Chapter Text
xiv
Ciri listens as Geralt and Jaskier talk lowly by the fire. There’s a map of the continent drawn between their legs, and Geralt’s finger is hovering between Belhaven and Toussaint.
I’ll meet you in Visima; do not wait longer than a week
If you’re not there-
We’ll be there.
But otherwise-
Then head north to Kaer Morhen. I wrote ahead to expect us.
Us?
The word lingers between them. Ciri looks up from her sketchbook, where she’s trying to capture the slope of their bodies and the fondness of their gaze on paper.
The annual bardic tournament is less than a month away, this year held in Beauclair and Jaskier has a title to defend. It would besmirch his name not to attend but Geralt has rather pressing business for a man named Vesemir on Skellige, so when they arrive in Brugge, they all agree to part ways.
‘Need to get some supplies,’ he tells the two of them as they eat a late lunch in the Inn. ‘Be back later. Stay out of trouble.’
Jaskier decides a little practice won’t do him any harm and sets up to play in the Inn. Ciri sits and listens, but eventually pulls out her notebook to sketch the way Jaskier leans over his instrument, the way he cradles it in his hands. She’s supposed to be practising her Nilfgaardian because Jaskier speaks it fluently and it’ll most likely get her out of trouble at one time or another, but there’s a bitterness of learning the language of the conquerors, of those who slaughtered her kin, so her sentences trail off and become sketches of Roach, doe-eyed with long eyelashes.
Geralt slides into the seat beside her, unnoticed, and takes a glimpse at the notebook.
‘That’s good,’ he says and glances up to Jaskier. Ciri shuts her notebook quickly, startled at the sudden intrusion.
Geralt tuts at her obvious surprise.
‘I know, I need to stay alert,’ she says at his dissatisfaction. ‘But how do I know you’re not a doppler in disguise.’
Geralt rolls his eyes. ‘How could I prove such a thing?’
‘Exactly what a doppler would say,’ she replies matter-of-factly. ‘Gwent?’
Geralt shrugs and takes out his deck of cards.
‘Ah-ha!’ Ciri cries. ‘A doppler wouldn’t have your deck of cards, would they? Unless they took your clothes and you’re lying naked somewhere.’
‘A charming thought,’ Jaskier says as he crosses the floor and Ciri doesn’t miss the way Geralt’s cheeks go just a little pink. A doppler wouldn’t blush, she thinks. Sure, they’d have the memories to recognise Jaskier, but surely not the feelings to blush.
The other man nudges Ciri over. ‘I ordered dinner. Get everything you need?’
‘Almost,’ Geralt replies as he draws ten cards from his deck. Ciri does the same. She’s not got as complex a deck as Geralt’s, but she’s still managed to beat him a few times when he has a bad hand. Jaskier watches as he waits for the food, slightly bored. Geralt wins the first round, Ciri the second, and then the game is promptly forgotten as dinner is set in front of them. It’s nice, she thinks, just to spend time playing games for once. Geralt is in good spirits when Jaskier goes to play again, and suddenly the night is late and Ciri’s eyes feel heavy at the table.
‘Ciri,’ Geralt nudges her gently. Had she dozed off? ‘Come. Off to bed.’
She lets him take her by the elbow and heads up the stairs, his heavy gate on the stairs behind her.
She lingers by the doorway. Downstairs, Jaskier is still playing.
‘Can I go with him?’ she asks as they arrive at their rooms. Geralt, looking for the key in his pocket, raises an eyebrow. ‘For protection.’
The muscles twitch in his jawline. ‘Jaskier will be fine.’
‘But-,’
‘He knows how to look after himself,’ Geralt assures. ‘He’ll be fine, Ciri. It’s only for six weeks.’
Six weeks.
‘But I could protect him, you know I’m stronger than him,’ she says. ‘You know how easy he gets into trouble!’
