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The day that Leon met Julian de Lettenhove was one of the hottest days in Camelot’s history.
It was also the midsummer festival, when noble families threw their most extravagant banquets in an effort to stay relevant. It was almost always a futile effort, but they made the attempts nonetheless.
Normally, Leon’s family would spend the day visiting noble after noble after noble, while Leon’s brothers would be introduced to daughter after daughter after daughter, in the hopes that some sort of marriage could take place.
Luckily for him, Leon was still too young for a serious marriage negotiation (that, and the fact that he was the third son, and his options for marriage were… limited, to say the least), and was usually left to his own devices.
Because of the heat, however, Lady Elaine had insisted on something different. And so Leon had been dragged along (unwillingly, he would add) to Lettenhove.
He had been prepared for another boring but bearable evening full of honey cakes, sweet mead and subtle glances. A game of the court which he had no true interest in playing. He had not been prepared to meet Julian.
*
Julian de Lettenhove was a tall, slight youth with blue eyes, freckles and a smile that held just the smallest hint of mischief. As Leon had dismounted from his horse, and followed his parents and brothers into the hall, he had almost instantly made eye contact with the other boy. Julian had smiled, his eyes alight with laughter at some joke that Leon was not privy to, and Leon had smiled, however hesitantly, right back.
*
Later, when the guests were wandering the room, laughing and drinking, Julian approached him, that same smile on his face, though it felt fixed, somehow.
“You. Me. The kitchens. Astrid made honey cakes with strawberries, and I’m willing to share, in exchange for a story.”
“A story?” Leon replied. “What kind of story?”
Julian grabbed a goblet from a nearby servant and took a long sip, his eyes scanning the room.
“Anything. This place is dull, and there are never any good stories.”
Leon looked to his brothers, who were now dancing with beautiful maidens he knew would never look at him twice.
“Deal. I know a good tale of a knight and his forbidden love?”
Julian’s smile seemed much more real, all of a sudden.
And thus was the start of a beautiful, beautiful friendship.
*
Leon spent most of that summer with Julian, to the great dismay of his mother.
“Could you not find someone else to be your little playmate?” She would ask, clear disapproval in her voice. “Surely one of your brothers’ friends-”
Usually Leon’s expression made it clear enough what he thought of his brothers’ friends, and she would eventually leave the subject, muttering something about the wiles of men.
It was true, that Julian was... unusual, to say the very least. He did almost none of the things that the other noble boys did, and yet to Leon, that was one of his best traits.
Yes, he could go hunting with the other nobles, or picnic with the ladies of court. But he never enjoyed himself quite as much as he did when he went fishing with Julian, even when Julian pushed him into the lake, laughing as he jumped in after.
They would trudge home hours after the sun had set, their clothes still wet and their hair only just drying, but with smiles so large that no one had the heart to truly scold them.
*
It was one of the last nights of summer when Julian showed up at Leon’s home in the middle of the night. Leon, who had always been a light sleeper, awoke almost instantly to the sound of a horse in the courtyard. When he went to the window to look (one could never quite be certain when a sorcerer was lurking, or so his father was sure to tell him), Julian’s blue cloak shone under the moon’s light, and his friend waved up at him.
By the time that Leon had reached the courtyard, it had started to rain and Julian’s hood was pulled up, his hands pulling the fabric of his cloak closer to himself. As he got closer, however, Leon knew something was wrong.
Julian’s eyes were red and his face was pale, but there was a determined set to his jaw that Leon knew well. It meant that he had made up his mind about something, and nothing could change it.
“Leo,” Julian said, tilting his head back to look at his friend. “I have to tell you something.” The nickname seemed out of place in the uncharacteristic sternness of his friend’s face. It was odd, to see him so serious. Leon half expected him to burst into laughter with some exclamation of how this had all been a joke.
He turned to pull Julian with him back into the entrance, and out of the rain. “Alright.” He took Julian’s arm and pulled slightly, but the other broke away.
“Leon,” Julian repeated, though this time he used Leon’s full name. Leon paused to look at him. A full name from Julian meant something truly serious.
“What is-”
“I’m leaving.”
They stared at each other, and Leon knew that his expression must be a sight. Out of all of the things his friend could have told him, he had not been expecting that.
