Chapter Text
Damn it, Jaskier! Why is it whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days it's you shoveling it!? The child surprise, the djinn, all of it! If Life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands."
Before he'd even finished the words, Geralt had regretted them. Before he even thought them, he'd regretted them. And that was before the sour scent of Jaskier's sudden pain wafted over to him on the breeze, sharp and almost worse than the few times he'd allowed the bard to be hurt. Accidentally, of course. Because, before that day, Geralt had been proud that he'd never turned the sharp edge of his tongue on the human, on the annoying companion that had somehow turned into something like a friend over the years they'd met and parted. He'd been so careful, biting his tongue or turning his back as Jaskier rambled or sang or talked, always talked. The man could never keep a still tongue in his echoing, empty skull. He was always moving, always chattering, like a particularly persistent gnat. And Geralt had never hurt him, had never turned and snapped like the wolf emblazoned on his medallion. He'd been good.
Good.
Like he deserved good things. Then or now, somehow having managed to get back into the graces of Jaskier and Yennefer both. They had come with him, the both of them, beautiful Yennefer and plucky, bold Jaskier. Giving him leniency upon leniency, tolerating his… unique personality with a cutting wit to match or blithe disregard to the sharpest bits of himself, respectively. They'd come to Kaer Morhen, to the rest of his pack. His warriors, he supposed, having won their respect and obedience when he argued endlessly for rising up; for hunting the human monsters who were inhumane, and ending those who did not deserve their kingdoms or lands. They called him Warlord now, Geralt of Riva, the White Wolf Warlord of the North. They were kind, the sorceress and the Bard, and helpful: without their assistance he's fairly sure Ciri would be mostly feral by now. Feral or abandoned somewhere along the path, destiny be damned.
Instead, Kaer Morhen was starting to resemble something a little closer to civilization, and the Witcher's within a little closer to the same. Jaskier, in particular, was assisting that transformation: if Kaer Morhen had needed one thing to completely transform its cold, dank walls? It was music. Music coaxed from an instrument Geralt was still concerned he'd accidentally break one day by looking too firmly at it, all delicate strings and lightweight, hollowed wood. With Jaskier, came music, and with Music came laughter even on the coldest night. Music brought long forgotten feelings back closer, and Geralt was still thankful for that, gazing down where Lambert was attempting-- and mostly succeeding, but only mostly because Jaskier was a slippery little imp when the mood took him-- to lock the bard into a headlock, and receiving only the man's tunic as he squirmed his way free, red faced and laughing.
He still laughed with Geralt, though, so maybe the assurance of his emotional well being shouldn't be judged on the easy sound.
"You're brooding again, Wolf." Vesemir. It's a hard thing not to wince, but Geralt thinks he managed fairly well, keeping his posture loose and gaze pinned on the courtyard just under his window. It's just Vesemir. Vesemir who had found him, alone and… considering. Considering, not brooding. Brooding was something entirely different, and entirely dangerous when the old Witcher was concerned. Brooding meant something had happened. Something any of the Witchers couldn't let go of. Something they felt guilt for and could not give themselves forgiveness for. Vesemir had been the training master since long before Geralt had his milk teeth, and though he technically only had command over the boy's prior to their trials and mutations, that had never stopped the older man from pulling any of the Witchers into his office and giving them a through ass tanning until they could accept that whatever action they had chosen, it had been better than not returning at all. Sometimes it only took a few lashes of the fearsome leather twase the man kept, other times… Well, there were several good reasons all the Witchers who called Kaer Morhen home respected the old man. He was fearsome, and could make even the oldest and strongest of their number feel exactly like the orphaned brat he first met. Brooding was asking to see the man's bad side, and Geralt would rather remain on the far side of the continent rather than allow that to happen… again. Feared White Wolf or not, Vesemir of Kaer Morhen would have his trousers down and bottom red within moments if he ordered it. Geralt was probably stronger than the man… but even considering testing the theory felt distinctly wrong, and if such a thing came to pass, it was all too likely Geralt would be back within the day, ready to take a much worse punishment quietly for even daring.
Vesemir was fair, always, and had never once punished any of their number without a just cause. He'd also never allowed a Witcher to leave holding on to any of their guilt, washed clean under the purifying power of their pain. Geralt couldn't quite see an option that a Witcher didn't yield when Vesemir came, holding his dreaded strap and their name upon his lips. That didn't mean he'd ask for any sort of punishment, warily looking over his shoulder at the older man, cautiously looking him up and down: no weapon on his hip, which honestly didn't mean much. Vesemir had no qualms about pulling someone behind him by their ear, if they weren't coming quietly, having the strap with him wasn't necessary. Still, Geralt let's the silence reign for a long moment t before he grunts in response, looking back at where Lambert now had Jaskier on his shoulders, the bard clinging on with limbs that had no right being as strong as they were, scarecrow of a human Jaskier was.
"No." Vesemir wasn't giving in easily. Geralt's single syllable grunt would have never made him go away, but a wolf could hope. Instead, the aged trainer hums curiously, and Geralt doesn't have to turn again to know exactly what look he's being gifted with: the one where one silvered brow is arched, lifted in curious inquiry. It's a filthy lie. Vesemir was only curious on how deeply a boy could dig himself into trouble before coming clean. Entirely despite himself-- he was fully grown, no longer a half grown pup tying twine around bumblebees and jugs, he did not answer to judgemental silences and politely inquiring questioning-- Geralt finds his mouth moving, shoulders hunching as though that would be enough to cage his words back in his mouth where they properly belonged. "Considering. He's happy here."
Vesemir hums, just sincerely enough not to outright reek of patronizing tolerance, and comes closer. Looks out the window with Geralt, sees the human playing boldly with a man most would only run screaming from-- provided their legs would hold long enough. Lambert was an arse too, encouraging the fear for his own amusement, and to see him so… not gently, not as Jaskier went flying into a hay bundle with enough strength that the watchers can hear his breath explode in a rush from his chest, but gentler than either could recall seeing him was… strange. Good, maybe , but strange.
