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podcastenthusiast · 1 year

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"Here should be safe to set up camp," Geralt says, scanning the treeline with his eyes in that odd witcher way. Like he's seeing much more than a mere mortal could.

"Thank the gods," sighs Jaskier, who's been really starting to regret skiving off those physical fitness courses at Oxenfurt.

"Get a fire started while I tend to Roach."

"Oh Geralt, I'd love to, I would. Truly it's colder than a sorceress' shapely—"

"Jaskier."

"Well, as they say: you can lead a bard to timber, but you can't make him—"

"Just do it, Jaskier."

"I don't know how! All right? I've never built a fire in the middle of nowhere before! It's not one of the seven liberal arts, and I much prefer my fires stoked by comely barmaids in taverns."

Geralt looks at him for a long moment. It's a complicated look—frustration and amusement and a hint of regret. Mostly it's a look that says Jaskier is an idiot for joining him on the Path.

"Right," Geralt says slowly. He begins building the campfire himself.

"I imagine they teach wilderness survival to baby witchers at witcher school."

Geralt looks at him again and there's something different in his expression. The ghost of a smile? Jaskier doesn't quite know how to read it.

"Kaer Morhen," he says. "And yeah. Something like that."

"Oh?" Jaskier has to rein in his enthusiasm, his curious questions. Geralt so rarely reveals anything personal about himself or his past. Not that Jaskier has been forthcoming in that regard either. They live in the moment, day by day, but some context would help his creative process.

Besides all that, he genuinely wants to get to know Geralt a little better.

"Vesemir took me out into the forest one day. Gave me a knife and left me there for a month."

There is no bitterness in his words. If anything, the witcher sounds...almost fond. Nostalgic. Proud of his younger self for overcoming the challenges his mentors set before him.

It takes a moment for the true meaning of that to sink in and, once it does, Jaskier is horrified. His own parents weren't great, but even they would never simply abandon him.

"He just— like as a test— what—?"

"Real eloquent, bard. I doubt he had any choice. Probably wasn't even supposed to give me anything."

"How old were you?" he demands, unsure if any answer will make this revelation less abhorrent.

"Six? Seven? Maybe eight. I don't know." Geralt makes a gesture with his fingers and the pile of wood beneath his hand sparks with flame. "Not old enough to have learned Igni yet."

He can picture it, too, so vividly. Curse his dammed artist's imagination. Geralt, just a kid, alone and scared and definitely cold—because no one bothered to teach him how to start a fire.

"Stop it," the witcher snaps.

"What?"

"Looking at me like that. I'm fine. I was fine back then. Wasn't so bad at all compared to the Grasses. Vesemir came back for me like he said he would. I survived the trial—no, I didn't just survive; I exceeded all expectations, which is why they..." The witcher trails off. Takes a breath.

All of that... It's quite a lot of words for Geralt. Honest words, even.

It's his job to talk, to sing, to commit the most painful and difficult experiences to beautiful poetic verse. But Jaskier doesn't know what to say to his friend right now. Surely he has to say something.

"Geralt..."

"Don't waste your pity. Save it for the ones who didn't make it through. I did."

"Okay," the bard replies, careful and tentative. He isn't a brave man, nor a particularly kind one. But Jaskier considers himself an honest fellow so he adds, "Just because you made it through, you know, that doesn't mean what happened to you was all right, Geralt. Children aren't supposed to be left alone to fend for themselves."

The witcher laughs—a humorless, wretched sound. He doesn't say anything at all to that. Which is okay, really; Jaskier just needed him to hear it.

There is a long silence. The fire crackles. Jaskier absently strums his lute.

"You're gonna write a ballad about this, aren't you," Geralt says after a while.

"No!" Maybe. Yes. He won't perform it.

"Hm."

The fire crackles.

Quite out of the blue, Geralt tells him, "I befriended a wolf back then."

"What? You're joking!"

"Witchers don't have a sense of humor. Common knowledge."

"Common misconception. Most people are just stupid. No, hang on, stop distracting me—You had a pet wolf?!"

"Not a pet," the witcher corrects, smiling faintly. "Fangtooth was her own wolf."

"Fangtooth?" Jaskier repeats, struggling to contain his amusement. "Not Roach?"

"No."

"Forgive me, but that's adorable."

"I was just a child. I wanted to stay with her in the wilderness. Be a wolf, too. Or a knight." He shakes his head dismissively. Silly childish dreams.

"But you didn't," Jaskier says. And feels stupid for saying something so obvious.

"Too late for that," Geralt replies without reproach. "I was already a witcher."

"As a child, I wanted to run away and join the circus," the bard offers.

"Of course you did."

They're quiet for a moment then. Comfortable, shared silence. Just the sounds of birds and forest creatures, and Roach contentedly eating grass. The fire crackles.

