Hoppipola
Title: Hoppipola
Author: gwyllion
Genre: Canon era
Pairing: Geralt z Rivii|Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier|Dandelion
Rating: PG
Words: 6,708
Warning: None
Summary: Jaskier and Geralt have been lovers for many years. Jaskier is thrilled when Geralt invites him to spend summer with him and Ciri at Kaer Morhen. As Jaskier prepares to sing and entertain the solstice crowd of our favourite residents from the Continent, he laments that Geralt has had no time for him since arriving at the stronghold. Little does Jaskier know that Geralt has a surprise for him. Jaskier learns that there will be a handfasting ceremony that evening. Ever the romantic, Jaskier is overwhelmed with emotion. Handfasting, found family, misunderstandings, fluff.
A/N: Hoppipola was written for the Geraskier Midsummer Mini Bang. The title comes from Sigur Ros’ wedding favourite Hoppipola. Thanks so much to my amazing artist nanero11. We got on like a house on fire and I love the art he created for the story. Thanks to my wonderful beta Gillian who always makes my writing better. Thanks to the Geraskier Midsummer Mini Bang mod, who did a great job on our first summer together. And, of course, thanks to The Witcher’s showrunner, author, and actors, who inspire all of us to make more art. I want to dedicate this story to my father. He has been gone for a few years, but funnily enough, he was a fan of fic in this genre. He would have loved The Witcher.
Disclaimer: I did not create these characters. No disrespect intended. No profit desired, only muses.
Comments: Comments are welcome anytime, thanks so much for reading!
“The call of the White Wolf is loudest at the dawn.
The call of his brothers tells him he’s not alone.
Up in Kaer Morhen, he finds lots of love… eh…
Like puppies in a pile… uhhh….”
Jaskier sang with a question in his voice. He paused his fingers on the lute strings and squinted into the bright sun. It was nearly midday and the morning fog had burned off, giving him a view of the hidden countryside. Beyond the brook and grassy meadows that gave way to trees, only the highest tower of Kaer Morhen’s stronghold was visible on the leafy horizon. The mountain loomed beyond, dwarfing the crumbling ruin.
“They like to push and shove!” Ciri said, jamming a flower crown onto Jaskier’s head.
“Pfft,” Jaskier spat to remove the tendrils of greenery that wandered into his mouth. “Oh, Ciri, that’s absolutely terrible. The part about the puppies was bad enough, but you’ve taken it over the top.”
Jaskier had roamed as far from Geralt and the safety of Kaer Morhen’s stronghold as he dared. Under a midsummer sky, the valley of Kaer Morhen begged for his exploration and he hadn’t travelled for very long before he came to a downed tree by a babbling brook. It was the perfect place to sit while he composed a new ballad for Geralt and the other witchers. He had only begun to work on the lyrics. He certainly hadn’t expected Ciri to emerge from the meadow with an armful of wildflowers.
“Then it’s a good thing I don’t plan to become a poetess,” Ciri declared as she danced around Jaskier. She happily scattered flowers upon the brookbank where he worked. “I intend to let you compose ballads about me, while I handle the monster hunting.”
Jaskier set his lute on his lap and stretched out his legs. He sank further into the tattered old fur he had draped over the downed tree where he sat. He doubted this musical composition would be ready for the evening’s festivities. He had only been working on the tune since he awoke in an empty bed with a bit of melody circling in his head. The lyrics still needed more time, as did most worthwhile art. He’d pass on using Ciri’s suggestion. Besides, only Lambert genuinely liked to push and shove.
Ciri, dressed in knee-length breeches, short boots, and a billowing white blouse, drew her sword from its leather sheath. She pranced around, practicing her skills on an imaginary opponent.
“I still think a young lady shouldn’t get her sword bloody with the stench of monster guts,” Jaskier said. “It’s undignified for a princess.”
“Perhaps I should leave the fighting to the men,” Ciri quipped.
“A sensible idea.”
“Men such as you?” Ciri asked with a grin.
“Yes, like me,” Jaskier said, squaring his shoulders, “it would be my honour to defend you, my lady.”
Ciri stabbed a finger at Jaskier’s forehead and leaned in. “Don’t kid yourself, Jaskier,” she whispered in his ear before pirouetting away with her sword at the ready. “You couldn’t defeat a hairy young faun.”
Jaskier laughed. He had to agree with Ciri. Despite his many years of accompanying Geralt as he rid the world of dangerous monsters, Jaskier hadn’t picked up too many fighting skills. If danger befell them here on the peaceful brookbank, it would be Ciri on whom Jaskier depended for their safety. But only if his powers of loquacious persuasion failed them first.
“As much as I hate to say it, you’re probably right,” Jaskier said.
“Of course I am,” Ciri said, plunging her sword into her unseen opponent. The imaginary monster now apparently quivered in its death throes at Jaskier’s feet. “Besides, you needn’t ever fear physical harm as long as my father is alive.”
Jaskier smiled. At first, he thought he would never get used to the idea of Ciri calling Geralt her “father.” But he saw firsthand how much Geralt cared for the princess, his child of surprise, won by an accident of destiny. He had taken to parenthood like a djinn to a bottle. The title of “father” fit Geralt perfectly.
Jaskier’s chest swelled with pride whenever Ciri sometimes slipped, usually after too much ale or a fit of rapid chattering, and called him by the title. Not Jaskier, nor the Viscount of Lettenhove, not Julian Alfred Pankratz, nor Professor Pankratz, or even simply Julian-sometimes, Ciri faltered and called Jaskier… “father.” He never pointed it out, for fear of embarrassing the princess. Nor would he ever require Ciri to call him by the title. But it warmed his heart whenever she sometimes did, even if it was by accident.
Jaskier was probably a father several times over but, oh-oh-oh, he wasn’t going to go down that rabbit hole of speculation. Not when he and Geralt had been together from the time Geralt found Ciri and reunited with the bard. After Jaskier allowed Geralt to grovel and plead for forgiveness because of his harsh words on the mountain, neither had sought the bed of another from that day forward. Parenting Ciri was something that simply came with the territory for Jaskier.
“Is that what you’re wearing tonight?” Ciri asked.
Jaskier looked down at his shirt, worn thin in places and missing a button.
“Certainly not,” Jaskier exclaimed. “What kind of ruffian do you take me for? Besides, I think your father wants me to look presentable when I perform in front of his witchery friends tonight.”
“I’m sure you’ll make an effort to look handsome. He mentioned something about wanting to show you off,” Ciri said with a wink.
“I doubt the likes of Lambert or Vesemir will be impressed by arm candy, but if your father insists…” Jaskier said with a shrug, flashing Ciri a charming smile.
“I bet it means he has something special planned.”
While that was a lovely sentiment, Jaskier doubted it would come to pass. Ever since they arrived in Kaer Morhen, a fortnight earlier, Geralt seemed to have little time for Jaskier.
Of course Jaskier understood that Geralt wanted to get Ciri settled with a training regimen. It would take time and discipline if Ciri was to harness her untapped powers so they would serve her well. And Geralt had been reunited with his fellow witchers, some of whom he hadn’t seen in months.
Vesemir cut an imposing figure in the great hall. Jaskier would be lying if he said he wasn’t a bit intimidated by Geralt’s mentor. The bard had spent more nights than he could count sitting by a fire, listening to Geralt as he described his training. The Trial of the Grasses, the mutagens that left him trembling with black eyes and ghostly pale skin, the potions that turned his hair white and rendered him infertile. From the time he was a young boy, abandoned by the only mother he knew, Geralt was subjected to the rigorous, and often dangerous, training to be a witcher. Jaskier could not blame Geralt for wanting to reconnect with Vesemir, from whom he had learned so much and with whom he had spent his formative years.
Jaskier knew Geralt would devote more time to him when he finished catching up with his old friends. After all, Jaskier remained loyal to Geralt through their many travels together. There was no reason to suspect that Geralt was intentionally neglecting Jaskier in favour of spending more time with his witcher friends. He’d soon be back in Jaskier’s arms, and Jaskier would be as firmly engraved upon his heart as ever. Jaskier shook off his silly thoughts. Sometimes he was too sensitive for his own good.
Jaskier stood and slung his lute over his shoulder. “I guess we’ll find out soon enough,” he said, following Ciri back to the stronghold.
~
Jaskier fastened one button of his doublet when a knock came on his door. He briefly hoped it was Geralt, returning from the bastion that was used as a training ground for the witchers in residence. But Jaskier’s smile vanished when he came to his senses and understood that it was definitely not Geralt. There would be no need for Geralt to knock.
They had been sharing this spacious room since arriving at Kaer Morhen. The room was simply furnished with storage for spare clothing, a mirror and a wash basin, a small bench, and a comfortable bed that was large enough to accommodate one muscular witcher and his similarly sized human companion. The tall windows opened to a paved courtyard. Beyond the bridge over the bone-filled moat, it was possible to see an overgrown trail that led across a field of poppies and wove through a grove of alder trees before it climbed into the foothills.
