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dftea · 5 months

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Under my own vine

Soft pastoral guilty Geralt (hurt/comfort, geraskier, family of destiny)

"Are you farming?"

The question isn’t mocking but incredulous, as if Yennefer of Vengerberg cannot possibly be associated with a farmer. Sorcerers and witchers and kings and bar–

But no. He isn’t thinking about that. About him.

"What are you doing?”

Geralt hesitates for only a moment before swinging the hoe into the soil again, breaking ground on a new patch of earth.

He can sense Yennefer’s scrutinising gaze on his shoulder, but he doesn’t turn, doesn’t speak.

“Are you farming?”

The question isn’t mocking but incredulous, as if Yennefer of Vengerberg cannot possibly be associated with a farmer. Sorcerers and witchers and kings and bar–

But no. He isn’t thinking about that. About him.

“Geralt, do you even know the first thing about farming?”

He knows enough. The rhythm of the land through the seasons, the growth of a tree over decades, the way a noonwraith blights a crop by its presence. The important things.

For the rest, there’s Alma, the shrewd alderman who gave him the seeds, pointing him towards the abandoned farmstead. They were keen to rebuild a community after the wars, she said, and this land was heavily saturated in blood and magic.

Good for the harvest and perfect for monsters, he thought.

Of course, he says none of this to Yennefer. He is not surprised that she has tracked him down, not after everything they’ve been through, but that doesn’t mean he knows what to say to her. How to explain why he left Oxenfurt at dawn and never looked back.

Except in his dreams, where the same bloody face haunts him.

“You know I could just…”

He imagines she’s waving her hand in some vague gesture of magic and he clenches his jaw, hearing the growl that escapes. “No.”

She sighs under her breath. “Come home, Geralt.”

He wants to tell her that this is his home now, that he has a rundown cottage and the beginnings of a vegetable patch and a place he belongs for the first time. But they both know he would be lying.

Instead, he continues with his task, and she eventually gives up on him, as everyone does in the end.

# # #

“Well, the witch hasn’t gone completely mad then.”

Geralt glares at Lambert from the corner of his eye and goes back to fixing his scarecrow. He thought his presence would be enough to deter the crows from theft but apparently not.

“Let me buy you a drink! Play some Gwent, and we’ll…talk. Or whatever.”

It’s an awkward offer, but Geralt appreciates it all the same, even if he doesn’t quite know how to accept it. He hasn’t gone to the local tavern except to trade for some small beer and to pick up rumours of monsters and contracts.

The villagers are strangely pleased to have him living there, rightly believing that they don’t have to worry about supernatural threats as long as he’s present and keeps his swords sharp.

They’ve even given him all sorts of gifts and offers of help, despite his sparse conversation and general glowering disposition. It’s unnerving.

Of course, he knows who to blame.

“Eskel was sorry he couldn’t join me. Something about drowners choking a river.”

“Not Vesemir?” Geralt asks, before he could think better of it.

The silence from Lambert is telling. Vesemir had visited him in Oxenfurt, reminded him of his duty to the Path, to humanity. It was a grand speech, but he has never been moved by words unless they were sung in a lush tenor with a lute at their back.

“You can come in, if you like,” Geralt says, finally, after he’s wrestled the scarecrow into place. “I have pie and beer. And potions.”

Lambert blinks at him. “Potions? What do you need potions for, out here?”

“Do witchers ever retire?”

“Yeah. When they get slow and get killed.”

Or when they're too slow to protect what matters.

“I still kill monsters,” he says, but it’s a half-hearted protest. “I have spare.”

Geralt gestures to his growing garden and the nearby wood. With time to think and plan, he has managed to cultivate a number of common potion ingredients locally. If he can help Lambert and others passing through, he might feel a little less shame for what he’s done.

And he knows they will pass through. No doubt Yennefer has told everyone what has happened to him. They will want to witness it for themselves, check he hasn't taken leave of his sanity like a Cat.

“Come inside,” he says. He can’t keep everyone out forever.

He knows the price of that all too well.

# # #

When Triss comes, she doesn't ask any awkward questions. She brings him an apple tree for the garden and a case of good Toussaint red, as if this is a housewarming, the likes of which he has only witnessed at a distance or in a storybook.