"Geralt, will you teach me to light a fire? Without witcher magic, obviously, since I don't have any."

"Why?"

"Because...well, because I could be a more useful traveling companion. Like Fangtooth must've been."

"...Fine," Geralt agrees after some thought.

It is a skill he will be very grateful to have on freezing nights in the coming years, especially whenever the witcher is too injured or ill from those dreadful potions to help set up camp. He will try not to think of the child Geralt once was, subjected to horrific tests of his ability to survive all on his own.

Except he hadn't been on his own back then, not completely. And he isn't alone anymore, either.

#whisking canons and headcanons together until i get the hurt/comfort i need #this time it's twn jaskier and stuff but some hexer geralt backstory #the witcher #geraskier #jaskier #geralt of rivia #geraskier fic #witcher fanfiction #possibly part of a series where jaskier realizes how fucked up geralt's childhood was

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resetmypatientviolence · 5 years

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Labor & Delivery [TRH LI Headcanons]

Pairing: Liam x MC, Drake x MC, Hana x MC, Maxwell x MC

Word Count: 3,787

Rating: PG

Warnings: Language

Description: A glance into some head canons of TRH LI’s during labor and delivery for their bundle of joy.

Author Note: Fluff! All fluff! Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy a look into all four LI’s during labor and delivery. Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/drakewalkerwhipped Masterlist is found on my blog bio.

You should have known it would happen like this: water breaking in the middle of a ball. This child has already given you a run for your money, after all. The cramps throughout the day were nothing of concern, just something you could brush off while getting ready, your one and only watching you move around with equal bits worry and excitement.

Earlier, you laughed and twirled in your gown—one that finally didn’t feel too tight and uncomfortable. You were in a great mood, really, ready for the evening to unfold. “We have a week to go!” You said in your bedroom, gliding over to your expectant partner. “Stop being such a worrywart—let’s enjoy our last ball as a couple, and not parents, shall we?”

And of course, they swept you up into a kiss, their hands sliding along the very slightly cramping round of your stomach, and said, “As you wish.”

But they were right to be worried, for now you’re in the middle of the ballroom with a ruined dress because somebody couldn’t wait.

Well, you think, locking eyes with the only other person in the world who matters right now, it’s now or never, isn’t it?

Liam

Immediately, upon the realization that this child was coming, Liam calls upon the guards and holds your hand while you laugh at the situation. He finds it no laughing matter, however. “Are you in pain, my Queen?” When you give an answer he accepts (that isn’t any variation of no, but he will accept, “It doesn’t hurt much”), you’re whisked off to the hospital surrounded by a horde of guards. On your way there, you tighten your grip on Liam’s hand when the contractions make their appearance. Liam gives you a tight smile and glances at his watch, keeping time.

At first, he’s perfect. How can he not be? Liam packed the hospital bag a month ago. He had the birth plan memorized forwards and backwards. All you need to do was play on your phone, groan when the contractions strike, and sneak food from Liam’s snack stash while he handles the handpicked team of nurses, doctors, hospital staff, and constant media requests for an update on the baby. It’s bliss. Your labor couldn’t be more… relaxing, if that’s a thing.

Liam paces an inhumane amount while you wait, labor taking its sweet time. It’s cute to watch how scrunched up his face gets when he’s worried about something. You smile for the first few hours about that.

When you take laps around the hospital halls to urge this little royal heir along, Liam holds your hand when he doesn’t have a hand on your lower back, helping you waddle. “Are you hanging in there, love?” You throw your head back and laugh. “I’m hanging is as much as this stubborn baby is, dear. You worry too much. Be excited!” He kisses your temple, creases disappearing from his forehead for the meanwhile.

He refuses to leave. Even if your legs are up in the air for all to see as the doctors make sure things are progressing as they should be. You’ve had more flattering angles and days. “Liam, you can nap, go to the palace for a few hours, they said--” But he shakes his head and kisses your forehead. You wince at the cool metal against you. “I’m not leaving your side. I’m not missing a minute of this.” And you smile, kissing him back. “You’re lucky you’re so sweet.”

Liam’s never been one to nap. A king doesn’t have time to nap, he reasons. And there’s no exception here, jolting awake every minute or so while sitting next to you, waiting. Hell, even when you manage some sleep, he’s there by your side, eyes darting between the monitor, belly, and face, the creases back.

Once active labor (finally) kicks in... you’ve only seen Liam rare form like this a few times. This is one of those times. Gone is his kingly composure and before you— or behind you, rubbing your back as you moan in pain— is Liam, stripped of everything except for himself. His hands are a comfort when you beg for a massage, fingers gently feeding your ice chips, replacing the washcloth on your forehead or rubbing the cool cloth on your face and neck and chest as the pain is all you feel.

