All previous disclaimers apply.


Vesemir was no stranger to the ghosts of Kaer Mohren. He'd never known if it was the sacking that had caused him to become more sensitive to them. If it was his desperation for the opportunity to wish farewell to those he'd known for so long, had had such a kinship with, who had been so abruptly and violently torn away that allowed him to see his brothers, his trainers, their spirits left behind after their bodies had already been given over to the wolves. He didn't know if it was the desperate ache in his chest that he would not allow himself to call heartbreak that allowed him to see the little ones that hadn't been spared by the humans, the ones who took so long to realize that they were no longer living because their lives had been cut so tragically short. Even if most of them would not have survived the Trial of the Grasses and even if their lives after, if they had survived, would have been filled with nothing but fighting and hatred, at least they would have been part of some sort of brotherhood. But, they hadn't even gotten that chance. It wasn't just those who had died in the sacking that he saw though. There were dozens of others, some very young, some a little older, who hadn't survived the Trials or the training beforehand. There were even some witchers who had made it home just to die of their wounds later. Like Eskel.

But, thank whatever gods were out there, if there were any, that Eskel wasn't among them. At least not that he had seen so far. He didn't know if his weary heart would be able to take it if he saw one of the children he that he alone had raised, watched, guided along The Path stuck on this plane unable to go, but still unwilling to stay. Eskel had had enough bitterness left in his heart that his restless spirit very likely could have become a ghoul, a danger to those who were left after him. And Vesemir didn't know that he would be able to put down one of his children like that. He hadn't been able to do it when Eskel was still alive, but trying to kill him. Knowing his pup was still bitter enough to kill him after death…It had been hard enough to put down the ghouls that his compatriots had become so many years before and he'd grown old since then. In mind, in body, and in heart. He was certain putting down his own child would kill him, if he was able to do it at all.

Of course, his theory that witnessing the sacking first hand had caused him to become more sensitive to the spirits that inhabited his home was just that. A theory. He hadn't gone out on The Path himself in so long that he hadn't been able to test if it was just the spirits in his home he was sensitive to or if it was all spirits. Sometimes, still, he felt guilty that he sent his boys out into a world that hated them for being what they were, for being able to do what they did, when he could not bring himself to do so any longer. The year Geralt had come back to him, nearly catatonic, before winter set in had been one of the worst. And when the others had come back a few weeks later with the news of the name the mage Stregobor had given the strongest of them, the reputation that that name had given all of them, Vesemir had nearly broken the promise he had made to himself. He'd nearly left the kaer to search out the mage and kill him. He'd been half way down the trail before his head had cooled. If he killed the mage and whatever humans he'd tricked into loyalty he would only make it worse for his pups the next season. And so, he'd sent them back out when the spring came, even Geralt, and prayed for the first time in a long time.

The prayers he'd sent into the ether had been answered in the least likely of ways when Geralt had come home one winter almost a decade later full of stories of annoyance about a bard who had found in him in a tavern in Posada and stuck, like a barnacle or a particularly stubborn fungus. They'd groaned, one and all, at the stories of having to protect a human with no self-preservation and his head in his music more than his life, but secretly he knew that each of the witchers sitting around the fire wished for some human who didn't fear them, who actually spent time with them by choice. Even though he'd complained Vesemir hadn't been fooled by Geralt's insistence that the bard was more an annoyance than anything. There had been a warm note in his voice, a contented note to his scent, when he spoke of the young man. And when the witchers had returned the following winter it was with the news that the bard had been true to his word, that he'd made song after song praising witchers, Geralt mostly, but witchers on the whole as well. Their time on the path, their work, had still been as difficult as ever, but there were fewer glares, fewer towns that refused them shelter, more food and more coin than the past had afforded. Every year that the bard spent with Geralt, every year that he created new songs of their deeds and of a witcher's purpose, things were that much easier for his pups the next season.

Even after Geralt and the bard had gone their own ways after the incident with the dragon, the world was remained slightly kinder to the witchers on the path. Of course, the bard had sung out his pain and insulted Geralt in song. With the story Geralt had told him one evening when it was just the two of them in front of the fire, drunk, as the sun came up, Vesemir didn't blame him. There was only so much abuse a human could take, only so much abuse a human should take. But, the bard never spread hate and he'd performed the old songs lauding their praise as often as the one's insulting Geralt's manhood. And the songs continued to spread.

For that alone Vesemir would have been thankful. For that alone Vesemir would have welcomed Geralt's bard should he ever bring him to winter with the witchers.

And so when Geralt had sent the bard to the kaer with Ciri, Vesemir hadn't questioned it. He was grateful that the bard accompanied the princess, did what he could to keep her safe. From what he understood from the dwarves that accepted the hospitality of the kaer for only a night, there hadn't been anything that they needed to protect her from. He should have realized it then, that something was wrong with Ciri. Monsters had been drawn to her since he'd met her. How was it that nothing came after her all the way from the outskirts of Cintra to Kaer Mohren? He saw how cold the girl was to him, how entitled she acted to his overtures of friendship and how cruelly she rejected them without a word. He thought to say something, but felt it wasn't his place. Geralt would have to put a reign on his Child Surprise. Vesemir had raised his children. It was time for Geralt to do the same for his.

