The trope where a character has lots of scars and is given the opportunity to heal them but while the healer is doing their thing the character looks at a particular scar and goes “No, not this one.” because it reminds them of something they survived will ALWAYS, ALWAYS SERVE
Ciri (to Geralt) : “You never gave me piggyback rides at Kaer Morhen. Vesemir was the only one willing.”
Ciri was sitting on the bearskin with Coën, tucked away in the far corner of the hall, and both were busy playing a hand-slapping game…. (Vesemir) fell silent and looked at Ciri, who with a joyful glee, acknowledged she had the upper hand in the game. Triss spied a small smile on Coën’s face and was sure he had allowed her to win - Andrzej Sapkowski (1994), Blood of Elves
I honestly adore the parts where young Ciri were training, playing or interecting with the witchers in Kaer Morhen. It is so adorablee
Ciri (to Geralt) : “You never gave me piggyback rides at Kaer Morhen. Vesemir was the only one willing.”
Ciri was sitting on the bearskin with Coën, tucked away in the far corner of the hall, and both were busy playing a hand-slapping game…. (Vesemir) fell silent and looked at Ciri, who with a joyful glee, acknowledged she had the upper hand in the game. Triss spied a small smile on Coën’s face and was sure he had allowed her to win - Andrzej Sapkowski (1994), Blood of Elves
I honestly adore the parts where young Ciri were training, playing or interecting with the witchers in Kaer Morhen. It is so adorablee
Summary:Jaskier never thought he would find love in the shape of you. Messy and dirty yet so happy to be alive. He finds himself being faithful to only you.
Summary: After steamy looks are exchanged you find yourself in bed with a handsome Bard but after all is said and done. A one night stand might turn into something more.
Work Summary: The sorcerer grasped Ciri’s hair and dragged her upwards, exposing her throat. “Tick tock, Yennefer,” he crooned. “The child or the bard. It’s your choice.” At his feet, hunched over and still spitting blood, Jaskier lifted his head to meet Yennefer’s gaze. Her fists clenched at his determined expression, disgust pooling in her gut. He wanted her to save Ciri. She wouldn’t let either of them die. Unfortunately, they were at a standstill.
Prompt: Angstpril Day 1 - “I didn’t mean for this to happen” Word Count:3,810 Warnings: canon-typical violence, major character death, whodunnit except it’s who’s the corpse, on-screen death, canon-typical language, angst, description of a corpse, knife wounds, blood
Author’s Note: The title is from the poem Anniversary by Diannely Antigua. Sorry about this one, gang, and for the fact that my return to fanfic is through angst. Also, uh, sorry Pearl.
*
It was a crisp summer morning when they hit the narrow trail. They’d been travelling for days already, but finally, they were approaching their destination. Despite the exhaustion that chilled the trio’s bones, their spirits were higher than ever. In fact, for once, Yennefer found herself enjoying Jaskier’s company.
“Ciri, dear, give us a song.”
Nevermind. She hated the bard and his stupid fucking lute.
“Don’t you dare, Cirilla,” Yennefer growled out from atop her horse.
The other was occupied by her companions, dearest Ciri at the reins and Jaskier back-to-back with her so that his hands were free to annoy Yennefer to death. If she still had her magic, she would’ve cursed him with silence before he could open his mouth. Alas, she was stuck with his endless portfolio of songs and his even more endless babbling.
Ciri giggled, which would have been endearing in any other moment. The girl put a finger on her chin, in mockingly deep thought. Finally came her rumination: “Do Toss A Coin.”
Yennefer groaned a rumbling noise as if a dragon lived in her chest. “Not again.”
“It would be my pleasure, my lady,” Jaskier said. He gave his lute a wild strum with a flourish, a dastardly, falsely genial smile on his wicked face. Without hesitation, and despite Yen’s glare, he began to sing. “When a humble bard graced a ride along…with Geralt of Rivia—”
The great sorceress rolled her eyes. “The one time we are without the oaf and all you want to do is sing his praises.”
“Good gods, Yen, you could at least pretend to miss him!” he teased.
“It’s nice, just us three,” Ciri chimed in, knocking her elbow into Jaskier pointedly. “I don’t miss his hovering.”
Yennefer huffed a laugh. “You’re just glad he’s not here to stop you from stealing our wine. Hm?”
“And I get to hear the bawdy songs!”
The bard cackled. “Oh, you haven’t heard the truly ribald songs.”
“Even Jaskier is somewhat responsible, darling,” she said. “Geralt would kill him. He’s an idiot and reckless, but he hardly has a death wish.”
