Archive of Our Own

1. Jaskier

When the armies clash and burn at Sodden Hill, Jaskier is in Oxenfurt: imparting his wisdom, feeling sorry for himself, and occasionally drowning his sorrows.

The rumours start around the time of the spring thaw. That the Cintran princess is safe. That a mage burned half of Nilfgaard’s army. That a witcher spirited them both away, a witcher, a witcher, a witcher.

Jaskier walks down the university corridors and hears whispers follow him, feels eyes on him. Mostly awe-struck. Mostly friendly. But you never can tell.

It is, perhaps, time to hole away somewhere else until either interest in witchers dies down or people forget his association with one.

Ironic, really, that after all these years trying to improve Geralt’s reputation, when Geralt goes and gets a new one, it’s nothing to do with him at all.

He leaves town after Imbolc, quietly, leaving word only with Shani and Priss; let everyone else wonder at his departure, and create a few rumours of their own. The road is… not hard. He’s accustomed to travel, to the blisters that come before his new boots are broken in, to shivering nights till he gets used to the cold. It’s lonely, perhaps. Every year before now he has been travelling to, not simply from.

The songs he writes are mournful, self-indulgent pieces of trash and he enjoys them immensely while knowing he’ll never share them with another soul. He has a dagger in his belt, gold coin in his purse; he doesn’t perform, nor stay in taverns unless the weather is particularly foul. Better safe than sorry, after all.

He has a narrow squeak in Flotsam, or possibly he is just being paranoid. Either way, there is a group of very suspicious looking individuals with soldier or mercenary written all over them, loitering ever-so-casually at the main gate. Jaskier takes one look and skirts the town altogether; he’ll never know if he was being over-cautious, but he doesn’t regret it.

And so he passes into Aedirn, and to the duchess’s estates.

Of all his patrons over the years, the duchess is probably his favourite. She was widowed early (the word is she had something to do with that), and has spent her time since cheerily reversing every one of her cruel husband’s policies. These days, she is white-haired and carries a stick, but she’s still sharp as she ever was, and still presides over flourishing estates and a cultured, artistic court.

She welcomes Jaskier with open arms, sets him up in one of the dozens of spare rooms, and scolds him for not coming more regularly. He has often wondered whether this is what it’s like for some people when they return home: exasperation covering a bedrock of warmth.

He had tried to be that for Geralt, who it turned out didn’t want it. He had occasionally dreamed Geralt could be that for him.

In his room, he lays his lute down gently on a couch, resisting the urge to hurl it at the wall, and dresses for dinner.

The duchess hasn’t survived so long by taking anything for granted. She is well loved in her lands, but not everywhere; she has a network of people who owe her favours and a well-appointed garrison. Short of Nilfgaard invading Aedirn (which may happen, but not yet), Jaskier will be safe here, and he knows the duchess will happily let him stay as long as he wants.

That first night, she bids him sit at her table. “Dear boy,” she says. “How are you?” Her brown eyes shine. When she smiles, her face creases into the pathways left by a life spent laughing.

“Very well, my lady,” he lies. He can tell by her brief frown that he isn’t fooling her.

“And your witcher friend?” She seems to be asking without meaning or motive. He brought Geralt here once; he’d wanted to show Geralt that there could be places where he was valued; courts that wouldn’t cheat him. Geralt seemed to find the whole experience deeply suspicious, like he was constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Ah,” he says. “Geralt is… that is… we had something of a disagreement.”

The duchess’s eyes soften in sympathy. “About what?”

“Oh, well. This and that. Nothing important.”

She pats his hand. “I’m sure you’ll make it up. Life’s too short to hold grudges. Give him a few months to sulk and find him again in the summer.”

Jaskier looks out over the room. If Geralt wants to apologise, Geralt can damn well come find him. Jaskier’s spent enough of his life trotting after the witcher, falling into line with Geralt’s demands. He’s learned his lesson; it’s not like Geralt valued any of it, in the end.

The orchestra finish a piece to a scattering of polite applause. He glances away, and when he looks back the musicians seem to jerk into life, as if, when his eyes weren’t on them, they had ceased to be. He blinks. The music resumes. He puts one hand up to his forehead, shakily.

The duchess lifts an eyebrow. He says, “I’m afraid I might not be particularly good company, at the moment.”

“My dear child. You may be as melancholy as you wish; we all need to lick our wounds from time to time.”

“You’re too good to me,” Jaskier says with a crooked smile, pulling on flirtation like an ill-fitting cloak, but she merely pats his hand.

“It’s only what you deserve,” she says softly.

The next day he sleeps late. He’s so damn tired all the time; he’s not a young man any longer, for all he likes to pretend, and travel takes it out of him. He wouldn’t have been able to trot after Geralt for much longer, so perhaps it’s all for the best.

We could head to the coast, he thinks bitterly. Get away for a while.

Well, he can rest now. Lick his wounds, as the duchess said.

He gets out of bed, stretches, wincing. His whole body aches. He washes, wishing for a tub to soak in, and breaks his fast. It’s another bright spring day, sunny but cold, and he decides to take a walk in the grounds, stretch his muscles a little.

The duchess finds him admiring the snowdrops in a wooded dell around a mile from the house. She’s wrapped up warmly in a fur-lined cloak, leaning on her stick. He bows to her, leaning over so he can kiss her hand. When he straightens, he feels dizzy. For a moment, his lips pressed against her pale skin, he thought he could taste blood.

“Jaskier?”

“Nothing,” he says. “It’s nothing.” He tries to smile. “It’s beautiful here.”

“Yes,” she agrees. “You must love this place very much, to see it so clearly.”

He hums, a little confused. “Your hospitality means the world to me, my lady.”

“Come sit with me,” she says, offering him her arm, and he helps her over to a stone bench. It’s a lovely view, down to where the gardens end and meet rolling fields. He ought to be utterly at peace, but he feels so heavy, as if he’s carrying a weight he can never put down.

“Everyone ought to have a place they can rest,” the duchess says. “A place they can call home.”

It’s as if she’s read his mind.

“Where would your witcher be now, I wonder,” she goes on. “Where does he call home?”

Jaskier frowns. “A witcher only has the Path,” he tells her.

“Nonsense.” She takes his hand, strokes his fingers. “He must be somewhere. Holed up in that wintry keep you told me about, perhaps. Where did you say it was again?”

“I don’t—” Jaskier says. He’s choking on the words, it pains him to speak, and yet he must. “I didn’t—”

“Tell me,” the duchess says. Her eyes are boring into him, no longer warm. “Where is he?”

Her nails are digging into his palm. He wants to move, to tear his hand away, but he’s caught, trapped by her gaze. “No,” he says. He shakes his head, confused, to try and clear his mind. “No.” She’s staring at him, still, intent.

He realises that he no longer remembers her name.

Around him, the woods, the green fields, start to fade, colours leaching into black and white and grey.

There’s a woman kneeling in front of him. Her eyes burn with a pale flame. “We’ll try that again, I think,” she says, and he opens his mouth to protest and then—

Someone says his name, and he turns to look. It’s hard, his head is aching.

