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Chapter Text

Dragons are a separate family of Draconids, characterized by their large size, two pairs of well-developed legs, and huge wings and tail. They are also much more advanced than their smaller cousins, possessing not only greater strength, but also cunning and intelligence. Though reasons for this behaviour remain unknown, dragons universally love to collect gold, gemstones and other treasures -- a trait which has already made its way into countless legends.

It’s only the fifth day on the open road and Jaskier is already sick of it. 

He’s sick of the stones he’s walking on, sick of the sweat that is running down his back even after he’s opened his doublet, sick of the dust that is slowly but surely settling in his clothes and the pebble that has found its way into his shoe and which pushes uncomfortably against the sole of his foot with every step he’s taking. 

He manages to endure it for another twenty seconds before he stops, letting loose a string of curses to vent his frustrations. He struggles, awkwardly hopping on one foot while he tries to get off his shoe to remove the offending object. 

Unlike the weather during the day, the nights had been bloody cold.

Thank Melitele that the Countess hadn't thrown him out earlier in the spring. It’s rather embarrassing how late he began to think of the fact that something to make a fire with is rather necessary if one doesn’t reach a town in time. Or at least a fucking blanket.

At least at the beginning of this journey, Jaskier still had company in the form of some carpenters looking for work, who thankfully didn’t mind sharing their supplies with him. Three days later he’d had to make do with a bottle of wine to keep him warm. 

Though it had only lasted so long. Just like the food.

Jaskier hasn't eaten anything since last night, saving what little he has for later. 

Surprisingly besides a small feeling of discontent, he doesn't feel very hungry. 

Perhaps lamenting his relationship with the Countess de Stael poses a better distraction than he’d thought.

But even Jaskier knows that he needs some food sooner or later and the merchant who had passed him yesterday had told him that he should be able to reach a town in less than two days - and if he was making good time, another week to reach Rinde.

Yeah right.

Despite his current situation, and the rather prevalent urge to take a bath which occupies most of his mind, he feels free like never before.

For the first time in his life, there is no one he has to answer to. No sight of his father or any of his strict tutors at the temple school who’d try to correct his wrongdoings with a hefty thrashing, nor any of his professors lecturing him on his unseemly behaviour as a student. Not even the Countess de Stael, lamentable as the latter might be. 

But at this point, he’s kind of questioning his life choices. Even Jaskier can’t deny that he reeks. His little vial of scented oil can only do so much to cover the stink of sweat that has settled in his clothes.
Second to the desire for a bath only comes the wish for a nap. 

But he can't afford to stop if he wants to reach a tavern anytime soon. Besides, the promise of a cool ale to wash down the dust collecting between his teeth seems heavenly right now. 

Eventually, and mostly to distract himself from his aching feet, Jaskier absently falls into a well-known song about the Pontar. It's more of a children’s rhyme in Oxenfurt but the travellers still use it to keep track of the cities that appear alongside the river’s shore.
It can’t hurt to recall those once again. It’s been ages since he’s paid any kind of attention during his geography lessons and a halfhearted study of the maps about the surrounding area isn’t quite enough to cover what he needs to know.

Unfortunately, singing of the cool waters only makes Jaskier more aware of the merciless sunbeams beating on his neck. 

His gaze lingers longingly on the shrubs obscuring the view to where he knows the Pontar is carving its way through the land. He can even hear the teasing sounds of the water if he tunes out the loud twittering of the birds. 

Jaskier sighs loudly when, suddenly, a smear of yellow amidst green catches his eye and his step falters.

A dandelion.
Lonely and a bit small, the first one that he's spotted this year, fighting its way past the hardened earth.

Unwittingly a smile tugs on the corners of his mouth.

An almost forgotten childhood memory resurfaces from the blurry depths of Jaskier’s mind. He'd always liked flowers, at one point even tried to collect them in a small wooden chest under his bed. 

Jaskier had almost forgotten about that. His smile falters at the recollection that this must’ve been after his father had thrown out his previous attempts at what he’d secretly called “his treasure”. 

Rather vividly, he still recalls his habit of nicking golden candelabras from side tables and hiding them at the bottom of his wardrobe, adding to the small pile of shining nicknacks, pieces of his sisters’ jewellery and a selection of golden spoons. 

That was before his father had begun to reprimand him for his love of shiny things with the aid of his cane. Thieving wouldn’t be tolerated under his roof. Jaskier crouches down next to the small flower. 

To this day he still tends to avoid all kinds of golden decorations. The uneasiness that was beaten into him as a small child had taken any joy out of objects made from the precious metal.

But the chest of flowers... 

Yet, even then – after spring had come the summer and with it a bunch of dust and dried petals. 

With a deliberate huff, Jaskier shoos those thoughts away. Still, perhaps in a flight of melancholy, he picks the small yellow flower and tucks it behind his ear, starting to hum a tune he’s been working on for quite some time. 

It’s not quite the same, but oddly enough the ache in his bones is suddenly easier to bear.
Yellow flowers have always been his favourite.

And if Jaskier feels a pang of sadness a few days later – really not fitting for the occasion – when his small dandelion has withered, the promise of a bed and food in one of Rinde’s many taverns distract him soon enough.  

Jaskier stays in Rinde for two days, but not longer. He's promised himself that he is going to travel the world as a bard, and he will keep that promise – if only to spite his father who expects him to come crawling home in no less than a year to pick up his familial duties as the sole male heir.
Jaskier skillfully ignores these notions and instead gathers what money he has left to throw together some kind of provision for the road. The gnawing hunger he felt just before he reached Rinde had been an uncomfortable lesson learned. Most of it ends up being invested in a loaf of bread and some cheese and dried jerky. He flirts outrageously with the elderly barmaid who is more amused than flattered but it isn't for nought. 

Jaskier manages to score a bottle of cheap wine and books it under necessities for the road even though he has to skimp a bit on the jerky because of it. But he deserves a bit of pleasure to take his mind off the resurfacing thoughts regarding the words his father relaid to him via letter. He burned it almost as soon as he got it, but the man’s pointed response to Jaskier announcing that he didn’t plan on returning to the family estate come his graduation was rather clear.

And since he isn’t planning on crawling back, nor being married off to some stuck-up, meek daughter of a noble, Jaskier would have to accept rather quickly that he was well and truly on his own now. 

The sky on the day he chooses to leave Rinde displays the perfect weather for travel. A pleasant breeze blows over the fields, clouds shield him from the burning sun and his mood is rather good after his stay in the town.

Jaskier hums while he is walking and he tries out a few ideas for melodies on his lute. He deems it quite a feat to strum and walk simultaneously, especially since he had trouble with it in the beginning. 

Overall, the road is well travelled, populated by merchants who are cursing each other when their wagons are blocking the path, couriers galloping past and peasants, who are heading for the city to sell what little their lands produce. 

Jaskier amuses himself by observing various people before he falls into a conversation with a wandering woodcarver. Later he entertains a group of halflings for some time, who spare him some of their home-brewed spirits, which Jaskier gracefully accepts, even though it burns down like fire. 

Eventually, though there’s a bigger fork in the road and after that, the occasional encounter becomes rarer. 

He walks for a while before he spots an overgrown path that appears to continue by running parallel to the Pontar. On a whim, Jaskier decides to follow it. He’s begun to travel to find adventures and maybe he’ll come across his first here. The trail does have a pretty romantic look to it after all.

After some time though, he realizes that the road has become too narrow to be travelled by anything wider than a single rider on a horse, but it still seems like it's being used regularly so he doesn't give it too much thought.

The route is scenic with trees lining the path and despite the thick foliage, Jaskier can occasionally see the glittering water of the river whose direction he follows. 

He walks and walks and when he spots another dandelion, Jaskier picks it and tucks it behind his ear like the one he found two days prior to his arrival in Rinde.

The sun climbs higher with every passing minute and slowly the air becomes humid and hot. Mosquitoes buzz past Jaskier’s ears, but they are a small price to pay for the beautiful view. 

Around noon he takes a short break. Once he’s finally seated at a small bank of the river, his legs up to his calves submerged in the water of the Pontar, Jaskier decides that the few scratches he gained during the scuffle with the shrubs to get there were worth it. He eats all of his cheese and a bit of his bread and afterwards, he picks up his things and continues his way.

Jaskier has to admit that his assessment regarding the weather being perfect for travel couldn't have been more wrong, as within an hour the wind has picked up and the wispy clouds accumulate to a dark grey mass hiding the sun. 

The first raindrops fall from the sky and this is the exact same moment Jaskier realizes with sudden dread that he has no case, nothing really, to protect his lute from the elements. A litany of curses tears through his teeth while he hastily rummages through his bag till he feels the fabric of his second shirt. Jaskier hurriedly wraps it around his precious instrument while he tries to guess the distance to the accumulation of trees and underbrush which he can see a little off the path. Then he clutches his lute to his chest and starts running.

“Oh shit. Oh shit, oh shit, bloody buggering-" he utters between gasps, his feet pounding against the grass as he sprints towards the array of plants and trees under which he'll hopefully find shelter. Raindrops are now hitting him in shorter intervals and soon he is soaked.

Eventually, he slows, panting and cursing as he fights his way through some spiky bushes. Jaskier absently checks whether his dandelion has been lost on the run here and he finds himself oddly relieved when his fingers brush against the soft petals in his pocket.

But that small spike towards the positive in his mood doesn’t keep him from cursing the thick underbrush and the water that is dripping from the leaves onto his head and worse - into his collar. Jaskier pushes aside some low-hanging branches of the willow trees and heads for the tallest which will hopefully provide some protection from the weather.

Finally stepping through the curtain of low-hanging branches, Jaskier catches his breath. Pressing a free hand against where he feels a stitch in his ribs, he looks around. It's relatively sheltered here, near the trunk and Jaskier almost feels like he's in a little cave with the way the willow has grown and the surrounding plants shielding him from the wind. The ground is dry and there are even the remains of what appears to be a fire pit, so apparently, he isn't the first to seek refuge from the elements at this particular location.

In hindsight, it takes Jaskier embarrassingly long to spot the bedroll.

While not exactly new, it is in good condition and there are little belongings strewn around the camp. A bag and a whetstone as well as some greyish rags.

He stills for a moment, but then he simply shrugs it off. 

The traveller probably won't mind another soul sharing his camp. Besides, right now the mysterious camper seems to be absent and Jaskier’s curiosity dares him to find out more. He’s barely made a move to take a closer look at the belongings strewn around when there is a slight rustling that differs from the sound of raindrops hitting the leaves. He can't put his finger on it but suddenly the hairs on his neck stand up. Jaskier freezes – but only for a second. He can't tell why, maybe it's instinct, but he jumps aside even before he feels the air shift and there’s a blur of movement in the corner of his eyes. "Oh fuck, oh fuck!"

He is so going to die.  

Jaskier lifts up his lute in a pathetic attempt to shield himself because something just dropped from the fucking tree! Right where he stood a second ago! All he can do is realize that 'this something'  is human before they move in a silent blur.

Cold steel is pressing against Jaskier’s neck.

Oh, gods, he is going to die, not even a month on the road and he is going to die. His father was right after all. 

Looks like the Earl will have to name a female heiress after all.

Jaskier can feel his mouth wanting to twitch into a smirk at the wave of – currently – very misplaced humour washing over him.

He’s well aware that the sole reason for him not being disowned after he basically told his father to piss off, is the fact that he’s his only son.

Jaskier swallows and feels the edge of the blade press harder against his skin. The gravity of the situation he's in hits him full force once again. 

Oh, gods. No one will even know what happened to him. He'll be just another nameless face, a stranger killed on the road. It's a shame that he can't write a song about his own death to be remembered-

"Who are you?" the steely voice belonging to the stranger cuts through his thoughts. The edge of the sword is pressing into his skin.

"Whoa hey, easy there, holy-" Jaskier begins, his voice embarrassingly high, but the pressure on his neck increases again and he feels himself freezing on the spot. He doesn't dare to move. 

That doesn't keep him from talking though. And once he's opened his mouth it's like floodgates have opened.
"Oh gods, oh gods, sweet Melitele. I'm way too young to die - I'm just a bard, look" Jaskier raises his lute to emphasize his statement, though the rather wet shirt covering his instrument probably doesn't help his case. "Fuck, I was just trying to find some shelter from this awful weather, and now I'm going to be killed! My youth and good looks wasted; my face wiped from the earth before I even had the chance to gain something like a reputation!” 

But then - somewhere between the start of his speech and the assessing look the stranger throws in his direction -Jaskier’s brain seems to rewire itself.

The stranger hasn’t killed him yet so that’s something, but Jaskier now actively tries to remember his lessons with the sword as he eyes the stranger to maybe find an opening or something that he can use to his advantage. “Shit, I am going to perish in a bloody mosquito-plagued ditch and gods; I really should've taken that piss when I had the chance earlier-"

The stranger’s armour is light. It really only consists of a breastplate, which is strapped to the man’s chest and worn arm bracers made from leather. His shin guards seem to be in an even worse state. The left one is even missing some buckles. A makeshift blue strap of fabric is wrapped around it from the ankle to the knee, apparently holding this whole thing together.

But while the state of the man's armour is really not the best, Jaskier doesn't underestimate him. There are daggers strapped to his thighs and he can see the muscles flex beneath tanned skin where the man's shirt sleeves are rolled up. The sword that is touching Jaskier's throat is still held level without so much as a wavering. Jaskier admits to himself there is nothing he can do to win this fight. He's been running all the way here and he has no weapons. And even if he had them, he doubts that they would be of much use in this case.

The only thing he can try is to talk his way out of this. Not that he has stopped his blabbering since their whole interaction started.

But Jaskier turns to look at the stranger’s face for real now, trying to ignore the sword to the best of his abilities while he puts up his best smile. It is surprisingly not that hard.

If the stranger weren't pointing a sword at him, Jaskier might have even tried to get into the man’s pants. He appears to be in his late twenties and his wet hair sticks to his forehead in dark strands - Jaskier knows he probably doesn't look much better - and despite that, the stranger still somehow manages to appear handsome. There is a small scar running through his stubble and then Jaskier gets a glimpse of his eyes and oh... 

This colour is really, really pretty. 

Like molten gold. 

Jaskier barely feels how his stance grows rigid as every cell of his body seems to tune itself towards the sea of honey-coloured irises.

Unlike its real metallic counterpart, these golden eyes don't trigger the uneasy feeling that Jaskier usually associates with the precious metal. 

Rather the opposite, in fact.

The sudden urge to keep this man and carry him around like one of his dandelions surfaces in Jaskier’s mind. It is a ridiculous notion, he knows that, but somehow these few seconds have erased most if not all of his fear. So he straightens up and looks into the scowling face of the stranger, trying his best to imitate the calm demeanour of his former history professor while suppressing the inappropriate urge to reach out and grab the man. 

"Look," Jaskier begins, "I really mean no harm. I was simply trying to find shelter from the rain. I'm no secret assassin trying to kill you nor do I plan to rob you if that's what you're afraid of." Jaskier's eyes flicker over to the few belongings of the man. "Or do I look like someone who is in need of a whetstone to you? So why don't you just put your sword away and we can talk like civilized people? That - by the way - does not include threatening people or stabbing them." The expression on the stranger’s face hasn’t changed one bit since Jaskier started to talk. Somehow that irks him.  "Actually, now that I think about it, you pointing a sword at me is incredibly impolite. After all, I wasn't the one dropping down from a tree, like some wingless chicken to viciously murder innocent bards, you know," Jaskier voices indignantly. "And if you're willing to share this spot here, at least for the duration of the rain, I might even be-"

"Ever someone tell you that you talk a lot, bard?" the man cuts him off unexpectedly and suddenly a roguish grin appears on his face. One of his teeth is a bit chipped. Jaskier barely keeps from sputtering while the stranger lowers his sword and heads for his bedroll.  

"First of all, rude," Jaskier replies after he regains his ability to speak as well as getting used to no longer seeing that pretty shade of gold, "And second of all, I'll have you know that having a sword pointed at my throat might have loosened my tongue a little bit. I’m sorry that my trying to save my life here was an inconvenience to you.”

The man snorts amusedly. "Through what?" he says, still smirking. "Shielding yourself with a lute? Or talking me to death? Very intelligent."

The insult doesn’t go by unnoticed, but being reminded of the state of his instrument has shifted Jaskier’s priorities towards more important matters. The shirt he wrapped around it to protect the prized lute is soaked. 

Somehow his prior solution appears like a rather stupid idea in hindsight. Less because of the hope that it might protect the lute, but more because he's wet and has no dry clothes to change into.

Jaskier huffs and drops down next to the remains of the firepit. He removes the wet linen shirt from his lute and tries to wipe the polished wood down as best as he can. After a thorough inspection of his instrument and deeming it relatively unharmed, he sneakily tries to watch the other man.

The stranger moves almost soundlessly around the small camp and gathers the rags and his whetstone before he takes his sword and begins to sharpen it.

The smell of wet earth and something metallic dominates their small shelter. But now that Jaskier knows that the other man is here, it isn't hard to pick up on the hint of sweat and leather that surround him.

Jaskier knows that he should probably be afraid. After all, this man held a weapon to his throat mere minutes before and he knows literally nothing about him. And the way he’s casually sharpening his sword does seem kind of intimidating. 

Yet somehow, he just can't find it in himself to truly fear the stranger. He is a bit scared – who wouldn’t be in a situation like this – but his curiosity overpowers any other rational instinct. Jaskier pretends to fiddle with his lute while he observes the other man with intrigue.

The man’s sword seems expertly made but he isn’t a knight. Jaskier got taught enough to know that even an impoverished one would’ve worn an insignia of some kind. Though the stranger’s weapon is in a too well-kept state for him to not be some kind of trained fighter.

There is no accent to his voice as he speaks, an almost too perfect common, but his olive skin and dark hair somehow make him seem like he’s from the south. Or maybe the islands.

Jaskier watches the man for another two minutes but the silence soon becomes oppressive. Well, it's not silent per se, with the rain drowning out about every other sound but Jaskier can't take it anymore.

"So, what leads you through these parts of the continent?" he blurts out curiously. The other man looks up, a small smirk tugging on his lips as if he’d already been waiting for the bard to speak up.

"Work," he simply says.

“Are you a sell-sword?” Jaskier guesses curiously.

“Not quite,” the golden-eyed man replies and there’s odd humour in his voice.

"Fair enough," Jaskier says while he fidgets with a piece of wood from the ground. "That was not very informative but I guess that’s your own business. I am a travelling bard by the way."

"I gathered that much," is the amused answer.

"It's not quite what I thought it would be like. I mean, I've been only on the road for about two weeks now," Jaskier says and he includes the time he stayed in Rinde in his statement. And why shouldn't he?

It counts.

The golden-eyed man huffs again and looks at him askance. "And, how's that been working out for you so far?"

"Well. Overall, I'd say quite good. I've had my ups and downs." The other man nods knowingly. "I mean the road has its hardships but, in the end, it pays off. I mean it led me here, which has to count as my first adventure. I think there is a ballad somewhere in there. An encounter with a mysterious stranger, a bard faced with mortal peril but he stands through it, courageously, and through his silver tongue he manages to buy his freedom, for his destiny lay elsewhere," Jaskier elaborates and his mind is already painting pictures of the glorious debut he will grant his soon to be written ballad.

"Destined to die an early death if your talk is anything to go by," the other man retorts wryly and it effectively pulls Jaskier out of his thoughts.

"Is that sarcasm that I'm hearing?" Jaskier inquires, and he leans forward with slightly narrowed eyes.

"Oh no, I would never insult someone as wise and well-travelled as you - someone who has lived through the hardships of the path," the golden-eyed man replies.

"What would you know about this anyways," Jaskier shoots back defensively when he’s met with the intense and piercing gaze of those golden eyes.

The other man simply proceeds to stare at him with a deadpan expression. Jaskier feels like a mouse in front of a cat. It would almost be uncomfortable if it weren't for the fact that the bard gets distracted by the other’s intriguing eyes. They are really very unique. The stranger shakes his head and resumes sharpening his sword. After another minute or so he puts it down and lifts the edge of his bedroll, only to reveal a second sword which he begins to wipe down with one of the rags.

Jaskier, who’d been chewing on his lip in a nervous gesture, stops in favour of gaping at the man. "Who in Melitele’s name needs two swords?" he voices after a moment.

The stranger simply raises an eyebrow as he looks at Jaskier. "You really don't know, do you?"

"I'll have you know, I'm very knowledgeable," Jaskier says. "I'm a Master of the Seven Liberal Arts after all," he adds half-jokingly, half-serious. It is after all an accomplishment that deserves some recognition and if he’s really honest with himself, he kind of wants to impress the golden-eyed stranger.

The other man huffs and shakes his head at Jaskier as if he was a particularly odd animal. "I'm a Witcher," he states after a moment while staring directly into Jaskier’s eyes.

The statement hits him like a brick. Jaskier blinks at the young man in front of him, who – while clearly dangerous in some way – lacks the grim and terrifying aura he always assumed would surround the infamous monster slayers.

"What," the golden-eyed man starts and then he snorts. "Don't tell me you don't know what a Witcher is?”

Jaskier ignores the obvious attempt at mockery. Of course, he knows what a Witcher is. Every kid knows what a Witcher is if only from hearsay and their parent’s admonition to listen or else the big bad Witcher will come and get them. While Jaskier was never directly subjected to such tales as a child, he has been aware of them. Born the son of a pragmatic Earl, he'd occasionally heard his father lament about such topics. As the owner of a sizable piece of land, he was responsible for its inhabitants and sometimes dealing with monsters invading such land was a chore. According to his father, Witchers were a necessary evil, useful from time to time but also a hazard to hire and a nuisance to pay.

In Jaskier’s lifetime, there had only ever been two Witchers to their family estate.

Once he’d been barely three summers old, too young to remember and the other time, he’d been away at the temple school. His sisters had told him afterwards of their encounter. They had caught a glimpse of the Witcher after he’d left their father's bureau. Jaskier had had nightmares for weeks after hearing their description of the infamous visitor, more monster than man, with a horribly disfigured face and inhuman eyes.

Meanwhile, the Witcher in front of Jaskier clicks his tongue and suddenly his tone takes on a more joking nature. “Today’s youth... At least you've got your looks to get around," he mutters.

Jaskier clears his throat and pulls himself together. "It’s just… You don’t look like I imagined a Witcher to look like...”

The bard is met with an unimpressed stare. “Well what do you think a Witcher should look like?” the man in front of him inquires.

“Um – older somehow and …scarier…” Jaskier suddenly feels embarrassed and he gestures with his hand, trying to distract from the blush which undoubtedly must be visible on his face.

The Witcher raises an eyebrow. "How old are you?" he asks out of the blue and he stares at Jaskier with an amused look.

At that, this whole interaction appears in a new light and Jaskier feels like a child that’s being scolded by their father.
Additionally, the condescending nature of the Witcher’s statement grates on the bard’s nerves and drowns out most other emotions.  

"How old are you?" Jaskier shoots back in childish irritation.

"I don’t know," the Witcher tells him simply and then he leans back his hands. “The years begin to blur after a few decades,” he states with a wistful look into the distance.

A bit too wistful for Jaskier’s tastes and he feels their dynamic balance once more. He kind of gets the impression that the Witcher is bullshitting him. On the other hand… Witchers don’t age, do they? "Well I'm eighteen," Jaskier says eventually, not quite knowing how to react to the man’s statement but not wanting to keep silent either.

"Eighteen. Could've fooled me," the Witcher retorts with a smirk.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Jaskier questions.

The Witcher simply grins and turns his head to stare past the branches to the willow. "Well, best get comfortable for the night. Doesn't look like the rain's gonna stop soon.” Jaskier can hear thunder rolling in the distance.

"Well, we could start a fire?" Jaskier says and it's more of a question than anything else.

"Help yourself. I’m not keeping you from starting one." The Witcher has now sheathed both of his swords and he looks at Jaskier intensely.

The bard shivers involuntarily. He doesn't know if it's fear or something else entirely.

After some time, the Witcher breaches the silence. “So, and you are a bard,” he states. 

“Yeah,” Jaskier up a bit straighter, clutching his lute.

“Know any good songs?”

“A few,” the bard replies with an unwitting smile. “Any preferences?”

The Witcher shrugs. “Something entertaining.”

Jaskier clears his throat. He taps onto the polished wood of his instrument thoughtfully, before he strums a few chords and begins to sing a well-known ballad about a shining knight slaying a dragon. 

The Witcher is not shy to request other songs afterwards and Jaskier performs to the best of his abilities. It follows a love song, a drinking chant and then a few filthy limericks he didn't learn at school but rather in the surrounding taverns of Oxenfurt, which earn him the best reaction.

Eventually, the Witcher pushes himself from the ground. Jaskier watches him leave their little shelter without a word, both of the swords strapped to his back and the bard feels a pang of arousal at the way this man moves. Graceful and quiet, like a cat. It's not hard to imagine him climbing the tree and hiding in the branches from Jaskier’s sight within mere moments.

Jaskier has no idea what the Witcher is doing - probably taking a piss, which actually, doesn't sound like a bad idea. So Jaskier gets up and does the same. He returns, colder and wetter than before, but the Witcher is still not back. He pulls off the damp doublet, but his shirt wasn't spared from the elements either.

Jaskier has begun to strum a few chords on his lute when the Witcher returns. His shirt is clinging to his skin - which gives Jaskier an excellent opportunity to ogle the man’s muscles beneath - and in his arms, he carries a bunch of sticks and some bigger branches.

"Um, isn't firewood supposed to be dry?" Jaskier asks with a nod at the wood that's dark and slippery from the water.

"In your case yes smartass, but it doesn't matter if you're a Witcher." Golden eyes pierce Jaskier and he swallows hard. "Come on, get up. Make yourself useful, bard" the Witcher adds and throws the pile onto the ground next to the bedroll. "You do know how to build a fire do you?"

"Of course," Jaskier replies. It's not like he's ever done it before but how hard can it be? You stack wood and then light it on fire.

Apparently, that's not the way you build a fire as Jaskier finds out. And then he’s subjected to a ten-minute speech on survival in the wilderness – “Which is only for your own good. I’m doing you a favour here, bardling.”

"You are hopeless," the Witcher says after Jaskier has finally stacked the firewood to his satisfaction. "I've known you for barely two hours and I'm already wondering how you haven't been mauled by harpies yet. Though, you'd probably die before that by eating something poisonous."

"Are we really debating what will be my cause of death? Because right now strangers dropping from trees and pointing swords at me are way on top of that list,” Jaskier snarks.

"You're still alive, aren't you?"

"Touché," Jaskier says since there is nothing else he can say. The Witcher stands up and gestures towards the fire.

"So, now take a look, bard, this is how it's done in Witcher fashion."

Jaskier stares at the man, not knowing what to do. But then his confusion turns into awe when the Witcher forms some sort of sign with his hand and the wet pile of firewood bursts into flames. The wood hisses and pops while the water evaporates and Jaskier basks in the sizzling heat of the flames.

Afterwards, the Witcher gracefully flops down on his bedroll, next to where he's put down his swords. He looks at Jaskier over the firepit for a moment, his gaze assessing and he’s obviously contemplating something. Eventually, he loosens the leather straps running over his shoulders, pulls off his breastplate and removes his wet shirt and spreads it out to dry next to the fire.

Jaskier can only stare. There are scars crisscrossing the toned torso of the man before him and more than one looks like a stab wound. But there are others, which are clearly the marks left by monsters.

Jaskier is so absorbed that he doesn't even notice the smirk on the Witcher’s face, till his oily voice pulls him out of his thoughts.

"Like what you see?" the Witcher asks and the silver medallion he wears on a chain around his neck glints in the firelight.

Jaskier too caught up in imagining the various stories that caused these scars, needs a moment to come back to reality. The Witcher in front of him is rather lean and sinewy but this only highlights his muscles and he does have an attractive face. There is a certain roguish charm that speaks to Jaskier. The Witcher isn't anything like the soft boys Jaskier's shared his bed with at the university or met in dark alleys in Oxenfurt. This man is all sharp edges with an even sharper tongue. There is a glint of danger and madness in his eyes which - Jaskier can't deny – kind of turns him on. And on top of that, he hasn't slept with anyone since his unfortunate falling out with the Countess de Stael which still weighs heavy in his guts.

Regrettably, Jaskier apparently takes too long to come up with an adequate answer and the Witcher shifts to another topic.

"Got any food bard? Tried to go fishing earlier but I didn't have much luck. Drowners, ugh. Damn creatures letting their rot bleed in the water till even the last animal in the area has left...” he adds, his speech turning more into a mutter.

Now that he thinks about it, Jaskier finds that the two swords are the only things that appear shiny and well cared for. A man who makes his living by killing monsters and is running around with damaged armour will have a hard time buying a meal in towns.

Suddenly then the golden eyes fixate on Jaskier again. A smirk has appeared on the Witcher’s face. “After all, I provided you with warmth and shelter. I feel like I'm entitled to some compensation for my troubles.

"Yeah, alright. Fair enough," Jaskier replies, keenly aware of the double entendre of the statement. Golden eyes trace his every movement, while he rummages through his bag. He breaks the remainder of his loaf of bread in half and tosses it to the Witcher, who snatches it out of the air without even looking.

"Thanks, bard."

"No problem," he replies and he watches how the Witcher wolfs down the bread. Jaskier wets his lip with his tongue. "I've also got a bottle of wine which I would be willing to share if you're interested," he offers, not without ulterior motives.

The Witcher chews on the last bites of his piece of bread and regards Jaskier with a lingering look.

"It's not the best," Jaskier says, "But I figured drinking in a company is more fun than alone." The Witcher shrugs and Jaskier pulls the bottle from his bag. "For both our sakes, let’s hope it isn't watered down."

Turns out, it surprisingly isn’t. Twenty minutes later, Jaskier is pretty drunk, chewing on a piece of jerky – he didn't eat anything but a bit of cheese and some of his bread this day after all – and the Witcher on the other side of the fire, who is now sprawled out on top of his bedroll seems a bit more relaxed, though Jaskier can't really tell if he’s affected by the alcohol at all.

"It's pretty unfair," he muses out loud. "You're just lying there, not feeling anything at all, do you?" Jaskier says, only slurring his words a little bit.

“What?”

Jaskier, unaware of the dangerous note in the Witcher’s voice, elaborates. “Well, you Witchers… Do you actually feel any-“

Within a second, Jaskier is pressed onto his back and there is a dagger scraping his throat. The man’s face is a burning mask of fury as he sits on Jaskier's stomach, effectively trapping him. “Come on. Finish that statement. I dare you,” he hisses. His pupils have turned into slits.

"Whoa, hold up," Jaskier says, his drunken brain taking a few seconds to comprehend what just happened. "Did I, did I do something? I don’t deny that I pictured something like that but to be perfectly honest I didn’t expect the blades. I mean I heard that some people are into that, actually a former classmate of mine-"

The Witcher snarls. Fear washes over Jaskier, but he can’t deny that he’s also a bit turned on. Maybe more than a bit. The golden eyes of the man above him seem to pierce into his very soul and his body can only take so much of someone sitting so close to his prick. "Maybe it's only because I'm drunk,” Jaskier begins, perhaps a bit too reckless and he wets his lips, “And I hope you do actually feel some kind of effect of the wine we've been drinking, or else this is going to become very embarrassing very soon, and – I am going to blame the alcohol if you say no, and you can say no, but, you actually, um, look pretty handsome right now sitting on me, doing your thing with your dagger and your eyes, so my question is… Would you be interested in um- making out or something?"

The Witcher doesn’t move. He seems confused. Meanwhile, Jaskier simply watches him, because the alternative is mourning the piece of jerky which he lost to the dirt.

It is a nice view though, mostly because the man still hasn’t put his shirt on. Without a conscious decision, the bard’s eyes wander towards the silver medallion that dangles from the Witcher’s neck.

Jaskier doesn't mind silver as much as he does gold and it does look kind of pretty, the way the light of the fire reflects off it. There is an animal engraved in the medallion and Jaskier snorts when he realizes it's supposed to be the head of a hissing cat. He doesn't really pay attention when the Witcher mutters something so Jaskier has to ask him to repeat himself.

At least he does so in his mind, but his confusion is apparently obvious and the Witcher rolls his eyes.

"Nothing, bard. It was a …misunderstanding,” he presses out, still somewhat tense.

Jaskier nods, even though he’s slightly confused. "Alright," he says, staring up at the Witcher. An awkward moment passes. "So, are we going to…" he gestures with his hands and it seems to get the message across since the Witcher throws his head back in a laugh and abruptly sheathes his dagger. Before Jaskier can react in any other way, the Witcher suddenly leans forward, his arms caging the bard’s head.  

“How did you put it again? Ah yes. You asked me if I wanted to make out…” the Witcher says with a crooked grin. “You know, that’s the politest way someone ever asked me if I was interested in a fuck…”

“What can I say,” Jaskier tries to shrug as best as he can and he mirrors the smirk that has appeared on the other man’s face, “I’m a gentleman.” The Witcher huffs a laugh and then he leans down to kiss Jaskier.

The bard arches his back and he moans into it, maybe a bit louder than exactly necessary but the Witcher seems to like it if the way he licks into his mouth is anything to go by. Jaskier bucks his hips to get a bit of friction and so close, he can really smell the other man. It’s odd how much he likes the way their scents mingle. Then he realizes that he has hands he can use and finally gives into the urge to touch the Witcher.
Mere moments later he’s running his hands all over the man’s naked torso and up to his dark hair. The Witcher radiates warmth and wherever they are touching Jaskier can feel tingles of pleasure vibrating through his body. 

They trade kisses for a short while and Jaskier is pretty content with that, so when the weight suddenly leaves him, he whines in protest.

The Witcher smirks down at him.

"Come on, let's get over to my bedroll. The ground can hardly be comfortable."

"Oh, my gallant knight," Jaskier replies sarcastically while he gasps for air, but he does take the offered hand. They stumble over to the bedroll and it is indeed more comfortable. It barely takes two seconds till they are kissing again. They fumble a bit to get Jaskier's damp shirt off and then resume their make-out session. This time it’s Jaskier who sits in the Witcher’s lap and soon they rut against each other like schoolboys.

Jaskier is so turned on, he already knows he won't last long. "Come on, come on," he mutters as the Witcher’s hand worms its way into his trousers. Jaskier groans, when calloused fingers wrap themselves around his cock. His eyes flutter close for a moment as he tries to savour the feeling of a warm palm against his sensitive skin. Vibrating pleasure tingles through his body and it’s only because of a bit of shuffling that he opens his eyes again.

The Witcher has loosened the fastenings of his own trousers just enough to pull out his prick to stroke it with his free hand. Jaskier is not so selfish that he has the man continue like that, so he spits into his palm and readily reaches out to replace the Witcher’s hand with his own. It’s an awkward angle but they share another few open-mouthed kisses.

The hilt of a knife is pressing uncomfortably against Jaskier’s thigh and the calloused hand touching him is rough. Yet Jaskier hasn’t felt such pleasure in weeks. While they jerk each other off, Jaskier licks and nips the Witcher’s skin at least whenever he’s not just panting against the man’s shoulder, too incoherent to do much else. He feels drunk with it and every touch seems to tingle. He comes with a strangled moan, head thrown back before he lets his forehead drop onto the man’s scarred collar bone. He stills, basking in the afterglow for a bit, while the Witcher replaces Jaskier’s motionless hand with his own.  

Eventually, the bard has pulled himself together enough to notice that the Witcher is apparently using Jaskier's spend to slick up the slide of his hand against skin. A new wave of heat curls low in Jaskier’s gut and the Witcher throws him a filthy smirk when he notices him staring. Jaskier can’t help but meet the man’s expression with a mischievous grin of his own and with only a few movements he has pulled the man’s hand away and pushed him into a position where the Witcher is resting on his elbows and watching Jaskier, whose head is now level with his crotch. Jaskier bites his lip in a well-calculated movement as he looks at the Witcher’s face from under his lashes before he swallows down the man’s cock.

His effort is met with a stifled moan and Jaskier would smirk if he could with the prick in his mouth.

Afterwards, they flop down onto the bedroll, staring at the canopy of leaves and Jaskier still thinks that he can feel a slight tingle where their arms touch.

They keep quiet for quite some time, regaining their breaths and Jaskier inhales their intermingled scents.

To his surprise this time it's the Witcher who breaks the silence by chuckling quietly.

“What?” Jaskier asks.

The Witcher huffs another laugh before he begins to speak. "Nothing. I just realized; I never caught your name."

The bard snorts amusedly. "Jaskier,” he says.

"Like the flower?" the Witcher asks and blinks at him through his dark eyelashes. 

"Yeah," Jaskier says and he breathes in their shared scents again just because he can.

The Witcher laughs. “Figures,” he simply says.

"And? What's your name?" Jaskier asks him then.

A brief moment of hesitation. "Aiden."

"Well, then I guess it's nice to meet you, Aiden," Jaskier says with a grin.

"Likewise, Jaskier."

The next morning Jaskier wakes alone on the cold ground next to a burnt-down fire. There is no sign of the Witcher nor his bedroll and Jaskier realizes that the man must have left shortly after dawn. He can’t help but feel somewhat disappointed.

Eventually, Jaskier sits up and looks at the ashes of the fire. While he had hoped for maybe another repetition of their previous evening’s activities, he also regrets not having asked the Witcher more about the scars he possesses and his profession.
Most of all though, he finds himself missing the general presence of the Witcher and the strange comfort it had offered despite his more questionable character.  

Jaskier freezes in puzzlement at that realization. It's not like he's never left a lover before dawn, even snuck out of their windows in the middle of the night.  

Jaskier's had his fair share of trysts which didn't last any longer than a night – or well, however long a quick shag in an alleyway lasts.

This time it was nothing different. He isn't in love with Aiden, Melitele’s tits, he barely knows this Witcher and yet something within him tells him that he should go after the pretty-eyed man. 

It’s a rather insistent notion, actually, to the point where Jaskier has to restrain himself from packing his things to try and search for the Witcher in a strange fit of emotions. 

He knows that this whole notion is ridiculous - besides he doesn't even know where Aiden is heading and isn’t that odd that this is the main reason for his hesitation. In the end, it’s the sight of a single buttercup placed on his lute that tips the sides and keeps him from going through with this plan.

Jaskier actually laughs out loud when he spots it, the yellow flower sitting innocently among the strings of his lute. It's already a bit withered, which tells him that Aiden probably left it there more than an hour ago.

It's hilarious and kind of sweet and when Jaskier picks it up and smells it, there is still the scent of the Witcher clinging to it.

He snorts amusedly and on a strange whim, he carefully tucks it into the same pocket that is already occupied by his dandelion.

Chapter Text

Over the course of the next few months, Jaskier's inventory of treasured belongings grows. Aiden's speech on survival still echoes through his mind and so a waterskin joins his lute pretty soon, as well as a cheap and rather thin blanket and a small box where he keeps his newly acquired set of flint and steel alongside a bit of dry tinder.

After an eye-opening encounter with a bunch of bandits – which in hindsight had the Witcher appear like a gentleman – a scar on his thigh and a slim but well-balanced dagger join his small collection. It's been some time since Jaskier has handled a weapon but despite that, the weight in his boot makes him feel a bit safer. On the same occasion, he also purchases a small leather-bound notebook and a bit of ink to write down his thoughts and compositions.

And if he is a bit possessive in regards to his belongings, well, that’s his business alone.

While travelling from town to town, Jaskier finds himself picking various flowers, tucking them behind his ear or carrying them around in his pockets until they wilt. He prefers the yellow ones but there are also daisies and cornflowers, bluebells and poppies as well as a bunch of others which he can't name.

Jaskier is aware that it's an odd habit, but his collection of flowers is a bright spot among the many harsh experiences he's facing.

He has to admit to himself that he's been very naive in terms of imagining what it would be like to travel the world as a bard. More than once Jaskier has to adjust the idealistic view he's had to a more realistic image.  

He no longer chooses the overgrown ‘ romantic’ paths, because those aren’t protected like the main roads. From the stories he’s heard, he’s lucky that he encountered a Witcher and not a monster. Though there are some who don’t appear to see much of a difference between those two.

Jaskier hasn’t forgotten his encounter with Aiden and he keeps his eyes and ears open for any information about those who travel the continent to slay monsters.

He picks up on rumours here and there but it’s not exactly a priority of his, even though the memory of the Witcher sticks to his mind like resin to a piece of cloth. 

Overall, Jaskier is adamant about building himself a reputation as a bard, but that’s easier said than done.

Not every Tavern wants or needs a bard, and just as often they already have someone more popular playing there. He learns the hard way to appreciate being offered a place to sleep in the stables and he makes the most out of the time he is granted to perform. His own songs aren’t popular and so he mainly has to stick to the crowd-pleasers and the works of other bards. But if Jaskier is something then it’s stubborn and he travels from town to town, relentless in his pursuit. He still doesn't have a bedroll, could barely afford his holey blanket and while he now knows how to make a proper fire – thanks to Aiden – the nights he doesn't reach a town are still rather uncomfortable.

Jaskier learns to save the food that is being thrown at him and he nicks fruits from apple groves and forages berries. He learns how to entertain the drunkards in taverns after other bards have already earned their coin for the day, how to read a crowd and what songs to sing at what time.

The poorest towns turn out to be the most appreciative of his persona. The arrival of a bard - how little known they may be - is an event almost celebrated. The townspeople ask him for news and stories which he provides to the best of his abilities and he learns new songs and plays lively jigs for the patrons residing in the inns. He doesn’t earn a lot of coin there, but in those villages, he's at least given a bed and a free meal most of the time.

Jaskier gets involved in more than one brawl, even had to spend the night in a jail cell once because of it, but despite the hardships, the lifestyle that comes with his chosen profession grows on him.

Jaskier enjoys listening to the rumours and gossip that are a part of everyday life in the towns he passes through. He writes down the most interesting local legends he hears and composes new songs in almost every town.

Sometimes they are even appreciated.

The time passes by quickly and Jaskier performs in taverns whenever he can – wanted or not – and he tells stories to the children on the streets.

More often than not he charms his way into someone’s bed. Being a bard makes it easier as well as harder since this kind of behaviour is almost being expected from a man of his profession. Therefore, while managing to get bedded easily, he has to flee from more than one angry family member to keep his balls.

Nevertheless, this doesn't stop him, since it's a habit which is just as pleasurable as it is lucrative for someone who has to flip every copper twice, having to consider if he wants to rent a room in an inn or if he is more interested in being able to afford a meal the next day.

Jaskier travels on foot most of the time but the road is always busy. Sometimes a merchant or a local farmer is happy enough to let him sit on the back of their wagon for a while before they go their separate ways again.

When spring gives way to summer, different flowers grow on the fields and suddenly shiny pebbles find their way into Jaskier's pockets as well. Sometimes he gifts them to children who seem to appreciate them just as much as he does and in exchange, he gets soft feathers and colourful ribbons as well as pretty shards of glass, which have been smoothed out by the water of the Pontar.

Soon he carries with him a small collection of treasures, which grows and grows and Jaskier has to restrain himself from buying a bag simply for this purpose.

Summer as it turns out is a good time for bards. The people have fully recovered from the hardships of the winter and weddings and feasts are plentiful. Jaskier is hired to play at more than one event and he learns local folk dances, tries new foods, and most memorably gets cursed with an itching green rash on his prick that lasts for three agonizing days after bedding both a witch and her sister.

In July he meets a colourful bunch of jugglers and self-proclaimed entertainers with whom he ends up travelling for half a month.

He learns much in these weeks, mainly how to prevent being pick-pocketed (more out of necessity than actual interest) and in exchange for a few lessons with his lute he gets taught how to do a few magic tricks with a coin.

When they eventually part ways in the Lormark, Jaskier feels like his skill in cheating during card games has never been better. Also, his repertoire of filthy jokes has been expanded exponentially during that time.

He decides to resume his travels alongside a river again but in late July he crosses over the Dyfne because there is word of a big festival in Gulet.

The city – despite being smaller than Oxenfurt – is impressive and Jaskier takes note of the old elven architecture that can still be found in the one or other building. His graduation in Oxenfurt appears to be worth at least something because he somehow manages to talk his way onto one of the stages where he performs. Life is good and he stays a bit longer, having made the acquaintance of a lovely red-headed maiden. But when he is confronted by a group of vengeful brothers who accuse him of defiling their sister's honour, his plans of heading towards Vengerberg are quickly thwarted. They have money and connections thus Jaskier doesn’t doubt that they are able to send an assassin if he isn’t willing to compensate for his deed in some way.

It comes like this that he finds himself playing in a small tavern at the edge of the fucking world in a backwater town called Posada.

The tavern is old but well kept, dust is dancing through the air and golden light falls in through the windows. It might even possess the potential to be beautiful were it not for the smell of spilt ale and the fact that the people here are tolerant of his presence at best. But Jaskier has worked with less and the inhabitants of this place at least seem like they've got some decent coin they could spare. He takes a final look around and grabs his lute to debut his newest song. Maybe the locals will appreciate the part with their town's name in it. Dol Blathanna is after all a beautiful region and inspiration had struck soon enough. And his song, unlike the many others he's heard the locals hum and sing while he's resided here, is about dangers and adventures and has the potential to spice up the local music scene.

"You think you're safe, without a care... but here in Posada, you'd be wise to beware," Jaskier begins and he tries his best to draw the attention of the crowd.

"The pike with the spike, that lurks in your drawers or the flying drake that will fill you with horror."  

The audience doesn't seem too pleased by what Jaskier gathers as he weaves his way through the tables. But , he thinks, it's after all only the beginning of the song - "Need old Nan the Hag to stir up a potion, so that your lady might get an abortion." - and he's sure that he will be appreciated once he's-

"Abort yourself!" one of the locals shouts. His comment is apparently the sign people have been waiting for and Jaskier has to duck to avoid being hit by pieces of bread and things, which are soaked with the stew they are serving today. It's only his good reflexes, which allow him to dodge them. Well and his lute which he uses to shield himself.

Again .

"Oi, fuck off!" is how Jaskier thanks the crowd as he is met with general laughter, "I'm glad I could bring you all together like this. Unbelievable," he mutters.

Everyone is a fucking critic these days…. It's not like they studied for four years in Oxenfurt. The people here simply don’t appreciate the arts.

Jaskier mutters curses under his breath and he puts his lute down. With a wary eye still on the crowd, he turns his attention towards the bread on the floor – food is not to be wasted after all – but while he picks up the better pieces his eyes fall upon the person sitting in a secluded alcove.

Jaskier doesn’t recall having to evade soaked projectiles from that direction. That in itself is already a curiosity but moreover, the man’s clothing is way too dark for him to be a local. Having made up his mind, Jaskier stands up. He’s spent the last few days in this godforsaken town and while the whole region is beautiful, the people here are dull and he is bored.  

Time to get a better look at the stranger and perhaps also an honest review of his music.

Jaskier ignores the offended expression on the barmaid's face as he daringly nicks a tankard of ale from her tray on his way through the tavern.

Once he’s crossed the room, the stranger does seem a bit more hostile, though maybe it’s only because he can now take a closer look at him. Either way, Jaskier stops and leans against a wooden beam while he eyes the stranger curiously.

Overall, he is rather pale and while he’s got broad shoulders, he appears somewhat lanky. As Jaskier’s eyes swipe over the stranger’s jawline, which stands in sharp contrast to his neck, he comes to the opinion that a bit more food wouldn’t hurt the man.

The latter wears a high collared black gambeson, enforced at the shoulders with dark leather in Novigrader fashion. Though instead of buttons there are leather straps riveted to the fabric, fastened with silvery buckles all the way down on the right side of his torso. It had to have been quite expensive, if only for the black dye.

It’s also then that Jaskier notices that the man is wearing gloves – in August – which is a bit ridiculous. Of course, they are also black, made of leather with silvery rings on the knuckles.

Jaskier does not want to know what it feels like to be punched by them.

Though the most notable feature of the stranger isn’t his clothes. Because while the man doesn't seem to be older than maybe his mid-thirties – and that's Jaskier being generous with the years he adds to his guessed number – the hair falling onto his shoulders and the few strands obscuring his face are white like snow. Even his eyelashes.

"I just love how you sit in the corner and brood," Jaskier says then. Meanwhile, the stranger appears to be trying his best to kill his ale with a glare.

"I'm here to drink alone," the man rasps as a reply without so much as looking up. In his voice, a light accent resonates.

"Good. Yeah, good," Jaskier begins, not quite knowing what he's doing, but also contently ignoring the underlying message for him to piss off. If the man hasn't thrown bread at him beforehand, he won't be throwing it now, so that already makes him the best company Jaskier can get in this godsforsaken town.
Besides, the dismissive tone of the stranger has nothing on his father whenever he'd wanted to be left alone in his study, so it's hardly a deterrent. Not if the subject of his attention is so ...intriguing. "No one else hesitated to comment on the quality of my performance, except for you."
Jaskier pushes himself from the wooden beam and takes a few steps towards him so that he's standing on the opposite side of the table. "Come on," he says and tries to put on his most charming smile, "You don't wanna keep a man... with bread in his pants waiting."

The bard winces inwardly at his own words. That didn’t come out as smooth as he imagined. He feels a bit lost as to how to act. But well, there is nothing to be done about that now. He looks at the man expectantly, but the stranger still seems to be more interested in his ale. Jaskier suppresses the urge to sigh, but he won't give up so easily. This conversation, despite being pretty one-sided, is probably the most interesting thing to happen to him since he's arrived in Posada. So Jaskier pulls back the chair on his side of the table and flops down in front of the stranger. "You must have some review for me. Three words or less."

Jaskier waits expectantly and he finds that he’s surprisingly patient for once.

The man takes a big gulp of his ale and he then proceeds to stare into his tankard as if it held the answers to all his questions. Jaskier observes him curiously.

"They don't exist," he says eventually, his brows furrowed. The way the stranger drawls some words is closer to the tongue they speak here than in Redania, but it still sounds a bit foreign. It could be from a dialect spoken further in the south.

"What don't exist?" Jaskier asks him while he ogles a faded scar that peeks out of the stranger’s collar. He still tries to guess where the man comes from. Lyria perhaps?

"The creatures in your song."

"And how would you know?" the bard retorts and then the man finally raises his head and looks at him.

Jaskier's jaw drops. "Oh, fun," he says, breath hitching. Because he knows the colour of these eyes. They are a different shade. Lighter, but familiar nonetheless.

And oh, so breathtaking. Something within Jaskier clicks in place. 

Meanwhile, those pupils narrow to slits, revealing more of the golden irises as they assess their opponent. Jaskier feels like he’s melting into his chair while simultaneously brimming with energy. The sudden urge to hide this man away from the world simply to keep this view to himself is all that occupies his mind for a long second.

It takes a few moments for Jaskier to reclaim his thoughts, but when he does, he tries to recall everything he's ever heard about the infamous monster slayers. Now that he knows about the man's profession it isn't hard to spot his weapons, which are mostly hidden beneath the table, the way they are leaning against the bench. "White hair, big old loner, two very, very scary-looking swords," Jaskier lists giddily and he grins. "I know who you are."

The man scowls. He reaches for his money pouch and it is a pitiful sight when he empties its contents onto the table to pay for what he owes. Only a single ducat drops onto the table where it spins a few before it falls over. Not that Jaskier fares any better in that department. The golden-eyed man picks up his weapons. They appear to be attached to a modified sword belt that he throws over his shoulder just as he turns to leave. Jaskier goes after him and stops in his tracks to announce his revelation.

"You're the Witcher. Geralt of Rivia!" Said man sighs quietly, but he doesn't react otherwise. The room, though, grows silent. "Called it," Jaskier adds smugly but the man ignores him and continues walking.

Taken aback, the bard watches the Witcher heading for the exit. He barely notices one of the locals standing up and following the monster slayer.

Jaskier overhears them talking about a job, a devil in the fields followed by the unmistakable sound of money changing the owner and then the slamming of a door. Only when the villager returns to his table, Jaskier realizes what just happened.

Call him a reckless fool, but he will be damned if he lets another Witcher slip through his fingers like that.

Cursing under his breath, Jaskier moves towards the window where he put his lute, gathers it up and he's already halfway through the room before he turns around, heading towards the alcove where he left the ale which he'd stolen. He knocks it back in one gulp and sprints towards the exit. He doesn't expect to return anyways so he cuts the distance in half by jumping over a table and snatching a whole loaf of bread from a plate while he's at it. He acknowledges the insults he's assaulted with by raising his hand and showing them a particular dwarven gesture before he disappears through the exit.

Those people were a shitty audience anyways.

Outside Jaskier doesn't stop till he reaches the inn where he's stayed the previous night.

He bolts up the stairs, panting and ignoring the locals who stare at him. He fumbles for his key, opens the door and gathers his things in under two minutes.

Downstairs once more, he slams down the key in front of the confused innkeeper thanks him for the hospitality and throws a wink towards the equally stunned daughter of the man who flushes a bright red while he's already halfway out of the door.

The bard has no idea where the Witcher is heading and he has to stop a few times to ask some locals till he finally gets pointed in the right direction. Jaskier is determined and when he finally spots a dark silhouette on a horse, he grins victoriously. He doesn't catch up immediately, but when the path is becoming steeper, the Witcher dismounts and Jaskier starts to run again to cross the final distance. "Ah, need a hand?" Jaskier pants. "I've got two. One for each of the, uh, devil's horns."

The Witcher throws him a look, which Jaskier can't quite interpret, but the next two words leave no room for doubt regarding the Witcher's opinion of him. "Go away," he says gruffly. But, Jaskier has had to deal with a tough crowd more than once. He can manage.

"I won't be but silent back up," he states and then and because he thinks that the Witcher needs a better explanation for why he's being followed, he tells him the second-best thing which is, "Look I heard your note, and, yes, you're right, maybe real adventures would make better stories. And you, sir, smell chock-full of them." Jaskier inhales deeply. "Amongst other things. I mean, what is that? Is that onion?" he asks because the smell really is quite overpowering. Although what lies beneath isn't half bad. "It doesn't matter," Jaskier continues eventually and he doesn't know what prompts him to verbalize whatever vibe he gets from this Witcher, but there are some things, which seem to cling to the man like burdock burrs to a wolf. "Whatever it is, you smell of death and destiny. Heroics and heartbreak."

"It's onion," the Witcher comments dryly.

"Right, yeah. Yeah," Jaskier replies because he doesn't really want this statement to be the end of their conversation. He tries to come up with a reason for the Witcher to keep him around and so he offers the only thing that comes to mind. "Ooh, I could be your barker, spreading the tales of Geralt of Rivia, the- the Butcher of Blaviken."

The Witcher stops.

Jaskier feels confident.

Maybe the man is even impressed by his knowledge of Witchers. The bard isn't quite sure if he just imagined witnessing the Witcher sharing a look with his horse but when the man turns around and beckons Jaskier to come closer, this thought is all but forgotten. He takes a few steps forward and is met with a fist in his gut that punches this hopeful feeling right out of him. Jaskier wheezes, tasting the dust of the road and he lifts his head only to see the Witcher merrily walking away whilst leading his horse.

Okay. Maybe he deserved that.

All the way to the fields Jaskier attempts to convince the Witcher to let him join him in his adventure and he tries to sweeten the deal by offering to change the man’s reputation. In hindsight, the title, butcher , should've been the first clue that the man wouldn't be too fond of this name.

Jaskier even comes up with his own. Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf. It's a good name if he might say so.

The Witcher disagrees. But Jaskier decides that he doesn't have a say in this. Because as it turns out the man named his horse after a fish, for gods' sakes.

During the thirty minutes it takes them to get to the fields of the local who hired Geralt, he also learns that this Witcher is nothing like Aiden. He, apparently, doesn't do banter and all Jaskier can get out of him are a few grunts here and there. Nevertheless, he feels already quite attached to this man. When they have reached their destination and Geralt dismounts, Jaskier stays behind for a moment to subtly pet the horse, simply out of spite for the Witcher’s earlier order.

It turns out to be a rather grave mistake, because the horse that's named after a fish apparently does have a temper and sharper teeth than any horse should have, causing him to instantly regret his decision.

Once the mare is thoroughly insulted, Jaskier treads after the Witcher, who is once again not very forthcoming with information.

They get attacked by a devil, who - according to Geralt - is not a real devil but a Sylvan. And while Jaskier manages to dodge the metal cannonballs or whatever they are, he is so engrossed in watching Geralt fight that he doesn't notice the elf sneaking up behind him. The last thing he sees before he gets knocked out is the pretty face of a female elf with flowing hair and dark skin.

Their encounter with the elves is – well – an experience. Jaskier wakes before the Witcher to whom he apparently has been bound to and the first thing he sees is an elf who rummages through his bag. Jaskier is not prepared for the wave of anger that overcomes him when the elf pulls out one of his shiny glass shards and holds it into the light. There is no way he can reach the knife in his boot and they are outnumbered anyways. Thankfully the elf seems to be more interested in the pieces of bread which he'd picked up in the tavern earlier and Geralt wakes soon enough which draws their attention to more important matters.  

Filavandrel arrives to save the day - more or less - but not before Jaskier and Geralt both get roughed up quite a bit. The elf king has hair almost as white as Geralt's but his eyes are black as the night sky. Despite the dark rings under his eyes, he carries himself with an elegance every human king could envy. His speech manages to touch someplace deep within Jaskier and he has a feeling that this elf's troubles won't be over after this day. There is a deep sadness clinging to him. Jaskier hopes that he'll take Geralt’s advice to disappear for a while to regroup.

Filavandrel gifts him his lute with a strange look on his face and Jaskier can only thank him profusely and confusedly. He's glad he was taught the elder speech, however much he’d hated it when he was a child as he can thank the elf king properly. After their interaction, even the female elf who knocked him out doesn't seem too disappointed that she wasn't able to gut him. She flicks her long hair, which falls freely onto her back except for two slim braids at her temples while she throws him the occasional annoyed look. He winks at her and when her lips curl up in disgust to reveal even rows of teeth without cuspids, Jaskier thinks that this might not have been the best idea.

Despite that, he does tell Geralt about the respect he feels for Filavandrel when they have been set free and returned to where the man left his snappy horse. Jaskier also criticizes the fact that the Witcher gave away all of his coin because the man clearly needs it. Moreover, the elves did keep all the food they could find including that which was in their bags.

Jaskier tries to compose a tune about the elven king but it doesn’t quite work out. Though when he looks upon the Witcher who is sitting on his horse named after a fish, with a split lip, dust in his hair and two swords on his back, Jaskier knows who he’s going to sing about.

It’s almost as if the lyrics are floating in the air and he only has to grasp the words to make them into a song. He hums a melody but the Witcher interrupts him.

“This is where we part ways, bard. For good,” he says and looks down at Jaskier who realizes that he can see a few buildings among the hills which mark the outer edge of Posada.

“I promised to change the public’s tune about you. At least allow me to try,” Jaskier replies and this time he really means it. He saw how much the Witcher cared for these beings and he’s already shown more empathy than a lot of the villagers he’s heard talking about the elves. He begins to strum his lute, playing a melody, which still needs some tweaking but for now, it’s pretty good. “When a humble bard, graced a ride along, with Geralt of Rivia, along came this song…”  

Jaskier’s song paints the Witcher as a hero and the elves as sore losers who are being defeated, but Geralt himself appears to be less than impressed.

“That’s not how it went. Where’s your newfound respect?” the Witcher comments.

“Respect doesn’t make history,” Jaskier replies simply. Moreover, it can hardly hurt the elves if they are believed to be dead. At least that way they’ll have their peace as long as they don’t draw attention to themselves.

Jaskier sings his song, adamant to ignore the hints Geralt sends in his direction, namely that now is the time for him to return to the town, while the Witcher continues to travel wherever he is headed.

After they have passed the first crossroad where Jaskier firmly overlooks the path that leads towards Posada, Jaskier already feels the Witcher’s heavy gaze on him. After passing another fork in the road, which is nothing more than a narrow, rocky trail – probably a shortcut leading down to the town – Geralt curbs his horse and he looks directly at Jaskier. “Bard.”

“Witcher,” Jaskier retorts, which prompts the white-haired man to look at him with the same unreadable expression that Jaskier has already seen about a dozen times on his face already. At that point in time, he’s pretty sure that it’s exasperation.

“Why are you following me?” the Witcher all but growls. “Don’t you have places to be? Singing songs, getting assaulted with bread in taverns?”

“This is an open road. I can walk wherever I please.”

“Well, walk elsewhere then,” the Witcher says and spurs on his snappy horse.

Jaskier doesn’t walk elsewhere. “You know,” he comments, hastening his steps so that he can keep up, “You kind of remind me of my mother. She used to say the same thing. Well, she used other words, but you get the gist.” Jaskier pauses. “Now that I think about it, she was always rather distant.”

“Maybe you talked too much for her tastes,” the Witcher says.

“Ha ha, hilarious,” Jaskier replies sarcastically. “You know you could- I don’t know - maybe add to this conversation a little bit? Then I wouldn’t have to take care of both parts.”

Roach snorts and the Witcher pats her neck.

“See, even your horse agrees with me!” Jaskier says.

"I doubt that," the Witcher mutters. With a heavy sigh, he sits up in his saddle and looks over his shoulder. Jaskier turns around to see what he’s looking at, but there is only the dusty road, the rocky trail, which is leading back to the town and of course the beautiful landscape.

Yellow fields of rapeseed line the hillside, green grass and flowers surround the valley where he spots the last few buildings of Posada. The sun is touching the mountaintops and paints the sky a brilliant pink. The poet in him vibrates with energy.

When Jaskier hears the Witcher click with his tongue and his horse falling into a gallop, he realizes that it might not have been the beautiful landscape but rather the estimation of the distance to the town which inspired the Witcher to risk a look over his shoulder.

Jaskier turns and his eyes follow the dust whirling silhouette of the Witcher on his horse who simply left him behind. “Yeah, yeah,” Jaskier mutters to himself and louder he shouts, “Very mature!” though the Witcher probably doesn’t hear him anymore as he's already disappearing behind a hilltop.

What a prick.

Jaskier kicks a stone on the ground. He then picks up a shiny black pebble which he spots not far from where the other stone landed. He brushes off the dust and examines it. Funnily enough, it reminds him of the Witcher. He grumpily puts it into his pocket anyway.

Jaskier doesn’t want to return to the town, but it’s not like he can compete with a horse in terms of travelling speed either. He knows that there is no way he can catch up to Geralt - not when the sun has almost set and he is travelling on foot.

Jaskier turns to look at the open road and then at the trail leading back to where they came from. He curses and takes a few steps towards where the Witcher disappeared before he pauses.

Fuck.

"Fuck!" he shouts out loud and he kicks the ground again, dust whirling up in the air. He adds a few insults for good measure. One hand on his hip, the fingers of his other one pushing back his sweaty hair, he feels an odd pang in his chest as he stares at the empty road.

It almost physically pains him to turn on his heel and to head towards the narrow trail leading downhill.

It takes him over an hour to get down to the valley and more than half the time he spends in almost complete darkness. He stumbles twice and curses the Witcher for his unsocial nature. In the end, he avoids both the inn and the tavern, even though he could really use a drink.

Jaskier breaks into a barn a little outside of the village and he spends the night in a haystack which he shares with a cat.

The next morning after Jaskier wakes up and he’s finished pulling isolated stalks of straw out of his hair, it hits him full force that he’s been left behind by a Witcher.

Again.

He groans and flops back into the haystack and after a few seconds, he tilts his head back to look at the cat which is still curled up on her spot a little further up in the hay. The animal blinks at him lazily with its yellow eyes, which promptly pulls another groan from the bard. Of course. Now that he’s finally discovered something worth singing about, the subject of his inspirations abandons him. Naturally. Jaskier wipes a hand over his face.

Damn you Geralt of Rivia.

After Jaskier has had some time to think this whole deal over, his frustration at being left like this has subsided. Well, at least to some extent. Because let's be honest, it's not normal how quickly he gets attached to these Witchers. Moreover, the emotions that come with that are a giant clusterfuck.

He's met Aiden about half a year ago and he thinks constantly about the man, even though he's mostly avoided questioning this weird emotion further in order to get a full night's sleep.

After all, he's known that man for maybe three hours. The bard has forgotten the names of lovers he's spent more time with. Memorable times which he likes to think back on and yet.

If it was only something like that! Fantasies about that man he might be able to justify, but no.

He is wondering whether Aiden has gotten around to fixing his armour, or if he's earning enough coin to buy himself some proper meal for once because apparently not having money is a thing Witchers share with bards.

