Chapter Text
Geralt knows Eskel is worried about him. He can feel the stare between his shoulder blades while he shoves the last of his supplies into his pack. The silence is heavy, smothering, but Geralt can’t bring himself to break it, mind hazy – filled with wool to cushion the panic and resignation. It’s not until he turns toward the door of his home, toward where Eskel is standing, that Eskel finally speaks.
“Are you sure you want to travel alone, Geralt? It’s a long way to Lettenhove, even longer the way you’re going.”
“That’s the point,” Geralt grumbles, more bite in his words than he intends. Eskel graciously doesn’t comment on it.
“Geralt, would it really be so bad to wait and go with the rest of us?” Eskel asks gently. Geralt grimaces and shoulders past him into the morning light. The air is crisp and cold, as it always is in the Blue Mountains, and Geralt takes a few moments to let it clear his head. He hears Eskel step outside behind him. Geralt’s expecting the hand that grips his shoulder, but he still tenses when it lands. “Talk to me, Geralt. Please.”
Geralt sighs, takes another deep breath of the mountain air, listens to the sounds of the hold waking up – rustling, thumps, and soft murmurs as people rise for the day. He wants to be gone before he’s seen by anyone else, lest someone try to talk him out of it. He’s not in the mood for any more arguments, or worse, explanations of why this is necessary. He already knows why, even agrees with it, but that doesn’t mean he’s at peace with it. Not yet.
“I need space before the wedding. I’ve been ready to give my all for the hold since I was a child, Eskel. Even before I was chosen to take over as Thane when Vesemir stands down. I was ready, am ready, for my life to not be my own. I just thought…” Geralt trails off, the words catching in his throat, almost choking him. When he speaks again, it’s in a whisper so he can be certain no one but Eskel and the gods will hear. “I thought I could keep my heart until I chose to give it away.”
Eskel’s ragged inhale is loud. He uses his grip on Geralt’s shoulder to spin him around and pull him into a rib-cracking hug. Geralt hugs him back just as hard, trying to use the strain to stop the way his hands are shaking.
“You’re my brother, Geralt – in every way that matters. If I could take this burden from you, I would.”
“I know,” Geralt breathes, squeezing one last time before he steps back. “And I know you’re worried, but I need this. Need to have these last days to myself before I marry a stranger and come back to rule. A little more time to just be me . I’ll be careful, Esk, I promise. Just… let me go.”
Eskel nods and smiles sadly. “Alright, you win. Go on, before Lambert sees you and gives you even more shit than he already has.”
Geralt snorts and claps Eskel on the arm before trotting down the path that winds through the hold. He doesn’t look back until he’s passed the last home and turned a corner, hiding his people from view. His people, his responsibility, soon – but not quite yet.
Not yet .
He needs to move.
He picks up his pace, putting more and more distance between himself and Kaer Morhen until all he can see are trees, and stone, and snow. The wind rushes down from the mountaintop and whips Geralt’s hair, pushing against his back, carrying birds overhead, as if Korth and the Lady themselves are urging him onward. Even the sharp, icy teeth of the snow the wind kicks up is invigorating. Hakkon doesn’t wish to be left out either, it seems.
Barely audible below the screaming of the wind, there’s the sound of padded paws on snow.
Geralt smiles when Wilczyca leaps down onto the path alongside him and bumps into his side. The giant she-wolf has been Kaer Morhen’s hold-beast as long as Geralt can remember; seeing her always settles him. He brushes a hand through her gray fur, chuckling when her tail swishes from side to side. A weight lifts from his chest and he takes his first unhindered breath in what seems like days.
“Not gonna let me go down the mountain alone, huh?” Wilczyca stares him down and flicks her ears before continuing down the trail. She turns to look at Geralt and yips, like she’s asking what he’s waiting for. “Guess Eskel’s getting his way after all,” Geralt chuckles, and follows.
The journey down the mountain is much more pleasant with company that doesn’t expect conversation, and he feels a pang two days later when they reach the base and Wilczyca stops just within the tree line. He puts his hand over his heart and bows his head to her in thanks, the howl she lets loose when she runs back up warms his heart and buoys his spirits. At least he’s confident now that this solitary journey is the right choice.
The gods aren’t shy about demonstrating their displeasure, Wilczyca even less so.
The following days pass in a haze, marked only by the changing weather and relatively balmy temperatures. Geralt has shed several layers before he’s even a week out from the mountains, and can’t fathom how the people he passes can wear so much fabric when it’s already warm. He has to remind himself that it’s likely chilly to them. Lowlanders are notoriously susceptible to the cold, even the few that brave the mountains are so bundled up they don’t look human anymore – yet still, they shiver.
Geralt used to find it funny, but knowing he’s going to be married to one of them, will be bringing him back to his hold to live, kills the humor. Stranger or not, Geralt doesn’t want him to be miserable . He can only hope he gets used to the cold, or has a higher tolerance than most. The fact that Lettenhove is on the coast doesn’t bode well though.