"He's happy near you." Geralt snorts, shaking his head. That couldn't be true. Or, it could be because Jaskier had less sense than a rock troll that had been dropped down its own mountain, but that didn't make it right. Geralt was an injured wolf, he snapped at anything that came too close. For Ciri he'd muzzled himself, and Yennefer was just as injured, just as much a predator as he was, but Jaskier… Jaskier was all bright sunshine, forcing brightness where Geralt would prefer to linger in the darkness. He was always there, poking and prodding and never knowing when to quit. Always the wrong place at the wrong time, and Geralt always ran into misfortune, and Jaskier was always there, too dense to run when he saw bared steel and bared fangs. He was an easy target, when Geralt needed a handy punching bag. If he had any sense, he'd be long gone, and he says as much, scowling down as Lambert throws his head back in response to a teasing insult from Jaskier's lips.
"And he's a damned fool." Too kind by far, self sacrificing. And Geralt was too much a damned greedy bastard to turn him out as firmly as he wanted to. Or, rather, he had and then felt the loneliness so acutely that he had returned to the Bard's side and hoped against hope Jaskier would allow him to stay. A clemency he didn't deserve and had been granted anyway, Jaskier staring at him for a long moment before sighing and gesturing around the tavern he'd just exited.
" Sorry, I can't seem to find the shit shovel at the moment, we'll have to save that for another time, huh?"
And that had been that. Jaskier had smiled, and fallen in step with Roach when Geralt had moved her over to the side, giving space for man to walk away from the dirt they kicked up. He'd even smiled, when Geralt admitted he was looking for Ciri and had vague plans to start letting a half civilized collection of monster hunters into an army to right the continent's many wrongs. Jaskier had never brought their last meeting up, never demanded Geralt explain himself or apologize for his deliberately hurtful words, just accepted the silver haired man's presence. Followed him around like another wolf, loyal and strong beside their packmate. He'd accepted Yennefer's presence with little more than a few wary conversations and a half hearted apology, sincere but awkward with Yennefer's lack of practice at such things. And Ciri… Jaskier had taken to Ciri like her laughter was another instrument, and he wanted to master the art. And he had, teasing and lightening her mood whenever she was stinking of sorrow Geralt's words or cautious touch couldn't heal, but being more as well. Jaskier had been a listening ear in ways Geralt could not, had offered advice Ciri could actually use instead of Geralt's strangled suggestions on how to disable her opponent, or what herbs could assist her in getting petty revenge. He was good, in all the ways Geralt could never be, and Geralt should not have been forgiven so easily. What he said to Jaskier? The scent of the man's pain, emotional though it clearly cut all the way through him, had been clear enough. And yet, Jaskier didn't even smell slightly wary of him. Hadn't even that first day.
Like Jaskier had accepted the cruelty Geralt had given him. As though he didn't think it was one of the few things Geralt could never forgive himself for. Like he… Geralt couldn't understand it, forcibly pulling himself from his thoughts to glance back at Vesemir once more. It was easier to look at his old teacher, rather than bro-- considering the bard and his inexplicable actions.
"He may be." The growl Geralt gives is instinctive, his lips pulling back from his teeth at the implication that Vesemir would actually agree with him. That anyone else should dare call Jaskier such a thing… Vesemir is utterly unimpressed, straightening his posture as raising both brows at the man who, nominally at least, was his superior. Somehow Geralt didn't fancy attempting to point that kind of thing out. "But his happiness and status as a possible fool isn't in question here, pup. You are, and your brooding."
Pup. Geralt can't resist his wince this time. If being called broody twice now hadn't been an indication that Vesemir had come with one specific task in mind, being called 'pup' would have sealed it. Vesemir thought he needed a thrashing, and had come to deliver it. That name, most of the trainees outgrew it by their fifth winter, graduated to the old man actively trying to remember names, instead of the previous 'boy' or 'pup'. Geralt always thought it was because the old man was reminding those younger, foolhardy children they were still babies compared to his years and experience, but Vesemir never would admit to any one thing. It was just understood that if Vesemir came with that name on his lips and that gleam in his eyes, it was easier to give in.
Geralt had never been one to take the easy route, however.
"I haven't been a pup in a long time, Vesemir." It's as much a dismissal as he dares give, crossing his arms and settling next to the window frame: Lambert had finally left off badgering Jaskier and the duo had left the courtyard. Though it was full of sparring Witchers, it no longer held anything interesting enough to warrant more than a glance any longer. "Perhaps you should go look at your newest group of puppies to remember that."
It's another dismissal, since the older Witcher seemed entirely disinclined to move. It's still all together dangerous, and he doesn't need to be told as much, keeping his jaw tight against further words that may slip past. Ones that-- had he any chance of escaping without feeling the kiss of Vesemir's leather strap-- would see those chances burnt to cinders before his very eyes. Dangerous, and Vesemir had never taken well to Geralt dismissing him, seeming to grow both annoyed and more amused the longer he stood there. Amused at what, Geralt doesn't want to know, letting his scowl deepen as he gestures shortly towards the paperwork on his desk. In all honesty, there wasn't much left, mostly busy work that could have been done by nearly anyone in Kaer Morhen; but spread across the dark wood of his desk, it seemed much more impressive. And much more pressing, hopefully.
"If you'll excuse me, Vesemir…" There. Polite. It had been one of the lessons that Vesemir had never tried to impart particularly hard. Witchers after all, until very recently; were little more than the monsters they hunted. And why should monsters be polite? Most could keep their tongue still long enough to complete deals with whatever branch of society came calling, but any further? It was a crap shoot, and Geralt should know it. He was friends with both the most courtly-- Eskel-- and the rudest-- Lambert-- currently alive and well enough to be on the path. With a punishment threatened, though, perhaps Geralt could afford to take the care he normally didn't offer. He'd already been rude enough, and Vesemir still wasn't moving, still had his gaze calm but set. It was a very bad look on him, especially when he let his stance widen slightly. Very slightly, but it's enough.