“I’m leaving, Leon. And I’m not coming back.”
It was only after a few moments of silence that Leon realized that Julian was serious (no matter what his expression from earlier had said, it was still hard to believe), he was truly serious. This wasn’t some flight of fancy or some overdone dramatics that another noble might have had, Julian was truly going to leave.
And yet, a part of Leon wondered, would that truly be such a bad thing? Julian was his friend, but anyone could see that he was not truly happy. He was restless, and Leon knew deep down that he would never truly settle into the life at court. Hell, Leon wasn’t even sure he would survive life at court. What chance did Julian- who despised hunting with a passion, hated the wealth imbalance and the stifling traditions, and did everything in his power to avoid the other nobles- have?
“Well,” he said finally, with a small smile, though he knew it was bittersweet. “Where will you go?”
Julian, who looked stunned by the lack of anger, managed to shake himself out of it in order to respond.
“Oxenfurt, I think. I- I want to be a bard.” The last part was said quietly, and Leon knew that his friend was waiting for a condemnation. Bards were not treated well in their circles, he knew. Oh yes, they were entertaining enough, and some were even allowed to perform at court for their skill. But no nobleman or woman wanted their child to be a bard, much less a traveling one.
“And what a wonderful bard you shall make.” Leon said, and Julian’s smile reminded him so strongly of the day they had met, in that moment, that something inside him ached at the sight.
“Well met, Leon of Camelot.” Julian said, holding out his arm to clasp Leon’s, the greeting of nobles seeming much more important, somehow.
“Well met, Julian de Lettenhove.”
“Jaskier,” Julian said, clasping Leon’s arm in his own firmly.
“Well met, Jaskier.”
*
It was a goodbye, and they both knew it.
Elyan met Jaskier by, quite literally, crashing into him.
In his own defense, it was rare for anyone to go through the alleys near his forge, much less run full speed through them. And even if by some off chance that this had happened before, Elyan could say with certainty that they never held a large, slightly banged up lute in front of them like a weapon of some sort.
“Oh,” Elyan remarked, looking down at the man sprawled in front of him. The lute had fallen to the ground with a truly awful sound, though it didn’t seem all that worse for wear. “I’m so sorry, here let me help-”
“Ah thank you,” the other said after Elyan had pulled him up, panting slightly as he brushed off the dust from his trousers and reached down to precariously pick up the instrument.
Expensive fabric, Elyan noted, though well worn and not garish as the newer noble’s fashions were. A count’s son, then? A lesser son of nobility, certainly, though not one in great favor at the moment. “I- well, that is to say, you wouldn’t happen to have anywhere I could hide for a moment, would you?”
“Hide?”
“Yes, I may have made a few people angry, er, unintentionally, of course.” Elyan tilted his head and considered the man for a moment.
Now, he liked to consider himself a good judge of character. Having lived on his own for years now, his gut usually told him who was trustworthy and who wasn’t. The only time he had been led astray involved too much ale, a pail of water, a baker’s daughter and gambling. He tried not to think about that night, the echoes of the worst headache of his life still haunted him sometimes.
“Come with me,” He said finally, motioning for the man to follow. “The name’s Elyan, by the way.”
“Jaskier.” Jaskier smiled, and Elyan returned it easily.
*
“So,” Jaskier said, trying quite unsuccessfully to look as if he wasn’t staring while Elyan fidgeted with one of his forge projects. “What’s your story?”
Elyan looked up, his hands stilling on the metal.
“My story?”
“Yes, your story, the reason you’ve found yourself in Essetir of all places, don’t give me that look -you have an accent- there must be some sort of tale. Mine for example-”
Jaskier gestured grandly with his hands, his lips twitching slightly into a smile as he continued. “Is a rather wonderful, dramatic tale filled with tears and disgrace, and an old friend whom I do miss dearly. Oh, and angering an entire tavern with a song about the wiles of men. That last bit is more tears and disgrace than dramatic, I’m afraid.”
“My story,” Elyan repeated slowly. “Well, it’s not quite dramatic, I think that dramatics is always better left for nobles, but I suppose it does have tears and disgrace. My own, that is.”
“Oh?”
