Chapter 5

I just recently finished watching the animated "Witcher: Nightmare of the Wolf" movie on Netflix. In my own head canon for this story, I always pictured Vesemir as being highly amused my Jaskier. And then I watched "Nightmare" and lo and behold a young Vesemir was shown to be an absolute, if delightful, ass. So, yeah, head canon confirmed for me – Vesemir might have gotten stern and stoic and grumbly with age, but something in Jaskier brings out that long ago asshat and he enjoys it. – Caeria

The fifth time Julian met a Witcher, was the time he stopped counting. Meeting and following Geralt of Rivia moved seamlessly from one day to the next to months and then to years. Although, the five-year-old boy still inside of him wanted to keep track of those meetings as he never failed to thrill at opening his eyes on dawn-filtered morning to see a Witcher – his Witcher – by his side. And while he told Geralt most of the random thoughts that passed through his head, he would never ever share that embarrassing secret.

Just as he had never shared the secret that Geralt was not the first Witcher that he'd ever met. He's never been quite sure why he's never told Geralt about Vesemir and Guxart. Well, that wasn't the whole truth. He has any number of reasons but none of them are quite the full answer. He'd never told Geralt in the beginning of their acquaintance about Vesemir because he'd wanted Geralt to like him, and to allow him to follow along because just being Jaskier was enough and not because Jaskier knew Vesemir and Guxart. He didn't want special favors or to name drop and most certainly didn't want Geralt to let him tag along just because the Witcher wore the same wolf head medallion as Vesemir. If Jaskier had mentioned the older Witcher, he'd always been afraid that Geralt would have felt obligated.

But that was in the beginning. As the years turned, he could have brought up Vesemir's name when Geralt mentioned his brothers or his mentor. Jaskier knew without a doubt that Geralt's mentor was Vesemir even though he never mentioned the man by name. But then in those early years of establishing trust, Geralt had been cagey with names and places. Jaskier couldn't fault him for that. And as the years wore on and trust was established and Geralt did mention the old Witcher by name, Jaskier was still afraid. Too much time had passed. It would be odd to mention it now. Or his biggest fear, that if Jaskier was to inquire, Geralt would tell him that Vesemir had met his end from some monster. If Jaskier didn't ask, he didn't have to know.

But those are all half-hearted excuses at best and now they are halfway up a fucking goat track Geralt called The Killer in the middle of what Jaskier is positive is a blizzard regardless of what Geralt called it and Jaskier is bouncing between being terrified that a single misstep is going to send him hurtling over the side of a mountain and being terrified of the welcome he will find when they finally reach Kaer Morhen.

Maybe he should have mentioned Vesemir to Geralt.

Geralt, bless his Witcher heart, led them to what Geralt called a cave on the side of the cliff and Jaskier called an indent. But there was room for the two of them to squeeze into the back next to what looked to be a permanent fire ring. It also had enough space to situate Roach and a nameless mule that Geralt had loaded with supplies bought with the last of their coin. Between the curved sides of the indent and the two animals, Jaskier was finally out of the wind for the first time since they had started this hellish climb. He was still freezing but being out of the wind was a welcome blessing.

Teeth chattering, he began to load up the firepit with the conveniently stacked bundle of wood at the back of their shelter, while Geralt saw to the animals. Shifting from foot to foot, he tucked his hands under his wool cloak in a desperate bid to keep warm.

"Come here, bard."

Tossing all dignity aside, Jaskier didn't have to be told twice before he scrambled to where Geralt was lowering himself to a sitting position on the ground. Jaskier fit himself between Geralt's legs, his back to the Witcher's front. No sooner had he situated himself than Geralt cast Igni on the small stack of wood and wrapped the both of them in their wool blankets. One of Geralt's arms wrapped around him to present some jerky and flat bread. "Eat," the words a rumble through Jaskier's torso like the distance rolling of thunder.

Tucking himself even further into Geralt's body heat, he took the offered food. "You actually ran this monstrosity?"

A rumble of assent vibrated behind him. "Every week. You left at dawn and had to be back by sundown. Failure meant . . ." Geralt's voice trailed off as a shudder shook him. Whether memory or the cold, Jaskier didn't push, so he was surprised when Geralt continued.

"If we weren't running, we were maintaining these bolt holes with provisions and kindling or carving new ones in the cliff face. Winters here cause rockslides so we were always having to clear the trail and redo the waypoints. Of course, we weren't running this late in the year."

Jaskier shivered. "We aren't too late?"

"No. This is just a snow squall. Thin. Light. It'll blow itself out before morning. We'll leave at first light and be at Kaer Morhen by mid-morning. We've taken it slow. Don't like to push Roach when it's not necessary."

