Visiting Marilka - Chapter 8
Title: Visiting Marilka
Author: gwyllion
Genre: Canon era
Pairing: Geralt of Rivia | Geralt z Rivii/Jaskier |Dandelion
Rating: R
Words: 57,262
Warnings: Brief mention of sexual desires by an underaged minor character. Genderfluid minor character.
A/N: Visiting Marilka was written for the 2021 Witcher Big Bang. Thanks to my artist, Rogue Pyrola whose awesome artwork can be seen below, seren and the Witcher Big Bang mod team, and my wonderful beta Gillian who always makes my writing better. Thanks to The Witcher’s author, showrunners, and actors, (especially Mia McKenna-Bruce!), who inspire us to make more art.
This fic is dedicated to Nathan, who conceived it to be so.
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!
After settling Roach for the night, Geralt accompanied Jaskier and Leocretia from the stables. Stars glowed in the dark autumn sky and a chill settled over the Earldom of Lettenhove.
“So, you’ve always been a witcher?” Leocretia asked as they rounded the corner of the villa.
“Officially, after emerging from the Trials,” Geralt said. Jaskier hung onto his arm as they walked. His presence comforted Geralt and quelled any apprehension he had about answering Leocretia’s questions.
“You simply must tell me all about it, Geralt. I hope you’ll be staying in Lettenhove for a while,” Leocretia said before turning to Jaskier and adding, “You owe that to mother, Julian.”
“We’ll stay as long as we can,” Jaskier said. “It’s the least we can do to pay our respects to our dear father’s memory.”
“Mother will appreciate that,” Leocretia said.
“Tell me, how did it happen?” Jaskier asked.
“You know,” Leocretia said. “It was his heart.”
“He had those chest pains for years,” Jaskier shook his head.
“He had seen the best healers in the realm, but we all knew it would only be a matter of time,” Leocretia breathed out sadly.
Geralt nodded since Leocretia seemed to divulge this information mostly for his benefit.
“Poor mother,” Jaskier said. “And what about Ainsley? She was always his favourite. Is she here?”
“Oh, yes,” Leocretia replied. “She brought the children, but Mateusz had to return to Caelf for one official business or another. He left only yesterday. It’s too bad that you missed him.”
“Another time, then,” Jaskier said, rubbing his belly. “Is there food? We had a bit of breakfast in Gors Velen, but we’ve run low on supplies. And yesterday’s storm made it impossible to hunt-at least to hunt for a dinner. Geralt did manage to dispatch a leshen last night, though.”
“Impressive!” Leocretia exclaimed, patting Geralt’s shoulder. “You are quite skilled with a sword, if I say so myself.”
“Likewise,” Geralt said, embarrassed to admit that the maiden had nearly bested him.
“Oh, and there’s plenty of food,” Leocretia answered Jaskier. “Neighbours and friends have been dropping by daily since word of our dear father’s departure from this mortal plane has travelled through the realm. And mother has been baking to distract her from her sorrow. You’ll have your choice of victuals when we get inside.”
Geralt quicky understood that the talent for flowery language and poetics ran deep in Jaskier’s family.
They strode alongside the front façade of the villa. Leocretia led the way. Her black boots marched in a cadence that demonstrated her sure stride. Geralt and Jaskier followed, their tired feet stepping across the intricately laid stone, passing topiaries that had already been trimmed of their autumn foliage.
“It’s beautiful here in summer,” Jaskier said, squeezing Geralt’s hand.
“We’ll visit again sometime next year when the gardens are in bloom,” Geralt assured him.
Leocretia slowed her pace and leaned toward Geralt to whisper, “If you break my brother’s heart, I will end you.”
“Understood,” Geralt said with a smile. He had no intention of ever breaking Jaskier’s heart, nor of letting go of Jaskier’s hand, now that they had finally arrived at their destination-both geographically and romantically, as prescribed by a destiny of Geralt’s own making.
“And here we are,” Leocretia announced.
A pair of guards stood steadfastly at the front entrance of the villa. One bowed to Leocretia before opening the massive door beset with panels of brilliant stained glass illuminated from the interior.
“My lady,” the guard announced.
Leocretia scowled. “I warned you about that.”
The guard looked remorseful. “Apologies, noble one,” he said.
Leocretia gave him an icy look as Geralt and Jaskier followed her over the threshold.
They arrived in an octagonal foyer lit with sconces that hung from seven of its eight walls.
“Sounds good, Leo… noble one,” Jaskier said, deepening his voice and spreading his arms dramatically.
“The title is a placeholder. Until we can discuss-” Leocretia began.
“I know,” Jaskier said, squeezing his sister’s arm. “There’ll be plenty of time to sort father’s title out but know that I’m on your side.”
Geralt had only known Leocretia for a matter of minutes, but he already had much respect for her willingness to put matters of state aside for the sake of her family.
“Leocretia, is that you?” a voice called out from one of the many doors that lined the foyer.
“You won’t believe who I found,” Leocretia announced as Jaskier and Geralt followed her through a door that presumably led to the kitchen.
Geralt inhaled the scent of sweet honey and molasses, the yeasty aroma of cakes and pies as they baked. He dared not tell Jaskier’s mother that she had better check the cherry tarts before they burned.
“Julian!” A maiden with long blonde hair that was pulled into a braid leapt from her chair and embraced Jaskier.
“Ainsley!” Jaskier cried, hugging the girl tight. “I’m so glad you’re still here. Leo was telling me that Mateusz had to return to Caelf. It looks like we missed him but arrived here just in time to see you and my little nieces and nephews.”
“I just sent them to bed. Gods, your hair has gotten so long,” Ainsley cried, tugging on Jaskier’s ponytail.
“And he has apparently lost his razor,” Leocretia laughed.
“Mother,” Jaskier said, crossing the kitchen in long strides.
The scent of freshly baked foods and the comforting atmosphere of the kitchen wrapped Geralt in the sense of home that he never experienced in Kaer Morhen. Across the kitchen, a woman, tiny in stature, but who could only be Jaskier’s mother, finished taking the cherry tarts out of the oven. Her hair, the same colour as Jaskier’s but tinged with the grey of aging, fell to her chin. She set the tray on a countertop and turned to face her son. How she managed to wipe her hands on the apron that covered her mourning dress before Jaskier embraced her, Geralt would never know.
“Julek,” Jaskier’s mother sighed into Jaskier’s arms.
“I’m sorry we took so long to get here,” Jaskier said, his eyes darting to Leocretia.
“No matter,” Jaskier’s mother said, thumping him heartily with her small hands. “You’re here now.”
Jaskier pried himself from her embrace and turned to Geralt, saying, “This is my mother.”
Geralt remembered well the words he had practised. He took Jaskier’s mother’s hand and bowed low. “Countess, I’m so pleased to meet you and I offer you my sincerest condolences,” he said, pressing a kiss to the back of her hand.
