Chapter Text
Geralt has been on edge since he came off the mountain. The venom he spewed at Jaskier was said in the heat of the moment and he knows he didn’t mean it. But this time it appears that he failed. Miserably and irrevocably. Jaskier had left him and he’s back at Kaer Morhen now without his favourite bard. He has tried to find him, but it just wasn’t good enough. Certainly, Jaskier had a way of standing out in a crowd, but if he wanted to go unnoticed, he could. And Geralt had failed him. He knew it. He makes it to Kaer Morhen. It’s the same that it is every winter. Lambert is there, being as harsh and bitter as always. Eskel is there, soft and gentle, asking about his feelings and his dreams and his well-being. And Vesemir is there.
Geralt avoids him at first, as much as he can, with Vesemir being the master of the keep. Vesemir knows too much. It’s been a pattern since Geralt was a pup. The old man could always see right through him and one soft touch of the calloused hand would make Geralt spill all of his secrets.
That’s something he doesn’t want to do this time more than others. He’s aware of his wrongdoings and he wants nobody’s comfort or empty assurances that everything will be alright. He knows that he would not be judged by his brothers for things said in the heat of the moment. They would probably scoff at him, tell him to get his shit together, find the bard and apologize. Which is something that he honestly should be doing. But admitting to what he did in front of Vesemir? No. Not happening. So he stashes the memories away in the back of his mind, planning to deal with them later. He works on securing the walls, mending fences, fixing the roof of the stables, shifting rocks, training with his brothers. Lambert and Eskel, on different occasions, ask him what is wrong with him. He asks them what is wrong with them and keeps working and training and reading and studying. But Jaskier is with him, in the back of his mind. He waits for him to go away.
He doesn’t, of course. As stubborn and persistent as the songbird is in person, the memory is just as persistent. Instead of getting better, it gets increasingly worse. It haunts him in his dreams. Some nights, Geralt sees Jaskier walking in the distance and he tries to follow, but is rooted to the floor. Other nights, Jaskier is standing in front of him, waiting for an explanation, an apology or something. Geralt can feel his mouth moving but no sound comes out. Again, other nights, their roles are reversed and it is Jaskier sending Geralt away.
It is one of the latter nights that Vesemir seeks out Geralt. After dream-Jaskier’s words of “Why would I want the Butcher of Blaviken anywhere near me? You’re a monster!” he wakes tangled in the sheets, yelping “NO”. He almost falls out of bed when his door opens and he cranes his neck to make out the intruder. He is half expecting it to be Eskel, who is usually the one to check on his nightmare-ridden brothers. But it’s not Eskel. It’s Vesemir. The old man walks in without a word, closes the door behind him and comes over to the bed. He sits on the side without invitation and looks at the White Wolf. Nobody speaks. Geralt feels his breath hitch and before he can fathom what is happening, he has burst into tears. He pulls up his knees and rests his head on them, his arms circling around his shins. He feels small and scared and vulnerable. Like a child, who hides from his father. Vesemir still doesn’t speak, but his sword-calloused hand comes up and rests on Geralt’s hair, slowly combing through the sweaty strands. Geralt just sobs harder at that. “I’m sorry. So so so sorry! Sorry. Forgive me.” Geralt can hear himself mumbling. “Let it go. I’m here,” Vesemir’s voice is soft and gentle. He doesn’t deserve any of this. He should be out all over the continent, making it up to his songbird. But the Killer is snowed over and going back down the mountain would be suicide at this time of year. This makes him shake. He cannot get away from admitting it now. Geralt takes a shuddering breath and wipes his eyes on the back of his hand. Then he looks in the rough direction of Vesemir’s face without meeting his eyes.
“What did you dream of,” the old man asks.
Geralt shakes his head. “Not a dream.”
“I have been hearing you every night since you got back. Tell me, son.”
Geralt drops his gaze. Vesemir will be disappointed. He had let the world get to him after all.
“I wanted to go to the coast with him, you know?” Geralt isn’t sure why he started with that of all things.
“Your little lark?”
“Yes.” He shakes his head. “I lost him.”
“He passed?” Vesemir seems shocked.
“No. No. I…It’s. He’s alive. I hope he’s alive.”
Vesemir grabs him by the shoulders and all but drags him into an embrace.
“Tell me, pup.”
Geralt hides his face in the familiar warmth. He has done this since he was a boy. Whenever the mages have been particularly brutal or even when he was a little boy and the lads from older cohorts would get to him, he would wait for Vesemir in front of the old man’s quarters and ask about a plant or a creature or a sign. Vesemir would invite him in and Geralt would inevitably confess that he was feeling sad or angry or whatever else. The spot where he was now, between Vesemir’s shoulder and neck, had always been the source of comfort.
“I sent him away.” Another choked off sob.
“I told him that if life could give me one blessing, it would be to take him off my hands.”
Vesemir holds him a little tighter.
“I didn’t mean it. He was never a burden to me. He was the only apart from the wolves who ever wanted to be near me. In my dream, he didn’t. He called me a monster. He’s right, isn’t he? I became a monster. The Butcher of Blaviken. How could he stand being with me on the Path?”
Vesemir pushes him back, lifts his chin and looks deep into his eyes.
“Listen to me, son. Listen carefully. You are not a monster. You have never been a monster. The world is not a kind place and sometimes we have the fortune to meet those that are kind. Jaskier has been kind to you. What you did, and you know that already, was not right. But it can be forgiven. Are you willing to make it up to your songbird?”
“Yes!” The word was punched out of him without hesitation.
“Then come spring, go down the mountain. Find him. He will forgive you. I am certain.”
He was pulled back into the embrace. Vesemir held Geralt until his breath came regular and deep.
“Thank you, Vesemir. For…everything.”
“Any day, son.”