fine,” Julian murmurs softly followed by a jaw-cracking yawn he attempts to conceal into Geralt’s strong shoulder. “I’d imagine you two have a lot of catching up to do, and here I am rudely infringing on that.” 

“Jask, you’re not –” Geralt attempts to protest as Julian starts extracting himself from the witcher’s arms, a strange sort of desperation settling on his features and making the body pressed close to Ciri’s wrought tight with tension.

Julian shakes his head. “Calm yourself, you big oaf. I’m not going to vanish in thin air or something equally ludicrous.” The bard pulls himself to his feet, stretching his tall frame out from his previously curled-up position and effectively popping several joints in the process. “There is something I have been meaning to talk to Yennefer about anyway. Putting it off by sleeping the precious day away probably won’t make her more susceptible to my charms.”  

The expression on Geralt’s face doesn’t ease away into stoic acceptance like Ciri thought it would, but rather solidifies it even more. “It can wait until tomorrow,” the witcher mutters in a soft growl, as though knowing what Julian is talking about. “We’re safe here, Jaskier.” 

Something shifts in Julian’s easy expression too, his large eyes settling on Ciri and lingering a tad too long before turning back to meet Geralt’s head-on, fearless unlike most humans. It looks like an argument is sitting ready between his teeth by the way the corners of his mouth turn downwards, but instead he bows with a flourish of his good hand. “I shall bid you both goodnight. Sleep well, Ciri. Geralt...”  

“What was that about?” Ciri asks quietly as her gaze lingers on Julian’s back as he leaves, still wiping uselessly at her eyes before twisting back to determine the witcher’s reaction.  

For a moment, it seems as though her question has fallen on deaf ears as Geralt stares at the vacant spot left behind in Julian’s departure, but then he mutters a hoarse, “He worries,” as though that explains anything.  

Ciri frowns. “About what?”

Geralt only breathes out one short, albeit harsh, breath through his nose in response, and Ciri feels her anger flare again at being so deliberately underestimated, perceived as some child that had to be protected from the truth.  

“About what ?” She presses, tone as persistent that she can make it after a cry.

“It is like I told you,” Geralt replies, his cryptic explanation reminding her of another, older white-haired witcher. “Not too long ago, Jaskier thought he had lost everything. Then you came along, and I think you made him realise that there is something far greater than me, his music or even humanity he might lose.”  

“I won’t leave him,” Ciri protests immediately, her tone only slightly haughty as she recalls how it was only a few days ago when Julian had been the one attempting to leave her . 

“Jaskier knows that.” 

Geralt settles back down next to her, silver head resting back onto Yennefer’s silk pillows as he closes his eyes, and Ciri finally realises how tired he is. The witcher’s usually pale face is practically grey, dark groves circling his under-eyes as though he hasn’t had a proper rest in  weeks.

Ciri is suddenly struck by the jarring realisation that while she and Julian had been taking care of each other, no one had been there to take care of Geralt, who had probably been looking high and low for her across the continent. Knowing the witcher, he had been depriving himself of sleep in his search, probably just meditating until his body couldn’t take it anymore. 

The gods know the man deserved a moment of peace after all this time, and while Ciri is getting the feeling there is some vital information she is missing in between all these people in her life, she decides not to press Geralt on the matter further for now. 

Silence settles between them, and just as Ciri thinks Geralt has fallen asleep next to her she is startled by the rough growl of his voice in her ear. 

“Tell me about what he’s taught you this summer.” 

Unlike Julian, who had distracted her last night with his stories, Ciri suspects Geralt is more so trying to distract himself from whatever is bothering him and she feels sympathy seep into her heart for the witcher. 

“Julian taught me many things,” Ciri starts carefully while smiling ruefully to herself as she recalls all the days and nights spent listening to Julian’s patient instructions. “Things not too dissimilar from what you’ve taught me, but adapted to a life on the path without the use of witcher strength and senses.”

Geralt hums thoughtfully, and while his eyes are still closed a rueful smile of his own graces his lips. “For instance?”

“Playing ducks and drakes.”

“Skipping stones seems hardly useful.”

“It is when you want to check lakes for drowners without having to dip your toe in and risk one pulling you under,” Ciri replies smartly, remembering her own doubt when she’d found Julian one morning by a lake not far from their camp hefting and throwing rocks onto the water surface with a calculating expression on his face. 