While Jaskier happily accompanied Geralt as he delivered Ciri to the former School of the Wolf, he had only seen his white-haired lover briefly since their arrival. In the past week, Geralt had rushed off before breakfast and returned only after the candles had burned out. He was preoccupied with his return to Kaer Morhen and barely conversant with Jaskier. Nothing new there, Jaskier thought, sullenly shaking his head.
“Come in,” Jaskier said to the knock.
“Are you ready?” Ciri asked brightly as she stepped inside.
“Not nearly,” Jaskier said. He had chosen a sea-green doublet with matching trousers. He knew Geralt liked the way the colour brought out the flecks of green in his otherwise very blue eyes. Since Kaer Morhen meant “Keep of the Elder Sea,” he hoped the colour also paid tribute to his hosts. He managed to fasten another button of his doublet before he looked up. His jaw dropped.
Ciri was stunning. Her sleek blonde hair had been pulled back from her face and woven into intricate braids. Wildflowers-like the ones she had made into the flower crown that now hung from a knob on Jaskier’s dressing table-were scattered through her hair. The pale yellow bodice of her gown complemented the rosy hue of her cheeks. The full skirt was made of an airy gossamer and shot through with flowers of varying shades of pink. A long diaphanous cape spun with threads of gold cascaded from her shoulders to the floor. Jaskier wondered where she had found such an extravagant ensemble, but then, Ciri had recently gained more control over her powers since their arrival at Kaer Morhen. She must have magicked it into existence.
“Besides, it’s still afternoon,” Jaskier said, composing himself. “I didn’t think the festivities would begin until sunset. At least that’s what Geralt had me believe.”
“I’m afraid you’re mistaken. It will be sunset by the time we get where we’re going if we don’t hurry,” Ciri said. She stood close and reached for the top button of Jaskier’s doublet. “Father sent me to fetch you.”
“Wait,” Jaskier said sulkily, gently leading Ciri’s hands away. “I haven’t seen Geralt since last night. How is it that you’ve seen him, when I haven’t? It’s almost as if he’s avoiding me.”
Jaskier undid the buttons of his doublet so it hung loosely over his shoulders. With his hands on his hips, he stood in front of the full-length mirror and pouted.
“Come on, Jaskier,” Ciri urged. Then with a laugh, she said, “Of course he’s not avoiding you.”
“He is! I think he brought me here and then forgot about me. He’s having too much fun with Eskel and Lambert. Come to think of it, where is everyone today? I haven’t seen anyone roaming about since we returned from the meadows,” Jaskier said, sitting on the bench and crossing his arms over his chest.
“They’re probably getting ready for tonight,” Ciri said.
That may be true, but Jaskier couldn’t hear any noise coming from the great hall or any of the other chambers that lined the corridor outside of his and Geralt’s room. The stronghold of Kaer Morhen was utterly silent. These witchers were a strange lot.
Jaskier didn’t share his thoughts with Ciri. Instead, he let her pull him to his feet. He slung his lute over his shoulder and pretended not to notice when Ciri grabbed the flower crown before ushering him out the door.
~
Jaskier followed Ciri through the courtyard and onto the winding trail. A sea of poppies in bloom stretched on either side of the treadway, filling the summer air with fragrance. Left to their own whims, wildflowers grew in tangled masses among the poppies. Lupine shot up in shades of pink, purple, and the darkest blue.
Further up the trail, the wildflowers gave way to alder, birch, and aspen, whose branches reached for the sun. The full canopy of leaves shimmered in the golden light of late afternoon.
Their way steepened as they ascended into the mountain’s terrain. Jaskier was already out of breath, while Ciri strode along confidently. They soon reached the gauntlet. This was the steepest part of their climb. Geralt once described it to Jaskier as a difficult training obstacle for young witchers. But it was no challenge for Ciri’s strong legs.
Beads of sweat crept down Jaskier’s back beneath his fresh shirt. He was glad he wasn’t required to run up the steep section. Geralt had told him this was what the young witchers did in training. He imagined Geralt as a young lad with coltish legs. He’d race to the top with the other witchers, his future in monster-hunting and survival of the Trial of the Grasses still unknown. Jaskier’s admiration of Geralt grew with every new story he learned about him. He did his best to compose songs that reflected his respect for him and his fellow witchers.
Jaskier paused to unbutton his doublet. He considered how strange it was that he had not seen Coën this morning. Nor had Coën followed Ciri and him up the mountain. The youngest of the witchers, Coën had taken a liking to Ciri. They had been nearly inseparable since she came to Kaer Morhen to train. But today, Coën had disappeared entirely.
Jaskier hummed along to himself as he followed behind Ciri.
Will the witcher’s girl tire of her swords and her knives?
Or will she grow up to save all our lives?
Will Coën woo her away from her destined path?
Or might he feel Geralt’s angry wrath….”
Ciri stopped on an outcropping of rock, the size of a hearthstone. She turned and waited for Jaskier to catch up.
“If you’d like, I’ll carry your lute for you,” Ciri offered.
“That’s very kind of you,” Jaskier said, panting, “but entirely unnecessary. I’ve carried this very lute for years, as I accompanied your father from town to town.”
“It was a gift from the elves,” Ciri said with a smile. “I already know all your stories.”
Jaskier caught up to Ciri. He had removed his doublet entirely and slung it over the same shoulder that carried his lute.
“Everyone thinks they know that story because of the song,” Jaskier said.
“But I know the true story,” Ciri insisted, stepping off the rock.
Thankfully, she had slowed her pace so Jaskier could keep up.
“About how Geralt didn’t actually fight the elves?” Jaskier asked.
“No, silly,” Ciri called over her shoulder. “About how you and my father fell in love!”
Jaskier gulped. It was no secret, to Ciri at least, that the incident at the edge of the world was where he and Geralt began to first appreciate each other’s company. Many years and many adventures later, they were still together. Although Jaskier had once enjoyed his share of ladies, and a fair number of gentlemen, who were enamoured of his talents outside and inside the bedroom, none of them had stayed. Only Geralt remained steadfastly in his heart.
For Geralt, there had only been Yennefer to compete with Jaskier for the witcher’s affections.
Jaskier often thought that he might lose that competition to Yennefer. Yennefer was gorgeous, powerful, and capable. She didn’t need Geralt. But she could take his heart if she set her mind toward doing so.
Jaskier admired Yennefer. They were almost friendly in their interactions of late. Still, on the rare occasions when Jaskier doubted his own appeal to the witcher, when he was reminded of the Countess de Stael and the others who had deemed him disposable and left him lonely and wanting, it was only Yennefer who worried him. Someday, she might use her considerable magical skills to lure Geralt away forever.
Jaskier tried not to think about it.
“You’re too clever,” Jaskier said, and then he prodded Ciri along, “Get moving cub, we don’t want to keep your father waiting.”
Ciri giggled and ran down the trail. The grade had levelled off, but the route grew impossibly narrow as they reached the top of the ridge.
Jaskier strode along, the mountainside falling away steeply on either side of his footsteps. He had less trouble keeping up with Ciri on the flat part of the trail, although he found the margin for an error in foot placement daunting. He watched Ciri’s golden-haired head bobbing above the foliage as she ran along enthusiastically, despite her extravagant dress.
In the distance, Jaskier heard the running water of the glacial stream that carved its way between the jagged ramparts of stone. The forest was dark, considering today was the longest day of the year. Sunlight slid over the mountaintop at sharp angles, illuminating the trail with precious few smatterings of warmth. Cold, dark, imposing, such was the scenery of Kaer Morhen.
The witchers would be leaving Kaer Morhen in the coming weeks. They would accept contracts to kill monsters that threatened citizens of every realm on the Continent. Only Geralt would remain behind at the stronghold for the summer. He planned for Ciri to continue her education and training in these halls that were all but hidden from the world of monsters and men. It would be a sort of Sabbatical for a witcher, Jaskier mused.
Jaskier hadn’t thought twice about refusing a post as a guest lecturer at Oxenfurt. He happily accepted Geralt’s invitation to spend the summer at Kaer Morhen instead. He would follow Geralt anywhere, and he’d follow Ciri too, no matter the reason or whether she requested his company.
Beyond the ridge, the trail opened onto a treeless saddle on the shoulder of the mountain. Jaskier stepped out of the forest and into the empty space. The area was larger than a lecture hall and could accommodate a hundred men or more. On each side of the expanse, a cliffside plunged to the blue-green valley of Kaer Morhen below.
Jaskier had been here once before. A fortnight earlier, when he arrived in Kaer Morhen with his head in a fog from the elixir-induced deceptions that magically hid the way to the stronghold from mere mortals, Geralt had brought him here. They had slowly climbed the gauntlet, Geralt claiming that the fresh air would help clear Jaskier’s head of the elixirs. They had walked across the ridge and emerged onto the flat saddle.
The unobstructed view to the valley below had taken Jaskier’s breath away then, as it did now. Perched above the forest and fields, Jaskier thought he could see all the way to the coast. A sliver of sea on the far horizon drew his gaze as it shimmered in the sunset.
“Nice view, hmmm?” Geralt had asked.
