Witcher Gonna Do

The hall had slowly quieted after the uproar about Kakashi’s deadly past. What followed was a few hours of light banter, warm food, and sharing tales from the Path. But even that rowdiness diminished as night fell proper. Geralt let his gaze wander over the remaining witchers. Most of them had fallen into individual conversations over mugs of White Gull and gwent. Eskel and Lambert exchanged low words, their eyes occasionally flicking to Geralt, the unspoken questions heavy between them. Geralt would need to have a serious conversation with his brothers soon. For all that Geralt had enjoyed surprising them—his own little winter prank—they deserved a proper explanation. Those talks, however, would need to be out of Kakashi’s hearing range. Geralt wasn’t trying to have the boy close up on him again, not after it took so long to get Kakashi’s guard as relaxed as it was. Which wasn’t much, but still, the point stood.

Across the table, Jaskier had risen from his seat and was gently tugging at Kakashi’s sleeve. The boy didn’t protest, looking as though he could fall asleep on his feet after the long day. Jaskier flashed Geralt a smile, something a little softer than his usual theatrical grins, and gestured toward the stairs.

“I’ll get him settled,” Jaskier said quietly. “Poor lad’s had enough excitement for one night.”

Kakashi followed without a word, though he shot Geralt a brief, tired glance before heading up the stairs with the bard. The witchers watched them go, the silence stretching after they disappeared from sight. It didn’t last long.

Eskel leaned forward, elbows on the table, his eyes pinning Geralt with a weight that told him the night’s questions were far from over.

“So, Geralt,” Eskel started, his voice low and serious, “where exactly did you find him?”

Geralt sat back, spooning the last bit of stew into his mouth and chewing deliberately, buying himself a few moments before answering. He could feel Lambert’s gaze on him too, sharp and expectant, and likely more than a few others were listening in from nearby tables.

“Picked him up in the woods near Burdorff,” Geralt said finally, keeping his voice flat. “In Temeria.”

Eskel’s frown deepened. “That’s all? You just… found him out there?”

Geralt met his eyes and nodded. “Found him in bad shape. Injured and unconscious. Couldn’t leave him there.” Geralt dragged a hand down his face as he remembered exactly what shape the kid had been in. He’d been tangled in branches, clothes tacky with his own blood, but his injuries had been mostly closed up but not quite. He’d smelt the blood, recognized the tang, and thought another of his kind lost to the monsters of the world. Geralt took a moment to breathe away that scent, to bring himself back to the dinning hall. “He smelled like one of us,” Geralt paused, a hum in his throat as he struggled to bring forth the words. “I wanted to ask Vesemir, to be sure.”

Lambert leaned back, crossing his forearms over his chest with a scowl. “Y’u’r shittin’ me?” The redhead asked, looking for any left out details. Geralt shook his head. That was it, or at least, all that had led up to finding the kid.

Lambert only glared harder, voice raising, though not loud enough to reach the rest of the room. “Kid clearly ain’t a random stray. Ya’ must’ve fuckin’ figured that out by now.”

Geralt shrunk slightly into his chair, even as his chest puffed out slightly. An odd mix of feeling scolded and defensive as his actions. “Knew when I picked him up. Could smell the witcher in him, but not exact.”

Eskel’s brows knit together. “Exact? Hmm… You mean he’s a witcher, but different mutations?”

“He’s got some of the same mutations,” Geralt corrected, gesturing to his own pointed canines. “But the way he was made… wasn’t the same. Like the difference between the Schools, but new.” Geralt took a steadying moment, his food sat heavy in his stomach, like stones in a bucket. “There’s an entire organization behind it, but the kid refuses to name it.”

Lambert huffed, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “You’re telling me there’s someone out there with a method to make new witchers, and we don’t know who the hell they are?”

Geralt remained silent for a moment, letting the weight of that sink in. He knew this was coming. Bringing Kakashi here wasn’t just about giving the boy a place to learn—there was always the bigger question, the one that would eventually come back to haunt them all.

Eskel’s voice was quieter now, more thoughtful. “Geralt… if someone out there has figured it out, if they can create witchers again… you know what that could mean for us. For our future.”

Geralt met his gaze, feeling the tension settle in his chest. “I know.”

Lambert’s eyes gleamed dangerously. It was no mystery that Lambert had hated the mages that had made them, that he hated the lack of choice any of them had. Lambert had been the happiest of them all to see the knowledge disappear. But even that hate could be tempered by loss, and loss was never as clearly felt as it was in winter. When each year they returned to the keep only to find less and less of them each year, their numbers dwindling from the machinations of both monster and man. To see a child training in their halls? It was enough to make it clear why Vesemir had been so desperate in his research, on their restoration. Even if Lambert was clearly at war with himself over the feeling.

“So, what’s the plan? You gonna track down whoever made the kid? We gonna start collecting on child surprises?” Lambert teased, his voice sarcastic even as his eyes showed unease with how genuine the question actually was. Eskel’s lips thinned as he glanced at Lambert, a question in his own gaze. Lambert’s words hadn’t quite held the biting lilt they were meant to. Lambert bit his tongue and averted his eyes, looking pointedly at Geralt instead. His fingers tapped once against the table—a nervous tell as old as the man himself.

The thought brought acid up his throat. Geralt hunched back in his chair, crossing his arms. His expression shuttered. The question gnawed at him. Could this really be the key to reviving the Witcher schools? The end of their race had felt inevitable for decades—slowly, painfully dwindling with every generation. But if Kakashi’s creation could offer them a path forward… the stakes were higher than ever. But should it be? 

On the other side of that same coin was the ugliness of the process. The children ripped from homes and normal futures, the lives lost for the sake of training, the screams that had shredded young throats as death became mercy. There were the funeral pyres, tall with small bodies, the stench permeating the yard for months after their departure. There were the mutated children, locked in tiny, lightless rooms as their new senses threatened to chip away at their sanity. And even when those that survived all of their trials received their medallion and left for the Path, all that awaited them was the hate of a world that knew not the difference between them and the monsters they hunted.

Geralt glanced at the large hall, made to seat hundreds. Towering ceilings, with arches carved with the visage of multitude of creatures from dragons to wraiths, from nekkers to kikimora. The heavy wooden doors that kept out the mountain winds but led straight to a wide open training yard with an entire building dedicated to wooden training weapons. He glanced to the hall he knew led to a stairwell, to the floors above them lined with rooms large and small. Geralt thought of the storage beneath the keep, filled with clothes that small bodies no longer wore, of the boots and the cloaks and the shirts and pants and sleepwear. Geralt glanced at the tables before him. Tens of them pushed to a corner, three left in the center. Eight witchers sat. There were Eight of them left in the keep. Nine with Kakashi.Maybe more one day, with Kakashi’s help.

But the boy was still just a kid. And whatever had been done to him—Geralt had seen enough to know that whoever had experimented on Kakashi hadn’t done it with the care Vesemir had once tended to them with. This wasn’t just about snapping one’s fingers to revive the schools—it was about figuring out whether what had been done to Kakashi was something they could even replicate. And more importantly, whether they should.

“Not yet,” Geralt said after a long pause. He knows what pursuing this would mean, knows that once that door is open there will be no closing it. And yet he still doesn’t know if he wants that door open. The burn of fire through his veins—begging for help, for his mom, for Vesemir, for anyone to stop the mages—It is an honor, he was told once. An honor to be strapped down for mages to pump him full of mutagenic poisons with no clue on the outcome—because he’d responded well. He’d responded well the first time the mutagens were pumped through his body and his reward had been more pain—It was an honor. 

“I still don’t know all his mutations.” That was an excuse. Geralt thought of the strange eye, of the uncanny glow it held. It was as likely to be a curse from the masters that had once owned Kakashi as it was a mutation. He thought of the boy’s techniques, strangely powerful but dangerously consuming. He thought of the stamina, seemingly limited and yet endless in the same breath. Geralt hadn’t even begun to understand Kakashi’s techniques, let alone the specifics of his mutations. It was a good excuse. 

Eskel’s frown deepened, but he didn’t argue. “So, you don’t want to go looking for whoever did it?”

“Not yet,” Geralt answered. “We’ll train him, see what he’s capable of. Then we decide if it’s even worth pursuing.”

Lambert snorted. “Yeah, great. Let’s just ignore the one chance we’ve got to rebuild our whole damn race.”

Geralt shot him a look, his voice edged with warning. “We’re not ignoring anything. But we’re not rushing into it. We don’t know enough yet.”

Eskel seemed to understand, his eyes still serious but calmer than Lambert’s. “Alright. We’ll keep an eye on him. If the kid’s something new—something dangerous—we’ll have to be ready.”

Geralt gave a slight nod, though his mind was already drifting. Kakashi’s strange abilities, his magic, his past as an assassin—everything about the boy screamed of something unnatural, something that didn’t fit neatly into the world of witchers or men. But the kid was new. His abilities reflected that. And whatever had created him—How he was created… Well, that was a mystery for another day.

“I’ll handle him,” Geralt said quietly, almost to himself. “Then we’ll see what comes of it.”

Lambert let out a frustrated breath, but said nothing more. The rest of the table settled into an uneasy silence, the weight of the conversation hanging over them like a storm cloud.

From upstairs, the faint sound of Jaskier’s voice drifted down, followed by a soft, contented murmur from Kakashi. Geralt couldn’t help but shake his head slightly, a small smirk tugging at his lips.

Jaskier, tucking the kid into bed like he was some little prince. It was more likely than the look on his brothers’ faces would make it seem.

He wasn’t sure what the future held for Kakashi, or for the witchers as a whole, but one thing was clear: things had changed the moment he’d found that boy in the woods.

And nothing was going to be the same again.

Heads up for NSFW light

The fire in the hearth crackled softly, its golden glow casting flickering shadows along the wooden beams of the ceiling. The scent of burning oak mingled with the lingering traces of oil and leather, grounding Geralt in the quiet of the room. He stretched his legs out, rolling his shoulders against the rough press of the headboard, trying to work out the tension that had settled deep into his muscles. The weight of the day lingered, thick and heavy, Eskel’s and Lambert’s words circling in his mind like wolves pacing just beyond the firelight. The worries there, ever-present like the weight of the medallion on his chest.

