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Jaskier reaches Kaer Morhen as the leaves begin to turn. He’s honestly rather surprised when he finally stumbles through the huge, broken gates and into the cobbled courtyard: he’s made it here based entirely on half-remembered anecdotes about the Killer from years ago (he’s not thinking about Geralt, not thinking about the faint smile Geralt wore when he told those tales) and the old farmwife at the bottom of the mountains who pointed him at the base of the trail with a shrug and a, “Witchers’re up there, I guess,” which had not filled him with confidence.
He nearly died at least three times, he thinks; the trail is narrow and slick and steep, and bits of it are so crumbled and ill-maintained that crossing them was a matter of scrambling on all fours, clinging desperately to the jagged rocks and trying not to pay attention to the seemingly endless drop beside him.
He’s almost out of water, he’s entirely out of food, his boots are nearly falling off his feet (“Impractical,” Geralt called them, scoffing at the decorations, the thin leather - but Jaskier’s not thinking about that), and he’s wearing a jacket that’s much too thin for a mountain winter. The only thing of value he still has is Filavandrel’s lute, strapped to his back in its carrying case, and he’s endlessly grateful that it’s enchanted to be unbreakable, because an unenchanted lute would be splinters by now.
Kaer Morhen is...not in great shape. The gates are shattered, remnants hanging from the hinges; two of the towers are crumbled, and in five places that Jaskier can see, the merlons have been smashed, leaving gaps like rotten teeth in the battlements. But the doors are sturdy, heavy wood with iron hinges, and they are tightly closed.
Jaskier takes a deep breath and walks up the steps to knock on the doors. The sound is very small in the enormous, empty courtyard.
It takes some time before he hears the thunking of heavy locks being undone, and one heavy leaf creaks open just far enough to reveal a sturdily-built, grey-haired man - a witcher by his yellow eyes. He’s not wearing armor, though there’s a long sword bare in his hand, and he eyes Jaskier dubiously.
Jaskier bows deeply. “Master Vesemir, I presume?”
“Aye, that’s me,” the grey-haired witcher says. “And who might you be, to use my name so freely?”
“I am called Jaskier,” Jaskier says. “I...was, for many years, Geralt of Rivia’s traveling companion.” The name is bitter on his tongue. “We have unfortunately parted ways, and I would not ordinarily trespass in this way on his home, but to my dismay I am...apparently a person of interest to the armies of Nilfgaard. I could think of nowhere else where I could hide from them.” He swallows, and slowly drops to his knees. The stone is very cold. Vesemir’s eyebrows migrate up his forehead nearly into his hairline, though his face remains utterly impassive otherwise. “I will do any labor you desire, be as little burden as I can, but I beg you, let me remain here.”
“Oh, get up,” Vesemir growls, in an exasperated tone so like Geralt’s that Jaskier winces. “Why the fuck is Nilfgaard hunting you?”
“It’s rather a long story,” Jaskier starts, sees the frown gathering like thunderclouds on Vesemir’s brow, and adds hurriedly, “They think I know where Geralt and his Child Surprise are.”
“Geralt’s what now?” Vesemir says, and shakes his head gruffly. “Guess that is going to be a long story. Get in here, lad; come on down to the kitchen and give me the whole tale.”
Jaskier stumbles to his feet and follows Vesemir in. Vesemir shoves the door shut and locks it again, puts a heavy hand on Jaskier’s shoulder, and steers him along a corridor and down a set of stairs to an enormous kitchen. There’s a fire burning in a fireplace big enough to roast an ox, with a big iron pot bubbling on a hook above it, smelling amazing, and a long table partially covered with a haunch of venison and a heap of vegetables. Vesemir pushes Jaskier towards one of the benches, looks him up and down, shakes his head again, and goes to scoop a bowl full of soup from the pot, plopping it down in front of Jaskier and adding an intricately-carved wooden spoon, a chunk of brown bread, and a mug of what smells like very good ale.
“Thank you,” Jaskier breathes, and nearly inhales the food. Vesemir snorts and goes back to dressing the haunch of venison.
“Right,” he says, once Jaskier has mopped the last drops of soup up with the heel of the bread and sat back with a sigh of gratitude. “What’s all this about a Child Surprise, then?”
