Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jaskier was a liar.

This fact didn't particularly bother Geralt.

He was raised by the rule that actions always spoke louder than words, and actually, it was better to ignore the words of men unless they might lead to a noose around your neck. 

An alderman who spat hate but never haggled the set price was always worth more than the one who spoke with honey-sweet words but put rocks in the coin purse. The barmaid who admitted to watering down the ale but never refused to hand over the room key was better than the innkeeper who smiled when he raised the price of the room in the morning.  

Jaskier claimed it came with his trade. Being a performer meant he dealt in lies. He helped people lie to themselves that their lives were not so bleak for the amount of time it took to complete a set. He played the lie of Jaskier the Bard, Barker of the Great White Wolf. He weaved the lie of the white wolf in the first place. It was all the essential lies that people told themselves to get through the day.  

That was a bleaker outlook than Geralt expected from the tropical bird of a man. It took him off guard one overly warm summer day after both of their brains had been cooked to stupidity and honesty, but he was hard-pressed to disagree or care. So what if the bard decided to lie? It happened so often, it risked tipping over into the realm of compulsion. Jaskier was as loyal as Roach when it mattered. 

It did make Geralt feel this horrible itch in the back of his head. A small sensation that was harder and harder to ignore with every lie. 

It had started the third time Jaskier had told a different story about where he came from. 

The first version told at a court banquet was that he was the son of a noble viscount roaming far from home on a journey for artistic enlightenment. 

Whatever that meant. 

The second version was the exact opposite. He was talking with a circle of bar patrons around him, hanging on the word of this strange city man who had wandered into their hamlet. Jaskier claimed he was from a small coastal village that smelled of fish and salt, and that at the tender age of 12, he set out for Oxenfurt in search of an apprenticeship. 

Geralt had thought he was covering for the rather hostile feelings that floated in the town for nobles after it was revealed that the local chimera was actually the failed attempt of a noble to kill his bastard children. He’d been well acquainted with Jaskier’s gold plated tongue by then and had put the story out of his mind. 

The third version had awoken that twitchy itch in his brain. Another bard recognized Jaskier and demanded to know how he fared and if his family’s shipping business was afloat. (Pun entirely intended, according to the other bard) Jaskier rattled off a lie so well rehearsed that Geralt was almost convinced. Would have been convinced if he hadn’t already known that Jaskier had cut his branch off of the family tree.

That was true. Alone on those hard roads between towns, Jaskier spoke of his family very little, and what he did say was deeply bitter. Too straightforward for it to be anything but real.

They say that no one is truly dead till the last time their name is said. I will kill my father for good.

My mother tried her best. 

Each ask after the bard's past created a new version of himself. Some rich, others poor, sometimes he is from a family of 10, other times an only child. A son of a knight or a beggar woman. A former brothel worker or runaway. 

Every one of the stories was wild and grand. 

Each time, that same itch flared up. 

It was easy to ignore. Life was rarely dull with Jaskier around. Always something to do to take care of him– foraging for dinner, washing clothes, or chasing off angry cuckold husbands. Geralt would never admit this, but Jaskier traveling with him satisfied something deep in his heart. 

The urge to take care of something. 

For every rumor, there is a grain of truth.

Sorceresses didn’t bathe in the blood of virgins, but some spells involve washing their hands in lambs' blood for protection. 

Elves didn’t eat human flesh, but several elven recipes include cuts of raw meat or organs.

Witchers weren’t emotionless, but fresh from the trials, they might as well have been. 

In the first few precious weeks after The Trials, the new witchers were retaught how to feel emotions. It was the kindest time any witcher will experience in Kaer Morhen. There were fewer chores and more praise and encouragement from the elders, and extra helpings at meals to gain back the weight lost during the trials. 

Once they can stand and talk again each witcher was given a baby animal to raise: Anything from a horse foal, or dog pup, or one notable instance, a baby raccoon. They named it, and cared for it to adulthood. This soothed the gaping wound of being changed by the trials, and the lingering physical pain too. It taught the young witchers how fragile life can be and the empathy to care for something entirely dependent on them. 

Geralt got an orphaned chestnut filly that he named Roach.

Everyone knew if this wasn’t handled right, then any of them might turn into what so much of humanity believed them to be. 

Monsters.

A Butcher.

Being responsible for a baby so soon after being torn down to their roots was probably the reason Witchers never left the path. Service and Care were stitched into the patchwork quilt of their brains at their most moldable. 

Most of the time, it was Roach and his blades who received the brunt of his urges to care for something. Then Jaskier, barely weaned from mother’s milk in Geralt’s eyes, came along with zero idea of how to survive in the wilderness. He was all energy and naivete, fixated on turning a monster into a legend. The Path was unforgiving to the inexperienced and the kind. The last thing Geralt wanted was that spark of life to be stolen from the boy’s eyes.

So Geralt punched him in the stomach to try and get him to return to wherever he came from. 

That didn’t work.

Getting kidnapped by Elves didn’t work.

Harsh words and rough treatment on top of the work of traveling didn’t work.

Geralt resigned himself to the fact that he had a bard now. 

A bard that lit up like fire to black powder when Geralt gave him new lute strings. Who smiled lazy and blushed when full of strong ale bought with coins from a hunt. 

No outsider would call his attention doting, but Geralt knew what he was doing. 

Jaskier was always on his left.

He got the best and biggest cuts of meat.

The first bath always went to him. 

Jaskier bloomed under the care. His music improved, and so did his survival skills. By the end of their first year together, Geralt didn’t fret sending Jaskier off to wherever he spent the winter. They continued their parallel paths when the frost melted.

Year after year, they traveled together. Sometimes they spent all three seasons together, other times it was only six months. 

The itch never went away.

If anything, it only got worse.

It was an early fall day in a tavern long after the itch started when Geralt finally figured it out. The tavern was mostly empty at that point in the day; everyone was busy with the harvest season. They were only there in the first place because Geralt had dropped off his steel blade to be detailed. He’d do the silver one by hand later that evening.

Jaskier was the failed apprentice of a wizard that day. The man he flirted with had short dark hair and smelled of a forge like his master. No physical threat but if this went soiled then he might be at risk of a dull sword. The apprentice slid his fingers over the lute callouses on Jaskier’s hand. It was overly familiar for how high in the sky the sun was. You didn’t need a witcher’s sense of smell to tell what the intent of that gentle caress was. The man kept asking questions about what it was like in a wizard’s tower in an attempt to loosen the laces of Jaskier’s breeches.

Wizard’s towers were places where reality bent and best avoided. The only good side to a wizard was the coin they paid for monster parts. It was only barely worth putting up with them eyeing Geralt like he would be best filleted open on a dissection table. They were not the alchemist fortress full of potions and guarded by dragons that Jaskier spoke into existence. The apprentice didn’t seem to actually believe any of it, but the flirting kept him talking– hopeful for a mid-afternoon fuck. The success spurred hope into boldness. He leaned forward to whisper things he definitely wouldn’t have said out loud if he knew that Geralt could hear him from the corner. This apparently was the line of Too Far, and Jaskier politely backed away from the table under the excuse of having an appointment with a jeweler. 

Another lie.

The apprentice slumped in his chair with an annoyed groan. He wasn’t bad looking. Jaskier might have had a good afternoon if he was into ropes. Geralt did attempt to keep his snicker to himself and the ale. He got an angry glare for the lack of sympathy for blue balls.

