#rivika

Well, he couldn’t argue with that, and that was the way Hera liked it. Kanan squeaked out five more minutes of studying hyperlane routes before he was unceremoniously kicked out of the Ghost. Instead, he crouched on the loading ramp like an absolute creature, watching strangers cross the hangar back and forth. Zeb was partially right in that they didn’t have to worry about the Empire on this planet; they didn’t have an Imperial Academy and they weren’t strictly ruled by an Imperial figurehead, but their representative was in frequent contact with one. Stormtroopers were really only stationed in their big settlements, not little backwaters like this one.

Still, Kanan couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. Maybe that was his PTSD. In his defense, it wasn’t paranoia if they were out to get you, and there were multiple standing bounties out on the members of the Ghost crew.

He let his gaze move from the passersby to the ships docked in the hangar. On this desolate rock, most of them were old models. The couple of new ones had strong security and wary eyes on them. Kanan wasn’t looking for a heist and no bounty hunter would run around in a sparklingly clean ship if they were any good, so he moved on. He saw a Flarestar, a couple light freighters that were helping the Ghost blend in, a Firespray, a Corellian corvette that desperately needed a paint job, a high-atmosphere—wait.

Kanan nearly snapped his neck looking back at the Firespray.

Stupid, he thought as he scrambled to his feet to get a better look at it. It wasn’t like Firesprays were a common class of ship; he’d only ever seen one in his lifetime. He’d read up on the model, too, and knew full well that prototype ships created for a singular prison moon didn’t tend to go far from home. And this model?

“Hera! Send a beacon to the kids, get them back here!” he shouted over his shoulder.

Zeb appeared, a furry hand on his bo-rifle. “What is it? Imperials?”

“Get the ship ready to go, now,” he snapped, tugging his pauldron on. “I’m going after Ezra and Sabine. Boba Fett is here.”

Hera slammed on the emergency beacon, which would notify Sabine and Ezra. “Tracking them on your comm! Do we have eyes on Fett?”

“Only the ship—Zeb, stay on that Firespray! I’m going after them.”

“Maybe he hasn’t seen them,” Hera suggested, voice tight.

Kanan clenched his jaw as he rushed back down the loading ramp. Sure, the chances that Fett was keeping an eye on every Imperial bounty were slim, but the payout on them and the kids was too high to think he hadn’t seen theirs. He was gone before Zeb could answer Hera, eyes glued to the blinking signal on his comm. The two youngest Spectres were instructed not to go far, just to look around the market, grab some food and fuel, and keep a low profile. Well, as low a profile as a bright purple Mandalorian and her blue-haired gremlin brother could.

Kanan wanted to kick himself. One of them should’ve gone with, he thought. How could he have missed the Firespray? Better yet, how did he miss another Mandalorian helmet?

Thankfully, he didn’t catch much attention as he sprinted through the marketplace, streets tight and enclosed. Around him, the dusty orange stone felt as though it was closing further in on him.

He turned a corner into an alleyway, a place that was a little too quiet and—there. Of course.

Sabine and Ezra were cornered, towered over by that ancient Mandalorian armor in scuffed green paint. Well, he wasn’t that much taller than them, but his jetpack and the blaster he held at Ezra’s head made him a looming presence.

Before Fett could assess the newly arrived threat, Kanan lit his saber and held it to the back of his head, right where the helmet revealed the nape of his neck.

“Hands off, Fett,” he said, willing his voice not to shake, “before I make losing your head a family tradition.”

The man in question stilled, all too familiar with the hiss and crackle of a lightsaber. Before him, barely in Kanan’s sight, Ezra and Sabine shared wide-eyed looks. Kanan motioned with his head. Understandably, they hesitated, but when Fett lowered his blaster they rushed to their guardian’s side, crowding behind him and the lightsaber he wielded like a shield.

Slowly, carefully projecting his movements, Fett turned to face them. 

Boba used to be an expressive kid. He wasn’t good at hiding his emotions in the Force, much less on his face. If he thought Kanan was doing something stupid, he made it clear with the scrunch of his nose and his loudly voiced complaints.

Now, Kanan stared into the cold beskar helmet that belonged to Jango Fett and wondered if he still made the same face.

Fett tilted his head ever so slightly.

“Dume,” he said, confirming Kanan’s worst fears. His voice was unrecognizable with the vocoder. He didn’t quite sound like Grey in there, though he must have looked just like them now. “You’re supposed to be dead.”

They could duke it out here. Between Kanan’s lightsaber and Boba’s jetpack, the victor was a toss-up. 

He tensed when he felt the bounty hunter’s gaze move back to the charges at his shoulder.

“Bounty’s high,” he remarked plainly. “High enough for people to tangle with Jedi, even untrained baby ones.”

Ezra bristled, but remained silent with a nudge from Kanan.

“Chopper,” Kanan said into his comm, “if we’re not back in five minutes, blow the Firespray in the hangar.”

He didn’t catch a response, if the droid gave one at all, but he had no doubt it was a delighted confirmation.

