Chapter Text
The players have built Jaskier a throne.
It’s their final night with the acting troupe (The Squabbling Ducks). Tomorrow they’ll arrive at Ard Carraigh and split off, heading further north, up into the mountains. Towards Kaer Morhen. Towards home.
Geralt is more than ready to be surrounded by the safe, familiar walls of the keep. Though he would be lying if he said he wasn’t the slightest bit anxious about what his brothers will think of his River god and their Child Surprise. When he had thought Jaskier was human, it was Vesemir’s opinion that he feared most of all. But one of Vesemir’s greatest joys is adding new knowledge to the vast collection of witcher lore housed at Kaer Morhen.
Ever since his old mentor had worked out the name of Geralt’s Orisa, he’s been not so subtly hinting that Geralt should bring Jaskier to with him one winter. Vesemir will be positively ecstatic to have Jaskier as his guest. The bard will be lucky if the old witcher doesn’t just lock himself and Jaskier in a room together until he’s extracted all the knowledge in Jaskier’s head.
His foster brothers are another issue entirely. He’s fairly certain they don’t know anything about River gods, and if Jaskier doesn’t out himself, then Vesemir certainly will. He doesn’t think his brothers will automatically think Jaskier is a monster, just because he’s not human. But all witchers develop an inbuilt wariness of the ‘other’ on the Path. They won’t simply welcome Jaskier into their home with open arms; Geralt doesn’t know how Jaskier, who expects to be welcomed and fussed over wherever he goes, will cope with that.
There is also the teeny, tiny, insignificant detail of Ciri, and how he has completely failed to inform any of his fellow witchers how he acquired a Child Surprise almost thirteen years ago. Though they’ll probably find that easier to accept than the River god thing.
Those are issues that will have to be dealt with at some point, but not tonight. Not when the Ducks have decided a party is in order so they can send their new companions off north with cheer in their hearts and beer in their bellies.
Not Ciri’s though. Geralt’s keeping an eye on her and has already foiled three of her attempts to steal someone’s mug. She pouts insolently up at him and tries to wheedle that Jaskier would let her have a small one. Geralt replies that it is unfortunate for her that he isn’t Jaskier. The bard is too busy, going round the actors and stagehands to thank them personally for all their help, to authorise any illicit alcohol consumption.
How this has developed into the actors setting up the big chair they use for a throne in their shows and pushing Jaskier down onto it, Geralt does not know. But it doesn’t seem to be harming anyone and Jaskier is sitting there with a healthy flush on his cheeks that has been missing over the past few weeks. The stress of their travels and protecting Ciri has worn him down. Geralt doesn’t think it’s a coincidence that they’ve been almost within running distance of a river for most of their journey.
He strongly suspects Jaskier has been ready to bolt into the water with Ciri at the first sign of trouble. Geralt can’t say he blames him. He’s had one hand ready to pull out his sword ever since they left Lettenhove. Luckily, Ciri has mostly remained oblivious to the anxiety of her two guardians, completely entranced with the mechanics involved in transporting a performing troupe from town to town. The actors all call her their lucky charm, and it’s become a tradition for them to wrap an arm around Ciri for a quick hug before going on stage.
If possible, Geralt thinks the princess would be content to forget all about her royal past and spend her life performing and travelling with a group such as this. She already knows most of the lines of the company’s current show, ‘A Midwinter’s Daydream’.
Confiscating yet another mug of ale from Ciri, he leaves her in the care of Melissa, who plays the Queen of the Gnomes, and makes his way over to Jaskier.
The bard beams up at him from his chair. He’s not drunk; Geralt would smell it on him if he were, but there’s a giddiness in his eyes that makes him appear so.
“My Wolf!” he cries and grabs Geralt around the neck, hauling him down to bestow kisses on his face. The witcher can’t help but bask in the easy affection he’s now allowed to enjoy. He doesn’t resist the urge to press his own kiss to Jaskier’s willing lips before straightening again. Around the throne, the actors dance, laugh and sing. From here Geralt can feel a seductive undercurrent of raw power flowing from them towards Jaskier. It makes his medallion tremble against his skin and Jaskier slump almost bonelessly in his chair.
“How much of this is your doing?” he murmurs to Jaskier.
Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Jaskier stiffen slightly in his seat. Geralt had once accused him of carelessly manipulating everyone around him, and it seems that the accusation has remained with Jaskier. Geralt reaches out a hand to squeeze his River god’s shoulder, hoping Jaskier will accept that he’s just asking, not judging. Jaskier relaxes somewhat.
“The party was all their idea; I just loosened up too much after the first drink. I accidentally let the human mask slip a bit and the godliness peek through,” the River god admits. “I didn’t realise how draining this journey had been.”
“So, they get drunk and celebrate around you, and you just… feed off the energy they let out?” Geralt is genuinely curious. Now that he’s got over his irrational fear of Jaskier manipulating him, he finds he wants to know more about what makes the River gods tick.
Jaskier hums thoughtfully. “I guess so. Celebration is just a form of worship. It helps that they all have a genuine affection for me. I don’t think this would have happened if they hadn’t.”
It might be the influence of the revelers around him, but an unusual playfulness comes over Geralt.
“Are there any other forms of worship you’d enjoy?”
He can hear Jaskier’s breath hitch and his heart speed up. The red flush on his cheeks begins to travel, creeping slowly down his neck and disappearing under the hair at the top of his chest. They’ve been taking things slow. Rebuilding the trust that was shattered between them.
Also, Geralt feels that with the amount of build-up it took to get this relationship off the ground, the first time they fuck should be more than a quick, quiet fumble in the dark, surrounded on all sides by performers and Ciri. But everyone seems very preoccupied at the moment and there are enough rugs and furs in the props cart to create a semi-private, comfortable nest.
Jaskier chews his lip thoughtfully, eyes on Ciri.
“Quite a few, but perhaps we could explore them better at Kaer Morhen,” he says with obvious regret.
Geralt is disappointed, but he understands. He can’t begrudge the princess for being Jaskier’s first priority. Especially not now he’s got to know the girl. He realises now that he’d willingly throw himself in front of a sword to protect her.
It’s the way she sings, slightly off-key, along with Jaskier. How she enthusiastically throws herself into caring for Roach and the other horses. Roach is her favourite, which shows she has good taste, and the mare allows Ciri to brush her mane until it’s silky smooth and gleaming. She’s realised she knows little of how the common world works, and with a determined look in her eye, has set out to rectify her ignorance. It’s also the way she curls into Jaskier’s chest when she sleeps between them at night, Buttercup the horse clutched tightly in one hand. Geralt will wake in the night to the sight of Buttercup smooshed against Jaskier’s face as Ciri’s limbs move in her sleep. The bard seems to have learnt how to sleep through it.
That’s not to say she doesn’t have her moments. She had taken great exception to Geralt’s obsessive lurking during their first week on the road. Geralt had been feeling uneasy, too close still to Nilfgaard, and hadn’t wanted to let Ciri out of his sight. She’d snapped quiet admonishments at him, and he had growled back reminders of the threats she currently faced. Jaskier had smoothed things over. Ciri was not to be alone, but as long as she obeyed this rule, she could choose her escort. Having made friends with everyone in the troupe, Ciri was happy to agree to this stipulation.
Geralt had tried to compliment Jaskier on his handling of the situation, but Jaskier had just looked at him warily.
“I’ve had to learn a few tricks since she came to live with me.”
Geralt decides to perch on the armrest of the throne and draws one of Jaskier’s hands between his own. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get over the simple joy of holding Jaskier’s hand. He likes to run his fingers along Jaskier’s slender ones and trace the lines on his palms. He enjoys pressing kisses all over his bard’s hands, cataloguing the different skin texture (the back is soft as silk, but the calluses on Jaskier’s palms catch enticingly on Geralt’s lips). Jaskier is turning him into a complete sap.
He doesn’t care.
In the back of his mind there is a long forgotten song playing. It’s old, and he can’t remember most of the words, but he’s found himself almost humming it recently. He thinks his mother used to sing it to him.
‘Down by the river, among the rushes and reeds,
Sings a Kingfisher, with a song just for me.
With his handsome blue coat and his bright orange vest,
He promises sunshine, good cheer and long rest.’