She shares a meal with him, savouring the early carrots and leeks alongside the roasted rabbit he caught that morning.

“Are you baking now too?” she asks, gesturing to the bread and creamy butter on the table.

He shakes his head. He has an arrangement with a local family where they bake an extra loaf and he keeps them in fresh game, and he can trade for butter with the herbs he forages in the wood.

“The village,” he says, with his usual economy.

Except it wasn’t all that usual, not before he decided to settle in this place. In the past few years, he learned to talk and laugh and breathe, to be silent in a way that didn’t shut anyone out.

With Triss, he feels those old muscles stretching, but it brings sorrow with it. Because she will leave, and he will be alone again.

As he deserves, he knows. But the solitude hurts more than he expected.

“You’re part of the community now,” Triss teases, and he tamps down on the part of him that leaps at the idea.

Witchers don’t have friends, after all.

# # #

Winter is the hardest season.

He is cold and alone. He has been cold and alone before, of course, but now that he’s known warmth and companionship, the contrast is harsh and bitter.

Game is scarce, and the harvest was not bountiful enough to provide well throughout the winter. He attended the village meeting where they discussed their supplies and who could offer what.

He gave what he could spare, and was surprised when his opinion was sought on the local wolves and roving bandits. He offered to help cut down trees to keep the draughts out of their houses, and ended up with a few spare planks himself.

He makes a chair for the fireplace and then he makes a second for no reason at all. He feels foolish seeing it there, knowing that no one will occupy it, but he cannot bring himself to break it up for firewood.

When Alma brings him a knitted blanket in soft pale wool, he sets it on the second chair. He pretends he doesn’t know why.

# # #

“It really does need to be seen to be believed, doesn’t it?”

Geralt drops his pitchfork and whirls round, sending his new chickens clucking and scurrying away in all directions.

Jaskier is dressed as inappropriately as ever, in grey and light blue silk, though he wears a dark blue shoulder cloak as a concession to the chill. The walking stick looks ornate, almost ornamental, but Geralt knows it isn’t.

Beside him is Ciri, clad simply in black that cannot disguise the tall regal woman who withers opposition with a single glance or word. But she is not queen or witcher or sorceress today - only a disappointed daughter. Geralt recognises the familiar clench of her jaw, the set of her shoulders, from where he’d caught his own expression reflected in fury.

Geralt dared not dream of seeing Jaskier again and now he's here, he cannot stop staring. He looks better than when Geralt was in Oxenfurt, but that is certainly not a difficult feat - the drunken, despairing wreck was barely human when he left. When he forced himself to leave before he watched Jaskier drink himself to death.

All because of him and his mistakes.

Jaskier has clearly regained strength and health, though Geralt notices how he leans heavily on the flimsy stick, how Ciri hovers near his elbow. Perhaps not as hearty as he wants people to believe.

“Will you be all right from here?” Ciri says to Jaskier, ignoring Geralt as she swings a pack from her shoulder and sets it on the ground.

It takes a moment for Geralt to register what’s happening, but then he’s not sure why he’s surprised. Of course Jaskier has turned up expecting to stay - it has never mattered before, after all, how they parted nor for how long.

“Quite fine, darling,” Jaskier says, kissing her cheek and embracing her. “Remember to write.”

“I’ll send a letter with Yennefer when she comes for Belleteyn.”

Which means Jaskier intends to stay for at least the spring, until Yennefer arrives for the festival and the celebration of her birth.

With barely a look at him, Ciri takes a step away from Jaskier to create a portal and then disappears from view. Perhaps she will forgive him in time, or perhaps not. He feels the pain of her dismissal regardless.

“Even for you, this is quite a silence.”

Geralt detects a hint of nervousness about the words and hurries forward, as if a spell has been broken. He stops only a few inches from Jaskier, close enough to catch him if he falls, and Jaskier’s expression softens into a tired smile.

He looks good for fifty, a few strands of grey decorating his temples, the lines of his face only making him more handsome, roguish. Kissable.

Gods, Geralt has missed him.

“I’m sorry,” he says, quickly, quietly, even though he doesn't quite know how to continue. He’s not going to waste this third, fourth, hundredth chance he's been given.