“I left my family behind, you know. My father- my sister.” It still hurt to think about, though years had passed. His sister, Guinevere, who had been so young when Elyan had left. He missed her, a sorrow which had never diminished despite the years that had passed. “I left after an argument, I don’t remember what it was about, anymore. I don’t think it matters. Not a day passes where I don’t regret it.”
He met Jaskier’s eyes, and there was something like understanding in them. In one smooth move -far more graceful than Elyan could have managed with the amount of ale that Jaskier had most certainly had- Jaskier slid off the table where he was sitting, moving closer to stand by Elyan.
“Do you want to go back?” He asked softly.
“Every moment of every day.”
“Then there’s really only one answer, isn’t there.” Jaskier said. “You need to go back. A poet I might be, but some things are meant to be simple.”
He could feel the disbelief on his face.
“How is any of this simple? How could I ever go back? There’s no way they could want-” He broke off, looking down. There’s no way they could want me.
It seemed that Jaskier heard the unspoken words. “Couldn’t they? They are your family, and it seems to me that whatever happened between you is a wound which could be healed. Don’t let yourself poison a wound ‘till it festers.”
Elyan looked away from him. “Perhaps.”
“I’m no expert, of course,” Jaskier continued. “Just- think on it. Not everyone gets a chance like that. You need to find what makes you happy, what’s important. Find what pleases you.”
There was something in his voice, Elyan thought, something which made him think that Jaskier was one of those who hadn’t gotten a chance like that. Or perhaps he had. Perhaps his chance had cost him everything.
“Well, my friend,” he said, meeting Jaskier’s steady gaze and shifting where he stood. “I don’t suppose you’d want to tell me your sordid tale, now would you?”
Jaskier laughed.
*
The sun was just rising as Jaskier left.
“You could stay,” Elyan offered as he watched Jaskier stuff his lute into a well worn bag. “A few days, a week. I’d be glad to have you.”
It was true. He felt lonely, sometimes, living in this small forge in Essetir which reminded him more often than not of what he had left behind. He doubted that Jaskier would take the offer, though. Elyan was well acquainted with the need to wander, to move.
Jaskier slung his pack over his shoulder, turning back to Elyan to offer him a small smile in apology for the answer Elyan knew was coming.
“I need to follow my own advice,” he said. He clasped Elyan’s hand in his. “I need to find what pleases me.”
“Then I wish you luck,” Elyan replied, and watched as he went.
It was, of course, only through Lancelot that he came to know the bard. Perhaps it was Lancelot’s charm, Percival thought. He always seemed to know what to say, and there was something sincere in his eyes, something which made him trustworthy of the most deadly of secrets.
Not that that was surprising, or even new. It was the reason that Percival had met Lancelot in the first place, he had firsthand experience.
They were traveling as rogue swordsmen, though he knew that Lancelot had plans to return to Camelot eventually. Apparently not even being banished could stop Lancelot from visiting Merlin.
Percival had yet to meet this Merlin, but he probably knew more about Merlin than he did his own father. Lancelot was practically incapable of going a day without mentioning him in some way, whether it was a simple “Oh, Merlin would like this,” or a rather ridiculous tale filled with monsters, magic, and destiny.
Well, Lancelot had never directly mentioned that it was Merlin’s stories of heroics and magic, but Percival could connect the dots easily enough. Besides, no one else could bring out that certain look in his eyes, distant and fond.
The two of them met Jaskier in the evening, when the sun had since set and only the moon shone to guide their way. Normally they would have set up camp long ago, but that night they had decided to push forwards towards the nearest village and rest in an inn, for once.
“It’s not much further,” Lancelot promised, drawing his cloak closer to him as his horse slowed slightly. “we should be there just before daybreak.”
Percival simply nodded his response. It was too late for words.
*
They rode for another hour, perhaps two. Percival lost track after a while, the night fading the landscape until all he could think of was the warm meal and the (hopefully) soft bed that awaited them.
There was a clearing on the side of the road, and someone had obviously made camp there. A bright fire was lit, illuminating the night and chasing away the shadows that the moon had invited.
Two figures were huddled next to the fire, though it seemed that only one was conscious.