The strangeness of a noble from a coastal seat being chosen to seal the contract with his people is not lost on Geralt, nor on the current leadership of the hold. It feels suspiciously like a punishment for his groom-to-be, a concern Geralt brought up with Vesemir. He had hoped the Thane would dismiss his words, and settle his already uneasy nerves. Instead, the grizzled man nodded in agreement and complimented Geralt’s intuition. It was the only time in memory that a compliment from Vesemir made Geralt nauseous.
He is already worried about what his fiancé thinks of Witchers in general. Finding out he is being thrown at him like an unwanted sacrifice is even worse.
He hopes the Lady will be kind in this – that he and his future husband will get along, perhaps even grow to care for each other in time. It would be easier to believe if he knew something about the man other than his name and title – Viscount Julian Alfred Pankratz tells him nothing.
Not even a legend-mark to give so much as a hint toward what kind of man he is, not that lowlanders give legend-marks, at least not the way Witchers do. Geralt wonders if the Redanian envoys bothered to tell Julian his. Probably not. Unless they thought it was his surname. In which case… Julian might not know his given name, which is an odd thought. He supposes he’ll find out when they meet.
He’s about a month out from Lettenhove when he stops in a small town. Posada, if the weathered, beaten sign can be believed. Geralt heads straight to the tavern, craving the sight and sound of other people. He’s never been particularly social, but the hold is always lively, filled with noise and activity, and he finds he misses the presence of his clan. He ignores the stares when he enters, used to them when he ventures down the mountain. Lowlanders, aside from dwarves, aren’t used to seeing Witchers, and they’re easy to spot. No one else wears furs and paint as they do.
Despite the crowd’s surprise and confusion over his arrival, the serving girl takes his order kindly enough, and is quick to bring him food and drink. The general chatter picks up again, and Geralt lets it wash over him with a small smile. It’s not the same, but it’s something at least, and the tension drains out of his shoulders.
He lets the noise lull him into near-meditation while he eats, and almost jumps when the strum of a lute cuts through the noise, followed quickly by cheers.
Geralt glances up to watch a man who must be a bard making his way onto the small stage at the back of the tavern. He’s dressed in a striking blue doublet that looks dull in comparison to his eyes – they’re a luminous blue, like the sky when the Lady is pleased. The rest of him is lovely to look at as well, but Geralt keeps coming back to his eyes, lost in them even though the bard isn’t looking his way, too focused on the group that has gathered around the stage.
When he finally starts to sing, Geralt is taken aback. He’s heard lowlander music before – human, and elven, and dwarven, and though all have their merits, none of it has ever sounded quite right. But this… this sounds like home , and Geralt is struck by a wanting so fierce he thinks for a moment he must have been bewitched. He wraps his hand around the protective talisman their Augur made for him when he came of age, but it lies still and quiet. No vibrations or high-pitched hum to indicate hostile or insidious spells.
Strange.
Just as the thought crosses his mind, the bard’s eyes meet his, and Geralt feels like he’s falling into the sky as they widen in surprise. Despite the bard’s apparent shock, he doesn’t miss a single note, and glances back toward his audience. When the bard looks away, Geralt feels like he took the sun with him, leaving Geralt cold and alone in his dark corner.
Gods, what is happening to him?
The bard’s set is blessedly long, allowing Geralt to bask in his music, in his voice, in the quick glimpses of his sky-blessed eyes. It’s like waking from a dream when the bard bows with a flourish, the clink and clatter of coins being tossed onto the stage its own applause as the people cheer. The bard sweeps up the tips while chatting with his admirers, somehow earning even more before he’s done, until his purse is full to bursting.
As it should be.
Geralt is debating whether it would be offensive to hand a tip directly to the bard when the man heads straight for him. He’s tempted to look over his shoulder to see if there’s someone else the bard means to speak with, but he’s in a corner with a telling circle of empty tables surrounding him, despite the crowd. He’s the only reason the bard would come this way, but why would he want to speak with a Witcher?
The bard pauses across the table, and by the Lady, his eyes are even more entrancing this close, like a sky that goes on forever.
“Mind if I join you?”
“No,” Geralt says quickly, perhaps too quickly, but the bard doesn’t mention it.
“I’m Jaskier. Might I know your name, Master Witcher?”
“Geralt,” he replies, waiting to see if there’s a reaction, relieved when there isn’t one. He can still just be himself for now.
“A pleasure to meet you, Geralt! Are you heading to the wedding in Lettenhove, by chance?”
“I am,” Geralt replies warily. It’s not something he wants to talk about, but since Jaskier doesn’t seem to realize he’s one of the grooms, he supposes he doesn’t really have to talk about it in detail. Though the fact that the bard read him so well makes him uncomfortable. “How did you know, and why do you ask?”
