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Chapter Text

The tavern is noisy, packed with travelers seeking refuge from the bitter chill of the early evening. Geralt sits in the far corner, his back to the wall and his eyes on the room, as is his habit. The scent of ale and roasted meat mingles with the staleness of unwashed bodies, but none of it distracts him from the sound of the lute cutting through the din.

The bard stands on a small stage near the hearth, weaving tales of romance and adventure into song. His voice is rich, smooth, effortlessly commanding attention. Geralt has seen his fair share of performers over the years, but there is something about this one—something in the way he smiles as he sings, though his eyes carry a sadness that his words try to mask.

When the song ends, the bard takes a bow to raucous applause and a few thrown coins. He gathers his earnings with practiced ease and retreats to the bar.

Geralt rises and approaches, drawn more by curiosity than intention.

“You have a talent,” he says as a way of greeting.

The bard turns, startled, before his face lights up with a grin. “Why, thank you, good sir! Always a pleasure to meet an admirer.”

“Not an admirer,” Geralt replies, his tone flat, though his lips twitch in amusement.

“Then I suppose I’ll just have to work harder to win you over,” the bard says with a playful wink.

Geralt’s golden eyes flick over the man’s face, taking in the faint shimmer of magic around his features. A glamour. Subtle, but unmistakable to a Witcher. Beneath it lies something else—scars, deep and jagged, mapping the bard’s skin like a battlefield.

Witcher scars.

Geralt’s stomach tightens.

“Your glamour,” he says quietly.

The bard stiffens, his expression shifting from playful to guarded. “What about it?” he asks, his voice tight.

“I can see through it,” Geralt says low enough that no one else can hear. His golden eyes stay fixed and unblinking, almost daring the bard to deny it.

The bard’s eyes widen slightly, then dart around the room, scanning the crowd to see if anyone else has noticed. His fingers twitch nervously against the neck of his lute, the only sign of his unease. He exhales sharply, his shoulders slumping just a fraction.

“Well, that’s inconvenient,” he mutters with a light tone, though his eyes betray his wariness. “Let’s not make a scene about it, shall we?”

Geralt nods, his gaze never leaving the bard’s face. He studies him more closely now, noting the faint tremor in his hands, the way his jaw clenches ever so slightly. The scars beneath the glamour are achingly familiar—Geralt knows them, knows their pattern, their depth. They are not the kind of marks one gets from a bar brawl or a clumsy accident. They are deliberate, precise. Geralt’s mind races, trying to reconcile what he sees with what he knows.

“You don’t seem surprised,” he observes, neutral but probing.

The bard offers a weak smile, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. He runs a hand through his hair, the motion casual but forced.

“I’m used to people seeing me without the glamour,” he admits, his voice softer now, almost resigned. “It’s just… easier to hide, you know?” He gestures to his lute, the instrument resting against his hip like a shield. “Not exactly the kind of face that wins hearts," he adds with a self-deprecating chuckle, though there’s a flicker of sadness in his eyes that he can’t quite mask.

Geralt’s gaze lingers on the scars once more, tracing the jagged, painful lines etched into the skin. He notices how the bard’s fingers tighten around the strap of his lute, as if preparing for what might come next. His posture is relaxed, yet there’s a subtle tension in the way he holds himself, a readiness to flee or fight if necessary. The thought stirs something in him—an old, familiar ache he can’t quite name.

“Scars like those,” Geralt says slowly, his voice still low, “they tell a story.”

The bard’s smile falters, and for a moment, the mask slips completely. His eyes darken, and he looks away, his gaze fixed on the flickering flames of the hearth.

“Stories are my trade,” he says quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “But not all of them are mine to tell.”

Geralt tilts his head slightly, his gaze still fixed on the bard. “What’s your name?” he asks, his words steady but carrying an edge of curiosity.

The bard hesitates for a brief moment. “Jaskier,” he says finally. “Though some call me Dandelion. Depends on the crowd, really.”

“Geralt of Rivia,” the Witcher replies, though he knows the introduction is unnecessary. The moment the words leave his lips, Jaskier lets out a soft, incredulous laugh. He turns his head slightly, a reflexive motion that angles his scars away from Geralt’s view. It’s a practiced gesture, one that speaks of years of habit.

“The White Wolf,” Jaskier says with a hint of amusement in his voice. “I’d say it’s an honor, but let’s be honest—your reputation precedes you. These days, you’re recognized anywhere. Even in a dingy tavern like this.” He gestures vaguely to the room around them, his grin returning, though it still doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

Geralt doesn’t react to the jest. Instead, his gaze lingers on the scars again, the way they catch the firelight when Jaskier turns his head. He doesn’t tell the bard that he recognizes them. The pattern, the depth, the way they curve across the skin—it’s unmistakable. Geralt has seen those marks before, has watched Eskel bear them with the same quiet resilience that Jaskier now displays. The thought gnaws at him, a puzzle he can’t yet solve. How does the bard come to wear the scars of a Witcher?

Geralt’s mind churns, the pieces of the puzzle shifting and colliding as he tries to make sense of what he’s seeing. Witchers don’t have soulmates. The Trials break those bonds, severing any connection to a past life, to love, to destiny. It’s one of the many prices they pay for the mutations that make them what they are. But… the scars on the bard’s face—scars that Geralt knows belong to Eskel. His brother, his friend, his—

Think, Geralt, think.

What if… what if Eskel never had a soulmate to begin with? What if, as a human boy, he was one of the rare few born without that tether? No soulmate, no bond to break.

Though… the Trials are supposed to close every door, leave no loopholes for connections to form afterward. And yet… Eskel never spoke of his origins after the Trials. Not really. When they were boys, fresh from the agony of the mutations, still trembling with the fear of what they had become, they had shared fragments of their pasts. Eskel had mentioned the mountains, the cold, the isolation. He had spoken of a life high above the world, where the air was thin and the people were harder than the stone they carved their homes from. Geralt had heard stories, later, about the mountain folk. Whispers of Chaos running in their blood, wild and untamed, a force that even the mages couldn’t fully explain.

Could that be it? Could Eskel’s Chaos—his innate, untapped power—have protected something the Trials were meant to destroy? Could it have left a loophole, a crack in the door, allowing a connection to form where there should have been none? Geralt’s thoughts turn to Eskel’s signs, the Witcher magic he wields with such devastating precision. Even among Witchers, Eskel’s signs are unparalleled. His Igni burns hotter, his Quen holds stronger, his Aard shatters stone with ease. The masters of Kaer Morhen had marveled at it, even as they warned him to temper his power. Even Vesemir, the last survivor of the sacking, had once remarked on the raw, untamed force that seemed to flow through Eskel like a river.

Geralt’s jaw tightens as he considers the possibility. If Eskel’s Chaos could protect something as intangible as a soulmate bond, what else could it do? What else had it done? The scars on the bard’s face are proof of something—something Geralt can’t yet name but feels in his bones. A connection, a bond, a thread that shouldn’t exist but does.

For now, Geralt keeps his thoughts to himself. He watches as Jaskier adjusts the strap of his lute, his movements deliberate, almost rehearsed. The bard’s laughter fades, replaced by a quiet tension that now hangs between them like a drawn bowstring, taut and ready to snap. Geralt knows better than to press—not here, not now. But the questions linger, unspoken but heavy, and he knows this conversation is far from over.

×××

The room is dim, lit only by the faint glow of a single candle flickering on the rickety table beside the bed. Geralt lies on his back, one arm draped over his chest, the other resting on the hilt of his silver sword propped against the wall within easy reach. The inn is quiet now, the noise of the tavern below having faded into the stillness of the night. But Geralt’s mind is anything but quiet.

He stares at the cracked ceiling, his thoughts circling back to Eskel. Always to Eskel. Even after all these years, after the distance they’ve kept, after the unspoken agreement to bury what they once had, Eskel remains a constant in Geralt’s mind. A shadow, a warmth, a weight he carries with him wherever he goes. The masters had been clear: Witchers can’t have attachments. It’s too dangerous, too volatile. Geralt knows they were right. If he and Eskel had allowed themselves to continue, if they had clung to the fire that burned between them, it would have consumed them both. The Path is unforgiving, and love—real, unguarded love—is a vulnerability neither of them could afford. If one had fallen, the other would have followed. Geralt knows this. He’s always known it.

But now… now there’s Jaskier. The bard with Eskel’s scars etched into his skin, a man who carries a bond Geralt can’t fully understand but knows is real. A soulmate bond. Something deeper, stronger, more primal than anything Geralt and Eskel ever shared. The thought settles heavily in Geralt’s chest, not with jealousy—he tells himself—but with something sharper, more urgent. Fear.

If Jaskier is hurt, if he dies… Eskel will fall. The bond will see to that. Geralt knows how these things work, has seen the devastation they leave in their wake. He can’t let that happen. He can’t lose Eskel. Not like this. Not ever.

Geralt closes his eyes, exhaling slowly. He isn’t jealous. He can’t be. There’s nothing he wants more than Eskel’s happiness, even if it comes in the form of a flamboyant bard with a quick smile and a sharper tongue. Eskel deserves that. Deserves more than the life they’ve been given, more than the cold, unyielding Path they walk. If Jaskier is the one who can give him even a fraction of that happiness, then Geralt will do whatever it takes to protect it. To protect him.

Because the truth is, no matter how much time has passed, no matter how many years they’ve spent apart, Geralt still loves Eskel. He always has. Even if they don’t touch each other like they used to, even if they don’t speak the words, even if they’ve buried it so deep it feels like it no longer exists, it’s there. A quiet force that has shaped every decision Geralt has ever made. Eskel is still the meaning of his life. And if protecting Jaskier means protecting Eskel, then so be it.

Geralt’s hand tightens around the hilt of his sword. He’ll keep the bard safe. He’ll make sure nothing happens to him. Not because he cares about Jaskier—though, perhaps, in time, he might—but because he can’t lose Eskel. Not again.

The candle flickers, casting long shadows across the room. Geralt’s golden eyes gleam in the dim light, sharp and resolute. He’ll find a way to protect them both. Because if there’s one thing Geralt of Rivia has always been good at, it’s surviving. And he’ll be damned if he lets anything—or anyone—take Eskel away from him.

×××

Geralt rises before dawn, the faint light of early morning filtering through the thin curtains of his room. He moves with practiced efficiency, gathering his few belongings into his saddlebags. His armor is already on, the leather worn but sturdy, and he fastens both swords to his back with a familiar ease. The weight of them is comforting, a reminder of the life he leads and the dangers that come with it. He takes one last look around the room, making sure he has left nothing behind, before stepping out into the dim hallway and descending the creaky stairs to the inn’s common room.

The tavern is quiet, the usual raucous energy of the night replaced by the soft clatter of plates and the low murmur of the staff preparing for the day. A few early risers are already seated, travelers eager to get a head start on their journeys. The smell of fresh bread and sizzling bacon fills the air, and Geralt’s stomach growls in response. He approaches the bar, where a tired-looking woman is wiping down the counter.

“Breakfast,” he says simply, placing a few coins on the wood. “And another one in half an hour.”

The woman nods, pocketing the coins without a word, and disappears into the kitchen. Geralt finds a table in the far corner, away from the handful of other patrons. He prefers the solitude, the ability to observe without being observed. The tavern is nearly empty, but old habits die hard.

His breakfast arrives quickly—a hearty plate of eggs, bacon, and thick slices of bread slathered with butter. Geralt eats in silence, his movements methodical, his mind still turning over the events of the previous night. He keeps an eye on the stairs, waiting. He doesn’t have to wait long.

Right on time—Geralt’s internal clock is rarely wrong—Jaskier appears at the top of the stairs. The bard looks disheveled, his hair sticking up in odd directions and his clothes rumpled from sleep. He yawns widely, rubbing at his eyes with one hand while the other clutches a single, small bag. His lute case is slung over his shoulder, the polished wood catching the faint light from the windows. Despite his tousled appearance, there’s an undeniable charm to him, a kind of effortless appeal that Geralt can’t quite put into words. Cute, he thinks, then immediately pushes the thought aside.

Jaskier scans the room, his gaze landing on Geralt almost immediately. He blinks, surprised, then offers a sleepy smile. Geralt gestures to the empty chair across from him, pushing the second plate of breakfast toward it without a word.

Jaskier hesitates for a moment, then makes his way over, dropping his bag and lute case by the chair before sinking into it. “Well, this is a pleasant surprise,” he says, his voice still thick with sleep. He eyes the plate of food with appreciation. “For me?”

Geralt nods, taking a sip of his ale. “Eat. We’ve got a long day ahead.”

Jaskier raises an eyebrow, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. “We, is it? I don’t recall agreeing to travel with you, White Wolf.”

Geralt meets his gaze, his expression unreadable. “You didn’t. But you will.”

The bard laughs, a soft, melodic sound that fills the quiet space between them. “Confident, aren’t you?” He picks up a piece of bacon, taking a bite before continuing. “And what if I have other plans?” His eyes meet Geralt's unflinchingly, as though the scars that mark his face no longer matter, no longer need to be hidden.

“You don’t,” the Witcher says simply, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Jaskier studies him for a moment, his smirk fading into something more thoughtful. “You’re a strange one, Geralt of Rivia,” he says finally, picking up his fork. “But I suppose I could do worse for company. Very well, then. Lead the way, oh mighty Witcher.”

Geralt doesn’t respond, but there’s a faint flicker of satisfaction in his eyes as he watches Jaskier dig into his breakfast. The bard may not realize it yet, but Geralt’s decision is final. Wherever Jaskier goes, Geralt will follow. Not because he wants to, but because he has to. For Eskel. For the bond that ties them all together, whether they like it or not.

And if that means putting up with a chatty, overly dramatic bard along the way, so be it.

×××

The first day of their journey is uneventful, the kind of travel Geralt prefers. The road is quiet, the weather mild, and the landscape stretches out before them in rolling hills and dense forests. Geralt sets a steady pace, his horse, Roach, moving with the ease of an animal well accustomed to long distances. Jaskier, astride a chestnut steed he affectionately calls Pegasus, manages to keep up surprisingly well, though he occasionally hums or mutters under his breath, as if composing a new tune in his head.

The bard is talkative, as expected, filling the silence with stories and observations. He comments on the scenery, the weather, the oddities of the road, and even the way Geralt sits in his saddle—“So brooding, Geralt!”

The Witcher responds with grunts or single-word answers, but Jaskier doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, he seems to relish the challenge of drawing Geralt into conversation.

By midday, they halt to rest the horses and share a simple meal of dried meat and bread. Jaskier pulls out his lute and lazily strums a few chords, leaning against a tree. Geralt watches him out of the corner of his eye, noting the way the bard’s fingers move effortlessly over the strings, the way his face lights up when he finds a melody he likes. There’s a joy in him that feels out of place in Geralt’s world, but not entirely unwelcome. He finds himself wondering, almost against his will, how Jaskier managed to keep this light within him while carrying scars like these.

As the sun begins to dip below the horizon, Geralt starts looking for a place to make camp. He finds a small clearing a short distance from the road, sheltered by tall trees and close to a stream. It’s a good spot—defensible, with enough space for a fire. He dismounts and begins unpacking Roach with practiced efficiency.

Jaskier watches him, his expression a mix of curiosity and wariness. He’s clearly out of his element, but he doesn’t complain. Instead, he busies himself with unsaddling his steed and brushing him down, though his movements are clumsy compared to Geralt’s.

“Need help?” Jaskier asks eventually, gesturing to the firewood Geralt is gathering.

Geralt shakes his head. “Sit. Rest.”

The bard hesitates, then shrugs and settles on a fallen log, his lute resting across his knees. He plucks at the strings idly, his gaze following Geralt as the Witcher moves about the camp. Geralt builds the fire with quick, precise movements, then sets up a simple tripod over the flames to hang a pot of water. He adds a handful of dried herbs and meat, the beginnings of a stew that will be ready by the time the sun fully sets.

Jaskier watches it all with a mixture of fascination and unease. “You do this often, I take it?” he asks, his tone light but his eyes sharp.

“Every day,” Geralt replies, stirring the pot with a wooden spoon. “If not staying at the inn.”

The bard nods, his fingers still moving over the lute strings, though no real melody emerges. “It’s impressive,” he admits after a moment. “The way you… just know what to do. I’d be lost out here without you.”

Geralt glances at him, his expression unreadable. “You’d figure it out. Or you wouldn’t.”

Jaskier laughs. “Charming as ever, Geralt.”

As the stew simmers, Geralt checks the perimeter of the camp, ensuring there are no signs of danger. He sets a few simple traps—more out of habit than necessity—and returns to the fire to find Jaskier tuning his lute properly now, his earlier wariness replaced by a quiet contentment.

The bard looks up as Geralt sits across from him, his fingers stilling on the strings. “You know,” he says, his voice softer now, “I wasn’t sure what to expect when you invited yourself along. But this… this isn’t so bad.”

Geralt grunts, ladling stew into a wooden bowl and handing it to Jaskier. “Eat.”

Jaskier takes the bowl with a smile, blowing on a spoonful before tasting it. His eyes widen in surprise. “This is actually good. I mean, really good. Who knew the White Wolf was a master chef as well?”

Geralt grunts one more time, but there’s a faint flicker of amusement in his eyes as he eats his own meal. The fire crackles between them, the warmth of it pushing back the chill of the evening. Jaskier begins to hum softly, a tune that’s both familiar and new, and Geralt finds himself relaxing despite himself.

As the night deepens, the bard’s restless energy fades into quiet stillness. He watches the flames, his lute resting against his leg, and Geralt can’t help but notice how different he seems in this moment—softer, less guarded. It’s a side of Jaskier he hasn’t seen before, and it makes him wonder what else lies beneath the bard’s cheerful exterior.

When the fire begins to die down, Geralt spreads out his bedroll and gestures to a second one he’s set up a few feet away. “Get some sleep,” he says. “We leave at first light.”

Jaskier nods, stretching before lying down. He looks up at the stars, his hands folded behind his head. “Goodnight, Geralt,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Hm,” Geralt replies, though his tone is less gruff than usual. He sits by the fire for a while longer, keeping watch as the bard drifts off to sleep. The night is quiet, the only sounds are the crackling of the fire and the soft rustle of the trees in the wind. Geralt’s thoughts turn to Eskel, as they often do, and he wonders what he would think of… this strange, unexpected partnership.

For now, though, he pushes those thoughts aside. There will be time for answers later. For now, he focuses on the task at hand: keeping Jaskier safe. For Eskel. And, perhaps, for something else—something he’s not quite ready to name.

×××

The weeks pass in a rhythm that Geralt finds both unfamiliar and strangely comforting. Jaskier, once so cautious and guarded, has begun to relax in the Witcher’s presence. The bard’s laughter rings out more freely now, his jokes sharper, his stories more elaborate. He no longer turns his head to hide the scars that Geralt can see through the glamour of the pendant around his neck. It’s as if Jaskier has decided, consciously or not, that Geralt is someone he can trust. And Geralt, despite his best efforts, finds himself growing accustomed to the bard’s presence. The constant chatter, the endless curiosity, the way Jaskier fills the silence with music and life—it’s become a part of their journey, a part of Geralt’s routine.

Until one night… everything changes.

The world smells of blood and burning flesh. The battle is over, but the chaos lingers in the air, thick and suffocating. Geralt barely feels the gash on his side as he stumbles through the wreckage, his eyes scanning the field, desperate. His heart pounds against his ribs, louder than the dying screams around him.

And then—there.

Eskel is on his knees, slumped against the corpse of a fallen beast, his breathing ragged, blood soaking through the torn leather of his armor. For a moment, Geralt forgets how to move, how to breathe. The fear is sharp, primal, like something ancient that coils in his chest and tightens around his throat. He crosses the distance between them in a heartbeat, falling to his knees before Eskel and grabbing him by the shoulders.

“You're alive.”

Eskel’s head lifts slightly, and there’s that familiar half-smile, strained and weak. “You sound disappointed.”

Geralt’s hands tremble as they find Eskel’s face, rough fingers tracing over bloodied skin, brushing through dark hair. The fear refuses to loosen its grip. He almost lost him. He almost—

Eskel leans into the touch, eyes slipping closed for a moment. “I’m fine,” he murmurs, though the blood pooling beneath him tells another story.

Geralt can’t help it. He leans in, pressing their foreheads together, breathing Eskel in—sweat, ash, blood—proof that he’s still here. And then, without thought, without restraint, Geralt kisses him.

It’s not gentle. It’s desperate and raw, teeth clashing, lips bruising, as if Geralt can anchor Eskel to this world through sheer force of will. Eskel responds with equal urgency, fingers curling into Geralt’s hair, pulling him closer, deeper, until breathing becomes secondary to this moment, to this need.

“I thought—” Geralt starts, but the words die in his throat.

“I know,” Eskel whispers against his lips.

Geralt’s hands move to Eskel’s sides, finding the wound beneath his ribs. Blood. So much blood. Geralt feels something twist inside him—rage, fear, love—all tangled into one unbearable knot.

“Stay with me,” he breathes. It’s not a command. It’s a plea.

Eskel smiles faintly. “Always.”

Geralt presses another kiss to his temple, then to his jaw, trailing desperate touches as if he can carve this moment into his memory, into his skin. He tears a strip from his own cloak and binds the wound with practiced hands, all while Eskel watches him with that quiet, steady gaze that has always anchored Geralt when the world feels too heavy.

When the bandage is tight, Geralt rests his forehead against Eskel’s again, their breaths mingling in the cold air.

“Don’t you dare die before me,” Geralt mutters.

Eskel huffs a weak laugh. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

But Geralt doesn’t let go. Not yet. Not until the world feels solid beneath his feet again. Not until the trembling in his hands fades. Not until he knows—truly knows—that Eskel is still his to hold.

Geralt wakes with a start, his heart pounding, Eskel’s name on his lips. The dream—or memory, or whatever it was—clings to him like a shadow, vivid and unrelenting. He can still see Eskel’s face, hear his voice, feel the weight of his absence like a physical ache. It takes him a moment to realize where he is: in the forest, by the dying embers of their campfire, Jaskier sitting up across from him, his eyes wide with concern.

“Geralt?” Jaskier’s voice is soft, tentative. “Are you all right?”

Geralt doesn’t answer. He can’t. His chest feels tight, his thoughts a tangled mess.

Jaskier frowns, concern etching his face. “You were… you said a name. Eskel. Who is—”

“Don’t,” Geralt interrupts, his voice sharp, almost harsh. He needs space, needs to breathe, needs to get his thoughts in order. But Jaskier, damn him, doesn’t let it go.

“Geralt,” the bard says, his tone gentle but insistent. “You can talk to me.”

Geralt’s hands clench into fists at his sides. He wants to tell Jaskier to drop it, to leave him alone, to stop prying into things he doesn’t understand. But the words stick in his throat. How can he explain? How can he tell Jaskier about Eskel—the man who is his soulmate, the one Geralt has loved longer than he dares to admit? The man whose existence Jaskier doesn’t even know about?

Fuck. Geralt thought this would be easier. He thought he could protect Jaskier, keep him safe, and that would be enough. But now he’s not so sure.

“It’s nothing,” Geralt says finally, his voice low and rough. “Just a dream.”

The truth is too complicated, too raw. How can he explain to Jaskier that the man he’s bound to—the man whose scars he carries—is the same man Geralt has loved for decades? How can he explain that every time he looks at Jaskier, he sees Eskel? That every laugh, every smile, every moment of connection between them feels like a betrayal of the bond he and Eskel once shared?

He can’t. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

The rest of the night drags on in uneasy silence. Jaskier eventually lies back down, though his sleep seems restless. Geralt’s thoughts are a storm, swirling with guilt, longing, and uncertainty. He doesn’t know what to do, how to move forward. All he knows is that he can’t lose Eskel. And if that means keeping Jaskier close, even as it tears him apart inside, then so be it.

But as the first light of dawn breaks through the trees, Geralt can’t shake the feeling that this fragile balance they’ve found is on the brink of shattering. And when it does, he’s not sure any of them will survive the fallout.

Chapter Text

The days pass slowly after that night, the tension between Geralt and Jaskier palpable but unspoken. The bard is quieter than usual, his chatter replaced by thoughtful silences and sidelong glances. Geralt can tell Jaskier wants to ask, wants to understand, wants to help—fuck knows why. But the bard doesn’t push, and Geralt doesn’t offer.

Geralt isn’t sure if he’s grateful for Jaskier’s restraint or annoyed by it. Part of him wants the bard to just ask, to force the issue, to give him an excuse to let it all out. But another part of him is relieved that Jaskier doesn’t press, that he respects the boundaries Geralt has so clearly drawn. It’s a strange, uncomfortable balance.

The days stretch into weeks. The tension begins to ease, the awkwardness between them fading as they fall back into their usual rhythm. Jaskier’s laughter returns, though it’s softer now, less boisterous. He still doesn’t ask about Eskel.

The rhythm of their journey settles into something that feels almost normal. Geralt meditates more than he sleeps, the quiet hum of his meditative state a welcome reprieve from the dreams that haunt him. He doesn’t want a repeat of those nights—the ones where he wakes with Eskel’s name on his lips, raw and aching. But even in the stillness of meditation, Eskel is there, a shadow in the back of his mind, a presence he can’t shake.

During the day, it’s no better. Jaskier’s presence is a constant reminder, though not in the way the bard probably intends. It’s infuriating, but also… comforting, in a way. It’s a strange kind of peace, one Geralt didn’t realize he needed—perhaps one he’d been craving for longer than he’d care to admit.

Still, it’s not easy. Geralt isn’t used to feeling so much, so often. He’s spent decades hardening himself, building walls to keep the world—and his own emotions—at bay. But Jaskier, damn him, has a way of slipping through those walls, of making Geralt feel things he’d rather not. It’s equal parts frustrating and… something else. Something Geralt isn’t ready to name, nor acknowledge.

×××

A few days later they arrive at a modest town nestled in the shadow of a dense forest. It’s not particularly large, but it’s bustling enough to offer some opportunities—Geralt might find a contract in the morning, and Jaskier could earn a few coins performing at the tavern in the evening. They could use the money.

They rent a room at the local tavern, a small space with a single bed and a threadbare rug on the floor. There’s no coin for separate rooms, but Geralt doesn’t mind. He’ll sleep—or more likely meditate—on the floor. It’s been worse. At least Jaskier will have a proper bed to rest in.

When had Geralt started caring more about the bard’s well-being than his own? He doesn’t know, and he doesn’t care to examine it too closely. It just is what it is. He keeps telling himself that it’s for Eskel.

They settle at a table in the far corner of the tavern. Jaskier doesn’t protest, seemingly content to follow the Witcher’s lead. The bard looks tired, his usual spark dimmed by the weariness of the road. He picks at his food, his lute resting against the table beside him, and Geralt watches him out of the corner of his eye.

For a while, everything is normal. The tavern is lively but not overly rowdy, and the food is decent enough. Geralt eats in silence, his senses alert but not overly concerned. That is, until he catches the scent of lust in the air. It’s sharp and unmistakable, and it sets his teeth on edge. His golden eyes flick up from his plate, scanning the room.

Jaskier is still eating, oblivious to the attention he’s drawing. But Geralt isn’t. He notices the way several women glance at the bard, their eyes lingering on his face, his hands. There’s hope in their gazes, a quiet longing for him to notice them. But it’s the men that make Geralt’s blood boil. Their intentions clear and vile. They look at Jaskier like he’s something to be taken, something to be used. The scent of their desire is thick and nauseating. Of course, none of them see the scars hidden by the bard's glamour from the human eye. And who is Geralt to deny the obvious—Jaskier is handsome.

Geralt’s hand tightens around the hilt of his dagger beneath the table.

Jaskier, still unaware, takes a sip of his ale and sighs. “This isn’t half bad,” he says, setting the tankard down. “I might even consider staying here for a few days. What do you think?”

Geralt’s eyes are still scanning the room, his jaw clenched. He counts three men whose gazes linger too long on Jaskier, their expressions ranging from leering to outright possessive. One of them, a burly man with a scar across his eye, licks his lips as he stares at the bard, and Geralt feels a growl building in his chest.

“Geralt?” Jaskier’s voice cuts through his thoughts, and the Witcher forces himself to look at the bard. Jaskier’s brow is furrowed, his head tilted in concern.

“We’re leaving,” Geralt says abruptly, his voice low and firm.

Jaskier blinks, surprised. “What? Why? We just got here.”

Geralt stands, his chair scraping against the floor, and grabs Jaskier’s arm, pulling him to his feet. The bard stumbles slightly, his lute swinging from its strap, but he doesn’t resist. Geralt’s grip is firm but not painful, and Jaskier knows better than to argue when the Witcher gets like this.

“Geralt, what’s going on?” Jaskier asks as they make their way toward the stairs leading to their room. His voice is quiet, tinged with worry, but Geralt still doesn’t answer. Not until they’re inside, the door firmly closed behind them.

“Stay here,” Geralt says, his tone leaving no place for argument. “Don’t leave until I come back.”

Jaskier frowns, crossing his arms over his chest. “And what if I need to piss?”

“Use the chamber pot,” Geralt snaps, his patience wearing thin. He doesn’t have time to explain, not when the scent of lust is still clinging to his senses, not when the memory of those men’s gazes makes his skin crawl. “Just… stay here, Jaskier. Please.”

The bard’s eyes widen at the rare use of the word please, and he nods slowly. “All right,” he says quietly. “But you owe me an explanation later.”

Geralt turns and leaves the room without another word. He doesn’t go far—just enough to keep an eye on the stairs and the hallway leading to their room. He leans against the wall, his arms crossed, his golden eyes scanning the area for any sign of trouble. The scent of lust is still there, faint but persistent, and it makes his stomach churn.

He doesn’t know why he’s reacting like this. Jaskier is a grown man, capable of handling himself. But the thought of those men—their leering stares, their predatory intentions—

He can’t explain it, not even to himself, but he knows one thing for certain: no one is laying a hand on Jaskier. Not while he’s around.

×××

Geralt returns to their room late into the night, his movements quiet and deliberate. The tavern has finally settled, the noise from below fading into the occasional creak of the floorboards or distant murmur of voices. He closes the door softly behind him, his golden eyes adjusting to the darkness. Jaskier is sprawled on the bed, one arm draped over his face, the other hanging off the edge. His breathing is slow and even, the rise and fall of his chest steady. For a moment, Geralt just stands there, watching him. The bard looks peaceful, his usual energy muted in sleep, and Geralt feels a strange tug in his chest.

He moves to the corner of the room, where his bedroll is laid out, and begins to remove his armor. The leather and steel come off with practiced ease, each piece set aside with care. He’s just about to settle onto the floor when Jaskier stirs. The bard makes a soft, sleepy sound, his eyes fluttering open. He blinks up at Geralt, his gaze hazy with sleep, and then pats the empty spot on the bed next to him.

“C’mere,” Jaskier mumbles, his voice thick and drowsy. “Floor’s no place for a Witcher.”

Geralt hesitates, his hand hovering over the bedroll. He was just going to meditate for the rest of the night. But Jaskier makes another sound, this one more insistent, and Geralt feels something in him give way. He sighs and then carefully sits on the edge of the bed. He removes his boots and the rest of the outer layers, leaving him in just his tunic and trousers, and lies down beside Jaskier. The bed is narrow, forcing them to lie close, but Geralt keeps his body rigid, his arms at his sides.

Jaskier, however, has no such reservations. Almost immediately, he curls up next to Geralt, his head resting on the Witcher’s shoulder, one arm draped loosely across his chest. Geralt holds his breath, his muscles tense, but Jaskier is already asleep again, his breathing deep and even. The bard’s warmth seeps into Geralt’s side, and the weight of his body is strangely grounding. Geralt stares up at the ceiling, his mind racing.

He loves Eskel. He has loved him all his life, and he will love him for the rest of it. That much is certain. But this bard… Jaskier does something to him, something he can’t quite explain. It’s not just the way Jaskier makes him feel seen, or the way his laughter cuts through the darkness that often surrounds Geralt. It’s something deeper, something that stirs a part of him he thought long buried.

Geralt closes his eyes, trying to quiet his thoughts. He doesn’t know what to make of it. He doesn’t know what any of it means. All he knows is that, for the first time in a long time, he feels… something. Something other than the cold, unyielding weight of the Path. And as much as it terrifies him, he can’t bring himself to pull away.

Jaskier shifts in his sleep, his arm tightening slightly around Geralt’s chest, and Geralt lets out a slow breath. For now, in this quiet moment, he allows himself to simply be. To feel the warmth of Jaskier beside him, listen to the steady rhythm of his breathing, and to let the storm in his mind settle, if only for a little while.

He keeps him safe.

For now, at least.

×××

Geralt wakes before dawn, as he always does. The room is still shrouded in darkness, the faint light of the rising sun barely creeping through the cracks in the shutters. Geralt blinks. The first thing that strikes him is… how peacefully he has slept. No nightmares, no restlessness, no dreams about—

Just a deep, unbroken sleep. It’s… almost unsettling.

But there’s something else, too. Something… warm.

Geralt looks down. Jaskier is lying on top of him. The bard’s cheek is pressed against his chest, his breath a warm, steady rhythm that flutters through the hair on the Witcher’s skin. One of Jaskier’s arms is thrown over Geralt’s torso, their legs tangled together in a mess of limbs. The bard is completely at ease, his face relaxed, lips slightly parted. It’s as if Geralt’s chest is the most natural place in the world for him to rest.

Sleep has softened Jaskier’s features, smoothing out the faint lines of worry and the scars that mark his skin.

Eskel’s scars.