“That man is bleeding,” Lancelot whispered suddenly. He was wearing an expression which Percival knew quite well, the one that said that they would be helping those in need no matter the circumstances they were in. “He might need help.”
Now, normally Percival had no problem at all with Lancelot’s honor and his bleeding heart. Far be it he who would turn away those in need, especially if they needed a physician. Percival’s own mother had been a healer, and he could recall countless late nights as a child when he had helped her with her work. Any opportunity he was given to exercise those skills was a blessing, in the recent years.
But the hour was late, the night cold, and Percival was reluctant as he dismounted and slung his pack over his shoulder.
*
The figure at the fire looked up as they approached, and Percival could see blood splattered on his face. The fire danced in his eyes, but he didn’t look alarmed or even scared, as Percival had expected.
“Ah, hello,” the stranger said.
Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see Lancelot moving closer. “We’re here to help, if you need some?” The last part was spoken slightly hesitantly.
“Hel- oh, I suppose it could look like that, couldn’t it. Not to worry, we’re fine. Geralt here,” He patted the head of the man who lay beside him gently, his eyes fond. “Managed to drink a bit too much of one of his potions after the fight, but he’s fine. Right as rain, I promise.”
“Are you sure?” Lancelot asked, sounding as though he already knew the answer, but felt that he had to at least make an attempt.
The man laughed softly, looking back at them both. “Quite, I assure you. I must say, it is rather a change of pace to have others concerned for us. Most would not dream of offering help to a Witcher.”
Percival exchanged a look with Lancelot, and could feel the expression of disbelief on his face. A Witcher?
He had heard the tales, of course. Of the fearsome warriors who slew the monsters and creatures of the night. His brothers had used the tales as a warning. Don’t go out after dark, Percy. There’s no Witcher here to save you.
He knew that there were some- well, most really- who feared Witchers. Percival knew what it was like to be feared.
Now that he looked closer, though, perhaps there was some merit to the thought. The man- the Witcher wore all black leather armor, though it was currently covered in what Percival assumed was blood, and honestly did not want to know what else it could have been. He also had a silver medallion, the trademark of Witchers.
“Oh but where are my manners? It’s late, if you’d like you could make camp with us, here. Geralt will be asleep for a while longer, and I’d be glad for the company. The name is Jaskier, by the way.”
“That sounds delightful,” Percival said quickly, before Lancelot could decline politely with something about imposing. “It would be greatly appreciated. Thank you, Jaskier.”
Lancelot gave him a look that said that he knew exactly what Percival was doing. Percival smiled back.
*
“Rogue Knights, eh?” Jaskier remarked as he pulled off a chunk of bread and handed it to Lancelot, before doing the same for Percival. He had washed most of the blood off of himself and the Witcher “Traveling the continent to do good? That’s a familiar tale, I must say.”
“How is that so?” asked Lancelot. “How did you come to travel with a Witcher, of all people? Surely that can’t be common for a bard.”
Jaskier smiled a soft, fond smile as his eyes grew distant with memory.
“It was a long time ago.” He said. “I met someone, someone who seemed lost, at the time. I realized, during my time with him, that I needed to find what would make me happy. And then,” He paused, picking at his piece of bread. “Then I met Geralt. What can I say, it was love at first sight. Well, for me at least. I’m fairly certain it took him a few years before he could stand me.”
“I’m happy for you,” Percival said, and found that he truly meant it.
“Love at first sight,” Lancelot murmured. “I know a thing or two about that.”
Jaskier laughed, and mimicked a toast. “Well, may your story end happily.”
Lancelot smiled back, but there was something sad in his expression. Percival made a note to ask him about it later.
“Does he know?” He found himself asking, glancing at the sleeping Witcher.
“Heavens, no,” Jaskier answered. “He wouldn’t know romance if it hit him in the face- which has happened, by the way, it’s a long story- and I must admit I’m not sure whether I want to know if my feelings are returned.”
“You should tell him.” Lancelot said, something final in his voice. “After all, what have you to lose? What if something happened, and it was too late to tell him how you feel?”
Jaskier looked away. “Perhaps.”
They sat there in silence, until the pull of sleep became too strong, and while the fire crackled bright, he drifted off.
*
Percival woke to the fire’s cold embers, and an empty bed roll next to him. On his left, Lancelot still slept soundly, which meant that it was Jaskier who was missing. And the Witcher- Geralt.
