#vartok | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

dreamofbecoming · 2 years

Text

bitten lips and broken hands

the incomparable @wren-of-the-woods tagged me in a totally innocuous wip ask game, and although i had no current wips, this apparently triggered my latent gifted child programming and i ended up staying up all night to write this

so thank you wren from the bottom of my heart, and i hope all y’all enjoy whatever the fuck this is

geraskier/implied pre-geraskefer

rating: t

wc: 6500

ao3

Geralt is drunk. Properly drunk, too, not just the lights are all brighter and the jokes all funnier drunk. Perhaps not quite oh dear, is that the floor? How did it get all the way up he- drunk, but certainly in the vicinity of I might not remember deciding to homestead in this ditch on the side of the road, but surely it was a good decision and I stand by it drunk.

In his defense, he’s quite sure he’s earned it. They all have, after everything. So many of his brothers dead, blood soaking into the stone floor again, throwing him back to the Sacking...he snatches the bottle from Lambert and downs another swig of White Gull to cut off that line of thinking. That’s why they’re getting drunk, to stop thinking about it. Getting maudlin, while on brand, defeats the whole purpose. Ciri is safe, gone to bed hours ago, and he got Yen settled into an empty room (near Vesemir’s, who promised to keep an ear out in case she tried anything unsavory) after supper before heading back down to get pissed with his brothers, so there’s nothing keeping him from what he’s definitely earned.

Vartok and Tolbert are already passed out, drooling on the floor in front of the fire, but Geralt and Eskel and Lambert have at least another bottle to get through.

“So whas- wash- what’s the deal with your bard, anyway? The fuck’d you bring him here for?”

“Lam, don’ be a fuckin’ prick, hey? Bard’s nice enough. Likes Lil Bleater! ‘s good people!”

“’as how I know he’s mad! Nobob- boby- nobody likes that bloody monster! Fuckin’ menace she is.”

“Don’ fuckin’ insult my damn goat, you ass! Yer jus’ cross she got into your room las’ year. ‘s yer own fault! Told you! Shut the door! Pass the damn Gull, Wolf, quit hoggin’ it.”

“Those were bran’ new boots! Fuckin’ beast! You still owe me new ones, ya prick. The fuck was I talking about anyway?”

Geralt is only half listening to the familiar bickering, so Eskel has to stop guzzling from the rapidly emptying bottle to answer. “Bard,” he nods decisively, going back to the bottle.

“Right! Bard! The fuck were you thinking, Pretty Boy? Fancy type like that, all, all frilly and shit, what good is he in a wisher- witcher keep? Tossing rocks about in the middle of fights? ‘ sides, dunno why he’s still hangin’ around you anyway, din’ you chase him off? Don’ belong here, that one.”

“I know,” Geralt laments. He does know. It’s why he never invited Jaskier here to winter with him, despite the many and myriad hints he pretended not to pick up on over the years. He knew from the moment he met Jaskier that this place, with its ghosts and bloodstains and drafty corridors and broken edges and broken witchers, was no place for someone like his the bard. Someone bright and vibrant and joyful. Kaer Morhen was none of those things. Even whole and full of life, it had been a cruel and a hard place. A place of dead children and frightened youths and cold men. No, he had never wanted to see Jaskier in these halls if he could help it.

“Din’ have much of a choice, y’know. Yen ‘s all-” He waves his hand vaguely about in an approximation of the chaos that was the days following the mess at Nenneke’s. “Hadta get Ciri back. Wouldn’ta brought him here otherwise.”

In hindsight, he’ll probably blame the drink for the fact that he didn’t register the familiar scent of sweat and parchment and almond oil, but the truth is, he’s so lost in thoughts of Jaskier already that he assumes it’s only in his head.

It is not. Eskel whaps him on the shoulder in alarm, trying to cut him off, but it’s too late. Jaskier stands motionless in the doorway for a moment before he whirls on his heel and vanishes into the hall, the tray of food he had obviously very thoughtfully prepared for them clattering to the ground behind him.

Geralt abruptly feels very sober. Jaskier’s face, eyes huge and brimming with tears, expression utterly crushed, is going to haunt him, he knows. It’s like the mountain all over again.

“...whoops?” Lambert tries, though he does look genuinely contrite, for Lambert values of contrite, anyway. Granted, he’s already out of his seat and gathering up the scattered food onto the discarded platter, shoveling a roll into his mouth straight off the floor, so Geralt takes his remorse with several grains of salt.

“G’wan, you hafta fix it! Go talk to him!” Eskel shoves him off the couch, gesturing frantically at the doorway where Jaskier disappeared from.

Geralt’s reflexes are slow, and his brain hasn’t quite caught up with the situation, but as the shock starts to wear off, hot shame followed by cold dread settles into his limbs, sending him stumbling down the hall towards the bedrooms. The molten pit of shame in his gut writhes even harder when he realizes he doesn’t know which room Jaskier has been staying in, hasn’t even gone to see him once since arriving, not even to check on him after the battle. Gods, he’s an awful friend.

Shoving down feelings that will do him no good right now, he tries to shake off some of the lingering alcohol haze not burned off by adrenaline and focus on Jaskier’s scent as it leads him through the winding corridors of the keep, tainted as it is by the scent of saltwater tears and moldy grief.

He finds him on one of the lower levels, in a cramped little room off a side hallway without even a hearth. There are no torches lit, but a magelight Yen must have cast sometime before supper glows over the desk, though why she would use her freshly-restored, still-regenerating power on something like that, Geralt isn’t sure.

What’s worse, Jaskier is packing.

To be fair, there isn’t much to be packed, but he’s carefully stacking notebooks into a satchel Geralt recognizes as dwarven design, which he assumes Yarpen and his people gave to him on the way across the Continent.

“Jas-”

“I hope one more night won’t be too much of an imposition,” he interrupts. “Yen’s already asleep, I checked, and after what she went through today, it seemed unchivalrous to wake her just to ask her for a portal off the mountain. You have my word I’ll be-” Jaskier’s voice, already thin and warbling from tears, breaks for a moment before he recovers, “I’ll be off your hands just as soon as possible. I never intended to intrude on a place I...I don’t belong.”

His back is to the witcher, and Geralt can see the quiver in his shoulders as he grips the desk with white knuckles, the strain of holding himself together causing him to shake where he stands. His choice of phrasing does not go unnoticed, hitting its mark like Geralt is sure it was meant to. It twists in his belly like poisoned dagger, burning and tugging.

“Jas that wasn’t- I didn’t- fuck. Fuck! I’m too fucking drunk for this.” He finds himself all at once overwhelmed, the grief and the shock and the guilt and the fear and the fucking White Gull and now the thought of the inevitable loss of Jaskier all running into each other and piling up and taking his legs out from under him. He sits down hard on the bed, his face in his hands.

There’s a long pause, then a rustling and a clinking sound he barely registers, before Jaskier’s voice, much close than before, says, “Here.”

When he looks up, the bard is standing before him, eyes red and cheeks tear-tracked, expression hard. He’s holding out a vial. Geralt takes it on instinct, body not needing input from his brain to trust that anything Jaskier gives him is safe to consume.

“It’s White Honey, not Wives’ Tears, but it should still help.”

“Where- why? How?”

Jaskier shrugs. “Guess I never got out of the habit of carrying the basics. Vesemir let me nick a few from the stores here, since all my things in Oxenfurt have probably been picked off by now.”

Bewildered, Geralt drinks the potion down. It isn’t as instantaneous as Tears would be, but alcohol is close enough to toxicity that he still feels his head start to clear. There’s so much he wants to address about everything Jaskier just said, but he has no idea where to start.

“Didn’t mean it like that, y’know. I swear. I didn’t.”

“Forgive me if that doesn’t make me feel better, Geralt. How the fuck did you mean it, then? How exactly am I meant to take hearing that I don’t belong here, and you wouldn’t have brought me if you had another choice?”

Fuck. That does sound really bad out loud. Geralt never meant for him to hear any of that, but that’s no excuse.

“’s not- ugh. It’s not that you don’t- it’s here, Jas, not you. Here doesn’t belong with...fuck. I hate this. You know I’m no good at this!”

Jaskier continues to lean against the desk, arms crossed. He raises one eyebrow, and Geralt knows no help is coming. He isn’t being let off the hook this time. He puts his face back in his hands with a groan. He almost wishes he hadn’t taken the Honey, maybe alcohol would loosen his tongue enough to help explain to Jaskier why he should want to get off this mountain as fast as possible, why belonging here was the last thing Geralt wants for him, wants for anyone he loves.

(He balks a little at the word, but inside his own mind, at least for now, it’s easy enough to ignore. And it’s not like he hasn’t know its true for years; its just one of the many things he decided a long time ago to pretend weren’t happening to him. The Child Surprise and the djinn wish came back to bite him in the ass, but surely it can’t hurt to ignore this lesson one more time, right?)

“You don’t belong in this place, just like- just like you don’t belong with me, ok?”

The moldy, rotten scent of grief and hurt swells so quickly Geralt almost sneezes. He looks up in alarm to see Jaskier staggering back towards the wall, away from Geralt, a look on his face like the witcher had just carved up his sister in front of him. He looks gutted. Fuck, that hadn’t come out right either, had it?

“Well, witcher, that certainly does clear things up. I suppose I should thank you for refraining from screaming my faults in my face this time. I apologize for having inflicted my presence on you for so long, then. Message received.” Geralt winces at the epithet, always before so soft in Jaskier’s mouth, so full of affection and admiration, now sharp and bloody on his lips.

“Wait, no, fuck, that isn’t what I meant!”

“No need to explain any further. You can go back to your brothers now, I’m sure they’re missing you. I can finish packing on my own. I’ll be gone in the morning, you won’t have to suffer me any further.”

“Jaskier, would you fucking listen to me? I don’t mean I don’t want you here! Of course I want you here! I always want you here!” Geralt is shouting now, desperation flooding him with adrenaline that feels remarkably like familiar, comfortable anger, and he leans into it.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean? You just told me I don’t belong here in your home, I don’t belong by your side, you only allowed me here because you had no choice, your brother called me useless and you flat-out agreed with him, how fucking dare you tell me you want me here! It’s cruel to toy with me like this, Geralt! You’re many things, but I’ve never known you to be cruel before, so please just go and let me take myself off your fucking hands in peace!”

Geralt feels frantic, out of control. Jaskier is slipping through his fingers and he doesn’t know which words to pick to stop it from happening. The thought that just an hour ago, he was planning out the best way to take the bard down the mountain as soon as the snow cleared, to send him back to a better, safer, happier life, a life without Geralt in it, doesn’t occur to him. Everything is blanked out by terror, leaving only the singular thought that he has to make Jaskier stop looking like that, stop smelling like that, has to fix what he keeps breaking.

“You don’t belong with me because you belong somewhere better, you fucking moron!”

Hm. Not quite the tone he was going for, but closer than before, at least.

Jaskier has stopped moving altogether, and is staring at him in something like shocked incredulity. At least he’s stopped shoving potions into his satchel, which is something.

Geralt can see Jaskier trying to formulate a response, emotions shifting rapidly across his face as his scent fluctuates wildly, pingponging from rage to hope to hurt and back again. Eventually he seems to settle on flat indignation.

“I’m going to need you to elaborate on that, Geralt. I have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about.” Based on the expression on his face, Geralt doubts that, but apparently being forced to articulate himself is his punishment for being an ass.