“Dear boy,” the duchess says. “Are you quite well?”

“All the better for seeing you,” he tells her. He starts to shake. This is wrong, he knows. The taste of blood in his mouth. The orchestra plays a discordant note and stops. The world, quietly, falls apart.

“Jaskier,” the mage says. She’s shaking her head in a parody of fondness. “That’s another memory burned through. You won’t have much left, if this carries on. Nowhere to hide.”

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t think he has much of a voice left, after all the screaming. His mouth is full of blood and he grins widely, lets it seep down his chin and drip onto his chest.

She stands, grimacing. Her grey robes uncrease, the blood and dust from the cell floor sloughing away and leaving her pristine. She seems cut off from the dirt of the pit, untouched and unaffected. When she touches him, speaks to him, it’s with distaste, as if he’s the one sullying her, not the other way round.

There is no window in the cell. No light, no time. He can no longer remember how often he has come back to himself, waking from the dreams she spins in his head to trap him. The bruises from when they took him outside Flotsam are still fresh; that’s the only reason he knows it’s been days rather than decades.

In the gloom of the single candle, she seems to glimmer, larger than is natural.

The soldier behind him puts his hands on his shoulders to hold him still. He’s lashed to the chair he’s sitting in, rope tight around his chest, his legs, his hands tied behind his back, a constant aching pull.

He doesn’t have the answers they want, that they tried to beat out of him first, and trick out of him second. He’s just being stubborn now. He never did know when to quit.

She’s looking down at him, not with pity, more a studied indifference for something so far beneath her that she’s offended to have to deal with it. “Sleep well, bard,” she says.

Her hand brushes his forehead and he’s gone.

“Sleep well, bard?”

He blinks, yawns, stretches. “Not for long enough,” he says.

“Time for breakfast,” Geralt says. He’s standing by the door, hair loose around his shoulders, feet bare. “You’d better hurry or there won’t be anything left.”

Protesting, Jaskier drags himself out of bed, and pulls his tunic over his head. Yesterday’s breeches are slung over a chair and he puts them on too, as well as a pair of handknit socks that don’t go. He’s learned to forego fashion for warmth.

He follows Geralt down the corridor. It’s long and dark, with walls so high he can’t quite make out the ceiling. He feels like he’s in a tunnel, deep underground; strange, when he knows exactly where he is.

They go down steep stone stairs, with thin slits on one side for windows. Freezing air comes through and he shakes a little, wrapping his arms around himself. At last they enter the dining hall, a cavernous space with a large fire at one end and a small table drawn close to it. There’s bread on the table, a vat of what looks like porridge, mostly empty, and several abandoned bowls.

“The others must have gone out already,” Geralt says. He rests a hand on Jaskier’s back. “Come, let’s eat.”

Jaskier sits, lets Geralt serve them both, scraping the last morsels out of the pot. It’s warm and filling, though unfortunately flavoured with salt rather than honey. There are no luxuries to be had here.

“Where is everyone?” he asks when he’s eaten his fill.

Geralt shrugs. “There’s always something to do.”

“What can I do?” He wants to be helpful. Geralt’s invited him to his home, offering him protection now there’s a price on his head. He apologised for what he said the last time they met, and Jaskier forgave him, of course, but there is a fragility between them still. Jaskier hates it, and can’t quite work out how to get over it.

“You’re a guest,” Geralt says. “There’s no need to do anything.”

“Then I’ll die of boredom. Come on, there must be something.”

“You could play for us while we work,” Geralt suggests, lips twitching.

“Oh, don’t tease me,” Jaskier says, “I can’t imagine anything you’d hate worse.” He looks around. The large empty room looks back. The walls are plain stone, the floor covered with rushes. It reminds him of a Skelligan longhouse, the same functional bareness. He frowns. They came down some stairs, didn’t they? He can’t see the staircase anymore. And there are no windows, but surely there should be windows?

“I love your playing,” Geralt says earnestly, distracting him. Jaskier laughs, bats at him with one hand, but the witcher looks serious, for a wonder. “Ciri would want to hear you.”

“Well, if I’m to be commanded by royalty…” Jaskier gets up. He wants to find the staircase, reassure himself he’s not going mad.

“Wait,” Geralt says. “Here she comes.” He’s turning to the other corner of the room, where a door is opening.

Jaskier is entirely certain there was no door there, last he looked. There’s a dull pain in his jaw, as if he’s gritting his teeth; it spreads to his temples. “Geralt,” he says. “Where are we?”

Geralt is standing over him. Taller than he should be. They’re of a height and yet Geralt seems to be towering above him. “You know where we are, Jaskier. You just need to say it.”

“What…?”

Geralt grasps him by the shoulders. He’s grinning. He shouldn’t be grinning. “Tell me where we are, Jaskier.”

Behind him, the door opens fully and a girl comes in. He can see a glimpse of blonde hair under the hood of her blue cloak. “Your child of surprise,” he murmurs.

“Ciri,” Geralt says, proudly. The girl walks towards them. She pushes the hood back.

She doesn’t have a face.

Jaskier takes a step back, his mind buzzing with horror. He blinks, sees Pavetta, blinks again and the vision is gone, it’s just smooth pale skin, framed by pale blonde hair. No mouth, no eyes.

“Fuck,” he breathes, his gorge rising. “I don’t know what she looks like. I never went back to Cintra. I never saw her…”

Geralt’s hand is on his shoulder, holding him still. “This can stop, Jaskier.”

He screws his eyes shut, shakes his head. There is no princess. No child of surprise. No fortress. No rescue…

When he looks again, Geralt is gone and the hall with him. His mind feels fuzzy, as if parts of him are floating away, getting left behind in the dreams.

“No rescue,” the mage says, and he has a second to wonder what she means and why she’s smiling before he’s somewhere else again.

The night is dark, barely a glimmer of a moon making it through the thick canopies overhead. He’s following Geralt more by sound than by sight, the rustle of the forest as the witcher passes through it. They’re tracking a nightwraith, which apparently appears in a clearing not far off and dances to death any unlucky traveller or poacher who crosses its path.

“Are we nearly there yet?” he asks, and hears Geralt huff ahead of him, pretending not to be amused.

“Nearly,” he says. “I’ll tell you when to stop.”

“Yes, yes,” Jaskier sighs: he’s promised, as usual, to stay back from the battle; as usual, he plans to sneak up closer when Geralt’s back is turned. Geralt is used to that by now, anyway; if he were truly worried about Jaskier’s safety he wouldn’t have let him come along at all.

They walk silently for another few minutes. In the distance, he can see a shaft of moonlight glimmering through the trees. He slows. “I’ll just wait here then, shall I?”

Geralt unsheathes his silver sword. The metal sings as it slides out of the harness, and Jaskier shivers, for no particular reason. “I won’t be long,” Geralt promises.

He waits long enough to hum a couple of verses of Fishmonger under his breath, and then follows the witcher to the clearing, where the moonlight pours down silver and catches on the silver sword and the faint and twisted figure of the wraith, as Geralt whirls around it, feinting and thrusting in a fatal dance.