Jaskier had taken Geralt’s hand and admired the grounds of the stronghold and the peaceful world below. This was where Geralt spent his childhood. This was where the young orphaned boy grew into the witcher, the warrior, the man that he had become.
Jaskier wondered how he would ever put such heady thoughts into words. What melody could evoke the emotions this place inspired in him? He set the task aside and instead brought Geralt’s hand to his lips and whispered, “It’s the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.”
It had been just the two of them that day, but now as Jaskier followed Ciri into the clearing, the visitors to this special place were the witchers, the humans, and the mages who Jaskier already knew. They had gathered here, clearly invited to this gathering, long before Jaskier arrived.
Vesemir, dressed in a silken shirt with dark brocade breeches, greeted Ciri’s arrival. His finely embroidered cloak looked soft to the touch.
Eskel stood with Coën, looking downright regal with the silver of their armour polished so it gleamed. Even Lambert, a scowl on his face, had still been compelled to hike up to these grounds where the group gathered.
And the mages-Triss Merigold, who sometimes tutored Ciri in the ways of magic, wore a gown the shade of a ripe plum. Soft feathers wafted from its neckline with Triss’ every movement. Nenneke, who detested Jaskier, but held Geralt in her heart as if he were her own son, chatted amiably with none other than Yennefer of Vengerberg.
Yennefer nodded at Jaskier. She looked radiant in her black gown fitted with silver trim, resembling armour, that cupped her breasts. Her violet eyes scanned him from head to toe, betraying nothing.
The gathering place had been strewn with garlands of wildflowers. Purple irises, orange lilies, and Jaskier’s personal favourite-buttercups, were woven together with greenery and mounted on branches of scaffolding. The cool air was alive with the scent of flowers. Jaskier pulled his doublet on, noticing that Ciri still held the flower crown she had made for him.
Jaskier quickly came to the realization that this was where everyone had been today. He had lazed the day away, enjoying the sun and playing his lute, while everyone else was preparing for this mid-summer celebration. He had thought he was a bit overdressed for a simple bonfire, but at least he anticipated the need to dress nicely from Geralt’s cryptic request. Although he was under the impression that the gathering would primarily involve a bit of feasting and a few songs for Geralt’s friends, it seemed this was not the case. This was something far more elaborate.
Amid the floral arrangements, torches had been lodged into the earth at regular intervals. The brightness from their flames rivalled that of the setting sun which now descended over the valley of Kaer Morhen. The torches were arranged in a semi-circle, and at its apex stood Geralt.
Geralt had somehow found time to bathe. His hair had been freed of tangles. It was not held back with his typical leather thong, but it stayed out of his face because of the position of the flower crown that circled his head. The colours of the bright blossoms contrasted starkly with the muted grey silk of his shirt. His witcher medallion sparkled in the torchlight that illuminated the woodland meeting place.
Jaskier bit his lip as he approached the gathering.
“Jaskier,” Geralt said softly, his expression inscrutable.
Behind Geralt, an ornately carved table perched on a dais held a clue about what was in store for these guests to Kaer Morhen’s mountainside. Candles flickered, shedding light on the words that were etched onto a sheet of parchment. A long scarlet sash, as wide as Jaskier’s fist, curled onto itself, waiting to be taken up as part of the ceremony.
Jaskier had performed at enough of these occasions to know that there would be a handfasting here tonight.
Jaskier turned away from the dais. He had never been bound to another, but not for a lack of trying. No matter how many times he gave his heart, he had never had his love reciprocated with the same vigour. Lovers came and went, taking a piece of Jaskier’s heart with them each time they left him. Despite his bruised heart, Jaskier still admired the romance of a handfasting. His eyes went wide when he considered a pairing for the evening’s festivities. Ciri was too young to be bound to Coën. Neither Lambert or Eskel had lovers. Vesemir was too old, nor would he agree to be bound to another in such a human ritual. Triss and Nenneke seemed improbable mates. That only left one possibility.
Geralt was binding himself to Yennefer.
“Geralt?” Jaskier’s voice caught in his throat. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. He could barely breathe.
Geralt stepped toward him.
Jaskier could hear nothing. The pounding of his own blood in his ears drowned out any conversation that may have been taking place among the mages and witchers. It was as if time itself had stopped. The lute on his back weighed as much as a kikimora, dragging him down into the depths of sorrow.
“I should have told you,” Geralt said.
Jaskier gasped. So, it was true. Geralt had been spending all his time with Yennefer. How could Jaskier have been so blind? All his hopes for the future, the joy that Geralt brought to his life, his affection for Ciri, it all crashed down. Like the ruin of Kaer Morhen, his dreams had been sacked. His throat went dry. For all his talent at composing poetry and singing sweetly, he could not find a word to utter or a sound to make.
Geralt leaned closer and whispered in Jaskier’s ear, “Admit it, I’ve finally managed to render you speechless.”
Jaskier’s stomach lurched. He lowered his eyes, holding back his tears. His knees shook and buckled. It took all his strength to remain standing.
“Now that we are all here,” Vesemir said, spreading his arms wide as if to gather the attendees into the semi-circle of torches, “let’s begin.”
“Jaskier?” Geralt asked softly. His lips were close enough to touch Jaskier’s cheek. “What’s wrong?”
Jaskier wiped a tear from his eye. He inhaled deeply, hoping to stop more tears from falling, but it was futile. He couldn’t look at Geralt. For the first time in his life, he couldn’t bear to gaze into Geralt’s shining gold eyes, the eyes that were meant for another.
“We are gathered here on this eve to celebrate the love between two of our friends,” Vesemir spoke with authority. “Since we are such a small group, I’d like to invite each of you to speak a few words about how you came to know of their love for each other, so we may bask in its glow.”
Ciri tugged at Jaskier’s sleeve. He sniffled loudly before turning to face her. He stupidly hoped she wouldn’t notice the tears.
“Yes?” Jaskier asked, not managing more than one word.
“You’ll need this,” Ciri said as she reached up to place the flower crown on his head.
A sob escaped Jaskier’s throat. Ciri’s hands slid to his shoulders. He let Ciri take his lute from him, relieving his back, but not his heart, from its burden. He was certain that he would never see the child again after this night. He turned from her so she wouldn’t see him cry. In doing so, he faced Geralt again.
“I can sense it, Jaskier,” Geralt whispered, nostrils flaring. He nosed his way across Jaskier’s temple and into the space behind his ear. “Why do you smell so much like sorrow?”
Geralt was so close, Jaskier felt his breath fall softly on his face. Jaskier’s biggest fear had been realized. Geralt had become his garrotter. He berated himself for not seeing this coming. Worse still, he had no retreat, powerless to keep his emotions from Geralt’s witcher senses.
“Yennefer,” Vesemir called, “why don’t you begin?”
At the mention of Yennefer’s name, Jaskier wanted to disappear. He stepped away from Geralt, intent on finding a way out of the celebration. He’d trudge back to Kaer Morhen, pack his things, and never return. It was the only way to escape the sorrow that stabbed like a rusty dagger at his heart.
“Jaskier,” Yennefer said, abruptly grabbing his hand.
Jaskier recoiled. The mage had already won Geralt’s heart. Now she was going to force Jaskier to endure some other indignity in front of Ciri and all the witcher’s friends. Her cruelty knew no bounds.
“When I first met these two,” Yennefer began, tugging Jaskier back to Geralt’s side. “Jaskier was in a dreadful state. He was bleeding. He was terrified. He was near death. I cured him, of course. But Geralt, a witcher with no reason to behave with compassion to this wretched beast, risked his life to help me because of the lifesaving actions I took to save Jaskier on that day.”
Jaskier cringed. It seemed highly inappropriate for Yennefer to be speaking about him during the handfasting. Wasn’t it enough that she had wooed Geralt away from him? His hand was sweaty with strife in Yennefer’s sure grasp. He couldn’t bear to listen to another word from the mage’s lips.
“Although Geralt claimed Jaskier was simply his friend, I could see the love they had for each other,” Yennefer continued, a rare smile on her lips. “If you must know, I’ve had both of them in my bed, and even that could not keep them apart. I always knew that they belonged together. I’m so pleased that I have been invited here to witness their happy event.”
“Wait, what?” Jaskier sniffed.
Yennefer put Jaskier’s hand into Geralt’s and clasped them together before stepping away.
Teary eyes added to Jaskier’s confusion. He felt the warmth of Geralt’s hand in his, for what he was sure would be the last time.
Geralt pulled Jaskier closer and spoke through gritted teeth, “What did you think this was about?”
“Me next! Jaskier is like my second father,” Ciri said, stepping forward and throwing her arms around Jaskier. “He’s always watching out for me. I sometimes even call him “father,” by accident. But it’s really no accident at all. And now I’m going to be able to call him it all the time.”
Jaskier clapped his hand over his mouth in astonishment. It seemed, hope against hope, that he may have been mistaken about the handfasting.
“I need Jask for a moment, please,” Geralt begged of Ciri.
“Of course,” Ciri said, releasing Jaskier.
Jaskier went boneless with Ciri’s arms no longer supporting him.
