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Chapter 1 – The Decision to Rest
The ghoul hit harder than expected. Geralt’s knee wasn’t what it used to be, and by the time he hauled the thing’s carcass off the road, he was limping badly.
Jaskier, who’d spent the fight heroically hiding behind a tree and yelling “Left! No, your left!” rushed to his side the instant the danger was gone.
“Oh, splendid,” the bard exclaimed, voice dripping with sarcasm. “You’ve gone and bled all over your good boots. Again.”
Geralt grunted. “Better the boots than you.”
“That is not the reassurance you think it is,” Jaskier said, hands fluttering helplessly as he inspected the cut. “That’s it. I’m calling it. We’re done.”
“Done?” Geralt frowned. “You’re breaking up with me over a ghoul?”
“I’m declaring a sabbatical,” Jaskier corrected grandly. “A year. No monsters, no curses, no midnight drowners, no explosions, and absolutely no bloodletting unless it involves leeches for medical purposes.”
Geralt tried not to smile. “You’d last a week.”
“I’ll last as long as you do,” Jaskier said, crossing his arms. “And I seem to recall someone promising, rather rashly, to try living like a normal human being.”
“I never said that.”
“You implied it. With that grunt you do when you’re secretly agreeing with me.”
Geralt sighed, the long-suffering kind. “Fine. A year. No monsters.”
Jaskier beamed, victorious. “Excellent. I’ll start planning our peaceful, uneventful, entirely non-lethal retirement.”
They had barely reached the inn when a breathless villager ran up.
“Master Witcher! There’s a wyvern on my roof!”
Jaskier blinked, then turned to Geralt with a look of utter betrayal.
Geralt just muttered, “So much for peace,” and reached for his sword.
“Oh no you don’t,” Jaskier said, snatching the blade. “This is your vacation, remember? I’ll handle this one.”
There was a long, heavy pause.
Geralt raised an eyebrow. “With what? Your lute?”
“My charm,” Jaskier said, striding off toward the chaos.
Geralt followed, limping, because he knew exactly how this would end: with Jaskier singing at a wyvern and both of them running for their lives.
And strangely enough, the thought made him smile.
Chapter 2 – The Goat, the Roof, and the Bard
The village they chose was the sort of place maps forgot — one crooked road, two taverns in denial about each other’s existence, and a dozen goats that treated fences as mere suggestions.
Geralt liked it immediately. Jaskier liked it even more once he discovered the tavern served decent cider and had a captive audience of farmers who’d never heard his work.
Their rented cottage was humble, but it had a hearth, a leaky roof, and enough quiet for Geralt to rest his bones.
Naturally, Jaskier decided to fix the roof himself.
“Geralt, my love, you can’t spend every hour sharpening that sword. Let a man feel useful.”
Geralt looked up from the grindstone. “You’ve never built anything in your life.”
“I’ve built songs,” Jaskier said proudly, hammer in hand.
“Yes. Out of noise.”
Ten minutes later came the crash. Then a muffled voice from above:
“I meant to do that!”
Geralt sighed — the kind of sigh that carried years of experience and resignation — and went to fish his bard out of the hay pile that had miraculously broken his fall.
Jaskier, disheveled but uninjured, blinked up at him with straw in his hair.
“See? Strategic landing. The roof is still standing. Mostly.”
Geralt offered a hand. “You’re hopeless.”
“And yet you love me,” Jaskier said, accepting the help and flashing that infuriating, familiar grin.
Later, while Geralt patched the hole properly, Jaskier sat nearby scribbling in his notebook, humming under his breath.
“What are you writing now?”
“‘The Ballad of the Broken Roof and the Handsome Witcher,’” Jaskier said. “It’s got potential. Tragic fall, romantic rescue, moral lesson about carpentry.”
“Needs editing.”
“So does your brooding,” Jaskier countered, and Geralt threw a small lump of straw at him.
By nightfall, they’d burned dinner twice — once through distraction, once through laughter. The stew smelled faintly of charcoal, but neither cared.
