Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“She told the little prince ‘Once I explore the world, I will come back for you, and we will leave this castle forever.’ Why didn’t you come back for me, Yen?”

Her baby brother stares up at her with his blue, blue eyes. Those eyes haven’t changed. He’s still under her hands, trusting. How is he so trusting when Yen has splintered him into so many pieces, so many times?

Julianjulianjulianjulian. The boy of music and motion that she never saw grow up. Yen is unmoored, lost at sea, but for the first time in a long time, she can see a light on the shore.

~

Yennefer remembered vividly the night Julian was born. She had three younger siblings already, but she didn’t much remember their births. The youngest was still pink and small and fragile and screamed every time she saw Yen. Yen was seven now and slept in the barn, and the night Jaskier was born, her mother’s screaming kept her awake. Yen was tired and cold and lonely.

She crept to the door in time for her youngest brother’s first cry. And cry he did, loud and unceasing, demanding to be heard. Her mother was sweaty and bloody and pained, and for a moment Yen felt a kinship with her. She was always in pain. Her mother held her youngest brother, and above all looked relieved. Yen didn’t understand it then, and she wouldn’t for another sixty years.

She leaned closer to the door. “Julian,” her mother said, to the little body in her arms. “Your name is Julian.”

Julian. Another person to hate her.

~

When Yennefer was almost eleven, a small hand slid a bouquet of flowers under the barn door and Julian said that he loved her. She was not lovable, she knew this, but she could not shake off the sweet little boy of music and motion. He came back day after day and didn’t scream when he saw her.

“Can I put flowers in your hair, Yen? You’ll look so pretty!” He was so small and so fearless, little Julian. He touched her without hesitation and never left her alone if he could help it.

“Yes,” she said, and he pressed a wet kiss to her cheek. Dandelions hung by her face and tickled her neck and she left them there until they fell out.

“I love you, Yen! Good night!”

Careful, so careful, she brushed the dark hair from his forehead. Yen was not that much bigger than him, not really, but her hand dwarfed his forehead. He had never flinched at her purple eyes or her crooked spine, only smiled and clung to her like a limpet. Her little brother. Hers. She would die for him gladly. He was the only thing that made this horrid life worth living.

“I- I love you too, little dandelion. Sleep well.”

~

Yen told him stories, real-life hidden in fairytales, her pain nothing to the power of a princess set free. Julian loved her stories, loved all stories, she suspected. He would lay his head in her lap, eyes so blue, so trusting and fall asleep to the sound of her voice. Sometimes she would wake him, send him to sleep inside next to their mother who pretended she didn’t notice him missing. Some nights, he slept so deeply and so peacefully that she wouldn’t dare disturb him.

He was not that heavy, even with the stiffness of Yen’s movements. She scooped him up and passed him off to their mother at the door of the house.

Yen didn’t care for her mother, not since she had let Yen sleep out in the cold. She was afraid and tired, but she hadn’t protected the child that she brought into the world. Yen hated her for it, just a bit, more with each year. She imagined growing up and running, taking little Julian with her. Someday.

For now, she passed the warm little body to her mother’s wary arms. Tonight, she spoke, quiet so that he wouldn’t hear.

“He’s the one good thing you ever gave me,” Yen said.

Her mother said nothing back. She never did.

~

Yen told him stories, but for her, Julian sang.

He’d never been quiet a day in his life, since that first cry. He sang in the morning, in the afternoon, after the moon had risen. Julian danced and rarely closed his mouth for long. His voice was almost otherworldly, with the sweet naivety of childhood. At first, Yen had wanted peace, but now she was on edge without his voice rising and falling somewhere on their farm.

A faint memory hung about her, of their mother singing Yen to sleep when she was very small. She could never hold onto it long enough to know if it was real. Julian sang her to sleep instead.

Lullay lullow, lullay lully,
Beway bewy, lullay lullow,
Lullay lully,
Baw me bairne, sleep softly now.

I saw a sweet and seemly sight,
A blissful bird, a blossom bright,
That morning made and mirth among.

There was something magical about his voice and the way everyone stopped and listened.

