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Chapter Text

Eskel was not the idiot those stupid stuttering guards thought he was. He knew what the idiots in power in Redania thought about the rising power in the North and had no inclination to correct them. It served a purpose.

He heaved a long suffering sigh, listening to the simpering leader of the envoy go on and on about the importance of the trade relationship between the Warlord’s domain and Redania, and the even greater importance of a treaty, all the while smelling the sweat going down the back of the man’s neck and his fluttering heartbeat. Sometimes, he knew that this discomfort he is feeling now should outweigh the convenience of their false perception. He will be spending days trying to get over the stench of the man’s fear in the halls of his home. And so will every other Witcher now claiming Kaer Morhen as home, no matter their school. They have fought long and hard to live freely in their own home, and now here was this simpering man that he had already forgotten the name of, his presence putting him and anyone close enough with a half working nose on edge, in turn, making all the humans in the keep on edge. 

Their kingdom is a young one. Everyone is still getting used to the new order. The new living conditions. Witchers don’t walk the path alone anymore. No longer having to face the continent and the ire and hatred of the humans alone. If you are part of the kingdom, your land is protected no matter what. If you are not, then any envoy sent should be well received, the nobles well met, the coin freely given, and supplies freely given if needed - Although that last part is no longer needed. Witchers no longer have to stretch their purses thin to stay well equipped for whatever may lie ahead on the Path - or else. But the council is still working on the ‘or else’ part of the decree. Hells, the council is still working on being a proper council. Everything is new and different. No one woke up one day asking for this, but it now is what it is.

The point is, Eskel did not want his nerves to be frayed for the rest of the day, surrounded with other Witchers as on edge as he is, and humans more nervous than usual. So much for the quiet wolf’s den of the winters. No longer for the wolves alone and no longer for the winter alone. 

The man was finally done with delivering his king’s message and his king’s tributes - which were now a thing apparently - and Eskel dismissed him absentmindedly, listening to the faint footsteps approaching the door in the hallway.

The man’s face blanched as he approached the door only to be faced by two more witchers on their way in. He saw the Wolf medallion on the red-haired man on the right and gave a half aborted bow before scampering out, the rest of his guards shuffling behind him.

“News of Redania!” Announces Lambert with a flourish not befitting the sarcasm in his voice. Coën, standing next to him, simply shakes his head in defeat. He was the only one mostly well adjusted to their new station as the power holding the North. Idiot Griffin is probably the only one who was better suited to Eskel’s job, but he was helping where he could.

“I’ve just played host to News of Redania.” Eskel said, hand absentmindedly scratching at the scars going along the side of his face.

Lambert snorted, too happy at Eskel’s discomfort. Coen did not have the same reaction, stupid Griffins and their training.

“Other news of Redania, then.” Coën finally conceded, the hint of a smile showing on his kind face.

“Come on then, tell him! This should be good.” Lambert’s loud voice interrupted again.

Eskel could feel a headache coming, strangely enough for a Witcher. Oh how he wished for a bottle of Lambert’s famous White Gull brew by now.

“Our spies are back.” Coen said in all seriousness.

“So soon?” Eskel stands straighter. “They were not supposed to be back for another moon.” he says, hands going for the scrolls at his desk.

“Well. something is afoot and they thought that it would be best if the council knew first.” Coën shrugged, unconcerned. “Half of them stayed, but it will be harder to get news now.”

“How so?” Eskel asks, finding what he was looking for in his notes. Yes, they were not supposed to be back, only keep an eye on the palace and anything else worth note within the City walls.

“They think they have something the Oh So Mighty Warlord will want to know about.” Lambert replies, serious for once. “And they’ve decided to make a spectacle of it. To present it to the North and announce it and spread the words of the good relationship between the benevolent king and the warlord.”

“Do we have any idea what it is?” Eskel asks, not liking anything about this situation.

“Who.” Coën says, grimly. Lambert is surprisingly quiet.

“Excuse me, ‘who’?” Eskel asks again.

“Yes. Apparently this is a gift that they are sure will be well received.” 

“A tribute?” Eskel asks, not wanting to go on with this pointless conversation. It doesn’t matter what they call it, it is always abhorrent when they receive those poor people among the gifts and goods sent North.

“A prisoner.” Coën finally answers, Lambert has taken to sitting in the armchair next to the desk and fiddling with a wooden figurine from the map spread on the desk.

“Well, that should go well.” Eskel says, knowing full well that the headache he is starting to feel coming now will not be going away anytime soon.

“Not really.” Lambert says, not looking at any of them. “Not even fucking close.” he says, not really moving.

“We know who it is, then?” Eskel asks.

“Not sure. But rumors the spies we sent have heard indicate that it could be someone Geralt knows. And if they are right, then I do not think the king will sit the throne for much longer.” Lambert says. “And I sure as fuck will not be the one to tell our kind White Wolf about it.” 

“We rounded up everyone we knew before we even opened Kaer Morhen’s gates to the other schools. The witch is here. So is the child. Even your Cat was brought here. We made sure we didn’t miss anyone that would be in trouble for associating with us before any of this started.” Eskel says, trying to think of anyone they might have missed. 

“This one was thought to be dead. Turns out the clever bastard has faked it before we even thought to round everyone up.” Lambert says, still fiddling with the wooden horse.

“Well then, who is it?” 

“The only person on the continent stupid enough to take a look at our dear brother and decide to follow him around for two decades, that’s who. And now it looks like he’s paying for it.”

“Fuck.” Eskel is finally giving in to the headache.

“And you’re the lucky person who gets to tell him, the White Wolf's Right Hand and all that.” Lambert says again, fishing out a rolled lump of clothes and tossing it on the desk.

A bloody doublet, now brown with mud and dried blood. Hints of bright blue and yellow peeking from underneath the crusted stains and the smell of despair.

“I’ll come with you, obviously. He doesn’t deserve to hear this alone.” Lambert says, as prickly and harsh as he may seem, he is still Geralt’s brother after all.

====

“I am telling you, again. I don’t think you know what you’re talking about.” Says the man bound to the chair in the middle of the dark dungeon, watching the mage with a burned face sitting in front of him, flanked by two guards armed to the teeth for the sake of little old him. This was getting out of hand. 

“And you do?” Asks Rience, the hint of a smile never leaving his contorted face.

“Even I would not have been naive enough to believe the nonsense you’re spewing.” he challenged again, tired of the game they’ve been playing for days now. “Just let me go and I will not bother the court again. I will even leave the whole of Redania.”

“Oh, so you do at least know enough to know what to expect? Don’t be stupid.” Rience dismisses him with a wave of his hand, which angers Jaskier more than the man’s threats. He liked to pride himself on his intelligence. He has survived this long because of it. Yes, he may have miscalculated his worth once, which resulted in a long walk down a mountain alone, with a wounded pride, and a broken something that he liked to tell himself that he had forgotten about, but he was still a Master of the Seven Liberal Arts and a Spy to boot. Well, former spy now, apparently. He knew the wolves would never open Kaer Morhen to anyone, has been painfully reminded of that fact every winter, having to say goodbye to the idiot witcher, not knowing if he will be seeing him again, for twenty damned years. A life wasted. “You won’t be going anywhere. Not until I am done with you.”

“Come on, Rience. You know I did not mean anything by it.” He says hurriedly. “It’s just that old habits are hard to lose!” his voice was getting louder in his urgency to find an end to the threat he was now facing.

“Vizimer was clear about it. You are to be dealt with once and for all. At least the court here will finally be rid of you, the distraction that you are.”

“Well, let me leave then! I will not even ask you for anything. I will go quietly.”

“You have been lying to us, Little Bird.” he says in lieu of answering his pleas.