Which leads him to his current situation of having to confront these thoughts directly. Without the wall of sweet denial, he's built. And all that only because his dumb brain has decided that the subject Geralt of Rivia is to join this merry band of invading thoughts.

While musing over this problem, Jaskier somehow feels reminded of his flowers.

If he sees one that catches his eye, he has to take it with him. It's almost like a compulsion. He always knows exactly where he placed each one that he's picked and from time to time he likes to pull them out simply to look at them. He is always a bit disappointed when one of them withers.

That might also be part of the reason why he started to collect other stuff too. Ribbons and pebbles. They last.

He doesn't feel bad trading his small tokens or even gifting them to children. He knows they will be appreciated.

But one time, he'd lost one of his pebbles and he'd grown unreasonably agitated. He had been lying awake at night, days after the incident thinking about the stupid stone.

And the Witchers seem to stick to his mind just the same way. The thoughts about them buzz through his head like a mosquito next to his ear.

But he can hardly pick up a Witcher and put him into his pocket, can he? Jaskier sighs.

He will simply ignore these ridiculous notions and then he will focus on his career as a bard.

But despite the harsh goodbye, Jaskier can’t help but continue keeping his eyes open for the man.

Never has he been able to write a song so easily as the one about the Witcher. And the experience of his adventure - the capture by the elves and their fight with the devil – is only an added bonus. At least in Jaskier’s opinion. And probably also the maidens’ whom he tells the story if his most recent experiences are anything to go by.

Anyhow, usually people remember when a Witcher passes through their village and the " Butcher of Blaviken" is infamous enough to have people whispering his name for days, but his search is rather fruitless. Still, Jaskier plays " Toss a Coin" in almost every town. He is surprised by the many strong opinions he’s confronted with regarding that matter, but it’s a good song and Jaskier is determined to continue including it in his performance.

In late summer he finally gets around to visit Vengerberg and Jaskier immediately takes a liking to the city.

Various malt mills and distilleries supply the local taverns which serve excellent ale and the buildings have kept some of the elven style that undoubtedly has been prevalent before the humans took over. The streets of the metropolis are bustling with life and the markets are overrun with exotic spices and fabrics from all over the continent. Soap-makers, perfumeries and bathhouses impregnate the air with their fantastical scents and if one ignores the tanners’ district a bit outside the city where the workers wash their hides in a small side stream of the Dyfne, one could believe to have encountered a fragrant incarnation Melitele herself.

Furthermore, the educational institutes in the city are almost as well known as the Oxenfurt Academy and the arts are held in high regard.

And since the wealthy locals spend their coin liberally, Jaskier earns enough to make generous use of the many bathhouses strewn all over the city – which promise cleanliness and good company for a certain price – even though he isn’t very known.

With delight, Jaskier discovers the famous Pinacotheca during the second week of his stay and he even gets to see a perfumier at work which makes his own alchemistic abilities seem like child's play. He learns that some nobles and wealthy merchants even mix scents into their fountains, but unfortunately, he doesn’t get to witness it himself.

Over the duration of his stay, Jaskier stocks up his supply of scented oils and creams in one of the many shops selling them and charms his way into the one or other bed.

Eventually, though, the road calls to him again and when he’s offered a spot on a wagon trek to entertain the merchants on their journey to Aldersberg, the troubadour readily takes them up on it.

While taking a ferry down the Yavina, Jaskier learns a new song about a Vodnik and once he’s back on dry land, his manners earn him a performance at the wedding feast of a minor noble. Apparently, the etiquette lessons during his youth have not turned out to be a complete waste.

Unfortunately, things go to shit very quickly when the woman he’s bedded during a short pause of his performance turns out to be the groom’s mistress.

In hindsight, he should’ve noticed that she was a bit too eager, but who could’ve known that her attempt at making the groom jealous did not only work but also brought the secret affair to the newly wedded bride’s attention.

Jaskier barely has time to take a bite of the honey-braised bear meat they’re serving before he has to run from a furious groom whose anger is fueled even more by having to deal with his hysteric wife who is screaming at him like a murderous harpy.

Jaskier has left quickly after that and he travels without a goal in mind. Eventually, he ends up in a remote area where he’s lucky to pass a village every other day. He only encounters other travellers occasionally and most of them are young men looking for work and the one or other courier delivering letters.

The trees are throwing long shadows onto the sandy road which Jaskier has been following for a few days now. He hums the occasional tune as he walks the trail which is winding itself through the hilly area like a river. The air is filled with the scent of drying grass and there is a heat prevailing, which is obscene for this time of the year. Jaskier can virtually taste the dust that’s sticking to his sweaty skin. The earth of the beaten path beneath his feet is dry and cracked and his once shiny leather boots have taken on the same colour.

Despite the temperature his steps are steady and he walks at a firm pace. Every so often his eyes flick cautiously towards the blue sky. But it’s only clouds that he sees.

Earlier that day he’d passed through a small settlement of a few houses, but the streets were empty and after a bit of asking around, he learned about the reason why. A winged beast is plaguing the area, having taken their livestock and torn down some fences, a factor, which caused even more problems.

With a monster roaming the area, the thought of camping in the open fields doesn't sound very appealing to Jaskier and so he is adamant to reach a bigger village with an actual inn before the sun sets.

The locals have pointed him in this direction and it shouldn’t be more than one or two hours till he arrives in the nearby settlement. He’s lucky that there was a stream where he could fill up his waterskin but he only drinks sparingly. Crickets are chirping in the long dry grass to both of his sides and Jaskier idly scans the meadow for wild apple trees.

Three hours later the sun has set in a brilliant display of colour but Jaskier couldn’t care less. He’s been cursing for the last half hour, his bag and lute weighing down on his back while the village he was heading for is nowhere in sight.

Jaskier mutters obscenities while he trudges along a path that leads seemingly into nowhere. The dry fields of grass have slowly changed into a woodsier area and with the last daylight fading, the darkness settles even quicker between the trees.

More than once Jaskier contemplates if he should make camp, but he’s experienced often enough that a village appeared right around a corner when he thought that it would never show up. For now, Jaskier is pretty confident that he'll find his way to the settlement eventually. Besides, he really does not want to be woken from peaceful slumber by being ripped to pieces by some kind of creature.

Nevertheless, he is more cautious. The lute he carries is now strapped to his back and he doesn’t dare to make more noise than a bit of humming while he continues his way.

The minutes trickle by and soon stars dot the sky and an almost full moon illuminates his way. But Jaskier is exhausted. It’s dark, the path is rocky and he is tired from the strain he put his body through today. Moreover, the sounds of the night are a bit more frightening with the knowledge that there’s a monster roaming the area. He hears howling in the distance and that kills any desire he’d felt for making camp instantly.

Jaskier is just about to make peace with the fact that he will either have to walk through the night or stop here – alone – in a monster plagued area that is apparently also inhabited by wild dogs when his nose picks up on something that hasn’t been there before.

The faintest trace of smoke is wafting through the cooling air.

Immediately his mind supplies him with the images of a warm bed and food. Jaskier loses himself a bit in the fantasy, but as he continues on he realizes that if there was a village, he’d be able to see it by now. By now Jaskier is ready to collapse and he can only hope that it's not a group of bandits camping in the wilderness but instead someone who is willing to share the warmth of their fire and maybe even their food.

He will simply have to count on his luck because if he’s being honest with himself, the bard has to admit that he doesn’t even care anymore. He is tired, his feet hurt and if he encounters other people then he at least won't be alone in the case that the winged beast was to attack.

Once he’s made up his mind it still takes him another ten minutes to pinpoint the exact location of the camp. Trees are blocking his sight, so Jaskier climbs up a small hill a little off the path and there, even further from the path, behind a few pines he can finally make out a narrow pillar of smoke stretching towards the sky.

Jaskier trips more than he walks through the forest, the branches overhead preventing any light from illuminating his path as he fights his way through the underbrush. He is full of scratches when the light of a campfire finally falls through the trees and Jaskier could cry in elation. He stumbles through the last remains of the scrub and onto a small clearing when he stops dead in his tracks.

Jaskier blinks. Either he is already hallucinating from exhaustion or destiny is simply mocking him. Because there is no mistaking the man who's standing before him so casually holding a sword in his hand.

Jaskier awkwardly clears his throat. “Geralt. Fancy meeting you here.” The man’s horse, Roach – still a weird name – is grazing somewhere between the trees. And while it briefly raises its head to look at him, it apparently decides that its human can deal with the threat.

The Witcher in question stares at Jaskier with a blank expression.

"A bit cold though. You don’t mind sharing your camp, do you?” Jaskier asks, but it’s more of a rhetorical question as he is already moving past the Witcher – who still hasn’t moved an inch – and dropping down on the opposite side of the fire from where he spots the man's sheepskin spread out on the ground.

It takes another moment till the Witcher seems to comprehend what just happened, but then he turns around and looks at the troubadour. "Bard," he says instead of a greeting.

“Witcher,” Jaskier parrots with a smile tugging on his lips. Now that the first shock has passed he feels oddly elated by this chance meeting.

Geralt watches him in a way that Jaskier can’t help but compare to a suspicious cat. The bard barely bites back the amused grin in reaction to this image. Eventually, Geralt moves and sits down on the opposite side, his sword balancing on his lap.

The Witcher doesn’t look any different than the last time Jaskier has seen him. He might be a bit dirtier and his hair is a tad longer but otherwise, he doesn’t seem to have changed at all. But he’s not wearing armour this time. Only a loose linen shirt, some leather pants and worn boots. Somehow it makes him look softer, but his face betrays no emotion.

Meanwhile, Jaskier stretches out his feet, and he relishes the feeling of his tense muscles relaxing. “I have to say it was quite rude how you left me behind; last time we bid our farewells, I mean,” the bard says eventually, as it is quite clear that the Witcher won’t talk much. Accusingly he stares at the other man when he adds, “I had to sleep in a barn.” The Witcher doesn’t say anything but his golden eyes glint in the light of the fire as they rest on Jaskier’s face. “Though I coped pretty well, just so you know. I travelled a lot – Vengerberg was delightful. Did you know that they have thirty-two bathhouses there? Thirty-two! Anyways-“

“What are you doing here, bard?” the Witcher asks and his raspy voice has a shiver running down Jaskier’s back.

“Oh, I was just about to tell you,” Jaskier replies flippantly. “Well, you have to know I’ve become quite popular since our last encounter. Oh, shut up,” Jaskier adds when the Witcher raises an eyebrow. “It’s true…. Anyways, as I said, I’ve become quite popular and after travelling on a ferry down the Yavina, I was hired to perform at this wedding…”

Jaskier proceeds to tell the whole story in all its glory – perhaps embellishing a detail here and there – while the Witcher listens in unreadable silence. “…I had to flee the estate or else they would’ve locked me up like some kind of criminal, at least that was the impression I got after the groom started to chase me. I didn’t even get paid; can you believe that?! In hindsight, I should have stuck to the bride’s sister. She seemed a bit too uptight to me at the time but well. Can’t do anything about that now. Eventually, I ended up in some backwater village and thinking it was the safer thing to do, I avoided the towns nearby and started to travel east for a bit.” Jaskier yawns. “And you Witcher. What have you been up to? Some kind of winged beast is apparently plaguing the area. You wouldn’t by any chance know something about that?”

Geralt frowns. "There was a contract in the village over there," he begins and gestures vaguely towards the direction where Jaskier came from. "A griffin. Took care of it this afternoon."

"Wait what?" Jaskier says and he looks over his shoulder even though he can't make out the road in the dark. Apparently, he's somehow managed to walk past his intended destination without even noticing.

Great.

Golden eyes track his movement. "Oh well, it doesn't matter," Jaskier mutters. "So, a Griffin huh? That the winged beast the villagers were talking about?"

"Most likely."

"So, what does a Griffin look like up close? The only thing I gathered is that it's got wings and an impressive number of fangs," Jaskier says and he watches the Witcher curiously. The firewood hisses and more sparks travel towards the sky.

"No fangs," Geralt replies and when he looks at Jaskier the light of the flames makes his eyes glow. Almost like a cat. Jaskier can't help but stare at the golden colour. "The villagers tell you that?"

"Yeah," Jaskier replies distractedly.

"It's got a beak. Looks like a lion fucked an eagle-" Geralt says dryly and it’s so unexpected that Jaskier bursts out laughing. The corner or the Witcher’s mouth twitch while he continues - "But their lovechild is big enough to take off with a cow between its claws."

"And, did it?" Jaskier asks still with a grin on his face but curious.

"What?"

"Take off with a cow."

Something in Jaskier's expression seems to amuse the Witcher because he still hasn’t lost that hint of a smirk in his expression. "No. It did tear apart some sheep though."

"Oh," Jaskier says.

"Disappointed?" The Witcher raises an eyebrow.

"I don't know. Sheep simply don't sound very impressive."

"Hmm," is the Witcher's only reply.

Jaskier yawns again. Suddenly the strain of the day makes itself known and exhaustion washes over him. It's weird how easy sleep seems to come to him, now that he's found the Witcher. It feels rather peaceful. He wonders what Aiden is up to. 

"I think I'm going to bed now," Jaskier says and under the scrutinizing eyes of the Witcher, he unpacks his thin blanket, shakes his bag a bit - which makes his collection of pebbles rattle - and tugs it into a shape which hopefully resembles that of a pillow; because this is what he's planning to use it for. After Jaskier has tossed a few rocks which otherwise would dig into his back into the bushes, he wraps himself in his blanket, curls around his lute and closes his eyes.

He's dozing off, feeling the heavy gaze of the Witcher lingering on his form.

Chapter Text

After Jaskier has encountered Geralt again he stubbornly sticks around. This time the Witcher doesn't abandon him by riding into the sunset, but Jaskier thinks it's a near thing sometimes.

The first day Geralt barely talks. Jaskier is lucky if he gets some grunts or a word as an answer. Secretly, he thinks the Witcher is rather bemused by his presence and that's the main reason for his continuous reticence. He tries his best though to keep the conversation going. From time to time the Witcher stares at him so intensely that Jaskier, through all that distraction, has a hard time keeping all his limbs in check.

Jaskier doesn’t think that the Witcher would be considered conventionally attractive. While he’s got a strong jaw and a nice nose – the latter seems like it’s been broken at least once - his skin is a tad too pale and his body too lanky to be considered healthy. His hair probably too white. Even the eyelashes are colourless. And then there are of course his eyes. The colour of molten gold with a catlike pupil, visible especially whenever he stares into the glaring light and it contracts to a narrow line.

In other words, Jaskier would climb him like a tree.

So, when he doesn't spend his time singing, strumming his lute, or commenting on their surroundings, he fantasizes a bit.

The Witcher is a tad intimidating though and Jaskier has a hard enough time to get a single word out of him, so when he tries to flirt and it's met with nothing but stoic hums, he returns to distract himself by looking for a new flower to add to his collection, even though he knows it's pretty hopeless. It's September and despite the fact that it's still warm he only spots some white blooming herb that doesn't really appeal to him.  

The following day, Geralt doesn't behave much differently but he gives Jaskier one of these looks when the bard openly admits that he doesn't – and never has – possessed a proper bedroll in the time of his travels.

The topic becomes a recurring discussion when they make camp in the evening. Well, Geralt shoots him unimpressed looks and Jaskier defends himself verbose – and extensively.

"I'm wondering how you survived all this time," Geralt comments after about a week when Jaskier has – once again – stumbled and fallen down a hillside.

Look. It's not even Jaskier's fault. If Geralt would stop staring at him like that from time to time, Jaskier would a) not be distracted by his golden eyes, which intimidate and have him imagine various scenarios at the same time, and b) Geralt would not have to witness Jaskier embarrassing himself. Again.

Hypothetically a win, win situation for everyone. He doesn't dare to state it out loud though.  

After a few days, Geralt seems to have finally warmed up a bit, which in other words means that Jaskier finds himself the target of more than one sarcastic remark.

After ten days they enter their first settlement together. A small town in which Jaskier witnesses firsthand how people react when they encounter a real-live Witcher.

He's known that people aren't too fond of them but the issue is put in a whole other perspective when a merchant spits at their feet as soon as he spots them walking past him. Jaskier is too taken aback by the whole situation to do anything but stare and if it weren't for the fact that he was so surprised he would've gone after the man.

The Witcher himself appears to close himself off completely after the incident.  

"Unbelievable," Jaskier says, addressing Geralt anyway. "He couldn't have been more of a prick." The Witcher keeps quiet. "Gods, I hope he falls face-first into that puddle of cow dung," Jaskier mutters and golden eyes briefly flick towards him.

The bard decides that he dislikes this town. The streets are muddy, it smells of shit, muck and sweat, and the people have all been rude pricks so far. They stare out of their windows but close the shutters as soon as they come closer. Mothers call for their children when they walk past, people on the street go out of their way to keep their distance and icy stares trail after them. Even a cat has been hissing at them. Overall, a town full of assholes.

"What are we going to do now?" Jaskier asks while they make their way towards the marketplace.

" I am going to look for a contract," Geralt rasps and his gloved hand strokes over Roach's neck. Jaskier is still not allowed to touch her. 

"Oh, fascinating. First time seeing a Witcher at work," the bard replies, rubbing his hands. Technically, it would be the second time, but considering he spent the majority of his first adventure with the Witcher unconscious, tied and being beaten up and the devil turned out Sylvan and a bunch of thieving elves, it probably can't count as a real monster hunt. "I’m coming with you. So how do you go about that? Are you simply asking people-”

“No.”

"What, no?"

"I'm going alone."

“Then what am I supposed to do?” Jaskier asks.

Roach’s bridle clinks when the Witcher stops to face the bard. "I don't care.” With that, he marches off.

Jaskier huffs as he watches him leave. The bard would've usually seen these words as an invitation to trot along, but they are probably both short of money and there is an inn right around the corner. Besides, even though he’s reluctant to part with Geralt, he doubts that the Witcher is used to a company, which doesn’t solely consist of his horse. After ten days the man might need some time for himself.

In the end, Jaskier concludes that Geralt will probably stay in this town a little longer anyway. Roach needs new shoes; he's noticed that one is wobbly and from what he's seen so far, the Witcher cares more about his horse than any other being. The bard guesses that he can risk an hour or two. Besides, as fascinating as the witcher is, Jaskier is rather glad they've reentered into civilisation. He yearns for a bath and the thought of the ale they'll undoubtedly serve in the inn adds a new spring to his step.

Jaskier haggles with the plump and balding innkeeper and he thinks he managed quite well. For offering to play, he gets two meals and a room for the night, that is if he manages to draw a decent crowd.

And so Jaskier does what he was born to do and performs. He sits down on a stool in the corner and starts playing a simple melody. When he's drawn some attention, he begins to play the songs which every villager knows from childhood on.

Shortly word is out that a bard is in town and people trickle in. Jaskier flirts and entertains and listens to the requests of the patrons to fulfil their wishes as best as he can.  

Soon the sweat is dripping from the ceiling, the taproom is crowded and Jaskier is dancing on a table while the locals are drinking and bellowing the lyrics alongside him.

He's spotted at least two opportunities for a good lay, mainly the buxom serving girl with the dark plait who grins daringly at him when he winks at her and another woman with wild curls and pretty freckles who touches his arm longer than necessary when she requests a particular filthy ballad. Later he recalculates and ups the number to a three because he’s noticed the lingering glances of a stable boy leaning against the wall.

He scraps every single one of them when the door opens and he sees the faces they make when the Witcher enters. Geralt isn’t noticed immediately but when he’s taken a few steps in, heads turn and the room falls silent. Soon enough Jaskier's voice is the only sound but the song is almost over and he doesn’t dare to start a new one.

He watches how Geralt takes in the dimly lit room, his eyes lingering on Jaskier for a moment before he walks towards the bar where the Innkeeper busies himself by wiping down some tankards.

The noise resumes, but it's no longer the joyful atmosphere from before. The locals whisper and murmur, their overlapping conversations turning into a consistent hum, which drowns out the dark and threatening sound that crawls up Jaskier's throat when he hears the insults, they hurl at the Witcher.

"Mutant," they hiss and spit on the ground to ward off the evil eye.

"... Witcher passed through their town and all the milk went sour," he hears a woman whisper while she eyes Geralt who approaches the Innkeeper.

"We don't serve the likes of you, " the stout Innkeeper says disparagingly, with a red face, but someone closer to Jaskier drowns out the man’s voice

"I'm telling you, Borys, they've got no souls, 'em Hexers..."

Jaskier is shocked. Although there were a lot of times when he was met with hostility when singing ‘ Toss a coin’, the bard had never realized how severe the reactions could be if the people encountered someone who actually was a Witcher. Jaskier picks up the bowl of coin that belongs to him and empties it into his pocket. No one pays attention to him now anyway. Subtly he slides down the table he's been standing on and approaches the girl with the dark plait who he's been flirting with earlier.

"Butcher," someone suddenly says in a corner and the name gets picked up on, till a whole bunch of new conversations spark in the room which is permeated with fear and hate. "Look," Jaskier overhears Geralt say, "All I'm asking is if there's a contract-"

Jaskier taps the buxom girl on her shoulder. She startles but when she turns around and realizes it's him, her hand slides from the talisman she wears around her neck and smiles. But the bard isn't really interested anymore. He quietly asks her for the two meals he's owed and he hints that he wants to take them outside. She looks him up and down and her smile widens before she hurries behind the counter and into the kitchen.

Jaskier does nothing to disperse her assumptions. He leans against a wooden beam and lets his gaze wander till his eyes land on Geralt again. The Witcher still talks to the Innkeeper. It's hard to pick up on what's being said with all the other conversations going on, but Jaskier tries his best to listen.

"-no work for you here, mutant."

Suddenly a drunken man is staggering towards Jaskier. The man almost runs into him, and Jaskier can smell the alcohol wafting from his garlicky breath. “Ey bard,” the man slurs, “Play me a song.”

“Ah, I’m terribly sorry, good man,” Jaskier replies, while he tries to glance over the man’s shoulder, “I fear I must rest my voice for a few minutes.”

"-a room?" Geralt asks in the background. The innkeeper spits on the floor.

The drunk in front of Jaskier stumbles and blocks his view again. “Come on,” he insists and the bard has to take a step back when the man steadies himself by using the wooden beam as a crutch. “We need some distraction from this mutant whore-son over there.”

Something icy runs down Jaskier’s spine and it must have shown on his face because the drunkard raises his hands in a placating gesture, spilling more of his ale in the process. “Alright, ‘lright. Didn’t know you were such a prissy.” While the local stumbles away, Jaskier tries to find Geralt again, but there is only the innkeeper.

Fuck.

Well. He’ll simply wait till his food is here and, in the meantime, fetch his belongings so that he can leave as soon as possible. The bard is already uneasy having left his bag and lute out of his reach.

But before Jaskier reaches the table where he’s left his things, he picks up on a conversation that has the blood freezing in his veins.  

“…show the mutant what we think of their kind here.”

It doesn’t take long till he spots a group of three burly men on one of the corner tables standing up.

By the way, they are gesturing towards the door through which the Witcher has apparently disappeared tells Jaskier exactly what they are planning to do.

The bard throws a quick look towards his lute. Making a split-second decision, he heads towards the ruffians who wear expressions of men who look like they’re going to war. Something possessive flares up within him. The least he can do is to stall them, till Geralt has hopefully disappeared into one of the many streets and stepped out of sight.

On the way to the men, he snatches an unattended cup from a nearby table and easily falls into the role of the drunk.

So, before the men can take more than a few steps towards the exit, the bard trips , coincidentally blocking their path from a certain Witcher.

"Whoa, whoa, hol' on," Jaskier says, slurring his words. When one of the men wants to push past him, he fakes a stagger and grabs onto his shirt. "I don- I don't think I can... I think 'm gonna throw up." The man he's holding on to pushes him away, a disgusted expression on his face and Jaskier stumbles back.

"Piss off bard," the man’s companion growls and Jaskier knows there is nothing he can do to stop them any longer. So, he does what he always does in these situations. Something incredibly stupid.

"That's not what your wife said to me last night," he says, drawing out the syllables.

"What did you just say?"

"I said," Jaskier repeats, swinging his arm wildly, conveniently spilling ale all over the unpleasant company, " That's not what your wife said to me last night."  

He pauses for a moment.

"Now that I think about it, it might have been your mother ."

"You son of a whore!" the local spits and then Jaskier has to duck because otherwise there would've been a fist in his face. "I'm going to kill you," the man roars and makes a grabbing motion. Jaskier drops the drunken act and jumps aside. But the man is not alone and his friend manages to grasp the collar of Jaskier's doublet and pulls him back.

The man whose mother he's insulted punches him in the face and Jaskier tastes blood. He can’t even blink before the punch is followed by a knee in his stomach. Jaskier doubles over wheezing and he hears the third man of the group laugh, but the small brawl has drawn attention.

Someone shouts at them to either stop this idiocy or take their argument outside while people around them bawl and holler. Meanwhile, the innkeeper throws his towel onto the counter and stomps towards them.

Jaskier uses the small moment of distraction to throw his head back with full force.

There is a crunching sound when the back of his head meets the face of the brute who's restraining him.

He hears a pained groan and then he's dropped to the floor. Jaskier immediately dives under a table. Accompanied by the laughter of people and the curses of the men he’s fighting with; he crawls past the skirt-clad legs of shocked and outraged women before he jumps up again. Quickly he locates his lute and bag, but when he’s gathered all of his belongings and wants to bolt towards the exit, he sees that it's blocked by two of the men he’s picked a fight with. They are scanning the crowd, apparently having lost him for now, but Jaskier knows it’s only a matter of seconds till they are going to spot him.

He doesn't have time to think, so he turns right and jumps behind the bar before he slips into the kitchen, ignoring the angry outcry of the innkeeper. As soon as he's slipped through the door, Jaskier is faced with the stunned serving girl from earlier who was apparently about to return to the taproom, with a sizable bundle wrapped in cloth.

"What happened?!" she asks him with a horrified look on her face.

"It's nothing," Jaskier replies while he throws a quick look over his shoulder. "This is not by chance my food, is it?" Jaskier asks her when he's turned back around and the girl nods with wide eyes. "Good, I'll take that."

The bard snatches the bundle from the frozen girls’ hands and stuffs it into his bag. Then he heads for the sole point of exit he can spot in the kitchen, which is - unfortunately - a window. Thankfully he’s had a lot of practice in leaving places through unconventional means.

The girl is still frozen on the spot as she watches him disappear through the opening with a bemused expression.

Jaskier curses when he ends up on the outside and immediately steps into something foul and gooey. He’s landed in an enclosure of geese and chickens, which promptly flutter and screech when they spot him.

“Could you be any louder?!” Jaskier hisses, shifting the hold on his bag just before a white goose decides to attack him. “Oh fucking - ow! Piss off,” Jaskier spits and tries to kick it when he hears the door to the kitchen being slammed open. “Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.”

Running with a lute on his back and the bundle in his arms isn’t his favourite thing to do, but it’s not like it’s the first time either.

It takes him almost half an hour to locate Geralt afterwards and when he finds him, it’s just outside the edge of the town where the Witcher is merrily riding west.

Jaskier is already contemplating all the ways through which he can express to Geralt what exactly he thinks about the fact that the Witcher was going to leave him behind just like that when he finally catches up to him. Even before he’s walking next to the Witcher on his horse, he notices the tension in Geralt’s shoulders. There is something heavy clinging to him, like a weight crushing him down, even though it’s not visible. 

It’s Geralt who acknowledges him first.

“Bard,” the Witcher states.

“Witcher,” Jaskier parrots in his usual fashion and when Geralt throws him a glance, Jaskier- despite the indifferent tone - gains the impression that the man is glad to see him. He’s still catching his breath and so, after a few minutes, it’s once again Geralt who breaches the silence. “I-“ the Witcher starts, but then he pauses.

“What?”

Geralt stares at the road in front of them and frowns. “I was under the impression that you would stay in the town,” he presses out eventually.

“With all these narrow-minded hicks? No thank you.” And because Jaskier notices the look Geralt throws him - it's the same expression he wears every time Jaskier says something that could be vaguely interpreted as being nice towards the Witcher - he adds, “No appreciation for music there. Wouldn’t know talent if it hit them in the face." Unbidden the memory of the crunching sound when Jaskier knocked the other local in the nose resurfaces. "Literally,” he adds.

Geralt hums.

“Geralt,” Jaskier begins after they’ve walked a little further and he takes the silence that follows as permission to continue, “If you ever try to leave me behind like this again – I’m telling you – I won’t hesitate to go after you. And then I will stab you.”

“Hmm.” Jaskier gets the impression that it’s an amused sound this time .  

“I’m serious.”

“Being threatened by a bard,” Geralt says and there is a small smile on his lips. “Frightening.”

“Make fun of me all you want, but heed my words. Underestimating me will be your downfall,” Jaskier declares with an elaborate gesture.

Geralt looks at him again. “What happened to your face?” he asks.

Jaskier almost forgot about the punch, but when he traces his bottom lip with his tongue, he notices that it’s split. The Witcher didn’t sound exactly worried, but Jaskier appreciates the sentiment either way. “I got assaulted by a goose,” he tells him.

“A goose?” Geralt raises an eyebrow.

“Yes, a goose,” Jaskier confirms, gripping the strap of his bag and more dramatically he adds, “You should’ve seen it, Geralt. Viciously it attacked me, I could barely escape with my life.”

“Terrifying,” Geralt comments dryly.

“I’m telling you, not even you could’ve bested this mighty beast! Well, maybe Roach would stand a chance.”

Jaskier reaches out to pat the horse who promptly snaps at him.

Geralt smirks.

“Yeah, yeah,” Jaskier huffs. “You two go and conspire against me while you braid each other’s hair when we make camp. I’ll simply have to sit all alone, wallowing in my misery, while eating all of that food I managed to procure before we left this fucking town.”

Jaskier watches Geralt closely for a reaction and so he catches the man glancing at him. 

Their gazes meet. 

Jaskier smirks victoriously. 

The Witcher rolls his eyes.

They make camp a few hours later, next to two tall pines stretching towards the sky. While Geralt brushes down Roach's dusty coat, Jaskier begins to gather some firewood. It's been their routine for the last few days, but since Geralt still seems occupied with his horse, Jaskier begins to set up the camp on his own. He clears the spot from pine cones and rocks before he notes the chilly wind and digs a small pit for their fire. While he is setting up their fireplace, Geralt walks over to him, saddlebags over his shoulder and his bedroll in hand.

The Witcher sets up his spot quietly and efficiently before he sits down and watches Jaskier work. "I didn't know that you could set up a proper fire."

"There are many things you don't know about me," Jaskier says with a smirk and steps back. "Could you do your-" he imitates something that - with a lot of fantasy - could be one of Geralt’s witchery gestures - "thing?"

Geralt complies, throwing an effortless sign and the wood catches fire, shooting sparks towards the sky. 

Meanwhile, Jaskier sits down and makes himself comfortable. For a short moment, they only hear the crackling flames and Roach's steady breathing. Over their heads, the branches of the pines rustle in the wind as the last daylight fades away.

"Tell me, then," Geralt says and Jaskier throws him a confused look. "Something that I don't know about you," the Witcher clarifies.

Jaskier blinks and it takes a lot to keep his bewilderment at Geralt instigating a conversation from showing on his face. He decides to accept this as the rare gift that it is and truly thinks about the question. "There are a lot of things to choose from," he says eventually and it's a strange mood that has settled over them. He pulls out the bundle of food which he's been carrying since the inn and pulls back the cloth. "Ooh, we are lucky… ," he comments. There is half a loaf of bread with a bit of cheese as well as meat from the roast the inn served. Jaskier also pulls out a bottle of wine.

Geralt raises his eyebrows.

"The girl who packed it might have made some assumptions regarding my affections." Jaskier grins at him. He takes the bundle and shuffles closer to Geralt. "Here, help yourself."

Geralt glances at him before he reaches for the bread. Meanwhile, Jaskier fumbles with the cork sealing the bottle. With a plop, it comes open.

Jaskier takes a hearty swig and then offers it to Witcher, who reaches out to take it while he’s still chewing. 

There is an odd satisfaction at seeing Geralt eating the food he provided. It’s kind of ridiculous, but Jaskier blames it on being the competent one for once. Usually, it’s Geralt who shows him up in any kind of skill, apart from singing and playing the lute and maybe social interaction. Though Jaskier still isn’t quite sure whether the latter is to be blamed on Geralt simply not liking people in general. Currently, the odds are tipped in that favour.

The bard picks up a piece of meat. "Uhm," he says and turns to look at the fire. "I’m really good at climbing trees."

“Climbing trees,” Geralt states after he’s washed the bread down with a bit of the wine - of course not before he's sniffed it - as Jaskier has noticed him doing almost compulsory. “Not really what I expected.”

“When I was a child, I was always really fascinated by great heights,” Jaskier elaborates. “I grew up near the sea so I had no idea of what a mountain might look like, otherwise I might have run away simply to get to one. My family was lucky that ‘ a hill but bigger’ doesn't sound very impressive when there is a hill with a tree on top merely a quarter-mile away.”

“So, little Jaskier scaled trees all day long.”

“So, I did,” Jaskier says.

“Hm.”

“Well,” Jaskier begins and snatches the bottle of wine from Geralt’s hands, “What about you? Tell me something that I don’t know about you.”

Jaskier takes a swig of the bottle and looks at Geralt expectantly. Golden eyes stare into the fire contemplatively. The Witcher opens his mouth and then he closes it again. “I’m not actually from Riva,” he says eventually.

Jaskier gapes. “But what about the name?”

Geralt shrugs. “We were told to pick a surname.”

“And the accent?!”

“Trained.” There is a pause and when Geralt decides to speak again his voice is streaked with bitter amusement. “It’s supposed to make us sound more trustworthy.”

“Us?” the bard inquires.

“Witchers.”

“Ah,” Jaskier says and takes a sip. After a few moments he voices, “And so, you chose ‘of Rivia’,” to breach the looming tension.

Geralt says nothing but he snatches away the bottle of wine before Jaskier can complete another sip.

“Wait a minute, no, no,” Jaskier says and he grins slyly when he spots the very neutral expression on the man's face, “there's more, isn't it?”

Geralt's eyes flick towards him.

“I knew it!” Jaskier says. 

Under his staring, Geralt gives in. “'of Rivia‘, was a second choice.”

“Well,” the bard says curiously. “What about the first choice?” He looks at Geralt expectantly.

“Geralt Roger Eric di Haute-Bellegarde,“ Geralt says and tips the bottle to his mouth.

Jaskier bursts into laughter.

“Yeah, yeah. Hilarious,” Geralt comments dryly when he’s swallowed.

“No-” Jaskier utters between laughs and he wipes away tears - “No, I like it. It sounds so …distinguished,” he says and then he’s again rolling with laughter.

“It sounds stupid,” Geralt says. The corners of his mouth are twitching.

“I mean you obviously liked it back then,” Jaskier says grinning. “What made you change your mind?”

“Our sword instructor. He said it sounded pretentious and I should pick something else.”

Jaskier grins at Geralt, “Don’t take it to heart. I think Geralt Roger Eric di Haute-Bellegarde would’ve made a fine Witcher.”

Geralt shakes his head with an amused expression on his face. He looks at the fire and takes another sip.

“No, but for real. Since you shared so openly, I’m willing to trade you another piece of information about yours truly.” Jaskier replies and leans a bit towards the Witcher.

“Oh, are we trading now?”

“Yes, yes we are,” Jaskier says and he takes the bottle of wine from Geralt’s hands. Another gust of wind has the branches of the pines rustling. “You’ll owe me a story. Of a hunt. One that can be made into a great song.”

The Witcher hums.   

Jaskier grins. “I take that as a yes.” Suddenly he feels a bit nervous and he wets his lip. “Julian. Um. My name is Julian. Jaskier - it’s not really my given name.”

Jaskier swallows under Geralt’s heavy golden gaze. “We should do something about your lip,” he says out of the blue.

“What?” Jaskier blinks distractedly and pulls his eyes from the eye-catching shade of Geralt's that he so often seems to linger at. If he expected an answer, it surely wasn’t that.

Meanwhile, Geralt is already rummaging through the saddlebags lying next to him. “Here.” He tosses Jaskier something and when the bard catches it, he is looking at a small container.

“A salve. For the swelling.”

“Oh.” Jaskier looks at Geralt positively surprised and something small and warm blooms in his chest. “Thank you,” he manages honestly.

Once he’s smeared a little bit of the salve onto his split lip and handed it back to Geralt, both of their attention is wholly taken up by the food. Once they’ve packed away that which they want to save for the following day, Jaskier takes note of the fact that they still have some wine left. Shortly after, they are switching the bottle back and forth.

“Can Witchers get drunk?” Jaskier asks, trying to sate an old curiosity of his, ever since he's met Aiden. He offers Geralt the bottle.

“Yes,” Geralt says and after a moment he adds, “But we have a higher tolerance than humans.”

“In other words, you have to drink a lot preferably in a short amount of time to get hammered,” Jaskier concludes and leans back on his hands.

“That’s about it.”

“We should get deliriously drunk sometime,” Jaskier suggests. “I imagine it would be quite the experience. Though between the both of us, the amount of coin we’d need for it might be a problem.” He only gets a hum as an answer.

It’s been silent between them for quite some time when Geralt goes to check on Roach and Jaskier wraps himself up in his thin blanket, curling up next to the fire. 

Even after Geralt has returned, Jaskier still lies awake. It’s cold. The wind has picked up and he pulls his lute tighter to his body. The last few days have been warm but today Jaskier realizes that it’s actually September. The summer is over and soon the leaves of the trees will start to turn red and fall off.

Another gust of wind seems to blow right through Jaskier’s holey blanket and even his clothes. The ground also slowly gets colder. He almost regrets having trudged after the Witcher and leaving behind a perfectly good room in the inn. Almost.

He shuffles closer to the fire.

And for a brief moment, the cold is chased away. He lets out a content sigh .

A few minutes pass. Another gust of wind.

The fire isn't enough.

Jaskier contemplates whether he should put on the second - and better - doublet he has in his bag. He dismisses the thought. It’s still in a rather good condition and he doesn’t want to ruin the expensive fabric. And to put it on, he would have to emerge from under his blanket.

“Get over here bard,” he hears a gruff voice say.

“What?”

“I can hear your teeth clatter from over here. You're gonna take the bedroll.”

Jaskier sits up. He stares at Geralt. The Witcher’s features are softened by the orange glow of the fire and his golden eyes glimmer in the dark. He pushes a persistent strand of his white hair back and stands up.

Apparently, he’s misinterpreted Jaskier’s staring because he says, “I can manage without a night of sleep or two.”

“We could share,” Jaskier offers while his eyes follow the line of Geralt's jaw. It sounds like a really good idea now that he thinks about it. A spike of arousal curls in his loins.

“Just take the damn bedroll Jaskier,” Geralt retorts and then he picks up his weapons from next to the sheepskin and takes a few steps towards the fire. The hilts of both swords shimmer in the light of the flames as he lays them down and moves to kneel behind them.

“What are you doing?” Jaskier says.

“Meditating,” is the gruff response.

Jaskier walks over to the bedroll. He can smell Geralt on the old leather. He pulls his own belongings as close as he can and drapes Geralt’s worn-down blanket around his body as well. The spot where the Witcher laid is still warm and Jaskier inhales the scent of wool, horse and a hint of onion and well, Geralt. A content sigh escapes his lips as he noses the material, and he gives in to the urge of rubbing his cheek against the worn leather.

“Sleep Jaskier.”

“Goodnight Geralt,” Jaskier says quietly. After a moment he can hear Geralt’s deep voice utter an answer.

“'night.”

Following Geralt comes with many rules.

The first two rules Jaskier has learned within the first two weeks they travel together.

“Don't touch Roach.” and “Don't eat something if you don’t know if it’s edible, Jaskier.”

Shortly after which follows, “If you plan to travel on the road any longer this year, at least buy yourself a better blanket.”

Jaskier buys himself a better blanket. He can’t afford a pelt though.

After they encounter their first monsters, new rules join the others.

“If I tell you to stay back, bard, you stay back.”

“If you see a monster, Jaskier, you don’t get closer to get a better look. You shout my name and run in the opposite direction!”

“If you are really so insistent to follow me around while I’m on a hunt, then you are going to do what I fucking tell you. Now shut up and stay with Roach.” (Jaskier tends to ignore this one more often than not)

There are unspoken rules as well. Rules that are established without anyone ever mentioning them aloud.

For example, Geralt doesn’t question Jaskier’s odd habit of carrying a bunch of pebbles with him. Even if it’s impractical. And even if he hears them rattle with every step Jaskier takes. Nor does he remark on the fact that Jaskier is oddly territorial once he’s placed his things a certain way.

Jaskier doesn’t ask about the brooch Geralt carries with him, nor the person to whom it belonged  - after one particularly awkward faux pass. He avoids the topic of Blaviken as a whole.

They don’t comment on each other’s wanking habits.

Geralt deals with monsters, Jaskier deals with innkeepers.

Geralt doesn’t tell Jaskier that his songs are good.

Jaskier doesn’t comment on the fact that Geralt sometimes hums one of his tunes. He is allowed to grin though.

There are a few things that Jaskier notices right from the beginning.

In towns, Geralt will turn into the Witcher, who will ruthlessly haggle for the price of a contract. He will smirk in a mean way, red mouth splitting open like a wound in the white face and his upper lip will curl up in the mockery of a snarl when people are being rude. But Jaskier sees how his eyes flicker to the rundown mill and how Geralt will notice the watered-down milk in the villager’s houses. And then the man will relent and the amount of coin he’ll demand is so little that he has to sleep in his worn-down blanket for another three weeks because he can’t pay for a new one.

And Jaskier thought that he’d finally figured him out. The Witcher, the mutant people so fear is nothing more than a mask. Yet one day Geralt outright snarls at an innkeeper who's done nothing wrong, simply because he had a bad day and Jaskier suddenly isn’t so sure anymore.

And yet he sticks around. Jaskier himself has often been more than vocal about his displeasure and if Geralt displays his mood swings in a more …unusual way, who is he to judge?

Not even a week later Geralt will turn down a well-paid contract with an emotionless expression, stating that he can’t hunt a certain creature because it’s against the Witcher’s code. When Jaskier asks him about it later, the Witcher tells him that while another might take the job, he doesn’t hunt the likes of godlings and nymphs, because they are creatures who can think for themselves and usually don’t do any harm. Afterwards, the bard will ask himself how people could’ve ever thought of the Witcher as a monster.

They travel together for about nine weeks. During that time, they get kicked out of taverns four times; once because of the Witcher and thrice because of Jaskier. The bard thinks that Geralt was secretly impressed by the time his cheating in a card game was the reason for their eviction. It only came to light because of his endless winning streak. But the times his romantic endeavours were at fault for them being thrown out on the streets probably lessened that positive impact.

On another note, Jaskier also writes two more songs about the Witcher. Each one for a hunt he accompanies Geralt to. He doesn’t write a song about the contract for the drowners though, because as it turns out there is nothing poetic about drowners.

He mentions it to Geralt, but the man simply shrugs. “It is what it is,” he says and that’s it.

When they travel through Kaedwen and the days grow colder, they stay in inns more frequently. Jaskier is content with how things are going. The people are ready to celebrate after the fields have been harvested, he earns good coin by performing and his songs about the Witcher’s good deeds appear to have finally had some impact.

But the nights they spend outside are cold and harsh and Jaskier wakes up more than once with numb fingers and toes. He’s torn between staying with Geralt or looking for a comfortable place where he can spend the winter.

It all comes to a close on a day in early November when Jaskier drops down in a chair opposite to Geralt after a particularly good performance and the Witcher tells him out of the blue that they have to go their separate ways.

Jaskier nearly chokes on a mouthful of ale at the unexpected statement. After overcoming his coughing, he leans back in his chair. “But why?” he asks, wiping his mouth, not exactly averse to the notion - instinctive reluctance aside - but curious.

Geralt looks at him with that expression – his brows furrowed the tiniest bit – which tells Jaskier that he is thinking really hard about something.

Jaskier stares when the Witcher wets his lips with his tongue before he says, “I have to take care of some stuff."

“And?” Jaskier replies flippantly and he turns his attention to the remaining cheese on the wooden plate in front of Geralt. "I don't see a problem with that,” he says as he picks through the leftovers. “You have been taking care of stuff the last few months we've been travelling together too."

“This time you can’t come with me,” Geralt says while Jaskier throws a piece of food in the air and catches it with his mouth.

"And why exactly would that be?” the bard asks daringly while he chews, deliberately ignoring the manners ingrained in him as a child.

The muscle in Geralt’s jaw is twitching as he stares at Jaskier. Eventually, he says, “It's not a place for humans.”

Jaskier stops what he is doing and stares at the Witcher. After a moment he huffs a laugh and leans against the back of his chair before he takes a drag of his ale. It’s rather stale at this point.

“Jaskier,” Geralt rasps with the tiniest hint of exasperation. That has the bard pausing.

“Wait… You're serious, aren’t you?” Jaskier says and he puts down his ale. After looking at Geralt for a moment, he crosses his arms and places them on the table, his expression now pensive. “How come you never mentioned that before then?”

Geralt shrugs. “I thought it wouldn’t come up.”

“You thought I’d just leave and the situation would sort itself out once I'm gone,” the bard guesses. He did stick around stubbornly, after all, even in the times Geralt threatened to leave him in the one or other backwater village. Still, he rolls his eyes when Geralt doesn’t answer. After a moment of silence, Jaskier sits up and empties his tankard in one go. “Fine, then don’t tell me. Keep your secrets, oh mysterious Witcher. Just…” He hesitates. Jaskier doesn’t like the idea of leaving Geralt, especially after all this time, but the notion of staying on the road during the winter like they are now, makes him shudder. “Are you going to be alright?”

“What?” The taken aback expression on Geralt’s face would’ve been almost hilarious if it weren't for the fact that he hadn’t yet gotten an answer for his question.

“I know you heard what I said, but since you are sometimes a bit slow, I am going to spell it out for you again. Are you going to be safe , Geralt?” The Witcher stares at Jaskier. “I won’t let you leave on your own only to hear in a few months that you ended up in a ditch somewhere,” the bard adds then, gesturing with another piece of cheese he’d snatched from the Witcher’s plate.

Somehow they end up staring at each other, neither willing to back off. Eventually, Geralt snorts and looks away, before his golden eyes fixate Jaskier again.

“I’m a Witcher, Jaskier,” he says as if it has anything to do with what they are discussing.  

“Obviously,” the bard answers since Geralt seems to expect some kind of reaction to what he said.

“People don’t care about Witchers.”

“Well, I do.”

“Then you are an idiot.”

“I’ll have you know that I’m a master of the seven liberal arts,” Jaskier retorts with a smirk but Geralt leans forward, his expression serious.

“Listen, Jaskier. My life isn’t all banquets, whores, wine and heroics. I’m a Witcher. I live as a Witcher and I’m going to die as a Witcher. Maybe it’s sooner, maybe it’s later. I’ve made my peace with that. But that doesn’t mean that you have to get involved in that shitfest too.”

“Maybe I want to be involved,” Jaskier argues. So far he counts at least seven times they’ve had this particular discussion, but never before has he stated his intentions so boldly. Geralt stares at him with an unreadable look and the bard’s expression softens. “You are my friend , Geralt,” he says and he means it. Their relationship as travelling companions - barker and knight, bard and Witcher - whatever one deigns to call it, might’ve started out as Jaskier inserting himself into Geralt’s routine for not quite selfless reasons, but his attachment to the Witcher has only grown from that first intriguing impression of the white-haired man at the table in Posada. 

“We aren’t friends,” the Witcher replies with his raspy voice. The serving girl chooses this exact moment to arrive at their table and she awkwardly looks back and forth between them.

Jaskier closes his mouth and he must’ve looked like a fish upon dry water. Still, he’s somewhat glad for the interruption, not quite knowing what to retort either way. The rejection stung. 

“There is someone who wants to talk to you, Master Hexer,” she says and when she points at a man who glances at them from the corner of his eye, Jaskier detects the usual dour complexion of someone who is in need of a Witcher. Geralt throws Jaskier a last look before he stands up from the creaking bench.

Jaskier watches Geralt walk over to the peasant, his movements silent and efficient before the bard motions for the serving girl, indicating his empty tankard.

The next morning when Jaskier wakes and goes down to order breakfast, he learns that Geralt is gone.  

Chapter Text

The winter is long. Longer than Jaskier could wish for. He doesn’t manage to return to Oxenfurt by the time the first snow falls and since he isn’t particularly keen on travelling in those icy conditions he spends three months in Vergen, where he is able to get a position as a tutor for the son of an Earl. And isn't that ironic.

Though overall, his life is pretty comfortable. He is asked to play a song by the Countess once on a whim of hers, but after that, he gets to perform at their court whenever the need for a bard arises. His popularity increases steadily and he shares his bed with more than one of his admirers. There is talk and gossip and Jaskier sucks it all up like a sponge. During feasts and banquets, wine is running freely and between singing and the short breaks in which he’s hastily wolfing down some pieces of food, Jaskier picks up pieces of lazy talk about Nilfgard’s activities in the south which is quickly dismissed as non-concerning.

Jaskier is content, but he finds himself surprised by how much he misses Geralt. He catches his mind wandering and conjuring images of the white-haired Witcher whenever he's bored, which in turn causes him to think about Aiden too, wondering if he’s gotten around to fixing his armour by now. It’s almost been a year since he’s met his first Witcher, which also has him realizing that he’s been travelling for about the same time.

The realization comes with quite the vindication and Jaskier drinks to his father, emptying a whole bottle of nicked Everluce to celebrate having proven the man wrong. He contemplates writing a letter to him purely out of spite, but instead addresses some to his sisters and leaves it at that.

When spring comes around, Jaskier invests the money he made into two new doublets, a sturdy lute case, a thick woollen blanket and pelt as well as new boots. Despite the expenses, he leaves Vergen still with a decent amount of coin and heads west.

It takes him a while to get used to the open road again, but his steps are light - at least once his shoes are broken in - and Jaskier is glad to be travelling again. He performs in villages and towns, where he is welcomed by people who have survived another harsh winter and he brings joy and laughter with him. Jaskier trades sweets he has brought from the royal court for woven ribbons from children and he recites limericks and plays filthy ballads which he hasn’t dared to play all winter.

“Toss a coin,” is one of his most requested songs.

It’s early April when he reaches Oxenfurt and Jaskier breathes in the scent of the city. He finds an inn squeezed between a bathhouse and a herb shop, and as soon as he’s locked the door of the room he’s rented, Jaskier is out in the streets. He walks down a muddy and crowded alley and lets the noise of the city wash over him. He passes workshops, studios, stalls, and taverns, and there are food vendors advertising their wares – overall the bard feels at home.

Over the next few days, Jaskier strolls through the city and its narrow alleys, buying trinkets and visiting the University as well as its extensive library. He tries to read up a bit on Witchers on a whim, but there isn’t much information on them and most of what he finds doesn’t really correlate to the experiences he had.

Jaskier also meets up with old friends and professors and inquires about the well-being and state of other acquaintances. There he picks up some letters which have been sent to him over the last year by people whom he doesn’t deign to inform about his whereabouts and when he learns that Valdo Marx has had some success in Cidaris, Jaskier proceeds to get sloshed, visits a brothel and only then he writes him a letter back, embellishing his three months in Vergen to the best of his abilities.

Jaskier visits the markets, goes drinking on the shore of the Pontar, takes part in a bardic competition – in which he makes the second place – and steals some rhymes from a fellow bard for his most recent ballad.

All in all, he manages three weeks, before the city begins to lose its appeal. The scents he’s enjoyed in the beginning start to become overwhelming, as do the noise and the crowds. Partially it’s also because his money is running low and he’s managed to have himself thrown out of three different taverns for various reasons. He misses being on the road, and now that the factor that he can’t pay his bills gets added to that, Jaskier knows that it’s time to leave soon.

Yet, there is no harm in staying a little longer, and it’s like this that Jaskier finds himself drawn to one of the filthier – and cheaper – taverns in a more run-down part of the town.

Since the tavern is squeezed between two other buildings - at which Jaskier didn’t bother to take a closer look - it’s built more for height than width. This is where the dockworkers and the sailors drink as well as sell-swords and moonlighters. All in all, the clientele consists of people of more questionable morale. The air is misty and Jaskier can’t really see anything that's further than a few feet from him. There is a gallery which a narrow staircase leads up to. Whores offering their services stroll past the tables, trying to draw the eyes of the wealthier looking men while simultaneously repelling the poorer ones next to serving girls with trays of ale.   

Jaskier is already quite drunk. He’s left his most prized possessions in the room of the inn he’s staying in - locked in a trunk and thoroughly hidden away -  so he isn’t really worried about getting mugged. Besides, he knows how to avoid sneaky hands trying to get to his coin even though his ability to walk a straight line disappeared two to three ales ago. 

Nevertheless, he’s in a miserable mood. 

Today he’s been banned from the single last tavern in the University district because he’s run up quite the bill, Valdo Marx has replied to his letter telling him how wonderful his time in Cidaris is and apparently, Jaskier has ruined his favourite doublet in a drunken stupor yesterday evening. Furthermore, there is the matter of his lack of money. He’s still got enough for three, maybe four days of living expenses. He’s lucky that he paid for his room in advance but that doesn’t really help him if he can’t afford anything to eat. For now, though, Jaskier is faced with a more immediate problem which is the lack of alcohol in his blood.

He barely manages to sidestep a table of heavily tattooed sailors who laugh and holler while one of them recites a story about an encounter with a siren – which Jaskier is pretty sure is a lie after what he’s learned during the time he travelled with Geralt; their nipples are green, not pink as a very thorough questioning revealed – while he makes his way over to the bar.

Despite his drunken state, it’s totally not his fault when he gets tripped and accidentally shoves a stranger who promptly spills some ale from both of the cups he’s holding.

“Watch where you are going cockhead,” a deep voice snaps.

“I’m terribly sorry, good sir,” Jaskier says unenthusiastically, more occupied with the wet patch developing on his doublet than the other man. He is about to stagger past the stranger but before he can do anything the man cuts off his path by taking a smooth step to the side.

“Yeah, I sure hope so. You fucking owe me two new ales.”

It takes a moment for Jaskier to comprehend these words. His eyes wander down to the stranger’s hands with the two cups and for the first time to the man’s face.

“You barely even spilt anything!” Jaskier says and he gestures towards the ales.

“Let’s call it a matter of principle,” the man sneers as he shifts, the light of the oil lamps illuminating his features.

He’s perhaps in his mid- to late twenties, with a short beard and copper brown hair that’s just long enough to turn into curls which seem to stick in various directions. There is a slim scar running through one of his eyebrows and continuing just below his eye. And what eyes that are. Twin pupils widen in a cat-like manner to accommodate the light, black holes among a sea of dark gold. Jaskier drowns in them almost immediately. An odd kind of rumble builds in his chest.

He stares stupidly for probably longer than appropriate before he spots the sneer on the man's face and remembers that he is supposed to be pissed off because that man – Witcher or not – is a prick. And now he’s gotta wash even more stains out of his doublet. 

“Hey, listen, friend,” Jaskier slurs, “I’ve had a shitty day too, you know... I got thrown out of my favorite tavern so I’ve had to fall back on this particular establishment and earlier I barely avoided someone spilling the contents of their chamber pot on top of my head, which – by the looks of it – I apparently didn't manage yesterday and it ruined my favorite doublet!" Jaskier undermines the weight of the statement with a wide gesture. "Luckily I don’t remember most of it – be that as it may," Jaskier taps against the stranger’s worn leather jerkin with his index finger – he blames it on the fact that he’s used to being tactile with Geralt and his inappropriate urge to touch everything pretty passing his fancy - "’s'not my fault if you can’t manage to keep hold of your stuff. I don't know if you've noticed," the bard says with a sweeping gesture indicating their surroundings, "But this is a tavern. You can’t expect everyone to take your delicate nature into account. Accidents happen. Let’s just leave it like that and everyone can go do whatever they please.”
Jaskier blinks at the Witcher and his drunken haze doesn’t exactly help him with suppressing the oncoming and rather annoying urge to bury his nose in the Witcher’s neck to get a better whiff of his scent. 

“You don’t know who you are messing with,” the man says and it’s probably supposed to sound dangerous. But the alcohol in his blood is making Jaskier reckless. Besides, he has seen Geralt wearing this exact expression and somehow observing it on someone else is as strange as it is hilarious.

“Pff, hell no. And, how should I? You didn’t bother to introduce yourself, did you?” Jaskier says flippantly, although he already knows that this Witcher has probably joined his small collection of people he’s not likely to forget. Damn those golden eyes. 

“I could kill you without so much as breaking into a sweat,” the stranger growls intimidatingly.

Jaskier huffs and accidentally sways a bit towards the stranger, catching himself at the last moment through leaning against a beam a bit to his left. Still he uses the opportunity his inebriation granted him to take a short but deep inhale to smell the man. Beneath the overlaying odour of sweat, ale and smoke, there lies something herbally mixed with a trace of black powder as well as something sweet – plum schnapps maybe? – and the tiniest underlying thing that somehow reminds him of Geralt. "Seeing as you've had years of training in killing monsters, you might have an unfair advantage in that department,” Jaskier adds with a wave of his hand, oddly satisfied at having given in to his odd notions before he crosses his arms.

The Witcher stares at him strangely and the bard is once again faced with those eyes. While this man appears to be a bit better fed than the other Witchers the bard has encountered so far, Jaskier recognizes the worn-down state of his jerkin and the patch on one of his boots. “Look,” he finds himself saying almost without his conscious permission, “If I agree to pay for your ale will you stop being an ass about it?”

"Oh, I am the ass in the situation?" the Witcher retorts. The bard already regrets his offer.

"I thought that was obvious," Jaskier retorts, while he turns to face the bar to order himself an ale.

And yet, when the Witcher simply grunts in a fashion that is so very familiar an unwilling snort presses through Jaskier’s nose.

“What’s so funny?” the Witcher growls threateningly. The bard waves him off.

“Nothing,” Jaskier says and when he looks over his shoulder the golden-eyed man glowers darkly at him. The bard blames the mix of alcohol and continuous exposure to a certain other monster-slayer that has him speaking without fearing repercussions. “Don’t worry. I wouldn’t dare to laugh about someone of your profession, Witcher… Lest you eat my grandchildren or something of the likes,” the bard continues and orders himself an ale and then two more for the Witcher, if only because he reminds him of Geralt. When Jaskier sees the Witcher’s odd expression he rolls his eyes. “Woe to those who think of treating you like ordinary people for once. Gods…” he mutters and louder he explains. “That was a joke .”

The man behind the bar slams their ale onto the counter and under his scrutinizing stare, Jaskier pulls out the last few coins of his left pocket and counts the right amount onto the counter.

“So,” Jaskier says and turns to the Witcher. The bard knocks back half of his own ale in one go and wipes his mouth before he says, “Where’s your table?” His drunken state has lowered his inhibitions quite a bit, which in turn means that the odd desire of sticking by the man’s side and the fact that material for new songs is thin, conclude to him most likely not leaving this man alone for the foreseeable future.

On the other hand, the closed-off expression on the man’s face says everything.

But Jaskier will be damned if he doesn’t at least try to wring one story out of the Witcher. He’ll swallow his pride if it means that he can finally finish that one ballad he’s been working on for months. Also, this is the third Witcher Jaskier has ever met. He can’t help but be somewhat intrigued.

The bard lets out an exaggerating sigh. “Well obviously, you are going to need my help, if you don’t want to balance two cups on top of your head. Not that I'd doubt your abilities in that department- “ The ale in his cup sloshes dangerously when he gestures -  “but even you have to admit that it would look kind of ridiculous."

Jaskier doesn’t wait for permission – he’s travelled with Geralt for long enough to know how to handle a Witcher with that kind of disposition, thank you very much – and thus simply picks up two of the Witcher’s cups. 

The Witcher rolls his eyes. “Just follow me,” he says gruffly and turns around. Jaskier grins victoriously. The Witcher meanwhile doesn’t wait nor takes Jaskier's drunken state into account so the bard has to do quite the multitasking. Balancing three cups is a bit of a hassle and keeping his eyes open for the grumpy Witcher in addition to that, almost has him drop his precious goods. Miraculously, he manages to weave his way through the crowd without an incident and he follows the Witcher up the gallery.

Once he reaches the upper level, he’s a bit lost but then through the misty air, he spots the Witcher’s dark silhouette sitting down at one of the corner tables. Muttering breathless curses as a bit of the ale spills over his already sticky fingers, Jaskier hopes that the whole hassle will be worth it.

Apparently, the Witcher wasn’t alone, if the other person sitting there is anything to go by. That also explains the second cup of ale the Witcher’s brought with him.

“-self what took you so long,” Jaskier hears the other person say through the noise as he walks towards them.

“That asshole over there had me spill our ale.”

“And you had him buy you new ones.”

“Of course,” the Witcher says and Jaskier can almost hear the smirk in his voice. The bard gets even closer and then he can finally make out the face of the other person, who is sitting in this dark corner. It’s a man about the same age as the Witcher, with black hair. Even in the dim light, his well-kept beard doesn’t quite manage to hide the scars which tell of the chickenpox he probably caught when he was a child.

“Hello,” Jaskier says, carefully setting down the cups on the table while he sits down without an invitation. Both men simultaneously turn to look at him with twin stares, while Jaskier casually pulls his own ale towards him. 

Only after he’s taken a sip, does Jaskier realize that the other man must be a Witcher too. Because even though his eyes are bloodshot and from a poisonous yellow-green colour, his pupils are formed like slits. It’s kind of strange to not immediately be drawn to one of their kind, but Jaskier leans back in his chair with a pleased expression anyway.
After all, this doubles his chances for a new story.

“Hello,” the black-haired Witcher says kindly and his lips twitch with amusement. He smells vaguely of spices and some kind of scented oil. A pleasant surprise, considering how long it took Jaskier to nag Geralt into buying even a mild scented soap. In addition, a faint accent streaks his voice which Jaskier can’t place. Meanwhile, the other man seems to have overcome his shock over the new addition at their table and he glares at Jaskier.

“What the hell do you think you are doing?!” the golden-eyed Witcher hisses and he leans towards the bard who in turn shifts a bit back, but is otherwise rather unbothered by the situation.

“It’s called socializing,” Jaskier says, his tongue faster than his brain in his inebriated state. 

The black-haired Witcher laughs while the one Jaskier is currently talking to is almost growling at him. “Piss off,” he snarls and then there’s a knife in his hand.

Jaskier is suddenly not as unaffected and he is staring at the glinting metal with wide eyes. The black-haired Witcher doesn’t even twitch at the sight of the weapon, but his face takes on that kind of suffering look many mothers tend to wear when they hear of their children's misgivings. 

“Lambert,” he says. Still, it’s more of a request than a warning or scolding. 

The Witcher – Lambert’s golden eyes flick towards the other man before they fixate Jaskier again. But then he puts away the glinting blade and his posture loses some of the tension. His eyes remain on the bard like a hawk.

“What’s your name?” the black-haired Witcher asks with a polite smile and Jaskier turns his head to look at him.  

“Jaskier,” he says and extends his hand. The Witcher seems baffled for a moment before he shakes it. His palms are surprisingly soft for a Witcher, mainly calloused between the thumb and forefinger where he handles his sword, and his grip is strong and tingly. From beneath his sleeve, the dark lines of a tattoo curl towards his knuckles.

“Coën,” he introduces himself and after he lets go, he jerks his chin towards the other Witcher. “And this is Lambert.”

“Ah,” Jaskier says. Lambert’s expression tells the bard that he couldn’t care less about whether Jaskier knew his name or not. Today is apparently not his day.

“Say,” Coën begins, “What brings you to seek out the company of two Witchers?” The tone he uses is light but his gaze is vigilant. Jaskier sobers up somewhat at that and he gets the impression that simply because this Witcher is polite that doesn’t mean that he isn’t just as dangerous as the other man. Perhaps even more if simply for the fact that Jaskier can’t read him.

“And don’t bother to lie,” Lambert adds, interrupting the bard’s thoughts and he leans onto the table with a toothy grin, displaying his slightly sharper-than-human canines. “We mutants can hear your heartbeat... You want something, don’t you?”

“Well,” Jaskier begins slightly uncomfortable since, just like Lambert guessed, his motives aren’t as altruistic as he’d like them to believe, “You see, I’m a bard and I’ve been working on this ballad about a Witcher-“

“Really seems to become a trend these days,” Lambert mutters darkly as he pulls back and takes a sip of his ale.