Geralt’s hand twitches, fingers itching to trace the familiar lines, to brush his thumb over the marks, as he once did with Eskel. 

Slow and deliberate, as if memorizing the path it took when it was fresh. 

“It doesn’t hurt,” Eskel murmurs, though Geralt knows better. Scars never stop hurting—not the ones on the skin, nor the ones buried beneath it.

“It looks different by firelight.”

Eskel makes a sound, something between a chuckle and a sigh, turning his face slightly into the touch. The movement presses his cheek against Geralt’s palm, a silent acceptance.

Fingers linger. Eskel lifts his own hand, rough and warm, and ghosts it along the old wound on Geralt’s shoulder—one of the deeper ones, from a fight they barely walked away from. His touch is gentle, reverent.

“Yours, too,” Eskel whispers.

Geralt remembers the weight of those moments, the quiet intimacy of touch in the dark, a silent promise of solidarity, of belonging.

The urge to do the same now, with Jaskier, is almost overwhelming.

Fuck.

Geralt closes his eyes, exhaling slowly. The bard’s scent lingers in the room, a warmth contrasting with the coldness gnawing at his chest.

Something familiar in the way Jaskier shifts, curls into him, his breath slow and steady—Eskel used to do that, too.

No.

Geralt clenches his jaw, his fingers curling into the blanket beneath them.

Jaskier isn’t Eskel. And he never will be.

He’s so damn tired of this.

×××

The sun begins to rise, the faint light creeping into the room, and Geralt knows he should move. He should wake Jaskier, should untangle himself and put an end to this before it goes any further.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he lies there, his hand hovering uncertainly over Jaskier’s back before finally settling, light but steady. The bard sighs in his sleep, his body relaxing even further against Geralt’s.

Jaskier stirs after a while, the morning sun now spilling fully into the room. He stretches like a cat, his limbs extending lazily before curling back in, and lets out a soft, sleepy sound that is, admittedly, cute. Geralt, who has been staring blankly at the ceiling for what feels like hours, feels his jaw tighten.

What the fuck.

Again?

The bard blinks his eyes open, his gaze hazy and unfocused as he takes in his surroundings. When he realizes where he is—practically draped over Geralt like a human blanket—he freezes for a moment, his cheeks flushing slightly. 

“Uh,” Jaskier says, his voice still thick with sleep. “Morning.”

Geralt’s hand twitches against Jaskier’s back, but he doesn’t pull away. The weight of the bard against him feels too real, too grounding, and for a moment, Geralt allows himself to pretend that this is simple. That it doesn’t mean anything. That it won’t hurt anyone.

“Morning,” Geralt replies, his voice low and rough, betraying the storm of thoughts raging in his head. He keeps his eyes on the ceiling, refusing to look down at Jaskier. If he does, he might not be able to stop himself from tracing the curve of the bard’s jaw, from brushing away the strands of hair that cling to his forehead. And that would be a mistake. A line crossed.

Jaskier shifts slightly, propping himself up on one elbow. His face is still close, too close, and Geralt can feel the warmth of his breath. The bard’s eyes search Geralt’s face, his expression a mix of confusion and something softer. 

“You’re… fine?” Jaskier says, his tone light but laced with concern.

Geralt’s jaw clenches again. He’s not. He’s a mess. He should push Jaskier away, should put distance between them. But instead, he finds himself saying, “Fine. Just thinking.”

Jaskier raises an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Thinking? You? That’s new.” He smirks, but it falters when Geralt doesn’t react. The bard’s playful demeanor shifts, his brow furrowing as he studies Geralt more intently. “Geralt, what’s wrong?”

Geralt finally looks at him, and it’s indeed a mistake. Jaskier’s eyes are wide and earnest, filled with a warmth that makes Geralt’s chest ache. He wants to tell him. Wants to say that this—whatever this is—can’t happen. But the words stick in his throat.

“Nothing,” Geralt lies, his voice tight. “Just… morning thoughts.”

Jaskier doesn’t press. He sighs and sits up fully, running a hand through his messy hair. The movement pulls him away from Geralt, and the Witcher immediately misses the warmth. He hates himself for it.

“I, uh… didn’t mean to, ah… use you as a pillow,” Jaskier says, his tone still light but his eyes darting nervously. He’s trying to play it off, Geralt can tell, but there’s a flicker of something else in his expression. 

“You snore,” Geralt says abruptly, because it’s the first thing that comes to mind. It’s not even true. Jaskier sleeps quietly, like a damn mouse. But Geralt needs to say something, anything, to break the tension. 

Jaskier blinks, then lets out a soft, incredulous laugh. “I do not,” he protests, though there’s no real offense in his voice.

“You do,” Geralt insists, his tone gruff. He sits up as well, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The room feels colder now, the distance between them suddenly too vast. He rubs a hand over his face, trying to shake off the lingering warmth of Jaskier’s presence.

Jaskier watches him for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, with another sigh, he stands, stretching again before grabbing his doublet from where it’s draped over a chair.

“I’ll, uh… I’ll go get us some breakfast,” Jaskier says after a moment as he gets dressed. He pauses, stepping to the door, his hand on the doorknob, and glances back at Geralt. “You’ll be here?” 

Geralt nods, his jaw clenched tight.

Jaskier smiles, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and slips out the door. 

Geralt sits there for a long time after he’s gone, staring at the floor. He feels like he’s standing on the edge of a cliff, teetering dangerously.

One wrong move, and he’ll fall.

×××

Geralt makes his way down the creaking wooden stairs of the tavern, his boots heavy against the worn steps. The common room is already bustling with activity—travelers breaking their fast, locals nursing mugs of ale, and the occasional barkeep weaving between tables with trays of food. The smell of freshly baked bread and sizzling bacon fills the air, mingling with the faint scent of smoke from the hearth. Geralt scans the room, his golden eyes flicking over the faces of the patrons. No sign of the men from yesterday, the ones who had made the mistake of eyeing Jaskier like he was some kind of prize to be won.

Good. 

He spots Jaskier at a corner table, already seated with a plate of food in front of him. The bard is picking at a piece of bread, his lute propped against the wall beside him. He looks up as Geralt approaches, offering a small, tentative smile. 

“Took you long enough,” Jaskier says, but his tone is lacking its usual exuberance. He gestures to the plate across from him, where a steaming portion of eggs and sausage awaits. “Figured you’d want something hearty after… well…”

Geralt grunts in acknowledgment, sliding into the seat across from Jaskier. He doesn’t miss the way the bard’s eyes dart away, as if he’s unsure of how to act around him now. It’s unsettling. Jaskier is never unsure. He’s always the one filling the silence, always the one pushing past Geralt’s walls with his endless chatter and boundless energy. But now, there’s a tension between them, and Geralt doesn’t know how to break it.

They eat in near silence, the clink of cutlery and the murmur of the tavern around them the only sounds. Geralt keeps his eyes on his plate, though his mind is far from the food. He’s thinking about contracts, about the possibility of finding work in this town. It’s a decent-sized settlement, and where there are people, there are usually problems—problems that require a Witcher’s expertise. A contract would give him something to focus on, something to distract him from the mess of emotions churning in his chest.

“So,” Jaskier says after a while, breaking the silence. He’s twirling a fork between his fingers, his food mostly untouched. “Any plans for today? Or are we just going to sit here and brood until the sun sets?”

Geralt glances up at him, his expression unreadable. “Might look for work,” he says simply. “This town seems big enough to have its share of monsters.”

Jaskier nods, though there’s a flicker of disappointment in his eyes. “Right. Of course. Work. Always work with you.” He forces a smile. “Well, if you’re going to be hunting down some terrifying beast, I suppose I’ll come along. Someone has to document your heroics, after all.”

Geralt stops mid-chew, his fork hovering halfway to his mouth as Jaskier’s words sink in. The bard’s tone is light, almost playful, but the implications hit Geralt like a punch to the gut. Jaskier? Go hunting with him? No. The thought alone sends a cold wave of dread through him. If something happens to Jaskier—if it’s a sentient monster, cunning and ruthless, or worse, a whole pack of them—Geralt wouldn’t be able to protect him. Not fully. Not when his focus would be split between the fight and keeping the bard alive. And if something did happen… if Jaskier got hurt, or worse… 

He’d lose Eskel. 

No, no, no.

Geralt’s jaw tightens, his grip on the fork turning white-knuckled. 

“No,” he says abruptly, his voice low and firm, cutting through the tension like a sword. He sets his fork down with a sharp clink, his food forgotten. 

Jaskier blinks, startled by the sudden intensity in Geralt’s tone. “No?” he echoes, his brow furrowing. “What do you mean, no?” 

“This isn’t up for debate,” Geralt growls, his golden eyes narrowing. “You’re staying here.”

Jaskier leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. His expression shifts from confusion to defiance, his jaw setting in that stubborn way Geralt knows all too well. “And what if I don’t want to stay here?” 

Geralt’s hands curl into fists on the table, his frustration bubbling over.

“This isn’t about what you want,” he snaps, voice rising slightly. “It’s about what’s safe. You don’t know what’s out there. You don’t know what kind of monsters I might be walking into. Sentient ones, Jaskier. Ones that don’t just attack—they think. They plan. They’ll use you against me in a heartbeat if they get the chance.”

Jaskier’s defiance falters, his expression softening as he studies Geralt’s face. For a moment, he looks like he wants to say something, to push back, but then he sighs, his shoulders slumping in defeat.

“Fine,” he mutters, picking at his food again. “But don’t think for a second that I’m happy about it.”

The bard’s usual spark is dimmed, and Geralt hates himself a little for being the one to put it out. But it’s better this way. Safer.  

As Geralt steps out into the morning sunlight, the cool air hitting his face, he tries to shake off the unease settling in his chest. He needs to focus. He needs to find a contract, something to keep his mind off Jaskier and the way the bard’s disappointment had cut deeper than any blade. 

But as he walks through the town, his thoughts keep circling back to the same thing:

No matter what I do, someone gets hurt.

×××

Geralt finds the contract posted on the town notice board, the parchment weathered but still legible. It’s a straightforward job—a pack of drowners has been terrorizing the fishermen along the river, and the local alderman is offering a decent sum for their removal. Geralt tears the notice down with a grunt of approval. It’s exactly the kind of job he needs right now—something to keep his hands busy and his mind off… other things.

The hunt goes almost as expected. Drowners are predictable, sure, but that doesn’t make them any less vicious. They move as a pack, circling Geralt in the muddy shallows, hissing and snapping their rotting jaws. One tries to flank him from the left, another lunges from the back. Geralt pivots, his silver blade cutting through the air with practiced ease, severing tendons and bone. The stench of necrotic flesh fills his lungs, but he barely flinches. He’s smelled worse.

When the last creature collapses, the river is stained dark with muck. Geralt stands for a moment, listening to the eerie silence that follows. Drowners don’t think—not the way men or higher monsters do—but they hunt with brutal coordination. This pack nearly drives him toward the deeper waters, where footing is treacherous. Clever. Not clever enough, though.

The scratch on his forearm burns hotter than it should. Drowner filth. Geralt sighs, pulling a small vial from his belt. The Swallow potion glimmers faintly in the light as he uncorks it and downs the bitter liquid in one practiced motion. Warmth spreads through his veins almost instantly, the accelerated healing already kicking in.

He wraps the wound with a strip of cloth anyway—not for protection, but out of habit. The body remembers pain, even when potions dull it. Another scar to add to the collection. Not that he keeps track anymore. And not that he cares about his scars reflecting on anyone. 

By midday, Geralt is back in town, the alderman’s payment jingling in his coin pouch. To his surprise, the transaction goes smoothly. The alderman doesn’t haggle or try to shortchange him, and the townsfolk don’t glare or mutter curses under their breath as he passes. It’s… unusual. Geralt isn’t used to being treated with anything resembling respect, let alone gratitude. But here, in this town, it seems Witchers aren’t as reviled as they are elsewhere. 

As he steps out of the alderman’s, the sun high in the sky, Geralt feels a flicker of… relief, maybe. Or satisfaction. The job is done, the coin is earned, and for once, nothing has gone catastrophically wrong. It’s a rare moment of calm in the chaos of his life, and he intends to savor it—at least for a little while.

But as he makes his way back to the tavern, his thoughts inevitably drift back to Jaskier. The bard’s disappointment had been palpable, and Geralt knows he didn’t handle the situation well. He never does when it comes to matters of the heart—or whatever this is. He’s a Witcher, not a poet. Words don’t come easily to him, especially not when they involve feelings he’d rather not acknowledge.

He thinks that Eskel would probably have handled the situation better. He is gentle by nature—soft, despite his threatening frame—capable of speaking without snapping, growling, or grumbling. And the bond between soulmates is stronger than whatever binds Geralt and the bard—Geralt doesn’t really understand what it is anymore. Both thoughts feel bittersweet.

×××

Geralt pushes open the heavy wooden door of the inn, the sound of Jaskier’s voice washing over him like a wave. The bard is perched on a stool near the hearth, his lute cradled in his arms, fingers dancing across the strings as he sings. His voice is rich and warm, filling the room with a melody that seems to draw everyone in. The patrons are captivated, their eyes fixed on Jaskier as he weaves his tale of love and loss, of heroes and monsters. Geralt pauses in the doorway. 

Jaskier looks… different. More alive, somehow. There’s color in his cheeks, a playful edge to his performance. But Geralt sees past the act. The tension beneath the smile. The way Jaskier’s eyes flicker toward the door every now and then, like he’s been waiting.

Geralt hesitates for a moment, then crosses the room. Jaskier’s gaze meets his as he finishes the song, scooping up the coins from the table and heading toward the Witcher. 

“You’re back,” Jaskier says, voice light, too casual. “I take it the hunt went well?”

“Drowners,” Geralt replies, sliding into the seat. “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

Jaskier nods. “Of course. You’re Geralt of Rivia, after all. The White Wolf. The—”

“Jaskier,” Geralt cuts him off, gruff but not unkind. “Enough.”

The bard chuckles, setting his lute aside. “All right, all right. So… what now? Another contract? Or are we finally leaving this charming little town?”

Geralt studies him for a moment, golden eyes narrowing slightly. “You’re still upset.”

Jaskier’s fingers tap restlessly against the counter. “I’m not upset,” he lies, and they both know it. “I just… I don’t like being left behind, Geralt. I’m not useless.”

Geralt exhales slowly. He’s fought monsters, sorcerers, and men who’ve sold their souls to darkness—and yet this, this conversation, feels harder.

“I never said you were. You’re… important,” he says. Quiet. Honest.

Jaskier blinks at him, his blue eyes searching Geralt’s face for something—truth, maybe, or reassurance. “You don’t have to protect me,” he says softly. “I can take care of myself.”

Geralt knows Jaskier is capable, knows the bard has survived more than his fair share of dangers. But that doesn’t change the fact that the thought of failing him—of losing Eskel—is unbearable.

“I know,” Geralt says finally, his voice rough. “But I’m going to anyway.”

For a moment, neither of them speaks. The tension is still there, but it’s softer now, less jagged. Jaskier’s smile returns, small but genuine. 

“Well, if you insist on being my brooding bodyguard, the least you can do is buy me a drink.”

Geralt rolls his eyes, but there’s a hint of a smirk on his lips as he signals the barkeep. “One drink. Don’t get used to it.”

Jaskier grins, leaning in a little closer. “Oh, Witcher. You should know by now—I always get what I want.”

×××

Geralt watches Jaskier weave his way through the tavern, the bard’s steps slightly unsteady as he heads for the door leading to the privy. He shakes his head, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Humans. So fragile, so easily swayed by drink. Jaskier matched him pint for pint, but while Geralt feels only a mild buzz, the bard is clearly feeling the effects. Still, it’s not his problem. Jaskier can handle himself—mostly.

He leans back in his chair, taking a slow sip of his ale. The atmosphere in the tavern lightened considerably since they first sat down. Jaskier’s charm and quick wit had worked their usual magic, drawing laughter and conversation from the other patrons. Even Geralt had found himself relaxing, the tension from the morning slowly ebbing away. A few of the drunker townsfolk had even approached their table, slurring their thanks for Geralt’s work with the drowners. It was… weird. But not unwelcome.

For a moment, Geralt allows himself to enjoy the rare sense of calm. The ale hums pleasantly in his veins, dulling the edges of his thoughts. He almost forgets about last night, about the way Jaskier looked at him this morning, about the mess of emotions he’s been trying to ignore. Almost.

His golden eyes flick toward the door Jaskier had disappeared through. The bard had been gone for a while now. Geralt frowns slightly. Then something catches his attention. Movement. A man slipping out through the main door of the tavern. Geralt’s gaze sharpens, his Witcher senses kicking into high gear. He knows that man. One of the ones from yesterday—the ones who had looked at Jaskier like he was prey.

Geralt is on his feet in an instant, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. The noise draws a few curious glances, but he doesn’t care. His mind is racing, his earlier calm shattered. Jaskier had gone out the back, but that man had just left through the front. Coincidence? Maybe. But Geralt doesn’t believe in coincidences.

He strides toward the door. The cool night air hits him as he steps outside, his eyes scanning the dimly lit street. The man is already several paces ahead, walking briskly toward the alley that runs alongside the tavern. Geralt follows, his steps silent but purposeful.

As he rounds the corner, the sound of voices reaches his ears—harsh, mocking laughter, and then Jaskier’s voice, sharp and defiant but tinged with unease. Geralt’s blood runs cold. He quickens his pace, his heart pounding in his chest.

The scene that greets him makes his vision go red. Jaskier is backed against the wall of the alley, his doublet hanging open, his tunic rumpled, and his face pale.The man traps him in the corner, his face twisted into a cruel smirk. He holds a knife, the blade glinting in the faint light.

“Come on, bard,” the man sneers, taking a step closer. “I just wanna have a little fun. No need to be so prickly.”

Jaskier’s eyes dart towards the entrance of the alley, and for a moment, they lock with Geralt’s. Relief flashes across his face, but it’s quickly replaced by fear as the man reaches for him.

That’s all Geralt needs to see.

His body moves before his mind can catch up, his instincts taking over with a ferocity that surprises even him.

In three long strides, Geralt is across the alley, his hand closing around the man’s throat like a vice. He yanks him away from Jaskier with such force that the man stumbles, his face contorted in shock and fear.

Geralt doesn’t give him a chance to recover. He slams him against the opposite wall, the impact rattling the bricks and knocking the breath from the man’s lungs. The knife clatters to the cobblestones of the alley.

“You,” Geralt snarls, his voice low and guttural, “have exactly five seconds to convince me why I shouldn't gut you like a fish.”

The man’s eyes widen as his hands claw uselessly at Geralt’s iron grip. “I—I didn’t mean—” he stammers, choked and panicked. 

“You didn’t mean what?” Geralt growls, golden eyes blazing with fury. “To force yourself on someone who clearly didn’t want you?” His grip tightens, cutting off the man’s air supply. “You’re lucky I don’t kill you where you stand.”

Jaskier, still leaning against the wall where he’d been pinned, looks shaken but unharmed. He doesn’t say anything, his wide eyes fixed on Geralt as if he’s seeing him in a new light.

Geralt doesn’t look at the bard. His focus is entirely on the man in his grasp, on the rage burning through him like wildfire. He wants to hurt this man, to make him pay for what he tried to do. But he knows he can’t. Not in front of Jaskier. 

With a snarl of disgust, Geralt releases the man, letting him crumple to the ground in a gasping, coughing heap. “If I ever see you again,” Geralt rumbles, “you won’t live to regret it.”

The man nods frantically, scrambling to his feet and backing away, his hands raised in surrender. He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t dare to. He just turns and runs, disappearing into the shadows of the alley.

Only then does Geralt turn to Jaskier, his chest heaving with the effort of keeping his anger in check. The bard is still leaning against the wall, his arms wrapped around himself as if trying to hold himself together. His usual confidence is gone, replaced by a fragility that makes Geralt’s chest ache.

“Are you hurt?” Geralt asks, his voice softer now but still edged with tension.

Jaskier shakes his head, his eyes downcast. “No,” he says quietly. “I—” He cuts himself off, his voice breaking. 

Geralt steps closer, his hand hovering uncertainly before resting on Jaskier’s shoulder. “You’re safe now,” he says, firm but gentle. “He won’t touch you again. Or anyone.”

Jaskier looks up at him then, his blue eyes filled with a mix of gratitude and something else—something Geralt can’t quite place. “Thank you,” he whispers barely audible. 

Geralt nods, his jaw clenched tightly. He wants to say more, reassure Jaskier, tell him that he’ll never let anything like this happen again. But the words stick in his throat, caught between the weight of his emotions and the fear of saying too much.

He steps back, giving Jaskier space to breathe. “Let’s get you inside,” he says gruffly.

The bard manages a weak smile.

Geralt’s hand still resting on Jaskier’s shoulder as he guides him back toward the tavern. The bard leans into him slightly, his steps unsteady, and Geralt can’t help but feel a surge of protectiveness. 

He’ll keep Jaskier safe. No matter what it takes.

He keeps telling himself, over and over, that it’s only for Eskel.

Chapter Text

Geralt wakes slowly.

Warmth pressed against his side, limbs tangled again in a way that should be uncomfortable but isn’t. Jaskier’s breath is steady, ruffling against his collarbone, and for a long moment, Geralt doesn’t move. The bard had clung to him last night, curling in close like it was the only way he could sleep.

And maybe it was. 

Geralt doesn’t smell the sharp, sour remnants of fear like yesterday. The despair, thick and suffocating, has faded—distant, like a storm that passed in the night. The thought makes something in his chest tighten, but he shoves it aside.

Of course, it wasn’t because of him. That would be ridiculous.

Jaskier stirs, muttering something incoherent, and shifts away just enough to stretch. His hair is a mess against the pillow, but there’s a bit more color in his face. He looks… better. Not whole, not yet, but Geralt will take it.

By the time they’re packing up, the bard hums to himself—quiet, aimless. He rolls up his sleeves as he shoves yesterday’s clothes into his saddlebag, movements brisk and efficient, and Geralt glances over at him without thinking.

Then stops.

Blinks.

There—on Jaskier’s left forearm, just above the wrist. A scar.

Pale, nearly blending into his skin, but unmistakable.

And not one of Eskel’s.

It’s hidden behind the shimmer of glamour magic, barely noticeable beneath the layers of older scars that are Eskel’s. Geralt knows every single one of those—etched into Jaskier’s skin—a history only the bard doesn’t know. The most obvious one slashes across his face, the same as Eskel’s own. There shouldn’t be anything else.

Geralt’s pulse stutters.

That scar—he knows that scar. A fresh wound, left by a drowner’s claws just yesterday, cutting into his arm. He remembers wrapping it. He remembers how it stung when he flexed his wrist. And now—it’s healed already, thanks to his mutations, leaving a scar identical to the one he now sees on Jaskier’s arm.

No. No, it’s impossible.

Jaskier straightens with a sigh, puffing out his cheeks before slinging his lute over his back. He doesn’t notice Geralt’s stare.

Geralt looks away quickly, as if to convince himself it’s nothing.

It must have been his imagination. A trick of the light, of the glamour, of his own exhaustion.

Because if it wasn’t…

What the fuck.

×××

The road stretches out before them, quiet and endless, and the day moves with the steady rhythm of hooves against dirt.

Jaskier hums, as he always does, weaving tunes that slip between cheerful nonsense and old ballads. Occasionally, he chats, mostly to smooth out the silence that Geralt offers in return. Geralt grumbles in response, sometimes just to let the bard know he’s listening.

The weight of yesterday still lingers between them—the violence, the fear. But with each mile, it fades, gradually replaced by something more familiar.

By the time Geralt finds a suitable clearing to set up camp, the tension has eased. The bard is back to complaining about saddle sores and the indignity of road dust in his hair, and Geralt allows himself to feel… almost relieved.

He sets about making a fire, gathering dried wood and preparing a simple stew with what little they have left. It’ll hold them for now, but in a few days, he’ll need to hunt. The next town is still five days away, at least at their pace.

The fire crackles softly as the stew simmers, filling the air with the smell of herbs and whatever scraps of meat Geralt had managed to scrounge from the last village. Everything feels normal.

Until it doesn’t.

Jaskier rolls up his sleeves again without thinking, reaching for the wooden bowl of stew Geralt hands him.

Geralt’s gaze flickers, almost instinctively, to the bard’s left forearm.

There’s… no scar.

Nothing but smooth, pale skin beneath the shimmer of glamour, marred only by the faint traces of Eskel’s scars. The ones Jaskier has worn for years now, cursed by the bond that Geralt still doesn’t truly understand.

Geralt’s stomach twists in a way that has nothing to do with hunger.

Had he really imagined it this morning? The mark that matched his wound, left by the drowner’s claws just yesterday? He’d told himself it was impossible. That his eyes had played tricks on him.

But… Witcher vision doesn’t lie.

And yet, here they are. No scar. No proof. Nothing.

Geralt forces a spoonful of stew into his mouth, chewing with deliberate slowness, as if to push the thought down with each bite.

Jaskier doesn’t seem to notice Geralt’s sudden quiet, too busy blowing on his spoon and muttering about how Witchers have no concept of proper seasoning.

Geralt almost smirks. Almost.

He wants to let it go. He should let it go.

But the image of that scar—almost invisible beneath the glamour—burns in his mind. He can’t help but wonder…

Does Jaskier even see them?

Or is he simply used to them by now?

Geralt’s eyes flicker to the bard’s pendant, the small charm that keeps the glamour in place. It hides the scars from the world, but Jaskier wears them like second skin. Like something he’s long since stopped questioning.

Geralt forces himself to look away.

His mind must be playing tricks on him.

Or worse… he’s starting to see things he wants to see.

And that’s far more dangerous.

×××

Three days later Geralt finds another place to camp when the sun begins to set, a small clearing near a stream. He leaves Jaskier tending to the fire and disappears into the woods with his dagger.

The forest is quiet as Geralt returns to camp, two hares hanging from his belt. The hunt has been quick, almost effortless. His mind had wandered too much to let the chase last any longer.

Geralt drops the animals beside the flames and sets to skinning and gutting them without a word. Jaskier, to his credit, doesn’t complain about the blood or the smell. He just watches, occasionally offering some pointless commentary about how one day he’ll write a song about the great White Wolf and his uncanny talent for killing helpless woodland creatures.

Geralt chuckles softly.

They eat in silence, and when the fire dies down, they settle into their bedrolls. Jaskier mutters something about the stars and how sleeping on the ground is going to ruin his spine. Geralt smirks faintly into the darkness. The bard will fall asleep within minutes anyway, as he always does.

Geralt, as usual, stays awake longer. Watching. Listening.

He falls asleep to the sound of the crackling fire and Jaskier’s steady breathing nearby.

Warmth. A familiar weight pressed against him, a heartbeat steady beneath his palm.

Geralt breathes in, the scent of leather and steel, of pine and something uniquely Eskel, filling his senses. They’re tangled together beneath furs, bodies pressed close to ward off the Kaer Morhen chill.

Eskel shifts, eyes half-lidded and lazy with contentment, and leans in to brush his lips against Geralt’s jaw.

Geralt hums, eyes slipping closed as he tilts his head to meet the kiss that follows. Slow. Familiar.

Comfort.

Eskel’s hand slides up his side, calloused fingers tracing the curve of his ribs. Geralt sighs into it, letting himself sink deeper into the warmth, the safety of this moment—

—until the warmth shifts.

The weight in his arms changes.

And suddenly, it’s not Eskel’s face hovering above him in the dim light.

It’s Jaskier.

His bright blue eyes, wide and unguarded, staring at Geralt like he’s something precious. Something he shouldn’t want, but can’t stop reaching for.

Geralt gasps, ripping himself from the dream as if burned, lungs dragging for air that feels too thin.

The fire has burned low to embers, casting faint shadows across the camp. Jaskier is asleep in his bedroll, soft snores escaping from where he’s curled up on his side.

Geralt presses the heels of his hands to his forehead, trying to steady his breathing.

What the fuck was that?

It wasn’t the memory of Eskel that rattled him. That part… that part was familiar. Safe. Something he’s carried with him for over a century.

But the glimpse of Jaskier, slipping into a place where he didn’t belong—

No. He shakes his head, jaw clenching. It was just a dream. His mind playing tricks on him again.

It had to be.

Because the alternative…

Geralt doesn’t finish the thought.

He lies back down, eyes fixed on the stars above, refusing to glance at the bard sleeping just a few feet away.

Sleep doesn’t find him again that night.

×××

The next day go on with the quiet rhythm of travel, the hum of hooves beneath him, the steady sound of the wind through the trees, but the storm in Geralt’s chest never seems to subside. It’s always there, quiet and persistent, the way the distant rumble of thunder hangs in the air before the storm actually breaks.

He feels it now—his pulse quickening when Jaskier laughs or glances at him with those wide, hopeful eyes. It shouldn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. Not really.

But still…

Jaskier’s presence unsettles him in a way he can’t put into words. It’s like his soul recognizes something in the bard, something that makes his chest tighten, makes the memories of Eskel rush to the surface, too quickly, too violently.

And that’s what terrifies him. That is what makes him want to pull away, to shove the bard like he’s nothing but a fleeting distraction, a joke. But every time he tries to ignore it, it feels… wrong.

He chalked it up to exhaustion—a trick of the mind—over and over. But the more time passes, the clearer it becomes. Every laugh, every word that slips past Jaskier’s lips, every accidental touch, stirs something inside him—a flicker of warmth, a rush of something… familiar. Too familiar. Like a place he used to go, one he thought he’d forgotten.

But it shouldn’t be this way. He shouldn’t feel this way.

Geralt grits his teeth, refusing to look over at the bard. Not when the thought of him makes his mind spin in circles.

And yet, the more Geralt tries to resist, the stronger the pull becomes.

It’s one thing to be haunted by the past, to see the ghost of Eskel in the quiet moments when the world feels too still, but this… this is something else. This is Jaskier—shining, warm, and so alive.

It makes him feel sick, like a betrayal he can’t shake. He’s always been loyal to Eskel. Their bond was forged in blood, pain, and tears—when they were still human boys—and in years of side by side. The love between them had always been something Geralt could hold onto. But now, as Jaskier’s face continues to invade his thoughts, as his presence fills the space between them, it feels like a betrayal to that memory, to their history.

He’s supposed to be the one who’s steady. The one who keeps his distance. But Jaskier… Jaskier doesn’t make it easy.

He’s beginning to wonder—does Jaskier even know what he’s doing to him?

But Geralt pushes the thought away. He can’t afford to think about it. He can’t afford to acknowledge the way the bard’s smile lingers in his mind, or how his voice drifts through the silence of the night. Because if he does, if he lets himself acknowledge it, then it means—

So, he keeps his distance. He keeps his thoughts in check. He convinces himself it’s just a fleeting feeling, nothing more than a passing moment of weakness.

But why does that make his chest ache so much?

×××

Jaskier tries not to let it show. He really does. 

At first, he tells himself it’s nothing. Geralt is—well, Geralt. He’s always been gruff, prone to silence, and stubborn as a rock. If he’s pulling away, it’s probably just one of his moods. Maybe he needs space. Maybe it’s just the way Witchers are, and Jaskier shouldn’t take it personally.

He gave Geralt the space he needed. He didn’t press, didn’t ask too many questions. But the distance doesn’t go away.

It starts small—less eye contact, clipped responses. Then it turns into something else entirely. Geralt avoids walking too close, keeps his hands tucked away when Jaskier reaches out.

He’s no fool. He knows when he’s being kept at arm’s length.

But he lets it be. He pretends not to notice, keeps telling himself it’s nothing, that it will pass. Maybe he’s reading too much into it. Maybe Geralt doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

But the doubt festers.

What did I do wrong?

The worst part isn’t the silence. It’s the way the cold indifference doesn’t match Geralt at all. He’s not cruel—never has been—but this? This feels deliberate.

His gaze no longer lingers on Jaskier as it used to, and when it does, it slips right through him. The golden hue that once held the warmth of a honey sunset now barely touches him, colder than the pale light of a winter morning.

And the most humiliating thought worms its way into Jaskier’s mind late at night when he’s staring at the stars:

Is he getting tired of me?

Is Jaskier too needy, too clingy, too much of an annoyance to someone who wasn’t used to company?

Am I too much?

×××

Geralt feels it. He can smell the shift in the air—grief, frustration… disappointment. He wants to ignore it. Wants to pretend he doesn’t notice how Jaskier’s smiles seem to fade. But the scent of disappointment is unbearable.

Geralt forces himself to believe it’s annoying. That it’s just another human emotion he doesn’t have the patience for. But—

It hurts.

He was supposed to protect Jaskier. Keep him safe. And maybe… maybe, when the moment was right, tell him the truth about Eskel. About the bond that ties them together and the scars Jaskier bears that aren’t his own.

He should have kept his distance. He should have never let it get this complicated.

The feeling that it’s his fault—he made this mess—is eating him alive.

Geralt shoves the thought aside.

He’s not mine to worry about.

×××

Jaskier finally breaks.

“Geralt,” he says softly. “What… did I do?”

The Witcher’s steps falter.

“What?”

“I must’ve done something,” Jaskier presses, eyes downcast as he trails a hand along Pegasus’ reins. “You’ve barely spoken to me in days. And when you do, you—” He huffs a quiet, bitter laugh, “you snarl at me. Like I’m some burden you can’t wait to be rid of.”

Geralt opens his mouth to deny it—to tell the bard that’s not true, that Jaskier is… more than he ever should be. But the words catch in his throat, tangled with guilt and fear.

“I haven’t,” he mutters instead. “You’re imagining things.”

