Rest Your Weary Head - brothebro - Wiedźmin | The Witcher (2024)

Chapter 1: The beginning

Chapter Text

They are surrounded.

Geralt counts fifteen --no-- twenty-two heavily armed men. With a quick look at their deliberately mismatched armours and the not well-hidden bits of insignia on the pommels of their swords --a black sun-- he realizes they are Nilfgaardian soldiers.

f*ck.

There is no doubt they are here for the Cintran princess.

Geralt unsheathes his steel sword, Ciri tugged protectively beneath his free arm. He knows it isn’t wise in the long run but he puts pressure on his uninjured foot as he readies himself to parry the incoming attacks. There is a nigh nonexistent chance they will get out of there alive but he’s willing to die trying.

It’s a pity. They are so close to the thick tall walls of Vengerberg and yet so far away. But lamenting will get them nowhere and if they manage to outmanoeuvre the small horde of swordsmen and get in Vengerberg all is going to be well. After all, Yennefer is there and she has the means to protect his Child-Surprise.

Now if only he’d accepted that Xenovox the last time he saw her… She could have portaled them out of this debacle. A right fool he was, prideful and overconfident.

And look at them now.

He’s trying his best, given the circ*mstances, to cut and slash as many foes before him as his strength allows him to. But the ghoul bite on his leg is not fully healed --it tugs and throbs, waves of hot pain pulsate-- and since Cintra, he didn’t have the time to replace his armour.

Armourless and injured he fights a frantic dance. The dance of survival.

He’s cut in multiple places, he’s bruised and in no shape to continue fighting but he must press on. He won’t let them take the princess. He can’t let them harm her.

There are still a lot of soldiers left, seemingly an endless stream of them attacking from all sides. Geralt is tiring, swiftly so, and his movements get more frantic as time passes. Ciri, a small bundle, curled onto him, her fear noxious in the air.

No, it’s not fear, Geralt realizes.

He can almost taste the tendrils of chaos that emerge from the scared little girl on his side. They wrap and twist and bubble, gathering. Waiting. Until…

Geralt hears the girl’s breath hitch as he barely parries the sword of an exceptionally tall soldier and an arrow finds its target in his shoulder blade. He winces as hot flaring pain surges through his body. But he doesn’t have time. The chaos grows denser and denser. He doesn’t have time. Without a second thought, he casts Quen on him and prays to be spared the explosion.

If Cirilla’s magic is anything like Pavetta’s--

Then the chaos explodes and darkness comes.

Jaskier has been a fool. He shouldn’t have followed Yenna on that bloody mountain. Hell! He shouldn’t have fought the f*cking Djinn in the first place.

But then Yenna would be dead, his mind reminds him, consumed by the Djinn’s power.

Ugh. He doesn’t like what Borch did to them, to their friendship. He shouldn’t have interfered. But the absolute f*ck couldn’t resist telling Yenna that as Jaskier banished the Djinn, so did he destroy any chances the sorceress had into capturing another.

She’s marked. No evil spirit will dare approach her as long as she lives. And that means her one way of becoming a mother was taken from her. Jaskier took that from her and he hates himself for it but at the same time, he’s glad she’s alive. Safe. All fire and fury.

Understandably, she’s mad at him. He took her choice away, he knows as much. But he would do it a thousand times over and he tells her so. Because she’s his dearest friend and he would not see her destroyed by her own hand. “There’s going to be another way,” he yells at her.

“There is no other way you stupid witcher!” she yells back and with a motion of her hand she opens a portal, “I need to be alone right now,” her voice barely a whisper as she steps through the swirling chaos.

“I’ll find a way,” he croaks but Yennefer has already passed through the portal.

He’ll find a way. He’ll find a way because Yennefer deserves it. Because what kind of sh*tty friend is he if he leaves her like that?

Oxenfurt. He’ll go to Oxenfurt. Surely the massive library will have some forgotten book about fertility. Luckily, he still has his glamour and he is an esteemed member of the faculty so he can do as he pleases in the library with the pretext of ‘research’.

And after that perhaps he’ll pay a visit to Kaer Seren, his oldest home, half-destroyed now but still standing. The Griffin’s always had an insatiable hunger for knowledge. He’s bound to find something that will be useful to Yenna.

Alright. A plan. That’s a start at least.

Hold on one minute. Kaer Seren is closer to where he is now. Well, a slight change of plans then. The Griffin Keep first, Oxenfurt second.

With a heavy but hopeful heart, he makes the descent down the Dragon Mountain.

Geralt’s ears are ringing, a high pitched noise akin the screams of several tens of Katakans. f*ck. He doesn’t know how long he’s passed out for. Is Ciri alright? Is she safe? He must know.

He gets up swiftly opening his eyes, his gaze darting around. The world starts spinning and he has to make an effort not to collapse right there on the spot.

“Easy there, easy,” Yennefer’s familiar voice addresses him and he feels a helping hand around his waist. He opens his eyes --slowly this time-- and comes face to face with the amethyst gaze of the sorceress.

“Is - is-,” he wants to ask if Cirilla is alright if she survived the attack. But his own voice is too loud for his still ringing ears. It’s making him dizzy.

“The young princess is fine,” Yennefer says, lowering her voice volume when she notices Geralt wincing at the sound of her voice. “She’s asleep in the guest room. Not a hair on her head harmed.”

Geralt lets out a sigh of relief. That’s good news. They both survived the ambush and the kid is unharmed. That’s more than he thought possible.

He half stumbles forward, knowing the way to Yennefer’s guest room. He might trust Yen with his life but he has to see his Child-Surprise for himself to calm the anxiety that is swirling in his brain.

“Wait,” says Yennefer softly and murmurs something in Elder under her breath and within moments the ringing in his ears subsides until it’s gone completely.

“Thank you Yen,” he breathes out in relief. The tension in his limbs loosening ever so slightly.

“What will you two do now?” she asks, her brow furrowed with worry. What will they do? That is a good question. Geralt isn’t naive, he knows Nilfgaard will stop at nothing to get the princess. He isn’t sure of the specifics but they want her and they want her alive. Her recent journey is proof of that.

They even sent a doppler after her for f*ck’s sake!

“I don’t know,” he finally admits, “I thought to take her to Kaer Morhen but I’m not sure she’ll be safe there.” The protective wards around the keep have lost their strength over the years and the sheer magic power they need to be fueled with needs at least half the sorceresses of Aretuza and the mages of Ban Ard. Vesemir has told him as much.

Yennefer nods in approval, “Fringilla knows of your claim on the law of surprise. She could probably deduce that you would take her there.”

“f*ck,” he shakes his head. trying to think of all the possible locations he could take Ciri to keep her safe. When none come to mind -- how does one outrun an army of mages anyway? -- he repeats, “ f*ck! What should I do Yen?”

Geralt watches as Yennefer walks toward her desk and rummages through some notes, trinkets and vials. “Ah yes,” she whispers to herself and turns to face Geralt, holding two small pieces of jewellery and a piece of parchment inscribed with arcane symbols and what’s most likely academic level Elder. “Geralt,” she says, a mischievous smile forming on her lips, “I might have a solution. How would you like to take a break from the Path?”

Geralt raises a brow. How would he be able to take a break? He’s not exactly what you would call inconspicuous. His white hair and beastly golden eyes make sure he’s recognized throughout the Continent.

Yennefer rolls her eyes, “A glamour to make you appear human,” she explains, “And a glamour for the little one to mask her chaos.”

“That- That’s not a bad idea.” This is such a simple yet potentially safe solution. Nobody would even blink an eye if he was human. It’s alluring, the thought of leading a human life. Raising Ciri in a safe environment.

“Fantastic!”

“But where should we go after that? What should I do for a living?”

“What do you want your occupation to be, Geralt?” the sorceress smirks.

“Horses,” he blurts out before his brain can catch up with his treacherous tongue. He snaps his mouth shut and feels the telltale signs of a blush creeping up on him. Fortunately for his ego, Yennefer doesn’t comment on it, her face still wearing that excitement he could always recognize when she got herself a new project.

He could hypothetically get a ranch, buy and breed and train horses. That would be inconspicuous enough. But, his mind wanders to his brothers and their harsh lives on the Path and he thinks that maybe, just maybe he should choose something that would help them as well.

Botanist? Perhaps, though there aren’t many and a new one appearing out of nowhere and with a child to boot is, well, suspicious.

Should he try working as a hunter? He’s good with the bow and he’s hunted for dinner more times than he can count but that means he would have to spend many hours away from Ciri, ergo putting her in danger. Plus he can’t see how he could help his fellow Wolves with that profession.

Hmmm…

“Innkeeper, perhaps?” Yennefer provides helpfully after she so rudely peeked at his thoughts. “So you can stay in one place and have the child close to protect her. And you could also provide a safe haven for all witchers passing through.”

It makes sense. He’s been in enough inns in his long life to have picked a thing or two about running a business. He can do it. How hard can it be after all? It’s just ale, cooking and keeping a place clean. Not much different from a winter in Kaer Morhen.

“Innkeeper,” he agrees.

Jaskier, or as he’s currently known as, Julian, had a crazy year. Well, sort of. The only crazy thing that happened was the unfortunate loss of his dearest, most beloved glamoured bracelet that allowed him to pass as a human. This happened sadly many months ago and he’s missing his bardic career very much.

But no, this isn’t what’s important here. The important thing is that he bloody lost the f*cking bracelet only a week after he left Kaer Seren after he had been searching under rubble and half-destroyed rooms for secret magicky magic knowledge to bring to Yenna for… How long was it? Ah, yes. Three bloody months. And in the middle of summer to boot.

Well, he can’t complain much as he did indeed find several promising tomes on magic and rituals (and also, Kaer Seren being high on the mountains and so far north meant he didn’t have to spend the summer sweating due to the unforgiving evil summer sun. But that’s a small mercy).

Anyhow, the problem with losing the bloody glamour wasn’t as much as he wouldn’t be able to perform. He’s a witcher after all and he’s learned patience during his long years on the Path. No, the problem was that he couldn’t, well, pass as a human no matter how much he wished so and well… to be perfectly honest the problem was that he could pass as professor Jaskier Pankratz and therefore he didn’t have any access to Oxenfurt’s vast library.

You see, Julian the witcher looked… very different from Jaskier the bard, to say the least. Where Jaskier was clean-shaven, hair short, always impeccably styled, Julian sported a long-ish beard and wore his long brown --with a white streak-- hair up in a tall ponytail, the sides of his head always shaven.

Damn it all.

Well this minor inconvenience of appearances aside, he did, in fact, manage to sneak into the university’s library and liberate a couple of tomes on fertility and magic.

He just hopes Yenna will find in her heart to forgive him -- he’s missed her terribly -- and moreover, he hopes that some of these quite heavy tomes will come to handy and that he didn’t go through so much trouble only to have to return them later.

Anyhow, having heard of the quite terrifying advance of Nilfgaard and the battle of Sodden, in which he’s sure Yennefer took part in --this woman was always righteous, no matter what she claimed-- he stopped everything that he was previously doing, namely contracts to catch up on months of missing gold, and rushed to Vengerberg.

He’s sure Yennefer will be here, in her safe house, recovering from the battle. He just hopes she’s well.

He’s very near Vengerberg, approaching rapidly on horseback towards its southeastern gate when he sees -- or rather smells initially -- the massacre of what must have been a small battalion of soldiers. The scattered blades on the ground indicate Nilfgaard and his stomach turns at the thought that something might have happened to his best friend in the whole wide world.

It reeks of chaos and the absence of a rotting body of a certain amethyst eyed sorceress (he can’t smell her on the scene either) is comforting.

Julian casts Axii on his distressed horse and leads her towards the thick walls of Vengerberg. There’s no bloody chance he’s willing to lose time investigating whatever the f*ck happened to those soldiers and be caught by an unsuspecting peasant that will surely blame him and his brethren for this murder, ritualistic sacrifice, well… whatever the f*ck this is.

So, he beelines straight to Yenna’s safe house. An unsuspecting two-story building in the middle of the bustling town. He leaves his horse tied on a nearby watering post, goes through the narrow alley towards the side entrance of the building and knocks rhythmically on the beat of the agreed-upon code with his sorceress friend.

The door opens and to his relief, his gaze meets the familiar amethyst eyes of Yenna.

“Jaskier,” she snarls, “What the f*ck are you doing here?”

“I came bearing gifts,” he smiles brightly presenting a couple of the looted tomes on magic, “And asking for forgiveness. Initially, I didn’t know the djinn would do that to you Yenna, I’m truly sorry. I should have told you the moment I found out. Will you--”

Yennefer flicks her fingers and Julian feels his mouth snap shut. “Come inside you idiot,” she says and drags him through the door by the arm, “Do you have any idea what you’ve brought with you?”

“Uh… magicky magic hidden knowledge because I want to help you, my oldest friend?” Yennefer nods in response.

“Your only friend,” she smiles mockingly but there’s no bite in her words. She turns her gaze to the spot where his glamour once lay and her eyes widen in disbelief, “What the f*ck did you do to your glamour Jaskier?”

“First of all, I have another friend besides you and don’t tell me no because I know for certain you’ve met Coen and secondly regarding the glamour… I - how do I say this without sounding like a fool…Well, you see... A bear ate it.”

“Excuse me?”

“Sadly it’s the truth. I couldn’t salvage it, it had been thoroughly digested when I pried the beast’s stomach open and fished it out,” Julian says and presses his lips into a thin line.

“Idiot,” Yennefer scowls, but her eyes are smiling. “Come I’ll make you a new one.”

“That means we’re good? It’s all water under the bridge? Best friends forever?”

“Jaskier.”

“What? Are you mayhaps still mad at me? I’m really truly sorry Yenna, please--”

“Jaskier please for the love of chaos shut up. We’re good.”

Chapter 2: The Flying Rabbit Inn

Chapter Text

Geralt is pacing in Yennefer’s grand living room. He’s restless and it’s understandable really. While this innkeeper idea is actually quite brilliant and gods know the young princess deserves some peace and normalcy but… But there are quite many logistics and details now that he thinks about it.

Firstly, he’ll have to buy or build an inn. In a place. Somewhere that will accept them. Hmmm. Does he have the coin to buy and furnish an entire establishment? Well, he certainly has a small fortune gathered during the long years he spent on the Path but is it going to be enough to fund an entire business? And how much do buildings cost anyway? He hasn’t really paid attention to the very complex and highly nonsensical economy of the Northern Kingdoms.

Hmm. f*ck. This is going to be harder than he initially expected it to be.

Well. He supposes he might be able to get Yennefer’s thoughts and valuable input on this.

And speaking of the devil, Yennefer approaches him with an obviously amused expression plastered on her face. “Geralt,” she drawls and reaches to a nearby cabinet for a bottle of wine, “Care to join me?”

Geralt grunts in approval and seats himself on the velvet couch opposite of the sorceress.

“You’re worrying too much,” Yennefer states, swirling slowly the wine in her glass with the motion of her wrist. She takes a sip once she’s satisfied with her work, “Listen, it’s not that hard. I happen to own a two-storey building in the most picturesque Creydeni town. No, don’t give me that look Geralt, you’re my friend and I’ll help you as much as I can.”

“You’re already helping with the glamours, Yen,” Geralt takes a big sip from his fancy crystal wine glass. Mmmm… Not a bad wine. Definitely too bitter for his taste but not bad all in all.

Yennefer rolls her eyes, “I’m not going to give you the house Geralt. I’m thinking more of a… partnership if you might,” she pauses and waits for his reaction. Geralt co*cks an eyebrow prompting her to elaborate. “The house hasn’t been lived in… gods, thirty years -- it’s a bit of a fixer-upper so to say. I provide the house, you fix it, we split the profit. What do you think?”

That’s… That’s actually a very good solution for his problems. Having a business partner means he won’t have to shoulder every possible problem that arises by himself and splitting the profit is hardly a big setback for this. Plus, Yennefer mentioned the house and soon to be inn, is located in Creyden which means he might find the chance to pay queen Renfri a visit. It’s been many years since they last saw each other and communication via letters can only do so much.

So, he nods and with a small lopsided smile he says, “We have a deal.”

“Geralt? Geralt…?” Ciri’s voice echoes anxiously from Yennefer’s spare bedroom, where she’d been resting after the ambush. Geralt can already smell the salt of her tears in the air so he rushes to her side.

The girl is shaking, sobbing and frantically looking around the unfamiliar room. “I’m here Ciri,” Geralt says hugging her tightly, “I’m here.”

“I- I thought… I thought,” she sobs, big tears running down her cheeks.

Geralt hums low and rubs small circles on her back. “I’m here,” he repeats, “you didn’t hurt me, cub. I’m a witcher. I’m resilient.”

Ciri breaks away from the hug and stares right into Geralt’s eyes, sniffling softly. “You survived my shout,” she states, her expression shifting until it settles on curiosity mixed with relief.

Geralt nods, “I told you, witchers are resilient, little cub.”

“Where are we?”

“Yennefer’s house,” Geralt responds with a small smile, “She’s a friend and she’ll help us out.”

“Speaking of helping out,” Yennefer graciously enters the room holding a couple of decorative bands in her hands, “Both of your glamours are ready. Want to try them out?”

“Glamours?” Ciri asks quizzically.

“To appear, human,” Geralt points on himself and then points at Ciri, “To hide your chaos.”

“We’ll be safe from Nilfgaard? What will we do? Where will we go? Will we stay here?”

Yennefer chuckles at her barrage of questions, “I like your child-surprise Geralt dear. She’s a smart one.” The sorceress moves closer and gives a glamour to each of them. Geralt studies the band; it’s silver with leather binding, inconspicuous enough, that it won’t draw any attention. It’s something a friend or a spouse would gift someone for their birth celebration. And the best part is, it doesn’t even smell of chaos which means it won’t give their identities away should a chaos user accidentally come close to them (not that he’ll allow such a thing to happen in the first place, of course).

“What are you waiting for? Try it on! Both of you!,” Yennefer prompts, “I’m honestly curious to see how you would have looked as a human Geralt.”

Geralt hums noncommittally and ties the band around his wrist. He feels the tendrils of chaos changing him, covering up his scar tissue, replacing it with unmarred pale skin. It’s less deathly pale than he remembers it being, but still moderately pale, riddled with a million little freckles. Huh. That’s odd.

He looks at Ciri, who has no physical changes on her, only the absence of the strong scent of ancient chaos. The girl locks eyes with him and her jaw drops slightly. “You’re a redhead,” she whispers, “we have the same eye colour.”

Geralt mouths a ‘What’ and moves to the closest mirror; a full-body one Yennefer keeps next to a large mahogany wardrobe. He examines his features meticulously. Yes, the angles and sharp edges of his face are the same. Yes, he’s the same height, same posture, same strong stature. But he’s so different, so very different. Orange hair falls in curls around his freckled face, emerald green eyes staring back. It’s been so long he’s forgotten his original hair colour, colour the trials stripped from him.

“Hmmm… I might have to make some adjustments to Cirilla’s glamour,” Geralt barely registers Yennefer’s voice, “Might weave a little extra glamour to make that ashen hair look more like yours.”

“That’s a great idea!” Ciri chirps in, “We’ll look more like father and daughter like that. No one will look twice our way!”

“Now the only thing left is for me to portal you to Tancarville, Creyden,” Yennefer murmurs.

Julian’s on his way to Kovir to spend the winter in Kaer Seren with his little remaining brethren, taking all the contracts he can find before winter settles in. He’s passing through Creyden currently, the lovely little kingdom in the north. It’s a pretty place, all high mountains and forests with incredibly tall trees. No idea what said trees are called, but he likes them. Not many bushes for monsters to hide in. Which means more big monsters, which means more coin.

He gazes at the distance, bringing Buttercup into a slow gait. His eyes spy smoke rising lazily to the sky from what must be several tens of chimneys, obviously attached to several tens of houses.

The day is still only beginning and he could ask the town’s mayor or alderman if there’s a contract on a gryphon or a wyvern nearby. Could be a good excuse to spend some time in the village. He could, of course, wear the glamour Yennefer made for him but he’s worried he might cross paths with one of his brothers this time of the year. They won’t let him hear the end of it if they ever find out about his other persona. Especially Coën. In summer he’d gladly make an appearance as Jaskier but not this close to winter and his home.

Anyhow, the plan as of now is to ask for a contract and secure a room at a nice inn. He really hopes this time he’ll actually get a room and not a bunch of hay for a bed in the stable. Well, no matter, he’ll find out soon enough.

He enters the village, carefully, walking next to Buttercup trying to draw as little attention as he can. To his surprise no one even bats an eye at him, the villagers preoccupied with their daily routine, the children playing with ragdolls and balls made of fabric.

That is certainly odd.

He approaches a woman that’s walking his way and asks her for directions to the inn. The woman’s gaze lingers for a bit on his face and when he’s certain she will start screaming or yelling profanities at him she just smiles and points him in the right way. She even waves a polite goodbye.

What a strange town.

He won’t complain though. Well, one of his brothers might have done something that made the villagers change their opinion on witchers? Saved the town from a particularly nasty evil? Perhaps.

So, he beelines for the inn, dropping Buttercup off at the nearest stables on the way.

The two-story building looks like it has seen better times and Julian’s eyes spot a man mending one of its walls. Could be the innkeeper. Well, no harm asking him directly for a room.

Julian approaches, making sure to make his presence known and as the man turns to face him Julian’s heart skips a beat. Melitele’s tit*, that's a handsome man alright! Neck length curly ginger hair frame gorgeous sharp features. Wide back and strong arms glistening in the morning sun from the sweat of his labour. It makes his mouth run dry.