Jaskier swallows and lays the whole sorry tale out, from Cintra to the damned dragon hunt, plain and unadorned, adding no bardic flourishes at all. Vesemir listens quietly as he finishes dressing the venison and heaves it into an enormous roasting pan, heaping the vegetables around it, and shoves it into a big stone oven before pouring himself a tankard of ale and sitting down across from Jaskier.
When Jaskier finishes, Vesemir sighs heavily. “That boy,” he says wearily. “Alright. You can stay, lad, and I’ll help you keep out of Geralt’s way. You any good in the kitchen?”
“Regrettably, no,” Jaskier says. “But I learn quickly, and I will do any chores you assign me to the best of my ability.”
Vesemir nods. “Let’s find you a room, and some decent winter clothing,” he says. “And then you can come help me feed the animals.”
“Lead on, Master Vesemir,” Jaskier says, rising, and tries very hard not to weep with relief.
*
Kaer Morhen is huge and crumbling and cold, but Vesemir is kind in a gruff sort of way, and Jaskier discovers that he rather likes goats and isn’t half bad at chopping vegetables or kneading bread dough. The winter clothes Vesemir produces for him are plain wool, unadorned and heavy, and help a lot with the constant chill radiating from the thick stone walls. The food is good, hearty peasant fare that sticks to Jaskier’s ribs and keeps him warm through the long nights. Vesemir is a good teacher, patient and calm in his explanations of how to cook or care for the animals, and after the first time he asks if Jaskier wants to sing after supper and Jaskier flinches so hard he sends most of a carrot flying into the fireplace, he doesn’t press that wound again.
Jaskier can’t relax, though, not when he knows that someday - possibly someday quite soon - Geralt will ride up that terrible trail, and Jaskier will have to retreat to his rooms, to the back corridors where his are the only footprints in the dust, and try his best to give Geralt his one blessing. At least Kaer Morhen is huge. If Geralt doesn’t come looking for him, and Jaskier stays out of the way - comes down to get food at odd hours, busies himself in the old storerooms that Vesemir says need tidying anyway - they need never see each other.
And if that’s going to make for a staggeringly lonely winter, well…
It is what it is.
He’s been there just under a month when the first witcher turns up, his horse clattering into the main courtyard, iron shoes striking sparks from the cobblestones. Jaskier is feeding the goats at the time, and whirls at the sound of hooves on stone to see a broad-shouldered man with two swords on his back swinging down from a tall black stallion.
Not Roach, is the only thought in Jaskier’s mind for a long moment: whoever this is, it is not Geralt.
The man - the witcher - is possibly even bulkier than Geralt is, and his doublet, somewhat to Jaskier’s surprise, is red, and studded with spikes on the shoulders. Jaskier hadn’t realized witchers were allowed to wear colors. This new witcher has a set of truly impressive scars down one cheek, barely missing the eye, and a wolf medallion around his neck that looks a lot like Geralt’s. He gives Jaskier a long, thoughtful look, then turns to lead his stallion into the stables; he re-emerges a few minutes later, bags thrown over his shoulder, and strides straight for Jaskier -
No, actually, straight for the goats. One of them, a white nanny with a habit of following Jaskier around begging for treats, trots up to the fence with a long bleat of excitement, and the witcher drops his bags next to Jaskier and leans over the fence to pick her up, cradling her close like a man greeting his dog after a long voyage. The nanny nudges his face with her forehead, bleating happily.
“Hey, Lil Bleater, did you miss me?” the witcher murmurs. “Have you been good for Papa Vesemir, hm? And for whoever this random fellow is?” He slants a crooked grin at Jaskier, who offers a rather wan smile back.
“She’s been very well-behaved,” he says. “Hardly nibbled on my coat at all, and only knocked me over into the manure pile once.”
The witcher chuckles, a deep warm sound. “That’s my Lil Bleater,” he says, and frees a hand from his armful of goat, holding it out. “Eskel.”
“Jaskier,” Jaskier says, taking his hand and shaking it firmly. Eskel’s eyebrows go up.
“The bard?”
“The one and only,” Jaskier says, sweeping a bow.
“Geralt can’t be here already; I didn’t see Roach in the stables,” Eskel observes.
“Ah,” Jaskier says. “No. I’m afraid I came without him. In point of fact, we aren’t traveling together anymore. Master Vesemir has been kind enough to offer me sanctuary for the winter.”
“Sanctuary, hm?” Eskel says. “Well, alright. Can you hand me my bags?”
