Author's Note: We know that Jaskier traveled alone before he met Geralt and that he'd traveled alone off and on through the years of knowing Geralt, so he's not some totally helpless babe in the woods. He didn't come to Geralt tabula rasa in camping skills. But then again, who did teach a highborn wandering bard how to survive on the Path?

Chapter 4

The fourth time Julian met a Witcher it was case of mistaken identity, which Julian, or Jaskier, as he was calling himself now that he'd officially set off on the road as a travelling bard, could be forgiven for making.

In his defense, Jaskier was tired, rather hungry, a little bit scared of being on his own for the first time (not that he would admit to it) and the tavern he'd walked into was rather dark. What light there was in the dingy place was mostly coming from the glowing coals in the large front hearth. The case of mistaken identity seemed an easy one to make when he caught the fire-lit outline of two swords and long grey hair tinted red by the fire. To stumble across Vesemir this far out seemed an excellent start to his bardic life, an unlooked-for gift from the gods, and a good omen for his future.

Buoyed by excitement, Jaskier wove between patrons to plop himself down at the table. "Well met, Master Vesemir. It's been-" Only then, did Julian realize that while indeed a Witcher, this was not Vesemir. "Oh," Jaskier stumbled back up onto his feet sketching a show bow of apology. "I'm terribly sorry for the intrusion, Master Witcher. I mistook you for a friend."

Eyes better adjusted to the gloom and with only a table separating them, Jaskier can see that this Witcher, while still a large man, lacked Vesemir's broad oak tree sturdiness. He was slighter and leaner, holding himself with a willowed grace that Jaskier envied. But he's clearly of an age with Vesemir, Jaskier noticed, with once red hair faded to grey with only the highlights to hint at its former color. Wrinkles are set in his face and hands amongst the scars to the point that some are hard to tell one from the other.

"A friend?" the Witcher questioned, his voice a baritone to Vesemir's deep bass notes. "Now how does a slip of a human like you know the mighty Vesemir to call him friend?"

Jaskier shifted nervously on his feet. The words were pleasant enough, even curious, but Jaskier could hear the threat woven through them. "Forgive me, Master Witcher. I meant-"

"Sit."

There was more than a little threat now behind the word. He sat. He's not exactly afraid, but not exactly not-afraid either. Greenish gold eyes pin him in place, pupils expanded slightly in the gloom of the room to catch the light. Even as Jaskier watches, those pupils expand further, going round like a barn cat's when it has found its mousy prey.

"Guxart. School of the Cat."

Jaskier blinked in confusion as the Witcher went from threat to introduction in the space of a breath. Cat? Jaskier's gaze slipped down to the medallion against the man's chest. He'd always noted Vesemir's necklace and while he'd never asked, had always assumed the silver wolf's head was just a Witcher thing. But now, he could see that this man – Guxart – had a medallion embossed with a snarling cat's head.

"W-well met, Master Guxart," Jaskier managed to stammer out. Still woefully confused and rightfully nervous, Jaskier spoke before his brain fully engaged. "Uhm. Julian. School of the Bard."

Really, one of these days, the lack of any filter between his brain and his mouth was going to get him killed. Those eyes narrowed on him. Quite possibly today, he decided, glad he'd given the more formal Julian rather than the name he'd chosen as a bard – Jaskier. If ever Master Vesemir was to hear of his death from this Witcher, at least Vesemir would know it was him.

A small eating knife appeared in Guxart's right hand, the blade spinning so fast around his fingers that it was a blur of flashing silver. "So again, I ask, how does a bard claim a Witcher as a friend?"

Ah, there Jaskier heard it. Protectiveness. This Witcher would put himself between Vesemir and danger although Julian snorted at the idea of himself being a danger to the likes of a Master Witcher. "You mistake me, Master Guxart. I name myself friend to Master Vesemir, I would not presume to know what he would name me. Although, if I were to hazard a guess in truth, I would be named boy, pup, and sometimes an amusing but otherwise harmless annoyance that asks far too many questions which he suffers to answer with great patience and dignity." A fond smile he couldn't contain rose up. "Except when I truly vex him and then he has been known to throw things at my head. Gently, of course, as I am only human."

