Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

White bones, older than the seaport town, taller than the young trees which grew bent and twisted in the wind, stood erect in the sand, bleached by a century of sun. They were a mark of warning to any who were so unfortunate as to travel to the coast unawares. The warning had outlived the danger, and outlived the creatures who had first erected them. The bones likely outlasted the very species from which they’d been taken. It was an old story.

But new dangers were drawn to old stories.

Geralt lay in the wet sand, breathing in the salty air with deep, gasping breaths. The waves crashed against the shore below his feet, slowed, and hissed gently up to his torso as little more than a wash. He timed his breathing to the gentle hiss. The thrumming in his veins abated with each rush of water up the shore. Slowly, he opened his eyes, the world above the water bright.

The sirens had been strong; a mindless variety, more bestial, less cerebral. There had been no negotiating with them. He’d nearly drowned dispatching the pair, but they’d not yet mated. The nest was half made and their courtship fruitless. They were a territorial breed so there would be no others to find. The fight was over.

When the sunlight no longer stung through the back of his eyes, he lay his swords to the side and dove into the water to retrieve the heads.

When he’d emerged, sore, dripping, heads in hand, he looked up the slope toward the edge of the city. Between him and the nearest shack was the lighthouse, a red lamp hung before the polished plate, reflected by the heavy glass of the beacon. Even in the blaze of day, its light could be seen. Now the danger had been dispatched, the warning could be safely removed.

The alderman was waiting for such news, sitting on the steps by the lighthouse door. “Done then?” he asked, eyeing Geralt’s wet clothes.

Geralt lumbered up the path and raised the oilskin sack. He dropped it at the alderman’s feet without ceremony. To his credit, the alderman expressed no more disgust upon opening the sack than should he have found only moldy food within. He pulled the drawstrings tight once more and handed the sack back to Geralt with a nod.

“The seals will return soon enough,” Geralt said. “Once the waters clear of the scent, they’ll retake the shore. The fish will eat the rest of the remains in a day or two.”

The alderman grimaced, his mustache twitching uncomfortably. “I’d like not to think about the fish eating such things,” he grunted. “We eat the fish, after all.”

Geralt shrugged indifferently. He’d eaten many a worse thing in his life than second-hand digested monster remains. He’d eaten the very flesh of monsters, straight from the source. If pressed, he might even admit to an opinion or two.

“Fish eat worse things,” he grunted. “Tastes the same in the end.”

The alderman tugged at his mustache, considering. “I will simply have to put it out of my mind,” he concluded. “I suppose it will be easy to forget once the seals return. We’ve had a good year for furs, but if those sirens had been allowed to take hold of the shore, it would surely have led to disastrous consequences. They breed during the winter, and if they’d lost their breeding grounds here, there’s no telling what would have happened to our markets next spring.

“Furs,” he proudly explained, “are one of our biggest exports, and our seals are some of the finest wild seals in the north. Their furs trim the mantles of courtiers from here to Redania.”

With a tilt of his head, he beckoned Geralt up the path, back toward civilization. Geralt hoisted the oilskin over his shoulder, following after. He knew of the town’s exports quite well—it had been part of the reason he’d kept an ear out for contracts in the area. A prosperous town often meant better pay, especially up north where the general attitude towards witchers leaned in their favor. Familiarity and neutrality as dictated by proximity. They were, at least, not so hostile as they might be, their needs considered. The closer to nature, the greater the need.

The alderman looked at Geralt properly, offering him an amused grin. “It’s lucky that you were here, witcher; you must be the very last monster hunter of the season. I have no doubt that if we’d waited until the spring, the shore would be impossible to reclaim.”

He clapped Geralt’s shoulder, friendly in his relief. Subtly, Geralt moved out of arm’s reach as they continued back toward the town. He preferred to be appreciated from a distance.

“One of our finest furriers offered the bounty for those sirens, so you can be sure of getting a good deal,” the alderman continued. “He’s a frugal man, but not withholding, and he knows his business well enough to know the worth of what you’ve done today. You can expect to walk away with a good prize.”

The alderman seemed to run out of talk rather quickly afterward: the sort of man to say everything at once and enjoy the silence afterward. Geralt was glad of it, and he made no effort to initiate further conversation. The bustle of the market street was noise enough.

The furrier’s shop was rather large—one of the largest in the market, in fact. It was further from the market square not for lack of custom, but for lack of space, it would seem. The place was decorated in a way that boasted quietly of its profits, for though it was a walk from the more fashionable shops, the patrons certainly didn’t seem to mind making such a walk. At least, the décor seemed to say as much.

 It had a rustic look to it, almost cabin-like with the crosswise beams and standing wood posts, but in the artificial sort of way one might expect of a baron’s hunting lodge. The floors were laid with an impressive variance cross pattern in the wood, polished to a clean shine. The walls were boarded and finished without wash, but instead with a pleasant stain, and there were mirrors built directly into the back wall, spaced a yard apart each, which helped bring light into the room. A few choice furs were on display in large windows in the front of the shop, draped over chairs which certainly no one had ever sat in, or hung upon coat racks which had been expressly made to show the tailoring of the pieces. And in hanging rows across the beams, on pegs protruding from the walls, and draped upon long displays, the furs were showcased in all their glory.

They shone in the light, beautiful and fine. They ranged in color from a rich, dark brown to a slick grey. Long-haired, short-haired, tailored into coats or left uncut, the furs were not lacking in their variety. They were, of course, mostly seal and otter, but there was a small collection of other furs as well, for the furrier exchange materials with others of his trade. When the alderman led Geralt up through the aisles to the furrier, Geralt spotted beaver pelt on one of the tables alongside rabbit and deer, and hanging on the wall were bear and wolf.

A man was hanging a stack of pelts on a line of bare pegs. As Geralt and the alderman approached, he looked up from his work, nearly dropping a fine wolf pelt in the process. The man blinked up at Geralt with wide blue eyes. Geralt glanced back, used to the way people stared, but something about those eyes made him stop a moment. The man had turned to follow him, his hand reaching out in an aborted gesture. There was something in his eyes like recognition—like anticipation—and the man stumbled forward a step towards him.

“Witcher!” the furrier called in greeting. He stood halfway behind a curtain, leaning in from the back of the shop. He waved at the alderman, stepping quickly toward the counter. “That was swiftly done, eh? All that time spent worrying and here it is, done in a quarter day!”

Geralt placed his bag on the counter and slid it across, business-like and stale. “Two sirens,” he grunted. “Brought the heads.”

The furrier wrinkled his nose at the offering. He held his hands up in an exaggerated way, close to his chest and far from the hidden gore within. “Julian,” he called.

The odd man with the pelts looked to the furrier at once, standing at rigid attention.

The furrier motioned to the bag, reluctant to touch even the air around it. “See about stowing these in the rubbish bin before they begin to leak,” he said, snapping his fingers and pointing.

The man, Julian, hurried to comply, catching Geralt’s eye once more. He said nothing, but picked up the bag and scuffled toward the back of the shop. When he lingered before the curtain, the furrier snapped his fingers roughly again, startling the man.

“They’ll rot and fill the shop with their stink if you stand around all day,” the furrier scolded. “Hurry it along and then get back to work; I want that crate emptied by the time I’ve finished my business. If you need something else to keep you out from underfoot, you can get sweeping after.”

Julian nodded, disappearing quickly into the back.

The furrier sighed. “You get what you pay for; it’s hard to find good help cheap.”

“You’ve got an assistant dressed in wool surrounded by fur,” the alderman laughed. “People will think you don’t know your business. Even a cast-off fur would be an improvement. Honestly, Maik, what kind of furrier’s assistant can’t afford a fur?”

“The kind who mouths off and does his job poorly.”

“Doesn’t seem very mouthy lately,” the alderman said. “Why, I haven’t heard so much as a ‘good morning’ from the lad since summer.”

The furrier sighed, smiling to himself with an air of pride. “It’s an improvement, to be sure. Just took a bit of know-how and the right phrasing to shut him right up. Nothing but silence while he’s working now.”

He looked to Geralt then, as if awaiting some response. He had the air of a man who considered himself to be witty, even when nothing funny was said. His smile suggested laughter. Whatever he expected, Geralt failed to supply.

Geralt had been waiting with irritated patience, the hostage of good manners.

The furrier put his hands on his hips, cocking his head at Geralt as he looked at the alderman. “Speaking of silence, best get him squared before I forget he’s looming.”