The bed creaked as he shifted, exhaling slowly through his nose. He would rest—for now. Tomorrow, they would train the kid. Assess his abilities. Decide what came next. What they should do.

The door eased open with the softest scrape of wood against iron hinges, carefully slow, the sound of quiet footsteps following. Jaskier slipped inside, his silhouette outlined in firelight. His usual dramatics smoothed into something more subdued, tempered into something quieter. For once, his lute was absent, and without it, he moved differently—less a performer, more a presence. The door clicked shut behind him, his fingers lingering on the latch before he turned toward Geralt.

“Kid’s out cold,” Jaskier murmured, a small smile tugging at his lips. He stepped forward, boots padding against the worn floorboards. “Didn’t even need a song, just a warm blanket and a bit of peace.”

Geralt huffed, low and quiet, in acknowledgement. He wasn’t surprised—Kakashi had barely been able to keep his eyes open by the end of dinner, exhaustion pulling at every line of his young face, turning his usually sharp gaze sluggish with fatigue.

Jaskier’s eyes lingered on him, the firelight catching the blue depths, a soft glint of mischief returning to their cornflower hue. He moved toward the bed, unfastening the buttons of his tunic with slow precision, one by one, before letting the fabric slip from his shoulders, pooling at his feet with casual ease. There was something in the way he moved tonight—movements fluid and deliberate—an energy that wasn’t entirely normal for their usual routine. Something simmering beneath that soft skin, beneath those deceptively toned muscles. Beneath those knowing eyes.

Jaskier crossed the remaining space with practiced ease, slipping onto the bed beside Geralt, his body a familiar weight against his side. The bard’s fingers found the medallion at his chest, tracing the worn metal before drifting lower, following the contours of muscle with absentminded precision. His touch was light, barely there, but Geralt felt it like a brand against his skin.

“Stressful night?” Jaskier mused, his voice dipping into a teasingly soft whisper in the quiet of the night. “I could hear you lot talking. Seems like you’ve quite the dilemma on your hands.”

Geralt huffed, more an exhale than words, his breath stirring the air between them. “Nothing we can’t handle.”

“Ah, yes, because you Witchers always handle things so neatly.” Jaskier’s fingers traced lazy, aimless circles along his abdomen. “No mess, no drama.”

Geralt shot him a sidelong glance, but Jaskier only grinned, leaning in, his lips brushing the rough edge of Geralt’s jaw. He lingered there, breath warm, his mouth barely ghosting over the skin. His hand trailed lower still. A soft hum vibrated from his throat.

“You’re so tense,” Jaskier whispered, his breath warm against Geralt’s burning skin. “I think I know how to fix that.”

Geralt’s lips twitched, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth despite himself. He shifted slightly, turning toward Jaskier, his hand slipping around the bard’s waist with a firm grip. “That right?”

“Mmhmm.” Jaskier hummed, a quiet, pleased sound as his fingers dipped lower, teasing at the ties of Geralt’s trousers. “Let me help you relax.”

Geralt exhaled sharply, his body already responding to the familiar warmth of Jaskier pressed against him. His grip friend around the bard’s waist as he pulled him closer, feeling the soft hitch in Jaskier’s breath as their bodies aligned. Geralt eased his grip—Jaskier bruised easily under his strength if he wasn’t careful.

Jaskier shifted atop him with effortless familiarity, straddling his hips with practiced ease, his hands braced against Geralt’s chest as he settled so perfectly. For a moment, their eyes met—Jaskier’s bright with anticipation and mischief, Geralt’s dark and steady with desire, there was an understanding there, unspoken and deep as the night around them. The connection between them as familiar as the rhythm of a shared heartbeat.

Jaskier leaned down, capturing his lips in a slow, pressing kiss, tasting of spiced wine and the warmth of too many late nights. Geralt let himself sink into it, into the slide of mouths and the familiar press of Jaskier’s body against his own. The weight of the day unraveled beneath the heat of Jaskier’s touch. Something simpler replaced it. Something grounding. The steady pull of skin against skin. The quiet hum of pleasure in the back of Jaskier’s throat. The slow, unhurried rhythm neither of them rushed to break. His body arching into the contact. Geralt’s hand slid up Jaskier’s back, the warmth of the bard’s skin beneath his palm a beautiful dream replacing the tension that had settled deep into his bones. 

Their movements were slow at first, measured, as if savoring the quiet intimacy of the moment. 

Jaskier’s hips rolled, a teasing drag of friction that sent heat curling low in Geralt’s spine. His hands wandered, tracing, mapping, relearning. Geralt let him, let him take his time, let himself sink into the warmth of it. But when Jaskier shifted just so, pressing against him in a way that sent a sharp spike of pleasure through his gut, Geralt moved without thought—gripping his waist and flipping them in one smooth motion.

“Geralt—” the breath of his name cut short as Jaskier found himself suddenly beneath his wolf. Geralt let out a low growl, a rumble of pleasure at covering his bard with his body. Jaskier gasped, breath catching in his throat as he landed beneath him, eyes blown wide in the dim light. His breath came in quick, shallow bursts. Geralt hovered over him, the weight of his body pressing Jaskier into the mattress, his hands framing the bard’s wrists against the sheets. He dipped his head, his lips brushing the shell of Jaskier’s ear, his voice a low, gravel-edged murmur.

“Relax, huh?” The words rumbled against skin, teasing, though his body was already moving with intent, every muscle coiled and ready. “That the plan?”

Jaskier laughed, breathless and wrecked, his fingers curling into Geralt’s shoulders as he arched up into him. “Well,” he managed, lips curling at the edges, “it’s a start.”

Geralt smirked, lowering his mouth to Jaskier’s throat. Lips grazed the delicate skin before pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss there, tasting salt and heat and the faint hint of lavender soap of his skin as the bard let out a soft moan. Jaskier shivered beneath him, his breath stuttering, and Geralt felt something settle in his chest, something weighty and warm.

Geralt had long fantasized about this moment, had long imagined this—the feel of his bard beneath him in his bed, the scent of Jaskier tangled in his sheets, the sound of his voice softened by the dark. Jaskier was a dream below him and Geralt, for once, was wide awake. And now, with the night stretched long before them, the fire flickering at their backs and the weight of the world held at bay for just a while longer, Geralt let himself sink into it, into Jaskier, into the quiet certainty of being here, together.

Whatever tomorrow would bring—Kakashi’s training, the witchers’ questions, the uncertain future—it could wait. For now, Geralt let himself choose to get lost in the quiet pleasure of being together, just the two of them.

Morning arrived with the faintest streaks of dawn breaking over the horizon, painting the edges of the Kaer Morhen courtyard with a soft, muted light. Geralt stirred, sleep clinging to his eyes, Jaskier’s hair tickling his nose, and contentment settling deep in his chest. A wonderfully slow, peaceful morning—the kind only winter allowed—made all the warmer by Jaskier’s presence.  A pleasant ache settled in his bones, and the numbness in his arm from Jaskier’s weight laid atop him had a rumbling hum building in his chest as his senses tuned to the familiar sounds of the keep waking. Footsteps echoed from the hall, old wood creaked under the settling weight of the keep, pots clanged in the kitchen. The scent of charred wood lingered in the air, mingling with the faint tang of last night’s efforts and the crisp bite of fresh snow drifting in from the mountains.

Beside him, Jaskier slept soundly. His body sprawled across the bed and Geralt in an unceremonious tangle of limbs and blankets, face half-buried in Geralt’s chest. His dark hair was a mess, love bites peeked from beneath the covers, and his slightly swollen lips were parted with soft, even breaths. Geralt glanced down at him, a warmth tugging at his lips despite himself. Typical Jaskier—never one to rise early unless there was a meal or an audience waiting. Not to mention how long they’d gone last night. Geralt had no doubts that Jaskier would be sore.If he had a chance, Geralt would check if he had any human-safe pain relief cream left. It had been a while since they’d last traveled together, and with Kakashi around, Jaskier hadn’t needed it. He doubted he’d restocked. He’d have to ask Lambert to brew a fresh batch when there was time.

Letting Jaskier sleep, Geralt carefully slid out of bed, easing Jaskier’s head onto the pillows as he pulled free, slipping out from beneath the man in smooth steady movements. His bare feet met the cold stone floor with a light thump. He dressed in the quiet hush of dawn, pulling on a clean tunic and tying the laces loosely, comfortably. The scent of wildflowers and honeysuckle clung to the fabric from the sachet he kept in the chest. He would never admit to keeping Jaskier’s scent in his belongings during the months they were apart. It wasn’t the same as having him here—it fell flat now that Geralt knew how Jaskier smelled in his bed—but it was a comfort nonetheless. 

Once clothed to an acceptable level, Geralt buckled his belts before slipping his swords over his back in a single fluid motion. His medallion rested cool against his chest beneath his shirt, its familiar weight grounding him in what the day would likely bring—training Kakashi, dealing with Eskel and Lambert’s persistent curiosity, and whatever else might rear its ugly head. Simple enough.

The old wooden door creaked softly as he slipped out into the hall. The stone corridors of Kaer Morhen were dimly lit by the fading light of the torches lining the walls. It would soon be replaced by sunlight through the great windows lining the halls. For now though, the dawn light was as gentle as a blanket in its dim light. The stone was still bare—no thick wall hangings yet to trap the heat for winter. With a human in the keep now, that would have to change. It would reach subzero temperatures soon enough, and Geralt refused to let Jaskier freeze when the solution was so simple.

His boots echoed softly as he made his way toward the main hall, the scent of roasted meat and freshly baked bread growing stronger as he neared the kitchen. The fire had long since been stoked, and he could hear the faint clatter of plates as the other witchers helped themselves to breakfast. Vesemir had no doubt been up since well before dawn to prepare breakfast for the rowdy group of Witchers. 

As Geralt entered the hall, warm firelight from the hearth bathed the room in a soft amber glow. Eskel, Lambert, and Coën were already seated at the long wooden table, tearing into their meals with the unceremonious vigor that came after months of hard travel. Plates of meat, bread, and cheese were piled high, and a jug of something suspiciously strong sat within easy reach. The scent of charred pork and garlic filled the air, mingling with the ever-present smell of old wood, stone and leather that permeated the keep.

