Chapter Text
So there they sat. Three peas in a pod.
And here Jaskier stood. Huddled between stone pillars, hands tucked into his armpits to fight the cold, and the flimsy glue of his cracked heart crumbling apart. He was being dramatic, but there was something about seeing the three of them sat like some kind of family that made Jaskier’s shoulders shake.
It was a stupid thing to focus on, but Jaskier found himself irrationally angry at Geralt’s hair. If it weren’t so white, if it didn’t match his child surprise’s quite so well, he might have walked by this touching tableau none the wiser. And Yennefer in her white fur huddled at the end of their neat little row capped them like a perfect book end.
Jaskier had tried so hard to pretend that things were the same as they’d been five years ago. It was a ball of nerves at the base of his throat that had been pressing to get out since Geralt had dragged him from that cell and Jaskier had pretended that his presence was a good enough apology.
He swallowed that bundle back down and glanced up to the sky.
It was lovely this far north. The cold air surrendering to the strong starlight with grace. He spared a moment to consider the dark sky above, the stars shocking pin points in the night. He turned back to the stone keep, taking his leave before they could notice him.
Jaskier wasn’t surprised to find that no one else had found sleep. He’d tried, but he was too cold in the room he’d been allowed to claim for himself, and filled with too much adrenaline from a night of horrors; The night had left his legs jumpy and his feet wandering the corridors of the unfamiliar castle. He’d passed the warmly glowing central hall on his way here and he turned back to find that warmth like a flower chasing the glow of the sun.
Whatever his welcome might be.
Three of the younger witchers sat around the central fire, feet propped near the hearth and drinking quietly. They were mourning their brothers. He knew this wasn’t the time to push buttons but Jaskier was sick of being treated like a gross stain on the floor. He’d tried to be polite, but that hadn’t worked on Geralt, and it clearly wasn’t going to work with anyone else in this godsforsaken place either.
It was a large room. The bodies of basilisk and witcher alike had been cleared sometime during Jaskier’s wandering. His destination was the door on the opposite wall; but along the way he stopped at the fire. They’d been quiet before, but they were dead silent now, as three pairs of glowing eyes tracked Him. He stopped beside Lambert’s chair just long enough to take a deep breath, then snatch the bottle of vodka out of his hands and take a swig.
Jaskier coughed a bit, “Oh shit, this is good.” He cleared his throat of the strong vodka burn.
“The fuck are you doing?”
Jaskier took another swig, then started walking away. “I’m taking this!” He gave the bottle a wiggle in the air in case it wasn’t clear what this he was talking about.
“The fuck you are, that’s mine!”
He heard the creak of the chair as Lambert shifted to his feet and Jaskier sung, “There’s only so much vodka in the keep, leave it for some who can’t drink your white gull, yeah?” He turned around as he backed through the door and gave a sarcastic little bow. He’d just caught the tail end of someone’s gentle “leave it alone, Lambert” before he shot the wolf a wink and passed into the shadows of the hall.
It helped a bit.
It felt normal to antagonize a witcher. Even if his was busy with something else.
The bottle wasn’t labeled but he could tell it was good stuff. Maybe a home brew. He took another swig. Held it in his mouth for a bit before swallowing, trying to figure the make. Probably rye. It had that good peppery taste. He nodded, to no one, and moved to step a bit faster back to his room.
The vodka warmed his stomach, and his face, but his extremities clung to the chill they’d acquired outside.
He was pretty sure he’d found the right hallway, stopped a couple doors short of the room he’d chosen for his own, and ducked his head in. It was clear the room was abandoned as his own had been so he stole the fur pelts from the bed and left. He tossed them on top of the pile of blankets he’d already accrued and hung his coat over the small chair in the corner.
It was a narrow little room. Just enough space for the sad twin sized cot and a chair.
He’d picked it for its modest fireplace.
Jaskier burrowed under the blankets without lighting it.
The bottle was big and cold in his hands, but pressed against his chest with the mouth of the bottle hovering near to his own, it started to warm. He downed another few swallows and set it beside the bed within easy reach.
He might need it.
He dreamed of a long road. Geralt’s white hair in the distance taunting him onward as a will o’ the wisp. He tried to run but it felt like wading through a thick mud. The air of his dream like swamp water as he dropped to all fours, trying to move faster but crawling through sludge.
