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Geralt ought to be used to saying goodbye. He has lived for over a century and said goodbye to more friends than he can even remember. Vesemir always used to call him too soft and maybe that’s true, because after a hundred years, it still hurts to see the silhouette of a friend on the horizon, disappearing from sight.
Geralt had lamented leaving Jaskier in Novigrad, and Yennefer in Talgon, but at least these were temporary partings. Jaskier is beside him – for the winter, at least – and Yennefer will return from Skellige once her task is done. But leaving Roach in Aedd Gynvael…
Geralt sighs and leans against the gate, watching as the merchant boy leads Roach around the paddock and towards her new stables.
She will be happy here, he knows. She will enjoy the pasture and the flowers in the hedgerow that will bloom in spring. The lad will walk her to the market everyday until one day she can no longer rise.
It is a happy ending, as these things go. He didn’t lose her to a beast or injury, merely to old age. But still, once he leaves here, he will never see Roach again, and it is hard to ease the ancient ache that thought provokes.
Jaskier leans into his side, warm and grounding. Geralt looks across at him and watches the way that the drizzle clings to the parting of his hair and the long length of his eyelashes. His hands are clasped before him, resting on the wooden gate as he gazes out into the paddock. Those hands have given him so much over these last few months – comfort, and pleasure, and joy.
Before their relationship had changed its nature, Geralt had been reluctant to appreciate Jaskier’s steadfast companionship; afraid of letting someone past the walls; afraid of one day having to make a goodbye like this.
Geralt still doesn’t understand why Jaskier stays by his side, even with sex in the equation. Strive to deserve his loyalty, Yennefer had advised, and fuck knows Geralt’s been trying but sometimes when he looks at Jaskier, he wonders if his attempts will ever be enough.
Jaskier catches his gaze over the paddock gate and even the bard’s grief-laden smile feels like sunshine on a winter’s day. Geralt averts his eyes, afraid to bask in the sun for fear of missing it when it’s gone. Because Jaskier will leave. Not today. Not tomorrow. But one day.
It won’t be like this, he knows. Due to Yennefer’s magical intervention, Jaskier is unlikely to reach retirement before Geralt reaches his, but that doesn’t mean that he won’t still leave. There is no cure for Jaskier’s wanderlust and now that Jaskier has been granted a new lease of life, there is no telling what he might desire once the mountain paths have cleared. Geralt is inexperienced in relationships and Jaskier will surely tire of his taciturn ways or the dangers of the Path or even Geralt’s own goddamn neediness. Jaskier is always adapting to his lifestyle, to his needs, and unless Geralt is able to demonstrate just how much that means to him, Jaskier might tire of their arrangement even sooner than Geralt is prepared for.
Geralt keeps attempting to show his appreciation but he feels like a clumsy toddler, a blundering fool, just plying Jaskier with sex and gifts and heroics, hoping desperately that the bard can read between the lines. Every time Geralt takes a step forward (Stay, he begs of Jaskier in the courtyard of Kaer Morhen and Jaskier’s eyes flutter closed like it’s actually a word he wishes to hear) he takes two steps back (Jaskier’s heartbroken expression after lovemaking, his outrage when Geralt tore that flute from his hands) and Geralt doesn’t know how much longer he can attempt to communicate his affection only to see it cause Jaskier pain.
Perhaps they never should have lain together. Perhaps their coming together should have remained an idle fantasy; a thought diminished with his inexperience and the knowledge of Jaskier’s disinterest; a path not taken because Geralt knew that it would end in goodbye.
Geralt watches as Roach enters the stables; her silhouette disappearing from the horizon.
But… this time he is not left alone.
Jaskier stands beside him, steadfast and silent, with not a word of complaint as his new doublet is soaked through with the rain.
“I am glad,” he says to Jaskier, “that Yennefer did what she did,” and he says it because at least he will not lose Jaskier in the same fashion.
It is only afterwards, as they walk back to town and Jaskier makes sure to tuck his fingers close to Geralt, that Geralt realises he is glad for all of it.
Whatever anguish awaits him when Jaskier finally says goodbye, at least Geralt will have known what it was like to have been loved by him. At least he will have been held by those kind hands and warmed by that radiant gaze. At least he will know every facet of his silhouette as it disappears over the horizon.
-
The damn knife has weighed heavy for some days now.
After the enlightening conversation in the tailor’s shop in Aedd Gynvael, Geralt is starting to think that many of his previous gifts have gone unrecognised.
Jaskier had not even understood the meaning of the protective amulet bestowed to him early in their acquaintanceship. Geralt had thought its meaning obvious; he had wanted him to stay, and he’d wanted him to be safe, and the obvious way to state such declarations without necessitating an awkward and unnecessary conversation was to give Jaskier the protective charm. I care about you, the amulet said. But Jaskier had heard something else entirely.
Geralt still doesn’t understand how a poet can miss such blatant metaphors when apparently it’s all they’re trained in. Sometimes it feels as if they’re speaking entirely different languages when they try to communicate their affection.
But eventually, somewhere between Jaskier’s ramblings at the tailor’s shop, Geralt had caught onto the truth of it –
Pretty is my profession… It matters to me.
And Geralt had realised what a fool he’d been. The medallion, the jumper, the crossbow… none of these things were pretty. Even Callum’s little wooden recorder that Jaskier had found rotting away in a crate somewhere was objectively prettier than anything Geralt had given him.
Geralt values practicality above all else. He believes that keeping your lover safe is the best way to demonstrate affection. After all, when Jaskier had come to rescue Geralt outside Kaer Morhen with nothing but a borrowed sword and fierce determination, Geralt had practically swooned at the sight. Jaskier had returned for him – despite the danger, despite the risk, despite the mud on his trousers – and it had meant everything to Geralt. But Jaskier clearly doesn’t see such acts to be meaningful in the same way that Geralt does.
After this revelation, Geralt had returned to the blacksmith in Aedd Gynvael, desperate for a way to make the knife “pretty” – whatever the fuck that meant. Geralt had refused to adorn the exemplary blade with gems or other trinkets that might weaken the metal but he’d eventually struck a compromise with the blacksmith’s wife who specialised in engravings. She would engrave minimally on the bone handle – birds and flowers and such – but indulge in a much more elaborate ornamentation on the leather holster. It was a compromise he could live with.
“He’s a poet,” Geralt had explained to the artist. “Don’t just use random flowers; he’ll know what they mean. It’s too easy to say the wrong fucking thing with lilies instead of lilacs or buds instead of blossoms. It’s important that he understand this time.”
She had raised an eyebrow knowingly as she pulled out a book on the very subject. “And what do you need him to understand?”
Geralt had gritted his teeth and tried not to picture that little furrow between Jaskier’s brows every time he said something wrong. “It needs to say that I… support him, and that I am thankful for him, and… that I… that I want him to stay.”
“Ah, I see,” the artist had said with sudden understanding. “A love declaration.”
“Blowballs,” Geralt had interrupted, still stumbling over the idea of ‘love’. “He likes blowballs. Or, he likes feeding them to my horse, at least. Would they be suitable?”
“Blowballs?” she’d asked sceptically. “You mean dandelions? The weed?”