Eskel glanced up from his meal, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The larger man’s nostrils flared slightly as he scented the air, his head titling the slightest bit as he took in the subtle hints of Geralt’s activities. His scarred face twisted into a grin, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "Geralt," he drawled, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest. "Sleep well?"

Lambert snorted, leaning back in his chair with a knowing smirk even as he went in for another bite of roll. "You were a bit loud last night," he added, his voice dripping with amusement. "I’m surprised Jaskier’s still in one piece, with the way you two were going at it."

Geralt shot them both a flat look as he grabbed a hunk of bread and tore into it, ignoring their jibes with practiced indifference. As much as he valued having his brothers with him—hale and whole—Geralt would rather have liked to continue basking in the warm morning without the commentary on his love life. This wasn’t the first time they’d teased him about Jaskier, and it wouldn’t be the last. But today, he had little patience for it—especially with a kid in the keep. Even if the boy in question was still asleep.

Eskel and Lambert exchanged amused glances, clearly enjoying the rare opportunity to get under his skin.  Even Coën, ever the polite one, cracked a smile as he continued to eat thankfully without comment.

"Where’s your bard now?" Lambert asked, feigning innocence as he picked at his food. "Still recovering from all the ‘stress relief’?"

Geralt ignored him, biting into the bread as he settled into his seat. The caveat of living in a keep full of Witchers with enhanced hearing was the nearly complete lack of privacy it entailed. As it was though, he could feel their eyes on him. Just waiting for a reaction. But he wasn’t about to give them the satisfaction. Not today at least. Geralt had gone without Jaskier’s touch for far too long to feel embarrassed about enjoying it for the first time in months.

One of the smaller side doors to the hall creaked open behind him, and Geralt’s attention shifted. 

Kakashi stepped in, his movements measured and lazy, his eyes sharp despite the early hour. The kid was alert—more alert than he had any right to be after the exhaustion he’d shown the night before. He moved quietly, slipping into the room without much of a presence, though Geralt’s hearing picked up the faint brush of his footsteps on stone—Socked but not booted. Kid wasn’t wearing shoes. Odd.

His gaze flicked around the room quickly, assessing the scene before settling on Geralt. He padded across the hall without hesitation, the quiet sway of a predator at ease. His silver hair, still tousled from sleep, fell into his face as he came to stand beside Geralt. The other Witchers, though focused on their meals, kept a watchful eye on him, clearly curious but unsure how to engage. It was almost funny, watching them struggle with how to interact with the child in their midst. Most interactions between a child and a Witcher ended in being chased from villages, scared parents, or distraught orphans reeking of fear. Geralt would have teased them for payback if he didn’t acutely understand just how difficult it was to wrap his mind around the realization that there was a child once more within Kaer Morhen’s long empty walls.

Without a word, Kakashi leaned in, his face mere inches from Geralt’s arm. Geralt froze, brow furrowing as the kid openly sniffed him. A deliberately sharp inhale, clear in intent, and far less subtle in his efforts then Eskel had been. 

Kakashi’s nose twitched. He leaned back, a faint frown creasing his features as he studied Geralt’s face.

"You smell like Jaskier," Kakashi observed, voice casual—but loud enough to carr. Then, with an innocent tilt of his head, his nose scrunched cutely, he added, “And mating.”

Geralt’s hand stopped mid-bite. A slow blink.

The room went dead silent. The fire crackled, suddenly too loud in the hush. 

Eskel choked on his drink, sputtering through barely contained laughter as Lambert doubled over in his chair, howling. Coën raised an eyebrow, the slight twitch at the corner of his lips and brow betrayed his amusement.

Geralt glared at Kakashi, who looked up at him with wide-eyed innocence, his expression perfectly curious, as if he hadn’t just dropped a bomb in the middle of the room. A bomb that, of course, Eskel and Lambert had already been teasing him about—but Kakashi was a child.

The kid blinked, silver hair falling into his face with the tilt of his head.

A low growl rumbled from Geralt’s throat, patience fraying under the weight of his mortification. "What the hell are you on about—"

Kakashi hummed, his lone grey eye closed and scrunched in a light arch from his smile, his face relaxed in a way that only made his words hit harder. His tone was far too casual for the subject matter given his age. "I was just curious. You smell like him… and the way animals do after they’ve mated."

For a long, agonizing moment, Geralt was abruptly reminded of the book Kakashi had stolen temporarily from Jaskier during their travels. Geralt sighed, He should have seen this coming. He should have known. Kakashi had thumbed through one of Jaskier’s less appropriate books during their travels, flipping through the pages with intense interest, occasionally reading scenes aloud to Jaskier’s chagrin. And of course, Kakashi, being Kakashi, hadn’t taken it for idle entertainment.

Eskel’s laughter intensified, breaking free from his attempts at restraint. Laughter burst from his chest like a man cut loose from a hangman’s noose. His shoulders shook, his entire body curling inward as if the sheer force of his amusement might physically undo him. Clutching his sides, he barely managed to get out, "By the gods, Geralt! You are teaching the kid some bad habits!"

Lambert wasn’t far behind. His snickering turned into outright cackling as he swiped a hand down his face, struggling to catch his breath. “Or maybe the kid just has good instincts,” he managed between gasps, his eyes glinting with wicked glee. His fist nearly knocked over his mug as he slammed it against the table with a laugh before wiping at the tears gathering in the corners of his eyes.  "Didn’t realize Assassin training included lessons in scenting out sex."

Geralt clenched his jaw so tightly it ached. He exhaled through his nose, slow and measured, fighting the very real urge to bash both their heads together. Geralt shot them both a glare that could’ve cut through steel, but predictably, it did nothing to deter the two fools. If anything, Eskel only laughed harder, and Lambert looked ready to goad him further. 

Then he turned his attention back to Kakashi. The kid was standing there, composed as ever, his expression a picture of innocent curiosity. But Geralt wasn’t an idiot—he caught the twitch at the corner of his mouth, the slight crinkle around his eye. Oh, Kakashi was enjoying this. A little too much. 

Geralt tried for a warning. 

“Ignore them.” He grit out.

Kakashi’s lips twitched, and for a split second, Geralt could see the glint of mischief in his eyes—the telltale sign of a prank well-executed. The kid was playing them, and by the looks of it, enjoying every second of it.

The laughter in the hall only grew louder, rattling off the stone walls, stretching his patience unbearably thin. He leaned down, lowering his voice to a near-growl, his tone heavy with warning. “Try that again, and I’ll have you mucking out the stables for the next week.” 

He wouldn’t let Jaskier’s first winter with them ruin Geralt’s chances of inviting the man back next year. And it was better to try to nip such pranks in the bud. They did not need another Lambert.

Kakashi blinked up at him, his expression sobering just enough to seem appropriately chastised at the threat. “Understood,” he said, but the ghost of a smirk still clung to his lips as he took a step back, just out of range, giving Geralt space.

Geralt had to resist the urge to rub his temples. He already had one Lambert to deal with. He did not need another troublemaker. Especially not one as sharp as Kakashi.

As the kid moved to sit, Lambert, barely restraining himself, leaned over and whisper-shouted, “I think the kid’s got you beat, Geralt!”

Geralt shot him a withering look, one that promised pain, his patience hanging by a thread. Lambert only grinned wider, utterly unrepentant.

Geralt grit his teeth, shoving the last of his bread into his mouth with a little more force than necessary. The sooner they got outside and started training, the better. At least then he could put Kakashi through his paces—and maybe, just maybe, knock a bit of that smugness out of him.

As for Jaskier... he could deal with that later.

The other witchers’ laughter echoed through the hall, and Geralt huffed. It was going to be a long day.

Geralt stepped out of the hall, letting the heavy wooden door thud shut behind him. The sharp bite of morning air greeted him, crisp with the lingering scent of last night’s snowfall. The sky stretched out in pale gray swaths, sunlight threading weakly through the thick cloud cover, bathing Kaer Morhen’s courtyard in a muted glow. His breath left in a slow exhale, curling white in the cold as he strode toward the training yard. Behind him, the raucous laughter still echoed faintly from inside, Kakashi’s little prank ensuring a lively start to the day. The kid had vanished before anyone could get a proper word in edgewise, slipping away like a wraith, and Geralt had no intention of tracking him down. Vesemir had plans for them this morning, and if Kakashi had a shred of sense, he'd be there when expected.

Footsteps crunched over the thin layer of fresh snow behind him. Lambert was the first to emerge, his stride quick and eager, practically radiating impatience. Eskel followed at a more measured pace, rolling his shoulders, working the stiffness from his muscles in anticipation of the coming drills.

The training yard came into view, its usual assortment of worn practice dummies standing half-buried in snow, wooden posts dark with the damp cold. The air here was colder, sharp from the wind, and thick with the memories of steel and sweat, though faint beneath the biting freshness of winter. Vesemir was already there, leaning against one of the posts with arms crossed as he waited. The old witcher’s gaze met Geralt’s first as he came closer, a flicker of acknowledgment passing between them at his arrival.

“Vesemir,” Geralt greeted, voice low and only slightly gruff from the cold. “What’s the plan?”

Vesemir grunted, pushing off the post, boots crunching against the frozen ground. “Fundamentals for the boy. He’ll run through the basics again, and once I’m satisfied, Eskel and Lambert can spar with him.” His eyes swept over the group, sharp and expectant. “He needs to apply what he’s learned so far before we can take the next steps.”

Geralt nodded, unsurprised at the routine Vesemir laid out. He respected the old man’s measured approach, knowing he was thorough, if a bit slow in comparison to how Kakashi usually tried to train. Geralt had seen the kid practice by himself and while the movements were quick, Geralt hadn’t been sure if the boy was remembering to train good habits or if he was only aiming for speed. Vesemir’s approach would be different to the kid’s, but better in this case. Witchers didn’t slack on training by speeding past the basics. Their movements needed to be fast and powerful without losing precision or balance. If you didn’t start slow, holes could form in one’s technique. Mastery started from the ground up, and anything less than perfection in the basics was an opening—one that monsters wouldn't hesitate to exploit and end a Witcher’s life. Kakashi might be focused and competent, but that didn’t mean he’d get away with rushing the process. All that to say, there’d be no cutting corners in Vesemir’s lessons. Not when the man had already lost too many, and not when the kid could be their last chance at the revival of their race.

