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Part 2 of Witcher!Jaskier Oneshots
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The Witcher, Winsome Witcher Fics
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2020-05-07
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3,132
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1/1
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Slightly Akin to Wonder

Summary:

He’d retired a long time ago, almost three decades, in fact, having figured that he at least deserved to pursue his passions in life after working so tirelessly for so many years. So he’d dropped off the face of the continent completely, armed himself with a glamour around his wrist, and started learning the Seven Liberal Arts in Oxenfurt, enjoying the increasingly wild rumours around his own disappearance and death.

That was when he’d stopped paying attention to what people were saying about who he’d been as Julian, the witcher who destroyed monsters with his swords and people with his wit, and that had apparently been his mistake.

Notes:

This is the result of a prompt from @lynxloverofcandy on tumblr - “What if Jaskier when he was a Witcher was really really good. So good other witcher schools had fan bases. And the lead fan was you guessed it: Geralt. First time Jaskier hears Geralt fangirling over him and he's like (´⊙ω⊙`)!”

It’s not exactly (´⊙ω⊙`) but I Tried :’)

And I had fun! That’s what matters, right? Right?

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

In hindsight, he could say that it was at least while they were alone in Kaer Morhen, and not in the middle of some fucking backwater village, surrounded by eavesdropping and gossipy laymen, that the whole ridiculous farce had come undone.

Jaskier was by no means oblivious, he knew that people knew of him.

He had a penchant for gaining notoriety - and he was in no way, shape, or form scornful or regretful of this fact - with comparatively little effort on his part, so much so that he’d managed to become exceedingly well-known and somewhat appreciated across not only one life, but two. How, exactly, he’d managed this eluded him - really, it must have been some kind of secret talent on his part that he was unaware of - but the fact remained that if one quoted one of either names he went by, chances are it would be recognised.

He only hoped that nobody would ever draw the connection between the two.

Before Jaskier had been famous as Jaskier the Bard, he’d gained a fair amount of notoriety as a witcher. Julian of the Continent, he’d given his name as - though that was wasted on the world, because nobody dared acknowledge the joke in front of a witcher, pity - and he’d amassed quite a reputation for himself.

At the time, he’d been so utterly oblivious that he hadn’t even realised it happening until he walked into a backwater town in Kaedwen for a contract and gotten called by name by a complete and utter stranger.

The man had damn near shat his breeches when he looked up at Jaskier, mouthing his name in a mixture of horror and awe, and then the idiot witcher had gone and fucked the situation completely by nearly collapsing with laughter at the sight of his face.

His creed as a witcher had been something vaguely about not causing unnecessary harm, but also taking absolutely no shit - and in hindsight, maybe that was what had given Julian of the Continent, the man whose title was a joke that nobody laughed at, the final little push that shoved his name into the spotlight. Then, of course, it would have been his competence at his craft - because despite the air of amiable ineptitude he’s always liked to put on, Jaskier would never settle for mediocrity - that cemented his name in the history books.

Still, he’d retired a long time ago, almost three decades, in fact, having figured that he at least deserved to pursue his passions in life after working so tirelessly for so many years. So he’d dropped off the face of the continent completely, armed himself with a glamour around his wrist, and started learning the Seven Liberal Arts in Oxenfurt, enjoying the increasingly wild rumours around his own disappearance and death.

That was when he’d stopped paying attention to what people were saying about Julian of the Continent, the witcher who destroyed monsters with his swords and people with his wit, and that had apparently been his mistake.

Jaskier wasn’t oblivious, he knew that people knew of him, but he’d evidently missed the part where people stopped thinking of him as a competent, albeit mildly terrifying, if you asked the general populace, monster-hunting witcher and started fucking glorifying him.

Sure, it had been thirty gods-damned years, and he knew - better than most, really, given his day job - how quickly and easily embellishments could spread. He wouldn’t even have found it so odd if the adoration - the fucking adoration, gods, to think that the people who pissed themselves at the sight of his face would adore him - stopped with the laymen that inhabited the rural countryside.

It was easy to spin anecdotes into hyperboles, turn lies into legends. Jaskier was a bard, a bloody poet, and he was well aware of that.

He just hadn’t expected Geralt to fall into the trap of swallowing all of that complete and utter bullshit.

He wasn’t even sure how the conversation had come to this in the first place, really, he’d only half-been paying attention to what he was saying, but then Geralt had mentioned his fucking name - his old name - and Jaskier’s stomach dropped.

