Disclaimers: All previous disclaimers apply.

Author's Note: This is my first update on this story in a year. If anyone is still reading I would love any sort of feedback. This is the chapter I needed to get back into it, but don't worry that Ciri, Geralt, and others will still be getting their comeuppance. I may change the order of the chapters as I write that or I may leave this as the order. I guess we'll just have to see what happens.


Kaer Mohren was all at once exactly as Jaskier had always imagined it when he dared to imagine it at all and nothing like he had imagined it. The castle half in ruins, most of the rooms open to the elements from the small, defensible windows with no glass, all of that was exactly as he had pictured it. The training equipment and weapons spread all through the grounds and in almost every room, those had been expected. The complete lack of anything at all comfortable or beautiful. Most keeps, even if they were ancient and half of them were no longer safe for their inhabitants to traverse, had tapestries on the wall, cushions on the benches, but not Kaer Mohren. It was as if the witchers felt they needed to punish themselves, even in the one place they considered a home. The overall darkness of the keep, he'd always imagined that witchers would prefer their home thus. It would reflect their dour personalities. After all, he'd never met a witcher who'd really smiled, who'd seemed to take any joy at all in the life they were leading. Even when he met a random witcher on the road, when he wasn't travelling with Geralt. Sad, really, that it had taken him dying to realize that maybe it was he, himself, who made them dour.

For that was one of the first things he hadn't imagined. The witchers of the wolf school could smile. They could joke, even. Usually cruelly. Usually at his expense. But, they'd laughed and smiled. Indeed they had. He'd never imagined the tree with the medallions, either, but then, Geralt had never said anything about it. It had probably been too personal to reveal something like that to someone who wasn't even considered a friend. After all, you didn't tell a pebble in your shoe that the medallions that represented all of the brothers you lost over the years hung where you could see them as you took your meals with what few brothers and friends remained. He didn't expect some of the rooms. Vesemir's lab, open and airy even though it was as dark as any other room in the keep. And the library. Oh, the library! He almost wished that he'd lived longer when he was in the library. It was one of the few rooms that had been fitted with glass in the many windows so that the books, the scrolls, could be read during the day without candlelight. Try to keep as many potential accidents from happening as possible. Try to keep as many of the tomes as safe as possible. He couldn't pull them off the self, of course, but just looking at the titles or the open scrolls left on the large tables made him marvel at the knowledge that must have been contained in the room. When he'd been alive…he would have killed for the chance to go through the books.

For the first few days of his death he'd avoided the library like the plague. It made all of the negative emotions in his heart and mind swirl until he felt like he was in danger of losing himself. And he'd spent much too long in Geralt's company to know what happened when a restless spirit lost itself to negativity, to hate, to sadness. He would rather not see Geralt for a final time because Geralt was wiping him from the very plane of existence. What happened when a ghost died, anyway? It wasn't something the he felt he wanted to find out. Letting himself explore after he absolved Yennifer in any part of his death had resulted in his biggest surprise yet. He'd found a music room. Proof that once upon a time the kaer had been almost traditional. He wondered if they'd had artists in residence, once upon a time, or if they'd taught the children, the potential witchers, the instruments. Of course, the insturments were a mess now, covered in layer upon layer of dust, some of them so badly neglected they were falling apart. It made his very soul weep to see instruments treated thusly. He'd reached out to grab one during one of his bouts of weeping, forgetting that it wasn't something he would be able to touch.

And to his surprise, the lute had come into his hand. When he'd looked down at it, in shock, and turned back to where it had been set he'd seen the instrument where it always was, covered in dust and with strings all snapped, and yet when he looked down at his hand it was still there as well, no longer covered in dust, with strings that were still supple and usable. Did instruments have souls? If so, he liked to imagine that this one had chosen him. He'd found, through trial and error, that when he wasn't focusing on it, it was not with him, but all he had to do was wish it in his hand and there it was again. It had taken him another three days after finding it to risk tuning it. When he'd finally strummed it for the first time and heard the beautiful sound, he'd fallen to his knees sobbing again, so very grateful that music had not been taken away from him along with everything else that had been.

He'd known, logically, that with everything that had happened over the years in this place, that there had to be other spirits still remaining within the walls, but he hadn't seen any until the afternoon he'd taken his new lute in the library and sat in the late afternoon sun of one of the windows, playing and singing softly. He didn't know how long he'd been playing, letting his mind drift with the music, when he turned his eyes to the library and saw three forms sitting around him. Two were barely a light with the shadows of young children but one, slightly older, maybe around Ciri's age, looked almost opaque like Jaskier himself.

"Well, hello," He said quietly. There was a surprised squeal from one of the two smaller, more translucent ones, and they'd both disappeared. The elder had stood and run behind one of the many bookshelves.

"Wait!" He called, holding out a hand, but not moving, not wanting to scare the child more, "My name is Jaskier. What's yours?"

"Efam," The spirit said quietly, "The little ones are scared. The only grown spirits we've seen have mostly become wraiths. Wraiths can kill us as well as they can humans. We wondered if you would become a wraith. But, most change within a few days."

"Efam," Jaskier nodded at the boy as he came around the shelf again, "I am trying my absolute hardest not to become a wraith."

"S'at why you avoid the White Wold and his Child Surprise?"

Jaskier felt the anger and sadness surge and bit down on it, strumming the lute again, "Yes. That's why I avoid them," He smiled at the boy, "I am not ready to forgive them and so the dark feelings come upon me when I think of them. You are very clever, Efam."

"S'why I died," Efam said sadly, "I was clever and smart. Knew everything in these books. But, I couldn't pass the Trials. Took the Trial of the Grasses just fine. Broke my neck falling off of The Pendulum. Think I was the only trainee to die 'cause I was clumsy. Pretty sure I'm one of the biggest disappointments in Master Vesemir's life."

"I'm certain that's not true, Efam."

"Sure," Efam scoffed, "What do you know? You're just a bard."

"Yes," Jaskier closed his eyes against the pain in his heart. Even witcher trainees thought he was useless, "But, you know, bards know quite a lot. Many bards, myself included, train for years so that we know at least a little on quite a few subjects. We have to be able to make songs about anything and often need to be able to converse with the nobles who invite us to their courts."

"Hmm," Efam cocked his head, as if considering, "I guess you know enough to keep yourself from becoming a wraith. You think you could do it with another grown? A witcher?"

"A witcher?" Jaskier stood, "Did one of the witchers who were killed in the battle stay behind?"

"Nah. They died doing what they thought they had to do," Efam rolled his eyes at Jaskier, as if reconsidering the intelligence he'd just admitted that he had, "This was before the big battle. But, the big battle just made him more angry. He's so angry that Ciri is here. That he died because of her and so many of the others died 'cause of her, too. The littles are afraid he'll turn wraith and kill them because they're kids like Ciri."

Jaskier walked over to Efam, dismissing his lute with a thought. He was so young. And though he was trying to be brave, Jaskier could see just how scared he was in his eyes.

"I don't know if what I do to keep me from going wraith will work on a witcher, but I'm happy to try, Efam." He started when he felt a warm little hand grab onto his and turned to look at one of the bright, small children, seeming more corporeal as he grinned up at Jaskier with a gap-toothed smile. He couldn't help but smile back at him.

"What's your brother's name and where can I find him?" He asked.

"He's in the basements that were blocked off when the kaer fell," the little one lisped at him, "And his name is Eskel."