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Chapter Text

Geralt was never expected to survive the Trials.  He wasn’t the first Child Surprise claimed by the witchers at Kaer Morhen to present as a submissive, but he was the first to survive the Trial of the Grasses, the first submissive to be unmade and reformed as a proto-Witcher without losing either his mind or his life.  When Geralt survived, one of the few who did, the trainers were surprised, but simply assumed it was an aberration and that the young submissive would perish in the forthcoming Trial of Dreams.

Geralt survived the Trial of Dreams, survived the mutation of his body down to very marrow of his bones, emerging with enhanced senses and his life and mind intact.  His survival was unexpected.  Some of the trainers, muttering amongst themselves, even called it an abomination.  A submissive Witcher had never existed and most of those overseeing Geralt’s training thought that one never should.

Still, when Geralt passed through the final Trial, the Trial of the Mountains, only to top his class in both physical ability and mental acuity, the trainers had to make a decision, with some wanting to allow him to graduate and others wanting him put down before his submissive nature got someone else killed.  Eventually, they reached a compromise.  Geralt showed extraordinary fortitude, both mental and physical, but there were those still unconvinced that a submissive could be a successful witcher.  And so, Geralt would be subjected to additional, experimental mutations.  If he survived, those who doubted him would allow him to graduate to walk the Path.  If he didn’t, then he had clearly never been worthy to carry the Wolf Medallion.

The additional mutations were brutal, breaking Geralt down again and again, building him up each time a little more unnatural, a little more wolf-like.  His bones thickened, his teeth elongated, and his stamina and his resistance to injury increased three-fold beyond that of the other witchers.  His young body fought the mutations, burning with fever and purging every bite of food or sip of water he managed to choke down. 

But, in the end, after weeks of suffering, Geralt survived the final round of additional mutations, his hair bleached white from the stress on his body, growing out of his scalp in stark contrast to his naturally dark brown color.  The first thing he did was to shear it short, leaving only the white behind, close-cropped to his skull.  Geralt  knew he was a freak among witchers for his orientation and these additional mutations only made that more apparent.  He couldn’t hide it, and so he wouldn’t try.

Mutations complete, Geralt’s final training began in earnest.  Vesemir ran him through his paces daily, pushing him until he was able to utilize the full extent of his enhanced abilities.  He was forced beyond his limits, muscles tearing and tendons straining, and then pushed further.  He never knew a day free from pain after that. 

He learned how to adapt the witcher potions to make them even stronger, granting him more substantial boosts and relying on his stronger system to handle the higher toxicity.  The potions were so toxic his eyes turned black and his face drained of color, leaving only black veins crawling down his face as his body redirected as much blood and energy as possible to processing the toxins.  The first time it happened, the alchemy master had only nodded.  Geralt knew what he was thinking.  A monster should look the part after all.

Kaer Morhen had built a being far beyond even the fabled prowess of a witcher.  His only weakness was his nature.  A submissive needed to submit regularly to remain healthy and functional, but Geralt could hardly enter into a contract with a Dominant like a normal submissive would to receive his required dose of subspace.  Given the risk, the trainers at Kaer Morhen had attempted to mutate it out of him.  When that failed, they tried to starve his nature, denying him relief for over a year, relenting only when his mind almost broke from the strain.  At that point, they'd put too much time, effort, and expense into Geralt to allow him to die insane.  They needed to come up with a solution.

Like all witchers, Geralt’s designation mark was covered by an elaborate tattoo.  The mythos was that all witchers were Dominants, and indeed most were, but there had been the odd neutral here and there.  Neutrals comprised the vast majority of the population, followed by Dominants and then submissives in roughly equal parts, so it was bound to happen.  But the witchers of all Schools were happy to let people continue to assume all witchers were Dominants.  The average person, a neutral, was wary of a Dominant and afforded them greater leeway and respect.  The witchers capitalized on this to inspire both confidence and fear in their contractors, it helped them get paid.

To preserve the legend, centuries ago the witchers schools all began tattooing their graduates, inking elaborate, school-appropriate designs up each student’s right arm from wrist to shoulder, covering their designation mark.  For a Dominant, the mark was a thick, black line that ran up the inside of the arm, dead center, from wrist to shoulder.  For a neutral, there was no mark.  And for a submissive, the mark was a wide, black cuff at the wrist. 

The School of the Wolf covered its graduates in an elaborate design winding stylized wolves around runic symbols for strength, protection, and magical power to boost the strength of their signs.  When the student was a Dominant, they left the mark mostly visible, allowing that to bolster the rumors.  When the student was a neutral, the elaborate design made it impossible to tell what lay beneath.  In the absence of contrary evidence, most assumed that neutral witcher was a Dominant. 

For Geralt, however, to hide the thick, submissive cuff, the trainers burned his skin from wrist to elbow before laying down a dense, elaborate design.  The burn scarred around the ink, the rough, shiny burn scar obscuring Geralt’s cuff in the detailed design tattooed above it.  The designation marks could not be removed without removing the entire limb, but the burn scar combined with the intricate tattoo made it impossible to tell the cuff was there even upon close inspection.  As an extra precaution, Geralt was instructed to wear bracers and gloves at all times.  It was a common enough choice not to raise suspicion on its own as long as Geralt visited neither a brothel nor a bathhouse.  Not that he was allowed to attend either, the risk of exposure was too high.  The trainers could hide his tattoo and they could train him to suppress his nature, but they could not eradicate all signs of his submissive designation if a Dominant were observant enough to really look.

The final piece was finding a method to allow Geralt to drop into the submissive mind space, as his mental health required, without exposing his nature to anyone beyond Kaer Morhen. The tests Geralt had undergone in an attempt to rid him of his nature demonstrated how long he could go without the relief of subspace before becoming substantially impaired. He started to feel the strain at four months, it became constantly painful at eight, but he did not lose his reflexes or reason until roughly eleven months had passed. Fortunately, the trainers only pushed him that far once, deeming the risk of permanent damage to their asset too great. Even if Geralt arrived to Kaer Morhen for the winter at the last possible moment and left as soon as the path down the mountain was just barely traversable, the longest he would go between drops was roughly ten months. He would be a mess, but he would still be sane.

Based on that, the trainers came up with a plan.  Geralt would be dropped into subspace by Vesemir twice every winter, once upon arrival and once before leaving.  Every time was the same, an efficient, clinical procedure executed with Vesemir’s usual emotional detachment.

Geralt had been terrified the first time.  While the trainers debated, the only other young witchers to survive the three Trails, Lambert and Eskel, both Dominants, had been allowed to help Geralt drop.  Fortunately for all of them, the Trails and training left them too exhausted to need, or want, much out of their play.  Eskel was content to have Geralt kneel at his feet, stroking his hair as they watched the sunrise, both drifting quietly.  Lambert was a little more aloof and preferred to simply order Geralt to carry out tasks, anything from cleaning his armor to repairing a cracked wall at the Keep.  It kept them all sane.

The trainers' plan was more traditional.  When Geralt arrived for his first scheduled session with Vesemir, he had been without relief for eight months, the trainers having forbidden Eskel or Lambert from helping to simulate what Geralt would face on the Path.  The strain of going without for so long caused him constant pain.  His skin burned at every touch, whether it was a blow in training or the soft brush of his linen sheets.  A headache pounded behind his eyes even when he slept and his stomach rebelled at the thought of food.  But he never missed a step in his training and his reflexes remained sharp.  To the trainers, his misery was not of concern beyond how it affected his functionality. 

When Geralt entered Vesemir’s chambers, he saw a large, wooden cross set up in the middle of the cleared front room.  Heavy, steel cuffs were nailed into the wood at the ends of the cross bar, at the center, and at the base of the post.  Vesemir ordered Geralt to strip off his tunic and directed him to the cross, locking him to it by his wrists, ankles and neck.  The rough steel chaffed at Geralt’s overly sensitive skin, immediately raising welts.  Geralt’s breathing and heartrate rapidly increased, adrenaline spiking as he heard Vesemir behind him furling and unfurling a vicious cat-o-nine-tails. 

“Be silent.”  Vesemir commanded, threading Dominance into his voice.  Geralt felt the command at his core and immediately complied, breath stilling in his chest.  No one had ever used the Dominant Voice on him like that before.  At the same time as he was terrified by the compulsion, something deep inside him felt fulfilled by obeying the command.  He felt ill.  He knew he needed this to survive, but he didn’t want to enjoy it.

“I’m going to strike you fifty times.  You will count.  If you lose count, I will begin again.” Vesemir ordered, Dominant Voice battering Geralt. 

Geralt felt the first wisps of subspace enter his mind, but it wasn’t calming like it had been with Eskel or Lambert.  Fear soured the feeling.  Still, he knew what response was required.  “Yes, Sir.”

Without anything further, Vesemir raised the cat-o-nine-tails and brought it down hard on Geralt’s back, raising deep welts.  Geralt felt as if his back were on fire, but he choked down the gasp of pain, and forcing his voice to remain calm and level, said, “one.”

The punishment felt endless.  Vesemir’s strikes split the skin across Geralt’s back and shoulders, causing blood to flow freely and pool on the floor beneath him.  Despite his fear, Vesemir’s Voice, combined with the pain and the repetitive task, forced Geralt down into subspace, his mind clinging to the comfort brought by the mild dissociation. 

He lost count once.  Vesemir started again.  Geralt thought he might cry if he were still able.  The disappointment in Vesemir’s Voice when he lost count cut deeper than the whip ever could.

Finally, it was over.  Fifty strikes had become close to eighty.  Geralt’s back was a mess of bloody strips, skin hanging off where the wounds overlapped and exposing the muscle beneath.  Geralt panted, hanging from the restraints, but made no sound.  Vesemir removed the cuffs, carefully supporting Geralt as he sank to the floor at the base of the cross.  Geralt’s pupils were blown wide, subspace starting to slowly fall away as the pain became more and more present. 

Vesemir pat his shoulder once, careful to avoid the whip marks.  “I’ll send the healer to see to your back.”  He said, before turning to leave, voice back to normal.

Geralt watched him go, cold seeping into his chest.  He didn’t expect praise, he knew he didn’t deserve that sort of consideration.  He should be pleased Vesemir allowed him to rest here a moment, grateful that Vesemir would send the healer to him so he didn’t need to traverse the Keep with his bloody back exposed.  He knew that, and yet it didn’t stop the wave of shame that washed over him.  He felt in that moment as subhuman, as insignificant, as the trainers who doubted him believed him to be.  If a simple, clinical drop session could drive him this low, perhaps they were right.

Geralt had been hiding his nature for decades, dropping only in those two controlled, brutally clinical sessions with Vesemir each winter.  He had grown accustomed to the pain of denying himself more frequent drops.  His body learned to filter out the headaches, the over-sensitivity to touch, and the muscle-tearing tension caused by his forced abstinence, pushing it aside so he could focus on his job.  While his Path was unimpeded and his efficiency at monster killing unparalleled, the strain made itself known in other ways.

Geralt suffered from constant insomnia.  Driven to wakefulness by dreams of soft touches, gentle drops, and a hand carding through his hair.  The ache in his heart brought on by those dreams, the soul-deep longing for someone to tell him he’d done well, that he was good, was enough to stop the breath in his chest and keep sleep away for days.  Geralt knew he could never have the sort of relationship he saw other submissives enjoy.  No one would want him to kneel at their feet, no one would want bring him down slowly, gently, lovingly, and then build him back up again. 

Even if he could safely seek someone out for such a service, even if he could trust someone not to use his nature against him, Geralt knew no one would ever want him like that.  He was a tool, used to kill monsters and then shoved away until he could be of use again.  He should be grateful Vesemir was willing to help him drop so he could keep his sanity.  He knew Vesemir didn’t enjoy the chore, he saw the grimace on his face and the hesitation in his body language each time he bound Geralt to that wooden cross, and yet he did it anyway so that Geralt could live.  Geralt should be grateful.  He was grateful.  But that didn’t make it easier to stop wanting more.

He was seven months out from his last drop the first time he met Jaskier.  The flamboyant young Dominant had bounced right up to his table, babbled some ridiculous line about bread in his pants, and had sat down directly across from Geralt, holding his unnatural gaze without fear.  He wore his dominance like a fine cloak, draping it over himself and everything around him, mark proudly on display by sleeves rolled up to his elbows.  Geralt felt himself leaning forward without a thought, catching himself just in time to change it to an intimidating gesture instead of a needy one.

Geralt had never felt so drawn to a Dominant before.  Something about Jaskier made him want to drop to his knees, bury his face in Jaskier’s thigh, and never leave.  That was dangerous.  Unacceptable.  He had to get rid of him.

And yet, despite Geralt’s punch, his growling, getting kidnapped by elves, and almost dying, Jaskier stayed.  Days turned into weeks and Geralt began to lose any hope of getting this annoying – alluring – Dominant to leave voluntarily.  He told himself it was all right to allow Jaskier to tag along as long as he could control himself.  He could always leave him behind in the night, he reasoned.  But he never did.

As winter started to descend on the Continent, the golden days of autumn a distant memory, Geralt and Jaskier sat in the tavern in White Orchard after finishing Geralt’s last contract of the year. After this, he would need to head to Kaer Morhen quickly if he wanted to arrive before the snows covered the mountain pass. In the deepest winter, those few weeks at the beginning of the new year, even witchers could not traverse the frozen path to the Keep and Geralt was cutting it especially close this year. It had been almost ten months since his last drop and Geralt was barely holding it together. His reflexes were still strong, his sword arm still true, but his emotional control was starting to slip.

He started to want Jaskier in a way he couldn’t control, eyes tracking him as he flit about the tavern with his lute.  Maybe he could sit on the floor by Jaskier tonight.  They shared a room after all, and a small one.  Maybe while Jaskier sat on the bed to compose, he could sit on the floor below him to polish his armor.  It was perfectly normal for him to sit on the floor and wanting a backrest wasn’t too out of place.  He could get just a taste of Jaskier’s Dominance without him ever suspecting what Geralt was really doing. 

Geralt’s plan crumbled away as he spotted Jaskier take an interest in a young submissive across the tavern.  It wasn’t unusual for Jaskier to pick up a submissive for a little play before he retired for the night, but this time, Geralt couldn’t stomach watching Jaskier draw the young submissive into his orbit, running his hands through her soft, curly hair and allowing her to crawl into his lap.  He chastised himself for his weakness, for his foolish thought that he could steal even one small piece of Jaskier’s brilliance to sooth his aching heart.  He tossed back the last of his ale, dropped a couple coins on the table to cover their meal, and headed upstairs to bed.  He nodded to Jaskier on his way up, keeping his face carefully blank. 

Fortunately for Geralt’s fraying control, the room they rented for the night had two small beds, one on each side of the narrow room.  Geralt had claimed the bed closest to the door, as always.  He took his time removing his armor, carefully oiling each piece before stacking it in the corner.  He sharpened his swords as well, meticulously oiling the leather on the guards and checking each one over for any signs of wear.  Finally, he went over Roach’s tack, which he had brought up to inspect while he had the luxury of a safe room, taking it apart, cleaning and oiling each piece until it gleamed. 

Satisfied, Geralt put away his cleaning supplies and washed his hands, arms, and face in the small basin provided.  He could call for a bath, but he didn’t trust himself to hold it together if Jaskier came back in while he was still vulnerable.  Removing his boots and outer clothes, Geralt crawled under the covers in his smalls, pinching out the candle next to his bed but leaving the one next to Jaskier’s burning.  Wouldn’t do for him to trip and hurt himself in the dark. 

Geralt lay in the semi-darkness, enhanced eyes still able to see as if it were full daylight, and prayed for sleep to come.  He ran through alchemy ingredients in his head in an attempt to calm himself to sleep.  When that failed, he tried meditative breathing.  Nothing worked, his nerves shot and his body oversensitive to everything around him, chafing against even the unexpectedly soft sheets on the rented bed.  He resigned himself to another sleepless night, his fifth this week, and settled into a light meditation instead.

It was after midnight by the time Jaskier returned to the room, smelling of sex and contentment.  He hummed under his breath as he undressed for bed, carefully wiping himself down with the cloth provided along with the wash basin.  It was a familiar scene, but it hurt all the same that Jaskier would spend the night ravishing another submissive just before they separated for the season.  Or forever.  Jaskier said he planned to meet up with Geralt again in White Orchard come spring, but Geralt wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t.  Jaskier could have anyone he wanted, there was no reason he should waste his time and his youth on Geralt.

“If you’d like to sleep in tomorrow, I can tell the innkeeper not to disturb you.”  Geralt said quietly, forcing his voice to remain neutral. 

Jaskier jumped, spinning around to face Geralt.  “Geralt, you startled me! Did I wake you?  Forgive me, I tried to be quiet.”

“No, I wasn’t sleeping.”  Geralt said, quick to reassure him.

Jaskier frowned.  “You haven’t been sleeping much lately.  Are you all right?”

Geralt blinked, startled he had noticed, but pleased all the same.  He stamped down that warm feeling of pleasure, he had no right to it.  “I’m fine.”  He said brusquely.  “Meditation is sufficient.”

Jaskier looked doubtful, but didn’t push.  “If you say so.  Just promise you’ll tell me if there’s something wrong?  I’d like to help if I can.” 

He sounded so earnest Geralt almost told him the truth but caught himself just in time, biting his response back and letting out a simple hum of acknowledgment instead.

“And no,” Jaskier said, returning to the original question, “it’s our last day together until spring, so I will join you for breakfast before we part.”

Geralt was glad the darkness hid his soft expression from Jaskier. “As you will,” he said.

Jaskier huffed, shaking his head affectionately at Geralt’s reticence.  “I see right through that whole stoic façade of yours, you know.”

Geralt doubted it.  Things would be very different if Jaskier knew the truth. 

Jaskier climbed into his bed, pulling the covers up to his chest and snuffing out the candle before turning to face Geralt.

“Geralt?”

“Hm?”

“Feel free to tell me to shove off, but why do you never take a submissive?  Do you not feel the need?”

Jaskier’s question was said in the tone of a true inquiry, neither judgmental nor condemning, simply curious.  That was perhaps the only reason Geralt was able to answer around the sudden fear clutching at him.  He felt his left hand involuntarily curl around the burned cuff on his right wrist, the reflexive movement thankfully hidden by the dark and the blanket.

“I haven’t felt the need, no.”  Geralt’s training was the only thing keeping his voice level.

“Hmm, so is that a witcher thing or a you thing?”  Jaskier asked.

“A witcher thing.  The training inhibits our emotions, including the need to fulfill our orientation-based drives.”  That was true, but not in the way Jaskier would understand it.  But Geralt was a poor liar at the best of times and knew he needed to stick to true statements to make it through this inquisition unexposed.  Geralt’s fingers tightened around his cuff, worrying at the exposed burn scar.

“Huh.  I can’t decide if I think that’s nice or terrible.”  Jaskier rolled back over to stare up at the ceiling, clearly lost in thought, before abruptly sitting up and facing Geralt again.  “I’m not asking for a song, you know.  I was worried about you.”  Jaskier said forcefully, wanting to be sure his intentions were not misunderstood.

Geralt turned toward Jaskier, knowing Jaskier couldn’t see him well in the low firelight, but wanting to be clear all the same.  “I know, it’s not in your nature to exploit something that personal for a song.”

Jaskier flushed, clearly touched.  “Well, yes.  I mean, no, I wouldn’t do that.”  Jaskier flopped back down onto the bed, readjusting the covers.  He heaved a sigh before settling.  “Good night, Geralt.”  He said quietly. 

Jaskier’s breathing settled into sleep quickly.  For Geralt, however, sleep remained elusive.

Chapter Text

When Geralt walked back into the tavern in White Orchard, the spring flowers perfuming the air, he was relieved to hear Jaskier’s smooth tenor singing over the ambient noise of the crowd.  He didn’t look too hard at the source of that relief.  Two weeks ago, just before he left Kaer Morhen, Vesemir had brought him down again, and though the fresh lashes still pulled across his back, he felt more settled than he had last he saw Jaskier.  Now, he was sure he could contain himself.

He waited until he heard Jaskier’s song end before pushing the tavern door open and stepping through.  As expected, all conversation stopped at the sight of a witcher stepping into their tavern, but Jaskier’s delighted greeting more than made up for the otherwise frosty reception.

“Geralt!”  Jaskier called out, pulling his lute over his back and striding over, clasping Geralt’s forearm in a firm grasp.  “It’s good to see you, my friend.  Come, join me for lunch.”

Jaskier led Geralt over to a corner table, gesturing for him to take his preferred seat along the wall, before asking the tavern maid to bring them each a bowl of stew and some ale. 

“How was your winter?”  Jaskier asked between bites of the warm, thick stew.

“Fine.”  Geralt said, barely able to restrain himself from shoveling the stew into his mouth.  It had been tough hunting these past two weeks and he was glad for the meal.

Jaskier smiled at him fondly.  “That could mean it was either the best winter of your life or the Keep nearly fell down around your ears.”

“Hm.”

“Well, my winter was lovely.  I spent most of it with the stunning Lady Zofia just outside Vizima.  She has a wonderful manor, all smooth stone, rich tapestries, ample banquets!” Jaskier grinned at the memory, hands speaking along with his words. “And plenty of appreciation for the bardic arts – both the music and the musician, if you know what I mean.”  There was just the hint of a leer in the last words.

Geralt knew.  He could imagine Jaskier serenading the sweet faced submissive, crooning love songs to her, bringing her back to his room afterwards to take her apart slowly, letting her drift in subspace as he gently guided her drop.  Geralt knew Jaskier liked to treat his submissives with care, to serve them gently.  He even treated Geralt gently for all he thought Geralt was a prickly fellow Dominant.  Bolstered by the recent drop he received courtesy of Vesemir, Geralt felt the yearning for Jaskier’s care, but he didn’t struggle to control himself like he had in the autumn prior to their parting.

Geralt let Jaskier’s voice flow over him as he ate, allowing himself to simply enjoy the bard’s presence.

Jaskier and Geralt planned to leave White Orchard the following morning.  Geralt had picked up a contract for a nest of rottfiends outside Rinde and wanted to get started early to take advantage of the favorable weather.  Fortunately, Lady Zofia had gifted Jaskier a gelding, an older bay standing nearly a hand shorter than Roach.  He was named Potato, which Jaskier found painfully dull, but Geralt warned him against changing the horse’s name. 

“He’s an older fellow,” Geralt had said, “he knows his name.  Don’t change it on him.”

Jaskier had pulled a face, but complied, unable to deny Geralt such a soft request.

With their planned departure looming, Geralt had spent the day replenishing his stores of food, alchemy ingredients, and crafting materials while Jaskier sang in the tavern to bolster their coin. 

After another hearty meal, they retired to their shared room, having called for a hot bath.  Seeing the steam billowing from the scalding water, Jaskier waved Geralt on to take the first bath, knowing he preferred it hot and likely needed the bath far more than he.  Seeing there was no screen to be found, Geralt hesitated, but grit his teeth and disrobed.  It would be far more awkward to refuse the bath than it would be to undress in the open.  Jaskier lay flat on his back on the bed, gently strumming his lute, waiting until he heard Geralt step into the water to sit back up.  He had noticed Geralt preferred to remain clothed in the company of others and did not want to make him uncomfortable by watching as he undressed.

Geralt slouched down in the tub, grateful for the warm water to ease the residual ache in his newest lash scars.  Equally grateful the tub hid them from Jaskier.  He propped his feet up on the edge of the tub and hung his elbows over the sides to keep from slipping down too far.  Heaving a sigh of contentment, he leaned his head back on the edge of the tub, closed his eyes and enjoyed the warmth.

Jaskier pulled his notebook out of his pack, writing down notes on a few new ballad ideas as Geralt bathed.  It was a calm, peaceful silence.

Eventually, as the water started to cool, Geralt forced himself back to full awareness and looked around for the wash cloth.  If he was lucky, there might be a scrap of soap or some hair oil to help the process along.  Seeing the wash bucket with the cloth and soap piece in the far corner of the room, Geralt groaned, unwilling to get up and bare himself more than necessary.  He chose the lesser evil.

“Jaskier?” He called out.  “Could you get me the soap, please?”  He made sure to say please.  Witchers typically didn’t go in for softer manners, but he knew it was important to Jaskier and it did him no harm to say the word.

Jaskier looked up, scanning the room for the wash basin.  Spotting it, he jumped up and retrieved it, handing it to Geralt while keeping his eyes firmly chest height and above.  The clear water hid nothing, but he wouldn’t breach Geralt’s privacy if he could help it.

“Thanks.”  Geralt said, taking the basin.  He floated the basin in the water and soaked the cloth, scrubbing the soap into it until it frothed.  Carefully placing the valuable soap fragment back in the dry basin, he soaped himself down thoroughly, scraping off two weeks’ worth of road dirt and grime.  Satisfied, he rinsed the cloth and hung it over the edge of the tub, carefully placing the soap fragment on top of it before using the small basin to rinse his hair clean. 

Finished, he levered himself out of the tub, quickly grabbing the towel and keeping his back turned away from Jaskier to hide the lash scars.  As soon as he was dry enough, he redressed in his clean set of clothes, dumping the dirty ones in the larger wash basin by the fire.  They would clean their dirty clothes with the water from the tub once Jaskier had bathed. 

As he sat to comb his hair, glad the inn had provided a small bottle of hair oil, Jaskier disrobed and took his turn in the bath.  He wasn’t as big a fan of baths as Geralt, preferring to use them to wash rather than soak, so he got right to it, washing himself thoroughly as Geralt yanked the long-toothed comb through his hair.  Jaskier noticed it had grown longer again, falling to the middle of his shoulder blades.  It was unusual for a Dominant to have long hair, especially worn mostly loose, but then, Geralt had never said he was a Dominant, had he?  Most witchers were, Jaskier had heard, but that didn’t mean all.  Maybe Geralt was a neutral?  

Whatever he was, it wasn’t the sort of thing one just asked, especially when it was obvious the person had taken care to hide their mark.  Many people did, in fact, whether by consequence of their long sleeves or by purposefully wearing gloves or bracers.  It was a common thought, in recent years, that it was best to know someone as they are before learning their orientation.  To prevent premature judgment, or some rot like that.  Jaskier was open with his mark, he didn’t see the point in hiding it, but he would never force someone to bare theirs.

Jaskier felt his own scalp twinge as he watched Geralt roughly comb through his hair and couldn’t stop himself from asking, “can I help you with that?”

Geralt froze, staring at him.  Want burned through him at the thought of Jaskier’s hands in his hair, combing it through, caring for it, for him.  But like most things he wanted, he couldn’t allow himself to have it.  “I’m fine.”  He said dismissively, resuming his assault on the tangles in his long hair.

Jaskier frowned.  “Yeah, I know you can do it, but you’re going to make yourself bald that way.  Either treat your hair gently or let me help you.  It’s easier to get the tangles out from behind and watching you pull at your hair like that is making my head hurt.”

Geralt put the comb down with a scowl.  “Leave it.”  He said brusquely.

“If you tell me you’re truly uncomfortable with the idea, I will, I promise.”  Jaskier said seriously, staring up at Geralt.  “But if you’re just refusing because you don’t think you deserve a little care now and then, I won’t.  I want to help you.”

Geralt swallowed hard, jaw jumping with tension as he clenched his teeth.  He looked down at the comb, steeling himself, wondering if he could allow this small indulgence without revealing his secret.  He knew Jaskier didn’t suspect anything, that this was just Jaskier being Jaskier, just him being the caring, affectionate man he was, but Geralt didn’t know how to handle it.  Neither did he want to hurt his only friend unnecessarily, especially when they’d only just reunited.  Besides, wouldn’t a seemingly baseless refusal be more suspicious that any minor slip he might make?

Before he lost his nerve, Geralt responded, purposefully making himself sound annoyed but resigned.  “Will you leave me in peace if I allow it?”

“Agreed!”  Jaskier said brightly, beaming up at Geralt before resuming his wash.  Geralt placed the comb down and leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes to wait.  

As usual, Jaskier washed quickly, finishing up and dropping his dirty clothes in the large wash basin with Geralt’s, filling it with water from the bath before redressing in his spare outfit, leaving off the doublet.  The dark grey chemise contrasted nicely with his pale skin and blue eyes, Geralt caught himself thinking, before shoving the thought away.  He didn’t have the right to ogle nice looking Dominants, especially not ones as special as Jaskier.

Jaskier picked up the hair oil and gestured for Geralt to sit up and turn around.  He rubbed some oil into his palms and gently worked it through Geralt’s long hair, finger combing out the knots until he was able to run his hands through the full length of Geralt’s hair without resistance.  He applied a little more oil to the comb before following with that, combing long, smooth strokes through Geralt’s white locks until they gleamed.  Geralt kept his spine straight and his chin up, but he allowed himself to close his eyes and enjoy the sensation of Jaskier’s gentle touch, knowing Jaskier couldn’t see his face.  The soothing, repetitive motion made his mind fade into subspace ever so slightly, easing a tension he hadn’t even known he carried. 

As he worked, Jaskier spoke, breaking Geralt out of his light reverie.  “What’s the meaning of the tattoo?”  He asked.

“Hm? What about it?”  Geralt said, relaxation loosening his diction.

Jaskier smiled to himself hearing the change, but he knew better than to call attention to it, even after only a few months of acquaintance.  “It’s such a large tattoo it must have taken days to do and I know all witchers have them.  So, why?”

“Tradition, mostly.”  Geralt said, bringing his arm forward to inspect the tattoo in the firelight.  “But originally the practice started to show us, and the world, that a witcher’s school was the most important thing about him, not his orientation.”

Jaskier hummed, continuing to work the comb through Geralt’s hair.  “Does each school have a different pattern?” 

“Aye.”  Geralt raised his arm further so Jaskier could see, tracing one of the stylized wolves.  “Each School includes their own symbol in the design along with a set of runic symbols unique to each.”  Geralt dropped his arm, hoping the next question wouldn’t be about the burn scar.  Or his orientation.  He would leave if Jaskier asked about that.

“And what do your school’s runes mean?”  Jaskier asked, carefully keeping to relatively neutral ground.

“We have runes for strength, protection, and sign intensity,”  Geralt answered.  “In roughly equal balance.  The School of the Bear uses the same symbols, but they have far more strength runes than we do.  Other schools use a different mix.”  Geralt feared the next question would be one he couldn’t answer.

Jaskier felt the tension returning to Geralt’s shoulders and knew the time for questions was over.  He ran the comb over Geralt’s hair once more before setting it down and patting Geralt on the shoulder.  “All done.  Would you like me to tie it back for you?”

Geralt relaxed, glad Jaskier hadn’t pushed for further information.  “No, I’ll leave it loose for now.”

“All right.  I’ll finish washing the clothes while you check over the gear.”  Jaskier said, heading back to the wash basin to scrub out the clothes. 

Geralt was pleased Jaskier kept to the routine they’d established last year.  He liked order and routine, it gave him a sense of relief, of calm, in an otherwise hectic life.

Geralt checked over his armor and weapons before removing everything from the packs, checking for any breaks, and repacked everything carefully, tucking away his purchases from today in their designated locations.  As he repacked, Jaskier hung their newly cleaned clothes on the line by the fire to dry.  With luck, they’d dry by morning.

With the chores complete, Jaskier and Geralt removed their outer clothes and lay down in their respective beds to rest.  For once, Geralt had no trouble falling asleep, soothed by Jaskier’s even breathing and the lingering warmth generated by Jaskier’s soft touch.

As spring rolled into summer, the rottfiends in Rinde were followed by a noonwraith outside Vizima and a group of foglets in Maribor. Geralt's luck almost ran out when he faced a vicious kikimora swarm outside Brugge, in the shadows of Brokilon Forest. Chasing down the swarm drew him deep into a system of cave tunnels, cutting down the seemingly endless kikimora in brutally efficient strokes. Geralt was already exhausted when he reached the final room in the tunnel system and practically ran into the kikimora queen standing alone in her nest, her swarm of guards having already fallen victim to Geralt's blade. Geralt quickly jumped back out of the queen's strike range and scanned the room, noting that the tunnel he came from was the only exit. Geralt took a sharp, fortifying breath and analyzed his target. The queen was massive, obviously ancient, and that meant she was a foe far greater than Geralt should face alone.

 Geralt felt a cool sense of calm wash over him - he would meet his death today but he would do his utmost to ensure the kikimora queen met hers too. As Geralt lifted his silver sword, willing his exhausted arms to hold strong, he caught a glimpse of a series of cracks in the ceiling over the kikimora queen. Frost cracks, deep enough to bring the cave down with a little help. Shifting his sword to one hand, Geralt reaching back and grabbed two grapeshot bombs from the bomb pouch on his hip. In a single, swift movement, Geralt lit the fuses with a one-handed Igni and hurled the grapeshot bombs into the cracks above the queen's head. The double-crack of the bombs was followed by the thunderous sound of the stone ceiling rending into pieces as it lost its remaining structural integrity and surrendered to the weight of stone and earth above it. Geralt saw the first large chunk of stone fall and crush the kikimora queen, nature accomplishing what Geralt alone could not.

Geralt turned and fled, racing the cracks appearing along the tunnel's ceiling. But the structural damage was too great and Geralt could not outrace the destruction he'd wrought. As small rocks and dust started to rain down upon him, Geralt threw himself to the ground next to the tunnel wall, covered his head with his hands, and took one final deep breath. With a deep rumble, the ceiling finally collapsed on top of him, burying him in the rubble.

Jaskier had been waiting with Roach and Potato at the mouth of the cave system and his heart almost stopped when he saw the earth cave in.  He ran into the tunnels, thanking the gods there were no subsidiary branches off the main tunnel, racing through the dark until he came across the rock fall.

The cave in had knocked Geralt senseless, the heavy stones crushing his chest where he lay beneath them, dust choking the air.  He regained consciousness to the sound of scraping against the rocks around him.  His adrenaline spiked, thinking it was the kikimora queen, that she had somehow survived the collapse.  He knew his only chance was to remain silent and undetected.

But then Jaskier’s voice broke through, calling out to him from where the scraping originated.  “Geralt! Geralt, if you’re in there, say something!” 

Geralt realized the scraping was Jaskier trying to dig him out.  Knowing Jaskier could only have come in from the tunnel entrance allowed him to orient himself.  He listened hard for any signs of life from the swarm’s nest.  Hearing nothing after a long moment, he knew the swarm was dead.  Jaskier would be safe as long as he left the cave system.  Geralt could probably survive a cave-in, and could probably even dig himself out of this one, but Jaskier could not. The thought of Jaskier, crushed to death beneath cave rubble and entombed with a kikimora swarm, was more than Geralt could bear. 

Geralt drew in a shallow breath, forcing his voice to project through the constriction over his chest. “Get out of here!”  Geralt called out, “it’s unstable!”

The scraping stopped, Jaskier obviously having heard him through the rubble.

“I’m not leaving you in here to die!”  Jaskier yelled back and the scraping commenced with renewed vigor.  “Keep talking so I can find you!”

Geralt remained silent.  Saving him was not worth Jaskier’s life.

“Geralt? Geralt!”  Jaskier called out, panic taking over his voice.  “Geralt, you stubborn arse, if you’re staying silent to get me to leave I’m going to kill you when I dig you out!”  Jaskier must have reached the larger pieces of stone, because the scraping sounds slowed, interspersed with heavy thumps and grunts of effort from Jaskier.

“Melitele’s tits, Geralt, say something!”  Jaskier cried out, tone frantic.

Geralt bit his lip, remaining silent.  Jaskier would leave, he had to leave.  Geralt couldn’t allow himself to be the cause of Jaskier’s death, certainly not by something as mundane as a cave in.

“Gods damn you, Geralt!”  Jaskier’s voice was almost a sob, panic completely overwhelming his normal, smooth tenor.  “SAY SOMETHING!” Jaskier screamed out, Dominant Voice lending power and weight to his command.

The submissive part of Geralt pulled taut, responding immediately to the Dominant’s command.  “I’m here!”  Geralt called back, “by the eastern wall!” 

It was the first time he’d heard Jaskier’s Voice and obeying it felt like stepping into a warm bath.  It wasn’t like Vesemir’s Voice, which scraped against him, commanding obedience but giving nothing back.  Geralt felt he could listen to Jaskier’s Voice for the rest of his life and be content.  That was a dangerous feeling and one he swiftly shoved down.  Vesemir had taught him to resist the pull of a Dominant’s Voice and he would have to apply that to Jaskier if it ever happened again. 

“Again!  Keep talking to me!”  Jaskier’s Voice was stronger now, less panicked and more commanding.  Geralt doubted he was using his Voice consciously.  In times of extreme stress, the mind’s control over the body’s orientation-specific characteristics loosened, allowing the subconscious mind to take control of those base drives.  Geralt knew Jaskier was careful to only use his Voice when all involved consented to its use.  He was aware of the compulsion inherent in it and didn’t want to make anyone uncomfortable, or so he’d explained to Geralt once.  Clearly, his current panic was overwhelming any thought of restraint.

Geralt could only obey, the pain and choking dust too much for his body to endure while also fighting against his very nature.  He called back, again and again, responding to Jaskier each time until he finally felt the weight start to lift off his chest as Jaskier reached him.  Once he had a little breathing room, he was able to lift the rocks off from below, helping Jaskier clear him out.  Jaskier grabbed his forearms and pulled him free.  They collapsed in a heap together on the floor, surrounded by the scattered rocks. 

Freed from the rock pile, Geralt’s injuries made themselves known.  His head pounded, blood tricking into his eye from a deep cut across his forehead.  He suspected at least four ribs were cracked, and his right ankle was broken, having been crushed beneath a rock at an awkward angle.  Nothing that wouldn’t heal, but they would need to find a safe place to rest for at least a day or two before Geralt could safely travel again.

“We need to get out of here.”  Geralt forced out, throat raw from stone dust and chest aching with every breath. 

“Agreed,” Jaskier said, helping Geralt to his feet, throwing Geralt’s left arm over his shoulders to support him as they escaped the tunnel.  “When we’re back outside, we’re going to have a long talk about your appalling lack of self-preservation.”

Geralt huffed, wincing around the pain in his ribs.  “I don’t want you to risk your life for me.”

“That’s not your choice to make.”  Jaskier said firmly.  “I’m not leaving you to die if there’s anything I can do about it.”

Geralt wanted to respond, to refute Jaskier’s words and convince him his life was worth too much to risk for Geralt’s, but he couldn’t gather the breath.  His ribs burned and his vision swam, exhaustion and pain overwhelming even his enhanced fortitude.  It was all Geralt could do to stay upright and moving until they were free of the cave, unconsciously resting more and more of his weight on Jaskier as they progressed closer to the exit. 

Jaskier bore the additional weight without complaint, grateful they were close in height, and kept his pace slow and steady, arm wrapped around Geralt to steady him.

When they finally made it to the mouth of the tunnel system, Geralt caught sight of Roach and Potato and knew they were safe, that he could relax.  As soon as they stepped out of the tunnel and into the clearing, the bright, afternoon sun caused a spike of pain to explode behind his eyes and he knew no more.

Geralt awoke with a start, instinctively jumping to his feet and reaching for his swords, finding only air.  Pain ripped through his chest and his broken ankle buckled beneath his weight, forcing him to drop to one knee, wild, unfocused eyes darting about the clearing as his heart hammered in his chest.

He heard a noise beside him and spun to face it, bringing his arms up in a defensive position, teeth bared in a snarl.  The noise abruptly stopped and he could hear the sound of another being – a human? – dropping down to the ground several paces in front of him.  He kept his defensive pose as he tried to force his eyes to focus, to contract his pupils against the bright light so he could see, but the throbbing in his head warned him of the severe concussion that would render his efforts futile.  Still, he didn’t need to see to defend himself and he had ample practice fighting through pain. 

“Easy now, easy.”  A voice spoke from the being in front of him and he startled badly, dropping his shoulders and strengthening his stance.  His thoughts swam away from him, caught up in the pain and the concussion.  The last thing he remembered was the cave in.  And then someone coming to save him?  Impossible.

“Geralt, easy.”  The voice said soothingly, speaking as if trying to gentle a spooked horse.  “It’s Jaskier.  You’re in the clearing where we left Roach and Potato.  It’s late afternoon.  You killed the kikimora swarm and got caught in the cave in.  I pulled you out.  You collapsed once we escaped.”

The familiar voice started to break through Geralt’s defensive panic and confusion.  He knew that voice.   He took as deep a breath as he could around his throbbing ribs, smelling the forest, Roach, and the soothing scent of rosin and honey. 

“Jaskier?”  He said, voice hoarse from when the rock dust irritated his throat.

“Aye, it’s Jaskier.”  Jaskier said, keeping his voice light and calm.  “You had a nasty strike to the head and I think your ankle might be broken.  Probably your ribs too given the cave in.”

Geralt focused his attention on Jaskier’s tone and did his best to attach meaning to the words, his head still spinning and panic only a hair’s breadth away.  He was hurt.  He was vulnerable.  The one thing he was never allowed to be.  But Jaskier had never shown any inclination to hurt him, quite the contrary in fact.  Maybe he could relax a little and let him help?  No, no, impossible, it was too dangerous.  Even if Jaskier didn’t hurt him, he might expose himself and that would end everything.

“Geralt?  Can I come over there and help you?  I have the salves and bandages from Roach, and I grabbed your potions bag too.  I didn’t open it, don’t worry, but I have it here for you.”  Jaskier said gently.  He could see how Geralt’s eyes were unfocused, the concussion too fresh for even his enhanced healing to have mitigated.  His heart broke to see how panicked Geralt was, how immediately defensive, as if his injuries had only ever brought those seeking to hurt him and not to heal him.  Jaskier wouldn’t be surprised if that were true. 

Geralt tried to hang onto his thoughts long enough to process what Jaskier was offering.  He had the medicine and supplies Geralt needed to heal.  Could he trust him to come closer?  Geralt tried to assess the risks but couldn’t hold onto the thread of his thoughts, concussion scrambling even the simplest analysis.  Geralt scented the air, smelling only Jaskier’s normal scent overlaid with concern.  No aggression or disgust, just simple concern.  Maybe he could be trusted with this?  Geralt couldn’t think so he relied on his instincts, looking deep into the submissive part of himself he tried so desperately to hide.  His submissive nature was an excellent judge of threats and character and, with his higher cognitive functions scrambled, he needed to rely on it to make a decision. 

Jaskier felt like comfort, like security, like a warm bath or a hot meal after a long hunt.  He dropped his arms out of their defensive pose, snarl easing off his face as he sank to rest on both knees, shoulders relaxing.  “All right.”  He said, still wary but willing to try and trust Jaskier.

Geralt could smell Jaskier’s relief. 

“Thank you, Geralt.”  Jaskier said, an emotion Geralt couldn’t identify coloring his voice.  “I’m going to get up and walk toward you.  I have two bags, one with your potions and one with the medicines and salves.” 

Jaskier kept talking as he moved, narrating each step he took to help keep Geralt calm.  “I’m going to kneel next to you, is that all right?”  He asked gently.

“Hmm.”  Geralt nodded.

“I need a verbal response, please.  Yes or no?”  Jaskier asked firmly, keeping his position static as he waited.

“Yes.”  Geralt said hoarsely.

“Thank you.”  Jaskier said, kneeling next to Geralt and opening the packs.  “Could you please sit down so I can see your ankle?  Or would you prefer to look at that later?”

Geralt didn’t respond, but sat back, crossing his left leg in front of him and sticking the right one out.

“All right, thank you.”  Jaskier said.  “May I remove your boot?”

Geralt hesitated, uncomfortable with how solicitous Jaskier was being.  “You don’t need to ask about everything, just do it.”  He forced out.

“But I do.  I will not touch you without your consent, certainly not while you’re injured.”  Jaskier’s expression was drawn but his voice was firm.

“I can do it then.”  Geralt said, unlacing and removing his heavy boot.  With his blown-out pupils, he couldn’t focus properly on how the injury looked, but he ran his hands over it, palpating the tiny bones and feeling the crushing breaks along the joint and top of his foot.  Fortunately, nothing felt displaced, likely due to his boot holding it in place. 

Jaskier waited patiently while Geralt inspected the injury.  When he seemed satisfied, he asked, “what do you need?”

“Salve, the green one, and a thick wrap.”

Jaskier handed them over immediately.  “Can I help you with anything?”  He asked.

Geralt hesitated, jaw clenching.  He wasn’t used to this kind of help and he didn’t know how to react to the offer.  But something about how calmly Jaskier asked, how he didn’t push or fuss, made it possible for Geralt to respond.  “Can you wrap it after I put on the salve?  It needs to be tight.”

“Aye, I can do that.”  Jaskier said, “just tell me when you’re ready.”

Geralt scooped out a small measure of the thick, green salve and applied it to his ankle and foot, tracing the breaks.  The heady scent of arnica was almost overwhelming, but he knew it would significantly speed the healing process so he did his best to ignore it.  Once the salve was applied, he said, eyes trained on the ground, “I’m ready.”

Jaskier picked up the thick wrap, moving slowly to sit in front of Geralt by his outstretched leg.  “I’m going to pick up your leg and rest it on my knee while I wrap your ankle, is that all right?”

Geralt nodded.  Then remembered, and said, “yes.”

“Thank you for responding verbally.”  Jaskier said almost thoughtlessly as he focused his attention on Geralt’s ankle.  The submissive part of Geralt preened at the praise, starved for any sort of gentle affirmation.  Geralt shoved that feeling away.  Jaskier wasn’t praising him, he was just being Jaskier.  It wasn’t personal.

Jaskier tightly wrapped Geralt’s ankle in the stiff bandage, checking to be sure it wasn’t too tight by making sure Geralt’s toes refilled properly with blood when pinched.  Satisfied, he gently placed Geralt’s leg back down.

“Now, can I take look at your ribs, please?”  Jaskier asked. 

“They’re cracked, not much to do but wait for them to heal.”  Geralt said dismissively.  The ankle wrap he could allow, since he couldn’t risk it healing crooked, but cracked ribs didn’t need wrapping.  He just needed to work through the pain until they healed and avoid any more hard knocks in the meantime.  He knew another good blow on a cracked rib could break it completely and cause it to puncture his lung.  He had that happen once and it nearly cost him his life.  It was not something he’d care to ever repeat.

Jaskier clearly didn’t like that idea.  “But wouldn’t the salve help them heal faster?  Or at least dampen the pain?”

Geralt shrugged.  “Salve’s too valuable to waste.”

Jaskier pressed his lips together, clearly displeased but unwilling to push too hard.  “Very well.  Is there a potion you can use that will help?”

Geralt’s shoulders relaxed, relieved Jaskier didn’t push the issue.  He couldn’t salve his own ribs, he never did, and he wasn’t comfortable with the thought of letting Jaskier rub salve all over his bare chest.  It was far too dangerous.  It would be so easy to relax, to lean into Jaskier and let himself be cared for in a way he could never allow.  Could never deserve.

“Swallow.  It’s orange.  It will help the concussion too.”  Geralt said, having decided he could trust Jaskier enough to retrieve the potion from his bag. 

Jaskier opened the potions pack, gently pulling the vials apart until he found an orange one.  He held it out to Geralt.  “This one?”

Geralt squinted, trying to force his eyes to focus.  When it didn’t work, he took the vial from Jaskier, popped it open, and sniffed.  It was Swallow.  He tossed the potion back, letting out a rough breath when it burned through him, the regenerative benefits of the potion just outweighing its damaging toxicity.  He felt his eyes burn, but fortunately, one Swallow was not enough to turn them black. 

Jaskier’s hand was hovering just over his shoulder when Geralt came back to himself.  Jaskier wanted to help, to soothe, but he didn’t want to overstep.  “May I?”  He asked quietly. 

Geralt looked at him quizzically, unsure why he wanted to touch his shoulder, but otherwise unopposed.  He nodded.  Jaskier still waited.  “Yes,” he said. 

Jaskier placed a warm hand on Geralt’s shoulder, squeezing lightly. “Thank you.”  He said.  “May I help you with your armor, or do you prefer to keep it on?”

Geralt squinted up at him, confused.  “Why would you help with my armor?”

Jaskier’s expression pinched, lips drawing down.  “I know some of the buckles are toward the back.  It would hurt to twist around to remove them, I would think.  I want to help you avoid any further pain, if I can.”

He spoke so earnestly Geralt couldn’t find a reason to refuse him.  The Swallow was burning through his system as the salve soothed the pain radiating from his ankle.  His body ached and exhaustion dragged on him.  In a moment of weakness, he said, “the pauldrons can come off, and the bracers, but the breastplate will help stabilize my ribs.”

Jaskier squeezed his shoulder once more before moving to unbuckle the pauldrons protecting his shoulders, carefully removing each piece and laying it down next to the packs.  Pauldrons removed, he held out a hand for Geralt’s arm, waiting to continue with the bracers until Geralt extended each arm voluntarily.  Geralt removed his left boot himself.

Armor removed, Jaskier reached for a cloth and waterskin, wetting the cloth before holding it out to Geralt.  “Would you like to clean the cut over your eye, or may I?”

Geralt wanted to let Jaskier clean it, the thought of his hands on his face bringing immediate warmth to his chest.  But he couldn’t allow it, not when he was too injured to control his instinctively submissive reactions to Jaskier’s gentle ministrations.

“I can do it,” he said, taking the cloth from Jaskier. 

“All right, do you need anything for the cut?”  Jaskier asked.

Geralt probed at it.  It had already stopped bleeding and didn’t feel terribly deep.  “No,” he said, “it should be fine once it’s clean.”

Jaskier nodded before standing and moving to straighten the bedroll Geralt had twisted around in his earlier panic.  Once Geralt finished cleaning his cut and wiping the blood off his face, Jaskier took the cloth back and encouraged Geralt to lay down and rest, smiling and thanking him when he did so.

“I’ll make up a simple stew from our stores while you rest.”  Jaskier said, moving to clear a space for a small fire.  “There’s ample kindling in this clearing and we have full waterskins, so I can cook without leaving you alone.”

Geralt turned his head to watch Jaskier work, something aching deep in his chest at the care and consideration Jaskier was showing him.  He would protest the cooking if he thought Jaskier didn’t also need to eat, and he recognized the futility of trying to get Jaskier to cook only for himself.   He knew Jaskier was taking care of him like this because they were friends – as much as that concept still amazed him – and not because Jaskier was caring for him as he would one of his soft, sweet submissives, but the submissive part of him still soaked up the attention, warming under the unprecedented experience of a Dominant’s solicitous service. 

“Thank you.”  He said quietly, looking pointedly away to hide his embarrassingly soft expression.

Jaskier gave him an odd look, somewhere between pleased and pained.  “My pleasure.”  He said before resuming his preparations.  Then he paused, looked toward Geralt, started to say something, stopped, looked back at the cooking supplies, and started again.  “It’s not a burden to take care of you, you know.”  Jaskier said softly, keeping his tone carefully neutral.  “You take care of me all the time.  It’s the least I can do to help you when you’re hurt.”

Geralt scowled at him.  “I don’t need you to help me as some kind of payback.”

“I said that poorly, forgive me.”  Jaskier sighed, pressing his lips together in thought before speaking again.  “I know it’s hard for you to accept care.”  He held up a hand when Geralt started to protest.  “I don’t blame you for that, it’s all you’ve ever known.”  He continued, holding Geralt’s mutinous gaze.  “I know you can take care of yourself; I don’t doubt it for a moment.  But, you’re my dearest friend, Geralt.  I can’t stand to see you hurting and do nothing to help.”

Geralt’s eyebrows furrowed in consternation.  He had no idea how to respond to that and the concussion blurring his thoughts didn’t help. 

“Forgive me,” Jaskier said, seeing the pained, confused expression on Geralt’s face.  “It’s not fair to bring this up while you’re hurting.  Please, rest.  Just know that I help you because I want to and for no other reason.”  With one last reassuring smile at Geralt, Jaskier turned back to the food preparation, forming the dry sticks he’d gathered into a small pile and striking the flint to light them. 

Geralt lay back and closed his eyes, knowing he shouldn’t sleep with a fresh head wound but wanting to keep the sunlight out of his eyes all the same.  He listened to Jaskier preparing their meal, stoking the fire, chopping the vegetables and dried meat from their stores, and putting them all to boil on the small fire. 

He’d never had anyone care for him like this before.  He’d been injured in his travels with Jaskier before this, but never seriously, nothing that had ever required help to heal.  He sighed, forcing himself to relax.  Jaskier wasn’t doing this because he was a submissive, he was doing this because Geralt was his friend and Jaskier was too good to him by half.  Jaskier didn’t suspect, he reassured himself. 

Perhaps this was like the training missions with Lambert and Eskel.  When one of them got injured, the others helped treat the wound and took on the injured one’s responsibilities until the injury healed sufficiently.  That sort of care was always allowed, even for him.  Mind eased by the comparison, Geralt allowed himself to sink into a light, restorative meditation, the pain of his injuries easing as he turned his focus inward. 

He would heal soon and things would get back to normal.

Chapter Text

It took Geralt two weeks to fully heal from the cave in.  He was functional on the third day after his injury, but only in the sense that he could press through the pain and function at the risk of worsening his injury.  Jaskier had insisted Geralt refrain from hunting until he was completely healed despite his protests of functionality.  The only way Jaskier had gotten Geralt to agree was by reminding him that if, due to his injury, he couldn’t perform at full capacity, Jaskier, Roach, or Potato might get hurt as a result.  Taking a break to protect himself was unnecessary, but Geralt wouldn’t risk the safety of his travel companions.

And so, for two weeks Jaskier had played in inns from Brugge to Dorian, gathering crowds and coin in every nameless village along the way.  Geralt had heard of a harpy problem on the sea cliffs outside Gors Velen, so they were heading in that direction, traveling slowly so as not to tire the horses needlessly while Geralt healed.  If the harpy contract didn’t pan out, they could always head to Novigrad; there was never a shortage of contracts in a city that large.

Today, Geralt and Jaskier had pitched camp about half a day’s ride from Gors Velen.  Geralt, finally healed and free from restriction, went off to hunt fresh game for their dinner while Jaskier set up camp and settled the horses.  He hadn’t said as much, but his joy at being free to roam again was writ large in his eagerness to hunt, to provide for Jaskier properly again. 

Geralt tracked a herd of deer through the woodlands just outside the border of Brokilon, careful to never stray within its bounds lest a volley of arrows from the dryad guards within end his life.  The woodland buzzed with the sounds of mid-summer, cicadas chirping in the trees, rabbits bounding through the underbrush, and birds frantically hunting to feed their growing chicks.  Geralt breathed deeply, enjoying the scents of warm grass, rich dirt, and blooming wild flowers.

He carefully followed the trail of the deer herd, walking soundlessly over the forest floor and keeping well downwind.  He was patient, willing to take on a longer hunt for the greater reward venison would provide, pleased the long days afforded him the extra time.

As the shadows lengthened in the deepening afternoon, Geralt caught up to the herd where it rested alongside a small, bubbling brook.  Geralt crouched in the shade of a large oak tree, unmoving, taking in the scene.  The herd leader stood watch, nose raised into the wind, nostrils flaring to catch any possible scent.  The does grazed around him, tails idly flicking flies away from their rumps.  The fawns cavorted with each other, tumbling head over heels in the long grass as they chased each other about.  Geralt scanned the herd for the most appropriate target, selecting an older doe with a cut down her leg.  She was unlikely to survive the season with a wound like that.  At least an arrow would be a quick death.

Geralt raised his crossbow, already loaded, and took careful aim.  Vesemir had always taught him that he should only shoot when he was certain his arrow would strike true, ending the target’s life without pain.  It would not do to cause needless suffering.  Taking a deep breath and letting it out, steadying his aim as his lungs emptied and his arm stilled, Geralt loosed the arrow.  It struck true. 

The rest of the herd scattered at the sound of the shot, bounding off into the woods.   Geralt rose, hooking the crossbow back onto his sword belt, and headed out in the clearing.  When he reached the deer, he retrieved his arrow and flipped the carcass on its back to field dress it.  Spreading the doe’s hind legs with his, he cut a long incision up her belly before carefully removing her organs and flipping the carcass back over to drain the blood.  Out in the open like this, it was safer to dress the deer well away from their campsite to avoid attracting corpse eaters or scavengers. 

As the doe drained, Geralt dug a deep, narrow hole in which to bury the deer’s organs and viscera so they wouldn’t attract necrophages or wolves that might harm passing travelers.  Finally satisfied with the field dressing, Geralt bound the doe’s legs together, one binding for each pair, front and back, and lifted the carcass up onto his shoulders for the trek back to camp.  

He smiled to himself as he thought of Jaskier’s pleased reaction to the bounty.  With a haul this good, they would eat well for at least a couple weeks.  They had plenty of salt to cure the meat and could smoke it dry overnight to preserve it as jerky for the road ahead.  The deer hide should even fetch a decent price at the market in Gors Velen. 

Geralt knew he wasn’t the best travel companion – or even a passable one most days – but he did his best to compensate for his many failings by keeping Jaskier safe and well fed on the road.  After two weeks of uselessness, of burdening Jaskier with his care, the least he could do was replenish their meat stores and ensure Jaskier didn’t go hungry.

It was dusk by the time Geralt returned to camp with the doe.  Jaskier had already prepared a fire and a smoking rack in anticipation of Geralt’s success and he was delighted at the prospect of a good venison stew and the opportunity to replenish their stores with fresh jerky. 

As Jaskier prepared the stew pot, Geralt skinned the deer and prepared the best cuts for the stew, dumping the chunks into the pot with the root vegetables and herbs Jaskier had already prepared.  While the stew cooked, Geralt cut the remaining venison into thin, even strips, handing each to Jaskier to salt and lay out on the smoking rack to dry. 

The smell was mouthwatering and Geralt’s stomach rumbled in anticipation.  Jaskier chuckled at the sound, casting Geralt a fond look over the fire as they worked.  Geralt’s appetite was formidable when he allowed himself to eat his fill.  Jaskier planned on encouraging him to do just that while they had such abundance.

Suddenly, the wind shifted and Geralt caught a new scent in the air.  He froze, bloody hand raised partway toward clasping his sword hilt, head tilted to the side as he listened hard and scented the air.  Jaskier stopped his work, watching Geralt with concern.

“Geralt?”  He asked quietly, “what is it?”

Geralt’s eyes narrowed in concentration, focusing completely on the new scent and sounds.  “Someone’s coming.”  He said.

As the person grew closer, their scent became clear and Geralt abruptly relaxed, face breaking out in an unrestrained grin as he leapt to his feet. 

“It’s Eskel!”  He exclaimed, shooting Jaskier a delighted grin before bounding off into the woods. 

Geralt tore through the underbrush making no attempt to hide his approach.  It wouldn’t do to surprise another witcher, though he had no doubt Eskel had already caught wind of them.  Within moments, Geralt caught sight of Eskel and jogged up to him, Eskel welcoming him with a strong embrace. 

“Geralt!  What a pleasant surprise.”  Eskel said, grinning down at Geralt.  Eskel had a few inches on Geralt in all directions, bulky where Geralt was lean.  His dark hair was cut short and a thick, ropy scar cut across his handsome face from his right ear to the corner of his mouth.  His tattoo was exposed below the elbow under his rolled-up sleeves, thick Dominant mark on full display within the intricate design.  He was leading a black mare laden with his packs, a calm look in her intelligent eyes.

“Eskel, it’s good to see you.”  Geralt said happily, nudging his head under Eskel’s chin, greeting him as a brother.  “You look well.  What are you doing this far north?”  Eskel usually stayed in the Southern Kingdoms outside of winter, so it was unusual to run into his brother this far into the Northern Kingdoms’ realm.

Eskel ruffled Geralt’s hair affectionately before wrapping an arm around his shoulders as they started walking back toward the camp.  “I received word of a valuable contract for a harpy nest in Gors Velen from one of my recent contractors.  I was already near the coast, albeit much farther South, so I decided to take a detour from my usual haunts and get a break from the summer heat.”  He gave Geralt a rough, playful squeeze before releasing him.  “And you, Geralt?  What brings you here?”

“Same contract, it seems.” Geralt frowned, looking down and away before continuing.  “I was slow hunting a kikimora swarm and got caught in a cave in.  Took me two fucking weeks to recover.  Jaskier wouldn’t let me hunt so he had to support us.”  Geralt’s shoulders tensed, anticipating Eskel’s reaction.  He knew he fucked up and he wouldn’t hide it from Eskel.

Eskel stopped, gently grabbing Geralt’s shoulder and turning Geralt to face him.  He ran his hands up and down Geralt’s arms, scrutinizing him for injury.  “And are you well now?”

Geralt nodded, still looking down.

“I’m glad you’re all right, those swarms can be vicious.”  Eskel dropped his head and bumped his forehead against Geralt’s.  “I bet you killed them with extreme prejudice.”

A small smile forced its way onto Geralt’s face.  It was hard to hold onto his self-flagellation in the face of Eskel’s good nature.  He always had been the steadiest and kindest of all of them.  “Aye, crushed them all under a ton of rocks.”

Eskel barked a laugh, releasing Geralt so they could continue walking, knocking his shoulder into Geralt’s and shoving him slightly off the path.  “They’re dead and you’re not, that’s all that matters.”

They walked in comfortable silence until they reached the camp, Jaskier jumping to his feet when they appeared, smiling brightly.  He turned to Eskel, holding out his hand in open greeting.  “I’m Jaskier. You must be Eskel.  I’ve never seen Geralt so happy to see someone!” 

Eskel took his hand, shaking it firmly.  “Well met, Jaskier.  I heard a lot about you over the winter.”

“Did you now?”  Jaskier asked, eyeing Geralt, a pleased grin on his face.  Geralt looked pointedly away, admitting nothing.

Jaskier grinned at him as he stepped back, gesturing to the pot and the stew bubbling over the fire.  “Please, join us.  Dinner is almost ready.” 

Geralt took the reins from Eskel’s hand, waving him off to go sit down while he cared for the black mare, tying her to the line with Roach and Potato before removing her tack and dropping Eskel’s pack next to his.

Jaskier tasted the stew and declared it done, pulling over the bowls he’d laid out earlier for their meal.  “Geralt, please grab another bowl while you’re there.”  Geralt opened the right pack and pulled out their extra bowl and spoon, wordlessly handing them to Jaskier.

Jaskier’s nose wrinkled as he caught sight of the deer blood still staining Geralt’s hands.  “Go wash that off before you eat.” Jaskier directed, raising an eyebrow when Geralt started to protest.  Geralt huffed but complied, heading off to the nearby stream to clean his hands before his meal. 

Eskel watched the scene with a bemused smile, glad to see his first impression of Jaskier matched the stories Geralt had told over the winter at Kaer Morhen.  Eskel had never agreed with Vesemir’s approach to Geralt’s submissive nature, finding it cruel to deny him relief for so long, but he didn’t have a good alternative to suggest that wouldn’t put Geralt at risk given that there were too few witchers for a pair of them to travel together.  Witchers were feared and reviled enough as it was without giving potential attackers the idea to use a Dominant’s Voice to subdue a submissive witcher alone on the Path.  The outcome of such an attack would be horrifying, if not deadly.  But if Geralt had found himself a Dominant he could trust, and Jaskier certainly seemed a good man on first blush, Eskel would rest easier.

“It seems you have me at a disadvantage.”  Jaskier said as he handed Eskel a full bowl of stew.  “Geralt hasn’t told me anything about you beyond that you are a fellow witcher.”

Eskel took the stew with a nod of thanks, glad to have a hot meal he didn’t have to hunt and cook himself.  “I’m not surprised, he’s not exactly the most forthcoming.”

Jaskier chuckled, shaking his head fondly.  “For sure he isn’t.  So, tell me about yourself.  I would like to know more if you’re willing to share.”

Eskel sat back with his stew, speaking in between bites of the soft, fresh meat and tender vegetables.  “Geralt and I were in the same training group at Kaer Morhen.  We’re probably of an age, or close to it, though neither of us knows for sure how old we are exactly.”

Jaskier gave a sympathetic frown at that, but didn’t question it, knowing most witchers were Child Surprises.  “We, along with Lambert, were among the few to survive the selection and the Trials.  Geralt and I learned everything together, even if I did have to save his ass more often than not when we ran the training courses together around the Keep.”  He said that last bit with a teasing grin on his face, hearing Geralt approach, pitching his voice to be sure Geralt caught every word.

“You saved me?”  Geralt asked incredulously as he rejoined their circle around the fire, “have you lost your memory in your old age?”  Geralt took the bowl Jaskier handed him, sitting down across the fire from Eskel, next to Jaskier.  Jaskier just sat back and grinned, eating his dinner as he watched them bicker, delighted to see this more open side to his favorite witcher.

“Well, maybe we saved each other.”  Eskel conceded, impish grin making his amber eyes dance with mirth.

Geralt huffed indignantly, rolling his eyes, but turned his focus to his meal rather than continuing, embarrassed to be to the focus of the conversation.  “Tell me about the contract,” he said in an attempt to change the subject.

Eskel followed his lead.  “It’s a harpy nest on the sea coast outside Gors Velen.  I heard there are over thirty individuals in the nest and that they’ve caused well over a dozen deaths among passing travelers and sailors.”

Geralt frowned.  “Unusual to see thirty in a nest.”

“Aye, I could use your help with this, if you’re willing.”

Geralt looked up in surprise.  “You want to share the contract?”

Eskel nodded.  “Thirty harpies on the sea cliffs doesn’t make for good odds and I’d rather not add myself to their list of victims.” 

Geralt considered the offer for a moment before accepting.  “Makes sense.  Your magic will be helpful too.  I fucking hate the ones that fly.” 

Eskel chucked his spoon at him, his bowl empty, laughing as it bonked Geralt on the head.  “Yeah, you never were good at catching.”

Geralt looked murderous, moving to place his bowl down and leap over the fire at Eskel, but Jaskier stopped him with a hand on his knee.  “Eat your dinner first, then you can fight with your brother.”  Geralt growled, but subsided, picking his bowl back up and finishing his meal, sulking.  Eskel watched in amazement at how easily Geralt listened to Jaskier.  He was certain now that Jaskier was Geralt’s Dominant.

When Jaskier looked away, he chucked the spoon back at Eskel.  “I saw that.”  Jaskier said, a note of warning in his tone.  “Don’t waste food by letting it get cold. Eat.”

Geralt pulled a face, but settled, using Eskel’s thrown spoon to finish his serving and half of another before gathering the dishes and the pot and heading back to the stream to clean them while Jaskier banking the fire under the smoking rack for the night.  As Jaskier worked, Eskel retrieved his bedroll, setting it up beside Geralt’s and removing his armor, piling it next to his pack. 

When Eskel was certain Geralt was out of earshot, he spoke to Jaskier.  “Thank you for taking care of him.”

Jaskier looked up from the fire, startled.  “Whatever do you mean?”

“He looks happier than I’ve ever seen him since he started on his Path.  You’re good for him.  And I heard you kept him from hunting until he healed from his injuries, something I’ve never managed to do.”  Eskel bowed his head to Jaskier.  “You have my gratitude for your care of my brother.”

Jaskier flushed from the praise, uncertain how to respond to Eskel’s open display of emotion.  “It is my pleasure to care for him.  He’s very dear to me.”  He finally said.  He looked up at Eskel, smile slightly pained.  “I only wish he’d let me do more.”

Eskel knew that feeling well.  “Geralt has had to rely on himself all his life and he’s had to constantly hide himself from those who would hurt him.  Given who and what he is, that’s most of the world, unfortunately.  It’s hard for him to accept help, it always has been.”  Eskel cocked his head, hearing Geralt approach.  “But I think you’re just the person to get through to him.  He deserves to be happy.” 

“He does.”  Jaskier agreed, “and I’ll do whatever I can to make him so.”

Eskel shushed him with a gesture, indicating Geralt had come back within earshot.  He knew Geralt would not thank them for talking about him behind his back, no matter how well meant their words.

Geralt looked between the two of them suspiciously when he arrived back at the camp.  Scowling, but without evidence to make any accusations, he repacked the pot and dishes, removed his boots, and settled on his bedroll.  He glared at Eskel when he saw how he’d placed his bedroll between Geralt and the woods, protecting him by keeping him in the center of their camp with Jaskier on the other side of the campfire and Eskel at his back.  But he didn’t protest or move his bedroll, not wanting to draw attention to what Eskel had done and make Jaskier suspicious as to his motivations.  For all that he was glad to see Eskel again before winter, putting him in contact with Jaskier greatly increased the risk that Jaskier would discover his secret.

With the chores done, the three men settled in for the night, soothed to sleep by the good food and the soft, ambient noise of the summer forest.

Two days after their reunion, Geralt and Eskel lay on a cliff edge overlooking the harpy nest off to their south, well downwind of the strategizing witchers.  Geralt had let Eskel pick up the contract – even on the rare occasion witchers worked together, they did not share that information with the Alderman and risk inviting doubt as to their abilities – while he settled the horses into the stables at the local inn.  Jaskier procured them two rooms, as the innkeeper did not allow more than two adults per room, and left it up to Geralt to decide with whom he would bunk for the night.  Jaskier had made it clear either choice was perfectly fine with him.

Jaskier was safely back at the inn having been sternly dissuaded by both witchers from following them on this hunt.  The risk that a harpy from the massive nest would catch sight of him and carry him off was far too high.  With such a large hoard expected, Geralt and Eskel would be hard-pressed to protect themselves, let alone Jaskier.  Mollified by Eskel’s promise to tell him about the hunt afterwards and spare no detail, Jaskier stayed behind, planning to spend the day and night entertaining the locals at the tavern below the inn.

The harpy nest was almost two hours from Gors Velen on foot.  Neither Geralt nor Eskel was willing to risk their mount to the harpies’ appetite, so Roach and Eskel’s black mare, Ember, were safely back at the inn’s stable with Potato, the old gelding delighted to be in the company of two fine mares. 

Upon reaching the coast, Geralt and Eskel had stayed well upwind of the nest, choosing a vantage point for surveillance before plotting their attack.  From their location, they could see the large cliffside cavern that was serving as the harpy’s nest.  It overlooked a natural harbor, giving the harpies plenty of prey from the marine animals and unwitting sailors who came to rest in the harbor’s protected waters.  To further boost their yields, the main trading route between Nilfgaard and Novigrad ran along the coast, giving the harpy nest an ample supply of travelers on whom to prey.  According to the Alderman, the harpy nest had appeared two months ago and only grown from there.  The high contract price was funded by both Novigrad and Gors Velen in the interest of a quick resolution.

“Seems the best angle is to approach from upwind and draw the nest away from the coast.”  Geralt said, pointing out a shallow depression along the coastline.  “If we can get them down in there, we shouldn’t have too much trouble.”

“Agreed.  And once we clear out the flyers, we can toss a couple bombs down into the cavern to draw out any stragglers before we climb down there to destroy the nest itself.”  Eskel said, adding a selection of bombs from his pack to the pouch tied to his belt.

Geralt did the same with his selection before loading his crossbow quiver and looping that onto his belt as well, priming the crossbow with a bolt and laying it gently on the grass as he downed two potions from his pack to bolster his abilities – Thunderbolt for attack power and Swallow for vitality. 

Ready, he turned to Eskel.  “Your Signs are stronger, so if I draw them out to the depression, can you knock them down with Aard?  I’ll concentrate on taking them out once they’re grounded.”

Eskel nodded, giving his armor buckles a final check and swallowing his own potions – Petri's Philter to increase the power of his Signs and Tawny Owl to increase his stamina and allow him to cast more Signs for longer.  Eskel was the most magically powerful of all the witchers and Geralt the most skilled with the blade, so it made sense to plan their attack to play to their strengths.

“Ready?”  Eskel asked.

“Ready.” 

They slunk down the coastline, keeping low and out of sight in the scrub brush, careful to mind the play of the wind.  If it shifted, they would need to attack quickly to maintain the element of surprise.

Fortunately for them, the wind cooperated and they were able to reach the harpies’ nest undetected.  While Eskel hid in the brush surrounding the small depression, Geralt darted between cover until he reached the harpy sentry situated on the far edge of the depression, facing out toward the ocean.  Silently, he slit her throat, letting her body drop soundlessly to the sea grass below.  He crept closer to the cliff’s edge, coming within sight of the second sentry posted on the cliffside itself.  He drew his crossbow, embedding the loaded bolt into the harpy’s eye before she could make a sound, killing her instantly.  Her body dropped hard into the mouth of the cave below, startling the nest and drawing the swarm out to investigate.

After shooting the second sentry, Geralt had immediately retreated back to the planned battleground, positioning himself in the center of the depression.  He loaded another bolt in his crossbow, taking down the first harpy to come in range.  Her sisters screamed, dive bombing him from all directions.  He managed to shoot only one more before they descending on him.  He switched to his silver sword, dropping the crossbow, the hybrid oil he’d rubbed into it lending him extra power against the harpies.

When most of the swarm was within the depression, Eskel burst out of the scrub brush, casting a powerful Aard sign that blew the harpies out of the air.  His control was such that he was able to cast the Sign just above Geralt’s head, close enough that he felt the wind from the air displaced by the powerful blow without being affected by it.  Harpies fell along around Geralt, stunned by the blast from Aard.  Geralt quickly jumped into action, fitting his silver blade through the ribs of each fallen harpy and piercing her heart, Eskel doing the same behind him.

There were too many for them to dispatch before the stun wore off, and the surviving harpies, still at least fifteen, rose quickly back into the air, screaming and brandishing their long talons and sharp wings as they dove down around the two witchers. 

Eskel and Geralt stood back to back, rotating as one so Eskel could knock the harpies down and Geralt could end their lives with a swift killing blow.  They moved as if dancing, certain of the other’s steps without needing to look, a deadly whirl of magic and sharp silver.

Finally, the assault ceased.  Eskel dropped his hands and Geralt let the point of his blade brush the ground.  Both panted from exertion, lungs bellowing.  As they caught their breath, keeping a wary eye on their surroundings, they crept toward the cliff’s edge, cautiously peering over the side toward the cave below.  Harpies were crafty beasts and it was not beyond them to plot an ambush for their executioners.

Seeing nothing, Geralt stood back, sword ready, as Eskel lay on his stomach and tossed a series of bombs down into the cave mouth.  As they exploded, outraged shrieks echoed from below as seven more harpies burst through the smoke and slammed into Geralt, bypassing the prostrate Eskel.  They surrounded him on all sides, too low for Eskel to safely blast off with Aard and too close for Geralt to have time to cast any Signs of his own. 

Eskel saw Geralt’s silver blade flash as a harpy’s body dropped back, blood spurting from her slashed neck.  He leapt into the fray, his own sword taking the head off one harpy and the wing off another as he reached Geralt’s side, positioning them back to back again.  From there, Eskel could safely cast Aard to throw the remaining four harpies out of the air, Geralt dealing a killing blow to each as Eskel watched for more, dispatching the one harpy who had fallen at his feet. 

A slash from a talon cut across Geralt’s upper left arm, slowly dripping blood.  Eskel gestured at it.  “Serious?”

Geralt glanced down, grimacing at the injury caused by his carelessness.  “No, just a scratch.”

Eskel nodded, trusting Geralt to let him know if his fighting abilities were impaired.  Geralt may be dismissive of his own needs, but he wouldn’t put Eskel at risk by hiding any impediment to his usual prowess.

Together, they crept again toward the cliff edge and repeated the bomb tactic.  This time, no harpies appeared.  They waited again, listening hard.  Silence.

One by one, starting with Eskel, they climbed down the cliff edge, dropping in the mouth of the cave.  Each downed a Cat for visibility in the dark, the toxicity making their matched eyes go completely black.  Eyesight boosted, they slowly worked their way through the cave, swords at the ready.   They found the nest at the back of the relatively shallow cave system, human bones thick on the floor and blood splattered on the walls, but, thankfully, no more harpies.  They dispatched the nest with a pair of grapeshot bombs and cast Igni to destroy it completely.  It would do no good to clear out the occupants while leaving a perfect home ready to attract the next nest of harpies. 

With a last check around the cave, they climbed back up to the top of the cliff and set about harvesting the corpses, collecting valuable alchemy ingredients and taking the tongue of each harpy as a trophy to prove the hunt complete.  By the time they were done, they counted forty-seven harpies. 

“I’ve never seen so many in one nest.”  Eskel commented as they walked back to gather their packs from their surveillance post.  “We’ll have to update the beastiary at Kaer Morhen and tell Vesemir about this over the winter.  We don’t want Lambert or any of the other witchers surprised by the size of a nest.” 

Eskel reached out and ruffled Geralt’s hair as they walked.  “Without you here too, I doubt I would have survived this.  Thank you.”

Geralt looked up at him from under Eskel’s hand before shoving it off.  “You would’ve been fine.  You’re practically a mage with all that power.”  Geralt tried to ignore the throbbing in his left arm.  He was the one who got careless and let a harpy cut him.  Jaskier would fuss now when they returned, focusing on him when he should be free to play and enjoy the company of other softer, better submissives who deserved his careful attentions for the evening.

Eskel elbowed him, shoving him over to the left.  “I know you, Geralt.  I can practically hear you berating yourself for that cut.”  Geralt looked away but didn’t respond.  “The only reason I was able to cast so effectively was because you drew them off.  It’s my fault you got swarmed and that harpy had a chance to slash you – I should have been better prepared to cast them down when they came over the cliff edge.”

Geralt looked up at that, protesting immediately.  “But you had to lean over the cliff to throw the bombs, you couldn’t have gotten up any faster.”

“And you were ready for them so you can’t be blamed for one harpy in seven getting in a lucky hit when you were swarmed.  I’m only glad you weren’t seriously hurt.”  Eskel said, drawing Geralt close with an arm around his shoulders, careful not to brush the long scrape.

Geralt huffed, but let it drop as they reached the spot where they’d left their packs, knowing Eskel would never see his failure clearly.  He was far too fond of Geralt for that, for reasons Geralt would never understand.  As they started the long walk back to Gors Velen, trophies in hand, Geralt could only hope that Jaskier would be too distracted – by the crowd, by a pretty submissive, or by Eskel’s company – to notice Geralt’s wound.

Geralt’s wish was granted.  By the time they returned to Gors Velen and Eskel traded the trophies for the contract price with the unusually grateful Alderman, Jaskier had finished his performance and had left word with the innkeeper for them that he had already retired to bed.  The innkeeper implied he’d retired alone, but Geralt doubted it.  Jaskier was a rare type of Dominant and he attracted favorable, well-deserved attention wherever he went.  Geralt pushed down the pang of jealously that thought caused.  He should be grateful for Jaskier’s company.  He would never, could never, have the right to even hope for more.

Using his unwillingness to wake Jaskier this late as a cover for his real reasons – not wanting to cause Jaskier undue upset over his injury or risk seeing another submissive in his bed – Geralt followed Eskel back to his room, grateful he’d thought ahead to leave his packs in there for after the hunt.

When they reached the small room, they saw Jaskier must have arranged for a bath for them before he retired.  A small, wooden tub sat before the fire, half-filled with cool water, with a large cauldron over the fire full of hot water waiting to be used.  Between the two of them, they easily lifted the cauldron and filled the bath completely.  Eskel cast a controlled Igni to add a little more heat, satisfied when the water was just shy of scalding.

Geralt gestured for Eskel to take the first bath and Eskel didn’t argue, stripping off his armor and settling back into the steaming water.  Geralt tossed the wash cloth at his head from behind before carefully placing the wash basin with the soap fragment next to the tub.  Soap was too precious to risk wasting.

Eskel, unlike Geralt, didn’t enjoy long soaks, so he quickly scrubbed himself down while Geralt removed and cleaned his own armor.  Finished, he dried off and left the bath to Geralt before turning his attention to cleaning and oiling his gear.

Geralt stripped, dropping his dirty clothes with Eskel’s beside the tub to wash later, sinking into the steaming water with a satisfied groan, closing his eyes and letting his head rest on the back edge of the tub.

“Hedonist.”  Eskel teased, grinning over at Geralt.

Geralt made an obscene gesture at him without opening his eyes, comfortable letting his guard down under the watchful protection of his brother.  Eskel wouldn’t let anything happen to him while he bathed.  Not that Jaskier would either, but Jaskier was unpredictable in other ways.  He might decide to try helping Geralt with his hair or offer to scrub his back, things Geralt wanted almost as strongly as he rejected those offers.  Eskel knew better than to offer things Geralt shouldn’t have.

Eventually, the water cooled and Geralt finished his bath, cleaning himself thoroughly to remove the characteristic stink of harpy, paying careful attention to the slash down his left arm.  It wasn’t deep and would heal well on its own as long as made sure to clean it properly. 

Finished, he stepped out of the bath, dried off, and dropped his and Eskel’s dirty clothes in the bath, scrubbing at any stubborn stains before leaving them to soak.

He redressed in his spare outfit, pulling on only the loose pants and linen shirt for now, finger combing his long hair before leaving it to air dry.  Once he was dressed, he removed the laundry from the bath and started to wring out the clothes, Eskel joining him to help.  They hung the wet clothes on the line by the fire, kindly provided by the innkeeper.  It was a familiar routine for them, sharing baths and chores in a small room by the fire, much like their housing at Kaer Morhen.  While the Keep had a laundry for the larger items, each trainee was expected to wash, mend, and maintain his own clothing and armor.  As Eskel and Geralt had been roommates, they frequently shared these chores, with Geralt taking on the mending and Eskel the bulk of the washing, as was their preference.

Tasks complete, Eskel grabbed a small book from his pack, a precious resource for one who loved to read as much as he, and settled on the edge of the bed to read by the candlelight.  Geralt went to check on Jaskier and, hearing nothing but his soft breathing through the door, returned to Eskel’s room for the night.  Jaskier was safe and Geralt would not disturb his rest.

Exhaustion pulled at Geralt, both from the fight and from the strain of nearly six months without a drop.  Soothed by his brother’s easy, familiar presence, Geralt let some of his usual control slip, allowing a soft expression to come to his face, limbs loose and gait relaxed.  Seeing Eskel sitting on the side of the bed in that familiar reading pose, Geralt joined him as he had many times in their youth, sinking to his knees beside his brother and resting his head on Eskel’s thigh.  Warmth immediately flooded him as the first tendrils of subspace cossetted him, easing the ache of long deprivation.

Eskel placed a gentle hand on his head, seeing the vaguely unfocused look in Geralt’s eyes.  “You shouldn’t do that here, Geralt.”  He said softly, looking down on his brother with only kindness in his amber gaze.

Geralt felt as if a bucket of ice water had been thrown over him.  Pulled roughly from his relaxed drift, his heartrate skyrocketed as a cold weight settled in his chest.  He shoved himself back and away from Eskel, sprawling on the floor and staring up at him, stricken.  He should have controlled himself better.  He shouldn’t have put Eskel in the position to need to remind him of his place.  Shame washed over him and his vision blackened at the edges from the rapid drop.

Eskel looked startled by the violent reaction, immediately reaching out to Geralt to soothe him, but Geralt flinched away. “Easy, Geralt.”  He said, attempting to calm him.  “I’ll get Jaskier for you and all will be well.”

Geralt looked up at him in anguished confusion.  Why the fuck would he get Jaskier?  If Jaskier saw him like this, he might suspect the truth and then Geralt could never travel with him again.  Geralt shook his head vehemently, incapable of speech, reaching out to stop Eskel.

Eskel turned back from the door and crouched in front of Geralt, lowering his head to force Geralt to meet his eyes.  “You don’t want me to get Jaskier?”  He asked in disbelief.  He couldn’t understand why Geralt wouldn’t want his Dominant to help him.

Geralt shook his head, panic joining the shame and making his breathing come in short, quick pants, his pupils blown.

“All right, I won’t get him.”  Eskel reassured, horrified with himself for having forced Geralt into such a violent subdrop.  He had the sinking feeling he had read Geralt and Jaskier’s relationship all wrong and hurt Geralt as a result.

Eskel added a hint of his Dominant Voice into his speech in an attempt to help Geralt get his breathing back under control by speaking directly to his subconscious.  “Match my breathing now, Geralt.  In and out, nice and easy.”

Geralt responded to Eskel’s familiar Voice through his panic and the cold haze caused by the subdrop, doing his best to match Eskel’s breathing.  Eskel slowly, carefully reached out and took Geralt’s hand, holding it onto his chest to help Geralt feel the even rhythm of his breath, praising him for each deeper breath he took.  After what felt like an age, Geralt’s breathing steadied, matching Eskel’s example.

With his breathing under control again, Eskel encouraged Geralt to move from the floor to the bed, positioning them so they sat side by side, backs resting against the wall, Geralt’s head cushioned on Eskel’s shoulder.  They had spent many nights together like that as children while they recovered from the brutal abuses heaped upon their young bodies in the Trials.  The familiar pose comforted them both.

When Eskel felt Geralt stop shaking and slump fully onto his shoulder, exhausted by the drop, he spoke.  “Jaskier isn’t your Dom, is he?”

Geralt shook his head, speech still beyond him.  He knew he should move, that he shouldn’t lean on Eskel like this, but he couldn’t find the strength.  The cold feeling in his chest made his bones ache from the shame of his weakness, at how he’d given in to his base instincts at the first opportunity, forcing Eskel to take care of him instead of waiting for his scheduled drop like he knew he should.