“I couldn’t help but notice you over here by your lonesome. No offense, but you do stick out. And it’s terribly unusual for a Witcher to pass through such a small town. The only reason I could think of is the wedding, but I thought I was mistaken since you’re traveling alone. Then I noticed you’re wearing a wolf token.” Jaskier gestures toward Geralt’s chest where his talisman rests. “So, I guessed you must be meeting the rest of your kinsmen in Lettenhove. As to why , well, I’m going there as well.”
“You’re performing at the wedding?” Geralt asks, excited by the prospect. The ceremony might be bearable if Jaskier is playing.
“After a fashion,” Jaskier replies after a slight hesitation. Geralt assumes that means he won’t be the only performer. A shame, but at least one of them will be worth listening to. “I was wondering, would you be interested in traveling there together? Seems a bit foolish not to when we’ll be running into each other the whole way there. And, I must admit, I’ve always been curious about Witcher culture. That is, if you wouldn’t mind indulging my questions.”
Geralt turns the offer over in his mind. It’s tempting to spend more time with Jaskier, the friendly lowlander a novelty that Geralt would like to enjoy. Besides, the path has grown lonely with no one to talk to. He can’t see it doing any harm. After all, these last days are for himself, and there’s nothing wrong with making a friend on the way, so long as they remain just that – friends. He has no intention of dishonoring his fiancé, stranger or no.
“I’d like that.”
“Excellent! Your next drink is on me to celebrate!” Jaskier’s enthusiasm makes Geralt chuckle.
They talk well into the afternoon, until Geralt mentions they should head out if they intend to make progress and camp while there’s still light. Jaskier beams at him and follows easily, matching Geralt’s stride and humming to himself. Geralt brushes off the warmth curling in his belly, certain it’s just relief to have a companion.
The wind picks up for a moment, and it sounds like laughter as it rushes through the trees.
The days fall into a comfortable routine of Jaskier alternating between playing, and peppering Geralt with questions about Witchers, apparently to satisfy some childhood fascination. Geralt suspects it has more to do with Jaskier trying to avoid offending any of the Witchers at the wedding, but he keeps that observation to himself. It’s not as if the reason changes the fact that Jaskier has shown genuine interest, nor that Geralt is enjoying sharing his culture.
Even if it’s difficult to focus on anything other than Jaskier’s eyes.
“So, you hunt, fish, and forage for food and materials, and trade for everything else?”
“Yes. Mostly with dwarves, though we’ve been known to strike up trade with some of the larger human cities as well.”
“Why dwarves?” Jaskier asks. “Is it because they’re closest to the mountains?”
“Yes and no. They were allies to Tyrdda long ago. The dwarves had the closest settlements to my people when she moved them into the Blue Mountains to avoid the strife in the lowlands. Their proximity to the mountains opened the door to the alliance, but their steadfastness has maintained it. We have honored that bond with oaths of friendship ever since.”
“I see,” Jaskier says, and strums his lute, singing a quick line about dwarves and Witchers that makes Geralt smile. “Who’s Tyrdda?”
“You’ve never heard of Tyrdda Bright-Axe?” Geralt asks, startled. It’s hard to fathom, though he knows there’s no reason for Jaskier to know Witcher history.
“No, sorry,” Jaskier says sheepishly. “You said she led your people into the Blue Mountains, so she was your leader?”
“Not just our leader. We call her the Witcher-Mother. Everything we are today, we owe to her, and the bonds she built all those years ago.”
“Tell me more.” From anyone else it would come off as an entitled demand, but Geralt has learned that Jaskier has an insatiable hunger for knowledge, for stories . One Geralt finds himself happy to indulge.
“Alright, but this could take a while,” Geralt warns.
“Good, we have a long way to walk before we camp.”
“True enough.”
Geralt hasn’t talked this much in a long time, unaccustomed to feeling so comfortable around someone who isn’t Eskel. But it’s… nice. By the time they make camp, Geralt’s tales of Tyrdda have run dry, and Jaskier is scribbling in one of his many notebooks. The yellow one this time. There’s some sort of system, though Jaskier’s attempt at an explanation didn’t make much sense to him.
“One more question.”
“Only the one?” Geralt teases, and Jaskier chuckles.
“Just one for now . You mentioned that Bright-Axe was Tyrdda’s legend-mark.” Geralt hums agreement as he starts pulling out ingredients for soup. It’s his turn to make dinner. “Is that something all Witchers get?”
“Legend-marks aren’t rare, but they have to be earned . A Witcher could go his entire life without getting one, and another might be granted one as a child.”
“Really? What sort of deeds could a child do to earn a title?”
“Doesn’t always have to be great deeds, or even something good , just something that speaks to who you are,” Geralt says slowly, trying to find the words to explain. “A legend-mark captures the moment when everyone sees you clearly, but the story of how you earned it is just as important as the name itself, because it tells everyone why you have it. Most tales are known across the holds, but they rarely make it out of the mountains. Lowlanders tend to make assumptions without them.”