No longer waiting for a response, the furrier stepped out from behind the counter, waving for the others to follow. “Now I haven’t got much in the way of coin on me at present,” he admitted. “I’ve just sent Julian out to the bank for my weekly deposit—but I’ve got about half the payment all packed and tidy in this purse.”

He fetched the purse from his pocket and plopped it into Geralt’s hand. Before Geralt could protest the cut in pay, the furrier held up his hands in a placating gesture.

“Now I’m a man of my word, witcher, and I still intend to make good, but I’ve got an offer for you if you should like. You can stay another day in town and wait for me to make a withdrawal tomorrow morning, or you can choose one of my quality furs to have for your very own as the other half of the payment. Not one of the larger pieces—not a bear coat, mind you—but not something small like a pair of gloves either. Unless you want a pair of gloves, of course. I might throw in a hat as a show of generosity if you’d take a pair of gloves.”

Geralt looked at the collection of furs with a discerning eye. They had such things as bear and wolf’s pelt in Kaer Morhen, but seal was something rather exotic which they could not themselves hunt. The furs were indeed of a fine quality: certainly something he could never ordinarily afford. Another day in town would cost him at the inn, and he was on a tight schedule to return to the keep before the pass froze. He’d rather not waste time waiting for a withdrawal.

“A seal skin, then,” he said.

“Sounds fine,” the furrier agreed. “I’ve got as many seal skins as could possibly be desired by anyone, and none are too dear to part with for all you’ve done to spare my future investments. Have a look around; you may choose any seal skin you like.”

The alderman and furrier fell to talking about the shop’s business as Geralt looked around at the wares. From the back of the shop, the assistant came once more. Geralt noted that he’d returned to his previous task with speed, hanging the pelts on display with great efficiency. He kept looking at Geralt, even as he went to fetch a broom. Geralt couldn’t help but think that the man wanted something from him. There was a sort of desperation in his expression.

“What do you want?” he grunted, flipping back the top fur in a stack.

The man said nothing. He simply looked at Geralt as he began sweeping up.

Geralt looked back at him, annoyed, then turned away. He decided he’d misread the man’s intentions: perhaps he was simply watching to be sure Geralt didn’t steal something. The furrier seemed to hold some small measure of animosity towards his assistant—no doubt the man would have any stolen stock compensated from out of his wages. He was watching Geralt’s every move around the shop closely.

Despite the distraction, Geralt returned to his choice, flipping through the stacks of uncut furs. He glanced at a couple coats, wondering how far he might push his luck. Anything too large or fine might inspire protest, regardless of how common seals were in stock. Something unfinished would be best. Besides, even a large finished coat might be difficult to fit over his armour. He would prefer something which he might fashion himself.

Though winter was well and truly near, the shop was warm and well insulated by the abundance of furs. Beneath the display tables, more stock was piled in thick stacks. All these lower furs were unfinished cuts, and it was here that Geralt focused his search.

The stacks were well organized. One could easily find the right variety of fur separated by thickness and color. Up and down the aisle it went in an orderly gradient from dark to light. Geralt supposed something in the middle would be best: something average an unassuming. He knelt among the stacks, feeling the soft furs between his fingers, thinking of how he might like to add a good lining to his cloak.

When he’d found a decent brown fur, he tugged at the stack to free it, only for a number of furs to come spilling out with it. He grunted and began stacking them again as best he could, keeping them relatively straight. However, he stopped when he found one out of place, buried under the rest.

It was a seal fur, as the others were, but it had been mislaid. Hiding among the brow furs was a simple speckled grey, its pile a bit shorter than the rest, but almost seductively soft in comparison. It had a sort of shimmering quality to it when he held it in the light. The fur was as unfinished as the rest in the stacks, and certainly it must have been forgotten for some time among the others, for the top furs carried a layer of dust. This fur would not be missed. Though it did not appear to be as thick and warm as the others, it felt smooth beneath his calloused fingers, and he did not own many fine, soft things. He would never indulge in buying such a thing, but as payment for a contract …

“I’ll take this one,” Geralt announced, wrapping the fur on his arm.

The furrier turned from his conversation, still smiling, to acknowledge him. He glanced and waved dismissively. “Oh, yes, the greys are very nice. A good choice, witcher.” He returned to his conversation, talking excitedly about the new agreement he’d struck with a fellow trader, the alderman nodding along.

Then, a loud clatter drew all eyes.

What they saw was the assistant standing in the middle of the aisle, staring at Geralt. He’d dropped the broom at his feet, scattering the small pile of dirt he’d just cleaned. But he paid it no mind. He simply stood and stared, his hands covering his mouth as he gaped in shock.

The furrier looked between his assistant and Geralt. Then, he suddenly grew very still, his eyes wide as they fell upon the fur.

“Now—now wait just a moment,” he said, face becoming pale. “I misspoke. That fur looks quite old; I have some much nicer furs in the grey which you might prefer. I wouldn’t want you to leave today feeling cheated, after all. Fair pay is fair pay.”

Geralt narrowed his eyes suspiciously at the furrier. “You said I could choose any seal skin in the shop,” he said. “I’m satisfied with my choice.”

The furrier hesitated, then chuckled with a stilted lilt. “Oh, but that old thing could hardly be called a seal skin,” he argued. “I’m surprised you found anything of the like in my wares. Honestly, it would look bad for anyone to find such a thing was sold in my shop. I’ll personally help you find something better if you’d be so kind as to hand that to me.”

The assistant made a strange noise in the back of his throat: a dry, keening sound. Before anyone could react, he ran down the aisle toward Geralt, reaching for the fur. He practically lunged at him in his attempt to snatch it out of his grip.

“Now what is the meaning of this!” the alderman cried. “Get your hands off him!”

The furrier snapped his fingers and shouted, trying to gain control of the assistant’s mad grappling. “Julian, get away! I demand you leave the witcher alone at once!”

But the assistant paid him no mind. He continued to reach as Geralt held him at arm’s length, stretching desperately and swiping at empty air.

“What has gotten into the man?” the alderman asked. “Just let the witcher take it if he wants it! If it’s as old as all that, let it be. There’s no need for all this fuss!”

The two men pulled the struggling assistant off of Geralt, holding him back even as he tried again to break free. All the while, he continued his unintelligible cries. He made a sound almost like a word, his voice too quiet to enforce it. He sounded much the way Geralt did after weeks without speaking: dry and strange from lack of use. Like a man out of practice.

Then, the furrier was howling at his assistant, shaking and scolding him with an explosive rage. The alderman stumbled back from him, visibly shocked. He stood beside Geralt, watching the scene unfold. Both were frozen by the sudden change in the furrier’s friendly demeanor.

“I think you’d best go now,” the alderman whispered, “before there’s any more trouble.”

Geralt slipped away in silent agreement, leaving the alderman to deescalate the situation as best he could. The last thing he saw or heard from the shop was the furrier leaving a vicious slap across the helpless assistant’s cheek.

It was still midday when Geralt stopped Roach. They were near the edge of town, looking down from the high slope where the road turned to dust. He’d heard it all while he slipped through the streets, eager to escape unseen: the furrier was shouting and raging, his voice carrying up from the shop, causing others to look out of their doors. Furs littered the street where they’d been cast wildly about. The orderly displays in the window had been thrown into disarray, and one of the coat racks had gone straight through the glass. It lay on its side atop the cobbles, its coats spread upon the salty wet stone.

Geralt could see it all from his vantage point. He could hear the people gossiping even better, and the gossip was more overt the further the people strayed from the market streets. A group stood in a huddle on the low switchback road, looking down at the square as they whispered.

“I heard his assistant went mad and tore up the shop,” one woman said.

“No—Maik tore it up himself, we could all see it!”

A man joined the circle, too rushed to properly zigzag his way up the road. In his eagerness, he climbed the low stone walls of the switchback, speaking animatedly, panting, to share his news. “Julian left him high and dry after eight loyal years of service!” he announced. “That’s why he’s tearing up the shop.”

The gossipers gasped. Evidently, this particular piece of gossip was something of note. For such a large port town, one man leaving a job was not astonishing—but even Geralt knew that eight years was quite a long time to waste on a career before leaving without reason. Men did not have many years to waste, and a cosy shop job in such a fashionable industry was nothing to take for granted, particularly just before winter’s first snows. A warm job indoors was something to be coveted at such a time of year.

“I heard he took one of Maik’s best coats with him,” a woman whispered.

“I heard he’s been cooking the books since he started work! By ten gold pieces a month!”

“He dresses awfully poor,” someone scoffed, “for a man stealing so much money.”

