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“Where’s my Witcher?”
There were more drowners coming up out of the water. Three… no, four. That made seven, on top of the three he’d already killed. Shit.
“Is that my Witcher?”
Geralt dodged the first as it rushed him, slashed at it, threw a frantic Igni into the gathering mass.
“It goes GRAAARGGHHH!”
“Gwwwaaahh!”
“It is a basilisk! That’s not my Witcher!”
These were weaker than usual. Slower too, or he’d never have been able to grab the kid in time. Starving perhaps. One fell now to the flames, and the others screamed, briefly eclipsing the sound of… whatever that was Jaskier was doing. He ran forward as they stilled, knocking one down, bisecting another.
Five left.
“… Neiiigh!! It is Roach the horse! That’s not my Witcher!”
Two more rushed him at once.
“Where’s my Witcher? Is that my Witcher?”
He cast Quen to slow them, then spun to slash at a third which suddenly emerged behind him, leaping, knocking hard into his back.
“It goes, ‘that colour really brings out the bags under your eyes, bard!’ It is Yennefer the Witch! That’s not my Witcher!”
Four left now. Gods, he was tired.
“Where’s my Witcher? Is that my Witcher?”
It had been a long fucking trek east, dodging Nilfgaard troops, fretting about Ciri and Yen, barely sleeping. It was only Jaskier’s vibrant nonsense and quiet, forgiving glances that were keeping him as sane as he was.
“… oh Valley of Plenty! It is Jaskier the Magnificent Bard! That’s not my Witcher!”
“Plentyyyyy!!”
Geralt rolled his eyes, but cast another Igni, stronger this time. Another drowner fell, screeching out its last.
“Where’s my Witcher?”
Three left.
“Is that my Witcher? It goes ‘I’ve made delicious stew, but if you’re not here in five minutes I’ll give it all to my goat’.”
Geralt stifled a chuckle. He could do with the Dragon of Kaer Morhen and his signs right about now.
“It is Eskel! An excellent Witcher indeed, but still not my Witcher.”
Grinning, Geralt rushed the remaining three drowners, whirling and slashing.
“Where’s my Witcher? Is that my Witcher?”
One more fell, then another.
“It goes… Huh, actually, I’m not sure I can think of anything Lambert says that’s suitable for your ears, Miss Dotty.”
And a thrust right into the heart of the last, which exploded, covering him in slime.
Oh well.
He wiped his silver sword on the grass, staggered slightly, and headed towards the sound of Jaskier’s voice.
“Where’s my Witcher? Is that my Witcher?”
As he thought, Jaskier hadn’t gone far, though just about far enough. He’d found a good clearing and had apparently started making camp. A fire was crackling, their bedrolls were unrolled, and Roach had her face in a suitably thick patch of grass and dandelions. Jaskier was sitting on a fallen oak and bouncing the toddler on his lap.
“It goes…”
“Shut up, bard,” said Geralt.
“THAT’s my Witcher!” said Jaskier. “Hooray, hooray, it’s a wonderful day, for I have found my Witcher!”
“HOORAY HOORAY WISHER!” said the kid – Dotty, was it? – turning to wave at Geralt. She was clean, she was wearing one of Jaskier’s softest shirts, and her tight black curls were wrapped in what looked suspiciously like the silk lining of his best blue doublet. She looked adorable.
“Hm.”
“There’s hot water in the pan on that beech stump, along with some rags and a bit of soap… no, no, sweetheart, you can’t run after the Witcher yet, he’s far too covered in drowner slime. We can have Geralt cuddles when he’s all nice and fragrant again.”
Geralt turned his back, but not quickly enough.
“Oh, I saw that smirk, wolf! You can’t fool me any more. You love cuddles and you can’t deny it.”
“Wouldn’t try to.”
Jaskier beamed. Geralt pulled off his clothes, wincing at a pulled shoulder muscle, and started to wash.
“Pulled muscle, then. Any other injuries I should know about?” asked Jaskier, lightly.
“No. None of them got me. A lot of them, but slow and weak, for drowners.”
Jaskier exhaled. “That was too lucky, us finding this one in time.”
“Maybe we were owed some luck.”
“Well, we should all get some rest. And tomorrow,” he bounced the little girl on his lap again, “we can get Dotty here to the nearest village and see if we can find her poor family. There’s a clean shirt and trousers for you on your pack, and also a comb, Geralt, which I would like to suggest you use.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. I’ve given Roach a brush-down too.”
Geralt let the warmth of that care calm him as he washed and dressed, and was then plonked down on the fallen oak with little Dotty on his lap, while Jaskier served up three bowls of Eskel’s just-add-hot-water-even-you-can’t-mess-this-up-Lambert travellers’ soup. Between them they managed to get Dotty to eat some, without too much of it ending up anywhere other than her mouth and the forest floor.
By the time they'd finished eating their own dinner she was a bit grizzly, though she seemed to cheer up when Geralt rocked her on his lap, and then started pulling faces. She giggled, sleepily.
“There, see, Dotty? Witchers give the best cuddles. You’re always safest with a Witcher,” Jaskier told her.
“That the chorus of your next song?”
“Possibly, possibly.”
“What was that, um. That poem or… story you were telling her?”