Just one shift of movement, the smallest repositioning of his weight and center of gravity and Vesemir , eldest of the Witchers and Geralt's main adviser became Vesemir, one of the fiercest warriors Geralt had ever seen. A danger, without shifting his scent or facial expression, still coolly inquiring. This man was the terror of trainees, the sole person who could and did rein in every other soul from the Wolf School. This was the man every Witcher yielded to, the one who would make grown, mutated killers bend their heads and shuffle their feet like newly whelped boys. Vesemir the strong, Vesemir the enduring. It's entirely against his will that Geralt straightens, becomes alert in the face of the danger, wishing briefly for his swords and armor if only for the familiar weight they would be on his back. There was a good reason Geralt relished a spar with the older man, whenever he could be tempted after teaching bull headed boys all day, and it was because he always was learning. He had to, if he stood any chance of keeping the footing between himself and Vesemir close to even. Geralt liked to fight the man in training, in jest, because in a real fight? Where there would be purposeful blood and swords that wouldn't be turned so the flat of the blade struck instead of the honed edge? There would be no way to declare an easy winner, and even calling it a 'win' would be too strongly worded a statement. That was the man now facing Geralt, and it was impossible not to respond to it, the flaring of his nostrils and pupils blown wide to gather even the smallest bit of light in.
Geralt may be the warlord of the North… but Vesemir had been his training master for far longer. Muscle memory was a hard mistress, and the absence of a training field or room, absence of his silver or steel… It was getting harder to resist the need to shuffle, to slump his shoulders and duck his head, look down. Look away. Geralt needed to surrender, to appease the older man who had given him more punishments than he had ability to count. Not that any of the punishments Vesemir had handed out had been forgettable, Geralt could remember each one and how he'd changed his behavior to avoid the same. He had never been caught twice for the same offense, but Geralt had heard… whispers, around the corners in the keep. And even exaggerated several hundred times the way boys, and men in all truth, did… that was something he'd like to continue avoiding. For the rest of his unnaturally long life. And then some, because while Geralt had doubts on the existence of ghosts, if anyone could both find them and tan their hides, it would be the old man in front of him. It's getting to be unbearable, and Vesemir refuses to say anything. Normally, that would have been Geralt'a preference. He actively enjoyed silence, and found Jaskier's frequent and loud dislike of it rather humorous. He'd even used the silence against the bard on several occasions. Maybe he shouldn't have, or shouldn't in the future. If this was how the bard felt during it. And Jaskier, being a fragile human, no matter how he kept up fairly well among Witchers and seemingly thick skinned, didn't even have the ability to growl back at Geralt. Not this true growl, deep with just the slightest curl to one lip to offer nothing but threat, even if he was weaponless save his own body.
And Vesemir knew exactly how strong Geralt was. He'd trained him. The growl doesn't even phase him, blinking slowly in the hazy afternoon light, dust motes floating slowly past the window. And only when the growl stops, when the silence presses down too firmly, when Geralt breaks from his rigid stance to shuffle, does he speak. Like pages in the oldest parts of the library, delicate and worn to be seen through, his voice is dusty dry. Papery, though steel still runs through it. Through him.
"How quickly the youth forget, pup…" Not good, not good. Geralt needs to escape, to get out of there, to climb to the highest tower, clinging with nothing but his fingertips and battling the wind and frozen tiles both. He needs to get away, before it's too late. Vesemir isn't dropping his stance, is firm and steady as the very mountains Kaer Morhen was carved from, old enough to have risen with them and steady enough to remain upright even when those mountains eroded into bare hills. Vesemir wasn't going to drop it, the only way to avoid this was to run. There was only so much one could face without retreat and for Geralt? Those things were simple: destiny, emotional conversations and, perhaps the worst, calmly collected trainers bent on getting a confession out of him. And with the confession, with the truth, Geralt would never be able to save his tail from the through hiding he had coming. "You do recall I was the one who forced you through your arithmetic courses, do you not? The one who got to… observe just how cluttered you'd allow your desk to become in the hopes of pity from myself or your fellow trainees. How when your skull was enveloped in chaos, it would follow to your work stations?"
It was a body blow, Geralt couldn't redirect quickly enough, his stomach dropping from its normal position to hide somewhere under his desk. Somewhere far, far away from Vesemir. Somewhere far enough he couldn't actually get to, like his stomach would be able to get a reprieve while the rest of him received a punishment. There's no time to hide his full body wince, suddenly caught out and just as flat footed as he'd been the very first day he looked up and up and up to see the stern Visage of Vesemir. He had trust, now, something his past self couldn't claim. Trust and knowledge of the man, which eased some of the terror… but with that knowledge of the softer-- and that was only in comparison, like saying pure silver was a softer metal than steel, both hurt like a bitch if one caught a solid lump of them-- side of the man came with knowledge of his punishments. Which made the easing of terror moot, exchanged with wary dread with every slowed beat of his heart. Vesemir was calling him out, telling him he was truly well caught, evidence upon evidence. Geralt.. Geralt doesn't want to admit it, swallowing heavily as he considers the room he's well and truly trapped in.
But he can't give in. Not… not yet, hopefully not ever, because if Vesemir caught him, he'd be facing two of his three 'flee on sight' situations. Vesemir wouldn't stop until Geralt admitted what drove him to brooding and if he did… well, Jaskier would have to be involved in some way and the man attracted emotionally wrought conversations like horseshit did flies. One last attempt at reason, though his shoulders refuse to square and his eyes refuse to lift higher than the man's chin.