“Please,” she said, “call me Marilka.”
Geralt’s face fell. He straightened to stand, but he did not let go of the hand that he clutched in his own. When he finally managed to speak, he whispered, “Like milk.”
For a time, the two of them stared at each other in the kitchen, too dumbfounded to speak.
Finally, Jaskier interrupted. “Geralt?” he asked. His eyes darted from Marilka to Geralt and back again.
“It can’t be,” Geralt muttered.
“What is it?” Jaskier asked unwittingly. He stood with his arms folded across his chest while Ainsley admired the rich crimson leather of his coat and Leocretia raised a hot tart to his lips.
Everything came to Geralt at once.
Jaskier’s mother was the daughter of an alderman.
Caldemeyn of Blaviken, who had no use for a kikimora.
Jaskier’s mother with her self-imposed penance of caring for their shitty dog.
Marilka, who salvaged parts after her dog had died mysteriously.
Jaskier, sassy and vengeful… like his mother.
Marilka, Stregobor’s errand runner, luring Geralt with the promise that the wizard might purchase the kikimora for parts.
Jaskier’s mother’s journey from Blaviken to Kerack as an adventurous young girl.
Marilka, who befriended Geralt on the streets of Blaviken, determinedly telling Geralt that she wanted more than a life in that city could offer her.
Jaskier mentioning that his mother had once met a witcher.
Marilka in the square, a knife at her throat.
Renfri, the blood pooling around her as she lay dead in the mud.
“Marilka, get the cart.”
Geralt shuddered.
“Geralt of Rivia,” Marilka whispered. “We meet again.”
“What?” Jaskier choked on the tart. “Geralt? Mother? You know each other?”
“I was a young girl,” Marilka said, turning to Jaskier. “And Geralt saved my life.”
Geralt could not take his eyes off Marilka. If he were better with words, he might tell her that it was she who had saved his life. Her journey, her life, her children’s lives, especially that of her son, inspired him to understand what joy lay within his grasp if only he could transcend the boundaries imposed by his own understanding of what made a man a witcher.
But neither Marilka nor Geralt spoke.
Leocretia and Ainsley gathered close. The tale of their mother’s life being threatened undoubtedly gave them great concern. Surely they didn’t want to miss a word that might be exchanged between Geralt and their mother. But Jaskier looked like his eyes were going to pop out of his head.
“What?” Jaskier asked in disbelief. “Leocretia, you’d better hide the wine from mother. I think she’s had too much, perhaps. Geralt hadn’t even been born yet when you were a girl, mother. How can it be possible that you’ve met?”
Geralt still had not released his hold on Marilka’s hand. “It’s because witchers age more slowly than humans, Jask.”
When Geralt met Jaskier in a tavern in Posada, twenty-five years had already passed since that day in the square when Geralt had become the Butcher of Blaviken. Marilka had married and had become a Countess who guided her two youngest children, Leocretia and Ainsley, through their teenage years. Her eldest child, eighteen years old and already a graduate of Oxenfurt, sought fame as a bard as he travelled the Continent.
Jaskier threw his hands in the air. “Geralt, if I find out that you did something untoward with my mother-”
Marilka laughed and pressed a hand to her chest. “Julian, don’t be ridiculous. I wasn’t yet a woman when we met, although I did think he was handsome.”
Geralt held onto Marilka’s hand. “You were fearless,” he said.
“Until I had a knife held to my throat,” Marilka added. “Then, I cried like a child for a witcher to come and save me.”
“Mother! What the fuck?” Leocretia exclaimed.
“It was long ago,” Marilka said. “Ainsley, if the children are asleep, bring us some ale and we’ll tell you what happened that day. It’s not a tale for my grandchildren’s ears.”
“Apparently it was never a tale for your children’s ears either,” Jaskier said with a huff.
“Julian!” Marilka admonished her son. “Let’s sit for a while. Geralt and I will tell you the tale. I wonder if he remembers it as vividly as I do.”
“I can assure you, I do,” Geralt said, finally letting go of Marilka’s hand. He would never forget how the knife plunged into Renfri’s neck. How he had given her his best advice for how to escape the inevitable doom that Stregobor sought for her. It had all been for naught.
They adjourned to an alcove room where servants sometimes dined or relaxed when they weren’t on duty. A pair of plush sofas were wedged into one corner of the room. Logs burned merrily in the hearth. A few chairs had been dragged over to the low table that took up the space created by the wedge of the sofas. Ainsley and Leocretia saw to it that all manner of baked goods were brought from the kitchen to the table. Meat pies, cherry tarts, cakes, and a pitcher of ale were soon strewn across the tabletop. Candles burned, their wax dripping down their length and landing on a well-worn tablecloth.
Jaskier grabbed a pair of tankards and poured himself and Geralt an ale.
“Pour out one for me and Ainsley,” Leocretia requested.
Jaskier’s eyes gleamed as he held the pitcher high and poured every last drop into his tankard.
“Rude,” Leocretia muttered as she snatched the empty pitcher from Jaskier and went to the kitchen to refill it.
“Gods know there’s enough food to go around and Geralt and Julian must be starving from their travels,” Ainsley said, cutting into a meat pie and dividing the pieces onto a platter.
“Let me look at you,” Marilka said, reaching up to cup Geralt’s cheeks between two hands. “I remember your eyes most of all.”
“Yes, well I get to gaze into his eyes every day, mother, but I’ve yet to make a big fuss about it,” Jaskier said, taking a sip of ale.
“Jaskier…” Geralt said, but he gave up any hope of calming the bard in the presence of his family.
Leocretia returned to the alcove room with fresh ale for herself and Ainsley.
Marilka shook her head and found a place to sit on a low-backed sofa that flanked the table. “My son never handled his jealousy very appropriately, Geralt. I suspect that means that he sees something in you that’s worth being jealous about.”
“I’m sorry,” Jaskier said. He embraced Geralt and rested his head on the witcher’s shoulder. “This is quite a shock, just when I thought I had your affections all to myself.”
Geralt pulled Jaskier toward him and pressed his forehead against Jaskier’s. “You do have my affections all to yourself,” he whispered. “Now apologise to your mother.”
Jaskier took a step back and hung his head low. “I’m sorry mother,” Jaskier said. “I should have known better. And we’re grieving father, for Melitele’s sake. I’m sorry for stirring up shit.”
“Everything’s not always about you, Julian,” Leocretia said, sticking out her tongue at Jaskier.
“We’re all a little out of sorts these days,” Marilka said. “Now come sit beside me, Julian. I haven’t seen you in an age.”
Jaskier slid onto the sofa so he could sit beside his mother. “I want to hear the story,” he said, taking Marilka’s hand.
“We all do,” Leocretia said. She butted Geralt with her hip, guiding him to sit on the sofa beside Jaskier.
“Pass a couple of those plates over here,” Jaskier said to Leocretia, who took a seat across from Geralt.
