Chapter Text
Roach carries her owner and his daughter over precarious terrain day in and day out, pushing herself well beyond her limits as she senses the mess of emotions coming from Geralt. There truly is no time to waste; not this far in the Blue Mountains, where human lives become scarce and merciless wildlife has taken over.
The journey is as long and tiring as it always is, though now Geralt has Cirilla and his thoughts to keep him company through the mountain passes.
And boy, do they ever.
“I can’t believe you,” Cirilla continues to berate him for the snippets of the conversation she overheard between her two guardians back at their campsite, “Why did you treat him like that? I love you, Geralt, but that’s just mean.” Geralt can feel the vibrations of her voice against his chest where she leans into him on the saddle.
His heart clenches at her proclamation of love, then quickly twists for a whole new reason when she brings up his treatment of the troubadour.
She isn’t wrong.
Geralt is ashamed to admit that it took Jaskier sobbing out a love confession and threatening to leave for him to pull his head out of his ass and rethink his previous actions.
Everything Jaskier shouted at him was true. He had spit hurtful words at the bard on the top of that mountain, and while that had been the catalyst for their brief falling out, Geralt recognizes his large role in making Jaskier feel the way he does.
The gentle thumping of the troubadour's lute strapped to Roach’s saddlebags creates a soothing background noise as Geralt gently runs his fingers over the smooth wood every now and again to assure himself it’s still there.
That no matter what is to happen between them, Jaskier wouldn't dream of leaving his lute behind.
Every previous interaction between the two of them is put under scrutiny as Geralt mulls over all the times he insulted the bard without thinking, so used to only a horse for company that the topic of feelings hadn’t crossed his mind. All the times he caught Jaskier giving him sorrowful, yearning eyes after performing a particularly heart wrenching love song and assumed he was staring at one of the tavern maids instead. All the countless times Jaskier patched him up with steady musician’s hands, smoother and more comforting than any man’s hands had any right to be as he murmured praises and soothing words to ease Geralt’s pain.
Jaskier has done everything in his power to make Geralt happy, and Geralt burned him.
He doesn’t know if fire can even burn a dragon.
Most likely not, but words don’t have to take the form of flames to burn.
“I know.” Geralt whispers into the crown of Cirilla’s hair as they pass under a low hanging tree branch. “I know. I didn’t open up to him because I… I think I was afraid.”
“Oh.” Cirilla shuffles closer against his chest when a frigid breeze blows past them. “Well, I could have told you that. Whenever you look at him, your eyes glaze over with this emotion that makes them all glossy looking. It’s sort of like what I think Eist felt for my grandmother; both absolutely terrified and so helplessly besotted.”
Being lectured about his emotions by a child should be upsetting, but Geralt can’t bring himself to feel anything but proud. What a little spitfire he has gotten as his Child Surprise.
“They do?” He humors her as he continues to mentally turn over every conversation he’s had with Jaskier in their long friendship, wincing more and more as his biting words come back to haunt him.
Cirilla nods her head enthusiastically. “They do. They don’t look that way when you see Yennefer. You just look scared. When you look at Jaskier- I mean, you look a little scared, but I think that’s just because you’re scared of rejection.”
That at least earns her an amused huff from the witcher as he mulls over her words. She isn’t wrong; deep down, Geralt knows he isn’t the best at allowing people’s resentment and rejection to roll off his shoulders, and the mere thought of Jaskier hating him like the others...
It’s an intimidating thought. “She is an intimidating woman.” He agrees.
“Hmm,” Cirilla hums at him in a way so similar to his own pattern of answering that Geralt can’t help but hold her even tighter against him.
It was odd, being able to speak his mind to someone and have them actually listen. Never before had he felt safe enough to confide in another being and work out what he was experiencing without feeling he was overstepping by simply holding conversation with someone.
Not many people want to look at him, let alone converse with him. It was always about an Alghoul here, a Feind there, a nest of Nekkers just a stone's throw outside the town. The only snippets of conversation he managed to have were with aldermans who were paying him to kill monsters, or blacksmiths who needed to know how to size the armor he was getting commissioned. There were even a handful of whores who seemed vaguely interested in the things he had to say, though he’s sure much of that willingness was influenced by coin.
Not to mention the peasants and townsfolk who spit at his feet as he walked past, not a single word uttered from him to invoke their ire.
Geralt is quickly finding it easier to work through his emotions with someone willing to engage him than bottling them up and shoving them so far down that even hoards of Drowned Dead wouldn’t venture that low.
When that method of suppressing didn’t work and everything became too much to hold inside, Geralt resorted to lashing out. Many trees along the Continent can attest to the strength of his feelings as he let loose on their ancient bark, the force of his punches so strong that roots were upended and entire trees fell to the ground.
The scars on his knuckles aren’t just from monsters.
Geralt has always known his method of dealing with emotions isn’t healthy, isn’t even in the realm of normal, but never would he have thought being able to speak his mind like this would help untangle every thread of emotion he has knotted up inside his chest.
It’s… cathartic. Soothing in all the ways it’s terrifying.