“I can believe that,” Jaskier sighs. “Could you give me some examples?”
“Hmm… there is Vesemir Iron-Hand. Take a guess at why he’s called that,” Geralt prompts.
“Well, with nothing else to go on I would think he was a bit of a tyrant. Though I’m guessing he isn’t, as that would defeat the point of the exercise.”
“You guessed right, he isn’t a tyrant at all. Have you ever felt cold iron? When it’s nearly frozen and just a brush with it steals your breath and tries to take your skin?”
“No,” Jaskier says, hands stilling while he hangs on Geralt’s words. “Why?”
“When Vesemir was a young man, he was out hunting with his friend, Reinald. They were walking down a narrow path, Reinald on the outside, and the ground suddenly gave out. Reinald started falling, and Vesemir was barely able to grab his hand before the path crumbled beneath him too. They started to fall, but Vesemir managed to get a grip on the rock face with his free hand. His glove was torn, and the rock was winter-cold, but he held on, even with Reinald weighing him down. It took an hour of yelling before they were found.”
“An hour?!” Jaskier gasps. “He held on for that long?”
“Yes. And by then, Vesemir’s hand was so cold they thought it might shatter like ice when they pried his fingers free from the rock. But it didn’t. His hold was true, and strong, even in the cold. He was called Iron-Hand from that day forward. Most of the clan agreed he must have been blessed by the gods to make it so long. A few years later, when he proved he also had a solid head on his shoulders, he was named Thane of Kaer Morhen – and is to this day. At least, until the new one takes over after the wedding.”
Geralt frowns at the thought, but hides it by leaning over and tasting the soup.
“That’s incredible . Do you think he would mind if I wrote a song about it? Though, I suppose your…” Jaskier wrinkles his nose like he’s trying to recall something. “Skald!” He cries triumphantly. “I suppose your Skald would have already taken care of that.”
“They have, but there can never be too many songs, so long as they’ve truth to them.”
“Of course! Be a dear and toss a bit of soup my way if I get anything wrong.” Geralt grins and flicks his spoon toward Jaskier, just to hear him yelp, and then laugh. “Oh, you horrid, horrid man. You just wait until they hear about this treatment in Lettenhove. The entire alliance will be called off, just you wait.”
“Ah yes, a year of negotiations ruined because a Witcher got soup on a bard. What will the Count and Countess say?”
“Honestly? They probably wouldn’t give two shits.” A shadow crosses Jaskier’s face, his mouth twisting briefly into a grimace before he shakes his head.
“Jaskier?”
“Sorry, the thought of the nobility just brings down the mood,” Jaskier jokes, seemingly back to himself.
“Are they really so bad? The Pankratz family?” Geralt asks hesitantly. He knows the question isn’t a good idea. It’s not as if there’s any changing the marriage agreement now , but he still wants to know.
“I’m… probably not the best person to ask,” Jaskier says after a long pause. Geralt winces. “Anyway, back to legend-marks, does Kaer Morhen’s new Thane have one?”
Geralt almost drops the spoon into the soup, and clears his throat awkwardly. He does not want to discuss his own legend-mark, but what excuse could he possibly give not to without giving himself away? Resigning himself to being hyper-vigilant to use he rather than I , he nods.
“He does.”
“Really? How interesting! What is it?” Jaskier’s voice sounds strange somehow – nervous, maybe. Geralt assumes he’s reading too much into it.
“First-Thaw,” Geralt says, hoping his lack of elaboration will make Jaskier lose interest. He should have known better.
“First-Thaw? Well, I definitely need to hear that story, because I don’t even have a guess as to how he got it.”
“He slew Hakkon,” Geralt replies.
“Hakkon? As in Hakkon Wintersbreath?” Jaskier asks, clearly confused. “But I thought he was one of the gods, one of the most powerful ones, alongside Korth the Mountain-Father, and the Lady of the Skies.”
“He is,” Geralt confirms. The way Jaskier’s mouth drops open in shock, and his eyes light with excitement, make Geralt accept that he is going to have to tell the entire tale, whether he wants to or not. “It’s… complicated.”
“Alright,” Jaskier says, shifting into a more comfortable position and facing Geralt expectantly. Geralt sighs and tries to determine the best place to start.
“The Avvar gods aren’t the same as lowlander gods, at least not in my understanding. Ours are spirits, one with both our world and their own realm. Their abilities and power vary, but they are ever-present, as much a part of our lives as our clan. When our shamans ask to speak with them, they answer, so long as the offerings are sufficient, and sometimes an offering isn’t even required if the person requesting their aid is in enough need, or holds their favor.”
“You’re saying they’re just there ? All the time?”
“More or less. Even when we aren’t speaking directly to them, they send us portents that our Augur can read. It’s why we agreed to a treaty with the lowlanders in the first place. The Lady advised it.”
