A Second Chance
Title: A Second Chance
Author: gwyllion
Genre: Canon era
Pairing: Geralt z Rivii|Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier|Dandelion
Rating: R
Words: 7,774
Warning: non-linear narrative, crack treated seriously, mention of a past non-consensual grope, fertility issues
Summary: Due to his extra mutations, Geralt sometimes lays an egg. He never thought about it much until he started having sex with Jaskier. The next time he lays an egg, he realizes it could be fertilized and decides to care for it for a month until he can candle it and find out.
A/N: A Second Chance was written for Witcher Wheel of the Year - Litha and as a Witcher Kink Meme fill for this prompt. Thanks to my wonderful beta, Gillian, whose insightful comments and helpful suggestions always make me a better writer.
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!
If he wraps the bundle well enough, the crack might not grow. Spare socks, an extra set of smallclothes, a silken scarf Yennefer left behind, all padding to line Roach’s saddlebag. The crack, a narrow line as straight as a lute string and thinner than a horsehair, threatens him with a warning of what may come if he doesn’t take care.
He failed Cirilla.
He avoided her earliest years.
He cannot make up for the lost time.
Although he tries.
The egg gives him a second chance.
Day after day, no matter how much he pads the egg’s resting place, the crack draws his eye first when he unwraps the cloth from his precious bit of witcher genetics. He traces the smooth surface with care, but no thrum answers the pulse in his fingertips. He presses his ear against the delicate orb of milky white and listens. Nothing yet.
“Geralt?”
Geralt knows better than to prod at the fragile shell. Jaskier will never let him hear the end of it if he splits the egg open with his thick fingers.
“Stop poking at it,” Jaskier reminds him gently.
Geralt grunts and pulls his fingers away.
“If it’s meant to hatch, it’ll do so in its own time,” Jaskier says as he glances at the egg. “I have a certain responsibility for it too - and I know how awful you’ll feel if you interfere with the natural course of these things. There’ll be time enough to worry today. Now help me pack up the bedrolls so we can get on the road.”
His nagging could rival that of any fish wife. Geralt stifles a groan.
“Darling?” Jaskier’s breath flutters across Geralt’s cheek. He leaves a kiss at the corner of his mouth.
Geralt accepts the small assurance. He pulls Jaskier close, but only for a moment, before letting go and turning his attention to the task of packing up camp. He’ll check the egg more than once before he finally packs it away for the ride.
The road ahead leads to Rinde and a contract to rid the local pond of drowners. The familiar route across even terrain makes easy travel for Roach. Her steps jostle the saddlebags only minimally, but Geralt’s brow still furrows with worry. The knowledge that Yennefer dwells in Rinde does not escape him.
Jaskier apparently has a plan of his own, which his nature determines that he cannot keep secret. It bubbles beneath the surface of every look, every touch. He inelegantly weaves his plan into the one-sided conversation that always accompanies their travels. As if Geralt wouldn’t notice.
“We could pop in to see your ex while we’re in Rinde,” Jaskier chatters as he ambles behind Geralt and Roach. His plan finally emerges into the open space between them. “We’ll be passing right by her place. I wanted to get some details about Aretuza from her so I can include them in the latest ballad I’m writing. It’s about the girls in training and the delicate matter of their reaching maturity.”
“Hmm,” Geralt grunts at Jaskier’s obvious lie, but the state of the egg holds his interest more than any ballad about young sorceresses.
Jaskier strums a few chords on his lute as he tries to draw Geralt’s attention, but the background noise does little to take Geralt’s thoughts from the egg and its dangerous crack.
“She knows a lot about fertility, I bet,” Jaskier rambles on. “After all she went through-”
“We’re not asking Yen about the egg,” Geralt says without turning his head toward Jaskier.
“I was just thinking,” Jaskier pleads, “since we’re going to be there, and she does know more about these things than either of us, apparently-”
Geralt brings Roach to a stop and meets Jaskier with a hard stare. When he has Jaskier’s undivided attention, he growls, “No.”
~
Ten miles from Posada, Jaskier hasn’t stopped to take a breath.
The babbling and singing disrupt the forest. Geralt can’t listen for the supposed devil over the cacophony, despite his oversensitive hearing. Jigs, ballads, rousing drinking songs, awkward works-in-progress… the bard must think his playing will scare the monsters away. Humans always think shit like that.
Geralt wants to punch him again, knock the wind from his lungs so he’ll shut up for an hour or two. He shifts his arse in the saddle. Jaskier’s singing annoys, but the dull ache in Geralt’s abdomen steals his attention. Like a scorpion’s pinch at the base of his spine, the pain grows with every step Roach takes. The familiar burden must be dispelled. He doesn’t relish explaining his discomfort to the bard, so he leaps from the saddle and stalks off through the woods.
“Geralt!” Jaskier calls after him. “Where are you going?”
Geralt picks up speed, putting distance between himself and the bard. Twigs snap underfoot.
“Geralt?” Jaskier cries in a higher pitch than Geralt has heard this morning. “Don’t leave me here!”
Geralt ducks behind a stout tree and draws his trousers down. The egg has already partially emerged, warm and wet. He grips its sticky slickness with his fingers and twists it the rest of the way out of its vent.
“Geralt?” the bard calls from somewhere in the forest.
Geralt sets the egg in a bed of moss. He finds a rock the size of his palm and smashes the egg, just as Vesemir taught him. The shattered shell crushes inward. Clear fluid leaks onto the forest floor.
“Geralt! The devil might appear at any moment and although I’d love to have a tale about it, I can’t very well write anything if I’ve been killed,” Jaskier pleads, closing the distance between them.
He ventures closer than Geralt would like.
Geralt pulls his trousers up and kicks some duff from the forest floor onto the egg’s remains. He sets off to lead the bard out of the woods before he can wander too deeply into the maze of twisted spruce and thistle.
“Geralt!” Jaskier shouts with relief as Geralt steps out from behind a cluster of trees. “Finally, thank Melitele!”
Geralt strides past Jaskier, heading for the road where Roach waits for his return. Already his insides settle into a more comfortable arrangement. Guts and sinew relax in a familiar tangle, relieved of their burden.
Jaskier trips over brush and brambles as he follows. Still perturbed at being left alone, he rails at Geralt. “I could have been killed, you know. I can’t believe you just left me defenceless with only my lute to fend off the devil. And while my talents are many, I doubt a devil would be impressed with my musical oeuvre. You could at least have told me where you were going.”
Geralt mounts Roach and grumbles, “I didn’t know I needed your permission to take a shit.”
Roach whinnies once, spurred on by Geralt’s heels, before setting off on the road.
“Well, I suppose not,” Jaskier admits. He sulkily strums his lute and follows closely behind.
~
“This anomaly won’t happen to every witcher, but if an egg is expelled, you need to know how to handle it,” Vesemir explains without sympathy.
Lambert elbows Geralt as they sit in the dusty lecture hall at Kaer Morhen.
“Pay attention, lads,” Vesemir cautions them. “When the egg is fully outside your body, you should destroy it. We wouldn’t want it getting into the hands of an unscrupulous mage.”
A southern breeze wafts through the open windows. Soon the warmth-laden wind will melt the ice from the pass and the newly minted witchers will begin their journey on the Path.
“Could one of these eggs actually hatch?” Eskel asks as if he genuinely believes that it could.
Vesemir scoffs before raising an eyebrow and saying, “Even if you did produce an egg, it’s not likely that a woman would have the physical means to impregnate one of you, is it?”
Lambert laughs out loud at the notion.
Geralt hums in understanding. He hopes he won’t suffer the misfortune of producing an egg, or gods forbid-fatherhood, but he’ll follow his mentor’s instructions, nonetheless.
~
Geralt lies awake long after Jaskier has fallen asleep. He slips out of his bedroll without disturbing the bard.
He needs to check.
The crack hasn’t grown, but they are still a week from Rinde and as many days from when he can candle the egg to verify its contents.
With his momentary absence undetected, he squeezes back into the bedroll and curls into Jaskier’s side. He guiltily seeks comfort in the warmth of Jaskier’s sleepy embrace, grateful for the acceptance. Geralt can no longer remember the time when he slept alone and unloved, despite his terse speech and inhuman conduct.
Jaskier always welcomes him to a home… and a family he never knew he needed.
~
Their friendship ends with a tirade.
Their romance begins with an apology.
The collision with a destiny that neither of them anticipated resumes on a mountainside in Barefield.
“I guess I’ll see you around, Geralt.”
Rage seethes through Geralt’s bones, squeezing out from the marrow.
He didn’t need Borch to confirm what he already knew.
Yennefer never belonged to him. The djinn’s ruse had lured Geralt into combining their destinies.
He has lost Yennefer, but he still has time to save his relationship with Jaskier.
“Wait,” Geralt calls.
The bard pauses his steps on the rocky incline. His shoulders sink, losing the stiffened posture he had gained when Geralt berated him. Still, he doesn’t turn around.
“Jaskier,” Geralt calls as he trots to catch up with him.
The heated breeze makes the sweat on Geralt’s brow evaporate as thoroughly as the furrowed lines on his forehead that betray his distress.
“Jaskier,” Geralt says, as softly as he can manage, reaching out to clasp the bard’s shoulder through his rich crimson doublet.
His eyes overflowing with tears, Jaskier turns to face him. But the bard only lets out a gurgling sob.
“I’m sorry,” Geralt says. He cannot face Jaskier, such is his guilty shame, so he stares at the ground by Jaskier’s feet.
“Geralt?” Jaskier asks, shaky as he cups Geralt’s chin in his clammy hand.
“You said something about going to the coast,” Geralt reminds him, hoping it earns Jaskier’s forgiveness.
With Jaskier at his side and a glass of Toussaint’s finest in his hand, the sunset over Skellige begins to ease every doubt that dwelled in Geralt’s heart.
His ability to produce an egg fades into the most distant recesses of his mind.
~
Lambert emerges from the hedge where they’ve dug their latrine. He lets out a howl that draws the attention of the other students.
The witchers in training at Kaer Morhen pause their practice, dropping swords to the ground and running to see what Lambert has found.
“Gods, Lambert,” Eskel scowls, “What’s so important that we stop sparring?”
“He wants to show us that he’s done the world’s biggest shit, I venture,” Coen laughs as he clasps a hand on Geralt’s shoulder.
Geralt trots along with his brothers, too aware of what Lambert has likely found.
