Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Jaskier looks around the familiar rooms, his stomach knotted with dread. Frustration bubbles up inside him, and he kicks viciously at the edge of the hearth. Of course, like much of the fabled Oxenfurt university it is made of granite, and therefore much more durable than the mere calcification of his bones. “Fuck” he curses loudly, grasping onto the abused appendage and hopping around, desperately trying to keep his balance. The pain is vicious, but compared to the shard of nostalgia that lodged in his chest before he has even left the university grounds, it is nothing. 

He has barely managed to blink the tears out of his eyes when there’s a sharp knock at his door. It opens before he can give the okay to enter. He’d expected to see the cities’ liveried soldiers, but he hadn’t expected them to be accompanied by the two very people who have so neatly managed to get rid of him. 

Jaskier takes in the dean and professor Valdo fucking Marx, and allows himself a beat to feel all the righteous indignation and anger he’s been building up for the past few days. He very nearly opens his mouth to shout at them, but then one of the soldiers drops a hand to the pommel of his sword. He manages to keep his vitriolic words behind his teeth, but it’s a near thing, and Valdo’s damned smirk tells him it’s obvious in his face. 

“Time for you to leave, professor Pankratz,” the dean says, his face and expression carefully neutral. 

“We all know why you’re really getting rid of me,” Jaskier answers, making no move to acquiesce. “Swallow down your cowardice for once, and at least have the decency to acknowledge it to my face,” he bites out. 

The dean makes a gesture, and two more soldiers come into the room. Really, if he wasn’t so upset about it all, Jaskier might have been flattered that they thought they could possibly need more than one. That soldiers were needed at all, honestly.

It’s Valdo who answers, shrugging. “You should have known better than to plagiarise my work. You can hardly remain an Oxenfurt professor when the only originals you can put your name to are little more than drivel, aimed to please the masses. You always did lack depth, even as a student.”

Jaskier stares at Valdo. More than anything, more than being given the boot after teaching at Oxenfurt for six years, from when he graduated at twenty four, it rankles him that this is the official story. He’s angry— incensed to be honest, that his works, his, will no longer bear his name, but will be presented as if they were written by Valdo fucking Marx.

—000—

At thirty, Jaskier is a fully grown adult, with little more than he can carry to his name. A name that will be struck from all his officially published works, only to be replaced by someone with the creativity of an earthworm. A particularly slimy one at that. 

Granted, the things he carries are not entirely without value. His lute for example, is worth quite a bit of gold. Its worth to him is immeasurable though, and he would sooner sleep out on the streets than sell it to get by. 

Speaking of getting by, Jaskier has no idea how he’s going to go about that. Not only has he been fired and banned from Oxenfurt, but he’s been commanded to leave the city itself, by nightfall. It’s not that he didn’t save anything over the past years, or that he blew through the sum he earned by selling Lettenhove after his parents’ deaths. He has a very respectable amount of money, actually. If only that money wasn’t seized as reparations, for his supposed deceit and exploitation of another’s work. 

So, Jaskier has nothing more than the clothes on his back, the pack he’s stuffed to bursting, and his lute. He’d say it’s all he needs, but he has never before been without funds or a roof over his head, and he’s not quite sure how to handle the insecurity of it.

He supposes he could sing for his supper, but he can’t do so in Oxenfurt. His face is well known enough that his continued presence after nightfall is bound to be noticed. He might want to sleep under a roof, but he has no desire for that roof to be the city jail’s. 

There are, of course, friends and former colleagues he could prevail upon. There are those who know the real reason Jaskier is banned from the city, and who share his political views and position. But, prevailing upon them would put them in the awkward position of having their own sympathies become public knowledge, and he hardly wants to force any of them into the same situation he finds himself stuck in now. 

He comes to the very awkward, very daunting conclusion that he has no idea where to go, but he has to get out of the city nonetheless. Maybe if he leaves and just keeps walking he’ll eventually reach a village where he might be able to sing in exchange for a bed. 

Jaskier looks up at the sky. It’s the soft, pale blue of spring, and the sun is just about to reach its zenith. If he’s going to walk, he’d better start. It’s already far too likely he’ll have to spend the night under the open sky. The part of him that holds his poet’s heart thinks it’s almost—romantic, and imagines the vast expanse of darkness above him, littered with twinkling stars. The more sensible part of him knows he has very little in the way of survival skills, and dreads how easy a target he’ll make out in the continent by himself. 

—000—

He’s not entirely sure what makes him duck into the tiny little shop. It might be that the display in the window seems to hold a bit of everything. It’s a strange collection, from curiously large feathers —how big can birds get, really?— to delicate glass bottles with dried herbs and colourful liquids, twinkling strings of beads that catch the sunlight and refract it in colourful patches on the walls, to a few taxidermied animals he can’t hope to guess the names of. It’s close to the western city gate, and Jaskier thinks he has never seen it here before. It’s just the kind of shop he likes to peruse though, interesting things to examine in every tucked away corner of it. 

He has no money to buy anything, but there’s a small sign in the window that states they’re willing to buy anything interesting. And that’s really kind of unspecific, isn’t it? Anything can be interesting, to the right person. Jaskier needs money though, and he fidgets with the gold signet ring on his left hand. It’s his mother’s. It’s the only thing he was allowed to keep when they seized the rest of his jewelry as part of his assets. He doesn’t really want to part with it, but he also doesn’t want to be out in the world with no money to speak of, and he thinks coins will take him further than a single ring. His mother would understand. She’d approve, even. She always was the more the practical sort, unlike her husband. Unlike their son.

He takes a deep breath, and opens the shop door to slip inside. 

It’s almost as if he steps into twilight itself. The light in the shop is low, the sunlight somehow filtered through the store window. The motes of dust in the air reflect what little light penetrates, and Jaskier has to chuckle at the fancy notion that they resemble tiny little stars floating all around him. The air is heavy with the scents of herbs and spices, and it sort of makes him want to sneeze. Under the myriad of smells there is a scent that seems more pervasive than the others. It takes him a little bit to place it. It is sweet and citrusy at the same time, not quite floral and not quite fruity. Lilac and gooseberries, he decides after a moment. 

Despite the shop definitely being open, there’s no one there. He debates calling out, suspecting the proprietor might be busy in the back, but then he sees the small, brass bell set on the counter. It’s a delicate little thing, craftsmanship clear in the exquisite floral motif engraved into the metal. He chuckles a little when he sees the type of flower. “Buttercups,” he murmurs under his breath. “Apparently fate thinks I’m meant to be here.” He picks up the bell and rings it, a delicate sound that seems to vibrate something deep inside his chest.

When nothing happens he sighs, fidgeting with his ring. He almost decides to leave, but then his eyes are pulled to a few bunches of dried flowers, hanging from a beam. Despite their state of preservation, they are beautiful, and he reaches out a hand toward the one closest to him. 

“Don’t touch that,” a smooth, female voice says behind him, and Jaskier twirls around quickly enough the neck of his lute case bumps into the counter and unbalances him. With the weight of his pack pulling at him he barely manages to remain upright, his arms windmilling briefly for balance. 

Behind the counter, where seconds ago there was nothing but empty space, stands a tall, ethereally beautiful woman. He distantly registers the scent of lilac and gooseberries seems to have gotten stronger, but he’s mostly distracted by the way her dress is quite different from current Redanian fashion, and by the intense purple of her eyes. When she raises a dark, elegant brow at him, he realises he’s been staring 

“Ah, I’m so sorry,” he babbles. “I was just curious, I’ve never seen flowers like that before.” He looks around the store again consideringly. “I’ve never seen much of all of this before,” he continues, eyeing one of the stuffed creatures. Its fur looks soft enough to stroke, if it weren’t for the several pairs of legs too many. “What is that?” he can’t help but ask, before glancing and pointing at what seems to be a whirl of translucent smoke that is somehow pinned to the wall behind the counter. “What is that?” he adds, belatedly hearing his own tone of horrified fascination. “That looks like it should live in a cloud of some sort, mist, maybe.”

Slowly, the woman raises her other brow to join the first, and Jaskier makes a weakly apologetic gesture, hoping she’ll forgive him for his nervous babble. “That,” she says, tipping her head toward the smoke-thing, “is a wisp.”

Jaskier sucks in a breath, his eyes wide. “I’ve read about those,” he says. 

The woman’s mouth curls into a smile that’s somehow friendly and not at the same time. “Then you know not to follow them, don’t you?” 

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “Everyone knows not to follow the little lights in a bank of mist,” he scoffs. 

“And yet wisps manage to survive,” the woman says wryly. She looks him up and down, and Jaskier cannot help but fidget a little under her purple gaze. “Something tells me that other than reading about them, you’ve never in your life been close to encountering one.”

It’s true, but the way she says it has Jaskier wanting to defend himself. “I’ve been out in the world. Not my fault if I prefer not to wander around the moors in the dark of night, thank you,” he argues. No need to mention that the only places on the continent he’s really been are Oxenfurt and Lettenhove, and the stretch of travel in between. Never mind he’s always hoped to see more. She doesn’t know that about him, and neither does she need to. 

The woman shakes her head, annoyance creeping into her expression. “Sheltered, spoiled little thing,” she says, and Jaskier feels the insult hook under his skin like tiny little barbs that will burrow their way inside. There is an embarrassed flush burning in his cheeks and he’s just about to angrily retort that she knows absolutely nothing about him, when the smoke-thing quite thoroughly distracts him by moving away from the wall. 

“It— it’s alive? What is it doing?” he says, fascinated by the way the light gray seems to lighten and darken in places as it moves. When it floats toward him, he makes a soft noise of alarm. Part of him wants to bolt away from this very strange store and even stranger encounter, and part of him is too in awe of the mist-like creature so close to him. 

“Oh. That’s interesting,” the woman murmurs, looking at where the wisp is now floating directly over Jaskier’s head. “Guess I was wrong.”

“Is it— supposed to do that?” he asks, his voice coming out more squeaky than he likes. 

“It is,” the woman says. “You were meant to ring that bell, after all.”

Jaskier has no hope of interpreting what she means by that, and keeps glancing up at the wisp and back at her thoughtful expression. She leans forward to rest her elbow on the counter, placing her chin in her palm and tapping her fingers against her cheek as she regards him. 

“Why did you come in here?”

Jaskier quickly glances at her, before looking up at the apparently very alive creature floating right above him. “Isn’t this dangerous?” he asks cautiously. 

The woman tuts patronisingly, shaking her head. “Hardly,” she says. “It wants to be your friend, as baffling as that is.”

“Oh,” Jaskier says, slowly feeling confident enough to look away from the wisp. He supposes that right now, there really isn’t any risk of it luring him into a swamp, right in the middle of a  city shop as they are. He fidgets with his ring again, slowly pulling it from his finger, stroking the tip of his index finger over the engraved crest, before gingerly stepping forward and laying it on the counter in front of her. 

Her eyebrows raise again. “What’s this?”

“The sign in your window. It says you buy interesting things?” 

She scoffs a little, picking up the ring and holding it up against the light. “And this is supposed to be interesting?”

Jaskier carefully suppresses the urge to snatch it back from her hand, angry at her immediate disregard of something that is important to him. There is a cold sensation at the back of his neck, almost like little droplets of dew, dripping down his nape. “Oh— oh holy Melitele, what is that?!” he screeches, jumping about half a foot in the air as soon as he realises it was the freaking mist-creature brushing over his skin. He wipes his palm over the back of his neck and it comes away wet. He shoots the thing an accusatory glance, before looking back at the woman when she speaks. 

“You were angry about my reaction,” she says. “It felt that.”

Jaskier blinks a few times and looks back at the wisp. It is floating at eye height now, tendrils of smokey grey moving as if on a gentle breeze. “Oh,” he says, and before he realises it, he finds himself addressing the thing, like it will be able to understand. “You were trying to comfort me, thank you.”  The wisp floats there for a few seconds longer, and then goes back to its position directly above his head. 

When he looks back at the woman, her expression seems to be more openly friendly at least, and she holds out a hand to him. “Yennefer,” she says after Jaskier takes it. 

“Jaskier,” he offers her his name in turn. 

Her eyebrows raise. “Ah. Buttercup,” she says, her finger trailing over the little bell delicately. Jaskier feels another unwelcome rush of heat to his face. “You don’t really want to sell this ring,” she states. 

Jaskier shifts from one foot to the other uncomfortably. “Not really, no. But seeing as I am without funds and without a roof over my head, I am forced to sell what little of value I have.”

He sees Yennefer’s purple eyes flick to his lute case and grasps hold of the strap a little more firmly. “That’s not for sale,” he says. 

“Wasn’t offering to buy it,” she answers casually, twirling his ring around on an elegant pinky finger. “You wouldn’t happen to be the disgraced poetry professor, would you?” 

Jaskier’s breath catches, and he half wants the floor to open up under his feet and swallow him whole. Does news travel this fast? He’d hoped he’d be out of the city at least, by the time the whole wretched situation became public knowledge. Again, there is that cold, wet sensation at the back of his neck, and he shakes his head a little. “Wrongfully accused, more like it,” he mutters under his breath. 

Yennefer tips her head to the side. “Wrongfully accused— gotten rid of, perhaps?” 

Jaskier considers taking a careful step away from her. “How would you know that?”

Yennefer shakes back her long, dark hair. “I have a way of knowing things,” she says with a smile that’s equal parts lovely and dangerous. 

Jaskier looks around himself, taking in the myriad fascinating things in the store, previously unknown to him. He looks up at the wisp, still floating above his head, and back at Yennefer, at the way she seems to brim with power, and at her intensely purple eyes. 

“You’re a mage,” he concludes. Really— why and how didn’t he see? He might not have encountered a mage before, but he’s read about them, just as he has read of the wisp. He really should be more observant than this, he thought he was. 

Yennefer smiles, and there’s a little crackle of something in the air. “Don’t feel bad, Buttercup. We are decidedly rare nowadays. Most people have never in their lives encountered a mage.”

Jaskier feels fascinated despite himself, despite the nerves that leave his skin prickling. The mage looks at him while twirling his ring between her fingers, as if she’s considering him. Then she holds out the jewelry, hooked over the tip of her index finger. Jaskier takes it and slides the signet back onto his hand. He sighs a little. It feels right, exactly where it should be. Trying to part with it wasn’t a good idea. 

“Keep the ring,” Yennefer says. “I have an altogether different proposal for you.”

—000—

So if I step through this portal, it’ll take me to Kaer Morhen? Jaskier asks sceptically. 

Yennefer makes an impatient noise at the back of her throat. “How many times do you need me to say it? Yes, it’ll take you to Kaer Morhen.”

Jaskier makes a face at her. Forgive him, for never before having travelled by portal. Very few people have, and for all he knows, the mage might drop him into an abyss somewhere as soon as he steps through. She smiles as she looks at him, not entirely reassuringly, as if she knows what he’s currently thinking. 

He’s heard of Kaer Morhen, of course. The school up in the mountains is as famous as Oxenfurt, maybe even more so. Very few people have ever seen it though, and Jaskier certainly hasn’t. He believes half the continent might actually think it to be a myth in some way shape or form. He’s not entirely sure he didn’t believe the same, until now. 

“And the— the guardians, they won’t eat me as soon as I step foot on the grounds?” he asks nervously, the wisp coolly tickling against the back of his neck. 

Yennefer’s smile is far from reassuring. Someone should tell her to work on that, really. “The witchers won’t eat you,” she says, and pauses. “Probably,” she adds, and Jaskier makes a face at her. 

“Am I even really suitable to teach there?” he asks, fidgeting in front of the swirling mass of light and chaos right in front of him. He might have gaped a little when Yennefer first conjured it, but really, who could blame him? “I mean, what do I know about how dwarves learn, how elves do? Or even humans with an aptitude for chaos? What do I know of the musical sensibilities of sprites, or dragons, even?” he says, his tone becoming a little hysterical. 

“You’ll learn,” Yennefer says matter of factly. “If you get the job.” 

“Right,” Jaskier nods. Sweet Melitele, he’s supposed to interview first, of course. He’s supposed to have a conversation with the dean, one of the famed guardians of Kaer Morhen himself, along with a few of its teachers. He can’t imagine they’ll find him suitable. “And if I don’t get hired?” he asks, his voice smaller than he’d like. 

The mage sighs. “Just be honest in your interview. I think you’ll do well.” 

Jaskier has no idea how she would know that. She’s barely known him for more than the few hours it took to convince him to let her portal him up to a castle in the mountains that’s the equivalent of what Oxenfurt is, but for all sorts of non humans. Granted, it’s precisely his views on education for everyone, including non humans, that got him into this pickle in the first place. He’s still not sure he’ll be welcomed there. He is a former Oxenfurt professor after all, publicly disgraced or not. Oxenfurt only welcomes humans, and he wouldn’t blame Kaer Morhen at all if it shunned humans in turn. “But if I don’t— do well?” he insists.

“I’ll portal you back, and I’ll buy that ring you really don’t want to sell,” Yennefer says, briefly rolling her purple eyes. 

Right. Of course she would. That’s not reassuring at all. Jaskier doesn’t really want to sell his ring, and he doesn’t really want to find out how long he can survive out in the wilderness by himself. He takes a deep breath, and glances at the wisp that’s now floating above his shoulder. “Are you coming with me?” he asks it, and Yennefer snorts. The wisp’s smoky tendrils seem to stretch toward him though, and Jaskier chooses to interpret that as an affirmative answer. 

“Don’t make me push you through, bard,” the mage says, crossing her arms and tapping her fingers impatiently. 

“No need to get all witchy about it,” Jaskier snarks back at her, relieved to see a twinkle in her purple eyes. He didn’t mean to call her that, but nerves unfortunately have some serious detrimental influence on his brain-to-mouth filter. He glances back through the shop one more time, at the part of the city wall he can spot through the window. He wonders if he’ll ever see it again. Either way, and whatever happens, he doesn’t regret a thing. 

Except maybe for not socking Valdo fucking Marx one, when he had the chance.

Chapter Text

Jaskier had expected to be dazzled by a beautiful mountain landscape. He’s used to seeing Redania’s coast, but as rocky as the sea cliffs are, they are far from a mountain range. He’d been excited to see actual elevated terrain for the first time in his life. He’d expected to marvel at majestic peaks rising high above him, and had hoped to see their snowcapped summits glittering in the sun. 

He’s distantly aware the mountains are there, and once he’s able to take a closer look at them he fully expects to be duly impressed. As it is, he doesn’t see much more than the rocky path he steps out on, immediately buckling to his hands and knees and dry-heaving as soon as the portal lets go of him. If stomachs could fold in on themselves, curl up into the oesophagus and extract themselves from the body, this is surely what it would feel like. Wave after wave of nausea hits him, and he’s inordinately grateful he was chucked out of his rooms at Oxenfurt before he had the chance to have breakfast. 

Jaskier knows he’s making all sorts of dramatic noises as he tries to force his roiling stomach to calm back down and let him breathe, and hopes there’s no one near to bear witness to his supremely graceless arrival through Yennefer’s portal. Now that he considers it, next time he sees her he’s going to have some serious words with her about warning a person, before subjecting them to a veritable maelstrom of time and space and magic, and whatever the hell that was. Travelling by portal might seem convenient, but Jaskier decides then and there it has got to be the most loathsome mode of transportation in existence. 

There is something cool pressing against the back of his neck. The feel of it is rather nice, and it seems to help settle some of the nausea. When he settles back on his heels, taking deep breaths, his lute on one side and his heavy pack on the other, the wisp floats into his field of vision. Its smoky tendrils move in a way that seems a little agitated, and Jaskier gets the impression the smoke-creature is somehow terribly concerned with his response to the portal. 

He wipes the sweat off his forehead and tries to smile at it. “I’m alright,” he says. “Human stomachs are not made for portals.” He shivers a little. Though the weather seems to be just as lovely as it was in Oxenfurt, an early spring day up in the mountains is still considerably cooler than what he’s used to. Slowly, careful to not make any sudden movements lest he’ll trigger another wave of misery, he gets to his feet. The wisp seems happy with this, the concerned swirl of the creature calming down, and it settles to float just behind his shoulder. Jaskier takes another deep breath, and takes in the vista before him. 

He has exited the portal just above the treeline, on what seems to be a slightly elevated outcropping of rock sticking out into the bowl shape of a valley surrounded by mountains. Where first his stomach tried to leave him, now it’s his breath that expels from him with an audible woosh. He stands there, staring for a while. He’d expected the mountains to be grand, but the sheer size of them baffles him. Their colour is grey bordering on blue, interspersed with the green of vegetation and the dazzlingly bright sparkle of snow and ice. Jaskier can almost imagine them to be great stone giants, settled in place long ago, into an eternal slumber. 

He keeps taking in every detail, words and rhymes fluttering through his brain, each more closely followed by the next until he feels he could remain here for an eternity and never get bored of looking. Finally, he allows himself to focus on the large, imposing fortress that seems to be the focal point to all this beauty. 

Kaer Morhen lies situated a little below his current vantage point. The keep itself is a marvel of architecture, from large imposing towers, to needle thin spires of stone reaching up to the sky. There are impossible arches and windows in all shapes and sizes, and Jaskier is sure he’s never seen a more fantastic structure. 

One side of the castle is cradled by the fringes of a forest that seems to get more densely packed with trees in the distance. On the other side flows a crystalline mountain stream that feeds not one, but two mountain lakes on its meandering path. The lakes themselves are different in size, but both of them are clear, their mirror-like surface reflecting the blue of the sky. Close to the castle itself lie a few boulders that could be veritable mountains in their own right, and Jaskier thinks he even spots a few shadowed crags and hollows that might penetrate deeper than his eyes can see from this distance. He shudders a little at the thought of there being caves where the light of day never penetrates, and hopes to never get lost in one of them. 

He squints at the castle in the distance, trying to discern if there’s any movement or sign of life. He doesn’t see anyone, and hopes that Yennefer was right in her assertion that he is expected. He hates to think what will happen if he accidentally surprises one of the school's famed guardians. He’s still a bit stuck on the mage’s reassurance that they won’t eat him— probably. 

Jaskier tugs the strap of his pack and lute case back into place, pleased the nausea seems to have deserted him, and waves his fingers in the wisp’s direction. “Let’s go,” he says, looking up at the sun’s position in the sky. “Being late is never a good first impression, now is it?” 

The wisp remains in place for a moment, and then it follows along, floating directly over his head again. 

—000—

Of course, it would be too much to ask for Jaskier to reach the castle without any sort of trouble along the way. He’s going to interview with people he’s never met before, none of whom are human for all he knows, and he really thinks it is not an outrageous request for fate to let him get there reasonably intact and presentable. He should have known better.

He might wish he’d kept his eyes on the rocky path leading up to the castle, but then again, he is rather glad he didn’t. 

He’s walking at a brisk pace, trying to ignore the way his foot still smarts a bit with every step from where he’d foolishly tried to vent his frustration by kicking granite, when he spots something moving in the water. He’s just passing by the second, smaller lake, marvelling at the way the water flows from it, streaming wildly down an incline and swirling around rocks, foaming and bubbling, when he sees the thing that seems to struggle against the current. 

He stops in his tracks to watch, and at first he thinks it’s nothing more than a long, slender branch, swept along in the waters. It is pale green and white, with a few darker spots in its bark. After he notices it, it disappears under the water’s surface, pulled down by the undertow just before a large boulder. 

Jaskier doesn’t know what makes him pause. After all, a branch floating along a mountain stream is really nothing special to behold. Still, there’s something that holds him there, something that tells him he really, really wants to see that branch come back up to the surface. The longer it takes, the quicker his heart starts to beat. At his shoulder the wisp’s grey tendrils start to darken to the shade of thunderclouds.

Suddenly he sees part of the branch break the surface. It’s small and delicate and seems to move in a way inanimate wood shouldn’t. As Jaskier watches, tiny little fingers that merge into a slender hand, wrist, and forearm, cling onto the craggy surface of the boulder. He can see how the arm tries to pull the rest of it back up, but the water buffets right into it, continuously pushing it back down. 

“Oh, Melitele help me,” he gasps, “it’s alive! It— it’s drowning!” he concludes right after. He doesn’t dare glance around if anyone other than him is around to see, afraid that as soon as he looks away from it, that small hand will lose its grip and the slender branch-creature will be pulled right back under. He does put his thumb and forefinger to his mouth, inhales deeply, and whistles three short bursts, as loud as he possibly can, hoping to attract attention.

The sound of it is sharp and grating, even to his own ears. The wisp doesn’t seem to like it much, thundercloud grey briefly darkening until it’s near black, before it lightens again, tendrils stretching toward the water while it seems to swirl at him. 

“Yes!” Jaskier gasps, “Yes, I’m going, I’m going!” He throws off his pack and his lute, and sprints toward the stream. The boulder is in the middle of the raging waters, and he eyes it sceptically. He might be able to jump the distance. Then again, he might just not make it and disappear into the churning current himself. He glances at those little fingers, and thinks the small creature cannot possibly hold on for much longer. 

He jumps. 

Reaching the castle without trouble was too much to ask, and so, apparently, was bridging the gap to that boulder. Jaskier should have known better than to rely on his injured foot. He really, really should have. His foot twinges painfully right as he pushes off the edge, the sharp sensation of it running all the way to his ankle. He almost makes it. As he knows only too well, almost and not at all amount to the same thing all too often, especially when it comes to things like this. 

He lands in the water close enough to the boulder his side scrapes across the rocky surface, ripping the fabric of his doublet. The impact to his ribs pales in comparison to the shock of cold when he submerges in the icy stream. He keeps from gasping water into his lungs through sheer force of will, and desperately kicks his feet. He feels the undertow pull at him, trying to drag him under, and grasps for handholds on the boulder he’s being crushed against. He briefly manages to emerge from the icy stream and gasps for air, and then he’s pulled back under again. 

Desperately clinging onto the rock, Jaskier moves sideways across its surface, hands and feet braced against it to keep from being swept away. When he carefully reaches out, he encounters the smooth texture of birch bark, a few rough patches sliding under his fingers. 

The branch-creature seems to know he’s not just another piece of driftwood floating along, and the next thing he knows surprisingly strong, sturdy arms and legs wrap around his arm, from shoulder to wrist. The creature holds on tightly enough there’s a small twinge of pain in his elbow, but Jaskier would rather it clings to him than be washed away. Slowly, he braces against the current, trying to pull them above the water. When the thing’s little hands pinch him he realises it must be short of breath, having been under the cold water for longer. Jaskier tightens his grip, and then does his best to lift his arm up and out of the current, toward the boulder. 

His heart is pounding with effort, both from clinging onto the rock and from lifting the creature that seems to become exponentially heavier the more of it he manages to push up out of the water. He wishes it would let go and scrabble onto the boulder by itself, so he could use both hands to pull himself above the surface and gasp for air. It clings to him though, and by the rate this is going, Jaskier is afraid they’re both going to drown. 

Just when he thinks he can’t hold onto the rock much longer, a grip like iron wraps around his wrist and pulls. 

—000—

Jaskier is sprawled onto the grass next to the rocky path and hacks up a veritable lung full of water. When he wants to sit up there is pressure against his chest, pushing him back down. It’s a hand, warm even through the layers of his clothes, large enough it splays all the way from sternum to collarbones. There’s an angry growling noise when he tries to move again, and Jaskier freezes against the ground. He lets his gaze follow the arm the hand is attached to, all the way up to its owner’s face. 

His mouth falls open and he blinks water out of his eyes. Yes, the man pressing him down is rather a sight to see, from beautifully masculine features to a shock of long, white hair, to slitted golden eyes that are as fascinating as they are disconcerting with the way they’re staring back at him. The most notable thing about him though, are the two huge, arched wings that spread out behind his back and block the entirety of Jaskier’s view. The wings have feathers as white as snow, as white as the man’s hair, and they are— beautiful.  Jaskier thinks he’s never seen anything, or anyone, more stunning, and he gapes. 

Slowly, the man’s lips curl in a way that couldn’t be further from a smile, contempt practically dripping from his expression. The way his mouth moves exposes the tips of very, very sharp canines. Jaskier swallows. 

“Uhm,” he begins, golden eyes immediately sharpening on his face, the palm on his chest exerting added pressure, making the few rocks below him press far more sharply into his back than they did before. “Might I prevail upon you not to eat me, perhaps?” he says, voicing the request as politely as he possibly can. 

He flinches a little when there’s a repetition of that angry noise, and he thinks it almost sounds like a growl. It’s coming from the man above him, who has fully bared his teeth now, and Jaskier can see that those canines aren’t the only ones that look like a predator’s. The premolars are sharply pointed as well, and he feels a little lightheaded at the realisation that if this man did want to eat him, he probably could. 

“I’m sure I taste disgusting,” he squeaks before he can think about what he’s actually saying. There’s another growl, and he’s pressed even further into the ground. That one rock below his shoulder blade is actually very sharp and starting to hurt. He reaches out to tug at the man’s wrist. “A small taste in exchange for a little less pressure, perhaps?” he wheezes out. 

“Human,” the man bites out, and for a moment he fists his hand into the fabric of Jaskier’s doublet, pulling the soaked garment tightly against him.

Jaskier is sure this is another case where his mouth is about to get him into trouble, into some sort of pain, perhaps, when he sees a little face pop up over the man’s shoulder. It’s small and delicate, a young girl's face, the skin pale as birch bark with little swaths of varying green. Her hair is long and wet, so light it’s almost white, though it transitions to dark green and brown at the tips. Her eyes are green as well, and her small ears are pointed. She’s as wet and bedraggled as he is, and she’s about as tall as his arm is long. He’s entirely sure this is the branch-creature he’d been trying to save, and he sags into the man’s grip with a relieved sigh. 

“Thank Melitele you’re alive,” he breathes. She smiles at him, and winds a small hand in the man’s white hair, giving it what looks to be a considerably forceful tug. 

The man lets him go and steps back, and it’s only now that Jaskier takes in the whole picture of him, clad in black leather, that he realises that this has to be one of Kaer Morhen’s guardians.

“Uhm—” he says again, scrabbling to his feet, careful to keep his weight distributed more toward the one that doesn’t currently throb with every beat of his heart. “Thank you for saving me, and the little birch creature,” he says hesitantly. 

It’s the wrong thing to say, apparently, since the guardian’s expression darkens. 

Desperate for a distraction, Jaskier casts around for something to say, to diffuse some of the tense anger that seems to emanate from the witcher. “Have you seen my wisp?” he says when he realises he doesn’t see the small ball of smoky mist anywhere. 

The birch-creature giggles, small fingers winding further in the man’s hair, but the guardian growls again, wings suddenly spreading to their full span. It’s terribly intimidating, especially with the way Jaskier can’t see anything but angry, black clad witcher and huge, white-feathered wings. He stumbles back a step, hissing softly when his foot twinges painfully. 

“Your, wisp?” the man growls, and Jaskier is very, very aware he’s said the wrong thing. Again. 

“No! — I mean, that’s what I said but that’s not— that’s not what I meant. It’s not mine, not at all. No ownership here. I didn’t mean to imply—”

The guardian’s lips twist in a grimace, sharp teeth glinting against the softness of his lips. “Human,” he repeats, spoken with possibly even more contempt than the first time. “Redanian,” he snarls, and with the way he says it, Jaskier is entirely sure it’s meant as an insult. 

“You can’t possibly hold that against me. I was born both human and Redanian, nothing much I can do about it,” he sputters, flustered and starting to get frustrated. He’s cold and bedraggled, his body took a bit of a beating, and he really doesn’t think he deserves to be treated with such hostility. He’s trying to be polite, to not get eaten, and to not say the wrong thing for Melitele’s sake. 

Before he can spew any more of the disgruntled words that gather on the back of his tongue, the guardian’s wings move, and he’s hit with a blast of wind strong enough to nearly bowl him over. There’s a harsh crash of sound that comes with it that very effectively robs him of his words through sheer overwhelm. 

Jaskier throws his arms over his head, and when he dares to peek through, the witcher has taken to the skies. His large wings lift him effortlessly, and he doesn’t so much as glance back at where Jaskier stands, now entirely by himself. 

“You’re really not very welcoming!” he shouts up at the sky. 

He doesn’t get a response.

Chapter Text

Jaskier debates shouting up at the sky some more. Something about the general rules of hospitality perhaps. Yelling up at someone who can undoubtedly no longer hear him would be useless though, not to mention it would look absurd to anyone who hasn’t witnessed the altercation. He sighs and looks around. The white winged guardian is beautiful and plain terrifying at the same time, and he hopes now the witcher is gone the wisp will come out from wherever it is hiding. 

When he doesn’t spot the small cloud of smoke anywhere, he moves away from the stream and back toward the path. He limps slightly as he walks, the pain in his foot aggravated from what it was before. His pack and his lute lie in the middle of the pathway, thrown there haphazardly, and he decides to leave them for a bit as he searches. 

He feels ridiculous, hobbling around with water dripping off his hair and clothes, peering behind rocks and between the leaves of bushes. He searches for a while, until his fingers start to go numb with cold. When he glances up at the sky he realises it’s near twilight, the sun about to dip behind the mountain range. Slowly, he makes his way back to his things, still where he left them on the path. The entire time he’s been alone, no sign of life from the castle, in the waters, or in the sky. 

He should probably go to the keep and make sure he’s inside by the time darkness falls over the valley, but Jaskier is entirely unwilling to leave the wisp behind. He’s in a place he doesn’t know, where his welcome has been rather too exciting and more than a little hostile, and he doesn’t want to leave the little ball of mist to fend for itself in this strange place. Though he supposes he doesn’t even know if Kaer Morhen is strange, to the wisp. 

He glances around, considering all the places he’s looked and all the places he hasn’t. Where would a wisp go to hide? Would it come, if he calls for it? He doesn’t even know if it has a name. He suddenly remembers how it had turned from thundercloud grey to near black at his whistle. Jaskier contemplates the reaction for a moment. He’s certain it hadn’t liked the shrill, sharp sound, but maybe it can be coaxed with something gentler? He licks his lips, watches the shadows cast by the setting sun grow ever closer, and whistles a gentle melody. 

He doesn’t see where the wisp appears from, but suddenly it’s there. It is back to its light, smoky grey colour, and its misty tendrils briefly touch his face. 

He chuckles. “Of course I wouldn’t leave you behind,” he murmurs softly, smiling when it seems to swirl in answer. “We have to be quick though. It’s going to be dark soon and I'm cold.” He looks at the little wisp speculatively. “I wonder if you’d light up after darkness, and where you’d lead me.”

—000—

By the time Jaskier finally manages to limp the rest of the way to the castle with his pack over one shoulder and his lute over the other, the sun has slipped behind the mountains and the sky is losing the dark blue of twilight and edging over into night. When he looks up, he sees the first stars starting to peek through the darkness high above. 

He is wet, a little bruised and a little scraped, and definitely late for his interview. He looks a far sight from how he wished to portray himself; at least reasonably professorly and competent. He looks up at a set of great wooden doors, small stone gargoyles perched high above them, keeping a close eye on whoever enters. As his teeth chatter out a rhythm that wouldn’t be out of place in a spirited dancing song, he lifts his hand to knock. 

Nothing happens for long enough he’s about to abandon his hopes of ending the day on a slightly more positive note, when the door opens just wide enough for a single man to appear. Amber eyes give him a very slow once over, and Jaskier prevails upon his body not to shiver with cold. He hardly wants to come across as some sort of half drowned cat. 

Now that he’s seen his first witcher, it’s clear to him that this man is a guardian as well. He’s as tall and broad as the white haired one, and his eyes are slitted in the exact same way. His hair is dark enough it’s near black, and his handsome features are broken up on one side by a cruel looking scar. Jaskier suddenly remembers the first witcher’s angry growl, and the way he’d clearly despised Jaskier’s— everything. It causes nerves to bloom in his belly, and he bites his tongue to keep anything unfortunate from spilling out. Better to be quiet for a bit and to at least try and make a favourable impression. 

The large man leans against the doorframe, amber eyes briefly resting on the wisp that has gone back to floating above his head. “Well,” the guardian says slowly. His voice is a low, pleasant rumble, and Jaskier distantly wonders if he sings. “Took you long enough. I take it you’re the professor we’ve been waiting for.” The witcher drags his gaze down his body again, briefly catching on the rips in his doublet, before looking back at him and raising an eyebrow at his state of dishevelment. 

Jaskier shifts from one foot to the other, wincing a little when there’s a twinge of pain, and nods. “I do apologise for being late. I jumped— well, I fell into the stream, you see,” he weakly gestures back in the general direction of the smaller lake, the sound of raging water now nothing more than a soothing murmur in the distance. “It left me soaked through, and I would have been earlier than this despite it, but then I had to search for my—” Jaskier bites his tongue with a strangled little meeping sound, horrified at himself he almost made the same mistake twice. It was clear when he said it before, that calling the wisp his, rankled the white haired witcher, and he’d rather not anger a second one. “My friend!” he finishes hastily, gesturing at the wisp.

The guardian looks baffled for a moment, and Jaskier hopes it has more to do with the amount of words he managed to jam into the space of seconds, than it has to do with him calling a ball of mist his friend. 

The witcher looks up at the wisp, and back at him again. “You seem— tense,” he says. 

Jaskier’s teeth chatter despite his best efforts for stillness. “I admit I could be more relaxed than I currently am,” he says. “I’m mostly cold and tired though.”

The witcher nods slowly, glancing at his soaked clothing again. “That’s understandable. After— falling was it? Into the stream.”

Jaskier thinks he detects something slightly amused in the guardian’s low voice and amber eyes, and blinks in surprise. “Yes. Well. I tried to jump it,” he admits sheepishly. But I forgot about my foot being hurt, and I didn’t make it as far as I thought I would.” 

“How did your foot get hurt?” the witcher asks, frowning. 

“Kicked a block of granite,” Jaskier answers before he can think about it, and feels heat rush to his cheeks despite the cold. It was a stupid thing to do, brought on by frustrated anger, and he feels foolish admitting it. 

The guardian’s eyebrows and mouth do something complicated, and Jaskier can’t help but glance at the way it pulls at his scars. He immediately looks away when those amber eyes sharpen slightly, nervously shifting from one foot to the other. When his teeth chatter again, the witcher opens the door further, and beckons him inside. 

“Come in. You look about half frozen and half drowned.”

Jaskier plucks at the wet fabric of his doublet where it has ripped down his side and murmurs a soft thanks, hoping it’s apology enough for staring. 

The witcher glances back at him and gestures to himself. “Eskel,” he says. 

“Jaskier,” he answers with a small smile, gesturing in turn. The guardian doesn’t seem to be angry, and in his relief, his inner monologue once again escapes him before he can bite his tongue. “Where are your wings?”

Slowly, the witcher turns the rest of the way back toward him, raising his eyebrows, and Jaskier droops. 

“Oh,” he murmurs shakily. “Oh, no. I’m really making a mess of things, aren’t I? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. This is just— all new to me, and I know it doesn’t excuse anything, but it’s been a day.” He knows his cheeks must be flaming red with embarrassment. He’s intensely grateful when the witcher’s mouth curves with amusement.  

The large man shrugs. “Not the rudest thing I’ve been asked,” he says neutrally. 

“Rude of me nonetheless, and I shouldn’t have,” Jaskier answers, shaking his head. 

Eskel shrugs again, eyeing him. “I have no problem with questions born from curiosity, without ill intent,” he says. “I have wings. They’re just tucked away.”

Jaskier eyes the guardian warily. It cannot be remotely possible to tuck away wings that large. Magic, he decides after a moment, and holds his tongue. 

—000—

Eskel leads him through a great hall with a high, vaulted ceiling. Jaskier tries to take it all in, but there’s too much to see. His gaze catches on large stained glass windows, and he imagines the hall to be bathed in a sea of colours during the day. There’s all sorts of details in the stonework as they make their way through a labyrinth of hallways, and he tries to remember at which points they turn and diverge. They go up a set of steps at a tall statue of a bearded man holding a staff, turn right where there’s a trim of small stone beetles crawling up the wall, and seem to circle all the way to the other side of the castle while passing the most extraordinary craftsmanship set into the very fabric of the building. 

Oxenfurt is old and architecturally exceptional, entirely drawn up out of quarried granite. Jaskier loves the wide hallways and symmetrical spaces of the old university, the clean lines of the flat archways and the light that spills through the windows. Kaer Morhen, in comparison, is a building that seems to mimic nature itself, evident in the organic flow of its hallways and open spaces. Jaskier heaves a deep sigh. Something about it feels soothing to him, like he can move along its halls and be a part of a greater whole. 

They’ve been traversing the keep long enough Jaskier almost thinks he’s about to get a tour of the entire castle, when Eskel halts in front of a heavy wooden door. The stone lintel above it is decorative, and depicts an exquisitely carved wolf, howling up at a full moon. Eskel knocks, and Jaskier runs his hands down his doublet. It’s not like the action will make him look anymore put together, and he winces when droplets fall from his hem to the floor because of the action. 

From inside, a low, rumbling voice tells them to come in. 

There are more people present than he expected. He might have thought that him being late would have cancelled the interview altogether, but they’ve clearly been here, waiting for him. He tries his best not to blush, the warmth in his face a strange contrast to how very cold the rest of him is. 

It’s clear which of the four is in charge. The dean has grey hair and a grey moustache, and he stands when he sees Jaskier enter behind Eskel. If his slitted yellow eyes didn’t tell Jaskier he’s a guardian, the rest of him would. He’s older, but he certainly isn’t old, and calling this man frail would be akin to describing a thunderstorm as a bit of weather. 

Jaskier nods his head respectfully. “Julian Alfred Pankratz,” he introduces himself. “But that is a mouthful and I generally go by Jaskier,” he adds quickly. He has to bite his tongue to keep from continuing his babble. 

The witcher’s eyes narrow a little, but then he introduces himself as Vesemir, and introduces the others. Jaskier is aware of the quick glance shot at his ripped clothes and wet hair, and the way the guardian’s eyes briefly rest on the wisp above his head. From the introductions he gets the impression the dean is the efficient sort, and he tries to calm all the churning explanations and questions that whirl through his mind. He doesn’t think taking over the conversation and letting every thought spill out will do him any favours. 

There are three others in the room. He immediately recognises that Triss is another mage, the same type of energy coming from her that saturated Yennefer’s little shop. She has long, curly red hair and tan skin, and smiles when Vesemir introduces her. He thinks the second one is a dwarf, their stature short and stout, their head probably rising no further than his hip. They wear their black hair in a long braid down their back, and their beard is divided into a multitude of smaller ones. Jaskier would have assumed the dwarf to be male, but for their name. Yarpenna sounds decidedly female, and when they speak, their voice sounds like it too. He decides not to ask, and hopes he’ll find out at some point without accidentally stepping on any toes. The third is an older man who introduces himself, instead of waiting for Vesemir to do it. 

“Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy,” he says smoothly, a twinkle evident in his dark eyes. “But that is a mouthful, and I generally go by Regis,” he echoes Jaskier’s words exactly. 

Jaskier thinks it’s done in an effort to put him at ease, or make him feel less self conscious at least, and he smiles back appreciatively while nodding. “A pleasure to meet you all,” he says politely. Vesemir and Eskel are witchers, Triss is a mage, and he has read some things about dwarves that make him reasonably confident that Yarpenna indeed belongs to that race. He has no idea what Regis is, but something about the man tells him he is far from human. He barely keeps from asking, and thinks the sheer amount of bottled up curiosity might have it all bubble out of him at some point. He hopes to be alone by the time that happens. 

Eskel points him to a chair nearest the fire, and takes his lute and pack from him. Jaskier murmurs a soft thanks and smiles at the witcher, grateful to let the heat of the flames sink into his chilled skin a little. 

The interview starts off reasonably mundane. They ask about his education, his pursuits in the years since then, and his experience in teaching. He tells them he has a degree in the seven liberal arts, with a focus on poetry and music, but that he’s interested in a wide variety of things. He carefully refrains from mentioning anything politically sensitive, his dismissal from Oxenfurt altogether too recent to allow him such boldness. He tells them he plays the lute and sings for fun just as much as he does it as a profession. When they ask, he briefly touches upon the Pankratz family name. He’s the last of the line. It was only his parents before him, no extended family to speak of. He briskly tells them the Lettenhove estate is no longer in his possession, and moves the conversation along. He doesn’t actively mention his dismissal under the official charge of plagiarism, but he gets the sense they know, just like Yennefer had. He wonders why they don’t ask him about it. 

Toward the end of the interview, the dean’s sharp yellow eyes meet his, and Jaskier feels like the guardian is taking his measure, more so than with all the questions he’s answered so far. He tries not to shift in his seat or look away, sure that the next inquiry will be more particular, sharper, perhaps. 

“You have only ever lived amongst humans, and taught humans,” the witcher begins, his voice and face so neutral Jaskier has absolutely no idea about the man’s opinion on that fact. “Despite it, you came here to interview for a position.” His eyes flicker to the wisp for a moment, now peacefully floating next to the arm of Jaskier’s chair. “You come— recommended,” he says, and Jaskier wonders if Yennefer put in a good word for him. She’d wheedled at him, though she’d made him feel like she was doing him an incredible favour, and honestly that is the truth of it, and threatened to push him through the portal herself, after all. “But, I have to ask. Do you want to be here, bard?” Vesemir asks, the mask of neutrality breaking for a second, a frown between grey brows that smooths out just as quickly as it had appeared. 

Jaskier’s breath catches, and he realises how his carefully curated words might have come across. He has fastidiously held himself in check for the entire interview, afraid to accidentally say something offensive like he had to the white haired guardian, and then to Eskel right after. He wanted to be careful, but he might just have been too careful, and come off as disinterested instead. 

He fidgets with his hands a little, looking from one to the other. They are all staring at him, waiting for his answer. The guardians’ eyes are slitted, amber and yellow. Triss’ eyes are kind and spark with chaos. Regis’ eyes are entirely too much like infinite black pools to be human, and Yarpenna’s eyes are a pretty hazel, the pupils round and periodically reflecting the light in a way that tells him they can probably see quite well in the dark.

“I want to be here,” he begins, trying to weigh his words. “What you say is true though. I have only ever been amongst humans. I have only ever read about— anyone who isn’t. I have a tendency to speak my thoughts aloud before giving them due consideration sometimes. Especially when I’m curious about something. Especially when I’m nervous.” He sighs deeply. “I already made some mistakes there,” he says, quickly glancing in Eskel’s direction. “One of you, a guardian I mean, is already angry with me. I do want to be here. I want to teach, but I want to learn, too. And I just— don’t want to offend.”

The dean’s mask of neutrality slides off his face, and though he doesn’t exactly look friendly, Jaskier thinks he’s answered the man’s concerns reasonably well. Vesemir leans back in his seat. “I don’t think Eskel here holds much against you,” he says, and Jaskier knows Vesemir hasn’t missed his cautious glance at the scarred witcher.

Eskel rumbles low in his chest and nods. “Which of us is angry with you? Some of us are easier to offend than others.” 

“If it’s a redhead, you can just ignore everything he says,” Yarpenna snarks, “abrasive ass is his default state of being.” They gently elbow Triss in the side as they say it, and the mage chuckles. 

“We’ve been trying to teach him some manners for decades, to very little result, I’m afraid,” she says kindly. It’s clear they all think this redhead has a bit of a temper, but the way they speak of it is rather fond, Jaskier decides.

“Temperament as flammable as his hair,” Regis adds wryly, smiling in Jaskier’s direction. He notes the tips of fangs that peek out at the action, but it doesn’t really narrow down the man’s origins at all. If pressed, he thinks he could come up with a handful of non-humans he’s read about, who look human but for the sharpness of their teeth.

Jaskier licks his lips and shakes his head. Giving the room a cautious smile. “Not a redhead. White hair and white wings, actually.” He sees several pairs of eyebrows rise up foreheads and shifts nervously in his seat. “I said some— silly things,” he hedges. 

“Hmh. You've met Geralt,” Vesemir says, that neutral tone of voice back again. “He would not engage with a human— with you, for no reason.” His yellow eyes flick over Jaskier’s by now only slightly less wet, slightly less bedraggled state. “What happened?”

Jaskier barely keeps himself from repeating the name, inexplicably wanting to feel the vibration of it in his throat and taste the sound of it on his tongue. Geralt. He plucks at the rips in his doublet a little. “Well,” he begins. “I was through the portal much earlier than I arrived here, but when I walked past the stream I saw movement in there.”

He tells them what happened, carefully trying to describe the little branch-creature without naming it as such. He struggles a bit as a result, and when he calls her a little birchling on accident, he flushes and apologises.

“She’s a tree-sprite, and her tree is indeed a birch,” the dean interrupts him. 

It lights up a memory in the back of his brain somewhere. “Oh!” he says excitedly. “I’ve read about those! Associated with individual species of trees… What was it about birches again?” he murmurs, tapping his lips. “Pioneer species, preparing the way for other plants by pulling up nutrients with their roots, providing shelter in the meantime. Especially important in areas that have been de-forested, to restore the natural order of things.”

He realises he’s babbled again when they all stare at him, and clacks his teeth together audibly. Glances are exchanged between the rest of them, and he has no hope of interpreting what their gazes hold. “Sorry,” he apologises softly. 

Vesemir looks at him sharply. “Something tells me we should limit your daily allowance for apologies,” he says, and Jaskier’s cheeks burn. 

Regis leans forward in his chair and briefly pets his shoulder. “Geralt has his reasons to distrust humans,” he starts. 

“Regis,” Eskel rumbles, the tone heavy with warning. 

Regis shrugs at Eskel before looking back at Jaskier. “Just be yourself. He’ll come around.”

Jaskier plucks at the ripped fabric again, chuckling mirthlessly. “Don’t be so sure of it. I’ve been told I am something of a— very rarely acquired taste.”

They all look at each other again, and for a second Jaskier is sure he’s going to be sent back through a portal. The wisp brushes against his hand, cool and calming, and he makes a soft, appreciative humming noise at it. 

Vesemir clears his throat. “One final question, bard,” the dean says, reaching back to grab a stack of papers from his desk and holding it out to him. Jaskier looks at the one on top, the layout and styling of text oddly familiar. “Are these yours?” Vesemir asks, sharp yellow eyes taking in his reaction.

Jaskier slowly takes the stack of papers from the witcher’s hands, fanning them out on his lap. They hold every last piece of his political poetry, essays, and songs. They’re signed under his pseudonym. It’s ironic, really. The pseudonym protected these works as his, but Valdo would have never wanted to be associated with them in the first place. Still, he’s glad he can fully lay claim to them, maybe especially in front of these strangers. If they don’t want him here because of these, then Jaskier isn’t all that sure he wants to stay, either. 

He looks at the name signed under every work. Dandelion. “Yes,” he says, looking up into Vesemir’s eyes and letting the guardian see the utter lack of doubt or regret. “These are mine.”

The wisp comes to hover next to him, as if the little ball of smoke is actively taking a stance with him, lending support. 

Vesemir nods. “Then, welcome to Kaer Morhen, professor Pankratz. The spring semester starts in two weeks time.”

Chapter Text

Jaskier is relieved when Eskel shoulders his pack without asking, as he guides him through the halls. This time it’s only a few minutes, and he’s glad for it. He feels like if he had to walk much longer he might just collapse into an exhausted puddle on the floor, or his foot and ankle will give out under him. Either way the result would be the same, and he’d rather hold it together until he’s in the privacy of the rooms that are to be his for the year. If he’ll have a bit of a breakdown behind closed doors, and if there are a few tears that make it past, none of them need to know. 

He still pays attention to his surroundings though, noting several flowers in the stonework, until they reach what seems to be a curved corner of the keep. There’s a door there, the wood honeycoloured and bright, more flowers are carved into the lintel at the top, just like the stone wolf above Vesemir’s office. 

“Buttercups,” he murmurs, glancing up at the delicate blooms. 

Eskel chuckles. “Fitting, isn’t it? Like the keep knew.”

Jaskier blinks. After considering it, he decides it would not surprise him at all, if the castle did in fact know. He breathes a little easier at the idea it would mean that he’s meant to be here, regardless what a certain guardian of Kaer Morhen thinks of it. 

Eskel opens the door behind which is a relatively short, curved set of stairs, ending in a cozy, perfectly circular room. A few candles have been lit to illuminate the space, and there are windows all around, looking out in different directions. Right now after sundown, darkness guards the secret of the views they hold. Jaskier realises they’re in one of the many towers. The ceiling is high, wooden beams spanning across it, and the floorboards are of that same honeycoloured wood. There’s not too much in the way of furniture, but there’s a large, sturdy bed, a desk, a large wardrobe and chest, and— and a musicstand. He makes an involuntary happy noise in his surprise, and sees Eskel glance at him. The wisp leaves its position above his head, and goes to float up high in the middle of the space, just under the thick beams that hold up the ceiling. Jaskier decides the room is entirely lovely, and he gingerly moves toward the music stand to deposit his lute. Eskel in the meantime, sets his pack onto the chest and moves toward the hearth. 

“Chilly in here,” the guardian rumbles, side-eying him,and Jaskier becomes acutely aware that he’s still rather damp and cold. “I’ll light a fire for you. It’ll probably burn out by morning, but you’ll hopefully be a little warmer by then.”

Jaskier hums his thanks and appreciation, fully expecting Eskel to get out flint from somewhere to set a spark to the prepared stack of wood in the cast iron stove, set into a stone hearth. Instead, the witcher crouches down and makes a quick gesture with his fingers. 

There is a shift of something in the air, like the hum of electricity over his skin just before a thunderstorm, and then actual fire springs forth from Eskel’s palm to set the logs aflame. 

Jaskier wishes he could say he was prepared for it. But, he is beyond tired by now, and the tenseness he still holds has him startle, hard. If he’d been holding onto anything he’s sure he would have dropped it from his hands. As it is, he stumbles back a pace, gasping and bumping gracelessly into the bed. 

Eskel looks over his shoulder at him from his crouching position and chuckles. “Alright there, Jaskier? Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Not scared,” he squeaks in response, delicately clearing his throat once the pounding of his heart calms down. He looks from the flames to Eskel’s hand and back. “Just surprised,” he says. “That’s amazing,” he continues before he can hold himself back. “Is that magic? Chaos? Is it the same as what mages do or is it different? I’d guess it’s similar but focussed through a gesture.” He makes a wiggle with his fingers, an approximation of the quick, flitting movement of Eskel’s hand. 

The guardian shrugs as he rises. “Similar. Not the same.” 

Jaskier has a hundred more questions, but he bites his tongue. It’s late, and there’s plenty of time to learn, later. Eskel’s mouth curves a bit, as if he’s perfectly aware that Jaskier is holding back. 

“The students that don’t live here will only start to arrive next week, at the earliest,” the witcher says. “Breakfast is held communally in the hall each morning. It's a good introduction to the rest of the keep.”

Jaskier smiles and thanks Eskel, for the fire, his explanations, and his welcome. Eskel nods at him before disappearing down the steps. The guardian pulls the door closed behind him so quietly Jaskier hardly even hears it. He shivers, and quickly hangs his soaked clothing to dry, donning a worn sleep shirt. After blowing out the candles he tucks himself into the bed. The blankets are soft and heavy, and slowly the air around him starts to warm from the fire. 

He looks up at the wisp floating high above him. “This is nice, isn’t it?” he asks it, looking at the slow swirl of grey. He has to swallow a few times against the emotion rising up in him now he’s alone. There’s still frustration and anger at everything that happened in Oxenfurt, but there’s grief, too. He rubs his forehead, and tells himself it’s alright to be sad. He’ll allow it, for now, and then tomorrow he’ll put his best foot forward.

The room is mostly dark, the sparse light from the lit stove casting shadows. Above him the wisp begins to glow with a soft, blue light. It casts slight patterns on the walls, slowly moving. It’s soothing, and Jaskier sighs deeply. Despite his inner turmoil, it doesn’t take him long at all to find sleep.  

—000—

It’s not until he wakes the next morning that he realises he only has a very vague idea of how to get back to the hall. He remembers turning corners at stone flowers and beetles, and a set of steps close to a statue, that had led them to Vesemir’s office. 

Determined to arrive at breakfast at least somewhat on time he plucks a deep blue ensemble from his pack, leaving the rest of his things to be unpacked later. The wisp languidly floats around him as he quickly washes. He’s just about to bolt down the steps and out the door when a glimpse of the surrounding landscape catches his attention. He’s pulled toward the first window despite his haste, and once he looks he can’t help but lean his elbows on the windowsill for a few slow breaths, before he makes his way to the next. The wisp follows along behind him, brushing against the back of his neck every now and again. 

When Jaskier looks out of the last window he sees a silhouette against the bright sky, far too large to be a bird's. He stands and watches as the shape defines itself as it approaches. When the witcher lands, bright white wings glint in the morning sunlight before they are suddenly gone as the guardian tucks them away. His hair is just as bright, and Jaskier bites his lip. He’s sure he imagines it, since the distance is too great for him to make out the witcher’s face, but for a moment he thinks Geralt looks up at his tower, directly at the window where he stands. 

As soon as Jaskier closes his door behind him, he’s forced to conclude he doesn’t even know which way to go. He knows they arrived from the right hand side last night, but that would be the direction of Vesemir’s office, and he suspects that’s a rather roundabout way of making his way down to the hall. He’s just about to give in and choose the route he at least thinks he knows, when the wisp comes to float directly in front of his face. 

“What do you want, hmh?” he says, trying to look past it at where there’s a corridor branching off in the distance. The wisp swirls a little more wildly in front of him, and then it floats off, coming to stillness a few metres away from him, hanging there. “Uhm,” Jaskier begins. “I’m pretty sure that’s not the right way.”

The wisp lights up with a bluish white colour, and though it’s not as obvious in the light of day, it’s like a tiny little thunderstorm, lighting up the insides of the small ball of mist. 

Jaskier huffs a breath. “I think I get what you’re telling me,” he says. “You know where to go.” 

The wisp flickers a little more brightly. 

Jaskier waves his hand. “Well? lead the way,” he chuckles, until he half has to run down the corridor to keep up when the wisp suddenly takes off. 

—000—

Following the wisp as it races down the hallways is easier said than done, especially since his foot has not entirely recovered with a night of rest, and it protests at every step. When they reach the hall Jaskier can hear the murmur of voices, and he skids to a slightly painful halt just around the corner, out of sight. 

“Wait!” he hisses to the wisp. “Let me— let me catch my breath for a moment.” He leans his hands on his thighs to take in deep lungfuls of air, and then rubs his fingers through his hair to smooth it out of his face. The murmur seems to have died down considerably, and he adjusts his estimate of how many people are in the hall. He hopes he’s still reasonably early, despite how his exhaustion kept him asleep until the morning light fell on his face and woke him. He tugs nervously at his doublet. 

At least he is dry this time, and his clothing without any obvious tears. The wisp comes to float over his head again, its colour back to a light, misty grey, no more light shining from within. With a deep, fortifying breath, Jaskier steps around the corner. 

In the sudden silence his soft noise of startled surprise seems deafeningly loud. Granted, the hall is far from filled in the absence of most of Kaer Morhen’s students, but there are more people present than he expected, and every single one of them is looking at him as he steps around the corner. 

Jaskier licks his lips nervously, looking around the space. He’s grateful to see the familiar faces of Vesemir and Eskel, Regis, Yarpenna, and Triss. There are around two handfuls of individuals who definitely aren’t human, and he has to sternly remind himself it’s rude to stare, even if he is insatiably curious as to what they are. 

Most unnervingly, there are around twenty witchers in the hall, and all of them have their slitted eyes focussed on him. He had hoped that the rest of Kaer Morhen’s guardians would respond to him like Eskel, or Vesemir. A little wary perhaps, but not with outright hostility. He swallows as he takes in their expressions. He doesn’t need to hear them say it, to know that they're unequivocally unhappy he’s here. 

When his eyes find sharp golden ones amongst the others, Jaskier can feel his heart rate pick up. The white haired witcher immediately looks away from him, and he can see the guardian’s jaw clench. The look almost makes him shrink in on himself. Yesterday it sort of had. But, Jaskier isn’t half drowned right now and refuses to be as overwhelmed as he was yesterday. 

“Right!” he says brightly, trying to keep his voice level and light. “It seems I’ve overslept and burst into breakfast unfortunately late. Let me apologise for the disturbance and seize the opportunity to introduce myself.” He does exactly that and is rather proud of himself, but then he keeps talking somewhat longer than he would have preferred, and winces a little as he hears himself comment enthusiastically on some of the keep’s features. They might be extraordinary to him, but to these people who live here, he might be coming off just a little— excitable. 

Across the hall, he sees Eskel lean back into his seat with a grin, and Vesemir gets to his feet. To his relief it takes a mere clearing of the dean’s throat to have everyone in the hall face in his direction. “Kaer Morhen welcomes you,” he says simply, and tips his head toward an empty seat between Eskel and Triss. 

Jaskier knows a cue when he gets one, and will most certainly make grateful use of this one. He nods, and hastens his way toward the vacant spot. 

“Slept well, bard?” Eskel asks as he plops himself into the seat beside him, pulling some plates of things toward Jaskier so he can reach. 

“I certainly did,” he answers. “I would have preferred to be here a little earlier, but alas. Also, when I woke up I wasn’t sure if I could find my way.”

“I’m sure your wisp helped with that,” Triss says kindly from his other side, pouring a steaming, beige liquid into the mug in front of him. It smells of coffee and cinnamon, and he can’t help the pleased sound that leaves him before he looks at her with alarm. 

“Not my wisp,” he says hastily, shaking his head, his cheeks tinging red. “I wouldn’t—” he glances at where Geralt is placed, several seats down the long table from him. The guardian doesn’t look at him, but there’s a scowl on his face and the line of his shoulders is tense. 

“What do you mean, not your wisp?” Yarpenna says, rolling their eyes at him. “Your wisp is floating right above your head, for Melitele’s sake.”

Again, Jaskier glances at Geralt and shifts in his seat nervously. “It was made clear to me that claiming it in such a way implies ownership, and I don’t mean to do that,” he says carefully. 

Regis leans forward over the table to follow his line of sight. “Ah,” he says, before looking back at Jaskier. “Did you know that humans have caught wisps in the past? Held them in spheres of glass and hung them from netting, on carriages and trade caravans, to light the way through marshes and swamps?”

Jaskier stares at Regis, open mouthed and horrified. “We’ve done what?!” he screeches, a little louder than he meant to. “I’ve read about wisps, but I have never read about that,” he continues weakly.

From down the table, there are a few witchers who throw him dark looks, low growls rumbling in their chests. 

Triss shakes her head sadly. “I assure you, it happened. It’s been a lot of work to… erase certain accounts from public record, lest they be used as a manual of sorts.”

Jaskier looks up at the wisp floating directly above him, shaken. It swirls a little, grey briefly darkening to near black, before it lightens again. He is horrified that something like that could have happened to the little ball of smoke. He is also horrified that evidently, that’s what Geralt thought he had done, when he asked the guardian if he’d seen his wisp. Wordlessly, Jaskier shakes his head up at the wisp. It swirls a little more energetically and lightens further, to the palest misty grey. Then it floats down enough to brush across his forehead, cool and slightly wet. Jaskier briefly closes his eyes, and thinks wordless apologies at it. 

He opens his eyes when Vesemir’s rumbling voice demands his attention. “It has chosen you. You are allowed to call it your wisp, bard,” the dean says. Jaskier blinks in surprise, and sees the witcher isn’t actually looking at him, but down the table. Geralt’s face is impassive, but his eyes are cold, despite the warmth of their golden hue. 

Jaskier shivers and murmurs something under his breath about the white haired guardian being as hostile as he is pretty. To his surprise, those sharp, slitted eyes land on him immediately. The witcher bares his pointed teeth and growls, loud enough a silence falls over the hall in the wake of it. Then, with a rush of sound, huge, white-feathered wings appear behind his back. The witcher can hardly fly away inside, but he stands and exits the hall without a word, leaving his half eaten breakfast behind.

Jaskier gets a few more dark looks from some of the other guardians and a few more growls, and shrinks in on himself a bit, wondering what faux pas he made this time. 

Eskel lays a brief hand on his shoulder. “You like to read, don’t you?”

“Ah, yes?” he says uncertainly, still looking at Geralt’s now empty place at the table. 

“You haven’t read much on witchers, I’d wager,” the scarred guardian says. 

Jaskier shakes his head. “Not much to be found.”

“There wouldn’t be,” Triss says. “Most of it we keep safe, here.”

“Oh,” Jaskier nods, understanding. Like the accounts on wisps, not everything might be safe in the hands of humanity, not when the political climate still is the way it is in large swathes of the continent. 

“I’ll show you the library later,” Eskel says. “But for now, it might be good to know that witchers have senses far more sharp than humans do."

For a second, Jaskier doesn’t understand. When he finally realises the implications of that tidbit of information, he makes a noise of embarrassed alarm. “You mean to say you heard me call him pretty? That he heard that?”

A redheaded witcher a few seats down and across from him turns toward him, a spectacular scowl between his russet brows. “We all fucking heard that, human.”

Chapter Text

Jaskier is entirely unable to silence his gasp of delight when Eskel opens the door for him. True to his word, the scarred witcher led him through the halls of Kaer Morhen after breakfast, toward the library. Jaskier again tried to pay careful attention to the decorations they passed, smiling a little when he noticed the theme changing to parchment and quills, inkpots and pens, and books in all shapes and sizes. 

Now, all thoughts of the castle guiding him through its halls by decoration alone are wiped from his mind, as he takes in the absolute treasure trove before him. He gapes, and doesn’t miss Eskel’s satisfied smirk, as the witcher ushers him through. 

“I think I might be dreaming,” he says breathlessly, whirling around to take it all in, as the wisp slowly circles above him in the opposite direction, as if to balance his excitement. 

“Would you have dreamt of a place like this?” Eskel asks, and Jaskier startles at the scepticism in his tone. 

He turns around to face the guardian. “Maybe not,” he says, and sees the witcher’s expression become slightly guarded. “I wouldn't have been able to,” he continues truthfully. “I don’t think even in my wildest most imaginative dreams I could have come up with something so entirely lovely as Kaer Morhen.”

Eskel looks surprised for a second, before his expression relaxes into a smile and he chuckles. “I’m not so sure about that,” he counters. “You seem plenty imaginative so far.” 

Jaskier flushes slightly, admittedly pleased with that assessment, before staring up at the rows and rows of books, reaching all the way to the ceiling. 

Eskel chuckles again. “I guess you’ll be occupied for a bit,” the witcher says, and Jaskier nods his head wordlessly, eyes flying over the different sections. Eskel is just about to leave him to it, when the guardian turns around in the door opening, catching Jaskier’s attention by rapping his knuckles on the wood. “Before I forget,” he says. “All professors are supposed to have their syllabuses finished at least a week before the start of the semester. Since you only just got here I think Vesemir will give you some extra time, but you might want to get started.”

It takes a few seconds for the reality of his words to pull Jaskier out of his library induced trance— and really, he is not to be blamed, he has a degree in the liberal arts, he is a professor, and he likes to read. What else is he supposed to do when faced with a wealth of books such as this. 

When his brain finally decides to make sense of Eskel's words and trickle the information through his haze of excitement, he makes a sound of definite alarm. “What do you mean I have to write a syllabus in a week?!” he practically screeches. 

Eskel grins and shrugs. “It’s been a while since we’ve had a professor of poetry and music. It doesn’t have to be extensive, as long as you have a general idea.”

Jaskier throws his hands in the air. “It doesn’t have to be extensive,” he mimics teasingly. “Do you know who you’re talking to? I know who you’re talking to, and let me tell you, I will absolutely not be able to limit myself to an outline, even if you do expect me to produce it within a week.” He rubs his fingers over his temples and mock glares at Eskel. “You think I’m going to go ahead and show Vesemir anything that’s less than perfect?”

The guardian chuckles again, and points toward an area with several desks. “Pen and paper’s over there, if you’re itching to get started.” 