Eskel closed his eyes, internally berating himself for making assumptions.  “Forgive me, Geralt.  I shouldn’t have assumed.  I should have trusted you to know what you need and asked you about Jaskier before correcting you without cause.”

Geralt forced himself to speak, sitting up and moving away from Eskel’s warm hold, unwilling to let him blame himself for Geralt’s failings. 

“No, I shouldn’t have done that.  Vesemir taught me better.”

Eskel’s expression was pained.  “I’m not sure Vesemir is right.  If there’s a trustworthy Dom who can help you during the year, there’s no reason you should have to suffer like this.”

Geralt shook his head, turning away from Eskel and his words.

Eskel persisted.  “From what I’ve seen of him and how much he cares for you, I’m sure Jaskier can be trusted with this.  I can’t imagine he would betray you.”  Eskel said gently.

“It’s not that.”  Geralt said to the wall.

“Then what is it?”

“It’s not his duty to take care of me.”  Geralt said flatly.

Eskel frowned.  “But what if he wants to?”

Geralt curled in on himself, misery pouring off him in waves.  “I can’t do that to him.  He would feel obliged to take care of me if he knew, but he deserves better.  He deserves a real submissive who’s soft and gentle and everything I’m not.  A house on a hill with a family, a dog, servants, the whole deal.  Not walking the Path with me.”

Eskel’s heart ached for his brother.  He had seen how the trainers’ actions, how Vesemir’s scheduled drops, had changed Geralt over the past decades.  He’d been a bright, happy child, even throughout their training.  But the strain of nearly a century of deprivation and the brutal, clinical drops Vesemir imposed on him to save his sanity had hardened him, convinced him that there was little more to life than pain and duty.  That meeting his biological needs was a burden imposed upon Vesemir because no one else would deign to help him.  Eskel suspected there was little, if any, aftercare provided in those sessions, leaving Geralt to suffer through a harsh subdrop alone each time.  Eskel knew Vesemir did it out of care for Geralt in his own way, that he was calling on practices he’d learned as a young Dominant nearly four hundred years ago, but all the good intentions in the world didn’t spare Geralt the consequences.

“You should tell him.  Let Jaskier make his own decision about what he wants from his life.”  Eskel said finally, knowing it was futile to try and convince Geralt of his own worth.  Or that Vesemir might have been wrong when he decided how Geralt’s submissive side should be handled.

“No!”  Geralt said sharply, turning a harsh glare on Eskel.  “And don’t you dare tell him either.” 

Eskel held up his hands, appeasing.  “I wouldn’t do that without your permission and you know it.”  Eskel grinned, trying to lighten the mood.  “After all, I still haven’t told Vesemir it was you who put the blackberry juice in his hair oil that one time.”

Geralt snorted a laugh in spite of himself at the memory of Vesemir’s purple striped hair.  It had taken weeks for the color to fade.  His expression relaxed and he leaned back against Eskel’s shoulder.

“I’m glad we ran into you, Eskel.”  Geralt said, changing the subject.  “Where will you go next?”

Eskel followed Geralt’s lead, sitting back and crossing his ankles, enjoying the warmth of his brother at his side.  “Probably back south again.  There’s plenty of work with all the unrest down in Nilfgaard.  What about you?”

“Novigrad for now.  Unless I hear of another contract along the way.”

“And then you’ll work your way back north?” 

Geralt hummed in agreement.

“I’ll work my way back east and then start to head north by mid-autumn.  I don’t want to get caught out by a blizzard on the way back to Kaer Morhen like I did last year.” Eskel said, grimacing at the memory.

Geralt elbowed him, grinning.  “Yeah, you came in looking like a drowned rat.”

“Oh, shut up.” Eskel said, shoving him lightly away.  “Like it’s never happened to you before.”

They grinned at each other before relaxing again, enjoying the easy, fraternal companionship as they sat side by side, staring into the fire.  Eskel finally broke the silence.  “Best we get some rest before morning.”  He said, moving to lie flat and pulling the blankets up over himself.  Geralt mirrored him, settling down on the other side of the modestly-sized bed.  Eskel extinguished the flame in the candle before casting a controlled Igni to stabilize the banked fire for the night.

“Show off.”  Geralt muttered.

“You know it.”  Eskel teased back.

They lay quietly together until they drifted off to sleep, curled toward each other under the warm blankets just as they had done when they were children.

The next morning, after Eskel gave Jaskier all the details of their hunt over breakfast, they parted company, Jaskier and Geralt heading north toward Novigrad and Eskel heading back south toward Nilfgaard.  They stood at the crossroads outside town, each man holding his own horse.

Geralt and Eskel embraced, pounding each other on the back, Geralt briefly pushing his head up under Eskel’s chin in a brotherly farewell.

“Think about telling him.  I think you’ll be surprised by how well it goes.”  Eskel whispered in Geralt’s ear before they broke apart.  Geralt frowned at him, shaking his head, glad Jaskier couldn’t see his face.

“Don’t get dead out there.” Geralt said to Eskel.  “Walk your Path with honor.” 

Eskel nodded.  “May your Path be smooth and may your sword strike true.” Eskel said, completing the traditional parting words.

Eskel turned to Jaskier, pulling him into a rough embrace as well.  Jaskier was surprised at the open affection – he was used to Geralt’s far greater reserve – but he returned the embrace easily.  Eskel was a cheerful, kind soul and Jaskier had come to like him in their short time together.  Hopefully, they would see each other again one day.

“Take care of this idiot.”  Eskel said, stepping back toward his horse. 

Jaskier laughed at seeing Geralt roll his eyes.  “I’ll try my best!”

Eskel locked eyes with Jaskier for a moment, the sudden seriousness of his gaze belying his light tone.  Jaskier briefly bowed his head, message received.  He would do his best to care for Geralt in his brother’s place. 

Jaskier sensed there was more going on here than he knew, but he wasn’t sure what yet.  He had his suspicions given Eskel’s protectiveness over Geralt and the fact that Eskel’s tattoo proudly showed off his Dominant’s stripe whereas Geralt’s intricate pattern covered his whole arm, wholly obscuring his mark.  He had seen how Geralt briefly nuzzled under Eskel’s chin too, though he drew no attention to it at the time.  It was common gesture of greeting or farewell among family members, but typically done between submissives and Dominants, with only the rare neutral extending a Dominant relative that same affectionate courtesy.  Jaskier didn’t know enough about witcher customs to know if that held true for them, and he certainly wasn’t going to ask Geralt, but he filed the observation away in his mind to analyze when future, contextualizing evidence presented itself.

With a final wave, Eskel turned south, mounting his black mare and directing her down the main road.  Jaskier and Geralt mounted as well, Potato and Roach happily walking side by side north toward Novigrad. 

“I hope we run into him again.”  Jaskier said after a moment, looking back at Eskel’s retreating figure.

“Hm, not likely.  He usually stays in the Southern Kingdoms until he needs to head north for the winter.”

“Do you each have your own region to patrol?”  Jaskier asked curiously.

“In a sense.  We each chose the regions we prefer.  With so few of us left, it made sense to break the Continent up and spread our services.”  Geralt answered.

Jaskier was pleased at the open response and decided to see if he could encourage Geralt to share a bit more while his good mood lasted.  “Who patrols each region?”

Geralt glanced over at him, assessing.  Jaskier kept his gaze open and curious.  Satisfied Jaskier’s question was simply as it appeared, he answered. “I stay more toward the western part of the Northern Kingdoms.  Eskel patrols the Southern Kingdoms, as I said, and Vesemir does as well, though he tends to go only in response to a particular contract rather than as a general patrol given his age.  Lambert patrols the eastern side of the Northern Kingdoms.”

“What’s Lambert like?” Jaskier asked, having caught the oddly painful weight given to Vesemir’s name in Geralt’s response and deciding not to poke at a potential sore spot.

“He’s an asshole. Arrogant, loud, never shuts up.”  Geralt’s tone took on a teasing edge. “You’d probably get along.”

Jaskier gasped in mock offense.  “You take that back!”

Geralt grinned at him before spurring Roach into a gallop.  “Make me!”  He shouted back. 

Jaskier urged Potato to follow, knowing the older gelding would never catch the fleet-footed mare, the two horses’ hooves pounding into the dirt as they raced northward to Novigrad.

Chapter Text

Geralt and Jaskier had been in Novigrad for almost a month.  Jaskier had earned a well-deserved, regular spot performing at the Rosemary & Thyme tavern and Geralt found ample work cleaning up the monsters in and around the North’s largest free city. 

Compared to Geralt’s last visit to Novigrad, however, the reception was frosty despite the abundant need for his services.  Geralt had no doubt this was due directly to the increased prominence of the Cult of the Eternal Fire – with the increased aggression from Nilfgaard, the Cult had seized on the chance to spread its human-centric gospel, teaching that any who were nonhuman, or who did not comply with the strict religious doctrines of the Cult, were to be feared and reviled.  Naturally, the Cult of the Eternal Fire considered humans superior to all other races.  Human mages were still tolerated, if warily, but nonhumans had been pushed out to the slums beyond the city walls and hate crimes were rising exponentially.  As a witcher, Geralt was used to ill-treatment from the general public, but Novigrad’s current populace took it to new level, with the Eternal Fire’s religious teachings fanning genuine, violent hatred against him.  Geralt felt eyes follow him everywhere he went.  When he passed, the guards placed their hands on their hilts of their swords, making it clear that any minor misstep he made would be his last.

Despite the tense environment, Geralt needed the work and Jaskier was having the time of his life performing for the appreciative crowds at the Rosemary & Thyme – for all Novigrad’s prejudice toward nonhumans, it deserved its reputation as the North’s most artistic city.  So, Geralt grit his teeth and ignored the abuse flung at him while doing his best to shield Jaskier from any collateral effects.  Or even from knowing the full extent of the hatred Geralt faced daily.  He knew Jaskier would insist they move on if he knew how terribly Geralt was being treated, and Geralt couldn’t allow himself to be the cause of Jaskier missing out on such valuable exposure.  Fortunately, the Rosemary & Thyme took up most of Jaskier’s time and attention, making it easier for Geralt to hide the truth of his situation. 

But, after nearly a month, Geralt was reaching the end of his tolerance.  It didn’t help that he had now gone nearly seven months without the relief of subspace.  No matter how much Geralt wished it were otherwise, he couldn’t ignore the needs imposed upon him by his submissive nature.  His body needed to enter subspace regularly in order to function and each day he denied himself wore on him.  Seeing Eskel in Gors Velen had been a balm, bolstering his reserves for weeks afterwards.  But Eskel hadn’t, couldn’t give him the guided drop into subspace his body needed and the effects of his long deprivation felt all the more severe for the brief reprieve.  Just being in the crowded city was overwhelming, stretching his control almost to the breaking point. 

His hunting abilities were yet uncompromised, as they should be with months left to go until his next scheduled drop with Vesemir at the start of the deepest winter, but the rest of his body suffered.  Sleep was elusive.  Food tasted of ash in his mouth, his appetite dwindling to almost nothing.  His muscles, his very bones, ached.  His head was filled with a constant pounding.  Every touch, smell, and sound grated on his frazzled nerves. 

It was unbearable. 

But he had to bear it, as it he did every year, and as he would do until the day he slowed and a monster ended his life.

He could even bear Novigrad a little longer.  For Jaskier.

It was the beginning of harvest time in Novigrad, and a local Baron called on Geralt to help with a wraith wreaking havoc in his fields.  Jaskier had jumped at the chance for an excursion and Geralt had allowed him to come with minimal protest knowing he could leave Jaskier safely at the Baron’s manor while he hunted the wraith.

As they headed to the Baron’s holding, Potato and Roach walking side by side up the dirt path, Geralt allowed his eyes to close briefly, turning his face up to the warm sun and breathing in the ripe scent of grain ready to harvest, the natural smell a welcome relief from the heavy, thick stink of the city.  He felt a degree of tension leave his shoulders.  They would need to move on soon, his fraying control had almost reached its limit under the constant sensory assault from the crowded city.  Geralt couldn’t risk a breakdown that might reveal his secret, especially in a city as intolerant to his presence as Novigrad. 

Of course, Jaskier was under no obligation to give up his lucrative residency at the Rosemary & Thyme based on Geralt’s schedule, but Geralt hoped Jaskier would continue to travel with him until they needed to part for the winter.  Geralt admonished himself for the selfish thought, vowing to be careful to only invite Jaskier to accompany him and not to presume he would actually accept.

As the Baron’s manor came into view over the crest of the next hill, Geralt heard Jaskier’s appreciative sigh as he took in the immaculately designed, manicured gardens surrounding the lavish home.  The Baron clearly employed a landscape artist, as the gardens burst with fresh, fragrant blooms, each flower, shrub, and tree perfectly complementing its surroundings, the whole picture highlighting the bounty of the holding.  Geralt wondered if Jaskier’s ancestral manor had anything similar, but he didn’t ask.  Information like that was Jaskier’s to give, not Geralt’s to demand.

At the manor’s gate, they were met by an escort of armed guards.  Geralt turned over the contract to secure their audience and they were led into the receiving hall to meet with Baron Dunin.  Potato and Roach were left in the care of the Baron’s stable hands, but not before a piercing glare from Geralt reminded the boys to treat the horses properly.  They had bowed nervously before taking the reins and leading the horses toward the stables.

Baron Dunin was an ostentatious nobleman.  The manor house was gilded in every possible way to ensure that no one who crossed its threshold could mistake the wealth of its owner.  The Baron himself was a man in his late middle age.  Time had not treated him well.  His jowls hung loose, folds of skin cascading over the collar of his garishly embroidered silk doublet.  Rings, bracelets, and necklaces clinked as he moved, gold and jewels flashing in the light.  When he smiled at them, it was condescending and without a trace of respect or good humor.  His teeth were rotten.  Geralt could smell the decay from across the room, mixing foully with the acrid scent of his sweat.  He barely resisted the urge to gag.

When the Baron stood to greet them, he swept his right arm out wide in a mocking bow, clearly displaying his thick, black Dominant mark.  His doublet had been cut to emphasize the marking, with sleeves that ended at the elbow and a nearly transparent panel on the inside of his upper arm to display the full extent of the mark.  He was exactly the sort of stereotypical Dominant Geralt couldn’t stand, the sort that took his Dominant nature as carte blanche to subjugate everyone around him, convinced of his own superiority.

“So good of you to come, Witcher.  And I see you even brought a little pet.”  He sneered at Jaskier as he directed his words to Geralt. 

Jaskier bristled, but let it go.  He knew Geralt could ill afford to insult the Baron and risk losing both this contract and his professional reputation in Novigrad.  He brushed his hand against Geralt’s in support, standing close enough to him that he accomplished it in what he hoped was a surreptitious manner.

“Baron Dunin.”  Geralt inclined his head in the smallest possible bow he could get away with.  Following the Baron’s example, Geralt briefly displayed the inside of his right arm, showing his intricate tattoo.  It was an old-fashioned custom among the nobility to display one’s mark upon greeting.  But, especially in Redania, a kingdom which held nobility in the highest possible esteem, to not return the Baron’s gesture was an insult grave enough to be a criminal offense.

Geralt saw the Baron’s scowl at the sight of his obscured mark, but pressed on before he could comment.  “I heard from your servant that you have a wraith problem.  He gave me the contract you issued.”

The Baron settled himself back into his large, wingback chair.  There were no other chairs in the room, an obvious powerplay, forcing Geralt and Jaskier to stand before him like schoolboys.  Baron Dunin steepled his fingers, pressing his fleshy lips to them before speaking. 

“In simple terms, as I’m sure you’d prefer, since late summer a wraith has been attacking my workers in the southern barley fields.  They try to work and it assaults them, driving them off.  Fortunately, barley doesn’t need much care during the summer, but I won’t sacrifice the harvest just because of some monster.”

Geralt nodded, breathing lightly through his mouth to minimize the impact of the Baron’s stench.  “If you say your workers are attacked during working hours, may I presume you mean daylight hours?”

“Obviously.”  The Baron drawled.

“Then you’ve likely got a noonwraith.  Have any brides-to-be died recently?  That’s the most likely source.”  Geralt asked, forcing his tone to stay neutral and quiet.  Passably respectful.

The Baron scoffed derisively.  “I see you have no knowledge of current events, Witcher.”  When Geralt simply waited for him to continue, expression blank, he explained.  “I was given a young girl for a bride after the former Baroness died this spring without producing an heir.  I made a contract with one of the Barons from northern Redania.  In exchange for making a family connection closer to Novigrad, they were to send me their oldest daughter, supposedly an educated noblewoman ripe for breeding, but they sent me a stripling barely bigger than a babe herself.  Sixteen, I think she said she was, but she looked to be no more than fourteen.  I never would have agreed to that marriage contract had I known that waif was what I would be stuck with.  She wasn’t even a submissive!  Just an ordinary neutral, hardly suitable for a Dominant like me.  But she was old enough to wed so I tried to make due.  An heir was the goal and she should have been capable of that.”

The Baron made an obscene gesture meant to describe what he had planned to force on his young betrothed.  Geralt felt physically repulsed, but let nothing he felt show on his face.  The Baron continued.  “I planned the wedding feast, hired her servants, even had a gown made for her, and then the young fool went and hanged herself in the field!  Ungrateful brat.  Fortunately, I had fulfilled my end of the bargain, so the disgrace fell on her family for sending me a defective bride.”

Geralt felt Jaskier about to explode next to him and sent him a quelling glare.  These views were common, especially among landed gentry, and there was no point in berating this particular vile specimen.  Geralt couldn’t risk insulting the Baron and getting barred from working in Novigrad.

Geralt focused back on the Baron, forcing himself to set aside the disgust and rage he felt.  He managed to keep it out of his voice.  He was a professional.  “Definitely a noonwraith then.  I’ll need something of hers to draw her out.  Do you have anything that she brought here from her family home?  Something of great sentimental value to her?”

The Baron waved his hand dismissively.  “I wouldn’t know, but I’ll have my valet find you something.”  The mentioned valet bowed before darting off up the servant’s staircase to fulfill the order.

“Now, there’s just the matter of my pay.”  Geralt said.  “Your contract didn’t specify an amount, but for a contract on a noonwraith, I won’t take less than two hundred and fifty crowns.”

“Two hundred and fifty crowns?  For the specter of that pathetic girl?  Come, Witcher, be serious. One hundred and fifty at most.”  The Baron said dismissively.

“A noonwraith is a dangerous hunt, and one your men cannot manage on their own.  It’s not worth the risk for any less.”  Geralt said calmly.

“It’s worth the risk if I tell you it is!” The Baron bellowed, spittle flying from his mouth, using his Dominant Voice like a bludgeon.  He clearly expected Geralt to cower.

Geralt barely contained a flinch and pain lanced through his head from resisting the command.  But he stood straight and tall, outwardly appearing to be completely unaffected.  Vesemir had worked with him for years to be able to resist a Dominant’s Voice and the training held up.  He forced his expression to remain unaffected.  He hoped it worked.  He didn’t know if he could withstand another blow.

Jaskier growled back at the Baron, affronted by his unprompted use of his Dominant Voice.  “You forget yourself, Baron.”  He said firmly, courtier’s accent clear, rotating his arm out to display his own Dominant’s mark. 

The Baron focused properly on Jaskier for the first time, taking in the fine, well-tailored clothes, the proper diction, the proud cant to his head, and the Dominant’s mark on his arm.

“Forgive me,” he said insincerely.  He didn’t ask Jaskier’s name.  Jaskier didn’t offer it.

“Of course, Baron.”  Jaskier said, “allowances must be made for those still in mourning.”  The statement was both meant to appease and to insult, as the Baron’s colorful garb showed he was not obeying the traditional mourning practices for the late Baroness, much less for his more recently departed betrothed.

Geralt was glad the Baron’s focus was off him for the moment.  It gave him a chance to collect himself. 

The Baron, with one last, assessing look, returned his focus to Geralt. “Two hundred.”

“Two hundred and fifteen.”

“Done.”  The Baron said just as his valet came back into the receiving room, holding a silver, handheld looking glass.  The valet handed the Baron the looking glass before bowing and retreating to the side of the room.

The Baron inspected it, seeing the well-worn handle and the rabbit motif.  “Childish.”  He scoffed.  “Will this do, Witcher?”  He held it out to Geralt.

Geralt nodded, taking the looking glass and putting it in his pack.  “I’ll head out to the field now.  Don’t want to lose the light.”

Jaskier clasped his shoulder as he turned to leave.  “Be careful.”  He said, staring up into Geralt’s eyes.  He had noticed how rundown his friend had become of late and he was worried about Geralt’s chances against something as wily and dangerous as a noonwraith.

Geralt nodded, in what he hoped was a reassuring manner, before striding out the door.

It was dark by the time Geralt finished the hunt.  It had taken him hours to attract the noonwraith with the ritual burning of her looking glass, and, when she did appear, it was a vicious battle.  Unusually strong for a noonwraith, she showed extraordinary control over her projected doubles, using them to surround Geralt from all directions, confusing his senses and boxing him in while she swiped at him with her long talons, disappearing and reappearing at will.

Finally, just as he was about to drop from exhaustion, the toxicity from the potions he’d downed burning through his blood, Geralt immobilized her in a strong Yrden trap and drove the killing blow through her chest cavity. 

The wraith crumbled to dust. 

Geralt fell to his knees beside her remains, resting his sword tip in the ground and using it to keep himself upright.  His breath came in harsh pants, heart pounding from exertion.  Forcing his breath to steady, he pushed himself to his feet and retrieved his pack.  He downed a White Honey to nullify the toxins from his battle potions, wincing as it seared his blood clean.  The cure was almost as painful as the affliction, but at least it wouldn’t kill him.

Turning back to the remains, he harvested the valuable alchemy ingredients and wrapped the noonwraith’s pierced heart in a thick cloth to bring back to the Baron as proof the contract was complete.  He left the charred remains of the looking glass in the fire, doused it, and stamped out the embers.  It wouldn’t do to cause a wildfire through carelessness.

Tasks complete, Geralt trudged across the barley fields toward the manor house, carefully keeping to the outer edges to avoid damaging the grain.  He felt the blackness receding from his eyes and felt color returning to his face as the White Honey cleared the toxicity in his blood.  He hoped his looks returned to normal by the time he reached the Baron’s manor.  He didn’t think he could last much longer if he were forced to wait. 

While he was able to successfully complete the hunt, the brutal fight left him with no reserves, his stores having already been low before he even started the contract due to the strain of forcing his body to maintain normal function after nearly seven months without entering subspace.  He could survive the deprivation, but adding the additional stress of a long battle nearly did him in.  Blood dripped from the slashes dealt by the noonwraith.  Shallow enough not to be a threat to his life, but deep enough to send throbbing pain radiating out from his wounds.  Black spots danced in front of his vision, brought on by blood loss and exhaustion.  He had to think about each step to keep his stride even and steady. 

Finally, after what felt like an age, Geralt reached the Baron’s manor, walking around the back to the servant’s entrance and knocking on the door. 

The valet from earlier opened it, looking up at him with a raised eyebrow.  Good, he must look normal then.  If his eyes were still black, the man would have screamed. 

“Noonwraith’s dead.”  Geralt said, holding out the trophy.  “Just need the bard and my coin and I’ll be on my way.”

“Baron wants to see you.”  The valet directed.  “Follow me.  But leave that disgusting thing outside.”

Geralt dropped the heart on the stoop before following the valet.  He had hoped the Baron would be one of those contractors to leave the mundanity of payment to his staff.  Wasn’t his lucky day, it seemed.

As soon as Geralt stepped into the receiving room, he knew his day was about to get much worse. 

Redanian soldiers waited for him, hands on their sword hilts.  The Baron stood in front of them, a smug expression on his face.  Jaskier was restrained in the corner by one of the soldiers, a murderous expression on his face.  Geralt was relieved to see he appeared unharmed. 

“Job’s done, Baron.”  Geralt said, forcing himself to remain calm.  The soldiers were clearly itching for an excuse and he was in no mood to give it to them.  Especially not with Jaskier at risk.

“But that’s not all you’ve done, is it, Witcher.”  The Baron said, looking disgustingly like a cat who’d trapped a mouse.  It wasn’t a question. 

“Enlighten me.” 

“You stole from me, Witcher.”  The Baron declared.

The fuck? 

This was a new tactic.  Geralt didn’t respond, waiting for the Baron to make his move.  He knew whatever he said wouldn’t matter anyway.

“What’d this thug take from you, my Lord Baron?”  The Captain of the Redanian guard troop asked, stepping forward to stand between Geralt and the Baron.  It was a question in form, but Geralt had no doubt this was a rehearsed exercise.

“Why, I called this Witcher to help me with that wraith in my barley fields, but he took advantage of my kindness and stole my dearly departed betrothed’s silver looking glass!”  The Baron said, a mockery of grief in his tone.

“Well that's just awful, isn’t it, boys?”  The Captain said, motioning for his soldiers to seize Geralt.  “We’d best take him to see the Magistrate.”  Four guards surrounded Geralt, yanking his swords and pack off his back and forcing him to his knees before roughly cuffing his hands behind his back.  Geralt didn’t resist, unwilling to play into this farce by becoming violent.  More unwilling to risk Jaskier getting hurt in a brawl.

“That’s not what happened and you know it!”  Jaskier shouted, pulling against the guard’s restraining hold. 

The Captain went up to Jaskier and lightly tapped him on the cheek as if he were a child.  “Now, boy, I don’t know what hold this monster has over you, but you’d best let it go.  Wouldn’t want to have to arrest you too.”

Jaskier bit back his words, knowing he was no good to Geralt if he got arrested right along with him.  If he were free, he could petition on his behalf.

“Good boy.”  The Captain said mockingly when Jaskier stayed silent.  He gestured for the guard holding Jaskier to release him.  Jaskier rushed over to pick up Geralt’s swords and pack from where the guards had discarded them. 

One of the guards holding Geralt down laughed to his buddies.  “Look at that idiot, touching those cursed swords like that.”

One of the others jeered at Jaskier.  “Those swords’ll kill the seed right in your bollocks, boy!  Not that a skinny thing like you’ll have much chance with the ladies anyway!”

Jaskier’s hands clenched, but a look from Geralt kept him quiet.  Geralt knew the guards were trying to provoke Jaskier – though they probably really did believe the old rumor that witcher swords were cursed – and Geralt would never forgive himself if Jaskier were jailed because of him.  It was bad enough Geralt had been unable to shield him from this display.  He’d hoped to leave Jaskier’s opinion of Novigrad – and its people – untarnished.

The Baron watched the proceedings with a smug look of superiority, proud of himself for having tricked the witcher into taking care of the noonwraith without needing to pay for his services.  Seeing the Witcher’s upstart, Dominant pet humbled was an added bonus.

The Captain bowed to the Baron.  “Sorry about all this fuss, my Lord Baron.  We’ll get this scoundrel out of your hair.”

“See that you do.”  The Baron waved an imperious hand, dismissing them from his presence. 

The Captain bowed once before heading out, directing his soldiers to follow him with the restrained Witcher.  The soldiers forced Geralt to his feet, dragging him between them out to the prison carriage in the drive.  Each touch burned and the rough treatment sent spikes of pain through Geralt’s head, nausea roiling in his belly.  Two of the guards were Dominants and they infused every command they made of him with their Voice, battering Geralt’s control.  Fortunately, the guards backed up each command with physical coercion, so Geralt’s compliance was not suspect.  Even if that hadn’t been true, Geralt didn’t know if he could have resisted.

When the guards finally threw him into the prison carriage, barring the door behind him, he slumped over in relief, resting his forehead on his knees and trying to steady his breathing.  Through the bars over the carriage window, he could see Jaskier run out the front door of the manor toward the stable.  As he watched, Jaskier growing smaller as the distance increased, he saw Jaskier leave the estate with Roach and Potato, leading the mare behind his gelding as he followed the carriage at a safe distance.

Geralt only hoped Jaskier wouldn’t do anything foolish trying to protect him.  He wasn’t worth it.  He’d been arrested before and he’d survive it this time too.  The guards would rough him up, he’d get fined or assigned to hard labor, and then he’d be released.  Witchers were too precious a resource to kill, and even the prejudiced fools in Novigrad knew that.  He hoped.  And if they failed to release him in time to return for his scheduled subspace session with Vesemir?  Well, then he wouldn’t have a mind left to care about anything anymore.  Either way, his problems would be over within a few months at most.

Geralt had been in prison for over a week.  Or so he thought.  He couldn’t see the sun to judge the passing of days, so he had to rely on his internal clock.  He didn’t think he’d passed out for any significant period of time, but who knows.  Time was meaningless in this place anyway.

Geralt had been thrown in the deepest gaol in Oxenfurt’s infamous Deireadh Prison.  Built over elven catacombs and run by Redanian soldiers, it was used to hold all those in the region who ran afoul of King Radovid or his precious nobles.  Although officially Novigrad was a free city outside of Redanian control, Deireadh Prison held more than its fair share of prisoners from Novigrad transferred into the hands of the Redanian Army rather than remaining subject to the ostensibly free justice system in Novigrad.  The two cities were practically within spitting distance, so Radovid allowed his nobles and financial backers in Novigrad to hold onto the illusion that their city was free.

Geralt’s cell was a pit at the deepest corner of the catacombs.  Windowless, damp, and neither long enough nor tall enough for him to stretch out fully in any direction.  The only exit was through a hole in the top of the cell, currently covered by a large boulder.  Moved into place by a pulley system, it was far too heavy for Geralt to lift on his own, even if he had been at full strength.

Geralt knelt on the damp floor below the covered opening, rough stone biting into his knees and bare feet.  The prison guards had stripped him of his armor and boots, leaving him in only his light, linen shirt and thin pants.  He still had his medallion.  Like the swords, the guards were too superstitious to touch it, fearing they would lose their fertility if they did.  Geralt didn’t know when those rumors started, but they were as commonly known, and as false, as the belief that witchers had no emotions. 

He hadn’t been fed since he arrived. 

Once, a guard had thrown a bucket of water over his head.  It was mostly fetid, but Geralt had carefully sucked the water out of his clothes and hair, unwilling to waste whatever water he could get.  That was four days ago.  Maybe.  Or was it five?  He couldn’t be sure.  He’d tried lapping the water off the damp walls and floor, but the attempt had made him violently ill.  Perhaps a toxic moss?  Didn’t matter.  He wouldn’t risk it again. 

He spent most of his days meditating.  He couldn’t achieve the deepest meditative state – not that it would be safe to lose all awareness of his surroundings in this place – but even light meditation allowed him to slow his biological processes, staving off dehydration as long as possible.  Starvation would kill him eventually too, but the lack of water was a far more immediate problem. 

As the hours – days? – progressed, Geralt felt himself losing his hold on reality.  Meditation helped, but even his enhanced body couldn’t live without water for long.  Even before his incarceration, he had been running on fumes.  Almost seven months without the relief of subspace.  Wounded by the noonwraith.  Exhausted from months and months without true, healing sleep. 

He drifted, focusing on the pain in his knees to keep himself grounded in the present.  He thought he saw Jaskier once, but that was impossible.  Just his mind trying to give him what he couldn’t have, a sweet dream before death claimed him. 

He hadn’t expected to die like this.

When the cover finally lifted above him, letting in a flood of torchlight, he almost didn’t react.  He needed to conserve his strength.  For what?  He couldn’t remember.  But he knew he shouldn’t react to every mirage his mind produced.

He startled when rough, gloved hands gripped his upper arms, hauling him up and out of the gaol.  His legs spasmed, feeling returning to the cramped muscles in a rush.  Black spots danced across his vision and the light sent spikes of pain through his head.  He closed his eyes, unable to muster the control to restrict his pupils after his long days (weeks?) in the dark.

“Stand up!”  A voice ordered, shaking his shoulder.

He tried to comply, but his knees buckled under his weight and he fell to the floor.

The voice let out a rough sigh of exasperation.  “Help me out with him, would you?” 

Footsteps approached.  Another voice.  Another rough hand on his arm. 

“Out of it, isn’t he?” The second voice said.  Geralt couldn’t tell if he was sympathetic or mocking.  Didn’t matter. 

The two men attached to the voices hauled him to his feet between them.  With the added support, Geralt was able to coordinate just enough to keep his feet underneath himself, listing to one side, head hanging, dirty hair obscuring his face.

As they hauled him up and up and up toward the daylight, Geralt smelled fresh, clean air.  He breathed in deeply, brisk, salt air invigorating him.  He heard the sound of the guards at the entrance to the gaol and the sound of a crowd outside in the square. 

Guess I’m to be hanged.  He hadn’t expected that.

Geralt forced himself to look up as the guards hauled him out into the square, constricting his pupils as much as he could manage against the bright sunlight.  His head spun. 

No gallows.  Huh.

The guards marched him across the square and into a large, stone building.  The interior was quiet, cool, and smelled of old books and talcum powder.  The guards forced him down into a chair in a cavernous room, the stone cold against his bare feet.  The chair was a welcome relief.  He closed his eyes.

Geralt heard footsteps enter the room, one set from the front and two sets from his left, one heavy and one light.  Familiar.  The light-footed man gasped.  Geralt thought he knew that voice, but he couldn’t be sure.  It was too much effort to look up.  He kept his eyes closed, head down on his chest.

A sharp rap from in front of him startled Geralt out of his daze.  His eyes shot open, looking up, up, up at the wiry, patrician man in front of him, seated on a tall dais at the front of the room, black robe contrasting with his powdered, white hair.  A judge. Geralt had never been this close to a judge before.  Most wouldn’t deign to see a witcher and his guilt upon arrest was always presumed, making a court proceeding unnecessary.

Geralt looked to his left, seeing both Baron Dunin – the heavy steps – and Jaskier.  Geralt was relieved to see Jaskier looked unharmed.  But he did look tired.  Geralt wondered why.  He hoped he was well. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Geralt could see the crowd in the square peering through the large windows overlooking what he now knew to be a courtroom.  The judge rapped his gavel again, bringing Geralt’s attention back to the front.

“We are gathered here today to address a grievance between Lord Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, and Baron Dunin.  Let it be known that Baron Dunin is personally known to me and that the Most Honorable Viscount de Lettenhove has provided ample proof of his noble lineage by the presentation of his signet ring and his heraldry to this Court.  Let it be further known that both Viscount de Lettenhove and Baron Dunin have displayed their Dominant marks for this Court’s inspection.”  The judge said, his tone strong and clear.

“Lord Pankratz, if you would be so kind, please state your grievance for the record.”  The judge directed.

Jaskier stepped forward, signet ring shining on his clean, manicured hand.  Geralt hardly recognized him.  He’d known he was a noble, but now he looked like a noble.  Hair perfectly coiffed, doublet made of the finest silk, stance arrogant, Dominant mark on full display.  He looked every inch the master of all he surveyed.

“Thank you, Judge.” Jaskier nodded to the Judge before angling his body to address both the Court and the crowd outside.  “As the Court knows, I am a graduate, summa cum laude, in all seven of the liberal arts at our fine Oxenfurt University.  Since I am still a young man, it amuses me to ply my bardic talents across the Continent.  For that, I need a muse, and this man,” Jaskier gestured to Geralt, “is my muse and therefore under my protection.”

“Quite right.”  The Judge said.  “One must respect the arts if one is to be civilized.”

“As you say, Your Honor.”  Jaskier said, bowing slightly to the judge.  “In pursuit of inspiration for my next epic ballad, I followed my dear muse to Baron Dunin’s manor.  My muse, as you can see, is a witcher, and Baron Dunin had a noonwraith infecting one of his fields.  Now, I’m sure this Court is aware, but for the benefit of the townsfolk observing this proceeding, a noonwraith can only be hunted and killed if one is possession of an object of sentimental value to said wraith, or, rather, to the human that wraith once was.  Accordingly, my dear muse asked Baron Dunin for an object dear to his late betrothed, the girl who sadly hanged herself in that very same field before her planned marriage to the baron.  Baron Dunin gave her looking glass to use as a lure.” 

Jaskier smiled like a predator upon hearing the audible gasps from the crowd outside.  It was common knowledge that Baron Dunin’s young bride-to-be had died, but not that she had died by suicide.  Baron Dunin’s face couldn’t decide whether to turn red or white, creating an unattractive patchwork of fury and fear across his fleshy face.

“I was not aware the young girl had killed herself.”  The judge said, narrowing his eyes at the visibly sweating Baron.  “Please do continue, my Lord Viscount.”

“My dear muse dispatched the noonwraith, allowing the poor girl’s spirit to rest, but returned to the Baron’s manor only to be arrested and accused of theft!”  Jaskier’s tone was imbued with that particular type of outrage felt by nobles denied something to which they felt entitled.  “Baron Dunin accused my muse of stealing the sweet girl’s looking glass, the very same one he’d given for the hunt!” 

Jaskier paused for dramatic effect.  The Baron was not well liked and the crowd outside was eager to observe his downfall.  “Not only did Baron Dunin falsely accuse my muse, thereby falsely accusing me, but he deprived me of his services for nearly a fortnight and forced me to make the long and otherwise unnecessary journey back to my holdings to retrieve my signet and heraldry from my regent so I might present adequate proof of my identity to this Court and release my dearest muse from his unjust imprisonment.”

Jaskier turned back fully to the Judge.  “For his insult to me and mine, I ask that Baron Dunin be formally chastised and that all false charges against my muse be lifted, with prejudice, and that he be compensated for both the hunt he completed and for the time spent in gaol.”

Geralt could only watch the spectacle as this not-Jaskier projected his noble privilege all around the courtroom.  Jaskier had made the journey all the way to Lettenhove and back?  For him?  Geralt couldn’t decide whether he was grateful or horrified.  He was certain he didn’t deserve it. 

The Judge bowed his head to Jaskier.  “Thank you for your time and your candor, Lord Pankratz.”  The Judge beckoned Baron Dunin to step forward.  “Baron Dunin, do you have anything to say in your defense?  Keep in mind that, as Viscount de Lettenhove outranks you, his word is deemed beyond dispute by one of your own lower rank.”

Baron Dunin was swollen with outrage, fists clenched at his sides, sweat pouring down his face and jowls to soak into his doublet.   The acrid smell buffeted Geralt each time he moved. 

The Baron opened his mouth.  Closed it.  Glared over at Jaskier.  Then grit his teeth and put on a mockery of a respectful expression before addressing the Court.  “I do not, Your Honor.  I thank Viscount de Lettenhove for elucidating the error of my actions.  I obviously misread the situation that occurred at my manor.”  Baron Dunin looked as if each word he spoke hurt. 

“Very well.”  The Judge said.  He banged his gavel again.  “With testimony complete, this Court shall issue its ruling.” 

The Judge turned to Geralt for the first time, motioning for the guards to step back and release him. “In the matter of the Kingdom of Redania versus Geralt of Rivia, on the charge of capital theft of a noble’s property, the Court finds Geralt of Rivia innocent of all charges and he shall be released with our apologies.  By order of this Court, Geralt of Rivia may move freely about Redania until and unless he commits another crime against the Crown.”

Geralt stared at the judge in shock.  He’d never been acquitted before, much less received an apology for a false accusation.  He didn’t know what to do, so he stayed seated, averting his gaze.

The Judge continued speaking, this time addressing Jaskier and Baron Dunin.  “In the matter of the grievance asserted by the honorable Viscount de Lettenhove against Baron Dunin, this Court finds the grievance justified.  Baron Dunin has caused insult and financial injury to Viscount de Lettenhove by his false accusation and detention of one under the protection of Viscount de Lettenhove.  The sentence is as follows:  Baron Dunin shall pay three hundred crowns to Geralt of Rivia in full satisfaction of the fees owed under the noonwraith contract, with additional interest for the unlawful detention.  In addition, Baron Dunin shall issue a formal, written apology to Viscount de Lettenhove to be published across Redania and shall, in addition, forfeit four hundred bushels of grain to the Lettenhove Estate, to be delivered before the first snows fall.” 

The judge banged the gavel.  “So constitutes the Decision and Order of this Court.”  The Judge rose and left the courtroom with a final, hard glance at Baron Dunin.

With the judge safely out of earshot, Baron Dunin spun to face Jaskier, looking fit to burst.  With an obvious struggle, he kept his voice even when addressing the higher ranked noble.  “Was this spectacle truly necessary, my Lord?”

Jaskier smiled down at the red-faced Baron, condescension dripping off every word.  “My dear Baron, you must learn to be more careful about whom you insult.”  He leaned down, speaking directly into Baron Dunin’s face, infusing his words with a touch of his Dominant Voice.  “No one touches what’s mine.” Baron Dunin looked like he’d been slapped, but he knew that Jaskier, as a Viscount, was free to speak to him however he chose.  The Baron clenched his teeth and stayed quiet. 

With a final, humorless smile, Jaskier turned and sauntered to Geralt’s side, keeping up the act of a spoilt Viscount reclaiming his favorite toy. 

“Come, my dear muse, let’s get you home and cleaned up.”  Jaskier’s tone was light, but Geralt could see the horror in his eyes.  He hoped it was horror over how Geralt had been treated and not at Geralt himself.  He didn’t count on it.

Jaskier held out his hand and Geralt took it, doubting his ability to stay upright without the support.  He told himself that taking Jaskier’s hand was a lesser burden on him than collapsing at his feet. 

Geralt didn’t remember much about the ride back to Jaskier’s quarters at Oxenfurt University.  He knew there had been a carriage ride.  He knew Jaskier had supported him up the stairs on his own when he shamefully shrank away from the touch of other foreign, helping hands.

He thought he remembered Jaskier’s soft voice and warm, gentle hands rubbing a cool, clean cloth over his body to clean off the dirt and helping him drink some hot, flavorful broth before he collapsed into a soft bed with even softer sheets.  But that couldn’t be right.  He must have dreamed that, his subconscious, hidden desires brought to the forefront after his appalling display of weakness following the trial.  There were servants here, Jaskier must have had one of the University’s valets dress and bathe him.  Yes, that made more sense.  It was still more than he deserved, but the thought that Jaskier actually did was Geralt remembered was laughable.  Geralt pointedly ignored the fact that he wouldn’t have let a stranger touch him so intimately, even when compromised.

Geralt woke in the softest bed he had ever experienced, the silken sheets cool on his overly sensitive skin.  He was naked to the waist, dressed only in loose, linen pants.  His skin and hair were clean and smelled lightly of lavender oil. 

Shame washed over him as the events of the last fortnight came rushing back.  He had walked into the Baron’s trap.  He had let himself be captured.  He had grown so weak while in gaol that Jaskier had to save him.  And then he repaid him by collapsing on his threshold, forcing Jaskier to see to his care – cleaning, feeding, and bedding him as if he were a child. 

Or, as if he were someone precious to Jaskier.  He traitorous mind offered.  He pushed the thought away.

Geralt forced himself to his feet and pulled back the curtains on the large window across the room.  It was dawn. 

Geralt’s legs shook under him as he searched the room for his clothes and gear.  In the corner of the room, on a servant’s staging table, he found a large plate of cheese and fresh bread, covered by a clean cloth.  A carafe of cool, clear water sat beside it.  He thought about leaving it be, not wanting to presume it was left for him, but the hunger cramps and the dry stickiness in his throat changed his mind.  He crouched by the table and devoured the simple meal.  His stomach felt heavy, unused to food after his long fast, but the vittles strengthened him and he felt his mind start to clear.

As Geralt was brushing the crumbs off his bare chest, doing his best to catch them back on the plate, the door swung quietly open beside him.  Geralt tensed, jumping to his feet.  The world swam and he flung out an arm to steady himself against the wall.

Warm hands immediately appeared to support him.  He flinched away, but then relaxed upon catching a whiff of Jaskier’s familiar rosin and honey scent.  He allowed Jaskier to loop his free arm over his shoulders and guide him back to sit on the bed.

“Not that it isn’t good to see you awake, but what in Melitele’s name possessed you to get up?”  Jaskier said, worry making his tone tight and short.  “You were nearly dead when I retrieved you yesterday!”

Geralt bristled at the perceived insult.  He couldn’t afford to be weak or in need of assistance.  His secret, his submissive nature was already enough of a dangerous handicap.  If he could be brought so low by a few days in gaol that he needed to be bedridden, then he had no chance of surviving the Path. 

“I’m not an invalid.”  He said sharply, pulling away from Jaskier and standing again, hackles raised.

“Geralt!  Sit down before you fall down!”  Jaskier ordered, patting the bed sharply beside him.

Geralt looked mutinous, crossing his arms and staring off to the side.  He remained standing.

Jaskier heaved a sigh, forcing his tone to gentle.  “Geralt, please.  You looked close to death yesterday.  It frightened me to see you like that.”

Geralt stared at Jaskier, dropping his arms to his sides.  “Why?”  If anything, Jaskier should have been chastising him for causing Jaskier so much bother.  It was his own fault he’d been captured and his own weakness that caused his collapse.

“Why?” Jaskier asked incredulously.  “Because you, you stubborn fool, are my dearest friend and I would turn this world inside out if it would keep you from harm!”

Geralt felt as if he’d been struck dumb.  Pinned in place by the weight of all his forgotten hopes and discarded dreams being thrust upon him by this one, impossible man.  Jaskier took advantage of Geralt’s shock to pull him back to sit on the bed again, gently guiding Geralt to lean against his side.

Geralt couldn’t understand how Jaskier could do so much for him and then say he wanted to do more.  It was contrary to everything he had been taught.  He felt his heartrate accelerate, the internal conflict between what he knew and what he wanted causing anxiety to pool in his gut.  He knew he had to pull away, to reject Jaskier’s help, to drive himself back to his feet and out onto his Path. 

And yet every fiber of his being screamed at him to stay.  To lean on Jaskier and let him carry his weight, even if just for a moment. 

To kneel at his feet and rest his head on Jaskier’s warm thigh.  To let Jaskier guide him gently into subspace.

Cold horror raced through Geralt at the thought.  Not at the thought of submitting to Jaskier – no, that would be a pleasure, a privilege, beyond his wildest imaginings.  Horror at how close he had come to failing his prime directive: to keep his secret at all costs.  To think he almost gave in to the offer of comfort, comfort he could never deserve.  Vesemir would be furious.

“Geralt? Darling, you’re shaking.”  Jaskier’s voice broke through his furious thoughts.  Gentle hands brushed through his hair and he instinctively leaned into the touch before he could stop himself.  He was shaking, his control shattering under the physical and mental strain of his internal conflict.  He felt trapped, caught between what he’d be taught he deserved and what he wanted.  He forced his limbs to still.

Geralt could only blame himself for letting things get this far.  For letting himself indulge in this dream world for even a moment.  His anxiety peaked.  He had to get away.  He had to get himself back on script and stop indulging in this fantasy.

He started to stand and Jaskier placed a restraining hand on his shoulder. 

“Geralt,  You need to rest!”  He said, frustration making his voice rough and his grip stronger than usual. 

Geralt shook his head to clear it, standing through the restraint.  “No, I’ve rested enough.  Where’s my gear?  I need to keep moving.” 

Clothes, gear, Roach, Path.  That’s all he needed, in that order.  If he could just get those things, everything would make sense again.

“Gods damn your stubbornness!”  Jaskier exclaimed, jumping to his feet and moving to stand between Geralt and the door.

“You can’t keep me here against my will.”  Geralt said, glaring down at Jaskier, hoping the anger would hide his panic. 

“No.”  Jaskier said, frustrated anger writ large across his face.  “But I will do everything in my power to convince you to stop for one bloody moment and let me help you!”

“I don’t need your help!”  Geralt shouted, matching Jaskier’s anger.  Anger was easy.  If he got angry enough, Jaskier might leave him alone.  If Jaskier left, then he could leave.  He could reset himself and come back when he was in control again.

“Without my help you’d still be rotting in that cell!” Jaskier yelled back, fear driving his anger.  “If accepting my help is really so odious to you, maybe I should have left you there!”

Geralt blanched, mind flashing back to the long, cold darkness he’d endured in that pit-like cell.  The interminable days spent crouched in what might have become his grave.  With his frayed control and long deprivation from the relief of subspace, the anger and disapproval of a Dominant so important to him – his Dominant – hit Geralt like a battering ram.  He felt flayed apart, a cold weight settling in his chest.  He couldn’t breathe.

It must have shown on his face because Jaskier’s tone immediately changed, becoming apologetic, appeasing.  Geralt knew it wasn’t like Jaskier to speak cruelly in anger.  He’d driven Jaskier to that point.  It was his fault for acting so inappropriately.

“Geralt, forgive me, I didn’t mean that.”  Jaskier said, his voice sounded wrecked.

Geralt could barely process Jaskier’s words.  His thoughts were consumed by the intense need to leave, to get out of this painful, confusing, dangerous situation.  If he didn’t leave, he would break.  He would tear down his walls and throw himself at Jaskier’s mercy.  That was the thing he wanted most in the world and the one thing he could never have.

He shoved past Jaskier, slamming the door open and striding quickly toward the stables.  He hoped his gear was still with Roach.  Or at least a shirt.

Jaskier ran after him.  “Geralt, wait, please!”

Geralt wanted nothing more than to obey.  To drop to his knees and let Jaskier take care of him.  But he knew he wouldn’t be able to resist telling Jaskier everything if he stayed.  So, he had to push Jaskier away.  He couldn’t afford to reveal himself and bind Jaskier to him out of some misguided sense of obligation.  He knew Jaskier would want to take care of him if he stayed.  If he knew.  Jaskier was a good man who deserved a good life, a good submissive.  Geralt could give him none of those things.  It wouldn’t be fair to burden Jaskier with his secret.

He had to get away.  He had to get Jaskier to leave him alone so he could get himself back under control.

He dug deep and went for the throat, spinning around to face Jaskier.  “I’m not a plaything!  You can’t use me as a muse, follow me all around the Continent like a lost puppy, and then expect me to be grateful for it!”  Jaskier looked as if Geralt had struck him, color abruptly leaving his cheeks as he came to a halt. 

Geralt twisted the knife, pushing Jaskier away with everything he had.  He needed to get away.  “You want to help me so badly?  Then leave me in peace!” 

Jaskier stepped back, stricken.  “That’s not fair.”  He said quietly.  He licked his lips, a nervous tic, and looked away.  “But if that’s what you want, I won’t impose myself upon you.”  He turned and started walking back toward his quarters, shoulders slumped, misery painted on every angle of his body.

Geralt’s heart froze in his chest and he bit down a pained keen.  He’d gotten exactly what he wanted and it felt like dying. 

He wanted to run after Jaskier, to fall at his feet, to hang onto him and never let him go. 

But Geralt knew what he wanted didn’t matter.  It was for the best.  For Jaskier.

He turned away and left Oxenfurt behind.

Chapter Text

It took Geralt a week to return to Oxenfurt. 

After his fight with Jaskier, he’d fled the city with Roach and put days of distance between them.  Between the strain of his time in gaol, the long deprivation from the relief of subspace – over seven months now – and the emotional upheaval of the fight itself, Geralt shut down until he could process what happened. 

Caught in his own head, he’d fled south, instinctively heading toward Eskel’s last known location, seeking his brother’s comfort.  Eskel was always steady and dependable, he’d know what to do.

Geralt made it to Cintra’s border before he got control of himself again. 

Geralt stopped Roach on a hilltop overlooking Cintra’s vast plains.  Even this far south, autumn had a strong hold on the land and the trees had already lost a good deal of their cover.  Colorful, dry leaves crunched under Roach’s hooves as he guided her along the trail.  He took a deep breath, steadying himself. 

The fight with Jaskier was his fault, he knew that.  He’d lost control and pushed Jaskier away because he couldn’t handle his own emotions.  It was pathetic.

Shame burned through him as he thought back to the words he’d said, the devastation he’d wrought on Jaskier.  All undeserved, of course.  Jaskier had saved him from prison at great personal expense.  And what did he do to thank him?  He yelled at him, castigated Jaskier for following him around the Continent, and then he ran away.  Like a spoiled child.

Geralt rubbed a firm hand down Roach’s neck, thanking her for taking care of him.  He barely remembered the last three days of his flight.  He had flashes of memory here and there – the startled stable hand in Oxenfurt, the guards yelling at him as he galloped past, an arrow landing at his feet outside Brokilon, the taste of his favorite sweet bun, tucked into Roach’s pack as a surprise from Jaskier.  He’d almost thrown the sweet bun away, knowing he didn’t deserve the treat, but decades of scarcity forbade him from wasting food and he choked it down, the soft, delicate pastry catching on the lump in his throat.  It was the last thing he ate.

Standing on that hilltop with Roach, Geralt realized he’d ruined his friendship with Jaskier. 

But he couldn’t leave it like this.  He had to be sure Jaskier knew none of this was his fault, that he’d done everything right and Geralt had fucked it up like he inevitably fucked up everything good in his life.  It reinforced what he’d always been taught: that witchers should travel alone.  Then, when he inevitably failed, when he slowed or broke, only he would suffer the consequences.

Geralt looked up at the sky, estimating the remaining daylight by the position of the sun.  It was mid-afternoon.  If he started now, he’d be back in Oxenfurt by week’s end.  He wouldn’t push Roach, it wouldn’t be fair to ask her for more after his inconsiderate flight south, but he would return as quickly as she could easily tolerate.  He’d already hurt Jaskier, he wouldn’t hurt Roach too.

Geralt turned Roach north.  His stomach rumbled, cramping.  He ignored it.  His eyes burned and his head swam from exhaustion.  He ignored that too.  The only thing that mattered was getting back to Oxenfurt and making things right with Jaskier.  Once he was sure Jaskier knew he wasn’t at fault, then Geralt could leave him to live his life in peace. 

Geralt reached Oxenfurt’s main gate exactly a week after his headlong flight out of it.  It was nearly dark, but thankfully the gate was still open.  The guard on duty peered at him suspiciously, but let him through without further comment.

Geralt led Roach to the main city stable just past the entrance gate.  The Oxenfurt University stables were only for students, professors, and their guests.  Geralt wouldn’t presume to use them again.  Still, the city stables reflected Oxenfurt’s wealth and Roach would be well cared for within their walls. 

Geralt settled Roach into a generously sized box stall.  Operating on pure muscle memory, Geralt removed her tack and carefully brushed her down, checking her over for any cuts or hot spots.  He carefully palpated her legs and picked out her hooves, checking that each shoe was tight and straight.  Satisfied, he tossed a thick, wool blanket over her back and buckled it in place.  The stables provided blankets for the horses, so Roach could enjoy a proper blanket instead of the simple cooler he carried for her on the road.

With Roach settled, he tossed her half a bale of sweet-smelling hay, dumped a measure of fresh oats into her feed bucket, and topped up her water.  With one final scratch on her neck, he gathered her tack and his packs, wiping them all down carefully before placing them in the locker provided.  Typically, tack and gear were hung over the horse’s stall door, but Oxenfurt, being both a large and a wealthy city, had lockers for each horse’s gear for additional security.

After storing his gear and pocketing the locker key, Geralt nodded to the stablemaster and headed out toward the University.  It was already full dark, so he knew any request for admission would be denied. 

Geralt settled himself on a bench in the University’s outer gardens, which surrounded the University’s protective wall, and waited for morning.  Geralt thought about lying down on the grass, no one would notice him in this dark corner of the gardens, but he knew it would be a futile exercise.  Even before his imprisonment and shameful blowup at Jaskier, he’d had trouble sleeping. 

After this long without entering subspace, his body and mind suffered acutely.  He was still functional, but everything around him was painfully amplified.  Sounds were too loud, colors too bright, tastes too overpowering.  He felt like an exposed nerve.  When sleep did come, it was patchy and fraught with nightmares.  Or rather, not exactly nightmares, but dreams of what he wanted and could never have.  Dreams of soft hands and a gentle voice guiding him subspace.  Dreams that left him aching and empty when he woke.  It took him hours to recover when he woke from one of those dreams and he needed to be as clear as possible when he spoke to Jaskier.  No, it was best to simply meditate.

Geralt came out of his light meditative state as dawn broke over Oxenfurt.  He watched and listened as the city woke.  Geralt watched the birds flitting about the trees and the squirrels anxiously gathering nuts for the coming winter.  He breathed in the sea air, glad the University gardens were close to the harbor and that Oxenfurt was a quieter, less overwhelming city than Novigrad. 

As the morning progressed, merchants opened their stalls in the main square and the smell of frying sausages, potatoes, and bacon filled the air.  His stomach cramped.  He ignored it. 

Geralt waited until he heard the bells strike ten before he rose and walked out of the garden and around to the University’s main gate.  When he told the guard at the gate that he was there to see Professor Pankratz, he was waved through and directed to the main reception area for visitors.  Geralt was surprised the guard neither hesitated nor commented upon seeing he was a witcher, but he was grateful for the respite.

Geralt walked across the flagstone quad toward the reception hall, passing between wizened professors and bright students.  As they wove around him, he caught snatches of their conversations.  They chattered about exams, research papers, and the gossip surrounding the upcoming Winter Solstice Ball.  They were cheerful, innocent, and eager to greet the day ahead.  He felt immediately out of place, too old, too dirty, and too rough for his surroundings.  But they suited Jaskier perfectly, making Geralt again wonder why Jaskier had ever decided to travel with him in the first place, let alone for the better part of two years.

The matron at the reception desk audibly gasped when Geralt walked in, fear flooding her scent.  Her reaction was more common than not, but it still hurt in the soft, deep parts of his heart that he liked to pretend didn’t exist.  Geralt grimaced briefly at her reaction before schooling his expression into blank passivity.  She was an older noblewoman, likely the wife of one of the professors, he couldn’t afford to offend her. 

So, he spoke softly, rounding his shoulders to appear as small and unthreatening as possible, glad he’d left his armor with Roach.  “Excuse me, my Lady, I’m here to see Professor Pankrantz.  Could you please direct me to him?”

The matron visibly gathered herself.  “Unfortunately, Master Witcher, he’s not here at the moment and won’t be back until the first snows.”

Geralt felt the world drop away, but he held himself together outwardly, or so he hoped.  He made sure to keep his voice level and soft.  “Might I ask where he has gone?”

The matron frowned at him disapprovingly.  “No, it wouldn’t be proper to give out Professor Pankratz’s personal information.”  She paused, seeming to remember something.  “Unless, are you by chance Geralt of Rivia?”

“Yes, my Lady.”

She nodded.  “Yes, you do match the description.  In that case, I still can’t give you any more information, but I do have a letter for you from Professor Pankratz.  Perhaps that will help.” She handed him a small envelope.  “You may sit in the reception area to read it if you wish, but I ask that you leave the University promptly after you have done so.  Outsiders are not permitted unless they are the guest of a professor or student currently in residence.”

Geralt took the envelope, holding it carefully, and gave the matron a slight bow.  “Thank you, my Lady.”

He turned and existed the reception area, unwilling to risk reading the letter in the presence of others.  To be safe, he left the University entirely and headed out toward the harbor wharf, walking down the coast until he was out of sight of the deckhands and harbor workers.  Sitting on a rock by the calm ocean, gulls screaming overhead, he opened the letter, seeing Jaskier’s familiar penmanship.

My dear Geralt -

If you’re reading this letter, then you’ve returned to Oxenfurt before I have.  My quarters are yours to use if you’d like them.  Simply show this letter to the matron. 

I’ve taken a contract with the Countess de Stael to conduct a seminar on songcraft at her estate outside Rinde.  I expect to return well before the first snows, likely by the beginning of November.

I hope to see you here before you return to Kaer Morhen.  When we were last together, I acted out of anger and hurt you quite unintentionally.  For that I offer my most sincere apologies.  I hope you can forgive me.

Yours, Jaskier

Geralt was horrified.  Jaskier clearly blamed himself for their fight and that was unacceptable.  Not only that, but out of guilt, he offered Geralt the unfettered use of his private quarters, a privilege he could never hope to deserve.  It was too much.  Jaskier helped him and Geralt spit in his face.  Then Jaskier only offered to do more?  No, that wasn’t right.  Geralt had to make Jaskier see that he was the one at fault and that Jaskier had done nothing wrong.  He couldn’t allow his inexcusable behavior to cast a pall of undeserved guilt over his dear friend. 

Geralt buried his head in his hands, the thick parchment of the letter scraping against his week-old beard as it crushed into his face.  Geralt fought to keep his breathing under control.  The shame and fear he’d felt during their fight rushed back and the need to fix this overwhelmed Geralt’s every thought. 

Drawing on every scrap of control he had left, Geralt stood, forcing his legs to steady and his expression to remain neutral.  He carefully folded the letter and placed it in his pocket before turning and walking back toward the stables to retrieve Roach.  He focused on breathing, in and out, matching his breath to his steps.  It was still much too fast, but it was the best he could do.

Without fully realizing it, Geralt made it back to the stables.  The smell of horse caught his attention when he entered the stable yard, bringing him back the present moment.  Geralt didn’t know how he would fix things with Jaskier, but he did know how to travel.  How to take care of Roach.  How to get to Rinde. 

He forced himself to think step-by-step to keep back the looming panic:

Enter the stables.  Give the stablemaster his coin for the night.  Thank him.

Retrieve Roach’s gear and packs.  Groom Roach.  Tack Roach.  Thank Roach.

Lead Roach outside.  Check the tack.  Tighten the girth.  Mount.

Head east.  Leave out the main gate.  Walk slowly.  Nod to the guards. 

Follow the Pontar east.  Keep walking.  Eyes up.  Heels down.  Breathe. 

In.  Out.

In.  Out.

In.  Out.

Don’t panic.

It took Geralt four days to reach Rinde.  Whenever he started to think about what to say to Jaskier when he saw him, he felt as if cold were crushing his chest and his thoughts would scatter.  He didn’t know how to think about something like this.  How to handle a fight with a friend.  He’d never had a friend before.  He just knew what happened was his fault and he had to be sure Jaskier understood that.

While he traveled, Geralt could treat each day like a training exercise, checking off mental boxes as he completed tasks.  But now he stood before the gates of the Countess de Stael’s estate and he was lost.  He didn’t have a training plan for this.

The two gate guards stared down at him from their posts up on the wall.  He felt the weight of their disapproval as he struggled for words.  He swallowed hard, grit his teeth, and lifted his head to face them.

“I’m Geralt of Rivia, here to see Lord Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove.”

The guard on the right scoffed.  “Ye hear that, Alojzy?  This here vagabond wants to see the Viscount!”

“Aye, Stefan, I heard him.  And what do we do with people suffering such delusions of grandeur?”  His partner replied, mocking.

“Well, we send them right on their way, don’t we?”  Stefan said, speaking to Alojzy but staring down at Geralt.

“Aye, we do.  Voluntarily, or at the points of our spears.”  Alojzy said, tightening his hand on the haft of his spear.

Geralt felt panic rise in his chest.  He was so close; he couldn’t fail now.

“Lord Pankratz is expecting me.  Please, send word to him.”  Geralt called back, tone as even as he could manage. 

“Now, look here, you wretch.”  Stefan said sternly.  “No one who looks as ragged as you could possibly have business with the Viscount.  If what you say is true and he really is expecting you, go clean yourself up and come back when you look and smell worthy of an audience with your betters.”

Geralt opened his mouth to protest and Alojzy raised his spear as if to throw it. 

“Don’t make us say it again, freak.”  Alojzy said.

Geralt swallowed hard, but stepped back.  He wanted to fix things with Jaskier, to apologize, but he could hardly do that if he started out by killing the Countess de Stael’s guards. 

Geralt turned away, leading Roach.  The Countess de Stael’s estate was a vast, walled complex about an hour’s walk outside Rinde, overlooking the River Pontar. Geralt walked in a daze back to the crossroads where he’d turned off the road from Oxenfurt, heading south away from Rinde and toward the Countess de Stael’s estate.  He remembered seeing a small beach there, perhaps he could bathe and wash his clothes.  Then the guards might let him through.  He couldn’t see himself, but he imagined he looked a sight.  He hadn’t bathed in weeks, except for when the valet – or was it Jaskier? – cleaned him up after his prison stay. 

He knew he was a mess.  He hadn’t slept in a month.  He couldn’t remember when he last ate.  He thought it might have been that sweet bun Jaskier left in Roach’s saddle bag almost a fortnight ago.  But that couldn’t be right.  He must have been eating and drinking at least something or he wouldn’t be conscious. 

He patted Roach’s saddle bags.  Right, jerky from the deer hunt.  He must have been fueling himself subconsciously.  Guess Vesemir was right: training over thinking.

Geralt reached the crossroads and led Roach down toward the small beach.  It was fairly obscured from the road by scrub brush and willow branches, at least enough that a casual passerby wouldn’t see him.  This close to Rinde, it was unlikely he would face any trouble from bandits.  He just hoped there were no drowners in the river.  He was out of it enough that he genuinely doubted he could handle even one drowner, let alone a pod.  He didn’t even have the energy to be ashamed.  Thankfully, when he reached the riverbank, he could see the beach was clear of downers.  It was a peaceful, bucolic scene like something out of one of Jaskier’s ballads. 

Relieved the beach was safe, Geralt dropped Roach’s reins.  Then shook himself and picked them back up, looping them over a tree branch while he set up her overhead picket line.  He tied her to it, loose enough for her to graze without being loose enough for her to step on the line, with enough reach she could get to the river to drink. 

At least I can do right by Roach.

He pulled out the spare tunic and trousers from his pack.  They reeked of old sweat.  He had planned to clean them after hunting the noonwraith for the Baron, but circumstances had made that impossible.  Heaving a sigh, Geralt pushed on.  He removed his boots and his linen shirt and waded into the river, using sand to scrub his clothes against the rocks and wash them clean.  It wasn’t as good as using soap, but it would do.  When the water finally ran clean, he spread the the clothes out over rocks in direct sunlight, hoping they would dry quickly. 

Spare clothes and shirt clean, Geralt removed his leather belt, unbound his hair, and stepped into the river, wading out into the middle.  It came up to his chest, the current lazy but strong.  The icy, autumnal water was bracing and he felt some of the fog clear from his mind, if only for a moment.

Geralt dunked under the water, roughly scrubbing his hands through his white hair, scraping away at the dirt and oil caked onto the strands.  Thoroughly wet, he waded back to the bank and scooped up handfuls of thick sand, using it to scour his skin clean before returning to the deeper parts to rinse.  Under the protection of the water, Geralt stripped off his trousers and small clothes, scrubbing them clean under the water before pulling them back on.  This close to the road, he couldn’t afford to be caught naked.  Shirtless he could explain away, but naked could get him arrested.

Finally clean, his skin and scalp smarting from the rough treatment, Geralt hauled himself out on the river rocks beside his drying laundry.  He wrung out his hair and used his hands to slick water off his skin and trousers.  It was a cool day, but a sunny one.  Hopefully, he would dry before dark.  He didn’t have a razor to shave, but maybe with his body and clothes clean, he could earn entrance to see Jaskier.  Or maybe the guard would send word up to the house that he was there at the gate.  That would be enough.  Maybe even better.  He didn’t want to force his presence on Jaskier when he was with the Countess if Jaskier would rather not see him.

He’d heard tales of the Countess de Stael, some even directly from Jaskier.  A high-born, well-educated submissive, she was the prize of her generation.  Barely twenty, her radiant looks had suitors lining up to catch a glimpse of her wherever she went ever since her debut two years prior.  Despite her youth, she had inherited her title and holding from her father when he passed.  Her mother had died years earlier.  Though she was under the guardianship of her Dominant uncle until she wed, rumor was that he gave her near total control of her own finances and affairs.  A rarity if it were true.  Even if it weren’t, there was no doubt that the Countess was a patron of the arts.  She supported musicians and fine artists alike, both directly and indirectly through her generous patronage of the University.  She also hosted frequent cultural seminars and salons, like the songcraft seminar she had commissioned Jaskier to teach.

The Countess de Stael was exactly the sort of submissive Jaskier deserved. 

Geralt looked down at himself, at his burned forearm, his intricate tattoo, his scars, and his heavy, thick bones.  He caught his reflection in the river and turned away.  White hair, unnatural, cat-like eyes.  Rough features.  His appearance was a match for his soul, a warning to all others to stay away, that he was dangerous and unsuitable for society. 

Geralt lay back on the rock, staring up at the blue sky.  He tried to think of what he would say to Jaskier, but his thoughts scattered away.  He kept remembering the fight.  The hurt on Jaskier’s face from his words. 

The threat that Jaskier might abandon him. 

Not the point! Geralt told himself harshly.  Jaskier could leave whenever he wanted.  It was his right.  And the right choice to make, if Geralt were honest with himself.  Geralt needed to apologize for his own actions, to make Jaskier see that he was not at fault.  Then, he could return to his Path alone, knowing Jaskier would not carry any undeserved guilt.  Jaskier would be free and unburdened to live the life he deserved, to take on a submissive who was worthy of him.

Geralt tried to force his thoughts back on track, to practice what he wanted to say.  It was important to get it right, and he knew he couldn’t make it up on the spot.  Words were difficult for him, getting caught in his throat when he needed them the most.  He needed to practice.

He wished he could write it down.  But the only paper he had was Jaskier’s letter and he couldn’t use that.  The penmanship was so nice, and it still smelled of him.  It was too important to waste on his words.

Focus!

Geralt listened to the river, to the sound of the wind in the willow leaves, trying to use the natural ambiance to help focus his mind on his task.  Nature meditation was one of the first techniques they learned at Kaer Morhen and he hoped the old, familiar practice would help him get himself back under control.

As he focused on the sounds around him, his thoughts slipped away again, back decades and decades ago to a skipping song that used to be popular with children.  He used to hear it all the time when he passed through towns, at least until the children noticed him and fell silent.  Or cried.

Rinde! Rinde!  At the crossroads in Rinde!

If you dig in the river, you’ll find a djinn!

Desperate hope surged through him.  A djinn!  If he found the djinn, he could wish for a restorative sleep, then he would be able to focus better.  If he could focus, he would know what to say to Jaskier to make this right.  Maybe he could even wish for a more eloquent tongue so he could speak to Jaskier as he deserved.  He knew djinn extracted a price for their masters, but anything was worth it if it was for Jaskier.

Energized, Geralt leapt off his rock and dug through his saddlebags, emerging triumphantly with a thin fishing net.  Geralt clutched the net in his fist, heart beating erratically in his manic excitement.  It was a long shot, but even if he failed, he wouldn’t be any worse off than he was now.  But if he succeeded?  Then he might be able to do something right by Jaskier.  For once.

Geralt cast the net into the river, pulling it along the bank.  After each pass, he dropped into the water and felt around the bank, sticking his arms in any holes he found.  Once, a catfish bit his hand, almost dragging him under, but he managed to pull free, the catfish’s sandpaper-like teeth leaving deep scrapes up his forearm. 

He hunted for hours as the sun dropped from the sky, combing the bank all the way down to Rinde.  He turned around at the water mill and returned back up the other bank.  Casting and searching over and over again. 

Dawn touched the horizon by the time he returned to his campsite.  He kept going, searching the bank up until where the bridge on the road to Oxenfurt crossed the Pontar before turning and searching the near bank on his way back toward his campsite again. 

It was midday by the time Geralt got back to his campsite for the second time.  The unsuccessful night had only increased the tension and panic he felt as his last, desperate hope slipped away.  He was soaked through, cold settling into his bones.  His wet hair, dirty again from his efforts, clung to his face.  His arms and back ached from the strain of his search.  His feet were a mess of cuts and scrapes from the rough river bed.

Geralt’s ears rang and his vision tunneled in and out.  Still, he searched.  It was a legend.  A child’s rhyme from almost a century ago.  But it was a chance to do right by Jaskier, so he couldn’t give up. 

As he searched the bank by his campsite, almost level again with where he left Roach, he heard a familiar voice singing a tune.

He couldn’t make out the words, but he knew the voice. 

Jaskier.

Jaskier was on the road to Rinde.  Geralt stilled, hoping Jaskier would pass by without seeing him. 

He wanted to call out.

But he wasn’t ready.  He was wet.  Dirty. 

He didn’t know what to say. 

The singing grew louder.  Jaskier had reached the crossroads.  Geralt prayed he would keep walking.  He hoped he would stop.  He didn’t know what he wanted. 

The singing paused. 

“Roach?”  Jaskier called out.  Geralt heard his footsteps leave the path and head toward the small beach.  Geralt didn’t know whether to run toward him or hide.  He froze, net held up in his hands.  Empty.

Jaskier brushed aside the draping willow branches and stepped onto the sand at the edge of the river.  Geralt was off to Jaskier’s right, pressed up against the riverbank and out of his direct eyeline. 

Jaskier gave Roach a pat and looked around the small beach before his gaze settled on Geralt standing out in the water. 

Geralt’s breath froze in his chest. 

Jaskier’s expression was worried, without a trace of anger.  He stepped down to the river’s edge and walked along the bank toward Geralt, heedless of the mud and water staining his soft leather boots.  Geralt watched the water droplets darken the soft material, focused on the flecks of mud that dotted them as Jaskier moved.  He didn’t know how to deal with the situation as a whole, so his mind focused on a small part of it.  Water and mud on leather boots.  That he understood.

Jaskier came to a stop and crouched on the river bank, bringing him roughly to Geralt’s eye level where he stood in the hip-deep water.  Geralt could feel Jaskier’s eyes on him, taking in everything but saying nothing. 

Geralt’s lungs burned and he was forced to take a breath, then another, and another, faster and faster.  His chest fluttered and he felt light-headed, but he couldn’t look up.  Couldn’t meet Jaskier’s eyes.  Couldn’t breathe.

Geralt suddenly felt warm hands on his face, lifting his head up.  He flinched, but didn’t pull away, allowing Jaskier’s eyes to meet his.  Jaskier looked sad and Geralt didn’t understand why.

“I think it’s time to come out the water now, don’t you?”  Jaskier said gently, standing and offering Geralt a hand.

Geralt instinctively reached out to take it, but pulled back, lifting the net to show Jaskier.  “Can’t.  I haven’t found it yet.”  He managed to say.

“Why don’t you come out and tell me what you’re looking for then?  I can help you find it.”  Jaskier said, hand still extended.

“No!”  Geralt said, panic resurging.  Jaskier couldn’t help.  He couldn’t get Jaskier dirty and wet and cold because he was so fucking pathetic he couldn’t manage to think up a proper apology after he hurt his only friend.  “It’s for you, so I can fix this.”

Jaskier’s heart broke.  Geralt was soaked, shivering, filthy, and obviously exhausted.  His cheeks were hollow and his eyes were wild, his breath coming his short, harsh pants.

“Nothing is broken, I promise.”  Jaskier said firmly.  “Come on, take my hand or I will come in there and get you.”

Geralt startled at that.  “But it’s too cold.  You’ll ruin your clothes.”

“Then you’d best get out, yeah?”  Jaskier said.  He dropped his hand lower, right in front of Geralt’s chest, bending down.

Geralt didn’t know what to do.  His hand flexed on the empty net.  Distantly, he felt a shiver run through his frame from the cold water.  He had to find the djinn so he could apologize properly.  But Jaskier was already here.  And he said he would get in the water if Geralt didn’t get out.  If he did that then he might catch a chill.  And then he might die.  Humans died from chills, right?  He couldn’t risk it.

Geralt took Jaskier’s hand and allowed himself to be led back toward the beach where he could step out of the river easily. 

Jaskier guided Geralt to sit down on one of the sun-warmed river rocks.  He gathered a fresh pair of trousers and a tunic from the rocks where Geralt had laid them out yesterday and handed the bundle to Geralt.

“Change out of those wet clothes, then we’ll talk.  No arguments.”

Geralt nodded mutely, moving to strip off his wet clothes.  His plan evaporated, not that it was much of a plan to begin with.  Chasing a djinn in the river to solve his problems?  How stupidly childish.  He would have to try and apologize properly on his own.  Jaskier didn’t have to forgive him, he certainly didn’t expect that, but he wanted to be sure Jaskier knew everything that happened, everything that was said, was Geralt’s fault and not his.

When he was changed, Geralt walked over to where Jaskier sat on the bank, legs kicking off the large rock he’d chosen as a seat.  His back was to Geralt, affording him privacy as he changed.  Geralt didn’t need the consideration, especially this far out from Vesemir’s lashings, but he did appreciate it.  It was one of the many things Jaskier did that proved he was far too good for the likes of Geralt.

The rock Jaskier was sitting on was too small for them both unless they sat plastered together.  But the next closest rock was a good six paces away, too far for talking.  Geralt stood behind Jaskier, considering his choices.  Every move he made felt like the wrong one. 

Forcing himself to make a decision, Geralt walked around the rock and knelt in front of Jaskier in his meditation pose.  Objectively, it put him at a good sight line for a talk, it let Jaskier hear him easily, and the familiar, submissive pose helped Geralt calm down.  It was a bit unusual to kneel like this, but nothing that would trigger real suspicion as to Geralt’s true nature, especially given the lack of other seating options.  Besides, Jaskier had seen Geralt kneel like this for tasks and meditation before.  And he was pretty sure Jaskier thought he was a neutral.  It would be fine. 

“Geralt, let’s go back over by Roach where it’s more comfortable.”  Jaskier said.

“I’m fine.”  Geralt said, rushing to continue before he lost his nerve.  “I’m sorry.  For what I said in Oxenfurt.  I didn’t mean it.”  Geralt stared down at where his hands fisted into the thin fabric over his knees.

Jaskier slid off the rock and knelt in front of Geralt on the riverbank, wet sand soaking into his trousers.  “I know, and I’m sorry too.”

Geralt looked up sharply, frantic confusion writ large. “But you didn’t do anything wrong!”

Jaskier reached out, placing his hands on Geralt’s and rubbing his thumbs over the whitened knuckles.  “I did.  I was inconsiderate.  I knew you were overwrought.  I should have been more aware and given you space when you asked for it.”

“No, you’ve got it wrong!”  Geralt said, surging to his feet and pulling away from Jaskier.  He turned back toward the river and took an aborted step before spinning back around.  He had to make Jaskier understand none of this was his fault.  His words came out rough and choppy, but he forced them out, desperate to be understood.

“You helped me.  You got me out of prison.  No one’s ever done that before.  And you let me use your bed!”  Geralt’s words choked off, caught up in his throat.  He clenched his fists, sharp, ragged nails drawing blood from his palms.  The pain calmed him.  This was the important part.  Jaskier had to understand that Geralt didn’t deserve his kindness.  “And then I hurt you!”

Jaskier stood, reaching out to Geralt to soothe him, but Geralt flinched away.  He stopped, giving him space. 

“You did, but I was not blameless either.  I forgive you, Geralt.  I forgave you as soon as you said it.  I know you didn’t mean to hurt me.”  Jaskier said, gently but firmly.

Geralt shook his head, rejecting the idea that he could be forgiven, but unable to force out any more words.  He felt torn apart.  He needed help, guidance, to put himself back together.  But he couldn’t have that now, so he had to patch together the pieces of himself and hope it was enough.

Jaskier changed tactics, seeing the argument becoming circular.  “Geralt, what were you looking for in the river?”

Geralt almost collapsed in relief.  A simple question.  He could deal with that.

“A djinn.”

“A djinn?  Whatever for?”  Jaskier said.  He hadn’t expected that response.

“It doesn’t matter.” 

“You were wearing yourself out trying to find it, of course it matters.  Please, tell me.”  Jaskier said, coaxing.

Geralt clenched his jaw and looked away.  It was a shameful thing to admit, but he didn’t imagine he could fall any lower in Jaskier’s eyes after his appalling behavior. 

“I wanted it to help me sleep.  To clear my head so I could explain myself better.  I wanted to apologize but I couldn’t think of how to do it properly.”  Geralt finally said.  He hung his head, dropped his shoulders, and waited for judgment.

Jaskier drew in a sharp breath before stepping closer, slowly reaching out his hands and gently running them over Geralt’s shoulders and upper arms.  “Oh, darling, you didn’t need to do all that.  I forgive you and I understand.”  Jaskier said. 

Geralt moved to protest, but Jaskier silenced him.  “If you say I am the one who was wronged, then it is my decision whether or not forgiveness is warranted, is it not?”

Geralt nodded grudgingly. 

“That’s settled then.”  Jaskier said.  He caught Geralt’s gaze and held it.  “Will you forgive me too?”

“There’s nothing to forgive.”  Geralt said quickly, looking down.  “You saved me.  Helped me.”

“Yes, but I also pushed when I could see you were overwhelmed.  It was wrong of me to force you into a corner like that.”  Jaskier said.

Geralt didn’t understand.  Jaskier hadn’t done anything wrong, all he’d done was try to help.  If he couldn’t accept the help offered in the manner given, that was his failing. 

Jaskier looked as if he wanted to weep.  Or hit something.  Geralt couldn’t be sure.  He would let Jaskier hit him if Jaskier felt he deserved it.  But he didn’t know what to do if Jaskier were to weep.

“Oh, Geralt,” Jaskier said, “someone hurt you very badly and I’d dearly like to know who.”

Geralt had no idea what to say to that, so he said nothing.

Jaskier visibly shook himself.  “That’s a talk for another day.”  He said, as if speaking to himself.

He stepped back, running one hand down Geralt’s arm and taking his hand, leading him back toward Roach.

“So, you said you wanted the djinn to help you sleep.  That’s a pretty extreme measure.  How long has it been since you last slept?”  Jaskier said, voice purposefully light.

“Almost a month.”  Geralt said.  He was past being able to hide things from Jaskier.  He was too exhausted, too overwrought, too confused by this whole interaction.  Jaskier should be screaming at him.  Beating him.  Leaving him.  Not speaking to him gently, forgiving him, and taking care of him. 

Jaskier stopped short, staring up at Geralt in shock.  “A month!?”  He started and stopped a handful of times before finally continuing.  “I have so many questions about that, but they can wait.”

Jaskier pulled Geralt over to the small clearing where Roach was tied.  He pulled Geralt’s bedroll off Roach’s back and laid it out in the shade of one of the large willow trees, with one end up against the trunk.  As Geralt watched, Jaskier removed the rest of Roach’s tack before he removed his own boots and sat himself cross legged on one end of the bedroll, resting his back on the willow trunk. 

Settled, Jaskier pat the bedroll in front of him.  “Come and lie down.”  He said.

Geralt obeyed.  Nothing was going the way it should.  He didn’t know what to do, so he listened to Jaskier.

Geralt lay on the bedroll on his back and let Jaskier guide him to rest his head in his lap. 

“I’m going to see if I can’t help you sleep.”  Jaskier said, running gentle fingers over Geralt’s long, damp hair.

Geralt moved to sit up.  He couldn’t monopolize Jaskier’s time like that.  It was midday and he’d obviously been going somewhere before he caught sight of Roach.  Before Geralt forced him to take care of him again.

Jaskier placed a restraining hand on his forehead, keeping him in place.  “No, none of that.  You haven’t slept in a month and I’m not about to let that go on any longer.”

“But it’s midday.”  Geralt said, hoping logic might prevail.  “Weren’t you going somewhere? Won’t the Countess miss you?”

Jaskier smiled fondly down at him, exasperation clear.  “I was just heading into Rinde for a quick errand, and not an important one, so, no, I’m not expected anywhere.  Even if I were, you’re more important than any social occasion.”

Geralt stared up at him. 

I’m more important?  Impossible.

Jaskier bopped his nose gently with one finger, making Geralt’s eyes cross.  “I see you thinking,” he said.  “Just trust me on this, all right?  Or, at least, don’t protest and indulge me until I can make you believe it.”

Geralt continued to stare.  He was too exhausted to even attempt to make sense of that.

“Close your eyes, please.”  Jaskier said.  “Just focus on what I’m doing and let everything else fall away.”

That was a simple enough instruction.  Geralt could manage that.

Jaskier continued to run his fingers through Geralt’s hair, scratching gently along his scalp and massaging his temples and base of his skull.  No one had ever done something like that to Geralt before.  It felt nice. 

But he must be heavy on Jaskier’s legs.  The ground wasn’t exactly comfortable.  He should move, he should --

Jaskier cut off his spiraling thoughts with a flick on his forehead.  “I hear you worrying.  I’m fine, I’ve done this for my brother more times than I can count.  I want to do this for you.  So, please, relax.  Focus only on what I’m doing and let yourself sleep.”

Geralt took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to do as Jaskier asked.   He continued to breathe deeply, taking long inhales and slow exhales until he felt his heart rate slow to its normal pace.  He focused on Jaskier’s warm, gentle hands in his hair.  He listened to the steady pace of Jaskier’s heartbeat.  Smelled his familiar rosin and honey scent.  Geralt couldn’t smell any anger or fear, so he let himself relax completely, senses absorbed completely by Jaskier. 

Exhaustion swept over him and he let himself drift.  His body felt heavy, melting into the earth.  His face smoothed and his breath evened out.

He slept.

Chapter Text

Geralt woke slowly.  He felt warm, safe, and comfortable.  An unusual sensation.  He took a deep breath, scenting the crisp autumn air.  He listened to the birds tittering in the trees and the sound of Roach quietly grazing. 

He opened his eyes and saw Jaskier leaning against the trunk behind him, fast asleep. 

Memories of the day before came flooding back.  How he lost control again.  How he apologized, but Jaskier didn’t understand that only Geralt was at fault for their argument in Oxenfurt.  How Jaskier took care of him.  Again.

It was dawn and the last thing he remembered was midday yesterday.