Jaskier snorts his amusement. “Please. We’re not doing this again. You’re terrible at apologies and, this time, it was mostly my fault. I drove you to it - no one could dispute that, not even our Ciri. Though she tried, bless her.”

Vividly, Geralt remembers that last conversation, the bitter disgusted tone worse than the words.

“Fuck off back to the Path, Witcher. You’ve done more than enough.”

“It wasn't that,” Geralt says, looking away in shame, in guilt. “You were right - it was because of me.”

His sword misses the griffin, a fraction too slow, the advantage of Aard lost as the great beast takes to the sky again.

Then it swoops down - but not towards Geralt.

Towards Jaskier.

A hand brushes his cheek, lute callouses rough against his skin. Jaskier has been playing again.

He looks up, to see his bard, with a soft warm expression, the familiar light in his eyes. Back with him, truly back with him.

“I would follow you anywhere,” he says, curling his palm against Geralt’s cheek. “Because I want to. Because I need you. Do…do you have need of me?”

“Yes,” he says, immediately, intensely. “I need you.”

And he knows it’s true for him - it has been since the moment they met, if he’s honest with himself. The village has need of him too, because it isn’t enough to survive. They need light and laughter and music, and a charming man in pale silks to tell stories of everyday human things and daring adventures and the heartache of love and hate and the exquisite agony of both together.

They need Jaskier as much as Geralt does.

Jaskier looks down then, because a chicken is trying to peck out the gold embroidery on the cuff of his trousers.

“I’m not sure I’m dressed for farming,” he says, amused.

“Since when has that stopped you peacocking?” Geralt grumbles, and it’s like it always was.

Except that when Jaskier smacks him, he loses his balance and tilts towards him, his laughs swiftly turning to coughs.

Geralt must look frantic with worry because Jaskier smacks him again.

“I’m not an invalid,” he gasps. “It’s just bloody cold out. Light me a fire, darling, and dig out a slice of this pie Lambert won’t stop crowing about.”

But Geralt can see that he’s tired, how even this short piece of exertion has affected him. He is better, yes, but he is not the eighteen year old who bounded up to a witcher in a tavern or even the forty year old who made the climb to Kaer Morhen.

They are both slower and older now. And so they are going to live on a farm in the middle of nowhere, apparently.

Geralt shoulders the pack and then lifts Jaskier up into his arms like a bride, despite his protests and his half-hearted efforts to hit him with the walking stick.

He carries him across the threshold of the one-room cottage and settles him in the chair by the fireplace, the one with the blanket, and moves to tend to the fire.

But Jaskier fists a hand into his shirt - a dark brown homespun he’d taken in trade for a butchered boar.

“Geralt,” he murmurs, “I won’t break if you kiss me.”

And Geralt kisses him, taking his face in both hands, swallowing the moan from Jaskier as he opens his mouth to him.

He breaks the connection before Jaskier loses his fragile breath, amused when his bard tries to follow his lips.

“It’s been more than a year since I last kissed you,” he complains. “And that's all I get?”

“For now,” Geralt says, knowing exactly how long it’s been. “I want to warm you up.”

Jaskier bats his eyelashes coquettishly. “Well, I have some ideas about that.”

“With tea,” Geralt tells him, because as much as he wants to take Jaskier to bed and relearn the map of his body, he sees the lines of pain on his face, the way he holds himself in the chair.

“I didn't come here to be cosseted, you know,” Jaskier says, without ire or shame. “I came here to take care of you.”

And Geralt believes him, because he is devastatingly sincere and Geralt knows he’s right. Nothing has been the same without him.

Now, finally, he is home.

#the witcher #the witcher fic #geraskier #family of destiny #retired witcher #hurt/comfort #it takes a village #this fic brought to you by too many hours of coral island #dftea writes

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dftea · 4 months

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Follow me, Eurydice

Geralt is auctioned but Jaskier is there - hurt/comfort, geraskier/geraskefer/family of destiny

[read on ao3]

Geralt jolts awake, the tingle of magic itching at his skin. He is upright, barely, leaning against a cold pillar of stone with his wrists chained around it.

Around him, through a shimmering shield, he can hear a crowd of murmuring shadows, echoing strangely in the cavern surrounding him.