"Vesemir. I'm an adult, I can handle my own… misgivings about a situation without it being brooding. Leave well enough alone and fuck off." The last is spat from between clenched teeth, his own impatience finally showing as he takes a few swift steps to his desk, shoving the papers into a rough semblance of order, though he couldn't say what papers did what and why he placed each of them where he did. It was merely an attempt to keep his hands busy, busy enough they wouldn't fist, wouldn't try and shove Vesemir out of his office. That would be a poor idea, taken from Geralt's own experience, back when he was truly just a pup, foolhardy and stupid off anger and newly found strength both. Vesemir had made him regret it then, and he'd make him regret it now. The papers may be crinkled under his heavy hand, but at least his arse end won't match Jaskier's crimson outfit, from that far away mountain top. Small miracles. He'd make Eskel deal with this anyway, if the night progressed like he thought-- feared-- it would, he wouldn't be fit to handle something sitting down for a few more days. Witcher punishments aren't for the faint hearted, after all.
" Geralt." That tone… it's enough to freeze Geralt's blood in his veins, keeping his head down for another long moment before his eyes skitter across the ground. Searching for anything-- an emergency only he could handle, a handy excuse, Ciri to pop her head from any handy hiding space to beg for attention… nothing is coming to his rescue. Nothing is there, and Geralt needs to leave. Five minutes ago. Ten. Six weeks ago, when he reconnected with the Bard and invited him back to Kaer Morhen. "That is more than enough whelp. You know exactly why we cannot allow our warriors to brood and why the methods of punishment are as effective as they are. Now come here, and let's get it over with."
Few names are worse than "pup" when a Witcher was in trouble and in for a thrashing. Pup meant they were acting foolishly, stupidly, no better than the younglings fresh on the other side of their trials. Witchers, but barely able to walk from one side of the keep to the other, distracted and distraught with new instincts and centers of balance. It meant they were acting as though freshly trained, unblooded. Childish. Their name, in that particular tone only those in positions of authority and honored to the point where all would accept punishment from their hand could wield. That was worse, for some reason, the disappointment, perhaps that infused every word. Maybe the care that their name also showed, the fact that it was a personal failing that had earned the bite of a lash across their flanks. A few others, in varying degrees of severity. Whelp… whelp was the worst. Geralt had never had the name attached to himself, had never fallen that far from Vesemir's favor before. A whelp was worse than a boy, because the boys had not yet become Witchers and couldn't be held to the same standard. To be acting as… the only word to describe it was naughty, despite how the word makes Geralt want to curl up and hide somewhere very small and very dark, as a boy before his trials. There was something humiliating about it, something Geralt wasn't going to think too deeply on, keeping his gaze down and carefully not focused on Vesemir's stance.
There's a chance, slim but the only one he has, that if Geralt can make it out the slightly opened door just behind and to the left of Vesemir, he could out run the aging man. If he could just manage it…
Geralt doesn't wait for a perfect opportunity. There's no tightness in his body or gleam in his eyes to foretell his intentions. He just waits, silent and still, a hunter waiting for a monster. A Witcher waiting on the path, almost able to be mistaken as a boulder or a darkly dense patch of undergrowth. And when he can wait no longer, when it's move or die, Geralt of Riva, the White Wolf Warlord of the North, explodes into motion.
Witcher sharp reflexes ensure nothing is a blur, that every movement is sharp and clear, as though time itself had slowed before his eyes. Still, when facing an opponent who had all the same skills, the same speed and dagger sharp reflexes, with more years than Geralt would ever hope to see under his belt, some things are clearer than others:
The clap of roughed palms to his desk, loud for unmutated humans and worse for Witchers with their fox sharp ears, with a roar chasing the sound across the room, his throat aching at the sharp, sudden cry ripped from it. A formless shout, meant to startle, a bare edge of advantage as his legs bunch, release, kicking his weight up and over the edge of his desk. Up onto his desk, briefly taller than Vesemir and belatedly seeing the look of deep unimpressed annoyance on his elder's face as he swings around, smart enough to avoid the easiest exit for now--
"I said fuck off, Vesemir!" And all of Kaer Morhen will know what's going on by now, the racket Geralt was producing wouldn't exactly be subtle even if none of the others had been bent over and strapped by the training master. Seeing they were who they were… Blushing took time, energy and shame that Geralt couldn't be arsed to give in the moment, rolling off the desk to come up crouching and rolling once more to avoid what should be a hand snatching at where his hair was. He'd run, once or twice, from a well deserved tanning and Vesemir had always managed to get him with that trick. Geralt was older than he had been back then, however, and it wouldn't work this time. He didn't need to pause and ascertain Vesemir's next steps, he could anticipate them. He could…
The door clicking shut was suddenly very loud.
Geralt freezes, crouched with his knees barely off the rough stone of the office floor. The position was wrong, too much time needed to shift his weight for either a forward spring or a backward roll, but that seemed rather fruitless now. Fruitless, because most of the Witcher's enemies fought stupidly. Animalistically. Entirely off instinct and the blind needs: food, shelter, water. And most were fought outdoors, with a thousand escape routes should they be needed. Every beast Geralt fought wouldn't know what to do with a door if they saw one. Even clever species would rather tear it off its hinges rather than let an obstacle stand in their way. And when the humans turned on him-- few times now, with Jaskier's work they were far more likely to offer him a drink than they were to pelt him with stones-- they were always slow enough he could easily outpace all of them. Keeping an escape route unimpeded had never been vital before. Had never even been needed.
Here? Now? With a story long drop over an courtyard filled with his men-- who probably stopped training ages ago to shamelessly listen in-- who would no doubt already know why their Leader was breaking priceless glass to escape one old training master. That escape route should have been his first priority, and Vesemir was now standing in front of it, arms crossed over his chest and scowling to cow the proudest of emperors. Geralt swallows hard, slowly rising to his feet. Witchers don't feel nausea, like so many of their weaker human habits that had been burned out as a reaction to all but the most poisonous of ails, but Geralt still remembered the twisting in his gut moments before vomiting when he was a child. The same feeling was present now, like he had eaten an entire vipers nest and the things were still well and alive within his stomach.