“We’ll be right back.” Geralt said nodding to his friends.
In a daze, Jaskier let Geralt guide him away from the clearing.
“Looks like he wants to start the honeymoon early,” Lambert said, nudging Eskel with his elbow as Jaskier and Geralt slipped out of view.
Jaskier followed Geralt. They stepped across the soft pine needles and stopped behind the largest tree that bordered the gathering site.
Geralt dropped to his knees and took Jaskier’s hands in his own. “I didn’t mean to make you sad,” he said.
“No,” Jaskier breathed, his head falling back to crash into the tree. “You didn’t, I’m not sure.”
“If you’re not sure whether you want to handfast with me, I’m afraid this was a terrible idea,” Geralt said, looking up at Jaskier through unblinking eyes.
“It’s not that,” Jaskier said, his heartbeat finally slowing to normal. “Melitele’s tits, Geralt! Up until I moment ago, I thought you were handfasting with Yennefer.”
“What?” Geralt asked as he rose to his full height.
Jaskier, still of the mindset that Geralt’s heart belonged to another, didn’t mean to touch Geralt. Still, his arms involuntarily wrapped around the witcher and he rested his head on his chest. He heaved in great breaths of relief when Geralt returned the embrace.
“You absolute idiot,” Geralt said, pressing kisses into Jaskier’s hair.
When Jaskier regained some composure, he finally allowed himself to tip his head back so he could see Geralt’s face again.
“You really thought I was handfasting with Yennefer?” Geralt asked with a grin.
“Yes,” Jaskier squeaked. Only now did he see how ridiculously wrong he was. He should have known Geralt would never hurt him, leaving him weak and wanting, another love lost forever to him.
“I can’t imagine how angry that made you,” Geralt sighed. “I was trying to surprise you.”
“Not angry,” Jaskier replied, lowering his eyes. “Unbearably sad.”
Geralt slid his fingers into Jaskier’s hair and stroked his tear-stained cheek with a calloused thumb.
“I’ve been so busy with the preparations. You always have your nose in everything, so it was difficult to keep it a secret from you,” Geralt said, squeezing his eyes closed and shaking his head. “I wanted it to be a surprise.”
Jaskier’s hands went to Geralt’s chest, the fine fabric of his shirt sliding beneath his fingertips. He should have known Geralt was planning something special when it seemed he had been avoiding him.
“It was a surprise all right, you massive oaf,” Jaskier said, brightening. “I thought you were angry with me. Or you got sick of me following you around. Or you had simply tired of me.”
Geralt drew back and tilted his head. His frowning eyes roved over Jaskier’s face. “I would never tire of you,” he said with absolute sincerity.
Jaskier blinked back tears, but this time there was no sorrow. As soon as Jaskier stepped forward, he felt Geralt’s mouth hot on his, Geralt’s arms pulling him close. With his eyes half-closed with desire, Jaskier threaded his fingers through Geralt’s hair, tilting his flower crown askew. The last of his worries slid from his shoulders and fell wispily to his feet.
“Does this mean there’s going to be a handfasting between us tonight?” Jaskier asked, pulling back and finally allowing himself to smile.
“If you’ll still have me,” Geralt said, “massive oaf that I am.”
Jaskier looked at Geralt with love in his eyes, a love that he saw returned in the shining gold.
~
“The life of a witcher has always been a lonely one,” Vesemir proclaimed from the dais. “Witchers were meant to be alone, as they always have been. This is what makes this midsummer evening so special.”
Jaskier could not keep the grin off his face as he listened to Vesemir’s words.
Geralt, wearing a decidedly more serious expression, clasped Jaskier’s hands in his own before the assembly of their friends.
“The life of a witcher is dangerous, harsh, and unsuitable for human companions,” Vesemir began solemnly. “But Jaskier is no ordinary human. He has been Geralt’s companion for a number of years and both have thrived in each other’s company. Jaskier has accompanied Geralt as he fulfilled contracts. He has been known to help by serving as a guard for Geralt, providing critical information that only a human could glean, and helping to dispatch monsters himself when called upon. And I needn’t mention the honour Jaskier has brought to our guild through his poetry and songs.”
A smattering of applause echoed across the clearing.
Jaskier captured Geralt’s eyes as he listened. He was determined to remind Geralt of the praise Vesemir heaped upon him at every opportunity from this day forward. He knew it would drive Geralt crazy.
“It was not destiny that brought Geralt and Jaskier together, but a journey of cooperation, hard work, and love. Geralt’s wish to be bound to Jaskier will be honoured this night,” Vesemir said. He then eyed Jaskier and added, “As long as Jaskier agrees. Are you onboard with this now, son?”
Jaskier nodded eagerly. He was a little embarrassed that Geralt had to pull him away for a word because of his misunderstanding. It would surely be something they laughed about in the years ahead. By the torchlight, Jaskier found Ciri’s eyes beaming at him. He knew it was because Vesemir had called him “son.” It warmed Jaskier to his core.
Vesemir held the scarlet sash aloft between his hands. “Geralt?”
Jaskier watched as Vesemir’s eyes scanned over his former student.
Geralt hummed in agreement.
“Jaskier?”
Jaskier nodded reverently to the old witcher. He could barely breathe as Vesemir wound the sash over and under Geralt’s hands, and then did the same to Jaskier’s hands, gently binding them to each other. A soft breeze rose from the dark valley to sweep over the torchlit gathering place, enhancing the scent of the flowers that wreathed Jaskier’s head.
“With my blessing, I bind you to each other,” Vesemir said.
Geralt ducked his head and pushed the tendrils from Jaskier’s flower crown out of the way with his nose.
Jaskier’s breath hitched in his throat. He tilted his head so their lips could meet in a kiss.
Nenneke cried.
When Jaskier and Geralt greeted their friends, an air of joy filled the clearing on the side of the mountain. It was a midsummer eve that neither of them would ever forget.
To Jaskier’s delight, Triss dragged him to the edge of the clearing where she opened a portal. With flashes of light against the dark sky, a whirl of colour circled an opening in the air. Beyond the entry to the portal lay a feast that had taken the mage days to prepare. Platters were piled high with savoury meats, pies with the most sumptuous fillings, and decadent sweets.
The clang of tankards, filled with the richest ale, toasted Geralt and Jaskier long into the night.
With a full belly and an even fuller heart, Jaskier wandered to the dais with the table that held their handfasting contract, binding Geralt to him, and him to Geralt. He admired the intricate scrollwork on the parchment. Their signatures beside each other in ink, with a dash of magic, to seal their bond.
He didn’t see Yennefer approach as he traced the letters with a finger.
“It’s pretty, isn’t it?” Yennefer asked.
“Yennefer,” Jaskier said with a start. He breathed, trying to quell his fear of the mage. “It is.”
An awkward silence lasted a beat.
“I know you’ll take good care of him,” Yennefer said, clasping Jaskier’s arm with a gentle hand.
“Of course,” Jaskier said, covering her hand with his own. “Thank you. I want to thank you for being here. And for the kind words you said.”
Yennefer looked away for a moment. “I could have left out the part about having you in my bed,” she finally said with a laugh.
Jaskier grinned. “You could have, but what’s done is done. Besides, you saved my life that night.”
Yennefer nodded knowingly. “Any time,” she said. “For Geralt, or for you, Jaskier.”
“I’ll remember that,” Jaskier said, his voice containing a newfound fondness for Yennefer.
Jaskier turned his attention back to the parchment. He stifled a quick yawn with his fist. He could not imagine at what hour they would make their descent to the stronghold of Kaer Morhen below, when he would have Geralt all to himself in the comfort of their room.
It seemed that Geralt was impatient too. Jaskier felt Geralt cast the scarlet sash over his head, pulling it tight, trapping Jaskier around his middle.
“Not too tired, I hope?” Geralt asked.
“Never too tired for you, my love,” Jaskier said with a bright smile.
Jaskier drew Geralt into an embrace. If he lived for a thousand years, he would never be as happy as he was on this night.
The torches flickered as Geralt dipped his head and nibbled on Jaskier’s collarbone. “Play us a song on your lute?” Geralt paused to ask. “I know everyone will enjoy it.”
Jaskier scanned the gathering of his and Geralt’s friends, their faces eager with anticipation.
“Yes, play us a song, bard,” Eskel shouted. “You need to reward us for all our work in making your handfasting a success!”
“I suppose I could,” Jaskier said to Geralt.
“I’ve been telling them for years that you have the most wonderful singing voice,” Geralt said.
Jaskier’s eyes went wide. Brushing off the front of his doublet, he walked toward Ciri, now a true daughter in his eyes. He blinked back a tear as she handed him his lute.
Geralt cleared a place for him on the dais.
Jaskier sat at the edge of the platform and plucked a few strings, checking to make sure the instrument was in tune.
Geralt worked his way onto the dais to sit behind Jaskier, a leg on each side of the bard. He rested his head on Jaskier’s shoulder as he strummed a few chords on his lute.
The music that wafted through the clearing may have come from a single lute, but to Jaskier’s ears, it sounded like an entire orchestra.