Jaskier makes a face at him, but feels his lips curl in a smile right after, despite himself. He glances at the walls of books again. “Thanks for showing me this,” he says, his tone genuine. 

Eskel smiles. “You’re welcome, bard.” He points at one of the bookcases. “Whenever you’re ready to take a break, books on Kaer Morhen are over there.”

When Eskel is gone, Jaskier allows himself a few more minutes to take everything in. The space is vast, the largest room he’s seen so far except for the main hall. There are a few large windows that almost reach to the ceiling, and the remaining wall space is covered with shelves, going up all the way to the arched ceiling as well. There are two separate balustrades that run along the entire perimeter, and Jaskier concludes the library’s height must actually be that of three regular stories. He sees a few ladders that serve to reach the two balconies, curling vines carved into the wood. The rest of the space is mostly open, though there are low bookcases set in neat rows to one side and around twenty desks in equally orderly lines to the other. 

He heaves a deep sigh. It’s a good thing he was a professor before. He knows how to set up a syllabus. He even thinks he can draw upon his previous classes for most of it. Now he just needs to make sure that it’s suitable for students that aren’t human. He doesn’t know what dwarves, elves or sprites are supposed to learn about, or if they have poets and poetry of their own. He eyes the multitude of books, and guesses there’s no better place than this to try and find out. It’s not like it will be a hardship, he just wishes he had a little more time. 

Jaskier looks up at his wisp. It is light grey and swirling, as if it can feel his excitement and is going along with it. “Let's get started, shall we?” he says. “Want to help me find some poetry not written by humans?” 

The wisp flickers briefly with pale bluish light, and floats up toward the first balcony. Jaskier grins. At least finding what he’s looking for amongst the thousands of books won’t be as hard as he’d expected. 

—000—

Jaskier has slowly but surely spread the conglomeration of his research across the surface of not one, but three desks. One of them he takes care to keep a little neater than the other two, designated stacks of paper with hastily jotted down notes lying before small stacks of books. He’s collected a multitude of books on the other two desks, opened at pages of poetry or tables of contents or passages that are of interest to him. He’s humming softly as he works, eyes flying over lines of text, his fingers stained with ink as he tries to write faster than his hands can keep up with. There are a few crumpled, balled up pieces of paper he fully intends to burn to ash in his hearth later. 

Right in the middle of his neatest desk Jaskier has spread out a few larger sheets on which he’s jotted down a rough outline for the spring semester. He’s glad they at least told him the students at Kaer Morhen don’t just vary wildly in origin and species, but in age as well. It seems Oxenfurt is more rigid in that respect. The university only admits students who have reached majority at eighteen. Kear Morhen on the other hand, admits students from the age of ten, all the way to several decades old. Different species apparently mature at different rates, and classes are composed of students with the same level of maturity. The human equivalent would be ten to twentyfive, they’ve said. Ten summers old is indisputably younger than Jaskier has ever taught before. Those are likely to be children whatever their race, really, and he struggles most coming up with a suitable outline that’s both tailored to their age, and still relevant. 

Jaskier is so absorbed in his work that it takes a second firm tug on his trousers to catch his attention. When it does finally register he breaks off his humming with a startled noise, and looks down into a young girl’s face, pale as birch bark with small swathes of green. Her long, pale hair is a fluffy cloud around her head, and the top of her crown comes up to about mid thigh. He blinks in surprise, and she grins up at him, her expression impish and her green eyes curious. 

Jaskier cannot help but smile back down at her. “Hello, little birchling,” he says. “I’m relieved to see you well, and dry this time.” 

She giggles, and then to his surprise she hooks her delicate hands into the fabric of his clothes and uses him to heave herself up on the desk. She chooses her place carefully, folding her legs under herself without disturbing his reasonably neat stacks of paper. 

“I’m dry most of the time,” she says, and though Jaskier has no idea of her actual age, her voice sounds young. “Thanks for fishing me out of the stream,” she continues. 

Slowly, Jaskier lowers himself into the desk chair to be more eye level with her. “You’re welcome,” he says. “How did that happen anyway? Don’t tell me you were trying to learn to swim.” 

She makes a face at him. “I’m a tree sprite. We don’t need to learn. We float."

Jaskier chuckles. “You might float in calmer waters, but a raging current will still pull you under.” 

She makes another face, this one slightly put upon, as if it’s something she’s heard before. “That’s what Geralt said, too,” she says, miffed. 

“Well, then I cannot help but agree with him,” Jaskier admits carefully.

“You’re going to be one of our professors?,” the little birchling asks, evidently preferring not to be lectured, again.

Jaskier nods. “This year, at least. I’ll do my best, but I’ve not taught in a place like Kaer Morhen before.”

The small tree-sprite’s face lights up. “Oh! You’ll love it,” she says. “Kaer Morhen is the best! Though I’m only officially starting classes this semester. Geralt says I was too young before, but I can learn!”

Jaskier leans back in his chair and smiles at her enthusiasm. “Maybe you can help me learn some things too,” he says, glad it turns out he was right in his assessment that she’s a child, and still a rather young one at that. “The other professors for instance. I still know nothing about what they teach.”

The little birchling’s green eyes spark with excitement. “I can tell you! I’ve been here for years. I know their subjects.”

Jaskier nods along with her, briefly wondering why she’s here before the start of the semester, and has apparently been here for years. Maybe tree sprites don’t stay with their parents. Somehow, he’s not so sure. “That would be great,” he answers. “Maybe you can tell me right after you tell me your name,” he says with a wink. 

“Ciri,” she chirps immediately. “Cirilla when I’ve done something I’m not supposed to. Geralt says once I start classes, the professors will start to call me Cirilla too.” She makes another face, and Jaskier finds himself amused at how expressive the little tree sprite is, her thoughts and feelings clearly visible on her small, delicate face. 

“Well, Ciri, which class are you most looking forward to?”

She looks at him askance for a moment. “Do you want me to say yours?”

Jaskier tips his head back and laughs, delighted at her unabashed honesty. “No, little birchling. Poetry and music might be my favourites, but they can’t be everyone's. I’m genuinely curious to hear what you like.”

Ciri smiles happily back up at him. “You were humming something before,” she chirps. “It sounded pretty. I liked it.”

Jaskier nods seriously and leans over to make a quick note in one of his outlines, and Ciri looks delighted. When she laughs, he imagines it sounds like the wind rustling through leaves. 

“I want to learn chaos and I want to learn how to fight,” she says confidently. “I’m only small though, so I’ll have to rely on chaos more, but Geralt still says I can learn.”

She’s mentioned the guardian a few times now, and Jaskier is curious. “Geralt says a lot of things,” he says neutrally. 

Ciri nods happily. “He brought me to Kaer Morhen, even though I was too young. He says Guardians tether to some of the castle’s occupants more strongly, and he chose me.”

Jaskier looks at the fluffy haired little birchling, and thinks of the large, white winged witcher. Now that she’s mentioned it, he can fully imagine the guardian being fiercely protective of the little sprite. He hopes that protectiveness might explain some of the witcher’s hostility toward him. 

“You mean there are classes on chaos, and on learning how to fight?” he asks carefully, and Ciri nods her small head, sending her fluffy hair floating around her.

“Yennefer teaches chaos, and Geralt does fighting,” she answers. “Though he says it’s not fighting, but self defence,” she shrugs, and Jaskier thinks the little sprite might be of the opinion that the first step in defending oneself is a strong offense. He cannot help but think that Geralt might actually agree with her. 

“Yennefer teaches a class?” he says in surprise, wanting to steer himself away from too many thoughts about the guardian that doesn’t like him. 

“Of course!” Ciri chirps. “You’ve met her, right?” she points up at the wisp while she says it, and the small ball of mists swirls a little harder where it hangs over their heads. “Yen said she had a wisp floating about, searching.”

“Oh,” Jaskier says, looking up. “You were searching?” he murmurs at it, and it pulses briefly with light. He feels pleasantly warm when he turns back to Ciri. “So, Geralt teaches self defence, and Yennefer teaches chaos. What else?”

Though Ciri is young, she’s evidently been at Kaer Morhen for a while, and Jaskier finds she’s a wealth of information for someone like him. Someone who is just realising how frighteningly little they know about anything not human. Though he’s careful, he doesn’t have to be so nervous about saying the wrong thing, her exuberance and youth making her skip over any potential social faux pas easily. 

He learns that Yennefer and Triss are the only mages, and while Yennefer teaches chaos in the broader sense, Triss’ brand of magic is focussed on healing. Ciri confirms that Yarpenna is indeed a dwarf, though Jaskier still doesn't know if they’re male or female by the end of it, and decides it doesn’t really matter anyways. They teach on precious metals and gems, where to find them, their properties and uses, and how to work them into things both decorative and practical. It turns out they teach both silver- and blacksmithing too, to whichever student wants to learn. 

Regis is actually a thousands year old vampire teaching history, and Jaskier can certainly appreciate the satire of it. He does have to carefully refrain from nervously touching his neck though, reminding himself that nothing about Regis had seemed threatening, and the professor had actually been rather kind. 

The redheaded witcher with the angry expression and voice turns out to be a professor as well, and Jaskier learns that it’s not only his personality that’s explosive. His name is Lambert and he teaches alchemy and chemistry, and Jaskier eyes the little birchling sternly when she tells him with glee about the classes on bomb making. Ciri notes his expression, and tries to look innocent and contrite, though Jaskier can tell she isn’t, not really. It’s both amusing and disconcerting to imagine the cheeky little sprite learning about bombs. 

“Eskel teaches animal care, and Vesemir’s classes are on the lore of just about every species, whether they attend Kaer Morhen or not,” Ciri tells him, and Jaskier finds himself surprised to learn that there’s a few of the guardians teaching classes. 

“What do the witchers do who don’t have subjects to teach?” he asks carefully. 

The small sprite screws up her nose and tilts her head at him, her downy hair floating with the motion. “You don’t know?” she says incredulously. 

Jaskier shrugs. “I don’t. I’ve only ever lived in Oxenfurt, with humans. I’ve read some things about Kaer Morhen, but none of them have come close to the truth of it,” he says, gesturing at the library and the castle as a whole. 

“Where’s Oxenfurt?” Ciri asks curiously. 

“Redania,” Jaskier answers easily. “I taught at the university there. That school is very Redanian, though Nilfgaard is certainly trying to gain influence, and—” he breaks off abruptly.

There’s nothing to prepare him for the way the little sprite’s expression shutters, her lively green eyes suddenly closed off as she seems to stare right through him. When he looks at her little hands they are clenched in the fabric of her loose trousers. He swallows heavily. What about what he said would make the little birchling respond like this? 

“Ciri?” he asks softly, not wanting to scare the sprite. 

She doesn’t respond in the slightest, but he sees how the line of her shoulders bows forward, hunching in on herself. The wisp lowers from its position high above them to hover at his shoulder, brushing against his cheek as if it is urging him to do something. He doesn’t know what though, wracking his brain for something that might help. When he remembers Ciri saying she liked his humming, he decides it’s worth a try. Music can certainly serve as a focus outside oneself, and right now, it seems as if the young tree-sprite is caught in some unpleasant memory or other. 

Jaskier starts to hum a slow, soothing melody, and is intensely grateful when those little hands start to unclench. When Ciri’s green eyes regain a little of their lucidity he lifts his voice in song, giving words to the melody. Once the notes ebb away, leaving only silence between them, Jaskier notes that the little sprite still looks subdued. The swathes of green on her face look a little paler, and her hair seems to be pulled down by gravity compared to how it was before. He doesn’t know if he should, but he wants to offer her what comfort he can. 

“Do you want a hug, little birchling?” he asks softly. Ciri’s green eyes flit over his face. She hesitates a few seconds, and then she nods. 

Carefully, cognizant of how much smaller the sprite is compared to him, Jaskier leans forward and pulls her into his shoulder, his hand rubbing carefully along her back. He can feel her small fingers wind into the fabric of his doublet. She’s fragile, but her grip is strong, and it reminds him of how she’d clung to him in the water. 

“I’m sorry, Ciri. For whatever happened,” he murmurs gently.

She nods into his shoulder. After long minutes, her downy hair starts to float around her head again, and she seems back to her happy self. 

“So, what do the other witchers occupy themselves with if it’s not teaching, little birchling?” Jaskier asks in an effort to distract her.

Before she can answer, there’s a low growl just behind them that is all too familiar, despite only having heard it for the very first time the previous day. 

Ciri makes a delighted noise and slips off the table, running toward Geralt and using her fingers to hook into his clothes and climb him like a tree, until she can cling to his shoulder. 

Jaskier makes a soft, apologetic noise and shrinks a little under Geralt’s sharp gaze. The guardian definitely heard him call her a birchling, and though the others’ response to it during his interview makes him think it’s not actually offensive, he isn’t sure the witcher won’t take issue anyway. 

“Ah–” he begins, “the little birchling thing— I don’t mean anything by it. I promise. I didn’t think there was anything wrong with it, I’m sorry if there is, I won’t use it again if that’s the case.”

The guardian frowns, and the disapproving expression gives his handsome features that same austere look he’d had when Jaskier first saw him. He suddenly vividly remembers calling him pretty during breakfast, and feels heat rush into his cheeks. 

Ciri giggles and pulls at Geralt’s white hair. “Nothing wrong with that,” she chirps happily. “It’s what Geralt calls me, too.” 

“Oh,” Jaskier says, unsure if that’s a relief or not. On the one hand it’s good to know he hasn’t accidentally chosen something disparaging as a nickname for her, on the other, he’s not so sure Geralt will be happy with him calling the little sprite by the same name.

The witcher doesn’t say anything, not until he plucks Ciri from his shoulder and ushers her toward the door. “It’s almost dinner time,” he says, his voice a far more friendly rumble than Jaskier has heard it so far. 

The small tree-sprite huffs a little, before grinning back at Jaskier and waving. “See you next time!” she says, and then she’s off like a shot. She’s out the door before he can lift his hand to wave back at her. 

He’s suddenly quite unexpectedly alone with the white haired guardian, Geralt’s sharp eyes taking him in before flicking to the mess he’s made of not one, but three desks. 

“Um—” Jaskier says, waving his hands at the stacks of papers and books he’s spread out. “Just doing some research. Eskel only told me today that I have a week— six days now I guess, to complete some version of a syllabus. I want to be certain it’s something that will be suitable. Though I’m sure I can adjust things as I go along if it turns out it’s not, or if I’ve forgotten anything.” 

The witcher just looks at him, his face impassive, and so Jaskier keeps talking. 

“Ciri told me that you teach a class yourself? I’m guessing you’ve had your syllabus finished for a while. I bet it won’t need any adjustments. You certainly look like you know what you’re doing, teaching self defence. And holy Melitele will you stop looking at me like that, or please say something, before I just keep going long enough to accidentally say something offensive again?” he finishes just the tiniest bit shrilly. 

One of Geralt’s eyebrows raises. “You talk a lot.” 

Jaskier winces a little. “So I’ve been told. I’m sorry, by the way. For this morning. For saying that, where you and everyone could overhear.”

The guardian slowly folds his arms over his chest, and Jaskier cannot help but notice that both chest and arms are rather impressive. “You’re sorry it was overheard,” Geralt says curtly. 

“Well, yes,” Jaskier answers, nervously shifting from one foot to the other. “I didn’t know your hearing was that sensitive, or I would have endeavoured to keep my mouth shut. Not a hundred percent success rate there, mind you.”

Geralt scowls. “You’re not sorry for the words themselves,” the witcher growls. 

This time, it’s Jaskier who crosses his arms, frowning. “Not really?” he answers. “I figure I’m allowed to voice an opinion. You have to admit you were pretty hostile when we met yesterday. Even if I did say a silly thing.” He tugs a little at the hem of his doublet. “Which reminds me, I should not have implied that you would eat me. I’m sorry.” He wants to say more, but bites his tongue when Geralt briefly bares his sharp teeth. 

“You may consider me hostile,” Geralt rumbles, and it feels more like a weird sort of permission than anything else. “But if you want to insult me, do it to my face,” he growls, his voice darkening with every word. 

Jaskier takes a small step back despite himself, bumping into the desk. The witcher is looming over him a little now, and he feels nerves prickle over his skin. Slowly he raises his hands, palms upward. “That’s just it,” he says slowly. “I don’t want to insult you. Quite the opposite, in fact. I’d give a lot not to keep putting my foot in my mouth where you’re concerned, but it seems to have happened again, regardless of my best efforts. What did I say that came off as a slight? I assure you that wasn’t my intention.”

Geralt growls again, and it’s clear the witcher does not believe that Jaskier doesn’t know. He looks up into the guardian’s golden eyes and shrugs helplessly. Geralt looks away first, roughly shaking his head. “You called me pretty,” he says. 

“But you are pretty,” Jaskier says before his brain can catch up and tell him it’s a spectacularly bad idea to say that out loud. He shrinks back a ways, glancing up at the guardian’s face through his eyelashes. He fully expects another growl, or maybe even for one of those big hands to land on his chest and apply pressure like Geralt had done the day before when he pushed him into the ground. 

“At least your average babble is more honest than this,” Geralt bites out, and Jaskier realises the witcher is angry, because he does not believe that Jaskier is telling the truth. Because inexplicably, the guardian doesn’t think of himself like that, not at all. And no matter how growly and hostile Geralt is, Jaskier won’t stand for that. Not when Geralt thinks he was being sarcastic when he accidentally blabbermouthed where every witcher could hear.

“You— you don’t think you’re pretty?” he says, flabbergasted, paying no heed to the fact he’s once again showing his hand to the witcher, and quite on purpose this time. He shakes his head. “I have eyes, Geralt. Believe me, you are beautiful,” is all he says. 

The guardian frowns and looks away from him, staring at the mess that’s supposed to turn into his syllabus in the next six days. His jaw is clenched firmly enough Jaskier fears for the enamel on his molars. He sighs, and decides to allow for a change of subject, since this one is evidently not endearing him to the white haired witcher any further.

“You said it is almost dinner time?” he hedges, putting a self conscious hand to his stomach when he is aided in his diversion by a loud noise of hunger. He grins sheepishly. “Seems like I might have accidentally skipped lunch.” He glances back at the desks behind him. “Could I leave it like this and pick it back up tomorrow?” he murmurs, more to himself than to the witcher. 

“You could,” Geralt answers, and Jaskier is pleasantly surprised to hear his voice sound almost neutral. “Unwise, once the students arrive.”

Jaskier smiles. “I can imagine,” he says, and turns around to quickly tidy and straighten some of the more haphazard piles. He feels more than he sees Geralt step up at the desk next to him, and quickly remembers what types of books he’s left there, opened at a few particularly callous and blindingly prejudiced passages. Books written by human authors that Jaskier has gathered in an effort to reaffirm what he already knows. Books that illustrate perfectly what those that aren’t human have to deal with, outside of Kaer Morhen’s walls, out in the continent. “No—!” he says, turning to explain, but it’s too late. 

Geralt has his hand flat on the table’s surface, and his eyes quickly flick from one awful passage to the next. When he looks back at him, Jaskier can tell the guardian is furious. 

He starts to shake his head, but the next thing he knows Geralt has his hand fisted in his doublet and there is a rush of sound in his ears. Jaskier’s back collides with stone with a roughly gasped oof!, and they hadn’t been standing close to a wall at all, had they? When he finds his view obscured by large, white wings, he realises where the rushing sound came from, and how he’s suddenly all the way on the other side of the library. 

Geralt is huge and looming over him, and Jaskier heaves a nervous breath before he opens his mouth to explain. 

“Quiet!” Geralt snaps at him, his baritone booming in the silence of the library. “Fuck your excuses, human. Keep your prejudice out of your classes, or I’ll drop you from the highest tower myself.” The threat is issued quietly, and has the hair at the back of his neck stand on end. 

Jaskier wants to defend himself. He wants to ignore the witcher’s growled order to be silent. It’s impossible to take a breath though, Geralt’s hand suddenly putting immense pressure against his breastbone. It’s only when his little wisp comes racing toward them, flickering with pale blue light, that the guardian releases him, baring his teeth at the small ball of smoke. Jaskier wheezes on his inhale, and slides a little ways down the wall. 

By the time he’s caught his breath enough to be able to form words, the guardian isn’t there anymore. He rakes a hand through his hair and rubs his fingers over his sternum. The wisp hovers in front of his face, swirling concernedly. 

“Fuck,” he says, leaning his forehead toward the wisp’s misty coolness for a moment. “As if him only hearing me say unfortunate things wasn’t enough,” he murmurs. He eyes the still opened books on one of the desks. He moves back toward them and slams the covers closed a little aggressively, venting his frustration. He still makes sure they’re returned to their rightful places, before he makes his way down to dinner. 

Chapter Text

The wisp is hovering much more closely overhead when Jaskier sits down to dinner that evening, and he hums at it in reassurance. Next to him, Yarpenna leans in and looks up at the little ball of smoke. 

“Seems it’s worried about you,” they say, stroking sturdy fingers over the braids of their beard. They glance back at him. “You alright, bard?”

On his other side, Jaskier notes Eskel’s deep, careful inhale through his nose. 

“Are— are you smelling me?” he says, trying to lower his voice so not every witcher will be immediately aware of his question.

Eskel raises an eyebrow at him. “Scent can tell us a lot,” the scarred guardian answers non-comitally, and Jaskier is immediately relieved that he took the time to wash that morning. He’s also immediately fascinated. 

“Is your sense of smell as acute as your hearing? What types of things does it tell you?” he asks. “I would have gotten to the reading you suggested,” he continues, referring to the books on Kaer Morhen and its guardians. “But once I started to put together at least the bare bones of a syllabus, I got kind of absorbed.”

Across from him Regis taps a fingernail on the table to catch his attention. Jaskier has admittedly glanced at the man’s fangs a few times. Now that he knows what species his fellow professor belongs to, he doesn’t know how he didn’t see it before. 

“You can take a look at mine, if that’ll help,” he says kindly, and Jaskier smiles at him, nodding in thanks. When Regis answers his smile, Jaskier’s eyes flick down to his teeth again despite himself. He immediately looks away. He knows he’s blushing, and he feels inclined to apologise for looking. The history professor chuckles, winking at him and casually commenting on the excellence of tonight’s dinner, and how he’s absolutely full to bursting. Jaskier knows it’s for his benefit, and he feels awkwardly ashamed that the vampire thinks it necessary to reassure him this way. 

“We can smell that, for example,” Eskel says next to him. 

“Hm?” Jaskier says, trying not to look at where Geralt is seated further down the table. 

Eskel clears his throat softly. “That you’re— embarrassed,” he says quietly, and of course, that only serves to intensify his blush.

He gestures to his cheeks. “I don’t suppose heightened senses are entirely necessary to deduce that,” he says, laughing a little at himself. 

“We can smell most emotions,” Eskel continues, “which is generally advantageous. But, even if we can smell them, we still don’t know the reasons or thought processes behind them. It leads us to draw false conclusions, sometimes,” he says meaningfully, and Jaskier has to harshly bite his tongue to keep from looking at the white winged guardian. 

He looks back at Regis. “I’ve read somewhere that vampires have heightened senses too?” he asks carefully. 

Regis nods. “We do, though compared to witchers ours are more specifically focussed.”

“Oh?” Jaskier asks, distracted enough from his previous embarrassment to prod. “Focussed on what?”

The vampire shoots him a considering look, before shrugging. “Ours are intended to find prey, mainly.”

Jaskier nods thoughtfully, tapping a finger to his lips. “That makes sense, but how does that difference manifest? I guess smelling emotions wouldn’t aid in that respect. So what do you smell?”

The history professor smiles as if he’s passed some test he wasn’t aware of. “I can mostly just smell your blood. For instance, I can smell that your blood sugar is a little low. Did you skip lunch by any chance?”

Jaskier blinks in surprise, before nodding. “I did!” he says, amazed. “What else can you tell?”

The vampire inhales deeply, his bottomless black eyes staring at him. “I can tell that you’re rather bruised, actually,” he says, frowning. He glances up at the wisp hovering very close to the crown of Jaskier’s head. “That’s what has your little wisp worried, I’d wager.”

Next to him, Eskel nods. “I can smell the same. Triss?”

The red haired mage is sat next to Regis, and she nods kindly. “You did say you were scraped up, plucking little Ciri from the water. I meant to give you this,” she says, and hands him a jar of ointment. “Works wonders on bruises and scrapes. Apply it in the evenings.” 

Jaskier takes the jar with reverent hands. He knows the high price a mage’s salve fetches everywhere else on the continent, and he thanks her exuberantly. 

Yarpenna frowns and shoves a sturdy shoulder into his side. “Your wisp wasn’t as worried about you yesterday. You didn’t get into another spot of trouble already, did you? ” They eye him warily, as if they fully expect him to be the sort who gets into all sorts of mishaps on a daily basis. Jaskier has to admit, they’re not entirely wrong. He laughs, tucking the salve away.

“Hardly. I dare say I’ve done enough swimming for the entire spring semester, and I’ve spent the entire day in the library. Near impossible to get into trouble between all those books,” he says easily. 

He hasn’t said anything untrue, but Eskel still sends him a rather sharp look. 

—000—

The rest of the week Jaskier manages to make decent progress on his syllabus, and he hopes it will be enough to get him through the spring semester without any complaints. He’ll have the entire semester itself and the two week break that follows to work on his outline for the fall semester, if he’s allowed to stay that long. 

He still consults the books Geralt had gotten so angry over, but he doesn’t again get them all out at the same time, and once he’s verified what he was after he keeps them out of the mess that are his claimed desks in the library. 

He hums as he works, and he’s happy when Ciri joins him again one afternoon, using that same technique of basically climbing him to settle on the desk. He sings for her, and she chatters away at him about anything and everything. He smiles as he listens to her talk. Most of it speaks of the perception of a child. Some of it is surprising, useful, or contextualising the things Jaskier has read about non-humans, but never quite considered in a practical setting. 

He forgets to go down to the hall for lunch more often than not, and Triss and Yarpenna both shove food at him at every evening meal, especially whenever Regis comments on his blood sugar levels. He dares to tease the vampire at some point, remarking that he just wants his blood to smell a little sweeter, and gets a full belly laugh from both Eskel and the history teacher as a result. 

He tries his best not to be obvious when he glances in Geralt’s direction during breakfast and dinner, but the witcher inevitably catches him at least once every meal. Geralt never meets his eyes for long, his eyebrows pulling together in a frown before he looks away. Ciri is there for some of the meals, though he has no idea where the little sprite hangs out for the rest of them. When she’s there she hangs from Geralt’s shoulder half the time, and Jaskier can’t keep the smile off his face. Of course, the white haired witcher notices, and those are the times the guardian doesn’t look away. It inevitably leads to him blushing, averting his eyes, and staring down at his plate instead. 

He’s hopeful that Geralt and the rest of the witchers will become less condemnatory of his presence over time, but despite the fact nothing Jaskier says results in Kaer Morhen’s guardians outright growling at him like they’d done that first evening, they seem to persevere in their mere reluctant tolerance of him. He’s not sure what to do to make them regard him in a kinder light, but he figures as long as he’s not doing anything to worsen their opinion, it’s a win for now. 

By the end of the week Jaskier knows his way from his tower room to the hall, to the library, and the path in between. The wisp still insists on racing out in front of him, and he ends up running through the halls to keep up more often than not. His foot still hurts a little, but is doing much better thanks to Triss’ salve, and the bruises on his back have practically faded to nothing. 

He’s just about to relax a little, thinking he’s starting to settle in despite everything, when he enters the hall for the evening meal to find his usual seat has a certain white winged witcher in it. 

—000—

As usual, Jaskier skids to a halt just outside the hall, hands braced on his thighs to catch his breath before he enters. The wisp is excitedly swirling around him, and he shakes his head at it. “You going faster means I’m not going to be able to keep up one of these days,” he whispers, panting. It flickers briefly with bright light, before it lightly brushes across his forehead. The misty creature is pleasantly cool against his heated skin, and Jaskier smiles at it. He softly blows in the wisp’s direction. He’s found out that it’s impossible to pet the little ball of smoke since his hand just goes right through it— and that has to be uncomfortable, surely— but that the wisp likes it when he blows a gentle breath of air at it. It swirls more calmly in response, and then comes to float in its customary position right over his head. 

When he eventually feels like he’s no longer breathing so heavily it could be cause for undue concern, he enters the hall. He’s actually about halfway to his seat before he notices, distracted as he is by one of the stained glass windows. The windowpane seems to have completely changed its pattern and colours compared to the previous night. Right now it shows a moorland at sunset, the light purples of heather transforming into the pale blues and greys of clouds, and then bright oranges and reds for the sunlight that seems to reflect off them. 

When he does finally look at his seat, or— at least the seat he has sat in for all the previous meals, he finds it’s already occupied. Geralt is seated right between Eskel and Yarpenna, as if he never sits anywhere else. The guardian’s usual spot across from the redheaded alchemy professor in contrast, is open. 

Jaskier halts as if he’s encountered a physical barrier, looking at the empty spot, and then back to Geralt. The witcher meets his eyes impassively, and doesn’t move. “Oh,” Jaskier murmurs. Rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “Alright then.” 

Next to Geralt, Eskel notices his arrival, and frowns. Jaskier sees him say something to the white haired guardian, but he cannot hear any of the words. Geralt’s jaw clenches briefly before he answers. Eskel is clearly not happy with the response, and Jaskier gets the impression he’s about to ask the others to shuffle around to make space for him.

“No, no,” he says, shaking his head. Geralt’s golden eyes bore into him, and he shrugs. “There’s an open space right there.” He gestures to Geralt’s usual spot, right in between the troupe of about twenty witchers. If he acts more confident about it than he feels, he just hopes they won’t smell it on him. As if to show him the way, the wisp floats away from its position above his head, until it hovers directly over Geralt’s seat. Jaskier takes a deep breath. He makes his way over and sits down, right in the middle of the guardians. 

He knows the redhead across from him is Lambert, and that he’s seated right between Aiden and Coen. Each of the witchers is distinct enough that he had no difficulty describing them to Ciri, for the little birchling to tell him their names.

He smiles, and greets them as politely as he knows how, continuing to nervously babble a bit about the food on the table despite himself. Across from him, Lambert scowls and growls low. He knows the sound is supposed to be threatening, but if the guardian thinks it will serve to shut him up— well, then Jaskier has some unfortunate news for him. He just keeps talking, until his brain finally decides there’s a natural stopping point, and then he reaches to scoop some fragrant greens onto his plate. 

Next to him a witcher with lovely mahogany skin and bright green eyes actually chuckles. “Fair to say I won that bet, Lamb. Better pay up, later.”

There’s something suggestive to the words, and Jaskier thinks it might be inappropriate to ask, but he just can’t help himself. 

“What bet?” he asks, turning to the witcher little Ciri named Aiden. The guardian looks at him consideringly, with narrowed eyes and a tilt to his head, and Jaskier quickly stuffs another bite into his mouth before he can ask the inappropriate question as to what the winner gets. He thinks he has a general idea, and he thinks he knows why Aiden told Lambert to pay up— later. He might be wrong, but then again, he might be right in his suspicions, and he’s quite sure it’s better to err on the side of caution. 

Eventually, Aiden shrugs. “We generally make bets whenever there’s a new member of staff. On what they’ll be like.”

Jaskier winces a little. He’s suddenly sure he doesn’t want to know what bet the dark skinned witcher won. “Oh.” he murmurs. “I’m guessing most of those aren’t very flattering, concerning me.” He tries to smile and not show the clench of disappointment somewhere in the vicinity of his diaphragm. 

Aiden looks at him and cocks his head a little further. Jaskier is just about to fidget under that green eyed gaze, when the witcher speaks. “There’s always someone betting for AND against, whatever it is,” the guardian concedes. 

Jaskier tries to take courage from what seems like a peace offering, and smiles. “What was this one about then?”

Across from him, the alchemy professor smirks and folds burly arms over an equally burly chest. “I bet that you’d be too afraid to ever sit your ass between us witchers,” he says. 

Jaskier makes a face and can’t quite stop the roll of his eyes. He knows when he’s being called a coward, to his face, at that. He allows his annoyance to bleed over into a huffed breath. They don’t even know him, and though he’s not exactly surprised their assumptions about him are far from flattering, he’s still piqued. He turns back to Aiden. “What about you then?” he asks. “Did you bet I would?”

The dark skinned witcher purses his mouth, seemingly considering the question. “I bet that you’d sit in the obvious spot available, yes,” he says, and Jaskier doesn’t miss the flare of his nostrils. 

“But not that I wouldn’t be afraid,” Jaskier extrapolates from that statement. 

Aiden smiles in a way that barely hints at the sharpness of his teeth. “Not that, no,” he says. 

Jaskier tries not to, he really does, but he’s scoffed and rolled his eyes again before he can even consider how that might look. When he looks around himself, the slitted eyes of every witcher at the table are fastened on him. “Well,” he says, affecting a cheerful tone. “I don’t know how you feel about it, but I consider fear to be a natural, uncontrollable response when faced with a threat. Don’t you?” 

He fully expects the chorus of growling, but he doesn’t quite expect it to be so loud, and he has to take a second to convince himself to keep going. He makes a quick gesture of his hand that back at Oxenfurt had served to quiet even his loudest, unruliest of classes. To his surprise, the growls die down immediately. He smiles and gives them an approving nod. He doesn’t mean for the gesture to be patronising, but really, he asked for silence and they complied so beautifully. They deserve his appreciation at the very least.

“We don’t know each other,” he says, gesturing at himself and the witchers at the table. “That means I don’t know you, just as much as you don’t know me. So, let me be so bold as to ask, then. Is there reason for me to be afraid?” He tips his head to the side and makes direct eye contact with Lambert across from him. “I didn’t think there was. But, do you plan to hurt me?” 

The red haired witcher curses low and under his breath. “Fuck no. That’s not what we do. Unless we’re provoked,” he grouses. 

Next to Jaskier, both Aiden and Coen shake their heads.

“Not at all,” says the witcher on his right hand side, his voice quieter than the others’ and rather pleasant. 

Jaskier grins and claps his hands together. “Well then,” he says. “Since I wasn’t planning any provocation of any sort whatsoever— other than to be mildly annoying, and at times perhaps slightly but not willfully ignorant, there’s no reason for me to fear sitting here. So consider me not afraid!” he ends with a wink. He’s aware the entire table of witchers is staring at him, and he imagines he can practically feel Geralt’s golden gaze all the way from his usual spot.

Jaskier decides to try and blend a little more into the background for the rest of the meal. Regardless, by the end of the evening the clench of disappointment around his diaphragm has loosened considerably. 

—000—

Despite the fact Jaskier quite clearly remembers Eskel leading him past a bearded statue with a curved wooden staff in hand, Jaskier has a harder time locating Vesemir’s office than he expected when he sets out the next morning. 

He keeps hopefully looking up at the small ball of mist floating along peacefully directly above him. But, that’s where it stays, despite the fact it’s glaringly obvious he’s hopelessly lost. Eventually, he caves. 

“I know I asked you to let me find my own way for a bit, to help with my general orientation while in the castle,” he begins, affecting something of a pleading pout. “But could you ignore that very unwise request for a couple of seconds, and point me in the right direction at least?”

The wisp swirls, its misty grey colour lightening and darkening intermittently, as if it’s debating whether to give in. Jaskier blinks hopefully up at it, but after a few seconds it lightens back to its palest shade of foggy indifference, only briefly flickering with light. 

He sighs and looks back at the choice he has to make. He’s standing at a divergence of no less than six branching corridors, and if the wisp isn’t inclined to guide him— as per his own exceptionally hubristic request, he’s just going to have to close his eyes and pick one of them at random. With his luck, he’ll probably pick the one that ends up on the total opposite side of the keep he’s trying to get to. 

Jaskier glances at his options again. Even Kaer Morhen’s decorations aren’t of much help in this remote part of the castle. He knows he took a wrong turn somewhere, but he thought he was going in the general direction of the dean’s office. Now, he’s not entirely sure the keep itself isn’t playing a part in preventing him from finding his way. 

He glances back up at the wisp. “Please?” he pleads. “Just lead me to the lintel with the wolf on it, and I promise I’ll take the lead again on the way back.”

The small ball of smoke flickers with pale light in consideration of his offer, and then swirls a little more excitedly at him. It floats away from its position overhead, until it hangs directly in front of the second corridor on the right. Jaskier grins, and follows along behind it. 

He is just starting to wonder if the wisp might have been just as clueless of the right direction as he was, and if Kaer Morhen has an actual infinite amount of branching corridors, when the wisp suddenly comes to a halt, directly in front of a solid oak door. The wood has been left un-painted, the natural whorls of the grain beautiful in the understated complexity of the pattern. 

Jaskier blinks in surprise, and then he spots the decorative lintel directly over the door. The decoration over the entrance to the dean’s office depicts a wolf howling up at the full moon. Though this one shows a wolf as well, it’s decidedly different. 

He looks up at the wisp and makes a face at it. 

“I know that you know this is not the door I meant,” he tells it. 

It does no more than brush over his face with its cool, slightly wet tendrils for a moment, before it continues to float there peacefully, as if it’s perfectly content with where it led him. Jaskier sighs and looks back at the beautiful carving above the door. 

The wolf is rendered with the same incredible attention to detail as Vesemir’s. Instead of being pictured from the side, the carving is facing directly outward, as if to ward the room beyond against anyone who dares approach. The wolf’s hackles are raised, and its teeth are bared in a snarl. At its shoulders two large, feathered wings sweep away from its body, arching up, the longest feathers meeting directly over the wolf’s head. Jaskier cannot help but think that though the wolf’s stance and snarl are fierce and aggressive, the position of its wings is a protective one. It is as if the wolf is encircling itself, forming a barrier to keep away anyone who would hurt it. 

He thinks he knows who’s door this is, and he tilts his head up to make another face at the wisp. “Really?” he mouths at it silently. 

It flickers briefly, before darkening and swirling a little more wildly at him. 

Though it’s clear to him what the wisp intends him to do, Jaskier briefly considers turning right back around. But, that would mean being just as lost as he was before. Sure, he might fancy spending a day wandering Kaer Morhen, to discover a little of the secrets it holds. But perhaps not today. 

With another deep sigh of resignation, he lifts his hand to knock.

Chapter Text

Before Jaskier’s knuckles have a chance to so much as touch the heavy oak, the door opens. He might have expected it to be yanked with the witcher aware of his presence, but instead the action is carefully controlled. He looks from his own hand, held aloft in the air and poised to knock, to the way Geralt seems to take up the entire door opening. He quickly tucks the hand away behind his back. 

Jaskier feels a flush rise to his face, and he makes a soft, involuntary noise of admiration at the back of his throat. Geralt is bare chested, and Jaskier almost wants to snark something about going about the keep with no clothes on, but this is Geralt’s room, and why wouldn’t he make himself comfortable. It’s not his fault that Jaskier can’t keep his eyes on his face, his gaze instead travelling down every line of firm, curved muscle like a caress. And— and he really should force himself to look back up and face the inevitable disapproval in that golden gaze. He really should stop looking at the way coarse hair trails down from the guardian’s chest to trail over his firm abdomen and down below his navel, to disappear into—

“What,” Geralt grits, and Jaskier jerks a little, tearing his gaze away from the cut of the witcher’s iliac furrow. 

His face heats up further when he makes eye contact with the white haired guardian. Where Geralt’s body practically screams of battle-hardened strength— don’t think Jaskier didn’t notice those scars, he was just rather occupied with the witcher’s everything— his hair hangs loose and soft in contrast, flowing just past his shoulders. He’s like a sharply honed blade, covered in silk. Then again, with the way the witcher is glaring at him he might be more of a broadsword, or a battle-axe. 

“Ah,” he stammers, shifting from one foot to the other, mentally commanding himself to keep his gaze on Geralt’s eyes, and his eyes only. “Sorry to bother you. I was looking for Vesemir’s office, and I thought I was going in the right direction,” he gestures vaguely at where he thinks the dean’s office is located. “Turns out I wasn’t. I’ve never been in this part of the keep before, and what is with the branching corridors that all look the same? I swear I tried to pick the right one. I didn’t mean to end up here.”

Geralt hums roughly at that, and folds his arms over his chest. Jaskier really, really has to commend himself for keeping his eyes on the witcher’s face. The guardian glances meaningfully up at the wisp floating above his head. “You didn’t mean to end up here,” he says, scepticism dripping from every word. 

Jaskier huffs, a little frustrated he can’t say two words without Geralt either thinking he’s lying, being sarcastic, or saying it with who knows what hidden agenda. “I didn’t,” he retorts, a little prickly. “I did ask this misleading little ball of fog here to let me try and find my own way for a bit.” He notes the slight narrowing of Geralt’s eyes, but decides he absolutely doesn’t care how the witcher feels about him teasing the wisp. “But then there were six hallways to choose from and I asked it to lead me to the wolf-lintel.” He shrugs. “I meant the one over Vesemir’s office, but as you can see, it led me here instead.”

“Hm,” Geralt says, frowning, glancing between Jaskier and the wisp again. “Vesemir’s office is on the other side of the keep.” Though his voice is still far from friendly, Jaskier tries to take courage from the way it’s not outright hostile. 

He glances down the corridor, first where he came from, then to the other side. He has no idea which way would lead him to the dean’s office the fastest. He shrugs and smiles up at Geralt. “You could— point me in the right direction, perhaps?” he asks hopefully. 

“Hm.” Geralt answers again. “You want to speak to Vesemir?” The witcher tips his head to the side, golden eyes boring into Jaskier’s. He wonders if there’s any other way for the guardian to look than intense. He almost can’t imagine what Geralt would look like relaxed, at ease, and smiling. Almost. The thought of it makes his heart beat a little faster. “Are you leaving Kaer Morhen?” Geralt asks. 

Jaskier sputters, indignant. “No, I'm not leaving! Why would you think that?” 

Geralt leans one shoulder against the doorframe and deliberately looks him up and down. “A spoiled, human, Oxenfurt professor from a noble family. There’s not much else to expect.”

Jaskier gapes up at the guardian before looking away. He plucks a little at the leather strap of the satchel slung over his shoulder, the one that contains his carefully outlined syllabus. “I may be all those things,” he murmurs, taking a deep breath to fortify himself before looking back up at Geralt. “But that is not all I am, and I am not leaving. You might as well get used to me being here, witcher.”

Geralt stares at him for a few seconds, before giving a short grunt. “What do you want with Vesemir?” he says. 

Jaskier pats the satchel at his side. “It’s one week before the start of the spring semester. I have my syllabus right here, and I wanted to discuss it so I can make changes, should they be necessary.”

The guardian raises a white brow. “You’ve written a syllabus. In a week.”

Though Geralt’s voice is stoic, Jaskier knows very well what the guardian thinks is written in his papers. 

“Yes,” he says through gritted teeth. “Would you like to see, perhaps?” he challenges. 

To his surprise, the witcher gives him a curt nod, and suddenly Jaskier feels slightly less sure of himself. He was ready to show the dean what he’s worked so hard on for the past days, but Vesemir seems to be at least a little lenient toward him. He’s sure if Geralt sees anything wrong with his syllabus, the white winged guardian will not hesitate to make sure he knows. Then again, there’s no way what he wrote is worse than what the witcher expects to find. 

“Which year?” Jaskier asks.

“Hm. The youngest year,” Geralt says, and Jaskier knows full well that’s the class little Ciri will attend. 

He pulls his satchel to his front and flips it open. While he rifles through the papers inside, the wisp slowly circles around him. He blows at it softly when it passes in front of his face, and smiles when it swirls with different shades of grey in response. 

“Just one moment,” he says, trying to maintain some sort of order within the satchel. “There it is!” he exclaims in triumph. He carefully pulls out several pages, meticulously folded together, that hold his outline for the youngest of Kaer Morhen’s students. He holds it out to the Guardian, and Geralt takes it with a sharp glance in his direction. 

Jaskier is confident in the first few pages of his outline, and manages to hold still when the witcher skims them quickly, flipping to the next every half minute. He knows exactly what subject the guardian has reached, when Geralt’s eyes narrow and a low growl bursts from his chest. 

“Would you keep reading before deciding you’re going to slam me into another wall?” he blurts out, quickly reaching to tap a finger on the second page under Geralt’s nose. When the witcher looks at him Jaskier quickly retracts his hand. Those teeth really do look like they could deliver an exquitisely painful bite. 

When Geralt returns to reading, Jaskier nervously shifts his weight again, trying to keep himself from drumming his fingers against his thighs. He tries to gauge the witcher’s thoughts by his expression, but Geralt’s face remains stoic, golden eyes flicking over his hand written text. Jaskier supposes it’s a good thing the guardian hasn’t grimaced, frowned, or bared his teeth yet. At the back of his neck, the wisp brushes softly against him, and he appreciates the calming effect it has. His heart still beats a little fast despite it, and he knows he must smell of nerves to the guardian in front of him. 

When Geralt seems to finish, he starts reading again right from the top, a wrinkle between his brows. Jaskier licks his lips. “I’ve tried to keep it age appropriate. But, I figured I’d show both the good, and the bad. The arts have always either echoed culture and political sentiment, or been a movement against it. Music and poetry are no exception to this. Of course it depends on the artist, their origin, upbringing, and experiences. Some works are overt, and in some it’s hidden, the message of a more subliminal nature. Those are arguably the more dangerous ones, especially when those who behold them are not aware of the deeper, sometimes more sinister layers behind the veneer of artistry.”

As he talks, Geralt has stopped reading. The witcher is looking directly at him, and Jaskier feels the flush that had only barely retreated return to his face. 

“I think this is important,” he continues, trying to sound confident, trying to not let the witcher’s gaze reduce him to something small. “Here, just as much as I thought it was important at Oxenfurt. I’ve included this in the classes for every level, and I’ve tried to tailor it to their age and maturity.” He swallows. “What do you think?” he trails off slowly, the way his voice goes up toward the end betraying his unease. 

“Wait here,” Geralt growls, pressing the papers against Jaskier’s chest. He turns to retreat into his room, pulling the door shut behind him. Jaskier gets a very brief glimpse of his back before the heavy oak all but slams in his face. It’s enough for him to get an impression of the lovely line of Geralt’s spine, of the strong muscles on either side, and the stretch of skin that’s just as scarred as the rest of him. It’s also just barely enough for him to spot the two half moons of gleaming, silvery skin all along the arch of his shoulderblades. He knows it must be where the guardian tucks his wings, and though he knows it’s entirely unlikely he’ll ever get the chance to do so, Jaskier has the strange urge to reach out and slide the tips of his fingers across those strangely beautiful crescents. 

He fidgets a little with the papers in his hands, rereading the part that Geralt had read twice over. He stands by it, and he stands by what he said. He’s not sure what the witcher thinks of it though, and wait here, could mean anything. It could mean wait here to be thrown out, or wait here to be shown what a Kaer Morhen syllabus should be. It could even mean wait here, for Geralt to make good on the threat of dropping him from the highest tower. 

The wisp floats in front of his face, glowing with pale light. Jaskier takes a deep, calming breath, and tucks his papers back into his satchel. He glances down the corridor. Even though he’s built up some stamina running after the wisp everywhere, he’s sure that Geralt would catch up to him in a heartbeat. He firmly reminds himself again, that he stands by what he wrote, and what he tried to explain. And so he waits. 

It takes mere seconds for the witcher to return, though Jaskier’s whirling thoughts make it seem like much longer. He startles a little when the door opens back up, and can’t quite help a tiny little yelp. The witcher glowers at him, and Jaskier shrugs in a way he hopes comes across suitably apologetic.

“Follow me,” Geralt says, striding off into the exact direction Jaskier came from. 

He rolls his eyes up at the wisp, mouthing I knew it! before he hastens to follow, nearly tripping over his own feet until he catches up to the witcher. Geralt is no longer bare chested, a black shirt with an open collar covering him from view. Jaskier’s eyes are drawn to the part of his chest it leaves exposed, despite his best efforts, and he swallows. 

Geralt glances at him, and quickens his stride. The guardian’s nostrils flare, and his jaw clenches. “You reek,” he says curtly. 

Jaskier’s breath catches, and he abruptly halts, refusing to keep walking. The guardian takes a few more steps before he pauses, turning to face him. 

“I reek,” he repeats tonelessly. He really thought they might have come to something of an understanding, that Geralt understood why Jaskier had those books spread out in the library. The witcher didn’t slam him into the wall again once he finished reading, after all. “I reek?” He says again, indignant this time. “That may be your opinion, and while no doubt better funded than most, due to your senses, it’s still incredibly rude of you to just throw that out there, don’t you think? I cannot smell myself the way you can. I did wash this morning. What, does the smell of soap offend you?” he says, the hurt that Geralt insists on insulting him making his voice sharper than he means to. 

The guardian growls and takes a step toward him, his nostrils flaring on a deep breath. “You reek of—  attraction,” he says, his lips barely curling away from his teeth, enough to expose their sharpness. 

Jaskier laughs, and takes a step forward himself, slightly lifting his chin to make direct eye contact with the guardian in front of him. “Attraction?” he drawls. “Darling, that implies altogether too much. That insinuates the presence of an emotional or intellectual interest, something other than a mere physical response.”

Geralt frowns and tilts his head. 

Jaskier scoffs. “Yes, I think you’re pretty. I quite clearly remember telling you that before, so I don’t know why you’re all in a twist about it now. I’m sorry you have to smell it on me. So I have a thing for beautiful men far more intimidating than is good for me. If it gets me a little warm under the collar, so what. I promise you, nothing of it is a conscious decision on my part. It’s nothing special.” 

He knows it’s harsher than he’s been so far. He knows it’s even a little mean, perhaps. His cheeks are warm and he’s panting slightly from walking so fast, and from finally allowing himself to rant a bit at the guardian who insists on hating him. 

He realises he’s standing there with his hands on his hips, glaring up at the witcher, but right now he’s just as unwilling to back down as he was about what he wants to teach. There are flashes of bright light flickering across the dark stone of the corridor. The wisp is floating high above them, emitting light like a small thundercloud. Jaskier half expects to hear the rumbling sound of clashing clouds, but it remains quiet, the sudden silence when he finishes heavy between them. 

Geralt glances up at the wisp before looking back at him, impassive. “Glad we got that cleared up then,” he growls, and turns back around to keep walking. 

Geralt doesn’t speak as he leads him through the castle halls, and Jaskier can only take so much silence before his mouth runs away with him. He decides to direct his stream of words up to the wisp, happily humming, nodding, and smiling at the swirls of grey he gets in response. 

To his surprise, when he remarks on the fact there’s now plenty of decoration all around, when there wasn’t any when he had to choose which of the six corridors to take, the witcher grunts. 

“What was that, dear witcher?” he says as nonchalantly as he can, trailing after Geralt’s broad form. 

The guardian shoots him a brief glance over his shoulder, and Jaskier endeavours to smile his most innocent of smiles. Judging by the wrinkle between Geralt’s eyebrows, he doesn’t buy for a single second that Jaskier didn’t call him that on purpose. Again to his surprise, Geralt actually explains.  

“The keep changes in response to its occupants,” the witcher grunts, no longer looking back at him. 

“It does what?” Jaskier asks, unsure what that means exactly.

“Kaer Morhen picks up on what is needed. The school takes care of those that live here,” Geralt answers, and that doesn’t help Jaskier to understand at all. 

“Do you maybe have an example of this? What do you mean the castle changes? It was built centuries ago. Even magic has its limits. Surely an entire keep can’t decide to change. It's not like it's a sentient entity— is it?” 

Geralt again glances back at him. “Thought you liked to read, bard,” he growls, and Jaskier feels altogether too much excitement at the fact the guardian called him something other than human. 

He’s just about to ask again for more information, when against all his expectations, Geralt gives him the examples he asked for. 

“The stained glass window in the hall that changed to a moorland, for your wisp. The lintels above our doors. Buttercups above yours. The entire lack of decoration that led you to mine.”

“Kaer Morhen chose those buttercups for me?” Jaskier murmurs softly. He remembers Eskel’s words. 

‘Fitting, isn't it? Like the keep knew.’ 

He’s so stuck on the castle itself choosing that particular room for him and decorating with the flowers that are his namesake, that it takes a little while for Geralt’s last words to penetrate. “Wait a minute,” he says. “You mean to tell me the castle purposely removed decorations so I’d get lost?” He makes a face, suddenly much less charmed by the school’s ability to change its adornments.

“It did,” Geralt growls. “It was inevitable you’d ask your wisp for help.” The guardian pauses until Jaskier draws level with him, turns his head, and blows a strong gust of breath at the small cloud of mist floating above him. 

“Hey!” Jaskier says, immediately affronted. “Careful with that!”

Geralt hums at him. “That doesn’t hurt it,” he says, and keeps walking.

“What about— about that gust of wind you hit me with after pulling me from the water,” Jaskier asks carefully. He’d wondered why the wisp had left him behind then, and why it had taken him so long to find it again. 

Geralt’s shoulders stiffen.

“Did that hurt it?”

“No.”

“Did you do it to try and blow it away, somehow?”

“You said it was yours, but I didn’t believe it was,” Geralt says. 

“You’ve called it my wisp a few times now,” Jaskier remarks gently, and Geralt just grunts. 

Eventually, Jaskier spots the bearded statue with the staff, and excitedly tells both Geralt and the wisp he now knows exactly where they are. Neither of them respond much, though he does get a flicker of light and another of those low, indefinable hums. He doesn’t allow it to temper his exuberance, and strides forward to take the lead for the rest of the way. 

It might be more of a mid-morning visit rather than the original early start he’d planned, but he’s learned more about the castle, and Geralt seems at least a little less inclined to bite his head off. Granted, he did make a fool of himself ogling the witcher, but he decides that can’t be helped. 

They halt in front of Vesemir’s door, howling wolf and all. 

“Your syllabus. It’s not bad,” Geralt says, ever present frown between his brows. 

Jaskier can’t help the way his face cracks on a smile. “High praise!” he exclaims. 

“Make sure you stick to it,” the guardian growls. 

“Ah,” Jaskier says, shrugging up at him helplessly. “And there you were, almost giving me the benefit of the doubt, but not quite.” He wants to say more, but he’s already had a little rant at the witcher, and there’s only so much he can allow himself before he says some really unwise things, and possibly offends the guardian without actually meaning to. “Thank you for showing me the way here,” he says instead, keeping his voice neutral. 

“Hm,” Geralt says, glancing up at the wisp, before turning around to walk away without a word.

Chapter Text

Vesemir’s nostrils flare for a moment before he lets Jaskier into his office, and he wonders briefly if the dean can tell that Geralt left only moments ago. He’s waved into the comfortable space, and he winces a little as he remembers how he entered it the first time, cold, wet, and bedraggled. 

This time though, he’s got on one of his best doublets, and has a proposal for the spring semester he’s worked hard on. The only thing is— he’s late. Again.

As if he’s read his thoughts, the dean says exactly that while taking a seat behind his desk. “I expected you a bit earlier, bard.” 

Jaskier takes the chair across when the witcher gestures to it, and opens his satchel to carefully take out the folded together stacks of paper for each year, arranging them in front of the guardian. “I promise I’m not in the habit of showing up hours after I’m supposed to,” he says. “I thought I could find my way here unaided, but then the keep apparently decided it was time for me to lose my way by removing all the landmarks I’d remembered the route by. I’m still not quite sure why it did that,” he trails off. 

“Hm,” Vesemir says, and Jaskier is abruptly aware of how very much Geralt and Vesemir sound alike when they do that. “You found your way here, eventually. Your wisp didn’t help?”

Jaskier licks his lips, glancing at the cloud of smoke now floating at his elbow. “I’m not sure if I’d call it help,” he says carefully.

“It led you to Geralt,” Vesemir concludes, and Jaskier has his answer whether or not the witcher was able to smell the other guardian’s presence. 

He nods. “And Geralt led me here. Though that might have been because he was still half hoping I’d resign before I’d even started.”

Vesemir raises an eyebrow. “Any thoughts of resigning then?” the witcher rumbles. 

Jaskier shifts in his seat. “None, as of yet,” he says. 

Vesemir’s slitted eyes rest on him for a moment, and Jaskier thinks the dean understands what he isn’t saying, for once. The witcher gestures at the papers on his desk. “Walk me through your plans,” he says, not unkindly, and Jaskier feels his heart rate pick up a little with nerves.

He reaches out and flips open the packet of papers for the youngest year, the one he’d let Geralt peruse. Vesemir only glances down at what he’s written periodically, whenever Jaskier points to something in particular, or references a table or time schedule. Other than those moments the witcher just listens to him. He does make a few remarks here and there, suggesting small changes. To his surprise there turns out to be a whole two weeks of free time in which there are no classes, right in the middle of the semester. He curses softly under his breath, fishing out a blank sheet of paper and quickly jotting down a few notes. He did take a look at Regis’ syllabus when the vampire offered, and he doesn’t know how he managed to miss two entire weeks of empty time slots.

They review each separate class in the same way and by the end of it, though the changes are nothing major, Jaskier has several pages of notes he wants to implement. It will mean another day of library work, but it’s not like that’s a hardship. 

He carefully blows on the ink to dry it, and folds his notes before tucking away the rest of his papers. “Would you like to review the changes after I’ve made them?” he asks Vesemir, flipping his satchel closed. 

The witcher leans back into his seat and shakes his grey head. “Not necessary. I’m pleased with your plans for the class.”

Jaskier feels his shoulders release the final vestiges of tension, and he smiles gratefully. “I’m glad. I really do want to do the best job I can as a professor of Kaer Morhen,” he says earnestly. “I was afraid I wouldn’t know how to best do that. I still am, a little, but this is a start?” 

Vesemir nods at him thoughtfully. “Sometimes the effort is half the battle,” the dean says cryptically. 

Jaskier chuckles a little, remembering all the times he’s inadvertently skipped lunch and worked after dinner to finish. “I was never afraid of a little effort,” he jokes.

“Clearly,” the guardian says. 

It’s said so seriously that Jaskier blinks at it, and quickly tries to cover his surprise. “Speaking of effort,” he says, deciding to grasp the opportunity now that he’s got the chance. “When I considered the schedule, I couldn’t help but notice there’s quite a bit of free time in there.”

The dean nods. “Some professors fill that time by tutoring students in niche subjects that aren’t suitable to be taught in a class setting.”

“I heard,” Jaskier replies. “Yarpenna told me they teach blacksmithing. Which would be entirely unsuitable for those students with an intolerance to heat or fire, I suppose.”

Vesemir’s mouth twitches into something of an almost smile under his moustache, and he nods at him to keep going. 

“I thought I could offer some instruction on how to play an instrument, or on how to sing, for those that might want it?” Jaskier starts, hesitant. “Teaching that to a class all at once would result in an earsplitting cacophony, no doubt, and it’s not for everyone. But some students might like it?”

Vesemir rumbles in approval. “You can hang a sign up sheet in your classroom, denoting the times you’re willing to dedicate to one on one tutoring,” the dean says. 

Jaskier feels a little burst of excitement at the prospect. “I’ll do that,” he says, and hesitates. 

“Anything else, bard?” the grey haired guardian says meaningfully.

“I was wondering if it’d be possible to use some of that free time to attend some classes myself,” he says. “I— I feel like there’s a lot I don’t know, about a lot of things,” he begins. “Things that I should know. I’d like to learn so I can be a better teacher. I think it’d help me be aware of what to do and what to avoid, by observing how the others teach as well.” He shrugs, “I also want to learn— just for me.”

He can’t help but think that Vesemir’s rumble is an approving one. The dean nods thoughtfully. “Entirely possible. As long as your fellow professors agree, and pick the level at which you attend their classes.”

Jaskier chuckles, raking his fingers through his hair. “Sounds perfectly reasonable,” he says. “And I’m guessing like this, I’ll get to know the younger students quite well.”

—000—

Jaskier has finally managed to wheedle down his mess in the library from three desks to one. It helps that he’s not so much doing research anymore, as he is implementing the small changes Vesemir suggested. His spread out papers still take up the entire surface of one of them, but it’s not like there’s anyone else currently making use of the space. He wonders if and how that will change once classes start next week. 

He’s quietly humming, a tranquil little melody the wisp seems to like, judging by the way it swirls and even seems to sway a little where it floats. 

Jaskier is absorbed in his work and doesn’t hear anything, but when the wisp floats right in front of him and flickers with light he straightens up and turns toward the entrance. He grins, thinking he should have noticed the smell of lilacs and gooseberries. 

Yennefer is dressed in another splendid gown, purple this time. Her hair is coiled against the back of her head in a complicated updo he wouldn’t be surprised was held up by her magic. The mage smiles back at him. The expression is slightly sharp, but at least part of it is genuine pleasure. She pauses next to the desk, her purple eyes amused as she trails an elegant finger along the edge of one of his stacks of paper.

“How have you been getting on, Buttercup?” she says. 

Jaskier spreads his hands to show the ink stained skin of his fingers. “Best I can,” he says. “It— might be a bit of a learning curve, being here,” he admits. 

Yennefer raises a dark brow. “Did you expect any different?”

He chuckles and shakes his head. “Not really. Though I wish I was further along it.”

“Are you not the one who wrote a poem about the journey itself being the actual jewel of experience, rather than the destination?” the mage says sardonically.

Jaskier shoots her a look. “I did,” he says slowly. “Though that particular work no longer bears my name.” He is surprised by the sudden, abrupt stab of grief. He hasn’t felt the loss of his works so sharply since he first learned of it, and he tries to swallow it down. As always, the wisp notices, brushing coolly against his knuckles. 

There’s a spark of something in Yennefer’s purple eyes. “If you wrote it, it's yours, bard. No matter what name is stamped at the bottom of the page.”

He takes a deep breath. “If only the rest of the world would know, and look at it that way.”

Yennefer tilts her head. “You value the world’s regard that much?”

Jaskier chuckles. “If I did, I would have made some very different life choices, I think. But as much as I’d like to pretend, I am utterly incapable of not valuing it at all.”

The mage looks at him for a moment, and there seems to be a slight electricity to the air around her that raises the hair on Jaskier’s arms. In one unfairly elegant move she commandeers his chair, sitting herself in it like it is a throne. 

“So, little Buttercup,” she says. “Did anyone try to eat you yet like you feared?”

Jaskier laughs, and twists the golden signet on his finger, the one he’d almost sold in that odd little shop of Yennefer’s in Oxenfurt. He wonders if he were to walk through the western city gate, if it’d still be there. Something tells him it wouldn’t be, and there’d be nothing but an empty store front. 

“I may or may not have gotten close,” he says. “Though I’m quite sure by now, it would have been a bite of retaliation more than it would have been an effort to snack on me.” The mage tilts her head, purple eyes boring into him, and Jaskier gets the impression she can tell far more from those few words than anyone ought to. 

“Anyone you wouldn’t mind giving you a little nibble, perhaps?” she says, her voice suggestive. 

Jaskier knows full well the rush of warmth to his face betrays him. He knows, because the mage’s mouth curls into a knowing smirk. He still resolutely shakes his head. “I prefer it if whoever does the nibbling has at least some feelings of fondness toward me.” 

Yennefer nods. “Not necessary for everyone, but an understandable condition, perhaps.”

Jaskier shifts his signet again. “Disregarding all potential nibbling,” he says, “creating feelings of fondness seems to be an insurmountable task, and I’d settle for a lack of outright hatred.”

The mage frowns, and there’s that feeling of electricity in the air again. “Who hates you?”

Jaskier sighs and drags over a chair from one desk over to sit across from her. “I made a bad first impression,” he says sheepishly. “But it might not be that, and it might not be me, per say. He doesn’t seem overly fond of humans,” he says carefully. 

To his surprise, Yennefer grins. “So you’ve met Geralt.”

Jaskier makes a sharp noise at the back of his throat. “Oh, have I ever.”

“Will you let yourself be chased away?”

“From Kaer Morhen, you mean?” Jaskier answers. “Hardly. I told that grumpy guardian he’d better get used to my presence. I will certainly not quit before I’ve started, and— so far, disregarding a mere few incidents, it’s actually been perfectly lovely being here.” He looks up at the high bookcases, the light through the windows, and his syllabi on the desk. He smiles down at his work, neat outlines of classes he’s actually very much looking forward to teaching. He glances back up at Yennefer. “Thanks for convincing me to try,” he says. 

The mage gives him a nod. “I’ll graciously accept your thanks and your debt to me,” she says smoothly, and Jaskier thinks she’s only half joking. 

They talk for a while, and though the conversation with Yennefer feels strangely like they’re playing chess, Jaskier finds he enjoys it, and time passes quickly. 

“I plan to attend a few classes when I have the time,” he tells her eventually. “Would it be of any use for me to attend one of yours?” he says, gesturing at himself.

Yennefer laughs incredulously. “Don’t you think you’d know it by now if you had any connection to chaos, bard? Having you in my class would be needlessly frustrating, for both of us. There’s not a speck of magical ability in you.” She says it matter of factly, and Jaskier is glad to hear there’s not any judgement of value in it.

He sighs and shakes his head at his own fancy. “Figures.” He glances up at the surrounding castle again. “Everyone and everything here seems to be magical, amazing, unique. I’m more than glad I get to be a witness to it.” 

The mage looks at him, something uncharacteristically soft in her purple gaze. “Give it time, Buttercup. You’ll realise you fit in quite well.”

—000—

In the week leading up to the start of the spring semester, more and more students start to arrive. The young non-humans sit at tables set perpendicular to the one where the professors and witchers have their meals, and it gives Jaskier ample opportunity to observe each new student without being too obvious about it. 

Some of them are immediately recognisable. There are a few elves, their ears lovely and pointed. There are dwarves with and without beards, and sprites of every ilk. There’s a slender girl with the same fathomless black eyes that Regis has, and a boy of seemingly the same age with swirling blue tattoos on his arms. A vampire and a Djinn, he guesses. There’s an ageless looking youth that wears a garment that seems to be made from scales locking together, and a few wearing capes of soft looking fur he suspects are selkies. 

Every day more students arrive, and Jaskier gets a little more nervous for the start of the semester. He tries to pay careful attention to what he says, not entirely sure more of them won’t have enhanced hearing like Kaer Morhen’s guardians. 

Only when he’s alone in the library with Ciri, does he whisper questions to her. It’s how he learns he was right for most of them, and wrong for a few others. When she tells him the youth with the scaly garment is an actual dragon, the little birchling giggles delightedly at his gasp and the widening of his eyes. 

Jaskier carefully observes and catalogues, and before the semester starts, he spends every free moment he has in the library to look up information. It’s entirely implausible that he’ll learn everything from books in the little time he has, but he can try to be as prepared as is humanly possible.

—000—

On the last day before the semester will start and Jaskier will have to show he can do more than read, and write a decent outline, he realises something he definitely should have thought about sooner. 

They’re sitting down to breakfast and as he’d done for the last days he tries to take careful notice of any new faces in the crowd of students. He figures they’re likely all here now, but there’s one new girl he thinks has to be some sort of nymph. Other than that, it seems that Kaer Morhen’s students have all arrived for the new year.

Jaskier smiles at Triss when the mage pours him a mug of the cinnamon-coffee concoction. He scoops porridge into a bowl and liberally slathers it with honey. 

Yennefer snorts. “Surely you don’t need all that sugar, bard,” she says. “You’re excitable enough on your own.”

He makes a face at her, and adds some more honey for good measure. He’s seated in his usual spot next to Eskel, and the guardian chuckles, eating his own, more sparsely sweetened although much larger portion of porridge.

He decides to ignore Yennefer’s remark and asks Eskel where his classes take place, since he has so far not seen any animals around the keep. Granted, he hasn’t been outside much since he arrived, occupied as he has been. 

“The stables mostly,” the witcher answers easily. “Though they’re likely different from the stables you are used to. Different size enclosures and different occupants,” he rumbles. 

“I figured you wouldn’t be teaching in a traditional classroom,” he says. “With all these more practical classes there has to be a range of spaces. I guess the keep provides—” He stops talking suddenly, his spoon halfway to his mouth. “Oh,” he says, about ready to smack himself. 