Jaskier decides that it might not be the best idea to mention that he is not only the only one following the trend but also the founder, if the Witcher’s expression is anything to go by.

“Anyways,” Jaskier continues, glossing over the comment, “I’ve been working on that ballad and there are a few details which I’m still not quite sure on and since you two are certainly experts on this topic, I thought it would be worth a try to ask you about it when I’m already so lucky to come across you…” Jaskier lets the sentence trail off and he looks at the two men hopefully.

“You want us to help us to write you a song? About a Witcher?” Coën asks and now he seems honestly bemused by the whole thing.

“I’m out,” Lambert states and he puts his empty cup down with more force than necessary and pulls a full one towards him. Jaskier glances hopefully at Coën who seems more amenable to the idea.

The black-haired Witcher sighs. “Why not,” he says with a shrug. Lambert groans.

“Really?! You want to help the bardling write a song?!”

“Could be interesting,” Coën says.

“Well some of us,” Jaskier adds pointedly with a look at Lambert, somewhat offended by the disparaging tone the Witcher used, “Simply know to appreciate the finer arts of life.”

“Go bore someone else with your prattling,” Lambert retorts dismissively while he’s still looking at Coën. “You really want to help this run along puffed-up songster…”

“Well, it would be nice for once to have a hand in what is written about us.”

“You don’t believe his story, do you?” Lambert asks.

“Hey,” Jaskier interrupts, “I’m still here, by the-“

“Put a sock in it,” the Witcher cuts him off, “No one’s talking to you.” Jaskier’s mouth drops open at the blunt rudeness he’s faced with.

“What could he gain by asking two Witchers about their opinions?” Coën asks.

Lambert and Coën stare at each other and Jaskier can only observe their changing expressions while a silent conversation seems to take place.

“Ten minutes?” Coën asks with a one-shouldered shrug. He grows on Jaskier more and more. 

Lambert grimaces around the mouthful of ale he swallows. “Five,” he retorts. 

Coën hums in agreement. At that Lambert turns to Jaskier, and with a reluctant look, he says, “You’ve got five minutes, bardling. Go, ask your questions.”

“Five minutes-“ Jaskier splutters. “That’s nowhere near-“

“Take it or leave it,” Lambert cuts him off. Jaskier takes it.

“Okay, okay.” The bard scrambles to get his notebook out of his pockets but soon realizes that he must’ve left it behind in his room. Sheepishly he looks up. “Do either of you carry a quill and paper by chance?” Lambert throws Coën a telling look. “Um- good, fine. I guess I simply gotta remember everything,” Jaskier utters. “Um, so… well-”

“How about you tell us what your ballad is about first and then we’ll see what we can do,” Coën says in a calm voice and it helps Jaskier to focus on the essential task. He even manages to ignore the disparaging noise Lambert makes at the statement.

“Very well, um, so basically, I wrote about an alp haunting a town where it kills various people before the Witcher comes to save the day, as it's done of course, as well as the damsel in distress. The maiden proceeds to fall in love with her saviour. The Witcher though, cannot stay but the girl promises to wait for her love, who heroically returns to the path to continue with his good deeds.” 

Jaskier is met with two blank stares and so he hurriedly adds, “Of course, this is only the roughest of all summaries and overall, it’s more of a study of the topic of love as well as good and evil. They get explored in various layers and also representatively with the darkness standing for the alp and the silvery light of the moon for the Witcher. The juxtaposition of the different kinds of love – the illusionary attraction between the Alp and the previous victims it lured in, in contrast to the true love between the maiden and the Witcher – create a-“

“Alright, I think we got it,” Lambert cuts him off, a somewhat constipated expression on his face.

“Why don’t you tell us where you need our help,” Coën suggests.

“Um, of course,” he says and shifts in his chair. “So basically, I need to know everything about an alp.”

“An alp?”

“Well, I already wrote the part where it got killed and most of the other stuff, but there are a few details – I mean, is the ‘luring in’ part too out of character? I wasn’t really sure. Of course, alps have been compared to succubi but I don’t know if it’s just a rumour…”

Geralt hadn’t been very forthcoming with information that day and since Jaskier had only decided to fashion the story into a song during a boring day in the winter months, solely relying on his notes, he hadn’t had the time yet to ask a Witcher about certain details.
In reality, the fair maiden in Jaskier’s song had been a farmer in his mid-forties. But middle-aged men simply don’t arouse the reactions in an audience like beautiful women do. Thankfully Geralt isn’t as hung up about the bard changing those details. Though gods help him if he changes a fact about a monster without talking to the Witcher first. He vividly recalls the speech he was subjected to after he had written about a Bruxae sparing her mortal lover by turning him into one of theirs…

“Countless fools will run into their death with open arms, trying to get bitten by bruxae in an ill-fated attempt to gain immortality. Not to mention that vampires and humans are different species. They're just as likely to turn a human into a vampire as you are to turn into a pig when it bites you.”

Those words are the reason why Jaskier is currently sitting here, asking two Witchers about the nature of monsters.

Coën tilts his head. “Overall alps are vampires that resemble women in appearance, usually appearing at night. Some of them interact with people during the day, luring them in with their looks so to say…”

The black-haired Witcher continues in his explanation and Jaskier tries to remember everything to his best abilities. He asks questions and Coën seems to answer freely, till suddenly Lambert interrupts them.

“So, the history lesson is over,” he says and looks at the other Witcher who seems to take this as a cue to stop talking. “This day is reserved for drinking and drinking only.”

“Hey,” Jaskier begins in protest, “There is still so much-“

Lambert stares at him. “I think you really want to go home now and finish that ballad you were prattling on about.” The bard barely notices the gesture he makes with his hand because the Witcher’s words reverberate in his head. Every other thought seems to lose its importance, hazy fog pushing them to the back of his mind.

His ballad could really use some tweaking. And better to work on it now that all the information is still fresh in his head. Jaskier stands up abruptly, the chair he’s been sitting on scratching over the floor. He should really go back to the inn where he keeps his notes, but his mother didn’t raise him without manners so he utters a, “Thank you, Master Witchers, you’ve been a great help,” and with that, he turns on his heel and heads for the stairs.

Jaskier barely registers the words and the chuckle behind him - “Really, Lambert?”

“What?! Come on. Don’t tell me he didn’t annoy you too…” – before the voices mix with the buzz of the other conversations in the room.

The next morning, Jaskier wakes up in his bed in the inn, the noise of the city outside harsh as are the smells. Moreover, the splitting headache he feels isn’t lessened by the sunlight pouring through the window. It only takes him a look to see his notes that are strewn all over the room, to realize that Lambert seems to have turned to some more drastic measures to get rid of him. That damn Witcher bewitched him…

What a prick.

Two hours later the innkeeper knocks on his door, demanding that he either get out or pay for another day in the room.

Gods. It was time for him to leave the city anyway.

Chapter Text

Once he’s back on the road, Jaskier decides to follow the Pontar again. Though this time he travels south, through Lavalette and then towards Vizima. He follows the road as he pleases, going with his instinct more than once when he’s met with a crossroad. Apparently, his songs really have begun to travel and he makes good money while he’s on the road. Though Jaskier has begun to dislike bigger towns and cities quite a bit. He doesn't know what it is, but the noises and especially the smells grow overwhelming quickly. Jaskier learns to ground himself by focusing on a tune and thus when he's humming or strumming his lute it isn't all that hard to manage.

He's just travelling through the second town after leaving Lavalette, when he manages to stumble into an inn where people are talking in hushed voices about the white-haired Witcher who is out there hunting the wargs plaguing the area.

Jaskier has barely been there for more than half an hour when the man himself enters, dirty and with a bundle of bloody pelts over his shoulders. The bard abandons the poor girl he's been flirting with immediately in favour of greeting the Witcher, whom he hasn't seen in probably half a year.

"Geralt!" he says enthusiastically and walks towards the Witcher who is taking in the room till his eyes fall onto Jaskier.

"Bard," he replies. Jaskier can’t help but grin.

"I see, you've made it through the winter, whole and unscathed," Jaskier says, beaming at the Witcher who is covered in a layer of filth and dirt. "I hope that isn't your blood, is it?" the bard asks and he reaches out to pluck an undefinable piece of gunk from the man’s shoulder before thinking better of it. Meanwhile, Geralt takes a step towards the counter. 

"Not mine." A chunk of flesh falls from the bundle of pelts and it hits the floor with a splat.

"Well, I hope so. You really need a bath, don't you?" Jaskier says, grimacing at the bloody clot on the ground. "Because now that I'm actually walking next to you, the scent of blood and guts is pretty overwhelming. Did you kill one while it was right over you?"

Geralt grunts and sets the bloody bundle of pelts down on the ground. "You’ve got a tub, haven’t you?” Jaskier demands to know from the innkeeper, who eyes the filthy floor with disdain, but there is no outright hate in her eyes as she looks at the Witcher.

“Well, we got one where we wash our sheets in,” the innkeeper says, her speech heavily streaked with the local dialect. She looks a bit like Jaskier's elder sister. Well, his sister if she were thirty years older. Somehow that makes him a tad uncomfortable.

“Perfect. I assume it’s big enough for someone to sit in?” he questions over Geralt’s shoulder.

“I reckon.”

“What do you say Geralt, a bath to your room? You do have a room, do you?"

Geralt nods and pulls out a handful of coins, smearing blood all over them. The woman behind the counter eyes them. Geralt adds more money under her hawk-like stare.

"I'll have the girls bring it up. But it'll cost ya extra if you wan’ it warm," the Innkeeper voices then and Jaskier makes a mental note to put a bit of his extra coin into Geralt’s saddlebags. He’s made enough recently to be able to afford it and it’s not like they didn’t live out of each other’s purses last time they travelled together either.

"Cold is alright," Geralt rumbles.

She nods towards the pelts. "There is a tanner in town who might be interested in those." Jaskier grimaces - he’s very aware of the smell of that particular building outside of the city.

Geralt grunts in agreement and the woman takes the coins from the counter, already starting to polish them with some kind of rag from behind the bar.

The Witcher picks up his bundle and heads for the stairs. Jaskier simply follows.

"Huh, let's hope that wasn't the same piece of cloth she used to wipe the tankards with," Jaskier says and he looks Geralt up and down when his eyes catch on something white. "Is that a fang in your hair?"

"Hm."

"Gross - anyways, is this a weird moment for me to mention that I've recently developed this strange craving for meat? Well, actually now that I've said it, I think it was probably weird. But you kinda smell like blood soup. I always thought they were the last thing I'd ever eat but let me tell you, I bought one last week and it wasn't even that bad,” Jaskier says as they stomp up the narrow staircase. “Though the same couldn't be said for the bread. Terrible quality, Geralt. I'm telling you."

Geralt hums. He leaves bloody smears on the steps where he walks and Jaskier makes an effort to avoid them.

"Jaskier, I hear you ask. How have you been, Jaskier?" the bard says and he tries to imitate Geralt's voice. It's not even half bad. "Thank you, Geralt, for your interest. Since you asked so kindly, I'm going to tell you. Well, I've been in Vergen during the winter months. It was dreadfully boring. Well on the one hand. On the other hand, I had lots of sex. I don't know if you've heard but my songs have gained quite the reputation and apparently, fame and my roguish charm are what all the ladies crave."

"Their standards must be awfully low," Geralt replies and there is the hint of a grin on his face.

"Well, thank you. Your sarcasm is terribly appreciated, Geralt," Jaskier retorts equally sarcastically and he follows the Witcher into a room. He promptly flops down on the bed while Geralt drops his bundle onto the floor and he makes a sign - Igni Jaskier remembers - to light the sole candle which is standing on a table. The room hasn't got any windows but it's pretty decent in terms of what Geralt can afford on his own.

Jaskier watches how Geralt pulls out one of his swords from its sheath and it comes out bloodstained.

"Was it a good hunt?" Jaskier asks and rolls onto his belly.

Geralt hums and he rummages through his bags and pulls out a rag. Jaskier decides that it's a yes.

"How was your winter? Did you go to your mysterious place?"

"It was alright."

"Good to hear," Jaskier says, tapping the frame of the bed for a moment, but there’s nothing more that’s revealed to him. He watches Geralt struggle a bit with his sword belt. "Come on, let me help."

The Witcher assesses him for a moment and then he shrugs and grunts. Jaskier stands up and walks over to him. The buckles are slippery from blood but Jaskier thinks it's mostly because of the pelts Geralt has been carrying on his shoulders.

"I’m glad to see that you are fine- oh, oh no. You are not fine at all. This is a bite-wound, isn’t it?” Jaskier says as he notices the bloody indents on Geralt’s arm where his shirt has been torn. “And don’t tell me-“ Jaskier lowers his voice – “ ’tis but a scratch, Jaskier. Nothing to worry about. It’ll be healed in the morning, bard' - because I’d call bullshit. We are so going to bandage that, Geralt.”

“Got unlucky,” the Witcher says and he pulls his reinforced leather jerkin over his head after he has put the swords down. He regards them like Jaskier does his lute, which means that he doesn’t leave them more than three feet away from him - especially the silver one. “A stone went out from under my foot. Had to keep the beast off with my arm till I could reach my sword again.”

“So you did kill one right over you.”

“Hm.” 

“Well, by the looks of it, it showered you with its intestines.”

There is a knock on the door and when Geralt opens, two girls are waiting to be granted entrance. He gestures for them to come in and takes a step back. They are rolling a tub through the door and it barely fits even though they’ve tipped it vertically.

Jaskier eyes them, disliking the way they walk with their heads down and how they glimpse at Geralt with fear in their eyes. The Witcher doesn’t seem to notice. They disappear and return shortly after with buckets full of water. To distract himself, Jaskier begins to chatter about this and that and Geralt dips his rag into the first traces of bathwater and starts to clean his sword with the wet piece of cloth.

Eventually, the tub is almost full and they leave one of the buckets with water to rinse off the dirt afterwards. Jaskier is glad they are gone and with it the tension in the air. Running back into Geralt has lifted his mood exponentially.

Geralt looks at Jaskier who’s still chatting while sitting on the bed and then after a moment he simply pulls off his remaining clothes and steps into the tub.  

Jaskier’s mouth dries out instantly as he stares at Geralt. It was only a brief moment in which he could see - well - all of the Witcher, but boy did it make an impact.

It’s really time that he visits a brothel again…

“If you didn’t want to see me naked, Jaskier, you should’ve left earlier,” Geralt says, somewhat amused.

“Oh no. No, I don't mind at all,” Jaskier says and he grins.

The Witcher simply rolls his eyes at the flirting, while the bard tries to subtly shift to accommodate the rising evidence of his arousal.

Jaskier has had crushes before. Fleeting and yet impactful for they are the things that manage to inspire him the most. He's always liked pretty things and can honestly confess that most of his trysts were fueled by more of a physical nature. And that’s just how Jaskier likes it. Mostly those encounters end with him having to flee through a window though, but if that isn't the case, he tends to grow bored sooner or later anyway.

But he can’t deny that it has been the same with Geralt after he’s known him for a while. An infatuation, a heedless attraction to the man and the adventures he brought.

What musician isn’t at least a little fixated on their muse?

Yet, unfortunately, Geralt seems less than interested in giving in to Jaskier's attempts of getting into his pants.

“Besides," the bard continues out loud, "It’s not like I’ve never been to a bathhouse before... Now that I think about it, I didn’t tell you about the time in Oxenfurt when I- oh… What did you do?” Jaskier inquires curiously because suddenly there’s steam rising from the water.

“Igni.”

“Oh, that does come in handy. Though, isn’t it… I don’t know – hard to get the right temperature? Because I mean you could probably boil yourself like a vegetable in a stew.”

“It takes some practice.”

“I don’t recall seeing you do something like that before,” Jaskier ponders out loud.

Geralt shrugs. “Got more rooms in inns recently.”

“Ah,” Jaskier replies. “ Oh ,” he says when he realizes what that means. He beams. His songs really did take off. “Well, um good. That sounds good,” the bard says and he watches the curve of Geralt’s throat as he leans the back of his head against the tub, before he tries to get a glimpse of some lower regions as well.

It’s not like there’s any harm in looking.

That night Jaskier packs all his stuff, so when the Witcher is planning to depart the next morning, the bard is already waiting in the stables. Geralt comments on his presence only with an unreadable look and a hum before he turns to saddle Roach.

Jaskier watches him for a while as he moves around his horse until Geralt grips the reins and the bard hurries to pick up his bag and lute to follow him. “You know,” Jaskier begins while he squeezes himself out alongside the Witcher and his mare. “You’d think a man your age would be able to come up with a name other than Roach...” Not that he knows how old Geralt exactly is. The Witcher has alluded to the fact he’s old previously but how old… Jaskier can only guess. They step out onto a muddy yard, where people are busy doing their daily work. A group of young children is chasing after a few chickens who run around freely and scatter whenever someone comes close, not caring about getting wet when they run through one of the puddles on the ground. “How many poor horses had to suffer from your lack of name-giving skills?”

“Never heard someone complain about that before,” Geralt says while he swings himself in the saddle. Roach neighs softly and the Witcher clicks his tongue to get the brown mare to move.

“Well, that’s probably because everyone is too intimidated by your grumpy face. I mean even I was hesitant to mention it out loud when I first met you,” Jaskier tells him. “But the thought did cross my mind.”

“You kept something to yourself? I’m impressed,” Geralt states as he looks down at Jaskier.

“Hey, it’s not like I blurt out every thought that crosses my mind,” Jaskier protests, narrowly avoiding a pile of horseshit when they pass a small forge. “Otherwise I’d long been stabbed.”

“You have been stabbed,” the Witcher unhelpfully supplies. “Various times.”

“ Two times ,” Jaskier retorts. “Since we met. Besides, that’s not the point.” The bard scoffs when he notices a few women pulling their children close when they spot the Witcher.

“Three. If you count the one where you managed to stick the blade in your hand yourself,” the Witcher adds, seemingly not bothered by the people who throw him dark looks. But from what Jaskier has experienced, for Geralt, every local who doesn’t outright spit at him is already a win. 

“I thought we agreed we wouldn’t mention this particular incident again,” Jaskier hisses under his breath.

“Hmm. That I don’t recall,” Geralt says with a small smirk.

“Oh, alright-” Jaskier nods- “So, that means you don’t mind if I publish that song about that one time a Drowner practically ripped through your pants and you had to fight the rest of the beasts with your butt hanging out?”

Admittedly, the most glorious five minutes of Jaskier’s life – until today probably – despite the fact that during the whole affair, he had been rather occupied with trying to stay alive and not getting eaten by one of the creatures.

“You wouldn’t dare…” the Witcher growls.

Jaskier laughs. “Are you sure? I feel like a limerick to pay the whole incident-“

“I will leave you in the next village, I swear,” Geralt mutters.

Jaskier simply laughs. “Pff. You are too fond of me to even try it.” An old woman curses the children who splashed mud water all over her when they ran past.

“ Fond is not the word I would use to describe you,” Geralt says.

“Oh. So, tell me, dear Witcher. What words would you use to describe me?” Jaskier asks jokingly but curious all the same. “Talented? Handsome? A delight to be around?”

“A fucking menace, that’s what you are,” Geralt rasps.

“Ah, is that so?” Jaskier asks with a grin.

“Mhm. You’re like a boil on my ass that I can’t seem to get rid of.”

“I didn’t know you had boils on your ass, Geralt,” Jaskier voices innocently. “Very graphic.”

“Witcher’s don’t get boils,” the Witcher grumbles.    

“Then how can you compare me to one if you never had one?” Jaskier inquires mischievously.

“You talk too much, bard.”

Jaskier sticks out his tongue. “You just couldn’t come up with a good enough answer,” he says and pulls the lute from his shoulder.

“You are a child,” Geralt says.

“And you are an old man. So, what’s your point? If we are to believe some intellectuals in Oxenfurt, age is an illusion anyway.” Jaskier strums a chord on his lute and hums a bit before he singsongs, “You’ll find knowledge which elders long have forgotten if you look in the eyes of a child. And the woman on the fields knows more than a scholar about the nature of the world and the wild.”

“I want to see you when you sprout the first grey hair on your head,” Geralt says wryly.

“It will be a long time till that happens. Besides, I bet it will make me look even more sophisticated.”

“More likely you’re gonna have a nervous breakdown in front of a mirror.”

“You wanna bet on it?” Jaskier asks. Geralt looks down at him, before he grunts and turns back to look at the street.

“Why not. What are the stakes?”

Jaskier shrugs. “Five crowns?”

“Ten,” the Witcher says. 

“Done.” After a while, Jaskier begins to hum and a smile appears on his face. “You know Geralt,” he begins, gripping his lute strap, “The fact that you agreed to the bet just tells me that you expect me to stick around for some time longer.”

“And why’s that?”

“Well, it’s gonna take a while till I get grey hairs so obviously you think we’re still going to be friends then.”

“We aren’t friends.”

“Then why would you agree to bet?” Jaskier retorts.

The Witcher shrugs. “Either I get coin out of it, or you miraculously leave me alone before we can debate the outcome of the bet. All in all, I get something out of it either way.”

The bard’s jaw drops. “How dare-“ he is so caught up in being offended that he steps into a puddle, the cold creeping into his shoe displacing every other issue. Jaskier curses.

The Witcher laughs at him.

Jaskier proceeds to throw a clump of mud at Geralt.

After their reunion, they head south towards Cintra. Jaskier’s popularity slowly rises, though he has to credit Geralt for most of the songs he writes. His creative process has never been better and he works on one tune after the other.

Predictably the bard starts to pick flowers again while they’re on the path but surprisingly sometimes Geralt stops and does the same. After a while, the bard asks him about it and thus, he learns about the different herbs and plants that wander into Witcher potions. Geralt never tells him the full recipe but there’s a frequent mention of how poisonous the potions are to an ordinary human, even to a point where Jaskier outright tells Geralt that he must be thinking him stupid. Still, after a good while, Jaskier has a rather vast knowledge of what plants possess healing properties and which ones are of other nature in addition to his poetic knowledge of the flowers.

Almost without noticing, Jaskier starts a habit of picking up more of those herbs which Geralt needs and stuffs them into the Witcher’s saddlebags, which from then on never seem to run quite that low again. It isn’t all that hard to part from them in those cases. He also files away any information on what certain Witcher potions are called and what they look like, but Jaskier finds that they are best distinguished by their smell. The ones with drowner brains in them are the most telling. Jaskier takes over an hour to comprehend this fact when he learns about it and he gains a whole new amount of respect for Witchers, as he can’t imagine what it feels like to down potions based on monster organs on a regular basis.

It’s a surprisingly long time, till Jaskier learns what Geralt looks like when his veins are tainted with those Witcher potions. When his skin is like chalk and his pupils have swallowed the gold of his irises. He doesn’t like that the colour in Geralt’s eyes is gone, but on the other hand, it makes him look rather fierce. Jaskier on the spot comes up with various metaphors to use in his songs for them - likening them to a night at a new moon and the depths of a dark lake. The bard doesn’t know why Geralt made such a big fuss about hiding it from him, because he must have if the time they've travelled together so far is any indicator of that.

When Jaskier keeps sticking around after that, Geralt teaches him how to make a snare to catch rabbits and also how to gut and skin them properly. Jaskier is not exactly keen on repeating that exact experience but he believes it was a weird way of saying thank you.

After a moment of panic during a hunt for a royal wyvern in Ellander, Jaskier gets taught how to properly stitch a wound by an elderly priestess of the Melitele, who already appears to be acquainted with the Witcher if the muttered curses and ‘typical’’s are anything to go by. Geralt, thankfully, was apparently not mortally injured by the sluggishly bleeding claw marks on his back – merely knocked out, but it didn’t hurt their relationship that Geralt now actually believes Jaskier when the bard tells him that he won’t simply let the Witcher die in a ditch should he end up in one.

Since that short stay in the temple, Jaskier is also allowed to carry Geralt’s swords around. They are lighter than he expected and razor-sharp - and it shouldn’t feel as much of an accomplishment as it does.

They had mostly travelled parallel to the river Ina towards Cintra but crisscrossed Temeria to where Geralt’s work would lead him. Jaskier doesn’t know how and why, but they end up in a giant swamp region located near Vizima.

The bard hates it with a passion. And he is pretty verbal about it.

“Gods, I hate this fucking swamp! Trees, trees, fucking everywhere and not a hill in sight to maybe get a glimpse of surroundings that aren’t consisting of stinking water, plants and mud!” he complains after he’s once again sunk into something that looked like solid ground but turned out to be a puddle of water amongst grass. He was designated to lead Roach, who neighs softly next to him.  

“Stay on the path, Jaskier,” Geralt says, who scouts their way a bit further along the road.

“Path… Path, he calls it,” Jaskier mutters. Louder, he states, “Gods, why did it have to rain yesterday? Can’t we simply have a bit of luck?” Jaskier turns to the horse which he is currently leading, “You agree with me don’t you Roach? Nothing against you, but to be perfectly honest my feet wouldn’t be so wet if your ass was a tiny bit smaller.”

“Just go in front of her.”

“We were having a conversation in private,” Jaskier shoots back. “Besides, she doesn’t like it when I do that. She always tries to eat my hair!”

His only answer is an amused snort.

“At least you’ve stopped biting me,” the bard tells Roach.

“It’s because you bribe her with food,” is the – not untrue – reply from the front. Jaskier denies it anyways.

“Lies, slander! All accusations made on false ground. I demand a reproach,” he shoots back. “Come on Roach, you are the authority on that matter... What do you say?” Jaskier tilts his head and fake listens. “You do like me, don’t you?”

He can hear the amused huff when Roach chooses this moment to shake her mane to drive some annoying flies away, making her bridle clink together in the process. Jaskier can practically see the smirk on Geralt’s face despite him having turned his back towards them. “Inconvenient timing Roach,” Jaskier hisses to the horse under his breath. “Inconvenient timing. You can forget any apples in the next few weeks if you continue to behave like that.” 

A minute passes and then Jaskier slaps his own neck in an attempt to kill a mosquito. “Gods,” he begins, “I swear these creatures get more annoying the longer we travel together. Have you ever noticed that mosquitoes can be incredibly loud if there are so many? Well, who am I asking, you probably have because of your witchery senses so I really shouldn’t complain about that..."

"Hasn't stopped you before," is the gruff reply. Jaskier huffs. After a minute he speaks up once more.  

"Why are we heading for that town again?

“People went missing. There might be a contract in the next town."

“Ah yes. What kind of monster do you think it is?"

"Probably a foglet. But with all that water — could be drowners as well.”

"‘Where you find water, you find life’," Jaskier says with a pompous voice and then he adds, "and all that druidic shit. Why is there not a saying like, ‘Don’t build your home in a swamp because you are likely to get eaten by some kind of hideous creature’?" Geralt snorts amused. Jaskier takes a big step to avoid a puddle. "What’s a foglet again? The one with the light that lures people to their deaths?”

A hum – which Jaskier has deemed the approving hum – is his only answer.

“I’m wondering what a foglet looks like. I hope it’s not drowners. Those reek. Not that this swamp is much better on its own. Also, it’s really hard to find a good rhyme for drowner. The only thing that comes to mind is ‘downer’ and that… would actually fit quite well, but no. Maybe a foglet would be a better material for a song.” Jaskier hums a tune and starts to compose a bit, talking in the rhythm of a balladeer. “Don’t dare to take another step, in deepest swamps when sun has set… Hm … because in ever darkest night … don’t follow the light? There lurks a fright? What do you think, Geralt? Would you mind if I changed the monster to a foglet when it turns out to be a drowner?” There is no answer, not even a hum and when Jaskier looks up he notices that Geralt has stopped. The bard takes a few more steps till he’s standing next to the Witcher and follows his line of sight which is currently focused on a wooden marker indicating the next town.  

“Well, that explains why the path has gotten wider,” Jaskier announces loudly even though he isn’t too sure of the truthfulness of his statement. “Do you think we are going to reach an inn soon? That would be heavenly because I doubt we could get a proper fire going here, not to mention find a dry spot to curl up to sleep.”

Geralt hums contemplatively. He still stares at the signpost.  

“What?” Jaskier asks. Roach’s tail hits his thighs as she flicks it and the mare shakes her head again. She is just as impatient to get out of this swamp as Jaskier.

“I don’t know. I don’t remember that sign.”

“Maybe they put it up? Or you’ve forgotten that it was there. I mean it looks legitimate… See, there’s even the emblem of the city burnt into the wood.” Jaskier points at the dark lines indicating a lion in a shield.

“Hmm.”

“We could turn around?” Jaskier suggests halfheartedly. He is not at all fond of the idea of trekking back over half a day’s travelling distance.

“No. It would be too dangerous to travel at night. We follow the path.”

They do as Geralt says, but the way becomes more unpaved and wet the longer they trudge on. The foliage is thicker here, blocking out the sunlight. Roach’s ears flick back as she listens to every sound as the humid air slowly becomes suffocating.

“Geralt,” Jaskier begins, starting to feel a bit uneasy, “I have a bad feeling about this place.”

“I know. Stick close,” the Witcher says.

Jaskier knows it’s probably not a good idea to talk after that, but he keeps up a constant quiet chatter with Roach, mostly to keep his nerves in check and also to soothe the horse a bit.

Then they hear a distant whistling sound. But Jaskier, unlike Geralt, was not trained to differentiate between natural sounds and sounds that are a threat, so it’s only Roach's violent reaction that allows him to duck in time and dodge the projectile that buries itself into the bark of a tree.

“Oh, gods, Geralt!” Jaskier says and he hears the telling sound of a sword being pulled. The Witcher looks like he’s ready to go to war.

“Try to stay close to the path. Find some cover; Jaskier!” Geralt growls and the bard laughs hysterically at that.

“Where? We are in a swamp! How am I supposed to do both? Should I duck behind Roach?!”

But the Witcher has already taken off in the direction of their invisible attackers. Another whooshing sound and then Jaskier feels something brush against his cheek more than he sees it rushing past him.

Thunk .

The bard’s head flicks around where a second crossbow bolt has hit the tree trunk. “Shit,” he curses. “Shit, shit, shit,” Jaskier mutters while he tries to make out where the perpetrator is hiding. There is only water and plants. “Shit.” In the distance, he can hear swords clattering. Roach is prancing nervously. “Fuck. Sorry, Roach. But they’ll probably leave you be, if I’m no longer in the way, so…” Jaskier let’s go of Roach’s reins and heads for the tree in which the crossbow bolts stick. It takes two tries for him to pull himself up on the slippery and mossy wood, using the bolts as support and another moment for him to find the branch he was looking for so that he can climb a bit higher. There don’t seem to be any more projectiles coming – probably thanks to Geralt – but Jaskier won’t push his luck.

“Fuck.” There is nothing keeping him from being detected if someone decides to look up, but as long as they keep their distance, Jaskier doubts that he’ll be spotted. He hears more swords clashing and someone shouting. He wants to help Geralt, but he doubts he would be much help. Besides, someone needs to look out for Roach.

A shriek. The scent of sizzling flesh joining the foul and rotten smell of the swamp. A muffled scream.

The animals of the swamp have grown silent.

Roach flicks her tail and her ears lay flat on her head. The bard is about to climb higher when he can hear someone cursing. Then the gross squelching sound of a foot being pulled out of the mud.

Shit.

He would recognize Geralt’s voice anywhere and so does Roach. Thus, Jaskier prays to the gods that the stranger down there doesn’t reach him before the Witcher has come back. Roach meanwhile shies away, which in turn places her right under the tree which Jaskier is hiding on. She carries most of their belongings.

No, no, no, no. FUCK!

Jaskier tries to hold his breath. A man is walking towards the horse and Jaskier can't help but briefly grin when she snaps at him.

“Stupid beast,” the man curses and then he’s rummaging through the saddlebags. Jaskier sees that he’s not carrying a crossbow but an axe. That at least gives the bard some hope that the man doesn’t know that he’s there. But then he spots the lute and his bag which he’d left on the ground.

Damn.

“Oi, Martin,” the man says over his shoulder and oh shit, there is another guy stepping into view. He is a bit younger and blond, and there is a crossbow slung over his shoulder.

Fuck.

The older man nods towards Jaskier’s belongings. “Was there another person?”

“Hell, if I know,” the blond guy says dismissively and Jaskier is already relieved, but then he starts to walk towards where Jaskier’s stuff is located. Anger washes over the bard. “Ask Jan, he was the one to spot him.”

Don’t pick it up. I swear I’ll kill you. Don’t you dare to pick it up-

“Jan is dead,” the older man who was first to arrive says and the blond guy stops in his tracks and turns around. “What?”

Jaskier digs his fingers into the bark of the branch which he is crouching on hard. He would’ve almost jumped down to save his stuff if it weren’t for the other man interrupting. 

He didn’t even notice that he pulled his dagger out of his boot shaft.

Get your shit together, come on. Focus.

Jaskier exhales quietly.

“Found him split in half like a log,” the older man says.

Martin spits on the ground. “Damn.”

“By Melitele’s dangling tits,” the older guy says.

“What?”

Apparently, the bandit has discovered the second sword that Roach carries for Geralt. He pulls it out of its sheath. Roach snaps again.

Good girl.

“Look at that,” the older guy drawls and he turns it in his hands. The rune-engraved blade shimmers in the sickly light. “Nice work,” he says while he traces the pale decorated handle, “Should fetch a decent coin.”

“Oh, shit,” Martin curses. “I think you should put it back.”

“Why?”

“Don’t you remember what Nan always said? …and they carry two. One of silver made to slay monsters and one of steel, for men.”

“A Witcher? Here? I doubt it. They were probably just two travellers and I bet they got the first one. Didn’t you hear the scream? Sounds like Oskar’s kind of handiwork.”

“Fuck, Natan. We’ve left enough bodies in the swamp for them to think something is eating them.”

“Don’t be so paranoid.”

“Jan is dead! Do you think the coin of this sword is worth your life too?” Martin gets over to rip the sword out of Natan’s hands and with a wet splat it sinks into the muddy ground.

“What the hell is going on with you?!” Natan shoves Martin against the tree Jaskier is sitting on. Roach snaps again after Natan who rips on the reins in retaliation. But Jaskier can’t cheer her on anymore because he is awfully close to the bandits. If he were to dangle from the branch with his body, his feet would probably brush against the blond guy’s head. Jaskier can smell their sweat.

“What about the second traveller, did you forget about him?”

“Without a weapon?" the man kicks the sword. Jaskier feels the cold metal of his dagger in his hand. "Besides, I doubt he’ll get far in these swamps,” Natan adds dismissively and he takes Roach by the reins and pulls. The mare doesn’t move. Martin is still standing right below Jaskier.

“Leave the horse alone,” a gruff voice interferes. Jaskier could cry in elation. He hasn't heard Geralt approach and doesn't see him but the voice is unmistakable.

No one is wasting any time. The bandit who's been holding Roach's reins rips his axe out of his belt and the blond one is using Roach as a cover while he loads his crossbow. Natan, the older one storms forward and Jaskier can't see him anymore because of leaves blocking his sight.

He hears a grunt and then steel clashing. But then Martin fires his crossbow, immediately reloading and Jaskier just knows that it hit home when he hears someone shout and then a curse. There is the sound of water splashing and Jaskier can smell something metallic in the overall foul scent of the swamp. Someone gurgles.

"Fuck."

It's the Witcher’s voice. When Geralt stumbles into view, Jaskier can't tell if it's his blood he's covered in or someone else's. The Witcher’s shirt is soaked with dirty swamp water and a darker shinier liquid. He shifts. A bolt is sticking out of his shoulder. The Witcher is holding his sword sluggishly and he switches it into his other hand. Jaskier gasps quietly.

The sound has Geralt looking up. Their gazes lock and then Jaskier realizes that the man beneath him is still aiming a crossbow at Geralt. He hears the telling exhale before the trigger is pulled. And he just knows that if he doesn't act now his friend is going to be dead. Witcher or not. A crossbow hit at that distance? It would go straight through him.

Funnily enough, Jaskier suddenly recalls how Aiden had jumped from a tree during his first month on the road. He doubts the man below him is more aware of his surroundings than Jaskier had been back then, if only for the fact that he solely focuses on the Witcher.

It’s as easy as breathing to flip the grip on his dagger so that it's pointed downward. Then Jaskier lets himself drop from the tree.

There is a jolt in Jaskier's arm when he meets flesh and bones and he can hear the crossbow going off, the bolt hitting mud before they even fall to the ground.

They topple over each other, immediately struggling to get the upper hand, but it’s not much of a fight.

The man beneath Jaskier twitches violently, a horrible sound escaping his mouth as he attempts to shake Jaskier's weight off his back - trying to get up while the bard can feel wetness soaking through the fabric where his knees are digging into the soft ground.

A sour and acidic scent mixes with the metallic smell of blood. Roach is neighing and her hooves are stomping somewhere close to his head. The bard tries to get the dagger out again, but it's slippery with blood and stuck where the man’s shoulder and neck meet and he is screaming while Jaskier jolts the handle to the left and right. The edge of the blade already tears into the bandit's carotid artery, when he's finally able to pull it out.

Jaskier can hear his own pulse rush in his ears while red liquid sprays his hands and then the dagger is in the man’s neck again, stabbed through it from the side, like his weapons instructor taught Jaskier when he was barely more than a child — there needs to be tension Julian so the blade can cut through — so the bard grips the man’s blond hair and rips his head back while simultaneously jerking the dagger forward, towards the muddy ground. It's messy and there is a brief moment of resistance but then it's over quickly and the blood is no longer spraying but flowing from the man’s throat. A strangled gasp escapes the man which then turns into gurgling.

Jaskier pants heavily. Hair is sticking to his sweaty forehead and he picks up his dagger and sits back on his haunches.

It all didn’t take longer than a few blinks of an eye.

There is a bright red handprint standing out against the beige fabric of the man’s shirt.

Huh.

Jaskier must have stabilised himself on the bandit’s back while sitting up.

"-rd?"

The blond hair is filthy with dirt and blood.

"-skier?"

Jaskier can see the man’s windpipe. There is a silent river of blood saturating the ground.  

Are those his vocal cords?

"Jaskier!" A hand is on his shoulder turning him around.

When did he stand up?

"Are you alright?" Golden eyes pierce his very soul.

Jaskier is about to tell Geralt that he is of course alright and why wouldn't he be, but then he is glad to have just enough mind left to tilt to the side to avoide Geralt before he empties the contents of his stomach right then and there.

He doesn't know how long he's standing there afterwards, simply staring into space till Geralt tugs him along.

"Come on Jaskier."

And then as they are walking through the swamp, Jaskier is holding onto Roach's reins, but this time it's the mare that leads him. He doesn't even acknowledge the fact that they are walking knee-deep through water at some point and then they are on dry land. A small island in the middle of the swampy ground. Geralt leaves Jaskier with Roach.

The bard pets the mare’s neck. He stops when he sees the wet stripes of red on the brown coat. He looks away. There are a few tents on the island, chests which Jaskier only now notices. And a fire-pit.

The bandits' camp.

Then Geralt is back and he ushers Jaskier away from Roach and suddenly he's sitting on a blanket while the Witcher throws an armful of wood onto the pit and ignites it.

Jaskier stares at the flames. The wood won't burn long if it isn't stacked properly. And the smoke will draw attention.

"Jaskier." Geralt is crouching right in front of him. The bard can no longer see the fire. But Geralt appears to be almost glowing with the golden light shining behind him. His eyes are really pretty. A splash of colour on his pale face. "I need you to focus," the Witcher says. "You need to push the bolt through my shoulder."

That snaps Jaskier back into reality. All his apathy is suddenly replaced by a worry for Geralt. "You've still got that thing sticking in there? Why didn't you say something earlier? We could've stopped. Wait. Did you pick up all our stuff on your own?!"

Jaskier's head snaps over to Roach. In addition to Geralt's belongings, his own bag and lute are fastened to her saddle. A wave of gratitude rolls over him. Jaskier’s eyes return to the Witcher, but this time they focus on his shoulder.

He can see the shaft with its speckled feathers sticking out. "It doesn't look so deep."

"It went through the other guy first."

"Why don't you pull it out?" Jaskier asks and his fingers hover over the entry wound. They are still bloody.

"Would do more damage than pushing it through. It's a good spot. No major arteries are in the way."

"I should wash my hands first," Jaskier says and swallows hard.

"Doesn't matter," Geralt says.

"What if you get an infection?"

"Very unlikely. Besides, the swamp water would do more harm than good. And I can't wait any longer. The wound is starting to close and it's going to be much worse if it heals before the bolt is out."

"Alright," Jaskier agrees and then Geralt hands him a knife with a few ridges at the base of the blade.

"You have to cut off the fletching first." Geralt points at the shaft. "But it needs to be long enough for you to be able to push through my shoulder."

Jaskier stares at the knife. His hands are shaking.

"Jaskier." He raises his head. Golden eyes stare at him. "You can do it. Now. Come on."

The bard exhales. Then he grips the end of the shaft and begins sawing. Geralt hisses quietly every time the bolt jostles. To Jaskier, it feels like an eternity. "Good," the Witcher presses out when the end of the bolt is finally separated from the rest. "Now grip my shoulder to get some leverage - yes like that. And with the other hand, you take the arrow shaft, alright?" Jaskier nods and both of his hands are placed accordingly. He then stares at Geralt with wide eyes. The Witcher reciprocates the look. "You push it right through, okay? Try to keep it straight. Don't go down. Better to go upwards, if you think you can't keep it straight. Got it?"

Jaskier nods.

"If you scrape against a bone, you scrape against a bone. Nothing to be done here." Geralt picks up a piece of leather with his good hand. Jaskier doesn't know where he got it from. "You are going to have to put pressure on it afterwards and then stitch it. You know the potions I keep in my bag? I need the one with the reddish tint to it. You'll need to fetch it for me. Or at least bring me my bag." Jaskier can't find it in himself to speak so he nods again. Geralt bites down on the leather. He looks at Jaskier. The bard stares back. Then the Witcher nods.

Jaskier tightens his grip and pushes.

Geralt grunts around the leather and it almost sounds like a growl. Jaskier sniffles and then he doubles his efforts. He can feel when the arrowhead breaches the skin on the other side, the resistance suddenly gone. The bard pulls it out, cutting himself in the process but he doesn't care.

The Witcher spits the piece of leather out and he pants. Sweat is dripping down his forehead.

Jaskier jumps to his feet, sprints over to Roach and grabs Geralt's bag that contains their medical supplies and his potions. On his way back, between a stack of poorly crafted boxes filled with clutter, he spots two fresh corpses. Bandits. Jaskier turns his head away and returns to the Witcher. He crouches down and rummages through the bag.

"Stop. That one," Geralt rasps when Jaskier has pulled out a small vial with a potion coloured like rust.

"You sure?"

The Witcher takes the potion from Jaskier's hand and after he pulls out the cork with his teeth, he downs half of it in one go. It smells disgusting. "Now stitches," Geralt orders and Jaskier pulls out the thread and the needle.

His stitches aren't very good. His hands are shaking, but it's a better job than Geralt would've been able to do on his own and Jaskier runs his fingers over the skin next to the injury before he bandages it.

Geralt exhales and he lies down on his back with a grunt. Jaskier sits and watches him. Now that everything is over, the face of the man he's killed flashes before his eyes again. Jaskier looks at his bloody hands.

"I'm taking a piss," he says. Geralt hums when he pushes himself to his feet. The bard stumbles over the small island of somewhat dry ground, till he reaches the first puddle. He crouches down next to it and starts to wash the blood off his hands.

He doesn't know when he's started crying nor why, but he stays next to the filthy puddle till it's over. He feels hollow afterwards. Jaskier doesn't know how long he was away, but when he returns to the camp, the fire is set up properly and Geralt has spread out his bedroll. Jaskier's bag and his lute are sitting innocently on his woollen blanket on the other side of the pit.

Jaskier's lips twitch in a half-hearted attempt of a smile. He feels exhausted. The Witcher looks up when he's returned and then he resumes his meticulously cleaning of his swords with a rag.

The bard sits down on the ground, pulls his belongings towards his knees and draws the blankets around his shoulders. Geralt is wearing a fresh shirt.

Jaskier’s doublet had been a bluish-green. His sleeves are stiff and there is a brown line where the swampy water soaked through the fabric while he washed his hands. There is blood too. Maybe he should change. His clothes are wet. It wouldn’t do well to get sick now. He stares at his bag that’s sitting between his legs.

Ever so slowly, he peels himself out of his ruined doublet and his wet trousers. He pulls out a linen shirt from his bag. It’s a bit filthy and there are sweat stains on the fabric but it’s dry and doesn’t smell like the blood that’s clinging to his doublet. He looks at the green piece of fabric. He contemplates throwing it into the fire.

Jaskier sets the jacket aside.

They could always still make rags out of it.

Watching Geralt clean his swords is surprisingly soothing. Eventually, the oily piece of cloth gets exchanged for a whetstone and its constant burr against the steel joins the noise of frogs and mosquitoes which has resumed shortly after the fight has stopped.

Somehow Jaskier is glad that Geralt doesn’t ask any questions. But when it’s getting dark, the Witcher sets his swords aside and he pulls out a waterskin. He tosses it towards Jaskier.

“Drink,” he orders and Jaskier, who didn’t even notice how thirsty he’d been gulps down almost half of what’s left of its contents. “Here.” The Witcher also throws him some bread which Jaskier chews mechanically. Afterwards he stares into the flames.

Geralt clears his throat. “Do you… want to talk about it?” the Witcher asks.

If it were any other day, Jaskier would have made fun of Geralt’s awkward attempt at starting a conversation. But today he simply feels tired.

“I think I just wanna sleep,” the bard replies and then he pulls the blanket closer around himself and curls up next to the fire.

After a while, he can hear how Geralt sighs and then a rustling when the Witcher lies down himself.

The minutes trickle by.

Jaskier feels bone-deep exhaustion in his body yet he can’t sleep. Roach is breathing steadily somewhere to his left while the creatures of the swamp fill the air with their noise.

The face of the blond bandit is all Jaskier can see behind his closed eyelids so he opens them. The fire has almost burned down.

“Geralt,” Jaskier whispers into the night.

The Witcher hums. He’s still awake. The bard bites his lip.

“I’ve never killed someone before,” Jaskier confesses quietly then.

“I know,” the Witcher simply replies.

After another moment the bard says, “The other man called him Martin.”

“Hm.”

Jaskier listens to the frogs in the water. He rolls onto his back and stares at the dark sky. A slight breeze ruffles the branches overhead. “They’ve killed a lot of people, haven’t they?”

“Most likely.”

“Do you think I’ll ever forget his face?” Jaskier questions into the dark.

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

The bard swallows hard. “Did you ever…” He stops. Jaskier doesn’t dare to continue. But he doesn’t have to.

“If I were to say that I remember them all, it would be a lie.” Geralt says. “Faces blur – fade from memory…” After a moment, almost as if he was hesitant, the Witcher’s raspy voice breaches the quiet of the night again. "But some you never forget.”

Jaskier exhales as he stares into the blurry night sky. Then closes his eyes and tries to sleep. A few minutes pass and Jaskier can hear how the Witcher shifts for the last time.

“Geralt,” Jaskier whispers before he can change his mind.

“Hm?”

“Can I-“ he swallows. “Can I sleep next to you tonight?”

Silence. 

Jaskier shakily pulls his blanket tighter around his body as he turns to the side and pulls his knees towards his chest. He’s already resigned himself to his fate when he can hear shuffling and then steps.

He doesn’t open his eyes but he can hear steps coming closer and then he feels a gust of wind on his face when there’s a sheepskin being spread out next to him. Swords are being set down and Geralt is lying down himself.

Jaskier would like best now to simply slip under the Witcher’s blanket too and just breathe in, because despite the scent of blood and swamp clinging to the man there is still a comforting note in it.

“Thank you,” he murmurs.

Jaskier doesn’t know if Geralt has heard him because he doesn’t answer. But when he opens his eyes and is able to make out the sharp profile of the Witcher in the dim light it’s enough.

Jaskier wakes in the middle of the night, cold sweat running down his back and he blinks into the darkness. His cheek is sticky and warm from wet tears and he breathes shakingly. His hands are trembling.

He just knows there is still blood on them. He needs to get it off. Jaskier shifts to get up when suddenly, strong arms pull him in.

Jaskier freezes in panic.

He can’t move!

But then he is pressed against Geralt’s solid form. He doesn’t even realise that he’s hyperventilating till he hears Geralt’s deep voice. “Shh, Jaskier,” the Witcher says calmly.

The emotions of the prior day all seem to clash in Jaskier’s mind at once and then he cries silently into the Witcher’s chest.

“It’s alright. Sleep.”

The next morning Jaskier wakes alone on the sheepskin and everything that happened yesterday feels like a dream.

Frogs are croaking, mosquitoes buzz through the air and the telltale sound of Roach’s bridle clinking together cuts through the morning as she is being saddled.

Sunlight is falling through the widespread branches of the treetops and it paints the swamp in a sickly yellow light. The smell of the foul water permeates the air and there are flies buzzing around the boxes next to the tents where he knows corpses are rotting.

Eventually, Jaskier sits up and while his blanket pools around his waist, his eyes fall onto Geralt.

The Witcher's two swords — one of which he used to kill last night — are already strapped to his back. With his shoulder bandaged, blood and dirt staining his hair and clothes, he all but looks like the man people like to describe when they talk about the infamous Butcher of Blaviken.

But Geralt isn’t only the Witcher, the monster slayer with the fake title he picked as a child because he doesn’t know where he comes from. He is a man – as damaged and broken as he may be – who despite all the horrors in the world has not yet lost the goodness within his own heart.

They don’t talk while they trek out of the swamp. Geralt, because he generally doesn’t talk that much and Jaskier because he has a lot of things on his mind.

His thoughts are flitting around like birds after his surreal feeling in the morning, but soon a heavy weight returns to his stomach alongside the knowledge that he's killed someone. And while it was hardly the first time Jaskier has maimed a person or seen someone die a violent death, it was the first time he was the one to guide the blade for the final blow.

Jaskier doesn’t regret what he did. He would do it again if he had to. But he thinks about it a lot.

When he blinks, he can see the image of a bloody handprint swimming in front of his closed eyelids and the face of the blond man has burned itself into his skull. Jaskier wonders if he had a family, a wife. Maybe children who are now orphans.

They take two days to get out of the swamp. The ground is treacherous and they have a hard time finding the real path, thanks to the bandits who took the signpost from its original place and used it to lure travellers into a trap.

When they arrive in the next town there is no actual contract, but people have been worried enough that their people have gone missing on the way. So, when Geralt tells them that it had been a group of bandits who he took care of, they are thankful enough to offer them food and a bed.

Despite the offer to stay longer, they only remain there for one night. Jaskier wants to get out of this damned bog and Geralt doesn't seem to be eager to stay either when there is no word of a contract. After warning the villagers about ghouls who might turn up if the corpses are being left to their own devices, they head east.

As they leave the marshlands behind, Jaskier’s thoughts circle less and less around the man he killed, but instead, he thinks about other matters.

Mainly Geralt.

The Witcher doesn't bring up the night in which he comforted Jaskier and since after that day they’ve gone back to normal, Jaskier knows that he himself won't either. If it weren’t such a vivid memory, he would’ve almost thought he’d made it up.

They talk, they travel and they make camp together. Jaskier chatters and jokes a bit as he did before, and Geralt answers with hums and the occasional sarcastic remark.

But while outwardly nothing has really changed, something nags in the back of Jaskier’s mind.

He hadn’t really known Geralt when he decided to trail after him. But the more time they spent together, the more this factor had changed and yet... The night in the swamp causes him to question if there's a side to the Witcher that he hasn't discovered at all.

Jaskier knows that Geralt will always ride a bit more to the left side of the road. He probably isn’t even aware that he’s doing it. Sometimes, Jaskier notices, he’ll shift his head even before Roach’s ears twitch in a certain direction. The first few times the horse and rider had turned their heads simultaneously had been eerie and hilarious at the same time. It only fueled into Jaskier’s jokes that Geralt took after Roach.

One time, when they had been on the road for more than a week without a human soul in sight, Jaskier found out that Geralt hates having a beard. The Witcher had scratched his jaw, wearing the same expression that he leans towards when Jaskier plays variations of the same melody for two hours straight “- because it just doesn’t sound right yet, Geralt” – and not even an hour after they had entered the next village the beard was gone. Jaskier had mourned it quite a bit but he did purchase another razor blade - just in case - which he had hidden in the man’s saddlebags because he can’t trust the Witcher to take care of it himself.

Unlike his weapons. He almost obsessively watches over his swords and every so often checks on the stiletto he carries in his boot. Not to mention the spare daggers and knives that are stuffed into his saddlebags.

Overall, the Witcher is incredibly sarcastic and even funny and despite his occasional comments about Jaskier’s music, the bard thinks that Geralt enjoys his songs. Well, as long as he doesn’t practice them for days on an end.

But after the night in the swamp, a new curiosity has him keep an even closer eye on the Witcher. 

They are sitting in a tavern somewhere in Temeria when the bard watches Geralt sip his wine and he realises that he doesn’t even know if Geralt prefers it over ale, since he’s always ordering what’s cheapest. But later that day when they have to buy food for Roach, Geralt will get the best that he can afford.

Jaskier is already aware that it isn't often that the Witcher laughs out loud. He’ll grin and smirk but an audible, unguarded laugh is still a rarity. Those moments happen when it’s just them on the road, aided by vodka or somewhere in the wilderness. He knows that Geralt will close himself off when they enter a town. His face hardens, and the expressions he wields instead of words when he haggles with strangers are sharp, dangerous and cold like the edges of his sword. Jaskier chatters and comments on stuff as always without really expecting a reaction. But after he learns to pay closer attention, he notices that even there, in those instances, when Geralt talks even less than usual, his brows still furrow, his nose crinkles or his lips twitch ever so slightly upwards when he finds something genuinely funny.

And somewhere along the way of cataloguing these small things, Jaskier’s glances start to linger. He stares at Geralt when he’s laughing, observes the way his eyes seem to take on a lighter tone while he chuckles or how his eyes crinkle at the edges when he’s amused… Jaskier files the way Geralt curses when there’s another stone in his shoe.
He takes note of the brief glances sweeping over him whenever he gets too close to a fight or gets held up by irate husbands and Geralt's almost compulsive scratching of his cheek when his stubble grows in.
He treasures the exasperated yet fond eye-rolls thrown in his direction when Geralt gives in to one of his whims and the voluntarily offered chunks of information about various monsters, plants and on occasion even the Witcher himself.

It’s a cloudless day a few weeks later and they’re resting on a meadow next to a small stream. Small white flowers are growing in the grass and Jaskier is sitting on a rock near the water, doublet partly unlaced because of the heat.

He feels the sunlight warming his skin and the slight breeze that’s ruffling through the branches of some birch trees.

Jaskier can almost ignore the fishy smell that comes from the drying water plants that have been washed up onto the gravel.

He’s more or less given up taking notes for a new ballad in favour of watching the Witcher. Geralt is crouching at the edge of the stream, rinsing his hands. They have already refilled their waterskins and it won’t be long till they’ll get going again. But for now, the bard simply enjoys the moment.

Geralt almost seems to glow in the sun, his black shirt only emphasising the imagery as he stands up and heads towards Roach who’s grazing in the shadow of a windswept tree.

Jaskier sees him move around his horse, petting her flank as he greets her and then checking the saddlebags. Unconsciously a smile spreads on the bard’s face when he watches how Geralt starts to talk to the mare.  

It takes only this look – only observing Geralt do something so adorably ridiculous as talking to his horse while he’s standing in the sunlight that has Jaskier realise that he has fallen in love with this man.

“Jaskier,” a gruff voice forcibly rips him out of his thoughts, just when he feels like he can no longer keep silent, “Pack your stuff. We have to get going if we want to reach a town within the week.”

“Coming,” Jaskier replies almost automatically and snaps his notebook shut. Calmly he packs his stuff but inwardly he’s panicking

He’s in love with Geralt. In love!

This is no longer a crush that he can write off as something he’ll grow bored of eventually. This runs much deeper. An emotion that has taken root so easily and gradually, that he didn’t even notice it.

Throughout the next few days, Jaskier is a mess. On the outside, he acts like he always does. He jokes, he chatters, but inside his head, there reigns chaos.

Pretty early on he comes to the conclusion that while he might be in love with Geralt, the sentiment is likely not shared by the Witcher.

His flirting so far – serious or not – has been met with nothing but stoic hums and the one or other amused or exasperated eye roll.

Jaskier knows that the Witcher must like him. The bard has worked hard to get from ‘being tolerated’ to ‘accepted’ and he’s sure that if Geralt really didn’t want him around, he could’ve made damn sure that Jaskier would stay in the next best town.

But the issue is not that Geralt doesn’t like him. It’s the fact that not once – in all the time Jaskier has known him – has the Witcher given the impression to be interested in anyone whose acquaintance promised more than a short fuck. There have been whores and even the one or other rebellious girl who’d wanted to sleep with a Witcher, but as far as Jaskier is aware, the man fucks with the same enthusiasm of a dog scratching an itch.

Additionally, all of Geralt’s partners – at least those who he’s seen so far – have been female. While Jaskier can’t completely discard the notion that Geralt might like men as well, it’s also not very likely.

Overall, it’s a pretty pessimistic outlook. Jaskier slips into the role of the hopeless romantic as quick and easy as he’s changing clothes, but as much as he wants to deny it, he knows if there’s one trait he can’t completely stamp out, it’s the pragmatism he has inherited from his father.

Even when he was a child Jaskier had never been ignorant of the punishment his actions evoked. That being said, he has rarely been stopped by his awareness of the consequences.

‘The benefits outweigh the risks,' is a statement Jaskier has been living by for a long time and wasn’t it that attitude of ‘damn the consequences' that had him following the Witcher in the first place?

But while Jaskier often gives in to this side – a heady mix of recklessness and fool-heartedness as some may call it – he is not as naïve as he often lets on.

And now the clear rationality helps him to push his feelings aside in favour of looking at the situation from a realistic point of view.

The truth – harsh and unforgiving as it may be – is that while Geralt may like him, the chance is slim that he will ever call Jaskier something more than a friend.

If they will ever even reach that state.

Right now, if he were to take the Witcher by his word, Jaskier – to Geralt – is nothing more than the odd bard who is showing up in his life like a persistent case of chronic rash.

And yet the knowledge that it’s hopeless doesn’t help him when he looks up at Geralt’s backlit profile and almost drowns in his own emotions.

Chapter Text

It’s not long after his pessimistic realisation that Jaskier receives an invitation to the wedding of a distant cousin. He would probably not even consider attending it, were it not for the fact that he was encouraged to perform there. Geralt – having heard about a well-paid contract in Vizima – is less than impressed with Jaskier’s attempts to convince him to accompany him to the feast. And since Geralt’s contract apparently justifies a journey leading back the whole way through the swampy terrain and Jaskier is still mourning their non-existent relationship, the bard isn’t very dejected when the Witcher suggests they split up.

They say their goodbyes in a tavern creatively named the ‘Golden Gallows’ and afterwards Jaskier scrapes up all his hard-earned coin to buy a horse to be able to reach his destination in time.

At his cousin's wedding though, he drunkenly comes across the Countess de Stael who still looks as stunning as she had when he last saw her. 

She still knows him well enough to know that something is on his mind, but they have never been one for talking so they end up fucking in one of the guest rooms. Surprisingly, she manages to pull Jaskier out of his melancholic state – at least for a night – so he decides that it can't hurt if he hangs around a little longer.

Apparently, time heals all wounds because she is more than amenable to his advances and invites him to stay with her in her city house. 

The countess isn’t looking for something serious with a bard and the latter is, as of yet, rather unsuccessfully trying to get over his hopeless feelings for a Witcher, so in a mutually beneficial agreement, he ends up spending a few months serenading her beauty, while generously making use of the offered hospitality.

Their time together is as delightful as it is trying. Having met him while he was still studying at the Oxenfurt Academy, she is one of the few people who know him as Julian and Jaskier.

Their upbringing was similar enough; both had detested the expectations placed upon them and rebelled against the wishes of their parents – which was enough at that time for Jaskier to fall head over heels in love. Objectively a fortunate incident, not only for him but the world, as she was the one to spark his interest in poetry in the first place.

But unlike Jaskier, the countess didn’t break out of her golden cage later, having been married off, while the bard stepped out into the world leaving his old life behind.

Her husband luckily cares little about the doings of the countess, as long as she doesn’t openly oppose him and occasionally returns to the estate to perform her marital duties in a bilateral attempt to produce an heir.

Jaskier and the Lady de Stael don’t discuss this topic, an unspoken agreement keeping the bard from bringing it up again. Not after the last debacle when this had been the reason for their break-up in the first place, followed by his subsequent eviction of her home.

Overall, the count seems to be a decent man, which means that the Countess de Stael, for the most part, is free to do as she pleases. That in turn makes her a much more interesting and vivacious company than a lot of other noblewomen Jaskier has met.

Perhaps this is the reason why it wasn't all that hard to resume their old affair.

They share a penchant for the arts and appreciation of luxury as well as a distaste for certain people and both see the appeal of a relationship, which is mostly based in a physical nature.

Though the fact that they share the one or other characteristic impacts their relationship not always in a positive way. They both can be quite self-centred. A trait which Jaskier refuses to call narcissism and neither of them is afraid to exploit their own assets for their individual gain.

Jaskier has barely spent two months in her company and their fights have already amplified to the point that they argue at least twice a day. Their making-up sex usually rectifies those moments but today Jaskier has been left on his own, sitting in the countess’ city house, bored to death and thoroughly fed up with the stuck-up circles of Oxenfurt’s high society.

For two hours now, he has been lounging next to a window, staring over the lines of roofs and the small gap where he can imagine the Pontar flowing through, while occasionally turning his attention to the sketch in front of him without adding another line.

The countess’ city house isn’t very large, nothing compared to the estate Jaskier grew up in, not even to the mansion that her own family owns a bit further east.

Overall, though, it’s mostly to be blamed on the fact that even in this wealthier district of Oxenfurt, the buildings are squeezed together like farmers on a hay cart, barely leaving space for the narrow and muddy streets.
But this house at the edge of Oxenfurt is solely under the rule of the Lady de Stael. Even a small garden belongs to it, a luxury only a few people can afford and one of Jaskier's favourite things about living in this district.

Small spots of green, well kept by servants and pompously decorated with statues and imported plants – some only kept alive through magical means – line the northern city wall. Jaskier spends more than one hour composing under the small arbour behind the building and he even prefers it over his own personal room he was granted. An indulgence he can only enjoy because unlike the ordinary folk in the other parts of the city, the houses here are solely inhabited by their owners and servants.

A gift he should be thankful for, just like all the other trinkets the countess bought him, but today his mood reflects the weather outside; a grey sky with an angry wind bringing with it the scent of the coming winter.  

Jaskier is annoyed. Annoyed and bored. Pent up energy has him tapping the windowsill with nervous fingers.

Had he heard the servants in the hallway whispering about him sulking again, he would’ve immediately risen, rejected this notion and corrected them by stating that he was simply in a pensive mood, which – by the way – could overcome every artist once in a while and then slammed the door with a rousing motion.

But since servants in the house haven’t provided much entertainment so far and the Countess is at her grand soiree outside the city, Jaskier ignores everyone and everything but his own maddened state of mind.

When the Countess had casually asked if he would join her at the event earlier that day, Jaskier had declined, lightly stating that he’d rather spend his time mucking out the nearby stables than joining another small gathering of boring people with even more boring conversation.

The bard grinds his teeth and he makes a conscious effort to stop his fingers from fidgeting. Perhaps he should simply get one of the expensive bottles of Est-Est from the cellar and get drunk, but that would only justify the Countess' laughter at his earlier statement that he's got better things to do.

Sure, he enjoys some of the comforts that come with being a noble, but he draws the line at stiff get-togethers, dominated by banal small-talk where he will once more be dismissed as the newest plaything of the Countess – pretty to look at – but nothing special. 

He’s suffered through dozens of these gatherings during the last weeks already and he’s not prepared to add another wasted evening to his imaginary library, despite the reward he would most likely be granted later on for his patience.

Unfortunately, this statement had led to a fight, harsh words being thrown around as well as some goblets – red wine staining the walls once again – which is probably also part of the reason why the servants don’t take to him too kindly…

And since the Countess de Stael had stormed off, lovely to look at as always – despite her eyes shining with anger – they hadn’t even been able to fuck out their differences.