But for Jaskier, he would do anything, even if it meant remaking himself into the person the blue eyed man so dearly deserves.
*
Geralt owes Roach an entire barrel of sugar cubes when they reach the Keep. Her great body shudders under them as she drags herself to the area Geralt knows like the back of his hand, heralding them safely over rugged cliffs and down steep valleys. Tall spires peak out from above tree tops as they close in on Kaer Morhen, the ancient fortress still as barren looking as Geralt remembers.
“Is that it?” Cirilla asks tiredly from where she’s slumped back against Geralt’s chest in the saddle, exhausted and freezing from the cool temperatures even as she fiddles with something in her pocket with chilled fingers. Her nose is red and she’s beginning to sniffle, so despite his instincts telling him something isn’t right, that someone is missing, Geralt presses on until he can see the large archway leading to the drawbridge that separates humans from the home of witchers.
It’s always an odd experience, coming back to the place where he was changed against his will, taken apart and made again to be a monster masquerading as a man. This, the only permanent place he could truly call the closest to home, was the very same place his mother abandoned him to and allowed his humanity to be stripped from him. The stone walls in the fortress acted as the only willing ears for his cries during the trials, his pleas and pain soaked into stone that would never utter a word of his weaknesses to anyone. Even during the extra rounds of mutagens he was subjected to, the walls of Kaer Morhen were his only confidant.
It certainly wasn’t for lack of trying. Vesemir and the other elder witchers had been so busy trying to wrangle hoards of prepubescent boys into order that they simply hadn’t had the spare time to listen to the ramblings of a single kid.
Wolves are pack animals, that much is true, but even wolves know when one of their own isn’t quite like the rest.
The boys who trained with him as a child treated him the same as any other young adolescents at that age; they gave him a vague sense of family and kinship up until they started dying off one by one, and by then his hair had been bleached white by the mutagens and only a fraction of the boys were left.
They feared him back then, he knows. An anomaly who took to the trials more successfully than any other had before was a scary sight.
He was something more mutated and twisted than the others.
Even Eskel, the boy he could almost call a friend by the time the trials were over, reeked of fear whenever Geralt managed to overpower him during training or exhibited strength and power that was beyond even the scope of the hardest trained witchers.
His relationship with his brothers is much better nowadays as their respective paths shaped their views and helped them grow, Eskel and Lambert both more than comfortable enough around him now and vice versa.
But back then, in a house full of wolves, he was alone.
Left to mature alone, to fight past gruelling battles and soul shattering trials to forge himself into the person he was told to be without a shoulder to lean on or a voice to simply assure him everything would turn out alright, Geralt shaped himself.
Molded himself from the silence and averted eyes around him, caged his heart so none could be granted the right to destroy him.
Muscle memory takes over as he pushes Roach that last few yards, giving his head a subtle shake to snap himself out of memories that never did him any good. The groaning and creaking of the great bridge echoes through the empty forests surrounding the Keep and in Geralt’s ears as the wooden structure finally lowers enough to reveal the one man who actively stayed in the fortress’s crumbling walls year round.
The one man Geralt could admit was the closest thing to a father figure he has ever had.
“Geralt.” A man calls out, the winds carrying his commanding voice, “Didn’t know if you would be making it back this year.”
The voice is gruff and weathered, the exact same no nonsense tone he has listened to throughout his long lifetime. It’s the sound Geralt has heard every winter he returns to the closest thing he has to a permanent home. There is no inflection in Vesemir’s voice as he crosses the bridge to greet them but there is a shadow of contentment dancing in those ancient eyes of his. “I see you brought a guest.”
Cirilla stares down at Vesemir with a guarded look before she takes note of the wolf medallion and the tell tale witcher’s eyes. Her posture instantly relaxes, slumping back against Geralt’s chest as she rakes her eyes up and down the man before her, sizing him up.
“One of two.” Geralt amends as he dismounts and grabs Roach’s reins to guide her into the Keep, easily falling in step beside his mentor with ease. Cirilla scoots back in the saddle to seat herself properly as she allows herself to be led on the horse.
“Jaskier is coming later.” Cirilla adds as she clutches her coat and blankets around herself while trying to not ogle the rundown fortress around her as they come into the courtyard, her eyes wide and mouth agape at the sheer size of everything.
To Geralt, the moss that hangs down from abandoned posts along the walls and the ever present scent of fresh dirt and weathered stone are the same as they have been in years past. Sure, there’s another crack or two that are new, but to someone like Cirilla, who has gone from riches to orphaned to homeless, it must be awe inspiring.
The many lines around the eldest wolf’s eyes soften and crinkle as he takes in the young form of the princess. “Jaskier is the bard Geralt has ranted about, I presume?”
“Yes,” Cirilla confirms before Geralt can drag himself out of his own head to answer, “He had to stay behind to take care of some bandits but he should be coming soon.”
The look Vesemir shoots him reeks of confusion. Geralt can understand where he’s coming from. Leaving a bard by himself to handle a group of brigands sounds asinine, and if he hadn’t lived through witnessing said bard tearing down halflings like a knife through butter, he would agree.
But Jaskier is no bard.