“That’s cold, cabur’ika.”

The endearment was stilted and unpracticed and sat in Kanan’s stomach like a stone. Clearly, Boba hadn’t spoken much Mando’a since the man who taught him died. Kanan barely remembered the meaning; he hadn’t spoken much either since the ones who taught him made him an orphan. Behind him, Sabine tensed.

“You must’ve been glad,” Boba continued, “that I killed Ponds before he could break old Windu’s ice-cold heart.”

It took everything in him to remain still. He wanted to take this man, this stranger, by the shoulders and shake him. Better yet, he wanted to scream and cry and drag answers out of him. 

Did you know? Kanan thought. Did you know what they were going to do to me?

“Kanan,” Sabine whispered, “four minutes.”

“Go. I’ll be right behind you.”

Ezra hissed like the feral lothcat he was. “Kanan!”

“Go,” he ordered.

They scrambled away, Sabine dragging her brother back through the marketplace. They would make it in time to tell Chopper not to blow up the Firespray, but if they didn’t see Kanan safely in the hangar, he doubted they would. Maybe it would be cruel to take out the ship, the only thing Boba had left of his father other than his armor and his face. Maybe he didn’t care.

Did Boba see his father when he looked in the mirror? Or did he see the brothers he didn’t claim? Had he even thought about Ponds before now, before using him to taunt Kanan?

Absently, he wondered if he’d kept growing his hair out, if there was still a mop of untamed curls under that helmet.

Boba still didn’t move; Kanan almost wished he would.

No matter his memories of a still-growing boy, Kanan knew that Boba had followed his dream and his father’s footsteps. He was just like Jango in every way. How many Jedi had he killed with the hands he’d steadied Caleb with? Had he beaten his father’s record? When he heard of his brothers’ slaughter, did he smile? Did he celebrate the slaughter of his enemies? Did he grieve for the loss of life, too great to gloat over? Or maybe he’d only grieved Caleb, his friend. Had they been friends?

With a woomf, Kanan shut off his blade and hung it back on his belt.

Like most of his childhood, the memories he had of the boy Boba had once been didn’t matter anymore. He was staring at a bounty hunter, an enemy, a threat to his people, and this time there was no room for mercy, no pity for a grieving orphan. Kanan wasn’t just a Jedi anymore. He was a survivor. And more importantly, he was a guardian.

“You point a blaster at them again, you’re dead,” he promised. “I don’t care what’s under that helmet.”

He didn’t give the other man a chance to respond. Maybe it was out of fear or maybe it was his survival instincts finally kicking in.

And maybe Boba’s lack of reaction was one of those, too.

Kanan made it, unhindered, to the Ghost with a minute left on the timer. The kids were all shouting, Zeb on the guns and Hera in the pilot’s chair. Skirting them all, he threw himself down in the co-pilot seat and slammed his hand on the navicom.

“Get us out of here, Hera,” he rasped.

“Kanan!” cried Zeb. “Am I taking out the Firespray?”

He didn’t answer, his tongue lead in his mouth. His hands shook now that the adrenaline high was in full force.

Beside him, Hera’s gaze was wide and searching. “Kanan?”

Vaguely nauseous, he shook his head. Of course, she didn’t need any other indication and put the pedal to the metal. “Hold your fire, Zeb! I’m getting us off this dustball!”

Kanan stared at his hands, calloused and scarred and so different from 10 years ago.

Why had he hesitated? Why had Boba given up his opportunity to strike?

He’d held a blaster to Ezra’s head.

Why did he hesitate?

~

Easy money.

That’s what Boba figured when he spotted neon beskar’gam and blue hair. He could name the 50 highest Imperial bounties off the top of his head and the rebel cell coming out of Lothal made up a good handful of them. What they were doing all the way out here wasn’t his business—just his good luck. Better yet, the young Mandalorian and the baby Jedi were by themselves. A perfect opportunity for him to set a trap for the rest.

The teenagers weren’t paying attention to anything around them, arguing over something petty. When the Mandalorian turned her back on her companion, Boba swept in and tapped his blaster against the kid’s head, keeping him from moving.

The Mandalorian whirled around, having seen his movement out of the corner of her eye, but she was too late.

“Don’t move. Or the kid gets it,” Boba hissed.

She froze. “Ezra?”

“I’m good,” Ezra said. “I mean, other than the blaster. Totally good.”

Boba took stock of all the weapons they carried, especially the monstrosity that the baby Jedi had on his belt. He would have written it off as a blaster if he didn’t know better. The ugly cross between a saber and a blaster would have his father rolling over in his grave if he had one.

“Oh shit,” the Mandalorian breathed out, her spine straightening.

“What? What’s worse than a blaster at my head, Sabine?”

Sabine, apparently, didn’t look away from him. “Boba Fett.”

“Boba Fett?” he squeaked.

He couldn’t help smiling a little under his helmet. It always brought a warmth to his chest to be recognized by reputation alone. How many bounty hunters were well known enough to summon such fear? Such hesitation? Especially in a born and bred Mandalorian. If only Jango could see him now, he thought, and the legacy he’d wrought.