There’s no need for Jaskier to have come, really. He could be tucked up in the inn, back in the village, catching up on his beauty sleep. He’s seen Geralt fight just about everything by now, several times over. But it’s still worth watching – the grace of his movements, the knowledge that this is something reserved for Jaskier alone. He used to pretty it up, sing of gleaming armour and bright white hair, but now he thinks the true miracle is simply Geralt, unwashed locks and patched-up leather and all, risking his life over and over.

It doesn’t take long before the wraith is dispatched. Geralt wipes his sword on the soggy ground and strides back towards where Jaskier is leaning against a tree. “Enjoy the show, bard?”

“Very fine,” Jaskier says; it’s too honest, but it’s not like Geralt ever picks up on things like that.

Geralt raises an eyebrow and steps closer; Jaskier finds himself taking a step back, confusedly, ending up pressed against rough bark. He’s not sure why he moves, except that Geralt isn’t moving like Geralt, or rather, Geralt is moving like a witcher not a man, stalking forward.

“I know,” Geralt says, smiling with sharp teeth. “I can smell how much you enjoyed it.” He leans in further, sniffs at Jaskier’s neck with a little harsh intake of air, then breathes out slowly and deliberately into the hollow of his collarbone.

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, his voice gone high and strange, “what are you doing?” His knees are trembling; he can feel the reverberation in the wood that is the only thing keeping him upright.

“What you wanted,” Geralt says. He surges forward again, his body flush against Jaskier’s, his eyes blinking grey in the half light. He licks his lips, slowly, like he wants to start biting down; there’s no joy in his face, no uncertainty, only lust. “Watching doesn’t come free.”

“You’re bewitched,” Jaskier tries, because as much as he’s dreamed of this – and he has, gods, more times than he can reckon, has jerked off to visions of Geralt sweeping him off his feet or pushing him up against a wall or bending him over a bed – it was never like this. And now, faced with this blank, predatory gaze, he feels nothing but dread.

Geralt’s smile splits his face. He has Jaskier’s hands in his, now, forcing him further back against the tree so that there’s no space, so that he’s caught, crushed, between the wood and the solid bulk of Geralt’s body. And his wood, Jaskier thinks, hysterically, as Geralt grinds his cock into the crease of Jaskier’s thigh.

“Wait,” he says, “Geralt, this isn’t – it’s not right, it’s not you, I don’t—”

“You want this,” Geralt says coldly, and then he’s biting into Jaskier’s shoulder and it hurts, the shock of it, there’s warm blood seeping into his clothes and he’s shivering, shaking all over.

“I don’t,” he says, but his voice is wavering, more of a question than a firm no. Because this is Geralt, Geralt who he loves, and if this is the only way—

He feels Geralt smiling, sharply, against his skin, as he sucks and nips his way up Jaskier’s neck, as he kisses Jaskier’s lips with violence enough to bruise. “You do,” he says. He pulls back, holds one hand in the air and draws a sign. “You’ll do whatever I want.” His voice ringing like a bell, reverberating in Jaskier’s skull.

Axii. But. This is Geralt. Geralt who would, he knows, never—

“Get off me.” His voice is still high, still shocked, but firmer now; he feels the sign pass through him without impact, because it’s not Geralt. Geralt would never.

The thing wearing Geralt’s face leans back to look at him. Its eyes are dark and thirsting; its mouth stained red with Jaskier’s blood. “There’s no rescue,” it says, the words echoing strangely in Jaskier’s mind. “You’re mine.”

“You’re not Geralt,” Jaskier tells it, clinging to what he knows, closing his eyes. He pictures Geralt, his fond exasperation, the way he smiles when no one is watching, the way he scowls when he wants to hide what he’s feeling. Everything Jaskier has seen, everything he has turned into poetry, everything true and dear, he gathers up and holds close and uses it as a path away.

He wakes as if from a nightmare, all at once, and breathes out a plume of smoky air. Whatever panic had grasped him, sleeping, fades away in the pale dawn light. The fire nearby has collapsed into ash, leaving him chill in the morning breeze. Not far off, Geralt is standing by Roach, fussing with her saddle, checking her harness.

“Time to get moving,” he calls. Jaskier groans, and forces himself to emerge from the covers. There’s a thin layer of frost on the ground, his cue to head south; they’ll part later, when they cross into Redania and Jaskier heads west to Oxenfurt and Geralt north to wherever he spends his winters.

A whisper of doubt curls through his brain at the thought; didn’t he use to know where Geralt spends his winters? But Geralt is shifting impatiently and so he moves, well-trained, stumbling to splash frozen water on his face, to chew on a bite of yesterday’s bread and layer up breeches and doublet and cloak so they can get moving.

The day stays clear, cold enough that there’s frost sparkling in the low winter sun. The blue, blue sky stretches all the way to the horizon, and Jaskier feels… not happy, exactly, because he’s never happy when they part, but satisfied. That the world has these bright moments of beauty, and that he is alive to witness them.

It’s a quiet, calm, satisfaction. He feels no need to speak, or sing, or strum. He imprints it on his memory, instead, to feed a song later, if inspiration comes. The air is bright and chill, and breathing feels like drinking a glass of cold water from the well. Ahead of him, Geralt walks with Roach, their paces slow and graceful. Occasionally Geralt will look back, to check he’s still there, to check he’s all right, and when he sees Jaskier he gives a reassured twitch of his head and turns away. Every time, Jaskier feels his heart swell. Gods, he will miss him. But only for a few brief months of winter, before spring comes again.

They stop for lunch at an inn in the village closest to the border, eating thin soup and bread as they sit huddled together on a bench near the open fire. The flames crackle and leap in a strange, hypnotic dance, and Jaskier leans heavier on Geralt, feels his eyes almost close.

“Should keep moving,” Geralt murmurs, his words vibrating in Jaskier’s chest.

“Mmmm,” he yawns, and lets himself be slowly encouraged up, stretching, and smiling to see the near-hidden quirk of Geralt’s lips, the fondness in those uncanny, dearly beloved eyes.

At the border, they part. In their first years, Geralt would say nothing, simply turn his back, and Jaskier would never know whether he’d ever see the witcher again. In later years, they made tentative plans: ‘I usually stop here.’ ‘Come Imbolc, I’ll be at this festival, should you wish—’ But in recent years, they would go their separate ways in silence once more, knowing without speaking that they will find each other when the season moves towards warmth.

Geralt tilts his head northwards. And Jaskier, for reasons he does not understand but does not question, steps closer and wraps his arms around his witcher, holds him close for a long, long breath. When he steps back, Geralt is looking at him questioningly, a little confused but also amused, and Jaskier shrugs.

“I’ll miss you,” he says. “See you around, Geralt.” And he holds one hand up, in a wave that’s almost like a salute, and then he turns away.

It’s quiet in the cell, aside from the sound of his ragged breathing.

The mage says, “What did you do?” And then, anger threading through her words and drawing them tight and loud: “Where did it go?” She stands, her movements sharp and angry. “Useless. Useless! Although…” She stares down at him, her expression cold and calculating.