It was only after he had eaten a hasty breakfast, and was in the middle of the long and arduous process of sorting through his and Lancelot’s laundry when the two finally returned. There was a flush to Jaskier’s cheeks, and the Witcher had a smile on his face which greatly discouraged the image of a terrifying mutant.
“Ah, Percival, good morn’ to you.”
“Morning.” He replied simply. Lancelot stirred in his bed roll, and Percival figured he had maybe another candlemark before they were back on the road. He set aside the last of the clothes and rummaged through his pack for the flint. Maybe if he got the fire going they could prepare some proper food.
“I’ll get firewood.” The Witcher said, answering the question he had yet to ask. His voice was deeper than Percival had expected, somehow.
Jaskier watched him leave with an odd expression, something Percival couldn’t quite place. It was a mixture of fondness and sadness, and he wondered what had happened between them, in those woods in the early morning.
“I told him,” Jaskier broke the quiet suddenly. “I- well, it’s complicated. But in a good way, I think.”
Percival nodded. His silent agreement seemed to reassure the bard.
“Thank you. To both you and your friend.” Jaskier said sincerely. “I’m not sure I would have ever told him, otherwise. Poets always seem to have a certain fondness for unrequited lo- loyalty. But I can’t seem to believe that it would have ended well for either of us.”
“It was nothing, truly.” He wasn’t so sure of that, though. He knew enough of Lancelot and Merlin to know that sometimes there wouldn’t be a tomorrow to confess. And he could imagine it easily enough, his new friend spending years perhaps and never truly saying anything. Until it was too late.
“I don’t think it was.” Jaskier replied, echoing Percival’s thoughts.
*
They parted ways two days later, when they reached the town. Though the journey should have, by all rights, only taken another day at the most, Lancelot and Percival had found that it was rather easy to get sidetracked when traveling with a Witcher and his bard. The two seemed to have a knack for getting themselves into precarious situations, despite the short time they had known each other.
“Well, I suppose this is goodbye,” Lancelot said, looking out at the split in the road. One led to town, which was their destination. The other led to the west, which would bring their companions all the way to Oxenfurt, should they pursue it.
“Yes, I suppose it is.” Jaskier answered as he clasped hands with Lancelot, and then Percival. Geralt stood off to the side with their horse, whose name Percival had forgotten.
Butterfly? Beetle? It was something like that, he was sure.
Percival inclined his head in farewell as Lancelot clapped the bard on the back.
*
It was only after their figures had faded into the distance when Percival turned to Lancelot.
“That advice you gave him, about being honest and telling the one you love- I think that’s advice you would do well to follow.”
“I- what?” Lancelot asked, his voice going high at the end.
Percival shrugged, because really . “Merlin.”
“You don’t even know Merlin!”
“I know enough.”
Lancelot looked away when he replied: “Not about this- it’s not that simple, no matter how much I wish it were so.”
“But-”
“Percival. Drop it, please.” He wasn’t sure whether it was Lancelot’s pleading expression, or the way his voice broke on the last word.
He nodded.
Gwaine met Jaskier in a tavern. Which would be a surprise to a grand total of… zero people. In his defense, being exiled from a kingdom after saving a prince’s life not once, but twice , and meeting a friend only to lose him again all in the matter of days would be enough to have anyone going to the tavern. Even if it had happened months ago. His recent encounter with Merlin (and subsequently Arthur) had only worsened the loss.
When they had reached the border to Camelot, and he had been forced to watch Merlin ride on into the distance, no matter Arthur’s promise, it had still hurt.
He hadn’t been the only one moping, either. In fact, he was proud to say that in this instance, he wasn’t the one heartbroken and nursing his wounds with shitty ale.
*
“Tough day?” He asked as he slid into the seat next to the bard. Well, he assumed the man was a bard, given that there was a lute propped on the table next to them.
The man took a long swallow of what he presumed to be ale. “You could say that.”
“Gwaine,” Gwaine said, leaning over to offer his hand.