Geralt pauses at the door, looking like he’s biting back a grin. ‘I know you are,’ he replies. ‘But it’s not a good idea to get separated. Jaskier will find his way back. Unsurprisingly, danger seems to find him when our paths cross. Otherwise, he is sensible.’
This does little to calm her worries, but then Geralt gets his door open and says, ‘Goodnight, Ciri,’ and slips in. She sighs, feeling weary herself, and unlocks her own room. It’s small but the bed is plush and welcoming. A while later, in a drowsy haze, she hears the door beside her room open.
Oh good, you’re still awake. I looked up and you were gone and I didn’t realise it was so late. Is Ciri in bed?
Yes. You’re being loud. Get in bed.
Just let me wash my face.
I have something for you.
Oh, really? A gift?
Hm.
Jaskier’s laugh is brilliant.
Really? What is it?
A pause.
Oh, Geralt.
Put it on. I had it charmed; it’ll provide a little protection. I’ll be able to find you if you lose your way.
How creepily romantic of you, Geralt. I love it, and I love you.
Glad you like it.
It makes me feel like I’m yours. Would you wear something of mine too?
Like what?
xv
The entire conversation might have been a fever dream had it not been that the following morning, Jaskier comes down to breakfast wearing a thin silver chain with a small pendant resting on his chest. Ciri thinks she sees the etching of a wolf, but she can’t be sure as it disappears beneath his collar. Geralt steps in from the stable not to long after and they eat, pay and leave, riding until midday until they arrive at a fork in the road.
‘Well,’ Jaskier swallows nervously. ‘Take care then.’
Ciri hugs him tightly. ‘Good luck. I’m going to miss you.’
‘I’ll be back before you know it,’ he smiles. ‘I’ll be waiting for you with the prize money in Visima, and we’ll have a wonderful feast to celebrate.’ He pushes her hair behind her ears, cups her cheeks. ‘Look after Geralt for me, okay? You’re in charge.’
Geralt approaches with Jaskier’s things in his arms. Ciri turns to her white mare, scratching her nose in a fond goodbye.
‘Stay out of trouble, bard,’ Geralt says as he fixes the pack to the horse’s saddle.
‘I’ll do my best,’ he assures.
They hug briefly, more like a handshake than a hug, and Ciri’s about to say something because Jaskier certainly cannot leave without even kissing Geralt goodbye, that certainly won’t do, and she’s done playing these games where they all think she doesn’t know. But then Jaskier’s hand dives into the pocket of his jacket and he hands Geralt something and mutters, ‘As you said last night.’
Geralt examines the small lute pick between his fingers. It’s threaded by a small piece of twine. Carefully, Geralt takes off his sword and wraps the pick around the sheath. A wordless conversation takes place between them. Jaskier smiles.
‘See you soon, I’m off to sing your praises,’ he says and then he urges the mare to the left of the fork. Ciri and Geralt head to the right.
The four weeks in Skellige are brutal. The weather is poor and the people poorer. Geralt curses Vesemir’s name when they meet the Priestesses of Freya and they ask him to take care of a rather pressing Siren problem.
‘God damn Sirens,’ Geralt mutters as he drops the head at the base of the temple. ‘No more games. Give me what is for Vesemir and I’ll get off this godforsaken rock.’
The Priestesses examine the Siren trophy with some disgust but eventually hand over a small box.
‘What is it?’ Ciri asks as they prepare immediately to head back to the mainland. They have barely two weeks to meet Jaskier in Visima, lest he continues north without them, and Ciri knows they’re both keen to reunite with the bard. It’s early afternoon when they board the boat back to the mainland, only arriving in Hamm close to nightfall.
They’re halfway through their dinner when someone strums on a lute. Ciri curses as she nurses a sizeable headache.
‘Bed,’ Geralt says as he finishes off his ale hastily. ‘We’ll make for Visima tomorrow.’
A musician stands atop a small stage, dressed colourfully. ‘My first song is not my own,’ he grins. ‘But the winning composition of Master Bard, Jaskier, from the bardic tournament not two weeks ago. It’s the song everyone’s been singing on the streets of Beauclair since.’