Jaskier stops walking.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Geralt! I might be an idiot, but I’m not blind!” The bard’s voice cracks, raw with something Geralt doesn’t want to name. “If you want me gone, just—just say it. You have the right. You invited me with you, fuck knows why, but—”

Something twists painfully in Geralt’s chest.

Why does this hurt so much?

Before he can find the words, the scent of rot and bloodlust hits him like a blade to the gut.

Geralt turns—too late.

There are seven of them. Mercenaries, by the look of their worn leathers and rusted swords. But it’s not the steel in their hands that makes Geralt’s vision darken—it’s the way they look at Jaskier. The way their hunger pollutes the air, thick and nauseating.

Fuck, really?

Again?

“Hey, Witcher,” one of them sneers. “Be a good lad and share your bard with us, yeah? We’ll make him nice for you. Maybe he’ll even stop whining.”

Jaskier goes rigid beside him.

The sound Geralt makes is barely human.

There’s no warning. No threat. No chance for them to run.

Geralt’s sword is in his hand before the first mercenary can blink. The world narrows to blood and motion, and the sickening crack of steel against bone. One man falls, then another, and another—the Witcher's blade carves through them like they’re nothing. Because to Geralt, they are.

They aren’t men. They’re filth. Monsters in human skin.

And Geralt kills monsters.

The horses rear and scatter as the fight turns to chaos. One of the bastards lunges toward Jaskier in the confusion. Geralt sees it too late. He swings—

Steel slices through flesh. The man’s arm falls to the ground, severed at the elbow. Geralt doesn’t stop. The next strike takes his head clean off.

It’s over in moments.

The bodies lie in the grass, blood soaking into the earth. The forest is silent. Too silent.

Geralt turns, heart hammering in his chest.

Jaskier stands there, pale as death, eyes wide and unblinking as he stares at the carnage before him.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says quietly, stepping toward him.

The bard doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just… stares.

Then, slowly, he lifts his hand to his shoulder, where a thin line of blood stains the fabric of his doublet. A shallow cut across his collarbone.

“Ah,” Jaskier murmurs faintly, fingers brushing over the wound.

Geralt expects him to panic. To scream. To curse Geralt for dragging him into this world of violence and death.

But Jaskier just grimaces, flexing his shoulder as if testing the pain.

“It was a good one. Expensive.”

Geralt blinks. “What?”

“This was my best doublet, Geralt,” the bard sighs. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to get bloodstains out of silk?”

Geralt stares at him.

“Jaskier, they—” His voice catches. “They would have—”

“I know, Geralt,” Jaskier says softly. “I know what they wanted.”

The Witcher’s throat tightens.

“I should’ve—”

“You saved me,” the bard murmurs, stepping closer. “You always save me.”

Geralt didn’t. He failed. He let himself get distracted, let himself sink so deep into his own head that he didn’t see the danger until it was almost too late. And now Jaskier is standing here, pale and shaking, with blood on his skin, and—

“I… I’m sorry,” Geralt breathes, barely able to force the words out. “I never wanted… I can’t—”

Jaskier’s hand brushes Geralt’s arm, grounding him.

“I’m not afraid of you, Geralt.”

They stand there, breathless and raw, the weight of what just happened hanging heavy between them.

“You should be.”

“I’m not.”

And for the first time in weeks, Geralt feels something crack open inside him.

Because, yeah, Jaskier isn’t Eskel.

But fuck… if Geralt isn’t falling anyway.

×××

They ride hard, pushing their horses until the sun sinks low on the horizon, painting the sky in hues of crimson and gold. Only then does Geralt finally slow Roach to a steady trot. Pegasus, now well-accustomed to following Roach’s pace, matches the rhythm when Jaskier tugs lightly on the reins.

Geralt exhales, letting tension drain from his shoulders. He can feel the weight of the ride in Roach’s movements, the tired pull of her muscles after such a relentless run. But it was necessary. They had to put distance.

Then—Jaskier sucks in a sharp breath. A small, startled sound.

Geralt reacts instantly, twisting Roach around, his hands tightening on the reins.

What?

What is it? They weren’t followed—Geralt would have heard, smelled, known. There’s no threat, no enemies lurking in the growing shadows. And yet, his entire body remains coiled, waiting for the strike.

Jaskier is clutching his chest, fingers pressed just below his collarbone as if reaching for something that isn’t there.

“I… Geralt,” Jaskier breathes, eyes wide, as if the air itself has suddenly become too thin. “I lost it.”

Geralt freezes.

Then he sees.

The scars on Jaskier’s cheek are stark and deep against his skin, no longer softened by the illusion of glamour. Those scars.

Eskel’s scars.

Geralt forces his gaze away, dragging his attention to the bare skin where the pendant used to rest.

“We have to go back,” Jaskier insists, still breathless, eyes pleading. “It’s—”

Geralt shakes his head slowly, his words firm, cold.

“No.”

“No?” Jaskier’s voice cracks, disbelief turning his breath into a shudder. “But—”

“We can’t go back,” Geralt says, his voice tight. “Someone may have found the bodies. Or the pendant. It doesn’t matter—”

“Doesn’t matter?!” Jaskier stares at the Witcher as if he has been struck.

Geralt clenches his jaw, holding Jaskier’s gaze, feeling the distance grow between them once again.

He won’t say it.

He won’t say that something deep inside his chest is twisting, aching, at the sight of Jaskier’s face, at the realization that he’s been lying to himself all along.

Geralt waits for something—anger, frustration, maybe fear. But instead, he smells nothing. Just a hollow emptiness. The sharp edges of Jaskier’s usual emotions are gone, leaving behind a quiet space that settles heavily in Geralt’s gut.

Jaskier swallows hard, his hand trembling as he wipes his face, before shaking his head. “I can’t— I need it.” His voice cracks, the words slipping out rough, raw.

Jaskier’s breath stutters as he looks at Geralt, just for a moment. It’s instinctive, unthinking—the way his eyes flicker with something almost hopeful, almost expectant. As if he’s waiting for Geralt to change his mind.

To tell him it’s fine. That they can go back. That it’s safe.

It makes something in Geralt’s stomach twist sharply, like a dagger slipping between his ribs.

“You don’t,” he mutters, his grip tightening on Roach’s reins, the leather digging into his palms as if he could hold the world still by sheer force. As if that will stop him from looking too closely, from letting himself feel too much. “It’s gone. Let it go.”

Jaskier’s face shifts—something flickers and dies, leaving only the quiet resignation behind.

Geralt can smell the moment he understands.

That no, they can’t go back. That the pendant is lost, just like so many other things Jaskier has learned to lose.

The emptiness in his scent thickens, pressing down on Geralt’s chest until it feels like he’s suffocating. And he hates it.

He hates how it settles there, how it lingers, long after Jaskier looks away, silence stretching between them like a chasm.

“You don’t get it. You… you never—” Jaskier laughs shakily, glancing down at his hands, then shakes his head again. “Forget it.”

Geralt clenches his jaw. He doesn’t ask what Jaskier meant to say.

He already knows.

Chapter Text

The river glistens under the pale light of dawn, mist curling over the water’s surface like ghostly fingers. Jaskier moves toward it, a clean tunic draped over his shoulder. He doesn’t glance back at Geralt—doesn’t need to. He knows the Witcher won’t follow.

So, he steps into the shallows, the water lapping at his ankles. Geralt doesn’t look as he slowly peels off his clothes.

But the memory strikes like a blade to the ribs—sharp, relentless.

Eskel, bare beneath his hands, the firelight casting shadows over skin etched with brutal stories.

Geralt had worshiped those scars. He traced them with his lips, pressed reverent kisses to the ridges and grooves of healed flesh, as if his touch could erase the pain that put them there. He remembers how Eskel would shudder under his mouth, how he’d grip Geralt’s hair and pull him closer, desperate for something only Geralt could give.

Acceptance.

Love.

Now, that same ache twists in Geralt’s chest as he listens to the soft splash of water, knowing Jaskier hides what Eskel never did.

He clenches his jaw and forces himself to stay rooted in place.

He could join Jaskier. Could step into the water, tell him he doesn’t need to turn away. 

But he fears that if he reaches for the bard now, he won’t know where Eskel ends and Jaskier begins.

So he waits.

Waits until Jaskier scrubs the grime from his body, until he pulls his clothes back over pale skin that should never have known such violence. Waits until the bard returns to camp, hiding the cracks in his soul beneath a silence thick with loneliness—something Geralt can smell on him, heavy as smoke clinging to old leather.

And when Jaskier sits by the fire, Geralt doesn’t say a word.

Because if he does, he’s afraid he’ll say the wrong name.

×××

The days blur together, the rhythm of their journey steady but weighed down with unspoken tension. Geralt feels it in the air between them. It’s a quiet ache that he recognizes all too well—his stomach twists when Jaskier’s eyes grow distant, lost in thoughts Geralt can’t begin to understand.

But what he does understand is that Jaskier has been avoiding him. Not obviously—not in the way people who fear him usually do—but in small, deliberate ways. He keeps his distance, turns away just slightly when Geralt looks too long. He never rolls up his sleeves anymore, never stretches in that careless way that once left his wrists exposed. And more than anything, he doesn’t let their eyes meet for too long, as if the weight of Geralt’s gaze might burn through whatever fragile barrier he’s built.

He moves just out of reach, never too close, never too open. When they make camp, he stays on the other side of the fire. When they ride, he keeps Pegasus just half a step behind Roach, instead of pulling up beside Geralt like he always used to.

They’ve stopped in a village so small it barely earns the name. A handful of houses, a single tavern, a market that might see trade once a season, if that. It’s the kind of place where people don’t ask questions, where coin is more valuable than curiosity. Geralt prefers it that way.

The inn is cramped, the kind that barely fits more than a few travelers at a time. They take one room—there wasn’t a second available, and Jaskier hadn’t even asked for one. Just nodded, hood drawn low, and followed Geralt upstairs without a word.

He takes the bed. Geralt lays out his bedroll on the floor.

Jaskier doesn’t say anything.

It unsettles Geralt more than he cares to admit.

And then, in the dead of night—

A sound.

Soft. Barely there. But unmistakable.

A quiet, strangled breath. A slow inhale, shaky and uneven.

A whimper.

Geralt’s eyes snap open.

He stays completely still, listening, the way he would on a hunt. But there’s no danger here. No monsters lurking in the shadows. Just Jaskier, curled up on the bed, breath hitching in the thick silence of the room.

Another stifled noise. A quiet, broken thing.

A sob.

Geralt feels it like a knife between his ribs.

He doesn’t move. He’s not sure if he can. His limbs feel leaden, his chest tight. He stares at the ceiling, listening to every small, shuddering breath, every soft, muffled sob that Jaskier clearly doesn’t want him to hear.

He’s failing.

Because Geralt does hear it.

And it’s tearing him apart.

He’s never known what to do in moments like this—moments where the wounds aren’t visible, where they can’t be stitched or bandaged or burned away. He’s fought monsters, seen horrors most men can’t even imagine, but this—this helplessness—

It terrifies him.

Jaskier cries like he’s trying to swallow it down. Like he’s spent years perfecting the art of breaking in silence.

Geralt hates it.

Hates the way his own body betrays him, frozen in place while every instinct in him screams to do something.

Say something.

Move.

But he doesn’t.

He just listens.

Listens to the sound of Jaskier falling apart in the dark.

×××

The days pass. 

Geralt does nothing.

Not because he doesn’t care, but because he doesn’t know how.

And Jaskier… Jaskier is slipping further away.

It’s in the way he moves, in the way he speaks less and less, in the way his laughter—his damn laughter, the thing that has followed Geralt through his mind wars, monsters and endless miles—is gone.

At night, when Jaskier thinks Geralt is asleep, he cries.

Not always. But more nights than not.

Soft, muffled sobs, stifled against a pillow, swallowed down as if it’s something shameful. Like he doesn’t want anyone to know.

Geralt knows.

And he does nothing. 

He wakes each morning to the same sight: Jaskier, staring straight ahead, eyes hollow, skin pale, dark circles bruising the space beneath his lashes.

The bard used to wake slowly, stretching like a cat, grumbling about the stiffness in his back, about how, honestly, Geralt, civilized people sleep in beds, not on dirt like feral animals. Now, he doesn’t move at all. Doesn’t even look over. Just pulls his cloak tighter around himself and gets up without a word.

Geralt doesn’t know what to do.

He should say something. But what? What words could he possibly put together that would make any of this better?

And then, in the quiet of the evening, when the fire has burned low and the world has settled into stillness—

A sound.

A small, broken thing.

Again.

—Geralt stops thinking.

He moves.

He rises without a word, steps around the fire—silent, Witcher-soft—and lowers himself onto the bard’s bedroll.

Jaskier startles. A sharp inhale, a shudder, a stiffening of his shoulders. He hadn’t heard Geralt approach.

He doesn’t turn over. Doesn’t speak. Just stays curled on his side, breathing uneven.

Geralt still doesn’t know what to say.

So, he lies down.

Close. But not touching. Not yet.

Jaskier trembles, the bedroll shifting slightly beneath him.

Geralt exhales slowly.

Then, carefully—hesitantly—he reaches out, curling an arm around the bard’s waist, pulling him in.

Jaskier flinches.

Not much. Just a twitch of his fingers, a tightening of his breath. But he doesn’t pull away.

So Geralt holds him.

No words. No explanations.

Just warmth.

Jaskier shakes. 

Geralt tightens his grip.

Jaskier exhales—soft, uneven—then, slowly and tentatively, relaxes.

Not fully. But enough.

Geralt presses his forehead against the back of Jaskier’s shoulder, eyes closing.

If he can’t fix this—if he can’t find the words, or the answers—

Then at least, for tonight, he can do this.

And hope that, somehow, it helps.

×××

The world is warm, soft in a way it rarely is. Geralt’s mind is sluggish, caught somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, the edges of reality blurred and indistinct.

He shifts slightly—only to feel something move against him.

A solid weight, pressed close. The slow, steady rise and fall of breath.

The scent.

Leather and soap. Faint traces of ink, and beneath it all, something uniquely Jaskier.

His eyes snap open.

For a moment, he doesn’t understand. Doesn’t remember how he got here, why he’s here.

Then it hits him.

Last night. The fire, the sobs, the way Jaskier had trembled beneath his hands before finally—finally—relaxing.

The bard is still asleep, curled against Geralt, his head tucked beneath Geralt’s chin. His body is warm, pressed into every inch of Geralt’s side, an arm draped loosely over Geralt’s waist, like it belongs there.

And his face—

Geralt’s breath catches.

The scars are softened, the tension that usually pulls at them eased by sleep. The dark smudges beneath his eyes aren’t as stark as before, the exhaustion that has weighed him down for days lightened, if only just.

Something in Geralt’s chest tightens.

His hand moves before he can stop himself.

Slow. Careful. A single thumb tracing the jagged lines of the scar across Jaskier’s cheek, following the familiar path of pain that doesn’t belong to him but to Eskel.

Jaskier stirs.

Geralt freezes.

A slow inhale, a faint frown.

Soft, sleepy blinking.

Jaskier’s bright blue eyes open, hazy with sleep, unfocused for a moment as he wakes.

Then—

A smile.

Small. Barely there. But real.

And it destroys Geralt.

Because Jaskier hasn’t smiled like that in days .

Geralt stares, unable to look away. Something in his chest pulls tight—so tight he can’t breathe, can’t think.

He’s sinking.

Drowning.

Jaskier moves.

A shift of weight. A tilt of his head. A slow, drowsy lean forward—

Warm lips on his own.

For a single, suspended moment, the world narrows to this.

To Jaskier, kissing him like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Like he’s meant to.

And Geralt—Geralt kisses back.

Instinct. Reflex. A need buried so deep he hadn’t even realized it was there until now.

Jaskier’s lips are soft. His body yields to Geralt’s in a way that makes something inside Geralt ache.

Fuck.

He wanted this.

Gods, he wanted this.

And that’s the problem, isn’t it?

Because then—

Then his mind catches up.

This is wrong.

Jaskier belongs to Eskel.

Not to him. Never to him.

Geralt rips himself away like he’s been burned.

Jaskier blinks slowly.

His eyes, still hazy with sleep, fixate on Geralt—confused at first, then searching.

Geralt doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.

But—

The scent hits him anyway.

A quiet, creeping thing. Not sharp, not overwhelming—no, it’s deeper than that. A slow bleed of sorrow, of something wounded and raw curling from Jaskier’s skin.

Fuck.

Geralt clenches his jaw, but it’s there, clinging to the air between them, slipping into his lungs, into his blood—

Disappointment.

Jaskier doesn’t say anything.

Just watches him.

And it’s worse. So much worse.

Geralt scrambles for words, for something—anything—that will make this right.

But what?

How does he explain? How does he fix this?

He needs to tell Jaskier the truth. About Eskel. About the bond. About everything that’s been hanging over them since the moment they met.

He needs to—

Jaskier makes a small sound.

Pained.

Like something breaking just beneath the surface.

“Is it… because of the scars?”

Geralt frowns.

He doesn’t understand the words at first. They don’t make sense, don’t fit with anything.

Jaskier smiles.

And it’s— wrong.

Not the warm, easy thing from moments ago. This one is tight, fragile. Something brittle, held together only by force of will.

Geralt’s stomach turns.

No. No, how does he bring the other one back?

The real one.

Jaskier exhales, shaking his head, gaze flickering away. “It’s alright,” he murmurs, voice thin. “I know. You’ve always been polite about it, but I—” A sharp, wet laugh. “I know I’m ugly, Geralt.”

The world stops moving.

Ugly?

Jaskier—Jaskier—thinks he’s ugly?

No.

No.

That—that isn’t right. That can’t be right.

Jaskier starts talking again, voice quick, rambling—apologizing—apologizing to him, to Geralt, for—

What? Existing?

And Geralt—

Geralt feels like a fucking kikimora is tearing him apart.

He’s mind stumbles over itself, struggling to keep pace with his thoughts.

Jaskier’s gaze is fixed somewhere else—anywhere else—his fingers curling into the fabric of his sleeping bag like he can hold himself together if he just grips tight enough.

Geralt inhales. Deep. Slow.

He has to say it.

Even if it feels like clawing his own insides out with his bare hands.

Even if it means losing this. Losing Jaskier.

“You belong to someone else,” he says, voice rough, steady. “That’s why.”

Jaskier blinks.

Frowns.

And fuck, Geralt wants to smooth that crease between his brows away. With his fingers, his lips, anything—

But he can’t.

Jaskier tilts his head, confusion flickering across his face. “What?” His voice is soft, hesitant.

Geralt swallows and gestures—just barely—toward the scars on his face. Eskel’s scars.

Jaskier’s expression hardens. His posture shifts, his eyes narrowing.

“And what,” he says, voice quiet but sharp, “makes you think they’re not mine?”

Geralt’s throat tightens.

Fuck.

It’s time. It’s time to tell him the truth.

He takes another breath—readying himself, bracing himself.

But then—

Jaskier exhales. Slow. Controlled.

“My soulmate is dead, Geralt.”

Flat. Cold. Without emotion.

Like it’s nothing. Like it doesn’t matter.

Geralt’s stomach drops.

The ground beneath him, the air around him—gone.

No.

This—this is a mistake. It has to be a mistake.

“What?”

The word barely makes it past Geralt’s lips.

It feels wrong in his mouth—painful. His voice sounds strange, even to himself. Strained. Raw.

Jaskier looks at him, confused, brow furrowed. He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t—

He doesn’t fucking understand what he just said.

“My soulmate is dead, Geralt.”

No.

No, that isn’t true.

Eskel is alive.

He has to be alive.

Geralt’s chest tightens, his breath coming in short, uneven pulls. He presses the heels of his palms against his eyes, as if he can block out the words, erase them, force them from existence.

A sound claws its way out of his throat.

Broken. Pained.

Jaskier startles.

“Geralt?”

He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t fucking understand.

Geralt’s hands tremble against his face. His entire body feels like it’s trying to tear itself apart from the inside out. His mind is a storm—frantic, spiraling, grasping at anything to make sense of this—

Eskel is alive.

He has to be.

But if he isn’t—

If he isn’t—

Geralt can’t breathe.

“Geralt!”

The voice is distant, muffled, like it’s coming from underwater.

“Geralt, look at me—”

Warm hands grasp his face, firm but gentle, thumbs brushing against his cheekbones, grounding.

He can’t.

His breath is coming too fast, too shallow, his chest too tight—fuck, fuck, fuck—his mind is a storm, wild and vicious, thoughts crashing into each other too fast to catch, too fast to hold—

No, no, not Eskel, not Eskel, anyone but Eskel—

The hands tighten.

“Please, you’re scaring me—”

Jaskier.

Jaskier is here, in front of him, saying something—what is he saying?—but Geralt can’t focus, can’t breathe, because if Eskel is dead—

His body shudders, something like a whimper slipping from his throat, raw and desperate.

And then—

A pause.

A shift.

A realization, sinking slow and heavy into the space between them.

The next words cut through the haze.

“…Eskel?”

The name lingers in the air, heavy, sharp.

Geralt doesn’t know if he said it first or if Jaskier pulled it from his frantic, gasping breaths, from the raw panic clawing its way out of his chest.

Jaskier still has his hands on Geralt’s face, fingers warm against his too-cold skin. His thumbs hover near the corners of Geralt’s mouth, trembling slightly, as if he’s not sure whether to hold tighter or let go.

“Geralt,” Jaskier breathes, softer now, cautious. “What—”

Geralt can’t answer.

His entire body is locked in place, lungs burning, heart hammering so violently against his ribs it hurts.

It’s not true. It can’t be true.

He drags in a breath—too fast, too sharp—and presses his palms harder against his eyes, as if he can force the world to make sense again.

Eskel isn’t dead.

He isn’t.

Geralt would have felt it.

Would have known.

He—he would have known.

But—

My soulmate is dead, Geralt.

His stomach churns violently.

“Hey, hey, breathe,” Jaskier says, suddenly closer, voice urgent. His hands slip down, gripping Geralt’s wrists, tugging them away from his face. “I need you to breathe, alright? Just—just look at me.”

Geralt’s chest heaves.

My soulmate is dead, Geralt.

Jaskier’s words repeat over and over, crashing into him like waves against rock, relentless, unstoppable.

Dead.

Eskel.

Dead.

No.

No, no, no.

His fingers twitch, curling like claws. He needs to move. Needs to do something. Because if Eskel is dead, then Geralt—

Jaskier shifts, pressing even closer. “Geralt, please—”

His voice wavers, and fuck, there’s fear in it now. Not for himself.

For Geralt.

That cuts through.

Geralt forces his eyes open.

Jaskier is staring at him, brows drawn tight, mouth pressed into something small and worried. 

His blue eyes flicker across Geralt’s face, searching, desperate for something—an answer, an explanation—anything.

Geralt swallows hard, his throat aching.

He has to speak. He has to—fuck, he has to say something.

But all that comes out is a rasped, broken, “Explain.”

Jaskier blinks. “Explain what?”

Geralt clenches his jaw, tries to steady his breath, but the edges of his panic still linger, raw and electric beneath his skin.

“Explain,” he grinds out, voice low, strained. “Why do you think your soulmate is dead?”

Jaskier hesitates.

And for the first time, he looks uncertain.

His hands are still on Geralt’s wrists, loose now, hovering as if he’s considering letting go.

Something flickers across his face—something almost like sorrow, but too brief to catch.

He lets out a breath.

“I just know,” Jaskier says, voice quiet. “They died years ago, Geralt.”

The words are measured. Carefully spoken. Like they’re something he’s rehearsed.

Something he’s said before.

Geralt's mind spins, piecing things together too fast, too slow—not fast enough.

“You’re wrong,” he says.

Because—because it’s not true. He was with Eskel last winter and—

Jaskier stiffens.

His grip tightens, just slightly, like a flinch.

“I’m not,” he replies, and there’s something hard in his voice now. “They’re dead.”

No hesitation. No doubt.

And Geralt—

Geralt’s hands shake.

Because if Jaskier believes that—

Then something is very, very wrong.

For a long moment, neither of them speak. Jaskier stares past Geralt, eyes unfocused, hands twitching against his wrists. 

Then, finally—

He swallows.

And Geralt watches as something inside him cracks.

Something deep. Something raw.

“I never got new scars,” Jaskier says. Soft. Fragile. “Not once,” he continues, voice growing thinner with every word. “From the moment I was born. Nothing.”

He lets go of Geralt’s wrists, his fingers curl into fists, nails pressing into his palms.

“I—” Jaskier’s throat works around the word, and he shakes his head, like he wants to stop. Like he can’t stop. “When I got older, I checked,” he admits, and fuck, the way he says it—quiet, small, broken—it makes Geralt’s chest ache so fucking much. “Every day. Every fucking hour.” A shaky exhale. “I memorized every inch of my skin, just in case I missed something. Every scratch, every godsdamned freckle—” His voice catches. “Nothing ever changed.”

Geralt closes his eyes.

Not at the words. Not at the truth of them.

At the way Jaskier says them.

Like a confession. Like a wound being torn open right in front of him.

Like something that has festered for years.

Something is wrong.

Something is very, very wrong indeed.

Jaskier huffs a laugh, sharp and humorless.

Geralt opens his eyes. 

“I was fifteen when my father gave me that medallion. Well—” Jaskier’s mouth twists. “Gave isn’t the right word, is it?”

His hands unclench.

Lift.

And fall limply to his lap.

“He threw it at me,” Jaskier murmurs. “Like a bone to a dog.” A beat. “ ‘Hide your shame.’ That’s what he said.”

Geralt feels the words like a punch to the gut.

Jaskier smiles.

And it’s wrong—all of it.

“So I did,” he whispers. “I hid it.” Breath—slow and shaky. The bard’s hands are limp in his lap, but his fingers twitch like he wants to curl them into fists again, like he’s holding himself back.

Geralt doesn’t say anything. He waits.

Jaskier’s gaze drifts beyond him, lost in memories Geralt isn’t sure he wants to hear. 

But Jaskier speaks anyway.

“As if the magic could fix me,” he murmurs, voice flat. “As if hiding it would make it better.”

Geralt swallows hard.

“It didn’t,” Jaskier continues. “Obviously.” His lips twitch, a bitter ghost of a smile. “My parents still looked at me like I was—like I wasn’t —”

He stops, then takes a deep breath and starts again.

“I know I didn’t tell you—like with everything else—but…” he says, laughing again. Wrong, so wrong. “I was the Viscount. The heir. And yet, all that my parents saw was a blemish on their bloodline.” A humorless chuckle. “A soulbond is supposed to be something to boast about. Proof of lineage, of good breeding—especially for noble houses.” He shakes his head. “But me? Oh, no. Not me.”

Geralt clenches his fists.

Noble. The Viscount. The heir. 

Jaskier’s shoulders tighten, voice dipping lower.

“They thought I was defective,” he says, words laced with something sharp. “A failure. A mistake. And of course, since I was such an embarrassment, they had to do something about it, didn’t they?” His hands lift slightly, then drop back down. “What better way to get rid of an unwanted son than to marry him off?”

Geralt’s brows furrow.

Marry him off?

Jaskier hums, tilting his head slightly, the movement slow, measured.

“She was a noble,” he says. “Technically. Lower house. The daughter of some baron whose name I don’t even remember anymore.” He lets out a small breath. “The kind of match my father would have never considered otherwise. But I wasn’t exactly worth more, was I?” His mouth twists. “They would have sold me to the first suitor willing to take me.”

Geralt’s jaw tightens.

Sold.

“But—” Jaskier shrugs, light, careless, forced. “I had no interest in marriage. And I had even less interest in being used as a political pawn just so my family could pretend I didn’t exist.”

His fingers trace absently over his knee.

“So, one night,” he murmurs, “I left.”

Just like that.

Just a boy walking away from everything he’d ever known.

And Geralt—

Geralt hurts for him.

Jaskier was young. Too young. Just a boy when he left home—not home, no, because what kind of home makes you feel like nothing? What kind of home treats you like a stain, a mistake, a thing to be hidden?

Geralt swallows down the bitter taste rising in his throat.

He hesitates, then asks—low, careful, “How long?”

Jaskier blinks at him, caught off guard, as if the question was too much to process.

“How long has it been since you left?” Geralt clarifies. “How old are you now?”

Jaskier’s mouth twists slightly, as if weighing his words, deciding how much to reveal.

His fingers tighten over his knee, drumming absently against the fabric there—nervous, restless.

Geralt doesn’t ask the other questions burning at the back of his mind.

Why didn’t you notice my scar that morning after the drowners?

Do you carry them all, too?

But Jaskier answers anyway—without even knowing it. 

“Over ten years. Closer to fifteen by now, actually,” he admits quietly. “I haven’t looked at my body without the medallion since I got it.”

Geralt stills.

“That’s why. That’s why losing it did this to me,” Jaskier murmurs, gesturing vaguely at himself, and Geralt’s stomach twists.

Because this—this hollow, empty, aching thing that Jaskier has become—this is what he means.

The sleepless nights. The silent suffering. The way he’s been folding in on himself, disappearing further and further every day.

The crying.

“That’s why I—” Jaskier cuts himself off, huffing another dry laugh. “Gods, listen to me. I sound pathetic, don’t I?” His voice drops to a mutter. “Crying like some miserable child in the middle of the night—”

Geralt doesn’t even think.

“Don’t,” he says sharply.

Jaskier blinks, startled.

Geralt stares at him, something tight and hot burning beneath his skin.

“Don’t say that,” he grits out. “Don’t—” He exhales, drags a hand down his face. “Fuck.”

Jaskier’s lips part slightly, but no words come.

Geralt doesn’t know what to do.

Because Jaskier has spent half his life pretending his body wasn’t his. Pretending it was something to hide, something unworthy of being seen.

Geralt needs to fix this.

Jaskier is too raw, too open, fraying at the edges like fabric worn thin from years of strain.

And he—he has to be whole when Geralt tells him about Eskel.

Or maybe… not just Eskel.

He can’t be sure. Not until he knows—until he sees, until he proves that Jaskier carries his scars, too. That it’s not just Eskel written into his skin, but Geralt as well.

He’s not even sure it’s possible, but—

The thought—the possibility—sits uneasily in his chest.

One barely glimpsed scar, one fleeting trick of the light, is not enough. It’s not proof. 

Maybe he imagined it. Maybe he’s just grasping for something that isn’t real, letting himself hope when he shouldn’t.

Later. He’ll figure it out later.

Triss. Yennefer. Fuck, even Istredd, if it comes to that. Someone will be able to explain. Someone will know how to make this easier.

Soon.

But not now.

So Geralt moves.

Slowly. Carefully.

He reaches out, cupping Jaskier’s face in his hands—gentle, so gentle, softer than he ever thought himself capable of.

Like he once did with Eskel.

The thought hurts.

His chest aches with it, deep and sharp, a wound long scarred over ripped open anew.

But it doesn’t matter. Not right now.

Jaskier’s breath catches.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull away. Just—waits.

Geralt smooths his thumb along the length of the scar on Jaskier’s cheek—Eskel’s scar, carved into the bard’s skin.

Not Eskel.

Jaskier.

It’s Jaskier under his hands now.

Jaskier, who has spent a lifetime believing himself unwanted.

Jaskier, who has never known what it feels like to be seen.

Geralt’s own heart is bleeding—but this isn’t about him.

He leans in, slow, deliberate.

And presses his lips, feather-light, against the scar.

Jaskier shudders.

Geralt lingers, breathing against the jagged line of flesh, his hands steady on either side of Jaskier’s face.

Then, against the marred skin, he whispers, “You are beautiful.”

Soft. Certain.

The same words he once gave Eskel, long ago, when his wound was still fresh—when the pain in his chest matched the one on his skin.

And now—now he gives them to Jaskier.

And means them just as much.

Jaskier stills.

His breath shudders against Geralt’s lips, uneven, like his lungs don’t know whether to keep going or stop entirely. His fingers twitch where they rest on his lap, curling slightly like he wants to hold onto something—someone—but doesn’t know how.

Geralt doesn’t move.

Just stays there, lips pressed against the rough line of the scar, his thumbs still tracing slow, steady circles against Jaskier’s cheekbones.

He feels Jaskier swallow. Feels the way his pulse jumps beneath his fingers, the way his chest trembles with something too fragile to name.

A sob.

Not like the ones before. Not the kind he tried to swallow down in the dark, hidden beneath layers of silence and shame.

This one is different.

This one is breaking free.

Jaskier shakes. His hands lift, hesitating, then finally grasp at the fabric of Geralt’s shirt, fisting into it like a lifeline. His head bows, pressing forward until his forehead meets Geralt’s shoulder, and his entire body collapses into him.

Geralt catches him.

Holds him.

Lets him fall apart.

He feels the damp heat of tears seeping through his shirt, feels Jaskier’s breath come in short, hitched bursts, his body shaking with the force of everything he’s kept inside for too long.

Geralt doesn’t say anything.

Doesn’t try to hush him, doesn’t tell him it’s alright, because it isn’t.

He just lets Jaskier bury himself in the safety of his arms, lets him cry without shame, without fear.

Geralt’s fingers slip into the bard’s hair, cradling the back of his head, grounding him. His other arm wraps tight around his back, holding him firm and steady.

Jaskier sobs harder.

And Geralt lets him.

Because someone should have, a long time ago.

And if it’s not Eskel—

Then it’ll be Geralt. 

Jaskier’s fingers stay curled in Geralt’s shirt, gripping like he’s afraid to let go, like if he does, he might unravel completely.

Geralt holds him tighter.

His hand stays firm on the back of Jaskier’s head, fingers weaving gently through his hair, the other braced around his back. He can feel every shake of the bard’s body, every ragged breath, every sob that he tries—and fails—to keep inside.