Jaskier sat cross-legged before the fire, stirring what was left. “You know,” he said softly, “I think I could get used to this. Roof repairs, culinary disasters, you glowering at me like a thundercloud that secretly wants a nap.”
Geralt sat beside him, silent for a moment. Then, quietly: “It’s not bad.”
Jaskier smiled, gaze bright in the firelight. “High praise from the master of understatement.”
Their shoulders brushed. The fire popped. Geralt’s hand found his, steady and sure.
The kiss was unhurried — like everything else in this strange, peaceful life they were trying to build. Soft, familiar, and entirely theirs.
Outside, the goats bleated at the moon. Inside, Jaskier murmured against his lips, “See? Domestic bliss. Practically terrifying.”
Geralt hummed low in agreement, pulling him closer. “Terrifying,” he said, and kissed him again.
Chapter 3 – The Case of the Chicken-Thief Ghoul
Peace lasted three weeks.
An impressive record, by their standards.
It began with a farmer pounding on their door at dawn, shouting about ghosts stealing his chickens. Jaskier stumbled out wrapped in a blanket like a disgruntled duchess, while Geralt stood behind him with the expression of a man who had heard this story a hundred times before breakfast.
“Ghosts?” Jaskier repeated. “Do they at least leave a note of apology?”
“No! They just take the hens!” the farmer wailed. “And the rooster! He was my favorite!”
Geralt muttered something unrepeatable and reached for his boots. Jaskier sighed dramatically.
“So much for our peaceful, pastoral life. Shall I fetch the lute or the holy water?”
“Neither,” Geralt said, already strapping on his sword. “It’s not ghosts.”
He was right, of course.
That evening, they staked out the henhouse under the pale edge of the moon. Jaskier whispered nonstop about how cold it was, how unromantic monster-hunting was when it involved poultry, and how heroic he would look if he wrote himself into the ballad as the man who saved the chickens.
“Quiet,” Geralt murmured.
“I’m being quiet,” Jaskier whispered louder. “Poetically.”
Then the ghoul came crawling out of the darkness — thin, gray, and hungry. Geralt moved like water, sword flashing silver. The ghoul screeched, darting for the coop.
And Jaskier, in a burst of inspiration or insanity, leapt forward with his lute.
“Back, fiend! Face the power of art!”
He strummed a violent chord that made even Geralt flinch. The ghoul reeled, confused by the noise — just long enough for Geralt’s blade to find its mark.
The creature fell, twitching once, then still.
For a long moment, there was only the smell of blood and crushed grass. Then Jaskier looked down at his lute, which now had one less string. “I think I stunned it with a B-flat.”
Geralt wiped his sword and deadpanned, “You almost got eaten.”
“Almost,” Jaskier said cheerfully. “Which means I didn’t. You’re welcome.”
Geralt glanced at him — the messy hair, the adrenaline-bright eyes, the ridiculous smile — and something in him softened despite himself.
Later, when the farmer had been reassured and the corpse buried far from the henhouse, Jaskier sat beside Geralt by the fire, gently dabbing at a scratch on his cheek with a damp cloth.
“You’re bleeding again,” he murmured. “We really are terrible at retirement.”
Geralt’s lips twitched. “You keep bringing the lute.”
“It’s a multi-purpose tool,” Jaskier said primly. “Music, morale, monster deterrent.”
Geralt caught his wrist and leaned forward, brushing a quiet kiss against his temple. “Next time,” he said, “let me handle the ghoul.”
Jaskier smiled, eyes soft. “And miss the encore? Never.”
Outside, the wind rustled through the fields — a lullaby for witcher and bard, still pretending peace could last, and secretly hoping it might.
Chapter 4 – Market Day Arguments
By midsummer, Geralt had somehow become the village’s unofficial judge, executioner, and reluctant therapist.
It started innocently enough. One morning, two farmers barged into the tavern mid-breakfast, shouting about a goat trespassing on sacred barley.