It only got worse when Vesemir uncrossed his arms to snap his fingers and point at a patch of cold stone roughly two meters from where he stood.
Trapped, and without a way free, Geralt silently obeyed. He couldn't not, not with the displeased look in Vesemir's eye. The older Witcher was always firm with them, always strict, but sometimes there was just an edge in his eyes. In his posture, as fingers still too strong to be comfortable shoot out, latching firmly on the curve of his upper ear. Geralt's surprise escapes in a sharp cry, pressure unyielding as the vicious training master takes advantage of his surprise to twist the tender flesh in his grip as Geralt's hands lift of their own accord, attempting to dislodge his own.
"Now that I have your attention, pup, are you ready to accept your punishment like the Witcher you claim to be, and so follow me back to my chambers? Or would you rather stand in the corner until dinnertime, during which you shall be our sole entertainment, your bare bottom being given a sound thrashing?" There's no choice there. Witchers may not be able to blush, but Geralt can't help but feel the heat in his cheeks, the back of his neck and ears. Heat, without color, but the embarrassment was the same, the deeply rooted shame, fed and exploding with growth. He hadn't… he hadn't--
"Vesemir!" Thankfully, Geralt notes his voice didn't crack or waver the way he was afraid it would. He hadn't been stuck in a corner since well before his trials. His misbehavior had always earned him serious enough punishment to go directly to the more physical aspects of it: clearly defined and explained rules that he deliberately and knowingly broke. Often in front of Vesemir himself. " Stop this! I'm not… I'm not some boy!"
Vesemir can't help but laugh at him, humorlessly but there. Geralt liked it, normally, when Vesemir laughed. The older Witcher had precious little enough to laugh about, and each instance was some form of proof that the Path didn't completely eradicate every bit of humanity Witchers had left. If reminded him of that, through the blood and viscera of their existence, past the stonings and the glares and the hurled insults. Now? Geralt half wished that Vesemir would choke on it, and leave him very much alone. The bastard didn't seem to care either, twisting the ear he still cruelly held. The idea to push at the hands trapping his flesh is tempting… but Geralt already knows it's futile, Vesemir had him, and pushing his hand away would only invite additional punishment. And nothing particularly appealing either, loathe the man's belt as much as he did, Geralt still didn't want to be told to go cut a switch. There were some humiliations he felt like he should be able to avoid, at this point in his life. He might not be able to. But he wanted to.
"Then you should be perfectly content to follow me and come accept your punishment. Without fuss. " The additional pulling on his ear was entirely unwarranted and Geralt hates it, pulling at the way his ear aches and it's already turning into more of a punishment than he's had to endure for ages. He's not Lambert: he doesn't attract Vesemir's displeasure nearly weekly, having trouble sitting for more meals than he didn't. Geralt was-- he wasn't the good one, not even from just within his class, that would have been Eskel-- but he wasn't nearly bad enough to deserve that scolding. He'd never fussed over a punishment, anyone who claimed he had was remembering the entire ordeal incorrectly. But pointing that fact would only earn him more of Vesemir's rare, but genuine laughter. He may be a bastard of every kind but Geralt isn't willing to part with his dignity to allow the old man's laughter, gritting his teeth and suppressing a growl. That sort of thing, the growling and looming he preferred to keep the rest of humanity a few hundred paces back, just enough to be safe, wouldn't work here. Vesemir saw him, after all. Still entirely human with spots on his face and voice trying and failing to properly break. And, later, when all the survivors of the trials tried to break in their newly adjusted vocal chords: unfortunate squeaks and shrill pitches even as they tried to let it deepen. Vesemir had seen every single embarrassing phase in Geralt's life, besides diapers thankfully, growling at him would be less than a kitten hissing at its queen. So he stifles the urge, even if he keeps his teeth bared as Vesemir stands by quite unbothered, keeping his fingers pinched tightly around Geralt's ear.
He won't be released without an answer. Vesemir is an arsehole. The older man knew of Geralt's preference for silence, and in every punishment had used it against him, forcing the ever uncooperative words from Geralt's throat. It's tempting, so incredibly tempting for Geralt to keep his silence, to let this draw out far past its natural conclusion, until Vesemir forgot all about his little fixation on punishing Geralt for… for the imagined slight of Geralt's brooding on things he couldn't changed but still ached fiercely from. But while he was also pathetically petty, Geralt just knows his brother's are waiting under the window, outside the door. He doesn't exactly wish to speed the process of Vesemir tanning his hide-- it's going to happen at this point, Geralt surrenders with a long drawn out sigh-- but drawing the process out is also an annoying embarrassment. The ribbing he was getting for his… obsession over Jaskier and clear adoration for Ciri was enough, he didn't need to add cowardice over a thrashing of all things, standing as tall as he could with his ear pinched between Vesemir's fingers.
"... I'll follow." It's a concession, but not enough of one. Vesemir's hand remains firm and unyielding. Of all the annoyances… Geralt curses under his breath, eyes closing briefly as he works to keep his temper in check. 'Damnnit Jaskier! Why is it--' flashing through his memory to add an acidic emphasis on why keeping said temper in check was of the utmost importance. "Without fuss."
Oh so that's enough to get them moving, at least. Vesemir opens the door, but his hold remains. His hold on Geralt's ear, dragging him out of the door and down the halls. It's embarrassing, the soft curses as witchers flee, turning and scrambling away from nearby nooks and doorways, running away before the pair can spot them. With good reason, there had been times where Vesemir had caught a Witcher or two who had been too slow to evacuate when one of their fellows was in trouble and had disciplined multiple witchers at once. Geralt envies those able to scramble away, briefly indulging in a dark surge of jealousy, the knowledge that they're free to run and avoid Vesemir's belt like that, while he tried it and got his ear pinched like a dirty street urchin attempting to run free from their duties. He was caught, and his brothers ran free. Geralt would spend more time resenting it, but fuck. Vesemir's age had done nothing to weaken his grip strength and Geralt is starting to question if anything ever will, dragged along by the hold like a naughty pup he hasn't been in nearly two human lifetimes.