“What did you just realise, bard?” Yarpenna says with a grin.

Jaskier knows the wisp is swirling above him, and that that reaction tells them all they need to know about his sudden anxiety. For those that can’t smell it, at least. He shakes his head at himself. “I thought I was prepared for tomorrow,” he whispers. “But— where do I teach? Do I have a classroom? Is it even ready? Does it have seats and desks? Does it have a blackboard? Does it have instruments?” With each question a new one comes to him, and the wisp starts to float down a little, darkening to the colour of rainclouds. 

Eskel frowns. “None showed you your classroom yet?” 

“No!” Jaskier practically screeches, before clapping a hand to his mouth. 

“There’s plenty of space in the alchemy laboratory,” Lambert yells from down the table. “I’m sure an explosion or two will vastly improve on any sort of fucking poetry.”

Jaskier debates taking the high road, but decides that he’s really not in the mood for it, and snatches an apple from a bowl of fruit to pelt at the redhead’s face. The guardian grins, deftly plucks the fruit out of the air, and takes a loud, crunching bite. When Jaskier glances at the rest of the hall, a large portion of the students are staring at him. 

“Shit. I really shouldn’t have done that,” he murmurs, cheeks flushing with colour. 

Regis reaches out to pet his shoulder. “We have all wanted to throw something at Lambert at some point or other,” the history professor says soothingly. “And I include the students in that, though I’m sure they wouldn’t dare,” he says, shooting said students a warning glance.

Yarpenna cackles, their laugh a little higher still than their speaking voice. “Don’t worry about it, bard. Last time I threw something at that git, it was far sharper than an apple.”

“But you still missed me,” Lambert yells back across the table. 

Yarpenna makes a complicated, rude looking gesture in the witcher’s direction. “Only because your cat saved you,” they retort, causing the table of witchers to erupt in laughter. 

Jaskier feels a little bemused at the interaction, until he sees the smirk on Aiden’s face. He doesn’t know why the guardian would be referred to as a cat, but he’s sure he’ll find out at some point. He already suspected that Aiden and Lambert are together, and it seems this is confirmation of it. 

He whines a little. “My first class is tomorrow morning! Where am I going to teach?” 

The dean clears his throat, and Jaskier looks hopefully in Vesemir’s direction.

“It’s been a while since we’ve welcomed a new professor,” the witcher says. “We should have thought to show you before. It’s been a few decades since we had someone teaching your subject, but the classroom is still there.” The dean turns to Eskel. Vesemir doesn’t say anything, but there seems to be some sort of wordless communication, and Eskel nods.

The scarred guardian pats Jaskier on the back. “Don’t worry. I’ll show you after breakfast.”

—000—

His classroom turns out to be somewhat similar to his bedroom, only much bigger. It’s in a large tower, and it is not a perfect circle but a hexagonal shape, with sets of large, square windows set into three of the sides. On one of the walls that doesn’t hold a window, there’s a large blackboard, a podium with a desk off to the side stretching across the space below it. In front of the podium are a few rows of student desks. On the opposite side of the room sheets cover a variety of shapes familiar enough for Jaskier to know they’re instruments. 

The classroom is just as lovely as his personal room, but it is very, very dusty. There are motes of it in the air, stirred about by Jaskier flinging open the door in his haste to familiarise himself with where he'll be teaching. Because the space is brightly lit by the sun falling through the glass, it makes it so the air seems to sparkle. When he inhales he gets a nose full of it, and he has to sneeze uncontrollably. 

The wisp immediately circles around him in concern, before it zips into the room, coming to float high in the centre of it, swirling wildly. 

“It is quite the room, I agree,” Jaskier says happily once he’s gotten the itch out of his nose. 

“It’s a while since it’s been used,” Eskel rumbles, stepping into the classroom behind him, looking around. The guardian’s nostrils flare and he wrinkles his nose.

Jaskier looks at him with concern. “It is just the smell of disuse and dust, or are you getting a whiff of mold?” he asks, eyeing the instruments under their dusty sheets. 

Eskel shakes his head. “No mold,” he flares his nostrils again. “A few rat droppings though.”

Jakier squawks and immediately whirls around to face the witcher. “Rat droppings! Are there rats here?” He immediately strides toward the instruments and starts pulling off the sheets, stirring more dust into the air. 

“Old droppings, mostly,” Eskel says, moving to pull a sheet off of a harpsichord decorated with beautiful wooden inlay. 

Jaskier sneezes violently again, and above them the wisp flickers with light. “Rats,” he says, shuddering. “Do Kaer Morhen rats like to eat instruments? Why else would they be here and not in the kitchens?” 

Eskel chuckles. “Kaer Morhen rats eat the same as any other rat,” the witcher says. “They’re not any different, Jaskier. It’s just that the keep wards the kitchens against them.”

Jaskier shudders again and shoots a look up toward the ceiling, half addressing the castle itself. “Well, warding this space against rats would be greatly appreciated,” he murmurs, hoping the keep might deign to respond to his not so subtle plea. 

Though Jaskier is still carefully inspecting the harpsichord for signs it’s been chewed on by tiny rodent teeth, he’s alerted by Eskel’s sudden turn toward the door. The knock doesn’t come as a surprise therefore, and he mindlessly calls out for whoever it is to enter, sliding his fingers over the instrument’s smooth wood. 

“Geralt,” Eskel greets, and Jaskier jerks his head up and around. 

The white haired guardian has paused in the door opening, ever present frown on his face. Little Ciri is perched on his shoulder, and as soon as Eskel takes a step forward, the tree sprite launches herself off Geralt’s shoulder and into Eskel’s arms. 

“Uncle Eskel!” she chirps. “We came to get you.”

“What’s wrong, little birch?” Eskel rumbles, reaching out to ruffle the cloud of her fluffy blonde hair. 

“Hm,” Geralt responds. “Bleater got out. Again.”

“Oh, you’ve got to be— Please tell me he didn’t run into the woods again.”

“Bleater?” Jaskier asks cautiously, wondering what type of monster that Eskel cares for would bear such a name. It doesn’t sound very frightening, at least.

Eskel snorts. “Goat with a death wish. Has escaped more times than I can remember, and is somehow always a pain to find, even for us witchers.”

Ciri climbs up to Eskel’s shoulder, settling there with her lower legs swinging against his chest. “Don’t worry, uncle Eskel. I’ll help you look. I can track!”

Eskel exchanges a look with Geralt. “It would be a good exercise,” the white haired witcher says.

Eskel sighs and nods. “Lets get to tracking then,” he says, turning to shoot Jaskier an apologetic look. 

Jaskier shakes his head and smiles, reaching out to card his fingers through Ciri’s hair, gently dislodging the knot that had started to form in the fluffled up strands, from Eskel’s affectionate gesture. “Can’t let little Bleater get lost, now can we, birchling?”

Ciri giggles and makes a face. “Jaskier, you haven’t seen Bleater yet, have you?” she says cheekily. 

He raises his brows. “I haven’t. I might not have had much to do with farm animals in my life, but I do know what a goat looks like,” he says, tipping his head curiously. 

Ciri giggles again and Eskel chuckles, and Jaskier fancies that even Geralt’s frown is a little less pronounced. 

“Bleater isn’t little,” Geralt remarks in his rough voice. 

Jaskier blinks. “Well, I guess there are goats of different sizes, but how big can a goat get, really?” 

“Bleater’s not that type of goat. You could ride him, bard,” Eskel says with a smile. 

“Oh,” Jaskier says in surprise. “He’s— the size of a horse?”

“He’s bigger than scorpion!” Ciri adds with enthusiasm. “His horns are as long as Geralt and uncle Eskel’s swords!”

Jaskier blinks again, wondering if he shouldn’t avoid ever visiting the place Eskel teaches, if there’s some sort of monstrously sized scorpion stashed away in the stables, not to mention a goat of apparently epic proportions. 

“Scorpion is a Kaedweni war horse, Jaskier,” Eskel says. 

Jaskier wrinkles his nose and huffs at the witcher. “I have seen those horses before,” he says. “They’re beautiful. You named yours scorpion?”

Eskel grins and side eyes Geralt, who slowly crosses his arms over his chest. “Geralt’s got a horse named Roach,” the scarred Guardian smirks. 

Jaskier makes a noise of utter dismay and shakes his head. “Well, Ciri, promise me if you ever get a horse, you won’t name it after a bug. Though I admit there are some lovely butterflies, that might not be so bad.”

The little birchling giggles and nods. 

“Roaches are a crucial part of the ecosystem,” Geralt grunts. “But that’s not what she’s named after.”

“Oh,” Jaskier says, smiling. “You named her after the fish then?” 

He’s gratified to see the surprise on the guardian’s face, followed by a slow nod. 

“Those are lovely,” Jaskier responds. “Small and fast and silver,” he says, flicking his gaze back to Eskel. “A scorpion is just a scorpion though,” he says teasingly. 

Eskel chuckles again, and lays one of his large hands over Ciri’s lower legs to keep the tree sprite from falling off his shoulder. “Come on, let's not wait until Bleater is all the way on the other side of the forest,” he says. “If you want, you could meet Bleater and Scorpion later, Jaskier.”

Jaskier nods. “If you promise they won’t eat me,” he jokes, and then immediately wants to smack himself, remembering his very first words to the white winged guardian in the room with them. He shoots Geralt an apologetic look, and the guardian grunts. Jaskier supposes it’s a win the witcher doesn’t immediately growl or bare his teeth. 

Both Eskel and Ciri give a little wave as they depart, leaving them by themselves in Jaskier’s dusty, sheet-covered classroom. He shoots Geralt a cautious look. 

“So,” he begins. “I’m going to teach my first class here tomorrow morning, and I can hardly do so with the way it is now. Want to help me clean up?”

Geralt raises an eyebrow at him. “Doesn’t seem like it’s too much work.”

“Oh, but it will go so much quicker and it will be so much less boring when not by myself,” Jaskier pleads. “Besides!” he exclaims. “Rats!”

Both Geralt’s eyebrows crawl up his forehead now. “Rats,” he repeats without any inflection to his voice. 

“Yes, rats,” Jaskier says vehemently. “Eskel said there were droppings somewhere, and I really, really don’t want to be alone if there are any rats in here with me.”

“Hm,” Geralt says, and to Jaskier’s surprise, the Guardian gives him a curt nod. 

“Excellent!” Jaskier says, clapping his hands together, causing dust motes to swirl in the light around him. “Where shall we start?”

Uncovering the instruments, wiping them down with the sheets and tucking them and the classroom furniture into one of the corners of the hexagonal space is quick work with the two of them. Jaskier tries his best to keep up, but some of it is quite heavy, and he struggles. Geralt on the other hand seems to lift everything effortlessly, and even moves the harpsichord without so much as breathing heavily. 

Jaskier is sweating and has lost count of how many times he’s sneezed by the time it’s all tucked out of the way. Once they’ve made space he wipes the back of his hand over his forehead, and quickly unbuttons his doublet to hang it over a chair. The open collar of his undershirt sticks to him a little, and when he sees Geralt’s golden eyes rest there for a moment, a glower on his face, he self consciously pulls the fabric away from his skin. He turns, and busies himself tucking the last of the desks a little more securely against the rest. 

“Now to get rid of the dust,” Jaskier pants lightly, tapping his fingers to his chin. “How to best do that, you think?”

“Open the windows,” Geralt says. 

“Oh, airing out the space, that's a good idea. Maybe the breeze will take some of the dust with it,” Jaskier says, moving toward the windows to open them. 

When he moves away from the third window he already feels a little less like he’s going to sneeze again. Then, without warning, there’s a rush of sound. He turns and ends up straight across from the guardian. Though he tells himself to behave, he can’t help but stare admiringly at the witcher. 

Geralt is clad in all black, contrasting sharply with the stark white of his hair, and now of his wings spreading out behind his back. The wings are larger than Jaskier remembers, and the feathers shimmer in the sunlight. The vision of him is breathtaking, and he thinks he might actually lose a little time. 

Predictably, Geralt quickly loses his patience. “Move out of the way, bard,” he growls, briefly flashing his canines. 

“Right! Of course,” Jaskier babbles, shaking himself out of it, and hastily backing away from the windows. 

The witcher looks up for a moment, checking that the wisp is still floating high above them, and then his wings arch up and back. Jaskier marvels at the way the white feathers seamlessly slide over each other as they move, and then suddenly, Geralt sweeps them forward with speed. 

It’s the same type of movement he’d used to hit Jaskier with the blast of wind that had blown away his wisp on his first day, and he can’t help but brace. This time though, the gust is aimed away from him, and disturbs the dust that has settled everywhere in the classroom, from the flat of the floor to the smallest nooks and crannies. 

Geralt moves his wings again and again, stirring up the dust. With each sweeping movement of the guardian’s wings, more of the stale air gets replaced with fresh, spring air from the outside. When Geralt finally stops, there are no more motes of dust in the air. Jaskier realises he’s staring again when the witcher growls low, and he turns around to hide the flush in his cheeks, hoping that Geralt might assume it’s from the effort of moving everything. 

Once all the desks and instruments are back in place, and Jaskier has checked that every and all rat droppings have been removed, he sighs deeply in satisfaction. 

“Thank you for helping. I guess I’m as ready as I’ll ever be for tomorrow.”

“Hm,” Geralt says. 

Jaskier pulls the fabric of his shirt away from his chest again, making it billow a little to fan himself. He looks around the space. “No rats,” he says. “You think they’re hiding from us?”

Geralt shakes his head. “No rats here,” he answers, tilting his head. “I would have heard them.”

“That’s a relief,” Jaskier admits. 

“I don’t suppose you’ve had to deal with rats before,” Geralt says, and there’s a quality to his voice Jaskier can’t quite parse. 

He shrugs. “Oxenfurt is a large city, dear witcher. Wherever people gather, there are rats.”

Geralt’s golden eyes are sharp. “Hm,” the witcher says, and Jaskier isn’t quite sure they’d been speaking of rodents at the end there.

Chapter Text

Jaskier nervously twists his signet ring around his finger. The wisp is swirling directly overhead, rapidly changing shades of grey as if to reflect how he feels. He’s in his classroom behind his desk, and he’s left the door open. He knows he’s early. He’d been at breakfast practically before anyone else was there, hoping to settle his nerves with some sugar. The few witchers there had all huffed a bit when jitters and glucose made him even more talkative than usual, but none of them had told him to shut up. Not even Lambert. The alchemy professor had even joked Jaskier could visit the laboratories to blow some stuff up to help settle himself. 

He highly doubts explosions of any kind would be anything but a detriment to his nerves, but Lambert had grinned and said; “ just try it sometime, bard. I’m telling you, blowing shit up is where it’s at.” The redhead had seemed so sure of himself Jaskier was almost tempted.  

He has only two classes today, both of them in the morning, and the first one happens to have Ciri in it. It’s his smallest class as well, and contains only five students. He’s just contemplating why it seems that the older classes hold more students and the younger seem to be progressively more sparsely populated, when the little birchling bounces through the door. 

“Jaskier!” Ciri chirps, and he grins as she runs toward him. She comes to a skidding halt just before the podium, looking thoughtful. “I mean, good morning professor Pankratz,” she says with a wrinkle between her brows that’s way too reminiscent of a certain white haired witcher. 

“Morning, little birchling,” he answers, tipping his head. “You know that Jaskier is just fine.”

Ciri shakes her head, her white, fluffy hair floating around her. “Geralt says I should be more polite than usual during classes,” she answers. “Because the other students will be too, since they’re new.” 

Jaskier smiles at her. “I’ll introduce myself to the class as Jaskier, Ciri. So calling me by my name is polite enough.” 

She bounces on her toes, joy on her pale little face, and he almost thinks she’s about to climb the podium to race up and hug him. There’s a few other students in the door opening though, one of which peeks their head in a little further and bravely knocks on the door. 

Jaskier rises and ushers Ciri toward a seat in the front row. “Come in!” he calls out to the rest of them, and carefully observes them as they shuffle through the door to take a seat. 

His youngest group of students is small, as he knew it would be. Including Ciri, there’s only five of them. He gestures them to seats in the front row next to the little birchling, noting that most of them look so very young, and quite nervous as well. It serves to settle his own anxiety, and he smiles at them in welcome, introducing himself. The students’ gazes shift between him and the small ball of mist floating directly above him, and he chuckles, quickly introducing the wisp. 

Of course, Ciri immediately frowns when he does, raising a slender, branch-like arm into the air and wiggling her fingers. 

“Yes, Ciri?” Jaskier nods at her. 

“A wisp is what it is, but that’s not its name,” she says, entirely matter of factly. 

Jaskier blinks. He looks up at the wisp and hums thoughtfully. “I suppose you’re right,” he says. As soon as he does, he realises he’s been addressing the wisp by name in his head for a while now, he’s just not said it out loud yet. “I’ve not named it,” he says slowly, watching as the cloud of fog softly begins to glow with pale light. “But I do think I know what they’re called.” When he glances back at the five students their eyes are big and their mouths are open. “This is Willow,” he says, and the wisp flickers brightly, before lightening to pale, misty grey. 

After introducing himself and Willow, Jaskier sits down on the edge of the podium. He knows it won’t be like this in every class, but none of his little students are very large, and this puts him a bit more on their level.

“This is your first class at Kaer Morhen, isn’t it?” he asks. Ciri nods with enthusiasm, but the other four do so very cautiously, as if they could get the answer wrong. “Well,” Jaskier says, lowering his voice conspirationally, “this is my very first class at Kaer Morhen as well!” Ciri sways in her seat a little, seemingly with excitement, and Jaskier is gratified to see a little less tension in the small faces of the others. “What I would like to know before we start are your names, and your favourite songs,” he says seriously, pointing toward Ciri to open. 

The little birchling does so with verve, happily telling them her name while her white hair fluffs up impossibly further. She has to think a little on her favourite song, her green eyes sliding to Jaskier for a moment, brow wrinkled in concentration. “What’s the one about the dreams of wilderness?” she says. 

Jaskier feels his cheeks flush in pleasure. It’s one of his own, one he hasn’t sung in public yet, but did sing for Ciri one afternoon in the library. One that’s a little more from the heart than some of his others. “Whisper of the Wild,” he says softly, nodding at her. 

She grins. “That one!” she exclaims, nodding sagely, before looking at the boy to her right. 

The boy is the one who’d knocked on the door, and Jaskier thinks he’s a wood sprite, just like Ciri is. He’s far more sturdy than the little birchling though. He’s only slightly taller, but might be twice as wide, and his arms and legs look less like slender twigs and more like sturdy branches. Where Ciri’s skin is pale as birch bark with swathes of green, the boy’s skin is a textured, greyish brown. His hair is dark brown as well, with a few patches of green. Jaskier is glad he’s seen him at meals, since he might otherwise have been startled by the boy’s unusual eyes. They are the fiery red of autumn leaves, flecked with emerald green. 

“My name is Grove,” he says gingerly, eyes flicking between Jaskier and where Willow floats above him, emitting a soft blueish light that’s barely visible in the sun-lit classroom. 

Jaskier nods, remembering he’s read somewhere that tree sprites tend to have names with some connection to vegetation. “I hope it’s not impolite to ask, and if it is, be sure to tell me since I’m still learning, much like you are. You’re a tree sprite, correct? Which tree is yours?”

Grove sits up a little straighter, and though his hair is cropped much shorter than Ciri’s, it fluffs up much like hers whenever she’s excited. “My tree is an oak!” he says proudly.

Jaskier smiles encouragingly. “I love oak trees, they are such a cornerstone in the forest, providing food and shelter for many smaller animals. I’ve read somewhere their large canopies help regulate temperature and the levels of moisture in the air.”

Both young tree sprites are practically bouncing in their seats now, and Jaskier chuckles. “Do you have a favourite song, Grove?” he asks. 

The boy droops a little, his hair flattening down against his head. “I don’t know any songs,” he murmurs, barely audible. 

“That’s not a problem, Grove!” that just means you’ll get to learn so much this year,” Jaskier says kindly, relieved when some of his hair fluffs back up. 

Next to Grove sits a young selkie named Muirin. When Jaskier carefully questions if she is alright with her soft grey fur hanging over the back over her chair, she looks unsure for a moment. “You’re really new, professor Jaskier?” she asks. 

He smiles. “I really am. I guess I shouldn’t have asked that question?” 

Muirin shakes her head and curls one hand into her fur protectively. “You can’t mention a Selkie’s coat,” she says matter of factly.

Jaskier blinks. “Oh. I didn’t know that. What about if you had mentioned it first?” 

Muirin looks thoughtful for a moment, and then nods. “That would have been acceptable,” she says, and Jaskier chuckles.

“Now that you have mentioned it, you're happy having your coat right there?”

She nods back at him, stroking her fingers over the fur. “We like it to be close,” she says, seemingly eager to impart more wisdom. 

“Good to know, Muirin. What about a favourite song?” Jaskier questions, and learns that though she might be from the sea, her favourite is a ballad about a knight saving a princess from a tower. 

Next to the Selkie is another boy with curling black hair whose sandy skin gives the impression of faint, shimmering scales lying just underneath. He’s one of the students whose origin Jaskier had not been able to deduce. Ciri has told him he’s a Lamia, and Jaskier has spent some time in the library reading about his species. He’s glad he did, since his sibillant, hissing voice might have startled him otherwise. The boy seems slightly self conscious of it, partly covering his mouth as he tells him his name is Beryl. His favourite song is one Jaskier doesn’t recognise, though he suspects it’s from the far, southern reaches of the continent where the sun passes straight overhead and bakes the earth under its rays, where water is a rarity, and plants and animals survive on very little of it. 

The fifth and last student is a young dwarf, and though Jaskier still isn’t sure about Yarpenna’s gender, even after two weeks, he’s reasonably sure this is a girl. The dwarf is too young to have a beard, but does stroke her fingers over her chin as she introduces herself as Flint. Jaskier isn’t surprised at all when her favourite is a battle song. 

After introductions are over he gives them a quick, simple outline of what the next few weeks will be like, and then spends the rest of the class introducing them to a rhyming game. It’s nothing more complicated than to have them stand in a circle in the open space, while a small ball passes from hand to hand. Whoever has the ball is the designated poet, and must produce a short phrase that rhymes in some way, shape, or form with the previous poet’s. 

Jaskier smiles as the five of them come up with increasingly silly words, some of which are made up on the spot. The passing of the ball is significantly faster toward the end, and when Willow starts chasing the ball around, floating over each poet’s head while they think of a new word, the last few minutes of the class quickly devolve into laughter. 

Willow the wisp is reminiscent of a thundercloud when it flashes brightly, and Jaskier knows enough to check the time. He claps his hands together. 

“We’ve done it!” he says brightly. “We’ve survived our first class at Kaer Morhen! It was a joy, and it will be a joy to see you all next week.”

“What about homework?” Grove asks curiously, looking up at him with his red and emerald eyes. Ciri elbows him in the side, her birchbark pale skin scraping slightly against the more textured part of the oakling’s upper arm. 

“Shhh,” she says. “Don’t give professor Jaskier any ideas.”

All five of his little students are suddenly far too occupied making sure they’re not leaving anything behind, Muirin the selkie carefully smoothing her grey seal fur over her arm while Beryl smiles shyly and Flint swings her satchel over her shoulder with enough force to send it flying out the window if she’d let it go. 

“I don’t give homework on the first day,” Jaskier says with a wink. “But I would like it if you all sang a song sometime in the next few days.”

His students nod sagely at him, waving as they scamper out the door toward their next class. 

—000—

Jaskier has about an hour before his next class of students show up, and he tidies away the ball he’d used for the rhyming game into a desk drawer, before quickly opening his syllabus for reference. His next class will consist of twelve students, and they’ll be older and more advanced. 

He takes his time to carefully write out five different sonnets on the blackboard. There’s a class he’s planned later in the semester, that will have five sonnets with authors of five different species, but he knows better than to immediately focus on such heavy subjects. He still needs to get to know his students, and they still need to get to know him. The sonnets he’s written down now are examples of poetic irony, a suitable topic for an older class. 

He blows softly at the wisp as it floats across his field of vision as he writes. “Sorry I didn’t name you before,” he murmurs at it, finishing the last couplet with a flourish. Willow flickers, and brushes coolly across his forehead. 

Once he’s finished preparing he flips to the blank pages he’s left at the end of the syllabus for Ciri’s class, and makes a few careful notes on each of his students. Beryl is shy, and needs extra encouragement and attention. Flint will likely need to be encouraged to embrace things that are soft and delicate. Muirin might think she knows more answers than she actually does, and Grove has never before been introduced to anything artful. Ciri— Ciri is insatiably curious, smart, and possibly too daring for her own good. 

Jaskier is still smiling down at his notes when a soft knock sounds at his door. “Come in!” He calls out to the students, and stands to watch them shuffle into the classroom and choose their places. Not all of them sit close to the podium, and some seats are left empty, the students settling at the back instead. Jaskier frowns a little, but decides to let it be when he sees how some of them wear slightly wary expressions. He mustn't forget, he’s Kaer Morhen’s only human professor, and some of his students will have reasons to keep their distance. 

He smiles at the class, taking careful note of which students seem more relaxed, which seem neutral, and which seem wary of him. There are five elves in the class, two dwarves, two tree sprites— one maple and one fir. There are twin girls with red hair so long it nearly reaches the floor who are banshees, and the boy with swirling blue tattoos on his bare arms, the djinn. 

He’s glad to see that most of them look more curious than anything, and he hopes he can win over the wary ones. 

Jaskier is most concerned with the one that doesn’t look curious, or wary, or even indifferent. The boy with the blue tattoos carries rigid tension in his shoulders, and his dark blue eyes never leave Jaskier as he steps up to the edge of the podium. 

As before, the students’ attention shifts between him and the wisp, now floating next to his shoulder. “My name is Jaskier,” he says warmly, and gestures to the wisp. “And this is Willow. Now, will you tell me your names and your favourite song?” 

The class goes well, all things considered. The students take a bit longer to thaw than Ciri’s class, but by the end most of them have raised their hands to participate at least once. Most of them, but not all.

After the students leave, it takes longer for Jaskier to write his notes at the back of the syllabus by the mere fact there’s more students in the class. He waits until the last moment to quickly jot down his thoughts on the tattooed boy. 

Vaayu, he writes. Angry, but it’s a front. Afraid, perhaps.

Chapter Text

After a week of classes the better part of Jaskier’s nerves have abated, and he feels optimistic about how Kaer Morhen’s students have responded to him. If anything, the students have been more accepting of his presence than the school’s guardians had been at first, one of them in particular. 

Sure, not every student is interested in poetry and music, but that’s to be expected. There are more than enough who bloomed with excitement even in those very first classes, and he has an entire semester to convince those that aren’t sure. He’s already looking forward to the next week of classes, and to diving deeper into things. 

He actually feels a little more like he’s supposed to be here by the end of the week, as if he’s contributing instead of being a nuisance whose hand needs to be held to navigate the keep, and who says the wrong thing more often than not. 

It helps that the guardians have by and large lost the sharpest edge of their regard when it comes to him, and though he’s unsure he can call any of them but Eskel a friend, he’s hopeful that by the end of the semester he might. 

—000—

It’s Friday afternoon after he’s finished his last class of his first week, when Jaskier makes his way down to the hall. As agreed upon, Triss is waiting for him. The mage has her curly red hair pulled into a bun from which tendrils escape, curling like vines, and she smiles when she sees him coming. Willow floats ahead of him and circles Triss once, before returning to hover above his head. 

“Ready for your first class, Jaskier?” Triss says with amusement. 

“I’m always up for learning new things, even when they are wholly unsuited to me,” Jaskier says, patting his satchel which contains a threadbound notebook, pen, and inkwell. 

Triss chuckles. “I don’t expect you’re unsuited to learning about healing,” she says. 

“You say that now, just wait until you have me cut into anything. I've heard what healers do, and if you'll have me operating on anything you're bound to suddenly have an extra patient, whether it be by the unfortunate self inflicted sharp injury, or blunt trauma to the head from having fainted,” he says with a grin.

Triss shakes her head fondly. “I'm not a surgeon, Jaskier. I'm a mage. There will be no cutting, not like that, at least. Though remind me to give you a pair of gloves with your knife. Follow me.” When she turns, the wisp races out in front of them, even if the mage doesn’t need to be shown the way. 

As opposed to his own classroom, Triss’ is located on the castle’s ground floor. The front of the space is part of the castle itself, the walls made up out of blocks of stone and the ceiling vaulted like a cathedral’s. Like in the main hall, there are several stained glass windows, though much smaller. Each window depicts a type of plant, flower, or root, and Jaskier recognises several of them. Sun streams through the window that details digitalis, medicinal but poisonous at the same time, its blooms and leaves an array of purples and greens that project coloured light onto the floor and opposite wall. 

The space is large, desks that are almost thrice the size of the ones in his class, arranged before a blackboard that hangs below a window he’s pretty sure depicts belladonna. He’s read somewhere that some people call the fruit witch berry, while some others call it sleeping death. 

Despite the stained glass windows, most of the light that fills the space actually originates from the back of it, where the stone walls of the keep make way for shimmering panes of crystalline glass, set into a wrought iron framework. From that side of the classroom moist air and the smell of vegetation wafts their way. The greenhouse part of the space is just as neatly ordered as the rest of it, and Jaskier makes a quick mental note that Triss likes her things to be ordered and in their rightful place. 

As if to immediately contradict that thought, the mage starts shoving at one of the desks. “Here, help me move this,” she says, pushing to move it a little off to the side, to where it still faces the blackboard, but also partly faces the rest of the workstations. 

“You don’t have to adjust your seating to accommodate me,” Jaskier says immediately. 

The mage gestures him to the other side of the desk she’s attempting to lift, and he moves quickly, helping her shift it to the side. “You’re here to learn, but you’re not a student, Jaskier,” she says matter of factly. “It should be clear to the students that though you’re sitting in on my class, you’re still their professor.”

It’s thoughtful, and not something Jaskier had considered at all, and he nods at her in thanks. It wouldn’t be terrible to put himself at the same level as the students, but she’s right that it might be better if they still view him within the role he’s here to fulfill. He can sit in on some of the classes, but he is not a student.

Before the students arrive for her class, Triss quickly explains to him what her classes look like. 

“The youngest mostly just learn about plants and herbs. I teach them what they look like, where to find them, which parts are edible and which aren’t. I begin teaching them which parts are worth harvesting, and which to leave alone. When they’re older we actually go out to harvest some of them. The ones that don’t grow around Kaer Morhen we keep in greenhouses,” she says, gesturing to the neat rows of potted plants bathed in sunlight at the back of the classroom. 

“So what year did you put me in?” Jaskier asks curiously. “I might be able to differentiate between some plants, but if you show me a handful of leaves and ask me which one to eat, I admit I’ll be entirely likely to poison myself.”

Triss chuckles. “No one wants that,” she says, and Jaskier bites his tongue to prevent from contradicting her. “I did put you in an older class, since we’re dedicating this semester to harvesting medicinal herbs and how to process them into salves and tinctures.”

“Useful, if a little beyond the basics and my skill level, perhaps?” he says cautiously. 

The mage shakes her head. “Repetition is how we learn. They’ve all heard it before, but I’ll still review the material by quizzing the students on the particular plant and its uses, before we get to making anything.” She tips her head at him. “I’ve noticed you’ve a good memory. I’ve heard you mention quite some things I had no idea of, on a myriad of topics.”

Jaskier blushes a little, twisting his signet around his finger while Willow briefly darkens. “My memory does serve me well, but I also retain a lot of useless information I then tend to spout at inopportune moments,” he says quietly, before trying to smile brightly at her. “You can always tell me to shut up when you’re sick of it.”

Triss frowns and briefly puts her hand on his shoulder. Behind them there are audible footsteps and students’ voices, arriving to attend the class. “Not as likely as you think, Jaskier,” she says kindly.

When the lecture begins, Triss produces a few bright yellow flowers and holds them up to the students. Jaskier had already been familiar with arnica flowers, but he still listens attentively and makes a few notes when Triss quizzes the students. It’s how he learns that there are a few different genus, one of which does particularly well up in the mountains around Kaer Morhen. When Triss mentions the plants have deep rooted stems, which mean they regrow easily after harvesting the blooms, Jaskier nods along with the familiar information. The mage raises a brow at him and looks amused, clearly aware that it’s not new to him. Jaskier remembers learning about the plant, he just doesn’t remember why he did so. 

The class is informative, and fun, and though when it comes to the practical part of the lesson it’s rather obvious it’s all newer to him than to the students, he ends up with a small jar of arnica salve. 

He used to think mage’s salves and tinctures were more magic than work, but he learns that all it takes to make this one at least, is time and effort. 

They are instructed to chop up the flower’s orange and yellow leaves, and true to her word, Triss hands him a pair of sturdy gloves with his knife. Jaskier is grateful for it, since his knife slips a few times, and he doubts Triss wants to change today’s class into teaching how to reattach a finger. 

After chopping Triss hands out little bowls, one empty and one filled with oil. Jaskier’s eyes widen as a few of the students murmur something under their breath, and flames spring up in their empty ceramic. Those who don’t have any connection to chaos, just like him, get a little handful of flames poured in there from the mage’s hand. At first Jaskier is sorely tempted to stick his fingers in there to feel if the flames are real, but then he feels the heated air wafting toward him and decides that’s a bad idea. 

They infuse the oil with the chopped leaves, and then strain the mixture into a jar, pouring it through a fine-mesh sieve and then a cloth. Finally, they get another bowl of what he learns is beeswax, to melt over their flames. Triss explains that the softer they want the salve to be, the higher the ratio of oil to wax needs to be. Jaskier pours a generous amount into his melted beeswax, and is surprised at how well it combines. He does spill a little, and wishes he’d still worn the gloves, the heated oil leaving behind red marks on his skin. 

At the end of the class, Jaskier recognises the salve by the medicinal smell, and blinks up at Triss in surprise. It’s the same type of salve she handed him for his bruises, the one that worked wonders on the large green-bluish marks on his back.

He stays behind as the students leave, and is delighted when more than one of them gives him a smile or a wave along with Triss. 

“How did you like the class?” the mage asks, and Jaskier can hear the slight undercurrent of hope in her voice. He smiles broadly at her, and babbles a bit in his genuine enthusiasm.

“I love how you combined theory and practice!” he says. “It’s such a good way to remember things, and what you teach in itself is so valuable. I mean, I got so much benefit from that jar of salve you gave me. It worked incredibly well, and now I’ve actually learned how to make it myself. That is a gift, Triss,” he says. 

The mage looks a little stunned at the flood of words, and then she steps forward and pulls him in for a strong hug. Willow flickers with light above them, and Jaskier is so surprised he just stands there for a full second, before hugging her back. 

When they part, Triss' smile is actually a little watery, and Jaskier’s stomach swoops, wondering if he’s said something wrong. She grabs his hand and pulls him toward the greenhouse part of her classroom. 

It’s how he ends up with a ceramic pot, a bag of earth, a large, gnarled root system, and a strict set of instructions to bury the root, put it in a sunny spot in his room, and water it consistently until it develops green sprouts. 

“You did say you think the flowers are pretty,” Triss says with a smile, and Jaskier flushes a little as he remembers the remark he’d made under his breath, just when the mage had paused. He’d been quiet, but it had still been loud enough for the entire class to hear. 

When he gets back to his room the wisp immediately floats toward one of the broad window sills. Jaskier chuckles and sets to work. He carefully plants the root and waters the earth after he is done, excited he might get to watch it bloom. 

—000—

That Saturday Jaskier is up as early as he had been every day but the first since he arrived. There are no classes on the weekends, and after devoting all his attention first to writing his syllabus, and then to surviving his week of teaching, he misses the feel of his lute in his hands. True, he has sung a few songs, most of them either to Ciri or to the wisp, but he hasn’t had his fingers on the strings of his instrument for three weeks now. He rubs the tips of his fingers together, feeling if the long since built up callouses have diminished. 

He decides to take his lute to breakfast. He could play by himself, but he likes playing for others, and he’s rather hoping that if the students hear him, some of them will want to learn. 

Willow doesn’t race out in front of him for once, as if the wisp knows carrying his lute would hinder him in his pursuit. When they arrive at breakfast Jaskier realises it’s early enough that hardly anyone is there, as most students are likely sleeping in. He can’t really blame them. There were plenty of mornings when he was a student at Oxenfurt himself, where on the weekends he didn’t manage to drag himself out of bed before noon, if that. He notes there are very few other professors at breakfast either, but there are a few witchers. 

Geralt, Lambert, Eskel and Aiden sit grouped together, out of their usual spots. Jaskier feels a bit hesitant. He doesn’t want to impose, but Eskel looks up when he enters the hall, amber eyes meeting his across the distance. “Jaskier,” he calls, and beckons, gesturing for him to join them. 

Geralt’s golden eyes snapped to him as soon as he entered as well, and though the guardian doesn’t scowl, his shoulders do stiffen a bit. Jaskier takes a fortifying breath, puts on his best and brightest smile, and plonks himself down into the free seat at Geralt’s side with a bright good morning!

He would have sat next to Eskel, but the open seat next to Geralt was closest, and he’ll be damned if he’ll be obvious in showing the white haired witcher that it makes him a little nervous to sit so close to him. 

Geralt turns a little, reaches for the pot Jaskier knows holds the cinnamon coffee- thing, and sets it in front of him. 

“Oh!” he says, genuinely surprised the guardian had even noticed he likes the cinnamony concoction. “Thank you, darli—” he quickly cuts off his automatic response, unwilling to find out if Geralt will tolerate such an endearment, and then keeps talking, hoping they won’t notice the slip or the flush in his cheeks. “Though I am up and moving around, I never feel truly awake without some type of coffee, and this type right here certainly is my preferred way of dragging myself into wakefulness,” he says cheerfully. When Geralt hums curtly, Jaskier cautiously glances at him from under his lashes. 

Eskel reaches around his fellow guardian to pet Jaskier’s back, letting him know the half spoken word definitely didn’t go unnoticed. Across from him, Lambert and Aiden are both smiling wide enough to expose their sharply pointed incisors and premolars. Part of Jaskier wants to face-palm and let himself slip off his seat and disappear under the table, and part of him is so very done apologising all the time. 

So instead he just shrugs at them, takes a sip of his cinnamon coffee, and says; “I take no responsibility for any and all terms of endearment I may utter when people feed me the things I like.”

“Like you’d censure yourself otherwise,” Lambert snarks. And then to Jaskier’s astonishment the witcher shoves a flaky apple pastry in his direction. The redhead is smirking at Geralt as he does so, and Jaskier has to admit he’s likely missing something here. 

He shrugs again. “Thank you, dear,” he tells Lambert, before taking another sip of his coffee. 

“I thought you’d be used to sleeping in, bard,” Geralt says roughly. 

Jaskier shakes his head. “I’m long past those days. As a student my bed was all the activity and entertainment I needed on many a Saturday morning, but it has lost its appeal with age.” He only realises what his words might sound like when Lambert snorts and Aiden tilts his head, green eyes sparking with amusement. “I meant sleep!” Jaskier adds immediately, his voice a little high, and then, mortified; “I’m not that old!”

Eskel and Lambert and Aiden laugh, and it’s almost worth it when Jaskier looks at Geralt and sees a slight twitch at the corner of the guardian’s mouth. 

“Gods, it’s too early for this. Blame a busy week and the current hour for the embarrassing things I say,” he laments.

Lambert grins and wiggles his brows. “Just wait until we get some gull in you at some point. That’ll get your tongue to wag.”

Jaskier’s cheeks burn and Aiden elbows the redhead in the side. “Way too fucking suggestive, Lamb,” the dark skinned witcher says, though the laughter in his voice is obvious. 

Lambert gestures around them. “Do you see any damn students? This is my one and only chance without immediately scarring young minds, kitty.”

“We’d be appreciative if you at least attempted not to scar ours either,” Eskel says dryly. 

“I’m almost afraid to ask,” Jaskier says, “but what exactly is gull? Other than a sea bird that’ll attempt to steal any snack you have while out by the water, and take your hand off with it if you’re not careful?”

Aiden turns to him. “It’s a very strong liquor. Vesemir brews it, and refuses to tell us how. Even Lambert hasn’t managed to reverse engineer the recipe from the product, and the mages refuse to help.”

“Gotten close a couple times,” the alchemy professor grumbles. “Tasted like fucking death though.”

Jaskier makes a concerned noise. “Not actually, right?” he says. 

“It takes a lot to get a witcher drunk. It’s strong. Lamb’s variation wasn’t suitable for consumption by anyone other than a guardian. Vesemir’s version hardly is. Don’t let Lamb pour it down your throat, bard,” Eskel says. 

Jaskier playfully narrows his eyes. “You think I can’t hold my liquor?” he says. “I’ll have you know I was a bard in Oxenfurt, as well as a professor. Only the staunchest drunks have ever managed to drink me under the table.”

As one, the witchers shake their heads at him. Jaskier thinks it’s highly unfair they’re so sceptical.

Geralt grunts, an annoyed quality to the sound. “Is that how you spent your time, being drunk off your ass and picking at the strings of that lute of yours?” 

It’s harsh, and Jaskier doesn’t miss the warning look Eskel sends the white haired witcher. 

Geralt’s eyes are sharp as ever when Jaskier meets his gaze. “From the disapproving tone I’d almost assume you never partake yourself,” he says, trying hard not to let his voice turn cold. “I know you think me— frivolous. But, I took my job as a professor seriously. I was very rarely drunk off my ass. And I’ll gladly demonstrate that I always endeavour to do more than mere plucking,” he continues, aware it comes out more huffy than he’d like. 

He puts action to word, flipping open his lute case with a flourish. 

Across from him, Lambert groans. “Did you have to go and rankle the bard?” he grouses. “Now he’s gonna play.”

Jaskier mock gasps, putting a hand to his chest. “You’re telling me you don’t like music? As cultured as you are?”

Aiden guffaws, Eskel chuckles, and Lambert makes a face. Geralt frowns. Jaskier winks at the alchemy professor to soften his words. He understands Lambert wearing anything more fancy would be a waste with the type of work he does. There are a few rips in the top layer of his clothes, most of which have been mended with hasty stitching, and there are more than a few washed out stains, some of which might even have been blood, and Jaskier would really rather not know if that’s true. 

“Not everyone can be a fancy little poetry professor,” Lambert grumbles, eyeing Jaskier’s embroidered silk doublet. 

Next to Jaskier, Geralt growls low, barely loud enough for him to hear.

“I know,” Jaskier says a little more softly. “And I suspect you would hate it,” he teases gently, gesturing at himself with raised brows. “Which is why that is me, and which is why I would never dare to go into your laboratory without you there. I might blow shit up.”

Lambert’s grimace transforms into a grin. “Oh, but you’d still blow shit up with me there. I fucking promise you that.”

Jaskier chuckles. “Maybe at some point. I’ll have to gather my courage.” Before any of them manage to respond, he strums his fingers over the strings of his lute. The familiar feel of the polished wood under his hands brings a smile to his face, and he briefly closes his eyes to focus on the warm, harmonious tones. He thinks it sounds quite lovely, the hall's acoustics working in his favour. 

He plays for a while, and though eventually the guardians start their conversation back up, he’s aware that they’re still listening, glancing his way every now and again. Their slitted eyes rest on him whenever he pauses, until he starts up the next melody. Though he doesn’t want to be, he’s especially aware of the weight of Geralt’s golden gaze. 

The hall gets progressively busier while he plays, and he’s glad to note some of Kaer Morhen’s students make noises of delight, and to see the interest shine in their eyes. Toward the end of breakfast the hall is quite full, those who have finished eating still in place at the long tables. Willow has moved away from hovering above him, and is instead floating through the hall, gliding between professors and students alike. The wisp’s glow swells and recedes with the melody he plays, and Jaskier knows it’s listening. 

At some point Ciri came bouncing into the hall, only to immediately wedge herself between him and Geralt. The little birchling is leaning against the guardian with her large green eyes steadily fastened on Jaskier. He’s just about to call it quits, the tips of his fingers a little more sensitive than he’s used to after three weeks of not playing, when the tree sprite chirps a request. 

“Will you sing Whisper of the Wild, Jaskier?” she says hopefully. 

Jaskier smiles at her and nods, watching her pale, fluffy hair float about her head with joy, as he starts playing the familiar melody. Then for the first time that morning, he lifts his voice in song. 

Chapter Text

Jaskier tries to focus on doing the song justice, but part of him is very much aware of the reaction of those around him. He already noticed that a lot of students stayed in their seats to listen after finishing their meal, and now that he sings, he feels a bit like he’s suddenly become the hall's focal point. 

Geralt is right next to him with Ciri leaning back against his side, her pale hair floating about her head. Every time Jaskier glances in the guardian’s direction, the witcher is looking right back at him, his slitted pupils expanding and contracting. Eskel leans forward in his place next to Geralt, and the scarred witcher leans his chin in his hand, a smile on his face as he listens. 

Jaskier is distantly aware that all talk in the hall has died down. Across from him, even Lambert and Aiden are silent and staring. 

When he reaches the end of the song and lets the final notes drift off, there’s utter silence for a second, and Jaskier feels his face heat. He’s never been self conscious of a performance, happy to play whatever the reception, but he’s achingly aware that this time, he’s fervently hoping that those around him will like it. 

Ciri is the first one to respond, the little birchling’s voice clearly audible in the quiet. She sighs. “That really is my favourite song,” she says. 

It’s as if her voice was the only thing necessary to have the dam break, as the quiet immediately transforms into a cacophony of sound. Some of the students clap, but there’s a myriad of other noises, from hollers and whistles, to growls and screeches and everything you could think of. Jaskier feels his blush creep further down his throat, and flourishes a little seated bow, grinning happily as he tucks his lute away. 

“Really lovely, Jaskier,” Eskel smiles when the wall of sound finally recedes. 

“I do more than mere plucking, he says” Lambert crows, “I’d fucking say so!”

“I vote to make this a regular weekend thing,” Aiden adds seriously, raising his hand. 

“Hmm,” Geralt hums next to him, ruffling Ciri’s hair while his eyes remain fastened on Jaskier. 

—000—

“I’m glad to see I haven’t scared any of you off for your second class,” Jaskier says cheerfully when his five little students settle themselves into the seats at the front. 

Beryl blinks shyly, the faint impression of scales shimmering under his skin, glancing between Jaskier and Willow, hovering high above near the ceiling. Flint resolutely shakes her head, and Ciri giggles.

“You’re not very scary, Professor Jaskier,” the little birchling says seriously. 

“Well, I’m certainly glad to hear that!” he exclaims. “Though you’re not the first to say it, and I doubt that anyone has ever truly found me frightening.”

Muirin frowns, briefly stroking her palm over the soft fur she has once again draped over her chairback. “My parents say all humans are a threat, even if they don’t seem to be.” Next to her, Grove nods his head, his dark brown hair going limp and briefly adhering to gravity.

It catches Jaskier off guard. He should have known there’d be students whose families would warn them about humans. He really shouldn’t be surprised. Humans are in fact dangerous to non-humans in large swathes of the continent, and he can hardly blame any of their parents for being cautious. 

He drops down to sit on the edge of the podium again. He pulls up his knees and rests his cheek on top of them as he regards them. Willow swoops down, and he isn’t surprised to see the wisp has darkened considerably. It brushes wetly against the back of his neck, and Jaskier sighs. 

He tries to keep his voice light. “I can understand why they might feel that way,” he says. “But just as not all selkies are the same, neither are all humans. I promise I am not a threat to any of you,” he says softly. 

“Well of course you aren’t!” Flint huffs, stroking her fingers over her beardless chin. “You’re our professor!” 

The others nod vigorously. Jaskier is touched by their immediate denial that he is a part of the group they have been taught to perceive as dangerous, but his heart is heavy. It’s not at all what he planned this lesson— only their second one, to be about, but now that the topic has come up like this, he can’t keep from exploring it a little further. 

“So what do your parents say about humans then?” he asks the other students. 

Flint shrugs. “My parents say you can trade with humans just fine, but to never take their word as a guarantee.” 

Jaskier nods, and looks at Beryl. The boy’s scales briefly shimmer a bit more brightly under his sandy skin, and he thinks it could be the lamian equivalent of a blush. “My parents told me to steer clear of humans if I ever encountered them,” he says in his shy, hissing voice. 

Jaskier looks at Grove. The little Oakling looks thoughtful for a moment. “That groups of humans are the most dangerous of them all,” the tree sprite says with a frown. 

He has noticed Ciri shifting nervously in her seat, and remembers the tree sprite telling him Geralt brought her to Kaer Morhen when she was even younger than she is now. “What about Geralt, little birchling?” he asks her, and sees relief flood her pale little face when she understands he doesn’t expect her to say anything about her parents. 

“Geralt says humans do either of two things. They will kill, or they will capture and exploit,” she says quickly.

Jaskier nods slowly. There’s a lump in his throat he has difficulty swallowing. He twists his signet around his finger, and thinks of his own parents. They were born into money and privilege, and because they were, he was too. He knows they were good to their tenant farmers and sharecroppers. He knows they were good people, and that they would never have presented a danger to these children, or any child. 

He looks at his little students. “So if you encountered me for the first time, out in the world, what would you think?” 

“You’re kind!” Ciri says immediately. 

“You want to learn, like we do,” Muirin adds. 

“You play music!” Grove and Flint both speak at the same time. 

Jaskier tilts his head and looks at Beryl, watching the boy’s scales shimmer. “Out in the world, we wouldn’t know you aren’t frightening,” he says hesitantly, bringing his hand up to half cover his mouth. 

Jaskier smiles at him. “That’s exactly right, Beryl,” he says quietly. He sighs and looks at them seriously. “Out in the world, you wouldn’t know I was kind, that I want to learn, or that I play music. Out in the world, without getting to know me, there wouldn’t be anything setting me apart from anyone else, would there?”

“I suppose not,” Flint says with a frown. 

“But you’re— you” Muirin says, her tone a little frustrated.

Jaskier chuckles. “Quite,” he tells her. “Just like you and me, other humans are individuals. Of course the fact that they’re human influences who they are, but Muirin, is it enough to know you, to know you are a selkie?”

The young girl bites her lip in thought, and shakes her head. 

“Just like it isn’t enough to know Ciri and Grove are tree sprites, or to know that Flint is a dwarf, or that Beryl is a lamia. Some humans are dangerous, but a lot of them aren’t,” Jaskier says. “I will not tell you to not be cautious of them, but I’d like you to remember that some of them are kind, some of them want to learn, and some of them play music.”

They are still a little subdued when Jaskier finally starts on his actual lesson. Today’s class was supposed to introduce them to similes, and after a brief explanation he challenges them to come up with the silliest one they can think of. He allows them to deliberate with each other, as long as they each choose one in the end. 

Ciri proudly tells him roots are like explorers, finding the cracks in the earth that would otherwise remain secret, to get to the water and nutrients far below. Grove tells him the knots of an old oak tree are bumpy as the knees of a mountain troll. Muirin compares empty seashells to tiny abandoned castles, and Flint likens boulders of rock that stick up out of the ground to a giant’s teeth. 

When he looks at Beryl, the boy’s scales shimmer under his skin. “Some beliefs are like a tiny crack in a glass window,” he says hesitantly, and Jaskier nods at him in encouragement. “Under strain they will spread, and eventually shatter the entire view.”

Jaskier blinks in surprise. “Those were some very wise words, Beryl,” he compliments the boy, and the lamia shimmers again, though Jaskier thinks he’s pleased this time. He looks at his students. “You have all done very well this class,” he remarks. He smiles, “though I cannot skip giving you homework every week, there won’t be any this time either,” he says with a wink. 

He’s relieved when it wipes the briefly returned seriousness from their little faces, and he watches as they laugh and skip their way out of his classroom.

—000—

Halfway through the second week, Vesemir takes a seat next to him at dinner. Jaskier feels quite like his heart will trip over itself, utterly convinced for a second the dean will tell him they have all changed their minds, and they don’t want him here to teach, after all. 

“Relax, bard,” the witcher says, and Jaskier isn’t sure what betrayed him, the scent of panic, the way willow resembled a near black thundercloud for a moment, a brief burst of lightning deep within the wisp’s depths adding to the illusion, or if the guardian’s hearing is actually acute enough to note his racing pulse. 

“Back in Oxenfurt, the dean taking a seat next to you at dinner, without warning, never spelled out anything but trouble,” he says cautiously. 

Vesemir raises an eyebrow. “Did you get into any trouble here?” he asks, and Jaskier doesn’t miss the sharp glance the witcher throws in Lambert's direction. 

“No?” he answers, unable to entirely rid his voice of the question in that word. “No, I don’t think so,” he says a little more firmly. 

“Good,” Vesemir says. “If I’m not mistaken, you don’t have a class tomorrow morning?”

“I don’t,” Jaskier says hesitantly.

“Any tutoring you have planned?” the dean asks. 

Jaskier smiles. “I’ve only hung up a sheet yesterday,” he immediately starts. “A few students have already written down their names. I was thinking if I have enough, I could make a few small classes of them anyhow. That way they can learn to play together, and I can teach more of them. I might have to look into finding a few more instruments, if that’s the case. It’s not like I have enough room for another harpsichord, or a piano, but if I could find an extra few of the more manageable ones—”

Eskel takes a seat on his other side and chuckles. “You might want to interrupt, Vesemir, or he’ll just keep talking.”

“Or don’t” Yarpenna says. “I’m kind of curious what will happen if we just let him keep going, you know? Do you think he’ll tire himself out eventually?”

“Hard to say,” Regis says contemplatively. “I’m inclined to say that if he’s had enough sugar, he’ll be at it for quite a while.”

Jaskier knows they’re teasing. He can hear it in their tone of voice, and he can see it in their eyes. He shuts his mouth and makes a zipping motion over his lips, and tries to keep smiling. Willow floats down next to his shoulder, and even if the guardians sitting close enough couldn’t smell it on him, the way the wisp darkens and bursts with flashes of light would betray him. 

He sees the concerned glances being shot his way, and determinedly shakes his head at them. “Just you wait,” he returns their good natured teasing, glad his voice doesn’t crack, “I might have only been here a short time, but if I were to stop talking, you’d all miss my voice.” He winks as he says it, and resolutely pushes away hurt feelings from the past. Those feelings don’t belong here, and nothing that was said was meant to elicit them.  He turns to Vesemir. “So, no classes tomorrow morning, and no tutoring yet. Why do you ask?”

The dean hums, and it’s again so reminiscent of Geralt, that Jaskier cannot help but glance down the table toward the white winged guardian. He finds the witcher already looking back at him with a frown, and quickly averts his gaze. 

“I’m teaching a class you might be interested in,” Vesemir says. “It’s an overview of creatures that emit light,” he continues, tipping his head toward the wisp at Jaskier’s shoulder. 

He’s relieved Willow has lightened to the colour of mist again, though the wisp’s swirls still seem a little agitated. 

“Oh!” he says. “If you don’t mind, I’d love to attend! I’m embarrassed to admit that other than a few passages in an obscure book some years ago, I don’t know much about wisps at all. Even less about light-emitting creatures in general,” he says with enthusiasm. 

Vesemir nods at him. “I’ll see you in class tomorrow then.” He raises a brow. “Try not to be late,” he says, and though Jaskier hears the gentle admonishment, he’s convinced the witcher is at least partly amused. 

—000—

Jaskier makes sure to rise on time the next morning. He hopes to catch Vesemir at breakfast, since he actually doesn’t know where in the castle the dean teaches his classes. The witcher isn’t in the hall though, and he sips at his cinnamon coffee before glancing up at the wisp. 

“If I ask you to very specifically to lead me to Vesemir’s classroom,” he says, playfully narrowing his eyes, “will you promise not to lead me astray?

The small swirl of smoke floats motionlessly for a moment, and then it flickers, just once. Jaskier sighs and sips at his coffee again, not entirely convinced it’s the answer he was hoping for. The wisp usually accurately leads him through the keep to where he wants to go, but he hasn’t forgotten how the wily little sphere of fog had guided him straight to Geralt’s door. 

“Professor Jaskier,” two voices say behind him at the same time, so similar it almost sounds like one. 

He twists around to smile at the twin banshees from one of his classes. Their long red hair is braided this time, and their freckled faces are almost unnaturally pale. “Maeve, Anya,” he greets them, glad his memory readily provides him with their names, even if he’s not sure he can tell the both of them apart. 

“We’re in professor Vesemir’s class this morning,” the banshee on the right says. He thinks it’s Maeve, something in the way she holds herself a little more confident than her sister. 

“You could walk with us, if you don’t know the way,” the other banshee says, her voice a bit more hesitant, and that’s definitely Anya. 

Jaskier smiles broadly at them. “That’s so kind of you! I was planning to sit in on his class. How did you know?” 

“The entire school knows you sat in on professor Triss’ class,” Maeve says. 

Anya looks up at Willow, “and it makes sense you might like to sit in on this one?” she says, slightly unsure.

The wisp swirls its grey tendrils, and Jaskier smiles at the banshee sisters. “Excellent deductive reasoning,” he says with a wink. He’s pretty sure Willow would have led him in the right direction despite the singular pulse of light, but he’s been late for an appointment with the dean every time he’s had one, and the last thing he wants is to barge in after Vesemir has already started his class. 

The banshee sisters look at him expectantly. 

“Ah,” Jaskier says. “Do we need to go already?”

Maeve and Anya nod their heads as one. “It’s a bit of a walk,” they say at the same time. 

Jaskier takes another quick bite of his pastry and quickly swallows down the rest of his coffee, grimacing when he finds it’s hot enough to still burn a bit down his throat. He coughs and brushes the crumbs off his fingers. “Lead the way,” he says, standing to follow them. 

Willow seems to decide it’s alright to follow along behind the sisters, and the wisp remains floating above his head. Jaskier chats a little with the girls while they walk, and is fascinated when he learns that banshees very rarely give birth to twins. 

“It’s because twin voices harmonise. When Anya and I scream, we scream together,” Maeve tells him matter of factly. “We have to take care that we’re outside before we get overwhelmed with the urge to scream. It takes a lot of control.” She looks at her sister. “Anya is better at that than I am.”

“So what happens if both of you scream inside?” Jaskier asks curiously. 

“The windows would shatter,” Anya says softly. 

“All of them?”

“All of them,” Maeve says. 

“Oh. I can imagine that might have happened a few times when you were younger. No one is born with that kind of control, probably.”

Both banshees smile and nod. “Our mothers took out the window panes and we just had shutters for the first few years of our lives,” Meave says. 

“Tell me if it’s inappropriate to ask,” Jaskier begins hesitantly, “but you screaming, does that happen a lot? I’ve read that it’s a warning.”

Both banshees halt in their tracks. Jaskier stops walking and turns to them. “I’m sorry,” he says immediately. “I shouldn’t have been so nosy, I—” He breaks off when the sisters shake their heads, oddly synchronised. 

“Professor Jaskier,” Meave says.

“Thank you for calling it a warning,” Anya finishes.

Jaskier tilts his head. “That— that’s what it is, isn’t it?” he asks, wondering if he doesn’t remember the text correctly. He’d never before read anything on banshees, and when Ciri told him that’s what the sisters are, Willow found him a small, old book with an intricate trim of lines crossing over again and again on the cover. 

“It is,” both banshees say at the same time. 

“But the thing we warn against comes to pass more often than not. So it’s sometimes assumed that a banshee’s cry is more than an omen. Some people think when we scream, it sets nefarious events in motion,” Maeve says, shrugging. Her sister nods and leans against her shoulder in support.  

Jaskier shakes his head resolutely. “That is like saying doctors who warn against a plague are spreaders of the disease,” he says incredulously. “You bear no responsibility for what will come to pass. You have no hand in it.”

The sisters nod, and he thinks they look a little more at ease. As they keep walking, Jaskier wonders how many times they’ve had guilt shoved at them, and how many times they’ve been told they are the ones who have to shoulder it. 

They reach Vesemir’s class just in time, and Jaskier is glad the sisters told him it was a bit of a walk. They head into the class ahead of him, taking their seats. When he enters the dean smiles and waves him to a desk that’s set a little apart in the same way he and Triss had arranged, when he sat in with her. 

Vesemir’s classroom is similar to many a lecture hall in Oxenfurt. The space is a large rectangle with windows on one side that look out toward the twin lakes in the distance. Vesemir’s desk and the blackboard are set at the base level of the room, from which the floor rises in tiers, three in total. Each holds a row of desks, and the rise in elevation makes it so the blackboard and speaker can easily be seen by those who sit at the back. 

Jaskier’s desk is at the base level too, perpendicular to the students and the blackboard, so he can see both. He smiles and waves at the students, familiar with the rest of the class. All of them wave back at him, except one. 

Jaskier had mostly let Vaayu be, in his first class. In the second, he’d tried to get the djinn to participate more, with very little success. The boy’s shoulders grow rigid as soon as he sees Jaskier enter the classroom, and there is anger in his face. He almost wants to back right out again. The last thing he wants is to keep Vaayu from being comfortable, to take away what should be a safe space for the djinn to learn. 

Vesemir firmly shuts the door though, and the witcher’s hand lands briefly on his shoulder to keep him in place. The guardian moves toward the blackboard, and then the lecture begins.

Chapter Text

“As you know, today we’ll have an overview of light-emitting creatures,” the grey haired witcher begins the class. The murmur of talk had died down completely even before he spoke, as soon as he took up his place in front of the blackboard. 

Jaskier tries to be as quiet as he can when he flips open his satchel and takes out his notebook, pen, and ink. It still makes a little ruffling noise, and the witcher turns to him.  Before he can wince apologetically, Vesemir continues. 

“Professor Jaskier will sit in today, and I’m guessing you have all become acquainted with his wisp by now.”

The students nod and murmur, and Willow swirls happily with several shades of grey. 

“When wisps emit light, the function of it varies, more so than in some of the other species we’ll be discussing,” Vesemir says. “Now, what purposes could emitting light have?” he asks the class. 

One of the elves raises her hand, her eyes fastened on Willow before looking back at Vesemir. The guardian nods at her to answer. “To attract?” she says, half question and half statement. 

“Correct,” Vesemir nods. “There are different objectives in attraction, can you think of what they are?” he asks the elven girl. 

She thinks for a moment, looking at the wisp with a slight frown this time. “To attract prey,” she says slowly, “but maybe also to attract a— symbiotic partner?”

Jaskier blinks. She’s clearly thinking of the wisp in her answers, and now that he thinks of it, a symbiotic partnership is one way to describe what he is to Willow and what Willow is to him, even though that description mostly makes him think of the little birds that land on cattle to pick them clean of parasites. The wisp feels like much more than that to him.

Vesemir nods. “To attract prey, to attract a symbiotic partner, and quite a few creatures use light to attract a mate,” the witcher says. He turns to the blackboard and quickly hangs three large sheets from a rail at the top. Each sheet depicts a different creature, with a different purpose for the light they emit. 

Vesemir tells them the first one wants to attract prey, and uses light to do it. Jaskier can’t help but wrinkle his nose a little at the illustration. It depicts some sort of fish creature Vesemir calls an angler. Apparently some genus of the creature live deep down in the ocean. Jaskier quickly glances at the students, but there are no selkies in this class.

The angler in the picture is not an ocean creature. It has fins with long, finger-like protrusions with which it can drag itself onto land, emerging from the deep lakes it usually hides in. Its head is large and it has a wide mouth with a few rows of sharp, needle-like teeth that look haphazardly placed. Oddly enough, its teeth appear to be slightly translucent. Its skin is scaleless, the colour mottled in a way Jaskier can imagine would allow it to blend into a lake floor, or a swamp, perhaps. There is a row of spines that runs along its back in lieu of a dorsal fin. The one nearest its gaping mouth is elongated, projecting far out from its body, and looks to be mobile. At the tip it widens slightly into a flat shape, and even from the illustration it's clear that’s where it emits light. 

“It stands to reason the angler comes out at night,” the dean lectures. “It isn’t fast, so it makes sure prey will approach by wriggling the tip of that spine through the air. It’s not just the light that attracts, but the movement as well. There’s something hypnotic about it, and it has been known to lure in large animals like deer, or wildcats. Occasionally, it lures in more intelligent beings as well.”

Jaskier feels a shiver travel down his spine at those last words, and sees the sentiment echoed in some of the students’ faces. He fervently hopes that this picture is the closest he’ll ever come to seeing an angler.

At first, the second creature doesn’t seem to be a creature at all. The illustration in the middle of the blackboard depicts large blobs of goop, hanging from what seems to be a cave ceiling. But, Vesemir tells them the blobs of goop can move, and live together in small family groups. Jaskier supposes the largest blobs in the picture should be the oldest then, the smaller blobs their children, perhaps. They’re called glimmer drips, and though the name is easy to remember, he dutifully jots down a few notes. 

Glimmer drips get their energy directly from the rock they’re attached to. To make this possible, there’s a continuous chemical reaction going on in their centre. It frees up energy, the sustenance by which it lives, but the reaction also produces heat, and light. A certain amount of heat only serves to make the combustion like process more efficient, but beyond a certain point the increased temperature becomes dangerous to the glimmer drip. That’s when it turns translucent. 

Jaskier supposes letting the light out would serve to lower the globs’ temperature in and of itself, but the light filtered through their suddenly transparent bodies has a certain quality to it that attracts a very specific type of moth. Vesemir hangs a smaller picture next to the illustration of the glimmer drips to show them. Compared to the hanging globs the moths don’t seem to be very large, though the guardian tells them their wingspan is about a metre across. The moths land on the blobs of goop, attracted to the light, and bat their wings. It cools the glimmer drips down, while the moths get to warm up in the cold climates of the caves they visit. 

The third illustration is of a creature that very distantly resembles a snake. They flatten their bodies during the day, spreading across the surface of the earth to let the sun’s rays heat them up to near boiling temperatures. The tips of their tongues emit light, and they flit them out at night. They can be found in the southern regions of the continent, in desert-like landscapes where the skies are cloudless and the stars are visible every night. Their tongues mimic the patterns of the stars above them, broadcasting their location to the millimetre, to potential mates. They’re called nightsparks, and Jaskier has to smile. 

The glimmer drips and nightsparks have names that take his fancy, and contrary to the angler, he wouldn’t mind getting to see their lights at some point in his life. 

“So these creatures use light to attract various things,” Vesemir continues after tidying the illustrations away. “Any other purposes of light emission you can think of?”

Jaskier sees the banshee sisters lean their faces toward each other, and then Maeve raises her hand. Vesemir nods at her, and she answers. “Instead of attracting, could it be used to repel?” 

Jaskier feels himself nodding along with her idea, and jots down a few quick words. To repel, to warn, to signal, to blind, to communicate, for camouflage, or even just to light the way in dark environments, or to expel energy. He supposes that last one has already been mentioned, the glimmer drips using light emission to both attract, and to cool down. 

He’s still writing when Vesemir passes by his desk. The witcher glances down at his notebook, and Jaskier tries not to be self conscious when the guardian hums thoughtfully. 

The lecture continues with more illustrations and more creatures, some of which sound wonderful, while others sound terrifying. All of them are fascinating though, and Jaskier wonders how he could have lived thirty years of life without ever knowing they exist. 

Toward the end of the lecture, after the last set of illustrations have been taken down, Vesemir gestures up at Willow again. 

“So professor Jaskier’s wisp over here, what is its purpose in emitting light?” he asks. 

“To attract!” A few students call out at once. 

“To light the way,” Maeve says confidently.

“To communicate,” Anya adds in her slightly softer voice. 

The dean nods in satisfaction. “The wisp is one of the creatures that uses light in a myriad of ways. The only thing it does not do, is use it to attract prey. 

Jaskier twists his signet around his finger, finding himself to be surprised. He did read some things about wisps at some point in the past, in a tucked away book in Oxenfurt’s library. He clearly remembers the text stating that wisps do indeed use their light to attract human prey. He’s never felt like Willow would prey on him, and now that he thinks about it, he can’t imagine the small ball of mist would prey on anyone else. 