“Julian of the Continent.”

Jaskier had, vaguely, amidst the shock, felt a wave of disappointment that even witchers, apparently, did not find his jestful name funny.

“What about him?”

Geralt grunted. “You asked if I’d ever heard of a witcher with a better reputation than the one you made me. And I have. Julian of the Continent. And he earned his reputation without a bard’s falsehoods.”

Had he asked that? Jaskier hated to admit it, but it did sound like the kind of stupid thing he’d bleat when trying to get Geralt to rise to the bait and actually talk to him for once. It was a tactic that had proven to work quite well, over the years, so of course it would end up backfiring on him spectacularly.

Still, Geralt’s proclamation was unexpected enough that Jaskier didn’t even think to dispute the bard’s falsehoods comment. The situation was so surreal, in fact, that Jaskier couldn’t even appreciate the irony - that Geralt was singing Julian’s praises to Julian, whilst also trashing Julian in the process without actually knowing it was Julian in the first place.

“Julian of the Continent?” Jaskier scoffed, instead. “Really? Sounds like a joke name, if you ask me.”

Geralt’s eyes narrowed. “Mind what you say, bard. He was one of the best witchers who ever lived. Even Vesemir- even my mentor looked up to him.”

Jaskier almost choked at that. How bloody far had the stories been exaggerated, then? One of the best witchers who ever lived? One of the best? He’d been an ordinary, if mouthy, witcher, perhaps quite a bit older than Geralt, but definitely his mentor’s junior.

This was so fucking ridiculous. He could understand the notoriety as a bard, but as Julian - he hadn’t even bloody done anything.

There were so many things Jaskier wanted to say, but he couldn’t find it in himself to voice any of them.

“I am, my esteemed friend, currently in Kaer Morhen, you know. Vesemir is in the same building as I am. I saw him this morning. You can refer to him by name, you know,” he said instead, recovering. And then, as an afterthought: “Julian of the Continent is still not a name that anyone should be taking seriously. It sounds like he picked it out to be funny on purpose.”

The bard had absolutely no idea why such a concept was so very offensive to the White Wolf of Rivia, but it evidently was, because Geralt snarled at him for that one.

He’d been utterly baffled at the time, but, as they dropped the matter and Jaskier pondered it, the pieces began to come together.

He really didn’t want it to be true, and not out of humility, it would just be so bloody awkward - but it sounded like Geralt... Geralt of bloody Rivia looked up to him.

To Jaskier.

As a witcher.

It would have been an absolutely fucking hilarious notion, if it wasn’t so unnervingly likely to be true.

This was indeed an awkward situation to be in, and Jaskier decided rather quickly that he wanted to know the full depth of this ludicrousness, if only so that the bard could understand why exactly this stoic grump of a man had taken such a shine to what was essentially a bog-standard Bear witcher.

So, Jaskier did the one thing he could think of to make any kind of sense of this whole mess of a predicament.

He went to seek counsel from Vesemir.

The old witcher was busying himself in the kitchen, and was none too pleased at Jaskier’s intrusion, but the bard was very good at making himself comfortable where he was not wanted. He supposed that all witchers were, one way or another.

“Hello,” he chirped, earning a look from the old witcher. “Can I ask you a few questions?”

Vesemir regarded the bard for a moment. “I don’t suppose I can stop you.”

“Brilliant!” Jaskier chirped. “So, there’s something that I’ve been mulling over ever since my last conversation with Geralt, and he gets rather prickly when I inquire - not that it’s a personal matter, mind, I wouldn’t presume to go behind his back like that, but the fact is-”

“Out with it, bard.”

“What can you tell me about Julian of the Continent?”

The silence that befell the kitchen was short lived.

“I suppose this is about last night’s shouting match with Geralt?” Vesemir said, raising an eyebrow.

“You heard that?”

“You were right. The epithet was supposed to be a joke, he confirmed as much himself.”

Right. Jaskier had met Vesemir on the Path, once. He’d have to forgive him for forgetting.

“Anything else you can tell me?”

Vesemir turned his attention back to his pot. “Nothing too detailed. I myself only met the man once - but I can tell you that he was unparalleled in a fight, both with weaponry and words.”

“What, he insulted his monsters to death?” Jaskier was vaguely aware that cracking jokes at Julian’s expense was most likely not going to go over very well, if Geralt was any indication, but he couldn’t resist the opportunity.