He reaches for the memory of how he came to be here, but it’s blurred in a thick fog, part magical and part related to the clot of blood he feels tugging at his hair. His bad leg is throbbing in protest, and he has a dozen half-healed injuries that speak of an intense and bloody fight.

The shield abruptly falls, and the cavern hushes, but it is still too bright, too loud. He doesn't remember taking a potion but he feels sensitive, disorientated.

“Who will start the bidding at one thousand crowns?”

Geralt thought the underground auction house was merely a rumour, but he should’ve known better than to doubt a story that spread so far and wide.

If Jaskier has taught him anything…

Jaskier.

Where is his bard?

The memories hit him sharply - the ambush on the road, the sheer numbers of them, telling Jaskier to leave him and not believing for a moment that he actually would.

Did he run for his life, like Geralt demanded? Was he another lot in this perverse auction? Or was he lying dead in the road, abandoned by the auctioneer’s mercenaries as not worth the effort?

He tries to look around, but the lights are blinding and he cannot get his bearings. The auctioneer is taking bids, but Geralt has lost track of how much these cretins think he’s worth. Of how much they think Ciri's location is worth.

He will die first, of that he is certain. A slow and painful death, but he endured the Trials as a mere human child - he can do this for his daughter, for his family.

If Jaskier is gone, it will make it easier to die.

“Who will give me–”

“Fifty thousand crowns.”

The voice is loud and resonant, cutting straight through the muttering and excitement - and Geralt would know that voice anywhere.

He’s going to kill him for this - after he's finished crushing him to his chest like a drowning man.

At least he’s alive to pull this stupid stunt.

Geralt tries to follow the sound, but he can only make out the silhouette of a ridiculous hat adorned with long feathers - the master bard is putting on a show for the crowned heads of the Continent, for the Emperor who hungers for his prize.

The auctioneer is momentarily stunned, not expecting such an escalation in the bidding, but he smoothly recovers.

“In coin, you understand, sir. The coin in your possession, tonight.”

“Oh, I am good for it,” Jaskier says, confidently, and Geralt doesn’t need to see him to know that he is giving the eye to every one of the competition. Impressing upon them the degree of their stupidity if they failed to account for him.

Geralt could kiss him. And then lightly shake him for a fool, for robbing whichever bank gave up that kind of money.

“Fifty-two thousand,” another voice calls - a mage, if Geralt isn’t mistaken, but he cannot place which one. Of course, the nobility hadn’t come themselves - it’s the surviving court mages and spymasters who are playing this game.

“Sixty thousand,” Jaskier says, easily.

Another silence, the soft jingling of coins in pouches. Trying to scrape together something to match that outrageous bid.

“Sixty-one?” comes a tentative venture, even as a hissed whisper tells the man to wait.

Jaskier scoffs. “Sixty-five.”

Geralt senses the defeat, the quick calculations regarding potential alliances - all dismissed. They have the money back in the palaces and vaults, but not here in this cavern, not tonight.

“Going once… going twice…”

Geralt feels the surging anger, the crackling of undischarged chaos - and whatever is holding it all at bay. An ancient dimeritium mine, perhaps.

The mages could probably break through its effects if they worked together - but they won’t, and they can’t burn their bridges to this place and its valuable treasures.

“Sold, to the Viscount de Lettenhove. If you will just bring your coffer, sir.”

The solid thud of a wooden chest hits a slab of rock, and Geralt hears the counting commence, by magic and by hand.

If he listens carefully, he can hear Jaskier humming, the gentle strumming of his lute. He vaguely recognises the song, he thinks, and that is likely the point. Jaskier is reminding him that he’s near, that he’s still able to breathe, to play.

“It is all verified genuine,” the auctioneer declares, clearly a little surprised. “You may remove the lot now.”

“And the auction house guarantee?” Jaskier says, a little sharply.

The auctioneer sighs, before reciting the words dully. “Not for ten years may the same lot pass through this house, dead or alive.”

“Quite right,” Jaskier says, and he’s clearly intimidating the other bidders again, heedless of their relative power.

The wind don’t cower to powerful men.

The bindings release, and it takes everything Geralt has not to collapse to the ground. Jaskier may be strong, but he can’t carry him out of there. They cannot afford to show any weakness to these predators and their masters.