"Someone's in trouble~!" Lambert. Geralt wants to run off after his brother, do something violent and vile to the man he's known for what feels like far too long, no matter that they'd put their tails into the fire for the other in a heartbeat. Lambert was just like that, an annoyance and an asshole but one of the best men Geralt knew. Which, considering how many people he actually claimed to know and how well the general populace treated Witchers, didn't truly say much… but the thought remained. Still, Geralt didn't exactly like the truth of the matter to be pointed out so bluntly, and he tries to turn his head, searching for the hint of reddened hair and black leather. There is none, of course, because that would be remarkably unintelligent and there was no such thing as a stupid Witcher, those who could be called such died off before their first winter. The path was no place for fools or humans, and only a fool would remain within eyesight when Vesemir was dragging one of them to his chambers: the most well appointed of them all, with a separate sitting room beside the bedchamber in deference to his age and wisdom. Still, Geralt allows his lip to curl, knowing Vesemir would hear and continuing anyway.
"See if I cover for you next time you get drunk and decide that someone's else's things are good dress up costumes." It's all threat, but one Geralt was willing to follow through on. He had, after all, helped Lambert get all of the other Witcher's scent inside Vesemir's old leather hat, bribing or threatening or begging all their brothers so the old man couldn't tell exactly who had stolen-- and subsequently ruined-- an old hat of his. It may not have been used for decades at that point, but Vesemir had still been furious when he found it, squashed outside under a pile of goat dung that several people had unknowingly stepped in and ground into the misshapen thing. There's silence from Lambert, and Geralt almost thinks he's won, that the annoying little shit that was his brother had accepted his loss with grace, before that thought is completely eradicated with all the subtlety of a kikimora falling upon its prey: silence before a screeching explosion. Geralt should have known better, bared teeth shifting into a smirk instead of a threatening growl, right before Lambert continues.
"And I'll tell your little bard exactly what you truly think of him. If we all had to deal with your moping about all last winter over breaking the boy's heart, the very least we can do is tease you about it now, don't you think?" The utter ass! Geralt freezes, teeth gritting as that sharply increases the pain in his ear, Vesemir not caring to stop with him.and merely continuing as though he were utterly oblivious to the two's whispered argument. Geralt would accuse old age of dulling his hearing but… more likely Vesemir deliberately ignored some things because it would be too tiring to constantly be chasing their tails to try and enforce complete order. With some of the chore assignments he issued, it was also likely he punished them in more subtle, creative ways as well as the obvious. In any case, Geralt could only stand and glower at where he heard Lambert's voice coming from for a few steps before he's being drug along, thankfully into Vesemir's chambers now and unable to turn and pummel Lambert into a very ugly shitstain on the ground. And, because the man can still hear him, wooden door closing or not, Geralt can't allow Lambert to get the last word in, growling before Vesemir can start talking.
"Fuck you , Lambert. Better stock up on Swallow before our next spar, because I'm likely to rip off your damn tongue and make you choke on it." It would regrow, after all. Geralt knew through unfortunate first hand experience.
Raucous laughter is his only response for a long moment, and then mentions of other things Geralt could choke on instead. Ass.
"If you're done…?" Vesemir. Geralt swallows, hard, feeling his stomach drop somewhere around his knees at the censure in the older witcher's voice. That had been a poor choice, clearly, arguing back to Lambert, even if the little shit deserved it and so much more. Finding the words to admit it won't come, however and Geralt merely grunts, letting his eyes leave Vesemir's aged face, drifting off to the side and seriously considering if surrendering and begging for leniency would do anything at this point. He didn't want to be told to bend over the deep chest that stored Vesemir's large collection of personal journals and clothes he no longer regularly used but maintained for reasons he refused to explain-- it also served a function as a desk for writing said journals, a table when he didn't feel like indulging the mess hall and all its brawls and noise, and when a Witcher required it, a handy place to bend over, exposing their thighs and asses at just about the right height to accept the lash of Vesemir's belt. The damn thing had to be custom built, old enough that even Vesemir doesn't quite remember its original purpose, but it was unusually tall, reaching just under Geralt's ribs. Bending over the thing was bad enough, drawing all his skin tight over his muscles, but some decades ago someone-- Geralt refused to say who at this point-- had been stubborn and kept reaching back, trying to block the old man's powerful swing. That had been fixed the very next day, and now set into the floor an inch or so away was a pair of dark metal bars. Witchers, during their punishment were now given an option: hold onto the bars and keep their hands away from their backside or have Vesemir cuff their hands there himself. One of those options was vastly preferable, but Geralt could-- again, refusing to name names-- recall some instances of Witchers refusing and having the option removed for them. But the top of the chest was wide enough and the bars low enough that to reach them meant none of their toes even brushed the stone once they stood over the damn thing.
Geralt had been hurt before. Sometimes deliberately for information and sometimes because his life was shit, but he could honestly claim that those damn bars were actual, active torture, no matter what Vesemir claimed about protecting their hands. Geralt has suspicions about Vesemir's logic, about why he had a chest that was so handily the right height to punish witchers, with a top that had decently padded edges and top, around the right length to keep their torsos well supported and how the sides weren't all quite even. "A rotten board being removed" made a certain kind of sense… except that the board had never been replaced, making the two sides different heights. And, because of course it was, the shorter side was handily where the bars were, forcing whatever poor bastard was being punished to have his hips held distinctly higher than the rest of his body. It was slight, not enough to overly affect the general usefulness of the chest, but just enough that it made the damn thing ever so slightly more comfortable as well as more damning, pulling the skin of their ass and thighs ever tighter and making it harder to get free once Vesemir had them in place. It could all be a coincidence, Geralt had seen enough of them after all… but despite that, Geralt was fairly sure that the chest was made for the main purpose of belting misbehaving Witchers and all the other useful aspects were happy additions. Not that he'd ever admit it out loud, not even to his brothers.
