To Heal A Lonely Heart

Please Don't Tell Me It's The Bard!

So, after a good fifteen minutes, we arrived at our house. I helped Geralt free Roach of her saddle and bridle, along with my husband's bags. The last thing we did was ridding the witcher from his armour, setting it on a bench outside – it'd need to be cleaned and greased.

Surprisingly, Jaskier waited inside patiently, allowing us to have a few moments alone.

Oh, but once we entered the kitchen...

"Be nice," I warned my husband in a harsh whisper.

Geralt grumbled a 'why?' in response, and I shot him a glare before smiling again and leading him around the kitchen table, gently pushing him to sit diagonally from Jaskier, while I took my seat across from the bard, holding out my hands, conjuring a pint of ale for each of the men, before resuming my task of preparing dinner.

"So, uh, werewolves, huh?" Jaskier started awkwardly.

"Hm," Geralt grunted, muffled by the pint of ale.

"How many?" I asked in a soft voice, gently tracing a scratch on his cheekbone. Geralt was always quiet around the bard, but something else was upsetting him.

"Four. Not a big pack, but strong. Born ones," he grumbled.

So there it was. He had to kill them when he'd rather cured them, but he couldn't. They really were monsters; were born, not turned.

I wiped my hands on my apron, then leaned my head against Geralt's shoulder, sliding one hand into his and resting the other in the crook of his arm.

"Minne, you did what you had to. Don't beat yourself up about it," I whispered reassuringly.

"You don't understand, Nienna. They were a pack, a family; two adults and two young ones, and I – I killed them. They were killing villagers and I killed them," he responded, voice hard.

I turned to Jaskier, who was listening closely, and gave him a pleading glance.

"Oh. Oh, yeah. Sure," he mumbled as he got up and left the kitchen. "Oh, hello, you cutie," I could hear him coo from outside, the baby goats bleating happily.

Once I was sure he didn't hear us, I turned to my husband.

"What is it, minne? Talk to me," I said, cupping his cheek. He closed his eyes and sighed deeply.

Opening his eyes, he stated talking, "They were young, the children. Maybe five years old, but they grow fast. The pack, they've emptied entire villages. I had to kill them, I know that, but..." he let go of another deep sigh.

"But you feel bad for killing the young," I concluded quietly. "Is it because..." I trailed off, nodding towards my belly.

When I met Geralt's eyes again, they were full of hurt.

"Oh, minne," I whispered, "They weren't human children. They would have killed you and so many more, if you hadn't killed them first. They were monsters, born monsters. There was nothing else you could have done for them than to give them a quick death."

I was trying my best to talk the guilt out of him, but my arguments were weak and made me sound cruel. I stopped. Instead, I cupped his jaw with my hands, making him look at me.

"You saved this village, our home, and so many more from a pack of werewolves. They would have come here eventually, and attack those we care about. You did the right thing, Geralt."

I kissed him softly, but he didn't respond. With a sigh, I stood and lit the fire under the stove, setting the pot with potatoes on top. There was no talking him out of his guilt and I had to accept that. It was for the better I let him think about it for himself; I had already said all I could. So I continued with the preparation for dinner. The kitchen was silent, the bubbling of the cooking water and Jaskier's coos the only sounds.

After a moment, Geralt spoke up, his voice gruff and quiet. "My love?"

I only hummed in response, stirring in the pot.

"Could you fill the tub? I stink."

He had come up behind me, his hands resting on my hips and his chin on my shoulder.

"Mh-mhh," I hummed, "Can you call Jaskier back in? Someone has to watch the stew. I don't want it to burn."

"And you think the bard is the right person to watch it?" my husband chuckled.

Oh, thank the gods! The tension was gone!

I turned around, facing Geralt.

"The bard has a name. And he helped me a lot this past week. He's not stupid, even if you want to believe otherwise," I scolded him, but with a playful glint in my eyes.

"Alright, alright. I'll go, get Jaskier," Geralt muttered, defeated, putting emphasis on the bard's name. I laughed a little when I heard my husband call for Jaskier from the front door.

"Bard, kitchen! Nienna needs your help."

The next thing audible were Geralt's heavy footsteps walking up the stairs and Jaskier's light shuffling ones, hurrying back inside. When Jaskier stood next to me, I told him what to do: just stirring, not too fast, and nothing else. He nodded and I went upstairs.