Ciri looks to Geralt, a great grin on her face. ‘He won!’
xvi
They meet Jaskier in the Old Dogge. He’s dressed in a fine cerulean ensemble with a fresh haircut.
‘There you are!’ he cries as Geralt and Ciri step into the tavern. Ciri launches into his arms and Jaskier spins her. ‘Ah, all this week I’ve been drowning myself in ale hoping to make the time speed up to be reunited with you again, but now here you are!’
Jaskier puts Ciri down as Geralt crowds close to him. Ciri watches as Jaskier smiles and raises his hand as if to caress Geralt’s cheek – are they going to kiss? She hopes so – and Geralt’s gaze does the thing where it goes all soft. Jaskier’s hand passes Geralt’s ear and keeps going to reach behind Geralt head entirely. He unloops the pick from Geralt’s scabbard.
‘You still have it!’ he announces joyously, hanging the pick between them. ‘Ah, I thought for sure you’d lose it.’
‘And yours?’
Then he opens his jerkin slightly to reveal the pendant. ‘Almost got it stolen by a mugger in a not-so-nice corner of Beauclair, but his hand got all burnt when he touched it. How strange, don’t you think?’
‘Very,’ agrees Geralt.
xvii
They all agree to go set out for Kaer Morhen and stay at least the winter, if not into the spring. Ciri looks forward to staying somewhere constant, especially if it means not sleeping on the road. Jaskier says Geralt feels it like a call home, something deep in his guts that niggles at him. As they walk the cold earth along the path to the mountains, Geralt tells them it’s been a few years since he’s been back, a few years since he’s seen another Witcher but if they’re alive, most of them will go back to Kaer Morhen.
Ciri rides the white mare and Geralt and Jaskier trail behind, talking lowly. Talking may be too liberal a word as, as far as she can hear, Geralt is simply grunting responses to Jaskier’s full sentences, whipping Jaskier up into an argument that is almost his own making.
The argument peaks as they set up camp a few hundred metres off the road in a forest clearing.
Geralt is pitching the tent while Jaskier skins the rabbit, talking as the blade carves off the fur. ‘All I’m saying is we can go down to Rivia, you know, check out your neighbourhood. Then we have a straight run north, Vengerberg in the middle for a respite.’
‘Kaer Morhen is two weeks ride from Vengerberg,’ Geralt corrects. ‘And we don’t ride south to go north. We’re going through Redania and we’ll rest at Ard Carraigh.’
‘It’s that far north?’ Jaskier bristles.
‘Two further days from there.’
‘I thought Redania was your home,’ says Ciri.
Across the fire, his mouth twitches. ‘Yes, well, there’s a fondness in visiting every so often, I suppose. Normally I am contented just to look on from afar.’
‘We’ll have to pass through to get to Flotsam,’ Geralt says.
‘I know, I know,’ he mutters. ‘I’ll invest in a cloak with a hood. Geralt, we’ll dye your hair. No one will know it’s us.’
Ciri grins at the idea.
‘I’m not dying my hair. Write ahead.’
‘I most certainly will not!’
Geralt huffs. ‘Why pay coin when we can get a room for free?’
‘I’d rather pitch a tent than spend any time staying with my family,’ he says. ‘I won’t entertain this for another second!’
He stands up like that’s the end of it. Ciri looks to Geralt who just gives her a loaded glance back as Jaskier gathers his things to bathe in the nearby creek.
It takes them a week’s hard riding to reach the foothills of the mountains. Flotsam rests between them, a city born on trade of the natural pass. It’s been an otherwise uneventful ride otherwise, but as soon as they pass a marker with the word LETTENHOVE etched into it, Jaskier says, ‘Surely, we can go around.’
‘We’re staying,’ Geralt says.
‘Geralt!’
The township is sizable, Ciri thinks, as they ride into the square. As usual, all eyes turn to them. Someone shouts, ‘Julian Alfred Pankratz, as I live and breathe!’