When she had asked what he was doing, the elf had pressed finger to his lips while his pointed ears had turned to listen for any disturbances in the lake. Deafening silence had followed until Julian had turned back to her with a smug grin on his lips. “Care for a dip in the only monster-free establishment on this side of the Yaruga, your highness?”   

“Hm.” Ciri isn’t sure if she is imagining it, but Geralt’s contemplative grunt actually sounds impressed. 

The following days phase into weeks, and with each passing hour the adults are growing increasingly more at ease in each other’s presence despite Julian’s strange reaction that first night with Geralt back. With it, Ciri feels she can breathe a little easier too, her concern about the future not so immediate and bleak as it’d previously been. 

Ciri also understands now why Julian had seemed so sad when he’d referred to Geralt in her previous conversations with him, seeing now how they weave around each other as effortlessly as breathing; the gentle touches and the baths, the softly shared words, and the easy banter and jokes shared between people who have known each other for a lifetime. 

Yennefer is an interesting addition to the duo too, adding flavour to their interaction with her graceful flirting and wicked sense of humour. The sorceress is also fiercely protective of her bard, so when Julian inexplicably withdraws back into himself during these gentle moments, Ciri catches Yennefer shooting Geralt a look both concerned and accusatory that makes the witcher’s face twist as though someone has taken a shit in his stew.

Julian even starts to properly sing and compose again, albeit it’s only at nights when he thinks no one is listening – except, much like Julian, none of the cottage’s other occupants seem able to get sleep much either, so they all gravitate towards the entrancing voice that sings matters of the heart. 

There’s one song in particular that she’s never heard before that catches her attention by how hauntingly familiar the story is; about a young princess finding a deformed monster in the woods, its frozen heart slowly thawing as the girl reminds the monster what it means to love and be loved again. The hummed tune that accompanies the soft lyrics that are only half-muttered is bittersweet and nostalgic, reminiscent of woeful lullabies that reminds Ciri too much of the ones her mother used to sing for her before Pavetta’s passing.  

The first night she hears it Ciri finds herself tucked underneath Geralt’s chin while staining his shirt with snot and salty tears, because he had known her mother too and there is an undeniable comfort knowing that. Perhaps more prominently though, the silent tears gleaming on Julian’s cheeks in the moonlight prevents her from announcing her presence upon hearing the song and selfishly seeking his comfort when he was obviously dealing with his own trauma. 

Soon enough, autumn is dawning upon them as the nights grow colder and darker, turning Yennefer’s formerly lush garden into an array of gold and brown colours as life starts to slowly seep out of its vegetation. With the new season threatening its arrival right on their very doorstep, Ciri notices Julian growing restless too despite the safety of the little world their mismatched group – family – had carved out for themselves hidden away in the woods of Vengerberg.

Perhaps his apprehension was due to the whispered words shared between Geralt and Yennefer that always ceased the instant either Julian or Ciri was in the nearby vicinity. The words ‘next steps’ doesn’t pass unnoticed by the young princess though, and she is certain they haven’t slipped Julian by either. Nor their meaning; the fact that they might be leaving soon, back to Kaer Morhen to resume her training, lingers unspoken in the air as the adults once again don't include her in their plans concerning her . 

Admittedly, she is struggling to fathom Julian’s anxiety about the matter though, because she knows without a shadow of a doubt that neither Geralt or Yennefer will accept that Julian isn’t coming with them.

Not by the way Yennefer’s laugh is only heard in their small cottage when Julian is nearby, or by how Geralt keeps looking at Julian like he hung the moon and stars when the witcher thinks no one is watching him. Not by the way Ciri seeks him out every waking moment of her day just to listen to him lecture her about anything, or at night when her nightmares become too much yet somehow he is always right there to pull her close as he asks her the same question every time: “ Bad dream? ”

So one evening, while Yennefer and Geralt are having another whispered conversation in the kitchen, Ciri uses the opportunity provided to seek Julian out. Private conversations with the bard were hard to come by these days with Geralt constantly hovering nearby either Julian or her like a particularly overprotective kikimora. While Ciri appreciates the witcher’s concern it doesn’t leave much room for her to talk uninhibitedly with Julian like she’d grown to appreciate over the course of the summer.