“For the record, I knew the wizard thing was bullshit,” he said. A clear attempt to patch up his pride. Geralt took a long pull of his ale. 

“Fine, what’s his real story then?” 

That was–

That was a good question, actually.

The itch returned in full force.

Geralt had no idea what Jaskier’s past actually was. What his childhood was like, where it took place, or anything before Oxenfurt actually. 

There were some small pieces Geralt could piece together. Jaskier couldn’t have been raised a peasant with soft hands of nobles or academics. He didn’t have a good relationship with his parents for whatever reason. Jaskier’s greatest love was music. 

Twenty years together; that’s all he knew?

Hadn’t he asked the bard at some point?
He had not. It never felt relevant. Jaskier never brought it up, and Geralt never felt the need to put his nose where it didn’t belong. Except he did.

That was what the itch was.

He was curious.

It wasn’t that Geralt didn’t know anything about Jaskier. He knew perhaps more than he wanted to know. 

He knew that Jaskier was a hedonist in the most literal sense. He’d written dissertations on the subject in academia and lived among a hedonist cult for three months.

Geralt had learned that particular fact after Jaskier got rather irate at Geralt for using the term incorrectly. Apparently its not just about fucking, booze, and rich meats.

Jaskier preferred floral scents to all others and despised bark scents.

His mother smelled like jasmine. His father used to hang sandalwood on the windows 

He was a dreamer.

He was an optimist.

He fell in love every day with every new person he met.

Jaskier paid for water for people in the stocks. 

Jaskier was a generous lover based on the noises of his partners and the state of the women they paid for. 

Jaskier forgave too quickly.

Was that enough to counteract all the things he didn’t know?

Where was Jaskier raised? What gods did he follow? Did he follow any?
What did he want to be as a small child? Has it always been a bard? 

What was his real name? 

I couldn’t have been fucking Jaskier. 

What kind of fucking name was Jaskier?

“What kind of fucking name is Jaskier?” Geralt hadn’t meant to be so rough, but his recent realization was complicating his life more than he wanted it to be. 

“Pardon?” Jaskier blinked as he patched a hole in the crotch of his trousers. One of the skills that Geralt hadn’t needed to teach him was mending his own clothes, thankfully. Jaskier enjoyed fancy clothes and paid too much for them, but he took care of what he had. It was one of the reasons Geralt wasn’t completely annoyed with the bard in those early days. 

“Your name. It doesn’t fit anywhere. It's like you just shoved a bunch of letter sounds till it was what you liked,” Geralt knew that Jaskier liked to say he was from the town of Lettenhove in Kerack most often. It was the version of him he used the most, but there were no names like that in Kerack. Jaskier was an entirely strange name, the more Geralt thought about it.  

“You’re rather chatty. What brought about this odd bout of curiosity?” Jaskier let the insult to his name slide off like water on a duck. Not even given the dignity of being addressed. He just hummed in time with the pace of his neat backstitch. Geralt’s blunt way of speaking stopped bothering Jaskier years ago. Genuine offence at the unsanded comments adjusted to playful mocking and flat acceptance over time. It had to or they wouldn’t have lasted long together.

“You’re avoiding the question,” Geralt didn’t fail to notice. 

“Really? Everything about me, and my name is what you finally show curiosity in? Not my music or my academic awards?” Jaskier put down his mending. One of his eyebrows arched. There weren’t any questions about his music or academic awards. Geralt knew everything about those things because Jaskier talked about them like a river ran. 

All the time and at a speed that threatened to sweep away the unprepared. 

The one time Geralt had seen Jaskier in his academic element– a local noble hired not the Musician but the Professor– he’d been the same whirlwind performer but it had the biting side effect of making Geralt feel like a lumbering troll when it became a hopeless struggle to understand anything.

“You’ll talk about those if I ask you to or not,” Geralt pushed deep deep down that memory of insecurity. No one would blame him for not being the most scholarly. What use was there for music theory and philosophy for swords that happened to have a being attached to it. 

“Correct, now how’s my seam? Is it too obvious?” Jaskier held up his pants for inspection. 

“No. Looks fine,” Geralt gave his honest answer. 

“My thanks, now my poor doublet. I have not been kind to you, my dearest apologies,” Jaskier spoke to his clothes, but Geralt did the same thing to his swords. Not much room for judgement there.

“You still haven’t answered my question,” Witcher’s were persistence predators. 

Jaskier clenched the doublet in his tightening fists. His eyebrows furrowed in deep thought. He was probably thinking up a convincing lie. Something to get Geralt off the scent of the issue so they could both carry on with the night without this strange and annoying need to know.

“Its– there’s–,” Jaskier began but didn’t finish. His greatest strength failed him when it was needed the most. His contemplation turned to annoyance. Geralt waited for him to find his runaway words. It took a few more stuttering attempts, all half baked sentences that lacked any detail. It was just a name. It couldn’t be that big of a deal. Even with the growing annoyance Geralt waited patiently. He wasn’t good at words on the best days, and he generally tried not to be a hypocrite. 

Finally Jaskier let out a big sigh then looked down at his sewing.

“It’s from Poland. It’s Polish. My given name is Julian or Julek if you’re my mother. She wanted a name that sounded more Slavic but my grandmother insisted against it. Said it was safer. Jaskier translates to buttercup,” Jaskier sounded so deeply fond and sad at the same time. Almost like the end of grief. After the wailing and the anger passed into acceptance. Like how widows whose husbands had died long ago talk about their past romance. 

Geralt tried to wrap his brain around what was just said. 

Poland. Polish.

Slavic.

Julian. 

“Where the fuck is Poland?” Geralt grumbled. He’d made no ground and had more questions than he’d started with.

“Not on any map you’ll have,” Jaskier grinned like a fairy. Clearly there was some game going on. 

…..

He’s lying again.

Of course. 

Geralt huffed and pulled out his silver sword and whetstone.

“What was that noise for?” Jaskier glared.

“You’re fucking with me, shouldn’t have expected the truth,” Geralt more than accepted that this was not going to be solved tonight. He’d investigate alone once this moment of weakness was forgotten. The smarter thing was to drop this. It was in the end mostly unimportant. Time had proved that Jaskier wasn’t a threat. Where he was from or the origin of his odd name wouldn’t change that. 

Oxenfurt would be the best place to start. Lettenhove if he time them breaking apart for winter right.

“That is the truth,” Jaskier settled into rare seriousness. Geralt was done with words for the night. The silver sword glided over the stone with even careful pressure. It was a simple repetitive motion that soothed the mind. It would be sharp enough to cut through carapace when it was ready. The small dagger was next. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier said firmly.  He paused and looked up. “I’ve lied around you. Never to you,”

A knot of unease tangled in his chest. Jaskier held his gaze like he was grabbing the reigns of a horse. His eyes didn’t hold anger or hurt, but resolve. Determination that this was the truth. There was no barrier of levity or casual insults. There was no game.

Geralt couldn’t avoid the intensity of the emotions that Jaskier was projecting.

It made him feel stripped of his skin.

“No, you just speak in riddles and words no one uses,” Geralt goes back to sharpening his sword. The gentle barb reverted the atmosphere back to their normal evening as Jaskier threw his head back in laughter.

“Buttercup? Really?”
“Oh don’t start,”

Chapter Text

Mountains are dreadful places aren’t they? 