Lambert sidled up next to Geralt, a slow grin curling at his lips as he gave him a once-over. “Not too sore to spar after last night?”

Geralt didn’t bother with a response. The last thing he wanted to do was humor Lambert’s shit-stirring. Predictably, Lambert snickered to himself but let it drop, likely aware of Vesemir’s watchful presence keeping his antics in check. Lambert’s attention returned to Vesemir as they gathered around. 

The older witcher didn’t waste time. “Geralt, you and Eskel—watch Kakashi’s forms. Run him through the next set if he’s ready. Lambert, stamina drills. Up the wall.”

Lambert let out a low groan, practically slumping in exaggerated defeat. Only to shut right up at Vesemir’s pointed glare, shuffling off to do what he was told, grumbling all the while.

Eskel stepped forward first, the rasp of his sword sliding free from its sheath cutting through the quiet. His sword was unsheathed with a smooth, practiced movement, easy as breathing. His eyes, calm and watchful, met Geralt's as he nodded in agreement. Geralt had always respected Eskel’s control—he had always been the steady one—never rushed, never wasteful. Just practical and thoughtful with each movement, with none of Lambert’s impulse and impatience or Geralt’s raw strength. He’d be good for Kakashi to watch. A good example in moving with clear purpose without overcommitment. His use of a one-handed grip to leave one hand free for signs was another adjustment Kakashi could use, a variation that might suit his reliance on magic. Eskel had a larger build than Geralt as well. Sparing with Eskel would help the boy become more flexible with the style as well. The differences and adjustments they’ve all made to the sword style over the years would provide a good set to practice against, hopefully preparing the kid to build up his own changes.

“Let’s get started then,” Geralt said, pulling his sword free, the weight grounding in his grip as he scanned the yard. Kakashi was nowhere in sight—until movement flickered at the edge of his vision. He turned his head just in time to see the kid drop lightly from a tree, landing in a crouch before straightening, the barest puff of snow kicking up around his feet. He padded forward as if nothing were odd about his choice of perch, his gait smooth, shoulders relaxed, expression calm beneath his mask. If he was aware that they’d all been waiting, he certainly didn’t look it.

Lambert, already stretching at the sidelines, muttered under his breath. “Fuckin’ kid would definitely fit in better with the Cats.”

Geralt flicked a glance his way, unimpressed. Kakashi let out a soft rumble of discontent, looking wildly offended in what Geralt wasn’t quite sure was feigned indignity. There was something pointed in the way he veered slightly as he passed, close enough for the smallest of adjustments to his stride—passing where Lambert was squatting down stretching—and taking off in a run.

A sharp spray of snow kicked up, hitting Lambert square in the face.

The younger witcher sputtered, jerking upright, half-choked on a curse.

Kakashi snickered, not breaking stride.

Lambert sneered—

Vesemir’s glare cut Lambert’s outrage short before it could form into anything verbal. Kakashi came to an easy halt near Geralt and Eskel, the crinkle at the corner of his eye betraying the laughter he kept quiet beneath his mask. The youngest wolf seethed as he stomped his way farther from the group, shaking the snow from his hair like a wet puppy. A small snort sounded from Eskel and Geralt looked over to see his brother hiding his face behind his hand, though the shaking shoulders gave him away.

Geralt resisted the urge to rub his temples. It was going to be a long day.

As they began the sword forms, Geralt’s focus shifted to his knowledge of the others around him. Lambert, even with his sharp tongue, took training seriously when it came down to it. His movements, though fast and aggressive in a fight, were always well-timed, if a bit showy. He was the type who relied on quick, decisive strikes, always looking for a way to end a fight before it could drag on. His style was explosive, full of energy and bull headed aggression, with the occasional taunt thrown in when he thought he had the upper hand. And though the man was getting ready to run laps instead of sword forms, those habits still shone through.

Eskel, on the other hand, was a fluid fighter. Every step was calculated, his strikes methodical and efficient. There was a quiet confidence and patience to the way he moved, a sharp contrast to Lambert’s more boisterous brash nature. Eskel wasn’t one to waste energy or movements, and that calm precision always served him well in longer fights. Geralt could see it now in the way he shifted through the forms, his focus on balance and rhythm. Eskel was taking even more time than usual, trying to give Kakashi a good example to study, to make it easier for the kid to learn good habits. And Kakashi watched closely, following the motions and noting the added twists, eyes narrowed in thought. The boy was as studious as Eskel had once been, and from what he’d seen, as talented as Geralt was. It would have been a perfect combination.

If not for the competitive streak that rivaled Lamberts.

When Eskel finished his demonstration and Kakashi took the floor to mimic the movements, they were a near mirror image to Eskels. Still slightly off though.

When the kid stepped, Geralt could see the conscious thought behind the placement of the foot, the furrow in the kid’s brow when his weight shifted just slightly too low and the swing of the blade’s momentum would have carried into the ground if Kakashi hadn’t pulled back on the swing. The swing put the kid’s arms at an awkward angle to his weight and pulled Kakashi off balance, further reducing his force. The kid’s scowl at his own movement only worsened with Vesemir’s comment.

“Too light,” Vesemir grumbled, eyes flicking to Kakashi from where they’d been trained on Lambert. “You’ll get yourself killed if you don’t follow through more. Monsters have thick hides and your blade will skirt off its skin and scales if you don’t give it enough force to bite in.”

Geralt knew the truth in those words. But in this case it was the kid’s foot work that needed fixed. If the kid fixed that, the swing would resolve itself—as Kakashi’s other forms had over the past few weeks.

Kakashi tried again. Better this time, but overcorrected. Geralt exhaled through his nose. The kid’s footwork was still wrong—feet too close now—stance too narrow to brace properly. His arms pushed out, swinging hard to force the momentum needed to drive the blade down. With the narrow stance, the force of the blade nearly pulled Kakashi over. Geralt winced a little when the kid hit the ground and promptly glared at the wet snow like it had earned his personal ire. When the kid reset, it was notably better, legs better spaced and knees slightly bent to properly support the blade’s swing. A simple sideways diagonal downward slash. This time with much better force. And yet, from the tension tight in the kid’s neck as he repeated the move again and again, Kakashi still wasn’t happy with his own performance.

It’d been a couple of weeks since the kid’s training had started, and while he had notably improved during this time, the kid was getting increasingly annoyed at his lack of perfection. Minor errors, the kind that were easy to fix but caused a feeling of off during forms, crept into the kid’s forms each time the boy reset to a different move. And each time, the kid would notice, overcorrect, recorrect, and then repeat until Geralt physically told the kid to move on.

Kakashi was good with knives, fantastic with a short blade, but the solid stance of the longsword gave him trouble. Problems that the later forms only exacerbated. Geralt felt a sigh building within his mind as he took in the kid’s repetition. Kakashi’s obsession with perfection was as much a blessing as a curse in Geralt’s eyes. While there was nothing wrong with repetition for improvement—he’d encourage it in any other situation—Kakashi’s repetition came with a side of frustration and building anger.

That frustration was quickly followed by a disturbing calm, as if the kid stopped existing behind that grey eye for the moment before Geralt called out. The light in that eye disappeared and reappeared so quickly Geralt wasn’t sure if he was seeing things. For just a second it was like watching a husk—Focused, silent, and just slightly too detached. Then the flicker returned, and he was Kakashi again, scowling at his own footwork.

Kakashi performed one more repetition before Eskel stepped forward—the smile on his face only slightly deformed by his scars—happy with the kid’s form and ready to move on.

Geralt turned his attention back to Eskel, watching as his friend demonstrated the next form. He noted the way Eskel’s brow furrowed in concentration, his sword gliding through the air with fluidity that came from years of experience. A transitional movement from an upwards diagonal slash to the front with a full turn to perform a downward slash to an opponent behind him. It was a basic movement Geralt himself used often when fighting a group. Slightly more difficult, but still basic enough to act as an introduction to multiple opponent fights. A small grin lifted the corner of his lips as Geralt watched Eskel’s exaggerated footwork. Perfectly spaced apart and timed with the movement of the sword. 

He hoped the kid picked up the new move quickly if the slowly growing thunderous look in Kakashi’s hyper focused eye was any indicator. Jaskier would have Geralt’s hide if Kakashi started sneaking out at night in the snowstorms to practice again. Especially since Geralt had just got the kid to stop only a few days before the others showed up…

A few paces away, Lambert took the steps up the wall two at a time, muttering to himself as he settled into his warm-up drills. Training, disguised as routine. They could all rib him for getting thrown into laps, but everyone knew why he was up there.

Crumbling stone underfoot. The occasional rock—some from loose walls, some from Vesemir—forcing quick adjustments. Lambert could play it off all he wanted, but he took it seriously. They all did.

Geralt’s jaw tightened.

For all that they had joked about his loss to Kakashi the night before, the image of Lambert standing restrained and in position to be executed without even the chance to fight back, still hadn’t faded. If Kakashi were a monster, Lambert—their youngest wolf—would be dead. That was the simple truth of it.

And Vesemir had seen it too. It was a sobering thought, and no doubt, the reason that Vesemir had put the red head to the walls.

The old man didn’t waste time on words when action would do. Lambert hadn’t been fast enough, hadn’t reacted fast enough. And Vesemir would make sure that changed. He had already lost too many pups to poor preparation, to underestimating an opponent. He wouldn’t let it happen again.

For all his sharp edges, Lambert wasn’t just another Witcher to Vesemir. None of them were. The pack was all they had left. And if that meant putting the youngest of them through hell to make sure he lived, then so be it.

Even Lambert knew that. He didn’t complain. He didn’t drag his feet. He just ran.