Oddly enough, this statement relaxed the hard line of Witcher's shoulders and slowed the fast spinning blade to something human eyes could follow. "Vesemir and I shared a prison cell for a time. When I annoyed him, he'd flick pebbles from the dungeon floor at my head." Sharp teeth were bared in a sharper smile. "Not so gently."

Guxart then stood and stretched, oblivious to how the tavern stilled to silence around them, then swung a pack resting at his feet up onto his shoulders. "Well?"

Julian looked up in confusion.

Guxart snorted. "Are you coming or not?"

Coming or not? Coming with Guxart? He looked at the tavern. Thought about the last time he'd had decent food and a bed, then scrambled to his feet. He'd always been an idiot according to Father and friends and various professors. Fingers clasped tight around his lute, he stammered out, "I- of course. I- I didn't realize I was invited to walk with you on your Path."

Another snort as Guxart led them towards the door, the patrons of the tavern subtly leaning away from the Witcher as he moved. "Don't get ahead of yourself, little bardling. Vesemir lies two towns to the east where we were to meet." Those greenish-gold eyes appraised him. "Might be interesting to toss you at his feet. Get enough jokes about what cats drag in."

Julian huffed out a breath just as they stepped into the afternoon sunlight and started walking. "I'm not a half-eaten mouse. You just want to see if I'm telling the truth about knowing Master Vesemir."

"As much as humans lie to us, you speak truth." He jerked his chin in the direction of Jaskier's boot. "You carry a Witcher's silver dagger, bardling. He'd not be giving that to just anyone."

Jaskier was feeling contrary. "I could have stolen it." Guxart shot him a look, his gaze unimpressed, but Jaskier detected a slight curl to his lips. "Maybe," he continued, dropping his voice down in a conspiratorial whisper, "I'm a highly trained, super stealthy assassin bard? Or maybe bard assassin? Which one sounds better, do you think?" He reached down to his boot and pulled the dagger and spun it about his fingers, although with much less grace and speed than Guxart has done earlier. "I filched it in a daring raid on Master Vesemir's quarters while he slept, only leaving a taunting note behind that I now had his nice silver dagger and to catch me if he could."

"Put that away before you stab yourself in the foot." Guxart wasn't even trying to hide his sharp grin now. "Do you know who the Cats are?"

Something in Guxart's voice stills Jaskier fingers and he looks to where the other man walked beside him, the way he carried himself and the fact that only Jaskier's footfalls sound upon the road. He swallowed hard. But he's getting no feelings of danger from the Witcher so he continued on. He had placed his trust. Stupid of him or not, he won't withdraw it until it's broken. "So," he began, sheathing the dagger and cheerfully skipping a few steps ahead before turning around to walk backwards so he could face the Witcher, "Well then, as a Cat, and fellow professional, you never said. Assassin bard or bard assassin?"

Guxart is shaking his head in a way that Jaskier has seen most of his life. It's a sort of combination of exasperation, amusement and disbelief. "Go with bard assassin."

Jaskier nodded. "It does have a good ring to it. Could be a fabulous ballad. The adventures of a bard assassin instead of the standard boring old highwayman." He spun back around to face forward before he ended up falling on his ass in front of the Witcher. "Of course," he calls over his shoulder, "the sight of blood does make me queasy. I may have to fudge a bit on the assassin part."

"And they say Cats are the crazy ones."

So they walk. If he was composing a song, Jaskier was fairly sure the line would read: "the fair companions walked in silence." It's got a nice rhythm to it. It's also patently false. Well, on his side at least. The Cat Witcher was remarkably silent and Jaskier really wanted to know how the man walked so quietly even over the leaves and sticks that litter the road. It's truly remarkable.

But if his companion was silent, Jaskier was not. It's not that he finds the lack of noise uncomfortable, it's that it is boring. So, he talks, he hums, he steps deliberately on a nicely dry branch just to hear the crack of sound. He fingers the lute cradled in his arms and most importantly, he asks questions. Mostly for the sake that he's a curious sort, but also to distract himself from the fact that he's hungry.

"Not that I'm not grateful for the offer of companionship, but beyond the no doubt amusing imagery of tossing me at Master Vesemir's booted feet, why are you offering to escort me to a reunion I wasn't exactly attending to begin with? I truly had no idea Vesemir was nearby."