“You’ve got a pretty price on your heads, but I hear it’s a package deal,” he drawled. “Where’s your master, Jetii?”

Snap-hiss

As the hairs on the back of his neck rose, they were met with the sweltering heat of plasma.

That sound.

Fuck.

He’d never forget that sound.

“Hands off, Fett, before I make losing your head a family tradition.”

Boba saw red. Even as he lowered the blaster, letting the kids rush to their rescuer, a vicious, clawing thing rose in his chest. Rage, rage, rage, he realized as it pushed against the back of his throat, willing him to scream and fling himself at the Jedi bastard. He was better now, though, better than that feral child that had thrown himself into revenge without a plan or even a thought. His thoughts were carefully shielded behind beskar and his own mental shields, built after years of cooperation with Vader, of all people. To the average Force-sensitive, he’d made certain his presence would be as cold and unyielding as his father’s helm. Silent.

Slowly, projecting his movements so the Jedi wouldn’t do something rash, Boba turned. He’d always been too curious for his own good.

He had to admit, the blurry images that came with the Spectre bounties had been tantalizing in their mystery. Dark hair and a bright blue lightsaber. Lanky limbs and an ugly as shit bird symbol that looked a little too close to Death Watch’s shriekhawk for Boba to be comfortable with it. He’d been curious. Never curious enough to go on a hunt, but definitely to keep an eye out.

Now, setting his gaze on the Jedi in question’s face, he wishes he’d never looked.

Those eyes.

Fuck.

He’d never forget those eyes.

“Dume.” It slipped out before he could stop it, but at least he didn’t do something dumber like call him by his first name. “You’re supposed to be dead.”

I thought you were dead, he wanted to scream. I thought your pet clones slaughtered you in your sleep and I felt guilty about it. And yet there he was. Bastard.

Caleb was unrecognizable now. His skin was darker, his build slimmer—probably from malnourishment. The grip he had on his saber was unnatural, unfamiliar. Sith hells, the only thing even slightly similar to the boy Boba had known was the way he stood in front of his charges like a human shield. They didn’t cower behind him, far from it, but he sought to cover every inch of them with his fragile body like they mattered more than he did. Like they were his troopers.

Boba’s gaze slid back to the teenagers he protected. To the baby Jedi. He couldn’t have been old enough to be a real Jedi.

What had possessed Dume to pass on a legacy of death and despair? Right under the eyes of the Empire?

(He didn’t let himself linger on the weight of his beskar’gam, the names built into its data like ancient carvings. “We’re a dying breed, ad’ika,” his father had said. Jaster’s legacy. Boba had never gotten the chance to be a True Mandalorian, but then neither had Jango, not really. They were all dead, but he’d still recited the tenants to Boba like they’d meant something. Like he’d do something with them one day, something other than carry its corpse.)

“Bounty’s high,” he said, voice as plain as he could manage. “High enough for people to tangle with Jedi, even untrained baby ones.”

High enough for me, he left unsaid. And he had experience with trained Jedi.

They could fight here. Boba knew he would win, too, even if he took a beating. Jedi didn’t kill, wouldn’t maim, especially not Caleb Dume. All he had to do was feint target the kids before getting his hands around their guardian’s throat.

It was a little funny, some hysterical part of him considered, that Jango’s bane would come to teach his own. If they got into it here. If he underestimated Dume.

Caleb lifted his comm to his lips with his free hand. “Chopper, if we’re not back in five minutes, blow the Firespray in the hangar.”

The threat itched at him. It would be a pain in the ass to rebuild the ship, but he’d done it a thousand times now. Last time, the Slave One had been nothing more than dust. He’d shoved his father’s ship back together from nothing but spare parts and spite. But he doubted that Dume knew that. Was he trying to be callous, trying to hit him where it hurt?

Boba dragged his eyes back up to Dume, searching for any tells. When they were boys, he’d never even tried to mimic the serene neutrality of his betters, Windu or Yoda. No, he’d been a storm of wild emotions and blatant expressions, his eyebrows flying up his face before he could think to control them. In the cinch of them now, he thought he could see determination. Grit. Desperation. But nothing to give away more than he should. If anyone else looked at him, they’d get the same read as Boba. Why did it hurt to think he didn’t know more than a stranger about him? He was a stranger. He’d made every effort to become one, even before…

“That’s cold, cabur’ika.”

Damn. He hadn’t meant to say it.

It didn’t look like it mattered much, though. Dume didn’t flinch. Maybe he didn’t remember what it meant anymore, even if it still fit him perfectly. Behind him, the little Mandalorian tensed.

Huh. His kids didn’t know their history.

Obviously they didn’t, he told himself. It didn’t matter. It was a lifetime ago.

Anger flared again, deep in his chest. “You must’ve been glad that I killed Ponds before he could break old Windu’s ice-cold heart,” he goaded, voice sharp and hissing. He swallowed further accusations, bitter things he didn’t realize he’d carried all these years.