Jaskier hefts the saddlebags up and hands two of them to Eskel, shouldering the third himself, and Eskel leads the way into the keep. Vesemir meets them in the entrance hall, gives the goat a weary look, and claps Eskel on the back before taking the saddlebags from his shoulder. “Good to see you home, lad.”
“Good to be back,” Eskel says. “We’re keeping Geralt’s bard, now?”
“Not Geralt’s anymore,” Vesemir says grimly. “I need to have words with that boy. But yes, the bard stays. He’s been downright useful, this last month.”
“Lil Bleater seems to like him,” Eskel agrees. “Alright then.” He gives Jaskier an amiable nod. “I’m up in the east tower, if you don’t mind bringing the bag.”
“Not at all,” Jaskier says, and he and Vesemir escort Eskel up to a room on the second level of the east tower, leaving his saddlebags just inside the door as Eskel sets the goat down on the hearthrug. Jaskier retreats down to the goat pen again, leaving Eskel and Vesemir to catch up.
Eskel joins them for dinner that night, and to Jaskier’s surprise, is talkative and cheerful, relating anecdotes from his year on the Path and slipping Lil Bleater the crusts of his bread under the table. Vesemir has clearly told Eskel what happened between Geralt and Jaskier, as Eskel asks no awkward questions, and seems perfectly content to take Jaskier’s presence as a given.
He and Vesemir work together on repairing the walls and hauling firewood into the keep for the next few days, and Jaskier tends the stallion, Scorpion (what is it with witchers giving their horses bizarre names?), and the goats and the chickens, chops vegetables and kneads bread and tries not to be in the hot springs below the keep when Eskel and Vesemir come in, sweat-soaked and flecked with stone dust and bark fragments, at the end of every day; it seems a step too far into an intimacy he hasn’t earned. He’s intruding enough by just being here; the least he can do is not pretend to be truly part of this strange little family, not when he hasn’t been invited. It’s enough that he gets to stay at all.
Eskel and Vesemir even tell stories over dinner every evening, and Jaskier jots down their tales in his room each night. He’s not currently feeling up to composing - hasn’t written anything since Her Sweet Kiss, really - but it’s good material, and he knows he’ll want it someday later. Well, someone will want it. Someone should set these tales to verse. He’s just not sure it will be him.
*
The second witcher to arrive is on foot, and he sneaks up on Jaskier while Jaskier is feeding the chickens. The first Jaskier knows of it is when a big hand closes on his shoulder; he yelps rather loudly, and the chickens scatter with aggrieved squawks.
His captor guffaws, and spins him around. “Most chicken thieves don’t feed ‘em,” he observes. He’s smaller than Eskel, though still broader in the shoulders than Jaskier is; his hairline dips into a dramatic widow’s peak, and there’s a slightly nasty edge to his smirk.
“If I had trekked all the way up to the lost stronghold of the witchers, it wouldn’t be to steal chickens,” Jaskier says with as much dignity as he can muster.
The witcher barks another laugh. “Nothing else left here to steal,” he says, and then the doors open and Eskel comes out at a trot, calling, “Lambert! You fucker! You made it!”
The witcher - Lambert, apparently - lets go of Jaskier and turns to meet Eskel, the two of them thumping together hard enough that they nearly tumble over, both whacking each other on the back and shoulders and swearing vociferously.
“Eskel, you goatfucking bastard!” Lambert says. “Is that your pet human, then?”
“Nah, he’s nobody’s pet,” Eskel says cheerfully. “Name’s Jaskier. Not bad company.”
“Jaskier?” Lambert says, turning to look at Jaskier incredulously. “The Toss a Coin bard?”
“...Yes?” Jaskier says, wondering if he’s going to be tossed off a battlement.
“Hah!” Lambert bellows, and reaches out to haul Jaskier in, scrubbing his knuckles through Jaskier’s hair in a friendly sort of way. “That song’s damned useful, bard! I’ve hardly had to threaten half as many people since that fuckin’ song started goin’ around.”
“Well, good,” Jaskier says a little weakly. “Glad to help.” He wasn’t expecting any of Geralt’s brothers to approve of his singing, not when Geralt hates it so much.
“Annoying as hell, mind you,” Lambert says, squashing that incipient feeling of warmth before it can really start. “But useful.”
“It’s not a bad song,” Eskel says mildly. “Catchy.”
