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Darkness spilled from the ground, inky, writhing, black stark against the bright snow. Tendrils seemed to climb over and into themselves, building and building, folding and compressing until they solidified. The outermost tendrils unfurled like shadowed petals, almost floating as they revealed the person at their centre, before vanishing back to sleep under his pale skin.
The man stared at the forest around him and then up towards the looming keep. Its walls were an unbroken line, faint silhouettes of guarding witchers set atop them. He stood there, expectant, for several minutes before sighing and retreating well beyond what any of them could hope to see.
He’d known that the mutagens were weaker now, but from what notes he’d seen, it was definitely possible for a witcher to see that far. Easily that far, for Cranes. Had taking that sabbatical been…? No. What’s done was done, no use dwelling.
He cracked his back idly and pondered. He’d enjoy being back in Kaer Morhen, he thought.
Yes, seeing his nestlings again would be well worth the explanations.
***
Jaskier pouted at Geralt, nudging him in the ribs softly. “Geralt, I can’t play from here.”
Geralt hummed at him, eyes light with amusement. “Cost you a kiss.”
“Dreadful man.” Jaskier snickered, kissing his Wolf and, in turn, being released from their chair.
He picked his lute up and strummed it, relishing the immediate drop in volume within the hall. “I think tonight I’ll start with Ode, shall I?”
The hall roared, and he grinned, falling into the music and letting it sweep him away.
“So we sing the ode to witchers, through foul and fair and fiend,” Jaskier sung, hundreds of voices soaring around him as the hall joined him in the chorus, “and we fly above the mountains, protected in our dreams! So we sing the song of witchers, through blood and spite and fear, and we-” Jaskier’s eyes connected with someone leaning against one of the hall’s giant doors, and his voice dropped out abruptly, fingers freezing.
The others’ singing continued on for a few moments longer, but Geralt’s growl put a stop to it.
“Catmint?” Eskel asked concernedly.
All Jaskier could do was stare. “Rhion?”
The figure at the door stepped properly into the hall, the magelights suspended from the ceiling chasing away the shadows clinging to them.
Jaskier dumped his lute on the closest table and sprinted at Rhion, wrapping him in a hug. “Rhion! It is you! Oh, this is wonderful, it’s been so long, you must tell me what you’ve been doing since you graduated!”
“I think it’ll be more interesting for me to ask what you’ve been doing since I graduated, Jaskier,” Rhion said drily, allowing himself to be dragged up to the Wolves’ table by the wrist.
“Yes well,” Jaskier said distractedly, “Geralt! Eskel! This is Rhion Seraphin, he was one of my favourite students from Oxenfurt, incredible mind for politics and debate, I think you’ll like him.”
From a few seats down the table, Vesemir got a solid look at the newcomer’s face and sprayed his drink halfway to the Cats.
Jaskier’s frenetic excitement paused, overtaken by concern. “Vesemir? Are you alright?”
Vesemir coughed a few times and nodded. “Yes, I’m… did you say student?”
Rhion tilted his head slightly. “I’m older than I look, if that’s what you mean.”
Vesemir squinted. “What did you say your name was?”
“You heard Jaskier introduce me,” the man said dismissively, “I think I’ve a few titles various people here may recognise, too.” He glanced around, eyeing the eldest of the wolves and waving cheerily.
Barmin paled, though it went mostly unnoticed.
Rhion turned back to Jaskier, suddenly looking mildly apologetic. “I don’t particularly regret it, but I am sorry for not coming back here when I heard what happened. I got… distracted.”
“What do you mean ‘back here’?” Yennefer asked, leaning forwards.
Rhion looked at her with barely hidden disgust and blatant distrust. “Mages? Really?”
“They’re mine,” Geralt growled, “I have less reason to trust you than I do them.”
“Well at least someone here has sense,” Rhion said blandly, shaking himself off. “The ones that actually recognise me get a pass, but an unknown party just appeared in your supposedly un-invadable Kaer and no one’s even asked me how I got in here.”