“Someday, I’ll be the most famous singer on the whole continent,” Julian told her, with the surety only a child of six could manage. “Everyone will know my name.”

“Sure, little dandelion,” Yen said, dropping a kiss to his brow.

Somedays, Yen almost believed him.

~

Four marks. That’s what she was worth.

Julian was out in the fields when they took her. She holds onto the memory of him fast asleep in her arms the night before as she punches in the mirror. Yen regrets—that she’ll never come back for him, that he’ll never know what happened to her—but for the first time in her memory, she is living (ending) her life for herself.

~

Yennefer of Vengerburg, graduate of Aretuza, who channeled lightning in her veins and held the ear of kings, went back for her baby brother. She was late, eight years late, but he would forgive her, she was sure. Her training took time, as did establishing herself in her new Court, but now she had a place and a roof over her head and somewhere worthy of her Julian, her little brother of music and motion.

She had not grown more like him, but she was not simply pain any longer. Yennefer was a creature of power now, of pain and power. She could only hope that Julian would still love her, even though she was no longer the girl he had known.

Yennefer returned to Vengerburg on a sunny day in spring. The fields were smaller than she remembered, drearier. Even the air was sad.

The closer she walked to the hovel where she was raised, the more unnerved she became. The man she had once called her father was in with the pigs and for a brief moment, Yen felt small and twisted and weak. No. No. She would never feel like that again, she wouldn’t, she was power now and nothing else.

She stood on that odious man’s back and pressed his face into the manure. It hit her then, that the world was quiet, so quiet, not another sound but his heaving, shaking breaths. Why was it so quiet?

“Hello, Edvard,” Yennefer said. Her voice was colder than she had intended originally, to cover the fear creeping up her throat. (No, she didn’t fear things now. She was power. What was happening to her?) “Have you missed me all this time?” She kicked him onto his back, so that he could see his death coming.

It must’ve been her eyes, she wagered, that let him know her. There was fear there on his face, and it was so satisfying to see. She’d dreamt of it, held it close to her heart for years. The disgust and hatred in the corners of his mouth were familiar as ever. “You.”

“Yes, me. I’ve come for Julian. I intend to kill you whether you tell me his whereabouts or not, but I’ll consider making it quick if you hurry this along.” She wouldn’t, she planned on making him suffer.

His eyes widened for a moment, taken off guard, before he laughed. The fear in Yen’s throat crept higher. “Oh, here for that unnatural bastard of a creature are you? You’re too late.”

Yen rested her heel on his throat. “Too late for what?”

“The boy’s dead,” he spat. “Died of a fever two years back or so. Crying out for his monster of a sister.”

The rage was so intense, so blinding, that Yennefer didn’t realize what she’d done until her fist clenched and the man began to drown in his own blood. It took a long time.

When the anger subsided, the fear grew and grew until Yen looked down and saw her hands shaking. She should’ve waited to kill him, because the spiteful old man would lie in a heartbeat. Everything was so quiet. Julian was never quiet.

In the doorway of the shack, where she had once passed her sleeping brother to their mother, was a woman. Yen hardly recognized her, gray and sad. “Is it true?” Yen heard herself ask, lips numb. “Is Julian gone?” The woman who was supposed to be her mother, who had failed her time and time again, who had only ever given her one good thing, nodded.

“He’s been gone two years now,” she said. Yen felt something inside her die. She threw her small dagger with supernatural accuracy, burying it in her mother’s left eye.

Yen opened a portal to somewhere, to anywhere, and screamed.

~

Yennefer of Vengerburg was one of the most powerful mages on the continent. She held the ear of kings, weaved destiny around herself like armor, and was above all a creature of pain and power, power and pain. She did not like music much.

She had been known, on occasion, to burn too loud bards to a crisp.

~

That night, after Ciri stops laughing and Yen manages to release the grip she has on Jask- Jul- Jaskier’s wrist, they camp in the woods.

What with the shouting and the tackling, they drew too much attention earlier in the night to stay in the inn. Which Jaskier complains about. Loudly.