Why did you agree to a natural birth? It sounded so nice on paper. The doctors can’t talk sense into you while you demand for an epidural, but somehow, Liam does. You look into his eyes as he says. “Love, it’s too late. Our baby will be here any minute—all you need to do is push. Push a little bit and it’ll be over, I promise.” His words soothe and you calm, gripping the bedside bars with a renewed energy to get this out.

Liam’s perfect. Almost… too perfect. So perfect in fact, you’re annoyed. You shouldn’t be annoyed. He’s just telling you everything the birthing classes discussed, holds your hand (even when you’re sure you’re going to break it), but dear god, if you hear, “Count with me, breathe,” “Push down and they’ll be here,” “You’re almost there,” (When you’re decidedly… not almost there), you’ll lose it. He’s done nothing wrong but yet—“Liam, I love you, but I need you to be quiet until this baby is born otherwise I’m going to step down as Queen.” You don’t mean it, of course, and he raises an eyebrow but holds out an ice chip. You take it, grumbling thanks.

Liam didn’t plan to leave your side while you push, but when the doctor asks if he wants to help deliver his child, well, there’s no doubt what Liam does next as you give the final pushes. Sleeves rolled up, you meet your husbands’ eyes and he smiles, looking more sure than ever, as if he was always ready for this. But of course he was, you think, then give one final yell and push.

And despite the beautiful cry that bursts forth, you’ll ever—ever—forget the look on Liam’s face: a joy like no other, and one that can never be seen again.

Drake

You’ve never seen Drake turn that pale. And you should have expected that he’d drop his glass of whiskey and rush over to you, other nobles grumbles about the whiskey staining their clothing. “It’s time? Is it really time?” He says, breathless, taking your hands. You smile and nod, squeezing his hands in time to the contraction. “Mmhmm. Are you ready?” He shakes his head. “Is anybody every ready?” And Drake shoos away the crowd as you leave, well wishes to be had, but none of that matters as you hold tight onto him, ready to venture into the unknown.

“Drake, you can’t tell the media to fuck off and ignore them.” He huffs, handing you his phone. You roll your eyes—this isn’t unexpected. You type out a quick message for Madeleine to send to the press and hand it back. “Though… it would be satisfying,” you add. There’s no denying that.“But we’re literally having the heir to Cordonia… so we can’t have things completely private as we want.” Drake says nothing, but he walks over and rubs your back, eyeing the IV in your hand.

He has an odd habit of peeking out the window. At first it’s cute but then it’s annoying hearing the blinds chatter together. You’re trying to read while waiting for this baby to appear. “Drake…” You groan. He instantly turns to you, blinds making that godawful sound. “Why are you looking out the window like we’re on a spaceship?” His answer is no surprise. “There’s more and more media outside…” “You do realize that we are in a very private wing of the hospital where nobody can access us, correct?” He takes a long while to answer. “…Yes.” You nod, motioning to the blinds. “Good. Because the next time you touch those blinds, I will request that you be thrown out the window. Got it?” Needless to say, he doesn’t look outside again.

Drake turns out to be an amazing ice chip getter. In fact, he knows to get them before you even know you need more. You’re always about to ask for more, but he has a full cup with a smile and a brightness in his eyes that you haven’t seen before.

There’s a period of time while you’re dozing that Drake leaves. You told him to, anyways, because despite the water breaking making a dramatic display for all of Cordonia to see, this child is as stubborn as their father. You expected he’d get some breakfast, maybe a nap, but what you didn’t expect was to wake up to a full bouquet of flowers and a new stuffed animal for whenever this baby arrives. You also didn’t expect to cry so hard.

Good god, his foot rubs are to simply die for. And all you need to do for one is to point your foot and give a little whimper. Score.

His hair is an utter mess as the labor goes on… and gets more intense. You’ve never seen him run his hand through it so many times. He mostly does it when the doctor provides an update, when he paces in boredom, or when you’re in the middle of a contraction. One hand holding yours and urging you to squeeze his and the other in his hair, watching on with concern. It would be funny if you weren’t in so much pain.

There’s a shock when you want to walk around yourself and Drake almost doesn’t let you. However, the glare you give him shuts up his worries and he follows you around like a lost puppy, ready to catch you if you fell. He’s jumpy, too, the squeak of a gurney making him jump and stumble into a nurse’s station. The laughter that follows is what makes you realize— “Shit, it’s actually time.”

“When you said it’s time…” He trails off while you glare daggers, throwing him the finger. The nurses chuckle. “Would you sincerely like to trade places, Walker? I can assure you I’m more than willing.” He glances to the stirrups and the group of doctors and nurses observing you as you wait for the next command to push. “… I’m good. Here,” he says, taking your hand. “You can break my hand if you want to for that. I deserve it for that comment.” Despite the anger, you only smile and squeeze lightly until you push.