Jakier flinches at the use of the nickname and falls quiet. Apparently this would be his last lapse. They will not be forgiving. He hangs his head low, realizing that this is one of the few times that he will not be able to argue his way out of a situation. So much for being a Master Bard.

“So, you do learn, eventually.” Rience goads him, knowing full well that he will not be responding. He liked him best when he was this dejected. Feels rewarded every time he breaks the former bard to smaller little pieces. “Not that useless after all.”

He stands and walks the couple of steps between them, standing in front of the bound man. A single wave of his hand stayed the guards.

“Don’t forget my face, Little Bird.” Rience whispers when his face is in front of the bound man’s face. “Remember the nightmares.” he slowly raises his hand, cupping the other man’s face gently. Jaskier only stares ahead, wishing with all his might that this would be over soon. Not daring to move, even if he wasn't bound to the chair. “When you are ready, and I am done with you, I hope you remember my face.” he pats his cheeks and Jaskier would have thrown up had he had anything to eat or drink in the last two days.

“You may not be the wolf’s bard and barker anymore, but you are still useful to us. Your best hope is that the White Wolf forgets easily and that he will make it quick. This awful Warlord business should be behind us after this, and then we can focus on the true threat in the continent.” Rience says, tucking a strand of limp and oily hair behind his ears and then finally standing up to leave.

Warlord? What does that mean? And what does it have to do with Geralt? Jaskier has pointedly stayed away from any news about Geralt, giving him the only thing he has expressed any desire for. Removing himself from the man’s life entirely. Hells, he even faked his death a few years back in the hope that the rumors will reach Geralt’s ear and close that chapter of his life. What does Geralt have to do with the Warlord he has heard rumors about, rising in the North and instilling fear among the court nobles in all neighboring kingdoms?

He is pulled from his thoughts when Rience hums a tune under his breath, slowly walking away in the dark, flanked by his guards.

A familiar tune. A tune he composed while drunk and at the lowest point of his life, regretting it instantly as soon as he saw his audience singing it back at him while he performed it, drunk and angry. No, this was for himself and himself alone. No one else was supposed to listen to it. Or repeat it back to him.

But Rience kept humming and Jaskier was shaking his head violently, like trying to shake off a fly that refused to leave.

And Rience hummed, the voice never waning. A new torment in this dungeon then.

The humming never stopped that day.

And Jaskier found himself going over the words along with the humming.

‘ At the end of my days when I'm through

No word that I've written will ring quite as true as "burn!"

Burn, butcher, burn’

What a fucking idiot he’s been.

What a waste it was.

Twenty damn years.

He still didn’t regret it.

Chapter Text

Yennefer took great pride in how she presented herself. She also took great pains to be able to make this image of herself and claim it as her own. Not what they wanted her to be. Not what they expected her to look like, but something that is uniquely her. Yes, she didn’t choose her violet eyes, but she’ll be damned if those around her see anything other or more than what she wanted them to see. Yennefer of Vengerberg was her own person, no matter how much Aretuza claimed of her. 

Her choices are what got here where she is. Right and wrong. And she owns each one of them. There was a time where her choice was taken from her by use of an ill-timed and ill-intentioned wish, but she knows that that was the past. She could choose to stay mad at it, or she could choose to focus on what mattered. No matter how that made her feel at the time, she knew there were more important things at stake. Like trying to help guide a little girl that has so much power with no knowledge on how to use it or control it. Like making sure she was never as vulnerable as she was after Sodden Hill. Like making sure that the power rising in the North is there for the right reasons. These Witchers do not care for politics. They did it because it was right, but if they are to play in the vicious game that is politics, well, she was trained at the hands of the best and most vicious of them all. She would have never let anyone take the chance at being the Warlord’s Court Mage and still be controlled by the bastards at or Ban Ard, or even Aretuze.

She was doing it because they clearly needed the help, and she got what she wanted in return. To be valued for what she has to say. To council. To shape the ever shifting scales of power, and tip them in her favor. She knew monsters. And she knew monsters that look like men. And she is where she belongs. And she is heard. And she is helping the Child. That was enough reason for fulfillment. 

And then there came whispers. The Sandpiper was still active, his network growing ever stronger. Maybe the dead bard is not so dead after all. She had to give it to him, that was a smart move. A Spy is a spy, a dead spy is infinitely more useful. She tried to reach out to him, she did not know what else to do. She was trying to help, in her own way, all this time, but her help was not wanted or appreciated, no matter how much she felt she owed the bard. She let it go, as time went on and Ciri and the affairs in the North claimed more and more of her time and attention. But no matter how much time passed, she always hated that there was someone out there that she owed her life to. She wanted to settle the debt. But he always refused her.

===

The door to Eskel’s office slammed open as soon as the doublet once again wrapped up and they were about to leave. Coën was the first one to notice that Yennefer looked phased. She was as immaculate as ever, black dress as elegant as always, but her violet eyes were wider than usual, her gaze landing quickly on the wrapped bundle in Eskel’s hand.

She took quick strides and was there in a flash, grabbing it and laying the doublet out on the desk one more time, toppling a stack of letters in the process, and not seeming to notice. She looked at it and inspected it more closely. She was muttering to herself as she inspected it, and they could all see the tension on her face.

“That idiot.” she finally said, barely loud enough for the witchers in the room to discern.

“That idiot?” Questioned Lambert, hackles already rising. He never liked her or trusted that her presence was fueled by good intentions. But Geralt did, and so they all trusted his judgment. “So you knew he lived?” he said, standing more squarely in front of her.

“Don’t tell Geralt just yet.” she said, looking deep in thought.

“What, that he’s alive?” asked Eskel, trying to understand more before doing anything. Something was not right.

“Yes that. But also, just don’t tell him about this.” she said, waving the doublet in his face with urgency. “He can’t know yet.”

“You don’t tell me what to do, Witch.” Lambert has had enough of this apparently, now standing right in front of her. He was too angry at her to notice the subtle sour fear surrounding her underneath the hints of lilac and gooseberries that were decidedly Yennefer.

“I do if you don’t want everything you’ve all tried to build here be destroyed. We are not ready for war.” she said, clenching the doublet in her fist, words quiet and grave.

“War?” Eskel was close to losing whatever patience he had for this conversation. He doesn’t know what made his brother trust her, but he has seen enough to know that she was no amateur. She knew what she was doing and he knew that the Witchers’ strength and unity were never going to be enough to get them to where they were now. She was part of why they were able to be the force they are now. 

Yes, they were gaining enough power and ground at first, but they were running blind, going nowhere. She lent a guiding voice and slowly got them where they needed to be. Yes they had the North. But they were never going to be able to hold it without the treaties she suggested they make with their surrounding rulers. Threats were good and well, but treaties were what really got you to the alliances you needed. And she made sure they never lost anything they really needed to keep in those treaties. Eskel was the Second, but she was still a much needed advisor on the council. And she never reached for Eskel’s position as Geralt’s right hand. She was happy to stay on the other side. Or to hang back if the situation called for it. Sure in her own position and her worth.

So she must have a reason. And he had to remind himself that she also was familiar with the bard. She was the only one in this room who knew what happened. Or had any inkling of the history between Geralt and the bard. Geralt never let any of them meet him, no matter how much they inquired. He will get quiet and defensive and they knew that they would get nowhere with trying to pry more. And then news of his death reached them, and the subject was more dangerous to broach than before. Geralt was always angry and guilty whenever it was brought up. And then came the quiet grief that lasted longer than they anticipated, but everyone moved on. A life on the Path had taught them all the importance of moving on. 

“Yes. War. The North will go to war over this. Unless you don’t tell Geralt yet.” urgent and curt, nothing cutting about how she delivered the warning as she always was.