The sound of clashing steel filled the air as Geralt started his own sword warmups. The rhythm of the sword forms grounded Geralt in the moment. He could feel the familiar burn in his muscles as they moved through each sequence, the weight of his sword an extension of himself. There was something almost meditative about it, the way his body moved on instinct, every motion guided by the weight of the sword. A smooth flow between imaginary targets that set his blood pumping and his skin beading with sweat in the winter chill. His breath came steady, curling in the cold air like a wraith before vanishing. The dusting of snow on his shoulders melted quickly as his body heat rose with the work.

As the session went on, Geralt’s gaze drifted between his forms, finding its way back to Vesemir. The old man stood watching with a critical eye, the same expression that brought Geralt back to his own youth under those watchful eyes. The old witcher’s expression was hard, and Geralt knew he was paying close attention to the field, flipping between evaluating Kakashi’s sword progress and Lambert’s run. Vesemir didn’t say much during training, but his silence spoke volumes—he was watching, assessing, waiting to see the reactions of his pack to the pup. 

The training—grueling repetition, sweat-soaked effort, and shared space in the sparring ring—was serving as a socialization period between the kid and the rest of the Wolf Witchers.For all that Geralt had brought the boy home, it was his brothers who would decide whether to accept him as part of the pack or not. 

Kakashi, to his credit, seemed to be holding his own. His drive for improvement and lack of complaints endeared him to Vesemir, while his eagerness to learn from example had Eskel softening quickly. Eskel watched the kid though eyes filled with warmth. 

Geralt knew his brother’s softness, knew of the kind heart that was walled off, hidden beneath scar tissue formed by a lifetime of rejections from the outside world. He knew it in the way Eskel tilted his head left when among strangers—an adjustment the man made to hide the scars on his face, to appear less frightening. He knew it in the collection of poetry Eskel kept under his bed, in the flicker of light that shone in his eyes when Jaskier had broken into song after dinner. And he saw it now in the blooming pride on Eskel’s face as Kakashi grinned at him for the first time after executing a difficult sequence flawlessly. 

Eskel had already decided—the pup was one of theirs. 

Even Lambert, ever the stubborn bastard, had left Kakashi at his back during his run. The lack of guard spoke more than words ever would.

There was a spark in Kakashi that set him apart. He was adaptable, yes, constantly adjusting his movements to match what he saw, and there was still an edge to him as well, something wild that didn’t quite fit the measured pace of the pack’s training—but he was also present. A grin in the curve of his eye as he celebrated his minor victory with Eskel by pushing harder to do just as well the next time. The playful hum and exaggerated observation of Lambert’s form when they’d taken a small break for Eskel to throw a few pebbles into the other’s path. The way the kid occasionally glanced at Geralt, eye looking for approval before the kid looked away seemingly realizing what he was doing if the red tips to the boy’s ears was any giveaway. And finally, there was the respect. The slight bow to the boy’s head when facing Vesemir, the tilt of his jaw when receiving instruction. The bow was a common enough form of respect. A universal tell so to speak. But the tilt? To an unseasoned eye it would look like a hint of curiosity. But to a pack of wolves? For a child as closed off as Kakashi, it was as good as baring his throat. A sign of respect and submission in a pack and as good as proof of the boy’s instincts falling in line with the other wolves.

Geralt himself would never admit the soft contentment he felt at seeing the kid integrating with his pack.

It wasn’t long before Lambert finally broke the peace, his voice cutting through the sounds of steel. “So, Geralt, what’s the plan with the kid? We’re trainin’ him up like one of us, but then what?”

Geralt glanced at Lambert, his expression tight as he considered the question. “Don’t know,” he said simply, not offering much more than that. He wasn’t about to explain Kakashi’s full history here—what he’d figured out at least was touchy at best, especially with Lambert’s own experience with abusive fathers. He’d given his brothers a short breakdown of the basics at dinner but the circumstances of the kid’s creation just got more complicated the more Kakashi revealed. Even so, there was no denying that Kakashi had potential. Geralt just wasn’t sure exactly how long and how closely he’d have to watch and mentor Kakashi before the kid stopped surprising him with more complications.

Eskel, ever the kind one, chimed in. “He’s got good instincts. Fast, too. I think he’s a good addition to the pack.”

“Or,” Lambert added with a curled lip, “he could be a pain in the ass and get us all killed.”

Geralt frowned, slapping the back of the smaller wolf’s head. “You’re one to talk.”

The banter continued as they moved back into the last of their drills, the morning stretching on as the witchers settled into the rhythm of training. It was a familiar routine, one that grounded them in their purpose, even if there were new faces and challenges ahead. Geralt kept his focus on the present, his thoughts only briefly flickering back to the boy.

Geralt stepped back, sweat beading on his brow as he watched Kakashi grind through yet another set of sword drills. The morning sun had risen high, casting a sharper light over the training yard. Lambert and Eskel had gone at it with the boy all day, showing him the forms again and again. But the kid—sharp as he was—still hadn’t managed to get them down.

The training yard was filled with the rhythmic clash of steel, each swing of the sword echoed by grunts of exertion. Kakashi, his brow furrowed in frustration, stood opposite Eskel once more. His movements, though swift and deadly in their own right, were not syncing with the witcher techniques that Vesemir had drilled into him. Kakashi’s sword clanged off Eskel’s, the boy’s stance just slightly off, his timing not quite right. The others watched in silence, allowing Vesemir to correct the boy in his usual, gruff way.

Frustration was starting to show in Kakashi’s movements, his normally calm and controlled demeanor giving way to stiff motions and short, clipped breaths. Every time he missed a step or his blade faltered, Geralt saw the flicker of irritation in the boy’s eyes. Vesemir, ever patient, offered corrections, but Kakashi wasn’t having it. There was an edge of stubbornness in the kid, a refusal to admit when something wasn’t coming easily.

It wasn’t that Kakashi wasn’t skilled—far from it. His raw talent was undeniable. But the sword forms the Witchers used required a different kind of body mechanics, one that blended stability with strength in ways that limited mobility and took years to master. And Kakashi, despite his sharp instincts, was still learning the intricacies of their style.

“Too tense,” Vesemir said, his tone sharp. “You’re fighting the sword, not using it.”

Kakashi’s mouth flattened, but he didn’t respond. Instead, he swung again, trying to match Eskel’s form, but there was a clear disconnect. His frustration was palpable, and Geralt could see the tension rising in the boy’s shoulders. He wasn’t used to failing—not like he was now, and not with a crowd. The boy had been quicker than all of them when fighting unarmed, but this? This was new territory.

“Sloppy,” Vesemir barked as Kakashi misstepped again, nearly losing his footing in the process. “You’re trying too hard to move the sword. This isn’t about attacking—it’s about control. Try again.”

Kakashi’s jaw tightened, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword hard enough for his knuckles to whiten. Geralt saw the boy’s eyes flick to Eskel, who was demonstrating the form he’d just used in their spar, moving with the same effortless precision that Kakashi seemed desperate to emulate. 

Lambert chuckled from the sidelines, but even that was subdued. Something was off with Kakashi, and Geralt wasn’t the only one seeing it. Geralt stepped forward to watch closely. His eyes narrowed. Eskel deflected another blow, this time knocking Kakashi back a few paces with a well-placed counter.

Geralt could see the strain. Not exhaustion—Kakashi had more stamina than most—but restraint. The boy’s eyes kept flicking too fast, his body reacting in ways the Witcher forms didn’t allow. Every time Eskel's blade came in close, Kakashi's movements stuttered for a split second, a twitch in the fingers, a lean that pulled him just a hair off center. He was fighting to stay inside the Witcher’s style. Fighting not to default to whatever he’d used before Kaer Morhen.

All that to say, Kakashi was fighting a battle between instinct and form.

"Again," Vesemir barked. "And relax your grip."

Kakashi’s fingers twitched on the hilt of the sword, but instead of following Vesemir’s instructions, he stopped. His chest rose and fell with quickened breaths, his eyes darting between Vesemir, Eskel, and the other witchers, frustration and something a little more cornered simmering just beneath the surface. Geralt felt the tension like a coiled spring, and his instincts flared in warning.

Kakashi’s lips pressed into a thin line. He’d fought hard, but his inability to fully grasp the subtleties of the Witcher forms kept setting him back. Each clash of blades was just shy of what it should’ve been, and Kakashi’s irritation had grown with every small mistake.

Kakashi’s hand moved toward his headband—then stopped. His fingers hovered there for a moment, twitching once before falling back to his side. He squared his shoulders and moved again. Frustration tamed.

Geralt tensed. He had seen that eye only once before. In an inn not long after finding the kid—Kakashi had tested something, his expression careful, the cloth headband lifted just enough to reveal that glowing red eye. It had startled him then, though its significance was unknown. And now... Now Geralt knew it had use in combat—whatever that use may be. That hesitance to use it though, to reveal it in front of the others, had Geralt on edge. But trying to ask about it would likely send Kakashi into the hills. Nothing had Kakashi clamming up quite as quickly as attempts to talk about his mutations and how they occurred.

Kakashi stepped in again, blade flashing as he engaged Eskel. This time, the rhythm came closer to matching Eskel’s, the footwork a hair more controlled. It was cleaner—still not perfect, but closer. Determination replaced frustration in the way the boy launched himself back into the spar. He struck with tighter arcs, held his blade closer to the Witcher form. Relaxing his muscles to help fluidity as anger faded quickly to calculation. Eskel adjusted with a slight turn of his wrist, deflecting the blow and testing Kakashi’s footwork with a quick follow-up. His balance shifted too much in the back foot, and his front guard sagged between movements—but he kept going. The boy countered, then stumbled, recovered and stepped back. Eskel gave a short nod, impressed despite the flaws. They reengaged. 

Steel rang as Kakashi blocked another blow, slipped beneath Eskel’s riposte, and moved in for a low strike. Eskel parried cleanly, knocking him off-angle, but didn’t follow through. Kakashi recovered.

“Better,” Vesemir grunted. “Still heavy in the heel.”

They went three more rounds before Vesemir raised a hand. “Switch.”

Eskel backed off, wiping sweat from his brow with a forearm. Kakashi didn’t move. His chest heaved, shirt clinging to him where sweat had darkened the fabric, but his gaze stayed sharp—more settled than before. 

