Chapter Text
Geralt
Geralt sat gingerly on the high backed wooden chair. He tried not to shift, because when he did, the slats pressed against fresh bruises. Geralt’s arm rested on the back of Ciri’s chair and she huddled against his chest. He winced as he lifted his free arm to smooth down her mousy curls to keep them from tickling his face.
“I don’t want to be here,” she pleaded. “I want to go to Kaer Morhen. My destiny is to be a witcher. Can’t you take me there?”
Geralt rumbled a frustrated groan. She’d been begging to go to Kaer Morhen all week and he wanted nothing more than to snap his fingers and be there. He wished it worked that way.
“I’ve told you Ciri. We won’t make it. The King of Nilfgaard knows you're alive now. Knows you’re with me. I don’t know how he’s tracking me. But if we show our faces out there again we’ll both have our heads separated from our shoulders before sundown.”
She shook her head against his chest.
“No! I can run fast. I can scream. You wouldn’t believe what I can do when I get really angry.”
“Can you control it yet, girl?” He asked.
Silence.
“Well then what are we doing in this place?”Ciri pulled her head up and sat straight.
She surveyed the dusty library. It was dim in the room. Heavy brocade curtains blocked out most of the light. A few brilliant beams flooded in through a crack in the fabric, illuminating her delicate defiant face.
There were still tear streaks down her dirty cheeks. They’d barely escaped that severe, hard eyed mage that had discovered them hiding in a cave outside the city. Geralt's signs couldn’t compete with the magic of a mage. They’d gotten incredibly lucky. It was a miracle he’d only escaped with a dislocated shoulder, a hurt knee, and an ugly gash across his face.
Geralt heaved a sigh. “How many times do I have to tell you. My friend Triss is involved deeply in the war. She sent me a message, saying we’d be safe here. There’s a resistance group with the support of a young noble.”
“This doesn’t look like a very impressive court,” sniffed Ciri. She had finished inspecting the room and had become bored with it. She sounded like the princess she used to be, rather than the terrified orphan she was now.
“Well if it’s subterfuge it can’t very well be out in the open can it, child?”
“Did she at least tell you his name? My grandmama had many allies. I might know him.”
“She can’t tell me things like that in a message. It’s not safe. She just told me to come here and tell them she’d sent us.”
Geralt waited for the next question, but Ciri seemed satisfied for the moment, thank the gods. He tucked her back under his arm and kissed the top of her head.
“We’ll be safe here Ciri. I promise.”
The twisting in his gut reminded him that he had no such certainty himself. Not that he didn’t trust Triss. But politics turned on a deadly dime and people switched alliances all the time.
A broken body and a dwindling list of options is what had brought them there. Sheer desperation.
Geralt and Ciri both jumped when the only door to the room creaked open. Geralt needed to watch his startle response with these injuries. He winced and instinctively cradled his shoulder.
Two women slipped through the door and into the room. Geralt’s medallion vibrated.
Mages.
That was further proof this meeting was secretive. If it had been official, an official guard would have preceded this noble, not two powerful advisors.
One sorceress was young and haughty looking and wore a crimson gown. She regarded Geralt and Ciri as if they were bedraggled feral cats who’d just dragged a dead mouse into her library.
The other sorceress wore midnight blue robes and her authoritative gaze was reminiscent of a schoolmistress.
Geralt steeled himself to rise to greet them, anticipating the pain.
The authoritative mage waved him down.
“Save it for His Lordship.”
She examined Geralt intently, but didn’t actually greet him. He’d been around enough mages to know that he was being checked for glamours and magical disguises.
Then her eyes fell on Ciri.
“Come here child.” She spoke like a woman who was used to getting her way.
“Go on. Go ahead.” Geralt nudged her forward gently.
Ciri hesitated.
“It won’t hurt,” he reassured her.
She climbed off the chair and stood in front of the sorceresses matching the haughty gaze and posture of the younger one in the crimson robes.