“That he’s alive?” Lambert didn’t seem to be affected by her unusual demeanor. “A fact that you knew and hid from him? Is that what you want us to keep from him?” he accused.

“No. This!” she waved the doublet around in front of his face. “This will be enough to make you lose everything and they know it!” she took a deep breath, turned around, eyes landing on Eskel and speaking quietly and gravely. “If Geralt knows that he has been taken, he will-” she shook the thought out and tried again. “Just don’t tell him, send someone to get the bard and bring him here before telling him, no need to make this any bigger than it needs to be.” she said more calmly.

“I’m not sending anyone else until I know what the hell is going on.” Eskel crouched a bit to make sure she could see his face as he got closer to her, with his face in front of hers. “If this is some score you would like to settle against Redania or the bard, feel free to do it on your own terms. I will not be hiding anything from my brother just because you asked nicely. So I will either tell him now, or you will tell me what the hell is happening.”

Coën was also the one who noticed that Yennefer did not close the door behind her. And the stench of the doublet was wafting away, amplified by the subtle sparks flying from the Court Mage’s clenched fist holding it.

And Geralt was not far. Geralt was bound to have noticed something. Sooner or later they will have to tell him.

===

It was decided. They called a council meeting and Lambert relayed the whole message to Geralt. The doublet was left in Eskel’s office, on Yennefer’s suggestion.

They all waited for Lambert to finish before turning to the unusually quiet witcher. The whole council was in the room. Including Vesemir, and some of the school heads. As well as Lambert and Coën.

Geralt didn’t move. He didn’t acknowledge anything they said.

“You can’t go to Redania.” Yennefer started.

Still Geralt said nothing, but his eyes were getting darker, losing something of himself to the turmoil in his mind.

“Geralt the North is not ready for war.” she tried again.

“Why would you think this means war?” Vesemir asked Yennefer once the silence stretched on. The only sound in the room was the steady tapping of Geralt’s finger on the tabletop.

“Because they obviously wanted to provoke him. Djikstra is no idiot and if Vizimer’s court was brave enough to actually announce that he had him, then he knows that nothing will hold Geralt back.” She grit her teeth as she spoke. They really needed to understand the subtlety needed to play with fire and not get burned. The moment they stepped into the game, they should have realized this. Stupid politics. And stupid stubborn witchers.

“And why would they think we want this bard?” Vesemir tried to understand. Geralt’s silence was not helpful.

It wasn’t a growl as much as it was a quiet rumble coming from where Geralt was sitting. The steady tapping stopped. The witchers around the table all sat a little straighter. They all felt it. There was a warning edge to it. Geralt’s teeth were bared and the rumbling was steady for longer than expected.

Vesemir shifted in his seat. “Geralt what is happening?”

“We ride for Redania.” he said quietly, standing and looking at those around him. “Gather the school heads. Gather the trainers.” he did not look at Yennefer once.

“No.” she said. “You have to listen to me. You can’t go now! It is a death wish! It will either be you or him. The North is not ready and it will be a bloodbath! Wait, and they will send him here on their own! They already had him for a while.”

“Did you know?” he said quietly, still not looking at her.

She flinched back a bit, sparks gathering around her clenched fists again.

“You knew.” He accused softly.

“That he was taken?” Lambert asked Eskel quietly. It was Coën who whispered in answer, surprisingly. “That he is alive.”

“He asked me not to tell you.” she answered quietly.

“What, and you’ve always done what he wanted? You barely tolerated him.” He accused again trying to understand before acting.

“I owe him, you idiot. He asked me and I couldn’t refuse him.” She answered with a fierce stubbornness to her response.

“No one is going to Redania.” Vesemir has apparently had enough.

“Vesemir is right. We can wait them out. The fact that we know means that they’ve already had him for longer than what you’ve liked. Just wait a little bit more.” she tried to reason with him.

Geralt stood over her. Yennefer stood her ground and faced him, not caring for the bared teeth and the menacing growl that was still there. “We wait. And they will send him. And then we take care of him. The intelligence we gather say that he is a prisoner not a tribute. He will be fine. And I will be here to help.”

“And if he’s not fine?” He challenged her again, but he knew he was losing the argument to his council. He knew they were not ready for war. And he knew if he went there, Vizimer, Djikstra and whoever else was stupid enough to know what they had done would not live to see another day. But he was not walking the Path alone anymore. He had a people and a council and a kingdom that depended on him. He did not ask them to follow him but the fact that they did still means something to him. If he was alone, he would have been halfway there by now. They were right, but he wished they weren’t.

“He will be.” She answered resolutely. “Or I will end Vizimer myself and no one will be able to stop me.”

===

Far away, in a place Geralt could not yet reach, the man they argued over clung to a fragile hope in the darkness. 

Jaskier couldn’t see very well in the dark cell. It was one of the few lucid moments where he had enough of his wits about him that he knew what to do. He was thankfully unbound, so he was able to move his hands freely and fish underneath the collar of his shirt for the chain he always had around his neck.

He knew they were messing with his mind. Bits and chunks of time were missing. His beard was longer than it was the last time he was aware enough to check. He didn’t know what they were doing to him, but he knew that if they were interrogating him, there were certain things they couldn’t know.

He was proud of his work as the Sandpiper, but he couldn’t guarantee the safety of the people that depended on him or the network he has cultivated over the years. One slipped hideout or meeting point could mean the end of  hundreds of innocent non-humans’ lives.  He knew the network was resilient enough to survive and continue to grow in his absence, but he can’t jeopardize any of them.

He was finally able to grasp what he was looking for. He grabbed it blindly, his broken fingers barely able to feel it. It was a long tuning fork dangling from the chain. It was easy to dismiss on someone like him, but if one were to tap it, it would produce no vibration or sound. There was a crack in one of the prongs, not so obvious. And he tried to snap it along the crack. He didn’t know it was going to be this hard, but maybe he was too weak to do it. His mind drifted to when he first got it as he tried again and again. It was pure luck that he stumbled into a town with a hedge witch desperate enough and crazy enough to do what he wanted. Mind magic was a fickle thing, but a thing he needed nonetheless. It was his safety net. And she asked for a hefty sum in return, which he had to save up for with more than a few performances in taverns and inns that were growing more empty as the war raged closer. But he got her what she asked for and she repaid him in kind. Time to see if it actually works.

He tried to cast his mind back to the moment he wanted as she instructed. The last thing he will remember if this works, and Gods, he really hoped it would. He didn’t know what they wanted from him. And he could figure out this warlord business later, for now he had countless other lives to worry about.

Maybe it was Oxenfurt? Maybe it was the first time he met the firefucker? No he'd already been the sandpiper for a while at the time. His memories will still be dangerous.

Was it the time he decided to fake his death and start a new page, never really singing and performing again. Focusing on helping those around him and making sure that he was not as loud and annoying as he was apparently known to be.

To do the task at hand and turn his attention to the next one, making sure to never really get in anyone’s way and never being attached to any of the ones he helped. For all he knew, they could be dead once he sent them on their way. No one wants to hear his voice, or what he had to say. These people have known suffering and needed help. He can do that. And he can do it quietly.

Maybe it was the months before that where he was drunk, bitter and angry? Writing songs he never wanted to hear again and throwing twenty years of his work down the drain for a stupid broken heart?

Or was it walking down that mountain, never really understanding what happened and trying to make sense of it all. While trying to stay alive, alone, cold and confused.

Or maybe it was hearing that the only blessing someone he cared for would ever really ask for was for him to not be in their life?

No. he never wanted to remember that, if he had any say in it. So what if he was weak? He has been hurt enough to know his limits.

He decided on the last thing he was fairly certain was not going to haunt him. It was in that tavern, sitting with Borch and the Zerrikanians, right before Yennefer and her knight entered. Excited about the promised adventure of a dragon hunt and trying to convince a reluctant Geralt to join.

