Chapter Text
The child is called Marilka, and she can be no more than twelve summers old, but she holds herself with the harsh confidence of a grand matron.
“They threw rocks at him.” She frowns, ignoring Geralt entirely even as the man helps her from Roach’s back. “The bitch stabbed him in the thigh .”
Jaskier blurts, “Don’t say ‘bitch.’”
And immediately regrets it as the child hisses at him. “Aren’t you a Witcher ? What do you care about my tongue?”
“He’s your mother.” Geralt sighs. “He’ll wash it with soap.”
“What?” Jaskier asks.
“ What ?” Marilka growls.
-
It takes her a bit to grasp a very abbreviated explanation of wives and the law of the mountain, but afterward she seems a bit more sympathetic.
“So you’re married to...how many?”
“Four, by my last count. But living here, there’s no telling when I’ll be proven wrong.”
“Poor you.” She huffs. “I can’t stand men. I’d sooner kick one as kiss one.”
“You won’t have to worry much about that now.” Vesemir sighs, rubbing his temples. “We’ve not had a new recruit in some time.”
“Then I’ll be the first.”
Jaskier looks to Geralt, listlessly spooning warm stew into his mouth and staring into the middle distance.
Oh. That’s not good.
-
Vesemir is kind enough to take Marilka off their hands for a bit as Jaskier guides his troubled husband down to the baths, hoping to wash off whatever troubles him along with a layer of sweat and dirt thick enough to lay stone.
He’s accustomed to Geralt being quiet, he’s not accustomed to Geralt being silent and rigid under his hands.
No conversation tempts him, so Jaskier focuses on scraping off the grime, and hoping the quiet leaves him, too.
“It’s been busy since you left. We’ve got the gardens ready for a new crop, and that ridiculous goat is producing enough milk to drown us all.”
Geralt hums.
“I missed you.” He presses a kiss to the top of his husband’s head before bringing up another basinful of water to rinse it. “I want to be glad you’re home so soon.”
His husband leans back against the edge of the bath, and back further still, head resting on Jaskier’s leg in a way that can’t be comfortable.
“You remember the Black Sun?”
“That superstitious bullshit about girls destroying the world?”
He watches the slightest curl of Geralt’s lips. “That one. I met one of the daughters.”
Jaskier is quiet for a moment. Then, “What’s her name?”
“Renfri.”
“...is she still alive?”
“No.”
He doesn’t offer anything after that, so Jaskier urges him to surrender his hands for a thorough cleaning under his nails.
Jaskier fills the empty space.
“We live in an ugly world, where men can make up all sorts of superstitious nonsense for the sake of power. Sixty girls tormented for the crime of being born, and no one bats an eyelash. ‘They’ll become cruel creatures, and herald Lilit’s return.’ Well of course they fucking will. She defends women. ”
“Not from me.”
“I know you tend to punish yourself, but you need to tell me what happened properly, or I’ll have to ask the angry twelve-year-old.”
Geralt growls at him, pushing away from the edge to turn and glare at him properly.
“I gutted her. I fucked her and then I gutted her.”
“Not so quickly, I hope.”
Geralt blinks.
“I murdered a woman.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean why ? I murdered her.”
“I have known you for one season, Geralt, and I know that you have a reason every single time you lift those blades of yours. I know that you live to protect other people. What stopped you this time?”
“She was going to kill them all. Gave me a pretty speech about lesser evils. ” Geralt bares his teeth. “There is no lesser evil. It’s all just evil. ...And then she held a sword to the girl’s throat.”
“Marilka.”
Geralt sneers, and it’s the ugliest look Jaskier has ever seen on his face. Uglier still, because it’s directed at himself. “She told me she wanted to be a Witcher when I came into town.”
“She still does.”
“Her heart skips.”
“She admires you.”
“She watched me murder a woman and her companions, and then leave the corpse to be dissected. ”
Jaskier hisses, “A mage?”
“Stregobor.”
“Of course. Asshole. ”
“You’ve met.”
“He lectured at Oxenfurt once. That was enough. We knew better than to leave the girls alone with him.” He pauses, wrinkling his nose. “Priscilla nearly bit the snake.”
“A snake.” Geralt huffs a laugh that isn’t a laugh at all. “Ironic. He hides in a tower full of imaginary naked women.”
“Specializes in illusions and being an utter bastard. That reads. ...He wanted Renfri.”
