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The witchers could remember when it first happened. Vesemir sent his boys out on their yearly hunts, and they were back home by winter. But that winter has been different. Vesemir was worried sick. Most of his boys had returned except for Geralt. Admittedly, Vesemir wasn't one for holding out on hope, but this was Geralt. Vesemir readied the medical wing in case he came back injured. Lambert, Eskel, and Coen could not unwind from their trips. Instead, they shined and practiced their blades. They figured there was a chance that Geralt was on the path but got stopped by a beast who would not leave him.
The four of them were all but pacing in the fortress. Their enhanced witcher hearing picked up the clamping of a horse and rushed outside into the frost. They found Geralt riding in. They ran and flanked him. Vesemir yelled, “Geralt! What bloody took so long? Are you injured? Are you being followed?”
Geralt slid off Roach and began leading her to the nearby stables. The others followed him as he explained, “I’m fine.”
Lambert yelled at him, “Really? You scare the shit out of us, and all you can say is that you’re fine?”
Geralt nodded.
Lambert puffed in annoyance. Geralt properly put up Roach, and the five returned to the keep. After they entered, and the howling wind was no longer biting their skin, Eskel stretched. He announced, “I’m heading down to the springs.”
The others agreed. Vesemir shook his head. Under all the stress the last few days had left him, he knew he needed a dip too. They all found a stairwell that led them to some gorgeous underground round hot springs lit with glass hanging lanterns. Without much thought, they all stripped and tossed all their clothes, weapons, and leather armor on the stone ground. They began to slide in and marinate in a semicircle. The witchers slowly relaxed and all but melted into the water. The stink and grime of the witchers washed away, leaving only the familiar smells of each witcher… almost.
Coen scrunched his nose. He asked, “What’s that smell?”
The other witchers paused. They took big whiffs. Lambert grumbled, “Which one of you fuckers started wearing fancy oils?”
They looked at each other before all eyes landed on Geralt. He mumbled, “What?”
Eskel asked, “Why do you smell funny?”
Vesemir added, “It is why you were late?”
Geralt caved, “Some bard decided to be my travel companion whether I wanted him to or not.”
Lambert raised a brow and asked, “And you let him?”
Geralt shrugged, “I punched him. He wouldn’t leave.”
“Does he have a death wish?”
“Probably.”
Lambert said, “At least he’s gone now.”
Vesemir replied, “For now. I’m sorry, boys, but bards have a habit of telling tales. Who knows what he’s said by now? We’ll have to prepare for a more harsh environment next year.”
The others groaned. After a beat of silence, Eskel couldn’t help but ask, “Geralt, did you feel less lonely than usual?”
Geralt hummed. Lambert joked, “And that’s the last we’ll hear from him for the entire winter.”
Lambert wasn’t wrong. The next spring, Lambert, Eskel, Coen, and Aiden had met up at a cheap tavern a few days ride from Kaer Morhen. They were heading out to the path and had happened to find the place at the same time. The tavern was similar to others they’d visited with wooden tables and chairs, gruff tapsters behind the bar, and busty servers selling drinks. They ate mediocre food at an old table. They paid no attention to the others around them until they heard the strums of a lute. They found it odd that a bard would make their way to some backwater town like this, but then they figured the bard was desperate. They looked over briefly and found a young brunette man standing in the center of the room. His clothes were blue with red and yellow stripes. It was flashy, but that was to be expected from a performer. Though, they did have to admit that the open collar was at least a little slutty and probably unnecessary. His lute was of fine quality, and the symbols on the front were strangely familiar. As the bard began to play, one of the witchers paused. He asked, “Do you smell that?”
The others stopped mid-eating and smelled. It was the same flower scent that Geralt had. Their theory was confirmed when the bard began to sing, “When a humble bard, graced a ride along with Geralt of Rivia, along came this song. ”
They stiffened their muscles. The witchers were ready to bolt if things went array. But the next lyrics threw them for a loop as he sang about how The White Wolf defeated a foe. They were even more confused when he sang about giving witchers money. He grinned at the witchers’ table cheekily and winked at them, fully knowing he was singing praise both about them and to them. Nothing could have prepared them for that. In the end, the bard finished and played a few more songs. The witchers finished their meal in peace and left hearing jolly dance music like “Fishmonger’s Daughter”.
That winter, Geralt returned late again. He smelled of the bard once more. Geralt complained about the bard being an annoying leach that wouldn’t unstick from him. Despite his tone, no matter how monotone it was, the other witchers could swear he did not seem to mean his vile words.
As the years went by, Geralt never said much, as he never really did, but he let slip every so often:
“The bard won’t stop singing this new song he made.”
“No, he doesn’t call me a butcher. I told him not to.”
“The bard messed with a djinn, and I had to find a witch to help him.”
“Jaskier slept with another lord’s wife.”
“Jaskier wrote another song about Yen. I think he’s jealous.”
Every winter, Geralt complained about the bard, the one the others knew by name by then. And every year, Vesemir noticed that Geralt returned less tired, less battered, and less starved.
Every spring, the witchers heard songs of Geralt’s adventures. And every year, Eskel, Lambert, Coen, and Aiden found themselves in the same tavern watching Jaskier’s show. He would sometimes buy their meals for them. They discussed bringing Geralt along so he wouldn’t spend so long trying to find the bard, but then they figured there was no fun in that. Besides that, the townsfolk became more tolerant, their pay increased, and sometimes people would toss coins at them for fun. Things were looking up, and they owed it all to this one bard. They hoped to repay him someday.