Geralt looked at the fur in his arm and wondered just what he’d accidently uncovered by his choice. He’d also begun to wonder about the fur’s value.

It wasn’t a spectacular piece. It was certainly nice, but the harbor boasted many seals, and seal coats were common enough to make squirrels seem exotic. He stroked the fur. It seemed to grow softer under his touch, but he supposed he was merely used to rougher things. Mink would be softer, or ermine, and more expensive. At least, he supposed it must be for kings and the like to wear such furs. He’d never felt them firsthand. He did not even know what animal an ermine was; something large, soft, and fearsome, he supposed. If he were to run off with an expensive coat—enough for the furrier to tear up his shop—he suspected it would be the coat of an ermine, perhaps even a lion, but not a seal.

All the while he’d been thinking and listening, he’d been unconsciously stroking the fur. He only realized he’d been doing so when Roach turned to sniff at it. Carefully, Geralt packed the coat into his saddlebag. He would rather keep it out of Roach’s reach before she could muss it.

As Geralt began to leave the town proper, he heard a quiet wheezing sound come up the road behind him, accompanied by hurried steps. When he looked, he saw the furrier’s assistant staggering along behind, catching his hands on his knees at the very top of the switchback. His chest was heaving, his face flushed. He doubled over, hair falling in his face, and looked nearly dead to rights on his feet. Curiosity stayed Geralt, and he watched the man catch his breath.

The man raised one finger in the air, acknowledging Geralt. With another heavy lungful, he straightened out. He took a deep breath, then blew it slowly out again. When next he opened his mouth, it produced another wheezing sound, but there was something more beneath it. He made a second attempt to no avail.

“Spit it out then,” Geralt said, growing impatient.

The man swallowed, touching his throat with his hand and rubbing. When he spoke, his voice was rough and thin. “For—ive me,” he wheezed, barely more than a breath. “H—n’t sp—en …”

Geralt waited, but the man trailed. He’d not spoken for a long time, evidently. Geralt frowned, waiting further for the man to speak. It was clear the effort was great, and he respected that such an effort was being made. Besides, he man was watching him, again pleading with his expression when words failed.

The man massaged his throat, humming gently. Finally, just as Geralt’s patience began to wane, he spoke again.

“That fur,” he rasped. He patted his chest, then drew a circle in the air towards himself. He swallowed again. Then, in a gravely voice, “It’s mine.”

Geralt scoffed.

The man looked affronted, or as affronted as one could look when exhausted. Geralt felt that the man would be much more expressive otherwise.

“It is,” the man insisted.

Geralt crossed his arms, unmoved. He’d met with similar cons in the past. “So the furrier wants it back,” he said. “I’ve chosen a coat worth more than the quality of its looks, is that it? Well, I’ve earned it. I was given my choice and I don’t intend to return it.”

The man put his hands on his hips, scowling. “Are you saying that it looks cheap?” he asked, voice rough, but decipherable. There was a hint of offence there.

“I’m saying that I chose from the common stacks and he has no reason to send his assistant to pester me to return what I’ve rightfully earned.”

“He didn’t send me. And I can pay.”

“What is it worth?” Geralt asked.

At that, the man hesitated. “I … don’t have the money now … but—”

“Then I’m keeping it,” Geralt said, tugging Roach’s reins. He turned his back to the stammering man, no longer interested in his bargaining.

The man stumbled along after him. “I’ll earn it!” he insisted, voice cracking from the effort to raise it. The outburst hurt his voice and he strained to be heard, slowly disappearing again as he forced the words from his throat. “If you let me travel with you awhile, I’ll earn the coin. I can sweep and cook in towns—just about any job that needs doing. Or I’ll work for you: clean your boots, water and brush your horse, whatever that needs doing. It’s a common coat, but Maik stole it from me. It’s the sentimental value that’s important here, not the coin. Have it appraised if you don’t believe me, but I beg you not to sell it to anyone else.”

Geralt eyed the man. His clothes looked plain for a shopkeeper’s assistant, just as the gossipers and alderman had said. They were more worn than they had right to be. Truly, it wasn’t good for business to have one’s assistant so poorly dressed. He didn’t even have a coat, and the weather was getting colder. It made Geralt wonder whether the furrier paid him at all. The shop had been clean and orderly; surely the man had been keeping to his work.

“You ought to return to the shop,” Geralt said. “There’s more coin to be made in the fur trade than in kitchens and pubs. You’re unprepared for travel.”

The man’s fingers curled, his knuckles popping with the strength of his fists. He glared down at the dry road, his expression dark.

“There was never any coin to be made in that shop,” he spat.

Geralt looked at him again, slowing Roach to a stop. The man looked back, a deep and black determination in the set of his jaw. It was a look that Geralt had known well, but one he’d not seen for many long years. He’d first encountered it during the trails, when the trainees had been given their choice before the mutations. It was a knife’s end of a choice. And here was a man who’d certainly lived at the end of such a knife.

He wanted to know, but he knew better than to ask from people with such eyes.

“You have no business coming with me,” Geralt grunted.

“But I do. And I am.”

With the heavy scent of rain in the air and the growing wind, Geralt gave it a day. The man would remember winter was on the rise and find another place to settle. No fool would follow a witcher’s path. The man would give up on sentimentality soon enough.

For the first half of the hour, Geralt considered mounting Roach and riding quickly out of reach. But the assistant looked rather pathetic at his side, and he was being respectfully quiet—or quiet, at any rate, respectful or not. It would be bad form to outpace him. Better to let the man come to his own conclusion and decide the coat wasn’t worth the trouble. So he simply continued as before on foot.

On the path north, two contracts had offered poor returns for his efforts. The first payment had been innocently short, and he’d been given a meal and bath for the remainder of his troubles. For the second, he’d been chased out of town for his failure to slay the beast before it took its final victim. He’d been feeling more than a little spiteful when he’d arrived in the portside town, and he was not about to give up his reward, however sentimental it might be. He loathed sentimentality, and he’d grown tired of being forgiving for awhile. Payment was payment, and he meant to keep what he had. Perhaps on another day he would consider simply giving the fur to the assistant. But not this day in particular.

They walked on until evening, not a word shared between them. Geralt glanced at the assistant now and then, watching him do odd stretches and rubbing his neck. Occasionally, the man would hum something like a scale up and down, low in the back of his throat. He tried whispering, resting for long stretches in between. Once, the man met his eye.

“Vocal exercise,” he explained.

Geralt hummed in acknowledgement and looked back toward the road.

When evening came, Geralt sighed. The town had been a sprawl and it had taken most of the day to reach the farmlands beyond the main road. On Roach, he might have made it to a more rural space by nightfall, but instead, scattered villages stood upon the horizon. The nearest village was charmingly rustic, as the townsfolk might describe it. There was a large church and a separate inn and pub; the three major establishments which marked civilization, such as it were. It took many people to supply for the town—it might as well be called a city—and the townsfolk expected variety. Fields and fields of goods: linen for cloth, sheep for wool and mutton, a dairy farm with a fine cheesemaker, a cider mill with a vast orchard, and all the villagers and shepherds required to keep them. And it required an army to feed a populace.

After a long, trying day, Geralt wished to isolate himself. He’d had enough of people with their fuss and bother and noise. There was more he’d had enough of: he felt at least three more ‘and’s on the tip of his tongue, but he quelled the thoughts when his nose caught the salivating smell of minted mutton. He lifted his hunched shoulders, following the smell to the inn. And trailing behind, his silent shadow pursued.

There was enough in his purse for a small room, a stall in the stables, and dinner. Geralt did not indulge in the luxury of a pint, tightening his purse strings with reluctance. It would be some time before his next contract; he needed to save what he could for the beginning of spring and his return to the path. At least the well water was fresh, he thought. He’d had enough of salt for one day. The mint jelly on his mutton made each sip of water fresh like a breath of deep winter air. In the warmth of the inn, it was a welcome feeling.

All the while he ate, the man sat across from him, staring silently at the wall. Oddly, the man did not elect to sit directly across, but further down the table, putting distance between them. Now and then he glanced at Geralt, saying nothing. When the potmaid came to ask whether he was after a bit of supper, he shook his head, asking only for a bit of water. When she returned, Geralt caught a waft of hot minty steam. With a wink and a finger over her lips, she placed the tea before him with a bit of honeyed bread. She received a smile in return and a tip of his cup.

“No dinner?” Geralt asked.

“No coin,” the man replied, patting his clothes in a perfunctory manner.

“No room for the night,” Geralt concluded. “They’ll not let you stay in here.”