“And she wanted his head.”
“Both of them tried to pay you?”
“Both of them failed.”
“One got farther than the other.” Jaskier reaches out, and Geralt drifts in closer, letting gentle fingers cup his cheek. “She’s still in your head.”
“‘No man can defy her,’ that’s what he said. But I could have. I should have left. I wouldn’t have known…”
“We both know that’s not in you. She was going to hurt people?”
“Murder every man, woman, and child until he came out of the tower.”
“He wouldn’t have. He’s a coward. A sadist.”
The quiet stretches again.
“But monsters still have hope.” Jaskier sighs, and Geralt’s gaze burns into his. “You couldn’t dissuade her.”
“She was a child when they had her raped. She would have been dissected like the others. She—” He chokes, rears back again. “She has been.”
“You had to leave her.”
“I killed her to keep her crew from killing the townspeople, but that’s not what they saw.”
“That’s never what they see.” Jaskier sighs and slips into the pool, still in his breeches and shirtsleeves, until he reaches his grieving husband. He wraps his arms around the man and drags him into his arms. “She’s not there anymore.”
“Marilka followed me out of town after the mob dispersed. I tried to make her leave, and she threatened to scream.”
“At least she decided for herself. If only every girl had that choice. That damned prophecy is self-fulfilling. What is any girl but the monster the world makes of her?”
Geralt looks at him.
Sees him.
Comes to a decision.
“Has Eskel told you about Deidre?”
-
This time, Jaskier stands before Vesemir in the Great Hall, dripping on the flagstones.
“Are you...er...alright?” Marilka asks, as if he might be teetering on the edge.
He probably looks like he’s teetering on the edge, with his teeth bared and his clothes soaked through.
“ Darling .” He says.
“Yes, Love?” Vesemir asks, and does not leave his seat.
“About how many surprise children would you say this family has to its name?”
“The school, or…?”
“ How many children should live under this roof?”
Vesemir frowns. “Usually we wait until they’re of an age. Some avoid their children altogether. This isn’t a life we want for them, especially without Wives to help care for them. You know we’re not the nurturing sort.”
Something in Jaskier twitches. Softens. “First of all, horseshit.”
Marilka whistles low. “Oh, he’s in charge.”
“ Child. ” Vesemir sighs. “Please.”
Jaskier takes a deep breath, shivers. “Annual checks.”
“Pardon?”
“I want every Witcher under this roof who is technically responsible for a living child to perform an annual check into their welfare. And…”
“And?”
“The Daughters of the Black Sun, should you come across them—I want you to offer them a place here.”
Part of him expects Vesemir to argue.
Instead, he rises from his seat and smooths his hands down damp sleeves. “It will be done. Geralt’s resting?”
“As much as he can. I came down because it’s...it’s important.”
“I know.” Vesemir kisses his forehead. “I understand. It will be done.”
“Good.”
“Get changed. It’s time we took a trip down the mountain.”
“What?”
“Get you a few new shirts. Warm boots and a coat for the girl.”
“Marilka. ”
“I’ll learn it, keep your temper.”
She blows a raspberry at him, and Jaskier flaps a hand at her. “Don’t piss him off, we’re going down the bloody hill. ”
-
Once, in a book, Jaskier saw a rendering of a creature called a ‘penguin.’
He feels rather like one as they journey down the mountain, Vesemir leading the supply cart and Marilka sauntering ahead. Fall hasn’t begun yet, but the higher altitudes and wind chill make it a nippy journey down.
Down. He’s being allowed down.
Vesemir sighs and stretches absently. “That girl’s going to be a terror.”
“She reminds me of my mother, a bit.”
Vesemir hisses. “That’s a ringing endorsement.”
“I wouldn’t trust the woman to care for a puppy, but she’s the sort of blood-drinking harpy one wants bargaining on behalf of one’s estate.”
“Hm.” Vesemir smiles that little smile. “We’ll let her lead the haggling, then. See how she does.”
“Mm.” Jaskier nods, and tries not to dance in place. “I’m just happy to make the trip.”
There’s quiet for a moment as Marilka darts off the path and returns with a skirt full of promising-looking herbs that she dumps in the back of the cart. “Are you always so dull?”
“No. Sometimes I chase and eat children.” Vesemir gnashes his teeth at her. “Especially the chatty ones.”
“Ugh.” She rolls her eyes. “Aren’t you supposed to be my grandfather ?”