Has never been just a bard.
In light of recent events, Geralt still struggles to reconcile the fact that the innocent, well meaning and bright eyed man he met in Posada so long ago is the same man who brutally cut down multiple people without breaking a sweat.
A man who is of a dying breed much like himself. A man who is likely one of the last of his kind.
A man whose emotions are so strong Geralt could feel them resonate in his bones as though they are his own. They invade his heart and his thoughts, making it impossible to keep up the facade of feeling nothing, of needing nothing.
What a pretender he is turning out to be.
“Your sorceress portaled herself into the Keep several days ago.” Vesemir interrupts his line of thought as he grunts in distaste, their measured pace slowly but surely leading them further into the fortress until they’re standing in front of the tall wooden doors that lead to the main hall. “Been refusing to help me repair a hole in the south wall and instead took up residence in one of the towers.”
So Yennefer had managed to weasel her way into Kaer Morhen without the help of a witcher.
Somehow, that isn’t surprising.
“Yennefer is here?” Cirilla asks as she carefully dismounts Roach, the mare snuffling affectionately at her hair before Vesemir moves to lead her to the stables.
“Yes, she is. Do me a favor and tell her our alchemy supplies aren’t meant to be ground into cosmetics. It’s taken me long enough to gather them; I don’t need some sorceress wasting them all for vanity.”
And with that, Vesemir leaves Geralt and Cirilla at the doors of the main hall as he ambles down toward the stables with Roach.
Suddenly, Geralt doesn’t feel much like going inside. Being here with his mentor and brothers always lowered his hackles and soothed his wariness, but knowing who lay beyond this door all but sucked the contentment from his entire being like a particularly pissed off Bruxa.
Cirilla doesn’t seem to share his reservations as she speeds past him and pushes open one of the great doors, grunting in effort when a rusty hinge gets caught and she has to force it open.
As soon as they step inside, Geralt feels himself unwind against his better judgement.
Everything is exactly as it had been last winter. High ceilings tower over their heads, the tables strewn around the large area the same ones he and his brothers shared stories and played drinking games at. Even the smells of the forge are the same, the slight hints of sulfur wafting up from the hot springs beneath the Keep tickling his nose.
It’s all the same except for the very irritated sorceress suddenly standing before him, not a single hair out of place.
Violet eyes that used to make his heart ache for an entirely different reason now stare at him in accusation, the scent of lilac and gooseberries suddenly too stifling even with the high ceilings and draft flowing through the open space around them. “You certainly took your time.”
“Portals take seconds. Getting here from where we were took a week on foot.”
Yennefer isn’t buying his explanation. “You could have portaled with me. I offered.”
She knows how much he despises portals, yet insists he uses them. “Don’t like portals much. And Roach hates them.”
“You don’t have to like it to find it useful. But nevertheless, why did it take you so long to arrive? Surely a big bad witcher such as yourself wasn’t bested by a mere rockslide in the mountains you know so well.”
Geralt’s heart twists at her words. Had he really chosen this critical woman time and time again over the one man who stayed by his side of his own volition? The man who offered help and support and understanding even when it wasn’t deserved?
Jaskier wanting time to think on his own without having to bear witness to the pile of bullshit Geralt calls his life suddenly makes a lot more sense.
The thought leaves a bad taste in his mouth. “Got caught up.” Is all he says as he shrugs off their packs and places them against a wall in the main hall, only half paying attention to what the sorceress is saying as he keeps his gaze trained on Cirilla.
Cirilla, who is fluttering around the grindstones and armorer benches like she’s never seen anything so fascinating before.
It brings a silent smile to his lips before she reaches out to touch a precariously placed dagger that has Lambert’s name written all over it, Moon Dust powder all over the handle as though he spilled the beginnings of a bomb on it and just left it. “Don’t touch that.” He barks, satisfied when she snatches her hand back with a guilty look.
Yennefer watches all of this with raised eyebrows. “You’re really falling into the father role, huh?”
To anyone else, her words would sound like a compliment. But that’s just it- he knows Yennefer, knows how her words are a double edged sword that mean the opposite of what she says.
Knows that as much as she insults him for stepping up and becoming a guardian to the child, she yearns for the role of mother to appease her horrible self confidence. “Hmm.”
Those otherworldly colored eyes roll as she uncrosses her arms and puts her hands on her hips with a scoff. “Eloquent. By the way, I noticed the absence of that pompous, frilly puppy you call your bard.” She makes a show of glancing around the Keep Geralt calls his home with a scrunched nose, clearly taking note of the dust and cobwebs that have cropped up during the lack of habitation. “Don’t tell me you finally got sick of his yammering and pushed him off a cliff or something. Wouldn’t put it past you, what with your whole disregard for people making their own choices thing you have going on, but that would be pushing it a bit too far even for you.”
And that right there is why he has to take Yennefer in small doses. Their romance was a whirlwind at the start, but like with every storm seen from far away, the destructive force appears harmless until it’s caught up to you and left nothing but demolition in its wake.
She was a storm and, while exhilarating at first, quickly wore him down.