Geralt had only wanted his eggs.
Now he sat at a splintered table, arms folded, listening to the fifteenth argument of the week.
“Your goat stepped over my fence!”
“It’s not your fence if the wind blew it!”
“The wind wouldn’t have blown it if your cousin hadn’t sneezed near it!”
Jaskier, perched nearby with his notebook, looked positively delighted.
“This is priceless,” he whispered. “A living study of rural conflict resolution. I’ll call it The Philosophy of Petty Grievance.”
Geralt gave him a flat look. “If you start rhyming, I’ll leave you here to mediate the pigs.”
“Oh, don’t tempt me,” Jaskier said, dipping his quill. “They’d probably be more reasonable.”
By noon, half the village had gathered to watch the witcher preside over disputes that grew stranger by the minute. One woman accused another of “staring spells” that made her bread collapse. A man swore his neighbor’s shadow had tripped him. Someone else insisted their cow was cursed to moo in minor keys.
Geralt, deadpan as ever, ruled each case with stoic efficiency.
“Move the fence.”
“Apologize.”
“Feed your cow less fermented grain.”
Jaskier, meanwhile, acted as legal counsel, occasionally standing to make speeches that started with, “If I may quote from The Ballad of the Broken Roof—” before Geralt cut him off with a glare.
But when the crowd began to laugh and relax, something in Geralt softened. He realized that for once, he wasn’t being feared. Just… listened to. Even the children followed him around, holding his cloak like ducklings.
That evening, as the market square filled with lamplight, Jaskier tuned his lute and climbed onto a crate.
“This song,” he announced, “is dedicated to our local peacekeeper — the witcher who learned to stay.”
Geralt groaned audibly. “Don’t.”
Too late. Jaskier’s voice rose over the clatter of dishes and laughter, bright and full, painting stories of small kindnesses: the man who fixed fences instead of breaking them, the one who stayed when he could have gone.
The villagers clapped, and even Geralt, standing in the back, found his mouth curving upward before he could stop it.
When Jaskier finished, he hopped down and met him by the well. “Not bad for a love song disguised as sociology, eh?”
Geralt murmured, “You’re trouble.”
Jaskier leaned close, eyes glinting. “And you’re still here.”
The square buzzed behind them, warm with life and laughter. Somewhere a goat bleated triumphantly.
Geralt slipped an arm around Jaskier’s waist, just enough for the bard to feel it. “Let’s go home.”
“Home,” Jaskier repeated softly, smiling as they walked. “Now that’s a word worth writing down.”
Chapter 5 – The River and the Quiet
The river curved through the fields like a silver ribbon, wide and slow, its banks lined with reeds whispering in the breeze. Geralt liked it there. It smelled of clean water and sun-warmed grass — not blood, not smoke.
Jaskier called it “a day of leisure.” Geralt called it “a tactical withdrawal from responsibility.” Either way, they packed a basket of bread, apples, and the least-burnt jerky Jaskier could find.
By noon, both had shed boots and shirts, wading into the shallows. Geralt fished with silent patience. Jaskier serenaded the trout.
“Fish,” he sang solemnly, “do not appreciate poetry. But I, undeterred, shall—”
“Scare them away,” Geralt interrupted.
Jaskier splashed him. “You’re just jealous because they respond better to me.”
“They’re running for their lives.”
“That’s called artistic impact.”
Geralt’s reply was another splash, which escalated into a brief, undignified battle involving water, laughter, and Jaskier pretending to drown dramatically until Geralt hauled him up by the arm.
They ended up sitting in the shallows, sunlight glinting off droplets on skin, their laughter fading into the quiet hum of summer.
After a while, Jaskier said softly, “Do you ever think you’ll feel safe doing nothing?”
Geralt blinked at the water. “What?”
“You’re always… tense,” Jaskier said. “Even when you’re resting, you’re watching. Listening. Ready to fight the next shadow that breathes wrong. I just—wonder if you ever feel like you can stop.”