It hurts.

More than any wound Geralt has ever taken. More than any battle, any moment of pain he’s known before. 

Because this isn’t something he can fight.

He can’t cut it down with a blade.

He can’t slay this grief like a monster.

Minutes pass. Maybe more. Geralt doesn’t keep track. He just listens—to the slow, painful unraveling of years of silence, of shame, of weight that Jaskier has carried alone for too fucking long.

Eventually, the bard’s sobs quiet. The shaking slows, his breathing still uneven but deeper now, steadier.

His grip on Geralt’s shirt loosens, fingers uncurling just slightly, though he doesn’t pull away.

Geralt lets his hand slide down, tracing slow, steady circles between Jaskier’s shoulder blades. A grounding touch.

Jaskier exhales, shuddering. His forehead is still pressed against Geralt’s shoulder, but his body feels heavier now—like exhaustion has finally settled in, weighing him down.

Geralt shifts, just slightly, adjusting his hold.

“You’re still here,” Jaskier mumbles, voice hoarse, like he doesn’t quite believe it.

Geralt huffs softly. “Not going anywhere.”

Jaskier lets out something between a laugh and a breath. “Thank you.”

Geralt closes his eyes.

He doesn’t say you don’t have to thank me.

Doesn’t say it shouldn't be me.

Or I’m sorry.

Because maybe—just maybe…

He’s where he belongs.

And oh, isn’t that an addictive thought.

Chapter Text

The world is quiet, save for the distant rustle of birds shaking the forest into morning. Jaskier’s breathing has evened out, though his face is still damp, pressed to the curve of Geralt’s shoulder.

Geralt doesn’t move.

He can feel the weight of Jaskier's body against his, the residual tremble in his limbs, the soft hitch in his breath whenever a thought cuts too close. But the bard is holding on—maybe for the first time in years—and Geralt lets him.

Not because of Eskel. Not this time.

Because this is Jaskier. Warm and shaking and real.

And Geralt can’t bear the thought of him curling away again.

“I meant it,” he murmurs. His voice is rough, low—barely above the hush of leaves. “You are beautiful.”

Jaskier exhales a sound that’s almost a laugh. His grip tightens slightly in Geralt’s tunic, but he doesn’t lift his head.

“You don’t have to say that.”

“I want to.”

Silence again.

Then—

“You’re the first,” Jaskier says, voice small. “Who’s ever said that to me. I mean… without the medallion.”

Geralt closes his eyes.

Something in his chest aches.

“I want to see,” he says softly, surprising even himself.

Jaskier tenses.

Geralt doesn’t push. Just rests his hand on the bard’s back—steady, anchoring. “Only if you want me to.”

He waits.

Waits as Jaskier breathes in. Breathes out.

And then slowly, so slowly, the bard lifts his head.

His voice cracks when he speaks. “I don’t even know what’s there anymore.”

Geralt meets his gaze, and this time—this time—there’s no hesitation in him at all.

“Let me find out with you.”

×××

They don’t speak as Jaskier unfastens his tunic.

His hands tremble slightly, but Geralt doesn’t look away. Doesn’t flinch.

The glamour’s absence makes every movement feel raw. Unfiltered. No magic to hide behind. No illusions to soften the truth.

Jaskier slips the fabric from his shoulders. It catches once at his elbow, and Geralt reaches without a word, fingers brushing warm skin.

And then he sees them.

Scars.

Dozens. Maybe more.

Eskel’s, mostly—familiar ridges and patterns, unmistakable to anyone who’d trained beside him.

The one that slices across the sternum—a deep one—from their third year of training. A sword accident. Geralt remembers pressing linen to it with trembling hands.

Another, along the left shoulder—a gryphon's talon. Eskel almost lost the arm.

All of them are old.

Long-healed. Familiar in a way Geralt had trained himself to forget.

A loophole, he thinks numbly. The Chaos let it happen. A door left ajar, wide enough for soulmarks to slip through. But not wide enough to let them grow.

Not after the Trials. Not after the mutations.

And yet here they are—etched into Jaskier’s skin.

Born into it.

Because scars don’t fade unless the bond is strong. Unless the feelings are mutual. Unless—

That’s when Geralt sees them.

The others.

Scars that shouldn’t be here at all.

Faint.

Almost invisible.

But not ancient.

A curved line on Jaskier’s side, right below the ribs—a ghoulish slice Geralt took last year, in the swamps outside Brugge.

A jagged mark along the bicep—from the bandit ambush in the Kaedweni pass. Spring.

He stares.

He hadn't imagined it.

It’s there.

Undeniably there—his scars, mirrored in Jaskier’s skin.

But not crisp. It lacks the sharp definition—no sting, no fire. Just pale lines, like a memory fading under sunlight.

And that’s when it clicks.

All of it.

If the bond were complete, the scars would have disappeared. At least his own would have. Faded entirely from Jaskier’s body, as if it had never been there at all.

Is that what happened to his scar on Jaskier's forearm?

But—

The others are still there.

No.

If the bond were broken, the scars would be solid. Clear. Permanent.

But this?

This is something in between.

Geralt’s thoughts spiral—fractured logic and too many truths crashing into each other.

A connection exists. It has to. But it’s not… whole. Not anchored.

Not like it should be.

And he knows why.

Because of Eskel.

The thought lands like a blade against bone.

Jaskier has carried their scars all his life—but with Eskel… they never knew each other. That thread was never tied, never nurtured. Just born and left to wither.

And now this bond—this strange, flickering thing between Jaskier and him—it’s unstable.

Half-grown. Fraying at the edges.

Because they’ve pulled apart.

Because Geralt let Jaskier drift away—all silence and distance and fear—and now the bond is responding in kind. It doesn’t lie. It reflects what they refuse to say.

It depends on us, he realizes. On what we give. On how close we let each other get.

And lately?

Lately, they’ve given each other almost nothing.

Geralt doesn’t realize his hand is hovering near Jaskier’s ribs until the bard glances down, uncertain.

“What—” Jaskier begins. He doesn’t finish.

Geralt breathes in—slow, deliberate.

And then, gently, he lays his fingers over the curved scar. Not hard. Barely a touch. Just enough to feel the echo in his own flesh.

Not Eskel’s. Not from thirty years ago.

His. But dulled. As if the bond between them has thinned to a whisper. 

“This one’s mine,” he murmurs.

Jaskier flinches.

“…What?”

Geralt looks up, meets his gaze head-on.

“This scar,” he says again, voice steady. “It’s mine.”

×××

Jaskier doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.

His eyes flick between Geralt’s face and the place where the Witcher’s fingers still rest against his side.

“That’s not…” His voice falters, quiet. “That can’t be.”

“It is,” Geralt says.

Jaskier shakes his head, but it’s not a denial—more like a reset. Like he’s trying to rewire his brain mid-thought.

“Maybe it’s a coincidence,” he offers, weakly. “Old wound, same spot, who knows—”

“No,” Geralt cuts in gently. “Not this.”

He trails his fingers higher, across another faint mark along Jaskier’s ribs. “I stitched it myself.”

Jaskier goes still.

The realization hits all at once, like thunder after lightning—silent, and then everywhere.

His breath stutters. His gaze drops again to his own skin, to the pale traces.

“You…” Jaskier starts. His voice is barely audible. “You’re not supposed to…”

He swallows hard.

“…You’re not supposed to be mine.”

Geralt’s jaw tenses.

“Maybe,” he says. “But you’re still carrying me.”

Jaskier shakes his head again, slower this time. His brow furrows, lips parting like he’s trying to hold onto something that’s slipping away.

“No…” he says quietly. “The scar on my face— it’s not yours.”

His hand lifts instinctively to his cheek—to that old, jagged line he’s known his whole life. The one that’s always been there. The one that’s always meant something.

“It’s not you.”

Geralt doesn’t argue. Because that’s the problem, isn’t it?

It isn’t him.

Not entirely.

Silence.

Then—

Geralt exhales slowly, letting his hand fall from Jaskier’s side.

“It’s Eskel’s,” he says. Voice low. Careful.

Jaskier stiffens.

Geralt looks down. “He was… mine. We trained together. Slept in the same room. Bled on the same stones.”

Jaskier watches him, still and wide-eyed.

“We were soulmates,” Geralt says finally. “Eskel and I. Before the Trials.”

Jaskier’s breath catches.

“We didn’t know,” Geralt adds quickly. “Not really. We were too young. No one told us. There were scars—on him, on me. Ones we knew. Ones we…” He stops, jaw working. “But by the time we were old enough to understand… the bond had already been severed.”

“The mutations,” Jaskier says, barely a whisper.

Geralt nods.

“I thought there was enough Chaos left in him to leave the door open. A crack.” He lifts his gaze again, meeting Jaskier’s eyes. “And you walked through it.”

A beat.

“I didn’t understand at first. I saw your face and thought—you must be his. And when I saw my own scar—after the drowners—I didn’t know what to think. I thought I was stealing something that wasn’t mine.”

He swallows hard.

“So I pulled back. I kept my distance. I let you believe it was about the way you looked, or the way you acted, or the things you said—but it wasn’t. It was never that.”

Jaskier’s lips part, eyes wet and distant.

Geralt’s voice softens.

“I was afraid, Jaskier. Afraid that if I let myself want you, I’d be breaking something sacred. Something that belonged to someone else. To… him.”

He breathes out.

His words hang in the air, soft but heavy, like snowfall that crushes the world quiet.

Jaskier doesn’t respond right away.

He just stares.

At Geralt.

At his own chest.

At nothing.

His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

And then—

“No,” he says hoarsely. “No, no, no— this— this isn’t—”

He stumbles, getting to his feet from the sleeping bag, away from Geralt's touch.

His hands are shaking.

“I was sure my soulmate was dead. I—” he begins, and stops. His chest heaves with a shallow, broken breath. “Years, Geralt. I built my whole godsdamned life around it.”

His voice rises, cracking.

“And now—now you're telling me that not only is he alive, but that I’m—what? Some shared tether between you and—”

He laughs.

It’s a terrible sound. Hysterical. Hollow.

Geralt rises slowly, careful not to crowd him.

“Jaskier—”

“I grieved him,” Jaskier snaps. “You understand that? I mourned someone I’d never met. I carried these scars and thought— this is it. This is all I get. An empty bond. A corpse’s memory.”

His eyes gleam wet in the early morning light.

“And now you say it wasn’t empty. Just… forgotten. Just buried. You and him—you loved each other. And I—” He swallows hard, voice thinning. “What does that make me?”

Geralt doesn’t answer. He can’t.

So Jaskier answers for him.

“A second chance?” he says bitterly. “A fucking loophole?”

The wind stirs the trees.

Jaskier laughs again, but this one’s sharper. Meaner. A defense mechanism, turned inward and then out.

“I mean—fuck. I thought I was pathetic before,” he mutters. “But now? Turns out I’ve been a storage unit for your grief.”

Geralt flinches.

Jaskier doesn’t notice. Or maybe he does, and he can’t stop himself.

“You didn’t even want me,” he says, voice rising. “Not really. You looked at me and saw him. You let me cling to you while you whispered his name in your sleep—”

Geralt’s jaw tightens.

“I thought you were haunted,” Jaskier goes on. “But it wasn’t ghosts, was it? It was love. For him. Not me. Never me.”

His breath shudders. “You kissed me back and then recoiled like I burned you. You looked at me like I was a mistake. And I told myself it was the scars. That I was hideous. That if I were just less, maybe you'd have stayed.”

He swipes a hand across his face. “But it wasn’t that either, was it? It was always him.”

The words settle between them like ash.

Geralt doesn't speak. He doesn’t defend himself. He just… stands there.

Still.

Bleeding without a wound.

And that’s when Jaskier’s breath catches. That’s when it hits him—the look in Geralt’s eyes. Not angry. Not cold.

Just devastated.

And too quiet.

Jaskier lets out a soft, stunned sound—not quite a sob, not quite a whine. Something in between.

“Geralt—”

He takes a step forward, reaching out, but Geralt doesn’t move.

“Fuck. I didn’t mean that. I didn’t— I was just—”

Jaskier’s hand falls uselessly to his side.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean it.”

And once again, Geralt swallows whatever he was going to say—and lets it die.

×××

Morning light stretches long across the clearing, soft and cold at the same time, catching on the leaves and the edge of Jaskier’s profile like it’s trying to make sense of him too.

Geralt doesn’t move.

He watches Jaskier standing there, arms limp at his sides, apology still hovering on his lips like it might matter.

It should.

But it doesn’t.

A storage unit for your grief.

The words echo in Geralt’s mind, dull and heavy. Not because they were cruel—but because they were close to true.

Jaskier shifts. Like he might speak again. Like he might try to take it back again.

But in the end, he just pulls his tunic back over his shoulders, his movements slow. Methodical. Like if he does it carefully enough, he won’t fall apart again.

Geralt watches the fabric slide over the scars.

His scars.

Eskel’s.

The bond.

All of it.

Too much.

He lowers himself to the bedroll, limbs stiff. His medallion presses against his chest—so familiar, and yet so impossibly strange.

Across the clearing, Jaskier moves toward his saddlebags—but not toward Geralt. Not even close.

He sits with his back to the dead fire, knees drawn to his chest.

Geralt lets the silence settle. Lets the daylight press in.

The birdsong sounds too loud. The wind too sharp.

Everything else is quiet.

Eventually, Jaskier lies down.

Not beside him.

Not even facing him.

Just curls inward, like someone trying to make themselves smaller than they are.

And Geralt—

Geralt keeps watching the trees.

Not because he’s looking for monsters.

Because they’re easier to face than this.

Chapter Text

The silence between them is colder than the frost still clinging to the grass.

Jaskier doesn’t look at him. Not when they pack up camp. Not when they saddle the horses. Not when Roach’s reins brush his hand by accident and he flinches like he’s been burned.

Geralt doesn’t speak either.

The words are still stuck in his throat, sharp-edged and useless. Nothing he says will un-break what happened yesterday.

They ride side by side, but it might as well be miles apart.

By midday, the road turns wrong.

The forest is too quiet. The birds have vanished. Even Roach’s hooves seem hesitant on the dirt path.

Geralt feels it before his medallion even hums.

The tension in the air. The pressure in his spine.

A hunt.

“Off the road,” he growls.

Jaskier doesn’t argue.

They barely get ten paces into the trees before the forest explodes.

A high-pitched shriek cuts through the air, followed by the rush of footsteps—dozens of them. Leaves scatter. Branches snap.

Then they come.

Nekkers. A whole tribe.

They erupt from the underbrush like a flood—gray-green skin stretched tight over wiry limbs, their armor cobbled together from rib bones, jawbones, shattered skulls. Some wear human remains. Some still have bits of meat clinging to them.

The nekker warrior crashes through behind them, taller, bulkier, its chest plated in fused bone, its claws yellowed and caked with old blood.

There’s no time to speak. No time to think.

Geralt draws steel.

The first nekker lunges.

He takes its head clean off in one fluid strike.

But the second is already there. Then a third. Then five more.

They swarm him.

They attack in packs—always—clawing, leaping, snapping their jaws, biting. They don’t give space. They don’t give breath.

Geralt turns, slicing through one’s stomach. Its intestines spill out like wet rope—it doesn’t even scream, just hisses, still trying to crawl toward him.

Another nekker gets around him, darts toward Jaskier.

Geralt moves before he thinks.

He slams into the beast, knocks it aside with a roar, and plants himself between it and the bard. Doesn’t look back. Doesn’t speak. Just kills.

He swings the blade in wide, vicious arcs. Bone breaks. Flesh tears. Claws rake his back and shoulders, but he doesn’t feel it.

He cuts through one’s leg—watches it topple, screeching—and then stomps its skull into the dirt. Another climbs his back. He grabs its neck and snaps it like a twig, tossing the body into two more as they charge.

They just keep coming.

And he just keeps butchering.

He doesn’t register the snarl that rips from his own chest.

Doesn’t care.

There’s no strategy now. No footwork. Just instinct and fury. Just a blur of blood and steel and the thrum of Chaos under his skin.

He fights like something feral. Like something with nothing left to lose.

One drops on his back again—claws tearing into his shoulder—and Geralt roars, slamming his elbow into its ribs, throwing it off, sword swinging up to cut it open from belly to jaw.

Another goes for Jaskier again.

And something in Geralt snaps.

He grabs it mid-lunge and slams it to the ground with a sound that’s more beast than man. Doesn’t kill it cleanly. Doesn’t want to. He tears it apart, blade hacking through bone, blood spraying his face.

He doesn’t stop until it stops twitching.

Steel sings through the air. His breath comes in snarls. Blood spatters his face, his hands, his chest. The dead pile at his feet—twitching, gurgling, still reaching.

Another nekker leaps from the left—he ducks, slashes. One more drops from a tree.

They’re everywhere.

He plants his feet in the dirt. Raises one hand.

Aard.

The sign slams out of him like a thunderclap.

The air explodes—a shockwave of raw force, cracking through the underbrush like a battering ram.

It hits the front line of nekkers like a wall.

Five of them go flying—snap through branches, smash against tree trunks, limbs flailing, necks twisting at wrong angles. One hits the ground so hard its skull bursts open like a melon.

The others stagger, screeching, disoriented.

Behind him—

Jaskier gasps.

Not from fear of the nekkers.

From him.

Geralt hears it—hears the way Jaskier’s breath hitches in disbelief. Feels his eyes on him. Not just scared. Stunned.

Because he’s seen Geralt use Aard before.

But never like that.

Never with that kind of raw, uncontrolled force. Of rage. Of something deeper than instinct—something desperate.

Geralt doesn’t look back.

He doesn’t want to see the expression on Jaskier’s face.

He just moves forward.

Keeps killing.

The warrior charges.

Geralt meets it head-on.

They clash with bone and steel. The creature’s claws rake his ribs, but Geralt catches one arm, tears it free at the socket, and drives his blade into its throat hard enough to crack the vertebrae.

He kicks the body off the blade, panting, blinking blood from his eyes.

Then, finally—

Silence.

Broken only by the sound of blood dripping onto leaves.

×××

Geralt hits the ground harder than he means to.

Not dramatic. Just… dumb. Knees give. Balance flickers. His hand goes out too late. Then: back, earth, sky. Everything tilts.

He lies there.

Staring at the canopy.

Breathing.

It’s stupid, really.

He's not dying.

A human would be.

Probably already dead.

But he's a Witcher, so instead he just feels… off. Like something’s unplugged in his chest. Like his blood’s still moving too fast but his limbs haven't caught up.

His shoulder’s fucked. His back feels raw. His chest’s heavy. His face—eh, probably bleeding. Or not. He can’t tell.

He blinks once. The trees swim a little. There’s a ringing in his left ear that might be from a scream, or an explosion, or the part where a nekker hit him with a rock the size of a baby goat.

He needs a Swallow—

Footsteps. Fast. Rapid.

Jaskier.

“Geralt!”

The bard crashes to his knees beside him, hands hovering over his chest, his face pale with panic.

“I—fuck, I—are you—” He chokes on it. “Gods, are you dying?”

Geralt turns his head slightly. “No.”

Jaskier makes a noise somewhere between a sob and a swear.

Geralt blinks up at him.

He’s not dying. He just—

Can’t get up yet.

“Geralt, I didn’t—” Jaskier’s voice breaks, his hands still suspended mid-air. “I didn’t mean what I said yesterday. I was just—I was scared and angry and I lashed out, and it was cruel, and I know it was cruel, and I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—”

Geralt blinks again, head still flat to the dirt. Jaskier’s hair is wild, his cheeks flushed, his whole body coiled tight like a spring ready to snap.

“Are you hurt?” Geralt asks flatly.

Jaskier jerks back like he’s been slapped. “What?”

“I don’t smell your blood,” Geralt mutters, eyes drifting toward the sky again. “But I’m covered in it, so. Could be wrong.”

Jaskier just stares at him. “Geralt. You’re lying in a puddle of gore. Your tunic is in pieces. Your left arm is hanging like a broken cart wheel.”

“Still functional,” Geralt offers. “Mostly.”

He sighs, slowly pushing one boot into the ground. “I’ll heal. You won’t.”

Jaskier blinks. “You’re the one bleeding like a stuck boar!”

“I’m a Witcher.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re invincible!”

“No,” Geralt agrees quietly. He forces himself upright, teeth gritted against the pull of torn flesh. “Nekker claws fester. You know that.”

Jaskier stares. Again. “I—no—I—what?”

“They rot,” Geralt grunts. “Deep wounds. Tendons tear. Dirt, mud. Muscles go black. Survivors from nekker attacks, all proud to be alive. Then they can’t move their fingers the next day. Fever. Blood loss. Gangrene. Just because you’re not screaming doesn’t mean you’ll live to see the next dawn.”

“I’m not—” Jaskier stammers. Then—flinches.

A small thing. Barely a twitch. Like a cramp under the skin.

Geralt goes still.

Not the injury.

The scars.

Already?

Fuck.

His mind spirals.

Did he feel it? Is he in pain because of it?

He tries to sit up too fast and his whole body revolts. His vision goes white for a second. His ears ring louder.

He needs a fucking Swallow.

“Jaskier,” he says instead. Voice low. Hoarse.

The bard is frowning, pressing fingers lightly into his own side.

Geralt watches him with wide, half-shocked eyes.

Is it the gash on his ribs? The bruised sternum? The shoulder?

A chill slips down his spine.

Jaskier winces again.

And Geralt—

Geralt forgets the pain.

×××

They reach horses just before Geralt’s legs start to give.

He doesn't get onto Roach—can’t. His left arm is limp, useless, hanging too loose at his side, and his back feels like it’s been flayed open. He leans against the saddle with his good hand, head lowered, breath steady but too fast.

Jaskier stops beside him, gripping Pegasus’s reins, eyes locked on Geralt like he’s bracing for collapse.

He’s not wrong.

Geralt exhales through his teeth.

He can’t take Swallow yet.

Not with the shoulder out of joint. Not unless he wants the healing to trap everything in the wrong place—muscle fused around misaligned bone, nerve tangled where it doesn’t belong. He had experienced it once. Once was enough.

Geralt plants his feet. Presses the hand to the saddle horn. Rolls his shoulder. Feels the slide—the wrongness of it, the way it doesn’t catch where it should.

Then—

“Geralt?” Jaskier’s voice is tight. Scared. “What are you—what are you doing?”

Geralt grabs his forearm with the other hand, twists, and slams it back into place.

A sickening pop. Bone into socket. Cartilage shifting.

White-hot pain lances up his spine, and his vision whites out.

He doesn’t scream.

But he growls through gritted teeth—low, animal, savage.

Jaskier gasps—a high, choked sound. One hand covers his mouth like he’s going to be sick.

“You—what—WHAT—”

“Had to go back in,” Geralt hisses.

Jaskier makes a strangled noise like he's going to throw up. Or faint. Or both.

“You could’ve warned me, you absolute ghoul!”

Geralt rolls his neck. “Didn’t want to think about it too long.”

Then, without another word, he fumbles for the saddlebag, finds the glass vial.

Swallow.

He uncorks it with his teeth and downs it in one practiced gulp.

Jaskier eyes him warily, still rattled.

The potion burns all the way down.

Heat. First. It rushes through his blood like wildfire.

Then the heartbeat—sharp, pounding.  

His vision narrows, then expands, strange and elastic. The world around him goes glassy, too edgy in places and too soft in others. Every sound sharpens. Every scent thickens. The forest feels like it's breathing.

And the pain?

Still there.

Still throbbing.

But dulled now—like a blade under layers of cloth. His wounds pull. Knit. Ache. The bleeding slows. Muscles tremble, then go slack.

His body begins the long, ugly work of mending.

He lets his arm fall to his side—heavy, aching, but seated properly now.

Jaskier is still staring at him. Pale. Breath caught in his throat.

He shakes his head, eyes wide, but says nothing more.

Just reaches for the reins again.

And walks beside him.

×××

The shelter isn’t much—a sunken farmhouse, roof half-caved in, but the walls are solid, and the ground is dry. It’ll do.

Geralt sinks down onto a flat stone and exhales like it’s the last breath he can afford.

Jaskier’s quiet.

Too quiet.

He’s moving around, setting things up—firewood, saddlebag, blanket. Watching Geralt like he expects him to pass out or bleed out or combust on the spot.

Geralt just sits there. Breathing. Bones vibrating. Pain humming at a dull, manageable level.

Jaskier lays out the bedrolls. Geralt exhales through his nose and lowers himself onto his own with the grace of a dying ox. His tunic is half-shredded, but the parts still intact cling to his skin where blood has dried.

Jaskier hesitates. “I need to get this off.”

Geralt grunts. “You don’t have to—”

“I’m going to,” Jaskier snaps, sharper than usual.

Geralt grits his teeth. “Fine.”

He lifts his arms—slowly—and Jaskier peels what’s left of the tunic off his shoulders. The moment the fabric tears from the wounds, Geralt hisses and jerks, jaw clenched so tight his molars creak.

“Shit. Sorry,” Jaskier breathes.

Geralt mutters something unflattering under his breath.

Jaskier doesn’t hear it. Or pretends not to.

The tincture stings like hell.

Jaskier pours it onto a cloth and starts dabbing the wounds across Geralt’s ribs and spine. His hands tremble, just a little. Not enough to ruin the work. But enough that Geralt notices.

Still, he says nothing.

The pain isn’t sharp anymore. More like fire under the surface. Swallow’s doing its job—clotting the worst of the blood, knitting the flesh slowly. But the gashes are wide. Jagged. Deep enough that even regeneration could use a hand.

“I need stitches,” Geralt mutters.

Jaskier stills.

“Fuck,” he breathes.

Then: “Okay.”

He threads the needle with shaking fingers and just does it.

The first pierce of the needle draws another hiss through Geralt’s teeth. The second earns a curse.

He doesn’t flinch.

But he swears. Under his breath. In three languages.

Jaskier works carefully. Grimly.

He doesn’t apologize.

Not anymore.

When the final bandage is tied, when the thread is snipped and tucked, Geralt exhales like something inside him finally lets go.

Jaskier presses a clean cloth to one last cut. His hands are still shaking.

Geralt doesn’t mean to speak.

But he does.

“I’m sorry.”

The cloth slips from Jaskier’s hand.

He looks up, startled. “For what?”

Geralt doesn’t meet his eyes.

“For the new scars.”

Jaskier lets out a dry breath. Not quite a laugh.

“I’m already covered in them, Geralt,” he says, tone soft and wry. “From head to toe. So what? A couple more? Start a collection.”

Geralt doesn’t answer. Just breathes. Jaskier doesn’t mean it. Not really. But it still hits something in his chest that won’t stop aching.

They fall quiet again.

Jaskier busies himself with the saddlebag—pulling out what’s left of their food: a half-loaf of bread, some dried meat, two apples gone soft. He runs the numbers in his head, frowns.

“We need to stop in the next town,” he says. “Soon. You—”

“I’m not dying,” Geralt says automatically.

“You’re injured.”

“I’ll heal.”

“We’re out of food.”

“I’ll hunt.”

“You can’t even stand up without swearing.”

Geralt glares.

Jaskier levels him with a look that could cut glass.

Geralt opens his mouth.

Shuts it again.

Jaskier hands him a strip of dried meat. The thicker cut.

It’s more than half of what they have left.

Geralt stares at it. “This is yours.”

“No, it’s yours,” Jaskier says firmly. “You need more. Witcher metabolism, regeneration, blah blah blah.”

Geralt blinks at the food.

Then takes it.

Jaskier passes him a chunk of bread and the clearer half of the water flask.

They eat in silence.

And Geralt thinks—

How the fuck did this get so messed up?

His heart feels like a foreign object in his own chest.

But he breathes.

And Jaskier doesn’t move away.

×××

The fire burns low.

Jaskier leans back against the crumbling stone wall, arms folded, eyes half-lidded but awake. Watching the flames. Watching him.

Geralt closes his eyes.

Lets the fire crackle and pop, the warmth settle into his bones.

He dreams of heat.

Not fire. Not pain.

Sound. Movement. Need.

Eskel.

The room is stone, flickering firelight, the smell of sweat and ash and their skins ground together. Geralt is on his back, pinned beneath Eskel’s weight. His thighs are open, calves hooked around Eskel’s hips, back arching up into every thrust.

Eskel is inside him—thick, hard, deep—driving into him with all the finesse of a storm and the focus of a soldier. There’s no mercy in it.

Geralt doesn’t want mercy.

He wants this—the sharp thrust of hips, the rough drag of Eskel’s cock inside him, the growl in his throat when he grinds deeper, chasing the edge like he means to bury himself there.

Geralt claws at his back. Leaves red streaks across old scars. His breath breaks on every stroke—loud, uncontrolled, teeth bared. His own cock is leaking, untouched, pressed between them, rubbed raw by the friction of their bodies.

His vision is swimming.

His muscles twitch every time Eskel hits that perfect angle—slow grind, then snap, again, again—like he’s marking the spot inside him where no one else belongs.

Eskel groans into his throat, teeth grazing the line of his jaw, then bites—not to hurt. Just to claim.

Geralt groans, too—low, filthy, broken.

His hips jerk, needing more. Always more. The ache of it has its own gravity.

And still—

No words.

Just the slick sound of skin, the slap of hips, the gasping rhythm of breath and control undone.

Eskel changes the angle—grabs under Geralt’s knees and folds him, pressing harder, deeper, so deep Geralt chokes on it, eyes flying open. 

The only thought in his head: mine.

His body jerks.

He’s so close.

And Eskel knows it.

He wraps a fist around Geralt’s cock and strokes—rough, fast, no rhythm, no patience. Just pressure and heat and—

Geralt comes with a shattered breath and a full-body spasm, clenching around Eskel with a cry that tears out of him raw and shaking.

Eskel follows, snarling, hips slamming flush as he spills deep inside.

They breathe together—still clutching, still pressed together, still refusing to move.

Geralt’s heart is hammering. His body spent. His soul stretched raw.

Eskel lifts his head—

And Geralt sees his face. Not shadowed. Not vague.

Just Eskel.

Eyes dark. Lips bruised.

Not smiling.

Just there.

And Geralt knows—in that moment, in this impossible place between memory and want—

He would never stop needing him.

He wakes with a jolt. Again.

Fuck, again.

Jaskier is asleep beside him, back turned, breathing slow and steady.

Geralt’s chest is damp with sweat.

His heart is racing.

And for a moment, all he can think is:

I didn’t say goodbye.

Chapter Text

The morning bites sharper than it should—too cruel for this late in the season. The sky’s clear, but the earth hasn’t caught up. Mist curls low around the half-burned wood of their fire, creeping into the seams of their coats and bedrolls like a second skin.

Geralt’s awake.

Not by choice.

He doesn’t sleep long when the pain’s this layered—dull, but persistent. Bruises on top of bruises. The bite of stitches pulling at skin that wants to heal too fast. The slow, familiar burn of a body reminding him: you are not unbreakable.

And that dream—

He shifts carefully, adjusting his weight on the bedroll.

Jaskier stirs behind him, but doesn’t wake.

When the bard finally does rise—hours later, hair flattened on one side, mouth tight with unspoken thoughts—the silence between them is almost comfortable.

Almost.

They eat without words. Dry bread. Dried meat. Cool water that tastes like old iron.

Geralt watches him from the corner of his eye.

He sees it—the way Jaskier keeps looking at him. Then away. Then back again. Like he’s measuring something, weighing it in his hands and finding it heavier than expected.

There’s no accusation in his face. No distance.

Just a kind of quiet turbulence. A storm still too far off to hear, but close enough to feel.

“Should move by noon,” Geralt mutters eventually, breaking the quiet.

Jaskier nods, doesn’t look up. “You sure you can walk that long?”

“Can ride.”

“You said you couldn’t yesterday.”

“I can today.”

Jaskier snorts faintly. “You’re full of shit.”

Geralt hums in vague agreement.

Another silence stretches. Somewhere in the distance, a hawk cries overhead.

Then—

“You didn’t scream,” Jaskier says.

Geralt blinks. “What?”

“Your shoulder. Yesterday.” Jaskier’s voice is soft. Puzzled, maybe. “You shoved your own joint back into place and didn’t make a sound.”

Geralt shrugs his good shoulder. “Didn’t seem useful.”

Jaskier looks at him for a long moment. “You’re terrifying sometimes, you know that?”

Geralt doesn’t answer.

They both know he isn’t denying it.

They pack up slowly.

No rush. No chatter.

Geralt catches Jaskier watching him again. His mouth opens. Then closes.

He’s building up to something.

Geralt knows the shape of it already. 

It’s not blame.

Not rejection.

It’s something harder.

Curiosity.

The kind that comes with grief. And confusion. And a lifetime of questions finally realizing they might have answers.

He doesn’t push.

He never does.

Just lets Jaskier choose.

×××

The air between them has thickened, made of something heavier than breath.

Geralt rides Roach.

Jaskier walks beside Pegasus, head bowed, mouth tight, every step deliberate. He doesn’t hum. Doesn’t talk. Doesn’t even trip.

Which is how Geralt knows it’s there—something on his mind.

By late afternoon, they find a half-sheltered ridge to rest under—the kind that promises windbreak and nothing else. But it’s dry, and they’ve had worse. 

Geralt builds a small fire. Jaskier unpacks food.

They settle under the ridge, the sky bruised purple over the trees. The fire crackles low, smoke curling in soft, lazy trails. It’s quiet—no place to hide.

Geralt cleans his blade, slow and methodical, the cloth darkening with old blood. His ribs still ache when he breathes too deep. His back throbs where the worst of the stitching pulls.