Clouds hang low over the valley. The scent of rain fills the air. A downpour might dissipate the gathering at the edge of the latrine, the stink of urine and shit too much for witcher’s sensitive nostrils.
“We’ve got an egg-laying lady witcher among us,” Lambert says. He spits out the words as if they are burnt garlic.
“Fuck you, Lambert.”
“None of us have laid an egg!”
“It must have been dropped by a bird.”
“Who was the last to take a shit?”
“It wasn’t me,” Eskel says.
“I saw Geralt over here a while ago.”
“I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” Geralt replies with a scowl.
“Didn’t you just take a shit?” Eskel calls to Lambert.
“I came over here and called when I found the remnants of this egg,” Lambert says, stabbing at the gelatinous liquid with the point of his sword.
“I thought Clovis was over there after Geralt.”
“I didn’t lay an egg though,” Clovis exclaims.
“Liar!” Lambert insists, taking a swing at Clovis.
Clovis blocks Lambert’s strike and both witchers fall to the ground in a flurry of fists, elbows, and kicking boots.
Eskel leaps into the fray and tries to tear the two apart.
Geralt stands with the jeering group of onlookers as the fight between two becomes a fight between three.
By the time Vesemir arrives to sort them out, three men are covered in mud, blood, and grime. For their transgressions, Vesemir makes them scrub Kaer Morhen’s stone floors until they gleam.
Geralt resumes his training with the rest of the members of the wolf school. He vows that the next time he produces an egg, he will take better care to conceal the remains from his brothers.
~
“Do you think… maybe… do you think there could be more eggs?” Jaskier asks, his voice an octave higher than Geralt is accustomed.
“Hmm,” Geralt grunts, but he doesn’t take his eyes off the egg, its crack growing more prominent by the day.
A brook provides fresh water for Roach. Stout willow trees border the bank, offering a shady respite from the sun.
“I’m thinking that if this egg doesn’t hatch into a little being, maybe you’ll produce another egg that might?” Jaskier asks wistfully. “Geralt?”
Geralt refuses to let Jaskier distract him from his solitary meditation over the egg that rests in its wrappings.
“Geralt?” Jaskier sits beside him on the grassy brookbank. “I asked you something, darling.”
“Hmm,” Geralt hums, annoyed at Jaskier’s questions that ruin his concentration.
Jaskier kneels beside him, but Geralt is lost in thought.
Has the crack grown even larger?
Does it make a sound when it cracks?
Would a witcher be able to hear the contents move if the egg is stored in Roach’s saddlebag?
“What?” Geralt snaps when Jaskier clasps his hands on his shoulders.
Jaskier’s hands pause in their movements, resuming only when he perceives Geralt’s unvoiced apology.
Geralt’s head slumps forward as he lets Jaskier’s hands soothe him. He struggles to give into Jaskier’s ministrations, despite him knowing that it feels right to have the comfort from a partner in these difficult times.
The egg and its world of possibilities tug on him like the restless waves against the rocky shoreline. They draw him further and further from the safety of the sand, the reassurance of Jaskier’s hands.
Jaskier calls to him from across a great distance, but Geralt cannot turn his attention away from the egg.
The egg.
His chance to raise a child again.
Not like Cirilla.
He needs to do better this time.
Jaskier will help.
This time, Geralt will not be alone. The egg won’t need to hatch unguided by its father and in the care of a queen.
He has Jaskier now.
Jaskier hums softly as he works the tension from Geralt’s shoulders.
“Jaskier?”
“I’m here, Geralt,” Jaskier says. “I’m always here for you, dear.”
~
Geralt didn’t expect to enjoy his visit to the coast. Long days, without a contract to hunt a monster, dissolve into afternoons waiting for the golden sunset to wash over the sandy shore.
Jaskier strums his lute. His teeth trap his tongue as he works out the chords that will best accompany the lyrics that he scribbles in his notebook. He gazes skyward until he finds the best words to describe his thoughts. As if to confirm their accuracy, he turns his eyes to Geralt.
How had Geralt never noticed their brilliant blue, even when they were cast his way so often?
Geralt doffs his boots and lets his toes clench the granules of sand from where he sits. The smell of the salty ocean fills his nostrils, but not unpleasantly so. The rhythmic crash of waves, the tranquil seaside, combined with Jaskier’s gentle lute-playing, soothe him more than a purse filled with coins, payment for a job well done. Behind him, the rented villa rises from the shore.
Before sunset, the housekeeper lights a candle in each window so they can find their way home.
Geralt doesn’t dare ask how much Jaskier has paid for the privilege of their luxurious quarters. Geralt suspects the bard will make up a story about the villa belonging to a friend of the Pankratz family so he can hide the darker truth that he won the use of the villa from a countess, a duke, or some other sophisticated bedmate.
How many seeds has Jaskier planted as he’s fucked his way across the Continent?
Geralt won’t ask, so Jaskier will have no need to tell. The thought of Jaskier sharing intimacy with ladies or lords of the court makes Geralt bristle. He takes a sip of wine from his goblet. The velvet taste lingers on his tongue and soothes his jealous thoughts.
Satisfied with his composing progress for the day, Jaskier stands to pack his lute carefully into its case. He turns his face into the ocean breeze and brushes sand from his trousers. The wind ruffles his hair. Silky strands catch on his long eyelashes.
Geralt wants to brush them out of the way.
Geralt wants so many things from Jaskier, but he deserves none of them.
A gull circles overhead as the tide comes higher on the shore. The ripple of waves reaches for Geralt’s toes.
“It’s time we headed in,” Jaskier says.
Geralt lifts his gaze from the sand. Before him, Jaskier’s outstretched hand offers to pull him up from his seat on the beach.
“Are you ready?” Jaskier asks.
The reflection of the sea in the bard’s eyes fills Geralt with want. He acknowledges to himself that he didn’t desire the contrived destiny when he bound Yennefer to him. Not when Jaskier, his voice full of hope, stood before him in the wake of every day.
He realizes now, it’s always been Jaskier.
“Ready,” Geralt grunts. Ready for Jaskier to lift him from the beach, just as it took the argument on the mountainside to lift the fog from Geralt’s vision. He rises, tugged by Jaskier’s hand.
Jaskier smiles when Geralt’s arms wrap around him. He presses a kiss to Geralt’s lips.
A sob rises from Geralt’s throat as the twinge of pain pinches at his core. He’ll need to find a way to get rid of the burgeoning egg before Jaskier finds out. But for now, Geralt sinks into Jaskier’s embrace, letting himself feel a warmth he never imagined he’d find.
~
“Let’s not bullshit,” Vesemir addresses the gathering of witchers. “If you complete your training, you will understand why no one will ever love a witcher. Witchers make poor parents and even poorer partners.”
A shiver runs through Geralt as he considers his own poor parentage. It seems he’ll have something in common with the woman who left him on the side of the road all those years ago.
“Few will feel any sympathy for what you have suffered to achieve your position,” Vesemir reminds them. “You have one purpose. You have been trained to eradicate monsters that plague every sphere. Collect coin. Live within your means. Follow the Path until its lonely end.”
~
“You do understand that I can hear you?” Geralt says, taking his eyes off the egg for a moment.
Jaskier saunters into camp from the direction of the stream, where he allegedly went to relieve himself, but Geralt knows better. The sound of Cirilla’s voice as she spoke to the bard rang through to Geralt’s ears more strongly than the rushing of the water. Both Jaskier and Cirilla should know by now that his enhanced hearing enables him to listen to the most private of conversations.
“I wasn’t trying to be secretive,” Jaskier says, making no effort to conceal the xenovox before he tucks it into the saddlebag.
“You two gossip like a pair of farm wives on market day,” Geralt snorts. He holds the egg to the sunlight so he can inspect the crack. Still no shadow lies beneath the thin shell. It won’t be much longer before a candling will illuminate its contents.
“I can’t help it if she thinks of me as a farm wife,” Jaskier tuts. He finds a seat on a thick log beside Geralt.
“She likes you,” Geralt says, placing the egg tenderly inside the nest of wrappings he has designated as its resting place.
“Cirilla? Yes she does like me. I’m adorable! But she loves you,” Jaskier reminds him.
Geralt scoffs at the notion. She tolerates him. But she genuinely likes Jaskier.
“Methinks you’re a bit jealous,” Jaskier says, picking up his lute.
Geralt groans at the notion, giving Jaskier the space to continue.
Jaskier composes an explanation on the spot, singing, “A lovely princess learned, of a witcher and his bard, when they made their way toward Rinde, their road dusty and hard. She promised to convince, a lilac-eyed mage with raven hair, to open a portal for the princess, so we could have a visit there.”
“Jaskier,” Geralt grunts.
“It will be good to see her,” Jaskier says, putting down his lute. “She’s been hard at work in Kaer Morhen for months.”
Geralt groans.
Jaskier reaches out and strokes the top of the egg. “I didn’t even mention the little parcel that you keep tucked away in your saddlebag.”
Geralt bares his teeth and growls.
Jaskier raises his hands placatingly.
“I don’t want Yen knowing anything about this,” Geralt says, motioning toward the egg.
Jaskier sighs. After a moment of silence, he pulls Geralt to him in an awkward embrace.
“She can’t find out about it,” Geralt says, shifting to rest his head on Jaskier’s shoulder.
“I know how you feel,” Jaskier says, running his hand through Geralt’s long white hair. “But would it really be so bad for them to know about the egg?”
“Ciri… she could be told… maybe someday,” Geralt says, leaning into Jaskier’s touch. “But it would be cruel to tell Yennefer about it. She can’t know, not when she’s wanted a child for so long.”
Jaskier hums in acknowledgement.
The bard might not agree with everything Geralt wishes, but even he should be able to see the benefit of keeping Yennefer as an ally.
“And I think it’s rather unfair to Cirilla, so I’m not entirely sure that she should be told,” Geralt says.
Jaskier’s fingers stop carding through Geralt’s hair. “How is it unfair? Do you worry she’ll be jealous if you have a new offspring to raise?”
Geralt groans. “No. I’m just thinking of my poor parenting skills that Cirilla never got to experience-”
“Thanks be to Melitele’s ample bosom that she never did,” Jaskier interjects.
Geralt grins, something he hasn’t been able to do lately, not since the egg and the realization that it could have been fertilized by Jaskier.
“You’ll do better this time,” Jaskier reassures him.
“Hmm,” Geralt hums. Perhaps Jaskier’s faith in him will inspire him to be a better parent to whatever creature emerges from the egg.