“Yes,” Geralt had snapped, finding himself inexplicably defensive at her tone. “Dandelions. They’re resilient, and invasive, and annoying, but they’re often the only brightness to be found in barren land, and I...” Geralt had trailed off, thinking of Jaskier’s bright smile and continual warmth; sunshine, always, even in darkness. “I always like to see them.”
The wife had hummed with a knowing little smile and cracked the book open before her, leafing through the pages for an answer.
Geralt had waited impatiently, half-expecting the fucking dandelion to symbolise death or something, simply because he had thought to consider it.
The artist’s voice had been soft, however, when she’d found the entry and passed it over to him to inspect. “Yes,” she’d murmured, “I believe that could work.”
Dandelion, or blowball – a gift to a loved one; a wish for happiness; a promise for faithfulness; emotional healing, endurance, and survival.
“That’s good,” he had grunted, voice thick with emotion. “And a songbird between it all. It ought to be the centre of all things.”
Geralt had examined the blade when the engraving had been completed the next day and even to his untrained eye, it looked beautiful. The blade had been left untouched – still perfectly deadly – but the bone handle was engraved with dandelions and an assortment of other flowers –
“– gardenias for trust and respect, bluebells for humility, constancy, gratitude – and love! Of course! Both of these greatly symbolise love –”
– and Geralt had nodded his thanks to the artist. It was more than he would ever dare to say out loud, and only hoped that Jaskier would read between the lines as intended. The engravings on the leather sheath were just as detailed; the same choice of flowers surrounding a beautiful songbird, with little vines stretching all along the straps of the holster.
Geralt had paid double what he should have, for the first time certain that Jaskier would appreciate his gift. Geralt had intended the knife to state his support for Jaskier’s heroics; an apology for implying that Jaskier was incapable when Geralt had just been too cowardly to see the truth. But this… this said so much more.
Geralt has been waiting for the right time to present Jaskier with his gift and as they sit by the campfire on the way back to Kaer Morhen, with snow just starting to fall from the sky, and Jaskier shuffling with boredom beside him, Geralt cannot find a single excuse to delay.
He is too cowardly to look at Jaskier as he unwraps the present; too wary of seeing that little furrow between his eyes, but then Jaskier whispers his name in that way that no one else does, and when he finally dares to look across at his companion, he wagers that his plan may have succeeded, especially when Jaskier gives him an answer in return –
“For as long as you’ll have me. In whatever manner you’ll have me. I am yours.”
A sigh stutters out of Geralt’s mouth, tension unspooling in his chest from a fear that had long ago been left to fester. I’ll have you forever, Geralt wants to say, but it’s too much and too soon, and he knows that Jaskier may still change his mind when spring brings greener pastures. But while the word “yours” hangs in the air between them, it consumes every lingering fear in Geralt’s heart.
He summons the courage to meet Jaskier’s eyes and nods in return. I am yours, as well.
-
Geralt is anxious to return to Kaer Morhen. The brutal work that he undertook for the Red Guild in Aedd Gynvael has instilled him with the need to see his ward alive and well, but he is also naively hoping that Yennefer will be somewhere behind these walls.
Yennefer had volunteered to travel to Skellige to throw Fringilla off their scent but there was no telling how long she may be, or what hurdles she may encounter along the way.
Geralt usually does his best not to worry about Yennefer when they are parted. He is constantly fretting over Jaskier and Ciri because the two of them attract danger like a corpse does a necrophage, but Yennefer usually stays out of politics, and stays out of prison, and – as far as Geralt is aware – doesn’t have a professional rival intent on poisoning her or an entire army stalking her every step.
Except this time, Yennefer is trying to thwart someone just as powerful as her, and Geralt cannot help but worry.
Jaskier has distracted him as much as he can, assuring him at every turn that “she’ll be okay,” because “she’s too terrifying not to be” but Geralt has seen Yennefer’s soft edges, and has witnessed that divine vulnerability, and worries that her old friend knows her just as well. Fringilla would know where to hit.
Jaskier squeezes his hand as they approach the old fortress. “Yennefer might still be on the islands,” he hazards. “Don’t fear the worst if she’s not here. It just means she’s being very thorough.”
Geralt grunts and shifts their bags on his shoulders; his swords are heavy now he doesn’t have a steed to carry them.
Fuck, he hopes Yennefer’s here. As complicated as things may be while they’re all in the same room, he still wishes for it. He recalls what it was like in Talgon to hold Jaskier in his arms while kissing Yennefer on the lips and cannot help but hope they might share a bed one day under more pleasant circumstances.
He knows Jaskier would be willing… but Jaskier is willing to lay with most people, wise or otherwise. Yennefer, however, is a closed book.
Geralt is happy for it to remain a fantasy if Yennefer is unwilling, or if Jaskier becomes uninterested, but he still harbours hope for a very satisfying conclusion. He would settle for a pleasant one, though, if nothing else transpires between them. He would like to see the two of them be friendly, and care for Ciri, and build a family where none of them have known one. He would be very content with that indeed.
-
Ciri tackles him as soon as he’s through the gates. Geralt huffs a laugh, dropping his swords to wrap his arms around his ward as they kneel in the courtyard and Ciri begs for details of their trip.
“Later,” he assures her, messing her hair with one hand just to see her scowl in response.
“You’re no fun,” she grouches before barrelling into Jaskier instead, who only grunts mildly in surprise before lifting her off the ground with the strength of his embrace.
Ciri squeals in delight and when she’s placed back firmly on the ground starts asking him for the gory details instead.
Geralt rolls his eyes, even as he smiles fondly at the two of them. It is only when Jaskier begins to indulge her that he finally stands and inspects the rest of the keep.
He hears shoes on stone steps and then the breeze shifts, bringing with it the scent of lilac and gooseberries, and Geralt’s heart starts pounding in response.
He breathes her name even as his eyes lock onto hers.
Yennefer.
Fuck, how he missed her. He rakes his eyes over her, hungry and unashamed. He missed that smug little smile of hers and the way her hips sway as she moves. He missed the tight black clothes that show her curves and the purple eyes that sparkle with wit and mischief. He missed her scent and her touch and her conversation that cuts just as sharply as his. Just the sight of her after so long has him speechless and yearning.
He watches her approach; her eyes flickering to the familial scene behind him before landing on him once more. She stops before him, frustratingly out of reach. He should have embraced her. He should have done something other than just standing here like a gormless idiot. Fuck.
They exchange news, awkward and short, as Jaskier and Ciri depart. He hates the distance between them and wishes he had the courage to close it, but it’s been a month apart and if Yennefer is keeping her distance then perhaps things have changed, perhaps there is a reason for her reluctance, perhaps –
“Found a djinn,” she says, and suddenly Geralt understands the gulf between them.
-
Years ago, Geralt had bound their lives together on a djinn’s wish to save Yennefer’s life. It had been unthinking, and probably stupid, but the only thing he could think of in the moment to keep her safe. He had needed her to live, and didn’t care for the consequences. At least, not until the consequences came for him.
They had fought on one mountain, and reconciled on another.