Finding Julian isn’t a difficult task considering he always winds up on the same stone bench in the garden when he needs his privacy or the buzz of Yennefer’s little cottage becomes too much for him. Geralt seems to find the behaviour odd by the way he always frowns with worry whenever he finds Julian out there, but Ciri knows through travelling with the man that Julian needs time to adjust to all the attention he is showered with in their little world after so long in the solitude the curse had enforced upon him.

Julian is currently basking in the light of the cresting moon, looking ethereal and youthful in its pale glow. Knowing who he is now, Ciri thinks the man must be at least in his forties, but looks barely past the age of twenty-five now that he has rid himself of his long unkempt locks and several layers of road-dust off his skin. And without his scruffy beard his edges appear so much softer, as though his exterior finally matches the kindness radiating out between the cracks of the hard shell he’d built around him to protect himself. 

It is as though he is a different person entirely, but neither is he the former entertainer Geralt knows as Jaskier nor is he the elf that has been watching over Ciri these past seasons.

Currently, Julian’s hand is gripping tightly onto the chain around his neck, thumb smoothing over the dwarven ore she’d gifted him all those weeks ago with a contemplative, far-away look in his eyes that still has a hard edge to it. A hard edge that still keeps the world at bay and its people at an arm’s length, even though they had all been reunited and were safe for the time being. 

“Hi,” Ciri says softly, approaching him slowly as she would a spoked animal to not startle the man so obviously deep in thought. 

Julian startles nonetheless, head swivelling on its socket as his wide eyes flit over to meet hers before the panicked look on his face subsides when he sees that it is only her approaching him. “Oh, hey, princess,” he mutters, trying to smile at her but failing. “You know, you really ought not to sneak up on an old man like that unless you intend to scare me to death.”  

“You’re not old,” she replies as she perches herself on the bench next to him, the same old argument rolling off her tongue easily now. 

“Depends on who you ask these days, I guess,” Julian replies absently as he drags an open palm over his shaved chin. He glances at her then, expression wary. “What are you doing out here?” 

Ciri shrugs, feigning innocence. “I don’t know. With everything that has been going on, and with Geralt and Yennefer being back in the picture, I feel like we’ve had barely any time for the two of us to just… talk.”

Julian sighs, seeing through her easily which might be a testament to how much time they’d spent together with only each other for company. “I assumed you were going to have some questions for me, eventually.” 

“I think I’ve earned the right to some answers,” Ciri replies, not entirely confident in the statement though projecting all the royal prerogative that had been spoon fed to her from a young age. Queen Calanthe would be proud, she thinks. 

There’s a noncommittal grunt from Julian which is as much of an invitation as anything, so Ciri ploughs on despite her reluctance. “Before the curse, you were human.” It isn’t a question, just a statement.

“I was,” Julian concedes warily, eyeing her sceptically as though unsure where she is going with this. 

“You told Yennefer the change wasn’t entirely cosmetic.”

Julian curses her stealthiness lowly underneath his breath before answering with the same wariness as before. “I did.” His answers are short, defensive in a way Ciri hasn’t heard from Julian before and it is putting her on edge.

“What does that mean ?”

Julian reaches up to touch his ear, brushing a wayward strand of his shorter hair behind the elongated tip of cartilage. “Just like I told you about how mages cannot regrow limbs, they can’t create something out of nothing. Transmutation like this is difficult, but allegedly Philippa Eilheart is the best there is.”

Ciri shifts in her seat, turning her body fully towards him to show that she is listening intently, but beyond that remains silent in anticipation to whatever he will say next. 

“I was human, but apparently not entirely. Some ancestor way back definitely wasn’t at least. Eilheart took that and just… changed it. Or rather, enhanced it, I guess.” Julian scowls. “What had only been a drop of water in a vast ocean became the ocean itself.”

There’s a pause in the air between them, and Ciri uses it to ask, “How do you feel about it?”

Julian glances at her, some indiscernible emotion simmering in his eyes as his jaw clenches so hard Ciri imagines she can hear his teeth grinding together. Somehow, that tells Ciri all she needs to know and so she presses on, “And your hand?”

There is a gut-deep, frustrated sigh from Julian as he blows his shorter fringe out of his face. “I’ve spoken to Yennefer about it, but there’s nothing to be done, so I’ll have to pick up instruments that don't require two hands. Maracas, perhaps. Or rather, a maraca?” While Julian clearly aims for levity, the statement falls flat as he glares bitterly down at his permanently injured hand resting limply in his lap.