There are times like this he regrets not going fulltime as a bard.

“Uh... Ah… Is this the inn?” he asks the handsome man smoothly. Good job Julian. It’s not like there’s a sign hanging above the door depicting the fluffiest winged rabbit he’s ever seen and written under it in clear lettering ‘The flying rabbit Inn’.

The man grunts and nods, wiping the sweat off his forehead with a forearm, “Need a room?” he asks in a deep raspy baritone.

Gods, even his voice is gorgeous!

“Need a contract and a room both. Do you know of any beast that needs slaying here in the area? Gryphon, wyvern anything? Even a drowner would be fine,” Julian babbles nervously.

“No contracts around here I’m afraid,” the innkeeper presses his lips into a thin line and draws his eyebrows close together as if he wished for a contract to exist, “You’re welcome to stay though. Have plenty of rooms vacant this time of the year.”

“Uh... I- I’ll consider it, thank you…” he trails off and after a few long seconds of awkward silence, he asks the question that’s been swirling on his mind from the moment he entered this strange little town, “Why are you so nice to me? I mean, everyone here is so, so--”

“Accepting?” the innkeeper raises a thick brow, “Decent human beings?”

“Exactly!” he exclaims a bit louder than he was calculating he would.

The innkeeper snorts a laugh. Gods above he’s adorable. “I can’t speak for me because I’ve always respected the work you witchers do but for the rest of the town… That’d be my daughter’s handiwork. She makes really compelling arguments,” he half-explains.

Daughter… Oh… He’s married then. And there he was, thinking he might have a chance with the man.

Not a moment later a young girl, around fifteen summers old, hair as warm and coppery as the innkeeper’s, rushes out of the door mop in hand and yelling frustrated.

“What is it, cub?” the innkeeper asks her.

“Marco that bloody drunkard spilt ale on the floor again! Again, dad! And I had just mopped the blasted thing!” the girl groans.

The innkeeper sighs deeply, "I'll take care of it Elen, take a break, you deserve it."

The girl, Elen claps her hands, "Fantastic! I'll be at Anita's!" She turns to face Julian, "Have a nice stay mister witcher!"

“Speaking of ‘stay’,” the innkeeper tilts his head slightly, “Will you be staying…” The innkeeper drags the last word prompting Julian to share his name. Never before has a human wanted to learn his name and Julian’s heart feels warm and fuzzy.

“Julian,” he responds quickly, “Julian of Redania… of the Griffins... is the name,” he lifts and shows his medallion as he speaks, “And yes, I’d love to stay a night at your lovely establishment. Will be a good and much needed break from the Path. Thank you, sir innkeeper.”

“G-- Eric, the name’s Eric,” the man --Eric-- extends a hand waiting for a handshake which Julian reciprocates, “Now, come in, let me show you to your room, Julian.”

Julian follows Eric --lovely Eric-- inside thinking he might want to return to this lovely town after the snows have thawed. Perhaps even… yes, it’s a brilliant idea! He will come back as Jaskier and offer free entertainment as a sort of thank you to the lovely handsome innkeeper and his family.

Yes, it’s a good plan. He’ll do that.

Chapter 3: Ale and Conversations

Chapter Text

It’s been quite a journey to make the inn operational. When Geralt and Ciri got to the little town of Tancarville and saw the state of the house Yennefer was offering… Well, they were less impressed and more worried that the roof was going to give in at any moment. But with lots and lots of hard work and the help of the kindly folk residing in the town the building started looking more like a house and less like an abandoned crypt.

It was strange at the beginning, walking among humans and not even one throwing Geralt a scrutinising or hateful look.

Sure there were questions,–quite a lot of them to be honest– in the beginning, but the story Ciri came up with, painting him as a widower ex-soldier trying his best for his kid, shut even the most curious of mouths.

Speaking of his lovely daughter –Elen, the name she chose for herself– she somehow managed to turn the entire town’s opinion of witchers. Her campaign lasted a good year and even the most disbelieving bigoted sh*ts learned to at least not spit at the poor witchers that visited Tancarville occasionally. That and queen Renfri’s official brand new law, prohibiting lynching regardless of origin.

Renfri herself hasn’t had the time to visit Geralt’s inn the past year, political turmoil with Nilfgaard’s relentless advance upon the northern borders and what not but she’d promised she’d drop by at the first chance she gets.

Well, at least she legitimised the existence of ‘Eric du Bellegarde’ and ‘Elen du Bellegarde’ in legal documents and they are now officially considered citizens of Creyden.

So now, a year and some months after that fateful day in Vengerberg, while there are still quite many things that need to be improved –the prime example being the big hole in the wall of one of the not-completely-fixed-rooms– everything seems to settle in place.

Geralt misses the constant travelling the Path offers but the travellers that end up in his inn have so many stories to tell that he manages to soothe his neverending wanderlust.

He still does his job as a witcher from time to time even though he is aware that if someone caught sight of him he might get Ciri and him into trouble. That’s why he only hunts at the deepest darkest nights and only when a monster wanders too close to the little town they now permanently reside in.

It’s enough action to calm this itching in his soul. After all.

Anyhow, this current day is a special one. It’s the first time a witcher other than his brothers from the wolf school, Eskel and Lambert, visits Tancarville looking for a contract. He’s of the school of the Griffin and while Geralt wants to believe that he knows a good number of witchers that are still alive and on the Path, he knows for sure he hasn’t heard of this specific one that came to his humble establishment.

Julian of Redania is his name and he’s a bit of a colourful fellow. Literally. Sure, his armour and twin swords yell Griffin school but the dark pink chemise that shows beneath, the little studded earrings that adorn his ears… They indicate a man of a certain style and upbringing.

After a brief discussion with the rather talkative and bright bubbly witcher, Geralt shows him to his room –a spacious one with its own tub– and returns to his tasks.

Cleaning, cooking, glaring at drunk patrons until they leave and stop making such a goddamn mess.

f*cking drunks.

To be honest, Geralt longs to have a conversation with this Julian, learn news of the Path, of monsters fought and defeated. But he’ll have to do so, as to not raise any suspicion on his true identity. Can’t have a stranger know of his not quite human and actually very mutant nature, can he?

Well, they’ll have time to discuss things once the witcher finishes the bath Geralt drew for him. Only thing Geralt has to do is remember that innkeepers know sh*t all about monsters.

Julian is amazed by the quality of the room the innkeeper leads him to. It’s spacious, it has a big wooden tub that Eric filled with hot water in a ridiculously short amount of time, a whetstone to sharpen his swords and on top of it all, it’s well decorated too! Well, sort of. It’s apparent the amenities such as the towel and the general cross-stitched decorations were made by a child’s hand. Julian suspects that it’s Elen’s handiwork that Eric proudly displays.

He won’t complain of course, even if the towel is rough, awfully colour coordinated –seriously, those brown and blue shades do not go together– and is full of bumpy knots. Julian thinks it’s sweet that the innkeeper chooses to use his daughter’s creations in his inn.

Speaking of the innkeeper and his family, Julian is curious to meet the elusive wife he’s heard absolutely nothing about. Hell, it’s like the woman doesn’t exist at all. Not a single mention on those cute ‘me and my dad’ cross-stitched pictures that decorate the wall of his room.

Now that he thinks about it it’s not an uncommon thing, the lack of a wife. Abandoned, divorced or widowed, all are acceptable options for the handsome innkeeper.

Oh, how Julian hopes Eric is single. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t interested in the handsome redhead.

Those arms are to die for.

Julian ends up daydreaming for quite some time soaking in the lukewarm bathwater. In fact, he daydreams for so long he has to heat the water with Igni once. It’s then that he realises he should probably head downstairs and get himself a nice meal, possibly also striking an engaging conversation with Eric.

Yes, that sounds nice.

So swiftly, he dresses in his simple clean orange chemise and dark brown leather pants and makes his way to the ground floor of the inn that serves as an all-day tavern.

There he sees the innkeeper grabbing an obviously very inebriated man by the arm and practically dragging him outside.

The innkeeper grunts and closes the door behind him wiping his hands at the cloth that hangs from his belt. His gaze meets Julians and Eric gestures at the bar, prompting for Julian to join him there.

Julian musters all of his cool because, damnit, that gorgeous man is not good for his fragile witcher heart and traverses the tavern indifferent --alright not so indifferently but he’s not skipping and that’s considered cool in his book-- and seats himself at the corner most stool on the bar.

Geralt watches as the witcher’s movements with curious eyes as the man practically skips merrily, humming a low tune under his breath and seats himself at the corner most stool of the bar. He’s a happy fellow, he’ll give him that.

Geralt cleans the bar area before the witcher with a wet rug and brings him a flagon of ale. “On the house,” he says simply and settles to organising the counters on the wall behind him.

“Thank you, Eric,” Julian smiles a reluctant toothy smile, quickly snapping his mouth shut when he realises what he did. Hmmm. It isn’t easy being a witcher, Geralt knows. Most people would get scared sh*tless whenever he made the mistake of showing his canines to the unsuspecting village folk. He breathes deeply. Those days are behind him and he does not miss them. Interactions with humans as a human being so much easier. A small part of his mind gnaws at him, reminding him that it was not always bad, being a witcher.

Nevertheless, he breaks that particular intrusive little bastard of a thought and moves closer to where Julian sits, “So Julian,” he starts, “Can I get you something to eat? Got some fresh sausages from the butcher’s today,” he offers and scans the witcher sitting opposite of him, watching how his dark orange eyes lighten up --seeming warmer red now-- at the mention of food.

Hmm… Julian’s certainly way too expressive for a witcher. The steel mask of neutrality that all the witchers Geralt’s met in his lifetime are always carrying, seems to be missing from this particularly peculiar man. He’s left to wonder who might have made him shed his defences or if he’s truly that young fresh of the Path, still not moulded in the cold monster killing machine witchers are supposed to be.

“Eric?” Julian’s voice yanks him back to reality once more, “Eric? Everything alright? You looked lost for a moment there.”

Geralt grunts, “I apologise. Now, would you like to eat? I’m afraid I didn’t hear your response the first time.”

Julian chuckles a melodic laugh, “It’s alright, happens to the best of us. Yes, I’d love a plate of those sausages you mentioned”

“Bloody?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Do you like them bloody?” Geralt clarifies, “A lot of witchers passing through prefer meat on the bloodier side.” Geralt included, but he’s not going to offer this information freely. Julian nods and Geralt says moving to the little hearth at the corner behind the bar to prepare the meal, “Right, they will be done shortly.”

“Can I ask you a question, Eric?”

“Hm?”

“Did any others from my school pass through here?” Julian asks, “Griffins I mean.”

Geralt almost mentions Coen but the Griffin didn’t really pass through Tancarville but he did cross paths with Geralt once at a hunt during the time Geralt’s been operating the inn. But he can't say that. Coen is a bright man and if Julian mentions a random innkeeper claiming he stayed at a random inn in Crayden, only a few kilometres away from where he met Geralt two months ago?

Well, that’s a recipe for failure.

So he settles for a simple shake of the head. Geralt watches as Julian’s mouth forms in disappointment and quickly adds, “Wolves passed through though. Not too long ago.”

“Oh,” Julian arches a brow, “Do you remember their names? I might know them.”

“A - a loud fellow named Lambert and a quiet one named Eskel,” he responds and prays that he doesn’t slip up any information Eric has no business in knowing.

“Oh I know Lambert,” Julian says a smug smile forming on his lips, “Did he have his boyfriend with him when he visited? The Cat, Aiden? Tall, dark, handsome… A half-elf witcher.”

“Aiden? His b- boyfriend?! Took him long enough!” Geralt blurts out a bit too loud. f*ck. f*ck. And f*ck again.

“You know them both,” Julian states in realisation, eyes wide and curious.

Geralt sighs audibly, “I’ve known Lambert ever since I was a young man,” he settles for a half-truth. He’s not good at outright lying without having time to plan and let the lie spread its roots in his brain. “Had a bet when he’d man up and ask Aiden out,” also a truth, ”Bastard owes me a good coin, I tell you. He was sure they’d never get together,” truth as well.

“Oh ho ho! Fraternising with Witchers from a young age,” Julian laughs truly this time, all reservation he was holding gone.

Geralt smiles and snorts a laugh, “You could say that.”

They end up talking for hours, Julian reciting the adventures he shared with Lambert during the years. The sh*t his brother’s pulled is unimaginable and Geralt finds himself more often than not exclaiming a ‘Whaaat’ or ‘It didn’t happen, I don’t believe you. He’ll have to have several words with Lambert the next time they meet and also quite possibly pull him into a tight hug because damn it’s a miracle this bastard’s still alive and kicking.

At some point Julian mentions Coen and the fact that they are roughly the same age -- so around Geralt’s age, good to know, he files away that little fact -- and starts reminiscing his childhood at Kaer Seren, well into his sixth flagon of ale.

Geralt knows for a fact the witcher is not as drunk as he wants others to think he is but he humours him until late at night and way past bedtime.

He goes to bed happy, the good conversation and good company having soothed the hollow in his soul caused by the absence of the Path.

Julian looks back at the small town of Tancarville and smiles. What a lovely place, he thinks. His determination to return to the town, and more precisely to the inn and the gorgeous innkeeper, stronger than the day before.

Come spring he’ll visit as Jaskier and stay a week or more. That’s settled. Set in stone. There’s nothing that will keep him from these plans.

But for now, he has his brothers waiting for him at their crumbling keep, good vodka and the occasional game of Gwent.

It’s not much, but he wouldn’t trade it for the world.

Innkeeper verse art :

here here here

Chapter 4: The Griffins aren't as noble as the stories say

Chapter Text

The winter in Creyden is always harsh and cold. The little town of Tancarville stays buried under a heavy blanket of white for months at end.

Geralt feels especially disconnected when the snow is thick and bountiful. He gazes at the frozen landscape from the window of the almost always empty inn. He gazes and reminiscences the winters spent in Kaer Morhen, amongst his peers, his brothers. He misses them on these kinds of days. He misses them dearly.

It’s days like these that his wanderlust screams at him, tugs and pushes him to the call of the Path. He knows it’s not wise to listen to it, so he doesn’t; he just shoves it deep in the darkest corners of his mind.

It’s these days that he misses being a witcher the most. The fact that no witcher passes through the sleeping town at this time of the year does not help. At least during the rest of the seasons, he can learn of places far away, of monsters ferocious and dangerous, of adventure.

The last witcher that passed through his inn was Julian. He was an interesting man to talk to, so different than most witchers he’s crossed passed with before.

But still, that was months ago.

Ciri can somehow always tell when he’s having a day like this. She offers to go for a walk, even with the bone-freezing temperatures and heavy snow, and he accepts. It never fails to alleviate his spirits.

The girl, his daughter, is impossibly bright and insightful -- something he quickly found out. She shares his love of weapons and armed combat, and he’s glad he has an excuse to hone his witcher training, at the very least.

It’s nice, having someone that understands him.

Today is a cold winter’s day. Cold and dreary... and yet, having guessed the thoughts that swirl and fester in his mind, Ciri pulls him out of his slump and drags him to the woods.

She packs her training swords with her and urges him to train her with her.

“Train me as you would train a witcher,” she tells him.

He smiles and grabs the sword she gently tosses at him. “You’ll regret it, little swallow,” he says.

She smirks and sasses, “No, dad, you’re the one who’s going to regret it.”

“co*cky rascal,” he chuckles and moves forward to attack, swiping wide and predictably. Ciri parries the blow with ease.

She clicks her tongue and tilts her head, “Take me seriously, please.”

“Alright, alright.”

Julian managed to make it to Kaer Seren, dead last again. The crumbling keep is more of a big hall and nothing else, really, and the four remaining --himself included-- Griffin witchers all live together in said room. Needless to say, it gets rather cramped sooner or later.

An effort to rebuild some of the keep has been ongoing for many years. But, due to their numbers rapidly dwindling, they've all but given up. They still care for that one hall they all reside, because, let’s be realistic for a moment, no witcher can survive amongst humans in the winters. There are not many that would tolerate them. He has his glamour, but his brothers?

Red hair and green eyes flash in Julian’s mind. Eric, he would tolerate them. No, he would accept them all, no questions asked. Eric is a genuinely good man. Julian might have known him for only a day; but, what a day it was!

The innkeeper was so knowledgeable and smart and kind. And so incredibly handsome, his mind provides.

Julian learned a lot about the man in one day. Good ale and good company really work well in making tongues loose. Eric, it seems, used to be a soldier of sorts, perhaps even a general, his vast knowledge on weaponry tactics and fighting proves so. He never admitted anything himself -- the man was impossibly frugal with his words -- but Julian could tell from context.

Julian could also tell that the man knew very little about running a business, but damn was he trying hard. And that’s something Julian respects in people.

He wants to go back to the inn, he wants to keep talking to the handsome red-head.

Julian sighs audibly.

“Uh-oh, somebody is in love!” Erland of Larvik, his father-surprise and master of the Griffin hall --keep is a too fancy word for a single room, really-- says to him, interrupting his thoughts, “Come on Julek, I’ve been waiting for your move for aeons,” the older Griffin gestures at the Gwent cards arranged in formations on the small battered wooden table.

Ah, right. They were playing this godsforsaken game again.

“Right, right, love,” he mutters absentmindedly, his voice barely audible, “you should have seen him with your own eyes.” Julian plays two random cards, not paying attention in the slightest at what Erland has played.

“Hey! If you’re gonna continue playing bullsh*t let’s stop,” Erland smacks him playfully on the arm, “Now tell me, who caught your eye this time, son?”

“Yeah, come on Julek, tell us!” Coën pipes in from the furthermost corner of the room, that’s been made into an impromptu kitchen. The venison roast already smells delicious.

"Keep it to yourself, Julian. I don't f*cking care about your love life,” Yorik, the youngest of the lot, says not lifting his eyes from the heavy tome he’s reading. Julian steals a glance at the book; a thick boring bestiary. Yorik is as fun as always.

“Too bad, Yorik! I’ll tell you everything. I shall not leave a single detail out! Hah!” Julian gets up and puts a foot on the table, moving into his storytelling pose.

“And that’s how you make him talk, fools,” Yorik snaps his book shut and turns his chair to face Julian.

“Rude,” Julian huffs out at the younger witcher.

“What can I say, I learned from the best. Now spill the story.”

And so he does.

It’s a complete and utter disaster! Julian should have known better and kept one certain handsome and kind innkeeper a secret. But noooooo! He had to tell his fellow Griffins everything. Every single thought. From Eric’s uncertain marital status to the fair prices and great inn, to the lovely town and its polite inhabitants.

And of course, of f*cking course, they are curious.

And of course, they followed him to Tancarville. All except Yorik who, it seems, truly didn’t give a flying sh*te and left Kaer Serren far too early, long before the snows started to properly thaw.

Julian’s sometimes worried for the kid.

Now Julian has two very persistent, curious and determined Griffins on his tail. He’s been fruitlessly trying to lose them the past two weeks but damn are they good at foiling his every feint, every attempt at shaking them off.

Damn their competence as witchers!

And his incompetence at hiding his trail properly.

He wanted to go back to Tancarville as Jaskier the bard, have an excuse to stay more, and also repay Eric for his kindness in the form of cheap --no, free -- entertainment. But he can’t do that with those bloody hounds that follow his every step.

So he stops this ridiculous game of hide-and-seek and resigns himself to his fate. He’ll endure a day with Erland and Coën, satisfy their curiosity and when they split paths he’ll return to the “flying rabbit inn” as Jaskier. Yes, that could hypothetically work.

They are only hours away from Tancarville when he halts Buttercup and waits for the other two Griffins to catch up with him.

“Good,” Erland’s voice echoes from somewhere behind him, “This game was starting to become ridiculous.”

“Ugh, you’re both insufferable,” Julian groans and guides Buttercup into a slow trot, “Follow me and for the love of Melitele don’t embarrass me in front of Eric.”

“That, I can’t promise,” Erland laughs, and Coën hisses at him to behave. “Fine, fine… I’ll stray away from baby Julian stories, I promise,” the older witcher raises his hands in a placating manner.

After this, the ride to Tancarville is mostly silent. Julian catches himself humming a jaunty tune once or twice but the incredulous look Coën shoots him is enough to shut him up. Right, he sometimes forgets his fellow Griffins are in the dark about his more… musical nature.

Jaskier is a secret and for a good reason too. It’s simple arithmetics really; the more people know of his alternate person, the more likely it is for them to slip up and cost him his dream career.

Anyhow, Tancarville is approaching rapidly -- or rather they approach the town -- the stone and wooden buildings visible in the horizon.

It’s still extremely early in the morning --the roosters only now starting to cry-- and Julian idly wonders if the innkeeper will be awake at such an unholy hour.

It doesn’t take long for him to find out because there he is, Eric, dressed in thick winter clothes -- a gorgeous ice blue fur-lined jacket and dark grey pants-- chopping wood outside the inn. His brow is furrowed and every swing of the axe is more violent than the last, as if the wood had personally offended him, Julian notices. He wonders who wronged the man to issue such intense anger.

Well, whoever wronged the gorgeous man is gonna get a very righteous witcher on his bad side. And that’s something no human would like.

Julian waves reluctantly at Eric, who’s attention snaps at the three witchers. His brilliant green eyes become impossibly wide.

Well, sh*t. They scared him, didn’t they?