“You don’t- you aren’t- ugh. You’re good, Jaskier! You’re light and laughter and softness. You’re pretty silks and rich foods and shiny jewelry. You play for kings and queens, you have Oxenfurt panting after you every year to teach more classes, you’ve had half the pretty people on the Continent in your bed, and every one of them has begged you not to leave! I’ve known it since we met, Jaskier, you don’t belong on the Path. You don’t belong in the damp and the muck and the blood and the shit. You don’t belong with a fucking Butcher! I tried so hard, Jaskier, for so long, to make you leave. To make you see that you deserve more. Deserve better. I don’t know why the fuck you kept coming back, but I thought after the mountain I had finally done it, I had finally made you see. But I was weak and when Yen fucked me over I got scared, I came to you because you’re the only person I know who would keep coming back, who I could trust with Ciri because you kept picking me for all those years when I didn’t deserve it. But you were supposed to be gone! You were supposed to be safe! You should have been happy in Oxenfurt without me, and instead I dragged you back into this nightmare and almost got you killed and now you’re stuck in this horrible keep full of the ghosts of dead witchers and my idiot dickhead brothers and I can’t even get my shit together enough to be nice to you! Why the fuck are you here, Jaskier? Why the fuck do you want to belong here? It’s fucking terrible here! You should be somewhere better!”

Geralt collapses back onto the side of the bed, having gotten up to pace at some point during that monologue, most of which was less conscious speech and more “ripped straight out of his ribcage by some unseen force.” Fuck, he’s actually winded. He hasn’t shouted that much without stopping since the Trials, he doesn’t think.

Jaskier is staring again, eyebrows nearly touching his hairline and his mouth hanging open. Geralt very carefully does not think about Jaskier’s open mouth, in much the same way he has carefully not thought about Jaskier’s mouth for the last 15 years or so.

It takes a moment for Jaskier to gather his thoughts, and Geralt thinks it might be the longest moment of his life thus far. He fights the urge to fidget with his hands, a nervous habit he didn’t realize he had picked up from the bard until after the mountain, and thereafter made a deliberate effort to squash.

Finally Jaskier seems to come to some internal decision, and he nods to himself before meeting Geralt’s eyes squarely. “I have a number of questions, Geralt, but the first and most consequential is this: who the fuck do you think you are?”

“Wh- huh?” Apparently Geralt has spent all of the words he had available, which isn’t terribly surprising given the circumstances. That isn’t where he expected Jaskier’s reaction to go, though.

“I said, witcher, who the fuck do you think you are, to decide for me the company I should keep and the kind of life I should lead?”

Well, shit. “That’s not- I wasn’t-”

“Because the last person to try that was the Count de fucking Lettenhove, darling, and I assure you, it didn’t work for him, either.”

Geralt blinks. His brain latches onto the pet name, which seems like it must be an improvement over witcher spat with such vitriol, even if it still sounds distinctly like an insult in that tone. He fights to regain some of his footing in this conversation, which is rapidly changing directions to somewhere he did not expect and is not prepared for, to no avail. Luckily, or perhaps unluckily, Jaskier isn’t done.

“Do you really think me so shallow? So soft? That I’m nothing but silks and sex and a pretty face? Do you think the university wants me to teach because I’m- what was it Lambert called me? Frilly? Do you know what I was doing in Oxenfurt before you found me? Because I assure you, dear heart, I wasn’t fucking lounging about on featherbeds drinking Toussainti wine!”

Geralt’s brow furrows in confusion, which seems to stoke the bard’s ire from embers to a conflagration.

“You fucker, that is what you fucking thought! You never even fucking asked, you utter ass! I was bloody tortured for you and you want to send me back because, what, you think whenever I’m not with you I’m fulfilling my life’s fucking purpose as a vapid, foppish little brat? You don’t fucking know me at all, do you? I can’t fucking believe you right now!” Jaskier’s face is flushed with anger, teeth bared and scent spiking burnt and bitter.

Geralt’s thoughts have all screeched to a grinding halt, the room fading out around him as his focus narrows completely to the man before him.

“Tortured?” His voice quavers in a way that would probably embarrass him if he could think about anything but Jaskier’s voice on a loop in his head, tortured tortured tortured. He’s had this nightmare before, a dozen times and more.

Jaskier seems to bring himself up short, confusion flashing briefly across his face. “I- yes? Yen said she told you...I thought that’s why you came for me?”

“She said. She. She said you were “in some trouble.” The guard outside the jail said you were locked up for peeping. I just assumed…”

Jaskier’s face has gone flat and blank again, and the rotten smell of hurt is swirling in the air again, mixing unpleasantly with the burnt anger smell and turning Geralt’s stomach.

“You just thought I had done something stupid and selfish and probably involving my dick, and never thought to question it or ask me if I was alright.”

“I- yes. I mean no, I- I should have- I- Jaskier, please, what happened?” He isn’t proud of the pleading note in his voice, but the longer he waits for answers the stronger the urge gets to throw himself off the tallest tower the keep has, or grab Jaskier around the middle and wrap him in blankets and never let him out of his sight, neither of which he thinks would go over well with the other residents.

A note of uncertainty creeps into Jaskier voice and demeanor, which Geralt finds somehow more painful than the anger. “I- there was a mage. He was looking for you. Well, I think ultimately he was looking for Ciri, but he knew he needed to find you first. And I guess I’ve done quite a good job tying our reputations together over the years, and I wasn’t exactly hard to track down, so I guess…”

A mage…“Firefucker.”

Jaskier huffs a laugh, a bitter, unhappy thing. “An appropriate moniker. I see you ran into him eventually.” He looks up in sudden alarm. “I didn’t- Geralt, I didn’t tell him anything. I swear I didn’t. I mean, I said you told me of a witcher keep, but I told him that the fortress in the mountains was a story I made up, and even if he took that and ran with it, I never even said which mountains! I promise, Geralt, I’d have died before I let him hurt you, or Ciri, I swear it.”

Geralt isn’t sure how many times his heart can break in a single day, in a single conversation. Surely it can’t be many more after this, can it?

“I...I’m not worried about that, Jaskier. In fact, if anything like that ever happens in the future, you tell them everything. Whatever they want to know. You tell them everything you know, before you let them hurt you, Jaskier, please, promise me you’ll tell them.”

Jaskier’s eyes seem older than Geralt has ever seen them, full of a boundless sadness he never wants his bard to have to feel ever again. “You know I can’t promise that, my dear. If I had to do it over, I’d do it all again. I’d suffer him burning my fingers clean off before I let him anywhere near you.”

Geralt reaches for Jaskier’s hand automatically, only realizing at the last moment that he might not welcome the touch. He withdraws his hand reluctantly, trying to subtly angle his head instead to see Jaskier’s fingers where they’re tucked under his crossed arms.

“Are you- did they- how-” Luckily Jaskier seems to have retained his fluency in Geraltese, and holds out his right hand for inspection. The skin is shiny and red, obviously burned, but definitely in the later stages of healing. There are no open sores or blisters, and he winces in discomfort but not pain when he stretches the mottled skin by splaying his fingers out.

“Yennefer was kind enough to take a look at them earlier, once we were sure none of you were being stoic idiots and hiding injuries. They’ll be alright eventually, she thinks. And it isn’t like I have a lute to play at the moment, anyway, so it’s no great hardship to rest them while they heal. I had some trouble writing earlier, but I didn’t put all that effort in school into being able to write with either hand for nothing. You needn’t worry about me, Geralt. I’m fine, I promise.”

Geralt is quite sure he isn’t fine at all. None of this is fine. Every part of this is setting off a screaming klaxon in his head of wrongWrongWRONG and he has no idea how to fix any of it. The choice of room suddenly makes a great deal more sense, though, as does the magelight. Geralt feels a sudden, fierce rush of gratitude for Yen. Even though he’s still furious with her, and it’ll be a long time before he trusts her the way he once did, she’s obviously been taking care of Jaskier where he has failed utterly in doing so, and he’s desperately thankful that at least his inattention hasn’t left Jaskier completely alone. He isn’t sure when the two of them got as close as they clearly are, but upon reflection, he finds no jealousy, only gratefulness and a hint of chagrin that he has so clearly failed where the two of them have succeeded in making each other happy.

Jaskier is still holding his injured hand out between them. Geralt moves slowly, waiting for any sign that Jaskier doesn’t want him near, reaching out to grasp it gently, careful of the inflamed skin. Jaskier lets him, sitting down beside him on the edge of the mattress.

“I’m sorry, Jaskier. I’m sorry I sent you away, I’m sorry I wasn’t there to protect you from this. I’m sorry you were hurt because of me. This is the opposite of what I wanted. I hoped you would be safer without me. Happier. This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“There you go again, martyring yourself on the altar of other people’s choices. When will you learn, Geralt? You’re so desperate to push away anyone who gets close, because you think you’re some kind of curse on our lives. That’s bollocks. We stay because we want to. We sacrifice because we want to. We risk danger because we want to. Because being around you is worth it. We’re not asking for protection, or saving, or glitz and glamor. We’re only asking to stay. Because we want to. Because you’re worth it, you unbelievable moron. Stop trying to make everyone else’s choices for them, for once.”

He isn’t sure he can wrap his head around that right now, so he doesn’t try, but he does tuck it close to his heart for safekeeping, to turn it over in his hands later like a precious stone. He’s still holding Jaskier’s hand, and he squeezes gently for lack of a better response.

“I am sorry, you know. For what I said in Caingorn. It wasn’t true. None of it. I shouldn’t have lashed out when you were just trying to help.”

“You know it was never about what you said, right?”

Geralt makes a questioning noise, and Jaskier rolls his eyes.

“I’ve known you for 25 years, shithead, you don’t think I know how you get when you’re angry? You don’t think I can tell when you’re pissed at yourself and taking it out on whatever’s nearby? You think I haven’t heard worse insults from you than a bunch of blatant falsehoods and a melodramatic declaration of never wanting to see me again? Please, I got more cutting rebukes from my kid cousins growing up. Yes, it was shitty, and yes, it stung in the moment, but I never took it to heart.”

Fearing to know, but needing the answer all the same, Geralt asks, “What, then? I heard the song, you know.” The sharp intake of breath tells him Jaskier knows which song he means. “In Aedirn, in some backwater town. There was some nobody bard there, but even if he performed it terribly, I could tell it was yours. I had thought about looking for you once I got Ciri settled, but when I heard that song...I knew there was no fixing it. I knew you hated me properly, after that. So if it wasn’t what I said, what was it?”

Geralt hears the hitch in Jaskier’s breath and smells the salt of his tears, but he can’t bring himself to look up for this. He can’t bear to be looking into those blue eyes he loves so dearly as Jaskier explains how Geralt managed to destroy the best thing in his long, wretched life. He does hold his hand a little tighter, and hopes it’s enough to keep him here.

“I’m sorry for that. I needed to write it, but I should never have played it for anyone. I never meant to, really. You never should have heard it, and I’m sorry you had to. I was angry when I wrote it, and bitter, and...well. Heartbroken, I suppose. It’s no excuse, though.”

Geralt has a lot of questions about that, actually, but he still needs an answer to the one he already asked. “Why did you write it, then? If it wasn’t...what was it, Jaskier? What did I do?”

“You didn’t come back.”

He does look up then, confused, searching Jaskier’s face for clarity. He looks haunted, and desperately sad. He apparently reads Geralt’s need for clarification on his face, and continues.

