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Geralt has never been more anxious to reach Kaer Morhen. His child-surprise, the lion cub of Cintra is being hunted by the army of black and gold and the keep is insofar the only place he knows they won’t be able to reach. He has to protect her at any cost.
So here they are, his sorceress, his bard and his child surprise (and Roach of course) all together walking the hidden narrow trail that leads to his School.
The Blue Mountains are standing tall and menacing, the trek to the hidden keep of the Wolves made harder from the recent snowfall. Thank fuck for Yennefer and her magic tent. At least they can be sure no one is going to freeze to death on the way.
Jaskier seems unphased by the long and arduous trip, as usual, merrily skipping next to Roach, lute in hand and soft soothing melodies hummed under his breath. That ridiculous man. Geralt suppresses a snort of laughter. But seriously, how can the bard manage in the cold with only a silk doublet to keep him warm? Jaskier's eccentricities will always be a big mystery to him.
Anyway, Geralt’s glad that he isn’t going alone to Kaer Morhen this year. And while the circumstances for this travelling arrangement might not be the best (fuck Nilfgaard) there’s one more reason for his alleviated spirits, so to say.
Every year, the first day all the wolves gathered and holed up in the vast keep they would exchange information gathered upon a missing associate Witcher of theirs by the name of Julian of somewhere in the Hengfors League (they never told him where exactly). Geralt has never had the pleasure of crossing paths with the man himself but his brothers and paternal figure were awfully fond of the mystery Witcher of the School of the Bear. For thirty long years, they have never once given up on the search. For all they knew, the man had vanished in thin air. In Geralt’s opinion, he was probably eaten by a monster but his brothers disregarded such claims stating Julian was - is - ‘the most brilliant fighter they’ve ever met’.
Given this year’s special circumstances maybe they could forgo the awkward tradition of exchanging their search results. He certainly hopes so.
The first one of his brothers they meet is Eskel, springing traps outside Kaer Morhen. Eskel’s eyes shoot wide when he spots them and rushes to greet them. But he doesn’t. Instead of the brotherly banter and questions for Geralt’s companions, Eskel tackles the bard to the ground in an overeager attempt at a hug.
Hmmm.
“Eskel!” Jaskier yelps from the below the sturdy Witcher.
“Sorry,” Eskel mutters, helping Jaskier to his feet, “It’s just that I haven’t seen you since Hengfors was still in Kovir! Where have you been all these years?”
What . Geralt tries to do mental math. Hengfors split from Kovir when Geralt was still pretty new on the Path --and so was Eskel. When was it? Yes. Around 1220 if he remembers correctly. Jaskier wasn’t even born then!
“I’m afraid you’re mistaken, old friend!” Jaskier retorts, a big smile formed on his lips. We last saw each other… Ah! Right! It was around the time songs of the Battle of Hochebuz became awfully popular. Remember how dreadful those were? Seriously, those bards had no idea what they were doing.”
Hmmm . That made a bit more sense. Geralt remembers those ‘dreadful’ songs all too well. After all, he actively avoided civilization for a while because wherever he went everyone and their grandmother would sing of Calanthe’s glorious battle. That was around the mid-thirties, which while it still disagrees with Jaskier’s apparent age --he would have been a child at best by Geralt’s estimation-- it is more plausible. Perhaps the extensive skin routine of the bard makes him appear younger than he is --he could very well be in his mid-fifties.
“I know that battle,” Ciri chirps in and Yennefer smirks at Geralt. Odd. What is that supposed to mean? “It’s the first battle grandma won!”
“Ah! You must be Geralt’s child-surprise,” Eskel says turning to Ciri, “I’m Eskel, nice to meet you, little one.”
The odd interaction between his brother and his bard does not leave Geralt’s mind for a while. It comes as a surprise to him that neither of the two ever mentioned knowing each other. Maybe, they did not think it worthwhile? No, it can’t be. They have obviously been very close at some point. Still, he figures he should not pry and let them talk between themselves in privacy during the way to the keep.
He falls in an easy conversation with Yennefer, planning on reinforcing the defences of the keep to make sure to nullify any chances of Nilfgaard finding them. He makes an effort to stay focused on the conversation with the sorceress, to not accidentally peep on what the two men are bantering and laughing about.
Lambert greets them at the gate. Contrary to Eskel he crosses his arms and his face morphs into his angriest scowl. “You bloody cock!” he yells and Geralt has to double-check what he did this time to incur the wrath of his youngest sibling. The answer is simple; nothing, he did nothing. He opens his mouth to speak, but Jaskier gets between him and Lambert.
Of fucking course.
“Aw, I thought you’d be happy to see me you little arsewipe,” Jaskier says with ease, rocking slightly left and right.
“You disappeared for thirty fucking years, you whoreson,” Lambert retaliates, “Do you have any idea how hard we fucking searched for you?”
