Chapter Text
Prince Julian of Kerack was bored out of his mind.
All right, that wasn't strictly true. He'd been far more bored before, in classes, in council meetings. This was a banquet, to celebrate his coming of age and official naming as Crown Prince and heir to the throne. It was interesting. Really.
It's just that he hated every moment of it, because it was the second-to-last nail in the coffin of his soul and his life. The last one before his father died and drove home the last one and trapped him as the king of a nation he knew he wasn't fit to rule. Not well. He had no ability to distance himself from individual people, no ability to keep the big picture in mind when there was a small picture right in front of him.
He'd be awful at this. His sister was older, smarter, better suited, but she was a woman and Kerack only allowed a woman to claim the throne if she had no brothers to take her place. So unless Julian fancied dying tragically or committing treason (and he had considered both options briefly before realizing he wasn't that desperate yet) he was it.
So he was trapped at a banquet that he was trying to ignore without making it obvious he was ignoring it, smiling and nodding at visiting dignitaries and thanking them for the gifts they presented without really taking note of what they were.
Until the king of Kaedwen stepped up with four chained men behind him.
Julian barely heard the official introduction and the greetings from the king, because he was too busy staring. They weren't slaves, not in the traditional sense, if only because Kerack had outlawed slavery under Julian's great-grandfather King Alfred II, but they certainly weren't free, bound as they were. They were large, and strong, and armored. The two men on either end were white-haired, though only one looked actually old. The old man seemed the calmest of them, but seemed to be taking in everything around him. The other white-haired man seemed to have his jaw clenched, his head ducked slightly, avoiding the gazes of the murmuring nobles around them. Between them were two dark-haired men, one jutting his chin out and glaring angrily at anyone who stared at him too long, the other staring placidly ahead. Julian wondered what had caused the twisting scar on the side of his face that he'd been able to survive.
And Julian wasn't close enough to be able to make out the color clearly, but he could tell that all four men had the same eyes.
"Your Highness," the king of Kaedwen was saying, and Jaskier forced himself to pay attention, "these beasts are the last of the witchers of Kaer Morhen." There was a gasp and ripple of increased whispering amongst the guests, and Julian felt his heart stutter. He'd learned about witchers, a bit - mostly from old tales and reading things he wasn't supposed to during his lessons. Mutants created to hunt monsters, gone mad and rabid with time as the magic used to create them corrupted their minds.
"You bring my son such dangerous things?" Julian's father, King Tomasz asked with a frown. The Kaedweni king inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement.
"These four have been tamed as far as can be done, and bound to serve and defend he who holds the key to their enchantment," the king, Julian thought his name might be Szymon, continued, removing a pendant from around his neck and stepping forward to offer it to Julian. "The chains are for the peace of mind of your court, of course," King Probably-Szymon added. Julian glanced at his father briefly, catching a slight nod, before reaching out and taking the pendant and, after a brief glance at the four witchers, slipping the chain over his head.
"Go, then, Julian," King Tomasz said, sounding curious and a bit eager. "See if King Szymon's gift is acceptable."
Julian repressed a grimace and stood, stepping forward to just outside of arm's reach of the witchers, looking from one to the other of them. The defiant one curled a lip at him but said nothing. The scarred one looked straight ahead. The old one watched him with slightly narrowed eyes, like a man sizing up a threat.
Julian stepped up to the last, his face still angled down, but those eyes flicked up to meet Julian's as he stepped close enough to be touched.
"Careful, Your Highness," King Szymon said. "That one's the most beastly of them all, even enchanted. A starving wolf backed into a corner, if you're not careful."
Julian didn't say anything, but stepped infinitesimally closer to this "starving wolf". He knew he should be afraid, especially without testing that King Szymon's enchantment even worked. But somehow, while he knew these witchers distrusted him - and he couldn't blame them for that - he wasn't in any danger, even without the pendant. There was no madness in their eyes.
There was no madness in the eyes looking out from behind lank white hair, close enough he could reach out and brush it behind the witcher's ear.
"Are you bound to defend and serve me?" Julian asked, tilting his head slightly.
"Yes," the wolf growled, low and rumbling and nearly inaudible.
Julian could see the scarred witcher's fingers twitch slightly, like he wanted to reach out to the wolf but wouldn't let himself here. He glanced further down the line, at the defiant one now scowling at the ground, like he couldn't quite meet Julian's eyes.