And Jaskier, who has no idea, any longer, of who she is or what she wants, closes his eyes to hide from the echoing spaces inside him, and lets the darkness carry him away.

2. Ciri

The latest village they come to on the long road to Kaer Morhen is small, barely a collection of houses, but it’s large enough for an inn with a crooked sign creaking in the wind. She looks up at Geralt, who sighs.

“It’s not safe,” he says, but she has become used to his tone, and recognises that he is willing to be persuaded if she pushes.

“Just for lunch,” she says. “It’s so cold, Geralt.”

He sighs, and looks into the distance, as if hoping for a sign. She wishes he wouldn’t. She hates these moments when she realises that he has no better idea of what he’s doing than she does.

“Just for lunch,” he echoes. “And then we should keep moving.”

She doesn’t wait for him as he haggles with the ostler to board Roach for a scant hour or two. Instead, she hastens into the warmth and company of the inn. It’s not a fine establishment – it doesn’t need to be, given that it’s the only one for miles around – but there’s a fire, and food to be had, and a rough stage in a corner. She glances over, hoping for a distraction, for some measure of civilisation to distract her from the rough path on which her life is set.

The bard on the stage looks gaunt and decidedly uncivilised, though the lute he’s clutching is finer than his attire. He’s not playing; he seems engaged instead in some kind of argument with the landlord, who’s glaring murderously. “Master Jaskier!” he says. “I’m paying you for the hits, not this maudlin shit. Play the coin song.”

“The coin song?” the bard repeats. He’s smiling, but uncertainly. The innkeeper hums a few bars of a jaunty tune, which sounds familiar, though Ciri can’t recall where she knows it from.

“Er,” the bard says, “I’m not sure I know that one.” He turns a vaguely cheery expression on the crowd, and starts to play a more upbeat song which, she realises after a few lines, is incredibly filthy, and not at all the kind of thing a princess should be listening to.

Not that she’s a princess anymore, of course.

The door opens and Geralt stomps into the inn, bringing a gust of cold air with him. The coldness seems to linger: she sees the few patrons glance up at him and look away, muttering amongst themselves, and she feels a pang of regret. No wonder he doesn’t want to come into these spaces, if he is treated as something monstrous.

On the stage, the bard reaches the chorus, his voice lifting above the hubbub of the room. Geralt looks up and flinches, then turns to her. For once, his face is entirely readable. “Geralt?” she asks, a little shakily; she doesn’t know this side of him, human and hurt.

“It’s nothing.” He tries out a reassuring smile, which doesn’t work very well. “An old friend.”

They sit, and are brought food, and all the while Geralt keeps casting brief, uncertain glances at the stage where the bard prances and sings, without ever seeming to notice them. She sneaks several sips of Geralt’s mead when he’s distracted and eventually, with the alcohol making her feel warm and carefree, she says, “you should go talk to him.”

Caught in one of his sideways looks, Geralt twitches and then scowls. “If he wanted to talk, he’d have come over here. Trust me.”

“Did you have a fight?” she asks, purposefully childish and innocent, and though the look in Geralt’s eyes tells her he knows what she’s doing, it still works.

“Not exactly,” he says. “It’s not exactly a fight when only one person is doing the fighting.”

She doesn’t have to ask which of them it was; the guilt rings out clear enough. “So apologise, then. It’s not hard.”

The way Geralt’s face goes closed and expressionless makes her realise that for some reason, for him, it is hard; harder than any battle against any monster would be. She goes for the jugular all the same. “There are people I wish I’d been nicer to,” she says. “And now I’ll never have the chance.” She wonders about adding a sob, decides that would be pushing it.

He eyes her, clearly unfooled; equally clearly knowing she’s right. “If you fucked up,” she says sweetly, “you should say sorry…” and at last he glares and says, “all right, all right.”

Witcher 0, princess 1, she thinks, though she’s aware she’s never tested Geralt to the limit and doubts she would win if she tried. She watches as he stands up and moves across the inn, then slips after him herself. She’s never met any of Geralt’s friends. She’s intrigued.

The bard has wrapped up his set and is leaning on the bar, deep in delighted conversation with one of the serving maids. He doesn’t seem to notice Geralt lurking behind him until Geralt clears his throat, a low rumble, which makes him turn.

“Goodness,” he says. “Hello. You’re very… loomy.”

Now she’s closer, Ciri can see his face properly. His hair hangs lank around his face; stubble covers his chin, a little too long to be stylish; his eyes above are a bright shining blue. And yet there’s something faded about him, his clothes just slightly worse for wear, his cheeks hollow. He looks haunted, hunted, despite the confidence he’s trying to project, despite the words tripping off his tongue.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, almost desperately, equally harried.

“At your service, master witcher,” the bard replies. He winks. “Did you have a request? A special song? I’m afraid there aren’t many about witchers, but I’m sure I could improvise.”

Geralt stands unearthly still for the space of a heartbeat and then he storms away. The bard, Jaskier, stares after him. He sees Ciri staring in turn and lifts an eyebrow. “Was it something I said?”

When she doesn’t answer he turns back to the attentive maid, shrugging narrow shoulders, and after a moment Ciri follows Geralt out of the door.

She finds him, as expected, in the stables with Roach, one hand clutched in her mane as if for comfort. “I’m sorry,” she says, awkwardly, because she’s never seen him feel something so overtly, and she’s not sure she can name what the feeling is. Anger, definitely, but also pain, regret, perhaps even something approaching grief. “I didn’t think he’d pretend not to know you.”

“He wasn’t pretending,” Geralt says, low. He touches the silver sword at his side, as if for reassurance. “He wasn’t lying.” He looks at her. “He didn’t know me. Something’s wrong.” He must sense her sudden fear, because he goes on, “it’s not a doppler. It was him.”

“Magic, then?”

“Perhaps.” He shakes his head. “But not any kind my medallion could sense.”

“What shall we do?”

“Hmmm.” Geralt looks over to the inn. There’s a kind of worried anger in his gaze. “Stay with him. Figure it out.”

“But if he doesn’t know you…”

A sudden smile crosses Geralt’s face so swiftly she almost wonders if she saw it at all. “Don’t worry,” he says, “I know what to do.”

‘What to do’, it turns out, involves loitering by the inn all afternoon, waiting for Jaskier to leave. Ciri grooms Roach, for want of anything better to do. Geralt just stands and stares into space, like he doesn’t know how to be bored. He’s gone expressionless; Ciri still isn’t sure if this is a sign of deep thought or no thought at all.

It’s gathering dusk when the bard finally comes out, his lute slung across his back. He doesn’t have a coat or a cloak, and away from the low candlelight of the inn his clothes seem even more threadbare. His pack is barely worthy of the name, it’s so thin. “Oh,” he says, startled, when he sees them waiting. “Hello again.”

“Heading out?” Geralt asks.

