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Jaskier had decided to winter at Kaer Morhen this year.
It wasn’t too surprising, all things considered, but he typically tried to do one year at Kaer Morhen, and the next at Oxenfurt. The previous year he'd stayed at Kaer Morhen, and he'd been looking forward to going to Oxenfurt to teach by the time summer had come around, mentioning in passing that he might try to create a new course for poetry if he could scrounge up enough coursework and a syllabus by the time winter arrived.
Considering the harsh autumn, it shouldn't have been surprising that Jaskier decided to stay by Geralt's side for another season. Everything still felt too fresh, rubbed raw in a way that left them feeling exposed without the other by their side.
Geralt wasn't going to complain. He was grateful for Jaskier's company, able to acknowledge that it would be a harsh winter without the man by his side, where Geralt could ensure he was warm and fed. He suspected that Jaskier shared a similar sentiment.
Coming up the mountain, Jaskier had been particularly careful, eating every last bit of their rations whether he felt hungry or not, steps careful and measured.
Not that Geralt had permitted him to continue forward when he'd begun to wane, a familiar anxiety settling when Jaskier would stumble or slow. Roach had carried him some way up, but once they arrived at the beginnings of The Killer, they'd been forced to continue forward, no matter how tired they were.
They'd done the trek in years previous and traversed it safely, but this year, there was a heightened anxiety, and his senses were always seeking out Jaskier’s labored breaths and heartbeat.
When they'd arrived at the keep, Geralt had handed Roach off to Eskel, promising to be back in a moment as he brought Jaskier inside, the bard huffing and murmuring words that were slurred, his lips not quite able to form words through the stifling cold.
After removing Jaskier's cloak and winter garb, his fuzzy hat thrown to the wayside and mittens placed near the fire to dry, Geralt tucked him by the closest roaring fireplace, grabbing a discarded fur and wrapping it around him.
He never wanted to leave Jaskier like this, especially not this year, watching his fingers curl under the furs and knees tucked up, frozen eyelashes beginning to melt and skin turning red from the sudden temperature change. He hovered, knowing his brother would take care of Roach if he asked, but—
Jaskier turned to Geralt, brow raised and smiling.
"My sweet Witcher, while I appreciate your fretting, I can assure you that I will be sitting by this warmed fire for the foreseeable future. I am but a lump," Jaskier said, his voice raspy but tone soft. Geralt snorted, but he still hesitated. He knew Jaskier was right, that until he'd comfortably soaked up every bit of warmth until it was near stifling, he wouldn't be moving an inch, but—
"Now shoo, take care of our dear Roach, will you? I don't know if she'll forgive me for hoarding your attention after being such a doll during our journey," Jaskier said, and Geralt huffed a laugh, shaking his head as he went to step back out.
"Roach would forgive you for anything, you spoil her," Geralt grumbled good-naturedly, and as Jaskier grinned cheekily back, Geralt felt incredibly pleased. He felt better now, stepping back into the cold to join Eskel, who'd already brought Roach to the stable and begun removing her gear. Geralt took over quietly, bumping his shoulder against his brother’s.
"Dandelion decide to join us again this year?" Eskel inquired, with a hint of curiosity, and Geralt hummed in response. Eskel leaned against the door at the end of the stable, keeping an eye on the chestnut mare. His brothers always remained wary of his Roaches, with good reason.
It'd only been a few weeks since they'd left the remaining villagers behind, and yet they still followed them, wraiths that lived in their minds.
"Where is the bard's lute?" Eskel asked, eyeing the small stack of supplies. Geralt paused in his ministrations for a moment, and Eskel squinted at him, trying to assess. Geralt hung up Roach's lead before hauling her saddle into his arms and walking with purpose towards his brother.
"Put her saddle with the others," Geralt said, and that was answer enough. This wasn’t a tale he wanted to repeat more than once, or wanted to relive by any stretch of the imagination. Jaskier hadn't breathed much of a word of the incident either, and Geralt respected it. Sometimes, on worst days, Jaskier would eat until it made him ill, and others he'd shove his food in Geralt's direction stubbornly, unable to stomach whatever Geralt had hunted.
Geralt was beginning to learn to forage better, relying not only on the meat they needed when on the path but also trying to find wild plants safe for his human. The foraging allowed him to give Jaskier something, even if it had little substance, that he could eat without thinking of the flesh of the people they'd eaten.