“I know you will,” Jaskier murmurs, his fingers massaging Geralt’s scalp again.
“Cirilla might be told, possibly,” Geralt says introspectively. “She may forgive me someday for all the times I should have gone to her when she was a child.”
Jaskier’s fingers stop their movement. The bard twists so Geralt can face him.
Upon seeing Jaskier’s delighted smile, Geralt asks, “But how can I explain to her about the egg?”
~
Geralt drops his swords in the corner and closes the door behind him.
“You’re back, thank the gods,” Jaskier rises from his chair in the small room they’ve taken in the inn.
Geralt’s shoulders sink, finally able to relax after a bruxa hunt.
Jaskier begins to unbuckle Geralt’s armour before he notices the gaping pupils, the veins streaking his skin in an inky black as the potions leave Geralt’s body.
“Oh.” Jaskier pauses in his efforts to free Geralt from the blood-slickened leather. He lays a hand on Geralt’s cheek and says, “It was a difficult one, wasn’t it, dear?”
“Coin,” Geralt grunts, dropping the heavy bag of gold on the floor at Jaskier’s feet.
“Yes, getting payment may be lovely, but I hate to see you overdoing it. Are you hurt?” Jaskier’s eyes rove over the witcher as he undresses him. His hands softly stroke every inch of skin as he uncovers the scarred flesh that he knows so well.
“Just tired,” Geralt assures him. He gives himself over to Jaskier’s ministrations. With each removed article of armour and garments, he allows the bard to see that he has no wounds in need of stitching, no bruises in need of salve. Not this time.
“Your bath awaits, although you may want to give it a shot of your witchering,” Jaskier says as he waggles his fingers, attempting to make the sign for Igni.
Geralt catches Jaskier’s hand in mid-air, stopping its motion.
Jaskier bites his bottom lip as he lets Geralt manipulate his fingers.
“Like this,” Geralt whispers. He inhales Jaskier’s comforting scent, chamomile and honey. A patient trust, born from spending years together on the Path, allows him this dalliance of sharing his magic with his human companion. He manipulates Jaskier’s fingers with his own and casts the sign.
Jaskier’s eyes sparkle with glee as the steam rises from the tub. His amusement at the intimate privilege of helping Geralt cast never grows old. He pulls Geralt close and mouths at his neck. “I do love you so,” he whispers.
Something deep in Geralt’s chest loosens. The stress of the hunt dissipates like fog in the morning sun, freeing Geralt to bask in the attention Jaskier pays him as he bathes.
Soft candlelight and quiet murmurs take Geralt far from the chaotic scene with the bruxa. He relaxes as the bard’s gentle fingers work the tangles from his hair. A heated towel rests over his face, restoring his eyes and potion-poisoned veins to their usual calmed state.
After he has reheated the water too many times to count, Geralt rises from the bath. His skin warm, the heat alleviates the ache that the hunt inflicted on his aging body.
Jaskier wraps him in layers of soft towels. “Come to bed,” Jaskier coos, whispering soothing words to his witcher.
Geralt hesitates, thinking himself undeserving, but he knows better than to refuse such care. He lets his head fall from one side to the other, stretching one last kink out of his neck before Jaskier leads him to the bed.
“You’re so good to me,” Geralt mumbles an acknowledgement as he sinks face down into the furs.
“Of course I am, dearest one,” Jaskier tuts as he warms the lightly scented oil between his hands.
The pressure on Geralt’s back lulls him into restfulness. He groans softly when Jaskier works his strong hands across his skin. His fingers trace every scar, every bruise, with care.
In the days before Jaskier existed, Geralt walked a solitary Path. He never dared to imagine how a lover’s touch would feel, but now he cannot live without Jaskier’s caring hands to work out any residual knots that the bath left untended.
“You deserve nice things,” Jaskier murmurs, distracting Geralt from his reverie.
“Hmm,” Geralt replies, shifting so he rests his forehead on folded arms. He leaves the bard to interpret whether he believes him or not.
Jaskier’s hands pause on Geralt’s back as he considers his actions in the next moments. He apparently accepts the opportunity to bestow his own interpretation of nice things upon Geralt.
Geralt gasps into the furs as Jaskier’s hands move lower, venturing across the globes of his arse, still warm from the bath.
“Here’s something nice for you, love,” Jaskier whispers.
Geralt cannot see his face, but he imagines the gleam in Jaskier’s eyes. Without a moment to think, Geralt tenses as Jaskier’s thumb caresses his hole.
“There, there,” Jaskier calms Geralt with a murmur and an assuring press of his palms.
Geralt sinks deeper into the furs. He inhales the scent of Jaskier’s shampoo, where the bard rested in the bed while Geralt hunted down the bruxa, but the scent of Jaskier’s arousal overpowers the fragrant lavender and thyme on the bedding.
“Let me take care of you,” Jaskier whispers as he massages the flesh of Geralt’s arse.
Geralt widens his legs in agreement, thighs drifting apart, knees sliding across the soft furs. He waits for Jaskier’s intimate touch again, revelling in the pleasures they have learned to give each other. Sleep has overtaken his muscles. He basks in the delight of his surrender into Jaskier’s caring hands.
Jaskier rewards him with a spread of oil across his hole.
Geralt gasps as his cock fully hardens, trapped between his belly and the bedding. The bard reeks of lust, assuring Geralt that he wants him in this way.
Jaskier pulls the globes of Geralt’s arse in opposite directions while his tongue laves affection on the sensitive skin between Geralt’s muscular thighs.
A whine escapes Geralt’s lips, his face buried in the pillows, cock straining against the furs. But his eyes fly open, desire forgotten, when Jaskier’s probing fingers find the vent.
~
Vesemir nods his head solemnly.
The egg rests, intact, inside the wooden bowl where Geralt protected it so he could show it to his mentor.
“And do your brothers know about your ability?”
“No,” Geralt grunts. He loses hope that Vesemir will let him keep the egg to see what comes of it.
Vesemir’s fingers, crooked with age, grasp Geralt’s shoulder. “Then you’ll need to destroy it as I instructed.”
Geralt nods in the affirmative.
That night, under cover of darkness, he leaves his brothers to their Gwent and slips into the forest.
When the walls of Kaer Morhen retreat from his view, Geralt tips the contents of the bowl onto the dew-dampened ground. He finds a long branch as thick as his wrist. Overkill, but the fury wells inside him as he brings the branch down onto the egg. Over and over again, he smashes the fragile shell into oblivion.
Brutal.
Unrelenting.
Geralt’s tears have long since dried when he returns to finish the evening’s final hand of Gwent.
~
Two days from Rinde and the crack grows deeper.
Geralt insists on riding with the egg tucked against his chest. A makeshift sling cradles the fragile orb. If Roach stumbles, it will barely make a difference in whether the egg survives a fall or not, such is the damage that already seeps from the darkened crack.
Jaskier looks on with concern etched into his forehead between his brows.
Another mile passes in silence.
Geralt considers giving into Jaskier’s plea to visit Yennefer.
“The mage may be able to help,” Jaskier insists.
But learning about the egg might destroy the tentative goodwill Yennefer bears for Geralt despite his many shortcomings.
He has already failed in his role of tending to one child during her upbringing. Would it be so tragic for Yennefer to learn that he has fucked up with a second?
Geralt already knows what Jaskier thinks. The bard never fails to speak his mind.
~
“I’m not proud to admit that I’ve done this a number of times, with a number of different partners, and I’ve never seen anything like this vent before. I can only imagine that it’s one of your witchery things-”
Geralt twists to look over his shoulder. “You’re a liar,” he grunts.
“Pardon me?” Jaskier yelps. His hands fluster in the air.
Geralt swings his legs over the side of the bed. “You’re plenty proud that you’ve done this before.”
Jaskier plants his hands on his hips. His mouth opens and closes several times before he simply shakes his head and exclaims, “You’re an arse.”
Geralt groans and walks to the table where he pours himself a pitcher of ale. He ignores the way his hands shake when he contemplates the truth that Jaskier has learned.
“Geralt,” Jaskier says with contrition, “we need to talk.”
~
Geralt pores over the books in Kaer Morhen’s library.
The egg, the first he has produced since sleeping with Yennefer, rests safely in his room where it cannot be disturbed by his curious wolf brothers.
He flips through the pages of every book he can find, searching for hints about his biology and reproduction. He already knows that the Trials have made him sterile, but still the eggs come when he least expects them.
He worries that the hasty wish that links his and Yennefer’s destinies could be strong enough for a child to form. If Yennefer used her mage powers or one of her many spells to fertilize the egg while they coupled, the egg in his room might now contain the makings of a child.
Yennefer possesses no skills that will enable her to be a suitable mother. Her dangerous appetites and her thirst for power have no place in a childhood.
Yennefer’s scars affect every aspect of her mothering. Her transformation ensures that her womb will never carry a child, but Geralt cannot help wondering if somehow his egg might be fertilized.
Geralt hasn’t the heart to smash the egg outright.
And so he waits.
Week after week, he reads what he can find in the Kaer Morhen library, with every intention of never telling Yennefer about his egg-laying capabilities. The loss of an opportunity to raise a child will destroy her.
After more than a month of waiting, relief washes over him when he discovers the egg is empty.
Closing the books for the last time, Geralt can’t imagine what the future holds for himself, the mage, and the bard who he meets every spring.
Outside the window, the snow melts in dripping icicles from Kaer Morhen’s ramparts.
He decides that he should try to find Cirilla. The empty egg brings him to this place where fatherhood means much more to him than he previously thought possible.
~
“And so, that’s what brings us here,” Jaskier says with a flourish.
The scent of lilac and gooseberries wafts through the room where Yennefer conducts her potion-making. Despite the shelves lined with bottles and magical supplies, all eyes focus on the egg that sits across the room in the centre of Yennefer’s workbench.
Cirilla stares incredulously at the egg.
Geralt won’t take the egg, nor Cirilla, out of his sight, as if his mere gaze will offer them some protection.
Yennefer, who cares for Cirilla as deeply as if she were a child of her own, rests a gentle hand on her shoulder.
“I’d love to have a baby brother or sister someday,” Cirilla exclaims.
The heat of embarrassment rises to Geralt’s cheeks. He wonders if they’ve told Cirilla more information than strictly necessary.
Beneath the table where they are seated, Jaskier squeezes Geralt’s thigh to offer some comfort.
“Time for bed, Cirilla,” Yennefer says, pressing a kiss to the top of the princess’ head. “You’ve been working hard all day and you must be tired from your travels. I have your room all ready for you.”