“Oh, no. Also your Father.” Jaskier grins. “Though sometimes I call him Daddy.”
She stops short, jaw dropped, horror-stricken.
“Your birth mother not gotten ‘round to the birds and the bees yet?”
“I lived in a farming village . If I hadn’t yet seen a mounting season, I’d have caught the stablehands bare-assed before long.” She scowls. “You’re buying me sweets. ”
And then she marches further down the path.
“She’ll work off some energy in town.” Jaskier nods to himself.
“And then you’ll give all of it back with candy.”
More silence, until…
“From now on, you’re free to take this path, as long as someone comes with you for protection.”
Jaskier tries not to smile too hard. “Oh? Do you trust me now?”
“No.” Vesemir smiles a small, wry smile. “I’m less afraid of what may happen, knowing you. Being terrorized by you. Loving you. You’re free to take this path. Just don’t go alone.”
-
“How much for the boots?” Vesemir grunts, turning a fur-lined boot to admire the craftsmanship. “Could do with two pair.”
The cobbler frowns at them, as if he’s trying to puzzle out their presence. “Pardon me, Sir Vesemir. Those are children’s boots.”
“They’re for a child, Ebenn.”
“Oh.” The man blinks, “I’d heard of children on the mountain, but it must’ve been…”
“Before you were a twinkle in your father’s eye.” Vesemir chuckles. “It’s been an eventful day.”
Ebenn whistles. “Congratulations, then! I’ll give you a discount for the boy.”
“Girl.”
“ Girl ?” Ebenn seems downright impressed. “My wife’s just got done a pair of fine trimmed gloves, if you’d like to look at them.”
Vesemir nods, offering the man a genuine smile. His family’s been in business with the guilds since before he was born, and he’s been a loyal friend to them since. “I’ll be back.”
If I can pull them from the baker’s.
-
It proves to be a difficult proposition.
Madame Helene is a muscular woman, gained over years working with heavy doughs and hauling sacks of flour. It’s obvious now, her hands on her hips as she bargains with their newest recruit.
“I’ll give you one ducat and 50 coppers for two dozen.”
“ Two— you’re knee high to a gnome ! Where are you going to put two dozen pastries?”
“I planned to share .” Marilka frowns. “There’s other people at the keep.”
“At the keep? You’re awful short for a Witcher.”
“We’re not entirely certain she isn’t a gnome, Helene.” Vesemir teases, resting a hand on each slim shoulder. “She won’t grow big and strong without some help.”
“And sweets?”
“Life is bitter without your wares.”
“Ducat twenty-five.” Marilka amends.
Cut-throat.
Vesemir claps a hand over her mouth. “ Where is your Mother? ”
“He went to look at pretty underthings.” Marilka looks at him sideways. “Could haggle for those, too.”
“You’re a demon. ”
“A demon with two dozen pastries, Vesemir.” Helene laughs. “You’d best be good to her. And whoever’s wearing those underthings.”
He watches, feeling a bit defeated as his shiny new daughter gathers a basket full of sweet rolls and smirks at him.
-
Jaskier, meanwhile, has found himself up to his neck in fabrics at the tailor’s shop. The last time he was this happy, three to four husbands were bending him into a tidy, orgasmic pretzel.
Master Farro is almost as delighted to have him here, showing him his finest silks and enthusing about stitching a proper doublet and oh you’ll look magnificent in cool tones they’ll bring out your eyes.
“He looks magnificent in everything.” Vesemir rumbles from the doorway. Then, to the child, “You’re a horrible liar.”
Marilka makes a face that might be a smug little grin if not for the bulging of her cheeks. “I dun hafta share deef.”
“Master Vesemir!” Farro smiles. “And...child.”
With sugar-sticky fingers.
“Good day, Farro. She won’t be touching anything.” He sets a hand on her shoulder and she narrows her eyes at him. “We’ll need a good winter coat for her, a few staples. Would you want a dress, or would it only slow you down, Terror?”
“Are you taking me to a dance or teaching me to stab things?”
“In the right outfit, you can do both.” Jaskier hums, examining a bit of fine silk.
“Fine. ”
Farro busies himself gathering materials, and Vesemir makes a show of wiping her hands down before urging her into the range of the tailor’s measuring tape.
He moves to stand close at his husband’s side and whispers, “If you find a soft bit of linen, Lambert will be happy to sew you a fine chemise. Would make him happy.”