“There’s all this cake, too,” Ainsley said. “Mother has been baking for a solid week. It’s so good that you and Geralt are here to enjoy some of it.”
“We’re most grateful for the cakes and the pies, mother,” Jaskier said, “but do tell us more about how you met my Geralt.”
Geralt’s eyes roved over Marilka as she sat beside Jaskier. He hadn’t thought of the girl in years, decades even. He barely remembered her or what part she played in the story of what happened on that day in the Blaviken square. But now when he saw her sitting beside the man he loved, every word she had said, every expression that had crossed her face, became as clear as if the incident had happened only yesterday.
“Well, you know I was born in Blaviken,” Marilka said, letting go of Jaskier’s hand. “My father, Caldemeyn, was the alderman there. He was well-travelled, but my mother had been born in Blaviken and never left.”
“That’s where she’s buried,” Ainsley said thoughtfully.
“Grandmother Libushe,” Jaskier affirmed. He reached across the table to take two large slices of pie from Leocretia.
“Why did you never tell me your mother was from Blaviken?” Geralt asked.
Jaskier sighed, handing Geralt a fork and a plate containing a slice of pie. “Seeing I got a gut punch the first time I mentioned Blaviken to you, I thought it was best to avoid mentioning the infernal place again.”
Geralt closed his eyes. “That was more than twenty years ago.”
“You hit him?” Ainsley cried out, not bothering to swallow a mouthful of cake.
“He probably deserved it,” Leocretia grinned, stabbing her fork into her slice of meat pie.
Marilka’s eyes glittered knowingly.
“When we first met, he was somewhat… annoying,” Geralt said, raising his eyes to Ainsley.
“He is truly annoying, isn’t he?” Leocretia added with a laugh. “You’re a star for putting up with him.”
“You two have been traveling together for twenty years?” Marilka asked, her eyes wide.
Jaskier wrapped an arm around Geralt’s shoulders. “Twenty-two, give or take a few months,” he said.
“The songs, mother, Julian’s songs. Nearly every one of them is about his admiration for the mutant who’s a friend of humanity, or the great white wolf, or some such creature. I guess we know what he means by it now,” Leocretia said.
“Julian, why have you never told us? If you had invited Geralt to Lettenhove before, he would have met mother long ago,” Ainsley added. “And mother, why did you never tell us that a witcher saved your life?”
“I told you I met a witcher once,” Marilka said. “I’m certain I did.”
“I recall that you did mention that you had met a witcher,” Jaskier said, stabbing at his pie. “But I had no idea you meant my witcher.”
“What about the knife at your throat bit?” Ainsley asked.
“Yes, why wouldn’t you have told us about being held at knifepoint and a witcher saving your life?” Leocretia asked. “I know I would have remembered that story if I had heard it.”
“If you’ll listen, we’ll tell you the story,” Marilka said. “I trust you’ll help me, Geralt?”
Geralt nodded to Marilka. He reached beside him for Jaskier’s hand.
“I had killed a kikimora and needed to find the alderman who had posted a flyer, asking for a witcher,” Geralt said.
“But the flyer was for a graveir, not a kikimora,” Marilka continued. “My father would have no use for it. At the time, I was earning coin by running errands for a wizard who went by the name of Master Irion.”
“Stregobor,” Geralt added.
“Stregobor,” Marilka said with a nod.
“This is incredible,” Jaskier added. “You worked for a wizard? Why were we not told of this?”
“Hush,” Ainsley chided.
Geralt squeezed Jaskier’s hand. He took comfort in the love that Jaskier had for him. He would need it in the retelling of the story that had affected him so deeply.
“It was something to do, other than being bored in dumpy old Blaviken,” Marilka said. “You might have done the same, if you were me.”
Leocretia nodded, taking a bite of her pie.
Ainsley sighed.
Jaskier turned to Geralt and said, “She does have a point.”
Geralt agreed. It was clear that the Pankratz children, like their mother, were not content to settle for a life without some risky misadventures.
“Stregobor wanted Renfri dead,” Marilka said. “She had killed one of his men.”
“Wait, who’s Renfri?” Ainsley asked.
“I know about Renfri!” Jaskier blurted out, stabbing the air with his fork.
Geralt closed his eyes.
Jaskier turned and clutched Geralt’s arm. “Oh, dear,” he muttered.
Geralt was grateful that Marilka spoke next, saving him from describing the short life of the princess.
“Renfri was a princess of Creyden, but Stregobor was obsessed with destroying her because she had been born under the black sun,” Marilka continued.
“Oh, I’ve heard of that curse. Some of King Osmyk’s guards used to bully the girls who dared to train in swordfighting by teasing that they were born under the black sun,” Leocretia said. “It never bothered me any.”
“Don’t interrupt, Leo,” Jaskier complained.
“Stregobor had me lure Geralt to him and he presumably pleaded with him to kill Renfri,” Marilka said.
“He did,” Geralt confirmed. “But I refused.”
“You’re a good man, Geralt,” Marilka said, reaching across Jaskier to clasp Geralt’s arm affectionately.
“Did Stregobor blame you, mother, for Geralt’s inaction?” Leocretia asked, eying Geralt suspiciously. “Is that why your life was threatened?”
“No, no, nothing like that,” Marilka said.
A log sputtered in the fireplace.
“I tried to convince Renfri to leave Blaviken,” Geralt murmured. “I almost believed that I was successful, but she didn’t listen to me.”
Jaskier’s hand slid into Geralt’s. He laced their fingers together.
“The next thing I knew, I was being dragged into the Blaviken Square. Renfri held a knife to my throat,” Marilka said. She pressed her hand to her neck as if she relived the moment when she almost lost her life.
“I intervened,” Geralt said. He got strength from Jaskier’s hand in his. It was a comfort to him that Jaskier already knew one side of the story that his mother now told.
“Renfri released me, but she promised to kill everyone in Blaviken until Stregobor met her head-on,” Marilka continued.
“We crossed swords,” Geralt said, disquieted.
Leocretia sighed. “I can vouch for the fact that crossing swords with a witcher is not something to be undertaken lightly,” she said with a knowing nod.
“You saved my life, Geralt. But when it was all over, Renfri lay dead in the street,” Marilka said.
Geralt blinked back tears.
“You didn’t mean to kill her,” Jaskier whispered.
Geralt shook his head.
“When Stregobor came down from his tower, I learned how truly evil he was,” Marilka said. “He addressed the crowd and twisted their minds, turning the people of Blaviken against Geralt.”
“They threw stones and spit on me,” Geralt sighed. And because he was embraced by the warmth of Jaskier’s family, he didn’t hesitate to admit, “Nothing too unusual for a witcher, but I was shaken by the events of the day.”
Marilka looked pityingly upon Geralt. “I knew two things there and then,” she said. “Firstly, if I was going to have a chance of ever getting out of Blaviken, I needed to agree with Stregobor, lest I suffer the same fate as Renfri.”