“It was hardly the first time you got angry and took it out on me because I was the closest target. Not that that’s a great pattern in itself,” Geralt winces in agreement and apology, “but it wasn’t anything I wasn’t used to. I knew the routine- you get mad, you lash out, you cool off, you give me the biggest portion of supper or a sweetbun from the market or swing towards a town sooner than we have to instead of apologizing out loud, I forgive you, we move on.

“I figured I would head back to the camp, let you cool off for a few hours, and then try again. Of course, then I talked to Borch and got the bones of what had happened, and I realized it was bigger than I’d thought, and you might need longer to calm down, so when I realized you weren’t coming back right away, I managed to tag along with the dwarves on the way down. I grabbed the essentials out of Roach’s packs and set up at the inn at the foot of the mountain. I’m not sure if you noticed, but I left nearly all our coin with you. I only took enough for a night’s room and supper, since I was too tired to play after the hike down.

“I waited for you, Geralt. I stayed posted up there for three weeks. When you never came, I thought maybe you had just needed even more time alone, so once I’d overstayed my welcome there I started making my way towards Oxenfurt- the long way, mind, I swung all the way inland to Ard Carriagh, hoping to catch you on your way home for the winter. I made sure to be as loud and ostentatious as I could, so you’d be able to track me down when you were ready. Months I waited, Geralt. Months.

“I didn’t accept that you weren’t coming back for me until spring. That’s when I gave up.” Geralt’s heart cracks for what must be the dozenth time tonight, but he doesn’t dare interrupt. “I ended up at the Seat Of Friendship, looking for some kind of community, of purpose, to fill the space you left. That’s when I wrote- well. That’s when I wrote that song. And it was good, there. I missed you, I was hurt, but I felt safe, and appreciated, and understood. It was like being a student again, surrounded by other artists, all feeding off each other’s creative energy. And then…” He takes a deep, shuddering breath, and clutches Geralt’s hand tight enough to hurt anyone who wasn’t a witcher.

“It was a massacre, Geralt. It was like nothing I’ve ever experienced. I didn’t- I couldn’t-” He breaks off again, choking on a sob. Unable to stand it any longer, Geralt tucks an arm around his shoulders, pulling him tentatively closer. Jaskier crumples, collapsing into Geralt’s chest and clutching at his tunic as he sobs into his neck. Geralt rubs soothing circles into Jaskier’s back, like he used to sometimes when they shared a bedroll and Jaskier would wake them both with nightmares of a childhood he refused to discuss.

Long minutes later, Jaskier’s weeping slows, cries quieting to whimpers. He draws back from Geralt’s shoulder enough to swipe the sleeve of his doublet over his face, blotchy and red and tear-stained as it is. Geralt is reluctant to move his arm from around Jaskier’s shoulders, but luckily Jaskier only settles more comfortably into his side, still sniffling. Geralt savors the solid warmth of him against his side as he waits for him to be ready to continue.

“There was nothing I could do to save them. I barely made it out alive myself. I’ve never felt so fucking helpless, Geralt. So useless. I had to do something. I’d have gone mad if I didn’t. So, I took some of the coin from my father’s coffers, and bought a tavern in Oxenfurt, right on the pier. I managed to leverage my spywork to coax some more coin out of the Redanian Crown, and used that to set up a smuggling network with some old connections from my school days and a handful of likeminded survivors of Bleobheris, and I became the Sandpiper.

“The song was never meant to be public, truly. Right after I bought the pub, before the network was fully set up, I was...struggling. Owning a bar means pretty much unlimited access to alcohol and I...well. I don’t remember a lot of those first few weeks, really. I woke up one particular morning with no memory of the night before, until I was playing my set that night and people started requesting Burn, Butcher, Burn. Apparently I’d been feeling especially maudlin the night before and I played it while I was blackout drunk. There was a witcher in town, as I recall. Something about a monster in the sewers under the university, I was trying not to pay a lot of attention. He was a Bear, if the rumors were correct, but still close enough to set off unwanted memories, and send me to the bottom of several bottles.”

Guilt and resentment war for dominance in Geralt’s gut, churning violently. He wants to stop Jaskier, doesn’t want to hear any more, but he can’t, and he knows he shouldn’t.

“It was never meant to get out. My life’s work has been erasing the Butcher of Blaviken from history entirely. I was angry, Geralt, I am angry, but I never wanted to use that name against you. Never that. I am truly sorry for that.”

Geralt can hardly believe that after everything Jaskier has just explained, all the anguish Geralt had caused with his selfish, childish actions, that Jaskier is still apologizing to him. Sure, he hates that fucking song, but it isn’t like he hasn’t earned the name, both times apparently.

“You don’t- I’m not- You don’t owe me an apology, Jaskier. I would deserve it just for wounding you, now doubly so for not realizing just how deeply I had. I can’t...I don’t know how to fix it, Jaskier. I don’t know how to make it up to you. How can I fix it?”

Jaskier sits back, drawing his leg up onto the bed between them to better face Geralt head on. Geralt mourns the loss of contact, but holds Jaskier’s clear blue gaze with his own, hoping against hope that he’ll get to keep at least this, if nothing else.

“Are you going to send me away again?”

Geralt grimaces, but concedes it’s a fair question. “I thought it was the best thing for you, Jaskier. The safest thing. I only wanted you to be where you would be happiest.”

“That’s not your fucking call to make, witcher, and it’s not what I asked. Are you going to send me away again, yes or no?”

“No. Part of me still feels like I should, but I don’t think I could if I tried, anymore. I had been planning to, but when I came in here and you were packing, I...I’ve only felt fear like that when Yen took Ciri. Maybe it’s weak, but I don’t want to lose you again, Jaskier. I don’t want to be without you.”

Jaskier’s eyes are swimming with tears again, but his scent is full of cautious hope, telling Geralt he finally said something right.

“You’re a bastard and an idiot, and I want to stab you a little bit for that answer, but I’m going to focus on the positives because I’m fucking exhausted. We can deal with the rest tomorrow.” He pauses, uncharacteristically self-conscious. “Will you...will you stay with me tonight? I just- the nightmares used to be easier with you there, on the Path, and I thought, if you were alright with it, we could-”

Geralt takes pity and cuts him off. “I’ll stay. Do you...would you come to my room instead? The bed is bigger, there. There’s a hearth, but I can put it out if you need. It should be warm enough with an extra fur or two, with two of us in the bed.”

The sour smell of embarrassment fills the air as a blush creeps up Jaskier’s neck. “That obvious, huh?”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Jaskier. You were hurt with fire, fear is a normal reaction. It should fade eventually, and I’ll help you in the meantime. We all will. You already have Yen wrapped around your finger, if she’s conjuring you magelights.”

The attempt at levity works, drawing a chuckle from the bard as he looks up at the light hanging above their heads. Geralt notes with vague interest that it apparently followed Jaskier across the room when he moved to sit by Geralt, meaning it will probably also follow him up to Geralt’s room, eliminating the need to make Jaskier anxious with torches. Geralt will have to track Yen down tomorrow and thank her, anger or not. She really has come through for Jaskier, and that’s a debt Geralt can never repay.

The newfound camaraderie between the bard and the witch raises some interesting possibilities for the shape of his relationships with both of them eventually, but that’s a thought for far, far in the future. He has bridges to construct and trust to rebuild with both of them before that’s worth thinking about, and Ciri will have to be all of their first priorities for a while yet, but it’s nice to have something to look forward to. Geralt had almost forgotten what being hopeful for the future felt like, he’s spent so long running from it or assuming he didn’t have one. It’s nice, he thinks. Strange, but nice.

But that’s for later. For now, he has a bed waiting for him, and a bard to fill it with him, and the promise of at least one more day without that bard fleeing Geralt’s brutish ways down the mountain. He has a daughter to train in the morning, and brothers to tease for their inevitable hangovers, and a father to thank for looking out for his bard while he couldn’t, and a witch to start to reconcile with.

It’s enough, for now. It’s enough.

#the witcher #twn #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #dandelion #julian alfred pankratz #eskel #lambert #the witcher fanfiction #my writing #i’m sorry they talk so much #i always start out with such grand ideals of being funny and poignant #and then it’s just two dumbasses spouting exposition at each other for 3k words #if i could make them stop i would #snaksofhdbkaksjd i just! realized i forgot about coen!!!#he’s uhhhhh asleep already whoops #my brain has so thoroughly classified him as Not A Wolf that i fully forgot he should be there at the start of this ahhhhh i’m so sorry coe

150 notes · View notes

wetnoodle · 11 months

Text

Who is this man. What is his name. He is so beautiful. And I cannot stop thinking about him. But idk who he is. And he’s only in like three clips. So if anyone knows what his name is please let me know. And while ur at it could u tell me the rest of their names.

Maybe one day I’ll get round to actually reading more of the books. But for now I need to know. How am I supposed to daydream if I don’t know all of their names

Update:

The article says that Everard, Gwain and Merek were the ones to be killed in their sleep. And that Vartok and Yrden and another nameless Witcher get killed to the basilisks. I’m not sure how accurate this is. Yrden being a sign, but also not the sign they use in the scene I swear they use quen.

But the two in the picture survive. It is possible they don’t have names. As it seems the guy who got his head ripped off didn’t either. But why give some of them names and not the others

#the witcher #the witcher netflix #jaskier #witcher jaskier #jaskier the bard #geralt of rivia #witcher geralt

19 notes · View notes

jegvetikkex · 3 months

Text

vegre egeszseges vagyok erre azt kapom hogy beteg fasz. mit vartok tolem? mit?

0 notes

bukimevieningi · 1 year

Text

Savaitgalio filmas. "Pirk-Vartok-Pirk" (video)

Dėmesio verta dokumentika, kurioje pasakojama kaip žmonės (eilinį kartą) yra apgaudinėjami. Šį kartą gamybos procese per vadinamąjį “suplanuotą gedimą”. Šiame filme pasakojama kaip gamintojai nutarė tyčia gaminti mažiau patvarius daiktus tam, jog būtų galima daugiau pagaminti, o tuo pačiu ir parduoti. Nuo to laimi tik mažuma, kuri gauna pelną. O pralaimi visi, nes turi vis iš naujo pirkti…

youtube

View On WordPress

#Vartojimas #Youtube

0 notes

mamagrizknamo · 2 years

Text

Levandų drebučiai su inkliuzais

Kartą reikėjo pirkti degtinės. Ne sau, žmogui, kuriam turėjau atsidėkoti būtent degtine.

Stoviu alkoholio skyriuje ir bandau man neįmanomą misiją įgyvendinti. Stoviu visaip - ir tiesiai, ir, kai viršutines lentynas išsamiai apžiūriu, pasilenkusi. Galiausiai atsitupiu ir, ištraukusi apdulkėjusius butelius, rankose pavartau. Kai degtinės butelių rikiuotę pakeičia baltas, raudonas ir rožinis vynas, grįžtu atgal, į pradžią, ir darau tą patį - stoviu, paskui pasilenkiu ir atsitupiu. Kokius tris kartus iš eilės ir jau trečioje parduotuvėje.

Paskui rankinėje susirandu akinius ir bandau skaityt etiketes su jose užfiksuota gėralo sudėtimi. Nepadeda, nes visuose buteliuose visos sudėtinės dalys absoliučiai vienodos, o ir aprašymuose, jei tokių randu, teigiama, kad degtinė labai švari ir labai gera - nors imk ir kasdien vartok, pvz., vietoj vandens.

Ok, darom kitaip - pradedu vertinti butelių dizainą. Žinau kokios formos man patinka, bet nežinau kokios patinka tam žmogui - perku gi jam, ne sau. Būdas nepasiteisina.