Yes. this will be safer for everyone involved. No one from his past life knows he is alive. It will not matter.

‘If this is the path I must trudge

I welcome my sentence

Give to you my penance

Garrotter, jury and judge’

Chapter Text

Magic was a fickle thing. Master or Apprentice, it was still about trying to control chaos itself. And as fickle as chaos is, there is always a balance. You don’t get to choose what gets eaten up in the flames. You try, of course, but nobody's perfect. And a refugee hedge witch in the middle of nowhere, Redania, in a warzone, well, she had to make ends meet. She had to survive. No one would have taken the poor man’s coin if they were not desperate enough. And her client at the time was not specific enough, which is something he must be regretting by now. If he was aware enough, she thought regrettably.

Across the kingdom, a few days ride away from the closest recognized territory of the warlord’s domain, said poor man was being cattled away, not knowing where he was, where he was being herded off to, and close to losing his grip on who he was. 

===

“A sennight, at most.” Eskel reported, assertively. “Certainly before the full moon, if their pace is any indication.”

“And how close to Montecalvo?” Geralt was eerily calm. A far cry from his initial reaction to the news of the capture of the bard, but not less chilling, Eskel thought. Which was why he was doing his best to resolve this as quickly as possible. Everyone was restless, even the trainees.

“Not far, we can certainly encourage them to go faster once they are in our domain.” he reassured him. “I have sent Aiden with a group of our quickest to wait for them there. We will know as soon as they make contact.” It was certainly useful to have a court mage as powerful as Yennefer was. She was not satisfied that they relied on their speed for relaying news and information, so each group sent out for a mission, however small, was now outfitted with their own version of a Xenovox. It was more rudimental than the conventional device, but it got the job done, and was not as taxing on her as the alternative, which was a plus.

Geralt seemed like he wanted to argue more, and Eskel braced himself for the inevitable repetition of the same conversation they’ve been having since that council meeting, but surprisingly, he seemed to swallow it and only gave a curt now. Eskel was proud of his brother, and knew the toll this must be taking on him.

“We’ll hear soon enough.”

“Is everything ready?”

“Yes, the medical supplies have been restocked, and Triss is available should we need her.”

“Good.” Geralt mumbled. “Good.” He was finally close to seeing Jaskier alive for himself. He had already lost him and mourned him. And when you regret something and think you can no longer make it right. Well, Witchers have a good memory. They do not tend to forget easily. So it festers and eats at you. Even becoming the Warlord of the North was not enough to make him forget. Even helping the countless non-humans and brothers was not enough to make him regret it any less. 

===

It was a sunny day, with a hint of wind teasing at Aiden’s curls behind his ears, high up in the treetops at a crossroads in the west end of Montecalvo. A good day for a trap, and he certainly picked the right spot for it, he thought proudly. Montecalvo was under the White Wolf’s banner, acting as Redania’s only gateway to the Northern territory.

He knew what was at stake, but he also knew why he was the one sent there. He was not a Wolf, stupid noble warriors. He did not hold himself to the same rules they did. And he also did not feel a personal connection to the poor sod he was sent to ‘rescue’. He knew that if it was anyone else, they would just wait for the tribute to be made and then deal with whatever may come as it unfolds.

Aiden also thought that they were showing their hands too quickly and too willingly to Redania. Why would the Wolves bare their neck to their enemy like that over a long forgotten human? If you ask him, anyone who was not granted the same protection he was when this whole thing started must not be important enough.

He was there, the first person they gathered when the crazy idea of standing behind a unified banner first came to light. He remembers being approached by both Lambert and Eskel, the uncertainty they all felt with what they were doing, not sure if it was going to work, but knowing that it was the right thing. Monsters were monsters. And there was nothing as monstrous as the human ones. His hand touched his face as he remembered his own bout against those kinds of monsters.

He joined them because he knew it was the right thing. He has faced the enemy they decided to rally against and lost. But he was still a Cat, and he survived -  mostly. He saw things more clearly. They believed the best in people, he saw the worst in them. So he knew they would not give up on trying to save whoever they sent him to save. But he would make sure they did not lose anything in the process. His mission was simple. Rescue this Jaskier, make sure to send the guards on their way back, sending a message to Vizimer. He was thinking what kind of message that would be, debating going with Eskel's suggestion of a ‘warning’ against his own version of a warning, when their group’s lookout signaled the approach of the group they were waiting for.  

He also remembers being with them when they travelled this way and that across the Continent, thrice, to make sure they gathered everyone they could think of that would need protection. That was worth protection. So, if he was not among them, then why were they going to this length to retrieve him if he was already on his way to the same destination? Surely, if he was as important as they say, they would have confirmed his death all those years ago. The least they could do, if what they claim is true. 

As Aiden and his group got ready to meet their target, he heard it. Soft quiet gasps from someone he was not able to see with his good eye. It was a large escort for one person. Close to a dozen in Redania’s colours, armed to the teeth, with a cart dragging after the horses. Well, he was due for a bout of target practice anyway, he thought as he bared his teeth and reached for the knives strapped to his light armour. He will not kill any of them, of course. Will not defy the standing orders of the Great White Wolf, he thought as he rolled his eye, stupid nobles. But there was no reason he shouldn’t enjoy this.

===

When it was all said and done, Aiden went around the area, gathering his knives and the armors left by those poor Redanians. Aiden made sure they left all their weapons and armours when they sent them their way back to Redania with a couple of the other Witchers escorting them, as a safety measure of course.

It was an easy fight. Over before it could start really as they all too quickly stepped away from the cart and fell to their knees, too eager to hand over their charge. 

“For the White Wolf” their captain must have thought he was very brave when he proclaimed that, from the way all the others looked at him. It was too simple. But he did not complain. The quicker it was done, the quicker he was home, as novel as it was to think that he had a ‘home’.

And what a strange thought it was, to think of Kaer Morhen as home. Even before this whole warlord nonsense, it was still the closest thing he had to a home. But perhaps for a different reason.

-

As the rest of his men were gathering everything, he headed for the cart, expecting to find something similar to the ‘Tributes’ that came North often enough that he’d seen a handful of them now. What he did not expect was to find the cart empty, except for a small man, cowering in the corner, the only sound coming from him being those gulping gasps. 

Aiden took a moment so his eye could adjust to the darkness of the inside of the cart, they covered all openings and windows with heavy covers. The man was dressed in pants the looked familiar enough to him, obviously the pair to the bloody doublet that he saw in Eskel’s study, and a bloody and messy shirt. He was huddled in the corner, trying to make himself seem small, but he was tall enough that it just looked awkward. He was blindfolded with a dirty piece of fabric that must have been torn off from his shirt’s side, and his hands were tied together with a too short rope stretched to a hook in the corner of the cart. It was very hot and stuffy in that cart that it made the man’s stench smell even worse, especially as Aiden still had some of the potions he took ahead of the ambush in his system.

“Woah!” he exclaimed before he could stop himself.

The man’s reaction was quick. He flinched so hard and tried to scramble back, and in the process, his hands jerked on the rope, and he fell to the opposite side, his head hitting the wall so hard Aiden heard the sickening crack. The man slumped and stilled.

“Shit.” Aiden mumbled as he got closer to the still man, removing the dirty blindfold from his face to check if he was awake. It would certainly make things easier and quicker if he wasn’t but he knew humans were too weak and the crack he heard was not something to dismiss. 

“The fuck!” Aiden exclaimed as soon as he saw his face. It was dirty and bruised but he knew that man. His hands reached for the man’s eyelids and when he opened his eyes, he saw the familiar shade of cornflower blue he never forgot. “Julian?” 