When Jaskier woke up for the third time he resigned himself to the day ahead. His head hurt. His hands hurt. It was cold.
He made the mistake of rolling over to find where he put the bottle of Rye last night and the rest of the room spun faintly while the cold rushed in to chase away the warm cloud under the covers.
He groaned into the pillow and reconsidered the decision to exist.
But his head hurt. And he was going to need food.
Carefully, Jaskier leaned halfway out of bed, hands on the floor to pull his body closer to the chair with his coat and travel bag, while he kept his legs and feet cozy beneath the blankets. It was a tenuous balance but he managed to pull everything he needed closer without his feet ever having to touch the cold stone floor.
Beneath the blankets he pulled on the thickest socks he owned before swinging his feet over the edge of the bed and into his boots as quickly as he could without throwing his balance and making himself sick. He stood slowly, waiting for the throbbing of his head to subside before pulling on his coat. He grabbed one of the fur blankets and draped it over his shoulders like a cloak.
With the ends of the blanket clutched in one fist and the neck of the vodka bottle in the other, he made his way down to the main hall.
Most of the main hall had been cleared out last night, the remaining tables pushed forward to avoid where blood had spilled. It forced the remaining witchers close and together.
Jaskier all but collapsed into his seat across from Geralt. The bench made a horrid juddering noise against the stone that had Jaskier curling forward and pressing his head to the table top.
“I’ve heard of breakfast in bed, but not bed in breakfast.”
Jaskier wasn’t sure who said it. Someone from the next table over to his left. He really needed to learn the names of the rest of them.
“Fuck off.” He said to the table. Jaskier straightened and grabbed a left over heal of bread from the night before, “Does this coat look like it was designed for this kind of winter?” He asked, “No one told me I’d be stuck on a mountain when I got dressed five days ago.”
He shot a glare at Geralt and stuffed his mouth with stale bread.
Geralt had enough sense to wince in sympathy, while his child surprise sat beside him giving a wide eyed look to her breakfast.
There had been a time when Jaskier would have loved nothing more than to be invited to Kaer Morhen. He’d put together enough from what little hints Geralt had dropped that it was cold. It was hard to get to. He’d let himself imagine trawling the markets with his friend to find warm clothes and supplies for the winter. Imagined the clear nights spent camping on the mountain path.
The reality had been an entire day and night of riding because Princess Cirilla wouldn’t stop to consider a break. She’d ridden like a woman possessed, and it made sense looking back to find she had been. He and the dwarves had taken turns trying to sleep in their caravan, but Jaskier had failed each attempt.
Last night was the first full night of sleep he’d gotten in three days and it was... Well. It was what it was. He gave another groan around his mouthful of bread.
“Could sit closer to the fire.” Geralt suggested.
Jaskier winced. He glanced toward the fireplace, eyes squinted against the light and grunted, “No.”
He took a sip of vodka.
“Stop whining Jaskier.” Yennefer snapped.
“Rye should I?” He laughed at his own joke and took another sip of said rye. She rolled her eyes, though there was a twitch at the corner of her lips that reassured Jaskier he was at least somewhat amusing. “My maudlin is a caudle that would fill a thousand kegs.” He muttered. Then, “Oh. Wait that’s kinda good.”
He shuffled through his coat pockets for his small journal and charcoal set, ignoring the soft laugh his remark had garnered from the other table. Jaskier jotted down the sentence before he could forget it, then glanced up and saw Lambert shaking his head at his own bowl of food.
Okay, maybe Jaskier would give him his vodka back. In a bit.
“Mmm.” Yen hummed from beside him. “And have you heard the other saying? Dignity is the one thing you can’t preserve in alcohol?” She moved to pat his hand and Jaskier jerked away.
He threw the charcoal at her shoulder. “I can’t believe you would quote Valdo Marx to me. Good gods; does your depravity know no bounds?” He took a vicious bite of bread and stared into her eyes while he chewed. He shook his head. “To think,” his voice was muffled by the wad of half chewed food but that was fine, manners didn’t seem to count for much in the halls of Kaer Morhen, “I’ve referred to you as my worst enemy but even I didn’t think you capable of such evil.”
A heavy hand on his shoulder interrupted the thought, and Jaskier glanced up to see Coën leaning between he and Yen, a hand for each of their shoulders, “You two aren’t gonna kill each other while we’re gone are you?”