Tada, žvilgsnį sukoncentravusi į bespalvius butelių turinius, pradedu vertinti degtinių skaidrumą, bet viskas vienodai neįdomu - jokių drumzlių ar atspalvių. Bet viename plaukioja kviečio varpa - geltona, su gražiai išdėstytais grūdeliais ir juos paįvairinančiais plaukeliais. Ir net negalvodama, prijaučia tas žmogus permatomame skystyje plaukiojančioms varpoms ar ne, čiumpu šitą ir jaučiuosi adatą šieno kupetoj radusi, nes dar vaikas būdamas žinojau, kad gražiausi ir vertingiausi tie gintarai, kurie su inkliuzais. Na, jei sustingusių sakų viduje tupi kadaise žeme ropinėjęs vabalas, tai gintaras pasidaro neįkainojamos vertės dalyku. Tokių prie jūros, tiesa, nerasdavau, bet muziejuje, į kurį eidavom tada, kai oras subjurdavo, tik tokiais ir domėdavausi.

Kaip greit žmogus tą butelį išgėrė ir ar apsidžiaugė kviečio varpa, nepaklausiau, bet asmeniškai man ta dovana buvo labai graži.

Štai todėl mano virti drebučiai su inkliuzais. Nes man su gėlyte gražiau. Nes jei va šitaip, tai jau labai kažkaip kitoniškai.

Nors kitoniškumo čia, aišku, ir be gėlytės pakankamai - labai sodrus skonis, kurio žiemą, ant liežuvio užsidėję, ne tik kad vasarą prisiminsite, bet tiesiogine ta žodžio prasme atsidursite laike, kai levandos žydi ir bitutės aplink jas klajoja.

Reikės:

- saujelės levandų žiedų;

- 450 g uogienių cukraus;

- 1 v. š. pektino (nebūtina);

- 350 ml vandens;

- 3-4 v. š. citrinos sulčių;

- saujelės juodųjų serbentų uogų.*

Gaminimas:

Puodą su vandeniu užvirti, įmesti saujelę uogų ir, pavirus kokią minutę, sudėti levandų žiedus. Puodą nukaisti, sandariai uždengti ir palikti pusvalandžiui.

Galima daryti kitaip - į puodą dėti uogas, levandas ir, užplikius verdančiu vandeniu, palikti ramybėje. Šiuo atveju serbentus (ar bent jų dalį), ypač jei norisi ryškesnės ir intensyvesnės spalvos, galima sutrinti (prieš užpilant vandeniu).

Puodo turinį nukošti. Vandenį vėl užvirti, berti uogienių cukrų, pektiną ir pavirti 2-3 minutes. Supilti citrinų sultis, leisti skysčiui užvirti. Į stiklainiukus dėti po levandos šakelę - paprastai dedu tas, kurios jau buvo kartą užplikytos. Gėlės žiedukas pasitarnaus kaip įrodymas, kad čia tikrai yra TAI. Nors ragavusieji sakė, kad skonis tikrai intensyvus ir kitokių levandos buvimo ženklų nė nereikia. Na, jiems nereikia, o man tai būtinai reikia, todėl dedu.

Karštą sirupą išpilstyti į stiklainius, sandariai uždaryti ir, kaip visad, išnešus į rūsį, laukti Kalėdų - meto, kai norisi netikėtumais džiuginti ne tik save, bet ir kitus.

Drebučius tepkite ant baltos duonos, pusryčių bandelės ar balto sūrio - baisiai gurmaniškai skanu. O jei norite ko nors solidesnio, drebučius naudokite torto pertepimui. Net neabejoju, tapsite vakaro žvaigžde. Kartu su tortu, aišku.

* kai viriau paskutinį kartą, juodieji serbentai jau buvo nuskinti, tai paskyniau saują raudonųjų ir įmečiau kokias 5 ant krūmo užsilikusias juodųjų serbentų uogas - spalvinis rezultatas gavosi tikrai ne prastesnis.

#atsargos

0 notes

average-travel-companion · 2 years

Text

TWN: Witchers

So! I was minding my own business a few nights ago, playing a game on my phone, when I thought to look up the names of the actors who played witchers in TWN season two. My train of thought was as follows: "Oh, TWN didn't give us much personality for many of the witchers, maybe the actors that played them have had other, similar roles I that actually had personality, which I can use as a basis for their witcher’s personality. Alternately, I could stalk their social media so see what kind of a person they are." Lo and behold, IMDb had only officially credited the actors who had been credited by Netflix in the show. Said actors, the witchers they acted as, and their Instagram account handles are as follows:

Basil Eidenbenz - Eskel (basil.eidenbenz)

Paul Bullion - Lambert (paulbullion)

Yasen Atour - Coën (yasenatour)

Nathanial Jacobs - Everard (n.amosjay)

Jota Castellano - Gwain/Gawain (jota.castellano)

Chuey Okoye - Merek (chueyokoye)

Kim Bodina - Vesemir (doesn’t have one)

Henry Cavill - Geralt (henrycavill)

Now, that's all well and good, but in the wide shot in S2E2 where almost all witchers can be seen in one frame (here's a link to a tweet that has said picture, and some close-ups), we can see eleven (11) total witchers, and Eskel, who barges in right after said wide shot, makes a total of twelve (12) Netflix-canonical witchers. Didn’t Geralt say that there were 20 of them, when he last counted? What about the other 8 TWN? Turn on your location, I just wanna talk —

Speaking of Netflix-canonical facts, I figured refreshing my memory of TWN's page on the witchers who died in their sleep (Everard, Gawain (spelling discrepancy), Merek) couldn't hurt. Disappointingly, said page revealed no other information about said witchers.

So I went back to IMDb and saw that on the full list of credits, two more actors are credited:

Joel Adrian - Hemrik (Instagram, S2 wrap post)

Max Kraus - Tolbert (Instagram, Instagram post about 'The Good Part' of working on TWN (the few shots of using google maps to get to what i can only assume is the set is a Mood))

They're both uncredited for four (4) episodes, which is HALF THE SEASON. I am EXTREMELY angry about this. What the fuck.

Up to 10 named witchers, yaaay.

The tweet I linked to of the wide shot with almost all witchers visible in it gave the remaining two witchers the names of Diever and Vartok. However, google is unhelpful, as is instagram. And yet I persisted.

I swear to goodness I waded through IMDb for at least an hour trying to find names of stunt performers who were in both S2E2 (Kaer Morhen) and S2E8 (Family, in which there was a big battle at KM), but my search was unfruitful. Desperate, I went to Instagram.

Now I’d like to rant here a moment about how I Do Not Like Instagram. It’s hosted by facebook — sorry, “Meta” — and on the iOS app, you have to hit the screen Six Different Times to get to posts you’ve liked. That’s at least four times too many, in my opinion. So this was unfamiliar territory for me. I thought I’d be able to use IG’s search function, and it would work, and I’d easily find the actors’ names and wash my hands of the whole thing.

So you can imagine my disappointment when IG’s search function failed me.

Nevertheless, I stomped through the metaphorical swamp of IG, and I have emerged successful.

Just so we're all on the same page, I was trying to find the actors/stunt doubles who played the witchers labeled Diever and Vartok in the wide shot. Any sort of canonical confirmation. Their names would be nice, but not necessary. From the other images in that tweet, I was looking for an Asian man and a white guy with a beard. Can't be too hard, right?

lol NOPE

For those curious, my actions were as follows:

Jota Castellano has a picture on IG of him and five other witchers. (I’d post the pic here, but I’m on mobile, and I need to sleep but I need to finish this post more, let me live)

In the description of said photo, he tags all the TWN-canon witchers. #Vartok gets you literally nine results, so I decided to look under #Diever.

Before perusing said tag, I decided to go in reverse chronological order using the “Recent” tab, as opposed to the “Top” tab.

Y’all. I don’t think I can properly express the feeling of excitement that overtook me when I saw what I can only guess is a character poster for an Asian witcher. I was honestly about to jump out of bed, but I resisted and clicked on it.

Lo and behold, I’d like to introduce y’all to Nicolas Wang, who played Diever in TWN.

Since Nicolas Wang seems to care about giving proper credit, I was pleasantly surprised to see that he tagged a handle I was unfamiliar with.

Meet Lachlan Parkinson (edit: this used to say 'Peterson', I was wrong, his last name is Parkinson), who played Vartok in TWN. As of the time I’m posting this, their most recent IG post is of Peterson’s eyes blacked out with black veins around them, similar to the effect we saw on Cavill’s face when Geralt took whatever potion he took in I think S1.

So far as I can tell, neither of them has been credited on IMDb or in the Netflix credits. I don’t know if that was a stipulation in their contracts, but here we are: all twelve TWN witchers have names and actors.

Thanks for coming to my TED talk, I guess?

22 notes · View notes

sourwolf-sterek32 · 2 years

Text

Broken Heart

Summary: You were the first and only female Witcher.

You and Geralt had been together since you were teenagers, training and fighting alongside each other for decades. However, when Yennefer of Vengerberg showed up, he chose her.

Now, years later, you go back to Kaer Morhen for the winter and come face to face with Geralt of Rivia, forcing old feelings to resurface once again.

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x Reader

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: Language, violence, death, blood

Previous Chapter

Chapter 10-

"What the fuck kind of basilisks are those?" Lambert questioned in utter shock.

"I'll tell you after I kill 'em." Coen answered just as the basilisks roared and charged forward.

You all quickly ducked out the way and stared swinging your swords to take them down.

Although, within a couple of minutes it was clear that these new basilisks were quicker than most. And before you knew it, your red haired brother was being thrown across the room by one of them.

"Lambert!" You screamed.

His body slammed into the stone wall with a crack causing you to wince as you watched him fall to the floor. He didn't move for a few seconds as he groaned before pushing himself onto his hands and knees.

You watched Lambert for a few seconds, making sure that he was okay before you turned your attention back to the monsters and jabbed your sword into one of their legs.

Instantly, you knew that was a bad idea.

You only just managed to jump out the way when it's head snapped in your direction, narrowly avoiding it's razor sharp teeth by an inch. You swung your sword, slicing it's eye which seemed to finally have an effect causing the basilisks to stumble backwards, roaring in pain.

"Go for the eyes!" You shouted, glancing over at the others struggling against the monsters.

"She said go for the eyes!" Coen repeated from across the room.

You all continued to fight when suddenly one of the basilisks bit a Witchers head clean off with a loud crunch, right in front of you.

It all happened so fast, you didn't even get a chance to see who it was as his headless body toppled to the ground in a pile of blood.

"Help!" One of the others shouted, but you couldn't.

You were too busy trying to kill this basilisks while trying very hard not to look at the body by your feet as you swung your sword. But, it knew what you were trying to do and kept it's head out of reach so you couldn't cut its eye.

Stupid smart fucking monsters.

You spared a glance over at Geralt who was still with Ciri trying to get through to her. Vesemir and Vartok with him too, before Vartok left after hearing the call for help and starting fighting the basilisks with the rest of you.

You watched as another one of your fellow Witchers head got bitten off and quickly jumped out the way when it tried to eat you next.

"Vartok. behind you!" Lamberts voice shouted.

You quickly looked across the room, but there was nothing you could do when a basilisks bit Vartok's arm clean off before biting down on his head and throwing him across the room, his body lying lifeless on the floor.

"No!" You screamed, staring at another one of your fellow Witchers dead bodies.

You had lost count of how many had died.

Too many... first Eskel and now all of this... fuck. This couldn't be happening.