There was a beat of silence, and then a flurry of motion, until Rhion was entirely surrounded by Witchers and their many blades.
“Better.”
“Who the hell are you and what are you doing here?” Lambert growled, knife hovering menacingly close to Rhion’s throat. “We’ll know if you lie.”
Rhion smiled patiently. “Of course you will. My name is Rhion, I’m here to visit Jaskier and a few old friends.”
Coën shouldered his way into being face to face with Rhion. “Normally this wouldn’t be done, but you pose too much of a risk.” He raised a hand and curled it sharply. “Axii. ”
Rhion froze for a split second, then focused, eyes seeming to darken even in the warm light.
Coën flinched, hand shooting up to his head.
Rhion’s expression cleared. “Normally, I’d be nicer, but I don’t much care for people trying to break into my mind.” He considered for a moment. “Impressive effort though.”
“If you’re a mage, why were you such an ass about us having them?” someone shouted, from far down one table.
“Do I smell like a mage to you?” Rhion responded cooly. “If I do, something is terribly wrong with your nose.”
There was a heavy pause, and then one of the Cranes whispered, “What the fuck? He doesn’t smell like anything.”
“He is wearing a glamour though,” Yennefer said, eyes steely, “I think we’d all appreciate its removal.”
A rumble of discontent swept through the hall, and Rhion arched an eyebrow. “Very well.” He pulled a thin chain from under his shirt, revealing a round silvered medallion etched with a scorpion as he slipped it off. It vanished into a pocket, and his face rippled.
His stature didn’t change much, he still appeared as young and lithe as before, but his dark hair was tightly braided now, and much longer. His skin paled into translucence, with black veins emerging across his body. His face changed too, pale brown morphing into a mosaic of pitch-dark eyes wrapping across his cheekbones and temples. His ears stretched into points, and a forked tongue flickered between quickly sharpening teeth.
The witchers around him all recoiled, some stepping back in their shock. Rhion opened his mouth, and immediately shut it again when Jaskier slipped through a gap and into his personal space. They stared at each other for a few moments, before Jaskier poked at his cheek.
“Do you see better with so many eyes?”
“Yes.” Rhion smirked. “Gave more than one mage truly nasty migraines when they tried to look through my memories. Apparently even mages can’t handle having eight different types of vision, let alone being able to move their eyes independently.”
Jaskier snickered and grabbed Rhion’s wrist again, dragging him through the crowd of witchers. “Now I have several questions, but I shan’t ask them until we’re somewhere properly private. For now, come and meet my family!”
Jaskier dragged him around to one end of the wolf table, coming upon a dark haired witcher. “Aubry!”
The witcher smiled, ruffling a hand through Jaskier’s chestnut hair. “Hello little brother.”
Jaskier ducked away from the hand and pouted, trying and failing to fix his now messy hairdo. Eventually, he huffed in irritation and turned to Rhion, standing patiently at his shoulder. “Rhion, this is my elder brother Aubry! Aubry, this is Rhion.”
Rhion held a closed fist over his left collarbone and dipped his head. “Cathmei.”
Aubry hummed under his breath, eventually copying the motion.
“Placement of the hand is dictated by the place on your chest that holds the most social importance,” Rhion murmured, “so your hand should be over your medallion.”
“So, yours was there because…” Aubry prodded.
“Scar, more or less,” Rhion said. “I trust you’re familiar with them?”
Aubry snorted, reaching out to punch him on instinct, as he would any brother or cousin.
Rhion stayed perfectly still.
Aubry froze, his hand mere inches from Rhion's shoulder.
His brow furrowed.
After a tense moment, Aubry retracted his arm slowly.
Rhion didn’t say anything, just turned to Jaskier and tilted his head to gesture up the table.