Geralt is missing something, he’s sure. Not only both his brothers know Jaskier, but they were also looking for him? That hardly makes any sense, Jaskier is, after all, a renowned bard. There is no place on the Continent he could possibly hide.
“You seriously don’t get it, Geralt,” Yennefer chuckles mockingly, “Oh this is so much fun.”
“Nope,” Ciri says popping the ‘p’, “That is definitely his confused face,” she gestures idly.
Geralt grunts in response. He does not understand what he’s supposed to ’get’. He glares at Yennefer.
Yennefer raises a brow, “Oh, wait and see, Geralt. I’m not going to spoil this for you,” she points at the bard and his brother arguing still. Well, Lambert is the only one arguing and Jaskier is laughing.
“Aw, come on Lambchop, I was hardly in hiding. Not my fault you did not recognise my brilliant voice,” Jaskier retorts to a previous shouting of profanities of Lambert that Geralt barely registered.
“Oh really?” Lambert spits out and turns to face Geralt, “ And you, you fucking traitor, how long have you fucking known?”
What. What’s he supposed to have known?
“How long I’ve known Jaskier?” he asks and Yennefer facepalms muttering ‘I am not living this’ under her breath. “I’ve known the bard for 23 years,” Geralt responds honestly.
“TWENTY THREE FUCKING YEARS?” Lambert shrieks.
“Calm down, Lambert,” Eskel intervenes before Lambert has the chance to throttle Geralt, “He doesn’t know.”
“Oh fuck, I reckon he doesn’t,” Jaskier says, a smidge of guilt evident in the way his voice cracks.
Will someone tell him what he’s supposed to know already? Geralt opens his mouth to ask for some damn answers but does not get the chance to do so as Vesemir storms in yelling, ironically for the yelling to stop lest they all want to die from an unexpected rockfall.
But the old mentor of the wolves stops at the spot when his eyes meet Jaskier. “Well fuck me! What a surprise! Julian of Blaviken!” Geralt flinches at the name for the town-which-shall-not-be-named. He barely registers the name Julian.
“ Vesemir ,” Eskel scolds.
“Right, I’m sorry Geralt. But that’s his fucking moniker, how else would I have called him? Just Julian? Or Julian of the Hengfors league?” Vesemir points a finger to the bard in question.
Julian.
Ju-li-an.
Of.
Hengfors.
“Fuck,” Geralt breathes out.
“I think we broke him,” Jaskier says, “I should probably not remove the glamour now, should I? I mean, look at him! Look at him! I really thought he would have realised who I was by now, but no. Oh, dear.”
“ Jaskier , what glamour. What. Why? WHAT?” he mutters under his breath.
“By Melitele’s sweet tits, I thought you knew Geralt. Why else would I send my greetings and gifts to your family every year you would leave for Kaer Morhen?”
“Oh, so that’s why your bard sent us whetstones and mending kits and other tidbits every year,” Eskel says in realization.
Geralt has never been a man of many words, but the words seemed to have deserted him completely now. Gods know he tries but he’s having a very hard time associating the foppish bard with a rugged witcher.
“Remove the damn glamour already, bard,” Yennefer says, “Can’t you see our poor White-Wolf is having a hard time?”
“I-” Geralt starts but is cut off by Jaskier- Julian- fuck .
“But I hardly look any different,” Jaskier groans, “What does it even matter if I’m wearing it or not? Besides, it’s a one time use thingy thing Yen. If I remove it, I won’t be able to put it on again as it won’t work. And I’d very much like to continue my well-deserved vacation if you don’t mind.”
“Don’t you think thirty fucking years is a long time for a bloody vacation?” Lambert snarls.
Yennefer rolls her eyes ignoring Lambert completely, “I can and will make you a new glamour, you drama queen.”
“Fine, fine,” Jaskier grumbles and snaps the thin silvery chain that’s always been warped around his wrist.
Geralt isn’t sure what he’s expected but this is certainly not it. The bard he’s known for over two decades is still standing there, almost unchanged, save for a small crescent scar under his right eye and the slit cat-like pupils in his still cornflower blue eyes. It’s the same man. And of course, it is. He just has some talents Geralt wasn’t completely aware of (of course he knew the bard could fight to an extent, but he did not know the extent till now).
Geralt snorts a laugh and first but then. Then he laughs like he hasn’t laughed since he was a kid and Eskel and he would hide Vesemir’s favourite hats in weird and hard to reach hiding spots and would watch their mentor searching frantically for the missing items. He laughs so much, so loud, his stomach starts hurting.
“Oh, no,” Jaskier whispers, the tone of his voice painted in horror. “Geralt?” he squeaks.
Geralt hums amused when he’s done laughing, “Come on Jask, let's spar. I want to see your school’s technique.”
“ Geraaaaaalt .”
Geralt shrugs. “You’ve no excuse to avoid training now,” he says and the look of utter dread and horror Jaskier shoots at him is the best apology, for the accidental secret of twenty-three years, Geralt needs.