The thing was awful, deserved to be burned and Geralt hated it, breathing deeply and trying to ignore how his entire body was already slumping, giving into the impulse to try and silently appease the older man. It wouldn't work, and he wouldn't want it to, but Geralt doesn't so much as rub at his ear when Vesemir releases it, folding his arms sharply across his chest and scowling at the floor.
"Done." He finally grunts, when it becomes clear Vesemir is waiting for an answer. For once it's hard to refrain from continuing talking, mentioning the general unfairness of the entire situation. He wasn't brooding and it was ridiculous that Vesemir claimed he was. And if Geralt was feeling the slightest, smallest stirrings of guilt over the bard and his harsh rejection of said bard… that was his own business. It was something he could control, could lock away and not have it distract him at the worst possible time. It wasn't, like it often had been in the past, something he would ruminate on. Until he could think of nothing else and the guilt started to eat him alive. Those instances had always happened when he failed to save someone, when a monster had killed while he'd been too far away, because he had chosen to spend another night at an inn before hunting instead of starting tired and already sore. Jaskier was alive, he could fix everything. He didn't need this, and certainly not from Vesemir. Vesemir had his trust, of course, and Geralt was vaguely thankful the man was willing to take his harsh methods to their asses if any Witcher needed him, but unlike every other time Vesemir couldn't stand in for those Geralt failed. Because Geralt had failed Jaskier and Jaskier seemed to refuse to punish him with words-- always the bard's most cutting weapon, Geralt had seen and truthfully admired the way Jaskier could wield the same things he found so clunky and unnatural in his own mouth-- or through physical means, as little as he'd be able to do with his strength and speed.
Across from him, Vesemir sighs. It's a sound that Geralt is well used to by this point in his sorry existence, hanging his head a little more as he does so. Because that sigh never meant disappointment, never sounded heavy with shame or disgust. Those were easy enough to shoulder, even if they felt infinitely more cutting coming from someone he truly cared about, because Geralt had enough experience accepting them as his due. No, this sigh was somehow far more difficult to acknowledge, to accept. Because when Vesemir sighed, particularly like this, it was because he was fond. He was sharing a slice of Geralt's sorrow and was sorry he had to punish Geralt at all. But he wanted to help, no matter how unpleasant the help was for either of them. It holds nothing but kindness. Acceptance and empathy. It was full of emotion Geralt was entirely unused to handling, and he only flinches from it a little, mutely accepting it when hands settle on his shoulders. They're firm, and that can hurt, he knows it, but they're gentle for now. Kind, and bracing.
"I don't want to punish you, Geralt." There's a low burr in his voice, gruffness like the kindness is as choking for him to voice as it is for Geralt to hear, both of them wanting to scurry away from the emotion like bugs when their safe rock is overturned and the harsh sunlight beats suddenly upon them, but persevering because it's something important. "I don't want to be the cause of your pain. Being a Witcher is damned enough of that. But if you cannot expunge this guilt it will only hurt you longer. You have a large heart, pup, and it's a blessing as much as a curse. This guilt, the self loathing that will spring from it, those are your downfalls. You cannot bear getting away without repenting for your failures, and so you punish yourself. You allow wounds you could have avoided, because you're too wrapped up in the past, in the feelings instead of the lessons. You slow yourself because you do not sleep, ruminating on all the times someone has gotten hurt because you weren't there. You allow your swords to dull because caring for them feels too much like caring for yourself and your guilt convinces you that you do not deserve that. It's a senseless persecution of yourself that only leads to more failure, more guilt, more pain. And all the while you cannot forgive yourself for any of it, and so you keep trying harder. Failing harder. Hurting harder. It only ends with your death, pup, if not handled properly."
He knows. Damn it all, Geralt knows. Vesemir says nearly the same damn thing every time he has to call one of them into his chambers for something that happened on the Path during the summer. The other things, pranks and brawls and misbehavior, much of that he ignores. Indulges. Graces them with deliberate ignorance until he can't and then swiftly punishes those who step over the line. Those times are easier, because at least then Geralt needent listen to this coddling affirmation twisting inside his gut, like a Striga searching for his liver and managing to twist every other organ instead. Then he can accept the thrashing he knew he deserved and continue later on, more subtly and with the hissed sympathy of his brothers. But here and now? This gentleness may very well be his undoing, the care Vesemir currently wears. It's not a mask, like he once thought in his early years, when Vesemir had been a terrifying creature to be obeyed instantly; but a glimpse behind the mask of stern training master. A momentary allowance for Geralt to see the older man in all his truth. It wouldn't last. And these glimpses are never worth what's coming… but it's nice. Reassuring. Pleasant, to be reminded why he's turning towards the torture instrument without needing to be prompted further, closing his eyes against the discomfort burning in the back of them, and undoing his belt and ties holding his trousers up. Without the rough string, they fall and Geralt takes another moment to do the same with his small clothes, allowing both to fall where they may. Sometimes Vesemir is particular about being tidy but rarely when one of them is about to have their ass whipped. A minor mercy, Geralt supposes, walking over to the damned contraption and hefting his body over the top, finding the handholds and gripping them reflexively as Vesemir moves, grabbing something that stinks of leather and the salty water that meant tears and coming closer.
The cuffs. It's going to be bad enough Vesemir doesn't trust him to keep his hands in place. Which… is fair, Geralt supposes, trying to remember to breathe despite how his heart is vainly attempting to reach normal human speeds. Unlike other times, where his mistakes had been an effect of honest mistakes or out of his control, this mistake… This mistake had been deliberate. Geralt had been aching. Hurt down to the very core of his twisted, mutated being, and Jaskier had been right there. He was an injured beast, and Jaskier had been easy prey. He had turned, deliberately and with true malice, and struck. Repeatedly. Again and again, he allowed hateful words to spew against Jaskier, aiming for every soft spot, every insecurity he had found about his friend whether the man had told him or he inferred them. Geralt had been trusted by the bard, and had been allowed to see so deeply into the man's soul. And instead of protecting that vulnerable underside, Geralt had ripped into it. Had been the monster Jaskier needed to stay away from. Of course this punishment would be bad: Geralt doesn't think he would be able to let it go if it wasn't, staring down at the stone floor and refusing to look at Vesemir's shoes as his hands are secured to the metal bars. He deserves this. He needs to do this, to make it up to Jaskier and possibly prove to the man that he can be trusted once more. He needs to.