‘Oh no,’ mutters Jaskier. He shoots a pleading look to Geralt.
‘Seriously Geralt, if we turn around right now, I’ll do anything,’ he pauses. ’Anything you want me to.’
There’s a twinge of a smile as Geralt rides ahead. ‘You already do.’
Jaskier squeaks indignantly. ‘Geralt of Rivia-,’ he starts but then someone is pushing from the crowd, calling Jaskier’s name.
‘Julian! I thought that was you!’ says the man. He’s wearing fine clothing with a small dagger at his hip. His hair is dark like Jaskier’s, but littered with grey. He opens his arms wide as if expecting an embrace. ‘Cousin!’
‘Erm, yes, hello,’ Julian mutters awkwardly. Ciri hangs back with Geralt, who hasn’t dismounted Roach yet. ‘Ferrant, how lovely to see you.’
If Ferrant picks up on the unenthusiastic tone, he doesn’t respond in-kind. ‘You should have written ahead!’ he says joyously. ‘No matter, you know we always have room for you and your,’ finally, Ferrant’s gaze settles on them. ‘Um, travelling companions.’
‘Of course,’ Jaskier mutters. ‘This is Geralt of Rivia-,’
‘The Witcher!’ Ferrant says. ‘You have not been home in so long, cousin, but your songs make their way to us, so it feels like you’re always around.’
Jaskier doesn’t perk up the compliment like he usually would, Ciri notices. ‘Ah, yes, of course. And this is Fiona, his daughter.’ It’s an easy lie. They look similar enough.
‘My lady!’ Ferrant smiles. ‘Come. You must be tired and the horses will need watering. We’ll have a feast tonight, catch up on old times.’
Ferrant leads the way, and Ciri doesn’t miss the withering look Jaskier shoots Geralt as they are led to Ferrant’s home. Ciri expects a modest house, but suddenly the township falls away and a large castle looms. A drawbridge lowers.
‘Is… Jaskier rich?’ she looks at Geralt apprehensively.
‘No,’ Geralt mutters as they’re led through the castle gates. ‘Definitely not.’
‘Then what-,’ she looks at the castle around them, ‘Is all this?’
‘I have no idea,’
A stableboy takes the horses as Ferrant shows them to their quarters: three well-sized rooms.
‘I’ll take my leave,’ says Ferrant graciously. ‘Bathe, rest. I have a feast to prepare.’
Immediately, Geralt crowds Jaskier.
‘Explain,’ he demands.
‘Well, you see,’ Jaskier squirms under Geralt’s hard gaze. ‘My… father, well, he’s the Viscount. Of Lettenhove. And my cousin, Ferrant, whom you’ve just met is the, um, Royal Instigator. For the King.’
Geralt massages the bridge of his nose. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Well, I tried but you wouldn’t see reason. Now you understand why I said we should have just passed through Rivia!’ Jaskier raises his hands in exasperation. ‘Now we must go through this whole song and dance, and yes, there will probably be dancing. The only thing my cousin loves more than stringing up a criminal is a jig.’
Geralt sighs, but Ciri’s not sure exactly what’s the problem. They’ve been travelling for three days, now she has a bed, a bath, good food and apparently there will be a party in honour of Jaskier’s return.
‘And don’t even start on my mother while I’m not married yet,’ he mutters. ‘And prepared to be interrogated within an inch of your life by my sisters-,’
‘Sisters?’ Ciri repeats.
‘Three of them, to be exact,’ Jaskier helpfully supplies. ‘And these walls are thinner than they seem Geralt, so don’t even think we’re going to-,’
Jaskier cuts himself off. Ciri stifles the urge to giggle.
‘Right,’ he huffs and turns on his heel, heading into his bedroom. ‘The bath water is warming. If we are to stay here, then I’ll at least have to make myself presentable. You should both do the same.’
The walls are, indeed, very thin.
It’s really not to late to leave, Geralt. The ground may be cold to sleep on, but it’s a kind mistress compared to the night we’re about to have!