“Really? Could’ve fooled me.”
He scoffed, looking between them with a scandalised expression. “Always the butt of the joke. You know, I thought I’d get a break from it being without Geralt, but no, he’s rubbed off on both of you now! Cirilla, I truly expected better of you.”
“Grave mistake,” she chirped with a silly grin.
Yennefer spotted Jaskier’s scandalised face, his open mouth, and interrupted him before he could start rambling. “Enough, the both of you. We’re here.”
Ciri brightened significantly, while the sorceress shared a look with the bard, a disgustingly fond one.
This trip of theirs was not for Jaskier alone, though it had begun as a chance for him to perform for a crowd that wasn’t witchers at Kaer Morhen. The festival he’d pointed out in a nearby town was one Yennefer was fairly familiar with, so she decided to tag along. For herself, of course. Not to keep an eye on the bard. And when Ciri found out that they were going to a festival, a warm, flower-themed one at that, she absolutely begged to go. It didn’t take much to convince Geralt—no, just one pleading look from his girl. It took a little more to convince him to let them go alone, but eventually, they managed it.
It wasn’t that they didn’t want Geralt to go. They knew, however, that he wouldn’t enjoy the festival, nor would he be welcomed in the first place, annoyingly enough. So, Lambert and Coën, two of his closest brothers, dragged him along on a job and told him to let them bond.
Leading Ciri and Jaskier into the town, Yennefer reminisced on it fondly. Despite herself, she smiled. Lambert had called them all Geralt’s: Ciri “his girl,” Jaskier “his bard,” and Yennefer “his witch.” Her own nickname wasn’t exactly affectionate, but she knew he meant it lightly.
To think they were Geralt’s droll little group. Was there even a word for what they were to him? She couldn’t think of one.
“Yen, look!”
Her attention was drawn back into the present at Ciri’s insistent hissing. The girl had their horses sidled up next to each other, close enough that she could tug on her sleeve. She pointed into the square of the town as they entered, eyes bright with wonder.
Ciri was pointing at the decor, she thought, gaze drifting over the sight.
Every inch of the market stalls and walls was covered with flowers of all colours. Purples and blues seemed to be the favourite, though, with smatterings of reds and yellows and pinks. People wore flowers around their necks, wrists, and ankles. They handed them to each other, as well, in single stems, bouquets, and even artful pieces of jewellery. It was a sight to see, the beauty of summer here. Most other villages celebrated these holidays in spring, but this environment was perfect for flowers in summer, what with their frequent rain showers. Legend had it that it was some sorcerer’s fault a hundred years ago.
Yennefer probably would’ve thanked them if they were still alive, just for the look on Ciri’s face when a girl, much younger than her, offered her a necklace of carnations for her steed.
“They’re lovely, thank you,” the young princess murmured.
She ran her fingertips over the petals, apparently in deep thought.
At her back, Jaskier sat up. “Ooh, bookshop! We should see if we can find anything for dear old Vesemir.”
“Necessities first, bard,” Yennefer chided, swinging her leg over her saddle to dismount. “Then we can spend all Geralt’s coin.”
Snickering, Ciri let Jaskier hop down before she followed him. Once they got their horses situated for the night, they took to exploring the festival. Yennefer split from the other two briefly, haggling her way through the market. Ciri found her way to her later, hiding her giggles at the annoyed vendors as they attempted to bargain with an unstoppable force.
When Jaskier reappeared, he held something out to Ciri.
“For me?” she asked, eyes wide.
He nodded encouragingly, a blinding smile on his face. “Go on, princess.”
Without further questioning, the girl ripped into the brown paper packaging like the child she was. Yennefer gave their companion a questioning look, but he only smiled and shook his head. When she looked back at their girl, she saw a dumbfounded Ciri.
“It’sbeautiful,” she breathed, hesitant hands drifting over the gift.
Itwas beautiful; a curved, decorative hairpin forged of rose gold and decorated with sparkling white gems. The metal twisted like branches with leaves on the offshoots, the entire thing shaped almost like a tiara. The eye-catching part, however, was the line of three pink roses it bore. They were real flowers, enchanted to stay alive for decades. Of the three, the middle rose was the largest, but each was perfectly pristine. The jewellery was ideal for a princess, Yennefer thought. It was practically made for Ciri.
“I love it!” she cried.
Unexpectedly, she threw herself at Jaskier, tackling the bard in a vicious, witcher-trained hug. He took it with a grunt and a laugh, hugging her back the moment he could. Yennefer smiled at them both, eyes bright.