Geralt tensed, but didn’t move.  Keeping himself still so as not to wake Jaskier.  If he had spent the last night and day taking care of Geralt, the least Geralt could do was not startle him awake.  Geralt felt his heartrate rise in his chest but took deep, rhythmic breaths to try and calm it. 

Geralt tried to think about this objectively.  Geralt had needed help to sleep and Jaskier had provided it.  He’d even said he had done the same thing for his brother many times before.  Maybe it wasn’t such an unusually burdensome thing then?

Geralt’s tension must have woken Jaskier, because his eyes fluttered open, mouth stretching into a jaw-cracking yawn before he looked down at Geralt.  When he saw Geralt was awake, but still lying in his lap, his face broke into a brilliant grin.

“Good morning, sunshine.”  He said.  “Did you sleep well?”

Geralt felt a flush rise to his cheeks, something he hadn’t felt in decades.  Jaskier didn’t seem upset or even uncomfortable.  Rather, he seemed pleased Geralt was still lying on him?  Geralt discretely sniffed, checking his scent. 

Happy.  Huh.

Geralt cleared his throat, looking away, but nodded.  He couldn’t speak.

Jaskier’s grin widened.  “Great!  You look much better too.”

Geralt forced himself to speak past the tight lump in this throat.  “I feel better.  Thank you.”  He said, voice rough with sleep.

Jaskier smiled softly and stroked a warm hand through Geralt’s hair.  “I’m glad I could help.  And that you came all the way here to see me!  Did you get my letter in Oxenfurt?”

Geralt nodded.

“I would have been back soon, why didn’t you wait in my quarters?  I had them made up for you.”  Jaskier asked without judgment. 

Geralt furrowed his brow.  Did he do something wrong again?

Jaskier saw the new tension and quickly continued.  “I’m glad to see you sooner, please don’t misunderstand.  But I am worried you pushed yourself so hard to get here.”

Geralt felt a cold weight settle in his chest.  He had done this wrong.  He’d tried so hard to get it right, to be good, and yet he’d still failed.  He sat up, head bowed, with his back to Jaskier.  If he couldn’t see his face it was easier to speak.

“Forgive me.  I didn’t mean to intrude.  But your letter said you felt at fault for our argument, and I wanted to fix that.  And to apologize for losing control.”  Geralt said, his words soft and rough, but clear. 

He heard Jaskier sigh behind him and tensed, waiting for a blow, whether it be physical or emotional.

Jaskier did neither, instead shifting forward and gently embracing Geralt from behind, resting his chin on Geralt’s shoulder. 

“There was nothing to fix because nothing was broken.  But I forgive you for whatever you feel you have done wrong.”  Jaskier tightened his hold briefly.  “I also acted wrongly, though I know you disagree.  I won’t fight you on it now, but I hope one day you’ll understand that you deserve to be treated well too.”

Geralt shook his head but didn’t pull away.  Jaskier was far too good to him, too good for him, but Geralt didn’t want to risk another argument, so he kept his silence.

With one last squeeze, Jaskier released him and stood, holding a hand out to Geralt.  Geralt took it, rising to his feet.

“Well, what do you say about heading into Rinde for some breakfast?  I have an errand there anyway and I would enjoy the company.”  Jaskier said, thankfully changing the subject.

Geralt nodded before gathering the bedroll and reattaching it to Roach’s saddle.  He tacked her up, ensuring she had one last chance to drink, and then took down her picket line, repacked it, and led her away from the riverbank, following Jaskier.

They walked side by side down the road to Rinde, Jaskier humming a simple tune.  Geralt felt as if an enormous weight had been lifted off his chest and it wasn’t just because he felt well-rested for once.  Jaskier forgave him – inexplicably, but Geralt wasn’t going to question it further – and they were together again.  Jaskier had obviously meant what he said in his letter too, that he'd been hoping to find Geralt back in Oxenfurt when he returned. 

A warm feeling settled in Geralt’s chest and he looked at Jaskier out of the corner of his eye.  He didn’t deserve this brilliant man, but he would enjoy his company while he had it.

After safely stabling Roach and tucking into a truly enormous breakfast, Jaskier led Geralt through town toward the mayor’s manor on the hill overlooking Rinde.

Over breakfast, he had explained that one of his students from the songcraft seminar he’d just finished teaching, Lady Amelia, had told him she was concerned about her son.  The boy, barely eighteen, had apparently become involved in a group that met in secret at the mayor’s manor.  She reported he’d told her it was a kind of “gathering for free spirits” or something like that.  She wasn’t overly concerned, according to Jaskier, but it had been two days since her son last returned home and she wanted someone to check on him. 

Jaskier told Geralt he’d agreed to the errand if only to spare the poor boy the embarrassment of having his mother crash the party.  It was at the mayor’s manor, how much trouble could he get into under the watchful eye of the mayor’s guard?

Jaskier was starting in on a story about some tussle he’d gotten into as a young lad in Lettenhove when Geralt stopped him with an arm thrown out in front of his chest. 

They’d just arrived at the gate to the mayor’s manor and Geralt could taste the magic in the air it was so strong.  His medallion was vibrating hard enough on his chest that it almost burned. 

“Sorceress.”  Geralt said in response to Jaskier’s questioning look.  “Strong one.”

“What, here?”  Jaskier said, gesturing around at the small manor and the relatively insignificant, if quaint, village below.  “Don’t they typically hang out in royal courts or something?”

Geralt hummed, eyes scanning the manor and its surroundings.  The gate was opened, but unmanned.  Unusual.  And concerning.

“Stay here.”  He said to Jaskier.

“No way.”  Jaskier said, following at Geralt’s shoulder as he strode quickly toward the main entrance.  “I told Lady Amelia I’d look in on her son and I intend to follow through on that promise.  Especially if he’s gotten caught up with a sorceress.  Besides, it wouldn’t exactly be fair to ask you to do the work for me.”

Geralt made a frustrated noise but knew argument was futile.  “Fine.  Just stay behind me.  I don’t know what we’re dealing with here.”

Jaskier paused and let Geralt lead.  “That I can do.”

Geralt pushed open the main entrance, cautiously looking around.  It was also unmanned.  And unlocked.  His concern ratcheted up another level.

Geralt could hear the cries and moans of dozens of people emanating from somewhere on the higher floors of the manor.  He scented the air – it was heavy with magic and the almost overpowering perfume of lilac and gooseberries.  The powerful magic tickled his skin and his medallion heated against his chest in warning.

Geralt led the way up the main staircase, following the noises.  Rounding a corner, they encountered a middle-aged man, completely naked, a vacant expression on his face as he loosely clutched a silver pitcher.  His arm was bare.  A neutral.  The man startled at the sight of Geralt and almost fell, catching himself against the wall before sliding to the floor.

Geralt knelt in front of him. The man looked well enough, if a bit out of it. “What happened here?”

The man struggled to focus on Geralt’s face, eyes constantly glancing back to his left and down the wide corridor.  “Apple juice.”  He said finally, brandishing the pitcher at Geralt.

“What?” 

“She wants apple juice!”  The man said, shoving the pitcher into Geralt’s chest. 

Geralt caught it before it could drop and spill all over his newly washed clothes.  The man was suddenly fast asleep, snoring against the wall.  Geralt briefly checked his pulse, steady and strong, before leaving him to his nap. 

Jaskier kept to his word and hung back several strides, pausing briefly to rearrange the sleeping man onto his side on the floor before following Geralt down the opulent corridor. 

The thick rug muffled their steps as they walked, checking each room they passed.  Other than the naked man, they saw no one.  The sounds increased as they progressed down the hallway and Geralt wrinkled his nose when the musk of sex appeared and grew stronger, the scent of lilac and gooseberries a thick undertone.

Finally, they reached an ornate, iron door at the end of the corridor.  Intricate designs and a beautiful frame made it clear this door lead to a chamber intended for one of only the highest rank.  It was probably the chamber in which the Redanian King stayed on his tours through this part of his territory.  As the King was nowhere near Rinde at this time of year, it should have been unoccupied.

Geralt motioned for Jaskier to stay back before pushing open the heavy door. 

The scent of sex, lilac, and gooseberries hit him like a breaking wave and he couldn’t help stepping back under the sensory assault before he managed to collect himself.  The thrum of magic was unmistakable.  Geralt pushed into the room, scanning the perimeter and seeing nothing but naked bodies writhing all around him.  The floors, furniture, even the walls, were covered in what was unmistakably an orgy. 

The room was dimly lit by the sconces along the walls and the heavy, velvet curtains were drawn tight, making the air hot and cloying.  Geralt felt trapped, overwhelmed by the assault on his senses, but breathed through it and kept himself under control. 

Good thing I slept before this.

In the state he’d been in yesterday before Jaskier had helped him, there was no way he could have handled even being in the room, let alone dealt with the unknown sorceress who must lie within.  A tinge of doubt arose in his mind – maybe Vesemir’s way isn’t the best? – but he shoved the thought away.  Now was not the time.

Geralt heard Jaskier cautiously enter the chamber behind him, gasping as he saw the scene presented and reflexively covering his mouth and nose against the smell.

Jaskier strode forward to stand next to Geralt, not wanting to get separated by the wanton revelers.  Geralt saw him slap away hands that were reaching for them before they could make contact with either him or Geralt in any way.  Geralt didn’t need the help, humans in this state could hardly hurt him, but he felt the warm feeling from that morning return at the protective act.  He mentally shook himself, focusing on the task at hand.

“We’ll need to find the sorceress to get the boy back.”  Geralt said.

Jaskier grimaced at the sight before him.  Not that he had any issue with sex, of course, but the revelers all had disturbingly vacant expressions on their faces that made him uncomfortable.  They seemed possessed. 

“Well, now I’m really glad Lady Amelia didn’t come here herself.  I think she would have fainted away.”  Jaskier said, a note of disgust in his voice.

A voice rang out from the shadows in the back of the room, shadows which seemed to lift and move as the voice spoke. 

“Do you disapprove of my party?”  The voice was strong and melodic, a rich alto tinged with an air of danger and magic.

Geralt and Jaskier made their way toward the voice, carefully winding through the orgy of bodies, fending off attempts to drag them down into the morass.  When they reached the back of the large chamber, they saw the source of the voice. 

The sorceress sat on a dais, reclined on a rich, red velvet chaise lounge.  Jaskier had never seen a sorceress before – mages, healers, druids, yes, but not one of the famed graduates of Aretuza.  Her beauty certainly lived up to the legends. 

Geralt positioned himself to half-hide Jaskier behind him.  He knew he couldn’t easily take down the powerful sorceress if she decided to attack, but he wouldn’t allow her to take Jaskier down with him.  Geralt reached back and squeezed Jaskier’s wrist briefly, hoping that conveyed his instruction to stay back and stay quiet. 

“Sorceress.”  Geralt nodded respectfully in greeting.  “We apologize for invading your privacy, but we’ve come to retrieve the son of Lady Amelia.”

“Jakub.”  Jaskier said.

“Jakub.”  Geralt repeated.  “Is he here?”

The sorceress hummed, assessing them with her gaze.  She sat up and leaned toward them, her silk gown flowing with her movements and the deep v-neck leaving little to the imagination.  Satisfied with her inspection, she sat back, crossing her legs and resting her arms upon them, her thick, black, Dominant’s mark on full display.

Fuck. 

A Dominant Sorceress would see right through him.  Geralt only hoped she either wouldn’t care to look or wouldn’t care to reveal his secret.

“And why should I tell you that?”  The sorceress asked.  “You, Witcher, who haven’t even told me your name?”

Geralt blinked, surprised by the insistence on courtly manners in the midst of an orgy.  Even more surprised that she deemed a witcher worthy of being known by name.  Most graduates of Aretuza or Ban Ard viewed witchers as little more than animals and wanted any interaction with one concluded as quickly as possible. 

But he could play along.  “Forgive me.  I am Geralt of Rivia, a witcher of Kaer Morhen.”

“Hm.  And your companion?”

“Jaskier, a travelling bard.”

“Is he now.  Well, for our purposes that will do.”  She said, studying Jaskier before dismissing him, more interested in Geralt.

She rose to her feet, head high and spine straight.  “I am Yennefer of Vengerberg.”  She said, nodding her head slightly, the light catching on her violet eyes.  Geralt wondered if they were natural or an affectation of her transformation.  He noticed she did not claim her school in her introduction.  Unusual, but perhaps she’d had a falling out with the Council or with Tissaia.  Or both.  He knew better than to ask.

Looking up, he saw a large spell circle painted onto the ceiling.  It hummed with latent activity, but didn’t seem inherently dangerous.  He knew better than to ask about that either.

She stepped down off the dais, circling around Geralt, studying him.  Her gown trailed on the floor behind her. 

“You come here with a request but offer no compensation.” She said finally, assessing.

Geralt met her gaze and held it.  “If you can confirm the boy is here, we can negotiate the terms of his release.” 

Yennefer laughed, but it was a tight, mocking sound.  “You speak as if I am a jailor!  The boy came to me willingly.  He begged so sweetly to be let into my party, to release his inhibitions.”  Yennefer trailed one long finger up Geralt’s chest, fingernail leaving light scratches on his armor.  “Perhaps I could be persuaded to allow you to do the same.”

Geralt just stared at her.

Jaskier broke the stalemate, poking his head out from around Geralt, batting away another curious hand from one of the revelers. 

“Yes, well, we came here to reclaim Jakob, but not to offer Geralt in his place.” 

Geralt felt Jaskier’s hand stroke gently up and down his lower back, hidden from Yennefer’s view.  It bolstered him, warm strength flowing out of the touch.

“As he said, we’re only here for the boy.”  Geralt said firmly.  He kept his tone carefully polite.

Yennefer gave them both another assessing look before stepping back onto her dais, head held high as she looked down on them. 

“Very well, if you don’t want to play, then we can get down to business.  The boy is here, I will tell you that for free, but he has not yet fulfilled his contract so I cannot release him until our bargain is satisfied.”

“What are the terms of the contract?”  Geralt asked.  Contract negotiation was something he could deal with.  He felt better now that Yennefer had stepped back and Jaskier was nearly flush against his back.  The smell and oppressive heat of the room were making his head pound.

“A simple energy exchange,” Yennefer said.  “I give my revelers a party, a place to release their inhibitions and explore their sexuality, and in exchange, they give me a portion of their energy to power my experiments.”

Geralt narrowed his eyes at her.  Sounded an awful lot like something one of his contracts would get up to.

Yennefer laughed at him, waving her hand in dismissal.  “Down, boy, nothing like that.  I don’t drain them dry or even take energy without their consent.  If I don’t send home happy customers, I won’t get more business, and I need a steady flow of energy for my work.”

Geralt was still suspicious, but while the revelers were clearly under some sort of enchantment, they seemed in good health and good spirits.  Nor had he heard any reports of mass disappearances or of bodies drained of their vital energies.

“What does Jakob still owe you?”  Geralt asked.

“Two days of energy.”  Yennefer said.  “But I would trade that for your services, if you’re willing to be my errand boy.  I can promise you’ll be back to your bard by dark.” 

Geralt had a bad feeling about this deal, but she didn’t seem particularly power mad or violent, so he was willing to take the risk.  It was worth it to ensure Jaskier could fulfill his promise to return Jakob to his mother.

“I can be an errand boy.”  Geralt said. 

“But he needs to know the exact terms of the deal first.”  Jaskier cut in quickly, casting a scolding look up at Geralt. 

Yennefer gave him another searing look.  “Those are my terms.  Jakob stays another two days to fulfill his obligation to me, or I release Jakob now in exchange for your Witcher being my errand boy.”

Jaskier made to protest again, but Yennefer cut him off.  “I have no need for your services, bard, I’m speaking only to the witcher.”

“Now, see here -” Jaskier started, but this time Geralt cut him off.

“As long as the errand won’t cause me to be maimed or killed, and will be finished, as you say, by dark today, then I’ll do it.”

“Geralt!”  Jaskier hissed at him.  “You’re giving practically giving her carte blanche!”

“Lady Amelia is counting on you, so it’s worth it.”  Geralt said simply.  He would do anything for Jaskier. 

“We’re going to talk about your appalling lack of self-preservation instincts later.”  Jaskier said.  He knew that there was nothing he could do to change the deal at this point since Geralt had already accepted the terms.

“Touching.”  Yennefer said disdainfully.  “But we’re losing daylight, so let’s move this along.” 

She clapped her hands twice, sharply, and called out Jakob’s name in a voice infused with power and magic.

A young, slight boy appeared to blink out of a dream as he stumbled up from the orgy to kneel before the dais.  A thick, black, submissive’s cuff stood out on his right wrist, stark against his pale, unblemished skin.  Yennefer knelt to his level, placed a hand on his cheek, and spoke to him gently. 

“Jakob, your mother has called you home.  She’s worried about you.  These men have come to retrieve you for her.”

Jakob looked up at Yennefer, brows furrowing in distress.  “But I’m to have two more days!”

“I know, but your mother is worried and you must reassure her.  You can come back once you’ve done that, if you wish.” 

Jakob looked miserable, as if he had gotten a taste of freedom only to wake up back in chains.  “What did I do wrong?”

Yennefer smiled kindly down at him, the expression odd and yet fitting on her severe features.  “You did nothing wrong.  You’ve been a wonderful guest, so open, so loving, and so affectionate to all around you.  I’ll be delighted to host you again, so do come back once you’ve put your mother’s fears to rest.”

Jakob visibly brightened at the praise, happy to have pleased the Dominant he so obviously respected and adored. 

“I can do that!”  He said happily.

“Good boy.” Yennefer said, handing him a bundle of fresh clothes she’d pulled out from the chest behind her chaise.  “Now, put these on and go with Jaskier, he’ll take you home.”

Jaskier took in an outraged breath at being so cavalierly commandeered, but Geralt placed a quelling hand on his shoulder before he could protest. 

“He needs protection to make it home safely, both from a bad drop and from those in town who might try to take advantage of a young, vulnerable submissive.” 

Jaskier looked conflicted, as if he wanted to protect Geralt from Yennefer.  Geralt didn’t understand why, especially since the sorceress had promised he would face neither death nor dismemberment, but he felt his chest warm.

“Please, Jaskier.  Take care of him.  I’ll be fine.”  Geralt said.

Jaskier frowned, clearly still unhappy with the situation, but relented.  “All right,” he said, “meet me back at the Countess de Stael’s manor.  I’ll let the guards know to expect you.”

Geralt nodded.  Jaskier turned to Jakob and held out a hand.

“Come, Jakob.  Let’s get you back to your mother.  She’s staying with the Countess de Stael, so we’ll have you there soon.”

Jakob glanced at Yennefer for permission and, after receiving it, took Jaskier’s hand and let Jaskier lead him through the orgy and out the door, heading back to his mother.

Once Jaskier and Jakob left, Yennefer turned to Geralt.  “Now, Witcher, I’ve released Jakob and it’s time for you to fulfill your end of the bargain.” 

Geralt hummed an acknowledgment, but stayed quiet, waiting for her to continue.

“One of my revelers stole a jewelry box from me.  Undoubtably they thought it was a trinket that wouldn’t be missed.  Typically, I would simply bar the thief from future parties, but the box he stole was, in truth, a disguised xenovox, so I need it retrieved.  That is to be your errand.  You’ll recognize it by its inherent magic.”

“I’ve used one before, I’ll know it when I see it.”  Geralt said.

“Good, that makes things simpler.  Though I can’t imagine who would have needed to instantly communicate with you badly enough to give you something so precious.” 

Geralt shrugged.  He hadn’t understood it at the time either, but it was years ago and didn’t matter anymore. 

“Do you know who stole it?” Geralt asked.

“Obviously,” Yennefer said, “but I can’t let it be known that one of my customers was able to steal from me, much less that they stole something so valuable.”

“Hmm, so that’s why you need me to retrieve it for you.”

“Exactly.  And since you practically reek of morality, as a little extra insurance that you’ll do the job without question, no matter what happens, I’m going to give you a little help.” 

Yennefer raised her hands in an intricate pattern as she spoke and Geralt felt magic drape over him gently before binding him tightly, suppressing his conscious mind and leaving only Yennefer’s directives.  He felt like a marionette.  It felt like subspace, but with no element of comfort.  His mind felt subsumed, torn between the pseudo-relief provided and the horror of her mind control spell.

Geralt felt his body move without his consent or input.  He felt disconnected from his body, from reality.  A wave of panic overrode his thoughts and he was swept up into the spell.

Geralt came back to awareness on his hands and knees, retching and shaking on the cold stone floor of Yennefer’s rooms in the mayor’s manor.  His knees throbbed as if he’d fallen on them from a decent height – maybe a portal opened from the ceiling?

He clutched the xenovox in one hand, knuckles split and bloody.  He didn’t remember leaving the manor.  He didn’t remember getting the xenovox.  He didn’t remember throwing a punch.  Everything was a fog and he felt as if he had been turned inside out, that his very soul had been exposed and shattered.

Another wave of nausea hit him and he retched again, this time throwing up blood with the bile as his body violently rejected the spell Yennefer had cast upon him.  His vision spun and his arms shook, unable to support his weight.  He was barely able to push himself away from the puddle of sick before he collapsed.

Geralt curled in on himself, trembling violently, clenching his teeth to keep them from cracking against each other.  He still clutched the xenovox, echoes of the mind control spell ensuring he kept it safe.

Geralt heard a door open to his right and shoved himself upright, pressing his back against the wall.  He couldn’t stand up, but he would face whatever came through that door head on. 

He didn’t know what Yennefer had done to him, but he felt as if he were dying.

Geralt saw Yennefer emerge through the doorway.  Saw her eyes widen as she saw the state he was in.  She rushed over, absently taking the xenovox when he involuntarily thrust it at her before placing it to the side and taking his face between her hands.

She stared deeply into his eyes and he could feel her probing at his mind.  She’d done it earlier, but only surface thoughts.  This time, she was looking deeper.  He couldn’t gather the will or the strength to resist as she peeled his mind apart, layer by layer, until she reached his deepest, most secret fear.  Pain consumed him.

“Fuck,” she said, horror in her voice.  “You’re a submissive.”

Geralt felt his heart stop in his chest. 

“That spell could have killed you!”  Yennefer said sharply.  “It’s designed only for Dominants and neutrals, why didn’t you say something!” 

Geralt felt pressure build in his head until the words burst out.  “It’s a secret.  No one is supposed to know.”

“Right, and I didn’t exactly ask.  Or think to ask.  Fuck.”  Yennefer said, speaking as if she were admonishing herself.  She released his face and stood, pacing around the room as if deep in frantic thought. 

As Geralt watched her, he drew on every bit of his training and forced himself to analyze what she had just revealed.  If the spell was for Dominants and neutrals only, it probably worked by creating a false illusion of subspace to force the subject’s mind into compliance.  Since he was a submissive, the spell likely damaged his internal subspace structure by forcing its own, false narrative on top of it.  That was probably why he felt like his mind was tearing itself apart. 

The pain in his head spiked and his thought process dissolved.  Even his training couldn’t overcome this deep a mind wound. 

Yennefer seemed to come to a decision. 

“I have to fix this.  I promised no death or maiming and that definitely includes returning you with your mind intact.”  She knelt before Geralt, starting to weave a pattern in the air.  “I’m no mind healer, but you’re bleeding out, metaphorically, and I have to at least try to stop it.”

That triggered a thought in the back of Geralt’s mind.  A memory of gardens and a gentle, guiding touch on his frazzled mind.  He desperately clung to the threads of that thought and forced it into words. 

“Nenneke.”  He said, barely audible.

Yennefer froze, dropping her hands.  “You know Nenneke?  The mind healer at the Temple of Melitele?”

Geralt tried to nod. 

It must have worked, because Yennefer stood up and grabbed her xenovox, calling out to Nenneke.  Geralt couldn’t keep track of the conversation, he could barely keep track of his consciousness, but Yennefer must have gotten through because the next thing he knew she was hauling him to his feet with surprising strength and dragging him through a portal. 

Geralt dropped to his knees again, this time on soft, deep grass.   He looked up and saw an old woman, her face pinched in concern.  Her face was familiar, but the memory ran away from him.

He blinked and he was on a stretcher, four young girls each carrying one leg of the stretcher, bringing him swiftly toward the Temple.

Geralt had a moment of clarity through the haze of pain and his mind called out, seeking comfort and stability.

Jaskier!

Yennefer must have picked up on the projected thought, because she appeared at the side of the stretcher.  She didn’t try to force him to speak, she just looked through his eyes to find the source of the thought. 

She broke the contact and nodded sharply.  “I’ll send for Jaskier.”

Yennefer nodded to Nenneke before opening a portal and stepping through it.

Geralt blinked again and he was in a quiet room.  He must have passed out.  The old woman from before – Nenneke – his mind finally provided, sat in the chair beside his bed, observing him.

“We almost lost you, Geralt.”  She said.  As always, her voice was deep and calm, but uncharacteristic fear tinged it.

Geralt had never felt so exhausted.  He no longer felt like he was imminently dying, but he felt exposed and raw, vulnerable in a way he wasn’t allowed to be. 

Nenneke rose and placed a gentle hand on his forehead.   “You have hidden yourself for too long.”  She said.  “Your mind can’t handle the strain anymore.”

“Then I’ll die.”  Geralt managed to say.  He knew it would happen eventually, better in a soft bed than bleeding out in some gods-forsaken wilderness after being skewered by a monster.  It was the best a witcher could hope for.

Nenneke’s lip thinned, but he couldn’t read her expression.  Disappointed?  It was probably that. 

“No, dear child.  But it is time for you to learn to let in those who love you.”

Geralt shook his head.  He couldn’t do that.  Who could love him anyway? 

His mind offered up the memory of soft, warm hands in his hair, of a smooth voice singing a bright tune, but his thoughts danced away again and he lost it.

“Sleep.  It will all make sense when your Jaskier arrives.”

She must have infused her words with a spell, because Geralt dropped off immediately into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Chapter Text

When Geralt woke again, Yennefer was sitting by his bedside.  He startled and flinched away, uncertain if she was a threat.  He immediately berated himself for not being able to control his reaction. 

Yennefer’s lips thinned, but she didn’t comment.  Geralt watched her cautiously as she adjusted her position in the chair, crossing her legs and smoothing her long skirt over them.  She didn’t seem inclined to speak.

Geralt wanted to go back to sleep.  The world around him was overly bright, overly loud, and he wasn’t sure what brought him to be lying in a bed in what was obviously Nenneke’s healing ward.  He thought he remembered seeing Nenneke, he must have if he was in her Temple, but the memory felt like a dream, soft and fleeting.

No matter how badly he wanted it, he knew he couldn’t sink back into the comfortable bed and ignore the world.  Vesemir had trained him better than that.  He took a deep breath through his nose, gathering himself even as he hoped to hide the obviously anxious tell from Yennefer.

“What happened?”  Geralt asked, making sure his voice stayed deep and level.

Yennefer’s hands clenched together where they rested on her knees.  She looked profoundly uncomfortable.  But she was there by his bedside and she must have come for something, so Geralt imagined she’d tell him eventually. 

“Did I not fulfill our bargain?”  Geralt said, hoping to prompt a response.

Yennefer shook her head sharply.  “No, you did.  My xenovox is back in my possession.” 

She paused, uncrossed her legs, and sat forward, elbows braced on her spread knees, a position both aggressive and defensive.  “You’ve been unconscious here for two days because of a spell I cast on you.  A spell that, on a Dominant or a neutral, would have been little more than a mild compulsion spell to help ensure you fulfilled your obligation under our deal.”

Yennefer paused again, staring into Geralt’s eyes, and he felt small, naked, before her scrutiny. 

“But you,” she continued, tone growing increasingly agitated, “you are a submissive.  My typically gentle spell almost broke your mind in twain because it tried to impose its structured submission on top of your own natural patterns.  Where they conflicted, the very fabric of your mind rent and bled.”

Geralt felt a cold weight settle in his chest.  He didn’t feel as if his mind were broken, just tired and a bit vague on the events of the last few days.  But if it was true and his mind was compromised, then he couldn’t keep to his Path, couldn’t fulfill his purpose.  Without that, what use was he?

“Then why do I yet live?”  Geralt asked quietly, trying desperately to hide the despair he felt.  He doubted he was successful, because Yennefer looked down at him with something painfully close to pity.

“Because you are a witcher.”  She said simply. “The same mutations that strengthened your body strengthened your mind.  And Nenneke tells me you underwent severe training to control your need for subspace.  That fortitude saved you.”

Then she sighed, and that pitying look came back.  “But it won’t heal you.  The systematic deprivation of your submissive nature made your mind strong enough to survive this wound, but it can’t recover on its own.  I saw this myself.  Nenneke guided me into your mind because it was I who wounded it and my magic was needed to direct the healing.” 

Geralt felt cold horror at the thought that she’d been in his mind so intimately.  Only Nenneke had ever done that and, even then, only once.  He felt violated, but he tried to dismiss the feeling, knowing that he would be dead, or insane, but for their efforts.

Yennefer must have seen the horror reflected in his expression.  “We had no choice, as you well know.”  She said, censure in her tone.  But then she gentled it and continued.  “If you want to recover, you need to let your mind rest and you can’t do that if you insist on denying your fundamental needs.  Our prescription for your recovery is the generous and frequent use of subspace.  That is the only way your mind will heal.”

Geralt couldn’t imagine following that directive.  “I can’t do that.  The only way I can walk my Path, fulfill my purpose, is to keep to Vesemir’s schedule and ensure that no one knows a submissive witcher exists.  If my nature were known, it would be used against me, either to strike me down or to compel me to act against others.  Against innocents.  If a Dominant ever managed to compel me with their Voice, it could lead to a massacre and I won’t have that on my conscience.” 

The thought that a Dominant could use their Voice to control him made him wish to fling himself from the nearest cliff.  Vesemir had taught him to resist the compulsive power of a Dominant’s Voice, but the possibility remained that an assault from a Dominant strong enough and determined enough could break through his resistance.  Admittedly, it was unlikely, but Geralt wasn’t willing to take that risk just to assuage his submissive nature.  That would be unforgivably selfish.  He had survived this long on Vesemir’s schedule and there was no reason that couldn’t continue.

Yennefer studied him for a long moment.  “You poor bastard, you truly believe that,” she said finally.  She leaned back in her chair and briefly pressed a hand to her forehead, thinking, before refocusing on him. 

“Hear me,” she said sternly, leaning forward into his space, “Nenneke and I didn’t spend the last two days piecing your mind back together for you to waste all our efforts on pointless self-sacrifice.  Allowing your mind to enter subspace regularly is the only way it will grow strong enough to withstand external attacks.” 

Geralt didn’t understand how regular indulgence in subspace would help make him stronger, but he didn’t want to argue with Yennefer.  He’d always been taught that discipline and sacrifice were the two pillars of building strength and he wasn’t going to start doubting his training because of the words of one sorceress.

She sat back and her tone took on a contemplative note.  “That Dominant who follows you around, you should trust him with this.”

Geralt immediately moved to protest, but she silenced him with a stern glare.  “No excuses!  If not him, then choose someone else.  One of your brothers would do, or even a whore.  But you need to stop depriving yourself just because your Vesemir said you must.” 

Geralt set his jaw.  He wasn’t going to let her sway him into forsaking his training.

Yennefer sighed in frustration.  “Fine, if you won’t heed my words, look into your own mind.  I know you’ve learned meditation techniques sufficient to allow you to explore the wounds on your own.  Do so.”  She commanded. “I will return in an hour.”  She swept out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

Geralt couldn’t fathom why she was still here, why she was so insistent that he change his practices.  But then again, Eskel had said something similar, hadn’t he?  And he had felt better after allowing Jaskier to help him sleep.  It wasn’t the same as a guided drop into subspace, but it was similar. 

He sank back into the soft pillows, thoughts racing.

If he were completely honest with himself, he’d felt his mind fraying even before Yennefer’s spell broke it completely.  The past few years, he’d started to struggle from the lack of subspace relief sooner and sooner.  This year, it had gotten so bad that if Jaskier hadn’t helped him sleep, hadn’t given him that hint of relief, his mind might have broken before he could return to Kaer Morhen. 

But the thought that he’d been wrong, that he’d suffered under Vesemir’s rules for nearly a century for no reason was too frightening to contemplate. 

But fear was no excuse to avoid seeking the truth.

Geralt took a deep breath, crossed his legs, and rested his hands upon his knees.  He closed his eyes, keeping his breaths deep and even, and turned his attention inward, sinking into deep meditation. 

While he was no mind healer, the meditation techniques he’d been taught allowed him to explore his mind for wounds and to bolster his own healing abilities when the need was dire.  It also allowed him to suppress pain and to dim his emotions so that he might continue to function even under extreme duress.  Despite the powerful benefits, deep meditation was dangerous because it left him largely unaware of the world around him, and so it as to be avoided while on the Path except in life-threatening circumstances. But here, in Nenneke’s ward, it was safe.

He dove deep and explored his own mind. 

And suddenly he understood. 

His internal subspace structure, which he could view but not access in this state, was warped and lanced through with deep wounds barely covered in new, bright scar tissue.  But what brought him up short was the sight of his mind’s defensive walls.  Once strong and thick, they were cracked and crumbling.  He hesitantly pressed on one of the long fissures and felt pain explode behind his eyes as the crack deepened and spread. 

He attempted to call upon his body’s natural healing capabilities, hoping to work on patching the walls, but there was no answer.  When he was younger, calling upon his own healing powers had brought forth a bright, warm light that filled in cracks and bolstered his strength until he could reach a proper healer.  It had saved his life more than once. 

And now there was nothing. 

When he blinked back to full awareness, Yennefer was again sitting by his bedside, an expectant look on her face.

Geralt was still reeling and needed a moment to process what he had seen, to fit those new facts in among the truths he’d learned, truths that might need to be amended or even forsaken given the facts presented.

“Why did you help me?”  He asked, hoping to buy himself some time by focusing on a different subject.

Yennefer allowed him the respite.  “Because I hurt you without cause.”  She said simply, her lips thinned into frown.  “Our deal was that you would help me retrieve my xenovox and I would return you to Jaskier by dark without significant harm having befallen you.  You upheld your end of the deal, but I failed in mine, so I needed to make it right.”

“But you said you did that already. I saw the healed wounds in my mind.  So, why are you still here?”  Geralt asked, sincerely curious why she would bother doing any more than she needed to do to square their deal.

Yennefer looked almost offended, but let it go after another careful study of him.  She sighed, suddenly looking tired.  Geralt realized she probably was, mind healing was one of the most demanding branches of magic on the caster.  Even with Nenneke guiding her, the past two days must have been incredibly draining.  He was certain he wasn’t worth the effort, but he wouldn’t insult her by expressing anything other than gratitude.

“Because I saw your mind and I don’t want you to make the same mistake I did.”  Yennefer said finally. 

Geralt cocked his head at her, uncertain what to make of that statement. 

Yennefer looked off to the side, staring out the window overlooking the Temple of Melitele’s lush gardens, gaze unfocused, before she finally took a breath and continued. 

“When I went to Aretuza, I was so desperate for a place to belong, for someone to find me worthy, that I followed every directive without question.  I simply accepted that I needed to sacrifice myself and my fellow classmates for power and glory.  I let them take my womb from me because they said it was necessary to ascend.”  Yennefer scoffed at the memory.  “I was wrong.  It took me decades to realize it, but I was wrong.”

Geralt studied her this time, uncertain how this story applied to him, but feeling for her suffering all the same.

“Did you know the boys trained at Ban Ard don’t have to sacrifice their fertility for their physical transformation?  That they choose their looks and lengthen their lives without that?  And yet they teach all the sorceresses at Aretuza that such a fundamental sacrifice is required if they want to graduate and become worthy of serving at court.”

Geralt shook his head, he hadn’t known that.  He had noticed that sorceresses tended to choose younger looking forms than their sorcerer counterparts, but he hadn’t thought about it any further.  

He still didn’t see how this applied to him.

“My point, Geralt, is that I didn’t question the teaching that I needed to sacrifice myself to be useful.  I simply complied.  I chose a form pleasing to men and I served at court for decades.  But eventually I learned the truth.  I learned that I didn’t need to follow my teachings from Aretuza, or the directives of the Council, to be useful or worthy. 

“That’s what I’m using the energy from my parties for – I’m developing a process to allow sorceresses extend their lives, and change their looks if they like, without sacrificing their fertility.  The process used at Ban Ard unfortunately draws on the school’s latent magical reserves, so it does not work outside its walls.  But if I can harness sufficient energy in another form, I can provide sorceresses with an alternative to Aretuza.  And teach that being a sorceress does not require becoming a pawn in some foolish king’s court.”

Geralt looked down, taking that in.  “But Vesemir didn’t ask me to sacrifice anything.  At least, nothing beyond what was required to transform me into a witcher.  He developed his system to help me, to allow me to survive the Path.”

Yennefer heaved a harsh sigh.  “He asked you to sacrifice what your mind needs to function properly.  He taught you that you can’t safely or rightfully experience subspace except for at his hand.  But he’s wrong.  If I’ve learned anything in my life, it’s that sacrifice does not build strength.  But being true to yourself and your needs does.”

Geralt didn’t know how to respond.  First Eskel and now Yennefer were telling him the same thing.  Maybe they were right?

“I can’t make you see the truth and I’m not a mind healer.”  Yennefer stood, straightening her skirts and smoothing the fabric down.  “But my advice to you is that you should tell your bard when he arrives.  Let him help you heal.” 

Geralt sat up straight.  “Jaskier’s coming?”

Yennefer gave him a strange look.  “Obviously.  I already told you I sent for him right after I brought you here.  I offered to portal him over but he wouldn’t leave the horse once he heard you weren’t in imminent danger of dying.  He should be here by day’s end.”

“You didn’t tell him, did you?”  Geralt asked, fear clear on his face.

Yennefer sighed again, pinching the bridge of her nose.  “No, but maybe I should have.  Someone needs to beat the truth into your stubborn head before you drive yourself insane.”

“Even if I were to accept what you’re saying, it’s not his duty to help me in that way.  He’s a good man and he deserves a good life with a proper submissive.”  Geralt said.

Yennefer just stared at him, incredulous.  “I don’t even know where to start with that.  Tell him or don’t, it’s irrelevant to me, but let someone help you if not him.  I don’t want my two days of effort piecing your mind back together to have been a waste.”  She looked at him sharply, pinning him to the bed with her gaze.  “And I wouldn’t have shared my story with you if I thought you were beyond help.  Or undeserving of it.  Be true to yourself, Geralt of Rivia, it is the only way you’ll survive.”

With that last statement, she swept out of the room, skirts billowing, head held high. 

Geralt slumped back on the pillows, exhausted again.  He heard what she was saying and he saw the crumbling ruins in his mind.  But he’d known nothing but Vesemir’s way his whole long life and that method had kept him sane and alive over the past century.  Most importantly, he was certain Vesemir would never intend to harm him.  He remembered Vesemir sitting by his bed as a child, stroking his back, holding him as he shuddered through the pain of the mutations.  Vesemir was a good man.

But he was starting to doubt his methods.

Geralt forced himself to examine the past few years.  Introspection did not come naturally to him, but conflict of this magnitude demanded it.  He considered how much more difficult it had become to hold himself together throughout the autumn.  How he slept and ate less, body distracted by the pain caused by depriving his mind of what it needed.  How each session with Vesemir helped and hurt in equal measure. 

How kneeling at Eskel’s side, letting him stoke his head, was more refreshing than a full session with Vesemir, even though only the latter dropped him fully into subspace. 

How much better he felt after letting Jaskier help him sleep.

Jaskier arrived just as the sun slipped below the horizon.  Nenneke sent one of her apprentices to inform him of both Jaskier’s and Roach’s safe arrival, with strict instructions to stay in his room and let Jaskier come to him.

Given Geralt almost passed out when he got up last, his exhausted, wounded mind singing with pain, he complied, but straightened his tunic and finger combed his hair back into some semblance of order.  He positioned himself in the armchair by the bed, the same one Yennefer had occupied earlier.  He may not be able to go out to out greet Jaskier, but he wouldn’t receive him while lying in his bed like an invalid.

He didn’t know what to say to Jaskier when he arrived. 

There was another bed in the room, set along the opposite wall below a large, bay window.  He hoped Jaskier might be willing to sleep there and share the room with him.  He had no doubt that was Nenneke’s intention when she assigned him this large sickroom, but he wouldn’t force Jaskier if he didn’t want to share.  Gods knew there were enough empty rooms in the Temple.

But Geralt hoped Jaskier would stay with him.  He didn’t think he could tell him the truth yet, if ever, but Jaskier’s presence helped him stay calm and think things through.  He needed to consider what Eskel, and now Yennefer and Nenneke, had each said to him.  He thought they might be right, but he had lived Vesemir’s way for decades.  Was it just that he was getting soft and seeking undeserved comfort?  Or was Yennefer right when she said the only way his mind would heal and grow stronger would be for him to allow himself to have what he needed?

His whirling thoughts made his headache return in force, pounding between his temples.  Yennefer had told him the wounds were dire and needed significant time and effort to heal.  He imagined that meant he shouldn’t push himself, but now there was a seed of doubt in his mind where previously there had only been resolute conviction.  He couldn’t help but pick at it.

Maybe Jaskier could help? 

But that would mean telling Jaskier the truth.  Could Jaskier be trusted with this?  When Geralt ignored what he had been taught and went with his gut, with his heart, he was certain Jaskier could be trusted.  That he wouldn’t turn him away.  That he might even be willing to help guide him into subspace. 

But that just presented a different problem.  Could Geralt burden Jaskier in that way?  He knew Jaskier would want to take care of him if he knew the truth, to help him in whatever way he could, that’s the sort of man, the sort of Dominant, he was.  But was that fair to Jaskier?  That he, who could have his choice of the finest submissives the Continent had to offer, should waste his time and his youth on Geralt?

Geralt’s spiraling thoughts were interrupted when the door opened and Jaskier burst through, an almost frantic look of worry on his face.

He immediately rushed to Geralt’s side, kneeling before him and reaching up to run shaking fingers through his hair, over his cheeks, and down to his shoulders, as if reassuring himself Geralt yet lived.  Jaskier searched Geralt’s face and evidently found what he needed to see because he visibly relaxed, heaving a sigh of relief and bowing his head to rest on Geralt’s knees. 

He took several long, shaky breaths, before he collected himself and looked up again.  “You took years off my life, Geralt.  You didn’t come back by dark and then Yennefer appeared out of fucking nowhere and said you were at the Temple of Melitele because your mind had been damaged by spell backlash!” Jaskier let out a harsh breath, fingers clutching at Geralt’s forearms, fisting in the loose fabric of his tunic.

Jaskier’s eyes pinched shut at the memory, face contorted into a mask of suffering.  “I couldn’t bear it if I lost you,” he said to Geralt’s knees, voice thick.

Geralt didn’t know what to do, but he wanted to help Jaskier feel better.  Jaskier always seemed to know the right thing to do, so he mirrored his actions from the other day and slowly, gently, laid his hand on Jaskier’s head and stroked his fingers through the dusty, windswept strands. 

Jaskier let out a choked noise, almost a sob, and Geralt quickly moved his hand away, fear jolting through him.  Had he done the wrong thing?  Hurt Jaskier?

Jaskier blindly reached up and caught his hand, winding his fingers through Geralt’s. 

“No, no, that was exactly right.  Don’t run away, please.”  Jaskier said, voice wrecked.

He looked up and met Geralt’s gaze, pinning him in place with the force of emotion behind his eyes.  Jaskier rose, placing his free hand at the scruff of Geralt’s neck and bringing their foreheads together. 

“I thought I lost you.  I heard the injury was to your mind and I didn’t know what to think.  Yennefer said your life was not immediately at risk, so I took Roach, knowing you wouldn’t want to leave her behind, and went overland, but each step I took I feared I had made the wrong decision, that I would arrive too late.” 

Jaskier’s hand tightened on Geralt’s neck, the warm, firm pressure relaxing something deep in the back of Geralt’s mind, something he hadn’t even known was tense. 

“You are the most precious person in my life and I cannot fathom life without you.”  Jaskier pulled back just enough to stare directly into Geralt’s eyes, expression serious.  “I almost lost you, and I will not rest until you understand and believe that, even if it takes the rest of my life.”

Geralt felt warmed through by Jaskier’s words, but worry quickly followed.  He wanted to fall into Jaskier, to accept his words and live out his life in the circle of Jaskier’s affection, but uncertainty held him back.  Uncertainty as to whether it was safe to let go, to trust.  Uncertainty as to whether he could be selfish enough to encourage Jaskier to dedicate his time and affection to one as unworthy of it as he.

The conflict must have shown on his face because Jaskier smiled reassuringly, pressing his forehead against Geralt’s again, nudging it affectionately. 

“I don’t expect you to say anything, I know you’re exhausted and this isn’t the time.  But I needed you to hear how important you are to me.”

With one last, cleansing breath, Jaskier stood, releasing Geralt.  Geralt only just stopped himself from chasing after the contact.

“Now, it’s getting late so I should get myself cleaned up and to bed.  You need your rest, don’t even try to argue!”  Jaskier said as he busied himself unloading his pack and filling the wash basin from the pitcher provided. 

Geralt watched him, warmth blooming in his chest.  Jaskier clearly wanted to stay with Geralt and hadn’t even hesitated to set himself up in the other bed.  Geralt didn’t yet know what to do about his secret, but he knew he wanted to keep Jaskier with him as long as Jaskier wanted to stay.

“Thank you.”  Geralt said quietly, causing Jaskier to stop and look up at him from where he was pulling his spare clothes out of his pack.  “I’m glad you came.”

Jaskier’s smile could have lit the room, blooming across his face and crinkling the corners of his eyes.  He appeared to glow from within.  If such a simple statement could bring him that much joy, Geralt would try his best to express his gratitude more often.  Words were difficult for him, but Jaskier was worth the effort.

“My dear, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be than by your side.”  Jaskier said simply, as if he hadn’t just casually stated Geralt’s greatest wish. 

Geralt felt yearning rip through him.  He could have this.  He could have Jaskier by his side for the rest of his life.  He just needed to be brave enough to tell him the truth.  And selfish enough to ask him to give up his prospects to follow a witcher.

Geralt awoke at dawn the next morning, as usual.  What was unusual was that he slept deeply and well, dropping off easily to the soft, familiar sound of Jaskier’s breathing and staying asleep due to the comfort of his presence in their shared room.

Geralt carefully sat up and stretched, testing how far he could push himself.  He still felt weak, but Nenneke had told him it would take time for him to feel steadier given the severity of the wound.  Still, after three days of rest and the balm of Jaskier’s presence, Geralt felt steady enough to get out of bed and take care of his morning ablutions without help.  He didn’t think he could manage the trip down into the underground baths, but he could wipe himself down with the cloth and basin provided.  Perhaps later he could get outside for a walk around the gardens.

Once he was cleaned up, Geralt changed into a fresh tunic and a pair of loose trousers, the uniform for all of Nenneke’s patients, and settled into the armchair to wait for Jaskier to wake up. 

He felt calmer this morning, settled by both Jaskier’s presence and his open display of affection.  Jaskier, a Dominant, had even knelt at Geralt’s feet he was so overcome.  Jaskier was unlike any other Dominant, any other person, Geralt had ever encountered.  He was never afraid of Geralt, nor did he deride him for his numerous failings.  Even when Jaskier was upset with him, the uncharacteristic blow up in Oxenfurt excepted, he would explain why and offer Geralt a chance to either provide a reason for his behavior or to modify it.

As he sat in that armchair, warm and comfortable, surrounded by the smells and sounds of Jaskier, he knew he could tell him the truth.  He wanted to tell him the truth, wanted to confess everything and let Jaskier take care of him, to guide him down in the sweet relief of subspace.  He even imagined, if it were Jaskier guiding him, it might not have to hurt.

But Geralt couldn’t ignore the reality of the situation. 

He was a witcher, an abomination.  As a submissive, he was appalling.  Violent, disfigured, and lacking in any formal training, he was hardly the type of submissive Jaskier could proudly claim as his own.  Jaskier was a respected professor at Oxenfurt.  A fucking Viscount with a vast hereditary holding.  He needed, deserved, a submissive who knew how to support him in all aspects of his life, not a broken down submissive who needed his care.

Objectively, Geralt knew it made no sense.  That it would be unforgivably selfish of him to take advantage of Jaskier’s affection to burden him with Geralt’s care and keeping. 

But what if that’s what he wants?  What if he wants to take care of me?

A small voice inside Geralt offered up that thought.  A long ignored, beaten down part of himself was hesitantly, cautiously, offering up a spark of hope.  The thought that maybe, just maybe, Geralt could have something better out of his life than ritual beatings and stolen moments of affection.

Geralt was startled out of his musings, realizing for the first time it didn’t hurt to think anymore, by a soft knock at the door, followed by one of Nenneke’s silent apprentices bringing their breakfast.  She bowed slightly to Geralt and left, leaving the covered platter behind on the small table in the room.

Geralt rose, slowly, and walked over to investigate the offering.  It was simple fare, as expected from a medical ward, just two bowls of thick porridge and selection of honey, preserves, and dried fruit, but it smelled good and Geralt’s stomach growled in anticipation. 

Covering the bowls again, he quietly went over to Jaskier’s bed, not wanting his breakfast to get cold.  He hesitated, suddenly unsure if he should wake him, but he couldn’t risk Jaskier going hungry.  With a steadying breath, he knelt at Jaskier’s bedside and quietly called his name.  When his efforts were met with no reaction, Geralt tried calling louder, but Jaskier slept on.  He was usually a deep sleeper, and Geralt had never tried to actively wake him before.  When they were on the road, Jaskier always woke himself before Geralt finished packing up the camp.  

Geralt sat back on his heels, considering.  He couldn’t wake Jaskier like he was woken at Kaer Morhen when he overslept – dumping a pitcher of water on him would get both Jaskier and Neneke upset with him.  But calling his name hadn’t worked and Geralt didn’t want to startle him by yelling or looming over him.

He hesitated to touch Jaskier without Jaskier touching him first, he’d never done it before outside of emergencies, but maybe a gentle poke to his clothed shoulder would be all right?  That was neutral territory and one finger wasn’t a big intrusion.  He could always apologize if Jaskier were upset.

Resolved, he reached out and gently poked Jaskier’s shoulder, repeating the gesture with slightly increasing strength until Jaskier finally took a breath, stretched, and opened opening his eyes, blinking up at Geralt.  He smiled at Geralt, hair rumpled with sleep and eyes soft, and Geralt felt warmth bloom in his chest.

“Good morning, sunshine.”  Jaskier said, voice rough from sleep.

“Breakfast is here.  Didn’t want it to get cold.”  Geralt said.  He rose to his feet and retreated to the table, waiting for Jaskier.  He didn’t touch his bowl.

Jaskier twisted in his bed, stretching until his back cracked, before rising and shuffling over to the table.  He settled in next to Geralt and uncovered the platter, handing a bowl and spoon to Geralt before taking his own.  Humming happily, he added a bit of everything to his bowl, mixing it together into a colorful mess before digging in. 

Geralt watched him, a fond smile tugging at his lips.  Geralt had always been taught to treat food as nothing more than necessary fuel, but Jaskier always indulged with such pleasure.  Geralt looked down at his own bowl of plain porridge, picked up his spoon, and took a bite.  It was warm and filling, but lacking in flavor.  Which was fine, it did the job, but maybe a little honey would improve it?  Geralt remembered liking honey the few times he’d had it.  It would be an indulgence, but maybe this could be a little trial run.  Jaskier was always telling him he needed to take better care of himself and “enjoy the finer things in life.”

Geralt put down his spoon.  Jaskier glanced over, concerned, but then watched, a small, pleased smile on his face, as Geralt took the little pot of honey and added a small drizzle on top of his porridge. 

Porridge anointed, Geralt dug back in, making a pleased noise in the back of his throat at the taste of the honey.  It was as good as he remembered and greatly improved the flavor of the plain porridge. 

When he got through the first half of his serving, the honey flavor dissipated and only plain porridge remained.  He hesitated to add more, but then saw Jaskier nudge the honey pot over toward him, saw the approval in his eyes, and added another serving before finishing his meal.

He wanted to have his porridge with honey from now on.

Geralt and Jaskier spent several calm, happy days at the Temple of Melitele while  Geralt gained his strength back under Nenneke’s watchful eye. 

Peaceful sleep and three nourishing meals a day brought color back to his cheeks and his gaunt frame started to fill out again.  Jaskier had not been happy to hear of Geralt’s poor eating habits over the last month and had conspired with the cooks to ensure Geralt always received a large portion of his favorites at every meal, with a generous side of honey whenever appropriate.  Geralt scowled at the mothering, but inwardly preened under the attention.

On the third day following Jaskier’s arrival, after his daily exam and strict instructions to take it easy, Nenneke allowed Geralt to accompany Jaskier on a quiet ride down the poplar lined trails surrounding the Temple.  With a packed lunch in tow, which Jaskier insisted on carrying, they set off for the stables.  When they arrived, Roach was waiting for them, already tacked and gleaming with good health.  The Temple had excellent stables and lush pastures for the horses to graze, so Roach was enjoying her vacation to the fullest, but she was delighted to see Geralt, pushing her head into his chest and wuffling happily when he fed her a juicy, red apple.

Geralt looked up from Roach to see Jaskier adjusting the stirrup length on a small, black mare. 

“Where’s Potato?”  He asked, already afraid of the answer.

“I left him with the Countess de Stael.  I wanted to bring Roach for you and I didn’t trust myself to handle two horses on the road.  I’m just glad she didn’t try to buck me off!”  Jaskier said, bending down in front of the black mare to check if the newly adjusted stirrups were even.

Geralt felt a cold weight settle in his chest.  Jaskier had left his horse behind so that Geralt could have his.  Obviously, Geralt intended to have Jaskier ride Roach back to retrieve Potato, but that was exactly the sort of collateral damage Geralt was worried about.

“Forgive me, I didn’t mean to cost you your mount.”  Geralt said quietly, good mood evaporating. 

Jaskier must have heard the change in tone because he abandoned his task and came over to Geralt, laying a hand on his where he clutched Roach’s reins, right below his obscured submissive’s cuff.

“Potato is fine.  The Countess has a large pasture and he’s having the time of his life stuffing his face and playing with his herd mates all day.  She said I could leave him as long as I needed.”  He squeezed Geralt’s hand, waiting until Geralt met his gaze.  “I knew you wouldn’t rest easy unless you knew Roach was safe and she was the faster choice anyway.  There’s no harm done.”

Geralt still wasn’t sure, but he nodded, accepting the explanation.  With a smile and a pat to Geralt’s shoulder, Jaskier returned and finished readying his borrowed mare.  When both were ready, they led the horses out into the sunshine and mounted, heading off down the shady trail at an easy walk. 

They rode side by side in comfortable silence, listening to the birds in the trees and enjoying the crisp, autumnal air.  The poplar trees lining the trail were in full color and the sun shining through their yellow leaves made them appear to glow gold.  It was a gorgeous sight. 

After a few moments, Jaskier started to hum a simple, happy tune, occasionally peppering it with a few sung, wordless notes.  The familiarity of it soothed Geralt’s mind and he felt tension he hadn’t even realized he carried bleed out of his shoulders. 

They strolled until they eventually reached a small pond, willow branches hanging low and brushing the clear water.  Frogs chirruped and sprang back into the water as they approached, making tiny waves that disturbed the calm surface. 

It was the perfect spot for their lunch.  

Dismounting, Geralt tied the mares to a low hanging branch, ensuring each had enough room to graze, while Jaskier spread out the blanket he’d brought and laid out their lunch of dried meats, soft cheese, and fresh bread.

“May I?”  Jaskier asked when Geralt sat.  Geralt didn’t know what he was asking, but he wouldn’t deny Jaskier anything, so he nodded.

With a pleased smile, Jaskier cut open the largest of the breads and stuffed it full of meat and cheese, handing it to Geralt with a flourish.  “Eat up!”

Geralt nodded his thanks and devoured the sandwich, licking the remains of the soft cheese off his fingers when he was done.  He spotted Jaskier staring and Jaskier blushed, looking away. 

Geralt considered the remaining spread.  He’d just had a sandwich, but there was still food left and he was still hungry.  Was it greedy to take more?

Jaskier answered his unspoken question by laying aside his yet unfinished sandwich and making Geralt another with the remains of their picnic, handing it over with another pleased grin. 

“I like to see you with a good appetite.”  He said lightly.

Geralt didn’t know what to say, so he took a big bite of his sandwich to avoid the need to speak.  It was delicious.

After they finished eating, Geralt lay back on the blanket, arms crossed behind his head, and Jaskier took out his lute, quietly strumming it. 

“This is nice.”  Jaskier said.  “We should do this again.  A picnic, I mean.  I certainly don’t want another scare like that.”  Jaskier’s hands stilled on the strings.

Geralt wanted to ease the unhappy expression from Jaskier’s face, but he didn’t know what to say.  He never did.  So, instead, he reached out his hand and gently placed it on Jaskier’s bent knee, giving it a light squeeze.

Jaskier smiled down at him, sadness still pinching his eyes, but he laid a hand over Geralt’s and Geralt knew then he’d done the right thing. 

“If I had my wish, no harm would ever befall you again.”  Jaskier said, looking out over the pond. 

“I’m a witcher, Jaskier, I’ll always come to harm.”  Geralt said.

Jaskier hand tightened on Geralt’s.  “I know,” he said.  “I know, but I want to do everything I can to mitigate it.  To care for you.”

Geralt wanted to tell Jaskier right then, to lay himself bare for Jaskier’s inspection, but he restrained himself.  He still wasn’t sure if it was the right thing to do.   But he wanted to sure Jaskier knew how important he was to Geralt and how much his words were appreciated.

“I’m glad you’re here.  I like being with you.”  Geralt said.  He hoped the simple words would convey everything he felt but couldn’t say.

The soft smile Jaskier gave him said Jaskier had understood him perfectly.  He smiled up at him in return before closing his eyes and settling back, leaving his hand resting on Jaskier’s knee.  Jaskier resumed his strumming, singing softly over the notes, and Geralt let himself drift, warmed by the sun and the company.

That evening, Geralt led Jaskier down to the natural hot springs beneath the Temple.  Cut into the caverns below the Temple long before Nenneke’s time, the smooth, expansive pools steamed under the flickering torch light.  The apprentices only used the baths in the mornings and there were currently no other residential patients, so they would have the baths to themselves.

Until now, they had bathed in a copper tub hauled into their rooms, at first because Nenneke didn’t clear Geralt for the steaming, slippery, hot spring baths but then because Geralt wasn’t yet sure he wanted to share something that intimate with Jaskier.  Although they’d bathed in the same room, or even the same river, before, there’d either been a screen for privacy or they had bathed in sequence rather than together.  In the baths, that would be impossible.

But, after their picnic, after the days of gentle affection at the Temple and the years of steadfast camaraderie, Geralt was ready to share a bit more of himself with Jaskier, even if it meant baring his scars.

And so, after they returned and dined, Geralt led Jaskier down into the bowels of the Temple and showed him the baths. 

Jaskier gasped with wonder when he saw the ancient cavern.  The priestesses had worked hard over the decades – perhaps even centuries – making the baths comfortable and beautiful.  Intricate designs were cut into the walls showcasing the mythos of Melitele.  The natural pools had been smoothed at the edges to ensure no one would be scraped by the otherwise rough rock.  At the entrance to the cavern, a staircase had been hewn into the stone to allow even the most elderly residents to enter the baths easily and safely.

Once in the baths, there was ample space to spread out, with a choice of either shallows or deep water as high as Geralt’s chin.  In the shadowed back corner, a small waterfall burbled down into the pool, echoing pleasantly around the space.

After letting Jaskier take in the sight, Geralt guided him toward the changing area set off to the side.  It was nothing more than a simple, wooden structure, with cubbies for clothing and piles of fresh towels, but it would be the first time Geralt fully disrobed in front of Jaskier while in close quarters.

He knew the lash scars on his back could not be seen as anything other than what they were.

Standing back to back, they stripped down, leaving their clothes in separate cubbies.  Even though he’d resolved to share this with Jaskier, now that the moment had arrived, he felt the familiar pull of panic and shame.  What if Jaskier was disgusted?  Or left?  Geralt felt his shoulders tensing as he waited for Jaskier’s reaction to his scars. 

There was none.

“Ready?”  Jaskier asked, smiling.  There was a tightness around his eyes, a sadness in them, that said he had seen the scars and recognized them for what they were, but he didn’t comment.

Geralt nodded, shocked by the lack of negative reaction, and gestured for Jaskier to lead the way into the baths, snagging a small basin with a tub of cream and a straight razor on his way out.  After nearly a month without a shave, Geralt was ready to look like himself again.

Jaskier eagerly made his way into the deeper parts of the hot spring, wading in up to his chin and heaving a huge sigh of contentment as the hot water loosened his tight muscles.  He closed his eyes, groaning as he rolled his neck and shoulders. 

“I’m never leaving this place.”  Jaskier said contentedly.  “I don’t think I’ve ever been more comfortable in my life.”

Geralt hummed, lips quirking as he settled into the deep water next to Jaskier.

Jaskier suddenly opened his eyes, thrusting out his arm and pointing an accusatory finger at Geralt.  “How dare you hold out on me! We could have been having baths for days!”

Geralt felt his stomach drop.  He’d let his insecurities deprive Jaskier of something he enjoyed, something that gave him substantial benefit and pleasure.  All because he wasn’t ready to bare his scars. 

Pathetic.

Jaskier was grinning at Geralt, mock stern look slipping away, but his face fell when he saw Geralt’s reaction.

“Easy,” he said soothingly, “I didn’t mean it like that.  I was only teasing since I know how much you love baths.”  He reached out and laid a hand on Geralt’s shoulder, squeezing reassuringly. 

Geralt let out a breath, quirking a smile at Jaskier.  If Jaskier said it was meant in jest, then he would trust him.  He tipped his head back, resting it against the edge of the pool and closed his eyes.

“Nenneke didn’t want me to use the baths until she was sure I wouldn’t drown.”  Geralt said.

“I figured as much.”  Jaskier said, mirroring Geralt’s pose along the bath’s edge.  “I didn’t think anything less would keep you out of a bath this good.”

“I should have told you about them though.”  Geralt said.

Jaskier shook his head.  “It wouldn’t be the same without you.”  He opened one eye and poked Geralt’s side playfully.  “Besides, you’re the one who likes to boil himself.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow at him, deadpan, before swiping a wave of the steaming water straight into Jaskier’s face.

Jaskier froze.  Then broke out into a huge grin.  “Oh, it’s on now!” 

He splashed Geralt with both hands, getting water all over his face and into his ears.  Geralt shook himself, spraying water everywhere, and then pounced, dragging Jaskier down into the deep water. 

They tussled, pushing each other down, splashing, and getting water everywhere.  Jaskier’s laughter rang out, echoing around the chamber, and Geralt couldn’t stop smiling, feeling lighter than he had in years.  Something about Jaskier made him feel it was all right to play.

Finally exhausted, Jaskier pat the surface of the water, yielding.  Geralt let him up, grinning unrestrainedly at Jaskier look of amused chagrin. 

“I bet you used to do that to Eskel.”  Jaskier said, still breathing heavily from their play fight.

Geralt sent him a smug look.  “Aye, and he never won either.”

“Yeah, I bet he let you win.”  Jaskier teased, then made an exaggerated gasp of mock offense when Geralt sent another splash his way. “You are such a little brother!” 

Geralt threw an obscene gesture over his shoulder as he turned and waded back toward the shallows to retrieve the shaving basin he’d left on the edge by the staircase.  It was only after he’d retrieved it that he realized he’d bared his back again without thinking.  And without consequence or comment.

Jaskier was a far better man than Geralt deserved, and he was everything he needed.

Putting the thought aside for now, Geralt filled the little basin and wet the straight razor.  As he reached for the little tub of cream, Jaskier put his hand on it first, looking up at Geralt with an odd expression Geralt couldn’t quite place.

“Will you allow me to do it for you?”  Jaskier asked. 

“Why?”  Geralt was expecting an answer about safety or the lack of a looking glass to guide him, but Jaskier surprised him again.

“Because I want to.”  He said simply.

Geralt felt as if he were standing on a precipice, as if whatever he chose would set the course of everything to come. 

He decided he’d rather let Jaskier in than push him away.

“All right,” he said, shifting over to sit against the wall, tilting his head up and baring his throat.  “I’m all yours.”

He heard Jaskier take in a shaky breath and then haul himself out of the bath to sit behind Geralt, knees bracketing his shoulders.  He heard Jaskier take the cream and lather it between his hands before gently, reverently, applying it to Geralt’s beard and throat. 

Geralt kept his eyes closed, chin tilted up toward Jaskier, and let himself drift, paying attention only to the feel of Jaskier’s soft, warm hands massaging his face and stroking down over his neck.  He let out a hum of contentment, relaxing fully into the moment.  The first tendrils of subspace curled around his mind, relaxing him further.  He didn’t give in, couldn’t really, not without an active guide, but he didn’t fight them either.

He’d made his decision.

He heard the snick of the straight razor as Jaskier opened it.  Jaskier placed a hand on his cheek and said, “I’m going to start here, all right?”

Geralt hummed his assent, but didn’t move.

Jaskier started on his right cheek, using his left hand to pull the skin taught before carefully sweeping the sharp blade down, following the grain of the hair.  He repeated the process on both sides until Geralt’s face was smooth.  Then, gently placing a hand on Geralt’s chin, he tilted his head to the side, exposing his throat to the blade. 

“All right?”  He asked, checking in.

Geralt hummed, too deeply relaxed to speak.

“Good.”  Jaskier said, a raw edge to his voice.  “That’s very good.”

Jaskier repeated the process on his throat, carefully running the straight razor over Geralt’s throat.  Geralt sank into the sensation, into the trust inherent in letting Jaskier’s run a blade over his bared throat, and let Jaskier take care of him.

Through his relaxed daze, Geralt felt Jaskier wrap a warm, wet towel around his freshly shaved face, softly patting away the last traces of the cream.  He felt relaxed enough to sleep, his head falling to rest on Jaskier’s thigh.

He felt a gentle hand card through his hair before tugging slightly, bringing him back to awareness.

“Are you ready to get out?”  Jaskier asked.

Geralt hummed, leaning forward and getting to his feet before stepping up out of the bath.  He caught the towel as it fell off his face, tossing it into the wash baskets provided off to the side.  He stretched, twisting his torso and reaching his arms up over his head. 

Jaskier tossed a dry towel at his head.  “Come on, dry off and you can go sleep.”

Geralt did, but not before snapping the towel at Jaskier in retaliation.

As they walked back up toward their rooms in comfortable, relaxed silence, Geralt couldn’t imagine ever again living without Jaskier.

The next morning, Nenneke cleared Geralt to leave the medical ward with the caveat that he must engage in regular, therapeutic subspace or risk undoing all of her hard work healing his mind. 

“Remember, Geralt, if you continue as you were, your mind will never heal properly and the next wound it suffers may well be your last.”  Nenneke said sternly. 

“I understand.”  Geralt said.  And he did.  In their many sessions, Nenneke had shown him how the systemic, cumulative deprivation he’d undergone over the past decades had weakened his mind.  It appeared strong because he could tolerate the deprivation, but with his resources dedicated only to withstanding that, there was nothing left to defend him from outside attacks or heal his mind from wounds.

She looked at him long and hard, studying him in silence before finally smiling, nodding in approval.

“You’ve decided to tell him.  To live true to your nature.”  She said.  It wasn’t a question.

Geralt smiled almost shyly.  “Aye, Nenneke.  I’m going to tell him before we leave.  If he’ll have me, I’ll return with him to Oxenfurt for the winter.  If he won’t, I’ll return to Kaer Morhen, but I’ll tell Vesemir your findings and work with him to develop a new plan.  Perhaps Eskel would be willing to help.”

Nenneke waved her hand to cut off his spiraling thoughts.  “He’ll have you.”  Nenneke said without a trace of doubt.  “You’re good for each other.”

Geralt sighed.  “I know he’s good for me.  I just hope one day I’ll be able to be good for him too.”

“You already are, my boy.”  Nenneke said.  “You’re just too damn stubborn to see it.”

Geralt huffed, but didn’t argue.  He knew better than to challenge Nenneke.

“I hope you’re right.”  He said.

“I always am.”  She said, cocking an eyebrow at him.  “Now, get out of here.  And remember you can visit even if you don’t need medical care.”

Geralt stood and bowed to Nenneke, baring his neck to her to show his respect and gratitude.  And his trust.

“Thank you, Nenneke.  I couldn’t survive without you.”

“Don’t you forget it.”  She said, lips quirking into a grin before shooing him out the door with a proud look on her ancient face.

Geralt found Jaskier in the gardens, leaning back against one of the ancient poplar trees and strumming his lute for an audience of songbirds.  A fallen, golden leaf clung to his hair at a jaunty angle.  It was adorable, something he had never thought one could associate with a Dominant.  But Jaskier always managed to surprise him.

Geralt knew what he needed to do.  What he wanted to do.  But lingering doubts reared up, shortening his breath and making his heart pound in his chest.  What if Jaskier left?  What if he didn’t want to travel with Geralt anymore after he knew?  Geralt would understand if Jaskier didn’t want to be his Dominant, but he would never forgive himself if revealing his secret cost him his only friend. 

But, no matter the consequences, he needed to tell Jaskier the truth.  He owed him at least that much.

Geralt took a deep, fortifying breath, grateful for the umpteenth time that Jaskier could neither hear his heartbeat nor smell his fear.  

He walked up to Jaskier on silent feet, letting the delicate tune Jaskier was strumming calm him, even if only a little.  He deliberately shuffled his feet through the leaves as he drew closer to alert Jaskier to his approach, drawing his attention away from his lute and up toward Geralt.

Jaskier smiled at him, laying a hand over the strings to stop their vibration.

“How was your exam?”

Geralt moved to sit beside Jaskier, resting his back against the trunk.

“She cleared me to leave.”  Geralt said.

“That’s wonderful news!  It’s already late in the autumn, so will you return to Kaer Morhen from here or do you have other plans?”  Jaskier asked, turning to look at Geralt with a pleased grin.

Geralt’s stomach clenched with nerves and he twisted his fingers together, trying to divert his anxious energy away from his voice.  He swallowed, clenching his jaw before forcing it to relax.

“I had a thought to spend at least part of the winter in Oxenfurt.  With you.  If you’ll have me.”  Geralt said slowly, stumbling slightly over the words.

Jaskier turned all the way to face him, coming up to rest on his knees and grabbing one of Geralt’s hands in excitement.  “I would love that!  There’s plenty of room in my quarters, or I’m sure we can find you a room of your own if you’d prefer.” 

Jaskier bounced on his knees, beaming.  “Oh, there’s so much I want to show you!  Seminars, concerts, events, it’s a wonderful time to be in the city!  And the Yuletide celebration is really special.  Oxenfurt does a communal roast and the meat is to die for, you’re going to love it.”

Geralt felt himself grinning in return, Jaskier’s excitement contagious.  He felt warmed through by the enthusiastic response. 

But he needed to tell Jaskier the truth.

The grin dropped off Geralt’s face as his anxiety rose again, clutching his chest with cold fingers and sealing off his throat.  He looked down, closed his eyes and took a big breath through his nose.

Jaskier saw the abrupt shift in mood and was immediately concerned.  “Geralt?  Are you all right?  You don’t have to participate in anything you don’t want to, I’m happy just to have your company.”

Geralt shook his head.  “It’s not that, it all sounds nice.”  Geralt felt his words dying in his throat, a lifetime prohibition on speaking his secret warring with his need, his desire, to tell Jaskier who he was.  Everything he was.

Geralt thought back over the years.  Over the last few days.  Jaskier had never shown him anything but care, affection, and loyalty. 

He deserved the truth.

And, more importantly, Geralt wanted to tell him.

His voice unlocked and he took a shaky breath in, turning and forcing himself to meet Jaskier’s eyes.  If he was going to tell him such a fundamental truth, such a closely guarded secret, he would do it with his eyes up and his head unbowed.

“There’s something I need to tell you, something I’ve hidden from you.”  Geralt said slowly. 

Jaskier nodded encouragingly, giving Geralt’s hand a gentle squeeze. 

“You can tell me anything.” 

Geralt gave him a tight smile, looking away before taking another sharp breath and forcing his eyes up to meet Jaskier’s again.  Cold panic flooded his chest but he pushed through it. 

He felt himself shaking.

He gripped Jaskier’s hand where it rested in his, drawing strength from the contact and from the unwavering, open, affectionate gaze Jaskier graced him with.

With a shaking voice, his eyes locked on Jaskier’s, he said,

“I’m a submissive.”

He watched Jaskier’s eyes widen at the revelation and could almost see Jaskier going over their time together, slotting clues into place. 

“Oh.  Oh.”  Jaskier breathed.  “I think I knew that and didn’t realize it.”

Geralt couldn’t take it anymore and looked away, tension ratcheting up in his body as he waited for Jaskier’s judgment. 

He heard Jaskier shift toward him and flinched, bracing himself for a blow.

He should have known better by now.

Jaskier slowly, gently, reached out and placed a firm hand on the back of Geralt’s neck, drawing their foreheads together.

“Thank you.”  He said, voice rich with emotion.

“For what?”

“For trusting me.” 

Geralt felt a lifelong tension release and he slumped forward, letting Jaskier support his weight.  Jaskier guided him, rearranging them so they leaned back against the tree with Geralt’s head on his shoulder and Jaskier’s hand resting over Geralt’s mark, hidden under the tattoo and the ancient burn scar.

They sat there, warmed by the autumn sun, and there were no secrets left between them. 

Chapter Text

Geralt and Jaskier arrived in Oxenfurt a week after leaving the Temple of Melitele in Ellander.  Nenneke had given them a warm send off and provisioned them generously for the journey.  Geralt suspected she had also given Jaskier some advice as she had embraced him for a long moment before they left, something she was not typically inclined to do. 

After stabling Roach and Potato – whom they had retrieved from the Countess de Stael on their way – in the lavish stables of Oxenfurt University, Jaskier led Geralt up to his chambers.

Other than his brief stay after his prison term, Geralt had never seen Jaskier’s rooms.  Upon entering, he saw the bed he’d occupied was gone, replaced by a comfortable looking seating area comprised of a plush couch and a pair of large, wingback arm chairs.  A fire was burning merrily in the hearth and a platter of meats, cheeses, and bread sat on the table before the sofa.  A pitcher of cool water and a flagon of ale rested in an ice bucket beside the table. 

Jaskier hummed happily upon seeing the set up.  “Jan certainly knows how to spoil a man.”

“Jan?”  Geralt asked, suddenly worried he might not be Jaskier’s only guest.

“The butler in charge of this wing.  This is where all the professors have their permanent chambers and Jan is charged with maintaining the rooms and their occupants.  He’s an older man and a good, steady sort.  I think you’ll like him.  I’ll introduce you later.”  Jaskier said as he examined the offerings on the platter before pouring a tall glass of water each for himself and for Geralt.

Geralt was uncomfortable with the idea of servants having free access to the chambers, as he’d never experienced that before, but he shoved the feeling aside.  These were Jaskier’s chambers and he had no right to dictate anything about how Jaskier wanted to run his home.

“Are there any other servants?”  Geralt asked, taking the offered water.  He could at least be prepared.

“There are two maids assigned to this group of rooms, Lena, an older woman, and Maja, her granddaughter, who works as the scullery maid.  You might also see some of the kitchen maids or hall boys if they bring up any meals.  The cook, Mrs. Pawlak, can make anything you fancy, you just need to let her know.”  Jaskier drained his glass and set it back down on the table.  “Or, let me know and I’ll tell her.”

Geralt nodded, taking a sip of his water.  It was cool and refreshing, but nerves roiled his stomach and he set the rest aside untouched.

“Come, I’ll show you the rest.”  Jaskier said as he led the way through an ornate, wooden door at the back of the sitting room.

Geralt followed him through the door and into what was obviously the bedchamber.  A large, four-poster bed sat in the center of the room before a truly massive hearth.  The outer wall, overlooking the gardens, was almost entirely made of glass and the afternoon sun lit the room.

Jaskier placed his pack and lute case down on top of the dresser and gestured for Geralt to do the same. 

“I had them bring up an armor rack if you want to use it.”  Jaskier said, pointing out the wooden stand. 

Geralt felt inexplicably warmed by the small gesture.  It was obvious Jaskier really did want him here. 

“There’s a small bathing chamber in here,” Jaskier said, opening the door on the wall opposite the windows, “and a communal bath in the basement of the professor’s wing as well.  If you want the bath filled, just ring the bell,” he pointed out the bell rope hanging from the ceiling in the corner of the bedchamber, “and Lena or Maja will take care of it.”

Geralt felt overwhelmed by the fine quarters.  He’d been in rooms as nice as these before, and some even nicer, but it was always part of a contract and never as a guest.  He wanted to be sure he never did anything to cause trouble for Jaskier or make him regret allowing Geralt to stay.

Jaskier must have seen the tension rising in him because he abandoned the tour and came over to stand in front of Geralt, taking one of his hands and leading him to sit down next to him on the window seat. 

“I know this is a big change from your usual winters, but I want you to treat this as your home too.  Anything in here is yours to use and Jan, Lena, and Maja are here to help and serve you.  I already told them you’re a witcher, so you don’t need to worry they’ll be shocked.  They’re all good people and I trust them.”  Jaskier squeezed the hand he held, smiling softly at Geralt. 

Geralt felt some of his agitation ease and he let out a breath, allowing himself to lean slightly into Jaskier.  Jaskier’s smile widened and he wrapped an arm around Geralt, pressing a quick kiss to his temple.

Geralt froze, no one had ever done that to him before. 

Jaskier must have noticed his sudden tension.  “Geralt?  Was that all right or would you rather I stop?”

Geralt considered it.  It was new and a bit unsettling, but also nice?  It certainly didn’t hurt.

“It was fine,” he said finally.  “Just unexpected.”

Jaskier’s smile took on a sad edge, but he didn’t push it.  “All right, but please tell me if I ever do something to make you uncomfortable.” 

He stood and straightened his doublet.  “Now, I’m going to check us in with the matron so she knows we’re here and can tell Cook to add us to the meal roster.  Why don’t you have a bath while I do that?  I saw it was filled when I poked my head in earlier, so Jan must have taken care of that too.  It’s a copper tub, so a little Igni will warm it back up if it’s gone cold.”

Geralt nodded, grateful Jaskier didn’t need him accompany him on his visit the matron.  He had a lot to take in already and just being back in the city again was itself a strain on his control.  He didn’t think he could handle dealing with a stranger, especially since he suspected the matron was the unpleasant woman he’d spoken to when he was here last.

Jaskier smiled, clapping a hand on his shoulder, and then left, closing the door softly behind him.

Geralt stood and shed his armor, arranging it over the rack to be cleaned and oiled later.  He rarely had the use of one, so he planned to use the opportunity to take his armor apart and give it a complete inspection.  He rested his swords in the corner behind the rack, hiding them from view.

Pulling out the spare outfit from his pack, Geralt retreated to the bathing chamber, shutting the door and bolting it.  He dropped his dirty clothes into the wash basin and sank into the water after giving it a boost with Igni to get it back to scalding temperature. 

While the hot water did wonders for his sore muscles, he was too anxious to sit and soak in the new environment without Jaskier there as a buffer for any servants who might appear.  He tried to relax, but gave it up as a lost cause, instead grabbing a bar of oil soap and a cloth from the basket attached to the bath and giving himself a thorough scrubbing.  He rummaged through the basket but didn’t find a razor, so he simply oiled his newly regrown beard along with his hair and left it at that.

Rising, he grabbed a fresh towel from the provided pile and roughly dried himself, twisting his long hair in the towel to wring out the water before redressing in his spare clothes.

He knew Jaskier would want a bath too, but the water was already brown from the filth he’s scrubbed off.  He couldn’t leave Jaskier dirty bath water in his own home.  Geralt cast a look about the room, hoping to find a drain or a bucket.  He was in luck, in the corner of the room, he found a covered drain.  Indoor drains were uncommon, but in buildings as lavish as Oxenfurt University, the newest plumbing technology could sometimes be found. 

With a grunt of effort, Geralt pushed the copper tub across the floor toward the drain and carefully tipped it over to slowly empty the dirty water.  Once the tub was empty, he moved it back to its former location and wiped down the inside with his towel to remove any remaining traces of dirt or soap. 

Despite having the drain, Geralt was not lucky enough for the room to have a pump.  He would have to call for one of the maids to fill the tub.  Or maybe they would tell him where to find the well and he could do it himself?  He hoped they would allow the latter.

Geralt’s heart raced as he went out to bedchamber and pulled the thick bell rope.  He didn’t know how long it would take to get a response, so he waited in the front room, pacing, wet hair dripping down his fresh tunic.  Maybe he shouldn’t have called?  He didn’t want to upset the servants when they saw him instead of Jaskier. 

Before his thoughts could spiral too much, there was a sharp rap on the door and an older woman entered, grey hair tied back tightly under a linen cap, her maid’s uniform neat and pressed.  Her eyes were clear and her gaze strong. 

“You must be Master Geralt,” she said.  “I am Lena, the head housemaid for the professor’s wing.  How may I be of service?”

Geralt blinked, unused to such a normal, courteous greeting from a human.  He shook himself out of it. “I need to refill the bath water.  Could you please tell me where to find the well?”

Lena smiled at him as if he’d said something incredibly adorable.  “Oh no, Master Geralt, we’ll take care of that for you.  I’ll send two of the hall boys up with some bath water momentarily.  May I get you anything else?”

“No, thank you.”  Geralt said quietly, unsure how to handle being treated as if he were just a regular guest, entitled to all the courtesies and services of his host.  He almost would have preferred it if she sneered at him or cursed him.  That at least he knew how to deal with.

Lena smiled, bowing her head, and left.  He could hear her calling for the hall boys and the resulting scurry of small feet down the distant servant’s staircase.  He imagined they’d be back soon, so he stayed in the front room and tried not to pace.

To distract himself, he scanned the titles of the thick tomes filling the large bookshelves lining the walls of the room.  He had half-expected to see mostly music theory titles, but the books were on a variety of subjects.  He almost reached out for one, but pulled his hand back.  Jaskier had said he could use anything in the room, but the books were likely valuable and he didn’t want to risk damaging anything.  It wasn’t as if he were a scholar entitled to the knowledge held within them anyway.  It would be wasted on one such as him.

He turned away from the shelves and tried to settle on one of the armchairs, back straight and hands resting on his knees.  His foot bounced and he forced it to still. 

Another sharp rap on the door nearly made him jump, but he rose to his feet just in time for the hall boys to open the door, each hauling two large buckets of water. 

One of them paled when he saw Geralt, almost dropping his buckets, but the other, older boy swiftly covered for him.

“May we enter to fill the bath, Master?”  The older boy asked.

Geralt nodded, attempting to appear as unintimidating as possible.  The older boy marched into the bathing chamber and the younger one followed, eyes flicking up and away from Geralt to keep him in sight.  That at least was a common reaction.

Geralt saw there were four buckets remaining in the hallway and went to retrieve them, carefully holding two in each hand.  The older boy looked aghast when he saw Geralt carrying in the buckets.

“My Lord, please, let me do that for you,” he said, moving to take the buckets.

Geralt simply lifted them out of his reach.  “I’m no lord and I don’t need to be waited on.  I appreciate your help and your efforts, but they are better spent on the other residents.”  He said quietly, keeping his voice low and calm.

The boy frowned, but didn’t argue.  “If you’re sure, my Lord.”

“Just Geralt will do.” 

“As you wish, Master Geralt.”  The boy said, bowing before gesturing for his partner to follow him.  “Please leave the buckets outside when you’re finished.”

Geralt let out a breath as soon as the door closed behind them, relieved to be alone again.  He dumped the last four buckets into the tub.  The water felt warm enough, but he would leave it to Jaskier to judge the temperature.  He could always heat it more for him, but cooling it would involve asking for more water and he’d rather avoid any further interactions with the servants.

Satisfied the bath was ready for Jaskier, Geralt returned to the sitting room, this time trying out the couch.  He didn’t know what to do with himself.  He studied the platter of food laid out on the table.  His stomach cramped, breakfast a distant memory, but he didn’t want to partake without Jaskier.  

He waited.

Finally, after what felt like an age, Jaskier returned.  He smiled when he saw Geralt and came over to sit down next to him on the couch. 

“We’re all set with the matron,” he said, handing Geralt a large iron key.  “There’s your copy of the key to the rooms.  Have you eaten yet?” 

Geralt shook his head.

“Well, let’s fix that then.”  Jaskier said and made Geralt a sandwich heaping with meats and cheeses.  “You know, you didn’t have to wait for me,” he said, handing the sandwich over.  “It’s sweet that you did, but don’t stand on ceremony.  This is your home for the winter too.”

Geralt hummed, tucking into his sandwich to avoid needing to answer.  Jaskier shook his head fondly and devoured his own sandwich.  Geralt finished his first and was still hungry.  Seeing the large selection of food still remaining on the platter, Geralt reached for another roll, keeping an eye on Jaskier’s reaction in case he needed to abort, and prepared another sandwich. 