Suddenly, as if a switch had been flipped, the pain from your stab wound came back in full force causing your legs buckled from underneath you.

You hit the ground with a pained cry which seemed to draw the attention of one of the basilisks as it ran in your direction. You only just managed to get your sword up in time to block its claws from cutting you.

Suddenly, Ciri started chanting in Elder from across the room before an even bigger basilisks stepped out from the portal behind her.

Oh, for fucks sake.

The basilisks in front of you tried to attack again, but didn't get a chance before Lambert cast an Aard, sending it flying backwards.

Lambert quickly rushed over to you, grabbing your hand and helping you to your feet. His eyes widening a little when he took in how much blood there was coming from the stab wound.

"If I have to keep fighting so do you, sister. Come on."

You nodded weakly, the room starting to spin, but forced yourself to stay standing when suddenly the bigger basilisks charged at Geralt, throwing him out the cafeteria and outside.

"Geralt!" You screamed, watching the monster run outside after him.

You didn't get a chance to try and help him. Honestly, you weren't even sure if you could when suddenly you noticed Jaskier standing up from where he had been hiding under a table. The bard started running towards Vesemir and Ciri with a Jasper stone in his hand.

He didn't get very far though because you grabbed the back of his coat, yanking him out of harms way with all your strength when one of the basilisks tried to bite him. It's jaws snapped shut with a loud crunch, only just missing the bards hair was you pulled him out the way causing him to drop the stone in the process.

The two of you fell to the ground in your rush to get him out of biting distance. Lambert and Coen were quick to stab the basilisks through the eye, piercing it's brain and killing it instantly before moving onto the other.

Geralt quickly ran back into the building, the larger basilisks nowhere in sight as he joined the others to help kill the last one.

Oh, thank God for that.

You closed your eyes in relief, trying to catch your breath. Pain radiating through your body as Jaskiers hands cupped your face, the bard frantically shouted your name.

You forced your eyes back open, but everything was spinning and you knew that the blood loss was starting to catch up to you. If you were a human, you would have died 10 times by now.

"Look at me. You are not dying, not today. Got it?" Jaskier said, looking down at you with panicked eyes and you nodded.

"Give her this." Coen's voice shouted before an elixir was thrown at Jaskier who fumbled, but caught it.

With shaky hands, he quickly uncapped the vile and helped you sit up before pouring the elixir into your mouth.

"I'm sorry if this tastes as bad as the white honey." He mumbled nervously.

You swallowed the elixir, taking a deep breath before you felt it start to kick in, the pain subsiding, but not entirely going away this time and you knew that wasn't a good sign.

"Okay, your eyes are black again. Did it work?" Jaskier asked worriedly and you nodded, pushing yourself to your feet. "Whoa, okay, just take it easy."

"Our hate is the pain she needs to grow stronger." Geralts voice suddenly said and you looked around, realising that the last basilisks was now dead. "Let's not give her what she wants. Ciri, if you can hear me. If you can hear us, come home."

"She doesn't want to be here. She isn't yours." Ciri said, but you knew it wasn't Ciri talking.

"It isn't working, Wolf." Vesemir whispered as you limped over to them, Jaskier right by your side like he was afraid you'd pass out any second... which was probably highly likely if you were being honest.

"Come back to us, Ciri. Can you hear us, girl?" Coen suddenly said, trying to help.

"Ciri, I know you're in there. We need you to come back." You added, causing Geralt to quickly look over at you.

His eyes widened, a mix of emotion washing over him when he saw just how much blood was staining your shirt, but you gave him a reassuring nod, although that seemed to do little to calm his worries.

"I believe in you. I'm sorry for what I did." Vesemir suddenly said, drawing Geralt's attention back to Ciri as the others all joined in calling out for Ciri to come back.

"I'm not going anywhere. I'm staying right here, living with her. Forever. " Voleth Meir suddenly said.

"Her hut burned. She needs a vessel to exist within this sphere." Geralt said in sudden realisation. "Ciri can't escape."

Your heart broke at the sadness in his voice as he came to the realisation that he couldn't save her.

"Unless I right this wrong." Yennefer suddenly said, walking towards the group of you before smashing some kind of potion on the floor.

If you were being honest, you had forgotten she was even there.

"My wounds wouldn't heal... because my magic wasn't what I was missing. I can be the vessel."

"No." Geralt quickly said, shaking his head.

Yennefer didn't listen though and picked up a piece of glass from the ground, slashing both her wrists. Blood instantly started pouring out the cuts as she turned towards Voleth Meir and started speaking in Elder.

Bright orange embers began to emerge from Ciri's body and float towards Yennefer as Geralt rushed towards Ciri, grabbing her shoulders.

"I know you're afraid, Ciri, but what you see in there, it isn't real." He pleaded. "We belong together. You, us. It's not perfect, but it is real. Its yours. We are your family and we need you."

You watched in shock as Ciri's body suddenly fell to the ground. Geralt only just managed to catch her in time before lowering her gently to the floor.

The pain in your stomach was starting to come back as you started at Ciri, trying to ignore it. You rested your hand over the knife wound, biting the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from wincing in effort to slow the bleeding, but you knew it was too late for that.

Jaskier quickly grabbed your arm, noticing your sudden pain.

"She okay?" You heard Geralt question in the background somewhere as your ears started to ring, drowning his voice out.

"I, uh, I-I don't think so." Came Jaskiers reply from beside you.

Suddenly, Lambert was on your other side, holding your arm as you doubled over, your body starting to tremble with pain.

"Y/N!" Geralt shouted, rushing to his feet.

"No. Trap... trap Voleth Meir." You ordered, barely even recognising your own voice as you tilted your head, meeting Geralts panicked golden eyes. "Do it!"

Geralt paused for a moment, conflicted with what to do.

"We got her. Trap this bastard." Lambert said, backing you up.

To your relief, Geralt nodded and knelt back down beside Ciri, who was slowly starting to wake up from where she was lying on the floor.

"We don't have much time. We need to trap Voleth Meir once and for all." Geralt explained as the girl sat up. "If you can pull monsters through the monolith, you can send one back again."

"What?" She whispered, looking up at him with unshed tears in her eyes.

"You can do this. I believe in you."

Ciri stood up and turned towards the shattered monolith before shouting in Elder. Within seconds, a portal appeared in front of her and a gush of wind started to suck her and Yennefer towards it.

You watched in horror as Geralt grabbed them both, but he wasn't strong enough to stop it before the portal sucked all three of them inside and vanished into thin air.

Nobody said anything for a moment as you stared at where Geralt had been standing only a moment ago.

They were gone.

"Where-where did they go?" Coen questioned, breaking the silence.

"If Ciri could summon a portal, she can bring them back. They'll be back." Vesemir tried to reassure, but you all could tell that even he wasn't too sure about his own words.

Suddenly, your legs started to buckle from underneath you, but you managed to catch yourself, hissing at the pain the jostle caused.

"Y/N, Y/N, you pass out on me, we're going to have problems. I cannot possibly hold you, have you seen my scrawny arms?" Jaskier said from beside you, despite Lambert still holding your other arm and easily capable of holding your weight.

"You're not... you're not scrawny." You whispered, trying to will your body to stop shaking. "You have a six-pack. When the f-fuck did you get muscles?"

Jaskier actually chuckled softly from beside you, his laugh wavering a bit, but you knew he was trying to be happy and be positive for your sake as the room started to spin around you.

"Oh, checking me out by the lake, were we? Well, I'm glad-"

Jaskier didn't get to finish his sentence because this time yours leg really did buckle from underneath you, turning to instant jelly. Jaskier yelped, but Lambert managed to stop from you hitting the ground.

"Fuck. This is worse than I thought." Lambert muttered, gently easing you to the ground, your breathing turning rapid and shallow as Jaskier knelt beside you.

"G-Geralt..." You started to say before you began to cough up blood.

"Coen, get as many kiss potions as you can!" Lambert shouted over his shoulder as he grabbed your chin, forcing you to look at him. "You are not dying on me, sister. You hear?"

You nodded, trying to smile, but you were pretty sure it was more of a grimace than anything.

The other Witchers including Vesemir all stood off to the side, watching you worriedly, not sure what to do.

"Umm, I-I don't mean to be a pain... But, uh, she had white honey a while ago and told me that it makes other potions stop working." Jaskier hesitantly said, looking over at Lambert.

"Fucking hell. How long ago did she have it?"

"Umm, it was last night, I don't know. Three-four hours ago maybe, I don't really know. Will it be out her system yet?"

"Fuck." Lambert muttered, causing Jaskiers expression to drop as realisation hit him and you could hear his heart starting to beat faster in panic.

"She's going to be okay though, right? Right?"

You reached out, taking Jaskiers hand weakly as tears started trickle down his cheeks.

No, don't cry. You weren't worth his tears. Don't cry.

"Is she going to be okay?!" He practically screamed, looking over at Lambert, who to your shock, had tears burning in his eyes too. "Is she going to be okay?!"

"Where are those fucking potions?!" Lambert shouted, refusing to answer Jaskiers question.

Suddenly, you felt a giant gust of wind and you lifted your head to find Geralt, Ciri and Yennefer now standing where they had disappeared moments earlier.

A shuttering sigh of relief escaped your lips.

Geralt whispered something to Ciri, the poor girl still looked absolutely terrified, but she was okay. That was all that mattered.

"G-Geralt!" Jaskier called out, his voice cracking as he looked over at him.

Geralt instantly knew something was wrong by the sound of the bards voice, his head whipping around in his direction so fast that you thought he might have given himself whiplash.

"Fuck." Geralt swore when he saw you ground and rushed across the room.

Lambert quickly stood up, stepping out the way as Geralt dropped to his knees in front of you, his hands hovering over your bloodied stomach, not knowing what to do.

"It's okay... it-it doesn't hurt anymore." You whispered, noticing that the pain was gone again.

Deep down, you knew that was a very bad sign. You hadn't had another elixir, the pain shouldn't just disappear like that on its own.

Geralt shook his head, his golden eyes glistening with what you thought were tears, but you knew he couldn't cry. He was unable to shed tears after the extra Trials, but you could see the emotion behind his eyes.

"That's not okay. It's not okay." Geralt whispered, his voice softer than you had ever heard it. He shook his head, his lip quivering as he looked down at you. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"Coen's gone to get kiss potions to stop the bleeding." Lambert quickly explained.

"It's too late for that." Vesemir said sadly, walking over to the group of you.

"What? No, you guys are talking like she's about to die. She's going to fine, right? She has to be." Jaskier insisted, tears falling down his cheeks as he shook his head in denial. "She has to be fine. It's Y/N, she has to be!"

You opened your mouth to try and reassure them that you were okay, but no words came out. The ringing in your ears started again, everything suddenly turning blurry.

"No. No, no, no." Geralt whimpered, grabbing your shoulders and pulling you into his chest. "Stay with me. Please, little one, stay with me."

Your eyes slowly started to fluttered shut, everything around you fading out before you heard Yennefer say something about her powers being back.

Then, all at once, everything faded into darkness.

MASTERLIST | TIP JAR

Next Chapter

#geralt of rivia #geralt of rivia fanfic #geralt of rivia fanfiction #geralt of rivia x y/n #the witcher #the witcher fanfic #the witcher fanfiction #jaskier #lambert #eskel #henry cavill #joey batey

281 notes · View notes

valdomarx · 2 years

Note

And naturally the others notice Geralt doing his stupid "I shall sit here consumed with lust for the rest of the winter" thing and they make a bet:

Just how annoyed/horny will Geralt get before he just fucking Snaps?

