Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The hot springs are everything that Jaskier has ever imagined them to be. Even better from the perspective of being princess carried by a hunk of a man who is one of the gentlest giants he's ever met. He's in competition with the one who had so gently rubbed his fingers out and helped him stretch them. Something he can only hope he'll get a repeat performance of.

It's an enclosed space under the keep with a small crack in the ceiling to let in a small amount of sunlight. The steam floats in the air, thick and heavy and warm. The sprint itself is a slightly raised, shallow pool that flows out into several deeper, larger pools. A couple closer to the spring and others further away. The edges are worked, and there are several stairs between the raised and lowered pools that map out the springs. There is another carved indent across from the large metal doors that lead in, that acts as a curtained off changing station. There are racks of towels and a shelf of half used bottles and bars of soaps and oils.

The rough stone texture in no way represents a traditional bath house, closer resembling an underground cave with a pool of water. The water itself is a dusty blue and clouded with the sulfur infused in the water. Jaskier finds it strange that he can't actually smell sulfur, only the slight smoke from the lanterns around and something slightly floral, which he guesses might be a recently used soap.

It's absolutely perfect. The warm glow of firelight lanterns reflects off the water, and the steam dissipates the light perfectly.

"You might as well leave me here, darling, I won't ever leave." Eskel chuckles as he sets Jaskier down on one of the wooden benches that dot the walls.

"You might change your mind after the others get out of training tomorrow morning. They tend to brawl in the water. Wouldn't want you to be crushed so early into your stay here, little lark." Jaskier huffs in mock offense, silently preening at the nickname once again.

"I'm sure I could hold my own; you didn't see the way I brandished a dagger at Geralt yesterday." Jaskier quips back, making Eskel blank and then laugh. A full bellied laugh. It's a perfectly warm sound that sends a slight fluttering through the bard's stomach.

"You waved a dagger at Geralt? How'd he take it?" Eskel looks like the image of that just tickles him endlessly.

"Quite well, actually." Jaskier puts more soft meaning into the words than he means, setting the bundle of clothing and shoes down next to him.

"Yes, Geralt has always had a soft spot for those in need. You probably impressed him. Where did you find a dagger anyway?" Eskel turns around to grab a towel as he talks.

"It was under the mattress on the wall side of the bed. I'm not sure whose it is, but… It gave me at least a little power over him in that moment." Jaskier admits, feeling suddenly sheepish at leaving it behind in the room. He hadn't even thought about taking it with him when he agreed to do this. Perhaps he does really trust these people more than he realizes. Likely more than he should, considering all that he's been through, but… he wants this to be true. To fester the hope that has settled under his ribs and feed the desperate need to have somewhere and someone he feels safe around again.

Eskel hums and nods like he knows, before folding the towel next to the water in the furthest pool from the spring. Jaskier looks a bit antsy as he watches, not exactly sure what he should be doing.

He'd not really thought about the logistics of this when he had agreed, or that he would have to get naked to properly bathe. Thankfully, there is no one else in the room with them, so he has some time to maybe put a towel around himself to cover his modesty. He's never been shy about nakedness, and he's almost sure that anyone who regularly bathes in a communal spring wouldn't care, but… he's not seen his back since the lashings, he knows his chest and upper arms and legs are torn to hell and back, and he's not sure he's ready for others to see that. But maybe… maybe if it's Eskel, with scars of his own, then he wouldn't mind too much. He at least knows this witcher wouldn't say anything jarring or cruel based on how he had reacted to his own scars. Jaskier debates endlessly in his head.

"How would you like to do this?" The witcher pulls him from his thoughts, standing in front of him with a second towel.

"I'm sure I'll be fine once I'm in the water, could you just give me a moment to… ah- undress…" Eskel nods, handing him the towel and turning around towards the door. Jaskier, carefully, unbuttons his shirt and pants before peeling them off his body with some effort. Now that he's thinking about it, he feels utterly disgusting in those clothes and would happily see them burned so that he never has to wear them again. With the towel wrapped securely around his waist, he stares down at the wrappings on his feet.

"Uh Eskel?"

"Yes?" Eskel doesn't turn around even as he answers, having not received the all clear just yet. Jaskier really shouldn't find that as endearing as he does.

"You may turn around now. Just be warned, I am a little more… scarred than usual." Jaskier braces for a reaction, now knowing what he looks like without the clothing on. It's a gruesome sight, and just as he had tried to warn Triss about his feet, he wants to warn Eskel about the rest of his body. No matter how tolerant the witcher may be of scars, no one should have to look upon this mess without warning.

"It's fine, Jaskier, don't assume me, of all people, to be put off by scarring, alright? I wouldn't have cared if half your body was burned. There are certainly witchers here, I've seen with worse than this." Jaskier wants to poke back that it's because they were brave heroes, saving people with their monster fighting abilities, and these are from him being tied down by his senile father and whipped just for running his mouth. He doesn't.

"How will I bathe with my feet like this?" Jaskier feels suddenly worried about it, also looking to change the topic.

"You'll bathe with them on, better not to expose your soles directly, as it may cause discomfort. But, seeing as there are no longer any open sores or cuts there due to Triss' healing, it will be fine to bathe. I would recommend keeping your wrists and hands out of the water; however, that is a bad idea." Eskel warns, moving in close to take Jaskier into his arms and move him down by the water.