Had Caleb even thought about Ponds since that day? Had Commander Dume stared at the casualty list for the mission and wondered which trooper CC-6454 had been?

All the while, Ponds haunted Boba’s dreams, the very image of the brothers that had never (always) been his. That face, so familiar and strange and twisted in pity, maybe care. It was a blessing and a curse. His father’s face was across the galaxy a million times over, but he’d never truly see it again. All he saw when he looked into the mirror was a pitiful echo of the man Jango Fett was, the man Boba could have been.

“Kanan,” the little Mandalorian whispered.

Kanan. That’s who he was now, this stranger that held Boba’s life in his hands. Caleb Dume had died with the Jedi—and good riddance! They were a stain on the galaxy, every one of them, and he was doing it a favor taking their bounties.

The kids left. Boba didn’t watch them leave, his vision fuzzing out at the edges. All he could see was the liar, the stranger, the bastard. The man who stared through him like he was nothing when once he’d looked at him like he hung the stars in the sky.

Kanan flicked off his lightsaber. Boba didn’t flinch at the noise—he couldn’t remember hearing one shut off before. He did move towards his blaster, but not before the saber was back on the other man’s belt.

He was either stupid or overconfident. Or both.

Boba bared his teeth. His pity. That was the worst part of him and his stupid Jedi habits, even back then. He didn’t want pity, especially from the people who’d taken everything from him. This disgusting mockery of a Jedi even looked like Windu when he peered down his nose at Boba, seeing only an image of his father, a reflection of a poor orphan. A victim of circumstance instead of the bloody hands of the Senate’s attack dogs.

He’d won. He didn’t need pity.

“You point a blaster at them again, you’re dead,” Kanan said. “I don’t care what’s under that helmet.”

It hit him like a bolt to the chest. Was this pity for the clones? For the face he shared with people Kanan once loved? He’d sworn once that Jedi cared more for the soul past their skin, that him being a clone never mattered. It wasn’t supposed to. Not to Jango, not to Caleb.

I should move now, Boba thought. I should take him. Easy money.

He didn’t. He didn’t even follow Kanan around the corner, and didn't watch him leave. Later, he’d tell himself it was shock. Or maybe even knowing he was out-gunned.

Even later, though, he’d decide that he was paying a debt.

(“Commander Dume made a very convincing case for you, you know. Wrote a statement and everything. He and General Windu are probably the only reason you got such a short sentence. Consider yourself lucky, vod’ika.”

“Don’t call me that!”)

That’s all it was. He was paying a debt—and it was just a head start.

Back in the cockpit of the Slave One, Boba stared down at the navicomputer. He watched the blinking red dot leave the system like a space bat out of Sith hell.

Just a head start, he promised himself. They wouldn’t get far.

*

Mando'a Translations: cabur'ika - little guardian/protector, vod'ika - little brother

AN: No, I don’t have plans or ideas for a part two rn but also the hamster in my brain is unpredictable so who knows?

In my brain this AU started with the Clone Wars episode where Boba tries really hard to kill Mace. I'd say in this universe, Caleb got apprenticed to Depa sooner and was with her when she briefly fell to the dark side instead of meeting her while she was in recovery. Mace took over his training while she was healing, so he was with him when that whole episode happened and kind of accidentally befriended Boba, who was undercover. Anyway, that's all I got, hope y'all enjoyed!

Her attention was drawn back into the present at Ciri's insistent hissing. The girl had their horses sidled up next to each other, close enough that she could tug on her sleeve. She pointed into the square of the town as they entered, eyes bright with wonder.

Ciri was pointing at the decor, she thought, gaze drifting over the sight.

Every inch of the market stalls and walls was covered with flowers of all colours. Purples and blues seemed to be the favourite, though, with smatterings of reds and yellows and pinks. People wore flowers around their necks, wrists, and ankles. They handed them to each other, as well, in single stems, bouquets, and even artful pieces of jewellery. It was a sight to see, the beauty of summer here. Most other villages celebrated these holidays in spring, but this environment was perfect for flowers in summer, what with their frequent rain showers. Legend had it that it was some sorcerer's fault a hundred years ago.

Yennefer probably would've thanked them if they were still alive, just for the look on Ciri's face when a girl, much younger than her, offered her a necklace of carnations for her steed.

“They’re lovely, thank you,” the young princess murmured.

She ran her fingertips over the petals, apparently in deep thought. 

At her back, Jaskier sat up. “Ooh, bookshop! We should see if we can find anything for dear old Vesemir.”

“Necessities first, bard,” Yennefer chided, swinging her leg over her saddle to dismount. “Then we can spend all Geralt’s coin.”

Snickering, Ciri let Jaskier hop down before she followed him. Once they got their horses situated for the night, they took to exploring the festival. Yennefer split from the other two briefly, haggling her way through the market. Ciri found her way to her later, hiding her giggles at the annoyed vendors as they attempted to bargain with an unstoppable force.

When Jaskier reappeared, he held something out to Ciri.

“For me?” she asked, eyes wide.