“I’m sorry if this is a bad time--” Julian starts saying but is cut off by Erland laughing merrily.

“Aren’t you gonna wake the missus, chopping wood this early sir innkeeper?” Erland says with a sh*t-eating grin. Julian narrows his eyes at him. Bloody bastard is doing that on purpose, isn’t he?

Julian is, of course, curious to hear Eric’s answer but that doesn’t stop him from hissing, “Father! Please.”

Eric seems to appraise the witchers before him for a moment before answering, “Can’t wake up the dead.”

Julian is conflicted; he doesn’t know whether to be relieved or sad for the widower innkeeper. He’ll go with relieved this time.

Erland extends his hand to the innkeeper. “I apologize for my assumption, sir. Erland of Larvik, grandmaster of the Griffin witchers,” Erland says, a crooked smile plastered on his smug face, “heard so much about your establishment mister Du Bellegarde! I believe your ale is to die for.”

Eric co*cks an eyebrow and makes no move to shake Erland’s hand. His eyes move from Erland to Julian, avoiding Coën altogether. Strange.

“Julian,” Eric says, in that deep, scratchy, baritone Julian spent all winter recalling in his mind, “Welcome. You brought friends, I see.”

“Not as much brought but rather they bloody followed me across two kingdoms, but that’s not important now I guess,” Julian says, between clenched teeth.

“He wouldn’t shut up about how great this place is,” Coën pipes in, “and we're a naturally curious bunch.”

“So here we are,” Julian huffs out a tired laugh.

“Hmm. Very well, come inside before you freeze,” Eric smiles reluctantly. “I’ll stable your horses,” he adds after a small pause.

"I'll help," Coën offers, and Julian can discern the discomfort Eric emanates. Perhaps he had previously misjudged the innkeeper and the man was indeed afraid of witchers much like most humans. Or perhaps, there was another reason altogether for his strange reactions.

"It's alright," Eric quickly responds, "I can manage three horses."

"No no, please, I want to help," Coën presses. Julian narrows his eyes at him, uncertain why his brother's so insistent on helping.

He ends up being dragged by Erland by the arm inside the warm homely inn, hoping Coën doesn't give Eric a hard time.

Geralt has been having a terrible week. First, the merchant that was supposed to bring him the new shipment of ale swindled him. The shipment was supposed to be high quality Kaedweni ale but what he got, upon inspection, was a watered-down Poviss piss, as Lambert liked to call it.

Secondly, Yennefer was late for her bi-monthly visit to tutor Ciri on chaos use and that was making his nerves flare up from worry. The sorceress was never late. Never. Which means only one thing; something horrible must have happened.

He really hopes there’s no repeat of Sodden’s battle. Yennefer is a dear friend he’s known for as long as-- well, now that he thinks about it, he’s known her for almost as long as he’s been a witcher. He knows she’s very powerful and a force to be reckoned with but… she’s still only human.

He just hopes she’s alive and well and her delay is because of other mundane reasons.

So when Julian appears one dreadfully cold morning, with an unknown Griffin and Coën in tow, he’s not sure how to react.

He’s almost excited by the prospect of spending some time amongst other witchers, to take his mind away from all the bad intrusive thoughts telling him of Yennefer’s demise. But...

But Coën is there. A Griffin whom he’s known for many years now. The man has even spent some winters in Kaer Morhen with them as per Vesemir’s request. He’s a friend. He’s a brother. And he’ll surely see through Geralt’s glamour.

f*ck.

That’s why he keeps a low profile, speaks as little as he can and tries --and fails-- to isolate himself from the witchers, offering to stable their horses.

Alas, Coën follows him closely, the light of recognition flickering in his golden eyes.

Well, Geralt has never been great at lying but he’ll try to guard Ciri’s and his secret with his life. He’s almost positive Coën can be trusted, but if there is a tiny smidge of a chance he’ll run his mouth and invite danger? He can’t risk that. Not for him but for his daughter.

So he’ll lie as best as he can, pretend he doesn’t know him.

Geralt guides the strong witcher mounts to the stables he built for his customers, filled with warm hay and plentiful food. He passes next to Roach who winnies when she sees him and he places a hand on her muzzle stroking the soft fur in order to calm her.

“She’s a beautiful thing,” Coën says, locking eyes with Geralt, “What’s her name?”

“Roa-nch,” f*ck his inability to lie when needed. f*ck. “Roanch,” he repeats, trying to sound as natural as he can muster.

“Roanch,” Coën echoes, his stare blank, “But she’s a chestnut, not a roan?”

“My daughter thought it was funny,” Geralt rushes to answer and Coën seems to believe that. He almost sighs in relief.

Geralt moves to untack and settle the horses to their respective stables when he feels a strong grip on his arm. He turns and faces Coën, his expression unreadable.

“Why are you here, Geralt? Pretending to be human?” he asks and Geralt feels his heart drop to his stomach.

f*ck.

“Name’s Eric,” he says but he can feel that his lie isn't in the slightest believable. It sounds forced even to him.

“Cut the crap,” Coën hisses, “I know it’s you. A cheap glamour can’t fool me, I’ve known you for years, brother.”

Geralt sighs, “Then you surely understand I have a reason I am here.”

“It’s the kid, isn’t it?” Coën asks, “The kid Julian mentioned, when he told us about you this winter. Elen.”

Geralt swallows audibly. How perceptive is this man even? He slowly nods.

“Do the other wolves know?”

“They do,” Geralt responds and quickly adds, “You can’t tell anyone, Coen. Please.”

Coën regards him for a brief moment, golden eyes filled with worry. “I won’t,” he responds firmly, “I’m not stupid, Geralt. I can tell when something is important.” he looks, almost, pained.

“Your brothers included,” Geralt adds, “Don’t tell them.”

“Those two fools? Yeah, no. Don’t worry, I wasn’t planning to. They are nice but they are both blabbermouths. I don't think they’d be able to keep a secret even if they wanted to. So be careful with them, alright?” Coën leans in for a hug and pats Geralt’s back.

“Thanks for the head’s up,” Geralt murmurs.

“Now,” Coën says, breaking the hug, “I believe some nice ale is in order.”

“I wouldn't serve you that ale even if it was the last ale on the Continent,” Geralt huffs out. “But I have some nice Est Est, if you want?”

“That sounds excellent, thank you.”

Chapter 5: Jaskier the humble bard

Chapter Text

Julian rides his horse for a day and a half, splitting paths halfway with Erland and Coën. When he’s sure there is no chance they will follow him – their curiosity about the lovely innkeeper who’s stolen Julian’s heart sated – he starts planning his return to Tancarville.

First and foremost, he has to leave his horse somewhere, lest he wants Eric to recognise it immediately and give away his carefully crafted cover. He decides he’s going to leave Buttercup at the nearest village on the way to the inn.

Secondly, he has to rid himself of all witchery evidence and that means his armour and his twin swords. He’ll keep his medallion and stiletto knife though, just in case. If the stablehand he's going to leave Buttercup with proves to be loyal, there won't be a problem with not having his gear. If not… Well, it won’t be the end of the world, but it’s definitely going to take him a long-ass time to replace his equipment. Witcher grade steel and silver isn't exactly common on the Continent. He might have to pay a visit to a master craftsman like Hatori in Novigrad (he cringes at the thought of having to deal with the –unreliable at best– elf.)

Well, no matter! It’s a risk he’s willing to take. And that’s exactly what he does.

He also takes care to follow the path around Tancarville through the big dense forest that wraps around the picturesque town in a semicircle.

Fancy blue doublet donned and lute case hanging on his hip, he skips merrily in the frigid spring weather, smiling to himself every time he comes across a little flower blooming.

Ah, spring is truly the most magnificent of the seasons!

As Jaskier –as a bard– he feels so liberated, so free to enjoy the world around him. Jaskier is the songs and flowers of life; Julian is the swords and grief of death.

The strong scent of various herbs and flowers burns his sensitive nose at some point and he follows it, stumbling across the most picturesque little garden by a small pond.

There are a lot of alchemical components among the plants used as spices or as teas. He can count at least four Arenaria bushes, and six Celandine roots and even two or three patches with assortments of mushrooms among the mint and mustard plants. Oh! there’s some Fool’s Parsley as well! Lucky! Was this planted by someone? And if yes, by whom? As far as Jaskier knows, there isn’t an alchemist or even a hedge witch living near Tancarville.

How odd.

But then perhaps, this is not a man-made garden but a miracle of nature. The plants are, after all, not positioned in a way a person would plant them for maximum efficiency. He’s seen a lot of botanists gardens in his days and this is definitely not one of them. It lacks structure, order.

If so, he really should help himself and gather some flowers used in his potions. They’ll surely be more useful to him than to the wildlife populating the forest. He approaches carefully, looks around just to be sure and grabs his knife meaning to cut some Celandine flowers used for Swallow; perhaps the most useful of his potions.

“Thief!” A girl's voice sounds from behind some tall bushes. A voice he places as Elen, Eric’s daughter. How did he not notice her?

Jaskier sniffs the air discreetly. Nope, there’s no human scent mixed in the air. Only the faintest aroma of chamomile coming from the bushes. Which means there hasn’t been a person in this particular little clearing for at least two days.

He drops the knife and flowers nonetheless, raising his hands in a placating manner.

The girl steps out of the bush, leaves intertwined with her fiery red hair, snarling.

“I apologise, little lady,” Jaskier says calmly, a small friendly smile painted on his features.

“What were you doing with Fool’s Parsley?” she barks, the tone of her voice inquisitive, “This is not for you, minstrel! It’s rather poisonous.”

“Ah. It is? I just thought it was pretty.”

“It literally looks like parsley,” she deadpans.

“B-but it would go so well with the-” Jaskier pauses for a minute, not sure where he was going with that sentence. “Uhm… I suppose it doesn’t matter as I do not wish to poison myself nor steal from your lovely garden. I do apologise again,” he bows slightly, “and I wish you the best in your… gardening endeavours.”

“It’s not my garden,” she defends, “I’m just watching it for a friend.”

This makes sense, Jaskier supposes, why would a young girl such as Elen dabble in poisonous plants and alchemical components anyway? It must belong to a travelling herbalist perhaps, or a healer, a friend of the lovely Bellegarde family.

“Ah, I see,” he nods in understanding, and she eyes him wearily, “Would you mind showing me the way to the town?” he asks feigning cluelessness. “I was meaning to perform at the tavern, or inn, if they’ll have me,” he gestures at his lute.

She hums as if measuring the integrity of his intent. “Fine,” she says after a while, “Walk in a straight line in that direction, for about ten minutes and you should see the first cottage. My dad owns “the Flying Rabbit Inn” further up ahead. Can’t miss it, it’s the largest building of the town, aside from the mayor’s manor. I do warn you though, my dad’s rather picky when it comes to music. He might tell you to f*ck off if he doesn’t like your performance.”

Jaskier gulps audibly. Well, he hopes Eric will like his songs. He’s very proud of his songwriting and lute-playing, and his singing is quite lovely too if he might be so bold. He’s never been refused a performance before.

Well… that’s technically an itty-bitty lie. He was, after all, chased out of Posada some twenty-four or something years ago. But he should have known better and not have sung songs about abortions.

Either way, he’s dilly-dallied a bit too much. Time to see Eric again, and hopefully under favourable circ*mstances.

Geralt is running soothing circles on his temples. Ciri should have returned by now. She convinced him to allow her to go check their secret garden by herself. f*ck. And now she could be dead in a ditch for all he knows.

She’s fifteen, he reminds himself, she can handle herself in a fight. He’s being overprotective, isn’t he? Ciri will give him an earful when she returns. Call him a worry-wart. But then again… If she doesn’t return when he’s finished washing and drying the dirty mugs he’ll go look for her.

He tries to take his mind off Ciri’s possible demise – she’s fifteen, she’s fine, he internally protests his own paranoia – by cleaning the mugs as fast as he can while still remaining believably human.

The door to the inn flies open and Geralt snaps his gaze on it, expecting to see Ciri’s (glamoured) mop of red hair. Instead… he locks eyes with a young man dressed in an overly fancy blue doublet.

He regards the man for a brief moment; neck length, wavy, dirty-blond hair, bright blue eyes, a lute case hanging from his side. A bard.

Geralt returns his attention to the important matter at hand, namely finishing off the cleaning and going after his daughter.

“I just love how you sit in that corner and brood,” a light musical voice says that Geralt places as the newcomer bard. He glances briefly at him and stands corrected. The man is leaning against the counter, hand propped under his jaw and a ridiculous smile is painted on his lips.

Geralt suppresses the urge to roll his eyes. Instead, he responds in his most neutral voice, “Not sitting and not brooding,” he gestures at the pile of mugs and grabs one to clean with the wet cloth he’s holding, “Cleaning.”

The bard hums, “Well, I can see that. So, I’ve heard much of your fame of kicking poor minstrels out of your establishment.”

He’s heard what now? Geralt prides himself in keeping a light and comfortable atmosphere always in his inn. And more often than not, this entails hiring all sorts of travelling musicians to entertain his patrons. Sure, he doesn’t like more than half of them, as their music grates on his sensitive hearing, but he’s never kicked a single bard out. Never.

Geralt narrows his eyes and furrows his brows, “Where did you hear that from?”

“I met a young lady at the edge of the woods just outside of town,” the bard explains, straightening his posture and actually sitting on a barstool now. Ciri. Geralt sighs in relief. “Your daughter I believe? She sent me this way after scaring the sh*t out of me,” the musician chuckles, light and melodic, “She quite literally jumped out of some bushes.”

“Sounds like Elen, alright,” Geralt sighs again. She’ll be in so much trouble when she returns. “I apologise for her behaviour. Contrary to what she might have said, I have never kicked a bard out of my inn.”

The bard smiles widely, which makes the corner of his eyes crinkle ever so slightly, “So… I suppose I’m allowed to perform?” Geralt nods. “Oh! But where are my manners! Jaskier, travelling lutenist and singer,” he extends a hand which Geralt shakes.

“Eric. Innkeeper, but you probably already knew that. Let’s discuss your payment, shall we?”

The bard – Jaskier – laughs and Geralt raises an eyebrow. “First show is free,” he winks.

Free? What bard works for free?

The question must show on his face because Jaskier adds: “Listen, Eric… A friend recommended me your establishment and well, I am doing this as… a thank you, I suppose, for treating my friend well. Of course, if you don’t like my music feel free to–” he gestures abstractly, “–leave me a review. And I’ll be on my way. But if you do end up liking it, we could strike a deal for a week-long performance.”

Geralt stares at the man surprised. A friend he treated well, he says… A blond trobairitz, one eye hidden behind a mop of curly blond hair comes to his mind. What was her name again? Essi… Essi something. She was a memorable one. Excellent with the lute and with words. He stopped two drunken patrons from harassing her, if he remembers correctly.

So, Geralt nods, “Deal.”

“Excellent!” Jaskier claps his hands in excitement, “When do-”

“Dad!” Ciri opens the door with force startling the bard. “Ah, I see the bard found his way here.”

“Elen,” Geralt crosses his arms, “Go clean the room that was vacated this morning.”

“But whyyyy?”

“We need it to be properly clean in case Jaskier stays here tonight, alright?”

“Ugh. Fine,” she stomps on the ground as she makes her way to the second floor.

Geralt sighs and turns his attention to the bard once again, “Sorry about that.”

“No need to apologise.”

“Hmm. Either way, you can start now if you want, but it’s still early, and your audience will be Luke,” he gestures at the elderly man who is always in the inn and who’s currently organising his Gwent cards on a big table (he knows his Gwent, Luke), “a grumpy teenager, and me.”

“I suppose waiting a tad, for more folks to arrive, wouldn’t hurt anyone,” Jaskier muses, “Still, I could play a single song and get your review, now… What do you say?”

“Sure.”

“Any preferences? Something festive? A slow love ballad perhaps?”

Geralt shrugs, “Whatever you like.”

“Very well,” the bard rises from his seat and removes his lute from its case – it’s elven-made, to Geralt's surprise, chaos humming from it – and strums the chords softly as he settles into performing.

Jaskier is… He’s really good. He opens with a slow traditional elven ballad, sung completely in Elder, and with a good accent to boot.

Geralt feels his eyebrows rising in surprise. The bard seems to be avoiding playing too high on the scale, even though Geralt knows from previous experience that this particular song contains some god-awful high notes that pierce his sensitive ears like needles. This version though… This version is calming, yet strangely beautiful.

When the song comes to end, Geralt feels empty, the absence of the soft melody offending his mind somehow. How strange.

“Could you play another?” he finds himself asking. “Maybe The Fishmonger’s Daughter?” This song he knows contains several infuriating high notes in succession – not to mention that the lyrics are utter sh*t – and that the bard will probably play it as is.

Jaskier’s eyes light up at the mention of this song, “Ah! A Jaskier original composition! Very well!”

Did he write that terrible song? f*ck. Maybe he’s not as good as Geralt pegged him to be. Good thing he asked for a second song before he made his decision and allowed the man to perform for a whole week in his inn.

“Oh, Fishmonger~” Jaskier starts singing, strumming the chords merrily.

It’s different from the last few times Geralt has had the displeasure to listen to this song. The sound is richer, less tacky and more… hmmm… just more. And yet again, there’s this absence of high-notes.

Good. He can work with that.

“Very well,” Geralt says with a stern face when the song is finished, trying to hide his excitement that for once there will be a proper, skilled bard performing in his inn. “You can work here.”

Jaskier is overjoyed that the lovely innkeeper likes his singing; he can see it in Eric’s face, how totally enthralled he is while he performs. He ends up striking a deal for a week-long show. And to top it all off, the pay is phenomenal. Not only will he get board and food for free but also he will get paid a standard ten silver pieces per day.

He was planning to work only for board and food, and actually insisted on it, but the innkeeper shut him down with a ‘Don’t be ridiculous. You work, you get paid.’ brokering no room for negotiation.

And so, the days pass in a hurry; as days do when you’re having a blast. Every day he wakes up close to midday and descends the narrow staircase, leaning in the bar and attempting to flirt with the handsome Eric. Every attempt at flirting seems to not register with the red-head at all, the man politely misunderstanding the intents of the pick-up lines and straying off to random topics of conversation.

The innkeeper is really oblivious, and Jaskier, if he wasn’t Jaskier, would have accepted his fate and stopped. Alas, for the bad luck of everyone within earshot he does not relent and instead tries to find a way to convey to Eric how much he would like to… you know, do the laundry, get busy, plough that field, to… ride without a saddle. Oh, he wants to do the bedroom waltz with the man, for f*ck’s sake!

If the man wants him to stop flirting, he will of course, but so far Eric doesn’t seem to have realised what Jaskier is trying so desperately to do.

The days pass like this: failed flirting, nice meals and wonderful performances. Jaskier falls a little bit more every day for the kind, pretty green eyes of the innkeeper. The more they talk, the more Jaskier gets to know him, the more he sees the little acts of kindness the man does without expecting anything in return, the more Jaskier’s heart beats for him.

Soon enough, the last day of his promised stay arrives, and something akin to dread festers in the bard’s stomach.

He doesn’t want to leave. Not yet. It’s too soon.

Maybe, if he can convince Eric, he can stay for one more week? He knows he’d love to, but he doesn’t want to overstay his welcome. Not to mention that he has a horse and equipment to collect from one village over. And surely, if he leaves poor Buttercup for one more week alone she’ll never forgive him.

Two days, he promises himself. Two days more and he’ll leave. Go back to being Julian. Back to the lonely, lonely Path.

With a confident stride he marches towards the table at which the innkeeper is playing Gwent with grandpapa Luke and announces his presence, “Eric, could I have a word with you once you’re done err… that’s a very rare card you got. I’ve encountered it only once before-”

“Jaskier,” Eric says in a low rumble that makes Jaskier’s cheeks heat up, “Please be quiet. We can talk, after the match.”

“Right. Good. Yeah,” he grabs a chair and straddles it, resting his chin on the top of its back. This Gwent strategy is… unique, to say the least, and if he had his deck with him, Jaskier would love to challenge the innkeeper. For now, though, he can only watch and learn.

Three rounds later, Eric locks eyes with Jaskier, shuffling his deck of cards mindlessly, “You wanted to talk?”

“Ah, yes. Well,” here goes nothing, “Would it be alright with you if I stayed and performed for a couple more days? It’s been incredibly fun thus far, and as I have no other commitments planned, I thought-”

“Sure. You can stay. The people of Tancarville seem to have taken a liking at you.”

It was that easy.

“Oh, and you haven't?” Jaskier drawls, still resting his chin on the chair’s back. He knows he’s probably pushing it but at this point, he might as well be bold and fearless.

Jaskier watches fascinated as a blush creeps up on the innkeeper, making his pale skin a beet red. How cute! “I,” Eric clears his throat, “Your music is very good,” he finally says, eyes fixed on what seems to be a particularly interesting floorboard. “And you’re fun to talk to,” he rushes to add.

Jaskier hums. Now that’s something he can work with.

As he’s about to continue with a more daring line, the door to the inn opens abruptly and a woman smelling of plants and herbs enters the main hall.

“Jennifer!” Eric’s eyes light up and he gets up to greet her. “You’re late, my friend. Elen and I got worried.”

“Only you got worried dad,” Elen yells from inside the kitchen, “I knew Jenn was alright.”

Jaskier regards the woman with curiosity; her brown skin is splattered with freckles and her curly salt and pepper hair are woven in a loose plait. She’s wearing a green and yellow dress, several pouches hanging from a belt around her midriff. Jennifer glances towards him and smiles, dark eyes shining with something cryptic.