One could never know who one would meet in a tavern. Gwaine had met some of his dearest friends (Merlin) and some of his greatest annoyances (Arthur) there. He had tried to make it a habit to talk to people in taverns, whenever he could. It was a way to stay informed on the goings on of the five kingdoms (he never seemed to stay long enough to get news otherwise) and had only ended in three fights.
The man smiled weakly. “Jaskier.” They shook hands, and Gwaine could feel the calluses on Jaskier’s fingers. Definitely a bard, then.
“So,” He said, toying with the ring on his necklace out of habit. “D’you wanna talk about it?”
“Not particularly.”
“Fair enough.”
They sat there together in silence for a while, lost in their thoughts.
“Can I give you a word of advice, my friend?” Well, Gwaine thought, this was sure to be interesting.
The bard looked at him, something pained in his expression. “Don’t waste- don’t spend your life living for someone who wouldn’t do the same for you. For someone who has already found another to live for. It’ll only end in heartbreak.”
And Gwaine couldn’t help but think of Merlin, for whom he would go to the end of the world for at his mere word, for whom he had been banished for without regret. He thought of the most loyal man he knew, who outshone a thousand nobles, whose smile lit up his face in a way that had made it impossible not to fall in love. Yeah, that ship had sailed.
“I think it’s too late,” He said quietly.
Jaskier sighed, and downed the rest of his drink in one, wincing at the taste. It really was quite shitty ale. “Then I wish you the best of luck, my friend, and may your tale end differently than mine.”
*
They sat in silence for a moment, until-
“Do you want to rob rich people with me?”
“Is that even a question? Of course.”
*
They came up with a system which worked quite well, in Gwaine’s humble opinion. Simple, but effective. Jaskier would turn up at a random nobles’ door, usually one who he knew had done wrong, though how he knew he refused to tell. All Gwaine had managed to get out of him so far was that long ago he had spent time in Camelot, and had thus gotten to know the neighboring nobles well.
How on earth a traveling bard had made those connections before gaining a reputation was yet to be explained to Gwaine, but he had every faith that he would get the whole story eventually.
The bard would offer to perform a ballad of some sort, usually one about a grey wolf or something (he had asked, once, who the ballads were about. Jaskier had gone quiet, his face falling as he played with his fingers, and Gwaine hadn’t asked again) while Gwaine came in under the guise of an apprentice.
Neither of them were quite sure if traveling bards had apprentices- Jaskier had only ever heard of such a thing happening at Oxenfurt- but they were certain that nobles would never deign as to inquire enough into a bard’s life, no matter how renowned said bard may be, to disprove it.
*
Most of these escapades ended grandly, the two of them getting money from not only the nobles who showered Jaskier with praise and coin, but from the little that Gwaine would slip quietly into his bag. Not much, and certainly not enough to be truly missed, but just enough to get one of the families from the lower town through the coming winter.
*
“Hey! You there! Get back here you little-” The shout echoed through the corridor.
Jaskier cursed quietly, and slung his lute over his back. “We need to go, now .”
“M’ coming, I’m coming,” Gwaine said around his bite of apple. Nobles always had the best apples. In Gwaine’s opinion, that should be a crime. Everyone deserved a good apple. If he ever made it back to Camelot, he would single handedly petition Arthur to give every man, woman and person of any gender identity an apple. As a service to the people.
“ Gwaine .” He stuffed the last of the silverware into the bag and jogged after the bard. Well, not before grabbing one last apple.
*
Gwaine decided, as he and Jaskier sprinted through the streets with the guards of a minor noble in Essetir at their heels, that meeting people in taverns was the best decision he had ever made.
*
The two of them spent just over two fortnights together, and what a wonderful two fortnights they had been. Gwaine could easily say that he had never clicked quite so fast with someone before (other than Merlin, of course, but Merlin was a bit of a different case, considering that Gwaine was fairly sure he was in love with him).
Then Jaskier got a letter from a woman named Yennefer, asking for his help.
“I’m sorry,” Jaskier said as he adjusted the straps on his lute one last time. He looked tired. “I have to go- you don’t know Yen, but she wouldn’t ask unless it was dire, and she would only ask me as a last resort. That means that something happened to Geralt, probably. Or maybe Triss. Though if something happened to Triss, I think it’s rather more likely Yen would kill everyone until she found her again. You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”
“Not really, no.” Gwaine replied. “But it’s alright, I understand. If Merlin sent for me I would drop everything and leave- and if this Geralt is in trouble, then I suppose it’s similar.”
