The Witcher (One shots)

Life At Kaer Morhen

(Jaskier X Witchers)

Jaskier thought he hated Kaer Morhen in the winter. It was drafty and isolated. They couldn’t leave the valley for the snows—sometimes they couldn’t even leave the castle. Half of the upper levels were caved in or had no windows or roofing, and the only warm place was the ground floor where the witchers gathered and stoked the hearths. And the witchers: four witchers with nothing to do but sharpen their swords, drink, and pass Jaskier around. He was sore the whole winter. Vesemir was stern, Eskel was rough, Lambert was casually cruel, and Geralt had the biggest cock he’d ever had to service. But Vesemir was also a nurturing mentor; Eskel talked to him genuinely, like he was an equal intellect; Lambert was uproarious when recounting absurd stories or goading his fellows; and Geralt didn’t talk much, so that when they were alone together Jaskier got to talk, and he could say just about anything about anything and it felt like he could finally stop treading water and breathe.

He thought he was happy for spring to come. The younger witchers would leave to ply their trade once the pass was clear of snow. Vesemir would stay behind to tend the castle and the land, and Jaskier would stay with him. Only one man to keep happy instead of four. Surely there wasn’t so much to do around Kaer Morhen that he wouldn’t have time to himself to write songs? The place didn’t look like it got a regular spring-cleaning.

Eskel took him hunting even though Jaskier scared away most of the game and got stuck in mud made deep with snow-melt. Lambert had him oil his tack and boots, and then massage a different, sensual oil onto his body. Vesemir instructed him on the cultivation of the small kitchen garden. Geralt rode out to check the pass and came back surly. Lambert had good fun pestering him about why he was so eager to leave—there was a woman, apparently. When they were alone in Geralt’s bed, and Jaskier asked, he said it was because Kaer Morhen always made him stir-crazy; he was ready to leave by the time winter was done. Jaskier knew the feeling.

Soon enough, the pass was clear. The younger witchers left one by one. At first, it was nice. Vesemir let him lounge if his chores were done. He practiced his lute on the sunny parapets and filched some small books from the library to write down his lyrics in the margins. He was free to roam a reasonable distance from the castle. They both knew Vesemir was far better at tracking than he could be at evading, if he did something foolish like run away, and they left that unspoken. The valley was beautiful in a wild way. Vesemir showed him how the witchers tended it, encouraging the helpful herbs and creatures and selectively culling those that were not.

It wasn’t long before he realized that, though the spring was warm and vibrant, the songs of the birds and the hum of the insects did not make for satisfying company. The keep echoed with his songs and nothing else, no raucous laughter or heated argument. Even the stables were eerily quiet with only one horse. To his embarrassment, he started trailing along after Vesemir even when his presence was not required, like a puppy looking for treats. Vesemir didn’t mind, mostly, though he did send Jaskier off to fetch this or that from some corner of the castle, sometimes, just to get him out of his hair. Jaskier earned a few beatings for lying and for stealing the books, but he didn’t sulk for long afterward. Kaer Morhen was too lonely. He’d rather tiptoe back to the hand that hit him; Vesemir told old stories and was a good teacher when Jaskier behaved.

He missed people. He missed the social intricacies of the gentry, their parties and gossip. He missed the crowds at court. He missed the small clan of witchers that had livened the cold halls of Kaer Morhen. He thought he would go insane when Vesemir made a trip to Aedd Gynvael for supplies. Vesemir wouldn’t be slowed down by a bed slave, so he secured Jaskier in a large chamber on the third floor. He was given food, water, and candles plenty. Vesemir used his mouth for farewell and said he’d be back within the week. When Vesemir returned eight days later, Jaskier begged him not to leave him alone again.

Vesemir seemed sympathetic but instead of promising, he said, “You’ll learn to love the solitude.” Jaskier didn’t believe him. He wasn’t a witcher. He couldn’t live in solitude any more than he could track a monster’s scent or calm a horse with cantrips. “A reward for preservering,” Vesemir said, and presented Jaskier with a sheaf of blank paper and an ink pot. “So you can stop stealing mine.”

“Thank you,” Jaskier said. He was dearly glad for the paper to write down his songs, but he needed audiences, too.

“Now come on, the garden needs watering. I’ll tell you the story of how Aedd Gynvael got its name. Have you ever heard of the Winter Queen?”

“I haven’t,” Jaskier said, even though he had, because he wanted to hear Vesemir tell it.