Lambert rolled his shoulders as he stepped in, all teeth and swagger and the restless energy that never seemed to fade. “Finally. My turn.”

Lambert cracked his neck, spinning the blade in his grip once as he got into position.

“Alright, runt,” he said, lifting his sword. “Let’s see what you’ve got left.”

Kakashi didn’t answer. He braced, blades still raised, breathing controlled again—but Geralt caught the subtle tremor that lingered in the boy’s off-hand. 

The first clash was messier than the last. Lambert didn’t hold back like Eskel had—not in attitude, not in pressure. His style was faster, looser, with sharper edges and less room to breathe between strikes. Kakashi held up well enough at first, matching the tempo with shorter, more reactive movements, ducking under one cut, pivoting away from another.

They circled. Lambert grinned. “Don’t worry, kid. I’ll go easy.”

Kakashi huffed. They clashed again.

And again.

And again.

The first few strikes were probing. Kakashi parried well enough, but his grip still choked up on the hilt, and every time Lambert shifted angles with his heavier wrist cuts, the boy had to adjust, recalculate.

Minutes passed. The dance turned faster.

Despite the Witcher’s words, Lambert’s grin grew with each clash, and Geralt could see the edges of his patience starting to fray. Not out of annoyance—excitement. A witcher’s instinct was a hard thing to throttle, and Lambert had been itching to test the kid up close all morning.

Geralt watched with narrowed eyes, arms folded across his chest. He could feel the moment Kakashi started to overextend—just a hair off—and Lambert saw it too.

Then it happened. Lambert’s sword arced in, a clean overhead meant to break through the guard. Kakashi moved to block, but his sword angle was off. His right side dipped low and Lambert’s blade came down fast, aiming to hook past his guard. Kakashi shifted to fix his block—but his back heel caught on the packed dirt and the boy pitched sideways, off-balance, vulnerable.

Geralt’s breath caught.

The blade was going to land—through Kakashi’s good eye. Lambert cursed, his arm wrenched awkwardly to the left mid-swing, redirecting at the last second—too late to stop the edge from making contact. The blade still hit—just not where it had been headed. It clipped the side of Kakashi’s head, not deep, but enough to slice clean through the cloth tied around it.

The cloth snapped. The sword tore clean through the knot.

The headband fluttered free, falling to the dirt.

Geralt’s stomach dropped.

Kakashi froze.

Time hiccuped.

His eye—that eye—snapped open on instinct. Red. Vivid. Alive with unnatural energy.

Shit, he’d forgotten to warn them—

Lambert staggered back a step. “The fuck—?”

Geralt moved. Not toward the boy, but toward Lambert, already lifting one hand. 

But Kakashi was faster.

The boy dropped to one knee, one hand snapped over his eye. He snatched the headband from the dirt, and disappeared. A heartbeat—less—and he was gone. Just gone. Gone in that way only he could vanish. A burst of movement too quick for most eyes to track, a blur across the yard, boots soundless as he vanished around the corner of the keep, head down, cloth pressed to his temple, eye sealed shut.

Silence bloomed through the yard like a thunderclap.

Geralt sighed. A long, slow breath, heavy with the weight of inevitability.

“Shit,” Lambert muttered, blade lowered, eyes wide. Lambert turned, expression twisting between surprise and outrage. “Did you see that? That kid’s got a red—That thing in his eye—What the fuck was that? That—he—Geralt?”

Geralt raised his hand, signing quickly in the old code: Later. Don’t ask.

Lambert’s mouth twitched like he wanted to say more. His brow furrowed, eyes flicking toward the gate Kakashi had vanished through. Then back to Geralt.

“Seriously?” he hissed under his breath. “You’re telling me we’re just gonna pretend—”

Another sign. Keep. Quiet.

Lambert’s scowl deepened, mouth half-open again.

“Geralt—”

“Not now,” Geralt said, voice low and hard.

A long beat passed.

Lambert exhaled roughly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Fine,” he grumbled, just loud enough for Eskel to hear across the yard. But he didn’t press. Though his expression made it clear he wasn’t swallowing his words without a fight.

Geralt’s eyes flicked to the far side of the yard, to where Kakashi had disappeared into the keep. He could imagine the boy crouched behind some wall or door, forehead covered, heart racing.  Geralt shifted his weight and looked toward the mountains. Snow still lined the peaks—thick and deep. If Kakashi bolted—really bolted—he might try the pass. He’d tried running before. Once while they were still down south. Another in a similar mountain pass, a few months back, before the snow hit.

The boy shut down when interrogated, ran when cornered.

And if he ran now, through the snowed in pass… The Killer had earned its name and Geralt was praying the kid had enough sense not to test it.

Fuck.

Geralt rubbed a hand over his face. Vesemir said nothing, only met Geralt’s eyes across the yard with a quiet nod. 

Eskel stepped up beside Lambert and asked under his breath, “That the reason he wears the headband?”

Geralt didn’t answer.

Because yes. And no. And maybe. The truth was, even Geralt wasn’t sure—not completely. That eye was more than a secret. It was a wound. A scar and a weapon. A raw nerve. And they’d just torn the covering off it.

He headed toward the way Kakashi had gone.

“I’ll find him,” he muttered.

Because if someone didn’t, the kid would run again. And they might not find him before the cold did.

Damn it, Jaskier was going to kill him.

Geralt found him on the south wall. 

It was a long climb. The height was one thing, but the weight in his limbs was another. That heavy, familiar sense that he’d failed at something he could’ve prevented. Again. 

The ramparts stretched long and narrow above the yard, stone worn smooth by wind and the passing of decades. He passed between the higher battlements without drawing attention—none of the others were nearby, and the yard below had gone quiet. The training session ended when Kakashi had run off an hour ago and Geralt's brothers were inside bringing Jaskier up to speed. 

Geralt moved with purpose, boots thumping on the old stone as he ducked into one of the less-used alcoves just shy of the southern watchpoint where the wall curved—a sliver of space sheltered by an overhang and framed in by collapsed masonry. A pocket of still air behind the stone buttress, shielded from the wind. It wasn’t the kind of spot you found unless you already knew it was there. 

Kakashi had found it. 

The boy was curled into himself, knees drawn up, shoulders hunched against the cold. One hand clutched his shirt to the shallow cut on his temple, the other wrapped loosely around his legs. Blood had stopped seeping from the shallow wound, but the fabric was stained, folded between pale fingers like it might hold the moment together. 

The headband lay in front of him. One end sliced clean through—short, useless. The rest of it still looped in a knot, frayed and waiting to be undone. The boy wasn’t moving. Just staring. A blank, uncomprehending gaze. 

At the cloth. 

He didn’t flinch when Geralt approached. Didn’t look up when his boots scuffed against stone. Not even when he crouched barely a few feet away. 

He hadn’t noticed him. 

That, more than anything, told him what state the kid was in. 

Geralt felt his throat tighten. Not from pity—he didn’t believe in pity—but from the low, grinding ache of recognition. 

Geralt rested his forearms on his knees. Let the silence sit a beat longer. Let the wind curl past the stone above them, the distant creak of a shutter breaking the hush. Then said, low and even, “They won’t ask about it. Not until you’re ready.” 

Kakashi’s head jerked up. 

Wide-eyed for just a second. Then the mask slammed down—the one built from steel and silence. Not fear, maybe shame, definitely a habit. That old reflex to armor up. A wall behind the eyes, chin tipped, shoulders set. A visceral calculation. A kid assessing how bad the damage was, what the consequences might be. Geralt saw the flicker of it—the instinct to shut down, shove it away, mask over everything—but he didn’t drop his gaze. Geralt had seen it before. On men twice Kakashi’s size and age, most of them long dead now. 

But the moment didn’t last. 

Geralt met it—held it—with nothing but stillness. No pity. No sharp words. Just the quiet weight of someone who’d seen more than enough himself and didn’t need the details to understand. 

And whatever Kakashi saw there must’ve been enough. The boy’s shoulders dropped. Not all the way, but enough. Enough to show he wasn’t going to bolt again. The tension leaked out through a long, tired breath. 

Then, almost grudgingly, Kakashi huffed. Not quite a laugh, but close. A rough little exhale, dry and tired. “Do we have any needle and thread in the keep?” he muttered, voice rough at the edges. “I need to fix it.” 

Geralt nodded once. “We do.” 

Another pause. 

Kakashi reached for the headband. Turned it over in one hand, then fingered the knot. He didn’t untie it. Just touched the loose end with a strange gentleness, as if the tear had opened more than fabric. Geralt studied the angle of his posture, the way he kept his left side tilted slightly away, left hand lowering from where it'd been pressing cloth to the cut. The red eye—whatever that thing was—remained shut. Covered now only by his eyelid, but held closed like the lid to a box no one wanted opened. 

“Best do it after we get back inside,” he added. “Jaskier’s probably halfway through ranting about Lambert traumatizing his precious kid.” 

That earned him a real sound—something between a scoff and a groan. Kakashi dropped his head, shaking it once. Something like a whine pulled from his pouting lips. “He’s going to hover.” 

“Definitely.” 

Geralt stood and held out a hand. 

The boy hesitated for a beat. Then reached up and let Geralt pull him to his feet, light as a shadow. His palm was chilled. Dry. Fingers too rough for his frame, calluses thick on the fingers, thin on the palm. His knees were muddy. His sleeve dark with dried blood. But his grip was firm. 

Once upright, he let go, head turning slightly so the wind didn’t catch the side of his face. He didn’t reopen the eye. 

And he didn’t try to hide the fact that he wasn’t going to. 

The headband went back into Kakashi’s pocket—what was left of it, anyway. And they didn’t say anything else as they started back down the stairs. 

They didn’t need to.

The keep was quiet when they came in through the side passage. Smoke from the hearth hung low in the main hall, firelight throwing long shadows across the stones. Someone had set a kettle near the coals—Eskel, probably. The scent of juniper and pine resin drifted faintly in the air, masking the sour edge of sweat and iron that lingered from earlier.