Geralt doesn’t grace her with a response as he shoulders his packs once again and gives a quick, sharp whistle, one he knows Cirilla recognizes as him calling her without wanting to raise his voice.
These walls have held for centuries, but Geralt would feel a tad guilty if his yelling was the thing that finally caused them to crumble.
Not to mention the punishment he would receive from Vesemir.
He suppresses a shudder at the thought.
Yennefer is staring slack jawed at him as he turns his back to her and heads up the stairs to where the bedrooms are, flanked by a curious Cirilla as she flutters from room to room, peeking into every one that isn’t locked.
There are many rooms; rooms that haven’t seen living creatures in them for much too long. Most that were inhabited by countless young boys in the past are simply left alone now, not a single surface touched after the sacking of Kaer Morhen.
Geralt suspects it pains Vesemir too much to be reminded of that day to bother tidying up the empty rooms.
“Where am I going to sleep?” Cirilla asks as he leads her to the end of the hall in the sleeping quarters, darting off once Geralt sighs and points to the room right across from his own.
Her sleeping quarters are flanked by rooms that belong to Eskel and Lambert on either side, and while Geralt hasn’t sensed them in the Keep quite yet, he has it on good faith his brothers will be showing up soon.
And hopefully, if Jaskier can stand forgiving him for the thousandth time and give him one last chance he doesn’t deserve, then his bard won't be too far behind them.
Cirilla quickly inspects her room before coming over to Geralt to retrieve her pack from him, satisfied with whatever she found in her room for the winter. “Where is Jaskier going to sleep?”
Oh.
After everything that had transpired between them, the thought of Jaskier not sharing his room with him hadn’t even crossed his mind. It was second nature at this point between them to rent a single room at the inns they stumbled into under the guise of saving coin, though they haven’t slept in the same bed for over two years.
It was instinct. A deliberately crafted one borne from habits and repeated choices, but an instinct all the same.
Perhaps it stemmed from one of the mutagens he had been forced to coexist with, or maybe it was some sort of pack mentality that kept him awake at night when he couldn’t hear the steady beat of Jaskier’s heart beside him.
Whatever the case may be, the thought of not sharing a room with the bard makes his chest ache, though he knows he doesn't have the right to feel that way.
He has forfeited the right to feel entitled to anything the bard had to offer the first time he tossed him aside for Yennefer.
*
Two days later, his brothers show up.
Lambert is a whirlwind of sass and backhanded remarks delivered in a snarky tone while Eskel is his quiet, introspective self. Their presence immediately puts Geralt at ease and Cirilla warms up to them both quite fast, though it’s clear as the days go by that Lambert in particular has a soft spot for her.
After all, his younger brother never bothered to take him fishing with Grapeshot bombs.
Strangely, Yennefer doesn’t bless them with her presence as she stays mostly in her pilfered tower room, clearly content with her lot in the castle as she makes no move to interact with the witchers, though she seems interested enough in Cirilla.
Geralt acknowledges begrudgingly that Yennefer is going to have to teach Cirilla how to control her chaos in the very near future. She is the most powerful sorceress he knows, and one whose loyalties lie solely within herself, though Geralt knows she would never harm his Child Surprise. She may be an insatiable hurricane of a woman, but she has a gentle heart when it comes to children. He has made his peace with it.
That, of course, doesn’t mean he likes it.
But Jaskier isn’t here to soothe his worries or make Cirilla smile with that baudy, godsawful sense of humor he has. Yennefer together with the princess would result in Cirilla undoubtedly trying the sorceress’s finite patience while trying to master control of her chaos and causing tension between them, tension that could be the difference between life and death where Nilfgaard is involved.
Thus, wherever Cirilla goes, a witcher is right there beside her.
It simultaneously feels like no time has passed and yet at the same time years have flown by before Geralt finally settles into routine at the Keep and begins to grow restless.
It only takes a day before Geralt is ready to vibrate out of his skin with worry.
First, it’s Eskel who corners him as he’s on his way to his room after lunch on their third day at the Keep, too wrapped up in his anxious thoughts about the chance of something happening to Jaskier that the other witcher catches him by surprise. “What’s wrong?”
Geralt fights with himself to not show how taken aback he is at the fact Eskel can read him so well as he turns to face the other man. “Nothing is wrong. I’m just waiting for my bard.”
Recognition sparks in soft yellow eyes, lighting up the face Geralt has more than once heard people call handsome, both before and after the trials. “Ah. That explains it.”
“He’s late.” Geralt elaborates.
“Geralt,” Eskel begins, taking a step back from the doorway leading into the white haired witcher’s room to lean comfortably against the wall, arms crossed. They’ve both swapped their armor for much softer loungewear, long sleeved tops stretching their shoulders and dark trousers cinched at the waist allowing them more comfort. “It’s alright to be anxious. Hell, Lambert is always anxious when he knows Vesemir has found his new stash of experimental bombs.”
A snort leaves him unbidden. “He’s still got that habit?”
“You know him, always gotta ruffle ol’ papa Vesemir’s feathers.”