Too good of a place for dramatic self-distructive declarations in Geralt's opinion once the blood stopped filling his ears.

Jaskier shouldn’t forgive him, but he does anyway. 

“Geralt, If I stayed mad at every person who said hurtful things to me I’d have no friends and no bedpartners. It is part of the human condition to hurt and be hurt, so I forgive. Except for Valdo Marx, I’ll die mad and cursing his name,” Jaskier explained as he scrubbed himself in the frigid mountain water. Geralt had never met Valdo Marx and perhaps it was best that it stayed that way. He had no quarrel with the man, but might be expected to hate him anyway because of Jaskier’s undying feud. The tangled web of relationships that artists had was best left alone. It was damn near messier than politics only with less lasting consequences for peasants. 

“Ough you could hand portraits from my nipples,” Jaskier had long shed his shirt and boots, and was in the process of taking off his pants and underclothes.

“FUCK!” he shouted when emerged from dunking his whole body into the water. After this they'd camp to get Jaskier something to eat and dry his clothes by a fire. It was reaching the end of the harvest, and the weather would turn. Any longer in that water wouldn’t spell good news. 

“Hurry,” Geralt said, a little blunter than he should be, but blunt was the best he could manage.

“You try being in a jail cell for three days and three nights and see how much you want to hurry through a bath,” Jaskier gripped and pulled out a bar of harsh lye soup, not unlike what Geralt carried if a bit more refined, and started scrubbing. It was a far cry from the normal gentler soups and oils that Jaskier insisted on carrying. Lye was cheap soap that was easy to carry and easy to restock. It wasn’t the only change now that Geralt looked. The red coat while garish was well made and meant to last for years on the road. He even recognized the craftsmen from the brand in the leather near the collar. The boots, while not hiking or mountains, were in fact boots and not the dancing heels of courts and  performers. 

Even Jaskier himself had changed. A naked Jaskier was old news. Neither of them were skin shy when they met and the year apart hadn’t changed that. Geralt drank in the naked bard. He’d gained muscle and filled out nicely. A healthy layer of fat hid his bones. The trend of being stick thin to be beautiful faded in the last few years and good riddance to it. Jaskier’s thinness never came from effort, but rather the consequences of constant travel. It was just that he could never eat his fill at court when he stayed at one. Plenty of money, but nothing to eat. There were at least a few new scars that Geralt could see. The hidden stories behind them hissed and snarled. 

“Having fun staring at me?” Jaskier teased. Geralt didn’t blush. 

“Yes. You’ve changed– it's not a bad thing,” Geralt quickly clarified that part. Traveling with Ciri had been a hard course of lessons in the fact that what Geralt said didn’t always come across as what he meant. Jaskier had changed, but it wasn’t a judgement of the change. It was a neutral observation, but humans read into words and now the opinions of at least two humans mattered to him.

“Oh, I guess I have,” Jaskier looked down at himself. He’d begun to tremble slightly from the cold. The bath was over. Geralt hauled him out of the water and thrust his clothes into unprepared hands.

“I’m going to start a fire,” Geralt started gathering wood. 

Then an axe flew and stuck Jaskier’s shirt. 

It would have sent all the instincts of countless years of practice on edge, it did for about two seconds, till Geralt recognized the emblem carved into the handle— Yarpen Zigrin.

— – — —- —- —- 

The dwarves mingled in their camp getting ready for afternoon supper. 

“I can’t go right away,” Jaskier said, eating hard tack softened with water. A flare of anger washed over him. Ciri was in trouble and hadn’t it been Jaskier who insisted that Geralt meet his destiny facing forward? Even beyond Ciri, Jaskier hated Yennefer; he should be more than happy to jump at the chance to take her down. 

“Don’t give me that look. I need tonight and then tomorrow morning and we can leave right after,” Jaskier explained. Geralt hummed deep in his throat. He didn’t like it but some quick math showed it wouldn’t destroy their schedule. There would be fewer breaks and riding through the night at least once, but it could be done. Geralt then quickly did the math and planned how to do this without Jaskier. It meant that Ciri would take the path to Kaer Morhen by herself which even the idea of sickened his stomach. 

Still, it was a possibility. 

“You don’t have to help if you have other responsibilities here,” Geralt said. It wasn’t fair to expect Jaskier to drop whatever life he’d built the last year for this mission. A life that was completely unknown to the witcher. What allies did he have? What enemies had he made? What was he asking Jaskier to leave behind? If it was too much to sacrifice then Geralt would pivot and adapt like always. 

Jaskier signed and pinched the bridge of his nose. 

“I already said yes, you oaf. I just need you to wait. Compromise with me,” Jaskier said, tired and annoyed like a parent dealing with a teenager.

Geralt knew this because he’d used the same tone with Ciri.

Now he knew why she hated it so much. 

He was trying to be considerate of asking for so much. It was an easy out of a dangerous mission, a frankly unnecessary risk for a successful bard. Traveling with Geralt for years was an unnecessary risk for someone with a standing professorship position at Oxenfurt. 

“Why?” Geralt asked. This whole conversation was straying too close to Feelings.

“Why what?” Jaskier asked with a little flourish of his hand.

“Why drop everything to help me?” Geralt looked into the fire instead of the softening expression on Jaskier’s face that looked far too fond for his own safety. He leaded in close to whisper.

“Well you drama king, I’m not doing it for you. I’m doing it for the thirteen year old girl who’s biggest worry right now should be beating her grandfather at dice and tutors,” Jaskier’s heart was so fucking big. How did he stand it? 

“I’m also your friend. I was always ready to drop everything once you realized that and came back,” Jaskier had so much– too much– faith in him. It would take all the scholars of Oxenfurt a thousand years to figure out why. 

Geralt swallowed the lump in his throat and drank down some spring water.

“How do I help?” Geralt said abruptly. 

“Pardon?” Jaskier blinked.

“Your delay. How do I help?” 

Enough using people. Jaskier gave everything to Geralt, now it was time to give back to the people who needed him. If it helped fix their timetable that was also good.

“You can’t. Don’t brood,” he wasn’t “I have to wait for a tide. Only a very powerful witch or a sane wizard can affect tides. We have access to neither,”
Jaskier murmured to himself, eyes hidden behind his hands. He was running through a plan.

“If I move group A down to the south docks….. No, too risky, the kids… maybe a bribe? I can’t do that without alerting the rest of the chain, UGH!” Jaskier shot to his feet.

“Maybe if you explained what the fuck you’re doing I could help. I’ve only had 100 years of experience at strategy,” Geralt suggested dryly. 

Jaskier pondered this for a moment blankly.

“You are the least likely person to turn me in–” Oh gods of course he was doing something illegal. “I’m part of a group called feathers of hope. We smuggle Elves to Cintra. I’m the– or was– part of the Oxenfurt branch. The first point in a long trail,”
Jaskier was a smuggler. 

For Elves. 

It made so much sense and not at all. 

Massive heart but not a brave bone in his body. 

Lied so well that it shone like the truth but seeker of pleasure first and foremost.

That year apart had apparently changed more than Geralt realized.    

He hummed. 

They had several hours before nightfall and that black gelding needed a good brushing and a mane cut. The saddle bags also needed to be packed. The chores on the Path never ended.

“I admit I’m smuggling elves and then you go hmm and go tend to the horse?” Jaskier hissed.