A small rational part of Jaskier knows that she would probably spend the night at her acquaintance's house simply out of pettiness. A day, perhaps two later, she would return, her temper cooled off and overall, more susceptible to Jaskier’s extensive and thorough apology which would begin with flattering words that would soon turn into tender caresses and end in a passionate embrace in her bed-chamber after which everything would be alright again.

Because this was the way their relationship usually worked.

But right now, he is still too upset to be thinking about what would be. The walls surrounding him feel like a prison, the size of the room slowly suffocating him with the oppressive knowledge of their fight, reminding him of the words with which she’d left after her fiery fury had turned into cold dismissal.

“No one is forcing you to stay. Leave for all I care. Perhaps it would be better. After all, I’m just an ignorant, stuck up drag anyway, like any of my friends I bothered to introduce you to!”

Jaskier sighs. But how could he have known that she took his rant about the local nobility personally?! He briefly contemplates if he should’ve accepted her invitation, but dismisses the notion just as quickly.

Suddenly the fact that he even considers joining her stupid acquaintances again simply because he’s chained to this house pisses him off.

Angrily Jaskier stands up, rummaging through the chest at the foot of his bed. He has to dig through a whole bunch of expensive clothes which he was gifted by the Countess, as well as a bunch of dried flowers and pebbles before he finds what he was looking for. A slightly stained and wrinkly set of clothes that he had last worn on the road and which will help him blend a bit better into the masses of where he now plans to go.  

She could very well spend her night talking banalities with her boring, stuck-up, ignorant friends who thought that hearing a song written by King Vizimir’s court-bard – who was so old he looked like still remembered the conjunction – entitled them to judge Jaskier’s own works and dismiss them as frivolities. Even more so compared to the oh-so-fantastic works of the upcoming composer Adrien de Rouleau – fucking braggart.

He knows where to find entertainment of much better quality than with this accumulation of stupid wanna-be beneficiaries.

Thus, Jaskier enters the dingiest tavern he finds in all of Oxenfurt – simply to make a point – where he then proceeds to drink and gamble at the Countess' expense.

After a few cups of ale and two rounds of a bone game later, he eventually snatches a seat at a small empty table in a dim corner, where he proceeds to play his game of choice; poker dice. So far, he’s not doing too badly.

Thanks to the ever-changing clientele, Jaskier doesn’t lack opponents and he’s only lost two of eleven rounds he’s played. A feat to reach he had solely managed through sheer luck, determination and the fact that he possesses two sets of dice, one of which is rigged.

He doesn’t feel very guilty. After having spent his fair share of time in gloomy taverns, Jaskier has settled on the opinion that if someone is too stupid to realize they are being cheated, then that’s their own problem.  

Even if in a place like this, getting caught can easily lead to being stabbed in an alleyway.

Somehow though, this is part of the appeal that cheating people out of their money poses.

Travelling with a Witcher naturally brings more adventure than living in a city house where one spends their free time sipping tea and trying to paint the landscape and Jaskier has to admit that he misses the thrill that comes with watching a man slay a monster on a weekly basis.

He’s always been quite reckless and as it turns out it’s not caused by “his inherent foolishness” as Geralt likes to put it, but his tendency to get bored and an urge to rectify this state by all means possible.

It probably boils down to the same thing in the end.

His last opponent was a tanner, whose prominent scars on his face and neck tell of the splenic fever he survived. He was a real asshole to one of the serving girls earlier so it takes quite the effort from Jaskier to hide his satisfaction over the win.

In an attempt to conceal the triumphant grin on his face while the man counts the money he owes onto the table, Jaskier raises his cup of wine to his lips.

His face twists into a slight grimace at the sour taste. This year's harvest might have found better use at cleaning scale off kettles. Though there is the possibility of his opinion having been slightly influenced by the many expensive bottles of Fiorano and Everluce he’d consumed over the last few weeks and which the countess has specifically imported from Toussant.
He swallows down the cheap mouthful anyway.

Meanwhile, the tanner packs his own dice, spitting curses and with another dark look at Jaskier, he heads for the bar on the other side of the room.

The bard watches him for a moment before he lets his eyes wander over the gathered crowd.

The taproom is crammed with the omnipresent rabble of a larger city that gets washed up in places like this. A mix of dockworkers, whores, gamblers and others of more ominous occupation as well as the ubiquitous group of some daring students of the Oxenfurt Academy sitting with local journeymen of various professions.

An elderly fiddler is providing them with music, but not much is heard over the noise of the conversations, laughter and clinking cups.

Eventually, the bard turns his attention back to the table, collecting the coins which he earned before he lets them trickle into his almost full pouch.

It's the sound of the creaking chair that tells Jaskier that someone just claimed the vacated seat on the opposite side of the table.

"Interested in a game?" Jaskier asks while he stows away his pouch.

"Sure, why not," the man replies just as the bard looks up.

Surprisingly enough, the sight he’s met with isn't new. The expression of a casual sneer on a face crowned by copper brown curly hair with a surprising red shimmer where the light of the oil lamp hits it. No beard this time, but the same scar running through the left brow, skipping the eye and grazing the cheek. The man is wearing a dark green tunic made of wool and Jaskier guesses that he carries a few knives in a belt which is hidden below the line of the table. And even though the golden irises shouldn't be that noticeable behind the eyelashes in the dim light – to Jaskier they are his most prominent feature. They are darker than Geralt's, almost amber, but Jaskier drinks them anyway.

Lambert.  

That was his name. It comes back as easily as if he’d been introduced to the Witcher just minutes prior, even though it must have been more than a year since their first encounter took place.

“You know the rules?” Jaskier asks, but it's mostly to get more time to figure out the man sitting opposite to him.

Now that he knows who he's dealing with, it isn't hard to spot the single sword which is conveniently leaning against the man’s chair. Apart from that though, Lambert is lacking even the most basic gear, as well as a cloak, so Jaskier guesses that he has rented a room upstairs.

From the few minutes spent in the Witcher’s presence the first time around, Jaskier recalls one thing most prominently. That Witcher – added to his small collection of people or not - was a prick.

“Of course,” Lambert retorts, sounding almost contemptuous.

A prick, who appears to not recognize Jaskier at all. A slow grin threatens to overtake the bard’s expression. Perhaps this is destiny's way to tell him that now would be the perfect opportunity to avenge the iniquitous dismissal he was granted last time at the hands of this Witcher.

“Alright,” Jaskier says and he allows a smirk to break through. He fiddles with a dice that is laying on the table, while simultaneously checking on his other set in his pocket. His eyes never leave the Witcher. “How much do you wanna bet?” he asks.

“I say we play for all the money that you’ve got hidden in that fat pouch under your cloak,” the Witcher drawls and he puts his weight onto an elbow when he leans forward to gesture towards where Jaskier just hid his coin.

A surprised laugh spills over Jaskier’s lips. “That’s preposterous,” he says, even though a part of him is intrigued. But it is absurd. There are almost 100 crowns in this pouch and he isn’t as suicidal as to squander it all at once. Even though the notion that he could, if simply to piss off the Countess, had sounded quite appealing only a few hours prior.

The Witcher leans even closer. Jaskier's breath hitches. The way he moves and his demeanour reminds him all too much of Geralt. But then Lambert says with a self-assured expression, “As preposterous as me claiming that you cheated to win your games earlier?” And all of those thoughts get blown away like leaves in the wind.

Jaskier can feel how his hands get sweaty and a nervous shiver runs down his spine. Meanwhile, the Witcher pulls back and with a satisfied grin, he crosses his arms, biceps bulging under the woollen fabric.

“Who would believe you?” Jaskier retorts with a dry mouth, but even the Witcher knows that it’s only a pitiful attempt to win this argument.

“Hmm. Perhaps they would accuse me of lying, but a few of the honourable gentlemen-“ Jaskier snorts. These gentlemen wouldn’t hesitate to kill him for his earlier deception – “you played with would grow suspicious. They would come to the conclusion that they should question your luck. And it would only take a little hint from my side that would lead them to your left pocket.” Lambert jerks his chin to where Jaskier keeps his second set of dice.

“I see,” the bard eventually replies and he curses himself for his arrogance. How quickly their positions have switched. Only a word of the Witcher and he was most likely doomed to die. Moreover, it was perfectly within Lambert’s right to report his foul play. Some would even say he was required to do so from a moral point of view. Though Jaskier is lucky that the latter counts little in places like these. When he reaches for his set of dice, the Witcher cuts him off.

“Oh, no. We’re not playing dice.” Jaskier stops, surprised and Lambert continues. “You think I’m gonna play that game after you took the piss out of everyone who tried to win against you previously? I’m not stupid.”

Jaskier would beg to differ, considering the Witcher doesn’t even remember that he used a fucking spell on him to send him away the last time. “So what are we playing then?” he asks out loud, swearing to himself that whatever happens, he doesn’t plan on letting the man one-up him again.

Lambert’s canines glint in the light as his grin broadens. “Gwent.” 

“Gwent…” Jaskier echoes and the Witcher seems to interpret this as uncertainty, because he says, “Look, I’m even giving you a fair chance here. You win, you keep your money. I win, well… You walk home, a purse lighter.” He smirks and like always it makes him appear slightly unsettling. “You do know how to play, do you?” the Witcher questions in a mockery of the bard’s previous inquiry.

A muscle in Jaskier’s jaw jumps at the patronising tone. “Of course,” the bard presses out sweetly with a sharp smile. He has to wonder how, despite appearing to be the polar opposite of the Earl in every possible way, Lambert still somehow manages to remind Jaskier of his father.  Peeved and somewhat incited, the bard fishes for his prized collection of Gwent cards.

“Then let’s start. Ladies first,” Lambert indicates with a grin and he oversees Jaskier shuffling and drawing ten cards from his deck.

That arrogant smirk remains on the Witcher's face for almost fifteen minutes, while he takes down one of Jaskier's Northern Realms cards after the other.

But in the next two rounds, the bard proceeds to completely destroy him.

“You are shitting me,” Lambert says and he stares disbelievingly at the table where his Monster deck was completely wiped out by Jaskier. His eyes flick up to the bard who is casually collecting his cards. “You cheated,” he exclaims.

“No, I didn’t,” Jaskier replies flippantly. “I simply played better than you.” 

Lambert is a good player and the bard couldn't deny that he had been a serious opponent. 

That being said, Jaskier’s winning streak had died a pitiful death sometime last year after Geralt, barely three hours after having been introduced to the game, had turned out to be a fucking natural. To this day he’s frighteningly good at Gwent. Jaskier had practically been forced to turn to some drastic measures and improve his sleight of hand if only to keep Geralt from thinning out his deck to a point where he could’ve started collecting all over again.  

Currently, he consciously refrains from scratching an area of his torso where the Spring Equinox card he originally drew uncomfortably rests behind a decorative slit of his doublet. 

“Don’t you fucking lie to me,” Lambert growls and suddenly he’s reaching over the table, snatching Jaskier's wrist. 

“Hey what the hell-“ the bard exclaims at the affront – justified or not – trying to ignore the distracting tingle running through his skin where the Witcher’s thumb digs into his arm. Meanwhile, Lambert appears to try his best at climbing over the table in an attempt to pull up Jaskier’s sleeve so as to check whether he hid a card up there. The bard is vocally protesting the rough manhandling, pulling back and subsequently the Witcher with him. 

It turns into somewhat of a mutual pulling and shoving, sprinkled in with curses and insults from both sides – Jaskier attempting to lift his hands up and out of the Witcher’s reach, which might have worked as he’s a bit taller weren’t it for Lambert basically kneeling on the table, strewing their Gwent cards everywhere.

Jaskier is in the process of trying to predict from which direction Lambert will throw a punch once he bites his forearm when someone else interjects from the side.

“Is he bothering you?”

Lambert abruptly lets go of his arm, slides back into his chair and stares at the burly man who stopped next to their table. Jaskier in the meantime is smoothening his doublet, subtly checking whether the card is still not visible where he left it and simultaneously trying to regain a semblance of dignity.

It’s one of the dock workers who'd taken part in the bone game earlier. His name was Janek if Jaskier remembers correctly and now he's throwing the bard a questioning look.  

“Stay out of this kid," Lambert says with the familiar drawl that apparently not only grates on Jaskier's nerves.

“I wasn’t talking to you, asshole,” the dockworker retorts and he addresses Jaskier once more. “He bothering you?” Janek asks; more pointedly this time and he nods towards Lambert.

It’s oddly endearing how he tries to protect Jaskier as if the bard was a maiden whose honour was being threatened... Overall though, this overprotectiveness – in this case – is rather misplaced.

On another day, Jaskier would’ve gladly played the damsel in distress to avoid unpleasantries such as this, but he is perfectly able to deal with Lambert without interference.  

The bard opens his mouth to state as such, when the copper-haired Witcher whistles through his teeth to get Janek’s attention. “Hey, clotpoll.”  The dockworker turns his head. “Yeah, you,” Lambert confirms. “This is none of your business.”

“Ey, watch your fucking mouth,” the dockworker says and he steps closer, prompting the Witcher for the first time to really look at him. In Lambert’s golden eyes flickers a spark that promises nothing good. 

That impression is only strengthened by the smirk that splits his lips even before he opens his mouth for a reply.

“I talk to you how I want, clotpoll,” Lambert drawls as his eyes casually catalogue the man who towers over him. “And now piss off.”

Janek moves to punch the Witcher, who is standing within the blink of an eye.

It’s a swing that would’ve caused every normal person to drop like a sack of grain, but Lambert simply side-steps the punch and reciprocates the gesture with his own well-placed hit in the dock worker's face, who through the momentum even leans into the fatal blow.

“Holy mother of-“ Jaskier can only lean back as Janek crashes onto the table. He was knocked out cold with a single hit. Even Lambert seems surprised and he and Jaskier share a brief look of mutual astonishment. Then a grin splits Lambert’s face.

An expression that doesn’t last too long, as Janek’s friends don’t take too kindly to their companion being struck down by a stranger.

Soon Lambert is surrounded by four more men and Jaskier subtly picks up his collection of Gwent cards before ending up hovering at the edge of the scuffle, not knowing what to do.

He doesn't owe this Witcher anything, he could simply get out and leave him to deal with those guys. On the other hand, though, it's kinda his fault that Lambert is in this situation. Had this happened to any other person, Jaskier would've gladly disappeared, but something about the Witcher makes him feel like he can't leave him to his own devices. It's not unlike the first week when he'd travelled with Geralt and provoked some roughnecks to keep them from ambushing the Witcher. The same unknown drive somehow takes hold of him now, making him feel responsible for the Witcher.

Jaskier curses the odd way his mind works.

He barely sees how a smirking Lambert takes down two more opponents with some well-placed hits because suddenly someone unrelated to the whole situation unhelpfully notices the bard and tries to get him in a chokehold, in a misdirected attempt to keep the “ escaping troublemaker” from fleeing.

But before he can fully get his arm around Jaskier's head, the bard digs his teeth into the man's forearm who howls in pain.

The bard smirks in dark satisfaction after he manages to slip out of the weakened hold and spits a glob of blood onto the floor. He then immediately has to dodge a low hook that is aimed at his ribs. It lands, but not in Jaskier but someone else's guts – an innocent bystander's who thanks to his drunken state proceeds to vomit all over the floor and a group of raftsmen.

Mere moments later, a full-on tavern-brawl has broken out.

Jaskier's pretty occupied after that. Someone has realised that Lambert is a Witcher, and now more wannabe heroes join in to restrain "the mutant", while Jaskier is dodging punches left and right and handing out the same quite successfully. He trips someone who is about to come at Lambert with a knife and the Witcher stares at him for a long second, before they are once more pulled into different directions. Somewhere along the lines, Lambert has gotten hold of his sword and keeps everyone at a certain distance, while Jaskier is trying to use what remains of his training in combat during his youth as well as every dirty trick he learned on the road to elbow his way through the crowd.

In the end, it’s all for nought, as he feels something hit the back of his head and everything goes dark. 

When Jaskier comes to, the first thing he notices is the smell. He's surrounded by an intense odour of dirt, piss and rotting food which manages to overpower even the fishy scent of the gurgling waters of the Pontar closeby. His head is throbbing painfully and so are his knees. Jaskier groans.

"You're up. Finally."

The voice causes Jaskier to open his eyes and sit up. He blinks a few times. At first, his gaze falls onto the bright window from where he can hear booming laughter and muffled conversations from inside the tavern. It's the sole light source illuminating the dirty alleyway Jaskier found himself in and he barely has the time to realise that he's sitting in a heap of kitchen wastes before he spots the silhouette of a man in the shadows. 

It's the Witcher. 

When Lambert steps into the light it's revealed that there are now two swords strapped to his back and his green tunic has disappeared behind a girded dark gambeson.

"What-" Jaskier begins and he raises a hand to his throbbing head. His fingers graze against something sticky and he hisses at the sting. His examination also causes him to notice that there's a piece of lettuce in his hair. He pulls it out.

"You can talk. Good," the Witcher says and then he's already stepping over Jaskier's stretched out legs and heading out of the alleyway.

"Hey!" Jaskier yells, despite the fact that his throat feels like he had swallowed sandpaper. "Wait up!"

The Witcher turns around. "No one stabbed you while you were knocked out. You're still alive, so we're even."

Jaskier frowns over Lambert's cryptic words. He suddenly remembers the guy with the knife whom he tripped during the bar brawl and it's the only reasonable explanation for the Witcher's behaviour. He felt like he owed Jaskier something. And to pay the debt he played nursemaid while he was unconscious... 

Grimacing Jaskier stretches his stiff limbs. It wouldn't have taken much of an effort from Lambert to at least nudge him into a slightly more comfortable position.

"I'm keeping this by the way," the Witcher says over his shoulder, pulling Jaskier out of his thoughts. "Take it as... a lesson in life." The bard has to squint his eyes to see what exactly this is, that the Witcher is throwing up in the air – once, twice – till he catches it again with a sure hand. It's the sound of clinking coin and the lack of a heavy leather pouch in his own cloak that has Jaskier realising what Lambert took with him as compensation.

"HEY!" Jaskier shouts after the Witcher who's already disappearing around the corner. He tries to get up but slips on a rotting apple peel. With a string of curses, he hits the ground. 

In the distance, he can hear Lambert's barking laugh.

What a fucking prick.

Jaskier manages to get rid of the stench and soiled clothes he wore before the Countess returns to the city house, but the missing money and the bruise on his cheek is something he can't hide as well. The lecture he reaps from the Countess de Stael is rather deserved but he manages to earn her forgiveness by writing an impressive ballad about her beauty, and after a passionate tumble in the sheets all his faults are forgotten. Mostly.

Afterwards, Jaskier pensively stares at the canopy of her big bed. He doesn't doubt that she loves him, in a weird twisted way, just like he can't help to be fond of her. Yet they both are more than aware that they keep each other around for selfish reasons. He uses her as a distraction from his unrequited love for Geralt and she keeps him around as entertainment and bed warmer. In a moment of odd clarity, the bard asks himself how much longer this will go well.

Chapter Text

Jaskier stays with the Countess de Stael for another two months, yet unfortunately, everything must come to an end and in spring of 1243 Jaskier finds himself in some tiny tavern next to the Yaruga, because their explosive tempers have once again clashed in a manner that had both of them seeking their luck elsewhere.

Outside it’s pouring and the streets of the town have turned into muddy rivers. The puddles forming in the grooves between the cobblestones reflect the light of a few oil lamps, as do the glistening facades of some buildings. Darkness has long fallen and the hardworking people have turned to the taverns and whorehouses to quell their thirst for ale and other pleasures.

Around that time, Jaskier also leaves his – hopefully not – vermin-infested room, but the lacking weight of his coin pouch had forced him to rent one in the less popular inn of this town. Tonight though, when he walks down the stairs, he can already tell that the rain has washed up more people than usual and the taproom is quite crowded. Jaskier spots a few familiar faces and he has barely left the creaking steps when he too is being noticed by a group of dwarves who are sitting at a corner table, laughing loudly and eating like people twice their size.

“Oi, Master bard,” one of them raises his tankard in a welcoming gesture. “No music today, ey?” he yells over the noise of the conversations and the booming laughter coming from the bar. He nods towards Jaskier’s shoulder which isn’t weighed down by a lute strap tonight. At the obvious indicator that Jaskier has left his instrument behind, more people turn their heads.

“Not today, I fear,” the bard says, gesturing apologetically when he’s met with general complaints. The dwarf simply shrugs and turns back to his ale.

Another companion of his, with beads braided into his beard - Jaskier thinks he was called Bardolf - raises his voice. “Want to join us for a round of Gwent?” he asks when he walks past their table.

“Perhaps later,” Jaskier evades. He remembers vividly the amount of coin he lost yesterday to those rascals. But they were a funny bunch, that he can’t deny. Tonight though, he feels rather melancholic. Earlier he finished a sombre ballad that was inspired by the Countess and now drinking sounds like a more appealing activity.  

So that’s exactly what he does.

“…I’m telling you Jagna-” Jaskier leans further over the counter, woefully ignoring the man grumbling next to him so that he can make himself heard by the pudgy barmaid who currently pours him a new ale - “rich as can be… and beautiful. She has the most wonderful legs and oh, once she’s got them wrapped around my-“

A tankard gets slammed down in front of him.

“Ah, thank you,” Jaskier says and leans a bit back as he pulls the ale towards him. He grabs the counter to keep his balance.

“Come on, pay up,” Jagna says and her open hand hovers in front of him.

Jaskier stares at the calloused and roughened palm and then he shakes her head. “No trust you innkeepers have in people these days,” he mutters while he rummages through his pocket. A smile plays around Jagna’s lips and her green eyes sparkle with mirth.

“I know the likes of you, Jaskier,” she says with amusement in her voice. “You’re not the first minstrel to come through this area,” she elaborates while she watches Jaskier scrutinising the different currencies in his pocket.

“Do you take Ducats?” the bard asks. She nods and after receiving her payment she examines the coins before she lets them disappear in the pocket of her apron approvingly.

“I would never try to cheat a lady as charming as you,” Jaskier says after he’s taken a sip of his ale and winks at her.

The barmaid outright laughs at that. “Mhm, and what about that countess of yours?” she retorts already over her shoulder as she turns to one of the fishermen, who orders a new round for his whole table. “From what I hear you were more interested in her abilities in the bedroom than her character.”

“Okay, first of all– “ Jaskier begins and takes a big gulp of his ale – “That notion is preposterous and second of all, I am a poet. An artist… How could I not appreciate the aesthetic of the female form? The beauty of a sunkissed -“

“A lot of appreciating did ya,” Jagna cuts him off.

Jaskier sighs dramatically, “By Melitele,” he raises his tankard, “You bet I did.”

The barmaid laughs and then she shuffles out from behind the counter, two jugs filled with ale in her hands to bring it to the table in front of the fireplace. The fishermen there immediately start to holler when they see her.

Jaskier meanwhile turns to his ale and wallows a bit in the memories of the Countess de Stael, elaborately recalling their passionate embraces in front of the fireplace - and various other surfaces in her house. Maybe Jagna was right. But their connection and love had always been expressed in a more physical nature... Passion lets the blood run hot – a trait which he could appreciate, but on the other hand, he could’ve done without the vases and clothes thrown after him.

“So-“ The voice startles Jaskier and he looks up. Jagna is standing again behind the counter and she smirks at him. “How did you and the countess split up then?”

“What gave you that idea?” Jaskier asks.

“Well, you are sitting in this tavern - which was already a shithole before my father inherited it - knocking back one ale after the other and more importantly reminiscing about the times when you and the countess were still engaging in various sweat-inducing exercises. Which tells me that since you are here talking about it, you are clearly not a part of those any longer.”

“You-“ Jaskier says and points a finger at her- “Are way too smart to be my innkeeper.”

Jagna shrugs and waves him off, but Jaskier grins when he spots the faint blush on her face. “You don’t know how many conversations I’ve had with people that went along the same lines. Blame it on my …experience.” The last word comes out slower as she trails off while she looks at something over his shoulder. 

Jaskier turns around. 

There, where the door has swung open, a hooded stranger has stepped over the threshold. He is drenched by the rain, small puddles forming under his feet and his boots are splattered with mud. Even the edges of his dark cloak are soaked and when he shifts, Jaskier can see that there are two sword handles sticking out over his shoulder.

A Witcher...

After a brief look around, the man heads for a secluded table in one of the corners next to the dwarves, who unlike the other patrons don’t seem to give a shit about who just stepped into the room. And while Jaskier has only gotten a glimpse of the person hiding behind that hood, it was enough to recognize them.

“Jagna, as delightful our conversation was, you wouldn’t mind bringing me and your new guest two new ales,” Jaskier says, “And maybe some bread and cheese, or whatever you have that is the most edible thing here. Nothing against your fine establishment but… well.” he trails off. “If you’d excuse me now-”

Jagna who had stared at him like he’d grown a second head suddenly shakes off that mood and calls him back. “Bard, she says. “You know that he’s a Witcher…”

“Obviously,” Jaskier says and whatever semblance of worry had been in her face gets wiped away as she scoffs.

“You are a fool,” she says and shakes her head. “If you find yourself on the other end of a blade for whatever reason, don’t come whining to me later.”

“I would never, milady,” Jaskier replies smirking and after a flourishing bow which has her smile despite herself, he grabs his tankard from the counter and heads for the table where the Witcher sat down.

Jaskier casually slides into the seat opposite the man, throwing a few glares in the direction of the many gawkers before he addresses him.

“It’s getting creepy, don’t you think? That we always meet without either of us expecting it,” Jaskier says and finally turns to the Witcher. There is a flash of bright gold from under the hood when catlike eyes catch the light. Jaskier takes a sip of his ale. “I mean twice is a coincidence but three times-“ The bard makes a dramatic pause and leans forward – “Is a pattern.” The grin on his face does probably nothing to hide his giddiness.

Jaskier shifts his weight once more and gestures with the hand in which he holds the tankard, liquid sloshing awfully close to the edge. “You aren’t following me, are you? Now that I’ve gained so much in notoriety. I mean I always knew that one day you’d wake up and recognize my genius, though I guessed it might take you another year or two. Or is it because the people have finally begun to call you the White Wolf - Oh please tell me that’s the case.”

When the Witcher raises his head, the shadows hiding his face retreat, revealing bony features and pale skin marked by even paler scars. “Hello, Jaskier,” the man rasps in his unmistakable voice. Around his pallid lips plays the hint of a smile.

An even wilder grin splits Jaskier’s face. “Hello, Geralt.”

When Jagna has brought them their food, Geralt has already been made aware of Jaskier's whole story, sans the part where he ended up in a heap of kitchen wastes overlooked by another Witcher - he has some dignity left - and the most recent developments in his relationship with the countess.

"...it was a mutual decision you know," Jaskier says.

“Oh, so you didn't do something that you shouldn't have?" Geralt asks as he chews on his meal.

"And you are an expert on women, are you?" Jaskier shoots back.

Geralt snorts. "Am I wrong?"

Jaskier finishes the rest of his ale. After he has wiped his mouth he says, “Alright let’s say, maybe – only maybe, I’m not without fault myself, but – and this is a big but; How can you demand that someone lives a monogamous lifestyle if you are married yourself?! It was bound to end badly.”

Geralt hums.

"See?!" Jaskier says. "I knew you’d agree with me." The bard tears a sizable chunk out of his piece of bread. "So, what have you been up to? Was that contract in Vizima worth it? I mean what was it; a vampire? A succubus?"

"Striga," Geralt rasps.

"I thought they were a myth?"

"No, just rare," the Witcher says. "And that one's even a princess now."

"Wait," Jaskier pauses. "Hold up. Did you just say, princess?!"

"Yeah. Apparently, King Foltest wasn’t as innocent of a -"

“Ah,” Jaskier waves him off in recognition. "If you mean to tell me about Foltest's little affair with Adda, you can scratch that part. It has been the talk in court for years. The political debacle when he refused the offer to marry King Vizimir’s daughter was a mess. Melitele, you can’t imagine how many people considered assassinating Foltest to take the throne themselves…”

"Do you want to hear the story or not," Geralt says and Jaskier immediately shuts up.

"I'm all ears," the bard proclaims.

The corner of Geralt's mouth twitches up amused and Jaskier finds himself mirroring the expression. Then the Witcher begins to tell the tale.

This time around Jaskier sticks to Geralt’s side even longer and while many things appear to stay the same, there are also things that are different from what Jaskier has experienced when he first travelled with Geralt.

More frequently people greet them with indifference instead of disdain. Geralt doesn’t have as much trouble getting paid what he’s owed and he makes decent money. In conclusion, they stay in inns more often than not. And with that come the baths.

Oh, the baths. 

Jaskier hates and loves them in equal measure.

His sense of smell seems to have gotten used to the many luxurious perfumes the Countess used to wear because even though before, the scent of Geralt covered in all kinds of monster fluids – a frequent occurrence - bordered on being barely tolerable, it’s outright revolting now.

More often than not, Jaskier is the one to insist that Geralt takes a bath, but the man usually doesn’t do much to object. The bard even invests in some additional scented oils and soaps and he truly laments the fact that he didn’t start with it earlier. 

Because not only are the scents a welcome addition to Jaskier’s own collection, it turns out having Geralt smell like something he picked scratches an itch he hadn’t even known he’d possessed.

The first time he’d been allowed to care for the Witcher’s hair in that way had been a revelation. 

Considering their relationship is based on a more tactile than vocal level anyway - from that first punch in the stomach to kicking each other’s shins under the table on a regular basis - Jaskier shouldn’t be so eager to jump at those opportunities. But trying to tackle each other into various bodies of water while the other least expects it is just different from touching Geralt in such a soft manner. The few times it’s happened so far are treasured memories in Jaskier’s mind. It has something within him rumble contentedly and he treasures the tingly sensation that runs up his fingers whenever he makes contact with Geralt’s skin.

Through trial and error as well as a sneezing fit - Jaskier had been left in shambles by his laughter - they find out that Geralt’s mutated senses don’t take too kindly to certain scented oils. Though, since those are usually the same ones that Jaskier himself finds a tad too intense it isn’t a hardship to stick to more soothing ones.

He can buy lilac and chamomile as well as something citrussy, but nothing minty nor certain oils with conifer in them.

Funnily enough, the flowery scents are the best ones though Jaskier does his best to avoid anything that smells too much like what a noblewoman would wear to draw in lovers. The rose one is never even once considered. Partly for that reason and partly because it’s too expensive.

On another, imprinting note, Jaskier learns that once all that dust, sweat and lingering monster-stench is washed off, Geralt’s personal scent, once he’s clean, is quite pleasant though surprisingly subtle. 

Weren’t it for the last fact, Jaskier doesn’t think he would even bother with picking out oils to match. 

Jaskier beds a lot of people in those towns. Mostly to distract himself from the – well – fixation he’s developed on the Witcher.

His feelings for the Witcher over the winter - while constantly present - had been comparable to a heap of glowing embers in a fire pit. But now the slumbering emotions have been roused - Geralt's presence the spark to set them aflame once more. Whenever he looks at the man he grows painfully aware of the love that has settled so innocently in his chest and pulses through his veins with every heartbeat.

He doesn't dare to flirt with Geralt as lightly as he did in the beginning and so his only outlet is his poems. He goes through notebook after notebook, all filled with nameless confessions. Some he publishes, some he guards like priceless treasures. Soon, pressed flowers find their way between the pages, and he forgoes his collection of pebbles for a while in favour of colourful ribbons with which he ties them shut.

Once Geralt complains about having to cut out another of his leather strips with which he ties back his hair during hunting because of the amount of monster-gunk splattered over his head and Jaskier has an epiphany. 

From then on, it becomes a somewhat frequent occurrence that the infamous White Wolf returns from a contract, his dark attire splattered with blood while his hair is held back by a happy blue band.

In rare cases, Jaskier even gets to weave them into Geralt’s hair himself and sometimes, just for the hell of it, he’ll pick a matching one to braid into Roach's mane. The Witcher tends to complain about it but he never takes them out before it's really necessary.

Somewhere around May, they lay in an open field, watching the night sky. 

They talk in low voices, barely louder than a whisper and Jaskier tells Geralt about the time when his father took him out as a child to look at the constellations and taught him what they were called. It's the first time he ever truly talks about his family in front of the Witcher and one of the few fond memories he has of these times.

After they have lain next to the crackling fire for some time, only accompanied by the sound of the wind and the scent of grass and smoke, Geralt speaks to him about his training when he was young. He tells Jaskier about how they were taught to find their way out of the wilderness and to survive and what star to look for if they ever lost their way.

It's a moment without pomp and the usual extravagance Jaskier likes to indulge in, not comparable to the luxurious feasts in castles, the rush of performing in front of a crowd. 

It's a quiet moment, like a pause between breaths and Jaskier doesn't remember if he ever felt happier.

He writes another ballad after that day, and he calls it "The Stars above the Path". Jaskier almost makes himself cry the first time he sings it out loud because, despite the heartbreak that is woven into the words, a hopeful timbre is sounding through with every note.

It's one of his best works.

Chapter Text

Months trickle by and Jaskier finds that he has almost gotten used to the yearning that spreads through his body whenever he thinks about Geralt when another development takes up just as much space in his mind as his ill-fated love life.

It starts small, in a barely noticeable shift from an odd quirk of his turning into something distinctly more obsessive. 

Jaskier truly becomes aware of it when the opportunity arises to let Roach carry some of his gear for once and the mere thought of taking Geralt up on the offer elicits such a strong negative connotation that he refuses on the spot without a second thought. 

Jaskier has always been possessive of his things, but now not even Roach is allowed near his lute anymore and he snaps at people whenever they get too close. 

Geralt appears to be the only exception to this rule, but only because the possessiveness seems to have extended to include the Witcher himself.

Jaskier has never tended towards jealousy and yet he finds himself more and more irritated during the rare occasions adventurous women throw themselves at Geralt. He can't help but hover over the Witcher like a bloody guard dog when men invite him to a game of Gwent or a drink. 

The bard reigns in his irritation as much as he can, because he knows it's an irrational feeling and yet he can't help but glare at people whenever they approach the Witcher. 

Just when he’s about gotten used to dealing with that new aspect of his personality, another, worse development, follows suit.

Jaskier’s muscles have begun to ache. So much so, that he barely takes note of the constant soreness anymore. 

At first, the bard blames it on the hilly landscape.
They’ve started to travel through the towns that are scattered all over the foothills and valleys of the Mahakam mountains and Geralt sets a punishing pace, which doesn’t help at all. At first, the bard doesn’t refrain from whining about his sufferings but once the pain gets worse his chattering makes way for silence. 

Slowly but surely, his own senses start to overtake even Valdo Marx on the list of annoyances in life. Thoughts are buzzing through his head so much that even the scents and sounds of his environment overwhelm him.
Every city they go through means agony.
The colours, noise and especially smells are intense and crowds grate on his fragile nerves more than anything. Yet, it’s only when the bard notices that he can still smell the tannery of the last town over a mile away that he realises that something is really wrong with him.

At first, Jaskier thinks it might be a curse. 

But he discards the notion.
Something within him knows it’s not. 

Jaskier’s skin itches and his bones feel too small for his body. He yearns to move but every step he takes feels knives digging into his feet.

He knows Geralt is already asking himself what’s wrong with him. He’s noticed the looks. He’s even visited a healer - secretly of course because he didn’t want to risk Geralt leaving him behind - but the woman couldn’t find anything wrong with him apart from a slight fever and her guessing he had developed somewhat of an affinity to fits of migraine.

She gave him some medication for the way because, despite all, the thought of leaving Geralt to his own devices has Jaskier panicking. Thus, he sets up his bedroll as close to Geralt as he dares. And a part of him knows that it has nothing to do with his emotional involvement. It’s a strange instinct of wanting to keep the Witcher close, an urge to protect and be protected and Jaskier simply can’t wrap his mind around it. And yet the feeling has grown stronger than ever over the last few days and therefore also harder to suppress.

Consequently, Jaskier is in equal parts distressed and relieved when they reach civilization again.

The town is nestled into the side of the mountains like a harpy’s nest and Jaskier has just enough mind to scribble down a note to remember the place because it looks rather inspiring.

When Jaskier looks up he notices that Geralt has been watching him. There is an amused spark in his eyes when he looks down at him from Roach’s back.

“Harpy’s-nest-town?” the Witcher asks and raises an eyebrow as he reads over Jaskier’s shoulder.

“Well, somehow I’ll have to remember the sight. It’s magnificent. Like a floating city- oh that would actually be quite the ballad. I gotta write that down…” Jaskier chews on the end of his quill and shifts his stance. He resists the urge to scratch his arms. “Or maybe the city in the sky?”

Geralt stares at the buildings in the distance while Jaskier scribbles down his ideas. The Witcher hums. “When did you see a harpy’s nest?”

“Surely we’ve hunted one before, Geralt,” Jaskier retorts offhandedly as he adds a small sketch with a few flourishing strokes. Something hot runs down his spine. He can almost feel his bones shift.

“Hmm. I think I would’ve remembered that.”

“Then maybe it was before we met. I’ll have you know that I travelled prior to our first encounter, Geralt. I've been to the coast a few times in my life.”
Thrice, his mind helpfully supplies. And in all of those instances, he wasn’t older than the ripe age of ten, considering he doesn’t count the reeking docks of Novigrad.
“I’m an educated man.”

Roach snorts impatiently. This rocky path doesn’t really pose any entertainment for a horse.

“Oxenfurt isn’t really known for its harpies,” the Witcher muses with a smirk.

“It was in Kerack,” Jaskier says curtly and adds his finishing lines.

Geralt hums. Jaskier blows softly onto the ink before he snaps his book shut and points towards the buildings in the distance.

“Have you been to that town before?” he asks before their conversation can delve deeper into topics, which he would rather avoid and also to distract himself from the ache in his bones.

“It’s been a few years,” Geralt says and he clicks his tongue to get Roach going again. The harsh sunlight hits his cheekbones in a way, which highlights them even more and his golden irises glow in the light. Jaskier forces himself to stop staring at the man. Instead, he directs his gaze towards the settlement once more and he tugs his bag closer.

“It looks rather lovely. Let’s hope the people living there live up to that expectation.”

“Don’t expect too much. It appears more impressive than it is.”

“And why’s that?”

“It’s built on the ruins of a former elven stronghold – see that tower? It’s not being used anymore. Nor are the walls over there.”

Jaskier gets his small journal out again and he stares at the Witcher expectantly. Geralt throws him a look that would’ve had other men shit their pants. “Come on, Geralt. You know that look doesn’t work on me. Your scary face lost its effectiveness ages ago. Constant exposure will do that to a man. I’m immune now.”

“Blessed times,” Geralt says but the corner of his mouth twitches.

“Don’t leave me hanging here,” Jaskier complains.

Geralt doesn’t sigh but Jaskier sees the way his shoulders drop the tiniest bit and he knows that he’s won. “I don’t know much,” the Witcher begins.

“Go on,” Jaskier demands. Geralt throws him a look but then he complies.

“The ruins are part of a fortification system. It has been both used as a waymark and to protect the salt reservoirs in the mountains when it was founded. But those have been mined off centuries ago.

Jaskier scribbles everything down meticulously.

“Nowadays the town is of little importance. Back then it was part of the main trading route between Mount Carbon and what is now Temeria-” Geralt gestures vaguely between a few mountains as he explains- “But those have shifted elsewhere when the humans took over.”

Jaskier nods and motions for Geralt to continue. The Witcher tells him a bit about the architecture but he doesn’t know much more about the settlement. Despite that, Geralt seems to be in a rather good mood as he voluntarily begins to tell Jaskier about the monsters and creatures usually inhabiting those mountain forests. 

Still, they don’t start another conversation after that since Jaskier is rather occupied with saving his breath for the rest of the hike. 

It takes them two hours to reach the town and by then the bard’s very bones seem to be on fire. He drops down on the creaking bed in the cheapest room they could find and groans.

Geralt is downstairs talking to the locals. Jaskier feels like ants are crawling under his skin. Something within him doesn’t like it at all that he can’t see Geralt. But it was either leaving the Witcher or dealing with the crowd.

Jaskier can still hear the buzz of their voices. If he focuses, he can even filter out a few words of what is spoken. There is talk about some kind of winged beast.

The bard would have been thrilled were he not so exhausted. He wipes a hand over his face and he can almost ignore the smell of the wastes outside while he’s surrounded by the stale scent of the straw inside the thin mattress. Another headache is already making itself known. At this point, he’s doubting that what he’s suffering from is an ordinary sickness either. Jaskier exhales audibly.

He sits up and takes the last of his fever medication. It’s some kind of concoction, which he should mix with hot water and take in small doses but Jaskier couldn’t care less at this point. He drinks down what’s left of the liquid, hoping for some kind of relief, which he knows won’t come. Then he shuffles over to the silvery bowl with water and a small and filthy rag next to it. Jaskier washes his face and then stares at his warped reflection.

He doesn’t look ill even though his skin is hot to the touch. A few curls stick to his sweaty forehead and he wipes them back before he opens his mouth to check his throat. It doesn’t appear to be swollen either. 

Then he notices his teeth.

Jaskier’s jaw snaps shut with a click. His heart is hammering and he grips the washing bowl with his hands so tightly that his knuckles grow white. He can see his eyeballs dancing in their sockets as he takes in his own face frantically between the rippling waves of the water. The bard licks over his lips before he opens his mouth again. Slowly this time.

His molars have grown to points. Sharp vicious looking things, resembling more the teeth of a wolf than those of a human. Jaskier raises his shaking hands to press his fingertips against them. It doesn’t draw blood, but the feeling alone is enough to confirm that what he’s seeing isn’t simply an illusion.

The bard closes his mouth again before he bares his teeth at the reflection in the water. Like this, they don’t appear any different from any other human’s teeth.

The sound of the door swinging open has Jaskier flinching violently. He didn’t even notice Geralt coming up the stairs.

“Is everything alright?” the Witcher asks. 

The bard doesn't turn around but makes an effort to relax his tense shoulders. “You startled me, that’s all,” Jaskier lies. “I’m fine. Just exhausted from the road.”

Geralt hums. His eyes remain on Jaskier as he walks over to the second bed and puts down his swords. The bard is glad that he doesn’t push the topic.

“So, did the locals say anything more about the winged beast?” he asks casually while he dries off his shaking hands.

“You heard that?” The Witcher raises an eyebrow.

“The walls are thin,” Jaskier deflects.

“Hmm.”

Jaskier walks over to his bed and pulls the lute case out from under it. The texture of his instrument grounds him after he’s taken it out. It seems to sing under his hands. He sits down cross-legged on the straw mattress and leans against the corner where the walls meet the bedframe. One advantage of people being wary of a Witcher - at times to a point where Geralt might as well have revealed he’s a leper instead of mentioning his occupation -  is that usually, they don't have to share their room with anyone else. Not that Jaskier would ever mention it aloud.  

Meanwhile, Geralt has pulled out his silver sword and starts to wipe it down with a cloth that he drenches in some kind of oil. The scent of the concoction wafts through the air, causing the smell of foul corn and something sharp and acrid to creep into the bard’s nose.

Mostly to distract himself, though also to simply keep his hands occupied Jaskier begins to tune his instrument with practised ease - despite there being no need for it. The elven instrument is scarcely in need of maintenance. 

He can feel that Geralt is watching him.

“It’s probably a wyvern,” the Witcher breaks the silence after about a minute.

“Yeah?” Jaskier says and shifts uncomfortably. His left thigh itches again and he wants nothing more than to take a knife and scrape the skin of his flesh. “Not a dragon or something?”

Geralt snorts. “Figures that you would want to know about this... Writing a new ballad?”

“Maybe,” Jaskier says and they go back to their respective tasks. After a moment Geralt speaks up again.

“I doubt it’s a dragon. But it could be a forktail.”

Jaskier nods absentmindedly while he subtly scratches his leg. He can feel Geralt’s heavy gaze resting upon him. He forces himself to stop and look up. “What did it do?”

“A few people got snatched from an area a little further up the mountains. The locals call it the Colgwen trek.”

“The ‘White Pass’?” Jaskier guesses, deciphering the butchered elvish and tries to staple a smile on his face. His expression drops as soon as he remembers the teeth.

Geralt hums. “Probably where the elves used to go to the mines.”

Jaskier hums, not unlike the Witcher always does.
He snorts bitterly when he catches the irony of the situation.

“What?” the Witcher asks. Jaskier waves him off.

“Nothing.”

When the Witcher eventually announces that he’s going to hunt whatever creature roams the mountain, Jaskier makes no move to follow him. Geralt stares at the bard with an odd look but in the end, he says nothing and leaves.

Jaskier has never been more thankful for Geralt’s inability to start a conversation. 

He lies in the bed with the stale straw mattress and stares at the ceiling. A shiver wrecks through his body. There is a mouldy spot between two ceiling boards. The roof is probably leaking when it’s raining. His tongue traces the teeth in the back of his jaw. Jaskier sighs and turns to gaze at the burning candle whose flame is slowly nearing its inevitable expiration. By the looks of it, the Witcher left about twenty minutes ago.

The bard knows something is changing him. He can feel it. It hurts and it’s frightening yet Jaskier somehow knows it’s not a curse. And if he’s perfectly honest with himself he has to admit that it doesn’t feel wrong per se. That’s what scares him the most. He would like best now to curl around all of his things, Geralt included, and lock himself into a room where no one could get in till all of this is over.

It took a lot of willpower to let the Witcher leave just like that. A surprising amount. 

And that’s what Geralt is.
A Witcher. A slayer of monsters.
And all the while Jaskier is growing fangs in the back of his jaw. 

The bard tightly grips the sheets of his bed. He isn't fond of the idea of leaving Geralt, but maybe he has to. He doesn’t want Geralt to witness him turning into a monster, nor does he want the man to have to be the one who has to take him down in the end. And that is where all of this seems to be heading right now. 

With a shaky breath, Jaskier swings his feet over the edge of the bed and gets up to grab his lute.

He needs some distraction and the innkeeper probably won’t mind a bard playing for a while.

Two weeks later, when they are making camp and Geralt is hunting for food, Jaskier looks at his legs. They are splotchy and red from all the scratching and when he lets his fingertips wander over the sore streaks, he notices something hard beneath his skin. Just a small bump. Not exactly visible from the outside, but there. Jaskier breathes shakingly. He throws a look towards the woods where Geralt had disappeared earlier. Then he looks at his thigh.

In a split-second decision, he pulls his dagger out of his boot. He bites his lip with teeth that are sharper than they should be and then he presses the tip against his skin. Tears are forming in his eyes as he cuts out whatever this is that is growing there and when he doesn’t manage to repress a noise any longer, he muffles a sob against his clenched fist.

His blade falls onto the forest ground with a dull thud and dark blood drips down his thigh when the thing is finally out. His leg is trembling and Jaskier is picking up the gory piece that has been growing in his body. He blinks away the blurriness and with shaking fingers, he cleans the piece from blood and flesh. 

It’s oval, hard and flat. Not bigger than the tip of a finger. As he holds it into the light, it shimmers golden.

When Geralt returns, Jaskier has bandaged his leg tightly and removed all evidence of what he did. He mutters something about having tripped while gathering firewood and Geralt doesn’t ask any questions. The golden scale weighs heavy in his pocket as he lies.

Over the course of the next week, Jaskier drops hints about a bardic competition in Ellander and on a crossroad shortly before Maribor they decide to part ways.

The weather fits Jaskier’s mood. It’s cloudy and a cold wind blows through the land, whistling past their ears like a farewell song. The fields of grass stretching over the rolling hills undulate like a melancholic sea. “Geralt,” Jaskier says, swallowing down the lump in his throat.

“Jaskier,” the Witcher retorts with a tinge of what could be amusement streaking his voice.

“Here we are,” the bard sighs.

“Here we are,” the Witcher repeats. His mouth twitches.

Jaskier points at the weathered waymark that indicates the direction to the city while the other path leads to a few backwater towns. The latter is the path Geralt will follow while Jaskier is heading for Maribor. “Parting on a crossroad seems a bit like a cliché, doesn’t it? Though I guess it is fitting...” The bard sighs sorrowfully, “Two paths split like two lives that have been intertwined, yet now our fates are leading us in different directions…”

“It was your idea to go to that bardic competition, Jaskier,” the Witcher says dryly but amused. “You are being dramatic.”

“Well, maybe I am,” Jaskier says and stands up straighter. He grips the strap of his lute. Then he turns to the brown mare who languidly chews on her bridle.

“Roach,” the horse’s ears perk up when Jaskier addresses her. “Be a good horse. Look out for Geralt, because we both know that he can’t do it himself.” The Witcher watches the exchange with an amused expression. Roach snorts.

“Geralt,” Jaskier says and he looks at the Witcher. There are a thousand words he could say, songs and poems he could choose from to confess and in the end, he simply takes a step forward and wraps his limbs around the man in a tight hug. “Take care,” Jaskier says quietly and he inhales the Witcher’s scent, who after a moment begins to awkwardly pat the bard’s back.

Eventually, Jaskier steps back and he sniffles and blinks away a tear.

Geralt clears his throat. “You too, bard,” he presses out and Jaskier smiles sadly.

“Well, see you around Geralt,” Jaskier says and he turns on his heel because he doesn’t think he can bear to look at the man a moment longer.

After a few seconds, he can hear Geralt mounting his horse and riding away.

Halfway on his way to Maribor, he is crying uncontrollably.

The bard never enters the city. Instead, he goes around it and heads north since Geralt has mentioned that he’ll be riding towards Cintra.

Jaskier travels aimlessly. He’s lost all sense of time and space. When he doesn’t find an inn, he sleeps in the woods and when he’s in a town he performs. Mostly for a bed and some food, though he still earns coin. Eventually, even the smallest villages overwhelm his senses. He begins to avoid all settlements after that. It’s a good thing too because subsequently, he notices that he now possesses two pairs of sharp canines in both his lower and his upper jaw, which even the beard he grew can’t hide. He doesn't sleep at all that night.

Jaskier isn't aware of how much time has passed since he split up with Geralt, nor what distance he’s covered. But one day he steps out of a forest and when he looks up, he lays eyes on a towering mountain range, jagged tops partly veiled by the clouds. A hysterical laugh bubbles up his chest when he realises that his feet have led him back to the place where he noticed that something was wrong in the first place.
The Mahakam Mountains. 

Jaskier aimlessly climbs up anyway, deeming them a destination as good as any. Besides, he’s always enjoyed the heights.
He steers alongside rocky paths and unused trails where pebbles come loose under his steady steps. Jaskier walks and walks till he’s left even the last signs of civilization behind save for a windswept and abandoned shepherd's hut nestled into the mountainside, in which he takes shelter during a stormy night.

He snares his own food as best as he can and when he eats a rabbit raw for the first time, he throws up afterwards, his hands full of blood. He laughs hysterically at the thought that Geralt would have probably killed him by now and that he wouldn’t even mind it.

He doesn’t cook food any longer.

Jaskier still makes a fire to chase the cold away. Not even his woollen blanket helps him with it. He’s always cold these days.

One evening Jaskier makes camp in the forest. He’s almost reached the tree line. It smells like smoke, moss and sweet rotting earth as well as the pines that are dominating this forest. He’s lit a fire and the red flames dance happily, seemingly mocking his current mood. The bard hasn’t searched for more scales in his skin. But he knows they are there. 

His limbs are riddled with goosebumps and he’s shivering violently even though his body appears to be burning up. 

He holds his palms out in front of him, facing the heat. 

This is better but it isn’t enough. 

Jaskier stares into the fire and there is nothing and no one keeping him from doing it, so he slowly stretches his fingers towards the flames. Further and further till his hands are engulfed by them.

It’s warm.

Jaskier blinks.

Gods, what is he doing?!

The bard pulls his hands back as quickly as he can and then he stomps out the fire. He ignores that his hands don’t hurt at all and then packs his stuff and sets out. He doesn’t stop till the sun goes up.

Jaskier decides to forgo a fire the next night, but in the end, he relents. 

At this point, the cold has settled around him like an ever-present blanket of snow spreading around his skin. It’s seeping into his pores, cradling his bones and organs in ice and frost like the growing glaciers in the north. 

He wishes that Geralt was here.

Once more he sits in front of a crackling fire and he is just so damn cold. Jaskier looks at his unblemished hands. He exhales shakily. “This is stupid,” he says out loud. “This is a bad idea. A very bad idea…” Then he pulls off his wrinkly doublet.

Jaskier reaches out again with his hands and holds them into the flames till even his arms are in the fire. It doesn’t burn him. He simply feels warm.

For the first time in days, his skin doesn’t feel like there are sentient frost flowers growing beneath it. Jaskier exhales.
Insanity must’ve taken hold of him. He stares down at his shoes and pants. 

A laugh spills over his lips.

“No, no, no. Stupid idea. Very stupid idea.” Jaskier steps back from the fire and after having made sure that all of his belongings are stored away safely, he begins to widen the pit in which his fire is burning. He doesn’t even notice the heat when he’s grabbing burning logs and shifting them around with his bare hands. Afterwards, Jaskier throws the rest of his gathered firewood into the hollowed-out space and arranges it in a circle around the glimmering coals in the middle. It’s going to be a tight fit, but it’ll have to work.

“I must be crazy,” Jaskier whispers to himself while he pulls off the remainder of his clothes, stuffing them into his bag. “Completely insane…” When he’s stark naked he stops in front of the fire. He’s shivering but then he squeezes his eyes shut and takes a step forward.

Twigs crack beneath his feet and red sparks shoot up in the sky as he feels them break under his weight.

The pain doesn’t come. Jaskier opens his eyes. He’s standing in the middle of the dancing flames and nothing happens. He just feels warm. It’s nice.

His muscles still ache, his body hurts but suddenly it doesn’t seem so bad anymore. Jaskier exhales and slowly crouches down before he lays down amongst the burning sticks and the glomming coals. He curls up in the little nest he’s made, letting the flames engulf him and a relieved sigh escapes his lips. Jaskier feels good. For the first time in weeks.

The next morning the bard wakes within the remains of a burnt down fire and to the scent of ash. When his eyes blink open, he’s slightly disoriented. His body feels sore but in a good way this time and when he moves to curl up a bit more, to save the remainder of the warmth, he feels something brush against his side. It's like he’s touching himself with his arm, but he knows where his arms are and this isn’t it.

Jaskier jerks back violently, the birds around him fall silent. A deep reverberating sound is rumbling forth from the back of his throat and echoes through the silence

Claws.

Jaskier is looking at claws furrowing the earth. Sharp talons of a pale golden colour, almost silvery just like the scales that cover these foreign limbs. Bigger than any human hand.

No. Gods no.

Jaskier tries to breathe evenly to calm himself down but even his breaths sound deeper and huffier, like those of a bigger creature. More like a horse than a human. When he raises his head, he rises and rises until he towers over the ground. 

Something heavy is weighing down his back and Jaskier has to know, he simply has to even though he doesn’t want to. Slowly ever so slowly he turns his head. Bat-like wings are folded against a streamlined body that is covered in pale golden scales. A body that simply can’t belong to him, but Jaskier knows - he feels it’s his. There is a tail that’s curled around his belongings resting outside the fire pit. In comparison, his lute appears tiny.

Jaskier tries to run his too-long tongue over his teeth. It doesn’t work the way he’s used to, but what he feels has his stomach turning in his insides.

When he gags, it’s accompanied by a horrible sound. He retches but nothing more than bile leaves his stomach. He lurches forward, his neck – that’s way too long – doing most of the work.

Out of habit, he wants to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. One of the claws pulls back.

Jaskier wants to cry. But he can’t. He looks at his bag with the pebbles and the lute. They are familiar.

They are his. Somehow the tail curled around them isn’t enough anymore. Jaskier moves before he can think about it and curls up around them as best as he can. A deep rumble leaves his throat. Only the noise snaps Jaskier out of it. Is he …purring? He finds that his head is resting on his tail and Jaskier closes his eyes to shut the world out. He inhales the scents that cling to his belongings to regain at least the slightest bit of normalcy.

Life from that point on is hard. Fighting to form a sensible thought, Jaskier tries to get away from the paths as best as he can and so he follows a small ravine, which turns into a full-on gorge after only a few miles. After a few days, he finds shelter on a small ledge in the cliffside and Jaskier discovers that he is apparently really good at climbing steep walls. After a whole week of a self-imposed hunger strike, he smells a lost deer and there is no conscious decision when he darts after it in a blur and digs his teeth into its flesh.

After that, he spends most of his days hunting and sleeping. In his lucid moments, Jaskier hates what he has become. In this form, he is driven by instinct and it’s rare that his thoughts make it to the surface.
At least in the beginning. 

Slowly Jaskier comes to terms with what he is now. 

He feels better than he has in months and apart from the first shock at waking in his new body, he doesn’t exactly feel uncomfortable in his skin. 

Still, Jaskier mourns that he can’t play his lute, and he misses talking to people. Talking in general.
It’s hard to accept his fate. But sometimes boredom is even a worse enemy than sadness and melancholy.
It’s one of those days when Jaskier decides that he’s going to figure out how to fly.

It takes more than one attempt, but apart from his first landing, which was a disaster - one can still see the trough in the earth he left behind - he becomes fairly adept at soaring through the air.

But this discovery comes with its own share of problems. Namely the sudden urge to rub his scent over every high surface available. He spends a whole day carefully marking each and every rock that he occupies before he can even consciously think about it.

He does feel more at home in his gorge afterwards - that he can’t deny - but still.

The lizard part of him is mostly content napping in the sun and chasing after deer. He still hasn’t quite figured out how to turn off his hunting instincts but the ability to fly points out a whole other side of being the creature that he now is.

Because flying is exhilarating. He covers distances in times he’s never dreamt of before and feeling the wind beneath his wings is better than anything he’s ever experienced. Well, not anything but it’s sharing its spot with a particular memory of Madame Lantierie’s brothel and that says something.

Jaskier begins to explore the mountain this way. He doesn’t dare to approach the human settlements a little further down but he flies higher to where the snow begins and which leads him to discover a dark lake amidst trees a little to the south.

It’s also where he first lays eyes on his reflection.

Jaskier has already suspected that he hasn’t turned into a wyvern or something of the like but when he sees himself his suspicions get confirmed.

He’s a dragon.

Light golden scales, almost silvery in the light, cover his lithe body. He must be bigger than a Griffin and his wings span almost double than those a Forktail possesses. Compared to the ones he has seen, at least.

Despite all the strangeness at seeing himself like that, Jaskier has to admit that this form - teeth, horns, tail and all - is still oddly beautiful.

And although he’s able to entertain himself by flying, hunting and exploring, Jaskier is still depressed. He’s learned how to deal with most of his instincts and strange whims, but that, in turn, has his human desires grow louder day after day. He’s never been isolated from contact for so long and to distract himself, his expeditions get longer and longer.

Alongside the increasingly cloudier weather, when the deciduous trees begin to change colours and speckle the lower-lying stretches of the forest with first yellows, coppers and reddish browns, Jaskier realises that it must’ve been at least two months since he’s made his home in the mountain gorge. 

It had been summer when he and Geralt parted ways.

Jaskier misses him. 

Maybe it’s his loneliness but Jaskier grows bolder and bolder in flying near small settlements in the mountains. He still kind of tries to hide in the clouds or by sneaking through the forest with catlike motions, but sometimes he gets so close that he can hear the lumberjacks talking and working in the distance.

He knows it’s dangerous but the prospect of hearing voices of living and breathing humans is just too tempting.

It’s two weeks after such an encounter when Jaskier is curled up under the overhang sheltering his ledge and he watches the raindrops dripping from the stone. 

Jaskier huffs. 

Above his nostrils, puffs of hot breath fade into the autumn air. The sound of heavy rain falling from the skies drowns out everything else and the dark clouds reflect his mood.

It’s been raining for two days straight and the small stream at the bottom of the gorge has swollen to a murky river. 

He has learned to resent this weather.

Flying is his only preoccupation, but with the rain, it’s simply a task. It’s wet and cold, his wings get heavy and he hardly sees anything. Additionally, when he’s hunting, he has a hard time tracking the scents of the animals below.

Overall Jaskier is bored and miserable. He shuffles his wings, flicking off stray droplets of water that have collected in the folds of the leathery skin and which the wind has blown towards him. Idly, he looks over to the narrowest part of the overhang, where he’s stored his lute and bag in a crevice. Both are protected from harsh elements. Him checking if they’re still here has turned into a habit that weirdly calms him, but knowing his belongings are safe simply isn’t enough today.

Now that it’s raining and he’s got nothing to do but lie around, his animal brain has receded to a small hum in the back of his mind and all Jaskier can do to distract himself is recite song lyrics and stories in his mind.

He wishes he could simply talk to someone. He even misses the grimy rooms of the inns he used to visit. The scent of stale straw and sweat and the bad ale. But most of all the company. Even the cantankerous face of his father would be a balm to his soul at this moment. He blinks at the battered case of the lute. There are giant teeth marks on it. His own.

Jaskier squeezes his eyes shut.

He wishes he were a human. If only for an hour. Jaskier recalls the way it felt to have the strings of his lute vibrate under his fingers and what elation it meant to perform. What it was like to be able to taste different foods, to sing and to laugh. He yearns for it. Gods, he wishes he could play.

If he just were smaller again. Jaskier growls in frustration as he pulls back. Human hands. How much would he give now to have human hands!

A tingle runs down his spine and spreads over his skin. He doesn’t recognize the feeling, but it’s something , so he chases after it. A strange hopeful thought worms its way into Jaskier’s mind. He doesn’t allow himself to believe too much in it and yet a small voice in the back of his head whispers encouraging words. Jaskier envisions his hands, fingers, joints and legs as well as smooth skin – his body as it was before.  

Pain spreads over his ribs. He whimpers. But he doesn’t let go of the image. His bones crack. Jaskier roars as his skeleton shifts beneath his skin, shrinking and taking on another form. He twitches on the ground, whimpering and curling in on himself as his body takes on another shape.

He screams.

Suddenly it’s over.

His body is aching with the aftershocks, his muscles still trembling. Jaskier is breathing heavily as he presses air out of his burning lungs. He is blinking tears out of his eyes and when he looks at his arms, blurriness receding, there are hands. Human hands with human skin and fingers.

The bard blinks. “Wha-“

Jaskier sits up and the rocky outcrop he’s been inhabiting suddenly is much bigger. When he tries to stand up, he almost falls down again. He’s gotten so used to the – now missing - weight on his back and walking on four legs that it takes him a few attempts to find his balance again. His thighs are shaking, but they look like they did before scales started to grow under his skin. Before his body went through this horrible change. When he raises a trembling hand to his head, he can feel his old, familiar face and hair on his head and the beard he didn’t care to shave once he left Geralt. His teeth are blunt. A shaky laugh escapes his lips - a laugh that turns into a broken sob when he realises the impact of this discovery.

Jaskier stands on the ledge, and he feels the icy wind on his sore skin and stray raindrops hit him as he shivers. Waves of relief and joy wreck through his mind and while there are tears running down his cheeks, Jaskier can’t help but smile.

His elation lasts for about as long as it takes him to notice that he can’t leave the rocky outcrop without risking his most certain demise.

After spending the first whole day singing his voice hoarse and playing the lute till his fingers feel like they’re falling off, the night shows its cruel face with ice-cold wind and sinking temperatures. Jaskier is barely able to sleep but he isn’t dispirited, not fully.

But the next day the bad weather is still holding strong and hunger is starting to make itself known to Jaskier. The change took it out of him and he hasn’t been hunting for a few days in his other form either.

He doesn’t try to linger on the way his mouth still waters at the memory of taking a deer’s head off with solely his teeth and neither the odd sense of accomplishment that comes with the recollection of a successful kill. 

That is an issue for another day.

To distract himself, Jaskier busies himself by rummaging through his bag and pulling out his notebook. He doesn’t compose - not yet - but he jots down a few thoughts and rhymes he’s been aching to write down and his collection of pebbles finds a new home in the crevices of the stonewall behind his back. Most of the flowers are only dust at this point but Jaskier doesn’t mind it too much and he scatters their remains in the wind like the ashes of a loved one. That day, he simply enjoys the feeling of being a human again. He pets the fabric of his clothes, sprints from edge to edge and lets his palms run over the stone of the ledge that has been his shelter for so long now. He drinks a bit of the rainwater that’s running down the overhang and afterwards, he sinks down on his blanket.

Finally, he has to confront reality. He is exhausted and cold. As a dragon, he hasn’t even noticed how the weather has changed over the seasons but as a human… There is no way to make a fire up here and while the rain seems to ease up, the stonewalls are still slippery. He is high up, dangerously high for a human and when he looks down the ledge, the walls appear unclimbable even if they were dry. Not to mention the raging river the bottom of this gorge has turned into over the last few days.