“The lovely Jennifer-” Luke announces from his seat, making the most animated gestures.

Jennifer raises her hand and makes a shushing motion with it. Jaskier has never seen a man stay motionless as fast as Luke did. “For the last time I’m not a f*cking teeth doctor, old man. I can’t help you with your appalling mouth hygiene, as I am certain you’ll just ignore my advice and will not use the tea I give you to at least soothe the pain of your rotting,” she gestures abstractly, “everything.”

Oh, Jaskier already likes this woman. She’s something fierce he can tell. And she must be the herbalist whose garden he stumbled upon in the forest a week ago.

Jennifer reminds him a bit of Yenna and gods isn’t that a thought. The two women will get along like a house on fire if they ever meet. Hmmm… And maybe they should meet. He’s sure he could arrange that.

Geralt is sad to see the talented bard pack up his things and go. He hesitates a bit, as the joyful, bright man lingers at the doorstep, but in the end, he musters all his courage and asks the question in his mind: “Hope you had a good time at my establishment. Will you come back? Later?”

The man beams at him, his smile wide, his eyes shining with mirth, “Why of course, Eric! We could arrange a similar arrangement if you like. Maybe… in a month's time? In time for Belleteyn.”

“Belleteyn is in two months.”

“Then perhaps, I come back in a month and stay until the spring festival is over?” the bard tilts his head playfully, dark blond curls dancing around his pretty face.

Geralt hums, “Sounds good.”

“Great! See you soon, Eric!” Jaskier waves a hand before he turns his back and starts walking towards the woods.

As soon as the brightly dressed bard is but a shadowy figure on the horizon Yennefer -- or Jennifer as she likes to be called under this glamour -- slides beside him, swirling a glass of wine in her hand. “He’s got it bad for you,” she remarks.

“What,” Geralt deadpans, turning to face her, “Don’t be ridiculous Yen.”

Geralt is no stranger in flirtatious attempts towards his person. Sometimes it's very hard to turn down the people who show interest in him; a smile too warm, a voice too caring. But he turns them all down, without a single miss. The deception easy on his tongue after so many years of lying about his mutant nature. 'I'm not ready for something like this,' he will say, 'I still love my dead wife.'

The bard though- sure, the bard was bright and bubbly, a permanent flush adorning his cheeks. Sure, he engaged in playful banter, in intelligent repartees with Geralt. But he did so with everyone. It was nothing special, not like the other people that approached Geralt with the intent of laying with him in the past.

If Jaskier was flirting with him he would have noticed for f*ck’s sake.

He’s not that oblivious.

“Gods, you’re impossible,” Yennefer rolls her eyes, “Anyone with eyes could see that the idiot wants you.”

Geralt hums. She might be onto something, or maybe she’s just seeing things. Who knows? In any case, he has a month in front of him to think through how he wants to approach the situation.

On one hand, the colourful bard intrigues him and he’d like to get to know him better. On the other hand, though… pursuing a romantic endeavour with anyone -- not to mention a bard -- could prove disastrous for his cover. He’d loath to bring Ciri to unnecessary danger.

And then there’s the matter of the talkative Griffin he’d had the pleasure of meeting. Julian is a man with experiences much closer to his own and is no less fascinating than Jaskier. Julian is a man that understands him at his core and one he can never be his true self with. But neither can he with Jaskier. Agh, what a mess.

His musings are cut short by Yennefer’s disappointed huff.

“There’s another person,” he blurts out before he can think.

“Oh?” Yennefer arches a brow and leans closer, “Do tell.”

“A witcher of the Griffin school; goes by the name of Julian. Maybe you’ve heard of him.”

Yennefer blinks owlishly, “Julian,” she repeats, “Julian of Redania. No, never heard of him.”

“Spill it, Yen. What do you know about him?”

“That he’s a damn fine witcher but a colossal idiot. That’s all I’m willing to tell.”

“You’ve met him.” It’s not a question. He can see it in his friend’s eyes.

“Once or twice. Listen, if he comes back here do not tell him you know me. Even he will be able put one and two together and your perfectly crafted cover will be blown. And we don’t want that, do we?”

“We don’t,” he agrees.

“Good. See you later, Eric. I’ll be teaching some tricks of the trade to your lovely daughter in the forest if you wish to find me.” And just like this, Yennefer leaves him at the porch to deal with his thoughts.

Chapter 6: Oh, Queen

Chapter Text

The flowers are in full bloom, making Geralt’s nose itchy and his eyes burn just enough to irk him. They mock him wherever his gaze lands, a reminder that the bard he met at the end of winter will be soon visiting. It’s maddening how much he thinks of those sweet words and blue eyes, how the image of the smiling bard keeps popping up in his mind with every flower that meets his gaze.

He’ll be here soon, he reminds himself, he’ll be here and Geralt will finally get some rest.

A neighbour asks him to check on her horses and Geralt agrees without a second thought, the prospect of a distraction entirely enticing. He’s always liked horses, and the fact that his neighbours trust him enough as an “expert on horses”, as they call him, makes every second spent under the glamour worthwhile. It’s in moments like this that he thinks humanity isn’t at all as bad as he thought it was before… before the inn, before the glamour, before everything.

He leaves the inn when the sun is at its peak, leaving the running of the business to Ciri and her girlfriend, a talented young bardling named Letra that would do well on the path of becoming a proper musician if she gets a nudge in the right direction (maybe that nudge can come from Jaskier). He walks the muddy, well-trodden path between the little cottages that make Tancarville, passes the town square - the only paved area - and reaches the other side of the settlement, where his neighbour’s stable stands between two tall Platanus trees that cast plenty of shade.

Melissa, his neighbour, greets him from a distance and gestures for him to join her in the simple wooden building. It’s a goat stable, not a horse one, judging from the overwhelming smell of goats. Yet, two horses have their own little space there. The first has a white and brown splotched coat that smells pregnant and is probably the reason Melissa called Geralt to get his opinion. The other one catches his attention though. It’s an oddly familiar horse; a tall palomino, mane elaborately braided.

He knows this horse. He stabled it and fed it carrots not a month ago when Julian and his fellow Griffins visited Geralt’s inn. It’s Julian’s horse, if he’s not mistaken.

Could the Griffin be back already? And if he is, why would he leave his horse with Melissa?

“So, what’s wrong with me Daisy, Eric? Why’s she acting so strange?” Melissa strokes a hand along Daisy’s muzzle.

Geralt moves to the horse in question and pretends to examine it, knowing well enough exactly what’s wrong with her. When he’s satisfied and confirmed that that horse is indeed expecting, he turns to Melissa and says, “She’s pregnant.”

“But how can it be, Eric? Mark and I don’t own a stallion!”

“You have a male donkey though.”

“Oh, that little piece of-'' she sighs, “Well, a mule ain’t a bad thing I s’ppose. We could sell it.”

Geralt hums and smiles, “Got a question, Melissa,” he eyes the palomino, “Where did you get her? That’s a rare colour.”

“It is?” she gasps, “A bard came by earlier and asked if we could keep her for a month. Gave good coin too.”

“A bard,” Geralt echoes.

Curious. He’s positive this horse belongs to Julian.

Geralt’s nostrils flare as he discreetly sniffs the air. Yes, it’s Julian’s horse, it still smells faintly of him but also- he sniffs again- it smells of chamomile and fine silk, scents a certain blue-eyed bard wears.

Does this mean that they know each other? Or maybe they travelled together by accident? But why would Jaskier pay Melissa to watch Julian’s horse when Geralt offers a perfectly good stable with every room rented in the inn?

It just doesn’t make sense. He’s sure he’s missing a crucial detail.

Geralt all but sprints to The Flying Rabbit Inn, eager to see Jaskier and quite possibly Julian as well. He cares not if the good folk of Tancarville will worry upon witnessing him in this state (he almost runs onto the Alderman).

Back at the inn, a familiar bard greets him, dark blond curls bouncing as he shifts his weight from leg to leg, a warm happy smile painted on his face. “Eric!” Jaskier exclaims, “Good to see you!”

Geralt’s gaze jitters around in search of Julian, but the Griffin is nowhere to be seen.

“Jaskier,” he breathes out, “Did you arrive by yourself?”

The bard tilts his head and knits his eyebrows together in confusion, “Of course I arrived by myself. With whom would I be travelling?”

“I- Hmm- I thought-” Geralt stammers, his mind running a million miles per second trying to find a plausible explanation for the horse situation and coming up with none, “Forget it. It doesn’t matter,” he smiles.

Perhaps he was mistaken. Perhaps there’s something entirely different at play here. He’s not sure, but what he’s sure about is that Jaskier is finally here, and Geralt is eager to spend the next month getting to know the man better.

Jaskier’s heart jumped to his throat when Eric asked him if he arrived alone. Did he perhaps see his horse, and did he recognise it as Julian’s horse? But from the way Eric acts the rest of the day, and then the following week too, it seems that there is no need for alarm as the man doesn’t seem suspicious of him in the slightest. He continues to live day by day tending to his customers, playing Gwent, and chatting with Jaskier as per usual.

It helps, too, that the residents of this picturesque town are what Jaskier calls “great appreciators of the arts”, joining in the singing and dancing whenever he performs. Aside from performing every afternoon to late night in the inn’s tavern hall. Jaskier finds himself teaching music to Elen’s little friend, Letra.

It’s fun to be teaching music and composition for a change; so much less dull than when he had to teach potions to Yorik some… fifty years ago. Oh, how the time flies!

And when he’s not teaching nor performing Jaskier is babbling endlessly about this and that to the lovely red-head. The handsome innkeeper may be a smidge -alright, a lot- more taciturn than Jaskier but still, he follows Jaskier’s chatter easily, filling in the silence with a tale, or rather a sentence, of his own.

It’s the dawn of a new day -fine, it’s not dawn but midday- and Jaskier has just woken up, last night’s festivities having kept him awake far past his usual, already late, bed-time.

He’s sluggishly making his way down the stairs when a very familiar face enters his vision.

Melitele’s tit*! What is the queen of Creyden doing in Eric’s inn?

It’s her, he’s certain. It hasn’t been long since she invited him to play at her betrothal fest- a fest that lasted a whole week. She’s dressed in plain clothes; a patched up red vest, dark brown shirt showing beneath it, and matching leather pants.

She’s here incognito then. How peculiar.

She’s sitting on one of the smaller round tables alone, arms propped on it and chin resting on them. Soon enough, Eric brings two mugs of mead to her table, and sits at the chair opposite hers.

Jaskier lingers on the stairs, unsure how he should proceed. Should he go down and greet them both, pretending that that’s totally not the queen there? Should he go up and hide in his room until she leaves? Wait. That doesn’t make sense. Why would he hide? It’s not like he’s offended the monarch of Creyden. He just played a few jigs at her wedding, and slept with a bunch of her guards, but who didn’t? If his memory doesn’t betray him the whole castle spent that week drunk and pantless.

“Good to see you here, Ren,” Eric says, and Jaskier’s curiosity wins as he decides to stealthily make his way down and sit inconspicuously at the bar to eat his breakfast-lunch --brunch?-- (hopefully- if Elen is here and not at Letra’s or Anitta’s).

“Sorry for the long-ass wait G- Eric, should have visited like a year ago. You know how it is with work; it gets too f*cking much, too f*cking fast,” queen Renfri of Creyden says casually to the innkeeper. It’s almost like they’ve known each other on a personal level for a long time. How the f*ck does the queen know the innkeeper? In what world- Wait, Eric used to be a soldier or something if Jaskier’s excellent deducing skills haven’t failed him.

Was he perhaps that high ranked of a soldier to manage to get all buddy-buddy with the monarch? But isn’t he like thirty-something years old? How- What-

“Hey, it’s fine Ren. Elen and I appreciate the help. You did more for us than-” Eric says, but the queen waves her hand dismissively.

“Are you joking, G- Eric? After that f*cking bitch mage-” she takes a deep breath to calm herself, “-after that incident and what you did for me, there’s nothing I could possibly do to repay you. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you.”

The innkeeper hums.

A life debt owed and paid, huh? There’s so much more to the taciturn innkeeper than meets the eye. So many layers Jaskier’s left to uncover. And just when he thought he’d started to get acquainted quite well with the handsome man. So many layers. Almost like an onion. Jaskier huffs a small laugh at the thought of that particular analogy.

“What are you laughing at, bard?” Elen looms above him menacingly behind the bar’s counter. “You gonna order something or just do funny faces by yourself?”

“Ah, right, ah. Apologies Elen. I, uhhhhh, I’ll have an omelette please.”

“Just eggs or do you want some greens in there too? Maybe some Fool’s Parsley?” she raises an eyebrow, and a small smirk forms on her lips.

“Ha-ha. You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”

“Nope,” she pops the ‘p’.

“Just eggs for me then. I’m not in the mood to die just yet.”

“Eggs coming up,” Elen flicks her hair off her shoulder and disappears to the kitchen.

Vengerberg is as beautiful as always; low torchlight illuminates the cobblestone buildings and snaking paved paths, while people of every kind take their evening walks, chatting away.

Julian is on foot for once, his mare resting at the first stable inside the rich city’s thick walls. It’s summer, and the gentle warm breeze is caressing his skin pleasantly as he reminiscences about the month and a half he spent at Eric’s gorgeous little inn.

Eric, ah handsome Eric.

After spending more than a month with the man Julian is still in the dark about many things concerning the enigmatic innkeeper. Eric is a quite private man, and that’s something Julian intends to respect, and yet his curious nature had him asking many -many- not always eloquently put questions during these past forty-four days.

He’s quite certain he hasn’t ruined every chance he had of wooing the red-head though, as evidenced by his aloofness around Jaskier, Eric seemed to brush off Jaskier’s more… annoying tangents of babbling and barrage of questions.

Julian hums to himself and beelines for Vengerberg’s finest tavern, the “Rose and Crown”, where he’s promised to meet his dearest Yenna.

As he opens the stained glass and wood door an assemblage of intoxicating aromas hits him. Melitele, how he’s missed this beautiful little place and its fantastic selection of foods and wine.

Yennefer is already sitting at their usual round table for two, swirling a crystal glass of red wine in her hand already. She tilts her head in a greeting and beckons him over.

“Darling,” Julian kisses Yennefer on the cheeks three times crossed, before he sits at the chair opposite of hers, “You look fantastic.”

“I know,” Yenna takes a sip out of her glass, “But enough about me, what have you been up to these past few months?” she asks with a smirk. Oh, that woman! She must’ve peered into his mind- “I didn’t need to read your thoughts, Julek. That dopey smile on your face tells me you’ve got a lot to talk about.”

“Oh, do I!” Julian smiles wider and sighs at the memory of the handsome innkeeper.

Yennefer hums into her glass, “Spill it lover-boy. I know you’re dying to tell me.”

And spill it he does. Julian tells his friend everything, from start to finish, not leaving a single detail out. He tells her about finding the inn by accident all those months ago, how friendly the town is towards witchers and how kind and inviting Eric has been to him as witcher and bard both. He tells her about staying for over a month at the homey little inn, about spending days decorating the outside of the building with flowers for Belletaine. He tells her about weaving and wearing flower crowns and dancing on the full bloom field with Eric.

And when he’s finished praising the beauty and kind heart of the innkeeper, Yennefer speaks: “So he thinks Julian and Jaskier are two separate people.”

“Eh, uh… yeah? The whole point of the glamour was to, you know… get away from the dreary lonely Path once in a while.”

“But from what you told me, it really shouldn’t have made a difference if you just kept going there as Julian and not as the bard. Why risk it and go there as both your… roles?”

Julian huffs out a mock laugh, “Yeah, because people are interested in dating witchers. Don’t make me laugh Yenna. Eric is a nice, unprejudiced man but I doubt he’d take a witcher as a lover. And I told you! Initially, I wanted to repay him for the hospitality, the flirting was only a bonus.”

“You’d be surprised,” the sorceress murmurs into her drink.

“You know something,” Julian narrows his eyes at her, “What do you know, Yenna?”

“Calm down Julian,” Yennefer rolls her eyes, “All I’m saying is, lying to the man about who you are will probably come back to bite you in the arse. The glamour isn’t the solution to all of your problems.”

She’s right, he knows that to be true somewhere in the depths of his mind. Still, his pride doesn’t allow him to actually admit what he’s doing isn’t exactly morally acceptable. “I’ll be careful, I promise. Jaskier and Julian will be kept as separate as possible,” he says in the end, and Yennefer groans in defeat. “But enough of Eric and the inn. You know I met a spectacular woman while I was there -- a good friend of the Bellegarde family.”

“I’m not sure I like where you’re going with this.”

“Oh hush, dear. I just thought that you’d find the good lady herbalist-doctor fascinating. You two would get along swimmingly!”

Yennefer mumbles something indecipherable under her breath and drinks the remaining wine from her glass.

Unfazed, Julian continues: “Her name is Jennifer -- thank you for asking-- and she’s a dear. Dark, pretty and snarky; you’d love her immediately, I’m sure.”

Yennefer sighs and pours another glass of wine, downing it like a shot.

Her loss, really, if she doesn’t want to meet her match made in the heavens Julian can do nothing about it.

Geralt has heard, from a travelling merchant, of a contract three settlements over to the west, somewhere on the borders with Kovir. It’s supposedly a fiend that’s been sighted in the woods near the unfortunately named village of Orchis (why would anyone name a settlement testicl*s anyway?).

The rational part of his mind tells him to stay put in his inn, safe and sound from any danger. But there’s this gnawing feeling in his gut, this pull to put on his witcher armour and go hunt the fiend down. He misses the thrill of the chase, the adrenaline pumping through his veins.

It might prove a good chance to clear his head too, what with the bard and his pretty eyes occupying Geralt’s every second thought. Forty-four days the man spent in Geralt’s inn. Forty-four days and they kept dancing, hovering around each other, never actually broaching the subject of their mutual attraction.

Well, the bard was bold, Geralt has to admit that. Geralt was… a coward. The whole time Jaskier was there Geralt acted reserved, unsure if approaching the troubadour would be a good idea, what with having to raise Ciri and the tiny matter of his hidden witchery nature.

f*ck. He should have reciprocated the flirting attempts of the bard better, less subtly.

Agh. Maybe next time. Maybe he’ll be braver and bolder and-

He really should go take care of that contract. It’ll do him more good than bad in the long run.

It’s also rather convenient that Yennefer is at Tancarville at the moment and she can look over the inn and his little princess.

The sky is overcast with dark clouds, the wind howling as it passes through the narrow nooks of the stone buildings. Perfect weather for fiend hunting, and for walking around unnoticed.

Geralt promises Ciri to be back soon and sets out to the secret little alchemy garden where he’s built a small underground cellar and hid his witcher equipment.

Thank f*ck, he finds everything where he left it, unscathed by the ground’s moisture. Yennefer did, after all, make sure that no element may enter his little cellar (hole in the ground really). Still, he hasn’t had the chance to check on his stuff for nigh a season and a half now and he was starting to get antsy.

Making sure there’s no soul in sight that he could accidentally share his secret with, he climbs down the narrow ladder to the cellar and closes the moss-covered wooden trapdoor behind him, flicking an Igni over to the single lamp that hangs from the rocky walls.

He dons his armour in silence, straps his twin swords on his back, fills his potion holster with a couple of Swallows, a bottle of White Honey and a Relict Oil, and takes off his glamoured bracelet. He hides the precious thing beneath his neatly folded pile of clothes, puts out the lamp, and exits the little safe-room, securing the door. When he’s certain the entrance to the vault is properly hidden he leaves by foot, praying that no other witcher beats him to the contract.

Travelling by foot is not his preferred method, but he finds the extra exercise welcome this time. The inn keeps him too busy sometimes, leaving him exhausted by the end of the day with no mood to keep up with his training. He fears he’ll go soft if this continues for any longer, his body already showing a slight change these past two and a half years. He’s still strong of course -- he makes sure of that -- but he’s not as lithe and bony as he used to be, and he’s not sure if he likes it or not.

He does like that he has no worries of toughing out the hunger any more.

In any case, he arrives at Orchis within a day and a half, camping out in the woods under the late summer stars. It’s nice, peaceful even, a stark contrast compared to the noisy life in the inn.

The contract is still there; the fiend sighted, taller than a man, attacked a couple of woodcutters a few weeks ago, and only one survived. Typical fiend behaviour. It was probably acting out of instinct. He asks around the little village for more details, stopping to pay a visit to the recovering woodcutter. The man describes the beast in detail and there’s no doubt in Geralt’s mind left, it’s indeed a fiend he’s going after.

He tracks the creature down a cavernous hole in the neighbouring forest. It’s curled up, sleeping peacefully, the half-finished carcass of a bear gathering flies beside it. If he’s careful, muffling his footsteps properly as he approaches it, there won’t be a fight. Just one clean swipe of his sword and it’s done for.

He stalks forward slowly and carefully, making no sound aside from his steady, rhythmic breathing. Geralt aims to puncture the fiend straight through the neck but as he stabs it with his silver sword the beast shifts and he misses, the cold metal meeting its enormous forearm.

The fiend releases a deafening shriek and Geralt curses at his insolence, at thinking it will be an easy hunt, at forgoing to apply the decoction to his sword.

f*ck.

The white-haired witcher rolls to the side as a massive, clawed hand swipes his way, missing his chest by a hair’s width.

sh*t. f*ck. Alright, he can do this. He just has to focus. And he has to stab the creature’s third -and for now, closed- eye before it can deal much damage.