“Jan doesn’t usually bring in platters like this unless I ask or I miss a meal in the dining hall, but Cook is happy to prepare a snack for you anytime you want.  You can just ring the bell and someone will come take your order.  Or I can ask that Cook send up afternoon platters regularly if you’d prefer.”  Jaskier said, pleased Geralt was partaking freely of the offered food.

Geralt felt a curl of anxiety at the thought of eating in the dining hall.  “Are we expected to take our meals in the dining hall?”

“No, not really.  That’s just been my practice since I prefer not to eat alone.  But plenty of professors dine at odd hours or prefer to eat in their quarters.  It’s no problem at all if you prefer to eat here, there’s even a dining table ready for just such an event.”  Jaskier said, pointing out the small dining table pushed up against the far wall.  “I would like to introduce you to the other professors so you’re familiar with them before running into them in the halls, but I can either do that tonight at dinner or another day, whichever you prefer.”

Geralt hesitated.  He felt off-balance from the events of the day so far already and didn’t feel prepared to weather an entire meal’s worth of social engagement, especially in a large group setting.  But Jaskier was his host and he didn’t want to disappoint him right away.

He swallowed hard, forcing his jaw to unlock.  “We can go tonight,” he said, exerting as much control as he could muster to keep his voice level and neutral.

He started when Jaskier placed a hand on his where it was fisted into the fabric of his trousers.  He hadn’t even realized he’d been doing that.  His control must be more frayed than he thought. 

Jaskier sighed, face pinched.  “Geralt, I want to make something very clear to you.”  

Geralt felt his stomach drop out at those words.  Had he fucked this up already?

“I only want you to do things you’re comfortable doing.  I will not be upset if you refuse an offer, but I will be upset if you force yourself into doing something just to please me.”  Jaskier said firmly, rubbing his thumb over Geralt’s whitened knuckles. 

“Would you rather meet the others another night?”  Jaskier asked.

“Tonight is fine,”  Geralt said, looking down.  Shame flooded him.  He didn’t come here to be a burden on Jaskier.  Or to be coddled.

“That’s not what I asked.  Would you be more comfortable if we waited?  Whatever you prefer is fine, but I need to know the truth.”  Jaskier’s tone was level and without judgment.

Geralt didn’t know what the right answer was.  He didn’t want to be a burden, but Jaskier had asked for the truth and so he wouldn’t lie to him.

“I would prefer to go another time,”  Geralt said.   Each word felt like a failure.

Jaskier smiled at him, squeezing his hand.  “Thank you for telling me.  I’ll ask Jan to have our dinner brought up here and we can go another day.  Perhaps lunch tomorrow.  That’s usually a quieter meal.”  Jaskier said as he popped the last bite of his sandwich into his mouth and stood, stretching. 

“Now, I think it’s time for me to have a bath.  I smell far too much like Potato.”  Jaskier said with a slight grimace. 

“I had the bathwater changed,”  Geralt said quietly, eyes still down.  He was glad he’d at least done something for Jaskier today.

Jaskier beamed at him.  “That was very thoughtful of you, Geralt, thank you.”  Geralt felt the anxious knot in his chest ease.  He’d managed to do something right at least.

Jaskier headed toward the bathing chamber but stopped, poking his head back into the room.  “Who helped you?”

“Lena.  And some hall boys.  They wouldn’t let me do it myself.”  Geralt said, hoping he’d done it properly. 

“Oh, good, you’ve met Lena then.  She’s a doll.  And it’s their job to help you and your job to sit back and be pampered for the winter!”  Jaskier said cheerfully over his shoulder as he continued on toward the bathing chamber.  Geralt could hear him undressing and settling into the bath with a groan.

Geralt sat back on the couch, again unsure what to do with himself.  At least Jaskier was usually quick in the bath.

He looked around the room.  Saw the crumbs on the table from their lunch and brushed them off into his hand, dumping the pile into the small wastebasket.  He sat back again. 

Waited. 

Usually, he had a contract to prepare for, or potion stocks to replenish, or training exercises to do.  In the winter at Kaer Morhen, there was plenty to do hunting, gathering wood, and repairing the failing castle walls.  It was the first time in his life Geralt could remember being idle.

It was unsettling.

He hoped Jaskier would be done soon.

Thinking of Kaer Morhen reminded him of the uncomfortable consequence of his decision to stay in Oxenfurt – he needed to get word to Vesemir.  To tell him he’d found another way to meet his body’s needs.  He wished he could ignore the problem and just say nothing, but then Vesemir, Lambert, and Eskel would think him dead and he couldn’t allow them to grieve for him without cause.

It was too late in the season to send a messenger.  The pass to Kaer Morhen would freeze long before a messenger dispatched from here could make it to the village at the base of the mountain, so Vesemir would be unable to retrieve the missive until spring.  That meant a magical solution was required, and even then, he needed to hurry.  A magical messenger could reach one of his brothers before they made it to Kaer Morhen, but no messenger could pierce its wards.

Filled with a sudden sense of urgency, Geralt tapped his fingers on his knee as he waited for Jaskier to finish.  He could leave and explore the marketplace on his own in hopes of finding a mage, but he didn’t want to risk running into trouble wandering the University’s halls alone. 

Geralt jumped to his feet when Jaskier reappeared, hair still damp from his bath. 

“I need to find a mage to send word to Kaer Morhen.  It needs to reach Lambert or Eskel before they get there for the winter or the message won’t make it through the wards.”  Geralt blurted out, anxiety tightening his tone.  He’d left it too long and now he might hurt his brothers or Vesemir because of it.

Jaskier must have sensed the urgency because he immediately went to retrieve his boots.  “All right, let’s go to the market.  There’s a mage there and she should be able to help us.”

Jaskier finished lacing his boots and led Geralt out the door, this time heading out past the reception area and through the main gate rather than through the stables.  Geralt saw the matron’s head whip up as he passed.  She wasn’t surprised to see him, as Jaskier had just checked him in as an overwintering guest, but her suspicious gaze followed him until he passed out of her sight.  He had been right; it was the woman from before.  He would need to do his best to avoid crossing her path.

Just outside the University walls, the bustling marketplace was full of activity as hawkers and merchants plied their wares.  It was a bright, autumn day and the stalls were packed with shoppers eager to replenish their stores before winter.  Geralt heard the usual gasps and snide remarks as he passed, but he tried to ignore them, focusing only on Jaskier as he followed him through the crowd.

At the far side of the square, overlooking the harbor, they found the mage.  A handsome woman in her middle age, Lady Aleksandra, as she introduced herself, had attended Aretuza as a girl, but chose to return home just before graduation instead of ascending and going to serve in a court.  Consequently, Geralt imagined her looks were natural and her fertility intact, as, while beautiful, she had clearly aged.  He had the passing thought to mention her to Yennefer as a potential supporter of her goals if he ever saw the sorceress again.

“How may I help you?”  Lady Aleksandra asked.

“I need a way to transmit a message, quickly, to one of my brothers.  I don’t know where either one is exactly, but I know both are on their way north to Kaer Morhen.”  Geralt said.

Lady Aleksandra nodded, reaching behind her and pulling out a small sheaf of parchment and a quill and inkpot.  “Sounds like a corvid will do the trick.  We can direct it to bring the message to one brother and then the other if he can’t find the first.  Would you like your brother to be able to respond?”

Geralt nodded.

“Very good.  I’ll send along a piece of charcoal and another parchment for his response.  Shall I have the reply appear to you directly?”

Geralt nodded again.

“As you wish.  Please fill out your message while I prepare the corvid and then I’ll need you to direct it to your brothers.”

Geralt took the parchment and gently held the fragile quill in his hand, using only the minimum amount of ink.  He didn’t write often, so he took care to form his words carefully and clearly, echoes of Kaer Morhen’s now-deceased literacy master’s rattan cane aching across his knuckles.

Finished, he carefully capped the ink and handed the parchment to Jaskier to review.  Jaskier blinked at him, surprised, but scanned the short message.

I am well.  I am going to spend the winter at Oxenfurt with the Dominant of whom I spoke last winter.  He is a good man and can be trusted.  Please convey my regards and my apologies to Vesemir.  Provision for your reply is included.

-- Geralt

Jaskier gave Geralt a soft smile, gently nudging their shoulders together.  Lady Aleksandra held out her hand for the parchment and Jaskier rolled it tightly before handing it over.  She tucked the rolled note into a small tube along with the blank parchment and charcoal piece and attached the lot to the freshly-conjured corvid’s leg.

“Now, please instruct the corvid.  Give him the first name and then the second in the alternative.”

Geralt addressed the corvid.  “Messenger, convey your missive to Eskel, a witcher of Kaer Morhen, or, in the alternative, to Lambert, also a witcher of Kaer Morhen.”

The corvid’s eyes glowed and it cawed twice before snapping its wings back and taking off, disappearing through the wooden walls of the mage’s shop.

After paying for the corvid, Geralt and Jaskier made their way back to the University, this time walking along the harbor.  The sun was now low in the sky and the evening clouds were just starting to cover the horizon.

Jaskier led them down a small, woodland trail which looped around between the harbor and Oxenfurt’s walls.  Once away from the bustle of the harbor, they came across a stone bench in a small clearing.  There was no one else around at this late hour and, this close to the city, no drowners threatened to disturb them.  Jaskier led them over to the bench and sat down, patting the seat next to him. 

Geralt sat, waiting for Jaskier to speak.  All he could hear was birdsong and the sound of the water lapping the shore.  In the distance, the noise and smell of the city dominated, but their immediate surroundings were peaceful.  He was glad for the reprieve.

“Geralt, we didn’t have a chance to talk about this on the road here and I wanted to discuss this somewhere more neutral.  I saw how uncomfortable you were inside.  I hope that will change as you get used to it, but this is too important to wait.”  Jaskier said, resting his elbows on his thighs and staring off toward the water through the trees. 

Geralt felt his heart rate increase, nervous what Jaskier was about to say.  He was glad Jaskier wasn’t looking at him.

“I don’t know when your last drop was, but I imagine it’s been weeks.”  Jaskier said.  “You don’t have to tell me what you usually do to take care of your needs, but I wanted to make it clear that I am more than willing to help guide you down.  More than that, I want to help you, if you’ll have me.” 

Geralt looked at him, uncertain what to say.  Uncertain how to convey how much he wanted that without it being too much.

Jaskier hurried to fill the silence, words coming out in a rush.  “I don’t want to presume anything just because you told me you’re a submissive, but I want you to know that I would be honored to guide you down.  If you want.  Or, if not, I can help you with whatever you need to do it another way.  I’ve never seen you take someone to bed, so I’m not sure how you handle this normally, not that I’m asking you to tell me, but I want to be sure you’re taken care of.”

Jaskier abruptly cut himself off, flushing.  He looked painfully embarrassed.

Geralt forced himself to speak.  He didn’t know the right words, but he knew silence would be worse than anything he could say. 

“I want you to help me.”  Geralt said finally.

Jaskier leaned into him, taking his hand.  “There’s nothing I would like more.  I could even help you now?  Not here, obviously, back inside, I mean.  Or after dinner?  That's probably better in case you want to sleep afterwards.”  Jaskier said, the speed of his speech giving away his nerves. 

“After dinner would be good.”  Geralt said, relaxing into the contact.  He forced himself to be open, to be at least as brave and open as Jaskier.  “It’s been a long time since my last drop.  Months.  And Nenneke said I needed to enter subspace regularly to heal.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened.  “Months?  How--?” He cut himself off.  “No, not the point.  You can explain that if and when you want and I’m happy to hear anything you want to tell me, but I think the more important thing is to get you what you need as soon as possible, especially if Nenneke said you need it to heal.”

Geralt was relieved Jaskier didn’t push the issue.  He didn’t think he could handle talking about Vesemir, about the schedule, just yet.  He felt too raw, too exposed, too unbalanced, to even think about opening up on something so delicate.  

Jaskier clapped his hands on his knees and stood, holding out a hand to Geralt.

“Let’s head back then.  We can have dinner then get started.”

Geralt took his hand.

The corvid returned just as they finished dinner.  The abrupt appearance startled Jaskier badly, causing him to knock the thankfully empty gravy boat off the table, where it landed with a clatter on the stone floor. 

Geralt winced at the noise, but held out his arm for the bird and gently removed the tiny tub from its leg. 

“Thank you, Messenger.”  He said to the bird.  It bowed its head once and disappeared.

Geralt carefully unwrapped the response, laying it out flat on the table.  He huffed a laugh, a tight knot in his chest loosening.  He hadn’t even realized how afraid he’d been of what the reaction would be.

About fucking time.  You better bring the bastard here next winter. 

-- Lambert

Jaskier peered over his shoulder.  “Lambert seems lively.” 

“He’s an asshole.  Shortest temper of anyone I’ve ever met.  But if he’s on your side, he’ll defend you to his last breath.”  Geralt said, rerolling the scroll and tucking it back into the tube for safekeeping.

Jaskier hummed, draping his arms over Geralt’s shoulders from behind.  “Sounds like you’re all pretty different from each other.”

Geralt tensed at the contact, but slowly relaxed into it.  He wasn’t used to casual touching.  People were more likely to throw stones at him than touch him gently.  But he thought he might like the chance to get use to Jaskier’s touch.

“Hmm.  Lambert is as volatile as Eskel is steady.  And Eskel knows exactly where to push to make Lambert explode.  Drives Vesemir crazy.”  Geralt said, smiling at the memory.

“Well, if you ever want to bring me to meet them, I’d be more than happy to go.”  Jaskier said lightly.  “I’d love to meet your family.”

Geralt didn’t quite know how he felt about that.  He was pleased Jaskier wanted to meet his family, but he was far from ready for that to actually happen.  He feared his reaction to learning the truth about Vesemir’s schedule, but he also wanted to protect Vesemir.  Even if Vesemir had done him harm, as Nenneke had said, he was still the closest thing any of them had to a father and he knew Vesemir would never hurt him without cause.

His silence must have been telling because Jaskier changed topic.  Geralt was always grateful Jaskier could read him even when he couldn’t speak.  It was one of the many reasons Jaskier was a far better man than he.

“Would you like me to help you drop now?  Or shall we wait?”  Jaskier asked, stepping back.  “Or you’re free to change your mind if you want to do this another way.”

Geralt shook his head.  “Now is good.”  He rose and followed Jaskier back into the bed chamber. 

Excitement and anxiety rose in equal measures and he felt his chest tighten.  Except for when he was a child, newly presented, no one had ever guided his drops but Vesemir.  Even then, what Lambert and Eskel had done was far from a formal, guided drop.  This would be an entirely new experience.

Geralt didn’t remember seeing a wooden cross, or other restraints, or even a whip, anywhere in Jaskier’s chambers, but he was sure Jaskier was prepared with something given he’d offered to help.  He just hoped whatever Jaskier had planned didn’t do too much damage given he’d yet to meet the healer and see if they were prepared to treat a witcher.  At least Jaskier would probably bring the healer to him so he wouldn’t have to search.

Jaskier removed his boots and doublet, placing them neatly away. 

“Please, get comfortable.  I imagine you might fall asleep after this and I don’t want to have to disturb you.” 

Jaskier stripped off his chemise and replaced it with a loose sleeping tunic before exchanging his trousers for the matching loose pants.  Geralt frowned, but mirrored his actions, removing his boots and belt.  He didn’t have any sleeping clothes and he was already wearing his looser set of clothes.  After a moment, he unbound his hair, letting his hang loose over his shoulders, as it usually did when he slept.

Jaskier sat on the bed and pat the spot next to him when he saw Geralt was ready. 

“We’ll get you some sleeping clothes soon. I would have ordered them already, but I wasn’t sure what material you’d prefer.”

“You don’t need to do that.”

“I know, but I want to.”  Jaskier said.  “I want you to be as comfortable as possible while you’re here.  You deserve it, especially after all the hard work you do the rest of the year.”

Geralt wasn’t sure about that, but didn’t want to argue, so he let it go without comment.

“Now, I think something very simple for our first go at this will be best.  Do you agree?”

Geralt nodded.

“Good.”  Jaskier smiled at him.  “What’s your safeword?”

Geralt frowned, brow furrowing.  “My what?”

“Your safeword.  You know, the word you say if you need me to stop what I’m doing immediately.  A way to tell me you’re uncomfortable or overwhelmed.”

Geralt shook his head.  He’d never heard of such a thing.  Vesemir had never told him about it and he hadn’t been included in the classes where the Dominant and neutral trainees learned about handling submissives. 

Jaskier looked indescribably sad for a moment before resuming his lighter tone.  “That’s all right, why don’t you pick one now.  Something you can’t imagine saying in a scene.”

Geralt didn’t see the point in this, but he could tell it was important to Jaskier.

“Roach.”  He said.

“Excellent choice.  ‘Roach’ it is.”  Jaskier said.  “Is there anything that you absolutely don’t want me to do?  Any hard limits?”

Geralt frowned again, jaw clenching.  He didn’t know what to answer without disappointing Jaskier.  He decided on the truth.

“I don’t know.”  He felt his breathing increase.  He felt like he’d already failed.

Jaskier placed a hand on his.  “There’s no wrong answer, I just want to be sure you’re comfortable with everything we do.  So, here’s what we’ll do:  if you need me to stop immediately, you say ‘Roach’, but if you’re unsure about something and want to check in, but not necessarily stop everything, say ‘Potato’.  Can you do that for me?”

Geralt nodded. 

“Wonderful.”  Jaskier said, smiling at him.  “I want to know as soon as you’re uncomfortable or unsure, so use your words as often as you need, all right?”

Geralt nodded.  He didn’t understand this approach, but he could follow Jaskier’s lead if it made him happy.

“Good.”  Jaskier stroked a thumb over Geralt knuckles before releasing his hand.  He grabbed a pillow off the bed and placed it beside his feet on the floor.  “Please kneel on the pillow.”

Geralt slid off the bed and knelt on the pillow, back straight and hands on his knees.  He immediately felt more relaxed, the submissive pose signaling to his body that relief might finally be at hand.

“Excellent.  May I use my Voice to help guide you or would you prefer I refrain?  Either answer is fine, it’s entirely up to you.”

Geralt tensed again.  There were far too many questions he’d never been asked before.  Never considered. 

“I don’t know.  I’ve only ever been guided with Voice.”

“Then we’ll do it that way for now and we can experiment later to see what you’re more comfortable with.  If you change your mind, I can stop at any time.”

Geralt tensed, waiting to see what Jaskier’s method would be.  He didn’t see any instruments, so maybe Jaskier intended to strike him with his bare hands?  That seemed dangerous given Geralt’s far greater physical fortitude, but he knew better than to question a Dominant in the middle of a scene.

“Lean against my legs and rest your head on my thigh.”  Jaskier commanded, Dominant Voice strong and clear.

Geralt felt warmth fill him at the sound of Jaskier’s Voice.  He felt the compulsion, but he didn’t feel as if his will were overrun.  Giving in felt like a release, like an indulgence, not like a capitulation.  He felt as if his obedience were his to give and not Jaskier’s to command.  It made him want to obey every word.

Geralt leaned to his right, resting his weight on Jaskier’s legs and settled his head on Jaskier’s thigh.  He let his legs splay out of their tight position just a little to get more comfortable. 

“Good boy.  That’s perfect.”  Jaskier praised.  “I’m so glad to see you settling in and getting comfortable for me.”

Geralt felt his spine relax at the praise, releasing all residual tension.  He’d never been praised like this before, especially not in a scene.

“I’m going to stroke your hair and I want you to time your breathing to my rhythm.  I want you to breathe in for three strokes and out for three strokes.  You don’t need to count, just breathe.  Think only of your breath.”  Jaskier said.  “Now, begin.”

Jaskier started to run his hand through Geralt’s hair, lightly scraping his fingernails down Geralt’s scalp from his hairline to the base of his skull.  The strokes were firm and even, each exactly the same length and the rhythm perfectly in tempo.  Geralt focused on the strokes, breathing in for three, and out for three, over and over.

His awareness narrowed to Jaskier’s hand in his hair and the feeling of the long, even breaths expanding and contracting his lungs.  He started to drift, feeling the warm pull of subspace on his mind.  He gave in to it and let it consume him.

He had the fleeting thought that there should be more to this, that it should hurt, but the thought scattered away in the even rhythm of in and out, in and out.

Time seemed to stretch, each stroke, each breath lengthening and distorting.  He thought of nothing else.  A warm haze filled his mind and he lost all awareness of the outside world.  He floated there, cushioned by his breaths and grounded by Jaskier’s firm, even touch.  His body relaxed completely, melting into Jaskier’s hold.

He didn’t know how long he floated, but he had never felt so relaxed, so safe, in all his life.  He never wanted to leave.

He had no idea how much time passed.  It could have been minutes, or hours, or days. 

When the pattern changed, light tugs finishing each stroke to bring him back to awareness, he keened at the loss of his warm, floating existence.  He didn’t remember what the world was like on the outside, but he knew this was better.

He heard a soft, warm chuckle. 

“Come back for me now, dear one.  I need to check in with you and then you can sleep.” 

Geralt heard himself whine in protest.  He felt like he should be embarrassed, but couldn’t remember why.

“I know, but it’s time.  Come back to me now, Geralt.”  Jaskier said firmly.

Geralt felt awareness coming back.   He felt the soft fabric of Jaskier’s loose trousers against his face.  He felt the silky pillow under his knees.  He smelled Jaskier’s soothing, all-encompassing scent of rosin and honey.

He took a deep breath, coming back to awareness. 

“There you are.”  Jaskier said gently, voice back to normal.  “You did so wonderfully for me, thank you.  You did exactly as I asked and you dropped so beautifully for me.”

Geralt hummed at the praise, feeling warmed through, his chest light.  He felt rejuvenated, somehow both energized and completely relaxed. 

“How do you feel?”

“Good.”  Geralt managed to say.  “My head doesn’t hurt anymore.” 

He realized how true that was as he said it.  The pressure at the back of his skull, the tight band around his temples, both were gone.  His head felt lighter and he felt he could think clearly, even through the haze of relaxation.  The pain had become his constant companion over the years, so much so that he only noticed it in its absence.

“Does your head usually hurt?”  Jaskier asked quietly, his fingers moving to massage along the base of Geralt’s skull.

Geralt let out a pleased hum. “Always.”  He said, diction loose and voice rough.

“We’ll have to work on that then.”  Jaskier said.  “But for now, let’s get you to bed.  Can you stand for me?”

Geralt tried to organize his feet but couldn’t manage it.  He was too loose, too relaxed.  “I’m fine here.”

Jaskier chuckled.  “You’ll be more comfortable in the bed, I promise.  Come on, let me help you.”  He slid off the bed and knelt next to Geralt, looping his arm over his shoulders and half-supporting, half-guiding Geralt to his feet.  He sat them down together and maneuvered Geralt into turning and lifting his feet up, settling him against the mountain of pillows at the headboard and tucking the soft furs around him. 

“I’m going to blow out the candles and come right back, all right?”  Jaskier said, a hand on Geralt’s shoulder.  He waited until Geralt looked at him and nodded before going to do just that. 

Task complete, Jaskier slid into bed with Geralt, rolling to face him. 

“Can I hold you or would you prefer your space?”  He asked.

Geralt felt as if he were still half-floating.  Nothing hurt, he was relaxed and warm, and Jaskier was there to guide him.  He didn’t know what he wanted, but he knew he didn’t want Jaskier to leave, so he reached out to him.

Jaskier smiled, accepting his hand, and maneuvered them so Geralt’s head was resting on his shoulder, his arms around him.  He stroked Geralt’s back softly and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. 

Geralt hummed, cuddling closer and breathing in Jaskier’s scent.   Cocooned by Jaskier and warmed by his soft drop into subspace, Geralt slept.

Geralt woke the next morning, wrapped in Jaskier’s warm embrace, and immediately panicked.  His memories of the night before were fuzzy, but he remembered Jaskier helping him, remembered following his Voice down into the softest subspace he’d ever experienced, remembered floating, warm and safe, until Jaskier’s Voice had called him back. 

It was the first time in years, decades, that he’d woken up without a splitting headache, without his bones aching, without the world seeming immediately too loud and too bright to handle. 

But he hadn’t done anything for Jaskier. 

He’d done exactly as he feared.  He’d taken comfort and relief from Jaskier, taken advantage of his skills and his affection, and then did nothing to compensate him.

He had to fix it.

Geralt fought to control his breathing as he eased out of Jaskier’s arms, carefully replacing his body with a large pillow to avoid disturbing Jaskier’s rest.  Jaskier frowned in his sleep, brow creasing, but settled when Geralt tucked the furs back in around him. 

On silent feet, Geralt retreated to the sitting room, glad he still wore his tunic and trousers.   He made to leave the chambers, intent on retrieving food from the kitchen to at least ensure Jaskier had a meal when he awoke, but stopped with his hand on the door knob.  He wasn’t sure, but he suddenly felt like Jaskier waking up to find him gone after he’d done so much for him might be a worse offense than the selfishness of which he was already guilty.

Geralt thought over what he had in his packs.  Only hardtack was left, which would hardly suffice.  He needed something large and elaborate, something worthy of Jaskier.  But he couldn’t leave and he didn’t have any sufficient provisions here. 

Geralt felt his chest tighten and he paced about the room, frenetic energy seeking an outlet.  He didn’t know what to do. 

He peeked into the bedchamber, relieved to find Jaskier still sleeping.  He closed the door and leaned his forehead against it.  He tried to recapture the calm breathing Jaskier had shown him yesterday, but the pattern escaped him, breath spiraling faster and faster in time with his escalating heart rate. 

He felt worthless.  Unworthy of the attention Jaskier had bestowed upon him.  All he’d managed to provide for Jaskier was a fresh bath and he hadn’t even retrieved the water himself.

His eyes snapped open in sudden realization and he straightened, stepping back from the door and spinning to ring the bell rope in the far corner of the room. 

Jaskier said Jan brought up the food yesterday, so breakfast should be possible too.  Or so Geralt hoped.

He paced in front of the main door, absently chewing on his thumbnail, shredding the cuticle until it bled.  He didn’t notice. 

A soft knock startled him out of his frantic pacing and he flung the door open, startling the older man on the other side and ripping the door handle out of his grasp.

Geralt roughly pushed his loose hair out of his eyes, heedless of the streak of blood left by his torn cuticle.  He glanced back at the door to the bedchamber. 

Still closed.  Good.  I have time.

“Master Geralt, are you quite all right?”  The man asked.  “Shall I send for the healer?”

Geralt looked at him, confused why the man was concerned about him.  “No, I’m fine.  I need food for Jaskier.  Breakfast!  Lots of it. Whatever his favorites are.”  Geralt bit out, fingernails digging into the door frame where he gripped it. The feeling centered him and remembered his manners. “Please.”

The man still looked concerned, but he nodded.  “As you wish, Master Geralt.  I will bring up a tray immediately.” 

Before leaving, the man bowed, a hand held to his chest.  “I am Jan, the head butler for the professor’s quarters here at Oxenfurt University.  If you need anything during your stay, I would be delighted to serve you.”

Geralt didn’t understand why Jan was thinking about what he might need when it was Jaskier who needed to be provisioned, but he didn’t argue, wanting Jan to return with the food as soon as possible.  If Jaskier woke up before he could set up his breakfast, before he could do something for him, it would be disastrous. 

“Thank you, Jan.”  Geralt managed to say.  Jan bowed again and left.

Geralt left the door open partway so Jan wouldn’t need to knock upon his return and risk waking Jaskier.  With the food on order, Geralt turned his attention to presentation.  He would need to make sure Jaskier could immediately sit down and eat in comfort. Geralt waffled between setting up on the dining table or by the couch, eventually settling on the dining table.  It seemed better.  More formal.  He didn’t want to seem like he took Jaskier’s efforts lightly. 

Geralt picked up the small dining table and settled in under the large window.  Jaskier always enjoyed gardens and might like to dine looking at the ones below his window.  He brought over an armchair for Jaskier, as it was much more comfortable than the wooden straight-backed dining chairs, testing the height to make sure it was suitable for eating.  It was. 

Geralt felt calmer as he worked, glad to be doing something for Jaskier.

He wiped down the table until it gleamed in the sun.  When Jan still hadn’t returned, Geralt turned his attention to the window itself, buffing it clean to ensure nothing impeded the view.  He was just starting on the window frame itself when Jan returned, peering around the partially open door with visible concern. 

Geralt waved him in and took the large platter from his hands.  It was laden with fresh pastries, fruit tarts, soft cheese, warm bread, watered wine, and a large, silver teapot.  Perfect.

Jan settled the tablecloth he’d brought over the dining table and set out the silverware.  His lips thinned when Geralt told him he only needed to set a place for Jaskier, but he didn’t comment.  Once Jaskier’s place was laid, silver and china gleaming, Geralt settled the large platter opposite his chair, arranging the pastries and tarts to catch the light.  He picked up the teapot, considering where to arrange it.

Jan moved to pour the wine but Geralt stopped him.  “I don’t want it to get warm.”  He paused, swallowing hard, and looked at Jan hard, brows furrowed.  “Unless warm is better?  Is it not meant to be served cold?”

Geralt felt his chest tighten again and his throat closed around his words.  His fingers tightened around the teapot and he only loosened them when the metal complained at his tight grip.  Jan placed the carafe back on the table and approached Geralt slowly, hands out as if to soothe a spooking horse.

“Master Geralt, why don’t you sit down a moment and let me finish setting this up?  How about a nice, hot cup of tea?  That’ll do you right.”  Jan said, voice low and calm.  Geralt spied a Dominant’s mark in the gap between his jacket sleeve and his white gloves. 

“No!”  Geralt said sharply before immediately moderating his tone.  He couldn’t be sharp with anyone, least of all Jaskier’s servants.  “No, thank you, Jan.  I need to set this up for Jaskier.  I need to do something for him.   I just don’t know --”

His words were cut off when the door to the bedchamber banged open and Jaskier strode out still in his bedclothes, hair mussed with sleep.  He looked frantic.

Geralt felt the world fall away and cold clenched his chest at the expression on Jaskier’s face.  He’d been trying to make it better and he’d just fucked it up even more.  How fucking typical.

He held out the teapot as an offering.  “I got breakfast for you.”  He said, voice sounding far away even to himself. 

Jaskier took the teapot and placed it down on the table. 

“Thank you, Jan.  I’ve got it from here.”  Jaskier said, dismissing Jan.  Jan bowed and left with one final concerned look at Geralt.

Geralt stared at the floor, desperately trying to calm his breathing, his fists clenched at his sides, bare toes curling into the cold, stone floor.

“Did you do all this for me?”  Jaskier asked quietly.

Geralt nodded, braced for Jaskier’s reaction.

“Why?” 

“I didn’t do anything for you yesterday and I had to fix it.  But I didn’t know how.”  The words tumbled out of him, syllables stumbling over each other as he raced to explain.

“Can I help you relax so we can talk about this?”  Jaskier said gently, holding out his hand.

Geralt jaw jumped with tension, but he knew Jaskier could help clarify things.  It wasn’t right to ask for more help, but if a little more help meant he could do right by Jaskier, then maybe it was okay?

Geralt took his hand and let Jaskier lead him to the table.  Jaskier sat in the armchair and settled in, gently guiding Geralt to kneel beside him.  Geralt immediately felt more relaxed as he settled into position.  With the large arm of the chair in the way, Geralt couldn’t lean against Jaskier’s legs, but he leaned into the chair and Jaskier kept a grounding hand on his head.  It was almost as good.

“You really got me a spread!”  Jaskier said cheerfully.  “All my favorites too.  Thank you, Geralt, this is really nice.” 

Geralt felt warmed by the praise and felt the tightness in his chest ease slightly.  Maybe he hadn’t fucked this up?

Jaskier took a big bite of one of the tarts and groaned in satisfaction at the taste, pastry crumbs dropping onto the plate.

“Cook makes the best fruit tarts on the Continent.  I’m not sure where she got berries this late in the year, but I’ll have to give her my compliments.  This is such a treat! You did a great job with this, Geralt.”

Geralt hummed, pleased Jaskier was happy with his offering

Jaskier worked through the platter, taking a taste of everything offered and keeping up a stream of commentary on the excellent quality of the food and praising Geralt for his thoughtfulness.  Slowly, as he listened to Jaskier, Geralt relaxed, his breathing and heart rate returning to normal.  He felt suddenly exhausted.

Jaskier must have noticed the change because he ran a soothing hand through Geralt’s hair before asking, “feeling better?”

Geralt nodded.  He didn’t know why he felt so exhausted.

“You should eat something.  Do you want to sit at the table or are you more comfortable staying there?” 

“Here.”  Geralt managed to say.  He couldn’t contemplate moving. 

“Good, thank you for telling me.  I’m going to give you a pastry and I need you to eat all of it.  Can you do that for me?”

Geralt nodded, taking the soft pastry when Jaskier handed it to him.  It was the same type as the one Jaskier had tucked into his saddlebags before their fight.  This time, he made sure to savor it.

When he finished, he took the glass of heavily watered wine Jaskier handed him and drained that as well.

“Good, thank you.”  Jaskier said, taking it back.  “Can we move to the couch?  I want to talk about what happened this morning.”

Geralt nodded, rising to his feet and heading over to the couch.  He dropped to his knees again next to the cushion Jaskier had selected yesterday.  But instead of sitting on the couch, Jaskier settled next to him on the floor, putting them at eye level. 

“Can you tell me why you feel like you didn’t do anything for me yesterday?”  Jaskier asked gently.

“Because I didn’t.  You helped me drop and I didn’t do anything in return.”  Geralt said, eyes on the floor.  He felt tension creeping back into his shoulders as he remembered his failings.

Jaskier looked indescribably sad.  He reached out and lifted Geralt’s chin, making him meet his eyes.  “You did so much for me.  You let me guide you.  You dropped so well, so softly and beautifully for me.  You did exactly as I asked.”

“But you just did that to help me.  Because I needed it to heal.”

“No, I did it because I want to.  I also want to help you heal, but I would want to guide you down regardless.  Beyond anything else, you are my dearest friend and I would do anything to ensure your health and happiness.  That you allow me to guide you is an honor and privilege.”  Jaskier said.

Geralt didn’t understand how anything involving him could be an honor or a privilege.  But that wasn’t his main concern.  “But what do you get out of it?  I don’t want to take from you and give nothing in return.”

Jaskier sighed and that sad, tight look came back to his eyes.  “I need to guide you down just as much as you need to be guided, did you know that?”

Geralt frowned, shaking his head.  He’d never heard of such a thing.

“Your education really was lacking, wasn’t it?”  Jaskier said, lips thinning.  “A Dominant needs to guide a submissive down into subspace just as much as a submissive needs to be guided down.  Without fulfilling that need, our minds also start to suffer.  The one time it happened to me, I felt like my temper was on a hair trigger.  Everything pissed me off and I couldn’t control it.  I never want to feel that way again.”

Geralt had heard Lambert and Eskel describe similar bouts of ill temper, but he hadn’t known it was due to their designation. 

“I usually feel more settled after guiding a submissive down, but last night was something special.  I think because you’re more important to me than any other submissive I’ve guided, it felt that much more powerful.  I woke up feeling like I could take on the world.”  Jaskier said.

Geralt smiled slightly at that.  “I felt much better too.  Nothing hurt anymore.”

“Then why did you leave?  I was frantic when I got up and saw you gone.  I thought I’d done something wrong.”  Jaskier said, hurt creeping into his tone.

Geralt felt his chest constrict again at the thought of having caused Jaskier pain.

“I didn’t know you got anything out of guiding me, so I wanted to make sure to give something back to you.”  Geralt said finally.

“Why were you so panicked when I came out?  I have an idea as to why, but I want to hear it from you.”  Jaskier said, tone serious.

Geralt swallowed hard.  It sounded stupid now that he’d calmed down more.  Now that he knew Jaskier did get something out of their session.  He felt like an ignorant fool.  He should have known that.  Jaskier deserved someone who knew the rules.

“I wanted to get you breakfast, to provide something for you, but I didn’t want to leave the rooms to get it myself and then I had to wait for Jan and everything was just --” he cast about for the right words, “-- too much.”

“That’s what I figured,”  Jaskier said, “but thank you for telling me.  It was too important to guess and hope I was right.”  He reached out and placed his hand on the scruff of Geralt’s neck, shaking him slightly.  “Just ask me next time, all right?  I will never be upset by anything you ask and I’d much rather you ask me a thousand questions than have you wind yourself up like that again.  Can you do that for me?”

Geralt leaned forward into the contact, yielding to the pressure of Jaskier’s hand and dropping his head onto Jaskier’s shoulder. 

“I can try.”

“That’ll do for now.”  Jaskier said, pressing a kiss to the side of Geralt’s head.  “Now, why don’t you finished getting dressed and we’ll see about getting you some clothes?  I need to visit my tailor anyway and you need some sleep clothes and some winter wear that isn’t armor.”

“I don’t need anything like that.” 

“You do.  This is the first time you’re here and I want to be sure you’re comfortable.  You can even leave the new clothes in my quarters for the next time.” Jaskier said.

Geralt felt the remaining tension leave him upon hearing Jaskier still wanted him to come back.  He nuzzled into Jaskier’s neck, breathing deeply, before sitting back.  He stood and offered a hand to Jaskier. 

“Let’s go see your tailor then.”

Jaskier beamed, bouncing on the spot and clapping his hands with glee.  “You won’t regret it!”

Geralt didn’t think he could regret anything that made Jaskier that happy.

The next weeks passed quietly.  Jaskier’s seminar wouldn’t start until after Yuletide, so they spent their days walking through the city or exercising Roach and Potato in the countryside while the weather still allowed.

Almost every night, Geralt would kneel at Jaskier’s feet and listen to him tell stories of his time at Oxenfurt, compose a new ballad, or just simply strum his lute.  Sometimes Jaskier guided him down and sometimes they just sat together, enjoying each other’s company.

Over time, Geralt had met all of the other faculty members.  Jaskier had arranged for small groups to share meals with them, first in their quarters and then in the dining hall, ensuring Geralt was never overwhelmed.   Geralt didn’t imagine he would ever spend time with any of them without Jaskier, but they were kind to him and welcomed him warmly.  Even the matron eventually grew to tolerate him and started giving him a smile instead of a suspicious glare when he passed by her desk.

As he got more comfortable, Geralt even started to work through the books on the shelves after numerous, emphatic reassurances from Jaskier that he was more than welcome to read any of them.  He was enjoying the chance to read for pleasure, it was something he’d never before been allowed to do.  The only texts he’d been able to read at Kaer Morhen were beastiaries or books on alchemy.  He was even working up the courage to visit the library to explore the greater wealth of topics held there.  He’d met the librarian once at one of Jaskier’s dinners – he was an eccentric, bubbly man of middling age who’d been fascinated to meet “dear Julian’s” witcher – and he seemed a kind sort, if potentially a bit much.  He’d ask Jaskier to take him one day. 

Geralt had never felt better in his life.  His headaches were gone and the perpetual aches in his body had eased almost completely.  Some, he knew, were due to injury and not to the stress of his former deprivation of his submissive nature.  Those would remain, but the alleviation of the vast majority of his physical suffering was a tremendous relief.  He felt more able to handle external stimuli and the city felt less overwhelming.  He ever felt more comfortable interacting with people, though he imagined he’d never be social. 

On a bright, cold day shortly before Yuletide, Geralt walked along the harbor, thick, winter surcoat shielding him from the stiff winter wind.  Jaskier had been right about the new clothes.  While his tailor had been surprised to see a witcher, he’d adapted immediately and kitted Geralt out with winter trousers, a selection of wool shirts and tunics, and a heavy surcoat.  Jaskier had been delighted when Geralt consented to wear something other than black and he had worked with the tailor to settle on a deep navy and a warm charcoal color for the new pieces.  Then, upon seeing Geralt’s beat up old combat boots, the tailor had called in his partner, a cobbler, who fit Geralt with some new, heavy winter boots.  He felt the clothes were too fine for him, but he couldn’t deny the comfort of being properly warm for once.

As he strolled, breathing in the sea air as he headed back to the University, he caught a whiff of Cook’s sweet buns on the air.  Changing course, he headed toward the back entrance to the University, letting himself in the servant’s door with a smile at the young scullery maid dumping out bath water in the yard.  He made to help her, but she just moved the buckets away with a fond smile.  They’d been over this before.

Geralt paused at the entrance to the kitchen, leaning against the door frame to wait until Mrs. Pawlak, the peerless cook of the University kitchens, finished guiding the newest kitchen maid through the delicate process of lighting one of the large, stone ovens in the corner.  The other oven was already lit and was undoubtably the source of the mouth-watering scent that drew him here. 

When Mrs. Pawlak stepped back, the second oven lit, she gave the new maid an approving clap on the back and turned back to the second oven, catching sight of Geralt in the doorway.

“Master Geralt!” She said, a broad smile on her face, “I bet you’re here for one of my sweet buns!”

Geralt grinned back at her.  “You guessed right.”

“Guess?  I never guess.  I know these things, my boy.”  She said with a mock huff, propping her fists on her hips.  She was a short, stout woman with strong arms, bare of any mark, and an open, ruddy face.  She guided her kitchen with tight control, ensuring everything ran well while training new kitchen maids up through the ranks.  She was an exacting master, but all of her students blossomed under her teachings.

Jaskier had told him he’d met Mrs. Pawlak when he first arrived at Oxenfurt as a student.  Mrs. Pawlak clarified that they’d met when he tried to nick her fruit tarts. 

Thievery aside, Mrs. Pawlak was clearly fond of Jaskier and she extended that fondness to Geralt.  When Jaskier introduced them, she’d taken one look at Geralt and said to Jaskier, “you take good care of him now, Julian.  Submissives like that are once in a lifetime.”

Geralt had almost panicked, terrified his secret was plain for all to see, but Mrs. Pawlak had been quick to reassure him.  Quicker even than Jaskier. 

“Boy, I’ve known Julian since he was a stripling.  He can’t hide anything from me and I see how he looks at you.  How he speaks to you and of you.  I see these things, but no one else seems to knows how to look.”  She’d pat him on the arm and that was that. 

Geralt was drawn back out of his musings when Mrs. Pawlak pulled the tray of fresh sweet buns out of the oven.  He approached her work bench, waiting patiently while she moved each soft, round bun to a cooling rack before dusting them all with a mix of pearl sugar and cinnamon. 

The buns were one of the simplest things she baked, just a basic enriched, yeasted dough dusted with cinnamon sugar.  But Geralt loved them because they were simple.  Other desserts had too many strong flavors competing for his attention, but the simplicity of this bun let him enjoy the delicate flavors. 

Mrs. Pawlak made sure these sweet buns were in her regular rotation while Geralt was still in residence, and always made sure to have one of the hall boys deliver a basket of them to his rooms when they were freshly out of the oven. 

Mrs. Pawlak gave him a fond smile as she dusted the last of the cinnamon mixture over the buns. 

“Go on now, try one and tell me what you think.” 

Geralt grabbed a bun, pausing at the slightly different smell. 

“I’m trying something new for Yuletide.  These ones have a bit of saffron and honey in the dough to make them special.  But I already baked a tray of the regular kind and there’s a basket waiting for you upstairs, so don’t feel obliged if you don’t fancy this variety.” 

Geralt gave a tentative nibble.  He’d never had saffron before – he'd never had cinnamon before either until Mrs. Pawlak introduced him to it – and he was worried it might be too strong.

Warm flavor exploded in his mouth.  With the saffron, the buns had a new, floral note that straddled the line between savory and sweet.  They were complex without being overwhelming.  He took a bigger bite.

“That good, eh?”  Mrs. Pawlak said with a smile.  She started to place a load of buns in a basket, pushing it toward him when it was full.  He knew better than to protest the additional treats.  She’d made it clear her goal was to see him “plumped up” before he left again in the spring. 

“Different, but just as good as the others.”  Geralt said, smiling around another bite.  He was learning so much about food and flavor from Mrs. Pawlak this winter.  He was even secretly gathering a stash of spices to add to their food on the road this coming season as a surprise for Jaskier, guided by Mrs. Pawlak as to what spices kept the best and would add the most flavor to their largely game meat diet.

“Excellent.  Then that’s what we’ll circulate for Yuletide.  The city council this year asked me to make a sweet treat that could be easily passed around in baskets and I thought of your favorite sweet buns right away.  A little extra something to make them special and they’ll do the trick.”  Mrs. Pawlak said, satisfied with her experiment.

“They were special already.  I’ve never tasted anything as good as your cooking before.”  Geralt said.

Mrs. Pawlak flushed, delighted at the praise.  “Oh, you!  You’re such a sweet talker.”

“I’m really not.”  Geralt said wryly. 

“You are.  You’re a kind man, my boy.  Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

Geralt looked down and away, embarrassed by the praise.  He was learning to relax, to let himself be soft, at least around trusted people, but it was still hard to shake the air of shame that followed.

With a fond smile, Mrs. Pawlak pressed another bun into his hands before sending him on his way with his basket of treats so she could start the dinner preparation.

Yuletide was the busiest day of the year in Oxenfurt.  People from the surrounding villages flooded the town, drawn by the merchants, performers, and curiosities presented at the Yuletide Festival, which ran from midday to midnight.

During the day, food stalls hawked their wares, merchants displayed their finest merchandise, and bards, jesters, and jugglers entertained the crowds.

At night, with most of the children on their way home, exhausted from the day’s festivities, the festival took on a calmer tone.  The University sponsored a large, open air barbeque, roasting several whole pigs, a dozen braces of hares, and a large mutton to be shared amongst the revelers.  Flagons of ale and pitchers of wine flowed freely and Mrs. Pawlak’s famous sweet buns topped off an excellent meal. 

After they ate their fill, Jaskier led Geralt through the marketplace, explaining that it was one of his favorite events of the year because the large festival attracted merchants from all over the Continent, each with their own unique wares.  They’d waited until evening to tour the market stalls, both happier to avoid the rowdier daytime crowds.

As they walked arm in arm through the stalls, Geralt realized that he felt calm and settled despite the press of people and the cacophony of noises and smells surrounding them.  He felt the strain on his senses but was able to let the excess stimulation wash over him by focusing his attention on Jaskier and the warm pressure of their joined arms.  He couldn’t recall another time when he’d been so relaxed in a crowd.

Maybe there is something to this regular subspace idea?  On a permanent basis?

Geralt didn’t know how his changed outlook would impact his ability to hunt monsters – for all he knew it could be disastrous – but he wouldn’t be able to test that until spring, so, at least for now, he would enjoy the comfort and benefit Jaskier’s assistance provided. 

When they passed a shop hawking exotic spices from the far southern reaches of the Continent, Jaskier laughed at Geralt’s pinched expression, bopping him on the nose where he’d crinkled it against the strange smells before leading them swiftly onward. 

After perusing the various fine arts stalls, seeing everything from elaborate oil paintings to fine glass figurines, they stopped at a stall selling bespoke lutes and mandolins.  Jaskier’s eyes widened at the sight of the luxurious instruments and he ran his fingers down the five courses of strings on a particularly fine lute with something close to reverence on his face.  Even Geralt could tell it was a masterwork, decorated as it was with an elaborate pattern of wild flowers along the tear-drop shaped body, with vines looping up the fretboard and finishing on the tuning pegs.

“See how fine the grain is on this wood?  How seamless the join is between the body and the neck?  And how delicate and intricate the rose is over the soundboard?  Those are the marks of truly fine craftsmanship!”  Jaskier appeared to glow from within as he pointed out the various aspects of the lute, eager to share his passion with Geralt.

Geralt smiled fondly, eyes soft and warm, as he watched Jaskier enjoy the beautiful instruments displayed before him.  The shopkeeper was quick to attend to the obviously knowledgeable customer and the two of them spent over an hour inspecting each lute and debating everything from the merits of the different woods used for tuning pegs to whether a lute with or without frets produced the best sound quality.

He vowed right then and there that he would one day buy a lute for Jaskier as fine as one of these, something worthy of him as a man and as a musician.  He listened carefully to the discussions, taking special note of Jaskier’s preferences, and seared them onto his memory so as to be able to properly instruct the lute maker he was eventually able to commission.  He would have to work hard and save for several years at least, but he would make it happen.

It was a testament to Jaskier how confident Geralt felt in that moment that they would have years to spend together.

Eventually, Jaskier came up for air and flushed, looking at Geralt with embarrassed apology, one hand coming up to scratch at the back of neck.  “Sorry about that, Geralt.  I got carried away.  We can move on.”

Geralt smiled from where he stood leaning against the stall’s support post.  “Take your time.  I like watching you do the things you enjoy.”

Jaskier’s embarrassment melted into fondness.  “You’re far too good to me.”

Geralt huffed a laugh, raising an eyebrow at Jaskier.  “Look who’s talking,” he said.

He took Jaskier’s offered arm and they continued, winding their way through furniture sellers, hawking everything from simple bedframes to ornate armoires fit for a king, to food stands selling exotic goods carefully preserved in jars, to armorers and blacksmiths displaying the more artistic side of their crafts. 

At one particularly competent blacksmith’s stall, Geralt showed Jaskier how to tell if a blade or dagger was well forged, demonstrating how to see if there was a full tang, how to check the blade was properly balanced, and how the heft of quality steel should feel in the hand.  He finished the lecture by selecting a simple, but well made, steel hunting knife for Jaskier.  The plain handle was smooth, wood carefully finished to avoid cracking or splintering, and Jaskier was able to easily hold the blade balanced in his hand.  It would suit him well as both emergency protection and as a practical tool.

Jaskier’s eyes went soft as Geralt explained the purchase and he tucked the sheathed blade away in his boot when Geralt handed it to him.  He didn’t do more than knock his shoulder into Geralt’s, given they were still in public, but his heated glance promised greater appreciation would be shown later when they were alone.

After the blacksmith, they wound their way through the last shops, working back toward the University.  At the far edge of the marketplace, just within the circle of torchlight, Jaskier paused to inspect a stall hawking various instruments to use when guiding one’s submissive down into subspace.

Geralt stopped when Jaskier did.  His heart caught in his throat when he saw the stall sold everything from gentle restraints and blindfolds to vicious canes and floggers.  Geralt surreptitiously followed Jaskier’s gaze to see what he studied in more detail, relieved when he skimmed over the more brutal aides and focused only on the soft leather blindfolds and fur-lined cuffs.

But then he followed Jaskier’s gaze to the back of the stall where, hung in the shadowed folds of the cloth walls, was a thin, metal tipped, cat-o-nine-tails.  His breath froze in his chest, mind flashing back to Vesemir’s wooden cross, to the feeling of the cat-o-nine-tails cutting deep furrows into his back as his blood dripped onto the floor. The feeling of his mind forced into subspace as he counted each vicious stroke, falling into the drop to escape the agony of his ordeal on the cross. 

From far away, he felt Jaskier pulling on his arm, trying to guide him away from the stall, but he couldn’t move.  He was frozen, vision tunneling until everything but that cat-o-nine-tails faded from his awareness.  His lungs burned but he couldn’t remember how to breathe. 

He heard the shopkeeper ask, “looking for something special, Master?  Perhaps something for your Dominant to try out on you tonight?”

He distantly heard Jaskier’s reply, fighting against the sudden maelstrom in his mind to try and focus on that familiar, steady tone.  “No, no, just browsing.  I’m not looking to buy anything right now.”

By keeping his attention on Jaskier’s voice alone, on the warm pressure of their linked arms, Geralt was able to unlock his knees and follow Jaskier’s guidance away from the torchlight and the stalls and into the darkened gardens surrounding the University. 

When his knees unlocked, so did his throat, but he couldn’t control the rate of his breathing and it went faster and faster until the breaths bled into each other and his vision darkened around the edges. 

He felt Jaskier press him down onto a stone bench and force his head between his knees.  Jaskier grabbed his hand and tore open his woolen surcoat, placing the back of Geralt’s right hand directly on his chest. 

Through the haze, Geralt could hear Jaskier counting, begging him to follow his breaths.  Away from the stall and secluded in the dark with Jaskier, Geralt was just barely able to force himself to focus on Jaskier’s voice, on the feel of his chest rising and falling under his hand.  He bowed his head, struggling to follow Jaskier’s example.

With each breath cycle, he felt his rhythm slow.  He didn’t know how long he sat there, struggling to breathe, but eventually, he was able to follow Jaskier’s rhythm and the world came back into focus. 

He could hear Jaskier speaking to him soothingly.  “That’s it, come back to me now, love.  In and out, just follow my rhythm.  That’s it, that’s very good.”

He raised his head and shifted to lean against Jaskier, resting his head heavily on Jaskier’s shoulder.  Jaskier wrapped an arm around him and held him close, pressing frantic, relieved kisses into his hair. 

“Darling, you scared me half to death.  What happened?”  He asked.

Exhausted by his panic, Geralt couldn’t bring himself to hide the truth.

“That cat-o-nine-tails.  I saw you looking at it.”

Jaskier buried his face in Geralt’s hair, bringing up his other arm to embrace Geralt completely, drawing him into a tight hold.

“I would never, never, use such a brutal tool on you.  I was looking at it because I was horrified such a thing was even available for sale, that’s all, I swear it.”  Jaskier said, voice wrecked, muffled by Geralt’s hair.

Geralt brought his free hand up to pat Jaskier’s arm reassuringly.  “I know that.”  He said.  He couldn’t remember when he realized that Jaskier could, and always would, guide him down without brutality, but he felt that truth down to his bones.

“Then why--?” Jaskier started to ask, then paused, taking in a shaky breath.  “Someone has used one on you before.” 

It wasn’t a question.  Geralt nodded anyway.

“Those scars on your back?”

Geralt nodded.

“Never again.”  Jaskier said, and Geralt had never heard such venom in his tone.  “I will never let you be hurt like that again, not while I draw breath.”

Sitting on that cold stone bench, surrounded by the manicured gardens and the distant sound of the Festival, Geralt believed him.

Held in Jaskier’s arms, Geralt could imagine a future without pain, a future in which he would not need to feel ashamed by the demands of his submissive nature. 

And he could almost imagine he might one day be worthy of such a future.

Chapter Text

The first spring blossoms were just peaking their heads above the snow when Jaskier and Geralt arrived at the Lettenhove Estate outside Gelibol.  At the foot of the Kestrel Mountains in northern Redania and surrounded by the Nimnar and Buine rivers, Lettenhove was a prosperous and bountiful land holding that provided ample supplies of grains and produce to the Kingdom in addition to feeding its many residents well. 

As Jaskier explained it, while he, as the eldest son of his dearly departed father, held the hereditary title of Viscount de Lettenhove, he left the actual management of the estate in the hands of his younger brother, Leopold, who had acted as his regent over the past two years since reaching his majority.  Every spring, however, Jaskier needed to return to the estate and affix his seal to that year’s agricultural production order.  Pursuant to King Radovid’s decree, regents could not approve the annual orders and each holding’s titled noble must affix their seal to the newest orders in person at their estate.  The penalty for a regent forging the noble’s seal was death by quartering.  While Redania held its nobles in the highest esteem of any of the Northern Kingdoms, King Radovid also exerted the strictest control over his nobles of any monarch.

And so, every spring after his winter seminar was complete, Jaskier made the two-week journey from Oxenfurt to Lettenhove.  Last year, he had made the trip on his way to White Orchard to meet Geralt. 

This year, Geralt accompanied him.

Just before they came within sight of the guards at the outer reaches of the Lettenhove holding, Jaskier stopped.

“Are you sure you’re all right with this, Geralt?”  Jaskier asked.  “Don’t get me wrong, I’m delighted you want to accompany me and even more delighted you’d allow me to share with my family that you’ve agreed to be my submissive, but is that really what you want?   I know how important it is to you to keep your designation from becoming common knowledge.”

Geralt gave him a fond smile, warmed by his concern.  “I’m sure.  They’re your family and I wouldn’t want you to be dishonest with them on my behalf.”

“I understand, but I don’t want that honesty to come at your expense.”

They’d had this exact conversation last night as they lay together in the dark, cocooned in a pile of soft furs at the inn in Gelibol.  Jaskier had said he was certain neither his mother nor his brother would spread Geralt’s secret, but he could not be sure of their reaction and he worried about placing Geralt in an uncomfortable situation.

But Geralt would not let Jaskier lie to his family to spare him the possibility of pain.  As long as they wouldn’t spread his secret around, he could handle whatever punishment they exacted upon him for daring to presume himself worthy of Jaskier’s time or affection.

Geralt reached out to Jaskier, pulled him close, and rested his forehead on Jaskier’s.  He closed his eyes, letting the soft contact warm him through. 

“I would have them know I am yours.”  He said.  He still didn’t understand why Jaskier chose him, but he would be Jaskier’s as long as Jaskier wanted him.

Jaskier pulled back and pressed a kiss to Geralt’s forehead.  “You are far too good to me.”  He said before holding out his hand for Geralt’s.  Hand in hand, they led Roach and Potato up through the gates to the Lettenhove holding, sending a runner up to the main house with word of their arrival.

They had come in the entrance closest to the manor house and yet it still took over two hours for Jaskier and Geralt to reach the main gates of the Lettenhove manor itself.  After passing onto the holding, they had remounted, riding Roach and Potato over the smooth, well-groomed roads at a ground-eating trot.

As they rode, Jaskier pointed out the different landmarks they passed and exchanged warm greetings with the various villagers and farmers along the way.  Geralt noticed that the villagers all seemed well fed and hale, and that the houses were in good condition and the fields immaculately maintained.  It was far removed from the benign neglect or purposeful exploitation that plagued most villages in the region.  Given what he knew of Jaskier’s character, Geralt was not surprised to find that his family treated their serfs well even in his absence. 

When Jaskier noticed him looking, he said, “the surrounding lords used to mock my father for ‘coddling the peasants’ but he always believed, as I do, that it was our duty to treat those working our land with dignity and respect.  I also believe that philosophy is part of why our lands are so fruitful.  Whenever Radovid grants us new territory, the land worked by those farmers increases its yield significantly once we bring their standard of living up to match that of our existing serfs.”

“It’s a noble outlook.  And an unusual one.”  Geralt said.  “What services do you provide as the estate holder?”

“Well, I don’t provide much beyond affixing my seal on each year’s annual order from Radovid, but Leopold, my brother, maintains schoolhouses throughout the holding, employs several healers, and provides the workmen and the funds necessary to keep the fields and houses well maintained.”

“Sounds like he’s a good regent for you.”

“He is.  I’m lucky to have him.  Without his support here at home, I couldn’t travel the Continent.  I’d give him the title if I could, but Radovid won’t allow it.”

“Why not?”  Geralt asked.  The intricacies of Redanian noble succession had never been a particular interest of his, but he knew it was a restrictive system.

“Two reasons, really.  He’s second born, which the is main reason, and he’s a submissive, which means Radovid won’t allow me to forsake my noble birthright and give the title to him.”  Jaskier sighed, looking up at the rapidly approaching manor house.  “He deserves it.  This place is his home and his calling, but I can’t give him the title.  His male heirs can inherit it from me, provided they are not submissives, but he cannot hold it.”

Geralt hummed, but any further reply was cut off by their arrival at the front entrance to the manor house. 

The entire household had turned out to welcome them, with servants arrayed on one side and Jaskier’s mother and brother on the other.  Stable hands rushed up to take the horses’ bridles when they dismounted. 

Jaskier’s brother approached with a broad smile, drawing Jaskier into a hug and nudging his head up under Jaskier’s chin in the familial greeting between a submissive and a Dominant.

“Welcome home, Julian.”  Leopold said with a broad smile.  He looked very much like Jaskier, but slighter and shorter as was typical of submissive men.  His blond hair shone gold in the sun, contrasting with the rich navy of his woolen doublet. 

Geralt kept his distance as Jaskier moved to greet his mother, taking her hand and kissing her fondly on each cheek.  She was a handsome woman of late middle age, her thick Dominant’s mark peeking out below the fur-lined, elbow-length sleeves of her richly embroidered day dress and woolen cloak. 

He approached only when Jaskier beckoned him. 

“Mother, may I present Geralt of Rivia, a witcher of Kaer Morhen and my dearest companion.  Geralt, I present my mother, Lady Emilia Pancratz, the Dowager Viscountess de Lettenhove.”  Jaskier said as his mother extended her hand for Geralt to kiss.  He took it, brushing his lips against the back of her hand as he bowed.

Geralt felt Lady Emilia’s gaze like a brand, but he kept his eyes down and his pose respectful. 

Jaskier turned to his brother next.  “Leopold, this is Geralt of Rivia.  Geralt, this is my younger brother, the Honorable Leopold Pankratz.”

Geralt nodded to Leopold, spreading his arms in the traditional greeting to display his forearms.  He saw Leopold’s eyes narrow at the elaborate tattoo covering his designation mark, but Leopold returned the gesture, showing his submissive’s cuff, though his returning nod of acknowledgment to Geralt was barely a dip of his chin.  Jaskier frowned at the disrespect, but didn’t call Leopold out before the servants.

“Please, do come in,” the Dowager said.  “You may refresh yourselves before dinner is served.”  She motioned to an older man, the butler by his uniform, who stepped forward when she summoned.  “Nowak will show you to your quarters, Master Witcher.  Julian, please attend me.”

Jaskier looked over at Geralt, questioning him with his gaze whether he was fine to go up alone.  Geralt nodded, quirking a small smile to reassure him.  Jaskier had told him to expect that his mother would want to speak with him alone when they arrived.

“Nowak, please show Geralt to the rooms adjoining mine.”  Jaskier said.  Geralt saw the Dowager frown, but she nodded when Nowak looked over at her. 

Nowak bowed slightly to Geralt, face carefully blank.  “This way, please, Master Witcher.  Your packs will be brought up for you.”

Geralt followed Nowak in through the large front entrance, memorizing the path they took to his quarters, in what he assumed was the family wing.  The Lettenhove manor was large and ornate with thick carpets and large tapestries insulating the inhabitants from the lingering winter chill.  Sconces lined the walls at short, even intervals, providing ample light in the stone corridors. 

Finally, Nowak stopped and opened the door to a large bedchamber, flooded with the light from the low, afternoon sun.  “Your packs and a bath will be brought up shortly.  The dinner gong will ring after dark.  Please ensure you are appropriately cleaned and dressed.”  Nowak’s neutral tone gave out slightly toward the end of his speech, revealing how strongly he disapproved of a witcher joining the family for dinner. 

Geralt could hardly blame him when he didn’t feel worthy of it either, but he found himself missing Jan’s easy acceptance.  He knew life in Oxenfurt had been a luxury, especially as to tolerance of his presence, but he had hoped to hold onto that feeling a little longer.

Nowak shut the door without another word, leaving Geralt alone in the opulent room.  He could see the door leading to what he imagined were Jaskier’s quarters, but he didn’t check.  If Jaskier wanted to show Geralt his rooms, he could do so of his own accord.

Geralt sat on the window seat by the large plate glass window, looking out over the gardens.  They were covered with snow still, burlap sacks protecting the decorative shrubs, but the view was peaceful nonetheless.  With the sun low in the sky, its warm rays made the hibernating plants gleam and sparkle.

In fairly short order, Geralt heard a knock on the door and a trio of hall boys entered carrying a modest wooden tub.  They arranged it in the corner by the hearth and went out into the corridor to fetch the buckets of steaming water they’d brought up, dumping them in until the tub was full.  They set up a screen and left without a word.  None of the boys had even looked his way. 

Geralt knew dark was fast approaching, so he bent down to unlace his boots, preparing for his bath.  As he pulled them off and tossed them toward the hearth, a young maid knocked before entering with his pack, dropping it as close to the door as possible before depositing a pile of clothes wrapped in a linen cloth on the bed.

“The Dowager Viscountess asked that I deliver these clothes to you.  She requests that you choose an outfit from the provided selection and wear it to dinner tonight, as your clothes are not appropriate.”  The maid said, clearly reciting a message from her mistress.

“Understood.  Thank you.”  Geralt said softly, not wanting to startle the young girl.  She couldn’t have been more than fourteen, still in the uniform of a scullery maid.  She started when he spoke and gave a quick curtsy before darting out of the room, closing the door softly behind her.

Geralt sighed, feeling the insidious suspicion all the more keenly for his reprieve over the winter.  But he pushed the feeling aside.  They would only be here a few days, a week at most, and he didn’t want to impinge on Jaskier’s enjoyment of his time with his family.

Resolved, Geralt stripped off the rest of his clothes and stepped into the tub, pulling the screen closed around it. He ducked his head under the water, roughly scrubbing his hands through his hair to get off the travel dust.  He’d had a bath only last night at the inn, but he wanted to be sure to be as presentable as possible so as to not reflect badly on Jaskier.

Grabbing the provided oil soap, he lathered up a wash cloth and scrubbed the soap into his hair and into every crevice on his body, making sure he was spotless and smelled fresh.  Satisfied, he rose from the tub, uncomfortable soaking without Jaskier there as a buffer, and dried off with the towels provided.

He hooked one around his waist and draped another over his shoulders to catch the run off from his hair before pulling back the screen and going to inspect the offered garments.  He carefully removed them from the linen wrap and spread each out on the bedspread.  The doublets and trousers were well made but old-fashioned, probably leftovers from Jaskier’s father or another male relative.  They looked to be roughly the correct size, but Geralt already felt constricted just imagining the tight lines.  He hated wearing doublets. 

The Dowager had provided him with only one set of trousers, thankfully black, and a pair of soft leather boots.  The doublets on offer were hip length and relatively plain, one a bright blue, the other grey with subdued red embroidery, and the last a pale gold.  They were all varying sizes, so Geralt chose the one with the broadest shoulders, the blue, and pulled it on over his plain, black chemise.  At least he could wear his own underclothes. 

The doublet was restrictive but not overly tight and the trousers and boots fit well enough not to pinch.  Despite his heavily muscled physique, Geralt was slim and lithe, especially compared to his brothers.  It was one of the few outward signs of his designation that Vesemir and the other trainers could not completely hide, though, without his brothers as a comparison, the average person was unlikely to notice.  Without his mutations, Geralt imagined he would have looked something like Leopold, at least as to body type, able to pass through life without garnering suspicion or vitriol just for existing.  He shook himself out of those musings.  It was no use contemplating what was lost and could not be reclaimed.

He was just fastening the doublet at the throat, making sure his undershirt did not show, when Jaskier walked in from the side door.  Clearly, it did lead to Jaskier’s chambers.  Even though he knew to expect it, Geralt felt warmed through at the clear display of favor Jaskier’s choice of rooms for him showed.  By placing Geralt in the adjoining room, Jaskier put him in the same position would a wife or husband.

Jaskier stopped short, gaping at Geralt.  Geralt shifted uncomfortably in the borrowed clothes under his intense scrutiny.  He knew finery didn’t suit him.  He probably looked ridiculous, like a hunting dog forced into a corset.

But then Jaskier broke into a soft smile, a flush high on his cheeks, and approached Geralt, running his hands down the lines of the doublet and tugging them into place.

“You look lovely, Geralt.”  He said approvingly.  “I know it’s not your favorite thing to wear, but I do love to see you dressed in finery.  It really shows off your lines well.”

Geralt scowled, embarrassed by the praise.  “It’s all too tight.  Totally impractical.”

“And that is the downside of fashion, dear one.  The better it looks, the more impractical it is.”  He said, a teasing twinkle in his eye.  Jaskier was already redressed in a lavishly embroidered, gold silk doublet and matching trousers.  He gleamed with youth and beauty.

Geralt huffed and turned toward the small vanity in the corner of the room, settling down in front of it and picking up the provided hairbrush.  With a soft touch, Jaskier it from his hand.

“Let me do it.  I want to help get you ready to present to my family.”  Jaskier said.  Geralt raised an eyebrow at him in the mirror.  “I know, I know, very ‘Traditional Dominant’ of me, but indulge me just this once?”

Geralt rolled his eyes, but subsided, allowing Jaskier to brush and braid his hair into an elaborate style, accentuating his strong jaw and high cheekbones.  As Jaskier worked, Geralt closed his eyes and let himself drift, enjoying the feel of Jaskier’s strong hands in his hair and listening to the gentle tune he hummed.  Geralt knew he should be nervous about meeting his Dominant’s family, but when Jaskier was beside him, carding his hands through his hair, he couldn’t remember why.

When he finished the braids, Jaskier tied off the main tail with a ribbon made of cloth-of-gold, clearly denoting Geralt’s status as the submissive of the noble lord.  Jaskier held up a hand mirror so Geralt could see the style in the mirror before him, tilting it to show him the intricate details and how the bright cloth contrasted with his white hair. 

“Beautiful,” Jaskier said, pressing a kiss to the crown of Geralt’s head.  “Thank you for allowing me to adorn you.”

Geralt felt his cheeks heat and looked down, still unused to praise.  Jaskier was the only one who had ever complimented his looks.  He knew he looked vaguely monstrous with his cat-like eyes, white hair, and elongated canine teeth, but Jaskier somehow never saw him that way.  Geralt would never stop being grateful.

The dinner gong rang out from below.

Geralt took Jaskier’s offered hand to rise and let Jaskier escort him down to dinner.

The temperature in the sitting room palpably dropped when Jaskier escorted Geralt in to lead his family into dinner.  But they didn’t say anything, falling into line behind Jaskier and taking their places at the table.  Although Geralt knew he could never safely wear the cloth-of-gold outside of the safety of Jaskier’s estate, he relished the feeling of being so visibly marked and claimed.

As the footman served the first course, a fragrant consommé of duck, conversation centered on the weather and how glad everyone was to see the spring flowers coming back.  As the consommé was cleared and the fish brought out for service, a lovely river pike stewed in ale with a sauce of onion, pepper, and white wine, the conversation shifted toward Jaskier’s winter seminar at Oxenfurt.  The wine flowed freely as the Dowager and Leopold danced around the topic of Geralt, unwilling to discuss something so private in the company of their servants.

Finally, after clearing the dinner and serving the dessert, a light almond cake with raspberry preserve, presented with an accompanying raspberry cordial, Jaskier dismissed the servants, ordering them not to return to clear the dishes until the family had left the dining hall.

Geralt tensed, the rich meal sitting heavily in his belly.  He hadn’t been able to force himself to eat his usual amount, but had done his best to eat enough not to raise concern.  Jaskier pressed his knee to Geralt’s under the table, helping to center him.

After taking his final bite of cake, Jaskier placed his fork down and addressed his family formally.

“Mother, Leopold, in the Redanian custom, I would like to present my submissive, Geralt of Rivia, who has joined us for a meal at our table wearing cloth-of-gold, which I have woven into his hair, and who has given no offense to our family, nor has anyone come to protest his presence here tonight.”  Jaskier reached for Geralt’s hand, entwining their fingers, and rested their joined hands on the table.

Geralt bowed his head and bared his throat to Jaskier’s mother, as tradition required, tightening his grip around Jaskier’s fingers.  Jaskier gave his hand a reassuring squeeze.  Geralt could feel the Dowager and Leopold studying him and kept his head down.

“Julian, as your mother and the oldest living representative of this family, I recognize the presentation of your chosen submissive, Geralt of Rivia, and I welcome him to our table.”  The Dowager said, giving the traditional response.  Her voice was level, but her eyes were pinched and mouth tight.  She was clearly displeased by Jaskier’s choice.  Geralt felt his heart drop.  He knew better than to expect Jaskier’s family would be pleased, but he had hoped to avoid becoming a point of conflict between Jaskier and his family.

“Thank you, Mother.”  Jaskier said.

Lady Emilia sighed heavily.  She looked suddenly exhausted.  “Julian, I know I have no right to object to your choice of submissive, but I must express my disapproval.  To use your Oxenfurt degree to be no more than a travelling bard is bad enough, but to choose a witcher as your submissive is just beyond the pale.”

Jaskier looked thunderous, his hand tightening around Geralt’s.  Geralt kept his eyes down.  A tight, cold knot filled his chest.

“Mother, you are entitled your opinion, but I ask that you keep it to yourself.  Geralt is a good man, a noble man, and he deserves your respect for what he does for this Continent and its people, not your scorn.  At the very least, you should treat him as my chosen submissive should be treated – with kindness and a warm welcome.”

“I don’t like it either.”  Leopold said, raising a hand.  “I know my opinion counts even less than Mother’s, but I want you to be happy and safe, not gallivanting about the Continent chasing after a monster hunter.”

“Hold your tongue, Leopold.”  Jaskier ordered sharply.  Leopold subsided, leaning back in his chair with an exasperated sigh. 

Jaskier rose and held out a hand to Geralt, who took it and rose to join him.  “It’s been a long day, Mother, Leopold.”  Jaskier said, nodding to each in turn. “We’ll see you for dinner again tomorrow.  I hope we can share a more amicable conversation then.”

Geralt bowed to the Dowager and to Leopold before letting Jaskier lead him out the door, arm in arm. 

Well, that didn’t go well.  He thought, berating himself for hoping it might have been otherwise.  Oxenfurt had been a dream-like respite, but it was time to get back to reality. 

The next morning, after sharing a simple breakfast in Jaskier’s chambers, Jaskier joined Leopold in meeting with a clerk from King Radovid’s agriculture planning bureau.  Despite his clear reluctance to leave Geralt alone for the day, given the disastrous dinner the night before, he’d had no choice but to attend the meeting.  Geralt had tried to reassure him all would be well, that he was perfectly used to existing in hostile environments and that at least here they were unlikely to try and physically harm him, but that just made that sad, pinched look come back to Jaskier’s face.  Geralt hated that look.

In the end, he’d left, and Geralt had decided to take Roach for a ride rather than stay cooped up in his assigned bedchamber.  Given how the Dowager felt about his presence here, he certainly wasn’t going to spend any time in the common areas or gardens and risk disturbing her in her own home.

Geralt rode out without armor but took his silver sword just in case.  It was still early for monsters to come out of hibernation, but it never hurt to be cautious.  As he left the manor grounds, he let Roach lengthen into a smooth gallop, allowing her to set her own pace over the dirt path.  She tossed her head, delighted at the freedom, and settled into an even rhythm, snorting with each stride as she left a trail of dust behind her.

Geralt breathed deeply in the crisp air, catching the first whiffs of spring.  His eyes watered in the cold and the wind from Roach’s gallop, his hair blown out wild behind him.  The chill brought a flush to his cheeks and his hands, invigorating him after the stuffy atmosphere of the manor house with all the windows still shuttered against the cold.

When Roach started to settle off her pace, coming back to an easy lope and then to a walk, Geralt gave her a firm stroke down her sweaty neck and loosened the reins so she could drop her head down and stretch.  She blew out hard, shaking her head, and Geralt could feel the new relaxation in her stride.  They’d obviously both needed to get out of there.

As they walked, Geralt looked around the Lettenhove holding.  He could see fields stretching as far as the horizon and villages scattered across the countryside, each trailing curls of smoke up into the clear blue sky.  Unlike many holdings he’d seen, the roads between the villages were as well maintained as the one leading up to the manor house – wide, hard packed dirt roads with ample drainage.  The fields too were neatly arrayed with irrigation channels cut between each field.  Squinting into the distance, Geralt thought he might even see some terraced fields up into the foothills of the Kestrel Mountains, yet another unusual feature.

Seeing the bounty of the holding, Geralt couldn’t imagine what prompted Jaskier to leave.  A place like this represented family and security, a chance to settle down and build a legacy.  It was obvious that generations of Jaskier’s family had poured their lives into building this holding.  Geralt was glad to see Jaskier’s home and to learn more about him, but it just made the life he offered Jaskier seem all the more unworthy.  Geralt tried to push the dark thoughts away, knowing it was unfair to Jaskier to doubt him when he’d so clearly stated, and shown, his intentions.  But the creeping doubt remained.  With something like this to come back to, why would Jaskier fight his family over Geralt?

Geralt was jarred out of his melancholic thoughts when he came over the crest of a small hill and found an elderly woman crouched at the bottom next to an overturned handcart.  From the scrapes in the dirt, Geralt could see she must have lost her footing and her hold on the cart, sending it careening down the hill until it toppled over, spilling her turnips across the path and the bordering fields.  She’d likely come from the large root cellar Geralt had passed earlier. 

He hopped off Roach, securing his reins to the saddle so she wouldn’t step on them as she picked over the sparse grass along the path, and slowly approached the old woman.  He tried his best to appear as small and non-threatening as possible.  As he drew closer to her, he called out to her in a soft voice.

“May I help you with that, Goodwoman?” 

She jumped and spun around, clutching a turnip to her chest.  Geralt stepped back, giving her more room.

“Aye, you gave me a fright there, Master.”  She said ruefully, the crooked smile on her face lightening her expression.  “I’ve had a bit of a tumble with me cart here.”

“May I help you right it?”  Geralt asked, still hanging back.

“I would be much obliged, Master, much obliged.”  She said with a smile. 

Geralt walked over and righted the cart, turning it crosswise to the hill so it wouldn’t roll away again.  He then returned to the top of the hill and started gathering turnips, pulling his shirt out from his trousers to form a makeshift basket. 

The old woman grinned at him from where she worked at the bottom of the hill gathering turnips into her apron, eyes twinkling.  Geralt made his way back down the hill and dumped the turnips back into the handcart. 

“Sure ‘twas fortunate for me that you came along by, Master.  Thank ye for your kindness.”  She said as Geralt whistled for Roach, who trotted up to him obediently. 

Geralt hummed as he tied Roach’s reins to the handcart and stepped in between the shafts of the cart, picking up the chest bar and looping the rope traces around one shoulder. 

“You can sit in the cart if you want,”  Geralt said.

“Ain’t ye a strapping lad,” she said with a bright smile.  “Don’t mind if I do!” She stepped over the edge of the cart and settled in among the turnips, stretching her legs out with a sigh.

“Where is your village?”  Geralt asked as he leaned into the traces and started to move the cart forward.  Roach followed along behind.

“Just ahead, should arrive before the third bell strikes mid-morning.”  She said, leaning her face back to catch the sun. 

Geralt hummed an acknowledgment and started walking, long legs quickly covering the distance.

As the old woman said, they arrived at her village before the third bell.  She directed him to her hut, garnering curious stares from the other villagers, and he helped her unload her turnips into her root cellar.  Task complete, she insisted he sit down and have a mug of ale and generous chunk of fresh baked bread. 

As he sat outside the old woman’s hut enjoying his snack, he saw another elderly villager approach the woman, greeting her warmly and then bending to whisper in her ear.  He watched curiously as they turned their attention to him and the old woman brought her friend over to where he sat.

“Master, this here’s Alyleth, she lost her husband last winter and her dear son is off in the Redanian army.  She could sure use a strong lad to help her chop some of the firewood the village men gathered for her.”  The old woman said, eyes twinkling again.

“Could she now.”  Geralt said, a smile quirking the corners of his lips.  “Well, I’d best see what I can do about that then.”

He stood, brushing the crumbs off his chest, and handed back the earthenware mug to the old woman.  “Goodwoman, thank you for the ale and the bread.  I feel most refreshed.”  He said with a slight bow. 

She blushed, taking the mug back and giving him a light slap on the forearm.  “Oh, you charmer.  Go on now.”

Geralt followed Alyleth toward her hut, leading Roach, garnering yet more curious looks.  But none of the villagers were hostile, so he ignored the stares. 

“Old Muriel back there spoke highly of you, Master.”  Alyleth said as they walked.  “Said you came upon her after her cart overturned and gathered everything up and even insisted that ye’d haul the cart back for her so she could rest her legs!”

Geralt hummed, but said nothing.

“A rare lad ye are then, Master.  Are ye a traveler?” She asked, eying Roach’s lack of any packs.

“No, I came here with Jaskier.  He had some business with his brother at the manor house.”  He said.

“Jaskier?”  She asked, puzzled.  “Oh!  Ye mean Lord Julian!  He’s a good lad, that one.  Chose a bit of a funny trade for a lord’s son, but it seems to suit him, and young Lord Leopold and the Dowarger Viscountess sure do right by all of us.” Alyleth said decisively. 

She had the look of a woman with strong opinions and Geralt was glad Jaskier fared well in her estimations.  She had that vaguely timeless look of older peasant women, but she had certainly been of age before Jaskier had been born.  He got the impression Jaskier’s character was much the same as it had always been.  He smiled at the thought of a young Jaskier tearing about the estate and making friends with all the local villagers, probably regaling them with his poems, tales, and songs.

He pulled himself out of his pleasant musings when they arrived at Alyleth’s hut and she showed him the impressive pile of seasoned, uncut logs stacked haphazardly about in her front garden.  A hefty maul rested against the wall of her hut by an old, flat, chopping stump. 

Geralt tied Roach to the fence post and took up the maul, testing the grip and the strength of the cord binding the head to the shaft.  Satisfied, he settled the first log onto the chopping stump. 

“Please stay back.  I’ll take care of this for you.”  Geralt said to Alyleth over his shoulder. 

“You’re a good lad, thank ye.”  She said.  “Please stack the cut logs along the wall.”

He nodded and turned his attention to his task, cracking the first log down the middle with a mighty swing.  He quickly fell into a rhythm, chopping logs down to manageable sizes and stacking them neatly against the wall.  He was aware of several villagers, especially children, coming by to watch him work, but none seemed aggressive or afraid, so he ignored them.

Geralt stacked the last log just as the vespers bell rang out, marking mid-afternoon and the approaching sunset.  Geralt set the maul back against the wall and wiped his hands off on his trousers.  He knocked on Alyleth’s door to let her know he’d finished, and she drew him into her hut, settling him down at the rough-hewn table before pressing a mug of steaming, honeyed cider into his hands and placing a wooden plank in front of him stacked high with warm oatcakes. 

She sat across from him with her own mug.  “Thank ye, Master.  I could never have chopped that wood on me own and the village lads can’t spare the time away from preparing the fields for the planting.  They do their best to do right by an old widow, but I don't like to intrude upon ‘em.”

Geralt hummed as he sipped the cider.  It was simple but good and he felt the warmth spread through him.  As they sat in comfortable silence, Geralt worked his way through two of the oatcakes, satiating the hunger pangs brought on by the hours of chopping, but leaving the rest for Alyleth.  He’d seen the communal silos and storage cellars, and none in the village seemed to be going hungry, but he also knew a fine dinner awaited him back at the manor and the food was best left with Alyleth. 

Finished, he stood and thanked Alyleth for the hospitality before heading back out to retrieve Roach.  He needed to head back if he wanted to make it on time to bathe before dinner.

Alyleth followed him to the gate and pressed another oatcake into his hand.  “For the road, dear boy, and I won’t take no for an answer.” 

“Thank you.”  He said, holding the oatcake in his teeth as he mounted.  “Good health to you, Alyleth.”

“And to you, Master Witcher.”  She said, smiling as she bowed her head and waved him off.

So, they did know I was a witcher. 

Geralt nodded to the other villagers he passed on his way out to the main road.  Given the chilly reception he’d received from the Dowager and Leopold, he was surprised the villagers were so tolerant of a witcher.  But, then again, this holding had raised Jaskier and he was the most tolerant man Geralt had ever encountered.  Perhaps their objection was less about him being a witcher and more about him as a person? 

Regardless of the source of their disquiet, Geralt vowed to do whatever he could to at least ease the disapproval of Jaskier’s family.  Before the winter, he would have insisted Jaskier leave him and settle back at home, but he understood now that Jaskier had chosen him and had chosen their life together.  It wasn’t his place to tell Jaskier how to live, but only his place to ensure that the time they spent together was as good for Jaskier as it was for him.  He knew he could never properly compensate Jaskier for everything he did, but he would spend the rest of Jaskier’s life trying.

Urging Roach into a canter, he set off back toward the manor, eager to see Jaskier after their day apart.

That night at dinner, sitting beside Jaskier in the same finery as the night before, Geralt noticed a softening of the Dowager’s expression when she looked at him, though he couldn’t imagine why.  He pondered it over the consommé of river trout and the roasted brace of hares scented with parsley and onion served for that night’s meal.  It was rich fare, but simply prepared and served in modest portions, a far cry from the wasteful extravagance seen at most noble tables.

As the servants presented that night’s dessert – a steamed apple cake with a cinnamon sauce – and bowed out of the room to give the family their privacy, the Dowager turned her full attention on Geralt, studying him carefully for a long moment. 

Geralt felt the tension rising in his shoulders as she stared him down and he fought the urge to grind his teeth.  Jaskier’s mother had the right to inspect him and to deem him worthy or not.  He was almost certain she would never find him worthy of Jaskier, but he would do his best to present himself well, if only to spare Jaskier further disputes with his family over their relationship.

Geralt flinched when he felt Jaskier’s hand come to rest on his thigh under the table, but quickly smothered the movement.  Warmth spread from that point of contact. 

Geralt suddenly, desperately, wished they’d had time together before dinner.  But Geralt had arrived just in time to bathe and dress, and Jaskier had been in final talks with the Redanian clerk and his brother until the dinner gong sounded.  He hadn’t seen him since their breakfast this morning and the urge to slip out of his chair, to kneel at his feet and forget the world around him, was overwhelming.  But he steeled himself and resisted.  This was Jaskier’s family.  He couldn’t run away.

“I hear you spent the day visiting one of our nearby villages, Master Witcher,” the Dowager said.  “Several of the guards on patrol reported seeing you assist Grandma Muriel with her turnip cart and chop an entire season’s worth of firewood for Widow Alyleth.”  Her tone was flat and her voice neutral.  Geralt had no idea whether she approved or disapproved of his actions.