Get in the bath, Jaskier.
Seriously, a muffled noise. She hears clothing drop to the floor. You don’t know my family.
Didn’t even know you had a family.
Really? Thought I was abandoned at birth? Oh sorry, touchy subject.
Water sloshes in the tub.
Free bed. Free bath. Free food.
Nothing in this world is free Geralt. We will suffer my family in payment.
You’ll suffer mine for winter.
I thought Witchers had no family.
They don’t. But they are the closest I have, I suppose – if they are still alive.
And you have us – we’re you’re family too.
A pause.
Didn’t think I’d have one. Didn’t need one.
And then he says something Ciri can’t hear, though her ear is almost pressed against the wood of the door and Jaskier cries, ‘Ah Geralt, you’re so romantic!’
She peels away from the door with a shake of her head and goes to get changed.
Jaskier’s mother is an older plump woman, who kisses her son on both cheeks when he enters the dining hall. A large pig is roasting on the spit. It smells divine.
‘Mama, this is Geralt, the Witcher, and Fiona, his daughter,’ Jaskier says. Ciri wonders if it makes sense to introduce them like that; she knows that Witcher’s cannot have children. Does it create more suspicion than assurance? She’s unsure.
Geralt, however, is the picture of civility. He looks uncomfortable stuffed into his silks and cottons, swords not strapped to his body, but Ciri assumes he’s got a dagger stashed somewhere. His light hair is clean and brushed so it falls softly around his shoulders.
‘Pleasure, Viscountess,’ he says warmly. Ciri gives a small curtsey.
Jaskier takes Geralt by the arm. ‘Very well done,’ he purrs as they sit down.
They’re introduced to people throughout the night: Jaskier’s sisters, Agata, Nadia and Halina, the Viscount, and then, of course, Ferrant asks Jaskier to perform and Ciri encourages him to do so.
‘All right,’ Jaskier accepts eventually when he’s eaten and drunk his fill. He returns to get his lute, and that’s when Jaskier’s sisters descend on them.
Nadia is the leader of the three; beautiful with doe-like eyes the same cornflower blue and long dark hair. Her dress is cut revealingly low and Ciri watches as Geralt’s eyes slowly slip south as she leans forward.
‘My brother sings of your conquests,’ she purrs gently. Geralt swallows his mouthful of pork and Ciri takes the moment of distraction to swipe a potato from his plate and his half-drunk stein of ale. ‘But I must admit, he doesn’t do you justice to your dashing looks.’
‘Told him I’d cut his balls off if he did,’ Geralt mutters and reaches for his ale, only to find it’s not there. ‘Child.’
Ciri takes her final mouthful before Geralt snatches back his stein, empty. With a huff, he gets up from the table to find another glass. Nadia watches him go, a forlorn look in his eye. Across the room, Jaskier is starting on a fast-paced jig and Ferrant pulls Halina onto the dancefloor.
‘So, child, your father-,’
‘Fathers,’ Ciri corrects. There’s a moment of silence where Ciri thinks that Nadia believes she misheard. ‘You must specify which, seeing as one is your brother.’
Nadia swallows thickly, her eyes glancing across to Jaskier. ‘I see.’
Geralt comes back a bit later, a fresh stein in his hand. He sits beside her. ‘The stable boy has been staring at you for the last ten minutes.’
‘I know,’ she glowers. ‘The same look Nadia gave you.’
Geralt laughs at this. ‘I thought you would chase her off.’
Ciri looks over to the stable boy. Geralt nudges her gently.
‘Go.’
xviii
The mountains loom but provide no shelter from the freezing wind that whips down the passage and assaults their faces. Jaskier trudges through the deep snow, looking back every now and then to ensure Ciri’s keeping up. Ahead, Geralt leads the way with Roach walking beside him. Suddenly, he stops.
‘Melitele’s tits, Geralt, are we there yet?’ Jaskier cries over the howling wind. Ciri crowds by his side, seeking his warmth and feels his arm around her shoulders.