The fiend swipes left and right, managing a few scratches and tears on Geralt’s leather armour, just enough to draw blood. Geralt remains on the defensive the entire time, barely sidestepping, trying to find an opening to strike. The moment comes when the beast stops abruptly, a good distance between them, and stares at him.

Geralt steadies his posture, sword held firm in his hand. The beast looks straight at him, pausing for just enough time so it can direct its hypnotizing gaze directly at the witcher.

Now’s the time.

Geralt sends a divertive Aard to the fiend’s left and leaps forward with enough momentum to pluck the dangerous eye from its bared bone skull. With a shine of silver, the sword buries itself in the fiend’s exposed cranium, obliterating the third eye in the process.

A strangled scream leaves the monster’s throat before it falls motionless on the ground.

f*ck.

Adrenaline pumping through his veins, Geralt is shivering, breath coming in short and sharp. He sits beside the now corpse and collects the head to bring to Orchis’ alderman as proof of the hunt.

He’d forgotten how messy of a work the decapitation of a monster as big as a fiend is. His racing heartbeat has thoroughly calmed down by the time he’s finished with the task, the head neatly deposited in a red-stained burlap bag. He sadly has no horse with him to load the sack on, so carrying the heavy antlered head falls to him.

He’s not far off from the village, luckily, the trek taking an hour tops even at his slow speed.

The witcher heaves the sack above his shoulder and emerges from the small cavern with slow and steady footing.

He’s several paces off the narrow trail the woodcutter uses to get to the village when the telltale hiss of an arrow flying through the air startles him. Without a second thought, he drops the heavy bag to the ground and dives into the nearest batch of thick bushes, his heart jackrabbiting against his ribcage.

Geralt focuses his hearing on the sounds of the forest, and there among the birds and the small critters and the buzzing of the summer insects, a bow is being drawn and a sword - no, four swords- are being unsheathed.

f*ck.

It won’t be the first time a stingy alderman sent people after him when he’s made sure the beast was slain proper. He should be used to it, damnit, but he’s been away from the Path for too long. He’s grown too trusting of people, playing human amidst them.

“We know where you are, witcher,” a man’s voice echoes, his accent thick; definitely not from around here then. sh*t. That’s bad.

“Surrender the location of the princess, mutant. We know you have her,” a female voice snarls and an arrow is released, hissing through the air before it lands next to Geralt’s feet.

Nilfgaard. They want to take Ciri from him, they want to use him to get to her.

Geralt sees red.

Chapter 7: Geralt of Rivia the White Wolf

Chapter Text

Geralt has no other choice. If he wants to protect his daughter, if he wants to keep her safe and away from the clutches of Nilfgaard, he has to slaughter each and every one of the soldiers surrounding him.

He’s tired from the hunt, tired from the two days of travelling and he knows his chances for survival are slim. But he has the feeling that the Nilfgaardian scouting party --for this is what those five people are-- will make sure to take him alive. And he can’t have that. He’d rather perish by arrow or sword than be tortured into revealing Ciri’s location.

Geralt takes a deep breath, mentally calculating by bowshot and direction where the archer is. If he eliminates the archer first, he might make it out of the forest unscathed.

Deep breaths; he can do this. Five versus one. Not the best chances he’s had but, well, he wishes he had brought a crossbow with him.

With his sword held firmly in his grip and a hand hovering over the small satchel in which he keeps his potions and bombs, he calms his nerves and strikes up a plan. With careful, silent movements he unbuckles the satchel’s lid and glides his fingers over its contents.

Great. There’s a grapeshot bomb left in it.

“We’ll find you!” A male voice sounds awfully close to him. sh*t. He’s gotta act fast then.

Geralt closes his eyes and focuses. He flicks an Igni on the bomb’s fuse, and with a lightning-quick move, he throws it in the assumed direction of the archer before he leaps out of the bush and clashes swords with the soldier closest to him.

He wishes he’d managed to kill the large armoured man with the first thrust of his steel sword, but he underestimated the Nilfgaardian’s reflexes. He parries a blow as three more soldiers gain on him, stalking through the leaf-painted forest floor.

A loud bang echoes deafeningly, and startled birds nesting on the tall canopies up above fly away screeching in distress.

There’s no sign of the archer and that’s a small comfort at the moment. Still, the soldiers, armed to the teeth with all kinds of weaponry, approach him steadily, their footing undisturbed by the loud explosion that happened mere seconds ago.

They have him surrounded.

f*ck.

Geralt sets his jaw and parries another blow, pirouetting out of the way as a dagger sings through the air and embeds itself in a tree trunk behind him. The men and women clad in mismatched armour --much like those that attacked Ciri and him outside of Vengerberg nearly two years ago- are grinning, unnatural confidence evident in their movements.

sh*t. f*ck. That’s bad.

He dodges a hit again and slides out of the way of another, trying at the same time to land a hit to anyone; he’s not picky right now, he just wants to get out of this situation, preferably in one piece. But gods, he’s tired, his body aches from days of travel, from fighting that fiend not too long ago, from using strong signs, leaving him depleted of energy, of the will to move.

But he must persevere, he must win. Not for him but for Ciri.

A slash cuts through his gambeson on his right arm, and he grits his teeth as hot pain blooms from the open wound. He almost drops his sword. He can’t afford that.

A battlecry sounds, and he finds himself shifting his gaze around, trying to determine its source. If another soldier joins the fight, Geralt's as good as dead.

“Oy, f*ckers!” an oddly familiar voice yells, painted in anger and rage.

And then Geralt sees him: bright coloured gambeson and metal chest piece glinting in the afternoon sun, deep red --slit-pupiled-- eyes shining, and long brown and white hair, done up in a high ponytail, dancing through the air.

Julian has a sword in his left hand, the other forming the sign of Yrden which he places in a swift movement right under the feet of two of the four soldiers. The world lights up in purple as it activates and the soldiers stand still, frozen in place.

Geralt uses the shock caused by the arrival of the other witcher to pivot on his heel and thrust his steel sword through the neck of the larger Nilfgaardian. A sickening sound echoes as blood gurgles in the man’s mouth, and he falls down limp, on the leaf-painted forest ground with a dull thud.

With Julian’s timely intervention, the fight is over in a matter of seconds. It’s impressive how the Griffin moves fluidly, cutting and slashing his way to Geralt. And Geralt himself uses every sliver of strength he has left to assist the other witcher in taking down their common foes.

Why is Julian even helping him? He doesn’t know Geralt, only Eric.

Panting and drenched in blood that isn’t his (mainly), his arm wound sending hot flares of pain through his body, Geralt collapses to the ground exhausted.

“Thank you,” he grunts out between laboured breaths. It’s very possible that Julian will recognise him as Eric, as the kindly human innkeeper that served him ale and talked with him till the early hours of the morning. But right now he doesn’t care. All that’s important is that he’s still alive, relatively unharmed, and able to return to his daughter.

He silently swears to never drop the glamour again.

“Those aren’t your run-of-the-mill bandits,” Julian remarks, crouching beside Geralt and gesturing to the Wolf witcher’s arm-wound. “Lemme see if it needs suturing.”

“Not gonna ask specifics?” Geralt tilts his head in question and lets the Griffin examine the cut on his arm.

“Yep, it definitely needs stitches,” Julian murmurs before he locks eyes with Geralt, the deep red having faded now to its usual burnt orange. For a moment, Geralt thinks that the Griffin has seen through him, that he has recognised the innkeeper he’s met before, but then Julian smiles at him and says, “I’ve heard about you, you know. Geralt of Rivia. Half the Continent is looking for you- and by that I mean Nilfgaard. Those” --he gestures to the corpses-- “are definitely not from the North.”

Geralt hums, not knowing how to respond to being known. It scares him that his reputation got that big so f*cking fast. He makes a mental note to ask his brothers or Coen if they’ve stumbled upon any wanted posters of him and Ciri sometime soon.

“I’m not gonna rat you out,” Julian continues, “if that’s what you’re scared about. I’m Julian of Redania. Griffin” --he palms his medallion-- “But I guess you noticed. In any case, if you want some help disposing of-” he gestures abstractly at the macabre scene of blood and sh*t and is that a stray hand?

“Yes,” Geralt responds too quickly for his liking. “Killed a fiend half a mile from here, maybe we can make it seem like an accident.”

“Oh! That’s an excellent idea, Geralt --or do you prefer Mister Rivia? Nah, that sounds wrong,” Julian babbles and gets to his feet, “Should we bring the fiend here, or do we drag them all to its lair?”

The fiend is big, sure, but it makes more sense to bring its body here, close to the road, if the story is to be believable. And that’s what Geralt tells Julian.

When the whole ordeal is done and finished, the fiend’s lair only but ashes and charred rock and the bodies propped up to stage a monster ambush, Julian says, “We’ve outdone the theatre troupe of Novigrad, my friend.”

Geralt feels a smile creeping up on him, but he quickly schools his face into a mask of neutrality. He’d rather come off as stern and emotionless than give the man any (more) reasons to connect the dots between his two personas.

“Thank you,” he says after a moment of silence. “Take the fiend’s head and collect the coin from Orchis.”

Julian’s smile morphs into a frown. “I can’t take your contract money.”

“I want you to. Better they think me dead, another victim lost to the vicious monster in the woods than…”

“That bad huh? Well, thank you then. And I hope we meet again under more favourable circ*mstances.”

You’ve no idea, Geralt doesn’t say.

Julian is trying to convince the alderman of Orchis that he took the contract off the dead witcher he found, and burned in traditional witcher funeral style, a bit off the road to the village. It’s a mess of a situation and, well, aldermen are prone to be disbelieving asses when it comes to forgoing payment for a contract, but what can you do.

After all, Julian promised Geralt to spread the news of his passing in order to help… alleviate his suffering caused by this unfortunate situation. It must be tough being hunted for something as ridiculous as a missing princess who may as well have perished in the war and never had her body identified along with the countless others.

Julian shakes these gruesome thoughts away with a huff.

“I am telling you” --he shows the bloodied parchment Geralt had given him as proof-- “I found the poor man in pieces among several other bandits that the beast tore apart. Tracked the bloody f*cker and landed a lucky hit.” He swings the tarp-wrapped head of the fiend around. “It would have killed countless others if I’d left it alive! Now if you don’t f*cking mind, I’d like the coin I’m owed.”

The alderman scrunches up his face in disgust, his eyes fixed on the severed head of the monster. “Fine,” he grits out, “get your coin and don’t let me see you here again, witcher.”

“Pleasure doing business with you,” Julian deadpans, taking the coin pouch from the stinky, greedy man.

‘Nother town to add to his ‘sh*thole’ list, it seems. No wonder with a name such as this one.

Julian thinks about going back to the woods and tracking Geralt down to give him at least half of the money for the contract; the Wolf witcher did, after all, kill the blasted fiend, and thus he deserves to get paid for it, hunted or not. But he figures that if he returns to the woods he might jeopardise the man’s position by revealing it to any curious -and most likely of the Nilfgaardian mage variety- onlookers.

Better note down the sum of coins owed and maybe… Wait! That’s an excellent idea!

He just has to leave the money to the lovely Eric when the opportunity arises and he can pass it down to any of the Wolves who will in their turn pass it down to the silver-haired hunk… erm… to Geralt.

But first, he’s promised to visit The Flying Rabbit Inn as Jaskier, so perhaps after his stay there as a bard --and how he hopes to stay for longer this time around-- he’ll do a tour of Crayden and maybe the Hengfors League before returning to Eric’s inn as Julian. Been a while since he showed his actual mug around Eric, and he doesn’t want it to look like he’s been purposefully avoiding the lovely inn.

And because Julian is all about plans lately, he gets out one of his notebooks and jots down the route he has in mind.

“Dad! You’re back!” Ciri beams at Geralt when he enters their inn and home in the dead of the night. “Did you get that deal on ale?” she asks aloud for their cover story to be believable, even though there’s hardly anyone in the inn at that hour. Well, aside from Yennefer who’s looking as if she’s about to fall asleep on the bar, and maybe a patron or two sleeping in the rooms above.

He shakes his head and forces a smile, the cut on his arm tugging as he moves to hug her.

“Everything alright?” Yennefer rises to her feet and frowns, deep lines adorning her glamoured face.

“Let’s move this into the basem*nt,” he suggests, trying to sound as light as possible. It sounds strained even to his own ears.

Ciri and Yennefer share a look of concern and follow him downstairs.

Not many know of this --and for a good reason too-- but the basem*nt of the inn serves as a magical soundproofed meeting room besides being a larder. At some point during the first year of their new lives, the need arose to host a small council of witchers in order to get on the same page about this whole mess of a situation. It was a decision of convenience mainly, and it has served Geralt well the past two years.

“So,” Geralt starts saying once he’s made sure the door is locked behind him, “there is bad news and slightly less bad news.”

“Oh, no,” Ciri gasps, “someone recognised you?”

“You can say that.” He presses his lips into a thin line. “It was a Nilfgaardian search party.”

“This far north? In hostile territory? That’s too much of a risk even for them,” Yennefer says. And she’s right. It takes an incredible amount of skill and possibly a couple of powerful mages to set up an operation such as this one. “We have to inform Renfri immediately.”

Geralt nods. “I don’t want to sugarcoat this, but I would’ve been dead --or worse, captured-- if it weren’t for Julian.”

“The funny, colourful Griffin man?” Ciri’s brow furrows. “Did he recognise you?”

“Yes, and I don’t know. I hope he didn’t, but I don’t look that different as a witcher and I didn’t try changing my voice.”

Yennefer shoots him a look he can’t decipher.

“What?” Geralt asks.

“I think we’ve established in our previous talk about Julian that he is, in fact, a massive idiot. I don’t think he can put one and two together, so I wouldn’t worry about him exposing your secret to the world.”

“Come on, Yen. He seemed like a smart man the last time we talked. You make it seem like he’s got stones for brains.”

Ciri laughs at that.

“He’s good at his job, yes. He knows a lot about many things, that’s true. But his social intelligence is up for debate.” She smirks.

“Fine, fine. We’ll know, I guess, the next time he drops in for a visit.”

Jaskier loves autumn; the leaves are falling in a rain of oranges and yellows, and the constant low drizzle is pleasant to look at, to feel on his skin, and evocative for his songwriting. But the real reason he’s so enamoured with autumn isn’t all that. Well, it does help set the mood for sure, but the real reason is that he has an excuse to visit his lovely Eric again as he’s ending his tour as a witcher for the year and is making his way slowly for Kaer Seren.

Now, it would definitely be safer to visit as Julian this close to winter, in case any of his fellow Griffins decide to stop at Tancarville for a quick visit. And don’t get him wrong, he intends to visit as Julian too after he’s had some fun wooing --hopefully successfully this time-- the handsome and kind innkeeper who has stolen his heart.

“Jaskier!” Eric greets when the bard enters his inn, drenched to the bone in rainwater. “Stay where you are, I’ll bring a mop.”

Jaskier smiles to himself watching the lovely frame of the innkeeper scuttle about in the kitchen and signalling to Elen to bring something from upstairs.

The thing Elen brings turns out to be a rather large towel which she tosses on his head with a small smirk. Jaskier can never be sure if Eric’s daughter --and resident menace-- likes him or hates him, so he settles for attributing her behaviour to her youth and trying not to dwell too much on it.

“Thank you,” he responds with a smile nonetheless, because he does want to stay on her good side.

“Now,” Eric says, mopping the small puddle that has formed on Jaskier’s feet, “go change into something drier --second room to the left upstairs-- and I’ll warm up some lentil soup for you. How does that sound?”

Jaskier tries really hard not to let his face morph in disgust at the sound of lentil soup. His witcher constitution demands a meat-based diet, but that’s not something he should disclose to the well-meaning innkeeper, so he forces a small smile and says, “Sounds good.”

He practically drags his feet upstairs, lute case and travel bags weighing him down, eager to shed his damp doublet and slither into something --hopefully-- more presentable (and maybe even daring too). Perhaps he should choose his golden-orange set for tonight? To complement Eric’s lovely locks and at the very least attempt to show the man how much he likes -wants- him.

Jaskier’s musings are cut short when his nose catches the dreadfully familiar scent of his brother.

Oh sh*t! Oh f*ck! He shifts his gaze around like a frightened animal, scanning his surroundings for a possible exit. Jaskier is no fool, and at this point he knows the inn like the back of his hand after having spent a good chunk of last spring and summer here, so he knows he has no choice but to climb down the very same stairs he just scaled. And well, that will look bloody suspicious, during a storm no less.

“What the-” Coen’s voice sounds incredibly close, and Jaskier feels like breaking into a cold sweat. Rooted in place he stands, not sure how to act like a person anymore.

He should- he must get to his room and play the hapless bard. He knows he can do it- hell! He’s done it a million times before, why is this one any different? At best, Coen will be momentarily confused by the strange bard that-

“Julian?” Coen slams a door --the door to his room-- wide open and stares at Jaskier, brow furrowing momentarily before smiling amused.

Quick! Play dumb!

“What’s a Julian?” Julian --no! Jaskier-- shrieks, and he instantly wants to smack himself on the head. Coen looks… well, he looks like he doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

He sure hopes Eric didn’t hear anything.

“I can’t believe it… You too?” Coen mumbles under his breath and crosses his arms before locking eyes with Jaskier. Glamoured blue meets red and acid green. “Drop the act, Julek. I know it’s you,” Coen whispers. “For one, I made this bag for you, and second, no flowery perfume in the world can disguise the stench of monster bog you carry.”

“It’s cologne, not perfume,” Jaskier huffs indignantly before he can think. “sh*t- ah- I mean, what are you talking about sir witcher, sir? I definitely don’t know any Julian, sir witcher! I’m but a humble bard.” Coen shoots him a look of ‘are you f*cking sh*tting me, Julek?’ “What, that wasn’t convincing?” He knows it was terrible, but he hopes that at least Eric heard that, and that it cleared any possible thoughts he might have had about the bard and the witcher’s connection.

Coen blinks at him slowly and grabs Jaskier by the arm, ushering him inside his room.

“How long has this been going on, Julek?” he asks in a soft, low voice.

Julian looks pointedly at the wooden floor and bites his lips. “Too long. Please, don’t tell anyone. I… I like this life,” he admits.

Coen chuckles at that. “I won’t say anything, don’t worry. Was just surprised, is all, when I heard your voice downstairs and heard the innkeeper call you by that other name.”

“You mean, Jaskier?”

“Yeah, that one. It sounds oddly familiar though.” Coen hums and then his eyes widen in a mix of sudden realisation and surprise. “Did you write, Toss a Coin, Julek?”

“Yeah? Have you heard of many Jaskiers in your lifetime Coen? Should I be wary of impostors?”

“I suppose not,” he sighs. “So you’ve abandoned the Path, brother? For good?”

“Don’t be silly” --Julian shakes his head-- “I just need a break once in a while. A day, a week, a month tops, here and there.” He smiles. “Now, I’d really like to change into my good set and woo lovely Eric downstairs. I expect no mention of” --he wiggles his glamoured bracelet-- “Or my, ahem, incredibly human nature.”

“Oh dear Gods,” Coen sighs again. “Go, you heathen. Go. My lips are sealed.”

Julian flashes him a toothy smile. “Thanks!”

So Jaskier and Julian know one another; Geralt runs his fingers through the scratchy beginnings of a beard. As he had suspected last time too, the men are incredibly close. But what exactly could the nature of their relationship be? Jaskier seemed very distressed when he stumbled upon Coen. Julian and Jaskier could have been keeping their… acquaintance a secret for some reason. The horse they seem to share, the fashion choices… It makes sense.

Perhaps…

No, it can’t be…

“Dad, why are you looking at the stairs like that?” Ciri startles him.

“Like what?”

“Like they have personally offended you. Is this about Jaskier?”

Geralt can’t help but smile at his perceptive daughter.

“What’s on your mind dad? You know I can’t read thoughts.”

“Just thinking that Julian and Jaskier must know each other.”

“So what?”

“Do you think they are… together?”

Ciri blinks at him in disbelief, “Say what now?”

“It’s just that-” Geralt starts saying but shuts his mouth closed when he sees the brightly clad figure of the bard descend the staircase.

Gods, he looks gorgeous in orange.

Chapter 8: Correspondence

Chapter Text

Geralt snaps his attention to the rapid sound of footfalls, light and quick not trying to disguise themselves. He relaxes his anxious nerves as the door to his inn opens reluctantly and the black mop of curly hair that can only belong to Tancarville’s designated messenger, Tom, peeks through the opening.

“Letter for you, Mister Bellegarde!” the squeaky voice of Tom announces and before Geralt can wipe his hands on his cooking apron, Ciri dashes to the door and snaps the letter from Tom’s hands, handing him a couple of coppers for his troubles.

His little menace of a daughter turns to face him and she wiggles her orange glamoured eyebrows. “It’s from your witcher!” She whispers smugly and makes no move to hand him the damn letter, and instead keeps it tightly in her grip.

“Elen,” he sighs, crossing the room to get the piece of parchment in his hands. She hides it behind her back and sticks her tongue out. It would be a lie to say that he’s not itching to find out the contents of that envelope. That’s why he sighs again and asks: “What do you want, Elen?”

She purses her lips in mock concentration and hums. “The day- no! Two days off! And you’ll allow me to sleep over at Letra’s!”