He nodded encouragingly, a blinding smile on his face. “Go on, princess.”

Without further questioning, the girl ripped into the brown paper packaging like the child she was. Yennefer gave their companion a questioning look, but he only smiled and shook his head. When she looked back at their girl, she saw a dumbfounded Ciri.

“It’s beautiful,” she breathed, hesitant hands drifting over the gift.

It was beautiful; a curved, decorative hairpin forged of rose gold and decorated with sparkling white gems. The metal twisted like branches with leaves on the offshoots, the entire thing shaped almost like a tiara. The eye-catching part, however, was the line of three pink roses it bore. They were real flowers, enchanted to stay alive for decades. Of the three, the middle rose was the largest, but each was perfectly pristine. The jewellery was ideal for a princess, Yennefer thought. It was practically made for Ciri.

“I love it!” she cried.

Unexpectedly, she threw herself at Jaskier, tackling the bard in a vicious, witcher-trained hug. He took it with a grunt and a laugh, hugging her back the moment he could. Yennefer smiled at them both, eyes bright.

“Thank you,” Ciri whispered into his shoulder.

He petted her hair gently. “Any time, dear. Now, I think Yennefer has her eye on yet another vendor to harass. Help me make a song out of this one?”

“Only if you call Yen something wicked,” she bartered.

Said sorceress brightened, while he gave a dramatic, beleaguered groan. “If I must.”

Yennefer bore a devious smile. “That’s my cub.”

That night, Ciri and Yennefer retired to their room in the inn long before Jaskier, whose voice echoed throughout the tavern and its halls far into the night. While he belted out his songs and made all the village girls swoon, Yennefer helped Ciri undo her braids and settle in for bed. They stayed up longer than intended, a fact they would keep a secret between themselves, lest Geralt find out and never let Yen watch over Ciri again.

“I’m happy that Geralt found you and Jaskier,” Ciri said during a long silence.

Admittedly, Yennefer was somewhat dumbstruck. “Oh?”

She gave a sheepish smile, her free hand playing with her hair. “Everything that happened was…scary,” she continued, “but you’re both with us now. I like it better with you here. So does Geralt, even if he doesn’t say it. He’s happier with you two around. More, uh, complete.”

At that moment, Yen’s heart broke. She didn’t even like it around simply because she liked them, but also because Geralt was apparently all the better for their presence. The way she said it, too, with such love in her eyes, killed the sorceress right there. She almost wanted to bundle her in blankets and never let go.

Before the clock struck midnight, however, she tucked the girl into bed alone and kissed the crown of her head.

“Sleep, dearest,” she murmured, sure she was already asleep. “I’ll keep watch.”

And keep watch she did; her keen eyes drifted over their room what must have been a thousand and twelve times before Jaskier arrived. There was a sag in his shoulders but a pep in his step as he entered. The sight of Ciri’s hairpin on the nightstand made his eyes all rheumy, disgustingly enough. Yennefer greeted him with a nod, ready to turn in herself now that he was there.

“Good show?” she asked, her voice barely a breeze.

“Not as good as Kaer Morhen,” he admitted with something like longing in his words. “But good. Ciri’s alright?”

She nodded as she climbed into bed beside the girl, leaving Jaskier on his own. “No nightmares yet. I’ll wake up if she does.”

“Good.” He curled into his blankets. His speech was slurred. “That’s good.”

Yennefer huffed out a chuckle. “Goodnight, bard.”

“Goodnight, witch.”

She was very nearly asleep the second she laid down, but her mind kept her up a moment longer. We’re Geralt’s family, her traitorous thoughts decided. That was the word she was looking for earlier. We’re family.

~

“GERALT!”

It was a bright summer day in Kaer Morhen, a rare occurrence, when Lambert burst through the doors to the library. Vesemir and Geralt dropped their conversation in an instant, the latter getting to his feet with a hand on his sword. He knew his brother and that tone of voice meant bad news.

Lambert turned the corner, finally coming into view. “Geralt,” he said breathlessly, “it’s Yennefer. At the gate. She—”

He never did finish, what with the way Geralt ran out of the room like a bat out of hell. His feverish escape didn’t go unnoticed by his fellow witchers, many of whom followed at a somewhat slower pace. Of course, he ignored them all, gaze set on the front gate. Underneath his ragged old boots, soft grass parted for him without resistance.

It was rare for him to be home in the warm months. He was used to the crunch of snow under his feet and the biting cold of the mountain snows. This summer at home felt almost new to him after so long of being deprived of the experience, but he’d grown fond of it. It was all for Ciri, who loved Kaer Morhen dearly and needed a stable environment while she learned to use her magic. Everything those days was for Ciri. Even Lambert and Coën visited more frequently to see her. (And her alone, they’d claim. Perhaps for Jaskier’s music. Yennefer loathed the bard’s boasting when they said as much.)

The trip to the festival was for Ciri, too. But the fear in Lambert’s voice had Geralt choking on air. He knew it was a bad idea for them to go alone, without him, especially such a distance.