Geralt hummed again just to get a rise. 

“I don’t know why I expected anything else, Countess de Stael was right, you don’t care,” Jaskier bemoaned. 

“You’ve seen the Countess?” Geralt was 90% sure that whatever little he felt about the Countess wasn’t jealousy. She was fairly beautiful and Jaskier always came back healthier and richer from her care so she was fine. It was the fact that Jaskier talked about him to her. 

“That’s what gets you to ask a question? Whatever, yes. She’s one of the nobles who is a patron of the group,” Jaskier explains. A small part of Geralt that braced for something relaxed. 

“Should you be saying literally any of this out loud?” Yarpen asked harshly. Jaskier raised an eyebrow.

“If Geralt is okay discussing his plans out loud then it's safe enough to discuss this,” Jaskier said. The weight of that faith and confidence was back again. It felt somewhere between pleasant like heavy winter blankets and choking.

Yarpen didn’t argue the logic but didn’t seem to agree with it either. 

“What time are we leaving?” Geralt asked. Roach’s old brush glided over the new horse. She’d hate this horse. It clearly belonged to someone wealthy.

“There is no We in this one Geralt. You stick out too much and don’t know the plan,” Jaskier stroked the gelding’s mane. He handed over shears to cut it short. A short mane on such a beautiful horse would lower the sale price, but it needed to be done. 

Roach had been a chestnut mare for his entire life. That was not going to change. This black carriage puller was temporary. Stupid fucking Chernobog.

“Then explain it to me,” Geralt insisted. 

“Is this payback for all the jobs I’ve snuck onto? If you wanted to live in my shoes I’d pay good money to see you try and sing. It would be much easier too,” Jaskier reluctantly clipped away at the long mane. 

“Hmm,” Geralt said instead of an actual answer. Jaskier smiled.

Happiness didn’t come easily by the bard. Snark, jokes, flirting, and pleasure were all common things, but simple laughter or an easy smile was reserved for the riotous end of a blazing performance or beating Marx at a competition. 

Or for Geralt coming back to their lodging in one piece with heavy pockets. 

Or for Geralt with an honest three word review.

Or for Geralt with melted slush on his boots in spring. 

Jaskier smiled at Geralt a lot. 

“Why the name ‘Feathers of Hope’?” Geralt asked to stop that train of thought. 

“Oh, I came up with it– for the unity of the group, branding and all that. It’s from a poem my mom likes,” Jaskier said. He slipped into a thoughtful expression, head now far away from the present. The Gelding nosed around for pets. Geralt waited for a grand recitation of it but nothing happened. A bard that didn’t perform had the same feel of a sick animal. Something was clearly wrong, but showed very few solid signs. A dog that didn’t bark or a bird that didn’t fly. The absences spoke louder than presence. There was also the mention of his mother. 

He couldn’t believe he was asking this. 

“What’s the poem,” Geralt asked softly. Eskel probably woke up somewhere in a cold sweat. It was an absurd thing for him to ask, even of a bard, and especially as a witcher. It didn’t matter if he knew the poem or not. Why was he asking? 

Jaskier stared wide eyed at him. His chest didn’t rise or fall with breath. 

“Nevermind, I don’t care,” Geralt cleaned off the drift from the horse's coat. It twitched when the brush pressed a fraction too hard into the coat.

““Hope” is the thing with feathers -

That perches in the soul -

And sings the tune without the words -

And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -

And sore must be the storm -

That could abash the little Bird

That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -

And on the strangest Sea -

Yet - never - in Extremity,

It asked a crumb - of me.”

“By Emily Dickinson,” Jaskier recited it with more reverence and gentleness than priestess with their prayers. The words floated off his tongue, his voice cradled the meter and the enunciation of each word. He didn’t just know the words to this poem, he loved them. 

“When my mom was a teenager, these… monsters called Nazis started taking her neighbors. Dragging them from their homes and sometimes killing them right in the streets. My babcia gathered up the entire family and ran far far away before everything got really bad. When I was young, before I went to Oxenfurt, my mom would wake up screaming and once tried to drag me out of the house. Her brain thought she was still in Poland with Nazis around the corner ready to take away everything she loved. She clung to that poem,” Jaskier fell into a whisper. He hid in the horses’ neck. Stress and fear radiated from him like heat off desert sand.

Nazis. 

When he got to Kaer Morhen, he was going to find how to kill a Nazi and then hunt them to fucking extinction. He was going to bring the head of every single one and put them at Jaskier’s feet so he would never sound or smell that scared ever again. 

“I was there when the great oak Bleobheris was raided. The Seat of Friendship where every free thinker was welcome, no matter their race or creed. I know where this leads. I’ve seen the lengths that people like the rulers of Nilfgaard will go to. It’s not the same circumstances, Nazis are specific and there's so much history behind the evil they did and why, but the hate? That’s the same,” Jaskier’s voice was hard as iron with conviction but still soaked heavy with emotion. Geralt was familiar with hate from both sides. 

In the weak moments when he’d been shunned by too many towns in a row, the part of him that was born from The Butcher sounded more and more like sense. 

Just let them die, then they’ll come crawling back to you to slay the monster.

Just kill them and sleep in their bed. They deserve it after how they treated you.

He never listened. 

“They’ll kill you if they find out,” it was an obvious statement and coming from anyone else it might be an insult to Jaskier’s intelligence. Of course he knows Nilfgaard or any other elf hating nation will kill him for smuggling. Geralt just didn’t know anyway else to tell Jaskier he was proud of him. That this was a cause worth dying for.  

“Let them try,” Jaskier flexed his jaw. Geralt wasn’t going to let that happen. 

After Voleth Meir the list of things that needed done wouldn’t end. The keep needed serious repairs, everyone needed time to heal both the body and the mind, future plans needed to be finalized then mapped, and Geralt needed to figure out how to kill a Nazi. 

It felt good to do witchering, as insane as that made Geralt feel eight books from the griffin and manticore school deep. His life had twisted into world wide politics and ancient magics. It was all a far cry from his original purpose of:

1. Find monsters.
2. Do not die while killing monsters.
3. Try your best to get paid.

Trying to figure out how to kill a new type of monster was nearly nostalgic. It brought to mind the memories of his first couple years on the path when he didn’t have volumes upon volumes of monster compendiums memorized. He’d hole up in the library or the labs and scribble notes in his travel journal till someone rang for dinner or his candle burned out. The other witcher would tease him for the smudges of ink on his face. Calls of bookworm and lab-rat in fond jeers.  

There was no teasing anymore no matter what was on his face. 

There was still Eskel, though.

“What are you doing up this early, this late into winter?” Eskel yawned in the middle of his sentence. Winter was a time of rest and that generally meant that everyone slept like a bear despite their school. A tankard of warm cider clinked against the worn wood of the table. A welcome peace offering to easily smooth over the annoyance of being disturbed. 

“Got chores to do around the keep after breakfast then route planning with Yennefer and training and academics with Ciri till dinner. Then I have to train myself. This is the only time I have for this,” Gerlt felt himself get heavily with each task he rattled off from the mental list.