Geralt did not resent their bound fates as she did. He had thought it a blessing; to have her in his life; to have some reassurance that she would not leave him in the same way that everyone else had done. But to her… this binding was not an assurance, but an entrapment. She lived in a prison that he had built.
Geralt had not seen it from her eyes before. He had been pained by her rejection after the dragon hunt, thinking that she was rejecting their love; rejecting him. But then as they travelled to Talgon, over the Blue Mountains, he had felt her thoughts in his mind, as clear as day: I love you already, you fool.
And they spoke of the djinn until he understood: Yennefer felt trapped. She felt betrayed. She felt fooled. And Yennefer would not trust in their love until the bond was broken.
Geralt had understood. He was terrified to break the bond between them – afraid that with nothing binding Yennefer to him, that she would walk away – but it was selfish and cruel to keep her chained to him. She deserved freedom, even if that freedom resulted in her absence.
He had vowed to unravel the bond; to find a djinn and unmake the wish that he had once cast.
He had not expected the solution to arrive so quickly. He had expected many more years in this limbo, loving each other with reservation, with doubt, with fear of departure.
But Yennefer deserves an answer. And if she is to walk away, then at least it will be while Jaskier stands beside him.
Geralt stands with her in the courtyard of Kaer Morhen, head spinning with all the futures that the djinn could bring, but when he looks into lilac eyes, he remembers something that Vesemir used to say: no point looking to the future, if you’re not going to survive today.
Yennefer’s standing before him. Alive, and well. They can give themselves one last day of the facade before wrenching the floor out from beneath them.
-
Sometimes Geralt feels like a man in the desert when he comes across one of his lovers; drinking deep from the water source, unknowing of when he will next have the opportunity again. Sometimes he wonders if they can feel his desperation in his kisses; if one day he will feel settled enough to sip instead of spate.
Being with Yennefer now is this sensation compounded. If they break the djinn’s hold over them tomorrow then there’s no telling what may happen next; even if their love remains, they may not feel as connected as they do now.
He kisses her and savours her scent, and her touch, and her warmth. He touches her and marvels at the way she sighs beneath him. He loves her, and meets no resistance.
He is blindsided, though, by the proposal she lets out before he is even out of his breeches. She wants to invite Jaskier into their bed. This is not a vague flirtation like Jaskier had used the last time they were here, but an earnest request for a coming together that very evening.
Geralt doesn’t know what to say, but he must communicate his enthusiasm somehow, because she smirks and continues to unravel his very being with her touch.
It is only after their urges have been satisfied and she slips out of bed with a sad sigh, that Geralt realises that inviting Jaskier into their bed might have been her parting gift.
-
Lambert is a dick, but Geralt would be lying if he said he hadn’t missed the bastard.
When he descends into the main hall that evening, they trade barbs, and punches, and then embrace like brothers.
Geralt tries not to let the word ‘whore’ linger in his mind like a black mark when Lambert comments on Jaskier’s presence – because fuck knows every backwater innkeep has said the same thing to the bard since the ‘tossing more than a coin’ rumour started – but it’s somehow worse to hear such taunts from his brother instead of a chorus of townspeople.
Jaskier has said that he doesn’t mind the assumption. He says that the rumour of the ‘witcher-favoured bard’ was the catalyst that resulted in their coming together and thus he can’t possibly resent the gossip that has soured his reputation. To a certain extent, Geralt agrees, because without the rumour Geralt isn’t sure if they ever would have considered the possibility of becoming intimate. But Geralt sees the way people look at Jaskier when they walk into a tavern; the sneers, and the disgust, and how they look at him like… well, like it’s that kind of arrangement.
Jaskier may not mind the assumption, but Geralt resents it. He resents the implication that Jaskier is just a pleasure in the night to be gone by morning.
Lambert’s never had a damn lick of sense though so he doesn’t notice how furious Geralt grows until he throws a punch and Vesemir tosses them both out into the winter’s snow.
-
Lambert is still grousing and cursing every god in existence when Geralt picks himself up from the snowy ground and strides towards the keep’s stables for some damn peace and quiet.
He thinks nothing of it until he sees an empty stall before him. There is no Roach to talk to. Only two unimpressed horses and the smell of hay and horse shit.
The sight doesn’t do shit to aid his foul mood.
Geralt stands there, immobile, caught in a tangle of grief and rage, until, eventually, he hears small footsteps behind him.
Ciri.
Geralt’s eyes flutter shut as he rests against the wooden stall, realising that he never even gave the girl a chance to say goodbye to the horse that brought them to Kaer Morhen.
“Vesemir said that was a bad impression you just set,” she says, leaning against the stable door, “punching your brother like that. I told him it was nothing compared to Court. Once, Sir Rutherford stabbed a man in the thigh just for taking the last of the mead. I don’t think he was aiming for his thigh though.”
Geralt snorts, finding that his rage has melted away with the falling snow. He glimpses back at his ward to find snow still clinging to her hair and an amused smile on her face. Her long braid is elaborate in a way that reminds him of Jaskier’s detailed decorations to Roach’s mane before they said goodbye. Perhaps he’d needed another subject to keep his hands busy.
“Lambert’s a prick,” Geralt advises, finally stepping out of Roach’s old stall and closing the gate behind him. “Everything he does is a bad impression.”
Ciri smirks with a sparkle in her eye; like Yennefer looks when she’s amused.
Ciri is their daughter, he recalls suddenly. Even if the djinn breaks their hold over each other, it won’t break this familial bond. Yennefer won’t ever leave entirely; not while her daughter resides in this keep.
Geralt relaxes, overcome with a relief he hadn’t known he was seeking.
“I am sorry,” he says, leaning back against the closed stall, “that I did not warn you of Roach’s departure.”
“It’s okay,” she says with a shrug, coming to mirror his stance on the opposite wall. “Vesemir said there was something you had to do, and I saw that you would not return with your horse. It wasn’t a hard deduction to make.”
Geralt nods gravely. Ciri had indeed seemed unsurprised by their steed-less return.
Then, Ciri frowns and she points a cautious finger towards him. “I saw this, in fact. This very moment.”
Geralt frowns in turn and glances around him, and then about himself, in confusion.
“Not you, you idiot,” she says with a laugh. “The empty stall.”
Geralt looks behind him to see Roach’s spare tack still hanging on the wall, and her hay still strewn around its basket. She was here. And then not here. He understands how it would tell Ciri everything that she needed to know.
“I am sorry,” Ciri says.
Geralt turns back to her to see her face wrinkled in concern and her eyes shining with empathy.
“I know that you loved her,” she says. “It must have been hard to say goodbye.”
Geralt’s expression falters in surprise, remembering how Cirillia had lost her parents when she was still young, how her beloved grandfather had died on the battlefield without a goodbye, how she had held her grandmother’s hand while the enemy closed in, and been fooled by a doppler wearing her guardian’s face. Countless friends, and acquaintances, and memories, all burned with Cintra.
And yet, she shows kindness; comforting him when she has lost so much of her own.
He opens his arms, instinctively, and she folds herself into them just as naturally.
For a moment, they just hold onto each other, comforting each other in their grief, until she murmurs into his chest, “You’re not going anywhere, are you?”