“I can always find a bed for the night.” He looked toward the potmaid, then toward the hall where the rooms waited. “It isn’t too cold, out of the sea air. I could stay in the stables.”

For one night, perhaps. When Geralt eventually slept out of doors, in the cold and wet, his frail little tail would be gone. He comforted himself with this thought as he retired, bolting the door behind him. However, the sound of the heartbeat on the other side of the door made it difficult to fall asleep for some time.

When he woke the next day, he nearly tripped over the bundle huddled up on the floor.

“You’re persistent,” Geralt grunted.

The man struggled up to his feet, swaying tiredly. “I am,”  he said. “So. Where to next?”

“Town. Tomorrow I begin heading north. There’s rain on the way and you haven’t got a coin to spare. You will catch the chill in the air and I won’t be blamed for leaving you on the roadside when you collapse.”

“So north then. Shall we?”

It rained. It rained and the man still had not left. He shivered and hugged his arms around himself and he huddled in whatever shelter he could find when Geralt camped for the night. Even when Geralt tried to slip silently away, the man would start up again immediately. Three more days came and went, and still the man pursued, pilfering a few apples from the orchards or charming his way into a meal or bit of work along the way.

As the time passed, the man began to speak more and more, his voice recovering in spite of the cold. He was eager to use it once it returned, and he could at last allow his true colors to show. From his mouth poured poison, cursing the furrier with colors to shame the brightest of portraits. Geralt learned a great deal about the assistant’s unfortunate lot.

The man’s mood turned after a bit of sun shone through the clouds. He began to speak in that dreamy manner best suited to poets, or else the blunt manner of an academic. He had the occasional snobbery of a man familiar with the peerage, peppered with the common man’s distain of nobles. A day’s conversation proved quite the education, so long as Geralt did not actually pay much attention to the individual thoughts. The tone, really, was what spoke such volumes, and the choice of topic. The rest was immaterial.

On the fourth day, the man began to sing.

Even Geralt had to admit that the man had an accomplished voice. He’d heard enough to be intrigued before the man stopped, his voice still in need of recovery. Talking was effort enough, but singing required more strain. Instead, the man filled the hours with the particulars of music and song writing. He spoke at length on composition and musical theory, the academic coming once more to light. It passed the time, Geralt supposed. And the man spoke softly enough still.

As they neared the edge of Kaedwen, it became clear that his tail was firmly attached. Geralt finally stopped at the last sign of civilization: a signpost which marked the border, splitting the road beneath it in four crooked directions.

“You cannot come with me,” Geralt said, and he’d said it many a time.

“I can,” the man replied, the answer nearly instinctual for its repetition. “Now, returning to my theory on the power of folk balladry: if, say, I were to conceive of a devastating enough rhyme for Maik—perhaps ‘take’ or ‘stake’ (such as the one I’d put through his heart, the blood sucking pest)—I might be able to negatively influence his business merely by way of m—”

“For fuck’s sake, you prattle like a professor! Go find some gainful employment at an academy and lecture the winter away. You cannot continue to follow me!”

The man froze at once. Something in him shifted, and he twitched in place. A moment passed between them. Then, slowly, the man held out his hand, his expression schooled into something more severe.

“Will you return my coat to me?” he asked.

“For the hundredth time, no,” Geralt sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He opened his eyes, pointing at the man as if to scold him, like a child. “Do not ask me again,” he said.

The man straightened up, then bristled silently. “Fine,” he replied. “But know that this is not the end. I will see you again come the spring, and I will have my coat in due time.”

“I very much doubt that we will ever set eyes on one another again.”

The man hummed. “We shall see,” he concluded.

Then, without another word of goodbye, he turned toward the western path, back towards Redania. Shockingly, leaving Geralt in the unfamiliar silence, he left.

As he turned back toward his own path east, Geralt looked over his shoulder warily, once, then a second time further down. The odd man was walking with a purpose, quite resolved to be on his way. Geralt waited until he disappeared into the distance, then he mounted Roach with more than a little apprehension. As he rode away, Geralt wondered why the man had so suddenly decided to listen to him. The question haunted him during the quiet moments of the winter, seeping in with the draft. It made him wonder about his stranger. Somehow, in spite of his own declaration, he was sure they would meet again.

Early spring found Geralt in Oxenfurt, clearing out the newly hatched spawn from the sewers. The city was always sure of work after the first thaw; all manner of creatures made their nests in the collected warm dung which floated in the waters, and being below the earth helped keep the chill at bay, despite the cooling effect of the water. Though it was an unpleasant bit of work both to analyze and dispatch, no witcher ever turned up his nose at such reliable pay. Besides, Oxenfurt was generally welcoming, and the people had good business year round. With fine industry, they were not hard pressed to pay well after the long winter.

What was more, the eradication of vermin from the sewers was not an isolated task. The sewer was sprawling, and the task divided between the central plaza, the fisherman’s wharf, the shopping district, residential estates, and the university. He’d already collected his pay from the mayor’s court for the job in the central plaza, and now he was heading through the university gardens to receive his pay from the headmaster’s page. The garden had a pump for washing, and the groundskeeper was friendly. The bucket and brush were waiting for him at the pump as they always were when a sewer job was called for. So Geralt stripped his armour and scrubbed himself before his meeting with the page.

“Well!” a bright voice chimed. “It would seem fate has thrown you in my path once more!”

Geralt looked up, wiping the hair from his eyes as the pump dribbled water over his head. Through blurry eyes, he spotted the face of the sing-songy furrier’s assistant. He squinted at him, astonished to find the man so far from his own town. He’d expected the man to have some sense and return home when sent away.

He looked less gaunt than before. There was a healthy glow in his cheeks and a brightness in his eyes which had not been present when last they parted. His head held higher, he seemed taller. And it was strange to see someone smile so freely.

The man dusted off his robes, adjusting himself smartly. He stood upright, every inch of him the academic professor. His cap slightly tilted, he grinned down at Geralt, offering him a hand. “Professor Pankratz, as you so rightly divined. Or Jaskier, rather. A winter of lecturing at an academy was quite the best idea, and I thank you for putting the notion into my head!”

Geralt looked at the man’s hand doubtfully. “I’ve just crawled out of a sewer,” he said.

“Ah. For next time then.” The hand quickly retreated to grab at his robes.

Geralt stood, washing his hands one final time beneath the pump. He flicked the water from his fingers and collected the items in the bucket once more, hanging them on the faucet. “You’re always sure of a next time, are you?” he asked, already walking away.

The man was undeterred. He fell into step at Geralt’s side, paying no mind to the dismissal. “You were so sure we would never cross paths again, and yet, here we are not four months later. And that without effort! I imagine you’d be a very easy man to find if one were actually looking. And I meant to come looking sooner or later. I was making up my mind about it this very week. I’m only contracted through the winter semester, you know.”

“I don’t know,” Geralt grunted.

“Now you do. And as I said before, I can do just about any job that needs doing, and the board of directors certainly agreed when they listened to my list of qualifications.” The man raised his hands with a flourish, speaking dramatically with self pride. “I am a master of the seven liberal arts, and I graduated some years ago from this very academy, the top of my class! And as I assured you, I would find some way to earn enough coin to purchase that old fur from you—well there you have it: an academic salary! I’m prepared to award you half my earnings these last four months. Now that is more than generous for a simple fur, would you not agree?”

Geralt stopped with a sigh. “Listen, Pander—”

“Pankratz.”

“Pankratz. It’s a fine—”

“But you may call me Jaskier.”

“Jaskier then. I don’t—”

“And you are Geralt, if memory serves. Geralt of Rivia? I’ve been collecting stories of you over the winter, learning what I can, and I think—”

Geralt clapped a hand over Jaskier’s mouth. “For fuck’s sake! Shut up and listen a moment, will you? I don’t have the fur. It’s fucking spring. No one needs a warm fur in spring.”

Jaskier paled. When Geralt removed his hand, there came a pregnant pause. After a moment spent gathering his thoughts, Jaskier fiercely demanded, “Did you sell it?”

Geralt was surprised by the depth of seriousness displayed. “No,” he answered.

With a lengthy sigh, Jaskier sagged upon his feet, relieved. “Oh, thank the gods.” The next moment, he conducted himself like a businessman, straightening up at once. He looked Geralt in the eye and said with impressive authority, “Then I shall pay half now and half upon its return. I will even throw four gold pieces on top of your fee as a sort of thanks for keeping it in good repair these last four months. In addition, I will pay whatever fee you think is reasonable for the travel involved in its delivery from your keep—I presume it is in the famed witcher keep—to the nearest town in Kaedwen, which I will journey to forthwith upon your word.”