Cirilla yawns, but asks, “Can’t I stay up a bit longer? I haven’t seen Geralt in months. And I haven’t seen Jaskier in half a year!”
Cirilla’s plea warms Geralt’s heart. He cannot believe how much Cirilla has grown in height since he last saw her. Under Vesemir’s tutelage, she has grown in physical prowess as well- with sparring and swordfighting as part of her daily routine. Her visits to Yennefer’s villa have broadened her knowledge of spells and potions. Someday, she will be as skilled as Geralt, maybe more so. He only hopes she will be wiser than him in matters of caring for the people most important to her. Geralt’s eyes leave Cirilla to focus on the egg, its dark crack wide and oozing drops of fluid.
“They’ll still be here in the morning,” Yennefer reminds Cirilla. “If you get a good night’s sleep, perhaps you can show Geralt the potions we were making in the morning.”
Cirilla beams at the mage. “I’d really like that,” she says.
“Off to sleep, then,” Yennefer says.
Cirilla rises from her chair and throws her arms around Geralt.
With the egg in plain view, Geralt’s hands shake as they skim over the rough fabric of Cirilla’s tunic. No matter how many times Geralt has been embraced by Cirilla, he has never felt more a father to her than tonight. He stands to walk with her to the door.
“Goodnight Jaskier,” Cirilla says, turning her attention to the bard.
“It’s good to see you again, princess,” Jaskier says, standing to give a formal bow before she pulls him in for a quick hug.
When the door closes behind Cirilla, Geralt lets out a sigh. Explaining about the egg went a lot smoother than he had anticipated. Cirilla seemed to take the existence of the egg in stride. And Yennefer hardly seemed upset by the knowledge that Geralt could produce an egg in the first place.
Geralt folds his arms across his chest and leans against the wall of the dark-panelled room, the woodwork rich with intricate carvings. For the first time in more than a month, a peace settles over him. With Jaskier at his side, Cirilla in his life, and Yennefer ready to lend him aid, his fears for the egg begin to dissipate.
Yennefer crosses the room and fits a key into the lock of a cabinet. After fidgeting with the lock for a moment, she pulls out a bottle of White Gull. With a wave of her hand and a whispered spell, the room’s drapes slide shut, blocking out the view of the setting sun. The candles in the sconces flicker to life with a word from the mage.
“Finally, some hospitality,” Jaskier exclaims when Yennefer sets three crystal glasses on the table.
Yennefer pours a shot into each of the glasses.
“What’s this about?” Geralt asks. He tentatively makes his way to the table, ever unsure about what antics Yennefer may have up her sleeve.
“Raise a glass, men,” Yennefer says, holding her glass high in the air. Then she adds, “You’re going to need this.”
“What do you mean by that?” Jaskier asks, sneaking a gulp of the alcohol before raising his glass for a toast.
Geralt steps forward to clutch a glass in his hand.
Jaskier turns his attention from Yennefer to Geralt and asks him, “What does she mean by that?”
“She knows something about the egg,” Geralt says.
The crack that has haunted Geralt’s thoughts takes all his attention, like a beacon from across the darkened room.
Jaskier nods, licking his lips. “What can you tell us about the egg, Yennefer?”
Yennefer strides across the room toward the egg. Her long silver gown flows behind her, the embellishments catching the candlelight. She lifts the egg from its resting place. With one hand, too casual for Geralt’s liking, she carries it to the table.
“You didn’t seem too upset about it,” Geralt says, his fingers clenching his glass of White Gull.
“No,” Yennefer replies.
“Hmm,” Geralt grunts in bewilderment.
“He thought you might be angry when you learned that he can produce eggs,” Jaskier elaborates.
Even now, the confession seems absurd to Geralt.
Jaskier adds, “You know, he’s kind of like a sexy hen.”
Geralt scowls at the bard, even though he knows he means well.
“We’re no longer together, so your eggs don’t concern me,” Yennefer says, balancing the battered egg in the palm of her hand.
“You’ve always wanted a child, Yennefer,” Geralt says solemnly.
Of course, Geralt had always believed that the mage would be a terrible mother. But learning how she has taken an interest in teaching Cirilla about potions and magic during her training breaks from Kaer Morhen and seeing Yennefer in her villa treating Cirilla with affection and care... it could convince him otherwise about her suitability as a mother.
“It doesn’t matter, Geralt. Your eggs will never be viable,” Yennefer says, throwing back the White Gull.
“What! It’s because he’s a witcher, right?” Jaskier asks, his eyes going wide.
“Not quite,” Yennefer quips, turning her empty glass upside down on the table.
Taking measured steps, Yennefer hands the egg to Geralt.
Despite Yennefer’s proclamation, Geralt holds the egg as if it means everything in the world to him. He sets his glass down, so he can tend to the cracked and oozing shell. He refuses to waste any chance he has to care for the egg that rests in his battle-scarred hands.
Jaskier’s bottom lip trembles as Yennefer steps threateningly toward him.
Geralt will not hesitate to protect Jaskier if Yennefer attacks him, even if he must care for the egg at the same time.
“It’s you,” Yennefer says, tapping Jaskier’s chin with a manicured fingernail.
“What?” Jaskier sputters.
“You’re as infertile as I am,” Yennefer announces.
“Yennefer,” Geralt chides, “How could you know that?”
“Before meeting Geralt, you warmed the beds of every noble lady and scullery maid across the Continent,” Yennefer says, addressing Jaskier with a tilt of her head. “Tell me, how many children have you sired, bard?”
“Uh-” With his back pressed against the wall, Jaskier makes to count on his fingers, but finally answers, “None?”
The news comes as a bit of a relief to Geralt. The jealousy that sometimes sparked when he considered Jaskier’s former partners now seems extinguished as if Yennefer’s fingers had pinched the flame into nothingness.
“You may remember that you sang some scales for me one day, long ago,” Yennefer explains.
“So?” Jaskier yelps. “I sing quite often, as you must know.”
“I knew when I gave your stones a squeeze,” Yennefer whispers with a smile on her lips. “They were as empty as this egg that you’ve carried here.”
“Well, I never-” Jaskier gapes.
“You’re saying he can’t sire a child?” Geralt asks, the egg still cradled in his hands.
Yennefer turns to Geralt and confirms it, “Nor can he fertilize a witcher’s egg.”
Jaskier sighs when Yennefer steps away from him. He smooths the front of his doublet with shaky hands, trying to maintain his suave demeanour, despite Yennefer’s revelation.
Geralt considers the damaged egg. The crack has almost split the fragile shell in half. Pale liquid seeps from the opening, leaking onto Geralt’s palms. The hope he once felt for raising his and Jaskier’s child vanishes, leaving in its place a pang of sorrow.
“I had no need for you then. And since you have each other, I have no need for either of you now,” Yennefer says. “But I’m truly sorry to have to divulge this disappointing information to you both. I know what it’s like to long for a child.”
To Geralt’s ears, she sounds sincere.
Jaskier clutches at Geralt’s arm, a solid comfort that gives Geralt strength.
“I’m off to sleep. You know where the guest room is located,” Yennefer says, nodding to Jaskier and Geralt. “I’m sure Cirilla would love to see you at breakfast.”
Geralt collapses into a chair when the door closes behind Yennefer.
Jaskier grabs a small tray and some strips of cloth from the potion supplies on the workbench. He kneels at Geralt’s feet.
“Darling, I’m so sorry,” Jaskier says, his hands resting on Geralt’s thighs. “If I had suspected….”
“No,” Geralt says. “It was foolish for me to think this egg might hatch.” Geralt nods to the supplies Jaskier has brought to him.
Jaskier lifts the tray and holds it beneath the egg.
Geralt tenderly sets the egg on the tray. He wipes the fluid from his hands onto a piece of cloth.
Without much disturbance, the egg splits in two. Each side collapses and falls away. Clear and unmarred, the contents of the egg pool onto the tray.
Geralt inhales sharply. “It’s empty, as she said it would be.”
Jaskier sobs as he moves the tray to the table beside them.
“I’m to blame,” Jaskier says, wiping away a tear. “If you think you might want to try to fertilize an egg with a different partner….”
Geralt doesn’t need a moment to consider what Jaskier proposes. “No, Jask, I could never,” he says. He pulls Jaskier toward him, making room so he can settle on his lap.
Jaskier winds his arms around Geralt’s neck and presses his forehead to Geralt’s.
Geralt breathes in Jaskier’s comforting scent, familiar and warm, alleviating his sorrow.
“I remember that day, after she healed me from the djinn,” Jaskier says, his breath warm on Geralt’s face.
“I almost lost you,” Geralt says. He buries his fingers in the bard’s hair and kisses him tenderly.
“I had nearly forgotten that she groped me,” Jaskier says, breathless when they break apart.
Geralt nods. “I’m relieved that she stopped herself when she found you didn’t have what she wanted. There’s no telling what she would have done if she unleashed her fury on you.”
“She’s changed a lot since then,” Jaskier says.
“Hmm,” Geralt murmurs.
“You’ve seen her with Cirilla,” Jaskier says. “Gods, she adores that girl.”
“She’s like a mother to her,” Geralt agrees. And before he can speak another word, he knows what he must do. The journey that he’s made while caring for the egg has come full circle. Without a viable egg to raise into a child, he sees a way to satisfy his need to nurture and to make up for the times he was absent from Cirilla’s life. He vows that he’ll do a better job of it this time, now that he has been given a second chance.
“Well, Cirilla is so much more than just a princess in a history book to us. She’s a flesh and blood person who lives and loves,” Jaskier says. “She could do with a parent, since she’s lost her own.”
“I think I know someone who may be up to the task,” Geralt says.
“Let me guess,” Jaskier says. “He has amber eyes and carries a pair of swords. He says he can’t love, but he’s a terrible liar about that.”
Jaskier plants a trail of soft kisses down Geralt’s neck.
Geralt cannot resist reminding him, “And he lays eggs like a sexy hen.”
“You!” Jaskier squeals. “You never fail to surprise me. I know you’ll do a wonderful job parenting.”
Geralt slips his hands beneath Jaskier’s doublet, feeling his warmth and letting his encouragement wash over him.
“Come on, let’s find that guest room before it gets too late,” Geralt says.
Jaskier climbs off Geralt’s lap and takes his hand. They close the door, leaving the remains of the egg behind. As they quietly make their way through the villa, they pass a room where the unsuspecting princess Cirilla sleeps. The next day will bring her a father who she already adores.