“You do realize winter is about resting enough physically and mentally so we don’t say “fuck it all” and off ourselves on the path right?” Eskel was overly crude but right with a hint of worry. On the path when its cruelty got the worst, it was always the thought of rest and care in the winter that kept a witcher going. A lot of that care came from Eskel and Vesimir. Eskel somehow came out of the Trials the same caretaker he went in as. He’d encourage the other boys and gave up his supper for someone else more than once. Afterward, there was no need to hand him a baby animal, he’d nursed an abandoned goat kid all on his own.   

“Why are you up this early?” Geralt countered instead of acknowledging the implicit statement in that comment. He wasn’t going to stop. There was too much to do before the frost thawed. When there wasn’t an answer Geralt looked up from his notes.  There wasn’t anything immediately suspicious or wrong with the other man. 

“Not up early, going to bed late, heard you in here grabbing books on my way by,” Eskel finally said after a tense pause. He sounded oddly guilty, wouldn't hold eye contact, and his shoulders and head were slouched forward a little as if to be smaller. Geralt breathed in as subtly as he could.

Chamomile. 

“Have fun fucking my bard?” Geralt didn’t mean for it to be as aggressive as his natural growl made it sound. Thankfully, Eskel wasn’t human and took the statement at face value like it should be.

“He’s a good lay,” Eskel sat down at the table then stole one of the books. Geralt hadn’t known his friend enjoyed that kind of sex.

“What are you looking for in the Manticore books? Exotics aren’t your normal prey,” Eskel looked through the pages Geralt marked. 

“A thing called a Nazi. Willing to kill in a populated area. Rules out most shapeshifter types and specter types. Why aren’t you enjoying the afterglow?” Geralt closed a book and put it on the ‘not useful’ stack. The smell was fresh enough they couldn’t have finished more than half an hour ago. Was this a new thing or an old thing that only now came to light?

“Never heard of anything like that. Think it might be a local name for something else? I don’t know. Felt wrong to linger– your bard and all,” Eskel shrugged. Their dual conversation was an odd pairing of topics, but they were an odd pair anyways so it all balanced out. 

“Hmm, maybe. Want to rule out the official compendiums first before I start on personal accounts. You should go back, you’re missing the best part of the whole act,” Geralt closed the last Manticore compendium and grabbed the crane books. He’d sift through the griffin texts next. 

“Have you asked Vesimir? Most people would consider the orgasm the best part of sex, but big bad white wolf likes the afterglow,” Eskel stole a wax tablet and started taking notes. 

“He’ll ask me if I’ve checked the Library first. Sex with anyone can lead to an orgasm, someone has to actually want you to stay for the afterglow,” Geralt was starting to get frustrated. Nothing mentioned anything close to the name Nazi. Wasn’t going to give up, witchers were persistence predators.

“Why are you hunting this obscure thing anyway? That’s actually romantic, the bard is rubbing off on you,” Eskel teased and marked a page for closer study later. 

Geralt knew what he was about to say was stupid. It really was, but this was Eskel and he couldn’t help it.

“Bet you want him to rub one off on you,” Geralt felt the stupidity as soon as it felt his mouth. It was the winter, and the lack of sleep, and the warm cider, and the Eskel. It all loosened his lips and brain. Eskel cracked with laughter and Geralt dropped his head into his folded arms.

“Fuck,” was the only respose Geralt could manage.

“I’ve heard you accidentally call the duchess who was paying both of us a whore and somehow that was dumber,” A new more melodic voice entered the conversation. Jaskier looked utterly debauched. His hair was messy, bright red love bites so new they hadn’t even bruised yet littered his neck, his lips were bitten plump, and somehow his loose messy way of dressing was even more rumbled from probably being tossed to the floor. 

Fuck

Wait, what?

Jaskier looked around at the mess of books and a scowl settled on his face.

“Did you leave the wonderful afterglow, the best part of sex, for books? I am always in favor of the pursuit of knowledge, but really? Really? Please tell me you have a better reason,” Jaskier narrowed his eyes and gestured confused while he spoke. Geralt and Eskel both tried to puzzle out whether this was a question they were actually supposed to answer. 

“This keep is cold as a witches tit, either answer or I’m going back to bed,” Jaskier shifted his weight from one side of his body to the other. They were supposed to answer.

“He doesn't have a good reason, both of you go back to bed. Eskel, if he can stand you’re not fucking him hard enough. Do better,” Geralt had lost interest and returned back to the books and notes. Eskel made offended noises 

“You’re Geralt’s,” Eskel admitted to Jaskier with many more words than before. The bard’s presence had a way of making hard conversations easier. 

Eskel ran his fingers across the scars on his face. Short of permanently hurting Ciri or Jaskier or killing Vesemir, there probably wasn’t a single thing Eskel could do to truly betray Geralt’s trust. They had too much history, shared too many secrets. 

Jaskier sighed and stared up at the ceiling for divine help that was not coming.

“Of course I’m Geralt’s, but I am a fully grown man who can make decisions about who I do and do not have sex with and I need no permission from Geralt,” Jaskier leaned forward for emphasis. Eskel blinked a few times and looked between Geralt and Jaskier. 

“What are you both of you doing with a mess of books before sunrise anyway?” A yawn erupted from Jaskier as if the universe was proving it was too early. 

“Trying to figure out how to kill a Nazi,” Geralt stretched and what sounded like all the joints of his back popped. 

“Pardon?” Jaskier’s voice was tight and unbelieving. 

“The monster that killed people in your mother’s hometown. I’m trying to figure out how to kill it, but I can’t find anything on it. Been trying for the last damned week,” A growl of frustration turned the tail end of his sentence slightly garbled. 

Laughter filled the library. Not a booming howl or childish giggles, but soft loving chuckles. A tender noise that was more intoxicating than any white gull. 

Geralt was going to kill anyone who stopped that noise.

He wanted to hear it for the rest of his life. 

“Nazis are just men, Geralt. Horrible monstrous men, but nothing magical about them,” Jaskier explained gently as he approached and glided into the seat next to Geralt. He was a warm and solid wall against the wave of embarrassment. He’d been so ready to find one and rip it to shreds.

“They’re just men?” Geralt dropped his head into his hands. His eyes burned from looking at the pages by candlelight for so long. The embarrassment turned into the rumble of a frustrated growl. 

“I’m a poet, this is hardly the first time I’ve used metaphor in front of you,” Jaskier propped his head up with his hand. Even without seeing him, Geralt knew that Jaskier was the cat who got the cream. The great witcher had finally made a mistake and now he'd never live it down. When Jaskier inevitably died a violent bloody death at the hands of one of Geralt’s problems, he will bring it up as a restless spirit. 

“Fuck,” Geralt said into his hands. Jaskier was a liar. Geralt knew not to take anything he said at face value.  

A handle calloused by lute strings rather than swords or field work cupped his cheek to guide his face out of hiding. His world was swallowed up by blue eyes and the smell of chamomile. 

“That is still the kindest thing anyone had done for me,” Jaskier pressed a kiss into Geralt’s hair. It was a kiss of easy affection that was unburdened by expectations that he craved like adrenaline. 

“I never saw the Nazis at their height of power, just the damage they’d already done. They chased my mother away from her culture, and robbed me of ever learning it,” Jaskier didn’t look at Geralt, instead focused on the dust in the sun beams of morning light. A far off tone in his voice. 

“I’ve never heard of any political faction like that,” Eskel chimed in. Geralt had honestly forgotten he was there. That was the thing that made Jaskier dangerous and such a successful performer, you forgot anything in the room that wasn’t him.