“Of course!” Jaskier cheered, though tension had coiled at the corners of his eyes and mouth. “Let’s go and meet Lambert and Eskel and Geralt! Properly, this time.”
“Lead the way,” Rhion smiled, “Meeting the White Wolf will be an honour.”
“Ah,” Jaskier paused, “Geralt doesn’t really like any of… that.”
“Reminders of his rank?”
“Exactly!” Jaskier said. “So if you wouldn’t mind avoiding them, I think he’d appreciate it.”
Rhion nodded. “Of course. Are the others the same?”
Jaskier waved a hand. “Lambert is quite possibly allergic to manners and Eskel’s the diplomatic one.”
Rhion glanced up the table to see the trio in question: Lambert gesturing passionately with one hand, Geralt impassive, and Eskel looking rather exhausted. “I see.”
It was lucky (or unlucky, depending on your view) that Barmin was seated on the far side of the table, Rhion refused to walk past his trainees without proper greetings.
“Oi! Buttercup!” Lambert said, not loud by any means, but slicing through the sound, nonetheless. “Bring your friend up and stop fucking dawdling!”
Jaskier sighed dramatically, “Well, I suppose we have our orders.”
“I suppose we do.”
Jaskier pranced up without a care, fitting himself comfortably in Eskel’s lap.
Rhion’s approach was somewhat more reserved, once again placing a fist to his collarbone in greeting, smiling as Vesemir returned the gesture automatically.
“Where’s that from?” a high voice piped up, Ciri wriggling out from behind her father.
Rhion’s nostrils flared, and he dipped smoothly into a proper half-bow. “Cathmei. An’Eit Veth es urrid.”
“What?”
Rhion stood back up and smiled, tongue darting out between his teeth. “It’s a traditional greeting from Caingorn. Translation is, roughly speaking, Blessed. The Lady of the Source honours me.”
“Lady of the Source?”
“Yes.” Rhion nodded. “I forget the name you’d recognise, but I can smell the Feainnewedd on you.”
“Elder blood.” Yennefer said quietly.
“Elder blood, yes,” he said, barely glancing at her before returning to Ciri’s gaze. “Your blood is some of the oldest and strongest in the room, you will be a force of nature should you wish.”
“Some of?” Ciri asked, evidently intrigued.
Rhion chuckled, “When yours dissolves metal and marble like mine, we can talk.”
Jaskier squeaked, Geralt and Eskel both surging to protect him.
Rhion shot them an arch look. “If I cared to kill him, he’d be long dead by now.”
Geralt’s eyes hardened, and Vesemir caught him by the scruff of the neck before he could launch from his seat. “Sit down, Geralt! ” he snapped.
Geralt sat, obedience to Vesemir a long-cemented instinct.
“Now,” Vesemir said, “what part of ‘if I wanted him dead, he would be’ makes you think Rhion is going to attack your bard?”
Geralt opened his mouth, then shut it a moment later. He hummed under his breath, so quiet that Rhion wasn’t completely convinced anyone else could hear him. “I still don’t like that there’s someone in here that hasn’t sworn the oath, but fine.”
“Oath?” Rhion felt all eyes swing to him in the little group, but he just continued staring at Geralt. “What oath?”
“The oath everyone swears at the gate, that you apparently managed to bypass.” Eskel said drily.
Rhion clicked his fingers, understanding dawning. “I came in through the catacombs, not the gate. They didn’t sense me because I was never there.”
Vesemir’s gaze flicked to the ceiling in frustration, but Rhion bit back the instinctual comment.
“If you’d like me to swear an oath, I’m happy to discuss it,” Rhion offered hesitantly.
Geralt grunted unhappily, but stood up and strode towards an unassuming door against the hall’s back wall.
Rhion shrugged and went to follow, but Vesemir tapped his shoulder.
“I think it may be best if you’re not present for the initial discussion. Geralt will want Yennefer there at the very least, and I’m not sure that would…”
Rhion glanced at the mage for a moment, then nodded. “Well, you know how to call when you need me, I’m going exploring.”