The end
Author: gwyllion
Genre: Canon era
Pairing: Geralt z Rivii|Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier|Dandelion
Rating: PG
Words: 6,708
Warning: None
Summary: Jaskier and Geralt have been lovers for many years. Jaskier is thrilled when Geralt invites him to spend summer with him and Ciri at Kaer Morhen. As Jaskier prepares to sing and entertain the solstice crowd of our favourite residents from the Continent, he laments that Geralt has had no time for him since arriving at the stronghold. Little does Jaskier know that Geralt has a surprise for him. Jaskier learns that there will be a handfasting ceremony that evening. Ever the romantic, Jaskier is overwhelmed with emotion. Handfasting, found family, misunderstandings, fluff.
A/N: Hoppipola was written for the Geraskier Midsummer Mini Bang. The title comes from Sigur Ros’ wedding favourite Hoppipola. Thanks so much to my amazing artist nanero11. We got on like a house on fire and I love the art he created for the story. Thanks to my wonderful beta Gillian who always makes my writing better. Thanks to the Geraskier Midsummer Mini Bang mod, who did a great job on our first summer together. And, of course, thanks to The Witcher’s showrunner, author, and actors, who inspire all of us to make more art. I want to dedicate this story to my father. He has been gone for a few years, but funnily enough, he was a fan of fic in this genre. He would have loved The Witcher.
Disclaimer: I did not create these characters. No disrespect intended. No profit desired, only muses.
Comments: Comments are welcome anytime, thanks so much for reading!
“The call of the White Wolf is loudest at the dawn.
The call of his brothers tells him he’s not alone.
Up in Kaer Morhen, he finds lots of love… eh…
Like puppies in a pile… uhhh….”
Jaskier sang with a question in his voice. He paused his fingers on the lute strings and squinted into the bright sun. It was nearly midday and the morning fog had burned off, giving him a view of the hidden countryside. Beyond the brook and grassy meadows that gave way to trees, only the highest tower of Kaer Morhen’s stronghold was visible on the leafy horizon. The mountain loomed beyond, dwarfing the crumbling ruin.
“They like to push and shove!” Ciri said, jamming a flower crown onto Jaskier’s head.
“Pfft,” Jaskier spat to remove the tendrils of greenery that wandered into his mouth. “Oh, Ciri, that’s absolutely terrible. The part about the puppies was bad enough, but you’ve taken it over the top.”
Jaskier had roamed as far from Geralt and the safety of Kaer Morhen’s stronghold as he dared. Under a midsummer sky, the valley of Kaer Morhen begged for his exploration and he hadn’t travelled for very long before he came to a downed tree by a babbling brook. It was the perfect place to sit while he composed a new ballad for Geralt and the other witchers. He had only begun to work on the lyrics. He certainly hadn’t expected Ciri to emerge from the meadow with an armful of wildflowers.
“Then it’s a good thing I don’t plan to become a poetess,” Ciri declared as she danced around Jaskier. She happily scattered flowers upon the brookbank where he worked. “I intend to let you compose ballads about me, while I handle the monster hunting.”
Jaskier set his lute on his lap and stretched out his legs. He sank further into the tattered old fur he had draped over the downed tree where he sat. He doubted this musical composition would be ready for the evening’s festivities. He had only been working on the tune since he awoke in an empty bed with a bit of melody circling in his head. The lyrics still needed more time, as did most worthwhile art. He’d pass on using Ciri’s suggestion. Besides, only Lambert genuinely liked to push and shove.
Ciri, dressed in knee-length breeches, short boots, and a billowing white blouse, drew her sword from its leather sheath. She pranced around, practicing her skills on an imaginary opponent.
“I still think a young lady shouldn’t get her sword bloody with the stench of monster guts,” Jaskier said. “It’s undignified for a princess.”
“Perhaps I should leave the fighting to the men,” Ciri quipped.
“A sensible idea.”
“Men such as you?” Ciri asked with a grin.
“Yes, like me,” Jaskier said, squaring his shoulders, “it would be my honour to defend you, my lady.”
Ciri stabbed a finger at Jaskier’s forehead and leaned in. “Don’t kid yourself, Jaskier,” she whispered in his ear before pirouetting away with her sword at the ready. “You couldn’t defeat a hairy young faun.”
Jaskier laughed. He had to agree with Ciri. Despite his many years of accompanying Geralt as he rid the world of dangerous monsters, Jaskier hadn’t picked up too many fighting skills. If danger befell them here on the peaceful brookbank, it would be Ciri on whom Jaskier depended for their safety. But only if his powers of loquacious persuasion failed them first.
“As much as I hate to say it, you’re probably right,” Jaskier said.
“Of course I am,” Ciri said, plunging her sword into her unseen opponent. The imaginary monster now apparently quivered in its death throes at Jaskier’s feet. “Besides, you needn’t ever fear physical harm as long as my father is alive.”
Jaskier smiled. At first, he thought he would never get used to the idea of Ciri calling Geralt her “father.” But he saw firsthand how much Geralt cared for the princess, his child of surprise, won by an accident of destiny. He had taken to parenthood like a djinn to a bottle. The title of “father” fit Geralt perfectly.
Jaskier’s chest swelled with pride whenever Ciri sometimes slipped, usually after too much ale or a fit of rapid chattering, and called him by the title. Not Jaskier, nor the Viscount of Lettenhove, not Julian Alfred Pankratz, nor Professor Pankratz, or even simply Julian-sometimes, Ciri faltered and called Jaskier… “father.” He never pointed it out, for fear of embarrassing the princess. Nor would he ever require Ciri to call him by the title. But it warmed his heart whenever she sometimes did, even if it was by accident.
Jaskier was probably a father several times over but, oh-oh-oh, he wasn’t going to go down that rabbit hole of speculation. Not when he and Geralt had been together from the time Geralt found Ciri and reunited with the bard. After Jaskier allowed Geralt to grovel and plead for forgiveness because of his harsh words on the mountain, neither had sought the bed of another from that day forward. Parenting Ciri was something that simply came with the territory for Jaskier.
“Is that what you’re wearing tonight?” Ciri asked.
Jaskier looked down at his shirt, worn thin in places and missing a button.
“Certainly not,” Jaskier exclaimed. “What kind of ruffian do you take me for? Besides, I think your father wants me to look presentable when I perform in front of his witchery friends tonight.”
“I’m sure you’ll make an effort to look handsome. He mentioned something about wanting to show you off,” Ciri said with a wink.
“I doubt the likes of Lambert or Vesemir will be impressed by arm candy, but if your father insists…” Jaskier said with a shrug, flashing Ciri a charming smile.
“I bet it means he has something special planned.”
While that was a lovely sentiment, Jaskier doubted it would come to pass. Ever since they arrived in Kaer Morhen, a fortnight earlier, Geralt seemed to have little time for Jaskier.
Of course Jaskier understood that Geralt wanted to get Ciri settled with a training regimen. It would take time and discipline if Ciri was to harness her untapped powers so they would serve her well. And Geralt had been reunited with his fellow witchers, some of whom he hadn’t seen in months.
Vesemir cut an imposing figure in the great hall. Jaskier would be lying if he said he wasn’t a bit intimidated by Geralt’s mentor. The bard had spent more nights than he could count sitting by a fire, listening to Geralt as he described his training. The Trial of the Grasses, the mutagens that left him trembling with black eyes and ghostly pale skin, the potions that turned his hair white and rendered him infertile. From the time he was a young boy, abandoned by the only mother he knew, Geralt was subjected to the rigorous, and often dangerous, training to be a witcher. Jaskier could not blame Geralt for wanting to reconnect with Vesemir, from whom he had learned so much and with whom he had spent his formative years.
Jaskier knew Geralt would devote more time to him when he finished catching up with his old friends. After all, Jaskier remained loyal to Geralt through their many travels together. There was no reason to suspect that Geralt was intentionally neglecting Jaskier in favour of spending more time with his witcher friends. He’d soon be back in Jaskier’s arms, and Jaskier would be as firmly engraved upon his heart as ever. Jaskier shook off his silly thoughts. Sometimes he was too sensitive for his own good.
Jaskier stood and slung his lute over his shoulder. “I guess we’ll find out soon enough,” he said, following Ciri back to the stronghold.
~
Jaskier fastened one button of his doublet when a knock came on his door. He briefly hoped it was Geralt, returning from the bastion that was used as a training ground for the witchers in residence. But Jaskier’s smile vanished when he came to his senses and understood that it was definitely not Geralt. There would be no need for Geralt to knock.
They had been sharing this spacious room since arriving at Kaer Morhen. The room was simply furnished with storage for spare clothing, a mirror and a wash basin, a small bench, and a comfortable bed that was large enough to accommodate one muscular witcher and his similarly sized human companion. The tall windows opened to a paved courtyard. Beyond the bridge over the bone-filled moat, it was possible to see an overgrown trail that led across a field of poppies and wove through a grove of alder trees before it climbed into the foothills.