===

Magic was a fickle thing. Master or Apprentice, it was still about trying to control chaos itself. And as fickle as chaos is, there is always a balance. You don’t get to choose what gets eaten up in the flames.

But balance still needs to be met. And whatever gets eaten up will need to be replaced. In the absence of anything else, well, chaos, what else?

Chapter Text

Triss Merigold was happy doing what she was doing whenever she could. She was not a resident of Kaer Morhen in the strictest sense, but she was always there when she could be, offering whatever help she knew they would not be able to get anywhere else. If that meant that she was dubbed as the unofficial healer at the keep, well, she would not stop at the labels. She appreciated what the witchers were doing, and she was proud to offer her help whenever needed. Her first time meeting and unofficially hiring Geralt was a testament to that. That was the first time she saw real monsters. And it was not the Striga.

That is not to say that there were no other healers available should they be needed. But, sometimes, they did not trust outsiders. She does not know when she was suddenly no longer considered an ‘outsider’ to the most skeptical of the witchers, but she was not complaining. Even Lambert was starting to warm up to her presence. And that was saying something. 

She was already at Kaer Morhen working with Vesemir on his latest theory regarding the elixir for the Trial of the Grasses - strictly theoretical, of course - when she was approached by Eskel.

“A word, please.” His voice reached her as she turned right in the hallway leading to the labs and the stillroom. There was a time when she would get lost in all the bare hallways of the keep, but she was becoming familiar enough with the space to know her way by now.

“Eskel! Not often that I see you here, it’s usually Lambert that I run into in these parts.” she greeted back as she continued on to her destination, Eskel falling into step next to her.

“Well, it is a sensitive topic and…” He started before she interrupted him with a smile.

“And Lambert does not think I’m capable of discretion, is that it?”

“Not in that sense” he tried again with a small smile before she interrupted again.

“It’s alright. I understand, Eskel. I’d be as wary if I were him. No need to be worried. Now, what do you need?”

They had reached her destination and she was now browsing the ingredients on the highest shelf, looking for the roots she needed for the salve she had in mind. She was not planning on staying too long, but she had a feeling she would need to change her plans. 

“I know that you mostly help with the Witchers and that there are more than enough healers for the non-witchers and humans in the village, which everyone really appreciates. But your assistance and discretion are requested. Here and now. If you are so inclined, of course.”

She appraised him silently. She’d like to say that she was familiar enough with Eskel to know what he wanted from her most of the time, but his face was more closed off than usual, and she could tell he was worried. She realized that she’d already decided that she’d help. She wasn’t looking forward to rearranging her plans, but she’d do it. It looked important enough. And she missed Ciri, she thought fondly. Maybe staying was not such a bad idea. 

“Where would you like me to set up, and how long until my patient is here?” she asked as she found what she was looking for and had the jar in hand. 

“Thank you, Triss. They should be here by tomorrow, the latest.” He visibly relaxed as he exhaled. “An infirmary was set up in the North Tower, with everything you might need. Feel free to take stock of what’s there and let us know if you think anything else is needed, it will be made available.”

“Oh! I thought you said it was a human. If it’s Lambert or a School Head it should be easy and quick enough. Was someone injured during practice?”

“No. It’s a human.”

“Why would a human be staying in the North Tower then? That was never allowed before.” She mused.

“It-  it is a human. And like I said, it’s a delicate situation. So the North Tower. Can I count on you?”

“Of course, Eskel!” she exclaimed. He must have been under a lot of stress lately. “Whatever you need. You know that!”.

Her stay here would be longer than anticipated, that’s for sure. She started cataloguing what she thought she may need in her head as she headed with him to the North tower and the newly set up infirmary. 

===

Aiden wasted no time in using their Xenovox and letting Yennefer know of what had happened, he tried to focus on what was needed from him and not who’s limp body he was carrying as he raced with the rest of the witchers to the location Yennefer specified. She was not able to portal them directly to Kaer Morhen, advising against it once she heard about the state their charge was in and the fact that he hadn’t woken up yet. And Aiden will not risk it and go against her advice, if she thought that it was not safe, then he will do as advised.

The rest of the witchers with Aiden were wary of approaching him or standing in his way, simply pushing forward and trying to not hinder their approach.

Aiden, on the other hand, was only thinking of Julian, begging him to stay awake, making note of each tiny movement or hitch in his breath. He was too still and stiff in his arms, but he kept on moving forward. Hearing nothing of his companions’ whispers and thinking of nothing but the time when their roles were once reversed.

Too many questions were running around in his head, in an endless swirl of confusion and urgency, but he focused on getting where he needed to be, noting that the sun was setting down and the charge in his arms was no less still and quiet.

Not a far cry from the man he remembered. Where there was a stench of alcohol always around him, there was now the remnants of the stench of despair, fear and fatigue. What have they done to him? And why? 

He was never as happy to see Kaer Morhen’s silhouette as he  was now, after the constant hopping from portal to portal was almost over.

As soon as he was close enough to the keep, he was greeted by one of their scouts, directing them to the side gates and to go straight to the North Tower. He thought nothing of it, disregarding the unusual access to one of the most restricted areas of the keep, and heading to where he could smell the strong scent of disinfectants and medicine no doubt waiting for them.

Coën was waiting there with Lambert. They quickly ushered him to what seemed to be a makeshift infirmary. As he looked around, he saw little details that showed care in setting it up. There was a fire roaring in the fireplace, with a neat stack of firewood available close to it. A desk was brought into the room as well, a writing slope on top of it, with ink and empty pages, which seemed odd to him.

The floor was covered in a large carpet and thick tapestries he didn’t even know they had at the keep lined the walls, hints of the bare stone of the wall peeking from between them. All to make it warm. It didn’t look bad, but it was still unsettling from how out of place everything seemed compared to the rest of the keep. It looked like whoever set the room up cared about the comfort of the human who will be occupying it. Aiden was not complaining. He will figure out how all of that was related later. For now, he just focused on what needed to be done.

He nodded to both Coen and Lambert as he passed them and walked further into the room. Triss Merigold was there, arranging countless small vials on the table furthest from the door. Not the welcoming party Aiden expected, but then again, he didn’t expect the tribute to be Julian. He’ll figure it out later, but for now he was clear on his priorities.

He didn’t pay them any mind as he situated Julian on the bed, noting how limp he was. He was focused on arranging the furs on the bed when he felt the others behind him moving, and Triss getting closer to inspect Julian.

“Anything else you need, Triss?” Coën was the first to break the silence.

Triss did not reply immediately. She was busy picking and carrying over a handful of vials to the bedside table and uncorking them with the quiet efficiency of someone who had seen worse—and knew how close this was to it.. Once she was done, her hands hovered above the figure lying still on the furs, her brows furrowing deeper the longer she stayed over him.

Once she was done, a shiver ran through her upper back. She shook the chill off her spine and turned to mix the contents into a shallow stone bowl resting nearby.

“Some privacy for my patient would be appreciated.” she said without looking at the witchers still hanging by the door.

“Let me know if you need anything.” Coën replied easily, turning to leave. He only stopped to nudge an unmoving Lambert to follow him. Lambert who was looking at Aiden with concern. Aiden was on his knees next to the bed, hands clutching the furs close to the unconscious bard’s hand, with a faraway look in his eye.

“Aiden?” Lambert’s voice was thicker than usual.

Aiden did not show any indication of hearing the wolf. Triss, on the other hand, did. She glanced up from her work to find Aiden still on his knees next to the bed. She was done mixing the potion, and she wanted to administer it. It was urgent that it was administered while the ingredients were as fresh as possible. She did not pay any mind to those around her, focused as she was on what Jaskier needed and helping him, carrying the mixed potion and going around the bed to be closer to the bard’s side. In her haste to get there, she bumped into Aiden. 