Geralt closes his eyes and exhales sharply. He’s desperate to know, that’s true, but is this desperation worth his daughter’s potential wellbeing being compromised? On the other hand, he knows he’s been absurdly careful concerning her safety and well, with Yen in town he feels a lot safer allowing Ciri some small freedoms she very much deserves.

“Fine,” he says in the end, “two days off. But if you need anything, if you see someone look at you the wrong way, you come tell me. Alright?”

She rolls her eyes and hands him the letter. “I’m not a kid, dad. I promise I’ll be careful.”

“Thank you.”

“Have fun reading Julian’s lovelorn ramblings!” She grins at him and dashes to her room before he has the chance to defend himself and Julian, to say that it’s just an exchange of letters between good acquaintances. Which would be a lie, on his part, but she shouldn’t be interested in her father’s nonexistent love life.

He strides back to the kitchen, eager to read what Julian has to say. In the past year and a half — if not more— the Griffin made it a habit to send Geralt letters describing his adventures as he calls them. And around the same time Jaskier the bard started writing to him too, whenever he would travel around the Northern Kingdoms instead of spending time in Geralt’s inn.

It’s fun, waiting for the letters of the two most interesting people he’s had the pleasure of meeting in his glamoured life as an innkeeper.

Alright, fine… He can’t keep lying to himself; he’s interested in those two men, who he suspects are involved with one another, in a… more than friendly way.

Without looking he grabs a knife from the kitchen counter and carefully lifts the wax seal from the envelope.

Dearest Eric,

I hope my letter finds you well and healthy. The Path is terribly lonely, I'm afre afraid, the monsters plenty and as disgusting as usual, and the payments, well, I'd hate to sour the mood so early on.

Nevertheless, dear Eric, I'm currently enjoying a wonderful mahakam ale, in, well, Mahakam, as I'm writing you this letter and isn't that something fun?! What say you I bring some crates over — if I manage to part to to make this burly madam part with them on a fair price that is. -Perhaps she'll let me take some if I perform-

Now, where was I? Ah, right, yeah right. I intend to visit before winter hits again, as per our usual arrangement. Get your Gwent deck ready and wear your lucky stockings!

(Should you want to reach me, know that I plan on passing through Redania in a month's time. Please address any letters to the Lettenhove post office and I'll make sure to collect them as I pass through.)

I missed you terribly these long months on the road, your laugh, your voice and your military brilliance.'

There's a small poem scrawled right after the paragraph that doesn't match Julian's chicken-scratch letters.

'-Those shoulders wide, as if made from marble, the sculptor I have to find, for Eric is damn fine-'

Odd, Geralt thinks as he reads the last part before the customary greetings and signature of the Griffin. Those letters, the style and the lyricism, however crude and unpolished, belong to Jaskier. He'd recognise it anywhere.

This means that Julian and Jaskier were together when Julian wrote the letter. Curious. Why would he say he's been alone if Jaskier is there with him? Is he trying to keep their relationship secret? Or is he trying to protect the troubadour's good name from being sullied by being associated with a witcher?

No matter what his reasons are, Geralt supposes it doesn't matter much; after all, the letter is proof that they don't mind if he knows. And that poem— if he's not mistaken, Jaskier, if not Julian too, seem to regard him as something more than a simple friend. The notion of his innermost wishes coming true makes butterflies flutter in his stomach.

Geralt suppresses the smile blooming on his face, folds the piece of parchment carefully and moves to the basem*nt to lock it in the tiny box he keeps all the letters his friends and acquaintances send him over the time.

He takes a seat at the large table, flicks a weak Igni on the lamp and brings out his writing equipment.

Jaskier doesn't remember what he wrote in that letter he sent to Eric. He was completely sloshed, the dwarves bringing him ale after ale, and he hopes that he didn't embarrass his witcher persona too much. At least he thinks that he wrote as Julian. He was Julian that day, wasn't he? He's pretty sure he was. After all, he got paid handsomely for those arachas that were terrorising the dwarven city.

In any case, it shouldn't matter much; Eric has proven to be a kind and discreet man over the years they've known each other.

He makes his way throughout Redania, one town at a time, exchanging his personas as if they're doublets falling out of fashion. It's infinitely more fun living that way, no matter what his dearest friend Yennefer has to say about it. He hasn't been caught in nearly… fifteen? Twenty years? Oh, how time flies! -And he isn't about to get caught now.

Oh, wait no. Coën caught on to his double life last year. But Coën doesn't count, he argues with himself because his brother is an awfully perceptive bastard!

Making sure he's Julian when he passes through Lettenhove, he beelines to the post office.

There’s a letter from Yorik waiting for him there, which he quickly stashes in his travel bag for later —gods know what that kid wants from him this time; it’s probably filled with bad jokes on his expense like almost always— and one from none other than Mister Eric Bellegarde, the red-haired sun of his life. The letter-keeper shoots him an odd look as she hands him the envelope and Julian realises he’s been grinning at the piece of parchment like a madman.

Quickly, he heads for his campsite and starts reading:

Dear Julian,

I’m sorry to hear the Path has been tough for you. We’re all in good health here; Elen and I, Jennifer when she visits us too.

Concerning the Mahakam ale, there’s no need to carry it all the way from there by yourself as dwarven merchants frequent Tancarville from time to time and their prices aren’t too bad. I appreciate the sentiment though.

Julian smiles to himself; his friend— the man he’s been crushing on like he’s fifteen again— is always on point, even in his letters. And truth be told Julian didn’t remember the thing about the ale at all. Melitele’s tit*, he really shouldn’t write letters whilst inebriated.

I eagerly await your visit this winter. Wouldn’t mind if together with your Gwent deck you brought our mutual ‘friend’. (I assure you I’m not chiselled from marble.[a crudely drawn face of a person smirking follows this sentence])

Does he mean Coën? Why would Julian bring Coën? Wait… no.

Bits and pieces of the last letter Julian sent to Eric are coming back to him.

Ohhhh. Oh. f*ck. He means Jaskier. Of course he means Jaskier! He wrote a poem like an idiot in the margins between the paragraphs. Oh, gods. Oh, dear. Eric knows and he’s fine with it?

If that’s the case, Julian has to let the gorgeous innkeeper know that he would prefer if ‘Julian’ and ‘Jaskier’ took turns in visiting the inn. It would be a disaster if even more people learnt of the illustrious bard’s… mutant nature. He isn’t keen on ending his music career just yet, thank you very much.

The words are dancing inside his mind, the sentences ready, formed, and so he loses no time and takes a piece of parchment out.

Geralt doesn’t have to wait very long for Julian’s next letter to arrive. This one as well, has little ditties scribbled in the margins between the main body of the letter, in Jaskier’s loopy handwriting. The letter itself is written in Julian’s chicken-scratch handwriting exactly like the previous one, though, this time there are barely any corrections in dark ink. Geralt feels the corners of his lips curl upward at this display of trust.

‘Dearest Eric,

I hope this letter finds you in good health. I have to admit that I am immensely relieved to know that you know and that you do not mind. I’m afraid that this cautiousness all these years has left me a bit paranoid; not many know of this situation and I intend to keep it that way. Therefore it’s unlikely that Jaskier will make an appearance if I’m there and vice-versa. I would not want to jeopardise Jaskier’s career like that, after all. I do hope you understand, my dear, and I trust you to keep my situation a secret.

I am counting the days till I get to see you again, Eric, for my heart seems to beat for you rather strongly lately. I hope I am not being too forward but I do hope, and from my understanding, the feeling is mutual, that our next meeting will have much to celebrate.

I am also thinking about having Jaskier winter with you this year if you don’t mind. I know I certainly don’t. I am aware the inn won’t have a lot of work during the colder season but there will be jobs to be done, I hope. If not, it’s all well, there are alternatives. Surely won’t spend the entire winter in the snow, so don’t worry.

You’re always in my thoughts,

J.

Ps. I did not buy Mahakam ale, I think. Quite honestly, I was rather drunk when I wrote to you last time.’

Geralt’s heart flutters inside his chest, Julian’s confession having left him equal amounts excited and bashful. It’s been entirely too long since the last time Geralt has felt this way for a person — two people, his mind corrects him— who reciprocate his romantic feelings. And while it’s a pity that he won’t see both men at the same time he understands. He truly does.

If word got out that the bard was in a committed relationship (a quite long-lasting one at that, if he understands correctly) with a witcher it would be a dark mark in his career. Which, in turn, makes him worry that if someone finds out that Geralt is also a witcher… The harm done to Jaskier’s reputation will be hard to mitigate. If not impossible to.

He has to be extremely careful.

Though, Geralt feels that he owes the men an explanation of who he really is. They are about to start a… relationship of some sort with one another and it doesn’t feel right that they don’t know his real… well, his real self. Not that Eric is an act; Geralt is, after all, abysmal at lying as his brothers, Coën, Ciri and Yennefer keep reminding him. It’s just… He’s not human and never will be, no matter how many glamours he dons.

What a mess.

He’ll have to come clean sooner or later but he has to first hatch a plan on how to do it without jeopardising Ciri’s safety. There’s an ironclad reason why very few know of his identity. And with the Nilfgaardian scout’s recent attack in the forest outside Orchis village… Things aren’t looking good. Not a time for revelations.

“You’re thinking very loudly, Eric,” Yennefer, in her glamoured guise, comments while pouring herself a glass of Toussainty rosé. She swirls the glass, scents in the wine and takes a small sip.

Geralt grumbles.

“Is it the bard or the Griffin this time?” She smirks and takes another sip.

“Shut up, Jen.” He both loves and hates how well his friend knows him. With or without mind-reading powers. “You and Coën—”

“Don’t you shut up me, Eric,” she hisses, “And what Coën and I have can’t and won’t be compared to your, —she gestures abstractly—“mess. So do us all a favour and talk it out. Your thoughts are quite honestly deafening.”

“They really are,” Ciri chimes in, leaning at the stairs’ bannister.

Geralt sighs. “Both,” he answers Yennefer’s first question.

“Of course it’s both,” Ciri comments, rolls her eyes, shakes her head and walks towards Yen, pulling up a chair beside her.

Geralt raises a brow. Ciri smirks and gestures with a hand to continue speaking.

“They… they might like me,” he starts saying. “Romantically,” he adds.

“Tell us something we don’t know,” Yennefer deadpans, downing her remaining wine. She refills her glass without missing a beat. “Seriously, what has you looking all broody and constipated? If I’m not mistaken you like them back, do you not?”

He strategically ignores being called ‘constipated’ and answers: “I do.”

“Oh, I know what this is about,” Ciri chimes in excitedly. She looks so self-satisfied, like the first time she bested Geralt in a spar. She turns to Yen. “Dad’s just angsting about morals again. Am I right or am I right?”

Geralt grunts a yes. He keeps forgetting what a perceptive young woman his daughter is.

“You’re an idiot,” Yennefer says drily. She locks eyes with him and he hears her voice inside his mind. “You don’t have to tell them you’re a witcher, Geralt. It’s not a moral failing to protect your kid. And as I’ve told you before, Julian is an idiot. Jaskier too from the looks of it. But they are both good men, despite their lack of brains. They won’t hold it against you if you keep this secret and they somehow find out about it.”

“Are you sure?” he asks her, hating how weak his voice sounds.

“I’m sure,” she affirms.

Jaskier finds himself circling Creyden as the days shorten and winter approaches. He’s incredibly excited to start dating, for lack of a better descriptor, the lovely Eric.

Suck it, Yenna! All turned out well in the end and the exceptionally handsome innkeeper turned out to be not only brilliant but also a damn kind and understanding man! Jaskier needn’t even keep up the facade of his two distinct identities for the man likes him even if Jaskier is technically a mutant monster hunter, bearing more scars than… Well, he’s sure there’s an adequate poetic sentence somewhere here but his mind is filled with Eric’s lovely smile and his cute freckled nose and that scrumptious looking ass—

He stares dreamily at the cloudy grey sky. Thick droplets start to fall and he snaps out of his trance and ushers Buttercup to a quick gallop.

Maybe he can make it to Tancarville before the storm starts raging.

He doesn’t.

Yet again, he’s drenched to the bone when he makes it to the “The Flying Rabbit Inn”. He sighs heavily and loudly as he dismounts poor Buttercup and leads her to the stable. He was hoping to look his best when he met with Eric again. Not that Eric would mind Jaskier’s less than perfect appearance, after all, he likes him as rugged-monster-blood-and-ichor Julian and he’s truly too good a man to care about such things but…

Perhaps he can change inside the stables. He stares at the downpour. Nah, why ruin two perfectly good outfits instead of just the one?

Jaskier opens the door to the stable, patting Buttercup gently to get her inside, not that she needs much encouragement; the poor dear is tired from the travel and Jaskier does smell some tasty apples inside the warm, dry, stable which he’s sure Buttercup can smell too. “After you my lady,” he says softly to his horse, for once feeling glad that he doesn’t have to leave her to the other side of the village to keep up pretences.

“Let me take her from here,” Eric’s baritone voice sounds and Jaskier startles and lifts his gaze to meet the innkeeper’s intoxicatingly gorgeous green eyes.

“Ah- uh- Eric! What a surprise to see you here in uh- in your stables! What are you doing, uh, here?” Jaskier rambles awkwardly and Eric smiles softly in amusem*nt.

“Playing Gwent with Roach,” he responds seriously.

“What, really?”

“No, not really, Jask,” Eric chuckles. “Stuck here due to the storm. Elen’s been making fun of me from the inn.” He narrows his eyes in the direction of the second-story window that is barely visible in the narrow, half-closed, openings in the wooden wall that serve as windows. “Guess we’re stuck here together.”

“There are fates worse than that,” Jaskier teases, barely containing himself not to lunge on the other man’s embrace.

Eric looks at him, eyes soft and full of what can only be adoration. “Missed you,” he says, closing the distance between them, a large hand brushing Jaskier’s wet locks from his face. They’re of a height and yet Jaskier feels so small in front of the wide frame of the innkeeper.

“I thought of you every waking hour,” Jaskier breathes out, “-and- and every sleeping one too of course.”

“Of course,” Eric echoes, and suddenly soft lips crush into his and he feels as if there isn’t enough air in the world. His glamoured heart beats fast and loud and Jaskier presses their bodies closer, uncaring in the moment that he’s drenched to the bone and smells like wet horse.

The kiss is hungry and passionate and everything and so much more than Jaskier thought it would be.

A soft whimper leaves his lips when they inevitably pull apart after a while, already mourning the absence of Eric’s frame against his. “I hope this was not a one-time thing,” he half-jokes.

“Hope so too,” Eric says and then he kisses him again.

Chapter 9: Budding relationship

Chapter Text

Geralt, for the first time in many decades, feels utter, unadulterated, elation. The bard and he share kisses inside the stable on this moody rainy day, hands wandering, wanting, tugging and pulling. It’s intoxicating. And so, so fulfilling. Geralt’s glamoured heart hammers against his ribcage and he can barely fathom what’s transpiring before his very eyes.

Gods. Jaskier is everything he thought and so much more. No wonder Julian— he doesn’t get to finish the thought as he feels his body melting under the bard’s touch, the curve of his body, the rocking movements and the heat.

When they’re finished, laying on their backs on the semi-wet, hay-strewn ground trying to catch their breaths, Jaskier turns to the side, dirty blond hair sticking to his lovely flushed face, and speaks: “Melitele, you’re gorgeous.”

“Could say the same about you,” Geralt says breathlessly. Roach snorts disapprovingly from the stall over to the right and Buttercup whinnies.

Jaskier chuckles, light and melodic. “Next time we better move it to the bedroom. I think our girls disapprove of, ah, our little escapade.”

“Agreed.”

“Speaking of moving somewhere else —hopefully a bit drier and warmer— I think the rain stopped raging. I say let’s go before it starts again.”

Geralt listens to the slow pitter-patter of the rain droplets that fall on the wooden roof and nods.

Jaskier ends up staying in the inn for nearly two weeks this time, and the day of his departure arrives before Geralt realises. There are many repeats of that day in the stable, many kisses and gentle touches shared, away from the prying eyes of the residents of Tancarville. It’s all so new, so thrilling and Geralt would hate himself if he managed to ruin it by rushing into things. So no, no one except themselves must know of their relationship yet.

Especially considering Geralt is about to start a similar one with the handsome Griffin.

“I have to do a small tour of Creyden,” Jaskier says, before he leaves, hugging Geralt and patting him on the back, “but I’ll be back soon. ‘M gonna miss you, Eric,” he whispers the last part in Geralt’s ear.

“You’re coming to stay this winter, yeah?”

“Winter?” Jaskier looks momentarily confused, cornflower blue eyes blown wide and eyebrows furrowed. “Ah, yeah, I intend to spend it here, if that’s alright with you.”

Geralt feels a smile bloom lazily on his lips. “Why wouldn’t it be, bard?”

Jaskier beams at him. Gods, he’s going to miss this smile. He pivots on his heel, turning to face the entire three patrons of the inn (it’s still relatively early in the morning and one of them is here for business so she doesn’t count as a patron really), bows deeply and dramatically and bids them farewell with a “Rejoice for Jaskier the bard will be bringing music to this lovely establishment for the entire winter!”

This gets him a bored “hurray” from the two elderly men playing Gwent and an excited “Oh goody!” from Melissa who’s here with Geralt’s order of goat milk.

When Jaskier and Buttercup are but a small dot in the distance, Melissa approaches Geralt and smacks his shoulder playfully. “The young women of Tancarville are mournin’ ya know.”

“What?” Geralt knits his brows together in confusion.

Melissa wiggles her eyebrows. “You an’ the bard, me friend. You an’ the bard.” She shakes her head smiling. “Aren’t as subtle as ya think ya are, Eric. Ladies caught a whiff of the juicy gossip that you’re finally seeing someone an’ are heartbroken,” she giggles. “Tancarville’s most eligible bachelor seduced by the wiles of the bard, or so they say.”

“‘S not like that,” Geralt grumbles but he knows he isn’t convincing anyone. “We’re just good friends.”

“And I’m the queen of Creyden,” his friend and neighbour deadpans. “It’s not a bad thing you know, to find love after your wife’s—”

“I know. Do me a favour, Mel? Can you tell them nothing’s going on? Don’t wanna scare him off,” he admits.

“Boy, he’s smitten with ya. Don’t think anything can scare ‘im off.”

“Mel, please.”

“Alright, alright! Worry not, I’ll help ya out, Eric.”

“Thank you.”

Julian is an idiot.

Once again he has forgotten to leave Geralt’s payment with Eric. He only realised he’d forgotten when he was already three towns away. And despite wanting to return here and now to the lovely innkeeper, he can’t. The Duke of Vermullen has a tiny bit of trouble with a curse that befell his son and requires his assistance immediately —well, not Julian’s assistance specifically, but he was the first to answer the call when he saw the contract posted on Tancarville’s noticeboard. No matter, Julian will deal with this, get paid and return to Eric with Geralt’s coin.

He might even be lucky enough to run into one of the Wolf witchers while he’s there. Of course, he won’t stay long as Julian, it’s not exactly safe for any of his personas to do so, but as Jaskier, he’ll spend the entire winter in the inn. He’ll surely have the pleasure of crossing paths with a few of his brethren, won’t he?

In any case, his number one priority right now should be to find out who cursed the unfortunate duke-son? Duke junior? Whatever title the young man bears in any case.

It ends up being a disappointingly simple curse to break.

The Duke’s son, a young man just out of his teenage years, thought it safe to start wooing multiple young ladies simultaneously. Of course, he did not deem it important enough to mention this fact to the aforementioned young ladies. Who in turn found out about it and as reasonable human beings they teamed up, and paid a hedge witch to curse the young liar to spout donkey ears and a tail, and to be unable to speak but only bray.

And that’s why you have a conversation with your partner(s) before you start doing whatever your brainless head decides. Good Gods!

Regardless of whether the Duke’s son deserved it or not, Julian breaks the curse, gets a rather heavy money-pouch as compensation for his (nearly nonexistent) troubles and then proceeds to leave the dukedom practically skipping with glee.

Off to Tancarville, it is!

Of course, things are rarely that easy.

Julian is only a day’s travel away from the literal heaven-on-earth-town, camping out in the late autumn cold when he’s very rudely awoken by a cold blade pressed against his throat.

Godsf*ckingdamnit!

He cracks an eye open and sees nigh a dozen figures above him, surrounding him and pointing weapons to his face.

“Gentlemen. Ladies. To what do I owe the pleasure?” He asks, his voice steady. The fact that he’s not dead yet seems promising to say the least.

“Awfully chipper aren’t you, Witcher?” A woman, presumably the leader of the bunch, says in a thick Koviri accent.

Julian shrugs the best he can in this position, careful not to accidentally cut his throat on the blade. “Why disturb my well-deserved sleep only to rob me? Couldn’t you have taken my things silently and gone back to where you came from? Assuming that’s what you’re here for and I didn’t accidentally manage to acquire yet another pointless bounty on my head?”

The woman stares at him for a brief moment, puzzled. “I don’t like you,” she hisses between clenched teeth. “Give us everything you own and you won’t be rotting among those trees come tomorrow.”

Julian rolls his eyes. In retrospect, that is a very bad move to make because the bandit leader signals to her henchmen to kick him with all their strength. Melitele’s f*cking tit* does it hurt.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” He yelps. “You can have my things! Just leave me my potions and—”

“Money and jewellery,” the bandit leader commands. “We don’t give a f*ck about your equipment, witcher. Or those hideous doublets. Too much trouble to fence anyway.”