Across from him, Jaskier sits cross-legged, arms wrapped around himself, staring into the flames like he’s trying to read something hidden inside them.

Geralt knows what’s coming.

And sure enough—

“I know I don’t have to ask,” Jaskier says finally. “I mean, I know you’d tell me if I needed to know. And I know this whole thing is… messy, and weird, and—gods, I don’t even know what I’m feeling about any of it yet.”

He pauses. Swallows.

“But I think I have the right to know who he is.”

Geralt lifts his gaze.

“Eskel,” he says.

Jaskier nods. Barely visible.

His voice is quieter now. “I don’t want some grand explanation. I’m not asking you to make it make sense. Just… who is he?”

Geralt takes a slow breath. Lets the question settle before he answers. The words come too easily.

“He was the first person I trusted,” he says. “Not only with my back in a fight. With the rest of me.”

Another breath.

“He was quieter than me, when we were boys. Sharper, too. Saw things others missed. But he didn’t talk unless it mattered.” He pauses. “His laugh was rare. Which meant you noticed it.”

That one earns the faintest twitch of Jaskier’s mouth. Almost a smile. Almost.

Geralt adjusts his arm slightly. The stitches pull.

“He has this way of being solid,” he says. “Present. Like when he’s next to you, the world stops rattling so loud.”

His voice doesn’t soften. But it doesn’t harden either.

“He got his scar fighting a forktail alone. I told him not to. He did anyway. Typical. Thought he could handle it,” Geralt goes on. “He did, technically.”

They fall quiet again for a few moments.

The fire pops.

Jaskier finally speaks again.

“Is he like you?”

Geralt thinks about that. “No,” he says. “We trained together. Took the same poisons. Fought the same monsters. But we’re not the same.”

He looks into the flames.

“He’s still a Witcher. Still mutated. Still quiet. But he laughs more now. And drinks better mead. And tells worse jokes.”

Jaskier huffs faintly.

There’s a long pause.

“I hold things tight. He lets them go when they’re ready. I can go weeks without saying what I’m feeling. He doesn’t say it either—but he shows it. Always did.”

Jaskier nods slowly.

“He doesn’t know, does he?”

“No.”

“You never told him?”

“How would I? I didn’t know until I met you.”

Jaskier wraps his arms tighter around himself.

“And you?”

Geralt turns to look at him.

“You and him. What were you?”

It’s not bitter. Not sharp.

Just a question that’s waited too long to be asked.

Geralt watches the fire for a moment more.

“Everything,” he says simply. “And nothing we understood.”

He picks up a small branch, tosses it into the fire.

“We ate together. Slept side by side. I could tell when he was in pain before he said a word, before I even smelled him. He used to sit next to me after bad days, just to let me breathe.”

The firelight flickers in Jaskier’s eyes.

“And what did it feel like?”

Geralt considers that.

“Like silence, when your mind won’t shut up. Like breath, when you’ve already drowned.” He swallows. “Like I belonged somewhere. With someone.”

He adds, after a beat, “We didn’t know what we were. But we felt it. And sometimes, that feeling turned into something physical. Rare. But when it happened—”

He trails off.

Jaskier finishes the sentence for him, “You didn’t need to name it.”

“No,” Geralt says. “We didn’t.”

“Did you love him?”

Geralt looks up.

“Still do.”

Jaskier doesn’t react at first.

His hands tighten in his lap, face unreadable.

Then, softly: “That’s not what I expected you to say.”

“What did you expect?”

“I don’t know… maybe that it was over. That you’d buried it.”  

“I did,” Geralt says. “For a while.”

He pauses.

“But things like that don’t stay buried. Not really.”

Jaskier swallows hard. His voice is small.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with all this.”

Geralt leans forward, elbows on his knees.

“Neither do I.”

Jaskier finally looks at him. Really looks.

They sit like that for a long time.

The fire is mostly ash now, only a few stubborn embers glowing beneath the logs. The cold has crept in again—it settles into Geralt’s bones like it belongs there.

He’s used to the cold.

It gives him something to feel when he’s trying not to.

Jaskier hasn’t moved. He stays where he is, arms looped around his knees.

And Geralt—he should leave it alone. The conversation should be over. Jaskier gave him a way out.

But something in his chest won’t let him take it.

So he speaks again.

Low. Careful. Like he’s laying down something sharp.

“I saw the scar on your cheek before I knew your name.”

Jaskier’s head turns slightly—just enough to let Geralt know he’s listening.

“And I thought…” Geralt pauses. “I thought it looked familiar.”

He stares into the dying fire. His voice goes quiet.

“And I knew.”

Jaskier’s brows knit, but he doesn’t speak.

Geralt breathes through it.

“I recognized it. Not in the way you recognize a face. In the way you recognize a blade that’s cut you before.”

Jaskier doesn’t respond, but his posture has changed—subtly.

“And I thought,” Geralt says, his voice rougher now, “that the world had a fucked-up sense of humor. Giving me something I lost. Putting it in front of me like a joke.”

Geralt breathes, and for once, doesn’t swallow the words.

“Every time you smiled, I saw him. And every time you touched me, I felt like a thief.”

That makes Jaskier flinch—barely.

Geralt doesn’t stop.

“I told myself it wasn’t real. That you were Eskel’s. That I couldn’t—shouldn’t—take something that wasn’t mine. And that even if he never knew, I would know.”

He shifts his weight, feels the stitches.

“And then you started getting under my skin anyway. You made space where there wasn’t any. You didn’t ask permission. You just… stayed.”

He exhales, shaky.

“I started to feel things I hadn’t felt since Eskel. The same pull. The same quiet. The same… peace.”

He glances up at Jaskier, who looks like he’s trying very hard not to move at all.

“And it scared the shit out of me.”

He shakes his head, gaze low.

“So I pulled away. I told myself I was doing the right thing. That I was protecting something. You. Him. Myself.”

He lets out a dry, bitter breath.

“I wasn’t.”

Jaskier’s mouth parts, but he doesn’t speak.

“You’re not Eskel,” Geralt says. “And you never were. And I hated myself for seeing him in you when you smiled. When you slept. When you put your hand on my arm like it meant something.”

His voice softens—not gentle. Tired.

“But after a while, I stopped seeing him. And started seeing you.”

There’s a long pause.

Geralt breaks it.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” he says quietly. “I’m not asking you to understand it, or accept it. You don’t owe me anything.”

He picks up a small stone and rolls it between his fingers.

“For weeks, I’ve been walking around thinking I was stealing something that didn’t belong to me. And I kept telling myself it’d be easier if I stayed quiet. If I didn’t reach for anything. If I could… hold it in.”

He takes a deep breath. Then lets it out.

“I can’t anymore.”

The fire snaps softly. Jaskier still hasn’t spoken.

Geralt presses on.

“If I’d said something sooner, maybe I could’ve stopped hurting you. Or maybe I would’ve made it worse. I don’t know.”

He shrugs with his right shoulder.

“And maybe I don’t get to have either of you. Maybe I was never meant to. But I’m tired of pretending I haven’t been breaking open every damn day.”

He finally looks at Jaskier again.

“I just needed you to know.”

Jaskier’s eyes shine—not with tears—but with something sharp. Something like grief, and relief, and disbelief tangled up in a knot.

“I didn’t know you thought that,” he says quietly.

Geralt’s voice is hoarse. Honest.

“I didn’t want you to.”

“Why?”

“Because if you hated me, I wanted it to be for something I’d done. Not for something I couldn’t help.”

The silence that follows is different now.

Jaskier doesn’t say anything else. Doesn’t look up.

Geralt doesn’t speak either.

He just wonders if, for once, the truth might be enough.

×××

They make slow progress north, skirting the edges of farmlands, and through thinning woods. The air turns dry. The wind sharper. Not yet winter, but close enough to start thinking about it.

Geralt’s healing comes in layers.

The deeper cuts begin to close. The pain in his shoulder dulls to a familiar echo. The bruising fades. The stitches pull, but don’t tear. He doesn’t limp anymore.

He wakes stiff each morning, though. Still feels it when he exhales too sharply. Swallow did its job—but Witcher or not, even he isn’t immune to torn muscle.

He says none of this out loud.

Jaskier watches him anyway.

Geralt does hunt. Rabbits. A wild pheasant. Once, something that might’ve been a fox before it got half-devoured by something bigger. And though the bard opens his mouth more than once to protest, he stops himself every time. He watches Geralt go with his arms crossed and a restless tension in his jaw.

He always paces while Geralt’s gone.

Always glances toward the treeline like he might follow.

Geralt doesn’t say don’t.

Jaskier doesn’t say please don’t go.

They move in quiet tandem. Unspoken boundaries. Tired eyes.

×××

It takes them three days to reach Hagge.

Not the kind of place most people aim for—just a wind-worn town clinging to the edge of a valley, caught between forest and rock. Low, sloped roofs. Stone chimneys belching smoke that smells like pine and peat. The kind of cold that bites at the seams of your clothes before sunset, and doesn't let go.

A place to stop. A place to pass through.

Geralt's ribs ache. His boots are rubbing at the heels.

Jaskier walks with his shoulders hunched, cloak drawn tight, face half-hidden behind his scarf.

They don’t say a word as they step through the gate.

By the time the crooked wooden sign for The Copper Kettle appears at the end of town, dusk is already thick, and the wind coming down from the hills smells like distant snow.

They pool their coin—not much. Enough for one room. Barely.

Jaskier doesn’t suggest singing in taverns anymore. He hasn’t—since losing the glamour medallion.

Geralt doesn’t bring it up. But he watches the way Jaskier avoids the open doors of every inn they pass. The way he lowers his face.

“Crowds aren’t really my thing right now,” he says once, too casually. “Not exactly charming with this face, am I?”

Geralt doesn’t answer.

No answer he has would make it better.

The bed is small, the mattress uneven. A draft slips under the frame, up through the cracked window, across the bare floor.

Jaskier throws his bedroll down without a word.

“I’ll take the floor.”

Geralt stiffens. “You don’t have to—”

“You’re still not healed.”

“I’m not dying.”

“Doesn’t mean you should sleep on splinters.”

“I’ve slept on worse.”

Jaskier doesn’t look up as he unfastens his cloak. “I don’t care. Take the bed.”

His voice isn’t sharp.

Just final.

Geralt wants to argue. But the thought of bending over to unroll his own blanket again makes something in his back spasm in protest.

He grits his teeth.

“Fine.”

The room is silent for hours.

Jaskier’s breath is unsteady. He tosses. Pulls his cloak tighter. Shifts again. Coughs once. Sniffs.

Geralt stares at the ceiling and listens to all of it.

Every rustle of cloth. Every quickened heartbeat. Every suppressed shiver.

The floor is cold. Hard.

Unforgiving.

And Jaskier is trying to make himself small. Quiet. Unnoticeable.

It makes Geralt want to punch the wall. Or break something. Or—

“Jaskier.”

A pause.

Then a groggy, “What?”

“Get up.”

Another pause. “What?”

“Get in the bed.”

“…Why?”

“Because it’s fucking freezing.”

“I—” A sniff. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

“I—”

“Get in the damn bed.”

The room stays quiet for a second too long.

Then Jaskier moves—stiff, cautious. Like he’s worried Geralt might change his mind halfway through.

He doesn’t.

The bed creaks when the bard climbs in beside him.

They lie there like strangers for a moment. Two bodies, one mattress, enough space between them to drown in.

But Geralt can feel the tension in Jaskier’s shoulders. The tight curl of his spine.

“You’re allowed,” Geralt mutters.

Jaskier turns his head. “Allowed to what?”

“Let it help.”

There’s a long, quiet beat.

Then Jaskier leans closer. Not touching. But near.

“…Thanks,” he says.

Geralt grunts.

Jaskier’s shoulders relax slowly, like each breath he takes lets go of something he's been holding in for days. Weeks. Maybe longer.

Geralt lies still, arms crossed over his chest, blanket pulled just high enough to share, not so high that it feels like an invitation.

Their bodies don’t touch.

But the space between them warms.

It’s Jaskier who breaks the silence, eventually.

His voice low, scratched from exhaustion.

“You always this grumpy when someone shares your bed?”

Geralt closes his eyes. “You’re not in my bed.”

“I’m literally in your bed.”

“It’s the inn’s bed.”

“Oh, right. That makes this completely different.”

Geralt exhales—somewhere between a sigh and a short huff.

Jaskier adjusts his posture again.

His knee brushes against Geralt’s thigh. Not on purpose. Not tentative, either.

Geralt doesn’t move.

He can tell Jaskier is awake—the shallow breaths, the tense hold of his ribs.

The bard speaks again. Quieter this time.

“Is it always like this?”

Geralt frowns. “Like what?”

“This—” Jaskier’s voice catches a little. “The in-between. The not knowing what anything means.”

Geralt doesn’t answer right away.

Then: “Yeah.”

“Even with soulmates?”

“Especially with soulmates.”

The air grows heavier.

Outside, a cart rumbles past the inn, the wheels creaking over stone. Somewhere down the alley, a dog barks once. The wind slips through the cracked window, cold and insistent.

Jaskier shivers.

Geralt pulls the blanket higher.

Neither of them mentions it.

After a long pause, Geralt speaks again. His voice is low. Factual. Like he's checking trail markers in the dark.

“We’re close to the Kaedwen border now.”

Jaskier fidgets. Just a little.

“You’ll be leaving soon.”

“Yeah.”

“How long will it take?”

Geralt’s answer comes fast—a memory trained over decades.

“Thirteen, maybe sixteen days. If I ride steady.”

Jaskier says nothing, so Geralt continues.

“Northeast out of Hagge. Into Kaedwen by the old forest passes. Avoid the cities. I’ll follow the foothills north—Ard Carraigh’s the last outpost before the climb.”

A pause.

Jaskier’s voice is careful.

“And after that?”

Geralt exhales.

“Blue Mountains. No roads. Old Witcher paths. You follow them wrong, you don’t come back.”

The silence this time is colder.

Geralt doesn’t know what Jaskier’s thinking. If he’s measuring the distance, the danger—or something else entirely.

He doesn’t ask.

Because some questions aren’t meant to be answered in the dark.

And then—

Jaskier says, softly, “Will he be there?”

Geralt doesn't ask who.

He stares at the ceiling. Feels the tightness in his chest crawl back up behind his ribs. None of this is about his wounds.

“Yes,” he says quietly.

He doesn’t add if he survived.

Doesn’t say if the snow didn’t trap him somewhere, if the wrong contract didn’t go sideways, if one more fucking year didn’t wear him down past the point of no return.

Because he thinks about it every godsdamned autumn. The long walk back to Kaer Morhen always feels a little like walking into a graveyard until he sees Eskel’s boots by the fire. Or hears his laugh echo down the empty stone halls.

But Jaskier doesn’t need to carry that part.

“And… the two of you. You’ll be…”

He doesn’t finish it.

But Geralt hears it anyway.

“No. Not like that.”

Not anymore.

Not for a long time.

Maybe not ever again.

He doesn’t explain.

He could.

He could talk about the way time has changed them, pulled them apart. That there were no fights, no betrayals—just years stacked on years and too many things left unspoken.

He doesn’t say any of it.

Another beat passes.

Then Jaskier says, quiet and flat:

“But he should know. About me. Right?”

Geralt closes his eyes.

The ache behind them is old, familiar.

“He’ll know,” Geralt says. “If you want him to.”

Jaskier moves beside him.

“And if I don’t?”

Geralt stills.

“It’s your choice.”

Silence.

“Why?”

Geralt turns his head slightly—enough to see the line of Jaskier’s jaw in the faint moonlight through the window.

“Because it has to be,” he says. “Because none of this was your doing. And you didn’t ask for it. You didn’t get to choose what’s carved into your skin. But you should get to choose what comes next.”

Jaskier exhales—a slow, uneven sound that’s part disbelief, part grief.

“I don’t even know what I’d say to him,” he murmurs.

“You don’t have to know.”

Jaskier is quiet for a long time.

And finally, he shifts—lets his arm press lightly against Geralt’s, their shoulders brushing.

They lie like that in the dark.

It’s not heavy this time. Not empty, but rested. Like they’ve both stopped fighting gravity for a minute.

Geralt feels Jaskier’s breath slow beside him, warmer now, calmer.

And then—

Right as Geralt starts to think he’s finally going to drift—

Jaskier says, softly:

“Would it have been easier if I were him?”

His voice is heavy with something that sounds like shame.

“I mean, if I’d just… been him. Or closer. Would that have made it easier for you to love me?”

Geralt’s chest aches.

He exhales slowly.

“Don’t ask me that,” he says.

Jaskier doesn’t reply.

But he doesn’t pull away either.

And when Geralt finally sleeps, it’s with the weight of that question echoing like a heartbeat he hasn’t yet learned how to answer.

Chapter Text

Geralt wakes first.

He always does.

It takes a moment for his mind to catch up with his senses.

Then he realizes: Jaskier is wrapped around him. Or maybe he’s wrapped around Jaskier. It’s hard to say. Their legs are tangled. One of Geralt’s arms rests low around the bard’s waist, the other tucked beneath the pillow they’re both sharing.

There’s breath on his neck. Slow. Even. Asleep.

Geralt doesn’t move.

He tells himself it’s the cold. That their bodies found each other by instinct in the night, chasing warmth. Nothing more.

But he lets himself have it.

A few more breaths.

His hand stays where it is—steady, splayed across Jaskier’s side. Not possessive. Not demanding. Just… there. A point of contact in a world that’s never been still long enough to offer one.

He breathes in.

Jaskier’s scent is clean. Uncomplicated in sleep. Skin and wool and something faintly herbal from whatever soap he used last. No undercurrent of sharp confusion. No tension. No doubt.

Geralt lets it fill his lungs.

He doesn’t let himself reach for the scar on Jaskier’s cheek, though.

Not now that Jaskier knows what it means—what all of it means. The history. The failures.

So he lies there. Holds him—soft and solid and quiet.

Sometime after dawn, Jaskier stirs.

A soft, unconscious sound—half yawn, half contented sigh. He shifts slightly, tucking himself tighter into the curve of Geralt’s body, like a man burrowing deeper into a blanket.

Geralt’s body stiffens for a second. Reflex.

He breathes. Unclenches. Eases the arm around Jaskier’s waist, ready to give space.

But before he can—

Jaskier moves again—sleep-drunk and warm—he nuzzles closer, breath catching on Geralt’s throat.

It tickles.

Not that Geralt would ever admit it.

He’s not ticklish.

He’s a Witcher. Thank you very much.

×××

He expects Jaskier to startle.

To pull away with a muttered apology or an awkward joke. To say something too fast, too loud—because that’s what Jaskier always does when things matter too much.

But this time, he doesn’t.

He stays.

Still pressed close. Still breathing slow, though there’s something in the rhythm that’s changed—a subtle shift in pace that Geralt recognizes instantly.

He’s awake.

Geralt can feel it—the tightening of muscles beneath his arm, the small twitch in his jaw, the way his breath hitches slightly like he’s trying to decide if he should pretend otherwise.

Jaskier doesn’t move.

And Geralt… doesn’t ruin it.

There’s something about the moment—the quiet, the early light bleeding pale and gold through the thin curtain—that makes everything feel softer than it should.

And Jaskier doesn’t try to break it.

He keeps his eyes closed. Keeps his hand loosely curled near Geralt’s chest. Doesn’t say a word.

And Geralt lets him.

Lets this be what it is: a moment between whatever came before and whatever comes next. A pause in the ache.

He keeps his hand steady on Jaskier’s side.

Eventually, the bard shifts again. A slow press of his forehead against Geralt’s collarbone. A quiet sigh, like he’s making a decision.

He stays.

Geralt doesn’t say anything.

He lowers his chin, rests it lightly on the top of Jaskier’s head.

No tension in his limbs now. No nervous flutter in his pulse. Just the quiet weight of a man who’s found a shape that fits—and isn’t ready to let it go yet.

Geralt keeps still.

He thinks—maybe this is what peace feels like. The absence of fear, even for a moment.

Outside, the inn creaks—floorboards settling, a bucket dragged across stone, boots on old planks downstairs.

Geralt feels Jaskier’s fingers flex slightly against his chest—not gripping, not reaching, but reminding him: I’m here.

After a while, Jaskier’s voice slips out, soft and low.

“Your heartbeat’s loud.”

Geralt hums. “You’re pressed against it.”

“Still.”

Geralt almost smiles.

Almost.

“Annoying, is it?”

“No,” Jaskier says. The word lands heavier than it should. Then, quieter: “Just… real.”

Another pause.

“Do you miss it?”

Geralt blinks. “Miss what?”

“Before. When things were simpler.”

“They weren’t.”

Jaskier shifts—enough to tip his head back and glance up at him.

“I mean before you realized I was… this.” He gestures vaguely. “A soulmate. An echo. Of someone else. Someone real.”

“Jaskier.”

“I’m not fishing for reassurance—”

“You’re not an echo.”

Jaskier doesn’t answer.

Geralt touches his back—gently, palm steady.

Jaskier’s voice is even softer now.

“So what is this, then?”

Geralt doesn’t answer right away.

He feels Jaskier’s breath at his throat again—quiet warmth, solid weight.

“I don’t know,” Geralt says. “But it’s not stolen.”

Jaskier’s fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt.

They don’t move again for a while.

But eventually—

Inevitably—

Jaskier speaks again.

“Geralt?”

“Hm?”

A beat of hesitation.

“I’m starving.”

Geralt lets out a low, amused breath. “That’s what you’ve been thinking about?”

“No. But it’s a close second.”

Geralt huffs. His chest shifts under Jaskier’s cheek.

Jaskier lifts his head a little. Eyes narrow.

“Do you ever stop looking like the world’s always two seconds from collapse?”

Geralt raises an eyebrow. “Have you seen the world?”

“That’s not the point.”

Jaskier’s voice is lighter, but something else threads beneath it—something quieter. Raw.

Geralt doesn’t know who moves first.

Maybe it’s Jaskier. Maybe it’s him. Maybe it’s something between them, like gravity made real.

A slow tilt of heads.

Then lips.

Their noses bump.

At first, it’s barely pressure. Jaskier exhales softly, and Geralt feels it ghost across his mouth. Neither of them rushes.

Geralt moves a hand to Jaskier’s jaw, fingers curling lightly, just enough to guide. His thumb brushes Jaskier’s cheekbone—not over the scar, never again without invitation.

Jaskier’s lips part under his, soft and cautious, and there’s a breath of sound—something caught between a gasp and a moan—that pulls from Geralt an answering hum low in his throat.

There’s no shadow of Eskel in the taste of him. There’s no hesitation in the way Jaskier presses closer, breath catching, hand fisting lightly in the fabric of Geralt’s shirt.

It’s not perfect.

It’s messy in the way truth is—a bit too long, a bit too desperate.

But it’s real.

Gods, it’s real.

And when they finally part, it’s not with a flinch.

Their foreheads rest together.

Geralt doesn’t open his eyes right away.

But he hears it—soft and startled and immediate:

“Take me with you. To Kaer Morhen.”

×××

His eyes snap open.

He watches Jaskier, searches his face, tries to steady something wild behind his ribs.

“Are you sure?” he asks finally.

His voice is careful.

Jaskier’s gaze flickers.

“The road won’t be easy,” Geralt adds. “It’s cold. Remote. No inns. No firewood some nights. And the closer we get, the worse it gets.”

He’s not trying to dissuade him. Not really.

But Jaskier’s expression shifts, and then the familiar mask settles into place. Sarcasm, dry and too fast.

“Yeah, yeah, I get it. The snow will break my fragile legs. I’ll cry when the wind picks up. I’ll need to be rescued from the first squirrel that looks at me wrong.”

“Jaskier—”

“I’ll slow you down, complain constantly, probably get us both killed when I trip over a tree root and scream about blisters—”

“I’ll get you there,” Geralt snaps, low and sharp. “Doesn’t matter how. Doesn’t matter what it costs.”

He means it. He just doesn’t know how to say it better.

The silence that follows is deafening.

Even the inn seems to hold still.

Geralt blinks, stunned by his own words.

Jaskier’s eyes are wide. His lips parted, as if he’d meant to say something—joke, maybe—but the air's been knocked out of him.

Geralt swallows hard.

Witchers don’t lie.

They’re not supposed to make promises.

But here he is.

With a vow pressed out between ribs and scar tissue. The kind you don’t say unless it’s carved into you.

When Geralt finally speaks again, his voice is quieter.

But no less steady.

“Are you sure,” he says, “that you’re ready to meet him?”

Jaskier doesn’t answer at first.

His fingers tighten slightly on Geralt’s shirt.

Geralt watches him closely. He doesn’t press.

Finally, Jaskier lets out a long, uneven breath.

“No,” he says. A pause. “But I’m tired of hiding.”

×××

By the time the real light strengthens through the warped window, Jaskier’s dozed off again—not deep, but enough to make him soft and slow-limbed, curled around Geralt like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Geralt lets him sleep.

For a little while.

Eventually, though, the need to move wins out. Witcher instincts don’t allow for long stillness. 

Geralt exhales and shifts.

Jaskier grumbles, muffled and half-asleep. “You’re a terrible pillow.”

Geralt snorts. He swings his legs over the side of the bed, already cataloguing his aches. His shoulder’s stiff, ribs tight, but it’s better than yesterday.

Jaskier props himself up on one elbow, watching him dress. His hair is a disaster, and his shirt’s wrinkled to hell, but there’s something steadier in his eyes now. Less guarded.

“You all right?” Geralt asks.

Jaskier shrugs. “Bracing myself for the part where we ride into an actual mountain and I die from exposure.”

“You’ll be fine.”

“I’m fragile, Geralt. Precious. Like blown glass. Or—vintage silk.”

“Keep talking like that and I’ll pack you in Roach’s saddlebags.”

Jaskier grins, and Geralt can’t help the twitch at the corner of his mouth in return.

They move around each other easily.

Geralt folds the blanket. Jaskier tugs on his boots, then rearranges the contents of his lute case even though he hasn’t played since—

Well. Since the medallion.

Geralt doesn’t comment.

He tightens the strap on his armor—what’s left of it—and glances toward the window.

The sky is clear, pale blue. Cold. Good weather for travel, if it holds.

“Food?” Jaskier asks, slinging his cloak over his shoulder.

“Enough for today,” Geralt replies. “We’ll need to restock before we leave town.”

“I’ll charm a baker.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow.

“I’ll pay a baker. Like a peasant.”

The innkeep barely glances at them when they descend. The main room smells like burned fat and weak beer. Geralt trades two copper for a cold breakfast and two strips of something that might once have been meat.

Jaskier complains under his breath the whole time.

But he eats.

It feels less like they’re leaving something behind.

And more like they’re heading toward it.

They step out into the street just as the morning market begins to open—if you could call three carts and a smoking pot of cabbage a market.

Hagge never pretends to be more than it is.

Gray stone, crooked chimneys, and mud that never really dries. The kind of place where even the dogs look like they’ve given up arguing.

Geralt scans the square automatically, eyes flicking from cart to alley, from bundled cloaks to open doors. Nothing’s changed since yesterday.

They stop near the old notice board on the edge of the inn’s wall. It’s warped and stained, covered in curled papers pinned with bent nails.

Geralt glances at it anyway.

Habit.

Most of the scraps are faded: missing pigs, thieves on the east road, help wanted with chimney repair.

One in the corner mentions a leshen—old and half-torn, probably from two winters ago. Geralt doesn’t touch it.

Beside him, Jaskier squints at a hand-scrawled flyer that reads:

SEEKING SOMEONE TO REMOVE A GHOST FROM MY PRIVY
 — Mildra of the Wet Hollow

“Think she’s being metaphorical?” Jaskier mutters.

Geralt grunts. “Hm.”

×××

By the time they reach horses, the sky is sharpening to a brighter blue. The wind carries the scent of pines and frost.

Kaedwen lies ahead.

The road north is rough, little more than two wagon ruts through churned mud and thinning grass. No real traffic. No stone markers. Just the slow incline of land rising toward colder winds and sharper air.

Roach walks steady beneath him, ears flicking at every crow-call and creaking branch. Pegasus trails behind, tied to the saddle with a length of knotted rope, occasionally pulling to sniff a patch of ground or startle at shadows.

Jaskier hums to himself once—out of habit—and stops mid-note, the sound dying quickly in the cold.

Geralt says nothing.

But he hears the quiet click of Jaskier’s jaw tightening.

By midday, they’re deep into the Pontar Forests.

Not the clean, open kind of woods—no. This place swallows sound. Swamps squat beneath fallen leaves. The light barely filters through the branches above. It’s damp even when it’s not raining, and every step sinks just a little too far into the moss.

Twice, they detour around thick-bellied ravines veined with slow, black water. Once, Geralt spots a gnawed femur half-submerged in the mud. He doesn’t mention it.

Jaskier pulls his cloak tighter around his shoulders, the hem already soaked brown from the waist down. Still, he doesn’t complain.

Not out loud, anyway.

His boots make wet, squelching sounds with every step.

“I feel like I’m being slowly digested by the forest,” he mutters, voice hoarse. 

Geralt shrugs. “You didn’t even whine once.”

Jaskier lifts an eyebrow. “What a romantic thing to say.”

Geralt sighs.

×××

By the second day, the canopy thickens. The world turns green-brown and wet, and the ground never fully dries. They pass tangled nests of endriaga silk clinging to tree roots, and a wide stretch of hoof-trampled mud that smells like ghouls.

Geralt’s grip on his sword hilt tightens every time the brush rustles wrong.

Jaskier notices. He doesn’t ask.

But stays close.

On the third night, they camp on high ground near a dead tree split by lightning. The air is heavy. It’s not perfect. Nowhere is. Not this far north.

But it’s good enough.

And good enough is survival.

It takes longer than usual to get the fire going.

The wood is damp and brittle—Geralt has to strip the bark, dig into the core, find something that’ll catch. Nothing ever comes easy in the wild belly of the Pontar Forests.

It’s the kind of work that used to annoy him. Now, he just does it. The same way he’s always done everything.

Because if he hadn’t—he’d be dead. Another lost body rotting beneath the dirt.

He thinks about that sometimes.

The number of small, quiet things that kept him alive. The right flint. The right angle of shelter. The right wound bound before it festered.

Tonight, the fire takes.

Jaskier’s wrapped in his cloak, sitting close to the flames, legs pulled up, chin resting on his knees. He’s quiet for a long time—unusually so. His eyes are glassy with exhaustion as he watches the sparks rise.

Geralt doesn’t press.

He warms his hands. Checks the perimeter again. Rolls his shoulders. The bruises don’t bite like they did before.

Eventually, as the dark thickens and the fire crackles louder than either of them speak—

Jaskier says, “There’ll be someone else there, right?”

Geralt looks over. Jaskier’s still watching the fire. He doesn’t sound nervous, but… bracing.

“Not just… Eskel.”

Geralt nods. “Yeah.”

He takes a moment, then settles down across from Jaskier, pulling his cloak tighter against the wind.

“Vesemir’ll be there. He always is.”

“The grandmaster?” Jaskier asks, arching an eyebrow.

“More like a father than a master. Hasn’t held that title in years,” Geralt says. “Older than dirt. Mean as winter. Smarter than anyone alive. He trained us. All of us.”

Jaskier tilts his head. “So he’s the stern but loving mentor with a heart of gold?”

“He’ll swat your ears if you talk too much at breakfast.”

“So, your father figure.”

Geralt smirks.

“And… Lambert? I recall you mentioned him once,” Jaskier prompts further.

Geralt groans, rubbing a hand over his face.

“What?”

“He’s… loud.”

“Is that Witcher code for 'murderous'?”

“No. That’s Witcher code for loud. And sarcastic. And picks fights when he’s bored. Like a drunk porcupine.”

“Oh, good,” Jaskier mutters. “I was worried Kaer Morhen wouldn’t be full of emotionally repressed men with swords. Glad we’re getting variety.”

Geralt snorts.

“And Coën might be there, too,” he adds. “He’s not one of the Wolves, but he winters with us sometimes.”

“Is he also emotionally repressed?”

“No,” Geralt says. “Just quiet. Smart. Kind. He knows medicine. Keeps to himself.”

“A Witcher with healing skills?” Jaskier raises a brow. “Incredible. What will you show me next—a Witcher who does embroidery?”

“Eskel does,” Geralt deadpans.

Jaskier stares.

Geralt shrugs. “Mostly to patch things. But yeah. He’s good at it.”

Jaskier laughs then—a real one. Bright and sudden, curling up from somewhere deep in his chest. The sound is breathy and raw, and it reaches Geralt like firelight does—sudden warmth in a cold space.

He watches the bard.

And doesn’t look away.

“You’re staring,” Jaskier says after a beat, voice teasing but soft.

“I know.”

“You gonna stop?”

“No.”

Jaskier blushes, and doesn’t try to hide it.

For once, he doesn’t close up. Doesn’t look away. He meets Geralt’s gaze and lets it settle—something slow, open, and quiet.

Later, when the fire’s burned down to half its size and the cold starts to bite again, they unroll their sleeping bags side by side. The ground is hard, but the closeness makes it bearable.

Jaskier settles first, tugging his cloak around him and flopping onto his side with a theatrical groan. “You’d better be warm, Witcher. If I die in the night, I’m haunting your ass.”

Geralt lies down beside him. “You already haunt me.”

“Oh,” Jaskier sighs. “Flirting. Finally.”

Geralt huffs, and before he can think better of it, he shifts closer. Lets his arm slide across Jaskier’s side. Draws him in.

Jaskier curls into the warmth without a word. His hair smells like smoke and soap and the forest. His breath tickles against Geralt’s throat.