“Yes, Lady Emilia.”  He said, figuring simple agreement was the safest option.  He felt Jaskier give his thigh a reassuring squeeze, but kept his gaze on the Dowager, respectfully giving her his full attention.

“And how did you come to do those tasks today?”  She asked.

“I saw Goodwoman Muriel on the road after her handcart overturned.  She allowed me to help her right it and gather her turnips.  Given her age, I brought the cart back for her so that she might sit in it and rest her feet.  When I returned with her to her hut, Goodwoman Alyleth approached and asked if I might help her chop the logs the village men had delivered for her.”  Geralt said.  He caught a glimpse of Jaskier’s warm smile out of the corner of his eye as he recounted his day’s activities.

“And did you seek compensation for these tasks, Master Witcher?” The Dowager asked, a sharp note entering her tone.

“No, my Lady, though Goodwoman Muriel offered me ale and bread at mid-morning and Goodwoman Alyleth was good enough to share some of her cider and oatcakes with me before I rode back to the manor.”  Geralt said, hoping accepting the kindly grandmothers’ hospitality had not damned him in the Dowager’s eyes.

She gave a considering hum.  “I may have judged you too rashly and too harshly, Master Geralt.”  She said finally, calling him by name for the first time. 

Geralt felt a rush of relief and he looked over at Jaskier, seeing his beaming smile.  It seemed he had passed at least the first test put before him.

“Leopold, tell me, how is dear Lillianna doing at University?”  Lady Emilia asked, turning to Leopold.  She relaxed her posture in her chair slightly and took up her glass of cordial, signaling Geralt’s interrogation was over and that his entrance into the family’s circle of trust could begin.  Geralt was far from an expert on courtly manners and gestures, but even he could clearly understand the significance of Lady Emilia discussing personal matters in his presence.

Geralt turned his attention back to his dessert, savoring the lightly sweet steamed cake and the sharp cinnamon sauce.  He’d never eaten so well in his life as he had this winter.  He laid his free hand over Jaskier’s where it rested on his thigh and allowed himself to enjoy it. 

As Leopold conversed with his mother about Lillianna’s current coursework and her latest letter, Jaskier leaned over and spoke softly to Geralt.  “Lady Lillianna Borgoria, the daughter of Baron Karwia, is Leopold’s fiancée.”

Leopold broke in, clearly proud of his love.  “She’s currently a student with the Medical Faculty at Oxenfurt.  She’s a Dominant but even so plans to move here after our wedding to make Lettenhove her home.  Her dream is to build a school right here to train more young healers since the only formal medical school is all the way in Oxenfurt.  It’s going to bring better care and more opportunities to the local villagers. My dear Lillianna is such a marvel!”  His face lit up when he spoke about her and Geralt felt he learned more about Leopold in that one speech than he had in their entire, albeit short, acquaintance.  His pride in Lillianna was undimmed by any jealousy or posturing, an uncommon trait in a young lord.

“When does she graduate?”  Geralt asked, feeling emboldened by Leopold’s openness.

“Next summer.  We’ll be married after the harvest that year.”  Leopold said, cheeks flushed at the thought of his upcoming nuptials.

“Next summer already?”  Jaskier said, “I remember my graduation day.  Hard to believe it was already over six years ago.  Ah, young love!”  He feigned a dramatic swoon, making Leopold roll his eyes.

“Brother, you’re not yet thirty, don’t speak as if you were already an old man!”

“But I was already in my second year of teaching when she started as a novice, and it’s already been two years since you came of age and were able to take over as my regent.  It feels like yesterday that I entered Oxenfurt as a novice myself, but time passes inexorably onward.”  Jaskier said, tone fading from dramatic to nostalgic as he went.  “I’m glad Lillianna enjoys her tenure there.  It’s a time of her life she’ll never get back and it will shape her character well.”

“I do so wish you would reconsider teaching at Oxenfurt full time, Julian.”  Lady Emilia said.  “I worry about you out on the roads.”

“Yes, well, it’s fortunate that I found Geralt so soon into my travels!  You need not worry about me with a witcher at my side.”  Jaskier said, tone light but message pointed.

“I will forever hope to see you settle down somewhere safe.  I know it will never be here, for husbandry of our land is Leopold’s calling and not yours, but I would be pleased to see you make your home in Oxenfurt.  I could not bear to hear that harm had befallen you on your travels.” She said, her expression tight.

“Geralt will protect me, won’t you, dear one?”  Jaskier said, leaning over into Geralt.

“With my life.”  Geralt said simply. 

“Then my heart is somewhat eased, though hope remains that Julian will choose a safer lifestyle.”  Lady Emilia said.

“Mother,” Jaskier said quellingly.

“You cannot fault a mother for hoping her child will be safe.”  Lady Emilia said sharply. 

Geralt quirked a grin.  “Perhaps my Lady can convince him to stay back at the inn instead of seeking out monsters?”

Jaskier threw him an offended look.  “And how am I supposed to write ballads about events I don’t see?”

“Julian!”  Lady Emilia exclaimed, “don’t tell me you follow your witcher on his contracts?”

“He does, but I have managed to get him to stay back with the horse where it’s safe.  For the most part.”  Geralt said, a teasing note in his voice.

“Lies and slander!”  Jaskier said with a huff.  “I always stay with Roach.”

“Keeping her in sight doesn’t count as staying with her, Jaskier.” 

“Now, Julian, you must listen to Geralt when he tells you where to stay!”  Lady Emilia scolded.  “You must promise me you will do this or I’ll never be able to sleep peacefully.”  Geralt felt a pleased little thrill that Lady Emilia had dropped the title in front of his name. 

“No fair bringing my mother into this, Geralt.”  Jaskier said with a scowl.

Geralt just quirked an eyebrow at him.  Leopold looked delighted by the entire proceedings.

“Well, Julian?”  Lady Emilia said sharply.

Jaskier sighed and dropped his head.  “Yes, Mother.  I’ll stay either at the inn or with the horse, whatever Geralt says is safer.”

Leopold looked like he might burst trying to hold in his laughter.

“But Geralt must promise to tell me about the battles.  In detail!” Jaskier said, pointing an emphatic finger at Geralt.

Geralt’s lips twitched as he tried to keep a straight face.  “I will tell you everything, I promise.”

Jaskier stared him down for a long moment before nodding sharply.  “See that you do.”

Leopold lost his composure, throwing his head back and practically shrieking with laughter.  Even Lady Emilia let a full smile bloom across her handsome face at their antics. 

“Brother, I think you have met your match!”  Leopold said between chuckles.

“I have, Leopold, I really have.”  Jaskier said, taking Geralt’s hand and pressing a kiss to the back of it.

Geralt smiled at him warmly and the topic shifted to the new agricultural order from Redania.  Leopold and Jaskier told Lady Emilia and Geralt in detail about the new village they were granted to help meet increased demand from the kingdom and their plans to improve the quality of life of their newest serfs.

The next morning, as Jaskier and Geralt lingered over breakfast, one of the hall boys came in with a message for Geralt. 

“Lord Leopold requests that you join him on a boar hunt this morning, Master Geralt.”  The boy said.

“Thank you, Geoffrey.”  Jaskier said and the boy bowed and left.

Jaskier set down his teacup and poked Geralt’s hand, drawing him out of his startled stare at where the boy had been.  “Well?  Would you like to join him?  The wild boar here are particularly nice and Leopold is a fine shot.”  Jaskier flushed a little, shaking his head.   “He really did inherit all my father’s skills and aptitude for running an estate.”

“Why would he want me to join him?”  Geralt asked, baffled. 

“To get to know you better without my mother getting involved.”  Jaskier said simply.  “He’s my brother, and he wants to get to know the man I’ve chosen as my submissive.  Didn’t Lambert insist I come to Kaer Morhen next winter?  It’s the same impulse.”

“Other than you and my brothers, no one has ever voluntarily sought out my company.”  Geralt said. 

Jaskier’s face pinched, taking on that same sad expression it always did when Geralt shared facts about his past.  Geralt didn’t understand it, Jaskier was the anomaly so how could be blame others for treating him normally?  Seemed Leopold was cut from a similar cloth if he wanted to take on a potentially all-day hunt with Geralt.

“It breaks my heart you’ve been treated so poorly in your life.”  Jaskier said finally, taking Geralt’s hand and pressing a firm, lingering kiss to the back of it.  He looked up, still bent over Geralt’s hand, and held his gaze.  “As long as I live, I will make sure your life is a happy one.”

Geralt felt warmth blossom in his chest, filling him up, and a broad, soft smile took over his face.  “If you are with me, I am happy,” he said.  “You are more than I could ever hope to deserve.”

“No, my darling.”  Jaskier said, “I am the one who needs to work to be worthy of you.” 

Geralt went to protest and Jaskier placed a finger on his lips, stilling him.  “No arguments, go play with Leopold.  I have to work with the Redanian clerk to finalize the paperwork about our new village and to approve the requisition forms, so I’ll be tied up all day.”

Geralt huffed, but subsided, satisfied Jaskier at least registered his disagreement with his assessment of their relative worth.  He tossed back the last of his tea and shoved the remainder of his breakfast roll in his mouth, earning a grimace from Jaskier, and strode out the door toward the stables, grabbing his twin swords as he left and slinging them across his back.  He left his armor behind – he hardly needed it to hunt boar – but it would be remiss of him not to take his swords.  It was still early for monsters to come out of hibernation, and bears and wolves were not common in this region, but Geralt wasn’t about to take any risks with Jaskier’s brother.

He exited the manor house and crossed the stable yard, seeing Roach already tacked and ready for him at the stable gate, a spirited grey gelding at her side, snorting and stomping in the crisp air.  Roach looked as if he had been carrying on like that for ages and that she most certainly did not approve of his behavior.

Geralt came up to her, stroking a firm hand down her neck, and pressed his forehead to hers in greeting and in apology for needing to deal with the young gelding’s antics.  As he moved to check her tack, ensuring the saddle blanket was straight and that there were no skin wrinkles under her cinch, Leopold came out to greet him.

“Geralt! I’m so glad you finally crawled out of bed!”  Leopold said, a teasing light in his eyes.  “Don’t let my brother teach you his slothful habits!”

Geralt snorted and grinned back at him, the easy camaraderie shown easing his tense anticipation of the pending hunt.  “I get him up at dawn when we travel, so I can allow a little sleeping in when we’re in safe territory.  But only a little.”

“I would love to see that!”  Leopold said with grin, springing up lightly to mount the fiery grey.  The gelding snorted and danced under him, but Leopold soothed him with soft words and few easy circles to refocus his energetic mind. 

“Stormbreaker, here, is still learning to be a mannerly hunt horse, so I attached the long bows and equipment to your Roach.”  Leopold said, gesturing to the packs on Roach’s back. 

“Sensible.  No need to give a green horse extra stimulation to worry about.”  Geralt said approvingly.

“So our stable master said.  He’s never given bad advice for horses, so I generally do as he says.  He likes your Roach, said she’s a sensible mare.  That’s why he suggested I take Stormbreaker out, let him learn from her.”

“Makes sense, that’s how I train all my horses.  Nothing better than to let a youngster learn from a sensible mare.”  Geralt said, mounting after one final check of the cinch.  He gestured for Leopold to lead the way.

“Stormbreaker could use a bit of a run and we’ve a ways to go to get to the boar’s hunting ground, fancy a bit of a gallop?”  Leopold asked, looking as eager for the run as Stormbreaker was.

Geralt nodded, easing Roach up into a trot and then a canter as they cleared the stable yard and headed up the main road.  As soon as they hit the forest trail, Leopold let Stormbreaker loose, whooping as the big gelding surged forward, his powerful stride sending them flying forward down the path.  Geralt gave Roach her head, allowing her to stretch out and set her own pace as she chased after Stormbreaker.  It was too narrow to safely ride side-by-side at speed, but they pounded over the trail in close succession, leaves catching in their hair and eyes stinging from the cold wind. 

Eventually, the trail narrowed further, curling into the woods at the base of the mountains, and Leopold brought Stormbreaker back down to a walk, letting him stretch his head down, his stride relaxed and long.

“The boars were last seen in this region, so I’m hoping we can track them down.  Wild boar would be a treat after a winter of salted meats and river fish.”  Leopold said, scanning the ground around the trail.

Geralt hummed and they walked in silence, each searching the sides of the trail for signs the boar had been nearby.  The horses were cool and fresh again by the time Geralt called out softly, directly Leopold’s attention to a patch of upturned soil, a clear sign a boar had been rooting around to find food.

Geralt jumped down and tossed Roach’s reins over a branch, pulling one of the long bows from her pack.  He strung it quickly and slung the quiver over his shoulder. 

“Stay here with Stormbreaker,” Geralt said.  “He’s young and needs to learn what a boar sounds like before he gets right up near one.  I’ll follow the tracks.”

Leopold frowned, but assented.  “Be careful, Julian would never forgive me if harm befell you.”

Geralt quirked a grin over his shoulder and flashed his medallion at Leopold.  Compared to monsters, a wild boar was nothing.  Child’s play, even.

Geralt knelt beside the upturned earth, scenting the air.  The scent was still relatively fresh, the boar couldn’t have gone far.  He scanned the ground and spotted the tracks leading off into the deeper forest.  He followed, opening his senses to the sounds and smells of the forest. 

As he drew closer to the boar, the scent grew stronger and he stopped, eyeing the terrain.  The boar was likely in the thicket, but he would have a better shot out where the ground was clearer.  He settled in downwind behind a large fallen tree and strung an arrow. 

With a deep breath, he let out a roar, sounding a challenge to the boar.  As expected, the volatile animal responded by charging out of the underbrush toward the sound of Geralt’s call, head lowered to expose its sharp horns to the encroaching predator.

Geralt drew back the arrow, the heavy hunting longbow easily bending to his pull.  He sighted down the shaft, his fingers lightly brushing his chin.  He let out his breath, steading his aim as the boar grew closer, its cloven hooves biting into the partially thawed ground.  He loosed the arrow, hand gracefully flowing back toward his ear as the tension released. 

The arrow struck true, piercing through the midline of the boar’s back behind the shoulder blade of the leading leg and puncturing the upper lobes of the boar’s lungs, dropping it instantly.  The boar was dead before it hit the ground.

Geralt stayed in his crouch, letting the bow hang from his loose fingers. He scented the air and listened hard, checking if the large boar had travelled in company.  After several long moments of nothing, bird calls started to resume in the trees and a chipmunk skittered through the leaf cover.  The forest was at peace again. 

Geralt rose, slung the bow across his back, and went to inspect the boar.  He pulled out the arrow, pleased to see it was undamaged, and tucked it into the lashings on the outside of the quiver to clean later.  Seeing the boar was too broad to carry under his arm, he took the longbow off his back and bent down to toss the boar over his shoulders, holding it by the ankles in one hand and picking up the longbow in the other.

He turned and headed back to where he’d left Leopold with the horses, calling out when he got within earshot to avoid startling him. 

Leopold jumped up from the rock he was sitting on and ran over toward Geralt.

“What a magnificent boar!  This will make a fine feast with plenty to share.”  Leopold said.  “Excellent hunting!”

Geralt hummed, pleased.  He handed Leopold the longbow to unstring and pack away while he placed the boar’s carcass over Roach’s saddle and secured it for transport.  Stormbreaker snorted at the smell of death, eyes rolling in his head, but Leopold allowed him to take his time to acclimate to the scent, eventually leading him closer to Roach and the boar.  Reassured by Roach’s nonchalance, Stormbreaker settled and Leopold remounted for the ride back. 

Geralt led Roach in front of Stormbreaker, letting him see and smell the boar to help him get used to the spoils of hunting.  The easy hunt with a single companion, the young horse, and the crisp, mountain air reminded Geralt suddenly of training at Kaer Morhen, taking young mares in training out to hunt deer with Eskel and Lambert in the woodlands behind the ancient keep.

“Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”  Leopold said, breaking the easy silence.

Geralt hummed.  He didn’t enjoy discussing personal matters, but for Jaskier’s brother, he would try.

“Julian told us how you met, but why did you allow him to continue to travel with you?  I’d imagine having someone to protect only adds to the difficulty of your Path.”  Leopold said, his words casual but his gaze sharp.  Geralt suspected this line of inquiry was the impetus behind the unexpected invitation to hunt.

“I didn’t allow it at first, but Jaskier followed me anyway.  I had to protect him or have his death on my hands.”  Geralt said, eyes firmly forward.  “I assumed he would leave after a few days or even a few weeks, tired of the danger and the hard life on the road, but he didn’t.”

Geralt paused, unsure how to explain his feelings and unwilling to be as open with Leopold as he was with Jaskier. 

“So, what changed?”  Leopold prompted, coming up to ride abreast with Geralt.

Geralt wasn’t sure what to say.  He didn’t have the vocabulary or the eloquence to speak on these matters like Jaskier did.  But he knew if he wanted Leopold’s approval, if he wanted to help ease the remaining tension between Jaskier and family over their relationship, he needed to try.

“He treated me normally.”  Geralt said finally. 

Leopold looked at him, questioningly, and Geralt tried to explain.  “Other than my brothers, Jaskier was the first person to treat me as--” he paused, searching for the right word, “as a person, I suppose.  He wasn’t afraid of me.  He didn’t curse me for being a mutant or a witcher or a monster.  Then, the first time I got hurt on a hunt while with him, he not only insisted I take the bed in our room, but he made sure the innkeeper brought up food and he convinced the town’s healer to see to my wounds.  No one had ever treated me that well before.”

“Sounds exactly like something Julian would do.  He falls in love with people all the time and then turns himself inside out trying to take care of them.”  Leopold said, considering.  He turned a hard gaze on Geralt.  “Are you with him only because he takes care of you?”

“No, but that was why I stopped fighting him when he wanted to travel with me.” Geralt said.  “Now, I enjoy his company and as long as staying with me makes him happy, then I’ll do everything I can to keep him safe and content.”

“And if travelling with you no longer makes him happy?”  Leopold asked, pulling up his horse.

“Then I’ll escort him to wherever he wants to be.  If he still wants my company, I’ll visit as regularly as I can while still fulfilling my duties.  If he doesn’t, I’ll leave him in peace.  I know I’m far from a worthy companion and have no right to hold onto him if he wishes to be free of me.”  Geralt said simply.  He trusted Jaskier’s affection and his stated intention to stay with Geralt, but if Jaskier changed his mind, or if circumstances changed it for him, Geralt would hardly presume to cling to him.

Geralt looked up at Leopold, holding Leopold’s gaze and letting Leopold study him for a long moment. 

“You mean that.”  Leopold said approvingly.  “I’ve met many of Julian’s paramours over the years, submissives he brought home with him during breaks from Oxenfurt, but you’re the first one who didn’t want anything from him but his company.”

Leopold broke into a grin, eyes shining as his body language eased.  “I approve!  You may have my brother, Geralt, with my blessing.  May he be as good for you as you are for him.”  He said, giving appropriate weight to the traditional set phrase spoken by a Dominant’s close family member to that Dominant’s submissive.

“May my efforts bring peace to his heart and honor to his house.”  Geralt said, giving the traditional reply, before turning away and resuming his walk.

Leopold followed, humming a light tune, before throwing Geralt a cheeky grin and asking, “is Julian as proficient a lover as he says he is?”

Geralt spun and stared up at him, shocked by the question.

Leopold laughed, delighted at Geralt’s discomfiture. “Well, once I grew old enough, he used to write me pages and pages about his latest conquests, claiming he was a ‘master of lovemaking’, though he thankfully spared me the details. So, I have to know: is it true?”

Geralt felt shame flood through him.  In all their months together since the Temple, he’d never thought to offer Jaskier more than chaste affection.  While their scenes were intimate, they had never been sexual and both of them had always remained fully dressed.  He’d known Jaskier was a sexual being, he’d seen him take barmaids and stable boys to bed often enough in their travels, so he must need that release to be fully happy.  And yet he, in his selfishness, had allowed himself to revel in the easy intimacy, to move slowly without thinking of Jaskier’s needs.

Leopold’s expression shifted from gleeful to concerned at Geralt’s silence. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to make you truly uncomfortable.”

Geralt forced himself to respond.  This was Jaskier’s brother and he deserved that courtesy.  “I haven’t yet experienced his skills in that area, so I can’t comment.”

Leopold’s eyebrows nearly hit his hairline and his mouth dropped open.  “Oh!  Well then, I can think of no greater proof of Julian’s regard for you than that.  For him to take his time?  He must see your relationship as one to last the rest of his days.”

Geralt could only nod, too consumed by his whirling thoughts.  He’d made a tremendous oversight and needed to correct it as soon as possible.

That night, after a feast of boar, Geralt attempted to do just that.

He knew he wasn’t ready for a fully sexual scene, having limited experience in that area, but he wanted to push himself as far as possible to satisfy Jaskier.  So, when Jaskier sat on the edge of the bed and placed the usual cushion next to his feet, Geralt stepped to stand in front of him, rather than kneeling.

Jaskier looked up, questioningly, concern edging his voice.  “You all right?  We can just go straight to bed if you prefer.”

Geralt reached out, not sure what he wanted, but needing Jaskier’s support to help ground him.  Jaskier took his hands and pressed his lips to them, looking more concerned than before. 

Geralt took in a shaking breath, but forced the words out.  “I want to try something else.  Something less brotherly.  More -” he licked his lips, biting at the lower one, “- intimate.” He said finally.  He felt as if he might fly apart.

“Are you sure?”  Jaskier asked.  “I’m definitely able to do that, thrilled even, but only if you’re ready.”

“I am.”  Geralt said, trying for confidence and falling somewhat short.

Jaskier gave him a searching look, but agreed.  “All right, we can try something a little more intense.  But remember, you need to use your words.”  He said firmly.  “Repeat them for me.”

“‘Roach’ for a full stop and ‘Potato’ if I’m unsure.”  Geralt repeated obediently.  The repetition of the familiar words helped settle him, though he had no intention of actually using them until Jaskier was satisfied with their session.

“Good, that’s exactly right.”  Jaskier said, rising and tugging Geralt close.  Geralt tucked his face into the crook of Jaskier’s neck and breathed in his scent, grounding himself in the familiar act.

“Are you all right to remove your shirt?”  Jaskier asked.

Geralt nodded, stepping back to pull it off.  He laid it neatly on the rack next to the dresser, folding it a little more slowly and carefully than necessary.  Jaskier had seen him naked before in the baths, but removing his shirt in the bedchamber, in the context of a scene, felt impossibly more intimate. 

He stood before Jaskier, chest and scars bared, arms loose at his sides.  He felt tension coiling through his body and couldn’t meet Jaskier’s eyes.

“Beautiful,” Jaskier said admiringly.  He ran a possessive hand down Geralt’s chest, chasing the lines of each scar and circling lightly over Geralt’s nipples.  They pebbled at the touch and Geralt shuddered.  No one had ever touched him like that before and it was almost overwhelming.  He forced himself to still, to keep his breathing relaxed and calm.  Jaskier wouldn’t hurt him and he wouldn’t give up this soon when Jaskier clearly needed more from him than he had thought to give.

Jaskier’s hand stilled, lying flat on Geralt’s sternum.  “Still all right?”

Geralt nodded.  He needed to be all right, so he would have to be.

Jaskier gave him a long look.  “All right then, but remember your words.  I don’t want you to be uncomfortable for any reason.”

“I’m fine,” Geralt said.  “I’ll use my words if I need them.”

“See that you do.”  Jaskier said.  He stepped back toward the bed and motioned toward it.  “Lie down on your belly and we’ll get started.”

Geralt obeyed, stretching out on the fur-lined coverlet, embroidered silk backing soft on his exposed chest.  He heard Jaskier take in a sharp breath. 

“Exquisite.”  He said, his voice rough.  Geralt could hear Jaskier’s heartrate increase and smelled the sudden flood of lust that came over him.  He’d clearly made the right decision.  He would have to suggest an even more intense session tomorrow.  He would do anything to make Jaskier happy.

Geralt heard Jaskier pop a cork out of a small bottle and the scent of chamomile wafted gently over him.  He heard Jaskier rub the salve into his hands before kneeling on the bed.  He had no idea what to expect, but he would take whatever Jaskier wanted to give.

“Ready?”  Jaskier asked, checking in. 

Geralt nodded. 

“Put your hands under your head and keep them there.”  Jaskier commanded.  Geralt obeyed instantly.  “I’m going to rub this salve into your back and I want you to follow the patterns of my hands.  Tell me what shape I’ve made when I ask you.”

Jaskier swung his leg over Geralt and settled down on his clothed bottom.  Geralt tensed at the sensation, feeling suddenly trapped, but pushed the thought away.  Jaskier wouldn’t hurt him.  Whatever else Jaskier wanted, he would endure.

Jaskier started by running firm hands up either side of Geralt’s spine, the slick salve easing the way.  Geralt let out an involuntary groan as tense muscles made themselves known.  Jaskier had massaged his head and shoulders before, but this was a new sensation.  Jaskier chuckled and pressed a fond kiss to his spine. 

Jaskier continued, forming sweeping arcs across his back with his slick hands.   Geralt tried to follow the pattern to paint a picture in his mind.  Firm strokes up the spine then arcs under the shoulder blades and across the top, circling back down.  Repeat.

“What’s the shape?” Jaskier prompted.

“A tree?” Geralt guessed.  He felt the first tendrils of subspace rising up.  As he focused his attention on Jaskier’s hands, the rest of the world fell away.  He’d never had a back massage like this before and he felt the tension melting out of his body.  He felt lighter, almost as if the release of tension released him from full awareness of his body.

“Good, exactly right.”  Jaskier praised.  Geralt felt warmth fill his chest and he relaxed further, surrendering to Jaskier’s ministrations.  He no longer felt trapped, but cocooned in Jaskier’s gentle protection.

Jaskier repeated the exercise thrice more, each time praising Geralt for his correct response.  By the fourth correct guess, Geralt felt like he never wanted Jaskier to stop touching him.  He hadn’t known he could feel this good.  His mind drifted, not quite fully submerged into subspace, but almost there.

“You’re doing so well for me.”  Jaskier said, Dominant Voice adding weight to the praise before he dropped it to ask, “can you do a little more for me, or is this enough?”

Geralt would do anything Jaskier asked.  He nodded.  “I can do more,” he said, his diction loose and relaxed.

“Turn over onto your back.”  Jaskier ordered, rising up on his knees to give Geralt room to move.  Geralt flipped over obediently, keeping his eyes closed, his mind still softly drifting.

“This time, just focus on my hands and on how they feel across your skin.”  Jaskier commanded.  “I don’t want you to look for a shape anymore, just feel.  Focus on my hands, on the warmth and the sensation, and on nothing else.”

Geralt nodded, too relaxed to bother forming words. 

Jaskier applied more salve to his hands before starting on the front of Geralt’s shoulders, working his way down to Geralt’s pecs and across his belly in gentle, long strokes.  Geralt focused on the sensation, on the soothing warmth of his touch, on the familiar scent of chamomile, and felt himself drop down fully, drifting in the soothing release of subspace. 

But then a new, sharp sensation pulled him back up.

Geralt kept his eyes closed, controlling his breathing, and searched for the source of the disturbance.  Jaskier’s strokes we concentrated on his chest, firm strokes easing the deep aches caused by wielding his sword.  But every fourth stroke, he would pass his slick hands over Geralt’s nipples and a spike of sensation so intense it was almost pain shot through him. 

It was too much, but Geralt forced the feeling away, attempting to ignore the overwhelming sensation sprinkled in with the soothing massage.  Jaskier was a sexual being and Geralt needed to get on board with that if he wanted to keep him.  If he couldn’t handle this, what hope was there for him?

He drew on every scrap of his training to keep his face lax, his breathing slow and deep, and his body loose, unwilling to disturb Jaskier’s enjoyment.  Maybe if he ignored it long enough his body would get desensitized and it might be more pleasant?  Jaskier’s scent was still heavy with arousal, so it was clearly a pleasant exercise for him.  Geralt would endure.

Jaskier changed his strokes, peppering praise in between each motion, stroking up from Geralt’s exposed hip bones to the tops of his shoulders, gently rubbing over his sensitive chest with each pass.  The sensations built on each other and Geralt felt himself losing control as his heart rate started to elevate.  He felt trapped again, Jaskier’s weight on his hips no longer soothing.

On one particularly long pass, Jaskier leaned forward far enough that his hardness pressed against Geralt’s belly, the feeling so unexpected and so new that Geralt couldn’t contain the full body flinch as he pulled away from Jaskier’s touch, his eyes flying open.

Jaskier immediately lifted his hands and backed away, a stricken look on his face.  “Geralt, what happened, are you all right?”

Geralt pressed his back into the headboard, relaxation a distant memory as he fought to steady his breathing.  His heart raced in his chest.

“Forgive me,” he bit out.

Jaskier made a wounded noise and stepped off the bed completely, coming to kneel on the floor at Geralt’s side.  “There’s nothing to forgive, darling.  I pushed you too far and that’s my fault.”

Geralt shook his head sharply, hair flying into his face.  “No!  I should have been able to handle it.”

Jaskier closed his eyes and drew in a long breath.  “If you feel like a scene is something you need to endure, then I’m doing something very wrong.”  He rubbed a hand over his face with a sigh.  “We need to talk about this, but I think we should move somewhere more neutral.  Please get dressed and meet me in the sitting room when you’re ready.”

Geralt lay there for a long moment after Jaskier left, letting the feel of the sturdy headboard supporting his back ground him in the present moment.  The panic slowly gave way to a cold, heavy feeling of despair.  He’d not only fucked up the scene, but he’d hurt Jaskier in the process.  He needed to fix this, but he didn’t know how.  Even if he thought Jaskier would accept it, he couldn’t safely go out and gain more experience with whores so he could better please Jaskier.  Not without letting them in on his secret, and he couldn’t do that, not even for Jaskier. 

Eventually, when he could consistently control his breathing and his heartrate, he stood, brushed his hair back from his face, and pulled his shirt back over his head.  It stuck unpleasantly to the salve coating his back and chest, a reminder of his failure. 

With a fortifying breath, he pushed open the door to Jaskier’s private sitting room and came to sit beside him on the plush couch, pressing his side into Jaskier’s.  Jaskier gave him a tight smile, keeping his hands clasped in his lap.  His knuckles were white with tension.

“What happened, Geralt?”  Jaskier asked, his voice wrecked.  “I can’t guess this time, I need you to tell me so I never do whatever I did again.  The look on your face when you pulled away from me, gods.”  He curled in on himself, resting his forehead on his clenched hands, elbows braced on his knees.  “I never want to fail you in that way again.”

Geralt didn’t understand why Jaskier never reacted in the way he should.  Geralt had failed him.  Geralt had forced him into celibacy and then couldn’t even handle a little bare-chested touching.  Jaskier should be angry.  Or disappointed.  He shouldn’t be apologetic.

“I wanted to give you what you needed.”  Geralt said quietly.

“And what exactly did you think I needed?”  Jaskier said, tone flat.

“Sexual fulfillment.”  Geralt said, falling back on blunt honesty.

“And what made you think that?”  Jaskier’s fingers clenched as he pressed them harder into his forehead.

“Leopold mentioned the letters you used to write him about your conquests,” Geralt said.

“I’ll kill him,” he heard Jaskier mutter.

“And it reminded me of how often you used to take someone to bed during our travels.  And how you haven’t done that in the last few months.”

“Of course not!” Jaskier said, turning to look at Geralt, a wild expression on his face.  “Once you agreed to let me be your Dominant in Oxenfurt, I knew I would never want to lie with anyone else.”

“I know,” Geralt said, surprising himself with how certain he was.  “That’s why I wanted to give you what you needed.  To replace what you were giving up by remaining true to me alone.”

Jaskier sighed.  “And so, you decided to force yourself beyond your limits because you thought that would please me?”

“I thought I could handle it.”  Geralt said, ashamed.  “I knew you wouldn’t hurt me.”

“Well, there’s that, at least.”  Jaskier said, a heavy note in his voice.  His jaw jumped and he looked away again.

Geralt knew he had to explain himself better.  He owed Jaskier at least that much. 

“No one’s ever touched me like that before.”  Geralt said, almost whispering, as if he said it too loud then everything would break.

Jaskier looked up sharply, straightening and turning to face Geralt.  “Explain that.  In detail.  I’ve never asked you to explain your prior experiences, but now I think I need to know if we’re going to keep doing this.”  Jaskier said.  It was not a request.

Geralt felt a cold weight settle in his chest when Jaskier said “if”.  He knew Jaskier meant it.  That he could either tell Jaskier the truth, the whole truth, or he risked losing him.  Not as a friend, no, but as a Dominant.  Jaskier was too principled to continue guiding him down without knowing the potential traps and missteps that could cause Geralt to panic again.

Geralt considered it for a long moment and Jaskier didn’t rush him.  Geralt thought back on the trainers who had assumed he would die in the Trials because of his designation.  He thought of Vesemir, who came up with a brutal system to keep his mind from breaking, who told him that letting anyone know his secret would put him and everyone around him in danger. 

He thought of Nenneke and Yennefer, both of whom showed him the damage Vesemir’s system had done to his mind.  Who told him that he would be healthier if he leaned in to his designation rather than fighting against it.

He thought of warm nights in Oxenfurt, gently drifting as Jaskier carded a soft hand through his hair.  He thought of how much stronger, physically and mentally, he felt now that Jaskier was guiding him down regularly.  He thought of how he wanted to touch more, to know Jaskier as deeply, as intimately, as possible, but that he didn’t know how.  He thought of how Jaskier had never guided him astray, had never judged him for his ignorance or faulted him for his lack of control.

He decided it was time to let Jaskier know the full story. 

He took a deep breath.  In and out.  Then another.  He reached for Jaskier’s hand, winding their fingers together when Jaskier gave it to him readily.  He took another breath.  In and out.

“I am the only submissive witcher to ever survive the Trials.  The trainers didn’t expect me to live, that’s why they risked the extra mutations when I withstood the first rounds.  But I did survive and then they needed to come up with a plan to fulfill the needs demanded by my designation without revealing my secret.”  Geralt said, letting the feel of Jaskier’s hand in his ground him in the present.  “They feared a Dominant could use their Voice against me if my designation were known, either to defeat me or to force me to act as a weapon against others.  Neither potentiality was acceptable.”

Geralt paused, reminding himself he wasn’t a boy in training anymore.  But the cold chill that rose through him lingered.

“They trained me to resist a Dominant’s Voice.  They worked me until I could resist each and every Dominant in the keep, but they knew there was always a breaking point.  So, they made sure I never needed to reveal my designation outside the keep’s walls.  I learned to resist the need for subspace, to hold out for months until I could return to Kaer Morhen again for the winter.  They forbade me from going to brothels or public baths.  They didn’t want me in a situation where I could run into a Dominant when I was anything other than fully in control.”

“That’s why you said it had been months since your last drop back in Oxenfurt.”  Jaskier said quietly.

“Aye, it had been more than nine by then.”  Geralt said.

“Nine months, gods.”  Jaskier breathed, fingers tightening around Geralt’s.  “No wonder you were a mess.”

“I thought it was normal, I thought I had it handled.  But Nenneke showed me the damage done to my mind.  It wasn’t strong, it was brittle.  Yennefer’s spell exposed the weakness when it wounded my mind, so I suppose I’m grateful for that.”  Geralt said. 

“I’m not.  I could do without you being injured.”  Jaskier said bitterly.

Geralt hummed.  “But without that I might not have known the underlying weakness until it was too late to save my mind.  Or so Nenneke said.”  Jaskier’s grip tightened on his hand.

“What did your trainers do to guide you into subspace?”  Jaskier asked quietly.

“Vesemir did it.  He’s close to four centuries old and he used the techniques he’d learned as a young Dominant.  Every winter, when I first returned, and every spring before I left again, he would bind me to a wooden cross,” Geralt heard Jaskier take in a sharp breath, “and he would have me count fifty lashes from a cat-o-nine-tails.  If I lost count, he started again.”

“Gods.” Jaskier said, turning and drawing Geralt into a rough embrace.  “That was all you’d ever known?  Rank brutality?”

Geralt nodded, pressing his forehead to Jaskier’s clavicle.

“Eskel and Lambert would help take the edge off, but they never guided me down fully, just into that sort of halfway point between subspace and reality.  Even that was stopped when the trainers came up with their own plan.”  Geralt said.  “You were the first to ever guide me gently all the way down.”

Jaskier shifted their positions so that Geralt could rest his head comfortably on Jaskier’s shoulder.  “If you were forbidden from brothels, I imagine casual sex was out of the question as well.”

Geralt nodded.  “The only sexual encounter I ever had was with a sorceress.  A Dominant.  She saw right through me and decided to exact her pound of flesh for killing her pet griffin.  I was still young and weak from the fight.  She did exactly what the trainers had feared.  She overwhelmed me with her Voice, though she didn’t hurt me further.  I was lucky she let me leave with my life.”

Jaskier’s arm tightened around him.  “So, your only sexual encounter was forced?  And the only way you’d learned to enter subspace was when your mind fled the pain inflicted on your body?”

“You could put it that way.”  Geralt said, too worn out by the heavy conversation to challenge the characterization of events.  Jaskier practically radiated rage, but for once Geralt was sure it wasn’t directed at him.

“Thank you for telling me.”  Jaskier said finally, the sharpness of his rage easing.  He drew Geralt closer, nuzzling at his hair.  “Do you want to work up to more sexual scenes?  Regardless of what you think I want, is that something you want?”

Geralt paused, considering.  He was nervous about how to act and what to expect, but he wanted to know Jaskier completely.  He desired Jaskier in a way he didn’t know how to express, but he wanted to learn. 

“Yes, but I don’t know what to do.”

Jaskier stroked a hand through his hair, soothing him.  “You don’t need to know, I’ll teach you.  Gods know I have the experience.”  The stroking stopped and Jaskier tilted Geralt’s chin up to catch his eyes.  “But you need to promise me something: never force yourself.  If you’re not sure or you want to stop, use your words.  If I can’t trust you to communicate with me, we can’t do anything beyond what we’ve been doing up until now.  I need to know you’ll help me understand your limits, even if they change day to day.”

Geralt could see how important this was to Jaskier.  He’d certainly experienced the fall out of not communicating when he was feeling overwhelmed and he didn’t want to experience that again.  At first, before ignored his limits, the scene had made him feel better than he’d ever felt.  He wanted to capture that feeling again.

“I promise,” he said.  He even meant it this time.

“Good, thank you.”  Jaskier said.  He settled back on the couch, drawing Geralt close.  He stroked his hand through Geralt’s hair and they breathed together. 

Geralt drifted, exhausted from the emotional upheaval.  Sharing his story relieved a pressure inside him that had existed since he was child.  He felt lighter knowing Jaskier was there to guide him.

Their remaining days in Lettenhove passed quietly. 

Leopold and Geralt would often take the horses out to run and the stable master was thrilled to have Roach set such a good example for young Stormbreaker.  One day, they had even switched horses, Geralt taking the chance to introduce Stormbreaker to some of the tricks taught to the youngsters training to serve witchers.  Roach was less than pleased to find Leopold on her back, but tolerated it with moderate grace.  Geralt made it up to her with a hearty bran mash upon their return, sweetened with dark molasses and stewed apples.

While Leopold and Geralt entertained each other, Jaskier completed his tasks with the Redanian clerk.  Lettenhove acquired a new village and agreed to provide an additional 1,000 bushels of wheat, 500 bushels of barley, and 250 bushels of oats to the Kingdom in the coming harvest. 

With Leopold, Jaskier developed a plan to repair the huts and roads in the new village and to slowly revitalize the soil in their fields.  The farmland they acquired was overworked and parts would need to lay fallow to recover, but the rest of the holding could take on the increased burden while the new village recuperated.   A new schoolhouse would be built and a teacher hired, but until that happened the children would be brought by ox cart to the neighboring village’s school.

With his annual tasks complete, Jaskier and Geralt planned to leave Lettenhove the following morning, heading north to seek new contracts.  The cook had prepared a truly magnificent feast for their last night, a seven-course exploration of the meats, fish, and vegetables grown in the holding.

After dinner, the family retreated to their parlor rather than sitting in the dining room.  Geralt looked questioningly at Jaskier when Lady Emilia announced the change, but only got a soft smile in return.

“The parlor is for family only.”  Lady Emilia said, seeing the look.  “And you are family now.”

Geralt felt warmth explode in his chest and he smiled without restraint.  He wasn’t sure what he had done to deserve the largess shown to him by Lady Emilia and Leopold, but he was glad his relationship with Jaskier was no longer a point of contention.  He knew how important his family, and their opinion, was to Jaskier.

When they entered the parlor, Geralt saw there were cushions laid out on the floor beside the paired couches.  He looked at Jaskier again, checking in.  Jaskier nodded, gesturing that he was allowed to sit or kneel as he preferred.

Geralt took in the scene, seeing Leopold kneel beside his Mother while cheerfully chattering at Jaskier about his day.  He saw Jaskier sit against the arm of the couch closest to his brother, leaving Geralt room to choose his spot.  Geralt knew it was common practice for submissive family members to behave thusly with their Dominant relations, but he’d never seen it done in practice. 

He chose to kneel, leaning into Jaskier’s legs and settling his head on Jaskier’s thigh.  He didn’t need to speak if he didn’t want to, he could just sit and let the warm, familial environment wash over him.  Jaskier rested a hand on his head, lightly scratching at his scalp.

Geralt was warm, well-fed, and surrounded by people who called him family.  It was something he’d always wanted and never thought he could have.  He let himself drift, feeling the rumble of Jaskier’s voice and hearing the harmonizing notes from Leopold’s smooth tenor and Lady Emilia’s cultured alto. 

He thought about winter at Kaer Morhen, sitting around the fire with Eskel, Lambert, and Vesemir.  They laughed and teased each other, but there was always this tension, this feeling that no one could really relax.  Maybe Jaskier could help with that too. 

Geralt felt stronger because he allowed himself to be vulnerable with Jaskier.  Maybe he could teach his brothers how to do the same.  Maybe even show Vesemir that submission did not have to involve pain. 

They were his family, and he wanted to show them how to act like one. 

Chapter Text

Geralt found the notice in a little, nameless village on the banks of the Buine River. 

They were two days out of Lettenhove, slowing wending their way north toward Hengfors.  The plan for the spring was to stick close to the Kestrel Mountains and continue northward until they reached the far northeastern part of the Continent, the villages tucked into the Dragon Mountains in Narok, before winding down south again along the coast of the Gulf of Praxeda through Pont Vanis, Lan Exeter, and Roggeven.  

Blaviken, as always, was to be given a wide berth.  Given the town’s hatred of witchers, the Mayor had written to Vesemir long ago asking that no witchers enter the boundaries of Blaviken unless invited, on pain of death.  In the nearly thirty years since had Geralt earned his hated moniker, no request for aid had ever come out of Blaviken. 

But there was a first time for everything.

As Jaskier settled the horses into the stables at the inn, Geralt went to check the notice board.  Pinned front and center, above the usual notices about firewood, overly amorous neighbors, and crop blights, was a large contract notice, embossed with the ornate seal of the Mayor of Blaviken.

Geralt scanned the contents quickly, then took the contract down, rolled it up, and tucked it into his waistband.  It was urgent.  It couldn’t wait for Vesemir or Lambert or Eskel to come all the way west from Kaer Morhen.  This early in the spring, even the swiftest horse on a trail with no interruptions would take over a month to arrive.  People were dying.  Children were dying.  He couldn’t ignore the notice because it roused bad memories.  It had been nearly three decades, he needed to get over it.

In a daze, Geralt walked back to the inn, striding straight through the tavern on the ground floor and up the stairs, following Jaskier’s familiar honey and rosin scent to their room.  He opened the door slowly, feeling almost disconnected from his body, from the present, as memories of that horrible day in Blaviken clamored for attention. 

Renfri’s sweet scent.  Her soft smile.  Her blood pouring down her neck, soaking his hands, his clothes.  The sickly stench of death coating his nostrils.  The spike of rage when Stregobor wanted to take her to be autopsied.  The dull pain when Marilka, the gentle child who’d dogged his steps with her stories and questions, spat at him and sent him away, fear and rage in her young face. 

There is no lesser evil.

Geralt didn’t know how long he stood in the threshold of their room, hand loosely clasped on the door handle, unseeing eyes fixed on the back of the closed door.  He was startled out of his daze when the door pushed inward again, forcing him to jerk back to avoid a hit to the face. 

Jaskier entered, his eyes widening with concern when he saw Geralt.  He closed the door quickly behind him and rushed up to Geralt, running his hands over Geralt’s arms, searching for the cause of his obvious distress.

“Geralt?  Darling, what’s wrong?”  Jaskier asked, concern heavy in his voice. 

Geralt just shook his head, he couldn’t speak.  He reached out and pulled Jaskier to him, burying his face in the crook of Jaskier’s neck and closing his eyes.  He breathed in Jaskier’s scent, letting it fill his senses and sooth the rapid beat of his heart. 

Jaskier wrapped his arms around Geralt, holding him close.  He placed a hand on the back of Geralt’s head, grounding him in the present, fingers scratching lightly at his scalp.  He didn’t say anything, just stood firm and took Geralt’s weight until he could stand on his own again.

Geralt let Jaskier surround him and his panic subsided.  The memories faded into the background and Geralt found his voice again.

“We have to go to Blaviken.”  Geralt said, voice muffled by Jaskier’s shoulder. 

Geralt felt Jaskier go tense at his words.  “Why?  I thought Blaviken didn’t want witchers in their territory.  And I can’t imagine you have any desire to go there.”

Geralt lifted his head, pulling Jaskier back to sit on the bed with him.  He leaned into Jaskier’s side, unwilling to lose the contact, and unrolled the notice, showing it to Jaskier.

“The Mayor posted an emergency notice.  Probably sent riders to every town in northern Redania.  It asks for a witcher because eleven pregnant woman and their unborn children were killed over the winter.  It says the Redanian army sent a patrol to address the issue and that when they confronted the monster, all were slaughtered, including the mother and child.”  Geralt said, staring at the notice, it’s thick, looping characters swirling before his eyes. 

“That’s terrible.”  Jaskier said, voice heavy.  “But why must you go?”

“This early in the spring, the others will have just left Kaer Morhen.  Even if I could get word to them immediately, it would take at least a month for any of them to make it all the way to Blaviken.”  Geralt said.

“And you’re unwilling to let people die even if going back there is the last thing you ever wanted to do.”  Jaskier said.  He closed his eyes and sighed heavily.  “You’re a far better man than they deserve.  With the way they treated you, you could let them suffer until someone else could come to help, but you won’t do that.  I bet the thought never even occurred to you.”

Geralt didn’t know what to say to that, so he ignored it.  Fulfilling his duty was hardly cause for praise.  “I think it’s a botchling,”  he said. “Preys on pregnant women, draining their energy before finally killing the mother and the unborn child.”

Jaskier allowed the change in topic, but pressed a lingering kiss to the side of Geralt’s head before responding.  “Have you dealt with one before?”

“Once.”  Geralt said.  “Not long after I first left Kaer Morhen.  They’re created when a stillborn or miscarried child is buried without a name and without proper ceremony.  The villagers had buried a mother and her stillborn child together in a shallow grave after she died in childbirth. She was a woman alone, so no one named the child or cared for any ceremony.  The botchling had killed three women and their babes before I got there and nearly got the fourth too.”

Jaskier rubbed a hand up and down Geralt’s tense back, soothing him.  “Sounds like an awful hunt.  Do they look like babes?”

Geralt swallowed hard and nodded, forcing out the rest of the story. “Partially decomposed, but aye, they do.  Turn big when threatened though.  Have spikes like an alghoul.  Fucking nasty things.”  He shook his head, lost in the memory. “Not surprised the one in Blaviken took out a patrol.  The one I hunted nearly got the best of me.”

Jaskier made a noise Geralt couldn’t quite identify.  It sounded pained, like Jaskier had been struck in the gut, but that couldn’t be right.  Just in case, he nuzzled into Jaskier, nudging his head up under his chin in reassurance.  Jaskier pressed a kiss to his head and twisted to embrace him fully.

“So, not only will the town be hostile to you, but the monster is a particularly deadly one?”  Jaskier asked.

Geralt nodded.

“I assume trying to change your mind would be futile?” 

Geralt nodded again.  “I will send word to Vesemir if the Mayor turns me away so he can address it himself if Eskel or Lambert cannot.”

Jaskier’s grip tightened.  “If they turn you away, they deserve whatever comes to them.”

Geralt’s chest warmed at the protective tone.  No one had ever tried to protect him the way Jaskier did and it soothed a rawness in him that he’d carried all his life. 

“We should set out tomorrow.   It’s a couple days’ ride to Blaviken.”  Geralt said.

Jaskier nodded.  “Very well,” he said.  “I can see you won’t change your mind, so I’ll do everything I can to support you in this.”

He held Geralt close for a long moment before taking in a deep breath, then another, as if hesitating to speak his mind.  “May I guide you down tonight?”  He asked finally, almost tentatively.  “I need to feel that you’re mine, that you’re safe here with me.”

It was the first time Jaskier had requested to guide Geralt for his own sake.  Geralt let out a soft hum, a warm feeling suffusing throughout his body.  Jaskier needed him.  That meant he could work toward repaying at least a small part of the towering debt he owed for all the gentle care and patience Jaskier showed him. 

“Yes,” he said, pressing a kiss to the side of Jaskier’s neck and tightening his embrace.  There was little he liked more than giving Jaskier something he wanted, something he needed.

“Thank you.” Jaskier breathed, voice thick with emotion.  “Please strip down as far you feel comfortable.  I want to take care of you and the first thing we need to do is get off all that travel dirt.”

 Jaskier released him and got up to retrieve the basin and washcloth provided by the inn, filling it with warm water from the pitcher by the hearth.  He set out a stool by the fire and waited beside it.

Geralt stood and removed his shirt, tossing it to the side.  His boots quickly followed.  He hesitated with a hand on his waistband.

“Only remove what you feel comfortable removing.”  Jaskier said firmly.  “I want to take care of you, not push your boundaries.”

Geralt almost pushed them off anyway, but remembered that night on the couch in Lettenhove.  Remembered his promise.

“Potato.”  He said softly. 

Jaskier immediately came over to him.  “How can I help?  What are you unsure about?”  He asked calmly.

Geralt bit his lower lip and looked away.  He knew what he wanted to ask, but the words caught in his throat.  He’d been taught to submit without question during a scene and even though he knew Jaskier meant what he said, knew that he truly wanted to know Geralt’s concerns, he couldn’t force the words out.

Jaskier waited patiently, standing with his arms loose and his face relaxed.  Geralt reached out and Jaskier took his hand, rubbing his thumb over Geralt’s knuckles.  Focusing on the soft touch, on the kind of touch only Jaskier gave, Geralt’s throat unlocked.

“I’m all right to remove them, but I don’t know how I’ll handle being touched in more sensitive areas.”  Geralt finally said, looking down.

Jaskier nodded sharply.  “Understood, thank you for telling me.  Would you please show me where you don’t want to be touched?  I’ll make sure to avoid the area.”

Geralt took a fortifying breath and indicated the area from his hip bones to his upper thighs. 

“Of course.”  Jaskier said with a smile.  “Thank you.  May I touch your chest?”

Geralt hesitated, but nodded.  “Just, gently, yeah?”

“Always, dear one.”  Jaskier said, smile tinged with sadness.  “If anything changes, if you want me to stop or to not touch somewhere, tell me right away, all right?”

Geralt nodded again.  The knot in his chest eased.  Jaskier was pleased he’d shared his boundaries.  It was a novel experience.  He almost felt like he was waiting for the backlash, for his weaknesses to be used against him, but he knew Jaskier better than that and he shoved away the feeling.  Jaskier had never shown him anything but the most considerate of care, it would be unfair to assume he’d do anything else now.

“Are you ready to begin?”  Jaskier asked gently. 

“I’m ready.”  Geralt said, removing his loose trousers and settling on the stool in his smallclothes. 

“What are your words?”  Jaskier prompted.

“Roach to stop and Potato if I’m unsure.”  Geralt said obediently.

“Very good.” Jaskier said, Dominant Voice lending a delicious weight to his words.  Geralt shivered at the praise, gooseflesh rising on his arms. 

“I’m going to wipe you down with this cloth.  Focus on how the cloth feels across your skin.” Jaskier directed. 

Standing in front of Geralt and clearly indicating his movements, Jaskier started gently but thoroughly wiping Geralt down, working up in long strokes from his wrist, to his elbow, to his shoulder, then across the clavicle and down the other side.  The linen cloth was surprisingly soft for an inn in such a small town and the water was pleasantly warm.  Geralt appreciated how Jaskier started in the front where he could see him, it made it easier to relax and adjust to the new sensations. 

Jaskier moved down Geralt’s chest, tracing the firm lines of his pectoral muscles and moving the cloth in tight arcs down his abdomen, stopping well short of the point of his hips, as promised.  Geralt allowed himself to focus on the feeling of the cloth against his skin, on the feeling of being cared for in this intimate fashion, not because he needed it, but because Jaskier wanted to care for him.  It still felt like he was taking more than he gave to Jaskier, but Geralt trusted Jaskier when he said this was what he needed now.

With a hand on his shoulder, Jaskier moved around to Geralt’s back.  He carefully lifted Geralt’s hair off his shoulders and wiped down from the back of his neck to his shoulder blades.  Now that Geralt could only rely on his sense of touch, he closed his eyes, tipping his head forward with a sigh.  He let himself slouch slightly, relaxing into the comforting sensation of Jaskier’s touch. 

Finished with his back, Jaskier tilted Geralt’s chin up and back, allowing him to rest his head on his stomach as he gently wiped down Geralt’s face, removing all traces of dirt and sweat.  Geralt felt surrounded by Jaskier’s care and affection and let himself be supported.  The first, soothing tendrils of subspace started to rise in Geralt’s mind and he easily gave into them.

Jaskier bent down and kissed Geralt’s forehead before tiling his head forward again.  The feeling of the kiss lingered long after Jaskier’s lips left his skin.

Jaskier started to hum softly as he stepped away and knelt in front of Geralt, taking one foot in hand and resting it on his bent knee.  Slowly, carefully, he ran the cloth up Geralt’s leg, starting with the toes and moving from the arch of his foot, to his ankle, up his calf and over his knee.  As Jaskier edged higher, the cloth reaching ever closer to Geralt’s most sensitive parts, he started to tense, but relaxed when Jaskier stopped moving and laid a warm hand halfway up his thigh, just above where the cloth stopped.

“Is here a good place to stop?” Jaskier asked, checking in, his voice stripped of any trace of command.  It was exactly where Geralt had indicated before they started.

Geralt hesitated, thinking for a moment to push himself further, but refrained.  He never wanted to see Jaskier look as distraught as he had the other night in Lettenhove when he’d tried to push himself past his limits and failed. 

“Aye.”  Geralt said softly, shame lurking at the back of his mind. 

Jaskier smiled up at him, face relaxing.  “Good, thank you for telling me.” He said, infusing his words again with his Dominant’s Voice.  Geralt relaxed at the praise. 

Jaskier wiped down up to the demarcated line before switching to the other leg and repeating the process.  Geralt was surprised at how good it felt to have set a boundary.  He knew Jaskier would keep to it. 

When Jaskier finished, he handed the cloth to Geralt.  “Wipe down wherever else you wish and then come to the bed and kneel in front of me.”  He commanded.

Geralt nodded, taking the cloth, his partial descent into subspace lending a languid grace to his movements.  He stood and wiped down the rest of his body, turning his back to Jaskier when he pulled down his smallclothes to wipe around his genitals.  When he turned back, Jaskier was facing the far wall, giving him his privacy as much as possible in the small room.  Geralt felt a soft smile bloom across his face.  Jaskier really was far too good to him.

He placed the cloth back in the basin and joined Jaskier, kneeling in front of him on the provided cushion.  Jaskier moved his legs to bracket Geralt’s shoulders, surrounding him.  Geralt hooked one hand over Jaskier’s ankle and leaned into the corresponding leg, letting Jaskier support him.  He felt all lingering tension leave his body.

“I’m going to brush your hair.  I want you to count the strokes.” Jaskier ordered as he carefully removed the tie from Geralt’s hair.

“Yes, Sir.”  Geralt murmured, letting subspace wash up and over him and allowing himself to drop down fully into that soft, floating peace.

Jaskier drew in a sharp breath and Geralt almost stirred, but then he quickly followed it by embracing Geralt from behind and pressing firm, hot kisses to the top of his head.  He realized then he’d never called Jaskier “Sir” in a scene before, never granted him that level of trust and acceptance.  But today it felt so right that it had just slipped out.

Geralt hummed with pleasure at the affectionate embrace, letting himself melt into Jaskier’s hold.  With a final, lingering kiss, Jaskier straightened and took up the brush. 

“Remember to count.” He said, stroking the brush down through Geralt’s hair from the hairline to the ends of his long, white mane.

Through a haze of relaxation, muffled by subspace, Geralt heard himself say, “one.”

As Jaskier continued, firm strokes sending waves of pleasure through his body as he counted each pass, Geralt felt himself dropping deeper than he ever had before.  From a distance, Geralt heard Jaskier tell him to stop counting and just drift, that he’d done well, that he’d been good.  He let himself go completely, losing all awareness of the outside world as his mind surrendered completely to the pull of subspace.  He trusted Jaskier to watch over him.

He didn’t know how long he drifted, mind fully relaxed as he floated in the comforting embrace of subspace, but he was drawn gently back to reality by the sensation of Jaskier lightly tugging his hair as he braided it into an intricate pattern.  Like the presentation style he’d woven with cloth-of-gold, this marked Geralt as his, but it was a more intimate, private style meant only for Jaskier’s eyes. 

Geralt blinked partially back to awareness as Jaskier tied off the braid.  He rose out of subspace enough to take notice of what was going on around him, but he was unwilling to surface completely.  He felt free of any tension and he couldn’t remember why he’d been so upset before their scene.  Why he would ever need to be upset when Jaskier was there to guide him and protect him.

He shifted, burying his face in Jaskier’s thigh and wrapping his arms around Jaskier’s leg, pulling him close.

He heard Jaskier chuckle above him.  “Come on, Geralt, time to get into bed.”

Geralt shook his head.  He was too comfortable to move.

“You can’t sleep there, darling.”  Jaskier said, mirth lightening his voice. 

Geralt just clung tighter to his leg.  He could definitely sleep here.

“Come on up here, I promise it’ll be better.” Jaskier said coaxingly.  He reached down and gently unwound Geralt from his leg and wrapped an arm around Geralt’s chest from behind to lever him up.  Geralt let out an involuntary whine as his comfortable pose was disrupted, stripping away more of the comfortable blanket of subspace he’d wrapped himself in.

Jaskier huffed a laugh at his protests and pressed a kiss to the side of Geralt’s head before pushing himself back to lie flat on the bed, dragging Geralt with him.  He arranged them so Geralt was curled against his side, head on his chest, and they were both cocooned in the wool blankets provided by the inn.  They were scratchy, but warm, and Jaskier made sure the linen sheet was firmly between Geralt’s exposed skin and the rough wool. 

Geralt wrapped an arm around Jaskier’s waist and nuzzled his head into Jaskier’s chest, breathing in his comforting scent.  This was better than sitting curled up on the floor.  He should always trust Jaskier about these things.

He let out a content hum when Jaskier pulled him closer, stroking a hand through his hair and laying the other over his submissive’s cuff.  The feeling of Jaskier’s hand, his Dominant’s hand, touching that hidden mark sent waves of warmth through him.  He’d never thought he would have a Dominant of his own, let alone one as gentle and good as Jaskier.  He still wasn’t sure he deserved it, but he wouldn’t deny Jaskier his choice by pulling away.  He wasn’t even sure he could anymore.  Jaskier had become intrinsically entwined with his life in such a way that removing him would cause untold damage to them both.  It was better to take more than he deserved than to harm Jaskier by rejecting him.

The depth of his affection, of his love, for Jaskier washed over him.  He hadn’t been able to admit to himself that what he felt was love, hadn’t even been sure he was capable of feeling love anymore, but Jaskier made him believe in himself and in Jaskier.  If Jaskier was there, he could let go, he could let himself drop and let himself feel.  Jaskier wanted that from him.  And he would give Jaskier anything he wanted.

He wanted to express what he was feeling to Jaskier, he deserved to know, especially since he made his own affections for Geralt so clear. But Geralt wasn’t a wordsmith and he didn’t want to get this wrong.  Geralt’s thoughts had burned away most of the lingering subspace he clung to, but he let it go without a fight, wanting the additional mental clarity to help get this right.  He shifted, lifting himself up on one elbow to look down at Jaskier.

“Geralt?  Are you all right?”  Jaskier said, concern clear in his voice. 

Geralt hummed, nodding.  Jaskier relaxed and let Geralt study him, content to wait and see what Geralt wanted to do.  Geralt reached out a hand, hesitating just before touching Jaskier’s face.

“May I?”  He asked quietly.  Jaskier always asked him, so he would do the same.

“Of course, whatever you need.”  Jaskier said.  His tone was soft and quiet, as if unwilling to break the strange tension rising between them. 

Geralt cupped Jaskier’s cheek, rubbing his thumb across Jaskier’s cheekbone in soothing strokes.  He could feel the day’s stubble under his palm and the slight stickiness of Jaskier’s face cream.  Jaskier’s eyes met his, his gaze open and his face utterly relaxed, as trusting of Geralt as Geralt was of him. 

Geralt felt an indescribable emotion rise in his chest and his eyes heated.  He’d never felt as strongly before as he did in this moment.  He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to Jaskier’s, and closed his eyes, moving his hand up to clutch at Jaskier’s hair, careful not to pull.  His heart rate jumped up and he swallowed against a rising lump in his throat.  He wanted to show Jaskier what he felt, to find a release for the intense feelings burning through him.

“May I?”  He asked again, voice shaking.

“Anything.”  Jaskier whispered back, his breath searing where it puffed against Geralt’s face. 

Geralt drew in a breath, fingers tightening in Jaskier’s hair, forehead pressing down hard.  Jaskier’s hand came to rest on the back of Geralt’s neck, the hold loose but grounding.

“Anything.”  Jaskier repeated softly.

Geralt let his breath out in a rush and stopped thinking.  He let his instincts guide his actions, let them help him express the emotions that overwhelmed him.

Tilting his head, he pressed his lips to Jaskier’s, sinking into the kiss as the soft sensations flooded his senses.  Jaskier let out a choked sound and Geralt almost pulled back, heart dropping, but Jaskier held him in place with the hand at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer and surging up to meet him. 

Geralt relaxed into Jaskier’s hold.  The kiss was chaste, soft and undemanding, but the passion of it burned through Geralt, arresting his senses in a way nothing else had before.  It wasn’t the sweet, floating oblivion of subspace, but something almost visceral and he wanted to be present and attentive to every detail from Jaskier’s hitching breath to the scrape of stubble across his chin and the feeling of Jaskier’s hair beneath his fingers. 

The way Jaskier met him step for step but didn’t seek to wrest control of the kiss away from him.  The way Jaskier let him explore, let him lead at his own pace. 

The sensations built and flooded over him.  He felt impossibly aroused and, for the first time, found himself imagining what it would be like to lay with Jaskier, bare skin touching bare skin, Jaskier’s hands and mouth exploring the most intimate parts of him, taking him apart in that most primal of ways.  If it felt anything like this, he might even one day be ready to act on those desires.

But not today.

Geralt’s lungs screamed for air and he pulled back.  Jaskier immediately let him go and that only made Geralt want to press closer.  He settled his head back on Jaskier’s chest and let his breath out in a long, content sigh.

“What did you think of that?”  Jaskier asked after a long moment, hand idly stroking through Geralt’s hair.

Geralt hummed, too content to move or speak.

He felt rather than heard Jaskier’s answering chuckle.  “So, we might be able to have a repeat performance one day?”

“Every day.”  Geralt said, voice slurring over the consonants, suddenly exhausted.

Jaskier bent down and pressed a kiss to the crown of Geralt’s head.  “I can do every day.”  He said with a smile.  “Are you ready for bed?”

When Geralt nodded, Jaskier reached out a hand and pinched out the candle beside the bed, leaving the room lit only by the banked fire.  Geralt burrowed closer to Jaskier and gave a content sigh when Jaskier wrapped an arm around him, anchoring him close. 

Focusing on Jaskier’s breathing, on the warm chest rising and falling beneath his head, Geralt drifted off into a dreamless sleep.

Geralt and Jaskier arrived at the outskirts of Blaviken two days later.  The contract stated that the witcher answering it was to come to the Mayor’s house upon arrival for further information.  They waited until dark, until the streets had cleared and the town was quiet, before venturing into the center of town to the Mayor’s stately home.

Before they reached Blaviken, Geralt had allowed Jaskier to tightly braid back his hair to ensure it stayed well-hidden under his cloak hood.  It was a warrior’s style, not one showing Geralt’s status as Jaskier’s submissive, for such a thing would be dangerous out in public, but Geralt felt comforted all the same having Jaskier’s handiwork tightly wrapped around his head.  If he allowed himself to imagine, it almost felt like Jaskier’s hands in his hair, grounding him.  He clung to that thin comfort as they silently made their way through the deserted streets.

They tethered the horses to the post outside the Mayor’s home and stepped up to the front door.  It was well-made, but lacking in adornment, as was the house itself.  Unusual for the mayor of a town as large as Blaviken, but a sign the post might be filled by a mayor more practical than power-mad. 

“Are you sure you want to do this?”  Jaskier asked quietly, laying a gentle hand on Geralt’s shoulder.

Geralt clutched the contract in his fist and swallowed hard, staring up at the door.  He didn’t want to be in Blaviken.  He wanted to turn around and flee, never to return again.  But the contract said mothers and babes were dying, and they would keep dying until the botchling was killed.  He couldn’t stand by and do nothing.

He nodded, giving Jaskier what he hoped was a reassuring look, and raised his hand to knock on the door.  He gave three, slow bangs before stepping back to wait.  A Blaviken guard answered the door, pulling it only partway open and peering out at them suspiciously.

“Mayor’s done for the night, come back tomorrow.”  The guard said.

Geralt proffered the contract.  “Picked this contract up.  Says to come to the mayor’s house as soon as possible.”  He said, forcing his voice to remain steady.  The guard who answered the door couldn’t be more than twenty, far too young to have been in Blaviken at the time Geralt earned his hated moniker. 

The guard took the contract and quickly scanned over it before nodding sharply.  “You’re a witcher then?”

Geralt nodded.

“Right, come with me.”  The guard stepped back, opening the door fully, and gestured for them to follow.

Geralt led the way, keeping his hood up, and Jaskier followed close behind.  The guard led them to the back of the house, stopping outside a closed door. 

“Wait here.”  He instructed.  The guard knocked twice before slipping into the room and closing the door behind him.  Barely a moment later, he opened the door and beckoned them in. 

“The mayor will see you now.”  They entered and the guard took up his post beside the closed door, standing at attention.

Geralt and Jaskier stood in front of the large desk, simply adorned but richly made, that dominated the small room.  It wasn’t the mayor’s formal receiving room, that would have been closer to the front of the house, but it looked to be the mayor’s office, cluttered with scrolls, piles of parchment, and heavy accounting tomes. 

The mayor was a woman, which was unusual, especially for a large town in Redania.  She was bent over a ledger, making notations in the far-right column, the tip of her goose-feather quill quivering with the speed of her writing.  She was wrapped in a thick, woolen shawl and her grey hair hung in a thick braid over her shoulder.  It was clear she had not been planning to receive any further guests that night.  The fact that she agreed to see them demonstrated the urgency of the contract was not overstated.

She held up a hand, marked by ink and age, and they waited for her to finish.  With a final stroke, she set aside the quill and looked up.

Geralt’s heart stopped in his chest.

“Marilka.”  He said, almost gasping, breath frozen in his lungs.  He remembered her face, curious as she followed him to Stregobor’s tower.  Terrified as Renfri held a dagger to her throat.  Disgusted, angry, and fearful as she spat on him and told him never to return.

Her gaze sharpened and her face tightened with anger.  “Butcher.”  She said, voice hard.

Geralt flinched and Jaskier stepped closer, offering silent support. 

“We’re here about the contract you posted.  An urgent request for a witcher.”  Jaskier said, taking over.  Geralt felt the tight knot in his chest ease and he could breathe again.  He’d never felt more grateful for Jaskier’s support than he did in that moment.

Marilka looked over at Jaskier, assessing him with narrowed eyes.  “You travel with the Butcher, Bard?” 

“I travel with Geralt, yes.”  Jaskier said sharply, eyes hard.  “And we’ve come to help you with the deaths.  Unless you’d rather we leave.  The other witchers would have just left Kaer Morhen for the season.  If we send a message now, you should see one in a month or two.” 

Marilka drew in a breath and pinched the bridge of her nose.  “We can’t afford to wait another month.”  She dropped her hand and turned her gaze back to Geralt.  “If you’re the only one close enough to help us now, you’ll have to do, Butcher.  But I will send guards with you throughout this town in case you decide another massacre of innocents is in order.”

“That wasn't what happened.”  Geralt said, annoyance pricking through the painful memories.  “Renfri’s men planned to slaughter everyone in the market to force Stregobor to leave his tower.  I had no choice.”

Geralt would accept the blame for the deaths, but the persistent rumor that he slaughtered those mercenaries without cause rankled.  He would never forgive himself for Renfri’s death, but her men, vicious mercenaries all, were a different story.

“So you say.”  Marilka scoffed.  “I was there and I saw it quite differently.”

“But you weren’t there for the whole event, were you?  Or for any of the events leading up to it?”  Jaskier said sharply.  “If you expect Geralt to help you, at least afford him basic civility.”

“I expect him to do the job he’s paid to do.  He’s a tool and I’ll treat him as he deserves.”  Marilka said.

Geralt expected nothing more than that, especially in Blaviken, so he laid a quelling hand on Jaskier’s arm when he went to protest.  “Innocent lives are at stake, it’s not worth it.”  He said to Jaskier in a low voice.

Jaskier pressed his lips together, giving Geralt a searching look, but subsided.  He stayed close.

“The contract said pregnant women and their unborn babes have been the targets?”  Geralt asked, directing the conversation back to the contract.  He wanted to get this done as soon as possible.

Marilka visibly gathered herself, clasping her hands together over the ledger.  Her expression shifted from one of disgust to blank neutrality. “Yes, over the winter, eleven pregnant women were drained of blood in their beds, killing both mother and child.  All the mothers had complained of nightmares, faintness, and fever before being found dead.”  She said, voice flat.

“And the guard patrol?”  Geralt prompted.

“For the ninth woman, a young countess, a guard patrol was sent to watch over her at night.  In the morning, the countess was drained as the other mothers had been, her babe dead in her womb, and the guards had been slaughtered, clawed to death by whatever has been killing the mothers.”  Marilka said.

“Sounds like a botchling.”  Geralt said.  “Were there any stillbirths or late-term miscarriages shortly before the deaths started?”

Marilka frowned, thinking for a long moment.  “Not that I know of.”

The guard piped up from behind them.  “Your pardon, Mayor, may I speak?”

Marilka waved him on, giving permission.  Geralt turned to face the young guard.  “Witcher, sir, there was a young peasant woman who lived out in the fringes of the town, a girl called Anna.  She lived with her husband near me Gran’s house, you see.  Her husband was a right brute too.  She had been pregnant in the fall, practically bursting, but she’s not pregnant anymore and yet there’s no babe about.”

Geralt hummed.  “Sounds like a promising lead.  If we can find where that babe was buried, we might find the botchling’s lair.  Easier to kill it there than to wait for it to choose its next victim.  Could you take us to see Anna?”

“Yes, Master Witcher.” Alfons said, clearly pleased to have been of assistance.

“Very well, Alfons will lead you to this Anna come morning.”  Marilka said.  “Come back to report anything you learn.  Until then, get out of my town.”

Geralt nodded and turned to leave, following Alfons back to the front door with Jaskier close behind.

As agreed, Geralt and Jaskier met Alfons by the western gate of Blaviken in the early dawn.  Alfons took the horses and stabled them in the guard barracks by the gate, ensuring they were safe and cared for while Geralt worked on the contract.

Geralt’s hood was up, hair still tightly bound in Jaskier’s braids.  Jaskier had held Geralt close all night, stroking soothing hands down his back until exhaustion overcame him, but Geralt had been too keyed up to sleep or even to meditate.  Despite his sleeplessness, he’d burrowed into Jaskier’s arms and soaked in the warmth and affection, hoping it would bolster his control for the work to come. 

He wanted nothing more than to leave Blaviken as soon as possible.  The memories pulled on him, battering at his defenses.  But for Jaskier, but for the healing Jaskier had done on his mind and heart since their stay at the Temple of Melitele, he didn’t think he could have handled this contract.

Alfons led them through the woods, passing cottages in increasingly poor states of repair, until he stopped outside a ramshackle hut, too small to even be called a cottage.  The gate hung on broken hinges, garden overrun with dead weeds, and the front window was cracked.

The smell of decay hung heavy in the air.

Geralt gestured for both Jaskier and Alfons to stay back and crept up the path to the door alone.  He paused, listening hard.  Nothing.  He pushed the door open slowly and almost gagged at the sickly-sweet smell of rotting flesh.

The partially decomposed remains of what must have once been Anna lay sprawled across the packed dirt floor by the fire pit. 

Geralt scanned the small, one-room hut, listening hard again, and deemed it safe. 

“It’s deserted, but Anna is dead.”  Geralt called back to the other two. 

Alfons rushed up, followed quickly by Jaskier.  Alfons jerked back at the sight, spinning to empty his breakfast into the dead weeds under the broken window.  Jaskier pulled out a handkerchief to cover his nose and passed another to Geralt, this one lightly scented with chamomile oil.  Geralt gave him a grateful glance, spiking headache eased by the calming scent cutting through the overpowering rot.

Geralt crouched next to Anna’s body.  “Seems like she took a blow to the head.” He said, pointing at her caved-in temple.  “Probably with a blunt object.  Likely that’s what killed her.”

Jaskier’s eyes were tight and sad and Alfons couldn’t even look at the body, still green about the edges. 

“You can wait outside, Alfons.”  Geralt said gently.  Alfons nodded and stepped shakily back, turning once outside to rush out the garden and collapse onto a rock next to the path, head in his hands. 

“You think her husband killed her?”  Jaskier asked, voice tight with anger.

“Likely.  Alfons said he was a ‘brute’ and it looks like she was struck from behind while cooking something.  Given she was just abandoned here, he’s the most likely suspect.”  Geralt sighed, rising to his feet.  “And Alfons was right, she lost her child before she was killed.  This isn’t the botchling’s lair and Anna can’t tell us where her child was buried, if it was buried at all.”

Geralt made the sign of Igni, but stopped before casting it.  “What are Redanian funeral customs?  She needs to be taken care of or the body will attract necrophages soon now that it’s too warm to keep her frozen, but she deserves to have her customs respected.”

Jaskier’s eyes softened over the handkerchief he held against his face.  “Funeral pyres or burials, depending on the season and the person’s status.  Given the state of her, it’s probably kinder to make this hut her pyre.”

Geralt sighed, shaking his head at the sad sight.  Another woman lost to a man’s rage.  The man who did this was just as much a monster as those Geralt hunted.

“You’re right.  Her body would just fall apart if we tried to pick it up to bury it anyway.”  He said. “Please wait outside and stand back.”  Jaskier nodded, complying immediately. 

Geralt checked the small hut for anything that might cause an unexpected explosion.  Finding nothing, he went outside and circled the hut, casting a controlled Igni to clear the dead weeds and brush surrounding it.  It wouldn’t do to cause a forest fire.

Satisfied the fire buffer was sufficient, he joined Alfons and Jaskier on the path.  Jaskier had obviously explained the situation to Alfons, because he made no objection when Geralt cast a powerful Igni over the hut, setting it instantly aflame.  They waited for hours in silence while the hut burned, at least giving Anna a proper send off.

When the fire burned down to embers, Geralt inspected the remains of the hut under the glare of the midday sun. He found a few remaining bone fragments and gathered them together, obliterating them with a final, targeted Igni.  They crumbled to ash under the intense heat and pressure.

“May the Gods grant you eternal rest.”  Geralt said quietly.  He took a breath to center himself again before rising, then stamped out any remaining embers and rejoined the others.

“Let’s report back to the mayor.”  He said, eyes haunted by the morning’s tragedy.

Alfons nodded and turned to lead them back.  Jaskier walked at Geralt’s side, taking his hand beneath the folds of his cloak and holding it for a long moment.

Marilka was not happy to hear their report.  Her face had gone white with anger hearing that Anna had been struck down in her own home and she ordered the guards to arrest Anna’s husband on sight if he ever returned to Blaviken.  She praised Alfons for his report and relieved him of duty for the rest of the day.  When he left, a stern-faced, older guard took his place. 

“So, what now, Butcher?”  Marilka asked.  The new guard took in a sharp breath and Geralt felt his glare against his back.  He’d need to watch out for that guard.  He was old enough to have been in Blaviken nearly thirty years ago and might put seeking vengeance against the Butcher over saving the lives of the imperiled townswomen. 

“If we can’t find its lair, I’ll need to ambush it when it seeks out its next victim.  Have any pregnant women recently reported similar symptoms?  Fever, delirium, general fatigue and weakness, anything like that.”  Geralt asked.

“I had the healer in this morning and she reported one such patient.  Mistress Krol, the wife of our textile merchant, is eight months along and has reported delirium, fever, and fatigue these past two days.”  Marilka said.

“Then she’s likely the botchling’s current target.  Botchlings spend several nights draining a pregnant mother of her vitality before draining her of her lifeblood completely.  I’ll need to conceal myself, alone, in Mistress Krol’s room tonight to catch the botchling when it comes to feed.”  Geralt said.

“Absolutely not!  I will not leave you alone with any of our citizens and certainly not alone with a woman of such venerable standing as Mistress Krol!”  Marilka said angrily, face twisting.  The guard behind Geralt placed his hand on the hilt of his sword.

“Peace,” Jaskier said, stepping between Geralt and Marilka.  “Your Excellency, you want to stop the botchling before it takes any more lives, yes?”

“Of course.”  Marilka said, affronted.

“Geralt, what are the chances of catching a botchling other than at its lair or at the bedside of its target?”  Jaskier asked pointedly.

“None.”  Geralt said.

“There you have it, Your Excellency.  If you want the botchling stopped and Mistress Krol to live, you must let Geralt do his job.”  Jaskier said sternly.  “If you cannot bring yourself to be civil, at least don’t be obstructionist.”

Marilka’s mouth pinched and angry color flushed her cheeks.  “What right have you to speak to me in that fashion, Bard?”

The guard behind Geralt stepped forward, as if to restrain Jaskier.

“I have the right because I outrank you, Mayor of Blaviken.  I am Julian Alfred Pankratz, the Viscount de Lettenhove, which you would have already known had you treated us with even the barest civility when we came to answer your urgent plea for assistance.”  Jaskier’s voice was frigid, eyes hard and unyielding.  The guard immediately stepped back, lifting his hands in a show of surrender and apology.

Geralt felt warmed through by Jaskier’s fierce defense and only just managed to restrain a soft smile.  It wasn’t the time or place, but he would be sure to show Jaskier his appreciation later.

Marilka stood and bowed her head to Jaskier, looking as though it hurt her deeply to give such courtesy to the Butcher’s companion.  “I beg your pardon, my Lord Viscount.”

Jaskier nodded slightly to acknowledge the apology, but pointedly did not accept it.  “May we get back to more practical matters, Mayor?”  Jaskier said, dropping the polite honorific suited to her station.

Marilka forced her voice into neutrality.  “How do you plan to proceed?”  She asked, turning back to Geralt.

“To catch the botchling, we must make everything seem as usual.  I will conceal myself in Mistress’s Krol’s room after dark and wait until it reveals itself.  I will then draw it out and away from her to dispatch it.”  Geralt said.

Marilka took in a deep, harsh breath, expression showing her clear distaste for this plan, but she controlled her vitriol given Jaskier’s noble rank.  Geralt was, for once, grateful for the Redanians’ exaltation of nobility.

“Very well, but guards will be posted outside the room and will escort you to and from your hiding place.”  Marilka said.

“Agreed.”  Geralt said.

“Thank you for seeing reason, Mayor.”  Jaskier said, speaking down to her as if she were an unruly child.

Geralt sent him a look.  He appreciated the protection offered, but it did no good to overtly antagonize Marilka.  The look Jaskier sent back was unrepentant.

Marilka gave them both a hard look.  “I entrust this to your discretion then, my Lord Viscount.  The Butcher will undertake this contract based on your assurances.”

Jaskier raised an eyebrow at her, clearly judging her choice to play that game with them.   Geralt couldn’t care less about their posturing, he just wanted to get started so he could kill the botchling and get out of Blaviken.

“We’ll leave now to ensure we’re set up and prepared come nightfall.”  Geralt said, redirecting the room’s attention to him. 

“Yes, the dark comes early these months.”  Marilka said.  “Guard, take two of your patrol mates and escort the Butcher and the Viscount de Lettenhove to Mistress Krol’s house.  You are to remain on guard outside Mistress Krol’s room during this hunt.  Intervene as necessary to protect her.”

Geralt didn’t wait to be dismissed.  He spun on his heel and strode out of the room quickly, but not so quickly as to be accused of fleeing.  He needed some air.

He heard Jaskier’s light footfalls behind him and the call of the guard signaling for two others to follow.  With the guards and Jaskier in tow, Geralt strode out into the mid-afternoon sun, checking his hood to ensure it was securely about his hair, hiding his identity from casual viewers.

“Lead the way.”  Geralt said to the guard who’d been in the room.

“I’ll be watching your every move, Butcher.”  The guard growled, hand on his sword hilt.  “You take a step out of line, I’ll put you down like the monster you are.”

Geralt controlled his reaction well, keeping his face impassive, but the outright hostility hit him hard.  The average villager was bad enough, but here he had history and that lent additional vitriol to the usual hatred he faced.  It was worse when he knew he deserved it, at least for killing Renfri.

Jaskier stepped up beside him, angling himself so that his shoulder was in front of Geralt’s.  “Your job is to escort and guard, not to comment, Guardsman.”  Jaskier said sharply.  “If we need your opinion, we’ll ask for it.”  His tone made it clear how little he thought of the guard’s opinion.

With a grimace, the guard bowed.  “Yes, my Lord.”  He turned, signaling to the other two guards, and led the way toward the market square, wending through the stalls and shops until they reached a large, stone house.  They got a few curious looks, but Geralt’s disguise held up and they were not disturbed.

The lead guard knocked on the door, stepping back respectfully to wait.  A butler opened it and the guard explained the situation.  The butler waved them into the entrance hall and bade them wait while he fetched his master.

Merchant Krol entered the hall shortly, a vexed expression on his narrow face.  He was a relatively young man, likely no more than thirty summers, with a face that might have been handsome had his features been less sharp, less hawk-like.  He was dressed well in thick silks and fine wools, as befitting a man of his station and wealth.  Gold glittered on his hands and throat.

Geralt disliked him immediately.

Jaskier stepped forward and Geralt allowed it, surprising himself with how willing he was to let Jaskier take control even in the context of a hunt.  The certainty he felt that Jaskier would handle it well released some of the tension he held and his breathing eased.

“Sir, I am Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, and my dear witcher and I have been contracted by your mayor to take care of the monster problem plaguing your town.  The mayor reported to us that Mistress Krol is suffering symptoms suggesting she is the monster’s current target, and so we have come to protect her this evening.  With your permission, Sir.”  Jaskier said in his most courtly of tones.

Geralt could see how Merchant Krol puffed up at being spoken to as an equal by a nobleman and internally sighed at how predictable and ego-driven most humans were.  It was a delight to see Jaskier manipulate him.

“My Lord Viscount, you honor my home with your presence.”  Merchant Krol said obsequiously, bowing deeply.  “If you vouch for this witcher, I humbly accept your offered aid.”

Jaskier nodded to indicate he did vouch for Geralt, and Krol continued.  “My dear wife has suffered these past days and I had feared she might be the next target for the vicious beast plaguing our fair town.  I pray that you can slay this monster and save both my wife and our child.” 

There was a glimmer of real emotion behind the showy manners.  It seemed Krol might be one of the rare men who valued his wife as much as his own status.  It redeemed him partially in Geralt’s eyes and his stance softened.

“I will protect your wife with my life.”  Geralt said, tone quiet but firm.

“Thank you, Witcher.”  Krol said.  “What do you need?”

“I will need a hiding place near your wife’s bed so I can wait for the botchling to reveal itself.  Once it does, I will draw it away from her to kill it.  I will need to be alone in the room with your wife, as I can hide my presence from the botchling but the presence of others may drive it off.”  Geralt said.

Krol’s brows furrowed and his mouth worked furiously.  “Now, see here, I don’t think it proper for you to be alone in my wife’s room when she’s in this delicate state!”

“If I wait outside for the botchling, I may not have enough time to reach her before it strikes.  This is the only way to ensure her safety.”  Geralt said firmly.  He hated the assumption that he would do Mistress Krol, or her dignity, any harm.  He was used to people thinking the worst of him because of what he was, but it never got any easier.