"Alright, but how will I wash then?"

"Just a good rinse and new clothes should have you feeling much better if not completely clean, but if you are willing… I could… do it for you." Jaskier looks immediately wary. His arms cross over his stomach in an instinctive measure to cover himself before Eskel even begins to pick him up. The witcher pulls back at the clear sign of discomfort. His mind filled with the rough hands of the maids as they scrubbed his fresh wounds clean before dressing him up and sending him back to his cage. The leering eyes of the guards as they watched him whimper and wince at the new pain of soap in his cuts.

"I- I don't think I can do that." Eskel nods in understanding.

"That's fine, Jaskier. Would you like me to keep you company?" Jaskier nods, swallowing his tongue a little and feeling a little more pathetic than he was five minutes ago.

"The furthest pool is the coolest, still warm, but it shouldn't hurt your burn scars at all. The water will have cooled off enough, and you should be healed enough. Would you like to try it still? The bath in your room is still an option, Jaskier, no shame in it." Eskel ventures, feeling unsure about Jaskier's hesitation.

Jaskier glares at the ground. He should be able to do this. He is able to do this. He just has to do it. Eskel won't even touch him, he said so himself. There isn't anyone here. No servants, no guards, no other witchers, not even an animal to witness him like this. A wash of determination screams to loud it drowns out the fear in his mind. He has to get over it eventually, why not while he is the safest he's been in a while? He's already naked; he can't exactly get more naked. Jaskier clears his throat and pulls his face out of the scowl it's fixed into, looking up at the witcher standing in front of him with as much of a casual expression as he can muster.

"I can do it. Would you please help me over to the pool, my dear?" Eskel looks unsure for a moment as Jaskier reaches out his hand to help him up. It's only a moment, but he can see the internal conflict in Jaskier's eyes, smell it in his scent. He knows this is something deeper than the scars and the fear of touch, but Jaskier has made up his mind, and he has it on good authority that the little lark is stubborn when he wants to be.

He gently picks Jaskier up, touching as little of the freshly scarred back as he can as he takes them both over the furthest pool in the cave. It offers the illusion of privacy a little better, which is a plus, and puts Jaskier on the wall. The bard wonders if Eskel placed him on this side of the pool on purpose before he is set down on the towel next to the water.

"Start easy with your feet," Eskel instructs as he sits down next to Jaskier, pulling his boots and socks off so he can just dip his feet in and keep the bard company. He rolls up his pants as Jaskier gingerly dips a toe in.

It's nice. Not as hot as he usually likes his bathes, but the steam in the air is helping to keep him warm. With the bandages on his feet, it takes a little longer for the warmth to reach them than it does the rest of the leg he puts in the water. Once it does, he finds it's not uncomfortable at all. It's honestly really nice.

Soon, he finds himself sliding into the water, his towel covering him from view as he relaxes with his arms resting on the lip of the pool. Eskel, next to him, chuckles at the overdramatic contented sigh Jaskier gives as he relaxes against the stone wall.

"Nice, right?"

"Yeah, I can see why you all prefer this to regular baths."

"Yeah, well, Wolf witchers in particular like communal things like this, eating, bathing, sometimes sleeping, though that's more of a path activity." Jaskier lets his head rest back against the curved lip of the pool as Eskel continues speaking about the springs. He knew that once he was in the water, it would be fine, and he was right. It's nice, and Eskel makes for good company. Jaskier is pleased, relaxed, safe.

They strike up conversation again after Jaskier settles a little more, earlier panic all but forgiven now that he has the murky water to cover most of his scars. He feels more secure when they are covered up. He worries a little for future when he might not have the luxury of privacy in the springs, what the others might say or not say more likely. The bard does take the time to remind himself that he hasn't actually met most of the people in the keep and he can't make judgments on their character, besides if the worst he gets here is schoolyard mocking and a little gossip then he is going to be fine.

"Eskel?"

"Hm? Yes?" Eskel seems to be lost in his own world when Jaskier speaks, his feet gently kicking in the water as he leans back on his hands. It puts him in a vulnerable position, even if Jaskier doesn't realize it; subconsciously, it's helping to settle his nerves. Eskel is good like that.

"I- There are people looking for me-" Jaskier feels suddenly unsure speaking about it. He doesn't really want to tell anyone that he is the Sandpiper, it would just paint a bigger target on his back than there already is. He's been sending refugees here for years and so far has only heard good things aside from the usual struggles of packing up your life and running away.

"Yes, I remember," Eskel affirms, nodding.

"If I had the inclination to write, to tell them I was alright and where I was or about what happened… would you mind transcribing for me?" Eskel perks up, and for a moment, Jaskier thinks he might decline or that he won't know how to write.

"Of course, little lark. I wouldn't want you trying to write with your hands like that anyway. Triss would have my head. Would you like to do that after your bath then?" Jaskier sighs with relief.

"I should warn you now, though, Jaskier, all letters or packages sent in or out have to be inspected before they can be delivered. We've had too many run-ins with spies to risk it again." Jaskier's heart skips a little in his chest. He could try to code a message, but that would honestly just be more suspicious. Better let them know that he is the Sandpiper rather than have them think he is here to harm them.