Geralt leans down, presses his lips lightly to Jaskier’s forehead.

Jaskier makes a soft, mumbling sound—something like a question, or a comfort—and nestles closer.

And Geralt closes his eyes, the heat of the fire fading, the cold held at bay by something warmer than flame.

×××

The forest never feels empty. But it’s quiet.

Too quiet.

Just the slow drip of rain from somewhere far overhead and the thick silence of trees older than any man still walking.

They’re not starving. But Jaskier’s stomach has growled more than once, and their packs are light. They burned through the last of the bread the night before, and the dried meat from Hagge has gone soft with damp.

Which is why Geralt rises early and moves into the underbrush before Jaskier stirs.

He takes no cloak.

Only his steel sword and a bone-handled knife for skinning.

The Pontar Forests are thick with game. Technically.

He finds tracks easily: rabbit scat, fresh. A tuft of hare-fur caught on a low bramble. A scatter of feathers and bent grass where a partridge flailed. And claw marks. Deep ones.

Not wolf.

Too wide.

Boar.

He follows the signs north, moving slow.

The wet earth takes footprints well, and the boar left deep ones—broad, heavy, clustered near a wallow at the edge of a misted clearing.

Geralt stays still for a long time.

Listens.

There’s a rustle. A low grunt. A shape moving through the ferns—thick-legged, with shoulders like a rolling barrel. Big enough to kill a man if it charges.

Geralt shifts his stance.

Draws the knife. Doesn’t breathe.

When he strikes, it’s fast—between the shoulder and the spine, just behind the ear.

The animal squeals once, jerks, then goes down.

Geralt kneels over it in the fading light, breath slow.

The boar twitches once more.

Dead.

He presses two fingers to the flank. Warm.

No signs of rot. No foam. No sickness in the eyes.

Clean meat.

He works quickly, methodically. Slices the muscle from the haunches and back, keeps the heart and liver—good protein, won’t last long. Everything else he leaves for scavengers.

He takes one long look at the claw marks on a nearby tree—fresher than he thought—and begins the walk back at double pace.

Jaskier is poking at a stubborn fire when he returns, cursing the damp like it’s personal.

When he sees the meat, his eyes go wide.

“You absolute forest demon,” he says. “Is that boar?”

Geralt nods and drops the cuts on the flat rock they’ve been using as a prep surface.

“I thought we were going to die gnawing bark. I was rehearsing eulogies.”

Geralt shrugs. “Better meat than mushrooms.”

Jaskier eyes the pile. “You’re incredible. But also: you smell like blood and the regrets of lesser men.”

Geralt rolls his eyes.

That night, they eat well.

Geralt seasons the meat with a pouch of salt from Hagge. Jaskier manages not to burn it. It’s tougher than venison but rich, satisfying. They both eat in silence, save for the sound of rain on leaves and the occasional satisfied hum from the bard’s side of the fire.

But that night Geralt sleeps with one hand on the hilt of his sword, in case whatever left those tree-claw marks decides to come looking for what it smells.

×××

It rains on the fifth day.

Not the storming kind—just steady, spiteful rain that settles into clothes and bones. No matter how tightly Jaskier wraps himself in his cloak, his hair ends up damp. His boots squelch with every step. His fingers are red from the cold.

Geralt watches him closely.

Too closely, probably.

But he’s human. Humans get sick. They get fevers. Coughs. Pneumonia.

Then they die.

Geralt is not paranoid.

…Okay. Maybe a little.

He listens to Jaskier’s breathing for any signs without saying anything—tightness in the lungs, hitch in the voice, a chill in the blood. Stares too long at his hands, his eyes, the flush in his cheeks after walking.

Nothing yet.

Jaskier doesn’t complain.

Not much, anyway.

He curses the rain, yes. Swears at roots and nettles and once, very sincerely, at a mushroom that splashed mud on his trousers. But he doesn’t say he’s tired. Doesn’t ask to stop early. Doesn’t even once look at Geralt like he’s regretting this choice.

Still, Geralt watches.

The bard’s skin stays warm. His breath steady. But every time he shivers, Geralt’s fingers twitch with the urge to wrap him in another cloak. Or take him back. Somewhere warm. Somewhere dry.

Somewhere not this.

×××

That night Geralt feels it before he hears them.

The change in the air. The way Roach lifts her head. The way Jaskier's voice catches mid-hum.

“What?” the bard whispers.

Geralt doesn’t answer at first.

He stands. Turns his head. Listens.

“Wolves.”

The forest is dark here. Denser. The firelight barely reaches the underbrush, and everything beyond is black and moving.

Jaskier stiffens. “Monsters or—?”

“Real ones,” Geralt mutters. “Not cursed.”

He walks to the edge of the fire’s light, silent. Boots soft on the pine-needled ground. His fingers rest lightly on the hilt of his steel sword.

“They’ve been trailing us,” he says after a moment. “For the last three hours.”

Jaskier makes a small sound in his throat. “Oh, good. Company.”

Geralt scans the trees. He sees nothing.

But he feels them.

A pack.

Six, maybe seven.

“Will they attack?” Jaskier asks quietly.

“No, if we don’t give them a reason.”

“You mean aside from smelling like meat and being extremely flammable?”

“Hm.”

Wolves are not stupid.

That’s what most people forget.

They don’t charge firelight. They don’t circle humans for fun. They watch. They test. They wait for the stumble, the misstep, the slackened grip or the sleeping man who doesn’t wake in time.

Geralt feeds the fire again. Sparks leap high and wild.

The night passes.

The wolves don’t attack.

They move—quiet, circling, watching—but never come closer than the trees.

Geralt feels them all night long in the rhythm of the forest. 

And when dawn finally bleeds pale over the mist-soaked ferns, he hears them leave.

They’re not prey tonight.

×××

They run into an algul on the sixth day.

The thing creeps close enough, hunched and bone-thin, its jaw trembling, claws clotted with dirt.

It’s old.

Alone.

Lucky.

Geralt kills it quickly.

But after that, his senses sharpen even more. Every rustle of leaves. Every heartbeat. Every change in Jaskier’s breath.

By the seventh day, the trees finally thin.

The light comes back in fractured strips. The mud recedes. Conifer needles replace rot-stink. The ground begins to rise in soft, rolling hills. Geralt breathes easier.

“Is this the part where we die from exposure instead of mauling?” Jaskier asks.

“Progress,” Geralt says.

Jaskier slaps a pine branch out of his face. “If we survive this, I’m writing a ballad called Six Days of Mud and Mutual Resentment.”

“I’ll hang it on the wall.”

“Oh, that’s cute. You think I’d dedicate it to you.”

Geralt glances over, half-smirking.

“I’d smell it.”

They stop early that evening—the rain’s let up just enough to allow a fire. Geralt finds a pocket of dry ground under a thick spruce canopy. Enough space to crouch, to breathe.

He gets the fire going on the second try. Damp kindling. Swears once under his breath.

Jaskier wrings out his cloak, cursing colorfully, then squats near the fire and holds his hands out.

And then, without warning—

He pulls out his lute.

Geralt doesn’t react outwardly. But something inside his chest stirs—sharp, unexpected.

It’s the first time Jaskier touched it since—

Geralt glances over, his expression tilting into something puzzled but quiet.

Jaskier doesn’t look at him. He’s too busy grumbling.

“Gods above,” he mutters, glaring at the instrument. “You wheeze like the lasses in the Gulet brothels.”

Geralt blinks.

Jaskier breathes on the tuning pegs, fingers shivering slightly, then wipes the neck of the lute with the edge of his scarf.

“Until you get oiled. After that? Smooth as silk,” he adds under his breath.

Geralt snorts.

Loudly.

Jaskier’s head jerks up. “What.”

Geralt looks away, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“Nothing.”

“That was a laugh!”

“It was air escaping my lungs.”

“Exactly like the lasses in the Gulet brothels.”

Geralt presses the heel of his palm into his eye.

The fire crackles. Jaskier begins tuning the lute—carefully, reverently. His hands are sure, even if they tremble a little.

Geralt watches, silent.

He doesn’t say it out loud—how good it feels to see Jaskier like this. Wrapped in damp wool, rain dripping off his curls, snapping sarcastic barbs at the world, and cradling the one thing that’s always meant more to him than coin or comfort or courtly praise.

×××

On the eighth day Geralt feels a shift in the wind. More air between trunks. Less moss underfoot.

Kaedwen.

The sun appears properly for the first time in days, pale but there, casting long slants of light through the evergreens. The ground grows firmer. The stink of rot and wet fades.

They're through.

Geralt notices the change the way a hunter notices an empty snare: not with joy, but with a long, low breath he hadn't known he was holding.

Jaskier walks beside him, blinking against the sudden openness, his fingers tapping absently against his thigh.

And later—after they find dry stone and the promise of firewood—Jaskier finally opens his lute case again.

He does it carefully.

Like a ritual.

The cloth comes off gently, hands slow, reverent. He checks the neck, tests the strings with light plucks. Adjusts the tension. Breathes warm air over the pegs. Oils the frets from memory.

Geralt watches him from across the small camp, the sound of a flint against steel echoing once, twice, then fire.

Jaskier doesn’t sing. But he hums.

Low. Soft. Wordless melodies that drift beyond recognition. Echoes of taverns. Of beds they've both left behind. Of warmth that didn't come with claws or curses.

Geralt closes his eyes.

And for the first time in days, he lets his body ease.

The tension bleeds out of his spine, the sword rests near his hand, but not in it. His head tips back. His shoulders drop.

Jaskier keeps humming.

And for a moment, just a moment—

Geralt almost forgets they’re still on the Path.

Which is probably why he doesn’t hear the footsteps right away.

When he does, he’s already moving.

Blade drawn, up on his feet, senses screaming.

Jaskier lets out a startled noise—the lute clutched to his chest, fingers frozen mid-note, eyes wide.

“Geralt?”

Geralt doesn’t answer.

He listens.

Steps.

Heavy. Purposeful. Quiet.

Too quiet for any casual traveler.

Too measured for a beast.

The scent hits him next—not like a slap, but like warmth flooding a frozen limb.

Leather. Steel. Horse.

Home.

Then—

The voice cuts clean through the shadows:

“Thought it was just my imagination.”

Low. Grounded like stone.

And from the trees, a figure emerges.

Broad shoulders. Wolf medallion. A scar that drags down one cheek like a slow, familiar burn. Dark hair—shorter than Geralt remembers.

Geralt’s breath catches.

Eskel looks the same and not the same—older, maybe, leaner. Tired. But those eyes—amber, deep, impossibly warm—haven’t changed at all.

His gaze settles on Geralt first.

Then drifts.

To Jaskier.

Still seated. Still clutching the lute.

Still silent.

Eskel stops dead.

Eyes fixed.

Not blinking.

And Geralt, standing between them, sword half-lowered, isn’t sure whose heartbeat he hears hammering in his ears.

His own.

Jaskier’s.

Or Eskel’s.

Chapter Text

Jaskier knows before he sees.

It’s in the shift of Geralt’s weight—barely a twitch, a tilt of his stance like he’s bracing for something heavy. It’s in the way the trees hush around them, like the forest itself is holding its breath.

Everything tilts sideways.

Jaskier’s fingers curl too tightly around the lute strapped to his shoulder, and for one sick, shattering moment, he thinks he’s looking into a mirror warped by time.

The man before him is tall. Broad. Scarred.

So scarred.

His face is a map Jaskier already knows. He’s traced it with shaking hands in the dark, pressed it to linen, scrubbed it in half-frozen rivers, flinched from it in polished glass. He’s worn it like a punishment.

And now here it is, looking back at him.

Alive.

Real.

Not imagined.

Not dead.

Not… his.

The man doesn’t speak right away. His gaze flickers to Jaskier, then to Geralt—then back again. Something tightens around his eyes—a flicker of recognition that reads less like oh and more like what the fuck is this.

Geralt’s still between them.

The silence stretches. Jaskier feels it like a blade across the throat.

He can’t stop staring.

This man is solid. He moves like a predator—like someone who’s survived too much and stopped apologizing for it.

Jaskier feels small. Pale and decorative.

Geralt says the man’s name. Quietly. Like it’s dangerous.

“Eskel.”

And Jaskier—

Jaskier laughs.

A bitter, breathless thing that doesn’t belong in his chest.

Of course it’s Eskel.

Because fate is cruel, and Geralt still looks like he hasn’t made a choice.

And that’s when it hits:

He won’t choose.

Because the choice was made long ago—in blood and Trials and bone-deep silence. In a bond forged between two boys in Kaer Morhen’s shadow, before Jaskier even learned to tie a proper bow.

And now that bond is walking toward them, real and breathing and—

He’s beautiful, Jaskier thinks. In the way monsters are. Sharp. Tired. Worn down to nothing but still standing.

And Geralt is looking at him like he’s gravity.

Jaskier can already feel it happening—

That slow slide out of orbit.

And gods, he wants to scream.

Geralt turns toward him, slow and careful, like he’s afraid Jaskier will run.

Because in that moment—sudden and jarring and far too calm—Jaskier knows.

Geralt will never be his.

Not entirely. Not completely. Not when he’s here.

He, with Geralt’s silence written all over his body. With years of weight Jaskier will never match, no matter how many songs he writes or how many wounds he wears. The thread might run between them, might pull tight around Jaskier’s ribs with every heartbeat, but it will never be enough to sever what came before.

Stupid.

So fucking stupid.

He thought—

He thought maybe—

Doesn’t matter.

×××

Eskel takes one look at the fragile human frame wrapped around a set of scars that should never have left his own body—and freezes.

Not out of fear. Witchers don’t freeze from fear.

This is something worse.

He takes a small step forward, slow enough that Roach—and the other horse, the more skittish-looking one—don’t so much as flick an ear.

Measured. Like he’s testing the ground beneath his feet because nothing feels real anymore. His armor shifts with a faint creak, and when he stops again, it’s just far enough for the fire to touch the edge of his boots.

The bard’s posture shifts. Like prey.

That stings more than it should.

Eskel doesn’t know what to make of him.

Too still. Too pale. Blue eyes too wide. Fingers clutching that lute like it’s a sword—or a shield. Or maybe both.

Eskel’s eyes drag over his face, the way the scar pulls slightly near the corner of his mouth when he tightens his jaw. The angle’s wrong, but the cut is right. His scar. Not similar.

His.

And yet—he doesn’t feel it.

Doesn’t feel that pull, that thing—

No lightning. No tether. No flood of warmth through his spine.

And the man—this stranger with his scars carved into soft, human skin—is looking at him like he’s the one who shouldn’t exist.

“This is a joke,” Eskel says. His voice is quiet. It doesn’t shake—but it’s close.

Geralt doesn’t correct him. Just stands there like a fucking statue.

Useless.

Eskel turns to him, slow, deliberate.

Geralt’s jaw clenches. 

A pause.

Eskel laughs. Once. Ugly sound. Broken edge.

How long?

How fucking long?

He exhales through his nose. Doesn’t look at the bard. Can’t. Because if he does, he might say something cruel. Something final.

Instead, he locks eyes with Geralt.

“You brought him with you.”

Not a question.

Geralt nods.

“And he has my scars.”

Another nod.

Eskel smiles. It’s not a good smile. It has too many teeth.

“Figures.”

He steps back.

The bard watches them both like he’s been cut open and doesn’t know which hand held the knife.

Eskel’s eyes flick back to him, just for a second.

Something old surges up—territorial, irrational, violent.

Mine.

And just as fast: No. No more of that.

He’s spent years ripping himself out of that hunger. Out of that binding.

He doesn’t want to be claimed again.

And he sure as hell doesn’t want to be shared.

And—

He catches Geralt's eye on the bard.

Then his scent.

Their scent—

It hits like a punch.

There’s a moment—half a breath, maybe less—where instinct claws at Eskel's chest. A thread yanks tight behind his ribs. Familiar. Wrong. Familiar.

It coils low in his gut. Rises fast—ache, memory. Something that still remembers the feeling of being the only one who mattered.

And now—

Now he has nothing left.

He turns away.

Walks past both of them, into the trees.

Doesn’t wait for permission. Doesn’t wait for Geralt’s voice—if he hears that tone, he’ll stay.

And he can’t.

He takes five steps into the treeline before he hears the bard breathe out like he’s just been stabbed.

Good.

Let someone else bleed this time.

×××

Geralt watches Eskel’s back disappear into the trees—his cloak catching on a low branch, then vanishing like smoke.

Jaskier stands a few feet away—too still, too quiet, the lute strap cutting hard into his shoulder.

There’s nothing Geralt can say that won’t break something further.

Jaskier bears both of them.

A thread not meant to exist—twice tied.

And now Eskel had seen only his half of it.

Not the full story.

And Geralt isn't sure which is worse.

Of course he thought about this moment. About what he’d say—later. When they reached Kaer Morhen. When they were standing before Vesemir or trading insults with Lambert or sitting near the fire while Coën leaned against the wall, listening.

But not here. Not now. Not like this.

Geralt thought he still had time.

It took eight days to cross the Pontar Forests with Jaskier.

He could have done it in five, alone.

He could’ve moved faster. Slept less. Hunted on the go. Pushed through the swamps with speed instead of caution. But Jaskier is human. He needs real sleep. Heat. Food more than once a day. His boots don’t dry overnight. His joints ache when he doesn’t rest.

So they stopped.

They cooked.

They waited out rain.

They hummed music by the fire.

Geralt told himself he had time to figure it out—the explanation, the introduction, the words he didn’t yet know how to form.

From here, it’s another week to Ard Carraigh. Maybe ten days if the road gets rough or Jaskier needs another break. From there, three more to reach the foot of the Blue Mountains—if they’re lucky. Four, if the cold slows them down.

Then two days to climb.

At least.

Even Witchers sometimes lose the trail and have to backtrack, carving their own marks into the rock to find the way again.

Geralt thought he’d have that time.

He thought—

Well.

Not anymore.

He runs a hand over his mouth. His fingers smell of pine, steel, dried blood.

He still doesn’t move toward Jaskier.

He doesn’t know how to look at him right now.

Not without guilt. Not without grief.

Not without the ache of wanting something he’s not sure he deserves.

“Go after him,” Jaskier says, voice flat.

It’s the first thing he’s said since Eskel left.

Geralt blinks. Looks at him—really looks.

Jaskier isn’t angry.

He’s… hollow.

Eyes bright and hard. Mouth set. Like someone who’s finally stopped hoping for an answer and started preparing for silence.

“Jask—”

“Don’t.”

His tone isn’t sharp, but it stops Geralt cold.

“I get it,” Jaskier says, not meeting his eyes. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“Stop it.”

“No, really. I mean, if I were you—if I saw him—after all that history, I’d go too. He’s…”

He falters. For a moment, he looks like he might laugh again.

But doesn’t.

“He’s your other half. Not me.”

Geralt exhales. Steps forward.

Jaskier steps back.

And that, somehow, hurts more than any blade.

“I don’t belong in this,” Jaskier says. “I’m just the accident.”

“You’re not.”

“Then what am I?”

Geralt doesn’t answer.

If he says the truth—

Mine—

He’s too afraid of what it means.

Of what it demands.

Two threads, tangled through one man’s skin.

Two bonds that shouldn’t coexist.

And a choice he doesn’t want to make.

“Look,” Jaskier says after a beat, voice thinner now. “I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t ask to carry your scars. Or his. I didn’t ask to fall for someone who already belongs to someone else.”

Geralt flinches. Barely.

“It’s not fair,” the bard adds quietly. “But that’s not your fault. It just… is.”

And before Geralt can stop him—

Before he can reach, explain, beg—

Jaskier turns and walks toward the camp.

He doesn’t slam his boots against the ground. Doesn’t shout. Doesn’t throw anything.

He just walks.

Head high. Shoulders tight.

And Geralt watches him go.

Again.

Because he’s too much a coward to say the only thing that might matter.

I love you both.

And he has no idea how to live with that.

×××

The trees swallow him quick.

Geralt walks fast. Fast enough that the ache in his ribs feels deserved.

Branches whip at his shoulders. His breath clouds in the air.

Eskel’s scent is faint, but it’s there. Geralt’s chest twists like it remembers a time before this—before all of this.

When there was only Eskel.

He follows the scent—familiar. Soul-deep familiar.

He smells him and his body wants to kneel.

Geralt finds him near the edge of a slope, hands braced on his knees, breathing hard like he’s trying not to break something open.

“Eskel.”

He doesn’t turn around.

“Don’t,” he says. Voice hoarse. “Don’t say anything if it’s going to sound like pity.”

Geralt stops. Just a few steps away.

“It’s not.”

“Then what is it?”

Silence.

“You didn’t come after me back then,” Eskel goes on. “When we split. When you left. You didn’t chase me. Not once.”

“I thought—” Geralt bites it back. “I thought it would be easier for you.”

“Easier?” Eskel laughs. It’s a sharp, joyless thing. “It broke me.”

Geralt breathes in, slow and aching.

“I didn’t know what to say,” he admits. “I still don’t.”

Eskel straightens. Finally turns.

And Geralt—

Gods.

His face.

The lines that only Geralt ever touched without flinching. That scar down the cheekbone, the one he kissed under the ruins of Loc Muinne, when the world still felt like theirs.

And now?

Now he looks at Geralt like a man who’s lost everything again.

“I was yours,” Eskel says at last. “I was. I lived with that. I buried it. I let it rot. And then I saw him.”

There’s no hatred in it. No fire. Just devastation dressed in tired bones and clenching fists.

“I didn’t even know what I was looking at. I just—that scar. Mine. On him.”

Geralt doesn’t answer.

There’s no right way to say he has mine, too.

“I didn’t want to force you—”

“You are forcing me. Right now.”

“Eskel—”

“No.”

He steps forward, and it’s not anger. Not violence. It’s grief wrapped in skin.

“I had one thing left,” he says. “One thread. One bond. And now—”

Geralt swallows. “You think I wanted this? I didn’t know. Not until recently.”

Eskel takes another step. His voice breaks on the next words.

“I saw it. The way you looked at him.” The words are a whisper. “Not like he’s—mine. Like he’s… yours.”

Geralt closes his eyes. “It’s different.”

It’s a lie.

Eskel hears it.

And misreads it the way only someone who’s been hurt too long can.

And then—

Then he moves again.

One step. Then another.

And suddenly Geralt is there—back against a tree, Eskel’s hand on his hip, the other tangled in his hair, and his mouth—gods, his mouth—

It crashes into him like a wave hitting stone. Nothing gentle. Nothing careful.

It’s hunger. Desperation. Proof.

Geralt gasps into it. Hears himself make a noise he hasn’t made in decades—somewhere between a moan and a sob—and Eskel doesn’t stop.

He kisses him like he’s trying to rewrite history.

Like this could undo years of silence, of distance, of lies.

Geralt lets him.

Because for a second—just one—

He’s home.

Eskel’s hand on his ribs, hot through the shirt. His teeth, catching on Geralt’s bottom lip. His weight pinning him like a promise.

And fuck, it feels good.

So good.

Because it’s Eskel.

Because it’s real.

And yet—

Yet—

All Geralt can see when he pulls back is—

Jaskier’s face.

The way he shuddered when Geralt kissed the scar. The way he said “you’re still here” with a voice that cracked.

Geralt’s breath stutters.

He presses his forehead to Eskel’s, hand trembling where it rests on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

They both know what this kiss is.

A memory they couldn’t bury.

A promise neither of them can keep.

×××

They don’t talk about the kiss.

They break apart like it didn’t happen—Geralt breathless against bark, Eskel already stepping back, shoulders stiff, jaw locked.

He wipes a hand across his mouth. Not to erase it—to make sure he still feels like himself.

“I’ll take the northern ridge,” Eskel says.

Geralt’s chest aches.

“You don’t have to.”

Eskel huffs—not quite a laugh.

“I do.”

He adjusts the strap of his pack. Fingers tense. He’s not looking at Geralt—not really. Just past him. Like if he makes eye contact, something will splinter again.

“I’ll see you on the mountain.”

That’s all.

Not take care.

Not wait for me.

Not I love you.

Just that.

Geralt swallows. Nods.

It’s the only answer he can give.

Eskel turns and walks.

No goodbye.

Because it would mean it’s over.

And neither of them knows if that’s true.

Geralt stares until the trees take him again.

Until the sound of footsteps fades.

Until the cold settles back into his bones.

Then, only then, does he head toward camp.

Where Jaskier waits.

Where nothing is simple anymore.

Where the scars are getting darker.

×××

The sun is high by the time they move again.

Jaskier packs his things with brisk, mechanical efficiency. Tugs on his coat without looking at anything but the dirt.

When he lifts his arms to adjust the strap of his lute, the hem rides up.

Just a little.

Enough.

Geralt sees it.

The scar.

Long, jagged, slashing across the curve of Jaskier’s ribs.

His scar.

Nekker claws.

It had started to fade almost immediately—back when Jaskier managed to stitch it closed on Geralt’s body.

But now—

Now it’s back.

Angry. Sharp. Red at the edges.

Like it’s remembering how it felt to be made.

Like it’s punishing them both.

Jaskier doesn’t see it.

He doesn’t even glance down.

Because he never does.

He moves like a man used to hiding from his own body. A man who’s learned exactly how high to roll his sleeves.

Geralt watches him tug the lute into place, fingers quick, practiced.

He doesn’t know, Geralt realizes. He doesn’t even know.

The bond is fraying, and Jaskier is too used to pain to notice it pulling taut again.

Or worse—maybe he does notice.

And chooses not to care.

Geralt swallows hard.

His own ribs ache.

Because what would he say?

I kissed him back, but I love you.

You’re both mine, but I don’t know how to be yours.

Your scars are screaming because I’m too much of a coward to hold us all together.

That’s it.

Once again, silence has become safer than love.

Chapter Text

“Yes, Kaer Morhen. I underwent the usual mutation there, through the Trial of Grasses, and then hormones, herbs, viral infections. And then through them all again. And again, to the bitter end. Apparently, I took the changes unusually well; I was only ill briefly. I was considered to be an exceptionally resilient brat… and was chosen for more complicated experiments as a result. They were worse. Much worse. But, as you see, I survived. The only one to live out of all those chosen for further trials. My hair's been white ever since. Total loss of pigmentation. A side effect, as they say. A trifle.”

Geralt of Rivia

Sapkowski, Andrzej. The Last Wish. “The Voice of Reason IV.”

Orbit, 2008

“On the third day all the children died save one, a male barely ten. Hitherto agitated by a sudden madness, he fell all at once into deep stupor. His eyes took on a glassy gaze; incessantly with his hands did he clutch at clothing, or brandish them in the air as if desirous of catching a quill. His breathing grew loud and hoarse; sweat cold, clammy and malodorous appeared on his skin. Then was he once more given elixir through the vein and the seizure it did return. This time a nose-bleed did ensue, coughing turned to vomiting, after which the male weakened entirely and became inert.

For two days more did symptoms not subside. The child’s skin, hitherto drenched in sweat, grew dry and hot, the pulse ceased to be full and firm—albeit remaining of average strength, slow rather than fast. No more did he wake, nor did he scream.

Finally, came the seventh day. The male awoke and opened his eyes, and his eyes were as those of a viper…”

Carla Demetia Crest

The Trial of Grasses and other secret Witcher practices, seen with my own eyes,

manuscript exclusively accessible to the Chapter of Wizards

Sapkowski, Andrzej. Blood of Elves. Chapter 3

Orbit, 2008

Kaer Morhen smells like iron and blood. The scent clings to the back of his throat like rusted nails, thick and metallic, as if the stones themselves still weep from old wounds. Silence presses into the marrow of his bones, making his teeth ache.

Geralt stands in the vast entrance hall—if one could call this freezing cavern a hall—with its vaulted arches lost in shadow, and feels small. Smaller than ever before. Smaller than the moment his mother turned away without saying goodbye.

He does not know what to do with his hands. They hang at his sides, useless and shaking. He doesn’t know if he’s trembling from the cold—or the fear that swelling and twisting inside him like a living thing.

He tries not to stare.

Beside him, a boy shifts. Taller. Broader in the shoulders. His nose looks like it’s been broken before. There’s dried blood crusted near his ear and a bruise blossoming like a dark flower beneath one eye. And his eyes—wide, too wide, too bright with something like panic barely held in check. He keeps blinking, like the shadows might vanish if he looks hard enough.

Their eyes meet.

Just for a second. Just enough.

Something flickers between them. Recognition, maybe. Or just mutual terror—thick and heavy like the air in the hall. Geralt doesn’t know how to tell the difference anymore.

The boy shifts again, ever so slightly closer, shoulders tense beneath clothes too thin for the biting cold. He doesn't shiver, though. Just clears his throat. The sound is more breath than voice.

“Eskel,” he says, quietly. Like it hurts.

It’s not an introduction so much as a plea.

Please tell me I’m not alone.

Geralt swallows hard. Mouth dry, tongue thick. He thinks about nodding, about staying silent like the other boys, but Eskel’s eyes are fixed on him—and they’re asking.

“Geralt,” he manages, voice rough and cracked from disuse. The name feels small in this place. Like it no longer belongs to him.

Eskel nods. Once. Slowly. Like the name’s a candle lit in a room full of dark.

The other boys shift restlessly. Dirty. Hungry. Frightened in ways they don’t have words for. Some are crying quietly into sleeves or fists. Others stand perfectly still. No one makes eye contact.

Men in dark cloaks pace along the length of the hall—Witchers, Geralt knows, though none of them look like stories. They are stone-faced and strange-eyed, with weapons strapped to their backs. One has a long scar curving down from his temple to his collarbone—a pale line like a question mark carved in flesh. Another chews something and never blinks. Their gazes slide over the boys like butcher’s hands over livestock—measuring weight, judging strength, noting weaknesses with a single glance.

Geralt feels flayed. A piece of meat. Nothing more.

One of them steps forward. His moustache is more grey than black, but his movements are quick, purposeful. His voice slices through the hall like steel drawn across stone.

“You’ll learn quickly,” he growls. Not cruel but far from gentle. Final. “Or you’ll die.”

Geralt’s stomach twists. Something sick rises in his throat. He clenches his jaw, biting down on bile. Next to him, Eskel flinches, then takes a small step closer. Their shoulders brush, the touch brief and hesitant. The warmth of it cuts through the cold like a single coal in the ashes.

They are herded like cattle through narrow halls—twisting, turning, doubling back, the way deliberately confusing. Geralt’s feet are numb by the time they stop. The torches flicker against the walls, their flames sputtering as if trying to stay alive in this place that devours warmth.

Their quarters are a long, low room that smells of mildew and damp wool. Cots line the walls, too many for the space, each with a blanket thin as tissue. Geralt collapses onto the first one he sees, and it creaks beneath him like it might give up and break. He stares at the ceiling and thinks—for one moment—that if he’s very quiet, maybe he can just disappear.

Across the aisle, Eskel sinks down onto his cot, rubbing a thumb absently across the bruised corner of his mouth. His hands are red from the cold. But he still doesn't shiver.

Silence again, heavy and awkward.

Then—

“You scared?”

Geralt turns his head. His chest aches. He thinks about lying—Witchers probably aren’t supposed to admit fear—but something about Eskel’s expression makes honesty easier.

“Yeah,” he whispers back, barely audible.

Eskel exhales, relieved. “Me too.”

Something in Geralt loosens. Eskel’s voice feels real, grounding, like finding something familiar amidst a storm.

“Think we’ll make it?” Geralt asks, unable to stop himself. He doesn’t know why. Maybe because he needs someone else to say what he can’t.

Eskel considers him quietly, lips pressed tightly together.

“I don’t know,” he finally admits, softly.

It hangs there, fragile as glass.

Geralt nods, not trusting himself to speak again, afraid the lump in his throat might choke him entirely.

Outside, wind howls against the ancient stone, whispering promises neither boy fully understands. Geralt curls up on his side beneath the scratchy blanket, pressing his hands between his knees. Eskel does the same.

His breathing slow and steady, cutting through the other boys’ sobs.

Geralt clings to it—the rhythm, the warmth—not yet knowing how many times this quiet, steady breath will echo through years of blood and frost as the only sound that ever felt like home.

×××

Geralt’s breath fogs in the biting air, a fine mist catching briefly in the stark sunlight before vanishing, leaving nothing behind but the burn in his chest and the ache in his lungs. He clenches his fingers tighter around the wooden practice sword—too heavy, too long—and tries not to flinch beneath the sharp, appraising gaze of Master Vesemir.

Half a year in Kaer Morhen feels like forever. Like lifetimes stacked atop each other, each new day burying the last until Geralt barely recognizes himself. He’s grown, though not in height—not yet—but in a way that sinks beneath the skin. He moves differently now, watches more carefully, breathes more quietly. It’s survival, he knows, born from bruises and bloodied knuckles, cracked ribs, and split lips. Lessons learned under icy gazes and fists wrapped in hard leather.

He’s still just eight. He shouldn’t feel so old.

Across the frozen dirt of the training yard, Master Vesemir stands motionless, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Geralt secretly thinks he's gentler than the others—if gentleness can exist here at all. He doesn't strike boys who fall, doesn't shout insults or sneer when tears spill quietly down frozen cheeks. But Geralt doesn't trust it, doesn't dare allow himself to hope it means anything. Witchers are all alike, cold as steel blades, faces carved from stone, emotions ground down to nothing beneath years of bloodshed and death.

Geralt’s stomach twists, sour with fear he’s learned never to show.

“Pairs,” Master Vesemir commands suddenly, voice ringing sharp and clear over the chilly wind. “Eskel—”

Geralt’s spine tenses involuntarily, shoulders stiffening. He holds his breath.

“You're with Geralt.”