Ciri feels a pang of sadness at that, at the prospect of him never being able to pick up a lute again to play. “Could…Could I do anything?” She asks, grasping desperately at anything in an attempt to ease the frown etched into Julian’s features. “To help. I owe you so much, it’s the least I could do to repay you for all you’ve done for me.”

Julian shakes his head. “No, no. You don’t owe me anything, princess.”

Frustration mixes with the sadness then, because that simply isn’t true. She owes Julian everything, yet she has nothing to offer him in return for keeping her safe these past two seasons. “Then at least come to Kaer Morhen with us,” she says, putting into words what she already knows that Yennefer and Geralt are planning for them.   

“While I can assure you that there isn’t anything I wish for more,” Julian says slowly, deliberately, before he sighs as though weighted down with a heavy burden. “But I am afraid it is not my place.” 

“Then what is your place? If not with us, then where ?” Ciri asks, surprising even herself with the unexpected flare of anger fuelled by her frustration. “Are you just going to roam around until you’re caught and executed like the rest of the elves?”

“ Oi!” Julian protests, the emotion that had been simmering underneath the surface solidifying into something upset, something equally as angry and frustrated as hers. “Don’t start giving me shit about this, alright? Just like you don’t owe me anything, I don’t owe you anything either.” 

“ I know that ,” Ciri attempts to grit back, though her voice sounds thick and uncooperative as she jumps up from the bench to spin around to face Julian directly with hands defiantely on her hips. “But I care about you, and I know you care about me! Isn’t that enough reason to come with us?”

The angry expression on Julian’s face shifts into one of remorse, before he quickly hides it away in his hands. “Don’t get it misconstrued, princess. It’s not about that.”

“Then what? I thought you and Geralt made up.” 

“We have, but it’s not that simple.” 

“Why not!?” Ciri shouts, and the wind chimes Yennefer keeps by her door and the cottage’s windows rattle alarmingly at the chaos seeping into her voice. There is no way that Geralt and Yennefer wouldn’t have noticed the scene the two of them were making right then, though thankfully neither had yet to come outside to interrupt.  

“ Ciri —”

“No! Why can’t it be that simple? What are you so afraid of?” 

Abruptly, Julian stands from the bench too, drawing himself up to his full height — which never stops startling Ciri — and marches towards her in the two long strides it takes him to stand right in front of her. It happens so quickly that she doesn’t have time to react before he kneels to pull her into a tight hug, her chin pressed against his shoulder as he cradles the back of her head.  

Ciri freezes in place as those long arms pull her close to Julian’s warm body, whose breath is stuttering slightly in her ear as Geralt’s words from all those weeks ago echo in the back of her mind like they’d been uttered only mere moments ago; ’ I think you made him realise that there is something far greater than me, his music or even humanity he might lose ’.  

“Please,” she begs, winding her own arms around the elf as her breath stutters while tears start to well up. She doesn’t understand why she cannot seem to keep her emotions in check these days; her feelings seeming outside of herself by how easily she is shaken by the circumstances and the prospect of her getting separated from her family again. It is like that saying ’once bitten twice shy’, except Ciri has never been bitten but has lost too many loved ones, and she doesn’t want to risk losing Julian too. “Come to Kaer Morhen with us! You don’t have to leave again.” 

“I –”

“She is right, Jaskier,” a gravelly voice interrupts the bard. Geralt is standing in the doorway to their small cabin with a saddened look in his eyes, Yennefer by his side with pursed lips and folded arms.  

Instead of letting go of her like Ciri suspected Julian would have upon the other adults’ sudden arrival, the arms around Ciri tighten by almost protectively as though afraid of what would happen if he did. 

“Geralt. Yennefer.” Julian greets them warily, and Ciri doesn’t have to see his face to know that the colour has drained from his features. “How long have you been listening?”

“We all need you by our side,” Geralt says instead of answering Julian’s question, his voice quiet in the small yard whose air suddenly feels thick tension. “It is where you belong.”

“Yes,” Ciri shoots in quickly as Julian opens his mouth to protest. She pulls herself closer to him, impossibly close until it feels like they might merge into one to share the same rapidly beating heart. It's enough to still the tears brimming at the corner of her eyes. “You’re family now. Family loves each other and they stick together, no matter what.”