“Yes,” Jaskier sighed. “Though it might be easier if it wasn’t.”
“If we could choose who we loved, the world would be much easier.” He threw a coin purse at the bard, who caught it with an expert’s hand. “We’ll meet again, yes?”
“If I have anything to say about it, which I do.”
“Good. I wish you luck, oh Master Bard Jaskier the Great.” Gwaine gave a fake bow, the kind that the two had seen countless times at banquets.
“Why thank you, apprentice mine.” Jaskier said with a wink.
They laughed, until Jaskier sobered.
“I- I should probably go now, if I want to make it to Novigrad by the end of the week.”
“Yeah,” Gwaine said, and wished he didn’t feel alone already. “I’ll see you out.”
It should have, by all accounts, been a normal patrol. Well, as normal as any of their patrols were, Arthur thought as he watched Gwaine and Percival fight over half of an apple, while Merlin snickered in the background.
Ah yes, the fearsome and noble Knights of the Round Table. Brought to their knees by a fruit. That sounded about right.
“Merlin, do your job for once and tend to the horses-” He ignored the exclamation that it wasn’t Merlin’s job to tend to the horses, thank you very much .
“Percival, firewood- and give Gwaine the apple, will you? He’ll be unbearable otherwise.”
“Hey!” Gwaine protested loudly, though that didn’t stop his smirk when Percival surrendered the apple.
“Gwaine, help Merlin with the horses.” The man in question wasted no time in sidling up next to Arthur’s manservant, bumping his shoulder affectionately. Merlin smiled at him, looking very much lovestruck. Those two gave Arthur a headache. On one hand (though he would rather die than admit it) seeing Merlin so happy was rare, and he was grateful that his best friend was smiling again. On the other hand; Gwaine. Not that he didn’t like Gwaine, he could hardly have a man he disliked as one of his most trusted knights, after all. The two of them were bad enough as best friends, and he shuddered to think of them when they finally got their acts together and started courting. He also had a bet with Guinevere, and he refused to lose, though it seemed more likely each day. She was insistent that they would be official before the start of midwinter, while he was certain they would take longer.
“The rest of you… Leon can find us something to eat that isn’t stale bread, and Lancelot and Elyan, you two fetch water from the river. Everyone got it?”
A chorus of agreement rang out through the small clearing, as the other knights scattered to do their respective orders. Arthur busied himself with his tent, while technically he didn’t have to do anything, since he was, after all, the king, but he also knew that chances were that Merlin wouldn’t be doing anything for the foreseeable future and it was hardly fair to have one of the knights do the work.
*
“Arthur!” Elyan panted out as he burst into the clearing, Lancelot on his heels. “We think- someone’s- trouble.”
“There's a camp by the river, my lord.” Lancelot said as Elyan gathered his breath. “Just- see for yourself.”
The encampment- which was truth be told, a single tent with the cold embers of a fire and a bedroll with a few packs- had been completely disheveled. There were large tears in the packs that looked suspiciously like claws when Arthur examined them, and there was blood on the bed roll.
“What’s going on?” Percival asked, setting the bundle of firewood in his arms down.
“Looks like a bear attack,” Merlin said from where he knelt near the embers. “Those claw marks definitely aren’t man made, though hopefully magic isn’t involved.”
Gwaine pointed at a shadow in the trees. “Wait- what’s that?”
They all drew their swords, and out of the corner of his eye Arthur could see Gwaine step in front of Merlin slightly.
Elyan got to the bundle of trees first, and they all held their breath as he nudged the dark shadow with his sword, waiting for the monster to emerge, claws drawn-
Only for- hold on, was that a lute?
All heads turned to Gwaine when he cursed. “I know that lute,” He said in explanation, sheathing his sword in favor of gathering the instrument in his arms. “It belongs to an old friend.”
“You have friends?” Arthur couldn’t help but comment. Merlin glared at him.
But instead of the sarcastic, borderline treasonous response he had been expecting, the only indication Gwaine gave that he had heard was a nod.
“Hey,” Elyan said, resting his hand on Gwaine’s shoulder. “We’ll find them. Whoever they are.”