The end
Author: gwyllion
Genre: Canon era
Pairing: Geralt z Rivii|Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier|Dandelion
Rating: R
Words: 7,774
Warning: non-linear narrative, crack treated seriously, mention of a past non-consensual grope, fertility issues
Summary: Due to his extra mutations, Geralt sometimes lays an egg. He never thought about it much until he started having sex with Jaskier. The next time he lays an egg, he realizes it could be fertilized and decides to care for it for a month until he can candle it and find out.
A/N: A Second Chance was written for Witcher Wheel of the Year - Litha and as a Witcher Kink Meme fill for this prompt. Thanks to my wonderful beta, Gillian, whose insightful comments and helpful suggestions always make me a better writer.
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!
If he wraps the bundle well enough, the crack might not grow. Spare socks, an extra set of smallclothes, a silken scarf Yennefer left behind, all padding to line Roach’s saddlebag. The crack, a narrow line as straight as a lute string and thinner than a horsehair, threatens him with a warning of what may come if he doesn’t take care.
He failed Cirilla.
He avoided her earliest years.
He cannot make up for the lost time.
Although he tries.
The egg gives him a second chance.
Day after day, no matter how much he pads the egg’s resting place, the crack draws his eye first when he unwraps the cloth from his precious bit of witcher genetics. He traces the smooth surface with care, but no thrum answers the pulse in his fingertips. He presses his ear against the delicate orb of milky white and listens. Nothing yet.
“Geralt?”
Geralt knows better than to prod at the fragile shell. Jaskier will never let him hear the end of it if he splits the egg open with his thick fingers.
“Stop poking at it,” Jaskier reminds him gently.
Geralt grunts and pulls his fingers away.
“If it’s meant to hatch, it’ll do so in its own time,” Jaskier says as he glances at the egg. “I have a certain responsibility for it too - and I know how awful you’ll feel if you interfere with the natural course of these things. There’ll be time enough to worry today. Now help me pack up the bedrolls so we can get on the road.”
His nagging could rival that of any fish wife. Geralt stifles a groan.
“Darling?” Jaskier’s breath flutters across Geralt’s cheek. He leaves a kiss at the corner of his mouth.
Geralt accepts the small assurance. He pulls Jaskier close, but only for a moment, before letting go and turning his attention to the task of packing up camp. He’ll check the egg more than once before he finally packs it away for the ride.
The road ahead leads to Rinde and a contract to rid the local pond of drowners. The familiar route across even terrain makes easy travel for Roach. Her steps jostle the saddlebags only minimally, but Geralt’s brow still furrows with worry. The knowledge that Yennefer dwells in Rinde does not escape him.
Jaskier apparently has a plan of his own, which his nature determines that he cannot keep secret. It bubbles beneath the surface of every look, every touch. He inelegantly weaves his plan into the one-sided conversation that always accompanies their travels. As if Geralt wouldn’t notice.
“We could pop in to see your ex while we’re in Rinde,” Jaskier chatters as he ambles behind Geralt and Roach. His plan finally emerges into the open space between them. “We’ll be passing right by her place. I wanted to get some details about Aretuza from her so I can include them in the latest ballad I’m writing. It’s about the girls in training and the delicate matter of their reaching maturity.”
“Hmm,” Geralt grunts at Jaskier’s obvious lie, but the state of the egg holds his interest more than any ballad about young sorceresses.
Jaskier strums a few chords on his lute as he tries to draw Geralt’s attention, but the background noise does little to take Geralt’s thoughts from the egg and its dangerous crack.
“She knows a lot about fertility, I bet,” Jaskier rambles on. “After all she went through-”
“We’re not asking Yen about the egg,” Geralt says without turning his head toward Jaskier.
“I was just thinking,” Jaskier pleads, “since we’re going to be there, and she does know more about these things than either of us, apparently-”
Geralt brings Roach to a stop and meets Jaskier with a hard stare. When he has Jaskier’s undivided attention, he growls, “No.”
~
Ten miles from Posada, Jaskier hasn’t stopped to take a breath.
The babbling and singing disrupt the forest. Geralt can’t listen for the supposed devil over the cacophony, despite his oversensitive hearing. Jigs, ballads, rousing drinking songs, awkward works-in-progress… the bard must think his playing will scare the monsters away. Humans always think shit like that.
Geralt wants to punch him again, knock the wind from his lungs so he’ll shut up for an hour or two. He shifts his arse in the saddle. Jaskier’s singing annoys, but the dull ache in Geralt’s abdomen steals his attention. Like a scorpion’s pinch at the base of his spine, the pain grows with every step Roach takes. The familiar burden must be dispelled. He doesn’t relish explaining his discomfort to the bard, so he leaps from the saddle and stalks off through the woods.
“Geralt!” Jaskier calls after him. “Where are you going?”
Geralt picks up speed, putting distance between himself and the bard. Twigs snap underfoot.
“Geralt?” Jaskier cries in a higher pitch than Geralt has heard this morning. “Don’t leave me here!”
Geralt ducks behind a stout tree and draws his trousers down. The egg has already partially emerged, warm and wet. He grips its sticky slickness with his fingers and twists it the rest of the way out of its vent.
“Geralt?” the bard calls from somewhere in the forest.
Geralt sets the egg in a bed of moss. He finds a rock the size of his palm and smashes the egg, just as Vesemir taught him. The shattered shell crushes inward. Clear fluid leaks onto the forest floor.
“Geralt! The devil might appear at any moment and although I’d love to have a tale about it, I can’t very well write anything if I’ve been killed,” Jaskier pleads, closing the distance between them.
He ventures closer than Geralt would like.
Geralt pulls his trousers up and kicks some duff from the forest floor onto the egg’s remains. He sets off to lead the bard out of the woods before he can wander too deeply into the maze of twisted spruce and thistle.
“Geralt!” Jaskier shouts with relief as Geralt steps out from behind a cluster of trees. “Finally, thank Melitele!”
Geralt strides past Jaskier, heading for the road where Roach waits for his return. Already his insides settle into a more comfortable arrangement. Guts and sinew relax in a familiar tangle, relieved of their burden.
Jaskier trips over brush and brambles as he follows. Still perturbed at being left alone, he rails at Geralt. “I could have been killed, you know. I can’t believe you just left me defenceless with only my lute to fend off the devil. And while my talents are many, I doubt a devil would be impressed with my musical oeuvre. You could at least have told me where you were going.”
Geralt mounts Roach and grumbles, “I didn’t know I needed your permission to take a shit.”
Roach whinnies once, spurred on by Geralt’s heels, before setting off on the road.
“Well, I suppose not,” Jaskier admits. He sulkily strums his lute and follows closely behind.
~
“This anomaly won’t happen to every witcher, but if an egg is expelled, you need to know how to handle it,” Vesemir explains without sympathy.
Lambert elbows Geralt as they sit in the dusty lecture hall at Kaer Morhen.
“Pay attention, lads,” Vesemir cautions them. “When the egg is fully outside your body, you should destroy it. We wouldn’t want it getting into the hands of an unscrupulous mage.”
A southern breeze wafts through the open windows. Soon the warmth-laden wind will melt the ice from the pass and the newly minted witchers will begin their journey on the Path.
“Could one of these eggs actually hatch?” Eskel asks as if he genuinely believes that it could.
Vesemir scoffs before raising an eyebrow and saying, “Even if you did produce an egg, it’s not likely that a woman would have the physical means to impregnate one of you, is it?”
Lambert laughs out loud at the notion.
Geralt hums in understanding. He hopes he won’t suffer the misfortune of producing an egg, or gods forbid-fatherhood, but he’ll follow his mentor’s instructions, nonetheless.
~
Geralt lies awake long after Jaskier has fallen asleep. He slips out of his bedroll without disturbing the bard.
He needs to check.
The crack hasn’t grown, but they are still a week from Rinde and as many days from when he can candle the egg to verify its contents.
With his momentary absence undetected, he squeezes back into the bedroll and curls into Jaskier’s side. He guiltily seeks comfort in the warmth of Jaskier’s sleepy embrace, grateful for the acceptance. Geralt can no longer remember the time when he slept alone and unloved, despite his terse speech and inhuman conduct.
Jaskier always welcomes him to a home… and a family he never knew he needed.
~
Their friendship ends with a tirade.
Their romance begins with an apology.
The collision with a destiny that neither of them anticipated resumes on a mountainside in Barefield.
“I guess I’ll see you around, Geralt.”
Rage seethes through Geralt’s bones, squeezing out from the marrow.
He didn’t need Borch to confirm what he already knew.
Yennefer never belonged to him. The djinn’s ruse had lured Geralt into combining their destinies.
He has lost Yennefer, but he still has time to save his relationship with Jaskier.
“Wait,” Geralt calls.
The bard pauses his steps on the rocky incline. His shoulders sink, losing the stiffened posture he had gained when Geralt berated him. Still, he doesn’t turn around.
“Jaskier,” Geralt calls as he trots to catch up with him.
The heated breeze makes the sweat on Geralt’s brow evaporate as thoroughly as the furrowed lines on his forehead that betray his distress.
“Jaskier,” Geralt says, as softly as he can manage, reaching out to clasp the bard’s shoulder through his rich crimson doublet.
His eyes overflowing with tears, Jaskier turns to face him. But the bard only lets out a gurgling sob.
“I’m sorry,” Geralt says. He cannot face Jaskier, such is his guilty shame, so he stares at the ground by Jaskier’s feet.
“Geralt?” Jaskier asks, shaky as he cups Geralt’s chin in his clammy hand.
“You said something about going to the coast,” Geralt reminds him, hoping it earns Jaskier’s forgiveness.
With Jaskier at his side and a glass of Toussaint’s finest in his hand, the sunset over Skellige begins to ease every doubt that dwelled in Geralt’s heart.
His ability to produce an egg fades into the most distant recesses of his mind.
~
Lambert emerges from the hedge where they’ve dug their latrine. He lets out a howl that draws the attention of the other students.
The witchers in training at Kaer Morhen pause their practice, dropping swords to the ground and running to see what Lambert has found.
“Gods, Lambert,” Eskel scowls, “What’s so important that we stop sparring?”
“He wants to show us that he’s done the world’s biggest shit, I venture,” Coen laughs as he clasps a hand on Geralt’s shoulder.
Geralt trots along with his brothers, too aware of what Lambert has likely found.
Clouds hang low over the valley. The scent of rain fills the air. A downpour might dissipate the gathering at the edge of the latrine, the stink of urine and shit too much for witcher’s sensitive nostrils.