Geralt doesn't miss the way Master Vesemir watches them—eyes narrowed slightly, thoughtful, searching for something hidden beneath their skin. It sends shivers crawling down Geralt’s spine. He doesn't dare glance at Eskel—not openly—but he feels him near, the familiar weight of Eskel’s presence settling into his bones like it always does. Like it always has.

He turns silently to face his partner, adjusting his grip on the practice sword. Eskel mirrors him, movements equally quiet, measured, cautious. They’ve grown good at pretending, at acting indifferent. It’s safer this way. Bonds mean death.

Even if none of them have become Witchers yet.

Even if most of them won't survive the Trials Master Vesemir speaks of in grim, clipped tones. Geralt still remembers that first night clearly—remembers how his mind froze, stopped working completely the moment Master Vesemir said calmly, coldly, “More than half of you won't survive.”

One boy had thrown up. Another had wet himself.

Everything after had vanished into a blur of panic and dread.

Geralt stared at the fire that night until his eyes dried out, too afraid to blink, too afraid to sleep.

Now, he swallows down fear like bitter draught. It never goes away. But he learns to breathe through it. Inhale through the nose. Out through clenched teeth.

Eskel moves first, swift and careful. Geralt blocks instinctively, wood meeting wood with a crack that echoes across the training yard. Eskel’s strength is something Geralt secretly admires—sturdy, unyielding, reliable like the mountains. Eskel doesn't complain about the cold; he never even shivers. Geralt sometimes watches him at night, eyes half-lidded under the blanket, and wonders what it would be like to carry the cold like a birthright.

What it would be like to never need anyone else's warmth.

Geralt twists away, thrusting forward with determination, forcing Eskel to step back and counter. Around them, other pairs fight with varying degrees of desperation and exhaustion. Geralt catches glimpses as he spins—Gweld is already on the ground, scrambling upright, bright ginger hair darkened with dirt. Tjold frozen in place, blinking at his opponent like a rabbit before a wolf. Gardis and Hemminks face each other but barely swing—too nervous, too unsure. Gwen’s with Aubry—lucky, maybe. Aubry won’t hurt him purposely. Still, Gwen looks like he’s trying not to cry.

Aubry reminds Geralt a little of Eskel—strong but quiet, solid without arrogance. Geralt likes Aubry. He hopes he survives.

He hopes they all survive. Even if, deep down, he suspects he won't.

Geralt is quick, but Eskel is stronger. He pushes back, forcing Geralt onto the defensive, each blow heavier than the last. Geralt’s breath burns, muscles aching as he ducks beneath another swing. Eskel’s sword clips his shoulder sharply, and he bites back a gasp of pain, stumbling but not falling.

He won't fall.

Not again.

The ground is cold. The ground is shame.

He sees Master Vesemir watching them all at once, gauging something Geralt can’t understand. He meets Geralt’s eyes just briefly, nodding once—acknowledgment rather than approval. Geralt’s cheeks flush hot from embarrassment.

Eskel attacks again, relentless, driving Geralt back step by step. Geralt finally miscalculates, footing slipping on icy dirt. He hits the ground hard, wooden sword clattering from numbed fingers.

The yard falls silent. Geralt holds his breath, shame curling cold and tight inside him.

He expects sharp words from Master Vesemir, his disappointment, Eskel’s pitying glance.

Instead, Eskel stands very still, sword lowered slightly. His gaze locks with Geralt’s just for an instant—fierce, worried, protective—then shutters quickly, carefully hidden behind practiced indifference. Without speaking, Eskel steps back, giving Geralt space to rise.

Slowly, heart pounding, Geralt pushes himself upright, picking up his sword with trembling hands. He forces himself not to look at Eskel, not to let relief or gratitude show in his expression. Weakness. Death.

But his skin still tingles from that quiet, brief glance, warmth radiating from the place Eskel’s gaze had touched, invisible but undeniable.

“Enough,” Master Vesemir finally calls, tone flat. “Back to positions.”

The pairs separate silently, each boy trudging back into place, eyes lowered. Geralt steps quietly beside Aubry, who nods once in quiet solidarity. Geralt feels Eskel’s presence somewhere behind him, comforting even in distance.

It shouldn’t comfort him. Geralt knows better by now. He’s been taught to know better.

But he can’t help it. He doesn't want to help it.

That, too, feels like a kind of failure.

He straightens his back, breathing deep despite the pain blooming through his ribs. He won't let the others see it. He won't let Master Vesemir see it. He certainly won't let Eskel see it.

He will survive today, and tomorrow, and the next. Or he won't.

Either way, he has no choice but to keep breathing.

×××

He lies awake in the dark, listening. The sound of careful footsteps echoes faintly across the cold stone floor. He knows each movement by heart: the slow pause at the foot of his bed, the soft creak of wood beneath a gentle, familiar weight. The slow exhale, steady but slightly shaking, betraying exhaustion or fear—or maybe both.

No one ever mentions it. Not even in whispers between bunks, in the strained silences before sleep.

The boys hear the footsteps, just like Geralt does. They see the shifting of blankets, the shape moving in the dark, always returning to the same cot. But no one says anything. Maybe they're afraid to. Maybe they're afraid someone might punish the one who speaks. Or maybe it simply doesn't matter anymore. Everyone survives how they can.

And this—whatever it is—is survivable.

Geralt closes his eyes as Eskel slips wordlessly beneath the threadbare blanket, crowding close into the narrow cot that barely holds one, much less two growing boys. They’re nine now, taller, limbs awkwardly long, sharp elbows and knees bumping and shifting until they settle into an uneasy tangle. Geralt still feels thin, too thin, ribs prominent beneath his skin, cold always biting deep into his bones no matter how tightly he wraps himself.

Eskel isn’t thin anymore, though. His shoulders have broadened, growing sturdy and strong under brutal training sessions. His frame solid and comforting in a way that makes Geralt’s chest ache strangely. When Eskel presses close, offering his warmth without hesitation or complaint, Geralt breathes easier, deeper, safer than he's ever felt before—even in the bed he'd once known at home, beneath thick blankets beside a roaring hearth.

The warmth settles into him like water soaking into parched cloth. Just enough to keep the shaking away.

The bed Eskel has been assigned lies further from the door than Geralt’s own—but closer than any other boy’s. That distance matters. It means Eskel can slip from Geralt’s cot just quickly enough to spare Geralt punishment if someone enters—but never fast enough to save himself. Geralt understands this perfectly. Every time Eskel climbs in beside him, Geralt feels the risk like a blade at his throat. The knowledge gnaws at him like sickness, guilt heavy and thick beneath his skin. And still, each night, he lets Eskel curl around him, lets Eskel’s heartbeat lull him to sleep, lets himself soak up warmth and safety he doesn't deserve.

He’s a coward. A selfish coward.

He thinks sometimes that the others must hate him for it. That they must lie awake cursing his luck, or his weakness, or his cowardice. And silence makes it worse. It makes the guilt grow teeth.

Yet tonight—like many recent nights—Geralt remains awake, tense and watchful as Eskel’s breathing gradually deepens. Today’s training had been especially harsh, a test of endurance and pain, and Eskel bore the brunt of it, again and again. It wasn't because he was weak. It was exactly because he wasn't. Because Eskel always got up, again and again, eyes bright with quiet determination, jaw set stubbornly against the pain.

Eskel was strong. Too strong. The strongest.

Geralt sees how the Witchers watch him. He sees how their eyes narrow in calculating assessment, quietly convinced Eskel is the one who'll survive. Geralt sees it clearly—more clearly than he ever sees himself living past the Trials. And it doesn't frighten him, not anymore. Not if it means Eskel will live.

From time to time, he catches Master Vesemir watching them too. Not only during sparring or drills, but in those in-between moments. At meals. Before lights out. When they think no one’s looking. But… not like the others.

He watches like he’s trying to solve something—like there’s a mystery in the way Geralt’s eyes follow Eskel, or in the way Eskel always ends up near. But he doesn’t stop it. Doesn’t punish.

Just watches. And sighs. And mutters. Master Vesemir always mutters. About discipline, about chaos, about brats who don’t hold swords right and break formation.

Maybe he does know. About the nights. About everything. About something they haven't figured out yet. And maybe… maybe he just lets it be.

Geralt wonders if that’s mercy—or detachment masked as tolerance.

But whatever it is, it’s better than what Master Varin would do if he knew.

Master Varin doesn’t watch like Master Vesemir does. As soon as he finds something he doesn’t like, he punishes hard and without hesitation. A crooked grip, a lost spar, a careless glance—everything is grounds for correction. Geralt once saw him break Gweld’s fingers for dropping a sword. No words. No explanation. Just bone snapping and silence.

If Varin knew, Geralt is certain he wouldn’t stop at fingers.

Softly, very carefully, Geralt shifts beneath the thin blanket, gently wrapping one arm around Eskel’s broadening shoulders. He counts Eskel’s breaths quietly in his mind—steady in, slow out, rhythmic and reassuring, until he feels Eskel finally relax, drifting into a deeper sleep. Only then does Geralt allow himself to relax slightly, too, keeping watch over the rise and fall of Eskel’s chest.

In these quiet, stolen moments, Geralt lets himself memorize the warmth Eskel offers freely—the softness hidden beneath layers of toughened skin, the gentleness no Witcher ever acknowledges. In these moments, Eskel isn’t the strongest boy in Kaer Morhen. He’s simply Eskel. Soft and gentle, quietly kind, warm enough to chase the ice from Geralt’s bones.

Geralt closes his eyes, briefly, pressing his forehead against Eskel’s shoulder, breathing in, feeling tears sting behind closed eyelids. He doesn't cry—he won’t—but he makes himself a promise, clear and fierce and painfully young:

Eskel will live.

Geralt can die. Geralt probably will die, he knows it deep inside himself. And if his death is the price of Eskel’s survival—he’ll gladly pay it. Eskel deserves to live. He deserves warm beds and thick blankets, deserves to sleep safely every night, without fear. He deserves to be something other than a Witcher, other than a weapon, other than a monster shaped by pain and loss.

But Geralt has nothing else to offer him. Nothing but quiet, secret protection through sleepless nights and the silent, desperate hope that Eskel’s heart will keep beating long after his own stops.

Eskel murmurs faintly in his sleep, brows knitting, the barest hint of a nightmare flickering across his expression. Geralt hushes him softly, pressing closer, fingers soothing through Eskel’s hair until the nightmare passes and he settles again, breath soft against Geralt’s shoulder.

Just like that. Always like that. Always—when Geralt is here. Or maybe it’s just coincidence. Maybe Eskel doesn’t even remember it in the morning. But Geralt remembers. Every twitch. Every gasp. Every breath.

He doesn’t sleep.

He guards.

He waits.

Eskel’s warmth and life cradled fiercely in his arms, more precious than anything else he’s ever known.

They’re nine years old, and Geralt knows deep inside he might never reach ten. But Eskel—

Eskel must.

Eskel will.

×××

The first breath is agony.

Geralt gasps awake, choking on air that feels wrong—harsh, biting, too sharp, every inhale like knives scraping raw lungs. His heart pounds slowly, thundering in his ears. The world crashes around him in a painful, deafening roar.

He blinks, the dim candlelight searing his eyes like midday sun, vision swimming in golden halos. Everything is too much. The scrape of fabric against his skin is sandpaper. He can smell dried blood—his own—thick and metallic, layered over something herbal and bitter.

A groan slips from his throat, rough and broken, echoing impossibly loud.

How long had he been out? Days? Weeks? Months? Time feels meaningless. His mind stutters, confused, stuck in fragments of memory: endless pain, veins burning, muscles spasming until bones threatened to snap.

He remembers screaming—everyone screams, they said—and then, mercifully, nothing. Oblivion.

A sudden, cold thought pierces through the fog.

Panic swells in his chest.

Eskel.

His mind tumbles desperately, clawing at memories blurred by fever.

The last thing Geralt remembered was the look on Eskel’s face—raw, terrified, brave. Idiotic. He always cared more about Geralt’s survival than his own. Geralt had seen it—the clenched fists, the rigid set of Eskel’s jaw.

Geralt hadn’t heard the others after—they'd taken him first to the chamber at the far end of the keep, sealed away. At least he hadn’t heard their screams. But Eskel had heard his.

Gods.

Geralt’s heart skips a beat. Too slow.

Eskel must have survived. He was stronger than all of them—stronger than Geralt, certainly. If Geralt had survived, Eskel had to. He had to. Anything else was impossible.

The heavy door creaks open, deafening in its grating protest. Geralt winces, hissing between teeth louder than he remembers. The scent hits him first—musk and sweat and something undeniably Eskel.

Relief washes over Geralt, thick and overwhelming.

Eskel’s footsteps are cautious, hesitant, but steady. Geralt turns his head, blinking against the painfully bright shapes.

Eskel stands framed in the doorway, taller—or maybe Geralt had simply forgotten how Eskel’s broad shoulders filled doorways. Eskel’s eyes glow softly amber, pupils slit like a cat’s, strange yet perfect on him. Geralt sees the matching shock in Eskel’s expression as he stares back.

They’re Witchers now.

And alive. Both alive.

Geralt tries to speak. His voice cracks, raw and unfamiliar. “You…?”

Eskel nods, swallowing hard. “Yeah.”

Geralt feels dizzy. His vision blurs, but no tears come. His throat aches. He wants to cry—his body remembers how—but he can’t. His eyes burn dryly.

He tries again, voice thick, shaking, desperate. “Who…?”

Eskel crosses the room, settling carefully on the edge of the narrow cot. Geralt’s heightened senses catch every detail: Eskel’s heartbeat—slow now, breath fluttering anxiously in his throat, fingers trembling slightly before clenching into fists.

“Gweld. Aubry, too,” Eskel says quietly, as though breaking bad news—which, Geralt realizes numbly, he is. “Only four of us. Master Varin said… he said we did good. A strong year.”

Four. Four from eight.

Geralt squeezes his eyes shut, chest heaving. Four lives ended, children’s lives—boys Geralt had secretly begun calling brothers.

Gwen, who had smiled shyly when nobody else dared.

Tjold, stubbornly brave despite a body too thin, too frail.

Gardis, quick with his laughter even in this terrible place.

Hemminks, quiet and strong, who had always offered a steadying hand.

All dead.

Their voices echo in Geralt’s skull, phantom laughter trailing off into silence.

He wants to ask where they were buried. Then he remembers—boys don’t get graves.

His throat tightens, breath hitching, shoulders shuddering. The room blurs, spinning, but his eyes remain agonizingly dry.

“They deserved it more,” Geralt whispers brokenly. “More than me.”

Eskel moves quickly, fiercely, fingers curling gently around Geralt’s trembling wrist. It feels strange—Eskel’s skin is not as warm as before, or maybe it’s just that Geralt didn’t freeze anymore.

“No,” Eskel’s voice is firm, unwavering. “We all deserved it, Geralt. Every one of us. Even you.”

Geralt shakes his head weakly, unable to form words. Eskel squeezes his wrist harder, insistent.

“Don’t say things like that,” Eskel whispers, voice thickening. “I couldn’t make it without you.”

Geralt stares at him, seeing in Eskel’s face the echoes of his own agony, exhaustion lining features now sharpened by mutations. And beneath it, the softness that hasn’t faded.

Eskel leans forward carefully, pressing their foreheads together, breathing slow and deep. Geralt closes his eyes, soaking in Eskel’s warmth—even if duller. Their body temperatures run equally hot now.

Geralt gradually calms, heartbeat matching Eskel’s rhythm. His heartbeat is the only thing Geralt focuses on, steady and reassuring.

“I heard you,” Eskel finally whispers, voice tight with pain.

Geralt flinches, guilt sharp and bitter. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Eskel’s breath catches. “I screamed too. We all did.”

That admission cracks something open.

Geralt swallows, closing his eyes again, lashes dry and aching.

They fall silent again. Geralt feels Eskel’s fingers flex gently around his wrist, comforting, anchoring him to the present.

They have survived, somehow. Survived the impossible.

But survival is not victory. Survival is not peace.

Geralt inhales, painfully aware of what survival costs. Brothers dead, innocence burned away, childhood lost forever beneath fire and agony.

But Eskel is here, breathing quietly beside him.

Alive.

×××

The pain didn’t end with the Trials.

It just changed shape.

Now it wore steel and weight and repetition. Muscles pulled taut, tendons stretched, bruises that bloomed in fresh, bright colors each day. They sparred from dawn until blood soaked through tunics, drying stiff on their backs. They lifted, swung, blocked, parried. Over and over and over.

But now they healed faster.

Now, they saw too much.

Now, they heard things—footsteps on gravel four corridors away, the flutter of wings behind them, a dagger unsheathed at ten paces.

It was disorienting at first. Light stung too bright, sounds overwhelmed. Smells made Geralt gag—sweat, blood, rot, magic. For months after the mutations, he moved like a newborn foal. He dropped things. Stumbled. Flinched when someone came too close.

So did Eskel.

So did Gweld and Aubry.

Only four of them left. Just four.

Time passed in fire and salt and stone. Their senses adjusted—sharpened into weapons like the rest of them. Reactions faster, strikes cleaner. Geralt could see a needle in the snow. He could hear a lie in a heartbeat, taste iron in the wind, smell poison in the meat.

They were still pups, Master Vesemir said—easy, pup, mind your form or not bad for a gangly little wolf whelp—but the tone had changed. The older Witchers, once cold and unflinching, now clapped their shoulders when they passed. Occasionally offered real advice, not barked commands. A hand on the shoulder. A nod. Not affection. Acceptance.

Still, there was always training for something worse. Always toward something worse.

Not the chortles, the trolls, the echinops and drowners.

The mages.

Three of them—cloaked, smooth-faced, eyes like glass and mouths full of false praise.

They watched in silence for days—stood on the upper balcony of the training yard, untouched by wind and sweat and blood. They didn’t flinch when Gweld dislocated his shoulder in a fall. Didn’t blink when Aubry split his lip open.

Just watched.

That look again. Like butchers measuring the next cut.

On the fourth day, they pointed.

Not at Aubry, who had the strongest stance. Not at Gweld, who could catch a thrown blade in the air. Not at Eskel, who fought like gravity bent for him.

Master Vesemir said the words as gently as he could.

“They’ve chosen you, pup.”

Geralt didn’t speak. Didn’t blink.

Just tried to find the reason.

You’re the one who shouldn’t have made it, whispered something cruel in the back of his mind.

It made sense. Of course it made sense. Of course they wanted him.

Not for a reward.

For the next experiment.

Refinements, they called it.

Geralt had almost laughed.

Everyone knew what happened to the ones the mages picked.

They gave him one hour to prepare.

There was nothing to prepare.

Even Gweld had no jokes this time. Aubry stayed close but didn’t speak, just watched him like something fragile about to shatter.

Eskel stormed in like a thunderclap, face flushed, hair sticking to his forehead, breath ragged with fury. His eyes—amber, deep and feral—found Geralt in an instant.

“No,” he said, low and certain.

Geralt’s stomach twisted.

“I’m stronger,” Eskel snapped, spinning toward Master Vesemir who stood silently. “Take me instead.”

The mages didn’t want strong.

They wanted wrong.

The ones who made them curious.

Master Vesemir didn’t answer—tight-lipped, grim, tired in the way only decades of loss could make a man.

Eskel stepped closer, chest heaving.

“They think he survived the Trials by chance? They think they get to test their spells on him just because he made it?! He made it! That means something! That has to mean something!”

Master Vesemir’s voice came quiet. Too quiet. “It means nothing to them.”

“I DON’T CARE WHAT IT MEANS TO THEM!”

Geralt didn’t want to see Eskel’s face, but he looked anyway. Burned it into memory.

Eskel lunged forward.

That was when Master Vesemir grabbed him.

It took both Aubry and Gweld to help.

They didn’t want to. Geralt could see it in their eyes, could smell it in their scents—the shame, the hesitation—but they moved anyway. Master Vesemir’s arms locked around Eskel’s chest while Gweld grabbed one wrist, Aubry the other.

Still, it barely worked.

Eskel fought.

He kicked, thrashed, howled.

“You LIARS , you COWARDS—you said we were a PACK! You said we were BROTHERS!”

His heel caught Aubry in the thigh—Aubry flinched but held on. Gweld muttered curses through clenched teeth. Master Vesemir’s arms trembled with the strain of holding him.

Eskel screamed.

Over and over, he screamed Geralt’s name, like it could anchor him, like he could claw the world itself apart if he just said it loud enough.

“Geralt—!”

“GERALT!”

Geralt stood still as stone, fists clenched, every muscle locked.

He couldn’t move. He wouldn’t move.

Because if he did—if he broke now—then Eskel would never let go. And they’d take him too.

He looked up.

Met Eskel’s eyes—wide, feral, burning.

And smiled.

Eskel stilled mid-thrash.

Master Vesemir nodded once to the others, and together they dragged him backward, motionless for once.

The silence after was unbearable.

Except it wasn’t silent.

Eskel’s heartbeat still rang in Geralt’s ears—fast and furious, wild and alive. 

His scent still clung to Geralt's skin.

And in the corner of his mind, where the world hadn’t broken yet, Eskel was still smiling.

Geralt closed his eyes.

And remembered:

The sound of Eskel’s voice, breaking from love and terror.

The warmth of Eskel’s arms around him on cold nights.

The stupid little laugh Eskel made when Gweld told a bad joke.

Geralt held it all close, tighter than breath, tighter than pain.

Because this time, when the pain began, he screamed alone.

×××

He doesn't remember how long it's been.

Not really.

Days lost meaning somewhere around the second cycle. Or maybe the third. Maybe after the fever dreams bled into waking hallucinations and his screams stopped making noise.

The room never changes. No sun. No night. Just stone walls, cold floors, and the wet sound of leather against skin.

And white.

Always white.

White walls. White breath. White light behind his eyes.

And now—white hair.

He touches it once, when they forget to strap his hands down. It feels like someone else’s. Like it should fall out if he pulls hard enough.

“Side effect.”

They always say it like that.

Like vomiting blood was a side effect.

Like the burning under his skin was a side effect.

Like waking up and forgetting his name was just part of the process.

It was. In a way.

For them, he’s just a body with data points. Not a boy. Never a boy.

They whisper outside the room sometimes. 

He overheard one of them laugh: “I wonder if this test even has a limit.”

He hears every breath. Every word. Their robes rustling. Their pens scratching. The drip of something viscous into a vial. His own pulse.

He wasn’t supposed to be chosen.

He knows that.

They picked him because he didn’t die. Because he didn’t scream as long as the others. Because his body took to the first set of mutations like dry grass to flame.

They put him under three times in one day once. At least he thinks it was one day.

The third time, he bit through the leather strap they shoved between his teeth. Snapped it clean. His gums bled for hours. His tongue wouldn’t move right for days.

They praised that.

“Excellent jaw pressure,” one mage said, delighted.

As if he’d done a trick.

They send him back eventually. Not right away—weeks later. Maybe months.

Nobody said he passed. No one talked about the results, the future, or the side effects.

Just one day—an open door. No shackle on his limbs.

Geralt can barely stand.

His legs fold like sticks under his weight.

It takes him a while before he even crosses the threshold into the great hall.

Gweld stares at him like he’s seen a ghost.

Aubry won’t meet his eyes.

Eskel—

Eskel says nothing.

He doesn’t have to.

The look on his face says everything.

Geralt doesn’t say a word, either.

What can you say, when the only thing you can remember is the taste of copper and fire? When your throat still burns from the vomit and blood filling your mouth, day after day?

So he just… sits. And breathes.

He’s not sure he’s doing it right anymore.

That night they lie side by side in silence, as they used to, before everything.

Eskel reaches out once, blindly—like checking if Geralt is real.

Geralt closes his eyes and lets the warmth of that hand against his chest anchor him.

×××

Same wind. Same creaking floorboards. Same smell of steel and sweat and pine sap. The courtyard still flooded every spring. The walls still whispered in the wind. The northern tower still moaned when the snow got too thick.

And still, Kaer Morhen didn’t quite know what to do with him.

Not anymore.

Everyone walked around him like he was made of glass or teeth or both.

The older Witchers—not cruel, not cold, just careful—set their jaws when he passed. Lowered their voices. Watched him from the corners of their eyes, as if trying to predict which breath would be the last before he snapped.

Maybe they think he’s a Cat.

That he’ll lash out. Lose control. Tear open someone’s throat in the middle of a drill. After all, that’s what happened to the Cats. The mutations changed them too far, too fast. Too much. The alchemists tried to create the perfect hunter. Got monsters instead. Barely leashed.

Thirteen. He thinks he’s thirteen now. Hard to be sure.

His reflection is longer than it was.

The hair—he used to shear it short. Now he doesn’t bother. What’s the point?

White is white. It tangles fast—coarse and dry. He pulls it into a knot at the back of his head every morning with stiff fingers.

He doesn't call Vesemir ‘Master’ anymore. Not after the chamber. Vesemir never asks him to anyway.

Geralt doesn’t hold it against him.

He knows Vesemir couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t even try. You don’t say no to the mages. You don’t protect the pups from that. You just keep breathing and pray that someone comes back.

He wonders if Vesemir had to drag another boy like that, once.

If that weight ever left his arms.

Even Eskel looks at him differently now.

He doesn't mean to. Geralt knows he doesn’t mean to. But it’s in the way his eyes flicker across Geralt’s face like he’s counting bones. Like he’s checking to see if they’ve started showing through.

But still—

Still he crawls into Geralt’s cot every night, even though it’s too small now, barely wide enough for one half-grown Witcher, much less two.

Eskel doesn’t seem to care. He tucks himself in close, always. Breath hot against Geralt’s throat. Long arms wound too tightly around his ribs.

He never asks what they did to him.

Geralt doesn’t know if he could answer.

So instead, Eskel breathes.

That’s all he does. Breathes.

Sometimes Geralt thinks that if he listened hard enough, he’d hear Eskel’s heart saying his name.

Still here. Still here. Still here.

Sometimes he dreams that Eskel stops breathing.

Then he wakes up gasping, nails dug into his own arms hard enough to draw blood. His skin doesn’t bruise like it used to. But the marks are still there. Faint red moons under his nails.

Eskel stirs too and shifts closer without a word. Just enough that Geralt can count the rise and fall of his chest and match his own breath to it.

They don’t talk about it.

What’s there to say?

There’s no going back.

So he wakes up each morning. Ties back his white hair with hands that don’t tremble. Trains with boys who are no longer his brothers.

At night, Eskel still presses close in the dark and breathes against his skin like Geralt might evaporate at any second.

And Geralt lets him.

If he stopped, he’s not sure what would be left.

×××

Time passed. Like it always did in Kaer Morhen—heavy, slow, grinding everything into stone and silence.

The keep changed with the seasons, with the years. But the rituals never did.

New boys arrived each autumn.

None of them smiled.

Witchers left each spring.

Some returned.

Most didn’t.

Vesemir stopped asking questions. Just added another mark on the wall. Another name scratched under stone in the lower hall. No one ever lit candles. There was no room for grief in Kaer Morhen. Only memory. And discipline.

No one paid attention to Geralt anymore.

They had other problems now. Bigger ones. Deadlier ones. Entire villages that turned against Witchers, guild politics, warring kings, angry mages with long memories and longer grudges.

No one had time to be afraid of a pale boy with too-bright eyes and white hair. Especially when that boy trained harder than anyone, fought longer, hit faster, never missed a step.

They stopped whispering.

They stopped staring.

He became just another sword on the wall. Another weapon in the making.

Another Wolf.

Just like Gweld, Aubry, and Eskel.

They’re all older now. More scars than skin.

None of them used wooden blades anymore. No more stumbles in the yard. No more gasping for breath halfway through drills.

They learned everything.

How to track by scent. How to hunt underwater. How to counter a leshen’s mind-screech or snap a kikimora’s legs at the knee. They could list the weaknesses of every known creature by heart—and the ones only Vesemir remembered, the ones not written down.

Each of them passed the Trial of the Medallion.

Geralt barely remembers his.

He remembers the metal in his hand, red-hot and breathing like a second heart. Remembers hammering. Cooling. Shaping. The glyphs biting into silver. The cold kiss of chain against his neck.

But it was nothing.

After them, it felt like going for a walk.

No hallucinations. No screaming. Just silver and silence. A mercy, really.

He remembers the weight of his new medallion more than the trial that earned it.

He wore it without pride.

Just necessity.

They were given their own rooms.

Not much. A trunk. A bed. A hook for armor.

Privacy, finally.

Space to breathe. Space to think.

And still, every night, Eskel slipped into Geralt’s room without knocking.

They never stopped.

Not even as their bodies changed. Not even when they got too big to fit comfortably.

Geralt never told him to leave. Eskel never explained why he came.

Some nights they talked. Quiet, low-voiced murmurs into the dark.

Some nights they didn’t speak at all.

One day they passed each other in the hall—Geralt heading to the forge, Eskel from the northern tower.

Neither said anything.

Geralt reached up, unhooked the silver wolf from around his neck, and held it out.

Eskel blinked once. Looked at it. Not long. Just a second.

Then he did the same.

One medallion traded for the other. Chains brushed fingers.

They put them on wordlessly, without pause, as if it had always been meant this way.

No ceremony. No blood pact. No vows.

They wore them like that from that day forward.

No one asked.

Geralt wouldn’t have answered anyway.

×××

It’s night.

The fire’s long gone out, but the heat still lingers in the room—slow and low, clinging to stone, to skin, to breath. Geralt lies on his back, eyes half-lidded, staring at the ceiling he knows better than the lines on his palm. He hears the wind outside, humming against the shutters, but it’s faint. Distant. Like everything lately.

He knows it’s spring because the frost has started melting in the hallway, and Gweld is having nightmares again, which wakes half the fortress at night. He’s had them ever since the Trials.

It's almost time. The Path waits.

Geralt doesn’t know how old he is.

Too young for the outside world.

Too old for what he used to be.

He exhales. Next to him, the bed creaks.

A familiar shift. A slow turn of muscle and breath.

“We don’t have much time left,” Eskel says softly, like the room might flinch if he speaks too loud.

Geralt hums.

Eskel huffs a breath of amusement. “That’s the ‘I know but I’m pretending I don’t’ kind of hm.”

Geralt turns his head. Looks at him.

Those amber eyes catch what little moonlight leaks past the window. Sharp edges in the dark—high cheekbones, dark hair, full mouth just slightly parted.

Geralt stares.

That mouth. Those lips. That face he's shared a bed with for years, but never like this.

His blood thrums hard under his skin.

Eskel watches him back, quiet, searching.

And maybe it happens slowly. Maybe all at once.

But Geralt’s not sure who leans in first.

Doesn’t matter.

Because lips meet lips—soft, certain, no hesitation.

And the world stills.

Everything slows down except the pounding in Geralt’s chest and the wet heat of Eskel’s mouth sliding open against his own.

The first kiss is gentle.

The second—less so.

Eskel’s hand finds his jaw, thumb stroking his cheek, before he rolls them over, pinning Geralt beneath him like he knows the shape of him already. Like he’s been waiting. Maybe he has.

Maybe they both have.

Geralt remembers what Vesemir said. Not long ago.

“You’re of age. Not by numbers, but blood. Soon one of you will take someone to bed. Maybe more than one. Remember what you are. What you carry in you. Your strength can kill without meaning to.”

But Eskel isn’t human.

Hasn’t been for a long time.

And neither is Geralt.

They know their own strength.

They’ve bled on the same dirt.

They've grown up together.

And they’ve learned to hold back together.

But tonight—there’s nothing to hold back.

Because when Eskel sinks his teeth into Geralt’s throat—not hard, not yet, just enough to make Geralt feel it—it sends a bolt of fire straight through him.

And when his hands—those callused, strong hands—move under Geralt’s shirt, rough fingertips ghosting over his ribs, down his sides, Geralt arches into the touch like he was born for it.

Their clothes come off in pieces, breath between fabric, teeth grazing skin. The blanket’s on the floor. One of Geralt’s boots is still half on.

He doesn’t care.

Because Eskel is there, stretched above him, thick thighs between his own, mouth painting heat down his collarbone, his chest, his stomach.

And then—hands on his hips, a pause.

A look.

A question, unspoken.

Geralt nods. Yes.

Always yes.

Eskel’s hand trembles a little as he reaches under the cot. Knows exactly where the oil is—he’s seen Geralt stash it there more than once, next to the whetstone and an old polishing cloth. It's not fancy. Not even scented. Just clear, slick, and clean. Meant for leather, mostly. Or swords. Or joints that ache when the cold gets in deep.

Or skin.

The tin’s cool against his palm. Geralt watches him silently, legs spread, breath coming fast.

Eskel opens the tin and dips three fingers in. Not two. They both know he’s going to need more.

Because Eskel’s never been small.

And Geralt is brave, but not invincible.

Eskel warms the oil with his palm, focused.

Geralt’s thighs tremble a little. He exhales through his nose, eyes half-lidded. “You look like you know what you’re doing.”

Eskel glances up.

“I don’t know shit,” he says honestly. “You’re the first.”

A pause.

“The only.”

His voice softens. “Always. In everything. In thought, in heart, in body.”

Geralt blinks once.

Eskel leans down and kisses him. His voice is a whisper. “You sure?”

Geralt lifts his hips slightly in response, silent permission written in muscle and breath and bone.

Eskel swallows hard. “Okay,” he murmurs. “Okay.”

He eases in the first finger. Geralt gasps, thighs twitching, back arching.

“Fuck,” Eskel says, voice raw.

He goes slow.

Slow like reverence.

“You’re using more patience than you do sharpening a blade,” Geralt rasps.