Gwaine ran his fingers over the lute, drawing out a mournful sound from the strings.
“Stick together,” Arthur said, when the silence became stifling. “We’ll cover the area. If we don’t find them before dark, we’ll return here.” Merlin moved to stand next to Gwaine, bumping shoulders in a weak repetition of earlier. Gwaine smiled though, before leaving with Merlin in tow. He would be fine, Arthur thought.
*
It didn’t take long to find Gwaine’s friend.
Elyan found a trail a dozen yards beyond the camp, belonging to at least two men. They followed it for about an hour, until the trail went dry. Arthur had honestly been just about to turn around and announce that they would start the search again at dawn, when the scream had rung through the forest.
Well, perhaps it was more of a cry of rage.
Either way, it had the knights scrambling through the trees, Gwaine in the lead with his sword already drawn. They emerged from the thicket into a clearing, and the scene in front of them was… bizarre.
Now, Arthur had seen many things in his two decades on earth. This included but was not limited to: dragons, sorcerers, glowing magic orbs, ghost skulls, wraiths, the visage of his dead mother, a griffin, a Questing Beast, a stepmother who had turned out to be- quite literally- a troll, and how could he forget the unicorn?
No matter his abundance of incredible experiences, he had yet to see someone fight a gigantic spider with a lute. Which wasn’t even the worst part- surely idiot bards existed everywhere, and he doubted that this was the first to try their hand at killing a monster for glory- no, the worst part was that the bard was winning .
*
“JASKIER!” Gwaine called, charging at the beast. “WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?”
“Wait- Jaskier ?” Percival said. “Lance, did he just say Jaskier?”
“You know him?” Elyan asked.
“You know him?” Lancelot and Percival both replied.
Merlin patted them on the arm. “Uh, guys, maybe later?”
“GWAINE? IS THAT YOU?” The bard- Jaskier- yelled back, his voice impressively steady for someone currently bashing a large spider with an instrument. “I’M- WHAT DOES IT LOOK LIKE I’M DOING?”
The spider growled, and seriously, growling spiders would definitely rank high on the list of Things Arthur Never Wanted To See Again And Greatly Regretted Seeing In The First Place (the title was a work in progress- he blamed Merlin). Jaskier hit it one last time over the head (Arthur wasn’t sure which he pitied more at this point, the creature or the instrument) and tossed his lute aside.
Then, proving quite easily how on earth he and Gwaine could be good friends, he punched the spider. Hard. Arthur could hear the crack of something he preferred not to know the details of from his spot 20 feet away. “VIBE CHECK, BITCH!”
*
“So.” Leon said. They had gathered at the edge of the clearing. ‘They’ being the knights, Merlin, Arthur, Jaskier and Geralt (who had entered the clearing just after the spider- Kikimora , as Geralt had called it- had died. Apparently there had been a colony of Dopplings, or something.) “How do you all know Jaskier?”
Gwaine coughed. “You know Jaskier?”
“You know Jaskier?” Lancelot exclaimed. “Why didn’t you say something earlier when we were having this exact conversation?”
“I was a bit preoccupied with the huge spider monster, at the moment.”
“Oh. Right.”
Jaskier, who had been cleaning spider guts off of his lute, looked up. “Eh, I had it under control.”
“I can see that,” Merlin said, sounding slightly awestruck. “You killed it. Alone. With a lute .”
Jaskier shrugged. “It’s a skill set.”
“More like a kill set,” Leon said, looking quite pleased at his own joke.
“You have the same sense of humor as when you were fourteen, don’t you.”
“You knew him when he was fourteen? ”
Geralt, who had been silently sharpening a sword during this conversation, nudged Jaskier with his shoulder. “Well go on, bard. Explain.”
“It’s a long story,” Jaskier started.
Merlin crossed his legs and folded his arms over his chest, looking expectantly at the bard. “We have time.”
The others settled down comfortably too, and Jaskier’s hesitance visibly softened. “Fine.”
*
It certainly wasn’t a normal patrol, Arthur thought as he sat there in that circle, watching a stranger tell a story animatedly in a field of dead monsters.
And yet, here he was.
He wouldn’t have changed it for the world.