The Cat flinched. A low growl escaped before he could stop it. His body tensed like a cornered animal, hand darting for a blade that wasn’t there. 

Triss stilled,, letting the moment pass without confrontation. She returned to her task.

Aiden was lost in his thoughts. Thinking of a time where their situations were reversed. He was the one who had just escaped from the clutches of those who held him captive. And the man lying on the bed in front of him was the one helping bring him back to consciousness.

Aiden blinked, his mind catching up to the present. To the makeshift infirmary in the North Tower of Kaer Morhen. The growl died in his throat. Slowly, almost shamefully, he lowered his hands and backed slightly from the bed, but didn’t rise.

He was lost in memories he wanted to never remember again.

He remembered a cold floor, a cracked rib, and a voice—Julian’s voice—murmuring nonsense to keep him tethered to reality.

He remembered bread soaked in broth, a too-small fire, a cracked lullaby that made him want to scream and weep in the same breath.

He remembered surviving, and only then, realizing he’d been saved.

He remembered a large estate that was too empty. He remembered being hidden and tucked away in a too large room, unused to the freedom and the space. Recovering. Regaining a sense of who he was. Realizing that while he thought he wouldn’t survive, he did. He lost an eye and gained too many scars to count, but he did survive. Aided by the man who was always too quiet and too drunk, except for the times he stayed next to him, humming unfamiliar broken lullabies, keeping him company and guarding him from his own mind. Refusing to divulge anything about himself.

Lambert watched it all from the doorway, silent and still. It had taken months for Aiden to stop baring his teeth at everyone. Even longer for him to stop waking with his hands around his own throat, gasping and begging.

After his capture and escape from the humans and mages who held him prisoner, betrayed by Jad Karadin,  he was never the same. Granted, he was getting better with time, but Lambert remembers a time when he was more instinct than intellect. Cats were more unhinged than not, but they knew how to control it. When to lean into it. Aiden, the first months after his escape, was more feral than not. It took a lot of time, but he was closer to the Aiden Lambert remembered before he was betrayed by that thrice damned Jad Karadin. Lambert remembers the satisfaction he felt, after months of tracking him down, and finally exacting his revenge on him. 

He never told him how he escaped. Never told him if someone had helped him. Only that he was not aware enough through most of it, and that he would not have been able to make it back - as close as he could- to who he was on his own. But he never spoke of the help he received. 

Lambert learned to stop asking. Aiden was resolute in his refusal to give any details of his ordeal. Now, staring at the scene before him, he thought he finally knew.

Triss was quiet as she worked. The potion shimmered with a faint golden sheen—good. It would soothe the fever. She checked his temperature again, laid two fingers at his temple, whispering a cooling charm just behind the ear.

Julian didn’t stir.

He didn’t flinch at her touch. He didn’t respond to the growl. Didn’t react to Aiden’s presence or her words.

He was too still .

His body was thin—thinner than it should have been. His skin was bruised in all the places people didn’t look. Under the jaw. Along the ribs. The rope burns around his wrists were deep and crusted, long past bruises. His lips were cracked, and his nails chipped—some broken to the quick.

But it was his breathing  that concerned her.

Shallow. Uneven. Like someone on the edge of waking from a nightmare—or never waking at all.

His pulse fluttered at her touch.

“His body is still fighting,” she murmured, mostly to herself. “But it’s... giving up.”

Aiden’s knuckles whitened.

“What do you need?” Coen repeated again.

“Privacy. You’re crowding the room, and I’m sure Geralt will be here any moment, and I don’t want the distraction. Delay him if you can.” she instructed.

Lambert moved closer to Triss, his voice low in her ear. “Aiden stays.” he said, nothing of the usual terse animosity she came to expect and learned was just the way Lambert was.

She looked silently at Aiden, noting how tense he held himself. She was not familiar enough with him, but she was familiar enough with Lambert and knew to trust him.

She only nodded silently, going back to the rows of vials on the far side, thinking of her next steps already.

“Fine.” she replied. “But no other visitors except Yennefer, when she gets here. I don’t need anyone else in the way.”

She turned back to her vials.

The room was quiet again.

And the bard breathed on.

Chapter Text

Once Triss was sure that Jaskier was as stable as he could be, given his state, she gave him a tonic to help him sleep better. Aiden refused to leave them, and after Lambert’s interference on his behalf, she did not have any qualms about leaving him in the care of Aiden. She left him with instructions to summon her should he wake or get worse, and she did not think that Aiden was leaving his charge anytime soon.

Yennefer, notably, hadn’t joined them. Triss, well aware of who her patient was, guessed she was likely aiding Lambert and the others in keeping Geralt at bay.

There’s no time like the present, she thought to herself as she took a left turn and headed in the direction of Eskel’s study, hoping to find the others there. She wished she was heading for her quarters instead, for the much needed rest, but she knew she had to update them first. 

Sure enough, she was able to follow the voices arguing, getting louder as she got closer to her destination.

“-- with him!” she caught the end tail of what felt like Geralt’s repeated argument.

Geralt was standing in the middle of the room crowding over Yennefer, who stood her ground in defiance.

“And what good would that do?” Yennefer snapped. “You asked for her help for a reason. Let her do what needs to be done. If I thought for one godsdamned moment you’d stay here, you know I’d be there instead, helping her. Helping him.” she added, quieter but sharper.

“That’s not fair, Yennefer,” His harsh voice was lower.

“Well, stop acting like a child and I’ll stop treating you like one,” she bit back—and then turned, eyes flicking past him.

“How is he?” she asked her and Geralt turned so quickly Triss was sure even the witchers present had a hard time keeping up with it. She took in the faces surrounding her. Other than Geralt and Yennefer, Eskel was leaning on his desk, his arms crossed, while Lambert was sitting in one of the armed chairs. No sign of Coen or Vesemir.

Triss was taken aback by the intensity in Geralt’s expression.  It wasn’t just concern—she expected concern. Nor was it only anger, though that too simmered beneath the surface. No, what she saw was more of a tangled storm behind his eyes. Fury. Fear. Grief held together with threadbare restraint. And beneath it all, something worse. Helplessness. Not the kind that came from physical weakness— She has seen him fight before, Geralt was still a force of nature, still steel and reflex and power—but the kind that came when strength meant nothing. When all the steel and silver in the world couldn’t fix the one thing slipping through your fingers.

He tried to school his expression, but she had glimpsed enough to take pity on him. The Great White Wolf felt helpless, and she felt the weight of what she was about to say before she said it.

“Stable,” she said to the room at large, but her eyes stayed locked on Geralt. “Physically. For now.” she continued. “I wish I had better news, but all I can say is that he is fighting hard.”

“Triss?” Yennefer asked, and Triss understood her meaning without her having to say anything. She shook her head, only glancing in Yennefer’s direction for a second. Yennefer gave a small gasp and took a couple of steps closer to Geralt.

“Fighting?” Geralt inquired, seemingly not understanding their exchange.

“He needs time and rest, Geralt. He was hurt too much.”

“Then why wasn’t he brought here sooner?” His voice cracked at the edge. “Why wasn’t he portaled straight to Kaer Morhen?”

“Because that would have killed him, Geralt,” she answered, gently but firmly. “His body couldn’t take it. Yennefer warned us. Everyone involved did all they could to bring him back.”.

“When will he wake?” he asked.

“There is no telling. He will still need to be kept asleep for a while. And I- I will need to keep him that way for at least three days to give him a better fighting chance. His body was under so much strain, I didn’t even have a chance to examine anything else.”

Three days.

Geralt’s mind didn’t register the number as a measure of time.

He remembered meditating for three days straight once, years ago, lying in wait for a griffin deep in the Blue Mountains.

He remembered standing watch outside a cursed barrow, not moving, for four.