It was only then Jaskier realized he and Yen were the only two still seated. That they had been bickering while the rest of the group finished their meals. He frowned, but seemed to be the only one who didn’t know what was going on. Yen patted Coën’s hand gently on her shoulder and smiled. “We’ll be fine. You all take your time.”
Jaskier frowned and shot her a look. “Funeral.” She said.
“Oh.” Jaskier snagged the edge of Coën’s sleeve before he could walk away. “Give this to Lambert?” He held out the bottle of vodka. Coën, bless him, laughed and nodded. Removing the temptation from Jaskier’s hold.
Lambert might actually need it more than him, today.
They turned to watch everyone leave, each turning their separate ways to prepare for the ceremony. Whatever it was. When Coën finally filed out of the room with a wave. They were silent for an uncomfortable moment before Yennefer asked, gently, “Jaskier, are you al-”
“I’m fine.” He cut her off. Grabbed a piece of whatever mystery sausage was left on the serving platter and, knowing she wasn’t an idiot, added, “I don’t want to talk about it.”
She threw her hands up, “Fine.” She stood, pushed the tray of dried fruits and honey toward him, and when he reached for the pitcher of what was probably ale she slapped his hand. “Ease up on the alcohol Jaskier. I might hate you but I don’t want you to die of drink.”
“One night around a child doesn’t mean you get to act like everyone’s mother, Yen.”
She slapped him over the head. Hard. And walked away.
Jaskier sighed and dunked what looked like blood sausage into the honey.
Jaskier felt a little unmoored, sitting alone in the hall that hadn’t felt nearly so large when it was full of talking men. He tilted his head back to stare at the scaffolding above him while he chewed thoughtfully on his breakfast. The crackle and pop of the central fire couldn’t possibly be echoing in the hall but each spit of sound seemed momentous in the otherwise silent space.
He finished breakfast quickly, eating just enough to soak up the leftover Vodka and acid swirling through his stomach.
It was too clear, when he was left alone, how out of place he was.
Jaskier didn’t even want to be there and he was still intruding.
When he left the dining hall it felt like he was fleeing. A little bit. At least his little bedroom was too small to feel like anything but his.
There was a sweater on his bed.
“Gods damn it, Yen.”
Jaskier shut the door and leaned against the wood, staring at the blue gray lump of wool on the bed. They’d never had to pull their punches with each other when they were on equal footing with Geralt. He didn’t know how to tell her that the kind gestures were just rubbing salt in his wounds.
But he was cold.
He tossed the fur blanket toward the head of the bed and grabbed the stupid sweater. It unfurled, roll after roll of it, to reveal a wide torso that landed closer to Jaskier’s knees than his waist.
“Ah.” He bit his lip, “Not Yen, then.”
It was big. And thick. And the exact shade of blue-gray that screamed “Skelligen sea captain” and ensured the lanolin hadn’t been stripped; it would protect from the rain and snow. By the feel of it it had been washed recently, a starchy scrape against the sensitive tips of his right fingers, but, and he couldn’t say why he did it, when he brought the sweater closer to his face it still had the faint smell of peppery sweat.
“What the fuck?” he asked the sweater.
He briefly considered the fact that Geralt might have left it. Though, he’d never seen him wear anything of the like.
Jaskier felt a draft through the fireplace and shuddered. “Fine. You know what. Great.” He ranted while stripping his own over shirt off and replacing it with the woolen sack.
He looked down at himself and groaned. “Absolutely not.”
He grabbed a spare chemise and tossed it over the wool. Another layer couldn’t hurt. It still peaked through where his tunic drooped to show off his chest, but at least he looked like himself. He threw on a vest and squeezed into his coat. It would be fine so long as no one looked too close where the extra fabric bulged beneath his leathers.
Finally dressed, Jaskier stood in the middle of the cold stone room, hands on his hips and the faint remainder of his headache teasing behind his eyes.
“Now what?”
It was unlikely the witchers had returned from their memorial service, so he couldn’t just find someone to ask what the hell he should be doing, but he’d gotten the impression that no one stayed without helping around the keep. If he could just get himself moving the hangover would clear itself out. And somewhere Yen was alone.
He could feel the itch of wool through his thin undershirt and he knew it would be a while before he learned to ignore it.
He really wanted to ask.