Geralt nodded. It was some small consolation that Marilka had such wisdom at her age. With Stregobor as an ally, she had the means to earn coin, to travel, to thrive.
“And what was the second thing?” Jaskier asked, rapt in attention.
Marilka looked at Geralt with tears in her eyes. “I knew then of Stregobor’s power. When he could convince me to find a witcher to do his dirty work. When he could manipulate a situation so a witcher was blamed for so much misery. When he demonstrated that a wizard like him was more powerful than a witcher when it came to deception. I knew that my only hope was to join the crowd, telling Geralt to get out of Blaviken and never come back. It not only saved myself, but I had hoped that I also saved you, Geralt.”
Geralt had never thought about his exile from Blaviken in that way before. But now, he could understand the scenario through the eyes of Marilka, a child involved in a situation that no one could win.
“Thank you,” Geralt said. He leaned over Jaskier and embraced Marilka where she sat.
“You deserved better,” Marilka whispered, “but it was the best thing I could do.”
Geralt heaved in a deep breath. “You did more than any child should have been expected to do,” he said.
Marilka’s arms were strong around the witcher. He let his tears fall, surrendering to the comfort that he never received from his own mother. He had so much to be grateful for, embraced by the woman who had once befriended him and who cared more for his survival than even he, himself, did at the time.
When they released each other, Marilka turned to Jaskier and said, “He’s a noble man, Julian. I hope you take good care of him.”
“I do, mother,” Jaskier said.
Before he could wipe his eyes, Geralt felt Jaskier’s lips pressed against his own. Jaskier murmured softly and stroked at Geralt’s hair.
“Oh, you two are so sweet,” Leocretia said with a sarcastic grin.
Geralt had never been one to bask in a public display of affection, but with Jaskier, it felt right, even if his family was watching. He hoped that Marilka didn’t have any qualms about her son kissing a white-haired witcher who had been born many years before her, but that hardly mattered now.
“Wait a minute, mother,” Ainsley interrupted, “Geralt left the square after he was run out of town, but you were still in Blaviken. What happened next?”
Marilka clasped her hands together in her lap. “Before Geralt left the Blaviken Square, he threatened Stregobor, demanding that he not touch a hair on Renfri’s head. Still, Stregobor yelled at me to fetch a cart for Renfri’s body,” she said, closing her eyes. “I had to do as I was told.”
Geralt cringed at the thought of the wizard examining Renfri’s body for his own morbid satisfaction.
“But when I brought Renfri to him, Stregobor had apparently taken Geralt’s warning to heart,” Marilka said.
“He didn’t autopsy her?” Geralt asked, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise.
“No, he sent me away,” Marilka said. “I knew him well enough that I worried he could change his mind at a moment’s notice. I needed to act quickly. I buried her beneath a sycamore tree in the Blaviken cemetery. It’s not far from where my own mother is buried. I can tell you the exact place, if you’d like. Julian will know how to get there.”
“Hmm,” Geralt hummed, nodding to Jaskier. “I’d appreciate that.”
“Of course, dear,” Jaskier said, squeezing Geralt’s hand.
“I can’t believe you never told us about all of this,” Ainsley said.
“We know what happened to Geralt, but whatever happened to Stregobor?” Leocretia asked.
“A few months later, Stregobor returned to Kovir. I never saw him again,” Marilka said.
“He deserved an arse-kicking, if you ask me,” Jaskier said.
“Years later, I did fulfil my dream of leaving Blaviken and seeing the Continent,” Marilka smiled at Geralt. “I met and married my dear departed Josef. Soon after, our Julian was born. Josef inherited the title of Count upon his father’s death. Ahh, my life was a whirlwind of feasts and travelling and dancing in those days. And then these two were born.”
“Oh, mother, thanks to Geralt, you’re lucky you lived to enjoy such things,” Ainsley said.
Marilka yawned. “Speaking of inheritances…” Marilka pulled Jaskier to her. “The three of you have enough financial security for a dozen lifetimes,” she said. “I don’t want any of you to worry about money.”
Jaskier leaned his head upon his mother’s shoulder.
“Mother, it’s late, we shouldn’t discuss such matters without a good night’s rest,” Leocretia said.
Marilka silenced her with a wave of her hand.
“You two can fight over the title if you want. I have my hands full with Caelf’s official affairs. Between Mateusz and the children, I have no time for such things,” Ainsley said.
“Whoever holds the title also bears the responsibility for defending our family name and protecting our lands. Do you have any designs on your father’s title, Julian?” Marilka asked as she stroked Jaskier’s hair fondly.
“Mother, I know you probably wanted a son who could wield a sword. I’m sorry I’m not that son, but I have a witcher who loves me and will keep me from harm,” Jaskier said.
Although the bard rested in his mother’s embrace, he dotingly gazed upon Geralt.
“Leo?” Marilka asked.
Leocretia addressed Jaskier with a jut of her chin. “I’ll wrestle you for it.”
“Hah!” Jaskier sat bolt upright and grabbed the first thing he could, which happened to be a handful of cake that he threw in Leocretia’s direction.”
“You cur!” Leocretia cried, ducking just in time.
“Fuck! Julian!” Ainsley shouted when the cake landed in her hair.
Leocretia dove across the table, but Jaskier quickly climbed over his mother and tried to flee toward the kitchen.
“Shush, you’ll wake the children,” Marilka laughed.
“I know that,” Ainsley snarled, grabbing a fork and holding Jaskier hostage with it.
Leocretia clambered over the table, knocking a cake and a couple of pies to the floor in the process.
Ainsley stabbed dangerously with her fork and Geralt found himself grateful that the more skilled sibling was not the one using a weapon.
Jaskier shrieked but managed to escape Leocretia’s wrath by diving beneath the table.
As bedlam ensued, Geralt felt Marilka tugging his arm. “I love all my children, Geralt, but I’m relieved that they’ve become more civilized since they’re fully grown,” she said, rolling her eyes.
“They must have been quite a handful when they were younger,” Geralt said, observing the wild chase, thrown food, and merriment of the Pankratz family in their home environment.
Marilka smiled. “You have no idea.”
Geralt could not have been more grateful for the twists of fate that had led him to Marilka and his beloved bard.
Eventually, Marilka got her children to settle down. The feat was nothing short of miraculous, but Geralt had come to expect nothing less from the headstrong girl he had met in the Blaviken square. When the mess had been tidied a bit, Geralt bid Ainsley and Leocretia goodnight as they wandered off to their rooms at the villa.
Geralt thanked Marilka for sharing the story of what happened on that awful day and for providing him with the pieces of the story that had taken place after he left. The knowledge that Renfri rested in peace, with Marilka’s help, put Geralt’s mind at ease. The new clarity made Geralt feel as if the weight that he had been shouldering for all these decades suddenly became lighter.