Will be when Everard drags Jaskier into his lap and feels him up during dinner? Will it be when he gets edged in the baths by everyone and none of them allow him any release? Will it be when Eskel kisses him so sweetly that it leaves Jaskier shaking?

Who can say? But they all get some amusement out it when Geralt scowls at them all and tries to kick their asses during training.

Although they will admit that having someone touching them - during or outside of fucking - that doesn't reek of fear....it's nice.

geralt is upset when jaskier nuzzles up to eskel on their first night in the keep but it's fine, he understands, eskel is a first-class cuddler

he doesn't love it when jaskier follows coen around all day, begging to see his witcher signs and giggling about how big his igni is. but coen is the best sign-caster among them and jaskier has always been curious

and he gets downright mad when lambert accosts jaskier in the great hall, behaving like horny teenagers. it's just embarrassing, to be behaving that way

everard has a liking for bringing jaskier bowls of soup, and geralt can understand that because he likes to see jaskier well-fed too. but then everard starts feeding jaskier little morsels from his plate, and jaskier will lick the flavours from his fingers, and that's surely crossing a line at the dinner table

diever promises to show jaskier the alchemy lab, and that seems wholesome enough but geralt hears that there's hijinks going on with succubus venom and that seems frankly unsavoury

the less said about The Incident in the Hot Springs with vartok and tolbert and hemrik the better. geralt has very carefully and very deliberately put it from his mind entirely

and the most devastating blow, the absolute fucking final straw, is when yennefer starts boasting about jaskier's talented tongue in front of ciri, as if this pure young girl could stand to be around such wanton filth, never mind the fact she seems to find it hilarious

geralt, distraught, turns to vesemir as his last hope of solace.

turns out that vesemir is the one collecting the bets

(and he lets geralt know what he's been missing out on too. jaskier loves a silver fox.)

#jaskier x witchers #big brain thoughts thank you anon

288 notes · View notes

sronti · 3 years

Text

774. Mégis mit vártok tőlem? 2. – Nyomor széle

Ez az idei év eddigi legszomorúbb cikke. Ahogy LRN nem érti mit akarnak tőle, ahogy egyből "ők" lesznek a roma értelmiségiek, a panaszáradat, az egész csak így simán nagyon szomorú. Nem mondom, hogy rossz ember lenne, vagy hogy ne lenne értéke annak amit csinál, mert nagyon is van, de ha a legjobbak se jutnak ennél tovább, akkor kinek lehet erre esélye?

Érdemes Márton Joci FB-jén elolvasni az eredeti posztokat.

23 notes · View notes

ajovombetortelbe · 3 years

Note

Kaphatok tanacsot? Szerinted baj, hogy 16 vagyok, a baratom meg 23? Nagyon szeretjuk egymast de a szuleim nem ertenek egyet a valasztasommal es felek, hogy elobb-utobb valami kozenk fog allni

szia

nem ismerlek egyikotoket sem i guess szoval igy nehez barmit is mondani, de mindenesetre ugy gondolom, hogy eleg fiatal vagy ahhoz, hogy ennyire rettegj ettol. egyreszt time will tell, en is valoszinuleg aggodnek ha a lanyom nala 7 evvel idosebb csavoval beallitana a lakasomba szoval probald megerteni a szuleid oldalat is. biztositsd oket, hogy a baratodnak nincsenek rossz szandekai, es ismerjek meg egymast, kulonben nem lesz meg a bizalom.

masreszt meg ha komolyan gondoljatok eleg sok kompromisszum, szellemi erettseg es szeretet kerdese, persze ez nem feltetlen zarja ki azt, hogy mukodjon. nalam amikor viszonylag nagy korkulonbseggel beleugrottam egy kapcsolatba (en 22-23 voltam, o 17) tokeletesen megvoltunk, csak mindketten beleptunk kozben egy masik eletszakaszba es nem akartuk visszahuzni egymast. ilyen problema meg elfejlodesek barmikor elofordulhatnak barmelyik kapcsolatban, de pont ennel a 2 eletszakasznal amiben ti jartok abban foleg. en a helyetekben erre figyelnek es kituznek kozos celokat, esetleg egy osszekoltozest kesobb mert az tenyleg rengeteget tud segiteni, toltsetek minel tobb idot egymas tarsasagaban es mindig kommunikaljatok le mit vartok a kapcsolattol meg a masiktol. egyaltalan nem tartom lehetetlennek, csak melosnak. sok sikert nektek!

5 notes · View notes

dreamofbecoming · 2 years

Text

“sleep now, she pleads

Chapter 4 (1) (2) (3) (AO3)

When Eskel finally made it back out onto the training grounds after his chat with Jaskier, he could sense the hostility rolling off Lambert in waves. He didn’t know what his little brother’s problem was this year, but it was obviously something, because this level of seething rage was out of character, even for him. He hadn’t been like this since the Trials—when they lost Voltehre, Eskel thought Lambert might burn the keep down with the force of his grief and anger alone.

It was no use until he wanted to talk about it, in any case. He and his brothers could needle and cajole as much as they liked, but no one would get a word out of Lambert until he was ready, so Eskel heaved a sigh and settled in for a long winter of drama and unpleasantness.

Still, no need to subject the little one to that unpleasantness, if they could help it. The bard was right about that, at least.

“Oi, Cub!” All the heads in the courtyard snapped up in his direction. “With me today, Wolfling. Coën, you too.” He jerked his head in the direction of the side yard, where the rest of the keep should be fairly sheltered from the fallout should Ciri’s magic prove particularly explosive. Again.

Lambert growled and spat at Eskel’s feet, but turned back to Vartok with his sword raised without issue. Ciri threw a few nervous glances behind her as Coën guided her forward with a hand between her shoulder blades, but the three of them were soon out of sight of the main training yard.

“Alright, cub, we’re going to start you on your Signs today.”

“I thought I had to go to Nenneke for that?”

Eskel grinned. “Nah, Geralt might need to outsource his magical instruction, but our Wolf was never as good at Signs as me, anyway.”

Coën rolled his eyes in amusement. “I guess you’re not bad, for a Wolf. Maybe you should have been a Griffin, brother.” Eskel laughed at the well-worn joke.

“Why do you think you’re here? Can’t have a proper magic lesson without a Griffin.”

Ciri looked back and forth between them, expression fading from affront at the insult to her Father of Surprise and warring instead between confusion and amusement at their banter.

Coën eyed her appraisingly. “What do you know about witchers, girl?”

Ciri just looked at him flatly, arms crossed. The scarred witcher did look a little sheepish at that.

“Alright, fair enough. Stupid question. What I mean is, what have Vesemir and Geralt taught you about the different witcher schools?”

Ciri’s brow furrowed. “Only that there are seven, but you all split off from the School of the Wolf originally. And not to trust Vipers or Cats.” Coën’s expression twisted uncomfortably at something in that response, but Eskel set aside his curiosity and turned his focus back to Ciri.

“The different schools don’t just have different medallions. We have different training styles and skillsets, and even different mutagens.” She lifted her brows at this, interest clearly peaked. “Coën here is only an honorary Wolf, he’s actually from the School of the Griffin.”

Ciri leaned in to inspect Coën’s medallion before rocking back on her heels. “So you have different mutations than Geralt and the others?”

“I do. My senses aren’t quite as advanced as the Wolves’, but the mages at Kaer Seren created a formula that boosted our ability to manipulate Chaos, so our Signs tended to be much stronger than other schools, and some of my brothers were even able to expand the number of Signs they could do, although new ones rarely worked for anyone but the witcher who invented them.”

“Since Coën and I have the most magical experience here outside of the mage, we’re going to spend some time figuring out what you’re capable of and going over techniques for control, alright?”

Ciri looked apprehensive, but nodded anyway.

“For these lessons to stick, they have to be regular, so from now on we’ll be trading off days. Physical training with the whole keep as usual every second day, magic lessons with Coën and me in between. Sound good?” Another nod. “Good. Alright, step one is we need to learn how to shape our hands correctly.”

Several hours later, Ciri still hadn’t successfully performed a Sign, but she had laughed out loud when Eskel’s Igni singed off one of Coën’s eyebrows, so Eskel was counting the whole morning as a win.

----

Once he had carried his sleeping brother back up to bed (and left a tray of food beside him before scarfing down some cold venison and cheese of his own), Eskel headed to the library. Jaskier was tucked into a windowsill, intermittently plucking at his new lute and scribbling in a notebook balanced on his knee.

Curious, he paused in the doorway. Jaskier hadn’t noticed him yet, and Eskel hadn’t gotten to hear the bard play at all this winter, much less compose something new. None of them had, actually— the awkwardness driving him to keep Geralt at arm’s length also compelling him to keep his art hidden away from everyone in the keep.

Eskel had been hearing Jaskier’s songs on the Path for decades, but always from lesser bards in taverns all over the Continent. He wasn’t ashamed to admit he considered himself a fan, and since he imagined the ballads were probably leagues better from Jaskier’s lips, he couldn’t deny his excitement at the opportunity to hear the master bard himself play.

Geralt had always grumbled and complained about Jaskier’s singing, but Eskel knew his brother better than anyone, and he certainly knew him well enough to tell when he was posturing to conceal genuine emotion. Geralt hoarded the bard’s music to his heart like a dragon’s treasure (though Eskel would wager his last coin he had never said as much to his friend’s face; Eskel was well aware that out of all his brothers, few had gotten an ounce of emotional intelligence, and Geralt most decidedly was not among them), and he imagined Jaskier’s talent must be impressive to have ensnared his stoic brother so.

Perhaps it was a violation of privacy, eavesdropping like this. But then, he reasoned, Jaskier had taken great pains thus far never to play within earshot of any witchers, which made composing now in a common space like the library nearly an invitation in itself, so Eskel brushed off the faint feeling of guilt and settled in to listen.

There was an overwhelming kind of intimacy to this, to watching the melody take shape in the air as Jaskier strummed thoughtfully at his instrument and tried out different chords, testing and repeating phrases here and there. He wasn’t sure Geralt realized how incredibly privileged he was to have been party to this backstage process for so many years. Maybe that was part of the problem.

The song Jaskier was working on seemed to be a lullaby of sorts, melancholy and haunting. As he listened, though, Eskel realized the lyrics spoke of a muted sort of hope, of the comfort offered by a loving hand, even knowing it won’t take away the pain.

He wasn’t sure what he had expected, but he was vaguely surprised the song didn’t appear to be about Geralt, actually. It might have been, but something about it felt...softer, somehow, than the sorts of things Jaskier had written for the Wolf in the past, or might be writing about him now, after whatever exactly it was Geralt had done to drive them apart. He continued to listen as Jaskier sang softly of reaching out a helping hand to a struggling loved one, of the strength inherent in gentleness and devotion.

‘Cos I’ll darn you back together

When you think that you’re bereft

And you’ll wail, you’ll scream, but I’ll never stop

‘Cos it’s all that I have left

Eskel was almost alarmed to find the words on Jaskier’s tongue sticking in his chest, clogging his throat and causing his eyes to fill. His medallion was still against his chest, or he might suspect Jaskier of sorcery, or siren ancestry, or...something. But, he supposed, skill of Jaskier’s level was a kind of magic in itself, if merely a more human kind of power.

Clearing his throat to announce his presence, he stepped fully into the room. Jaskier looked up from his composition book, slightly startled, but his expression melted into a grin at the sight of the witcher in the doorway, which was vaguely baffling in its departure from Eskel’s usual reception from humans surprised to see him.