Vesemir meets his eyes. “There are many who believe they do, because those that follow wisps tend to disappear. It’s not through any direct action of the creatures themselves, but because wisps lead those they don’t want to follow them astray. Their natural habitat being moorland means those who are foolish enough to pursue them are likely to end up wandering, lost, pulled under the surface of a bog, or falling prey to creatures such as the angler.”

“So it still attracts with light, but as a defense mechanism?” one of the elves says slowly. 

“When it perceives danger, yes,” Vesemir says. 

“Wisps use their light to prevent being trapped and used for the very same light itself,” Vaayu says harshly, his dark blue eyes fastened on Jaskier. He thinks this is the first time he’s heard the djinn speak, other than when he ground out his name that first class, and that he didn’t have a favourite song. “How do we know it has a symbiotic partner, and that it's not contained.”

Vesemir turns toward the boy and gestures up at Willow peacefully floating above Jaskier’s head. “Does the wisp look contained, Vaayu?” the guardian asks mildly. 

The boy grimaces and looks away from Jaskier. “Humans trap wisps,” he hisses through his teeth, and Jaskier remembers what Regis had told him his first morning, that humans used to catch wisps in spheres of glass and hold them against their will. He opens his mouth to speak, but Vesemir sends him a warning glance and a small shake of the head. 

“Wisps very rarely choose a companion,” Vesemir says, and there’s another thing Jaskier didn’t know. “Those that want to, spend their time searching for a soul they can bond with.”

Jaskier looks up at Willow. The wisp floats down, and hovers right in front of his chest. His heart clenches with feeling, and he blows a soft breath of air over the swirl of grey smoke. 

Vaayu wildly shakes his head. “No!” the boy says. “It— it can never be free like this, even if this is what it chose in the beginning.” His dark blue eyes shift between Jaskier and the wisp again, and though his expression is angry, all Jaskier can see is pain. 

He makes a surprised sound when Vaayu suddenly shoots up from his seat, and all but runs toward the exit. Vesemir doesn’t stop him from storming out, and the other students watch what is happening silently, their eyes large and shocked. Willow swirls wildly, tendrils of cool grey mist briefly brushing against Jaskier’s face, and then the wisp follows, flickering with light. 

Jaskier swallows tightly. He meets Vesemir's eyes, and then he stands and goes where his wisp leads him, following the boy who uses anger to hide away the hurt. 

—000—

Willow floats out in front of him, for once not so fast that Jaskier has to run to keep up. He suspects his small sphere of fog doesn’t want to give Vaayu the impression of being chased, and whenever Willow pauses, floating in place, Jaskier waits too. When the wisp continues on its path, he waits for the small burst of light that tells him he should follow. 

Jaskier likes to think he’s seen quite a bit of the castle by now, but it doesn’t take long before the wisp leads him into a corridor he’s never seen before, tucked away between two large stone pillars that resemble the trunks of great trees, branching toward the ceiling. The corridor is slightly dark, making Willow’s light more pronounced. There are no windows, except at the very end of it, and it doesn’t seem to lead anywhere. 

Silhouetted against the bright light at farthest reaches of the hallway, is Vaayu. 

The boy sits curled up, knees pulled to his chest with his arms slung around, his forehead pressed against them to hide his face into the safe space created by his own body. He sits on a wide window sill, the view behind him beautiful, framed by the circular aperture. 

Jaskier approaches cautiously, following behind Willow. It’s obvious when the djinn becomes aware of his presence, as the boy’s shoulders grow rigid and his hands curl into fists. He doesn’t look up, and he doesn’t otherwise react. His blue tattoos stand out starkly against the hue of his skin. Jaskier stops, and lets himself slide down to sit against the wall. He’s still hidden in shadow while Vaayu sits in the light, but he doesn’t think getting closer than this is wise. 

Willow stops to float in the air between the two of them, emitting a soft, pale blue glow. 

“Willow is my friend,” Jaskier says softly after he feels like the silence would stretch to infinity between them. His voice seems loud to his own ears, and he has to bite his tongue to keep from saying more. 

Eventually, Vaayu responds. The djinn doesn’t lift his head away from his knees, and from how his voice sounds, Jaskier can only assume it’s because the boy doesn’t want him to see the tears. “Humans will pretend to be your friend, to get what they want,” he says, voice thick and muffled. “Once you trust them, they do the thing you fear most.”

Jaskier takes a steady breath, and tries to keep his heart from bleeding out at what those words imply. “You had a friend who did that?” he asks softly. 

Vaayu’s head jerks up to look at him, and though Jaskier can hardly see his expression against the backlight from the window, he doesn’t miss the sparse glimmer of moisture on the djinn’s cheeks. His voice, when the boy speaks, is rough with anger. 

“A friend,” Vaayu sneers. “Humans don’t know what it is to be a friend.” The djinn swings his legs off the windowsill, his fists now clenched at his sides. His posture is threatening and from his higher vantage point he’s looking down at Jaskier with fury. 

“That person indeed wasn’t a friend, by the sound of it,” Jaskier says calmly. “Friends don’t hurt you. Not in the way you seem to have been hurt.”

For a moment Vaayu turns his face away so that the light from the window illuminates his expression, and Jaskier thinks he looks lost. 

He twists his signet, carefully considering his words. “You fear being trapped,” he says, and Vaayu flinches like he’s been struck. “And you’re afraid I’m keeping my wisp contained somehow.” He shakes his head. “That’s not true. Willow can leave. I’d be sad, but there’s no obligation to stay with me.”

“Humans lie,” Vaayu says harshly, before shrinking back a bit when the wisp swirls agitatedly and pulses with light. 

“You were lied to,” Jaskier concludes, “and you were trapped as a result.” The djinn sways forward again, and Jaskier has to tilt back his head to look up at the boy. 

“She said— one wish! To save her little brother. One real wish, and then she would ask for something small to complete the three, and set me free.”

Jaskier swallows tightly. “You let yourself be locked away, to help her little brother,” he says. 

Vaayu’s face crumples. “I told her the words to pull me into the bottle.” Tears are streaming down his cheeks now, and he hugs his arms around himself. Jaskier wishes he could get up and pull the boy into an embrace, but he’s afraid that’s just as likely to tip Vaayu back over into anger. “It— was dark. There was no sound, no sight, no touch. I could feel— nothing.”

Jaskier makes a soft sound of pain.

“The guardians got me,” Vaayu says, and he seems to be trembling with emotion. “But now they’ve let you into Kaer Morhen.”

“Vaayu,” Jaskier says, and he can hear the threat of tears in his own voice. “I don’t want you to feel unsafe with me here. Do you want me to leave?” 

The djinn's breath catches and he stares for a moment. It’s clear that he has understood Jaskier’s meaning, even if he might not believe the bard would follow through. He won’t just leave behind this corridor. He’ll leave behind Kaer Morhen, if necessary. The boy wipes the tears from his cheeks with rough hands, the tattoos on the backs of them momentarily like a mask in front of his face. 

“Even if you leave, I can never be safe,” Vaayu says, and Jaskier thinks he sounds terrified. “She still knows the words.”

Chapter Text

They remain in the corridor for a while, Vaayu with his fists balled at his sides and his face turned away, Jaskier still seated on the floor with his back against the wall.  He doesn’t think Vaayu is ready yet to face his next class or the rest of the keep, and he doesn’t want to leave the boy by himself. The first class Jaskier is teaching today is after lunch, and so he has time. 

Eventually, the young djinn glances at Willow floating peacefully above his head. The wisp is still emitting a soft blue glow, the coolness of the colour a contrast to the warmth of the sunlight that falls through the window. 

“I have to go to my next class,” Vaayu says stiffly, rubbing his hands over his face again. 

Willow swirls a little, and Jaskier nods slowly. “Do you want to skip it?” he asks. 

The boy startles a little. “I— we’re not supposed to skip class without a good reason.”

Jaskier tilts his head and can’t help the slightly cheeky smile that pulls at his lips. “Who determines if the particular reason you have is good enough?” he asks. 

The djinn looks at him from the corner of his eyes. “A professor,” he says. 

Jaskier nods seriously. “That’s what I thought,” he says, and gestures to himself. “You happen to have one right here with you, who’ll wholly back you up if you but say the word.” Vaayu’s mouth tightens and the boy’s brow wrinkles. Jaskier can see the suspicion behind his dark blue eyes and shrugs again. “I’d understand if you want to skip your next class, Vaayu,” he says. “That’s why I’m offering. But, if you do want to go, that’s fine too.”

The djinn slowly steps around him, keeping his distance from where he has stretched out his legs in his seated position. The boy is now closer to the corridor’s exit, and Jaskier no longer has to squint against the light from the window to be able to see him. What he sees has his heart clench a little tighter in his chest. Vaayu’s cheeks are no longer wet, but his face is ruddy from the rough wipes of his hands, and he looks absolutely exhausted. 

“I’m quite partial to a nap after emotional turmoil myself,” Jaskier says softly, still not getting up from his seated position against the wall. 

Vaayu scoffs and edges a bit further away. “Like you would know what it’s like,” he says, a little bit of the derision he’d held before returning to his voice. 

“Ah, I admit readily enough I haven’t known a betrayal such as the one you had to endure. I think if a friend betrayed me like that, I’d be tempted to curl up in bed and stay there until the world was a little— or a whole lot kinder.”

Vaayu frowns. The young djinn is clearly holding onto his suspicion, but at least he’s not immediately storming away, and at least he’s listening. Jaskier counts it as a win, albeit a very cautious one. 

“I have known betrayal though,” he says, shrugging. “In whatever shape or form, it hurts.”

For a moment Jaskier thinks Vaayu will ask him about it. There’s a spark of curiosity in the boy’s eyes, but then he hides it away, and his previous expression of resentment returns.

“The offer stands, Vaayu,” Jaskier repeats. 

“My next class is Professor Vengerberg’s,” the djinn bites out, as if it’s a challenge. 

Jaskier raises his brows a little at the use of Yennefer’s last name. “I’ll speak to her,” he says simply. Vaayu doesn’t respond. Instead the boy turns around without another word, and practically marches out the corridor, back ramrod straight, without looking back. 

—000—

Jaskier is incredibly grateful for Willow when the wisp leads him to Yennefer’s classroom. They take a route he never would have managed to find himself, and he’s sure he’ll have absolutely no chance of reproducing it at a later point in time. He looks up at the small curl of mist above him, and blows a soft breath, before knocking on the arched door that seems to be made out of some sort of opaque glass. 

To his surprise, the door doesn’t open but the glass turns entirely translucent for a second, before it seems to disappear altogether. He hesitates on the threshold, half expecting to walk into something solid the moment he tries to step through. 

“Don’t make me wait, Buttercup” Yennefer calls to him, the tone of her voice just as much a threat as it is a welcome. 

Jaskier shakes his head fondly, and steps into the mage’s classroom. As soon as he’s inside he blinks in surprise. Darkness stretches into infinity on all sides of him, expanding high above, and below his feet. Small lights of varying colours and size are scattered throughout the black, and if he didn’t know better, Jaskier would think he’s suddenly enveloped by a night sky, stars all around him. He can’t help but gape, and is glad for the fact that Willow is floating just above him, tranquil as can be. If not for the wisp’s presence, he thinks his brain would convince him he’s floating in a vacuum, perpetually falling in darkness. As it is, every time he glances at the seemingly empty space below his feet, his stomach lurches unpleasantly. 

“Didn’t I tell you classes on chaos would be wasted on you, Buttercup?”

“You did,” Jaskier answers, looking up to see Yennefer striding gracefully toward him, entirely unperturbed by the vast, starry blackness surrounding them. “Though I have to say I’m quite dismayed you would have kept me from seeing the marvel that is this space.”

The mage tilts her head at him, raising an eyebrow.

Jaskier huffs. “I can marvel and struggle with vertigo at the same time, trust me,” he says. 

Yennefer’s mouth quirks and her purple eyes spark with amusement. “Sitting in to observe and marvel is hardly an efficient use of your time.”

Jaskier chuckles. “I realise we haven’t known each other for long, but I dare say you might have guessed I would consider that time well spent. I feel like all I’ve done since the day I arrived here is marvel. Though I did indeed do more than merely observe with Vesemir and Triss, marvel is enough of a temptation for me to want to sit in with you, at least once.”

Yennefer smiles before her expression turns considering, knowing. “Don’t tell me you came here to be dazzled. I know you didn’t.”

He shakes his head, twisting his signet around his finger a bit. “No. I came here to let you know I approved for a student to skip your class,” he answers. Jaskier fully expects the way Yennefer’s regard turns sharp, but the way static seems to fizz through the air is startling. Willow floats down from above his head, coming to hover at his shoulder. He has the sudden notion that the lights all around him make it seem like he’s in a vast black space with wisps scattered all around, though none of them swirl like Willow does. 

The mage slightly purses her mouth. “Do explain yourself,” she says, and Jaskier briefly wonders what he’s done in his past to suddenly deserve the presence of so many frighteningly intimidating people in his life all at once. 

He thinks of the djinn’s reddened eyes and tense shoulders, and sighs. “I told Vaayu I’d talk to you. He needs a bit of time and space,” he says. 

Yennefer tilts her head at him, and taps her fingers on a desk that has suddenly appeared between the two of them. She sits behind it, and gestures for him to take a seat in a chair that consolidates out of nothing as he watches. 

“I understand,” Yennefer says. They’re across from each other, the desk and chairs the only solid things in the classroom. “Accommodations can be made for the young djinn.”

Jaskier nods. “Thank you. I appreciate it. What happened to him is awful. To be betrayed like that. No wonder he’s suspicious. No wonder he’s angry that there’s suddenly a human here. I dare say I would be too, were I in his place.”

The mage’s eyebrows slowly rise as he speaks, and she leans forward, steepling the tips of her fingers against each other. “He told you?” she asks, interested. 

“Yes?” Jaskier says slowly. “I’m sure he didn’t mean to, but I’m quite familiar with emotion breaking the dam that’s held back words, and I think that’s what happened here.”

Yennefer looks at him consideringly. “It happened a few years ago. Geralt and Aiden got him out of that bottle,” she says, her tone suddenly much colder and that by now familiar static in the air intensifying briefly. “It took us a while to find him when he missed the start of the semester. Too long, and getting him out wasn’t easy. He never told us how he was trapped. He’s never talked about it.”

Jaskier stares at her, his breath caught in his chest for a moment. “Holy Melitele,” he hisses between his teeth. “He’s never told anyone?” he asks, his already dangerously cracked heart breaking a little further for the boy with the swirling blue tattoos. 

The mage shakes her head. “We tried, but we suspected it was something painful for him. We didn’t push. Judging by what you just said, we were right.”

Jaskier fiddles with his ring again, and feels the cool moisture of Willow’s mist brush against the back of his neck. “How— how long was he trapped?” he asks hesitantly, unsure if he really wants to know the answer. 

Yennefer looks at him. “A few months, at least,” she answers after a pause. 

Jaskier sags in his chair, shaking his head. He presses the palms of his hands harshly against his eyes for a moment. The spots of colour in the darkness he sees as a result are not so very different from his current surroundings. He thinks of Vaayu, trapped in a space without sound, without light, where he could feel nothing, for months. He takes a few halting breaths and looks at Yennefer again. 

“Anything we can do about the one that trapped him?” he asks, thinking of Vaayu’s fear when the boy told him the words that made him a prisoner are still out there.

The mage’s purple gaze sharpens. “Perhaps,” she says. “But the boy can’t know until it’s done.”

Jaskier nods. “I understand. So what do we do?” 

Yennefer leans forward. “Give me a name, Buttercup. All I need is a name, and I’ll be able to find whoever it was. The witchers will do the rest.”

Jaskier doesn’t know what that will entail. He swallows heavily, and decides not to ask, for now. Yennefer’s eyes on him are sharp. “I don’t want to repeat what he might not have meant to tell me in the first place,” he begins. “But if I do learn her name, I’ll come to you.” 

The mage nods and stands, and Jaskier is glad he can follow her back toward the door that seems to float in the vast blackness of her classroom. He tries not to glance down, his stomach feeling decidedly unsettled. 

When he remembers, he turns back to her. “Djinns are set free after three wishes have been completed, correct?” 

Yennefer nods. 

“Vaayu’s wishes weren’t completed, then,” he murmurs. “Is that a danger to him?”

Yennefer shrugs. “The bottle that was his prison is gone. It’s not a danger unless whoever trapped him knows the words to do so,” she says slowly. 

Jaskier looks at her, and she can tell all she needs to know from his face. 

“A name, bard,” she says. “Kaer Morhen offers him a measure of protection, but the keep and its guardians can’t be everywhere at once. Bring me a name.”

—000—

Jaskier doesn’t get another chance to speak to the young djinn again that week, and even suspects that Vaayu deliberately leaves the hall or any other space whenever he enters. He will inevitably see the boy in their next class, but it means having to wait until after the weekend. 

He notices he’s not the only one who tracks Vaayu’s comings and goings. Both the dean and Geralt and Aiden, the witchers who’d freed him, do the same, and he suspects Yennefer might have shared with them what he’d told her. 

He plays again at breakfast on Saturday morning, like he’d done the previous week, and though he starts much later the hall is still full of guardians, professors, and students. The ones who have already finished their breakfast are turned toward him, and once he’s downed his final sip of coffee, Yarpenna elbows him in the side. 

“We’ve all seen that you brought your lute case,” she says, drumming her fingers along the edge of the table and looking at him expectantly. 

Jaskier chuckles. “I thought the weekend was supposed to be free time? To do with as we please?” he says, setting his cup down. 

“It’s just that the start of our weekend would be so much more lovely with some music to accompany it,” Regis says smoothly. 

“Come on, bard,” Lambert calls from a few places down. “This is time to do with as we please, and it would fucking please us if you played!” 

Jaskier thinks it might be as polite of a request as Lambert is capable of, and he shakes his head fondly despite himself. Not Vesemir though. The dean growls at the alchemy professor, loud enough to be audible throughout the entire hall. Jaskier suspects it’s mostly because of the cursing in front of the younger students, and though Lambert doesn’t curse again, the witcher hardly looks contrite. 

“Only if you already planned on playing, Jaskier,” Triss says in her friendly voice once it quiets, and he smiles at her in reassurance that he’s not bothered. 

“Whisper of the Wild!” Ciri calls loudly. A genuine laugh bursts out of him when he looks in her direction, only to see the small tree sprite has actually climbed Geralt to the guardian’s highest point, and is standing on top of his head, small hands cupped around her mouth to give her voice more volume. 

He winks at the birchling, still laughing, before he briefly gets distracted by the way the white haired witcher's eyes lift to meet his gaze. He fumbles a little with the clasps to his case, using the excuse to turn his face away in an effort to hide his blush. 

He plays a few new songs and a few favourites from last time, to the hall's general delight, and ends on Whisper of the Wild. When he happens to look to one of the exits, Vaayu is leant against the wall there, half hidden in shadow. The boy has his eyes closed and doesn’t notice he’s been spotted. It seems that though the djinn is avoiding him, music might just be the thing to draw him out. 

—000—

Jaskier is working in the library that afternoon, gathering some more in depth essays for one of his classes the following week, when Ciri bursts through the door and bounces toward him. Her fluffy white hair flows behind her like a banner, and he’s no longer surprised when she hooks her nimble little fingers into the fabric of his trousers and hoists herself up onto his desk. It’s just after lunch, and so the library is relatively quiet. There are a few older students studying at some of the desks, and Jaskier smiled when he saw that some of them are actually busy with the elective reading he’d suggested in their previous class. 

He sees the little birchling open her mouth enthusiastically and holds his finger up to his lips, before pointing at the students. Ciri claps a small hand to her mouth, her hair fluttering about her head. 

“Can we whisper, Jask— Oh! professor Jaskier?” 

Jaskier leans a little toward her. “Just Jaskier is fine on the weekends, little birchling,” he whispers at her, thereby answering her question. Ciri sways a little in excitement, and he thinks it’s a good thing he told her to mind the quiet when he did. “Why are you here? Do you have a lot of homework?” he asks. 

Ciri shakes her head. “Already finished all of it!” she announces proudly, her voice rising a little toward the end. 

Jaskier glances cautiously at the studying students, and gets a few glances in return. “No need for you to be here in the library then, is there?” he asks. “Unless you came to visit me, of course,” he says with a smile. 

Ciri nods her head vigorously enough the soft, pale blonde plumes of her hair fluff up even further. “I did,” she whispers. “Uncle Eskel said I should see If I could find you and ask if you wanted to meet Bleater!” 

The giant goat’s name is said at full volume, and Jaskier shoots the students an apologetic look. He gets a few smiles in response, though one elven boy wrinkles his nose a little and points toward the door rather decisively. Jaskier nods at him, before looking back at Ciri. 

“I certainly wouldn’t say no to the opportunity to meet Bleater, lead the way,” he whispers, quickly tidying his desk and papers to come back to later. 

—000—

They meet Eskel at the door Jaskier originally entered on his very first day at Kaer Morhen. The guardian smiles broadly when he sees them coming. Jaskier is walking, Willow is floating out in front, and Ciri is perched on his shoulder. 

The tree sprite had very quickly decided to hitch a ride by trying to climb him, but he’s wearing a fine silk doublet, and though she’d been able to grasp onto the fabric of his trousers, she’d abruptly stopped at encountering the smooth material. When he’d raised an eyebrow at her, the little birchling told him she didn’t want to risk making small rips in his fancy clothes. Jaskier had smiled at her appreciatively and held out his hand to lift her onto his shoulder instead. 

“Did you find him where we thought he’d be, little birch?” Eskel asks her with a grin. 

Ciri nods. “In the library,” she chirps affirmatively, and Eskel chuckles. 

“Am I that predictable?” Jaskier gasps in mock offense, earning himself a full laugh from the scarred witcher and a giggle from the sprite on his shoulder. 

“Thought it was a safe bet,” Eskel says. “Either there or your classroom, but you haven’t started tutoring yet, right?” 

Jaskier shakes his head, smiling when he thinks of the number of students who have put their names down on the sheets he’s hung up, offering them options from singing, several instruments they can learn to play, to composing. “Not yet,” he tells Eskel. “I hope to start next week though.”

“I’m going to learn to sing!” Ciri immediately adds, using his shoulder as a jumping off point to launch herself at Eskel. 

The guardian catches her easily. “Can’t wait to hear that, little birch,” Eskel rumbles.  

Since Eskel is leading the way, Willow peacefully floats above him, swirling with shades of grey. Ciri chatters happily while they walk, and both Eskel and Jaskier indulge her many questions as best they can. 

Eventually, they reach a large structure attached to the side of the keep that faces the forest. As far as Jaskier can tell, the barn-like building is drawn up out of sturdy timber framing, with walls of the same stone that makes up the castle itself. The structure is low compared to the castle rising high beside it. Jaskier knows very little about stable complexes, but he supposes anywhere that holds animals and creatures would have to be situated on the ground floor and be single storey, for easy access. 

When they enter, he notices the stables actually seem to be two separate, long, rectangular buildings that consist of partitioned boxes, with heavy cross beams spanning the wide open space in the middle, supporting the roof. It’s much bigger inside than it seemed from the outside, and a quick count tells him there might be as many as a hundred separate stalls. In the middle of the open space there are three paddock-like enclosures with open fencing. The flooring is made of stone, but one of the paddocks has dark brown earth, another what seems to be mossy forest floor, and the third some type of sturdy, yellowed grass. There’s a fourth enclosure that’s sunken into the stone floor, and holds water. Jaskier tries to peer into that one, and has to conclude he cannot hope to guess how deep it is. 

A quick glance at a few of the stalls tells him they are far from ordinary. He spots one that holds thick, dense vegetation with water continuously dripping off the leaves. Another has dark shutters with intensely bright, yellow light slipping through the cracks, while one at the back seems to be shrouded in perfect darkness. 

He swallows a little nervously, looking at Eskel from the corner of his eyes. “These boxes don’t just hold Kaedweni war horses and giant goats, do they?” he asks, hoping his tension won’t be too obvious to the guardian. 

Eskel lays a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry, Jaskier,” he says kindly. “You’re just meeting Bleater today, maybe Scorpion, and all these stalls are secure. Oh, and you’ve got two witchers here,” he says with a grin. 

“And a tree sprite!” Ciri ads immediately. “Oh! And a wisp!” she says. 

Willow immediately swirls and brightens as if to confirm that nothing at all can happen to him as long as the wisp is present. 

The reassurance does make him feel a bit better, and Jaskier smiles back at Eskel. He reaches up to ruffle Ciri’s hair where she sits on the guardian’s shoulder, while blowing a breath up at Willow. Then his mind catches onto what Eskel actually said. 

“Wait, two witchers?” he asks. 

Eskel jerks his head toward a stall a few paces away from them, and Jaskier watches as Geralt steps out, carefully closing it behind him. For a second, the expression on the white haired guardian’s face is soft as he regards Ciri perched on Eskel’s shoulder. As soon as his golden eyes slide over to Jaskier however, that ever present frown returns to his face. 

Jaskier shifts from one foot to the other, and gives him a little wave.

Chapter Text

“You should meet Bleater first, then Scorpion, then Roach,” Ciri says to him very seriously. 

Jaskier flicks his eyes toward Geralt at the mention of the witcher’s horse, and sees the guardian’s frown deepen. “Only if they’ll want to meet me,” he says lightly, trying to convey to Geralt that the witcher can absolutely deny him.

Eskel chuckles. “Bleater is happy to meet most anyone,” he says. “That’s a good starting point.” 

There’s a swooping sensation in Jaskier’s belly that’s very likely to be nerves, though he chooses not to acknowledge it as such. He was born into Redanian high society and has therefore been instructed in certain things. He knows how to care for a horse, and he can ride. Bleater is supposedly the size of a Kaedweni warhorse, and how much different from a horse can a goat be?

Ciri has her little hand curled around one of his fingers and he’s letting the sprite pull him along behind her toward one of the stalls. He might have been more hesitant if it wasn’t for Willow floating above him, and two witchers at his back. At least one of those witchers would keep him from getting hurt, he’s sure. Geralt might not even let him get seriously maimed, when it comes down to it. 

When they get close Ciri actually pushes him forward, hands against the back of his thigh, until Jaskier very gingerly steps up to a stall door that reaches up to his chest, and peeks over it. The inside of the box is spacious and filled with straw and leaves, a few large logs that a goat might like to climb situated toward the back wall. 

His first thought is that Bleater is not as large as he’d been thinking. His second thought is that he’s dead wrong about that, since the goat is currently lying down, ruminating lazily. How very different Bleater is from any sort of animal Jaskier has ever met, becomes immediately apparent as soon as the giant goat lays eyes on him. 

It’s as if the goat’s strangely squared off eyes actually meet his across the distance. Bleater stops his chewing, and they stare at each other for a full second of silence. Then, the large animal releases the most elated, godawful, BLEATING noise Jaskier has ever had the misfortune of hearing in his entire existence. Part of him thinks it sounds entirely gleeful, and part of him is suddenly wholly occupied with the way the goat springs up like a match has been lit under it, and barges straight toward him. 

Even despite the door between them, Jaskier makes an embarrassing sort of squeaking noise in alarm, and almost goes tumbling backwards as he loses his balance when he tries to take a step back. There’s a firm hand between his shoulder blades that’s the only thing that keeps him from falling. He stammers a quick thanks, but doesn’t dare take his eyes off the humongous goat, that seems like it might clear the stall door with nothing more than an easy leap.  

Bleater bleats again, and stretches out his head toward him, the coarse hairs around his nose almost touching him as she snuffles at his chest. 

The goat is a reddish brown colour, with a blotch of white between his eyes. He has a short coat that looks like it’d be coarse under his fingers. He has long, floppy ears, one of which seems to be turned inside out, and when he bleats, a row of surprisingly small teeth peeks just over his bottom lip. If the goat weren’t so big, Jaskier would be inclined to call him adorable. As it is, he can admit to himself only, that he’s more than a bit intimidated. Especially considering the frightfully large, curled horns that curve away from the animal’s head only to circle back to have their tapered ends point straight forward and in his direction. 

The goat bleats again, with just as much enthusiasm as it did the first time. Ciri pulls on his trousers, and when he chances a look down at the little sprite, her face is split by a wide grin. 

“He wants you to pet him,” she says, and Jaskier looks back up at the goat uncertainly. 

It’s as if Bleater senses his hesitance, his squared pupils still locked on him, because though he bleats again, it’s suddenly much softer. The goat bends his reddish head, the tips of those horns finally pointing elsewhere. 

“Alright, I’m sure you won’t take off my fingers with a single bite,” Jaskier murmurs under his breath, gingerly reaching out a hand. Behind him, one of the witchers huffs a breath through their nose, and he thinks he can guess which of them produced the sound. 

Bleater stands perfectly, entirely stock still, as if he’s aware Jaskier will snatch his hand back at the slightest twitch of movement. He slides his fingers over the patch of white fur on the goat’s forehead, and when the animal makes a weird sort of grunting noise that’s not goat-like at all, but seems inexplicably pleased, he gently scratches him with his nails. Bleater does his name justice by bleating again, and presses his face more firmly against Jaskier’s hand while his eyes close halfway in evident enjoyment. 

“Oh,” Jaskier says, a smile curling his lips, reaching out his other hand to stroke his fingers over one of the goat’s ears and flip it right side out again. “Oh. You’re nothing but a big softie, aren’t you?”

Eskel chuckles. “He’s softer than he looks,” the scarred witcher says. Reaching out his own hand to scratch behind Bleater’s ear, much more vigorously than Jaskier is currently doing. “We can take him out for a bit, if you like?”

Willow swirls and Ciri whoops with joy, and though Geralt crosses his arms over his chest and frowns, who is Jaskier to deny those two?  He nods at Eskel. “He won’t make a run for it?” 

Eskel grins at him. “Not as long as you keep scratching him. He knows he won’t get that out in the forest,” the witcher says, and flicks open the stall door.

As soon as the goat hears the scrape of the door over the flagstone his eyes fly back open, and he bleats loudly. Jaskier jumps back only barely in time as Bleater rushes through, and though he’s no longer nervous about the goat being friendly, he still makes another embarrassingly startled noise when suddenly there’s a giant, horned head bumping into his chest. 

Granted, the bump could have been harder, but it’s hardly gentle. Jaskier is actually quite sure that Bleater being used to Eskel, and maybe the other guardians, makes the goat overestimate his sturdiness. He’s propelled a few steps backward and reaches up to rub over his chest. He sees Eskel’s worried frown but shakes his head at the witcher, laughing. 

“You’re just a sweet, exuberant fellow, aren’t you?” Jaskier coos, reaching out both hands toward Bleater to scratch him behind the ears. The goat bleats as if in confirmation. 

Ciri tries to jump up a few times to grab onto Bleater’s coat, but the goat’s rump is just out of her reach. She looks imploringly back at Geralt, and Jaskier feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end when the witcher steps in close to pluck her from the ground and deposit her onto Bleater’s back. When Geralt reaches out to scratch the side of the goat’s neck, their fingers briefly brush against each other. Jaskier looks at him from under his lashes, but Geralt doesn’t meet his gaze and pulls his hand away.

Eventually Bleater seems to decide that though scratches are great, and all of them should never stop bestowing them on him, he’s rather curious about Jaskier’s clothing. Every time his sleeve comes anywhere near the goat’s mouth the animal lips at the fabric, and Jaskier is barely in time to yank it away from between Bleater’s teeth. 

When it happens for the umpteenth time he places his hand flat against the side of Bleater’s face and gives him a gentle little shove. “Silly goat,” he coos, holding one arm back behind himself while he keeps scratching with the other. “That’s not food. That’s silk. You have plenty of grass in your stall, and for all I know nibbling on this will make you sick, and we wouldn’t want that, would we?”

“No we wouldn’t,” Ciri chirps cheerfully from where she’s settled between the origin of Bleater’s horns, leaning forward to scratch down his forehead with both her hands. Jaskier is half afraid she’ll lose her balance and fall. He steps a little closer so he’d be able to catch her, despite the danger the proximity of the goat’s teeth poses to his doublet. 

Eskel chuckles. “Goats are quite durable in general, and especially when it comes to the things they eat. Bleater even more so than others. He could probably eat your doublet in its entirety and not be any worse off.”

Jaskier makes a small, affronted noise, this time gently shoving the goat’s nose away from his hemline. 

“Stables are not an environment suited to silk,” Geralt rumbles from where he stands on Bleater’s other side, slitted golden eyes watching Jaskier across the goat’s back. 

Jaskier clicks his tongue and shakes his head. “I know it’s not practical,” he says, his tone slightly snippy. “Since I was only allowed to pack one bag when I was thrown out of Oxenfurt, and I had very little time to do it, this is all I grabbed. I still like it though, and I would prefer if it didn’t have to become dinner,” he concludes. 

Geralt raises a white brow. “Did you bring anything less colourful?” 

Jaskier purses his mouth. “One or two, perhaps,” he answers noncommittally, and sees a twitch at the corner of the guardian’s mouth. The expression is minute, but it makes him smile cheekily, since it seems to him that the witcher just might have been amused despite himself.  

Eskel grabs onto one of Bleater’s horns and gently shakes the goat’s head. “You want to meet scorpion next?” he asks. 

Jaskier nods, giving the goat a final scratch behind the ear that has once again flipped inside out. “Time for you to return to your stable,” he tells him softly. 

Ciri giggles in exhilaration and jumps off Bleater’s back toward Jaskier, who only barely manages to catch her. Eskel groans loudly and Geralt’s lip curls back in a snarl. Bleater freezes and cocks his head as soon as the words are out of his mouth, and then he bleats as loud as he had when he’d first laid eyes on Jaskier. 

“Oh, sh–iiiit!” Jaskier stammers apologetically, as the goat makes a sudden run for it, moving faster than he’d thought possible at that size. He lifts Ciri up to perch on his shoulder, as the both of them watch Bleater in a full blown escape attempt, with both witchers in pursuit. Willow swirls lazily above them, floating close to the ceiling. 

Bleater might be fast, but both guardians are much, much faster, and Jaskier doesn’t feel bad at all about how he gapes. They end up in a sort of stalemate with the large animal between them, halfway toward the stable’s exit. 

Geralt stands right in front of Bleater, facing the goat, his back turned toward the outside. Eskel is behind Bleater, slowly moving closer, hemming in the animal in between the two of them. Bleater bleats loudly, and half turns to try and evade the witchers by darting off to the side. 

With a rush of sound, Eskel’s wings come out. 

Jaskier gasps. Eskel’s wings are huge, spreading out from between his shoulder blades to reach halfway across the open space. The colour of his feathers is the deepest midnight black, the glossy sheen across them luxurious, like velvet. The wings arch and curve into the goat’s peripheral, keeping it in place. Jaskier’s heart pounds in his chest, and he realises Eskel is only the second guardian he’s seen with their wings. 

A low growl reaches his ears, and when he looks toward the sound he meets Geralt’s gaze across the distance. He sees the white haired witcher's nostrils flare. There’s something sharp about the way Geralt looks at him, the guardian’s jaw clenched tight. Jaskier doesn’t look away, and neither does the witcher. There’s another rush of sound that’s familiar enough to recognise by now, and Jaskier fails to keep in the soft sound of awe that leaves him. Geralt’s white wings spread out behind him, briefly arching up to catch the light, before he sweeps them forward to help cage in the goat. 

Eventually both witchers get a hand on Bleater’s horns, and once they do the goat lets himself be led back to his stall docilely, as if he’d never attempted to escape at all. When they pass him, Jaskier can’t help but reach out and flip back Bleater’s ear. 

When the latch to Bleater’s stall is safely locked, Jaskier sees Eskel grin and side eye Geralt, clapping a hand to his shoulder. He doesn’t exactly hear Geralt’s growl, but he can imagine he feels the vibration of it in the air. Eskel chuckles, and within the blink of an eye tucks away his wings. Geralt keeps his out for a little longer. The witcher does eventually tuck them away, and Jaskier has to admit he’s rather sad to see them go. 

“Come on, Jaskier,” Eskel says, beckoning him to a stall right next to the one Geralt exited when they arrived. 

He steps forward, a little more confident after meeting Bleater. Eskel whistles low, holding the tone, and before he can step up toward the stall he hears rustling movement. A beautiful black Keadweni warhorse lifts his head over the stall door, velvet nostrils blowing out a gust of air as if in greeting. Jaskier makes a delighted noise. 

He’s more familiar with horses than he is with goats, and Scorpion’s ears are pricked forward with interest. The horse is looking at his witcher at first, but when he makes another soft cooing noise Scorpion’s attention fastens on him. Willow swirls a little at his shoulder as the horse twists back one of its ears. Jaskier hums soothingly, and gently cups his hands over the stallion’s soft nose, feeling how he blows a breath into his palm. Ciri is still on his other shoulder, and she too reaches out a hand to slide her fingers over the horse’s face. 

Jaskier glances back toward the witchers behind him. Eskel is smiling, and though Geralt has his arms crossed over his chest, his frown is so much less pronounced than it usually is,  Jaskier would almost call the expression neutral. Scorpion snorts a little, and then there’s a firm tug at the sleeve of his doublet. 

Jaskier thinks the warhorse is far too soft and polite to be the one janking on his clothes like that, and when he turns back he sees he was entirely right. One of his sleeves is currently between the teeth of a large chestnut mare. He distantly thinks this particular garment is really having a hard time of it today. The mare in the stall next to Scorpion is stretching her long, muscular neck over the door to get to him. He can feel her teeth threateningly close to his skin as she adjusts her hold. When he looks at her she pins back her ears and snorts. 

Jaskier knows he can’t pull away from her without ripping his clothes, so he holds carefully still, hoping the mare won’t decide to pull too hard. He glances back at Geralt. “Roach, I presume?” he says drily, and the witcher hums. “Can you please make her let go?” he pleads, widening his eyes in Geralt’s direction, resisting the urge to pout along with it. 

The witcher steps forward, and all it takes is one of his large hands smoothing down the side of the mare’s face to make her unclench her teeth. One of her ears rotates forward, but the one on Jaskier’s side stays firmly in place, pressed back away from him. He looks at Geralt’s hands on his horse, noting how very gentle the witcher is when he strokes her. He swallows tightly. 

“Could I pet her, you think?” he asks tentatively, still stroking his fingers along Scorpion’s dark coat. 

Ciri has climbed from his shoulder to Geralt’s, and the mare seems to have no hesitations about the little birchling petting her whatsoever. She snorts soon as it seems Jaskier will get closer though, and he wonders why she’d grabbed onto his sleeve in the first place. 

“No,” Geralt answers, and Jaskier feels his face fall. The witcher’s mouth tightens, and then he jerks his head over his shoulder. “There are some apples in the storage room. You can feed her one.”

When Jaskier returns with an apple in each hand he carefully feeds the first one to the stallion. Scorpion again shows how very polite he is by delicately lipping the apple from his hand before crunching down. When he looks at Roach, at least the mare’s ears are turned toward him. Before he can approach Geralt snatches the apple from his hand and breaks it in two with frighteningly little effort, handing them back over. Feeding her the first half is easy, but Roach apparently knows very well he’s holding back a second, and she almost manages to grab his sleeve between her teeth again.  

“Why does everyone here want to eat my doublet?” Jaskier chuckles, throwing up his hands. He smiles at Roach fondly, reaching out to her with the second piece of fruit despite the way she looks like she might bite him. Though he’s tempted to stroke her while she’s distracted by the treat, Geralt said no, and Jaskier is not about to ignore the witcher’s command. “So, she’s a normal horse?” he asks to distract himself, folding his hands together behind his back to keep from reaching out. 

Geralt’s expression darkens. “Normal?” the witcher asks. It’s evident from his tone and expression that something about the word strikes a chord. Jaskier thinks he knows why that might be, but he doesn’t want to assume. Even if he’s right, he’s not sure he wants to apologise for it when all Geralt seems to do is look for faults in whatever he says or does. 

He shrugs a little helplessly, looking up at the guardian. “You have to help me out here, Geralt,” he murmurs. “Do you feel it’s offensive for me to use the word normal because it suggests others are abnormal, or because Roach is special?” He tips his head as he says it, meeting the witchers eyes with a slight smile on his face, hoping Geralt will see that he was just making conversation, and had no intention whatsoever to say anything rude at all. 

Geralt frowns at him for a few seconds, until Ciri unceremoniously yanks on his long white hair. “Hm,” the witcher says. “You didn’t mean anything by it.”

Jaskier nervously licks his lips and shakes his head. “I really didn’t,” he assures. 

—000—

After meeting Bleater, Scorpion, and Roach, Jaskier is left alone in the stables. The others depart when he tells them he feels inspired to write a song about goats and horses. All three of them look at him a little incredulously, and he can’t say he blames them. He assumes Geralt and Eskel both have guardian-things to do, and Ciri looks at him slyly before leaving, riding on Geralt’s shoulder. The little birchling tells him she’s going to do her best to convince Beryl to sign up for singing lessons. Jaskier might have felt bad for the young Lamia, who will likely be badgered into signing up by the tree sprite’s sheer exuberance, if it weren’t for the fact he is very much hoping to see the shy boy join up. 

He sits with his back to Scorpion’s stall, well out of reach of Roach’s nipping teeth, enjoying how the stallion’s breath ruffles his hair every now and then. Willow is floating right next to him, the wisp’s grey colours revolving slowly. Jaskier smiles and leans his head back against the stable door. He has no pen and paper, but he doesn’t really need them to compose, and he hums softly under his breath. There are snippets of a song about curving horns, about wings, and about horses that match their riders' personalities flitting through his mind. 

Jaskier is so entranced in his admittedly entirely ridiculous song that he doesn’t pay much attention to the horses’ warning snorts. He only opens his eyes when there is a firm jank on his sleeve, fully prepared to bribe Roach with more apples, if she’ll only let go of his doublet. 

It’s not Roach’s teeth that have buried themselves in the silk though. Bleater meets his eyes, and bleats, all without letting the silk go from between the clench of his teeth. 

“No!” Jaskier says, immediately pressing his hand against the goat’s snout to give him another gentle push. “What did I tell you, you silly goat? No eating my clothes.” 

Bleater lets go of him, and bleats again, his squared off pupils eyeing the silk like he’s contemplating diving back in for another thorough chewing. Only then does Jaskier realise that Bleater isn’t supposed to be able to reach him at all. The large animal had been securely locked in his stall, and that’s where he was supposed to remain. He looks to the other side of the stables, and sees Bleater’s stall door swung open on its hinges. 

“How in Melitele’s holy name did you get out?” he murmurs, slowly rising while Willow swirls and flickers with light next to him. He reaches up a hand to scratch behind the goat’s ear, gently grabbing onto one of his pointed horns, exerting pressure to move him. To his surprise, Bleater seems perfectly content to be guided along, provided that Jaskier keeps scratching him. He walks the goat back toward his stall, one hand behind his long, floppy ear, the other on the tapered end of his horn. 

“Come on now, that’s a good goat. That’s a good Bleater. We’re almost there,” Jaskier keeps babbling, eyes on the open stall door. “Not far to go now. Just think of all that straw in there that you can chew on. That’s much nicer than silk, isn’t it, my darling? Come on, just a little further. We’re so close, there’s your stall—” 

As soon as he says the word he realises his grave mistake in making any mention of it. Bleater freezes, and because Jaskier is still walking while pulling on one of the goat’s horns, he stumbles a little when he’s jerked to a halt. His scratching hand falls away from behind Bleater's ear. 

The goat bleats loudly, squared eyes sliding away from Jaskier and toward the open entrance to the stables.

“Oh, no, Bleater, you’ll get all the scratches, I promise,” Jaskier pleads, one hand still on the goat’s horn. “You can even get my entire doublet to chew,” he says. 

Bleater bleats again, looks at his open stall door, at Jaskier, and then back at freedom. With a surprisingly gentle shake of his giant head he dislodges Jaskier’s grip, and runs. 

Jaskier is frozen for a second, and then he dashes after the goat. 

He’s not nearly as fast as Geralt and Eskel, and Bleater easily outruns him. When he throws himself through the door he’s barely in time to see the goat’s reddish form disappear between the trees of the forest. He looks up at Willow, swirling wildly above his head, before looking back at the closest trees that quickly merge into a dense wood. 

“Oh, Melitele have mercy,” he curses, remembering how Eskel said the goat has a death wish, and thinking of how very adorable but how very dumb Bleater seems to be. 

Willow flashes with light and floats toward the trees. Jaskier briefly glances back up at Kaer Morhen, before he dashes after goat and wisp. 

Chapter Text

Close to the castle there’s plenty of space between the trees. Getting into the forest is easy, but it takes mere minutes for the trees to become densely packed, and for Jaskier to have to wind his way through. There’s no way he’s going to be able to keep going in a straight line, but then again, he doesn’t have to. 

Underfoot, the grassy mountain meadow that surrounds Kear Morhen quickly changes into a mossy forest floor. It dampens the impact of his feet on the ground, and when he looks back the way he came, there’s no evidence of his passing. Bleater is much heavier than he is, and it’s not that difficult to follow the impression of the goat’s hooves in the ground. 

He’s aware it’s not the wisest thing to enter the forest by himself, but he thinks he has a much higher chance of finding Bleater before anything happens to the animal, if he follows without delay. He doesn’t want to think about how Eskel would feel if the goat got hurt. He wonders how Bleater got out. Did the stall not latch properly? Did the locking system shift when he’d leant over to give the goat a final pet, before sitting down to compose? There is a knot of guilt and worry tightening in his chest, and he quickens his step. 

Above him the crowns of the different types of trees form a patchwork of greens, covering more and more of the sky the longer he walks. Eventually there’s hardly any blue left to glimpse between the leaves. Whenever there’s a patch where a tree or branch has fallen away, dazzling sunlight spills down through the hole in the canopy. Those instances become rarer the further he goes. He feels like he’s in another world altogether, one where the light is muted, cloaked in greens and browns, and where the smell of vegetation is thick in the air. 

It’s a world that’s wholly unfamiliar to him, and Jaskier slows down a bit to pay more careful attention to his surroundings. There are sounds all around him. There’s a slight breeze that ruffles the leaves above him. There’s the sound of small animals scurrying through the undergrowth and fallen vegetation. A small distance from him,  there’s a tapping sound that might be a woodpecker trying to build a hollow for its nest. From far off, he hears a recognisable bleating noise. 

Jaskier lifts his hands to cup around his mouth, and calls out the goat’s name. There’s no response, no matter how many times he promises scritches or the fabric of his fine doublet as a snack. He looks up at Willow. “Follow the footprints?” he asks the wisp. 

Willow’s misty swirls darken a bit, but not enough that the wisp resembles a thundercloud. When the small curl of smoke floats off, right above Bleater’s tracks, Jaskier follows. 

Every now and again there are weird, open spaces between the trees where light green meadow grass grows. They are eerily circular, and some of them have rocks at their edges, upright and embedded in the earth. When they get close to the first one, Willow flickers with bright light and swirls wildly. 

“Go around the weird open spaces,” he murmurs, looking up at the wisp. “Got it,” he says, watching the agitated swirl of grey calm down. He blows softly up at the wisp in thanks, and they continue on their way. 

At some point the forest floor loses its mossy softness, and Jaskier supposes it’s because even less of the light reaches all the way down. He feels like the world around him has changed again, the trees more gnarled, their branches twisted. The golden light of the sun has disappeared, and though there’s still a lot of green around him, the shades are darker somehow. He shivers a bit and looks back over his shoulder. 

Bleater’s footsteps are no longer visible in front or behind him, and his own never made an imprint in the first place. He debates turning around and going back to find a guardian, but he’s come this far already. He doesn’t want to burden Eskel, he doesn’t want Geralt to blame him for letting Bleater escape, and he really wants the large goat to be alright and not to come to any harm. 

Jaskier keeps going. He’s not sure if the darkening shadows are a result of the forest changing or something else, not until he realises the only reason he can still see is Willow’s pale blue glow lighting the way. Without him actively noticing it, night has fallen. 

—000—

They’re high up in the mountains, and after nightfall the temperature drops. Jaskier is glad the trees themselves seem to hold onto some of the warmer air, since his silk doublet is hardly suited to keeping him insulated while out at night. His breath comes out in small clouds of steam on every exhale, and willow darts back toward him a few times to swirl amongst the curls of vapour, before moving forward again and leading him along. 

By now he has to pay careful attention to where he places his feet. Thick roots curve over the forest floor, some lying half buried, some arching just above, ready to have him snag his foot and trip. If it wasn’t for the wisp’s light, Jaskier is sure his progress would be much slower. He divides his attention between looking down, and looking forward to where the wisps’s light gives the gnarled trees in front of him an eerie sort of glow. 

Something in his peripheral catches his attention, and Jaskier halts in his tracks. Through a gap between the black, contorted silhouettes of the trees, there are a few small lights. They flicker and blink, moving through the air in what seems to him is a deliberate pattern. Before he realises what he’s doing, Jaskier has taken a step in that direction, and then another one. 

Willow is suddenly right in front of his face, and the flash of blinding white light the wisp emits has him temporarily unable to see. He curses and covers his eyes with his hands. He stands still. If he walks like this, he’s bound to land face first amongst the roots within seconds. When he pulls his hands away he keeps his gaze carefully turned to the side, only looking at the dancing, blinking lights in his peripheral vision. He can feel the hypnotic pull of them. His stomach clenches. Vesemir’s lesson is still fresh in his mind, and that strong of a pull might very well be a creature that’s using light to lure in prey. If not for Willow, Jaskier might not have been able to stop himself from walking all the way into a gaping maw. 

He thinks of the angler and its elongated dorsal fin with swirling light at the tip. Kaer Morhen’s lakes are pretty far away. Too far away for those finger-like protrusions to drag the angler all the way here, right? And besides that, he doubts the guardians would accept a creature like that so close to so many vulnerable students. 

Willow flickers, and Jaskier nods up at the wisp. “Thanks,” he breathes. “Let's keep going.”

—000—

The darkness of night between the trees is such that Jaskier feels like he loses all sense of time and direction. It might have been hours ago already that Bleater’s double hoofed footsteps no longer made a trail for him to follow. If it wasn’t for the wisp, he would have absolutely no idea which direction to walk in. 

His stomach grumbles loudly, and he’s starting to feel tired. He’s quite sure that he’s entirely missed dinner, and wonders if anyone has missed him, or if they’ll just assume he’s distracted, working in the library.  If he wasn’t so deep into the forest already, and if it weren’t for the fact he heard another bleating noise minutes ago, he would have turned back to ask for help. Getting back out of the forest will likely take hours though, and he doesn’t want to think of what could happen to Bleater, if the goat roams the forest alone for the entire night. 

He’s just clambering over a big, curved root that’s slick under his hands and feet with some type of algae, when Willow halts. The wisp hangs motionless in the air for long seconds, pale blue light waxing and waning. 

“What is it?” Jaskier whispers, feeling tense. All he can see are their immediate surroundings, lit by Willow’s glow. Beyond that domed space of delicate light the darkness is near absolute, and he can make out little more than shadows. The wisp floats back toward him, and Jaskier stands rooted to the spot. Where the forest had been full of inconspicuous, natural sound before, right now it is utterly silent.  

Close by, a branch snaps. 

Willow bursts with light. 

Jaskier is only just in time to avert his gaze to prevent being blinded. The wisp’s brightening means he can suddenly peer further into the forest, and he thinks he sees a dark shape moving amongst the trees. Willow swirls wildly and darts away in the opposite direction, hovering in the space between two ancient trunks. Jaskier’s heart pounds, and there’s the sound of another branch snapping. There’s no time to carefully pick his way amongst the roots. The wisp is urging him to run, and so he does. 

He knows he makes a lot of noise as he races after the wisp. Willow darts out in front of him, lighting the way and telling him where to go. Whenever he lags behind a little bit, the wisp hangs in place for a second, blue light pulsing and urging him on. Jaskier’s footsteps are loud to his own ears, and he’s half afraid the barrage of noise will attract more than the black shadow following him. Though he doesn’t dare turn around, he feels like there’s a presence breathing down his neck, and he runs as fast as he can. 

He keeps his eyes focussed on the wisp, but tries to keep track of the forest floor between them as he sprints. He jumps over roots, dodges branches and trees, and miraculously doesn’t stumble. A few times he’s just a little late in adjusting his course when Willow swerves around tree trunks wide enough to rival the circumference of one of Kear Morhen’s many towers. It’s how he gets swiped by branches and feels something that might be thorns tear at his doublet and scratch over his skin. His breath comes in sharp pants, burning behind his sternum and in his throat, and he’s not sure how long he can keep running at full speed like this. 

As he burns out, he becomes more clumsy. He knows it’s only a matter of time before he makes a mistake and slams into a tree, or trips and falls on his face. He can only hope that by the time that happens, he might have outrun the shadow following him. 

He really should have known fate would bestow no such luck upon him. 

—000—

It’s not a root that trips him. It’s a long, winding strand of some type of creeping plant he gets constricted in, and that topples him to the ground. He manages to brace, scraping his palms over the forest floor. He barely keeps his face from slamming into the ground. Willow swirls in alarm, and immediately darts back from where the wisp had been lighting the way forward. Jaskier looks over his shoulder, and sees the shadow closing in. 

He scrabbles, desperately trying to dislodge himself from the vine that has somehow wrapped around his foot, to get up and put some distance between himself and whatever that dark thing is. He pulls harshly in his fear, and when the vine pops, breaking apart and releasing him, something in his foot does too. 

Jaskier grits his teeth and hoists himself to his feet, but as soon as he puts pressure on the one that had been caught, he stumbles, pain lancing from his foot and all the way up his calf. Instead of running, he hobbles toward the fork shaped by the large roots of a tree, and presses his back against the trunk. 

His heart pounds and his breath is sharp and painful. He can’t run. Not anymore.

There haven’t been many instances in his life in which Jaskier has had cause to fear, and he’s never been scared like this. He distantly thinks it’s a wretched thing to feel, absolutely dreadful, really. He’d prefer it if absolute terror wasn’t the last thing he felt. He hopes that wherever Bleater is, the goat isn’t scared, and will eventually be found, or find his own way back. 

Willow darts in front of him, swirling at chest height. Jaskier knows he can’t move the little wisp, but he still ushers it higher, until it’s floating above his head, out of the way of whatever is coming. 

From the shadows between the trees, a shape emerges. 

At first it seems rather formless to Jaskier, but as it creeps closer it starts to stretch into a torso with limbs. He watches, horrified, as it forms into a shape only vaguely humanoid. The limbs are too long, the elbows and knees too sharp, the ribcage too pronounced. Its fingers stretch and curl, as if the creature is still testing out the shape of them. The shoulders are wide and bony, the neck long and thin. The thing rolls its head to the side and blinks open soulless eyes, milky white, and without pupils. 

Jaskier knows it’s looking at him, and he wants to scream. He’s frozen in place, back pressed against the tree, ankle throbbing, and the shadow creature is creeping closer with every breath. The thing rolls its head to the other side, regarding him. Jaskier is horrified when its faceless head splits open, revealing a gaping maw. Something tells him the creature might just swallow him whole. 

There is a sudden flash of intensely bright white-blue light, bursting from the wisp floating above his head. It’s brighter than Willow has ever been, even with how the wisp warned him before. It only lasts a second, as if the wisp burns through much of its energy within a flash. The light dims back down to a low glow, and Jaskier swallows. 

The creature had paused, the light halting it in its tracks, but now it takes another step forward. It rolls its head the other way again. The rip of its mouth opens wide, and it makes a hollow tapping noise. It has Jaskier gasp in recognition, and he presses himself back further against the bark. That sound. He’d heard it periodically on his trek through the forest, from the very beginning. He’d assumed it was a woodpecker, building a nest. The thing takes another step toward him, and very soon it will be close enough it could reach out those sharp, elongated fingers, and scrape them across his skin. 

The thing’s mouth hinges open even further. Jaskier makes a soft noise of fright, just as something crashes through the canopy above. There’s the snap of branches breaking and the rustle of leaves scattering to the forest floor, and then something slams into the ground directly in front of him, between him and the shadow creature. 

Geralt’s wings are folded tightly to his back, the witcher having tucked them close to keep them from getting caught in the canopy. Relief slams into Jaskier, as those huge white wings unfold from between Geralt’s shoulders, and take up his entire field of vision. 

—000—

Jaskier slips down the trunk to sit in between the forked roots, his ankle finally giving out and his legs no longer able to keep him up. There’s another crash of breaking branches, and then Eskel slams into the ground right next to Geralt. He too spreads his wings, and where Jaskier thought he’d be devoured only moments before, he now has two of Kaer Morhen’s guardians standing between him and the shadow thing.

He wonders how they managed to find him with the lack of footsteps he left behind, especially with how the final stretch was him running to get away. Willow floats down to hover in front of him, the wisp’s light a low glow. It’s only now that he realises the bright burst from the wisp’s core hadn’t been to deter the creature at all. It had been to signal the witchers, flying high above the forest canopy. He leans his head forward until cool tendrils of mist brush over his face, and blows a soft breath in thanks. 

The creature stands there, its head rolling from side to side, maw gaping. It makes that tapping sound again. Though the guardians stand in front of him, Jaskier feels like its milky white eyes are still fastened on him, and he shudders. 

Geralt steps forward and growls, low and threatening, wings arching and spreading to block the creature’s view of where Jaskier is sitting between the tree’s thick roots. That tapping noise sounds again, and then both guardians attack. 

It’s too dark in the forest for him to see what happens, Willow’s glow too low, after the wisp expelled that bright burst of light. He gets an impression of moving shadows. He can follow Geralt’s movements more easily because of the brightness of the witcher’s wings, until he tucks them, and then Jaskier is entirely unable to follow what is happening. He tries to calm himself by taking deep breaths, but then that tapping noise suddenly sounds so very close to his ear. He can’t help the whimper that escapes him, imagining long, grasping fingers and soulless eyes. The next second Geralt is there, dragging away something dark and humanoid in shape.

Jaskier has to admit that he’s overwhelmed, and that fear is starting to get the better of him. He wants to be brave, but he feels like he’s quite used up the last of his courage. He forces himself to keep watching, to pay attention to those quickly shifting shadows. His heart pounds, and he’s holding onto hope that the witchers will emerge victorious and that they won’t get hurt protecting him, with all the strength of will he has. All he wants to do is cover his face with his hands and hide away, but he doesn’t. 

—000—

Eskel is first to emerge from the shadows and into the small dome of Willow’s light. By looking at the scarred witcher, Jaskier wouldn’t have guessed he just fought at all. He’s surprised to see two swordhilts behind the witcher’s broad shoulder, but he supposes if the guardians are there to protect Kaer Morhen, they would need to carry weapons. 

Eskel crouches and lays a careful hand on his shoulder. Jaskier is cold, the sweat from his run chilling the skin at the nape of his neck, and the guardian’s hand is a welcome beacon of heat. “You alright, Jaskier?” he asks softly.

Geralt steps into the circle of light with a growl, and Jaskier has to swallow. He too has two swords behind his back. Opposed to the concern in Eskel’s face, Geralt looks furious. 

“I— I’m alright,” he stammers, looking up at Geralt towering above him, trying not to shrink under that disapproving golden gaze. 

“Good,” Eskel says, twisting to look up at Geralt as well, his hand giving Jaskier’s shoulder a firm, reassuring squeeze. 

Jaskier licks his lips. “I’m sorry,” he says tentatively, holding Geralt’s gaze. 

“Don’t worry about it, bard,” Eskel says. “Bleater has gotten the drop on many of us. Just— come get me next time, yes?” 

Jaskier nods. “I will. I just thought that it would take time to get someone, and he might get lost, and he might have gotten hurt, and—” 

Geralt’s loud growl cuts him off, and Jaskier looks down at his hands in his lap, fidgeting with his signet ring. 

Eskel sighs. “I’ll go find Bleater,” he says to the white haired witcher. “You take the bard back to the keep.”

Geralt gives the scarred guardian a curt nod, and doesn’t say anything, watching as Eskel disappears into darkness. Jaskier can very quickly no longer see him, practically as soon as he’s out of the sphere of Willow’s light, but Geralt stands in silence for a while, watching. His pupils have widened considerably in the darkness, and Jaskier briefly wonders how well the guardian can see, despite the lack of light. 

Everything about Geralt still radiates anger. From the set of his brows to the tightness of his mouth. There’s a certain tension in the witcher, and Jaskier futilely tries to keep himself from blushing shamefully. In hindsight, running after Bleater into a forest he knows to hold creatures he can’t hope to outrun, was a spectacularly bad idea. Between the goat and himself, Bleater is actually far more likely to emerge from the forest unscathed. 

“Let's go,” Geralt says, looking down at him, the corners of his mouth pulling down slightly. 

Willow floats up, and in what Jaskier assumes is the direction of the keep. He takes a deep breath, and uses the tree as support to hoist himself to standing. His left foot throbs, and he’s half afraid he’ll fall back to the ground as soon as he puts his weight on it. When he tries, it holds him, though it aches something fierce.

Geralt turns around and moves off between the trees. 

Jaskier stubbornly grits his teeth against the pained noises that want to leave him with every step he takes. He balls his fists, digging his nails into the palms of his hands. He’s slow, but he tries, hobbling after the witcher. Willow swirls above him with concern.

Chapter Text

More than once Jaskier is afraid he’ll be too slow to keep up, and Geralt will disappear from sight. He forces his ankle to bear his weight and tries to ignore how something in his foot seems to scrape and shift with every step. The longer he walks the more painful it becomes. Still, he keeps going. 

Despite his apprehension, Geralt never moves out of the sphere of Willow’s light. The wisp hovers between the two of them, lighting the way for Jaskier, aiding him in deciding where to place his feet. The wisp’s light reflects off Geralt’s white hair, and Jaskier keeps telling himself that all he has to do is follow the witcher. All he needs to do is be led out of the darkness and back toward Kear Morhen. 

It doesn’t take very long for sweat to pearl at his temples. It’s hardly from exertion, the pain keeping his pace such that under normal circumstances it would be little effort. The sweat is from the constant throb in his injured limb, and he starts dreading putting his foot down to bear his weight a little more with every next step. He briefly considers if hopping on his good leg is an option at all, but Geralt is bound to notice if Jaskier is suddenly bouncing along behind him. 

Despite his best efforts to keep going, Jaskier is aware he’s slowing down. He’s also aware Geralt looks irritated, the few times the witcher has to pause to wait for him to get past a particularly challenging set of roots. 

“At least try to keep up,” the guardian says eventually, his voice curt. He turns around toward Jaskier and folds his arms over his chest. Willow’s low glow casts shadows on Geralt’s face, highlighting the sharp planes of his jaw and cheekbones. When the light hits him just right, his pupils reflect it back toward Jaskier. 

Jaskier very much feels like he’s going to cry. He swallows a few times, making sure his voice will not betray the emotion. “I’m a bit tired and a bit banged up” he ends up going with, shrugging at Geralt. “I can keep going, but I can’t go fast.” 

The witcher tilts his head, and even in the low light Jaskier notices Geralt’s nostrils flare. Then Geralt is suddenly in his space, looming over him, a tense frown between his brows. To Jaskier’s surprise, the guardian’s warm hands land on his shoulders to grip him. “You’re in pain,” Geralt says tightly, eyes darting over him. “Did the oculus get to you?”

Jaskier thinks there’s concern in the witcher’s voice, and he’s so overwhelmed for a moment that he doesn’t speak. 

“Jaskier!” Geralt snaps. “Answer me. Where did it touch you?”  The witcher’s voice is tense, and his large hands slide down from Jaskier’s shoulders and over his arms toward his cold hands, as if Geralt is trying to find out where his pain is coming from. 

“It— it didn’t touch me,” he manages, shaking his head. “You were there in time.” Geralt’s hands fall away from him, and he immediately misses their warmth. 

“Then what’s wrong,” the witcher grits, taking another deep breath through his nose. 

Jaskier supposes that with the guardian’s sense of smell, he can hardly deny it now. “I got caught in a vine when I ran away from— the oculus, you said?” he begins hesitantly. “It twisted around my ankle and foot, and when I pulled away I think I injured something.” Geralt huffs out a breath, and Jaskier isn’t sure if the witcher is relieved or angry. He gestures with his hand in what he hopes is the castle’s direction. “I can keep going,” he says again, trying to project more confidence than he feels. “It just hurts a bit, is all.”

Geralt turns his face away from Willow’s glow and into shadow, and so Jaskier cannot tell what expression is on the witcher’s face at all. The next thing he knows he’s being scooped up against the guardian’s chest, one strong arm under his thighs, the other behind his back. A startled little meep spills past his lips, and gets a low, angry grunt in response. 

Willow changes position, coming to float directly over their heads, the wisp’s soft glow illuminating both them and the surrounding forest. When Jaskier carefully looks up at Geralt through his lashes the witcher looks tense, and he holds his tongue. When the guardian takes off, it’s at a much faster pace then they’d been going at, one Jaskier couldn’t have hoped to keep up with even if he hadn’t been injured. 

Part of him wonders why Geralt doesn’t unfold his wings and flies them back. When he looks up at the canopy above, he’s grateful the guardian doesn’t. The trees are closely packed together, their crowns dense enough there’s no way they wouldn’t snag at him if Geralt tried. 

—000—

The trek back out of the forest takes longer than Jaskier expects, especially considering Geralt’s speed. It’s only now that he fully realises how long he’d walked and how far he’d made it into the woods. How far from the keep and any help. He’s held in Geralt’s arms, pressed against the guardian’s chest, and though he’s still tired and his foot aches, he’s considerably warmer and more comfortable than he’d been while walking. 

He shifts a bit in Geralt’s hold, earning another low growl, telling him to be still. He licks his lips and glances up at the witcher, noting how his jaw is still clenched. “Thank you for carrying me,” he says, unable to hold the silence for any longer now that they’re in view of Kaer Morhen. 

He doesn’t know what opens the floodgates. If it’s the fact he spoke at all, or if it’s the words themselves. Perhaps Geralt himself has been holding his tongue just as much as Jaskier has. Geralt doesn’t look at him as he speaks, and Jaskier has rarely felt this small. 

“Spoiled Redanian noble,” Geralt grumbles under his breath, practically biting the words in half by how clipped they come out. Jaskier feels his stomach clench and his face heat. “Before walking into a forest, you should make damn sure you’re able to walk back out without getting lost or injured.”

There’s a moment of tense silence between them, in which Jaskier tries to think of how to explain how he came to do what he did. 

“You have no business in that forest. Not alone. The oculus could have—” Geralt breaks off with an angry growl. 

Jaskier blinks up at the guardian. Those first words rather feel like a harsh reprimand, but if he didn’t know better, he’d say the witcher had been worried for him. “I won’t do it again,” he says slowly, watching Geralt’s face for any minute change in expression. “I’m sorry you had to come get me out.” Geralt glances down at him and keeps walking. They’re in the keep now, but the witcher continues to carry him. 

“Do you think Bleater will be alright?” Jaskier ventures after another long silence, unbroken but for the sound of the guardian’s footsteps. It earns him another sharp look from the witcher.

“The goat will be fine,” Geralt grunts eventually. 

—000—

Jaskier perhaps should have been less surprised when Geralt brings him all the way to Triss’ classroom. The mage opens the door before they can knock, relief evident on her face. Her green eyes quickly track over the both of them, catching on the rips in Jaskier’s doublet and trousers, as well as the scratches on the palms of his hands. 

“Anything immediate I need to know?” she asks Geralt. 

“The oculus got close.” Geralt’s nostrils flare once more on a deep breath in. “Hm. Some scratches and some bruises.”

Jaskier feels a little bit like a disobedient child with the way the both of them are speaking of him, as opposed to with him. He supposes they’re not entirely wrong to do so. He did make a rather foolish decision going after Bleater. He still huffs a loud breath to let them know he’d rather be included in the conversation. “The oculus didn’t touch me,” he repeats, perhaps a little petulantly, trying not to pout in Geralt’s general direction. 