“Too damn catchy,” Lambert says, letting go of Jaskier. “Gets stuck in my fucking head every time someone starts singing it.” He claps Jaskier on the shoulder and bends down to scoop up his dropped packs. “Hot springs still not turned into a swamp?”
“Nah, they’re fine,” Eskel says, and Lambert nods and trots off into the keep.
He joins Jaskier in the kitchen that afternoon, and turns out to be a terrible cook - Vesemir brandishes a knife at him and reminds him not to even touch the venison - and a superlative baker. He has a sharp, slightly nasty sense of humor and a vast store of bawdy or violent anecdotes, and apparently a hobby of making improbable and slightly worrisome alcohol which Jaskier is under no circumstances to touch, as it might actually kill an unmutated human, but he’s not bad company overall.
He also doesn’t ask any questions about why Jaskier is there, and Jaskier is grateful all over again to Vesemir, or possibly Eskel, for having told Lambert enough that Jaskier himself won’t have to repeat the whole sorry tale.
Apparently they aren’t waiting for anyone else besides Geralt. Vesemir has mentioned, quietly and without much detail, that there are only four Wolf witchers left in the world, and that the Griffin Coën, who sometimes winters with them, has already sent word that he’ll be in Zerrikania for the season. Jaskier supposes there’s a tiny silver lining to that: at least with only four witchers (and possibly a girl) rattling around in the keep, he’ll be easily able to stay out of everyone’s way.
It’ll be a pity to not be able to eat with Vesemir and Eskel and Lambert anymore - they’re all good company, and he’s collecting so many wonderful stories - but just being here is enough of an intrusion on Geralt’s life. Jaskier has no right to make that worse.
Has no right to be here in the first place, really, but he couldn’t stay in Oxenfurt, and he couldn’t bring the might of Nilfgaard down on Lettenhove, so...here he is.
Hopefully, if he can stay out of the way, Geralt won’t be too mad.
*
“Spotted Geralt on his way up the trail,” Eskel says, one night about three weeks after Lambert’s arrival. It’s very close to true winter - is true winter, by Jaskier’s lights, though Lettenhove never gets as cold or as snowy as Kaer Morhen apparently will - and they’ve all been worrying that Geralt will be caught by an early snowstorm and prevented from making it up to the keep. Once it starts snowing in earnest, more than the light dustings they’ve been getting, the trail goes from treacherous to genuinely impassible, even for a witcher - much less a witcher who will, hopefully, have a small child in tow.
Eskel is very, very quiet whenever the subject of Geralt’s Child Surprise comes up, and Jaskier has not asked why. He can tell when something is a sore subject, even if he has no idea what the story might be, and he doesn’t want to
“I’ll...stay out of the way, then,” Jaskier says quietly. “It was very good to meet all of you. Thank you for - for your hospitality.”
“Going to avoid all of us, buttercup?” Lambert drawls.
“It seems safest,” Jaskier says sadly. “This is your home, and Geralt’s.” He stands, taking his empty plate over to the bucket of warm water beside the fire.
“Fuck that,” Lambert says. “Pretty boy doesn’t get to tell us who we can keep company with.”
Jaskier winces and doesn’t turn around. “He asked for his life’s one blessing to be a lack of me in it. I’m not - I can’t -”
“Alright,” Eskel says quietly. “Alright. But promise you’ll let one of us see some sign of you every day, so we don’t have to worry you’ve gone and fallen off a cliff or something.”
“Deal,” Jaskier says. That should be simple enough; if nothing else, he’ll need to come down to the kitchen for food, and Lambert likes to stay up late, scribbling alchemical formulae on a slate and swearing at his latest batch of inadvisable alcohol.
“Alright,” Vesemir says softly, and Jaskier turns and gives them all his best smile, his performer’s smile, and retreats to the small, out-of-the-way room he’s claimed as his own, and curls up under the heavy furs piled on the bed, and lies there dry-eyed until sleep finally comes to claim him.
*
Geralt is about ready to weep with relief as Roach plods in through the shattered gates of Kaer Morhen. It’s snowing, and his cloak is threadbare and only barely large enough to wrap around both himself and Ciri, and he hasn’t been able to buy or hunt much food for the last few weeks, and of course what he did get went to Ciri, because he can endure a lot longer on a lot less than a growing girl-child. But between the lack of food and the fact that he can’t fucking sleep, he’s on his last reserves, and they’re growing very, very thin.