Geralt stared at him silently a moment, looking thoroughly worn. The creature before him was a determined thing, and rushed. It seemed almost as if he meant to follow Geralt all the way north this very moment, if it might be accomplished. He had a half-mad fever in his eye, though his face remained friendly and jovial. It was not a man, but some stalking cat or bird of prey that stood before him, and it looked ready to spring at one flinch.

“Why are you so desperate to have it returned?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier sniffed. “A man’s business is his own,” he answered vaguely.

“Just tell me.”

A flash of irritation. But Jaskier answered swiftly, shifting himself as if his mood were so easily swayed. Hip cocked and arms crossed, he airily inspected his fingernails.

“If you’re so desperate to know, then I suppose there’s no harm in telling. Firstly, I’m quite proud, and to have it stolen from me wounds that pride. Secondly, that coat is the only thing which connects me to my family, and I have no family alive in any land from here to the deserts of Zerrikania. I am alone without it, and I have been too long alone. I don’t wish to be alone always.”

He said it so flippantly, it was almost not to be believed, Geralt thought. But then, that was precisely the dismissive manner one would employ if one wished not to allow such feelings to overtake them.

“And furthermore,” Jaskier said, eyeing the witcher in a stubborn way, “I will follow you to the ends of the Continent and back until such a time as my fur is returned to me.”

Geralt remembered the cold, wet beginnings of winter. “I believe you would,” he replied.

“It is settled then. When my contract here is finished, I shall accompany you until you travel north to fetch my fur.”

“I didn’t agree to t—”

“And what’s more, I’ll prove myself to be the very best travelling companion!” He spread his arms wide, turning to gesture vaguely out into the gardens and the city beyond. “You will recall what I said of my studying your stories, yes? I am a bard by trade, and I shall make such music that the travel shall melt away, miles disappearing as salt in rain! With my voice I shall provide us with the very best rooms at inns, delicious meals with the best of wines and ales, and all the comforts of home as can be found on the long journey!”

When Jaskier turned back to offer Geralt his hand to seal the deal, the witcher had disappeared.

Round the corner, dripping over the garden path, Geralt hurried to find the page, collect his pay, and skip town. The shouting behind him followed like a dark omen.

He sprinted faster.

“That was quite rude of you, you know.”

Geralt was brushing Roach, getting ready to bed her down for the night when Jaskier arrived in the stables. One month. That was all it had taken the bard to find him. Oxenfurt was already far behind, and it wasn’t as if Geralt had left him a calling card and map. Geralt wondered just how he’d managed it. The man had spoken of finishing his contract; if he’d even been delayed a week since their last meeting to do so, his speed would be considerably impressive.

Geralt turned with a hard dismissal on the tip of his tongue. He paused, however, when he saw the man. Gone were the silly academic robes. The man was dressed fetchingly in a heavy linen doublet of dark blue. It was of the fashion with puffed sleeves and a paned front, done up with a bit of yellow twist and red lining. He was surprised to see that the bard wore travelling boots on his feet. It wasn’t exactly practical, but more functional than he expected for a fop and academic. What was more, he only carried one small bag slung over his shoulder and a leather case in an unusual shape at his side.

Jaskier caught him eyeing the odd case. “My lute,” he explained in so many words.

Geralt grunted, losing interest. He turned back to Roach, forgetting what retort he’d intended. He finished brushing her shoulders, flicking the hair of her undercoat onto the stable floor.

“Already sing for your supper?” he asked.

“The barman’s family is already at play tonight, setting up a dance.” Jaskier spoke as if such a charming country picture were a personal insult. “No room either. They’re full up. Only ever had three rooms to let in the place to begin with. They suggested I inquire with one of the farmers.”

So that had been true. Geralt had wondered if it were not simply small minds refusing coin. The barman has said as much to him when he’d asked for a room, only to be told he might sleep in the stables with his horse. It was a nice stable at least, and the straw was clean, the stalls recently swept. He had already arranged Roach’s saddle blanket over a comfortable patch to lay upon once she’d settled.

Jaskier flung himself upon this without a thought, his arms pillowed behind his head. “Then again, the stables are warm enough for a night like this. It was lucky I found you when I did, really. It will be much easier to chase you in travelling clothes. I nearly tripped over my robes, running after you in the garden.”

Geralt smiled to himself. “Took you a month to stand up again?” he asked.

“Ha, ha. No. I simply had to finish my lecture, as I told you. After that, I had many a goodbye to say to my friends and colleagues, and a set of clothes to be made.” Jaskier stretched out more comfortably and added, “You’re not so difficult to find, really.”

“Hm. I’ll have to run faster next time.”

“Or you could ride your horse. Much faster.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Geralt grabbed the end of the blanket and pulled, toppling Jaskier into the straw with one motion. As Jaskier lay sputtering, straw flying about, Geralt silently lay his blanket on the far side of the pen. Roach lay between them, eyeing the newcomer mistrustfully. She put her head close to Geralt as he lay himself down, then flicked her tail in annoyance.

“Quiet down; you’ll irritate Roach,” Geralt warned.

Jaskier slapped the straw from his arms. “Oh, what?” he whispered obligingly. “Worried she’ll be cranky when you wake her up to go riding off in the night?”

“Precisely. She’ll need her rest to outrun you. So go find yourself another pen.”

“Very well; I know when I’m not wanted.” With a huff, Jaskier stood, dusted himself off, and strode to the very next pen. Ironically, this put him closer to Geralt, just on the other side of the panelling. Geralt eyed him through the cracks, then returned to his original pile of straw.

Roach lifted her head in irritation, then rolled onto her side, throwing her head back to bridge the distance in a display of disapproval. To placate her, Geralt stroked her neck. She still fussed, flicking her ears to have the final say.

Jaskier poked his head up above the divider.

“You know,” he trailed. “I could be a great asset to you, if you would let me.”

Geralt closed his eyes, message clear. “Quiet, Yasper.”

“Jaskier,” Jaskier whispered, quieter still. “And I mean it. I do not mind waiting until it is more convenient for you to retrieve my fur, but as I doubt you will remember to fetch it lest I am there to remind you, I will accompany you, as I have promised.”

“Shut up and go to sleep.”

With a great sigh, Jaskier disappeared behind the divide again, tossing himself down into the straw. However, that was all the fuss he made. In a matter of minutes, he’d gone to sleep. Geralt could hear his heart rate slow down remarkably, as if he’d fallen asleep simply to spite Geralt. Though shocking, Geralt was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. He shifted himself comfortably, sword at his side, and settled in moments later. Roach had already had a good day’s rest. In an hour or two, they’d make headway. Jaskier had a few good ideas after all.

A rustling in the bushes brought a familiar figure into view. How odd it was that such a man should be at all familiar. “You’re getting faster,” Geralt said. “From four months to one, then two weeks; soon you’ll be popping out of portals within the hour.”

Jaskier waved his hand. “Far too expensive. And I’m not one for mages.”

“Nor swamps,” Geralt noted.

Jaskier had one boot on his foot and one in his hand. He was shaking out a rather wet and muddy dribble from his boot, and the leg it belonged to was covered with scum up to his knee.

“Rabbit hole or something. Nearly lost my boot to it,” he muttered. He hopped as he tried to tug the boot on again. It made a squelching noise as it rose.

“More likely a drowner’s pit. We’re in the middle of the nest now. They like to burrow in the mud to stay warm.”

With a yelp, Jaskier hurried to Geralt’s side, looking all around them. “Fuck, do you think it would have grabbed me? How far deep to they go? Dear gods, to think I might have drowned!”

“It’s your lucky day,” Geralt said, lifting up a collection of heads by the hair. “I’ve just finished eradicating this particular nest you’ve stumbled on.”

Jaskier made a face, watching a bit of bile leak from the neck of one drowner, dripping on the body below. “I suppose I need not inquire as to the threatening nature of your decapitated friend. The name is self-evident. I am curious though; how does a drowner come to be?”

Geralt paused. He’d already begun stuffing the heads into a sack, but Jaskier’s casual manner confounded him. He looked over his shoulder. Yes, the bard was covering his nose, his face wrinkled in disgust, but there was something more.

In spite of Geralt’s black-veined eyes, Jaskier’s disgust was markedly directed at the drowners.

Perhaps he did not see. But no, Jaskier looked him in the eye the next moment, and though his brows rose further, there came no stench of fear.

“Oh fuck, did one bite you?” he asked, almost casually. He flicked his hand at his own face inquiringly. “You look—well, there’s no delicate way to phrase it; are you dying of a poison?”