"Who would see it?" He asks, hopeful that if he could only tell Eskel or maybe Geralt, then that would be alright. He could ask them not to share the information freely, at least.

"I would, as I would have to transcribe the words. Geralt as well. He is the one who looks over everything." Jaskier frowns at that. Shouldn't the Warlord have someone to do that for him? If there was something dangerous being sent to them, then it should be someone less important. Jaskier feels bad thinking that, of course, but it's just how it's done in places like this.

"Geralt does the inspections? Shouldn't it be someone else?" Jaskier asks, a curious tone in his voice.

"You're welcome to try and get him to stop…" Eskel laughs like this conversation has come up many times before.

"Geralt insists that he be the one to do it, won't let anyone else. Too paranoid for it." Jaskier thinks that makes sense a little bit, but he still thinks that there should be someone else doing it. What if there's like a bomb in one of them or something, or the paper is cursed? A cursed warlord is never a good thing. He finds himself unnecessarily worried for Geralt at this point and is not exactly sure what to do with that feeling.

Either way, it means he should come clean about the Sandpiper thing. As he knows, witchers can smell lies, so it'll save him the trouble later on. He doesn't think they'll mind, and they don't need to know everything, but he will need to put a lot in the letters to his connections, and he'd rather they find out from him first.

"Alright, then I should speak with you both before we write it. It's nothing bad, but you should know, and I'd rather you hear it from me directly than it seem like I am trying to hide something from you." Jaskier admits with a sigh. Eskel nods like it's no big deal. If he truly has seen a lot of the mail that comes and goes in this place, then Jaskier is sure he's seen worse than this. He wonders if there is a specific reason why they have this policy in place.

"Right well-" Eskel pulls his legs from the pool of water and stretches as he stands up.

"I think that's enough time to soak. Let's get this letter stuff over with and then see if Triss is ready to see you yet." Jaskier hums, bracing for Eskel to grab him and pull him from the spring. It's so effortless that the bard gets dizzy for a moment as he is raised and placed sitting on the towel once again.

Eskel, in an act to preserve Jaskier's privacy, has already moved away to get another towel for himself. Jaskier takes the time to shuck his soaked one for the dry one on the side of the water. He quickly dries himself off while Eskel makes a show of slowly drying his calves and feet. Jaskier might have found it funny if he hadn't found it so endearing.

Once Jaskier declares himself decent, Eskel turns around and helps him back over to his new clothes. There is a bit of awkwardness as Jaskier tries on some of the new clothing, finding that all of the shirts dwarf his malnourished frame, but some of the pants fit nicely, if a little loose around the hips. He hates how small it all makes him look, compared to these giants. He wishes he were back at his peak; his body was nothing to scoff at then, even put on some decent muscle. Now, he must look like a child to them. That or an old man, with how weak and frail he feels.

"Oh, your feet. Wait here for a moment, and I'll get some new bandages before you put your shoes on." Jaskier is a little startled by how quickly Eskel dips out of the springs, leaving him on his own. The bard stares at the closed door that Eskel just left through, a little bewildered by the sporadic witcher. He is calm and protective and a good conversation partner with an endearingly shy nature about him. Jaskier giggles a little at the actions of the scarred witcher, sitting and waiting for his second knight in shining armor to return with bandages for his feet. He really does feel like a prince with all this attention and care being taken with him. As if being carried through the keep wasn't special treatment enough. That little spark of hope grows ever more under his ribs.

Jaskier gets to work, carefully stripping off the soggy wound wrappings, dropping them in a wet 'plap' on the stone ground.

It's not a moment later when the peaceful scene of the hot springs is interrupted by the door opening. For a second, Jaskier thinks it's Eskel again and looks up with a smile, only to have it drop a second later as a man Jaskier doesn't recognize steps into the hot spring. Another witcher, though not dressed up in his armor, Jaskier catches the glint of gold eyes as the man scans the room. He's a giant, even broader than Geralt or Eskel, though not as tall. Jaskier is slightly distracted by this for a second before the man grunts in his direction in acknowledgement and heads back into the curtained off changing outcrop.

Jaskier, although on edge, finds himself strangely reassured by the normalcy of it. He knows the witcher must find him strange. He is new, and from what it looks like, there is a very tightly knit community of people, likely all at least a little familiar with each other. Still, he is ignored for now, in this place. He wonders if he really is seen as such a non-threat that it wouldn't even be worth it. He's okay with that, he thinks. It's not like he poses a threat to them; even if he wanted to, he can barely walk. It honestly makes him more nervous to think about it like that. He knows it's an old reflex, but it's all still so fresh in his mind. Those leering eyes and comments.

The man walks back out of the curtains in just a towel this time, his eyes don't even meet Jaskier's this time as he heads toward one of the closer pools to the spring. One of the hotter ones.

It's not long before Jaskier hears the splash of water as the witcher hops in, his towel left to the side of the pool as he leans against the wall with a heavy sigh. Jaskier doesn't stare, but he never lets the man leave his peripheral vision.

"So…" Jaskier winces at the gravelly voice of the witcher as he speaks out loud. Not looking at Jaskier but clearly speaking to him.

"You, the human that came up with the caravan?" The witcher asks, something like confusion.

"Yeah- yes. Jaskier." Jaskier stutters out.