Surprisingly enough, it was the head guard who stepped forward to intervene.  “Sir, my patrol mates and I will be right outside the door, monitoring the entire event.  It is the best interest of everyone in our town, your wife included, to let the witcher do his job.”  Geralt wasn’t sure what drove the guard to support him, whether he’d had an unexpected change of heart or simply didn’t want the bother of explaining to the mayor why his mission failed, but he was grateful all the same.

“Geralt is a professional, Sir.”  Jaskier said firmly.  “His intentions are honorable and you may trust his word.”

Merchant Krol waivered, but gave in, shoulders drooping as he nodded.  “Very well,” he said. “I’ll show you to my wife’s room.”

The sun was getting low in the sky, they needed to hurry.

Merchant Krol led them down a long, well-appointed corridor with large windows overlooking the lavish home’s courtyard garden.  It was unusual to see a garden fully enclosed within a house’s walls this far north, as the feature was more common in the south, but if Mistress Krol’s room opened out into it, it would be the perfect area to dispatch the botchling. 

Merchant Krol knocked gently on the door at the end of the hall and a lady’s maid opened it after a moment, cracking the door slightly before opening it fully and curtsying to her master. 

“Yes, Sir?”  She said, eyes down and hands clasped before her.

“Nina, inform Mistress Krol that I need to speak with her most urgently.  Our Most Honorable Mayor has hired a witcher to protect her from the beast plaguing our town.”  He said softly, peering over Nina’s shoulder into the shadowed room.

Nina curtsied again, looking curiously at Geralt’s hooded form.  She flinched when she met his glowing amber eyes.  “Yes, Sir, I’ll inform her immediately.  Please wait a moment so that my Mistress might make herself ready to receive you.”  Nina softly closed the door behind her, leaving them standing outside to wait.

Geralt could make out voices within as Nina explained the situation to Mistress Krol.  The Mistress sounded weak, her voice raspy and lacking in breath support.  The botching was likely planning to drain her completely tonight.  They’d come just in time.

After a few, long moments, Nina opened the door and beckoned them in.  Merchant Krol motioned for the guards to stay outside the door and Geralt motioned for Jaskier to do the same.

When Jaskier protested, Geralt said, “she’s weak, let’s not overwhelm her.”  Jaskier subsided with a tight frown, seeing the logic but not relishing leaving Geralt alone in such a hostile environment.

“Call out if you need me.”  Jaskier said.

“I will.”  Geralt said, his expression softening for a moment as they locked eyes. 

When he turned back to follow Merchant Krol into the room, he took a silent, fortifying breath and steeled himself for the task ahead.  While Merchant Krol knelt beside his wife’s bed, whispering to her to explain the situation, Geralt hung back by the entrance and scanned the room.  He saw a door that appeared to lead out into the central courtyard, surrounded by large viewing windows.  He went over and tried the handle, pushing the door open when it yielded easily.  The door opened onto a smooth, river stone patio overlooking the courtyard garden.  The walls were high and all other exits were barred by thick, wooden doors.  Well beyond what a botchling could manage to open to escape if it did manage to best him.  It would be the perfect spot for their battle.

Stepping back into the room and closing the door again, ensuring it remained unlocked, Geralt considered his options for a hiding spot. 

In the background, he heard Mistress Krol start to sob quietly and her husband gathered her into his arms, shushing her and continuing to speak softly.  Geralt could hear him reassuring her that Geralt was there for her protection and that the guards would be just outside, as he would be, ready to spring to her defense at a moment’s notice.  The acrid scent of her fear flooded the room and Geralt forced himself to ignore it.

He ran his hands over the large dresser and matching armoire in the corner of the room opposite the bed, both carved out of solid hardwood, heavy and strong.  If Geralt pulled them slightly away from the corner, he could crouch in the newly created space and wait there for the botchling.  He’d have a good view if he left a thin crack between the pieces and the botchling was unlikely to notice anything amiss if he moved them only slightly.

Geralt slowly pulled the adjoining edges of the dresser and the armoire away from the corner, stopping as soon as he made a space just big enough for him to crouch out of sight.  Thankfully, both pieces rested flat on the floor, avoiding the need to block the view of his feet.

Preparations complete, Geralt stood and waited for Merchant Krol to finish speaking to Mistress Krol.  She was watching him even as she listened to her husband explain, tears drying on her thin, worn face. 

She placed a hand on her husband’s arm, stopping his speech.  “I understand, darling.  I will entrust this witcher with my care, but I must first see his face.”  Her voice had gained some strength and her eyes were sharp despite her apparent physical weakness.

Merchant Krol motioned impatiently for Geralt to take down his hood.  With a sigh, Geralt pulled back his hood, letting it fall to his shoulders, displaying his intricately braided silver hair. 

Mistress Krol blanched.  “The Butcher.”  She said, voice breathless again.  She clutched at her husband’s arm, eyes flooding with new tears.  The acrid stench of her fear increased dramatically.

Merchant Krol’s face tightened and his expression froze even as he embraced his wife and soothingly rubbed her back.  “I’m sure our Most Honorable Mayor was aware of this witcher’s history in our town when she hired him.”

Geralt simply inclined his head in agreement.

“We must trust her that she would not send the Butcher to us without due cause.  As much disgust as I feel for this vile mutant, I will put it aside in the interest of preserving your life.”  Merchant Krol said to his wife beseechingly.  “Trust me in this, my darling.  I would protect you with my life, but a monster like this is beyond me.  We need a professional and he is the only one available to us.”

Mistress Krol huddled into her husband’s embrace but kept her gaze firmly trained on Geralt.  Her fear was so strong it made his stomach roil, but he kept his expression impassive and his stance non-threatening.

“Mistress Krol, it is likely the botchling stalking your town will attempt to take your life tonight, killing you and your unborn child, but I will leave immediately if that is your wish.”  Geralt said softly, voice carefully neutral.  He wanted to leave, to flee the fear clouding the room and take Jaskier with him away from this place, never to return.  But his duty would not allow it.  He tightened his muscles, forcing himself to stay in place.

“Darling, please allow him to help you.  I could not bear to lose you.”  Merchant Krol said, tone almost begging.  She tore her gaze from Geralt and met his, softening immediately at the abject despair on his face. 

“You’ll be right outside my door?”  She asked quietly.

“I won’t leave for even a moment.”  He promised, drawing her hands up to kiss them ardently.

She took a deep breath.  “Very well.  So be it.”  She said.  “Butcher, what’s your plan?” 

Geralt barely contained a flinch.  Surrounded by that much fear scent, the addition of the hated moniker, spat out like that, was almost too much.  But he was trained better than to allow something like this to overwhelm him.  He tightened his control and focused on the job. 

“Botchlings appear from under your bed once they feel the room is safe, usually well after dark.  I will hide in the corner, hidden behind the furniture, and wait for it to appear.  Once it does, I will grab it and throw it out into the garden courtyard.  I would ask that the guards bar the door behind me and see that all other doors leading into the courtyard are also barred and that all window are shuttered tightly before dark.” 

Geralt looked over at Merchant Krol, raising an eyebrow.  “It will be done.”  Krol said.

Geralt continued. “I will fight the botchling in the courtyard.  Under no circumstances are you to open the shutters or any of the doors until I signal the fight is over.”

Mistress Krol paled, but nodded.  “I understand.”

Geralt looked out the window, seeing the sun had just set below the horizon.  The sky was a brilliant composition of reds, yellows, and oranges.  In any other circumstance, he would call Jaskier to his side so they could enjoy the display together.  But now was not the time for such thoughts.  

“We need to prepare now.  The botchling could come as early as full dark and we don’t want to miss it.”  Geralt said.

“Why not just scare it off?”  Merchant Krol asked.

“Because then it will likely attack before I can clear it from the room.” 

Merchant Krol swallowed hard, his arms tightening around his wife. “Understood.  We will do as you say.”

Geralt bowed his head slightly, appreciating his compliance.  The hardest part of his job was often convincing people to allow him to protect them.  He turned his back, granting the couple the semblance of privacy for a moment.  He heard them whispering together and tried not to listen.  Whatever Merchant Krol said to his wife, the fear stench lessened. 

Finally, Merchant Krol stood, placing a lingering, loving kisses on his wife’s forehead and on her swollen belly before leaving the room, shutting the door quietly behind him.  Mistress Krol’s lady’s maid stepped out of the shadowed corner she’d been waiting in, ensured her mistress was settled, and followed Merchant Krol out the door.

Geralt turned, studying Mistress Krol.  “Madame, please behave in as normal a fashion as possible so as not to alert the botchling to the trap.  I will be silent, but I will be watchful.  When the trap is sprung, please remain on your bed and do not interfere.”

Mistress Krol nodded, face white.  The fear stench came back in force.

Geralt attempted to gentle his tone so as to reassure her.  “I’ve dealt with botchlings before.  Don’t worry, I’ll keep you and your child safe.”

Mistress Krol just stared at him, taking in shaky breaths.  With a tight smile and a slight bow, Geralt lightly vaulted over the dresser into the space he’d created, adjusting his swords across his back and pulling out two potions, ready to down them at the first sign of the botchling – Thunderbolt, to boost his attack power, and Cat, to grant him sight in the darkness.  He tucked his remaining potion vials away in the padded pouch at his waist, ready just in case he needed an additional boost.

He untied his cloak from his shoulders, folding it up and placing it on top of the far edge of the dresser, and crouched down in the tight space to wait for his quarry.

After a long moment, Mistress Krol blew out her bedside candle, dropping the room into darkness.  Only the faint, red glow of the banked fire lit the large room.  He could hear her rapid heartbeat and the long, slow breaths she took in an attempt to control it.  The fear stench remained strong, battering at his senses.

Geralt focused on his breathing and tightened and relaxed his cramped muscles in sequence, ensuring none lost sensation or flexibility.  He thought about Jaskier waiting for him just outside the door.  If he focused, he could hear his heartbeat and smell his familiar rosin and honey scent over Mistress Krol’s overpowering fear.  He took a deep, quiet breath, allowing himself that brief moment of comfort before easing his breathing into a light, meditative pattern.

He waited.

Geralt wasn’t sure how many hours passed that way, crouched in the dark, tight space with only Mistress Krol’s fearful company.  Eventually, she dropped off to sleep, exhaustion winning out.  Geralt was relieved.  The fear stench eased as she slept and the pressure on Geralt’s senses lifted.

Finally, long after the midnight bell had rung, Geralt heard a faint scratching emanating from under Mistress Krol’s bed.

Geralt tensed his muscles, ready to jump as soon as the botchling appeared.  He quickly downed the two potions, feeling them burn through his blood.  He closed his eyes for an instant as pain lanced through his head when the toxicity levels in his blood spiked.  When he reopened them, he could see as well in the dark as if it were high noon and his muscles thrummed with power.

The scratching grew louder. 

The botchling’s rancid scent filled the room along with the sound of its uneven gait.  Propped up on its hands and decaying knees, it crawled out from under the bed, clinging to the dust ruffle to pull itself up and peer over the edge into Mistress Krol’s sleeping face.  

Geralt exploded into motion.

He vaulted over the dresser and grabbed the botchling by one, thick leg.  It shrieked with anger, twisting to try and sink its claws or fangs into Geralt’s flesh.

Mistress Krol screamed, startled from her uneasy slumber.

With his free hand, he flung open the courtyard door and tossed the botchling out in front of him, hearing it land with a thud on the river stone patio.  He heard the guards, Jaskier, and Merchant Krol burst into the room behind him.

“Bar the door behind me!”  Geralt called out before drawing his sword and sealing himself in the courtyard with the botchling.

The botchling roared, enraged its meal had been interrupted.  Gorged on a winter’s worth of blood and energy from the town’s pregnant women, the botchling transformed to face the threat of the witcher.  Ballooning in an instant from the size of a partially-deformed infant to that of a full-grown alghoul, the botchling lunged at Geralt, surging forward on all fours, the spikes across its back flaring.

Geralt met the attack head on, parrying the blows from the botchling’s claws and sending it back with a kick to the chest.  The botchling twisted in the air, landing on its feet and lunged again.  Geralt defended his exposed flank with his sword, but had to raise his forearm to prevent the botchling from sinking its teeth into his throat when it twisted off Geralt’s parry.

Pain exploded in his left forearm as the botchling’s sharp, ragged teeth sunk into his flesh, piercing easily through his bracers.  Growling through the sharp pain, Geralt placed the flat of his palm on his blade and levered it up and forward, throwing the botchling back.

He raised his hand, rapidly running through the sign of Axii, briefly stunning the botchling and forcing it to retract its spikes. 

Geralt leapt over the botchling, spinning in the air to land on his feet behind it, facing its exposed back.  Raising his silver sword, he slashed a long, deep cut diagonally from its shoulder to its hip.  He could see bone where his sword sliced through the decaying flesh.

The botchling roared, blood spraying from the open wound.  Geralt leapt back as the spikes reemerged, but caught one in the meat of his right shoulder and another in a hot line across his cheek.  Neither fatal, but both painful, especially the wound on his sword arm. 

He cast the sign of Aard, throwing the botchling back and away.  It landed on its back, stunned.  His vision swam from the pain.  Instead of pressing his advantage, Geralt stepped back and dug into his potions pouch, pulling out a vial of White Raffard’s Decoction, a viciously toxic but immediately effective potion to boost his health and vitality.  He tossed it back and it burned through him, pain whiting vision for a moment before it took effect, knitting his wounds and clearing his head.  The boost wouldn’t last forever and White Raffard’s was toxic enough he couldn’t risk any more potions. 

He needed to finish this.

The botchling leapt to its feet, shaking off the stun.  Thick, black blood poured from its wounded back.  It approached cautiously, claws raised, and Geralt waited, sword up in a defensive stance. 

For a moment, they stared each other down, both unwilling to strike first. 

In a flash, Geralt dropped to one knee and cast the sign of Yrden, blasting the trap into the ground.  The botchling sprang forward and got caught by the trap, forced to slow down almost to a stop.  Geralt surged forward, striking a hard and fast blow across the beast’s exposed chest.  Blood sprayed out of the wound, coating his face.  He roughly scrubbed a hand across his eyes, clearing them.

The blow pushed the botchling out of Yrden’s range and it struck out with a claw when Geralt followed it.  He parried, dodging around the kick that followed with a quarter pirouette.  Slamming his shoulder into the botchling, he forced it to the ground and drove his sword into its heart.

It twitched, but went still.  Geralt knelt over its corpse, knees soaking up the blood pooling from it.  His harsh pants echoed through the courtyard.

After a long moment, Geralt’s breath stabilized and he stood, muscles shaking from the high toxicity in his blood.  Without the adrenaline of a battle trance, the potions turned against him.

He needed to rest and to neutralize the toxins.

But the job wasn’t complete yet.

Geralt bent down and pulled his sword from the botchling’s chest.  He wiped the blood off on his trouser leg before sheathing the silver blade.  He’d clean it properly later. 

He pulled his dagger out the sheath on his chest strap and used it to sever the botchling’s head from its body.  He tucked the trophy under his arm, blood running in rivulets down his hand, and strode back over to the door to Mistress Krol’s room.  He could hear the gathered crowd on the other side, but he was pleased none had disobeyed his instructions to leave the doors and shutters closed.

He paused for a moment, debating whether or not to wait for the potions’ toxicity to ease.  He knew his eyes were black and that his veins stood out starkly against his bloodless skin.  He was soaked in blood, both his and the botchling’s, red and black mixing together in a vile ooze.  

He looked like a nightmare brought to life.

But this town already thought the worst of him, so he decided it couldn’t get much worse.

He banged on the door.  “The botchling is dead.  Open up.”  His voice came out rough and gravelly.  He was too tired to try and smooth it out.

The door flung open and Jaskier rushed out, grabbing his shoulders gently, heedless of the blood soaking him, and ran a frantic eye over him for injuries.  Geralt knew he looked bad, covered in blood and deep slash marks the White Raffard’s was just starting to knit, eyes and veins still running black.  The toxicity hummed through his blood, making his hands shake, and even the dim firelight glowing from the room within was too bright for his overly sensitized eyes.

“I’m fine.  Just need to get out of here.”  He bit out.

Jaskier gave him a tight smile and stepped back.  “We can do that,” he said softly, cupping Geralt’s cheek for a brief moment before turning back to the door.  The warmth from his palm lingered.  Geralt wished he could collapse right there and let Jaskier take care of him, but he knew he had to push on.

Geralt followed Jaskier back into the room, past the wide-eyed stares of the guards.  Jaskier intercepted Merchant Krol while Geralt retrieved his cloak, pulling it on and using the hood to shadow his eyes.

He heard Jaskier explaining to Merchant and Mistress Krol that the botchling was dead, that she was safe, and that they would be leaving to report to the mayor.  Remember to burn the botchling’s body. Thank you very much for your ever-so-kind cooperation.  Rot like that.  Geralt listened with half an ear, watchful for any hostility, but was otherwise indifferent.  People were Jaskier’s area of expertise.

Marilka was the one who mattered still.  He needed to turn this trophy in to her to collect his reward and then they could get the fuck out of Blaviken.  He spun and stalked out the door, giving a bare nod in the general direction of Mistress Krol on his way out.  He heard her gasp as he passed by, but he couldn’t bring himself to care about her fear anymore.  He could attend to her safety but not to her prejudice. The guards hurried after him.

Geralt heard Jaskier give a rushed farewell and jog to catch up, pushing past the guards and coming up to Geralt’s side.  He offered a piece of thick sackcloth for the trophy, and Geralt eagerly dropped the head into it.  He could do without more botchling blood soaking into his arm from carrying it loose.  He bound the head in the cloth, making it into a little sack, and let it swing from his hand. 

Jaskier, standing opposite the head, took his right arm slowly, giving him time to pull away if it was too much.  Geralt glanced back at the guards, but decided he was beyond caring.  It was unlikely they’d extrapolate his true designation from Jaskier taking his arm.  More likely they’d think Jaskier was simply eccentric, as high-ranking nobles were wont to be.

Geralt leaned slightly into Jaskier and Jaskier’s grip tightened on his arm, hand curling over his hidden submissive’s cuff.  The touch settled Geralt and bolstered his reserves for the remaining tasks ahead.  He knew a warm bath wasn’t in his future, but he allowed himself a moment to look forward to curling up with Jaskier to rest.  It may have to be in the woods, as he certainly wasn’t going to seek accommodations in Blaviken, but it was Jaskier’s presence that mattered, not the location.

Geralt let himself be led back toward the mayor’s house and let Jaskier continue to lead the way when they got there, banging on the door despite their guard’s protests at the late hour.  

Marilka’s butler opened the door wrapped in his dressing gown.  His frown at the disturbance turned into a gasp of horror when he caught sight of Geralt. 

“Delivery for the mayor.”  Geralt said, holding up the head, a mocking note lilting his rough voice. 

Jaskier stifled a laugh at the butler’s appalled expression.  “Geralt has dispatched the botchling.  The town is safe.  Please inform the mayor so that we might collect our payment and be on our way.”  Jaskier said to the butler.

“It’s the middle of the night, I can’t wake Her Excellency now!”  The butler said, appalled.

“Best do as he says, man.”  The lead guard ground out.  “Mayor wanted them gone as soon as possible.  Ideally before anyone can see the Butcher in the light of day.”

The butler’s eyes widened and he looked hard at Geralt.  “The Butcher of Blaviken.  My, my.  In that case, please wait in the yard, I will fetch Her Excellency.  It certainly would not do to have such a beast lingering in our fair town any longer than necessary.”

Jaskier moved to protest, but the door had already shut behind the butler.  Geralt quirked a smile at him.  He was used to the disdain from others, but Jaskier’s protectiveness never failed to make him feel warm inside even at his worst moments.

“This way.”  The lead guard directed, guiding them toward the kitchen yard.  They followed and waited there by the door into the kitchen.  Geralt swung the head as he paced, lingering toxicity making his limbs twitch and tremble with displaced energy.  Jaskier watched him with a concerned frown.  He reached out once but pulled back before he made contact, allowing Geralt to move freely.  He’d learned over their time together that Geralt couldn’t settle into Jaskier’s hold until the toxins were cleared, and certainly couldn’t do so in such a hostile environment. 

Finally, the kitchen door opened and Marilka appeared, dressed fully and holding a large torch.  Geralt stopped his pacing and averted his eyes from the bright light, pain stabbing through his head.

“I hear you killed the botchling.”  She said flatly.  “Prove it.”

Geralt tossed the head at her feet and it rolled out of the sack cloth to lay facing up inches from her hem line.  She staggered back in disgust, but rallied.  Marilka always did have an iron core.  “A successful hunt, I see.”

Geralt lifted his head to meet her eyes and she flinched back, disgusted at the sight of the blackened veins she could see running down his cheeks even in the shadows of his hood.  Geralt just wanted to leave, to get clean, and to burrow himself in Jaskier’s embrace.  He felt rubbed raw, both by the memories and by the concentrated hostility of the last two days.

“My coin.”  Geralt said, voice rasping.

Marilka tossed it to him and he snatched the bag out of the air.  He hefted it, nodded, and turned to leave.  Jaskier stepped up and took his arm again, squeezing it reassuringly.

“Wait.”  Marilka said.  He stopped, back still to her.  “Alfons said you inquired about our funeral rites for Anna.  That you stayed while her pyre burned down and ensured her bones were ash.”

Geralt glanced back over his shoulder.  He nodded slightly.

“And you answered our call for aid despite knowing the hostile reception you'd face.”

Geralt continued to stare at her over his shoulder, but said nothing.  What he’d done was simply part of his duty to his Path.  Leaving innocents to die because he feared the reaction of the townsfolk was unthinkable.  If he ran from every hostile reaction he faced, he would have to run forever.

Marilka pressed her lips together, eyes cast down and brows furrowed.  She seemed to be mulling something over.  Or had indigestion.  Geralt couldn’t really tell.

“You said there was more to the slaughter in the market that day than I understood.”  Marilka said finally.

Geralt nodded.  Jaskier’s arm was a comforting weight in his.

“Tell me then.” Marilka said.  “Seeing your actions today and yesterday, I wonder if I was too quick to judge.  I have wondered all these years if there had been more to the confrontation than what I saw, but I let my anger blind me and dismissed my doubts.  If I was wrong, I want to know.”

Jaskier’s grasp was firm, supporting without restraining.  He stayed silent, letting Geralt decide how to respond. 

Geralt felt as if he couldn’t breathe.  He’d long since accepted that his version of the events, the full version of the events, was irrelevant.  That Marilka, the child who’d happily jogged by his side and spoken kindly to him on the way to see Stregobor, saw his true, monstrous nature that day and rightfully scorned him. 

But if a man as deeply good as Jaskier thought him worthy of his time and attention, worthy of his affection, then maybe Marilka would hear the truth.  Maybe he deserved the chance to tell her, to finally have his version of events heard and considered.

“I will tell you.” Geralt said finally.  He saw Jaskier’s soft, proud smile out of the corner of his eye and felt warmed through knowing Jaskier was there to support him.

“Good.”  Marilka said decisively.  “If I have been unfair to you because I lacked the full context of events, I would rectify that.”   She turned and stepped back into the kitchen.  “Come, I will have my kitchen maid prepare a bath for you and then we can talk.”

Geralt turned and followed, releasing Jaskier’s arm with a lingering touch.  He heard Marilka call for her kitchen maid to fill the wooden tub laid out in the servant’s quarters.  She turned to the guards, directing them to see that Potato and Roach were brought to her home and tethered in the kitchen yard.  The youngest guard bowed and left to attend the task, leaving the lead guard and his second behind.

“I will await you in the parlor.  Do be quick, I would like to see you ride out before daybreak.”  Marilka said before turning and leaving, heading back up into the main part of the house, motioning for the guards to follow. 

“I’ve got my eye on you, Butcher.”  The lead guard growled as he went by.  “Don’t think I won’t be listening for any nonsense going on down here.”

Geralt simply cocked an eyebrow at him, giving him a deeply unimpressed stare.  The guard scoffed, looking as if he barely restrained himself from spitting at Geralt’s feet, and left.

The kitchen maid finished filling the modest wooden tub by the hearth and set out the simple screen around it.  She smelled of apprehension, but not fear.  Geralt was glad for the minor reprieve.  She silently indicated the bath was ready, dropped two towels and a wash bucket next to the tub, and left.  Geralt heard her footsteps retreat up the servant’s staircase and to the attic, likely returning to bed.  He would feel badly for disturbing her sleep if he wasn’t eager to be clean.

The water was cold but he didn’t feel settled enough to cast a controlled Igni on a wooden tub.  He would make do.  He stripped off his clothes and armor, leaving them in a pile on the hearth and stepped into the tub.  He sat in the waist-deep water and snagged the wash bucket, using it to wet his hair and upper body.  Blood and viscera ran off him in rivulets. 

“Do you want help?”  Jaskier asked.  Geralt shook his head.  He was strung out enough that Jaskier’s touch would be enough to tempt him into a drop, even an unguided one, and he couldn’t risk that here. 

“All right, I’ll see what I can do about your clothes then.”  Jaskier said, turning to search the kitchen for another bucket.  He made a cheerful noise of success when he found one and went outside to fill it from the well. 

Geralt took up the small piece of soap provided, an unusual luxury for a servant’s bath, and lathered the wash cloth before scrubbing it roughly over his skin and hair.  He worked quickly, but thoroughly, paying special attention to the areas around his healing wounds, carefully flushing each with clean water.  Once Roach arrived, he’d add salve to prevent infection. 

As he washed, Jaskier came back in and set his soiled clothes to soaking, wiping his armor down with a rag.  It would need to be properly cleaned and oiled, but at least this way he could redress without becoming immediately filthy again.

Geralt grit his teeth against the pain in his shoulder and set about scrubbing out his hair around the intricate braids.  He’d have to take them out later and wash properly, but he couldn’t even contemplate taking the time to do that here.  It was bad enough he was unclothed in Marilka’s kitchen.

He heard the horses arrive in the yard and indicated the same to Jaskier.  Jaskier wrung out his wet clothes and took them out with him, returning with Geralt’s spare outfit, his medical pouch, and a small bottle of White Honey.

Deciding he was clean enough, Geralt stood and sloughed off the bulk of the water with his hands, wringing out the end of his braid.  He dried himself with the towels provided as quickly as possible before pulling on fresh small clothes and trousers and settling on a stool for Jaskier to salve the wounds. 

Jaskier’s expression was tight, but he said nothing, sensing Geralt’s need to work quickly and get out of Blaviken.  As much as he wanted to tell Marilka the truth, he didn’t want to linger.  

Jaskier rubbed salve into the deep wound on his right shoulder, the bite on his left arm, and the cut across his cheek, ensuring they would not take infection while they healed.  The shoulder wound received a bandage, but the others were healed enough by the White Raffard’s to be left unbound.

“All done.”  Jaskier said.  He wiped his hands on a rag and repacked the medical kit while Geralt stood and pulled on his shirt, tucking it in to his trousers. 

Jaskier handed him the White Honey and he tossed it back, feeling the neutralizing agents sear the toxins out of his blood.  Pain racing through his veins and he swayed on his feet, suddenly lightheaded from the rapid purge of toxicity.  White Honey neutralized all the toxins, but it was a painful remedy in its own right.  A valuable one too, using rare components, but he needed to be clear-headed for this confrontation and he couldn’t risk being seen with black eyes on his way out of Blaviken.  Before, in full dark, he could have risked it, but the sky was starting to lighten now.  Dawn would likely break before they left Marilka’s home.

Geralt blinked back to full awareness as the pain receded.  Jaskier was at his side, Geralt’s arm slung over his shoulder.  Geralt let Jaskier support his weight for a moment, leaning into his strong hold.  He turned, briefly nuzzling his face into Jaskier’s hair, and straightened, removing his arm from Jaskier’s shoulders.

He turned back to the hearth and pulled on his armor, letting Jaskier help him with the buckles and ties.  It was a practiced movement and they finished quickly.  Geralt felt calmer now that he was properly dressed and armored again, his swords again in easy reach.

“Ready?”  Jaskier asked, stepping back and tucking the medical pouch under his arm. 

Geralt nodded.  They walked together up the stairs and were met by the younger guard, who led them to Marilka.  She was seated at the same desk as the night before, the lead guard posted beside her, but this time there were two chairs set in front of it.  She looked up when they entered and gestured to the chairs.

“Please, sit.”  She said.  They did.  Jaskier sat back in his chair, legs crossed and chin tilted up.  Geralt sat heavily in his, elbows on his thighs to support his weight but gaze resting on Marilka.  She met it without flinching this time.  Geralt was glad he’d taken the White Honey despite the exhaustion now clawing at him from the purged toxicity.  Black eyes would not have set the right tone.

Geralt waited for her to speak. 

“Tell me what happened back then.”  She ordered, the uncertainty in her eyes betraying her strict tone.  Her expression was tight, accentuating the lines surrounding her mouth and eyes.  Geralt was suddenly struck by her age.  She was not a child anymore, but a grandmother.  To him, three decades was insignificant.  To Marilka, it was most of her lifespan.

“Do you remember the prophecy of the Black Sun?”  Geralt asked.  Marilka nodded.  “Good.  Stregobor was obsessed with tracking down the girls born under the Black Sun either to imprison or kill them.  Renfri was one of those girls.”

Marilka nodded.  She’d known that much. 

“When I saw Stregobor that day you led me to him, he asked me to find Renfri and kill her.  Renfri was hunting Stregobor because he’d tried to have her killed as a child, resulting in her being raped by her kidnapper and run out of her kingdom and her inheritance.  She was once a princess, destined to lead her kingdom, not a group of bandits.  Stregobor tried to convince me it was the lesser of two evils, that Renfri deserved to die because girls born under the Black Sun were mutated and dangerous to all those around them.”  Geralt scoffed at the memory.  “I refused, but I sought Renfri out to try and convince her to leave and avoid bloodshed.”

Marilka stared at him, transfixed, but her expression was neutral.  Geralt could tell she was listening, but not what she thought.

He continued.  “Renfri’s plan was to slaughter folk in the market until Stregobor was forced to come down.  When I found her that day, I tried to convince her it was folly, both because innocents would die and because Stregobor was unlikely to risk his life to protect the townsfolk.  She refused to consider it then, but she sought me out later that night and told me she planned to leave.  I thought all would be well.” 

Geralt paused, closing his eyes and looking down.  His jaw jumped with tension as the memories flooded back.  Jaskier placed a hand on his knee, squeezing lightly.  Geralt focused on the contact, anchoring himself in the present. 

“But she tricked me.”  Geralt said, eyes still down.  “When I realized she’d deceived me, I tracked her to the market and found her men there, armed with swords and crossbows, ready to start killing as soon as the market filled with people.  I confronted them, and they attacked.  I defended my life.  That’s when Renfri brought you out.  You saw the rest.” 

“I did.”  Marilka said.  She was silent for a long moment.  “Is that why Stregobor said he wanted to dissect Renfri?”

Geralt nodded.

Marilka hummed, settling back in her chair and crossing her arms.  She was silent again, contemplating what Geralt had told her and how it fit with what she’d witnessed.  Geralt waited, chest aching with tension, Jaskier’s hand on his knee the sole point of comfort.

“You chose the lesser evil in the end.”  She said finally.  “I cannot condone the slaughter you wrought, but I now understand why you did it.  I thought you a mindless monster all this time, killing those men and Renfri without provocation and without due cause.” 

She sighed and leaned forward, resting her elbows on the desk.  “I have learned in my time as mayor that little is as it appears and that the only way to learn the truth is to hear all sides of the story, no matter how distasteful.  I am glad to hear I was wrong about you,” she paused and he looked up, tension leaving him,  “Geralt.”  It was the first time she’d used his name since they arrived.  The lead guard, standing at her right side, wore a conflicted expression.

Geralt quirked his lips in the shadow of a smile and the knot in his chest loosened.  It wasn’t forgiveness, and it wouldn’t change anything for those in the region who called him ‘Butcher’, but her understanding, her willingness to hear his version of events, was a relief, soothing some of the hurt caused by the entire, tragic incident.

“Thank you for telling me.  It eases my mind to know the truth and stands as a reminder to always look beyond how events outwardly appear.” 

The last bit was rather pointedly directed at her lead guard, who looked momentarily chastised.  There was a history there, but Geralt couldn’t bring himself to care about it.  Prejudice was rampant on the Continent, but if hearing the truth helped Marilka, and maybe even the lead guard, learn and teach tolerance to the younger generations, it was worth the time it took to tell his story. 

Geralt stood.  It was time to leave this place.  “If you need a witcher again, post a notice or send a message to Vesemir at Kaer Morhen.” He said.  “This is my region to patrol.  If it’s urgent, I will come.  If it can wait, one of my brothers will attend you instead.”

Marilka looked profoundly sad for a moment, but her expression quickly cleared.  “Yes, that would be best.  I fear the tale of the Butcher of Blaviken is too engrained now to be properly countered, even by the truth.”

She rose and briefly inclined her head to Geralt.  “Thank you for your service to this town, Geralt.”

Geralt bowed slightly and left, Jaskier following behind him. 

They walked swiftly back down to the kitchen yard, untethering the horses and mounted.  Geralt pulled up his hood, ensuring it was hiding his eyes and hair completely. 

The sun was just peeking over the horizon as Geralt and Jaskier rode out of the mayor’s yard, heading to the northern gate.  They pushed the horses into a trot, slow enough not to draw undue attention, but neither could stand to hold them to a walk now that nothing was keeping them there.

Geralt felt as if his breath were frozen in his chest, heartrate rising as they rode through the familiar, hated streets.  The memories called up by his recitation of events flooded his mind as they trotted past the corner where Geralt had slain Renfri, where the townsfolk had pelted him with stones, where Marilka had forsaken him, cursed him, and sent him away. 

They rode through the marketplace, empty in the early morning’s grey light.  Geralt’s back and shoulders tensed, echoes of long-ago stones beating against his body.  He ducked his head, and rode onward.  Roach felt his tension and increased her pace, lengthening her stride and stretching forward.

They clattered through the northern gate, undisturbed by anyone.  Alfons was just stepping out to relieve the night guard manning it and he waved to them. 

“Thank you, Master Witcher!” He called out as they rode past.

“Stay well, Alfons!”  Jaskier called back.  Geralt couldn’t bring himself to speak, but he raised a hand briefly in recognition, eyes trained on the mountains far, far in the distance.  They were headed north and could make a good start on that today.

Jaskier pulled up alongside him and Geralt could feel his assessing gaze.  He clenched his teeth and clutched at the reins, spurring Roach into a canter and then a gallop, letting her have her head as she flew over the coastal road.  He could hear Potato following, gamely trying to keep up but falling progressively further behind.  He was older and smaller, unable to keep up with Roach for long. 

When Roach’s chest started to heave, snorts coming with every breath as her sweat foamed on the reins against her neck, he sat back, easing her down to a trot and then to a walk, letting the reins drop to the buckle in his hand so she could stretch and blow, catching her breath. 

After a long moment, Potato caught up and Jaskier brought him down to a walk next to Roach.  Geralt felt calmer already at the miles they’d put between themselves and Blaviken.  They were still in hostile territory and would be until they were at least halfway to Hengfors, though the hostility lessened with each day’s ride out of Blaviken.

The road they were on wended its way up the Arc Coast and they were buffeted by the cold wind off the Gulf of Praxeda.  Geralt’s damp hair felt as if it were freezing against his skull.

“Are you well?”  Jaskier asked gently.

Geralt sighed, taking stock.  “I will be,” he said.  He was surprised to find that was true.  Before Jaskier, he had never thought such a thing were possible.

“Why don’t we make camp early today?  We’ve been up all night and I know you haven’t eaten or slept properly since you found that notice.”  Jaskier suggested.

Geralt instinctively bristled against the suggestion he needed rest, but shook the feeling away.  He knew what Jaskier meant.  More importantly, he knew Jaskier was right.

“There’s a suitable campsite about an hour’s ride from here.  It’s on the leeward side of a small hill, it’ll provide shelter from the wind.”  Geralt said.

“Sounds good.” 

They rode in silence, letting the sound of the horses’ hooves and the sea breeze dominate.  Geralt felt his tension slipping away. 

The campsite was exactly where he remembered.  Geralt guided Jaskier off the road and into the woods, carefully leading the horses over the tangled roots and low-hanging branches to the small clearing under the low hill.  As soon as they stepped around the hill, the air was substantially warmer, protected as it was from the sharp sea breezes. 

Geralt took both horses to the nearby stream, offering them water while he filled their water skins.  When the horses had drunk their fill, Geralt led them back to camp, set up their picket line, and tethered them to it before untacking them and brushing both down, carefully checking their legs for injuries and their hooves for stones.  Satisfied both were well, he pulled off his armor, tucked it into the appropriate pack bag, and left them to graze. 

He returned to Jaskier’s side, settling down next to the small fire he’d made.  Their bedrolls were already laid out side by side.  Geralt felt warmer just seeing that familiar set up, knowing Jaskier wanted to sleep curled against him despite his past.  Despite what he was.

Jaskier gave him a warm smile.  “I’ve put some of the dried meat, mushrooms, and beans we had on for a stew.”  He said as he stirred the small cookpot nestled in the fire.  “Should be ready in about an hour or so.”

Geralt hummed, leaning into Jaskier’s side.  Jaskier switched the spoon to his other hand and curled his free arm around Geralt, pulling him close and pressing a kiss to the crown of his head.

“Why don’t you lay down and rest until it’s ready?”  He suggested gently.

Geralt shook his head and leaned closer, twisting to bury his face in Jaskier’s chest.  “Need you.”  He said, voice muffled by Jaskier’s winter cloak.

“Then you shall have me.”  Jaskier said.  He put the spoon down and scooted back to lean against Potato’s saddle, pulling Geralt along with him.  Geralt curled up between Jaskier’s legs, resting against his chest, fingers clutching at Jaskier’s doublet. 

“Is that better?” Jaskier asked.

Geralt nodded, humming with contentment as he let himself relax fully against Jaskier, leaning into him and letting Jaskier support his weight.  Jaskier pressed another kiss to the crown of his head and tucked Geralt’s cloak in around him, cutting out the cold draft.  He stroked a soft hand up and down Geralt’s arm, idly tracing patterns. 

Geralt let himself sink into the sensation, not dropping, just relaxing into the limbo between subspace and reality.  He knew Jaskier would watch out for him.

Geralt lost track of time as he lay there, listening to Jaskier humming softly to himself and feeling the vibrations against his cheek. 

Eventually, he was drawn out of his doze and presented with a bowl of stew.  He sat up slightly, still leaning against Jaskier, and dug in.  As soon as the first bite touched his lips, he realized how hungry he was and he quickly devoured his portion.  Before he could think to protest, Jaskier took his bowl and ladled the remaining stew into it.  He devoured that too. 

Satiated, he settled back and let his eyes slip shut as Jaskier finished his meal.  Exhaustion dragged at him and he made only token protests about the fact that it was still morning when Jaskier prodded him to his feet and directed him to the bedrolls.  He collapsed down onto them and pulled his cloak tight around himself, glad his hair had finally dried.  He felt Jaskier settling in at his back, fingers undoing the tie at the end of his hair and gently undoing the intricate braids.  The loosened tension on his skull was a welcome relief and he sighed, content.

Jaskier chuckled behind him and scratched his fingers through Geralt’s hair, lightly massaging his scalp.  Geralt curled up into the contact, letting out a rumbling purr of contentment.  He rolled over, slinging an arm over Jaskier’s chest and burrowing his face into Jaskier’s shoulder.  Jaskier wrapped an arm around him, continuing to stroke his hair. 

“Rest, love.”  Jaskier said softly.  “I’ll watch over you.”

Geralt hummed and tilted his head up to press a soft, chaste kiss to Jaskier’s throat.  Jaskier shifted, tilting his head down and slotting their lips together.  Jaskier’s lips were soft, warm, and yielding.  Geralt felt as if his whole awareness centered on that single point of contact. 

After a long moment, Jaskier pulled back, pressing a soft peck to the tip of Geralt’s nose before guiding his head back down to rest on his chest.  Geralt hummed with contentment, nudging his head up under Jaskier’s chin affectionately before settling.

When he’d envisioned his return to Blaviken, as he knew would happen eventually in his long life, he hadn’t imagined it would be possible to carry out the job without being chased out or stoned.  Couldn’t have contemplated the possibility of reconciling with Marilka and getting the chance to tell her the full story. 

Couldn’t have dreamed himself worthy of having Jaskier by his side through the entire hunt, having his support, both as an active participant and as a silent bulwark.  If someone had told him a year ago that he would successfully complete a hunt in Blaviken only to be held and soothed to sleep afterwards in Jaskier’s arms, he would have thought them addled.

But as he drifted off to sleep, held tightly in Jaskier’s strong embrace, he knew he never wanted to live any other way. 

Chapter Text

After leaving Blaviken behind, Geralt and Jaskier spent a quiet and productive spring and summer taking contracts up and down the northwestern part of the Continent.  They hunted a pack of nekkers outside Port Vanis, various drowners and water hags throughout the small peninsulas and islands in Poviss, wyverns and forktails in the high mountains of Narok, and a truly vicious noonwraith outside Hengfors. 

The summer harvest that year was good and people were happy and flush with coin.  In between the hunts, Jaskier plied his trade in taverns and inns throughout the region, spreading his songs and tales and filling their pockets with gold.  Despite the summer’s bounty, to conserve funds for the leaner months ahead, they camped as much as possible, taking advantage of the mild weather and warm nights to curl up together beneath the stars.

But now that summer was ending, the barley golden and heavy on the stalks and the thick summer air cut through with the first hints of autumn chill, they headed south, passing along the Kestrel Mountains before cutting west after reaching Ellander to head toward Vizima along the banks of the Ismena River.  Vizima was farther west than Geralt had originally planned to travel that year, but they had made good time on their journey south and he wanted to give Jaskier a chance to play in some of the Temerian capital city’s bigger and more cultured taverns before they started the trek to Kaer Morhen for the winter.  Jaskier was giving up his time in Oxenfurt this year to accompany Geralt, it was the least he could do.

When they reached the city, the passed through the massive walls by way of the Merchant’s Gate.  Geralt guided them through the Trade Quarter toward the New Narakort Inn, a high-class establishment in the heart of the wealthiest section of the city.  They had coin enough for Geralt to treat Jaskier to several nights of luxury and he had no doubt that Jaskier’s bardic skill and renown would garner him an invitation to play during at least one of the New Narakort’s exclusive evening receptions.

They left Roach and Potato with the New Narakort’s haughty stable hand, tossing him a couple of gold coins to ensure they were well cared for, and headed in to see the innkeeper, packs slung over their shoulders and road dirt coating their boots.

Though the innkeeper was initially wary of hosting a witcher, Geralt’s fat coin purse, and Jaskier’s nobility, soon eased his concerns.

“Just up the stairs, the last door on the right.”  The innkeeper said, handing Jaskier a large, wrought-iron key.  “Supper will be served starting after the tolling of the Vespers bell.  Do you require anything else at this time, my Lord?”

“A hot bath, please, and some victuals to tide us over until supper.”  Jaskier said with a polite smile.

“Certainly, my Lord.  I’ll have both brought up to your room immediately.”  The innkeeper said with a bow.

“And a measure of hot bran mash for each of our horses.”  Geralt said, drawing the innkeeper’s attention back to him.

“As you wish, Master Witcher.”  The innkeeper said.  “Are you here for the races?”

“What races?”  Geralt asked.

“The King Foltest Cup, of course!”  The innkeeper said, puffing up with pride.  “It’s the finest race in the Northern Kingdoms.  Each year, King Foltest invites any who wish to try their luck to enter the races.  The grand prize is a fat purse or the winner’s pick of any horse in the King’s stable, bar his own stallion, naturally.”

Geralt loved a good horse race and his current Roach was particularly fleet of foot.  “Tell me more.  How does one enter this race?” He asked.

“You need only see the Racemaster at Town Hall.  The qualifying heats start tomorrow, so you’d best go now if you wish to compete.”  The innkeeper said.

“How does one qualify for the final race?”  Geralt asked.  He hadn’t had the chance to participate in a race big enough and prestigious enough for qualifiers in years.  He felt excitement bubble up in his chest and he bounced on the balls of his feet, eager for the races ahead.

“There are several qualifying heats limited to six horses each.  Anyone may enter, so the number of qualifiers is determined by the number of entrants.  The top two finishers from each qualifier then race again in the semi-final race over a more technical course and the top four from that race then face each other in the final.”  The innkeeper explained.  “Typically, the qualifying races are all completed in one day, then the final race occurs in the afternoon of the second day.”

“Thank you, I will go see the Racemaster.”  Geralt said.  The innkeeper nodded, heading into the back to see that Jaskier got his requested bath and victuals.

“Do you mind if I go now?”  Geralt asked Jaskier. 

Jaskier shook his head with a fond smile.  “Not at all.  Go get registered, you can bathe and eat when you return.”

Geralt felt a wide grin cross his face and he stepped forward, placing a kiss on Jaskier’s cheek before he had a chance to think about it.  Jaskier blinked at him, surprised by the public display, but gave him a soft, happy smile.

Geralt flushed and ducked his head, embarrassed by his impulsive act.  “I’ll be back soon,” he said, turning to leave.  He told himself it was a strategic retreat. 

“Have fun!” Jaskier called after him cheerfully.

Geralt strode out into the afternoon sun and headed east toward Town Hall.  Now that he knew there was a race tomorrow, he took note of the flags and banners decorating the wide, cobblestone streets.  He allowed himself to lengthen his stride, excitement driving him forward.  There were few things, other than Jaskier, that brought him true, simple joy, and a good horse race was one of them. 

He let his mind wander, thinking of how he would prepare Roach for the race.  He would need to oil his tack and make sure the metal parts shined.  Couldn’t have his girl looking any less than her best. 

Maybe Jaskier will even help me braid her mane? 

A small, private smile lightened his expression as he strode past the elegant homes and bespoke shops that made up the Trade Quarter.  It didn’t take him long to reach Town Hall, a large, ancient stone building dominating the eastern-most square in the Quarter, and he jogged up the stairs to the entrance hall, nodding to the guards as he passed.  He’d been to Vizima often enough over the years that the guards knew him and didn’t give him trouble unless he provided them with due cause.  Given the rarity of such largesse, he was very careful never to do anything to break their good will.

Upon entering, he walked over the expansive, mosaic floor depicting the founding of Temeria and headed over to the gilded desk in the back of the hall which stood between the general public and the officials and clerks within.  The steward looked up from his reading with an arched eyebrow, waiting impatiently for Geralt to state his business.

“Good day, Sir.  I’m here to see the Racemaster.”  Geralt said.

“Cutting it a bit close there, but very well.  Go through the door to your right and the Racemaster will get you signed up.”  The steward said, indicating the correct door with an extended arm before returning pointedly to his reading.

“Much obliged.”  Geralt said with a nod, turning to follow the steward’s directions.

The room he entered was plastered in race posters from decades of races and trophies, medals, and banners covered the walls and the polished wood desk within.  The man who must be the Racemaster sat at the desk, pouring over a thick bloodline ledger, probably working on setting the odds for tomorrow’s qualifiers.  His wiry, grey hair was pulled back in a low tail but pieces had fallen out of the tie and hung about his unshaven face. 

He looked up when Geralt entered.  “Another entrant!  Excellent!”  He said brightly, coming quickly out from behind the desk and holding out his hand in greeting.  Geralt clasped his forearm briefly and quirked a smile.  The man was dressed richly but his face was weather-worn and his hands were covered with thick callouses.  He may have a government post but this was no pampered clerk. 

The Racemaster stepped back and pulled another ledger out of the pile, letting it fall open on top of the bloodline chart he had been reviewing.

“Just tell me your name, your horse’s name, and its sex and type, and we’ll get you registered.”  The Racemaster said, quill poised over the book.

“Geralt of Rivia.  My mare’s name is Roach and she’s a witcher’s horse, a sub-type of courser.”  Geralt said, pride in his mount filling his voice.  He’d trained her since she was a foal growing wild in the fields surrounding Kaer Morhen and she’d proved an able mount for him over the past decade, even racking up several championship racing titles.

“A courser!”  The racemaster said, eyes widening in delight.  “She’ll be a quick one then.  What’s her breeding?  I’ve never seen a witcher’s horse race before.”

“Originally, the witcher’s horses came from Zerrikanian stock, from the desert horses used by the warriors on campaign.  They were cross-bred with some of the heavier horses used by the elves in the Blue Mountains centuries ago to give them more resilience in the colder climate.”  Geralt said, always happy to speak at length about his favorite topic.

The racemaster leaned forward over his book, eager to learn more.  “And?  How are they bred now?”

“There used to be a large breeding herd kept wild in the Kaer Morhen Valley from which each witcher would choose a young mare.  We kept a selection of stallions to lead the bands, but the excess would be sold either as unbroke youngsters or as trained war horses.  Though after Kaer Morhen was sacked, the herd was culled substantially and sold into the army programs of the surrounding kingdoms.  Only a small number still remain and the mares are bred to outside stallions to avoid in-breeding.”  Geralt said, grimacing at the loss of the herds.  It still hurt even after all this time.  One of his few fond memories of his childhood was watching the witchers’ herd run free across the Valley. 

“Zerrikanian horses crossed with elvish stock and selectively bred over centuries.”  The racemaster said thoughtfully, a slightly awed smile on his face.  “Fascinating bloodlines.  I must see this mare at the races.” 

“She is at your disposal.”  Geralt said.  He was always happy to indulge the interest of a fellow horse master.  And he always enjoyed showing off Roach.

The racemaster clapped his hands together and beamed.  “Excellent!  I am interested to see your exceptionally bred mare.”  He shook himself and turned back to the racing ledger.  “Now, you’ll be in the fourth heat to start, currently the final one unless we get more entrants.  It should run before midday, but be sure to arrive at the racecourse no later than midmorning.” 

“Understood, thank you.”  Geralt said.  “Where is the start?”

The racemaster pulled over a roughly drawn map of Vizima and pointed to the Inn at the Outskirts.  “The qualifying races all start and end here.  The routes will be marked with flags.”  He pointed next to the Miller’s Gate.  “The final race starts here and ends at the Merchant’s Gate.”

Geralt nodded.  “I will be at the Inn by midmorning tomorrow.” 

“Check in with me when you arrive.  Best of luck with your preparations.”  The racemaster said, expression alight with the excitement of the upcoming competition. 

Geralt bowed slightly to him and left, a spring in his step as he made a mental list of what he would do to get Roach ready. 

But as he stepped back out into the entrance hall, he was stopped short by the sight of Lambert arguing with the steward at the reception desk, packs slung over his shoulders and distress clear on his sharp features.

“Lambert?”  He called out, walking over.  “What’s wrong?”

“This fucker won’t let me see the bastard who took my horse!”  Lambert bit out, color high with outrage.

“As I have already explained, you lost your horse in a fair match race and the mare is now in the Royal Stables.  No horses may be sold from the stables until after the races are complete and the winner has selected his prize.”  The steward said, barely holding onto his patience. 

“And what if someone chooses her?” Lambert shouted, gesticulating wildly. 

“You should have thought of that before you wagered your mare on a race!”  The steward said sharply.  “Now, leave before I call the guards!”

Geralt placed a restraining hand on Lambert’s arm, preventing him from exploding at the steward.  “Come on, it’s not his fault.  Tell me what happened and we’ll figure out how to get her back.” 

Lambert tried to tug his arm away from Geralt’s hold, frustrated rage twisting his features, but Geralt held firm.  There was nothing to be gained here except a spot in the city gaol and Geralt was sure Lambert understood that under all his anger.  After a tense moment, Lambert allowed himself to be led away from the steward and out the door.  Geralt gave the steward a quick nod of apology as they left, hoping his feathers weren’t too ruffled. 

Geralt kept a firm grasp on Lambert’s arm until they were well clear of Town Hall and in a more secluded section of the square.  When he deemed they were far enough away, he stopped and turned to Lambert.

“What’s going on?  What are you doing this far west?”  He said, keeping his voice purposefully calm and soothing.  He could see that Lambert was on edge and needed him to calm down.  His little brother had always been the most explosive of any of the witchers, quick to anger and slow to forgive.

Lambert let out a harsh breath and pulled out of Geralt’s hold, clenching his fists at his sides.  He was practically vibrating with rage.

“Right, so, I took a contract for some Lord Whatever-the-fuck in Vengerberg and he wouldn’t pay me unless I came here to collect it from him in his summer residence.  I got the coin and I was just leaving, minding my own gods-damned business, when I see these two pumped up whelps beating on a dog in an alley.  I stop them and they take offense, something about one of them being a squire to some whoreson of a knight or whatever, and the older of the two little shits challenges me to a duel.  Thrown gauntlet and everything!”

“And you couldn’t just walk away?”  Geralt said wryly, already knowing the answer.

“Fuck no.  But I wasn’t going to fight a kid who wasn’t even fifteen summers yet, so I suggested a horse race since I saw they had mounts with them.  Figured we’d do a little loop around the area, I’d win his horse, get some more coin by selling it back to him for an upcharge, and be on my way.”  Lambert ground his teeth and turned partially away.  Geralt could see where this was going.

“But Calamity slipped on the cobbles in a turn and went down on her knees.  She got up, she was fine, but the whelp’s gelding got past her and she couldn’t catch up in time.  I had to give her up and now she’s in the Royal Stables and that fucker of a Steward won’t let me in to see the Stablemaster to get her back!”  Lambert said, rage bubbling up again as he recounted how he lost his horse, tone increasing in volume as he went on.

Geralt could see that Lambert was as equally upset he’d lost her as he was that he’d risked her in the first place.  Calamity had been Lambert’s partner for over fifteen years and they were inseparable.  She was just as much of firebrand as he was and Lambert had originally selected her because she ran up and kicked him as a foal for daring to get in between her and her mother.  It was love at first bruise.

Geralt reached out again, stepping close and nudging his head up under Lambert’s chin in the traditional greeting to a Dominant family member.  He hadn’t done it to Lambert since they were children.  Lambert froze, but then wrapped an arm around Geralt in a rough embrace, pulling him tight to his side for a moment and burying his face in Geralt’s hair before letting go.  He looked visibly calmer.  Geralt stayed close.

“I just entered Roach in the races.  I’ll win Calamity back for you.”  He said, confident in Roach’s ability.  He couldn’t stand to see Lambert this upset and he knew the loss of Calamity must be agonizing.

“No, I fucked this up and I have to fix it myself.”  Lambert said angrily.  Geralt knew all that anger was self-directed and his heart ached for him. 

“No, you don’t.  I’m here and I want to help you.”  Geralt said firmly.  “I won’t hear any argument, so just shut up and accept it.”  Jaskier had shown him the power of giving and accepting assistance, and he wasn’t about to let his little brother suffer alone.

Lambert spun back to look at him, an obvious refusal on his lips, but then he abruptly stopped, biting back his words.  He stared hard at Geralt, searching his eyes for something, and a curious look crossed his face. 

“All right, if you insist.”  He said finally.

“Good.  Now, come back with me and help get Roach ready.  A few fresh apples wouldn’t go amiss either.”  Geralt said lightly, setting off back toward the New Narakort.

“I'm not helping you spoil your horse.”  Lambert grumbled, following along behind. 

“You will if you want me to give Calamity back to you once I win her.”  Geralt tossed over his shoulder with a grin.

“Oh, you little shit.”  Lambert said, surging forward to grab him.  Geralt spun out of the way, taking off at a run back toward the inn, Lambert in hot pursuit.

Geralt led Lambert up the stairs toward the guestrooms, following the scent of Jaskier’s rosin and honey to find the correct door. 

Lambert let out a low whistle, taking in the expensive trappings and fine wood of the New Narakort.  “Living the high life, I see.  All those songs about you going to your head?”

Geralt smacked him, scowl contrasting sharply with the flush coloring his cheeks.  “No, this is for Jaskier.  He’s giving up his winter in Oxenfurt to come to Kaer Morhen so I wanted to make it up to him.”

Lambert gave a considering hum, mischief lighting his eyes.  “So, what you’re telling me is that I’m about to meet your mysterious Dominant?”

Geralt gave him a sideways glance.  “Aye.”  He said slowly, suddenly suspicious of Lambert’s intentions.

Lambert broke into a smile that was all teeth.  “Excellent.”  He said, lengthening his stride.  “Come on, show me which room.”

Geralt followed Jaskier’s scent to the last door on the right, he raised his hand to knock before they entered, but Lambert shoved past him and Geralt scrambled to follow.

“Lambert, stop!”  He called after him, sharpening his tone to one of stiff rebuke.

Over Lambert’s shoulder, he could see Jaskier tense at their sudden appearance, a doublet hanging from one hand.  They’d obviously interrupted him in the middle of unpacking.  Jaskier’s scent spiked with anger and offense before it quickly settled down again upon hearing Geralt’s voice.

Jaskier placed the doublet down on the bed and turned to Lambert, affecting a pose of careful relaxation.  He was wary, but no longer angry. 

“Geralt, introduce your guest.”  He said, an edge of censure in his tone that made Geralt’s heart sink.  This was hardly the ideal introduction.

Geralt pushed Lambert aside, kicking the door shut behind him. 

“Jaskier, this is Lambert, my younger brother, who seems to have forgotten all of his manners.”  The last words Geralt spoke were sharp but Lambert was unrepentant.

After a moment of staring Lambert down, Geralt continued, annoyance seething under his neutral tone and set phrases.  “Lambert, this is Jaskier, my Dominant.”

Lambert crossed his arms over his chest, tilting his chin up to assess Jaskier.  Jaskier stood tall under the appraising glance, eyes clear and scent without a trace of fear.  Seemingly satisfied, Lambert uncrossed his arms and held out his right hand, clasping Jaskier’s forearm briefly. 

“Good to finally meet the man who pulled Geralt’s head out of his arse.”  He said with a smirk. 

Jaskier’s gaze sharpened and Geralt tensed.  “Glad to see you live up to Geralt’s warnings about your character.”

Lambert blinked at him and let out a startled laugh.  He clapped Jaskier hard on the shoulder with a grin.  “I like this one, Geralt!” 

Jaskier rolled his eyes at Geralt with a quirked smile and Geralt relaxed, smiling back. 

“Now, are we done posturing?” Jaskier asked, eyebrow raised, speaking to Lambert much as he had to Leopold when he was being unruly.  “I had the innkeeper bring up some refreshments to tide us over until supper.  Join us, Lambert.”

“Don’t mind if I do.”  Lambert said easily, taking a seat on the low couch next to the table laden with more bread, meat, cheese, and wine than they could reasonably consume.  As soon as he sat down, he took up a wooden plate and began to fill it with a large selection of the offered food.

Geralt cuffed the back of his head as he walked by to sit on the other side of the couch, Jaskier opposite them in the plush armchair.

“Wait for your host to sit down and eat first.”  Geralt scolded.

“What, why?  Isn’t he your Dominant?” Geralt nodded.  “Then this is a family meal and I don’t have to stand on fucking ceremony.  Lighten up.”  Lambert said through a mouthful of dried meat.

Geralt drew in a breath through his nose and lifted his eyes skyward in the universal expression of an older brother frustrated with the antics of the younger.

“Peace, Geralt.  He’s right, as your brother he’s entitled to treat me as he would any other member of his family.”  Jaskier said easily, though the hardness in his eyes belied his tone.  He pointedly took up his own plate and filled it with a much more modest portion. 

Geralt frowned, unease skittering under his skin, but Jaskier gave him a reassuring smile and he forced himself to relax.  He wanted Jaskier to get along with Lambert as well as he had with Eskel, but as much as he loved his brother, Geralt knew Lambert was a much harder character to stomach.  He didn’t think he could handle it if there were any tension between Jaskier and Lambert to divide his loyalties.

After a moment’s hesitation, he sat next to Lambert, only taking a small roll when Jaskier cast him a pointed look.  His stomach was in knots but he forced it down.

“So, did you submit your entry for the races?”  Jaskier asked.  Geralt was grateful for the redirect.

“Aye, I’m to be at the Inn at the Outskirts with Roach by mid-morning tomorrow for the first qualifying heat.”  Geralt said.

“What do you need to do to get ready?”

“I should clean and oil her tack and braid her mane.”  Geralt said, a smile easing his tense expression as he focused his thoughts on the upcoming race.

“I’ll help you once we’re done with our meal.”  Jaskier said, pleased to see Geralt relaxing.

“No need,” Geralt said, reaching over to grab Lambert into a headlock.  Lambert squawked and dropped his plate, scattering crumbs everywhere.  “This idiot managed to lose his horse to a squire, so I’m going to win her back.  But if he wants to earn her back from me, he’s got to spoil Roach properly first.”

“Fuck you.”  Lambert struggled out of Geralt’s grip, pointedly straightening his collar.  “I’d have her back already but for those stupid fucking rules.”

“What rules?”  Jaskier said, amusement dancing in his eyes at their antics.

“Calamity’s in the Royal Stables since I lost her to a fucking squire and since the race’s grand prize is the winner’s choice of mount from the Royal Stables or some shit, I can’t buy her back until the races are concluded!”  Lambert said, growing increasingly agitated as he recounted the tale.  He jumped up from his seat, anger driving him to stalk about the room.

“And, of course, you can’t risk that someone other than Geralt would choose her as their prize.  Or that the squire would refuse to sell her back to you even after the races are concluded.”  Jaskier said, immediately understanding the source of Lambert’s distress.

“I -” Lambert started to speak and then stopped, taken aback by Jaskier’s easy acceptance of Calamity’s importance to him.  “Right.  I can’t risk losing her.”

“Then we’d best make sure Geralt and Roach are as prepared as possible for the races so they can be sure to win her back.”  Jaskier said. 

Geralt watched as Lambert’s prickly shell retracted a bit, eased by Jaskier’s accepting nature and straightforward approach.  He let out a breath.  Perhaps this wouldn’t end so badly after all. 

Jaskier rose, brushing crumbs off his dark blue doublet.  “Let’s get started then.  If we all work on it, she’ll be ready in time for supper.”

Geralt’s heart warmed.  Jaskier really was far too good for him.

Jaskier led the way out of the room and Lambert cast a startled glance at Geralt before rushing to follow.  Lambert always was wrongfooted when people refused to rise to his bait, meeting him blow for blow without getting flustered.  He found help almost impossible to accept.

They trooped down to the stables together, nearly shocking the poor stable boy to death when they pulled out Roach’s tack and sat down to clean it themselves.  This wasn’t the sort of establishment that typically catered to clients who would do such work themselves.

As Jaskier worked on Roach’s breastplate, polishing the metal inlays until they gleamed, Lambert straddled a hay bale and grumbled over the saddle, cursing Geralt under his breath for choosing one with so much gods-damned tooling in the soft, sturdy leather. 

Geralt smirked as he listened to Lambert’s grumbles but kept his attention on Roach.  He curried her all over, gently massaging out days’ worth of sweat and loose hair as she wuffled and relaxed under his ministrations.  When he was satisfied with his efforts, he ran over her body with a soft brush until her coat gleamed with good health.  He applied oil to her freshly picked hooves and brushed out her mane and tail until they were as smooth as silk running between his fingers. 

When he was done, he traded places with Jaskier, taking up Roach’s bridle to clean while Jaskier braided Roach’s mane into an elaborate plait that ran down her neck, showing off her perfectly muscled topline and her fine-boned face.  It would help both show off Roach’s form and keep her hair from flying into Geralt’s eyes as they galloped. 

Jaskier finished first and came to sit on the hay bale beside Geralt.  It was a tight fit, so Geralt slipped onto the floor, kneeling at Jaskier’s side and leaning into his legs as he finished rubbing oil into Roach’s bridle to condition it and bring out the bloom in the leather.  He wanted Roach to look her absolute best for the races.  Jaskier dropped a hand onto his head and absent-mindedly stroked his fingers through Geralt’s hair.  Geralt felt relaxation follow each pass of Jaskier’s hand and he leaned fully into Jaskier’s legs, letting him support his weight.

When he was finally satisfied, Geralt held the bridle up to the light, turning it this way and that in final inspection.  He caught sight of Lambert, sitting across from him, giving him an oddly assessing look, the cleaned and oiled saddle and cinch resting in his hands.  Geralt quirked an eyebrow at him, giving him an opening if he wanted to talk, but Lambert looked away.  Whatever it was, Geralt would have to wait to find out.

“All done?”  Jaskier asked.

Geralt hummed, happy with their efforts.  He hung Roach’s tack on the provided racks and gave her an affectionate scratch, knocking Lambert’s foot with his on the way, earning a dark scowl.

“Let’s head up for dinner, then.  I can hear your stomach growling from here, Geralt.”  Geralt winced, knowing his minimal appetite earlier had not gone unnoticed.  “Lambert, you are welcome to join us for dinner and for the night as well, if you’d like.”

Lambert looked at Geralt, who nodded slightly.  “Sure, I never pass up a free meal.” 

“Excellent.  Why don’t you two meet me upstairs?  I’ll tell the innkeeper to send up three meals and prepare a fresh bath.”  Jaskier said, clearly offering them the chance to speak alone.  Geralt wasn’t surprised Jaskier had noticed Lambert’s odd mood.

“Thanks, we’ll see you up there.”  Geralt said and they split up, Jaskier heading into the main dining hall and Geralt and Lambert heading upstairs..

Lambert was unusually silent as they returned to the room.  When he followed Geralt in, he closed the door behind him and leaned back against it, arms crossed and a hard expression on his face.  Geralt turned back to face him, keeping his arms loose at his sides and his expression open.  He could tell Lambert had something to say and he didn’t want to start a fight with him.

“What is it, Lambert?”  He asked quietly.

Lambert’s jaw clenched and he looked off to the side before taking a breath and relaxing his pose, uncrossing his arms and shoving his hands into his pockets.

“Is he good to you?”  Lambert asked, a harsh note in his voice Geralt knew was closer to concern than to anger.  “Because you’ve changed a lot and I want to be sure it’s because you wanted to change and not because he forced it.”

Geralt felt a sudden rush of affection for his brother, the youngest of them all but the most fiercely protective.  He knew that if he gave the slightest indication of displeasure, Lambert would take Jaskier down and ferry Geralt away to safety.

“He is.  I’ve never felt as good, as whole, as I do now.  I’m healthier and stronger and it’s all thanks to Jaskier.”  Geralt said with a soft smile, affection clear in his tone.

Lambert relaxed slightly, stepping away from the door.  He reached out, gently grabbing the back of Geralt’s neck in his calloused hand and pulling him close to stare into Geralt’s open gaze.  

“And how did this happen?  I mean, I’m glad you finally found a Dominant because Vesemir’s system was absolutely fucked, but I know you, you wouldn’t just offer that information up for free.  Did he force you?  Expose you?”  Lambert asked, shaking Geralt slightly as if to force the truth out.

Geralt kept himself loose, letting Lambert interrogate him.  When Lambert finished speak, Geralt stepped closer, nudging his head up under Lambert’s chin briefly before grabbing his wrist and pulling Lambert with him back toward the hearth to sit together with him on the couch. 

“I told him because I wanted to.  Because I trusted him.”  Geralt said, leaning into Lambert’s side and letting Lambert wrap a rough, brotherly arm around him.  As aloof and prickly as Lambert often was, he had always needed touch from his brothers to ground him.

Sitting curled together like they hadn’t since they were children, firelight flickering over their faces and warming them through, Geralt told Lambert about Yennefer, about Nenneke, about finding out Vesemir’s system was destroying his mind.  He told him about Jaskier’s concern, his gentle affection, his insistence that Geralt eat and bathe and let himself be cared for.  He told him about Cook’s sweet buns, about Jaskier’s family accepting him into their circle, and about intricate braids weaving Jaskier’s love into his hair. 

He told him about Blaviken, about Jaskier standing by his side, alternatively his sword and his shield, allowing him to put to rest one of the most painful events in his life.  About how he felt he could finally move on.

Most importantly, he told him that he felt safe, that he felt loved and protected.  He told him that he knew Jaskier would never betray him or his secret.  That he would never ask Geralt for more than Geralt wanted to give.

As he spoke, Geralt felt Lambert’s arm tightening and loosening in turn in response to the tale.  He saw rage, anger, fear, and, ultimately, acceptance cross his face.  Lambert had never been one to hide his feelings and Geralt knew he could always trust Lambert’s face to reveal his true thoughts.

When he finished speaking, voice rough from the long monologue, Lambert reached out and handed him a glass of watered wine, left over from their prior refreshments.  Geralt took it gratefully, soothing his dry throat as Lambert absorbed what he’d been told. 

He took in a harsh breath and let it out slowly, relaxing back into the couch. 

“All right, I suppose he’ll do.”  Lambert said.  “But if he ever steps out of line, I’ll kill him.”

Geralt huffed a laugh, elbowing Lambert in the side.  “I can take care of myself, you know.”

“Nah, you’re hopeless at that.  That’s why Eskel and I have to watch out for you so much.  You’re like a puppy.”  Lambert said with a grin.

“Oh, fuck you.”  Geralt said, shoving Lambert off him with laugh.  “I’m the one who had to save you from killing yourself every day in training.”

“At least I grew out of it!” 

With an outraged growl, Geralt leapt at Lambert and knocked him back off the couch.  They tussled on the floor, rolling around like children, landing open palmed smacks on each other and laughing until they couldn’t breathe.

They startled to a stop when the door opened and Jaskier entered followed by two hall boys carrying their evening meal and a trio of housemaids with the copper tub.

Jaskier snorted when he saw their position.  “If you’re done roughhousing, our dinner is ready.”  He said, a wide grin belying his scolding words.

Lambert and Geralt looked at each other and then up at Jaskier, abashed.  They stood, righted the couch, and settled at the table in the corner of the room with Jaskier, ready to dig into the absolutely delectable meal.

As they ate, silverware clinking against the china plates, Geralt looked at Lambert and Jaskier seated side by side, arguing about the merits of braiding Roach’s mane, and he smiled, warmth settling in his chest.  He could get used to this.

Roach had handily won her two qualifying heats the day before and now stood in the first post position at the start line for the final of the King Foltest Cup. 

Geralt stroked a soothing hand down her arched neck, careful to avoid mussing the intricate braids Jaskier had redone for her after her wins, highlighting her coloring with a bright, golden ribbon.  He waited with the other three finalists for the race to start, horses stamping and pawing as a stiff breeze caused the flags to snap overhead.

The final started at the Miller’s Gate before running a long course through the Outskirts to the finish line at the Merchant's Gate.  The night before, Geralt had seen the assembled tent from where King Foltest would view the finish seated on his lacquered throne.  As much as he liked races, he detested the pomp and ceremony involved in royally backed ones.  The food carted out for the nobles lucky enough to receive an invite from the King could have fed all of the city’s poor townsfolk for at least a week, but most would be squandered, thrown away or spoiled after the small bevy of nobles had picked over it during the event.

Given the distance between the two Gates, Jaskier and Lambert were waiting for him at the finish line.  Jaskier had sent him off to the start with a kiss and an admonition to be careful, whereas Lambert had given him a slap on the back and a warning as to what would happen if he failed to win back Calamity.  As if the harsh words could hide the real worry in his eyes.  Geralt knew Jaskier and Lambert were getting along when Jaskier only rolled his eyes at the threat instead of instinctively jumping to Geralt’s defense.

Finally, just as Roach was starting to jig under him, patience worn out after the long wait, the racemaster appeared.  The excitable man gave Geralt a beaming grin – they’d had a long conversation about Roach’s various merits the day before – and raised the flag of Temeria high, white lilies catching the light against the stark, black background.

“Racers, on my mark!”  He called out, flag whipping over his head.

Geralt took up Roach’s reins and eased into a light seat, feeling her coil underneath him.  The young stallion to his right reared up, striking out with his front legs. 

“Three -” The sorrel horse behind Roach surged forward and was checked back sharply.

“Two -” Geralt added light pressure with his legs, lifting Roach up into his aides.

“One -” Geralt felt Roach lift in front, sinking back on her hocks.

“And race!”  The racemaster dropped the flag and Roach surged forward with a huge stride, instantly taking the lead.  The stallion to her right reared up again but scrambled to follow, the other two horses following close behind.  

They tore off down the opening straight and Geralt fought to keep Roach in check.  It was a much longer race than the first two, running for nearly a league on a complicated course, and he couldn’t afford to let her burn her energy out in a sprint. 

The sorrel who’d been behind her at the start passed her on the left at a blinding clip and Geralt allowed it, knowing a chase was futile.  Roach’s ears flattened to her head and she fought Geralt’s hold, trying to catch the bit in her teeth, but subsided when he held firm to his chosen pace.  He reached down to scratch at her withers and her ears flicked back.  She knew he wouldn’t hold her back forever. 

As they flew over the hard-packed dirt road, the sorrel’s lead increased dramatically.  Geralt knew the horse couldn’t keep up that pace and was soon proven right when the sorrel’s headlong flight caused him to hit the first timber obstacle hard, stumbling on landing and tossing his rider. 

The race was down to three.

Roach easily cleared the timber fence and Geralt sharply checked her heading into the forest path.  The unruly stallion on her right charged past and Geralt could hear him scrambling to manage the suddenly tight and winding course.  It was a canny test set by the racemaster to see if the riders and horses could adapt quickly from an open gallop to a technical track in the shadows of the dense forest.  One the stallion had clearly failed.

The remaining horse, a bay mare, stalked Roach’s pace calmly, easily handling the transition.  That was the horse who would challenge Roach for the win.

As they cleared the forest path and the track opened again into a wide lane sweeping around toward Lake Vizima, Geralt could see the stallion ahead struggling, thrown off by the sudden changes in terrain.  He spooked hard at a deer that jumped out of the woods by the path, nearly throwing his rider.  As Roach and the bay mare passed him by, the stallion spooked again, rearing up and spinning away from the passing mares.  Looking back over his shoulder, Geralt could see the rider attempt to guide the stallion into following the mares, but he was overwrought and the rider was forced to dismount to avoid being thrown. 

It was a two-horse race now.

The bay mare galloped calmly at Roach’s flank as they followed the path toward the lake.  As they approached, Geralt could see a footbridge over a wide stream.  The bridge was cordoned off with spears, forcing the horses to cross the water.  Geralt eased Roach back and the bay mare mirrored him.  He dropped her almost to a walk, letting her assess the sharp downgrade into the wide, shallow stream.  Sinking back on her hindquarters, she slid down into the water, springing across and leaping up the bank on the other side.  Geralt grabbed onto her breastplate to avoid catching her in the face and sat light and quiet to avoid disturbing her balance. 

Once across, Roach opened her stride again and Geralt let her have her head for a moment as a reward for the brave crossing.  He looked back and saw the bay mare scramble for traction on the up-bank, but she recovered and gamely continued her pursuit.  It was the first horse to truly present a challenge for Roach.  Geralt knew he would have to be carefully strategic if he wanted to win.

They were heading into the final stretch now.  As they looped back toward the Merchant’s Gate and the finish line, crowds started to line the race course.  The course turned away from the main road as the city walls grew closer, heading sharply down toward the lakeside beach and a run of tight, vertical fences lined up on the sand.  Geralt could feel Roach tiring.  He checked her and rocked her back on her haunches for the jumps ahead.  Locking on, she neatly cleared the fences – one, two, three, four, five – each stiff, panel fences with only a single stride in between.  On the shifting sand, it was a real test this late in an endurance race. 

The bay mare cleared it easily too.  She was gaining on Roach.

Geralt scanned the course ahead, assessing his strategy.  He needed to stay ahead of the other mare but couldn’t risk pushing Roach too soon and having her give out before the end.  The way the bay mare stalked Roach’s pace, she was likely a closer, waiting for the opportunity to seize victory from her exhausted opponent. 

The King Foltest Cup was unique in that it forbade the competitors from knowing the course ahead of time.  All he knew was the distance.  There was barely a furlong left to go, but he had no idea of the obstacles to come. 

He compromised, easing his hold and letting Roach out a few notches, increasing his lead by two lengths.  The bay mare ticked up too, closing the gap again. 

They flew over the road, hooves clattering on the hard-packed dirt.  Townspeople cried out, cheering them on.  As they crested a shallow hill on a long right-handed sweep, Geralt saw the finish line in the distance.  It was a long, straight run with only a single obstacle in the way, a large, full hay cart.  A truly impressive obstacle designed to back off a tired horse.

As Roach and the bay mare flew down the hill and onto the final straight, the bay drew level with Roach.  They leapt over the hay cart together, nearly in perfect sync, and landed in a dead heat sprint to the finish. 

Geralt let Roach have her head, flinging his hands forward and supporting her with his legs.  She responded immediately by digging deeper and finding an extra push of speed.  The bay mare dropped back by a neck’s length then came forward again, her nose barely behind Roach’s. 

As they raced toward the finish, Geralt caught sight of Jaskier and Lambert, calling out for him, cheering him on.  He had to win this.

“Come on, Roach!”  Geralt yelled above the whipping wind. “Get on!”

Sweat was soaking her neck and her chest was heaving but she heard the urgency in his voice and gave him even more.  She leapt ahead by half a length, breath blowing out hard with each stride, and the bay mare couldn’t keep up. 

Roach flew across the finish line to win by a length.

“Fuck yes!”  Lambert cried out and Geralt broke into a grin, raising a hand to wave back at him as he eased Roach down to a walk.  As soon as she stopped, he hopped off and loosened her cinch, briefly pressing his forehead to hers in thanks before leading her back toward the finish to claim his prize. 

When he got there, Lambert pulled him into a rough headlock, rubbing his fist playfully into his hair before shoving him over toward Jaskier, who pulled him into a hug and then produced an apple for Roach, taking the reins from Geralt to keep walking her out as she munched, telling her all the while what a magnificent mare she was.  They’d already agreed that Jaskier would take Roach back to the New Narakort stables if – when – Geralt won his grand prize and was able to retrieve Calamity from the Royal Stables.  Geralt watched them with a fond smile.  He never got tired of seeing Roach so comfortable with Jaskier. 

The racemaster trotted over on his buckskin gelding with a wide grin, bringing Geralt out of his musings.  “I knew that mare would take the prize!  Come, come, you must claim your winnings!”

Geralt grabbed Lambert’s wrist and pulled him along to follow.  They were presented before King Foltest, standing under the finish line before his elevated throne.  The King looked down with a bemused smile.

“I’ve never had a witcher enter my race before.”  He said, tone pitched to be heard by Geralt alone.  “But there is no discounting your ability.”

Geralt bowed.  “Thank you, Your Majesty.”  He could practically hear Lambert vibrating next to him with his anxious impatience to get a bloody move on with getting Calamity back.

King Foltest gave Geralt a slight tip of the head in acknowledgment then raised a hand for attention and the assembled crowd fell silent.

“Hear me, on this day, the 10^th running of the King Foltest Cup, the witcher, Geralt of Rivia, has won the championship title on his courser mare, Roach.” King Foltest said in the measure tone of one well used to conferring public awards.

He motioned his attendant forward and the greying, portly man came to stand beside his King, holding out a large, heavy coin purse decorating with the Temerian flag. 

“And now, Geralt of Rivia, you may choose: would you have the winner’s purse or would you choose a horse from my stables as your prize, in the Temerian fashion?  Of course, my own stallion is not eligible for selection.”  The King said with a grin and the attending nobles obediently tittered at his wit.

Geralt bowed politely before speaking.  “I would choose a horse, Your Majesty.” 

King Foltest nodded, motioning for his attendant to step back.  “As you wish.  Which horse strikes your fancy?”

“The witcher mare, Calamity.  She was recently acquired by one of the squires in your household and brought to the Royal Stables.”  Geralt said, keeping his eyes politely averted and his chin dipped down.

“Ah, yes.  I remember the little firebrand.  She bit my stablemaster when the young squire brought her in.”  Lambert choked on a laugh beside him and Geralt stepped on his foot covertly in warning.

“Very well, by my order, you may go immediately hence from here to retrieve the mare.”  King Foltest said, dismissing them with a wave.

“Thank you, Your Majesty.”  Geralt said with another bow, but King Foltest had already turned away, attention grabbed by one of the many nobles at his beck and call.  Geralt shook his head with a sigh.  He would never understand the nobility. 

A young stable boy appeared at his elbow.  “This way, please, Master Witcher,” the boy said.

Lambert spun and strode off toward the Royal Stables, the stable boy scrambling to keep up.  Geralt huffed a laugh, raising a hand to Jaskier to signal they were off, and trailed after Lambert at a more sedate pace, letting his legs stretch and relax after the grueling race.

Geralt caught up to them at the gate to the Royal Stables, the young boy frantically trying to keep Lambert out until Geralt, the actual prizewinner, arrived.  Lambert was seething, color high and body tense, but he’d kept his temper in check.  Lambert had never been one to take his frustrations out on children.

“You can let him in, sirrah.”  Geralt said kindly to the stable boy.  “He knows which horse I chose as my prize and he may collect her for me.”

The young boy sent Geralt a grateful look and stepped aside, moving to open the stable door before leaping back out of the way when Lambert flung it open, stalking into the wide, well-appointed stable aisle in search of Calamity.

As soon as he set foot in the aisle, a fine-boned, painted head poked out from a stall halfway down on the left.  Calamity let out a furious call and Lambert rushed to her side, opening the stall gate and letting her out.  She charged into him, knocking him aside with a hard hit to the chest.  Lambert staggered back with a laugh, rubbing at what was surely a rapidly forming bruise.  Calamity danced around him, neck arched and hooves striking the cobbled aisle, giving him little nips as he spun in circles to keep her in sight.  The low light of the stable flashed off the white patches dotted her chestnut coat.

The stable boy at Geralt’s side watched, flabbergasted. 

Geralt knelt down next to him, bringing him to eye level with the child.  “See how she treats him like a herd mate?”  He asked, and the boy nodded, eyes wide.  “Lambert raised her from when she was first weaned and he’s never tried to subjugate her will.  She’s a fiery thing and she’ll leave a good mark if she’s displeased with you, but that mare would follow him to the ends of the earth without a second thought.” 

The boy looked up at Geralt questioningly.  “But isn’t a horse supposed to mind its master, Sir?”

“Of course, but it’s important to remember that every horse has a will of her own.  You don’t want to train a horse so strictly that she forgets how to think for herself, especially if that horse will see combat.  You must be a leader, not a dictator.”  Geralt said, hoping the young lad would remember the lesson.  He’d seen far too many horsemen ruin a good horse with harsh methods and inflexible training.  This one was at least young enough to still learn differently.

The boy nodded, considering Geralt’s words as he watched Lambert interact with Calamity.

“Boy!”  Lambert called out, startling the boy out of his thoughts.  “Where is her tack?”

“Right here, Sir!”  The boy rushed to obey, hauling over the tack Calamity had come in with.  He held it out and Lambert took it from him, smoothing the saddle blanket carefully over Calamity’s back before saddling and bridling her, taking the nips and knocks she doled out as his due.

With Calamity saddled, Lambert led her outside and Geralt followed, clapping a hand to the boy’s shoulder in thanks.  Geralt hoped the boy would grow to be a mindful trainer of his equine charges.

Out in the yard, Lambert swung up on Calamity’s back and held out a hand to Geralt.  Geralt gave Calamity a stroke on the neck before taking Lambert’s hand and jumping up lightly to sit behind him.  Calamity set off as soon as he was seated, eager to leave.  Geralt wrapped his arms around Lambert’s waist and rested his head between Lambert’s shoulder blades, breathing in his spicy scent of cinnamon and leather. 

“You’ve turned into an affectionate bastard, haven’t you?”  Lambert said, the mockery in his tone belied by the firm, warm hand he placed over Geralt’s wrist, covering his hidden submissive’s cuff. 

Lambert would never admit it, but he enjoyed the easy, brotherly touches shared between them.  Geralt hadn’t done it this easily or this often in decades, not since they were children, but Jaskier had reminded him how to let his feelings show and he couldn’t deny the comfort he drew from Lambert’s closeness.  It was different from what he felt with Jaskier, but just as important.

They rode in silence down from the Royal Stables, the sun dipping low in the sky.  Calamity bore their weight easily, obviously glad to be reunited with Lambert. 

As they drew close to the New Narakort, Geralt spoke up before Lambert could make his excuses.  “Come stay with us again tonight.”

“I should head back out now that I have Calamity back.”  Lambert said tightly, tension rising in his body.

“But it’s nearly dark.”  Geralt said simply.  “I want you to stay.  I’ve missed you.”

Lambert twisted around to stare at him with an incredulous expression.  “You ‘missed me’?  You really have gone fucking soft.”

Geralt pushed aside the stab of hurt, knowing Lambert was more flustered than serious.  For all his bluster and drama, emotions were as hard for Lambert as they were for Geralt, only Lambert was more likely to attack than to shut down when he was unsure how to react.  Geralt was glad Jaskier had helped him grow enough to understand that.

“Maybe, but I still want you to stay.  You won’t make much progress this close to dark anyway and I won’t see you again until the winter.”  Geralt said instead of snapping back, keeping his tone measured and calm.

Lambert stared him down searchingly.  “Don’t you want to celebrate your win with Jaskier?  You’ve already gotten Calamity back for me, I don’t need any more of your fucking charity.”