What that actually looked like was Jaskier wandering through the unsettlingly empty keep until he found her in the alchemy lab, and asked, “You haven’t been… stealing from anyone. In the keep. Have you?”
Yennefer stared at him from her position curled over the long work bench for a long moment before snapping, “What the fuck are you talking about, Jaskier?”
“No no, it’s nothing. I’m just,” he waved his hands, “Keeping an eye on you, obviously.”
“I’m just looking over their equipment, seeing if there’s anything I can do while they’re out to help.”
“Oh, pfft. Who cares about this shit?” Another hand wave and he moved closer to look at what she was doing. “Not me. What uh, what are you doing, though?”
Yennefer sighed, then straightened. She pushed a small page of parchment across the table. “Taking inventory. This is the list of herbs and ingredients they’ve got on hand and this,” another sheet of paper, “is what I remember seeing on the way up. And here’s what I should be able to find in the area.”
Jaskier scanned the list, not really familiar with the scientific names she preferred, but wanting to feel helpful.
“How are your fingers?”
“Fuck-ing. Let’s not. Yeah?”
“Jaskier. I’m not gonna let you get away without talking about it. So if you don’t want anyone to overhear it, now’s the time.”
“Gods I hate it when you’re being reasonable.” He sighed. “They hurt. They’re fine.” He ran his thumb over the tips. The zing of cold flesh like a bruise he couldn’t help but poke. “They’re sensitive. Feels a bit like when I first learned to play scales.”
Jaskier shrugged. “Can’t tell if the cold is helping or making it worse but I’ll live.”
He watched Yennefer light a small burner without wincing and let himself feel a little thrill of success, sure she had done it to prove a point. She set a block of something white and another smaller yellow block into the pan above it and crossed the room to poke at the bundles of drying herbs hanging over the farthest work bench.
“Do they still feel hot?”
Another rub of his thumb. “Warm. Ish. The swelling has gone down.”
She plucked a couple handfuls from first one bundle of what smelled like mint, and another of something that had grown loaded with flowers then ground them in a small mortar and pestle. She hummed. “Are you warming up at all? I’m sure we could find some way to turn one of those blankets into a coat for you.”
“And ruin my impeccably curated aesthetic?” He pressed a hand to his chest, “What would the others think?” He smiled. Played nice. “As it happens someone beat you to it.”
Yennefer glanced up from under a cocked brow, attention still aimed toward her herbs.
He waved a hand. “Don’t worry about it. What are you making?” Distract, deflect.
She dumped the green powder into the liquid fat and stirred, then turned to grab an empty jar from the shelf behind her. She gave the concoction another stir before turning off the burner and pouring the mixture into the jar and twisting the cap tight, all done in smooth and practiced movements, as if performing a dance.
Jaskier wished he couldn’t see what Geralt saw in her, but here they were.
“For you.” She said, holding the little jar. “It’s mint and calendula in tallow and beeswax. It’ll keep your burns cool and help them heal. Just wait till it’s solidified.”
Jaskier hesitantly took the jar. Pouted down at the warm glass cradled in his palm. “Right. Well. That is certainly very kind of… you.”
Yennefer was making that face at him.
“No, no no don’t you look at me like that. I can show appreciation like a normal person.” He stuck his tongue between his teeth and grimaced. “I. Will treasure… this…” Jaskier heard the main doors groan open and slumped his shoulders in relief. “Oh thank Melitele, Geralt!?” and he ran out the door, ignoring the light and insufferably charming laughter behind him.
By the time he’d reached the main hall just Geralt and Vesemir were left, speaking quietly to one another while Ciri poked at the fire in the big hearth.
Jaskier stood awkwardly, just outside their conversation, trying to patiently wait for them to finish speaking but they paused like they had a secret and both stared at him a long moment, eyebrows furrowed. Geralt’s frown was turning truly menacing and Jaskier had a moment to worry what the fuck he’d done now before Geralt asked, “Why do you…” and Vesemir interrupted, “I don’t want to know. What do you want, lad?”
So. Geralt was mad at him again and thus; probably not the source of the itchy wool sweater.
“I just need something to do because I am going stir crazy in here, and I know you have a veritable list of menial tasks you’re just itching to give to me.”
Vesemir gave him a strange, half squinted look. Jaskier watched those eyes jump to the floors that needed cleaning before calling out, “Ciri! You and Jaskier are cleaning out the chicken coop.”