The lack of sleep isn’t entirely Ciri’s fault. Oh, her nightmares wake him regularly, and he starts out of meditation, if he tries it, a dozen times a night, sure that some quiet forest sound is the harbinger of a horde of black-clad soldiers, but he’s used to sleeping lightly. No, the problem is that when he does sleep, he has nightmares. And unfortunately, just like Ciri’s, they’re of things that actually happened.
Ciri dreams of the death of her grandmother, of the sacking of Cintra, of the terror of fleeing Nilfgaard’s soldiers. She wakes whimpering, which is better than screaming only because it’s less likely to bring down entire trees. Geralt doesn’t blame her - how could he? He holds her close and wishes he knew how to comfort her, but every word that comes to his lips feels dull and false and useless, so he stays silent. He’s not suited to this; he’s no one’s idea of a bringer of comfort, a good companion, a father. Fuck, he can’t even distract the girl with light chatter and songs, the way Jas-
He’s not thinking about that.
When he’s awake, he can keep from thinking about that. But every night, he dreams of Yen walking away from him, of turning in his pain and rage and breaking the heart of the truest friend he’s ever had besides his brothers, of standing alone on a mountaintop and knowing he’s shattered something priceless so thoroughly that it cannot be mended.
He doesn’t wake weeping, because witchers don’t weep. But he lies dry-eyed in his bedroll, Ciri curled against his chest, and stares up at the bare tree branches occluding the stars, and does not sleep the rest of the night. He hasn’t heard a single rumor of Jaskier since the mountain - no songs, no scandalized gossip, nothing. Some days, he wonders if Jaskier just...never made it down the mountainside. If Geralt is responsible for the death of yet another human who dared to trust him. It doesn’t make for restful nights.
The three days up the Trail were some of the worst he’s had; he’s gotten no sleep, and Ciri has been so worried that she might wake up screaming and start an avalanche that she’s barely gotten any sleep, and the Trail has gotten worse since last year, including a bit where he had to leap across a nasty gap with Ciri in his arms and then jump back again to coax Roach into backing up far enough that she could make the leap, and he’s had no food since the base of the mountain.
Kaer Morhen’s bleak walls look a lot like heaven right now.
The doors open as Roach comes to a halt in front of the stables, and Lambert and Eskel and Vesemir emerge. They all look...less welcoming than Geralt might have expected, but their expressions turn to worry as soon as they lay eyes on him.
“Wolf, you look like shit,” Eskel says as they reach him. “Give Vesemir the kid, and Lambert can take Roach.”
Geralt nods and lifts Ciri down into Vesemir’s waiting arms. She gives him a pleading look, and he dredges a tiny smile from somewhere, hoping it looks at least a little reassuring. “Vesemir will find you supper,” he promises.
“Supper and a warmer set of clothing,” Vesemir promises. “Child, you’re skin and bones!” He wraps her up in his own cloak and goes trotting towards the keep, and Geralt watches them go and doesn’t realize he’s sitting on Roach’s back like a sack of apples until Eskel snorts and wraps a hand around his leg.
“C’mon, Wolf,” he says gently, and Geralt rouses himself and slides down out of the saddle. His legs give out a little as he lands, and Eskel shakes his head and slings an arm around his waist and steers him towards the keep, taking rather more of Geralt’s weight than Geralt wants to admit. Behind him, Lambert leads Roach into the stables; he may not have a horse of his own, but he’s good with them, Geralt knows. He can be trusted to treat Roach right.
Ciri and Vesemir are in the kitchen, Ciri halfway through a big bowl of soup, and Geralt slumps down onto the bench across from her and drinks his own soup out of the bowl Vesemir puts in front of him, not even bothering with the spoon. Vesemir refills the bowl when Geralt has drained it, giving him a worried look. Eskel sits down where he can see both Geralt and Ciri, unscarred side of his face towards the girl, and watches them both with a frown of concern.
Lambert comes in a few minutes later, scowling blackly. “Where’s all your shit, pretty boy?” he demands as soon as he crosses the threshold. “You’ve got fuck all! Where are your fucking potions? Where’s the fucking food?”
Geralt sighs. Lambert is a handful at the best of times, and this is...not the best of times. “Had some trouble in Cintra,” he says. “Got out with my swords and the clothes on my back. Couldn’t take many contracts on the way here.”
“Gods fucking dammit, pretty boy,” Lambert seethes, and sits heavily on the bench beside Ciri, ostentatiously ignoring Geralt. “So, you’re the Lion Cub of Cintra?”