* * *
Jaskier had known, logically, that a hidden witcher fortress was likely to be hard to find. Experiencing this is another thing entirely. If it weren’t for Ciri, he’d have headed straight into the Gwenllech and told Geralt he’d meet him where the keep was nearest the river. Unfortunately, Ciri lacks the ability to become as one with the rushing water and can’t travel this way. Jaskier has wondered, while huffing up yet another steep incline, whether this is something she could learn, or if it is a mode of transport unique to River gods.
Geralt has proven himself to be remarkably patient with his travel companions, but Jaskier can see how alarmed he is by their slow pace. Winter is really beginning to set in, and it’s bitterly cold. They now sleep with Jaskier wrapped around Ciri and Geralt behind him, enveloping them both. Even with the fire and all the blankets and cloaks piled on top of them, it takes a while for Ciri to stop shivering enough to fall asleep. The sooner they can get her to the shelter of Kaer Morhen the better.
Ciri stops to catch her breath by a giant boulder. She takes one look at the jagged, broken path ahead and bursts into tears.
“Hey, hey,” Jaskier puts on a burst of speed so he can catch up, wrapping her securely in his arms. “It’s alright, not long now.” He doesn’t know if this is true, but he can’t think of any other comforting thing to say.
“I can’t,” she gasps. “I can’t Papa.” His heart leaps at the name. Ciri has called him such in the past, when they were in Lettenhove, but that was always when they were out in public and trying to avoid suspicion. This is different; there’s no one else around to fool. There’s just an emotionally, mentally and physically exhausted young girl who should not have to traverse this impossible path in fear for her life.
He can feel elated some other time.
“Just take a moment Ciri. Catch your breath. You’ll feel better once you’ve caught your breath and had some water.” He brushes the tears from her cheeks, worried about them freezing on her skin.
He looks up ahead to try and get Geralt’s attention. The witcher has been leading Roach, the poor horse laden down with all their supplies, including the waterskins.
Geralt has already started making his way carefully back to them, waterskin in hand. Roach stands still, further up the path. Geralt rubs Ciri’s back sympathetically as she shakily gulps down some water, tears still running down her cheeks.
He passes the waterskin to Jaskier once Ciri hands it back to him. “Come on,” he kneels before her. “Hop on for a little bit. Jaskier, you’ll have to lead Roach.”
Ciri doesn’t protest that she can manage, which shows just how exhausted she is. She clambers awkwardly onto Geralt’s back and wraps her arms securely around him, burying her face in the top of his shoulder. Geralt takes a moment to make sure he has a good grip on her legs and then hauls himself up, Ciri stuck like a limpet to his back.
The sight does something warm to Jaskier’s heart. He presses kisses to Ciri’s head and Geralt’s cheek as he passes them, stumbling ahead to grasp hold of Roach.
Geralt doesn’t put Ciri down for the rest of the day. He and Jaskier exchange looks as the sun begins to descend, and silently agree to keep going as long as they can.
It’s as the pink in the sky begins to fade away completely to a soft indigo that they round a corner and finally catch sight of Kaer Morhen. The keep is just a dark intimidating shape in the approaching darkness, but Jaskier can make out some towers rising high above the rest.
He nudges Ciri’s knee with an elbow. “Look,” he encourages. “We’re almost there.”
She barely raises her head for a glance, eyes heavy with exhaustion and still slightly wet. She tucks her head back into the crook of Geralt’s neck and lets out a shuddering breath. Geralt squeezes her legs in reassurance and starts walking again.
It still takes them well over an hour to get to the heavy portcullis that marks the entrance to the keep. All natural light is completely gone, heavy clouds blocking out the starlight, and Jaskier has to hold up a torch to light the last couple of rocky miles to their destination.
The portcullis is raised and the heavy wooden doors behind it are propped open. It seems they’ve been expected, because a side door just inside the archway opens and a tall, broad shouldered man steps through.
“Greetings Wolf,” the man welcomes Geralt formally. Geralt nods back.
“Greetings Eskel.”
So, this is Eskel. Geralt’s favourite ‘brother’. Jaskier strains to make out more of him in the torchlight and tries not to recoil when he catches a glimpse of the truly horrifying scars that mar almost half the witcher’s face. Eskel looks lucky to still have two working eyes.
“Who have you brought?” Eskel asks, casting a curious look at Jaskier and Ciri.