If you thought Drake losing all color when your water broke was funny, you didn’t expect to see him literally turn green as you push, bearing down to urge this miracle into existence. Actually, the nurses seem concerned that he’s about to pass out, but he shakes his head and looks again, greener than ever, but eyes shining with tears as you push one final time.

And despite the beautiful cry that bursts forth, you’ll ever—ever—forget the look on Drake’s face: a joy like no other, and one that can never be seen again.

Hana

She’s like an angel, gliding over to you in the middle of a crowded ballroom. She plants a kiss on your nose, a smile breaking out on her face. But… you know she’s nervous. It’s in her eyes. There’s no doubt. But, like throughout all of this pregnancy, Hana is a picture of peace and serenity. It’s a balancing act for you, her calm the perfect offset to the stress of carrying the heir to Cordonia. “Are you ready to do this?” she asks, folding your hands in hers. You nod and offer a shaky smile. Hana touches her forehead to yours, a soft smile on her lips. “Don’t worry… I’m nervous too. But… I think we’re more than ready. Don’t you?” You nod and let her guide you away from the chaos of the ballroom. She’s right, after all. You are.

As planned, the hospital room is a cozy and calm. After you’re hooked up to machines left and right, Hana hums while she sets up twinkle lights. When the doctors don’t need to check anything, she flips off the light and the room goes from cold, stark, and sterile to warm, cozy, and peaceful, Hana’s face shining in the low and familiar light. “This was a perfect idea,” you whisper, looking around like a child on Christmas morning. Hana grins and gently sets a hand on your stomach, looking at it fondly. “I saw it on one of those birthing tips lists.” You smirk, touching her hand. “And how many of those did you read?” “… I stopped counting after fifteen.”

Hana’s more prepared than you for this. No, it’s the truth. It makes sense to you, as you observe the questions she asks your midwife and doula, or the suggestions she offers you to make your labor more comfortable, helping you get into a position… that does actually alleviate the pain. From the moment you started IVF, Hana was preparing. Reading everything, taking notes, and offering any help she could to make morning sickness go away or to ease your back pain. She packed and repacked the hospital bag at least a dozen times, finding something new that offered other suggestions and tips. You’re grateful for it, really. Easiest pregnancy ever with a wife like her.

Hana refuses—utterly refuses—to leave your side. Maxwell turns out to be her errand boy… at least until you’re unable to speak. Then it’s only you, Hana, and the women who are going to help bring this baby into the world.

“I’ve been practicing this,” Hana says, dabbing your forehead with a washcloth. You raise an eyebrow. “And I think it might help this baby come by focusing on your body.” You touch Hana’s warm cheek, smiling slightly. “Hana, I love you, but I don’t think meditation while in labor will make this baby come, nor distract me from the pain.” Hana laughs, touching your hand on her cheek. “I know. But… it’s worth a shot, right? What else do we have to do?” You blink. “You brought cards though…” Turns out, the meditation was helpful. Calming, even through a contraction. But you still preferred playing cards with her over meditation. Something about how ruthlessly she made you draw four even if you’re the one in labor made you grin and forget about your worries.

She knows how far apart your contractions are before the doctors say it. Also, you don’t have to speak as to how you’re doing for you give Hana one look and she knows, relaying everything to whoever needs to know that yes, it hurts, and when will it be over.

She snaps a picture when you’re not looking, standing up and pondering what’s about to happen. Hana comes up and shows you. The past few weeks you’ve refused pictures because… well, look at you… but this moment is somehow beautiful under the low light and cradling your stomach, looking out the window. “You have never been more beautiful to me,” Hana says, chin in your shoulder. Your face gets warm. “Even if I’m a giant beach ball?” She chuckles, bringing her arms around your waist. “The miracle of birth is one of the most beautiful things in life… and the strongest, most visceral thing a human can do.” You can’t help but notice the twinge of sadness there. You grip her hands, nuzzling your cheek against her head. “Therefore, you are the most beautiful thing in the world right now to me…. Oh no! Don’t cry!”

There’s only one time when Hana leaves the room. It’s when—somehow—a rouge paparazzi got into the hospital wing. You could hear her yelling from down the hall. Your doula snickers. “Never let me get on her bad side.” You snort and nod. “You’d never survive.”

Hana gets in the water with you as you moan low, leaning on your arms. You both agreed on a waterbirth, and you have to admit that the water is a relief to sink into as the final parts of labor pick up and delivery is near. She wastes no time shedding her clothes and jumps in in only her underwear to rub your back and to pull your hair back and out of your face. “Hana…” You mumble, almost in a meditative state. “Is the baby here yet?” Her hands feel so, so good on your back. “Soon,” she whispers, chatter picking up around you. “Very, very soon. Just a little bit more and I promise they’ll be here and in our arms.”