There’s...something wrong with that, but Geralt can’t quite put his finger on it until Ciri’s eyes go wide and she shrinks away from Lambert with a quavering, “How do you know?”
Which...he shouldn’t. Geralt hasn’t explained who she is or why she’s here.
“Lambert,” Eskel says in a warning tone.
“Yeah, fuck that, I’m not helping Geralt be an ass,” Lambert says. “Your damn fool broken-hearted bard showed up.”
“My...bard?” Geralt says, something uncoiling beneath his ribs that feels a little like hope. “Jaskier? He’s here? He’s alright?”
Vesemir snorts. “He’s alive, at least,” he says gruffly. “Hasn’t touched an instrument or sung a note, and looks like a damned kicked puppy if he’s not faking a smile, but he’s not injured.”
“Fuck,” Geralt says, and tries to get up, and his legs almost give out beneath him. “Fuck, where is he? I have to -” He has to apologize, has to fix this - if it even can be fixed - he can’t fix him and Yen but maybe he can fix this, even a little -
“You have to sit down,” Vesemir growls, and Geralt sits without even thinking about it, decades of obeying that tone far too strong to disregard. “You may talk to the bard after you have gotten some sleep.”
“And a bath,” Eskel adds. “You smell like you’ve been dragged through a couple of swamps.”
“And a nice long talk about not being a jackass,” Lambert finishes.
“Geralt’s not a jackass!” Ciri objects shrilly. “He saved me! He’s my destiny!”
Eskel winces. Geralt flinches. Vesemir sighs.
“We will deal with this tomorrow,” Vesemir decrees. “You both need baths and sleep, and at least another couple of good meals. We’ve got a room made ready for you, child, right near Geralt’s.”
“Right,” Geralt says, and gets up, and his knees give out. Oh. Apparently he really has used up his last reserves.
Eskel catches him, because Eskel is always there when Geralt needs him, and Geralt manages to give Ciri a rather weak grin before Eskel just hauls him over his shoulder and carries him off. Lambert makes a rude noise at them as they go.
Ciri giggles, which is rather reassuring. At least she isn’t finding Lambert too traumatizing.
*
Geralt wakes up to find that Ciri and Lambert are sitting on the hearth in his room. Ciri is apparently learning how to play Gwent, and also how to swear. Well, Gwent and swearing are both important life skills.
“Gods damn, pretty boy, you are an idiot,” Lambert says, without looking up from his cards. “You’ve been out a day and a half.”
“Shit,” Geralt says, sitting up slowly. He feels a lot better than he did on the way up the trail, though he’s ravenously hungry. Lambert waves a hand at the table by the bed, where a covered tray proves to hold a loaf of bread, a little jar of butter, and most of a cured ham. Geralt finishes the whole thing in about ten minutes.
“Lambert’s teaching me how to swear in Gnomish and Vesemir says I get to learn to use a sword,” Ciri says. “And Eskel is teaching me how to milk goats!”
“That’s...good,” Geralt says. He’s very grateful that his brothers and Vesemir have taken such good care of her while he was dead to the world. “Have you seen Jaskier?”
Ciri shakes her head. “Lambert says he’s hiding because you were an asshole.”
Geralt scrubs a hand over his face. Well, that’s...painfully accurate. Then he gets a decent sniff of himself and winces. If he wants to apologize to Jaskier, it’ll probably go better if he doesn’t smell like he’s been dragged through a swamp full of manure.
“Bath,” he says. “And then tell me where Jaskier is.”
“Only if you’re not going to be a bastard about it,” Lambert says. “It’s fuckin’ sad how broken up he is about you, you prick, and if you’re just going to be an asshole again, then fuck you, stay away from him.”
Geralt starts to puff up with indignation - who is Lambert to tell him to stay away from his bard - and then he remembers the broken look in Jaskier’s eyes on a mountaintop, and all the fight drains out of him again like water from a broken cup. Lambert, for all his assholish tendencies, isn’t actively cruel the way Geralt was to Jaskier. Lambert does, in fact, have a leg to stand on here. So.
“I’m not,” Geralt says. “Or - I’ll try not to be.”
“Guess that’s the best we’re going to get,” Lambert sighs. “Go get clean, you smell like shit. Then ask Vesemir where the bard is.”