Ah. It makes sense that they woke him up then. Julian has made it a habit in the past… 50 decades of his life to be sleeping with his coin pouch on his person. It’s usually very uncomfortable but what can you do. Whenever some poor sod attempts to rob him, they usually do it alone or at worst in groups of three which Julian can easily Axii to avoid the trouble of fighting the petty criminals. This time however the band of thieves is a bit too large in numbers for his liking.

“Right,” he breathes out, “It’s under the bedroll. Take it and please for the love of Melitele, let’s all forget about this quite unpleasant night.”

He doesn’t move an inch when multiple hands lift him up as the bandit leader tosses the bedroll to the side and takes the recently heavy coin-pouch from the shallow hole Julian had buried it in.

Two men tie him to a tree, a precaution the leader explains, while the rest take Buttercup, leaving her saddlebags behind and disappear into the dense forest.

When the bandits are reasonably far away— certainly out of witcher earshot— Julian, with a deep sigh forms igni and burns through the scratchy rough rope that was used to immobilise him.

He checks his things, and is glad to see that none of them were destroyed in the… he can’t even call it a scuffle— robbery. His lute’s still among them for which he’s infinitely glad and his glamoured bracelet, too insignificant to steal, leather as it is, is still wrapped around his bottle of White-Honey where he left it.

“Thank the f*cking Gods.”

The inn is bustling with people tonight. A trobairitz from Kerack is passing through the town and while she's no Jaskier in skill, or to be completely honest she doesn't know how to avoid those high pitched tunes that grate on Geralt's sensitive hearing, she is fine. He must admit though, that she is very good at her job. His patrons are entranced by her singing, and that’s what matters most, doesn’t it?

He’s serving some Mahakam ale to a very talkative dwarven gentleman when the front door of the inn flies open. Geralt looks up briefly to nod a greeting to the newcomer and his breath catches on his throat.

Julian, beaten and bloody, eye swollen shut in an ugly shade of purple, shuffles inside, a bundle of what must be saddlebags wrapped in a large pouch with a blanket in his arms, and keeping his posture small and unassuming. Geralt’s gaze follows him as the witcher passes carefully between the full tables of the partying people and seats himself at the darkest corner of the bar, dropping the bundle softly on the floor.

The Griffin looks up from his fidgeting hands and smiles at Geralt. “Fancy meeting you here,” he says, keeping his tone light and jesting.

“Julian,” Geralt breathes out, “what happened? Are you alright?”

“Should’ve seen the other guy,” Julian jokes, not convincing anyone. Geralt arches a brow. “Fine, fine…” the witcher sighs, “I must regretfully admit that I got robbed on my way here. Would’ve been fine if I slept with my sword in arm’s reach but alas…”

Geralt scrunches his brows together. “Are you missing much?”

“Only Buttercup and all of my coin. Some of it wasn’t even mine to lose, Eric, and I think that’s the worst part.” He sighs again. “Oh, well, I’ll work a bit harder and I’ll save it again, so don’t worry at all. And as for Buttercup, I’ll miss her, that’s true, but I don’t think it’s wise to hunt down a rather large group of bandits by myself.”

“Hmmm. Come with me.” Geralt says, moving to take Julian’s stuff in his hands, careful not to disturb the wrapping lest he wants to be gathering alchemy supplies and clothes from the floor.

Julian tilts his head in question but follows him nonetheless.

As they cross the tavern hall, Geralt spots Ciri flirting with Letra, both girls loitering when they should be working for the night. It’s become somewhat of a tradition that Letra —with adequate compensation of course— helps during busy nights. It’s better this way, for all parties involved since Ciri becomes a snippy grouch when she’s not allowed to see her girlfriend and Geralt would rather save himself the migraine. As for Letra, the bard in training is all too happy to earn some coin for lute strings.

He clicks his fingers in front of them and nods to the bar. “Work, girls. Be back in a few minutes.”

Letra’s big brown eyes widen in surprise and she croaks a “Yes sir!” while Ciri rolls her eyes and moves towards the bar without uttering a word.

Julian’s shoulders shake with barely contained laughter and Geralt takes his hand on his and leads him to his bedroom where he keeps his emergency medical supplies.

Once they are situated in Geralt’s cosy bedroom and the door is locked behind them, the innkeeper gestures to the Griffin to undress so he can look over his wounds.

After a brief inspection —Geralt doesn’t dare do much but look because Julian hisses like a feral cat at every touch— he’s sure the witcher has at least a couple of cracked bones in his left arm, aside from the swelling on his jaw and right eye.

“I’m gonna be better than new in a couple of days, Eric,” Julian insists, words merging together as he reluctantly rubs the irritated skin with his hand. Geralt knows that’s bullsh*t. Witcher or not, no man as injured as Julian, can heal in the span of two days. He’s gonna need a Swallow.

“Poppyco*ck,” Geralt huffs, “You cracked your left Ulna in two places. Did you drink a potion?”

“‘M out of Swallow, I’m afraid.”

Fantastic.

Geralt rubs the spot between his eyebrows with his thumb. He has some potions left in his medkit, for emergencies, but how would he explain that to Julian? ‘Hi, hello Julian, I happen to keep a stock of witcher potions I’m not supposed to know much about in my own room? No need for alarm though, as I’m a very normal human man who will get poisoned and die a foolish death if I ever accidentally use them?’ Sure. Even the daftest man could put one and two together.

Geralt must have spaced out a bit more than he thought because Julian now holds in his hands Geralt’s case of medical supplies and makes an “oh” sound.

f*ck.

“Can’t believe my luck, Eric! There’s a bottle of Swallow in here!”

f*ckf*ckf*ckf*ckf*ck.

“Oh, you beautiful man! You care so much about witchers! If only it were possible to fall for you again…” Julian sighs dreamily. “And the witchers! Of course, they trust you to keep some of those lifesaving little bottles in your inn, and why wouldn’t they? I swear you’re a gift of the heavens, my dear!”

Geralt does his best not to let even a sliver of confusion slip into his features. Instead, he croaks a flat: “Ah, this one is the famous Swallow?” while Julian nods and proceeds to down the red-orange potion in one big gulp.

“Ah, much better,” Julian says and plops back in Geralt’s large double bed, his breathing coming slow and steady.

Geralt blinks in disbelief as the heavily injured witcher not only didn’t realise a thing about Geralt’s true nature but also fell immediately asleep upon using one of Geralt’s potions.

Admittedly, this whole charade with the thieves messed a tad with Julian’s plans. He didn’t mean to stay as Julian in the inn for long, a few days, a week tops, and he would move to a secluded forest or cave or abandoned cottage to wear his glamour and one of his —thankfully— intact doublet and he would return to Tancarville in order to spend the winter. Instead, he ended up staying nearly three weeks as Julian, until Eric was convinced he was healed enough for his little transformation trip.

Alas, snow has already covered the lands when Julian is allowed to slip out and come back as Jaskier. Well, at least he had the chance to be ravished by the innkeeper many times during his prolonged stay. Thoroughly. A bit — actually quite a lot— of snow isn’t going to be a big obstacle to his plans.

And he’s right. It isn't.

It’s really a matter of a few hours, in the end. First, he stashes his most of his witchery equipment in a chest in the room that Eric has provided for him for his stay —even though during that time he ended up sleeping more in the innkeeper’s bed than in his own. Then, he straps his two swords to his back, wears his thick winter cloak, and heads out carrying a large bag that contains a change of clothes and his empty lute-case (the lute itself lays safely inside the large chest in his room), which to any curious onlooker looks like the witcher is leaving for good.

Of course, he isn’t and in a few hours he returns to the inn in his glamoured guise, carrying his lute case which holds his twin swords —it was a bit tricky to fit them inside but he managed— and the bag of clothes. Hopefully, no one will notice that the bag is the very same one the witcher carried but even if someone does he can feign ignorance. He isn’t an excellent performer for nothing, after all.

Thankfully the inn is jam-packed when he returns —something something merchants passing through, something snowed in, something— and no one pays attention to him. Eric must be retrieving cases of wine from the cellar because Jennifer is there manning the bar. She looks equal parts annoyed and amused.

Honestly, Jaskier stands by his belief that Yennefer and the healer are perfect for one another. But if Yenna’s not interested, there’s only so much he can do.

He beelines for the stairs that lead to the second floor, pacing briskly. The sooner he has his things safely stored inside his room the better.

With the key he kept on his person throughout this whole glamouring ordeal he moves to unlock the simple wooden door and is surprised to find that it’s already unlocked.

What in Melitele’s bountiful bosom—

“Ah.” Two voices sound and two sets of slit-pupiled eyes stare at him. Coën and Yorik are sitting on the ground, cleaning their armour with dingy-looking wet cloths.

“Uh,” Jaskier says eloquently, “I believe this is my room, gentlemen.”

Coën’s eyes crinkle in amusem*nt while Yorik scrunches his brows together and narrows his eyes.

That can’t be good.

“Julian,” he accuses with a hiss, pointing a finger to Jaskier’s face.

Jaskier gasps, “Betrayal! Coën, I thought we were friends! Nay! Brothers. You told him?”

“I didn’t-” Coën starts saying but Yorik speaks louder over him, effectively cutting him off.

“He didn’t tell me sh*t, Julian. Your stuff’s in the chest and you did say this was your room. Besides you, yourself, confirmed my suspicions moments ago. Isn’t that hard to put one and two together, oh brilliant sir witcher.”

Jaskier places his hands on his hips and huffs. Boy’s got a point.

“Still, you didn’t tell me what you’re doing in my room!”

“It’s not like you use it, Julek,” Coën, the bastard, smirks.

“Your boyfriend put us here,” Yorik explains. “Said you left and the room was open for the foreseeable future.”

Wait, what?

“Julek,” Coën scolds and shakes his head in disapproval. “Eric doesn’t know, does he?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Co. I may be a lying liar but I did, in fact, come clean to Eric. So, yes, he knows.” But then why would he give his room away? Maybe… Yes, that must be it.

“He’s thinking of something stupid,” Yorik whispers to Coën, who nods affirmatively. Jaskier glares at both of them.

“Now, you’re being needlessly mean, Child-Surprise o’ mine. You see, it’s quite easy to explain; Eric must’ve understood that I left to wear the glamour— after all, I told him I’d be back soon— and he gave my room away because I literally only kept it as a closet during my stay here as, well, witcher-me. Therefore, he’s asking me to move into his room with him. What a sweetie!”

“Don’t know about you, Yorik,” Coën says, getting up from the floor, “but I can’t hear any more bullsh*t. Besides, Jenn is waiting for me downstairs.” —he waves a lazy goodbye— “don’t interrupt us if you see us, please and thank you.” And with that, he’s off.

“What was that all about?” Jaskier wonders out loud.

Yorik hums. “Oh, that? About Jenn? They’re dating.”

“What?” He shrieks. “Since when?”

Yorik shrugs. “Months, maybe half a year, I don’t know. Ask him, you have time.”

There go his plans of getting Yenna and Jennifer together…

Oh well, it’s not like he’s mad about this unexpected development. Quite the opposite in fact. He’s very happy that his brother finally found some quality company. The healer-lady is quite extraordinary, after all.

“Time?” Jaskier echoes. “What do you mean, time?”

“It’s not like we’re going anywhere with all that snow. Probably gonna spend the whole winter here. Here’s to hoping Erland isn’t already at the keep and will pass through Tancarville soon.”

Fan-f*cking-tastic.

Chapter 10: Oh when Winter comes

Chapter Text

True to his initial suspicions, Jaskier never gets the sweet reprieve from witchering he so much craves this winter. It’s only a week— a single f*cking week— till he donned his glamour and found his brother Coën and Julian’s menace of a child, Yorik loitering about in The Flying Rabbit Inn and gallivanting like they own the place. A week since he masterfully blew his own cover. A week of Yorik’s sh*t-eating grin and relentless teasing.

And Gods, a full seven days of Coën and Jennifer’s mushy mushy flirting.

Disgusting.

It’s an exceptionally cold morning, glass windows foggy from the accumulated moisture, and Jaskier is wordlessly tuning his lute, preparing it for the afternoon performance, when Eric approaches his table and seats himself across from the bard.

“You’re quiet,” Eric remarks, propping his elbows on the table, hands under that, honestly, sinful square jaw, and leans forward.

Jaskier huffs. “The rest of the Griffins are dead-set on driving me to the edge of madness, I swear.”

“You don’t like them?” Eric has that weird, dumbfounded look on his face that Jaskier can’t decipher the meaning of.

Jaskier leaves his lute to the side of his chair and waves a hand dismissively. “Nothing of the sort, but you know, dear heart how family can be sometimes.”

“So they know,” the redhead says with a meaningful arch of the brow.

“Regrettably, they do and they, well, only Yorik to be fair, adores pestering me about it. By Melitele, that kid lives to see my blood-pressure rise!”

Eric snorts a laugh and rolls his pretty green eyes.

“And to make matters worse,” Jaskier continues, “Erland hasn’t passed through yet, which would be fine under other circ*mstances,” —he gestures to the white view outside the window— “but— I just hope he’s fine out there.”

“You care for them,” Eric comments, green eyes impossibly warm and soft.

“Of course I do! But enough about my maudlin, brooding, however you may call it,” he shoots the man he loves a reassuring little smile, cupping his cheek with a hand, “I’m glad I get to see you every day, Eric. Truly, you’re a sun in these trying times!”

Eric snorts a laugh again —the cutest little sound— and leans forward to press his lips on Jaskier’s forehead.

“Oh no,” Yorik’s monotone voice sounds from the staircase, “they’re being achingly sweet again, somebody help.”

Jaskier wordlessly flips him off and Elen’s obnoxious laughter fills the room.

“Miss Bellegarde,” Yorik continues in the same flat voice, “you wound me. I thought we bonded this past week over our brainless fathers.”

Jaskier sees with the corner of his eye Elen’s mouth snapping open, no doubt, to banter with Yorik but Eric is quicker and interrupts her with a question: “What do you mean by ‘fathers’?”

Yorik co*cks an eyebrow. “Julian is my father of Surprise?”

“Ah, right, makes sense,” Eric mumbles under his breath.

Jaskier is certain that he’s told the man of this fact before. Maybe Eric forgot? Or maybe Jaskier misremembers and did not, in fact, disclose the entire one branch of his family tree to his lover.

“Poor Yorik,” Elen says in a mocking tone, “they aren’t going to acknowledge your surprisingly accurate insult. Poor you, poor you…”

Did the little bastard insult them? How did he miss it?

Jaskier rises from his seat and cracks his knuckles. “What did he say?” he asks Elen who smiles smugly in answer. He turns to Yorik. “What did you say you little—”

“Only the truth,” Yorik shrugs. “Not my fault you weren’t listening, papa.”

Oh-ha! It’s on now!

Geralt doesn’t mind the multiple Griffins who seem to have taken residence in his inn at all. If anything, it’s a rather nice change of pace from the monotony of running a business. Of course, even if they weren’t here, he’d still have Jaskier, lovely, sunshine, surprisingly uncouth, Jaskier.

Sometimes the bard reminds him of Julian a bit too much.

Gods, he misses Julian and he wishes he were here with his brethren instead of alone in the Griffin keep. Well, almost alone, since it seems Erland —the Griffin arch master— must’ve made it to Kaer Seren, since he’s not here with Yorik and Coën.

Geralt’s glad that Jaskier and the Griffins are getting along so well. He thought, initially, that aside from himself, nobody knew of the relationship between Julian and the bard. It seems he was mistaken, since the, sometimes, unbelievable familiarity with which the Griffins treat Jaskier indicates that they’ve known him for years.

He must admit that something doesn’t exactly add up in his mind. In the letters that Julian and Jaskier sent him during the past year, in the conversations he’s had with both the witcher and the bard… He was so sure that their relationship was a tightly guarded secret. But then again… maybe it only was guarded for humans, which Geralt is supposed to be.

Still, it doesn’t explain exactly why Julian chose to winter apart from Jaskier. He could be here with them. They’d make it work!

Ah, f*ck.

He can’t keep thinking like that. Can’t keep sowing seeds of unfounded suspicion in his mind, for f*ck’s sake! He will enjoy the winter alongside Jaskier, shut down any thought of mistrust that dares resurface, even if it kills him.

The sound of Toss a Coin’s first chord snaps Geralt out of this.... spiral. Performing a couple of metres next to the bar, where Geralt, with the help of the Griffin Yorik, built a small stage for his troubadour lover, is Jaskier. He's grinning wildly to his audience of two witchers, a sorceress and a princess in disguise and four elderly villagers enjoying a warm bowl of chicken broth.

There’s a knock on the door, a “Hello” in a thick Skelligan accent as a man wearing a woollen cape covered in snow stands under the doorway to the inn. He shrugs off the heavy cape, dusting off the layer of snow outside and Geralt realises then that the man is a witcher. And not just any witcher; it’s Erland of Larvik, grandmaster of the Griffin School.

Erland’s bright yellow gaze meets the still-singing bard, and he cracks a downright evil-looking smile, opens his mouth and yells: “Singing self-serving songs, ey, sonny-boy?”

Geralt can’t help but wonder what the Griffin grandmaster means by self-serving songs. Is it because Jaskier is involved with Julian and therefore singing the witcher’s praises helps Jaskier too, somehow?

“Oh ye Gods,” he catches Jaskier mumble under his breath, eye twitching in anger as he struggles to continue with the song. A couple of missed chords later he stops, leaves the lute to the side and says: “I would appreciate it if you’d stop slandering my work and sit your wet arse down, Erland. Or. You could go back to your ex- which I'm fairly certain is the reason you made us all worry this year- and leave us in peace. Thank you!”

Geralt almost chokes as a peal of laughter rises to his throat. He suppresses it expertly. Good.

As the elderly villagers have less self-control than Geralt, they cackle with glee at the elder witcher’s stunned expression.

“No longer ex,” Erland mutters, rubbing the back of his neck with a hand.

It’s Coën that speaks up this time, “Not again, Erland! Won’t you ever learn?” He sighs loudly and angrily.

“Yes, Erland,” Yorik agrees in the same bored voice he always uses when he doesn’t care enough about the topic of conversation.

“Melitele’s f*cking tit*! Don’t come crying to us when Arny dumps you again!”

Now that Erland is here, and so are the rest of the Griffins except for Julian, Geralt feels his heart dropping to his stomach at the implications. His initial thought was that Julian was with Erland in Kaer Seren, even if Jaskier was adamant that the elder witcher wasn’t at the keep yet. But now… Now he knows that Julian is all alone in the cold keep atop the Koviri mountains...

f*ck, that’s bad. Really, bloody f*cked.

Next time he sees his Griffin he isn’t going to let him out of his sight. He’ll try to convince him that he’s safe here, in Tancarville, that no one —and it’s been proven plenty these past eight days— cares if their bard fraternises with witchers. No one will care if they’re all together, here, in the Flying Rabbit Inn.

Jaskier is glad to see his father of Surprise alive and in good health. He’s less glad that Erland is back together with that bastard of a Bear and that he’s slandering Jaskier’s good work. And really, how could he tell that he’s Julian from one simple look? Jaskier is fairly certain that his glamour —which really, is losing value by the minute— still holds strong.

He corners the rude Griffin, in the room Eric provided for him, after he’s played his set and the last of the guests have left.

“How did you know?”

“How did I know what, sonny?”

Jaskier narrows his eyes and says nothing.

“Oh, what? You, wearing a glamour? Done barding out and about in the world when’s monsters to slay? Pshhh! I’ve known that for years, Julek!”

For years, he says. Does Jaskier even want to know how? It was supposed to be a tightly guarded secret that only he and Yenna would be privy to! Well, and Eric since he couldn’t keep deceiving the love of his life. And Coën, his mind helpfully provides, since his brother is awfully perceptive. But aside from those three people, nobody was supposed to know, for Melitele’s sake!

“Who do you think changed your sh*tty diapers, son?” Erland continues and Jaskier guffaws offended.

“Lies and slander, old man! I was seven when you came to claim me! No diapers were ever involved in my upbringing from you.” He gestures animatedly at nothing in particular.

“You sure? It’s not how I remember things being.”

“Then you must check your head for brain injuries, pops. Or is it old age finally catching up with you? Making things all mushy up there?” He taps on his own skull.

“Regardless,” Erland deflects, “the career choice suits you, lad, and I can tell it makes you happy. ‘S why I never said anything when I saw you performing in Lan Exeter’s bardic competition back in ‘57. You could do without the blond curls though,” he cracks a grin.

“It’s burnt blond curls, thank you very much, and I’ll have you know they are very well-liked amongst my more… musical peers!”

“If you say so.” Erland shrugs with a shoulder.

He’s doing that on purpose, the bastard!

Jaskier curls up his lips into an almost-smile and waves his father goodnight. “Before I forget,” he says looking over his shoulder, “If you dare slander my work again in front of an audience, I’ll have you banned for life from the inn. Understood?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Erland waves a hand dismissively, removing his —no doubt stinky— boots with his feet in the world's most uncomfortable looking manner, “Don’t worry that pretty head of yours, sonny. Won’t happen again— even if the song is a self-serving piece of drivel.”

“Pops.”

“What, it isn’t? Who is it for then, if not for you?”

Jaskier sighs loud and dramatically, head falling back. “It’s right there in the lyrics, pops: ‘Aiden of Temeria’.”

“Ye Gods, you wrote a song about a Cat! What’s next? A jig for the Kingslayer?”