Geralt met his gaze firmly, letting Lambert see straight through him.  “It’s not charity to help family. ”

Lambert’s eyes widened and he turned away, but not before Geralt saw the wrecked expression on his face.  A flush crept up his ears.  Geralt leaned into him again, pressing his face against his back, and stayed quiet, letting Lambert work through his emotions.

“I guess I can stay if it means that much to you.”  Lambert said finally, jaw clenching.

“It does.” Geralt said.

He was silent for a moment, letting Lambert regroup.  Then, with a teasing grin stealing across his face, he leaned forward and said, “after all, I need to make sure you don’t lose Calamity to another squire before leaving the city, little brother.”

Lambert spun back around, hurt flashing in his eyes, but his expression shifted when he caught sight of Geralt’s playful expression.  This sort of ribbing was familiar ground for them.

“Honestly, fuck you,” he said, elbowing Geralt.

Geralt grunted at the blow and grabbed Lambert around his neck, nipping at his ear.  Lambert shrieked and hunched forward, pulling out of Geralt’s hold.  By then, Calamity had clearly had enough of their antics and dropped to one knee suddenly, dropping them both off her back in a heap.  She stepped away with a huff, the picture of affronted dignity. 

Geralt and Lambert lay on the stone street, blinking up at Calamity.  Lambert cracked first, collapsing in a fit of laughter born from the release of the last days’ tension, flopping onto his back and beating the ground with his fist.  Calamity stared down at Lambert with such judgment on her expressive face that Geralt lost it.  He felt mirth bubbling up in his chest until he practically howled with it.

Calamity snorted with disgust, tossing her head away and refusing to look at them.

Geralt met Lambert’s eyes, laughter briefly pausing as they both took in Calamity’s put-out expression before they cracked again, Geralt collapsing onto Lambert’s stomach, making him grunt and beat ineffectively at Geralt’s back, breathless mirth stealing all the strength from his blows. 

They pointedly ignored the passersby giving them looks ranging from amusement to horror. 

As his stomach started to ache, Geralt forced his breathing back under control and stood, offering a hand to Lambert.  Lambert grasped his forearm, still chuckling, and rose, throwing an arm over Geralt’s shoulders and taking Calamity’s reins with his free hand. 

They walked back to the New Narakort, bickering and laughing the whole way.  Geralt felt indescribably light, as if another missing piece had finally slotted into place. 

Later that night, the three men sat together in their shared room by the roaring fire in the hearth after Jaskier’s brilliant, much-lauded performance at that evening’s reception – a performance which had won him a week’s worth of board and lodging in exchange for spending that time as the New Narakort’s bard-in-residence. 

Geralt knelt at Jaskier’s feet while Lambert sat on the floor next to him, back resting against the couch and arm loosely entwined with Geralt’s.  Geralt leaned into Jaskier’s legs and drifted in the peaceful limbo between awareness and subspace, letting Jaskier and Lambert’s words wash over him without fully engaging. 

There was a pause in their conversation and Lambert’s hand tightened around Geralt’s wrist.  Geralt roused, brows furrowing as he looked over at Lambert, but Lambert soothed him, rubbing his thumb over his wrist and loosening his grip.  Geralt relaxed again, his eyes closed but his ears attentive.

“You can ask me whatever you’d like.”  Jaskier said softly.

Lambert let out a breath and twisted to face Jaskier fully.  “Geralt told me what’s happened since you started travelling with him and why he’s stayed with you, but why did you choose him?  I mean, he’s a prickly bastard and he can’t have been pleasant, at least at first.” 

Jaskier’s hand started stroking through Geralt’s hair and Geralt forced himself to stay relaxed, knowing this was a conversation Jaskier and Lambert needed to have.  He couldn’t interfere.

“At first, I travelled with him because he was interesting and I wanted to see the world through his eyes.  He’s an excellent muse.”  Jaskier said with a fond smile.  “But then I started to see who he is as a man and not just as a witcher.  I feel comfortable with him in a way I’ve never truly felt comfortable with anyone before.  I am a better man because of him.”

“Would you have stayed with him even if he weren’t a submissive?”  Lambert asked.

“Of course.  I think I knew he was even before he told me, but I wanted to care for him, to protect him, because of who he is, not what he is.”  Jaskier said, meeting Lambert’s eyes steadily. 

“And will you stay even if he never settles down?  Never wants you to tell anyone that he’s your submissive?”  Lambert asked, gaze sharpening.

“Even then.”  Jaskier said firmly.  “He was good enough to offer to tell my family and he won them over, as I expected he would, but even if he never wants to tell another soul, I won’t care.  I treasure Geralt’s submission as the gift it is, not because I want to be known as a witcher’s Dominant.” 

Lambert held Jaskier’s gaze for a long moment, fingers tight on Geralt’s wrist.

“You truly mean that.” Lambert said finally before his serious expression broke into a teasing smirk.  “You’re just as touched in the head as he is, you fuckers are perfect for each other.”

Jaskier snorted, reaching out to shove Lambert’s shoulder.  “Oh, fuck off, you’re just jealous I get to cuddle with Geralt more than you do.”

“Yeah,” Lambert drawled, eyebrows raised, “cuddling up to that onion-scented arse must be a real treat.”

“My arse is a delight.” Geralt said from his position lounging against Jaskier’s knees.

“I agree.”  Jaskier said, grinning.

“Addled, the both of you!”  Lambert said, throwing up his hands and twisting away, arms crossed over his chest.

Geralt shared a fond look with Jaskier before reaching out and tugging Lambert back by his arm, yanking hard enough that he toppled over into Geralt’s lap with a squawk. 

Geralt leaned an elbow on Lambert’s chest, grinning down at him.  “Now what were you saying about me being addled?”

Jaskier was laughing helplessly above them now and Geralt’s heart warmed at the light, happy sound.  He loved making Jaskier laugh.

“You’ve gotten soft in your old age,” Lambert grumbled.  “Soft in the head!”

“Not so soft I can’t still trounce you!” Geralt said brightly, digging his elbow a little deeper into Lambert’s chest.

“Oh, yeah?”  Lambert challenged, twisting away from Geralt with a quick move and regaining his feet.  “Prove it!”

Geralt moved to get up, ready to show Lambert why he’d never won a bout against him in training, but he stilled when Jaskier laid a restraining hand on his shoulder.

“Think of the repair bills.”  Jaskier said wryly.  “As much as I would enjoy seeing you two spar, this is not the place for it.”

Lambert relaxed his challenging stance and Geralt slumped back into Jaskier’s hold, conceding the point. 

“Maybe set your match for this winter at Kaer Morhen.”  Jaskier suggested.

The fighting light reignited in Lambert’s eyes and he thrust a finger in Geralt’s face.  “Yes! I will beat you once and for all on the fields of our youth!  This isn’t a concession but a delay.  Understand?”

Geralt felt a smile tugging at his lips, but he kept his expression serious as he nodded, accepting the challenge.

Then Geralt’s expression shifted, grin spreading across his face as his eyebrows reached his hairline.  “But ‘on the fields of our youth’?  Seriously?  Leave the wordsmithing to the bards.”

Lambert flushed, drawing his arm back and crossing his arms with a huff.  “Fuck you, at least I speak in full sentences instead of grunts and ‘hmmm’s.”  Lambert said, dramatically mocking Geralt’s favorite turn of phrase.

“Aye, you’re a right master of rhetoric.”  Geralt drawled sarcastically.

Lambert kicked him.

“Oh, you little shit!”  Geralt grunted, breath stolen by the blow to the gut.  He rolled over and tackled Lambert at the knees, bringing him back down to the floor with a thud.

“Easy there!”  Jaskier said sharply.  “We can’t afford to repair the damage if we break something.”

Geralt looked with deep consideration down at Lambert, who was laying flat on his back trying to recover the wind that had been knocked out of him by Geralt’s tackle.  Geralt knew exactly what to do.

He grinned down at Lambert with all his teeth, mischief lighting his eyes.

“Don’t you dare -” Lambert started to say.

Geralt sat on him.

“Fuck you.”  Lambert wheezed. 

Geralt crossed his legs, settling in comfortably on Lambert’s chest. 

“I’ve subdued the problem.”   He said to Jaskier proudly, pointedly ignoring the hits Lambert was delivering from below.

Jaskier blinked at him, trying desperately to keep a stern expression. 

Lambert let out a wheezing roar of rage, pounding his fists on the floor and Jaskier cracked.  He threw his head back and laughed hard enough that it devolved into soundless shaking, his face red and bright with mirth.

“I think you have to concede defeat on this one, Lambert.”  Jaskier said through his chuckles, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes.

Lambert made an obscene gesture at him and turned away with a huff.

“Do you yield, baby brother?”  Geralt said in a sing-song voice, leaning over to stare into Lambert’s eyes, careful not to disturb his seat on Lambert’s chest.

“Never!”  Lambert ground out.

Geralt hummed consideringly.  “Is that so? Well then, Jaskier, I think now might be the perfect time to practice some of your new love ballads.  I believe you said one of them was inspired by me?”

Jaskier gave him a funny look but caught on quickly.  “Of course!  I could sing odes about your lips, ballads about your hair, sonnets about how soft and sweet you are under my hands --” he said, dramatically swooning for effect as he went on.

Lambert cut him off with an exaggerated gag.  “I’m not going to sit here and listen to that rot!”

“Well, since you’re not in the mood to yield, I don’t think you get a choice.”  Geralt said with a wolfish grin.

“Quite so.”  Jaskier said brightly.  “I can’t pass up the chance to try out my new works on a captive audience, now can I?”

Lambert gave him a look of such outraged disgust that Geralt almost cracked and gave up the game.  But he managed to master his expression and simply raised an expectant eyebrow at Lambert.

Lambert puffed up with outrage and then abruptly let it go.  “Fine!  I yield, but only if you promise not to sing any of those mushy songs!  It’s bad enough when they’re not about my brother.” 

“Good choice.”  Geralt said, patting Lambert’s cheek with affected condescension.  Lambert tried to bite him.

With that, Geralt rolled off and lay next to him on the floor.  It would be against the rules to push any further after Lambert yielded.

“I hate you.”  Lambert grumbled.

“You love me and you know it.”  Geralt teased.

Lambert was silent for a long moment and Geralt looked over at him with concern, opening his mouth to apologize when Lambert cut him off.

“Aye, I do.”  Lambert said quietly. 

Geralt gave him a soft smile and linked their hands together, pressing his arm up against Lambert’s.  He held out his other hand to Jaskier and Jaskier joined them, pulling down one of the provided furs to cushion the hardwood floor before he lay down with them, curling in toward Geralt. 

Geralt hadn’t been as close to Lambert as he’d been these last days since they were children, since before the trainers’ methods had closed him off from his brothers and stolen the capacity for soft emotions from all three of them.  But Jaskier had shown him that giving and receiving affection and care were not signs of weakness, nor would such acts lead to his destruction.  He was not a bad witcher because he allowed himself to feel.  Where deprivation and denial had nearly led to his death, allowing himself to be open to those he trusted gave him strength.

With Jaskier, he felt like he could breathe freely for the first time in his life.

He wanted to show Lambert how to breathe too.

The next morning, after a hearty breakfast, Jaskier and Geralt saw Lambert off on his Path again.  They’d ended up falling asleep together on the hard floor, piled together like puppies in the warm glow of the hearth. 

Lambert had grumbled and flushed when he woke, but Geralt could see that the hard edge in Lambert’s eyes had softened and the tight line of his shoulders had eased.  He looked more relaxed than Geralt could ever remember seeing him. 

He vowed to never again deprive himself or his brothers the easy affection they’d enjoyed together as children.  If three days of open affection could ease Lambert's spirits this much, he saw no need to deny his desire to be close with them.  Now that he’d had the chance to recover under Jaskier’s care, Geralt could see how flimsy an excuse it was to say that witchers couldn’t have emotions if they wanted to be strong.  Witchers couldn’t be ruled by emotion, that much was true, but total deprivation almost broke his mind and he wouldn’t risk it doing the same to his brothers.

But a tight knot formed in his chest when he thought of extending his new open affection to Vesemir.  The mere thought filled him with equal parts fear and longing.

He shook off his heavy musings.  He had a couple of months yet to decide what to do and he had no way of knowing how Vesemir would react to seeing him again until it happened.

Besides, this time he had Jaskier as backup.

Lambert fiddled with Calamity’s bridle, checking the fastenings for the third time. Geralt could smell his discomfiture but knew he needed to let Lambert work it out himself.  He waited patiently, shoulder brushing Jaskier’s as they stood in the open courtyard.

Lambert turned back to face them finally, prompted by a hard nudge from Calamity’s nose.  She was tired of waiting.

“Thanks for the --” Lambert trailed off, waving his hand vaguely in the direction of the New Narakort. “It was nice.”

“Articulate.”  Geralt teased. 

Jaskier elbowed him gently.  “Be nice,” he said.  “It was a pleasure to get to know you, Lambert.  I look forward to seeing you again in the winter.”  He held out a hand to Lambert, clasping his forearm firmly.

“Until Kaer Morhen, then.”  Lambert said.  “May Geralt’s efforts bring peace to your heart and honor to your house.”

“And may I be as good for him as he is for me.”  Jaskier replied, completing the traditional exchange between a Dominant and his submissive’s close family.

Geralt outwardly scowled at the traditionalism but inwardly preened.  Jaskier and Lambert’s expressions said he wasn’t fooling anyone.

With a final respectful nod at Jaskier, Lambert pulled Geralt into a rough embrace and Geralt nudged his head up under Lambert’s chin, soaking in the strong, protective embrace of his brother and breathing in his familiar cinnamon and leather scent.

After a long moment, Geralt pulled back and clasped Lambert’s forearm.  “Walk your Path with honor.”  He said solemnly before quirking a grin.  “And don’t bet your horse on any more races.”

“Fuck you.”  Lambert said, shoving Geralt back in mock offense before completing their traditional parting words.  “May your Path be smooth and may your sword strike true.” 

It was the same exchange they’d had hundreds of times but there was a new ease to it, a new layer of affection that had been buried for too long.  Geralt felt his chest lighten.  Lambert’s easy answering smile said he must have felt the same.

Lambert turned back and mounted Calamity, settling lightly into the saddle and stroking her neck as she pranced under him, eager to set off. 

“Until Kaer Morhen.”  Lambert said, looking down warmly at Geralt.

“Until Kaer Morhen.”  Geralt said back with a soft smile. 

With a final nod, Lambert let Calamity set off and she stretched into an easy trot, tail arching up over her back. 

“Take care of him, Calamity!”  Geralt called after them.  “Don’t let him do anything stupid!

Lambert tossed Geralt an obscene gesture over his shoulder and disappeared around a bend in the road.

Chapter Text

By late autumn, as the days grew shorter and the mornings woke sprinkled with frost, Geralt and Jaskier were pushing north quickly through the Kingdom of Kaedwen toward Kaer Morhen, hoping to get there before the first snows fell.  Tucked away in his heart, in a spot Geralt often hid even from himself, he hoped they would be the first to arrive so he might reconcile with Vesemir without distraction.

They’d passed through Ard Carraigh the day before to allow Jaskier to pick up some new winter clothes.  His existing wardrobe had been suitable for Oxenfurt’s mild winters but would not withstand the biting wind and cold of life in an old stone keep high in the Blue Mountains.  Geralt had been reluctant to dictate his fashion choices, as he was reluctant to dictate anything about Jaskier’s choices, but the thought of Jaskier suffering from cold the entire winter, risking exposure as he carried out the seasonal chores with Geralt and his brothers, had pushed him to speak, insisting Jaskier choose more practical items than his usual flamboyant doublets.  With Geralt’s guidance, Jaskier had settled on several warm, woolen tunics, a few pairs of thick breeches, and two heavy surcoats.  Though he complained about the muted color choices, Jaskier had appeared more touched than annoyed by Geralt’s insistence, casting him small, pleased smiles as they combed through the available items. 

Geralt tried to trust he’d acted correctly.  The fact that Jaskier had immediately changed into one of his new outfits, complete with a sigh of relief, gave him confidence he had.  It was often Jaskier caring for him but he would do everything he could to take care of Jaskier as well.

Just as dusk fell into full darkness, Geralt and Jaskier pulled their horses up outside the small inn in Daevon, a modest village to the northeast of Ard Carraigh hosting a small complement of rustic huts and a single common house doubling as both a tavern and lodging for the few travelers that stopped here on their way to the capital.  Geralt had spent a night here two years before and found the townsfolk tolerant of his presence and the food both ample and well made.  He hoped that would still be the case.  The heavy clouds hanging overhead threatened a cold rain and he didn’t want to risk Jaskier catching his death sleeping outside.

They dismounted and led Roach and Potato over to the stables behind the inn, tossing a couple coins to the stable boy for their care and feeding before settling the horses in adjoining stalls, untacking them, and brushing them down.  When the horses were settled, noses buried deeply in the fresh hay provided, Geralt and Jaskier left the stable and climbed up the rickety steps to the inn.  Jaskier breathed an audible sigh of relief at the warm interior as they crossed over the threshold. 

The people inside, all huddled around a large, center table, looked up as they entered, falling immediately silent.  Geralt felt their assessing stares wash over him and stood quietly, letting them pass judgment.  Jaskier huffed at his side, annoyed by the cool reception, but didn’t protest, knowing Geralt would not thank him for it.  There was no outright hostility, so when the villagers turned their attention back to their compatriots, Geralt assumed he’d passed muster and would be allowed to eat and rest in peace.

As Geralt stepped forward, one of the men seated at the table, a relatively young man from the look of his unlined face, said to the others, “we should ask him to help us.”

His quiet suggestion was met with immediate rejection by one of the older men.  “No, Arlo, we don’t need strangers mucking about in our business.”

“Ewan, Arlo is right.”  Another elder said, calmly placing a hand on Ewan’s fist where it rested heavily on the rough-hewn wood.  “If the stranger can help us, saving lives is worth more than preserving our privacy.”

Jaskier stepped forward around Geralt, interrupting the townsfolk’s debate.  “If you have a contract for my witcher, speak now.  Otherwise, we’ll take some food and lodging and be on our way come morning.”

Geralt couldn’t help the warm feeling that spread through his chest at Jaskier’s assertiveness on his behalf.  The first phase of a negotiation was always the hardest for him, as people often resisted contracting his aid even after they’d gone through the trouble to post a notice or seek him out.  When he could finally bring himself to allow it, Jaskier had taken on the responsibility for the initial phase of all negotiations, helping potential clients come to terms with the reality of hiring a witcher, and ensuring that they would pay a fair price, before handing the negotiation back to Geralt for the more technical aspects of the contract.  With Jaskier’s help, Geralt found he earned a better price for his services and gained more cooperation from the contract issuers when he questioned them about the monster and its actions.  Geralt still felt uneasy about burdening Jaskier, but Jaskier had insisted he wanted to help and that it was only fair he contributed to earning the coin from which he benefitted.  Apparently, according to Jaskier, Geralt contributed to his bardic trade by both providing the inspiration for his ballads and by providing companionship and protection while on the road.  Geralt wasn’t sure it was an equivalent exchange, but he’d learned to trust Jaskier when he said he was happy to help.

The men at the table stared each other down, silently debating in a chorus of expressions and gestures.  It seemed Arlo’s side was victorious, for he stepped forward out of the huddle and toward Geralt.

“Master Witcher, we have a contract for you.  We don’t have much, but we’ll gather what coin we do have and we can provision you for your journey as well.  Free lodging and meals while you’re here too, of course.”  Arlo said, twisting his hands together as he spoke.  Ewan, the older man who’d objected to Geralt’s help, stood abruptly, chair scraping the floor, and stormed out into the night.  Arlo swallowed hard as he watched him go. 

Jaskier cast him a reassuring smile.  “Tell us about the contract and then we can discuss terms,” he said.  Geralt stood at Jaskier’s shoulder and let him guide the conversation.

“Right, of course.”  Arlo said, glancing back at the others for support.  They stayed silent, watching him with stony expressions.  “The monster’s in the woods on the north side of town.  It’s been snatching people for months now, leaving only bloody clothes behind.”

“Does this happen at night or during the day?”  Geralt asked.

“Only at night.”  Arlo said.

“Have you seen the monster?”  Geralt asked.

“No, but I’ve heard it.  I went about a month ago with a group of fifteen men to the next village to bring the harvest to market.  We worked as fast as we could, but it still took longer than we expected and, on the way back, just as dusk fell, we heard this awful roaring and howling in the woods, like some tremendous beast was stalking us!”  Arlo said, paling at the memory.  “We ran, leaving the cart behind, but only fourteen of us came out of the woods.”

“How many have been lost to the beast?”  Jaskier asked gently.

“Ten souls from our village.  More from the others, but I don’t know how many.”  Arlo said, grief apparent on his young face.

“What do you think, Geralt?”  Jaskier asked.  Arlo looked at him expectantly. 

Geralt hummed.  “Sounds like a werewolf.  Probably someone from a village bordering the woods was turned and claimed the area as their territory.” 

Arlo paled and the men behind him took to muttering.  Geralt ignored them.

“What’s the price for its head?”  Geralt asked.

“We could manage a hundred crowns.”  Arlo said, glancing back at the men seated behind him.

“For a werewolf?”  Jaskier said incredulously.  “You’ll have to do better than that.  At least a hundred and fifty plus the board, lodging, and provisions you offered.” 

“But, Sir!  That’s a good measure of what we earned from the harvest!”  Arlo protested.

“And you’re asking Geralt to risk his life for your benefit.  It seems only fair you give him a fair wage for his efforts.”  Jaskier said sternly and Geralt forced down the smile that wanted to steal across his face.  Jaskier’s protection felt like a precious gift each and every time it was offered.

Arlo looked back at the other men, who nodded at him reluctantly after a long moment of silent debate.  “Very well,” Arlo said, turning back to Jaskier.  “We accept the terms.”

“I will hunt it tonight then.  The rain will help obscure my scent.”  Geralt said.  “And we’ll take a meal before I leave.”

Arlo straightened up, a relieved smile.  “Thank you, Master Witcher.  Please, sit, and I’ll have your meals brought out.”  Arlo spun around and scurried back into the kitchens to gather their meal.  It appeared he was this inn’s proprietor despite his youth, which would explain why he was chosen at the villager’s spokesman.

Geralt sat at the small table in the corner of the room and settled in with his back to the wall.  Jaskier sat across from him, angling his chair to keep the others in sight. 

“Are you sure about this?”  Jaskier asked quietly.  He knew Geralt had been eager to get to Kaer Morhen and that an injury now would slow their progress significantly.

Geralt nodded.  “A single werewolf isn’t a big contract, but left unattended it would start to hunt within the village itself by midwinter.”

Jaskier’s lips thinned.  “That would be a slaughter.” 

“Aye, I’ve seen it happen before.  A village with not a soul left, just mangled flesh and rent cloth remaining.”  Geralt said, eyes haunted as he thought back to the massacre he’d discovered in a small mountain village early one spring not long after completing his training.  He’d been travelling west across the Dragon Mountains to reach his territory and had come across the village on his way down toward Caingorn.  It was obvious a werewolf had used the village as its personal larder for the winter months, killing every man, woman, and child trapped between the glacial ice and the monster at their gates.  Geralt had tracked and slaughtered that werewolf, even without a contract, and had for years thereafter carried the small rag doll he’d found in the remains of a child’s bed to remind him of the consequences of ignoring a monster.  It didn’t matter to him that he couldn’t have known about the werewolf in time to save the village.  All that mattered was his vow to never leave another village to that fate.

Jaskier laid a hand over his, squeezing tightly for a long moment.  He didn’t ask Geralt to recount the memory, knowing he wouldn’t be comfortable doing so in public, but offered his support nonetheless.  Geralt smiled softly at him, letting Jaskier’s warm touch ease the painful chill of the memory, drawing him back to the present.

After a moment, Arlo brought out two bowls of steaming stew with a loaf of fresh bread and they drew apart.  Geralt nodded at Arlo in thanks and tucked in, letting the warm, hearty food bolster him for the fight ahead.

Geralt stood in the center of a clearing, deep in the heart of the woods.  He’d tracked the werewolf from the abandoned cart, tracing its prints and its scent toward its lair.  The pounding rain would help hide his scent from the werewolf, keeping it from noticing his presence before Geralt was prepared to meet it. 

With his battleground chosen, Geralt tossed back his potions, closing his eyes briefly as the toxins burned through him.  Cat would help him see in the dark, Thunderbolt would boost his attack, letting him overcome the werewolf’s natural healing abilities, and Foglet Decoction would increase the power of his signs.  He’d already rubbed Cursed Oil into his silver blade before leaving the inn and had strapped bombs to his belt.  He was as prepared as he could be.

Geralt closed his eyes briefly, taking in a deep slow breath, centering himself.  He was glad he’d been able to convince Jaskier to stay at the inn.  If he knew the only movement in the dark would be his foe, he could strike without reservation.  Geralt turned toward the mouth of werewolf’s lair and unhooked a Devil’s Puffball bomb from his belt.  Hefting it in his hand, he sparked the fuse with a quick Igni and tossed it deep into the mouth of the cave.  It exploded, sending a shockwave through the ground and releasing a cloud of poison over the entrance to the werewolf’s lair.

There was an answered roar from within, pained and outraged.  Geralt could hear scratching and pounding as the werewolf tore out of its lair and into the clearing, coughing and shaking its head against the poison from the bomb.

When it caught sight of Geralt, the werewolf charged him with a roar and Geralt rebuffed it with a swift Aard, throwing the werewolf back and into the trees.  Geralt unhooked a Moon Dust bomb from its holster, lit the fuse, and waited for the werewolf to charge again.  When it did, Geralt threw the bomb into its face and it exploded in a puff of silver, preventing the werewolf from transforming or calling lupine reinforcements. 

The werewolf stopped, panting, eyes narrowed in rage at it assessed its foe.  Geralt waited, his silver sword held parallel to the ground, ready to parry or to strike when the opportune moment presented itself.  The werewolf was massive, likely a Dominant type, and Geralt couldn’t risk a serious blow from those long claws. 

Breaking the stare down, the werewolf shook itself harshly and roared at Geralt, lunging forward with its jaws open wide.  Geralt dodged the blow, casting a Yrden trap into the ground where he’d stood, catching the werewolf in its grasp.  It slowed, caught in Yrden’s magic net, but didn’t stop, strong enough to fight the magic’s hold.  Geralt didn’t hesitate, stepping forward and dealing a strong blow diagonally across the beast’s chest.  The werewolf managed to bring up one arm to block him, deflecting part of the blow away from its vulnerable chest, but Geralt’s sword cut deep, leaving a burning wound behind. 

Driven by pain and rage, the werewolf shook off the effects of the Yrden trap, pivoted, and leapt toward Geralt, keeping low to the ground.  Geralt executed a swift quarter pirouette and cast a strong Igni toward the werewolf, but it jumped up at the last moment, launching into the air and over the blast of fire.  Geralt quickly pivoted and raised his sword overhead to block the down-strike, catching the werewolf’s fangs against his silver sword and one claw against his left bracer, but the werewolf’s right claw slipped past his defenses and sliced into his side, leaving a long, shallow cut.

Geralt pushed back against his sword, using the werewolf’s momentum to help him spring back and out of the way.  He pressed a hand to the cut and his hand came away coated in blood.  It wasn’t a fatal blow, or even a serious wound, but it stretched from his hip to his shoulder, cutting through his breastplate and compromising the armor against further attacks.  The placement would also hinder his ability to twist and dodge.  He would need to be careful. 

The werewolf gave him a vicious grin and lifted its bloody claw to its face, licking off the blood in a manner that was almost obscene.  Geralt’s stomach twisted in disgust.  He readied his stance, waiting for the werewolf to give him an opening to strike.  He needed to finish this.

The werewolf suddenly froze and gave a more concentrated lick to the blood on its claw.  Its eyes lit up and a cold smile crossed its face.  “A submissive witcher,” it growled with a smirk. 

Geralt felt his stomach drop out.  This was exactly the situation Vesemir had warned him about.  He swallowed hard and forced himself to relax his grip on his sword, keeping his fingers flexible.

“You’ve just handed me my next meal.  And bragging rights for taking down a witcher!”  The werewolf crowed as it prowled closer, its rough voice muffled by the pounding rain. 

Water dripped into Geralt’s eyes.  He told himself it was the cold that made him shiver.  He said nothing, steeling himself for what was to come. 

He knew only death would find him this night and he hoped Jaskier wouldn’t come searching for him.  But he knew that was a futile wish, so he would do whatever he could to take the werewolf down with him.  Jaskier could not be allowed to become yet another victim of his failures.

“Nothing to say, little witcher submissive?”  The werewolf asked mockingly, stalking closer and closer until it stood right beyond the range of Geralt’s sword.  The stench of its breath was so powerful Geralt could almost feel it.  He had a fleeting thought that he should have scented Jaskier before leaving so he could have carried that comfort with him into the next life.

Geralt was poised on the balls of his feet, grounded into the slick mud below, sword ready to strike or defend when the werewolf’s defenses cracked.  He hoped he would get the chance to use it.

“No?”  The werewolf asked, eyes alight with victory.  “Then, KNEEL!” The werewolf’s Dominant voice boomed across the clearing, its eyes alight with victory as it stepped up to Geralt, breathing down into his upturned face.

Geralt felt the command scrape across his mind, discordant and rough. 

But he felt no compulsion to obey. 

He saw the werewolf’s eyes widen, victory morphing into terrified shock as Geralt’s knees stayed straight, his head unbowed. 

Geralt felt a vicious grin cross his face as stepped forward and thrust his silver sword up through the werewolf’s chest.

The werewolf coughed up a mouthful of foul, black blood.  “How--?”  It gasped out, death rattling in its chest.

Geralt bared his teeth at the werewolf, pressing a booted foot to its chest to shove it back and off his sword.  It collapsed onto the wet ground, life draining from its eyes.

Geralt stood over the werewolf’s shuddering form, watching its blood pour out into the mud, mixing with the cold rain. 

“You’re not my Dominant,” he said, “you have no power over me.”  He felt his chest fill with a lightness that felt like victory, like shrugging off a weight he’d carried all his life. 

He raised his sword once more and drove it down into the werewolf’s heart.

When he returned to the inn, Geralt dropped the bag with the werewolf’s head on the large, center table, startling the men gathered around it.  He was surprised they were still there in the small hours of the morning, but he assumed it was not because they trusted him to finish the contract quickly.  They leapt back with disgust and Arlo cried in dismay at the black blood soaking into the wood.

“Werewolf’s dead.  I’ll take my coin now.”  Geralt said, eager to get back to Jaskier. 

Arlo opened the bag gingerly and gagged at the contents, barely holding onto his dinner. 

“Where--?”  Arlo asked, voice barely over a whisper.

“Cave in a clearing about half a league off the main path.”  Geralt said shortly.

“You have our thanks, Master Witcher.”  Arlo managed to say.  “I’ll bring your coin and a bath to your room.  Last door on the left.”  He gestured up the stairs. 

“And some ale.”  Geralt said as he started toward the stairs.

“And some ale.”  Arlo confirmed, hurrying off to fulfill his tasks.

Geralt strode up the stairs, taking two at a time.  Upon reaching the correct room, he knocked twice to alert Jaskier and then opened the door.  Jaskier stood and rushed to Geralt’s side from where he’d been sitting by the fire, curled up over his notebook.  The book fell to the side, forgotten. 

“Geralt! Are you hurt?”  Jaskier asked, running his hands up and down Geralt’s arms. 

“Only a shallow cut,”  Geralt said.  “I’ll clean it after I bathe.”

“I’ll call for a bath.”  Jaskier said, turning toward the door.

“I already did.”  Geralt said, stopping him with a hand on his arm.  “And I have something to tell you once it arrives.”  The joy of his discovery was just starting to truly sink in and he couldn’t contain a bright smile.

Jaskier looked at him curiously but didn’t press, knowing Geralt wouldn’t risk a private conversation being overheard or interrupted.  Together, they swiftly stripped him of his armor and Jaskier laid it out by the hearth to wipe down and oil.  Just as they finished, Arlo entered with two of the other men and a small wooden tub.  They laid the tub down by the fire and quickly filled it with steaming buckets of water.  Arlo laid a flagon of ale down on the small table by the hearth.

“Your coin, Master Witcher.”  Arlo said, holding out a purse. 

Geralt took it, felt the weight was correct for the promised amount, and nodded.

“Breakfast will be ready when you rise tomorrow, as will be the provisions for your journey.”  Arlo said and then left, shutting the door behind him.  Geralt flipped the wooden latch closed and peeled off his wet tunic, trousers, and small clothes, stepping into the steaming water with a sigh.  It only came up to his waist, and he had to fold his legs in tightly to fit, but the warm water quickly chased away the ache and chill caused by the fight in the cold rain. 

Jaskier handed him a washcloth and some of his chamomile soap before taking up a towel and starting to wipe down Geralt’s armor.  Geralt felt contentment wash over him as he cleaned off the blood, viscera, and mud covering his body.  Jaskier had become so entwined in his life, so essential to his existence, that he couldn’t dream of living any other way.

As Geralt scrubbed his hair clean, Jaskier applied a coat of oil to the dried armor pieces, carefully massaging it into the leather until it bloomed with renewed health.  Task complete, Jaskier set the armor aside and stood, taking the rinse bucket from Geralt and Geralt eagerly tilted his chin up so Jaskier could rinse out his hair.  Geralt hummed, enjoying the feeling of Jaskier’s fingers in his hair, scraping gently across his scalp.  Jaskier chuckled and pressed a fond kiss to his forehead. 

“Let me see that cut.”  Jaskier said and Geralt twisted, lifting his arm to show the cut was cleaned out and already starting to heal.

“Does it need any salve?”  Jaskier asked. 

Geralt shook his head.

“All right then, come on out and then we can have that talk.”  Jaskier said.

Geralt snagged a clean towel from the ground and stood, drying himself off quickly and changing into his spare trousers.  He left his chest bare.  He dropped his wet clothes into the bath to soak and then led Jaskier over to the bed.  Jaskier sat on the edge and Geralt joined him, leaning into his side and taking his hand.

“What happened?”  Jaskier prompted.  “I can see you were successful and you don’t seem to be in distress.”

“No, it’s a good thing.” Geralt said, eager to share his good news.  “The werewolf was a Dominant and it was able to tell I was a submissive by tasting my blood.”

Jaskier drew in a sharp breath and Geralt was quick to reassure him, stroking a thumb along the back of his hand. 

“He tasted it?”  Jaskier said, disgust clear on his face, “why --?  Never mind, please continue.”

“He used his Voice on me,” Geralt continued, an almost awed smile slowly blooming across his face.  He couldn’t quite believe his story and he’d lived through it.  “It was unpleasant, but I didn’t feel any urge to obey.”

Jaskier blinked, his mouth working, and then let out a breath and beamed at Geralt.  “So, you were able to resist it?”  He sounded like he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing.

“I didn’t need to.  I felt no compulsion at all.”  Geralt said, beaming back at him.  “I don’t know if it was because of the training I had to resist a Dominant’s Voice or because you’ve helped me strengthen my mind, but I don’t think I need to be afraid anymore.”

Jaskier’s smiled softened and he pulled Geralt to him, pressing their foreheads together.

“Oh, my love, this is wonderful news.”  He said, emotion filling his voice.

Geralt pressed closer, capturing Jaskier’s lips in a heated kiss, hands pressed to Jaskier’s cheeks and winding into his soft hair.  He felt light, powerful, free in a way he’d never felt before.  He poured his elation and his love into the kiss, deepening it until he could no longer tell where Jaskier ended and he began. 

Jaskier’s hand came up and held his submissive’s cuff, warmth pressing into Geralt’s skin like a brand. 

Geralt never wanted him to let go.

With the provisions from Daevon, Geralt and Jaskier had been able to move swiftly across the plains to the foot of the Blue Mountains, keeping close to the Gwenllech River.  As they passed into the foothills, river burbling at their side, Geralt trained his eyes upward, willing himself to see through the stone and fog to the keep beyond. 

He couldn’t decide if he wanted to rush to its gate or run away. 

Now that the confrontation with Vesemir was at hand, he wavered, feeling his confidence flag as he imagined all possible outcomes.  Most of them ended badly.

Geralt could feel the weight of Jaskier’s gaze on his back as they rode single file along the narrow track.  He knew he was worrying Jaskier but he couldn’t pull himself out of his spiraling thoughts.  The elation he’d felt back in Daevon seemed like it had happened ages ago rather than mere days.

Eventually, the sun dipping below the horizon forced them to stop.  Barely a league ahead was the start of the Witcher’s Trail, but he wouldn’t risk Jaskier’s safety forcing them up it at night.  It wasn’t for nothing that young witchers referred to it as “The Killer”.

Geralt chose a flat section of ground beside the river, water flowing fast enough to discourage drowners, and dismounted Roach before taking Potato’s reins from Jaskier and moving to set up the picket near the water.  Jaskier frowned, brows furrowing at his silence, but let him be. 

As Geralt settled the horses, Jaskier built the fire, clearing a small pit and lining it with the thankfully ample dried wood he’d found along the riverbank.  As he coaxed the fire to life, feeding it kindling to help the large wood catch, Geralt dropped the packs next to him and pulled out the last of their provisions from Daevon, passing Jaskier a handful of jerky and the last of the apples.  They ate in silence, pressed shoulder to shoulder, staring out across the river. 

Geralt was grateful for the chance to gather his thoughts.

When they finished eating, they lay out their bedrolls by the fire, Geralt’s swords resting close at hand.  He removed his armor, but left his boots on, unwilling to strip down completely out in the open.  The Kaer Morhen Valley, which they had been walking through for the past several hours, was a wild place, largely untouched by civilization.  Before the purge, the School of the Wolf had kept the Valley clear of monsters and wolves, so as to ensure that injured witchers returning home would have a smooth journey, but with only Vesemir in residence most of the year, that sort of housekeeping was no longer possible.  They couldn’t afford to be complacent.

With his ears trained to pick up any unusual sounds, Geralt lay curled into Jaskier’s side, head pillowed on Jaskier’s shoulder, and tried to calm his mind.  He needed to be clear-headed if he wanted tomorrow’s confrontation with Vesemir to go well.

“Will you tell me what’s wrong?”  Jaskier asked quietly, carding his fingers softly through Geralt’s hair. 

Geralt tensed but Jaskier stayed relaxed, continuing the soothing caress.

“I’m afraid.”  Geralt said finally, voice soft and tinged with shame.  He couldn’t lie to Jaskier, he didn’t deserve that, but it hurt to admit to fear.

“Of Vesemir?”  Jaskier asked, equally softly, but a hint of steel edged his tone, as if he wanted to shield Geralt from the world.

“Yes,”  Geralt said slowly, “and no.”  He shook his head, knowing that didn’t make sense.  His feelings didn’t make sense either.  “I don’t know what to feel.”

Jaskier pressed a lingering kiss to the crown of his head and pulled him closer, pressing Geralt against his side.  Geralt yielded easily, burrowing his face into the crook of Jaskier’s neck and breathing in his comforting scent.  Rosin and honey filled his senses and he felt relaxation follow.

“He hurt you, it makes sense that you’d be afraid.”  Jaskier said gently. 

Geralt felt the scars on his back burn and he curled closer.  “Aye, but he took care of me too.”

“In what way?”  Jaskier prompted, breaths carefully even, as if he were trying to keep a hold on his temper.  Geralt knew him well enough to understand that any anger he held wasn’t directed at him.  He felt the sudden urge to make Jaskier understand that Vesemir wasn’t a monster.

“He was the only trainer who didn’t want to leave me to die of exposure once I presented as a submissive.”  Geralt said, voice muffled by Jaskier’s thick surcoat.

Jaskier drew in a sharp breath and his arms tightened almost painfully around Geralt.  “They wanted to leave you to die?”

“Aye.  No submissive candidate had ever survived even the Trial of the Grasses, much less the two that followed, and the trainers didn’t want to waste their time or resources on me.  But Vesemir insisted I be given a chance.  He convinced them to let me live, but they agreed only if I would be subjected to the additional, experimental mutations.”  Geralt said, twisting his fingers into Jaskier’s surcoat.

“Then why did he brutalize you in that way?”  Jaskier asked.

“It was to keep me safe, to make sure my mind would stay intact without needing to reveal my secret out on the Path.”  Geralt said, repeating the litany of justifications he’d been fed throughout his life.

“We’ve learned how misguided that fear was.”  Jaskier muttered.  “But that’s not what I asked. Why did he choose to beat you on a cross to get you to drop?  There’s a myriad of other, gentler methods!”  Jaskier’s indignation bled through his careful veneer of calm.  Geralt felt his own agitation ease, as if Jaskier’s outrage on his behalf halved its power.

“I don’t know.”  Geralt said, finally admitting to himself that Vesemir’s method had no reasonable justification.  “He knew Lambert and Eskel helped me drop without harming me and yet chose that method and forbade them from assisting me.”

“And because you don’t understand his reasoning, you can't predict his reaction.”

Geralt nodded.  Jaskier always managed to put his feelings into words in a way he never could manage alone.

“But you wish to reconcile with him?”  Jaskier asked, “even after what he did to you?”

Geralt took in a breath and let it out slowly.  He’d viewed reconciling with Vesemir as almost a given and never truly considered just not doing that.  Geralt cast his mind back over the decades, pushing aside the bloody, painful memories of the cat-o-nine-tails, and focused on all the other times in between. 

He remembered dinners with Vesemir, Lambert, and Eskel, laughing over ale and good fare as they regaled each other with tales about that year’s adventures. 

He remembered Vesemir holding him as he shook apart after the additional, experimental trials were forced upon him, holding a leather strap between his teeth so he wouldn’t bite through his tongue and gently wiping his brow with a cool cloth.

He remembered hunting with Vesemir in the Valley, grinning at each other as they tracked their quarry in silent, perfect unison.

He remembered Vesemir hunting a griffon with him when he was still a young witcher, shielding him with his own body when Geralt faltered, taking a deep cut across his back that would have otherwise removed Geralt’s head. 

He remembered the soft smile Vesemir had given him when he’d asked him why he did that, why he’d risked his own life to save Geralt’s. 

“He’s my father.”  Geralt said softly, saying it to himself as much as he said it to Jaskier, finally putting a label on what he’d felt all his life.  “Not my birth father, of course, but as close as I’ll ever have.  He’s taken care of me all my life, even risking his to save mine.  I can’t believe he chose that method just to hurt me. Even if his reasoning wasn’t sound, I can’t believe his intentions were anything but good.”

Jaskier gave him a soft, sad smile, but his eyes were lit with understanding.  “Then we’d best make sure you reconcile with him.  And once you do, we’ll teach him better methods to use to guide you down if the need arises, just like my mother and I used to do for Leopold.”

Geralt looked up at him, studying his expression carefully.  Jaskier truly meant that.  He could see Jaskier was angry about the treatment he suffered under Vesemir’s hands but it was equally obvious that he was willing to put his own feelings aside and let Geralt determine how he wanted to handle this.

Geralt felt warm all the way through.  “I’d like that.” He said, smiling up at Jaskier.  Jaskier bent down and pressed a soft kiss to his lips before pulling Geralt close, keeping watch over his rest.

They rose with the dawn and packed up the camp in silence, both reluctant to break the calm spell of the night before. 

When Geralt had revealed his secret to Jaskier in Nenneke’s garden, when he had allowed Jaskier to become his Dominant, he had irrevocably changed his relationship with Vesemir.  While Geralt felt much more settled after last night’s catharsis, after he’d admitted to himself exactly what Vesemir meant to him, he had no way of knowing if Vesemir felt the same.

He couldn’t be sure if Vesemir would welcome him home or shut him out.

And even if Vesemir welcomed him back, could they repair their relationship?  Would Vesemir even want to?  Doubt resurged within him, threatening to shatter the morning’s fragile calm.  But Geralt knew if he broke now, he’d never find the strength to press forward again. 

And so, Geralt took in a shaky breath and forced himself to focus on the routine tasks of breaking camp. 

Smother the fire.  Drown the embers. 

Roll up the bedrolls and strap them to the saddles.

Tack the horses and pack away the picket.

Mount.

Eyes up.  Heels down. 

Breathe.

They rode in silence for hours, following the river upstream into the foothills.  Geralt focused on the sound of the leaves crunching underfoot and the jangle of the bits, on the smell of the pine and the river, and on the comforting feeling of Jaskier at his back.  Geralt held onto the memory of their conversation from the night before, onto the feel of Jaskier’s arms around him, and forced himself to focus on what he could control. 

He could return to Kaer Morhen.  He could bring Jaskier with him.  He could introduce Vesemir to Jaskier.  He could explain what he’d been doing and learning over the past nearly two years.  He could show Vesemir how much he’d grown.  He could explain why he disobeyed.

He could not force Vesemir to accept his choices.

Geralt turned in his saddle, looking over his shoulder at Jaskier, and held out his hand, unable to speak.  Jaskier urged Potato forward on the narrow path and took Geralt’s hand.  Their stirrups clicked together as Potato and Roach knocked gently into each other as they strode along. 

Geralt didn’t speak and neither did Jaskier, but their connection spoke volumes.

Eventually, they reached the proper start of the Witcher’s Trail, hidden amidst the underbrush and sharp rocks of the mountain’s base.  The Trail was meant to be challenged alone and was not wide enough for them to walk it side by side.  With a lingering touch, Geralt released Jaskier’s hand and let Roach have her head.  She knew the way home.

They wound their way up the narrow Trail, ducking under branches, carefully traversing rock formations, and keeping well away from fatal drop offs.  Jaskier kept his gaze firmly on Geralt’s back in silent support, knowing Geralt would never lead him astray.

The sun was setting again by the time they reached the underground entrance into the base of Kaer Morhen.  Geralt paused for a moment and looked up at the narrow gap far above them where two boulders jutted out across the span of the slot canyon in which they stood.  It was part of The Killer, the gauntlet which young witchers must challenge again and again as they learned their footwork.  A fall from that height was rarely fatal but always gravely injurious to any young trainee who missed the mark.  Geralt felt a phantom ache in his thigh where one such miss had once shattered his femur.

Geralt gestured upwards and Jaskier followed his gaze.  “Young witchers trained on the Trail we’ve been following.  But instead of taking this horse path, The Killer runs them high above the canyon and crosses there.”  Geralt said, breaking the silence for the first time that day.

“Tell me there was once a bridge there.”  Jaskier said faintly.

“Never.  It’s a test of bravery, depth perception, and free running.  One must sprint to the edge, leap off at the very last moment, and land in a forward roll to absorb the impact.  Doubt in one’s judgment or ability leads inevitably to failure.”  Geralt explained.

“Did you ever fail?”  Jaskier asked.  He understood that Geralt wasn’t really talking about The Killer.

“Once.  Earned a broken leg for it.”  Geralt said.  He sighed deeply and brought his gaze back down to Jaskier.  “But in time my leg mended and I never failed again.”

Jaskier gave him a soft smile.  “It’ll be all right,” he said.  “With Vesemir, I mean.  And even if it’s not right now, it will be in time.”

Geralt held his gaze for a long moment, drawing on the support Jaskier so easily and so freely offered. “I have to believe you’re right.”  He said finally.  “Because doubt only leads to failure.”

Jaskier nudged Potato closer and reached out, cupping Geralt’s cheek in his palm.  “But you don’t have to run it alone this time.  I’m here with you every step of the way.”

“What if he can’t accept what I’ve done?”  Geralt asked, giving voice to his fears.

“You’ve grown stronger and saved yourself from a mental breakdown, I can’t imagine he’d be truly displeased by that.”  Jaskier said firmly.  “And if he doesn’t see that right away, we’ll have several months in which to show him.  And if that doesn’t work, we’ll come back every year until he understands.”

“I can’t ask you to do that.”  Geralt protested.  “What about your teaching?”

“You don’t have to ask and I won’t be dissuaded.”  Jaskier said, gently shaking Geralt.  “It’s important to you to repair your relationship with Vesemir, so it’s important to me too.  I’ll do everything in my power to help you.”

Geralt leaned into Jaskier’s hand, turning his head to press a lingering kiss to Jaskier’s palm. 

“Then let’s go see Vesemir.”  Geralt said, drawing himself up and straightening his shoulders.  “No doubt allowed.”

“No doubt allowed.”  Jaskier echoed, a proud smile on his face.

They urged the horses onward and into the long, dark tunnel under the moat.  Damp dripped from the walls and the click-clack of the horses’ hooves echoed around them.  Roach opened her stride, eager to return to her warm box stall and the fresh hay she knew would be waiting.  Potato wasn’t pleased by the tight, dark conditions, but he followed Roach willingly, trusting she wouldn’t lead him into trouble.

It felt like they traversed the tunnel in the space of a single breath, one that simultaneously lasted a mere moment and a thousand years. 

At the end of it, they stood before the portcullis to Kaer Morhen, an imposing, iron structure built into the rock, meant to be raised and lowered with an interior winch usable only by one with a witcher’s strength.  Geralt and Jaskier dismounted, leading the horses the last few steps.

Geralt raised his fist and knocked three times.  Long-short-long.  The pattern of his knocks echoed down the tunnel.  They waited in the silence left after Geralt’s knocks dissipated, water dripping in chorus all around them.

After a long moment, an endless moment that passed in the blink of an eye, they heard the sound of the winch activating on the other side of the portcullis, drawing taut the ancient chains that lifted the massive slab of iron guarding Kaer Morhen’s underbelly.

Geralt drew in a shuddering breath and swallowed hard.  He reached out and took Jaskier’s hand, holding it in a tight grip as the iron creaked and groaned against the stone.

Jaskier’s squeezed back with equal force.  “No doubts.”  He reminded Geralt quietly.

“No doubts.”  Geralt echoed back.  The simple repetition and the firm hold of Jaskier’s hand grounded him and he straightened his spine, lifting his chin high.  He could do this.

Hand in hand, they stood together in the dark as the massive portcullis finally creaked open.

Chapter Text

Geralt led Jaskier and the horses over the threshold into Kaer Morhen as soon as the portcullis was fully open.  Vesemir stood silently on the other side, methodically dropping the portcullis closed again as soon as they cleared through.  Geralt waited until he was finished, knowing better than the interrupt the delicate operation.  The portcullis was designed to be opened only with a witcher’s strength and a single slipped grip would send it crashing down, likely breaking the ancient mechanism beyond repair.  Geralt didn’t want to start this reunion off by breaking the keep.

When Vesemir finally finished lowering the portcullis and turned to face them, Geralt handed Roach’s reins to Jaskier and stepped forward with a smile to greet Vesemir properly.  But as he stepped into Vesemir’s space, head ducking down so he could nudge it up under Vesemir’s chin, Vesemir stopped him, holding out his hand and stepping back and away.  Vesemir’s gaze was as blank and cold as the keep itself.

Geralt blanched, his heart dropping and his chest clenching with a sudden, piercing ache, feeling indescribably small.  Vesemir had never before refused Geralt’s familial greeting, it was the one indulgence to Geralt’s nature that he’d always allowed.  That he did so now did not bode well.  But Geralt grit his teeth and forced himself to keep going.  He’d come too far to back down at the first sign of displeasure.

“Greetings, Vesemir.”  Geralt said, gamely trying to hold onto the last vestiges of his smile.  He firmly grasped Vesemir’s offered forearm.

Vesemir nodded back, releasing Geralt’s arm almost immediately.  “Greetings, Geralt.  You look well.”  Vesemir’s tone was devoid of any of his usual warmth and Geralt felt a cold weight fully settle in his chest, rising up into his throat and robbing him of his words.

Jaskier stepped forward to stand next to him, brushing a hand against the small of his back.  Geralt let out a breath and tried to relax, focusing on the warmth of Jaskier’s touch to help unlock his voice.  He couldn’t allow himself to doubt.

Geralt drew his shoulders back and angled himself to face Jaskier, taking courage from Jaskier’s unflinching gaze as he introduced them, forcing his tone to remain measured and controlled.  “Vesemir, this is Jaskier, my Dominant.  Jaskier, this is Vesemir, the leader of the School of the Wolf and the Master at Kaer Morhen.” 

Vesemir’s sharp look said he saw right through Geralt’s projected calm but he said nothing and his expression remained hard.  Geralt felt his heart drop further.

Jaskier gave Vesemir a deep bow, placing a hand over his heart to show respect to his submissive’s father.  “Julian Alfred Pankratz of Lettenhove, at your service, Sir.”

“Vesemir of Kaer Morhen, at yours and your family’s.”  Vesemir replied in a clipped tone, returning Jaskier’s bow with the barest nod of his head.  It was unlike Vesemir to be so curt.  Geralt had no doubt that Vesemir’s anger at him was affecting his treatment of Jaskier and he opened his mouth to speak, to implore Vesemir to at least treat Jaskier well, no matter what he now thought of Geralt, but Vesemir cut him off before he would form the words.

“Geralt, the hour is late.  Take some of the stew left in the kitchen and retire to your room.  I will expect to see you at dawn tomorrow to start your chores.”  Vesemir ordered.  Vesemir’s command had none of the affection it usually carried, sounding instead like it had when Geralt had first arrived as a trainee and had yet to show he could survive the Trials.  Like he wasn’t worth Vesemir’s care until he had proved himself.  Geralt had promised Jaskier he wouldn’t doubt himself but he felt his confidence wane almost to nothing.

Geralt could feel Jaskier bristle next to him but was grateful he refrained from challenging Vesemir’s order.  It was too early in their acquaintance to start challenging Vesemir’s authority over him while they were residing at Kaer Morhen.  Even a bonded submissive was still subject to their Dominant parent’s authority within their family home and it would be a grave affront for a Dominant partner to challenge their submissive’s father at the first meeting.  They hardly needed to stoke Vesemir’s ire further.

“Yes, Vesemir.  Will you join us for dinner?”  Geralt said, hoping he didn’t sound as eager as he felt.   

“No, I’ve already eaten and I need to tend to my potions.”  Vesemir said brusquely as he turned and strode back up the stairs into the heart of the keep, disappearing quickly into the shadows.

Geralt stared after him.  He hadn’t expected Vesemir to greet him with open arms but neither had he expected to be treated as if he were a stranger.  He felt as if the floor had dropped out from under him, dashing him to pieces on the sharp rocks below the keep. 

Jaskier placed a consoling hand on Geralt’s shoulder and he twisted into it, burying his face in Jaskier’s neck and pulling him close.  Jaskier returned the embrace, holding Geralt firmly by the scruff of his neck and taking his weight easily.  They stood together for a long moment and Geralt let himself be supported, borrowing Jaskier’s confidence where his had failed.  When he felt more centered, he stepped back, pressing a chaste, lingering kiss to Jaskier’s cheek. 

“Let’s get the horses settled.”  Geralt said, taking back Roach’s reins and clasping Jaskier’s hand in his.  He didn’t have to do this alone.  Jaskier’s answering smile told him that he understood everything Geralt couldn’t say. 

They walked together up the long, sloping tunnel that let out near the front of the keep.  Roach nickered and pulled on the reins when she saw the stables and Geralt let her tug him along with a fond chuckle.  Halting Roach just inside the stable door, he untacked her and let her loose.  She trotted to the far end of the aisle and selected the last stall on the left, a large box stall overlooking the keep’s outer courtyard.  From the sound of her munching, Geralt could tell Vesemir had already prepared the stall for her.  He knew Vesemir would have been alerted to their arrival as soon as they started up the Witcher’s Trail – proximity spells had been put in place after the keep had been sacked – and Geralt felt a wave of relief pass over him.  If Vesemir had prepared for their arrival, even going so far as to prepare Roach’s preferred stall, then he couldn’t be as angry as he appeared.

When Jaskier finished untacking Potato, they led him to the stall next to Roach and found it similarly appointed.  It was an implicit acceptance of Jaskier’s right to be there and Geralt felt the tightness in his chest ease.  Vesemir always spoke loudest with his actions and this gave Geralt confidence that their relationship was not beyond repair, no matter how cold Vesemir’s initial reception had been.

With the horses stalled, they put away the tack and brushed down their mounts, checking them over carefully for any injuries.  They gave each horse a measure of fresh oats and topped up their water buckets before leaving and closing the stable doors behind them, their packs slung over their shoulders.

Geralt led Jaskier up through the courtyard, past the crumbling walls, ancient training dummies, and persistent weeds, until they reached the vast doors into the keep itself.  Geralt was pleased to find the doors still opened easily on silent hinges.  The winter before last, he’d removed the doors, sanded down the frame, and reset the hinges.  He was glad to see his repair had held up.

After firmly shutting the doors behind them, Geralt took Jaskier’s hand again and led him through the cavernous main hall and back into the kitchens.  Usually, even though he had his own room in the kitchen tower, he would sleep next to his brothers in the cots by the large fire in the main hall for warmth.  But with Jaskier here and with Vesemir’s acceptance of their relationship on uncertain footing, he felt it best to follow Vesemir’s directive and retire to his bedchamber.

As instructed, they each grabbed a generous bowl of stew from the covered pot hanging over the banked kitchen fire and took the bowls with them as they climbed up into the top of the tower.  Geralt had chosen this former guestroom as his own, despite the lengthy climb, because of the expansive view it had of the valley below.  He had decided long ago that he could suffer through hauling logs up those long stairs all winter if it meant he could stare out on that view in peace.

When they reached Geralt’s room, a homey but sparely furnished space, Geralt quickly placed the bowls down on the corner table and pulled Jaskier with him toward the balcony, flinging open the doors.  From their vantage point, they could see the last rays of sunlight disappearing into the night, casting an ethereal glow over the valley.  Jaskier gasped in delight, rushing forward to lean against the railing and drink in the natural wonder. 

Geralt stepped up behind him, tucking his chin over Jaskier’s shoulder in a loose embrace.  “I chose this room for the view.”

“And you chose well!  This is spectacular, Geralt.  I could write ballads about this view alone.”  Jaskier said, voice filled with joy and awe.

“You’ll have plenty of time to compose as much as you like, the winter is long and deep up in these mountains.”  Geralt said fondly.

“Don’t mistake me, I fully plan to pull my weight around here.  I know winter is a tough time and it must be even more so without the support of a village.  I imagine I’ll still have time to compose but I won’t laze about.”  Jaskier said decisively.

Geralt felt his chest warm and he pressed a kiss to the side of Jaskier’s neck with a soft smile.  “I know you won’t.  There will be plenty to do during the day but the nights will be yours to use as you wish.”

“We’re going to have a wonderful time, I’m sure.”  Jaskier said confidently, placing his hand over Geralt’s where they were clasped about his waist. “When will Lambert and Eskel arrive?”

“I’m not sure exactly, but we can expect them within the fortnight.  They won’t risk the pass into the valley getting blocked by snow and Lambert hates travelling on ice so he always returns early in the season.”  Geralt said.

“Good.  We’ll do our best to soften Vesemir up before they arrive but I’m glad to know we’ll soon have them here to support our efforts.”  Jaskier said.

“I hope so.”  Geralt said softly.  “But I don’t want to put them in the middle.”

Jaskier turned around to face him, leaning back against the railing and placing his hands on Geralt’s hips to pull him close, insisting Geralt meet his eyes.  “Love, they’re happy for you and they’ll understand you want to reconcile with Vesemir.  It won’t be putting them in the middle, it will be allowing them to help rebuild their family.”

Geralt smiled at him almost helplessly.  Jaskier always managed to put words to Geralt’s greatest hopes and make them sound like reasonable goals, like something he could deserve to achieve.  Geralt leaned in and pressed a warm, lingering kiss to Jaskier’s lips, trying to convey everything he felt but couldn’t express in words.  He felt Jaskier soften beneath him, deepening the kiss and drawing Geralt flush against him.  As Geralt pulled away, he pressed his forehead to Jaskier’s and synchronized their breathing, closing his eyes and drawing on Jaskier’s strength.

“I’m here for you, whatever you need.”  Jaskier said softly, his warm breath puffing against Geralt’s lips.

“I just need you.”  Geralt said, opening his eyes despite their close proximity.  Jaskier took up his entire field of view, just as he had become central to Geralt’s life.  Geralt knew he could survive anything as long as Jaskier was by his side.

“You have me.”  Jaskier vowed.  “And you’ll have Eskel and Lambert too.  Vesemir will come around.”

“No doubts.”  Geralt said softly, repeating their earlier mantra.

“No doubts.”  Jaskier repeated firmly.  “Now, let’s have our dinner before it gets cold.  It smells delicious!”

With a grin, Geralt stepped back and took Jaskier’s hand, leading him back into the room and closing the balcony doors behind them. 

“If Vesemir hadn’t been made into a witcher, I think he would have been a cook.  He can spend days in the kitchen perfecting some new recipe or dicing onions into exact little cubes.  He used to make us chop everything with a measuring string to make sure it was uniform.”  Geralt said with a wry grin as he settled into his spot at the table, Jaskier across from him. 

They dug into the warm, hearty stew and Jaskier let out an appreciative groan.  “Oh, he definitely missed his calling.  This is better than most castle chefs can manage!  Does he do all the cooking?”

Geralt hummed.  “Most of it.  Says he prefers his own cooking.  But sometimes he’ll let me make him this type of flat bread and curry I learned how to make from a Zerrikanian merchant.  It’s really different from our usual fare, but he likes it.  If we can get some good, fresh game, I’ll make it for him tomorrow.”

“That sounds like a perfect opening gambit.”  Jaskier said.  “It’s a special dish you can share together and, hopefully, it will encourage Vesemir to engage with you more than he did today.”

“I hope so,” Geralt said, frowning down into his stew.  The Zerrikanian dish never failed to prompt a pleased smile from Vesemir and sometimes even earned him a rare embrace, Vesemir throwing an arm over his shoulders and pulling him close.  He loved those moments, it made them truly feel like a family.  In his heart of hearts, Geralt held onto his childhood hope for a more openly affectionate relationship with Vesemir and with his brothers, one in which they could show each other the support and affection they were denied by most of the world.  He’d already made progress with Lambert in Vizima and he hoped to follow it up this season with the rest of his family.

“Are the others any good at cooking?”  Jaskier asked, pulling Geralt out of his musings.

“Eskel is a solid cook and takes his time.  Lambert can manage a game stew with his road rations, but we never ask him to cook for the rest of us if there’s any other option.”  Geralt said, grimacing at the memory of Lambert’s last attempt, a pale, weak stew that somehow managed to be both overly salted and completely bland.  It was edible at best.

Jaskier chuckled, eyes crinkling with mirth.  “I can see that.  You have to be thoughtful and patient to cook well and neither of those seem to be Lambert’s strengths.”

“We usually assign him to repair the walls so he can get out his frustrations mixing up the mortar.  We use a mud-based mixture so it’s good and dirty and then we mock him when he inevitably comes back covered in it.”  Geralt grinned, eyes twinkling.  He never tired of seeing Lambert come back after losing a fight with a bag of lime, steam practically pouring out his ears as the white powder clung to every crease and crevice on him.

Jaskier was laughing into his stew at the image and Geralt felt his melancholy mood lift.  Having a Dominant, let alone one like Jaskier, had always seemed like an impossible dream.  But here he was, sitting in his bedchamber over a bowl of Vesemir’s hearty stew, laughing with Jaskier about his brother’s antics.  He felt stronger and more whole than he ever had. 

His initial reunion with Vesemir had not gone well.  But he wasn’t about to give up.

The next morning, Geralt quietly left their room and made his way down to the kitchen, planning to catch Vesemir before he started on his daily chores.  Vesemir had always trained them to focus completely on the task at hand, so his only hope of a substantive conversation was to talk to Vesemir during one of his rare moments of rest and breakfast was his best bet to catch him in a receptive mood.

This early in the morning, the sun’s first rays just barely lightening the horizon, Vesemir should be sitting over a mug of hot tea and a bowl of fresh pottage, fortifying himself for the work ahead.  Geralt had many happy memories of quiet breakfasts shared with Vesemir as they waited for his brothers to rouse, talking about everything and nothing and then teasing Lambert and Eskel when they finally stumbled to the table, faces still creased by their pillows and clothes rumpled from sleep.

But the kitchen was empty when he entered.

There was a note stuck under a covered pot in the center of the long, wooden table.  From the smell of it, the pot contained Vesemir’s pottage, as expected, but the presentation said Vesemir had no intention of joining him. 

Geralt felt his confidence shatter.

Every other year, Vesemir had always made a point of sharing a meal with Geralt his first morning back.  Since, historically, Vesemir would have laid him out on the cross and whipped him into subspace the night before, finally sating his mind’s desperate need to drop, Vesemir had always made sure to serve a warm, hearty breakfast the following morning and to share it with Geralt.  After the sacking of Kaer Morhen and the slaughter of their resident healers, Vesemir had even taken on the task of seeing to Geralt’s wounds and he would often prepare a warm towel laced with arnica to lay on Geralt’s back as they ate, easing the lingering ache.

Geralt’s chest tightened as a cold weight settled around his heart.  It was as strong a rebuke, a rejection, as Vesemir had ever given.

With a shaking hand, Geralt pulled the note out from under the pot, holding it up to the light of the hearth.

After you’ve eaten, go hunt to bolster our winter stores.  There is a deer herd on the northern side of the Valley.  I will return by nightfall.

-- Vesemir

Geralt crushed the note in his fist and let the crumpled ball of parchment fall back onto the table.  Vesemir didn’t even want to see him long enough to issue his orders for the day.  Geralt had imagined their reunion would be tense and that Vesemir would be angry, but he’d never imagined this kind of cold rejection, even after last night’s tense meeting.

He took in a shaky breath and scrubbed his hands down his face, attempting to hold onto his control.  He knew falling apart wouldn’t get him anywhere but he wanted nothing more than to curl up around his aching heart and retreat from reality.  He stifled the urge, stiffening his spine and focusing on the task at hand.

He needed to bring breakfast up to Jaskier and then get ready to hunt.  He could think about Vesemir later.

Hardening his heart, Geralt grabbed two wooden bowls and spoons from the cabinet and filled them each with a generous portion of pottage before returning upstairs, a flagon of spring water held under his arm.  When he eased the door to their room open, attempting not to wake Jaskier, he saw Jaskier already sitting up in bed, gaze trained out the window to watch the sunrise.

Jaskier turned to Geralt with a smile but it quickly dropped into a look of deep concern when he saw Geralt’s blank expression.

“Oh, love, what happened?”  Jaskier asked, rising to take the bowls from Geralt. 

Geralt placed the water flagon on the table next to the bowls and sank heavily into his chair, bracing his elbows on the small table and staring down at the wood grain to focus his mind.  He needed to hold himself together.

“Vesemir was already gone for the day.  He left his orders on a note.”  Geralt said, his tone drained of any emotion.  He felt as if someone else spoke his words, as if he were disconnected from his own body.

“Is that unusual?”  Jaskier asked gently, coming to stand at Geralt’s side, one hand running soothingly up and down his broad back.  Geralt felt his blank control slip with each pass of Jaskier’s hand and he curled in on himself, hiding his face with his loose hair.

“He’s always eaten with me before, at least for the first morning.  The others don’t like to get up before the sun’s properly risen, so it’s always been just us.  But he must have left while it was still full dark just to avoid seeing me.”  Geralt said, forcing his tone to stay even.  He didn’t know what exactly he was feeling, much less how to process it, but he was certain that giving into his emotions would be a disaster.

“Did he say when he would return?”  Jaskier asked, gentling his tone even further.

“By nightfall.  He ordered me to go hunt game for the winter stores.”

“All right.  We’ll go hunt and then return in time to make that special Zerrikanian dish you were telling me about yesterday.  If we have it ready by the time Vesemir comes home, he won’t be able to avoid eating with us.”  Jaskier said.  Geralt wished he felt even a fraction of Jaskier’s confidence. 

Jaskier gently tilted Geralt’s head back and pulled him close, carding his fingers gently through Geralt’s hair.  “Now, why don’t you get a cushion and kneel for me while we eat?”  Jaskier suggested.  It was phrased as a question, allowing Geralt to avoid the ask if he wanted, but even the thought of dropping to his knees and letting Jaskier take control made the tension in Geralt’s shoulders start to ease.  He knew Jaskier would help hold him together.

Geralt nodded and rose to grab a cushion while Jaskier arranged their meal.  With Jaskier now seated, Geralt placed the cushion down on the floor next to him and knelt, leaning his weight into Jaskier’s leg and resting his head on Jaskier’s thigh.  He nuzzled into the soft fabric of Jaskier’s sleeping trousers, breathing in the calming scent of rosin and honey.  Jaskier ran a hand through his hair and Geralt hummed in contentment, arching up into the touch.  He felt his muscles ease and his mind start to drift as the thrumming tension he’d carried all morning left him.

“Sit up just a bit so you can eat.”  Jaskier directed after he felt Geralt finally settle into the pose.  Jaskier’s Voice washed over Geralt and warmed him through, bolstering his control and easing the frantic, submissive part of his mind that was fracturing under Vesemir’s continued rejection.

He complied, shifting so he could hold the bowl and spoon without spilling.  They ate in silence and Jaskier exchanged Geralt’s bowl for a mug of water when he was finished eating, ensuring he drained two full mugs before allowing him to rest his head against Jaskier’s thigh again.  As Jaskier finished his meal, he stroked his hand through Geralt’s hair and Geralt let himself drift at the edge of subspace, focusing only on the soothing pattern and Jaskier’s support. 

When he was finished, Jaskier put down his spoon and pushed away the bowl.  “Are you ready to get going or do you want to rest here a bit more?”  Jaskier asked.  Geralt always appreciated how Jaskier checked if he was ready to move or not.  It could be jarring to get thrust out of the submissive headspace, even if he wasn’t fully in subspace, and a quick transition always made his head ache.  But Jaskier made sure his transitions back to full awareness were always smooth.  And always on his own time.

With a long breath, Geralt nodded, pulling back to stretch his arms high up over his head, grunting in relief as a series of cracks resounded from his back and neck. 

Jaskier winced in sympathy but didn’t comment.  He was used to Geralt’s creaky joints at this point and Geralt knew he could look forward to a massage later to ease the aches.

“Vesemir said there’s a deer herd on the northern part of the valley.  We’ll ride out there and settle you somewhere safe while I hunt.  We’ll need both horses to bring back the kill.”  Geralt said, rising to his feet.  “Or you can stay here and I’ll pony Potato off Roach.”

Jaskier shook his head with a fond smile.  “You know I always want to come with you.  Besides, isn’t that why you insisted I buy all these new winter clothes?”

Geralt felt a pang of nerves, but Jaskier’s easy smile eased his concerns.  “Can’t have you freezing out there in your ridiculous doublets.”  He said, quirking his lips into a hint of a grin.

“I’ll have you know those are the peak of fashion!”  Jaskier said in mock offense.

“Aye, and you’d be a right fashionable icicle, I’m sure.”  Geralt drawled.  Jaskier moved to respond and Geralt cut him off by tossing his winter leggings at him. 

Jaskier rolled his eyes with a smile and pulled off his sleeping trousers to change into the thick, woolen leggings.  They dressed efficiently, neither self-conscious anymore about disrobing together, and soon were well equipped for the elements.  Geralt led Jaskier down to the kitchens, filled a bag with some rolls and dried meat for their noon meal, and led the way out to the stables, snagging a longbow and a full quiver from the rack by the main door on the way out.

They tacked the horses and rode out into the morning, the early sun sparkling off the night’s frost and the sound of birdsong their only accompaniment.

They returned to Kaer Morhen with three does and a large buck, all field-dressed, strapping two to each horse for the trek home.  Geralt had taken each one down with a single pass-through shot, dealing each animal an almost immediately fatal blow.  Even though they needed the meat for winter, Geralt could never bring himself to take a risky shot.  He may need to eat but that didn’t mean the deer needed to suffer. 

He’d explained the finer points of deer hunting to Jaskier on the way back.  Typically, Jaskier prepared the camp while Geralt hunted, and he’d never wanted to learn to hunt with his father and Leopold, so it was a new experience for him to see a hunt so close up.  Geralt secretly thought Jaskier kept prompting him for further details because it was so obvious Geralt enjoyed sharing his knowledge.  There wasn’t much he could teach Jaskier beyond monsters and survival skills but he enjoyed sharing what he knew.

When they reached the keep, it was still mid-afternoon and Vesemir’s horse – a stately older grey mare named Ash, the dam of Eskel’s mare, Ember – wasn’t in the stable.  Whatever he had gone off to do, he hadn’t yet returned.  Perfect.

As Jaskier saw to the horses, Geralt hauled the four deer carcasses into the kitchen, hoisted them upside down on the prepared hooks, and set to skinning and butchering them.  He divided the meat by quality, placing the tougher, more sinuous cuts in one basin and the tender, leaner cuts in another.  When each carcass was properly butchered, Geralt carefully removed the fat, sinew, and silverskin from each chunk of meat before starting to prepare them for preservation and use.

He set aside the best piece to use for the Zerrikanian curry he would make later tonight.  The better cuts that remained he sliced into thin strips, dipped them into a wet cure brine, and hung them from the drying racks above the hearth.  They would dry into jerky overnight.

The more sinuous cuts he sliced into thin steaks, rubbed each carefully with pickling salt and brown sugar, and packed them away in large barrels of salt, ensuring that no piece rested on its neighbor without a thick layer of salt in between.  It would take a few weeks to cure, but those cuts would last them through the deepest part of the winter, when fresh game was scarce.

With the meat sorted, Geralt scraped down the hides, removing every speck of flesh.  He tossed the cleaned hides over his shoulder and took them outside to the cold storage shed, hanging them out to freeze solid.  Eskel was their best tanner and he would deal with them later.  For now, Geralt would simply preserve them.  The remainder of each deer carcass was hauled out beyond the keep’s walls to an old, dry well and burned thoroughly with Igni.  It wouldn’t do to attract necrophages to their doorstep.

With his butchery tasks complete, Geralt returned to the kitchen and found Jaskier there waiting for him.  The way Jaskier crinkled his nose told him a change of clothes was necessary.  Probably a bath too, but he couldn’t risk taking the time to do that when he wanted to have dinner ready by the time Vesemir returned.  So, he compromised.  He heated a pan of water over the hearth flames while he retreated upstairs to change his shirt and trousers then used the warm water to thoroughly clean his face, hands, and arms.  

He held his hands up for Jaskier’s inspection and was rewarded with a deep, thorough kiss.  Geralt melted into Jaskier’s touch, yielding easily, willingly, to the hand caressing the back of his neck.  It was a vulnerable spot, particularly for a submissive, but Jaskier’s touch had only ever felt supportive, like he was protecting Geralt’s vulnerability rather than exploiting it.  Geralt would stay like this for the rest of the afternoon, wound up in Jaskier’s embrace, but now wasn’t the time. 

With great reluctance, he pulled back and Jaskier easily released him. 

“We need to start making dinner.”  Geralt said.  “But I want to continue that thought later.” 

Jaskier’s eyes were warm and soft, his face displaying nothing but the deepest affection.  “I’ll hold you to it.”

“Would you like to help or rest?”  Geralt asked. 

“Help.  I want to see this famous Zerrikanian dish!”  Jaskier said brightly, rolling up his long sleeves and removing his heavy surcoat.

“It’s nothing so special, but Vesemir likes it and I’ve always made it to share with him as one of our first meals after I arrived home for the winter.”  Geralt said, a soft flush rising in his cheeks.  He tried to tell himself it was from the heat of the hearth.

Jaskier shook his head in fond exasperation at Geralt’s self-deprecation, but let it go for now.  “So, what can I do?” 

“Start with peeling and chopping the onions and potatoes, please. Choose the larger potatoes, at least the size of two of your fists each.”  Geralt said, indicating the storage baskets for each.  “I’ll prepare the meat and the spices.”

“Any particular size for the cuts?”  Jaskier asked as he walked toward the bins.  “And how many of each?”

“It’s just the three of us, so four of the larger onions and six of the biggest potatoes should be sufficient.” 

“So much?” Jaskier asked incredulously. 

Geralt felt shame wash over him and he ducked his head, hiding his face in his hair.  He’d forgotten Jaskier wasn’t used to how much a witcher could, and did, eat when there was ample supply.  But that was hardly Jaskier’s fault, on the road, he restricted himself to one regular portion, if that.  He was never satiated, but it was enough to keep him going.  Compared to that, the amount he usually ate at Kaer Morhen was nothing short of gluttony.

“No, no, I didn’t mean it like that, love.”  Jaskier said, rushing over to Geralt’s side and smoothing the hair back from his face.  “I’m just surprised since I’ve never seen you eat so much in our travels.”

Geralt drew in a sharp breath and forced himself to look up.  He sternly reminded himself that Jaskier wouldn’t judge him.  He might be worried, but he wouldn’t judge.

“Vesemir keeps the keep stocked well enough that we can all eat until we’re fully satiated.  On the road, that’s just not possible.”  Geralt said, pushing the words out through the lump in his throat.

“Oh, love, so you’re always hungry during our travels? Why didn’t you say something?”  Jaskier said, concern pinching his features. 

“Witcher metabolism is fast but we can slow it when we need to and can go much longer than a human without eating.  But when we’re here, there’s no need to exert that kind of control and we can let our bodies rest.”  Geralt explained slowly, carefully watching Jaskier’s reaction.

“Then why didn’t you eat more in Oxenfurt?  There was plenty of food there.  Or at my home in Lettenhove?”  Jaskier asked with a frown.

“Humans tend to get upset seeing how much a witcher can eat.”  Geralt said, remembering the lessons beaten into his skull as a child about blending in with the humans around him.

“Well, that just won’t do.”  Jaskier said firmly.  “On the road, we’ll have to make do with our best, but if we’re somewhere with ample supply, I want you to eat as much as you need and not hold back.”

Geralt managed a nod.  He wasn’t sure he could manage the ask, so he didn’t promise he would, but he would try.  Jaskier gave him a long stare and Geralt knew he wouldn’t let it go.  As uncomfortable as the thought of eating freely in front of others was, Jaskier’s concern warmed him through.

When Jaskier was satisfied with what he saw in Geralt’s expression, he turned back to the baskets to retrieve the requested vegetables and said brightly, “now, let’s make a batch fit for a witcher!” 

While Jaskier peeled and chopped, Geralt measured out flour, yeast, salt, and water into a large wooden bowl, mixing and kneading until he got a smooth dough.  Jaskier watched with rapt attention, hands stalling at his assigned task.  He’d never had the chance to see Geralt cook anything more than camp rations.  Geralt flushed under the scrutiny but kept his mind on his work.  When the dough was ready, Geralt placed the bowl by the fire to rise and turned his attention to the curry.  He raised an eyebrow at Jaskier’s stalled progress, prompting him to stop staring and keep working.

As Jaskier resumed peeling and chopping, paying careful attention to the sharp knife he was wielding, Geralt retrieved the jar of chilis and spices stored high on a shelf well away from the hearth flame.  They were all that remained of his stock from his last trip to Zerrikania over a decade ago and Vesemir saved them for their annual tradition of Zerrikanian curry.  He selected three long, dried chilis, a small handful of aromatic cumin seeds, and a pinch of earthy coriander and ground them carefully together with a handful of coarse salt.  With the spices ready, Geralt chopped the venison he’d laid aside into bite-sized chunks, inspecting each piece to ensure not a scrap of bitter fat remained.

Once Jaskier finished chopping, Geralt hefted a heavy cauldron pot over the hearth and heated a generous measure of lard in the bottom until it liquified.  He fried the onions in the lard until they were translucent then dropped in the venison, browning it quickly before adding the spices and potatoes, topping the lot with a measure of fresh water.  When the mixture reached a low boil, he covered it and left it to simmer. 

With the curry settled, he checked on his dough and found it sufficiently risen.  Using one of the tables as a prep station, Geralt halved the dough and passed one half to Jaskier.  “Divide it into equal pieces about the size of your fist.” Geralt instructed, demonstrating on his own half.  While Jaskier divided the dough, Geralt pressed each ball out into a circle and then rolled it out with Vesemir’s ancient rolling pin, laying each completed oval out on the floured table.  When the dough was prepared, Geralt hauled a large piece of flat metal out and laid it on the hearth coals, crouching by the fire and waiting until the metal was heated through. 

“We’re going to cook the bread on this metal grill.”  Geralt explained.  He grabbed a dough circle and tossed it on the grill, watching it bubble as it cooked on the searing hot surface.  After a moment, he flipped the bread, careful not to touch the metal surface with his hands.  It was perfectly golden-brown underneath.

They worked in concert, cooking the flatbreads and minding the curry until the fragrance of their cooking permeated the kitchen.  Geralt stomach growled in response.  Just as the last flatbread came off the heat and was tucked into the warming basket with the others, Geralt heard the main door creak open followed by Vesemir’s familiar footfalls.  Geralt jumped up and rushed out into the main part of the hall, eager to catch Vesemir before he started climbing back up to his rooms. 

“Vesemir!”  He called out, jogging across the cavernous hall.  “I made the  Zerrikanian curry and flatbread you like.  Please, come join us for supper.  It’s ready now.”

Vesemir’s face took on a curious, pinched expression Geralt couldn’t read and he stopped, excitement draining as Vesemir stayed silent.

“Thank you, Geralt.  I’ll take a serving up to my room.”  Vesemir said finally, turning to head toward the kitchen.

Geralt rushed to follow.  “Won’t you join us, Vesemir?  I haven’t seen you since the winter before last and I would like to share a meal with you.”  Geralt said, plucking up the courage to speak plainly despite Vesemir’s tepid reaction.  They always shared the Zerrikanian curry together. 

Vesemir strode into the kitchen and walked past Jaskier to the hearth, taking one of the bowls set out on the table.  Jaskier opened his mouth as if to greet Vesemir but shut it again when he saw Geralt’s expression, mouth settling into a hard line.

“Won’t you join us, Master Vesemir?”  Jaskier said, voice straining to remain courteous.  “Geralt told me you always share this curry together and I would like the chance to meet you properly.” 

Vesemir gave him a passing glance as he filled his bowl with the fragrant curry and piled several flatbreads on top of it. “Another time.  I spent the day hunting a forktail and wish to retire.”

Geralt bit back a protest.  He knew Vesemir hated to see him beg for anything, it was unbecoming of a witcher.  He let Vesemir leave without further comment and sank down to his knees by the hearth.  He felt like Vesemir had cut out his heart.  He’d been sure that this tradition would soften him up at least enough to eat with them.  But it seemed Geralt was no longer worthy of sharing Vesemir’s table. 

Jaskier sat next to him and drew Geralt into his arms.  Geralt sank into his embrace, burying his face in the crook of Jaskier’s neck.  He knew he couldn’t cry anymore, the mutations took care of that, but the burning behind his eyes made him wish to weep, to drain off the excess hurt until it felt manageable again.  But such luxury was denied to witchers.

After a long moment, when Geralt felt less like he would fly apart, Jaskier spoke, his voice carefully light.  “Let’s have some of that curry.  It smells fantastic.”

Geralt drew in a long breath and rose to his feet to serve the meal.  He could enjoy sharing the meal with Jaskier even if Vesemir had rejected their invitation.  He was glad Vesemir at least took his portion with him.  He couldn’t have handled it if Vesemir had refused his offering entirely. 

Jaskier sat pressed to Geralt’s side as they ate, complimenting him profusely about his cooking and teasing the tale of Geralt’s Zerrikanian adventures out of him.  It was hard to hold onto his despair when describing how he’d had to disguise himself as a bag of spices to catch a Khrafstra, a scorpion-like creature that prowled about the marketplace, snatching innocent shoppers who wandered into dark, quiet corners.  Able to manifest and disappear at will, Geralt had to hide to avoid its detection while tracking its movements.  He’d ended up coated in yellow turmeric powder, turning his white hair bright orange, but he’d killed the monster before it could disappear.  Jaskier dissolved into giggles when Geralt told him about his hair and Geralt felt his despair ease into something more tolerable. 

After dinner, they cleaned the kitchen, packed away the leftovers, and retired to their chambers.  Held tightly in Jaskier’s arms that night, Geralt found the courage to try again tomorrow.  And to keep trying, day after day, until he could at least get Vesemir to speak to him.  He couldn’t give up yet.

The next morning, Jaskier and Geralt again had breakfast alone.  Despite rising earlier than the sun, Geralt arrived in the kitchen to find another note from Vesemir under another bowl of pottage.  This time, they were asked to repair the mortar on the outer courtyard wall by the stables.  Geralt resisted the urge to throw the note in the hearth fire and this time carefully wrote out his response with a sharp piece of charcoal.

We will take care of the mortar, as you ask.  Tomorrow, please join us for breakfast.  I would enjoy spending time with you. -- Geralt

Seeing his plea for Vesemir’s attention so plainly on the scrap of parchment, Geralt almost tossed it in the fire after all.  But, after a long moment, he left it on the table and took their breakfast back upstairs.  Jaskier had shown him that clear communication via clear statements of his needs and wants was both healthy and effective.  Maybe written communication would work where verbal communication had so far failed.