~
Author: gwyllion
Genre: Canon era
Pairing: Geralt of Rivia | Geralt z Rivii/Jaskier |Dandelion
Rating: R
Words: 57,262
Warnings: Brief mention of sexual desires by an underaged minor character. Genderfluid minor character.
A/N: Visiting Marilka was written for the 2021 Witcher Big Bang. Thanks to my artist, Rogue Pyrola whose awesome artwork can be seen below, seren and the Witcher Big Bang mod team, and my wonderful beta Gillian who always makes my writing better. Thanks to The Witcher’s author, showrunners, and actors, (especially Mia McKenna-Bruce!), who inspire us to make more art.
This fic is dedicated to Nathan, who conceived it to be so.
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!
After settling Roach for the night, Geralt accompanied Jaskier and Leocretia from the stables. Stars glowed in the dark autumn sky and a chill settled over the Earldom of Lettenhove.
“So, you’ve always been a witcher?” Leocretia asked as they rounded the corner of the villa.
“Officially, after emerging from the Trials,” Geralt said. Jaskier hung onto his arm as they walked. His presence comforted Geralt and quelled any apprehension he had about answering Leocretia’s questions.
“You simply must tell me all about it, Geralt. I hope you’ll be staying in Lettenhove for a while,” Leocretia said before turning to Jaskier and adding, “You owe that to mother, Julian.”
“We’ll stay as long as we can,” Jaskier said. “It’s the least we can do to pay our respects to our dear father’s memory.”
“Mother will appreciate that,” Leocretia said.
“Tell me, how did it happen?” Jaskier asked.
“You know,” Leocretia said. “It was his heart.”
“He had those chest pains for years,” Jaskier shook his head.
“He had seen the best healers in the realm, but we all knew it would only be a matter of time,” Leocretia breathed out sadly.
Geralt nodded since Leocretia seemed to divulge this information mostly for his benefit.
“Poor mother,” Jaskier said. “And what about Ainsley? She was always his favourite. Is she here?”
“Oh, yes,” Leocretia replied. “She brought the children, but Mateusz had to return to Caelf for one official business or another. He left only yesterday. It’s too bad that you missed him.”
“Another time, then,” Jaskier said, rubbing his belly. “Is there food? We had a bit of breakfast in Gors Velen, but we’ve run low on supplies. And yesterday’s storm made it impossible to hunt-at least to hunt for a dinner. Geralt did manage to dispatch a leshen last night, though.”
“Impressive!” Leocretia exclaimed, patting Geralt’s shoulder. “You are quite skilled with a sword, if I say so myself.”
“Likewise,” Geralt said, embarrassed to admit that the maiden had nearly bested him.
“Oh, and there’s plenty of food,” Leocretia answered Jaskier. “Neighbours and friends have been dropping by daily since word of our dear father’s departure from this mortal plane has travelled through the realm. And mother has been baking to distract her from her sorrow. You’ll have your choice of victuals when we get inside.”
Geralt quicky understood that the talent for flowery language and poetics ran deep in Jaskier’s family.
They strode alongside the front façade of the villa. Leocretia led the way. Her black boots marched in a cadence that demonstrated her sure stride. Geralt and Jaskier followed, their tired feet stepping across the intricately laid stone, passing topiaries that had already been trimmed of their autumn foliage.
“It’s beautiful here in summer,” Jaskier said, squeezing Geralt’s hand.
“We’ll visit again sometime next year when the gardens are in bloom,” Geralt assured him.
Leocretia slowed her pace and leaned toward Geralt to whisper, “If you break my brother’s heart, I will end you.”
“Understood,” Geralt said with a smile. He had no intention of ever breaking Jaskier’s heart, nor of letting go of Jaskier’s hand, now that they had finally arrived at their destination-both geographically and romantically, as prescribed by a destiny of Geralt’s own making.
“And here we are,” Leocretia announced.
A pair of guards stood steadfastly at the front entrance of the villa. One bowed to Leocretia before opening the massive door beset with panels of brilliant stained glass illuminated from the interior.
“My lady,” the guard announced.
Leocretia scowled. “I warned you about that.”
The guard looked remorseful. “Apologies, noble one,” he said.
Leocretia gave him an icy look as Geralt and Jaskier followed her over the threshold.
They arrived in an octagonal foyer lit with sconces that hung from seven of its eight walls.
“Sounds good, Leo… noble one,” Jaskier said, deepening his voice and spreading his arms dramatically.
“The title is a placeholder. Until we can discuss-” Leocretia began.
“I know,” Jaskier said, squeezing his sister’s arm. “There’ll be plenty of time to sort father’s title out but know that I’m on your side.”
Geralt had only known Leocretia for a matter of minutes, but he already had much respect for her willingness to put matters of state aside for the sake of her family.
“Leocretia, is that you?” a voice called out from one of the many doors that lined the foyer.
“You won’t believe who I found,” Leocretia announced as Jaskier and Geralt followed her through a door that presumably led to the kitchen.
Geralt inhaled the scent of sweet honey and molasses, the yeasty aroma of cakes and pies as they baked. He dared not tell Jaskier’s mother that she had better check the cherry tarts before they burned.
“Julian!” A maiden with long blonde hair that was pulled into a braid leapt from her chair and embraced Jaskier.
“Ainsley!” Jaskier cried, hugging the girl tight. “I’m so glad you’re still here. Leo was telling me that Mateusz had to return to Caelf. It looks like we missed him but arrived here just in time to see you and my little nieces and nephews.”
“I just sent them to bed. Gods, your hair has gotten so long,” Ainsley cried, tugging on Jaskier’s ponytail.
“And he has apparently lost his razor,” Leocretia laughed.
“Mother,” Jaskier said, crossing the kitchen in long strides.
The scent of freshly baked foods and the comforting atmosphere of the kitchen wrapped Geralt in the sense of home that he never experienced in Kaer Morhen. Across the kitchen, a woman, tiny in stature, but who could only be Jaskier’s mother, finished taking the cherry tarts out of the oven. Her hair, the same colour as Jaskier’s but tinged with the grey of aging, fell to her chin. She set the tray on a countertop and turned to face her son. How she managed to wipe her hands on the apron that covered her mourning dress before Jaskier embraced her, Geralt would never know.
“Julek,” Jaskier’s mother sighed into Jaskier’s arms.
“I’m sorry we took so long to get here,” Jaskier said, his eyes darting to Leocretia.
“No matter,” Jaskier’s mother said, thumping him heartily with her small hands. “You’re here now.”
Jaskier pried himself from her embrace and turned to Geralt, saying, “This is my mother.”
Geralt remembered well the words he had practised. He took Jaskier’s mother’s hand and bowed low. “Countess, I’m so pleased to meet you and I offer you my sincerest condolences,” he said, pressing a kiss to the back of her hand.
“Please,” she said, “call me Marilka.”