“Not, of course, that I don’t appreciate a good flair for the dramatic,” her smart-ass little brother says. He winks at Ciri when she giggles. “In fact, I might go as far as to say that I invented the dramatic, if my heroic rescue of you all with my lute is any indication. However, dearest sister mine,” The thrill Yen feels is undeniable. Sister. She’s still a sister. “I was quite looking forward to a hot bath, and a bed big enough for two, if you can gather my meaning.”

Yesterday, Yen might have rolled her eyes and tripped him off the path with a gust of wind. Today, she knows the truth, that her baby brother lives, and she would never do something to endanger him like that.

But she won’t deprive herself of their banter. That would be unnatural and Jaskier certainly wouldn’t thank her for it. “I’m sorry, little brother, were you under the impression I would allow you to be unsupervised with your paramour? In the absence of parents, isn’t it an older sibling’s duty to arrange all romantic ventures?” Yen taps a sharp nail against her lip. “I’m not sure I approve of your choice, in any case.”

Jaskier sputters with outrage. Ciri’s giggle turns to a full-on laugh.

Geralt doesn’t look at her, but from the new tension in his shoulders, she knows that he heard her underlying message. Good.

That night, Yen conjures a tent when they stop to camp, one wonderfully larger on the inside and pleasantly warm. She sees Geralt flinch as he enters, and she knows that he recognizes it from the mountain. Good. Jaskier is oblivious, chattering away to Ciri and stowing his and Geralt’s things by one of the larger beds. There’s fresh food in the tent’s stores, heavy with preservation charms, and they eat like kings. Yen doesn’t usually spend the night with the trio, she comes and goes as she pleases. Sleeping on the dirt, after all, is not a part of her life she cares to relive. No one questions her spending the night, this time. She can’t imagine letting Jaskier get more than a half-mile away.

After dinner, when Ciri’s head starts to droop, Jaskier reaches for his lute. “Now, what say you to a lullaby, Princess? Not too old for those, I hope.”

Ciri shakes her head.

“Perfect,” Jaskier says, and waits for Ciri to change into her nightclothes. Yen watches him as he sits on the edge of the girl’s bed and strums a few quiet notes.

“Lullay lullow, lullay lully,
Beway bewy, lullay lullow,
Lullay lully,
Baw me bairne, sleep softly now.

“I saw a sweet and seemly sight,
A blissful bird, a blossom bright,
That morning made and mirth among.”

Yen, oddly enough, feels the urge to cry.

When Ciri finally drops off, Jaskier joins them by the fire. He slumps against Geralt’s side, until the Witcher accommodates him with a sigh, opening his arms and curling her little brother into his chest. Jaskier hums, happy as she’s ever seen him, and toes off his boots. His feet make their way into her lap.

Yen wants to protest, shove his smelly feet far away from her, but. But. The weight is a warm reminder that he’s here, that he’s alive. She leaves them.

“This is nice,” Jaskier says. His toes wiggle in her lap. “Some nice family cuddle time. Yesterday you would’ve taken my feet at the ankles for this, you know.”

Yen rolls her eyes. “Shut up, brat.”

He falls asleep like that because of course he does. For all his whining about a bed, apparently all he needed was a warm body to lean against. When the crick in Jaskier’s neck begins to look painful even to Yen, Geralt shifts him around until he’s sitting in the Witcher’s lap, head tucked into his neck. Yen tries not to mourn the loss of his feet.

She watches Geralt, the softening of his expression when Jaskier snuffles into his neck, the gentle way he tucks Jaskier’s wayward arm into his chest. It almost hurts to look at him, at them. Has she really kept this from her brother for so many years?

When the small fire in the brazier burns down, Geralt stands. He cradles her little brother, one arm under his knees and the other holding him close. Yen watches, as Geralt tucks Jaskier into bed, carefully pulling the blankets up to his chin. He doesn’t climb in after him.

“We need to talk,” Yen says.

Geralt grunts.

“Outside. Now,” she says, and slips through the flap of the tent as quickly as she can, to keep the warmth inside. It’s late spring, but the nights are still cold.

Geralt follows her, as she leads him a suitable distance from the camp. “Going to punch me in the face too?”