Eskel huffs softly. “You’re sharper than any fucking blade I’ve ever touched.”

The stretch is more with a second finger. Geralt tenses, then releases it—muscle relaxing on instinct, letting Eskel deeper. It’s not pain. It’s pressure. Heat. Fullness.

Eskel moves in and out slowly, opening him with care. A third finger joins the others. Geralt’s breath stutters. It doesn’t hurt—not really. Just stretches, slow and burning and real. His hands clutch the sheets beneath him, but he keeps his legs open, keeps looking at Eskel like this is exactly where he wants to be.

Eskel curls his fingers.

Geralt moans, biting down on the inside of his own wrist to keep the sound small.

“Fuck,” Eskel says again.

When the fingers finally slide out, Geralt’s thighs are trembling, his cock flushed and leaking against his belly. His face is damp with sweat. Eskel strokes himself slowly, spreading more oil over the head, down the shaft. His length heavy, slick in his hand. Geralt watches him with wide, glassy eyes.

“Breathe,” Eskel murmurs. He shifts forward, one hand steadying himself, the other guiding—

Geralt gasps, sharp and strangled, as Eskel pushes in. 

Gods, he’s big.

The stretch is deep, the burn hot and brilliant and overwhelming. Geralt’s head tipped back, mouth open in a broken sound he doesn’t recognize as his own.                                     

Eskel groans as he presses further, inch by inch, both hands gripping Geralt’s hips like lifelines. Geralt arches beneath him, eyes fluttering shut.

And when Eskel moves, everything sharp in the world goes soft.

Geralt moans again, mouth dragging against Eskel’s shoulder, his name caught in a breath.

“Geralt,” Eskel mutters against his neck, teeth scraping there again, biting harder now, and Geralt shudders.

That’s it. That’s the edge of the world.

His fingers clutch Eskel’s back, nails digging into muscle. He’s too close already—too much sensation, too much Eskel all around him: in him, on him, with him.

Eskel rocks into him harder, deeper, faster. One hand wraps around Geralt’s cock and strokes in time with his thrusts. Geralt breaks.

White-hot.

Every nerve burns, pleasure so sharp it borders on pain. His whole body clenches around Eskel, gasping his name again, again.

Eskel follows a heartbeat later, groaning against Geralt’s neck, voice hoarse, low and rough like gravel.

They collapse in a tangle of limbs and heat and breath, sweat cooling too fast against bare skin.

Geralt can’t think. Can’t move.

Just lies there, trembling slightly, feeling Eskel’s weight pressed into him.

Eskel doesn’t leave. Doesn’t pull away.

Just shifts, careful, and kisses his temple.

They stay like that for a long time.

Geralt lies awake with Eskel’s heart pounding gently against his ribs, his breath soft where it ghosts against Geralt’s shoulder.

Everything hurts in the best way.

His throat is sore from moaning. His thighs ache. His lips are bitten raw.

But he’s never felt more here.

Eskel stirs, murmurs something incoherent into his skin.

Geralt smiles faintly.

×××

He doesn’t say goodbye.

Not to Gweld. Not to Aubry. And especially not to Eskel.

He leaves before dawn, before the sky even hints at blue. His gear is packed the night before—blades sharpened, potions corked tight, boots repaired for the last time. He doesn’t sleep. Doesn’t need to.

Just listens to the slow rhythm of Eskel breathing beside him. The weight of his body curled in close, like always. One arm slung lazily across Geralt’s stomach. One leg tangled with his.

And Geralt leaves it behind.

Because he knows—if he looks at him, if he meets those honey-gold eyes in the gray morning light—he won’t be able to go.

Not with the possibility that this might be the last spring either of them ever sees.

So he slips out from under Eskel’s arm. Dresses silently. Pulls his cloak over his shoulders and tightens the strap across his chest. His hand hesitates, just once, above Eskel’s hair.

Then falls away.

He closes the door quietly.

And doesn’t look back.

The year is hard.

The Path isn’t a game, and the Continent doesn’t give a shit about idealism or first times. Monsters are real. But men—men are worse.

He takes contracts in shit-stinking villages and walled cities with silk banners. Hunts drowners, ghouls, foglets. Gets spat on. Gets stiffed. Sleeps in stables. Sleeps in dirt. Eats whatever won’t poison him. Drinks what burns the least.

Twice—only twice—he almost dies.

Once from an infected wound that nearly eats his leg off.

Once from a mob that didn’t want to wait to find out whether the girl they buried was really dead.

Success, he thinks. He’s still walking. Still bleeding. Still breathing.

He thinks of Eskel never.

That is: he tries.

Feels like trying not to breathe underwater.

But when the nights are coldest, when the fire doesn’t catch, when the pain is so deep in his hips and spine he can barely move—he touches the medallion at his throat.

Eskel’s.

Warm from skin, always. Heavy like a promise.

He presses his lips to it in the dark.

And keeps walking.

By the time the first frost settles on the grass again, Geralt is thinner. Meaner. Tired in a way his bones have learned to carry.

He climbs the trail to Kaer Morhen late in the season, boots slipping on rock and ice, wind cutting at his cheeks. His fingers are numb. His knees ache. His cloak is torn, his rations are gone, and he hasn’t slept in three days.

But—

He’s not dead in a ditch. Not rotting in a trench. Not hanging by his feet from a tree in Velen.

He’s almost home.

If Kaer Morhen is still that. If anything is.

He grips the medallion hard. So hard the chain bites into his neck.

Almost.

×××

No one sings. No horns. No bells.

But the gate opens.

And he walks through.

One of the old Wolves—Geralt can’t remember his name, face blurred by hunger and pain—claps him on the shoulder, wordless.

Another nods.

Geralt doesn’t stop.

He passes through the keep like a ghost. A thin, pale, white-haired wraith in mud-crusted armor and cracked boots. His fingers tremble. His jaw is locked.

And then—Vesemir.

Standing in the corridor where the hall meets the stairs.

Waiting.

Of course he is.

He doesn’t move fast. Never does. He walks forward with that slow, even step that’s more stable than any mountain. When he reaches Geralt, he stops.

Then lifts both hands.

His palms are callused, warm, rough as bark, and they settle on Geralt’s neck—his hair, his jaw, his skull.

Hold.

Tight.

Geralt sucks in sharply.

Because he can smell him.

The scent of smoke, oil, steel, and something else—relief. Pure. Searing like white flame under snow. And pride. Gods, the pride.

Geralt has never smelled that on Vesemir before.

Never.

Vesemir’s voice is rough, low.

"You're back."

He releases Geralt slowly.

Then adds, more softly:

"All four."

Geralt stops breathing.

All four.

Gweld. Aubry.

Eskel.

His knees buckle, just for a moment.

But he catches himself.

Vesemir watches him. His lips twitch—half a smile, almost a grimace.

"Go."

Geralt goes.

Upstairs. Down the hall. Past the old training yard.

To his room.

The bed is made.

The fire is lit.

And someone else's boots are already by the hearth.

Worn leather. Familiar tread. Scarred left heel. Geralt knows them before he even lifts his eyes.

The door clicks shut behind him.

He doesn’t lean against it.

His whole body is already trembling in small, invisible places—fingertips, the backs of his knees, the hinge of his jaw. From the cold. From the mountain climb. From the weight of the year he carried alone.

And from the man sitting across the room.

Eskel rises slowly from where he’d been crouched by the fire. One smooth motion.

For a second, Geralt can’t tell if he looks different.

But the firelight reveals it: his face is thinner. Shoulders still broad, still solid, but leaner now, sharper at the edges. His clothes hang a little looser. His hair’s longer. He smells of ash, leather, wind—and underneath it all, that scent.

Geralt breathes it in without meaning to.

And it nearly brings him to his knees.

Melted sunlight and wild mint crushed between fingers. Warm honey pulled from the comb.

Love.

Geralt steps forward. His boots squelch slightly from the half-melted snow on the floor. His shirt clings to him—wet, stiff with salt and old blood. His medallion, Eskel’s medallion, lies heavy against his chest, skin-warm and still humming with the memory of the Path.

He stops in front of him.

So close now that their breath mingles in the air between them.

Geralt lifts a hand. Fingers brush over the hollow of Eskel’s throat.

Eskel exhales, slow and shaky. His hand rises to meet Geralt’s. Their palms touch. Rough skin against rough skin.

Foreheads press.

Noses brush.

Mouths crash in a kiss that isn’t gentle and isn’t careful.

Deep. Slow. Open.

Reclaiming. Remembering. Reinforcing.

Eskel growls. A rumble like thunder, rough and low, vibrating straight through both of them. The sound of something starved finally fed.

His tongue licks into Geralt’s mouth with a hunger that leaves no room for doubt.

You’re mine. Mine. Mine.

His hands find Geralt’s hips and grip. Tight, possessive. Fingers digging into the meat of his thighs like they belong there, like they never left.

Geralt lets him. Lets his body go soft, moldable in Eskel’s hands, lets himself be pulled in tighter, until their thighs press, groins touch, chests rise and fall in tandem.

He’s filthy. He knows it.

He’s soaked through, skin clammy under armor he hasn’t yet removed, jaw scratchy with days of growth, blood dried along his sleeve and collarbone.

But Eskel doesn't flinch.

Doesn’t hesitate.

He kisses Geralt deeper. More demanding now.

Tongue sliding in, sweeping over the roof of his mouth, licking into him like he’s trying to memorize the taste all over again.

Eskel tastes like mint and winter air and months of waiting.

Geralt moans.

Quiet. Breathless.

Because yes, he’s alive. But only just.

Only now.

Only here .

Only with Eskel.

Eskel’s grip shifts, tightens—pressing, massaging, grounding. Bringing Geralt back into his body, inch by shaking inch.

Outside, Kaer Morhen howls with wind and snow.

Inside—

Geralt clings to the shape of love in his arms.

Chapter Text

Geralt sees the gates before anything else.

Not the snow, though it clings to his shoulders like it’s trying to bury him alive. Not the sun, though it limps across the sky like a dying thing, casting long shadows across the mountains.

Just the gates.

Tall. Old. Crusted with ice in the corners, the hinges rust-bitten, one plank cracked low near the base—unchanged.

Kaer Morhen.

It started here.

And maybe, gods help him, it ends here too.

Or breaks.

Or all of it, all over again.

Behind him—Jaskier. Still not breathing quite right. Every inhale shallow, scraped through raw lungs.

Geralt doesn’t look back.

The bridge beneath them groans with every step of Roach and Pegasus’ hooves. Boards protest. Ice shifts. Somewhere below, the river howls—wind trapped in the gorge, echoing like laughter in a crypt.

His hands ache on the reins.

The path up from the valley had been long. Weeks blurred together—mud, monsters, firelight. Jaskier hadn’t spoken since the forest. Not really. A word here, a nod there.

And now the keep stands before them, crouched under a storm-heavy sky like something angry. Daring them.

Geralt swings off Roach with deliberate weight, boots crunching into ice-caked earth. His joints protest—knees stiff, shoulders grinding. He hasn’t slept well in days.

He hasn’t breathed well in years.

Each step pounds in his skull, louder than it should be. He lifts his arm. Doesn’t knock.

His knuckles hover an inch from the wood, the wind slicing across his wrist, biting enough to sting. His throat tightens, something old and molten pressing behind his sternum.

He almost—

Roach stamps once, sharply.

The sound shatters the silence like a whip.

Geralt flinches.

The door opens.

Vesemir stands there.

No armor. No cloak. Just a plain tunic, collar open at the throat. His beard’s more grey than Geralt remembers. His face, more carved. But his eyes—his eyes are the same.

Ancient. Measured. Bone-deep tired.

He smells like oak bark and steel oil. Dust and pine resin. And underneath it all—too many winters.

His gaze flicks over Geralt.

Then over Jaskier, who stays seated on his stallion like a ghost pinned to the saddle. Pale. Haunted.

Scarred.

His grip on the reins tightens like they might disappear if he lets go.

Vesemir’s nostrils flare.

Geralt doesn’t need his training to sense it. The change. The pulse. The micro-shift in scent. The disbelief, the caution, the slow heartbeat of a Witcher re-evaluating everything he just saw.

Vesemir turns his head back toward him.

Geralt meets his gaze. Holds it.

Not as a boy anymore. Not as a pup.

As someone who’s done too much, lost too much, and brought back something the old man never expected.

The wind howls around them.

Vesemir squints, jaw locked.

Then finally—finally—he speaks.

“You’re late.”

A balm. A judgment. A joke worn smooth from decades of use.

Geralt swallows against the thickness in his throat.

He thinks of answering. Thinks of saying something dry. Something familiar.

But all he manages is a single exhale.

Vesemir shifts, steps back, and the door yawns wider.

Geralt doesn’t thank him. Just leads Roach through the gate, one hand on the reins, the other rigid at his side, refusing to ease.

Jaskier follows.

Behind them, the gates clang shut.

Kaer Morhen takes them in.

And Geralt walks forward into the only place that ever knew all his names—those spoken, and those left unsaid.

×××

They strip the horses first—old habit. Geralt leads Roach to the stable by muscle memory. His hands remember even when his mind doesn’t want to.

Jaskier moves like a puppet—not quite dragging Pegasus, but close. 

Geralt doesn’t offer help.

He knows better.

The coming snow prickles at the edge of his nerves. A pressure behind his temples, under the skin.

A storm’s close. The kind with wind that scours the skin and buries roads.

Geralt wonders if Jaskier feels it too. He usually does—always the first to complain about the air turning dense, the sky pressing down. He likes to joke that his joints creak like a sixty-year-old’s when the weather shifts.

Today, he says nothing.

The buckles come loose one by one. The rasp of breath and hooves and wood rubbing against stone fills the stables, and through it all, the space between them stays taut.

By the time they finish, Geralt’s knuckles are numb from the cold. He brushes snow from Roach’s flank, gives her one last glance, and turns toward the keep.

×××

The main hall of Kaer Morhen stands exactly as it always did: cavernous and frigid, smoke from the hearth curling upward in slow spirals. The light is low, filtered through soot-darkened windows. Shadows gather in the corners like old ghosts.

Vesemir stands near the hearth, arms crossed. He doesn’t move when they enter—just watches. Not unkind, but with the unblinking attention of someone who once tracked a wounded bear for five days through the Mahakam peaks and never lost sight of the blood.

Geralt stops a few steps in. His shoulders square instinctively.

“This is Jaskier,” he says. His voice comes out rough. “Bard.”

Jaskier stands just behind him, posture loose but guarded, fingers laced behind his back like a man resisting the urge to fidget. His lute is slung over his shoulder, as always, though he hasn’t touched it in weeks.

Vesemir studies him for a long moment. Geralt’s stomach knots.

Because Vesemir’s not looking at the man.

He’s looking at the—

“You eat meat?”

Jaskier blinks. “…Yes?”

Vesemir nods once. “Good.”

The door to the training yard swings open with a drawn-out whine.

Leather soles resound on stone.

Coën steps into the hall, pulling the hood from his dark hair, snow melting gradual across his shoulders. His eyes—yellow-green—flick across the room in that familiar, Witcher way: threat-assessment first, emotion later.

His gaze lingers. First on Jaskier—then on Geralt.

“Evening.”

Tone low. Coën never did like raising it.

Jaskier just nods slightly.

Coën takes a step forward, gaze darting back and forth between the two of them, and Geralt can see the moment his eyes rest on Jaskier’s scars again. He says nothing—of course he doesn’t. It would be impolite. But there’s a question in his expression that he doesn’t voice.

“Geralt.” Vesemir jerks his chin slightly toward the corridor to the left, the one that leads past the old armory and the storage rooms. It’s the kind of gesture that once meant trouble, boy, and still does.

He doesn’t wait for a reply.

×××

The side room is narrow, stone-walled, with a single bench and a warped table pressed against the far side. No fire. No candles.

Vesemir closes the door behind them. Doesn’t sit.

Geralt doesn’t, either.

He leans back against the wall. The muscles in his shoulders already ached from the constant tension.

Then:

“You have any idea,” Vesemir says quietly, “what the fuck you’ve just done?”

Geralt doesn’t answer.

Vesemir turns halfway toward him, face unreadable.

“I’m not going to yell,” he adds. “If that’s what you’re waiting for.”

Nothing.

Vesemir sighs. Long and slow. Wipes a palm down his beard like trying to scrub away whatever he might say next.

“Eskel came back three days ago.”

Geralt flinches. Visibly.

“Didn’t say anything,” Vesemir goes on, calm as a blade. “Not a single fucking word since he got here. Not to me. Not to Coën. Not even to Lambert, and gods know those two can’t shut up around each other. Funny thing, that.”

Geralt looks away. His hands shake. He curls them into fists.

Vesemir waits.

“You ran into him?”

A measured nod.

“And?”

“Nothing,” Geralt murmurs. Flat.

“Nothing,” Vesemir echoes. “That why he hasn’t said a thing since?”

The silence stretches until Geralt feels it in his teeth.

“It’s not—” He cuts himself off. Tries again. “It’s not like I planned this.”

“You think that makes it better?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

Geralt snaps. “I didn’t do anything.”

A rough sound leaves Vesemir, something between disbelief and disappointment.

“You dragged a boy into Kaer Morhen,” he says. “With Eskel’s scars.”

“Not just his.”

That lands.

“What?” Vesemir’s head tilts, sharp as a sword catching light. “Explain.”

Geralt presses his knuckles to the wall. It hurts less than speaking.

“Mine, too. Some I don’t even—” His throat closes.

For a moment, Vesemir doesn’t breathe. Then he does, slow and deep, like a wolf scenting rot.

“You’re telling me that boy—” His voice drops, dangerous now.

“It’s not like that.”

“How is it, then?” Vesemir steps closer. His eyes burn the way coals do—quiet, steady, enough to cook a man from the inside out. “Because I see a bard. I see scars he should never have. And I see you hauling him here as if no one would notice.”

Geralt forces himself to meet his gaze. “I couldn’t leave him. You know I couldn’t.”

Vesemir’s mouth bends, not quite a frown, not forgiveness either.

“This—” He opens a hand, as if the word itself is mist. “Two bonds, or a split one, or whatever this is—means more than bruised feelings. It draws attention. Mages. Priests with torches. Kings with laws. You brought all of that to my door.”

“To our door,” Geralt cuts.

Vesemir’s gaze snaps to him. “Then act like it’s yours to guard.”

Geralt’s temper flares, bright and brief. “I am. He’s safer here than on the road.”

“And Eskel?” Vesemir asks, tone too even.

Geralt stares at the floor. It stares back.

“Right.” Vesemir’s mouth twitches—half a grimace. “Then don’t mistake silence for care.” He jerks his head up the ceiling. “If you want this to do anything but fester, you start by telling him what you just told me.”

He opens the door and leaves it that way—like a choice he refuses to make for Geralt.

×××

Coën makes space—a quiet around him that isn’t empty, just deliberate. He drags a stool close to the hearth and sets a wooden bowl in Jaskier’s hands. The bard holds it without really holding it; his fingers have that careful tremor of someone who’s learned hot from hurt.

“Don’t burn yourself,” Coën says mildly, passing him a rag. “Hotter in the middle.”

Jaskier blinks. Takes it.

“You’re shivering,” Coën adds. “Eat.”

“I’m fine,” Jaskier lies. The spoon chimes soft against the rim.

Coën doesn’t argue. He fishes in a pocket and lays a small tin on the stool’s edge.

“Balm,” he says, almost apologetic. “Pine and tallow. Won’t smell pretty. But keeps skin from splitting.”

Jaskier looks at his own hands like strangers. Knuckles red, fingertips rough where calluses split.

“I’ve tried oil,” he says. “Doesn’t last.”

“Nothing does.” Coën’s face creases in something like a smile. “But some things help.”

“Are you,” Jaskier ventures, “always this polite?”

“Mostly.” Coën smiles. “Lambert calls it a defect. Vesemir calls it restraint.”

“And Geralt?” The name leaves him like a bruise.

Coën considers. “Geralt calls it useful.” He nods at the stew. “So eat your useful.”

Wry warmth creeps in before Jaskier can strangle it. He eats. Salt and meat and onion and heat. First thing in days that doesn’t taste like the inside of a wound.

The moment barely settles in his mouth before a noise cuts through it—bootsteps ring from the side corridor. Jaskier’s spine stiffens. He sets the empty bowl aside.

Geralt steps back into the hall. His face is all door. The kind that keeps things in.

Coën rises. “I’ll check the tack,” he says, though he already did. He’s gone before anyone can argue.

Geralt stops two paces from the hearth. The flames make his hair wire and light.

“You ate,” he says. Not a question.

Jaskier nods. Then glances toward the corridor Geralt vanished down before.

“He’s here,” he murmurs. Not a question either. Not even a name.

“Somewhere.”

“Will you go to him?”

Geralt shifts, weight leaden.

“Don’t,” he says. Too soft.

Jaskier swallows. “Then say something that isn’t don’t.”

Breath by breath, he waits for the air to pass through his ribs without scraping. His fingers knot in his lap.

“Do you even want me here, Geralt? Or am I just—” He exhales sharply, cutting himself off. “Filling in until you can’t avoid him anymore?”

Geralt’s jaw works.

Jaskier lets out a bitter laugh, thin and wrecked. “If you want me elsewhere, I can be elsewhere. I’m skilled at elsewhere.”

Geralt closes his eyes. Just for a moment.

He’s caught—between the hearth and the staircase, between the man beside him and the man above.

He crouches slowly in front of Jaskier. Doesn’t touch. Words scrape like sandpaper in his chest.

“When I’m near you, the world is quieter.” He gestures—uselessly, like always. “Less broken. I don’t mean it like you’re a placeholder. You’re not. You’re not temporary. You’re not—”

Jaskier turns aside.

“It feels like I’m losing anyway,” he whispers.

And Geralt—

Moves.

Finally—finally, after days, weeks, gods, months of skimming the edge. His palms find the bard’s face—cold cheeks, skin drawn thin from too many nights on the road. Fingers curl under his chin, tentative and warm.

His mouth seeks Jaskier’s, hesitant, tasting of doubt and longing both.

Jaskier trembles.

And then—melts.

Because of course he does. Of course.

He’s starved for it.

Geralt’s hand slips to the nape of Jaskier’s neck. His breath tastes like ash and apology. A sound catches in Jaskier’s throat—half sob, half surrender.

And it’s—

It’s fucking glorious.

It’s—

Boots. On stone. A presence in the room like a thunderclap with claws.

Geralt freezes.

Jaskier’s eyes open.

There he is.

Wide-shouldered. Scarred face unreadable. Fists clenched like they’re holding back blood.

The room drops ten degrees.

“Don’t stop on my account,” Eskel says, tone coated in glass.

Jaskier pulls back. Makes himself small.

Geralt rises with effort.

“Eskel—”

“You know,” Eskel cuts in, stepping forward. Stare fixed on Geralt. Not even glancing at Jaskier. “I thought it would be the bard I hated. Thought it’d be easy.”

He snorts. It’s hollow. Ugly.

“But no. It’s you. You, Geralt. The man I bled with. Grew with. Fucked. Loved—” His voice cracks. He snarls. “And now I walk in and find you—what? Kissing whoever happens to echo my fucking face?”

Jaskier flinches like he’s been slapped.

“Eskel,” Geralt says once again, warning.

Eskel steps closer.

“Tell me—was he good? Does he make the same noises I did? Did you teach him where to bite, or did he learn on instinct?”

Geralt’s face twists.

Jaskier doesn’t move.

“Greedy fucking wolf,” Eskel spits. “Go on. Fuck him in my bed, too. Wear my shirt while you’re—”

Geralt grabs him by the collar, shoving back against the wall. Chest to chest. Teeth bared.

“Don’t you fucking understand?” he snaps. “It’s not a replacement, Eskel. He has my scars too. He carries you and he carries me. I feel him. I feel him the way I felt you.”

Eskel stares. And for the span of a blink—just one—he falters.

But the rage roars back.

“So what, we’re sharing now?” he rumbles. “Split him down the middle? Let him wear both of us while we fuck him into some kind of spiritual balance?”

Jaskier jerks back, pushing himself up from the stool.

Geralt’s nostrils flare. “Don’t talk about him like that.”

“Why not?” Eskel growls. “Don’t you get it, Geralt? I don’t want him. I don’t want you to want him—”

“I know,” Geralt breathes.

That stops Eskel cold.

Jaskier stands still as a deer in the snow. Snared in the howl of two predators who used to know how to speak softly.

“I didn’t ask for any of this,” he whispers, then takes one step back. “Sort it out,” he says. Voice flat. “I’m done being the battlefield.”

He turns on his heel. Walks.

Nowhere, really. He doesn’t know Kaer Morhen. But he walks anyway.

And in the hush left behind—

Lambert’s frozen in the archway, teeth sunk into the jerky like it’s the only anchor in this godsforsaken keep. Geralt maintains his grip on Eskel’s collar.

Lambert drags the meat from his mouth. Glance flicks from Geralt to Eskel to Jaskier’s retreating back.

“…The fuck did I miss?”

No one answers.

Geralt lets go. Arms fall. Chest heaving.

From the other end of the hall, Vesemir appears. Coën at his side.

Both halt.

Vesemir squints. A deliberate nod—to Coën, toward the disappearing back of the bard.

Coën moves—quick, graceful. He takes the stairs two at a time, eyes scanning. No hesitation.

Lambert slides the jerky back into his mouth. Sucks on it, gaze darting between everyone like he just walked into a flaming shrine to emotional dysfunction.

Vesemir turns to look at him.

A single look. A silent, ancient look.

Lambert blinks. Raises both palms in surrender, meat still caught in his mouth.

“…Right. Fuck this.”

He slowly slinks out.

“Well,” Vesemir says grimly. “Which one of you idiots wants to explain?”

×××

One breath, two.

Vesemir’s eyes lock on both of them like a trap closing. “Of course. Two grown wolves, and still you wait for me to bite first.”

Geralt grinds his teeth. Eskel’s mouth twists, ugly with things unsaid.

Vesemir huffs through his nose like a bull. “Speak, before I decide which one of you is sleeping in the stables tonight.”

The silence doesn’t last. It curdles.

Eskel’s snarl is raw when he suddenly closes the distance. His fist hooks into Geralt’s collar and he slams him back against the wall. A harsh grunt tears itself from Geralt’s chest, head snapping sideways. Eskel’s face is right there, nose to nose, fangs bared, words ripped out like they want to take flesh with them.

“You don’t get to speak about my scars like they’re yours to pass around. You don’t get to put your mouth on him while I’m still breathing.” His hand trembles where it knots in the wolf medallion chain, his medallion, pressed flush against Geralt’s throat. “You don’t get to—”

Geralt moves. Fast. Old instincts. He shoves back, grabs Eskel’s wrist and twists, slamming him into the opposite wall with the kind of force that rattles dust loose from the beams above. Their steps scuff on the floor. Shoulders collide.

Vesemir stays where he is. Arms crossed, gaze carved from granite. He’s seen wolves tear into each other before. Sometimes the only way through is blood on the teeth.

Geralt’s voice rips loose, rougher than a wounded animal. “I loved you. Gods damn it, Eskel—I loved you, I love you, and I will always fucking love you. And if you think this—” He jerks Eskel forward, then slams him back again. “Is just me clawing at your ghost, then you’re a fucking fool.”

Eskel’s gaze flares, fury and something sharper sparking there.

Geralt barrels on, breaking apart. “Don’t you remember? That gravity in your bones, that drag under your skin that said—this one, this one, there’s no choice?” The words crack, raw as an open wound. “That’s what it is. It’s not less, it’s not more—it’s the same. He’s the same fire that burned me into you. And I still—I still burn for you, Eskel. Gods help me, I still am.”

Only then does he notice the sting in his knuckles, bloodless from the grip. Realizes he can feel Eskel’s pulse hammering under his touch, wild, but not hatred at all but something older. Something buried.

For a heartbeat Eskel doesn’t move. His jaw clamps shut. A tremor racks his chest. His eyes—gods, his eyes—fix on Geralt’s face, and the rage there isn’t clean anymore.

Vesemir finally speaks, low and meaningful. “Eskel. Do you feel it too?”

Eskel’s throat bobs, jaw clenched so hard the scars on his cheek twitch.

He nods. Once. Small. Barely more than a dip of the chin, but enough.

And it guts him. The admission carves lines into his features, makes him seem older, broken open. His gaze wavers.

Because yes.

He felt it the moment he saw the bard at Geralt’s side, like a rope yanking at scar tissue that never healed.

He felt it when he kissed Geralt in the woods, fevered and hungry, like a man drowning.

He felt it just now, seeing Geralt’s mouth on the bard’s—something in him flaring alive in recognition, savage, undeniable.

Geralt’s hand shakes. Eskel feels it mirrored in his own veins.

Vesemir doesn’t blink. “So. Not broken. Not ended. Not by the Trials. Not by anything.”

Against all sense, against everything they were told—that bonds die with mutation, that whatever soul-thread tied them as boys was severed in the crucible—there it is. Alive. Gnawing.

And now it coils tighter because of the bard.

Eskel’s breath rasps against Geralt’s cheek, unrelenting as his grip trembles. Slowly—almost gently, and that gentleness cuts deeper than any blow—he peels Geralt’s grip from his shirt. One finger at a time. Like breaking a lock.

He doesn’t even look up. Just turns, shoulders taut, and starts to walk—heavy, like a man who just buried the last thing he loved, with his own teeth. Feet drag across the flagstones in a rhythm that doesn’t belong to a Witcher’s body, scraping, clumsy, the gait of someone stripped raw of instinct.

Geralt doesn’t stop him. He stays, staring at the cold stone as if it might still carry Eskel’s warmth. His chest rises and falls, jagged and uneven, but he doesn’t move.

The sound of those steps—shuffling, reverberant, hollow—floods the hall. Each one stretches, bending time until it feels like whole seasons pass between heel and toe.

And then, eventually—finally—they fade. The stillness after is worse.

Geralt turns his head, stiff, as though fighting his own body to do it. His eyes find Vesemir’s.

“What does it mean?” he asks, voice too small for a man his size.

Vesemir lifts his brows. Shrugs one shoulder. “No idea.”

Geralt’s mouth parts—

“Looks to me like the boy doesn’t divide you. He binds you,” Vesemir cuts him off. His gaze narrows. “How, I don’t know. But it’s not a new bond. It’s a knot. And it sure as hell makes everything a lot messier.”

Geralt shuts his eyes. And the echo of Eskel’s footsteps won’t leave his head.

×××

The hall yawns empty around him. Geralt drifts forward, his own words hammer in his skull.

I loved you.

I love you.

I will always love you.

They bounce from wall to wall, rattle in the hollows of his chest.

So loud he doesn’t hear the tread behind him. Doesn’t scent the leather. Doesn’t sense the weight until it touches him.

A hand—broad, warm, solid but not harsh—settles on his shoulder.

Geralt spins. Instinct tears through him before thought. He wrenches half around, shoulder twisting, arm dropping toward the knife at his belt, every nerve shrieking threat.

Kaer Morhen. Home, he knows, home, but his body isn’t listening.

Open palms rise into his vision.

Coën.

“I took Jaskier,” he says, steady. Even. And gods, it’s the first time tonight anyone’s said the name without poison in it. “Found him a room. Lit the hearth. Piled on furs.” His gaze flickers. “Last door down the hall from mine. Far from yours. And Eskel’s.”

Geralt’s pulse stumbles in his throat. The knife stays sheathed. Air slips past his teeth.

“Thank you,” he rasps.

Coën nods once, as if that’s enough. No judgment in his face. Only a weary kind of understanding. Melancholy clings to him—Geralt can smell it—but Coën doesn’t press. Just lowers his arms and slips back into the shadows, leaving the wolf to his wreckage.

Geralt doesn’t even bristle at the sympathy. Doesn’t have the strength. He leans against the wall for a moment, lungs raw, temples throbbing.

Then pushes forward.

He has to find Jaskier. To make sure—

He doesn’t know. Doesn’t know what he needs to make sure of anymore.

×××

The door creaks open on a low groan of old hinges. Heat spills from the hearth inside.

Jaskier lies turned toward the flames, shoulders hunched under a pile of blankets. He doesn’t stir when Geralt enters—but the line of his shoulders is too tense for sleep. His hair glows copper in the firelight, messy, damp at the temples.

Geralt shuts the door behind him, careful, and crosses the room. His armor feels heavier with every step, as if Kaer Morhen itself wants to drag him into the floor.

Boots off. Sword leaned against the wall. For a moment he just stands, staring at the narrow bed, the outline under the covers.

He crosses the room. Sits. The mattress dips, and only then does Jaskier shift, slow and measured, like moving through deep water. Just a soft press forward. A small opening, a wordless invitation.

Geralt takes it.

He lies down. One arm awkwardly over the furs. The warmth of another body seeps in through mail and linen, grounding—and suffocating.

And he draws it in. The emotions that bleed out of Jaskier’s skin, thick as smoke: the salt of shame, the iron tang of anger, the faint sweetness of relief he can’t hide. Geralt tastes it on his tongue.

Before, it was always a choice of ruin.

Which one of them would he shatter if he leaned too far?

Who could he bear to lose—Eskel, again, or Jaskier?

Now the choice is gone. Without the bard, the tether to Eskel would stay severed, no gravity left in it. But with Jaskier—this knot of scars and soul and song—he’s pulled in both directions. A wolf ripped in two, and the rope burns either way.

Jaskier shifts once more, a whisper of heat against Geralt’s throat. Silent still. Clinging tighter.

Geralt stares at the ceiling beams above the bed until his vision blurs.

His mind circles the same truth, over and over.

And he knows, bone-deep, that it will tear him apart.