“Thank you,” Ciri whispered into his shoulder.
He petted her hair gently. “Any time, dear. Now, I think Yennefer has her eye on yet another vendor to harass. Help me make a song out of this one?”
“Only if you call Yen something wicked,” she bartered.
Said sorceress brightened, while he gave a dramatic, beleaguered groan. “If I must.”
Yennefer bore a devious smile. “That’s my cub.”
That night, Ciri and Yennefer retired to their room in the inn long before Jaskier, whose voice echoed throughout the tavern and its halls far into the night. While he belted out his songs and made all the village girls swoon, Yennefer helped Ciri undo her braids and settle in for bed. They stayed up longer than intended, a fact they would keep a secret between themselves, lest Geralt find out and never let Yen watch over Ciri again.
“I’m happy that Geralt found you and Jaskier,” Ciri said during a long silence.
Admittedly, Yennefer was somewhat dumbstruck. “Oh?”
She gave a sheepish smile, her free hand playing with her hair. “Everything that happened was…scary,” she continued, “but you’re both with us now. I like it better with you here. So does Geralt, even if he doesn’t say it. He’s happier with you two around. More, uh, complete.”
At that moment, Yen’s heart broke. She didn’t even like it around simply because she liked them, but also because Geralt was apparently all the better for their presence. The way she said it, too, with such love in her eyes, killed the sorceress right there. She almost wanted to bundle her in blankets and never let go.
Before the clock struck midnight, however, she tucked the girl into bed alone and kissed the crown of her head.
“Sleep, dearest,” she murmured, sure she was already asleep. “I’ll keep watch.”
And keep watch she did; her keen eyes drifted over their room what must have been a thousand and twelve times before Jaskier arrived. There was a sag in his shoulders but a pep in his step as he entered. The sight of Ciri’s hairpin on the nightstand made his eyes all rheumy, disgustingly enough. Yennefer greeted him with a nod, ready to turn in herself now that he was there.
“Good show?” she asked, her voice barely a breeze.
“Not as good as Kaer Morhen,” he admitted with something like longing in his words. “But good. Ciri’s alright?”
She nodded as she climbed into bed beside the girl, leaving Jaskier on his own. “No nightmares yet. I’ll wake up if she does.”
“Good.” He curled into his blankets. His speech was slurred. “That’s good.”
Yennefer huffed out a chuckle. “Goodnight, bard.”
“Goodnight, witch.”
She was very nearly asleep the second she laid down, but her mind kept her up a moment longer. We’re Geralt’s family, her traitorous thoughts decided. That was the word she was looking for earlier. We’re family.
~
“GERALT!”
It was a bright summer day in Kaer Morhen, a rare occurrence, when Lambert burst through the doors to the library. Vesemir and Geralt dropped their conversation in an instant, the latter getting to his feet with a hand on his sword. He knew his brother and that tone of voice meant bad news.
Lambert turned the corner, finally coming into view. “Geralt,” he said breathlessly, “it’s Yennefer. At the gate. She—”
He never did finish, what with the way Geralt ran out of the room like a bat out of hell. His feverish escape didn’t go unnoticed by his fellow witchers, many of whom followed at a somewhat slower pace. Of course, he ignored them all, gaze set on the front gate. Underneath his ragged old boots, soft grass parted for him without resistance.
It was rare for him to be home in the warm months. He was used to the crunch of snow under his feet and the biting cold of the mountain snows. This summer at home felt almost new to him after so long of being deprived of the experience, but he’d grown fond of it. It was all for Ciri, who loved Kaer Morhen dearly and needed a stable environment while she learned to use her magic. Everything those days was for Ciri. Even Lambert and Coën visited more frequently to see her. (And her alone, they’d claim. Perhaps for Jaskier’s music. Yennefer loathed the bard’s boasting when they said as much.)
The trip to the festival was for Ciri, too. But the fear in Lambert’s voice had Geralt choking on air. He knew it was a bad idea for them to go alone, without him, especially such a distance.
One of his brothers had just managed to get the gate open when he appeared, rushing through without pause. On the other side, a single horse stood. At its side was the trembling shadow of Yennefer of Vengeberg, a ghastly looking image of a once-powerful sorceress who held the reins with a deathly grip.
“Geralt,” she choked out, voice raspy, as though she’d been screaming.
Geralt was starting to hate his own name.
He took a few steps toward her but stopped at the sight of something on the horse. Someone.Almostsomeone.
A limp body lay across the saddle, buried under blankets.