Geralt sighs, and pulls her closer. Perhaps he shouldn’t have chased that griffin contract. Perhaps he should have stayed here at Kaer Morhen until Ciri realised he was here to stay. “No,” he assures her. “You are my daughter. Even if we are apart, I have not left you. We have not left you.”
She nods against his chest, her breathing shaky and uneven. “Okay. Good. I don’t want to lose anyone else.”
Geralt squeezes his eyes shut and presses a kiss to the crown of her head. “Me neither,” he whispers. “Me neither.”
-
All has been forgiven by the time the occupants of Kaer Morhen convene for dinner. Lambert carves Jaskier the best cut of meat, and Geralt refills Lambert’s tankard with the strongest stuff they have in the keep, and by the time Triss has excused herself and Jaskier has tuned his lute, the brothers have forgiven each other enough to form a unionised front as they encourage Jaskier to sing the filthiest songs in his arsenal.
Geralt couldn’t give a shit what Jaskier sings, quite frankly, he feels like he’s heard every song in existence during the twenty or more years that they’ve been travelling together, but the mood is bright and boisterous, and he sees no reason not to encourage this debauchery.
“Bard!” Lambert exclaims, banging his tankard on the table hard enough to cause the homemade brew to slosh over the sides. “Sing the one about DeBrunt! You know the one with –”
Ciri is thankfully escorted from the proceedings before she can find out what ‘DeBrunt’ rhymes with.
Geralt catches Yennefer’s eye as she steers a petulant Ciri out of the room, and her gaze is amused, but burning… as if Jaskier’s dirty limericks are just as inspiring for her as they are for him. Geralt has tried to push their earlier conversation out of his mind but judging by Jaskier’s flirtatious behaviour and the way his two lovers have been conspiring nearly all afternoon, Geralt wagers that he may, in fact, be going to bed with the two of them tonight.
Geralt downs the rest of his cider to hide the hot flush creeping under his collar.
-
Geralt doesn’t know what it is – whether it’s his upbringing or merely something innate within him – but he always finds it easier to parse emotions during sex. He can read people’s bodies better than he can understand their words. He hears the way that Yennefer sighs and can feel the way that Jaskier moves and understands the intricacies of their relationships more clearly than he does at any other time.
His eyes flutter close with bliss when he lies between them, receiving pleasure from both his lovers, and he tries to tell himself that it won’t be the last time. He doesn’t want it to be. He doesn’t want Yennefer to lose her love for him tomorrow, or for Jaskier to grow tired and leave when the roads clear, because while he’s in this bed he can feel their love like it’s beating inside of him, and he doesn’t want to imagine a future where his heart beats alone.
When Geralt falls asleep that night, it’s to nimble fingers in his hair and lingering lips on his skin, and he holds onto the sensation as tight as he dare.
-
Geralt wakes in the night, immediately unsettled.
At first, he assumes that his ratcheting heartbeat must have stemmed from thoughts of the djinn and the uncertainty that awaits them that morrow, but then he notices an absence beside him and a familiar shadow on the stairwell, disappearing from sight.
Geralt’s heart pounds even stronger; adrenaline pumping through him as if for a fight. But this is no monster; this was an inevitability.
Geralt closes his eyes and tries to match his breathing to the slow steady breaths of the woman in his arms. Jaskier was always going to leave, he tells himself, but it doesn’t mean he’s not coming back; it doesn’t mean he’s gone forever.
But behind closed eyelids, that’s all Geralt sees – his mother, his lovers, his brothers – all walking away.
He controls his body, and controls his thoughts, but even as Geralt falls into a deep meditation, the sight of Jaskier’s silhouette is still imprinted in his mind.
-
Yennefer assures him that Jaskier will not have strayed far. She’s putting on her earrings in nothing but a dressing gown when she says, “He’s clearly feeling insecure if he’s scampering from our bed at daybreak.”
The notion of Jaskier feeling insecure seems absurd. The bard is confident to the point of cockiness, but Geralt has also learned never to dismiss Yennefer’s wisdom. He hasn’t told her – nor anyone – what Jaskier said by the campfire but it’s been on his mind ever since.
It had been on the way back from Aedd Gynvael. Jaskier had appreciated his gift, and had understood its meaning, but then he’d said… he said that he would wait for Geralt to tell him otherwise. With words.
Just let me know, when you can, what this is for you. I’ll wait.
Jaskier hasn’t mentioned it since, and until now, Geralt thought he was content with Geralt demonstrating his affection with touch and care and praise just as he has done all this time. But maybe Jaskier is still waiting for confirmation. Maybe he still craves those words.
Fuck.
Geralt throws on his clothes and rushes down the stairs, running out of the tower, and through the hall, and out into the snowy courtyard, determined to hold Jaskier in his arms and tell him… and tell him…
Fuck.
Geralt has no idea what the fuck he’s going to tell him.
-
Geralt finds Jaskier eventually, training with Lambert in the lower courtyard. He’s wielding his new knife with an impressive amount of skill, as he ducks and twists around the seasoned Witcher.
Geralt comes to a sudden stop, stupefied by the sight before him as he watches his lover reveal yet another side to him. Academically, he knew that Jaskier was nimble on his feet – he’s seen him prance around the stage, and dance with merriment at festivals – but seeing this agility combined with the flash of a deadly blade between his quick fingers is definitely a sight to behold. Jaskier still has much to learn and makes a few rookie mistakes that Lambert is quick to correct, but he’s as talented as any trainee Witcher would have been, and a fair match for Ciri if anyone is ever brave (or stupid) enough to pair the two together.
Geralt is so absorbed in the mechanics of the fight that for a moment he doesn’t realise how close the two of them are. How easily Lambert touches him. How easily he flirts. And praises. And teases.
Geralt finds his jaw locked and his fist clenched at just how fucking easy Lambert makes it look – saying “I love that” when Jaskier surprises him as if the word isn’t fucking tainted, pushing him hard as if he’s not constantly afraid of pushing too much, laughing, and smiling, and… communicating.
Geralt isn’t jealous – because who the fuck would be jealous of Lambert – but he feels so damn inadequate staring at their easy banter that he suddenly needs to prove that he’s not entirely inadequate himself.
He challenges Lambert to a duel and lets the brutal fight distract him from the fact he still hasn’t found the words for Jaskier.
-
The silence after the duel is worse. He won. It hardly matters. Neither of them have any grievous injuries but when Lambert walks away with a smirk, it’s almost like he knows it was a distraction. The fucker’s probably leaving him alone with Jaskier on purpose.
“Well, that was entertaining,” Jaskier says, crossing the courtyard towards him. “Are you much hurt?”
“Fine,” Geralt grunts, not wanting to have this conversation now, or possibly ever. He shrugs off Jaskier’s inquisitive hand and walks over to the armourer’s table to inspect his blade.
He hears Jaskier’s little mewl, but also his following footsteps, so perhaps Geralt hadn’t been quite as curt as he’d feared.
“I thought testosterone fuelled fights were meant to dispel stress,” he says with an awkward laugh. “Are you alright, Geralt? Is this about the djinn?”
Geralt grits his teeth and reaches for the rag to start wiping down the crust that accumulated from the fight.