Yen stops, her back to him. She stares off into the trees, the dark shadows they cast. “I considered it. I came to the conclusion that it would be rather hypocritical, after all that I’ve done to him.” When she finally turns, she has a small blade in her hand.

Geralt doesn’t step away from her, lets her hold the dagger to his throat. His hair glows in the moonlight, clean as she ever remembers seeing it. Jaskier’s influence, of course. His eyes, golden and fierce and strange, are not frightened. Yen remembers the pull between them, remembers thinking it was love. No, she knows better now. Love is softer than what she had felt for him, fiercer, too. The strange pull she felt, still feels to some degree, has nothing on the way Jaskier watches Geralt when the Witcher isn’t looking. Has nothing on the soft kisses she has unwittingly interrupted. Has nothing on the way Geralt tucks Jaskier into bed and pulls the blanket to his chin.

Yen looks into his eyes and knows she has never loved, never been loved the way that Jaskier loves Geralt, that Geralt loves Jaskier. It’s surprisingly easy to make her peace with that.

“Going to kill me, Yen?” Geralt asks. He still looks unafraid.

She draws her focus inward, stops thinking of herself and her heart and-

“No,” she says, and lightly drags the point of her blade against his jugular. Everything is still. “Just threaten, I suppose.”

Geralt hums. The vibration travels up the blade to her hand. She doesn’t take her eyes off of him.

“If you ever, and I mean ever, hurt him again like you did on that mountain, I will end you, Geralt of Rivia. If you allow him to be hurt, I will end you. If you ever do anything he doesn’t want, I will end you. Do you understand?”

Geralt meets her eyes, gold to violet, and she can see just a hint of his canines in his smile. “Yes. I understand.”

“Good,” she says, and tucks the dagger up her sleeve.

~

Chapter Text

Jaskier is happy. It’s possibly the happiest he’s ever been, free of his secrets and surrounded by family. It’s a perfectly uncomplicated happy.

Geralt loves him and kisses him good morning and good night. Geralt lets Jaskier and Ciri braid flowers into his hair, and doesn’t complain (much) about Jaskier’s singing, and even laughs with Yen. Ciri asks Jaskier for lullabies and lets him brush away her tears after nightmares.

And Yen. Yen stays.

After that first night, Jaskier half expected to wake up on his bedroll outside, the past day a pleasant fantasy. Instead, he woke in a bed, Geralt a warm heat under his cheek. There were fingers stroking softly down his back, and when Jaskier propped his chin on his Witcher’s chest, he even got a good morning kiss.

Come breakfast, Yen announced her intention to travel with them awhile. Jaskier was ecstatic, Ciri clapped, and Geralt… well, he made a neutral grunt so that was practically excitement!

So Yen stays, for a week, then for two weeks, and then for a month. And Jaskier is happy.

Except.

Well, it’s such a little thing really. Stupid to let it bother him. But… there’s something off. Yen teases him and insults him the same amount that she had before, that’s not the issue. The problem is, that’s all she does now.

Don’t get Jaskier wrong, he doesn’t exactly miss having his voice stolen. As time had gone on, however, Yen had mostly moved away from her meanest pranks. Before Jaskier confessed, they were down to inconvenient tripping and silly appearance modifications and fun, harmless little tiffs. Now Yen won’t even hug him too hard. It’s almost like Geralt, right after he’d apologized.

Jaskier doesn’t understand what’s going on, but he misses being pranked. So he goes to the only possible source of advice. He waits for a market day and rehearses his words.

Ciri laughs in his face.

“Jaskier, let me get this straight. You miss Yennefer humiliating you?” She’s grinning and Jaskier tries to hide his flush.

“That’s not-”

“I mean,” Ciri talks over him. “Of course, I’ve missed you being humiliated, but I would’ve thought you enjoyed going through fewer doublets.”

Jaskier groans and thumps his head down onto the table. They’re waiting for Yen and Geralt before lunch, but he’s betting they’ll be another hour, at least. “It’s not about the pranks themselves, per se. It’s more that I worry she’s mad at me, or still convinced that I’m mad at her.”