Geralt’s face fell. He straightened to stand, but he did not let go of the hand that he clutched in his own. When he finally managed to speak, he whispered, “Like milk.”
For a time, the two of them stared at each other in the kitchen, too dumbfounded to speak.
Finally, Jaskier interrupted. “Geralt?” he asked. His eyes darted from Marilka to Geralt and back again.
“It can’t be,” Geralt muttered.
“What is it?” Jaskier asked unwittingly. He stood with his arms folded across his chest while Ainsley admired the rich crimson leather of his coat and Leocretia raised a hot tart to his lips.
Everything came to Geralt at once.
Jaskier’s mother was the daughter of an alderman.
Caldemeyn of Blaviken, who had no use for a kikimora.
Jaskier’s mother with her self-imposed penance of caring for their shitty dog.
Marilka, who salvaged parts after her dog had died mysteriously.
Jaskier, sassy and vengeful… like his mother.
Marilka, Stregobor’s errand runner, luring Geralt with the promise that the wizard might purchase the kikimora for parts.
Jaskier’s mother’s journey from Blaviken to Kerack as an adventurous young girl.
Marilka, who befriended Geralt on the streets of Blaviken, determinedly telling Geralt that she wanted more than a life in that city could offer her.
Jaskier mentioning that his mother had once met a witcher.
Marilka in the square, a knife at her throat.
Renfri, the blood pooling around her as she lay dead in the mud.
“Marilka, get the cart.”
Geralt shuddered.
“Geralt of Rivia,” Marilka whispered. “We meet again.”
“What?” Jaskier choked on the tart. “Geralt? Mother? You know each other?”
“I was a young girl,” Marilka said, turning to Jaskier. “And Geralt saved my life.”
Geralt could not take his eyes off Marilka. If he were better with words, he might tell her that it was she who had saved his life. Her journey, her life, her children’s lives, especially that of her son, inspired him to understand what joy lay within his grasp if only he could transcend the boundaries imposed by his own understanding of what made a man a witcher.
But neither Marilka nor Geralt spoke.
Leocretia and Ainsley gathered close. The tale of their mother’s life being threatened undoubtedly gave them great concern. Surely they didn’t want to miss a word that might be exchanged between Geralt and their mother. But Jaskier looked like his eyes were going to pop out of his head.
“What?” Jaskier asked in disbelief. “Leocretia, you’d better hide the wine from mother. I think she’s had too much, perhaps. Geralt hadn’t even been born yet when you were a girl, mother. How can it be possible that you’ve met?”
Geralt still had not released his hold on Marilka’s hand. “It’s because witchers age more slowly than humans, Jask.”
When Geralt met Jaskier in a tavern in Posada, twenty-five years had already passed since that day in the square when Geralt had become the Butcher of Blaviken. Marilka had married and had become a Countess who guided her two youngest children, Leocretia and Ainsley, through their teenage years. Her eldest child, eighteen years old and already a graduate of Oxenfurt, sought fame as a bard as he travelled the Continent.
Jaskier threw his hands in the air. “Geralt, if I find out that you did something untoward with my mother-”
Marilka laughed and pressed a hand to her chest. “Julian, don’t be ridiculous. I wasn’t yet a woman when we met, although I did think he was handsome.”
Geralt held onto Marilka’s hand. “You were fearless,” he said.
“Until I had a knife held to my throat,” Marilka added. “Then, I cried like a child for a witcher to come and save me.”
“Mother! What the fuck?” Leocretia exclaimed.
“It was long ago,” Marilka said. “Ainsley, if the children are asleep, bring us some ale and we’ll tell you what happened that day. It’s not a tale for my grandchildren’s ears.”
“Apparently it was never a tale for your children’s ears either,” Jaskier said with a huff.
“Julian!” Marilka admonished her son. “Let’s sit for a while. Geralt and I will tell you the tale. I wonder if he remembers it as vividly as I do.”
“I can assure you, I do,” Geralt said, finally letting go of Marilka’s hand. He would never forget how the knife plunged into Renfri’s neck. How he had given her his best advice for how to escape the inevitable doom that Stregobor sought for her. It had all been for naught.
They adjourned to an alcove room where servants sometimes dined or relaxed when they weren’t on duty. A pair of plush sofas were wedged into one corner of the room. Logs burned merrily in the hearth. A few chairs had been dragged over to the low table that took up the space created by the wedge of the sofas. Ainsley and Leocretia saw to it that all manner of baked goods were brought from the kitchen to the table. Meat pies, cherry tarts, cakes, and a pitcher of ale were soon strewn across the tabletop. Candles burned, their wax dripping down their length and landing on a well-worn tablecloth.
Jaskier grabbed a pair of tankards and poured himself and Geralt an ale.
“Pour out one for me and Ainsley,” Leocretia requested.
Jaskier’s eyes gleamed as he held the pitcher high and poured every last drop into his tankard.
“Rude,” Leocretia muttered as she snatched the empty pitcher from Jaskier and went to the kitchen to refill it.
“Gods know there’s enough food to go around and Geralt and Julian must be starving from their travels,” Ainsley said, cutting into a meat pie and dividing the pieces onto a platter.
“Let me look at you,” Marilka said, reaching up to cup Geralt’s cheeks between two hands. “I remember your eyes most of all.”
“Yes, well I get to gaze into his eyes every day, mother, but I’ve yet to make a big fuss about it,” Jaskier said, taking a sip of ale.
“Jaskier…” Geralt said, but he gave up any hope of calming the bard in the presence of his family.
Leocretia returned to the alcove room with fresh ale for herself and Ainsley.
Marilka shook her head and found a place to sit on a low-backed sofa that flanked the table. “My son never handled his jealousy very appropriately, Geralt. I suspect that means that he sees something in you that’s worth being jealous about.”
“I’m sorry,” Jaskier said. He embraced Geralt and rested his head on the witcher’s shoulder. “This is quite a shock, just when I thought I had your affections all to myself.”
Geralt pulled Jaskier toward him and pressed his forehead against Jaskier’s. “You do have my affections all to yourself,” he whispered. “Now apologise to your mother.”
Jaskier took a step back and hung his head low. “I’m sorry mother,” Jaskier said. “I should have known better. And we’re grieving father, for Melitele’s sake. I’m sorry for stirring up shit.”
“Everything’s not always about you, Julian,” Leocretia said, sticking out her tongue at Jaskier.
“We’re all a little out of sorts these days,” Marilka said. “Now come sit beside me, Julian. I haven’t seen you in an age.”
Jaskier slid onto the sofa so he could sit beside his mother. “I want to hear the story,” he said, taking Marilka’s hand.
“We all do,” Leocretia said. She butted Geralt with her hip, guiding him to sit on the sofa beside Jaskier.
“Pass a couple of those plates over here,” Jaskier said to Leocretia, who took a seat across from Geralt.