Geralt blinked and said, “No. It’s a potion.”

“Ah, I was nearly worried. Can’t have you dying on me now. I’ve still got a job for you.”

At that, Geralt snorted. “You’re nothing if not persistent.”

“I wouldn’t stumble my way through a bog in a new suit for just anyone, you know.” To prove his point, Jaskier brushed at his doublet showily. “The villagers told me where to find you,” he added, “and to prove my use, I’ve even bartered our stay in one of their barns. No hay stacks this time; they’ve got an old pallet with a lovely netted frame and mattress. Stuffed with hay, but there’s dignity to it at least. Comes with a bit of dinner as well.”

All told, it wasn’t a horrible deal. It was certainly more than Geralt had been expecting. He eyed the bard warily as he closed up the bag. Jaskier began prattling on as was his habit, asking questions about the hunt and Geralt’s mysterious black eyed potion. Before Geralt knew it, they were walking side by side back to the village. Though he didn’t answer his questions that day, Geralt did not prevent Jaskier’s asking. And though he was curious in his own way, Geralt made no inquiries in reply. He simply observed this strange new companion who stuck to his side like a barnacle to a ship’s hull. And when the time came to bunk down for the night, he made no plans to wake before morning.

With some satisfaction, Jaskier rose first and stood ready at the barn door.

“Where to today, witcher?” he boasted. “Am I now privy to your path?”

Geralt said nothing. However, when he’d saddled Roach and stepped out into the morning air, he did not make any particular effort to escape. Delighted, Jaskier stood beside him and split a roll between them.

So they began.

Jaskier was privy to a great many hunts as the seasons passed. True to his word, he dedicated himself to the study of witchers, taking notes and writing songs to chronicle Geralt’s various deeds. His skill with a quill was not to be denied, and the Path was more forgiving than it had been in many a year to Geralt. As spring gave way to summer and the bard’s ballads grew in popularity, people began to recognize Geralt here and there by a new moniker: the White Wolf. Geralt was offered more contracts; enough to buy himself a new set of armour, piece by piece. It had been a long time since he’d had something acceptable. How he managed to stumble into such a strange arrangement he’d never know.

Actually, he did know quite well, as Jaskier so often reminded him.

“Will we be making our way in a more northernly direction soon?” Jaskier asked, peeking his head up over their map.

Their map. How odd it was to be sharing things between them, Geralt thought, his bag filled with scrap papers and spare strings.

“East,” Geralt replied. “Toward Lyria.”

“Gryphon territory,” Jaskier mused. “We haven’t done a gryphon yet. I feel a gryphon would be good for a summer song. Possibly autumn if I can spin it the right way, but I prefer the imagery of summer and nature’s majesty: the clash of green and red.”

“Shall I walk faster so we don’t lose your backdrop?” Geralt snorted to himself, a wry smile on his lips.

“We have plenty of time. Besides, my feet are still sore from chasing after that cockatrice.”

“You insisted on being part of the hunt.”

“And you insisted on that bloody blindfold. I still have half a mind to believe you made me chase an ordinary chicken round the coop and just dropped a snake’s head among the feathers.”

Geralt smiled. He wished he’d though of a prank so devious, but the threat had been quite real. He was relieved that Jaskier wasn’t a common cheat; the cockatrice had been starting him down and hissing all the while, attempting to turn him to stone out of spite. It had nearly given up and lunged for a more direct attack when Geralt at last sliced its head. If Jaskier had peeked from beneath the blindfold, finding a cure would have been taxing.

Given the rarity of cockatrices, Geralt did not know much about them apart from rumour. He thought Vesemir might have discounted the validity of the cockatrice’s gaze, but it was a risk he’d rather avoid. And Jaskier was not to be denied.

“After Lyria, shall we head north? We can cut through the pass between the mountains at Hagge toward Kaedwen. I think there’s a caravan that meets there at the end of the summer: ceramic dealers or some such, I think. Clay harvesters, maybe. We could travel with them then cross the river. I could stay at the last town while you fetch the fur from up the mountain.”

And there, again, the fur.

“I’m not climbing the Killer just to fetch your fur,” Geralt dismissed. “Even in summer. The climb may be more sure footed, but it’s still an unnecessary climb.”

Jaskier groaned. “Is it the pay? I still haven’t spent a single copper piece of my winter wages. I’ve bolstered your reputation well enough for only a single season’s effort. Is that not yet enough? Be reasonable Geralt—you cannot string me along forever.”

“You can leave at any time.”

“And you know that I won’t leave until I get back that damned fur.”

Yes, Geralt knew. He knew it well.

As they walked along, Jaskier began to boast of his accomplishments. Just the other day, someone had been singing one of his recent ballads while slopping the pigs in the village, and in the pub, he’d caught a snatched phrase of the Drowner’s Lament. Had the mayor two towns previous not specifically asked for the White Wolf’s aid? Very well, they would continue until such a time as Jaskier’s songs had changed the trajectory of Geralt’s life so dramatically that Geralt would have no choice but to fetch the fur and return grovelling at Jaskier’s feet!

Those same ice-cold feet were wont press into Geralt’s calves by the time they reached Hagge.

They were comfortable together. Enough that they shared a pallet when offered, and on one occasion a bed at one of the inns they travelled by. Jaskier’s lack of fear and self-preservation made him bold enough to crawl into Geralt’s bed as the weather cooled. If Geralt would continue to act like a stubborn ass and keep his fur, then Jaskier would simply warm himself by stealing half of Geralt’s blanket. Or all of it, as it happened each morning.

The story of the gryphon had followed them and people requested the song when they recognized the duo on the path. Granted, the following was small, Jaskier’s fame niche, but it was a following nonetheless. Even when people did not know them, they knew a verse or two of the song. It was nothing to spit at, having a ballad travel beyond its country of origin. And even Geralt could admit—silently—that the bard’s talent was growing with experience.

The roads were not yet soft with clay and the rains had not yet come when Geralt contemplated the bard’s plans. He couldn’t host Jaskier overwinter and send him off with the fur, but Jaskier would insist on following even now. It would not do for the bard to trap himself at some small village at the foot of the mountain with no work to speak of.

“Do monsters hibernate in winter?” Jaskier asked, twirling a leaf between his fingers.

Geralt shook himself from his contemplation. “Most do,” he replied. “At least to some degree. They won’t venture far from their dens. Even monsters aren’t impervious to the cold.”

“Not much opportunity for winter ballads then.”

“No. And we rest in the winter time. People have less coin when the winter leaves less work.”

Jaskier blew the leaf into the air. “I often forget other circumstances. Music is wanted year round, and academics always require study, whatever the weather. But I suppose as most of our shared clientele consists of farmers and shepherds there’s little work left by then.”

Geralt shook his head humorously at the notion of shared work. In a way, it was true that they shared their efforts: Geralt slew the beasts and Jaskier wrote the ballads. It still amused him regardless.

“Where are you off to then? To audition for some winter court or back to the bosom of Oxenfurt and the academy?”

“They liked my lecture well enough last winter—Oxenfurt, I think. I need more time to expand my ledger of songs before they’re quite ready for a whole winter of courtly entertainment. Besides, they won’t want to listen exclusively to your daring deeds, however loftily I record them. Some more love songs and odes to nature, I expect. Perhaps I’ll even be requested in a year or two.”

“We ought to part here then before the mountains join and block the way south,” Geralt suggested. “You can catch a ferry down the Pontar to Oxenfurt.”

“Already? Now? As—right now?” Jaskier fumbled.

“Tomorrow. I’ll take you to the slip where they dock in town. We’ll reorder our bags tonight.”

Jaskier was already rummaging through his satchel on the roadside. He pulled the untouched purse from the bottom of it. For a moment, he turned it over in his hands, then he held it out awkwardly to Geralt. “Um. Well, here,” he said. “You’ll be wanting this then, though I didn’t expect we’d be parting quite so soon.”

Geralt looked at the proffered bag. He then pressed it back toward Jaskier.

“Keep it,” he said. “Witchers don’t take payment until a job is done.”

“Oh, but I know your guilty conscience, my friend. If I give you half, you’ll be restless until you return my fur to me, and so you won’t forget!”

“I wouldn’t forget.”

“Oh? Just like you wouldn’t forget to save those quills you promised me from the cockatrice?” Jaskier accused. “Or you wouldn’t forget to save one singular custard bun for me at the festival last month? There were five in the bag, Geralt. Five.”

“Didn’t forget,” Geralt said, smirking. “Just didn’t want to share.”