Jaskier is stuck. And he needs to eat soon.

When he wakes up the next morning, hungry and not being able to feel his fingers, the bard knows that he has no other choice but to try and leave this ledge another way if he doesn't want to die from hypothermia.

Shivering and with numb hands, Jaskier pulls off his clothes and stuffs them back into his bag. At least it no longer rains, but the icy wind that has replaced it is not much better. He throws his bag and lute onto his woollen blanket and ties the corners together as best as he can. He leaves the makeshift bundle where he can reach it well and then he exhales.

It’s easy to close his eyes and imagine his wings, the added weight on his back and the scales on his skin. The ease with which he had been moving on four legs, the teeth in his mouth and the horns on his head. Jaskier keeps hold of the image even when his spine starts to crack and his skin begins to itch.

The pain is the same, his body and organs shifting but Jaskier welcomes the heat that embraces his bones even when his screams turn into a growl.

He’s disoriented and lucky that he doesn’t fall down into the river, but his tail helps him keep his balance. Jaskier stretches his stiff wings and it’s strange how little the cold bothers him now.

He holds his muzzle in the wind and scents the air almost absentmindedly before he turns to look at the misshapen bundle a bit deeper in the overhang. There is only the icy smell of water and dirt as well as a hint of pine trees mixed with his own lingering scent.

Jaskier tilts his head in contemplation and eventually, he simply snatches the bundle with his mouth. When he feels like he has a good enough grip on it, he pushes himself from the ledge and with a beat of his wings he is in the air.

He looks down at the river in the canyon for a last time before he turns his attention to the evergreen forest.

Chapter Text

Four months have passed since the fateful day Jaskier has left the Mahakam mountains.

He must have appeared like an insane man the first time he’d reached a village again. He’d greeted every person more than cheerfully, barely having restrained himself from hugging every stranger he’d encountered. Once he’d entered through the door of a local inn and had spotted the gathered crowd he could’ve cried. Luckily the people had been able to write off his peculiarities as bardic eccentricity and he’d been asked to perform soon enough. He’d still been a bit rusty, but after that first evening which had earned him some coin and a bed, he soon regained his long-standing prowess.

Jaskier shortly notices that while he’s changed into his human form again, something more animal is now always present in his mind. He’s developed quite the odd quirks because of it. For example, his senses – even though they have dulled quite a bit – are still better than when he was ‘only’ human. 

Most notable, his skill in differentiating colours and shapes under darker conditions and his sense of smell, which seems to have suffered the least from his transformation back into a human. 

His new perceptiveness does wonders for his card-playing abilities. 

On the other hand, the almost obsessive urge to rub his scent all over his things and room whenever he rents one in an inn has joined this merry band of new peculiarities. It’s a tad inconvenient that he simply doesn’t feel like he can sleep when he’s not at least running his hands over the door frame and window of his room. Luckily the urge is only prevalent in his own chamber and not when he’s visiting someone else’s during the day. A factor, which Jaskier thanks the gods for because he’s sure that he’s spent at least a quarter of the time since his return to society in brothels.

A certain drawback to his increased sense of smell though, is that it tells him much more about a room and what exactly the previous occupants have been up to, which he deems less than fortunate.

More than once his instinct takes over his mind. To say that whatever little piece remaining of his hunting instinct in his human form is an annoyance is an understatement. He’s chased after a stray cat three times now and once he messed up a whole performance simply because he got too distracted by someone wearing a shiny necklace. 

In hindsight it was a blessing that the woman’s husband interrupted him by starting a fight, accusing the troubadour of staring at his wife’s cleavage, because his musical reputation can only take so much.

Jaskier has also found out that he is more prone to violence when he’s provoked. His new recklessness is maybe one of the worst developments. The bard has stabbed someone twice since his return to society and way too often he is moving before he can think about it. At least that also means that he is quicker to duck when a punch is thrown his way.

This has come in handy a lot, if simply for the reason that just because the draconic part of Jaskier’s mind drowns out the rational portion of his brain, he didn’t suddenly develop the fighting abilities of a Witcher.

Still, as time goes on, he manages to regain a semblance of control and slowly gets used to that new state of existence. 

Jaskier lazes his way through the early winter, making just enough coin to comfortably stay in various inns while simultaneously supporting his newly developed - and not so say costly - penchant for imported spices which he’s taken to keep in a small pouch on his belt to season his meals.

In short, half a year of a diet consisting of raw meat has made him reconsider some of his priorities and subsequently opened his eyes to a whole new range of foods.

Through a series of coincidences, Jaskier performs at a wedding near the city of Troy around December, where he gets acquainted with a young noble. After getting to know Jaskier intimately, the man invites the bard to visit him at his residence. As it turns out, the aristocrat’s current dwelling is with his cousin who is the Lord of Baldhorn and Jaskier is more than ready to take advantage of the offered hospitality.

He spends the rest of the season in comfortable luxury, entertaining the court as well as the young man’s bedroom while he works on new tunes.

During the six weeks he spends in the castle, Jaskier manages to draw up various pieces of poetry and he even composes a new ballad despite the fact that he devotes a surprising amount of his free time to napping.
Furthermore, the troubadour is able to resume his correspondence - exchanging thoughts with fellow musicians and writing letters to his older sisters, inquiring about their wellbeing, only to be confronted with the news that the Earl and Countess de Lettenhove both had passed away in short succession, felled by smallpox, almost half a year ago.

The day the news reaches him feels like a dream and Jaskier sleepwalks through the castle he was so readily invited to, reminiscing the days of his childhood. In the evening he takes the time to sit down with a bottle of good vodka and drunkenly reflects on the distant relationship he’s had with his late mother and the cold air of expectation he’d always been confronted with by his father, which still haunts him to this day.

Technically, he knows he’s now no longer a viscount but an earl. His father never did disown him in the end after all. 

Julian Alfred Pankratz, Earl de Lettenhove. 

He doesn’t particularly feel the urge to return home. He’s considered it, of course, to find answers to the many questions his strange affliction has raised , but he’s been avoiding the inevitable visit and now he doesn’t see much sense in it anymore. Considering the confused or pragmatic replies to the few carefully veiled questions he’d strewn into his letters, his sisters are as likely to know something about his draconic heritage as he is. 

Still, he doesn’t stop writing them.

Soon, a steady stream of letters is flowing back and forth between them and he learns things about his sisters, their husbands, nephews and nieces - pieces of information that he’d never really bothered to inquire about before - and of course about the state of things in general.  

Jaskier’s sisters have been handling things so far and he doesn’t feel the need nor want to interfere. Their conversations via letter have revealed how distant of a family member he’s become to them, voluntarily or not. He delights a bit in the fact though, that they are keeping up with his doings via his songs which reach even such remote corners as Lettenhove. Perhaps to spite his late father, he still appoints his eldest sister his heiress, who's been the ruling countess in all but name anyway.

He doesn’t write a song about his loss, because it simply doesn’t feel right, but a few poems flow from his quill and he mourns the relationship he had with his parents and what could have been. 

Eventually, the cold weather eases up and the icicles hanging down in front of his window start to drip and the bard knows his time in Castle Baldhorn will be over soon.

Throughout the winter Jaskier had felt comfortable holing up in various inns and estates but with the approaching spring, an energy that he hadn’t even realised he’d been missing returns to him. Now that the blankets of snow, which had covered the surrounding fields as far as the eye could reach, begin to melt, the walls surrounding the castle feel more and more like a barrier.
The courtyard gets busier with every passing day and when the switches of the guards keeping watch outside are no longer as frequent because of the warming weather, Jaskier also feels the need to return to the open road again.

Eventually, the troubadour bids his farewell and he’s seen off with quite a bit of coin and an open invitation to return whenever his travels send him on this path. It’s one of his more ostentatious goodbyes and Jaskier saviours every moment.

He makes it to Oxenfurt in the perfect time to take part in the annual festivity of Birke. 

Jaskier has always liked the celebration of the spring equinox. Even days before, the streets are already busy with preparations. People clean their houses, travelling merchants trickle into the city and wood is being gathered for the fires. When the day has finally come, the air is pregnant with the scents of herbaceous incense and baked goods while the narrow and colourful streets are crowded with people interested in the charms and trinkets being sold.
Stalls of every kind line the streets and the newest creations of the intellectuals inhabiting the city swarm the market. Useless and interesting inventions alike are displayed in the different booths, food vendors advertise their exotic wares and there are stands presenting jewellery and small tokens supposed to grant luck in the coming year. Children run around with rattles in their hands to chase away the winter with their noise and music is playing everywhere.

On the market squares they set up platforms where plays are performed, poetry is recited and musicians compete in a seemingly friendly environment, though Jaskier knows that some would stab each other in their sleep if they could get away with it. The taverns are packed and he himself spends his day strolling through the city.

Jaskier tries different foods and lets himself be dragged along by the masses. Later he watches some bards sing and play and endures even the more mediocre performances for professional reasons. Through his silver tongue and aided by a little bribe he manages to talk his way up a stage. It helps that he has already gained quite the reputation and when Jaskier ends his performance with his most recent ballad ‘ Elusive ’, he is showered with applause, coins and a renewed offer to guest lecture at the Academy.

Afterwards, he is back on the streets where he lets himself get talked into buying a lucky charm - which is nothing more than a small woven bracelet with a copper as a pendant – purely because it’s shiny.

Jaskier is just contemplating whether he should purchase another pastry after having spent an embarrassingly long time staring at the sparkling pieces of jewellery displayed at another stand when a familiar voice pulls him from his thoughts.

“Julian…” Jaskier turns around and there is a young woman who appears to have been elbowing her way through the crowd till she spotted him. Her blonde hair is pinned up to her head and her colourful clothes indicate her as part of one of the many music groups. Brown eyes sparkle prettily as she takes him in.

“Ellen, I didn’t expect to meet you here,” Jaskier says a bit reserved though he lets his eyes roam over her petite form anyways. Then he notices a tiny figure hiding behind the woman’s legs. She has the same blonde hair but it falls down loose, only one blue eye blinking past a stray curl falling into her face. Jaskier stares at the small girl who sniffles and then his eyes flick up to the woman again.

“This is my sister, Essi. I have to look after her till my mother has handled all of her business.” Ellen rolls her eyes. Jaskier wouldn’t want to look after a child here either but he’s utterly pitiless in that regard because Ellen had once described his poetry as mediocre .

“I can look after myself. I’m already seven,” the small person interferes and Jaskier can’t help but smirk. She wipes at her nose with her hand.

“Not in this crowd, you cannot,” Ellen says and Essi sticks out her tongue. A small smile appears on Ellen’s face at her sister’s antics and even Jaskier has a hard time disliking her. “So Julian, what have you been up to?”

“It’s Jaskier now,” Jaskier says, He sees with a tad of smug satisfaction how Ellen’s eyes widen for a moment in recognition. “Travelling, composing, performing. Etcetera, etcetera. I’m sure you’ve heard some of my songs,” he says flippantly but with a hint of pride in his grin.

Ellen laughs. “Jaskier, huh,” she says, stemming a hand in her hip, “New name but the same character. Still narcissistic as ever.”

“Well,” Jaskier elaborates and casually leans against the stand selling jewellery next to him - the merchant eyes him warily - “It’s not narcissism if it’s an accurate assessment of talent.”

Ellen laughs and then she smirks at him. “I’m performing later, you should come. Then you get a taste of what real aptitude sounds like. Maybe then you’ll see that your narcissism really is just that, and nothing more.”

“At least unlike some others, I don’t rely on my name to push my ballads towards the courts.”

Ellen raises an eyebrow. “What are you implying?” she says pertly.

Jaskier shrugs and picks up a shiny earring from the display, twirling it between his fingers. “Nothing. Though I’ve heard Valdo is in Cidaris nowadays.”

Ellen huffs. “He doesn’t have a title that he is relying on,” she says with a frown.

“Are you two still ...involved?” Jaskier asks curiously and he hates the fact that he is genuinely interested in the answer. Ellen stems a hand in her hips.

“We write to each other very often,” she says defensively. Her little sister tugs on her sleeve. Jaskier hums and a small smirk appears on his face.

That’s a no then.

“Ellen-“

“Not now Essi,” Ellen says and fixes Jaskier with a look. “But I don’t know why that would be any of your business, anyways.”

Jaskier waves her off. “It was just a question… But if you’re so keen on not talking about it, we can also change the topic. You know, I – personally - had the most wonderful winter in upper Redania, enjoying the hospitality of Lord Baldhorn and his wife.”

“I’ll be sure to tell Valdo if you are so insistent on rubbing it into his face,” Ellen retorts snappishly, “But you must know he is very busy.”

Jaskier sputters. “Rubbing it into his face?! Please, I was merely indicating-“

“Ellen…” Essi whines.

“You don’t fool me, Julian,” Ellen says, ignoring her sister. “Your rivalry is childish. You two never could stand each other–” Jaskier huffs. Little does Ellen know that until a particular falling out, he and Valdo had fucked to work through their differences. It’s a miracle she never noticed it, despite her admiration of that man, which had only been a smidge short of obsessive back in their school times... Meanwhile, Ellen has continued with her rant – “And now because Valdo has had some success you have to-”

“Success, success ? He was hired by King Mathen of Cidaris. I mean the people already say he is stupid and superstitious but choosing Valdo of all people to apprentice under his court bard literally proves that the man knows nothing of the arts.”

“At least he is at a royal court. You spend your days trailing after Witchers from what I hear. It’s a pity because I know you could do so much better. There are courts looking for young blood like you.”

“That has nothing to-“

“You should visit Valdo sometime,” Ellen cuts him off, “I know he sent you an invitation.”

Jaskier doesn’t know what to answer. Of course, he has considered it, but never in all his life would he admit that he’s got nothing better to do than to visit Valdo Marx of all people. Luckily, he doesn’t have to answer, because Ellen’s little sister speaks up insistently.

“Ellen, I have to pee,” Essi Daven interrupts.

The young woman turns to her little sister and she sighs. “Fine.” Then she turns to Jaskier. “We gotta go now.” She nods at him. “See you around Julian.”

“It’s Jaskier!” Jaskier shouts after her, but she’s already disappeared in the crowd.

Later he really keeps his eye open for Ellen’s performance because even he can admit that she’s talented. Though that doesn’t mean that he would ever tell her that much.

When the sun goes down, huge bonfires are lit alongside the shore of the Pontar and Jaskier strolls to the water where he knows the students – former and current – of the Oxenfurt Academy will be spending their evening. Drunkenly, he mulls over his talk with Ellen and when he wakes the next morning, hungover and with a headache, he has to find out that he’s apparently paid to be part of a wagon trek that’s heading for Cidaris in less than three hours.

He should’ve known that this venture was doomed from the very beginning.

Although it didn’t start out too bad.
In fact, it was rather the opposite. 

After arriving in Cidaris, Jaskier performs in various towns near the sea and thanks to his excellent and growing reputation, word of his arrival travels fast. He is invited to the castle of King Mathen and if that isn’t an opportunity that Jaskier takes with glee. Being hired as part of the main entertainment while Valdo Marx watches from the sidelines is not a pleasure, he denies himself – tasteless king, or not.

In hindsight, he decides that it maybe wasn’t his greatest hour when he tried to tackle Valdo in a room full of nobles.

“Please,” Jaskier pleads to the guards who drag him along the cobbled street. “This is nothing but a misunderstanding.”

Curious onlookers shuffle aside and the children running around freely on the market giggle and point their fingers at him. The smell of fish permeates the air and Jaskier groans with dreaded anticipation.

Of course.
Cidaris is after all known for their fishing and maritime trades and the market taking place today will leave quite the gory leftovers.

The more sympathetic guard to his left glances down at him from under his helmet. “Orders of the king, boy. Be glad you didn’t get it worse,” he says in the local dialect that sounds so much like the one Jaskier grew up with.

They make their way through the market and then over the heads of the crowd Jaskier finally spots the pillory in front of the local bailiff’s residence.

He can hear people cheer and holler and there is already the occasional rotten projectile flying through the air. When they break through the last line, he can barely make out that there is another person chained to the pillar, before he is unceremoniously shoved to the ground. His knees hit the filthy cobblestones with a painful thud and he has to use his hands to catch himself. The stench of fish and shit is overwhelming all of his senses.
Jaskier’s disgusted facial expression is commented on with general laughter and before he can shake off the remains of a rotten apple and what resembles the guts of a fish, he is pulled up by the back of his doublet and shoved against the stone pillar with his back. Once he’s got a somewhat stable footing on the elevated platform, an iron collar snaps shut around his neck.

The other guard is silencing the crowd but he has a hard time doing so. Jaskier tries to ignore the many faces of the gawking locals – and there are many – more than one would expect for such a mundane spectacle. Jaskier can hear the chain of the other person rattle as they shift on the opposite side of the pillar. The bard himself can barely lean forward or else he would be choking himself. He doubts that the other person has it any better.

“This man–“ The guard announces loudly to the crowd– “Insulted a member of the royal court. For this unseemly behaviour, he shall be punished by being pilloried from now on until sunset, as administered by King Mathen of Cidaris.”

The crowd starts to holler and Jaskier sighs in relief. Only a day. He really could’ve had it worse. But the guard isn’t finished. “In addition, and to prevent this sick individual from spreading more of their perverted opinions he shall be gagged for the duration of his punishment.”

Wait, what?

Jaskier doesn’t even have time to protest, before a filthy strip of leather is shoved between his teeth and tied behind his mouth. He can barely keep a growl from spilling over his lips but mostly the noise of the crowd swallows it up. His hands are tied together then too and the guards - having done their part - shoo away the children in their way and disappear in the crowd.

Jaskier’s eyes track the movement of their shiny helmets but then he’s already being hit by what appears to be a rotting herrong.

And so, his ordeal begins. For the following two hours, Jaskier seems to be the new entertainment of the crowd. Its peak is a ten-year-old boy who under the supportive cheers of his peers proceeds to piss right at his feet, but Jaskier notices that his fellow sufferer on the other side of the pillar isn’t spared either.

He is spat at just as often as Jaskier, if not more and the bard is hit by a few stray apples that are just a tad harder than the others. The bard can already feel his skin tingle and the beast in his mind slowly rises from its slumber. But Jaskier holds it back as best as he can. Because if there’s something that could worsen his fate, it would be turning into a dragon on a marketplace full of people. Luckily, there are hardly any rocks that the locals can throw, but enough horseshit to rectify that factor. Though the fish guts are by far the worst. The smell clogs up his nose and thanks to his improved sense of smell he doesn’t ever grow used to it.

Jaskier’s muffled curses are swallowed by the gag, but the man chained on the opposite side of the pillar doesn’t complain at all. Maybe, Jaskier muses, he should keep his reactions to himself too, since that only seems to draw attention to his persona as he is the more entertaining of the two – gagged or not. But then another handful of horseshit lands on his fairly new but now ruined doublet and Jaskier curses again with all his might and to underline his stifled words he raises his tied hands, displaying a particular dwarven gesture. It only earns him another projectile hitting the side of his head and more laughter.

Finally, the crowd starts to thin out. People go their way and most of the original onlookers have been replaced by someone new. And apart from the children and a particular group of irritating adolescents who simply don’t seem to grow bored, nobody pays them much mind.

During the whole time, his gag has started to slip a bit and through a few awkward movements with his head, Jaskier is finally able to spit it out under the snickering looks of pimply youngsters. “Oi, fuck off!” he tells them and spits on the ground to get the taste out of his mouth if he already can’t do the same with the smell when suddenly the stranger on the other side of the pillar decides to speak up for the first time.

“Jaskier?” the voice rasps and the bard only takes a moment to recognize the person behind it. 

“Geralt?! What the hell are you doing here?!” It’s a mix of joy as well as dread that has Jaskier’s stomach flipping. 

“Enjoying the view,” is the dry answer.

“Well, clearly this isn’t the best of times for a friendly reunion,” Jaskier says and he flinches aside when another rotten apple is thrown at him.

“You think?” the Witcher snaps back.

“I somehow pictured more wine and maybe women... Less-” Jaskier wrinkles his nose- “Guts and rotten food. Though now that I think about it, the guts would’ve been likely to be included as well. Who knows whose monster’s intestines you’d have spilt all over your clothes that time?” Jaskier says, perhaps a bit nervous. He hasn’t seen the Witcher in almost a year and even though his thoughts circled around Geralt more often than not in the time they were apart, he is rather aware of the fact that the last time they saw each other, he was growing freaking fangs in the back of his jaw. A factor that hasn't exactly been in favour of his wanting to meet Geralt again. Not that avoidance is an option right now, considering they are both chained to the same pillory. “Anyways. What did you do to end up here?” Jaskier asks and he glares at the snickering adolescents.

“In Cidaris or being pilloried?”

“Both. I guess,” is the bard's reply and he shifts, trying to stretch his stiff and bruised body as best as he can.

“There was a contract. I punched an idiot who turned out to be a minor noble,” Geralt says. “And you? Insulted someone in court?”

“Insulted, insulted!” Jaskier begins offendedly and the memories resurface in his mind. “I was the one insulted!” The chain connecting his collar to the pillar rattles as he moves agitatedly. “That churlish , measly , asslicking Yaldson! I tried to stab him, that’s what happened. And it’s a pity that I didn’t have the time to stick my blade in deep enough.”

He hears an amused snort on the other side of the pillar. “How come?” Geralt asks after a moment and so Jaskier tells him the whole story.

“…it was all well and good but after my performance, I might have had a tiny dispute with a colleague. Valdo Marx, a former …classmate of mine and currently an apprentice under the bard working at King Mathen’s court. You must know my performance was well-received; one might even think well enough to warrant a position at court if it weren’t for a tasteless King. The argument got a bit heated. But I kept things purely on a professional level of course-“

“Of course,” Geralt says, “And that’s why you tried to stab him.”

“He called me ‘a talentless wastrel who panders to the taste of the masses’!” Jaskier growls, “Me! Can you believe that? Pandering to the taste of the MASSES?! That crooked-nosed knave of a troubadour! He sits in this castle playing the same old ballads all over again and he dares to accuse me of repetitiveness while his songs sound like a dung-eating son of a boar-pig has written the lyrics-”

Too caught up in his tirade, Jaskier doesn’t even realise that someone has thrown a handful of shit in his direction, till it lands with a splatter on his shoulder and face. Spitting out and spluttering Jaskier shouts after the offender, “Piss off and fuck a bogwitch you rabid cur!”

It’s only met with laughter. The sound draws a new wave of bystanders and soon new projectiles are launched in their direction and Jaskier is glad that children can’t throw that hard. The crowd thankfully starts to scatter once more and while the marketplace is still fairly populated, the people on the stands are now starting to pack their things and the occasional onlooker doesn’t pay attention to them any longer than it takes to throw a few taunts in their direction and maybe a lonely rock or two.

“You tried to stab a man and yet you only get one day on the pillory?” Geralt asks after a while when the crowd has mostly dispersed.

“Well, obviously they aren’t advertising that fact. Though Valdo demanded I be hanged but as I said... my performance was well received. I had a lot of nobles speaking in my favour and a court bard apprentice is hardly up high enough in the food chain to demand anything. I think even I had more blackmail material on the people in the room after that evening than he did, that boil-brained barnacle…”
Jaskier might have also waved around his status as a noble to sidestep a swift execution.
“But you said you punched a nobleman,” he muses out loud, “which would at least warrant some maiming - minor noble or not. How come that you are not bleeding out on the floor somewhere?” he asks, half-joking, half-serious. 

“I was hired by the city. They needed me for a contract so they offered a deal. They would placate the lordling if I took on their contract for free. But apparently, he would only agree if they put me on the pillory afterwards-“

“Bastards,” Jaskier spits out, “But why didn’t you just escape after you took care of the beast,” the bard suggests, “Hell, even before?”

“They hid my belongings as insurance. A silver sword like that isn’t cheap.”

“And you think they’ll give it back to you just like that?” Jaskier questions doubtingly.

“They will regret it if they don’t before I find out where they keep it myself,” Geralt says with a steely voice that leaves no room for negotiation. Jaskier doesn’t know what to say after that, so he keeps quiet.

“Damn this fucking shithole,” the bard mutters when he can feel some of the foul-smelling mixture drip into his collar.

The Witcher hums in agreement.

When last daylight fades, torches are being lit and the marketplace has emptied. Jaskier watches a few rats nibbling on the remnants of what landed on the ground during today’s fish market and birds fighting them for it. 

His limbs hurt and his joints are stiff. He’s bloody hungry and thirsty, it’s a struggle to remain on his own fucking feet and his hands are numb where they are still tied up in the same godsdamned position. The weight of the collar around Jaskier’s neck seems to have increased significantly over the last few hours.

He doesn’t even have the energy to curse his situation anymore. Meanwhile, Geralt has endured this whole torment stoically. But the bard can feel that he’s just as pissed as he is.

“Oh, thank the gods,” Jaskier blurts out when he spots three of the city guards approaching them. They lack the shiny armour of the guards in the castle but their steps are just as efficient when they approach. “Took you long enough,” Jaskier mutters while one of them fumbles with the collar around the bard’s neck till he finally unlocks it.

Jaskier steps from the elevated platform, rubbing his sore skin and stretching his limbs as best as he can with his hands still bound. The guard keeps a respectable distance. It’s his facial expression, which tells Jaskier that it’s probably the smell keeping him away, not basic human decency.

“No games understood?! One wrong step and you’re dead,” someone says behind the bard's back and Jaskier turns around. It’s only then that he realises that they aren’t addressing him. “You know the shtick,” the guard barks at the Witcher still obscured by the pillar. As soon as the guard throws a key, a filthy hand shoots outward from behind the pillar and catches it, even at the most awkward of angles.

Jaskier hears the rattling of chains and unlike the guard standing next to the bard, the others have now pulled their swords. Then Geralt appears from behind the pillar.

The Witcher is covered in filth from head to toe. He isn’t wearing his armour, only a grimy shirt and braies and his once white hair is more of a muddy brown. Geralt’s facial expression is everything but welcoming when he drops the filthy key into the gloved hand of one of the guards.

“Come on now,” the guard next to Jaskier says and then he’s already shoved forward. The bard swallows a growl as he stumbles but then he straightens his shoulders and simply glares at the guard. “Now, now. We’ve got a nice cell waiting for you,” the man sneers.

Jaskier spits on the ground as an answer before he curses under his breath.

Geralt appears to already know the way, thus he and the guards escorting him take the lead. Under curses, Jaskier follows them. They are being led to a building nearby and shoved into a dirty cell which they have to share with a drunkard and another man who appears to be one of the many beggars populating the street when the city guards are too lazy to bother with them.

“Hey!” Jaskier shouts once the door has fallen shut. He bangs against it with his fist and the sound rings through the cell when he shouts, “Do we get any food?! Or at least some water?!”

There is no answer.

The bard kicks the straw on the ground. Meanwhile, Geralt has sat down, leaning against one of the walls. His golden eyes glow in the dim light as he watches Jaskier from under his colourless lashes.

Eventually, Jaskier walks over to the Witcher and slides down the wall next to him, stretching out his bruised legs. Counting his brief stay in the castle’s dungeons, this will be the second night in a row he spends in a cell. 

With a dark look, Jaskier thinks about his belongings which are still in the room in his castle. For their sake, he hopes that nobody touched them.

Geralt - whose head had been resting against the crumbling plaster of the wall - turns towards him. Jaskier is halfheartedly scrubbing at the leather of his boots with some straw. He curses a bit because those were new, the leather barely broken in and he feels with dark acceptance the lack of weight between the boot shaft and his leg which is usually occupied by the blade resting there.

Giving up, Jaskier leans back and sighs. "All my stuff is still in the castle. It will be a fun attempt to try and convince someone to let me back in there tomorrow.” He throws a look at Geralt. “How long have you been locked up in here anyway?"

"Tonight’s the third day," the Witcher replies.

“Huh,” Jaskier says and lets his head drop against the wall. The dirt clinging to it will hardly make a difference at this point. He only feels the exhaustion in his bones. As it turns out his human body comes with human limitations, improved senses aside. Still, even that is not of much use here as the only thing he can pick up upon is the penetrating odour clinging to his clothes.

And yet his hands twitch with unreleased energy and his spine prickles. He needs to move and the cell isn’t helping in any way. He can feel Geralt’s eyes resting upon him while he taps his thigh in a quick rhythm before he finally stands up. Jaskier paces for a bit and his mind unhelpfully supplies him with the memories of flying high up in the vast sky while the landscape below him passes by in smears of greens and browns.

“Jaskier,” a gruff voice pulls him out of it. Geralt looks at him and, embarrassed, the bard realises that he has unconsciously run his hands all over the wall and door of their side of the cell. The drunkard on the other side is snoring but the beggar is watching him with his dark beady eyes. “You’re driving me crazy with all that pacing,” the Witcher adds and reluctantly Jaskier sits down on his previous spot.

He does no longer feel as uneasy, but the lack of scents he can perceive apart from the shit he’s basically covered with irks him. Some time passes, the beggar throwing them the occasional look, but Jaskier’s lips rise in a silent snarl and he glares at the man till he turns away for good. Eventually, the beggar sleeps too or at least he pretends to, but Jaskier still can’t seem to fall asleep himself. It would be the easiest way to pass the time till the morning but when he looks at Geralt from the corner of his eyes, the Witcher is awake as well. His eyes are closed, but Jaskier knows that it’s all pretence. At best Geralt is dozing.

Jaskier glares at the man who rolled up on the other side of the cell. He doesn’t like the look which he saw on the scrounger’s face earlier. What if the man simply walked over to them while they were asleep and attacked him? Or Geralt…

Geralt who does and cannot know that Jaskier spent over half a year ripping heads off of deers and the likes with his teeth.

Suddenly all of his sleepiness bleeds out of his mind. His body, though, is still exhausted. In the end, Jaskier settles tensely against the wall and readies himself for a long night.

He is woken by the loud banging against the door of their cell. Apparently, he didn't manage to stay awake, but it's not surprising considering that he spent a whole day being chained to a pillory. Groggily Jaskier opens his eyes and pushes himself from the dirty straw he’s resting on. It smells like piss and the dirt on his clothes and face has dried to a crusty layer coating his skin. He desperately wishes for a bath. Briefly, he finds himself irritated that he fell asleep, but then another bang echoes through the cell. “Stand by the walls,” a gruff voice demands. Jaskier gets pulled up by his doublet and he is barely upright when the door swings wide open.

A guard steps in, scanning their faces and Jaskier realises that it had been Geralt who hauled him up to his feet, which explains why he didn't automatically move to punch him. The guard motions the drunkard to leave with a nod of his head and the man quickly obliges and shuffles out. Jaskier’s nose wrinkles when he moves past him. Even over his own stench, the bard can smell the fresh vomit on the man’s clothes.

“You!” the guard addresses Jaskier, “Follow me.” The tone of voice leaves no room for questioning.

Jaskier throws a glance at Geralt but when the Witcher’s expression betrays nothing, the bard simply steps forward. After snapping heavy shackles around his wrists, the guard instructs Jaskier to walk in front of him. The troubadour has to admit that he is simply thankful for not being shoved for once.

They move through a dim hallway - the same through which they were led yesterday - but instead of being escorted outside Jaskier is led towards a small office.

When he steps through the door he stops dead in his tracks. On a heavy writing-desk - an intricate piece of furniture - which doesn’t seem to fit at all into the otherwise dreary office sits a young man who appears just as out of place. The colourful clothes he’s wearing are of good quality – also expensive if Jaskier takes the simple yet tasteful embroidery alongside the seams into consideration -  and with his prominent cheekbones he would be able to turn more than one maiden’s head.  

Jaskier detests him with every fibre of his being.

Valdo Marx gestures sweepingly as he talks to a seemingly jaded, bald scribe who is sitting behind said heavy desk, flipping through some paperwork and occasionally nodding along, but in too random intervals to be properly paying attention.

“…and so, the King of course demanded that I was the one to play at his banquet,” the colourfully clad man elaborates and a few bells which are sown to his sleeve ring slightly when he shifts.
Jaskier tries to convince himself that those clothes aren’t a tasteful reflection of the current tides of Toussanter fashion and instead deems the turquoise thread tacky.
The scribe behind the desk grunts something unintelligibly while he opens a heavy leather-bound book. But the troubadour doesn’t seem to notice the lacking interest of his audience. Maybe he just doesn’t care. “But who else could he ask after witnessing my grand performance in Vole. I mean all of Bremervoord was speaking of my…” the man pauses in his tale when his eyes fall onto Jaskier. A blinding grin splits his face, revealing an almost perfect row of teeth and Jaskier is once more reminded of his own pathetic exterior. He still tries to gather what pride he has left and stands up straighter.

“Valdo,” Jaskier addresses his rival coolly while the other bard seems to drink in his dishevelled appearance.

“My, my, Julian…” the poet says then and Jaskier already feels the bile rise from his stomach when he hears the smugness in Valdo’s voice, “I almost thought coming personally was beneath me and yet…” He opens his arms in a wide gesture. “Here I am and I find myself not regretting it at all.” After an artful pause, Valdo takes an exaggerated sniff and waves his hand in front of his face. “Well, perhaps a little bit. I didn’t consider the smell.”

“I’m surprised that you are here,” Jaskier says with as much indifference as he can muster. “Really, it’s a shame. I had hoped that after almost wetting yourself in front of the entire assembly of Cidaris’ nobility you would’ve stayed hidden in your room for at least a week.”

Only the slight flush that now paints Valdo’s face tells Jaskier that the jab hit home. Nonetheless, there isn’t a pause before the other bard replies. “Oho, Julian. Where did you leave all those manners that you’re so fond of showing off?” Valdo taunts, “Did you lose them alongside your dignity on the pillory outside?”

Jaskier doesn’t even notice that he has moved forward till the guard hauls him back by his shoulders. The other bard flinches back. “You tried to have me hanged!” Jaskier spits between clenched teeth, over the sound of his rattling shackles. Anger burns in his eyes like hot coals.

As soon as Valdo realises that Jaskier is restrained, he has gathered himself, his expression nonchalant as always while he casually inspects his nails. Colourful rings sparkle on his fingers. “And you tried to stab me,” he says lightly though when he looks at Jaskier his expression is hard like stone. “Which makes my demand all the more reasonable,” he hisses, “Why they didn’t after they saw you perform is still a riddle to me.”

“What can I say,” Jaskier shrugs as best as he can with the guard’s heavy hands on his shoulders. “My reputation simply precedes yours. I know this must be a foreign concept to you-” the bard says and leans forward, not bothered by the increasing pressure of the guard's grip - “People simply like me, Valdo. I bet this isn’t even about me attacking you. It’s about your pride. You just couldn’t bear someone else earning the applause you ache for yourself. You wouldn’t survive a day without validation.”

Valdo simply waves him off, unaffected by the affront. “That is the nature of an artist. What value does art have if it isn’t acknowledged? Don’t pretend to be better than me in that aspect. At least the opinions of the people validating my craft are worth something.” When he jumps from the table it’s accompanied by the sound of chiming bells. “I entertain a King!” he spits and then a provocative grin splits his face. “From what I hear you are whoring yourself out to – What do you call him? The White Wolf? – to sate your hunger for attention. You’ve really reached a low, Julian.”

Jaskier outright snarls. Something in him purrs satisfied when that wipes the grin off Valdo’s face and a shocked expression replaces it. But before Jaskier can give into some darker urges, he is harshly called to order by the guard who knees him in his back and shoves him down to the ground. Jaskier wheezes and the chain between his wrists rattles as he supports himself with his hands to keep upright.

“With all due respect,” an authoritarian voice cuts through the room and Jaskier sees that the bald man behind the desk is now standing. He’s all but forgotten about him and only now does Jaskier notice that the man is wearing the attire of a bailiff. “Master bard,” the bald magistrate addresses Valdo and Jaskier snorts indignantly at the unearned title. “If we may cut things short. I’m sure you have better things to do than wasting your time by talking to a mere peasant.” The crude attempt at manipulation would almost be sad if it weren’t for the fact that Valdo laps it up like a mutt looking for water in the street.

“Certainly,” Valdo retorts, his voice now all business. He turns and kicks a bag that Jaskier had been too distracted to notice till now. The telling sound of a lute case being hit rings in Jaskier’s ears. His eyes immediately fixate the misshapen bundle.

“Your belongings… Some people were insistent you were to get them back,” Valdo says and rolls his eyes. He turns around and halfheartedly bows to the bailiff. “If you’d excuse me,” he begins and Jaskier’s head snaps back up, though it’s met with an immediate shove to the back of his skull. Loudly Valdo says, “I have a court to entertain.”

“With a piss poor performance,” Jaskier mumbles while he glares at the filthy floorboards. There are steps and suddenly he sees Valdo’s leather boots stopping right next to him. Jaskier pictures how easy it would be to take a bite out of these silk-clad legs.

“That was poor. Even for you, Julian,” Valdo states, pulling him out of his fantasy and he shakes his head as if Jaskier was a worm to be pitied before he heads for the exit. Shortly before he reaches the door, he stops for a last time and over his shoulder he says, “Besides, out of the two of us, it’s not me who’s reeking of piss.”

Jaskier grits his teeth so hard he thinks he might crack one. 

When the sound of Valdo’s steps has finally died off, the bailiff motions for the guard to let Jaskier go, who immediately rises to his feet. His shackles are removed and he rubs his wrists while glaring at the gods and the world.

Meanwhile, the bailiff is already sitting behind his desk again and scribbling into his book. “You can go,” he says and makes a shooing motion without looking up. Jaskier grabs the bag with his things and afterwards, he pauses in the middle of the room. After a few moments, the man looks up.

“What are you still doing here?” he barks.

“Um, I…” Jaskier utters at the sudden assault of words and before he can form a coherent sentence the bald man is already talking again.

“You’re surely aware that I’ve got better things to do than listening to two minstrels bickering all day.” The bailiff slams down his quill. “But unlike you, this other dunderhead is part of the court. Which unfortunately means that I can’t simply tell him to piss off. But I have no repercussions of throwing you back in that cell for a night, should you annoy me-”

“The Witcher,” Jaskier blurts out.

“What about him,” the bailiff barks.

“When is he going to be released?”

That question seems to baffle the man. The bailiff stares at the bard as if he’d grown a second head before he turns to the guard. “How long has he been here?” he demands to know.

“Three days, sir,” the guard replies.

The bailiff hums thoughtfully but suddenly his sharp eyes fixate Jaskier. “Why is this of any interest to you?”

“I’ve hired him,” Jaskier says. It’s the best lie he can come up with and the most believable at that.

“What for?” The bald man still seems suspicious.

“To be my escort. I plan to travel home and it’s a harsh road there.”

“And when exactly do you plan to depart?”

“As soon as I can,” Jaskier tells him. It’s not even a lie.

The bailiff pierces him with a look and then he seems to have made a decision because he turns his attention once more towards the book in front of him. “If you and the mutant get out of the city within the day, he can leave for all I care.” For the man, their discussion seems to have come to an end, because he starts to dip his quill into the inkpot as he turns a page. It was as if Jaskier had turned invisible.

“What about his swords?” the bard dares to ask and the bailiff gestures at the guard.

“Fetch the Witcher his belongings. And you,” he looks at Jaskier and points at him with a finger. “Should I come to regret my decision - should someone complain about even the tiniest hair the Witcher leaves on their doorstep within the next twenty-four hours, you will be held accountable. Now get out. I’ve had enough of your sort here today.”

“Gladly.” Jaskier makes a small bow and shoulders his belongings. He can still hear the muttered words of the man as he leaves.

“…no good keeping a Witcher locked up like this. Twenty years I’ve worked here and now I have to let myself be ordered around by nobles almost half that age...”

Once outside Jaskier waits, blinking into the harsh daylight. He isn’t in the mood to whistle a tune or something of the like so he simply watches the people on the marketplace to pass his time. It’s almost an hour till Geralt’s impressive figure fills out the door frame and he too steps out into the light, his sword belt in one hand and a kitbag in the other. Once noticed, they simply look at each other and Jaskier finds strange humour in it. Both are covered in filth from head to toe and they simply take each other in till Jaskier breaches the silence with a small smirk. “Do you think they’ll let us into a bathhouse, the state we're in?” he asks.

Geralt shrugs. “Doesn’t matter to me,” he admits freely. “I don’t have enough coin either way.”

“Ah no, we can’t have that,” Jaskier says, still strangely amused and Geralt scowls.

“You are not paying for my bath, Jaskier,” he states.

“Oh, but what friend would I be if I didn’t?” Jaskier asks, “Besides,” he adds before the Witcher can once more deny the nature of their relationship, “That would give you enough time to reminisce about the contracts you took over the duration of the winter and the stories coming with them. In conclusion, I’m not paying for your bath, but your company,” the bard ends smugly.

“You want to pay for my company. In a bathhouse,” Geralt says deadpan.

Jaskier sputters when he catches the implications of his words. “Oh my gods, no- I mean I would never- Not that I wouldn’t be in-“

Only when Jaskier looks at the Witcher does he notice that the man is smirking. The bard's jaw drops open. “You godsdamned buffoon!” he begins and shoves Geralt who barely even moves at the assault. “Gods, you are an absolute asshole, do you know that?”

Geralt grins. “If you say so,” he says amused.

Jaskier huffs and changes his grip on the bag with his belongings. “See if I still want to pay for your bath…” he mumbles loudly.

“Not to forget my company,” Geralt adds. 

Jaskier flips him off.

In the end, they do find a bathhouse that takes them in and the bard even manages to scrounge up enough coin so they can afford a breakfast. The latter of which is apparently supplied by the bakery next door whose giant ovens most likely already entitle it to a monthly fee, since the bathhouse would liberally take advantage of the provided warmth to heat their bathwater every morning.

Once they’ve rinsed off the greater part of the dirt clinging to their skin with the buckets of cold water, they step into one of the dozen tubs that is not yet occupied.

With a groan, Jaskier sinks into the water and his eyes flutter close when he inhales the steam which is smelling faintly of herbs. Comfrey and celandine if the stems and few blossoms floating on the surface are anything to go by. He lets his eyes flutter close and it’s only the movement of the water which tells him that Geralt has settled somewhere on the opposite side.  

It takes them a while to scrub the remainder of dirt from their hair as well as rid of themselves the lingering stench, but afterwards, they are pretty content lazing around in the tub. The bard idly relishes the feeling of his bruised limbs floating weightlessly in the hot water till the close sound of naked feet slapping against the wet floor rouses his interest.

When Jaskier opens his eyes it’s one of the working girls bringing their food. Her damp hair is clinging to her nude curves and she smirks unabashedly at Jaskier who brazenly lets his eyes roam over her body, her small perky breasts and wider hips and the freckles on her skin which are so plentiful that they are even visible in the dim light. Out of the corner of his eyes, he notices that Geralt is doing the same and she delights in the attention, cheekily winking at them.

Jaskier takes a liking to her immediately but unfortunately, she isn’t here to stay. After she’s placed the wooden plates and two tankards onto the plank that’s positioned over two edges of the tub as a makeshift table, she turns around and leaves.

Not that he could afford her services anyways. Jaskier still watches her go, silhouette blurring only after a few steps in the steam that’s gathering below the low ceiling, obscuring the room in a cloudy mist. He can vaguely make her out as she steps into another tub across the room and hears the booming laughter with which she’s welcomed.

Jaskier turns away with a small mournful sigh and he notices that meanwhile, Geralt has turned his attention to the food they were brought. The bard takes an example from his behaviour and reaches for his own tankard.

The tub is big enough so that their legs don’t touch when next to each other, but even with more than a handspan fitting between their limbs, Jaskier can feel a hint of the tingle that every Witcher he’s encountered so far seems to emit. Considering their distance, it has to be much stronger now and Jaskier idly muses if it’s because he’s a creature now – half at least – while he chews on a piece of bread.

For the next few minutes, he is pretty content scarfing down the breakfast they were brought and he doesn’t pay much attention to his surroundings. It’s only after he’s finished off his wooden plate and leaned back with a groan that he realises that since the girl brought their food, no one joined nor approached them. Idly Jaskier blinks through the mist and it becomes evident through the dark silhouettes of heads moving over the edges of the other tubs, that every single one apart from theirs – which would be able to comfortably hold at least five people – is fully occupied. More mysterious is the fact that even though they already spent quite some time here, they weren’t offered any company yet.

His eyes returning to Geralt, Jaskier realises why, but every thought regarding that topic gets wiped away at the sight in front of him.

The Witcher lounges on his side of the tub, head resting on the edge, eyes closed and strangely relaxed for all the noise that surrounds them. With his throat so trustingly bared, he appears oddly vulnerable.

Even though Jaskier knows it’s only an illusion, the creature in the back of his mind perks up intrigued.

While he’s letting his fingers dance through the water, Jaskier wonders who would be faster if he really were to try and reach for the Witcher’s throat.

How easy it would be to cross that distance… to press his teeth against that pale flesh…

His eyes follow the path of Geralt’s defined shoulder and the arm which is resting on the edge of the tub, all the way to where his hand disappears from Jaskier’s view.

…bite, till he would draw blood…

He can’t see it but the bard knows that Geralt’s sword - which he insisted to take with him - must lean against the wood right next to where the Witcher’s hand is lazily dangling from the edge.

…lick over that skin…  

Jaskier’s reflexes are faster now - even in his human body – and he wonders...  

…suck purple bruises into existence…  

Infused by something predatory, the bard’s gaze wanders further, following the curve of Geralt’s pale neck down to the hollow of his throat and the scarred chest where his torso disappears in the dark water.

…leave marks for everyone to see.

Jaskier bites his lips to swallow the whine that is building in his throat.

The unbidden image of his own mouth against Geralt’s body has burned itself into his mind.

All he can do is stare as he is aching with want. Suddenly he notices that the Witcher has been watching him from under his lashes. Jaskier’s breath hitches. He hasn’t really looked into the Witcher’s eyes since he’s last seen him almost a year ago and now their unique shade punches all the air out of his lungs.

An unintentional noise spills over his lips when these golden eyes fixate him in a way nothing else can. Jaskier feels like he’s drowning in the colour and he has to use every ounce of his self-control to not simply cross the distance and straddle the Witcher.

They look at each other and the tension continues to grow. The bard waits for it to snap like a bowstring, but it doesn’t. Geralt wets his lips with his tongue. In his eyes, there’s a spark of … something.  

Jaskier inhales when he makes a decision. He watches Geralt closely and then he purposefully shifts so that his leg bumps into the Witcher’s. He holds his breath when Geralt’s stare intensifies.

“Witcher’s don’t love, Jaskier.”

A layer of frost seems to be spreading over Jaskier’s chest, constricting his lungs. It’s like a shard of ice has buried itself in his heart. A hope he hadn’t even known he still possessed has shattered like glass. Geralt’s statement echoes painfully through Jaskier’s head and yet the offer that still hangs in the room is too tempting to turn down, even though the rational part of his mind is ringing alarm bells.

“Who says this needs to be about love?” Jaskier says, voicing the unspoken suggestion. He doesn’t know how he manages to sound so casual.

While Geralt seems to contemplate the proposition, Jaskier once more grows aware of the arousal which is heavy in the air. The tingle running up his leg has travelled immediately to his groin and he’s had to restrain himself to not immediately gasp at the sensation. It doesn’t help that he can hear people laugh, talk and even moan in the other tubs around them.

“Not here,” Geralt says eventually and then he’s already moving and the water sloshes against the wooden boards as he stands up.

Jaskier swallows when he sees Geralt’s body in all its glory, wet droplets of water running down his muscular torso and thighs and he gets only a glimpse of the backside before he realises the meaning of the Witcher’s words and he’s scrambling to follow.

Jaskier trails after Geralt who leads him out of the room up the stairs. The sword which he brought with him glints in the light.

Upstairs various doors lead to rooms to be used for this exact reason and Jaskier can hear moaning behind more than one. The sound of the conversations below has been reduced to a low hum. He shivers as he follows Geralt who pushes the door open to the room furthest from the stairs.

Once inside, Jaskier notices that it’s a plain thing. Only furnished with a bed and a washing bowl on a side table somewhere to the left. Next to it are some rags to clean up afterwards.

Jaskier pauses, feeling a bit lost and awkward. It’s a sensation that he hasn’t experienced in a long time.

Droplets of cold water drip from his hair onto his back in an unpleasant way. Without the misty fog in the air, the whole situation feels almost too real. His prick is still half-hard.

Meanwhile, Geralt has put his sword away and sat down on the edge of the bed. He looks at Jaskier. “Second thoughts?” he asks.

The bard shakes his head. “Not at all,” he states. Purposefully he crosses the distance between them and before his courage will leave him, Jaskier kneels down on the rough floorboards between the Witcher’s legs. His stomach is fluttering.

He is afraid to look up. Scared that when he sees whatever expression rests on Geralt’s face, he will spill all the secrets that are locked up in his heart. He swallows hard and pushes his thoughts away in favour of focusing on the task before him.

It isn't all that hard, being faced with the Witcher's glorious body. Gently, the bard lets his palms run up Geralt’s legs, fingers sliding over the occasional scar till they stop and linger on the Witcher’s thighs, thumbs pressing against his muscles. 

All he can hear is the steady drip, drip, drip of water falling from their bodies. That and their breathing; his human paced one and Geralt’s slower, more controlled breath.

His palms tingle with the familiar vibrations of the Witcher’s skin wherever he makes contact with it. Jaskier's hands feel oddly warm where they touch the Witcher and he wants to bask in the feeling which reminds him of a cosy fireplace in the deepest winters. Jaskier inhales and almost instinctively he noses at the almost hairless inside of Geralt's thigh, breathing in the scent till he feels drunk with it. He doesn’t know how he could ever deem Geralt’s scent subtle. 

But the motion is familiar territory and so he traces Geralt's scars with his lips, nipping the skin and pressing his canines against the soft parts where he knows veins lay beneath. He can smell the blood, almost hearing it rush beneath the skin. He licks over it, realising what trust the Witcher puts in him as he could easily tear apart his artery there, even though the man might not be aware of that. He pays meticulous attention to every part of the Witcher's skin, kissing, marking till eventually, he can tell that Geralt gets impatient. Then, finally, he directs his attention to the Witcher’s impressive member.

He can hear how Geralt’s breathing speeds up when he blows on the tip. Only the slightest bit but enough for his improved senses to pick up on it. This little sound makes him smirk. The bard has done this often enough with various people to know that he is good at this.

Expertly, he traces the head of the Witcher’s prick with his tongue. Jaskier tastes water and musk and something that is simply Geralt. He continues to lick over the length and it twitches in his hands before he finally swallows it down.

The Witcher groans when Jaskier begins to really suck his cock. While he’s bobbing his head, the bard uses his hands to steady himself and to simultaneously keep Geralt from fucking his mouth whenever his hips jerk. He loses himself a bit in the motion, but every so often, he lets his fingers trail up Geralt’s stomach, hands sliding over scars, while his wrists leave a lingering trace of his own scent on the Witcher’s skin.  

Jaskier is so caught up in continuing his ministrations, that he would’ve almost stopped when Geralt reaches out to slide his fingers through his hair. The sensation that comes with the surprising touch is even more intense and Jaskier trembles with the force of the tingle running down his spine. His lashes flutter, and a heat uncoils in his gut. The pleasure of this simple touch is overwhelming and the care with which it's administered is simply too much. A single tear runs down his cheek at this moment, and the bard doesn't know if it's a physical reaction to the pressure on his oesophagus or the emotions that drown out everything else like a flash flood taking over.

It takes him another moment to realise that Geralt has suddenly halted in his movement and then he can hear the animal sound that is making its way through his own throat. The rumble trails off and Jaskier pulls back, panicking. But when he looks up, his lips red and shiny with spit, the Witcher is watching him from under his lashes and his cat-like pupils are blown wide, dark pits surrounded by a thin line of molten gold. Only for a moment do they look at each other, but then Geralt’s fingers resume their attention, his grip tightening and Jaskier can’t help the noise that escapes him while the vibration echoes through his skull. Soon his lips are once more wrapped around Geralt’s prick and fingers slide through his curls all the while he’s purring like a cat.

Sometime later, the Witcher is outright moaning and his hand has come to simply rest on Jaskier’s neck. The bard dares to look up again and the sight is shooting right to his prick. Geralt’s head is tilted back, his lips are parted and a faint flush has tinted his skin the slightest shade of pink.

It isn’t long before Geralt’s grip suddenly tightens in his hair, a silent warning, but Jaskier isn’t bothered by what the touch implicates… So when the Witcher spills only moments afterwards it’s right into his mouth. Jaskier swallows it all down as best as he can and the beast inside him rumbles pleased.

Jaskier has never felt more like a dragon in human skin than he does now. Even though he’s panting heavily after he’s pulled back, he’s aching to kiss the Witcher till his own lungs burn from the lack of air. He wants to suck and bite at Geralt’s skin, curl up around him possessively, hold him and never let him go. Deliberately Jaskier licks over his cum-stained lip to chase after the taste, while he looks up at the Witcher.

Geralt’s white hair is hanging down in wet strands, water still dripping down at Jaskier as he’s staring at the bard at his feet. He hasn’t moved his hand from Jaskier’s head and the pleasant tingles still run down the bard’s scalp.

It’s intimate, the look that they share. Somewhere in a room next to them, a bed is creaking. But they don’t talk. In here, it’s silent apart from their panting breaths. The Witcher’s expression is so vulnerable and his gaze so open that Jaskier believes to be able to see into the man’s very soul. In that second, he believes to know of all the pain that Geralt has suffered through and of all the sorrow that will be there in his future… Love and heartbreak - his own and others’ - but also joy and laughter…

Jaskier wants to keep this moment forever, hide it away, freeze it in time and lock it up in his heart.

But suddenly Geralt moves and the bard is hauled up to his feet. Jaskier manages to choke back a surprised growl at the abrupt jostling, yet there’s still an audible noise when he’s unceremoniously shoved onto the bed.

Breathing heavily, the bard watches Geralt as he climbs over him, muscles flexing and the silvery medallion dangling from his neck in an ironic parallel to Jaskier's first encounter with a Witcher, but the bard shoves the memory of Aiden aside. Right now, there’s no place for it.

He hesitantly reaches out to let his fingertips trace the lines of the scars on Geralt’s shoulder where the Striga managed her last hit. They are still more prominent, having not yet faded to a pale pink or white like older ones.

Geralt’s strong, sword calloused hands find his hips, pushing him against the mattress and Jaskier instinctively tries to buck up, a useless attempt to get closer to the pleasure which already a single touch of the Witcher brings. The tingle is stronger now, coursing through his stomach and so close to his prick that his erection returns to its previous hardness.

The smirk on Geralt’s face when he looks at Jaskier is nothing but filthy and the bard can only watch, panting and with parted lips, how the Witcher moves down to wrap his lips around Jaskier’s cock to return the favour.

“Holy mother of Melitele-“

As it turns out, not only Geralt's limbs emit that tingle.

Jaskier’s hand flies to the Witcher’s head almost instinctively while the other one claws at a thin mattress, his hips jerking. All hesitancy is gone and he can only restrain himself to not tug too harshly on the Witcher’s hair while the wet heat is enveloping his cock. He doesn't know how Geralt managed it.

“Fuck, Geralt ,” Jaskier curses when the Witcher does something wicked with his tongue, while simultaneously taking in more of his length and Jaskier feels a nose brush against the dark curls down there. “Holy shit,” Jaskier presses out between pants, “I thought I was good at that but- ohhh gods…” His words trail off in a moan. “…I clearly overestimated myself…”

There’s a wet slurping noise when Geralt pulls off of him. Jaskier blinks stupidly at the Witcher who looks up at him, his lips shiny with spit. “Do you ever shut up?” Geralt rasps then, but there is an amused hint to his voice.

“Well clearly you could’ve expected this as a possibility,” the bard retorts breathlessly, and he barely has time to comprehend the Witcher’s answer – which consists of an amused hum – before the man returns his attention to more pressing matters.

Jaskier reaches his climax within an embarrassingly short time. Maybe it’s a mix of the Witcher’s skill and the strange tingle his touch emanates, or perhaps the man’s aggressive strategy is to be blamed.

Either way, mere minutes later, Jaskier finds himself lying on the bed, staring at the mouldy ceiling while his body is thrumming with the last aftershocks of pleasure.

Perhaps, he muses then, it’s simply the fact that Geralt is the one with who he shared this...

It’s only after the Witcher stood up and walked over to the bowl with water and a wet rag is thrown at him, that Jaskier realises that they haven’t once kissed.

“Come on. Clean yourself up. Or do you want to pay more for staying too long?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jaskier mutters and he pulls the dripping cloth from his stomach and sits up. Geralt is already standing at the door, the steel sword in hand.

“I’ll be downstairs, collecting my clothes.”

Jaskier swallows as he watches the Witcher leave. He stays for another minute to pull himself together before he too climbs down the stairs and gathers his belongings.

Once outside Geralt is already waiting, his arms crossed while he’s leaning against the bathhouse, watching the bustling life out in the street.

“So,” Jaskier begins and he pulls at the sleeve of his doublet that sticks to his moist skin. “Where to now, dear Witcher?”

Geralt’s eyes turn to him. The colour draws Jaskier in and he wants to get closer, wants to breathe in the Witcher's scent once more...

"-ting Roach,” the Witcher finishes.

The bard blinks, realising that he was so distracted that he didn’t even hear what Geralt was saying. Jaskier clears his throat “Ah,” he begins and bounces on his feet, trying to hide that he wasn't paying attention at all. “Good, yeah, good… And where exactly would the darling lady currently be?”

Geralt huffs amused and the leather of his silver-studded jacket creaks as he pushes himself from the wall. “Come on.”

“You are kidding me!”

They had crossed almost half the city, weaved through the lively streets, till Geralt had eventually led them to a stable somewhere near the outskirts. The inn which it belongs to is old and it looks like a particularly nasty storm could blow it over. It smells like horse and hay and the air is speckled with dust. But Jaskier has to give it to them because the horses tied to the wooden beams appear to be taken care of pretty well. Currently, the bard is staring at the Witcher who moves around his horse, loading up his things and checking if the animal is alright.

“What?” Geralt asks while throwing the saddlebags over the horse's croup.  

“That is Roach?” Jaskier says and he narrows his eyes as he stares at the animal.

“Mhm.”

“Are you sure ? Because the Roach I remember was dark brown. This Roach is fox brown,” the bard elaborates. He could also add that the horse in front of him is less stocky than the animal that he remembers, or that her fur is lacking the dark shimmer he always associated with the expensive chocolate he first tried in one of Oxenfurt's many shops, but now he keeps silent in favour of glaring suspiciously.

Geralt hums. He sounds amused. “It’s the new Roach,” he eventually states.

“The new-“ Jaskier sputters and he stares at Geralt ominously. “The new Roach?!" He stems his hands in his hips. “How dare you simply get a new Roach! What happened to the old one?!”

“She was old, Jaskier,” Geralt says and he gestures dismissively which only has Jaskier's consternation deepen. “I had to retire her.”

The bard gapes. “But she is alright,” Jaskier states once he’s finally found his voice again. “The old Roach, I mean. I bet she is grazing somewhere on a big meadow, happily living the rest of her life. Isn’t she, Geralt ?” His voice takes on a sharp tone as he utters the last word and his blue eyes narrow as he fixates the Witcher, who still seems way too calm for Jaskier's tastes.

“If that thought helps you to live with it, sure,” Geralt says and turns his back on him as he moves around the horse. At least Jaskier is fairly sure that Geralt is messing with him in that regard. Still…

“Oh, don’t you sure me. How could you?!” Jaskier exclaims as he rounds a beam to once more look at Geralt's face who’s busying himself by checking the horse’s hooves. “You replaced a perfectly good horse with a – a measly counterfeit! I mean look at it.” Jaskier gestures at the horse and he stares into the animal's eyes in distaste. “How stupidly it chews on that hay. She didn’t even once try to snap at me!”

“I thought that’s a trait you would appreciate," the Witcher rasps.

“No, it’s creepy,” Jaskier says and he tilts his head as he watches the horse. “Like watching a doppler not doing its job right.”

Geralt hums as ties his bedroll to the saddle. “Look at it from a positive side,” the Witcher comments once he’s found everything to his liking. He raises his head and smirks at Jaskier. “You get a whole new chance at making a first impression.”

Jaskier throws Geralt a deadpan look. “Ha, ha. Very funny.”

“I gotta pay the stablehand,” Geralt says and pats new-Roach’s neck. “I take it, you two will be fine in the meantime. That is if you manage not to throw hands with my horse,” the Witcher adds. He still sounds way too entertained for Jaskier’s tastes.

He watches the Witcher leave, his steps echoing through the stable before he turns his attention back to the animal. “Just so you know,” Jaskier tells the imposter-horse when he deems Geralt in a far enough distance. “I liked the old Roach better.”

The fox-brown mare possesses the audacity to snap at him.

Falling back into their travelling pattern is surprisingly easy, even after that day. 

Inwardly Jaskier waits for something to change, but it's like the hours in that bathhouse in Cidaris never even happened. Geralt treats him like he always did and Jaskier simply plays along.

It's only in late August – almost four months after they've left Cidaris – when they are travelling through upper Redania and the subject becomes topical again.

“Three weeks, Geralt,” Jaskier tells the Witcher when they’ve stopped on a spot between some trees which the man apparently deems safe enough to set up their camp. “Three weeks and we haven’t passed through anything that could be considered civilization.”

A few crows are croaking in the distance, crickets are chirping in the long grass and the trees throw long shadows in the evening sun.

“We passed a village a day ago,” Geralt rasps, while he unsaddles Roach who tosses her head back as if she was agreeing with her master.

“Three houses, a well and a drooling hag they deem an oracle are hardly what makes up a village,” Jaskier says and stems his hands into his hips while he watches Geralt move around his horse. “Look,” the bard begins after a moment. “All I’m asking for is that we head a bit up north tomorrow. I hear Esteken is wonderful around that time of the year. Or perhaps south. Or any other direction. Just anywhere that isn’t wilderness for miles and miles. It’s like I don’t even know what civilization looks like anymore.”

“You will deal.” The Witcher motions for him to move aside so that he can set up his bedroll. Jaskier gets out of the way but turns to stare towards the sky dramatically.

“But whatever shall I do in the meantime? I fear I will not even recognize the touch of a woman once these drought times are over,” the bard voices, truly getting to the crux of the whole matter. 

The Witcher hums.

“The last town didn’t even have a brothel, Geralt!” Jaskier complains, and he turns to the man who’s just finished spreading out his bedroll. “How will mankind survive under these dire conditions?” The Witcher straightens up and looks at Jaskier. The bard stills under the intense gaze of those golden eyes.

“If I fuck you, will you shut up?” the Witcher asks out of the blue.

Jaskier stares at Geralt and his mouth suddenly feels dry like a desert. He clears his throat. “Um, that sounds very acceptable,” he manages to blurt out after a moment, which is probably the greatest understatement he has ever uttered.

And so, Jaskier finds himself being pounded into the dirt by the Witcher, muffling his moans against the worn leather of his bedroll which continues to reek of the expensive chamomile oil Geralt spilt for weeks afterwards. 

Apart from a few amused comments and teasing about Jaskier’s stiff gait the following day, it changes nothing. Not really. 

Their dynamic hadn’t changed after that occurrence in the bathhouse in Cidaris and it doesn’t change after they fuck for a second time. Nor after the third time. Or the fourth.

Jaskier still beds people in the different towns they pass through and Geralt hasn’t suddenly begun to live a life in celibacy either, but every so often – when they travel through the wilderness for longer than any of them would like, or when they’re simply too short of money to be able to afford a bed in an inn and the visit of a brothel – every so often they will tumble into each other’s beds.

Still, once the days get colder and autumn slowly replaces summer, they part ways.

Jaskier is holed up in Oxenfurt for the time being, keeping himself afloat by guest lecturing at the Academy and he's in a rather melancholic mood. He'd enjoyed his time with Geralt, truly, and in the end, he hadn't even been able to bid him farewell. Winter is knocking on the door and he knows it might be well over a year till he encounters the White Wolf again.

And so, half the time when he visits the many taverns it's not to perform but to drink.

Jaskier is in a pitiful state, drunk and almost out of coin for the month as he staggers through a crowded tavern, mostly in search of a good lay, who won’t ask for payment in return for their services. He briefly sneers at the troubadour who’s sitting atop of the bar and bellowing a drinking chant, when his eyes brush past a figure lounging at a table in a dim corner.

The bard finds himself pausing mid-movement, head turning back and his eyes zooming in on the man. 