Jaskier gives a bow with fewer flourishes than is usual for him when at a noble’s court, but much more genuine.
“I am Jaskier, bard and long-suffering companion.”
Eskel’s lips twitch upwards slightly in a smile, distorting the scarred side of his face even more. “I think I’ve heard Geralt mention you occasionally… Or a lot, is probably more accurate.”
Geralt lets out a displeased grunt but does not deny the accusation. “This is Ciri.” He hikes the slipping girl more firmly onto his back. “She’s… ours.” He looks so defiant and so vulnerable as he states this, that Jaskier just wants to wrap him up in soft furs and feed him cakes by a warm fire. Mama knows just how much he loves his witcher.
The slight hitch in Eskel’s eyebrow is the only sign he gives that he is surprised.
Ciri pokes her head up at the sound of her name and lets out a small squeak of surprise at the sight of the second witcher, but bravely keeps her head up and tries for a timid smile.
“Come on,” Eskel ushers them further inside the keep, pulling a lever to lower the portcullis behind them. Jaskier’s tight shoulders sink a fraction at this. They are finally somewhere safe. There is no way Nilfgaard can easily find them here, even with a mage. “I’ll see to Roach; you go and introduce your companions to the others.”
“Who else is here this year?” Geralt enquires as Jaskier hands Roach’s reins to Eskel.
“Vesemir, of course, and Lambert as well. He’s brought Coën with him, from the Griffin School.”
These seem to be familiar names to Geralt because he just nods and leads the way through the outer courtyard and towards the main building. Ciri is fighting a losing battle with consciousness and slumps further against him, eyes fluttering shut. Jaskier hovers next to them, ready to grab her if she starts to slip.
The keep is draughty, even when they get inside, but Geralt navigates confidently through a maze of corridors and into what must be the dining room. Jaskier almost lets out a completely indecent moan as a blast of heat hits him when they step through the door. It’s been hours since he last felt the tips of his fingers.
Three burly men stand up from where they’d been sitting around a game of cards. The oldest one, with thick grey hair and moustache, must be Vesemir.
“You made it at last.” Vesemir comes striding over to clap Geralt on the shoulder, stopping himself when he catches sight of Ciri’s sleeping form.
“Vesemir,” Geralt greets him tiredly, then nods to the other two men in turn. “Lambert. Coën. It’s good to see you again. I’ve brought guests this year. This is Jaskier.” It may be the bard’s imagination, but he thinks he sees a hastily suppressed look of glee in Vesemir’s eyes. “And this is Princess Cirilla of Cintra. My Child Surprise.” All three men stare in complete bafflement at the sleeping girl. It would be comical if there weren’t a protective worry worming its way around inside Jaskier’s chest. He wants to step in front of Geralt and hide Ciri from their curious gazes.
“I think that will have to be a story for tomorrow,” Vesemir announces carefully, taking in the fatigue on Jaskier and Geralt’s faces. “We’ve readied your room Geralt, but we didn’t know you were bringing guests. We can sort out rooms for them tomorrow as well. They’ll have to sleep in yours tonight.”
“We just need a room for Ciri,” Geralt tells him, strong jaw raised in defiance.
Vesemir just snorts. “Took you long enough, boy. Get off with you. The bard looks ready to collapse right here.”
It’s not an inaccurate assessment and Jaskier gives them all a nod before following Geralt back out into the draughty corridor, not paying the slightest attention to the route they’re taking. He can figure out geography tomorrow when his brain is functioning again. All he currently cares about is the large bed that is revealed when Geralt pushes open the door to his room. Some kindly soul has lit a fire and the room is deliciously warm.
They work together to quickly and silently unwrap Ciri from her cloak and remove her boots and the three extra layers they had bundled her into that morning. They slip her gently under the covers before divesting themselves of their own outer layers and boots.
Jaskier slides in next to Ciri and Geralt instantly plasters himself to the bard’s side, breathing in a lungful of Jaskier and sinking down next to him, warm and content.
Jaskier’s eyes are already sliding shut, and he can feel the irresistible call of sleep carrying him away.
“We made it,” he murmurs, barely staying conscious long enough to hear Geralt’s quiet reply.
“Of course, we did, little Kingfisher.”
Huh. That one’s new. Jaskier makes a mental note to tease Geralt about it in the morning.