But the air is cold against his exposed backside, and Vesemir's touch is leaving his wrists now, drawing away after securing the leather down tightly, making it impossible for even Witcher strength to free him. Geralt was trapped, and would stay trapped until Vesemir freed him. Kept captive and still, exactly where he was needed. This, as he thought of all parts of punishments as they progressed, was the worst part. The helplessness, every bit of himself exposed and waiting for pain. No chance to fight back, no way to prevent what he had coming, every single escape route taken and removed. Shut down.
Trapped.
All that could be done was to grit his teeth, bowing his head to allow the brilliant fall of white hair to shield his face. It's habit, to test the handcuffs, flexing for a moment against the leather and almost relaxing when all the material does is creak slightly, as though acknowledging his efforts but refusing to allow him any headway. But it makes his shoulders ache, straining in a position that was both all too familiar and strange, and he stops testing his bonds quickly enough. He's not going anywhere, and Vesemir is allowing him the time to ensure it. Geralt isn't sure just what he would do, should the leather show signs of breaking: it could be an escape, possibly, or a chance to be honest with his mentor and have the punishment postponed while Vesemir found new handcuffs-- leather and metal that could contain the full force of a Witcher straining against it wasn't common, after all-- which may take a while. Not that it had ever happened, Vesemir knew his restraints-- Geralt firmly refused to think why that may be, because the man was somewhere between his brother and his father and he knew there were precious few monster-related reasons why anyone would know how to keep a human shaped thing so well subdued-- but he always tested the leather anyway and Vesemir always allowed him the opportunity without scolding. It was… a minor mercy, and Geralt accepted it as one, flexing one more time as the sounds of shifting cloth and shoes against stone reveals Vesemir's position, walking to just behind him, with a brief stop to pick up the most dreaded weapon in the entire keep. It wasn't a sword, or sharpened steel, or the poisons and toxins they removed from monsters. No, in all the wide, shit stained world a Witcher walks, the very worst weapon they all fear is their own training master's tawse.
There's some kind of irony in that, Geralt thinks, in the desperate moments between hearing the leather's soft slide against the it's usual wooden resting place and when Vesemir's shoes stop somewhere behind him. Something Jaskier would probably wax poetic on, should Geralt ever have the misfortune of the bard hearing of this… method. Something about the harshest blows only coming from those one cared for most or other such nonsense. He swallows hard once more, shifting his hips uncomfortably because no matter how well cushioned the edge of the chest bites into the soft skin at his pelvis, and utterly uncertain if he wants to beg Vesemir for leniency or to just get on with it. There would be no warm up, no easy start of clapping hand to rear to make the punishment easier to start. Maybe, if Geralt had truly been a pup still, or if his infraction hadn't been compounded by his attempts to run or argue with his old master… but he wasn't, and he had. Geralt knows there is to be no mercy, and yet he waits for it anyway. He always waits for it, silently begging the universe to not drop him into horseshit for once in his miserable and unnaturally prolonged life.
The universe never sees fit to grant him the boon.
There's always time, that's the problem. Geralt can feel the microseconds tick by agonizingly slowly. Vesemir does this, he thinks, on purpose. Time just before the punishment starts to let the Witcher on his bad side stew in their own poor choices and the anticipation of getting their ass beat. The anticipation Geralt hates in particular, gritting his teeth and breathing slowly, attempting and failing to get his breath back under control, deepening it out of sheer self preservation. He'll need that oxygen, that few moments of control. He'll need… No Witcher-- perhaps no man, but Geralt couldn't say, already a trainee far before his voice broke and he would ever be considered a human man-- would admit to fear, especially not from a punishment that evoked thoughts of young children after a few slaps over trousers or skirts, sniffling and easily made repentant. But there was that certain anxiety, making adrenaline rush thick and hot through his body, heightening the senses he was already cursed with. The steady breathing of Vesemir behind him may as well have been the bellows on the largest smithy's main fire. The sound of his brothers in the hall-- crowding close again because they're all awful-- were cannon shots in the near distance. The stone, which he already had memorized to each agonizingly tiny detail, swells in his vision until the specks of dirt staining it are boulders on the landscape, even the microscopic dust motes flowing to the floor having their defined edges, crisp and clear as the mutagens try to sharpen everything to prepare for the threat. The danger. Even his nose, arguably the sense he ignored most strongly due to the… unfortunate scent of most of his prey, was flaring now. He could smell it, the Witcher last over this cursed chest. It had been Lambert, because of course it had, and Geralt breathes deeply of the little asshole's scent, trying in vain to ground himself as the moment finally broke.
There was always time, and that was the problem. Because during the time before the first stroke, where he probably should be mastering his senses and focusing on what he did wrong and where Geralt always hyper focused on the wrong things, it was so easy to forget. To forget just who was wielding the tawse behind him, forget that in the aged arms there was still more than enough strength to flay the muscle from bone underneath with an unsharpened spoon, forget how much this was about to hurt. There was always time, to hope for a miracle, to hope for redemption or the never happened instance where Vesemir would change his mind. There was time and that would always be Geralt's least favorite part of this entire shithole. Because after the time, after the moment he can never actually determine the length of, he can hear it when Vesemir draws back the strap, takes aim and allows the damned tool to fly forward. Geralt can hear it whistling for fucks sake! And he knows, he knows not to clench down, to not brace himself for the blow because it will make it strike all the deeper and yet… and yet.
It doesn't help.