At the elder witcher, who met his eyes evenly and didn't look away. Julian wondered if the witcher had made up his mind about him. If he had been found a credible threat or found wanting.
He stepped back again, not looking away from these men.
"I accept your gift, King Szymon," Julian said, doing his best not to curl his lip at the thought. It was slavery, it would be unconscionable even if they had been mad and rabid, but mutants were not considered people. There was nothing preventing their forced servitude in Kerack as there was for the "intelligent peoples of the continent".
"May they serve you well, Crown Prince," Szymon replied, shooting a smug look to the other visiting dignitaries, whose gifts had not gotten nearly this intent a reaction from Julian.
Julian gestured for a guard to step forward, then turned back to the witchers.
"Follow this guard back to my rooms," he told them, he hoped in a way that didn't sound too much like an order, or compel them due to the enchantment. "I'll see food and drink are sent for you."
He then turned to the guard. "Take them to my rooms and find supper for them, and guard the door so they aren't disturbed."
"Yes, your highness," the guard responded, and bowed. The witchers followed, but not before casting suspicious looks at Julian as they passed.
Once the witchers had passed through the crowd and out of the hall, Julian's father stood and spread his hands.
"With this final gift, our honored guests are welcomed, and we celebrate in earnest the coming of age of my son and heir, Crown Prince Julian Alfred of Kerack!" A cheer echoed through the halls, and Julian forced himself to smile, returning to his seat next to his father as the food and drink was brought out. Julian barely ate (though he had plenty of wine), and all but forced himself to stay at the banquet instead of racing to his rooms to ensure that the witchers hadn't been mistreated in his absence, and to give them the means to leave Kerack.
Once the music began to shift from proper court music to slightly more bawdy tunes, as the remaining guests had one too many glasses of wine, and the more prim ladies began to trickle out, Julian figured he was within the window of propriety for the guest of honor of a banquet to make a quiet exit. He finished his wine, and found his father gripping his wrist tightly before he could stand.
"I know you're a soft touch, boy," Tomasz said quietly. "If you won't keep the beasts, you will give them to me or you will have them killed." Julian stiffened, and schooled his face into as close to impassivity as he could before facing his father.
"I don't know what y—" he started, then hissed in pain as Tomasz's grip tightened and twisted under the edge of the table, threatening to break his wrist.
It wouldn't be the first time.
"Don't play innocent, Julian," Tomasz hissed, his pleasant smile out at the guests unwavering. "You're softer than my grandfather. You wish to set these beasts loose on our people. If I find you've done so, I will have them recaptured and executed at your feet, before deciding on a punishment for your disobedience. Now. You will swear to keep them under your control or you will give the pendant to me, now."
"Fine," Julian snapped, grimacing as the bones in his wrist ground together under his father's grip, restraining himself from contorting to try to lessen the pain of the unnatural direction his arm was being twisted in. "I swear. They will stay under my command. My oath as Crown Prince."
"Good," Tomasz replied, and let go of Julian's wrist. It was only practice that kept Julian from drawing his hand back to cradle it against his chest - it would bruise, and may have re-fractured slightly if the sharp pains were any indication. He didn't, though, simply stood, bowed respectfully to his father as was expected by the guests and nobles, and left without another word.
He ducked into a little alcove before making it all the way to his rooms, so he could assess the damage, pushing the sleeves of his shirt and doublet up so he could see. Flexing his wrist hurt, there were already bruises developing, and his grip seemed shakier than usual, but he could grasp the pendant around his neck well enough, letting the weight of it be held by his hand rather than the chain, so he hoped it would only be a few days before he was back to full range of motion rather than weeks this time.
He pulled his sleeves back down and strode more confidently than he felt back to his suite of rooms, nodding to the guard standing outside, and stepped into his sitting and reception room, closing the door behind him before turning to survey his witchers.
Their chains were scattered on the floor, like they'd removed them themselves and tossed them aside carelessly, which honestly saved Julian the trouble of trying to find if King Szymon had even provided anyone a key that he could use to remove the shackles himself. There was an untouched tray of what looked like stale bread and old cheese, and a pitcher of water with no cups to pour it into. And the four witchers were clustered together on the far end of the room, the fire having died down somewhat and their eyes reflecting like cats in the low light.
He frowned at the tray, and then at them.
"Was... this what they brought you to eat?" he asked, incredulously. There was no response from the witchers, and Julian pressed his lips into a line and went to pull the cord to summon a servant before going to prod at the fire in the large fireplace himself.