Guxart shrugged. "I was meeting Vesemir."

Julian picked a series of notes that sounded frustrated even to his own ears. "That's not exactly a reason to pluck me out of a nowhere tavern and invite me along on a journey I wasn't intending to make."

Guxart shrugged again, and said simply, "Cat." Then stopped, eyeing the road carefully. "Here," he stated, before moving off the road into the scrub.

"Here? Here what? And what does Cat mean? Cat eyes? Cat burglar? Cat Witcher? Cat is not an explanation."

Guxart was now so far into the bushes that Jaskier could no longer see the man, only hear him. "We camp here."

Jaskier looked around. This stretch of road looked like all the other stretches of road they had walked past. He fingered the frustration notes again and followed the Witcher into the weeds. A few steps in, he realized that he was on a game path, and picked his way carefully along. He doesn't go far before a small clearing opened up with the Witcher standing in the middle of it.

"Start setting up camp, bardling." He raised his nose up into the air and inhaled before nodding. "Looks like we're having rabbit for dinner."

"Wait, what? Set up camp how?" His stomach rumbles. "Rabbit?"

Guxart turned to him, and Julian knew that look. Any number of his professors have given it to him over the last four years of study when Julian said something that they thought particularly stupid. He fought down the urge to curl his shoulders up around his ears in embarrassment.

"Bardling, how long have you been walking the Path?"

Jaskier flushed with mortification. He can feel the heat in the tips of his ears. "Uhmm. I graduated Oxenfurt at the end of the spring, and it's now summer so, two months."

"Two months and you don't know how to set camp?"

Hands go to his hips in indignation, his mouth open to defend himself and Guxart is still just standing there with that look upon his face. Julian deflates, hands slipping to his side. "Oddly enough, there aren't a lot of bards out there. Musicians, yes, but bards, composers, ones who create songs, there aren't a lot. And what few there are compete like starving wolves over the last rabbit in the warren in order to procure a finite pool of monied patrons and lucrative spots in courts."

Guxart is still watching him, his expression unreadable. So, Julian wandered further into the clearing, setting down his pack. "There are even fewer who wish to wander." He let out a soft laugh. "A select few handful that feel the call of towns and cities and places they've never been." Julian shrugged. "If a non-Witcher can hear the call of the Path, then I have plucked the notes of that melody more times than I can count."

"So, you just picked up your lute and started walking?"

"Well, when you say it like that," he grumbled. "I will admit that part of the whole plan was less than thought through completely. But there aren't courses on how to walk the continent. I thought-"

"You thought?"

"You'll laugh."

"I'm a Cat, boy. We're known for crazy. Tell me this tale of bardish foolishness."

"There aren't exactly books to explain how to travel. No classes that teach how to survive. So, I saved up what coin I could, memorized a map of the continent and thought that I could stay at inns and taverns and earn enough for food at least until I could make a name for myself and then earn enough to travel at my leisure."

"Didn't work out that way?"

Jaskier laughed and desperately hoped that the Witcher couldn't detect the hysterical edge in his voice. "When I studied the map, the villages looked much closer together. I didn't realize how slow walking really was. My first night out on the road, I made a small town and its inn. I even earned a bit of coin and they gave me a free meal for playing. The second night . . . "

"The second night went different?"

"Second night was a disaster. I'd rather not talk about the third or the ones that came after." Tired of the depressing mood, Jaskier clapped his hands together and gave himself a small shake. "So that's my tale of woe. I'm a wandering bard who has no idea how to survive the wandering. Although I am getting better." He gestured at the pack at his feet. "Trail rations, proper bedroll and the like. Though, I must say, that if I survive my year and make it back to Oxenfurt, I'm really going to suggest that the university offer a class for wandering bards so that successors won't have near as much trouble."

"Why not just give up? Go back to the comfort of Oxenfurt? The Path is no place for those that are not strong enough to survive its dangers."

"I can't." The words rolled off his tongue without reservation. "I can't explain it, but the Path as you Witcher's name it, it calls to me. There are stories that need to be told, sights that must be seen, people that must be met." Jaskier shrugged one shoulder but even he could hear the intensity of his words. "This is what I am meant to do. I know it."