Geralt kept pace just in front of the boy, eyes sharp as they passed into the entryway. Kakashi didn’t slump when they entered—but the stillness in him had gone thick again. Not the meditative calm he usually wore, but a distant, watchful tense stillness. His chin stayed high, mouth set, but his fingers tugged absently at the ruined headband in his pocket, rubbing fabric between thumb and forefinger.

Jaskier’s voice carried before they even reached the main hall.

“…and I’m telling you, if you hadn’t freaked out, he probably wouldn’t’ve bolted—Geralt said we’re building trust, you imbecile—!”

“That’s rich, coming from the bard who tried to hug us on our first meeting,” Lambert muttered.

“I was high on Poppy Milk!” came the indignant reply. “Details matter you brute, and that was frankly uncalled-for! At least it made sense, freaking out on a kid does not!”

Geralt rolled his eyes. He stepped into view before Jaskier could spiral higher.

The bard spotted them first. He cut off mid-rant, mid-pace, shoulders snapping back like he’d been caught mid-act. His gaze zeroed in on Kakashi, a clear wave of concern rising before he walked right over, kneeling before Kakashi. “There you are, my terribly fashionable wanderer.” Jaskier tilted his head to meet Kakashi’s eye, concern etched in the lines of his brow, gentle care written starkly on his face. “Are you ok dear heart?”

Kakashi didn’t respond right away. He just hunched in the way Geralt knew he’d been fighting off the full walk. The boy’s eye refused to meet Jaskier’s and his cheek dented in a way that meant Kakashi was biting it. Jaskier hummed. A small soothing sound as he stood and gently guided Kakashi towards the warm seats near the fire. A cotton-stuffed cushion had already been tucked into place and a few furs thrown over them. Jaskier settled the kid with a warm mug of tea, wrapping him with one of the furs while murmuring about the chill outside and Kakashi’s positively freezing fingers. He wisely didn’t ask any other questions. The kid wasn’t ready for those yet. Geralt’s heart warmed. His bard cared—more than most. And for all Kakashi’s brooding, the kid had let him in. Geralt could see himself in the kid. Some decade or so ago, that reluctant attachment had been a reflection of his own feelings. Jaskier just had that effect on people.

Geralt crossed the room towards the cupboard near the hearth and dug out the old mending tin. It was an old scrappy thing, thoroughly ravaged by time and use, but it would work. Hopefully it had enough thread. He tossed it gently onto the bench beside Kakashi without a word. Geralt had his fingers crossed that the kid would be back to normal once the strange cloth was fixed and his mage-given eye could be properly covered. Geralt could already see Jaskier studying the deep, red and rough scarring that bisected Kakashi’s brow, lid, and cheek from where it was usually covered up. The bard remained unaware of the eye beneath the scar, but it being uncovered was enough to have Jaskier flitting about Kakashi in a worried haze.

The kid looked down at the tin. Lid half-rusted, corners dented. Inside would be coarse-threaded needles, dull scissors, and twine that looked more like fishing line than anything meant for clothing. But it’d do.

Kakashi nodded once in silent thanks. He reached over to grab it, pulling his headband from his pocket at the same moment. The fire caught on the edge of his hair, silver gleaming soft in the low light. The light of the fire shone off the metal plate attached to the cloth. Tension drained from his shoulders the moment reflected firelight caught his eye..

Geralt watched him for another beat, then turned back toward Lambert and Jaskier.

“He’s fine,” he said. “Cut’ll need salve,” Geralt gestured towards his own temple, voice soothing for Jaskier’s sake, “nothing more.”

Jaskier frowned at Geralt. A question in his gaze and an admonishment on his brow. But nothing was said. Jaskier nodded and left to grab said salve. Yeah, Geralt would be getting an earful later. Hopefully out of the hearing range of his brothers. That fire did not need more fuel. Jaskier had taken to Kakashi with as much force as he did anyone that needed him, and right now, the kid looked like he needed that care. Care Jaskier was all too happy to provide.

Lambert opened his mouth.

Geralt gave him a look.

Lambert closed it again. Raised both hands in surrender. “Right. Fine. Not a word.”

He had the grace to look vaguely sheepish.

Eskel appeared then, emerging from the hall with two mugs and a plate of something steaming. “Food,” he said simply, placing one beside Kakashi’s elbow. “It’s lunch time.”

The boy glanced up, clearly confused. Eskel raised a brow.

Kakashi exhaled through his nose and mutely accepted the food.

Geralt turned away, slow steps carrying him back to the hearth. He sat on the edge of the furs, near the kettle, and watched the fire for a while. Let the heat settle in his bones. Lunch wouldn’t be done for the rest of them for a while longer. Not when Jaskier, the one incharge of food, had been otherwise engaged for however long he’d been ripping Lambert a new one before they got there.

Behind him, he heard fabric shift. The sound of a needle slipping through cloth.

Then, quieter still, the long, low breath of a boy trying to hold himself together without anyone noticing.

And not needing to.

Not here at least.

Jaskier returned with the salve tin in one hand and a folded cloth in the other. His gait was light and careful despite the weight simmering in his chest. The socially inept imbecile wouldn’t know subtlety if it clocked him upside his ruggishly handsome face! Kakashi was like a little finch. One that could kill you in his sleep of course—but just as skittish. Jaskier had worked hard to pull that little finch—or would feral kitten work better? Didn’t matter—out of its shell and Lambert had just shoved that progress like thirty steps back!The big brute. 

His steps slowed as he neared the hearth, warmth already sinking into his legs through the warmer stones. The firelight caught on the brass edge as he stepped around the bench and eased himself onto the furs beside Kakashi’s chair. The kid hadn’t moved much from where Jaskier had left him—just shifted forward slightly, head bent over the frayed edges of black cloth, his fingers looping tight, careful stitches through fabric. The movement was well practiced, even and clean. But the focus assigned to the task was disproportionate, like the motions were holding him together as much as they were mending the cloth.

Geralt sat nearby, planted like one of the keep’s old pillars, silent but solid, his gaze turned toward the flames.

Jaskier didn’t interrupt. No dramatic flair this time. No song on his tongue. Just quiet hands and softer breath as he warmed the little tin between his palms.

He crouched beside the seat instead, setting the salve down on the low table. He eased onto his knees with a small exhale, careful to make his movements soft, slow. Kakashi didn’t flinch—but Jaskier caught the twitch in his fingers, the way the needle paused mid-thread, for just a moment.

“Just me,” he said, voice quiet. “I come bearing medicinal goop.”

That got the tiniest breath of a huff—barely a scoff—but it counted. Progress.

Jaskier uncapped the tin and dipped the cloth inside, catching the faint herbal scent. St. John’s wort. Bit of crushed yarrow. A hint of Myrrh. Eskel’s doing, likely. The good stuff.

“Alright, love. Hold still.” he murmured.

Kakashi didn’t stop sewing—bare fingers still deft on needle and cloth—but he tilted his head obediently. Just enough to give Jaskier access to the shallow cut on his temple. Jaskier leaned in, gentle as anything, and reached toward Kakashi’s temple. The rip across his temple was shallow, it stood above the sharp bone of his cheek, just past the arch of his brow. The cut was fresh, thin but angry, the edge slightly swollen from exposure to cold air. Jaskier could see the way it would pull at the boy’s expression when he so much as squinted or lifted a brow. He touched it carefully, no pressure at all, just the barest dab of salve on the clean edge of the cloth.

Jaskier rubbed it in with care, slow and measured circles with the pads of two fingers. The skin was hot beneath his touch. Bruised around the cut. He caught the tremble in Kakashi’s jaw, the way his teeth clenched when the sting set in, but the boy didn’t say a word.

His eye stayed on the headband in his lap, needle and thread still between his fingers, motionless for now. His hair caught the firelight, glinting silver in the golden hue, and Jaskier caught himself staring—at the line of his jaw, still too tense, at the quiet furrow between his brows. The scar over his eye—and wasn’t that… not quite a shock, but well…sad maybe?—didn’t shift much when Kakashi’s expression changed. It ran down from brow to cheek, jagged and brutal, old but the deep red of painful scarring. Torn by serrations, or cut by a dull blade, either way it wasn’t a painless scar and likely wasn’t a painless story either.

Jaskier smoothed another layer of salve along the edge of the cut, brushing dried blood away in slow circles. The boy didn’t speak, and neither did Jaskier. Kakashi started up his sewing once more, letting Jaskier do what he wished.

Across the room, Eskel and Lambert had drifted toward the kitchen, some muttered excuse about helping Vesemir. Probably to help Vesemir salvage the half-finished meal he’d been tending while Jaskier was pacing and shouting. There’d been meat on the board last he saw, maybe rabbit, judging by the smell. Now it was Eskel's problem. 

The room settled again once the others left. Just the crackle of the fire, the quiet scratch of thread through cloth, and the slight, almost imperceptible shuffle of Geralt settling more comfortably into the furs beside them. Not directly next to Kakashi, but close. A silent presence. Solid, grounding. Like a wolf taking up sentry.

Jaskier let the silence breathe for another moment.

“I noticed,” Jaskier began softly, “you always keep this one covered.”

Kakashi blinked slowly. His hand paused before it resumed stitching, with less urgency than before. His attention clearly switched to Jaskier. But he didn’t answer.

Jaskier pressed slightly.

He needed to know, needed to know if this was one more pain he couldn’t help with. He needed to know if Kakashi was okay, or if Jaskier was failing him through pure ignorance. Jaskier adjusted his hand, brushing back a strand of silver hair that had fallen near the boy’s brow, careful to keep the touch light. His fingers paused just above the thick red scar that carved across Kakashi’s left eye. Raised and ragged. It ran from his forehead, bisected the eyelid, and carved along his cheek—half hidden when the headband was worn, fully exposed now under firelight and worry. The youthful fullness to Kakashi’s bare cheek was at odds with it. Where the softness of the skin should have told of pampering, the scar told of violence.

“Does it still hurt?” he asked softly.

That got a pause.

Then, quiet as the crackle of dry wood behind them, Kakashi replied, “Not much.”

Another stitch.

Then another. 

Kakashi gave a soft exhale through his nose. Not quite a sigh.