They share a private moment of mutual amusement before Eskel sighs and runs a hand back through his brown hair, muted grey shirt shifting as his chest expands and deflates. “I just- listen, Geralt, I don’t mean to intrude, but if you need someone to talk to, I’m here.”
That stuns Geralt into silence.
Distantly, he knows his brothers and Vesemir care about him. They wouldn’t allow him to winter in Kaer Morhen if they didn’t at least tolerate him. Hell, he was shocked when Coën and Aiden stayed in the Keep and didn’t raise a fuss when he continued to return year after year. True, he knows a part of them still holds a healthy modicum of fear; still uneasy about the anomaly that is himself, but their typical brand of comforting one another was spitting insults and wrestling each other on the ground before Vesemir had to pull them apart.
Never had either Eskel or Lambert outright asked how he was feeling.
That was usually something only Jaskier did. “What?”
Eskel hurriedly attempts to implement what he apparently thinks is damage control. His expression flickers between subtle embarrassment and a tinge of worry. “I really don’t mean to intrude but the sound of your pacing keeps us up at night and I agreed to be the one to tell you rather than Lambert because- well, you know why.”
Geralt merely blinks. Yes, that sounds more like the brothers he knows. “I don’t pace.”
An irritated voice bellows from the floor below them, sounding from the kitchen. “You sound like a herd of rock trolls wrestling a fucking Wyvern, Geralt!” Lambert yells from below with an edge in his tone, obviously having heard their conversation and decided that this is the metaphorical hill he is to die on.
Soft waves of exasperation mingle in Eskel’s natural scent as he sighs. “While he should have put that more gently, Lambert is right. You do pace. And if this bard is anything like the stories you told of him for the past two years, he’ll make it in one piece.”
“And if he doesn’t, we’ll hunt him down!” Lambert supplies helpfully from the kitchens, his voice nearly cracking at the end with the volume he was trying to force from his throat.
And that was the end of that.
Or at least it was until nighttime fell upon them that same day.
Geralt paces furiously in his room after having put Cirilla to bed, Lambert be damned, the smell of the old stone walls and dusty furs not comforting him the way they used to in years past.
Jaskier should have been here already. Their campsite was a mere week away from the Keep; there was no way it was taking him this long to wipe out a few bandits.
Not when it had taken him mere moments to annihilate an entire campsite full of them.
Their scents were scarce, back when Jaskier mentioned sensing them. They were definitely the same breed of halfling as the ones who attacked them and their numbers were significantly smaller, so Jaskier should have no trouble keeping them from following.
Yet his heart races faster with each hour that goes by.
Cirilla isn’t faring much better than him. She had taken to trying to sneak out at every opportunity to go looking for the bard, pouting greatly when Lambert or Eskel inevitably caught her trying to be stealthy. She hissed and protested when none of the wolves would allow her out on her own, and while Geralt was immensely grateful for his brother’s help in assuring her safety, he was getting to the point where he was about to go off in search of the minstrel himself.
Her attempts to escape and go on a one child rescue mission cease in the span of a single day as though she suddenly remembers something and all intent to leave Kaer Morhen has disappeared. It’s troubling when she begins to act strangely.
Every night, she insists on sleeping with a bundle of strings she refuses to let leave her person for any reason. They reek of magic, but every time Geralt tries to ask her what they’re for and who they’re from, she shoves it in her pocket and gives him a knowing look.
He does not appreciate that look.
He does not appreciate Lambert’s screams for them to go to sleep and shut up, either.
*
On the morning of the fourth day after their arrival, Geralt decides he has to do something before his worrying drives him into an early grave.
Logically, worrying himself out over a being so old and obviously powerful accomplishes less than one would expect, but Geralt can’t shake the unease.
Yes, Jaskier is not as human as he was led to believe. Yes, the bard is more than capable of taking care of himself. Yes, Geralt knows fretting over him like a mother hen even more than usual despite knowing his nature is getting him nowhere very quickly.
So much time alone with himself and his own thoughts isn’t comforting after having been accompanied by a talkative bard and fearless princess for so long. The feelings of inadequacy and regret bog him down in the silence so heavily that simply forcing his limbs to move takes a considerable amount of effort.
And that doesn’t even begin to cover the searing guilt that spreads through his chest like wildfire.
Wishing to be left alone to think is perhaps one of the habits he hates most about his younger self. Had he known the Path could be bright and full of music and pearly laughter instead of muted greys and monster innards, Geralt never would have tried to push Jaskier away and run from him when the strength of the affection in his chest threatened to choke him.
Never would have allowed himself to become the monster he always struggled to defeat.
Jaskier leaving his side and plunging his world into darkness and silence so loud it deafens is the catalyst for Geralt being forced to realize just how much the bard means to him, mortal or not.
And, had he actually been a mortal, Geralt knows he would have continued to allow Jaskier to tag along until the end of his days, never voicing the affection in his heart and the itch in his limbs to hold the boisterous minstrel. Jaskier isn’t a man who is destined to be tied down. The cheerful troubadour falls in love with humans as easy as he breathes, falling into bed with a different lover every night like one would change a pair of trousers. He would have been content with giving Jaskier the life he thought the bard wanted, the one he flourishes in; a life of adventure and nothing tying him down, let alone a rope around his neck held by a monster.