“Give him something to stitch up other than himself.” Jaskier chuckles.
But he goes to look through the linens with a gentle smile on his face.
-
The clothing, of course, will take some time, but they climb back up the mountain path with several bolts of fabric, boots and gloves, new toiletries, and a massive basket of pastries.
Marilka finally deigns to share her bounty when Vesemir pats her head and compliments her on her skilled negotiations.
“The biggest one is for Geralt.” She says. “He’s had a very rough season.”
And Jaskier realizes just how easy it will be to love her.
-
Vesemir lingers below that evening when Jaskier leans over Geralt, brushing clean strands of hair out over the pillow.
“She adores you, you know? I don’t think there could have been any other outcome.”
“She watched me kill people, and now she wants to do it, too.”
“If you really believed that of her, you’d have lost her on the Path.” Jaskier frowns. “She wants to help people. Like you do.”
“That’s not what she said.” Geralt’s smile is small, but the humor is there in his eyes and the ease of his shoulder.
“Maybe she takes after Lambert.”
“Gods help us.”
“I think Vesemir hates her.”
“He doesn’t hate her. He’s just giving her the adversary she needs.”
“Is this how Witcher parenting works?”
“He can’t coo at her while he’s knocking her on her ass. Training doesn’t work that way.”
Jaskier flops onto his back, looking up at the ceiling for a moment before letting his head fall to the side, unable to look away from his husband for long. “You want to wager on how long it takes before she bites him?”
“Twenty minutes, twenty copper.”
“It’ll take longer than that to chew through the armor. Forty-five.”
Geralt laughs— finally —and rolls them to pull Jaskier into a tight embrace.
-
Marilka does not bite Vesemir, but she does swear a blue streak fit to crack the sky the third time he dumps her unceremoniously on her backside.
They’re practicing footwork first, because no one in their right mind would hand unpracticed children sharp objects without some measure of discipline.
“Your enemy won’t be so kind as to let you back up. Keep your feet, and if you can’t— move. Stop and you’re dead!”
The point of the exercise is to come in close, land a ‘strike’ by tugging a handkerchief from the old Witcher’s belt, and get out of range.
Thus far, the girl has attempted straightforward lunges, feinting, and on one occasion, crocodile tears. None have worked.
Marilka is understandably frustrated.
“Is it time for break, do you think?” Jaskier mutters to Geralt.
“Don’t—”
“ There are no breaks in battle!” Vesemir scolds, hands on his hips, golden eyes boring into Jaskier’s soul. He doesn’t appreciate the way Geralt scoots away from him, as if distancing himself from trouble.
“I don’t know. I feel like there’s an incentive system we could work out.” Jaskier grins, and only just glimpses the way Marilka coils behind her teacher.
She winds up, quiet as a serpent in the grass, and launches herself at the backs of Vesemir’s knees like a cannonball with pigtails.
And he goes down like a bag of bricks, swearing and struggling the whole way.
The child perches on his back, yanks the scarf from its tether, and crows with satisfaction. “Stop and you’re dead! Ha! ”
Vesemir rolls in the dirt, knocking the child clear, and strikes quick to gather her up in his arms. “You. ” He says, and Marilka stills, very aware that this war machine has some hundred pounds and centuries of training behind him. But Vesemir laughs, abruptly, his body shaking with it. “You’ll get there soon enough.”
She wears a smile as easily as all that dirt and pride.
-
“She’ll be all right here.” Jaskier hums later that evening, the setting sun casting orange light in through the windows of his room.
He changes into his nightshirt, smiling contentedly, and Geralt watches the light color him in. It’s distracting.
That’s why he doesn’t quite catch on at first.
“Vesemir and the others will be good company. The lot of you pretend to be rough, but she’ll have the run of them.”
“But not you?” Geralt grins, sharp-toothed. “You think you can take her?”
“Not at all.” Jaskier nods, toying with the hem as he looks over at Lambert’s sketch rather than the very sated Witcher he’s left on the bed. “I won’t be here.”
Geralt goes very still. “What?”
“I’ve spoken to Vesemir—”
“About leaving ?”
“About leaving with you. ”
“I’m not taking you on the Path. It’s dangerous, and you’re—”
Precious?
Delicate?
All we have?
He means these and more.
“A bard. I traveled before I met you.”