Jaskier didn’t know young women could snarl.
“Ciri!” Geralt barked.
She stomped past out the door and gave a loud, “Come on!”
“Thank you… for that.” Jaskier whispered to Geralt with an eye roll before following after.
It would be a lie to say Jaskier had never thought about what it would be like to meet Geralt’s child surprise. He’d tried not to. Again, he had resisted the fantasy of something so foolishly domestic as having a family with the surly man. But for a long time he had assumed he would be the one who would have to force Geralt’s hand and help him claim the child.
He’d planned for it even.
He’d kept a mental list of arguments in favor of claiming Ciri. He’d kept an eye on Cintran politics and thought he had a good idea of what the girl might expect.
He watched her fling the door to the chicken coop open and felt at a loss for words.
It was easier to focus on the chickens.
“Well aren’t you a lovely bunch of ladies.” He cooed as the modest flock of chickens strut by him, feet already scratching the ground in search of seed. He crouched down to get a better look at the passing hens, appreciating the variety of colors and patterns. “Quite the crest on you, you lovely thing.” He said, before realizing he was staring down a rooster.
“Ah.”
He froze.
The rooster walked on by, not a care in the world.
Jaskier sighed in relief. “Lovely. The world could use a good deal more gentle co-” he looked up, saw the young girl giving him a pointed look and trailed off into an awkward “oooaaahhcks.”
“You done?”
He cleared his throat, “Right.”
Ciri tossed him a small bag of grain. “Toss that around for the chickens. I’ll climb in and collect the eggs. Then we can get to work.”
“What, all of it?”
“Sure!” her voice was muffled oddly by the hen house.
Jaskier took a handful of the ground meal and tossed it out over the dirt then immediately decided that it would take too long, though it was fun to watch the chickens scatter after the golden grain. He grabbed the bottom corners and dumped the whole bag out in a small semi circle.
Ciri reappeared with a basket full of eggs and a completely predictable eye roll for Jaskier. He snapped his fingers nervously, then winced. Still too sensitive. Noted. He’d have to give that salve Yen gave him a try after they were done with this.
Ciri disappeared into the stables and came back with a wheel barrow and a pair of shovels.
They worked silently, a feat in and of itself for Jaskier. It wasn’t too difficult to move the bedding, Cirilla climbed inside the coop to push it out while Jaskier made sure it all made it into the wheel barrow.
“All right you take that and I’ll sweep out the last of the dust.” She said, wiping the sweat from her forehead and hopping from the ledge.
“Take it where?”
Cirilla’s face scrunched up in confusion, the little wrinkle over her nose quite cute, though it looked to be caused by a small cut from training. “I dunno. Dump it over the side of the cliff or something, just get rid of it.”
“What, no. Sure, I’ve never gardened before but I know this is top quality fertilizer, don’t they have a garden or something? Where’d the vegetables at dinner come from?”
She gave him a long, considering frown. “There’s a greenhouse round the back.”
“Wonderful. Lead on.”
She took him around the keep, pointing out piles of rubble to navigate around while he pushed the wheel barrow. When she held open the door and he finally pushed into the greenhouse he had to bite down the groan of relief. It was warm. Enough to make the chill of his skin obvious. And it smelled like greenery and life.
“Why would you want chicken shit on your vegetables?” Ciri asked.
Jaskier dusted his hands off on his pants and straightened, rather surprised she had willingly asked him a question. “Well. Animals poop and die. And then worms eat them and they poop and they die. And then smaller things take on that… It all breaks down into smaller bits. And the plants eat it. The cycle of life and death and waste and all that.”
“I thought you were a bard.” She said.
He scoffed. “I’ll have you know I’m well trained in all seven of the liberal arts.” She gave him the skeptical teenager look and Jaskier had an epiphany.
Cirilla was a teenager. He’d always imagined her as a young kid and it was no wonder she was so prickly. She was a teenager whose world had fallen around her and just when she was starting to build a new one for herself it just crumbled further.
He sighed.
“Listen. Neither of us was having a particularly good day when we first met, and we seem to have started things on the wrong foot.” He thought about their meeting and course corrected. “Jaskier, at your service.” He held out a hand for a shake, like an adult. Man to man, because she was being trained like a witcher and probably hated being treated differently.