“A travelling bard knows no home,” Jaskier says haughtily. “He ventures from town to town, sharing his gift with the world.” Then he slumps a little and grins. “A travelling bard is also regularly skint, and this shithole couldn’t stretch to enough coin to pay for a bed.”

“The road’s dangerous hereabouts,” Geralt says gravely. “We could accompany you, if you liked.”

Jaskier eyes him. “And what’s in it for you, master witcher?”

“You said there weren’t any songs about witchers,” Geralt says. “Got me thinking. Maybe if there was one, people might see us differently. Might even pay us, from time to time.”

“Interesting,” Jaskier says. “Safe passage for a song. It’s an unusual barter system, but there’s a certain romance to it.” He pauses. “Very well, sir. If you accompany me to the next town, I think I can promise a ditty that’ll do the job.” He looks around him. “Hopefully the next town will be bigger. Slightly less muddy.”

Geralt clicks his tongue at Roach and starts walking. Jaskier and Ciri fall naturally into step behind him. “He’s Geralt,” she says, since clearly Geralt’s not going to. “I’m Fiona.”

“Are you all right?” Jaskier hisses in return. “He’s not abducted you or enspelled you or any other such thing? I know what they say about witchers.”

She’s oddly touched that he’s worried, especially since the thought of him trying to do anything about it is ludicrous. “I’m fine,” she says. “He’s a good man. Everything they say about witchers is wrong. That’s what we need the song for.”

Up ahead, Geralt stumbles briefly, and Ciri grins triumphantly at his back. She knew he was listening.

“Well,” Jaskier says, thoughtfully. “I’d better make it a good one then.”

They walk in silence for the most part, till it gets too dark for human eyes to see, and then Geralt leads them off the path, igni clutched in one hand to lighten the darkness. Jaskier is fascinated by it, if the way he hums under his breath is any indication; Ciri can tell he’s already starting to compose.

She and Geralt have settled into a routine, now: she starts the fire burning and unsaddles Roach; he disappears into the forest to hunt. It’s an easy, accustomed pattern, and the bard watches them move through it, leaning against a tree. He looks bewildered, but somewhere beneath that she senses a kind of yearning. Perhaps, when he and Geralt travelled together, they had similar patterns of their own. Perhaps a part of him remembers.

Later, after she has wrapped herself up in her bedroll, she hears them talking, their voices too quiet for her to make out the words. But Geralt sounds more relaxed than she’s ever known him, and from time to time Jaskier laughs, low and soft, and if she didn’t know better, she would have said they knew each other very well indeed.

They are up and moving before the late winter dawn, which, when it comes, brings the kind of dead grey sky that promises snow. Ciri huddles as deep as she can get inside her cloak, hands thrust under her armpits to keep warm. Geralt trudges on, heedless of the biting air. Jaskier just shivers, almost bouncing as he walks. “You’re ill equipped for the season, bard,” Geralt tells him, after one particularly ferocious tremor. “Shouldn’t you have more clothes than this?”

“Wouldn’t that be nice,” Jaskier sighs. “No, I— I—” He looks around, as if lost, and then says, “I… lost my pack, I think. Somewhere along the way.”

“Don’t you know where?” Ciri pipes up, playing the innocent again, recognising Geralt’s question for the bait he intended. “We could look for it!” But Geralt shakes his head at her because Jaskier is frowning, the heel of his hand rubbing at his forehead, pushing away a pained expression.

“I just need a couple of good evenings to set me on my feet,” Jaskier says eventually, forcing a smile. He seems embarrassed, though whether it’s because of his missing gear or his missing memories is hard to say. “Something’ll turn up. It always does.”

Later, Ciri sidles up to Geralt. “It’s like he doesn’t know what he doesn’t know,” she says. “Like something’s blocking him.”

“Hmmm.”

“Well?” she hisses. “What are you going to do?”

“Be patient,” is all Geralt says. He looks down at her exasperated expression and smiles, just a little. “I wasn’t, before. And…” His eyes go distant, as if he too is searching for something, buried deep. “The mind has tricks. It might not be a spell. At least not the way you think.”

“I don’t understand,” she complains.

“I know.” He puts a hand on her shoulder. “And that’s a good thing, trust me.”

She wonders about that for the rest of the morning, but can’t come any closer to figuring out what Geralt meant. It’s confusing, because Jaskier seems normal, is normal: he’s walking and talking and complaining that it’s too cold to get his lute out from where it’s strapped to Roach, and laughing when Roach pisses and makes Geralt jump hurriedly out of the way. But all the time there’s something bewildered and vacant in his eyes, as if he’s looking for something.

But he can’t look for something he doesn’t know is missing.

It makes her ache, suddenly, and she hates him then for his ignorance, as the weight of all the things and people she misses bears down upon her. She’s remembering the way her grandfather watched her grandmother; the way her grandmother moved, elegant and powerful; and the longing for them both is like a sharp stabbing pain in her heart.

Perhaps she cries out, or sobs. She must do something, anyway, because both Geralt and Jaskier stop. She keeps walking, looking away, scrubbing the foolish tears from her eyes as she pushes past Geralt and Roach. The witcher says, “Ciri,” and then stops short, caught by his own mistake. She turns, furious at him – how can he protect her, how can he live up to her previous protectors, if he can’t even remember the right name—

Jaskier catches at Geralt’s sleeve, an unconscious gesture, perhaps intended to calm or soothe. He says, “Geralt—”

And then there’s a strange hum in the air, like a note building. Jaskier lets out a choking cry and his knees buckle; he folds over and lands in a surprisingly neat curl on the snowy ground, his hands over his ears. Geralt is by her side before she even has breath to gasp; he takes her by the waist and hoists her up into Roach’s saddle.

“Go,” he says. “Run.”

She’s staring open-mouthed at him; and then behind him she sees the air shift, the portal building.

“Ciri!” he says, angrily, angry like he is with everyone but her. “Listen. Like we practised. You know what to do.”

It has barely been twenty seconds since Jaskier said Geralt’s name, and yet the world has turned upside down again, leaving her once again to fall. She bites down hard on all the things she wants to say, the pleas and promises. Her feet find the stirrups and she presses her thighs hard into Roach’s flanks. Geralt slaps the horse’s hind quarters and then they’re away, riding for all they are worth, so that the last thing she sees, looking back, is the thin black line that is Geralt drawing his sword, as a mass of deeper black emerges from the portal to surround him.

3. Geralt

There’s no chance. Geralt knows that the moment he hears the high hum of a portal, the moment he sends Ciri careening off into what he hopes, trusts, will be more safety than he can offer for now. He draws his sword anyway, standing over Jaskier, who’s still huddled shakily at his feet.

The one mistake the soldiers make is not to come mounted. They realise it the moment they emerge, as they see Roach diminish in the distance. There are shouts, muffled curses. Geralt pays it no mind; just stands ready, his sword lifted to strike, as the soldiers spill without discipline through the portal. Their black armour is polished, but they look young and underfed. These are not elite troops, and for a moment he wonders—

Then the mage emerges, and he sets the brief hope aside.