Would have continued running to Yennefer to escape the love he had for his bard, too terrified to breach the divide between them and ask for what he knows he doesn’t deserve, what he thought Jaskier was unable to give.
Had Jaskier not revealed himself to be possibly one of the rarest creatures in existence other than Higher Vampires, Geralt is ashamed to admit to himself that he most likely wouldn't have realized the true depth of his feelings for the bard until long after the man had passed.
It’s a sobering thought.
Never before has Geralt had to try so hard to not sprint out of Kaer Morhen at full speed and seek out the one man he can truly call his home.
Jaskier had asked to be left alone to think after their argument, and Geralt is determined to grant him that wish no matter the sleepless nights he spends worrying over the bard as a result.
It is the least he can do, after everything.
Especially if there is any hope of them coming to terms with one another and reconciling.
Cirilla finds him wandering the training grounds early in the morning. A light mist settles over the ancient stones and patches of grass that crop up from training dummies and old grindstones, painting the weeds that grow there in a dull contrast to the bright colors he knows they are in the sun. “Geralt,” Cirilla calls out as she rubs a hand over eyes that boast purple bags beneath them, her voice just as tired and unkempt as her appearance as she takes in the early morning view. “Why are you out here so early? Vesemir said we’re not training until-”
“Until Jaskier gets here, I know.” Geralt cuts her off before he can stop himself.
The silence that creeps upon the Keep in the scarce hours before the sun truly comes up echoes around them as Geralt paces around the training area once again, restless and deep in his thoughts before he hears a soft ‘oh’ come from his Child Surprise.
“You miss him.”
Geralt stops in his tracks to stare at her for a moment before lowering his head and heaving a heavy sigh. “I’m… worried.” He amends.
“Worried about how much you miss him?”
“Hmm.”
It's not an immediate denial of his feelings, so Cirilla clearly takes that as a win. “Were you out here walking around like this all night?”
It’s an innocent question as far as questions go, yet Geralt feels almost guilty as he runs a hand back through white hair that was in severe need of a wash. His eyes boast the same purple bags underneath them that Cirilla’s do; there’s no use in denying it. “Couldn't sleep.”
Green eyes wander around the training area as she hums in agreement. “I couldn’t sleep either. I keep thinking about Jaskier. But I know wherever he is, he’s safe.”
She says it with such confidence that Geralt can’t help but believe her despite all instincts telling him she couldn’t possibly know something like that. “Is he?”
The lioness gives a determined nod before crouching to pick at a yellow flower peeking up from between a fallen dummy’s arms. She gathers a few of them in her hands before taking a hesitant step toward Geralt. “He is. I know I haven’t known him as long as you have, but he’s strong, both physically and mentally. If he could survive being by your side and going on hunts with you for all those years, I doubt anything can get a jump on him.”
Logic tells Geralt that Cirilla is right.
Logic also tells him that now, once he thinks about it, there is no way a mere human would have been able to keep up with his brisk pace on many of the hunts that far exceeded human limitations. Walking for a day or two without stopping isn’t something mortals tend to be able to do. Very rarely did Jaskier ever whine for a break during those times, and though the man was often soaked in sweat and down to his chemise in the summer heat, not a hint of soreness or pain mixed into his scent.
Not once in all the years they’ve known one another has Jaskier smelled of pain while tagging along. In fact, the times he resolutely dug his heels into the dirt and begged Geralt for a break, the bard only smelled of happiness.
Like he simply wanted a break just to be able to take in the views around them rather than to rest his feet.
Before Geralt has time to formulate a response, a small handful of yellow flowers are being thrust at his chest. “Daffodils.” Cirilla begins, “Symbolize rebirth and reform.”
Confusion tugs at Geralt’s mouth even as he carefully takes the flowers from her tiny hand. All previous thoughts about his travels with a very resilient Jaskier flee his mind as his tired eyes focus on the bright flowers in his hand. “Are you an herbalist now?”
That coaxes a little smile from his ward. “No, but I loved spending time in the gardens back home. One of the maids used to teach me about flowers as she watered them.”
It’s such an insignificant sounding bit of information. Being taught the language of flowers by a maid isn’t something to think about twice, but Geralt knows what Cirilla isn’t saying. This bit of her life before Nilfgaard had stolen her family from her is sacred, held so close to her heart and yet she decides to share it with someone with a track record of breaking hearts.
Geralt is flattered.
“Her name was Armona,” Cirilla continues as she wanders off to collect more flowers from a bush, blue and purple ones this time. “Hydrangea. They mean understanding.” She says as she thrusts those ones into his arms as well.
The scent of the flowers together is beginning to give him a headache. The smells are too strong for his sensitive nose, and as he reaches up to swipe a hand across it to rid his nares of the lingering smell, an idea pops into his mind.
It’s a stupid idea. It’s possibly one of the dumbest ideas Geralt has ever had, yet it won’t leave him alone as his feet carry him behind Cirilla, following her silently as she flits from flower to flower.