The only time Hana breaks her composure is when you’re pushing. She’s out of the water, but she’s right behind you in the tub. You hold her hands as you yell, and she yells alongside you, tears streaming down her cheeks as she—and the midwives and doula and doctor—watch your long awaited child be born and you bring them to your arms and out of the water, Hana’s happy sob in your ear.

And despite the beautiful cry that bursts forth, you’ll ever—ever—forget the look on Hana’s face: a joy like no other, and one that can never be seen again.

Maxwell

There’s only a moment of panic before Maxwell smiles and dances his way over to you. “Alright! I told you dramatic entrances were part of the Beaumont genes! Let’s have a baby!” You’re taken aback by his enthusiasm… and apparently, so are others, everybody staring at him. Maxwell looks around, the wraps his arm around your waist. “Why the long faces? The heir to Cordonia is about to grace the world!” “…They’re not coming now….” “Well, then why stop the party because we’ve got to leave? DJ, play something good!” And you exit to Apple Bottom Jeans, bopping your head.

“Andddddddd smile!” You flash Maxwell a grin and a thumbs up. He looks at the photo and shows you. “Even more beautiful than earlier.” You laugh and lay back in the bed. “I’m not wearing make-up and my hair is a mess.” Maxwell tucks his phone away—for now—and kisses your cheek. “I said what I said. And besides, what’s more beautiful than my wife having a baby?” You arch an eyebrow. “Many things.” “You just aren’t looking hard enough.”

It’s not very comfortable having a handful of people inspect you, but Maxwell’s the perfect distraction. He’s currently doing a magic trick that he just learned and you laugh so hard you sneeze.

“Maxwell… are you… are you livetweeting this?!” The answer is there in your hand: yes. Yes he is. 5 centimeters down, 5 more to go!Maxwell shrugs. “The people want to know. Why have Madeleine give a stuffy statement when we can make birth… fun.” You consider this… and he has a point. “Well… when you put it that way, even I don’t think birth is fun… it makes sense.” And livetweeting is still a go! Stay tuned for my world record ice chip run.

You both agreed that you wanted some footage of the labor for the baby. Though, you didn’t expect Maxwell to walk around and point out everything in the room for them… you do appreciate it, oddly enough, watching him explain everything in detail. Though he has a smile on his face, you know that this is his nervousness rearing its head. It’s endearing, honestly, and when you’re not grimacing in pain when another contraction comes, you watch him with a smile. “And know, even if your Mom yells really awful things at me, we love each other but most importantly, we love you.”

You’re pretty sure Liam, Hana, and probably Drake would be appalled at the state of your hospital bag. Even the doctors look judgey but… whatever. You don’t care. You have mostly everything you need. Maybe Maxwell could have done without the yo-yo… but, to be fair, the baby is making a surprise appearance. “Maxwell… did we agree on a take home outfit?” You ask between increasingly close contractions. “And did we pack it?” “Um…” He walks over to the bag and rifles through it. He doesn’t answer for a minute, then taps his phone and slowly brings it to his ear. “Hey, Bertrand… I need you to do me a big, big favor. I promise the next bash won’t have peacocks this time.”

How many selfies can one man take throwing up an open mouthed smile while you glare in the background in half of them? The limit does not exist, apparently.

Maxwell keeps a smile on your face the entire time—only when he doesn’t, the damn phone up in your face while you start pushing. Oh, and he’s narrating the entire moment for the baby. “And now, your Mom is trying to get you out so we can meet you. As you can see, it’s great—” “Maxwell, I will shove that phone up your—” “Andddddd the next time you see us on the screen, you’ll be in our arms. We love you!” He doesn’t touch it again, but to be fair—he doesn’t have time to.

Maxwell clings to you, his smile slowly fading with each push, eyes wide as can be, watching this process… from your view. He hasn’t dared peek at what’s happening below. You hold tight onto his hands but he doesn’t wince once, only watching with his jaw dropped at your effort. “You’re doing amazing,” he breathes. “Almost there… right? Is she almost…?” The doctor glances up. “Do you want to see for yourself?” He grins and Maxwell pales. “I… I…” “See—see for me,” you huff and nudge him forward. “Please?” Maxwell gulps and squeezes back. “Okay…. I’m about to see my baby be born… totally normal thing to see….” When he gets in place, jaw dropping, you give one final push--

And despite the beautiful cry that bursts forth, you’ll ever—ever—forget the look on Maxwell’s face: a joy like no other, and one that can never be seen again.

That, and the fact that Maxwell faints a second later.