“I doubt you will, now does the morning promise me an encore of the evening?” Jaskier grinning slyly. 

“No, Ciri will be awake soon for training,” Geralt cut them off, his pride still ached. Jaskier groaned like a starving man denied food.

Chapter Text

Traveling was hard on Ciri. She had no way to connect with anyone her own age while also stuck with Yen’s and his tension after the Deathless Mother. 

Thank the gods for Jaskier. 

They’d parted ways at the bards request citing need to meet with a friend. That was several months ago on the way down The Killer. Geralt had kept his ears to the crowd to listen for gossip of the White Wolf’s Bard performing at some festival or court but heard nothing. They burned through four safe houses before there was any news of the bard. 

It was actually Yen who’d suggested going to him. 

“Ciri is miserable. Jaskier is admittedly better at feelings then either you or me,” Yen sounded like she was about to gag and said Jaskier was better at something than her that wasn’t music. It was the only thing she admitted Jaskier was better at. He’d dedicated his life to it. 

“She’s upset now, when we’re safe from Nilfgaard we’ll repair the damage,” 

Geralt knew it was cruel. He’d probably pay for it in the future but as long as it was a future with Ciri alive and away from the people who wanted to use her. It hurts now but there will be joy later for the sacrifices made. That had been the mantra that the older witchers had drilled into his head in preparation for the Grasses. 

Geralt shook his head free of thoughts of Ciri and the Trials so close together 

“Emotions and Chaos are linked inextricably if she’s fucking depressed then she’ll never get better at magic. At Aretuza, we’re taught to control our emotions so tightly we don’t feel them. I’m not doing that to Ciri,” 

Geralt clenched his jaw. That melodic voice and rare smile invaded his mind. 

No. 

He was safe at some court right now, no need to drag another ally into this mess, there were few of those as it was. Anyone involved too closely risked burning an avenue of escape or help. Yen scowled fiercely. No was not a word in her vocabulary unless it was used against someone else. 

“We are her–,” the word hung heavy and unspoken in the air, "guardians, not just escorts taking her from safe house to safe house. That means we have to care beyond if she’s got all her blood on the inside and food in her belly. If we don’t we might as well just give her over to the country with the biggest army. Both of us are shit at caring, I never learned and you’re out of practice, and there's a mountain to prove it,” Yen hissed with all the venom of a viper. 

Anger flashed with the added heat of shame of what he said at the dragon hunt a heart break and half a lifetime ago. 

“Why does it have to be him?” Geralt needed the buzzing anger out from under his skin so he grabbed potatoes and started chopping. 

“Is there anyone else?” Yen asked and she wasn’t just talking about their limited amount of options. 

Jaskier wasn’t actually at a court which made it much easier to get to him. He was currently the live-in artist of a wealthy merchant. The kind of merchant that was so wealthy he was only technically not a noble because of a lack of official title. This wasn’t all that different from his work in the home of the Countess, part bard, part caged bird. He was turned into a pretty thing to be a walking showroom of the person patronizing him. 

Look how rich I am to decorate the lowly bard in jewels, said the rubies that sat in the hollow of his throat. 

Look how much money I just throw at this savage wanderer that I’ve kept said the silks. 

Jaskier admitted that he spent less time playing the lute and more on his back at these types of arrangements. 

or on his front. 

or on his knees. 

Geralt put down the goblet of wine before he dented it in his grip. 

Yen sipped hers carefully, mimed drinking it without ever taking any into her mouth. If she was being a wine snob again or this was some subtle part of her character at this event was up in the air. 

“The one time I need the annoying minstrel he’s not here, why couldn’t you have been adopted by someone less flighty,” Yen spoke in his mind. It felt an equal parts fuzzy and settling feeling in his inner ear. 

One, Adopted?

Two, he asked himself that at least once a week if not in those exact words.

“Yes, adopted. Like cats do with the farmers they kill mice for. They move in and never leave once you feed them,” Yen said mentally. 

Most people compared Jaskier to a bird, but a cat wasn’t unreasonable. Liked luxury and disliked commitment. Purred if you pet him. 

“Sheds everywhere, insistent noise,” Yen continued.

You know a lot about cats.

“We had them at Aretuza,” 

There was no sight of the bard in the crowd.   

Geralt closed his eyes. When sight fails, reach out with other senses. The casual conversation of the guests became sharpened into focus. The smell of the wine deepened to the point the spell that unnaturally aged it tinted the notes of its aroma. 

There. 

Chamomile. 

It was just behind the curtain that led out of the ballroom.

The clink of fork against crystal glass was deafening to Geralt’s unfurled sense of hearing. He wished he could take back the flinch the moment it happened. 

 “Hello ladies and gentlemen! It is my honor to host you all. For entertainment tonight a menagerie of wonderful acts. Our opener is my current devotee, the bard Jaskier!” The owner of the East Skellige Company, a ruthless joint-venture that had peeled Skellige to the bone fifty years ago. The islands were still recovering. 

Not the cleanest money Jaskier had accepted but war was hard on the bardic profession. No one had a coin to toss.

Several candles were blown out and spelled balls of light covered. Those were 3 crowns an orb, there had to be at least 20 of them around the room. Expensive lighting had to be the most useless show off in the world. Right after spices, all that money just to later shit it out.  

The center of the ballroom was illuminated, a hush fell over the crowd. 

Yen rolled her eyes. 

A band of lutes, drums, and flutes struck up a strange melody, nothing like any popular style or anything Jaskier had even experimented with. Art was more and more experimental the richer the patron but this was literally unheard of. 

“Listen, baby

Ain't no mountain high

Ain't no valley low

Ain't no river wide enough, baby” 

Jaskier started all but appearing in the spot of light. He was perfectly in his element. This was as essential and easy as breathing for him. This was what all the nonstop strumming between towns and smudges of ink was for. Then an unexpected female voice joined in.

“If you need me, call me

No matter where you are

No matter how far (don't worry, baby)

Just call my name

I'll be there in a hurry

You don't have to worry,”
The Lady bard had long blond hair that drifted over one eye. The solo transformed into a duet. They slipped into a dance routine with laced hands and flaring fabric effortlessly.

“Cause baby there

Ain't no mountain high enough

Ain't no valley low enough

Ain't no river wide enough

To keep me from getting to you, babe”

They sang together in practiced unity. A wild grin split both of their faces.

Geralt tried to notice all the pleasant things about the Lady Bard. The strength of her voice, the shape of her body, the clear skill in her craft. He forced himself to give her the recognition. 

This was a performance. They had probably practiced this for weeks. Of course they looked so good together. They could hate each other and still feel like a match set. 

They didn’t look like they hated each other.

She and Jaskier resembled jungle birds, bright colors and energetic dances. 

Geralt flicked away white hair and pushed down a wolfish growl with a flex of taught muscles. 

When the next act took the spot of light Geralt and Yen slipped away to follow the duet to their quarters. They trailed behind carefully. Geralt followed Yen’s lead. She had a plan but didn’t seem bothered to share. Their trust was broken beyond full repair, but she was also still plenty smart. If she thought they should stay out of sight for now, then they would.

Hidden behind a corner, they listened to the two bards. 

“Oh that was amazing! Is it like that all the time? All eyes on you, the grand ball room?” The Lady bard started loud and excited then turned wistful. 

“No, very rarely actually. I’m mostly quiet background noise when at court, but a good tavern set gives the same rush,” Jaskier replied. 