“Asters represent wisdom and devotion.”
“Chrysanthemums mean loyalty and love.”
“Daisies are- oh, wait, these are just weeds.”
Geralt listens as Cirilla picks different flowers and adds them to the formidable pile in his arms while giving running commentary on their meaning. She is certainly more knowledgeable about flowers than he ever would have guessed. Perhaps Vesemir will finally have a receptive student when it comes to potion making.
Anyone would be more receptive than Lambert had been.
Cirilla holds Geralt’s hand as they wander around the courtyard while the sun slowly bathes them in an early morning glow, her excitedly naming the flowers the witcher bends down to pick until they have a multicolored bouquet amassed in his arms.
Yet something about it doesn’t feel quite right.
It isn’t until they’re about to turn around and head back toward the main hall that a blob of yellow catches his eye where the weeds sway in their position between two stone steps, the crack in them just wide enough for seeds to get through. Not a single thought goes through Geralt’s mind as he absentmindedly crouches next to the patch of little yellow weeds and starts plucking them from their home with single minded focus, not stopping until every flower is in his possession.
“Um,” Cirilla begins as she squints at the weeds Geralt has just added to their rather impressive collection of wildflowers. “Those are dandelions. I… don’t know what they mean.”
“They’re weeds.” Gealt tells her even as he carefully arranges them so they don’t get crushed against his chest.
“They are, so why are you picking them?”
Geralt tucks the fragile little things carefully on the top of the plant pile in his arms, right above his heart. “He likes dandelions.”
All at once, understanding dawns on Cirilla’s face just as embarrassment tightens Geralt’s shoulders. When he expects teasing words or a laugh, the unexpected happens.
Cirilla gives him a look so fond and approving that had he not already been crouching, he might have fallen to his knees from the force of it alone. “He’ll love it,” She beams as she tugs him up and swings Geralt’s free hand back and forth between them on their way back into the Keep. “But that’s not going to fix everything. You need to speak with him like you have with me. People can’t communicate clearly with each other by simple grunts and running from their feelings. Just be honest with him; he seems like the forgiving sort.”
And with that, she books it back into the Keep before Geralt can wrap his mind around what she had said.
Later on, the bouquet of flowers are placed in a spare tankard Geralt manages to scrounge up from the kitchens, some cooled water from the spring below the Keep allowing the flowers to flourish where they’re placed on the nightstand beside the bed he intends to give to Jaskier should the man not want to share a bed and demand Geralt to sleep on the floor like the creature he knows he is.
He would understand.
He would also beg, however, to be allowed to stay in the same room as the bard if only to appease his instincts and assure himself of Jaskier’s safety.
Should Jaskier refuse him though, Geralt would relent and do what he wishes.
Brushing the little bundle of dandelions tied off with a light blue ribbon Cirilla had found in their packs off his bed along with Jaskier’s lute would hurt more than he was ready to admit should the blue eyed man reject his attempts at reconciliation.
*
“He’s coming.” Cirilla says the next morning as they’re all seated in the dining hall for breakfast, though she’s simply moving her chunks of meat around on her plate with a fork as she says this, her emerald eyes bright and sparkling with a mischief Gearlt hasn’t seen once since they arrived at the Keep.
Vesemir had prepared a literal feast for them that morning, having been up before the dawn to begin cooking for a fortress that was suddenly so full of life. Earlier, when Lambert asked the older witcher how much he thought they would be able to eat as he gestured to the table spread with choice cuts of meat and bowls of greens, Vesemir simply brushed him off with an explanation of, “Cirilla is going to be training soon. She doesn’t have a witcher’s constitution; she needs a variety of nutrients in her diet if she is to build muscle.”
Geralt had carefully refrained from commenting on that.
“Who’s coming?” Lambert inquires from where he’s reclining back in his chair, tossing bits of torn off bread into the air and catching them with his mouth. Eskel only manages to snatch a piece or two before Lambert growls at him and shifts to keep his bread from wandering fingers.
“Jaskier. He’s almost here.”
She says it with such certainty that all conversations around the table halt and multiple pairs of eyes quickly focus on where she’s sitting beside an equally confused Geralt.
“How do you know?” Geralt inquires even as he feels his slow heart rate increase just enough to be almost uncomfortable.
Cirilla offers him a secret little smile he can’t quite decipher. “I’m a princess of many talents.”
An ache so acute it nearly steals the breath from his lungs ricochets through Geralt’s chest at the words Jaskier had teased him with not long ago.
Vesemir undoubtedly hears the nearly inaudible hitch in his breath and casts the two of them a considerate look as he sets his fork down, the last few bites of his stew going untouched. “If that is true, we will meet him in the courtyard.”
One of them has to keep a look out for the bard, considering they will have to lower the drawbridge to allow him entry into Kaer Morhen. Jaskier is a man full of surprises, but Geralt knows even he won’t be able to slip into the witcher Keep without that bridge being lowered.
To what little knowledge he has on dragons, they aren’t able to portal themselves around like mages.
“I’ll go.” Geralt announces before he’s even fully digested the situation beyond the fact that Jaskier is coming home.