"Aye aye," Eskel responded sarcastically, kicking the stable door open lightly and walking in the direction of their riding gear. Geralt rolled his eyes, pulling his and Jaskier's packs over his shoulders before giving Roach one last pat on her neck, walking out and locking up. He'd make sure to brush her and care for her more thoroughly tomorrow, lest he be faced with not only the wrath of his horse, but of his songbird as well.
Eskel, thankfully, did not push the matter again. Instead, he clapped Geralt's shoulder and gave him a smile. There was a hint of worry there, but most relief.
"You've both made it through another year, brother," Eskel said, and Geralt blinked, lips pursing.
Curse whatever made Eskel so observant.
"As have you," Geralt said, and meant it.
They went back inside with little fanfare, stomping their boots at the front to avoid trudging water deeper into the keep, and Eskel left him by the kitchen, where the smell of warm food met his sensitive senses. Geralt stepped in, unsurprised to find Vesemir pouring ladles of porridge into two sizable bowls. Geralt stepped forward, peering at it.
Vesemir knew the perfect balance between filling meal and something too heavy after such a dangerous and draining journey. For the Wolves, it wasn't much of an issue, having stomachs of lead, but when Jaskier visited, Vesemir seemed to keep into account the sensitivity of humans.
That did spark the question of why Vesemir had porridge ready, but Geralt decided not to ask.
"Bring this to your bard," Vesemir ordered, and Geralt nodded, grabbing at both bowls. They were perfectly warm, steam wafting into the air and leaving a delicious scent lingering. Vesemir watched his movements, seeming to assess for any hidden injuries or loss of mobility. Geralt let him, giving him a moment to verify that Geralt was in fact alright, before walking back out.
He made it to the fireplace once more, wood having clearly been added to the fire in his short time away. Jaskier was sat a bit further away than he'd been previously, the heat having surely become overbearing at a point.
Geralt sat down next to Jaskier, letting the heat of the fire soothe his remaining nerves. He handed Jaskier one of the bowls of porridge, waiting patiently for Jaskier's fingers to reach out from the warmth of the furs wrapped around him. He grabbed at the bowl delicately, pulling it near him and sticking his face over the steam. Geralt chuckled, shaking his head.
"Vesemir's," Geralt said, and Jaskier nodded, seeming content to bask in the steam of the porridge rather than the taste of it. Geralt watched, amused. Eventually, Jaskier took the spoon gently laid on the side of it and scooped a small amount into his mouth.
Geralt followed suit, once Jaskier swallowed his own.
Food was strange, now a days. Jaskier would at times struggle to eat, or alternatively, eat every piece of it even if it was something Geralt knew he disliked, as though pushing through the discomfort if only to prove he could.
Geralt himself did not have the same hangups.
Unfortunately, Geralt's hangups were Jaskier’s own eating patterns, finding it difficult to eat when the bard himself could not. Jaskier had caught onto this quickly, and refused to stand for it. He'd grumpily and stubbornly fight Geralt to eat, and often Geralt would cave so long as Jaskier promised to eat a portion of his own.
He was infuriating,
It still helped, at times.
Geralt still made sure to have some leftovers in case Jaskier wanted to pick from Geralts portion of food, as the bard had often joked that it tasted better stolen from the Witcher than it did in his own plate.
He didn't take stolen pieces from Geralt's portions anymore, but Geralt saw it as his own little bit of encouragement to allow Jaskier to try.
"What is not a blanket but covers the ground, and falls from the heavens but makes no sound?" Jaskier asked, slowly leaning into Geralt's side, a precarious balance of utensils, bowls and his fur.
Geralt grunted, shifting to allow a more stable position.
"There is nothing on this earth that can fall without a sound," Geralt said, and Jaskier shoved his knee against Geralt's thigh, a pout on his lips as he glared up at the Witcher from the corner of his eye. Geralt only raised a brow in response, and his glare hardened, but there was a mischievous and fond air to it now.
"Witchery senses do not count," Jaskier grumbled, slurping up another mouthful of porridge.
Geralt hummed in thought, unable to tear his eyes away his songbird. Ever since the first time, Geralt had yet to ever brush aside a riddle, and he was not about to start.
Geralt suspected he would answer a thousand riddles, if only because Jaskier asked him.
"A snowflake," Geralt answered, and Jaskier smiled.
He asked another, and Geralt answered again.
And eventually, when they both drifted off to sleep and woke in the morning, an old, dusty lute was set beside Jaskier, with aged strings and no case in sight, but a lute nonetheless.
That morning, a gentle song filled the keep.