Ciri pats the back of his head. “She’s definitely not mad at you. She’s probably still feeling too guilty.”

Jaskier sits up and makes a complicated gesture. “That’s worse! I don’t want her to feel guilty, I just want her to be happy.”

“Well…” Ciri cuts herself off. Her eyes are twinkling far too much for Jaskier’s sanity. “I bet I know how we could fix it. If you wanted.”

Despite the encroaching sense of doom, Jaskier nods. “Tell me everything.”

~

It’s a beautiful summer day, when Jaskier puts his head on the chopping block.

He kisses Geralt good morning and winks at Ciri across the fire. She giggles.

Geralt cuffs him on the back of the head. It’s quite gentle, all told, but he wouldn’t be Jaskier if he doesn’t dramatically yelp and scramble to hide behind Ciri.

“You brute!” He cries out, and Geralt fixes him with such a look.

“You two are up to something,” he says.

Yen chooses that moment to join them at the fire. Ciri pinches him as covertly as possible and Jaskier clears his throat.

“Good morning, sister mine.”

Yen smiles, half-awake. She opens her mouth:

“Good morning, sweet brother dear,
It gives me joy to see you here.
I missed you so long,
Your smiles, your song,
I could hug you for up to a year.”

Ciri cackles. Even Geralt’s lips are twitching. Yen doesn’t look precisely amused, but she’s not quite irritated yet. She rolls her eyes. Jaskier gives her a day.

~

By the time they make camp for the night, Yen looks remarkably more frazzled and Ciri is perpetually red from laughing. Jaskier doesn’t know why she looks so angry! Her rhymes are actually quite good!

“Jaskier, you little fucking brat,
You’re creative, I’ll give you that.
If this isn’t done,
By the morning sun,
I am going to beat you flat.”

Jaskier falls asleep with a smile on his face. Yes, things are working perfectly. There’s no way Yen will let him away unscathed.

~

Two days later, after they make camp and even Ciri has gotten a little tired of the rhyming, Yen strings him up from a tree by his ankles.

Ouch. Head rush. “Help! Sibling abuse!” Jaskier swings slowly in a circle until he catches sight of Geralt. The Witcher is still strangely handsome upside down. “Geralt! Help out your lover. I demand to be rescued by my knight in dingy armor from the evil sorceress.”

Geralt snorts. “You deserve this one.”

“Unbelievable! Ciri, sweet lion cub? Help out your poor little Dandelion?”

Ciri walks over and pats him on the chest. “No, I’m enjoying this. Isn’t this what you were aiming for?”

Yen makes an inarticulate sound of rage, but keeps her lips shut. Honestly, all the grunting she’s been doing to avoid rhyming is turning her into such a Geralt.

~

The next morning, Yen stalks out of the tent and grabs Jaskier by the ear.

“Brat.” She drags him off into the trees, away from all who would save him.

“Ow! Rude! So the rhyming is done then?”

She twists his ear a little. “Shut up before I murder you.”

Jaskier smiles. It is, perhaps, a little concerning that he missed her threats of bodily harm. But truly, theirs is a complicated, wonderful relationship.

After what feels like an arbitrary amount of stumbling to Jaskier, Yen lets go of his ear and points him at a rock. “Sit.”

“Woof,” Jaskier says. At her glare, he gulps. And sits.

“Now, please, enlighten me. Why exactly were you trying to irritate me into killing you?” Yen crosses her arms. Oh no, that’s a big sister pose if he’s ever saw one.

“I wasn’t quite hoping for murder, just a bit of light maiming at worst.”

“Jaskier, I swear to fucking-”

“Okay!” Jaskier waves a hand. “In all honesty, Yen, it was starting to feel unsporting of me to tease you. Whenever I changed your hair or laced your soup you just… smiled. You never got back at me! At first I thought you were planning for some big revenge, but it never came, and I thought… maybe you were upset at me for lying to you.”

He chances a glance at her face, and her eyes soften. “Jaskier-”

“But then I asked Ciri, and she said you weren’t mad at me. She said you probably still felt guilty and that was so much worse! I don’t want you to spend time around me out of some misplaced guilt, Yen, or start treating me like I’m fragile. I just want my sister.” Jaskier can feel his shoulders curling in, but he doesn’t let them.