While Jaskier happily accompanied Geralt as he delivered Ciri to the former School of the Wolf, he had only seen his white-haired lover briefly since their arrival. In the past week, Geralt had rushed off before breakfast and returned only after the candles had burned out. He was preoccupied with his return to Kaer Morhen and barely conversant with Jaskier. Nothing new there, Jaskier thought, sullenly shaking his head.
“Come in,” Jaskier said to the knock.
“Are you ready?” Ciri asked brightly as she stepped inside.
“Not nearly,” Jaskier said. He had chosen a sea-green doublet with matching trousers. He knew Geralt liked the way the colour brought out the flecks of green in his otherwise very blue eyes. Since Kaer Morhen meant “Keep of the Elder Sea,” he hoped the colour also paid tribute to his hosts. He managed to fasten another button of his doublet before he looked up. His jaw dropped.
Ciri was stunning. Her sleek blonde hair had been pulled back from her face and woven into intricate braids. Wildflowers-like the ones she had made into the flower crown that now hung from a knob on Jaskier’s dressing table-were scattered through her hair. The pale yellow bodice of her gown complemented the rosy hue of her cheeks. The full skirt was made of an airy gossamer and shot through with flowers of varying shades of pink. A long diaphanous cape spun with threads of gold cascaded from her shoulders to the floor. Jaskier wondered where she had found such an extravagant ensemble, but then, Ciri had recently gained more control over her powers since their arrival at Kaer Morhen. She must have magicked it into existence.
“Besides, it’s still afternoon,” Jaskier said, composing himself. “I didn’t think the festivities would begin until sunset. At least that’s what Geralt had me believe.”
“I’m afraid you’re mistaken. It will be sunset by the time we get where we’re going if we don’t hurry,” Ciri said. She stood close and reached for the top button of Jaskier’s doublet. “Father sent me to fetch you.”
“Wait,” Jaskier said sulkily, gently leading Ciri’s hands away. “I haven’t seen Geralt since last night. How is it that you’ve seen him, when I haven’t? It’s almost as if he’s avoiding me.”
Jaskier undid the buttons of his doublet so it hung loosely over his shoulders. With his hands on his hips, he stood in front of the full-length mirror and pouted.
“Come on, Jaskier,” Ciri urged. Then with a laugh, she said, “Of course he’s not avoiding you.”
“He is! I think he brought me here and then forgot about me. He’s having too much fun with Eskel and Lambert. Come to think of it, where is everyone today? I haven’t seen anyone roaming about since we returned from the meadows,” Jaskier said, sitting on the bench and crossing his arms over his chest.
“They’re probably getting ready for tonight,” Ciri said.
That may be true, but Jaskier couldn’t hear any noise coming from the great hall or any of the other chambers that lined the corridor outside of his and Geralt’s room. The stronghold of Kaer Morhen was utterly silent. These witchers were a strange lot.
Jaskier didn’t share his thoughts with Ciri. Instead, he let her pull him to his feet. He slung his lute over his shoulder and pretended not to notice when Ciri grabbed the flower crown before ushering him out the door.
~
Jaskier followed Ciri through the courtyard and onto the winding trail. A sea of poppies in bloom stretched on either side of the treadway, filling the summer air with fragrance. Left to their own whims, wildflowers grew in tangled masses among the poppies. Lupine shot up in shades of pink, purple, and the darkest blue.
Further up the trail, the wildflowers gave way to alder, birch, and aspen, whose branches reached for the sun. The full canopy of leaves shimmered in the golden light of late afternoon.
Their way steepened as they ascended into the mountain’s terrain. Jaskier was already out of breath, while Ciri strode along confidently. They soon reached the gauntlet. This was the steepest part of their climb. Geralt once described it to Jaskier as a difficult training obstacle for young witchers. But it was no challenge for Ciri’s strong legs.
Beads of sweat crept down Jaskier’s back beneath his fresh shirt. He was glad he wasn’t required to run up the steep section. Geralt had told him this was what the young witchers did in training. He imagined Geralt as a young lad with coltish legs. He’d race to the top with the other witchers, his future in monster-hunting and survival of the Trial of the Grasses still unknown. Jaskier’s admiration of Geralt grew with every new story he learned about him. He did his best to compose songs that reflected his respect for him and his fellow witchers.
Jaskier paused to unbutton his doublet. He considered how strange it was that he had not seen Coën this morning. Nor had Coën followed Ciri and him up the mountain. The youngest of the witchers, Coën had taken a liking to Ciri. They had been nearly inseparable since she came to Kaer Morhen to train. But today, Coën had disappeared entirely.
Jaskier hummed along to himself as he followed behind Ciri.
Will the witcher’s girl tire of her swords and her knives?
Or will she grow up to save all our lives?
Will Coën woo her away from her destined path?
Or might he feel Geralt’s angry wrath….”
Ciri stopped on an outcropping of rock, the size of a hearthstone. She turned and waited for Jaskier to catch up.
“If you’d like, I’ll carry your lute for you,” Ciri offered.
“That’s very kind of you,” Jaskier said, panting, “but entirely unnecessary. I’ve carried this very lute for years, as I accompanied your father from town to town.”
“It was a gift from the elves,” Ciri said with a smile. “I already know all your stories.”
Jaskier caught up to Ciri. He had removed his doublet entirely and slung it over the same shoulder that carried his lute.
“Everyone thinks they know that story because of the song,” Jaskier said.
“But I know the true story,” Ciri insisted, stepping off the rock.
Thankfully, she had slowed her pace so Jaskier could keep up.
“About how Geralt didn’t actually fight the elves?” Jaskier asked.
“No, silly,” Ciri called over her shoulder. “About how you and my father fell in love!”
Jaskier gulped. It was no secret, to Ciri at least, that the incident at the edge of the world was where he and Geralt began to first appreciate each other’s company. Many years and many adventures later, they were still together. Although Jaskier had once enjoyed his share of ladies, and a fair number of gentlemen, who were enamoured of his talents outside and inside the bedroom, none of them had stayed. Only Geralt remained steadfastly in his heart.
For Geralt, there had only been Yennefer to compete with Jaskier for the witcher’s affections.
Jaskier often thought that he might lose that competition to Yennefer. Yennefer was gorgeous, powerful, and capable. She didn’t need Geralt. But she could take his heart if she set her mind toward doing so.
Jaskier admired Yennefer. They were almost friendly in their interactions of late. Still, on the rare occasions when Jaskier doubted his own appeal to the witcher, when he was reminded of the Countess de Stael and the others who had deemed him disposable and left him lonely and wanting, it was only Yennefer who worried him. Someday, she might use her considerable magical skills to lure Geralt away forever.
Jaskier tried not to think about it.
“You’re too clever,” Jaskier said, and then he prodded Ciri along, “Get moving cub, we don’t want to keep your father waiting.”
Ciri giggled and ran down the trail. The grade had levelled off, but the route grew impossibly narrow as they reached the top of the ridge.
Jaskier strode along, the mountainside falling away steeply on either side of his footsteps. He had less trouble keeping up with Ciri on the flat part of the trail, although he found the margin for an error in foot placement daunting. He watched Ciri’s golden-haired head bobbing above the foliage as she ran along enthusiastically, despite her extravagant dress.
In the distance, Jaskier heard the running water of the glacial stream that carved its way between the jagged ramparts of stone. The forest was dark, considering today was the longest day of the year. Sunlight slid over the mountaintop at sharp angles, illuminating the trail with precious few smatterings of warmth. Cold, dark, imposing, such was the scenery of Kaer Morhen.
The witchers would be leaving Kaer Morhen in the coming weeks. They would accept contracts to kill monsters that threatened citizens of every realm on the Continent. Only Geralt would remain behind at the stronghold for the summer. He planned for Ciri to continue her education and training in these halls that were all but hidden from the world of monsters and men. It would be a sort of Sabbatical for a witcher, Jaskier mused.
Jaskier hadn’t thought twice about refusing a post as a guest lecturer at Oxenfurt. He happily accepted Geralt’s invitation to spend the summer at Kaer Morhen instead. He would follow Geralt anywhere, and he’d follow Ciri too, no matter the reason or whether she requested his company.
Beyond the ridge, the trail opened onto a treeless saddle on the shoulder of the mountain. Jaskier stepped out of the forest and into the empty space. The area was larger than a lecture hall and could accommodate a hundred men or more. On each side of the expanse, a cliffside plunged to the blue-green valley of Kaer Morhen below.
Jaskier had been here once before. A fortnight earlier, when he arrived in Kaer Morhen with his head in a fog from the elixir-induced deceptions that magically hid the way to the stronghold from mere mortals, Geralt had brought him here. They had slowly climbed the gauntlet, Geralt claiming that the fresh air would help clear Jaskier’s head of the elixirs. They had walked across the ridge and emerged onto the flat saddle.
The unobstructed view to the valley below had taken Jaskier’s breath away then, as it did now. Perched above the forest and fields, Jaskier thought he could see all the way to the coast. A sliver of sea on the far horizon drew his gaze as it shimmered in the sunset.
“Nice view, hmmm?” Geralt had asked.