“One of the gods told your new Thane to get married to a lowlander?”
“Not so bluntly or clearly as that, though marriage was the best way to ensure the alliance holds.”
“I suppose,” Jaskier says, seeming to get lost in thought for a moment before shaking his head. “So, that explains some things, but not how the new Thane ended up killing one of them.”
“As I said, the gods live among us, so to speak, and at times they may use a vessel to carry out their will.”
“They possess people?!” Jaskier asks, sounding alarmed.
“No, no. They don’t use people as their vessels. It’s usually an animal, and occasionally something inanimate. Only shamans are ever possessed, and that’s only for their training, and it’s only by simple spirits, rather than the gods.”
Jaskier makes a strangled sound, and Geralt expects he will have to explain that at some point as well. Perhaps he’ll be able to convince Jaskier to wait until Lettenhove and have Yen or Triss explain instead.
“Right,” Jaskier says. “Moving on before I think about that too hard.”
Geralt chuckles and continues.
“It’s very important that if one of the gods does use a vessel, that they only inhabit it temporarily. Too long in our world will twist them, turning them away from their purpose, causing them to lose their way at best, and go mad at worst.”
“Which happened to Hakkon?” Jaskier asks carefully.
“He went mad,” Geralt says, grimacing at the memory of bone-deep cold, ice shards, and sharp fangs. “A powerful, foolish, arrogant lowlander mage by the name of Stregobor believed he knew more than our barbaric people about the spirits, the gods in particular. He sought to harness Hakkon’s power for his own, to bind the god’s will to his to turn upon his enemies. He saw Hakkon only as a destructive force, not understanding that winter is neutral, just as the mountains, and the sky are. Just as nature is. He trapped Hakkon in a dragon, wiping the poor thing’s mind from existence, replacing it with the god, who railed against his chains, eventually losing himself… becoming the destructive, unstoppable force Stregobor wanted.”
Geralt takes a deep breath, staring into the fire for a few moments to gather himself, tamping down the anger that still rises when he thinks of the mage.
“What Stregobor didn’t understand, is that what he’d done to Hakkon meant he couldn’t be reasoned with or be controlled, not by anyone. His power spread, unchecked, until the entire mountain range was trapped in an eternal winter, more bitter than any we’d ever faced. The Thanes of every hold gathered together, along with their Augurs, and determined it was the work of Hakkon. We tracked the mage and his minions to an old Elven ruin, and did battle. It was a bitter fight, and while the bulk of our warriors faced Stregobor and his ilk, a few were sent to search through the ruins for Hakkon, to bring an end to his suffering and ours. Eventually, his prison was found, but it was protected by magical seals. We managed to break them, but the backlash knocked everyone out but one. He stood alone against Hakkon, but emerged victorious. The proximity to Hakkon’s power,” –Geralt barely catches himself before he says turned his hair white– “nearly killed him,” he says instead.
At least it’s true.
“Once Hakkon’s vessel was slain, his spirit was released, and the effects of his magic died out. The seasons returned slowly to normal, and after a time, so did Hakkon.”
Jaskier appears to be at a loss for words, mouth working for a few moments before he throws his hands up.
“That… that is so inconceivable I almost want to call you a liar,” Jaskier finally says.
“It is a wild tale, for certain,” Geralt agrees.
“Do you have any others about him?” Jaskier asks, hands back in his lap, twisting together.
“Afraid there aren’t any others that are particularly interesting.”
“I see,” Jaskier says, expression disappointed before he smiles. ”Anything else you can tell me about Vesemir to help flesh out his song, then?”
“Plenty.”
They while away the hours with all the stories Geralt can think of involving Vesemir, Jaskier acting as his very enthusiastic audience, taking notes the entire time. Geralt still has several left when they go to sleep. When he says as much to Jaskier the next morning, the bard insists that he continue, so the day passes much the same way, the miles rolling unnoticed beneath their feet.
Geralt feels at peace – but it’s starting to scare him.
The days keep flying by, until they’re only a week out from Lettenhove, and dread is growing in the pit of Geralt’s stomach.
“You said a few nights ago that the new Thane will be taking over the hold after the wedding, right?”
“Yes.” Even if he doesn’t feel ready yet goes unsaid.
“Does that mean all of the other leaders in the hold will be replaced as well? The Augur, Master of the Hunt, Arena Trainer, and Skald?”
It’s a refreshingly intuitive question, and brings Geralt out of the dark mood he was starting to spiral into.
“They can be, and usually are, but it isn’t required. A Thane has to decide what they believe is best for the hold as a whole. Sometimes, that means they need new blood, other times, that they need the experience of the current leaders, or a mix of the two. It varies from Thane to Thane.”
“What do you think the new one will do?”
“He’s already announced his choices for each role. Well, all save the Skald.”
“He wants to keep the current one, then?”