“Now wait just a fuckin’ second,” Lambert drawls as he rights his chair and slams an open palm on the table in front of him. “There is absolutely no way I am missing out on meeting this kid. Not after two entire winters of having to put up with you moping around and snapping at everyone.”
“I wasn’t moping,” Geralt hisses back.
“Oh, really? Because you sure looked like you were brooding to me-”
Eskel merely watches his brothers squabble in amusement for a moment before he pushes himself to his feet and interrupts them. “Well, if Lambert is going, I might as well tag along. He’ll be the first human invited into Kaer Morhen aside from Cirilla; can’t miss history being made.”
Cirilla and Geralt share a quick look with one another before they too push themselves to their feet, all intentions of eating breakfast abandoned as the four witchers and their princess amble out into the morning sun.
They’ve been milling around the open space completing odd jobs for what feels like hours when Yennefer comes strolling out of the main hall’s doors and casts her piercing gaze along the crumbling walls of the fortress, clad in a tight black dress that accentuates her figure. “Something is coming.” She says in a tight voice.
Vesemir grunts at her from where he’s lazily sharpening some training blades on a grindstone. He doesn’t even bother raising his head to meet her eyes. “If it’s the realization that you should keep your hands out of my herb supplies, then this has been a long time coming.”
Geralt can hear Lambert snort and begin to cackle where he stands a few yards away at an armorer’s bench, patching up some clothing Geralt knows Vesemir demanded the youngest witcher repair after some probably avoidable experiments ruined the cloth.
The glare Yennefer gives the two witchers makes Geralt’s hackles rise, the instinct to protect his pack from a threat, whether it comes from inside the wolf’s den or outside of it, pumping adrenaline rapidly through his veins. A growl starts forming in his chest just as Yennefer opens her mouth once again.
“I sense chaos. A lot of it.” She clarifies, and that finally gets Vesemir and Geralt’s two brothers to drop what they’re doing and pay attention.
Or at least until Lambert snorts at her and waves a hand dismissively. “Your senses must have gotten fucked up when you portaled here. There’s nothing that powerful around here; no witcher den would allow such a thing. In fact, just last night I went out and scouted the area to move around after being cooped up in here. There’s nothing out there but deer and crumbling ruins.”
Perhaps it’s solely because he knows Yennefer, or maybe it’s simply the fact that he can read his brother’s body language like an open book. Whatever it is, Geralt can’t help but scrunch his nose against the scent of unease wafting around the sorceress.
It is very much not a scent he has ever associated with Yennefer.
“You don’t get it,” Yennefer snaps back, “I’ve sensed this particular chaos before but never found the source. It’s… not like anything I’ve ever encountered in all my decades of wandering the Continent.”
That at least gets Vesemir to take her a tad more seriously. His wise eyes narrow at the sorceress as he pushes himself to his feet with a grunt of effort. “Elaborate.”
The command visibly rubs Yennefer the wrong way. “I was planning to.” She retorts, folding her arms and leaning her weight on one leg to cock her hip as she fixes the fortress’s inhabitants with a severe look. “It’s Old Magic, not something typically found on the Continent. Not many beings possess the power to wield such ancient chaos, but this one…”
Eskel straightens from where he had been feeding Lil’Bleater some treats, the goat none too happy about his meal ticket shifting his attention elsewhere. “What is it?” He asks just as Lambert comes up to his side and slings an arm around his shoulders, the Keep’s resident goat scampering off at the other witcher’s boisterous presence.
“Maybe it’s that Rotfiend that seemed to think you would make a good bride,” Lambert taunts as Eskel smacks him away, irritation pulling that scarred lip back over his teeth.
“Okay, that was one time. Besides, how was I supposed to know it was Rotfiend mating season? The Bestiary doesn’t mention anything about-”
“Oh for the love of-” Yennefer cuts off their bickering and waves a hand around the fortress. “Are you not hearing what I’m telling you, or has your sense of hearing finally shit the bed in your old age? There is something coming, something I can’t identify as a threat or not. It could be connected to a Nilfgaard siege for all we know!”
Throughout the whole ordeal, Cirilla is simply collecting bugs she finds crawling over the stones of the Keep, wholly uninterested in the conversation going on around her and oddly unconcerned about a possible impending threat breaking its way through the walls.
Geralt opens his mouth to ask her what she’s thinking when his senses start to go haywire out of nowhere, adrenaline pumping through his limbs as though he’s about to engage in a fight as instinct screams at him that something is coming we have to fight while simultaneously chanting It smells of home, it’s safe, stand down.
It’s a nauseating back and forth that nearly makes him sick before a hush of silence falls over the Keep.
Not a single bird utters a peep. The wind seems to all but disappear when it had been quite breezy only seconds before. It’s an unnatural stillness, one that seems to only come when heralding a disaster in a twist of Destiny.
It’s deeply unsettling.
A moment goes by. Then another.
Lambert opens his mouth to probably ask what’s going on when Geralt finally hears it.
A roar like a thousand beasts screaming thunders through the forest around them and echoes in the courtyard.