“There’s all this cake, too,” Ainsley said. “Mother has been baking for a solid week. It’s so good that you and Geralt are here to enjoy some of it.”
“We’re most grateful for the cakes and the pies, mother,” Jaskier said, “but do tell us more about how you met my Geralt.”
Geralt’s eyes roved over Marilka as she sat beside Jaskier. He hadn’t thought of the girl in years, decades even. He barely remembered her or what part she played in the story of what happened on that day in the Blaviken square. But now when he saw her sitting beside the man he loved, every word she had said, every expression that had crossed her face, became as clear as if the incident had happened only yesterday.
“Well, you know I was born in Blaviken,” Marilka said, letting go of Jaskier’s hand. “My father, Caldemeyn, was the alderman there. He was well-travelled, but my mother had been born in Blaviken and never left.”
“That’s where she’s buried,” Ainsley said thoughtfully.
“Grandmother Libushe,” Jaskier affirmed. He reached across the table to take two large slices of pie from Leocretia.
“Why did you never tell me your mother was from Blaviken?” Geralt asked.
Jaskier sighed, handing Geralt a fork and a plate containing a slice of pie. “Seeing I got a gut punch the first time I mentioned Blaviken to you, I thought it was best to avoid mentioning the infernal place again.”
Geralt closed his eyes. “That was more than twenty years ago.”
“You hit him?” Ainsley cried out, not bothering to swallow a mouthful of cake.
“He probably deserved it,” Leocretia grinned, stabbing her fork into her slice of meat pie.
Marilka’s eyes glittered knowingly.
“When we first met, he was somewhat… annoying,” Geralt said, raising his eyes to Ainsley.
“He is truly annoying, isn’t he?” Leocretia added with a laugh. “You’re a star for putting up with him.”
“You two have been traveling together for twenty years?” Marilka asked, her eyes wide.
Jaskier wrapped an arm around Geralt’s shoulders. “Twenty-two, give or take a few months,” he said.
“The songs, mother, Julian’s songs. Nearly every one of them is about his admiration for the mutant who’s a friend of humanity, or the great white wolf, or some such creature. I guess we know what he means by it now,” Leocretia said.
“Julian, why have you never told us? If you had invited Geralt to Lettenhove before, he would have met mother long ago,” Ainsley added. “And mother, why did you never tell us that a witcher saved your life?”
“I told you I met a witcher once,” Marilka said. “I’m certain I did.”
“I recall that you did mention that you had met a witcher,” Jaskier said, stabbing at his pie. “But I had no idea you meant my witcher.”
“What about the knife at your throat bit?” Ainsley asked.
“Yes, why wouldn’t you have told us about being held at knifepoint and a witcher saving your life?” Leocretia asked. “I know I would have remembered that story if I had heard it.”
“If you’ll listen, we’ll tell you the story,” Marilka said. “I trust you’ll help me, Geralt?”
Geralt nodded to Marilka. He reached beside him for Jaskier’s hand.
“I had killed a kikimora and needed to find the alderman who had posted a flyer, asking for a witcher,” Geralt said.
“But the flyer was for a graveir, not a kikimora,” Marilka continued. “My father would have no use for it. At the time, I was earning coin by running errands for a wizard who went by the name of Master Irion.”
“Stregobor,” Geralt added.
“Stregobor,” Marilka said with a nod.
“This is incredible,” Jaskier added. “You worked for a wizard? Why were we not told of this?”
“Hush,” Ainsley chided.
Geralt squeezed Jaskier’s hand. He took comfort in the love that Jaskier had for him. He would need it in the retelling of the story that had affected him so deeply.
“It was something to do, other than being bored in dumpy old Blaviken,” Marilka said. “You might have done the same, if you were me.”
Leocretia nodded, taking a bite of her pie.
Ainsley sighed.
Jaskier turned to Geralt and said, “She does have a point.”
Geralt agreed. It was clear that the Pankratz children, like their mother, were not content to settle for a life without some risky misadventures.
“Stregobor wanted Renfri dead,” Marilka said. “She had killed one of his men.”
“Wait, who’s Renfri?” Ainsley asked.
“I know about Renfri!” Jaskier blurted out, stabbing the air with his fork.
Geralt closed his eyes.
Jaskier turned and clutched Geralt’s arm. “Oh, dear,” he muttered.
Geralt was grateful that Marilka spoke next, saving him from describing the short life of the princess.
“Renfri was a princess of Creyden, but Stregobor was obsessed with destroying her because she had been born under the black sun,” Marilka continued.
“Oh, I’ve heard of that curse. Some of King Osmyk’s guards used to bully the girls who dared to train in swordfighting by teasing that they were born under the black sun,” Leocretia said. “It never bothered me any.”
“Don’t interrupt, Leo,” Jaskier complained.
“Stregobor had me lure Geralt to him and he presumably pleaded with him to kill Renfri,” Marilka said.
“He did,” Geralt confirmed. “But I refused.”
“You’re a good man, Geralt,” Marilka said, reaching across Jaskier to clasp Geralt’s arm affectionately.
“Did Stregobor blame you, mother, for Geralt’s inaction?” Leocretia asked, eying Geralt suspiciously. “Is that why your life was threatened?”
“No, no, nothing like that,” Marilka said.
A log sputtered in the fireplace.
“I tried to convince Renfri to leave Blaviken,” Geralt murmured. “I almost believed that I was successful, but she didn’t listen to me.”
Jaskier’s hand slid into Geralt’s. He laced their fingers together.
“The next thing I knew, I was being dragged into the Blaviken Square. Renfri held a knife to my throat,” Marilka said. She pressed her hand to her neck as if she relived the moment when she almost lost her life.
“I intervened,” Geralt said. He got strength from Jaskier’s hand in his. It was a comfort to him that Jaskier already knew one side of the story that his mother now told.
“Renfri released me, but she promised to kill everyone in Blaviken until Stregobor met her head-on,” Marilka continued.
“We crossed swords,” Geralt said, disquieted.
Leocretia sighed. “I can vouch for the fact that crossing swords with a witcher is not something to be undertaken lightly,” she said with a knowing nod.
“You saved my life, Geralt. But when it was all over, Renfri lay dead in the street,” Marilka said.
Geralt blinked back tears.
“You didn’t mean to kill her,” Jaskier whispered.
Geralt shook his head.
“When Stregobor came down from his tower, I learned how truly evil he was,” Marilka said. “He addressed the crowd and twisted their minds, turning the people of Blaviken against Geralt.”
“They threw stones and spit on me,” Geralt sighed. And because he was embraced by the warmth of Jaskier’s family, he didn’t hesitate to admit, “Nothing too unusual for a witcher, but I was shaken by the events of the day.”
Marilka looked pityingly upon Geralt. “I knew two things there and then,” she said. “Firstly, if I was going to have a chance of ever getting out of Blaviken, I needed to agree with Stregobor, lest I suffer the same fate as Renfri.”