Julian looks hopelessly lost at her declaration, wide eyes turning misty with unspilled tears while his clenched jaw works furiously as he seems to struggle to form a coherent reply. “Fuck, I –,” Julian takes a deep, hitching breath. “You are all in enough danger as is without me adding to that. There are so many people after you, and I will do nothing but draw attention to you. Besides, it is only a matter of time before Rience will come looking for me again, and when he does I will be leading him straight to you.” 

“Then we keep moving,” Ciri concludes, finally pulling away from the embrace to get a proper look at Julian’s face and expression. Julian seems reluctant to let her go, but relents after only a mere second of hesitation. “But I refuse to leave you behind, or let you leave us, for that matter.”

Geralt nods, taking a cautious step towards the two of them where they are standing in the middle of the garden. “At the first sign of spring, when the snow has thawed, we leave Kaer Morhen to find the people who did this to you, Jaskier. We will lift the curse, and relieve both you and Ciri of the people persecuting you.” 

“And what if my curse can’t be lifted, witcher?” Julian challenges.

“Then it will be another bridge to cross when we get to it,” Geralt says. The witcher reaches out a hand to rest it on Julian’s shoulder, peering meaningfully into the other man’s eyes. “But we will cross it together.”  

“Don’t let martyrdom get in the way of your happiness, bard,” Yennefer shoots in, finally breaking her silence as her pursed lips twist into a grin clearly intended to get a rouse out of Julian. “It is unbecoming of a man with your… reputation.” 

It is surprisingly effective as Julian visibly bristles before throwing a pointed finger in her direction. “I – You…! Witch, save your venomous tongue for the bedchamber, there is a princess present!” 

Yennefer’s gaze slides over to meet Ciri who can’t quite conceal the giggle bubbling forth from the conspiratory smirk the mage sends her way. “Well, in that case,” Yennefer says slowly as she turns on her heel to go back inside. “Come find us in my room later, Jaskier. My venomous tongue has some choice words for you and Geralt both.” 

Julian gapes after her as the sorceress retreats back inside the cabin in a flare of skirts and dark locks, before turning back to Ciri with hands propped up on his hips. “She is rather unbelievable, isn’t she?” 

While Julian might never admit to it, Ciri would have dared to claim the bard sounded fond. “She is,” she concedes. “So, does this mean you’re coming with us?”

“It appears I don’t have much of a choice,” Julian says weightily, turning his attention to Geralt who is hovering close by and is still gazing at Julian with big, golden eyes.  

There is a long moment where neither man says anything as they once again share that meaningful look that communicates things beyond Ciri’s comprehension, before the witcher nods as if conceding to something. “Both of you better start packing then. We leave at first light tomorrow,” Geralt says with the faint traces of a relieved smile quirking up the corner of his lips, before turning to follow Yennefer. “I’ll see you inside, Jask.” 

“Love you too, you cantankerous old grump,” Julian mutters quietly to the witcher's back, intended to be imperceptible to anyone but him, but suffering the same effect that Geralt’s voice had before in the nearly silent backyard. 

Ciri watches the witcher leave as well, intrigued by how Geralt’s shoulders seem to ease from the tension that had been a permanent fixture there since he arrived all that time ago as Julian’s declaration reaches his inhuman hearing. 

Sometimes, Ciri wonders why destiny had led her to exactly these people who were in their own ways hurt and dysfunctional, but watching how they all collectively cared for each other made her happy she hadn’t wound up with anyone else. Despite everything, they had become her family, and without them Ciri would be entirely lost in this world – as they all would be lost without each other, which is so readily apparent in the way they behaved when apart.

Including Julian, who had unexpectedly become her protector and guardian these past seasons, despite the rocky beginnings of their relationship. She recalls how reluctant he’d been to let her come with him, trying to be cold and dismissive to turn her away. Looking back the behaviour seems so out of character for Julian – kind and loyal as she has come to know him as – but she understands it now; Geralt had broken Julian’s heart, and then his spirit broken by Rience and the head of Redanian intelligence. 

Also now knowing what she does, Ciri understands his apprehension about letting her come with him, but she knows that she wouldn’t have survived alone this time around. Without him, she would have grown reckless in her search for Geralt, would have barged into towns and cities without the proper precautions and exposed herself to Nilfgaard or anyone else searching for her.