He’s partly hidden by the shadows shrouding the table, but his dark hair is still discernible, as is the matching curled moustache. The man's shirt is rolled up to his elbows, baring his bracer-covered forearms as he wildly gesticulates at someone, whose face is currently obscured by a tall tankard. 

Jaskier doesn’t know what it is that draws his attention, but he feels the more animal side of him stir, causing his eyes to fix on the figure.

When the man suddenly tilts his head a certain way and a pair of catlike eyes reflect the light, Jaskier’s brain connects the dots.

Aiden. 

Here in Oxenfurt of all places, he finds Aiden again. The first-ever Witcher he met. 

It's been years since that fateful encounter. 

Jaskier doesn’t even question whether it’s a good idea when he’s already steering towards the corner table. 

The man still looks the same, with his handsome face and roguish smirk, although the beard is new. From this far, Jaskier can tell that he’s a bit thinner, but otherwise seems well and that has something within him preening. 

And while the bard is crossing their distance without hesitation, the Witcher looks up, casually scanning over his surroundings as if he’d felt Jaskier’s stare. A moment goes by when his eyes find him in the crowd and a small frown decorates his face. 

Jaskier can’t help but grin and when he does, Aiden’s face lights up in recognition.

It’s a rather fortunate development because otherwise, that reunion might have turned rather awkward. Not that it would’ve stopped Jaskier, but still.

Fixated on Aiden, Jaskier takes a moment to realise that he isn’t the only old acquaintance sitting at the table. 

The bard falters midstep when he recognizes the telltale facial scar that cuts through the eyebrow of Aiden’s companion only to take his next with more vigour.

“You!” Jaskier stomps forward and points at the copper-haired Witcher. “Do you have any idea what kind of speech I was subjected to after losing that amount of coin?!”

Lambert quickly overcomes his first moment of shock and smirks. “Sounds like a you-problem.” Jaskier barely takes note of Aiden turning to Lambert with a perfectly arched brow and a way too entertained grin. 

“You should be fucking glad I didn’t compose a ballade about you-” Jaskier pierces the Witcher with a glare. “- you prick! And it would’ve painted a less than flattering picture. Just so you know. ” 

The man leans back in his chair, looking at him over his tankard with a casual sneer and takes a long, lazy drag of his ale. 

Jaskier huffs. Then he pulls back a chair and plops down on the table without an invitation. “It’s lovely to see you again, Aiden. Unlike some other people ,” he adds side-eyeing Lambert in a rather unsubtle way.

Aiden grins. “I’d honestly figured you’d managed to poison yourself by now, buttercup .”

“You two know each other?” Lambert asks, the same moment Jaskier gasps and retorts, “I’ll have you know I’ve become very adept at travelling!"

With a mirthful spark in his eyes, Aiden turns to Lambert. “We met some years back. Came across him on the path a bit outside of some town in Redania.”

“Rinde,” Jaskier elaborates, all the while eyeing the clear liquor in a bottle on the table and contemplating what kind of poison it is spiked with, considering these two Witchers are sharing it.

“Oh, was I so memorable to you?” Aiden asks and the bard looks up.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Jaskier shoots back in a shameless lie, also hoping that so far he’s been able to conceal the fact that he’s practically been inhaling both of the Witchers' mingling scents the moment he sat down. Lambert looks scowling from Jaskier to Aiden and back again.

“You two …fucked?” the man says with a somewhat constipated expression on his face. 

Aiden turns his head to face Lambert with a manic smirk, looking like a cat who’s got the cream. “Why, I didn’t know you would care…” he says and leans in towards the other Witcher. “Are you jealous, Lambert?” The sharp grin splitting his lips is just the finish to his already unsettling expression.

Jaskier suddenly isn't so sure anymore that joining these Witchers here was a good idea.

Lambert on the other hand doesn’t seem to be disturbed by the other Witcher at all. “You wish,” he growls. “I wouldn’t touch your scrawny ass even if someone dared me to at knifepoint.”

Aiden’s teeth glint in the faint light of the oil lamps when he throws his head back and laughs.  

Jaskier’s eyes automatically follow the line of the Witcher’s throat and even drunk, he notices that he isn’t the only one who’s staring.

Aiden grins and Lambert buries his face in his ale. 

Jaskier contemplates confronting the latter about the stolen money once more but considering Witchers rarely seem to have enough coin to get by and it’s not like it was Jaskier’s in the first place, he relents.
Besides, his draconic side is way too delighted to have reencountered two of his Witchers simultaneously for him to be able to hold on to that kind of minuscule grudge. “How have you been?” he asks into the round.

Aiden is the one who replies. “Well enough. Took some contracts, earned some coin …fucked some bards,” he adds with a wink and a sly look at Lambert. “The usual.” He’s playing with a shiny dagger that he spins between his knuckles.

“Got yourself almost killed while hunting that wraith for the Temerian noble,” Lambert counters and he pulls the bottle of clear liquor over the table with a scraping sound before he takes a long drag from it, grimacing after swallowing. 

Perhaps the Witchers are also not as sober as Jaskier assumed.

Aiden groans, dramatically burying his face in his hands. “We’ve been over this Lambert. Gods, you are worse than my mother.”

“You don’t even know your mother,” Lambert says and wipes his mouth.

As swiftly as Aiden had buried his face in his hands before, he’s moving to lounge back on his bench, the suffering expression replaced by a smirk as he casually waves Lambert off. “The bounty was worth it. Although the guy was an outright dick. Even proceeded to lecture me on the importance of his family while he tried to cheat me out of my coin. He wasn't so sure anymore when I held a blade to his throat." Aiden gestures with the dagger in his hand, painting a rather visual picture of the scene. He grins widely then, a dangerous glint in his eyes. "‘ Integral part of noble society’ my ass.”

Lambert on the other hand stares at Aiden deadpan. “His guards stabbed you.”

“You’ve also stabbed me before,” Aiden shoots back flippantly.

“I haven’t stabbed you in months,” the other Witcher retorts defensively. “Besides, if you wouldn’t insist on dropping down at me from trees all the time you wouldn't have to complain – but why am I even arguing this?! You tried to throw me down a mountain last time we met up!” Lambert says agitatedly, gesturing at Aiden with the bottle.

“I had a valid reason.”

“I cheated in a card game!” Lambert shoots back and he slaps the surface of the table. It sounds like this isn’t the first time they’ve had this argument.

Aiden sticks out his tongue and Jaskier realises that instead of the dagger, he’s now holding Lambert’s tankard of ale. He hadn't even noticed when the Witcher grabbed it.

“Asshole,” Lambert says.

“Prick.”

Jaskier watches the exchange somewhat bemused, yet entertained. This promises to become an interesting night.  

“Good morning princesses. Beauty sleep is over!”

Jaskier blinks bleary-eyed till his eyes take in the shape of his room in the inn he’s been living in for the last few weeks. Sunlight is streaming in through the window and the bustling sounds of the city allude to the fact that it must be well into the day. He’s parched. “Wha-“ he begins, grimacing when he takes note of how sticky his tongue feels. 

Jaskier desperately wishes he had some water. Or a headache medicine. Preferably both. 

Over the noise of someone cursing a bunch of children outside, another person rasps, “Fuck off Aiden.” 

Groggily, Jaskier pushes himself up.
In an attempt to gather his bearings, he wipes a hand over his face. A moment later, he recognizes Aiden, who is standing in full gear by the door holding a tray of some kind with …breakfast? 

What the fuck?

Aiden is grinning as he fluidly side-steps a lone pillow on the floor and there is Jaskier’s woollen blanket. “What-“ the bard begins again, wetting his lips when he realises that he is quite naked. Quickly he pulls the sheets closer around his hips. “What the hell happened last night? Did we get drunk together?"

“Among other things.”

Jaskier’s head snaps around. He regrets it immediately when the room starts spinning and he has to confirm that Lambert is indeed lying next to him on the mattress and isn’t wearing a shirt. “Oh, gods,” Jaskier groans. The rest of the Witcher is thankfully obscured by the sheet, allowing him a semblance of hope as he lets himself fall back onto the bed. When his nausea has abided somewhat, he addresses Lambert. “We didn’t fuck, did we?!"

“We might as well have, the way you clung to me while we slept,” the Witcher grunts.

The instant relief is met with equal horror at the image. “I reject that,” Jaskier says immediately. “If one would cling to anyone here - which is a questionable statement, just so you know  - if that by chance would’ve occurred, it would have been you, doing the clinging.”

“You growled at him when he wanted to free himself,” Aiden specifies with a laugh.

Lambert lifts his head a bit and blinks, not unlike Jaskier earlier. His pupils have narrowed to slits, revealing more of his amber eyes. "Melitele's tits, Aiden, how are you so cheerful already?" the Witcher mutters, with a voice like sandpaper. His copper brown curls stick up in all directions, making him look a bit like a grumpy hedgehog.

“I didn’t,” Jaskier says mortified, dreading that he gave away even more about his draconic nature, but also because it’s Lambert. 

“Oh, you did. And you would have dragged me up the bed too if I hadn’t threatened to simply leave,” Aiden answers cheerfully.

"He tried to threaten you with one of his daggers first, but you were hardly fazed by it," Lambert grumbles, “I almost thought he was gonna stab you on the spot. Tough luck....”

The bard groans and throws his arm over his face, shielding himself from the light, while Aiden puts the tray down on the floor and starts to pick apart the food he brought. "If you want any breakfast, I suggest you come here now, or else it’s gone.”

The bed frame creaks when Lambert abruptly sits up. "Swing your scrawny ass aside, bard, and let me get up," the Witcher growls.

Jaskier buries his face in the mattress. It smells like straw and that vague hint of black powder that comes with Lambert’s scent and of course himself. The mix is strangely soothing. "You are a Witcher. You can climb over me," he mutters.

The air gets punched out of Jaskier’s lungs when Lambert does exactly that by putting all his weight on the bard. "Ass," Jaskier says out loud once he’s again able to breathe. He can still feel the after-tingles of the Witcher’s touch.  

"Takes one to know one," is Lambert’s simple answer. Jaskier flips him off without looking up. He listens for a while to the Witchers chewing on their food before he gets sick of the taste in his mouth.

"Did you bring water?" Jaskier asks hopefully.

"I think there is still some vodka left," Lambert mentions casually, knowing exactly what he does. Jaskier feels like he is going to throw up at the thought alone.

"I hate you," he mutters instead.

“You’re not the pinnacle of human evolution either, buttercup ,” Lambert retorts. The name out of Lambert’s mouth simply sounds wrong.

“That doesn’t seem to have stopped you from sharing a bed with him,” Aiden interferes with a smirk.

“A notion which I will forever deny,” Jaskier interjects, from the sidelines.

“If I am offered a perfectly good bed, I’m not going to turn it down,” Lambert says, completely ignoring him, “What can I do if he insists on sleeping in it as well?”

“I paid for the room,” Jaskier retorts. “I think I’m entitled to some comfort.”

“That’s what you said yesterday too. Though not so much in words.”

“You tried to push him out at first,” Aiden helpfully clarifies. “It was hilarious to watch. I think half your reason to get naked was to antagonise him.”

“Well, obviously it didn’t work,” Jaskier states.

He can hear the smirk in Lambert’s voice when the Witcher replies, “I grew up in a fortress full of men. This is hardly the first naked ass I saw and won’t be the last.”

“What fortress? Like a castle?” The bard perks up curiously.

“Don’t stick your nose in business that doesn’t concern you, bardling,” Lambert immediately shoots back and he looks like he’s contemplating throwing a piece of cheese at him, before thinking better of it and tossing it into his mouth.

Jaskier huffs and buries himself deeper within the nest of still-warm blankets. Despite the ill feeling, he rumbles contently at the scent surrounding him. 

Eventually, the bard sits up with a sigh. He wraps the sheets around himself and shuffles over to the window, from where the voices of people walking on the street merge with the constant noise of the city.

His breeches are lazily flapping in the wind. Jaskier's nose wrinkles at the intense smell of the dirty bathwater and other contents people have thrown out of their window, but at least his braies are warm from the sun when he pulls them on. With a sigh, he walks over to the bowl of water, which is standing on a side table. Jaskier washes his face and rinses his mouth before he throws the sheets back onto the bed and joins the two Witchers who sit cross-legged on the floor, the tray of food between them.

Aiden points him to a jug of stale water which Jaskier promptly downs and then he leans against the bedframe with a groan. He hopes it wasn’t contaminated. “My headache is killing me,” the bard moans and the smell of the food doesn't help. “What did the cook decide to put in that broth?" he asks and eyes whatever the Witchers are working on decimating right now. "A bunch of dead rats? I can smell it over here. At least their wine is good." The mentioning of the wine has him remember the taste of other alcoholic beverages too and that was not helpful to his current situation. Jaskier voices it to the two Witchers who seem content ignoring him in favour of the food.

"I hope I didn't throw up yesterday, did I? Well, glad I don't remember it either way," Jaskier says. "I wish I was at a court. You know, where they have a mage and enough money to afford hangover potions. After big feasts, they sometimes distribute them among the guests. Gods, to be so lucky... They taste like piss but once they’re down – poof – the headache is gone.”

“Do you ever shut up?” Lambert interrupts him rudely. Jaskier proceeds to overlook the statement.

“Some candied fruit would go a long way too… By the way, why aren't you two hungover?!" the bard complains at the sight of the two Witchers merrily eating the food. "Oh, let me guess your fancy Witcher metabolism already took care of it."

"Maybe we are just not whining about it like a prissy," Lambert retorts, while Aiden dips a piece of bread into the broth.

“I bet it’s the metabolism,” Jaskier states and raises his hands to massage his temples. “Will any of you at least tell me what exactly happened, because I appear to have no recollection of last night?” When he sets down his hands again his fingers brush against something damp and cold. “Gah!” He pulls back his hands on instinct, before checking again and pulling out a soggy shirt from under his bed. 

That at least would explain why he didn't keep on his clothes.  

He stares at it confused till a blurry memory resurfaces. “Did we go swimming?”

"Oh, we didn't," Lambert replies suddenly with a lazy smirk on his face - and isn’t that way more threatening than his growls… "Only you ended up in the river."

Vague images float through his mind. “Wait - Aiden, did you throw me into the Pontar?!"

"Doesn’t remember – my ass,” Aiden hisses at Lambert who smirks. Then he turns to Jaskier. "You do recall the tavern, don’t you?"

"Yes, but we didn't stay there, did we?" Jaskier muses.

"Nah," Aiden says. "You were pretty wasted already and you decided that it was unfair that you were the only one drunk, so you wanted to get us something more potent."

"At least one of your ideas wasn’t complete shit,” Lambert voices while chewing some food.

"Surprisingly enough you seem to have some kind of reputation here, or at least know how to fake it, because they let us into the Academy in the middle of the night, where you led us to a room where according to you the healer students get their supplies."

"We stole all the disinfectant alcohol, didn't we?" Jaskier asks with a groan.

"Every single bottle," Aiden confirms grinning and he leans back supporting himself with his hands. He stretches out his feet and Lambert unceremoniously shoves them away when he gets poked in the side. “I think I'm actually going to use what we've got left as a base for my potions."

"Is there even anything left?" Lambert inquires.

"I'm pretty sure I kept at least one," Aiden says and looks around the room.

"Did I drink any of it too?" Jaskier asks.

"Oh yeah. Though after you threw up, we watered it down quite a bit for you," Aiden says. "Personally, I haven't been that drunk since – well - that summer in Mont Crane probably-” Lambert snorts - “It’s been some time at least. If it weren’t noon already, I think I’d still be hungover.”

"So, how come I ended up in the Pontar?" Jaskier asks, redirecting the conversation.

"After we left the University, we went down to the shore and got hammered," Aiden tells him cheerfully and Lambert hums around a piece of bread.

"And I don't remember a single thing!" Jaskier whines. "Oh, the opportunities – the stories I might have heard, the lost inspiration! I had free access to ask Witchers about whatever I wanted and I wasted it by being drunk!"

"Yeah, well, you did actually try your hardest to find out whatever you could,” Aiden says. “You tend to ask a lot of questions.”

"Even more when you are drunk," Lambert adds, “And once Aiden got annoyed at your endless digging - well...”

"And you decided throwing me into the river would be the best solution instead of – I don’t know – " Jaskier leans forward and nicks a piece of cheese from the tray – “Asking me to turn my attention elsewhere?” 

"Well," the Aiden says with a shrug, “It was more of a ‘heat of the moment' decision.”

"And I still invited you to sleep in my room at this inn," Jaskier says and once he smells the cheese he pulls a face. There’s really nothing at the moment that appears even vaguely appetising to him.

"Seeing as you were in no state to find it alone and that Lambert was the one who pulled you out of the water? Yeah. You did,” Aiden tells him. Jaskier shoots the other Witcher a surprised glance.

After a few moments, Jaskier shakes his head in embarrassment. “The only thing left to hope is that no one in the University recognized me.”

“I wouldn’t worry too much about that,” Aiden replies. “You used some other name. Said you were a noble and a professor. Pankratz or so.”

“Oh, sweet Melitele, help me,” Jaskier groans.

“Wait,” Lambert interjects. “You're a professor? …and a fucking noble?!” he adds almost as an afterthought.

“Technicalities-” Jaskier says and waves them off. He hadn't been in contact with his father since he so unceremoniously told him to shove his expectations up his ass and then the bastard had died on him. Nowadays he tries his best to forget his origins most of the time. Jaskier leans forward abruptly, to discard his piece of cheese on the tray. “Oh gods, I shouldn’t have done that," he utters when a wave of nausea rolls through him at the motion, but also because he’s keen on changing the topic. "I think I’ll have to throw up." It's not too far from the truth either.

But the Witchers won't have it. “You are a noble with a fancy estate and servants and you decide that you are going to be a bard?” Lambert questions, completely dismissing his other statement.

“It's not all that's made out to be. If it were for my father, I’d probably be married and would currently be working on producing a small armada of little heirs,” Jaskier says not quite knowing why he even bothers to reply.

Lambert shakes his head, Aiden though seems more sympathetic.

“Nobles are assholes,” the Witcher states and he snatches a piece of bread out of Lambert's hands. He's so fast Jaskier has trouble even following the movement.

“You tell me,” the bard says out loud and he watches Lambert flicking a bread crust at Aiden in retaliation. “I grew up surrounded by them.”

“They always think they’re something better,” Lambert surprisingly contributes, though not without side-eyeing Jaskier, “Looking down at you, like you’re some kind of dog on a leash, that they hold in their hands.” Lambert sneers. “Sometimes I wish I had this whole gig going that Geralt has. With his reputation at least people are shitting themselves too much, to try and withhold his pay.”

Jaskier perks up at the name.

“I don’t know,” Aiden says. “We cat Witchers get treated like shit if we enter a town. More so than you wolves. And that incident in Blaviken has been compared to the massacre of Iello often enough for your brother to gain the same reputation that we have since Brehen pulled that stunt.”

“Geralt didn’t slaughter a whole town,” the other Witcher says and there is a dangerous glint in his eyes, “So don’t compare him to that cat,” he spits.

Aiden hisses and he sits back on his haunches. The temperature in the room seems to have dropped instantly. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Please,” Lambert sneers. “Even you have to admit that the reputation of Cat Witchers was already bad before the massacre of Iello. The incident only sealed the deal.”

“Shut up, Lambert. You don’t know shit about what it’s like!”

Jaskier’s eyes flicker from one Witcher to the other. He has no idea what’s going on. Aiden looks like he is going to pull out a knife any second. There is something wild clinging to him. Like a cornered animal.

“Like I don’t know what it’s like to struggle for money-” Lambert growls.

“As if you've never killed a human,” Aiden snarls back.

“Hey guys,” Jaskier says, “what if we all just calm down- “

“Shut up,” Aiden cuts him off. Jaskier sees something glinting in his hand and he instinctively steps back. The Witcher has already pulled a blade without him even noticing. The cat stares at Jaskier with a crazed look.

“Aiden,” Lambert suddenly says with a different tone of voice. Almost soothing. 

It's quite disturbing.

Aiden turns his head and stares at the other Witcher intensely. Suddenly with a growl, he jumps to his feet. With a murderous expression, he shoves his blade back into the sheath at his thigh, before he crosses the room and then climbs out of the window. Lambert doesn’t watch him leave. Instead glares daggers at his own hands.

Jaskier blinks. “What the fuck just happened?” he asks after a moment and he stands up. He stares at Lambert and then at the open window. He has half a mind to climb out on his own to get the other Witcher to return.

“Fuck off,” Lambert growls.

“No, no, no. You don’t simply tell me to fuck off,” Jaskier shoots back and then he walks over to the window and peers down. There are people strolling through the muddy street, children trying to pickpocket them and merchants cursing as they try to pull their carts through the crowd. No sight of Aiden. “We have to go after him.”

“Right now, he would probably stab you,” Lambert says.

“Why? I mean he was angry but that would be a bit of an overkill, don’t you think?!” Jaskier snaps. “What did you talk about?”

“Look, it’s none of your business bardling,” Lambert growls, “So sit down, eat some food, or piss off.”  

Jaskier huffs at the words and starts to pace, ignoring his splitting headache. 

“He’s a cat,” Lambert says - for whose benefit? Jaskier doesn’t know - and begins to put some food items aside. “He’ll come back when he’s calmed down.” 

“Wow, that explains a great deal,” the bard states sarcastically and turns to face the Witcher.

Lambert exhales audibly and the dark look on his face has Jaskier stop. A heavy silence is settling upon them. The bard shifts uncomfortably. He watches the Witcher for a moment as he picks apart the food on the tray. Jaskier hadn’t noticed it before, but he smells a bit like Aiden, even now that the cat Witcher is gone.

The bard shifts again, restlessly staring out of the window. “Someone should go after him,” he mutters. Aiden having disappeared just like that has left his draconic side with a feeling akin to an itch he can’t scratch.

“What for?” Lambert snaps and he looks up.

“You obviously said something that upset him,” Jaskier snaps.

“You realise that everything I’ve said is true,” Lambert states and he looks at Jaskier intensely. “He’s probably killed more people for money than monsters.”

“Didn’t seem to matter much when you talked yesterday in the tavern," the bard retorts flippantly even though he is a bit taken aback by that revelation.

“It’s- well. It’s complicated," Lambert says defensively, but then he looks at the bard, and his face suddenly regains its dark expression. “But that’s none of your fucking business, is it?!” He stares at Jaskier with a look that would've caused other people to shit their pants. “Besides, Aiden is an asshole anyway"

“And you’re a prick, a perfect match!” Jaskier retorts angrily. That shuts Lambert up. For a moment. 

“If you’re so keen on fucking him again, then why don't you go after him?" Lambert exclaims.

Jaskier presses his mouth into a thin line. “Maybe I will.”

“Fine!” Lambert snaps.

“Fine!” Jaskier says. They glare at each other. 

The bard doesn’t leave. Damn him for not wanting to let Lambert out of his eyes either after he lost sight of the other Witcher this abruptly. 

A minute or so passes, before Lambert suddenly stands up and picks up his swords. He walks over to the bed and in silence begins to clean them.

Jaskier watches him with a dark look. This is the exact same way Geralt reacts when he decides that a topic needs no more discussion. Though he is under the impression that Lambert is doing it more to appear threatening if he interprets the glares the right way, whereas Geralt simply needs to occupy his hands. Strangely enough, now that he compares Lambert to Geralt, Jaskier feels guilty. He squashes the feeling down.

Stupid Witchers, with their stupid eyes and swords.

Jaskier paces back and forth for a bit before he picks up his lute and begins to tune it. He does it as obnoxiously as he can, which causes Lambert to glare at him. The bard simply continues and Lambert slowly returns to cleaning his sword. The tension in the room is almost physical.

Suddenly the bed creaks when Witcher gets up and Jaskier flinches despite himself, almost believing that now is the moment he will get punched. He doesn’t miss the small smirk appearing on Lambert’s face though, and thus with grim dedication, Jaskier begins to tune his lute for the fourth time.

Maybe he should try practising some scales. It’s been a while after all.

He watches Lambert as inconspicuous as he can while the man gathers something from his bag and returns to cleaning his sword.

Jaskier is just about to consider if he should retune his lute a fifth time when the vilest scent is slowly spreading through the room and causing him to gag. Like a mix of rotten animals, puke and some of the monsters’ guts Geralt is so frequently covered with.

Jaskier looks up and there is Lambert, who appears as content as a man after the visit of a brothel while he is trickling some kind of oil – the source of the scent – onto his cloth and proceeds to polish the sword with it.  

Jaskier decides that now is probably the best time to begin to practice some scales.

Twenty minutes later they sit in uncomfortable silence in their respective corners, doing nothing and waiting for the other to give up and open the door or get closer to the window.

The room still stinks like a griffin had decided to shit onto the floor, died and then had fallen right into the pile, where it had proceeded to rot for a few weeks.

Jaskier sighs and promptly regrets the deep inhale that follows. He knows that the only reason why Lambert would still stick around is that he's waiting for Aiden to return. The cat Witcher’s swords are still here after all.

The time trickles by and Lambert becomes more agitated with every passing minute. He looks at the window and the door before sighing and returning to his task. Not to mention that his swords have been spotless from the beginning. He even picks up Aiden’s weapons and does the same with them.

Eventually, the bard speaks up again. “I think you really should go and look for him."

"Will you shut up about it if I do?" Lambert immediately snarks. Jaskier is about to snap back but he suddenly realises that Lambert probably needs an excuse to piss off more so than Jaskier needs to state the fact that he's only mentioned it twice. So the bard graciously closes his mouth and simply nods.

Lambert sighs exasperatedly and then he stands up. He pulls on his gear and picks up the swords that Aiden left behind. Jaskier watches him do all this with conflicted feelings. 

When Lambert is about to walk out of the door Jaskier can't help himself and he calls out the Witcher’s name.

Lambert sighs and stops at the door frame, but he doesn’t turn around. "What now?"

"Take care. Of him too," Jaskier says before he can make up his mind. The Witcher doesn’t seem to know what to answer to that statement and he turns around and looks at Jaskier with a taken aback expression, which he clears off his face soon enough. In the end, the man simply settles on an acknowledging grunt. That reminds Jaskier of something. “Oh, and you wouldn’t  by chance know where I could find Geralt around that time of year?”

“What?” Lambert's bewildered expression is almost comical.

"Geralt. The White Wolf. Of Rivia. Well not actually Rivia but anyways," Jaskier rambles, somewhat nervous now. "You two appear to be acquainted. White hair, usually grumpy, overall a sarcastic asshole." When Lambert still stares at him, Jaskier adds. "Not creative in naming things. Loves his horse."

At that Lambert snorts involuntarily before he catches himself. He pauses. "Wait, are you-? No... Are you the bard? The one who's been following Geralt around? The one who wrote the song?"

Jaskier bows, "The one and only," he declares, slightly smug that other Witchers have apparently heard from him. Even if it’s only a dick like Lambert.

Said Witcher suddenly barks a laugh and now it's Jaskier's time to look confused. “Temeria,” Lambert says eventually, with a look on his face that betrays that he finds that whole thing rather entertaining - for whatever reason. “You’ll have a hard time finding him during winter, but around March he’ll probably head for Temeria.” Lambert gives him a once over before he snorts again, shaking his head.

“See you around, buttercup ,” he says and Jaskier can only watch in confusion while Lambert disappears through the door. He can hear the Witcher’s muffled laughter in the hallway till the sound blurs into the constant noise of the city.

Three days later the scent of the Witchers has finally faded from his room and a messenger of the University knocks onto his door, demanding to know about his late “ inquiry ”. Jaskier makes something up about a medical emergency and he uses all of the authority he can muster to send the boy away. Still, the courier had taken off with most of his money as compensation for the unexpected loan.

Jaskier still isn’t very keen on returning to lecture at the Academy after that particular faux pas, but that’s where he was sure to have a place during the winter. There’s one alternative though. He mulls it over, drunkenly, in various taverns over the next few days and after deeming himself insane, he lets the University know that he’ll no longer be available. 

He’s considered it more than once during various moments, but never possessed the courage to go through with it.

But this time, he packs his stuff and makes his way out of the city and into the wilderness.

The transformation from his human body back into a dragon is painful. Just as painful as he remembered, if not more. It takes Jaskier a while to get used to his bigger form again but flying is just as exhilarating as he remembers. He finds his way back to the gorge in the mountains with hardly any effort, his instinct pulling him in the right direction almost immediately. He'd almost forgotten about how much stronger the senses that come with his draconic form are, so it’s perhaps a good thing that his mind is often more animal than it is human.

Even when he slowly gains more control over his “creature” side, he still deems it not necessarily a bad thing. Chasing after prey and tearing into it with his teeth would hardly bring the same satisfaction if he were thinking like an ordinary person. But that factor, as it turns out, also becomes incredibly distracting when the first snowflakes begin to fall.

To summarise it in one single statement – Jaskier decides to never again laugh at cats when they jump after a string that is dangled in front of them.

The first time Jaskier changes back into a human is out of boredom. It hurts – what a surprise – but that way he’s at least able to play his lute and sort through his almost forgotten collection of pebbles inside his bag. His stones and dried flowers find a home on the natural shelf on the back wall of his ledge, where he’s already left some of his treasures once before. He’s oddly proud of the growing heap.  

Jaskier still spends most of his time as a dragon but sometimes, when the mood strikes, he visits a nearby village to socialise, and also to eat something other than raw deer and rabbits.

After a while, Jaskier learns that if he transforms more frequently the change happens faster and is less painful. It’s almost like training a muscle.

Soon, he’s a frequent guest at the small mountain village, and the people there greet him with great enthusiasm, whenever he shows up there with his lute.

That way, he also manages to catch a cold. As it turns out, dragons do possess the ability to sneeze and a forest in winter is more flammable than one would expect.

Around springtime, he leaves the gorge and the village behind and he's almost giddy to return to society. He's written a lot of new songs that need testing out and he could really use a real bath again.

About a month later he's performing in some backwater village in Temeria and it's probably also thanks to Lambert’s hint that he picks up on some rumours about the White Wolf. It barely takes Jaskier a week to track Geralt down.

It’s a pattern that will repeat itself over the years.

They travel together for a few weeks or even months at a time, always splitting up before the winter takes hold, sometimes even during the year. In those cases, it’s mostly because Jaskier gets invited to perform at a court or similar event which Geralt deems beneath him or when the bard has to make a hasty getaway, which – unlike Geralt believes – is not always caused by his bad decisions in terms of lovers, but the fact that somewhere around 1246 he somehow gets caught up with the Redanian secret service.

His job is simple enough. Easy money most of the time, as Jaskier doesn't do much more than he would do anyway if he was at a court. He's gathered blackmail material for most of his bardic career anyway, his curiosity getting the better of him often enough. And more than once, it managed to get him out of a tight spot where his natural charm wasn't enough to turn the tide. And since the day he'd been approached by one of Dijkstra's people, he simply practises it on a larger scale.

Somehow Jaskier has also made it a habit to spend some time in the Mahakam mountains as a dragon whenever he and Geralt part around fall. It's an odd mix of the instinct to hole up somewhere during the colder months and the urge to stretch his wings and fly again.

After his third winter as a dragon, he'd promised himself though, that he would never overestimate his abilities again.

More specifically, he'd been a bit too keen on the feeling of soaring through the sky and thus had changed immediately at the edge of a small canyon.

After a whole year of not transforming, the pain, as well as the change of balance, had caused him to fall and with his muscles still burning, he hadn't been able to move until he had already hit the ground. He had broken three ribs and his arm as well as a few fingers and he had to pay a horrendous sum to get a mage to heal him. Not to speak of the painful transformation back and the torturous journey to a nearby village which he was forced to make before he could even think about finding someone who could help him.

On a lighter note, he’s also acquired quite the collection of treasures over the years and his ledge in the mountains has become quite crowded with pebbles, books and journals with pressed flowers between their pages, strips of silky fabric, gemstones and other shiny things. Also, there’s a small collection of Toussant wines, but those rarely last all that long and are more for the days he feels bored than actual treasure. 

As it turns out, if he spends his time as a dragon in the coldest months he almost falls into a hibernation-like state. He’d once slept through two whole weeks before he could shake off the tiring feeling.

But every year there comes the time when he grows bored and even the nearby villages don’t provide enough entertainment. So, when he’s not just busy flying through the mountains as a dragon, he spends his winters in courts and bigger cities. He’s still a bit lazier and drowsy when it comes to the colder months but in his human form, he still gets some work done.

He writes more ballads and songs about the Witcher, some of which the man knows are about him and others which no one would ever suspect to be related to Geralt - least of all the man himself. 

Jaskier has long learned that a twisted truth is the best lie and a little change of pronouns is almost comparable to a glamour spell when it comes to the masses.

All in all, they meet, travel together, sometimes fuck and part at the latest after the first frost.

But even after all those years, Jaskier has still no idea what the Witcher is up to when he’s on his own or where exactly the mysterious fortress is located in which Geralt spends his winter.

Yet without a fail, over the next few years, Jaskier and Geralt proceed to run into each other as if destiny itself had woven their fates together. Be it the bard slipping through the door of a tavern only to be met with the familiar look of the Witcher drinking ale, or the very public spectacle of Jaskier’s belongings being thrown off a balcony in the lively streets of Oxenfurt while the man passes by. Another time it's Geralt being hired to escort a wagon trek which Jaskier is travelling with and once a memorable encounter when they both had coincidentally been seeking out the same brothel just outside of Novigrad.

Still, the fact that they tumble into each other’s beds every so often is a bittersweet matter to Jaskier. The bard still upholds the one or other affair, but those are trivial – fleeting – in comparison to the emotions which have nested themselves in his heart in relation to the Witcher. It doesn’t help that Geralt has turned into the only real constant in Jaskier’s life.

Chapter Text

It’s the year 1252 and they’ve spent the last few weeks travelling through the regions of the Amell Mountains. This high up, winter has already shown its cruel face with an early frost and icy temperatures even though it’s barely October. Jaskier is glad that he managed to convince Geralt to accompany him to his next performance at a court.

The fact that the Witcher was probably just as fed up with the watery ale and the freezing weather as the bard himself probably played out in his favour.

Besides, what Jaskier had summarised as “ food, women and wine” for Geralt is actually Princess Pavetta’s betrothal feast . The event nobility gossips about. It’s probably among one of Jaskier’s greatest performances yet. Since the girl is the only child of Queen Calanthe and her late husband, thus the sole heir to the throne, all of the surrounding Kingdoms will send their most promising candidates.  

In other words, Jaskier’s audience consists of the highest circles of nobility in all the Northern Kingdoms.

To say that he was excited would be an understatement. Now, with less than two hours left till the banquet begins, his body thrums with nervous energy.

He can’t even appreciate the fact that he is currently pouring a container full of water over a very naked Geralt, since getting the stench of Selkimore guts out of the Witcher’s hair seems like a more pressing matter.

The lack of care when he dumps the content of the bucket over the man’s head doesn’t appear to go without notice as the Witcher grumbles discontentedly. The familiar sound pulls Jaskier out of his thoughts.

“Now, now, stop your boorish grunts of protest,” he tells Geralt, not at all sympathetic. After all, the Witcher isn’t the one who will have to perform in front of all those nobles tonight. Besides, Jaskier has trekked through hundreds of swampy fields to follow the Witcher to a hunt, so the man can surely stand to spend a few hours in a heated castle, where food and alcohol are available in every corner. And so, he says that much. “It is one night bodyguarding your very best friend in the whole wide world. How hard could it be?”

“I’m not your friend,” Geralt replies.

“Oh. Oh, really?” Jaskier shoots back. Over the years the stinging impact that came with that kind of lacking acknowledgement of their friendship has made way for the pragmatic acceptance of the fact that verbal validation of Jaskier’s standing as Geralt’s friend isn’t the Witcher’s strong suit. 

At this point a vocal declaration of affection or whatever it is they share - while certainly not unappreciated - would probably make Jaskier question whether the Witcher was about to die anytime soon.

“You usually just let strangers rub chamomile onto your lovely bottom?” he asks provokingly, already knowing how the Witcher will respond. Just like he predicted his only answer is a long-suffering look.

“Yeah, well, yeah, exactly. That’s what I thought,” Jaskier mutters, half to himself, half in reply to the Witcher’s expression. After the bard has stepped over a wet spot on the floor and around the tub, he begins to skim through the assortment of scented oils he’s placed on a side table.

“Every lord, knight and twopenny king worth his salt will be at this betrothal. The Lioness of Cintra herself will sing the praises of Jaskier’s triumphant performance!”

“And how many of these lords want to kill you?” Geralt asks wryly.

“Hard to say. One stops keeping count after a while,” Jaskier replies vaguely. Another hurdle this evening. “Wives, concubines. Mothers, sometimes.” He’s usually got a good grasp on who dislikes him in terms of jilted lovers, but there is also the fact that he tends to know certain things about various nobles, and those are usually not too fond of people who could expose their dirty secrets. This makes the whole thing a tad more complicated. Though he isn’t quite sure how much Geralt knows about the latter. When Jaskier turns around again, the Witcher meets him with a stony expression. “Ooh, yeah, that face! Ohh! Scary face! No lord in his right mind will come close if you’re standing next to me with a puss like that,” Jaskier says while Geralt is reaching for his tankard.

The bard blinks at the mug. A foreboding feeling is rising in Jaskier’s chest and he can’t shake off the notion that something important is going to happen today. Something that is not without danger. “Ohh, on second thoughts…” he finds himself saying, and he pulls the mug from Geralt’s hands, “Might wanna lay off the Cintran ale.” It’s probably only some twisted version of stage fright but it can’t hurt to stay sober tonight. “A clear head would be best.”

“I will not suffer tonight sober just because you hid your sausage in the wrong royal pantry,” Geralt says. Jaskier snorts amused. “I’m not killing anyone. Not over the petty squabbles of men.”

“Yes, yes, yes. You never get involved. Except you actually do, all of the time.” Jaskier can almost feel the scowl the Witcher fixates him with. The sight is so familiar that Jaskier can’t help but tease him a bit. “Uhg. Is this what happens when you get old? You get unbearably crotchety and cantankerous?” He pauses. “Actually, I’ve always wanted to know, do Witchers ever retire?”

“Yeah. When they slow and get killed,” Geralt replies, and isn’t that a depressing outlook.

“Come on, you must want something for yourself once all this… monster-hunting nonsense is over with,” Jaskier says and he crouches down next to the tub to look at the Witcher.

“I want nothing,” Geralt retorts.

“Well, who knows?” Jaskier finds himself saying. “Maybe someone out there will want you.”

“I need no one. And the last thing I want is someone needing me,” Geralt retorts pointedly as he fixates Jaskier.

The bard feels oddly exposed at the piercing gaze he’s met with and his heart clenches in painful melancholy.

Witchers don't love...

“And yet… here we are,” Jaskier replies, barely louder than a whisper. Geralt looks at him. There’s something raw aching in his heart and even the Witcher seems somewhat affected. Both are getting glimpses of something neither will ever say out loud. It’s rare that the Witcher avoids Jaskier’s gaze but right now he can’t seem to bear looking at the bard. His golden eyes flick through the room, everywhere but where Jaskier is currently looking at him and of course he has to change the topic by asking, “Where the fuck are my clothes, Jaskier?”

The whole feast is a strange affair. The time passes by Jaskier in a flash apart from maybe the eight drawn-out minutes Draig Bon-Dhu plays a song on his bagpipes in the Queen’s honours. All edginess bleeds away into the familiar rush of performing, once he’s singing and dancing through the room as he entertains the people. He doesn’t see much of Geralt but he watches with mixed feelings how Queen Calanthe quietly and seriously converses with him.

Pavetta, the princess is a sight to behold but to Jaskier, she appears like the terrified fifteen-year-old that she is. And yet, his own sister had been thirteen when she’d been married off, and from the rumours, Jaskier has heard, the daughter of the Lioness won’t be too bad off with Crach an Creite. He’s barely ten years older than her and a decent man from what he’s been told, if - as apparent - a bit dim.

But then a cursed knight appears and Jaskier just knows that everything will go to shit.

Jaskier has barely time to curse himself for not paying more attention to his own premonitions when there’s already turmoil breaking out and – of course – Geralt gets involved. So much to ‘Not killing anyone over the petty squabbles of men'.

Just when everything seems to take a turn for the better, Calanthe tries to stab Lord Urcheon and everything gets so. Much. Worse.  

Pavetta’s scream echoes through the walls of Jaskier’s mind. Bursts of magic wash over him, so powerful that he can barely breathe. His spine shifts beneath his skin, vertebrae cracking. There is only pain and his whole body is feeling like it's being pierced through by needles, a perverted version of the tingle he usually feels when he changes.

Jaskier’s mind is blank. There is only one thought cursing through his mind, like a desperate prayer.  

No. Not here. Not here. Not here!

Jaskier barely feels his teeth elongate in his mouth, as his ribs are simultaneously shifting under his skin. He can taste the blood though when he bites his lip to swallow back a roar, all the while he’s trying to force his body to keep the form it has now.

Suddenly it’s over.

His body is shaking with the aftershocks of forcing down the transformation. Only now does Jaskier notice that his cheek is pressed against the cold ground. His whole side throbs where he was thrown against a wall from the shock wave. Next to him, he can hear the rattling breaths of someone who wasn’t as lucky as him and appears to have broken at least a few bones through the impact with a pillar.

Jaskier slowly sits up. He wipes the wetness from his cheeks when his eyes fall onto the scratches in the ground where his fingers have already turned into claws. He traces the edges in the marble for a moment before he releases a shaky breath and looks up. Every wall is lined with destroyed furniture and the remains of the feast. People all over are groaning with pain and there are cracks in the very ceiling.

There’s the sound of feet slapping against the ground when Queen Calanthe runs to her daughter, but Jaskier barely notices her as his eyes fall onto Geralt.

The Witcher is leaning against a pillar on the opposite side of the room – dishevelled – but unscathed apart from the remains of a smoked fish sticking to his chest.

A breath of relief escapes Jaskier, and the tension bleeds out of his shoulders. He hadn’t even noticed how much it had distressed him to not know if Geralt was alright. The Witcher appears to be quietly talking with the druid who came with the Skelligers.

That conversation seems to have taken place ages ago.

With another exhale, all energy seems to leave Jaskier. He turns his head and discovers his lute not too far away. It lies amidst a collection of destroyed furniture, shards and spilt wine and food.

Jaskier forces his aching body to move till he can grab the lute strap and pull the instrument towards him. By all means, it should have been destroyed, but the elven craftsmanship appears to consist of more than just creating a pretty exterior.

His fingers trace possessively over the wooden surface and the beast within him rumbles contently at the intact state of his treasure.

Just as he’s throwing the strap over his shoulder, the hairs in his neck stand up and he feels someone looking at him. When he turns his head, it’s Geralt who is meeting his gaze from a distance. The golden eyes seem to take him in, just like the bard himself had looked at the Witcher earlier. Jaskier nods in acknowledgement and Geralt returns the gesture before he turns away.

There are enough injured people in need of help.

Over an hour has gone by till the wounded have been taken care of and the dead have been carried into rooms where they can be stored with the required dignity until everything is over.

Despite all the turmoil, the wedding itself is a quiet affair and lovely to watch, even more so when the cursed knight turns back into a human before the twelfth bell rings. It’s a story from a fairytale and probably has the makings of Jaskier’s greatest ballad yet.

But of course, not everything has a happy end and the night concludes with a princess vomiting on the floor and a spoken “Fuck” as the Witcher’s only reaction to his new child surprise.

As soon as Geralt has collected his sword and left followed by Moussack, turmoil breaks out. Voices are raised and Jaskier has a hard time elbowing his way out. It doesn’t help that his whole right side is bruised where he hit one of the walls, but at least nothing seems to be broken and also, he’s still alive. Something not everyone can say for themselves.

Once he’s finally left behind the room and ended up in the hallway, there is no sight of Geralt.

“Fuck,” Jaskier curses. But after a moment he notices it. The hint of a scent in the air, sweat and dust as well as something that still smells like the lavender oil Jaskier put in Geralt’s bath today.  

Jaskier never tried to track someone through their scent in his human form but right now it doesn’t seem too difficult.

But then he is reminded of the druid and there are still things to be taken care of. Geralt will hardly be in the mood to talk now anyways. Although Jaskier is not in favour of having the Witcher run off and brood like he’ll most likely do, he still has to collect his coin and maybe leave a lasting impact so that despite all the things that happened here today, some nobles may still be inclined to remember his name.

In the end, it's Eist Tuirseach who throws him a leather pouch whose contents are clinking auspiciously. It’s been almost three hours since the whole affair went down. The Queen and the freshly wed couple have retreated and the wounded have been provided with rooms and healers have been called for the graver cases. At least they still brought some new wine.

Despite being a bit tipsy, Jaskier’s whole side aches and he can feel the exhaustion of the day slowly settling in his bones after he’s slipped out of the castle. He wanders through the barely populated streets of the city and watches how the stars above him blink into appearance whenever the cloudy sky clears up for a bit.

Once he’s reached the inn, he enters through the stable and there is a breath of relief when he spots Roach, who is dozing between some other horses.

The stable boy is sleeping in the hay and doesn’t even wake when Jaskier sneaks past him to enter the inn.

It’s quiet, apart from the general creaking of the old building and the floorboards beneath his feet. The door to their room isn’t locked but when Jaskier opens it, Geralt is standing between the two beds in full armour, saddlebags thrown over his shoulders and his sword-belt in hand.

It takes half a second for Jaskier to notice the vials of various scents which belong to him still strewn over a side table and the one blue shirt which he had carelessly thrown over a chair yesterday. The bard’s eyes return to the Witcher who meets his gaze with an unreadable expression.

Somehow Jaskier feels incredibly old at that moment.

Wordlessly, Jaskier moves over to his bed, letting his lute drop onto the sheets before he too sits down on the edge. A single candle is all that illuminates the room. They don’t speak. Geralt remains standing there, while Jaskier is looking at him.

“You wanted to leave,” Jaskier says eventually. His voice is a bit hoarse from all the singing he did today.

“So, I did.”

“Did you plan to tell me?” Jaskier asks. A moment passes.

“No,” Geralt says. He doesn’t look at the bard.

Jaskier nods. He stares at his intertwined fingers. “Why?” he asks eventually. “I can understand-“

“You don’t understand anything!” Geralt snaps and when he turns to finally look at Jaskier, his eyes are blazing.

Jaskier is so taken aback by the sudden outburst that he doesn’t even know what to say at first. “Pardon?” the bard begins slowly, confused at the statement.

“Well, this whole shitshow only went down because you had to drag me to this goddamn betrothal!” Geralt growls and he throws his swords and saddlebags onto his bed in frustration.  

Jaskier flinches back at the harsh words. The Witcher kicks his bedpost and he growls under his breath, a hand combing through his hair. The bard watches him and he blames his lack of sleep and the wine when he says, “Do you want to fuck it out?”

“What?” Geralt stares at him.

"Well," Jaskier begins hesitantly but then he stands up and shucks off his boots, “It's obvious that you could blow off some steam,” he says and starts to unlace his doublet. “So why don’t you use all that pent-up energy to fuck me into the next week? I expected to get laid today anyways and so we'd at least both get something out of it.” Jaskier pulls off his doublet and the chemise he wears under it, throwing both onto the chair on which his shirt already rests. He bought it just for this occasion. Now he’s going to have to pay someone to fix the tears in it. He turns back to Geralt, uncertain. “If you don’t want to, I’m going to bed. It’s been a long couple’ hours either way.”

Geralt stares at him with a blank expression. Jaskier stares back. Then, all of a sudden, the Witcher growls under his breath and crosses the distance between them.

Jaskier's mouth twitches into a brief smirk.

“You’re a menace,” the Witcher rasps against Jaskier’s jaw, his strong hands digging into the bard's hips over the fabric of his trousers.

Jaskier huffs while he’s busy loosening the buckles on Geralt’s clothes. He is barely done with one side when the Witcher shoves him onto the bed.

Jaskier makes a sound of protest that turns into an abrupt inhale as he painfully gets reminded of his bruised ribs when he hits the mattress. But then he sees what Geralt had aimed for and he props himself up on his elbows to watch how the Witcher efficiently peels himself out of his clothes.

If there’s one thing Jaskier has learned then it's, that in terms of sex, Geralt isn’t shy. The bard wets his lips with his tongue when the Witcher steps forward. The mattress is dipping under his weight when he places himself between Jaskier’s legs, who almost spreads them instinctively.

Geralt's hands splay out over his thighs. Jaskier can feel the pleasant vibrations even through the fabric. “What now?” he asks while shamelessly drinking the Witcher in with his eyes.

“You said you wanted to be fucked.”

Jaskier briefly bites his bottom lip. “Mhm.”

“’you sure?” Geralt's golden eyes fixate on him and Jaskier can't look away. He doesn't trust his voice, so he nods.

The Witcher pulls his hands back and he reaches for the side table where Jaskier’s scented oils are still stacked. He grabs a vial and shows it to Jaskier who nods approvingly after he's seen its colour. It’s one of his cheaper and thus frequently used ones. He planned to stack up on that one anyways.

The vial is discarded somewhere on the mattress for later use and Jaskier lifts his hips to help Geralt peel off his breeches and braies.

Once those are on the floor, there is not much holding them back.

The scent of chamomile slowly spreads through the room when Geralt wraps his oil-slicked hand around both their lengths. Jaskier groans with pleasure. He lets his head drop against Geralt's shoulder, where old scars fade into the skin and his eyes flutter shut. He aches to kiss him but instead, he lets his lips brush over Geralt's prominent collarbone while he inhales the Witcher's scent.

They stay like this for a while, moving in tandem while the sound of their breaths intermingle. Every jerk of his hips has Jaskier feeling the pull on his side but a little pain has never discouraged him. Somewhere along the lines, the bard has buried his face in Geralt's neck, nosing at the skin there and he can't help but lick over the Witcher's throat, painting a stripe of his own scent over Geralt’s. He can already feel a content rumble clawing its way up his throat.

But then Geralt pulls back. "Flip over."

Jaskier bites back a whine but he obliges, burying his face in his arms once he's turned, knees digging into the mattress before he sticks out his ass.

He shivers under Geralt's touch, gasping quietly when the Witcher's hand traces the line of his spine till it comes to a halt on his hips. There's a moment where the bard can hear nothing but their breaths and Jaskier waits in torturous silence. Finally, there is a pressure on his hole when Geralt's oil-slicked fingers seek to find entry.

Jaskier's pants come in shorter intervals and he tries to relax. Soon the pressure gives and Geralt's finger slips past his rim. The Witcher's other hand is still on his hip, grounding him and pleasurable tingles are buzzing through his spine.

Jaskier gasps and pants quietly while the Witcher is fingering him open. Despite everything - despite their sleeping arrangement only being a purposive relationship - it doesn't feel like it when they're like this. Whenever they have sex Geralt is surprisingly gentle in his touches, always controlled, never too harsh or too quick like other lovers Jaskier has known over the years. The Witcher stretches him slowly and considerate, at first there is one, then two and then three fingers sliding in and out, and Jaskier is aching with need.

Witchers don't love, Jaskier...

The bard clenches his teeth and presses his eyes shut. He wants so badly. He wants so badly for this to be fueled by something more.

Suddenly he can't take it anymore. The soft touches, the consideration and the gentleness. It's all too much and it makes him hope for something which he knows can only end in heartbreak. He desperately needs it but he can't deal with this... "Come on, Witcher" he presses out between pants. "I won't break."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah," he pants.

Geralt pulls his fingers out with a wet sound. Jaskier clenches around cold air. He can hear how Geralt slicks up his cock and then how the empty vial hits the floor.

The Witcher exhales and then there is a blunt pressure on Jaskier's hole and a hand on his back to steady him.

It wouldn't have hurt to prepare him a bit more but Jaskier embraces the slight pain that comes with the stretch when Geralt enters him. It takes a few slow thrusts till the bard can fully take him. He arches his back a bit to get a better angle and then all of a sudden Geralt is fully sheathed and his hips are flush with Jaskier's ass. The Witcher gives him a moment to breathe through it and Jaskier clenches around his length.

"Come on," he pants, "Get on with it and fuck me."

Geralt huffs a laugh before he finally begins to move. He goes slow at first but then he picks up his pace, punching quiet gasps out of Jaskier’s lungs. Soon they're both breathing heavily, the bed beneath them is creaking and the room is filled with the sounds of skin slapping against skin.

When Geralt reaches around him and jerks his cock in the same rhythm of his thrusts, Jaskier knows it won't last much longer.

The bard comes first, spilling onto the sheets with a moan, his body almost overstimulated by the tingles the Witcher's touch emits. Jaskier is still shaking and panting into the pillows when Geralt's thrusts grow erratic. The Witcher comes with a hoarse groan, his head dropping to rest between Jaskier's shoulder blades, his white hair falling down like a curtain in front of his face. Jaskier can feel his breath warming his skin. He wishes it would last forever, but then the Witcher is moving back and pulling out.

The sound it makes is obscene and Jaskier can feel how some of the Witcher's spend leaks out of his hole and leaves a wet trail on his thigh. He reaches around and wipes it away with his hand, before he shifts and lays on his back with a groan. Now that he's no longer brimming with arousal and anger, the pain around his ribs is more prominent again. He stares at his glistening fingers and he has to force the animal part of him down which urges him to lick it off. He wipes it onto the sheets.

Geralt flops down next to him which in the narrow bed means that Jaskier is basically squeezed into the space between the wall and the Witcher. As always, he emits a soft tingle and Jaskier basks in it like the warmth of a pleasant bath. The room smells like sex and them and the realization pulls a deep rumble from Jaskiers throat.

He buries himself in the sheets and presses his shoulder against the Witcher’s. He doesn't dare to do anything else.

A few moments pass and surprisingly it's Geralt who breaches the silence. "What am I to do with a child, Jaskier?" he asks quietly into the room. The bard turns his head to look at him. The Witcher glances back, a few strands of his hair sticking to his forehead in a trace of cooling sweat, his features soft in the yellow light of the sole candle which is still burning.

Jaskier aches to trace these cheekbones with his fingers, to push back that one wisp falling in front of his eyes. He seems lost at that moment.

"I don't have an answer to that question," Jaskier whispers truthfully. The Witcher sighs and turns back to look at the ceiling.

“You can’t outrun Destiny. That’s what Moussack said.”

“The druid?”

“Mhm.”

"Destiny is a fickle thing," the bard finds himself saying. "There are people who we are meant to encounter. How they fit in our life however is our decision. Not everything is set in stone and not everything ends how we expect it to."

"What's that supposed to mean?" the Witcher asks.

"Ah, I don't know," Jaskier says with a slight frown, dismissing the strange notion. "Just some weird thought I guess."

"Hm.

Jaskier shifts his legs to get a bit more comfortable when suddenly his hip hits something cold and wet. "Ughh." His face twists into a grimace.

"What?"

"Hit a wet spot."

Geralt possesses the audacity to laugh at him. "That is my cue," he rasps and sits up. He wanders over to his own bed, where he takes the saddlebags and his swords and sets them aside.

"Oh, and I'll have to sleep in the filthy bed huh?" Jaskier comments while Geralt blows out the candle.

"You wanted to be fucked,” the Witcher says and slips under his sheets,

"So if I had fucked you, you would be laying in a wet spot now?" Jaskier asks.

“Goodnight, Jaskier,” the Witcher says. He sounds vaguely amused.

"Ass," Jaskier replies. He stares into the dark. His bed is filthy but he doesn’t actually mind as much as he lets on. His sheets smell like Geralt, and so does Jaskier. He squirms around to get into a sleeping position that is somewhat comfortable with his throbbing ribs. Just when he settles - his cheek pressed against the spot where the scent of Geralt is the strongest - the Witcher on the other side of the room sighs.

“Come here.”

“What?” Jaskier sits up. He’s not sure if he heard right. An odd warmth blooms in his chest.

“It’s not like this is the first time we’d share. I can already picture the complaining I’ll have to endure tomorrow if I force you to sleep in a puddle .”

Jaskier doesn’t need to be told twice. He grabs his pillow and stands up. “I suppose you’re right. It would certainly be a shame if I caught a cold because of your mistreatment,” the bard says, trying to sound casual while he walks over to Geralt. His naked feet barely make a sound and the Witcher’s eyes follow him. They glow in the dark like the eyes of a cat. The man lifts the corner of his blanket and Jaskier slips into his bed. The Witcher radiates heat and Jaskier shuffles closer till their sides are pressed together, a soothing tingle running over his skin.

“Don’t steal my blanket while you sleep,” the Witcher rasps.

Jaskier hides his smile in his pillow. “I would never.”

“Hm.”

They don’t talk after that and Jaskier is slowly falling asleep. He presses himself closer to Geralt and wishes his heart would simply stop yearning for something he can’t have.

The next morning Jaskier blinks into the morning light, and at first, he doesn’t realise what woke him till the Witcher has fully detangled himself from Jaskier’s limbs. Thankfully the bard is still too groggy to be embarrassed, so he simply groans unhappily and rolls over to take up the warm space that Geralt left once he’s stood up.

He listens to Geralt wandering through the room for a while until the Witcher’s voice pulls him out of his dozing. “I’ll be down getting breakfast. You want to stay here?”

The way he asks it is the same way as always, and while in itself it’s nothing out of the ordinary, it tells Jaskier that everything is back to normal. An already familiar melancholy spreads through Jaskier at the renewed realisation.

“No, no. I’m up,” Jaskier mumbles and he wipes his eyes and sits up. The cold hits him when the blanket slips from his torso. But through sitting up he also grows aware of the painful throbbing under his arm. When he lifts it to look at his ribs, a myriad of colourful bruises paints a splotchy pattern onto his skin. Hissing, he presses against it, watching the purple turn white under the pressure and then seeing it bleed back into the skin.

“You need some Healer’s balm?,” Geralt says and motions for Jaskier’s ribs after he’s pulled a dark shirt over his head. Jaskier’s eyes linger on the low-cut collar which is not yet laced up. His eyes flick back up to Geralt’s face. It’s like the night before had never happened, just like previous moments of similar natures were always dismissed. A bittersweet smile appears on Jaskier’s face before he inhales. It does not do well to dwell on things that can never be.

“Hm. Might not be that bad of an idea.” The Witcher holds his gaze for a long moment before he moves to rummage through his saddlebags. “You know, if someone had told me that I would ever be tossed around by a princess, I’d have never thought they meant it this literally,” Jaskier says lightly while he watches Geralt. The man huffs a laugh and after he straightens up, throws Jaskier a small container.  

The bard twists it a bit between his fingers, staring at it thoughtfully before he opens it and spreads a thin layer of the salve onto his skin. “Thanks,” he says and Geralt simply hums something unintelligibly while he stuffs it back into his bag. Despite himself, Jaskier finds himself smiling at the ridiculousness of the Witcher’s nature.

They have a decent breakfast and afterwards spend the forenoon stocking up on their respective necessities. Geralt buys herbs and strong alcohol for his potions, Jaskier stocks up on his scented oils, ink, and invests in a new winter cloak.

Afterwards, they head north and Geralt sets a punishing pace. Frost comes early this year and an icy wind is cutting through their clothes. Jaskier makes good money in taverns but he can feel the weather getting to him. He isn’t too bothered by the cold yet, but since he's discovered his draconic nature, his whole metabolism seems to slow down with the sinking temperatures. He takes longer to get up and all he wishes for on most days is a warm bed and a safe place to spend the time. They split up in Temeria only half a month after Pavetta’s betrothal and while Geralt pushes north to get to Kaer Morhen in time, Jaskier returns to his gorge high up in the Mahakam mountains.

He isn’t ready to admit it yet to himself, but the reason for him spending the whole winter there is that as a dragon his emotions aren’t as complicated as they are when he’s a human. It also means that he gets easily distracted by a squirrel, or that he can stare at a spot of light for hours without it losing its fascinating nature, but at least as a dragon, he doesn’t feel embarrassed about it.

Overall though, Jaskier spends most of his time napping and hunting and rather bored. So as soon as the snow begins to melt, he finds himself back on the road.

Chapter Text

Jaskier heads north towards Kaedwen – for no particular reason – at least that’s what he tells himself and he follows the flow of the rivers as he did when he first started to travel.

It’s early March when he travels along the Buina, but the people aren’t very welcoming. The winter up here was harsh. The cold has brought a many loss and disease has been killing their livestock.  People have nothing and thus crimes are harshly punished. Bodies hang from trees like wind chimes, their hands often cut off. A silent warning for thieves.

There are fields of dead animals, frozen bodies slowly thawing, the calls of the crows a constant reminder that Death is marching through the lands.

Black swarms darken the sky and sit in the leafless trees, staring down at the people who renew the old altars and leave sacrifices in the woods, desperate pleas to the old gods where prayers have long failed.

It’s all rather depressing but his experience reaches its peak one misty morning when Jaskier wakes on the hill where he made his camp. He's barely up and about to restart his glimmering fire when he spots ghouls on a frostbitten field in the distance, fighting over the corpse of some animal, like his father’s hunting dogs when they hadn’t been fed for a few days.

Jaskier stomps out the remains of his fire, quietly packing his stuff and he turns back to the road to get the fuck out of here.

The sun is barely up and fog still hangs over the lands. It’s dreary and cold, and the morning dew has frozen over. Once he reaches the road, the crunching of grass beneath his feet gets replaced by gravel. He keeps his eyes open for threats and pretty things alike, but there are no flowers yet and the stones beneath his feet are a boring grey and rough at the edges. Every time he exhales a small cloud bleeds into the morning air. Jaskier breathes into his stiff hands, pulling just a bit of energy out of his surroundings. He can’t spit fire in this form, but he can heat up his breath. It’s a neat trick he discovered by accident last winter. He feels a tingle in the air when he does so, before a stream of hot breath escapes his lungs, warming his fingers.

Afterwards, he eats a bit of the stale bread which he’s got left over from his ration and refills his waterskin in a small stream he comes across.

Fortunately, he reaches a town less than an hour away and the stockade surrounding it makes him feel a bit safer. Though the dead hanging from the rafters diminishes that impression somewhat.

“What do you want in our town?” the guard asks him gruffly when he’s about to enter. Jaskier sees a worn breastplate glint through the gap of his cloak. He’s briefly distracted by the shiny metal before he forces his eyes back up.

“A bed and a meal if you don’t mind.”

The guard gives him a once over. “We don’t tolerate vagabonds here,” he says and his eyes flicker towards the dead.

Jaskier knows what he must look like. He hasn’t been able to shave in a while and his winter coat doesn’t look as pretty anymore since he’s started using it as a blanket. His boots are thin from wear and he had long wanted to replace them, but looking like you’ve got money in these areas right now is more dangerous than walking on thin boots.

“I’m a bard,” Jaskier says, nevertheless a bit miffed. “Not a thief.”

“Hmm.” The guard scratches his scruff.

“You’ve got some ghouls on the fields out there,” Jaskier snaps prickly and leans forward. “Might wanna hire a Witcher to take care of them,” he adds impatiently because the man still can’t seem to decide if he should let him in.

The guard sighs and suddenly he seems incredibly weary. “’something happen’ again?”

Jaskier shakes his head. “Saw some of the beasts fighting over a dead cow.”

The guard pulls a flask out of his inner pocket and takes a sip as he leans against the wooden post behind him. “We already sent out a group of volunteers to deal with them, but they never came back. The contract is posted, but none of ‘em Witchers came through yet. But they will. Soon. They always come around spring.” He seems a bit desperate.

“Did they kill someone yet? The ghouls?”

The guard nods solemnly. “Mhm. Some merchants. All their wares are lost. No one dares to go to recover them. Personally, I think it’s only a matter of time till they snatch some children too.”

Jaskier nods. They stand a moment in silence. “You wouldn’t mind pointing me towards the closest tavern?” he asks eventually, blatantly ignoring the fact that he hasn’t officially been let in yet.

“Just follow ya nose,” the guard taps his own impressive organ decorating his face, “It’s in the butcher district. Can’t miss it. It’s called the Black Unicorn.”

“Very imaginative." 

“What can I say, we like our country.” The guard chuckles.

“Aha.” 

Jaskier is about to go when the guard calls him back. “Ey bard! Are ya gonna play tonight?”

Jaskier looks over his shoulder. “Probably.” 

He is rewarded with a toothy grin. 

“Good. We could use some entertainment. Might pay a visit to the tavern then.” He says it as if drinking weren’t his usual occupation after work. The bard nods his head in acknowledgement once again before he enters the town.