"The flower?" The witcher asks with nothing close to the sneer Jaskier is expecting.

"Yes, I suppose. It's better than my given name." Jaskier jokes, trying to cover up his nerves.

"Hm, Letho. Of the vipers." There is a sneer this time, as if he thinks Jaskier should react to that name. Jaskier doesn't.

"Nice to meet you, master witcher," Letho chuckles, something mean in his voice.

"You say that but I can hear you shaking like a leaf over there. No need to be nervous bard, I don't bite." Jaskier frowns unsure of how what to make of this interaction. It's mostly confused him. He's made no mention of his profession but this man seems to know it anyway.

"You know of me?" He makes a guess.

"Yes, I've heard many of your songs."

"A fan then?" Jaskier perks up a little bit at that, excited by the idea that there might be witchers here who appreciate his work on the continent.

"You could say that. I certainly don't mind the pay bonus, it sometimes gets me." Letho laughs, and Jaskier begins to assume that the mean sort of quality to his tone was just a normal part of his speech, anything directed at him. He wonders if that is what has come to be expected of him, if that's how he protects himself.

"Well then, it's done its job, I think," Jaskier says, not helping the pride that enters his voice as he does. Letho chuckles at that.

There is a beat of silence as Jaskier basks in the minimal praise.

"You ever met a viper kid?" Letho breaks the silence once again, clearly bored when left to his own thoughts.

"No? Only a cat and several wolves." Letho snorts, but Jaskier doesn't get what's funny about that.

"I can tell you're dressed in their clothes." Letho elaborates, and Jaskier looks down at his clothing, suddenly understanding what's funny. He does look a little ridiculous.

"I would have dressed in my own if I had any, but… needs must I suppose."

"Sure, sure." Letho is a confusing man, Jaskier decides as they sink back into silence. It's slightly awkward, but Jaskier suspects that that is intentionally on Letho's part. Maybe something like hazing, though, if he had to guess, but far from the worst he's been treated, so Jaskier doesn't really care.

Jaskier wishes Eskel would come back; he is a much better conversation partner than this, Letho of the vipers.

"Alright, got it!" Speak of the devil. Jaskier turns to the door as it opens, and Eskel's voice carries through.

The scarred witcher comes in carrying a few things in his arms, and looking for the lovely and now clean songbird he'd left. His eyes find Jaskier easily, but they stop at the man with his back to the bard as he scents Letho in the space. He's immediately wary. Not quite as wary as Geralt might have been in the presence of a viper so close to his lark, but wary enough.

Letho, of course, just inhales deeply but doesn't turn around. Eskel has no doubt the other witcher knows he's here.

"He gives you a hard time, little lark?" Eskel comes to kneel by Jaskier's feet as he speaks, listening to the puttering heartbeat of the bard and scenting any distress there might be in the air. There is none, so he relaxes again and begins to gently dry off Jaskier's feet. It seems the bard took the initiative to remove the wet bandages already; they must have been uncomfortable, and Eskel kicks himself for not thinking about that.

Jaskier just looks down at him with those bluest eyes as he works; there is awe in his face, but confusion in his scent. Eskel is starting to gather the full scope of just how neglected Jaskier is in his life. He wonders if Jaskier is used to providing, as well as the intention that he so longingly strives for. The scarred witcher finds himself wanting to show Jaskier how it feels to be taken care of. To feel safe in another's arms and think of nothing else.

"No, we were just talking. I've not yet met many witchers here, and if I am going to be staying a little while, then I think that's rather important." Eskel nods and glances up again. This time, now that he isn't distracted by the viper in the room, he takes in what Jaskier is wearing. It's Geralt's shirt and his pants. The shoulders are nearly too big for the little lark, and the waist stretches out around his hips, revealing the waistband of the underclothing. Eskel hates that he is so thin as to make that happen, but the display of skin along the bard's collarbone is tempting beyond measure. Not to mention that Eskel can now scent Geralt and himself on the lark's body.

Eskel quickly schools that reaction, not wanting to make him uncomfortable with his appearance. He turns his attention back to spreading a burn salve on the scars and then wrapping them up with as much care as he can.

Jaskier simply watches with a slightly amused smile. He really shouldn't feel as precious as he does like this, being taken care of. Pretending the brush of Eskel's knuckles against his ankle as he wraps are gentle caresses. Pretending Eskel is doing this simply becasue he wants to rather than becasue Jaskier can't. He wishes he could be useful in a way, is antsy about when he will start pulling his weight. He wants to show these people that have taken him in that he is not as useless as they think he is. Not out of spite, but because he has become fond of them. Of Geralt and Eskel, Aubry and Aiden, even Lambert though he has not had as much interaction with him.

Perhaps the more he does, the more he will seek to prove himself to them. Or perhaps it is not at all that he seeks their approval, but to make up for how weak and pathetic he has felt over the last month. His decimated ego needs a gentle hand to rebuild, it's a pity that Jaskier's are too scarred for the job.

Eskel keeps wrapping.

By the time Jaskier and Eskel make it to Geralt's office, Jaskier is feeling much better. His sore muscles have loosened a little and his feet have been off the ground all day so the ache there is all but gone. He's mostly clean and with new clothes, not to mention he is being carried by one of the prettiest, sweetest men he's ever met. The one who will ask if he's ok every time they go up or down a staircase together. It has Jaskier blushing like a virgin and giggling like he's back in the schoolhouse yard.