“Oh! Eskel, darling, I didn’t notice you there. Come to tell me more about witcher harassment rituals?”

“Come now, bard, I can’t give away all our secrets so soon, can I? I have to at least pretend to make you work for it,” he shot back, quietly delighted at the fact that the teasing repartee from this morning was apparently not just a fluke. He settled into a dusty armchair facing the window where Jaskier sat.

“Oh, you’re as bad as Geralt. You know, I’m convinced half the “witcher traditions” he told me about were just excuses to get his way without an argument. I don’t believe for a moment you actually have a hierarchy based on hair color for who gets the last sweetbun, Eskel, I simply don’t. Now I finally have other witchers to check his sources and it turns out you’re all in on the scam! Shameful, that’s what it is.”

Eskel burst out laughing at that. It absolutely sounded like something the Wolf would pull. He always was a little shit, and he nearly always got away with it, because no one ever suspected that stony face of mischief.

“Tell you what, my friend. I’ll make you a deal. I’ll answer any questions you have about pranks our Wolf may or may not have pulled on you, if you play us a song after dinner tonight. We could use a little levity around here.”

Eskel hadn’t meant for his proposition to make the smile fall off Jaskier’s face like that. Alarmed, he backpedaled immediately. “Obviously you don’t have to play for us if you don’t want to, Jaskier, I don’t meant to pressure you. I just thought it might be nice, I only heard a little before I came in here but you sounded lovely, and I know it’s been a while since you had an audience, and Geralt was always saying how much happier you were when you got to perform, I just thought—“ Alright, he was panicking. This was panic. Time to calm down. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up. Forgive me?”

Jaskier still looked slightly distressed, but his expression was growing more apologetic by the moment. “No, Eskel, you’ve nothing to apologize for. It was a perfectly reasonable suggestion, you said nothing wrong. I just...well, you said it. It’s been a while since I played for anyone, you know? A lot has happened since then, I’m just not sure if...maybe not tonight? I want to, I swear, and I will, I just...need a little time? To get properly acquainted with this little darling,” he held up the lute, “and get back into the spirit of it, I think. Plus, today has been really lovely, actually, and I’m rapidly growing quite fond of you, but I’m not sure the others would even want to hear me play, truthfully. I think right now I would feel like I was imposing, and that never makes for a very engaging performance. Is that...is that alright?”

It was obvious that the explanation wasn’t the whole truth, but Eskel was in no position to demand Jaskier give up his secrets, especially about something so personal. “Of course. Take all the time you need. Obviously you never need to play for us at all, especially after Lambert and the rest have been such pricks the whole time you’ve been here. We’ve hardly earned the privilege, after all.”

Well, now that he’d brought it up, that was something that should probably be addressed properly. “I...I am sorry, about that, by the way, for what it’s worth. We’ve none of us been kind to you, and you’ve done nothing to deserve our behavior. I told myself you would have fought back harder if you minded, so I didn’t need to step in, but that was cowardly of me. I’m ashamed I let a guest be treated so poorly in our home, especially someone so important to our brother. You deserve better, from all of us. Geralt included. I hope you can give us another chance to make a better impression.”

At the end of his impromptu little speech, Jaskier was gazing at him with something that might be called fondness, which should have been ridiculous from someone who had only been speaking to him for less than a day, but Eskel found he was beginning to sympathize more fully with the Geralt who had come home those first few years dazed and bewildered by the sheer force of Jaskier’s implacable affection.

“Thank you, darling. Your apology is very much appreciated, though hardly necessary. After all, you yourself were never cruel to me, and truth be told I don’t even blame the others, really. I’m an outsider here, and you’ve all just been through an unthinkable tragedy. It’s natural that they should be uncomfortable with my presence here. I don’t mind simply staying out of their way as much as possible. They’ve a right to their home, and I meant what I said this morning. I don’t want to step on any toes. I have Yen, and if it’s not too presumptuous to say, I think I have you, now, and one day soon I hope to have Ciri, that’s more than enough friendship for me to get by.”

“Not including Geralt on that list?”

Jaskier’s eyes dimmed a little, and while his smile didn’t fade, it looked suddenly brittle. “I think...I think that’s up to Geralt, truthfully. I don’t want to overstep, or misinterpret our relationship ag— anyway. I’m still his friend. Always. I just don’t want to ask more from him than he’s willing to give, this time.”

Well, shit. It seemed like Geralt had made an even bigger mess of things than Eskel first realized. Not to mention, it appeared Jaskier was capable of just as much emotional incompetence as their Wolf, which Eskel hadn’t been prepared for. He had hoped that Jaskier was simply angry, since then he would be likely to solve things himself once he calmed down and forgave Geralt, but if they were both convinced their affections were unwanted...he feared whatever had caused this rift between them wouldn’t be quite so easily resolved.

“I think that’s something you should discuss with Geralt, little bird, but what I will say is that you should be careful not to underestimate what you mean to my brother. I don’t doubt the Wolf fucked up something awful, and I’d bet my best sword he hasn’t actually figured out how to fix it yet, but don’t assume that means he doesn’t want to. He has a good Gwent face, but he wouldn’t have asked you here if he didn’t want you close. Just...be patient with him. He’s an idiot, but he is trying, I promise you that.” Jaskier still looked dubious, and worse, sad, but as much as Eskel hated seeing the two of them suffering, this wasn’t something he could fix for them. He could only hope they pulled their heads out of their asses and used their words sooner than later.

“Anyway, that’s not why I came to find you today. I was hoping you would have some time to talk more about Ciri, if that’s alright? There are some things I’m sure Geralt never told you that might help explain some things, and I think together we can work out a better way to raise her than how we’ve been going about it.”

Jaskier seemed as relieved as Eskel was at the subject change, and nodded enthusiastically. “Of course, I’ve been looking forward to continuing our conversation. I’m glad you agree things need to change somewhat around here.” He set the lute and notebook aside and rested his elbows on his crossed knees, giving Eskel his full attention. Eskel was moderately taken aback by the weight of the bard’s focus, but he shook it off and braced himself for the conversation they needed to have.

“I guess to start, I should ask what Geralt told you about the Trials.”

Jaskier pursed his lips, giving the question serious thought. “Hardly anything, if I’m being honest. I know you were all given certain potions and chemicals as children, by mages, which contained mutagens, whatever those are, and changed you into witchers. I know they were incredibly painful and not everyone survived. I know Geralt had...different ones? Or more? I’m not sure, he never went into specifics, and I never wanted to push. He only ever brought it up when he was blind drunk or about to pass out from potion toxicity. It was clear it was something that caused him pain to think about, so I never asked questions. I just made sure I was there to listen the few times he seemed to want to talk. I’m guessing it’s a similarly sensitive subject for all of you?”

Eskel grimaced. “You’d be right about that. Honestly, most of us try not to think about this at all, as much as we can, anyway, but after we spoke this morning I realized that how we grew up is affecting how we interact with Ciri, and I think you’re right that it’s going to cause her harm in the long run, so it needs to be dealt with, as unpleasant a topic as it is.” He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, fighting the long-ingrained instinct to run far away from this conversation. “There were several different Trials, but the one that Geralt spoke of to you, and truth be told the one that caused many of us the most lasting damage, was called the Trial of the Grasses.

“The Grasses were the potions and mutagens that made us all into witchers. You’re right that they were brutally painful, and incredibly deadly. It varied from class to class, but from what the old instructors used to say, the overall survival rate was three in ten.”

“Three in ten? Lived?” Jaskier was white as a sheet, his face aghast. “Gods, all those boys...I’m so...Eskel I’m so sorry. I had no idea, I can’t even imagine. Three in ten, sweet Melitele, I can’t...I’m so sorry. Sorry, please, go on. I didn’t mean to interrupt. Sorry.” There were tears glistening in his enormous blue eyes, and the wave of grief Eskel could smell was genuine. As was, interestingly, the burnt undercurrent of anger. It seemed the bard had spoken truth that morning when he wished he could give them all back what they had lost. Distantly, Eskel marveled at this strange, earnest man, who mourned so quickly and so honestly for boys he never met, and for men he barely knew, who had shown him so little kindness. Geralt had been a fool to chase this man away.

“It’s alright. It’s...we’ve all come to terms with it, in our own way. It’s been a long time. It left its mark, though. It’s why...well, it’s not my place to tell his story, but Lambert has his reasons for being the way he is. He’s an asshole, but he comes by his anger honestly. Truth be told, he’s been worse than usual this winter, even before the attack, so I really don’t think it has anything to do with you personally. Not that it makes it less rude, but I hope you’ll give him a chance, when he pulls his head out of his ass.”

He shook his head, trying to dispel the memories clinging to his thoughts, reminding himself that he had brought this up for a reason. “Anyway, the reason I’m telling you all this is that when we were young, when this place was whole, the Grasses were given to trainees when we were thirteen.”

Jaskier seemed to take his meaning immediately, his eyebrows shooting up his forehead and even more color draining from his face somehow. “Ciri is thirteen. She’s not— I mean, you don’t still have— you won’t—?“ Eskel lurched forward, placing an awkward hand on the bard’s knee to try and reel him back in before he started hyperventilating.

“We don’t have the formulas to make the mutagens anymore, or the ingredients. I mean, there was...uh, well. When Triss was here, she and Vesemir tried an experiment using Ciri’s blood and they did manage to make a dose of mutagens. Ciri said she wanted it, and I guess Vesemir was going to listen, but Geralt stopped them.” He hurried to continue when the bard’s face went thunderous at this revelation, hoping to stem the tide of righteous rage he could see coming. “I don’t think they’ll try it again! They couldn’t without Triss anyway, or, I guess Yennefer could, but I don’t think she would, and I don’t think it’s what Ciri wants anymore anyway. And Vesemir did apologize. He— it’s different for him, than for the rest of us. It’s complicated. No one will be giving Ciri any mutagens, though, I can promise you that. Geralt would gut them if they tried. She will never have to face that pain.” Eskel is breathing hard by the end, having said far more than he intended, but Jaskier just looked so afraid, and so angry, and Eskel just wanted to make him feel better, make him sure...gods, maybe Eskel needed more friends. He’d had this one for less than a day and he was already tripping all over himself to keep him happy. Maybe Geralt wasn’t the only wolf with rusty social skills.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. I promise, Ciri is safe. But that’s why I thought you should know more about the Trials. When we were growing up, this place was full to bursting with boys. Geralt and I were part of a class of fifteen, Lambert had near as many in his year. The year Geralt and I turned thirteen, only four of us made it.”

He closed his eyes against the flood of memories, almost-brothers whose names he couldn’t even recall now, all these years later. Was that a betrayal? Would someone more loyal have kept their memories safe? He could barely even remember Gweld’s face now, all that rose to the surface of his mind when he tried a shock of red hair and the echo of a gleeful laugh. In another century, maybe he wouldn’t even have that much.

A soft pressure on his arm pulled him out of his sullen musings. He opened his eyes to find Jaskier kneeling in front of his chair, tears spilling silently down his cheeks. He didn’t say anything, just met his gaze tenderly and swiped his thumb across the back of Eskel’s arm in gentle, soothing strokes. Eskel was amazed to find how calming the bard’s presence was. He drew in a deep breath and recentered his mind, placing the memories gently to the side and settling back into his skin with a sigh.