He remembered waiting two weeks for Jaskier to finish a bardic competition in some windswept village that barely tolerated Witchers—long before the songs made him famous, long before tolerance turned to praise.

He remembered waiting for the winter to be over, year after year, so he could ride down to the foot of the mountains and see where the path would take him and where he could next meet with the Bard.

He remembered the time he’d spent searching for Ciri. For family.

He had waited before.

But three days had never felt so unbearable. 

===

Aiden was sitting on the chair next to the desk, eyes unseeing, still shaken. It had been a long time since he lost control like that. He was grateful for Lambert’s intervention, but still ashamed of what led to it.

But seeing Julian like that made him fear . That was the only way he could describe it. It struck something in him he thought was long buried and gone. But the truth was that Julian was the one who helped him bury it, and seeing him like that just unraveled something within him. He thought he had better control than that.

He shook his head, trying to clear it. He had a job to do and he will focus on that. Merigold had left him with instructions and he would make sure they were all followed. He now trusted her more than he ever thought he would. Seeing her work as hard as she did, fighting for Julian and exerting herself so much in the process gained her more trust than he thought he was capable of. He glanced at the workstation she used for the ninth time since she left him, cataloguing all the vials he saw and going over the list of when to administer what in his mind, making sure he remembered all her instructions. He was sure that if he forgot what he had for breakfast, he would never forget her instructions.

He heard footsteps before they reached the infirmary, but he gave them no mind. He was in the most secure part of the keep, if there was an emergency, it would certainly be handled way before it made its way to the North Tower. So, he stayed where he was, not leaving the room for any reason.

Except the footsteps got closer, which meant it was probably Geralt.

Aiden knew what would come next, but he also knew that he would not give up without a fight.

The door opened without fanfare.

Aiden didn’t look up.

He didn’t have to.

The slow, deliberate footsteps across the stone floor were unmistakable—measured, heavy, like someone trying not to show how tightly they were wound.

Aiden remained seated in the chair by the bedside, eyes trained on the sleeping man, jaw tight.

He could still hear voices in the hallway, but no one entered.

Geralt came closer, standing on the opposite side of the bed, eyes going over the still form on the bed between them.

No one said anything for a while. Geralt noticed the beard and the longer hair. He knew how much Jaskier hated the long stretches on the Path where he was not able to give himself the shave he preferred. How delighted he was whenever they could spare enough coin for him to visit the local barber in any village they came across and how it gave him such joy to have a fresh shave and a trim before he performed at the local tavern or inn for food and board.

                  “It’s not vanity Geralt. I’m a showman my dear, you have your armor and your swords, I have my looks and my lute.”

His hair was usually kept much shorter than it was, Geralt noted. It was too thin and greasy, the scent of the oils Jaskier preferred to use in styling it were notably absent. He extended a hand to tuck a stray strand from the man’s face when Aiden shifted in his seat, sitting straighter. Geralt glanced at him and noticed how he sat, ever the Cat, ready to pounce.

“You’re the one who found him?” Geralt asked, wanting to know everything.

“Let’s just hope I wasn’t too late.” came the almost too quiet and calm reply of the Cat Witcher. He was not as familiar to Geralt as his brothers were, but he was among the first to arrive at the keep, back before the whole Warlord thing started. The first Witcher who was not a Wolf. But Lambert just showed up with him one day and that was that. No one asked any questions, and Vesemir was more civil towards him than they expected him to be towards any Cat. 

Geralt liked him. He had a spine of steel, but then again so did all of them. But something about Aiden painted him a survivor. And they have all seen enough to appreciate what that meant to a person. They gave him a wide berth at first, not asking questions, waiting for him to come to them at his own pace. It took time, but once he was past the uncertainty of being in an unfamiliar place, isolated for the winter with a group he was not as intimately familiar with as they were with each other, he turned out to be decent enough. He had tough skin, and sharp claws. Not easily offended and with a sense of humor that made them think of course, no wonder Lambert wanted to protect him. Who else would be able to keep up with him and his sharp tongue?

Geralt was still staring at the face of the too thin man on the bed, mind swirling with regret and questions.

“Was he awake when you found him?”

“Yes. But he hit his head almost immediately, trying to get away from the noise, and then he was not.” Aiden said, eyes sharp and stance rigid.

“I hear you brought him just in time. Thank you. I know it must not feel great, having to jump through all these portals in such a quick succession. You can leave now.”

“Like hell I am.” Aiden’s reply came too quick, as he stood suddenly, the chair scraping against the floor. Geralt turned around and saw that Aiden stood coiled, ready to pounce again. “I’m staying.” 

A growl escaped before Geralt could control himself, the only thing stopping him from crowding the Witcher who challenged him in his own home, was the bed between them and the still man on it.

“Boys, there’s no need for that.” Yennefer finally decided to interfere, entering the room like she owned it. “Geralt, Triss has entrusted Jaskier to Aiden’s care. He is not leaving.”

“Who’s Jaskier?” Aiden’s question stilled the other occupants of the room.

“The man you went to such great lengths to retrieve?” Yennefer’s voice did not betray her confusion.

“That’s not his name.” Aiden was resolute in setting them straight. If there was any confusion about his identity and they sent him to rescue him because they thought he was someone else, he would fight them tooth and nail to give him the care he needed. He can take him somewhere else, it did not have to be the North Tower. He knew Triss’ instructions by heart now, he will care for him himself.

“Have you met Jaskier before? You might not recognize him now, but if he loses the beard and gains a few stones, you might.”

“No I won’t. This is how he always looked. And his name is not Jaskier.” Aiden said through gritted teeth.

“Aiden, do you know this man by another name?” Yennefer asked, her mind racing. Did Aiden know him as the Sandpiper? 

“Yes. His name is Julian.”

Oh, this is much worse, Yennefer thought. How long ago was it that she last heard of him using that name? It must have been years. Way before the Sandpiper. And the Kingdom in the North. She heard whispers that Jaskier had stayed in Lettenhove for the better part of a year. Viscount Julian had returned, drunk and quiet and in a daze.

It was after the disaster of the Dragon hunt on Caingorn.

She glanced at Geralt, not knowing if he had heard those whispers. If he had kept track of the Bard he tossed aside. It would be cruel to rub it in his face, and she did not have it in her to give him the context she was starting to gather.

“Well then, we all knew he had his secrets to keep.” Yennefer tried to diffuse the tension. “Let him stay Geralt. Jaskier needs to be watched and you have your duties. Redania will answer for this, but you are needed somewhere else.”

She hoped the Bard would wake sooner. She knew he had a story to tell. And she knew they could only hold Geralt at bay for so long.

Only three more days.

Chapter Text

Life goes on. Even when Eskel’s idiot brother acts like it has hit a standstill, life goes on. Their people still have needs. Their witchers still have patrols. News still filters in by way of missives or updates from Yennefer’s networks. And Geralt still had a duty to perform. Rounds to make, places to be, and a peace to maintain, however thin that peace was. 

So, after the initial stand down between Geralt and Aiden, which neither he nor Lambert have teased them about, and Yennefer acted like it didn’t happen, Eskel guilted Geralt into attending the morning’s gathering and showing his face to the rest of the Witchers at the hall. They could see he was growing restless, and there was only so much calm the council members could convince the others of, before the short tempers ran even shorter. They needed to see that everything was back to normal after the last few days’ Geralt’s more than usual broodiness had unsettled them. As much as he was still trying to figure out how to trust himself to be their leader, they were still trying to figure out how to trust him to lead them. Still, Eskel was proud of what they’ve all become, even if they still have a lot to improve upon in that regard. And he was so proud of Geralt, especially now.