Geralt nodded. It was some small consolation that Marilka had such wisdom at her age. With Stregobor as an ally, she had the means to earn coin, to travel, to thrive.
“And what was the second thing?” Jaskier asked, rapt in attention.
Marilka looked at Geralt with tears in her eyes. “I knew then of Stregobor’s power. When he could convince me to find a witcher to do his dirty work. When he could manipulate a situation so a witcher was blamed for so much misery. When he demonstrated that a wizard like him was more powerful than a witcher when it came to deception. I knew that my only hope was to join the crowd, telling Geralt to get out of Blaviken and never come back. It not only saved myself, but I had hoped that I also saved you, Geralt.”
Geralt had never thought about his exile from Blaviken in that way before. But now, he could understand the scenario through the eyes of Marilka, a child involved in a situation that no one could win.
“Thank you,” Geralt said. He leaned over Jaskier and embraced Marilka where she sat.
“You deserved better,” Marilka whispered, “but it was the best thing I could do.”
Geralt heaved in a deep breath. “You did more than any child should have been expected to do,” he said.
Marilka’s arms were strong around the witcher. He let his tears fall, surrendering to the comfort that he never received from his own mother. He had so much to be grateful for, embraced by the woman who had once befriended him and who cared more for his survival than even he, himself, did at the time.
When they released each other, Marilka turned to Jaskier and said, “He’s a noble man, Julian. I hope you take good care of him.”
“I do, mother,” Jaskier said.
Before he could wipe his eyes, Geralt felt Jaskier’s lips pressed against his own. Jaskier murmured softly and stroked at Geralt’s hair.
“Oh, you two are so sweet,” Leocretia said with a sarcastic grin.
Geralt had never been one to bask in a public display of affection, but with Jaskier, it felt right, even if his family was watching. He hoped that Marilka didn’t have any qualms about her son kissing a white-haired witcher who had been born many years before her, but that hardly mattered now.
“Wait a minute, mother,” Ainsley interrupted, “Geralt left the square after he was run out of town, but you were still in Blaviken. What happened next?”
Marilka clasped her hands together in her lap. “Before Geralt left the Blaviken Square, he threatened Stregobor, demanding that he not touch a hair on Renfri’s head. Still, Stregobor yelled at me to fetch a cart for Renfri’s body,” she said, closing her eyes. “I had to do as I was told.”
Geralt cringed at the thought of the wizard examining Renfri’s body for his own morbid satisfaction.
“But when I brought Renfri to him, Stregobor had apparently taken Geralt’s warning to heart,” Marilka said.
“He didn’t autopsy her?” Geralt asked, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise.
“No, he sent me away,” Marilka said. “I knew him well enough that I worried he could change his mind at a moment’s notice. I needed to act quickly. I buried her beneath a sycamore tree in the Blaviken cemetery. It’s not far from where my own mother is buried. I can tell you the exact place, if you’d like. Julian will know how to get there.”
“Hmm,” Geralt hummed, nodding to Jaskier. “I’d appreciate that.”
“Of course, dear,” Jaskier said, squeezing Geralt’s hand.
“I can’t believe you never told us about all of this,” Ainsley said.
“We know what happened to Geralt, but whatever happened to Stregobor?” Leocretia asked.
“A few months later, Stregobor returned to Kovir. I never saw him again,” Marilka said.
“He deserved an arse-kicking, if you ask me,” Jaskier said.
“Years later, I did fulfil my dream of leaving Blaviken and seeing the Continent,” Marilka smiled at Geralt. “I met and married my dear departed Josef. Soon after, our Julian was born. Josef inherited the title of Count upon his father’s death. Ahh, my life was a whirlwind of feasts and travelling and dancing in those days. And then these two were born.”
“Oh, mother, thanks to Geralt, you’re lucky you lived to enjoy such things,” Ainsley said.
Marilka yawned. “Speaking of inheritances…” Marilka pulled Jaskier to her. “The three of you have enough financial security for a dozen lifetimes,” she said. “I don’t want any of you to worry about money.”
Jaskier leaned his head upon his mother’s shoulder.
“Mother, it’s late, we shouldn’t discuss such matters without a good night’s rest,” Leocretia said.
Marilka silenced her with a wave of her hand.
“You two can fight over the title if you want. I have my hands full with Caelf’s official affairs. Between Mateusz and the children, I have no time for such things,” Ainsley said.
“Whoever holds the title also bears the responsibility for defending our family name and protecting our lands. Do you have any designs on your father’s title, Julian?” Marilka asked as she stroked Jaskier’s hair fondly.
“Mother, I know you probably wanted a son who could wield a sword. I’m sorry I’m not that son, but I have a witcher who loves me and will keep me from harm,” Jaskier said.
Although the bard rested in his mother’s embrace, he dotingly gazed upon Geralt.
“Leo?” Marilka asked.
Leocretia addressed Jaskier with a jut of her chin. “I’ll wrestle you for it.”
“Hah!” Jaskier sat bolt upright and grabbed the first thing he could, which happened to be a handful of cake that he threw in Leocretia’s direction.”
“You cur!” Leocretia cried, ducking just in time.
“Fuck! Julian!” Ainsley shouted when the cake landed in her hair.
Leocretia dove across the table, but Jaskier quickly climbed over his mother and tried to flee toward the kitchen.
“Shush, you’ll wake the children,” Marilka laughed.
“I know that,” Ainsley snarled, grabbing a fork and holding Jaskier hostage with it.
Leocretia clambered over the table, knocking a cake and a couple of pies to the floor in the process.
Ainsley stabbed dangerously with her fork and Geralt found himself grateful that the more skilled sibling was not the one using a weapon.
Jaskier shrieked but managed to escape Leocretia’s wrath by diving beneath the table.
As bedlam ensued, Geralt felt Marilka tugging his arm. “I love all my children, Geralt, but I’m relieved that they’ve become more civilized since they’re fully grown,” she said, rolling her eyes.
“They must have been quite a handful when they were younger,” Geralt said, observing the wild chase, thrown food, and merriment of the Pankratz family in their home environment.
Marilka smiled. “You have no idea.”
Geralt could not have been more grateful for the twists of fate that had led him to Marilka and his beloved bard.
Eventually, Marilka got her children to settle down. The feat was nothing short of miraculous, but Geralt had come to expect nothing less from the headstrong girl he had met in the Blaviken square. When the mess had been tidied a bit, Geralt bid Ainsley and Leocretia goodnight as they wandered off to their rooms at the villa.
Geralt thanked Marilka for sharing the story of what happened on that awful day and for providing him with the pieces of the story that had taken place after he left. The knowledge that Renfri rested in peace, with Marilka’s help, put Geralt’s mind at ease. The new clarity made Geralt feel as if the weight that he had been shouldering for all these decades suddenly became lighter.
~