She looked skeptical, but took his hand with a smirk. “Princess Cirilla.”
“An absolute pleasure to meet you, my dear.”
She scoffed, dropped his hand and turned to the door. “Come on Jaskier, Still need to fill the coop with straw.”
They worked till the sun was beating down on their backs, warming them despite the cold wind blowing from the west. Took turns pulling the straw from its bale and climbing into the coop to fill each corner.
“How long have you been staying at Kaer Morhen?”
Ciri frowned. Shrugged. “Couple months I guess.”
So she’d been alone for a good long while after the fall of Cintra. Long enough to have suffered for Geralt’s hesitance. It made Jaskier’s problems feel trite, but he didn’t think she’d thank him for drawing attention to it.
“Ciri. What can you tell me about the witchers? Other than Geralt.”
She opened her mouth, shut it, then frowned. “The ones left, you mean?”
Jaskier winced. “Suppose we can start there, but if you’d like to talk, I’m happy to listen.”
She bit her lip and grabbed another bundle of straw to keep her hands busy. “What do you want to know?”
“Whatever you like. It’s just hard to get a read on them when the only way to get any acknowledgment from them at all is to be annoying. What do you think of them? How are they treating you?” That gave him a whole other worry, “Are they treating you well?”
Ciri snorted. “Yeah, they’re uh. They’re figuring it out.” She frowned. “I’m really not sure which bit they’re having the hardest time with. The fact that I’m a girl? That I’m a kid? That I was royalty?”
“Well. If you find yourself craving more refined,” he gave an exaggerated sigh, “Feminine company I’m sure I could squeeze myself into a shift and corset.”
Oh, that got a laugh out of the girl. “I’d like to see that.”
“No no, everybody says that and then they see this hairy chest,” he gestured vaguely at himself, “Peaking through lace and suddenly it’s all ‘good gods man, have you no shame?’ and then I’m being chased out a window, and really it’s just for the best I didn’t.”
Cirilla was grinning. “Geralt did say you were always getting into interesting trouble.”
“Yes. Is ‘interesting’ really the word he used?”
She wasn’t paying attention. Eyes considering where he’d gestured vaguely earlier. He glanced down and saw the blue wool. “Oh. Right.”
“So the witchers.” Ciri said, gracefully changing the subject like an elephant. “They’re assholes.”
Jaskier pursed his lips and frowned. “Love… able assholes?”
She shrugged, “I guess, if you’re into that kinda thing. Vesemir is... fine. Kind of prickly but in that old and tired kinda way? Coën is very friendly. He’s the most normal of them.” She smiled, “Talbot’s kind of… busy? Hyper. I don’t know Vartok well…” somewhere, off in the distance, the strange thud of an explosion rung up from the nearby woods. “And… that’ll be Lambert.”
“What was that?”
“Fishing.”
Apparently she wasn’t lying. They finished replacing the bedding, and sat by watching the chickens finish their grain when the fish themselves were escorted through the main gate. There had been a number of explosions after the first, Jaskier lost count after four, but it must have been an effective method once learned.
It was fascinating to watch. Lambert strolling through the courtyard with a wide basket of fish strapped as a rucksack over his back, then two more large baskets carried over his shoulders on a yolk. He spun to look at them, the baskets swinging at his sides in time with his curls and the strings of his jerkin. A strangely choreographed dance as he considered them.
“Princess,” he said with a crooked smile and a nod. His eyes jumped to Jaskier, his smile twisted a little sharper, and he said too, “princess.” He gave a stupid little curtsy at the knees, the best bow he could give without dumping fish, and then wandered on his way with a laugh.
“And a lovely day to you as well, m’lady!” Jaskier shot back. “Those copper curls must be the envy of every maid West of Cidaris!”
Lambert continued walking, one finger popping up on each fist where he held on to the wooden yolk.
“Well. Lambert likes you at least.”
“How can you tell?”
Ciri shrugged, suddenly looking more relaxed then she had all morning, “He talked to you.”
They breezed into the keep together, feet leading them to the food laid out for lunch. It was all simple, foods that could be grabbed at any point. Geralt and Yennefer were sitting close, side by side, leaning apart as Ciri settled into her seat. Jaskier grabbed a bowl and started piling things in with little regard. Ciri, serving herself from her seated position asked, “You’re not gonna sit down?”