“No. He could take on any beast with steel and silver - I’ve never seen his like before.”

“That sounds like an exaggeration.”

Vesemir’s lip curled. “You know not of what you speak, bard.”

“Have you seen his like since?”

The old witcher only considered this for a moment. “I have seen people come close,” he said, eventually. “But I don’t believe there will ever be anyone quite like Julian.”

Jaskier had absolutely no idea what it was about his witcher persona that made him so appealing to people who had a veritable collection of ways to non-verbally tell him specifically to fuck off.

The conversation with Vesemir, in the end, raised a fair few more questions than provided answers, and Jaskier found himself eagerly awaiting the arrival of the two other Wolves - Eskel and Lambert - so that he might, perchance, actually get a fucking explanation as to why witchers seemed to like him so much.

Not that he wasn’t flattered, because he was - it was just that such a sentiment was far outweighed by sheer, unadulterated confusion.

He didn’t bring up the subject again with Geralt or Vesemir - he rather liked not being glared to death whenever he entered their line of sight, thank you very much - but he did ask Lambert, when he showed up at the keep, and it turned out, there was at least one witcher capable of holding a normal conversation on the topic.

Jaskier cornered him in the stables, and took his opportunity to ask the prickly witcher a few questions.

“What do you know about Julian of the Continent?”

Lambert raised an eyebrow at him. “That... was not what I was expecting you to say.”

“Geralt was singing his praises. Geralt. He never sings the praises of anyone. And Vesemir. I need to know what the man has done, because so far it sounds like he’s got precisely squat and fuck all under his belt.”

To his surprise, Lambert barked a laugh. “Gods, that fucker again. Course it is.”

“Don’t like him much, then?”

Lambert shrugged. “Don’t see what all the fuss is about. He was a witcher. Had a bit of a mouth on him, got people to like him. End of.”

“You know, Geralt looked ready to castrate me for implying that he has a joke name.”

“It is a joke name, Geralt’s just a fangirl.”

“I know, even Vesemir said as much. Well, about the name. Not about Geralt.”

“Huh.”

“Did you ever meet him?” Jaskier inquired, knowing damn well that he had not. He’d met Vesemir once, and travelled with him for a few days, Geralt had crossed his path as a witcher but they’d never actually interacted, and he’d unknowingly taken the same contract as Eskel once - and that was it. He hadn’t had all too many interactions with the Wolf school pre-glamour.

“Nah, but Vesemir did, and he wouldn’t fucking shut up about it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get inside before I freeze my balls off.”

“Right,” Jaskier said, beginning to ponder.

Was this bullshit all Vesemir’s fault?

Either way, it was beginning to give him ideas. The looks on their faces if he were to- no. No, he wouldn’t. If he revealed himself for a laugh at the School of the Wolf’s expense, he wouldn’t be able to un-reveal himself afterwards.

It wasn’t worth it.

It wasn’t.

Oh, it absolutely was.

Figuring he might as well turn the situation to his advantage, Jaskier concocted a plan. He waited, ever so patiently, for the last Wolf - Eskel - to arrive, before doing anything. If he was going to throw his cover out for a joke, then it would damn well be for the largest audience he could manage.

The plan was simple enough.

The witchers trained during the day, Jaskier knew, having borne witness to the event multiple times - even participated, a lifetime ago, back when he still called Haern Caduch home - and during this time, he mainly made himself useful with the more mundane of tasks around the keep, to Vesemir’s approval. Kaer Morhen was a large keep, and so there was always something for Jaskier to do - usually, he just occupied himself with various chores whilst various hungover members of the School of the Wolf beat each other senseless.

Today, though... Today, Jaskier made his way down to the grounds after the witchers.

It started innocuously enough.

“Well, look who finally crawled out of the keep!” Lambert crowed, pausing in his current bout against Eskel.

Jaskier gave him a grin and a wave before saying his piece.

“Geralt, teach me how to spar.”

Geralt’s brow creased as he frowned. “You mean, you don’t already know how to?”

“Nope,” Jaskier said, popping the p.

“How old are you?”

“Old enough.”

A sigh. “How long have you been travelling with me?”

“Ah... Quite a while, my dear friend, I should say.”

“And you... didn’t know how to fight. All this time.”

“Nah,” Jaskier grinned, lying through his teeth. “I can throw a punch, though!”

Geralt sighed, suddenly looking as if he’d aged a century. “You’re an idiot.”

“I am.”