It wasn't said that Geralt was also going slower for the sake of one miserably cold bard, but Jaskier knew and appreciated the accommodation. "And there we will find food. And blessed heat," he added with a sigh full of longing. He swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat. "And your family."

A hum of amusement. "You sound nervous. Surely three grumpy witchers can't be that intimidating."

Oh, he should have definitely mentioned Vesemir.

Dawn came as it always did entirely too early for Jaskier's tastes. Resigning himself to the inevitable, he allowed Geralt's grumbles and no so subtle finger jab to the ribs get him moving. The sun was still too low in the sky for it to be anything but dark here on this godsforsaken mountain but even Jaskier could see the rose of dawn off to the east.

Grumbling himself, Jaskier unwound from Geralt, who while making a most satisfactory heater, did not contrary to appearances, make a very good pillow or bed. Jaskier was rather fond of the softness of goosedown. In a pinch, he'd even settle for a thick straw-stuffed mattress wrapped in tightly woven ticking to ensure that the pointy ends of the straw didn't poke him in the back. The solidity of witcher muscle was something that in his firm estimation was best appreciated when one also had pillows and soft furs and smooth silky sheets to cushion the hard planes.

That said, comfort be damned and Jaskier was not ever going to turn down the opportunity to sprawl against his favorite delightfully warm, if somewhat uncomfortable Witcher. That was just another secret that Jaskier had no intention of ever sharing with Geralt. So, he twisted and stretched out the kinks from a hard, cold night of sleeping against Geralt, while the Witcher pulled together their meager campsite, got Roach and the mule ready for the trail and dutifully followed Geralt up this little slice of hell known as The Killer.

They stopped about an hour later in another one of the shallow caves carved into the side of the mountain and at a meager breakfast of stale bread and jerky while Jaskier unashamedly sheltered himself from the wind with Geralt's stalwart bulk.

"How much longer?" Jaskier asked, finishing off the last bite of his jerky.

Geralt's gaze swung up to the sky and then further up the trail. "An hour or so. We're making good time."

An hour. Still time to tell Geralt a story. Tell him about five year old Julian and a bag of coins. About a boy and a tree and pack of wargs, about monsters in the sewers and where a soft Viscount learned how to set a rabbit snare and set a proper fire. But for all Jaskier's words, the right ones don't come and anxiety and worry slow his pace with each step up the trail.

"Jaskier, is there a problem?"

The question is asked in the tone of voice that Jaskier knows well means, 'there better not be a damn problem.' He knows this tone well. It's not angry, per se, more resigned to the inevitable chaos but also faintly amused. Geralt uses it when there are significant others chasing him, or when Jaskier touched that pink glowing thing in that hedge witch's house. I mean really, it wasn't his fault-

"Jaskier!"

"Right, right!. No problem here." He made an effort to pick back up the pace, swinging his arms to generate some warmth. "So, you said we would be there soon?"

"Yes." A heavy hand dropped on his shoulder steering him in front of Roach and around a rocky outcropping. "Welcome to Kaer Morhen."

Jaskier sucks in a breath at the sight before him. The keep . . . fortress . . . castle . . . none of the words seem right, rises above him. It's dark and brooding and absolutely magnificence and he can already hear the melody of the stonework in his bones. It's not a bright or happy tune but deep and heavy with blood and dark responsibility, like one of the old Cintran war songs.

He shivers, but not the cold this time; glad for the warm weight of Geralt's hand on his shoulder.

"Come on, we've been spotted." Geralt jerks his chin forward. "Someone's down there raising the gate to the courtyard."

They walk through the open gate of the keep and into a massive courtyard. He hears of whoop of laughter and two men come at Geralt with Witcher speed. He's lifted off his feet in the tackle but rolls up into a fighter's crouch with a gracefulness that Jaskier envies. A low growl sounds but Jaskier can't tell which man it comes from and then the fight is on.

Jaskier kept himself to the side of the roughhousing like any sane man would, protected by Roach's warm bulk as he watched the wrestling between Geralt and what he assumes to be his brothers. It warmed Jaskier's soul to see his normally staid and stoic Witcher roll around with such abandon. The mock fight soon ended though with Geralt pinned beneath the weight of the other two, penance it would seem for being the last to arrive.

When Geralt pounded the icy stones of the courtyard with one fist in surrender, the other two quickly scrambled up, hands pulling Geralt back up onto his feet before their attention turned to him. Jaskier found himself suddenly pinned by two pairs of curious golden eyes and he knew exactly how the mouse felt when confronted by a pair of barn cats.

The two witchers stalked forward, there really was no other word for it.

"Looks like a bard," the taller said, who Jaskier assumed to be Eskel based on Geralt's descriptions.

The younger, which would make him Lambert, sniffed pointedly at the air. "Smells like a bard."

Eskel's head tilted slightly, a sly grin playing at the scarred corner of his mouth. "Do bards smell?"