“What, Where’s my Witcher?”
“Yes. I could hear it the whole time I was fighting.”
“Ah. Sorry about that.”
“No, no, it… it wasn’t bad.”
Jaskier smiled. “I had a good friend at Oxenfurt. Not a bard, for a change. Natural philosopher, something of an expert in monster scat these days, would you believe. Mother one of the richest women in Redania; father some humble watch captain or other. Very romantic; lovely people. Anyway, Sam’s dad used to read this book to him when he was a baby, called Where’s my Cow?, and while the rest of us had teddy bears or favourite blankets or what-have-you from home in our bedrooms, Sam had this… well-loved, well-chewed old picture book.
“We all used to read it to each other late at night when extremely drunk, and make up our own versions. “Where’s my wine? Is that my wine?”, you know.” He shrugged. “Hence Where’s my Witcher, which I’m now thinking I should really write down and publish.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“But you love me for it.”
Geralt grunted. “Yes.”
Jaskier smiled softly at him, then nodded at Dotty, who had fallen fast asleep in Geralt’s arms. “I wish we could get her home tonight. Her family must be frantic.”
“Too dark, and the village might be miles away. I could find my way but…”
“But you don’t want to leave me on my own here, and it’ll be easier if you have me with you when you turn up carrying a little girl barely old enough to walk.” Jaskier sighed. “I know. Fucking humans. Ugh.”
“You’re human.”
“Ugh.”
Geralt laughed, and reached out a hand. Jaskier grasped it, and then bent down and kissed first Geralt’s hair, then Dotty’s cheek. She stirred and yawned.
“I love you, Geralt. Let me take this little miss and we can all get some rest.”
* * * * * * *
They arrived at the village of Turnwise just before dawn, to find a distraught baker and his wife who sobbed with relief as Geralt alighted from Roach with Dotty a cheerful bundle in his arms and handed her to them. They had taken young Dotty (short for Dorota, it turned out) on a walk through the woods they day before when she had suddenly charged off into the undergrowth as only a toddler can. They had searched for hours, giving up only when it became too dark to see.
It was much as Jaskier had expected, though the pączki parcelled up and given to Geralt as a thank-you was a rather lovely surprise. Geralt was sparing on matters concerning the drowners, but asked the couple to spread the word that there were some in the area.
A pretty village, Turnwise, and Dotty's parents seemed like very kind people, just as a lovely, sweet child like Dotty deserved. Just as any child deserved, reflected Jaskier, even if not sweet at all.
The family waved after them as they left, Dotty shouting "BYE BYE WISHER!" loud enough to wake the rest of the village. And possibly everybody else in a six mile radius.
“You were good with her,” said Geralt, later that day. They were passing through a wide stretch of meadow-lands, a light breeze rippling the flowers and ruffling Jaskier's hair and skittering loose stones and making the early summer heat bearable. Geralt rode Roach at an easy walk, and Jaskier strode beside him, just as he had done for so long now, his lute on his back and at least three tunes tangling in his head.
"Good with...?"
“The child. Dorota.”
Jaskier shrugged. “I like children.” He snorted. “And a good thing too. Did I ever tell you I have six younger siblings? And half of them have kids now too.”
“But you don’t?”
“But I don’t.”
Geralt raised an eyebrow “You sure?”
Bastard Witcher. “Quite sure. Apart from the fact that I’m very much a one-Witcher bard these days… Oh, there was a mage near Lettenhove I went to some years ago. I was causing enough trouble, one way or another. I didn’t want to add to my sins by planting baby buttercups all over the Continent.”
Geralt laughed. Gods, but it was a good sound.
“You weren’t so bad with Dotty yourself, you know,” said Jaskier.
Geralt said nothing.
“You’re a good father, and a good man. Ciri’s lucky to have you.”
“Hm.”
“We all are.”
“Shut up, bard.” But he was smiling.
“That’s my Witcher!!”
Geralt rolled his eyes, then eased Roach to a stop. He reached down and tucked a stray hair behind Jaskier’s ear. “We should head west again soon. Yen wants us all at the farm by Velen, and we’ll want to double back a few times.”
“And you miss Ciri.”
“Yes.”
“Right! Well, there's plenty of time for me to turn Where’s my Witcher into a song by Velen! Now let’s see…” He brought his lute round to the front and started tuning her.
“No.”
“‘Where’s my…’ oh no, that’s not a good key to start in at all, is it, let’s try this…”
Geralt clicked his tongue at Roach and she started walking again.
“What does Lambert say other than swearing? I really do need a verse ready if he and Aiden are going to be there.”
“Absolutely not.”
“And I need one for Ciri! And Aiden. And Vesemir, and Coen, and I really think I can tighten the one for Eskel... Oh! And I should write one for Lil Bleater.” He pulled out his notebook.
“No.”
“Do drowners make a distinctive noise, Geralt?”
“They scream. It’s horrible.”
“Eh, I can make it work.”
“Also basilisks do not go graaaaaarrrghh.”
“More hissing, would you say?”
“No.”
“Growling? Hooting?”
“You were closer with hissing, listen…”
There was danger ahead, and danger behind. But Jaskier had his witcher and Geralt had his bard, and they had a family to go home to.
For now, at least, it was enough.