In order to ease the tension a bit, through careful manipulation from both Eskel and Yennefer, who will both deny that they had anything to do with it, either Geralt or Aiden were always present in the North Tower, occasionally accompanied by Triss, if needed or if there were any changes. Both Geralt and Aiden knew her instructions by heart. But they never were there at the same time. Coën would always miraculously be there to greet whoever showed up for their ‘turn’. 

Geralt did not notice it at first. Always thinking that it was Coën who kept Jaskier company whenever he was not present. But after a handful of exchanges, barely missing Aiden everytime, he took an unexpected detour on his way to the training yards one time to oversee a batch of trainee’s demonstration before an upcoming mission, that he saw Lambert shooing Aiden away talking animatedly about the newest addition to the stables and how the Zerrikanian foal’s dark mane shined in the sunlight.

Geralt stopped in his tracks with his brows furrowed. He still had a hard time figuring out where Aiden’s unexpected insistence to be there came from. He needed to know more before doing anything, so he let it go for now, and headed into the chambers, going past Coën who was, as always, standing next to the entrance, leaning against the wall behind him with one leg bent, and fiddling with a little dagger, throwing it in the air and watching it spin, every time in a slightly different angle, before catching it, swirling it around deftly between blurry fingers, and tossing it again. All the while, looking squarely at Geralt as he closed in on him.

“Any changes?” came Geralt’s usual questions.

“Not since last time.” Followed Coën’s usual response after he caught the dagger one last time and stood at attention.

“Thank you, Coën.”

“Sure thing.” he said as he resumed his little exercise, this time trying it with his eyes closed as the dagger's shiny tip danced in front of him. His hands never missed.

Every time Geralt stepped into the chambers, his breath would leave him for a beat or two, eyes frantically searching until they landed on the bed and he heard the slow wheezing breath that always felt a little rough.

He was still here. He was still breathing. He was still asleep.

He was still the same.

But the room was never the same. It took him a couple of times to notice at first, but now he knew what always prickled at the edge of his awareness whenever he left the room and returned. As narrow as the North Tower was, the area was more circular than not. Windows faced different directions. And every time he had to leave and return, a different window would have its curtains pulled. It did not follow any pattern he was able to recognize at first, but after a few times, he had his guesses. 

Initially, he had all the windows open to allow as much sunlight and fresh air to enter as possible, thinking that surely, that was bound to help.

But as time went on, he noticed that someone had decided to open the windows on the west side in the mornings, and switch to the windows on the east side by midday. At night, no windows would be open and the fire in the fireplace would crackle and heat the room up as much as possible, before being turned down come the night.

Geralt knew how Jaskier appreciated it when the skies were clear and the breeze light.

‘Don’t you just love it when nature decides to grace us with such beautiful light!’ He’d say as he twists in a circle, looking for the perfect place to perch and get his lute out. ‘Come Geralt! I promise, you’ll feel less sour when you soak up the sunlight and feel the breeze on your face.’ He’d say and watch and Geralt would grumble as he’d lay their cloaks on a partially shaded even patch in the grass and Jaskier would finish setting up with his lute. ‘Hmm.’ he’d sigh contently once everything was settled and the sunlight kissed his face. ‘This must be what magic feels like, dear heart.’ and his fingers would strum the strings of the lute, the sound blending in with the birds around them, and Geralt would agree, eyes landing on the man’s soft smile and the scent of his happiness and calm embracing him.

Geralt tried to change this. The first time, bright sunlight from the east side window had lightened the room up and sent the sleeping form flinching beneath the furs, face twisted in a half-formed grimace. The second, a roaring hearth had drawn a thin cry from his throat, barely audible but enough to freeze Geralt in place. After that, he stopped interfering.

That night, Geralt was sitting on the chair next to the window, and his gaze landed on the wool lined slippers that laid next to the boots he fetched from the stores the last time he was there. Boots that were as close to the ones he remembers jaskier favoring on their travels and in court, boasting about the craftsmanship and the comfort they provided him.

‘Do you know how many blisters I currently have, witcher dearest?’ He once teased, grin so wide, Geralt just rolled his eyes and stayed silent, sure that Jaskier did not need any input to go on. ‘Only two! Last season there were five before we even reached Rinde! You should have let me get you one. It is worth the price. And we’d both have matching pairs’ and the next town over, Jaskier would indeed place an order for a matching pair, and they would be waiting for them in the following town. Geralt did not tell him that he never got blisters anymore. Did not tell him how uncomfortable they were for him to break them in. But also did not tell him how light and comfortable they became once he did. 

And now, the boots he got were pushed to the side, half hidden by the furs lining the bed, and next to them was a pair of wool lined slippers that he never saw Jaskier wear the likes of. Then again, he never saw Jaskier settled enough to wear something like that. Always on the Path. never even staying in court long enough to need them. As much as Jaskier enjoyed the Court life, he always made them move as soon as he noticed Geralt starting to be restless. And Geralt, always feeling more guilty each time, would think of ways to make it up to him, never really following up on those thoughts. There was always a new contract to chase and a new monster to hunt. And Jaskier never wavered, always followed in his trusty boots.

Geralt watched the wool-lined slippers for a long time, longer than he’d meant to. They were soft, warm and practical. Meant for a room, not the road.
Not for the man who followed him on The Path, boots scraping mud and blood alike. 

Not for the bard who had sung through storms on a bare hilltop, who had sat on cold stones tuning a well cared for lute while Geralt sharpened blades.

And certainly not for the Jaskier he knows.

And as the time stretched on, another truth lodged cold in his chest. He was no longer the one who knew these things. No longer the one who could claim to know what would soothe Jaskier’s rest, what would comfort or harm. Every small adjustment made to his space -the windows, the fire, the damned slippers- had come from someone else’s hands. From someone who, by the looks of it, did know him. From someone who had maybe stood at his side when Geralt had not. And with every silent proof of that knowledge, it grew harder to ignore the bitter ache blooming beneath his ribs. He did not belong at Jaskier’s side anymore. He had forfeited that right long ago, atop a cold mountain where words had been sharp and hearts had broken. Now he was only a man standing vigil beside a stranger’s bed, aching for a forgiveness that might never come. Vowing that if he could, if allowed, how would make it right.

===

Coën was apparently called somewhere else and his post was empty. Aiden just slinked into the room, as quiet and silent as a Cat, when he suddenly stopped in his tracks, trapped in the gaze of the White Wolf, following him as he came closer.

“I-” he started, not knowing what he was about to say.

He was interrupted by the shake of Geralt’s head. He gestured with his hand for him and then to the room at large, a clear sign for him to enter. As Aiden came closer, Geralt’s gaze returned to the form lying on the bed.

Aiden noticed how Julian’s breath was becoming shorter and more restless. His gaze shifted to the window, noticing that it was darker than he thought. Shit, he did not mean to be late. But an accident in the training yard had a rafter fall from the obstacle course and they all helped in getting it back up and clearing the mess it made.

He moved in quickly, crossing the room and crouched beside the fireplace. He banked the firewood to a low glow. The same way he always did. Not because it mattered to him—but because Julian’s breathing came easier this way. He had learned the pattern a lifetime ago, half by accident, half by memory of another man’s kindness in darker days.

If Geralt was not paying attention, he would have missed it. As small as the difference was, Jaskier’s breath steadied once the cackling and the flickering of the light lessened. And in the quiet, Geralt’s eyes tracked every motion. No comment. No thanks. No rebuke. Just that pale, unsettling gaze following Aiden across the room.

And the realization that every movement Aiden made had been learned long before this moment.

It should have comforted him—that someone cared, that someone knew. It didn’t.

Aiden felt it too. The weight of that gaze like cold iron between his shoulder blades. But he didn’t falter. Not this time. 

It wasn’t hard to guess what troubled him. Regret left a stench even a Cat couldn’t miss.