He’s never met this one before, but he knows straight away there will be no tricking or cajoling her. Her grey robes shine with an unnatural gleam, and her eyes are flat and unforgiving. She stands at the centre of the soldiers, ignoring them entirely, as if he and she are the only ones who count.

“Drop your sword,” she tells him.

He lifts it almost without thinking. “Or what? You think these men could hurt me?”

“I’m sure you’d barely notice killing them,” she says. “But you might notice me killing him.”

She gestures, her fingers slicing through the air, and beneath him Jaskier cries out. One of his hands presses against his shoulder, where blood gathers and begins to fall, staining the white ground red. Geralt hesitates.

“He’s just a bard I met on the road,” he lies. “What do I care if you kill him?”

She smiles. Or, at least, she moves her lips to show her teeth. “And yet, when I was in his head, you were all he thought about.”

He moves then, acting instinctively, his rage driving him, but her smile simply widens. When his sword strikes down it sticks in the air uselessly, half a metre or more above her head. The soldiers around her start to move, but she shakes her head at them. “Get the bard,” she says. “The rest of you fetch horses and follow the girl. Witcher, you’ll come quietly, or I will hurt him worse than anything you could picture, and never let him die. Are we clear?”

Geralt steps away, leaving the sword hanging in mid-air. “Clear.”

The soldiers begin to bustle, two of them forcing Jaskier to unsteady feet. The bard is pale, eyes dazed, still affected by whatever spell was triggered when he said Geralt’s name. They drag him forward, and Geralt falls into line, following them through the portal.

As he looks back, he sees the snow beginning to fall behind him, covering over the tracks of Roach’s hooves like a blessing.

On the other side of the portal, a miserable gaggle of men, carts, horses and tents surrounds a crumbling old house. Once upon a time it was clearly a well-tended homestead, with stables and a barn, but now everything is falling into ruin. There are still scorch marks on the red brick of the collapsed outbuildings. A fire, then, or a war; perhaps even one of the many Geralt has witnessed during his long life. He has no idea where they are, whether they’ve travelled a matter of miles or many leagues, except it is still cold and there is still snow on the ground so they must still be somewhere northern.

Ahead of him, the soldiers half-carry Jaskier into the house and down damp stairs into a basement. Hastily built walls divide up the large room, with crude doors of overlapping planks to turn each small space into an improvised cell.

When they turn into the one at the farthest end, Geralt’s nostrils flare. A sconce with a single candle burning is set in the earthen wall at the back, casting just enough light to see the plain chair in the middle of the narrow room, with rope hanging frayed from it. Everywhere are spatterings of blood, which smell so strongly of Jaskier it’s as if they’re screaming.

Jaskier, now here for what must be the second time, barely twitches when he’s dropped in the chair, when the soldiers bind him to it. His eyes are still shut tight, his breath still halting. He seems only vaguely conscious.

Another soldier searches Geralt, roughly, removes his dagger and gestures with it till Geralt takes off the outer layers of his armour. They bind his wrists with more rope. It is ridiculous, truly: Geralt could break free from the rope, room, camp, without breaking a sweat. If it weren’t for the mage, of course. If it weren’t for the fact that the soldiers in the cell with him are close enough to kill Jaskier the minute he makes his attempt.

Instead of moving, he leans back against the poor excuse for a wall and bides his time. Ciri escaped or she didn’t. He’ll know soon enough which it is. In the meantime he can only worry about what’s in front of him.

“Jaskier,” he says, and Jaskier blinks, lifting his head and then looking around. He takes in the room, guards, Geralt. There’s no understanding in those vacant eyes.

“What happened to you?” Geralt asks, quietly, and Jaskier stares back at him, mouth half-open, and simply shakes his head.

“He doesn’t know,” the mage says, her robes rustling as she enters. She brings cold with her, not just the cold of the frozen world outside but something deeper, something that catches at the soul. She nods at the two soldiers in the room with them, and one of them leaves to stand guard outside; the other takes a position behind the chair, arms folded.

Jaskier shrinks backwards in his bindings, though his expression doesn’t change. It’s as if his body remembers better than his mind. Geralt feels the anger at the heart of him increase a notch. “What did you do to him?”

“Very little,” the mage tells him. Her smile is cold too, burning with it. “I simply walked through his memories, until he hid them from me. Hid them from himself, too.” Her flat gaze turns to Jaskier. “It was cleverly done, I’ll admit. Desperation lends strength, even to specimens as pathetic as this one.”

Geralt growls, and she laughs at him.

“But as you can see, we found a different use for him, once he rendered himself incapable of giving us what we wanted.”

“You laid a trap,” Geralt says. “In his mind.” He wants to be sick.

“It seemed possible you’d run into each other again,” the mage says, stepping a little closer to him. “Then all he’d need to do was say your name, and I’d know just where you were. And the girl, too.” She looks up at him, stern and cold as steel. “Where did you send the girl, Geralt of Rivia?”

“You know better than to think I’ll answer that.”

“No wonder the two of you were friends,” she says, her tone bored. “Both as stubborn as the other. It won’t do either of you any good.” She nods at the guard behind Jaskier, who takes a fistful of the bard’s hair and tugs his head up. “How much will I have to hurt him before you’ll tell me what I want to know?”

Geralt snarls, his lip curling. Ciri is either safe or she isn’t. Either way, all he can do is play for time. The mage merely lifts an eyebrow. The guard holding Jaskier clenches his free hand into a fist.

Then Jaskier says, “don’t.”

They all three stop, turn to look at the bard. His eyes are clearer now. He blinks, licks his lips, and then stares straight at Geralt. “Don’t tell her anything,” he says. “Not for me.”

For a moment it feels to Geralt like only the two of them exist. “You don’t even know who I am,” he says hoarsely.

“The girl said you were a good man,” Jaskier says in return. “I believed her.” His face is still pained but he brings up a faint smile from somewhere. “Obviously she needs protecting. But not from you. And I don’t want to be the one who fails her.”

“You won’t be,” Geralt says. “You weren’t before.” Because he can smell what Jaskier suffered here, can see it in the uncertain, lost look in his face. And despite all that, he protected Ciri, protected Geralt, at the cost of what made him him. His memories, his songs. Everything Geralt rejected that day on the mountain, Jaskier gave up without a second’s thought rather than betray his witcher. “Jaskier,” he says, then stops, because there is too much to say, and he will not say it here. He nods, instead, in acknowledgement and agreement, and Jaskier nods back, pale but determined.

The mage lets out a contemptuous breath, breaking the silence and the stillness, the world where she was no longer relevant. Her hand lifts, fingers curling, no doubt ready to mete out pain beyond measure just as she promised.

And then the back wall of the cell explodes outwards.

The soldier goes with it, caught up in an unnatural wind; he screams as he flies out of the room and lands with a thud somewhere out of sight. Jaskier’s chair tips to one side and he falls; a kind of panicked shriek punches out of him; the mage turns to face the new threat; and Yennefer appears in the cavity the explosion has hollowed out from the earth.

“Geralt,” she says, her voice vicious, “I am not some maidservant, to be summoned when you have need.”