Geralt was reminded that Ciri was a princess and wasn’t used to being examined like a soft melon in the market.
The sorceress examining Ciri didn’t react to her jutted out chin. She just pinched it and turned the child’s head left then right.
“Interesting,” she said.
Geralt could feel Ciri’s simmering irritation. He was grateful she stayed quiet and obedient. Maybe she finally understood the danger they were in, and how badly they needed shelter here.
The sorceress examining Ciri finally looked satisfied. She turned to her young colleague.
“Go get his lordship. Tell him it’s safe. This is nothing more than an injured, exhausted witcher and a terrified little girl.”
Ciri opened her mouth to object.
“Though one with great power,” the woman finished, eyeing Ciri carefully.
Ciri snapped her mouth closed.
The young mage left swiftly.
“I am Tissaia de Vries, Rectoress of Aretuza. I am visiting His Lordship and helping to settle in his assigned mage. You must be Geralt and Ciri then.”
“Yes. Pleased to meet you Rectoress,” Geralt. “Thank you for granting us refuge.”
“Oh I haven't granted you anything, witcher. I am only keeping His Lordship safe. The viscount has a tremendous amount of power in this region, due to his keen political skills. And once he’s married to the queen, he’ll have the entire northern region under his control. And he is the only one still willing to stand against Nilfgaard. So I suggest that you get off that chair and convince him when he arrives.”
Geralt shoved down his anger. Begging some noble for help was the bitterest pill to swallow. If it were just him, he’d probably go back out there and take his chances with his blade. He had to die sometime anyway.
But he was finding that there were no limits to what he would do for Ciri.
The door creaked open again and the young mage slipped through. She was followed by the last man Geralt had expected to find in this place.
The man looked at Geralt and the witcher’s stomach bottomed out. Geralt leapt to his feet but the pain in his shoulder and his knee almost brought him crashing to the floor. Ciri was there in a flash, holding him steady.
Geralt held onto Ciri as he looked into those familiar eyes. His heart reacted before his thoughts could keep up and he was flooded with love.
Those were the eyes that had held such constant abiding love for Geralt that sometimes he felt he’d suffocate looking at them.
He’d sent them away in a terrified rage.
But that was then. That was when Geralt was an angry man, lashing out at destiny and landing instead on those around him. Back then, the thing that most terrified Geralt was the vulnerability of trusting in honest, naked love.
But now.
Now he had accepted his destiny. He was a father and that had changed him. Ciri had been so much more than destiny. She’d been family. She’d been love. He had cracked open his heart for a terrified child, and that crack had made space for everything else.
He knew he loved Jaskier now. It hadn’t been one big epiphany, like a lightning crack. It had been the soft patter of raindrops persisting until he’d acknowledged the truth. It had been the thought of Jaskier’s touch whenever he’d felt alone. It had been the sweet melancholy wish that Jaskier would appear and sing to the quaking child. It had been the vision of the three of them cuddled warm under the stars.
Geralt had eventually figured it out. But it had been too late. Now they were on the run.
And nothing, absolutely nothing mattered more than protecting Ciri. But Geralt was exhausted and out of tricks. Nilfgaard was always a step ahead and despair had begun to seep into his mood. Just yesterday he had come to the conclusion that it was only a matter of time before he failed and Ciri was lost.
This was the miracle they needed. They finally found someone that Geralt knew loved him to his bones. Someone who knew how monstrous he could be and always saw him as a hero. A good man in a position to help.
Finally.
Someone Geralt could trust in this storm.
“Jaskier!” he cried. To his shock it came out as a sob. He’d been running so long. Denying his fear to be strong for Ciri. He took a few ragged breaths to steady himself.
The sorceresses gasped in offense.
“You will address him as my lord,” shouted the younger mage.
Geralt didn’t know what that meant. He didn’t care.
He was safe. He looked desperately at Jaskier. He didn’t know what he'd been expecting. A hug? Tears of joy?
He was met with stony silence.