“No no, I need to wash myself of this… chicken dust, before I can relax. I’ll just take it to my room, clean up there. Maybe I’ll take a nap.” He gave his shoulders a little wiggle to emphasize the enticing nature of said nap.
He was actually quite sore. It wasn’t complicated or hard work. But it had used muscles that Jaskier thought were better off forgotten.
He used the bottom of his jerkin to grab a wedge of thin rye bread, an apple, a cold leg of roasted chicken and a small wedge of something sharp smelling.
Once settled back in his room he carefully washed his hands, and then stripped and wiped the rest of himself down with the cold bowl of water he’d set aside for the purpose. He dumped the dirty gray water over the ramparts and finished the little routine by finally cracking the lid of his salve. It did help.
He ate in bed, then tossed the wooden bowl aside and rolled right into sleep.
At some point there was a knock, and Jaskier shouted a slurred “Later!” Too tired to care if it was rude.
When he woke up he could barely be bothered to get dressed, pulling just the wool sweater on and a pair of pants. His warm socks and boots. And then spent the walk down to the main hall stretching his arms this way and that, trying to loosen the tightening in his shoulders.
He walked in whistling and the five witchers sat at the table closest to the cook fire all stared at him. He watched Coën open his mouth, Lambert kick Coën beneath the table, Talbot’s eyes widen, and Vesemir’s face twist into a deep frown in the span of just seconds.
Vartok just nodded a silent greeting.
“Huh.” Jaskier propped his hands on his hips. “Where’s the happy family, then?” He did a sort of exaggerated twist to look around the large hall. “God, don’t tell me they’re having another heart to heart out in the cold.” He walked closer to the table, smelling strong stew and fresh bread the closer he got, “The sheer amount of dramatics contained within those three, I swear.” He stopped, and they continued staring. “No one’s saying anything. What?”
“Yennefer portalled them to the grand library of Novigrad a couple hours ago.” Vesemir said, “With, I had assumed, you.”
There was a time when Jaskier felt like he was in control of his life. He may have been living to the tune and the path that Geralt had set, but following him had always been a choice.
The last few weeks, ever since he’d been picked up by that prick with the fire, Jaskier had felt like a puppet; periodically jerked to a tune he couldn’t hear then dropped and abandoned like an unneeded backup fiddle.
It was making him rethink that sense of freedom he’d felt in his youth.
Jaskier’s voice was soft when he said, “You’re joking.” Vesemir shook his head. Jaskier bit his lip, hands back on his hips and stared at the ceiling for a moment. “Right.” He cleared his throat. He wasn’t gonna yell. “Are…” he was gonna yell, “Are you fucking kidding me?!”
He ran his hands over his face and groaned. “Fucking. Unbelievable.”
From the corner of his vision he spotted Talbot leaning over to grab a small bottle of something alcoholic from Lambert’s coat pocket and hold it out for him as a peace offering. Jaskier took it.
“Thank you.” It was practically a whisper. “I will leave you gentlemen to your dinner.”
No one said anything as he left.
He stumbled through the halls, occasionally stopping to take a swig of Vodka, until he found a spot with a view and a ledge to sit on.
Jaskier probably should have reconsidered how much alcohol he’d been drinking. He could feel the burn of it building at the back of his throat, and his notebook was filling with alcohol themed phrases. Each of them waiting to be stuffed into a truly depressing song to fit his mood. Just bits and bobs of thought. Sentences of charcoal already smudged by Jaskier’s own drunk clumsy hands. Things like ‘My well aged rage you’ve turned the taps’, and ‘Far too much blood in my alcohol stream’.
He stood by that second one. He could still think well enough to write and that was a damn shame.
Probably for the best though. The third floor of the keep had the best views for his moping, and it wasn’t in the best repair.
Then again, if he was going to fall to his death, there were worse places to do it.
“You know, I saw you perform once.” The voice nearly startled him from the pile of rubble he’d claimed as his lookout. Faced with the thudding of his heart he decided this was the worst place to fall. He glanced over his shoulder to spot Lambert leaning against the nearest pillar.
He caught his breath and gave a huff, “I don’t recall encountering any witchers other than Geralt on the path.” Lambert raised an eyebrow and slipped his pendant beneath his tunic. Oh. “Fair enough.” He did have that rustic farm boy look about him. If Jaskier squinted. And didn’t think about it too long.