A servant appeared in the doorway and curtseyed to him. She was newer, but he was pretty sure her name was Ela.
"Your highness?" she asked, eyes flicking back to the witchers nervously.
"That tray and pitcher," he said firmly. "Take it back to the kitchen. That food is fit only for pig slop at this point, not to be fed to my guards."
"Yes, your highness," she said softly.
"Bring back a tray of fresh bread, fruits, cheese. Some salted meats or stew if there's any left from the banquet. A pitcher of wine and actual glasses for them to drink from." He forced himself to stay calm, and to smile at the girl - she certainly hadn't been the one who decided what to send for the witchers to eat, and she was clearly afraid. "And if you've a lighting stick so I can light my lamps, I'd appreciate it."
She managed a shaky smile back at him, despite her continued nerves at the presence of the witchers, and produced a thin wooden candlelighter for him. The servants that saw to Julian's needs knew him well enough not to be afraid of him, at least, and he wouldn't force any of them to deal with the presence of the witchers tonight any more than necessary.
"Also," he added, "after the food, if you could perhaps find a few larger sets of spare clothes, it would be helpful. But if you can't, don't fret, all right? I know it's late, we'll manage if we have to wait until morning." she nodded and bobbed another curtsey. "Thank you, Ela," he said, and her brightened smile as she turned to grab the tray of unacceptable food told him he'd remembered her name right, thank Melitele.
Once she was out the door, he moved to light the candlelighter in the fireplace, then set to lighting the lamps around the sitting room, at least, though he gave the witchers a bit of space. He lit the lamps in his own room and private baths as well, glad for the ingenious plumbing that allowed him to pipe water directly into his bath, and then out again through a drain in the bottom, because it would save a lot of time, if any of the witchers wished to bathe.
After lighting the lamps, he shucked his rings and doublet and shoes, and padded back out to see if the witchers had moved at all.
They had, mostly moving into more defensible positions facing the door to his room and baths and the door to the hallway. New food and wine had been placed on the table, though they hadn't touched it.
"Are... are you hungry?" he asked them. "You don't have to eat if you don't want to, but I thought... it didn't seem likely Szymon would've made sure you got supper before the banquet."
They were silent, just... staring at him. He sighed, and rubbed his uninjured hand over his face.
"Right, um. Okay, I'll... just take a bite of a bunch of this so you know I'm not trying to poison you or anything, in case that's..." they didn't move, so he nodded and went over and pulled a piece of crust off the bread, nibbling on it, wondering if he should drink some of the wine, when—
"We'd be able to smell poison," the older witcher said. "We know it's not."
Julian blinked back at them, could feel his cheeks heating up with embarrassment. "Oh," he said. "Well, I. I didn't know that, I guess that's good to know."
He reached up and fiddled with the pendant, and if he hadn't been looking at them so intently he may not have noticed the way they all tensed just slightly when he handled it.
He dropped it immediately.
"I—" Julian stepped towards them, his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his shirt that had gotten untucked from his pants. "Listen, I'm sorry about... I was going to come back and give this thing back to you and get you some money and food and help you sneak out of the palace," he admitted with a tight smile. "but I'm... my father knows me well. If I let you go, he'll have you recaptured and executed. My options were to keep you under my command, give you to him, or have you executed. I... hope you'll forgive me for taking the first option."
They didn't speak.
There was a soft knock on the door, and at his call Ela slipped back in with a curtsey, her arms full of clothes.
"I've found some spares, your highness," she said softly. "Shall I set them on the table?"
"Yes, that's fine, Ela, thank you," Julian said with a smile. "Is the guard still outside?"
"Yes, your highness," she said. Julian huffed a sigh.
"Tell him to return to his post at the end of the hall," he said, loudly enough that the guard should hear him and not question Ela's passing on of the message. "I've no need for a nursemaid sat outside my room. And you finish your duties and see yourself to bed," he added more quietly. "It's late and I know you'll need to be up early."
"Yes, your highness," Ela repeated, bobbed a curtsey, and left the room, closing the door behind her.
"Right," Julian said with a deep sigh, and walked back to the far end of the sitting room, approaching the quiet, scarred witcher. "Now if you'll just take this armor off—"
He was cut off when the witcher's hand whipped up to grab the wrist of his outstretched hand. The witcher's grip wasn't hard, had probably only been intended to keep Julian from touching him, but it was the wrist his father had already well-bruised less than a half hour before, and Julian let out a sharp, pained yelp before he managed to clench his jaw against the pain. The witcher dropped his wrist like he'd been burnt, and stepped back, eyes wide.