The relief in Triss’ expression is even more evident at that, and Jaskier wonders what exactly would have happened to him if the oculus had indeed laid its unnaturally stretched out hands on him. The corners of Triss’ mouth curve up, and she waves them in. Before Geralt steps through, Willow darts past, following closely behind the mage. 

Once inside Triss’ classroom Geralt sets him down on top of one of the desks. Jaskier bites down on the little bereft noise he wants to make. Despite Geralt’s continued frown and the tightness at his jaw, the way the guardian deposits him is gentle. 

“Do you mind if I run a diagnostic, Jaskier?” Triss asks him.

Jaskier waves his hand in a gesture of permission. “Besides the foot there’s only minor injuries, I promise,” he says. Willow floats over to hover behind his shoulder, and the wisp swirls wildly for a moment. 

Triss makes a sceptical noise at the back of her throat. “We’ll save the foot for last, then,” she says, and makes a quick pass over him with her hands, murmuring under her breath in what he thinks is ancient elder. She sighs when she’s done. “Like you said, scratches and bruises. I’ll go get some antiseptic for them. The ones on your palms probably need a bit of attention, but they’re mostly superficial. You still have the salve you made in my class?”

Jaskier brightens. “I do! Though I would rather have remained unbruised, this will be the best opportunity to see if mine comes even close to yours,” he says with a smile. “I won’t poison myself if I somehow didn’t make it right, will I?”

Triss chuckles. “You won’t. It just won’t work as well. But, I think you’ll be alright.” She stands and nods to Jaskier’s left ankle. “If you’ll take off his boot, Geralt. I’ll get the antiseptic now,” she says, moving further into her classroom, toward the greenhouse part of it. Willow flickers with light, and floats along behind her. 

Geralt hums low and goes down onto one knee. The witcher grabs onto the back of his calf to pull his foot toward him, the warmth of his palm immediately sinking through the fabric and into Jaskier’s skin. 

“You don’t have to do that!” Jaskier squeaks immediately. “I can take it off myself, it’s no—”

Geralt cuts him off with a sharp look. “Your palms,” he grunts. “Just let me do it.”

Jaskier looks down at the palms of his hands for the first time, and winces at the raggedness of the cuts there. “Oh,” he says lamely. Geralt just grunts and starts to unlace the ties on his left boot. They’re knotted intricately, as is the fashion in Oxenfurt. Though the guardian frowns, he picks them apart carefully. 

It’s as if with every knot that loosens a few words dislodge from Geralt’s throat as well. Jaskier is glad the kneeling witcher isn’t looking up at him, since he feels himself flush with both embarrassment and righteous indignation.

“No survival skills,” Geralt growls, plucking at where the ties thread through grommets decorated to look like flower petals. “Should know your limits,” he grouses, pulling apart a knot just over Jaskier’s instep. “Arrogant enough to wander off into danger without a second thought, and then a couple of scratches incapacitate you,” he grumbles. 

Eventually the final knot comes loose between Geralt’s fingers. Though the witcher’s words certainly are angry, he’s careful to pull the leather away from the injured joint before sliding the boot off. 

Jaskier’s breath catches a little at the pain of it, but he tries his best not to let it show otherwise. Geralt’s sharp golden eyes still glance up at him, and then the guardian’s fingers are suddenly under his pant leg, sliding it up until he can reach the cuff of his sock and pull it down and off. Jaskier has to admit the careful touch of rough fingertips against his bare skin has his heart beat a little faster, as admittedly, does Geralt’s position in front of him. 

He’s distracted from looking at the witcher’s everything by the startling noise of Geralt’s hissed inhale. When Jaskier looks at him, the witcher’s jaw is clenched tightly. 

Geralt’s hand slides around his ankle, cradling it and pulling it further into the light, and Jaskier winces a little at what he sees. His left ankle must be almost twice its usual size, the joint so swollen that the bump of bone under skin is hardly visible anymore. What’s worse is the way dark blue blooms across the surface. He thinks he might even be able to see the impression of where the vine had wound around him, and the heavy bruising spreads all the way down and over his foot. It looks bad. Just to reassure himself they still work, Jaskier wiggles his toes. 

Geralt isn’t looking at him, but down at his foot, the hand that cradles his leg unmoving. “Why would you keep walking on this?” the witcher asks, his voice inflectionless. 

“Well, like you said. I got myself into that mess. The least I could do is walk out of it.”

The guardian doesn’t respond.

Jaskier sighs. “You made it clear I should follow you, so I did. I didn’t want to cause more trouble. I didn’t want to get left behind.”

Geralt’s head jerks up, his slitted pupils expanding and contracting in quick succession in his golden irises. “You think I would have left you in the forest?” he grits. 

Jaskier throws up his hands a little, before raking one of them through his hair. “I don’t know, Geralt. Maybe? I realise that would quite defeat the purpose of finding me in the first place,” he says. “But, if we’re being very honest, you’ve given me precious little indication you would mourn my sudden departure from Kaer Morhen, in whichever way that may be.”

Geralt frowns, his white eyebrows drawing together. “That’s not— I don’t—” he makes a frustrated sound, and Jaskier raises an eyebrow at the guardian still kneeling before him. Geralt shakes his head and speaks through his teeth. “Despite my misgivings, you’ve shown every indication you’re a capable professor.”

Jaskier tilts his head at him. “Hardly a ringing endorsement of my person, but I’ll take it, for now,” he says with a sigh. Geralt’s frown only deepens, and Jaskier cannot keep from teasing him at least a little, despite everything. “I’ll grow on you. You’ll see. I’ve already gotten you to stop slamming me into walls in a mere few weeks. I’m sure I’ll get a smile out of you at some point.”

The corners of Geralt’s mouth twitch, and though he’s not sure if they were pulling down or up, Jaskier gasps in exaggerated surprise, pointing at the witcher’s face. The guardian looks at his finger and snaps his teeth, sharp canines and premolars flashing in the light, coming together with a clack. Jaskier janks his hand back and curls his fingers into a fist. He thinks this time Geralt doesn’t actually look angry, and so he laughs. 

“Let the bard keep his fingers, please,” Triss says as she returns with a few bottles and a basket, setting them down next to Jaskier. Willow flickers with light and comes to hover directly over him, as if the wisp feels the need to protect him after briefly leaving his side. Triss puts her hands on her hips and looks down at his foot where Geralt has pulled it forward to rest on his thigh. “Oh,” she says, quickly tapping her fingers. “That doesn’t look good.” She moves her hands over him like before, murmuring similar words under her breath, but this time she focuses on the offending joint. 

When she’s done, she looks between Geralt and him with dismay. “There’s a broken bone in your foot,” she says sharply. 

Jaskier has to admit he’s not surprised. Not with the way he’d felt something pop, or the way he’d felt something shift in his foot with every step. He looks at Geralt from the corners of his eyes, and sees the witcher’s expression turn stony. 

“It’s nothing that won’t heal, right?” he says lightly. 

“Oh it’ll heal,” Triss says with a frown. “But even with my intervention it will take a while. A week, ten days, perhaps.” 

Jaskier gapes at the mage, and Willow floats down to brush coolly against the back of his neck. 

Triss looks at the wisp and back at him. “I’m sorry, Jaskier,” she says with a frown. “Any faster than that and the bone might not set entirely, and remain a weak point.”

He sputters a few unintelligible words, shaking his head at the clearly worried mage. “Even ten days is incredibly fast!” he exclaims. “I’ve read somewhere that it takes a minimum of six to eight weeks otherwise, depending on which bone is broken and how much it can be immobilised while healing.”

Triss blushes a little and hums at him. “No. I can make it heal faster than that, and you’ll be able to walk on it after we bind it. Just— not too much.”

Jaskier reaches out and squeezes her hand. “Thanks, Triss. That’s incredible.”

The mage smiles at him. “Just let me run a deeper diagnostic, then we’ll treat it and wrap it up, before taking another look at those scrapes.”

Jaskier nods at her. All the while, Geralt sits quietly, still on one knee at his feet, Jaskier’s foot still resting in place on his thigh.

This time when Triss moves her hands over him it’s much more localized, and he feels the static tingle of magic not merely on the surface of his skin, but down to his bones. It’s not an entirely comfortable feeling, and Jaskier has to do his best to keep from pulling away his foot. Geralt’s fingers briefly press in against the back of his calf, and the witcher rumbles low in his chest. 

When she’s done, Triss frowns. “Your foot was injured before, wasn’t it? Not too long ago I’d guess.”

Jaskier blinks at her in confusion before he remembers. “You can tell? It wasn’t bothering me at all anymore, but I did have an unfortunate run-in with a block of granite before I left Oxenfurt. It was a little sore then, but then I twisted it a bit when I tried to jump the river to get Ciri out.”

Triss nods thoughtfully, grabbing a bottle, a jar, and some rolls of bandages from the basket she brought. 

Against the back of his calf, Geralt’s fingers twitch. 

Triss carefully applies the liquid from the bottle to his ankle and foot. Jaskier makes a soft noise at the pleasant cooling sensation it elicits, and she smiles at him. “How does that feel?” she asks him kindly, and Jaskier replies with cheer that the injury feels better already. 

She lets the liquid dry, and next she applies a thick layer of thick, translucent salve from the jar. It’s not cooling, or warming, or anything really, and Jaskier wonders about its purpose. This time the mage doesn’t wait for it to be absorbed, but starts wrapping his foot and ankle tightly. The bandages soak up the goopy salve, and when she’s finished, Jaskier’s foot feels like it has been set in stone. His toes peek out of the bandages, and he wiggles them once again, relieved that he still can. 

“There,” Triss says in satisfaction. “That will hold everything in place until you’re healed. You can walk on it tomorrow, but not tonight, perhaps. Now, give me your hands.”

Jaskier turns his palms up to the mage, and only hisses slightly when she applies a stinging antiseptic solution to the cuts. He sees Geralt wrinkle his nose and thinks the medicinal scent, which is strong to his mere human nose already, must be absolutely overwhelming to the witcher. Still, Geralt doesn’t move to get up. Nor does he let go of Jaskier’s leg. 

After Triss finishes dabbing at several of his more serious scrapes, she tidies her things and waves away Jaskier’s profuse thanks with a slight smile. The mage lays her slender hand on his shoulder. “Things could have been worse,” she says. “I’m glad the oculus didn’t get to you,” she looks from him toward Geralt when she says it, but the witcher doesn’t comment. 

Jaskier shrugs. “Believe me when I say I am thoroughly imbued with the fact that I’m very lucky, and that I never in my life want to encounter the oculus again.”

Geralt hums at him and raises a brow. 

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “As I am equally instilled with the knowledge I should not go into the forest by myself,” he says loftily, no longer meeting that sharp golden gaze. 

Triss chuckles, and tries to hide a yawn behind her hand. 

“Time to retire,” Jaskier says softly. “Thanks again, Triss.”

The mage waves him away again, walking toward her classroom door. Jaskier is just contemplating how long it will take him to hop all the way toward his tower-bedroom, when he’s once again unceremoniously scooped up by strong arms and held against a firm chest. Willow’s light brightens briefly, and the wisp returns to its position hovering above both of them.

Like the first time, the startled meep that leaves him is rather embarrassing, and he looks up at Geralt through his lashes. 

“No walking tonight,” Geralt grunts by way of explanation. 

Jaskier blinks in surprise, but he knows better than to argue.

Chapter Text

Jaskier is tired enough that he is in danger of drifting off as Geralt carries him. He tries valiantly to keep his head upright and his eyes open, but every time they close it takes him a bit longer to realise it. He’s eventually unsuccessful at staying alert, distantly aware that his eyes are definitely closed now, that his head is resting on a broad shoulder, and that his face is turned into Geralt’s neck, slow breaths puffing against the witcher’s skin. He might have expected the guardian to jostle him to wake him back up, but Geralt doesn’t. 

It’s only when they reach his tower-room that the witcher shakes him. Jaskier wakes with a start, taking a few deep breaths and forcefully pushing images of the oculus reaching for him to the back of his mind. 

“Oh, we’re here already,” he says, rubbing a hand over his eyes, willing his heart to calm down, trying to hide from the guardian how he’d briefly slipped into the beginnings of a nightmare.

“Hm,” Geralt responds, tipping his head toward his door. “I’ll carry you up.”

The witcher’s inflection doesn’t suggest it’s a question, but Geralt doesn’t move, and Jaskier thinks he might be waiting for permission. He is reasonably confident he could hop his way up the curved staircase that lies behind his door, but he knows if he wobbles he might accidentally put his weight on his wrapped foot and ankle, despite his best efforts.

“If it’s not too much trouble,” he murmurs. Geralt manages to open the door while keeping a hold on him, a demonstrative answer. “Thank you, darling,” Jaskier says thoughtlessly. It’s only when the witcher looks at him sharply that he realises the endearment slipped out in his exhaustion. He stifles a yawn, and shrugs at the guardian, who carries him up the stairs without any comment. 

His room is dark and not exactly cold, but it isn’t warm either, both the candles and stove unlit. Willow moves from hovering above their heads to floating just under the thick wooden beams that hold up the ceiling. The wisp’s soft glow provides enough light that he can see how Geralt’s eyes take in his space. The witcher looks from the bed, to his desk, his wardrobe and music stand, to the plant that has just started to sprout on one of the windowsills, and back to his bed again. Jaskier looks at his bed as well, and for a moment imagines how Geralt would look lying back in it. He shakes his head and clears his throat awkwardly, blushing.

Jaskier expects to be dropped to the floor and left alone now that he’s safe up in his room, but Geralt carries him all the way inside, carefully setting him down on the mattress. The witcher doesn’t speak. He crouches in front of the stove, and Jaskier sees Geralt’s fingers shape that same quick gesture he’d seen Eskel make on his first night here. He doesn’t startle this time, expecting the static in the air and the spark of fire bursting from the witcher’s palm. He yawns again. 

“That really is a quite useful skill to have,” he says, and Geralt hums low. Jaskier looks toward the dark windows and frowns. “Morning is still a way off,” he says slowly. “You think Eskel and Bleater have found their way back?”

“Both of them can see perfectly well in the dark,” Geralt rumbles, but he moves toward a window, opening it before releasing a sharp whistle. Willow swirls and starts to resemble a small thundercloud. Jaskier makes a soothing noise up at the wisp as Geralt tilts his head to listen. “They’re back in the stables. They’re fine,” the guardian says after closing back up. 

Jaskier feels tension leave his shoulders. “That’s a relief,” he says. “That thing— the oculus. It wouldn’t go after a guardian, would it?” There’s a pit of guilt in his stomach, and what he really wants to know is if he put Eskel in danger by making the witcher have to search for Bleater after dark. Something in Geralt’s face tells him the guardian knows why he’s asking. 

“The oculus won’t go after a witcher. Or a goat,” Geralt says. 

“Oh. That’s good,” Jaskier says, nodding. He shifts awkwardly where he’s seated on the bed, wondering why Geralt is still here. He fidgets with his signet a little. Geralt’s eyes are fastened on his nightstand, and when Jaskier follows his gaze he sees the witcher is looking at the two jars on top of it. One of them holds the remnants of Triss’ salve, while the other holds the fresh batch he made in her class. 

“Triss gave you salve for bruising your first week here,” Geralt says. 

Jaskier nods slowly. “She did. Like I said, I got bruised up a bit when I tried to pluck Ciri from the river.”

Geralt’s jaw clenches. “I caused some of those,” he says tonelessly. 

Jaskier thinks of the first time he saw Geralt, the white haired guardian pressing him into the ground with a hand on his chest after pulling him from the water. He thinks of Geralt unfolding his wings in the library and moving faster than he could hope to keep up with, slamming him back into a wall before he knew what was happening. He nervously licks his lips. “Some, not all,” he says, trying to keep his voice carefully neutral. 

“It’s been a while since I’ve been around humans,” Geralt says, and Jaskier thinks the witcher looks angry. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

He blinks in surprise. The last thing he expected to end this evening on is an apology from the witcher. Though as apologies go, this is rather a stunted one. He fidgets again. “Just remember I’m perhaps a bit more breakable than you’re used to,” he says, waving his hands to show the cuts to his palms, before gesturing at his bound foot. “I’ve been told— not much actually, but enough to believe you have your reasons to dislike humans.”

Jaskier thinks that he should perhaps have avoided any mention of Geralt’s previous experience with humans, since the witcher’s lip curls back from his teeth, and a low, threatening sound rumbles in his chest. 

He sighs. “It’s alright if you don’t like me, Geralt,” he says softly. “You wouldn’t be the first. But, if the sole reason for your dislike is the fact that I’m human, or even Redanian, well. I’m sure you can figure for yourself that’s rather shortsighted. By all means dislike me, for anything other than that.”

The guardian stares at him, pupils expanding and contracting, arms folded over his broad chest. Jaskier isn’t sure what he expects, for Geralt to leave without another word, perhaps. Instead, the witcher seems to circle back to his injuries. 

“I thought the scent of your pain was from superficial scratches. I thought it was because you’re not used to it.”

Jaskier tilts his head and raises an eyebrow. “Yes, the way you called me a spoiled Redanian noble sort of tipped me off to that,” he says drily, watching Geralt’s eyebrows draw together impossibly further. “You’re right though. I’m not used to pain. I don’t think that’s something I should apologise for. Not being hurt should really be the norm, shouldn’t it? For everyone.”

Geralt’s eyes flick back to the jars on his nightstand, and Jaskier belatedly realises the reprimand his words hold. He shrugs. As far as he’s concerned, he’s not wrong. His very first words addressing the white haired guardian might have been wildly inappropriate and more than a little offensive, but he hadn’t meant them that way. He’d deserved a telling off for it. He deserves Geralt’s dislike, perhaps, but no more than that. 

Geralt looks back at him, and nods slowly. “Don’t go into the forest by yourself again,” the witcher says. 

Jaskier tips his head to the side. “I said I wouldn’t.”

“Hm. The oculus has seen you. It’ll find you quicker, next time.”

Jaskier shudders and glances at the windows that show nothing but the darkness outside, where he knows the dense forest will be visible during the day. “Does it ever come out of the woods?” he asks. He tries his best to keep his voice level, but he’s not entirely successful.

Geralt shakes his head. “You don’t have to be afraid. The keep’s protection extends beyond its walls. It won’t come for you unless you do something foolish, again.”

“The keep’s protection,” Jaskier repeats, looking at the thick stone walls and sturdy wooden beams, before looking back at Geralt. “Outside of the castle itself, that's the guardians, right? Outside of Kaer Morhen, that’s you.”

Geralt looks at him in silence for a long few seconds. “Sleep well, bard,” he says eventually, and turns around. 

“Sleep well, Geralt,” Jaskier answers. He hears the witcher descend the steps. Just before Geralt opens his door, he softly adds; “thank you for getting me.” He thinks he can hear the witcher pause, then his door opens and clicks softly closed again. 

—000—

Jaskier is early at breakfast at the start of next week, still unsure how much time he needs to get from one place in the keep to the next, and how much weight he can put on his foot. He has managed to put on both of his boots, and it hides the injury quite effectively. The ties of the one he slid over Triss’ bandages are much looser, and he thinks those that pay attention will see him favor one leg over the other, but as long as he takes his time, it won’t be obvious. Not to the students, at least. 

As soon as he enters the breakfast hall, every single pair of witcher-slitted eyes swivels toward him. He sees several of the guardians frown, and sees more than one of them inhale deeply. Jaskier tries not to feel self conscious as they watch him walk over to his customary seat in the hall. Somehow, he thinks every last witcher knows his foot aches, despite Triss’ treatment. 

He sighs in relief when he plops himself down between Eskel and Yarpenna. This time it’s Regis who pours him a cup of cinnamon coffee, and he gratefully takes the warm drink between his palms with a murmured thanks. 

“Did you manage to get some sleep, Jaskier?” the vampire says casually, pushing a sugared pastry onto his plate. 

Jaskier narrows his eyes at Regis a little. “Why do you want me to eat sugar?” he asks suspiciously. 

“You forget you skipped dinner last night, bard?” Yarpenna says. Their beard is hanging loose today, and when they take a bite of their breakfast they carefully sweep away the dark, glossy hair to prevent it from dragging over their plate.

Regis nods. “You do smell a little low on sugar, that’s all,” the history professor says. Jaskier doesn’t miss the note of concern in the vampire’s voice, and he quickly glances around the table. Most witchers are still looking at him. Triss is as well, and though Yarpenna has taken a bite big enough to keep them from talking in the near future, the dwarf is definitely side-eying him. He doesn’t chance a glance at where Geralt is seated across from Lambert and Aiden, but he can practically feel that the white haired guardian is keeping an eye on him as well. 

He groans and dramatically lets his head thump forward on the table, cushioning it with the back of his hand. “I should have known that Kaer Morhen isn’t exempt from rumours,” he laments.

Next to him, Eskel hums. “They’re not exactly rumours, Jaskier,” the scarred witcher says. “You weren’t here at dinner yesterday, and when no one could find you, every guardian was alerted.” 

Jaskier turns to Eskel and gapes, a flush creeping up the back of his neck and toward his face. “Wait, you mean that every guardian was out looking for me?” He’d already been embarrassed when he thought he’d only inconvenienced Geralt and Eskel, let alone every last of the school’s guardians.

“There are always guardians who remain in the castle itself,” Vesemir answers his question, and Jaskier has no hope of keeping his blush down. “Those most likely to find you, were sent out to look,” the dean says. 

Jaskier rubs at the back of his neck, grateful for Willow’s calming coolness brushing against his skin. “Those most likely to find me?” he asks after quietly trying to regain some of his composure. 

Eskel turns toward him a little and puts a hand on his shoulder. “Have you read some of those books on Kaer Morhen yet?” the witcher asks. 

Jaskier nods, happy to be distracted. “I did!” he says. “The way the keep can transform is absolutely amazing. It seems like it’s perpetually changing, but the net energy— I’d guess that’s chaos— seems like it remains at a steady base level.” He gestures with his fork as he talks, almost losing the piece of fruit speared on its tines. “The way I understand it, if it adds material somewhere, it has to get it from another part of the castle. There’s no creating something from nothing. There was a part that remained rather vague though. Something about the castle giving up some of its sentience? The book I was reading didn’t mention anything about the yield of that sacrifice, how it was balanced out, you know?” he says, finally stuffing the fruit into his mouth to halt his babble.  

Across from him, Regis nods. “You understand correctly. Balance is key.” The vampire glances at Vesemir, apparently waiting for the dean’s nod before looking back at Jaskier. “Let’s talk about it some more at the end of the week, after dinner,” he says. 

Jaskier feels the whole thing is more than a little cryptic, but he enthusiastically nods his assent. He’s well aware there are things he can’t learn from books, no matter how much he reads, no matter the magnitude of Kaer Morhen’s library. 

—000—

When Jaskier stands to leave the hall for his first class, most students are only half way through their breakfasts. He knows he’s going to need some time to reach his classroom though, especially when he gingerly puts his weight on his foot and can barely hide his wince of pain. 

Eskel’s hand curls around his wrist to keep him in place. “Triss?” the scarred witcher asks before Jaskier can protest. 

The mage’s green eyes actually narrow at him. “You’ve walked all the way here from your room, haven’t you?” she asks.

“Ah— yes?” Jaskier hedges. “How else was I going to get here for breakfast? I thought you said I could walk on it?” 

Triss visibly sighs and shakes her head. “I did say that. I also said not too much, bard.”

“I’d listen to the healer if you know what’s good for you, Buttercup,” Yennefer says as she gracefully takes her place next to Triss. 

“Well, how else am I going to get around?” Jaskier says, frowning. “It seems a rather frivolous waste to have the keep relocate my entire classroom to be more conveniently placed for a week. I’ll manage.”

Triss clicks her tongue. “If it hurts, you need to rest it more. If not, it’ll only take longer.”

“How did you get back to your rooms last night?” Yarpenna asks. They suddenly wrinkle their nose and look a little green. “Don’t tell me the mage made you take a portal.” The dwarf turns to both Triss and Yennefer. “I’m with the bard. If a little walking adds a few days, that’s far preferable over taking one of your veritable whirlpools of misery.”

Triss shakes her head. “It takes too much chaos to have him portal everywhere for a week,” she says. “Geralt carried him up last night.”

As soon as she says it there’s a swoop of nerves in Jaskier’s stomach. Geralt did carry him last night, but he’s not sure the witcher would want anyone else but those who witnessed it to be aware of that fact. He looks down at his hands and shifts his weight to his good foot for good measure. He’s half tempted to walk out of the hall to escape this situation, no matter what Triss will think of it. 

It seems the red haired mage notices, and takes pity on him. “Walking to and from classes should be fine,” she says with a purse of her mouth. “But if it starts to hurt more, you tell me.”

Jaskier nods and gives her a grateful smile. He doesn’t miss that though Eskel no longer keeps him in place, the witcher looks worriedly at him, before shooting a glance down the table. He tries his best to make his gait as even as possible while leaving the hall. It’s only when he’s through the doors that he allows himself to hobble a little while he follows Willow, hissing softly between his teeth with every step. 

—000—

“I absolutely cannot continue not to give you homework every time all of you do well in my class,” Jaskier says. “I’m starting to suspect it will be a weekly occurrence, and I do have to show the dean I take being a professor seriously,” he continues with a wink. 

Both Ciri and Grove look proud at the compliment, and more than a little excited to receive their first assignment from him. Muirin nods as if this is what she expected, but the selkie does look pleased, as does Flint. Beryl’s scales shimmer a little under his sandy skin, and when the boy smiles shyly, Jaskier is glad to see he doesn’t cover his mouth with his hand. 

“I have an assignment for you to complete by next week,” Jaskier tells them. “I want you to pick out an object that’s important to you, in whichever way, and write about it. It must be at least ten lines, but no more than thirty, and it has to incorporate our two previous lessons.” He looks at Flint. “Which were those again?” 

“Rhyming and similes!” the dwarf answers immediately.

“Exactly,” Jaskier says with a grin. “Now, not every line needs to rhyme, but I would like it if you included at least three, and at least one simile, alright?”

His five little students nod, and quickly gather their things at the sound of Jaskier’s next class arriving. He looks up at Willow’s swirling greys. The wisp didn’t flicker with light to signal the end of class, and he suspects his next class is early. Ciri pushes the door open with a little help from Flint. The tree sprites are first out the door, followed by the selkie and dwarf. Jaskier catches Beryl’s eye and gestures for the boy to stay back for a bit. 

He hobbles forward, favouring his hurt foot, until he can be seen through the classroom door. “Just a few seconds,” he tells his next class, turning to the lamia. Beryl looks concerned, the shimmer of his scales suddenly more pronounced. “Nothing bad, Beryl,” he says softly, before pointing to one of his sign up sheets. 

At the bottom of the sheet for singing-lessons, Beryl’s name is written down, but crossed out again. The Lamia makes a soft, sibilant hissing noise. This time he does lift a hand to his lips, as if he actively wants to press his mouth closed and prevent any sound from leaving him. 

“I was just wondering what had changed your mind about learning to sing?” Jaskier asks. He frowns when Beryl hangs his head, looking at his feet. 

“I don’t want to ruin it for the others, professor Jaskier,” the lamia mumbles eventually. 

Jaskier drops into a crouch in front of the boy, ignoring the painful stab of pressure it causes in his ankle. “I don’t think there’s much you could do to ruin it, Beryl. Everyone is there to learn,” he says. 

Beryl shrugs his shoulders. “I hiss like a snake, and no one wants to hear that.”

Jaskier thinks of every time he’s seen Beryl cover his mouth. His first class, it was almost every time the shy lamia spoke. Beryl is a young child, he should not be so self conscious of something that is a natural part of him, of how he was born. Jaskier twists his ring and tries to consider his words carefully. “Did someone tell you that, Beryl?” he asks.

The lamia doesn’t speak, but nods after a moment’s hesitation. 

“Well. I don’t think that was a very nice thing to say, and I don’t agree with them, at all. I would really love it if we could write your name down again.”

Beryl’s scales shimmer under his skin, but the boy still doesn’t answer. 

“I’ve never heard anything like your voice before,” Jaskier says. “It might be different than a lot of others’, but that doesn’t mean it’s better or worse. I have a few songs in mind that I think would sound lovely, if you were to sing them,” he says gently. 

“I could try?” Beryl eventually concedes, looking up at Jaskier with uncertain eyes. 

“That’s all I could ask, Beryl,” Jaskier says, relieved when the boy fishes a pen and small pot of ink out of his bag and carefully rewrites his name next to where he’d crossed it out. The handwriting is different, since Ciri was the one who wrote down his name in the first instance. Jaskier rises a little painfully and smiles at the lamia. When Beryl tells him goodbye, the boy doesn’t cover his mouth with his hand. 

When Beryl is out the door, Jaskier waves his class of waiting students inside. Surprisingly, Vaayu is the first through the door. The djinn stares at the sign-up sheet for singing lessons, dark blue eyes resting where Beryl’s name has been carefully re-written after being crossed out. He almost expects him to say something, but it seems that after saying too much in a moment of emotional vulnerability, the djinn has gone back to treating him with silent anger. 

Vaayu sits at the far back of the classroom, while the others take their seats considerably closer to the podium than they did their first class. Jaskier closes the door and hobbles back toward the front. He struggles a little with getting on the podium without showing he can’t fully use one of his legs, but he manages. 

He smiles at his students and claps his hands together. “Now, let's start by discussing last week’s assignment,” he says, noting how Vaayu doesn’t meet his eyes but is staring at the papers on his desk. “You’ll all get a turn, but does anyone feel like they want to begin?” 

The class goes well, all things considered. Vaayu doesn’t participate unless he’s asked a direct question. Jaskier finds himself oscillating between directing a good portion of his inquiries the djinn’s way, and leaving him be at the back of the class. The answers the boy does give, are invariably correct, though he suspects they are as succinct as Vaayu possibly knows how to make them. 

When the class finishes and the students slowly file out while still packing their things, Jaskier is pleased to see both Maeve and Anya stop by the sheets for extracurricular tutoring. The banshee twins put their names down just below Beryl’s, and he can’t help but feel excited by the prospect of getting them to love their voices. Most of his sheets have a few names on them, but singing seems to be the most popular. 

Jaskier is just taking down the lists of students who want to receive his tutoring, when Willow flickers with light just above him. By now he’s used to the wisp alerting him to things this way, otherwise he might have missed the slight change in light and shadow altogether. He’s sure Willow would grow more insistent if he missed these clues though. He’s learned from Vesemir that wisps are usually more nocturnal than Willow seems to be. When looking at the wisp its light is obvious, but indirectly it is overpowered by the sun’s rays falling through the windows. Still he notices, and turns around. Vaayu is the only one left in his otherwise empty classroom. 

“You hurt your ankle.”

Jaskier thought all his students left in the time it took him to tidy up, but the boy is standing there, clearly uncomfortable, tattooed arms crossed over his chest. He nods. “I did,” he says. 

“You weren’t there at dinner yesterday. The guardians had to go out and find you. It’s slight, but you limp when you walk,” Vaayu says. 

Jaskier nods again. “You’re a very sharp observer,” he says neutrally. “All of that is true. I did a silly, foolish thing,” he says, shrugging with a self deprecating smile. “If not for the witchers, I think I would have come away with far worse than a limp.”

Vaayu frowns a little. “The guardians saved you?”

“Yes,” Jaskier answers, curious if these questions are why the boy stayed behind. 

“Why do you want the lamia to sing?” the young djinn asks. To his surprise, Jaskier thinks that he sounds both suspicious and—envious?

“I want Beryl to learn to sing, so he can learn that there is nothing wrong with the way he sounds,” Jaskier says, rifling through the small stack of his sign-up sheets and pulling out the correct one to hold up to Vaayu. He tips his head to the side, smiling at the tattooed boy. “Would you like to join as well?” 

Vaayu glowers, and Jaskier thinks he’ll scoff and turn away. He’s surprised again when the djinn snatches the paper from his hand and looks at the list of names. 

Jaskier presses his thumb against his ring, twisting it around his finger. He’s afraid if he says anything, he’ll disrupt whatever thought process is taking place behind Vaayu’s dark blue eyes, and the djinn will pull back. When the boy doesn’t say anything, and makes no move either way, Jaskier licks his lips and decides to repeat what he thinks Vaayu heard him say to Beryl. “I would really love it if we could write down your name.”

The djinn looks even more angry now, and the paper in his hands creases slightly under the strain of his hold. “You’re just saying that,” he bites out, staring at the names. 

“No,” Jaskier says. “I am not.” He doesn’t say anything more, consciously doing nothing to explain, just telling the boy this simple, honest truth, letting him decide what to do with it. When those dark blue eyes make quick eye contact before looking away again, Jaskier thinks Vaayu looks lost. He gently takes the paper from the boy’s hands and lays it flat on one of the desks. He uses pen and ink to write down Vaayu’s name before showing him. “It’s alright if you decide not to come,” he tells the djinn. “This just saves you a spot.”

—000—

Since he has no more classes the rest of the day, Jaskier packs his notes and sign-up sheets into his satchel, and follows Vaayu out the door. When he turns to face the hallway after closing up, he sees Vaayu is still there. 

The boy is standing across from Geralt. The guardian has his head bent toward him, speaking low enough Jaskier can only hear the rumble of his voice, but none of the actual words. 

Geralt looks up at him first, and then Vaayu turns to follow the witcher’s line of sight. The djinn looks tense, and Jaskier finds himself fervently hoping that the white haired witcher did not just squash the very slight chance Vaayu might come and learn to sing. He tries to smile winningly at both of them, the expression only slightly strained when he accidentally puts a little too much pressure on his injured foot. 

The both of them frown simultaneously, and Jaskier can’t help but wonder if Geralt’s frown is where Vaayu learned to make that exact expression. The witcher waves the young djinn away, and then sharp golden eyes track his halting steps until Jaskier is standing before him. 

“Geralt,” he says. “Can I help you with something?”

The witcher raises an eyebrow. “Unlikely,” he grits, and Jaskier tries not to wince. He doesn’t think Geralt would be pleased with the assessment, but he thinks the guardian could quite hold his own in any Redanian court. It’s not often he has been insulted with the use of a single word. 

He tries not to let it bother him too much, but the discomfort still makes him babble. “Ah, so you’re just out on a stroll and happened to walk past my classroom?” He looks to the window at the end of the hall. “Understandable, really. The views here are nice. Though I suppose you’re able to get a much better view whenever you want, any time you fly. I imagine it must be quite the sight, soaring over the valley and the mountains—”

He trails off when the guardian tips his head to the side, and Jaskier cannot hope to divine what the witcher is thinking. He curses himself a bit when he considers what he said. He doesn’t even know if the guardians fly for pleasure. It could very well be that they only do so with purpose, and don’t have time to consider the view at all. He can feel a flush starting to creep up his neck, and wonders if besides being able to see it, the witcher’s other senses alert him to the fact he’s embarrassed at himself. Then Jaskier remembers Eskel telling him they can smell it, and the creep of his flush goes a whole lot faster, his cheeks suddenly burning with heat. 

“Yes,” Geralt says, and Jaskier jerks a little in surprise. 

He licks his lips, and sees Geralt’s narrow pupils widen and contract. He’s been so in his head, that he’s not entirely sure what the witcher is confirming. “Yes?” he questions.

“Hm. Yes, the view over the valley is nice,” Geralt rumbles. 

“Oh!” Jaskier says. “Of course!  I wish I could see it, but I guess there’s no chance of that unless one of you guardians flies me up. Don’t you worry!” he continues as soon as he’s said it, his voice the tiniest bit shrill in his haste to assure the witcher he expects no such thing. “I know there’s no chance of that happening.”

Geralt frowns at him.

“What I mean to say is,” Jaskier breathes deeply, sternly calling himself to order, “ if you don’t need me for something and you aren’t out here for a stroll, then this is just a coincidence?”

“No,” Geralt says, deadpan, and Jaskier sputters a little. 

“Alright,” he says slowly. “I admit if you let me keep talking I’ll likely come up with about a hundred other options, but I doubt you’ll have the patience for it.”

The corner of Geralt’s mouth twitches, and Jaskier chooses to believe it might signal amusement. “Only a hundred?” the guardian says. 

“Oh, screw you, witcher. Just for that I should see if I can keep going until I find the right answer,” Jaskier says with a subdued chuckle, shaking his head. “That is bound to deter you from further complaining about my talking too much.”

“Wasn’t complaining,” Geralt says, and Jaskier blinks in surprise. “I came to get you for lunch,” the guardian says, and this time Jaskier does more than blink, an actual bewildered noise leaving him. 

“I do know how to find my way to the hall by now, Geralt,” he says slowly. He nods up at Willow. “Even if I didn't, Willow knows the way.”

“Triss said not to walk on it too much,” Geralt grunts, jerking his chin at where Jaskier is carefully not putting any weight on his injured foot. 

He huffs. “She said walking to and from class is fine,” he argues. 

“She said should be fine, bard. There’s a difference.”

Jaskier cannot help the smile that curls his lips. “You’re lecturing a poetry professor on semantics?” he says. 

Geralt raises an eyebrow. “She also said you need to rest it more, or the injury will take longer to heal.”

“Ah,” Jaskier says, “not semantics this time, but you did forget a few words, darling. She said to rest it more, when it hurts.”

The guardian steps forward, looming over him a little. There’s a rumbling sound originating from Geralt’s chest, but it doesn’t sound exactly the same as the growls that he’s been leveled with before. It has Jaskier’s heart pound in his chest, and he feels the hairs on his neck and arms stand on end. He looks up into Geralt’s golden eyes and vividly remembers mentioning to Geralt’s face that he has a thing for beautiful, intimidating men. He makes a sound at the back of his throat that he’s sure the witcher will hear, but is soft enough Jaskier will deny ever having made it.

“Are you saying it doesn’t hurt?” Geralt growls low, and Jaskier forces himself to remember why letting the guardian smell his attraction is a spectacularly bad idea. 

He licks his lips and turns his face away from the witcher, giving himself some space to think and calm down. “I’m not saying that,” he says eventually, looking back up at Geralt. “I’m just saying I’ll deal with it, and if it takes a little longer to heal, then that’s fine—” 

He squeaks in alarm when his feet leave the floor even before he’s seen Geralt move. 

This time when Geralt carries him, Jaskier is neither cold nor in pain, and he isn’t exhausted. 

This time, he’s achingly aware of everywhere his body is pressed against the witcher’s, and of every shift of the guardian’s muscles. This time, he has to recite the most boring song he’s ever heard in his life— one of Valdo Marx’s, forwards and backwards again, in an effort to keep Geralt from smelling his reaction to being carried.

Chapter Text

Jaskier sees Geralt’s nostrils flare every now and again, and almost wishes he remembered more of Valdo Marx’s repertoire. Almost. He’s very aware of the witcher’s warmth and of the strength it takes to carry him, seemingly without effort. Despite his mental recitation of some of the most unimaginative lyrics he’s ever had the misfortune to come across, his mind provides him with imagery of the use of that brawn in a very different context. He feels flustered, and the way Geralt levels him with that sharp golden gaze when he fidgets in his arms does nothing to deter his body’s reaction. 

By the time they’re approaching the doors to the hall he’s thankfully gotten a handle on things, and he no longer feels so very much like a shamelessly wanton thing. Geralt approaches as if he fully intends to carry him all the way inside, and Jaskier briefly presses his palm to that exceedingly firm chest and feels the muscle ripple under his touch. 

“You can put me down now,” he says. “I’ll be perfectly fine walking a few paces, and you probably don’t want to go in there while carrying me.”

Geralt glances down at him with a frown. “Is being seen like this a problem for you?” the witcher growls. 

“What? No?” Jaskier answers, a little dumbfounded. “Why would it be?”

“Hm. This morning when Triss mentioned it, you smelled anxious.” 

He blanches a little at the evidence of exactly how accurate Geralt’s sense of smell is, even when he’s not held in the witcher’s arms, directly under his nose. “Ah. You smelled that, did you?” Jaskier says. He again shifts nervously, and feels the guardian’s arms around him tighten. “I figured you wouldn’t want anyone to know,” he says quietly. 

Geralt tips his head to the side. “Things like that don’t remain private in Kaer Morhen.” The witcher jerks his chin toward the doors. “The rest of the guardians have already heard us coming.”

“So they already know you’ve lugged me all the way down here?” Jaskier says, before realisation hits him. He groans loudly, and buries his face into his hands. “They can hear me right now?” he asks, voice muffled. 

“Yes.” Geralt grunts, clearly not understanding why Jaskier is suddenly entirely mortified. 

Jaskier lifts his hands away and glares up at the witcher. “I just think that one of you at least, could have told me that my waiting outside the doors until I’m no longer huffing and puffing every morning, is entirely useless.”

Geralt’s mouth actually curves a little. It’s not a smile, but it’s the closest thing Jaskier has ever managed to elicit on the guardian’s face. “It’s entirely useless,” the witcher confirms, and jaskier twitches with incredulity. 

“Yes, thank you for this very useful tidbit of information I would have appreciated knowing weeks ago.” He sighs dramatically and shakes his head. “It seems that all efforts to hide my embarrassing lack of physical prowess have been in vain. I guess that means I have no objection whatsoever to you carrying me the rest of the way, if you don’t have any.”

Jaskier tries to ignore the way Geralt’s golden eyes bore into him. The witcher doesn’t respond to what he said, but he feels the guardian’s fingers digging into him a little, as if Geralt’s body is speaking for him.

Jaskier studiously ignores the whispers that accompany being carried into lunch. He supposes the white haired guardian can hear perfectly well what’s being said, but he would never know just by looking at Geralt. He’s carried all the way to his customary seat between Eskel and Yarpenna. The dwarf smirks up at him and reaches for the jug of cinnamon coffee as he is deposited without ever having to put weight onto his ankle. 

Geralt is standing behind him, and Jaskier tips his head back to look up at the witcher, upside down. “Thank you, darling,” he says, and fully expects Geralt to either frown or growl at the endearment. Instead the witcher looks to where he usually sits, a few seats down the table. When Jaskier looks too, he sees Lambert and Aiden with their heads bent close together, whispering. He realises that Geralt undoubtedly knows what they’re saying, and when Lambert grins widely and waggles his eyebrows when the redhead sees him looking, Jaskier hesitantly reaches out to pull on Geralt’s sleeve to catch his attention. 

The guardian’s slitted golden eyes flick down to look at him, and he immediately lets go, gesturing at the other witchers instead. “I know they have a tendency to pester. You’re more than welcome to sit here,” he invites Geralt tentatively. From down the table, a wolf whistle sounds, loud enough it has Willow turning a dark, stormy grey. Jaskier tries valiantly not to flush.

“Hm,” Geralt answers, and Jaskier braces for the rejection that is coming his way. “Maybe next time,” the guardian answers, and he blinks in surprise. He startles a little when as Geralt turns away, the witcher’s hand accidentally collides with his back, fingertips brushing between his shoulderblades. It has a shiver travel down his spine, and when he sees the knowing looks his fellow professors send him, Jaskier picks up his fork and points it sternly in their direction. 

“None of you are allowed to smell me right now,” he hisses quietly under his breath. It’s mostly meant for Eskel and Regis, but he narrows his eyes at Yarpenna, Triss, and Yennefer. They might not be able to scent him, but he wouldn’t put it beyond any of them to have different ways to divine how very many things Jaskier is currently feeling about a man who is only just beginning to regard him with anything other than contempt. 

—000—

Jaskier doesn’t have any classes to teach that afternoon, and so he lingers at lunch. The others do have classes to teach, and eventually he’s left by himself, sipping his second cup of coffee, while the final straggling students leave the hall behind. When he looks at where most of the guardians usually sit, he notes Geralt is the last one left. 

Willow has actually moved away from hovering at his shoulder, and is slowly circling through the hall. As Jaskier watches, the wisp makes a pass in front of Geralt, and the witcher blows a gust of breath. 

“You don’t have a class to teach?” Jaskier asks the guardian, turning in his seat to face him. 

“Not this afternoon,” Geralt answers. 

“Do you do any tutoring as well?” he asks. 

Geralt turns a little toward him. “Hm. Sometimes. To those that show an affinity for a particular weapon.”

Jaskier can’t entirely help making a face, and Geralt’s nostrils flare. He suspects he knows what sentiment the witcher can smell on him, and hastens to explain before Geralt gets the wrong idea. “Nothing wrong with learning how to fight,” he says. “It’s just that I had to endure some fencing lessons when I was younger, and I’m not joking when I say I drove both myself and my instructor to near insanity,” he chuckles. “I paid too little attention, was too clumsy, and talked altogether too much during the entire thing.”

Geralt tilts his head. “Hence the embarrassing lack of physical prowess.”

Jaskier knows those are his own words. He doesn’t have a problem with the fact he’s likely more vulnerable than a lot of Kaer Morhen’s occupants, or at least than many of them will grow up to be. He briefly wonders if the witcher views it as a shameful shortcoming. Geralt’s earlier words after finding him in the forest would certainly suggest so, but then again, the guardian did seem to regret saying them later. 

“Where do you want to go?” Geralt asks, pulling him from his thoughts. 

“Excuse me?”

The witcher huffs impatiently. “You don’t have classes this afternoon. Where do you want to go?” Geralt repeats.

“I didn’t know you were that intimately acquainted with my schedule,” Jaskier teases, before tapping his chin in thought. “I was thinking of checking on Bleater, before spending some time in the library. Both aren’t too far.”

Geralt stands and approaches with purpose. Jaskier thinks he’s mere moments from being unceremoniously scooped up again, and holds up a halting hand. “I can walk, Geralt. You don’t have to carry me around for the rest of the day. I’ll be fine.”

The guardian scowls. “You’re not walking any more on that foot. Not today,” he grits. Jaskier is about to argue when Geralt growls low, more a vibration than an actual sound. He looks at those tense shoulders and the clench of the witcher’s jaw, and sighs. 

“Fine,” he concedes. “But remember that you insisted. Not me.”

—000—

When they enter the stables Bleater is at his stall-door, lazily ruminating. Jaskier doesn’t think he’s ever in his life been so glad to see a goat. Geralt had told him that both Eskel and Bleater returned to the keep unharmed, but he’d still been relieved to see the scarred witcher at breakfast, and he’s relieved now to see Bleater’s squared off eyes lock on them as soon as they enter. Predictably, the goat immediately releases a similar godawful bleat as he did the first time he laid eyes on Jaskier. Willow darts into the space ahead of them, floating past the row of stalls until the wisp hovers above Bleater, swirling excitedly.  

Jaskier pulls at the hem of his doublet a little after Geralt sets him down just out of the goat’s reach. The ensemble he’d been wearing the previous day is entirely beyond saving, both from Bleater’s teeth and his ordeal in the forest. It’s the second one he’s had to give up on since arriving at Kaer Morhen, the first one shredded against the rock little Ciri had been clinging onto. Right now he’s wearing another of his fine silk doublets, the colour that of a cloudless sky in spring. 

Jaskier wags his finger at Bleater as the goat stretches out his head toward him, lip lifting to expose his little teeth. “Now, I just saw you chewing on all that nice straw, so leave my silk alone, if you please,” he says. 

Next to him, Geralt folds his arms over his chest as Jaskier reaches out to pet Bleater’s face, eliciting some loud, appreciative grunts. He supposes he hasn’t learned much from their previous encounter in that regard, otherwise he would have put on something more durable. Not that he has any clothes that would suit. He’d told the witcher the truth the day before. He might have one or two things less colourful than what he’s currently wearing, but none of it is cut out for any sort of rough treatment. 

When Jaskier scratches behind Bleater’s ear and flips it right side in, the goat makes its first attempt on his clothes. The animal noses against the inside of his arm, seemingly to have him reach a particularly itchy spot. Bleater can’t resist a nibble though, and just as the goat starts to lip at the light blue fabric, Geralt reaches out to give his face a gentle shove away from Jaskier’s arm. 

Bleater bleats, and when Geralt scratches behind his other ear, the goat makes no such hungry attempt on the Guardian’s loose black shirt. 

“Why does he not try to eat your attire?” Jaskier asks curiously, watching how Bleater’s eyes close halfway in enjoyment at receiving double the scratches. 

Geralt raises an eyebrow at him. “He knows not to try.”

Jaskier chuckles, rubbing the surprisingly velvety tip of Bleater’s ear between his fingers. “Are you saying the goat can tell I’m soft?”

“Yes,” Geralt says without hesitation, and Jaskier tries to ignore the mix of feelings that elicits. The witcher tilts his head to the side. “It’s not always a bad thing, being soft,” Geralt murmurs, so low that Jaskier almost doesn’t catch it. He blinks up at the guardian, but Geralt isn’t looking at him. The guardian has his profile turned toward him, golden eyes fastened on where he’s scratching through the goat’s fur. 

Jaskier clears his throat. “Not until this one here endeavours to make me go about with far too little clothes on,” he says jokingly, trying to distract himself from the way his stomach swoops. 

They fall into silence for a while, both of them petting Bleater while Willow’s misty grey swirls lighten and darken periodically. Eventually, Jaskier looks over his shoulder to the boxes that hold Scorpion and Roach. “We can’t skip saying hi to Scorpion, can we?” He pauses, “or Roach,” he adds hesitantly. 

Geralt looks at him. “Hm. Get them both an apple,” he says, before grabbing the tip of one of Bleater’s horns and gently shaking the animal’s head. “This one too.”

Jaskier grins happily up at him, and only remembers darting off isn’t a good idea when pain shoots through his ankle and foot. He barely refrains from cursing, and forces himself to walk to the barrel of apples slowly, hoping the witcher didn’t notice. 

Bleater predictably tries to get a bite of the second and third apple he’s holding, and while Jaskier is busy defending the horses’ treats, the goat makes another bid for his sleeve. Once again Geralt gives Bleater a gentle shove. The large herbivore doesn’t seem to mind much, and crunches down on the apple he has been given instead, dripping juice to the stable floor. 

When Jaskier walks over to the other side of the stables he does so very gingerly, aware of the witcher watching him. He calls to Scorpion in a soft, singsong voice, and after a moment’s debate, tries it for Roach too. Eskel’s large Kaedweni war horse neighs loudly in greeting as he lifts his head over his stable door. Jaskier grins and lets him blow warm air into his palm before offering him one of his remaining apples. As before, Scorpion is polite enough to not even scrape his palm as he takes the fruit. Jaskier coos a few soft words at the stallion while petting his shining black coat. He briefly thinks that Eskel riding scorpion with his wings out must be a sight to behold, both the horse and the guardian’s wings as dark as a moonless night. 

The stallion doesn’t even try to get to the apple Jaskier has stashed in one of his pockets, seemingly content with the attention and the treat he got. From the corners of his eyes, he finally spots Roach coming to investigate. The mare has her ears pricked toward Geralt and whinnies in the witcher’s direction, before she deigns to take notice of him. Once she does, her ears fold against the back of her head, until Jaskier takes the last apple from his pocket. The ear closest to him pricks forward again, and Roach bends her long, muscular neck toward him, stretching out in an effort to reach the fruit he’s holding. 

Jaskier looks from her to Geralt, and licks his lips. “Will you halve it for me again?” he asks. 

Geralt wordlessly takes the apple from his hand, splits it in half and hands it back. As Jaskier feeds Roach the first half the witcher reaches out and lays a gentle hand across her face, humming low. It allows Jaskier to trail his own fingers down the mare’s neck without her trying to bite him, and when he hands over the second half of the apple without paying much attention, she lips at it instead of taking it with her teeth. 

—000—

“Same desk?” Geralt asks. 

“Yes, I simultaneously thrive on novelty and interest, while being a creature of habit,” Jaskier responds. “Now put me down, I’m convinced If I don’t walk at least a few paces I’ll get entirely accustomed to being carried around, and I know you wouldn’t want that, darling.”

Geralt’s grunt sounds irritated, but he does set him down gingerly, watching as he slowly walks the final few steps toward the desk he’s all but claimed as his own. Jaskier expects the witcher to leave now that he’s delivered him to his second destination of the afternoon, but when he can practically feel Geralt’s gaze on the back of his head he turns around and raises an eyebrow at the guardian. “You can’t mean to stay here and watch me read, for the sole purpose of keeping me from walking too much,” he says when there’s no immediate response.

“Can’t I?” Geralt says darkly, and Jaskier doesn’t know whether to take it as a threat or a jest.

“Well, I mean, you certainly could, but I’d guess you have better uses for your time. I don’t want to be a bother, Geralt,” he says weakly. At his shoulder, Willow’s fog coloured swirls darken to the shade of rainclouds.

“Hm,” the witcher says, before giving him a sharp nod and turning away. 

“Wait!” Jaskier says, reaching out to grasp onto Geralt’s sleeve and immediately letting go at the low growl that rumbles in the witcher’s chest. “Ah, sorry,” he squeaks, reminding himself not to touch the witcher so freely. Geralt might carry him, but that’s entirely the witcher’s initiative, and he doesn’t want to overstep. “I was just wondering— are there any books on the oculus? I had never heard of it before yesterday, and I would like to learn,” he says hesitantly. 

Geralt frowns at him, and then without warning his wings unfold from behind his back. 

It’s slower than the times Jaskier has seen it before, the rush of sound he’s come to expect completely absent. Instead it’s like Geralt’s wings were already there to begin with, but he only just now takes the time to slowly spread them, as if giving them a stretch. There is light falling through the high library windows, and it reflects off the pure, pristine white of the guardian’s feathers. The witcher lets his wings reach their full span, as if he wants to show their incredible size from tip to tip. 

Jaskier’s mouth falls open and he feels heat gather in his cheeks as his heart pounds in his chest. Just like he thought when he first laid his eyes upon the white haired guardian and his wings, he thinks Geralt is utterly breathtaking.

Geralt takes a step back from him, and seems to wait for something. Jaskier realises the witcher was waiting on Willow, as his small ball of mist quickly darts behind his back. He distantly thinks he’s glad he hasn’t taken out any of his papers yet. They would surely have blown through the entire library, as the guardian brings those mighty wings down with a firm sweep, and lifts himself off the ground. The flow of air the witcher elicits sweeps over him from head to toe. It feels strangely like a caress, and Jaskier makes a soft, pleasantly delighted noise despite himself. 

He stares as Geralt bypasses the carved wooden ladders entirely and flies up to the second balcony. The witcher lands with a grace that Jaskier thinks shouldn’t be possible at his size, and seems to peruse the row of books all the way at the top. From what he can see, Geralt pulls out a thick, leather bound tome.

When Geralt comes back down, he does so by casually vaulting over the balcony’s railing. It’s not so much a slow descent as a carefully controlled fall. The witcher sweeps out his wings at the last possible moment, and lands as lightly as if he’d merely hopped off a stool instead of two whole stories. He tucks his wings with a soft woosh of air Jaskier feels like a whisper over his skin. He’s so focussed on suppressing his responding shiver, that it takes Geralt’s low hum for him to realise the guardian is holding the book out to him. 

Jaskier takes it with careful hands, and strokes his fingers over the embossed title. As titles go, it’s rather unremarkable. It says nothing more than Bestiary, and there’s no mention of an author.

“It has a chapter on the oculus,” Geralt says. 

Jaskier weighs the heavy tome in his hand and shifts his weight. “Do I want to find out what the oculus does?” he asks tentatively. “I mean, the thing is already going to give me nightmares as it is, and this book doesn’t look like it will tell me reassuring things.”

Geralt frowns at him. “It won’t,” he says. “But it’s always better to know what you’re dealing with.” 

“I’m sure I won’t need to know, since I promised not to go back into the forest by myself,” Jaskier says nervously, his voice a little high. He glances at Geralt, and sees the guardian’s slitted pupils widen and narrow as he regards him. “But I agree that knowledge is almost always advantageous. I have to admit that I’m too curious to put it back without reading, now that I’ve seen this book,” he continues, trying to project confidence. 

“Hm. If you have questions, ask Vesemir, or any witcher,” Geralt says, and then without another word, the guardian leaves him behind in the library. 

“Vesemir, any witcher, but not you?” Jaskier murmurs under his breath as he sits down behind his desk and flips through the first few pages to find the table of contents. Willow brushes against the back of his neck in comfort, misty tendrils leaving behind cool, wet trails on his skin. 

Jaskier finds the chapter he’s looking for, and starts to read.

Chapter Text

The book is handwritten, the neat, regular script entirely without frill or decoration. Jaskier half suspects the writing will be dry and hard to get through, despite his curiosity about the subject. The chapter on the oculus is located toward the end of the book. He strokes his fingers over the title to find that whoever wrote it pressed down just hard enough with their pen to make a slight impression in the paper. 

The Oculus

The oculus is especially dangerous to humans. The reason for this peculiarity might lie in its origin. We cannot be certain, but the creature’s shape is humanoid enough that one might suspect it to have ancestral ties with other hominoid beings, or even humans themselves. What is certain, is that it needs human prey to sustain itself. 

Jaskier feels the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He has a dreadful feeling about how the oculus’ danger to humans ties in with its origin. He half wants to stop reading and slam the book closed, but Geralt was right, it’s better to know.

If the oculus is close enough to be noticed, unless you have been hunting it, be sure to know that it has already been hunting you, for a while. Whenever there is a repeated clicking that pursues while in the forest, beware of this creature of shadow made flesh. 

Jaskier vividly remembers the tapping noise he’d heard practically from the moment he’d entered the forest around Kear Morhen. He thinks he’ll never again be able to hear it, and assume it’s nothing more than a woodpecker building its nest. 

At first, it will seem like nothing more than a shapeless silhouette that attaches itself like your own shadow. Trying to outrun it is no use, it is fast and it will follow, biding its time. Humans will inevitably try to get away. Once they tire, stumble, or fall, the oculus emerges from the darkness. 

Jaskier doesn’t really need the book’s description. So far he has managed to carefully push away the image of darkness and gloom coalescing into something chillingly horrible. Reading the carefully written words has the memory sharpening until he feels like he can recall every last detail of the creature. Despite being in the well lit library inside Kaer Morhen, a cold sweat breaks out over his skin and his heart starts to race with adrenaline. He can recall all too well the way it had opened soulless white eyes, and how the thing’s head had split open as it looked at him, revealing a gaping maw. He has to force himself not to shrink down into something small and quivering, and to read until he finds what he’s after. 

The oculus is dangerous to any who encounter it, but where it merely seeks to end the life of others, its tactic when it comes to humans leads to altogether more suffering.

It kills like so many other creatures, rending and tearing, but when it comes to those it hunts as prey, all it takes is a touch from the oculus’ outstretched hands. The touch itself is agony, but it’s the events that follow that are truly wretched. Its human victims will suffer increasing pain as over time their warmth is drained from their bodies. It starts at the extremities and will steadily move inward, until it finally stops the heart. Reaching that point is a relief. 

The oculus’ touch to a human drains them of their warmth, their emotions, and their memories. It drains them of everything they ever felt or held dear. They will be left as nothing more than a shell, perceiving only cold and darkness. They will end up a mindless shadow of themselves, until they cease to be. It might be that the oculus was created through this process in the first place. It might be that it was once human itself.

Upon encountering a human touched by the oculus, it is a kindness to not let it get that far. Stop their heart yourself, release them from what is to come. 

Somehow draining its human victims provides the oculus with sustenance. The exact mechanism of it is unclear. Chaos, perhaps. It is precisely this unknown factor that seems to be the obstacle to gaining knowledge of how to cure the ailment of the oculus’ touch. 

If by some chance a human manages to avoid contact after the oculus has gazed upon them, be aware that when they get close enough, the creature will find them once again. 

There’s more, but Jaskier slams the book closed, his fingers grasping onto the edge of his desk and clenching hard enough it leaves the knuckles bloodless and white. He thinks he understands now why Geralt told him not to ask him, if he had any questions. 

Stop their heart yourself, release them from what is to come. 

Would the guardian have killed him in the forest, if Geralt and Eskel hadn’t been in time to save him from the oculus’ touch, and would it have been a mercy? 

Jaskier sits there for a long while, frozen in place, thoughts whirling. He is completely terrified at what could have happened had the oculus touched him. Part of him is afraid Geralt would have indeed ended his life, and part of him is scared the guardian wouldn’t have. 

When Willow brushes coolly across the back of his neck and circles around to have slightly wet, misty tendrils slide over his cheeks, Jaskier becomes aware that it’s not the first time the wisp has done so. 

“I’m here. I’m alright, don’t worry,” he murmurs at the wisp. 

Willow swirls wildly, and Jaskier’s mouth twists ruefully. 

"Ok, fine." Not entirely alright, but it could have been so much worse.” He glances around himself, at the high windows set into thick walls of stone. He’s sheltered within Kaer Morhen. Right now, he is safe. Geralt said so. 

Geralt might prefer him to ask anyone else, but Jaskier will most certainly ask the witcher himself if this means he can never leave the keep again. 

—000—

Jaskier remains in the library a long while, reading anything and everything to distract himself from thinking of the information in the bestiary. A few students come and go after their classes. They greet him in whispering voices, and he does his best to smile and nod back at them. He’s alone again by the time dinner approaches. Geralt doesn’t come to get him. 

Jaskier very slowly climbs one of the ladders to the first balcony, and then to the second. He knows from where he saw Geralt pull the heavy tome, and the empty spot is not hard to find. He has to lift up onto his toes to be able to reach it and slide the book back into place. Triss’ bandages keep him from doing so on one side, but he tries anyway, causing a stab of pain to shoot through his ankle. Willow darkens and swirls at him, and he hums at the wisp in reassurance.

He debates skipping dinner altogether, but it was only yesterday that his absence at the evening meal triggered a search. Come to think of it, Jaskier has missed dinner before. He’s not entirely sure how the guardians knew he hadn’t just lost time while working in the library, or that he wasn’t merely holed up in his room. 

He sighs. “Let’s not unduly worry them, shall we?” he says to Willow. The wisp swirls and brushes across his forehead before slowly floating out in front of him. Despite still feeling unsettled, Jaskier grins. At least he won’t be heard huffing and puffing this time. 

When he enters the hall for dinner his eyes flit toward Geralt of their own accord, only to find the guardian already looking at him. Jaskier tries to get a glimpse of whatever the witcher might be feeling from that golden gaze, but Geralt turns away. Even from across the hall, he sees a muscle in the witcher’s jaw feather. 

Now that he has more, if perhaps not all of the information on just how wrong things could have gone, Jaskier thinks he better understands the witcher’s response to it. Everything about the guardian had been sharp with anger, and given how Geralt had responded to him from the very beginning, Jaskier hadn’t questioned it. 

He does question it now, especially given how Geralt has interacted with him since. He hums a soothing little noise as he makes his way across the hall to his seat, knowing that the white haired witcher will undoubtedly hear it. 

His fellow professors fuss over him during dinner just as they had during lunch, and though he waves their concerns away, assuring all of them he’s feeling perfectly fine, it warms him to his very core. His assurances are met with varying levels of scepticism, and Eskel especially keeps looking at him with worry. 

“What about you, are you alright, darling?” Jaskier murmurs to the scarred witcher eventually. 

Eskel’s face does something complicated, quickly changing from worry, to surprise, to genuine pleasure, to amusement as he glances over at Geralt for a moment. When the witcher looks back at Jaskier, he’s right back to looking worried. “I’m fine. It’s just that you smell—” he breaks off. 

Jaskier chuckles. “By now I know enough to assume you’re not actually telling me I need a bath. What do I smell like?” 

“Afraid,” Eskel murmurs. It’s soft enough Jaskier thinks those without enhanced hearing won’t catch it, but he suspects the rest of the guardians definitely will. “A little like you did last night,” Eskel continues, and then actually wrinkles his nose on an inhale. 

“Oh,” Jaskier says, and glances over at Geralt as well, to see that the white haired witcher is looking the other way. He wonders if it’s on purpose, or if Geralt isn’t listening at all. “I might be a little unnerved,” he admits. “I read about the oculus this afternoon,” he says, trailing off. 

He sees Eskel look in Geralt’s direction again, before the guardian rolls his eyes ever so slightly and rumbles something under his breath, too low for Jaskier to hear. “If you have questions?” the scarred witcher asks eventually, looking back at him. 

Jaskier does have questions. Eskel could likely answer a few of them, but he knows who he wants to ask. “Perhaps,” he says. “I’m still processing, maybe later.” He tips his head the tiniest bit in Geralt’s direction and raises his eyebrows meaningfully. Eskel nods slowly in understanding, a slight smirk pulling up the scarred corner of his mouth. “I do wonder how you all knew I was missing last night, and not just stashed away somewhere in the castle,” Jaskier says lightly. 

“Because of the keep,” Eskel answers, accompanied by an expansive gesture of the witcher’s hand that seems meant to encompass Kaer Morhen in its entirety. Admittedly, the answer doesn’t tell Jaskier much, and he huffs an amused breath. He glances at Regis with a raised brow, and the vampire smiles just enough to expose his fangs, giving him a nod. 

Jaskier is just considering if he wants to pry to get the information before he meets Regis at the end of the week, when Eskel quietly clears his throat. Jaskier turns just in time to see Geralt leave the hall behind. 

“You alright to walk back up, bard?” Yarpenna says, looking at Geralt’s retreating form with slightly narrowed eyes. “It might not be as comfortable a ride as Geralt’s arms, but I could certainly give you a piggyback.”

Jaskier chuckles and eyes them. Yarpenna might be short, the top of their head reaching just past his hip, but they look sturdy enough that he believes they could pull it off. Still, he hasn’t actually walked all that much today. He looks at Triss. “I’ve basically only walked a stretch this morning, and from the library to dinner,” he remarks questioningly.

The mage nods thoughtfully. “If it doesn’t hurt, walking back up should be fine.”

Next to him, Eskel inhales deeply, and Jaskier playfully smacks the back of his hand against the witcher’s shoulder. “Entirely unfair of you to smell me before I even get the chance to say anything,” he chides.

“The chance to trivialize whatever pain you’re feeling, you mean?” Yennefer says sardonically, leaning past Triss to level him with a considering purple-eyed stare. 

Jaskier shifts a little under the many unimpressed looks shot his way. “Well, even with Triss’ expert treatment it’s still a broken foot. It’s expected to hurt at least a bit, isn’t it? That doesn’t mean I’m hindering recovery.”

Next to him, Eskel makes an entirely sceptical noise. Jaskier feels Regis’ eyes on him as well, and when he glances at the vampire the look in those fathomless black eyes is distinctly displeased. Yarpenna actually lets their hand come down onto the table with a bang that startles him a little. 

“Do you not want to be carried by me, bard?” they say before leaning into his space. “Is it because I am a dwarf? think I’m not strong enough?”

Jaskier makes a soft squeak of alarm. “No!” he says immediately, sounding a little strangled. “I wouldn’t think that! I’ve read that dwarves are incredibly strong for their size and can carry at least twice their own weight, three times if it’s on their backs, and apparently even more when they’re used to handling heavy loads, and—

Yarpenna’s serious expression breaks into a full on smile, and Eskel lays a large hand on his shoulder. “Relax, Jaskier. Yarpenna was just trying to get you to let yourself be carried by guilting you,” the witcher rumbles. 

The dwarf shrugs. “My methods may be questionable, but my intentions are pure,” they say with an unrepentant grin. Jaskier still opens his mouth to apologise, but before he can, Yarpenna elbows him in the side companionably. “Sorry, Jaskier,” they say. 

In the end, Yarpenna compromises by walking him up to his room, their pretty hazel eyes narrowing on him whenever it seems like he is in pain. The both of them follow slowly after Willow, the wisp dictating the tempo by floating out in front. 

“Thanks,” Yaskier tells Yarpenna with a smile once they reach his door. 

The dwarf gives him a brisk nod. “We were all worried about you, Jaskier,” they say, tilting their head. “You’re a part of Kaer Morhen, even if you still have trouble trusting it.”

Jaskier flushes and twists his signet around his finger. “Did anyone ever tell you that you’re frighteningly good at reading people?” he murmurs. 