“We’ve got an egg-laying lady witcher among us,” Lambert says. He spits out the words as if they are burnt garlic.
“Fuck you, Lambert.”
“None of us have laid an egg!”
“It must have been dropped by a bird.”
“Who was the last to take a shit?”
“It wasn’t me,” Eskel says.
“I saw Geralt over here a while ago.”
“I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” Geralt replies with a scowl.
“Didn’t you just take a shit?” Eskel calls to Lambert.
“I came over here and called when I found the remnants of this egg,” Lambert says, stabbing at the gelatinous liquid with the point of his sword.
“I thought Clovis was over there after Geralt.”
“I didn’t lay an egg though,” Clovis exclaims.
“Liar!” Lambert insists, taking a swing at Clovis.
Clovis blocks Lambert’s strike and both witchers fall to the ground in a flurry of fists, elbows, and kicking boots.
Eskel leaps into the fray and tries to tear the two apart.
Geralt stands with the jeering group of onlookers as the fight between two becomes a fight between three.
By the time Vesemir arrives to sort them out, three men are covered in mud, blood, and grime. For their transgressions, Vesemir makes them scrub Kaer Morhen’s stone floors until they gleam.
Geralt resumes his training with the rest of the members of the wolf school. He vows that the next time he produces an egg, he will take better care to conceal the remains from his brothers.
~
“Do you think… maybe… do you think there could be more eggs?” Jaskier asks, his voice an octave higher than Geralt is accustomed.
“Hmm,” Geralt grunts, but he doesn’t take his eyes off the egg, its crack growing more prominent by the day.
A brook provides fresh water for Roach. Stout willow trees border the bank, offering a shady respite from the sun.
“I’m thinking that if this egg doesn’t hatch into a little being, maybe you’ll produce another egg that might?” Jaskier asks wistfully. “Geralt?”
Geralt refuses to let Jaskier distract him from his solitary meditation over the egg that rests in its wrappings.
“Geralt?” Jaskier sits beside him on the grassy brookbank. “I asked you something, darling.”
“Hmm,” Geralt hums, annoyed at Jaskier’s questions that ruin his concentration.
Jaskier kneels beside him, but Geralt is lost in thought.
Has the crack grown even larger?
Does it make a sound when it cracks?
Would a witcher be able to hear the contents move if the egg is stored in Roach’s saddlebag?
“What?” Geralt snaps when Jaskier clasps his hands on his shoulders.
Jaskier’s hands pause in their movements, resuming only when he perceives Geralt’s unvoiced apology.
Geralt’s head slumps forward as he lets Jaskier’s hands soothe him. He struggles to give into Jaskier’s ministrations, despite him knowing that it feels right to have the comfort from a partner in these difficult times.
The egg and its world of possibilities tug on him like the restless waves against the rocky shoreline. They draw him further and further from the safety of the sand, the reassurance of Jaskier’s hands.
Jaskier calls to him from across a great distance, but Geralt cannot turn his attention away from the egg.
The egg.
His chance to raise a child again.
Not like Cirilla.
He needs to do better this time.
Jaskier will help.
This time, Geralt will not be alone. The egg won’t need to hatch unguided by its father and in the care of a queen.
He has Jaskier now.
Jaskier hums softly as he works the tension from Geralt’s shoulders.
“Jaskier?”
“I’m here, Geralt,” Jaskier says. “I’m always here for you, dear.”
~
Geralt didn’t expect to enjoy his visit to the coast. Long days, without a contract to hunt a monster, dissolve into afternoons waiting for the golden sunset to wash over the sandy shore.
Jaskier strums his lute. His teeth trap his tongue as he works out the chords that will best accompany the lyrics that he scribbles in his notebook. He gazes skyward until he finds the best words to describe his thoughts. As if to confirm their accuracy, he turns his eyes to Geralt.
How had Geralt never noticed their brilliant blue, even when they were cast his way so often?
Geralt doffs his boots and lets his toes clench the granules of sand from where he sits. The smell of the salty ocean fills his nostrils, but not unpleasantly so. The rhythmic crash of waves, the tranquil seaside, combined with Jaskier’s gentle lute-playing, soothe him more than a purse filled with coins, payment for a job well done. Behind him, the rented villa rises from the shore.
Before sunset, the housekeeper lights a candle in each window so they can find their way home.
Geralt doesn’t dare ask how much Jaskier has paid for the privilege of their luxurious quarters. Geralt suspects the bard will make up a story about the villa belonging to a friend of the Pankratz family so he can hide the darker truth that he won the use of the villa from a countess, a duke, or some other sophisticated bedmate.
How many seeds has Jaskier planted as he’s fucked his way across the Continent?
Geralt won’t ask, so Jaskier will have no need to tell. The thought of Jaskier sharing intimacy with ladies or lords of the court makes Geralt bristle. He takes a sip of wine from his goblet. The velvet taste lingers on his tongue and soothes his jealous thoughts.
Satisfied with his composing progress for the day, Jaskier stands to pack his lute carefully into its case. He turns his face into the ocean breeze and brushes sand from his trousers. The wind ruffles his hair. Silky strands catch on his long eyelashes.
Geralt wants to brush them out of the way.
Geralt wants so many things from Jaskier, but he deserves none of them.
A gull circles overhead as the tide comes higher on the shore. The ripple of waves reaches for Geralt’s toes.
“It’s time we headed in,” Jaskier says.
Geralt lifts his gaze from the sand. Before him, Jaskier’s outstretched hand offers to pull him up from his seat on the beach.
“Are you ready?” Jaskier asks.
The reflection of the sea in the bard’s eyes fills Geralt with want. He acknowledges to himself that he didn’t desire the contrived destiny when he bound Yennefer to him. Not when Jaskier, his voice full of hope, stood before him in the wake of every day.
He realizes now, it’s always been Jaskier.
“Ready,” Geralt grunts. Ready for Jaskier to lift him from the beach, just as it took the argument on the mountainside to lift the fog from Geralt’s vision. He rises, tugged by Jaskier’s hand.
Jaskier smiles when Geralt’s arms wrap around him. He presses a kiss to Geralt’s lips.
A sob rises from Geralt’s throat as the twinge of pain pinches at his core. He’ll need to find a way to get rid of the burgeoning egg before Jaskier finds out. But for now, Geralt sinks into Jaskier’s embrace, letting himself feel a warmth he never imagined he’d find.
~
“Let’s not bullshit,” Vesemir addresses the gathering of witchers. “If you complete your training, you will understand why no one will ever love a witcher. Witchers make poor parents and even poorer partners.”
A shiver runs through Geralt as he considers his own poor parentage. It seems he’ll have something in common with the woman who left him on the side of the road all those years ago.
“Few will feel any sympathy for what you have suffered to achieve your position,” Vesemir reminds them. “You have one purpose. You have been trained to eradicate monsters that plague every sphere. Collect coin. Live within your means. Follow the Path until its lonely end.”
~
“You do understand that I can hear you?” Geralt says, taking his eyes off the egg for a moment.
Jaskier saunters into camp from the direction of the stream, where he allegedly went to relieve himself, but Geralt knows better. The sound of Cirilla’s voice as she spoke to the bard rang through to Geralt’s ears more strongly than the rushing of the water. Both Jaskier and Cirilla should know by now that his enhanced hearing enables him to listen to the most private of conversations.
“I wasn’t trying to be secretive,” Jaskier says, making no effort to conceal the xenovox before he tucks it into the saddlebag.
“You two gossip like a pair of farm wives on market day,” Geralt snorts. He holds the egg to the sunlight so he can inspect the crack. Still no shadow lies beneath the thin shell. It won’t be much longer before a candling will illuminate its contents.
“I can’t help it if she thinks of me as a farm wife,” Jaskier tuts. He finds a seat on a thick log beside Geralt.
“She likes you,” Geralt says, placing the egg tenderly inside the nest of wrappings he has designated as its resting place.
“Cirilla? Yes she does like me. I’m adorable! But she loves you,” Jaskier reminds him.
Geralt scoffs at the notion. She tolerates him. But she genuinely likes Jaskier.
“Methinks you’re a bit jealous,” Jaskier says, picking up his lute.
Geralt groans at the notion, giving Jaskier the space to continue.
Jaskier composes an explanation on the spot, singing, “A lovely princess learned, of a witcher and his bard, when they made their way toward Rinde, their road dusty and hard. She promised to convince, a lilac-eyed mage with raven hair, to open a portal for the princess, so we could have a visit there.”
“Jaskier,” Geralt grunts.
“It will be good to see her,” Jaskier says, putting down his lute. “She’s been hard at work in Kaer Morhen for months.”
Geralt groans.
Jaskier reaches out and strokes the top of the egg. “I didn’t even mention the little parcel that you keep tucked away in your saddlebag.”
Geralt bares his teeth and growls.
Jaskier raises his hands placatingly.
“I don’t want Yen knowing anything about this,” Geralt says, motioning toward the egg.
Jaskier sighs. After a moment of silence, he pulls Geralt to him in an awkward embrace.
“She can’t find out about it,” Geralt says, shifting to rest his head on Jaskier’s shoulder.
“I know how you feel,” Jaskier says, running his hand through Geralt’s long white hair. “But would it really be so bad for them to know about the egg?”
“Ciri… she could be told… maybe someday,” Geralt says, leaning into Jaskier’s touch. “But it would be cruel to tell Yennefer about it. She can’t know, not when she’s wanted a child for so long.”
Jaskier hums in acknowledgement.
The bard might not agree with everything Geralt wishes, but even he should be able to see the benefit of keeping Yennefer as an ally.
“And I think it’s rather unfair to Cirilla, so I’m not entirely sure that she should be told,” Geralt says.
Jaskier’s fingers stop carding through Geralt’s hair. “How is it unfair? Do you worry she’ll be jealous if you have a new offspring to raise?”
Geralt groans. “No. I’m just thinking of my poor parenting skills that Cirilla never got to experience-”
“Thanks be to Melitele’s ample bosom that she never did,” Jaskier interjects.
Geralt grins, something he hasn’t been able to do lately, not since the egg and the realization that it could have been fertilized by Jaskier.
“You’ll do better this time,” Jaskier reassures him.
“Hmm,” Geralt hums. Perhaps Jaskier’s faith in him will inspire him to be a better parent to whatever creature emerges from the egg.
“I know you will,” Jaskier murmurs, his fingers massaging Geralt’s scalp again.