"I... I didn't—" he started to say, not to Julian but to the oldest of them, and Julian shook his head.
"No, you— it's fine," he managed, forcing a tight smile in an attempt to reassure the witcher, and turned to address the eldest. "It wasn't his fault, his grip was perfectly controlled."
He didn't know why he did that, but... the witcher hadn't tried to make his excuses to Julian, but to the one who could only be the leader of this small little band, and Julian wanted to be sure that any lectures or punishments that might happen in any moments of privacy might be mitigated if he vouched for the scarred witcher's care not to intentionally hurt him.
It seemed to be the right thing to do, as well, as the eldest hummed thoughtfully and seemed to be reassessing Julian. It wasn't the same as he'd done in the great hall during the banquet, but Julian couldn't for the life of him pinpoint the difference.
"You smell like you're in pain," the eldest witcher said finally, holding Julian with that even, steady gaze.
"Well," Julian started to say, searching for an excuse for that response, trying to process that the witcher had just said he smelled like he was in pain, which didn't make sense, when the old witcher's hand snapped out and wrapped around his forearm, pulling him in close and pushing up his sleeve before he could do anything but let out a startled squeak.
Were all witchers so fast? And unaccustomed to asking to touch a person?
"Clench your fist, boy," the witcher said, and Julian found himself doing so before he could really think about it. He couldn't close his fist completely, and certainly not tightly, but he was able to do it, at least. "And flex your wrist, up and down, side to side." Julian did that as well, hissing softly when it hurt, and not pushing himself further than he could go without pushing from discomfort to shooting pains.
The witcher didn't say anything, just grunted and let Julian have his arm back.
"Satisfied your curiosity, then?" he asked, trying to play it off as a bit of a joke but unable to quite do so.
"It's badly bruised," the witcher replied, his tone confident and firm. "Possibly still recovering from a recent fracture, but injured recently. Very recently. You should wrap it to help stabilize it and reduce the swelling."
"I..." Julian blinked back unexpected tears that had welled up quite against his will. This witcher, this supposed mad rabid beast who wasn't a man, who had been given to Julian like some sort of object, who clearly was doing what little he could to protect the younger witchers with him and likely felt deeply helpless in how little he was able to do that, had shown more care for Julian's well-being in the past minute and a half than his own father had in all eighteen years of his life.
"You really meant it, didn't you, lad?" the witcher grunts, holding his gaze with yellow eyes that had more depth of care to them, even if it wasn't really for Julian, than he'd ever seen in anyone looking at him.
"Which part?" Julian asked, mortified that his voice trembled slightly.
"That you'd planned to set us free, let us escape."
"Oh," Julian breathed. "Well, yes." He looked between the four of them, the three younger witchers seemed to be trying to come to individual conclusions about him, judging by how closely they were watching him. This close, even in the dim light, he could see that all of their eyes were yellow, but different shades. The eldest's was faded almost to a light brown, the defiant one seemed to almost look greenish (though Julian couldn't be sure that was right, in the low light), the scarred one had a rich amber tone to his, and the last, the one that Szymon had described as a wolf... his looked like molten gold as Julian met his gaze, and the intensity of it made his heart skip just a bit.
He couldn't help noticing that they were all exceedingly attractive, now that he wasn't performing for the court, and he ducked his head slightly, hoping that they couldn't smell arousal like they could apparently smell poison and pain.
"You're a strange one," the eldest said finally, drawing Julian's attention back to him. "You don't fear us."
"I..." Julian started, trying to come up with some explanation for why he didn't fear them, and unable to come up with anything definitive. "No," he said finally, "I don't. I'm not sure why, but... I looked in your eyes, all of you, and I knew you wouldn't hurt me unless I'd done something to deserve it."
There was a low rumble that seemed to come from all of them, and the younger three shifted slightly, all glancing back at their leader. The head of their pack, in a way, Julian thought. Poetic, at least if they were a pack. And useful for their survival, supporting each other and answering to the most level-headed and experienced among them.
"I am Vesemir," the eldest - Vesemir - said after a moment. "The pups are Lambert, Eskel, and Geralt." he nodded to the defiant one, the scarred one, and the wolf in turn.