Geralt was silent for a long time. The river moved around them, patient and slow.
Finally, he said, “I do.”
Jaskier looked up. “When?”
Geralt’s eyes met his, calm as the current. “When you stop singing.”
There was a beat of quiet — then Jaskier’s mouth curved in a small, crooked smile. “Then I’ll only sing when you’re asleep.”
Geralt huffed a soft laugh, the kind that came from deep inside, rare and real. He reached out, fingers trailing up Jaskier’s damp arm until they found his jaw.
The kiss that followed was unhurried — the kind that didn’t need to prove anything. Sunlight on water. Warm air. A quiet world that didn’t ask for blood or bravery, only presence.
When they parted, Jaskier whispered, “You’re smiling.”
Geralt murmured, “You’re quiet.”
“For once,” Jaskier said, and leaned in again.
The fish, wisely, stayed away.
Chapter 6 – Letters and Legends
By early autumn, even the merchants passing through the village had started to whisper.
The rumors spread faster than smoke: the White Wolf had gone soft. He’d hung up his swords, settled down, and was now living in a cottage with a pretty husband who sang to goats.
When one trader mentioned this over ale, Jaskier nearly choked with delight.
“Pretty husband! Did you hear that, Geralt? I’ve been canonized!”
Geralt muttered into his mug, “You’ve been exaggerated.”
“Oh, nonsense. This is cultural immortality. I can see it now: ‘The White Wolf and His Bard of Beauty.’”
Geralt gave him a long, unimpressed stare. “Sounds like a tavern joke.”
“Then I’ll make sure it rhymes.”
Despite his gruff exterior, Geralt didn’t entirely mind the gossip. It was strange hearing his name in stories that weren’t about death or contracts. He’d spent a lifetime being the monster under everyone’s bed; now, apparently, he was someone’s husband fixing that bed’s roof.
Still, when a courier arrived one evening with a letter sealed in violet wax, Geralt’s jaw tightened. Jaskier, of course, recognized the handwriting at once.
“Oh-ho,” he said, waving it dramatically. “From our favorite sorceress. I can already feel the withering sarcasm radiating through the envelope.”
Geralt sighed. “Just read it.”
Jaskier unfolded the parchment and cleared his throat with theatrical solemnity.
My dearest wanderers,
Rumor reaches even the mountains. They say the Witcher of Rivia has traded monsters for poultry, and that his bard now sings lullabies to goats. I am, for once, impressed.
Do try not to turn domesticity into another battlefield.
—Yennefer
Jaskier lowered the page slowly, fighting a grin. “She misses us.”
Geralt grunted. “That’s not what that says.”
“Oh, it’s implied. Look—‘my dearest wanderers.’ She practically called us adorable.”
“She called us ridiculous.”
“Same thing, coming from her.”
Jaskier immediately fetched his quill. “I’m replying. Something heartfelt, something poetic—‘Dearest Yennefer, life among goats has taught us humility and a new appreciation for hay…’”
Geralt, without looking up from sharpening his knife, said, “Don’t.”
“‘…We are thriving in our obscurity, radiant in our love—’”
“Don’t.”
Jaskier scribbled anyway. “‘Yours in peace and poultry, Jaskier of—’”
Geralt reached over, took the quill, and added a single word beneath Jaskier’s flourish:
Peaceful.
Jaskier stared at it, then smiled softly. “Concise. Stoic. Entirely you.”
Geralt shrugged. “She’ll understand.”
“Mm,” Jaskier said, sealing the reply. “And she’ll laugh.”
That night, as the hearth crackled and the wind pressed against the shutters, Jaskier leaned against Geralt’s shoulder, humming something soft and tuneless.
“Pretty husband, eh?” he murmured.
Geralt rolled his eyes but didn’t pull away. “Don’t start.”
Jaskier smiled into the quiet. “Too late.”