Geralt looks around, whistles through his thumb and forefinger and waits.
‘Geralt!’ Jaskier calls again. ‘Do you have any idea where you’re going? Fuck, I can’t feel my toes.’
‘I’m cold,’ Ciri complains.
Geralt stalks forward a few more paces, and whistles again. Ciri feels her heart sink. What if there’s no one at Kaer Morhen to receive the letter? What if they don’t want to let them in? She’s about to tell Geralt so when she hears the protesting groan of metal-on-metal.
‘Come on, not far,’ Geralt grits out and they continue through a bend in the road, and suddenly a gate comes into view. The wind dies down. Ciri can see a man wearing black waiting at the open gate.
‘Geralt! You old fuck!’ Laughter. ‘You’re late!’
‘Nice to see you too, Lambert,’ Geralt grins and they embrace briefly. ‘This is Jaskier, the bard, and Ciri.’
‘The child surprise,’ Lambert finishes with a sly grin. ‘Right, come on, there’s time for introductions later. You look like your dick’s about to fall off from frostbite.’
They follow Lambert into the compound. Ciri sticks close to Jaskier as Geralt and Lambert tie-up Roach. It’s not as cold in the compound, though snow drifts down gently from the darkened sky. Eventually, Geralt and Lambert lead them through a maze of stone staircases and halls.
‘Eskel?’ Geralt asks.
‘Got here last week,’ Lambert replies. ‘He’s hunting. Vesemir is locked in his study, as usual. Working on something. Who the fuck knows what?’
Ciri jumps as they walk past a fireplace and Lambert makes it spark to life.
‘What curious creatures you’ve brought back with you,’ Lambert smiles, his bronze gaze wolfish as it dances over Jaskier and Ciri. ‘These are your rooms. Prepared as requested.’
Ciri takes note of three things as she’s shown to her room and told to get some rest – that the bed is wonderful and plush, and warm, the beautiful and vast view of the mountains from her window, and the soft words of Geralt and Jaskier next door muffled by the stone wall.
--
‘Ciri.’ There’s a hand on her forehead. She wakes, slowly. It’s warm and dark. Jaskier is sitting on her bedside, dressed and well-rested. Slowly, reality comes back to her. ‘Come on, it’s almost dinner time.’
‘I slept all afternoon?’
‘You weren’t the only one,’ Jaskier chuckles. ‘Geralt passed out as soon as his head hit the pillow.’
Ciri rolls out of bed, feeling groggy, and washes her face before following Jaskier down to the kitchen. Raucous of laughter and the scent of roasted meat drift up from below. The Witchers are drinking ale while a deer cooks over the flame. Ciri feels her stomach cramp, hungry. There’s a basket of bread rolls, a bowl of boiled potatoes, carrots, and beets. Jaskier touches between her shoulder blades reassuringly.
‘So, Geralt’ Lambert says as they sit down to eat. ‘You’ve bought quite the group this winter. Not quite the lone wolf the songs make you out to be.’
‘Lambert,’ Vesemir says lowly. ‘Behave.’
‘Yes, we have esteemed company,’ Eskel continues.
Lambert grins across the table at Geralt, who glowers back. Jaskier is silent beside him, tucking into his soup.
‘Ciri,’ Vesemir pulls her attention. ‘Perhaps you can join me in the courtyard tomorrow. Geralt tells us you’ve got quite the lungs on you.’
‘Do you know why?’ she asks.
Vesemir smiles kindly. ‘I’m not sure. I’ve been in our libraries ever since I heard about you, but I’ve yet to find anything.’
‘Ciri needs training,’ Geralt says. ‘Combat training. Control training.’
‘Combat?’ Jaskier squeaks quietly.
‘Aye, she can learn what she wants while she’s here,’ Vesemir nods.
Ciri buzzes with excitement. Finally, she’s going to be taught how to punch and kick and, ‘Will you teach me how to use a sword?’
‘Oh Melitele, help me,’ Jaskier groans.