“Shit,” Yen says, and sits down next to him on the rock. Jaskier leans into her warmth, tentative, and she drops her head against his. “Of course I want to spend time with you, Jaskier. That certainly isn’t about guilt. I even promise to start torturing you again, if it really matters to you. But.”

“But.” Jaskier echoes. He nods. “You hate living on the road like this, I can tell. I love having you around but I don’t want you to make yourself miserable for me.”

“You don’t make me miserable, little dandelion. You and Ciri and even that grouchy lump of a Witcher make me happy.” Yen’s voice is raw. Jaskier reaches out to twine their fingers together and she lets him.

“The road makes you miserable though, doesn’t it? Please don’t lie to me, Yen.”

After a moment of grudging silence, Jaskier finally feels her sigh. “Yes.” He squeezes her hand and she squeezes back.

“You’re allowed to leave, you know,” Jaskier says. “We have all the time in the world, and I know you’ll never leave me behind again.”

“I’ll think about it.”

~

Yen does leave, sometimes, but she always comes back

~

“Jaskier, little brother. I need a favor.”

Jaskier spins in Geralt’s lap, even as Ciri shouts “Yennefer!” and grabs his sister in a hug. As always, Yen hugs her back.

“Whatever you need,” Jaskier says, grinning. Geralt nuzzles the side of his neck, presses in with just a hint of teeth.

“Dangerous, lark.”

Yen rolls her eyes. “Don’t worry, Witcher, I plan on returning my brother in one piece.”

“Oh fun,” Jaskier says, and reluctantly slides out of Geralt’s lap. “Where are we going?”

Yen smiles, and there’s an edge of danger there that Jaskier both loves and fears. “Aretuza.”

~

Tissaia de Vries looks utterly perplexed to find herself faced with a bard, in an outrageously garish silk ensemble, dangling off of Yen’s arm.

At least, that’s how Jaskier decides to interpret the slightly too-long stare.

“Yennefer,” she says, one eyebrow arched in disdain. “Who is this? Outsiders are not meant to walk these halls.”

“Tissaia,” Yen smiles with too many teeth. Jaskier doesn’t quite know how to puzzle out her tone. There’s something angry there, and something hurt, but also something strangely reverent. Interesting. “I brought him along for introductions.”

That’s his cue. Jaskier drops into an overly ostentatious bow, pressing a light kiss on Tissaia de Vries’s hand. “It’s the profoundest of pleasures to be making your acquaintance, Rectoress. I am Jaskier the Bard. Perhaps some of my songs have reached even these high walls?”

Tissaia stares for a moment. She blinks. “Jaskier… you are the Witcher’s bard, are you not? I’ve heard of you. You’re… younger than I expected.”

He smiles with too many teeth. “Quite the opposite actually. I suppose Yennefer and I simply have good genes.”

He feels his sister come up behind him and curl an arm around his shoulders. “Tissaia, I would like you to meet my brother, Julian. He was quite young when you… invited me to Aretuza, but he assured me that he had never forgotten you even after all this time.”

Tissaia coughs, and Jaskier catches the slight widening of her eyes with glee. He feels a little flare of magic from her direction.

“You are also quite strongly linked to Chaos. You trained at Ban Ard, I presume?”

Jaskier laughs. “No, no formal schooling for me I’m afraid. I did spend a few decades at Oxenfurt but that was for their liberal arts education rather than anything more arcane. I am, unfortunately, all self-taught.”

The Rectoress of Aretuza looks almost as if she has bit into an orange and found it a lemon. Oh yes, Yennefer said a favor for her, but she truly meant a gift for him.

Quite conveniently, there appears to be a council in session. Tissaia was on her way there, when Jaskier and Yennefer waylaid her, and the Rectoress is curious enough about Jaskier’s magic to endure their presence. Jaskier has a sneaking suspicion that this was Yen’s intention all along, judging by the calculation on her face as they enter the chamber.