Jaskier stood before him in a belted seafoam doublet and trousers with a sword strapped to his waist. He rested his hand on the hilt lazily. He regarded Geralt coldly.
A sick feeling settled into Geralt’s stomach. Why was Jaskier looking at him that way? His brain began to catch up with his heart.
Right. He’d cast Jaskier off. Rejected him. Fuck. But surely he’d forgiven him by now. Did one have to apologize to receive forgiveness though? Yes. Possibly. Definitely. He would do that as soon as they had privacy.
Tissaia drew herself up angrily.
“This is Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount of Lettenhove.”
No it fucking wasn’t.
“No, Jaskier. I’m Geralt. It’s Geralt.”
He looked at each face in the room in confusion.
“My. Bard.” He broke off, uncertain now.
“There’s no Jaskier here,” said Tissaia, “and no bards. Are you quite alright witcher?”
She drew closer and peered into his eyes, probably checking him for a concussion.
She really didn’t know who Jaskier was. He hadn’t told them? Hadn't talked at all about Geralt?
Jaskier looked at him impassively. He still hadn’t said a single word.
Geralt knew Jaskier had a birth name. He’d spent twenty years with the man, he knew it was a nickname. He knew his birth name was———fuck. It was Julian.
But it couldn’t be. Jaskier was the powerful noble leading a secret resistance? No.
And he was engaged? That seemed to be a less important detail so why did that realization make him feel like a horse had just trampled him?
“What’s happening here J—“
“You may address me as ‘my lord’, witcher,” said Jaskier swiftly.
Jaskier. No, Lord Julian held out his hand.
The room was quiet. The younger sorceress still looked appalled by his outburst. Ciri watched Geralt closely.
Given the facts before him, Geralt could come to no other conclusion.
Jaskier was Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount of Lettenhove. Jaskier was also the only man on the continent that would save Ciri’s life. Jaskier was his salvation.
Geralt inhaled, and though his heart felt like it was cracking, though pain shot through his shoulder and knee and his body ached, he walked closer to Jaskier and his outstretched hand.
He looked at him more closely.
The bard...no...the viscount...hadn’t aged a day. He was so fucking handsome. Geralt could admit that now. Jaskier was tall and strong. His soft brown hair curled around his face in tendrils. Geralt had always thought of Jaskier’s face as soft. His pliant lips were always ready to sing a song, or laugh riotously at terrible jokes. His full lashes threw their own shadows on his cheeks in the setting sun.
But now his eyes were drained of the ever present adoring expression he was used to seeing there. Without it, he hardly even seemed like the man he once knew. Why did that pain dig so much more deeply than every physical injury racking his body?
He took Jaskier’s hand. There were still small lute calluses on the tips of his fingers. He clung to that. No matter what anyone said, his bard’s fingers were in his hand after all this time. It made him want to sob. To lay his head on Jaskier’s lap. To tell him he was finally ready to be honest.
But this was not a man ready to receive his feelings, or to comfort him.
There was nothing soft about Jaskier now.
His eyes were like gates snapped shut. He waited for Geralt in brittle silence. The two mages held their breath. Ciri fidgeted with her dirty trousers.
“Geralt.” Ciri took his arm and squeezed it. “Geralt are you sure? We can leave. We don’t have to do this.”
Geralt locked eyes with Jaskier.
“I am sure. I trust his lordship with my life and yours.”
He saw something flicker across Jaskier’s eyes. It passed too quickly for Geralt to know what it meant.
Then Geralt bent low, pain shooting brightly through his shoulder as he did. He violently smothered the grunt of pain. He smothered everything.
But as he bent over Jaskier’s hand, he bent close enough to brush his lips over his knuckles. He felt Jaskier’s hand twitch.
“My Lord,” said Geralt, willing the words to come out steadily.
Geralt straightened again with equal amounts of pain.
“I am Geralt of Rivia, and this is the Lion Cub of Cintra. We seek refuge in your capable hands.”