The streets are filthy and muddy and a dark mood seems to hang over the town. Only some children are laughing. Jaskier stops once to pet a stray dog, who licks his hand appreciatively before he runs away to beg for some scraps. The butcher district as it turns out is really not hard to find and the tavern is right on the corner where the district opens up to the marketplace. A unicorn is burnt into a wooden sign over the door and once Jaskier enters, it’s like he’s being hit with a solid wall of cosy warmth. A warmth that is accompanied by the smell of stale beer, food and sweat but it’s something at least.

Only a few people are in the tavern at this ungodly hour. Barely half a dozen, most of them eating the stew they apparently serve while talking in low voices. Jaskier rounds a beam and a table before he speaks to the elderly man behind the counter.

“Do you have a room for a bard?”

“A bard you say?”

“Yes, indeed a bard. Trained in the arts in the Academy of Oxenfurt. Jaskier is my name.” Jaskier bows with a flourish.

“Certainly, certainly. Will you perform?” the old man asks, his mouth pulling into a smile which makes his wrinkles all the more prominent.

“Tonight, if you will,” Jaskier says while his eyes slide through the room.

“Very good, very good.” The elderly man claps his hands. “It’s been some time since we’ve had a bard come through and your name does sound familiar, indeed.”

Jaskier slowly gets the impression that the man is surprisingly sprightly for how old he appears. An odd fella. But he seems nice enough. They haggle a bit over the price of the room and Jaskier pays upfront as well as for a meal and the innkeeper promises that it will be ready once he’s returned.

Jaskier climbs up the narrow stairs, steps creaking beneath his feet and upstairs he finds the room the old man described.

It’s a nice room, with a window and a small table and while it’s a bit draughty – which was expected – Jaskier is pretty satisfied with it.

Just after he’s slipped out of his winter coat and put down his lute, someone knocks at his door. It’s a blonde girl with a pretty face, bringing water and a piece of cloth for him to be able to wash himself. Jaskier flirts a bit and delights in the fact that he can make her blush, and he even contemplates inviting her in, but in the end, he simply thanks her and closes the door. He takes the time to shave and freshen up and he pulls out one of his more frequently used doublets which is still in a good condition. It’s a bright yellow with blue accents and in his opinion, it really brings out his eyes. He feels a tad more like himself now and when he walks back down to the taproom, the old man laughs in delight.

“Ah, look at ya, boy. Under all that filth there hid a real bard, huh… Almost doubted it when I let ya in…”

Jaskier laughs at that. He’s thirty now, but he guesses in the eyes of the old man he might be a boy. He takes the stew he’s offered and the bread and sits down at a table. It doesn’t take long till someone asks him to play a tune.

Jaskier passes the early morning playing a few songs and around afternoon, word has already travelled so far that half the town seems to have squeezed themselves into the tavern. Jaskier spends hours performing and telling stories, playing love songs, jigs and sad ballads till even he has to rest his voice. And then the local musicians and fiddlers come to fill the gap that he left, while Jaskier is offered drinks and food by some admirers from the audience.  

He didn’t make that much coin today, but the people have warmed up to him and later in the evening he is sitting on a table playing Gwent with a few patrons. Ale is flowing freely and laughter is prevalent at this late hour. They exchange stories and are just playing dice for stacks of ducats when one of the men who Jaskier got to know today approaches him. He’s a woodcutter called Bolek, tall in build with a wild beard, but now he almost seems shy as carves his way through the crowd gathered around the table.

“Master bard, there is someone who wants to talk to you.”

“There are lots of people who want to talk to me,” Jaskier says with a smirk. The blond girl from the morning – her name is Marizanna – is pressing herself closer to him and she laughs coquettishly. It’s a safe bet as far as Jaskier is concerned.

“It’s one of the guards. Apparently, you know where the ghouls are?” the woodcutter questions with his dark voice.

Jaskier frowns. “Saw some out in the fields this morning, why?”

“A Witcher is with him,” Bolek says quietly. It’s almost a whisper. Yet the words have been heard and the people who are not caught up in the game are starting to murmur.

Jaskier nods and stands up. He takes the hand of the girl next to him, “Milady,” he says and kisses it. Marizanna giggles. “I fear I am needed elsewhere, but with your beauty, you will hardly lack admirers until I return.” He winks at her grinning, and she blushes. “Hey Jarek,” he pats the back of one of the dice players who nods at him with a smile. “Don’t let Zygmunt win while I’m gone, you hear me,” the bard says and snatches his tankard from the table. “He deserves to lose the coin he won from me-”

“-fair and square,” another man shouts with a laugh and Jaskier waves the group when he leaves the table grabbing his lute on the way, while he follows Bolek, who leads him through the crowd to a small table in one of the corners. He stops at a bit of distance. “There.” Bolek gestures at the two people sitting there. One is clearly the guard Jaskier talked to in the morning, the other one is wearing a hooded cloak, obscuring his face.

The Witcher.  

Apparently, Jaskier’s curious look can be interpreted very differently, because Bolek bumps his shoulder and says, “Don’t worry. They’ll probably just wanna talk.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jaskier says dismissively, trying to get a glimpse under the hood.

As soon as the guard spots him, he waves him closer. That’s him,” the guard mouths to the Witcher and jerks his head towards them. The Witcher shifts to first look at Bolek and then at Jaskier.

The face that he’s met with is familiar even though the golden eyes don’t belong to Geralt. Copper brown hair with a reddish tint when it’s hit by the light, the stubble of a recently shaved beard decorating a strong jaw and a scar cutting through the left eyebrow. But it’s the hint of a scent that has Jaskier recalling the name.

“Lambert,” Jaskier says instead of a greeting and unceremoniously lets himself drop into the chair opposite the Witcher. The dragon within him is purring. It’s been almost ten years since they last saw each other and Jaskier eyes the man reserved, but curious all the same.

His hair is cropped shorter, leaving nothing of his usual curls but revealing a new curved scar running just above his ear, the latter of which, apparently a monster managed to take a small chunk out of. 

It’s unfair how much Jaskier’s draconic side delights in seeing the Witcher again, managing to send mixed signals to his brain even though their last meetings weren’t all that amicable. 

Meanwhile, Lambert leans back and crosses his arms. The leather of his bracers creaks and recognition shines in his amber eyes. “ Buttercup .” He pops the "p" of the old nickname and a rascal smirk is playing around his lips which already promises trouble.

The guard and Bolek stare at them.

“It’s Jaskier."

“Sure–“ Lambert drawls and his grin broadens when he leans forward – “ Buttercup … Still trailing after the wolf, from what I hear," the Witcher says and takes the bard in for a moment. 

Jaskier regards him with a similar look. "Still being a prick from what I gather."

“Hm,” Lambert wets his lips with his tongue and continues to look at Jaskier. The bard refuses to squirm under the assessing gaze, instead, he stubbornly stares into the Witcher's eyes.

“Let’s get over with this, shall we?” the bard suggests when he can’t take it anymore. Somehow the man manages to grate on his nerves.

“Fine with me,” Lambert says and lounges back in his chair.

“Um,” the guard interrupts, “You two… know each other?” He swallows when both Lambert and Jaskier simultaneously turn to look at him with similar expressions on their faces.

Then Jaskier states, “Obviously,” at the same time Lambert utters, “What’s it look like? Idiot. ”

At that, Jaskier and Lambert share a quick look before the Witcher swiftly clears his throat and Jaskier proceeds to take a sip of his ale.

The staring of Bolek and the guard continues, before the latter suddenly stands up. “I’ll leave ya to it,” he says and heads for the counter. Bolek awkwardly nods at Jaskier before he follows the guard to the bar, where the old innkeeper is fiddling with some plates and watching everything that’s going on with sharp eyes. Lambert tracks the movements of the men for a moment before his gaze flicks back to Jaskier.

“So, let’s get down to business,” Lambert says once the others have disappeared. “I’m here to fuck up some ghouls and word is, that you know where to find them.”

Jaskier swallows his mouthful of ale and licks his lips before he replies, “I saw two on a field this morning. That’s it.” He frowns and leans on his elbows. “To be honest, I don’t know why you are bothering with me, surely some of the locals must know more. Maybe some of the town guards?”

Lambert huffs. “Do you think I would sit here with some run-along human, moreover some songster who dresses like a peacock-“ Jaskier splutters offended at the statement, because this doublet, while already a season old, is still more fashionable than any piece of clothing the locals here are wearing – “If I had a choice?” The Witcher shakes his head. “Nah. None of these cowards has even dared to step outside of their little fencing since their troop disappeared, otherwise I’d long be out there, making Bigos out of those beasts.”

“Ah,” Jaskier says indignantly.

“Usually when you know where one of them is, you can find the others. So, what field was it, so we can get over with this?” Lambert inquires.

“I don’t know. A field,” Jaskier says with a shrug, still quite miffed at the comment about his clothing.

“A bit more detail, maybe?” Lambert growls.

Jaskier leisurely takes another sip from his ale. He takes his time and relishes the irascible look Lambert sends his way. Eventually, he says, “It was a field about an hour south from here, close to the forest. It’s a few minutes off the road. There’s a hill next to it, where I made camp the day prior. They tore up a cow or something equally big. I think it was ghouls, but I only saw them from a distance.”

He’s not that much of an asshole.

“Hm.”

Jaskier sips his ale while he watches Lambert tapping the table with his finger. He appears thoughtful. Eventually, he looks up. “Could you find it again?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“You guess?” Lambert says with a raised eyebrow.

“Yeah, I can find it again,” Jaskier retorts, annoyed.

“Good. You’ll have to lead me to it.”

“Why?” Jaskier asks. “Can’t you find it yourself?”

“Of course, I can find it myself. But do you have any idea how many fields there are with a hill next to it?!” Lambert asks. “I’m not gonna search the whole perimeter for a few hours when you know exactly where to go.”

Jaskier stares at him. Lambert stares back. Neither of them wants to back down. “Fine,” the bard eventually relents. He’s rather divided about spending time with Lambert, but at least he might get a good story out of it.

Lambert’s chair scratches over the floor when he stands up. “Good, let’s go.”

“What, now?” Jaskier stares at the Witcher who picks up his swords. “It’s in the middle of the night.” And if he remembers correctly, Geralt always took some time to prepare himself before a fight.

“Of course, now. Or do you have something better to do?” Lambert asks and Jaskier’s eyes automatically wander over to the table and the company that he left.

“Well, actually-“

“That’s what I thought,” Lambert says and already begins to head for the exit. “Come on.”

Jaskier utters muffled curses and grabs his lute as he’s scrambling to get up. “At least let me grab my cloak.”

Lambert is already halfway out of the Tavern.

“What an ass,” Jaskier mutters to nobody in particular as heads for the stairs to fetch his cloak.

Outside it’s cold and dark. The only light is coming from the few windows of the Tavern from where Jaskier can still hear the muffled voices of the patrons. Lambert is leaning against the wall with crossed arms till he spots Jaskier. “What took you so long?”

“Unlike some other people, I tend to not have my cloak with me all the time for nightly expeditions,” Jaskier replies. Lambert gives him a once over.

“At least it covers that colour,” he eventually comments. Jaskier’s mouth drops open at the offence while Lambert simply turns around and walks away.  

Asshole.

Jaskier follows him to a stable not far away from where Lambert is already untying the reins of a horse which are fastened to a hook on the outer wall.

“I take it, there is no horse for me,” Jaskier voices while he stares at the black gelding. It’s not even much of a question at that point, more of a resigned statement.

“Correct. Give the boy a treat,” Lambert replies with a smirk and swings himself in the saddle.

“I’m thirty,” Jaskier retorts with a deadpan expression.

“And I’m at least a few decades older than you,” Lambert says and clicks his tongue so that his horse starts moving.

“Ah, so that’s why you’re so cranky,” Jaskier retorts when he starts to walk. “It’s the arthritis taking hold.” The stench of the slaughterhouses wafts over to them as they turn into the street making up the butcher district.

“Be careful what you say,” Lambert growls.

“What are you gonna do?” Jaskier says provokingly, “Stab me?”  

“I might if you continue annoying me.”

“Ah,” Jaskier begins dramatically, “But what would Aiden say, if you kill me?”

Lambert rips on the reins so abruptly that it causes his horse to whinny in protest as it stops. In a smooth motion, the Witcher leans down to directly look at Jaskier. “Listen asshole,” he hisses and his eyes glow like coals in the dark. “I don't give a shit about Aiden's opinion, you hear me? And I’m not in the mood to have you provide a running commentary till we get to the damn scene of the hunt. So why don’t you shut up and show me where these motherfuckers are and then you can piss off and get back to your little group of sycophants. Understood?!”

Jaskier stares at the glinting eyes piercing him. The beast within him is taking up more space in his mind and a growl is building behind his teeth. He only vaguely recognizes that the jab has apparently hit home a bit too well. Nevertheless, he twists his mouth into an overly large grin that almost borders into baring his teeth when he looks at the Witcher. “Of course,” he replies sweetly but with an iron edge to his words.

Needless to say, from that point on Jaskier doesn’t shut up for longer than a minute.

Jaskier proceeds to comment on every single thing that comes to mind, from the weather to the grass blades beneath his feet or the quality of the road they’re travelling on, knowing he hasn't been that obnoxious since his first few weeks of travelling with Geralt. He can basically hear Lambert grinding his teeth.

But Jaskier, who's used to a travelling companion who adds little to nothing to a conversation couldn't predict that Lambert would turn the whole thing around.

Soon he finds himself on the other end of some invectives. Damn Lambert for finding out that discussing the nature of his bardic abilities is a particularly sensitive topic. 

The bard endures the jabs less stoically than he wished he would, but eventually - to wipe the shit-eating grin off the Witcher’s face - Jaskier comes up with a solution and starts to compose a particular small ditty with the Witcher as its main protagonist.

“Oh, I won’t shed a tear if the ghouls tear into you,” Lambert gnarls when Jaskier announces that his limerick is finally finished. He’s muttered rhyme words for the last ten minutes, so Lambert has probably already a pretty good impression of what it’s going to sound like.

“Prepare yourself for its first debut. Listen now to the Limerick of Lambert !” the bard announces pompously.

Lambert growls.

Jaskier proceeds to ignore the wordless answer and clears his throat. He strums a chord on his lute.

“Have you heard of Lambert the Witcher, whom even after drinking a pitcher

Of liquor would no one fuck, ‘cause he just couldn’t get it up?

Yes Lambert, the prickliest Witcher.”

“I might even work it into a song,” Jaskier says when the Witcher shows no reaction. “What do you think? Perhaps a second verse would improve it.”

“I swear I will personally find and kill you if you ever write a damn song about me,” Lambert gnarls.

“You know, Geralt said the same, and look at how far that got him,” Jaskier adds.

“How he hasn’t murdered you yet is a riddle to me.”

“I’m pretty likeable, you know. Perhaps it’s simply your character that doesn’t agree with mine.”

“I will stab you.”

“Bold of you to assume that I won’t stab you back.”

“You wouldn’t even be able to get to your dagger fast enough,” Lambert says.

“Wanna bet?”

In the end, neither of them makes good on the promise to stab the other one and so, they manage to reach the place where Jaskier spotted the ghouls, either of them unharmed.  

From up close, the area looks like a battlefield. A waggon is stuck in the muddy ground, barrels and boxes strewn over the earth. Thankfully there are no monsters, but their scent still permeates the air. A heavy, rotting and foul odour that is clinging to the churned earth which is littered with the bloody remains of what used to be a human and a horse (?) .

The Witcher has crouched down next to what appears to be the main part of a merchant's carcass and digs around in his remains, while Jaskier wanders the scene. Turns out, if you hunt as a dragon and eat raw animals from time to time, you lose a lot of your squeamishness. But standing amidst some ripped-up corpses is simply another level of gross.

“Ew, I think I stepped into a liver,” Jaskier complains when his boot hits something with a squelching sound. With a disgusted look, he shakes his leg to get the slimy substance off his shoe.

The Witcher’s horse is whinnying nervously a few feet to his right.

Lambert, who has apparently finished his examination, stands up and looks at the bard. “I told you to piss off three times already.”

“Sure. And I’ll head back to town alone in the dark, with monsters roaming the area. Great idea,” the bard says sarcastically.

“If a beast decides that you’d make a good snack that’s not my problem,” Lambert says. “Not here, and not out on the streets.”

Jaskier looks at him. At that point, he’s not quite sure if the Witcher is serious or not.

Is he?

Lambert turns to look at the array of trees in the distance. He looks like a dog who’s caught a trace of his prey. Suddenly, he turns on his heel and walks towards his horse, where he rummages through the saddlebags. He pulls out a vial, which he downs immediately and then two additional ones which he stuffs into a bag he wears on his belt. He takes off his heavy cloak and throws it over the horse’s back. He wears even lighter armour than Geralt – more fabric-based stuff with a few leather enforcements at the shoulders and limbs. And of course, they are studded with silver.

Jaskier has soon learned that Witchers usually rely on speed. He has seen firsthand how fast Geralt can move when he’s drugged up on potions.

But as Geralt had once put it – you can wear as much armour if you want – if the tail of a Slyzard hits you, you’re most likely done in either case. So better you are able to jump out of the way, instead of being hindered by heavy armour, which in the end only has you become a plaything for the damn creature that is more than happy to fish you out of your tin wrapping like some sick mockery of a cake with filling.  

Jaskier continues to watch Lambert, who pulls his silver sword halfway out of its sheath, looks at the shining blade, before he pushes it back in. “If you don’t want to go back, you’re gonna stay here. Look out for the horse for all I care,” the Witcher declares over his shoulder.

“Oh, brilliant,” Jaskier begins and throws his hands in the air. “So, I’m stuck herding the horse again. Does it at least have a name?” The bard stares at Lambert who stares back from the darkness. His eyes seem to glow.

“No.”

“What?” Jaskier blurts out, surprised. “I was only joking, you know.”

“It doesn’t have a name,” Lambert repeats.

“So you're telling me,” Jaskier replies with a deadpan expression, “That you call your horse, Horse …”

“Yeah. What about it?” The Witcher looks at Jaskier with a sour expression. He crosses his arms when Jaskier continues to stare at him. “What?” he snaps.

“And I was ranting at Geralt because he calls all of his horses Roach…” Jaskier mutters.

“Well, he calls all of them by the same name,” Lambert says and to Jaskier, it sounds a bit defensive. “That’s different.”

“Your horse is called Horse ,” Jaskier emphasises once again.

Lambert stares at him. “Argh,” he says suddenly and turns away. “Kiss my ass, buttercup. You name it if it’s so important to you.”

“I will,” Jaskier tells him, while Lambert picks up his silver sword and fastens it to the sword belt running diagonally over his torso. The Witcher just shakes his head and starts to make his way over the field towards the trees. Jaskier watches his silhouette blur into the darkness.

Stupid Witchers.

“He’s been gone for an awfully long time, don’t you think?” Jaskier stares at the horse for which he still didn’t come up with a fitting name. He bites his lip nervously. For the last twenty minutes, the uneasy feeling originating from his gut seems to have spread through his limbs up to his head until he can only think of the horrible things that could’ve happened to Lambert in the meantime.

The horse stares dumbly back. Maybe he should call it Lambert the second. Its ears flick nervously.

“You are right. I’m gonna look for him.” Jaskier rises to his feet and now that the decision is made, he already feels better.

He checks on the small blade in his boot before he questioningly lets his eyes roam over Lambert’s belongings fastened to the horse. It won't hurt if his lute finds a place there too.

After he attaches his instrument to the saddle, hoping that the horse will stay in the area, Jaskier heads for the woods.

He can recreate the path Lambert took over the field easily enough, but as soon as he hits the tree line, Jaskier has to guess. He still gets a hint of that foul and rotten scent, so he follows the trail of that, in the hopes that it will lead him to the Witcher.

It’s eerily silent. The trees throw large shadows in the faint starlight and while Jaskier’s eyes don’t match those of a Witcher, he’s at least not completely lost in the dark.

The tension in his core grows. He can only hear his own shallow breaths. His fingers twitch nervously as he slowly makes his way through the forest. He winces every time he accidentally steps on a twig or when the wind causes some leaves to rustle in the distance.

As he moves onwards, the scent of rot and death slowly increases till eventually, it upsurges to a vile crescendo of smells that has Jaskier gagging. Occasionally he spots carcasses in various states of decay, their bones cracked open and the marrow sucked dry. The scent of smoke wafts through the trees and Jaskier reaches the edge of a small clearing where deep furrows carve through the ground. There are hollowed out spaces where the bloodstained earth is churned. The bodies of ghouls litter the terrain.

They are awful to look at. Somewhat human-like in build, but with bony growths protruding from their spine with blood still seeping out of their wounds. Their yellowish teeth are dripping with spit and other questionable fluids as their mouths are wide open in death. Some of them are scorched. The bark of a few trees is blackened from fire as well.

Jaskier counts five bodies as a first estimate, but he could be wrong, as more than one is missing a head or some other limb. With a dark look, Jaskier notices that one still has the shiny handle of a blade sticking out between the third and the fourth rib. It’s never a good sign when someone leaves a weapon behind.

After another moment, Jaskier takes a few steps towards it and grips the handle before he pulls. It takes more force than he anticipated to get it out. With an abrupt motion and a gross squelch, the blade suddenly comes loose, scraping against bone before it’s out. Dark blood is seeping slowly from the wound accompanied by the smell of decay. Jaskier's lip curls up in disgust before he turns his attention to his new weapon. He twists it a few times in his hands to get used to its weight. It’s a silver dagger almost the size of his forearm.

It’s obvious that the Witcher was here.

But where is he now?

Jaskier breathes through his mouth to be able to better deal with the scent when he hears a distant explosion that answers his question.

The bard begins to run. His feet are pounding on the ground, air burning through his lungs all the while Jaskier is wondering what the hell he’s even thinking. He doesn’t even know if Lambert is in trouble, but his gut feeling is more than enough to have him following the sounds of battle.

He rounds trees, jumps over roots and bushes till, finally, he finds the Witcher.

He appears like a dark silhouette among the trees, skin like chalk and black eyes staring down an armada of ghouls. A feral grin is splitting his face in two halves as he faces the monsters with a sword as his only weapon. Unafraid he beckons them closer like only a Witcher can – the growling beasts. Blood from their previous victims is still dripping from their stinking maws. The Witcher, the protector of the people, shielding them from the horrors of the night.   

So at least he will rephrase it later for dramatic purposes.

In reality, the first sign of life that Jaskier gets from Lambert is an array of muffled curses and then, once he gets closer, the sight of the Witcher angrily kicking away a ghoul before he dodges the attack of another.

Jaskier stops.

Alive, the beasts are even fouler to look at, but it’s the scent that gets most to him. That horrible rotting smell that appears to grow more intense till it seems like it’s right next to– a weight is barreling into Jaskier, ripping him from his feet.

All air gets punched out of his lungs when he hits hard soil, vaguely realising that he dropped his weapon.

There’s only a shift in the air when the ghoul jumps at him.

But he’s already moving on instinct.

Jaskier rolls to the side, narrowly avoiding the teeth of the monster whose jaw snaps shut with a click next to his shoulder. Its breath smells like death and decay. Then he's back on his feet.

In the distance, there’s another explosion.

Neither he nor the ghoul care. A growl is building in Jaskier’s throat.

Adrenaline is pumping through his body. The ghoul is charging. Jaskier jumps aside before he can even think about it, pulling his small dagger out of his boot. It’s steel, not silver, but the ghoul howls nevertheless when Jaskier manages to slash open its side. They stop on opposite ends of the space they take up between the trees. Staring, assessing. The bard's whole range of vision is narrowed down to the space that this creature takes up. He can see how the sinewy limbs of the monster tense, bloodshot eyes fixating him. Jaskier isn't even aware that he's baring his teeth. But he can feel the heat of his own breath. The air around him tingles.

Were he a dragon, the ghoul would be roasted like a pig… But he knows that even in his human form he's fast. Not as fast as a Witcher on potions, but close. The shining handle of the silver dagger glints amidst a bed of pine needles and Jaskier grips his own smaller one tightly in his hands.

This time it's Jaskier who moves first. His heel is digging into the earth as he launches himself forward, throwing his own dagger at the creature. It bounces off uselessly but at least distracts the beast long enough that his fingers are able to wrap themselves around the silver dagger on the ground when the ghoul jumps. Jaskier whirls around, putting his whole weight into the movement of his arm.  

With a cracking sound, the silver dagger pushes right through the beast’s temple into his brain and Jaskier twists the handle, to make the most of his lucky hit.

A rattling breath forces itself out of the beast’s lungs and its eyes roll back. Then it collapses, almost pulling Jaskier with him as the bard is still holding onto the blade that is stuck in the beast’s skull.

Jaskier growls with gritted teeth and he pulls on the blade till it jerks it free. "Fuck you," he pants and for good measure kicks the creature before he steps back.

Breathing heavily, he pushes his hair from his sweaty forehead with his wrist. Blood is dripping from the blade. He is about to collect his steel dagger when he realises that his arrival has not gone without notice. More ghouls have appeared between the trees and trees and they stare at Jaskier with hungry eyes. Like glowing coals, they are the only thing that he can make out clearly in the shadows. And there are many.

Fuck.

Jaskier swallows hard. There's only one way he can get out of this. He grits his teeth, willing his body to change. His spine cracks, his ribs shift. His knuckles grow white with how much force he uses to grip the dagger in his hand. But then a sound that doesn't belong has him stop.  

There’s a slight hissing noise. A blurry shape soaring through the air. Jaskier stares at the object in confusion as it's landing amongst the ghouls who seem equally surprised.

Then the bomb explodes.

The bard stumbles back and he can feel the force of the shockwave blowing back his cloak. Sparks spray over him, burning themselves through his clothes, but they barely bother him. The sudden assault of his senses is worse.

His ears are ringing and the bright flash of the explosion has stars dancing in front of his eyes, briefly blinding him. Jaskier staggers to keep on his feet.

He can hear the ghouls howling and then finally when his vision returns, there is Lambert, kicking away a beast, his sword sliding out of the monster with a squelching sound. The creature's guts splatter on the ground, accompanied by a horrible smell. “Take this, you ugly fucker!” the Witcher says and he bares his teeth in the mockery of a grin as he whirls around. A wound on his forehead is bleeding heavily, but he doesn’t even seem to notice. There's a swishing sound when his sword cuts through the air. All Jaskier can see is a silver blur before he decapitates another ghoul, releasing a fan-shaped spray of blood.

The Witcher moves between the stunned ghouls as if it was a dance, his steps effortless and quick. Jumping, turning and ducking between the monsters who charge at him. Lambert’s fighting style differs from Geralt’s just as much as they resemble each other. He’s a bit slower than Geralt but more daring in his approaches and where Geralt would move quickly and efficiently, Lambert almost whirls with a catlike flourish. Not to mention that he proceeds to curse and insult the beasts nonstop.

Jaskier is so caught up in watching, that he almost doesn’t even notice the beast that was approaching, deeming him an easier prey than the Witcher.

In the last moment, an ominous feeling in his gut has him turn his head and there's a ghoul barely five feet away from him. Jaskier bares his teeth, readying his weapon when a wall of flames is engulfing the monster out of nowhere and it screeches and squirms, searching for the attacker. Jaskier turns his head there's the Witcher, his hand still outstretched where he threw a sign in his direction, his eyes dark pits as he stares at Jaskier before he’s whirling and decapitating another ghoul.

The beast in front of Jaskier is squirming on the ground, hissing and whining while flames still lick over its skin where it caught fire. Suddenly angry, the bard moves, evading the monster's jaw and he stabs through the ghoul’s neck, slicing forward, unbothered by the flames. His sleeve briefly catches fire but Jaskier puts it out with his hand, his palm cutting off any air that it would get.

And then it's suddenly over. Panting, Lambert is pulling his sword out of the corpse of a ghoul while he's already stomping towards Jaskier who's standing over the remains of the burnt monster. “You fucking idiot! You couldn't stay with the horse, could you?” he yells and he kicks away a ghoul's head and steps over a root till he's standing right in front of Jaskier.

"I just- I had the feeling that you were in trouble." Jaskier looks at Lambert and they stand eye to eye. The Witcher's face is distorted into a grimace, blood still dripping from the cut over his brow onto his chalk-white face, his eyes dark pits.

"And you thought coming here right into the nesting place of these creatures was a good idea?!"

"Well-"

"I was handling it!" the Witcher shouts.

"The fuck you did," Jaskier begins suddenly angry. "There were over a dozen ghouls! Who the hell can handle that without expecting it?!"

"Well, evidently you and I are still alive!"

"Oh, do you expect a thanks? Because I was clearly handling my shit too."

"Do you even hear what bullshit comes out of your mouth bardling?"

"I wasn't the one throwing around bombs like some insane juggler."

"Those bombs saved your ass bard!"

"I travelled long enough with Geralt to know that you don't use bloody bombs to deal with ghouls because the light doesn't only fuck up their vision but yours too!"

"Oh, so just because you trail after Geralt like a lovesick puppy you're the expert now, are you?!"

Jaskier blanches. "Fuck off."

"Oh, did I hit a spot?" Lambert perks up. A mean grin is splitting his face as he takes in Jaskier's expression. "What part was it?" he drawls.

The bard bares his teeth in a silent snarl, while Lambert's black gaze seems to pierce into his very soul.

"You languishing after the big bad wolf, huh?" The bard grits his teeth when Lambert barks a laugh and the sound digs into Jaskier like knives. Of course, this is probably his sorest point and this godsdamned Witcher would find it and make fun of his foolish heart.
Suddenly the Witcher's black gaze is back on Jaskier and his whole demeanour changes. "What is it? The danger, the thrill?" He takes a step forward, invading Jaskier's space. "Are you turned on by the scars?"

Jaskier releases a shaky breath as he's staring right into Lambert's eyes. He doesn't know whether to punch him or to flee. The former instinct is very strong, but considering he has a dagger in hand, his mind wins out and he turns on his heel storming away, his hand clenched around the handle.

"Oi, where are you going, bardling?" the Witcher yells.

"Shut up Witcher. I'm pissing off. That's what you wanted isn't it?" Jaskier hisses and he kicks at a dead ghoul to get to his steel dagger whose pointy end is blinking out under its carcass.

"But you didn't answer my question!"

"It's none of your fucking business!" Jaskier shouts back and he kicks at the ghoul again who doesn't budge. He tries to pull at the blade, cutting himself and it's the last straw. "Fuck!" he cries out and smashes his foot into the ribs of the dead ghoul in anger, hearing something crack.

He feels tears stinging in his eyes when he turns his face heavenward. 

Vaguely he’s aware of Lambert’s dark silhouette a few steps further away, having stopped. At least until he presses his palms into his eyes. “Fuck,” he repeats quieter. Then he pulls himself together and crouches down, finally able to reclaim his weapon.

"I doubt he knows," Lambert says, suddenly sounding awkward, while Jaskier shoves his small blade back into the shaft of his boot. 

The bard laughs a wet laugh. “Oh, he knows,” he says, sniffling and wiping away the remainder of tears. He clears his throat to get the crack out of his voice and straightens up. “We’ve had that particular conversation.” Jaskier turns to face Lambert with a bitter grin. “I’m all informed.”

Witchers don’t love. 

Lambert eyes him oddly, adjusting the grip on his sword in an almost fidgety motion. "He, uh, mentions you then and there."

"He tells stories… about me?" Jaskier stares at the other Witcher. He doesn’t need that kind of pity. On the other hand, it’s nice to for once get some palpable validation that his and Geralt’s friendship really isn’t a one-sided thing. 

Lambert clears his throat. "Well sometimes. During the winter." 

Jaskier huffs but at the same time, a small unbidden smile threatens to play around his lips. Damn his stupid affections. 

A moment of silence passes, till Lambert breaches it. "The songs. They are about him, aren't they? The love songs."

Jaskier looks up at the Witcher. "Some," he admits. No sense in denying it at this point.

Lambert nods. He absentmindedly taps the handle of his sword.

"What happened between you and Aiden?" Jaskier asks abruptly, and certainly not to change the topic. "Why don't you 'give a shit' about his opinion anymore?"

The Witcher eyes him. "This is not going to be some soppy heart-to-heart session."

"You know something about me that not many people know."

At that, the other scoffs until he looks at Jaskier and his expression shifts into that of incredulity. "Shit, for real?"

Jaskier shrugs. "Not everyone considers a human falling for a Witcher a possibility. And I don't have many close friends."

"Shocking."

“So what’s up with you and Aiden?” Jaskier asks, sniffing indignantly.

Lambert looks at Jaskier for a long moment. "We meet up," he says after a while, "Every year, we meet up, usually in that tavern in Oxenfurt, sometimes in Novigrad. And one time, he didn't come."

Jaskier’s brows furrow. "And that's why you're upset? He didn't show up and you had an argument about this?" 

Lambert huffs. "Nah. I didn't show up every year either. And it's not the fighting. We fight often. Sometimes we outright snap at each other as soon as we meet and fuck off into different directions barely an hour later.” The Witcher tells that piece of information with a smirk that appears almost fond. But then his expression falls. “But even if we fought, the next year we would meet up again. But he didn't show up. And I waited. And then the next year he didn't show up again. So I got worried. I thought maybe he's late. Maybe he can't come. So, let's see if he shows up next year."

"And did he show up?"

"Nah."

Jaskier swallows hard. "Is he ...dead?"

At that Lambert barks a laugh. But when he talks Jaskier can hear the bitterness in his voice. "That's just the point. He isn't. But he let me believe that he was."

"Oh." Jaskier bites his lip and looks at the ground. All he's met with are the milky eyes of the stinking ghoul corpse. When he looks up again he glances at Lambert, considering him. 

Something between them has changed, over the duration of this strange conversation. Something that’s smoothened over the barbs of their usual back and forth. 

Perhaps that’s why Jaskier says what he says next. "What do you think about us getting out of here? I could really do with an ale now."

Lambert shrugs. He whirls his sword and rests it on his shoulder, getting more monster gunk on his shirt in the process than already there. “Can’t see why not.”

Three hours later, Lambert has finished off more than three-quarters of a bottle of vodka on top of his ales so Jaskier deems them about evenly matched. "When did you learn that he was alive," he dares to ask, voice slightly slurring.

"Few months ago," Lambert replies, twirling the cup in his hand. A vague Kaedweni accent has begun to bleed into his speech in time with the shrinking amount of liquor in the bottle. 

"Ah."

"Did you talk?"

"No."

"How did you find out?" Jaskier presses on.

It takes a moment till Lambert replies. "Apparently I pissed off the wrong nobleman and so he went out and posted a contract that required the expertise of another Witcher. A certain type of Witcher. Who wouldn't shy away from killing one of their own..."

"He wanted you assassinated," Jaskier concludes, throat oddly dry.

"And Aiden took on the contract," Lambert confirms. 

Jaskier stares at him, taken aback. "He tried to kill you?!"

Lambert snorts, shaking his head. "Wouldn't be the first time. But no. He warned me."

Jaskier grows silent while the words sink in. Quietly he asks, "What did you do?"

"I punched him and told him to fuck off."

Jaskier snorts. "Mature."

"Hey. Take care of your own problems alright,” Lambert retorts darkly, but as he meets Jaskier’s amused expression a reluctant grin pulls at his lips. The Witcher shakes his head with a snort and leans back in his chair and drags his tankard towards him. 

Jaskier lifts his own. “To drowning those problems in ale,” he proposes.

Lambert chuckles. “I’ll drink to that,” he says with a crooked grin. 

It’s odd, Jaskier muses once he stares at the small figure in the distance that is Lambert as he rides off to Melitele knows where. Their parting, now a day later, dare he say it was almost friendly - considering it involved that particular Witcher. While Lambert hadn’t exactly changed his tune with Jaskier and neither had the latter, their banter seemed to have lost that cutting edge that had so harshly remained between them. The bard doesn’t quite know what to make of it. Perhaps, he’s somehow even begun to grow on Jaskier - in an asshole-ish kind of way, that is.

Some weeks later, once he manages to track down Geralt he refrains from mentioning it. Some part of him is possessive of the Witchers he meets, even to the point where speaking about his encounters comes equal to revealing a secret. 

That doesn’t mean that he forgets what Lambert told him. To Jaskier, his reunion with Geralt is bittersweet, but he knows, deep in his heart, that he will take what he can get. 

And that alone is a lot. 

There are small smiles, crooked smirks, gruff laughter and shared eye-rolls over pretentious knights they meet, stories and inside jokes, the occasional great orgasm, one-sided hangovers, three new scars sans the bite shaped bruises owed to Roach II, hunts full of excitement and terrible monster encounters as well as sarcastic remarks and companionship. 

Chapter Text

Around 1255, Jaskier is laying low in a tavern in central Temeria, having once more managed to draw the ire of a local Lordling a few towns south and he's more than satisfied with keeping his head down for a little bit. At least until the Lord forgets what his face looked like.

What should have been a few quiet days, during which Jaskier could focus on his composing - he might have neglected that a bit during the last few weeks - was interrupted quite rudely by someone whom Jaskier was less than excited to encounter.

"What do you mean; I gotta do an assignment ?" Jaskier asks and he stares at the bland man who introduced himself as a " friend" of a common acquaintance after sitting down on the chair opposite to Jaskier, who was expecting to enjoy his - rather bleak - meal in solitary.

"Look," the man says with a sigh and his muddy eyes flick through the bustling taproom of the tavern, "You just have to retrieve a few documents. Simple as that."

“Simple?!” Jaskier hisses under his breath and leans forward and stares at the other man. "You want me to steal letters from a Baroness – letters which might not even exist – while simultaneously expecting me to put up a whole grande performance at a feast I wasn’t even hired to perform at!"

Dijkstra's errand boy takes it all in with a bored look. The man doesn’t even seem to pay attention to Jaskier. Instead, he polishes the ring he’s wearing with the cuff of his shirt. "Yet," he adds in that typical dismissive voice that is so common in this metier. Jaskier traces the inside of his teeth with his tongue. 

Usually, he's pretty good at controlling his shift, but when he becomes irritated his teeth tend to appear sharper than those of a normal human.

Jaskier pulls himself together and he suppresses the frustrated growl that claws its way up his throat. “Fine,” he begins, “Let’s say I get hired. If – and that’s a big if – if I agree to do this and I get caught, I will be hanged.”

“Well, that’s just the way it is. You knew of the risks of this profession when you started,” the other man says offhandedly. Jaskier snorts disparagingly. If the way the man in front of him has hidden a stiletto in his sleeve is anything to go by, he is more of a rookie than Jaskier, who isn't even full-time working for Dijkstra. The guy is lucky he has a face that is easily forgotten. Watery eyes and mousy grey hair. Even his voice is bland. Jaskier doesn't recall if he ever met a person more boring and forgettable. Probably the reason for Dijkstra hiring him in the first place. He likes those types who disappear in a crowd.

Jaskier leans even further over the table, his doublet almost brushing against the bowl of Kasha in front of him as he hisses, "I thought the way it is, is that I provide you with information from time to time – perhaps tell you things I overhear at places, which, I quote; 'a bard can reach better than any fighter' and then get paid for it.” He pulls back, gesturing with a wooden spoon. “I’m a freelancer, a part-time employee so to speak. I don't see why we should change this arrangement." Jaskier fixates the other man with a look. "I like this arrangement," he voices pointedly and perhaps a bit miffed. The Redanian middle-man doesn’t visibly react but he stares at Jaskier with a calculating look.

"We aren't the only ones interested in these documents. And we have to act quickly."

"So," Jaskier shrugs. "Ask someone else then, if it's so important."

"Our friend was already expecting that you might not be interested. He mentioned that this would perhaps change your mind." The man reaches into the inner pocket of his dark cloak. Jaskier's muscles tense and he shifts in his seat to put some distance between them. But it's not a weapon that the man pulls out, but a sizable money pouch which he drops onto the table between them.

Jaskier's eyes briefly flick to the pouch - its shadow flickers in time with the nervous candlelight - but then he firmly returns his gaze to the spy.

"Triple of the usual amount," the man says.

"What if I refuse anyway?" Jaskier states and leans back.

"Then I am to tell you that every future association with you will be out of the question," the man states indifferently.

"Ah."

"And with that the protection that a man in our friends’ position can offer. There are a lot of people who would be interested in knowing who exactly divulged their secrets..."

Jaskier's cheek twitches. "Let me guess. That's simply the way it is," he asks wryly. The other man nods with an equally dry smile.

"That's the way it is," he confirms.

"I see," Jaskier says, feeling the sharp edges of his teeth.

"Good." The man stands up. He gestures at the money. "You can keep it. You’ll receive the other half after the successful completion of the assignment. I'll be waiting for you in an establishment north of the city. It's called The Red Dove. If you have retrieved what we need, go there and ask for Marie . I'll find you." With that, he turns around and leaves Jaskier in front of his lukewarm food.

“It was my pleasure,” the bard mutters sarcastically as he watches the other man pull up his hood while he carves his way out through the crowd. Cursing silently, he noisily pulls the pouch of coin over the table and lets it disappear under his own clothes. After turning his attention back to his watery Kasha, he frowns at it. Absent-mindedly he stabs it with his spoon.

How the fuck is he supposed to gain entrance to Baroness La Valette’s private chambers without anyone noticing? Not that it isn’t a feat that he hadn’t managed at various feasts but not every noblewoman is interested in bedding a bard - lamentable as it might be.

A whole week passes by, and Jaskier almost hopes that the man was wrong, till he receives an invitation to perform at said feast. It's a punch to the gut and Jaskier feels a nervous flutter rise in his stomach, which quickly turns into resentment. Spitting and cursing, he washes the stains out of his best doublet, discarding all hopes that despite what he has experienced so far sneaking into a noblewoman's bedroom will be easy.

He has to be prepared. Theft isn't being taken lightly by most people. Hell, Jaskier himself is more possessive of his things than almost anyone else he knows. He gets why people become angry when their stuff is being stolen. Not that this has kept him from taking the one or other thing for himself. 

Thus he steels himself for what he has to do.

All in all, it's not that difficult of an assignment. He just has to perform, sneak away from the feast, locate the Baroness' bedroom and get done with it. And yet he has to be prepared for the worst. Once the day comes, Jaskier nervously cards through his hair before he passes the guards in the entrance hall.

It was a conscious decision not to take a knife with him. He's got his small blade in his boot and a few tools to pick locks, which are carefully stowed away in a secret pocket hidden in the lining of his doublet. He's long noticed that if outwardly he appears less threatening, the eyes of watchful guards tend to slide over him in dismissal.

Once he's mingling with the crowd, his nervousness slowly eases and he generously accepts the offered goblets of wine, while he's fluttering from one group to the other, meeting new people and chatting with those he already knows.

As it turns out, he isn't the only bard hired to perform and while on other days he would be rather pissed at that notion, today it only serves his plans.

Since he's not the first to play, he's already got a good grasp of what the crowd will enjoy hearing this night. A few instructions to the complimenting musicians hired for tonight and he's ready to go. Jaskier lets the music wash over him. There’s no chanting and dancing unlike in taverns but he draws them in like a siren song with his sombre and epic ballads, and soon he's too caught up in his performance to even think about his assignment. Two hours later, he leaves the stage with a beaming smile, pushing back his sweaty hair while he's showered with praise.

Thankfully he gulps down the goblet of honey wine which is pushed into his hands and he bows and smiles and gives his thanks. Even Baroness La Valette walks up to him and congratulates him on his performance. His smile waivers at the reminder that he's still got a job to do. But he kisses her hand nevertheless and she takes it in stride. Her husband sits at his table further away, seemingly bored and Jaskier can tell from here that he tried to colour his hair to mask his old age.

Still, after the baroness leaves him to his own devices, Jaskier smugly watches the bumbling troubadour who now has to take over, walking up the stage with a scornful look. They both know that no one will match his performance anytime soon. Jaskier shoots him a sickeningly sweet smile.

While the other bard starts his set, Jaskier moves through the crowd of onlookers and chats with admirers of his art, though he keeps his eyes open for a chance to excuse himself.

After a few minutes, he spots a young thing, who coquettishly smiles at him over her goblet, dark braids shining as she winks suggestively.

He manages to get introduced to her after barely five minutes of small talk and then it's as easy as breathing to disappear with her through a door solely used by the servants.  

"Do you have a place in mind?" she asks him as they leave the noisy hall behind. Her embroidered dress flutters after her as she tries to match Jaskier's strides. The bard grins at her.

"Where do you want to go?" he asks instead of answering. His eyes roam over her pale features and there is a gleam in her eyes as she watches him. Were it any other day he might have tried to arrange something more lasting than what this will probably be, but tonight he needs her as more of a distraction than anything else. Her coal-tinted lashes make her eyes appear bigger as she pulls at his arm to make him stop and takes a step closer. She moves as if to kiss him, her painted lips like a bloodstain on her face.

Almost instinctively Jaskier's hands wander to grip her waist as her breath washes over his mouth. "Now that you ask..." she starts to whisper, her lips almost brushing his. Her perfume permeates the air, heavy and penetrating. Too much for Jaskier's tastes, but her breasts are heaving under the corset as she presses closer and he gets drawn in by her low voice. "I know just the place..." she says and her hands trail down Jaskiers chest. He feels the heat gathering under his skin and suddenly she pulls back.

Her laugh rings like a bell as she takes in Jaskier's bewildered expression. But it only lasts for a moment.

"You, milady, are quite the personality," Jaskier says to her and it seems to work in his favour because her smile widens.

"Follow me," she says cheekily and then turns without checking if Jaskier heeded her words.  

It isn't hard to keep up. Jaskier's legs are longer than hers and while they pass the one or other servant, nobody pays them much mind. In the beginning, Jaskier had thought her one of the daughters of a neighbouring noble, yet the way she moves through these hallways seems to allude to something different.

"Have you been here before," he finds himself asking and she throws him a mirthful look.

"The Lady is my cousin," she elaborates.

"Maria Lousia, the Baroness?" Jaskier asks and he questions if this factor will play out in his favour or the opposite.

"Yes. I hope that knowledge doesn't affect your willingness..." she says almost offhandedly. Jaskier frowns.

"Why would it?" He asks, honestly confused.

"Lady Louisa hasn't been very accommodating of my love affairs. Not many have dared to bed me since she made an example of my last..."

"Ah, Jaskier says. This information would have been nice to know beforehand, but they've already been seen leaving together and as he plans to steal from her anyway this won't make much difference either.

Jaskier barely catches the girl muttering something about hypocrisy, which makes sense considering he's here to find some letters which supposedly prove the baroness' affair.

"Now you have to be quiet," the girl whispers."We're reaching the private-"

Suddenly the echo of steps has both of them pausing.

"Do you hear that?" She needlessly asks. His expression seems to say it all. "Oh, Melitele help me," the girl exclaims and pulls him into a nearby room. When the heavy door has fallen shut, she suddenly begins to giggle. Mirthfully she looks at him from under her lashes. "That was close," she says grinning.

He grins. He can relate to the thrill she experiences right now. Though he usually gets his fix by accompanying a certain Witcher on his travels.

"This is a guest room," she explains and Jaskier takes in the room more closely. It's a very nice room for what it's worth. The furniture consists of a heavy writing-desk stocked with quill and parchment, a painting of the local landscape, heavy drapes in front of the window and most importantly, a bed.

Of course, the latter demands most of his daring companions' attention. With a heated look, she makes her way over to the mattress and sits down. "Won't you join me?" she says cheekily.

Jaskier grins, rather charmed by her daring. Swiftly he crosses their distance. After another heated kiss - red paint staining his lips - he pulls back. She's lying on the bed now, breathlessly watching him when he hikes up her skirts. A small grin still decorates her features.

It's really a shame that she isn't aware that he's only using her.

Perhaps it's this thought that makes Jaskier change his plans on a whim. He wouldn't be averse to fucking her, but now he thinks that she at least deserves to get a bit more out of this. No one ever said he wasn’t a generous lover. 

So instead of pulling out his hardening prick, he lowers his face down to her cunt. With quite some satisfaction he watches how her pretty mouth forms a surprised " oh ".

Then he's no longer able to watch her expression, fully wrapped up in his task.

She comes on his tongue with a quiet moan, hips bucking and with trembling legs. When Jaskier emerges from beneath his skirts he is met with an expression he usually finds on the faces of the crowd when he's delivered an especially moving performance. A satisfied smirk tugs on his lips.

They end up fucking anyway and after they've separated, both panting, the girl pushes herself up on her elbows, watching him pull on his clothes. "How can I ever repay you?" she asks with a tone in her voice that Jaskier would usually appreciate a lot more if the urgency of his original task weren't taking up most of his mind at this point.

"There's no need, milady," he retorts easily, "It was my pleasure."

"Oh, it was my pleasure, believe me," the girl says and grins. "I feel like I shall advise my cousin to hire you more often," she adds once she's sat up.

"As long as she won’t have me gutted."

"Oh no. Beheading is much more her style."

"How very encouraging," Jaskier replies, "She seems like a terrifying woman. Please tell me, this room is as far away from her personal chambers as possible. I truly don't envy myself running into her just because she's retired early."

Bell-like laughter rings through the room. "Don't fret, Dandelion-" She almost purrs the name, his other stage name - "Her chamber might be only a few doors up the hall, but she usually isn't one to leave a party. You've more to fear from the guards patrolling the hallway."

His blank expression seems to amuse her endlessly and she laughs again. Meanwhile, Jaskier tries his best not to show how useful this information is to him. While she fixes her hair, he manages to talk her into leaving early while he is staying behind so as to not draw the suspicions of guards and more importantly the countess.

He waits a few precious minutes after she has left the room and listens to her steps quieting down before he also steps back into the hallway. His good hearing helps him now.   

Torches flicker on both sides of the hallway, the stone stained black where years of oily smoke have brushed against it.

He listens tensely while he tries every door until he finally reaches what seems to be his destination. The hints of a perfume he's encountered before tonight cling to the wood and unlike the other rooms, this one's door handle seems more elaborate.

The chamber itself resembles the guest room. A big bed with a carved headboard and fluttering canopy takes up half of the floor space, pelts thrown over the blankets and floor to keep the warmth inside. A heavy chest is placed at the foot of the bed and thick tapestries cover the walls. Jaskier grimaces when he realises the depictions of them are solely scenes of battle and war. It doesn't bode well for him should he be discovered.

In one corner, there's a writing desk which simultaneously seems to be used as a dressing table, according to the different kinds of ointments, creams and other vials stowed next to the quill and ink. Above it hangs a large flat mirror with a golden frame. It probably costs more than Jaskier makes in a good year. The mages and alchemists able to produce those objects know very well how much of a monopoly they have on this trade. The small concave thing Jaskier has stowed away in his bag was a gift by a very generous countess and even then it probably cost as much as a horse.

Jaskier stares for a long minute before he pulls himself together and begins to search the room, starting with the most obvious place - the locked chest at the foot of the bed. Jaskier barely has pulled out his lock-picks from the hidden pocket of his doublet when he hears muffled steps in the distance. He swallows hard, sweat beading at his hairline as he freezes, the telltale clattering of an armour growing louder and louder until it's right next to the closed door... and passes by.

Jaskier slumps in relief.

He remains for another minute listening to the receding steps before he turns his attention towards the locked chest. He fumbles with the lock, cursing under his breath when he messes up.

Eventually, there's a click and the lock opens. Inwardly Jaskier thanks the gods and opens the chest.

He digs through it, finding more pelts, expensive clothes and even jewellery. But no letters. Jaskier proceeds to rifle through drawers, looks behind tapestries and basically takes the whole bed apart and still he finds nothing - at least not the letters he's looking for.

He's already edging the hour mark since the beginning of his absence when he finally finds the stack of letters stuck in the gap between the wall and the mirror that caught his attention in the beginning.

He's exhausted and relieved when he finally slips out of the door, the letters close to his chest beneath his doublet.

As he sneaks back to the great hall, Jaskier can't help but feel like someone is watching him. Yet when he looks around, no one is there.

With ease Jaskier slips back into the crowd, acting as if he hadn't been missing at all. He grabs a goblet of the sweet wine they're serving and downs half of it to counter the rush of his heist being complete and calm the shaking of his hands that comes with it. He has barely touched his second helping when the baroness herself approaches the group of people he's inserted himself in, a guard hovering closely behind her back. Her lady in waiting, whose name he can't recall at the moment, accompanies her as well. Jaskier feels his smile freeze when the baroness turns to him and not the young Viscount he's been speaking with.

"Dandelion," she addresses Jaskier, her sweet perfume wafting over to him, no longer conjuring images of flowers but rotting corpses.

He bows his head respectfully, a pearl of sweat trailing down his neck. "Lady La Valette," Jaskier replies. He feels the weight of the letters like stones in his pocket.

"We have been missing you and the sound of your voice," she states sweetly, the fabric of her skirt dancing around her ankles as she comes to a standstill. "My dear friends were quite insistent on you getting back on stage. I have to admit I have to agree with them when they stated that the other minstrels couldn't quite match your prowess." She smiles, but it's a practised smile. Her eyes are cold.

Jaskier wets his lip and smiles back just as fake, as he bows once more. "You are too kind, milady."

"Have you had the pleasure of being introduced to my dear cousin yet?" she asks him then and Jaskier forces himself to not search for the dark-haired beauty he knows she's referring to.

"I've spoken to many people tonight, milady. I cannot say whether I've encountered her, though if I did, she must've been just as lovely as you."

The baroness doesn't react to the compliment. "A state that will have to be rectified then. I shall see that you will be introduced later on. Unfortunately, I seem to have lost her in the crowd sometime earlier." She laughs and Jaskier falls in, the hairs on his neck standing up in unease.

"It would be my pleasure," he replies then. The people next to him follow their exchange obliviously.

The baroness looks at him from under her lashes. "Can we hope to be granted an encore later on?" she asks, briefly glancing at the minstrels currently entertaining the people. "Of course, we would have to wait till Master Arnko has finished, since you weren't to be found when they searched for you earlier... A pity, really."

Jaskier's mind is working overtime when suddenly a voice inserts itself into their conversation from behind his shoulder.

"That would be my fault, milady. I thoroughly apologise." Jaskier turns his head and it takes everything in him to not react when he realises why this man seems so familiar. "Oliwir Vermuellen of Creyden," the dark-haired stranger introduces himself as he bows fluidly. He stands closer to Jaskier than appropriate in circles like this and Jaskier's breath stills when he sees how the baroness takes that development in.

"I am sorry, but I can't seem to remember you," she states with an inquiring quirk of her eyebrow.

"Ah," 'Oliwir' says and smiles, revealing a chipped tooth. "My father tends to ignore that I exist, seeing as I am the evidence of his more promiscuous nature. I usually tend to go by a different name," he adds and Jaskier gulps down a mouthful of wine, hiding his face behind his goblet if only to keep himself from reacting at the last statement. The dark-haired man shoots him a brief but mirthful look, amber eyes calling Jaskier's more draconic side to the surface. Where their shoulders brush, the bard can feel the hint of a tingle vibrating in the air.

'Oliwir's' blunt admittance of being a bastard child causes an awkward pause that not even the baroness seems to know how to bridge. It takes a moment until she recovers. "Well, it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"The pleasure's all mine," Oliwier replies with a grin that seems to relay how much he enjoys making them uncomfortable.

"However pleasant this was, I fear my presence is required elsewhere," the baroness states and her eyes briefly flicker to where Jaskier's and Oliwir's arms brush before looking back up. She bids them farewell and then she leaves with her entourage. Jaskier looks after her for a moment and then he downs what remains of his wine in one go.

When he turns to look at his saviour, he's met with a broad grin. "Didn't think we'd meet again, buttercup," Aiden says and Jaskier swallows as he takes in the first Witcher he's ever met in his life. Like every other Witcher, Aiden ages too slowly for ordinary mortals to detect any kind of change. He’s cut his wavy hair and shaved to meet the current trends of courtly fashion but looks just the same otherwise - with his handsome face, dark hair and small scar hiding within his stubble. His get-up as well is a far cry from the patchwork armour he wore all those years ago. In that, he resembles most of the other earls or young heirs to the various houses of nobility present. A cloak worn over a blue tunic is fastened to his shoulder with a brooch and he wears shiny boots as well as an expertly crafted belt that peeks out from under it. 

"Neither did I," Jaskier manages to utter after a moment, while he drinks in the Witcher's appearance. Something within him purrs at the sight. "I'm glad to see you're well,” he says with a smile.

For a moment, Aiden seems surprised and then he grins as well. "And you managed to stay alive as well. Seems like I lost a bet. I really thought you'd end up getting yourself killed in the meantime,” he adds.

"Sorry to disappoint,” Jaskier replies.

"Oh, I wouldn't call it disappointment," Aiden purrs with a grin.

Jaskier considers him. The appeal is still there, the smirk and manic spark that drew him in in the first place, but when he looks at those amber eyes - a shade quite darker than Geralt's - he's still reminded of the latter. They've fallen into each other's beds countless times now, but Jaskier knows what he desires will never be obtainable to him. He swallows down the lump in his throat and focuses on his elation at seeing Aiden again. "What would you call it then?" he asks daringly and looks at Aiden from under his lashes.

The Witcher just grins.

The following morning, Jaskier wakes up in the room of his inn, sore with bruises adorning his chest, rather hung-over and alone. It takes him half an hour to notice that the letters he stole from the baroness are no longer there.

What starts out as anger and admittedly hurt gives way to involuntary amusement when he finds a letter that bids an apology and an offer to resume yesterday's activities should the bard ever get over the betrayal - which apparently was in no way related to the 'pleasures of Jaskier's company' as according to the Witcher himself, he could've just as well knocked him out at the first convenience or pick-pocketed him during the ball.

That being said, Jaskier's resentment towards Aiden spikes once more when he has to deal with the fall-out of him not being able to produce the letters when meeting with his contact, but at least, he reasons, a part within him has settled at knowing Aiden is still safe and around.

His resentment for Djikstra on the other hand hasn’t waned as quickly and he forgoes prose as he jots down his report, simply out of spite. 

Chapter Text

The following year, all in all is rather uneventful. Jaskier spends the winter lecturing at the Academy of Oxenfurt and despite knowing better - falls back into bed with the Countess de Stael. Their subsequent breakup is nothing but predictable, but it still draws out Jaskier's return to the road for a few more months. 

It’s strange he muses, as he finds himself travelling down the Pontar towards Rinde. The only thing that seems to have changed since his first year on the road is the amount of coin in his pockets. 

The dust on his shoes is the same, the birds haven’t changed their song and he is heartbroken once again. He treads the same path and leaves the same circumstances behind, only that he now knows what waits for him on his travels. 

For the most part that is. 

He makes a stop in a small town - just barely more than a village - about a day’s ride away from Rinde. It’s market day and the scent of fish in the summer heat hangs over the streets like a thick veil. The roads are busy and he has to weave his way through a crowd of a flock of geese, playing children as well as labour women, who are happily gossiping about what they will buy later on over the big laundry baskets they’re balancing on their hips. There’s a dog begging for scraps and getting chased away by a fisherman, farmers and merchants are blocking the streets with their carts and over all that noise, a barber is vocally advertising his miracle tinctures that are supposed to cure scabies, repel fleas and simultaneously aid desperate men within the privacy of their bed chambers. 

Jaskier, though, ignores it all and heads straight for the tavern, his mood still hovering on the edge of melancholy.
He has barely brushed off the dust from the road and gotten comfortable at a wax-stained table - it’s his second ale from which he’s taking generous drags - when he overhears a few people gossiping about a white-haired Witcher having passed through town this morning.

Jaskier stares into the murky liquid sloshing in his tankard. For some reason, he wants to laugh.  

He left Oxenfurt heartbroken, trying to drink away his sorrows elsewhere, only to run into the man he’s been hopelessly in love with for almost half a decade. 

Setting his elbows on the table he takes a slow drag and contemplates… He doesn’t have to go. It’s not like he’s obligated to track Geralt down. He could order a meal, get a room and disappear with the light of morning to head elsewhere. 

He picks at a drop of candle wax staining the table. Then he sighs.

He knows it’s not really a decision.

Two more ales and a stolen flask of some horrible concoction that is supposed to be pear schnapps later, he’s fighting his way through the underbrush and swarms of mosquitoes, climbing over the stones lining the banks of the river down to where he tracked Geralt’s location. 

Once close enough, the Witcher isn’t hard to spot.

His pale hair and skin in contrast to his usual black attire make him stand out starkly against the lush green vegetation and the glittering waters of the Pontar. 

Geralt himself seems rather wrapped up in the task of throwing out a fishing net and immediately retrieving it again when it doesn’t bear fruit - or in his case fish. He’s rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, probably for practicality and his braies are also shoved up till right under his knees, so as to not get wet when he wades barefoot into the shallow waters to retrieve his net. Still, the darker colouring of the fabric further down indicates that his precautions haven’t been of much use. 

Jaskier watches him for a bit, occasionally taking a mouthful from the flask -  wrinkling his nose when he does so - all the while wallowing a bit in his misery. 

As he observes Geralt’s fluid movements, the reflection of the sun in his hair and the way he simply seems to fit into the beauty of his surroundings as if it were a bloody painting, he finds himself resenting Geralt somewhat. 

Objectively Jaskier knows that the Witcher isn’t to blame for the conflicting emotions he calls forth within him, but still… 

Perhaps he should just turn around. The Witcher hasn’t noticed him yet. On the other hand, there is the slim possibility that Geralt would be amenable to a celebratory reunion fuck. And the way those muscles flex around these scarred forearms is anything but a turnoff.

Jaskier ends the argument inside his head by emerging from the trees he more or less hid behind and diving headfirst into the reencounter. “Geralt! Hello. What's it been, months? Years?” he says, conjuring a big smile onto his face. 

Geralt doesn’t say anything, which is strange, but on the other hand, he rarely is very talkative whenever they meet up after a while of separation. 

He usually needs some time to warm up to Jaskier again, or how the bard secretly thinks of it, the Witcher getting reintroduced to conversation partners other than his horse… 

“I heard you were in town. Are you following me, you scamp? I mean, I'm flattered and everything, but you should really think about getting a hobby one of these days,” Jaskier jokes in a way that at this point has turned into a familiar insider. He sidesteps a small tree sapling that has yet to grow higher than two handspans and approaches the Witcher. Geralt doesn’t even twitch. Pensively, Jaskier takes a drag of his drink, sweeping his gaze over the man. “Do you want some?” he asks, offering the flask in a deliberate gesture.

Nothing. 

No reaction whatsoever. 

Jaskier watches the Witcher who hasn’t even turned to acknowledge his presence yet. That raises some concerns.

"’How are you doing ?’ I hear you ask-”

“I didn't,” Geralt replies gruffly and that confirms that, apparently, the Witcher isn’t in his best of moods either. 

Since Jaskier knows it would be rather fruitless to try and wrangle a word out of the man, he simply continues by catching Geralt up on what’s happened in his life in the duration of the time they’ve been apart. 

“Well, the Countess de Stael, my muse and beauty of this world, has left me. Again. Rather coldly and unexpectedly, I might add.”
He stares at Geralt’s back.
“I fear I shall die a brokenhearted man… Or a hungry one, at the very least, unless somebody fancies sharing a fish with an old friend?” He pauses. “Ah, but we’re not using "friend”, are we?” Jaskier says, trying to provoke a reaction out of the Witcher, although he might feel a bit bitter about that particular aspect as well. He huffs. “Let's just give it another decade.” 

Geralt is still monotonously continuing his task.

Slowly but surely, Jaskier grows a bit impatient as he watches the Witcher stupidly throwing out his net again. 

“Geralt, you're fantastic at a great many things, but clearly, fishing is not one of them. Have you caught anything today? What are you fishing for, exactly? Is it cod? Carp? Pike? Bream? I'm just... I'm just listing fish that I know. Zander? Is that a fish?” Jaskier knows that he’s rambling, but he doesn’t know what to do with this apparently mute Geralt. 

“I'm not fishing,” the Witcher says then, once more throwing out his net. “I can't sleep.” 

“Right. Good. Well, that... that makes sense. Insomuch that it sort of... doesn't,” Jaskier says somewhat worriedly. “What's going on, Geralt? Talk to me.”

He observes how Geralt deflates with a sigh. “A djinn.”

“A what?” A foreboding feeling washes over Jaskier in an icy shower. He doesn’t have them often but when he does, it’s usually not a very good sign.

“I'm looking for a djinn,” Geralt replies. 

“For a dj... For a djinn? A dj... Like a genie?” When he sees Geralt’s expression he falls into incredulous laughter. “The floaty fellas with the... the bad tempers and the banned magics, that kind of genie?”

“Yes. It'll grant me wishes,” Geralt says and isn’t that just fucking ironic.