Yen takes hold of his arm, and tugs him toward the back. They are not quite hidden, as there are few enough people in the room, but Jaskier manages to hold his tongue. He really thought there would be more of them. Is this what’s left after Sodden?

He knows Yen decimated a large portion of Nilfgaard’s forces, but they’re still a problem. And they’re still looking for Ciri. As they creep closer to winter, Geralt has directed them North, towards the Blue Mountains. He hasn’t said anything, precisely, but Jaskier is betting that his goal is Kaer Morhen. He would be lying if he said he isn’t a bit excited to get to see the Witchers’ sanctuary.

But this, mages arguing over battlefronts and delays and geography with a live map—Jaskier isn’t much of a spy, but even he knows they’ve stumbled into an information treasure trove. If only he understood why they were arguing so fiercely about halting troop progression.

He listens awhile longer, waiting for someone else to speak up and point out the obvious. No one does. When he chances a glance toward Yen, he can see her brow furrowed, but no apparent insight. Damn. Does he really have to do all the work around here?

Jaskier clears his throat and steps toward the table. “Pardon me, I truly don’t mean to intrude but it seems to me that you’re all overlooking the simplest solution here.”

“Jaskier!” Yen hisses, but he waves an absentminded hand in her direction. Everyone except Tissaia looks irritated by the interruption, particularly one gray haired sorcerer who Jaskier pegs as the leader of the Brotherhood. Stregobor isn’t it?

“And what would you have us do, bard?” Tissaia asks him.

A chorus of whispers starts around the table. Jaskier bears their suspicion with a smile. “Well, I’m no master tactician, but from these models you have them funneled into a choke point, correct? Cliff face on both sides and uninhabited? And your aim is to delay, not stop entirely?”

Stregobor sneers. “Who-”

“Be quiet,” Tissaia snaps. “Yes. What would you have us do, then?”

Jaskier shrugs. “Simply open a crack in the earth, long enough that they cannot go around, wide enough that they cannot cross it, and deep enough that they cannot reach the bottom and climb out the other side.”

Silence. Complete and utter silence.

“That’s not possible,” Tissaia says. She looks almost disappointed.

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “I swear, formal schooling beats the imagination out of all you magic users. Watch,” he pulls his lute case off his shoulder, and plucks a quick tune to loosen his fingers.

Jaskier isn’t stupid. He knows that he described a relatively big working, but he also knows that he has a wealth of power that scares him. He breathes, and breathes, and breathes, until the magic is heavy in his lungs. He traces a point on the map with his finger, in front of the Nilfgaardian forces on the only route they can travel. “Yen, dear, would you mind lending me some energy?”

His sister sighs audibly but rests a hand on his shoulder anyway. He pulls on her magic, lightly, until he can feel the power in his very toes.

Jaskier strums a chord on his lute and thinks of the words he needs, thinks of his intent.

Oh, to stop an army dark and grim,
Oh, to stop an army in its tracks,
To split the earth from brim to brim,
To make impass’ble all the cracks.

A gap so wide no bridge can cross.
A pit so deep no rope can reach.
To walk around is to be lost,
No man nor mage can close the breach.

Oh, to stop an army dark and grim,
Oh, to stop an army in its tracks,
Of Nilfgaard’s force it means to slim,
Both knight and mage lost to the crack.

As the last note fades, so does the overwhelming crush of his magic. It takes a great deal of power, but nothing extraordinary, not when he had enough time to think of words. Fine detail like this is his speciality.

On the table in front of him, a crevasse opens where he had traced his finger. He trusts it to be an accurate representation of reality. His magic, after all, has not returned to him useless.

Stregobor the Pompous is staring in disbelief. Tissaia looks a mix of disgruntled and stunned.

Yen laughs. “Oh, brother mine, I do think you’ve broken them all.”

As Jaskier slings an arm around his sister, Stregobor, in a completely unattractive move, chokes.

~

“You know,” Yen says, over dinner that night in the tavern. “What you did today is considered impossible.”