The witcher felt his stomach leap into his throat. “Yen, what—?”
“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” she cried. Her voice trembled in a way he hadn’t heard in years, something broken and shattered in every word. “Geralt, I’m—”
When she tried to step forward, her body seemed to collapse on itself. The white-haired witcher barely caught her, holding her in his arms when she lost the strength to stand on. He wondered, absently, if she had walked the whole way here. Did she transport herself, the horse, and the…the corpse with magic?
Thecorpse. He couldn’t see their face. He couldn’t tell which of their companions laid dead before him; nausea crawled up his throat all of a sudden. For a moment, he almost didn’t want to know.
Was it Jaskier, his lips never to quirk up in a smile or open for a song again? Or was it Ciri, her bright eyes dead and cold?
“Geralt, I’m sorry,” Yennefer gasped. She grasped the back of his neck, desperate for something to ground her. “I’m so sorry.”
~
“Let them go and I won’t turn you into ashes,” the sorceress hissed.
She gathered flames in her hands. Before Sodden, it might have been an empty threat, but the sorcerer in front of her knew very well what her ash-ridden palms were capable of now. In fact, she would do it for lesser things than this, far lesser.
On the floor before him, Ciri squirmed dangerously. The skin of her cheek was unnervingly close to the blade in the other sorcerer’s hand, but she clearly didn’t care. On the ground beside her, Jaskier had been beaten to the floor for daring to open his mouth. Unfortunately, it was a situation he was all too familiar with. This time, however, his insults had been to keep the filth’s hands off Cirilla. It worked too well.
“I was sent to break you, Yennefer,” the sorcerer said. She didn’t even know his name. “I only need one alive to do that, so…pick your favourite.”
He grasped Ciri’s hair and dragged her upwards, exposing her throat.
It was the same way he’d pulled her out of her soft bed in the inn. Yennefer barely had a second to react and even that was too long. By then, Jaskier was flying at the man with his lute and beating him over the head with it, folly as it was. With both the bard and the princess in hand, the sorcerer had Yennefer as well.
“Tick tock, Yennefer,” he crooned. “The child or the bard. It’s your choice.”
“Over my dead body.”
He only laughed. It was a mid-tier cackle, she thought. She’d certainly heard more villainous attempts. “Not the deal. One dies.”
At his feet, hunched over and still spitting blood, Jaskier lifted his head to meet Yennefer’s gaze. Her fists clenched at his determined expression, disgust pooling in her gut. He wanted her to save Ciri. She wouldn’t let either of them die. Unfortunately, they were at a standstill.
“And if I don’t choose?” she questioned fiercely.
“Yen,” Jaskier hissed, receiving another swift kick to the stomach for his gall.
Ciri glanced at the bard. “Don’t you dare.”
The sorcerer rolled his eyes. “I’ll stand here as long as I have to. Or, if I get bored, I could always kill them both.”
“You wouldn’t live to make the second hit.”
“But the first, well, that one’s easy,” he mocked.
Ciri met Yennefer’s gaze. There was childlike terror in her expression, but trust as well. It was nothing like Jaskier’s determined, knowing look he gave the woman a moment after.
This was not Sodden. Making a rash, desperate decision would not have her kidnapped and without her magic. One wrong move here would lose her something far more precious and dear to her than any form of Chaos.
She clenched her fists, quenching her fire. Jaskier nodded sharply.
“The bard,” she declared, her voice sickeningly steady.
The sorcerer grinned and moved his knife away from Ciri’s throat just as her eyes went wider than plates. “Very well.”
“No! Jaskier!” the girl cried. She tried to move to him, but the sorcerer stopped her with a click of his tongue.
“If you love the girl so much, I’m sure this will hurt more.”
Despite his early words, he lunged for Ciri. She yelped. Before she or Yen could do a damn thing, Jaskier flew at the sorcerer with a furious cry. He tackled him to the ground, both of them falling. Yen blinked and the bard was horrifyingly still above their kidnapper, a muted shock on his face.
He lifted his hand, and blood dripped off his fingers.
“JASKIER!”
Her scream was drowned out by Ciri, who wailed. From deep in her chest came her Chaos and its wind, driving the room into a restless hurricane. Yennefer blocked her face with her arms, but couldn’t hold against it. Her back slammed into a wall. The shrieking of the young girl had her ears ringing and similar screams from the sorcerer indicated his were as well. Regardless, he’d been thrown off Jaskier, leaving Ciri to run to him.
The girl didn’t take a breath, shrieking her heart out as she held Jaskier with trembling hands. When she finally did stop her screams, she broke them with heaving sobs.