“Right. Use this.”

Geralt’s silver sword was deposited gracelessly in his hands, and he fumbled with it in a theatric performance, biting down on a grin as the witcher began to guide him through the basic forms, Jaskier making a grand show of his ineptitude, greatly enjoying Geralt’s frustration.

It was rather fun, making the most basic mistakes specifically to take the piss - and, judging by Lambert’s grin, his ploy was at least somewhat obvious to all the non-Geralt Wolves.

“Oi, Geralt! Spar with him, see how that goes,” the youngest witcher hollered, earning himself a yellow-eyed glare. “What? See how much he’s learnt!”

Thank the gods for Lambert. That had just sped his plans along quite nicely.

The spar started easily enough, Geralt testing Jaskier’s capabilities gently enough, slashing widely to give him ample time to parry, never feinting or moving faster than a particularly leisurely snail. Jaskier matched him in skill, his blows clumsy, making every mistake in the book and making them in a loud, almost performative manner.

And then, of course, Jaskier decided that it was time.

Immediately, he fell into a familiar stance, low and powerful, and attacked without warning.

His slash was swift and unexpected enough that Geralt stumbled as he parried, and Jaskier pressed his advantage. Pulling his sword away, he jabbed at Geralt’s midriff, a movement that Geralt blocked with comparative ease, even though, judging by the look in his eyes, his mind hadn’t quite caught up with what was going on.

Jaskier slashed and stabbed almost lazily - now it was he who was testing Geralt - and found nothing that he did not expect. The White Wolf was a formidable opponent, yes, but all the decades of experience that Jaskier had on him were more than enough to make up for his rustiness, and so he found that he was able to match his friend quite nicely.

Good. It would have been downright embarrassing if he’d lost. If Geralt had found out who exactly he once was after beating him in a fight, he would surely never forget it.

Geralt took the offensive, jabbing at Jaskier’s midriff, and he took the opportunity to meet the blade with his own, locking them together at a wide angle, and twisting the weapon out of Geralt’s hand.

Perhaps, if the man wasn’t so disoriented, such a trick wouldn’t have worked, but he was and it did, and Jaskier wasn’t above pressing his advantages even where it was dishonourable. The steel blade clattered to the floor, and Jaskier pressed silver to Geralt’s throat, grinning.

“I won.”

He did not receive a reply, not from Geralt, but judging from the chorus of swear words that met his ears, Lambert and Eskel had some feedback for him.

“Bloody hell,” Lambert crowed, and Eskel raised his eyebrows.

“Where did you even learn to do that? Fight well enough to beat a witcher? And Geralt, too!”

Jaskier grinned. “You tell me. Three guesses each. But only the first one counts.”

“You can fight,” Geralt said, dumbly, and the bard sighed.

“Very well, I’ll allow that on a technicality - beating you because I can fight is, logistically, a correct answer, but I was hoping for a more... A more explanatory suggestion, I suppose.”

Lambert snorted. “Come on, tell us your secret, bard.”

“Not going to guess?”

“Eh, I’d never get it. Secretly a witcher?”

Jaskier grinned triumphantly, holding up his left, bracelet-wearing wrist.

“You’re shitting me.”

“I’m not.”

“A witcher? You? As if I’d fucking believe that.”

“And that’s the last time I’m telling you one of my deep, dark secrets, Lambert,” Jaskier said, feigning hurt.

“Jaskier,” Geralt growled. “How?”

“I told you,” the bard said, sweetly.

He slid the silver bracelet off of his wrist, and all of a sudden everything shifted, old scars resurfacing and his features morphing ever so slightly to become less delicate, less soft - and Geralt’s jaw dropped.

Eskel’s quiet no fucking way, alongside Lambert’s grumbled what were both ignored, as Jaskier smiled - a tad more menacing than sweet, now - at his best friend of twenty years and his perplexed fangirl.

“I did try and tell you that it was a joke name,” he said, pouting - the effect largely ruined by the scar that split his lip.

Jaskier was certain that, if witchers could blush, Geralt would have been all but glowing.

Notes:

I finally did it!!! I wrote witcher!Jaskier not as a Griffin!!

Will I ever stop referencing All The World I’ve Seen Before Me Passing By? Sources say ‘not on your fucking life’ (it’s the best fic, alright?)

Note from 17/01/2022: besties help, my 17 year old self used so many run-on sentences i have no idea what this means. Thank u for reading, though, you rock :)

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