“Geralt?” Jaskier asks again, stepping closer, and this time when he places a comforting hand on Geralt’s shoulder, Geralt is too weak to reject the comfort that it brings. “Talk to me.”
Geralt exhales through his teeth, attempting to focus his words as his hands take care of the blade. He wonders what Lambert would say; what clever retort or smooth flirtation he would be able to conjure.
Geralt has no such grace. “You left this morning,” he mutters.
Jaskier is silent beside him. He can’t stand it. Geralt reaches for the whetstone and runs the blade over it. Once. Twice. Th –
“I didn’t want to intrude.”
Geralt puts down the whetstone and turns his head back towards Jaskier, hopefully communicating just how idiotic that sentence was given that Jaskier was invited into their bed.
“I mean,” Jaskier sighs, coming to lean against the bench, “that I knew you and Yennefer were breaking the spell today. I thought you might want some alone time, that’s all. Geralt,” he says, reaching out to grasp Geralt’s arm which has long since abandoned his sword care, “I didn’t mean anything by it, I swear. I’m sorry if it upset you. I never, actually, want to leave you, you know.”
At this, Geralt finally meets his eyes. He seems genuine, and in the light of Jaskier’s soft touch and even softer eyes, Geralt’s panic from this morning seems utterly infantile. Of course Jaskier is here. “You mean that,” he says, intending it as a question but realising that it’s nothing of the sort.
Jaskier’s lips quirk up into a smile and then he’s tugging at Geralt’s shirt, “Come here, you lunatic, let me show you how much I mean it.”
Geralt lets himself be pulled into a sweet and languid kiss which does, indeed, speak to Jaskier’s sincerity.
“Next time,” Jaskier says against his lips, “You won’t get me out of that bed for anything. I’m serious, the entire keep could be burning to the ground, and I wouldn’t even notice if I was in bed with the two of you.”
Geralt smiles, at the same time his heart sinks. “There might not be a next time,” he warns.
Jaskier shrugs with a lazy smile and another chaste kiss. “Then you’ll have to fuck me twice as good to make up for it.”
“Hmm.”
“I’m kidding!” Jaskier exclaims, grabbing onto Geralt’s collar as they part. “You already fuck good enough for an entire army. Besides, I’m sure you two will be okay, you’re both as stubborn as mules –”
“Says you,” Geralt retorts with a smirk.
“Oh, shove off,” Jaskier says, smacking Geralt’s arm ineffectually. “I just think that not even a djinn could fabricate what you two have, and I know that beneath all that pessimistic bullshit you spout about fate and destiny and all, that you recognise how unlikely it was for us all to find each other. Sometimes good things actually happen, and why can’t this be one of them, hmm? Even if things change, it won’t be the end of everything. Just… promise me you’ll go in with an open mind, okay? And try not to make any more wishes while you’re at it. I swear some days, I can still feel the –”
Jaskier’s hand climbs towards his throat but Geralt captures it before it can land. “Don’t remind me,” he says, his mind already supplying the harrowing images of Jaskier coughing up blood and it being his damn fault.
“Too soon, huh?” Jaskier laughs. “Sure, let’s give it another decade.”
Another decade.
The casual assurance of more time spent together does something to ease Geralt’s anxiety. Whatever happens with Yennefer, Jaskier will be here when he returns.
Geralt sighs and catches Yennefer’s eye across the courtyard. “It’s time.”
Jaskier nods against him and lures him in for one last kiss.
Perhaps he’ll have those words for Jaskier when he comes back.
-
Geralt stands on the rotting wooden pier that stretches out into the drowner-infested lake before them. There’s an old fisherman’s hut nearby, the one where Lambert used to hide barrels of explosives and the occasional bag of fisstech when they were kids. The result is a bizarre fishy yet metallic smell that clings to the entire place. The scent reminds him of one of their early trials; the half dozen of them on the way to see Old Speartip when Callum had thrown a bomb into a nest of drowners. The smell of guts and metal isn’t easily forgotten.
It was raining that day but it’s dry now. Misty and grey. Clouds cloaking the mountains around them.
“Hmm,” Geralt says, inspecting the area. It’s a miserable place but suitable, he supposes, for what they are here to do.
“Anything troublesome?” Yennefer asks him, removing the ceramic bottle from her bag. An innocent looking thing. You wouldn’t think it was capable of such destruction.
“Hmm,” Geralt considers, enhancing his senses like he ought to have done in the first place instead of getting tangled up in memories. “No,” he concludes, “it’s fine. Nothing to be concerned about. Getting too cold for drowners anyway.”
“Very well,” Yennefer says. “Shall we get on with it then?”
Geralt draws his silver sword. Yennefer said she’d barely captured this thing in Skellige but he wagers that silver will weaken it sufficiently.
The bottle rests in her hands. The sword is poised in his. Between them lies everything.
Yennefer glances to him for confirmation and he quells the urge to ask her to stop. He wants to throw aside his sword and take her in his arms and kiss her like it’s the last time because for all they know, it could be.
Even if things change, it won’t be the end of everything.
Geralt nods.
The seal is broken, and raw chaos spills out around them.
-
Geralt feels it in his chest, the moment that the spell breaks. It feels like a taut string snapped loose, like one of Jaskier’s lute strings on a bumpy road; suddenly let free from its trappings.
He stumbles at the force of it, exhausted by the fight, but still stumbling blindly through the expanding blue light towards Yennefer because as exhausting as that fight was for him, Yennefer must have strained herself even further. By the time the last remaining light of the djinn is moving over the lake towards the mountains, Yennefer is staggering into his arms.
He moves them back towards the pier, manoeuvring their exhausted bodies to sit on the rotting wood because even this piece of shit pier feels more stable than his body right now. Yennefer goes willingly but although her body is exhausted, her mental walls are still too high for him to breach.
She is silent, and avoiding his gaze, and Geralt swallows his fear that things may have changed for her, despite his own feelings remaining intact.
Once the pull in his chest had dissipated, Geralt had felt exactly the same way about her as he had before. Just the very fact that his instinct was still to crawl towards her assures him of its truth. But perhaps Yennefer fares differently. Perhaps she will look at him and feel nothing at all.
After some time, he can take the suspense no longer. “Do you feel… different?”
Yennefer doesn’t answer directly, but she rarely does, so Geralt watches her carefully as she explains, “I thought I’d look at you and feel nothing at all. That you’d be a stranger to me... but it’s not like that at all,” she says, and then, miraculously, she reaches out to touch him.
Her delicate fingers tenderly cup his jaw and the touch feels as divine as it has always done. More so, now that he sees the lightness in her eyes.
She is imprisoned no longer. He can feel the barrier retreating.
“Nothing’s changed,” she confirms, and Geralt reaches for her in relief.
-
They lose some time to celebrations. Geralt feels elated, overcome with relief, and giddy when he kisses her and it feels like the first damn time. He had feared losing this privilege forever, and now every touch feels like a blessing – divine and addictive.
He groans into their heated kiss, dizzy with the possibilities of what else will feel new, and it seems that Yennefer is equally as curious as her fingers dig desperately into his shirt.
“Are you going to fuck me?” she asks, gasping against his lips, “Or are you rendered too exhausted from that little fight?”