There was a pause.

There was a sigh.

“I understand why you only visit for Christmas and new years. I… I’ll stop asking,” She grew sad. Her voice was small compared to the performance.

It was Jaskier’s turn to sigh. 

“That’s not what this trip was supposed to be about. I truly wanted to share the joy of this,” Jaskier pleaded. 

Another Pause.

“Shani will still beat your ass if you don’t show up at least once a year. Maybe even twice, the war is making her twitchy,” The Lady Bard joked. 

“Which is why I never miss getting drunk instead of going to Mass,” Jaskier joked back. 

More mystery words to add to the list. 

Christmas? Mass?
This wasn’t some random performer Jaskier was placed with. There was history, mutual friends, and fights and efforts to repair the damage.

More than what you did. The guilt hissed.

Geralt stepped around the corner. He ignored the dull bite of blunt but manicured nails. The look of shock was instant on both of their faces.

“Geralt!” Jaskier cried with a smile.
“Jesus, fuck!” The lady bard squeaks. 

Jesus? Not important at the moment. 

“What are you doing here?” Jaskier surged forward to clap him on the shoulder. The familiar movement was grounding. 

“Need to talk to you, not here, somewhere safe,” Geralt rumbled. Jaskier switched from court performer to seasoned traveling companion of a Witcher. 

“Wait wait wait wait,” The Lady Bard interrupted.   

What could she possibly want? 

“White hair, grumpy, gothic. Is this Geralt? Left you on a mountain Geralt?!” She murmured the descriptions but her volume grew with the realization of who he was.  

Shitshitshitshit.

“Yes, could you say it any louder? Need I remind you he’s on the run from an empire,” Jaskier clamped his hands over her mouth with a hiss. Seconds later he whipped his hand away with a noise of disgust.

“Don’t lick my hand!”
“Don’t put your hand over my mouth,”

“I had a good reason to!”
They bickered like children. Geralt was completely forgotten. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt insisted. 

He had to get back to Ciri. There wasn’t time for this. 

“Okay, okay, let’s go to my room. Is Yennefer here or…?” Jaskier made circle motions lazily with his wrist.

“Bard,” Yen said with playful malice. 

“Witch,” Jaskier replied in kind. 

A very small part of Geralt kind of hoped that this was a weird kind of foreplay and one day he’d get to be in the room when it finally went somewhere. 

“A rather interesting performance of yours. Finally branching out?” Yen crossed her arms.

“Can’t take credit for this tune. The genius of Tammi Terrell and Marvin Gaye are who deserve that comment,” Jaskier replied with a pop of his hip. 

The Lady bard pinned her gaze, a glare really, on Geralt. 

Good luck, It would take more than that to phase him.

“It's always fun bard,” that could be completely genuine or an utter insult. Geralt could never tell “but we really do have business to attend to. Where are your chambers?” 

The bedroom Jaskier had been put up with was soft and themed with small yellow flowers. 

He’d been there awhile based on the nesting. Clothes lived in drawers or draped about and not folded tightly to fit in a pack. His lute case was safely tucked next to the desk that was covered in his notes. The bed had his bedroll draped on top. 

It wouldn’t be hard for him to never leave. Finally have stable employment with a roof and safety.

Yen swept for listening spells and placed ones that would hide their conversation from outside ears. 

“Why is she still here?” Yen pointed to the Lady Bard.

“My name is Essi and I’m here because this is my room,” Essi was speaking to Yen but still scowled at Geralt.

“She can be trusted. I promise,” Jaskier placed a hand on Essi’s shoulder. 

Neither of the paranoid sceptics with trust issues were convinced.

Jaskier sighed.

“Okay then, Essi isn’t from around here. She doesn't know local politics. I’d rather not have her wander in front of a wife hunter and end up executed for being rude,” Each word was pulled out of his mouth like teeth.

Wife hunters: noblemen from areas where poligamy was legal and expected to grow their harem with young pretty women. It was a reasonable enough worry in this part of the world. 

Geralt looked at Yen who didn’t seem to budge. 

“Let me get Essi home, then we can meet up at Cinfrid?” Jaskier pointed at a map on the wall. It was a smart next step from their current position. 

“Fine, but we can’t stay in one place for too long, make it quick,” Yen ended the conversation.

“We’ll take you as far as the northern border,” Geralt would prefer to see his friend off at least that far. Out in the plain lands there is less risk of jealous husbands and political enemies. 

“that’s very kind but–” Jaskier started. 

“I don’t want to travel with an asshat,” Essi glared. 

The fucking mountain always came back to haunt him didn’t it. 

Fine. 

She wanted to trek through hostile territory of bandit lords and monster forests, let her. 

  “Not what I was going to say, Essi. What I mean is that you probably need to get back to your cub, and I am capable of traveling by myself,” Jaskier explained with 100% less venom than Essi used. 

Geralt wasn’t convinced. He’d saved that bard's shapely ass more times than what was probably smart. After the 12th time in two months he should have just left. 

not that it was guaranteed he could have stayed out of the bards own Path. 

“Yen can go back, I’ll get you where you need to go,” Geralt insisted. The argument over, all this was over and they needed to move out. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier insisted.

or it wasn’t.

“Remember the whole Listening thing you’re supposed to be working on,” Jaskier continued. 

He remembered. 

Listen to the people around him instead of just making executive decisions.  

He doesn’t walk the Path alone anymore.

Other people’s feelings matter and  everyone deserves a say. 

Being alone was easier. 

It was also darker. 

“At least to the city gates,” Geralt— ugh — compromised.

“That’s acceptable, yes, now let's go,” Yen hurried them along. She was as eager to get back as him.

The city was a blessing and a curse. Blending into the crowd was easy and provided constant cover. 

It would also do the same for any assassin or spy. 

They stuck to the edges of the crowd with the buildings to their backs or side. 

The night market was in full swing with less savory goods of magic and sex and anything else better off hidden by the cover of night. Oil lights gave meager amounts of light but some charmed different colors or achieved with alchemic powders gave the market an otherworldly quality. 

”Wow,” Essi gawked at the small stalls or blankets covered in magic wares.
It was just a night market. She didn’t dress like country folk but the clothes might have been bought by Jaskier.

“I know you said I shouldn’t eat anything but look at those,” Essi’s eye widened at some pastries. They'd been dyed pink with beet juice and dusted with sugar. 

“You can make those at home,” Jaskier raised a teasing eyebrow. The same one he gave Geralt when he studied blacksmith’s wares for too long. 

 “yeah but they're not from here,” Essi took a step in their direction but was yanked back. 

“No,” Jaskier said firmly. 

Essi only rolled her eye and moved with them. 

A glassmaker sold hand made hair pins that didn’t make his medallion vibrate. A silver one with green glass inserts. It would go well with Ciri’s complexion and the once nice dress she had for winters in Aretuza. 

It also would make her memorable. 

Too expensive anyway. 

Then Jaskier was handing over coin to the glassmaker with a smile and a cheery wave. 

“For Ciri, young ladies deserve pretty things even if they can’t wear them,” Jaskier whispered. His breath warmed the tips of Geralt’s ears.  

This is why they needed Jaskier. 

He could see the expression on Ciri’s face when she got the hair pin. A smile that, as of late, so rarely saw the light of day stretching across her face. 