One of his brothers had just managed to get the gate open when he appeared, rushing through without pause. On the other side, a single horse stood. At its side was the trembling shadow of Yennefer of Vengeberg, a ghastly looking image of a once-powerful sorceress who held the reins with a deathly grip.

“Geralt,” she choked out, voice raspy, as though she’d been screaming.

Geralt was starting to hate his own name.

He took a few steps toward her but stopped at the sight of something on the horse. Someone. Almost someone.

A limp body lay across the saddle, buried under blankets.

The witcher felt his stomach leap into his throat. “Yen, what—?”

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” she cried. Her voice trembled in a way he hadn’t heard in years, something broken and shattered in every word. “Geralt, I’m—”

When she tried to step forward, her body seemed to collapse on itself. The white-haired witcher barely caught her, holding her in his arms when she lost the strength to stand on. He wondered, absently, if she had walked the whole way here. Did she transport herself, the horse, and the…the corpse with magic?

The corpse. He couldn’t see their face. He couldn’t tell which of their companions laid dead before him; nausea crawled up his throat all of a sudden. For a moment, he almost didn’t want to know.

Was it Jaskier, his lips never to quirk up in a smile or open for a song again? Or was it Ciri, her bright eyes dead and cold?

“Geralt, I’m sorry,” Yennefer gasped. She grasped the back of his neck, desperate for something to ground her. “I’m so sorry.”

~

“Let them go and I won’t turn you into ashes,” the sorceress hissed.

She gathered flames in her hands. Before Sodden, it might have been an empty threat, but the sorcerer in front of her knew very well what her ash-ridden palms were capable of now. In fact, she would do it for lesser things than this, far lesser.

On the floor before him, Ciri squirmed dangerously. The skin of her cheek was unnervingly close to the blade in the other sorcerer’s hand, but she clearly didn’t care. On the ground beside her, Jaskier had been beaten to the floor for daring to open his mouth. Unfortunately, it was a situation he was all too familiar with. This time, however, his insults had been to keep the filth’s hands off Cirilla. It worked too well.

“I was sent to break you, Yennefer,” the sorcerer said. She didn’t even know his name. “I only need one alive to do that, so…pick your favourite.”

He grasped Ciri’s hair and dragged her upwards, exposing her throat.

It was the same way he’d pulled her out of her soft bed in the inn. Yennefer barely had a second to react and even that was too long. By then, Jaskier was flying at the man with his lute and beating him over the head with it, folly as it was. With both the bard and the princess in hand, the sorcerer had Yennefer as well.

“Tick tock, Yennefer,” he crooned. “The child or the bard. It’s your choice.”

“Over my dead body.”

He only laughed. It was a mid-tier cackle, she thought. She’d certainly heard more villainous attempts. “Not the deal. One dies.”

At his feet, hunched over and still spitting blood, Jaskier lifted his head to meet Yennefer’s gaze. Her fists clenched at his determined expression, disgust pooling in her gut. He wanted her to save Ciri. She wouldn’t let either of them die. Unfortunately, they were at a standstill.

“And if I don’t choose?” she questioned fiercely.

“Yen,” Jaskier hissed, receiving another swift kick to the stomach for his gall.

Ciri glanced at the bard. “Don’t you dare.”

The sorcerer rolled his eyes. “I’ll stand here as long as I have to. Or, if I get bored, I could always kill them both.”

“You wouldn’t live to make the second hit.”

“But the first, well, that one’s easy,” he mocked.

Ciri met Yennefer’s gaze. There was childlike terror in her expression, but trust as well. It was nothing like Jaskier’s determined, knowing look he gave the woman a moment after.

This was not Sodden. Making a rash, desperate decision would not have her kidnapped and without her magic. One wrong move here would lose her something far more precious and dear to her than any form of Chaos.

She clenched her fists, quenching her fire. Jaskier nodded sharply.

“The bard,” she declared, her voice sickeningly steady.

The sorcerer grinned and moved his knife away from Ciri’s throat just as her eyes went wider than plates. “Very well.”

“No! Jaskier!” the girl cried. She tried to move to him, but the sorcerer stopped her with a click of his tongue.

“If you love the girl so much, I’m sure this will hurt more.”

Despite his early words, he lunged for Ciri. She yelped. Before she or Yen could do a damn thing, Jaskier flew at the sorcerer with a furious cry. He tackled him to the ground, both of them falling. Yen blinked and the bard was horrifyingly still above their kidnapper, a muted shock on his face.

He lifted his hand, and blood dripped off his fingers.

“JASKIER!”

Her scream was drowned out by Ciri, who wailed. From deep in her chest came her Chaos and its wind, driving the room into a restless hurricane. Yennefer blocked her face with her arms, but couldn’t hold against it. Her back slammed into a wall. The shrieking of the young girl had her ears ringing and similar screams from the sorcerer indicated his were as well. Regardless, he’d been thrown off Jaskier, leaving Ciri to run to him.

The girl didn’t take a breath, shrieking her heart out as she held Jaskier with trembling hands. When she finally did stop her screams, she broke them with heaving sobs.

