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Well, thought Jaskier as he was dragged under, carried deep beneath the surface of the water, it could be worse.
It could—in fact—not be worse. Not really. Because as much as Jaskier tried to sugarcoat the situation for himself, he was going to die. Jaskier was a little relieved, actually, because even if he was going to drown once he lost the battle against the instinct to draw breath, at least he wasn’t standing in front of Geralt—the real Geralt, not the siren currently carrying her dinner back into her lair—listening to more colourful accusations of life ruining.
There always was a bright side to the worst situation.
There really wasn’t.
The problem was this: Jaskier was still, irrationally, in love with his witcher. Even after years of Geralt ignoring him, of grunts and mornings in which the camp had been empty with the witcher long gone, even after the mountain and Geralt’s angry words, the bard’s heart belonged to him. And it had been this hope, his stupid hope, that had caused him to step forward, to ask the siren, disguised as the White Wolf, if he was alright.
And now Jaskier was drowning. The siren had turned into a horrible slimy mercreature, with a long tail and sharp teeth which had sunk into his shoulder as she carried him further away from the shore and the surface.
Jaskier stared up at the last rays of light that made it through the layers of water and frowned. His lungs were burning, his heart was racing and he was dizzy from lack of air, but he could have sworn there had been a flash of silver, up above the surface.
Geralt, the real witcher. He was coming for him. Jaskier smiled and closed his eyes. He was safe.
Jaskier woke with a splutter and a desperate gasp for air. White hair and yellow eyes flashed before him, and a strong hand steadied him as he heaved. He hurt all over. Someone was poking a hot knife into his shoulder. He groaned.
“Easy, lad,” said a rough voice above him. “She almost took a chunk out of you.”
Somewhere in Jaskier’s mind it registered that Geralt’s Rivian accent was subtle, not a thick Kaedweni drawl as this one. He was both disappointed and relieved. Jaskier relaxed into the hold of this unknown witcher and gave in to the exhaustion clinging to him.
The next time he gained consciousness, he was lying in a bed and the sun was shining through a high arched window onto his face. Jaskier scrunched up his nose and sneezed. Bloody sunlight.
The room was sparsely furnished—a bed, a drawer, a small table and a chair. The chair was occupied by the unknown witcher who had saved Jaskier’s life. Now that he was conscious and lucid, Jaskier could see the differences between the witcher and Geralt. For one, this witcher was older, deep lines cutting into his face. He also looked weary in a way that told of his true age. Geralt was old, Jaskier knew, though they had rarely talked about Geralt’s age. But this witcher was way older than the Wolf.
“Ya with me?”
“Hm,” Jaskier said. His chest was aching, but he sat up and watched his saviour. “Awake and, thanks to you, if I am to believe my memories, alive. My name’s Jaskier, bard and poet. It’s my pleasure to make your acquaintance, Master …?”
“Vesemir.”
“Master Vesemir,” Jaskier insinuated a bow, which was hard due to the fact that he was sitting in a bed.
“You should rest some more, and if you feel strong enough, you can come down and help me in the kitchen.”
The old witcher stood and left Jaskier in the room, wondering why his name rang a bell. His shoulder was throbbing where the siren had bitten him and while Jaskier wished he’d stay awake for a little while longer, sleep dragged him back under.
“Kaer Morhen?” Jaskier repeated. He sat at the kitchen table of the keep, chopping roots and vegetables for Vesemir to use in several recipes. “Wait, you’re Geralt’s foster father.”
“And you’re Geralt’s bard,” said Vesemir. He wore his head exactly the way Geralt did. Jaskier smiled to himself. Then his mind caught up with what Vesemir had said. “I’m not his anything.”
“Where is he anyway? Aren’t you two travelling together?”
“Not anymore,” Jaskier said, beheading the carrot in front of him with more force than necessary. “Not since he finally let me know how he actually feels about me.”
Vesemir turned around and raised an eyebrow. “So you’re not feeling the same?”
“Of course I’m not feeling the same. He’s a witcher, a friend of humanity, he’s strong and good and righteous. And I’m just me.” He tried not to think about how much shit-shovelling he would have done had Geralt not finally spoken the truth on that fucking mountain.
The old witcher blinked. “Sounds to me like you’re reciprocating, bard.”
Reciprocating? Reciprocating what?
Vegetables abandoned, Jaskier stood, ignoring the pain in his shoulder as he moved carelessly. “Are we … talking about the same conversation here? Because I feel like I’m missing some crucial information.”
“Are you in love with Geralt?”
Oh. Oh fuck. “Is it that obvious?”
Vesemir led him back to an arm chair in front of the fire in the hall. “You followed him around for more than two decades, singing his praises, trying to redeem him. It’s hard not to see how much he means to you.”
“Well,” Jaskier said, suddenly tired. “He surely didn’t.”
“What did he do?” Vesemir’s voice was calm and Jaskier felt a bit bad for Geralt.
“Nothing he shouldn’t have done ages ago.”
“Jaskier.”
Jaskier laughed. “So that’s where he gets that tone of voice from.” The situation was just too surreal. He was in Kaer Morhen, without Geralt, talking to Geralt’s father instead, who seemed to have gotten the impression that Geralt was in love with his useless shit-shovelling fillingless pie bard. It was ridiculous.
“He told me if life would give him one blessing, it would be to take me off his hands. And he would have received that blessing, had you not saved my life. For which I haven’t thanked you properly yet. I’ll write you a song. What rhymes with Vesemir?”
“Jaskier,” Vesemir said, exasperated. They were so alike, it was not even funny anymore.
“Yeah, fine,” Jaskier said. “It was worth a try.”
The old witcher levelled him with another glare, and the bard caved. “Look, he just said what surely has been on his mind for years now. That I was a burden and that his life would get better if I wasn’t in it. So I left. Even I don’t like to stay when I’m not wanted.”
Vesemir leaned back, running a hand down his face. “That fucking idiot.”
Jaskier shrugged. “I can be quite clingy and annoying. I don’t blame him for finally snapping.”
“No,” Vesemir said. “He had no right. I told him, after the djinn, to get his act together. That the era of witchers is ending. That what I taught them all those decades ago was wrong. But of course he didn’t listen, that stubborn fool.”
Jaskier blinked. “Are you telling me what I think you’re telling me?” It couldn’t be. He knew, on a rational level, that Geralt had liked him, maybe held some fondness for him. But this?
“Do you think Geralt lets just anyone accompany him for decades?”
“Well, no, but—”
“No buts,” Vesemir said. “You’re staying.”
“What?”
“You’re staying for the winter and Geralt will apologise.” Vesemir shook his head. “He’d better apologise.”
“He also gets his stubbornness from you, doesn’t he?” Jaskier asked, resigned to his fate. “Why do you care so much anyway?”
“Because I want to see him happy. You make him happy. I’ve seen him in the years he returned from the Path, his mood less foul. I heard the other witchers talk about a bard who sings songs where witchers are the heroes, not the villains. I have done many things that jeopardised his happiness over the years. But this is something I can help with, if you’ll let me.”
Jaskier sighed. “Fine,” he said. “But if Geralt doesn’t want me here, I’ll leave.”
“As long as the pass is still free,” Vesemir agreed.
Vesemir watched the bard compose in front of the fire. It was nice to have some company that wasn’t his own Wolves. It had been decades since the keep had heard music. He poured himself and Jaskier a tankard of ale and joined him in the hall. It was time for the witchers to adapt to the changes in the world. And if that meant abandoning old traditions, well. It wouldn’t hurt to have a friend who knew how to charm humans into being more generous.