“It used to,” the boy added, even quieter. His needle paused at the edge of the headband, one thread loop hanging loose in his fingers. “Not anymore.”

Jaskier watched him for a long moment, then reached down and tugged the furs higher over the boy’s lap, nodding. It wasn’t cold, not really. But it gave his hands something to do. He let the silence breathe for a few moments. 

The warmth from the hearth was a steady thing now. Not stifling, just close and comforting, wrapping around their little cluster of fur, cushion, and firelight. Geralt stayed still, his eyes closed and his muscles relaxed. He had nothing to say here, he just needed to be here. For Kakashi. Jaskier was glad for it. The kid shifted and watched the flames like a tether. Kakashi hadn’t glanced his way once, but Jaskier knew he appreciated  Geralt’s presence, the same way a ship trusted a bollard. Something to keep him from floating away. Something to trust not to let him vanish.

Jaskier dipped the cloth again, folding a cleaner corner before gently wiping down the last of the dried blood. Then, as he smoothed the softened hair back from the boy’s temple, he let the next question rise.

“…How’d you get the scar?” he asked gently. “If you don’t mind me knowing.”

He didn’t look up as he asked. Just focused on the cloth in his fingers, smoothing the edge so it wouldn’t feel rough against skin. He kept his tone gentle, an invitation to answer, but not a requirement, not an obligation. It was asking for trust but not demanding it and all Jaskier could do was hope he’d proved himself enough to trust with this particular story.

Kakashi didn’t respond at first.

Didn’t breathe for a moment, either.

Jaskier glanced up. The boy’s eye was fixed ahead now, not on the cloth, not on the fire. His hands rested lightly in his lap, the half-mended headband lying still, the needle slack in his fingers.

Then Kakashi spoke—quiet, almost like he was slipping into memory more than telling a story.

“I’d just passed my trial,” Kakashi murmured. “We were given a mission, my team. They were older than me. Loud and passionate, but… newer to battle. Our teacher—he’d been assigned elsewhere. Far from us. So they gave me the lead.” Kakashi’s jaw shifted. His one visible eye stayed on the thread in his hands

Jaskier said nothing. The story settled like ash in his lungs. A niggling dread built behind his breastbone.

Kakashi’s hands shifted. He didn’t look at Jaskier, just at the thread in his palm.

“There were three of us. Me. Obito. Rin. We were supposed to destroy a supply route—bridgework supporting enemy movement in the west. Not far from the front lines.”

He exhaled through his nose, slow and steady.

A stone floated in his gut.

“We weren’t ready. I wasn’t ready. First contact—we were ambushed en route. We took out most of them but Obito got caught in the blast radius. He was disoriented and I… I lost my eye keeping the last one from gutting him.”

His fingers clenched faintly, thumb brushing a stitch he'd already made.

The stone dropped.

“But it wasn’t enough. Rin was taken. They dragged her off while we were reeling. She was a healer, not a fighter. Obito wanted to save her.”

He went quiet again. 

The bard’s eyes watered. He hadn’t imagined this. Every scenario he’d come up with using his endless imagination, and he’d never gotten close to the actual gruesomeness of it.

Jaskier almost reached for him—but stopped short, not sure that touch would be welcome. Not with this story. The next words proved him right at the same time they stabbed through his heart.

“I chose to continue the mission,” Kakashi whispered, a guilty confession. Regret so strong it sent Jaskier right back to how Geralt spoke of Blaviken. But now, it was a terrible choice made by a child in an impossible situation. “I told Obito we had to finish it. That she’d understand.” Kakashi sounded so unbelievably disgusted with himself that Jaskier flinched. Self-condemnation and reproach colored his voice, and Jaskier was terrified of that tone. A tone that led from bad decisions to life ending ones. Jaskier’s eyes locked onto Kakashi’s hands, now intimately aware of the sewing needle still in the boy’s hand.

Kakashi took a quick breath. A steadying breath. Just enough to continue.

“He didn’t believe me. He went after her.” Kakashi’s hands gripped tight to the cloth, needle discarded from twitching fingers much to Jaskier’s relief. Shame permeated every syllable, clouded his eyes, and in that moment, stole his light.

Jaskier’s breath caught. His lungs froze as the dread solidified into horror.

“I finished the mission,” the boy said, low and flat. “One-eyed. And alone. Then I went after him.” With that light gone, a shell remained to say those words. Empty and hollow. 

The room felt stiller than before, like the very air had halted at those words. Kakashi was shutting down—rapidly. Yet he wouldn’t stop. And Jaskier was afraid to force him to. Whether Jaskier wanted to know this story anymore or not no longer mattered. He’d asked, he’d pushed. He’d opened the floodgates and now the consequences came for their dues.

“We found her,” Kakashi stated. “There were a few guards, but we got through. She was released from her chains. It—she was okay enough to run and we almost made it back to the entrance.” Kakashi took a breath. Gaze distant. He was hesitating. And Jaskier just knew it got worse. He’d hoped that the mystery eye was a different story. Hoped that the scar and the red mage-eye he’d heard about from Lambert were from separate events. Hoped against hope that the quota for this story’s trauma could have stopped at the loss of the eye. But for what should have been the main point of the story to be glossed over in a single mention. Well, Jaskier had always been a fool. And this time, that hope was ruthlessly crushed.

“But we’d missed one. That guard collapsed the cave. A complete cave in, but we were almost out. We were almost safe.” Kakashi paused and instead of hope, Jaskier could feel the edge of despair coming. “I couldn’t see to my left. I didn’t notice the boulder.”

Jaskier felt the ground fall out beneath him. His stomach taking to his throat. The apex of the story was here.

Kakashi’s voice cracked. A broken sound shoved down the moment it surfaced.

“Obito did.”

Jaskier swallowed. The lump in his throat thick with nausea. He could see where this was going. He wished he didn’t.

“Obito pushed me out of the way.” A shudder barely hidden. “He was crushed. The right half of his body—I saw—It was—He was just a slurry beneath—that—it. And the rest… he was still breathing. Still conscious.”

He finally looked up. Just a little. That gray eye was so painfully haunted. Unseeing. Trapped in that moment.

Jaskier wanted to vomit. Could have sworn he was going to.

Kakashi paused, fingers coming up to his scar. They traced gentle strokes down the lid. And when his fingers twitched, he dropped his hand like he was afraid he was going to dig them in.

He continued with a steady voice that felt entirely too practiced. A horror repeated like a report until he could keep his voice steady. “He gave me his left eye. Said it was a gift. For passing the trial.”

Jaskier couldn’t speak. His own hands clenched in his lap. He could hear Geralt moving but he couldn’t bring himself to look away. Not from the child that had gone through hell. Not when Kakashi was choosing to trust Jaskier with the memory of that hell. Not when Jaskier had been the one to bring it up.

“Rin transplanted it there. In that cave. No tools. Barely any light. I wouldn’t have been able to get us out without it.”

Kakashi looked back at the fire again, a flicker of reflection glinting in his visible eye.

“Then we left him. Still conscious. Buried in stone. One side crushed. The other... eyeless.”

Jaskier’s hand found the edge of the bench, curling tight around the wood.

“I fought through enemy lines with that eye. Got Rin out.” Kakashi sounded relieved. Like that was the one good part of this story. And maybe it was.

“We almost didn’t make it. But our teacher found us. Just in time.” The relief grew stronger. As did the shame. 

Kakashi paused. He looked so lost. His gaze still vacant.

“He was smiling…”

It was said so quietly that Jaskier wasn’t sure if he was meant to hear it. Nausea crested and Jaskier only let it get as far as his mouth before he swallowed the bile back down.

He felt sick.

Kakashi looked sick.

The awful story finally concluded. 

Silence followed.

Jaskier breathed slowly, his own heartbeat a dull pressure behind his ribs. He leaned forward, careful again, and set the cloth aside. Reached instead for the edge of the fur and tugged it gently around the boy’s shoulders. Jaskier’s chest felt tight. He needed to wipe that blank look from Kakashi’s eyes.

He reached out once more and touched the back of Kakashi’s hand, warm and small under his own.

“Thank you,” he said, voice warbling. “For telling me.”

Kakashi didn’t pull away. His shoulders dropped a fraction, not quite a sag, but close enough. He glanced down, grabbed the discarded needle and thread. 

Kakashi’s stitches resumed, slowly and unsteady. No rush. Just rhythm. A grounding method. A breathing pattern solidified through movement. 

The light slowly returned to Kakashi’s eye.

Jaskier let himself fall into those same breathing patterns. Pushing himself to calm down. He could break down later, when it was just him and Geralt. Hopefully.

Kakashi finally looked up, silver hair falling just short of his eye. The light was back, if a little dimmed in the wake of such a weighty memory. “You… remind me of them. A little.”

Jaskier couldn’t speak for a moment. His throat had closed. Something like warmth taking root behind his breastbone. It was such a fragile confession. A glass shard of the boy’s heart, presented to him with such a blatant display of trust that Jaskier couldn’t contain the sound from his throat. 

He gave a wobbly smile, tears already budding on his lashes. “Well then. I’ll do my very best to live up to that.”

A slow nod from the boy. Then, just as quietly, “You already do.”

The tidal wave of warmth that wound through Jaskier’s chest nearly knocked him over. He blinked hard, trying not to let the burn building in his nose develop into a full blown cry fest.

Jaskier sat back beside Kakashi, not too close, not too far, and watched the fire move shadows across the stones. The salve tin lay open on the table, half-used, the scent still lingering in the air. Beneath it all, the soft tug of thread and cloth continued, heartbeat slow.

Kakashi’s shoulders weren’t as stiff anymore. 

Beside them, Geralt shifted slightly, reaching over to gently tap a knuckle against the boy’s shoulder. A subtle gesture. Quiet, supporting. Kakashi leaned into it just barely. Enough to show acceptance of the comfort.

And this time, when his fingers came to a stop, they were relaxed.

Jaskier leaned his weight a little closer, enough that his shoulder pressed against the boy’s, solid and warm. No one spoke. They just stayed there. Together.

Close enough for the boy to lean back and feel their heat.

The salve had begun to dry against the boy’s temple.

The headband lay between them, freshly mended.