Yarpenna grins. “You’re not that hard to read, bard. To some of us, at least. Others— well. Others have thick skulls and bad experiences,” they say, voice turning slightly serious. 

Jaskier nods thoughtfully, thanks them again, and watches as they all but run off down the hall, much faster than they’d walked with him. 

—000—

Jaskier is floating in darkness. At first he thinks he must have gotten lost and ended up in Yennefer’s classroom somehow. But no, Yennefer’s space might be made up out of infinite blackness, but it holds small twinkling lights like scattered stars, so this must be someplace else. 

Jaskier whirls around, peering into the endless night. Slowly, shapes start to form. It starts with the silhouettes of trees, slowly coalescing into trunks and branches, leaves, and roots crawling across the ground. He’s in the forest, and he’s all alone. 

He feels Willow’s absence keenly, and hopes the wisp is somewhere safe. Back at Kaer Morhen, perhaps. The sudden realisation of where he is hits him. He’s in the forest outside of the castle, where he promised he wouldn’t venture by himself. 

He had promised Geralt, and yet here he is. Jaskier doesn’t know how he got here, but he knows he has to get out, before—

Not so very far away from him, a tapping noise sounds, as if a woodpecker is carving out a hollow to build its nest. 

Terror hits him hard, and before he’s made a conscious decision, he’s sprinting. Jaskier is distantly aware that he has no idea of the direction he’s running in. It could very well be that with every stride he’s putting more distance between himself and safety. He doesn’t look back, but it still seems like he can see shadows converge on him. 

The night is moonless and there aren’t any stars that light the forest floor. Somehow, Jaskier can see in this world of blackness and can keep running. Somehow, he can see his own shadow following closely behind. He sees how it is shapeless at first, but then it stretches, long, and longer still, growing limbs and grasping hands. He makes a terrified noise, as entirely milky white eyes snap open and look directly at him. 

He’s standing still now, unable to move, as if paralysed by panic. The creature draws in close and circles to face him. The oculus reaches and curls its hands over his shoulders, sharp-tipped fingers dragging against the wings of his shoulderblades. It is touching him, and Jaskier knows it’s too late. Still, he screams. 

There is a flash of light bright enough his pupils contract even behind the protection of his eyelids. He can hear the echo of his scream bouncing against the walls of his room, and sits bolt upright in bed. The sleep shirt he wears is stuck to his skin and his heart is still pounding. There are spots in his vision from Willow’s flash of blinding light, and he blinks rapidly. He crosses his arms in front of himself, grasping onto his own shoulders as if he’ll be able to feel where the oculus touched him in his dream. He shudders, and it takes a few seconds to let go and take a deep, calming breath. 

When Jaskier rubs his cheeks he realises they’re wet with his tears, and he feels very foolish for letting a dream affect him like this. When Willow floats directly in front of his face, dark grey like a brewing storm, he leans his head forward until he can feel the wisp’s cool mist against his face. 

“Nightmare,” he mutters. 

—000—

Just like the day before, every pair of slitted eyes locks onto him when he enters the hall for breakfast the next morning. Jaskier tries not to think about what traces of scent Kaer Morhen’s guardians might smell on him. He has washed his face and put on some fresh clothes, but he would no longer put it beyond them to be able pick up residual traces of fear and the seasalt scent of his tears. 

He doesn’t want any of them to think of him as weak-kneed and trembling, and so he plasters a smile onto his face as he follows slowly but steadily behind Willow. 

Again, the worried looks from the others are ubiquitous as he sits down, and Jaskier can practically already hear the questions they want to throw at him. He shakes his head and babbles, distracting everyone including himself thoroughly enough that by the time he’s gotten through the apple pastry Regis shoves at him and the cup of cinnamon coffee Eskel pours, he’s all but forgotten about his horrid start of the day. 

Jaskier is convinced Geralt’s insistence on carrying him around ended the moment the witcher handed him that bestiary. He’s more than a little surprised when the guardian locks eyes with him at the end of breakfast, stands, and strides purposefully toward him. 

Jaskier would argue, really, he would, if he thought it’d have any use. He doesn’t have to teach a class until the second half of the morning though, and being carried by Geralt is just about the best opportunity he can imagine to ask the witcher some questions. He’s sure Geralt won’t just drop him and leave him behind to get out of answering. Pretty sure. 

Geralt never gets a chance to reach him though, as Lambert springs up from his seat and basically sprints to overtake the white haired guardian. The redhead skids to a halt just behind him, and Jaskier turns in his seat to blink up at the alchemy professor. 

“Bad fucking night?” the witcher says, and Jaskier tears his eyes away from where Geralt is scowling spectacularly just over the redhead’s shoulder. 

Lambert’s words have a few flashes of memory rush to the forefront of his mind, both imagined and all too real, and Jaskier shudders. “You could say that,” he says, trying to keep his tone light and airy. 

Lambert’s nostrils flare. Before he can check if either Geralt or Eskel are smelling him too, the redhead scoops him up from his seat in the exact same type of carry Geralt did, one arm behind his shoulders, one below his thighs. Jaskier makes an entirely undignified noise he’d have preferred to keep to himself in front of a hall full of his students. He especially would have preferred Geralt to not be looking at him like that, cradled in another witcher’s arms. He looks away as furious heat rises to his cheeks. 

“That’s it, bard,” Lambert says. “You’re coming with me. We’re blowing shit up this morning. It’ll be— What’s the fucking word, Aiden?” he yells over his shoulder. 

The green eyed witcher looks between his partner and Geralt, who has crossed his arms over his chest and is very clearly glowering, and cackles. “Cathartic, Lamb,” Aiden yells back. “Seems like our fancy poetry professor could use it.”

Geralt releases a low, rumbling growl that both other witchers seem supremely unimpressed by. 

“Oh. You think it would help?” Jaskier says quietly, unwilling for any students to hear he’s considering pyrotechnics as a means to work through his fear. 

“It might,” Eskel rumbles, still seated at the table. The scarred witcher isn’t looking at him, but is clearly addressing Geralt instead. 

Geralt bares his teeth at Eskel before transferring his gaze to Lambert. “Any fingers or toes blown off had better be yours, little Lamb,” the white haired guardian growls. 

Jaskier can’t help but wiggle his toes in his boots and curl his fingers into his palms as if to protect them. If he’d had to pick, losing a toe would be the far better option. He’d sooner lose all his toes, in fact, than to give up a finger and have to alter how he plays. He looks at Lambert a little worriedly. His concern is hardly assuaged when Vesemir adds his two cents. 

“You will fix any and all property damage yourself,” the dean says with a stern look at the alchemy professor. When the redheaded guardian gives his enthusiastic assent, Vesemir makes a gesture Jaskier can only interpret to be a blessing. 

He’s summarily carried off in Lambert’s arms. Just before they exit, the redhead looks over his shoulder at Geralt with a smirk, and turns back to Jaskier and with a grin and a wink. 

The rush of sound Lambert’s wings make as they appear and spread is slightly different. Jaskier’s gasp of admiration that leaves him practically any time he sees a guardian unfold their wings, is entirely the same.

Chapter Text

Lambert’s wings are a burnished gold tapering to  deep, fiery red at the very tips of his flight feathers. They remind Jaskier of amber gemstones, and of evening light in the mountains, just before the sun starts to dip below the horizon. 

From his vantage point in the witcher’s arms he can only get a glimpse of the base of his wings where the feathers progressively darken. There are small black ones interspersed amongst the gold, an increasing number of them until the wings become solid black closest to their origin. 

They’re bright, though not in the same way Geralt's wings are. They are entirely different from his or Eskel’s, but no less stunning. When Lambert spreads and tilts them, light shimmers across their surface and Jaskier makes a low, appreciative noise. 

“Like them?” Lambert says with a grin, and Jaskier doesn’t miss the proud tone to the witcher’s usually gruff voice. 

He nods. “Lambert, they’re beautiful,” he says honestly. 

The witcher smirks, but also looks genuinely pleased. As they leave the hall behind, Jaskier can’t help but glance back toward Geralt, peeking over Lambert’s shoulder. The white haired guardian is standing just behind Eskel, looking back at him until the doors close.

—000—

Jaskier doesn’t know why he expected Lambert to merely keep walking with his wings out, but he did. He’s wholly unprepared therefore when once they’re out of the hall, those large golden wings angle slightly down and back, and beat powerfully. 

It’s not flight, exactly. Lambert’s feet do leave the ground, but it’s more like the guardian is taking a giant leap forward with every beat of his wings, lightly landing before sweeping them back again and rushing on. It’s fast, unexpected, and after Jaskier releases startled little screeches the first few times, he quickly transitions to exhilarated laughter. 

Lambert grins as he sweeps his wings back again, their time off the ground steadily increasing. Jaskier half doubts that Willow can keep up with them like this, but when he searches for his little ball of mist the wisp is racing along behind them, its core lit by bright blue sparks. 

Lambert carries him all the way to a part of the castle Jaskier hasn’t visited before. The labs that are the witcher’s classroom are located below ground, and Jaskier wonders if it used to be a cave. There’s no sound of dripping water though, and the air doesn’t smell stale or damp. Neither does he notice the telltale scent of bats or insects. The space is dark, and he shivers a little, reminded of the midnight forest he ran through in his dream. 

The guardian sets him on a flat surface that seems to be made of some sort of stone, the material smooth and chilled against the palms of his hands. It’s too dark for Jaskier to see until Lambert starts throwing open large, heavy shutters made from some sort of metal. The witcher moves around the large space until every shutter is opened, admitting both daylight and the flow of air. They’re set close to the ceiling, at the very top of the walls, and he thinks that if looked at from the outside they would be just above ground level. The cave-like labs are still more shrouded than he prefers, but at least now Jaskier can see. 

He’s sitting on a long stone table and notes that all the student’s desks in Lambert’s class are slightly smaller versions of the same material. There are four sink-like hollows carved into each of them, and at least two in the table that serves as his seat look rather charred. He carefully leans over to sniff at the sink closest to him, and gets a whiff of something earthy and slightly bitter. 

“Tumeric,” Lambert tells him while gathering wooden boxes, a few conical flasks made from glass and clay, a couple of bowls, and some things Jaskier couldn’t hope to identify. 

“Tumeric?” he repeats skeptically. “The spice? The one we eat?”

“Don’t go eating this one,” Lambert warns, putting a jar in front of him that contains some sort of powder. 

Jaskier grabs the jar and holds it up to the light. Now that his eyes are adjusting to the relatively low level of light, he sees the powder is a deep, ochry yellow. He chuckles. “It looks like what I’ve seen in a kitchen before,” he says. 

Lambert taps a nail on the glass as he sets down a large wooden box on the far side of the stone slab. “You know the alternative name for turmeric?” the witcher asks, and Jaskier notes the change in his voice that lets him know Lambert has shifted toward teaching mode. 

He unconsciously sits up straighter and licks his lips. “Curcumin,” he says immediately.

Lambert eyes him. “You really do read a fucking lot, don’t you.”

Jaskier shrugs and nods. 

“Curcumin is the active compound in turmeric. It’s what gives the spice its colour and most of its flavour,” the guardian starts. 

“Oh! I do love the colour. Do you think the spice could actually be used to dye things?” he muses, thinking about how he still needs to acquire more durable clothing. If he could get his hands on some raw cotton or linen, dying it that deep ochry yellow could be quite lovely. “What about mixing it with ingredients for paint? Do you think artists have used turmeric to create their—”

Lambert gives him a firm tap against his knee to interrupt him. “Pay attention, bard. Shit that blows up is serious business.”

“Ah, yes. Yes of course,” Jaskier says. “Sorry, darling. Curcumin, you were saying?”

“Curcumin changes its light absorption under exposure to explosive vapours. Its main use in my labs is to check the stability of bombs.” 

Jaskier tips his head to the side. “It changes colour?” he asks curiously.

Lambert grins. “Exactly.” The guardian gestures to the sink Jaskier had been sniffing. “Bomb-making is always done in one of these, as is checking them over for leaks. If it were to detonate, the resulting explosion would be contained.”

Jaskier looks at the stone material of the table he’s sat on, before glancing up at the ceiling directly over the sink. It doesn’t look any different to its surroundings. “The stone is strong enough to contain a blast?” he asks hesitantly. “Won’t it just— blow upward then?”

Lambert nods. “Fucking right it would, if this was anywhere other than Kaer Morhen. Here,” the witcher gestures. “Stick in your hand and see if you can feel anything.”

Jaskier only hesitates for a second before slowly dipping his hand down into the sink-like hollow. When it passes below the desk’s surface there’s a tell-tale tingle across his skin. “Chaos,” he concludes.

“The stone keeps it from blowing outward, chaos keeps it from blowing up. Melitele fucking knows its necessary to have these precautions when dealing with students.”

Jaskier side-eyes him. “Somehow I find it hard to believe you’ve never made anything where these measures were very welcome,” he says diplomatically, resulting in another of the alchemy professor’s wicked grins. 

“What colour do you like, bard?”

Jaskier blinks at the non sequitur. “I think most colours are entirely lovely,”

Lambert snorts. “Of course you do.” Instead of letting Jaskier hop off the table the witcher lays his hands on either side of his waist and lifts him off, turning him around to face the slightly charred sink. “You’ll be making a modest all-purpose bomb. It packs a punch, but it won’t be enough for anything that requires actual destruction. But, it will get a door open without destroying the structural integrity of any load bearing walls surrounding it, that sort of thing.”

Jaskier nods, paying careful attention as Lambert sets out the ingredients next to the sink. “Is it like a recipe for me to follow?”

“Basically. Though I’ll walk you through it this time, since any loss of limb will have pretty boy come for my head.”

“Pretty boy?”

Lambert raises his eyebrows. “I know you find him pretty, bard.”

“Ah. Geralt.” Jaskier flushes slightly and shakes his head. “I think that was more a slip of the tongue than actual protectiveness. He doesn’t like me much,” he says thoughtlessly.

“If he’s convinced you of that, you’re not as fucking observant as I thought,” Lambert says, and Jaskier blinks in surprise. 

The bomb making process is not terribly complicated, but it does involve the mixing and layering of several powders, a very steady hand, and careful attention to Lambert’s instructions. Once it’s done there’s a round, dark metal bomb the size of a large chestnut with a small wick sticking out at the top, lying at the bottom of the sink. 

Jaskier taps a finger against the side of it, making it roll around. Immediately, Lambert janks his hand away with a growl. 

“Never jostle it more than necessary without testing it first,” the witcher snarls. “I watched you make it, so I’m pretty damn sure you’re fine, but that’s a bad fucking habit.”

Jaskier curls his fingers into his palm and nods, before taking the jar of curcumin Lambert hands him. He’s just about to sprinkle a spoonful of the powder around the small bomb as directed, when Lambert’s head jerks up and the guardian looks toward the door. 

When he looks too, Jaskier sees a plume of fluffy white hair just peeking above the stone surface of the tables and moving toward them. Soon after Ciri pops out, an impish smile on her face when she spots them. 

“Hi Jaskier, Hi uncle Lambert,” she chirps happily. 

“Hi little birchling,” Jaskier smiles back at her. “Don’t you have class?”

“Professor Vesemir finished early,” Ciri explains.

Lambert in turn suspiciously narrows his eyes at the tree sprite. “I told you in class, birch-pod, you start with the basics. Making bombs will come when you’re older.”

Jaskier chuckles a little at the nickname and holds out a hand to Ciri to lift her up onto the stone slab. To be honest, he’s rather relieved that though Lambert will let him fabricate explosives without any prior experience— albeit under strict supervision, the alchemy professor isn’t actually teaching their youngest students to do the same. 

Ciri huffs. “I’m not here to make a bomb,” she says loftily. “I’m here to watch Jaskier explode stuff to make him feel better.”

Jaskier reaches out to ruffle Ciri’s pale, fluffy hair. “There’s nothing wrong, little birchling,” he says. 

Both witcher and tree sprite make a disbelieving sound that sounds far too similar for Jaskier’s peace of mind. Ciri crosses her slender, pale arms over her chest. The gesture is eerily reminiscent of the way he’s seen Geralt do it. “I asked Geralt and uncle Eskel, and they said you saw something scary and had a nightmare.”

Jaskier opens his mouth to deny it and reassure the tree sprite that it was nothing, but before he can the strands of Ciri’s hair suddenly adhere to gravity, spilling down her shoulders. 

“I have nightmares sometimes,” she says seriously while looking up at him with a sudden shadow in her usually lively green eyes. 

Jaskier remembers all too well how she’d closed off that time in the library when he’d mentioned something that triggered her. He swallows and nods at her. “I did have a nightmare. You’re right. It was— scary.”

Ciri leans toward him and hugs her branch like arms around one of his. Jaskier rubs carefully along her back, hoping to comfort the little sprite. 

“Uncle Aiden says Lambert is helping you— be like a cat?” she says when she leans back, wrinkling her nose in slight confusion. 

Jaskier laughs and pulls on the dark green end of one of the birchling’s pale locks when it  slowly starts to fluff back up. “Cathartic, Ciri,” he says gently. “It has nothing to do with cats. It's derived from an ancient elder word, Katharos, which means pure, or clean. It means to cleanse yourself of something. Fear, in this instance.”

The rest of Ciri’s hair fluffs up as well, and she nods seriously. “Geralt says it’s good to let it out when you’re afraid. He says holding it all inside will only make it grow.”

Jaskier feels a sudden rush of appreciation for the white haired guardian. Despite how he’s so far seen a whole lot of the witcher being hostile, gruff, or angry, it’s good to know that Geralt’s true nature might be different. He wonders if the guardian’s changing behaviour toward him might just be a glimpse of that very thing.

“Every once in a while he spouts something other than utter bullcrap,” Lambert adds gruffly, and Ciri giggles.

Lambert tells him to make three more of the same little bombs, and gives Ciri the task of carefully measuring out piles of coloured powder that Jaskier is supposed to add. 

“That’s not in the recipe you just taught me,” Jaskier says. “What’s it for?”

“You’ll see, bard. Birch-pod, pay careful attention. You’re not making any bombs this year but this is one of the first ones you’ll learn eventually,” Lambert says while moving to the sink set furthest away from them in the table and pulling out all sorts of things from the boxes he set down there before. 

Ciri nods seriously, and adds another few grains of a deep, sparkling blue powder to a small pile of it. Next to the blue are two more piles, one lustrous and golden, the other bright, fiery red. 

Jaskier is distantly aware of Lambert constructing something elaborate in his own sink, but he steadily focuses on his own work, glad for Willow’s added illumination when it comes to the more precise parts of it. When the alchemy professor tells him to add the coloured powders between the step he just completed and the next, he’s aware that though he and Ciri are seemingly left to their own devices, Lambert is paying careful attention to what they’re doing. 

“Done!” he says when he eventually caps the fourth little bomb, carefully securing the wick in place to prevent it getting pulled inside too far and becoming dangerously short. Ciri claps her hands, and Jaskier reaches out to ruffle her hair again. 

On the other end of the table Lambert snaps something closed as well, before wiping his hands on his thighs. The guardian moves closer, nodding when he sees the four neatly arranged chestnut sized bombs at the bottom of Jaskier’s sink. “Powder’s in there, birch-pod?” he asks. 

Ciri happily chirps her assent. The little birchling’s hands are covered in the stuff, her pale birchbark skin taking on the different colours. 

Lambert jerks his head toward the jar of curcumin. “Check your work.”

Jaskier very gingerly scatters a circle of the powder around each of the bombs and squints in an effort to spot any change in colour. To him, it seems like the deep ochry yellow of the spice remains exactly the same. He looks up at Willow. “A little more light?” he asks the wisp. 

Willow brightens for a few seconds, casting pale blue light onto the bombs at the bottom of the sink. The yellow remains just that to Jaskier’s eyes. Yellow. He looks up at Lambert questioningly. 

“You’re good,” the witcher says. “Grab them, fucking carefully, and come with me. This is the fun part.”

Willow floats directly above him as they leave the labs behind. Jaskier lets Ciri ride on his shoulder as he follows behind the alchemy professor. Lambert grabs a much, much larger object from his own sink, carefully bundling it in a woollen blanket before carrying it under his arm. 

The witcher leads the way to an arched wooden door covered in iron plates and studs to reinforce it. When the guardian opens it Jaskier sees nothing but darkness beyond. There’s a light breeze that wafts toward them, cool and slightly damp. Lambert’s classroom reminds him of a cave but doesn’t smell like it, but whatever space lies beyond this door certainly does. He has to swallow tightly at the absolute lack of light, imagining pale, milky white eyes looking at him from deep inside the darkness. 

He sees Lambert’s slitted eyes shift over to him and shakes his head. “It’s fine,” he murmurs, taking a deep breath in an effort to calm the rapid beat of his heart. 

“It’ll only be dark for a moment,” the witcher says. “Once we get to the vaulted cavern there’ll be torches on the walls.” 

Jaskier eyes the dark dubiously. “And I’ll get there without breaking my neck?” he says sceptically. “A broken foot is quite enough, let me tell you.”

Lambert rolls his eyes and glances up at Willow. “Did you forget you have a damn wisp?” the witcher asks. 

Willow brightens in response and darts forward, pale blue light swirling slightly, very effectively lighting up the darkness enough for Jaskier to see it’s a long corridor with irregular stone walls, leading away and further into darkness. 

Lambert goes first, bundle of wool and explosives firmly under one arm. Ciri reaches out to pull on his hair and swings her legs so her small heels tap against his chest. “Come on!” she chirps. “Don’t you want to see what we made?”

“Yes,” Jaskier says, taking a deep breath. “Yes. I do.” 

Without looking back, he steps into the darkness, following Willow’s light and Lambert’s bright red hair. 

They end up in what Jaskier thinks must be the largest underground cavern he has ever seen, or read about for that matter. At first the sheer scale of the open space is unclear to him, but then Lambert gestures a few times and multiple torches on the wall catch a flame. The light is enough for him to know there’s vast open space in front and below them, but not quite enough to know exactly where the cave ends. When he looks into the darkness he sees a few bright spots that could be light spilling in from openings to the surface somewhere. 

“This is where you blow things up?” he asks, keeping a careful grip on the four small bombs in his hands.

Lambert gestures around them. “Not much we can damage here. The cavern is made up out of the same stone as the tables back there. Kaer Morhen’s foundation is strong,” he says. “That, and we’re mostly closed off from daylight here, so I can regulate the illumination, depending on what we want to see of the explosion.”

Jaskier eyes the dark, seemingly empty stretch of space. “And this is how much light we’re getting today?”

“You want to chase away the fucking dark, don’t you?” Lambert says. 

Jaskier shudders and nods, trying not to imagine the oculus moving out there in the shadows. 

Lambert lays out the woollen blanket and the large explosive he carried within on a flat, squared off boulder just to the right. When he gestures, Jaskier carefully adds his four smaller bombs. 

“Start with the first one we made,” the alchemy professor says, picking it back up and handing it to him before he snatches Ciri by the back of her shirt to transfer her to his own shoulder. “I’m gonna light the fuse for you. As soon as it catches, you throw the damn thing, no exceptions. And for fuck’s sake bard, throw it that way,” Lambert grouses, pointing toward the darkness. 

Jaskier chuckles despite his nerves. “Glad to know you think so highly of me as to think I need that kind of added instruction.”

Lambert grins sharply. “You kinda look like you might drop it if startled.”

Jaskier shakes his head fondly and holds out the round bomb between the tips of his fingers, the fuse facing out toward Lambert. The red haired witcher makes a quick, familiar gesture with his fingers, and then suddenly the fuse is sparking and catching on fire. 

Jaskier’s heart pounds and the skin at the back of his neck prickles. He’s careful to keep his grip firm on the smooth metal as he turns around, pulls his hand back, and throws it as far as he possibly can. 

If not for the lit fuse the small bomb would have quickly disappeared into the darkness of the cavern. As it is, they can see it arc through the air, reach its highest point, and start to fall down. From the corners of his eyes Jaskier can see Ciri sway back and forth on Lambert’s shoulder, the excitement in her small face evident even in the low light from the torches. The witcher sports a similarly excited grin, and Jaskier feels his own lips curl. 

The small point of light keeps falling, moving down at speed. Lambert steps forward to grasp the fabric between his shoulder blades to direct him a couple steps forward, so he can peer over the edge he hadn't noticed before, to keep watching it fall. Jaskier attentively tracks its downward trajectory, holding his breath. 

The sparking fuse goes out. 

He’s just opened his mouth to ask Lambert what went wrong when the thing explodes. It startles him enough he can’t hold in the scream. His voice gets lost in the low, reverberating boom of sound, and he deliriously thinks that Lambert wasn’t kidding when the guardian told him the small bomb packs a punch. 

More impressive than the sound is the show of light. The illumination is plain but bright. It spreads fast, casting the cavern in stark relief, creating a play of light and shadow. Where seconds ago there was only sparsely illuminated darkness, suddenly an entire world opens up. Jaskier gapes, his involuntary scream dying out before turning into delighted laughter. Behind him, he can hear Ciri’s giggle of rustling leaves, and Lambert’s deep chuckle. 

The bomb’s light reveals the underground chamber to be even larger than he thought, stretching all the way toward the small sources of light he’d spotted in the distance. They’re on a plateau that sticks out a ways into the cavern. He can see the vaulted ceiling that forms the foundation of the keep. When he looks down, open space seems to stretch almost endlessly. Colossal, crystal-coated stalagmites rise like fountains turned to stone, and stalactites drip down like frozen waterfalls. Their surface reflects the light, refracting it until it bounces off the walls as tiny rainbows. There are hints of ruby, sapphire, and emerald sparking in the wet stone surface, and Jaskier has never imagined the gloom of a cave could be this beautiful. 

He stares, trying to take it all in before the bomb’s light dims. Some of the columns are thick and gnarled like ancient tree trunks while others are delicate spires that seem like they would snap and crumble from a mere gust of wind. He’s reminded of Kear Morhen’s many differently shaped towers, and thinks the keep’s structure itself hints at what lies hidden far below it. 

When they’re plunged back into relative darkness, Lambert taps his shoulder. Jaskier turns toward him and gets the second small bomb pressed into his hand. This time when he throws it, he thinks he’s prepared for the boom of sound and play of light, and he is, sort of. He yells more than he screams, the exhilaration and release of adrenaline buoying him up, only to be replaced by the awe of seeing the cavern lit up with bright red light. 

The next bomb bathes the cave in blue, and the last one is bright and golden, and leaves him breathless. 

Ciri is plonked back onto his shoulder, and he can feel the young tree sprite practically vibrate with excitement. “One of uncle Lambert’s now,” she whispers in his ear, and Jaskier has to squint to see what the witcher is doing after all that bright light stealing away his night vision. 

Lambert is hoisting the large object he devised while Jaskier and Ciri were fabricating their smaller ones onto his shoulder. “Right, take at least five steps away from the fucking edge,” he says with a grin. “Wouldn’t want you falling in if the vibration startles you.”

The sound Jaskier makes is one of wordless excitement, and he immediately obeys. He scurries backward, taking an extra step back for good measure. He watches as Lambert lights the fuse, and then absolutely launches the thing into the distance. The guardian immediately retreats, and Jaskier wonders why he takes up position behind them until there’s the rush of his tucked wings coming back out. He’s suddenly enveloped in golden feathers, his and Ciri’s heads peeking out just above the edge so they can see. 

He holds his breath as he watches the bomb fall, and sees the fuse go out. 

The resulting blast is staggering, and if not for Lambert’s wings and the guardian’s sturdy form standing directly behind him, Jaskier might not have kept his feet. He wouldn’t be surprised if it’s strong enough to vibrate through Kaer Morhen and all its occupants. 

There are glowing sparks of colour raining down through the entirety of the cave, and every time he thinks it’s over more sparks ignite and spread in strangely beautiful geometric patterns. The changing light casts long shadows that seem to dance along the walls, only to be obliterated by the next burst of colourful light illuminating the shimmering stone. 

The display of light disappears before the echoes of sound die out entirely. Jaskier feels like he has to catch his breath. It’s only once he does that Lambert unfolds his wings from around him and tucks them. Ciri’s small hands are still clenched in his hair with her excitement at the pyrotechnics.

“Feel better?” the guardian smirks as Jaskier turns toward him with a wide grin on his face. 

He’s about to nod vigorously, but pauses to take honest, careful stock of how he feels. He sees the witcher’s nostrils flare, slitted eyes regarding him closely. Jaskier is pleased— if a little amazed, to find that the fear that had overtaken him after reading the bestiary is no longer so very overwhelming. It’s like the adrenaline of it all really did cleanse him of it.

He blinks, nodding up at Lambert. “Much better,” he says.

Above him, Willow flickers with blue light, making patterns of illumination dance across the walls closest to them.

—000—

Before they leave the classroom behind, Lambert grabs onto his hand and presses a by now very recognisable chestnut sized sphere into it. Jaskier’s fingers twitch around the bomb, and he looks at the alchemy professor with slight alarm. 

“I thought you said not to take anything from your labs unless I want my eyebrows singed off, never to grow back again.” He raises one of said eyebrows in demonstration. “I must say I’m very fond of my eyebrows, darling.”

Lambert snorts. “And you’d look ridiculous without,” the witcher says, “so I fucking stand by what I said.”

“What is this, then?” Jaskier asks curiously. 

“It is a bomb,” Lambert acknowledges. “Just like the ones you made today. This one has been encoded with chaos,” he says, tapping a nail against the spot that’s wickless, where the other bombs weren’t. “You don’t want to know what Yennefer asked for it in return, but here it is.”

“Encoded?” Jaskier asks, carefully turning the small bomb over in his hands as Ciri leans forward from her position on his shoulder to steal a look at it. 

“Remember,” Lambert says. “It won’t lead to destruction on a large scale, but it packs a fucking punch. You throw this one with intent, and it will detonate.”

Jaskier feels the sudden sting of tears behind his eyes and carefully stashes the bomb into a pocket inside his doublet as he furiously blinks to keep from crying. When he looks up, Lambert’s usually gruff expression looks distinctly worried. “You are darling, you know that?” he says warmly, before leaning up to kiss the witcher on the cheek. 

Lambert’s eyes widen before he looks away and grumbles something under his breath. Jaskier has no doubt it includes more than a few rude words, but doesn’t miss the way the tips of the guardian’s ears turn red. 

He turns his head to look at Ciri, still perched on his shoulder. “What’s your next class, little birchling?” he says, “I’ll drop you off.”

“I have Triss’ class next,” Ciri says happily. 

Lambert eyes him and inhales, and Jaskier knows what’s coming. “Oh, no you fucking don’t, bard. You’re not walking.”

Before Jaskier can think of getting a word in edgewise, he’s once again unceremoniously scooped up, tree sprite and all this time.

Chapter Text

Jaskier is prepared to maybe get carried around once or twice more in the following days. His ankle and foot hurt a little less each time he walks, and so he’s fully willing to slowly make his way around Kaer Morhen until Triss takes the bandages off. For some unfathomable reason, the staff seem to have decided on the complete opposite. 

Not a single one of the guardians that sweep him off his feet seems to consider that the entire student body bears witness to the new, human professor being carted everywhere. Not to mention the fact that most of them hear the very audible noises of startlement every time Jaskier doesn’t see the witchers coming and is lifted unexpectedly. He highly suspects that at least half of the guardians sneak up on him on purpose. He’s tempted to tell them off for it, but it makes his students giggle, and the big, intimidating guardians always look so pleased with themselves that he can’t help but accept the treatment without too much protest. Instead he holds his head high, waves at his students, and gestures the guardians onward, telling them where he wants to go. 

When Jaskier first arrived it had been very clear to him that the school’s guardians weren’t pleased with his presence. Part of him feels that the witchers carrying him around like this, is to let him know that’s no longer the case.

Halfway through the week Aiden scoops him up from the breakfast table and casually asks him about Lambert’s wings. Jaskier blushes and hesitates to comment on them to the redhead’s partner, but Aiden just grins widely at him when he eventually does. As they talk, Jaskier finds that the dark skinned witcher might be less crass in the way he speaks, but that he’s hardly surprised that those two found each other. 

When it’s time to return to lunch, it’s Coen who’s outside of his classroom. Jaskier doesn’t know much about him, seeing as the guardian tends to be a quiet observer. As he’s carried down he babbles about a particular sonnet that has been occupying his thoughts. It turns out the witcher knows the one he’s talking about, and Jaskier is pleasantly surprised when their conversation on the exact interpretation of the volta lasts all the way to the hall and continues during lunch. 

Because of his conversation with Coen he’s seated in the middle of the guardians instead of his usual spot, and when Geralt looks at him and stands after he’s taken his final bite, he fully expects the white haired guardian to scoop him up. He doesn’t, and Jaskier fidgets self-consciously when Geralt leaves the hall behind instead. 

He gets to know Tiberius, a giant of a guardian, who to Jaskier seems too massive to ever be able to take to the skies. He is carried by Ivar, a witcher with one slitted yellow eye and one so pale it’s almost white, the pupil oriented horizontally instead. 

Eskel carries him too, and Jaskier allows himself to relax a bit more fully in the scarred witcher’s arms than he was able to with any of the others. One time, even Vesemir carries him, and tells him it’s to discuss the tutoring he’s soon going to start. 

Though Jaskier is going stir crazy with the lack of exercise, he thinks that once his foot is healed, he’ll quite miss being carted around. 

—000—

At dinner on friday Jaskier is just about to inquire if Regis still plans to indulge his questions afterwards, when the vampire addresses it himself. 

“We could head to the library once we finish here, Jaskier?” the history professor asks. “Or, we could retire to my rooms, instead. I have a lovely Toussainti red that pairs well with conversation.”

Jaskier leans forward eagerly. Though the beverages served at Kaer Morhen’s meals are lovely, he’s not about to say no to sampling any wine Regis offers. He tilts his head as he considers the vampire’s age. “A vintage, I presume?” he says slyly. 

Regis chuckles and leans back in his chair, fathomless black eyes twinkling with amusement. “If that’s what it takes to tempt you away from the library and all its books, then yes,” the vampire replies casually. 

“That and the promise of learning things I am entirely curious about should do it,” Jaskier nods. 

Eskel shifts in his seat next to him, alerting him to the fact there’s someone standing right behind him. When he looks up, the back of his head actually brushes against Geralt’s stomach, and he looks right at the underside of the guardian’s chin. Jaskier fervently wishes that at some point he’ll stop making embarrassing noises in front of Geralt. He immediately shifts forward, and studiously ignores both the warmth in his face, and of the guardian at his back. When he twists to cautiously look back up at the witcher, he sees Geralt is glowering at Regis. 

The vampire smirks. “Of course, if we’re going to discuss the keep, it might be prudent to have one of its guardians present as well. Would you care to join us, Geralt?”

Jaskier doesn’t know what has Geralt looking like he ate something particularly foul at dinner that’s currently disagreeing with him. He fully expects the guardian to decline the invitation, but when it comes to the white haired witcher it seems he’s wrong in his assumptions as often as he is right. Geralt accepts. 

Jaskier remembers how Geralt had reacted to his very brief mentions of alcohol and revelry, and resolves to severely limit himself when it comes to tasting any of Regis’ wines. 

Regis extends his invitation to several others. Lambert sniffs and says he’s not spending his friday night with his nose tucked into a book. Aiden seems like he wants to accept, but declines when the redheaded alchemy professor whispers something in his ear that has both Geralt and Eskel rolling their eyes. Triss and Yennefer shake their heads, and when Jaskier jokes they’re busy because of the full moon that will rise over the horizon soon, Yennefer looks at him sharply, and neither mage denies it. He blushes furiously and stammers an apology, glad at the amusement in Triss’ eyes and the hint of it in Yennefer’s imperious expression. 

Eskel and Yarpenna decide to join them, and though Jaskier is still itching to get Geralt alone at some point to batter him with entirely too many questions, right now he’s rather grateful for the buffer. 

Regis approaches him when he stands, intending to pick him up and carry him off no doubt, but before the vampire can reach him he’s lifted off his feet and held against a firm, all too recognisable chest. He blinks up at Geralt from his position in the witcher’s arms, but the guardian isn’t looking at him. Geralt is frowning at Regis instead, and the history teacher is returning his gaze with a curiously pleased expression. 

“Follow along,” the vampire spurs them on, and leads the way out of the hall, Willow circling around their little group like a small, translucent moon. 

—000—

The walk toward Regis’ quarters isn’t all that long, but Jaskier still manages to babble enough that he fully expects Geralt to growl. It doesn’t happen, and instead the witcher periodically hums back at him, as if he’s listening. It does nothing for his ability to moderate his words, and he ends up telling Geralt all about his experience with Lambert’s colourful bombs. When he lets slip that the alchemy professor gifted him one of the small bombs and that he’s taken to carrying it around with him, Jaskier would even dare say Geralt’s nod looks the slightest bit approving. 

Regis’ quarters are spacious, much bigger than his own single tower room. Jaskier thinks he can recognise how many centuries the vampire has been alive by the way it’s furnished. Most of it is elegant, stately, and old. There are quite a few pieces he’s pretty sure are exceedingly rare, and highly sought after by collectors across the continent. The space is more formal than Jaskier would like himself, but it suits the history professor. 

He ends up on a green velvet sofa in front of the hearth. He opens his mouth to invite Geralt to take the seat next to him, but before he can Yarpenna jumps up into it and elbows him in the side. 

“This is the most comfortable spot, closest to the fire,” they say conspiratorially. 

Eskel and Geralt settle into low-backed armchairs, leaving the imposing wingback to Regis. The vampire hands out glasses and pours wine, and Jaskier smiles at the fragrant scent of the red, carefully nipping from the glass and licking the rich, red fruit flavour of it off his lips. 

When Regis settles, the vampire’s dark eyes come to rest on him. “There is a lot of information in Kaer Morhen’s library, and you’ve been prodigious in your efforts to read your way through it,” Regis begins, and Jaskier nips at his wine again to cover his flush. The vampire smiles at him indulgently, the tips of his fangs reflecting the firelight. “There are some things that even those books won’t tell you.”

Jaskier trails his fingers over the stem of his glass. “Not everything can be captured by the written word,” he jokes lightly. 

Eskel chuckles and Yarpenna snorts. “Are you sure you’re in agreement with that statement?” the dwarf says. “You’re a bard, after all. I thought your lot claims everything can be captured in words, if you’re but talented enough.”

“Ah,” Jaskier hums, “it’s true we might try, and we might even feel we did indeed capture the very essence of a thing. To someone reading it however, the interpretation might be vastly different from how we meant it, and so the true nature of it hasn’t been captured at all. Perhaps everything that’s written is a mere facet of the truth as those that wrote it perceived it to be. Those that read it might perceive a facet similar, but not entirely the same. Now, compared to poetry, scientific text can be—”

He breaks himself off, clapping a hand over his mouth, recognising how his voice has slipped over into the one he uses to teach. When he glances at them, the others are grinning, and even the line of Geralt’s mouth is relaxed enough it looks like it wouldn’t take too much effort to transform it into a smile. 

“The same can be said for the spoken word,” Eskel rumbles. Next to him Geralt’s relaxed expression slowly transforms into a frown. 

“Are you suggesting nothing is the truth, and at the same time everything is?” Geralt says, setting down his glass of wine on a side table and resting his sharp golden gaze on Jaskier. “That sounds like you’re justifying lies.”

“Oh,” Jaskier says. His heartbeat picks up, and he hastily shakes his head. “No, that’s not what I meant. Purposefully twisting information to alter the image is— something entirely different.”

Geralt’s nostrils flare, and for a moment Jaskier expects harsh words to flow from the witcher’s mouth, but then the guardian gives him a slow, considering nod. 

“I know wine can’t get you drunk, but you should try, Geralt. It might loosen you up,” Yarpenna snarks. Geralt bares his teeth at the dwarf, and Jaskier nervously sips at his own drink again. 

“Let’s not get into a philosophical discussion on the nature of truth,” Regis says with a raised eyebrow. “Not tonight, at least.”

“Not everything can be found in those books you’ve read, because not everything is written down,” Eskel says, as Geralt looks away from Yarpenna and returns to watching Jaskier intently. 

“The book I read was rather vague on some points,” Jaskier nods. 

“It secures the safety of the keep and its students,” Eskel continues. “If those books would ever leave the school, some secrets would remain safely kept.”

Jaskier licks his lips and nods. “Like what you did with the erasure of public information on wisps?” he asks, glancing up at the ceiling where Willow hovers peacefully. 

“Humans can’t abuse information they don’t have,” Geralt says tonelessly, and Jaskier flinches and looks down at his hands cradling his glass. 

“So, word of mouth then,” he says softly, not looking back up. “You keep it all in your heads?”

Regis clears his throat. “Enough of us know, that the information is safe.”

Jaskier purses his mouth before looking back up at them. “That’s a precarious thing. Not enough people know the secret and the information might be lost over time. Too many, and it won’t remain secret at all,” he muses. “You— you don’t need to tell me,” he says quietly, glancing at Geralt. “I have no desire to know things that would make you vulnerable. Not if you think I won’t keep it to myself.”

He gasps a loud oof when Yarpenna elbows him a little more sharply than they usually do. “You wouldn’t be here if that was the case, Jaskier. So no more complicated ramblings on truth and secrets, please. I feel like I’m in a damn class myself,” they say, not unkindly. 

Jaskier chuckles and nods at them, looking back at Regis. The vampire leans back in his wingback chair, regarding him over the rim of his glass. “Let’s start with how Kaer Morhen’s guardians were created, shall we?” the vampire says. 

Both Geralt and Eskel shift in their seats almost imperceptibly, but Jaskier is looking for it. The movement is subtle, barely there, and it reminds him of how they shift their shoulders just before their wings rush into view. 

Jaskier sits up straighter as well, paying careful attention. For all that they roam the school and its grounds, teach classes and share meals with him daily, he still feels like he knows precious little about Kaer Morhen’s famed guardians. He knows they guard the school and its students against any and all that mean them harm. He knows that regrettably, that harm mostly comes from humans. He knows they’re large and strong, and that he’s only beginning to understand how sharp their senses are. He knows they can tuck their wings and have them come out at will, that they can use them to soar through the sky, to envelop, or to spread them wide in a protective physical barrier. He knows some of them have lovely golden eyes that have him keenly aware of every time they look at him. 

“The guardians are of the keep,” Regis says, and again Geralt and Eskel shift. 

Jaskier cocks his head to the side inquisitively. “Yes,” he says slowly. “I feel like I knew that already?”

Regis sips his wine and shakes his head. “You think you know, but it’s more literally true than you realise.”

“How so?” 

“Kaer Morhen has always protected those that live here. It is safe within the keep’s walls. At first, that was enough.”

A curl of dread unfurls in Jaskier’s stomach at the vampire’s words. “It was enough, until it wasn’t,” he says quietly. Yarpenna makes an affirmative noise next to him, their expression uncommonly solemn.  

“Kaer Morhen did not yet have any guardians at the time the pogroms happened,” Regis says. “It was long ago, and historic records of it have been destroyed across the continent, lest they be used as a blueprint to orchestrate such events again.”

Jaskier shakes his head. “That would explain why I have no idea what you’re referring to. But, that doesn’t sound— wise? How can we prevent events from repeating themselves if we cannot read about them and learn to do better? How can things be different then? I suspect there were no records the first time, and it did happen.”

Geralt grunts. “Just listen, Jaskier,” the witcher says. 

Geralt has called him human, and has called him bard. He’s not sure the witcher has ever called him by his name before. It’s like a shock to the system, and he’s loath to admit it leaves him a little breathless. “Oh. Yes. Of course. Sorry,” he manages to say eventually, his voice a little more squeaky than he’d like. He gestures to Regis to keep going, flustered. The vampire takes pity on him, continuing his explanation. 

“Kaer Morhen is the oldest school on the continent, and at that time the only place non-humans converged. The keep itself is safe from human invasion, and somehow they knew that. Fear of non-humans had grown in the continent in the decades before. It was a powder keg waiting to explode, and when it did, it was with far more precision than expected.”

Jaskier has to make a conscious effort to relax his fingers around his drink, lest he shatter the delicate glass. He brings it to his mouth and takes a large gulp of wine instead of nipping at it. Right this moment he doesn’t care if Geralt disapproves, not with what he suspects he’s going to hear.

“They waited for the students to leave the castle and its grounds,” Regis says quietly. “They waited until they were out of the keep’s sphere of protection. They were quiet, methodical, and fast. The ones inside did not know it was happening, and so when their time came to visit their families, they too left Kaer Morhen behind. Humans killed them all.”

Jaskier sits frozen, staring into Regis’ black eyes. “But— they were children,” he says, his voice trembling and his heart beating to the drum of horror in his chest. 

“Not to them,” Geralt says. “To them they were other. Not normal. Not human.”

Jaskier passes a hand over his eyes before taking another large gulp of wine, nearly draining his glass. 

“This was centuries ago,” Eskel says. “Humans don’t remember and don’t know. We remember because we have to. Because it might happen again.” 

Jaskier thinks of his little students and feels the sharp sting of tears at the back of his nose. They’re all quiet for a little while, his own harsh breaths loud to his ears. 

“Kaer Morhen still holds sentience. In those times, it held more. The keep was, and still is, connected to all that have lived under its roof. It knew what happened to its students. It felt every individual loss, and could do nothing to save them. The castle knew it could happen again, and so it made a sacrifice,” Regis continues eventually. 

“It sacrificed some of its sentience to better protect those in its care,” Jaskier says slowly, coming to an inevitable conclusion. “The guardians?” he asks, looking at Geralt and Eskel. Both witchers give him a nod. “How?” Jaskier asks, directing the question at Regis. “You say the guardians are of the keep, what does that mean?”

“The castle still has a lot of gargoyles,” the history professor says, and Jaskier nods along, remembering the small stone creatures perched high above the entrance to the castle, looking down. “When the keep sacrificed part of its sentience, some of them came to life, spread their wings, and left their position on the castle walls.”

Jaskier’s mind actually takes a few seconds to process that information. Once he does, he looks doubtfully at the witchers. “You’re gargoyles,” he says sceptically. 

Eskel smiles at him. “Why do buildings have gargoyles, Jaskier?” the scarred witcher asks. 

Jaskier huffs a breath before draining his glass. “Well, other than ornately decorated waterspouts in some buildings, traditionally they’re added as— oh!”

“Yep,” Yarpenna says next to him, popping the p loudly. “They’re guardians. They were before, and they are now. Their stone past is the reason they insist on referring to themselves as cats and wolves, bears, cranes, vipers, griffins and manticores,” the dwarf says. 

“How so?” Jaskier asks, shifting to face them a bit more.

“It’s the shape we had before,” Eskel answers him. “Geralt and I, Lambert and Vesemir, we are wolves. Aiden’s a cat, Coen’s a griffin.”

“Oh,” Jaskier says. “I thought cat was just a weird nickname Aiden had. I thought it’s because his voice sounds like he’s purring, sometimes.” 

Yarpenna looks delighted at that, and to Jaskier’s mortification loudly announces they’ll be telling the witcher that as soon as they see him.

“The keep is rooted to the earth, grown from the mountains itself, and it cannot move,” Regis says, pulling their attention back to him. “After the pogroms, it made sure that those it sent out into the world could count on aid, even far beyond its walls.”

Jaskier shakes his head when Regis offers him more wine, quickly glancing at Geralt’s still mostly full glass. “Is that ever necessary?” he asks, “aiding those out on the continent?”

Regis raises his eyebrows. “What do you think the guardians do every day, bard?”

“Uhm,” he glances at Geralt and Eskel again. “Teach? Patrol?”

“You know only a few of us teach,” Eskel says. “There are always guardians at Kaer Morhen, but we go out into the continent regularly.”

“To come to the aid of those who need it," Jaskier says. 

“Yes,” Geralt confirms. 

Jaskier looks at him, and licks the lingering taste of wine from his lips. “You brought Ciri here,” he says softly. 

Geralt doesn’t look away. “Her parents attended school here. By the time I got to them, they were nothing more than ash and coal.”

Jaskier swallows tightly and nods, remembering some of the little tree sprite's responses. “In Redania?” he asks. 

“Hm. Between Redania and Nilfgaard. Useless border skirmish," Geralt says. 

Jaskier knows how Nilfgaard works. The country is trying to gain a political, intellectual, and religious foothold in the rest of the continent, and when it doesn’t go their way they leave behind nothing but scorched, blackened earth. They’ve been known to set forests ablaze. He lifts his glass to his lips only to remember it is empty.

“Hm,” Geralt hums again, lifting his own glass from where he’d set it aside and leaning forward to push it into his free hand. Jaskier blinks in surprise, but smiles gratefully at the guardian, distracting himself from the sharp grief behind his breastbone with the rich, red-fruit flavour of the drink. 

“The guardians go out and save those they can, and that sometimes includes humans,” Regis says, his voice carrying an unusual hint of sharpness. Geralt doesn’t respond.

“Humans need to be saved?” Jaskier blinks in surprise. “From each other to be sure, all too often. But I don’t expect you intervene in those types of things?”

“The continent is a dangerous place. You’ve learned by now there are creatures dangerous to humans and non humans alike,” Eskel says. “When brought to our attention, we take care of them, regardless of who they’re currently threatening. Some of them have been cornered by circumstance and can be moved to where they return to harmlessness. Others—” the scarred guardian shrugs.

Jaskier nods slowly. It makes sense. There are a lot of guardians, and he’s noted that some of them have disappeared and reappeared since he came to Kaer Morhen. The school doesn’t actually require all of them to be there at the same time. Apparently they use the keep as a base to keep the rest of the continent safe. Not only their own former students, but also those humans who need it. He wonders how many times someone has unknowingly been saved from death by a witcher. Perhaps he himself has been, too. 

They keep talking for a while, Jaskier asking for more information on what the guardians do when they leave Kaer Morhen. Eskel answers readily enough, unsurprisingly more forthcoming with information, though Geralt adds more than he would have expected. Sometimes they refer to what they do as hunts, other times as rescues. Jaskier tries to discern the precise difference between the two, but can’t quite determine what makes it one or the other. He feels like he could ask a thousand more questions, and bites his tongue to keep from devolving into a barrage of them. Whenever there’s a lull, Yarpenna and Regis add their brand of dry commentary, providing a welcome lighter note. Despite the emotionally charged nature of the things they’re discussing, it’s comfortable, and Jaskier feels more and more at ease as the evening progresses. 

By the time Jaskier finishes the glass of wine Geralt pressed into his hand he’s pleasantly flushed, warm from the alcohol and his proximity to the fire. He sets the glass beside his own empty one and undoes the buttons of his doublet with quick, nimble fingers. He shrugs off the outer layer of silk and folds it carefully, hanging it over the sofa’s armrest. 

Yarpenna plucks at the lace of his sleeve with their square, sturdy fingers. “Even your chemises are fancy silk,” the dwarf says with a fond shake of their head. 

Jaskier chuckles, all too aware of Geralt’s eyes on him. The chemise he’s wearing is made with a delicate, fine weave, lace at the cuffs and neckline. Though it’s not strictly meant to be worn without something over it, it’s far from indecent. Sure, the neckline dips a little further down than is suitable for polite company, but it’s not like he hasn’t worn more revealing ensembles before, and he dares to think it’s alright, amongst friends. 

He shrugs. “I like silk undershirts,” he says. “They’re soft and smooth to the touch.” 

There’s a low, rough noise coming from Geralt’s direction, and he catches the guardian looking at the lace collar that falls open over his chest, before Geralt turns to stare into the fire, jaw clenched. 

Jaskier shifts a little in his seat, and is reminded of his plans to get his hands on garments made from something sturdier and more durable. He clears his throat and thinks of a distraction from what he knows the white haired guardian considers to be his highly impractical clothing. 

“So, I still don’t know why some witchers were more likely to find me than others when I got lost in the forest. What you’ve told me so far doesn’t explain that. Does the keep know, and tell some of you, somehow?” 

Yarpenna cackles, and Regis cocks his head with a smile. “No, Jaskier. It’s not so much the keep, as it is the guardians themselves,” the vampire says, glancing meaningfully at the two witchers in the room. “Eskel too, but Geralt in particular, I think.”

For his part, Geralt just grunts, not meeting Jaskier’s eyes. 

“Oh?” Jaskier murmurs, hoping they’ll blame the heat in his cheeks on the wine. “Care to enlighten me?”

Chapter Text

Geralt is still not meeting Jaskier’s eyes when Eskel answers his question. 

“We are of the keep, and are therefore connected to those Kaer Morhen protects,” the dark haired witcher says. “We’re tethered more strongly to some, and our senses have an easier time honing in on them. Sometimes I suspect it’s to those who are more prone to get into trouble,” he says with a teasing curve to his scarred mouth. “Mostly it’s because we choose to be.”

Jaskier suddenly remembers something Ciri told him, the first time the little birchling joined him in the library. 

‘He says Guardians tether to some of the castle’s occupants more strongly, and he chose me.’

The young tree sprite had been talking about Geralt and how the guardian had brought her to Kaer Morhen at a young age. It’s obvious that Geralt loves her, and a strong tether between Ciri and the white haired guardian makes perfect sense. It seems highly illogical that Geralt would have chosen to tether more strongly to him as well. Unless— unless he did so for an entirely different purpose.

“Ah,” he says self consciously, remembering how angry Geralt had been when the guardian found him in the forest. “Being an annoyance is mostly the thing that gets me in trouble, not gets me out of it.”

Geralt frowns. “What.”

Jaskier makes a careless gesture, trying to project an air of imperviousness. “I do believe my presence no longer vexes you in the way it did at first, darling, but If you’ve tethered more strongly to me, it’s hardly because you welcomed me with open arms, is it? Though I’m entirely grateful it ensured you found me before the oculus got to me.” He shivers and looks at Eskel, a little desperate to know at least one of the guardians connected to him because of genuine fondness. “You’re tethered to me as well?” he asks, his voice small. 

Eskel looks between Geralt and himself with a frown, before nodding at him reassuringly. “Yes Jaskier. I chose to.”

“Wait a damn moment,” Yarpenna says, their pretty hazel eyes narrowed as they look between either witcher before landing their gaze on Jaskier. “Why do you think Geralt tethered to you, bard?”

Jaskier blushes as every one of them looks at him, waiting for an answer he would have considered obvious. “Well,” he begins. “I’m human, and I know that trust isn’t an easy thing.” He looks at Geralt. “You did it to keep an eye on me of sorts,  because you don’t trust me, right?”

Geralt’s eyebrows raise.

“It’s alright,” Jaskier says hastily. “I don’t expect you to. Trust is earned, I know that. I’ll work on it, and perhaps at some point in the future you’ll feel it’s alright to, you know— untether yourself from me. I’m sorry you felt like you had to in the first place.”

“What,” Geralt says again, his face doing something complicated. 

“Sorry,” Jaskier repeats.

“Stop apologising,” the witcher growls, and he sounds angry. Jaskier shrugs helplessly at him. 

“That’s not how it works, Jaskier,” Regis interrupts kindly, pulling his attention away from the white haired guardian. “But, perhaps it’s best if Geralt tells you that himself.”

—000—

Jaskier keeps going in circles in his mind, repeating everything he’s learned this evening as he is carried through the keep. The guardians are gargoyles come to life, connected to Kaer Morhen and to its residents. They can tether to some individuals more strongly if they want to, and apparently Geralt untethering himself from him is not how it works. 

Jaskier keeps glancing up at the white haired guardian carrying him as Willow floats out in front. So far he’s held his tongue, waiting for Geralt to speak first. It’s a bit of a walk to his room though, and he’s not going to make it. 

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out, and watches the witcher’s lip curl to reveal the sharp edge of his teeth. 

“Did I not tell you to stop apologising?” Geralt grinds out. 

“Ah, sorry, you did— fuck, sorry.” he swears, collapsing in on himself a little. “It’s just that, I never meant to force a connection on you that you couldn’t undo, and—”

Geralt makes an irritated noise at him. “You didn’t force anything. I chose to do it, and I could choose to undo it.”

Jaskier blinks, staring up at Geralt’s face. If he didn’t know better, he’d say the guardian is purposefully avoiding looking at him. “But Regis said that’s not how it works,” he says, confused. 

“Not what he meant,” Geralt grits. 

Jaskier waits for the witcher to further explain, and huffs when he doesn’t. “You’re saying I jumped to conclusions, then. So tell me more before I make another imaginative leap, Geralt. You know I’m about to.”

“Hmh,” is the only response he gets, and Jaskier barely manages to keep his flail of incredulity reduced to a small twitch. 

He is just about to open his mouth to berate the guardian when Willow’s flickering light catches his attention, and he realises they’ve reached his room. Geralt sets him down carefully, and he quickly wraps a hand around the witcher’s wrist. “Will you explain?” he says, pleading. 

Geralt just looks at him, before jerking his chin toward the door. 

“Right,” he says nervously, taking his hand off Geralt’s warm skin and turning around to carefully make his way up the stairs.

Once in his room, Willow floats over to hover above the small, delicate greens that have sprouted from the arnica root gifted to him by Triss. Usually the wisp’s low light would be all Jaskier needs to get ready for bed, but he’s aware that Geralt can probably see him much better in the near dark than he can see the guardian. 

“Would you mind?” he asks, gesturing to the stove and a few elongated silhouettes he knows to be candles. 

Geralt hums, and before long the tower-room is lit by a soft glow and there’s the gentle crackle of a fire in the stove. Jaskier abruptly realises there’s only the single chair at his desk, and gestures Geralt to it as he tidies away the doublet he never bothered to put back on, and takes a cross legged seat on his bed. Geralt stares, and Jaskier shifts.

“That I tethered to you isn’t because I don’t trust you,” Geralt says, just when Jaskier thinks he can no longer keep his words contained. 

He purses his mouth. “Then why? I’m not blind, Geralt. I know you don’t detest me as much as you did in the beginning. It still remains that you certainly didn’t appreciate my presence here at first. I cannot imagine you tethered to me for the same reason you did to Ciri, or— wait, are you tethered to anyone else?” he asks, suddenly curious. 

“Hmh. Ciri, Vaayu. You,” Geralt says, his voice low and quiet. 

Jaskier blinks. He’s just as unsurprised to hear the guardian is tethered to the young djinn as he was to realise his connection to Ciri. What does surprise him is that he is the third in that very limited number of people. “Ciri, Vaayu, and— me,” he repeats, cocking his head as he regards the witcher. “So what was Regis referring to when he said ‘it doesn’t work like that’?”

Geralt leans back in his chair and stretches out long, muscular legs. Jaskier does his best not to stare, but can’t help note the lovely lines of his body. “That vampire likes to meddle,” the witcher grunts, so low Jaskier barely hears it, before glancing up at the ceiling with a frown, as if he’s glowering at the keep itself. “I only tethered to you when we realised you were gone,” the guardian says, looking back at him. 

His mind whirls. He doesn’t need to ask what Geralt is referring to. What the witcher seems to imply is that dislike and distrust never had anything to do with the strength of his connection to him, and that he chose to enhance it, the moment he suspected Jaskier might have been in danger. 

“You chose to tether to me, to protect me,” he concludes, trying to keep his confusion from showing up in his voice. 

“We were created to protect,” Geralt says, “even when we were still set in stone atop the castle walls. We cannot tether to those not under our protection.”

There’s a spark of emotion in Jaskier’s chest he’s very aware comes dangerously close to hope. “Ah,” he says lightly. “So Lambert was right.”

Geralt quirks his mouth. “Not as rare an occurrence as you’d expect,” he says, before side-eyeing him. “Don’t tell him I said that.”

Jaskier laughs and shakes his head. “You know I can’t promise that, I might accidentally break it,” he shrugs and gestures at himself, “I talk too much,” he says. 

Geralt’s mouth and eyes tighten a little, and the witcher shakes his head. “What was Lambert right about?”

Jaskier struggles with a sudden confusing mix of feeling shy and bold at the same time. He can feel warmth rising to his cheeks and hopes once again that Geralt will either not notice, or ignore the way he’s blushing. “Ah, I said something about you not liking me much. He implied that wasn’t the case.”

Geralt looks at him, his slitted pupils rapidly expanding and contracting in his golden irises. “And you think he’s right,” the witcher says, something guarded in his rough voice. 

Jaskier licks his lips and shrugs. “I think you started out with contempt, which I suspect mellowed into dislike, or even neutrality, perhaps. With what you’ve just told me I fancy that maybe you’ve come to think favourably of me, at least a little bit?” he says, the hopefulness he feels lifting his voice considerably toward the end. 

Geralt is silent for a while, and Jaskier does his best not to fidget. He starts thinking he’s made a horrible, terrible miscalculation after all, when the witcher clears his throat. “You are— hard to dislike,” the guardian says eventually. 

Taken at face value, the words are far from a glowing endorsement, but it certainly feels that way to Jaskier. He heaves a relieved sigh and smiles broadly at Geralt, whose currently contracted pupils widen again as he stares back at him. “I’m glad to hear that,” he says honestly. “I would very much like to be your friend.” Again, Geralt’s face does something complicated he can’t quite parse. He wants to say something, but the fatigue of the late hour and the wine coursing through his bloodstream result in a long yawn catching up with him instead. 

“I’ll go,” Geralt says, moving quickly. He reaches the stairs before Jaskier can utter a single protest, leaving him to scramble off the bed in his haste to see the witcher out. 

“Thanks for everything you’ve told me tonight,” he blurts, looking up into the guardian’s face, trying to catch another hint of that complicated expression, desperate to know the meaning behind it. “Thanks for carrying me up.”

“Hm,” Geralt responds, and for a moment Jaskier thinks the guardian will leave without another word. “What Regis meant. What you said. The tether. Distrust. It’s not like that,” Geralt says haltingly.

For some reason the beat of Jaskier’s heart picks up in tempo. “Oh?” he says, biting his lip and fidgeting with his ring to keep the question that wants to burst out of him behind his teeth. 

Geralt frowns and lifts a hand, tapping a single finger against his jaw. “You can ask, Jaskier.”

It’s only the second time he’s ever heard the witcher speak his name, and together with the gesture it all but startles the question out of him. “If it’s not like that, then what’s it like?” he blurts, half afraid of the answer he will get. 

Geralt looks at him. “It’s impossible for a strong tether to form from negative sentiments,” the guardian says. 

Jaskier blinks before letting out a startled laugh. “This is not the way to convince me that you merely do not dislike me anymore, Geralt,” he teases. “Careful, or I’ll be certain I’ll actually get you to adore me at some point,” he says, gesturing broadly between them.

“Hm,” Geralt responds, but the corner of his mouth twitches in definite amusement. 

Jaskier laughs again and Geralt rumbles low in his chest, his shoulders moving in that same way they do just before his wings rush out. He reaches to slowly curl his fingers around Geralt’s wrist again. “I’m to see Triss before breakfast tomorrow,” he tells him, speaking through the yawn that overtakes him.  

“Go to sleep,” the witcher says. “Goodnight, Jaskier.”

—000—

Jaskier honestly doesn’t know what he’s expecting the next morning. To anyone else, telling them he’s going to see Triss might be enough of a hint, but with Geralt he’s just not sure. He’s unfortunately sunken in thought, and so he misses the final step of his low, curving staircase, practically falling through the door and into the hallway. 

Before he can get altogether more familiar with the flagstones than he prefers, something pulls at his collar, jerking him back upright and balancing him. To his simultaneous mortification and delight, that something turns out to be Geralt’s hand. 

“Careful,” the guardian growls. 

Jaskier pulls on the sapphire blue silk of his doublet to right it. “Almost like I forgot how walking works, what with all you witchers insisting on carrying me around,” he chuckles. “Seems a bit like a circular problem, doesn’t it? The less I walk, the more likely I am to injure myself when I do stand on my own two feet, and I feel like with injury comes being carried around some more,” he rambles. 

Geralt raises an eyebrow at him. “Alternatively, you could pay attention to where you’re going.”

“There’s that,” Jaskier smiles. “I shall endeavour to do so, since I have rather missed being able to move around freely.” Geralt abruptly halts in what he suspects is an aborted move to pick him up, and eyes him sceptically before flaring his nostrils. 

“You want to walk?” the guardian inquires. 

“You can probably tell the foot doesn’t bother me much anymore,” Jaskier says hesitantly, not entirely sure he doesn’t regret not being able to spend a final few minutes in a guardian’s arms. 

Geralt considers him, and then Jaskier meeps embarrassingly loud as he’s swept off his feet and into the air. As he’s carried off, he considers that his aspiration not to make any more mortifying noises in front of Geralt needs work. More than he’s capable of, perhaps.

—000—

Triss’ green eyes are slightly narrowed when she looks up at him after hovering her hands over the bandages around his foot and murmuring unintelligibly in ancient elder. Jaskier is sitting on the same desk he was when she told them something in his foot was broken, Geralt hovering silently at his side. 

He groans at the mage’s considering expression. “Please tell me it can come off?” he says. “It feels perfectly fine to me.”

Triss pops up from her crouch and firmly plants her hands in her waist. “I’m of half a mind to let you hobble around for another week,” she says sternly. 

“But?” Jaskier asks, blinking up at her hopefully.

“But, it can come off. The bone has healed beautifully, but the bruising around your ankle has a way to go. It baffles me how that’s at all possible with every guardian clamouring to carry you around,” she says, raising a dark red brow at him. 

Jaskier smiles sheepishly. “It is perhaps possible that I get carried away while teaching sometimes.” Next to him, Geralt growls, and Jaskier flaps a hand in his direction. “Oh shush, darling,” he says, not meeting Geralt’s eyes. “I teach better when I can move around.”

Triss sighs and shakes her head. “Regardless, you’ll be fine. You’ll be a little sore for another week perhaps, so don’t overdo it.”

When she goes to remove the bandages around his ankle Geralt sinks down onto one knee, pulls his foot to rest on top of his thigh, and wraps a large hand around his calf, just below the knee. This time, Jaskier allows himself to really look at the guardian kneeling in front of him, the way he didn’t the first time. As the bandages fall away under Triss’ hands, he catches the flicker of relief in Geralt’s expression at how much better his foot and ankle look compared to the week prior. Geralt doesn’t let him go until everything has been removed, Triss has applied a salve, and Jaskier wiggles his toes and declares everything to be in working order. 

—000—

Jaskier has happily walked up to his classroom, Willow darting all around him, flickering with pale blue light. It seems his wisp is just as joyful he’s back to walking around as he is himself, even if he’s still a little slow, heeding Triss’ advice. 

He spends some time checking over the various instruments, though the first tutoring session today will be singing lessons. There’s a sheet on his desk with the names of all who signed up to spend part of their Saturday morning this way, even if he doesn’t really need it to remind him who he’s expecting. Jaskier is reasonably sure that all those who wrote their name down will show up, except for two of them. 

If Beryl doesn’t come, it will be because the shy lamia isn’t quite ready yet to have others hear his voice. Jaskier hopes he is, because he’s convinced the singing lessons will help in that very regard. If he’s not, he’ll work on building the boy’s confidence in his regular classes. He suspects Beryl will be there though, since the boy had promised he would try. 

The only other student he’s not sure about is Vaayu. The young djinn didn’t write his name down himself, after all, but he had let Jaskier do it. He’s still sure Vaayu had been envious of him working to convince Beryl to join, but it had been an angry, frightened kind of envy. 

He looks up when he hears familiar voices, and smiles when Ciri bounces through the door. Ciri has Beryl’s hand in hers, and though she’s considerably smaller than the Lamia, she drags the boy along. Grove is holding onto Beryl’s other hand. Jaskier is about to gently reprimand the tree sprites, until the expression on Beryl’s face tells him the boy might actually need the small push they’re providing him. He smiles at the lamia, and gets a shy shimmer of scales in return, though Beryl does seem more at ease now he’s actually here. The little birch- and oakling immediately settle into their usual seats at the front, looking prim and ready in a way Jaskier knows won’t last long. Beryl settles a little more slowly into the seat next to them.  