“Fuck you,” Geralt bemoans but Yennefer seems to take it very literally, sliding onto his lap to grind against him in a way that makes Geralt gasp in surprise.
The pier doesn’t seem as enthused through, groaning preemptively under the added weight. Geralt mutters a curse and does his best to stand, taking Yennefer with him, as he carries her towards the fisherman’s hut.
“Thought you might have had some reservations about fucking amongst fish barrels,” Geralt says, as he kicks open the door half-hanging from its hinges to reveal the dingy dwelling inside.
Yennefer cringes, and seems to almost be considering a relocation, before Geralt distracts her with a well placed hand between her legs. She would have been too tired to cast a portal to their bedroom anyway.
She gasps into the sensation and begins tearing the clothes from his body; her fingers clumsy and enthusiastic without the use of magic. It truly does feel like the first time, especially when the wall they were using as leverage crumbles under their weight and they end up rutting on the floor atop a blanket of their clothes, surrounded by debris.
Yennefer peaks before him, screaming loud and unreserved as she climaxes, and digging her fingers into Geralt’s shoulder deep enough to bleed.
Geralt grunts and pulls out, preparing to finish alone before her enthusiastic hands are pulling him forward and into her mouth.
Geralt’s breath stutters alongside his hips as she takes his member into her warm heat.
Yennefer doesn’t enjoy this act. He never asks, and she never offers. She doesn’t like the taste, she once said, but Geralt wagers it is the submissive nature of the act as well that unsettles her. Yennefer likes to stay in control. The only time she’s ever performed this act for more than a passing moment was when he was tied to a headboard and even then it was not as enthusiastic as the welcome he receives now; encouraging him to fuck her mouth even as she lies on her back beneath him. She swallows him like she’s starving and Geralt bucks into her just as frantically until he senses his peak.
He tries to retreat, but she doesn’t let him, holding onto his hips tight enough to bruise even as he gasps out a warning. He’s afraid of taking too much, of pushing her away –
You’re allowed to want, Geralt, her voice echoes in his head, as clear as day.
And, oh fuck, does he want. He wants to want her. He wants to love her. He wants her to stay. And for the first time, his wants do not feel entirely futile.
-
The word ‘love’ feels easy on his tongue as it passes between them until the early hours of the evening. He brings her pleasure three more times before she pushes him into the lake with a laugh. He yanks her in behind him and by the time they make it back to Kaer Morhen, they’re both sex-drunk and dripping wet.
Jaskier greets them both with open arms and a fair bit of ‘I told you so’ while Vesemir greets them with a scowl and an empty cauldron for tonight’s stew.
It’s a fair punishment, Geralt reasons, but he wagers that’s only because Vesemir doesn’t know about the djinn. When he finds out about that, Geralt will no doubt be expected to do more grovelling than just cooking a damn stew.
Jaskier and Ciri stay in the kitchen with him, supposedly to help while Yennefer and Triss do whatever Yennefer and Triss do, but the two of them seem more intent on annoying Geralt with silly songs than they do with actual preparation. Geralt’s too joyful to scold them for it though, letting Jaskier make up more and more ridiculous rhymes for ‘spoon’ while Ciri giggles along.
It’s nice. It feels like family. But every now and then he catches Jaskier’s eye and notices the dimmed brightness of his gaze.
He remembers how easy ‘love’ was to parse that afternoon. He thinks about saying it, while he strips the joint, and cooks the bones, and chops the vegetables. He thinks about asking Jaskier to stay.
-
Geralt’s sentimental mood must be apparent at dinner because it doesn’t take Lambert two minutes before he starts ribbing him for it. “Urgh, I forgot how smug you are after getting laid.”
“Jealousy doesn’t become you, Lambert.”
“Yeah, and modesty doesn’t do shit for you either. It’s bad enough you’re fucking the both of them but do you have to rub our noses in it? Some of us haven’t gotten laid in a year. Have some fucking respect.”
Geralt snorts, highly doubting it’s been an entire year for the smart-mouthed Witcher. “You’re not going to wither away and die, Lambert, just because you’ve kept your sausage in the pantry all winter.”
“We’ll see about that,” Lambert grouches. “If Vesemir’s any indication, it’s fucking chronic.”
Jaskier snorts into his wine. Ciri’s not far behind.
By the time Vesemir returns to the table with a stack of bowls, not one of them has a straight face.
-
Lambert clasps him on the shoulder later that night, sincere now there isn’t an audience for his antics. “I’m happy for you, man. Truly. I’m a jealous bugger, you know. Truth is, any one of us would die for what you got. And you got it twice.”
Geralt nods his head in understanding and covers Lambert’s hand with his own. Truth is, Lambert’s right. Witchers don’t have long-term lovers. The number of people even willing to entangle themselves with a Witcher is minimal but their lives are dangerous and unpredictable and they’ve all had lovers they’ve had to leave behind. Or worse, got caught in the crosshairs.
Every Witcher has a Renfri, or a Callum, or a whore who died because they favoured her. They all have blood on their hands, and ghosts that they carry in their hearts.
Lambert doesn’t even try any more, as far as Geralt knows. He fucks around but he doesn’t make any commitments, and doesn’t look to stay. Eskel does. As much as Vesemir says he’s working amongst the war, Geralt wonders if it’s not that same girl he was chasing as he was last year. He wonders how it will end.
Geralt got lucky. He got Yennefer, with whom not even a djinn could break. And Jaskier, who is no longer constrained by the sands of time.
If Geralt doesn’t fuck this up, he could have the two of them beside him for a very long time. It is more than any Witcher would hope for, and probably more than any of them deserve.
No wonder Lambert’s been a jealous prick; Geralt’s the luckiest fucker on the Continent.
-
Geralt climbs the ladder to sleep alongside Ciri in the library that night. They used to hide up here when Ciri had nightmares because the mere task of picking a book from the shelves would calm her mind after a vision.
Ciri hasn’t been plagued by such nightmares since they returned from Talgon but Geralt’s feeling sentimental enough to admit that he misses their library hideaways. Vesemir has always demanded a lot of her time for physical training but now Triss teaches her magical studies and Jaskier distracts her in the evening with whatever educational song he’s written during the day, it means that sometimes Geralt only sees his ward for breakfast and supper, and he misses when they used to spend entire days together on the Path.
It’s nice to be able to spend time together again like this. Yennefer has taken Triss to her rooms for the night, and Jaskier and Lambert are playing dice below, while Vesemir’s steady snores arise from the camp beds across the hall. It feels very familial. Like home, almost.
“Will you read to me?” Ciri asks, fluffing her pillow before settling down for the night.
Geralt hums and browses the selection of half-read books beside them. They only have a single candle with them but his enhanced eyesight will still allow him to see the words. “Poetry?” he asks. “Mythology?”
“Anything,” Ciri sighs. “Just not another war story. I don’t want to hear another man’s name after that last one.”
Geralt hums, recalling just how dry that book had been, and how many relations and comrades of Sir William that they were meant to memorise. Even Geralt had found it tiresome in the end.