***
“Do we really have to be out here in the freezing cold?” Lambert grumbled.
“Yes! ” Ivar and Vesemir were practically in sync, though they refused to acknowledge it.
After another minute, Ivar stepped away from the group, holding the folded sheet of paper with their proposed oath. “Attir?”
There were a few seconds of nothingness, and then a light thump. Ivar took a deep breath in, then held out the parchment to one side.
“The hell are you-”
Lambert was cut off by Rhion melting out of the shadows and taking the oath from Ivar.
“You’ve kept up with your sensory awareness training, good.” Rhion muttered as he flicked open the paper and started to read.
Ivar’s shoulders straightened subconsciously and sent a withering glare towards a smirking Vesemir.
Rhion folded the letter closed again and sighed. “I don’t love it, but as long as it is temporary to the length of my visit, I agree.”
Jaskier grinned from inside his mountain of blankets. “See Geralt, I told you he’d say yes!”
Rhion snickered and recited the oath they’d drafted for him. Swearing to do no harm was a… novel experience, but at the very least the oath acknowledged that his job would take precedence if such a situation arose.
The five witchers stared at each other, then all nodded at once.
“You’re good, sorry about all this.” Eskel said.
“It’s sensible.”
Jaskier yawned, “Mmmmm I think it’s bedtime. Can someone take Rhion to his room?”
Barely a minute later, it was Rhion and Ivar alone in the courtyard; Vesemir having dragged himself off to bed as well.
Ivar’s eye twitched, and Rhion’s smile softened. “We’re properly alone, nestling.”
Ivar hissed, but curled into the offered hug, nonetheless. The silent warmth was nice, thawing something he’d thought long frozen over.
Footsteps appeared in his hearing and he tried to pull away, but Rhion didn’t budge.
“Attir! ” he hissed.
“Shush, nestling, it’s just Keldar and Guxart.”
Ivar breathed in for a moment, scenting the air, and then relaxed again.
“Hello father,” Keldar said, draping his arms over Ivar’s back calmly.
“Nestling, good to see all of your blood is where it’s meant to be,” Rhion responded, tugging one of Keldar’s slate grey curls.
“Are you ever going to shut up about that?”
“Absolutely not!” Rhion said cheerfully, already feeling the tension of the last hours drain away. “Guxart, nestling come join us.”
“Where’s Ves?”
“He went up to bed,” mumbled Ivar, now lying half on the ground, half on his attir’s lap.
Guxart frowned. “I’m going to go check in on him,” the Cat witcher paused, “unless he’s not welcome anymore?”
“Why would he not be welcome?” Rhion asked, bright crackles of confusion jumping through his scent.
Guxart shrugged and vanished into the keep, returning a few minutes later dragging Vesemir behind him.
Rhion extricated himself from the witcher pile and rose to greet his errant nestling. He ran a hand through Guxart’s hair and leaned out of the way as the Cat twisted past him to flop onto the pile. He smiled gently, then turned back to Vesemir and held out an offering arm. Vesemir tucked himself under it after a moment and allowed himself to sag. Rhion took the extra weight easily and collapsed the two of them carefully into the pile.
“Do we feel like the floor or the roof?” Rhion asked jokingly.
“Roof.”
“It’s always the roof, dad.”
“Roof, please.”
Even Ivar made a vague upwards gesture, half asleep as he was.
Rhion focused on the depth of feelings he had for his nestlings, for his children. Carefully loosing his iron control, he allowed a few dark tendrils to creep free, cradling his precious cargo behind him as he scaled the shortest wall. From there, it was simply a matter of finding a nook to set them down in.
“Alright nestlings, I’ll wake you all well before anyone arrives, it’s sleep time.” Rhion settled into half-aware meditation, the closest he ever got to sleep in an open space nowadays.