Maeve and Anya are next. The banshee twins enter with happy smiles on their faces when Jaskier greets them by name, their red hair bound up in braids. Vane is close behind them, clad as he always is in his light grey garment made of interlocking scales. The youth is the only dragon currently attending the school, and Jaskier wonders if his grey scaly garment is indicative of his colouring when he changes shape. The banshees and dragon seat themselves behind the younger students, and then they’re complete except for one. Jaskier looks expectantly at the door, straining his ears for footsteps coming down the hall. 

There’s a hesitant, wary expression on Vaayu’s face when he enters. His dark blue eyes are guarded as Jaskier meets them over the distance with a smile. He gestures to the empty seats in front of the podium, and is helped when Anya and Meave, who are in the same age group as the young djinn, beckon him over as well. 

In Jaskier’s classes Vaayu has so far always sat in the very back. He tries not to grin too widely when the djinn takes a seat next to Vane instead. He claps his hands together. “I’m happy you’re all here,” he exclaims. “Now, let’s learn to sing!”

Chapter Text

“Have any of you sung before?” Jaskier asks, expecting a round of negative answers. Vane  raises his hand though, a thoughtful look on his face. “What kind of songs?” Jaskier prompts him. 

The dragon shifts in his seat but squares his shoulders. “I’ve not sung like you, professor Jaskier. There’s a lullaby I sing back home, whenever my younger sister can’t sleep.” Vane’s voice is youthful and therefore not fully developed, but he’s the oldest of the students in attendance, and Jaskier can hear the richness he’s likely to grow into. 

“Lullabies are some of my favourites,” Jaskier says, remembering his father and the songs he’d sung to him before bed. His mother had often listened in, leaning in the doorway, a household ledger in one of her hands. “It might be an idea for this first class to have the small goal of singing a lullaby with the eight of us by the end of it.” he proposes. Most of them nod enthusiastically, but both Beryl and Vaayu look doubtful. 

Jaskier starts off with a short explanation on the importance of breath in singing, and how it’s more of a whole-body exercise than a mere vocal one. He lies down, sits slouched, stands up straight, and even bends so he’s hanging upside down to let them all hear the differences it causes in his pitch. Ciri and Grove laugh freely, Vane grins as he pulls Vaayu to his feet, and the banshee twins murmur encouraging words to Beryl as Jaskier tells them to try the exercise for themselves. It devolves into a bit of mayhem, with every one of his students somehow ending up in a handstand for a brief time, either supported by Jaskier’s grip on their ankles or balancing themselves, while holding the pitch he demonstrates. Even Beryl holds the tone with a surprising amount of volume, the hiss in his voice more pronounced toward the end of it. Jaskier cheers once they’re all done and collapse back into their seats. 

He explains a bit more about breathing from the chest as opposed to from the belly, and has them stand in a circle while he directs the flow and tempo of their breath. They focus admirably after the previous playful exercise, a little frown of concentration visible between Vaayu’s dark brows as he holds his breath as Jaskier instructs. 

He has them do a few pitch-slides after that, demonstrating by going from the lowest possible hum he can produce, to the highest. He purposefully keeps going until the note is too shrill to be considered beautiful, and explains to them that though he can technically reach it, it isn’t a real part of his range, and those are the notes he tends to avoid. 

Vane’s voice is as lovely as he suspected, though the dragon’s range is limited to what will develop into a lovely low baritone, or even a bass. Both Maeve and Anya instinctively hold pitch very well, though they’re very hesitant when it comes to volume. Their voices are slightly different. Maeve falls squarely into being an alto, while her sister’s voice is at its richest when slightly higher, more of a mezzo-soprano. Both Ciri and Grove have voices high enough to be considered sopranos, but that might still change as they age. He has to listen a bit longer to filter out the hisses that are a part of Beryl’s voice, but smiles when he hears the boy’s underlying tenor. 

Vaayu’s voice is hesitant, and when he notices Jaskier’s attention on him his volume drops considerably. The djinn’s dark blue eyes follow him as he moves through the classroom to stand next to him. He falls in with the boy, pitching his voice a little lower in volume still, and breathing exaggeratedly just before the next pitch-slide. He smiles when Vaayu follows along, breathing in deeply, and murmurs praise when the djinn’s next slide is much louder and clearer, a lovely low tenor he suspects will develop into a relatively high baritone with age. He’s happy to note that as they continue, the set of Vaayu’s shoulders loses much of its tenseness. 

The next exercise Jaskier gives them is meant to get rid of some of the hesitance and embarrassment they may hold. Both Maeve and Anya look at him incredulously, and so does Vane, but Ciri and Grove, and even Beryl, look eager. It helps perhaps that they’ve encountered his silly assignments in class before, more so than the older students. When he glances at Vaayu, the boy’s expression is a curious mix between wariness and delight. When he calls out the name of the first animal, all seven of them dutifully produce the affiliated noise, and his classroom suddenly sounds like it houses a rather eccentric flock of sheep. 

Once the cacophony of animal noises eventually dies down, Jaskier gets out his lute and strums a melody until they’re quietly watching him. He plays his favourite of all the lullabies his father sang to him, a song he strongly suspects the marquess made up himself. Though he hasn’t sung it in years, the words come to him as easily as if he’d last heard it yesterday, as does the memory of his parents as they had looked tucking him into bed. He’s aware his smile becomes wistful as he sings, and his students grow still. When he ends the song Ciri bounces over to him and hugs her birch-bark pale arms around his shin. He ruffles her fluffy white hair and grins wider to show them he’s not actually sad, before writing down the words to the song. 

They make it through the first couplet and the refrain, before Jaskier sees Willow flicker with light, indicating their time is almost up. “Let’s end our first lesson with what we’ve learned so far, shall we?” he says, swinging his lute in front of him again to eager nods all around. He taps his foot to help them with the tempo and plays the first few notes. He nods to Vaayu, who he has entrusted with the first, wordless notes that introduce the song. He sees the djinn’s nervous intake of breath, and can’t help the curl of his mouth when the boy pauses, then consciously breathes into his belly as Jaskier taught them, and falls in with perfect timing. He lets his pride show on his face as Vaayu looks at him, and gets a very hesitantly pleased look in return as the djinn sings. 

There’s still work to do, of course. Both Ciri and Grove get slightly ahead of the rhythm every now and again, showing their exuberance. Maeve and Anya don’t have that same issue, but it spooks them every time their lovely voices harmonise, and then either or both of them cut themselves off. Beryl sings, and smiles for the most part, but whenever the hissing sibilance of his voice becomes more obvious the young lamia tends to cover his mouth with his hand. Vane is reliable, the dragon’s voice steady and sure in the lower ranges. 

Jaskier can hear they still need adjustment, of course he can. They’re doing well though, and he’s proud of them all.  The song is familiar and nostalgic, and these are children who have never sung before feel secure enough to do so in front of him and each other. If he wants to be a bit emotional about it, who’s to judge him?

They all look at him expectantly after the last notes from his lute fade away. He smiles, and tells them the truth. Their song is one of the loveliest things he’s ever heard in his life. 

—000—

Jaskier is half tempted to ask Vaayu to stay behind after the singing lesson, to see if the djinn will tell him any more about how he got trapped. The girl that tricked him into giving her three wishes still has two of them left, and still knows the words to confine him once more. It’s too soon though. There’s certainly progress when it comes to the tattooed boy, but the shadow of distrust is never far from his dark blue gaze. So instead he holds his tongue, smiles, and tells them all he will see them in class, and hopes to see them the next Saturday morning as well. 

He has about an hour between the first singing lesson and his next tutoring session, and he uses it to make a few notes on each of his students before tidying his papers away into a desk drawer. He’s reworking the same set of lines in one of his own songs when a firm tap at the doorjamb alerts him it’s time for his second lesson of the day. 

He smiles at the two girls in welcome, gesturing them to the desks with an instrument case. Willow flickers brightly and greets the girls by darting around them, to delighted smiles. Muirin is younger and therefore smaller, and gets the three-quarter violin. Vesper is the equivalent of a human fourteen year-old, though he knows the vampire to be much older already, and gets a full size instrument. 

Muirin drapes her soft selkie fur over the back of her chair as always, and Vesper takes off her black, billowing overblouse and does the same. Jaskier is amused at the dramatics of the garment, and the fact she wears wide legged soft blue pants underneath, paired with an embroidered shirt. Not even three months ago, the overblouse is what he would have imagined a vampire to wear. What Vesper wears underneath wouldn’t look out of place on a merchant’s daughter. 

Both girls hold themselves back from immediately opening the instrument cases, but Jaskier can see the eager spark in their eyes. He knows these two to be mostly temperate and self restrained when it comes to serious things, and gestures for them to open the cases. They take out the delicate wooden instruments carefully, and Jaskier starts his lesson by placing their hands in the right position, before having them press the rest up to their chin.

Flint is a part of his last extracurricular class of the day, and Jaskier isn’t surprised to see her. He suspected the dwarf would be drawn toward percussion, and Flint had indeed immediately written down her name on that particular sign-up sheet. 

The class is on rhythm and percussion, and apart from Flint there’s another dwarf, two elves, and a happy, bubbly girl whose pointed ears are much longer than the elves’, stick straight up through her dark brown hair, and bear little tufts of fur on the end of them, as part of her alp heritage. 

Jaskier shows them the basics of developing a rhythm, starting with a demonstration of different counts. He makes use of an old metronome he found amongst the instruments, it’s clicking clear and precise despite its apparent age. He’s convinced it hadn’t yet been there when he spent that morning clearing his classroom of dust with Geralt’s help. He suspects that as soon as he had a need for it, the keep made it appear somehow. 

Flint enjoys the lesson, but Jaskier still asks her to remain behind as the others go. She might want to stick to percussion, and he’s fine with that, but Flint has a tendency to choose things because she thinks that’s what dwarves are supposed to pick. 

“Would you ever want to try a different instrument?” he asks. The dwarf eyes the several types of drums, cymbals, and castanets they used during the lesson, as if she expects Jaskier to suddenly pull out another drum from somewhere. 

“What kind of instrument,” she says slowly, and Jaskier doesn’t miss the quick flick of her eyes toward the harp in the corner. 

He gestures broadly toward the instruments set in their places at the back of his classroom. “Any you’d want to try,” he tells her, and is satisfied for now when she nods slowly. 

—000—

The following week of classes goes by in the blink of an eye. Though Jaskier had wanted to attend a few more of his fellow professor’s classes, he just can’t seem to find the time. He’s decided to make a few changes in some of the syllabi for his older students, and wants to write at least some sort of plan for his extracurricular ones, and so he spends many an hour in the library. 

So far, Willow has warned him every evening when it was time to leave his books and papers behind and head down for dinner. Jaskier is grudgingly thankful for the wisp’s reminders to pay attention to his general wellbeing and nutritional status. This time though, he’s absorbed in jotting down examples he wants to include in his class on alliteration and repetition as tools used in political speeches, for his oldest students. He’s written an essay on it before, using his Dandelion pseudonym. But, that was years ago. Jaskier himself has changed and learned enough that he’s unwilling to use it as a base for the class without doing any more research. It’s complicated material, and so he wants to finish rather than to head down to dinner right now. He wonders if once he’s completed his work, it’ll be possible to publish the updated version all the way from Kaer Morhen. 

Willow brushes against him with cold, wet tendrils, and brightens insistently. He murmurs an apology to the little ball of mist, promising that he will go down to the kitchens to get something to eat before bed if he’ll miss dinner altogether. 

“It’s a bad habit,” a deep voice rumbles behind him, loud and jarring in the otherwise silent library. 

In his focus Jaskier hadn’t noticed he’s no longer alone, and so he startles with a jerk and a bitten off screech. He knows who spoke even before he turns, and he feels Geralt looks entirely too gratified at his reaction. He rolls his eyes at the witcher. “Glad you acknowledge that sneaking up on people and scaring the wits out of them is considered bad form.” 

Geralt raises an eyebrow. “Not the habit I meant.” Jaskier doesn’t miss the fact he doesn’t so much as try to deny the accusation of sneaking. “Skipping meals,” the guardian says. “You’re not at dinner.”

Jaskier chuckles and gestures at himself. “As evidenced by my presence here.” He looks at Geralt with his head cocked to the side and taps a finger against his lips as if he’s deep in thought. “It occurs to me the exact same can be said for you. You can hardly admonish me for something you’re doing yourself, darling.”

“Hmh. I’m not passing over dinner. I’m here to make sure you know that books will not sustain you. Food will.”

“Ah, but if the former of the two was taken from me, I’d perish all the same,” Jaskier says dramatically, gesturing to the veritable pile of books he’s spread out on his desk. 

“The books will be here tomorrow,” Geralt grunts, though Jaskier thinks the curve of his mouth as he says it looks inexplicably fond.

“And so will breakfast,” he retorts. “My train of thought on the other hand, might be derailed if I don’t finish it now.”

Geralt crosses his arms over his chest. “Finish it then.”

Jaskier blinks up at the guardian. “You— you’re going to stay here and wait for me?”

Geralt’s mouth quirks. “I’m not above carrying you out of here, bard. So get to it.”

Jaskier flushes despite his best efforts and looks at his spread out papers. “Not quite the deterrent you think it is,” he murmurs under his breath, before nervously shifting his weight at the realisation that Geralt definitely would have heard that. When he glances up at him, the witcher’s slitted pupils expand and contract in his golden irises. “Right,” he says, clearing his throat awkwardly. He turns around to quickly jot down a final few notes, before ordering his papers and books into something only slightly less reminiscent of an upended bookcase. 

Willow floats in front of him as he works and swirls happily at him, light grey colours revolving. Jaskier rolls his eyes and blows a breath at the wisp. 

His gaze happens to fall onto a couple of lines when a book slides down from its precarious stack and falls open to a random page. Before he realises, he’s bent forward over the desk again, distractedly reaching for a sheet of his notes to copy it down. 

He squeaks when calloused fingers brush the back of his neck, before giving him a quick, soft jerk on the back of his collar. “Not part of the same train of thought,” Geralt growls. 

Jaskier is still thoroughly distracted by how the guardian’s fingers felt against his skin, and so he’s unable to come up with a suitably convincing counter-argument. In fact, he’s not sure he could even reproduce what about the book caught his attention in the first place. He quickly places his sheet of notes between the pages instead, using it as an impromptu bookmark.

“Dinner it is, then,” he says, trying his utmost to sound steady and unaffected.

—000—

Jaskier is aware he chatters as they make their way down to dinner. Geralt interrupted his workflow, and his brain is apparently not quite ready to let all the information go yet. He talks about the different angles to approach the topic, which examples are best, and how they connect toward the point he wants his students to arrive at, without him spelling it out for them. Talking it through helps, and so does the witcher’s input, even if it mostly takes the form of hums and grunts pitching down or up, depending on Geralt’s thoughts on the subject. Jaskier manages to tempt a few words out of him eventually, and by the time they reach the hall, he thinks the lesson is all but ready. 

They’re late, and the hall is already halfway empty. Regis, Yarpenna and Triss are still there, but he’s surprised to find Eskel isn’t in his customary seat. Yarpenna looks meaningfully between him and Geralt when they walk up, and Jaskier is just about to give them a look in return when he’s distracted by Geralt settling down into Eskel’s usual seat. 

“Now that I’m here you can rest assured I’ll eat,” he jokes, slowly lowering himself next to the guardian. 

“I suspect you’re here not by any impulse of your own to make it to dinner on time, so perhaps the worry you won’t, isn’t all that surprising,” Regis teases mildly.

Jaskier huffs, directed at both the vampire and guardian next to him, and ladles an especially generous helping of stew into his bowl. “There,” he says. “Happy now?” To his amused chagrin, Geralt hums in satisfaction, Regis smiles, Willow flickers with light, and the others nod at him in far too serious a manner. He’s just about to say something about being fussed over enough the previous week, when his stomach growls loudly enough that it doesn’t take witcher senses to know he’s ravenous. 

Geralt raises a meaningful eyebrow at him, and Jaskier just lifts his chin and shovels a bite of stew into his mouth as he pushes the hearty dish in the witcher’s direction. 

By the time they’re finished eating the hall is largely empty, most students having gone back up to their personal rooms, to one of the communal living spaces, or back to the library to study some more. Still, when Eskel and Aiden walk through the great wooden doors with their wings out, those who are left stare and murmur excitedly. 

Jaskier had in fact noticed Aiden’s absence from the guardians still having dinner, but it’s not unusual for the witchers to be absent. By now he knows enough to suspect it’s when they’re still out in the continent, somewhere they’re needed. 

The guardians rarely have their wings out indoors, except when it's for a specific purpose like Lambert wing-hopping him all the way to the labs, or Geralt flying up in the library to grab him that bestiary. It’s unusual, and coupled with the serious expression on both their faces, it plants a seed of worry.

They walk side by side, Eskel’s large, midnight-black wings tucked in tight against his back, while Aiden’s are slightly spread out in agitation. Jaskier hasn’t seen Aiden’s wings before, and they’re again altogether different from the others. They’re smaller and more angular, and almost look sharp at the tips. His feathers are different shades of vibrant green, lightening on the inside to a pale grey colour he suspects would be hard to distinguish against a backdrop of cloudy sky. The wings remind him of a fast, vicious type of parrot from the southern reaches of the continent, and he’s quite certain that where the wolf-witchers’ wings are strong and sturdy, these are made for short, intense bursts of speed. 

He glances at the others to see what they think of the guardians’ sudden arrival. Like him, Yarpenna and Triss look worried. Regis has a thoughtful expression on his face, and Geralt—  Geralt looks angry. 

Eskel and Aiden walk all the way up to Vesemir, and though the dean isn’t seated that far away they keep their voices low enough it’s impossible for Jaskier to overhear what they’re saying. Both witchers tuck their wings as they talk to the head of Kaer Morhen, but their expressions remain tense. 

Geralt growls low, quiet enough Jaskier wouldn’t have noticed, if not for the fact the guardian is seated right next to him. He’s just about to whisper to him, to ask what this is all about, when Vesemir stands. Every last student still in the hall halts their whispering. 

“Professor Geralt,” the dean says, before meeting Jaskier’s eyes. “Professor Jaskier. My office.”

Geralt’s growl is much louder now, and from his expression Jaskier would guess the witcher soundly disagrees with Vesemir’s choice to call on him, too. He wishes he knew why his presence is required. Though his reflex is to think it’s because he did something wrong, he dismisses the thought equally fast. He looks up at Geralt from under his lashes, half expecting the Guardian to tell him to remain seated. 

Geralt stands, and doesn’t protest when Jaskier does too. When they walk toward the dean, it’s side by side.

Chapter Text

“Sit down, all of you,” Vesemir says. Jaskier is grateful for it. The four guardians standing rigidly, agitation clear in their posture, are making him nervous. He still doesn’t know what has them riled up, but it can’t be anything good. Vesemir is visibly calmer than the others, but even the dean’s broad shoulders are tense, the lines in his face more pronounced than usual.

Both Geralt and Eskel shift. The movement suggests the two large witchers are about to unfold their wings, but they remain tucked. Aiden grows preternaturally still for a moment. Jaskier lets himself flop down into the chair nearest the fire, Willow floating over to hover above his head. He resists the impulse to fold his legs under him. This is still the dean’s office, after all. 

It seems to break some of the tension. Geralt takes the seat next to him, as Aiden and Eskel settle down across. Vesemir remains standing, looking right at him with a thoughtful expression. 

“Can— can I help?” Jaskier asks hesitantly after clearing his throat. He doesn’t know why he’s here, but something is going on, and he’s the only one present who’s unaware. 

“You can,” Vesemir says, throwing a warning glance in Geralt’s direction as the guardian growls low. “We’ll explain, and let you decide if you want to.”  

Those last words have Aiden hissing through his teeth as he jumps back up and starts pacing in the open space. Vesemir doesn’t tell him to sit again, and both Geralt and Eskel’s slitted eyes track the dark skinned guardian for a moment. Jaskier doesn’t hear anything, but suddenly all four swivel their heads toward the door, and the dean heaves a deep sigh. 

“Yes, come in, Lambert,” Vesemir says, not sounding at all surprised. 

The door bangs open with enough force it has Jaskier squeak and jump in his seat. Lambert takes one look at Aiden, curls his lip to expose a hint of teeth, and makes his way over to his partner. Jaskier gapes as the two witchers tussle violently, afraid the dean’s office is about to be reduced to rubble. The other guardians just watch placidly, as if this is all expected. Eventually, Aiden hisses through his teeth again, but doesn’t fight the bear-hug Lambert has caught him in, and lets himself be pulled back down into his seat. He’s half sprawled over Lambert’s lap, and heaves a deep sigh. 

“I need your help, Jaskier,” Aiden says.

Jaskier nods immediately. “Any way I can,” he says. 

All five guardians look sharply at him. “You don’t know what Aiden’s asking yet,” Geralt grits beside him.

Jaskier shrugs. “Doesn’t matter, darling. It’s obviously important to him, as it is to you all, clearly. I’m not going to say no, not if there’s something I can do.”

In Lambert’s lap, Aiden slumps against the redhead’s chest, slitted eyes closing for a second before looking back at Jaskier. 

“See, kitty? No need to get all poofed up yet,” Lambert rumbles, grinning when Aiden throws him an annoyed look. 

“Lets start by telling the bard of the issue at hand,” Vesemir orders, finally sitting down as well.

Aiden sits a little more upright and then everyone is looking at him again. Jaskier shifts uncomfortably, but nods for the witcher to begin. 

“It’s about a former student. Eskel and I, we were out, to come to her aid,” Aiden begins haltingly. Jaskier watches as Lambert’s arms wind around him more tightly, as if keeping him together. 

“She’s something you might know as a well-warden,” Eskel continues.

Jaskier twists his signet ring, nodding slowly. “I think I have come across them before, while reading. Bound to wells, springs, and fresh water pools. They protect the waters, keeping it safe from pollution. Water gives life, and it’s their core value that it is shared freely.”

“Correct,” Vesemir nods at him. 

“There’s a feud between two farmers from a nearby village. One of them relies on her well. The other threw in rotten carcasses, to poison the water,” Eskel rumbles in his low voice. 

Jaskier licks his lips nervously. “I’ve read that if something happens to their well, especially when it withholds water from those who rely on it, especially when it’s done with intent, they might become enraged. Dangerous,” he says hesitantly.

“She’s not herself,” Aiden says immediately. “She would never choose to harm anyone. We couldn’t get through to her, and I don’t want— I don’t—”

“You don’t want a rescue to become a hunt,” Jaskier says softly. 

“Exactly,” Aiden hisses. “She doesn’t deserve to die for something she has no control over. She asked for help before she was lost to instinct completely.”

“You know her well?” Jaskier asks curiously. 

Aiden gives him a curt nod. “I tethered to her when she was a student here. We let the tether atrophy over time, once our students leave Kaer Morhen behind. The tether has been a mere thread for years, but I still—” 

Aiden breaks off, and Jaskier finds himself nodding in understanding. He doesn’t need an explanation to know that Aiden still cares deeply for the well-warden. “What’s her name?” he asks quietly. 

Aiden’s bright green eyes consider him. “Kelda,” the witcher answers. 

“Alright. So you and Eskel tried to get through to her, but couldn’t. What happened, and what do you need me to do?” 

“She fought us,” Eskel rumbles. “Though well-wardens share their water freely, right now she’ll fight anyone who gets close to where her waters spring forth from the earth. Usually they rage until their water runs clear again, restoring clarity to their minds. In this instance her state is perpetuated by the presence of the farmer who poisoned her well, and the farmer who relies on it and doesn’t understand he needs to steer clear. Both families are at a very real risk of being drowned. There are children involved.”

Jaskier feels the blood draw away from his face for a change. He might not know everything there is to know about well-wardens, but he’s read enough that he knows they can have water spring forth at the flick of a hand. There are countless tales concerning them, highlighting the duality in their nature. They are a wanted presence, especially by those who hold farmland. At the same time, whenever a drowned person is found on dry land, it is said a well warden got to them. There is no safety in avoiding water. They will have it spring forth from the victim’s nose and mouth, drowning them even while they are safe inside, asleep in their beds. 

Jaskier clenches his hands, the full scale of the dilemma suddenly clear to him. “If we do nothing,” he says slowly, “both farmers and their families might pay with their lives. If we want to save them, Kelda needs to be released from her enraged state. She needs to be stopped. Can’t we trap her for the time being?” he asks. 

Next to him, Geralt shakes his head. “Won’t work. Trapping her means separating her from her well. It will only serve to enrage her further, and she’ll fight until she’s either dead or free.”

Jaskier nervously twists his ring. “So what’s the way out, here? And what do you want me to do?” he says, looking back at Aiden. 

The cat’s slitted green eyes are fastened on him. “They can be snapped out of their rage, sometimes. I tried talking to her. It didn’t work.” His voice is tightly controlled as he speaks, and once again Lambert pulls him more firmly back into his chest. The redhead is uncharacteristically quiet otherwise. Aiden breathes deeply. “She loves music. She always joked it’s because the bubbling of water rising from a spring is musical to her. Music— might snap her out of it.”

Jaskier blinks, and then stands. “Let me get my lute,” he says decisively.

As he turns toward the door, Geralt’s hand snaps out, fingers curling around his wrist, easily wrapping all the way around with room to spare. Jaskier lifts an eyebrow at the guardian, but he doesn't let him go.

“You don't know what you're saying yes to,” the witcher growls.

Jaskier sighs deeply, reaching out to lay his fingers over the witcher’s. “I'm quite aware I can be naive. Especially when it comes to things like this, compared to you all,” he says. He meets Geralt’s gaze directly, looking down at those golden eyes that stare unblinkingly up at him. “Make no mistake, I am not so naive as to believe that this is without risk. It's a risk that's mine to take though, whether you like it or not. If there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s play music.” He tilts his head. “I promise I won't fuck it up, Geralt. I want to help.”

Geralt's pupils widen and contract rapidly. After what feels a bit like a rather intense staring contest, the witcher growls and lets him go, turning toward Vesemir.

“I am coming,” he says, practically biting the words in half with the way he speaks them through clenched teeth.

The dean nods, seemingly unsurprised. “Naturally,” he says. “You've tethered to our poetry professor, after all. It's the whole reason I asked you here, Geralt.”

—000—

When they enter his room, Willow moves toward the sprouts of the arnica plant to hover there. The plant is growing at a rate that seems beyond what should be possible, and part of Jaskier suspects it has something to do with the wisp’s light. Willow’s glow is faint, but he wouldn't be surprised if it held energy the plant responds to, somehow.

He moves toward his lute stand, and carefully stows the instrument into its case, making sure each strap is securely tightened to keep it from flipping back open. One of the buckles is a little worn and finicky, and he murmurs about getting a new one if there’s opportunity at some point.

He's nervous and tense, despite being determined, and his mind races, jumping from one song option to the next. He's just about to open a folder full of his music to spread out onto his bed, but looks back over his shoulder at Geralt when the guardian clears his throat.

“I don’t suppose we have time for me to go through this and pick the perfect song, do we?” 

Geralt looks at him. “We don't,” he says. “But you know them well enough to pick one without having them in front of you.” It could have been a question, if not for the way the witcher says it, his tone steady, not a shred of doubt Jaskier can do exactly that. He shoots Geralt a quick smile.

Jaskier moves toward the chest he keeps some of his clothes in, and rummages through it until he finds the light coat he brought from Oxenfurt. It's not very warm. He was banished from the university at the beginning of spring, and in his haste to pack something, it's what he grabbed. It's colder up in the mountains, but he's been mostly fine so far. The sun has set a while ago now though, and Jaskier very well remembers his nightly track through the forest to find Bleater, and that temperatures had dropped considerably.

He smooths the fabric of his coat down over his chest, aware that the shimmer in the thin fabric makes this another highly impractical garment. He blushes lightly and doesn't look at Geralt, grabbing his lute case and settling the instrument on his back, the strap lying over his chest.

“Ready,” he says, turning around and making to stride back down the stairs and out the door. 

Geralt clears his throat, jerking his head toward the far side of the room. “Was that here before?”

Jaskier frowns at the witcher, wondering why Geralt is suddenly so interested in any possible changes made in the decoration of his quarters. When he looks in the direction Geralt indicates, his mouth falls open.

There’s a set of carved wooden balcony doors, where there certainly weren’t any before. The glass set in the doors is clear, revealing the starry night sky, clouds drifting by to obscure parts of it. The wood itself is carved into cloudy swirls, buttercups interspersed between. When he squints, he can just make out the halfmoon shape of the balcony beyond, arching away from the curve of the tower on either side. 

“Ah,” he says weakly. “No. That's new.”

Geralt looks up at the ceiling beams, as if he's frowning at the keep itself, and Jaskier realises that this is a change Kaer Morhen itself made to his room for some reason or other.

“A balcony is a perfectly lovely thing to have,” he says cheerfully. “I can already imagine sitting out on it to enjoy the sun and the view.”

“Hmh,” Geralt responds, looking at him from the corner of his eyes. “We're meeting Aiden and Eskel outside the hall. With the balcony here, the quickest way down is if I were to fly you.”

Jaskier blinks. At night, getting flown down by Geralt will hardly provide him with a view over the valley, but it’s not like he's going to turn down the opportunity to fly in the first place. Still, he's not sure Geralt actually means for him to accept the offer. “If you're sure?” he says hesitantly, watching the guardian closely for any sign of discontent.

Geralt frowns. “You're going to have to fly with one of us to get to Kelda's well, regardless,” the witcher says, a definite rumble of something in his voice. “We can walk down instead, if you'd rather fly with Eskel.”

Jaskier isn't entirely sure what the correct answer is. Geralt offered to fly him, but now he looks angry, and proposes he flies with Eskel instead. “I'll gladly fly with you?” he hedges, and is glad to see the frown between Geralt's brows disappear.

Geralt nods and turns toward the balcony doors.

“Wait,” Jaskier halts him. “I have just one question, and then we can soar through the skies,” he says, flapping his hands in a vague approximation of beating wings. It earns him an incredulous look from the guardian, and he shrugs.

“What is it,” Geralt asks, stepping closer.

“I— I'll be away from Kaer Morhen” Jaskier says, aware he isn't quite successful at keeping the fear out of his voice. “Will the oculus come and find me while we're out?”

Geralt steps even closer to him, and for a moment Jaskier thinks the guardian will reach out to touch. Geralt doesn’t, but his pupils again do the thing that fascinates Jaskier. It makes him feel like Geralt is really looking at him, paying attention, considering. Perhaps, it even feels like the witcher appreciates him, in some way.

Geralt's nostrils flare on a breath, and then that frown is back between his white brows. “You not only agreed to, but insisted on coming out to help, despite that fear?” he rumbles.

Jaskier nervously licks his lips, watching the guardian’s slitted eyes quickly flick down to the movement. “Avoidance feeds fear until it grows too large ever to defeat,” he says quietly.

“Is that something you read somewhere?” Geralt says, leaning closer still.

“Something similar, perhaps. I think there’s truth in it. Besides, I'm not about to sit idly by when someone needs my help.”

The witcher stares at him in silence, long enough Jaskier shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “No. You wouldn't,” Geralt says, some emotion Jaskier can't quite parse sparking in the depth of his gaze. 

It's only when Geralt puts a large hand on his shoulder and gives him a gentle squeeze, that Jaskier realises how close the two of them are standing. Close enough that he could lean in, tilt his head up, and—

Jaskier jerks himself back, furious heat rushing to his face. He looks away to avoid Geralt's gaze, embarrassed that for a moment he'd wanted to kiss the witcher. That for a moment, he'd been convinced Geralt would have let him. 

Once he takes a deep breath and calms the rapid beat of his heart somewhat, he looks back at the guardian. “If the oculus will come, I'd rather know, so at least I can be prepared,” he says, a slight waver in his voice.

A furious growl rumbles in Geralt’s chest, reverberating in the space between them. “You don't need to fear, or be prepared. I'll be with you. So will Eskel and Aiden. I won't let it get close enough to touch,” Geralt grits, his lip pulling up to expose the predator's edge of his teeth. The guardian takes a deep breath and shakes his head. “Kelda's spring isn't close. We'll be beyond its immediate reach, Jaskier.”

The last is clearly meant to reassure him. But it's Geralt's first, instinctive reaction that truly releases some of the terror Jaskier has been holding onto, even despite Lambert’s bombs.

—000—

The balcony is new and unfamiliar, and the dark makes it hard to see exactly how sturdy a railing it has. Jaskier is sure Kaer Morhen has created it to hold his weight, but he still remains close to the tower wall.

Geralt joins him out on the balcony and closes the doors behind him.

“Are you sure Willow can't come?” Jaskier says, looking wistfully at where he can see the wisp’s light shine through the window. His little ball of mist swirled furiously and sparked with light, doing its very best impression of a thundercloud when Geralt told them Willow wouldn't be able to follow.

“Flying covers too great a distance at speed for a wisp to keep up,” Geralt repeats. “We'd lose Willow amongst the clouds.”

Jaskier sighs. “I suppose we would,” he says. The little wisp would indeed blend in amongst the large swathes of vapour, and though Willow is incredibly fast, wisps are hardly made for travelling long distances. He checks the strap of his lute case a final time, watches Willow’s faint blue glow through the window, and gives Geralt a firm nod. “Ready,” he says.

The guardian shifts his shoulders slightly, and though Jaskier knows what’s coming, there’s no stopping the low gasp of admiration as Geralt’s wings unfold behind him.

Even at night, or perhaps especially against the backdrop of a darkened sky speckled with stars, the white feathers almost seem to glow. The balcony is barely big enough to hold the both of them when Geralt spreads his wings, and the witcher steps up close. 

The last time Jaskier was this close to those magnificent feathers he was being slammed against a wall. He has to address himself firmly to keep from reaching out to slide his fingers over the smaller feathers at the top edge of the wings, and sternly berates himself for wanting to touch those long, fanned out flight feathers.

He's still distractedly admiring Geralt’s wings when the witcher picks him up, steps up onto the balcony railing, and then jumps off it into the void.

Chapter Text

Jaskier would have done his best to keep entirely silent, had he known it was coming. He has to admit that it’s not exactly surprising, what with actively going out on the balcony and Eskel and Aiden waiting for them down below. Still, he didn’t expect Geralt to sweep him off his feet and jump into darkness without warning, and so he can hardly blame himself for the noise of absolute fright that leaves him. 

It suddenly feels like his stomach is still stuck up high, while the rest of his body plummets down under the irrevocable influence of gravity. In his panic, Jaskier makes a warbling sort of sound he’ll be embarrassed about later, and grabs onto the only thing that offers him any kind of support. 

His fingers curl and clench in the fabric of Geralt’s clothes, and he’s distantly aware he’s likely scraped his nails against the guardian’s skin through the fabric. The sensation of falling doesn’t let up, and it’s dark enough he can’t really judge the distance to the ground below. He has a sudden vision of Geralt slamming him against the library wall, telling him he’ll drop him from the highest tower. 

Now, Jaskier is pretty damn sure that even back then, it was a threat the witcher would not have made good on lightly. By now he’s reasonably sure Geralt doesn't want him to smash to bits at the foot of the castle at all. Despite this conviction his mind provides him with an altogether too realistic vision of it, while his stomach still feels like it’s left behind somewhere up on that balcony, and Jaskier whimpers as he clings. 

The terrible sensation of falling ceases as suddenly as it began, and instead of plummeting down he’s abruptly and unexpectedly weightless. Geralt’s arms around him are sturdy and strong, keeping a firm hold of him. Despite it, Jaskier cannot make himself loosen the deathgrip he has on the guardian, and neither can he make himself open his eyes. There’s a swooping sensation as he goes down a little before the weightlessness returns. Some distant, rational part of his mind concludes it must be the motion of the witcher’s beating wings, but the squeak of fear is out before he can endeavour to pay heed to logic. 

A few seconds later all heart-stopping movement ceases, and the cold bite of the wind he hadn’t even really felt in his fear is replaced by an inexplicable warmth. Jaskier’s heart hammers in his chest, and he expects another drop at any moment. When it doesn’t come, he carefully takes stock. There’s no sensation of falling anymore, and something is sheltering him from the wind. His breaths are coming in pants, his mouth half opened and pressed against something warm that can only be skin, the slow, steady beat of a pulse suddenly noticeable against his lips. He shudders, and the fingers that grip his neck squeeze softly. 

“Fuck,” he breathes, before pulling his face from the crook between Geralt’s neck and shoulder. He blinks his eyes open and notices that it’s one of the guardian’s huge wings that’s keeping the wind away, folded all the way around him. It leaves him cocooned in white together with Geralt, the witcher’s warmth obvious now that he’s enveloped by it. Jaskier takes another deep breath. With a return to relative calm, embarrassment sets in, and when he makes eye-contact with Geralt he knows he’s already blushing. “Fuck,” he repeats. “I’m sorry, I—”

The fingers at his neck squeeze more firmly as Geralt frowns. “Not your fault,” the guardian grits. “I didn’t warn you, and I shouldn’t have dropped like that.” The witcher shakes his head. “It’s been a long time since I’ve flown anyone but Ciri.”

Jaskier huffs a laugh. Even to his own ears, it sounds a little weak. “I’m guessing our little birchling isn’t afraid of heights,” he says shakily. 

Geralt is barely visible to Jaskier in the darkness, and so he can’t decipher the expression on the guardian’s face. “She isn’t,” Geralt says, and Jaskier lets himself be distracted by the undercurrent of pride he can hear in his voice. “Though I didn’t drop like that the first time I flew with her either,” the witcher says in a low rumble, shaking his head.

Jaskier cranes his head back to peek just over the edge of Geralt’s wing. The wind stings his cheeks and he thinks he can see there’s still some distance to go until they reach the ground. “Ah, so can we do it without making me feel like I’m plummeting down, perhaps?” he says hesitantly, glancing back at Geralt. “I mean, if I had to guess I’d say you’re able to glide. You have quite the wingspan, after all.” He trails off at the twitch of Geralt’s fingers against his neck, suddenly achingly aware the witcher is still holding onto him there. There’s movement of Geralt’s thumb against the side of his neck as the other man lets him go, and if Jaskier didn’t know any better, he’d be tempted to interpret it as a caress. 

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” the guardian rumbles, his wing closing in tighter around him, so much Jaskier can feel the feathers brush against his back. “I didn’t mean to make you feel unsafe.”

Jaskier does his best to smile through the residual adrenaline still coursing through his veins. “It definitely startled me, and I suspect heights might not be my favourite thing, after all. It scared me in an instinctual sort of way. I don’t feel unsafe. I know you won’t let me fall,” he says, pouring all of his conviction into the words. 

Geralt’s wing around him presses closer still, and though Jaskier still can’t make out the guardian’s expression, he can now feel slow puffs of breath against his face. “Hmh,” Geralt hums eventually. “Hold on.”

Jaskier dutifully grabs onto Geralt’s shoulders as he is lifted from their perch somewhere on the castle walls. Geralt’s arms around him are steady, and Jaskier takes a deep breath as the guardian spreads his wings once more. He’s buffeted by the cold wind, and burrows into the warmth of the witcher’s chest. 

This time when Geralt steps off the stone, the sensation of dropping falls away before Jaskier can truly even register it, and they smoothly spiral down toward the ground.

—000— 

When Geralt lands, Eskel and Aiden are already waiting for them. Enough light brightens Kaer Morhen’s stained glass windows that Jaskier can tell how they avidly take in the way Geralt carefully sets him down. Aiden’s eyes linger on the strap over his chest, and Jaskier swings his lute case forward, tapping it affectionately, showing the witcher he’s brought his instrument. 

“Everything alright?” Eskel asks him, stepping forward. 

Jaskier hears the slight rustle of Geralt’s wings behind him, and grins valiantly up at the dark haired witcher. “Peachy,” he says. “Flying was just a little more frightening than I imagined it to be, that’s all.”

Eskel looks sharply at Geralt, and though the white haired guardian doesn’t respond verbally, a moment later Eskel’s nostrils flare and he nods. “You do look a little pale,” the scarred witcher says looking back at him. “But you’ve made it down in one piece. You’re still prepared to fly?”

“Psh,” Jaskier dismisses Eskel’s concerns. “A bit of a free fall won’t make me change my mind. Besides, it was hardly as bad as taking a portal.”

Geralt steps up beside him. “Portals are hateful things,” he says, deadpan enough it makes Jaskier chuckle. 

A gust of wind cools some of the fear-sweat that beads at the back of his neck, and he shivers as he looks up at the clouds. 

“Take off your coat,” Geralt growls next to him. 

“Excuse me?” Jaskier blinks in surprise, before looking down at the light coat he’s only donned moments before. “I know my garments aren't exactly up to your standards, darling. But again, they’re all I have, and they will have to do.”

“You need an extra layer,” Geralt says. “Take it off.”

Part of Jaskier wants to be petty and tell the guardian taking it off definitely constitutes losing a layer, and part of him wants to see where Geralt is actually going with this. He huffs a breath, and quickly undoes the thankfully secure fastenings. Geralt takes his coat from him with one hand, smoothly tucks his wings, and reaches behind himself to pull off his top layer made from some sturdy, slightly oiled looking material. Jaskier is very aware of his soft intake of breath when the witcher takes off his undershirt next, leaving him bare chested and exposed to the elements. 

He knows the guardians aren’t as vulnerable to the cold winds that blow down from the glaciers above, but he still imagines he can see Geralt’s skin pebble, even in the low light. He sternly tells himself not to look, but helplessly glances down to see the witcher react to the chill. When he looks back up at the guardian, he swallows heavily to find Geralt’s golden gaze already resting on him. He licks his lips in preparation to apologize, but before he can, the witcher shoves his undershirt at him and pulls his outer garment back on. 

“Put that on under your coat,” Geralt says roughly, still holding onto Jaskier’s lighter, frivolous courtier's coat. 

Jaskier nods quickly, pulling the soft undershirt over his head. The fabric is warm as it settles over him, as if it’s still holding onto some of Geralt’s heat. It’s too wide in the shoulders by a margin, but thankfully doesn’t slip off. It reaches lower on his thighs than Geralt’s, and the sleeves cover part of his hands. It’s too large, but it fits him well enough. He can already feel the added warmth it will grant him for the coming flight, even without his coat over it, and he murmurs soft words of apologetic gratitude as he’s handed the latter garment. 

“I’m sure the shirt won’t be the only thing keeping you warm on the flight,” Aiden says, smirking and folding his arms over his chest. 

Eskel elbows the cat, and Jaskier feels his cheeks burn in embarrassment. It’s clear that his attraction to Geralt isn’t only obvious to the witcher himself, but to the other guardians as well. He supposes he’s already betrayed as much previously, but he’d at least like to be a little less transparent, even if that’s nigh on impossible surrounded by witcher senses. 

“I greatly prefer to arrive unfrozen and still able to play,” he says with a wink, deciding to pretend he isn’t blushing. The mention of his playing sobers Aiden up visibly, strained concern reappearing on the guardian’s face. Jaskier steps up to him, briefly laying a hand on his shoulder in silent support and reassurance.

The witchers do a final check of their gear and weaponry, and Jaskier tries not to think about Geralt or Eskel being forced to use those swords strapped to their backs, or Aiden having to draw one of his knives, once they reach the well-warden and her spring. He checks over the strap of his lute case himself, and mentally reviews lyrics and melodies. When Geralt picks him up it’s hardly a surprise anymore, though the guardian’s wings coming back out and spreading before taking them up into the sky will surely never cease to leave him awed. 

All three guardians bend their knees and jump as they bring their wings down. Aiden is light and fast, and rises quickest out of all of them. Eskel follows close behind, his midnight black feathers blending into the darkness of night. Geralt rises noticeably slower, the beat of his wings even and regular. Jaskier suspects the slower ascent doesn’t have as much to do with the added weight, as it is for his benefit. Still, when he glances down and sees the lights of Kaer Morhen falling away into the distance he shivers despite the welcome layer of warmth Geralt’s undershirt provides him. He thinks Geralt hums, but the wind takes the sound away from them before Jaskier can hear it. He feels it though, the slow vibration of it in Geralt’s chest. “Don’t look down,” the guardian speaks against his ear, sturdy arms pulling him close. Jaskier nods, turns his face into the safety and warmth of Geralt’s neck, and lets himself be carried. 

—000—

It’s still dark when they finally land, and Jaskier has no idea how long they have flown. He’s cold despite the extra shirt and being cradled against Geralt’s heat. When the witcher carefully sets him down unto the springy forest floor, he runs his body through a few quick movements to get his blood back to flowing. He rubs his arms vigorously, curling and stretching out his fingers repeatedly. 

The three witchers tuck their wings and watch as he moves, their slitted eyes almost glowing in the darkness. Jaskier suspects the sunrise might not be far off. He can’t see the distant sky lightening through the trees, but the fact he can make out the silhouettes of the forest at all makes him think it can’t be long until morning arrives. 

He swallows heavily as he eyes the shadows between the trunks. They are dense and dark, and it doesn’t take much to imagine one of them becoming solid, stretching out to form grasping hands and—

Geralt’s hand lands on his shoulder, thumb accidentally brushing against the exposed skin of his neck. “Even if it could follow, I won’t let it get to you,” the guardian rumbles. 

Jaskier tries to smile up at him, aware nerves warp the expression into something stiff and untrue, and nods. The other two witchers tilt their heads curiously, until Eskel makes a sudden noise of understanding and murmurs something to Aiden. For a moment, all three witchers close in tightly.

Aiden takes the lead when they walk the final stretch toward Kelda’s spring. Geralt moves in at his back, and Eskel takes position to his right and just a few steps behind. Jaskier doesn’t know much about strategic positioning. He’s read a book on it once, and remembers being curious about the different formations, the ideal one changing depending on the number of people and factors such as opponents or terrain. He recognises this one, and breathes a little easier, sheltered as he is by the guardians forming an impenetrable barrier of protection around him.

They’ve been walking for a while when from one moment to the next, without any discernible warning, the forest floor squelches with every step they take. About ten steps onward, the squelch transforms into a definite slosh, and ten steps beyond that they’re splashing through shallow water. The sky is definitely more dark blue than black now, and Jaskier is glad he can actually see where he’s putting his feet now, or he’d be in danger of tripping and soaking himself in the shallow pool they’re trekking through. 

In front of him, Aiden pauses between the trees, turning half toward those behind him. When Jaskier catches up to him he sees they’ve reached the edge of the forest, farmland stretching out beyond, the silhouette of what may be a farmhouse visible in the distance. Around their feet, the water begins to churn. 

The ripples originate from what seems to be a deep well sheltered between rocks and trees, and Jaskier realises they’ve reached the spring. He swings his lute case in front of him as he steps forward, quickly undoing the clasps and settling the instrument in his hands. He can hear Aiden hiss through his teeth behind him, and glances up. 

Rising from the well is a figure with long black hair, water dripping from her locks and down her arms. A dress made of aquatic foliage clings to her, her skin a light, bluish grey. When he meets Kelda’s eyes, there’s nothing there but  mindless rage, the young well-warden’s face contorted with fury. There’s no recognition in her gaze, and Jaskier briefly wonders what happens to well-wardens who become enraged and have no way of coming back. He realises he knows what happens. They are branded monsters, enforcing human superstition about anything other, and die an inevitably violent death. The alternative is a guardian of Kaer Morhen finding them first. Jaskier clenches his teeth, ignoring the water rising from around his calves to lick at his knees, and takes another step forward. If there’s anything he can do about it, this will remain a rescue. Not a hunt. 

The first notes he plays only seem to enrage the well-warden further. Water sloshes against his thighs now, and both Geralt and Eskel step forward, hands reaching behind their backs, to the hilts of their swords. “No!” Jaskier says, shaking his head and urging them back as Kelda bares her teeth, the drip of water down her limbs increasing. “No, let me try a different melody, a different song,” he pleads desperately, quickly cycling through his repertoire. 

None of it seems to be working, and the water from the well is bubbling and turbulent now, the level where it reaches them at mid thigh. Kelda doesn’t move, her gaze locked on him, and Jaskier has to try. If Kelda cannot come out of her rage, she cannot live. 

“Kelda!” Aiden yells loudly to be heard over Jaskier’s music and the sounds of rushing water. “You stubborn, willful well-girl! Will you just listen? You asked for help, we’re here to help!” 

The words are filled with angry desperation, and Jaskier can’t think of a song he knows to reflect all the terrible emotion he can see in Kelda and Aiden, and that he can feel spilling past the confines of his heart. He doesn’t have a song for this, and so he just plays. 

Rapid sequences of notes converge into a melody, and he didn’t realise he was going to sing until his voice rings in his ears, wordless and raw. He feels Kelda’s anger at having her spring attacked, her life giving water polluted. He feels her dread at what was coming, her desperate call for help to the guardian who tethered to her when she was a student at Kaer Morhen. He feels how far away she is, from herself and everything she wants to be, how instinct has swallowed her whole. He feels Aiden’s anger, his fear of losing that final tethered thread to someone he treasures, and the inevitable gaping maw of grief that would attempt to swallow him after. He feels Eskel’s and Geralt’s worry, and their hesitance to let things unfold as the water rises.

Droplets start to bead at his lips, and Jaskier knows it’s well-water. He hears the ring of a sword leaving its sheath behind him together with the rush of a guardian’s wings unfolding, and swallows reflexively. He sings despite it. He pours everything he feels into words, only half aware of the song he’s singing, and ignores the flood of water at his lips. 

—000—

“Jaskier! Breathe!” Geralt snaps. The guardian has grabbed onto his shoulders, the press of his fingers harsh and painful. Geralt’s wings are spread wide behind him, and Jaskier realises he indeed isn’t breathing.  

He is distantly aware of the lack of water surrounding them, the well once again pulled back into its natural state. Kelda is settled on a rock, crying softly and holding onto Aiden. He finds Eskel standing close by, wings tucked tightly against his back, hands curled into fists at his sides. Water no longer flows from Jaskier’s nose and mouth, but somehow it is still stuck in his throat, and Geralt is telling him to breathe again, but he can’t. 

His heart pounds and he feels lightheaded. He hears what he thinks is Eskel’s voice, and then a curt, snapped agreement from Geralt. The next thing he knows he’s unceremoniously hoisted up and flipped upsidedown. He hardly has time to register the sudden inversion of his world view before he’s smacked rather harshly between the shoulder blades. It dislodges something in his throat and chest, and he coughs violently before weakly trying to lean away from Geralt and throwing up what feels like an entire river of well-water. 

—000—

Jaskier doesn’t register much of the flight back to Kaer Morhen. Despite the sun now beating down on them as they soar, he’s cold enough he has to burrow into Geralt’s warmth. Parts of his clothes are soaked through, and his feet especially feel like they have had all warmth drained from them. 

Kelda apologised profusely for nearly drowning him before they left, and though Jaskier had welcomed her hug, Geralt had growled threateningly until the well-warden stepped away. Both Aiden and Eskel had their wings tucked away by that time, but Geralt’s had remained spread out behind his back. 

The longer they fly, the more trouble Jaskier has keeping his eyes open. He endeavours to do so anyway, eager to see Kaer Morhen’s valley from high above upon their return. Despite his best efforts, when he next opens his eyes it’s to Willow’s flickering, pale blue light, the wisp excitedly circling above where he lies curled up under his blankets. Through the windows and the balcony doors pours in early morning light. He has apparently slept away the remainder of the day, and the entire night, after arriving back at the keep. 

Not only has Jaskier missed the view, but he’s entirely missed how he has come to be so carefully tucked in.

Chapter Text

Jaskier tucks Geralt’s undershirt away into his satchel to bring to breakfast. The shirt is warm and comfortable, and if he thought he could get away with it, he’d have gladly assimilated it into his wardrobe. Not necessarily to be worn out in public, as it is very clearly not his, but it served well as an extra layer of insulation, and he’s sure it would serve just as well as something to lounge around his room in. As it is, Geralt only gave him the shirt because his coat was insufficient, and will likely want it returned. Jaskier really needs to see if he can acquire a few additions to his wardrobe at some point. 

Resolved to do the right thing and part with the garment as soon as he sees Geralt, he follows Willow down to breakfast. Instead of floating out in front of him and making him run to keep up, the wisp sticks closer to him than usual. It’s almost as if the small ball of mist doesn’t want to let him out of sight now that he’s back. He blows a reassuring breath up at it, smiling when Willow brightens and swirls. 

Jaskier arrives in the hall and scans its occupants for a certain white haired guardian. Geralt is seated with Lambert and Aiden, and he waves at the other professors to let them know he’ll catch them at lunchtime instead. 

He approaches the table of witchers, and as soon as he’s within reach, Lambert grabs onto his wrist and pulls him into the seat next to him. “Heard you nearly drowned and then puked up half a lake, bard,” the alchemy professor says. 

“You say that like it’s something I did on purpose,” Jaskier retorts with a raised brow, as Willow darkens a little and comes to hover threateningly over Lambert’s head. 

Lambert glances up to the wisp above him. “Didn’t mean anything by it, you foolish fire,” he says to Willow. 

A whistle draws their attention, and when they look in Yarpenna’s direction, the dwarf has an apple in one hand, and a small, wickedly sharp knife in the other. “Just say the word Jaskier, and I’ll throw either of these,” they say. 

A laugh startles out of him, and Jaskier shakes his head while Lambert yells something about Yarpenna’s aim not being near good enough to risk throwing the knife with their poetry professor sitting right beside him. 

From a little further down the table Tiberius leans forward. “The git might not admit it, but he’d readily step between you and a knife, you know” the huge guardian says. 

Lambert growls and crosses his arms over his chest. “Only because damn humans are so fucking fragile,” he says. “Drowning. Knives. Creatures. Not to mention that this one seems entirely too calamity prone for his own good.”

It’s very clearly not a negation of Tiberius’ words, and Jaskier grins, leaning companionably against the redhead’s side. “I’ve never felt so safe,” he jokes. He catches Geralt’s eyes across the table, and does his best to not immediately blush under the guardian’s golden gaze. 

Breakfast between the guardians is comfortable. Half of the conversations around him seem to involve an abundance of good natured baiting. The other half is hard for him to follow since the witchers respond to people further down the table, and Jaskier is unable to hear with his mere human senses. He feels included despite it, and the few times he babbles in response to something that turns out wasn’t meant for him, he’s teased in a way that doesn’t immediately make him want to bite his tongue to shut himself up for the rest of the meal. 

He doesn’t entirely know how he winds up in a conversation, or perhaps more of a monologue, with Geralt about fibers, weaving techniques, and the different types of fabric it results in. He just hopes the guardian isn’t irritated with the random knowledge he spouts, though judging by the absence of tension around Geralt’s eyes and mouth, he isn’t. 

“I’ve read somewhere that wool does so well at keeping the wearer warm because besides a hollow core, the fibers have these tiny scales on their surface that trap air. Imagine that!” Jaskier exclaims. “Someone had to actually think to look at it under a magnifying glass, and then submerge the fibers in water to find out. Oh! that reminds me,” he babbles, suddenly aware he’s been sitting across from the guardian for the entirety of the meal without handing him back his shirt. He bends down to rummage in his satchel. “Thank you, again, for letting me borrow this. It was quite warm, I’d guess it’s a wool and cotton blend?”

Jaskier rights himself, holding out Geralt’s folded shirt to— an empty place at the table right across from him. His mouth falls open in bewilderment, and when he eventually glances up toward the hall’s ceiling after looking all around, the rest of the guardians at the table laugh. 

Jaskier shakes his head, tucking the shirt back into his satchel. “Should have known an exposition on the properties of wool would be pushing it,” he sighs, reading confirmation in the amount of incredulously raised eyebrows around him. 

—000—

The days of the week following, Jaskier takes to bringing his satchel everywhere, and tries to hand Geralt back his shirt multiple times. For various reasons, he is woefully unsuccessful at it. 

Sometimes it’s Geralt plainly disappearing as soon as Jaskier makes any mention of the shirt, or goes to grab his satchel, the way he did at breakfast. One time it’s Eskel, asking just the right question to distract him as he tries to hand it over, drawing him into a discussion on the domestication of wild species of all things. By the time he turns back toward where Geralt had been standing, the guardian is long gone, and there’s a heavily amused smile on Eskel’s face.  

Another time it’s Lambert and Aiden, both of whom immediately start needling at Geralt as soon as Jaskier makes mention of the garment. They snigger about something to do with the fading and renewing of scents. Geralt growls at both of them, looks at Jaskier from the corners of his eyes, and then stalks away without taking the shirt from his outstretched hand. 

At some point Jaskier enlists Ciri’s help in finding Geralt, the little birchling riding on his shoulder and directing him through the halls of Kaer Morhen. They finally encounter the guardian in a random hallway, and Jaskier laughs at the tree-sprite’s antics as she jumps over to his shoulder and climbs all over the witcher. There’s a small, soft smile on Geralt’s face. Despite his best efforts, there’s the beginnings of an ache in Jaskier’s chest as he observes the expression. He babbles to distract himself from the not entirely unexpected longing, and then completely forgets to offer Geralt back his shirt. 

By the end of the week Jaskier is very well aware that Geralt doesn’t want to take back the garment. He just isn’t sure why. Resolved to either try one final time, or to find out if the witcher feels a particular way about wearing clothes that have been worn by others, Jaskier drops in on one of the guardian’s classes. 

—000—

Spring is slowly creeping toward summer, and though Jaskier hasn’t left Oxenfurt behind more than a season ago, part of him feels it’s been a lifetime. Up in the mountains around Kaer Morhen the air is still cool, and the sparkle of snow is still evident on the higher peaks and the distant glaciers. 

With the sun up high in the sky Jaskier can tell the summer months to come will bring heat, though it will undoubtedly be less cloying and oppressive than it would be back in Redania. As it is, his doublet is quite warm enough for once, and he tilts his head up to enjoy the warmth on his face as Willow slowly orbits him like a small, pale moon. 

“Not too hot for you?” Jaskier asks the wisp. He’s not sure, and he hasn’t come across any information of the sort, but the misty nature of wisps makes him slightly hesitant of the warmth.

Willow flashes wildly in response, as if indignant, and though the effect is diminished by the bright sunlight all around, Jaskier gets the message. 

He chuckles and blows an apologetic breath up at the cloud of fog, and when Willow just hangs there motionlessly, Jaskier pleads. “I have no chance of finding Geralt’s class by myself,” he says, gesturing around them expansively. “Besides, I’d rather not stray close to the forest if I can help it,” he says with a shiver, eyeing the treeline just beyond the stables. 

There’s a small flicker of blue amongst all the grey, and then Willow darts away. Jaskier yelps and has to sprint after the wisp to keep up. By now he’s better at keeping his breathing under control while running, but Willow makes him do a full out sprint, and there’s no way Geralt won’t hear his gasping breaths once he arrives. Resigned to being, once again, embarrassed in front of the guardian, Jaskier races after the wisp until they reach Geralt’s class. 

Willow slows down just enough to keep him from careening around a humongous boulder and fully crashing into the ongoing lesson, but Jaskier still huffs and puffs as he leans against the rock. He hopes the students might still not have noticed his arrival, but he has no doubt Geralt has. 

Geralt’s classroom, for lack of a better word, is a large, relatively level open space where the grass has been cut short. It is hidden from direct view by a few enormous boulders, one of which Jaskier is currently, poorly, hiding behind. It’s further delineated by a multitude of smaller ones. The encircling rocks provide at least some shelter, but it’s still under the open sky, and Jaskier wonders where the class is held when the weather turns. Or, even when the seasons approach winter, the temperatures drop, and the soft green grass is covered by a blanket of snow. 

Jaskier knows, of course, that Geralt teaches self defence. He just didn’t have a detailed picture in his mind of what that entails exactly.

The class he stumbles in on is one with no more than a handful of older students. Vane and Vesper are part of it, as are two elven girls and a dwarf. All of them have a sword in their hands, and Jaskier catches himself when his first worried thought is on Vesper’s response if any of the students were to accidentally cut themselves. 

He silently berates himself for immediately jumping to the common—human, preconception about vampire impulses. He’s bombarded Regis with enough questions by now that he knows the mere presence of blood won’t lead to anything close to bloodlust. Not for higher vampires. Besides, when he looks closer, he realises that though the swords are real enough, their edges look distinctly dull. There’s no sharp glint of sunlight coming off them, and he suspects if an unfortunate strike were to hit home, it would result in a bruise rather than a cut. 

The students stand grouped together in a neat line, facing  where he hides against the bulk of rock, Willow floating just above his shoulder. There are equal spaces between them, just enough that a recklessly swung sword would miss their neighbour. Not that there’s any foolish swinging going on, not at all. Geralt stands in front of them, back toward him. The witcher’s head is tilted slightly to the side, as if he’s listening. There’s a sword in the guardian’s hand, not a mere practice weapon, but a lethal instrument. Jaskier heaves a deep breath, slowing his exhalations and heartbeat.

Out on the grass in front of him, Geralt starts to move. 

The dark of night and the forest itself had obscured the guardians’ fight with the oculus. Jaskier had done his best to pay attention to those quickly shifting shadows, to follow the fight that Geralt and Eskel were fighting for him. He’d been able to see precious little, his eyesight too human to clearly tell apart the shades of black.

Right now, the sun is bright overhead, warming them all, and illuminating how the guardian fights. 

The witcher is teaching, and so his steps and movements are slow and precise. Still, there’s a fluidity to him, and Jaskier can imagine all too well how it would translate in an actual confrontation. Geralt flows through a sequence of moves, one merging into the next so seamlessly it seems like one continuous motion. It’s graceful like a dance, but deadly like a wolf stalking its prey. 

Jaskier watches, entranced, until Geralt stops moving, ending with a powerful but controlled stabbing motion at some imaginary foe. Then the guardian returns to his starting position in front of his students, and starts breaking down what he just showed them, having them follow along as he demonstrates. 

When Geralt performed it, the entire sequence of movement had seemed elegant, and deceptively simple. Broken down, Jaskier realises he would quickly lose track of his feet and weapon if he were to try. He shakes his head ruefully, remembering his long ago fencing lessons. 

By the end of the class only Vane manages to complete the sequence in a single attempt, haltingly struggling through the moves. All five students look up at Geralt with expectant faces after they finish and tidy away their blades. While each of them gets a few specific things they need to work on, all of them are praised in the guardian's low, rumbling voice. 

After Geralt dismisses them, it becomes clear all five students have been aware of Jaskier’s presence, since he gets wide grins and waves all around. Vane and Vesper whisper something to one another, too quiet for him to hear. Jaskier is surprised and duly impressed that Geralt’s class has been nothing but disciplined and focussed, despite having an unexpected observer. Then again, he knows enough to know training with weapons is no joke, even if their edges are dulled. 

He’s contemplating how Geralt seems to bring out something altogether different in his students than he often sees in his own classes, when the guardian steps up to him, sword still in hand. Jaskier eyes the blade and shifts his weight from one foot to the other. 

“Where’s your other sword?” he blurts out instead of the greeting he’d planned. “I distinctly remember both you and Eskel carrying two.”

“Hmh,” the guardian hums, stepping forward enough to loom over him. Jaskier doesn’t lean back, but feels decidedly caged in against the large rockface regardless. His heart trips over itself for a moment, and he curses the way he can feel his face heat. Geralt plucks up something from right next to him, before leaning back to show him. 

“Oh,” he says, feeling foolish he hadn’t even noticed the guardian’s second sword leant against the boulder, right next to him. “There it is. Why do you have two, anyway?” he asks curiously.

Geralt hefts the sword he’d been training with. “For rescues,” he says, before lifting up the one that’s still safely sheathed in its scabbard. “For hunts.”

Jaskier can’t quite understand why a distinction between the weapons’ purpose would be helpful, but then again, he’s never actually fought. Not to rescue someone, and not to end a life either. “Do you ever fight with both of them at the same time?” he asks, wondering if his memory of that night is wrong. He thinks he saw the witcher with a sword in each hand, but amongst all those shadows it could have been his imagination. 

“Often enough,” Geralt answers, his pupils contracting and expanding as he watches Jaskier. “When a rescue and a hunt coincide.”

Jaskier blinks and nods thoughtfully. He imagines himself trying to keep track of two potentially lethal weapons at the same time and chuckles. “I am entirely likely to stab myself with a single blade, let alone two. I don’t know how you do it.” 

Geralt tilts his head. “You could learn.”

He snorts, ignoring the way Willow sparks with little flashes of light, as if the wisp too is laughing at the mere idea. “Didn’t you hear me?” he says, before gesturing to himself with a wiggle of his fingers. “Remember I am human. If I do happen to stab myself, bleeding out is a real issue, Geralt.”

The corner of the guardian’s mouth twitches, and Jaskier thinks if Geralt would let himself, it would be easy to let that tiny expression transform into a smile. “We’ll start with a single blade,” the guardian counters. 

Jaskier shakes his head. “I came here to ask you if you’d finally take your shirt back, or if there’s a particular reason you won’t. Getting roped into sword lessons was never part of the plan!” 

“Keep the shirt. Sword fighting is strenuous work. You’ll need something less fancy to wear.”

“You say that like it’s a foregone conclusion I’m going to learn. Didn’t I tell you I nearly drove my fencing instructor to insanity?” Jaskier says, wondering how this conversation got away from him so quickly. “Your shirt is too large for me, anyway. Won’t that be a hindrance?”

Geralt’s sharp golden gaze drops to the sleek lines of his doublet, the look lingering long enough that damn flush Jaskier had just managed to let recede returns in full force. “It’ll give you freedom of movement,” the guardian says with a raised brow. 

“Oh. Yes. I suppose it would,” he responds, trying his hardest to not sound breathy in any shape or form while plucking at the fine silk of his doublet. 

Jaskier returns to the castle with Geralt’s shirt still in his satchel, and what’s basically a command from the guardian to attend one of his classes in the next week. 

Chapter Text

Jaskier carefully studies the series of images. It shows a stylized figure in a sequence of progressing postures and stances, blade in hand. He keeps trying to imagine how a person would actually transition between them, but the solutions his brain comes up with seem awkward, even in his imagination. More than once, he completely forgets that the blade is there and needs to change position as well. He sighs deeply. He should have known that learning sword fighting sequences from a book would be a long shot. It’s just that he would prefer not to make an entire fool of himself in front of Geralt, and this is the only way he knows how to prepare. 

He thinks of how the guardian’s movements seemed to flow seamlessly into one another, the sword in his hand more an extension of his body than a thing separate from him. It isn’t long before his thoughts drift to the play of muscle in Geralt’s forearms, the clench and release of his thighs as he shifted from one stance into the next, or the way his white hair flowed behind him and the sun lit up his golden eyes. 

Jaskier swallows and looks back down at the book in front of him. Compared to how Geralt moved, the depicted postures seem stiff and unnatural. He taps his fingers to the page and wrinkles his nose. He’s not likely to figure out how to move from one stance to the next, no matter how hard or long he stares at the drawings. 

He’s thankfully interrupted by Willow’s flickering light as the wisp floats from its position next to his shoulder toward the classroom door. Jaskier grins and calls for his students to enter, even before they get the chance to knock. It’s Maeve who opens the door, but both Ciri and Grove twist around her legs and are through first. 

“Could you hear us coming?” the little birchling chirps as she races toward her desk, grinning and waving to Willow as the wisp circles her once and then hovers high above her seat for a moment. 

Jaskier reaches out to ruffle her fluffy white hair while shaking his head, as he watches Maeve wait for her sister Anya to enter, closely followed by Vane. He smiles when Vaayu enters a bit after the others, as if the young djinn still has to convince himself to step over the threshold and into the singing lesson. He turns back to Ciri. “You know human senses are far from sensitive enough to hear you coming through barriers of stone and oak. A guardian likely would have heard you, but with the door closed I only knew you were here because Willow alerted me,” he says. 

The wisp floats back over to him, cool tendrils briefly brushing over the back of his hand before coming to hover high up near the ceiling. 