You jolt awake, heart pounding, looking around. Where were you and what—

But then you remember… and your eyes settle on the sight next to you. You smile at the moonlight falling on your sleeping partner with a perfect little bundle in their arms, sound asleep too. You brush a tear away in the quiet, in the peace. Life’s perfect, no matter how long or hard it took to get here. And they’re perfect.

The both of them.

Disclaimer: All characters and rights belong to Pixelberry Studios.

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#trh #the royal heir #playchoices #choices #Liam x mc #drake x mc #hana x mc #Maxwell x mc #playchoices fic #playchoices fanfic #trh fic #the royal heir fanfic #long post #read more #drakewalkerwhipped fic #the royal heir fic #pregnancy

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podcastenthusiast · 2 years

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I read an article about Geralt's chronic pain in book canon, then I remembered Dr. Joachim von Gratz in Witcher 3 saying he could tell Geralt broke his leg at some point. So I took all that and ran with it for this.

---

Geralt is in pain.

It's an odd phrase, he thinks as he trudges up the stairs to their room. Like pain is a physical place he could escape if he only knew how.

Vesemir had taught them long ago that pain is simply information. Its message should be acknowledged and the rest discarded as useless sensation. A witcher who can't handle pain is a dead witcher, after all; they were forged in agony.

Geralt can never figure out what all of the pain wants him to know, if anything. Why it flares up like this. It's just outdated information.

They're staying at an inn tonight. What used to be a rare luxury on the Path has become commonplace, at least in Jaskier's company. Good thing, too; an unrelenting spring rainstorm is raging outside. Thunder rumbles a mile away and he can taste electricity in the air, not unlike the pain that zaps through his leg with each step.

Jaskier had called for the tub in their room to be filled, thankfully. Geralt casts Igni on the water until it's almost too hot even for a witcher, and sinks into the bath with a relieved sigh. Warmth dulls the pain somewhat, like a blunted blade beneath his skin, but it's still there.

He eventually must leave the bath, however. Getting himself dressed somehow saps away the last of his energy, and Geralt deposits his aching body onto the bed after, letting his mind drift as much as it can. Jaskier is hovering in his periphery. He's talking, as ever, envigorated by an adoring audience, eyes a little wine-bright. Try as he might, Geralt can't focus on his words. There's a cacophony of sounds around him—rain and Jaskier's heartbeat and drunken revelry downstairs and animals in the forest just beyond the village. But eclipsing it all is the pain.

Years of experience and witcher training allows him to bear it without letting the weakness show. He can live with pain, like he lives with the foul taste of potions and their aftereffects, with teleportation sickness and wearing scratchy doublets to formal occasions. With human cruelty. The blood on his hands.

"Geralt, have you been listening at all?"

"Hm."

"Right. You're not even here right now, I see."

"Hmm."

He isn't here. He's not in this room or even this country; he is in pain.

"Move over, then. You're taking up the entire bed and I'm knackered."

Geralt does move. It nearly steals the breath from his lungs. He curls in on himself, instinctively, as if the pain weren't coming from within.

"Something is wrong. What is it?"

Jaskier sounds serious now. Geralt doesn't want to ruin his evening.

"Nothing. I'm fine."

"Geralt—"

"I said I'm fine. Leave it, Jaskier!"

He stands up then as if to prove it, but his treacherous knee refuses to cooperate with the simplest command and buckles under his weight. The pain, which had briefly lodged itself near his hip, suddenly radiates sharply down his leg in nauseating waves. He curses.

"You're hurt, aren't you. I thought I saw you favoring one leg earlier. Was it the griffin? Geralt, you have to tell me these things—"

"No," he grits out. "I'm not injured."

"And I'm not stupid, you know. You can barely walk! Clearly—"

"Old wounds. Just...still troubles me sometimes. All right? Nothing to worry about."

There is a long, uncharacteristic silence following his confession. Geralt fears he may have finally broken him.

"Well," the bard says at last, "You're a fool if you think that will stop me worrying about you."

"I can manage." His arm doesn't hurt much tonight, at least, and he gets to sleep in a real bed. Small mercies.

"Oh, I've no doubt of that, certainly. You're the most stubborn man I've ever known. I also know you rarely permit yourself even the slightest modicum of comfort."

"Jaskier..."

"Does anything help when it gets bad?"

"Potions. Meditation." Jaskier looks hopeful at this, and he feels a little guilty for having to crush those hopes so soon when he adds, "But not this time. I don't have enough potions to waste them like that."

"Meditation, then? I can be as quiet as you need, contrary to popular belief."

"Hurts too much," Geralt admits. Then, maybe to ease Jaskier's concern, he says, "The bath helped a little."