“Stay awake, stay awake—” she begged. Her voice was gravelly, worn from the rage and the fear and the grief. “Hold on, please, Jaskier!”

Yennefer sent a ball of magic at the other sorcerer, who had just been standing again. With a shout, the two were at it, sparks flying and Chaos going wild.

Ciri didn’t spare them a glance, desperately putting pressure on the massive wound across Jaskier’s doublet. He held her hands back, one of his own reaching up for her face. With a gentle, pale hand he caressed her cheek.

“It’s alright,” he whispered, hair clinging to his sweaty forehead. “I’ll be alright, dear, don’t cry. Shh, shh, it’s not your fault. Look at me. It wasn’t your fault, I swear.”

“He was going to kill me.” She hiccupped, tears streaming down her cheeks and turning them red. “You stopped him. Why? Why? It was supposed to be me!”

His hand grasped her shawl, the precious one from her grandmother. “No. Never, do you hear me? I would do it again, Ciri, again and—” he was cut off by his own hiss of pain.

“Brat!”

Ciri opened her mouth to scream, but a calloused hand slapped over her face, silencing her. He ripped her away from Jaskier, dragging her toward another corner, where a portal appeared with a quick flick of his hand.

Yennefer, recovering from a nasty blow, cried out. “Ciri!”

“Yennefer!” She screeched, the sound muffled as she pushed and kicked against the sorcerer’s grasp. “Yen! Jaskier! Yen—”

A woosh of magic cut her off, and then she was gone.

Yennefer howled, racing forward even though the portal was long gone. She slammed her fists against the wall, quivering with rage. “Fuck. Fuck!”

Her palms fell against the wood a moment later, defeated.

Then, she realised.

“Jaskier!” she gasped out, whirling around. She flung herself to the ground next to him. Her hands went to his shoulders, shaking him viciously. “Bard! Bard, wake up! Wake up, damn you!”

The bard moved with her, putty under her hands. She realised he wasn’t moving an inch, not even looking up at her through his dark hair. Quickly, she brushed aside the locks. Her breath caught in her throat when she saw his eyes.

They were dull now, cold and empty and wrong. His skin was still warm under her touch, as was the blood staining his fanciful clothes.

“Come on, you useless fuck, he has Ciri! We have to—” Yennefer gasped for breath, shaking her head as if to shake off the idea that he wouldn’t respond. “Get up! Get up, damn it!”

He did not move.

She pulled him close, her face in his hair. “Please, Jaskier. I’m—I’m sorry. Gods, I’m so fucking sorry, please just get up. Get up.”

In his limp, lithe fingers, he clutched a blue shawl with golden tassels.

“Jaskier?”

~

Geralt couldn’t bear to let go of Jaskier when he pulled him down from the horse. Vesemir had appeared, barking orders to the other witchers to deal with the horse or something like that. He could hardly hear over the cotton in his ears. Maybe, if he’d had the ability to, he would have been crying. Instead, he felt a gaping hole in his chest.

Yennefer cried enough for the both of them, her face buried in his shoulder as she avoided looking at the bard anymore.

Meanwhile, Geralt had brushed his hair out of his face and done nothing but stare.

He almost looked asleep. He was…peaceful, like those nights out under the stars with all four of them. Ciri would try to last the night with them, but she always drifted off beside Jaskier, whose lilting voice lulled her right to sleep.

More than anything, Geralt wished for this to be a nightmare. Then, he could wake up and find the three of them worrying over him, ready to coddle him into his grave. Ciri would curl up under his arm and snore into the early afternoon, utterly dead to the world. Yennefer would run her hands through his hair with gentle mutterings of comfort. Jaskier…Jaskier would tease him, the big, bad White Wolf, but he would always have a cup of something warm and a tune to hum him right back to sleep. It was silly, wanting a comfort he never needed.

“Where is she?”

Yennefer nearly jumped at his voice. She only shook her head, unable to cry anymore. “I don’t know. I’m sorry, I don’t—”

“Shh, it wasn’t your fault,” he murmured, tucking her close. “It wasn’t.”

 Her shoulders shook. “Ciri’s gone, Jaskier’s—and I’m here. Fuck, he still has her, fuck—Geralt, what do we do?”

“Fuck.” He grimaced, a grunt barely passing his lips. “We’ll find her, Yen. We will.”

“He’s gone,” she whispered, weaker than she’d been before. “He’s not coming back; I can’t—I can’t bring him back, Geralt. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

It was a crisp summer morning when they buried Jaskier.

*

River’s Tags: @hahaboop, @mystoragehatesme

“Oh, poor Hermione,” you say dramatically, reaching over to pat her shoulder in false comfort. “Just admit you like it as much as they do and your life will be much easier, promise.”

“(Y/N)’s speaking from experience,” Ron adds through a mouthful of food.

You nod proudly. “Speaking of my experience—have you seen my boys this morning?”

“No sign of them yet, thank Merlin,” their younger brother says immediately. “Why? Something planned?”