He rifles through the selection until he finds a poetry book that looks fairly benign. It might have been one that Jaskier has recently unearthed, actually, going by the floral leather cover. There aren’t too many books like that native to Kaer Morhen.
Geralt clears his throat and begins to read –
For years I have wandered this barren land,
planting seeds and wishes and ill-timed flirtations.
I wish that you would let me through that tangle of thorns;
let my blood be the lifeforce that feeds the thirsty ground.
I would muddy my hands until your colours grew true;
breaking free from the ground like a crocus in spring.
For once there was life here, I can hear it when you speak.
Let me feed this barren land; let me weep until you’re free.
Geralt raises an eyebrow at the melodramatic prose, knowing for a fact that spilling blood in a garden would result in no more than a hungry necrophage. He raises his head to ask Ciri if she wants to continue, but the girl is already on her way to sleep.
Geralt sighs and re-reads the prose, wondering if he missed something. The third time he reads it, the concept reminds him of Jaskier for some reason. He looks across the dark hall to see Jaskier curled up on his bunk, plucking softly at his lute.
If Geralt’s heart had indeed been a barren land, then it was not blood or tears that saved it, but the sunshine, given freely, every day that Jaskier walked by his side.
Geralt is not the same man that Jaskier found in Posada, ragged and broken, haunted by ghosts of the past. He is a man with a home, and a family, and lovers who understand the weight of memory that he carries.
Geralt falls asleep that night thinking of a garden; thinking of the colours breaking free from the ground.
-
It’s early morning. An hour before dawn, perhaps. He feels just as achingly new as the day; like dew in need of sunshine to thaw.
He rises and slips down the ladder, padding across the hall as quietly as he can to rouse Jaskier from his bed.
Jaskier comes to with a snuffle and an instinctive curl around his precious lute. It’s very sweet and for a moment, Geralt considers stepping away and leaving him to sleep but then Jaskier turns his head towards him, eyes blearily blinking awake and Geralt is filled with too much affection not to let a smile grace his lips.
Jaskier smiles back, bemused but more conscious than he was a few scant seconds ago. His hands come up to rub at his eyes as he continues to roll over towards Geralt. He mumbles a series of sounds that could be a greeting, or a question, or both.
“Come with me,” Geralt murmurs, tilting his head back towards the main door.
This is not an unusual request – the two of them have snuck away many times during the dead of night to be intimate away from prying eyes – and at first Jaskier’s eyes widen in interest and understanding, and he’s halfway out of bed before he seems to realise the direction Geralt had indicated; his brow furrowing and his mouth agape. “...Outside?” he whispers, wary of their sleeping companions.
Geralt nods, and indicates the chest of clothes at the end of the bed. “Wrap up warm. I want to show you something.”
Jaskier looks confused, but nonetheless eager, as he begins to dress. Meanwhile, Geralt slips into the kitchen to pack some cured meats and breads into his satchel, aware that they likely won’t have returned in time for Vesemir’s breakfast porridge.
By the time he emerges, Jaskier is rummaging through the cloaks and coats hung around by the entranceway, likely trying to find a century-old garment that meets his stringent fashion requirements.
Geralt huffs in amusement as he locates a suitable size and Jaskier sighs in disappointment when he sees it. “We’ll find you something pretty another time, Jaskier, but we’re going into the mountains. You need to be warm.”
There’s a soft smile on Jaskier’s lips even as he rolls his eyes, and he turns around so Geralt can dress him in the fur-lined cloak. Geralt fetches him a pair of suitable gloves too, only so that he can kiss his fingers sweetly before doing so.
Geralt forgoes his swords in favour of a hunting knife and a silver dagger. He then passes a longbow and quiver of arrows directly to Jaskier.
“Are we going for a hunt?” Jaskier asks as he shoulders the weapon.
Geralt tilts his head in consideration as he opens the hefty doors for them and a wisp of snow breaks through.
“Yes, and no,” he says, as they step outside. He closes the door firmly behind him and then turns towards Jaskier, itching to take his hand. “If we come back with a deer, Vesemir is less likely to stick me on kitchen duty again.”
Jaskier huffs a laugh, and Geralt is captivated by his reddened cheeks and sparkling eyes. His fingers twitch again.
“Lead the way then!” Jaskier declares with a broad smile and open arms. “Our mysterious adventure awaits!”
Geralt shakes his head in amusement but uses Jaskier’s dramatics as an excuse to claim his hand and tug him through the courtyard.
Jaskier laughs and stumbles into him, neither reclaiming his distance, nor Geralt reclaiming his hand, until the narrow mountain pass demands it.
-
The hazy blue light of dawn grows brighter as they make their way towards the old signal tower. They first must climb down into the valley before hiking up the other side towards the ruin and although it is taxing work, Jaskier makes no complaint.
The bard hums under his breath, and reaches out to touch dew and snowdrops, commenting on the marvel of nature whenever a thought occurs to him.
It’s nice, and peaceful, and with every step towards their destination, it feels more and more right that Jaskier is here beside him.
It takes, perhaps, an hour or two to reach their destination. The sun is rising bright and warm from the horizon by the time they crest the hill to the ruins.
“Oh wow,” Jaskier murmurs, casting his eyes around the crumbling tower. “What was this place?”
“A signal tower,” Geralt says. “When Witchers were plenty, there were a handful stationed here to keep watch over the valley.”
“Huh,” Jaskier says, touching the stone walls with a frown as if he can sense the years of blood and misery trapped inside. “It fell during the sacking then?”
Geralt shook his head. “No. It was already abandoned by then. The School had already shrunk to twenty-some Witchers. There was no need.”
“Oh,” Jaskier says, frown deepening, as if he had not realised how few of them there were before the attack on Kaer Morhen. It is as if he is grieving for them for the first time.
Geralt looks away to inspect the ruins. It seems quiet, as if it is finally at peace. “Sometimes harpies make roost here,” he explains to Jaskier. “There’s been a specter or two in the past too. A portal once. But now the ghosts have been put to rest, it should be as quiet as it always was.”
“I don’t suppose you’ll make the same guarantees for the structural integrity of the place?”
Geralt huffs a laugh, glancing up at the falling beams and heavy stone bricks that litter the place. “I make no such guarantees,” he grunts. “Careful where you step.”
Jaskier sighs. “That’s what I thought you’d say.”
Geralt turns around and offers Jaskier his hand, helping him pick his way through the rubble.
“You know,” Jaskier says, as he nearly twists his ankle on some fallen debris. “This ruin bears a remarkable resemblance to the last harpy-infested ruin we frequented. I do hope you’re planning on tossing me while we’re here. Preferably without the blood and the bodies and the heart-stopping acts of heroism, but I can’t say that our rather dramatic first coming together didn’t have spectacular results, so if needbe –”
“If you’re referring to you being captured by a harpy as an act of heroism –”
“Oh no, that was entirely unfun. Very happy never to repeat that experience. No, I was referring to the heroically bold act of kissing you despite you nearly murdering me the night before.”
Geralt frowns, trying to recall that night. It was the first time they were reunited after the dragon hunt, when Jaskier had come to him and said “everyone thinks we’re sleeping together,” and Geralt, still shocked that Jaskier had forgiven him so readily and had been so blasé about something that surely would have wounded his precious reputation, had clumsy said, “do you want to be?” like a scripted flirtation.