Jaskier had taken Geralt’s hand and admired the grounds of the stronghold and the peaceful world below. This was where Geralt spent his childhood. This was where the young orphaned boy grew into the witcher, the warrior, the man that he had become.
Jaskier wondered how he would ever put such heady thoughts into words. What melody could evoke the emotions this place inspired in him? He set the task aside and instead brought Geralt’s hand to his lips and whispered, “It’s the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.”
It had been just the two of them that day, but now as Jaskier followed Ciri into the clearing, the visitors to this special place were the witchers, the humans, and the mages who Jaskier already knew. They had gathered here, clearly invited to this gathering, long before Jaskier arrived.
Vesemir, dressed in a silken shirt with dark brocade breeches, greeted Ciri’s arrival. His finely embroidered cloak looked soft to the touch.
Eskel stood with Coën, looking downright regal with the silver of their armour polished so it gleamed. Even Lambert, a scowl on his face, had still been compelled to hike up to these grounds where the group gathered.
And the mages-Triss Merigold, who sometimes tutored Ciri in the ways of magic, wore a gown the shade of a ripe plum. Soft feathers wafted from its neckline with Triss’ every movement. Nenneke, who detested Jaskier, but held Geralt in her heart as if he were her own son, chatted amiably with none other than Yennefer of Vengerberg.
Yennefer nodded at Jaskier. She looked radiant in her black gown fitted with silver trim, resembling armour, that cupped her breasts. Her violet eyes scanned him from head to toe, betraying nothing.
The gathering place had been strewn with garlands of wildflowers. Purple irises, orange lilies, and Jaskier’s personal favourite-buttercups, were woven together with greenery and mounted on branches of scaffolding. The cool air was alive with the scent of flowers. Jaskier pulled his doublet on, noticing that Ciri still held the flower crown she had made for him.
Jaskier quickly came to the realization that this was where everyone had been today. He had lazed the day away, enjoying the sun and playing his lute, while everyone else was preparing for this mid-summer celebration. He had thought he was a bit overdressed for a simple bonfire, but at least he anticipated the need to dress nicely from Geralt’s cryptic request. Although he was under the impression that the gathering would primarily involve a bit of feasting and a few songs for Geralt’s friends, it seemed this was not the case. This was something far more elaborate.
Amid the floral arrangements, torches had been lodged into the earth at regular intervals. The brightness from their flames rivalled that of the setting sun which now descended over the valley of Kaer Morhen. The torches were arranged in a semi-circle, and at its apex stood Geralt.
Geralt had somehow found time to bathe. His hair had been freed of tangles. It was not held back with his typical leather thong, but it stayed out of his face because of the position of the flower crown that circled his head. The colours of the bright blossoms contrasted starkly with the muted grey silk of his shirt. His witcher medallion sparkled in the torchlight that illuminated the woodland meeting place.
Jaskier bit his lip as he approached the gathering.
“Jaskier,” Geralt said softly, his expression inscrutable.
Behind Geralt, an ornately carved table perched on a dais held a clue about what was in store for these guests to Kaer Morhen’s mountainside. Candles flickered, shedding light on the words that were etched onto a sheet of parchment. A long scarlet sash, as wide as Jaskier’s fist, curled onto itself, waiting to be taken up as part of the ceremony.
Jaskier had performed at enough of these occasions to know that there would be a handfasting here tonight.
Jaskier turned away from the dais. He had never been bound to another, but not for a lack of trying. No matter how many times he gave his heart, he had never had his love reciprocated with the same vigour. Lovers came and went, taking a piece of Jaskier’s heart with them each time they left him. Despite his bruised heart, Jaskier still admired the romance of a handfasting. His eyes went wide when he considered a pairing for the evening’s festivities. Ciri was too young to be bound to Coën. Neither Lambert or Eskel had lovers. Vesemir was too old, nor would he agree to be bound to another in such a human ritual. Triss and Nenneke seemed improbable mates. That only left one possibility.
Geralt was binding himself to Yennefer.
“Geralt?” Jaskier’s voice caught in his throat. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. He could barely breathe.
Geralt stepped toward him.
Jaskier could hear nothing. The pounding of his own blood in his ears drowned out any conversation that may have been taking place among the mages and witchers. It was as if time itself had stopped. The lute on his back weighed as much as a kikimora, dragging him down into the depths of sorrow.
“I should have told you,” Geralt said.
Jaskier gasped. So, it was true. Geralt had been spending all his time with Yennefer. How could Jaskier have been so blind? All his hopes for the future, the joy that Geralt brought to his life, his affection for Ciri, it all crashed down. Like the ruin of Kaer Morhen, his dreams had been sacked. His throat went dry. For all his talent at composing poetry and singing sweetly, he could not find a word to utter or a sound to make.
Geralt leaned closer and whispered in Jaskier’s ear, “Admit it, I’ve finally managed to render you speechless.”
Jaskier’s stomach lurched. He lowered his eyes, holding back his tears. His knees shook and buckled. It took all his strength to remain standing.
“Now that we are all here,” Vesemir said, spreading his arms wide as if to gather the attendees into the semi-circle of torches, “let’s begin.”
“Jaskier?” Geralt asked softly. His lips were close enough to touch Jaskier’s cheek. “What’s wrong?”
Jaskier wiped a tear from his eye. He inhaled deeply, hoping to stop more tears from falling, but it was futile. He couldn’t look at Geralt. For the first time in his life, he couldn’t bear to gaze into Geralt’s shining gold eyes, the eyes that were meant for another.
“We are gathered here on this eve to celebrate the love between two of our friends,” Vesemir spoke with authority. “Since we are such a small group, I’d like to invite each of you to speak a few words about how you came to know of their love for each other, so we may bask in its glow.”
Ciri tugged at Jaskier’s sleeve. He sniffled loudly before turning to face her. He stupidly hoped she wouldn’t notice the tears.
“Yes?” Jaskier asked, not managing more than one word.
“You’ll need this,” Ciri said as she reached up to place the flower crown on his head.
A sob escaped Jaskier’s throat. Ciri’s hands slid to his shoulders. He let Ciri take his lute from him, relieving his back, but not his heart, from its burden. He was certain that he would never see the child again after this night. He turned from her so she wouldn’t see him cry. In doing so, he faced Geralt again.
“I can sense it, Jaskier,” Geralt whispered, nostrils flaring. He nosed his way across Jaskier’s temple and into the space behind his ear. “Why do you smell so much like sorrow?”
Geralt was so close, Jaskier felt his breath fall softly on his face. Jaskier’s biggest fear had been realized. Geralt had become his garrotter. He berated himself for not seeing this coming. Worse still, he had no retreat, powerless to keep his emotions from Geralt’s witcher senses.
“Yennefer,” Vesemir called, “why don’t you begin?”
At the mention of Yennefer’s name, Jaskier wanted to disappear. He stepped away from Geralt, intent on finding a way out of the celebration. He’d trudge back to Kaer Morhen, pack his things, and never return. It was the only way to escape the sorrow that stabbed like a rusty dagger at his heart.
“Jaskier,” Yennefer said, abruptly grabbing his hand.
Jaskier recoiled. The mage had already won Geralt’s heart. Now she was going to force Jaskier to endure some other indignity in front of Ciri and all the witcher’s friends. Her cruelty knew no bounds.
“When I first met these two,” Yennefer began, tugging Jaskier back to Geralt’s side. “Jaskier was in a dreadful state. He was bleeding. He was terrified. He was near death. I cured him, of course. But Geralt, a witcher with no reason to behave with compassion to this wretched beast, risked his life to help me because of the lifesaving actions I took to save Jaskier on that day.”
Jaskier cringed. It seemed highly inappropriate for Yennefer to be speaking about him during the handfasting. Wasn’t it enough that she had wooed Geralt away from him? His hand was sweaty with strife in Yennefer’s sure grasp. He couldn’t bear to listen to another word from the mage’s lips.
“Although Geralt claimed Jaskier was simply his friend, I could see the love they had for each other,” Yennefer continued, a rare smile on her lips. “If you must know, I’ve had both of them in my bed, and even that could not keep them apart. I always knew that they belonged together. I’m so pleased that I have been invited here to witness their happy event.”
“Wait, what?” Jaskier sniffed.
Yennefer put Jaskier’s hand into Geralt’s and clasped them together before stepping away.
Teary eyes added to Jaskier’s confusion. He felt the warmth of Geralt’s hand in his, for what he was sure would be the last time.
Geralt pulled Jaskier closer and spoke through gritted teeth, “What did you think this was about?”
“Me next! Jaskier is like my second father,” Ciri said, stepping forward and throwing her arms around Jaskier. “He’s always watching out for me. I sometimes even call him “father,” by accident. But it’s really no accident at all. And now I’m going to be able to call him it all the time.”
Jaskier clapped his hand over his mouth in astonishment. It seemed, hope against hope, that he may have been mistaken about the handfasting.
“I need Jask for a moment, please,” Geralt begged of Ciri.
“Of course,” Ciri said, releasing Jaskier.
Jaskier went boneless with Ciri’s arms no longer supporting him.