"Geralt?" Eskel calls through the wooden door to the office, unable to knock with the pretty bard in his arms. Jaskier had begun to reach out to do it for him, only to be glared at by the witcher for the attempt. Apparently, his palms and fingers are not healed enough for Eskel's liking to knock. Jaskier rolls his eyes but complies.

"Come in." The warlord calls, and Eskel opens the door with his foot, turning sideways to bring Jaskier in with him. Geralt looks up and sees them together, not looking surprised to see the bard at all.

The room is the same as when Jaskier had first arrived, though now only one of the chairs is filled. Geralt is not in armor, but his outfit is still imposing in its rich dark color that only highlights his white hair.

Eskel sets Jaskier down on a chair across from Geralt and sits down in the one next to him. Geralt watches them with neutrality painted on his face. In reality, the scent of Jaskier, Eskel, and himself on the lark's clothing is making his fingers twitch under the table. Jaskier is pretty, an undeniable fact of the bard's existence. Geralt can't help but think that he could fill out those clothes more, of course, but he is still very pretty, and there is time to get him back to a healthy weight. Now, dressed in the two witchers' clothing, he is absolute sin incarnate. It's practically obscene. Of course, not to a regular human, Geralt means the mix of scents. It's like a claim to the witchers. Dictating that Jaskier is close enough to them to share clothing and, therefore, close enough to be protected.

It's a good idea on Eskel's part; two of the most respected witchers in the keep taking the newcomer under their wing will at least make most witchers back off in terms of thinking they can poke fun or play too roughly. Jaskier is in a fragile enough state after everything he's gone through, and he doesn't need the others asking prying questions that might set him off.

"Jaskier would like me to transcribe a letter for him. I made him aware that we will be looking over what he will be writing. So…" Jaskier gets the implication for him to take over, and he does.

"I just wanted to speak to you first, tell you a few things, so it doesn't seem like I might be keeping things from you. The last thing I need is to be seen as some sort of spy and kicked out on my ass for it. I hardly made the trek up here, I'd not like to try by luck on the way down." Geralt hums at Jaskier's assessment. Of course, they likely wouldn't assume that he was a spy of all things, and not for the people who sent him there. They'd seen his injuries. Still, they would know if he was trying to hide something, and suspicion is never good in a keep full of people who can smell emotions. It spreads like wildfire and is hard to put out once sparked.

"Go on." Geralt hums, still neutral, as he doesn't want to show any reaction before he knows what they are working with.

"I am a bard." Jaskier first affirms, wanting them to know he had lied when he had first arrived.

"But in my time on the continent, being what I am, I have a sympathy for those who are most affected by this senseless war. I have been… helping those in need get to places who would accept them willingly into their land." Both Eskel and Geralt have their full attention on him. It's a powerful feeling to know they are both listening to every word he says.

"At first, that was Nilfgaard, but in the most recent years, I have directed my people to send the elves here. You have to understand it's a delicate network-" Jaskier almost begins a rant, but Geralt guts him off with a breathless understanding.

"You're the Sandpiper." Eyes unable to confine his wonder and awe. Jaskier winces a little at the direct statement but swallows his reserves and nods.

"I did start it, yes, all those years ago, I was-" His voice catches as he remembers the events of that day when he became the Sandpiper.

"There was an assault: men, women, children. I was performing for a small traveling group of elves. They were slaughtered as I was made to bear witness… I knew it could not go on any longer. It was only a few at first, my friends whom I helped escape. Some random travelers who sought refuge when I disclosed my own heritage. Then more and more until I could not do it on my own anymore. That's when I became the Sandpiper, and we no longer referred to a man but a mission." Jaskier has watery eyes as he speaks of that day. His pure, unfettered guilt and horror, then hope and passion as he speaks of the resistance.

"They tell us, those you have sent to the Wolflands. They tell us of the Sandpiper's people and how they would not have survived without them." Eskel near coos as he hates to see Jaskier so upset. The bard looks up to him with shining eyes and a wobbly lip, looking beyond hopeful that this could be true.

"He's right. We hold an audience with many of these immigrants, just like we did with you, though usually there is less yelling." Geralt adds, and Jaskier smiles genuinely at the light teasing.

"They thank you for your work, you should know that we give them shelter here and food for as long as they need to get settled into one of the towns or cities." The warlord's words are more than Jaskier could have possibly hoped for.

"Yes, Jaskier, thank you for bringing them. We posture as a safe haven for non-humans, but that doesn't mean much if no one can actually reach us." Eskel's hands find Jaskier's arm on instinct, holding it tenderly to convey the genuine relief he feels.

"It's what I was doing in Lettenhove when I was caught. I- My father has never been what a father should be. When I ran, he did not chase me. I have been there many times before with nothing but ignorance of my existence. I play in the taverns across the continent, songs of hope and love for all, but my real message lies with those who know how to hear it. I didn't even get a note out before the guard was on me, I'm afraid." Jaskier's voice is shaky as he speaks, and his hands grip as well as they can into the pants he has been given. Little pin pricks of pain spiking from the sore scars.

"That is who you wish to contact. The network…" Geralt puts together. Jaskier nods.