“I–” Geralt hesitates for a moment. “I don’t think he’s found someone suitable yet. The current Skald will serve well enough for the time being.”
Geralt can’t help but wish he could extend an invitation to Jaskier. He’s the first person Geralt has met that he believes could not only perform the role, but thrive in it – and when one member of the hold thrives, they all do. But offering the position to an outsider he’s known for less than a month would be a questionable decision at best, proof of his incompetence as a leader at worst. It likely wouldn’t be fair to his fiancé either, with the feelings that keep creeping up no matter how quickly Geralt tries to force them down.
Hardly the way to start his rule or his marriage, and yet, he can’t stop imagining Jaskier at Kaer Morhen, weaving his clan’s stories together and keeping them alive through song.
“You’d make a good Skald,” Geralt says. It feels like the words are pulled from him against his will, and he has to close his eyes and take a shaky breath to steady himself. Then he keeps talking when Jaskier gives him a questioning look. “I’m not used to lowlanders having so much feeling in their songs, but yours…” Geralt trails off, frustrated with himself, at the way words seem to be fighting their way free from his lips.
“Mine?” Jaskier coaxes.
“Yours could be Witcher – they have weight and they’re real . You’d be good at it.”
Jaskier flushes and looks pleased. “Thank you – that’s terribly flattering.”
“You’re welcome,” Geralt says awkwardly, picking up his pace before he says anything else to embarrass himself. Thankfully, Jaskier provides a welcome distraction.
“Before you started telling me all these fascinating tales about Vesemir, we were going to discuss how law works in the holds.”
“Right,” Geralt replies, relieved to be back on safer ground. “The Thane of each hold is responsible for mediating any disputes that can’t be resolved amongst the clan itself. Anyone can bring their issue to the Thane, but in doing so they agree to abide by the result of whichever trial is chosen.”
“Trial?” Jaskier asks.
“The trials are how we determine the will of the gods – guilt and innocence, right and wrong. There are many options, one for each of the gods, and it is up to the Thane to decide which trial to use.”
“So there’s one for the Lady, another for Korth, another for Hakkon, and so on?”
“Exactly. And the Thane can also decide whether any additional conditions should be added.”
“Conditions such as?”
Geralt thinks for a few moments. “Imagine two men are in a dispute because one has accused the other of stealing food.”
“Alright.”
“They bring their problem to the Thane who knows the accuser is simply bitter that the other man had a better hunt. It’s the Thane’s duty to see justice is served, but in order to ensure it, they must choose the proper trial to give the wounded party an advantage. In this case, knowing the strengths and weaknesses of both men, they decide to use the Trial of the Lady.”
“And that is?”
“A climbing race,” Geralt explains before continuing. “The Thane is fairly certain the man who was falsely accused will win, but they also want to teach the accuser a lesson for causing strife in the hold, wasting their time, and insulting the gods. So, the accuser must race with stones strapped to his back.”
Jaskier chokes. “And he’ll do it?”
“He must. He chose to accept the Thane’s judgment. Pride and oath will not allow him to back out.”
“And after the trial is done?”
“The issue is resolved according to who won the trial, and then all is forgiven and forgotten.”
“Just like that?”
“Why not? They sought an answer, it was given, and anything owed was paid.”
“It just seems so simple.”
“Should it not be?”
“I didn’t say that. It’s just… not what I’m used to. Getting out of trouble in Redania usually involves a lot more bribing and underhanded dealings, and people never let you forget what you’ve done.”
“That seems a sad way to live,” Geralt comments. Jaskier sighs, and Geralt hurries to comfort him. “Don’t let that example fool you. It’s not always so straightforward. There are crimes that cannot be forgiven, and those have much graver consequences. Sometimes even the Thane themself must be brought to justice, but Witchers choose to look to the future. It’s difficult to grow, to live, if you keep looking behind.”
“I wish everyone could be that wise,” Jaskier says, with an earnestness that makes Geralt’s heart ache. Now Geralt must try his hand at pulling Jaskier from the darkness.
“Did you want to try out any of the new songs you’ve been working on?”
Jaskier perks up immediately, swinging his lute from his back into his arms with practiced ease. He strums a few notes and beams at Geralt, the storm clouds in his eyes disappearing like they were never there.
“I think I’ve worked out the kinks in the one about Vesemir’s legend-mark,” he says eagerly.
“Let’s hear it then,” Geralt says, heart fluttering as Jaskier starts to sing, and he falls into sky-blessed eyes.
The day before they’re going to reach Lettenhove is miserable, and not just because it rains all morning, forcing them to lose time trudging through mud, and making the task of finding dry firewood for that night’s campfire almost impossible. They finally get lucky, and Geralt should be pleased when the flame catches, but all he can think about is how tomorrow will be his last day with Jaskier. That, aside from hearing him perform at the wedding, they have mere hours left together.