“Stay awake, stay awake—” she begged. Her voice was gravelly, worn from the rage and the fear and the grief. “Hold on, please, Jaskier!”
Yennefer sent a ball of magic at the other sorcerer, who had just been standing again. With a shout, the two were at it, sparks flying and Chaos going wild.
Ciri didn’t spare them a glance, desperately putting pressure on the massive wound across Jaskier’s doublet. He held her hands back, one of his own reaching up for her face. With a gentle, pale hand he caressed her cheek.
“It’s alright,” he whispered, hair clinging to his sweaty forehead. “I’ll be alright, dear, don’t cry. Shh, shh, it’s not your fault. Look at me. It wasn’t your fault, I swear.”
“He was going to kill me.” She hiccupped, tears streaming down her cheeks and turning them red. “You stopped him. Why? Why? It was supposed to be me!”
His hand grasped her shawl, the precious one from her grandmother. “No. Never, do you hear me? I would do it again, Ciri, again and—” he was cut off by his own hiss of pain.
“Brat!”
Ciri opened her mouth to scream, but a calloused hand slapped over her face, silencing her. He ripped her away from Jaskier, dragging her toward another corner, where a portal appeared with a quick flick of his hand.
Yennefer, recovering from a nasty blow, cried out. “Ciri!”
“Yennefer!” She screeched, the sound muffled as she pushed and kicked against the sorcerer’s grasp. “Yen! Jaskier! Yen—”
A woosh of magic cut her off, and then she was gone.
Yennefer howled, racing forward even though the portal was long gone. She slammed her fists against the wall, quivering with rage. “Fuck. Fuck!”
Her palms fell against the wood a moment later, defeated.
Then, she realised.
“Jaskier!” she gasped out, whirling around. She flung herself to the ground next to him. Her hands went to his shoulders, shaking him viciously. “Bard! Bard, wake up! Wake up, damn you!”
The bard moved with her, putty under her hands. She realised he wasn’t moving an inch, not even looking up at her through his dark hair. Quickly, she brushed aside the locks. Her breath caught in her throat when she saw his eyes.
They were dull now, cold and empty and wrong. His skin was still warm under her touch, as was the blood staining his fanciful clothes.
“Come on, you useless fuck, he has Ciri! We have to—” Yennefer gasped for breath, shaking her head as if to shake off the idea that he wouldn’t respond. “Get up! Get up, damn it!”
He did not move.
She pulled him close, her face in his hair. “Please, Jaskier. I’m—I’m sorry. Gods, I’m so fucking sorry, please just get up. Get up.”
In his limp, lithe fingers, he clutched a blue shawl with golden tassels.
“Jaskier?”
~
Geralt couldn’t bear to let go of Jaskier when he pulled him down from the horse. Vesemir had appeared, barking orders to the other witchers to deal with the horse or something like that. He could hardly hear over the cotton in his ears. Maybe, if he’d had the ability to, he would have been crying. Instead, he felt a gaping hole in his chest.
Yennefer cried enough for the both of them, her face buried in his shoulder as she avoided looking at the bard anymore.
Meanwhile, Geralt had brushed his hair out of his face and done nothing but stare.
He almost looked asleep. He was…peaceful, like those nights out under the stars with all four of them. Ciri would try to last the night with them, but she always drifted off beside Jaskier, whose lilting voice lulled her right to sleep.
More than anything, Geralt wished for this to be a nightmare. Then, he could wake up and find the three of them worrying over him, ready to coddle him into his grave. Ciri would curl up under his arm and snore into the early afternoon, utterly dead to the world. Yennefer would run her hands through his hair with gentle mutterings of comfort. Jaskier…Jaskier would tease him, the big, bad White Wolf, but he would always have a cup of something warm and a tune to hum him right back to sleep. It was silly, wanting a comfort he never needed.
“Where is she?”
Yennefer nearly jumped at his voice. She only shook her head, unable to cry anymore. “I don’t know. I’m sorry, I don’t—”
“Shh, it wasn’t your fault,” he murmured, tucking her close. “It wasn’t.”
Her shoulders shook. “Ciri’s gone, Jaskier’s—and I’m here. Fuck, he still has her, fuck—Geralt, what do we do?”
“Fuck.” He grimaced, a grunt barely passing his lips. “We’ll find her, Yen. We will.”
“He’s gone,” she whispered, weaker than she’d been before. “He’s not coming back; I can’t—I can’t bring him back, Geralt. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
It was a crisp summer morning when they buried Jaskier.