"Good, that's a start. Now, I know what works for me might not work for you, but I've a few remedies. Will you let me try to help?"

"Didn't know you were a priestess of Melitele," he grumbles.

"Sadly the temple refused to accept me for study, can't imagine why, so I had to become a bard instead," he quips.

"I thought you were tired."

Jaskier ignores this comment. He can hear the bard rummaging around in his bag.

"Where is it. This salve saved my life when I was a student at Oxenfurt. They had us practicing the lute for hours and hours; I thought my hands would fall off. My wrists still hurt sometimes. Then there was the— Ah! There. Geralt? Still with me?"

"Yes. What?"

"Normally I prefer to say this under much more pleasant circumstances, but: trousers off, if you please."

He groans. Doesn't Jaskier understand how much work it was to get them on?

It's a slow process, mostly because he refuses any help with it.

"Oh, Geralt," he says softly. The bard touches his knee, gentle as a summer breeze. "It does look swollen here."

In truth, he's strangely glad of that. It's much worse somehow when it hurts and yet appears perfectly normal.

"Are you allergic to any herbs? This has got, uh, let's see. Chamomile, willow bark, ginger, essential oil of—"

"I drink poison on a regular basis, Jaskier. Apply the damn salve already."

He does. Geralt closes his eyes. He isn't sure any simple salve will even be enough to touch the pain, but the way Jaskier massages his leg seems to ease a bit of the tension coiled in his muscles, if nothing else. After a while he starts to relax. He listens to the rain. He breathes.

"'M sorry I snapped at you earlier," Geralt murmurs into the pillow. "Wasn't fair."

"It wasn't. But you're already forgiven. Feeling any better?"

Geralt shrugs, because while it is becoming background noise again, he's still in pain. Pretty much always is. No amount of soft touches or herbs or magic can fix that completely.

Being here in pain with Jaskier, though, is better than being alone.

#the witcher #the witcher netflix #geraskier #jaskier #geralt of rivia #geraskier fic #witcher fanfiction #whisking canons and headcanons together until i get the hurt/comfort i need #geralt is disabled and ace and probably neurodivergent 'cause i say so #i have too many fics now. i should post them to ao3

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podcastenthusiast · 1 year

Text

It's perfect, for a while.

They have a home at Corvo Bianco, far away from politics and ghosts. A garden, too, because Geralt still likes to keep his potion-brewing skills sharp and Yennefer has found she enjoys making her own perfume. They have room for a few horses in the stables—retired racers and warhorses. Roach pretends to dislike their company, but Yennefer can tell it's just an act.

Yennefer finds a quiet life suits her more than she ever expected. They drink excellent wine. Take walks together, in the fields or by the stream, and she listens as Geralt talks at length about various plants and creatures. They hold each other at night. They read in bed. Eat breakfast in bed. They do many things in bed.

Winter, though... winter is hard. At times, Yennefer has to remind herself that this isn't Aedd Gynvael.

Geralt starts sleeping in late. Not the gentle, lazy rhythm of unspooling days they enjoyed together in the seasons before. He stays in bed like he can't bring himself to face the day. Sleeps like he's running from something. Barely speaks. He doesn't eat enough, especially for a witcher—even an idle one; Marlene frets over it constantly.

When he does rise, he works himself beyond exhaustion for no reason she can understand. The winter chill is mild here in Toussaint, and they have staff now, yet still he chops firewood himself until they've run out of room to store it all, as if he's preparing to heat a whole castle—

Oh.

It is about a castle, isn't it. She suspects he misses Kaer Morhen. His family.

"Talk to me," she says one night. One could almost call it pleading were she a different woman.

"Just read my thoughts, if you're so insistent."

"I know that isn't your preferred method of communication, nor mine."

Not to mention she's a little afraid of what she might find in that poor tormented mind of his. Yennefer rakes her fingers through his long hair. Geralt, head resting against her breasts, says nothing at all.

"We're too old for this. We agreed to stop running from things. Talk to me, Geralt."

"I'm tired, Yen." He speaks like each word pains him. "I don't know what's wrong with me. You're happy. Roach is happy."

"Roach is a horse, love. She would be content anywhere as long as there are apples in it for her."

"I love it here with you. Really, I do. It's better than I deserve. Thought I might even be the first witcher ever to die in his bed. Imagine that."

"I'd rather not," she mutters.

"I was—I thought I could be happy. But maybe I don't know how. Maybe I'm not capable of it anymore, only able to feel a brief shadow of contentment. All they left me with is anger and sadness. I'm sorry."

Yennefer cannot bear to hear this. She hates when Geralt talks about himself like a thing, and a broken one at that.

She takes his face in her hands.

"Now you listen to me, Geralt of Rivia. Never apologize for what you feel. Your feelings are as real and important as mine or anyone else's."