Geralt smirks over the lip of his stein.
xix
Lambert gives her a wooden sword and Ciri tests its weight in her palm. A few metres away, near a storage shed, Geralt watches with his arms over his chest.
‘Sword up, Ciri,’ Lambert says.
Ciri takes the position.
Only to be immediately knocked to the ground when Lambert’s foot sweeps under hers.
‘That’s not fair,’ she groans.
‘First lesson, girl, fighting isn’t fair,’ he says. ‘Geralt may be easy on you, but I won’t be.’
Geralt isn’t easy on her at all, she thinks, but she’s not about to tell Lambert that.
They train for most of the afternoon until Ciri is dirty and sweaty and hungry and Geralt says, ‘That’s enough.’
‘Come on, that was just the warm-up,’ Lambert protests.
Geralt grabs a stray sword from the armoury fixed to the wall and Ciri scampers away. The grin on Lambert’s face is absolutely feral.
‘Volunteering yourself, then?’ Lambert grins as he paces around Geralt.
Geralt launches, but Lambert dodges the swing easily. Ciri watches from the corner as Jaskier comes down the stairs to join her.
‘What foolishness are they up to now?’ he mutters but joins her on the log seat to watch.
‘Getting slow, Geralt?’ taunts Lambert. Their swords clash. Geralt lands a punch on Lambert’s jawline. Not hard enough to break, but just enough to make him stumble backwards.
They fight for another hour. Jaskier yawns and goes back inside to continue composing, but Ciri stays, watching enraptured as the Witcher’s fight, goad, parry, dodge, time after time. When both of them are tired, they break with a small laugh.
‘Ciri, come. To the baths,’ Lambert says.
They travel deep into the keep until they come to a room carved into the side of the mountain with two thermal hot springs. The air is damp and warm. Geralt points her to a bath behind a small screen, as the other men meet in the larger bath.
Ciri strips down, sinks into the murky water and leans back. Over the splashing of the water, she can hear Geralt and Lambert on the other side of the room.
That kid’s got a lot of fire in her.
As I told you.
And the bard?
What about him?
Oh, don’t play stupid with me, Geralt. You think I didn’t feel that enchanted amulet fucking loaded with spells the moment you walked through the gate.
Gets himself into trouble.
Seems like a lot of effort for an ordinary bard.
He’s not an ordinary bard. Won the Bardic competition twice.
It’s Lambert’s turn to groan.
All I’m saying is that these walls are thin and while Vesemir’s hearing may not be what it used to be, there’s nothing wrong with mine. Just tell your bard to stop flaunting his vocal range in the late hours of the night.
Lambert.
Or gag him. I don’t know what you two are into.
Later, as Jaskier prepares to sing after dinner, Ciri watches Geralt turn as red as the beet soup they had for dinner as Jaskier runs through the scales.
xx
Vesemir is making her read these huge dusty old tomes in the library. Sometimes he falls asleep and Ciri can escape into the courtyard to find Eskel or Lambert, or sometimes Jaskier, and together they’ll practice swordplay, or archery or simply compose a funny limerick. But she’s careful not to run into Geralt. He’s strangely strict about her studies with Vesemir and has told the old man, on more than one occasion, not to fall asleep while tutoring her.
The sound of Jaskier’s lute in the courtyard and his gentle, melodic voice, make Vesemir look up from his tome. Ciri follows him to the window, thinking he’s about to close it so they can focus, when, curiously, he peers out into the courtyard. Ciri does the same, craning her body. She can see Jaskier reclining on a pile of hay, lute in hand. Geralt walks past him to pull arrows out of a dummy and as he does so, let’s his fingers ghost over the crown of Jaskier’s head.
Vesemir sighs and leans back from the window.
‘Geralt has always been a perplexing man,’ Vesemir states. ‘I’m pleased he’s found someone he can be himself around.’
Ciri’s not sure that’s entirely true by the way the two of them have been skirting around her for the last year, but she’s not about to tell Vesemir that.