He knows he was poor company today, but Jaskier seemed to be in a talkative mood, making up for Geralt’s silence with tales of Oxenfurt and the more outrageous parties he’s attended. Jaskier even managed to get a few laughs from him, something he didn’t think was possible in his current state.
It somehow makes everything worse , knowing that Jaskier balances him so well.
"What's wrong?" Jaskier asks suddenly.
"Hm? Nothing," Geralt answers, in what he hopes is a convincingly nonchalant voice.
"It's not nothing. You went quiet on me, and you’ve been sighing all day," Jaskier insists. Geralt sighs again, this time in resignation, trying to decide what he can blame his mood on without tipping Jaskier off to the truth.
"I'm not sure it's a good idea for a noble to marry into the hold." It’s not what he intended to say, but Geralt realizes with a jolt that it’s what he needed to say.
"Oh," Jaskier says, expression flickering before his face smooths out. It happens so quickly Geralt assumes he imagined it, along with the strange brittleness in Jaskier's voice when he continues. "Why not?"
"Because I'm worried they'll hate it," Geralt admits. Jaskier's face softens at the words, lips twitching like he wants to smile.
"What, exactly, are you worried they'll hate?"
" Everything . The way we live, where we live, m–" Geralt clears his throat before he lets "me" slip out. "Their husband. The Blue Mountains are unforgiving – harsh and cold, beautiful as well, but it's never easy there. You have to work to survive, even in a hold. There are no silks, or balls, or any of the other luxuries they're probably used to. I can't imagine them being happy."
Saying it out loud is a relief, some of the dread draining away into the firelight. Not all, but more than Geralt expected – the fear was lying heavier on his mind than he thought.
"And that's important to you?" Jaskier's gaze is piercing now, almost uncomfortably focused on him. Geralt makes a questioning sound, not sure what he's asking. "That they're happy – that's important?" Jaskier clarifies.
"Of course," Geralt says, baffled by the question, still mesmerized by Jaskier's eyes.
"Even though it's a political marriage?"
"Doesn't matter. What's the point of being married if one or both of you are miserable?"
Jaskier shrugs and looks away. Geralt feels like he can breathe again, and thinks he should be relieved to have that intensity aimed elsewhere. Instead, he already misses Jaskier's gaze. He wants it back – wants to be at the center of his attention again for as long as they have left.
"Marriage is permanent," Jaskier says eventually, a little sadly. "Among nobles it's about alliances, so you can't just back out. And even among commoners… you don't always know what your spouse is really like until after the wedding. Beatings and worse aren't as rare as they should be – not that there's much to do about it anyway, short of murdering your spouse or running away… praying you don't get caught."
Geralt grimaces at the finality of the statement. "It's not like that among Witchers."
"Surely you aren't claiming that Witcher marriages are perfect," Jaskier says wryly, eyes flicking back to Geralt’s face.
Oh, by the Lady, he's looking again, and Geralt feels it like a physical touch.
"Hardly," Geralt snorts, trying to cover the thundering of his heart. Jaskier will surely be able to hear it if it pounds any harder. "But if the relationship goes sour you don't have to stay together. Traditionally, you'd be wed until the end of your current marriage, but few holds will force that if the couple is truly unhappy."
"What if it's not just unhappiness that makes someone want to end it?"
Geralt doesn't need to ask Jaskier to elaborate.
"If there's been some form of abuse, the abuser will be brought before the Thane for judgment. If they're found guilty of the crime, they'll have to answer to the hold-beast. That is, if the rest of the clan doesn't get to them first. We don't tolerate that sort of savage cruelty." Geralt's voice is a growl at the end, and the heat of Jaskier's gaze bores into him. "If the Thane themself is found guilty by the hold, well, you can't be Thane if you're dead."
"Huh, that's… comforting," Jaskier says after a long moment. Geralt wonders why Jaskier would describe the practice as comforting of all things. "Wait, what did you mean, the end of their current marriage?"
Geralt chuckles. "Our marriages are as brief, or as long, as a couple wishes them to be."
"I don't understand. Do you mean Witchers are just getting married and unmarried all the time?"
"Not exactly," Geralt says, smiling at the intrigued expression on Jaskier's face – basking in the warmth of his regard while he can. "When two people decide to get married, they must complete a ritual before chosen witnesses. One of them will have spent the previous night tying knots into a rope."
The confused sound Jaskier makes is endearing, and Geralt raises an amused eyebrow at him. Jaskier squirms but doesn't say anything, gesturing for Geralt to continue.
"The next day, they present the rope to their intended, then they sing a song to the Lady of the Skies while their intended unties the knots. The number of knots that have been untied by the end of the song determines how long they'll be married to each other – one year for each knot."
"And at the end of that time?" Jaskier asks, head tilted.
"If the couple wants to remain married, they perform the ritual again. If not, they part ways."
"And there are no… social consequences afterward?"
"There's no stigma, if that's what you're asking. Whether there's tension or hard feelings depends on the couple."