He really has neither the energy nor the will to continue this pointless conversation. As he returns to the room he shares with Eric, he absently wonders if all oldtimers are like this: preoccupied with their differences rather than the things they have in common.

Witchers are a dying breed, for f*ck’s sake.

Eric’s still tidying up, from the sound of it, when Jaskier makes it to their room and changes to his nightclothes. He briefly contemplates going down in his undergarments to help him out but soon he hears the steady sound of Eric’s footfalls ascending the staircase.

“Still up?” Eric asks, not really expecting an answer as he strips out of his greasy apron and the sausage-smelling assortment of shirt and pants. Jaskier takes a moment to appreciate those sinful thighs, before burrowing himself under the covers. Gods is it cold tonight.

“Tough crowd tonight,” Eric comments conversationally, and he slips under the thick blanket, wrapping his arms around Jaskier’s midriff.

Jaskier sniffs. “What? Erland? He’s just— Let’s just say that he’s being an arse because the song is written for a Cat. Don’t pay him any mind, it’s not worth it.”

Eric hums in the crook of Jaskier’s neck. “Know how it is,” he says in a low voice, “my father’s the same. Always going on about—” he cuts himself and inhales sharply. “You understand.”

“You have a dad?”

Eric snorts. “Many people do, Jask.”

“Yeah, but it’s the first time I’m hearing about him.”

“He lives far away. Visits maybe once a year. We exchange letters though.”

“Hmmm. That’s good.”

There’s a stretch of silence and Jaskier can practically smell the nervousness emanating from Eric.

“What’s wrong, love?” Jaskier turns side to face him and runs a thumb over the crease on Eric’s furrowed brow.

“Think you could get Julian here?”

“Now?” He’s not opposed to the idea of removing the glamour in a private setting and if Eric really wants to see his other self then-

Eric shakes his head. Alright, he did not expect that.

“Next time,” he says and Jaskier can’t help but stare puzzled at the man he loves. He waits for Eric to elaborate. “After winter’s done. I’m sure nobody will mind. Nobody will spread mean words over the bard and the Griffin. Not if I can help it.”

Jaskier contemplates the meaning behind Eric’s words for a minute. He smiles and nods. “We could try it,” he says and presses his lips to the crease between Eric’s eyebrows. “The town’s proven itself relatively trustworthy. And- ah- well, if someone disapproves, they can always go—”

“f*ck themselves?”

“I would say, remove the broomstick from their arse, but this works as well.”

Eric’s chest shakes with soundless laughter- and Gods, if it isn’t the loveliest sight Jaskier has ever laid eyes upon!

“Goodnight, love,” Jaskier says softly.

“Love you,” Eric mumbles under his breath and Jaskier’s poetic heart soars.

In the dead of night, a week before Yule, Geralt is awoken by the sounds of galloping. Jaskier beside him, shoots up, alert and awake, too, eyes darting to the small window.

“Oh, f*ck,” he whispers under his breath, “I don’t think that’s good, Eric.”

“Four horses, fifteen people. Armed.”

Jaskier nods. “In the dead of night. When two of our resident witchers are out hunting that wraith that’s been plaguing the woods these past few weeks, since the snows melted. That’s very very bad.”

He’s right it isn’t looking good. With Erland and Coën out of the equation— and f*ck, why did those warm southern winds hit now, before Yule! Geralt curses at their luck under his breath.

If it’s Nilfgaard— If they somehow found him, found Ciri… f*ck.

Chapter 11: Grand battle, betrayal and trust

Chapter Text

f*ck.

Out of all the nights to get attacked it had to be when two of their witchers are away on a contract. He might be paranoid, but Geralt doesn't think this is a coincidence. If it’s Nilfgaard, if they somehow found out about Ciri and him…

f*ck, he doesn’t know what to think. The what-ifs bombard his brain with images, Each one worse than the one that came before it.

His glamoured heart beats deafeningly loud inside his chest when he distantly registers Jaskier calling for him. He turns his attention to his bard, whose brow is scrunched together in worry. “Snap out of it, Eric,” he says, shaking Geralt slightly by the shoulders, “Weapons. We need weapons. Do you have some stashed for yourself?.”

Geralt’s mind wanders to the hidden little cellar in the woods where his armour and swords lay hidden. He chokes down a gulp. “Only a pair of daggers,” he breathes out, voice quivering. “And the knives in the kitchen. A hammer or two in the basem*nt. And an axe. In the stables. f*ck.”

“co*ck.” Jaskier closes his eyes and takes a deep rattling breath. He moves to his chest, unlocks the heavy padlock and shuffles inside for his belongings. He takes out a familiar-looking metal chest piece. What the— “Listen,” he says, “You wear my armour —you know how to wear one right?” Geralt nods affirmatively, even though the words coming out of the bard’s mouth are hardly making any sense.

His gaze stays fixed on Julian’s armour. Why- How— Why did Julian leave it here? And what is Jaskier saying? He can’t understand—

“Aw f*ck,” Jaskier curses as he hands Geralt the armour pieces. He snaps his attention to the window, head tilting slightly. Geralt can hear the muffled voices of the humans encircling the entire inn. He rushes to fix the armour pieces on his torso, leaving the bracers and pauldrons for Jaskier. “Quickly, all of it, love. I will wear the gambeson, don’t worry.” He takes out two swords from the chest. One silver one steel. He hands Geralt the steel one. “Know how to use it, yes? Yes. Good. Yeah. Good.”

A medallion is dangling, hanging from a chain on Jaskier’s hand. The gryphon’s head is glinting mockingly in the low moonlight.

“Why do you have this?” Geralt breathes out, his voice strangled, barely a whisper, though deep down he knows the answer. He refuses firmly to believe what it insinuates.

Jaskier locks eyes with him, his hand moving to undo the leather bracelet that’s ever-present in his hand. Deep orange, almost red meets Geralt’s glamoured green as the glamour dissolves before his eyes.

Jaskier, no, Julian, smiles a small sad smile, “Please be careful, love. I don’t want to lose you.” He gets up, dons his gambeson with swift, calculated ease and marches to the door of their room. He peeks his head outside and mutters, “Yorik, you know what to do.”

“Oh, I have no idea what you’re talking about, Julian,” the other Griffin deadpans.

Geralt gathers his wits; this is not the time to have a crisis about his partners’, wrong, partner’s identity. He moves to the hallway that leads to the rest of the inn’s rooms himself, silently praying that Ciri and Yen found each other and are safe. Preferably inside a magical barrier. Or far away in Yen’s shop in Vengerberg.

His trail of thought is interrupted by a loud bang on the front door, followed by a deafening thud.

“Oh, innkeeper! Your fine establishment belongs to us now!” a woman’s voice sounds loud and clear, in an unmistakable, thick Koviri accent.

A sigh of relief leaves Geralt’s lips as Julian groans loudly, “f*cking co*ck. I swear to Melitele those bandits have the worst possible timing. Always!” Then a bit louder, “My horse and my money wasn’t enough, you bitch? You have to come for my man’s livelihood too?”

Julian doesn’t wait for an answer and groans again. He glances at Yorik who nods wordlessly. Geralt follows them as they rush down the stairs, swords in hand and footing quick but steady.

As they reach the turn of the staircase, Geralt hears a downstairs door— the one that leads to the basem*nt if he’s not mistaken— creaking open. “What is happen- Aaaaaaaaah!” Ciri’s voice sounds and Geralt’s heart leaps to his throat.

Like a man possessed, he leaps from the bannister of the staircase, down to the tavern floor, landing in the process on an unfortunate bandit that will not be getting up soon.

“Wait, Eric—” he barely registers Julian calling for him as four bandits surround him, weapons drawn.

Near the door to the basem*nt, a man is holding his daughter, muffling her with a dingy-looking cloth while holding a blade to her throat. “Move and she dies,” he hisses.

f*ckf*ckf*ckf*ckf*ck! f*ck.

Without a second thought, Geralt forms the sign of Axii towards the man. His lip trembles with rage. “Leave my daughter and take a step back,” he growls out his command. The man, wide-eyed and gaze foggy, does as he’s told and falls head first from the stairs that lead to the basem*nt.

Julian stays rooted in place when the bandit takes hold of Elen and hisses his threat. He watches intently as four men and women surround his lover, as Eric raises his hand, trembling with rage.

Julian’s medallion thrums against his chest.

He watches, breath catching on his throat, as Eric forms Axii with his fingers and commands the bandit who’s holding his daughter to fall off the stairs.

What the-

At that moment the door to Jennifer’s (downstairs) room flies open. “Would it kill you lot to keep it down a notch—” She stops herself and sucks in a breath. “f*cking sh*t. Elen to me. Now,” she says, hands forming a… Spell? Julian’s medallion vibrates again. Yep, definitely a spell.

He marches down, cutting left and right at the swarm of bandits to form a road towards his beloved. He focuses on Eric, who seems to be struggling to handle his multiple assailants.

Eric ducks as the woman in front of him swings her scimitar in a wide range, the short-sword of another bandit that’s upon him, grazing the innkeeper on the arm. He pivots on his heel and jabs at the attacker, steel sword finding purchase at the man’s midriff.

Julian feels like aeons have passed since he started his march of violence towards his lover, hacking and slashing left and right, not waiting to see if he’s done enough damage to the small army of bandits, if he’s helped dwindle their numbers.

He watches, entranced, as the man he loves fights with every inch of his being the threat to his life — all of their lives— and his livelihood. As Eric dodges and swipes and— From behind the innkeeper a bulky looking bandit holding a double-handed sword that’s seen better days, swings wildly and when Julian thinks it’s gonna hit him, that this is gonna be it, he isn’t fast enough to save his lover, Eric spins and blocks with his hastily tightened armguard.

The strings that were holding it in place snap, and with it too, falls Eric’s bracelet. The bracelet Julian thought was a memento from the innkeeper’s dead wife.

Oh, how wrong he’s been.

Snow white hair, Julian recognises instantly, stick on the innkeeper’s— the witcher’s, his mind helpfully provides— neck, bright yellow irises burning with adrenaline and rage.

Julian stands stunned but for a moment, his mind trying desperately to make sense of what he’s seeing.

He snaps out of it, however briefly, when Eric leaps towards him calling: “Julian, watch out!” when the bandit leader throws a dagger and then another towards him.

They embed themselves one on Eric's shoulder and the other on the palm of his hand.

The man he loves cries out in pain, and Julian chokes down all the thoughts, throwing himself in the chaos of battle, his free hand forming the sign of aard which sends the leader flying directly onto the dying embers of the big hearth of the tavern room.

“Oh no, you’re not killing anyone. Not on my watch,” Jennifer snarls, releasing a blast of magic that sends the bandits— and only them— flying to the nearest wall.

Yorik passes next to Julian, blade in hand and he finishes off the strugglers before leaving the massacre in the inn, to chase, no doubt, any remaining bandits outside.

Elen, who's been hiding behind Jennifer, crosses the distance between her and her father, her steps heavy and clumsy. She falls by his side, tears rolling down her face. “I should’ve,” she sobs quietly, “I should’ve helped. I could’ve—”

“It’s alright princess,” Eric —probably Geralt of Rivia, now that Julian thinks about it— grunts out, reaching for the dagger’s handle that’s embedded in his hand. “Everything is alright.”

Julian stands there, awkwardly for a moment, before remembering himself and turns to rush towards his scarce potion supplies.

“No,” Jennifer says sternly, “I’ll heal him, don’t worry, witcher. You go help Yorik. And leave no witnesses.” There’s no room for negotiation in the tone of her voice.

It hurts like a bitch but it doesn’t even come close to the worst injury Geralt’s ever sustained and survived in his long life.

Absently, he realises that his arm guard is gone and with it his glamour too.

f*ck.

Yennefer hovers over him, chanting a healing spell under her breath, his pierced arm and shoulder, and multiple nicks the bandits managed to inflict on him, mending before his eyes. He lets out a rattling sigh, his gaze fleeting to the half-destroyed door to his inn and the blood that now adorns its walls and floors.

Getting the stains out is going to be a bitch.

“Where are those Griffins?” he hears Yennefer mutter under her breath, and while he, too, wonders what’s taking them so long, he silently wishes time to still for a while so he can gather all the broken pieces of himself before he needs to address the whole… glamour(s) charade.

It doesn’t take long for Julian — who’s also Jaskier, his mind helpfully reminds him— and Yorik to return to the inn, swords drenched in blood, dripping onto his wooden floors, adding to the scene of the massacre. The men start wordlessly moving the corpses outside, piling them atop each other.

Geralt shoots a look at Yen that spells “what are we going to do about the bodies?” In return, she waves a dismissive hand at him.

When he curls his lip in a mix of annoyance and disappointment, she rolls her dark glamoured eyes and says, “I’ll open an untraceable portal under them and have them drop in the middle of the sea. No need to burn the sh*theads and alert everyone and their mother in town.”

“Good,” he croaks out shuffling to his feet, still wobbly from the rush of adrenaline.

He busies himself with helping remove the remaining cadavers, and when they’re safely deposited somewhere no-one will find them he starts mopping every single surface of the tavern room.

His gaze doesn’t dare meet Julian’s, unsure as he is still about how he’s feeling about… all of it. He partly feels like a goddamn fool for falling for the man’s act, for believing the witcher and the bard are two different people. For believing someone could love him.

Just how much was a lie, a ruse, and how much was true?

And then there’s the issue of his own glamour and everything it entails; a heavy secret, a burden no man would like to bear.

Geralt grits his teeth and furrows his brow and does the thing he knows best; work and remain silent.

“Dad?” Ciri calls after a while, her dress drenched in watered-down blood from where she was cleaning part of the floor on her knees. He hums noncommittally and she continues, “I don’t think we should open for a while.”

“Hmmm.”

“I’ve been thinking… maybe Jenn or I, or someone else, should let the word out that we caught a cold and till we’re better we’re not taking any customers.”

“She’s right,” Yennefer agrees, “I’ll tell Melissa over morning tea and she’ll tell the world.”

“Hmmm.”

“Geralt,” Yennefer says softly and he lifts his gaze to meet hers. There’s concern etched in her brow. “Promise me you won’t get stuck in a spiral again.”

“I’ll try not to,” he chokes out, voice breaking. He can’t promise that. Scenarios more deranged and implausible and yet entirely believable are already assaulting his mind.

He doesn’t retire to his bed and instead keeps cleaning — and mulling over what-ifs— throughout the entire night. Julian remains by his side, scrubbing blood and mud from the walls. He remains uncharacteristically silent, the air charged with uncertainty and the cloying stench of nerves.

Julian’s had enough of the silence.

He can practically feel the downward spiral of anxiety emanating from Eric, Geralt, or whatever his real name is. Two things are certain: One, Julian is very much in love with the innkeeper-cum-witcher before him, the revelation of his mutant nature is more a bonus in his eyes rather than a setback— secret be damned. And two, he owes him the fiend contract money.

Ah, yes there was a third thing as well.

Thirdly, and lastly, whatever the Wolf’s been thinking can’t be good and Julian has to, at least, attempt to put an end to it.

Reluctantly, he shuffles closer to his lover and runs a thumb over the crease of his brow. “Hey,” he whispers softly, “nobody’s gonna find out about,” —he gestures to the general entirety that is the unfairly attractive Wolf Witcher— “it. The secret. Not if I can help it.”

“Really f*cking good at keeping secrets, are you?” There’s an angry, perhaps even resigned undertone in Eric's voice. He doesn’t meet Julian’s gaze and instead focuses on scrubbing the table he’s been cleaning the past few minutes with such ferocity that Julian fears it might break in two.

“Where’s this coming from?”

Eric’s shoulders slump. “Why did you lie to me, Julian?”

Julian suppresses the urge to retort with the same question. He knows very well why Eric hides who he is. His daughter, Elen… she’s the lost princess of Cintra if he’s not mistaken. The very same one the entire empire of Nilfgaard has been after the past years.

“It’s true I did at first, but that was before I got to know you, love. Long before our first kiss in the stables!”

“You led me to believe that Jaskier and Julian are separate people. That,” — his breath hitches as a sob escapes his lips— “that Jaskier and Julian were together! In the letters—”

“I thought you knew— I thought you had guessed about the glamour, Eric— Or, or should I call you Geralt? Please please please believe me. I didn’t- I never meant to hurt you. I— I love you so much.”

The Wolf Witcher slams his fist on the table. By some miracle, it doesn’t break, though it creaks dangerously. “Ah, f*ck!”

A mirthless, nervous chuckle escapes Julian’s lips. That’s it isn’t it? He’ll no longer be welcome in the inn, perhaps even Tancarville or even Creyden! He should’ve cleared the air long ago, like his brothers told him.

With tears pooling in his eyes, threatening to fall, Julian chants under his breath I love you and I don’t want to lose you.

Eric’s back tenses visibly before he takes a deep rattling breath and meets Julian’s eyes. “Can I trust you? That all this is just a miscommunication?”

Julian nods. “I swear it on my life.”

Eric mirrors the nod and sighs audibly. “I imagine you have questions.”

“No, not really. I think I pieced everything together correctly.”

Eric co*cks a grey eyebrow.

“Elen’s the, uh, you know, royal highness of the fallen lion kingdom,” Julian whispers conspiratorially.

Eric blinks slowly at him. “Appreciate the attempt at subtlety but I told Yen to raise a silence spell around the inn. You can talk freely.”

“Yen? As in Yennefer of Vengerberg? She’s here?” Something in his mind clicks. “Wait a moment. You want to tell me that all this time Jennifer was, in fact, Yennefer?” he hisses. Eric nods. “Wow, alright, fine. Fine. And I thought we were friends,” he mumbles under his breath more for the drama of it and not because he’s actually mad at her. After all, she probably did it to protect the kid. (And to laugh at poor Julian’s obliviousness. Yes, that too.)

“Go on.”

“Ah right, where was I? Elen is Cirilla of Cintra, you’re her protector Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf himself, and you’ve been hiding here from Nilfgaard. Did I miss anything?”

“Surprisingly, that was incredibly accurate.” Eric shifts his weight on one foot. “Good, then you understand.”

“I do, by Melitele I do, Eric. You don’t mind me calling you that, do you? Eric, I mean.”

“I don’t. Right now it’s as much my name as Geralt is. And what should I call you? J—”

Julian cuts him off. “Nice to properly meet you then, Eric Geralt of Rivia Bellegarde. You may call me whatever you like,” he bows with a flourish.

Eric snorts out a laugh. “Little sh*t.”

“Excuse you! I’m a big sh*t!” Laughter bubbles within him and soon they’re both breathless from laughing.

“Shut the f*ck up! Some people are trying to f*cking sleep!” Yennefer’s enraged voice sounds from the direction of Elen’s room.

“Come,” says Eric, wrapping an arm around Julian’s back, “Yen’s right. We should probably sleep too.”

“Together?”

“Always.”

Julian beams at his lover, clinging to him like a persistent barnacle. “Let’s bathe first, though. I’d rather like our bed to remain unsullied by stinky bandit blood.”

Eric smiles and hums in agreement.

The lard on the pan sizzles as Geralt cracks eggs in it. He hums appreciatively at the scent of fried food that fills the kitchen.

He contemplates frying the sausages too for a brief moment. He doesn't. It's not like he has appearances to keep— he and the other witchers do prefer them raw— and Ciri isn't fond of sausages anyway.

Hmmm. Maybe he should ask Yen how she likes hers.

"You're awfully chipper," Yennefer remarks, leaning on the door frame, her glamour still in place.

"Hmmm." He smiles to himself and pours some hot lard on the eggs with a spoon.

It's true. He's happy and he has every right to be.

After last night's conversation with Julian, he feels like a heavy burden was lifted from his shoulders. Geralt's not one to lie so he must admit that even when Julian assured him it was all a miscommunication between the two, doubt lingered in his mind.

That was quickly resolved though, when Julian proposed they found the letters they exchanged the past year.

By the Gods, it's truly impressive how both of them managed to dance around the subject. It's no wonder Geralt understood one thing and Julian another.

He's glad though, that the man he loves (even if it's in the end just one man and not two) didn't have any malicious intentions towards him.

And misunderstanding aside, he's also glad that Julian didn't even bat an eye to Geralt's own loss of glamour and the revelation that followed.

He feels like he can breathe again.

"Geralt." Yennefer taps the heel of her boot on the wooden floor.

"What, Yen?"

"You weren't listening to a word I said, were you?"

"No." He takes the spatula and removes the cooked eggs from the pan. He cracks another five in the still sizzling fat.

"I said, Coën and Erland are back and they found Julian's horse wandering in the woods."

"Buttercup?" Yennefer nods. "That's good, Julek will be happy." The diminutive slips off his tongue and it startles him.

She hums thoughtfully.

"What is it?"

Ciri marches next to him, grabs the plate with the eggs and says, "Yennefer is just disappointed that she lost our bet. And so will Coën when I tell him." Geralt can practically hear the smirk on her face.

"You were betting? About what?"

Ciri clicks her tongue. "Dad, please. It's not hard to guess."

"The bet was about when and how you two would figure out your messes," Yen helpfully provides.

Geralt looks to the ceiling and sighs. Then shakes his head. "Don't tell me what you each betted for. I don't wanna know."

"No," Ciri says, grabbing seven forks from the cupboard, "you really don't. But I'm gonna tell your bard-witcher."

"Not even my silence spell will be able to contain his indignant screeching," Yennefer comments. Then, encouragingly, "Go, tell him, Elen."

The girl skips merrily to the tavern room, plate and forks in hand before Geralt can stop her.

"f*ck."