"But—"

"Listen, I said! If you're sad, then be sad for as long as you need to. I am not leaving. And neither are you. We're done with all that nonsense. Aren't we?"

"...Yeah."

She pulls him close.

While the witcher sleeps in her arms, Yennefer devises a plan.

Jaskier and Zoltan are the easiest to find, of course. The bard doesn't take much convincing at all either. She need only say that Geralt needs him.

Ciri is much the same, immediately willing to help and (ironically) easy to locate; the imprint of magic she leaves in her wake still shines bright as a beacon.

She tracks Lambert down to an inn at the foothills of the Blue Mountains. It's easy enough; he never has been quiet or subtle a day in his life.

"You're here and Geralt isn't," he says, white-knuckled grip on his mug of beer. "So is he...dead, or—"

"He's alive," Yennefer says before the witcher can spiral any further. "He's safe. Unharmed."

"Then what the fuck are you doing here?"

"I could ask the same of you. Heading to Kaer Morhen for the winter?"

"No, I'm fucking not," Lambert snaps. "Wouldn't be any point."

"Yet here you are in Kaedwen."

"Yeah. Old habits. I don't know."

"Come to Toussaint."

"Why the fuck—"

"Because I'm starting a new tradition, one that requires all the remaining witchers of the Wolf school to gather at Corvo Bianco immediately. And because I asked nicely."

"Gonna turn me into a frog if I refuse?"

She smiles dangerously. "We shall see."

Eskel is a little more difficult to find because he isn't slowing down for the winter. In the end, she follows a trail of dead monsters from town to town, inquiring about the witcher who slew them. At least his scar is distinctive.

"Geralt is fine," she says this time instead of a greeting, and the witcher's tense shoulders relax slightly. "Alive and uninjured, anyway. But it would do him good to see his brothers."

"Sentimental old wolf," Eskel says with unrestrained fondness. He pats his horse's neck and does not look at Yennefer. "He asked me to stay. After... after Vesemir's funeral. But I just. I couldn't go back there, y'know? It'd be too quiet."

"It's too quiet," Geralt had whispered one cold night when she was drifting off to sleep beside him.

"Been worried about him," Eskel continues. "Hoping he isn't in the keep, all alone. Or out on the Path taking stupid risks."

"Is that what you're doing?" she asks.

Eskel shrugs. "Didn't know where else to go, I guess."

"He's not alone," she says. "But I think he also needs more than I can give."

"...Are you all right?" Eskel asks, and Yennefer realizes she'd begun to sway somewhat alarmingly.

"Fine. Just tired. I've simply...expended too much magical energy in a short time. Portals, and such."

"You're really doing a lot for him."

"Surprised?"

"Well...no." Eskel apparently is the only tactful witcher the Wolves have, but he's a shit liar.

"Perhaps I find his moping dreadfully irritating. Let that suffice if it pleases you all to think of me as a selfish witch who ensnared your brother."

"What's the truth, though?"

"I love him," Yennefer says. "And he would walk through a hundred portals for me, I'm certain. This is the least I can do."

Upon seeing Yennefer, Jaskier, Zoltan, Ciri, Lambert, Eskel, and Regis—the vampire having appeared out of thin air—all gathered together at Corvo Bianco, Geralt's immediate response is: "Damn. Am I dying?"

"Of course not," Ciri says, embracing him.

"It's about your Gwent addiction," Jaskier quips.

"I can stop whenever I want."

"You sound like Lambert when Vesemir locked the wine cellar," Eskel says.

"Hey, it worked, didn't it?"

"You started mixing up White Gull with random herbs and any half-empty bottles you could find."

"A lesson in creativity," Lambert says.

"Seriously, what are you all doing here?" Geralt asks.

"It was my doing. I invited them."

"Why? Is it Ciri? Is--"

"There's no danger. Everyone is all right," Yennefer assures him. "It's winter. Time for rest. And to be with your family."

They all stay until the pull of their own lives becomes too great to resist. For a while, their home is filled with life and laughter and music.

"Thanks, Yen," Geralt murmurs into her hair later that evening.

It doesn't fix everything. There are still those who should be here but cannot be, whether due to death or simply life's demands. There are still days when the icy tendrils of grief and pain seize Geralt's heart, and even the warmth of everyone who loves him isn't enough to break its hold.

But Yennefer knows it helped when she sees Geralt smile more. She can almost feel the ice in him beginning to melt.

#whisking canons and headcanons together until i get the hurt/comfort i need #mostly game canon with book references and dandelion is called jaskier #the witcher 3 #the witcher #yenralt #geralt of rivia #yennefer of vengerberg #witcher 3 wild hunt #witcher fic #witcher fanfiction #witcher 3 blood and wine

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