Jaskier rests his chin in his palm, brow knit as he stares at Geralt. "Seems to leave an awful lot to chance," he says thoughtfully.
"You think so?" Geralt asks, smirking.
"What are you smiling about? Am I missing something?"
"The length of the marriage is hardly due to chance. There are ways to affect the results."
"Such as?"
"Tying the knots loose or tight, singing a long or short song, untying quickly or slowly."
"That isn't considered cheating?"
Geralt laughs, unable to help it. Gods but this is nice. He wishes he could stay here, safe in this moment, tomorrow be damned.
"It's not cheating, just a way to ensure the outcome is the right one."
"Like the Thane does with the trials," Jaskier says slowly, and Geralt feels proud that he understands. Proud and warm .
"Yes. Exactly like that."
"I've never heard of that tradition before. I always thought–" Jaskier snaps his mouth shut, face turning an attractive shade of red. Geralt wonders if that's the shade he turns when he's aroused. He stomps the thought down viciously before it can fully form.
"You always thought what?" Geralt teases. Jaskier doesn't answer, avoiding Geralt's gaze, but Geralt is fairly certain he already knows what he won’t say. "That we kidnap our spouses from their homes and bring them back to ours to be married?"
Jaskier's mortified squeak and the way his blush darkens are answer enough. Geralt smirks.
"No need to be embarrassed. We do," Geralt soothes.
"Very funny," Jaskier says sarcastically.
"It's not a joke," Geralt says. Jaskier gives him a dubious look. "I'm serious," Geralt insists.
"You care about consent, and justice, and being able to leave shitty marriages, but you also steal people to get married to them? That makes no sense, Geralt."
"Not when you say it like that, no."
"Wait, you're serious?!"
"Yes."
Jaskier sputters for a few moments, seemingly at a loss for words, until he finally chokes out "explain". Not an admonishment or judgment, but an assumption that he doesn't understand. It means everything, and Geralt's heart is pounding again.
“Witcher holds are fairly isolated, and as I’ve explained before, we rarely interact with lowlanders aside from dwarves – let alone marry them.” Jaskier shifts a bit at that, but remains silent. “Inevitably, this means we need to bring new people into the hold, else the entire clan would be related. Sometimes it happens naturally. Witcher holds do mingle, and we’re on good enough terms with most of the others that couples aren’t uncommon.”
“That still doesn’t address kidnapping people,” Jaskier points out.
“I’m getting there,” Geralt admonishes, and Jaskier falls silent again after a brief bout of snickering. “The kidnapping only happens when someone is being added to our hold permanently. In that case, whichever member of our hold that wants to marry the outsider must prove themselves capable, worthy of the other hold’s sacrifice. They have to sneak into their intended’s hold, and leave with them, without getting caught.”
“What happens if they do get caught?”
“If it’s the first time? They get the shit beat out of them by the other clan.”
Jaskier makes a strangled noise. “And after the first time?”
“They get fed to that clan’s hold-beast.”
Jaskier is gaping now, eyes wide with shock, and Geralt bursts into laughter. Jaskier scowls, but his twitching lips give away his mirth.
“I knew it! You’re pulling my leg!”
Geralt shakes his head, and wipes a tear from his eye.
“I’m not. It’s just – not as bad as it sounds. Maybe in the ancient days that was more common, but now it’s typical for the pursuer to simply speak with both their intended, and their family, beforehand so there are no schisms or feuds. This also means they have the aid of their intended when making their escape, so it’s incredibly unlikely for someone to get caught. At least, not unless their attentions are unwanted. In which case…”
“Beatings and becoming hold-beast food,” Jaskier finishes.
“Yes.”
“That’s surprisingly romantic, you know,” Jaskier says, much to Geralt’s surprise. “Something about your lover wanting to be with you so badly that they’d steal you away, risking life and limb in the process, is very appealing.”
Geralt feels heat suffuse his body, and he prays to all the gods that Jaskier can’t see his blush in the growing darkness. The words burst from his mouth before he can stop them.
“Maybe you should marry a Witcher, then.”
Jaskier’s expression flickers and goes smooth again like it did earlier. “Perhaps I should,” Jaskier says eventually.
They start getting ready to turn in after that, both sensing the conversation is over. It’s not until Geralt has settled into his bedroll that Jaskier murmurs something from a few feet away, so softly Geralt almost doesn’t hear it.
“If the Witcher the Viscount is marrying is anything like you, I think he’ll be happy.” Then, even softer still. “I know I would be.”
Jaskier falls asleep soon after, breath evening out, but sleep will not come for Geralt. He is wide awake, Jaskier’s words chasing themselves around his head, butterflies fluttering in his chest – trapped, with nowhere to go because Jaskier is not his. For the first time in his life, Geralt is tempted to curse the gods – because why would they lead him to Jaskier when Geralt is no longer free to choose?
WHY?