“We’ll be right back.” Geralt said nodding to his friends.
In a daze, Jaskier let Geralt guide him away from the clearing.
“Looks like he wants to start the honeymoon early,” Lambert said, nudging Eskel with his elbow as Jaskier and Geralt slipped out of view.
Jaskier followed Geralt. They stepped across the soft pine needles and stopped behind the largest tree that bordered the gathering site.
Geralt dropped to his knees and took Jaskier’s hands in his own. “I didn’t mean to make you sad,” he said.
“No,” Jaskier breathed, his head falling back to crash into the tree. “You didn’t, I’m not sure.”
“If you’re not sure whether you want to handfast with me, I’m afraid this was a terrible idea,” Geralt said, looking up at Jaskier through unblinking eyes.
“It’s not that,” Jaskier said, his heartbeat finally slowing to normal. “Melitele’s tits, Geralt! Up until I moment ago, I thought you were handfasting with Yennefer.”
“What?” Geralt asked as he rose to his full height.
Jaskier, still of the mindset that Geralt’s heart belonged to another, didn’t mean to touch Geralt. Still, his arms involuntarily wrapped around the witcher and he rested his head on his chest. He heaved in great breaths of relief when Geralt returned the embrace.
“You absolute idiot,” Geralt said, pressing kisses into Jaskier’s hair.
When Jaskier regained some composure, he finally allowed himself to tip his head back so he could see Geralt’s face again.
“You really thought I was handfasting with Yennefer?” Geralt asked with a grin.
“Yes,” Jaskier squeaked. Only now did he see how ridiculously wrong he was. He should have known Geralt would never hurt him, leaving him weak and wanting, another love lost forever to him.
“I can’t imagine how angry that made you,” Geralt sighed. “I was trying to surprise you.”
“Not angry,” Jaskier replied, lowering his eyes. “Unbearably sad.”
Geralt slid his fingers into Jaskier’s hair and stroked his tear-stained cheek with a calloused thumb.
“I’ve been so busy with the preparations. You always have your nose in everything, so it was difficult to keep it a secret from you,” Geralt said, squeezing his eyes closed and shaking his head. “I wanted it to be a surprise.”
Jaskier’s hands went to Geralt’s chest, the fine fabric of his shirt sliding beneath his fingertips. He should have known Geralt was planning something special when it seemed he had been avoiding him.
“It was a surprise all right, you massive oaf,” Jaskier said, brightening. “I thought you were angry with me. Or you got sick of me following you around. Or you had simply tired of me.”
Geralt drew back and tilted his head. His frowning eyes roved over Jaskier’s face. “I would never tire of you,” he said with absolute sincerity.
Jaskier blinked back tears, but this time there was no sorrow. As soon as Jaskier stepped forward, he felt Geralt’s mouth hot on his, Geralt’s arms pulling him close. With his eyes half-closed with desire, Jaskier threaded his fingers through Geralt’s hair, tilting his flower crown askew. The last of his worries slid from his shoulders and fell wispily to his feet.
“Does this mean there’s going to be a handfasting between us tonight?” Jaskier asked, pulling back and finally allowing himself to smile.
“If you’ll still have me,” Geralt said, “massive oaf that I am.”
Jaskier looked at Geralt with love in his eyes, a love that he saw returned in the shining gold.
~
“The life of a witcher has always been a lonely one,” Vesemir proclaimed from the dais. “Witchers were meant to be alone, as they always have been. This is what makes this midsummer evening so special.”
Jaskier could not keep the grin off his face as he listened to Vesemir’s words.
Geralt, wearing a decidedly more serious expression, clasped Jaskier’s hands in his own before the assembly of their friends.
“The life of a witcher is dangerous, harsh, and unsuitable for human companions,” Vesemir began solemnly. “But Jaskier is no ordinary human. He has been Geralt’s companion for a number of years and both have thrived in each other’s company. Jaskier has accompanied Geralt as he fulfilled contracts. He has been known to help by serving as a guard for Geralt, providing critical information that only a human could glean, and helping to dispatch monsters himself when called upon. And I needn’t mention the honour Jaskier has brought to our guild through his poetry and songs.”
A smattering of applause echoed across the clearing.
Jaskier captured Geralt’s eyes as he listened. He was determined to remind Geralt of the praise Vesemir heaped upon him at every opportunity from this day forward. He knew it would drive Geralt crazy.
“It was not destiny that brought Geralt and Jaskier together, but a journey of cooperation, hard work, and love. Geralt’s wish to be bound to Jaskier will be honoured this night,” Vesemir said. He then eyed Jaskier and added, “As long as Jaskier agrees. Are you onboard with this now, son?”
Jaskier nodded eagerly. He was a little embarrassed that Geralt had to pull him away for a word because of his misunderstanding. It would surely be something they laughed about in the years ahead. By the torchlight, Jaskier found Ciri’s eyes beaming at him. He knew it was because Vesemir had called him “son.” It warmed Jaskier to his core.
Vesemir held the scarlet sash aloft between his hands. “Geralt?”
Jaskier watched as Vesemir’s eyes scanned over his former student.
Geralt hummed in agreement.
“Jaskier?”
Jaskier nodded reverently to the old witcher. He could barely breathe as Vesemir wound the sash over and under Geralt’s hands, and then did the same to Jaskier’s hands, gently binding them to each other. A soft breeze rose from the dark valley to sweep over the torchlit gathering place, enhancing the scent of the flowers that wreathed Jaskier’s head.
“With my blessing, I bind you to each other,” Vesemir said.
Geralt ducked his head and pushed the tendrils from Jaskier’s flower crown out of the way with his nose.
Jaskier’s breath hitched in his throat. He tilted his head so their lips could meet in a kiss.
Nenneke cried.
When Jaskier and Geralt greeted their friends, an air of joy filled the clearing on the side of the mountain. It was a midsummer eve that neither of them would ever forget.
To Jaskier’s delight, Triss dragged him to the edge of the clearing where she opened a portal. With flashes of light against the dark sky, a whirl of colour circled an opening in the air. Beyond the entry to the portal lay a feast that had taken the mage days to prepare. Platters were piled high with savoury meats, pies with the most sumptuous fillings, and decadent sweets.
The clang of tankards, filled with the richest ale, toasted Geralt and Jaskier long into the night.
With a full belly and an even fuller heart, Jaskier wandered to the dais with the table that held their handfasting contract, binding Geralt to him, and him to Geralt. He admired the intricate scrollwork on the parchment. Their signatures beside each other in ink, with a dash of magic, to seal their bond.
He didn’t see Yennefer approach as he traced the letters with a finger.
“It’s pretty, isn’t it?” Yennefer asked.
“Yennefer,” Jaskier said with a start. He breathed, trying to quell his fear of the mage. “It is.”
An awkward silence lasted a beat.
“I know you’ll take good care of him,” Yennefer said, clasping Jaskier’s arm with a gentle hand.
“Of course,” Jaskier said, covering her hand with his own. “Thank you. I want to thank you for being here. And for the kind words you said.”
Yennefer looked away for a moment. “I could have left out the part about having you in my bed,” she finally said with a laugh.
Jaskier grinned. “You could have, but what’s done is done. Besides, you saved my life that night.”
Yennefer nodded knowingly. “Any time,” she said. “For Geralt, or for you, Jaskier.”
“I’ll remember that,” Jaskier said, his voice containing a newfound fondness for Yennefer.
Jaskier turned his attention back to the parchment. He stifled a quick yawn with his fist. He could not imagine at what hour they would make their descent to the stronghold of Kaer Morhen below, when he would have Geralt all to himself in the comfort of their room.
It seemed that Geralt was impatient too. Jaskier felt Geralt cast the scarlet sash over his head, pulling it tight, trapping Jaskier around his middle.
“Not too tired, I hope?” Geralt asked.
“Never too tired for you, my love,” Jaskier said with a bright smile.
Jaskier drew Geralt into an embrace. If he lived for a thousand years, he would never be as happy as he was on this night.
The torches flickered as Geralt dipped his head and nibbled on Jaskier’s collarbone. “Play us a song on your lute?” Geralt paused to ask. “I know everyone will enjoy it.”
Jaskier scanned the gathering of his and Geralt’s friends, their faces eager with anticipation.
“Yes, play us a song, bard,” Eskel shouted. “You need to reward us for all our work in making your handfasting a success!”
“I suppose I could,” Jaskier said to Geralt.
“I’ve been telling them for years that you have the most wonderful singing voice,” Geralt said.
Jaskier’s eyes went wide. Brushing off the front of his doublet, he walked toward Ciri, now a true daughter in his eyes. He blinked back a tear as she handed him his lute.
Geralt cleared a place for him on the dais.
Jaskier sat at the edge of the platform and plucked a few strings, checking to make sure the instrument was in tune.
Geralt worked his way onto the dais to sit behind Jaskier, a leg on each side of the bard. He rested his head on Jaskier’s shoulder as he strummed a few chords on his lute.
The music that wafted through the clearing may have come from a single lute, but to Jaskier’s ears, it sounded like an entire orchestra.
The end