“Cirilla might be told, possibly,” Geralt says introspectively. “She may forgive me someday for all the times I should have gone to her when she was a child.”
Jaskier’s fingers stop their movement. The bard twists so Geralt can face him.
Upon seeing Jaskier’s delighted smile, Geralt asks, “But how can I explain to her about the egg?”
~
Geralt drops his swords in the corner and closes the door behind him.
“You’re back, thank the gods,” Jaskier rises from his chair in the small room they’ve taken in the inn.
Geralt’s shoulders sink, finally able to relax after a bruxa hunt.
Jaskier begins to unbuckle Geralt’s armour before he notices the gaping pupils, the veins streaking his skin in an inky black as the potions leave Geralt’s body.
“Oh.” Jaskier pauses in his efforts to free Geralt from the blood-slickened leather. He lays a hand on Geralt’s cheek and says, “It was a difficult one, wasn’t it, dear?”
“Coin,” Geralt grunts, dropping the heavy bag of gold on the floor at Jaskier’s feet.
“Yes, getting payment may be lovely, but I hate to see you overdoing it. Are you hurt?” Jaskier’s eyes rove over the witcher as he undresses him. His hands softly stroke every inch of skin as he uncovers the scarred flesh that he knows so well.
“Just tired,” Geralt assures him. He gives himself over to Jaskier’s ministrations. With each removed article of armour and garments, he allows the bard to see that he has no wounds in need of stitching, no bruises in need of salve. Not this time.
“Your bath awaits, although you may want to give it a shot of your witchering,” Jaskier says as he waggles his fingers, attempting to make the sign for Igni.
Geralt catches Jaskier’s hand in mid-air, stopping its motion.
Jaskier bites his bottom lip as he lets Geralt manipulate his fingers.
“Like this,” Geralt whispers. He inhales Jaskier’s comforting scent, chamomile and honey. A patient trust, born from spending years together on the Path, allows him this dalliance of sharing his magic with his human companion. He manipulates Jaskier’s fingers with his own and casts the sign.
Jaskier’s eyes sparkle with glee as the steam rises from the tub. His amusement at the intimate privilege of helping Geralt cast never grows old. He pulls Geralt close and mouths at his neck. “I do love you so,” he whispers.
Something deep in Geralt’s chest loosens. The stress of the hunt dissipates like fog in the morning sun, freeing Geralt to bask in the attention Jaskier pays him as he bathes.
Soft candlelight and quiet murmurs take Geralt far from the chaotic scene with the bruxa. He relaxes as the bard’s gentle fingers work the tangles from his hair. A heated towel rests over his face, restoring his eyes and potion-poisoned veins to their usual calmed state.
After he has reheated the water too many times to count, Geralt rises from the bath. His skin warm, the heat alleviates the ache that the hunt inflicted on his aging body.
Jaskier wraps him in layers of soft towels. “Come to bed,” Jaskier coos, whispering soothing words to his witcher.
Geralt hesitates, thinking himself undeserving, but he knows better than to refuse such care. He lets his head fall from one side to the other, stretching one last kink out of his neck before Jaskier leads him to the bed.
“You’re so good to me,” Geralt mumbles an acknowledgement as he sinks face down into the furs.
“Of course I am, dearest one,” Jaskier tuts as he warms the lightly scented oil between his hands.
The pressure on Geralt’s back lulls him into restfulness. He groans softly when Jaskier works his strong hands across his skin. His fingers trace every scar, every bruise, with care.
In the days before Jaskier existed, Geralt walked a solitary Path. He never dared to imagine how a lover’s touch would feel, but now he cannot live without Jaskier’s caring hands to work out any residual knots that the bath left untended.
“You deserve nice things,” Jaskier murmurs, distracting Geralt from his reverie.
“Hmm,” Geralt replies, shifting so he rests his forehead on folded arms. He leaves the bard to interpret whether he believes him or not.
Jaskier’s hands pause on Geralt’s back as he considers his actions in the next moments. He apparently accepts the opportunity to bestow his own interpretation of nice things upon Geralt.
Geralt gasps into the furs as Jaskier’s hands move lower, venturing across the globes of his arse, still warm from the bath.
“Here’s something nice for you, love,” Jaskier whispers.
Geralt cannot see his face, but he imagines the gleam in Jaskier’s eyes. Without a moment to think, Geralt tenses as Jaskier’s thumb caresses his hole.
“There, there,” Jaskier calms Geralt with a murmur and an assuring press of his palms.
Geralt sinks deeper into the furs. He inhales the scent of Jaskier’s shampoo, where the bard rested in the bed while Geralt hunted down the bruxa, but the scent of Jaskier’s arousal overpowers the fragrant lavender and thyme on the bedding.
“Let me take care of you,” Jaskier whispers as he massages the flesh of Geralt’s arse.
Geralt widens his legs in agreement, thighs drifting apart, knees sliding across the soft furs. He waits for Jaskier’s intimate touch again, revelling in the pleasures they have learned to give each other. Sleep has overtaken his muscles. He basks in the delight of his surrender into Jaskier’s caring hands.
Jaskier rewards him with a spread of oil across his hole.
Geralt gasps as his cock fully hardens, trapped between his belly and the bedding. The bard reeks of lust, assuring Geralt that he wants him in this way.
Jaskier pulls the globes of Geralt’s arse in opposite directions while his tongue laves affection on the sensitive skin between Geralt’s muscular thighs.
A whine escapes Geralt’s lips, his face buried in the pillows, cock straining against the furs. But his eyes fly open, desire forgotten, when Jaskier’s probing fingers find the vent.
~
Vesemir nods his head solemnly.
The egg rests, intact, inside the wooden bowl where Geralt protected it so he could show it to his mentor.
“And do your brothers know about your ability?”
“No,” Geralt grunts. He loses hope that Vesemir will let him keep the egg to see what comes of it.
Vesemir’s fingers, crooked with age, grasp Geralt’s shoulder. “Then you’ll need to destroy it as I instructed.”
Geralt nods in the affirmative.
That night, under cover of darkness, he leaves his brothers to their Gwent and slips into the forest.
When the walls of Kaer Morhen retreat from his view, Geralt tips the contents of the bowl onto the dew-dampened ground. He finds a long branch as thick as his wrist. Overkill, but the fury wells inside him as he brings the branch down onto the egg. Over and over again, he smashes the fragile shell into oblivion.
Brutal.
Unrelenting.
Geralt’s tears have long since dried when he returns to finish the evening’s final hand of Gwent.
~
Two days from Rinde and the crack grows deeper.
Geralt insists on riding with the egg tucked against his chest. A makeshift sling cradles the fragile orb. If Roach stumbles, it will barely make a difference in whether the egg survives a fall or not, such is the damage that already seeps from the darkened crack.
Jaskier looks on with concern etched into his forehead between his brows.
Another mile passes in silence.
Geralt considers giving into Jaskier’s plea to visit Yennefer.
“The mage may be able to help,” Jaskier insists.
But learning about the egg might destroy the tentative goodwill Yennefer bears for Geralt despite his many shortcomings.
He has already failed in his role of tending to one child during her upbringing. Would it be so tragic for Yennefer to learn that he has fucked up with a second?
Geralt already knows what Jaskier thinks. The bard never fails to speak his mind.
~
“I’m not proud to admit that I’ve done this a number of times, with a number of different partners, and I’ve never seen anything like this vent before. I can only imagine that it’s one of your witchery things-”
Geralt twists to look over his shoulder. “You’re a liar,” he grunts.
“Pardon me?” Jaskier yelps. His hands fluster in the air.
Geralt swings his legs over the side of the bed. “You’re plenty proud that you’ve done this before.”
Jaskier plants his hands on his hips. His mouth opens and closes several times before he simply shakes his head and exclaims, “You’re an arse.”
Geralt groans and walks to the table where he pours himself a pitcher of ale. He ignores the way his hands shake when he contemplates the truth that Jaskier has learned.
“Geralt,” Jaskier says with contrition, “we need to talk.”
~
Geralt pores over the books in Kaer Morhen’s library.
The egg, the first he has produced since sleeping with Yennefer, rests safely in his room where it cannot be disturbed by his curious wolf brothers.
He flips through the pages of every book he can find, searching for hints about his biology and reproduction. He already knows that the Trials have made him sterile, but still the eggs come when he least expects them.
He worries that the hasty wish that links his and Yennefer’s destinies could be strong enough for a child to form. If Yennefer used her mage powers or one of her many spells to fertilize the egg while they coupled, the egg in his room might now contain the makings of a child.
Yennefer possesses no skills that will enable her to be a suitable mother. Her dangerous appetites and her thirst for power have no place in a childhood.
Yennefer’s scars affect every aspect of her mothering. Her transformation ensures that her womb will never carry a child, but Geralt cannot help wondering if somehow his egg might be fertilized.
Geralt hasn’t the heart to smash the egg outright.
And so he waits.
Week after week, he reads what he can find in the Kaer Morhen library, with every intention of never telling Yennefer about his egg-laying capabilities. The loss of an opportunity to raise a child will destroy her.
After more than a month of waiting, relief washes over him when he discovers the egg is empty.
Closing the books for the last time, Geralt can’t imagine what the future holds for himself, the mage, and the bard who he meets every spring.
Outside the window, the snow melts in dripping icicles from Kaer Morhen’s ramparts.
He decides that he should try to find Cirilla. The empty egg brings him to this place where fatherhood means much more to him than he previously thought possible.
~
“And so, that’s what brings us here,” Jaskier says with a flourish.
The scent of lilac and gooseberries wafts through the room where Yennefer conducts her potion-making. Despite the shelves lined with bottles and magical supplies, all eyes focus on the egg that sits across the room in the centre of Yennefer’s workbench.
Cirilla stares incredulously at the egg.
Geralt won’t take the egg, nor Cirilla, out of his sight, as if his mere gaze will offer them some protection.
Yennefer, who cares for Cirilla as deeply as if she were a child of her own, rests a gentle hand on her shoulder.
“I’d love to have a baby brother or sister someday,” Cirilla exclaims.
The heat of embarrassment rises to Geralt’s cheeks. He wonders if they’ve told Cirilla more information than strictly necessary.
Beneath the table where they are seated, Jaskier squeezes Geralt’s thigh to offer some comfort.
“Time for bed, Cirilla,” Yennefer says, pressing a kiss to the top of the princess’ head. “You’ve been working hard all day and you must be tired from your travels. I have your room all ready for you.”