The old man regards her seriously. ‘And I’m glad they found you,’ he says. ‘Come, back to work.
xxi
Spring comes to Kaer Morhen slowly. Ciri doesn’t want to leave, and Geralt doesn’t suggest it until the snow from the mountains melt. Eskel leaves the day before, riding towards Vengerberg.
‘Goodbye, little wolf cub,’ Eskel smiles as he saddles up his horse. ‘Watch over Geralt for us. See you next year, unless our Paths cross beforehand.’
She’s sad to watch Eskel go; they’d spend hours in the studies practising signs and magic, trying to harness the strength of Ciri’s power. And while they definitely haven’t mastered it, she understands her limits better. Under Lambert, her swordplay has increased dramatically, but not to the point that Geralt or Lambert will let her wield a real sword. Maybe next year.
They stop in Ard Carraigh and Jaskier sings for coin and a room. The concert goes well. It’s spring and more people are out, defrosted from the chill of winter, and music flows easily into the early morning, as does the ale. Ciri goes to bed, leaving Geralt and Jaskier downstairs. It’s only half of an hour later when he descends into the revelry once again to get a glass of water from the rainwater tank outside when she sees two figures pressed against each other in the stairwell. It’s not an unusual sight, except that it’s clearly Jaskier and Geralt tied up in each other. Geralt’s mouth is on Jaskier’s neck, his hands in his doublet.
Ciri stands at the top of the stairs. Finally.
Geralt is obviously drunk as he rumbles into Jaskier’s skin, pulling at his doublet. A button pops. Jaskier laughs gently, eyes sliding up towards their room.
‘Geralt, come on, not a few more steps,’ he slurs. ‘Oh shit.’
Jaskier nudges Geralt off him. ‘Geralt. Geralt. Your child of surprise is watching us!’
Geralt pauses his kisses, glances up to Ciri and laughs gently before pulling Jaskier’s face back towards him.
‘She knows.’
‘What?’ Jaskier splutters, reeling back as Geralt tries to kiss him again. ‘What do you mean she knows? How long have you known that she knows? Why didn’t I know that you know that she knows?’
Geralt frowns, struggling to keep up. Ciri huffs, descending the stairs and pushing past them.
‘Of course, I know!’ she says. Neither Jaskier or Geralt have made an effort to untangle from each other. ‘Now that it’s out in the open, in the most respectful way possible – get a room and keep it down.’
Geralt laughs as Ciri trudges down to the Inn to get a glass of water.
‘Geralt!’ she hears Jaskier protest, but then the door to their room closes.
---
‘So,’ Jaskier says that morning at breakfast. ‘You know.’
Geralt rolls his eyes at the theatrics. ‘Julian.’
Ciri swallows a piece of bread. ‘I think most people know.’
‘Most people?’ Jaskier repeats nervously and glances at Geralt.
‘Yennefer knows,’ Ciri says. ‘Lambert definitely knows, I heard him tease Geralt at Kaer Morhen. Eskel. Vesemir.And definitely your sister Nadia knows because I told her off for coming onto Geralt while you were singing. Oh and that Innkeeper at Brugge that one time definitely knew. I feel like I’m the last to know.’
Jaskier sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. ‘To be honest, it’s not like it was a secret, it just took us a while to get here, I suppose it was always difficult to describe.’
‘You had enough on your plate, Ciri,’ Geralt helps. ‘Than to consider our problems.’
‘But it’s not a problem,’ Ciri emphasises. ‘It’s nice that my dads are in love.’
‘Yes, well, at least-,’ Jaskier pauses, chokes a little. ‘Dads?’
‘Love?’ repeats Geralt, only to receive an elbow in the ribs from Jaskier. He catches it with a chuckle and shoves the other man off.
‘Come on,’ he stands and grabs their saddlebags. ‘We need to get going, the sun is at half-morning already.’
Jaskier gives Geralt a withering look that isn’t really that withering. ‘Where to now?’