"Yes, they expected me to check in through a letter soon after I arrived in Lettenhove. I'm not exactly sure how much time has passed, but I'm sure it's been enough that they might have already assumed me to be dead. I want to tell you before I have Eskel write it for me so you know…" The bard fidgets with a loose thread and tilts his head as he explains. Both witchers find themselves endlessly impressed and endeared, if possible. The scent of passion and determination pours off their little lark in waves.

"Thank you for telling us." Geralt finally says.

"I will be sure it ends up in the right hands. Perhaps tonight, after the feast, we could sit down and do it together?" The White Wolf offers.

"You still have to see Triss as well, but that should be quick. Geralt plans to announce you at the meal, so it's important you be there. Even if you do not stay for much longer, it will set the others at ease to know you are with us." Eskel puts everything in order so easily that Jaskier is glad he does not have to be the one planning right now. He's not sure he could manage the effort after such a hard conversion. He feels mentally drained and doesn't really want to go to a feast, but… it is important to Geralt, so he thinks he can manage. Besides, afterward, he will get to write to his network, telling them everything he thinks is appropriate, and that thought sends a giddiness through him he hasn't felt in a long time before coming here.

"Yes, do that, then we will meet in the hall." Geralt agrees before Jaskier can speak.

"That sounds good, little lark?" The scarred witcher asks. Jaskier is confused for a moment as to why they need his input, but still nods, lifting his arm up as Eskel rises to gather him into his hold once again.

Jaskier gets one last look over Eskel's shoulder as the Warlord stares after them with an unreadable expression. He wonders what to make of the gentle warlord and his sweet hearted companion. He wonders what they make of him now.

The trip with Triss is over quickly as she looks under the bandages and does a few healing spells, another round of salve, and something to drink to keep his energy up and hopefully put some meat back on his bones. Then it's over, and Jaskier stands next to Eskel in front of the two great doors that lead to the main hall.

After the second round of healing, Triss cleared him to walk as long as he doesn't do it too often or too long. Jaskier is excited to put his new shoes to work.

He's nervous, even after Eskel assured him that they were early, so there should be only a few people there. He's only met a few of the witchers, and he's not exactly sure how they will react to him being here. If they are all like Eskel and Geralt, then he might just never leave, but if they are like the usual large groups of men Jaskier deals with, then he worries for his already wounded pride.

Or perhaps he is being paranoid gain and they will all just ignore him? That could be an option. probably the best option he had to pick. He doesn't feel dressed up enough to be looked at right now.

"Ready?" Eskel's calm voice calls him back to the present. Right, he needs to focus.

"Of course, my dear," Jaskier responds, trying to keep the shakiness out of his tone. Eskel looks at him for a moment, but nods and opens the door.

Jaskier barely remembers being led through here; his eyes were on Dragonfly's shoes the whole time, and he didn't once look up. Expecting to see sneers if he did, he didn't want to look at anything other than the floor.

Now, here again, his eyes are drawn to the long tables and large wooden doors that knock against the wind of the mountain. There is a giant fireplace that roars with life, and above and around it is a great old tree that reaches to the ceiling and spreads out. Hung on its branches are medallions. Hundreds, there have to be. All glinting in the fire's light and sparking like stars as they reflect it. His eyes stay there for a moment as he understands what he is seeing.

Witchers never take off their medallions. Never once has he seen one without one. Even Letho in the spring had his around his neck. These are fallen witchers. Hundreds of lives and corpses are represented by hanging metal and a snarling animal head. He doesn't realize he's stopped moving until Eskel's hand on his shoulder startles him back to himself.

"Quite the sight, isn't it?" Jaskier's words catch in his throat, and his fingers itch to write them down. Write something, anything, to memorialize this feeling, even if all words seem to fail at the impossible grief and mourning that has to make up this tree's very fibers.

"It's how we remember the ones we've lost, not all their medallions are here, but… they still have space left for them." Jaskier notices the empty branches, not room for more, no room for those missing. Those who were never found, but were mourned anyway.

"…I know…" Is all the bard gets out before his throat closes again. Some how he does. In his life full of deaths of those who don't deserve it. In this time of war and genocide, how could he not. What is it for an artist to witness something like this. To know death so intimately that he could see it and know it without having to ask?

"Let's sit, Geralt will come soon, and then dinner will be served." Eskel gently guides Jaskier away from the fireplace and tree. Jaskier lets him, feeling suddenly weak in the knees after that.

"This is where Geralt sits. He starts eating first, then we will." Eskel gestures to the head of the table in the center of the rows of long tables. The chair is no different from any of the others at the other tables, and Jaskier feels like that is intentional. It puts Geralt's back to the fire, framing him in those hanging branches and stars. Jaskier wonders if the light reflects off his hair just as well, making him glow.

Eskel places him right next to the warlord's seat on the bench, so he is sitting the closest to Geralt and sits on his other side.

"Wait- shouldn't the council or something be sitting here?" He should absolutely not be sitting this close to the warlord.

"I am on his council, you are his personal guest. Where else would you sit?" Eskel points out plainly as others begin to filter in. Jaskier stalls for a moment, not knowing. He hadn't considered himself Geralt's guest. Though he supposes that he is wearing the warlord's clothing, so that must count for something.