The auction guards clear a path between him and his new owner, who he still can’t see all that clearly. Is he well? Favouring injuries? Everything within him longs to know.

Someone laughs in the crowd. “He’ll fall before you’re free, little bard. And then we’ll have him.”

Suddenly, Geralt feels something descend over him, very like a cloak. The light and sound is muffled again, and the crowd roars as if deprived of a spectacle.

“The lot will be concealed for ten minutes only,” the auctioneer intones. “After that, the auction will end and all participants may depart.”

Jaskier, apparently unperturbed, bows to his audience - and turns his back on Geralt. And he walks away, playing the same tune again and humming, not even glancing back over his shoulder.

Geralt stumbles after, concentrating on keeping his feet under him. He thinks it must have been some time since he was rested and fed, because his body would usually tolerate magic and deprivation better than this.

The tunnel is narrow ahead, and he bumps against the walls occasionally, keeping his eyes fixed on Jaskier. The bard is singing now, and Geralt finally recognises the Song of the Seven. Because Jaskier cannot help but prod the lions in their dens.

Every step feels like an eternity, but Jaskier doesn't speak to him, doesn’t run - he just swaggers onward, playing and singing as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

At first, he thinks he imagines the faint glow of light ahead, but as it grows, he recognises the silvery fall of moonlight. They are nearing the end, their escape.

He hopes Jaskier has a plan, because he isn’t sure he could fight a kitten right now.

Jaskier steps out into the full night, but still does not turn. He plays a few more notes, as Geralt doggedly follows, step after agonising step until he is just behind the bard.

A roar of sound rushes up the tunnel behind them, and Geralt feels the cloak of magic fall away.

Jaskier finally turns, his face lighting up as he sees Geralt, naked relief on his face and infusing his scent.

He steps forward, an embrace and a necessary intervention to stop Geralt falling to his knees.

Geralt hears the urgent whisper - “Yen, I have him.” - before the telltale light of a portal opens before them, lilacs and gooseberries spilling out into the clear night.

Jaskier drags him forward, all but carrying him, and Geralt feels Yen’s lips brush his cheek with the briefest touch.

But it does not stop there - another portal, and another, and yet another, each carrying a different scent and another dizzying, nauseating blow to Geralt’s self-control.

Finally, he stumbles into a room that radiates safety, Jaskier hauling him over to a bed he calls his own.

“--barely conscious, could hardly–”

“--risk with potions. I would need–”

“--promised she’ll be back before I could miss her, and she always–”

The fragments wash over him, and he allows his eyes to close.

When he opens them again, he finds himself propped up in bed, with Jaskier’s chest for a pillow and Ciri’s hands warming his, as she sleeps in the chair. Yennefer is busying herself by the table with Vesemir, sorting through various ingredients and tinctures, quietly debating what will and won’t work for whatever ails him.

A gentle kiss brushes against his ear. “Welcome back,” Jaskier murmurs.

His voice draws Yennefer and Vesemir’s attention away from their alchemy, and Ciri stirs at their movements. Geralt feels minutely scrutinised and overwhelmingly loved, which he doesn’t quite know what to do with.

“How…?” he rasps.

“Drink first,” Yennefer says, producing first water and then a series of potions in consultation with Vesemir, before he leaves to prepare…breakfast? Geralt has no idea what hour it is, what meal he should eat, or even what day or month.

The potions all taste awful, but he can feel them working within him, knitting him back together from the inside. Still, Yennefer hovers close by, sitting on the edge of the bed to watch over him.

Jaskier is back to humming, rocking him very gently, and Geralt can smell the stale fear, exhaustion, and guilt on his clothes.

He means to tell him that he did the right thing in running, that he was unbelievably stupid to come and rescue him, and that he’s glad to be home.

Instead, he says, “Sixty five thousand crowns.”

“We actually had sixty-seven,” Ciri pipes up, excitable in a way only a child could be when discussing the budget of a small kingdom. “So I think you were a bargain, really.”

“How?” he says, again, because he doesn’t know how to ask why?

“Oh, this and that,” Jaskier says, evasively, as if this were the kind of spare change one found in the bottom of a pack.

“I sold four manor houses,” Yennefer said, rolling her eyes at Jaskier, which slightly dulled the blow of four manor houses. “And I called in some favours of a financial nature.”