Chapter 7 – The Night of the Festival
Autumn dressed the valley in gold. Apples weighed down the trees, grain stood tall in the fields, and every villager seemed to carry baskets, laughter, or both. When the harvest came, the square burst alive — torches burning bright, fiddles singing over the hum of voices, tables sagging under loaves and cider.
Geralt would have been perfectly content to observe from the shadows. Jaskier, naturally, had other ideas.
“Come on, my love,” the bard pleaded, tugging at his sleeve. “You can’t just glower into your mug all night. It’s a festival! There’s joy! There’s music! There’s—oh look, they’re roasting pears in honey!”
Geralt gave him a patient, weary look. “You don’t need me to dance.”
“I always need you to dance. Otherwise, people think I’m singing to myself.”
“You are singing to yourself.”
“Yes, but it’s less tragic if someone’s holding me while I do it.”
Before Geralt could protest further, Jaskier dragged him into the whirl of villagers. The fiddles quickened, torches flared, and suddenly the White Wolf of Rivia found himself surrounded by spinning skirts and muddy boots, with Jaskier’s hand warm in his own.
For a while, he forgot to be careful. The rhythm carried him — clumsy at first, then natural. Jaskier’s laughter burst bright against the music, his eyes reflecting the firelight like something alive and certain.
When the song ended, Geralt realized, with mild horror, that he was smiling.
Jaskier saw it immediately. “Oh, there it is. The rare and mystical Witcher Smile. Quick, someone bottle it before it vanishes.”
Geralt shook his head, but his voice was soft. “You talk too much.”
“And yet you keep listening.”
Later, when the crowd thinned and the fires burned low, they slipped away down a quiet path. Lanterns hung from the trees — dim little moons swaying in the wind. The river murmured nearby, silver under the dark.
Jaskier stopped, turning to face him. “You see?” he said quietly. “Retirement suits you.”
Geralt’s hands found his waist without thought. “You’re imagining things.”
“Am I?” Jaskier teased, fingers brushing along Geralt’s jaw. “You danced. You smiled. You didn’t punch anyone. I’d say you’re practically civilized.”
Geralt huffed a low laugh. “Dangerous habit.”
“Then we’ll risk it.”
He kissed him under the lanterns — soft, slow, threaded with the kind of peace neither had ever believed they’d find. The air smelled of apples and smoke, the night humming gently around them.
When they parted, Jaskier leaned close enough that their foreheads touched. “You’re my favorite hunt,” he whispered.
Geralt smiled again, small but real. “And you’re impossible.”
“Perfect match, then.”
The lanterns swayed, the river sang, and for once the world was quiet enough to keep its promises.
Epilogue – The Year Ends
Winter crept in softly. The fields turned silver with frost, the river slowed under thin sheets of ice, and smoke rose steady from their cottage chimney.
The roof, after much trial and several misplaced nails, no longer leaked. The goats had accepted their presence as permanent. Even the villagers had stopped asking when the witcher and his bard were “moving on.”
Inside, the world was small and warm.
Geralt sat by the hearth, sharpening his sword with slow, steady strokes — not out of need, just habit. The blade sang quietly under the whetstone. Behind him, Jaskier sat cross-legged on the floor, humming as he mended a tear in his cloak, the tune soft and wandering, half lullaby, half memory.
“Do you miss it?” Jaskier asked after a while, voice gentle. “The roads. The noise. The running toward things that want to eat you.”
Geralt paused, testing the edge of the blade against his thumb. Then he set it aside.
“Not tonight,” he said.
Jaskier smiled, small and satisfied. “Good. Because tonight I’m too tired to be heroic.”
Geralt moved to sit beside him. The firelight painted their faces in gold and shadow. Outside, the wind sighed against the shutters; inside, everything held still — the rare stillness of two people who no longer needed to chase or prove or flee.
They lay down as the embers dimmed, Jaskier’s head tucked against Geralt’s shoulder, the bard’s fingers tracing idle circles against the witcher’s arm until sleep claimed them both.
For once, the witcher dreamed of nothing — and woke content.