"But-"

"If anyone makes a fuss about it, Geralt will tell them off, alright?" Eskel cuts him off, reassuring him that he does have a place right where he is.

"Geralt might be offended if you don't." Jaskier looks aghast at him and his horridly cute teasing tone.

"You, terrible man! What would I do if I angered the great warlord of the north, then hmm?" Jaskier teases back.

"Likely apologize or not, he'd forgive you anyway. You'd just have to bat those eyelashes at him." Another voice cuts in as Lambert sits down on the other side of Eskel. Jaskier smiles at him, and he rolls his eyes. The bard doesn't take offense; it's still likely that the witcher is still angry at him for writing that song about him and his lover. Aiden has already told him how much the redhead truly loved it.

"That softhearted old fool would likely fall for it too." Yet another person sits down, this time, across the table from Jaskier. In what will be Geralt's other side. It's the witch. The one who insulted him when he first arrived. The one who thinks he's Geralt's whore.

Jaskier's posture immediately stiffens in her presence as her eyes grate over his skin. She's looking at him with such suspicion, and her words earlier imply that he has tricked Geralt in some way. He doesn't like it.

"Be nice, Yen." Finally, Geralt enters, pulling out the chair as he sits and reprimanding his second. No, that's Eskel, he's at least pretty sure. Or… oh, is this Geralt's wife? Alarm bells ring in the bard's head as he thinks this may be Geralt's lover, wife, or something. Fuck. And he insulted her in front of him, too.

No. No. He shouldn't jump to conclusions. He has no idea if witchers even marry at all. She could just be the court sorceress, still not good if she's so important to be sitting right next to the head of the table but better than it being his lover.

He just manages to calm himself as the conversation goes on around him when a little white blur comes barreling past him and crashes straight into the sorceress. Jaskier looks up to see a young girl in a loose blouse and pants and… long white hair. If anyone was Geralt's daughter... It is this little ball of moonlit hair hanging in a French braid that stretches down to the little girl's mid-back. She is tiny, maybe seven or so, and too adorable for words.

"Mama!" The little girl shouts as she jumps into the witch's arms. Well- his life here was nice while it lasted.

"There you are, ugly-one. How were your classes?" The witch's voice is soft toward the child. Her little nickname, if it can be called that, is even softer in its tone, somehow. That and the way the girl shouted 'Mama' was a pretty good giveaway as to who this woman is to Geralt's child. And this has to be Geralt's child, right? There is no possible way a girl like that is born with such lovely white hair, and everyone does not immediately know who the father is. Geralt is sitting now, looking at the two of them with so much fondness it almost makes Jaskier's teeth ache. Fuck. Yes, this is the lover or wife, mother of Geralt's child. Fuck. At least the Warlord hasn't said anything about it. He doesn't seem like the overly possessive type, the one who yips and whines when another man so much as looks at who he thinks is his pet woman, but he could be wrong. Either way, Jaskier doesn't want to find out.

Perhaps he got a free pass for not knowing who she was at the time. He'll have to make an effort not to insult her again. Won't that be charming? Jaskier hates stuck-up nobles who berate people and belittle them just because they know they can't fight back.

"Terrible! And boring!" The little girl shouts, and Jaskier thinks his insides are actually going to melt if he stays here any longer. All bitter thoughts about the witch vanish in an instant as the little girl squeals in her voice, and he is distracted completely, still learning how to put the right sounds together.

"I just want to train with Dada!" She speaks again, making Geralt chuckle as he lifts the girl off the witch's lap and seats her in his own. Jaskier swoons at the way he looks at her.

"Careful, wolf, your bird is going to pass out if you don't stop." Lambert's voice ruins the moment, and Jaskier's face lights up in a blush as he turns to glare at the witcher.

Geralt growls at him, arguably more effective than Jaskier's glare.

"Who is this Geralt? You didn't tell me you kept angels in the keep." Jaskier coos as he winks at the little girl, setting her off in a giggle that would make men kill. Jaskier is already halfway to pledging his undying fealty to her.

"Cirilla of Kear Morhen!" The girl announces proudly in a practiced tone.

"Nice to meet you, princess. I am Jaskier the bard at your humble service," Jaskier answers back, dipping his head to show his respect, though he doubts she understands the gesture. This place doesn't seem like the type to uphold the subtler part of high society. Not that he minds, it means he gets to sit between the two witchers who have been taking care of him these past two days.

"I'm not a princess! I'm a witcher!" The little princess cries out, and Jaskier nods as if he believes her.

"Of course you are, you're both." Jaskier agrees. Ciri seems to think about this for a moment, not ever having gotten that reaction before. Then she nods, seeming to like that and looking back to Geralt.

"Am I both, am I a witcher princess?" Ciri asks in that high pitched and adorable voice. Jaskier decides he is in love.

"Of course." Geralt coos, planting a small kiss on top of her head. Jaskier might have actually squealed if he weren't so aware of Lambert laughing at him. Eskel is chuckling too, watching the reaction of the bard.

"How have I not been introduced to this little bundle of joy sooner?" Jaskier wonders aloud more than to anyone specifically. He feels Eskel stiffen beside him and regrets his words immediately.