“Yen…” he says, though it comes out rough, his body fighting fatigue and foundering with it.

Her hand strokes over his arm, catching on a bandage, and he belatedly realises he’s bare-chested save for bandages. A great many bandages.

“Please. What need have I for manor houses when I have a winter holiday home in the mountains?” She gestures to the room, which Geralt’s brain sluggishly informs him is his bedroom at Kaer Morhen. Their bedroom.

“But Jaskier…” Ciri begins, then trails off.

Geralt can almost feel the intensity of the look Jaskier is shooting her from beside his ear, and he tries to turn his body to catch sight of his bard’s face.

But he really is too tired even for that small movement, and instead submits to drinking more water and some kind of bone broth that uncomfortably reminds him of recovering from the Trials.

“I think they kept you in some kind of cursed sleep for the past two weeks,” Yennefer says, with distaste. “Not a proper stasis, which is why your body has barely healed and you’ve lost so much strength - amateurs.”

That’s why it feels as if Jaskier is holding him up, why that familiar embrace feels so much more like support.

That, and the sum of sixty five thousand crowns smothering him.

“He’s brooding,” Yennefer teases, fondly, directing the remark over Geralt’s shoulder. “You’ll have to tell him.”

“When he’s better,” Jaskier says, firmly, trying to shut down the conversation again.

But that comment only worries Geralt more - what can’t he be told now, in his present state? Is he really so frail, or is Jaskier’s secret so terrible as to destroy him?

“He looks pretty upset now,” Ciri says, dubiously.

Jaskier sighs deeply, knowing when he’s outnumbered.

“I sold my title,” he says, blandly, as if talking about some cheap trinket. “The title, the holdings, my place in the succession for the Earldom. It’s not like I was doing anything with them anyway.”

Geralt knows very little about Jaskier’s noble life, but he knows enough to see that this is not some trivial thing. A noble title is currency, power and privilege. “I’m sorry, Jask.”

“Oh, really, Ferrant will be a much better Earl. Don’t get all emotional on me again.”

Geralt still can’t see Jaskier’s face, but he can see Yennefer and Ciri well enough. He’s missing something here.

“That…doesn’t add up,” he says, quietly. Even with the addition of the manor houses, he doesn't see how a minor Earldom in Redania could raise that kind of capital.

A quieter, more subdued sigh. “And Valdo Marx paid an extortionate sum for me never to play in a tournament or court again.”

Geralt cannot help his involuntary gasp, searching Yennefer and Ciri’s faces for the truth of it.

“You didn't.”

“Geralt, I don’t care about accolades half as much as Valdo does. I haven't entered a tournament in three years. No court will pay me after I just swiped you out from under their noses.”

“We got what we wanted,” Yennefer says, softly, her eyes boring into his to make him understand.

“And we wanted what we got,” Jaskier adds, quietly, pressing another kiss to Geralt’s ear and drawing his arms tighter around him.

“It’s too much,” Geralt whispers, brokenly. “I’m not–”

“If you dare say you’re not worth it,” Ciri says, sharply, “I’ll remind you of all the times you've told me never to say that or to even think it.”

They close in around him then, Yennefer and Ciri enfolding him in their arms, as Jaskier continues to hold him. His family, a fortress greater than any built of stone or silver.

He feels his breath hitch in his chest, even if the tears that should fall deserted him long ago.

“How did you know…I was there?”

“The auction house broadcast their finds–,” Yennefer begins, but Geralt shakes his head, trying to find the right words.

“After, with the spell?” He turns his head slightly towards Jaskier. “You knew I was there.”

To his surprise, Jaskier huffs out a laugh. “I’m supposed to say something grand here about true love and destiny and that sort of thing. But the truth is that I could hear it. I was playing so I could hear the echoes in the cavern - I knew there was a solid something blocking the sound behind me and I just hoped it was you.”

“That is appallingly clever, bard,” Yennefer says, clearly impressed.

“That was scarily complimentary, witch.”

“I love you. All of you.”

It takes him a moment to realise that he’s the one who’s spoken, but then they fold themselves around him again, closer. And he feels that perhaps he could be worthy of it.

#the witcher #the witcher fic #geraskefer #geraskier #hurt/comfort #family of destiny #dftea writes

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