*
Jaskier is in the back of one of the incredibly cluttered storerooms; this one has chests and chests full of the products of an entire keep full of witchers trying to keep themselves occupied over the long winters by whittling. There are so many spoons that the four - no, six, it’s six now - the six of them could use different spoons every day for a year and not run out; there are combs with beautifully intricate handles, and boxes with inlaid tops, and handles suitable to fit onto new knife-blades, and dozens upon dozens of other trinkets and tools, all of them sturdy and beautiful. Jaskier is fairly sure that if Vesemir felt like selling these in the market at Ard Carraigh, he’d make enough coin to feed the witchers for a decade.
Someone clears their throat behind him, and Jaskier turns from inspecting another chest full of spoons, expecting Eskel come to nag him about eating or Lambert come to tell him the hot springs are empty or even Vesemir checking up on him -
And finds Geralt standing there, gaunter than Jaskier has ever seen him before, hair wet, wearing what must be one of Eskel’s shirts, because Jaskier doesn’t think Geralt owns anything red.
“Oh,” Jaskier says. He can’t think of anything else to say. “I’ll just - go -”
Geralt is between him and the door. Jaskier edges sideways, watching Geralt like the witcher is a wolf about to pounce. Geralt swallows hard and holds out a hand, not to grab or to shove Jaskier but open and empty and almost...plaintive.
“Wait,” he says, voice oddly hoarse. “Please.”
Jaskier pauses.
Geralt takes a deep breath. “I,” he says, and stops, and looks so frustrated that it’s almost funny, in a bleak sort of way. “Jaskier. I’m sorry.”
Jaskier wonders if he tripped over a chest full of spoons and hit his head and is now hallucinating as he bleeds out. “You’re what?”
“I’m sorry,” Geralt says again. “I was cruel.”
Jaskier gropes behind himself for one of the big wooden chests and sits down on it carefully, knees feeling rather wobbly. “Are you a hallucination?”
Geralt folds slowly to his knees, like he’s going to meditate, but his eyes stay open, fixed on Jaskier’s. “No,” he says, and reaches out very carefully and touches Jaskier’s knee. His fingers certainly feel solid. “I was cruel. I hurt you. I’m sorry.”
“Huh,” Jaskier says. “So you don’t think it would be your life’s one blessing to never see me again?”
“More like a curse,” Geralt says. “I couldn’t find you. Didn’t hear any rumors about you. Thought you might be dead.” It sounds like the last word physically hurts to say.
“I’m not,” Jaskier says.
“Vesemir said Nilfgaard is looking for you - said you were half-dead when you got here,” Geralt continues, looking wretched and miserable.
“Yes, well,” Jaskier says, and dredges a little laugh from somewhere. It rings oddly from the stone walls, false and broken. “I guess they heard I was your bard.”
“Still are,” Geralt says. “If. If you can forgive me.”
Jaskier sits in silence for a long moment. Geralt looks as miserable as he has ever seen him - it’s not just the gauntness, the obvious marks of weeks of hard travel without enough food, but the look in his eyes, a sort of bleak misery Jaskier’s never seen before.
“And if I don’t want to be?” he asks at last.
Geralt sags, shoulders curling in like he’s been struck, eyes dropping to fix on the floor. “Then - then if someone’s going to spend the winter avoiding everyone, it should be me,” he says. “You shouldn’t have to hide. Eskel and Lambert and Vesemir all prefer your company, and I think Ciri will like you -”
“Fuck,” Jaskier says, eyes wide, and slides down off the chest to kneel in front of Geralt, horrified. Geralt never gives up, but here he is, offering to - to become a ghost in his own home, to hide away from his own family, if Jaskier tells him to. “Geralt. No.”
Tentatively, he reaches out and gathers up Geralt’s hands where they lie limp as gutted fish upon his knees, cradling them in his own hands. They’re cold as ice. “Geralt,” he says again, gently.
Slowly, Geralt raises his head to meet Jaskier’s eyes.
“Don’t hide,” Jaskier whispers. “That won’t solve anything.” He takes a deep breath. “You hurt me. Quite badly. But - I believe that you’re sorry. And I missed you. So we could - we could maybe use the winter to try to mend things. If you wanted.”
Geralt looks like a drowning man who’s just been thrown a line, eyes slowly lighting up with dawning hope. His hands shake a little in Jaskier’s grasp. “Yes,” he says hoarsely. “Please.”
