Fanfics from Ao3 - Private

take my heart and make it strong - deadpooled

Jaskier actually understands maybe a quarter of whatever the hell just happened, and that's being generous as is. Call it shock considering, as used to near death as he is from all those years chasing after a Witcher, having the Reaper herself flaunt in front of his face on several occasions in just a few minutes is a bit more draining.

And there is the unspoken topic of what to do with him now that he doesn't have a use.

Right, yes, he got his apology, he got the peace in the metaphorical waters of their friendship, but that means nothing when compared to the track record. Jaskier knows Geralt, better yet than he thinks Geralt may know himself. Right now, with the priority being Ciri and with the only true talents Jaskier can pass on to her being of the less than combative kind, he is dead weight. Deader than normal. Or not dead. As is the issue.

So he helps put the entry room to rights with the other Witchers. He's had his good handful of winter stays at Kaer Mohren, so he's not exactly a stranger, but despite the years he's still not sure if the snarky tone Lambert adopts with him is just playful banter or true distaste. He'd rather not, truly.

There's not much they can do apart from general clean up. Yennefer uses her regained magic to take the bodies to one of the newly free bedrooms so they can be prepared for burials later. She then joins Geralt and Ciri, speaking in low tones outside on the bridge, far away but visible through the wreckage. Jaskier looks away and pretends not to feel the stab to an old, always leaking wound because that isn't his place.

Vesemir lays out all the fallen medallions on one of the few intact dining tables. He runs careful fingers over them, mouth moving wordlessly.

"Would you like help untangling them?" Jaskier asks.

Vesemir spares him, or more accurately his hands, a glance. He gives a nod, moving the medallions with melodious clanks to the middle ground, "You've got to have some talent in this, bard."

And untangling Geralt's hair every other day for a cumulative decade or so of his life. There's also that.

"Yes. These fingers are just chock full of untangling talent," he responds as he sits. Despite the light tone Jaskier tries to keep as Vesemir outlines how they'll have to repair everything, most of his focus is on the medallions. He understands what they mean. Their importance. It helps ground him and just be selfishly grateful one of them is not Geralt's.

Except.

Jaskier touches one as he frees it from a knot of another five. "Eskel?"

"Aye," Vesemir says, holds out a hand for it.

The last time Jaskier had seen him had to have been less than five years ago. It feels too soon anyway. "When?"

"I wouldn't even hazard in calling it a month." Vesemir looks it over, traces the carving before carefully lining it up with the others they've untangled at the edge of the table. "A leshy infected him and I was too late to spot the signs. Geralt had to do it."

Jaskier stalls for a moment. The Witchers were brothers, all, but Eskel and Geralt had been the closest. Even for Jaskier, Eskel had been a friend, inquiring about music and mentioning how someday he'd like to learn the lute. Jaskier had promised he'd help him with the basics the next time he wintered. The grief hits him.

"I didn't know."

Vesemir exhales on a rueful laugh. "How could you? Don't linger on it, Jaskier. Staying stagnant is more often than not our downfall."

"I'll drink to that," Jaskier says with a tip of his head.

He does, later. They eat all together, and though Jaskier had been planning on sitting amidst the remaining Witchers to commemorate the feeling before packing, he somehow finds himself putting his bowl and tankard down where Yennefer is isolated at the end of the table.