"I'm Julian," he said in response, then grimaced. "Um. But I suppose you already know that. Sorry. It's nice to meet you properly?" The younger witchers didn't respond, but they seemed less actively hostile. The w— Geralt even seemed to be looking at him with curiosity now.
"Do you know the shape of our binding," Vesemir asked, "and the meaning of that medallion you wear?"
"I don't," Julian admitted, and looked down properly at the pendant - or, medallion, perhaps, as Vesemir said - for the first time. It was a flat disk, possibly silver, with a carving of a snarling wolf on the face of it. "It means something to you, though, doesn't it?" he ventured, grasping it in his hand and looking up at them.
"It was mine," Geralt rumbled, his voice still barely audible and his eyes locked on the floor. "I was the last captured."
Julian frowned slightly, and looked back to Vesemir for clarification.
"Witchers came from different schools," Vesemir said, his tone slipping into one that Julian recognized from his tutors. "Kaer Morhen was in the Blue Mountains on the eastern edge of Kaedwen. Home of the School of the Wolf." His expression grew distant, the way Julian remembered his grandfather in his last days, when he lived more in the past than the present. "Before the witchers were hunted nearly to extinction, we wore medallions to let people know what we were, that we could help if they were beset by monsters, and to warn us of magic in our presence, as most monsters were. Each school had their own design."
Julian looked down again at the medallion, aghast. Szymon - or at least whoever had "tamed" these witchers for Szymon - had taken the medallion from the last free Wolf of Kaer Morhen and turned it into a tool to control them. He wanted to rip it off himself and push it into Geralt's hands, to never think about having this sort of power over anyone, let alone these men who had done nothing but defend humans and exist, and had been enslaved and tortured for it.
He couldn't, of course, if he wanted to maintain the illusion of control, but oh how he wished he could.
"How do I break it?" Julian asked, his voice barely more than a whisper. He looked up, eyes wide and desperate, and held the medallion out from his chest, towards Vesemir. "How do I stop it from controlling you?"
"It doesn't control us, exactly," Eskel said quietly. "It simply allows the bearer to punish us for disobedience."
"Which is why the fuckhead who brought us here had us chained," Lambert said with a snort, and Julian couldn't quite bite back a smile at his dismissive and condescending tone. While his voice was smoother and higher than Julian would've expected, the tone fit perfectly with the man he'd first seen, defiantly staring down the nobility who dared to stare at him. "He knew there was a chance we'd try to fight through it just for a shot at him."
"How?" Julian asked, suddenly concerned. "Is it just... if I'm displeased you're in pain? Because I'd rather not accidentally do that just because I was having a mood."
"Nothing so vague, lad," Vesemir reassures him, and there was the slightest upward curl of his lips as he said it. "We're collared." He tugged aside the collar of his shirt, under his armor, revealing a plain metal band around his neck. "Can cause pain or strangle us, depending on the whims of the wielder of that medallion."
Julian's chest tightened. That was unimaginably cruel, in his opinion, and he couldn't help but feel helpless in the face of this horrid magic that made them suffer.
"Can they be removed?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, desperate for some sort of good news.
All four of the witchers looked at him with expressions of disbelief, ranging from bitter and closed off on Lambert's end, to openly hopeful but trying to stay guarded on Geralt's. Julian smiled faintly at Geralt as soon as he caught sight of that expression, which seemed to fluster him.
"Far as I can tell," Vesemir said eventually, "they can be removed at request of the master of the medallion."
"Hmm," Julian hummed softly. "Right. Okay, then, I—" he stepped forward toward Vesemir, then hesitated. "Sorry. Do you mind?"
"Not at all," Vesemir replied, his eyes sharp but seeming to hold a hint of amusement.
Julian stepped into his space, then, noting in the back of his mind how even the shortest of these men was slightly taller than he was, and significantly broader. A thought to save for another time, clearly. He reached up to the thin band of metal around Vesemir's neck and, trying to be as commanding as possible, simply ordered, "Open."
The collar shifted, seeming to develop a latch and hinge, allowing Julian to pull the ends apart and remove it from Vesemir's neck. Julian grinned widely, delighted that, at the very least, he could free his— the witchers (not his, they belonged only to themselves) from the actual literal control he had over them through this enchantment. He hoped they would stay with him for now, in Kerack, if only to ensure their safety, but he was willing to risk them disappearing in the night if it meant he could keep them safe, especially should his father decide he would take this gift from him because he had use of "mad rabid beasts" or some nonsense.