Ciri and Grove are in their seats, but the older students remain standing and look at him expectantly. Jaskier grins to himself. They’re only a few singing lessons in, but already they know he starts most of them with movement and breathing. The small tree sprites tumble over each other in their haste to join the others when he gestures them back to their feet. They eventually manage to right themselves, and help to form a loose circle in the open space. 

“Now,” Jaskier begins. “Since we’ve done a few different warm-up exercises every lesson, I want each of you to pick your favourite, and the rest will follow along. Who’s first?” 

“Ragdolls!” Ciri screeches immediately, flopping forward like her strings have been cut, her fingertips and the long strands of her hair dragging across the floor. She holds a note as she’s been taught, while slowly rolling up and stretching her fingers toward the ceiling. Jaskier can’t help but laugh when he notices her hair seems to follow along with the movement, forming into a spiked shape on top of her head. He gestures for the others to join the exercise, and lets himself bend to slump forward as well. 

When they finish a few of the ragdolls, Jaskier looks expectantly at the rest of them, and is pleasantly surprised when Beryl raises his hand. The Lamia’s scales shimmer with hesitance, lighting up his sandy skin. When he nods at the boy, Beryl determinedly lets his hand fall away from where it’d been covering his mouth. 

“Imitation scales,” Beryl says, his own scales shimmering again while he smiles shyly. 

“Excellent choice!” Jaskier tells Beryl, while Vane grins and gives the younger boy an encouraging, appreciative pat on the back. Jaskier catches the dragon’s eye and gives the youth a discrete nod to let him know he appreciates how Vane works to build confidence in those younger than himself. The dragon blushes slightly, and seems pleasantly surprised his efforts have been noticed. 

The first sound to be imitated with scales is made by Anya, who makes such a realistic meowing noise Jaskier wouldn’t be shocked if a cat had found its way into his classroom and was hiding amongst the instruments. And then suddenly his classroom is filled with a range of meowing of different volumes and pitches. When he checks on Vaayu, the young djinn has a grin on his face and his voice is loud and bright, mingling with the others’. 

Jaskier takes a small step back to regard his students, a bright, joyful feeling swelling in his chest. Cool wetness brushes against his cheek. “Look at them,” he murmurs to Willow. “I’m really starting to think Valdo did me a favour, after all.”

—000—

Jaskier ends the lesson by having them sing the lullaby they started on that first time, followed by a short, humorous question and answer song that becomes louder and louder with every round, despite his best efforts to keep them singing instead of plain shouting. It inevitably devolves into giggles and laughter, and he shakes his head as he waves them off.

As they leave, Vane lets both tree sprites climb up onto his shoulders while Meave and Anya ask Beryl to repeat his imitation of a snake. For a moment Jaskier thinks the Lamia will duck and hide, his scales shimmering more brightly under his skin. But then Beryl hisses the loudest he’s ever heard, visibly startling both himself and the others, freezing for a second. Then the banshee sisters laugh with delight, both of them hissing in imitation. Beryl ducks his head, but Jaskier doesn’t miss the pleased smile on the boy’s face.  

He watches them leave, very well aware that one of his students is lingering, waiting for the others to go. He sees Vane looking back over his shoulder, the young dragon’s eyes catching on Vaayu. His expression is concerned, despite both tree sprites currently doing acrobatics on his shoulders. When Jaskier catches his eye, he smiles at the lad reassuringly. He doesn’t know if it’s a thing dragons are prone to, or if it is just Vane in particular, but he’s glad to see the dragon so worried for his fellow students’ wellbeing. 

When he turns around to face the young djinn still in his classroom, Jaskier carefully leaves the door open, unwilling to create even the semblance of being locked in when he’s alone with Vaayu. Willow moves lazily around the space, and the djinn’s eyes are watching the wisp as it floats by several times. 

Jaskier decides to leave it up to Vaayu to tell him why he’s remained, and moves to tidy up the instruments, desks, and chairs, eventually seating himself on the edge of the podium and looking up at the boy. When Willow makes yet another pass between them, Vaayu finally meets his eyes. 

“Is it true you saved someone with music?” the djinn asks. 

Jaskier leans back on his hands. “I certainly tried,” he says. “I wasn’t alone though. I had three guardians with me, but the music helped.”

Vaayu frowns. The boy is standing while Jaskier is seated, just how they’d ended up the first time Vaayu finally talked. He tilts his head to the spot next to him on the podium. He doesn’t really expect Vaayu to take the invitation, but the boy sways in place for a moment and then starts forward. The djinn leaves space between them, but he’s sat himself next to him, and Jaskier takes it as the cautious victory it is. 

“How— how did the music help?” Vaayu asks, his dark brows drawing together. He doesn’t look at Jaskier, as if being in this close proximity to him is as far as he’s prepared to go. 

“The music helped, because Kelda always loved it,” Jaskier tells him. “I think it reminds her of good things, of who she truly is, and that’s how she returned to herself.”

“Oh,” Vaayu says tonelessly, and Jaskier doesn’t miss the way the boy’s shoulders tense, or how his fingers curl into fists on his thighs. “So there’s nothing— it doesn’t hold power.”

Jaskier sighs. “I think I could guess why you would wish it to be so, Vaayu. Music is magical to me, but it isn’t like chaos. Perhaps you can think of it as being powerful in its own way.” He trails off, thinking. “It holds a world of things, both happy and sad, wonderful and melancholy. For a lot of us it sparks memories, like it did for Kelda. For some it can stir them to action, or have them rooted in place. It can be so many different things, all depending on who’s listening to the melody. I believe that’s powerful in its own right.”

“It doesn’t set me free,” Vaayu murmurs, his voice small and the words so softly spoken Jaskier almost misses it. 

He swallows tightly. “I’d play for you, Vaayu, if there was but the slightest chance it could.” 

The djinn’s dark blue eyes snap to his, suspicion and anger clear in his expression, until it suddenly falls away to be replaced with dread. “You can say that so easily. It doesn’t cost you anything, because it wouldn’t work anyway. How can I believe what you say is true?”

Jaskier nods in understanding. “There isn’t really any way for me to prove to you that I’m sincere, and so for you to believe me requires your trust. A leap of faith,” he says slowly.

Vaayu watches him, dark blue eyes guarded, the urge to flee present in every line of his body. 

“Broken trust is hardly ever restored completely. To learn to trust at all is the bravest thing, especially while the wounds of previous betrayal are still ragged and raw.”

Vaayu’s expression crumples for a second, before a mask of anger slides down in its place, his gaze shuttering. “Are you saying I’m a coward because I can’t trust you?” the djinn bites out.  

“The complete opposite,” Jaskier says calmly. “I believe you’re one of the bravest people I’ve ever met.”

—000—

When Jaskier joins his fellow professors at dinner that evening he’s still repeating his conversation with the young djinn over and over in his head. Vaayu had looked at him in disbelief after he’d called the boy brave, and Jaskier can do nothing more than hope that he’ll get Vaayu to believe it at some point. 

He thinks of how Vaayu’s trust has been betrayed, and of how he’ll likely carry the scars of that experience for the rest of his life. The djinn’s attitude toward him has changed though. There’s definitely nothing close to trust yet, the boy’s suspicious words clear evidence of it. The little bit of cautious hope that has sprouted might continue to grow however. Jaskier hopes that at some point, it might have grown enough he might ask Vaayu for a name, and the djinn will answer. Part of him had been tempted to steer the conversation toward that point today. It’d been too soon though. Making mention of that girl now, would likely push Vaayu away and make the djinn revert to his previous continuous anger. 

“Where are your thoughts at?” Yarpenna says while they snap their sturdy fingers right next to his ear. 

He startles enough he’d have elbowed his goblet clean off the table, if it weren’t for Eskel’s hand shooting out to catch it mid air and place it back in its spot. “Those guardian reflexes really are something,” Jaskier chuckles, plucking up the goblet and taking a sip. “Is it that obvious I’m distracted?” he asks Yarpenna. 

The dwarf rolls their eyes. “You’ve been staring off into the distance, and this time it isn’t even at Geralt,” they say with a grin, while Jaskier groans and chances a glance in the guardian’s direction, only to immediately encounter golden eyes looking back at him. 

“I don’t stare,” he says sullenly. “It’s perfectly normal to look at something you find aesthetically pleasing every now and again.” The words are out before he can consider them, but it’s not like Geralt and all the rest of them don’t already know. 

“So the wall you were staring at just now, there’s something particularly aesthetically pleasing about it?” Regis asks with a raised brow. 

“I’ll have you know Kaer Morhen is beautiful, and every time I look I find something new,” Jaskier huffs good naturedly as Willow flickers with blue-lighted agreement. 

Triss laughs her tinkling laugh before reaching out to lay a slender hand on his forearm. “The staring is one thing,” she says. “Most telling of all is that you haven’t spoken a word since you sat down. Are you alright?”

All of them are turned toward him now, and when Jaskier happens to look up he sees that practically every guardian in the hall is paying attention to how he’ll answer. He feels a sudden surge of affection for all of them, and swallows down the urge to make up for his previous silence with way too many words. “I think I’m better than I’ve been in a long while,” he ends up saying, giving Triss a genuine smile. 

Toward the end of dinner, Ciri comes bounding up to him after finishing her meal, just stopping short of barreling into his leg and blinking up innocently at the table full of her professors. Jaskier reaches out to ruffle the pale, fluffy locks of her hair, and the little birchling grins up slyly at him. 

“Gera— professor Geralt says you’re going to learn self defence!” she says, loud enough for practically the entire hall to hear. 

“Ah,” Jaskier nods. “When it comes to his subject I’m not sure I’ll be a very good student, but he is a very good teacher, and I’m sure I’ll know more after than I do now,” he says. 

Ciri grins up at him when he compliments the guardian, but then shifts into a rather convincing pout. “He says you’ll be joining one of the older classes.”

Jaskier quickly glances in Geralt’s direction, hoping to convey with a look how he doubts he’ll be able to keep up with any of the older students when it comes to handling a weapon. All he gets in response is the slight raise of a single white brow. 

“I’m sure the fact older students can be set to task without direct supervision and that he’ll be free to pay extra attention to you, has nothing to do with it, little Buttercup,” Yennefer says smoothly, her painted lips curling up in a slight smirk. 

Jaskier wishes he wouldn’t blush so easily, not when he’s surrounded by those with supernatural senses. He knows they are entirely likely to notice even the slightest flush in his skin. Before he can check what Geralt thinks of the mage’s statement, Ciri pulls insistently on his sleeve. 

“Vaayu says you’ve been in his and Meave’s and Anya’s class with Vesemir. You’ve been in Triss’ class with Vesper and Vane. When are you going to be in one of mine?” she says, her green eyes rounding out with feigned innocence. 

Jaskier chuckles. “I do believe I’m in your class every week, not to mention those on the weekends, birchling.”

Ciri’s little face shifts back to her previous pout again. “Those don’t count Jask— professor Jaskier,” she amends hastily when both Eskel and Regis clear their throats and Yennefer sends her a stern purple-eyed look. 

Jaskier gasps in mock surprise, dramatically pressing a hand to his chest. “They absolutely count!” he says, grinning and winking at the small sprite to show her he doesn’t really take offense. 

“I have an idea, little birch,” Eskel rumbles next to him, plucking Ciri up and setting her on his shoulder. “Why don’t we ask Jaskier to join your class with me? I’m sure there is something we can teach him about creatures he hasn’t yet learned from a book,” the scarred guardian says teasingly, smiling invitingly at him as Ciri whoops with joy. 

Jaskier reaches for his satchel and pulls out the notebook he uses to keep track of his schedule. Ciri bounces so hard she almost falls off Eskel’s shoulder, but the witcher rights her just in time. Ciri’s class with Eskel falls right between two of his own on Wednesday, and Jaskier carefully opens his ink and dips his pen to write it into his timetable. 

“Friday afternoon,” Geralt says. The guardian’s voice comes from close enough behind him Jaskier starts a little, the jerk of his hand causing a single, small drop of ink to fall onto his papers. 

Jaskier huffs. “Well, since you insist on startling me and made me spill ink right where I am going to attend your class, I guess that can be your mark,” he says archly.

When he looks up the witcher is standing directly behind him, the heat of him palpable all along his back. Geralt leans forward over his shoulder and presses his thumb to the small spill. It prevents the ink from spreading further or from smudging. Instead, the droplet takes on the slight valleys and ridges of the witcher’s fingerprint. When Geralt pulls his hand away, ink blackens the pad of his thumb. 

Jaskier’s stomach swoops with nerves, and he suspects the sudden increase in his heartbeat will likely be obvious to Geralt and every Guardian in the vicinity. He staunchly ignores the flutter he feels in response to the possessive marking of his time, and nods his head. “Friday it is,” he confirms.

Chapter Text

That Wednesday at the end of lunch, Jaskier promptly gets surrounded by Ciri’s class. The little birchling herself clambers her way up the side of his trousers until he plucks her up and lets her perch on his shoulder, where she swings her legs against his chest hard enough a small oof escapes him. He sees Grove speculatively eye the same path on his other side, but where Ciri is used to familiarity with her professors from her years at Kaer Morhen, the oakling clearly isn’t. Jaskier grins and reaches out a hand to him. 

“Do you want a ride, Grove? I’m sitting in on your class with professor Eskel, so we’re all going in the same direction,” he says. 

Grove doesn’t need more encouragement than that, and immediately wraps his knotted, branch-like fingers around his hand, letting Jaskier hoist him up and put him on his opposite shoulder. 

“Now, if I could carry you all, rest assured I would, but I might collapse under the combined weight of you.” He chuckles when he sees Beryl and Flint regard him with wide eyes. The Lamia’s scales shimmer shyly under his skin, and the boy ducks his head, hiding behind his fringe. 

Flint shakes her head. “Figures,” she says sagely. “You’re not a dwarf. You’re probably limited to carrying your own weight and not much more.”

Jaskier blinks in surprise while Muirinn scoffs and gives Flint a little push before stroking a hand over the smooth grey fur draped over her arm. “Dwarves aren’t the only ones able to carry weight, you know,” she says haughtily. 

“I know that,” Flint defends hastily, before looking up at Jaskier consideringly. 

Jaskier immediately shakes his head. “Some humans are very capable of carrying their body weight again and then some,” he says. “Though I myself have never before felt compelled to cultivate that particular skill.” He glances around and sees several guardians have grins on their faces. They might be pretending to mind their own business, but Jaskier knows better by now. “Right now doesn’t seem like the opportune time to assess my capabilities,” he chuckles. “We have a class to attend,” he says, beckoning the lamia, dwarf, and selkie to fall in behind him. 

—000—

Jaskier can admit to himself that he’s slightly nervous by the time they reach the stables. He hides it from his little students by participating in their excited chatter, and tries to take courage from the fact that while Eskel is there, nothing much can happen to him or their students. 

The truth is that he’s unsure what to expect. He’s read about all sorts of creatures, his curiosity leading him across fantastic tales of giant monsters and tiny little critters even before he came to Kaer Morhen. He knows the stables hold Roach, Scorpion, and Bleater, but he’s entirely unsure what types of other creatures Kaer Morhen’s students are taught to handle.

When they enter, Eskel takes a single look at him, and the witcher’s nostrils flare on a breath. The guardian reaches out to pluck both Ciri and Grove off Jaskier’s shoulders and drops them in line with the others. 

“Before we begin, tell professor Jaskier the most important rules in my class,” Eskel says, laying a broad hand on his shoulder. The gesture does a lot to calm the rapid beat of his heart, and more of his tension is released when their students answer. 

“Safety first!” Ciri and Grove chirp immediately.

“We wait and listen to your explanation before doing anything,” Flint says in a way that makes Jaskier think she might have erred on that account at some point. 

“The animals are just as unsure as we are,” Muirinn says. 

“If we’re scared, we can observe first, and then decide if we want to get closer,” Beryl adds in his softly hissing voice as he steps a little closer to Jaskier. 

Eskel nods proudly at them. “That’s exactly right,” the scarred guardian says, fingers squeezing around Jaskier’s shoulder in reassurance. 

Of all paddocks within the stable complex, it’s the fourth one Jaskier has most misgivings about. It’s furthest from the entrance, and it’s sunken into the ground. Water fills the paddock to just below floor level, and if it didn’t have fencing set wider around it, inattention could have you walk right into it. Like the first time he laid eyes on it, Jaskier cannot hope to guess how deep the water actually runs. 

He’s nervous, but at the same time he’s entirely curious what Eskel will have in store for him and their class of youngsters. He knows the witcher will hardly show them something that’s actually dangerous. Even if he would, the guardian would most definitely put himself between any of his students and an attacking creature. 

Together with his students, Jaskier steps up to the submerged paddock when Eskel gestures them forward through the fencing. Up close, he can see something moving underneath the surface, causing ripples to form. When he leans in even further to catch another glimpse, Willow’s light illuminates a large, reflective eye of the deepest blue he has ever seen, peering up at him. 

The saturated colour shimmers under the light, and the eye blinks up inquisitively. Jaskier gets the distinct impression that whatever creature the eye belongs to is just as curious as he is, wondering who’s suddenly peering down into the depths of its world. He blinks back at the eye, and leans forward even further, his earlier hesitance entirely forgotten. 

“Professor Jaskier,” Eskel reproaches gently. “Nothing that’s in there right now will pull you under water and attempt to eat or drown you, but there’s no way you could have known that before I just told you.”

Jaskier jerks back upright and flushes. So much for setting an appropriate example for their students. “Ah, right,” he stammers. “Wait and listen to your explanation before doing anything. I promise I was listening, darling. I just got distracted,” he says. 

He realises the endearment might not be entirely appropriate when Ciri and Grove giggle, Muirinn makes a small disapproving noise, Flint guffaws, and even Beryl hisses a laugh while his scales shimmer. Jaskier rubs a hand over the back of his neck and smiles sheepishly at Eskel, hoping to convey an apology. 

The scarred witcher shakes his head fondly, and gestured for him to take a step back. Jaskier does so hastily, feeling no qualms whatsoever about Eskel putting him back in line with their young ones.

“I know Vesemir has taught you about kelpies,” Eskel begins, and Jaskier has to hold himself back from taking another, rather larger step away from the water. 

He’s read more than enough about kelpies to never in his life want to encounter one. His experience with Kelda was quite enough of an introduction to near drowning to thoroughly suppress any curiosity that might have remained. 

“What should you never, ever do when you’re possibly dealing with a kelpie?” Eskel asks their students seriously, shooting a meaningful look in Jaskier’s direction. 

Ciri’s hand shoots up, and after a second or two, so do the others’. Jaskier is glad they know the answer, and not at all surprised that some of the first things Kaer Morhen’s youngest students are taught help them to avoid danger and stay alive. They are young, but they are old enough to learn, and they will need this information when they go out into the continent, even more so than Jaskier realised before he got to Kaer Morhen. 

Eskel nods at Ciri to give her answer, and Jaskier can clearly hear the echo of the dean’s words through the little birchling’s voice. 

“Never, under any circumstances, climb onto their back,” Ciri says seriously, her pale hair fluffed up all around her head. She looks thoughtful for a moment. “Oh! and never pet them either!” she adds. 

As if the mere mention of pets summons him, Bleater chooses that moment to pop his head over his stall door and loudly demonstrate the sound he’s named after. 

Jaskier is not the only one that jumps at the sudden, deafening noise. Beryl leans more firmly against his leg, and he unconsciously pulls the boy a little closer while murmuring an amused greeting in the goat’s direction.

Eskel chuckles, glancing at the oversized bovid, as Bleater in turn stares at Jaskier and ruminates. “Correct,” the scarred guardian confirms. “Tell professor Jaskier why even touching a kelpie is a bad idea.”

“It’s sticky!” Ciri chirps immediately, and Jaskier pretends to be baffled. 

“Sticky?” he repeats incredulously. “How can it be sticky when it lives under water?”

“It was born that way, of course,” Muirinn says matter of factly, and Jaskier nods at her. 

“It isn’t always sticky,” Grove adds thoughtfully. “It will get you to pet or mount it at first, and once you do, you won’t be able to let go.”

Eskel hums in approval. “Never touch a strange horse near a body of water, especially if its coat looks to be wet. In that line, never trust a handsome stranger with seaweed woven through sodden strands of hair, who tries to take your hand.”

Jaskier frowns. He’s read about a kelpie’s ability to adopt human form, but after noting there aren’t any kelpies at Kaer Morhen, he’d assumed that information to be inaccurate, based on human assumptions or superstition. After all, kelpie children would then be able to attend the school. It seems the book he read was correct after all, so there must be an alternative reason for their absence. 

He clears his throat. “None of them are friendly?” he asks, hesitant to assume. 

Eskel shakes his head, right along with every one of their students. “No, Jaskier. They aren’t friendly. If you meet one of them, remember you are prey to them, and they don’t consider you any differently than a bird of prey considers the mouse it’s going to eat.”

Beryl hisses softly, and Jaskier doesn’t miss how the children crowd a little more closely around him as they look up at Eskel with wide eyes. 

“So what’s in there, professor Eskel?” Flint asks. 

“Not a kelpie,” Eskel answers, “but a creature that is quite similar in appearance, and in the past has been hunted for that very reason. They’re quite rare as a result, and rarely encountered though they’re friendly. Unlike the kelpie, they cannot adopt a human shape, but will remain in their equine one. Most importantly, their skin isn’t sticky, and if it allows you to ride it, there’s no danger of them dragging you down into the water. Do any of you know the species I’m speaking of?” the guardian asks, looking at them with raised brows. 

Jaskier waits for their students to shake their heads one by one. When he looks back at Eskel, the witcher is already looking back at him, amusement sparking in his gaze. 

“Professor Jaskier?” Eskel prompts. 

Jaskier waves a hand through the air, glancing at the submerged paddock as whatever is in there moves closer to the surface and ripples the water. “I only know what I’ve read,” he begins. “I’ve never had the opportunity to encounter one, and I honestly wouldn’t have been able to distinguish it from a kelpie now that I think of it, so that might be a lucky thing, after all.” He glances between Eskel and the water again. “From what you’ve said, there’s a bracken in there?”

Eskel grins, and nods. “There is indeed,” he says. “Now, who wants to meet it?”

—000—

Jaskier sort of knows what to expect from the book he’s read, and as it turns out, bracken really don’t look so very different from a regular horse. 

Eskel steps up to the paddock and beckons the animal with soft, gentle noises. The water churns and ripples, and then a horse’s head slowly rises above the surface, turned to the side, one large, blue eye carefully taking them all in, mobile ears twitching with every little sound. 

Water drips from the bracken’s mane, and Jaskier makes a noise of delight at the back of his throat when he sees the delicate leaves of a type of aquatic plant interspersed amongst the strands. He realises it could be seaweed for all he knows, and it’s no wonder bracken and kelpies get mistaken for one another. The bracken hears the noise, its attention caught, and both ears swivel in Jaskier’s direction, blue eyes focussing on him and blinking slowly. He doesn’t entirely know why he does so, but Jaskier blinks back. 

Willow brushes against the back of his neck, the cool sensation a welcome comfort, and from the corner of his eyes Jaskier can see Eskel step behind him, beckoning their small students to follow. 

“Bracken are cautious creatures and spook easily when they’re not yet sure of a situation,” Eskel says quietly. “It might be the only reason there are any of them left. Jaskier, see if you can coax it out of the water.”

Jaskier turns to Eskel in surprise, taking care to keep his movements slow and measured. “Me?!” he hisses incredulously through his teeth. 

“Yes, you. You’ve caught its attention.”

Jaskier turns back to the watery paddock. 

The bracken blinks at him. 

For a lack of any better ideas, Jaskier starts to murmur soft words and phrases of encouragement, forming them into a near continuous litany of sound. The bracken’s attention never leaves him, and after a few moments of Jaskier spouting all kinds of gentle nonsense, the horse’s neck slowly rises further above the surface. It is long, muscular, and arched, its mane dripping wetly across its coat, more leaves of aquatic foliage forming patches of bright, fresh green against its otherwise dark colouring. 

Jaskier couldn’t say how it happens exactly, but one moment he and the bracken are still staring at each other, and the next there is a wave of water that spills over the edge of the paddock and across his shoes, and then the horse is suddenly right in front of him. Stunned, he watches as the animal shakes its mane, raining down droplets of water on all of them. 

Judging by the noises Jaskier hears behind him, Ciri’s class is delighted by the unexpected shower. He suspects it’s only Eskel’s warning rumble that stops the lot of them from barging forward. Slowly, he reaches out his hand, palm flat and open, like he would if he were feeding a treat to Scorpion or Roach.

“I don’t suppose you like apples, being a creature of the depths and all,” he tells it, and squeaks a little when a wet, surprisingly slick muzzle is dragged over the palm of his hand. 

“It doesn’t,” Eskel chuckles. “If you’d want to feed it a snack, it’d have to be some type of fish.”

Jaskier looks back at the witcher in surprise. “Fish? You mean it’s carnivorous?”

Eskel nods toward the bracken, and when Jaskier looks back at it, the horse’s top lip is curled upward to expose a set of sharp, serrated teeth. He jerks his hand back with a startled shout. It spooks the horse, its ears going back to lay flat against its head, muscles tensing under its wet coat, ready to make its escape back into the water. 

The bracken’s blue eyes shift to Eskel when the guardian steps forward with a soothing rumble, and it takes a mere few calming strokes of the witcher’s broad hands across its face for the bracken to calm back down. 

“You’ll all get to introduce yourselves in a moment,” Eskel tells the students who are now practically vibrating with excitement. “Before you do though, I want to make sure you all know why it’s safe to approach. How can we tell this is a bracken, and not a kelpie?” he asks. 

“It’s a horse. I mean— It’s not human in shape,” Muirinn says thoughtfully.

“A kelpie can be either,” Beryl says, sibilant voice hesitant, looking at both Eskel and Jaskier for confirmation and getting nods in return. 

Jaskier clears his throat. He’s read about one particular characteristic, but it almost seems too strange to be reality. “Is it— is it true that a kelpie’s hooves are oriented backwards?” he hedges, wrinkling his nose in scepticism. 

All five of his students immediately bend or crouch down to peer at the bracken’s hooves. 

“Its feet are the right way round!” Ciri declares loudly, and Jaskier winces a little, afraid he just taught them to look for something untrue. 

“Professor Jaskier is right,” Eskel says. “If you’re ever in a situation where you’ve somehow gotten close without being sure it’s safe, check the hooves. A kelpie’s are oriented backwards so that when it returns to its underwater lair, the trail will not betray its location, since it will appear to lead away from the water’s edge.”

All five students nod seriously, and Jaskier finds himself duly nodding along with them. 

Eskel talks some more about what sort of character they can expect from a bracken, and mentions that the class’ next lesson with Regis will tell them more of their history. Jaskier knows it will deal with how the continent’s human population has hunted them to near extinction, in an effort to exterminate kelpies from the world. He suspects by Eskel’s words that very few kelpies have actually ever died at the hands of mankind. He feels a sudden wave of sadness at the thought. It’s not that humans meant to harm the bracken, but their ignorance meant that they did, so much so that Jaskier could have gone his entire life without ever encountering one. He can’t help but think that if the average human knew more, understood more, similar mistakes would be less likely to happen. 

He’s pulled from his melancholy thoughts by Willow brushing coolly against his cheek. The wisp darkens to the colour of a storm for a moment, sparks of bright white lighting up its misty tendrils from the inside. Jaskier smiles reassuringly at his concerned ball of fog, and directs his attention back to the bracken. 

By now, the horse is surrounded by their students, sleek ears pricked forward as it snuffles against Beryl’s chest. Jaskier reads excitement in the shimmer of scales under the lamia’s sandy skin. Eskel is telling the youngsters about the bracken’s diet and habits, and what it needs to stay healthy and happy, along with all the characteristics that aren’t immediately noticeable that set it apart from their more sinister lookalikes. He has come across some of the information before, but the more practical notes the guardian gives are almost entirely new to him. He gets so absorbed in the class that they reach the end before he realises that much time has passed. 

After Eskel guides the bracken back toward the paddock, the creature releases a sort of bubbling whinney, and then straight up jumps into the water, causing another hail of droplets to rain down on them. Their students laugh, and Eskel grins, shaking the water from his dark hair. 

—000—

Ciri’s class has no time to dawdle, since their next one is one of Yennefer’s, but Jaskier has plenty of time to hang back and speak to Eskel without little ears listening in. He sidles up to Bleater’s stall as their students leave, and gives the large goat a few greatly appreciated scratches behind his long, floppy ears. Bleater makes happy grunting noises, and before turning back toward Eskel, Jaskier carefully checks that the latch to his door has remained firmly closed.

“What did you think?” Eskel asks, and Jaskier thinks it’s one of the very few times he’s heard the witcher sound unsure. 

“I think meeting a bracken has to be one of the more incredible moments I have experienced in my life,” he says. “Learning from books is one thing, your wealth of practical knowledge and your ease at demonstrating it are another entirely,” he says honestly. 

Eskel seems caught off guard for a moment. Jaskier doesn’t think he’s ever noticed the large guardian being shy before. Eskel clearly doesn’t know what to do with himself under the praise, and diverts focus elsewhere by starting to tidy some miscellaneous things lying around, that really don’t need to be tidied much. Jaskier lets him, smiling to himself. When everything that could possibly be out of place is put to rights again, he clears his throat. 

“So, Geralt’s class on Friday," he begins. 

Eskel looks at him curiously. “What about it?”

The signet around his finger is smooth and familiar as he twists it around a few times, not looking the guardian in the eye. “I really am a disaster at swordfighting,” he murmurs.  He looks back up at Eskel. “I found this book, but I’m afraid that I cannot hope to reproduce the stances it describes, and—”

Eskel interrupts him, shaking his head. “Geralt knows all this, bard. If you were an expert at it, there wouldn’t be anything to teach.”

Jaskier droops a little. “I know, and usually I’d be all for learning a new skill. This particular one though, I have been instructed in before, and— well. Geralt already thinks I’m useless at quite a lot of things. I have done my very best to convince him I have developed some competence in my life, at least. Just, different to his own. Regardless, I’d like to not make an absolutely terrible impression, if at all possible.”

Eskel raises his eyebrows incredulously. “I don’t think there’s a whole lot you could do to make a terrible impression, Jaskier,” he says slowly.

“Because I already did that so very thoroughly when I arrived?” Jaskier chuckles. 

Eskel shakes his head, and gives him a meaningful look. Jaskier isn’t entirely sure how to interpret it, but feels himself blush. “Just go to his class,” Eskel sighs exasperatedly, “and let him teach you.”

—000—

The time for Jaskier to attend sword lessons with the one guardian he especially doesn’t want to view him as useless, no matter how loudly he’s verbally disparaged his own prowess to that same guardian, arrives all too quickly. 

He eats a quick but thorough lunch on Friday, thinking of how his fencing teacher used to berate him for showing up with a growling stomach more than once, or whenever he felt faint after only a few drills. Even back then, the bulk of his attention had been caught by music and poetry, and when he wasn’t composing, he was reading about adventure, dreaming of living the experiences he wanted to sing about. He smiles to himself as he throws back the last of his cinnamon coffee. He’s currently living some of those dreams, albeit in a different place than he’d imagined, and with more varied and vastly more interesting company than he’d dared to hope. 

Granted, he might have preferred it if sword fighting had remained something permanently in his past, but after Eskel’s reassuring words on Wednesday, he can admit that if he ignores the handling of a potentially lethal length of steel, he’s rather looking forward to spending time with Geralt. If only because it means he’ll get to watch the guardian while Geralt is fully in his element. 

“Happy thoughts, Jaskier?” Regis says with a chuckle, fathomless black eyes resting on him and undoubtedly noting the flush in his face at being caught.

Jaskier coughs to cover his embarrassment at what he was day-dreaming about, and quickly snatches up his satchel from under the table. “I thought you mostly smell blood, and not really emotion as such,” he challenges Regis with a cheeky grin. 

The vampire leans back with a smile, and Jaskier is so used to the sight by now, he doesn’t so much as blink at the glint of razor sharp fangs. “I believe I said nothing at all about anything scent related,” Regis says. “One only needs to take a single look at your face, bard, to know that you are… thinking happy thoughts, as I said.”

The history professor is smiling as he speaks, and Jaskier cannot help but smile back at the vampire. He staunchly ignores what he can hear both Lambert and Aiden say about the way he does smell, from their places a few seats down the table. He ducks his head to covertly glance around, only to find that Geralt is missing from the hall. 

Next to him Yennefer scoffs, her purple eyes narrowed at the pair of witchers before levelling him with a look, one perfectly sculpted eyebrow raised. “If Yarpenna was here, I’d expect something especially sharp to be chucked in that direction,”she says with an imperious tilt of her head toward the pair. “It’s good you look happy, Buttercup, and that you smell like it too,” she says meaningfully. 

“Since my happiness hinges in part on my bodily integrity, let’s see how I’ll fare after today,” Jaskier chuckles, winking and waving at his fellow professors and the guardians, as he slings his satchel over his shoulder and leaves the hall behind. 

—000—

It so happens that the class he’s attending is the same one he’d inadvertently spied on before. Their students are already there, but Jaskier doesn’t yet spot the guardian himself, glad his rush at lunch means changing his clothes didn’t make him late. All five students already have dulled practice swords in their hands though, and he looks around to see if there’s an extra one he’s meant to use. 

“Should I get a sword from somewhere?” he asks Vane, who stands closest to him. 

The dragon opens his mouth to reply, and then Jaskier sees his grey eyes flick to something behind him. He’d have liked to say that it’s enough of a warning to tell him Geralt has arrived. Alas, the first noise Jaskier makes as Geralt’s quasi student, is another embarrassing meep of surprise when the guardian speaks.

“You get a different kind of practice sword,” the witcher rumbles, hints of amusement in the set of his mouth and brows when Jaskier whirls around and has to wave his arms for balance or fall on his ass in front of the guardian. 

“Different?” he asks once he manages to right himself, eying the sword Geralt is holding out to him. It’s still in its scabbard, and so Jaskier cannot spot how it’s different from the others’. Not until Geralt pulls it from its sheath to reveal a marked absence of steel. “Oh,” he says, taking the wooden sword when it’s handed to him. “Wood. That— that seems wise, yes,” he says, swallowing against the knowledge Geralt thinks that’s all he can handle. He cannot hold it against the witcher, not with all he’s said about his own lack of skill, but even his old fencing master had had him handle a dulled practice weapon of forged steel. 

Geralt raises an eyebrow at him. “Yes. Wood,” the guardian says. 

Jaskier nods quickly. He doesn’t want Geralt to think he’s behaving like a pampered noble again, expecting better than his actual level of skill affords him. 

Geralt frowns at him, golden eyes flicking to Willow’s cloud-dark shape as he inhales a long breath through his nose. “It’s better that way,” the witcher says after a moment. “A sword made of steel is long and heavy. You’re not used to swinging the weight of it. You’ll be sore enough as it is.”

Jaskier brightens at the realisation the wooden sword has nothing to do with him specifically, or Geralt’s opinion on his aristocratic upbringing for that matter, and that it’s actually a rather considerate choice. He smiles up at the guardian. “Thank you, darling,” he says. “I hardly wanted to spend the whole weekend lounging in bed, too sore to get anything done.” He laughs, “not for sword-fighting reasons, at least.”

As soon as he realises what he just said, Jaskier claps a hand to his mouth, and shoots a wide-eyed, apologetic look Geralt’s way, before glancing at their students. Thankfully, the five of them seem to have backed up a bit as soon as Geralt arrived, and are dutifully running through a series of warm-up exercises. Jaskier is still looking at them when a breath tickles the shell of his ear. 

“I don’t think they heard,” Geralt murmurs, close enough goosebumps break out all along his arms and over his torso.

“Good— that’s good!” he squeaks, fingers clenching around the hilt of his wooden sword. “I’ll keep the bedroom talk to myself, in the future.” The look the guardian gives him does nothing to help him combat the rush of blood to his face, and he knows his scent probably tells Geralt enough of how that same look affects him. 

“Don’t worry, bard,” Geralt says, decidedly still very much leaning forward into Jaskier’s space. “I’ll have you too out of breath for any sort of pillow talk.”

Jaskier blinks and freezes, but he supposes the guardian doesn’t notice, since he has already turned to their students and is telling them to form up for stretches. He bites his lip and shakes his head. Surely he is imagining the suggestive nature of the guardian’s words. Jaskier is self aware enough to know he would very much like it if Geralt were to leave him breathless that way, but that’s likely not what Geralt meant at all. 

When Geralt gestures him to a place on one end of the line, Jaskier hurries to comply. He resolutely pushes away any and all thoughts of the guardian within the context of a bedroom, and tries to picture the different sword fighting stances from the book instead. He can still remember the instruction from his youth as well, but the sword he’d so sparsely trained with back then had been more of a rapier, much lighter than even the wooden sword he’s holding now. In the end, he decides to forgo what he remembers from either, and tries his best to copy what Geralt is showing them.

Jaskier finds it’s entirely as challenging as the witcher predicted. He’s not used to the movements, nor to the weight in his hands and how it alters the way he moves. He tries his best to follow along, but he knows he makes mistakes. He’s just not sure Geralt is entirely aware that aside from the physical aspect of it, just why Jaskier has such a hard time keeping his focus.

Chapter Text

Jaskier looks at their students from the corners of his eyes. He’s done his best to contort his body to adopt the stance Geralt showed them, just as they have. Somehow the position of his sword doesn’t seem quite right compared to theirs, and the posture feels far from natural to him. 

Geralt rumbles a few corrections, and Jaskier can see Vane shift his weight to his back foot, and see Vesper curl her fingers a little more securely around the hilt of her sword. He tries to follow along, but when he tightens his grip, the muscles in his forearms twitch with the strain, causing the wooden blade to wobble through the air before him. 

“Hmh,” Geralt hums when he stops in front of him, and Jaskier has to do his best to keep his focus and not fall out of the posture entirely to look up at the guardian. Instead of verbally instructing him to adapt something in his stance to where it’s how Geralt wants it to be, the witcher circles behind him. “You’re almost there,” Geralt says. “I can help you shift a bit.”

Jaskier nods his assent, afraid that if he’ll speak, his voice will once again come out an entire octave higher than his normal speaking tone. The squeak that leaves him is embarrassing enough as it is, when suddenly there’s a large, warm hand on his hip, guiding him to turn a little more, settling more of his weight on his back foot, like Geralt had instructed Vane to do. The witcher’s other hand comes to rest between his shoulder blades, before sliding down his spine, pausing on his lower back to exert pressure. 

“Relax,” Geralt rumbles, giving him a small push that almost makes him step forward. “If you’re tense like this, it’ll be easier to unbalance you.”

Jaskier heaves a deep sigh, and tries to relax his muscles without drooping entirely. He gets a quick tap against the back of his left thigh. 

“Here, too,” Geralt tells him, before sliding a hand all along his forearm to where he grips the hilt of his sword. “And here. You’re holding on too tight. You’ll fatigue quicker, and force exerted on the blade will travel down your arms and make you seize up.”

Jaskier gives a quick nod, and again consciously tries to relax his body into the stance without losing the posture altogether. He can’t see the guardian, as Geralt remains behind him, but he can hear the approving rumble as the witcher takes in his adjustments. 

“Good,” Geralt says, and Jaskier’s breath catches when the full width of the witcher’s palm lands low on his abdomen, the heat of it seeping through his borrowed shirt, the guardian’s own, and the lace chemise he’s kept on underneath. “A little more tension here,” Geralt says, his voice so close to a growl Jaskier jumps to attention, checking if he’s still in the correct position while trying to engage his core and stand upright a little more. “Good,” Geralt repeats, and moves on to demonstrate the next stance in the sequence, while Jaskier is left to try and wrestle back control over his pounding heart, all while only half managing to pay attention to the lesson he’s being taught. 

By the end of the class, Jaskier’s mind feels positively saturated with the relatively straightforward sequence of forms Geralt taught them. While this particular flow of movements is as new to their students as it is to him, they are clearly used to being taught, and to following the guardian’s instructions. Jaskier can’t help but think he looks awkward and clumsy compared to them, and especially to Geralt himself. 

Other than with the flow of the sword and the position of his feet and hands, his mind is entirely occupied with images of Geralt moving seamlessly across the grass, his sword slicing through the air as if it’s an extension of him, and not merely a tool. That, and the distracting way the guardian steps close whenever Jaskier gives him permission to physically adjust his stance, calls his attention to wherever he is holding himself too rigidly, or conversely where he lacks that very thing and needs to put more tension in his muscles. 

Jaskier feels hot, and it’s not just the physical exertion of the lesson that has his skin flushed and his breathing more laboured than usual. 

—000—

When Geralt ends the lesson, Jaskier drops his sword dramatically, and lets himself fall backward onto the cool grass, loudly proclaiming for their students not to worry and to leave him behind, since he’ll surely manage to crawl his way back into the castle by the time dinner is served. 

His antics are gratifyingly met with their students’ laughter, and when Geralt rumbles low, Jaskier peeks up through his lashes to make sure the guardian isn’t annoyed with him. To his surprise, there’s an expression on the witcher’s face that’s the closest thing to a smile he has seen in response to something he said or did. He grins, and closes his eyes again, enjoying the late afternoon sun on his face, and the way the mild breeze cools the sweat that has gathered at his hairline. When a shadow falls over him he opens his eyes to find Geralt looming, blocking the sun. 

“That has to be the most intense physical activity I’ve done in ages, and if I can’t get out of bed tomorrow, I’m holding you responsible,” he says. 

“Good thing it’s the weekend, then,” Geralt answers, holding out a hand to him. 

Jaskier grasps the proffered limb and is hauled to his feet without so much as a grunt of effort on Geralt’s part. “In all seriousness,” he says, suddenly feeling self conscious again. “I can recognise a lesson well taught, even if I do lack a certain amount of talent in this area. I hope I wasn’t too disappointing a student?” he hedges. 

Geralt frowns and tilts his head as he inhales, before taking a step into his space again. “No one willing to learn and put in the effort is a disappointing student, Jaskier.”

Jaskier unconsciously holds his breath for a moment with Geralt so close to him, the beat of his heart suddenly loud in his ears. He wonders if the guardian can hear it. He eventually manages to shake himself, nodding up at the witcher. “Words I have certainly used before, and can only agree with,” he says, trying to sound unaffected. “Even though others have rarely seen fit to apply the sentiment to me,” he continues, smiling self-deprecatingly. He quite clearly remembers how more than one tutor had been exasperated to the point of frustration with his distractible nature. Come to think of it, it’ll likely be a surprise to many of them that he made it to Oxenfurt at all, let alone that he held tenure there, and now at Kaer Morhen. 

He’s pulled back out of his thoughts when Geralt’s hand lands on his shoulder. “If they didn’t, they didn’t look well enough to see,” the guardian growls, catching him off guard. 

He blinks up at golden eyes, and wonders what exactly Geralt sees, now that the guardian is finally looking. No longer an intruder. No longer someone filled with prejudice and derision. Hopefully, no longer just a spoiled, human, Oxenfurt professor from a noble family either. He licks his lips nervously, before breaking eye contact and looking to the side. He wants Geralt to see more than that, because he is more than that. 

At first, it had been no more than the desire to be given a chance, and judged fairly. At first, Geralt wasn’t much more than intimidatingly beautiful, irritable, and hostile in a way Jaskier could reasonably understand and appreciate. His heart pounds in his ears and he can feel the heat of the witcher’s proximity to him. He is suddenly very aware that whatever way Geralt looks at him, he is looking at the witcher with much more than a mere passing, superficial interest. 

He clears his throat and tries to distract the both of them from what should not have been such a revelation. “So, what you’re saying is that I’m not entirely as hopeless as I thought when it comes to sword-fighting?” he says, grinning up at Geralt, resolutely and ruthlessly shoving all thoughts of feelings to the back of his mind.

“If you thought you couldn’t improve, then yes,” Geralt answers, taking the harsh edge of the words with a squeeze to his shoulder. “It would be good if we could get you to where you can reasonably defend yourself.”

Jaskier chuckles. “To where I won’t accidentally stab myself, you mean.”

The corner of Geralt’s mouth ticks up. “That, too,” he says. 

Without Jaskier consciously noticing, their students have long since disappeared back into the castle to attend their next class, leaving them standing by themselves in the middle of the loose circle of boulders that delineates the guardian’s classroom. 

He twists his signet around his finger. “Perhaps if you’d let me attend your class again next Friday," he begins, swallowing the rest of his words when Geralt shakes his head. “Oh. It’s too much of a bother. Of course. I’ll—”

“No,” Geralt frowns. “You’re not a bother. The quickest improvement when starting out results from one on one training. We’ll find some time outside of classes.”

Jaskier blinks up at the witcher before chuckling lightly. “Don’t tell me one on one training means you actually intend to have me spar with you?” He tilts his head consideringly, tapping a finger to his bottom lip. “Though I suppose you’re by far too fast for me to accidentally injure, especially with a wooden sword,” he hums, glancing at where he left the practice weapon lying in the grass. 

“Hmh. You might actually have an easier time sparring,” Geralt rumbles. 

Jaskier rolls his eyes at him. “I highly doubt that. Keeping track of my own limbs, sword, and those of another person? That's four more appendages to pay attention to, Geralt. Six if you get your wings out. Didn’t you notice I don’t know where my sword is half the time?”

“You’ve danced before, haven’t you?” Geralt asks, and Jaskier blinks at the non sequitur.

“I have,” he says slowly. “Though I no longer retain the Lettenhove estate, I grew up there, and still formally hold the title of Viscount. There’s not a noble in Redania who hasn’t been taught to dance in their youth. I promise you that I had more use for it than for fencing or swordplay.”

The witcher hums again, eyeing him speculatively. “How sore are you already?”

Jaskier takes careful stock of his body, going so far as to wiggle his fingers and toes, and sway back and forth on the balls of his feet. He’s certainly fatigued, but though the tendons and muscles in his forearms are sore, he expects it would have been much worse had he not been used to playing a string instrument. If it were strictly up to him, he wouldn’t be partaking in much strenuous movement for the rest of the day, but— Geralt is looking at him expectantly, and so— “I’m alright,” he says brightly. 

Geralt steps away from him to lean his sword against one of the boulders, picking up Jaskier’s wooden one to balance it right beside his steel, before beckoning him. 

Jaskier wipes the residual sweat from his brow and glances up at the sun. It’s well past midday now, and they’re nearing the beginning of summer. Even up in the mountains, the sun’s rays hold heat. When he spots Willow, he finds that his wisp is peacefully hovering in the deeper, cooler shade amongst a few boulders. 

He’s wearing Geralt’s shirt, and though the guardian’s clothing has certainly afforded him more freedom of movement than one of his doublets, Jaskier probably should have foregone putting it on over his chemise, since it means he’s feeling rather sticky from all the exercise.

He waves a hand at Geralt. “If we’re going to move some more I need a second, darling,” he says, not waiting for a response. He pulls off the witcher’s dark shirt in a single move, and deposits it next to their swords. 

When Jaskier looks back up, Geralt’s jaw is clenched, and his eyes are tracking down the lace edging of his collar. He only now realises that the chemise he chose to wear has a rather revealing neckline, and exposes a good amount of his chest. He shakes his head. “I know, I know,” he says ruefully. “You frown upon lace and silk.” He shrugs and plucks a little at the fabric. “I’m hot, and this is airy.”

“I didn’t think Redanian high society was so very brazen, walking around in their underclothes whenever they’re warm,” Geralt says, his voice a little rough even compared to his usual tone. 

Jaskier blushes and shakes his head again. “I wouldn’t do this in front of Redanian high society,” he says.

“But you’ll do it in front of me?” Geralt growls.

Jaskier shoots him a cautious glance, and stumbles over his words in his haste to explain. “Yes— because— I mean. Because you know I don’t mean anything by it. You know I’m not trying to seduce or provoke, or anything else, and so I assumed you wouldn’t take offense.” Disconcertingly enough, Geralt’s face closes off at his words. “If I assumed wrongly,”he begins, plucking at the lace of his sleeve.

“No,” the guardian says roughly. “I don’t take offense.”

Jaskier waits for Geralt to say more, but when the witcher doesn’t, he decides to change the subject. “So, what exactly are we doing?” he asks carefully.

Again, Geralt doesn’t say anything, for long enough Jaskier starts to doubt if it is really true that he’s not offended by his thoughtless action. Eventually the witcher seems to dislodge himself from whatever thoughts are going on behind those golden eyes, and holds out a hand. 

“We’re going to dance,” Geralt rumbles. “You likely know more than you think about moving with a partner. There’s no great difference between facing off in battle, to moving together in harmony.”

Jaskier swallows tightly and thinks of the two of them pressed together, their faces close as they sway to music. He lays his hand in Geralt’s. Because it's all he knows, he uses words to distract himself from their proximity, and from how intimate it feels when the guardian lays his other hand against his waist to pull him in even further. 

“No great difference?” he chuckles, praying to Melitele he doesn’t sound as breathless to Geralt as he does to his own ears. “Seems to me the one bears an all too real threat of bodily harm, that the other thankfully lacks completely.” He moves his free hand up to Geralt’s shoulder, aware of the witcher’s strength when the muscle shifts under his palm. 

“In both, you need to anticipate whatever move the one across from you will make, and respond accordingly. That, or you need to be fast enough to react as it happens, ” Geralt says. The guardian takes a step forward as he speaks. He follows up with a turn so quick, that if Jaskier had taken the time to think about it, it would have been impossible to move with him. 

“Oh,” he says softly. He leans back when Geralt leans forward, and lets himself rest against the guardian’s palm at his back, trusting him to take his weight. 

He lets Geralt lead him, noting that the witcher purposefully manoeuvres them through stances that are, in all reality, not that different from the ones they just practised. Their hands are pressed together, Jaskier’s other hand on Geralt’s shoulder, Geralt’s steady and warm at his waist. He would have thought the biggest discrepancy is the lack of swords, but there are other, far more glaring differences to him. 

For one, they’re much closer like this than would be practical in a fight. For another, he suspects that if this were indeed them moving in conflict, it wouldn’t be such a great idea to solely let his opponent determine the way they move, and merely follow along where he’s led. 

Jaskier wants to say all this, but more than that he wants to keep dancing with Geralt. He’s loath to break the spell he feels they’ve fallen under, and so he bites his tongue and keeps quiet. There’s no music to accompany their dance, none other than the soft rustling of the wind and the call of some far off bird. They move together seamlessly, as if they’ve never done any different. 

Chapter Text

The next few weeks are filled with classes, his tutoring, being tutored in turn in how to handle a sword, and with working on his syllabus for the fall semester. Before Jaskier knows it, they’ve reached the two weeks of free time just at the beginning of summer. 

It’s during his last singing lesson that he asks his students if they usually do anything to celebrate. After all, they’ve made it through the first part of the year at Kaer Morhen. Ciri and Grove look excited at the prospect of any sort of celebration, and even Beryl looks hopeful at the mention of it. Since it’s their very first year at the school though, they’re not likely to be aware of any such traditions, and Jaskier turns his gaze to the slightly older students. 

Maeve and Anya shake their heads in unison. “No professor Jaskier,” they say at exactly the same time. 

“There is an end of year feast for all students,” Maeve says.

“But this is just a short break to allow us all to see our families before we return,” Anya continues. “It’s only two weeks, and not everyone is going,” she says, briefly glancing in Vaayu’s direction. 

“Oh, of course,” Jaskier responds. “Maybe it’s just my own wish to celebrate how well you’ve all done in my classes, and perhaps it would help tide me over. I will miss you all dearly, even if it is only two weeks,” he says with a wink. “So, just to know in advance if I’m going to be terribly lonely, will any of you be staying?”

He knows very well that both Vaayu and Ciri will stay behind, but he’s curious if any of the others will, and he wants to invite those who will remain to come sing, should they want to. 

Predictably, Ciri immediately jumps up on her chair, fluffy white hair wild around her face as she grins wide. “Me!” she exclaims. “I’ll make sure you won’t be lonely, Jas— professor Jaskier!”

Jaskier winks at her and nods in thanks. 

“Kaer Morhen is never empty. I’m sure you won’t be lonely at all, professor,” Vaayu says. When Jaskier looks at him, the djinn has a surprisingly cheerful smirk on his face. “You could always ask for more sword lessons if you’re bored with all that free time,” he says. 

Jaskier suppresses the urge to cover his face with his hands. If he’s transparent enough even Vaayu decides to tease, he’s being entirely obvious. He’s glad to see the djinn comfortable enough to tease at all though, and so he just smiles and nods. “I might. Melitele knows I need all the lessons I can get, and they are, ah, entertaining,” he says, cutting himself off before he spills more than he wants in front of young and impressionable minds. 

Vaayu smirks again. 

“What about you?” Jaskier asks, though he’s quite sure he already knows the answer. “Will you be staying?”

He almost regrets asking when the cheeky expression slides off Vaayu’s face. The djinn’s dark blue eyes meet his for a moment, and then he shrugs a little hesitantly. 

“I can’t leave,” Vaayu says. 

Jaskier can see the older students catch on to the phrasing. Vane in particular frowns in concern when he looks at the djinn. Ciri doesn’t notice the subtlety, and so the little birchling cheers in excitement instead. 

It’s all Vaayu says, and Jaskier is not about to push. Instead, he claps his hands together. “If there’s not any type of celebration before our break, what about if we think of something ourselves?” he says cheerfully. “Any ideas?”

Eventually, it’s Vaayu who mentions that dragons traditionally have bonfires at the beginning of summer, to welcome the season of heat and flames. 

“You’re going to have a celebration like that with your family, Vane?” Jaskier asks the dragon. 

Vane shakes his head. “No. By the time I get home from Kaer Morhen the fires are all burned out. We choose stretches of land to clear of dead wood, and once all of that is burned up there is not enough wood to burn again, until next year. The last bonfire I attended was before I came here. But it’s alright, when I graduate I’ll see plenty.”

“Lets have a bonfire to celebrate!” Vaayu says immediately, looking at Jaskier from the corners of his eyes. 

Jaskier taps his fingers against the desk thoughtfully. “It’s a possibility,” he says slowly. Trying to suppress his smile at the spark of excitement he catches in Vane’s grey eyes. “But, we’d have to make sure that we keep the fire contained. I Hardly want to be the professor who burns down part of the grounds or even the keep, within his first year!”

He can see excitement in all their faces now, and wonders altogether too late perhaps, what he’s gotten himself into. 

“Vane is a dragon,” Vaayu says sagely. 

Jaskier tilts his head. “I know that?” he questions curiously.

“It means I have a certain amount of control over fire, professor,” Vane says, a trickle of that same eagerness in his voice. “A fire under my guard won’t get out of hand.”

“I see,” Jaskier says slowly, interested. In whatever he’s read of dragons so far, he’s not come across that particular information. 

“Oh! We can do it by the lakeside!” Maeve says brightly. “That way there’ll be water nearby, just in case.”

Before Jaskier can say anything, Anya adds advice in her more quietly reserved way. “Between the lakes,” she says. “That way there’s water on either side, and gravity will have it flow from the larger lake toward us, if we need it.”

“But where would we get the wood?” Jaskier asks, thinking of how to make this bonfire happen, now that the idea is in their heads. “I don’t want any of you to go get wood from the forest,” he says sternly when they all look at each other. “Not without a guardian present.”

“Oh!” Ciri exclaims. “We can ask Kaer Morhen for wood!”

“I’m not sure we should ask the keep for something that isn’t strictly necessary,” Jaskier starts. 

“Professor,” Vaayu interrupts. “Didn’t you say that we can always ask if we really want something, and that the answer might well be yes? That if we never ask at all, we’ll never know?” the boy says slyly. 

Jaskier blinks in surprise, and then grins back at the djinn. He did in fact say that in one of Vaayu’s classes at the very beginning of the year, when the boy had still seemed nothing more than angry and Jaskier hadn’t been sure he’d even been listening. 

His littlest students cheer, Ciri, Grove, and Beryl’s voices melding together, and the older ones all look at him expectantly. 

“Alright,” he capitulates. “Let’s have a bonfire celebration. We’ll ask Kaer Morhen for wood.”

—000—

Two days later, Lambert plops himself down into the seat next to him at dinner. 

“What’s this I hear about a bonfire, Buttercup?” the witcher says with a wide grin, and Jaskier almost drops his fork and chokes on his food. 

“What?” he hisses once he’s managed to clear his airway. “How do you know that? I told them to keep it quiet until I had a chance to ask permission,” he says, glancing a few seats down to where the dean is seated. He’s met with an inscrutable expression, as Vesemir slowly folds his arms over his chest and looks back at him. “Ah,” Jaskier stammers. “I hadn’t gotten to it yet.” He looks back at Lambert. “So how do you know?”

On his other side Eskel chuckles. “Oh, they really did know who to ask. You already said yes, didn’t you?”

Jaskier flushes hotly and shifts in his seat. “I might get carried away sometimes,” he murmurs apologetically. But, did you know Vane misses the summer bonfires every year because he’s here? I just thought—”

“You just thought you’d ask the damn keep for help, and now one of my caves is filled to bursting with lengths of wood,” Lambert says, now grumbling a little. “You do remember I work with explosives, don’t you, bard? I clearly remember showing you. It’s a damn fire hazard. Wood fucking burns.”

“I understand the location isn’t ideal, but burning was the whole point of it, in fact,” Jaskier says a little weakly. 

“Good thing the little birch-pod was loitering around the caves again, or I would have thrown the lot,” Lambert says. 

“So where is this bonfire meant to take place?” Vesemir interrupts, sharp, slitted eyes focused on Jaskier.  There’s amusement there as well, and Jaskier heaves a relieved sigh. 

“We were thinking between the lakes, just to have water close by in case anything happens with the fire,” he answers. 

“Hmh,” the dean hums thoughtfully. 

“This is how traditions are born,” Regis contributes to the conversation. “And the beginning of summer is a lovely time for a fire. I do believe the dragons historically picked that time not only to laud the season of the sun, but also because nightfall still comes quick enough to observe the sparks from the fire float up into the sky. A metaphor for their own who have passed. Remembrance and celebration in one. It might serve similarly here,” the vampire says with a knowing tilt of the head, black eyes glancing at Vesemir. 

“You always know just what to say, Regis,” Vesemir says wryly. 

“Yennefer and I will gladly join a fire under the night sky,” Triss adds. “It’s not all that difficult to create a shower to douse the fire at the end. We’ll just redirect the lake water.”

Vesemir shakes his head and rubs his moustache. “To new traditions, then,” the dean says, dipping his head in Jaskier’s direction. 

Lambert grins and claps a hand to his shoulder. “So, Buttercup. How were you planning on getting all that wood outside?”

—000—

Watch this, Jaskier!” Yarpenna says gleefully, as they heave a piece of trunk that has roots sticking out of it as thick as his thigh, earth still clinging to the tendrils. The trunk is over twice their size, but they shake it to dislodge the earth and then walk away with it like it’s nothing, laughing at his stunned expression. 

Behind him, several of the guardians are hauling similarly large bundles of wood outside toward their chosen location, just between the twin lakes. Jaskier decides to try his hand and dislodge what seems to be some sort of dead bush from between another stack of logs. It comes loose quite suddenly, wood shifting and sliding, and he is still pulling hard enough it makes him topple backward with a screech.  

Before he can land on his ass on the rocky cave floor, large hands wrap around his waist, all but lifting him from the ground and putting him back on his feet. 

“Careful,” Geralt growls, and Jaskier smiles up at him with a shrug. 

“Some days are meant for me to fall and stumble through, darling. It’s inevitable, really.” He kicks at the bush he managed to free. “This one was being stubborn. I had to put some weight behind it to pull it out.” He glances around. There are plenty of logs and branches of reasonable size, all piled together, and then there are disconcertingly large pieces like Yarpenna’s trunk. His bush is small in comparison. When he squints in the low light of the cave, Jaskier thinks he even sees what looks to be a few whole trees, albeit small ones. “Where did all this wood come from anyways?” he murmurs. “There’s practically an entire forest in here.”

“Didn’t you ask the keep?” Geralt says with an arched brow. 

Jaskier blushes and twists his signet. “It might have been mentioned when we first thought up the celebration, yes,” he says. “I did say that Kaer Morhen probably had more important things to direct energy toward. Something cannot come from nothing, can it?” 

“Hmh. The castle didn’t get all this from nothing. The first stretch of forest is part of the grounds, it can reach there.”

“Oh,” Jaskier sighs, relieved that his idea hasn’t meant the school sacrificed material elsewhere. He has been so distracted by guilt at the idea, that he only now really looks at Geralt, and has to hold himself back from shamelessly taking in the guardian for a second time. 

Geralt is wearing his customary black trousers, paired with a linen shirt. 

It’s not even that the neckline is particularly low, unlike some of the things Jaskier has in his wardrobe. Things that are really only ever meant to be worn under something, or perhaps only where a lover might gaze upon them. Geralt’s shirt is clearly meant to be an outer layer, though the collar has been unbuttoned to fall open over the witcher’s chest and reveal the silver chain with its medallion. It’s not even that his sleeves are folded back to his elbows, exposing strong forearms. Jaskier has seen all of that, though he wouldn’t say he’s gotten used to it, whenever they meet to teach him how to handle a sword. 

It’s that Geralt has his silvery white hair bound back in its entirety, highlighting the cut of his jaw. It’s the way the guardian has apparently exerted himself enough hauling wood, to have a fine sheen of sweat beading on his forehead and chest, gleaming in the low light of the cave. 

Jaskier makes a soft sound at the back of his throat, and quickly grasps the bush he’d been trying to move outside before Geralt saved him from toppling. “I’ll— just take this outside now,” he says, dragging the thing behind him, cursing to Melitele under his breath all the while. 

Once outside, he sees the stack for the bonfire is already about thrice as big as he imagined it would be. Geralt is just behind him, and when Jaskier finally manages to stuff his bush into the pile, the witcher stacks the ungodly amount of logs he somehow managed to carry right next to it. 

—000—

The bonfire celebration is a great success. 

Admittedly, Jaskier had originally envisioned a fire much, much smaller. Though the sheer magnitude of the flames rising up to the sky is breathtaking, there’s no danger at all of the fire getting out of hand. 

Not only are Triss and Yennefer patrolling the area between the lakes, chaos crackling around them like they’ve swaddled themselves in a blanket of power, ready to redirect lake water at the merest spark of fire out of place, the guardians are patrolling as well. 

Enough of them are partaking in the general merriment, but at all times a few of Kaer Morhen’s witchers have their wings out, and have lifted up into the sky. They’re circling high above, scanning the surrounding grounds and the closest parts of the forest, to make sure no sparks land to start a fire anew. 

And then there’s Vane. Jaskier knows there are those that can change their form, and that dragons are one of them. He’s read enough about them that he thought he knew what to expect. When Vane changes though, it’s incredible in a way he didn’t quite anticipate. He’d have felt silly for gasping and staring, if it weren’t for the fact that most students do the same. Vane is the only dragon at Kaer Morhen after all, and doesn’t usually have a reason to shift between forms. 

The boy whoops with joy once the fire licks at the upper most reaches of the wood-stack, and then his skin begins to ripple. 

Strangely, the grey, scaly garment he always wears ripples with him, and then retracts into his skin, before rising back to the surface as large, glimmering scales. His face elongates and sharp teeth sprout from an open maw, as horns emerge from behind his ears, sprouting up like branches. Even more of them grow along his ever lengthening spine. 

Jaskier blinks only once, and when he looks again, a long, scaly grey tail flicks through the air, feathery looking spikes at the end producing a sharp whistling sound from the speed of it. The grey dragon leans forward on muscular forelegs that merge into folded, leathery wings, tucked tight against his body. Vane shakes his head as if shaking off his human form, and roars, vibrating the air. 

Something in that roar sets off some ancient, deeply rooted flight response in Jaskier, and it’s only the reassuring coolness of Willow’s misty tendrils brushing against his neck that enables him to remain in place. The rest of the students turn wide eyed at the sound, and a few younger ones seem similarly startled as Jaskier. 

Vane seems aware of the response, and the dragon ducks his head, bending his long neck, and makes an altogether more meek sounding noise. Jaskier laughs and thinks if he had to give words to it, he’d be inclined to call it a chirp. Once tensions are alleviated, Vane opens his wings and his maw, and then a burst of bright red and blue flame springs forth, adding heat to the already blazing fire. 

“Dragonfire,” Jaskier breathes reverently. It had been one of his favourite tales as a child, and though he’d told it hundreds of times before, his father always indulged him in telling it at least once more. Dragons breathing fire to burn great swathes of land, cleansing it of evil spirits that would do the people harm. Burning everything old and rotten, so that next season the fresh flowers and greens of spring can grow. 

He starts forward, eager to see if it’s true that a dragon’s fire holds all colours in existence within its flames. If it’s true that it holds the seed of life. A strong arm winds around his waist and pulls him back. His back collides with a broad, muscular chest, and Geralt murmurs low into his ear. 

“I don’t know what you’re thinking, but keep your distance from dragonfire,” the guardian says. 

Jaskier looks around and sees that even in all their merriment, everyone is keeping a respectful seperation from the blazing fire. He sighs and leans back against the guardian without realising, watching sparks drift up to an ever darkening sky, the circling guardians high above no longer visible as anything more than winged silhouettes. 

“It’s beautiful though, isn’t it?” he murmurs back, and gets a low hum in return. 

The celebration continues well beyond the strike of midnight. 

The tree-sprites keep themselves the furthest from the flames, but they dance, their hair fluffed up like Ciri’s so often is, waving their branch-like arms up to the sky. 

A few of the selkies move toward the smaller of the two lakes, and Jaskier gets to watch his second transformation, so soon after witnessing his first, as they don their sleek coats of fur and slide into the water. When their faces pop back up above the surface, their large black eyes merrily reflect the dancing light of the fire. The dwarf-students are enrolled in some sort of contest to see who can throw a heavy stone the farthest, and Maeve and Anya are dancing amongst a few of the elves. The guardians circle high above, and a little lower, Vane seems to endlessly drift on the heated air from the fire. 

Jaskier cannot possibly resist getting out his lute, and once he swings the instrument to his front, several of the students and not a few of the guardians cheer. There’s dancing and laughter, warmth from the fire, and little sparks of light that drift up to the stars.

 Amongst it all, Jaskier is very aware of golden eyes watching him. 

Once Vesemir announces the end of the celebration and that it’s time for them all to head back inside the keep and to bed, Vane finally lands and shifts back to his human shape. There is a blissful expression on the dragon’s face, despite the fact he’s clearly exhausted. The dragon visibly droops and his knees buckle, and it’s only Vaayu quickly slipping himself under Vane’s arm that keeps him upright. 

When the dragon tries to step toward the fire, a determined look on his face, both Triss and Yennefer smile at him and wave him back. The next thing he knows, Jaskier is witness to the most localised rainshower he’s ever seen, and the last of the smouldering embers smoke and extinguish as chaos crackles through the air like lightning. 

From the corners of his eyes, he watches Lambert and Aiden dash in opposite directions, the latter passing just behind him and pressing something into his hand. “Throw it as high as you can,” the alchemy professor whispers gleefully, before darting away again. 

Jaskier hopes fervently he’ll be able to have the small round bomb gain enough air before it explodes. His hands and arms are tired from a particularly intense sword session only the day before, and now from playing all night. He looks at the bomb with doubt. 

“Let me,” another voice rumbles in his ear. Geralt is behind him again, and the guardian’s larger hand curls over his, their fingers sliding together. 

When there is a sudden explosion of multicoloured sparks on either side of them, they throw the small bomb together. It explodes right at the top of its arc, once all the other fireworks have burned out. They watch the flash of bright gold break apart into a multitude of tiny individual lights. they float around lazily, until they finally extinguish and there is nothing left but the stars to brighten the night sky. 

Jaskier looks back over his shoulder to grin up at the guardian behind him. His heart almost triples its pace at the soft smile on Geralt’s face as the witcher meets his eyes. 

Jaskier knows he’ll be happy when everyone returns to the keep, but he suddenly can’t help but wonder what the next two weeks with little students and no classes will bring.