Gearlt sat silently for several hours in his room that morning as he waited for Jaskier to wake, staring out over the valley as the sun slowly rose, watching the shadows lighten and the mountain peaks glow gold.  As he watched, his mind drifted back over the decades, remembering the many winters spent at Kaer Morhen with Vesemir and his brothers.  Typically, this early in the season, he would be on light duty as his back healed from the strikes of Vesemir’s whip.  His mind would be foggy, caught between exhaustion and relief as it adjusted to finally getting the subspace it needed after the long months of deprivation.  Though Vesemir never stated it openly, he’d never assigned Geralt anything strenuous until he’d been at the keep for at least a week, always managing to busy him in the library or the apothecary before sending him out to hunt or repair Kaer Morhen’s crumbling walls.  Geralt remembered many years sitting at Vesemir’s elbow, cataloguing new additions to the library, updating bestiaries, or grinding down dried flowers for potions as his body healed and his mind settled, eased by the presence of his Dominant father.  They didn’t speak much, but Vesemir had always interspersed their quiet days together with stories, anecdotes, or lessons, and Geralt cherished those times they had spent together. 

Geralt wasn’t sure what Vesemir was thinking, and didn’t want to risk guessing and being wrong, but he wanted to recapture that calm peace he had always shared with him, only this time without a brutal drop scene preceding it.  He recognized that taking Jaskier as his Dominant and rejecting Vesemir’s method had fundamentally changed their relationship.  He hoped it would ultimately be for the better.

When Jaskier finally rose, they broke their fast sitting side by side at the small, rough-hewn table before dressing warmly and heading out into the outer courtyard to take on the day’s task.  Geralt led Jaskier over to the storage shed in the corner and pulled out a heavy wooden basin.  He filled it with a good measure of the prepared mixture of earth, water, and straw percolating in the large stone tub dominating the shed.  To that, he added a measure of powdered lime, warning Jaskier to stay back as he dumped it in, sending up a puff of the white powder.  It was impossible to mix mortar without getting covered in it and Geralt was better able to tolerate the cold weather should his heavy surcoat need a wash. 

Together, they pushed the wooden basin out toward the biggest gap in the courtyard wall, just to the left of the stable area.  With the basin in place, Geralt took up a heavy iron tool and used the large, flat bottom to pound the mortar together, ensuring the thick mixture was fully incorporated, again motioning for Jaskier to stay back.  Roach and Potato hung their heads out the stall doors to watch the proceedings, Potato dropping bits of hay as he chewed.  While Geralt worked, Jaskier leaned against the stable wall between Roach and Potato, avoiding the plumes of powdered lime and sprays of mud emanating from the vigorous mixing.  Potato, losing interest in Geralt’s odd behavior, brought over a mouthful of hay to share with Jaskier, dribbling stalks all over his woolen surcoat.  Geralt heard Jaskier’s laughter ring out across the courtyard and turned to see Potato lovingly nuzzling hay into Jaskier’s hair, working it into the soft strands with a healthy dose of slobber.  Roach watched the entire interaction with a look of deep judgment on her fine-boned face. 

Geralt couldn’t help but laugh at the scene, silent chuckles falling over into outright guffaws as he leaned into the heavy mixing tool, using it to support his weight.  The trio’s attention was now focused on him again and he felt the burn of Roach’s judgment.  But he waved it off, focusing on the fond affection in Jaskier’s gaze as he watched him, covered head to toe in lime dust and mud, laughing over the antics of horses.  Geralt felt a weight lift from his shoulders.  He couldn’t remember the last time he laughed so freely in Kaer Morhen.  If he had changed so much, then he could change things here too. 

When he brought his mirth back under control, Geralt tested the mortar mixture on a small rock.  Finding it was properly made, he waved Jaskier over and demonstrated how to use a small, flat iron tool to plaster the bricks for the wall back together, ensuring each lay neatly over its neighbors.   The wall was high, well beyond reach at the top.  They would need to drag over one of the scaffolds to finish the job, but they could make good progress on the lower parts of the wall today. 

They worked silently until the sun was high in the sky.   By noon, thick clouds had rolled in, turning the day a murky grey.  Geralt could smell a snowstorm in the air.

“It’s going to snow soon.”  Geralt said, breaking the easy silence.  “We should put the tools away.  We’ll finish this section tomorrow with the scaffold.”

“All right.”  Jaskier said, dropping his trowel into the nearly empty basin.  “Why don’t you put that away and I’ll get lunch ready?  I can hear your stomach growling from here.”

Geralt flushed but nodded.  Lunch did sound good after a hard morning’s work.  With a soft kiss to his cheek, careful to avoid the lime dust and mud coating it, Jaskier trotted back up into the keep.  Geralt scraped out the last of the mortar, using it to smooth over any leftover gaps in the stones they’d laid, before gathering the tools and returning them to the shed.  With a peek inside the stable to ensure Roach and Potato had sufficient hay and water, Geralt headed back to the kitchen to help Jaskier prepare the meal, taking a brief detour to the well to wash off the worst of the mess covering his hands and face and brush off his clothes.  They needed a wash, but it could wait until they finished the wall. 

In the kitchen, they worked in easy silence, Jaskier warming the leftover curry while Geralt cut the remaining flatbreads into strips and toasted them over the fire until crisp.  Just as they sat down to eat, Jaskier placing a heaping portion in front of Geralt, the main door banged open at the far end of the hall. 

Geralt leapt to his feet and rushed out into the main hall, desperate to catch Vesemir before he retreated again.

“Vesemir!”  He called out.  Vesemir stopped and turned toward him, a blank expression on his face.  Fat snowflakes dotted his hair and armor, just starting to melt in the indoor heat. “Please, join us for lunch.”

“I already ate.”  Vesemir said flatly.  Another refusal. 

“At least sit with us,” Geralt pleaded.

“No, I have work to attend to in the library.”  Vesemir said, turning away and heading up into the tower.  “Since you cannot continue mortaring in the snow, work on grinding herbs in the apothecary for the rest of the day.” 

“Yes, Vesemir.”  Geralt replied, shoulders slumping.  Vesemir wouldn’t even sit with him.  He couldn’t imagine a sharper rejection.

Geralt heaved a sigh and returned to the kitchen, feet scraping on the stone floor.  His limbs suddenly felt too clumsy to move with anything resembling his usual grace. He sat heavily on the wooden bench across from Jaskier and took up his spoon, mechanically moving the spicy curry from his bowl to his mouth without thought.  He couldn’t even taste it. 

Geralt could feel Jaskier’s concerned gaze on his bent head but refused to look up.  He had promised Jaskier he wouldn’t doubt himself but he wasn’t sure he could keep that promise in the face of Vesemir’s continued rejections.

“Did Vesemir say what he planned to do now?”  Jaskier asked gently.  Geralt was grateful he didn’t have to say out loud that Vesemir had again refused him.

“He’s going to work in the library.”  Geralt said, his voice hollow.  “He told me to grind herbs in the apothecary since we can’t work on the walls in the snow.”

“Well, that just won’t do.  I’ll grind the herbs and you’ll go help Vesemir.  If he’s anything like you, he’s probably trying to avoid a difficult conversation because he’s not sure how to handle it.  Based on what you’ve told me about him, I can’t imagine he’s behaving this way out of malice.”  Jaskier said, laying his hand on Geralt’s across the table and giving him an encouraging smile.

Geralt sighed but lifted his gaze to meet Jaskier’s.  He took in a deep breath and let it out in a rush.  “Aye, you’re right, he’s not one to enjoy discussing anything sensitive or emotional but nothing will change unless I can get him to talk to me.”

“Then go,” Jaskier said, “I’ll clean up here.  Will it be obvious which herbs need to be ground?”

“Aye, they should be lying in bundles on the bench.  You’ll recognize most from my stores but leave anything you don’t.  The tools and storage containers are there as well.”  Geralt said.

“Got it.  I’ll take care of that.  I'm here if you need me but I know this is a conversation you and Vesemir need to have alone.”  Jaskier said, standing and reaching across the table to plant a gentle kiss on Geralt’s forehead. 

Geralt closed his eyes, letting the affectionate touch warm him through. With a sharp nod, he stood and left the kitchen, striding across the main hall and taking the spiral stairs up to the library two at a time.  He couldn’t let himself overthink this or he would crumble. 

He knew Vesemir would hear his approach so he didn’t bother to knock, simply entering without prior announcement.  Some distant corner of his mind was pleased the library door opened without a sound.  He had worked hard with Eskel to rehang the ancient door two winters ago.  In the far corner of the dim chamber, lined with overflowing book shelves in immaculate repair, Vesemir sat under a tall, narrow window, hunched over an ancient tome, carefully repairing a tear in the leather cover. 

Vesemir shot Geralt a sharp sideways glance as he entered but didn’t stop his work.  “You should be in the apothecary.  We need those herbs ground to replenish the potion stocks.”

“Jaskier is getting started without me.  I need to speak with you.”  Geralt said as he approached Vesemir.

“We can speak about your failure to follow directions.  Your guest is not here to do your chores for you.”  Vesemir said sharply. 

Geralt recognized enough of himself in Vesemir to know that was a tactic to get Geralt to leave.

“No, but my Dominant wants to help me reconcile with you.”  Geralt said, keeping his voice neutral and calm even as he pointedly referred to Jaskier’s role in his life.  He took a seat in the chair opposite Vesemir.

“There is nothing to reconcile.”  Vesemir said without looking up from his task.

Geralt took in a sharp breath but pressed on.  “I know I’ve disappointed you and disobeyed your lessons, but I want to show you that I’m stronger for it.  I’m a better witcher because I’m not wasting energy fighting myself anymore.  Jaskier helped me realize that.”

Vesemir finally looked up, his hands lifting away from his task.  “I’m not disappointed in you, boy.”  He heaved a sigh and looked away, jaw clenching as he stared out the window.  “I am the one at fault for training you as I did.”

Geralt blanched.  Vesemir couldn’t mean that the way it sounded.  He had been the only trainer to stand up for Geralt’s right to complete his training rather than being put down for being a submissive. 

“As opposed to what?”  Geralt forced himself to ask.

Vesemir must have seen the horror on his face because he looked suddenly exhausted.  He propped his elbows on the table and buried his head in his hands for a long moment. 

“I almost killed you, Geralt.”  Vesemir said finally, voice muffled against his palms.  He scrubbed his hands against his face and let out a sharp breath, looking up to meet Geralt’s open gaze.  “I heard from Nenneke that this year would have been your last but for Jaskier’s intervention.”

“She wrote to you?”  Geralt said, torn between surprise at the news and relief that Vesemir obviously didn’t wish death upon him.

“Aye, in no uncertain terms.  She told me I would have been your murderer but for him.”  Vesemir said, face twisted in misery.  Geralt had never seen Vesemir show emotion so openly.  “I wanted to keep you safe, not do you harm.  I thought my method was the only way to preserve your life while you walk the Path.”

Geralt suddenly understood that Vesemir’s rejections had been born out of guilt, not anger.  Geralt reached out a tentative hand, drawing it back for a moment before steeling his resolve and resting his hand on Vesemir’s tense forearm.  He tightened his grip when Vesemir went to pull away, holding Vesemir’s gaze.

“I know you meant well.  I don’t want to lose you over this.”  Geralt said firmly.  “I forgive you, Vesemir.”

“You shouldn’t.”  Vesemir said, his expression tight. 

“I won’t deny that you hurt me, Vesemir.  Badly.  Almost fatally.”  Geralt said and Vesemir flinched back, but Geralt held him in place.  “But you also cared for me, raised me, and saved my life on more than one occasion.  I think we’ve had far more good times together than bad.”

Vesemir stared at him, a complex expression on his face.  He didn’t speak.

“Am I wrong to think you didn’t want to hurt me?”  Geralt asked, head canting slightly to the side as he stared Vesemir down.  With his new understanding, he felt confident in Vesemir’s answer.

Geralt could see how hard it was for Vesemir to express himself.  He imagined this was something like what Jaskier had to deal with before Geralt revealed his secret and learned to speak more openly. 

“Of course I didn’t want to hurt you, boy.”  Vesemir said gruffly.  “But I did hurt you and I can’t understand why you insist on seeking out my company after I nearly cost you your life.”

“Because you are the closest thing I have to a father.”  Geralt said simply.  Vesemir’s eyes widened and his breath caught in his chest.  “I think we can do better than we have done.  It will take time to learn new ways, but we are fortunate to have plenty of that.”

Vesemir stared at him as Geralt rose from the table.  Geralt placed a hand on Vesemir’s shoulder briefly as he turned to leave, quietly opening the heavy library door and stepping out into the hall.  He’d had plenty of time, and Jaskier’s help, to sort out his feeling about Vesemir.  He would give Vesemir the same courtesy and leave him to his thoughts before pressing him for a response.

“I will break my fast with you tomorrow.”  Vesemir said quietly, staring down at the book in front of him.

Geralt felt joy rise in his chest as a broad smile spread across his face.  “I’ll look forward to it,”  he said and closed the library door softly behind him.

Later that night, bellies full of venison stew and bodies tired with an honest day’s work, Geralt and Jaskier lay together on the thick, bearskin rug in front of the hearth in their room, Geralt’s head pillowed on Jaskier’s chest.  Jaskier hummed a simple tune as he wove his fingers through Geralt’s hair.  The vibrations of his voice rang through Geralt’s body and he felt as if he and Jaskier were one. 

He was suddenly struck by the urge to get closer.

“I want to feel you.”  Geralt said before he lost his nerve, his fingers twisting in Jaskier’s tunic. 

“Hm?”  Jaskier hummed, twisting to try and catch a glimpse of Geralt’s expression.  “What do you mean?”

“I want to be closer to you.  To have nothing between us.”  Geralt said, a flush starting to rise on his cheeks.

“You mean physically?”  Jaskier asked gently. 

Geralt nodded.

“We can do that,” Jaskier said, pressing a kiss to the crown of Geralt’s head.  Geralt felt himself relax at Jaskier’s easy acceptance and his fingers stilled against Jaskier’s chest, smoothing the twisted fabric.

“Would you like me to guide you down?” 

Geralt nodded.  He needed the relief, to wrap himself in Jaskier’s love and just stop thinking.  He’d made real progress with Vesemir today, but it hadn’t been easy.  He felt scraped raw. 

“All right,” Jaskier said with a warm smile.  “Please sit up for me.”

Geralt complied and they sat side by side, staring into the fire. 

“If there anywhere you would like me not to touch?”  Jaskier asked.

Geralt gave that careful consideration, remembering his promise not to push himself too far.  He imagined Jaskier touching him all over and didn’t feel a moment’s discomfort.  He knew Jaskier would stop immediately if he asked.

Geralt shook his head. 

“All right.  Remember you can stop me at any time and I expect you to tell me if you are uncomfortable.”  Jaskier said firmly.

“I promise.” 

“Right, then please remove as much of your clothing as you feel comfortable removing and kneel on the rug.”  Jaskier directed.

Geralt obeyed, stripping off his trousers and tunic and folding them over the clothes rack in the corner.  His boots were already off and neatly set by the door along with his socks.  After a moment’s hesitation, he removed his small clothes as well and knelt on the bearskin rug dressed only in his medallion.

Jaskier’s pupils blew wide as he watched Geralt’s preparations.  When Geralt was settled, he checked in once more.  “All set?”  Geralt nodded.  “Remember your words?”  Another nod. 

“Are you comfortable if I disrobe as well?”  Jaskier asked, his tone carefully neutral.

“I would prefer it.”  Geralt said softly.  Jaskier never pressured him into any more contact that he wanted to offer so taking this step after all their time together felt more like a natural progression than pushing his limits.

Jaskier kept eye contact with Geralt as he stripped off his own clothes, leaving himself as equally bare as Geralt.  But instead of standing over Geralt, he knelt before him, placing a gentle hand on his knee, his burning gaze locked on Geralt’s.

“Mirror my touch.  Feel how I touch you and do the same to me.” Jaskier ordered, infusing his command with his Dominant’s Voice.  Geralt felt Jaskier’s Voice wash over him, leaving relaxation in its wake.  His spine softened and his shoulders dropped.  He obeyed because he wanted to obey, because he chose to submit to Jaskier’s control.

He reached out and placed a hand on Jaskier’s knee, mirroring Jaskier’s touch.  He felt the course hair under his hand, the warmth of Jaskier’s skin, the soothing scent of rosin and honey pervading his senses.  Everything Geralt was in that moment centered on Jaskier, on touching and being touched by him.

Jaskier’s fingertips trailed up Geralt’s thigh, tracing a slow line up over his hip bones.  Geralt mirrored him, focusing on the feedback from his fingers, the rough hair giving way to smooth skin, the sharp jut of Jaskier’s hip bone blending into the firm plane of his abdomen.  Jaskier’s touch deepened and he ran the flat of his hand up Geralt’s chest slowly, tracking the dips and divots in Geralt’s muscle and running his fingers over the scar tissue forming intricate patterns across his skin.  Geralt mirrored every move Jaskier made until the feeling of Jaskier’s hands on his body blended into the feeling of his hands on Jaskier’s.

Lost in the feedback loop, he felt the present fall away as his mind dropped into subspace, his hands continuing their task without his conscious input.  He felt himself drift and let Jaskier guide and guard him, surrendering himself completely. 

From a distance, he heard Jaskier’s Voice and moved to obey without needing to process the words.  He could feel Jaskier’s intent and that was enough.  He stretched out on the rug, flat on his back, bearing himself completely to Jaskier.  He thought he closed his eyes but couldn’t be sure.  All he felt was Jaskier’s touch. 

“I’m going to kneel over you,” he heard Jaskier say.  “Do you need to use one of your words?”  His Dominant Voice dropped out, checking in.  Geralt shook his head.  He couldn’t imagine anything Jaskier could do that he would not want but he remembered his promise, even through the pervasive haze of subspace. 

“Focus on my touch,” Jaskier ordered, “focus on how it feels against your skin.  Don’t think about anything else.”

Geralt couldn’t imagine tearing his attention away from Jaskier for even a moment.  He felt Jaskier kneel over him, straddling his hips without letting their groins touch.  He opened his eyes – he must have closed them after all – and looked up at Jaskier with an unfocused gaze, concentrating on the feel of Jaskier’s knees bracketing his hips.  He felt Jaskier’s eyes on his without seeing them, felt the warmth of Jaskier’s body as he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the center of Geralt’s forehead, hands braced on either side of Geralt’s shoulders. 

Slowly, languidly, Jaskier traced Geralt’s features with his lips and Geralt felt each kiss sear through him, capturing his entire focus.  Nothing existed beyond Jaskier’s touch.  Jaskier covered his body in kisses, trailing from his cheeks down to his neck, from his shoulders to his chest, from his abdomen to hollows of his hips, shifting his stance back as he progressed down Geralt’s prone form.

Geralt didn’t know how much time had passed.  It could have been minutes or hours. 

He didn’t want it to stop.

Jaskier paused and sat back, tracing soft fingers down Geralt’s hips, stopping just shy of his groin.  Jaskier had never touched him there before but Geralt had meant it when he said his body was entirely open to Jaskier.

“May I?”  Jaskier asked softly, voice rough with arousal.

Geralt felt an unfamiliar heat burn through him and he heard himself whine, lifting his hips to press up into Jaskier’s touch. 

“I need a verbal answer.”  Jaskier said firmly, stripping all trace of his Dominant’s Voice from his tone.  This was a not a moment for any risk of coercion.

Geralt felt as if he had to relearn how to speak, forcing his mind and his voice to connect through the blissful haze of subspace. 

“Yes,” he said finally, voice drawn up from somewhere deep within, slurring out through the deep relaxation of the drop.

“Thank you.  You’re doing so well for me, love.  Just keep focusing on my touch,” Jaskier said, Dominant’s Voice melting into Geralt’s senses, and Geralt felt himself drop back down deep, trusting Jaskier to keep him safe.

“Good boy, you drop so beautifully for me.”  Geralt felt his chest warm at the praise and he dropped even deeper, surrendering himself fully to Jaskier.

With a gentle, slow touch, Jaskier ran his fingers over Geralt’s length and Geralt felt a surge of that unfamiliar heat again as he felt himself harden under Jaskier’s touch.  Jaskier followed his hands with his mouth, pressing soft kisses to every inch of Geralt, leaving a searing heat in his wake.  When Jaskier took Geralt into his mouth, Geralt’s mind whited out and he lost all connection to the present moment, falling completely into very depths of subspace. 

When he rose back to the surface, he was curled up in Jaskier’s arms on the rug, wrapped in the quilt from the bed.  There was no tension anywhere in his body and his mind was utterly quiet.  He’d never felt so relaxed.

“Are you back with me, love?”  Jaskier asked softly, nuzzling his face into Geralt’s hair.

Geralt hummed and burrowed deeper into Jaskier’s hold, feeling Jaskier’s strong arms tighten around him.

“How do you feel?”

Geralt didn’t think a word existed for how good he felt.  “Good. So good.”  Geralt said finally, consonants tumbling into vowels as his tongue tripped over the words. 

Jaskier hummed happily, drawing Geralt closer.  “You did so well for me.”

Geralt smiled against Jaskier’s chest, preening at the praise. 

“That was more physical intimacy than we’ve ever shared before.  How did it feel?”  Jaskier asked gently.

Geralt knew he needed to give this a little more thought than simply repeating himself, so he took his time, slowly gathering his thoughts together.  “It felt right.  I want you to do it again.”

Geralt felt Jaskier relax under him and pressed a kiss to his chest, reassuring Jaskier that all was well.  Excellent, even.

“Would you be open to exploring more intimate touch?”  Jaskier asked, slowly articulating each word with his usual careful neutrality.  “I saw how you enjoyed what I did today, but I want you to be fully conscious of what’s happening if we go any further.”

Geralt considered it.  He remembered the feel of that burning heat even through the haze of subspace, of the waves of pleasure he’d felt from Jaskier’s touch.  He wanted more.  He had felt none of the panic, none of the sensory bombardment, he’d felt during that disastrous scene in Lettenhove when he’d purposefully pushed himself too far.  Since then, since Jaskier had convinced him that honestly communicating his comfort level was essential to their scenes, Jaskier had slowly increased the intensity of their scenes in accordance with Geralt’s increasing comfort, creating a foundation of trust.  He knew now he could trust Jaskier completely with his mind and his body, could trust Jaskier to teach him intimacy without coercion or force.  More importantly, he knew that Jaskier would never take more than Geralt wanted to give.

“I would like that.  I’m ready.”  Geralt said finally, twisting to look up at Jaskier. This felt like something he needed to say to Jaskier’s face rather than to his chest. 

Jaskier gave him a soft smile.  “Then we’ll try it.  But you will be totally in control of how far we go.  Until, unless, you’re fully comfortable with more intimate touch, I don’t want to do it while you’re dropped so far.  We discussed the touching we tried today before you dropped, but I know you haven’t experienced consensual sexual intimacy and I want you to be fully aware of everything that’s going on to be sure you’re completely comfortable.”  Jaskier said, an urgent note in his tone. 

It was exactly Jaskier’s insistence on consent, on Geralt being fully aware of everything that happened, that made him comfortable enough to let go and drop as far as he had.  But if Jaskier needed him to stay present to explore this new aspect of their relationship, then he would do that for him. 

“I can do that.”  Geralt said softly, a faint flush tinging his cheeks before his jaw cracked open in a yawn, body sharply reminding him that rest was required after such a deep drop.

Geralt felt more than heard Jaskier’s fond chuckle.  “All right, I think that’s a sign it’s time for bed.”

Geralt nodded, exhaustion suddenly weighing heavily upon him.  He let Jaskier guide him upright and to the bed, burrowing into the covers while Jaskier snuffed out the candles and drew the curtains over the windows.  When Jaskier returned to bed, the firelight casting deep shadows on his face, Geralt pulled him close, wrapping around him and tucking his face into the crook of Jaskier’s neck. 

Breathing in Jaskier’s familiar scent, Geralt slept peacefully, looking forward to the days to come.

The next morning, in the grey light of pre-dawn, Geralt dressed in silence, aided by Jaskier’s supportive touches, and walked down to join Vesemir for breakfast.  He felt Jaskier’s love in each tie and buckle on his clothes and in the way his hair was neatly braided back from his face in one of simplest, yet most intimate, of Redanian styles, the kind of braid reserved only for one’s lifemate.  Geralt had no doubt Vesemir would understand the significance of the style.  Although he knew he had to lay the foundation to rebuild his relationship with Vesemir alone, the exquisite pressure of the braids made it feel as if Jaskier were right beside him.

When Geralt opened the door into the kitchen, he saw Vesemir seated at the long table, face hidden behind his clasped hands, two steaming bowls of fresh porridge on the table in front of him.  Geralt walked across the kitchen on silent feet and sat across from Vesemir. 

He waited. 

Vesemir held his gaze for a long moment, unblinking.  Geralt kept his posture straight but relaxed, his hands soft and quiet in his lap.  Vesemir, as his father and the Dominant head of the witcher family, was the only one with the right to break the fast, to invite others to eat together with him at his table. 

Geralt felt the weight of Vesemir’s stare, felt him carefully consider the well-made woolen tunic he wore, of a quality far beyond what he alone could have afforded, felt him linger over the simple braids that framed his face, marking him as Jaskier’s chosen submissive, and felt his gaze assess Geralt’s frame, seeing the strong muscle and the filled-in cheeks, a far cry from the gaunt, overwrought man he used to be by the time winter came around.

Geralt held Vesesmir’s gaze and hid nothing.

After a long moment, Vesemir’s hands dropped away from his face and his expression softened.  He took up his spoon and slid an earthenware mug of fresh goat’s milk over to Geralt.

With a shallow nod, Vesemir broke his fast, sharing a meal with Geralt for the first time since he’d strayed from Vesemir’s method and chosen Jaskier as his Dominant.  For the first time since Vesemir had learned the nearly fatal toll his method had extracted from Geralt.

They ate in silence, as they usually did, but it was a comfortable one, one that made even a simple porridge taste fit for a king. 

When their spoons had scraped up the last bits of porridge from their bowls and when the mugs were empty, Geralt stood and gathered the dishes, bringing them over to the washing basin to soak in the prepared water.  He would clean the dishes and replace the water later, after Jaskier had eaten as well.  When his task was complete, Geralt returned to his seat and waited for Vesemir to speak.  Of all the witchers, Vesemir and Geralt were most alike in temperament, both preferring to consider their words carefully and speak only when necessary.  When he was a child, Geralt would quail before Vesemir’s silent judgment, but Jaskier had taught Geralt that silence wasn’t necessarily condemnation and that he needn’t assume the worst.

So, he waited and took the time to study Vesemir in turn.  He was hale and healthy, with the look of a man in his middle-age despite his nearly four centuries.  But Geralt had never seen such deep, dark circles under his eyes, nor seen his face so drawn.  His complexion had the grey, sunken look of one who had been to war and hadn’t quite realized they were home yet.

If Geralt hadn’t already forgiven Vesemir, he would have then.

“You look well,”  Vesemir said, his voice thick as it broke the grey silence.  He cleared his throat harshly before he continued.  “Better than I’ve ever seen you look.”

“I feel better.  Stronger.”  Geralt said, holding Vesemir’s gaze.

“And he is good to you?”  Vesemir asked, drawing each word out slowly, painfully, forcing himself to face the discussion at hand.  Witchers were taught to dismiss their emotions and never to discuss them.  But Geralt had learned better now and he would help his family do the same.

“Aye,”  Geralt said with a soft smile.  “He’s shown me that I can have what I need without sacrificing my ability to follow my Path.  And he’s right.  This time last year, I was barely able to function, let alone take contracts, but not even a fortnight ago, I took down a Dominant werewolf.  He even tried to subdue me with his Voice.”

Vesemir visibly paled, fingers involuntarily clutching into the tabletop.  “Were you --?”

“Unaffected,” Geralt said, a faintly disbelieving smile on his face.  He still wasn’t quite over the shock of that discovery. “I felt his Voice but I didn’t feel any compulsion to obey.  So, instead of kneeling, I thrust my sword up through his chest.”

Vesemir let out a shaky breath, an equally disbelieving smile creaking across his face.  “Was he surprised?”

“Deathly.”  Geralt deadpanned. 

Vesemir snorted, shaking his head with a fond smile.  For the first time since they’d arrived at Kaer Morhen, Vesemir looked like himself.  Geralt felt hope bloom in his chest and grinned back at him.  This was what he’d missed.

With a deep breath, Vesemir sobered, straightening in his chair and giving Geralt a serious look.  “Well, I can’t argue with the results, but I will reserve my judgment until I learn more about this Dominant of yours.  I have to be sure he’s worthy.”

“He is.  Even Lambert approved.” 

“He met Lambert?  Where?”  Vesemir asked.

“In Vizima.  He’d managed to lose Calamity to a squire and needed help winning her back.”  Geralt said, mirth dancing at the edges of his serious expression.

“Well, that’s certainly a tale I’ll need to hear.”  Vesemir said, a glint in his eye.  Vesemir and Lambert were like fire and oil, sparking off each other until they each exploded.  But the undercurrent of love ran deep and they secretly enjoyed their spats.  Eskel and Geralt had spent many a happy evening sitting by the fire watching Vesemir and Lambert argue.  Geralt had no doubt this story would lead to a spectacular one.

“But, if Lambert approved, I will certainly take that into consideration.  And I will run him through my own tests, of course.”  Vesemir said, tone taking on an almost instructive note. 

Geralt felt warmed through by the clear showing of Vesemir’s care and protection and that gave him the confidence to broach one more delicate topic.  “Jaskier said he can teach us how to interact better as a family.”

Vesemir raised a stern eyebrow and Geralt rushed to explain.

“As to our designations, I mean.”  Geralt felt a flush creeping up his neck, he didn’t like discussing these things out loud any more than Vesemir did.  But it was important, so he pushed through.  “I spent time with Jaskier and his family in Lettenhove.  Jaskier and his mother are Dominants but his little brother is a submissive.  I saw how they interacted with each other and I want to have that here too.”

“What do you mean?”  Vesemir said, furrowing his brow.  He looked as if he would rather be having any other discussion but this one, but he was still there and that’s what mattered.

“I know you and Lambert and Eskel need to guide submissives down to be healthy just as much as I need to be guided.”  Geralt began but Vesemir quickly cut him off.

“But I don’t want to hurt you again, not if you can get what you need elsewhere.  And I certainly don’t want to engage with you in the way I do with the courtesans at the brothels.”  Vesemir said, his jaw clenching as he looked down and away.

Tentatively, Geralt reached out and placed a hand on Vesemir’s clenched fist.  “But those aren’t the only options.”  Geralt said, gaining confidence as he explained what he’d seen in Lettenhove.  “Leopold, Jaskier’s brother, that is, would kneel for Jaskier, or for his mother, and they would guide him down gently, without pain and certainly without anything inappropriate.”

“How?”  Vesemir asked, his voice almost harsh in his confusion.  “I was taught that the only ways to drop a submissive were systematic whippings or sexual scenes.”

“That’s not true.  Jaskier told me he learned about those old techniques as a history lesson and that modern teachings are much more comprehensive to help suit the needs of each individual.  He can explain it better, but don’t you remember how Eskel and Lambert used to help me before you started your method?”

Vesemir nodded slowly.  “Aye.”

“It’s like that.”  Geralt said.  “That’s how Jaskier dropped me at first, just gently and simply.  And it worked for both of us.”

Vesemir hummed, considering Geralt’s words.  “I will think on it and speak about this more with your Dominant,” he said finally as he rose from the table.

Geralt knew that was the best possible outcome he could expect.  Just knowing Vesemir heard him and was willing to consider learning was a big step. 

As Vesemir laid his hand on the door pull to leave, he turned back and said, “I’ll see you for dinner.”

Geralt beamed, the sudden surge of joy he felt at those words bursting across his face.  He felt as if a tremendous weight had dropped off his shoulders.  “I look forward to it,” he said.

With a sharp nod, Vesemir left, the door falling shut behind him.  For the first time since their return, it didn’t feel like a dismissal.

Chapter Text

After his successful breakfast with Vesemir, Geralt and Jaskier spent the rest of the day repairing the wall they’d started working on the day before.  They cleared off the snow, set up the scaffold, and hauled mortar and fresh-cut stone up in buckets, carefully repairing the wall until no trace of the hole remained.  To bolster their efforts, Geralt chipped away at any failing stones near the breach and replaced them with new ones that were whole and undamaged.  When Geralt lay the final stone and smoothed out the last of the mortar, he felt as if he had repaired a part of himself along with the walls of the keep.  Just like Kaer Morhen itself, the relationships he had built here over his lifetime were worth the work to maintain.  When he shared that thought with Jaskier, he received a soft smile and a searing kiss in response.

As they packed away the tools, Geralt heard the sound of hooves on the path leading up to the keep.  Hooves that did not belong to Vesemir and Ash.  He rushed to the main gate with a broad smile on his face, Jaskier following close behind, darting out down the icy path toward the lone horse and rider in the distance.  Geralt opened his stride, flying across the ground, and threw himself into Eskel’s waiting arms as soon as his feet hit the ground, nudging his head up under Eskel’s chin before burying his face in his brother’s broad chest.  

Ember snorted at the display, tossing her head to free her reins from Eskel’s loose grasp, and trotting past them up the path and towards the keep, knowing a warm stall was waiting for her.  They made no move to stop her.  At the gate, Jaskier caught her reins and led her back into the stables with a pat to her glossy black neck, tossing Eskel a wave over his shoulder. 

Given it was yet midday, Eskel must have decided to take his chances entering the main gate rather than going through the tunnel under the moat as Geralt and Jaskier had done.  When Vesemir was in residence, he left the main gate open during the day so that any of his wolves could enter unimpeded, closing it only when dusk fell.

“It’s good to see you too, Wolf.”  Eskel said fondly, slinging an arm over Geralt’s shoulder and pulling him close as they strode up the path together.  “Is Lambert here yet?”

“Not yet.  Jaskier and I arrived three days ago and we were the first after Vesemir.”  Geralt said, soaking up Eskel’s warmth. 

“It’ll be good to see Jaskier again.”  Eskel said with a smile.  “I can finally greet him properly as your Dominant.”

Geralt flushed and looked away.  “You’ve already met him, there’s no need to stand on ceremony.”

“Aye, we’ve met, but it’s something else to meet my little brother’s Dominant instead of just meeting his travel companion.  I have to make sure he knows to do right by you.”  Eskel said, tightening his hold around Geralt’s shoulders.

Geralt felt warmed through at Eskel’s acceptance, not that he’d expected anything less from his easygoing elder brother.  Eskel had been the first to assume Jaskier was his Dominant and had encouraged Geralt to share his secret when he learned he’d assumed wrong.  Geralt hadn’t seen him in well over a year but he had been confident Eskel would be pleased with the development.

“You look well, Geralt.  Far better than when I last saw you.  And ages better than you used to look in the winter.”  Eskel said seriously.  “I’m relieved.  I was worried you would soon be lost to us.”

“I almost was.”  Geralt admitted softly.  “I was injured by a spell and had to be healed by Nenneke.  She found that my mind was damaged almost beyond repair.  She told me that another year without a change would have been my last.”

Eskel made a wounded sound, twisting to draw Geralt into a tight embrace, burying his face in Geralt’s hair and breathing deeply.  Geralt could hardly draw breath in the tight hold but he said nothing, simply embracing Eskel in return with equal strength. 

After a long moment, Eskel drew back, holding Geralt’s face between his large palms and pressing their foreheads together. 

“Never again, Geralt.  Even after Jaskier is lost to time, I will make sure you get the care you need.  I will not lose you to this.”  Eskel vowed, his voice rough with emotion.

“I promise, Eskel.  Never again.”  Geralt vowed in return, letting his expression fall open to Eskel’s scrutiny, showing him how much he had changed.

Eskel held his gaze for a long moment before stepping back and resuming their walk up to the keep, his arm tight around Geralt’s shoulders.  As they walked, Geralt told Eskel about what had happened since their last meeting.  He told him about Yennefer, about Nenneke, about Oxenfurt and Lettenhove.  He told him the Dominant werewolf outside Daevon had held no power over him.  He told him all the good Jaskier had done and how he would never take a single day of Jaskier’s life for granted. 

As they set foot on the drawbridge leading up to the main gate, Geralt held Eskel back and told him about Vesemir.  About how Vesemir’s apparent rejection when they had first arrived had been based on guilt and shame.  About how Geralt wanted to reconcile, to learn how to interact better as a family.

Eskel said nothing, simply holding Geralt in steadfast support as he bared his heart.  When Geralt looked up at him, searching for his approval, Eskel gave it immediately, offering Geralt a soft smile and an understanding nod.

“I understand, he’s my father too.  And Lambert’s, though he’d never admit as much in words.  I won’t allow either of you to fall back into old patterns, but I will do everything in my power to help you forge new ones.”  Eskel said.

Geralt nudged his head up under Eskel’s chin again, holding it there for a long moment to express his gratitude and his love for his brother.  Eskel had always meant safety to Geralt and he knew the love Eskel held for him was unconditional.  Though they weren’t related by blood, they'd been bound together in the Trials, holding each other as their bodies shattered and reformed.  It was an unbreakable bond.

With a grateful smile, Geralt lead the way forward into the keep.

That night, Eskel joined Geralt, Jaskier, and Vesemir for a hearty dinner of roasted venison and shared the tale of his encounter with a territorial forktail along the banks of the Gwenllech on his way home.  After adopting Lil’ Bleater, who had been overjoyed to see Eskel again, Eskel couldn’t bring himself to use the usual goat to bait a forktail, so he’d taken to using old goat hides stuffed with rations to bait the beast instead.  Most of the time, he got his rations back, but this particular forktail had been so incensed by the trickery that it had used the bait as ammunition, flinging bits of hide, hardtack, and jerky at Eskel as he spun and rolled to avoid the edible barrage.

“The beast was so enraged it didn’t even try to bite or claw me, it just kept flinging hardtack!”  Eskel said, gesticulating wildly.  “But it was throwing the bits so hard I couldn’t just ignore it, so there I am, spinning about like a top while a forktail throws my fucking lunch back at me!”

Geralt and Jaskier were laughing helplessly at the tale and even Vesemir was grinning.  From the pleased glint in Eskel’s eye, Geralt could tell that had been the goal.  Eskel had always been the peacemaker, soothing Lambert’s rough edges and filling in Geralt’s silences, helping them all understand each other.

“And did you kill it?”  Vesemir asked with feigned severity.

“Of course!  What kind of witcher do you take me for?”  Eskel said in mock offense.  “When it ran out of things to throw, it threw itself at me instead and I shot in through the eye with my crossbow.”

“You’ve been practicing your aim then,”  Vesemir said approvingly.

“Aye, I’m not about to lose to Lambert again.”  Eskel said with a sniff, crossing his arms over his chest.

“You lost to Lambert in a shooting match?”  Geralt asked with a delighted grin.

“I will neither admit it nor deny it.”  Eskel said, face turned away.  Geralt could see the smile tugging at the corner of his scarred lips. 

“Means ‘yes’, that does.”  Geralt said to Jaskier in a stage whisper.

“Aye, I do believe you’re right, my dear.”  Jaskier said, matching Geralt’s tone.  “Eskel lost to his little brother and needed remedial training.”

“Indeed, he did.”  Vesemir confirmed, nodding sagely.

Eskel cracked, mock offense dissolving into giggles.  “I did,” he said when he caught his breath back.  “And Lambert didn’t let me forget it!  I have no intention of a repeat performance.”

“And I owe Lambert a sparring match,”  Geralt said brightly.  “I look forward to trouncing him again.”

“What is it now, 10,000 to 0?”  Eskel asked, affecting an arch tone.

“There about, I’ve lost count.”  Geralt said, equally arch.

“Now, now, don’t get too cocky or Lambert will put you flat on your back next time.”  Vesemir said, the glint in his eye betraying the scolding tone.

Geralt felt a pang of hurt at the rebuke but it quickly turned to joy when he saw Vesemir’s expression – if Vesemir was willing to tease him again, they must have made serious progress with their breakfast this morning.

“Maybe in another four hundred years!”  Geralt quipped back, matching Vesemir’s teasing tone.  “He’ll never beat me until he learns to stop losing his temper when he fights.”

“True enough,”  Vesemir said.  “Now, I believe it’s time to wash up.  We have a lot of chores to handle tomorrow and I don’t want to hear any complaints about tiredness!”

Eskel and Geralt grumbled about not being children anymore but they rose all the same, carrying their bowls over to the wash basin and dropping them in to soak. 

“Fancy a game of Gwent before we retire?”  Eskel asked.

Geralt perked up.  “Always,” he said.  Jaskier didn’t play, but Eskel was a more than worthy opponent.

Jaskier moved to follow them when Vesemir spoke up.  “Jaskier, if you would, help me with the wash basin.”

“Vesemir, I can take it out in the morning.”  Geralt protested.  It was his morning chore to take out the dinner and breakfast dishes and wash them before replacing the water from the well.

Eskel placed a quelling hand on his arm and shook his head, pointedly looking between Jaskier and Vesemir.  Vesemir wants time alone with Jaskier.  Geralt understood and subsided.

Jaskier picked up on Vesemir’s reasons immediately.  “Of course, Vesemir, I’m happy to help.”

Vesemir turned back and picked up one end of the heavy wash basin and Jaskier quickly moved to take the other.  As Jaskier and Vesemir took care of the washing, Geralt and Eskel set up their game at the small table on the other side of the kitchen hearth in the corner of the main hall. 

“How does Jaskier feel about all this?”  Eskel asked quietly.

“He’s been supportive.  I can tell he’s angry with how Vesemir treated me but we talked about why it’s important to me that we reconcile.  He understands.”  Geralt said.

Eskel hummed, a considering look on his face.  “He seems a generous soul.  I’m glad for the chance to get to know him better.  And I can tell he’s done wonders for your overall health and well-being.” 

“He has.”  Geralt said with a soft smile. “Without his support, I don’t know if I would have made it back here, or had the courage to keep pushing when Vesemir initially rejected my overtures.  He’s even offered to help us learn how to interact better with each other with respect to our designations, so we can all get what we need to stay healthy.”

“Such as?”  Eskel asked, brows raised as he sorted and dealt his cards.

“I need to be guided into subspace and you need to guide a submissive down, aye?”  Geralt asked as he arranged his hand of cards, keeping his face carefully blank.  It was an excellent hand.

Eskel nodded, discarding two cards and redrawing before arranging his own hand.

“You usually go to the brothels or to a willing partner, but that’s not possible in the winter up here.  So, while we’re here, I can help you.”  Geralt said, eyes trained on his cards.

“I’m not beating you or fucking you, Geralt.”  Eskel said, eyes snapping up with horror.

Geralt raised a hand to quell his horrified outrage.  “Of course not.  But remember how we used to do it as trainees?”  Eskel nodded slowly.  “I think it’s like that.  Gentle and familial, nothing violent or sexual at all.”

Eskel hummed again, obviously taking that in just as Vesemir had.  “You would want to kneel for me?  And I can guide you down just by sitting with you and stroking your hair like we did as kids?”  He asked finally, uncertain.

“Aye, I believe so.  That’s how Jaskier did it at first and it worked fine for us back then.  Then you don’t need to deprive yourself while you’re here either.”  Geralt said softly, keeping an eye on the outer door for Jaskier and Vesemir.

“And how does Jaskier feel about that? You being his submissive and all.”  Eskel asked, mouth twisting in discomfort.

“It was his suggestion.  He and his mother do the same for his brother when they’re all at home together.”  Geralt said, thinking back to that quiet evening by the fire in Lettenhove.

Eskel hummed and fell silent, attending to his cards.  Geralt let it drop, content to play while Eskel thought over what he’d said.  They played for a while, each winning a round, then dealt again for the tiebreaker.

“I think I would like to try it.”  Eskel said finally, breaking the silence.

Geralt smiled at him.  “Then we shall.”

Their moment was interrupted when Vesemir and Jaskier returned inside, the basin between them full now of clean water and dishes.  They clattered into the kitchen, Jaskier shoving the heavy, wooden door open with his foot, and placed the basin down, removing the pile of dishes and utensils to dry before putting away.  They couldn’t see Jaskier and Vesemir, the thick walls and deep hearth prevented that, but Geralt and Eskel fell quiet, their ears trained on the conversation in the kitchen.

“Shall I put the bowls back once they’re dry or leave some out for tomorrow?”  Jaskier asked.

“Leave four out but put the rest away.”  Vesemir instructed.  They could hear the raps of the wooden dishes being stacked together and the subtle squeak of a clean linen wiping down the utensils.

When the last dish had been put away and the linens hung to dry, Vesemir spoke again.  “You must be angry with me, as Geralt’s Dominant.  I would offer you retribution for the harm I caused to your submissive.”  Vesemir said quietly, tone hollow.

Jaskier sighed and Geralt could hear him cross his arms over his chest, leaning back to rest against the wooden table.

“I am angry.”  Jaskier said bluntly.  “I would carve every wound you inflicted upon him into your flesh if it were my choice.”

Geralt tensed, moving to stand, but Eskel stopped him with a hand on his forearm.  Trust him.  Geralt sat back, fiddling with his cards, giving up even the pretense of continuing the game.

“But it’s not my choice.”  Jaskier said firmly.  Anger simmered under his words but they were as carefully chosen as ever.  “Geralt explained to me how important you are to him and how important it is that you reconcile.  He will have a lifetime with you and his brothers long after I am gone.  I want it to be a good one.” 

Geralt could hear Jaskier push away from the table and approach Vesemir.  They were of a height, though Vesemir was much broader, and Geralt could imagine the cold rage on Jaskier’s face.  He’d seen it once before back in Oxenfurt when he had brought a court challenge against Baron Dunin to release Geralt from the bowels of Deireadh Prison and had seen how close to death Geralt had been brought by the rampant abuse he’d suffered within its walls.

Geralt had no doubt Jaskier’s anger would make even Vesemir feel small.

“You hurt him beyond reckoning and I pieced him back together.  He will feel the effects of your actions for the rest of his life.  But it is his life and his choice to forgive you.  Because he wants to reconcile with you, I will support him with all I have and I will do my best to foster a relationship with you as well.  I would not force him to divide his loyalties between us.”  Jaskier said, voice low and deep with anger.  “But know this, Vesemir, if you hurt him again, I will return that hurt back on you tenfold.  And I will always be watching.”

There was a long moment of silence.  Geralt was torn between horror and elation, horrified that Jaskier would threaten Vesemir and elated that Jaskier would go so far not only to protect him, but to support his decisions about his own life.

“I would expect nothing less.” Vesemir said finally, a note of approval in his voice.

Geralt relaxed and turned back to his game with Eskel, pressing a grateful kiss to Jaskier’s cheek when he slid onto the bench beside him, Vesemir seating himself next to Eskel.  They played long into the night, Geralt and Eskel facing each other in successive matches as Jaskier kept score and Vesemir offered increasingly absurd advice.

Even though Geralt lost to Eskel in the end, he still felt as if he had won.

Lambert arrived late the next morning, guiding Calamity through the underground tunnel to avoid the fine coating of ice that had covered the path to the main gate overnight.  It was well and truly winter now.

After a shared breakfast just after dawn, the men had dispersed to take care of their assigned tasks.  Given the poor conditions outside, Geralt and Jaskier had been assigned to oil the portcullis mechanism while Vesemir repaired books in the library and Eskel worked on their supply of bombs.  It had been a quiet meal, as breakfasts usually were, but the air was lighter and conversation flowed easily about the mundane tasks of the day to come.

Down at the tunnel entrance, Geralt held up the portcullis, raising it slowly so Jaskier could oil the joins in the chain as the heavy links rolled through the lift mechanism.  When the portcullis was nearly raised to the top and the task almost complete, Geralt picked up the sound of hooves echoing against the tunnel walls in the distance.  He tensed, parsing the sound, before relaxing with an easy smile.

“Lambert is coming.”  Geralt said to Jaskier. 

“Wonderful!  How long until he gets to us?”  Jaskier said with a smile, increasing the pace of his work.

“Not long, he should arrive just after we finish this.”  Geralt responded with a smile, adjusting his stance and tightening his grip on the chain, muscles aching from holding up the heavy gate these past few hours.  It was always a tough chore, one that required two witchers, and he and his brothers would often bet on a game of Gwent, loser having to hold the chain.  This year, since Geralt had lost to Eskel last night, he’d earned the chore.  With the cold encroaching fast, they couldn’t afford to wait for Lambert to arrive before laying the oil, lest they risk the portcullis seizing shut.

Jaskier frowned when Geralt shifted.  “Are you still all right holding it up?  We can take a break if you need.” 

Geralt shook his head.  He’d rather get it done.

Jaskier’s lips thinned but he nodded.  “All right, but I’m giving you a massage later.  I don’t want to you get sore from this.”

“You’ll hear no arguments from me.”  Geralt said, quirking a grin.  It hit him sometimes how natural it now felt to accept Jaskier’s help and care.  He still struggled with the reflexive sense of shame engendered by accepting aid, but he was working on it and it came more easily each time. 

“Good.  I think we’re both due for a proper bath by now too.”  Jaskier said, looking down at his dusty tunic appraisingly.  Until now, with so much outside tension, they’d washed up with a simple basin, unwilling to take the time to haul water and a bathtub up into Geralt’s tower room when more important matters demanded their attention. 

Geralt hummed approvingly.  “We can do that.  There’s a copper tub we can haul up into the tower.  Or we can use the hot springs.”

“Hot springs?” Jaskier asked, stopping his work to stare up at Geralt.  “Where?”

“Under the keep.  It’s a bit rough and dark, but the hot springs are plenty big and should be cool enough for you to tolerate.”  Geralt said, raising an eyebrow and motioning with his head to prompt Jaskier to return to his task.

“You’ve been holding out on me again -- first, the hot springs at the Temple of Melitele, and, now, here!  For a man who likes bathing as much as you do, I’m surprised you haven’t been down there every day.”  Jaskier said, looking up at Geralt with a smile to make sure he understood that Jaskier was only teasing.

Geralt pushed down the instinctive tension he felt at displeasing Jaskier and rolled his eyes, taking the words as intended.  “Well, I’m telling you now.  We can go down there today.  I’m sure Eskel and Lambert, at least, will join as us well.”

“Gods, I can hear you flirting from here!  Are you trying to ward me off or something?”  Lambert’s voice rang out down the corridor.

“Nay, we’d never condemn Calamity to spend all winter with you whining about the cold!”  Geralt called back with a grin.  Jaskier rushed to finish oiling the last links, stretching up to drip oil into the very top of the chain where it disappeared into the ancient tunnel walls.

“Or have you lost her again already?”  Geralt continued when he was met with indignant sputtering.

“Oh, fuck you!”  Lambert yelled back as he came into view around a bend, Calamity in tow.

Geralt moved as if to close the portcullis before Lambert could enter. 

“You bastard, don’t you dare!”  Lambert growled back, “I am not fucking ice skating my way up that death trap of a path in the gods damned freezing cold!” 

Geralt rolled his eyes but lifted the portcullis fully again, letting Lambert and Calamity pass under before he slowly lowered it down, Lambert waiting silently until he finished the delicate task.

When Geralt finished, he turned to Lambert, who stood watching him with a complicated expression, as if uncertain how to greet Geralt.  Geralt knew he’d changed things in Vizima and moved first, stepping close and nudging his head up under Lambert’s chin.  This time, Lambert returned the embrace readily, holding Geralt tight for a long moment, chin hooked over Geralt’s head.

“Fucking sap,” Lambert said as he stepped back, ruffling Geralt’s hair.

“You love it,”  Geralt said, tossing his chin in the air with a mock huff.  Lambert rolled his eyes in response.

“It’s good to see you again, Lambert.” Jaskier said with a smile, stepping forward and clasping Lambert’s forearm before pulling him in for a hug of his own.  Lambert spluttered but allowed it, patting Jaskier’s back gingerly before releasing him.

“Yeah, yeah, let’s go inside before my balls freeze off.”  Lambert grumbled, leading Calamity up toward the stables, Geralt and Jaskier following behind.

“Oh?  When did you grow those?”  Geralt asked lightly.

“Honestly, fuck you.” Lambert said, lifting his hand over his head with an obscene gesture.

“You know, he’s always been a late bloomer,”  Geralt said to Jaskier in a stage whisper, taking the tone of a gossip.

“Oh, that’s it,” Lambert said, tossing Calamity’s reins over her head before spinning around to pounce on Geralt.  She knew the way to the stable and quickly trotted off, eager to get to her warm stall and rejoin her friends.  She made a point of nipping Lambert on the way by, lest he think she was tolerant of his antics.

Geralt let Lambert bear him down to the ground, laughing as Lambert pressed his fingers into his ribs.

“Geralt, you’re ticklish?” Jaskier asked delightedly, watching the play bout.

“Sure is,” Lambert said, digging in harder.  “All up his sides and on the bottoms of his feet.”

“Really?”  Jaskier said with a grin.  “You are a wealth of information, Lambert.”

Lambert gave him a pleased grin and Geralt groaned.  “No conspiring with my Dominant!”

“You started it!”  Lambert said.

“He’s right, I’m afraid.”  Jaskier said with mock seriousness.  “You’ll just have to bear the consequences.”

And then Jaskier got in on it too, leaning around Lambert to tickle the sensitive junction between Geralt’s hips and his waist.

Geralt tried to squirm away, bucking against Lambert’s hold, but he couldn’t budge him without hurting him and that wasn’t in the spirit of their play, so he tried to hold up against the assault, gritting his teeth and holding in his laughs. 

That worked until Lambert bounced on his stomach, forcing the air out of lungs, causing him to reflexively draw breath.  With his control broken, Geralt laughed until his stomach ached.  When his breath started to come in rasping gasps, Lambert finally let up. 

“Do you yield?”  Lambert asked archly, hands resting on Geralt’s sides.  Jaskier stood back, grinning down at them.

“Aye,” Geralt panted, voice rough but with a broad smile on his face. 

Lambert nodded seriously and stood, offering Geralt a hand up.  When he was back on his feet, Lambert slung an arm around Geralt’s shoulders and led them up the tunnel into the keep.

Later that day, as Vesemir prepared dinner with stern instructions to leave him to work in peace, Lambert and Eskel joined Geralt, and Jaskier in the hot springs below Kaer Morhen, eager to soak away the cold and the ache of a long year.

Jaskier followed Geralt, curiously peering at the rough-hewn, narrow tunnel as they descended into what felt like the bowels of the earth.  Unlike the open, elegant baths at the Temple of Melitele, these were much coarser, obviously intended for function above all else.  Still, the sharp scent of minerals pervading the air and the warm brush of steam did the job just as well.

Without ceremony, the three witchers disrobed, hanging their tunics and breeches on hooks banged into the cavern’s walls and lining their boots up well away from the water’s edge.  Jaskier did the same, hanging his clothes beside Geralt’s and, after a quick temperature check, following the witchers as they dropped over the edge into the deep pool.  There was no gentle staircase here, just a drop off into water that easily came up to Jaskier’s chin.

Geralt let out a deep sigh, leaning back against the edge of the pool and stretching out his arms along the edge.  A flush immediately started to rise up his neck, adding an uncharacteristic blush of color to his pale cheeks.

“You look like a fucking tomato.”  Lambert quipped, leaning back along the wall next to Geralt, just past the range of his fingertips.

Geralt flipped him an obscene gesture, tilting his head back and closing his eyes.

“You’ll get nothing useful out of him until he’s well and truly boiled himself.”  Eskel said with a wry grin.

Geralt peeked out at him from one eye before closing it again, settling in.  Jaskier waded over to Geralt’s other side, pressing flush up against him and resting his head on Geralt’s arm.  With a fond shake of his head, Eskel claimed a spot on the opposite side, hopping up on the ledge found there and leaning back with his elbows on the lip of the pool.  Unlike Geralt, Eskel had never enjoyed fully submersing himself in the hot water and, over the years, the brothers had smoothed and expanded the natural ledge found in the stone to allow Eskel a spot to comfortably sit at his preferred depth.

They sat and soaked together in silence for a long moment, breathing in the steam and breathing out a year’s worth of tension.

“How often do you come down here?”  Jaskier asked quietly, by then thoroughly warmed through, staring up at the dark ceiling far above.  The chamber was narrow but it stretched high above their heads, disappearing from Jaskier’s sight.

“Once a week or so, if we can manage it.  It’s not good to get too waterlogged and overheated once winter really settles in.”  Eskel said, pushing back to rest against the edge.

“Geralt would be down here every day if Vesemir would allow it.”  Lambert said with a grin.  “He used to sneak down here as a kid until Vesemir caught him with icicles in his hair one morning.”

“And what did Vesemir do about that?”  Jaskier asked, leaning forward to hear the tale.

“He let me live with the headache I caused myself and assigned me to gather the water from the stream for the next two weeks.”  Geralt said, wincing at the memory.  “Said I was setting a poor example for the younger trainees and putting myself at needless risk.”

“A strict master indeed.”  Jaskier said with a frown.  “But you suffered no lasting harm?”

“None,” Geralt confirmed.  “Just the embarrassment of hearing this tale retold every winter.”

“Good, I hope we can avoid a repeat of that this year.”  Jaskier said with a faint smile.  “Now, where’s the soap?  I’ll wash your hair for you.”

Geralt handed it to him wordlessly and Jaskier pushed himself out of the pool, sitting on the edge with his feet dangling in the water, Geralt between his knees.  When Jaskier started to work in the soap, massaging it into Geralt’s long hair and down his neck and shoulders, Geralt tilted his head back with a groan, Jaskier’s fingers releasing the aches caused by holding up the portcullis for so long. 

“You’re really turning into a kept puppy there, Geralt.”  Lambert said mockingly.

“You’re just jealous no one wants to give you a massage.”  Geralt said, casting a sideways glance at Lambert. 

“We can’t all be pampered princesses,” Lambert said with a huff.

“I can do your hair too, if you’d like.”  Jaskier offered lightly. 

Lambert flushed and turned away, scowling. “I don’t need it!”

Jaskier gave him a knowing smile and let it drop.  Geralt had a feeling Lambert would give in before the end of the season.  For as much as he protested, Lambert was probably the one among them who most enjoyed physical touch.

“Peace, lads,” Eskel said, tilting his head back and closing his eyes.  “I can’t enjoy this with your bickering.”  Eskel took the bite out of his words with a gentle smile, but they all complied, relaxing into the warm water and enjoying the rare feeling being warmed through.  When Jaskier finished his hair, Geralt traded places with him, massaging soap into Jaskier’s soft locks until he was fully relaxed.

They were drawn out of the languid mood when Vesemir called down the tunnel from above.  “You boys going to come up some time before spring?  Get up here for dinner!” 

The three witchers jumped and sat up.  “Yes, Vesemir!”  They called back, sounding so much like schoolchildren Jaskier couldn’t help but laugh, covering his mirth with his hand.

“You’re just so cute together,” Jaskier explained when Geralt gave him a questioning look.  Lambert looked scandalized.

They all finished washing, then dried and dressed quickly, Jaskier helping Geralt wring as much water out of his long hair as possible, before they trotted up the stairs into the main hall and made their way to the kitchen, settling down together at the long wooden table before heaping bowls of stew. 

“Chicken stew!”  Geralt said happily, picking up his spoon and digging in as soon as Vesemir gave his nod of permission.  “Where’d you get the chicken, Vesemir?”

“I got two boiling hens during my last trip to the village for the season.”  Vesemir said, eyes focused on his stew.  “I wanted to be sure to have some in stock for you.”

Geralt’s answering smile was soft and warm, eyes shining with tears he couldn’t shed.  Vesemir cleared his throat with a cough, gesturing for Geralt to stop talking and keep eating.

“It’s my favorite.”  Geralt explained, leaning into Jaskier.  “We can’t keep chickens up here long term, and it’s too expensive to buy them just to preserve the meat, so it’s something Vesemir can only make at the beginning of the season.”

“Then I’m glad to have had the chance to try it.  It’s excellent, my highest compliments to the chef.”  Jaskier said, nodding respectfully to Vesemir. 

“It’s just stew.”  Vesemir said, shoulders hunching.  It seemed the inability to take compliments was an inherited trait.

“It is.  But stew takes hours to cook and you had to specially buy these ingredients.” Jaskier said.  He waited until Vesemir looked up before he continued. “The time and the thought you put in makes this much more than a simple stew.”

Geralt placed a warm hand on Jaskier’s thigh, squeezing gently.  He was glad Jaskier was finally getting the chance to see Vesemir’s good side, the side that did everything he could to care for his wolves.  It would go a long way toward improving their relationship.

Vesemir gave Jaskier a tight nod before pointedly changing the subject.  “Lambert, I hear you managed to lose Calamity to a squire.”

Lambert slammed his spoon down with a glare at Geralt.  “You told him?”  He asked sharply. 

Geralt spread his hands with a grin.  “It was too good a story to keep secret.”

“What’s this now?”  Eskel asked, eyes glinting with delight.

“Lambert bet Calamity on a horse race with a squire.  Managed to lose her and then needed my help to win her back at the races in Vizima.”  Geralt explained.

Lambert seethed across from him and gave him a sharp kick to the shins which Geralt swiftly returned.

“The King Foltest Cup?”  Eskel asked.

“Aye, Roach won it handily.”  Geralt said proudly.

“As expected, she’s a fine mare.”  Vesemir said.  “But so is Calamity, so the fault must have been with her rider, especially if she was lost in a single match race to a child squire.”

“She slipped on the cobbles!  It was an accident!”  Lambert protested.  “And I got her back.  I wasn’t going to let them keep her.  I would have gotten her back myself but for that whoreson of a steward who wouldn't let me buy her back until after the race!”

“And why were you wagering her on a race in the first place?”  Vesemir asked sternly.

“The little fucker challenged me!”  Lambert said, broth flicking off his spoon as he gesticulated with it. 

“And you couldn’t just walk away?”  Vesemir asked, unknowingly echoing Geralt’s words.

“That’s what I said.”  Geralt muttered, drawing another glare from Lambert.

“Didn’t the squire challenge you because you stopped him from beating a dog?”  Jaskier broke in, fighting to keep a smile off his face.

“Yes!  Finally, someone listens.  I couldn’t just walk away from a challenge issued by a gutter-feeder like that.  And I did talk him down to a horse race instead of a duel.  He was a nasty fucker but I wasn’t about to kill a kid.”  Lambert said, righteous anger dimming until he was staring down into his stew, reminded of the shame he’d felt losing his beloved mount to such a trivial matter.

Vesemir shook his head fondly and reached across the table to ruffle his hair, which Lambert promptly shrugged away from.  “Next time, just don’t bet your horse.”

While Lambert was distracted, Eskel stole his bowl out from under him, surreptitiously replacing it with his empty one and prompting another argument as soon as the theft was discovered.

“Are they always like this?”  Jaskier asked, mirth sparkling in his eyes, watching Eskel and Lambert bicker.

“Aye, always.”  Geralt said, laughing as Vesemir bopped Eskel and Lambert each on the head with the ladle before taking and refilling both bowls.  Geralt pushed his over for a refill too and took it back with a grateful smile.  “They’re worse when they’re drunk.”

“At least we’ve never tried to ride a bear.”  Eskel said.

“When did that happen?”  Jaskier asked, leaning forward with clear interest.  Vesemir refilled Jaskier’s bowl with a more modest portion and Jaskier gave him a respectful nod, his expression tightening slightly as he looked over at Vesemir.  Geralt imagined the anger he had seen briefly last night would take a long time to ease, but he appreciated Jaskier’s forbearance.

“We were about fifteen or so and Geralt decided to get into the trainer’s alcohol stores,” Eskel started, a gleam in his eye. “But he didn’t know his vodka from his ale, so he ended up downing an entire bottle of White Gull.”

“The witcher hallucinogen.”  Jaskier cut in, raising his eyebrows at Geralt.  Geralt buried his head in his hands, suddenly regretting introducing Jaskier to his brothers.

“The very one.”  Eskel said, clearly relishing spilling Geralt’s childhood secrets.  “Now, even fully grown and mutated, we usually only drink a glass or two of that stuff.  But this idiot drank the whole damn bottle.  Absolutely lost his mind.  He came running into our room, yelled something about bears, stripped off all his clothes, and raced out into the snow.”

“Oh, dear.”  Jaskier said, choking on a laugh.  He attempted to look sympathetic to Geralt’s long-ago plight, but he was failing miserably.

“So, I chased him down into the valley and I found him trying to ride a bear!  Still naked, mind.  He was trying to negotiate with the beast, something about needing to see his liege, and kept trying to jump on its back when it swiped at him.”  Eskel said.  Geralt attempted to sink into the floor.

“What happened?”  Jaskier asked, eyes dancing.

“Fortunately, I was able to grab him and haul him back to the keep before the bear mauled him, but he spent the rest of the night raving about needing to see the ‘Lord of the Forest’ until he finally passed out.  And then he didn’t remember a thing!” 

“I remember the hangover.”  Geralt said, voice muffled by his hands.  “And the hundred laps I had to run on The Killer for stealing from the trainers.”

“They made him run it in just his boots and his loin cloth.”  Lambert said, leaning in as if to share a secret with Jaskier.  “Said if he could try to ride a bear naked, he could run in his smalls.  I was working on the walls that day and I saw the whole show.  Absolutely glorious.”

Geralt groaned into his hands again.  “I want to forget that ever happened.”

“Nope,” Lambert said, “never going to let you forget that.”

“It is good to remember one’s failings, Geralt.”  Vesemir started. 

“It prevents one from repeating them.”  Geralt finished.  “I remember the lesson, Vesemir.”

Vesemir raised an eyebrow at the cheek and Geralt flushed, looking to Jaskier for help.  “Can you pretend you never heard that?”

“Afraid not, love.”  Jaskier said with a smile.  “The idea of you running through the woods barely dressed is just far too appealing.”

“Ugh, that’s taking it way too far.  You’ve ruined it now.”  Lambert said, disgust twisting his features. 

“Now, now, Lambert, when two people love each other --” Eskel started, putting an arm around Lambert’s shoulders.

Lambert shrugged it off.  “Don’t you start.” He snapped. 

“Eskel’s right.  If you’re this bashful, we must have been remiss in your education.”  Geralt said, face a mask of deep concern.

“Fuck you, you sanctimonious prick.”  Lambert said with a huff, picking up his spoon and pointedly shoving a big bite in his mouth.  “Eat your food before it gets cold.  I don’t want to hear you complain.”

Geralt reached out and pat Lambert’s cheek.  Lambert snapped at him. 

Jaskier bumped Geralt’s shoulder and indicated his bowl.  “He’s right, eat up before it gets cold.  It would be a shame to have your favorite meal at anything less than its best.”

Geralt subsided, picking up his spoon and resuming his meal, humming happily at the beloved flavor.  As he ate, he could see Vesemir’s fond expression out of the corner of his eye and that warmed him almost as much as the meal itself.

The next few days passed in a flurry of activity as the witchers and Jaskier rushed to prepare as much as possible before the worst of winter bore down on the keep.  Eskel was assigned to check the magical alerts around the valley and to clear out a forktail making a nest above the horses’ winter pasture.  Lambert was assigned to mix mortar and repair the walls, focusing especially on the holes and cracks around the main hall and the grain storage rooms.  He came back every night covered in lime dust and cursing the weather, the keep, and the endless work.  But the walls were immaculately repaired.  Vesemir focused on the harvest, baling the remainder of the dried timothy hay and pickling the last of the fresh produce to add variety to their winter meals.

Geralt and Jaskier were assigned to care for the horses.  The day after Lambert arrived, Geralt fired the small forge by the stables and crafted winter shoes for all five horses, fitting them with small studs to give traction on the snow and ice.  The five riding horses, unlike the main herd of broodmares and youngsters, were kept stabled during the winter, but they were exercised frequently and had a winter pasture near the keep for use when weather permitted. 

Jaskier had been fascinated by the forging process and Geralt explained how he shaped each shoe to fit each hoof, heating and shaping the metal until it was perfect and then driving the shoes on with sure strokes, hammering fine, copper nails into the hoof wall to keep the shoes secure.  Jaskier, unable to help with the delicate process, had cleaned and oiled each horse’s tack while Geralt worked, pausing often to admire the way Geralt’s forearms flexed, veins standing out starkly from his bared skin.  Geralt was still getting used to Jaskier’s appreciation of his physical form, but the attention felt more welcome than unsettling now and it didn’t distract him from his task.

After the horses had been reshod, and had a few days to get used to the changed traction the new shoes afforded, Geralt led Jaskier out into the valley, taking him to check on the free ranging herd on their way into the lower part of the valley to hunt, hoping to find fresh game to supplement their stores. 

They stopped on a ridge overlooking the horses, admiring them in silence for a long moment.  It was a small herd, nothing like what they’d kept before Kaer Morhen was sacked, but the wilderness supported the horses well under the witchers’ watchful eye, and they were able to preserve the strong bloodlines crafted over the centuries with careful introductions of new genetic material from fine Kaedwenian stallions. 

“One day, Roach will join this herd and I’ll choose another filly to train.”  Geralt said quietly, stroking a hand down Roach’s neck.  “She’s got a good head, so we’ll want to breed that on.”

“When will you choose a new horse?”  Jaskier asked.

“In a few years.  Roach is twelve, so I’ll probably choose one of these current yearlings once they’ve had a chance to mature.” Geralt gestured to the youngsters dotted amongst the mares.  “Then, when the one I’ve chosen is four or five, I’ll start to take her along with Roach to train on the job.  Vesemir takes care of the initial gentling to saddle and bridle, but I’ll teach her the more specific tasks as we travel.”

“Is there one you have your eye on?”  Jaskier asked, scanning the herd.  They all looked like fine, strong horses, but he knew Geralt would make his decision carefully.

“I like the bay filly, and that grey one over there, best so far.  They’re surefooted and sensible, but we’ll see how they mature.”

“Is it hard when you change horses?” Jaskier asked gently.  He knew how fond Geralt was of Roach.

“If I retire my current Roach, then no.  I know they have a good life here.”  Geralt said, a pained expression on his face.  “But sometimes they don’t make it that long.”

Jaskier reached out and placed a warm hand on Geralt’s wrist, covering his submissive’s cuff through the heavy surcoat.  There was nothing to say.  Life on the Path was dangerous for all who walked it, human, witcher, or horse.  Jaskier knew Geralt would never forgive himself for the misjudgments that led to the losses of his past mares. 

“Do you think Potato could retire here one day?”  Jaskier asked lightly.  Geralt was glad for the shift in topic.

“Aye, he’d live out his life well here.  We’ll train a witcher’s mare for you as well.  Or you could choose one of the geldings we’d otherwise sell as a war horse.”

Jaskier blinked at him, stunned.  Then his expression morphed into a soft, warm smile and his hand tightened over Geralt’s cuff.  “That’s very generous of you, I know how important these horses are.”

“Potato is a good horse, but if you’re going to walk the Path with me, I want you to have the best mount possible.  A good witcher’s horse will keep you out of danger, just like Roach does.”  Geralt said.  He knew better than to try and dissuade Jaskier from following him into danger, but he would ensure Jaskier was as protected and prepared as possible.

Jaskier leaned over a pressed a lingering kiss to his cheek.  “You are far too good to me, my love.”

Geralt shook his head but knew better than to argue.  He would simply spend the rest of Jaskier’s life trying to live up to that assertion.  With one last look down at the herd happily grazing below, noses snuffling through the thin coating of snow to find the grass hidden beneath, Geralt led the way down the valley toward the hunting grounds, Jaskier following at his side.

That night, after a meal of roasted venison and fresh baked bread, the witchers and Jaskier gathered by the fire in the main hall, nursing tankards of Vesemir’s homemade mead and allowing it to warm them each through after a long day’s work.  Lambert, lime dust thoroughly washed off, idly baited Eskel about refusing to use goats to attract forktails like a sensible witcher would.  Given the forktail Eskel had finally managed to track down that day had nearly impaled him, Geralt knew the baiting came from Lambert’s inability to vocalize his concern and relief.  The interaction made it all too clear how close they had come to losing Eskel.

Geralt suddenly stood from where he sat beside Jaskier and walked over to Eskel, interrupting his bickering with Lambert.  “You’re sure you’re well?”  He asked, running his eyes over Eskel’s form, checking for any signs of pain.

“Aye, it only managed to scratch my armor in the end.”  Eskel said, giving Geralt a reassuring smile.

“Leave it for me, I’ll repair it.”  Geralt said, brooking no argument.  He was the best armorer and blacksmith among them, and it eased his heart knowing his brothers left the keep with their gear in the best possible shape.

Eskel almost protested but bit back his words at the haunted expression on Geralt’s face.  “I will,” he promised.

Geralt gave him a sharp nod before stepping close to Eskel and sinking to his knees at his brother’s side, the thick, bear-skin rug cushioning him against the stone floor beneath.  Geralt felt tension suddenly fill the room and Eskel froze, staring down at him.

Geralt knew this was out of character.  It was something they’d been forbidden since they were children.  But he knew Eskel wanted to try this and if he wanted things to change, if he wanted his family to learn to relax and help each other, he needed to set an example.

Geralt could feel the warm weight of Jaskier’s approval and let it carry him forward.

Geralt leaned into Eskel’s legs, resting his head on Eskel’s thigh.  Tentatively, flicking his gaze between Vesemir and Jaskier, the former meeting his gaze with stoic blankness and the latter with soft pride, Eskel placed his hand on Geralt’s head and ran his fingers through Geralt’s long, white hair. 

Geralt let out a pleased hum and settled in closer, looping one arm around Eskel’s calf.  Eskel’s strokes slowly became more confident, more consistent, and the tension slowly bled out of him.  When Geralt felt Eskel finally relax, he turned and reached a hand out toward Lambert, inviting him over with a steady, open gaze.

Lambert’s jaw jumped, teeth clenching as he looked anywhere but at Geralt’s extended hand.  Geralt waited, Eskel’s hand still running soothingly through his hair.  Lambert let out a harsh breath and stood, stomping over to Geralt’s side and throwing himself down on the couch next to Eskel, legs bracketing in Geralt’s other side. 

“You really are going fucking soft.”  He huffed, his words harsh but his hand gentle when it came to rest on Geralt’s shoulder, thumb stroking lightly over the thick, woolen tunic. 

Geralt reached out and hooked his free hand around Lambert’s ankle before resting his head back on Eskel’s thigh.

“You’re just jealous I went to Eskel first.”  Geralt said, lips quirking into a grin.

“As if.”  Lambert scoffed, leaning back and looking away.  His hand never left Geralt’s shoulder. 

“So, we’ve heard about Eskel and Lambert’s day, but how was yours, Vesemir?”  Jaskier asked.  Geralt felt a rush of gratitude and pride as Jaskier read the situation and knew exactly what was needed – normalcy.  Geralt knew Jaskier would breathe praises into his skin later, when they were alone in his tower room, but drawing attention to it now would only break the fragile moment.

Slowly, eyes never leaving his boys, Vesemir recounted his progress with the winter stores, telling Jaskier how he paid villagers from the valley to plant and harvest timothy grass from the fields below the keep, fields the witchers could no longer handle themselves after so many were lost to the pogroms.  How he had come back to Kaer Morhen several weeks before Jaskier and Geralt had arrived to lay out the harvested grass to dry into hay for the winter.  How he had spent the day stacking the last bales into the storage rooms to ensure the riding horses and the herd would be well fed in the long, cold months to come.

As they spoke, Jaskier gradually managing to fully engage Vesemir’s attention as they moved on from hay to pickling vegetables, Eskel and Lambert relaxed, leaning closer together with Geralt held tightly between their legs, grounded by Eskel’s warm hand in his hair and Lambert’s firm, gentle touch on his shoulder. 

He let himself drift, sinking into the patterns of touch and the soft affection of his surrounding family.  Jaskier and Vesemir’s conversation became background noise, melting away until the words lost all meaning and only their voices remained, soothing the anxious part of his mind that had feared they would never learn to coexist.

Geralt allowed himself to drop down into subspace, his brothers’ touch so familiar that he didn’t need their Voices to guide him down, their presence alone was enough.  He knew they would keep him safe.

Time lost all meaning, dilating around him until Geralt didn’t know if minutes or hours had passed.  It was still dark, the hearth fire banked and low, when he was drawn partially back to reality.

“He’s really dropped down.”  Lambert said, his voice hushed.  There was an unusual note in his voice that might have been awe.

“It really is as easy as that.”  Jaskier said softly.  Geralt heard him come to crouch in front of Lambert.  “He trusts you.  My brother will drop this easily at home too.”

“We would sit together, but he would never drop fully for me.  At least, not since we finished our training.”  Eskel said, alluding to the time when Vesemir had taken over managing Geralt.  His voice was rough with emotion and Geralt could feel it vibrating through him where they were pressed together.  He almost stirred, concerned at Eskel’s tone, but Eskel’s hand pressed into his scalp, soothing him, and he relaxed again.

“How do you feel?”  Jaskier asked gently.

Geralt felt Lambert tense.  But then he relaxed back with a sigh almost as quickly.  “Good.  More relaxed than I’ve been since I saw you both in Vizima.”  He said quietly, as if he wasn’t sure he wanted his words to be heard. 

“Like I never want to move.”  Eskel admitted.  “It’s really okay to take this from him?”

“You’re not taking anything from him.”  Jaskier said firmly but kindly.  “You’re giving him what he needs and allowing him to do the same for you.  Since he trusted me with his secret and has allowed to regularly guide him down, he’s gotten so much stronger, physically and mentally.  He was eager to share this with you.  With all of you.”  Geralt couldn’t see him through his closed eyes, but he knew Jaskier must have included Vesemir rather pointedly in that last statement.

Vesemir cleared his throat roughly.  “Time for bed, boys.  Chores won’t wait for late risers.”  The gruffness of his voice did nothing to hide his discomfort.  Or his regret.  Given their conversation the other day, Geralt let himself hope the regret was not at allowing his boys to behave this way, but at preventing it for so long. 

Geralt tried to hold onto the thought, to analyze Vesemir’s diction and tone, but his thoughts slipped through his fingers, dissolving with each pass of Eskel’s hand in his hair.

“Geralt, darling?  Can you come up a bit for me, please?”  Geralt heard Jaskier say from a distance.  “It’s time to head up to bed.”

Geralt couldn’t imagine moving, not even for Jaskier.  He was finally getting what he’d missed out on for so many decades and he didn’t want to lose the warmth of his brothers so soon. 

Jaskier gave a fond sigh and went to speak again, but Eskel interrupted him.  “I’ll carry him up to bed.  He’s so peaceful, it’d be a shame to bring him up just to walk up the stairs.”

“Of course, thank you, Eskel.”  Geralt could hear the warm smile in Jaskier’s voice and knew he didn’t have to think about anything else. 

Geralt felt Eskel lean forward, gently hooking an arm under Geralt’s knees and lifting him easily, cradling Geralt to his broad chest.  The last time Eskel had carried him like this had been after his final round of mutations, the experimental ones inflicted on him alone, when even walking to the chamber pot had been beyond his power. 

The feeling of safety and love was exactly the same. 

Geralt curled closer, burying his face in Eskel’s neck and breathing in his brother’s familiar scent.  Eskel smelled like woodsmoke and leather, like home.  As Eskel carried him easily through the main hall and up the spiraling stairs to the top of the tower, Geralt let himself go completely, trusting his brother to never falter.

Chapter Text

As winter deepened its hold the keep, the pace of work within it slowed.  With the major structural repairs and food preservation tasks completed, the witchers focused on the smaller tasks that would prepare them for the season to come.  As blizzards whipped snow into high drifts and ice coated the windows, Kaer Morhen’s inhabitants tucked in by the fire, assembling bombs, grinding potion ingredients, repairing armor, and carefully weaving together thick, sturdy fabric to sew replacement tunics and trousers.  There was also always laundry and cleaning to be done, tasks divided between the younger witchers and Jaskier, but Vesemir kept strict control over the cooking, allowing assistance only on occasion and never from Lambert. 

As the longest nights passed by and the days started to lengthen again, Vesemir and Geralt resumed their usual tasks together in the library, inspecting the ancient tomes for mold and booklice, rebinding crumbling spines, and updating bestiaries with that season’s new knowledge.  They worked in silence together in the quiet library, sitting beneath the window at opposite sides of the heavy worktable.  Each day brought a greater sense of normalcy and Geralt started to truly believe the progress he had made with Vesemir would stick.

Over the past weeks, Geralt had noticed how closely Vesemir observed them when he knelt for one of his brothers or for Jaskier, how he never moved to participate but also how he never objected either.  He wanted to have that with Vesemir as well, the simple comfort of being wholly himself in front of his family.  He had a feeling Vesemir needed it too.  He had an even stronger feeling that Vesemir would never ask for it.

One day in the library, Geralt resolved to make the first move. 

Slowly, quietly, Geralt rose from his seat and closed the bestiary he’d been updating, tucking it under his arm, his quill and inkpot held carefully in his other hand.  Vesemir looked up at him questioningly, it was far too early for them to break for the day, and he almost lost his resolve and returned to his seat.  But he steeled himself and stepped to Vesemir’s side, sinking down to his knees on the threadbare rug and leaning against the arm of Vesemir’s wooden chair. 

Vesemir froze.

Geralt forced himself to project an air of nonchalance, strictly controlling his breathing and heartrate.  He wouldn’t give Vesemir any reason to think he was afraid.  And, if he was honest with himself, he wasn’t.  He was afraid of Vesemir’s rejection, not of Vesemir himself.  Even the many times he had been strapped to the wooden cross, the cat-o-nine-tails singing in Vesemir’s hand, he’d been afraid of the whip, of the agony to come, but never of Vesemir.  Even through the fog of pain and forced drop, he could tell Vesemir got no enjoyment out of it -- he had smelled far more of resigned despair than of bloodlust.

Drawing in a fortifying breath, Geralt reached out and dragged his chair over, wooden legs scraping on the stone, then lay the bestiary and inkwell on it, and took back up his quill to return to his task.  For a long moment, the only sound in the library was the scratch of Geralt’s quill on ancient vellum.  Geralt couldn’t even hear Vesemir breathe, but he did hear his heart pounding in his chest, far faster than a witcher’s normal sedate pace.

Geralt kept working as if nothing had changed and Vesemir gradually, tentatively, reanimated, his breath starting again with a quiet gasp and his fingers trembling as they turned the pages of the quarto before him, inspecting each page for damage.

They stayed that way until the shadows stretched across the room and the stone walls glowed red from the sunset.

“Time for me to start making dinner.” Vesemir said, breaking the silence for the first time.  “Finish checking the quarto and then join me.”

“Yes, Vesemir.”  Geralt said, rising and placing his book and inkwell back on the table.  He had made good progress with his updates and would likely finish tomorrow.

Vesemir stood and headed out of the room, pausing as he reached the door, his hand on the pull.  He took a deep breath and released it slowly.  This time, it was Geralt whose breath froze in his chest.

Vesemir cleared his throat and spoke to the door.  “Tomorrow, bring a cushion.”

Geralt’s breath unlocked and a smile spread across his face as he watched Vesemir leave.  He stood there for a moment, letting the relief wash over him, before shaking himself and taking Vesemir’s seat to inspect the rest of the quarto.

On a rare, warm day, a preview of the spring to come after the last, dragging weeks of winter finally passed, Vesemir roused his wolves to spar, instructing them to clear the courtyard and prepare to practice their skills.  While they ran through their footwork and sword patterns indoors throughout the winter, in a spot in the main hall set aside solely for that purpose, true sparring could only happen outdoors.  They were not about to waste the opportunity.

Eager to stretch their legs and burn off energy, the three young witchers jumped to the task, burning away the snow and ice with controlled blasts of Aard and Igni, sweeping away the resulting water before it could freeze again.  Vesemir and Jaskier observed from a distance, cradling mugs of warm ale.

When the inner courtyard was clear, the three men stripped off their tunics, leaving them bare to the waist, vibrant sleeve tattoos on full display.  Unlike Geralt, whose arm was fully covered in intricate runic tattoos and marred by burn scars, his submissive’s cuff rendered completely invisible, the Dominant stripes on his brothers’ arms were given pride of place at the center of their tattoos, the complex runic weaving surrounding them serving to highlight rather than to hide. 

As he studied them, Jaskier was suddenly struck by the physical differences between Geralt and his Dominant brothers, made only more obvious without the padding of winter tunics.  Together like this, no one could mistake Geralt for anything but a submissive.  While he was massive compared to the average man, especially in terms of his musculature, he was markedly leaner and lither than his brothers, both the shortest of the three, though not by much, and decidedly the least broad.  Eskel was built like a bear, thick, heavy muscles bulking out his colossal frame and Lambert, though more compact than Eskel, also cut an impressively large figure.  If Geralt stood behind either one, he would be completely hidden from sight.

Jaskier’s realization must have shown on his face because Vesemir commented on his train of thought. 

“We suspected he was a submissive before he ever presented.”  Vesemir said quietly, watching the three as they stretched and warmed up, Geralt first braiding back his long, white hair.  “He always was smaller and lighter than the rest of them.”

“Did you train him any differently because of that?”  Jaskier asked, careful to phrase the question delicately.  The chance to observe Vesemir all winter, especially the way he cared for his wolves, had cooled Jaskier’s ire and he wanted to give Vesemir a fair chance to show his true character.

Vesemir hummed, considering the question.  Geralt had clearly picked up that habit from him.  “Yes and no.”  He said finally.  “The basic training for all witcher trainees was the same.  We never bothered to train to each boy’s particular strengths and weaknesses until after they completed the first Trial.”

Jaskier drew in a sharp breath but Vesemir pressed on.  It was common knowledge that most boys died in the Trial of the Grasses, and that even more fell in the two subsequent Trials over the following years.