The mage hisses. Yennefer looks at her, almost bored. “Do fuck off, Fringilla,” she says, and gestures. A portal opens behind the mage. Geralt casts aard with his bound hands, sending her stumbling into it, and before she can retaliate, the portal is gone.

Geralt forces his wrists apart, breaking the rope. His ears are ringing. He can hear the muffled groan of the soldier sent out front to guard the cell. “We should go before she comes back.”

Yennefer quirks an exasperated eyebrow at him; you think, moron? written clearly on her face. Geralt hastens to untangle Jaskier from the broken mess of rope and chair. The bard has his eyes screwed shut, once again barely conscious. Geralt gathers him close, and Yennefer opens another portal. As he steps through, Geralt casts aard at the ceiling of the cell behind him, bringing it down. When the mage makes it back from wherever Yenn sent her, she’ll find nothing but rubble. No way to trace their passage.

And then they are abruptly somewhere else, a clearing in snowy woods. Ciri looks up from where she’s clinging to Roach, and comes running towards them, throwing her arms around all three of them in a hug strong enough to shake the world.

Much later, when it is full dark, after the explanations and apologies, after a still-dazed Jaskier and a still-tearful Ciri are sleeping, Yennefer and Geralt sit by the fire.

The silence between them hangs heavy, tastes bitter, until at last Yennefer breaks it. “I meant what I said,” she tells him. “I’m not at your beck and call. If it hadn’t been a scared child using the xenovox, I wouldn’t have answered at all.”

Geralt hums. “I would never have used it,” he assures her. “But I knew you would make time for Ciri.”

Yennefer moves her shoulders, either in irritation or acknowledgement. “She’s special,” she says after a while.

“I know.”

“For her, I’ll come. When she has need.”

“Thank you,” Geralt says. It’s more grace than he was expecting. “I am sorry, Yennefer, for what I did. And I still—”

She holds up a hand, violently, to stop him. “I don’t want to hear it. Not now. Perhaps never.” He nods, accepting that. “Besides, if I’m not mistaken, I’m not the only person you owe an apology to.” When she looks over at Jaskier, her eyes are surprisingly fond; she did always enjoy sparring with him, whenever the three of them met on the Path.

“I planned to take them both to Kaer Morhen,” Geralt says, “but I’m not sure if I can, now. If the mage still has her snare in Jaskier’s mind, it won’t be safe.”

Yennefer turns to him, surprised. “There’s no magic on him,” she says. Pauses, then concentrates, violet light flickering at her fingertips. “I can see its traces,” she continues, after a while. “But it was a one-time trigger; it’s spent now.”

“Then why can’t he remember?”

Her head is cocked to one side, considering. There’s something faintly sad in her face. “The memories are still there,” she says. “But I won’t unlock them; no one should go wandering so freely in another’s head unless invited.”

“He did it himself then.” The mage wasn’t lying. Geralt feels winded by it yet again, at the knowledge of what Jaskier gave up to protect him, despite the way Geralt has always treated him.

“For love,” Yennefer says drily. “It seems people do the most foolish things for love.”

“Will you come with us to Kaer Morhen?” he asks, rather than respond to that, and is not surprised when she shakes her head.

“But I’ll send you there,” she says after a moment. “Save the poor girl walking all that way.”

It is, almost, forgiveness. Not quite, not yet, but perhaps in time. Geralt stares into the flickering embers, and allows himself to hope.

The next morning, Yennefer opens a portal to the gates of the old keep. She holds Ciri close, handing her back the xenovox, and whispering something in her ear that makes the child smile. Geralt gets a stately nod; Jaskier no acknowledgement at all, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He is still pale and shaky, though when asked, the most he’ll say is that he has a headache.

It’s early in the winter, still, and Vesemir is the only one there. He regards Ciri and Jaskier with his usual calm, though he shakes his head sadly at Geralt when they’re not looking, and Geralt abruptly feels like an ungainly teenager again, disappointing his teacher with his poor footwork.

They prepare rooms for the three of them, piling the beds high with linen and woollen blankets; it’s bitterly cold already and the fires in the grates can only do so much. Ciri announces that she wants to learn to fight. Jaskier barely speaks, but Geralt can see the way he looks around, his face awed, as if he can’t wait to turn everything into a song. It’s a very familiar look. Because it is still Jaskier, after all, in most of the ways that count.

After dinner that evening, once Ciri has been carried to bed, and Vesemir has made his farewells, Jaskier fixes Geralt with a sharp eye. “So, master witcher,” he says. “Geralt.” He flinches a little when he says the name, but as the seconds pass without a portal appearing, or mages, or soldiers, he relaxes a little. “It seems you haven’t been entirely honest with me.”

“Hmmm,” Geralt agrees.

“I know you,” Jaskier says. “Rather well, it would seem, if people are abducting and ensorcelling me on your behalf.”

“Yes,” Geralt admits. “Sometimes you knew me better than I knew myself, I think.”

Jaskier lets out an exasperated groan. “This is so unfair,” he says. “How long has it been?”

Geralt has to think about that. It’s not as though a witcher reckons time as mortals might; and as far as he has ever thought about it, Jaskier has always just been Jaskier. His confidence and fame might have grown, the odd grey hair visible on his scalp, his clothes become richer and more elaborate over the years, but his voice and heartbeat have never changed. Eventually, counting winters on his fingers, he says, “twenty years or more, now.”

“Twenty years,” Jaskier says, outraged. “And you a witcher, and me a bard! How many stories have there been? How many songs?” He breaks off to yawn, and rubs at his eyes, looking in that moment much more like a child than a man who must be nearing forty.

The thought makes Geralt’s heart clench. Jaskier has wasted more than half his life on Geralt, and what has Geralt ever given him in return? Briefly, he is almost glad for the lost memories, for not having to see Jaskier’s anger at him. But the trouble is, he knows Jaskier, if not quite as well as Jaskier knows him, and he’s fairly sure Jaskier has already forgiven him. Why else would he have protected Geralt in the way he did?

“You should sleep,” Geralt says. “You’re still hurting, I can smell it.”

“You can smell it!” Jaskier exclaims, spreading his arms wide. “This is what I mean, Geralt, that’s amazing! What other fascinating things don’t I know?”

Geralt clears his throat. “I’ll tell you,” he says. “I’ll tell you everything you’ve lost, if you like.” He looks up. Jaskier is regarding him steadily.

“Thank you, Geralt,” he says. “I can tell that means something. So thank you.”

“I’m a shit storyteller,” Geralt warns him.

Jaskier smiles, the wide shit-eating grin that hasn’t changed a jot in twenty years. “No doubt,” he says. “That was what you had me for.”

It takes a long time. Two days of stories interrupted by Ciri bringing food and staying to talk, by Jaskier’s need to sleep, by Vesemir forcing Geralt outside to train. Of course it takes a long time; in real life, it took more than twenty years.

Geralt is no storyteller. His voice goes hoarse, even though he speaks sparingly, without much detail except what Jaskier demands. The bard, he knows, would tell it better, with much more embroidery. But still: it’s the truth, all of it, rough and plain though it might be.