He doesn’t remember murder factoring into it. Just embarrassment over that terrible line and fear of rejection when Jaskier had not taken it as the invitation which it was perhaps intended to have been.
Maybe Geralt had come off as a little cold afterwards. Distant. He remembers how panicked Jaskier had been after he’d kissed him on the hillside the day after, like he’d regretted his rash decision, and how Geralt had felt the sudden need to assure him that he wasn’t alone.
Their coming together had been unthinking; Geralt not understanding the depth of his attraction until Jaskier had burst out laughing beneath him afterwards, merry and bloody and covered in semen, and Geralt had felt affection swell inside him.
“I’m glad that you dared to kiss me,” Geralt says, as he helps Jaskier over the last of the obstacles. “You are much braver than I.”
Jaskier is likely about to say something more on the matter, but then his eyes land on the vista spread out before them and it must startle him into a new train of thought because he’s soon blindly stumbling backwards to a nearby stone wall to sit on. “Oh, wow,” Jaskier says, eyes fixed on the sunlight valley before them. “Oh, wow.”
Geralt smiles softly at his evident wonder, and comes to sit beside him. The view is, indeed, spectacular. The sun rises bright and bold over the mountains before them, casting the valley in a golden light and making the river below them sparkle with light. Kaer Morhen lies nestled in the mountains to the left and it’s easy to track the path through the frost and snow that they took, leading from that ancient keep down to the bottom of the valley where the paths depart, one towards where they are now, and the other stretching out of sight towards Kaedwen.
It’s pretty. But it’s a sight that fills Geralt with an ancient melancholy.
“This is what you wanted to show me…” Jaskier murmurs.
Geralt nods, reaching out to cover Jaskier’s hand with his own.
“Oh, Geralt,” he breathes, cupping Geralt’s cheek before his eyes stray once more to the vista. “Oh, it’s beautiful. Thank you for showing me.”
Geralt clears his throat, and keeps his eyes fixed on Kaer Morhen. He lets the words come to him, steady and purposeful, as if brought on the breeze from the mountains themselves. “Callum and I used to come here. As students. Every spring when the Witchers left for the Path, we would sit here and watch, knowing that not all would return the next winter. We didn’t like to stay in the keep for the parting. They used to be happy to leave, and I never understood why, when all that waited for them out there was death.”
Jaskier is silent beside him but his eyes have left the view; fixed on him instead.
“Callum was a Child Surprise. As was I. My mother left me on the side of the road when I was six years old.”
“Oh, Geralt…”
Geralt shakes his head, unwilling to address the old pain that is buried deep. “I used to dream of her, on that very same road, walking away from me. Disappearing into the horizon. And then, to everyone who has dared love me since.”
Geralt takes a moment to summon the next words he needs to speak, taking solace in Jaskier’s hand wrapped around his and the patience that he exudes while Geralt stews in his memories. “When we were Witchers ourselves, I would walk that same footpath down from Kaer Morhen, and part with Callum as far south as I could allow. I would watch as he left. Knowing that one day, he…” his breath stutters, recalling that year when the sun did not set on his silhouette, but on his grave instead. “He would not return. I always wanted to ask him to stay; to walk the Path together. But I was a coward. I did not want him to know how much I… how much I cared for him, because I knew that if I admitted to such a thing, it would only hurt more when we eventually parted ways.”
Jaskier sighs, and rubs his hand across his face, as if he’s only now understanding Geralt’s reluctance to vocalise his desires.
“I live my life,” Geralt says carefully, “with the assumption that everyone will leave it. It is the only way I know how to live.”
Silence befalls them, bringing with it breeze and birdsong. And then, Jaskier turns to him.
“That is… tremendously tragic,” Jaskier says, huffing a laugh and coming to rest his hand behind Geralt’s back in comfort. “But I can’t say I don’t understand the logic. I mean, I’m not one for meaningful attachments myself. I’m not afraid that they’ll leave, as such, but I am afraid that they will tire of me. I’m given to understand that I’m somewhat of an acquired taste. There aren’t many people who can stand my, uh – quirks, let’s say – for longer than a few days.”
“I like your quirks,” Geralt says with a wry smile.
“And I’m not planning to part, but that doesn’t mean our demons will put themselves to bed. Perhaps we’ll just have to take this one day at a time, until one day we wake and realise that we’ve both stayed.”
“Hmm.”
Jaskier catches Geralt’s wry smile and exchanges it in kind before they both return to looking at the vista. Geralt knows they cannot convince themselves of future stability when chaos is all they’ve ever known, but he feels like he owes it to Jaskier to try. He remembers him fleeing his bedchambers yesterday and his heartbroken expression after the dragon hunt and doesn’t want Jaskier to feel unwelcome again.
“You should know…” he starts. “You and Yen... you’re both important to me. You are not lesser, nor secondary. My heart is with you, and belongs to you both. If you are happy to continue down this path with me then you should know that she will be walking it with us.”
“I know,” Jaskier says with a small smile. “She is very welcome to do so. The rest of your family too, I hope.”
Geralt feels a warm kindling in his chest at the idea of family… something which he has never considered with the intensity he has since returning to Kaer Morhen.
His eyes naturally drift towards Kaer Morhen as Jaskier leans his head on his shoulder and sings softly under his breath, something about a long road and blooming flowers; a song of springtime.
When the word ‘love’ passes Jaskier’s lips, Geralt does not shy away from it, instead he bows his head and kisses the taste of it from his lips.
-
Geralt stretches across the bed and basks in the morning sun that filters through the window. It feels warmer than it has all winter. It feels like the first day of spring.
He rolls over, seeking the familiar warmth that he knows he will find, and makes a small contented noise when he finds it and buries his nose in the nape of Jaskier’s neck.
He can hear the movement of water across the room and the familiar scent of lilac and gooseberries as Yennefer takes a leisurely morning bath. Through the open window, there is the distance clash of swords and Ciri’s laughter echoing from the courtyard. There is birdsong on the breeze, and a sleepy bard in his arms attempting to mirror their song.
“I love you,” Geralt murmurs, pressing the sound and the sentiment into Jaskier’s skin.
Jaskier sighs happily and arches into the touch, tangling his fingers in Geralt’s hair like they were always meant to be there.
There’s a tutting from across the room as a naked Yennefer rises from the bath and strides towards them. “I do hope you boys weren’t planning to start without me.”
Jaskier huffs a laugh, sleepily turning over and nuzzling into Geralt’s side. “Who said we were starting anything?”
Yennefer pinches his side until Jaskier yelps and makes room for her on the bed. “It’s you, bard, you’re always starting something.”
Jaskier laughs, and pulls her into a kiss, and Geralt watches, mesmerised, as his lovers become silhouetted against the rising sun.
It is nothing like the vanishing silhouettes that he has envisioned all these years. This is not a goodbye, or even a parting. His lovers do not leave, but reach evermore towards him.
In their arms, there is warm sunshine, and fragments of hope, and springtime flowers blossoming on the barren hills of Kaer Morhen.
There is freedom, and love, and the continued determination to stay.