Years flashed by, and then there was the last winter. Geralt had gone home not smelling nearly as strong as either the witch or the bard like he used to. The others assumed the worst: that the human bard had fallen. Lambert almost asked Geralt about it once over dinner, but even he did not have the heart to ask of the bard’s fate. Geralt kept silent throughout the entire winter. Nobody grilled him on it.
Slowly but surely, Jaskier’s scent disappeared from Geralt. The witchers stopped going to their usual tavern out of sorrow. It was their way of grieving.
After many, many more years, The School of Wolf, minus Geralt as he left Kaer Morhen later than them, and Aiden found themselves in the same tavern once again. They had even gotten Vesemir to go as they agreed it would be like a tribute dinner to the more-than-likely deceased bard. They ate onion soup and bread rolls. Vesemir downed a mug of weak ale when the doors of the tavern opened. The man, a brunette with medium-length hair and a purple-red coat, entered with a lute on his back. He approached the barkeep, exchanged some words, and then traveled to the center of the room. He took his lute from his back and settled it neatly in his hands. Eskel snapped his head toward him as he caught his scent. He stated in awe, “It’s Jaskier.”
The witchers listened to his show. It did not start how they imagined it would. By then, they knew he always started his shows with “Toss a Coin to Your Witcher”; however, this time, he began by introducing himself, confirming to be Jaskier, and then started with a new song about a golden dragon and two “long-necked warriors”. Lambert whispered to Aiden, “He’ll probably sing it later.”
The show continued, and while Jaskier sang of adventure and dramatics, he never sang a song specifically mentioning Geralt or “The White Wolf.” Finally, Jaskier announced, “I have but one more song for you all. Now, as I understand it, some of you have been betrayed, left out in the cold, abandoned by those you once thought were your friends. If that’s true, well, this song is for you.”
Vesemir’s stomach sank. He had a bad feeling about this.
Jaskier began somberly, “ I hear you’re alive. How disappointing. I also survived, no thanks to you. Did I not bring you some glee Mister Oh-Look-At-Me? Now I’ll burn all the memories of you.”
Vesemir started to hope. This could be about anyone; he’s sure.
“ All those lonely miles that you ride. Now you’ll walk with no one by your side.”
Probably not.
“ Did you ever even care? With your swords and your stupid hair. Now watch me laugh, as I burn all the memories of you.”
Definitely not.
He addressed the audience enthusiastically, “Ladies and gentlemen, you have been the most beautiful audience. Remember to toss a coin if you can. If anyone needs me, I’ll be at the bar.”
Vesemir frowned. Humans often drink themselves into stupors when upset. Witchers did too, just not with the same substance. He hoped the bard wasn’t overdoing it.
Jaskier continued, “ What for d’you yearn is the point of no return? After everything we did, we saw, you turned your back on me. What for? To yearn,” he sang the words the witchers would have never thought would have come out of his mouth in a million years, “ Watch that butcher burn!”
“Butcher?” Coen said flabbergastered, “Like The Butcher of Blaviken? I thought Geralt said Jaskier would never call him that.”
Vesemir watched the bard as he sang his heart out about how he meant every word and wished his enemy would burn. Jaskier hopped around tabled, leaped on chairs, and charmed the audience until he was done. His bottom lip quivered as if he was about to cry. Vesemir whispered broken-heartedly, “Oh Geralt, what did you do?”
Jaskier managed to pull himself together before he cried in front of the crowd. He ended his show with a dazzling bow and hastily collected any money tossed his way before anyone else could steal it. He secured them in a coin pouch, which he kept attached to a belt along his waist. As promised, he made his way to the bar, gently placed his lute on the ground, perched on a barstool, and ordered a drink.
Lambert growled, “Fuck this. I’m finding out how Geralt royally fucked this up.”
Aiden mentioned, “It’s not our business.”
Eskel shook his head, “I’m with Lamb on this one. This guy almost single-handedly raised our reputations. He’s.. well... He’s-”
“The witchers’ hero,” Coen supplied.
Eskel admitted, “I wouldn’t have phrased it like that, but yeah, we owe the guy big time.”
Lambert crossed his arms, “Geralt’s too much of a hardass to admit this, but even I can see he was friends with the guy. Something happened, and I’m gonna personally apologize on behalf of our dumbass brother.”
They stood, their chairs thumbed against the ground as they were moved, and they got ready to take action. At that moment, a man entered the tavern. The man, another average guest, saw Jaskier at the bar. He ran to him excitedly, “I’d know you anywhere! You’re The Witcher’s Bard! Makes sense, I just saw your buddy heading here too.”
Jaskier choked on his drink. He gave the man his full attention and asked, “Which way is he coming from?”
The man replied, “The White Wolf is entering from the southern border.”
Jaskier nodded and said, “Thank you. I should get going then.”
The man looked at Jaskier confused, but Jaskier ignored him. Instead, Jaskier slid off the barstool, snatched his lute, and rushed out the tavern door, almost toppling a barmaid in the process. The witchers listened as he prompt clambered down the town’s dirt path in the opposite direction. Vesemir confirmed, “He’s avoiding him.”
Lambert cursed, “I’m going to kill Geralt.”
Luckily for The White Wolf in question, he was stopped and hired for a job before he met Lambert’s wrath. He never did enact his rage in the end as the next time he saw Geralt was months later when he brought Jaskier, Yennefer, and Ciri to Kaer Morhen for the first time.