He unwinds his tale from Posada to the Dragon Mountains, and explains what happened there unvarnished. “Yennefer had left,” he says. “I was… angry. Upset. And then you came along like you always did, following me, though I never gave you any reason to, and my anger found a target. I blamed you for all the bad choices I ever made in my life, and you left.”

They’re in Jaskier’s bedroom, late at night, the only light the flickering of the fire. Geralt is sitting in a chair between the hearth and the bed, where Jaskier stares out from the nest he’s made of blankets and bolsters. “I can see you’re sorry for it,” he says, carefully.

“I was sorry then,” Geralt admits, hanging his head. He doesn’t want to see understanding in Jaskier’s eyes, not when it isn’t really Jaskier forgiving him. “It was cruel; I knew it was cruel, even then. So did you. You told me it wasn’t fair.”

“Sounds like I did know you pretty well.”

“I was so angry,” Geralt says again. “You knew better than to argue with me. You just said, ‘see you around, Geralt,’ and walked away.”

Jaskier makes a small, choked noise. Geralt looks up. The bard’s hands are clutching at his head, twitching jerkily. Geralt gets up from his chair to the bed, moves to pull them away, worried that Jaskier will hurt himself, and finds himself staring into wide blue eyes.

“See you around,” Jaskier murmurs, so quietly even a witcher can hardly hear it. And then, triumphantly, “Geralt!”

Something Geralt hadn’t even realised was gone has returned to Jaskier’s face, deepening it somehow. Recognition. Knowledge. Twenty years’ worth of memory.

Before he can say anything, Jaskier’s arms are around him, holding him tight. “Geralt,” he says. The sharp, salty scent of tears rises; Geralt can feel his shirt dampening at the collar where Jaskier’s face is pressed against him. “Geralt, Geralt, I remember.” He sounds both heartbroken and overjoyed.

For Geralt, there is only joy. He rests his forehead against the crown of Jaskier’s head, and lets himself feel it.

4. Jaskier

Jaskier, for reasons he does not understand but does not question, steps closer and wraps his arms around his witcher, holds him close for a long, long breath. When he steps back, Geralt is looking at him questioningly, a little confused but also amused, and Jaskier shrugs.

“I’ll miss you,” he says. “See you around, Geralt.” And he holds one hand up, in a wave that’s almost like a salute, and then he turns away.

See you around, Geralt. The words reverberate, echoing strangely, overlapping with another voice, dearly beloved and much missed. The words become a key, turning in a lock, and something splinters, something falls. A wall, perhaps.

He blinks, as if on waking, and finds himself not in that cold cell, nor lost in twisting memories with monstrous versions of the people he loves, but warm, in a cosy bed in a cosy room, and Geralt facing him, startled. The events of the past weeks crash down upon him: being left on the side of the road, only his lute for company, struggling to make a living when he barely remembered how to play. Geralt and the child, at the inn, the deal he’d made to go with them. The mage, again, the dark cell, and the rescue. “Geralt,” he says, “Geralt, Geralt, I remember.” He buries his face into Geralt’s chest, breathes in his musty odour: bread, smoke, still that faint air of onion. When he was dreaming, there were no smells. This must be real. He’s crying, he realises distantly, and couldn’t quite say why.

Geralt is saying his name too, like it’s a precious thing. Jaskier forces himself away, wipes his eyes, meets Geralt’s. “I missed you,” he says.

Something in Geralt’s stoic unmoving face seems to collapse somehow. “Me too,” he says. “Jaskier, I’m sorry.”

“What for?” Jaskier asks, looking around him for his lute, because it’s not often one has a chance to write a song with oneself as the brave and noble hero, refusing to betray one’s friend despite all that magic and pain could do. His fingers are itching for a pen.

“The mountain,” Geralt says, hesitantly, and also somehow annoyed.

“Oh, that,” Jaskier says. “Yes, that was entirely uncalled for, and I was very angry at you for quite some time, but you found me again, and it’s hard to hate a man who’s saved your life twice in as many days.”

“How twice?” Geralt asks, his lips starting to twitch into a smile.

“Once in the cell,” Jaskier explains, “and once just now, when my memories came back. It was the words, your last words; somehow I made that the key, which was rather poetic of me, don’t you think? Turning the very thing that pierced me like a knife into a weapon to wield against others?”

“If you say so.”

“I do say so,” Jaskier says. “Oh, Geralt, you big lummox, you told me you weren’t my friend perhaps a hundred times in all the time we’ve known each other, but your actions always spoke more loudly, and I always knew you didn’t mean it.”

“I don’t deserve you,” Geralt says, but he’s really smiling now. Jaskier could usually make him smile, eventually.

“It’s true, you don’t,” Jaskier tells him, “but fortunately for all of us, we don’t get to decide what we deserve. If I chose to trail after a witcher for decades, I must have got something out of it, don’t you think?”

“Good songs,” Geralt says, shrugging, and Jaskier slaps him upside the head.

“You, Geralt,” he says. “The songs, of course, but mostly you.” And then, casting all caution aside – after all, he can always blame it on the mage if this goes badly – he pulls Geralt to him, and kisses him.

Geralt, startled, doesn’t respond at first, but just as Jaskier is about to pull back and pretend he’s lost his memory again, the witcher relaxes. His hands cup the back of Jaskier’s head, deepening the kiss, and when they finally separate, his eyes are soft and full of tenderness.

“You see,” Jaskier says, a little flushed.

“How long?” Geralt asks him.

“Half my life,” Jaskier says, then adds, thoughtfully, “well, it was lust at first sight, at least; I couldn’t say exactly when I grew up enough to be capable of much more. Not that long ago, if I’m honest, and by then you had Yennefer, and I figured I’d just pine nobly in silence.”

Geralt strokes his cheek, kisses his forehead. “I’m glad you’re not pining nobly.”

“Oh, so am I,” Jaskier says. He leans back against the pillows, and draws Geralt with him, till they’re lying side by side, like they have in countless beds before but never quite like this. “I wasn’t ever very good at it; you’re just extremely obtuse.”

He can feel Geralt smile. “What next?” he asks.

“Sleep,” Jaskier says, decidedly; he’s putting a brave face on it but he still feels somewhat hollow and shaky, like a rung bell, still vibrating from the strike. He needs time, to assure himself that this Geralt is his, all the way through, that he won’t turn on him, that the world is solid and real. “And then, well, there’s Destiny, and Ciri, and all that. Plus we made a bargain, the second time I met you for the first time; I still owe you a song.”

Geralt sighs at that. “You’ve sung me plenty of songs, bard,” he points out in a low rumble.

“There are more coming your way,” Jaskier says, too tired to be anything but sincere. “A lifetime’s worth.” He rolls over, on to his side; after a moment Geralt follows him, enveloping him in his arms. The witcher’s lips are pressed against the back of his neck. When he speaks, Jaskier can hear it all the way to his bones.

“I’ll treasure them,” he promises. And Jaskier smiles, and lets himself fall asleep imagining all the ways Geralt might make him sing.