"We had to be sure you were who you said you were. No one outside of the keep knows about Ciri." It's a surprisingly bleak answer than Jaskier was expecting, but he understands. He'd never known the White wolf had a daughter, and he assumes that as soon as that information gets out, there will be hundreds of suitors all lining up to put the moves on this child and her father. He shudders just thinking about it. She's just a child.

"Yes, I can see why you would want to protect this. I will tell no one, you have my word, White Wolf." Geralt looks over him with scrutinizing eyes, and the bard can feel others. Even Eskel inhales his scent to see if he's lying.

After a moment of nothing, Geralt grunts and nods, and the room feels like it breathes out in a collective relief. Jaskier himself didn't realize he was holding his breath until he feels Eskel relax at his side, and he himself feels like he can relax too.

"Ah, just in time. Glad that's over now." The witch, Yen as Geralt called her, breaks the tension as the food begins to be served by a rotating cast of different people. Jaskier is surprised when he spots humans among them though he knows he shouldn't be. To feed this many people there would need to be a large team cooking at all hours of the day. Humans, Elves and even some Dwarves all come in with plates and serving dishes to fill the tables. It's just about now that Jaskier realizes just how much the place has filled out. Nearly every spot is filled with people. Witchers and other non-humans make up most of the people but Jaskier does spot what he assumes to be humans in some places. He also notes that there is lot of cliques of witchers grouped together all dressed similarly.

All the Wolves that he's met and Lambert's cat all sit at the middle table with Geralt, and they dress in a similar collective manner. He himself is dressed like a wolf as well, though the clothing doesn't fit him as well. These must be the other schools of witcher.

Once the servers all finish with their rotation, they disperse and find places around the room with friends or family as they sit down. No one has touched anything yet, and Jaskier finds himself staring at the food in front of him with longing in his eyes. He hadn't realized he was so hungry, but now that the food is right there, he can't help but feel the ache. Still, he remembers what Eskel said to him about the picking order here, and he restrains himself.

Once everyone is settled, Geralt clears his throat and stands up, Ciri hopping off his lap and sitting between him and Yen on the bench.

"Jaskier the bard has joined our keep." There is no chatter as the White Wolf speaks; he demands their attention with a simple sentence, and they give it willingly.

"He is my guest and will come to no harm under my protection." His voice rings out in the space easily, heard and seen by all. A true leader in his element flanked by the fire and stars. Jaskier understands why it was Geralt chosen for the seat of Warlord. Then that's all and Geralt sits again. To his dismissal there is a shout of:

"WHITE WOLF!" As the witchers and humans alike all chant his moniker. It startles Jaskier half out of his chair as even Eskel shouts. Then the people descend, piling their plates high with food and passing platters between themselves as if it is old habit. Jaskier is a little bit confused for a second as he thought that Geralt would be the one served and eating first but that doesn't happen.

In the chaos Jaskier can't keep up, he tries but he just can't get his hands on anything. He opts to just wait until people are less excited about the food to try again.

It's not until two heavy plates are set in front of him that he perks back up to look.

Two outstretched arms, one of them Geralt's, the other Eskel's. Both hold plates stacked with food, and both have set them down in front of him.

Jaskier stares, and the room stills in places. The commotion of serving their food has died down to a silence as the tables and tables beyond all watch the interaction. Jaskier looks between the two witchers and the plates with confusion. His own plate had been removed, and he hadn't even noticed. His first thought is that he couldn't possibly eat all of that. His next question is, why the hell would the Warlord and his Right hand be serving him food?

Is it his hands? Do they think him incapable of doing it himself? He couldn't hold a pen, so maybe he couldn't hold a serving spoon? Honestly, it's pretty sound logic and just shows how much he had forgotten about his own injuries. His sweet witchers- No, the sweet witchers taking care of him have it covered.

"I- I thank you," He accepts, understanding that a rejection would just be so much worse.

"I will eat as much of it as I can." There is a hitch in breath from Eskel as he shares their gaze. Geralt remains steady as ever as he returns to his own plate. So does Eskel, the only two that haven't been filled. Jaskier blushes, feeling a little guilty that he took up their time like that. but doesn't say anything.

It's only then that he looks up and sees it.

Every. Single. Eye. On. Him.

He's done something horrible know hasn't he? God Even Lambert is speechless.

Once Geralt and Eskel have their own food, Jaskier turns back to the Warlord. Surely, he's just mistaken, and they are looking at Geralt instead. Except, he finds Geralt looking at him right back. Okay, that's strange.

Eskel clears his throat behind Jaskier.

"He's waiting for you, little lark." Jaskier startles at the words, for him? For him to do what?

"For me?" He voices.

"To eat." Aubry, who sits only a few seats down, says calmly as if that makes sense. He looks back at Geralt and finds him nodding.

His whole body flashes hot and cold in an instant. He takes one, hesitant bite, while still looking at Geralt. After that, he almost feels the weight of their eyes fall from him to Geralt. The Warlord makes no indication that their attention has any effect on him.

As soon as Geralt bites into the rest of the table begins, and the noise shoots back to the level it was before the food was served. It leaves Jaskier feeling off-center and confused. It feels like a gesture he should know the meaning of, but doesn't. He'll ask Eskel later. For now, he has a meal to get through and witchers to introduce himself to. He'll ask for a crash course on witcher politics soon. After he isn't so hungry.