Buy the hair pin or not. It was a simple call rationalized so differently. 

Practicality vs Emotion. 

Long term savings vs immediate happiness. 

There would be arguments later, 20 years of traveling together proved it, but free thought was good wasn’t it? 

As long as Ciri was the focus then they could work it out.  

The hairstick had two small dangling decorations that clinked gently as he rolled it between his thumb and index finger.

When words failed him, action never did. 

Geralt leaned down to kiss Jaskier. It was chaste and this close the unique smell of saltwater, honey, and something indescribable and unnatural was detectable from under the perfumes and lotions.  

The tender moment was soured by the stench of fear. 

Jaskier was ripped away. Geralt let out a snarl that rippled through the air. A deep primal response left inside him by the mutagens.  

“The fuck are you doing,” Essi hissed now clearly the source of the stench. 

That was it. He’d suffered her glares and posturing and biting comments, but the line was drawn at not letting him kiss his bard. 

If she was scared of Witchers than good. She should be. 

Yen had the good sense to drag them into an alley and out of sight. At least one of them still had a brain because Essi clearly didn’t if she was messing with the possession of a Witcher, Jaskier didn’t have one if he was letting her try and put a wedge between them, and Geralt certainly didn’t have one anymore with the anger coursing through him. 

“The fuck am I doing?” Geralt snarled. She folded easy to his bulk as he quickly crowded against a wall.

“Kissing him in a busy street! What if someone saw?” She didn’t nearly have the same confidence anymore now faced with 180 pounds of Witcher. Her heart was fast with fear.

A face from a long time ago flashed in his mind. 

Rosealin. A prostitute he’d frequented in his youth. Her dead body in a ditch, beaten to death. The madam of the house turned him away. 

You’ve already gotten one of my girls killed with your favor. Find somewhere else to wet your dick.

Geralt backed away.  

He’d forgotten. 

Witchers brought ruin. They went where death was or would soon appear. 

Their favor was poison.

What was he thinking kissing him in front of everyone? 

He just wanted Jaskier to know how much he was appreciated. How his actions and affection for Ciri filled his chest. He didn’t have the words, probably wouldn’t have been able to say them if he had.  

With Jaskier it was so easy to forget. 

Essi heaved breath through her strong singer’s lungs. She was only upright thanks to the support of the wall.  

Do you feel big now? Did scaring an innocent woman make you feel better? 

“Essi, no one here is going to hurt me like this, not for that,” Jaskier stepped forward. His hand slipped under the curtain of blond hair that covered the left side of her face. Geralt saw just a peak of scared skin. 

“What?” Her voice was barely a wisp of sound.  Her one eye widened. 

“It’s just not an issue here. There are other problems–” Jaskier began to say.

“The hate of elves, political corruption,” Essi cut in.

“Yes, but I’m free to love as I choose,” Jaskier finished. His voice wasn’t loud enough to disturb powder snow. 

Essi looked around the small alley and further onto the still busy street. Her expression had morphed into awe. It was as if she was seeing everything in a new light. Then Essi shrank into herself. Her arms wrapped around her as if to shield from some invisible chill. The wonder was gone. She looked up at Geralt. 

“I’m- I’m sorry. I just thought– Someone did this to me because of… I didn’t mean it like that,” Essi stuttered, not able to finish a sentence. She moved some of her hair to show exactly what Geralt feared. Half of her face was melted by some kind of acid or other corrosive agent.  

He was suddenly very out of his depth. He looked to Yen who had wisely stayed silent and out of the way on the opposite wall.  She’d been studying the whole interaction with a sharp eye and gave no move to help.

“It’s fine, you have a point,” was all Geralt could manage. His pride rarely let him apologize and his shame locked up his tongue. 

Jaskier scowled. 

“Geralt,” That was his ‘Geralt is being stupid’ voice.

“Essi wasn’t scared of you kissing me in public as a witcher. She was scared of you kissing me in public as a man,” Jaskier’s voice was bitter in a way that had been saved only for corrupt nobles and Valdo Marx.

That didn’t make sense. Who gave a shit if he was a man? Wasn’t even technically that. Jaskier took on that same small shrunken stance but significantly more guarded. 

Like he was bracing for a hit. 

“Where we come from it’s... wrong to love a man as a man or a woman as a woman. Illegal even. Someone had heard that Essi was like that– went to places where people like that could meet each other and…” Jaskier paused and clicked his eyes to Essi who just shrugged wordlessly; hid behind a wall of shame and hair. 

“They threw acid at her. Took weeks at a healer before she could even eat again,” Jaskier spit the words with fury. He didn’t meet anyone’s eyes, instead drilled holes into the cobblestone with his gaze.

Someone threw acid on her because she… loved a woman?
If it was someone higher ranked than her or even lower ranked that could be plausible but just because her lover was a woman? 

It itched a bigger question that Geralt had been trying to convince himself wasn’t important, but with every strange instance it banged louder and louder toward the front of his mind.

Where was this strange place Jaskier was from?

“It didn’t end there. I was fired from my job. Rocks thrown through my window,” Essi whispered. “It took Jask marrying me to get everyone to back off,”
What.

What?
“You’re married?” Yen finally spoke. Disbelief cracked through her normally carefully controlled demeanor.

“Only technically. It's for appearances; kept us both safe,” Jaskier quickly explained with his palm facing out in a defensive position. 

Jaskier was adamant he’d never marry. He scoffed at the idea of attachment and settling down. 

The Path is my greatest muse besides you. What would marrying do other than tie me down to some poor lady or lad I will never stay for. Like a Selkie to the sea I am drawn to the wandering.

Selkies rarely leave the sea.

Don’t ruin my metaphor.

Another lie.

It was just for appearances, so it didn’t matter. 

Right?

“Essi is my friend. We have about as much romantic love as an arranged noble marriage. It’s pure business. She doesn’t ever prefer the company of men,” Jaskier gripped his shoulder in comfort. The contact wasn’t the reassurance it was meant to be. 

Every time he learned something about the bard’s past he seemed more and more like a stranger. 

That thought must have slipped through his neutral mask because Jaskier turned Geralt’s face to meet his own.

“I’m your bard, who I am when we are separated will not change that,” Jaskier said with conviction. 

Geralt hoped it was true.

“Jask,” Essi was still curled in on herself, small and meek with a voice to match. Sad with a touch of bitterness hidden underneath. “I’d like to go home now,” 

Jaskier turned to his friend. Their eyes didn’t meet. 

“Okay,” unspoken words between them threatened to break the surface.

Yen’s hand wrapped around his wrist. She began to move to the exit of the alley. If they left then Jaskier and Essi would be alone to vent the building pressure that had begun to build the moment Essi and he started to argue. 

He needed to be here to pick up the pieces when Jaskier fell apart. He knew the look in the bard’s eyes. Geralt tried to hold against Yen’s pull but a swift glare made him think twice.

“Fiona is alone,” Yen said firmly and–

Fuck.

Geralt and Yen moved out of the ally. Only the edges of the conversation managed to make it to his ears.

“Loving v Virginia just struck down banning people of different races from being married to each other. Maybe homosexuals are next,” Jaskier said a faint tint of hope that he clearly didn’t believe.

“Give me a break. What, is there going to be a Dr. King but for gays? We go against their bible Jask,” Essi replied bitterly. 

And that was all Geralt got from the strangest conversation he’s ever not understood.