Cirilla yawns, but asks, “Can’t I stay up a bit longer? I haven’t seen Geralt in months. And I haven’t seen Jaskier in half a year!”
Cirilla’s plea warms Geralt’s heart. He cannot believe how much Cirilla has grown in height since he last saw her. Under Vesemir’s tutelage, she has grown in physical prowess as well- with sparring and swordfighting as part of her daily routine. Her visits to Yennefer’s villa have broadened her knowledge of spells and potions. Someday, she will be as skilled as Geralt, maybe more so. He only hopes she will be wiser than him in matters of caring for the people most important to her. Geralt’s eyes leave Cirilla to focus on the egg, its dark crack wide and oozing drops of fluid.
“They’ll still be here in the morning,” Yennefer reminds Cirilla. “If you get a good night’s sleep, perhaps you can show Geralt the potions we were making in the morning.”
Cirilla beams at the mage. “I’d really like that,” she says.
“Off to sleep, then,” Yennefer says.
Cirilla rises from her chair and throws her arms around Geralt.
With the egg in plain view, Geralt’s hands shake as they skim over the rough fabric of Cirilla’s tunic. No matter how many times Geralt has been embraced by Cirilla, he has never felt more a father to her than tonight. He stands to walk with her to the door.
“Goodnight Jaskier,” Cirilla says, turning her attention to the bard.
“It’s good to see you again, princess,” Jaskier says, standing to give a formal bow before she pulls him in for a quick hug.
When the door closes behind Cirilla, Geralt lets out a sigh. Explaining about the egg went a lot smoother than he had anticipated. Cirilla seemed to take the existence of the egg in stride. And Yennefer hardly seemed upset by the knowledge that Geralt could produce an egg in the first place.
Geralt folds his arms across his chest and leans against the wall of the dark-panelled room, the woodwork rich with intricate carvings. For the first time in more than a month, a peace settles over him. With Jaskier at his side, Cirilla in his life, and Yennefer ready to lend him aid, his fears for the egg begin to dissipate.
Yennefer crosses the room and fits a key into the lock of a cabinet. After fidgeting with the lock for a moment, she pulls out a bottle of White Gull. With a wave of her hand and a whispered spell, the room’s drapes slide shut, blocking out the view of the setting sun. The candles in the sconces flicker to life with a word from the mage.
“Finally, some hospitality,” Jaskier exclaims when Yennefer sets three crystal glasses on the table.
Yennefer pours a shot into each of the glasses.
“What’s this about?” Geralt asks. He tentatively makes his way to the table, ever unsure about what antics Yennefer may have up her sleeve.
“Raise a glass, men,” Yennefer says, holding her glass high in the air. Then she adds, “You’re going to need this.”
“What do you mean by that?” Jaskier asks, sneaking a gulp of the alcohol before raising his glass for a toast.
Geralt steps forward to clutch a glass in his hand.
Jaskier turns his attention from Yennefer to Geralt and asks him, “What does she mean by that?”
“She knows something about the egg,” Geralt says.
The crack that has haunted Geralt’s thoughts takes all his attention, like a beacon from across the darkened room.
Jaskier nods, licking his lips. “What can you tell us about the egg, Yennefer?”
Yennefer strides across the room toward the egg. Her long silver gown flows behind her, the embellishments catching the candlelight. She lifts the egg from its resting place. With one hand, too casual for Geralt’s liking, she carries it to the table.
“You didn’t seem too upset about it,” Geralt says, his fingers clenching his glass of White Gull.
“No,” Yennefer replies.
“Hmm,” Geralt grunts in bewilderment.
“He thought you might be angry when you learned that he can produce eggs,” Jaskier elaborates.
Even now, the confession seems absurd to Geralt.
Jaskier adds, “You know, he’s kind of like a sexy hen.”
Geralt scowls at the bard, even though he knows he means well.
“We’re no longer together, so your eggs don’t concern me,” Yennefer says, balancing the battered egg in the palm of her hand.
“You’ve always wanted a child, Yennefer,” Geralt says solemnly.
Of course, Geralt had always believed that the mage would be a terrible mother. But learning how she has taken an interest in teaching Cirilla about potions and magic during her training breaks from Kaer Morhen and seeing Yennefer in her villa treating Cirilla with affection and care... it could convince him otherwise about her suitability as a mother.
“It doesn’t matter, Geralt. Your eggs will never be viable,” Yennefer says, throwing back the White Gull.
“What! It’s because he’s a witcher, right?” Jaskier asks, his eyes going wide.
“Not quite,” Yennefer quips, turning her empty glass upside down on the table.
Taking measured steps, Yennefer hands the egg to Geralt.
Despite Yennefer’s proclamation, Geralt holds the egg as if it means everything in the world to him. He sets his glass down, so he can tend to the cracked and oozing shell. He refuses to waste any chance he has to care for the egg that rests in his battle-scarred hands.
Jaskier’s bottom lip trembles as Yennefer steps threateningly toward him.
Geralt will not hesitate to protect Jaskier if Yennefer attacks him, even if he must care for the egg at the same time.
“It’s you,” Yennefer says, tapping Jaskier’s chin with a manicured fingernail.
“What?” Jaskier sputters.
“You’re as infertile as I am,” Yennefer announces.
“Yennefer,” Geralt chides, “How could you know that?”
“Before meeting Geralt, you warmed the beds of every noble lady and scullery maid across the Continent,” Yennefer says, addressing Jaskier with a tilt of her head. “Tell me, how many children have you sired, bard?”
“Uh-” With his back pressed against the wall, Jaskier makes to count on his fingers, but finally answers, “None?”
The news comes as a bit of a relief to Geralt. The jealousy that sometimes sparked when he considered Jaskier’s former partners now seems extinguished as if Yennefer’s fingers had pinched the flame into nothingness.
“You may remember that you sang some scales for me one day, long ago,” Yennefer explains.
“So?” Jaskier yelps. “I sing quite often, as you must know.”
“I knew when I gave your stones a squeeze,” Yennefer whispers with a smile on her lips. “They were as empty as this egg that you’ve carried here.”
“Well, I never-” Jaskier gapes.
“You’re saying he can’t sire a child?” Geralt asks, the egg still cradled in his hands.
Yennefer turns to Geralt and confirms it, “Nor can he fertilize a witcher’s egg.”
Jaskier sighs when Yennefer steps away from him. He smooths the front of his doublet with shaky hands, trying to maintain his suave demeanour, despite Yennefer’s revelation.
Geralt considers the damaged egg. The crack has almost split the fragile shell in half. Pale liquid seeps from the opening, leaking onto Geralt’s palms. The hope he once felt for raising his and Jaskier’s child vanishes, leaving in its place a pang of sorrow.
“I had no need for you then. And since you have each other, I have no need for either of you now,” Yennefer says. “But I’m truly sorry to have to divulge this disappointing information to you both. I know what it’s like to long for a child.”
To Geralt’s ears, she sounds sincere.
Jaskier clutches at Geralt’s arm, a solid comfort that gives Geralt strength.
“I’m off to sleep. You know where the guest room is located,” Yennefer says, nodding to Jaskier and Geralt. “I’m sure Cirilla would love to see you at breakfast.”
Geralt collapses into a chair when the door closes behind Yennefer.
Jaskier grabs a small tray and some strips of cloth from the potion supplies on the workbench. He kneels at Geralt’s feet.
“Darling, I’m so sorry,” Jaskier says, his hands resting on Geralt’s thighs. “If I had suspected….”
“No,” Geralt says. “It was foolish for me to think this egg might hatch.” Geralt nods to the supplies Jaskier has brought to him.
Jaskier lifts the tray and holds it beneath the egg.
Geralt tenderly sets the egg on the tray. He wipes the fluid from his hands onto a piece of cloth.
Without much disturbance, the egg splits in two. Each side collapses and falls away. Clear and unmarred, the contents of the egg pool onto the tray.
Geralt inhales sharply. “It’s empty, as she said it would be.”
Jaskier sobs as he moves the tray to the table beside them.
“I’m to blame,” Jaskier says, wiping away a tear. “If you think you might want to try to fertilize an egg with a different partner….”
Geralt doesn’t need a moment to consider what Jaskier proposes. “No, Jask, I could never,” he says. He pulls Jaskier toward him, making room so he can settle on his lap.
Jaskier winds his arms around Geralt’s neck and presses his forehead to Geralt’s.
Geralt breathes in Jaskier’s comforting scent, familiar and warm, alleviating his sorrow.
“I remember that day, after she healed me from the djinn,” Jaskier says, his breath warm on Geralt’s face.
“I almost lost you,” Geralt says. He buries his fingers in the bard’s hair and kisses him tenderly.
“I had nearly forgotten that she groped me,” Jaskier says, breathless when they break apart.
Geralt nods. “I’m relieved that she stopped herself when she found you didn’t have what she wanted. There’s no telling what she would have done if she unleashed her fury on you.”
“She’s changed a lot since then,” Jaskier says.
“Hmm,” Geralt murmurs.
“You’ve seen her with Cirilla,” Jaskier says. “Gods, she adores that girl.”
“She’s like a mother to her,” Geralt agrees. And before he can speak another word, he knows what he must do. The journey that he’s made while caring for the egg has come full circle. Without a viable egg to raise into a child, he sees a way to satisfy his need to nurture and to make up for the times he was absent from Cirilla’s life. He vows that he’ll do a better job of it this time, now that he has been given a second chance.
“Well, Cirilla is so much more than just a princess in a history book to us. She’s a flesh and blood person who lives and loves,” Jaskier says. “She could do with a parent, since she’s lost her own.”
“I think I know someone who may be up to the task,” Geralt says.
“Let me guess,” Jaskier says. “He has amber eyes and carries a pair of swords. He says he can’t love, but he’s a terrible liar about that.”
Jaskier plants a trail of soft kisses down Geralt’s neck.
Geralt cannot resist reminding him, “And he lays eggs like a sexy hen.”
“You!” Jaskier squeals. “You never fail to surprise me. I know you’ll do a wonderful job parenting.”
Geralt slips his hands beneath Jaskier’s doublet, feeling his warmth and letting his encouragement wash over him.
“Come on, let’s find that guest room before it gets too late,” Geralt says.
Jaskier climbs off Geralt’s lap and takes his hand. They close the door, leaving the remains of the egg behind. As they quietly make their way through the villa, they pass a room where the unsuspecting princess Cirilla sleeps. The next day will bring her a father who she already adores.
The end