Your shrug is mischievous. “Maybe.”

“They always have something planned,” Hermione counters.

Harry smiles. “I saw them in the common room this morning; heard something about Filch, too, but that’s it. They’ll be in time for Quidditch practise, won’t they?”

“On time? Maybe. But they’ll definitely be there,” you agree with a snicker. “I should go find them.”

Before you can leave, Ron huffs. “At least eat something, (Y/N).”

Harry raises his eyebrows at the very clear Mom tone to his voice, the same tone that has you rolling your eyes. You reach across the table anyway, snatching up a jam-covered piece of toast and standing.

“Better, Mum?” you ask once you’ve swallowed.

He scoffs, flushing. “Shut up.”

“You’d miss the voice of reason,” you retort. “Cheers, kids. See you in a bit!”

“Kids?” you hear Hermione snort after you leave. “We’re only two years below!”

“(Y/N) calls everyone younger a kid, ‘Mione,” Ron reminds her fondly. “Don’t take it personally.”

You dart out of the Great Hall, taking a loose path to Filch’s office. If Fred and George aren’t there, at least Filch might have an idea of where they have been this morning. He and Mrs Norris always have their eyes on you three, but they’ve never caught you long enough to make a dent in your rebellious streak. Merlin, if Molly Weasley can’t stop you, nobody can. And despite her best efforts, she is slowly losing that fight.

Whistling a merry tune, you turn a corner, only to stop and grin at the sound of a familiar gleeful laugh. It’s more of a devilish cackle, actually.

Down the hall, two distinct redheads are sprinting in your direction.

(Fred is the one that cackles. George prefers a good snicker.)

“What in Merlin’s name have you two—?”

“No time to talk, Filch on our tail, run!” George summarizes as they come upon you, grabbing your arm and dragging you along.

Back down the hall, a very pissed off caretaker screams: “YOU FILTHY BRATS! GET BACK HERE! I’LL HANG YOU BY YOUR TOES!”

You laugh, a loud and clear sound that bounces off the walls. It has George grinning wider than before as the two of you split off from Fred, the other twin disappearing as quickly as they’d appeared. Your boyfriend’s hand slips from your sleeve, but you immediately grasp his hand instead.

Dragged around another corner, you realise immediately that your boys must have planned this daring escape, because George quickly ducks into a tiny alcove with an empty wardrobe.

He closes the door behind you, the both of you crammed into the small space.

You press your fingers against his lips to quiet his heavy breathing, which earns you a huff of indignation. Not about to laugh aloud at the pout on his face, you simply smile.

Footsteps storm outside, right past the alcove. They pass, but neither of you move, too cautious to let Filch lure you into a false sense of security. He’s quiet for a long moment, but then he starts walking away, the taps of his boots growing ever further.

The moment he’s out of earshot, George lets out a breath of relief.

You start laughing quietly into his shoulder, letting him wrap an arm around your shoulder.

“It’s not even 9, George,” you wheeze, wiping at unshed tears.

“Perfect timing, right? Now he’ll be mad all day,” he says with a pleased smile. “I thought it was brilliant.”

You lean forward, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips. “You’re a dumbass!”

“Hey! I may be a dumbass, but I’m your dumbass.” He buries a hand in your hair, pouting again.

“My dumbass,” you clarify, rolling your eyes. “Harry was worried you’d miss Quidditch.”

“Never,” he declares. “Ridiculous, that. Oliver would have our heads.”

You snicker. “If you’re late again, he’s going to hunt you down. You know that, right? Worse than when you dyed his hair.”

“Let’s remember who saved me last time he got mad,” he teases, booping your nose.

“Because I love you and I always get you out of trouble.”

A sappy smile crosses his features. “Yeah. You’re good at that.”

He leans forward—a task that’s not difficult in the small space—kissing you gently, which has you smiling into it.

The wardrobe doors fly open and you split apart, faces flushed and smiling ridiculously.

“Oi!” says Fred, faking disgust. “No time for making out, lovebirds! We have Quidditch practise to get to!”

“Shut up, Fred,” you and George say in sync, bursting into laughter.

He scoffs, grabbing his brother’s shirt and dragging him out of the wardrobe. Instead of that same rough movement with you, he offers you a hand, which you take. Gracefully stepping out of the wardrobe, you snicker when the twins shove each other.

“Knock it off, you two,” you chide, taking George’s arm in yours. You pull Fred over to you and do the same on your other side, grinning.

“Good morning, (Y/N),” Fred finally greets properly.

You snort. “It was until someone decided to drag me away from breakfast.”

“I can make it up to you,” George says instantly, maneuvering your arms so that you’re holding hands instead. “Trip to the kitchens before Quidditch?”

“Sounds lovely,” you decide. “And then we should talk about our product line-up, because I have some ideas.”

He grins. “Of course you do. You’re brilliant.”

Fred fakes a gag. George lets go of your hand just long enough to smack the back of his head, making you snicker.

“Boys.”

*

River’s Tags: @hahaboop & @mystoragehatesme