Lambert circled, crowding Jaskier back a step. "Like buttercups, I hear."

"Leave him alone, you assholes," that was Geralt sounding both annoyed and amused. "Jaskier, feel free to make up songs about their tiny pricks."

Jaskier, never one to back away from a challenge, grinned toothily at his overly large stalkers. Taking the initiative, he swept forward into a showy, extravagant bow with all the hand flourishes he could toss in. "Gentlemen, Jaskier the Bard. It is an honor to finally meet Geralt's esteemed brothers."

Lambert elbowed Eskel. "Hear that, we're esteemed."

"You're a pair of idiots," Geralt grumbled. "Quit harassing him and help-"

It was like a silent, unseen signal went out. Geralt's order died on his lips and all three Witchers straightened to a vigilant attention as they turned back towards the great doors across the courtyard.

Jaskier knew, and for one brief second wondered if he still had enough time to tell Geralt about Vesemir before it was too late. He sighed and turned back to the courtyard as the man, himself, walked silently across the icy stones.

Beside him, he saw Geralt grin in a way he seldom did out on the Path and head towards the older Witcher. Geralt was pulled into a tight hug and even human hearing could hear the murmured "Welcome home."

As they pulled apart, Geralt swung out an arm to Jaskier to call him forward. "Ves-" his introduction stumbling to a halt when Vesemir raised a hand.

Stepping away from Roach's side, Jaskier stood a little straighter, meeting those amber eyes as they swept over him in a searching gaze. Vesemir looked the same to Jaskier's eyes – as broad and sturdy and timeless as an oak tree.

Whatever Vesemir was looking for, he seemed to find it as Vesemir's shoulders relaxed minutely. "Julian."

At that familiar bass rumble, the years fell away and Jaskier felt all of five years old again as he fought the urge to bounce on his toes. Instead, he took another step forward. "Master Vesemir." This time when Julian swept into a bow, it was plain and unadorned, a gesture of respect rather than a theatrical flourish, deep, graceful and more respectful than Jaskier had given to any Court across the Continent.

A snort of amusement at his display cracked the stern demeanor. "Come here, boy." Jaskier found himself pulled into the same tight embrace that Vesemir had given Geralt. "Welcome to Kaer Morhen. Although, you've cost me fifty gold. That bastard Guxart always said you'd end up here eventually."

"You . . . know each other?" The question pulled Jaskier away from the embrace. Geralt was staring at him with a bewildered expression.

Anxiety surged. "I . . . I. . . well, I mean. . ."

Vesemir let out a hum of assent so like Geralt's that Jaskier stumbled his explanation to a halt. "Met the boy long ago on a contract for his father. He was a wee little thing, all big eyes and not a lick of sense."

"I wasn't going to let him cheat you," he huffed in annoyance. "Especially after all those lectures on noblesse oblige."

"You were five."

"I was a very responsible five."

That earned Jaskier another snort of amusement before Vessemir decided enough was enough. "Geralt, see to the animals. Lambert, get that mule unloaded and the supplies brought in. Eskel, get their bags and take them up their rooms." The orders were snapped out with an authority that brooked no arguments.

As the others jumped to their tasked, Vesemir turned his gaze to Jaskier. "Julian, come with me, you look half frozen." Spinning on his heel, he headed back into the keep, expecting his orders to be followed without question. Jaskier being no exception, fell into line behind Vesemir's heels.

Behind him, he heard Lambert. "What the fuck, Geralt?"

Jaskier keeps his composure until the great doors closed behind him, shutting out the cold and the other Witchers but the minute the door closed, Jaskier planted his face into his palms, scrubbing his nails up through his hair. "Geralt is going to kill me."

Dinner that night was as awkward and stilted as Jaskier as imagined. Three pairs of golden-hued eyes were watching him with keen interest while Vesemir was sitting back in his chair and watching him flounder with obvious amusement. It was almost like that first lesson in knife fighting in Oxenfurt. Vesemir set an exercise to gauge his quickness, coordination, and any training he'd had. Jaskier had been told to take a dagger and stab him. He'd then spent the next hour trying to do that while Vesemir had dodged, pivoted and laughed his ass off while never once having to use his own blade to deflect a blow. By the end of it, Jaskier was a sweaty mess and Vesemir had stated he hadn't had that much fun in ages.

Vesemir was definitely laughing at him now. The bastard. But he was a bard, damn it. He'd traveled across the continent and had charmed everyone from the roughest rogues to kings and queens. He could do this.

"So, you met Vesemir as a kid?"

He made a noise of assent to Lambert's question. "Father had a contract." His eyes flicked over to Geralt who had been watching him like he was studying a puzzle. "That was the first time."

"First time?" Geralt's voice was somewhat strained and face impassive, basically the default expression when Geralt was working through some emotional tangle.