Julian handed the collar to Vesemir, and moved on to Lambert, who jerked back instinctively but stilled almost immediately.
"Get it over with," he growled at Julian, and within seconds Julian pushed the collar into Lambert's hands. He did the same for Eskel and Geralt, then stepped back from the four of them. They all seemed uncertain whether they could actually affect the collars, but Lambert snarled and snapped his in half, letting off a little spark that looked like broken magic alongside the broken metal. The other three followed suit before the halves of Lambert's collar had hit the ground.
"Well, those should be tucked somewhere unlikely to draw attention," Julian said brightly, and collected the pieces, even as it put him in a vulnerable position at the witchers' feet, which seemed to shock the younger three.
Vesemir simply watched him steadily, as if he'd seen the shape of the young prince and was simply watching him do what was expected. It almost made Julian feel ashamed of how little there was for the old witcher to see.
"Well, there's... the food's still good, as I said," Julian said, holding the curves of metal in his hand, thinking of the best place to secret them away until he could dispose of them. "And I have private baths, with water that pipes in directly. If you'd like to bathe."
Lambert immediately took off for the baths, Eskel close on his tail, and Vesemir glanced from them to Julian to Geralt before gravitating toward the tray of food and wine.
Geralt, however, simply hovered over Julian's shoulder. When Julian turned to ask him if he needed anything, he was met by a deep frown creasing Geralt's forehead.
"Is... do you need something else?" Julian asked carefully.
"Your wrist," Geralt rumbled. "It needs wrapped."
"Oh," Julian said, startled. "I. I suppose so, yes. I'll find a bandage in the morning."
Geralt grunted and grabbed Julian's uninjured wrist, tugging him over to the sofa and pushing him down before sitting next to him and turning his injured wrist over in his hands, shockingly gentle for all that they were sword-calloused.
"Really, it's fine," Julian said quietly. "I've managed before."
Geralt looked up, frown still in place, eyes searching Julian's face for some answer that he didn't seem to find.
"What happened?" he asked quietly, low enough that Julian thought maybe no one else but the two of them could hear.
"Like I said," Julian offered with a wry smile, "my father knows me well."
The muscles in Geralt's jaw twitched slightly.
"It's fine," Julian repeated. "I've managed before. It's not as bad as it could've been."
Geralt's frown deepened, and he turned his gaze back to Julian's wrist. Julian would've asked if there was something wrong, except they were distracted by Lambert - apparently not the first to the bath - dropping a pile of bath linens into Geralt's lap. He seemed tense as well, and didn't look at Julian before going back toward the bedroom and baths.
Geralt hummed to himself, and let Julian's wrist go long enough to rip a strip off the linens, then another for good measure, as if he'd expected the other witcher to bring him supplies to use as makeshift bandages. Julian wondered, absently, if one of their mutations included the ability to speak to each other's minds, like sorcerers could.
"Should only need one," he murmured as he took Julian's hand back and started to carefully wrap his wrist. It was snug, but not enough to cut off circulation, and Geralt's hands were deft and easily tugged and tucked the bandage into place in a way that provided a mild amount of pressure to stabilize and press out the fluids causing swelling, without causing Julian's fingers to tingle.
"Oh," Julian said again, once the wrapping was done, flexing his fingers and finding that while it was still uncomfortable, it didn't hurt nearly as much as he'd expected. "I... thank you." He looked up at Geralt to find the witcher studiously avoiding his gaze.
Perhaps it was hard to care, even in a small way like this, about someone outside of the other three wolves, when they'd been so mistreated. Julian couldn't blame him for not being comfortable giving even basic consideration to a bruised prince.
"You should eat," Julian said after a moment, trying to lighten the mood as best he could when he was still trying to banish the ghost of Geralt's fingertips on his wrist out of his mind. "Before Lambert and Eskel come out and finish what Vesemir hasn't and leaves you without anything but the crusts and stems."
Geralt hummed again, and stood to join Vesemir at the tray of food. Julian made a mental note to ask for larger servings next time, as he could already tell the amount of food, while perfectly acceptable for four normal human men, would be not quite enough for these witchers.
He intended to stay awake long enough to offer them the clean clothes he'd had Ela find, and figure out bedding arrangements, if they would be comfortable in the spare room off the other side of his sitting room, but was asleep on the sofa before Lambert and Eskel had emerged from the bath.