And perhaps the bard wasn't useful in the ways a witcher would recognize. He wasn't strong enough to fight one of them, but he was strong enough to bring in wood for the fires without complaint. He helped settle the dwarves into the best rooms available that weren't already occupied. He took care of the animals without a thought. And then he'd come to the kitchens and silently helped Vesemir prepare the evening meal for twice as many mouths as they'd been expecting, all without a word. He'd even tried to cheer them all with song and story after dinner. Instead, he'd been insulted, told to leave off, to go away, by witchers, dwarves, and Ciri. They'd laughed coldly at his attempted overtures and turned their backs on him until he really had no other choice but to take a bottle of wine and head to the room he'd selected, the coldest, barest in the keep. Vesemir felt something close to shame that he hadn't been any more accepting of the bard those nights than any of them. The bard had tried to cheer them every night until Geralt and the witch had made it to the keep. Then, he hadn't come out of his room in the evening at all. He helped with what he could during the day, silent as a shadow, and took a meal straight from the kitchens, along with a bottle of wine, to his room.

He wondered if perhaps it was Voleth Mier's influence. She thrived on discord, on pain. She would not have wanted them to feel cheered, to have entertainment make them joyful. He wondered if it was her influence that had kept him from saying something to Geralt about the pain he scented on the bard though he seemed to be in fine form and never said a word of complaint. Or if it was just him, his personal vow not to get involved with humans again. He hoped it was the former and he hadn't become so disconnected from the world that he would ignore an ally in pain. Ignoring the bard when, for all they knew, they were safe, hadn't been any way to express gratitude for his assistance. They were witchers. That didn't excuse their lack of care and courtesy. Vesemir had thought idly, as he was falling asleep the night everything had gone to hell, to that he might beat the lesson into his pups' thick heads the next day, have his Geralt beat it slightly more gently into his princess's head, and then they would all make their apologies to the bard at dinner.

But, then that night the one place they were supposed to be safe became a place of death again. He wanted to blame Ciri, but he couldn't. She was a child possessed by a monster. They should have sensed…something. They should not have allowed themselves to feel safe. They'd let their guard down, believing that nothing could touch them in Kaer Morhen, even when Geralt had told them that Voleth Mier was free. Ciri, with all her power, all of her anger and grief, was the natural choice for the monster to possess. They all knew it and yet they ignored it.

After the battle he smelled the blood, in among so much witcher blood, mage blood, the little bit of elder blood Ciri had spilled. Almost completely human blood was easy to smell. It was almost sweet comparatively. Witcher blood was full of mutagens, mage blood was full of chaos. Elder blood was its own unique scent. But one never forgot the scent of human blood, even if the bard's wasn't quite human. But, he hadn't the time to check on the bard. He needed to keep moving to keep his heart from shattering as he prepared the bodies of his dead to go to the wolves. To keep his shame at wanting to destroy Ciri instead of save her down. He figured Geralt would keep an eye on him. Or the witch. They were supposed to care for him, weren't they? They'd sent him to protect Ciri. Surely, they'd protect him.

It was when the witch had created a new memorial tree for them and he saw the bard again, something about him otherworldly and so alike the other spirits that remained in the kaer that he knew. The bard looked at them all, but no one focused on him, sometimes it was as if the cold winter sunlight went right through him, as if a sheer curtain were laid over him. What Vesemir felt in that moment wasn't quite grief, there had already been too much of that for him to feel more. But, there was a measure of regret. The regret only grew when he realized that the bard's spirit had slipped his mind in his grief. He had seen so many spirits in their home for years, he still saw them every day, so many of them. In his grief, the bard was just one more. When Lambert, of all people, questioned where the bard was the realization that Vesemir hadn't shared his knowledge of the bard's fate with any of them hit him again. When Geralt and the witch went to find the bard, Vesemir stood, knowing what they'd find and needing to be…somewhere. Something in him pulling him from the great hall.

"Probably piss drunk and stinking." Lambert chuckled into his cup, Ciri leaning against him and giggling.

"Silence," Vesemir hissed, "We do not speak ill of allies. Especially those who have given their lives for us."

"Given their lives?" Coen asked, eyebrow raising in curiosity.

"Use your damn noses," Vesemir growled, "The bard's dead."

He stalked out of the hall, not bothering to wait for their reaction and waited in the hall he felt drawn to. He waited what felt like only a moment until the bard came around the corner as if being chased. He stopped and Vesemir looked him over. He'd accepted his death it seemed, most spirits who had appeared as they had in life. It was those who hadn't accepted their circumstances that tended to look the way they had at death. It was counterintuitive, but Vesemir wasn't the one to question it. The grief on the bard's ever young face was apparent, tear tracks down a drawn and pale face. He was curled in on himself, as if trying to hold his grief to his center.

"Any message you want me to give them, pup?" Vesemir asked, his voice coming out rough in his shame.

"Why bother?" The bard's voice was nearly hysterical in his effort to keep himself in control, "Not like he would care anyway."

Vesemir stood to the side as the bard passed him by, then waited a moment before he followed the spirit as he made his way to the courtyard. Vesemir assumed spirits couldn't feel the cold as the bard dropped to his knees in the snow. But, even if they could Vesemir doubted it would matter to the bard as he wrapped his arms around himself and began to scream out his rage and grief. There wasn't much Vesemir could do but stand guard for the grieving spirit. And so that is what he did.

He stood sentinel for Jaskier the bard in death as he hadn't in life and hoped that, somehow, it would help him heal.