A sigh forced itself up. "We met a few more times after that – when I was a bit older, when I started as a student in Oxenfurt and then once I graduated. Really, not that many times. And I was hardly noteworthy." He felt a flush crawl up his neck and his gaze slid over to Vesemir's. "I was always surprised you remembered me when we met."

Vesemir smirked at him as he raised a grey brow. "Hard to forget being propositioned."

"I . . . that was . . . you." Jaskier sputtered, embarrassment heating his face. He heard Geralt mutter something he couldn't quite catch before he finally found his words. "Master Vesemir, I thought we agreed that we weren't ever going to mention that again."

Massive arms crossed over an equally massive chest as Vesemir leaned back in his chair. "I never agreed."

"You-" Jaskier huffed in indignation. "Oh, is that how it is?" Jaskier threw up his in hands in a splendid example of offended bard. "Fine then. Guxart was a better kisser anyway."

Jaskier wasn't the only one sputtering now. "Guxart?" came from Eskel while Lambert muttered a soft, "What the fuck?"

But it was Geralt that asked the question, his voice more than a little strained now. "You kissed Guxart? The fucking Cat? When?"

Jaskier stuck his nose up in the air and sniffed as condescendingly as only a noble firstborn son could. "Really Geralt, how long have you known me? Been graced with my magnificent presence? Beautiful people adore me. I didn't kiss Guxart. He, of course, kissed me."

"What the fuck?" came from Lambert again.

It devolved from there but at least the drinking started.

"You did all that on purpose." Geralt accused sometime later when Jaskier had fallen asleep under the combination of wine, a full belly and exhaustion. He was currently stretched out on one the settees in front of the hearth and would be mortified if he knew that he was using Geralt's thigh as a pillow.

Vesemir chuckled, kicked back in his chair with his feet propped up; relaxed in a way he rarely showed the younger Wolves. "I did indeed," he said, before taking a long pull on the half tankard of watered-down White Gull in his hand. He waved the tankard in Lambert's direction. "This was a good batch. Blackberries?"

Lambert returned a lazy, drunken grin from his own place reclined back on a pile of pillows and furs. "Gotta do sumting to make it taste better than fuckin' acidic piss."

Eskel, in another chair, his feet propped up on the edge of the settee holding Geralt and Jaskier, turns a puzzled gaze to the sleeping human in their midst. He's not near as drunk as Lambert, but his words are slow and carefully enunciated. "He's asleep in a den of Witchers. Like . . . like . . ."

Geralt huffs out of breath. "Like he doesn't think we're a bunch of monsters like every other human? Like he can't imagine not trusting us?" Like he isn't afraid?

"Boy's never been afraid," Vesemir interjects, drawing the attention of the others as he chuckled again. "Second time I stumbled onto him he ran straight to danger instead of running away like any sensible human.

Now it was Geralt's turn to laugh. "Let me guess, there was a girl involved." He shook his head. "At least now I know he's never had a sense of self preservation."

It's Vesemir's turn to look over at the sleeping bard. "You know why? You've felt it, haven't you?"

Geralt reached out and pulled up the fur that had slipped down over Jaskier's shoulder. "He chases Destiny like he chases the songs he sings." There is sorrow in his voice as he says the words. "I've never wanted him entangled in her clutches."

"You think you drag the boy down." It's a statement, not a question. "Entangle him in your life and the threads of Destiny that bind you."

Silence swirled around them, heavy and close. When Geralt finally spoke, his voice was soft, barely disturbing the silence. "It's not my destiny, is it?" A pause. "When did you know?"

Vesemir's mug is held out to Eskel. "Pour me another." They wait patiently as his mug is poured and Vesemir takes a drink. "I began to suspect the second time I met him." He lets out a silent laugh, more air than sound. "You were right, there was a girl. And a fucking pack of wargs. Knew for sure on the third meeting."

"And the Cat?"

Vesemir took a sip of his drink. "Guxart knew the first time he met the boy." He shrugged. "Cats have always been more attuned to that sort of thing." A chuckle rose up. "You should have seen the old bastard. He was ready to adopt the boy and send him back to the Cat's caravan right there."

"So, he's tied to you?"

Vesemir shook his head. "No. Guxart and I think he's tied to us. Witchers. I don't think it's just Wolf School either. Not after Guxart." His head shook again. "I admit, in the beginning I thought that Destiny had somehow linked me to him. It wasn't until later I suspected the true nature of the tie. We are a dying breed. There will be no more of us and every year fewer of us remain." He glanced over at Jaskier again. "What future we will have, what legacy outlives even our long lives, will, I believe, be due to him. He is not our destiny. We are his."

Vesemir laughed then, a carefree sound that the others rarely heard, breaking the sober mood. "Let me tell you about the first time a Witcher met Julian."