He nodded this thanks, and Jaskier shifted into one of the other armchairs next to Eskel’s, leaving the hand on his arm where it was. Eskel should have hated it, unused to touch as he was, should have found it threatening or stifling, but instead he found himself leaning into the contact ever so slightly, hoping with a startling fervor that Jaskier wouldn’t suddenly realize his proximity to a monster and jerk away like a sensible human.

“You learn pretty quick not to get attached, you know? When we were boys, it was like...nothing counted before you survived the Grasses. Everything before you were thirteen wasn’t real; not you, not your brothers, not your dreams, not your feelings. We couldn’t let ourselves care for each other before then, or we wouldn’t survive the grief.”

Jaskier sniffled a little beside him. “Surely that couldn’t be true always, could it? No child can force themselves never to love, it would rip you apart.”

Eskel huffed a laugh utterly devoid of humor. “Of course not. Geralt and I have been close from the moment we met, there was no stopping it. Others, too. But we tried as hard as we could. If Geralt hadn’t made it, I’m not sure I would have survived, even if I passed the Trial.”

He could hear Jaskier’s bitten-off gasp, but he couldn’t bring himself to look up, not while he confessed this, his most secret truth. He carefully didn’t think about why he felt comfortable sharing something with Jaskier that no one but Geralt had ever heard him say aloud. “I think I might have just...given up. I think it was probably the same for him. I knew boys like that, boys who survived the Grasses but not the grief. It’s an awful way to go, just wasting away. No one wanted that. So it’s...an instinct, I guess. To push her away. Something in the back of my head says not to get too close, not to care too much, because she might not make it. I wouldn’t be surprised if the others are struggling with the same impulse, even if they don’t realize why.”

Jaskier was weeping outright, now. He was trying to be quiet about it, but he couldn’t quite keep the hiccuping sobs at bay, and Eskel wished he had more experience providing comfort to humans, or anyone less close to his heart than Geralt, really. At least with his brothers, he could challenge them to a sparring match to burn off some energy, or wrestle them into the hot springs and sit silently beside them in the water until the emotions passed, but he had a feeling those tactics wouldn’t be useful in this instance. He covered Jaskier’s hand on his arm with his own, patting awkwardly.

To his shock, Jaskier responded immediately, turning his hand over and clinging to Eskel’s with surprising strength. Lute-playing hands, he guessed.

“I’m sorry. To...to dump all of this on you, I suppose. I know it’s a lot. We’re alright though, really. It all happened a long time ago, and we’ve learned to live with it. And I’ll speak to the others about being more conscious of how we speak to her, of how we are with her. I can’t promise we’ll all be perfect, but she’s a good kid, and she’s been through enough. She doesn’t deserve to carry all our scars for us as well as her own.” Jaskier squeezed his hand even tighter, somehow, as he slowly got his breathing back under control.

“Please don’t apologize, Eskel. Not for this. What you’ve been through...that you trust me enough to share this at all is a wonder, and an honor I’ll not betray. Thank you, for helping me understand.” He sniffled again, wiping at his face with his sleeve. “Forgive my blubbering, my dear. I’ve always been an emotional sort, comes with the bardic territory, you know. I mean it, though, truly. I’m so very sorry for all you’ve lost.”

His eyes were so big and so sincere, so somber, Eskel would believe him even if he couldn’t hear his pulse and smell his honesty. This was not a man who played at humanity for personal gain, splashing in shallow emotions to gild hollow performances. No, Eskel had known Jaskier properly for all of twelve hours, and he knew as surely as he knew his own name that Jaskier was a man who experienced every feeling that crossed his path in its entirety, who let himself be drowned in sorrow and joy and love and rage every moment of every day. Eskel didn’t know how he could stand it.

The stories of witchers as stone-hearted mutants with all emotion burned out of them were nonsense, of course. Witchers felt emotions just the same as any other man, they were just better at hiding them, at controlling them, at setting them aside to be dealt with later. They had to be, for their own safety. Humans were terrified of witchers— maybe not as badly as before Jaskier had made it his mission to make them all into storybook heroes, but the wariness remained. Sometimes the smallest twitch of irritation was enough to set off a murderous mob, driven by blind fear and the need to kill the threat before it killed them. So witchers were, on the whole, well-versed in keeping their emotions tamped down, invisible and unacted-upon, but this didn’t mean they didn’t feel them. Still, the idea of living life as Jaskier did, buffeted by emotions like a ship tossed to and fro by a stormy sea, sounded exhausting. Eskel didn’t think he could survive for very long like that without going mad. His esteem for the bard’s resilience and strength rose considerably.

He sat quietly, letting the feelings of loss and regret and fear roll through him and off him like water off a duck’s wing, breathing deeply. It gave Jaskier a moment to collect himself as well, especially since Eskel had the feeling he was about to set him off again. He considered not saying anything; he’d shared far more with Jaskier already than he was normally comfortable with. It would be completely reasonable to stop here for the day, fill Jaskier in on the rest later, if at all. But, no, Eskel sighed to himself, the bard deserved more than that. He’d been loyal to Geralt for decades, and he was proving his loyalty to the cub right now, even with how much of a brat she’d been to him. He had earned some trust from Eskel by proxy, at least. And he deserved all the information, especially if he was determined to reshape her relationships with her witcher uncles.

He took another deep breath, steadying himself for what was sure to be an even more painful conversation. “There’s...there’s one more thing you should know about, about how we are with her. About what we’re afraid of. Especially me.”

Jaskier could obviously sense his reluctance for the topic, because he tightened his grip on Eskel’s hand once more and tilted his head in concern. “You needn’t force yourself to share painful things with me, dear Eskel. I’ve hardly earned the right to demand anything from you, and even if I had, I wouldn’t ask for more than you’re willing to share. Don’t push yourself for my sake.”

Eskel managed a tight smile, touched by the concern, but if he didn’t get this out now he never would.

“Geralt wasn’t…I had a Child Surprise, once, too.” Jaskier’s eyebrows shot skyward, clearly not having expected that to be where Eskel was going with this. Eskel kept his eyes trained firmly on the fraying fabric covering the arm of his chair. “She was like Ciri. A princess. I thought— I mean, what could I offer her, you know? Only cold and blood and hunger. She should have had everything. So I ran. Avoided her whole country like the plague. I hoped— I just tried to forget her. I thought it would be better for everyone if she never knew I existed.”

“Hmm, sounds familiar,” Jaskier said, voice rich with humor and only a hint of bitterness.

He took another deep, shuddering breath, trying to shove down the now familiar guilt clawing its way up his throat. Distantly he could feel Jaskier’s thumb brushing softly back and forth across the back of his hand. The sensation was oddly smooth, but he couldn’t focus on anything but the words or he wouldn’t be able to finish the story.

“Did you ever hear of the Daughters of the Black Sun?”

Jaskier’s brow furrowed. “Like Renfri? A little from Geralt, once or twice when he was very, very drunk, and one of my professors at Oxenfurt mentioned the different legends around the eclipse as part of a folklore course I took, but not much more than that, really.”

Eskel hummed in assent. “Renfri was one. That’s why Stregobor hounded her all those years, why she wanted vengeance in the first place. All the girls born under the eclipse, the rich ones anyway, they were targets for anyone who believed that garbage prophecy. Of course, I hadn’t heard of it, not until...until it was too late.”

“She was one too, then? Your Surprise Child?”

“Deidre. Yeah. I left her behind because, what kind of life is the Path for a child? For anyone? What could I possible give her? She was supposed to be a princess, she was supposed to have everything she could ever have wanted. She wasn’t supposed to— I didn’t learn the truth until she escaped that place. She came here, begged us for sanctuary. I tried, I really did, but they came for her and we weren’t, I wasn’t ready.” He closed his eyes against the memories, trying to bring his heart rate back down to normal.

He touched a hand to his face, to the gruesome reminder of his failure that day, lip quirking in a grim smile as he finally met Jaskier’s once again tear-filled eyes. “This was from her. An accident, but one I deserved. I failed her. I failed her from the beginning, but especially that day. And the gods made sure I would never forget how I let her down, not so long as I live to see everyone I meet flinch from the sight of me.”

Jaskier’s breath hitched wetly as he gathered up both of Eskel’s callused hands in his smaller ones. “Listen to me now, dear heart. You did the best you could. I don’t need to know the details to know that you’d have done everything you could for her, Eskel. You’re a good man. A good brother, a good uncle. Geralt trusts you more than anyone alive, and I trust him the same, so I know if there was anything reasonable you could have done to save her, you would have. You made the best choice you could with the information you had available. You’re not to blame for whatever horrors her family visited on her. You can’t carry the weight of their sins forever. If Destiny meant to make her your daughter, that tells me what sort of girl she was. I believe with all my heart she would forgive you.”

Eskel gaped in shock at his new friend. He felt like he couldn’t breathe, like his lungs were trying to climb out through his throat. Jaskier couldn’t mean that. He couldn’t— he didn’t know. Where did he possibly come by such faith, in Eskel of all people? How could he trust so willingly in such a monster, with his failures writ large across his hideous face? He was lying, he had to be. Or mad.

He couldn’t bear to meet Jaskier’s gaze, not while the threat of tears still pressed at the backs of his own eyes, so he breathed in through his nose and focused on their joined hands. He stared at Jaskier’s fingers and blinked a few times, thinking his eyes must have filled without him noticing, but no— the smooth, shiny, red surface of the bard’s elegant fingers remained unchanged. Concern jolted him out of his grief-stricken stupor. Jaskier yelped as Eskel tugged at his hand for a closer look.

“What the hell happened? Did someone here do this? Did one of my brothers hurt you?” Eskel was fuming, the protective rage that rose in him alarmingly sudden and unexpected.

The scent of fear brought him up short.

Jaskier’s eyes were wide, his face stricken. “Please don’t tell Geralt,” he begged, to Eskel’s shock. “It was before I came here, I promise, but please don’t tell him. He’ll only blame himself, I can’t bear to add another burden for him to carry.” He let out a bitter laugh, one far too close to a sob for Eskel’s comfort. “The last thing I want to do is shovel more shit. Yen’s doing her best, it’ll be fine, it has to be.”

“The mage knows about this? Why hasn’t she healed it yet? She’s supposed to have her magic back, isn’t she?”

Jaskier tugged his injured fingers free of Eskel’s grip, cradling them to his chest and fiddling anxiously with the inflamed pads of his fingertips. “She’s still recovering, she says she doesn’t have enough power yet to fix them. Something about magical injuries, I didn’t really understand. Please, Eskel, just promise me you’ll leave it. I’m alright, I swear it. There’s no danger here.”

This couldn’t be allowed to stand. Not after the unfathomable level of kindness Jaskier had shown them all, just today, and every day for the last twenty years. Whatever had happened to him, it was apparently a result of his relationship with Geralt, and therefore a consequence of his compassion for witchers. No. Eskel had to fix this.

“Come on,” he said, taking Jaskier’s uninjured hand and dragging him to his feet.

“Wh—Eskel! Where are we going!”

“To Yennefer. If it’s extra power she needs, maybe I can help. But I’m not just going to sit here and let that burn fester, not if I can help it.”

“I—really, this is hardly necessary—wait, my lute! Eskel, slow down!”

Sighing, he turned back. “Your lute will be safe in here, hardly anyone but Vesemir, and now the cub, comes in here. Geralt’s asleep, so if you want to do this without risking him walking in on us, we need to go now. Come on, little bird. You’ve helped us, now let me help you.”

Jaskier stared at him for a long moment, searching his face. Whatever he found, it must have been what he was looking for, because he took a deep breath and nodded once. “Alright, dear witcher. Lead the way.”

10 notes · View notes