Jaskier smacked him. “You ass.”

“Hurry up and put your coin away before some highwayman smells it on the wind.”

Jaskier shoved the purse back into the bottom of his bag with a sigh. “Next year, I’m holding all the treats in my bag,” he grumbled. “And I get first dibs on any nice monster bits.”

“Get going. You could miss the ferry if you spend all your time running your mouth.”

Jaskier strode ahead grumbling about ungrateful, bossy witchers. In addition, he grunted that the farmer got two whole feathers, and one for each of his children to boot. But not so for poor mistreated bards with bumps and bruises on his elbows and shins from crashing around the crowded chicken coop blindfolded. No, no, never for him.

Geralt smiled at Jaskier’s back. Then, the smile began to fade as Jaskier wandered further up the path, mindlessly chattering to the air. It felt strange to be apart, even at so small a distance. Perhaps it was the slowly diminishing sunlight that brought the sense of melancholy. Perhaps it was the thought of the ferry which would carry Jaskier from the shore in—a day? A week? Their time together would soon be a brief commodity. And come spring, their time would end. And it had been so short a time, really. So brief. Hardly enough to mind.

Jaskier turned and berated Geralt for standing idle. He waved him impatiently up the path.

Geralt tried not to think too much how he would miss the sound of Jaskier’s scolding.

“You … forgot.”

Geralt shuffled, rubbing at the reins nervously.

Jaskier peeked out over his hands, one eyelid pulled low by the dragging of his fingers in an impressive expression of exaggerated irritation. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Jaskier groaned. “All year long I reminded you, and after all of that you simply … forgot.”

Geralt leaned away, not meeting his eye.

“It blends in with the other furs. I didn’t think twice to take it.”

“Blends in with—! My beautiful fur? Like any other common fur? How dare you! I’ll have you know that mine is of a superior quality, soft and smooth and silky and fine! And beautifully speckled! It is without compare!”

Jaskier threw up his hands, upsetting the hat from his head. It tumbled onto the muddy garden ground, but he paid it no mind. He was so wrapped up in his tirade.

“Of all the witchers on the Continent, I had to be stuck with the most brainless, thoughtless, the most—ARGH! I swear at times you are the bane of my life, Geralt.”

And Geralt smiled. It was impossible to deny the familiarity of such a speech. It was the kind of exasperation only shown to …

“You, my friend, are impossible,” Jaskier concluded with a sigh.

Those, yes. Geralt willed his smile away, lest he be caught.

“How long until your contract ends?” he asked.

Jaskier crossed his arms. “Two weeks. And you know I’ll track you down if you run,” he threatened.

 Geralt bent to retrieve Jaskier’s hat. He wiped the mud from it with his cloak before passing it back: an olive branch between them.

“There’s something rattling the bell in the cathedral every fourth night, they tell me. I’ll be staying in Oxenfurt until I discover what it is and dispose of it.” Uncertainly, he added, “You can find me in the cathedral if I’m not done before you.”

“And if you are done before me?” Jaskier asked.

“ … Then I suppose I’ll find you.”

Jaskier smiled. “Not outrunning me this spring?” he prodded.

Geralt returned his smile. “You’d just hunt me down again sooner or later.”

“Well … I’ve been told I’m persistent.”

Geralt was the one to find Jaskier. Of all the beasts to be expected, a particularly annoying house pet had not been among them. Some tropical bird with a foul mouth and a worse sense of humour. He returned the bird no worse for the wear and approached the priest for payment. To his great surprise, he was paid all that was negotiated in spite of the lack of a true monster. The priest did not seem put out by the loss of coin. In fact, he’d laughed when Geralt had come with the bird in hand.

“And what do you suppose your bard will make of this misadventure?” the priest chuckled.

Your bard. The words felt strange … and right.

“A lot of fuss,” Geralt answered with the smallest grin.

And Jaskier had been absolutely delighted to hear the paltry details.

“Oh, I haven’t done anything comedic in ages!” he crooned. “And you owed me something embarrassing after the cockatrice last year. That might make for a good parallel, in fact: the bard with the monster and the witcher with the pet! Everything all topsy-turvy and wrong way round.”

Jaskier had a few good verses by the time they took to the road. Of course, the real verses were kept private: a joke between the two of them. By the time they’d arrived in the next town, the parrot had become a vengeful siren, scorned in love by the handsome young priest. Epic stories made for more coin, Jaskier explained. Of course, he kept a few subtle references to surprise Geralt. When it debuted, Geralt had coughed on his ale at one such line and Jaskier had nearly stumbled off the table in the middle of his set at having caught Geralt in a genuine laugh.

And Jaskier was still boasting of it as they crossed the bridge out of town, babbling twice as much as the brook below their feet.

“I cannot believe I’m saying it, but I’m glad you forgot,” Jaskier said. “Imagine if we’d gone our separate ways and I’d never gotten the chance to watch you nearly drown yourself in ale while laughing at one of my jokes! I’d die a poorer man for it!”

Geralt pushed him over the footbridge at that and left Jaskier sputtering in the water.

When the third year came round, Geralt left the fur behind again, just to see Jaskier turn blue in the face. But rather than a prattling, indignant bard, he was faced with nothing but laughter. Jaskier clasped his shoulder as he clutched a hand to his middle, doubled over. He made a sound akin to the wheezing noise of a half-dead seal.

“Valdo Marx owes me so much fucking money,” he panted, trying to catch his breath. “I bet him you’d forget again and he said you’d take special care to remember just to be rid of me!”

He straightened up, nudging at Geralt’s ribs. “But then, I’d like to think you’re doing it on purpose just to keep me around. You must admit, I’ve upheld my end of the bargain thus far—and to greater effect than I could boast of before.”

And Geralt had to admit that Jaskier was right. The stories of their adventures were spreading, and he was being recognized more and more. He’d heard a few snatches of Jaskier’s songs, and people spoke of him by name in taverns when some other bard performed them. Jaskier was doing well to make a name for himself.

The first time Jaskier received a request to play for the peerage, Geralt felt a strange hollow in his chest.

Two weeks at court. That was all. He and Jaskier often spent much more time apart. But this invitation was something new. It was alluring. It was comfortable. And it was a mark that Jaskier had begun to outgrow his circumstances.

Geralt was irritable as the days passed. He took two contracts in the meantime, disposing of the creatures with far more efficiency than fit his mood. He wanted to fight something. To fight and to use up the bitter energy building up within. He wanted to take his time and let the day pass quickly so he might not notice.

What if the nobleman—the baronet? Or was it a marquis?—what if he decided to renew the contract another two weeks? Or offer Jaskier a position at court? Was that not the goal of bards: to find someplace cozy with a doting master and lush salary? He grit his teeth, picturing Jaskier upon some gilt pillow, strumming his lute at some faceless man’s feet.

It was an exaggerated picture, but then, he’d spent a great deal of time listening to Jaskier daydream just such a scene.

He tried not to show his relief when Jaskier found him at camp three weeks later, looking irritated and puffed up, like an angry bird.

“And where, exactly, did you slink off to?” he accused, hands set firmly on his hips as he scowled at Geralt.

Geralt was sewing up a patch on his cloak when Jaskier happened upon him. “A village outside of Anchor,” he replied. “Drowners again.”

Jaskier stamped his foot. “Did I not specifically tell you that my contract was for two weeks? That I expected to still see you in the vicinity of the capital? You dumped me at court and made me bargain my way out of taking a second contract! The baronet was annoyingly insistent that I stay while I waited for you to return. And here I am, a week late for my efforts to hunt you down. Oh, you do like to make life difficult for me, Geralt.”

Geralt looked at him out of the corner of his eye. “Did he not have a gilt cushion big enough for your taste?” he asked.

Jaskier scoffed. “No one could possibly fashion one large enough to make me sit in one place long. I’m a rambler in every sense of the word. That is why we work so well together, you and I. I crave the change and the adventure. I despise being trapped into anything.”

Geralt rubbed the cloak between his fingers. He looked down at the work in his lap, that hollow feeling creeping upon him once more. Was it not true, in a sense, that he’d trapped Jaskier in this arrangement? By refusing to surrender the fur, he’d effectively trapped Jaskier at his side. It meant a great deal to him, and he’d treated the circumstance so casually.

Jaskier flopped down at his side with a grunt. He pushed Geralt’s bag comfortably in place and leaned back to prop himself against it, eyes closed. “Really, Geralt; would it be such a hardship for you to wait for me? I have half a mind to lock you up with me the next time I’m invited somewhere. Now that’s an idea!”