“Alright,” Jaskier says. He’s still not sure he’s not dreaming, but he would never dream Geralt looking like this, gaunt and lost and miserable, down on his knees in despair. “Alright.” He takes another deep breath and squeezes Geralt’s hands. “You look like shit, you know.”
Geralt’s lips quirk, an almost imperceptible hint of a smile. “Eskel said as much.”
“Eskel is a perspicacious and intelligent man.” Jaskier stands, pulling Geralt up with him. “Come on. It’s nearly luncheon. We should go reassure Vesemir we haven’t killed each other, and you can introduce me to your daughter.”
*
Geralt is reasonably sure this isn’t a dream, because he doesn’t tend to have nice dreams, and also because Jaskier looks terrible. There are dark circles under his eyes, and he’s not humming under his breath the way he usually does. But he’s here, he’s safe in Kaer Morhen, and he’s said he wants to mend things, so -
Well. Geralt is fairly sure he doesn’t deserve even that much of a chance, but he’s so desperately glad for it that it hurts.
Jaskier keeps glancing at him, looking hopeful and worried, and he walks close enough that their shoulders keep brushing. He’s warm, gloriously warm in the chill of Kaer Morhen, and despite the dark circles under his eyes he’s at least looking well-fed. The plain clothing he must have gotten from Vesemir doesn’t look right - Jaskier ought to be wearing bright colors, fancy silks and embroidery - but at least it looks warm and comfortable, and he must have gotten boots from Vesemir, too, since the ones he’s wearing are nothing like the usual impractical things he prefers.
And he’s here, and safe, and willing to let Geralt try to make amends.
Everyone else is already in the kitchen when they get there. Lambert scowls at Geralt, and Eskel raises an eyebrow at Jaskier as though to ask if everything’s alright. Jaskier smiles at both of them, but he goes first to Ciri, dropping to one knee in front of her.
“Princess, forgive me for not greeting you earlier,” he says smoothly.
“That’s alright,” Ciri says, beaming at him. “Eskel and Lambert explained. Are you going to make Geralt grovel?”
Jaskier glances over his shoulder at Geralt, and must see something in Geralt’s face - Geralt has no idea what - that pleases him, because his face softens, just a little, into a tiny sweet smile, just for Geralt, before he turns back to Ciri.
“He’s already done enough of that, I think. I’m going to ask for something even harder,” Jaskier tells her in an undertone, with a broad wink. “I’m going to ask him to talk about his emotions.”
Ciri claps her hands over her mouth in a failed attempt to muffle her giggles, and shoots Geralt a look of gleeful amusement. Geralt winces a little. “Could I kill a selkiemore instead?” he asks.
Jaskier laughs, bright and lovely, and Geralt feels something small and cold that’s been curled up in his chest for months now start to uncurl into warmth. Eskel chuckles and tugs Geralt down onto the bench beside him, and Vesemir sticks an enormous bowl of stew in front of him, and another in front of Jaskier when he sits down next to Ciri.
“No, I’m afraid you’re going to have to actually talk about your feelings, dear heart,” Jaskier says, and Geralt feels his slow heart miss a beat. He has missed that - has missed the warm affection in his bard’s voice, the sweet names Jaskier uses without even thinking twice about it. “But I’ll give you a few days’ grace, since you look like something the cat dragged in.”
Ciri giggles, and Lambert laughs hard enough that he almost falls off the bench, and even Vesemir snorts. Eskel raises an eyebrow and says, “Shouldn’t that be something the wolf dragged in, since I had to haul his scrawny ass inside?”
“Ah, I sit corrected,” Jaskier says, grinning, and Ciri and Lambert laugh harder, and Geralt -
Geralt feels like the weight of the last months of misery has fallen away from his shoulders like snow sliding off a rooftop. His family are here, and laughing, and happy, and safe at last. It’s not perfect yet - he is going to have to have that talk with Jaskier, and he’s quite sure it’s going to be unpleasant - but he’s also quite sure he will get through it, will manage to fix what he has broken, will somehow find the words to mend the harm his words had caused.
And in the meantime, Jaskier is gleefully making up a song about a particularly luckless hunter who gets brought home by a series of ever-more-implausible animals who take pity on his misfortune, and Ciri is singing the chorus two octaves higher than any of the Wolves will ever reach, and Lambert and Eskel and Vesemir are laughing and clapping along, and Geralt -
Well, Geralt is happy.