Julian had kept Ciri safe and grounded, gained her trust and wormed his way into her heart without really trying to. Ciri is certain their meeting isn’t by chance, but like with Geralt some divine intervention by destiny. Like Geralt had told Julian, they belonged together. They were family , and Ciri won’t allow her family to be ripped apart. Not again. They all deserved to be happy.  

“You meant it, right?” She finds herself asking aloud, not looking at Julian even as she feels his gaze settling on her as she speaks, but rather the open doorway Geralt had entered only seconds prior. “That you’re coming with us.”

There is a moment where Julian is too quiet, and Ciri feels her heart picking up speed as the seconds pass without him answering, worry nestling itself deep in her chest that he had played them for fools. But then, she sees Julian nod reluctantly in her vision’s periphery, an uncomfortable expression on his face. 

“I meant it,” he says, scuffing the dirt with the toe of his boot like a misbehaving child. “Even if I think it is a foolish endeavour to attempt to lift my curse, when the fate of the whole continent and your safety is at stake. Geralt never was good at seeing the bigger picture though, rather got too hung up on the details, if you ask me.” 

It is a relief to hear him say it, and Ciri can sense Julian is being genuine in his promise, but  she can also sense the bard’s discomfort at the prospect of so many people caring for his well-being. It is puzzling, considering how much he cared for everyone else, that he couldn’t cope with that love being reciprocated – making Ciri wonder if that is also partially the reason why he considered leaving. However, it seems too large of a question to ask him in that very moment and Ciri isn’t liking the frown currently on his face, so instead she asks, “So you didn’t just say it cause you’re scared of Yennefer?”

“ Scared? ” Julian squawks in surprise, the tips of his pointed ears turning an unflattering shade of red with his indignancy. “Who says I am scared of that… that, woman ? With all due disrespect your shortness, I think not .”

Ciri feels a self-satisfied grin tug at her lips as her accusation had its desired effect and she finally fully turns to face him again, hands on hips. “Promise me then, that you won’t leave again. That you won’t leave me behind again.”

The expression on Julian’s face softens then, guilt mixing with something soft and complicated, but nonetheless warm as he says, “I promise,” with so much honesty and weight to the short declaration they might very well have been the last words of a dying man. 

This time, she is the one who pulls him into a hug; her getting up on her toes and arms reaching up around his neck to pull him close – down, so Julian has to fold in on himself a little to accommodate for their height difference, pressing their cheeks together. Ciri feels her heart swell as he readily accepts the hug, no hesitation or urgency to it, no intention to soothe hurt feelings or comfort her from her tears. It feels like a declaration of familial love, and Ciri only recalls feeling this way with a handful of people in her life – her family by blood and Geralt, truly – and Ciri knows then that she is right in calling Julian family. 

As they’re standing there, a thought occurs to her; rather, a question which she probably should have asked once she learned about his true identity. “Julian?”

“Hm?” 

“I never did ask you if I should call you Jaskier.”

The bard pulls away a little, his brows rising slightly as though inquisitive even if his following statement is as assured as Ciri has come to know him to be, “You call me whatever you’d like, princess.”

Ciri pauses for a long time, considering this; Julian and Jaskier are the same person, and it shouldn’t be so difficult to reconcile the two. Yet, they might very well be strangers to each other by the way they behave, Julian being someone she has gotten to know while Jaskier being the person she sees with Geralt and Yennefer. Julian could be brash and distant, but knowledgeable and reliable. Jaskier is empathic and loving, but too can become distant and brash at times – it as though Julian is an armour to protect Jaskier when the wounds his past has left him are exposed and prodded at, by Geralt, Yennefer… even sometimes Ciri herself. 

It makes Ciri realise that perhaps Julian and Jaskier aren’t actually so different after all. That she has caught glimpses of Jaskier throughout their acquaintance, when the man lets the guard that is Julian down enough for Jaskier to peek through; when he watches over her when she has nightmares, or when he patiently lectures her about everything from survival and foraging, to astrology and navigation. When he entrusted her with how he was tortured, or how he comforted her in the middle of a busy street at the risk of his own safety. Perhaps Jaskier is simply the person the man chooses to be when given the choice and the safety, while Julian is the person forced upon him by the harsh cruelties of their world, much like how his elven nature was forced upon him and stripped him of his humanity. 

Given the choice, Ciri is certain she knows who the now-elf would prefer to be and she smiles softly to herself as she makes a choice of her own. “Alright.”

Jaskier’s smile is equally soft and genuine in return.