Rather than images of being stuffed into a fine suit and made to rub elbows with the peerage, Jaksier’s words supplied Geralt with a very different image: locked in a room with Jaskier, the two of them comfortable and quiet. He saw them at perfect ease, lounging on a large bed, a deck of cards and a tray of fruit between them. A warm fire on a cool night.

“Not a bad idea,” he mumbled.

He did not catch the faint pink in Jaskier’s cheeks, but he did catch the sudden quiet. When he turned to look, Jaskier cleared his throat, turning away.

“Well! I’m … glad you see the sense in it,” Jaskier concluded.

By the fourth year, nobles were specifically requesting Jaskier parade his muse around their halls. Geralt had grown quite used to the brushing and the polishing, to his great misery. Appearing at court meant a great deal of fuss over his appearance, and Jaskier refused to let him be seen among the nobility without the bare minimum treatment. Why ‘bare minimum’ constituted no less than five different bath products escaped Geralt’s understanding. Even so, a small part of him enjoyed the thorough attention. Having Jaskier bathe him and brush him and attend to every fine detail … it warmed Geralt.

When Jaskier performed, Geralt watched from some banquet table, offered fine food and wine. Now and then he was forced to make conversation, but it wasn’t such a terrible price. Most people were too transfixed by the spectacle of Jaskier and his band that few paid Geralt much mind. And there was nearly always some band to accompany Jaskier and assist his music. They rounded out the song, watching for Jaskier’s direction, and they allowed him to rest when he finished his set, playing dance music or something sweet for the background during feasting.

But for all these details to which their hosts attended, there was often one oversight which Geralt minded not at all. The bath, the band, the banquet—all were remembered and provided, but more often than not, the accommodation was lacking. More often than not, they were only provided with a single room.

When the summer days turned to autumn and the excuse to bundle closer was so easily provided, Geralt found he truly did not mind one bit.

It was late autumn. Soon they would reach the mountain pass where they’d parted. It was cold enough that their host had provided soft furs to warm their bed. The sun had not yet risen on the morning, leaving a rosy glow on the horizon. Geralt had been awake for some time now, watching the light stretch slowly over the windowsill. The first golden rays brushed over the bed, kissing Jaskier’s cheek as Geralt now found himself so often longing to do.

Around Jaskier’s shoulders lay the grey and white pelt of a wolf—a detail that did not escape Geralt’s notice. Geralt found himself admiring the way Jaskier looked wrapped in his color. It quite belonged, he decided. How right he would look dressed in a fine white pelt hunted by Geralt’s own hands. Geralt wanted to see it. To make it happen.

He spent a great deal of the winter volunteering to hunt, climbing into the wilder parts of the mountain, following wolf tracks and listening for their calls. Even when he was successful in his tracking, the wolves had not been right. Brown, grey, black, all of them too dark. A light grey was not enough. It did not suit the title Jaskier had graced him with.

Two winters passed, and he spent each determined to find the right sort. As they spent their years on the path together, Geralt felt the conviction more and more that he wished to drape Jaskier in his symbol, and the meaning behind such an impulsive gift began to grow in significance. It had all begun with a fur, after all. Even now, the returning of it had become something of a joke between them. The years passed, Geralt forgot the fur time and again, and he continued in his hunt for the perfect wolf’s pelt until at last, he found it.

A wolf, white and pure as snow.

Geralt rode with his head high in the spring. Wrapped in a bit of black linen was his prize, ready to be presented. Jaskier was waiting for him at Oxenfurt, though he would often be at court in more recent years. The academy boasted him now, and his lectures were highly sought after and requested in the odd off year. Each return was a triumph, Jaskier would say.

When Jaskier jogged up the path to embrace him, Geralt felt it was a homecoming. He tucked his nose into Jaskier’s neck and breathed him in slow and deep. He smiled, taking in the way he looked, once more dressed in his silly academic robes. That would soon be fixed.

Jaskier heralded Geralt into his apartments and Geralt lazed about, already comfortable coming and going among them. He watched as Jaskier shed his professional layers and slipped into a comfortable robe. As he dressed, Jaskier spoke excitedly of all the parties and shows the winter had to offer, as well as the gossip Geralt had missed and the news from his friends and colleagues. It was still early spring, the stone floors cold, and the fire flickered cheerfully in the grate. Jaskier clutched his robe tighter around himself as he gestured with one hand, acting out his stories and shivering in the brisk air.

“I have something for you,” Geralt said. “I think you’ll want it now, while it’s still cold.”

A strange apprehension flashed across Jaskier’s face. When Geralt pressed the soft package into his hands, Jaskier did not leap to tear open the string as he so loved to do when offered presents. He held it a moment, eyes flicking between Geralt and the package. He tentatively plucked at the end of the slip knot. Only when Geralt cleared his throat did Jaskier open it in earnest, although he took his time.

When at last Jaskier pulled the linen away, he gasped: a quick, shallow sound. Then, relief washed over him, his shoulders relaxing. He smiled, touching the pelt with his fingertips. He lifted it from the wrapping to admire, and Geralt felt a great wave of satisfaction. In only a moment or two, Jaskier would begin his usual cooing. He would marvel over the beauty of it, the thick, soft feel of it beneath his hands, and the warm comfort it would surely provide.

But then, Jaskier’s face became lined with a sudden burst of anxiety. He pressed the pelt to his chest, eyes snapping up to meet Geralt’s.

“Did … did something happen to my fur?” he asked, knuckles turning white against the pelt. “Why are you giving this to me? Geralt? Geralt is this some kind of compensation?”

“No,” Geralt replied quickly. He put his hands on the pelt, pressing it closer to Jaskier. “No, nothing happened. I still have the fur. This is only a gift.”

Jaskier sighed, leaning back in his seat in true relief. “Oh, sweet Melitele—you had me worried for a moment,” he scolded.

Geralt smiled. “Nothing to worry about. It’s still safe and waiting for you in Kaer Morhen.”

At that, Jaskier looked at Geralt. He studied him a moment. “Waiting for me?” he said quietly. He lifted the pelt once more, stroking it with his hand. In a movement almost shy, he wrapped it around his shoulders. He then looked once more at Geralt, his ears pink at the tips. “Waiting … in Kaer Morhen?”

The words sat heavily between them.

Geralt looked at Jaskier, wrapped in the pelt of a white wolf, flushed with firelight and that strange, shy expression, his robe loose around him. The fire was almost too warm as their eyes met, and Geralt found himself at a loss. His throat was dry.

Geralt swallowed. And then he nodded.

“If you want to come take it,” he said at last.

Jaskier stroked an absent hand over the pelt, his eyes flickering away. “Where have you been keeping it all this time?” he asked. “I’ve been almost inclined to believe you stuck it in a trunk somewhere and forgot where you put it.”

“It’s on my bed, where it always was.”

Jaskier flushed, wrapping the pelt tighter around himself. “Your bed?”

Geralt bit the inside of his cheek. He’d spoken too soon. Hastily, he took the linen wrapping for lack of something else to focus his attention. He folded it neatly and nodded. “It’s, uh … it’s warm,” he replied. It was true enough, and the reason he’d used it in the first place, but …

After all these years, impossibly, it still smelled like Jaskier.

Better than the fur, having Jaskier in his bed settled some animal feeling deep in Geralt’s chest. They’d been the first to arrive at the keep and had wasted no time. The first day, they’d hardly left Geralt’s bed. By the second, they’d at least managed the room at large. Geralt felt he ought to have returned the fur sooner, watching Jaskier lounging with it draped over his hip. It suited him, and he looked so comfortable cuddled up against it—especially given his recent habit of wearing little else. Still, Geralt liked it best when Jaskier wore the wolf’s pelt, lying against his pillows. Wrapped in Geralt’s best furs, surrounded by his scent, he belonged.

The morning of their sixth day, Geralt dressed himself to prepare breakfast. He kissed Jaskier’s shoulder, nuzzling the bare skin beneath the pelt, and slipped away. To keep a bit of Jaskier with him, he wore the seal fur around his shoulders. He was glowing with satisfaction as be tramped his way down to the kitchen.

Vesemir was in the dining hall when he arrived, just returning from the foot of the mountain, Geralt supposed. Geralt reached an arm out in greeting when Vesemir suddenly snatched the fur from around his shoulders, gaping at it with his eyes wide in disbelief. Whatever words of greeting Geralt had died at once when Vesemir asked:

“Where the fuck did you get a selkie coat, boy?”

Geralt blinked.

“… A what?”