He had a bowl of food in his hand and Jaskier perked up a bit at the sight, “Is that for me?”
Lambert nodded and moved closer, interpreting Jaskier’s grabby hands as an invitation. It wasn’t the stew from dinner. “No more stew?”
“I ate it all.”
Jaskier scoffed and tucked in. It was simple. A whole smoked white fish the size of Jaskier’s hand and a pile of left over potatoes covered in… he took a bite and was pleasantly surprised. Potatoes tossed in lightly soured cream, and a generous deal of pepper and dill. “I thought Ciri said you couldn’t cook.”
Lambert rolled his eyes and leaned back into his new seat. “Big fucking difference between Can’t and Won’t. I make quick shit so I don’t have to stand around in the kitchen with Vesemir any longer than I have to. Not my fault everyone else has shit taste.” He watched Jaskier eat for a long moment, gaze intent. “Why’d you write that one: burn, butcher, burn? You worked so hard to make people forget that moniker.”
Jaskier sighed and blew the air through his lips like a baby horse. He took a bite of fish and eyed the Witcher. He really didn’t want to talk about it. “It was stupid. We fought. Or, rather he yelled a lot and I didn’t want to be a punching bag anymore.” He swallowed. “So I left. That was… oh, several years ago.”
“1262?”
Jaskier nodded.
“Fuck. No wonder he was such a sour cunt that winter.”
“Yes well I’m trying to forget I ever cared about that man so if you could not give me false hope that would be great.”
“The fuck you want me to do, lie?”
“Sure.”
Lambert took a deep breath, frowning at the sky, then twisted his face like he’d smelled something foul and nudged Jaskier’s notebook with the toe of his boot. “What are you working on?”
Jaskier just pushed the notebook closer to Lambert and kept eating. If he wanted to know he could read it himself. Jaskier managed to hide his surprise when Lambert actually did lean over to grab the small pad and read over the words, but only just.
Lambert shot him a look, resettled and read: “Since it’s drawn, I must sup the cellerage of sorrow.”
It was incredibly uncomfortable to hear the words read out loud without the inflection or melody he had in mind when writing them.
Lambert cleared his throat. “Yet fate refills my tarnished cup each time I drain the dregs. Their poison cannot kill me, new strength from it I’ll borrow. My maudlin is a caudle that would fill a thousand kegs… so you did end up using that.”
“I said it was good.”
“You ever write anything fun?”
“It has been a rough couple of years.”
“Yeah, no fucking shit.” Lambert tossed the book back and leaned against the pillar, Arms stretched in front of him to clasp and hang between his knees. It was oddly childlike, the slumped shoulders and squat knees. “Know anything dirty?”
Jaskier rolled his eyes. “Of course I do, I’d be broke if I didn’t.” Lambert just watched him, eye brows high, waiting.
Jaskier opened his mouth and was interrupted by, “Not the fishmonger’s daughter.”
He shut his mouth and glared. “I’m sorry are you expecting me to pull out something new?” he chewed his lip. Thought. There was a song he’d heard in Aedirn. A while back but… he frowned and started humming the chorus, trying to remember the lyrics.
“Hmmm hmm… something something something
I… pray she will play the painful passage on my flute,
She sucked me dry, and left me nameless in the nude.”
Lambert laughed and stood. “Don’t fucking hurt yourself, bard.”
“Mm! Before you go.” Jaskier fished the small bottle of alcohol from his pocket and held it up. “Thank Talbot for me.”
“It’s my booze.”
“Were you going to give it to me?” he didn’t say anything and Jaskier grinned. “That’s what I thought.”
He scoffed, but it didn’t hide that weird crooked smile very well. “Whatever.” He slapped a hand over Jaskier’s shoulder, gave an odd squeeze and walked away.
Jaskier watched him walk down the hall with a slack jaw and a confused frown. Jaskier knew that most rumors about Witchers were untrue. The fear was unwarranted and they certainly had emotions.
It’s just… Jaskier had only thought, stupidly, that the deep vein of kindness running through the rough stone exterior was a Geralt thing.
Jaskier glanced back out to the snowy night and sighed. Suppose it was better to be abandoned in a keep with slowly improving company than on a mountain alone. He set the wooden bowl down on the flagstone with a little hollow tok and flipped his notebook to a new page.