It's then he noticed Guxart has placed two fingers on his medallion and is staring rather oddly at him. "Bardling, why did Vesemir give you his knife?"

"I asked," he said with a somewhat rueful smile. Then waved his hands around trying to form a shape in the air in front of them, as if that could help the next words. "Well, technically I asked for knife lessons. The knife was a parting gift after he spent a few weeks in Oxenfurt on a contract. Plus, there were a group of second years that were being . . . well, let's just say they were being less than friendly."

Guxart eyes were fixed on the blade partially hidden within Jaskier's boot, his expression unreadable. It made Jaskier uneasy for some reason although he had no true reason for why. "Guxart?"

The Witcher glanced up, his pupils once again blown wide as a stalking cat's. "Right." His hand dropped from his medallion, and he gave himself a shake. "It will take a few days before we arrive so it's time to go back to lessons bardling." He nodded at Jaskier's pack. "Dump that out and show me what you have and then I'm going to show you how to set up camp and snare some rabbits."

That was the pattern over the next days as they headed towards Vesemir. Guxart spoke as they walked, pointing out edible plants, various dangers that could befall a lone traveler and drilling Jaskier on his knife work. "You are carrying one of Vesemir's blades which means that the old dog taught you. Everyone knows Wolves are shit with knives. If you want to know knives, you go to a fucking Cat. Now stop hitching your shoulder forward like that and try again."

All of which meant that Jaskier was totally unprepared as he followed Guxart off the main road down a narrow game trail only to be pushed at the last minute by a large hand between his shoulder blades. As he stumbled forward to sprawl before an unlit fire ring, he looked up to catch the raised eyebrow of Master Vesemir.

"I brought you a crew toy, Wolf," came from behind Jaskier.

Vesemir heaved what Jaskier thought to be a long-suffering sigh. "Fucking Cats."

Jaskier stays with Vesemir and Guxart for the next three days, the two older Witchers bickering – and occasionally outright fighting – between them as they made plans to walk the Path and attend to a contract further west that will require the skills of both. Jaskier isn't sure he wants to know what kind of monster would require the skills of two Witchers to deal with and neither Witcher offered details no matter how many questions he asked.

Jaskier – or Julian as Guxart and Vesemir call him – continue the lessons in survival and knife work. The knife lessons leading to more bickering and more fighting between the two. Jaskier finds himself greatly amused as he's never seen the stoic Vesemir so knocked off his stride. Guxart seems to have a special talent for getting under Vesemir's guard and Jaskier is taking silent notes on all their interactions.

Their parting is scheduled for the fourth day.

Jaskier expected a firm arm clasp and maybe a clap on the back. Guxart instead grabbed his head, palms pressed to his cheeks and fingers curled over his ears. Jaskier squawked in surprise but had no recourse to move against a Witcher's casual strength. His noise of protest cut abruptly off as Guxart leaned forward and planted a closed-mouth kiss against his lips before pulling back and releasing him.

Jaskier squawked anew. "W-what? Why? You-"

Guxart laughed at his antics. "Cat," he said smugly before moving aside.

Arms thrown up in the air, Jaskier let out a small scream of annoyance. "How many times must we go over this? Cat is not an acceptable answer to any and all questions."

Vesemir stepped forward, snorting softly as Jaskier danced backward in wary indignation. "You aren't going to kiss me, are you? Because I would find that slightly weird. You've known me since I was five."

Vesemir's face twisted as if he's tasted something sour. "Not going to kiss you, boy. Come here." As Jaskier stepped close, the Witcher reached out, one large hand wrapping around his neck to pull him close, forehead to forehead. "The Path is yours to walk now. Step carefully."

Jaskier gave him a brilliant smile. "Thank you," he murmured before stepping backwards. "Good luck on your hunt and be careful."

Vesemir's horse was already saddled and loaded and neither Witcher was the type of delay parting. So Jaskier swung his own pack up onto his shoulders.

"Boy," Vesemir called, a note in his voice Jaskier couldn't quite place, "if you truly want to wander, then you need to see all the Path. Dol Blathana, the Edge of the World wouldn't be a bad place to start. Take the east trail, when you reach Posada, you have gone far enough. I hear the Valley of Flowers is a sight all should see at least once.

Jaskier shrugged. It sounded like as good a direction as any.