“And wound up in—”
“ A completely unforeseeable circumstance . Most people don’t place animal traps on the veranda like topiary.”
“Jaskier, please.”
“I’m not asking to tour the countryside with you. Not yet.” Finally, he moves to join Geralt on the bed, resting a gentle hand on the center of his chest. “I want you to take me to Oxenfurt.”
“The bard school?”
“The renowned institution for the arts, Geralt. ‘The bard school.’ How would you like it if I called this…”
Geralt stares at him. “I’ll wait.”
“Shut up.”
“We call things what they are here.”
“Shut up.”
He wraps a strong arm around that trim waist. “You promised to stay here.”
“I also promised to care for you lot, and I think I’ve finally figured out how to do that under my own power.”
Geralt waits.
“Novigrad is a pulse point on the continent. A major hub. People of all walks and trades converge there. Some remain, but most leave. And what do they take with them?”
“...supplies?”
“Well, yes. Other than that.”
“STDs.”
“It’s a wonder I sleep with any of you. No. ”
“This is a very annoying game.”
“ Gossip, Geralt. People exchange gossip, and they take home what they’ve learned. It’s what makes living in far-flung villages bearable . Otherwise you harvest crops and hope you don’t get eaten.”
“The two noble rural pastimes. Of course.”
Jaskier whacks him on the stomach. He pretends to be winded.
“Gossip travels like wildfire. It’s a precious resource. Everyone wants it. And do you know what increases the spread?”
He wonders if Jaskier realizes that he sounds as if he’s discussing a contagion.
But there’s a brightness in the bard’s eye. He wants Geralt to know this, because it’s the important part.
Which means…
“When it’s a song.”
Jaskier beams at him. “ Exactly! You put it to music and it never leaves their heads. They can’t help but sing along, and then you’ve got them. They’re yours. ”
A very small part of him is frightened by his partner’s enthusiasm.
Mostly he just wants to wrap himself in all of that energy.
“You want to sing songs about us. Make us into folk heroes.”
“You are folk heroes. The folk are just too damned ignorant to figure it out themselves. I don’t intend to lie.”
Geralt squints at him.
“Maybe embellish. For rhyme scheme.”
Keeps squinting.
“It’s hard to produce lyrical poetry from ‘and then the Cranes bombed the bay,’ Geralt. Suppose they could be a comedic cycle. One man in a dinghy versus fifty feet of angry sea serpent—how isn’t that a comedy?”
“When the serpent ate a bunch of fishermen.”
Jaskier sighs. “ Heroes. ”
“I know…” Geralt swallows, takes in the excitement in his lover’s eyes, and tries again. “I know what this means to you—sharing your music, the stories you’ve heard, but it’ll be harder than you think.”
“I don’t think you know how good I am at my job, love.”
“I know you’ll have to be better than Valdo Marx. He’s already circulated The Butcher of Blaviken. ”
Geralt closes his eyes, just for a moment. Just to ward off the headache that comes with the memory of children singing it, of countless people throwing stones because they believe it.
He can’t deny that he does, too.
The room is quiet, which is unusual.
Jaskier’s fingers are gentle as they card through his hair, but Geralt can hear his heartbeat. Can feel his fury.
“I’m going to change the world for you. Right after I break his fucking jaw.”
Geralt knows, as surely as he’s ever known anything, that he will be taking Jaskier to Novigrad.
-
Their goodbyes are short, but sweet.
Geralt feels a strange, soft sort of pride when Jaskier takes charge of the affair, giving proper addresses and directives down the line.
He glances at Vesemir while the bard draws Jerome into his arms, and knows that his mentor feels the exact same warmth. They’ve been gone for less than a full season, and already Jaskier has become part of the stone.
“We’ll be alright.” Oberon promises, slinging an arm ‘round the Griffin’s shoulder. “I will mind Jerome, if no one else will.”
Jerome rolls his eyes, but does not move from his brother’s hold.
Marilka has not known the bard for long enough to miss him, but it’s possible the goat has, because she makes a sad noise when he scratches behind her ears.
“Show me what you’ve learned when we come back.” Jaskier smiles at her, in lieu of a hug he hasn’t earned. “I’ll write a song about you.”
And Vesemir, who was expecting a full season of quiet labor with their wife, only smiles a wry smile. He takes them each, presses forehead to forehead, and wishes them well.
They said proper enough goodbyes last night.