Jaskier waves a hand. Though he didn’t pass out, he is absolutely starved. Geralt heaves a sigh, and slides over the remains of his own meal. “I’m telling you, Yen, trained magic users have no imagination.” Jaskier leans over to tweak Ciri’s nose. “And don’t think you’ll be getting away with the same mistake, cub. My sister might be training you in the practicalities, but I intend to ensure you’re creative.”

Ciri laughs. Her future enemies are screwed, if Jaskier says so himself.

~

They were always going to end up here. Warming chilled limbs by the fire, Ciri asleep on a pile of furs in the corner, and Jaskier tucked up under Geralt’s arm as he catches up with his brothers. Kaer Morhen is forbidding and cold, but he can tell it's Geralt’s home. That’s enough. Geralt is enough.

Lambert and Vesemir seem unsure what to do with a bard and teenage girl in their midst but Eskel is pleased to have them there by all accounts. He clapped Jaskier on the shoulder in greeting hard enough to make him stumble.

“About time the Wolf brings you home, bard,” the scarred man said with a grin. “Gotten tired of hearing Geralt moon about you all winter long.”

“My Geralt? Mooning?” Jaskier gasped, nudging said man in the ribs. “I knew you were a romantic deep down.”

“Hm.” Geralt rolled his eyes, but Jaskier knew him well enough to catch the smile just barely curving his lips.

Now, after a filling dinner and a few pints of ale, Jaskier gets to witness four Witchers slowly unwind. He’s almost loathe to break the moment, but, well, he did promise his sister. When he makes to sit up, Geralt rumbles and tightens his arm.

Jaskier presses a kiss to his cheek. “Down boy. We told Yen we’d call her when we got here safe so she could meet everyone.”

Lambert narrows his eyes. “‘Yen,’ isn’t that the sorceress that Geralt fucked? Didn’t think you were the sharing kind, bard.”

Sitting up fully, Jaskier glares. “Watch your mouth, that’s my sister.”

Eskel chokes. “Sister?”

Ignoring the chorus of voices talking over one another, Jaskier pulls out the small stone Yen gifted him on their first parting. He focuses his magic on the stone and his sister’s location, that he can always feel somewhere in the back of his mind. “Yen, we’re here.”

Not even five minutes later, a portal opens above the fire and his sister steps through in all her glory. Vesemir and Lambert are on their feet, blades in hand, but Eskel at least keeps his seat. Jaskier can see that his hand still isn’t far from a knife.

Geralt rolls his eyes, and pulls Jaskier back down into his lap even as he reaches out for his sister. “Yennefer! Light of my life! Other half to my soul! Sister of my dreams!”

“Jaskier,” she greets, with a wry smile. She kisses his forehead, before curtseying to the other Witchers. “I am Yennefer of Vengerburg. I see you’ve met my younger brother. I apologize in advance for the inevitable trouble he’ll cause.”

Geralt chuckles, even as Jaskier squawks.

After a long moment, Vesemir nods and sheaths his blade. Lambert follows suit, however reluctantly. “Greetings, witch.”

Eskel laughs, hand over his mouth. “Oh, Geralt, I am truly looking forward to hearing this tale.”

Geralt grumbles, but Jaskier bolts upright. How had he forgotten! He scrambles for his lute case.

“Don’t worry, brave Witchers. I won’t make you suffer Geralt’s uninspired storytelling.” Jaskier spins on his heel with a showman’s grin, lute in hand. “In fact, I have a song for precisely this occasion, if you all would allow me to perform for you?”

Geralt, quite rightly, looks horrified. Everyone else looks delighted. Vesemir nods decisively. “Please, bard.”

Jaskier clears his throat and glances over to make sure Ciri is still asleep. If she’s woken up, she’s doing a stellar job of pretending otherwise and probably deserves her prize anyway.

“Right then,” Jaskier hums. “I call this one ‘Geralt of Rivia and the Siblings That Fucked Him.’ Bit of a riff on a familiar melody, but I think you’ll enjoy the twist.” Yen laughs, loud and long, even as Geralt closes his eyes in a wince.

“When a humble bard,
Graced a ride upon,
Geralt of Rivia’s,
Mighty-”

“Jaskier!”