Jaskier stares at him deadpan, in an ' are-you-serious' kind of way. This reeks of being a bad idea from a mile away. And if that’s Jaskier’s opinion, it says something. The statement also pays tribute to how desperate Geralt really must be if this is his solution. 

“It's in this river somewhere,” the Witcher elaborates, while Jaskier carefully approaches him as if he were an angry bear. “And I can't fucking sleep!” Geralt exclaims.

The bard stares at him and his golden eyes, which are underlined with dark circles. “I don't mean to play priest's ear or anything, but has it occurred to you that maybe we're merely rubbing salve on a tumour? Not exactly addressing the root cause of the problem? Hm? I mean, maybe, just... just maybe, this whole sleeplessness-ness has got something to do with what the druid Mousesack said to you in Cintra? You know, the Law of Surprise? Destiny? Being unable to escape the child that belongs to you, et cetera, et cetera?” Geralt looks like he’s one second away from stabbing him. “No! It's not that. Yeah, you're probably right. But what if you're not? You know, the Countess de Stael once said to me that destiny is just the embodiment of the soul's desire to grow.”

“Did you sing to her before she left?” Geralt unexpectedly inquires after he’s returned to his fruitless task.

“I did, actually, and she…” Jaskier pauses, his drunken mind only now catching up. “Why, what are you implying?” He stares at Geralt, who apparently knows what’s good for him and wears a very neutral expression. “Oh... We are so having this conversation. Come on, Geralt. Tell me. Be honest. How's my singing?” 

“It's like ordering a pie and finding it has no filling.”

A moment passes and all Jaskier can do is process. Then he gasps. “You need a nap!” he tells Geralt, quite honestly. A small smirk tugs on said Witcher's lips, hinting at their old familiar dynamic snapping into place. “I mean, are you trying to hurt my feelings, Geralt?" Jaskier continues his rant, half-serious, half just to play into the dramatics. "It's... It's down... downright indecorous of you if I'm completely honest, and-” The conversation cuts off when Geralt appears to actually have found something if the old stone amphora his whole attention is focused on is anything to go by. It smells horrendously of fish and mud and still, Jaskier can’t help but step closer at the feeling of the magic buzzing in there. “Wow. Wow. What is... what is that?” he asks, curious and at the same time, his stomach lurches. 

“It's a wizard's seal. The djinn.” 

Oh, hell no.

”Do you mind if I…” Jaskier snatches the amphora. Immediately he feels the hostile energy inside that thing. Where his hands make contact, his skin tingles.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says exasperated.

“Perhaps we should think about that again,” Jaskier says and pulls the amphora out of Geralt’s reach. “In the meantime, I don’t know you could also take it back about my fillingless pie,” he suggests in an attempt to deflect. But it did sting. He might be inclined to forgive Geralt since he really appears to be in a pitiful state, but an apology wouldn’t hurt.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says. “Let go.”

“No! No, let go-” And then they are both pulling- “you horse's arse!” Something comes loose. Geralt is holding the seal, Jaskier the amphora.

Fuck. 

“Hm.”

“That's a bit of an anticlimax,” Jaskier says nervously and mostly to bridge the silence but then there's a breeze stirring and the air seems to turn thick like syrup. He glances at Geralt and that idiot is probably about to wish himself into an eternal sleep that will make him end up like that one princess in upper Redania a few years back, so he does the only thing his drunken mind can to prevent the Witcher from dooming himself and dooms his own persona instead. In other words, Jaskier tries to take the wishes first. 

At least he’s somewhat versed in rhetoric, unlike Geralt whose wording would most likely be atrocious and lead to his most certain demise. “Djinn, I have freed thee, and as of this day, I am thy lord. Firstly, may Valdo Marx, the troubadour of Cidaris, be struck down with apoplexy and die.” 

See, a simple clear cut wish. 

“Secondly, the Countess de Stael must welcome me back with glee, open arms and give me back that doublet she kept. Thirdly…”

“Jaskier!” Geralt cuts him off and reaches for the amphora. 

“Whoa…” Jaskier takes a swift step back, a twig snapping beneath his heel.

“There are only three wishes.” 

“Oh, come on, you always say you want nothing from life,” Jaskier argues. “How was I to know you wanted three wishes all to yourself?” 

“I just want some damn peace!”

Jaskier’s throat restricts. The amphora smashes on the ground. And then he’s choking for real. The amount of force he can feel drawing from the air and around his neck is like an all-powerful noose. 

“Geralt,” he manages, eyes widening, stomach dropping. A burning hot iron seems to be shoved down his throat. So hot that it almost feels like ice. “Geralt…” Jaskier wants to- instinctively tries to will his body to change but he’s caged in this form, shackled by the invisible hands squeezing down on his windpipe. 

He fearfully staggers towards the Witcher, who catches him, the bard’s hands immediately gripping the dark shirt. There’s panic in Geralt’s eyes now too as he supports him by the arms. Daggers are stabbing into his throat. Jaskier opens his mouth and it’s only a wet cough that escapes him. Something warm and coppery dribbles over his chin.

“It’s gonna be alright,” Geralt lies, eyes frantic. “We’re gonna fix you. It’s all gonna be okay.”

Jaskier can only grip the Witcher’s shirt tighter. 

The following hours are a red haze of blood and pain and hearing Geralt’s voice in the moments he isn’t slipping into unconsciousness. 

He can feel his body fight the foreign force, the dragon in his mind snarling, trying to break free to stand a chance, but for naught. 

The djinns' strangeling power is too great. 

They reach Rinde at night-fall. The only place near where one might find a mage in these dire times. 

He vaguely recognizes that Geralt is talking to some guards who won’t let them into the city until morning. Only nobles are allowed entry at this time and Jaskier desperately tries to speak through the pain but all he manages is a wet gurgle and he throws up more blood over Roach’s neck, adding to the splattering pattern. Not that he could prove his status anyway.

He passes out from the exhaustion and once he wakes, he’s on a bed in a small hut that smells of dust and herbs and which they share with two elves and a noble - according to his crossed out insignia, a half-elf, who as a halfbreed can’t expect to be let in either. 

One of the elves - Chireadan - is a healer, but he can’t do much. He forces Jaskier to gobble down some awfully bitter herbal concoction, after which his whole neck goes numb. For the first time feeling any kind of relief that day, the bard slips into an exhausted sleep. Sometime during the night, the painkilling potion lets up and he’s woken by the sharp pain in his throat. The hours until the city gates are opened are a terrible experience made up of pain, blood, sweat and tears. Jaskier is grateful for the minutes of fitful sleep he manages to grab whenever the strain is too much and which is more him falling unconscious from time to time anyway. 

The bard doesn’t notice when the sun comes up, the only notable difference is that he’s once again moving, draped over Geralt’s saddle like a bag of flour. 

All that follows is a blur, he vaguely recalls Geralt knocking out a guard with a pouch of coin and what appears to be an orgy? The whole experience is accentuated by the prevailing smell of lilac and gooseberry and then he’s no longer curled in on himself on the floor, but a soft bed. The last thing he recalls before falling asleep are a pair of startling violet eyes.

He wakes with a start, the last traces of a pleasant dream fading away and he wants to cry in elation about the absence of pain. 

He can breathe again. Only then he takes note of his surroundings. Rather unfamiliar surroundings at that. 

“Oh! Where am I?” he mutters, when his gaze first falls upon the half naked woman at the foot-end of the bed. “Whew! Um... Right. Good. Good. Um... Not to be... untoward or anything-” Jaskier blinks at the bare back he’s faced with, thoroughly confused, “but...did we... um, you know-” She turns around to level him with a piercing violet look and Jaskier didn’t notice how he could miss that she’s basically reeking of magic. His stomach lurches. “Ooh, Go... No! No! Definitely did not butter that biscuit.” 

He had always been mostly indifferent to mages, who were pretty to look at but rather not be poked with a stick as he had learned the hard way -  his favour of them had tipped quite a bit into the dislike section after becoming the unfortunate victim of curses a few times, which a hefty amount of coin and a few discreet visits to a druid healer had thankfully rectified.

But that had been before he’d found out he could turn into a bloody dragon at will, from that point of which their ‘professional curiosity’ he’s heard about rather a lot from Geralt and sometimes the mages themselves had turned into an actual concern and threat.

Nowadays, Jaskier tends to avoid talking to any kind of mages at the courts he performs, which overall has made his life a lot less stressful. 

The piercing almost vivisecting look he’s confronted with in the form of two pretty violet eyes remind him of the wisdom involved in that decision and that yes - leaving might be the best choice. 

And where the fuck is Geralt?

Warily, Jaskier slips off the bed, trying to keep his back to a wall while muttering some kind of mashed up excuse about leaving. All the while he’s subtly trying to scent the air to get a hint of Geralt’s presence. 

All that there is, is the intense smell of lilac and gooseberries. 

The sorceress - no less intimidating because of her short stature - stalks after him as if he was prey. “Express your deepest desires and you can be on your way.”

“Well, my deepest desires are currently satisfied, thank you so much,” Jaskier states curtly and wonders why the fuck there’s no door in this room and where the hell he left his dagger. 

The answer, he receives three blinks of an eye later, barely escaping a gelding by the very witch, who apparently healed him and he’s tossed through a portal and ends up in the foyer. He hears something rumble akin to a storm and the familiar force that blows through the house in response is more than enough to aid him in picking up his pace and getting the fuck out of there.

Jaskier is barely outside of the building - never in his life having been so glad to leave an attractive woman behind - when he catches sight of Geralt.

The Witcher looks like he became victim to a rather violent beating and as if he hadn’t slept at all - there’s even a stalk of straw dangling from his hair - and Jaskier feels a wave of relief roll through him at the sight.

“Oh, Geralt. Thank the gods. I might live to see another day. We need to go.” 

“Jaskier, you're okay.”

“I'm glad to hear that you give a monkey's about it,” the bard jokes, but his hands are trembling and his mind is barely able to process the current happenings. 

“Let's not jump to conclusions,” Geralt replies in his usual dry humour, dragging a brief smile out of Jaskier. “What happened?” the Witcher asks and gives him a once over. Only now, Jaskier notices the elf healer hovering behind the Witcher. He doesn’t look much better.

“Well, I was having a rather lovely dream which then turned into a nightmare. There were naked women in both parts. The first one was loving, tender, very generous. The second, significantly more terrifying.” 

“Tell me about the second one.”

Well, black hair, devilish eyes, was painting an amphora on her abdomen. You know, the usual,” Jaskier says all the while wondering what in the hell they are still doing here. 

“She wants to be the vessel,” Geralt mutters grimly. 

Jaskier blinks at Geralt. “What, you know this woman? Of course you know this woman. ” The Witcher kind of has a penchant for attracting the worst people at the best of times.

“She wants to become more powerful. But she'll die.” 

The sky is blue as can be and there’s nothing to betray the danger they’re all in but the magic in the air is growing stronger and stronger.

Jaskier feels like he’s dripping with it. 

Usually he enjoys that sensation, or at least a weaker imitation of what he experiences right now. 

He tends to get drawn to certain kinds of spots, specific corners in rooms or areas outside that become his favourite places to compose, nap or simply lounge at. For some unknown reason he always has to share them with cats who come and go almost like he does. He always leaves with a warm feeling spreading through his limbs, which never fails to remind him of the way Witchers seem to tingle when he makes contact with their skin or stands close to them. 

Once he’d compared the sensation to a sponge, slowly soaking itself full of water.

If he would use the metaphor today, the sponge would have been thrown headfirst into a frozen over pond, full of biting ice water that leaves no room for air. 

And he’s had more than enough of the latter feeling for today.

“Well,” Jaskier says, “let's pray for her on our way out of town.” He takes a few steps, fully expecting Geralt to follow and not …to directly walk past him and towards the house to which the whole mess is tethered. 

“Oh.” 

Oh, no.

Jaskier stares stupidly before abruptly regaining his abilities to think, a second whereafter he rather urgently tries to get Geralt to do the same. 

“Are you perhaps short of a marble?!” he almost yells, all the while trying to block Geralt's way. “Oh, no, no, no, no, no. Don't you dare to go in there. Geralt! You don't owe her anything!" The man just shoots him a golden eyed gaze. Jaskier feels his stomach drop.

The elf healer, Chireadan suddenly joins in and grabs Geralt's arm to hold him back - Jaskier could get behind that if he weren’t sprouting the exact opposite!

“You have to go in there, don’t you? I recognize the look.” 

The elf’s words ring with weight that even the gravity of this absurd situation can’t quite obscure and so on top of all the stress, Jaskier is reeling at the implications. 

What the fuck did he miss while he was unconscious?! 

“You’re making me uncomfortable,” Geralt rasps then, voicing Jaskier’s feelings about this whole situation as he pulls himself out of the elf’s grasp. 

He’s about to go in when Jaskier stops him a last time with his palms against his chest. “Leave the very sexy but insane witch to her inevitable demise!”

“She saved your life, Jaskier. I can't let her die,” Geralt shoots back. 

Jaskier deflates a bit at that. Nevertheless, he doesn’t want Geralt to go in there. He has a feeling that this moment is significant, that something will happen and so far he has yet to be proved wrong when it comes to his forebodings.

Jaskier turns to pleading. “Please Geralt. Don’t.”

The Witcher just looks at him. Thus, Jaskier ends up watching the man enter the house in disbelief and dreaded anticipation. After a long moment, the bard turns his head to look at the elf. “He’s insane. Truly fucking insane, isn’t he?” 

The elf shrugs. 

Jaskier looks back at the house. “And stupidly noble. More stupid than noble probably, but still noble… A stupidly noble oaf of a man,” he mutters. A small smile is tugging on his lips. Despite himself he feels a wave of affection for Geralt roll over him.

“She’s a very fascinating woman,” Chireadan says then and Jaskier turns to look at him. He raises an eyebrow at the expression he sees on the elf’s face and they share a look, the other granting him a sad smile. 

Apparently, they’re both rather adept at recognizing that particular look. 

An elf in love with a sorceress. How quaint. 

They end up watching the building from a bit safer distance, but still on the edge of being dangerously close. When Beau Berrant - the owner of the house joins them after a short while - they jump at the chance to question him, but apart from pointing out the room Geralt and the witch have last been in, there’s not much information they get. 

Jaskier feels like chewing his nails bloody. There is nothing he can do to aid Geralt. The latter - loath to admit it - is the expert here and the bard doubts that slowly and painfully turning into a dragon after almost a year spent solely human and then spitting fire at a genie from a bottle will do anything to aid. 

Not that he’s particularly keen on getting close to this thing again anyway. 

He could roast the witch, he supposes, but that would probably be rather counter-productive, seeing as she’s apparently the one holding the djinn under control for the moment. 

Meanwhile, the sky darkens rapidly and the birds stop their singing. Every living being in the surrounding area seems to have left, actually, apart from them. 

Another point in favour of the claim that animals sometimes are smarter than men. 

Suddenly the loud sound of thunder is rumbling through the air. 

…only that it’s not thunder at all. 

The elf and he share a panicked look. 

It’s the house. 

“Gods…” Jaskier says and then Chireadan is grabbing his arm as they watch the roof cave in and the walls toppling as it collapses under loud crunching and cracking akin to the sound of a dying battleship. The destruction sets free a cloud of dust that has all of them coughing. 

Where before there was a first and second floor, there’s now only yawning emptiness. 

The previous ear-shattering noise has made way for a vacuum of any sort of sound. 

It’s inhumanly silent. 

Another crunch when two beams collapse further into each other.

Then again, nothing. 

Jaskier blinks, once, twice. 

There’s shock, disbelief and denial. 

And after that an all encompassing sorrow chokes his recently healed throat. A strangled sob spills over his lips and the elf tightens his grip until his raw knuckles are white. 

Ice spreads through Jaskier’s core, from his heart all the way to his fingertips.

Beau Berrant rambles something about being glad to have insured that house against magical incidents and Jaskier barely notices himself moving. The crack of when he breaks the man’s nose with a punch is thoroughly satisfying.

Chireadan bares his even row of cuspid-less teeth and spits in disgust at the ground in front of the squealing Berrant, who’s grabbing at his bloody face.

It still doesn’t lessen the hold that his grief has him in.

Together, he and the elf head towards what remains of the house.

Chireadan is muttering a litany of ‘this can’t be happening’’s, while Jaskier stares at the destruction up close. 

“Why did Geralt go in there? It doesn’t make any sense. And to save a mad fucking witch… Why?” 

But he knows the answer to his question. 

Because he’s a stupid idot of a noble fucking Witcher, who almost always cares even though he rarely admits to it. Because he tries his best even though the world deems him an emotionless mutant, who’s no better than the changeling replacing a stolen child.

Jaskier’s voice cracks, while his mind is still trying to overcome the shock and confusion.

“Because she was magnificent,” the elf says, drawing his own conclusions. His voice is streaked with grief. The smell of salt wafts through the air. He’s crying. 

Jaskier has enough self-restraint to not snap at the elf and voice out loud his regret for not killing the damn witch when he had the chance to, but he lets out a low animalistic sound that borders on being a growl before it cuts off in a barely audible whine.

Reality slowly sinks in and as he stares at the ruin he feels numbness settle over his churning emotions like a sheet of ice.
A neverending winter has taken hold of his heart. 

“What am I supposed to do now?” he utters to nobody in particular, thoroughly lost. 

Chireadan is staggering over the rubble and ruins, tears leaving streaks in his dust stained cheeks, still bloody and beaten from whatever ordeal he and Geralt went through before arriving here. 

Geralt…
Geralt, who’s dead. 

Jaskier sinks to his knees, feeling shattered. 

“I’m going to write you a song,” Jaskier says. Because what else is there that he can do? “A song so that everyone remembers who you truly were. What we saw and what we experienced.” Jaskier’s voice waivers, his throat constricts and he can no longer talk. 

His eyes burn. Tears are blurring his vision. 

He sobs. 

Jaskier doesn’t know how much time passes when a shadow falls upon him. Chireadan has returned and he kneels down on Jaskier’s level, gripping his shoulder as if to ground him. Jaskier raises his head.

The elf, strangely enough, is smiling. The words that spill over his lips are explanation enough.

“They’re alive.”

Jaskier stares for a moment.
There’s no further word exchanged, instead he sprints towards the window he last saw the elf hanging around.

And oh. They’re indeed alive. 

Very alive. 

And fucking. 

Amidst all the rubble there’s one clear circle where nothing seems to have touched down and in that space, the witch is riding the Witcher who’s got a hand tenderly wrapped around her nape and has buried his nose somewhere in her raven locks. 

The relief washes through Jaskier like the sun melting a land of snow. There is the hint of jealousy when he sees the sorceress lean in to kiss the Witcher but his elation at seeing Geralt alive trumps everything else. 

He could’ve watched Geralt for hours, simply for the fact that he kept on breathing, but Chireadan is pulling him away to give the couple some privacy. 

He finds himself trudging after the elf and they are sharing looks then and there, breaking into relieved laughter whenever their eyes meet. They end up where Geralt and the elf apparently left their horses after hurrying here. 

The fox-brown mare raises her head when she notices him, ears turning towards him and she neighs softly in greeting. Jaskier pets her nose reassuringly. He started bribing Roach’s second incarnation with food from the very beginning, thus earning her affections much faster than her predecessor's.

Chireadan’s horse - a sleek black steed - readily approaches his master as well, bumping his pockets for treats before the elf grabs his bridle. 

They stay like this for quite a while; Jaskier idly chattering to Roach and Chireadan caring for his horse. Eventually they both somehow end up sitting on the grassy ground, passing the time while they wait for Geralt and the crazy sorceress - who’s called Yennefer, according to Chireadan - to return. 

An hour passes. Another follows. The sun is slowly creeping towards the horizon and their shadows grow longer.

“They won’t come, will they?” Jaskier breaks the silence that has stretched between them for the last fifteen minutes or so. He looks at the elf whose lithe body is sprawled out fully on the grass, hands folded beneath the back of his head in a makeshift pillow. 

Chireadan opens his eyes. “No, I fear not,” he says and abruptly, sits up in a fluid motion. 

Jaskier and he exchange a look that betrays the same feelings. Their earlier elation at seeing the pair alive has made way for something distinctly more sharp. 

“You do not by chance know a place where I could stay the night?” Jaskier asks, his stomach rumbling with hunger. “I'm afraid my belongings are all still in some backwater town about a day's ride away.” 

“That can be arranged, bard,” the elf says not unkindly. Hesitantly Jaskier turns to look at Roach. She isn’t his to take care of but with Geralt absent… 

“The horse will be fine,” Chireadan says. “There’s water and there is grass. She’ll make do.” Jaskier deflates and with the exhale, the tension of the prior two days leaves his body. He sighs deeply. 

“Alright. Lemme just…” Jaskier pushes himself from the ground and crosses the distance to the grazing mare. He pets her neck and then he digs through the saddlebags pulling out one of Geralt’s shirts.
The one that he’s currently wearing is still covered in dried blood, sweat and perhaps vomit. Unceremoniously, Jaskier pulls it over his head and swiftly slips into the worn linen one he took from the bag. It isn’t exactly clean, but the scent calms him exponentially. 

Almost on instinct, he takes a moment to breathe in the scent of the fabric - not caring about whether the elf is witnessing him or not. After a moment of hesitation, he nicks one of Geralt’s spare daggers from where he hides them at the bottom of his saddle bags. 

The sorceress still has his.

“I’m ready,” he declares once he’s returned to Chireadan. 

“Alright.” The elf stands up and he’s courteous enough to walk next to his steed to accommodate Jaskier’s pace on foot when they head for the city.

The following day and well into the afternoon, Geralt shows up at the inn, in which Chireadan so graciously had paid for Jaskier’s accommodation. 

He appears, for all purposes, thoroughly ravished. There are fading lovebites decorating his neck and he wears that kind of small smirk he usually displays after sacking a fat purse of coin in return for a contract.

He also looks like he has bathed, unlike Jaskier who’d had to make do with a quick wash at a nearby well, for lack of coin. Once the Witcher has spotted him at his table and swiftly strides over to slide into the chair opposite to him, Jaskier on instinct inhales to get a whiff of his familiar scent. 

For the first time in the ten years Jaskier has known him, he doesn’t get even a hint of horse. Instead there’s a lingering scent of lilac and gooseberries clinging to his skin that the bard immediately associates with the sorceress. He does his best to ignore it. 

“Ah,” he greets Geralt with a sweeping look over his figure. “You’re alive…”
Jaskier swishes the wine in his cup which the gracious innkeeper had offered him for free after listening to his dramatic tale.
“I’m glad to witness your well being with my own eyes, after- hm, what’s it been? Two days?” Jaskier asks, feeling a bit slighted. 

Perhaps he’ll keep the dagger.
Emotional compensation or something of that sort. 

Also it’s quite shiny.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says in lieu of a greeting but with fond exasperation and he traces his golden gaze over the bard's appearance, hopefully noticing that it’s his shirt that Jaskier is wearing and realising the circumstances around it. 

Though Jaskier did believe him to be dead almost a day ago and the reminder of that softens him a bit towards the Witcher.
“Done with the crazy witch?” he asks, trying to sound nonchalant as he eyes Geralt over the cup he raises to his lips.

“Her name is Yennefer,” Geralt tells him with a small smile.

It should’ve been Jaskier’s first warning.

Yennefer of fucking Vengerberg.
Sharp-tongued, beautiful, powerful and quick to shoot fiery sparks out of her fingertips to scorch innocent bards if they annoy her. 

He can be glad that since he’s turned into a dragon for the first time, he’s been granted somewhat of an invulnerability towards fire. 

His doublets on the other hand are not so lucky. 

If there had ever been a notion in Jaskier’s mind that this bloody sorceress would be just a phase the Witcher was going through, then he'd have made the most grievous mistake. 

If Jaskier to Geralt was the persistent case of chronic rash showing up out of the blue whenever he pleased, Yennefer was the same to Jaskier - if not worse.  

Because from that day on, in Rinde, whenever Jaskier travels with Geralt, it seems as if they can’t help but run into her. 

They enter a slightly better inn because Jaskier has somehow ended up in a scuffle with the owner of the cheaper one and there she sits like nobody’s business at a table, sipping wine. 

Geralt has to consult a mage for a case and who else but Yennefer is operating the sketchy shop they enter under an alias. 

Jaskier gets invited to a court and drags Geralt along and voila - the purple-eyed witch is casually conversing with the local nobility as if she’d been friends with them for all her life. And then she possesses the audacity to smile at Geralt and dismiss Jaskier like a flea on a wolf’s tail. 

It also seems like a rather fitting description of their dynamic at that point. The witch, the wolf trotting after her like a dog and the reluctant flea on his tail. 

In his weaker moments Jaskier contemplates making a ballad out of it.
In which the flea turns into a dragon and eats the fucking witch for breakfast. 

The imagery alone is what carries him through these accidental encounters, where he ends up feeling like the third wheel on a cart. That and a lot of wine.

And even then, that is only counting the incidents in which she isn’t actively portalling into whatever inn they are staying at, or Geralt isn’t chasing after rumours about a raven-haired sorceress. 

The smell of lilac and gooseberries might as well have been a permanent addition to Geralt's inherent scent after that first encounter in Rinde. 

The part of Jaskier’s brain which is mostly occupied by his draconic instincts makes him react surprisingly hostile at this change of scent and he quickly gets used to living on the edge of a perpetual growl curling behind his teeth. 

In other words - Jaskier prefers the monster guts over that. 

When before he and Geralt had occasionally shared clothes out of convenience, it suddenly turns into something that is a necessity, because if he can’t replace the detested perfume clinging to the Witcher’s shirts he’ll one day end up doing something idiotic like outright rubbing his wrists and neck against the whole man’s skin and that would without a doubt raise some  dangerous questions. 

So far, he’s always caught himself just in time before it could go awkward, but it was a near thing sometimes. 

Some part of Jaskier is vaguely aware that he’s marking the Witcher with his scent almost the way he marks his gorge in the mountains when he returns to it, but it’s easier to give into these instincts than dealing with the constant restlessness he experiences otherwise. 

Still, the circumstances force him to grow somewhat acceptant towards the new development if he can’t even conjure a semblance of apathy or indifference. And he has tried. 

The thing is - objectively, Yennefer herself wouldn't even be all that unlikable ...if one oversees the cold exterior and the disdainful gaze she deigns the bard with on a regular basis. Jaskier is more than self-aware of the fact that he wouldn’t have minded to bed her himself if the circumstances were different. 

But Geralt is wrapped around her little finger like thread around a spindle and that in itself kills any spark of hypothetical sympathy Jaskier might have carried for her. They trade sharp barbs whenever they meet and Jaskier has yet to detect a trait of hers that he can't criticise.

And it isn’t just that she impacts their life when she is there, no. Her presence is threaded so thoroughly through the Witcher that Jaskier can’t help but take note of her, even when she’s fucked off to another corner of the continent to do whatever crazy witches do on a regular basis. 

He spots it in the way Geralt suddenly develops table manners he’s never cared to use before.

How sometimes, the Witcher’s eyes take on that far-away, pensive look that conjures a smile onto his face. 

It’s the subtle but telling change in Geralt no longer reminding Jaskier to get going when he can’t seem to leave one of the sparkling jewellery displays at a market, because the Witcher himself is gazing at a pair of delicately manufactured earrings.  

It’s the way Geralt sometimes receives a letter and ditches Jaskier in whatever town they’re in with barely a goodbye. 

And most tellingly, it’s the way they have stopped falling into each other’s beds almost entirely after first meeting the purple-eyed sorceress. 

That is to say, not everything between that pair is running smoothly. Jaskier gets to witness the aftermath of the one or other explosive fight between them, the latter of which make his somewhat complicated past with the Countess seem like butterflies and roses. 

Nevertheless, piece by piece, Yennefer’s presence dismantles something Jaskier had believed to be an absolute truth.

The realisation comes in a rather unnoteworthy moment. He’s in the middle of performing one of his more mundane ballads about love and destiny, one he’s rather sick of at this point actually but which still seems to entertain the crowd and which still somehow manages to get him thinking.

 It’s painfully obvious in hindsight - 

Of course Witchers do love 

…they simply don’t love bards. 

It’s for his own sanity that Jaskier decides to split from the Witcher for a while and to lecture at the Oxenfurt Academy for a whole year instead of just a couple of months during the winter. Besides, the current political climate makes for tense performances at courts anyway.

Chapter Text

Teaching is a job that costs Jaskier more than one nerve and after half a year, he now truly knows why the saying ‘you’ll earn half your education in a tavern’ is still popular with the students. 

He took to growing a beard to at least somewhat uphold an authoritative edge, which still doesn’t stop the students from approaching him in an attempt to gain an advantage over their classmates when he’s trying to get sloshed after performing in one of Oxenfurt’s many establishments serving ale. 

He is quite popular, if he may say so, though and gains a semi-circle of regulars who apparently enjoy listening to his drunken ramblings even after he’s entertained the crowd with his ballads. His stories are often speckled with adventurous tales of a certain Witcher, which are only a little embellished to add the needed dramatics.  

Still, gaining some distance from Geralt - as difficult as it had been to convince himself of going through with it - had overall been a good decision. 

Living in Oxenfurt and subsequently returning to the roots of who he is, has aided Jaskier in redefining his identity in a place where he isn’t just ‘the Witcher’s bard’ or ‘whore’ as some less imaginative people like to call him. He lectures on rhetoric and music, reconnects with old acquaintances and picks up some slack in his neglected written correspondence, especially regarding his sisters.

In the evenings, he keeps up long philosophical debates on life, poetry, politics as well as the merits of visiting certain brothels.

Sometimes he even performs alongside other bards, exchanging techniques and rhymes as well as constructive but rather vocal criticism.

On a similar note, he finds himself absurdly and stupidly proud of the fine troubadour Essi Daven has grown into, even overtaking her elder sister in that regard. 

Still, most of the songs Jaskier writes during that time come with a melancholic edge.

The sombre heartbreaking ballads find popular demand within the higher circles of noble society and Jaskier throws himself into composing to work towards the completion of his song cycle about a decade in the making. 

All that doesn’t keep him from missing Geralt. 

Being away from the man has rekindled his almost obsessive urge to daily rearrange the small collection of pebbles and shiny glass shards he’s not yet hidden away in the gorge up in the Mahakam mountains. His thoughts are shifting constantly as he keeps recalling the multifaceted shades of golden cat-like eyes and - more prevalently - the different Witchers attached to them. 

In hindsight, the bard should’ve known from the very beginning that the man climbing out of the sewers in the middle of a busy street was an old acquaintance. 

Jaskier was just on the way to pick up a new set of clothes he’d commissioned for no particular reason, other than that the colour had caught his fancy when a dull scraping sound appeared as the first and only indicator preceding the figure emerging from a hole in the ground. 

The man(?) emerges in a cloud of disgusting smelling steam, pulling first himself and then a sword out of the opening. 

People on the cobbled street jump back in disgust, leaving an almost clear circle around the figure. The lucky ones pull out scented handkerchiefs to put in front of their wrinkling noses and most pick up their pace to get away from the stench. Jaskier can only stare in bemusement - and it has to be some kind of morbid fascination as well - because even the bright daylight isn’t aiding him in identifying the exact components the person is covered in from head to toe, apart from the most obvious: shit, slime and blood. 

Meanwhile, the man has taken to pulling his mouth into a grimace, baring his teeth and squinting his dark eyes into the harsh light in the sky, muttering curses at the very sun and shaking his sword, uncaring of the raving crowd - the unlucky of which get splattered with the various substances clinging to it.

Jaskier luckily stands far enough in the back and is able to take cover behind a heavyset woman gifted with rather large curves and a wide skirt that catches the majority of what would’ve otherwise hit the bard. 

“Piss off,” the man growls intimidatingly at those who vocally voice their displeasure, driving them to step back in a hurry. 

In a rather familiar way that is. 

Jaskier straightens up and tries to peer over the shoulders of the onlookers to get a better look. He ends up weaving his way past a few people to the front only to get to witness the dark eyes of the man turning out to be widely blown pupils that slowly contract in a cat-like manner, revealing the true colour of the irises. “What the-” Beneath the layers of filth, a pair of familiar amber eyes scan over their surroundings - “Lambert?!” Jaskier says.

Even over the noise of the crowd, the man seems to have heard him, because the golden eyes immediately flick towards him, taking him in. Recognition shines in them and then a grin splits the muck-covered face.

“Oi, buttercup, long time no see!” Lambert replies cheerfully and totally dismissive of the complaining and recoiling crowd as he walks toward the bard.

Jaskier is immediately suspicious. This smells like a trap covered in sewage gunk.

“What, no hug for an old friend?” Lambert asks with a crooked grin and opens his arms. 

An indistinguishable chunk of something stretches from his arm towards the ground before it splats down. 

“Oh, no, no, no. No, thank you,” Jaskier says, taking a step back, almost bumping into a stranger.

And isn’t it depressing that a prick like Lambert calls them friends while he and Geralt are still stuck at a perpetual stage of very good acquaintances and part-time fuck buddies whenever things with Yennefer go downhill? 

Meanwhile, Lambert stalks further, the people who haven’t yet moved on clearing a path for him - but unfortunately not for Jaskier.

“Oh, don’t you fucking dare!” the bard exclaims. He thanks the gods for his draconic reflexes as he dives through the odorous arms closing in on him. 

The smell is really horrendous. “Get the fuck away from me, Lambert!” he exclaims, while some onlookers begin to laugh at the colourful bard trying to dodge the attempts of a ‘hug’ from a shit-covered Witcher.

“What’s the matter, bardling?” Lambert says in faked innocence and with a wild grin. “Can’t handle a bit of dirt?”

“Not if that dirt includes the excrements of half Oxenfurt!” Jaskier exclaims over his shoulder as he jumps aside, ending up halfway behind some barrels at the corner of an alleyway.

Jaskier will forever deny the unmanly squeal that escapes him as he barely avoids a charging Lambert.

“I will stab you, I swear,” Jaskier pants as he gets cornered into a wall. Lambert should better believe that it isn't an empty threat. “If you ruin this doublet…”

“I doubt that,” Lambert says, closing in with a mean grin.

Jaskier gags at the smell. “I’ll pay for a bath, but for the love of gods- It would do the world a favour-”

“Now, you’ve got me listening,” Lambert says and pauses. “Throw in a meal as well and we have a deal.”

Jaskier doesn’t agree immediately. 

Lambert takes a step forward. 

The bard throws his hands into the air. “Fine!” he exclaims. “Unbelievable.”

Lambert smirks. 

“Fucking prick,” Jaskier says.

Once the Witcher’s hair colour is once again distinguishable from the rest of the man’s skin and he’s overall recognizable as himself, he collects his payment and then he and Jaskier enter one of Oxenfurt’s many taverns.

“The beard’s new,” Lambert states over the rim of his tankard after licking a line of foam from his upper lip. He must have shaved himself during his bath - probably a better solution to getting the gunk out of his beard than washing it. He wears a fresh shirt and braies as well as a surprisingly tasteful - if simply decorated - dark leather jerkin that he wisely hadn’t worn down in the sewers. Lambert’s boots unfortunately still smell. 

Jaskier leans back on the bench, backlit by the light falling through one of the low-set windows right behind him. “Well, one has to look a bit distinguished from one’s students or else they’ll roll you over with audacity like a wave on the shore.” He sighs and stares at the red liquid in his pewter cup, “The only department in which my eternal youthful complexion comes with a drawback…”

“Oh yes. You seem like you’re suffering a great deal,” Lambert replies utterly pitiless. “He rips a leg from the roasted chicken Jaskier paid for and tears off a huge chunk with his teeth.

Geralt used to be the same before the damn sorceress. 

“What?” Lambert eventually asks with an askance look. Apparently, the bard stared at him a bit too forlorn for too long.

Jaskier shrugs, watching the Witcher wash down his mouthful of food with ale. “How’s Geralt?” he can’t help but ask. It’s been almost a year since they last saw each other. 

“Hm?” Lambert looks up from the plate he’s picking through, while Jaskier swirls his cup of wine a bit melancholic. “You see him more than I do, from what I hear, bardling,” the Witcher says and points with his gnawed-on chicken bone. 

“Ah, well,” Jaskier says, looking at the cup he twirls between his fingers, “It’s been a while.” 

Lambert studies him for a moment. “You also meet the sorceress?” he says after a moment.

“Black curls, poisonous eyes, makes for a lovely company if you have white hair?” Jaskier takes a drag of his wine. “We were introduced,” he says. 

“Mhm,” the Witcher makes before he cracks the wing bone of the roasted bird between his teeth.

“She threatened to geld me the first time we met,” Jaskier elaborates. 

“Ha!” Lambert snorts while chewing and after he’s finished swallowing, he adds, “Then you got off easy bardling. Geralt brought her along for the winter…" The Witcher takes a drag of his ale and then pulls a face. "It was not a pleasant experience - I couldn’t walk straight for a week. And the white-haired bastard only laughed at me.”

“He brought her to Kaer Morhen?!” Jaskier barely notices that he puts his elbow in a sticky spot when he abruptly leans forward. 

“Oh yeah. He’s so infatuated with her it’s sickening,” the Witcher obviously continues while he decimates the food on his platter.

So much to no strangers allowed at the secret - now apparently not so secret - witcher keep.

“Well, you can’t really tell, because it’s Geralt and all that, but from what Eskel told me, he’s got it bad. And the way he was dogging after her, dancing to her whip… Kinda pathetic if you ask me.” 

“You know…It’s kinda funny,” Jaskier finds himself saying. “I once heard that Witchers can’t love.”

“Where’d you pick up that piece of bullshit information?” Lambert retorts, reaching for his tankard of ale as he stares at the bard.

Jaskier briefly traces the edges of his blunt teeth with his tongue before he looks up and a bittersweet smile appears on his face. “Ah, well,” he inclines his cup towards Lambert in a half-toast. “We both know that Geralt sometimes isn’t the brightest, don’t we?” 

He proceeds to take a long drag from his wine.  

“Hm,” Lambert says with an intense stare.

It doesn’t make it better. 

About half an hour later, Jaskier suggests getting drunk together - mostly because he’s halfway there anyway and last time drinking with Lambert didn’t go too terribly. 

At his suggestion, Lambert stares at him a tad too knowingly and in a way that has Jaskier fear that he’ll say terribly heartfelt and awkward, which would just drag forth all that buried feelings, which he isn’t in the mood for at all and he just wants to drown himself a bit in alcohol and - 

“Sometimes what you sprout out of that mouth of yours isn’t all that shit, bardling,” Lambert says and breaks through the unconscious tension that has taken hold of Jaskier.

The bard snorts and downs the remaining contents of his cup in one go. “I wouldn’t be able to afford this wine if it weren’t this way, Witcher,” he says with a grin.

Deciding to get drunk with Lambert is probably one of the worst and simultaneously best ideas Jaskier has ever had. 

Geralt tends to avoid alcoholic excesses most of the time but in a decade of friendship, the times he didn’t still accumulate to a sizable number. So, Jaskier can well and truly claim that he knows how to hold his liquor against a Witcher. 

Lambert on the other hand…

Lambert operates on a whole other level when drunk. The one time Jaskier actually remembers drinking with the copper-haired Witcher had been tame in comparison. 

“And, and his shtupid new habit of using cutlery…” Jaskier rants on, swaying while he watches Lambert trying to pick the lock to some random warehouse that’s said to store Toussant wine by the barrels if certain rumours are to be believed. “He used to not be able to tell a dessert fork from a bloody butter knife and now he leaves enough meat on a chicken to feed a whole family.”

“Mhm.”

“With children. And a dog.”

“He’s a dog,” Lambert says, the alcohol having stripped down his speech to a point where he’s slurring his words in an accent that Jaskier has only ever heard in the lands north of Ban Ard. The Witcher lets out an ugly snort before he slips again which is followed by a string of violent curses. 

“Here, here - lemme-” Jaskier nudges the Witcher from the lock, who promptly staggers back and falls against a stack of boxes which clatter loudly onto the floor. The sound of rapidly approaching steps and angry shouts informs them that they have been spotted. 

“Fuck,” Lambert says while Jaskier bursts into laughter. They have to flee at this point and what follows after that, Jaskier only recalls in blurry pieces. 

He cries at one point over a tear in his doublet, but mostly because it led to him losing a pebble - a time during which Lambert just helplessly watches until Jaskier declares that he is going to reinstate his honour by challenging a bunch of dwarves to a drinking contest. 

He thinks they exchanged death threats with some random vagabonds at one point, but he isn’t very sure.

On the way to another tavern, they run into a few students of Jaskier, upon which the latter very seriously introduces Lambert as the Ginger Wolf. They flock around the Witcher like chicks around a hen and needless to say, watching the man splutter under the bombardment of questions and all the attention is fucking hilarious.

They steal a goose and name it Radoslaw. 

During a piss break near the Pontar, which Jaskier mostly uses to throw up, Radoslaw, unfortunately, decides to ditch them. They both blame the other.

All in all, it’s a wild experience and the night ends with them getting tossed into a cell for drunken misconduct. 

There they spend over an hour going on about Geralt's infatuation with Yennefer as well as their shared dislike of the witch, which subsequently leads to a mutual acknowledgement of each other's personas as not quite the assholes they’d deemed each other during their initial meetings. 

The following morning is spent hungover and still in the Witcher’s company.

Jaskier doesn’t dare to voice it out loud, but he thinks that Lambert and he might even be friends now.  

A notion that for some reason doesn’t provoke the initial negative response one would expect. 

That being said, Lambert doesn’t do himself any favours by dragging Jaskier - who still feels like he’s dying - into a familiar dingy tavern on the docks come noon. 

According to said Witcher though, ‘dragging’ is a vast overstatement and to him, it wouldn’t have made any difference, whether Jaskier had fucked off instead of inserting himself into his plans - without an invitation, he might add. 

But Lambert doesn’t tell him to fuck off, which speaks volumes for their changed dynamic and might as well have been a perfumed letter approving his attendance.

“You’re in a disgustingly chipper mood,” Jaskier tells the Witcher, whom he follows through the crowded tables in the dim room, his head still pounding from the excess lived through the day prior. 

He slips past a whore chatting up a merchant when he first catches the hint of a familiar scent.

It’s only the vaguest of notions, but still, while catching up to Lambert, the bard scans searchingly over the questionable crowd - a somewhat difficult feat with all the smoke hanging under the ceiling of the gallery.

He’s about to turn to Lambert to address the suspicions he harbours when suddenly the hairs in his neck stand up. Not even a second later, someone throws an arm over his shoulders. “What in Meliteles-” Jaskier finds himself jumping at the startling touch that simultaneously causes a tingle to shoot down his spine. Taking Lambert’s string of curses into consideration, he probably experienced something similar.  

“Look whom the cat dragged in,” Aiden voices with a grin from where he’s inserted himself between Lambert and Jaskier, overtopping them both by more than a handspan.

“Look who’s talking,” Lambert retorts in a rather bad come-back once he’s regained his bearings and he’s trying to extract himself from Aiden’s arm. Jaskier, who’s quickly grown rather comfortable thanks to the buzzing nature of the touch, suddenly stands alone and gets to witness how the unsuspecting Lambert is pounced at by the cat Witcher

Lambert is spitting curses, barely keeping from being tackled to the ground by a grinning Aiden. People around them just give them a wider berth and apart from a few idle onlookers remain rather uncaring of the happenings, even when mere moments later it has turned into a full-on grappling match. Lambert gets in a punch or two, but Aiden gains the upper hand by jumping on the Wolf Witcher’s back and getting him into a chokehold.

Jaskier stands frozen and mostly bemused but he figures it can’t be all that serious since Aiden’s daggers are still strapped to his thighs and Lambert hasn’t yet tried to reach for his sword.

Still, Lambert growls, but the cat just ruffles through his reddish curls with a manic laugh that even prevails when the shorter Witcher manages to throw him off and to the ground in some kind of over-the-shoulder toss.

“You didn’t have to bring me flowers, darling,” Aiden tells Lambert with a dangerous grin once he’s back on his feet, patting dust off his clothes as he throws a look into Jaskier’s direction. Lambert’s face has taken on an interesting shade of red. “How very sweet of you.”

“Fuck you, Aiden.”

The latter grins widely, displaying his sharp teeth. Around his neck, the cat medallion glints in the light of the oil lamps. “Buttercup,” he says to Jaskier in a way of a greeting, as he casually slides over to Lambert. “Still alive, how I see.”

“Ah, if it isn’t the distinguished Oliwier Vermuellen,” Jaskier replies with a mocking bow and a sharp grin, both delighted and somewhat resentful as he still vividly remembers the mess Aiden left him to deal with the last time they met.

“You must’ve confused me with someone else,” Aiden replies, not a slither of guilt in sight. “I hear he was recently beheaded by a Countess.”

“How unfortunate,” Jaskier replies, musing about whether there’s a real Oliwier Vermuellen, who has found his unfortunate end at the hands of a Countess, or if Aiden, after one of his contracts, had simply faked his death. Wouldn’t be the first time according to Lambert. “In that case, I believe you won’t mind taking on the debt he owes me.”

“Oh, I wasn’t aware he owed you anything,” Aiden plays along and he rakes his eyes over Jaskier’s form.

Lambert meanwhile looks back and forth between them with a confused look. “What the fuck am I missing here?”

They end up around a corner table - a Witcher’s preferred spot from what Jaskier has learned so far - and once they’ve caught Lambert up on what happened during their last meet-up - bar certain details, neither the bard nor Aiden elaborate on - their conversation shifts to different topics. 

Surprisingly, the bard ends up being one of the quieter occupants on their table. It’s partly to be blamed on his horrible hangover and the headache that still prevails, but also the fact that he’s listening with rapt attention to Lambert’s and Aiden’s banter and them trying to one-up each other with stories about hunts - in Aiden's case also assassinations, which indicates that he and Lambert got over whatever differences they harboured in regards to this topic in the past.

It’s the stuff of modern legends and material for at least five more songs and Jaskier’s fingertips are itching with the urge to pick up a quill and write everything down.

Blooming friendship aside, he doesn’t doubt that Lambert would hunt him down should there ever appear a song about him.

On the other hand, he’ll have to tweak it a bit in either case, so that shouldn’t really be a deterrent. Can’t hunt him down if he doesn’t know the song’s about him. 

The reunion, while overall exciting, is all in all a short affair and Jaskier doesn’t quite know whether he wants to repeat the experience. 

During the two days it lasts, the bard gets roped into a bar brawl, they get drunk and smoke a delightful herb that elicits a most pleasant state of inebriation, and Aiden and Lambert become a semi-permanent addition to the crowd of students sitting in on his lectures. They both interrupt him with increasingly stupid questions about music, his songs as well as the subjects of his ballads, which then turns into a classwide debate about why Jaskier only ever writes about one Witcher, which the bard proceeds to counter with the limerick he devoted to Lambert some years back and subsequently leaves Aiden in tears from laughter. 

Still, eventually, the road calls to the Witchers - mostly in form of lacking coin and an assassination contract in Novigrad that Aiden mentions he plans to go after. Since it’s not interfering with whatever monsters plague the city - there is always some kind of vermin crawling around in cities, especially if it’s Novigrad, to quote Lambert - they will both be leaving. 

And considering Jaskier can’t just abandon his responsibilities at the Oxenfurt University in the middle of the year even if his inexplicable tendency to attach himself to Witchers acts up, they part ways. 

Besides, he enjoys lecturing - in a self-torturing sort of way if the number of horrible music sheets he has to grade is anything to go by - but the Witchers’ stories have reawakened his thirst for adventure. 

The freedom of traveling, the thrill that comes with performing at different places every night, and the stories and encounters with new interesting people are something one just can’t replicate.

Once his year of teaching is over, he tracks the White Wolf down. 

He’s got it down to a science at this point anyway.

Chapter Text

Jaskier is happy, as happy as one can be considering that he’s low on coin, this year’s grape harvest has gone to the dogs and the political climate makes travelling difficult - Nilfgaard slowly but surely advancing to the north, with only Cintra as a buffer. 

But up here in Barefield, the looming war in the south is nought but an afterthought, the climate is pleasant and he and Geralt have resumed their somewhat on and off friends-with-occasional-benefits arrangement that Jaskier jumps at because he’s a masochist.

Currently, he’s waiting on the Witcher, who, after dosing up on potions, disappeared in the looming black maw in a rubble-buried mess of a ruin to slay a Basilisk that has been terrorizing the locals.

Locals, who barely pay attention to the bard who is casually strumming his lute in a shadowy spot where a half-collapsed pillar shields him from the high standing sun. He’s also listening rather closely to the conversations taking place. 

“He’s not gonna come out, I’m telling you,” a pimply man says with a nod towards the vault entrance. “He’s been in there for over an hour. He’s gone.”

The citizens gathered around the ruins stare silently into the abyss, which even the sun can’t touch.

A fat man clad in a golden jerkin, shifts nervously clears his throat and then takes off his crumpled beret. Jaskier has been eyeing him for quite a while, frustratedly trying to guess where the fabric was dyed and whether a doublet in that colour would be gaudy or not. The cut of the man’s is atrocious but well - one can’t have everything he supposes.

“We should wait a bit longer,” he says, wiping off the sweat from his receding hairline while Jaskier plays a particularly difficult sequence of notes, which no one appreciates. 

Philistines, the whole lot of them.

“What for,” the pimply one snorts.”In that oubliette lives a Basilisk, or did ya forget. Who goes in there, is already lost. Enough people died. What also are we waiting for?”

“We made a deal beforehand,” murmurs the fat one. “Didn’t we?”

“You made a deal when he was still alive,” interjects the companion of the pimply one, a giant of a man, wearing a leathery butcher apron. “But now he’s dead, that’s clear as day. It was obvious from the beginning that he would run into his doom, just like the others. He even went in without a mirror, only with the sword. But without a mirror, no one can kill a Basilisk. Everyone knows that.”

Jaskier scoffs quietly. He’s seen Geralt being swallowed down by a selkimore and slicing his way out from the inside. Not to say that he didn’t panic a bit at the time, but a measly Basilisk really doesn’t seem like the most dangerous encounter the man has had.  

“You saved the coin,” the pimply one adds. “Because you won’t have to pay anybody for the Basilisk. So let’s just go home. But the horse and the belongings of the Witcher, we’ll take. Would be a pity to see them go to waste.”

Jaskier looks up from his lute, abruptly stopping his playing. The newfound silence only adds to the tension and some people further back in the crowd share nervous glances. 

“Yeah,” the butcher continues, oblivious to the fact that he alongside his companion are just catapulting themselves out of Jaskier's good graces in less than the short time a skilful man takes to unlace a Novigrader women's corset. “A fine mare and the saddlebags seem rather well packed. Let’s take a look inside.”

With his tongue, Jaskier traces over his sharpening teeth.

“What. Why?” the fat man replies but is cut off by the pimply one, who reminds him to not make a scene. 

The bard decides that enough is enough. The strings of his lute produce the mockery of a chord, as he slides it behind his back and stands up. “Surely honourable gentlemen like you wouldn't want to call forth the impression of being connected to such a filthy and despicable act as thievery," he says, loose gravel crunching beneath his boots as he steps forward. “I’m certain that this all is just a misunderstanding, am I right? ” He bares his teeth in the mockery of a smile.

That catches the attention of the locals and they turn to face him - nervous onlookers, as well as the more vocal bunch. But then the pimply one looks him up and down with a sneer, snorts disparagingly and says, “Yeah, right. Fuckin’ scrawny minstrel. You better shut up if you know what’s good for you.”

Jaskier sighs and spares the elaborately stitched cuff of his doublet a mournful look. He knows he’s rather hypocritical considering his kleptomaniac tendencies, but the threat of thievery always elicits a certain blood-thirstiness he usually isn’t all that known for. He didn’t plan on ruining his clothes today, but he won’t regret getting blood on them if these imbecilic churls don’t step the fuck away from Roach. 

He says as much, strewing a few more insults into the mix since he’s already at it.

The mare flicks her ears towards him upon hearing her name. The giant on the other hand slowly reaches into his apron to pull out a long glinting hunting knife. 

“You heard the man,” another voice suddenly interjects and when Jaskier turns around, there’s a stranger with curly chestnut hair emerging from the ruins, wearing a brown cloak over a padded gambeson, high riding boots and no sword. A distinct scent wafts over to Jaskier, catching his attention. Of horse, sweat, smoke and something else entirely, that he can't place despite its prominence. The stranger meanwhile briefly sweeps his bright eyes over him.

“The bard doesn't carry any weapons,” the giant says with a toothy grin, drawing the attention of the stranger. "And neither do you."

“True,” the man replies with a poisonous smile.

“Oh that’s bad,” the pimply one says and pulls out a knife as well, “That you don’t wear any. A real pity.”

"A real pity is what's gonna happen to your teeth once I punch you," Jaskier mutters. Not to mention that he does carry a dagger in his boot he won’t hesitate to use.

“I don’t need to wear any,” the stranger meanwhile adds without moving. “My weapons follow after me.”

As if he’d commanded it, two young women, still almost girls, appear on light feet. Immediately the crowd disperses. They smile sharply, displaying their shimmering teeth and sparkling eyes from whose edges the thick blue lines of a tattoo run all the way to their ears. 

Lynks' skins are wrapped around their hips and above the gloved hands, and muscles play beneath the skin of their otherwise bare arms. Above their equally chain link covered shoulders, the hilts of sabres stand out. The metal shimmers in the sun.

Slowly, very slowly does the pimply one look at his knees and drop his weapon.

Jaskier thinks he might be a bit turned on and more importantly in desperate need of improving his intimidation tactics. 

Apparently, he has a type.

Suddenly, quite the racket can be heard from the formerly silent hole in the ground and two pale hands emerge, followed by a dust-covered head and Geralt’s pale face as well as the hilt of his silver sword jutting out above his shoulders. 

Geralt - because he’s Geralt - then leans down into the hole and pulls out the impressive corpse of a basilisk, throwing it right at the feet of the crowd, who, in a mix of revulsion and morbid curiosity, eye the crooked beak, the sunken in, glassy eyes and the scaly tail and claws. A big chunk of its head is missing.

“That’s the basilisk,” the Witcher says and Jaskier, who’s gotten to know the dimness of certain people, for once doesn’t make much of a scene regarding the obvious information. Instead, he casually strolls over to Geralt, who’s in the process of patting brickdust off his clothes. The bard pulls a scale out of his hair, wrinkling his nose at the scent of the monster clinging to Geralt. “You almost got robbed,” he tells him.

“Typical,” the Witcher replies and takes in the scene. As Jaskier catches the stranger looking at them, he feels the unexplainable urge to bare his teeth at him over Geralt's shoulder. While at first he almost appeared sympathetic - aiding Jaskier in defending Geralt's belongings - his proximity now somehow grates on the bard's nerves.

“Won’t you pay the good man?” Jaskier snaps at the fat local, feeling suddenly inexplicably irritated. Upon his pointed statement, the man pulls out a clinking purse with a trembling hand, while the wannabe thieves try to reassure Geralt that they didn’t stretch even a single finger towards Roach.

Golden eyes flick towards Jaskier. 

“I mean technically they didn’t touch her,” the bard informs him, “Yet.” 

Geralt steps out of his proximity, causing Jaskier’s hand to slip from the Witcher’s shoulder where he’d unconsciously been brushing dust off his jerkin and turns to the impolite crowd. 

A mean grin blooms on his face that promises much more terrible things to happen to them than a short little stabbing for ever even considering stealing Roach. 

Jaskier might be possessive of his belongings, but Geralt is really unhealthily attached to his horse. 

“You didn't touch my stuff, you say. Alright, I believe you… So go in peace,” the Witcher rasps, “But go fast.”

Jaskier can’t help the gleeful grin splitting his lips.  

Before the crowd and especially the thieves can leave, the stranger addresses the pimply one. “Hey, you forgot something, didn’t you? You pulled your knife against me.”

Before anyone can do anything, one of the girls jumps forward and in a swift move beheads the man, painting the ground in a splatter of blood, causing even the last lurkers of the crowd to bugger off.

Holy-” Jaskier turns to the Witcher, perhaps to confirm what he just saw really happened and then looks back at the scene. 

The girl is casually wiping her blade, while the rolling head comes to a stop, its trail still visible through a curved line of blood that stains the gravel as well as the tufts of grass sprouting from the cracks between the old stones.

And although Jaskier might have pictured doing something similar mere moments before - also involving a lot more teeth than sharp steel - seeing such a young girl actually beheading a man in cold blood for simply drawing a weapon, especially without any kind of warning, is somewhat shocking.  

“Seems like she’d make a good travel companion,” the Witcher states wryly.

 At Jaskier’s offended turn of his head in his direction, Geralt smirks.

For whatever reason, the Witcher agrees to go with the stranger, who introduces himself as Borch Three Jackdaws and the two zerrikanian girls as Tea and Vea. 

Jaskier, dutiful barker that he is, selflessly stays by Geralt's side all the while watching the strangers like a hawk. 

During the short ride to the closest inn, fittingly known as ‘ The Pensive Dragon’, Borch manages to solidify Jaskier’s initial suspicion of him to a feeling of constant annoyance and dislike.    

The fact that he treats them to a feast and a hefty amount of ale doesn’t really manage to change this impression. 

His interest, especially in Geralt, irks Jaskier in a way no one else has so far and for a brief delusional moment, he believes to even prefer Yennefer over the man. 

On top of that - Jaskier almost chokes himself to death on a piece of Roast - Borch must start on dragons. 

In all his years, Jaskier has never really searched for dragons, never really felt the need to. 

Their well-known rarity had also factored significantly into his lack of motivation to interrupt his winterly hibernation for a most likely fruitless search that overall seems more like a hassle than anything else.

That being said, Jaskier didn’t go out of his way to avoid them either. Still, he’s never laid eyes on one. 

Nevertheless, the knowledge he has of dragons is extensive. Partly, because he knows most if not all of the dusty ballads mentioning them and Geralt - during the years they have travelled together - has made a hobby of pointing out every descriptive flaw regarding creatures in various songs.
On the other hand and for obvious reasons, there’s of course also the fact that he was forced to figure things out one way or another - not to mention, through a substantial amount of trial and error - thanks to the random bursts of draconic instincts revealing themselves during the most inopportune moments possible.  

But apparently here in bumfuck Barefield, a dragon - justifiably - set a hillside ablaze after being poisoned by the locals. And now King Niedamir - a green boy, who barely even knows how to shave but has already gained quite the bloodthirsty reputation - has commissioned a hunt. 

Jaskier has heard of the Reavers, who supposedly slew a few dragons in Redania and there’s a song floating about, telling the story of some dragon named Ocvist, who’s been killed by a group of dwarves some years back. 

And Borch wants them - or more specifically Geralt - to join his team, making them the third of the bunch.
All that for the dragon's treasure and the possibility of becoming a Lord over a vassal state that will fade away as quickly as it has come into existence. 

Jaskier was right from the very beginning to suspect that this Borch was a fucking prick.

“You’ve wasted your breath. I don’t kill dragons,” Geralt replies to the man’s proposal.
Jaskier doesn’t even bother to hide his gloating smirk and he bares his teeth at Borch in the mockery of a wide smile over the rim of his tankard. He barely takes note of Véa and Téa who follow the exchange with equally attentive eyes, while not neglecting cracking open crabs from one of the multiple dishes their employer had ordered. 

Jaskier witnesses with gleeful satisfaction how Borch runs into a wall by trying to convince Geralt of his point. 

“You feel it just the same as me... that hole inside you. That itch that can't be scratched that burns your brain, keeps you awake at night. Come with me. I'll show you what you're missing,” Borch tells Geralt. 

Jaskier snorts into his ale.

“Something funny, bard?” 

The reptilian way Borch fixates Jaskier would have probably made him react a lot differently if he weren’t already tipsy and not so fucking irritated by the man.
So instead of swiftly denying and perhaps hiding behind Geralt out of convenience, Jaskier just shifts on his bench and seemingly bored inspects a chip in his tankard. “Oh, well, nothing funny about killing dragons in my opinion.” He leans back and takes a generous drag of his ale. “But I’m just a bard, so what do I know of these matters…”

The other man’s stare, if possible, even gains in intensity.

Jaskier meanwhile pictures taking out a chunk of Borch’s side with his teeth. 

Completely unrelated, the bard’s sharp smile tips a bit in the beatific direction before he continues. “Though of course, I trust the expertise of my honoured travel companion.” Jaskier puts a hand on Geralt’s shoulder, while he inclines his head in false sympathy. “And you heard the man. We don’t hunt dragons, right Geralt?” He turns to look at the Witcher only to witness how Geralt’s gaze is fixed on something on the other side of the room. 

Or rather someone , as it turns out once he follows it. 

Jaskier’s smile drops alongside his stomach and he has to force himself to loosen the possessive tightening of his grip on Geralt’s shoulder. 

“That would be the fourth team,” Borch says and isn’t that just fucking perfect. 

“Oh, no, no, no-” The scent of lilac and gooseberries has yet to waft over but Jaskier has already decided that he’s so over this day. He doesn’t even care that there’s still a bottle Est-Est to be delivered to their table. “Thank you very much for the food and the ale,” he tells Borch - who in face of the circumstances appears to have turned into the smaller of his problems - while he rises to his feet, “but we’re leaving. Shall we?” 

He nudges Geralt’s shoulder to get him to move when that bloody idiot says, “I’m in.”

For the briefest of seconds, the bard turns his gaze heavenward, staring at the beams supporting the ceiling of the inn, the large metallic wheel fitting, which is functioning as a chandelier and dripping with the wax of the candles it holds and contemplates screaming at the gods to ask them why in Melitele’s name they would burden him with such a fate. 

Jaskier sits back down. 

He exhales and consciously loosens the muscles of his tightly clenched jaw. His molars are sharper than canines. “Fucking perfect,” he mutters and then pulls himself together. Resignedly, he motions for Téa to hand him the carafe to refill his tankard of ale. 

He’ll need it if he ever wants to get through this. 

The following morning Jaskier is standing at the foot of the mountain, somewhat hungover and ready to dive headfirst into the shitshow that probably awaits him. 

Additionally, with both Borch and Yennefer around, he can’t help but feel high strung, which comes to manifest itself in him hovering possessively over Geralt, to a point that would usually lead to complaining. 

Fortunately, not today. 

Unfortunately, the lack of comments on this matter is caused by the distraction in the form of the very sorceress, whom Jaskier would love to not think about at all. 

A rather impossible feat, when that sorceress ends up walking over to them, probably fed up with Geralt’s rather unsubtle staring. 

Yennefer, for all purposes, looks like she just portalled out of a fucking court. She’s wearing the usual black and white attire alongside her distractingly shiny star-shaped pendant - that Jaskier more than once considered stealing - which she paired with an expensive-looking fur coat and a glinting golden hairnet holding back her raven curls splendour.

Jaskier curses his luck. He’s vaguely aware that Geralt doesn’t have a very good standing with her at the moment. After a lot of badgering he was able to piece together that the man had left Yennefer behind without a goodbye after living with her for almost a year in Vengerberg some months prior - which still elicits a spike of animalistic glee if the bard is truly honest - and is probably in great part the reason for why Jaskier had enjoyed the occasional angry shag from the Witcher after their reunion. 

Not that this arrangement will last with the sorceress in reach if his experience is anything to go by. 

The scent of lilac and gooseberries wafts into his nose.

“How is it, that I’ve walked this earth for decades without coming across a Witcher and the first one I meet, I can’t seem to get rid of.”

“I’d say something strange was afoot,” Jaskier interjects from the side, “but then again. Witcher’s are bound to bump into monsters eventually.”

Yennefer laughs in a way that shows exactly how funny she found his greeting and turns to look at him. Despite the fact that the unique colour of her eyes is hidden behind her long black lashes, the gaze he’s met with is still piercing. “Jaskier.”

“Witch,” he replies, equally sweet . She tilts her pretty triangular-shaped face and looks up at him in feigned surprise. 

“The crow’s feet are new,” she tells him.

Jaskier huffs contemptuously. 

They both know he still has the complexion of a twenty-year-old. 

“They’re called laugh lines. You get them when you smile from time to time. But from your sour mug, I should’ve known that this is a state wholly unfamiliar to you. How much Mandragora elixir did you use to keep up that look? …the skin of a sixteen-year-old, Yennefer, but how old are you really? A hundred? A hundred and fifty?” 

She sighs long and drawn out, and then she looks at Geralt, being well aware that this tends to irritate Jaskier most. “Rein in your bard, or else I’ll be forced to do so. I know you’re attached to his company - the reasons for which still elude me - but if you want to continue that arrangement with him in a walking condition, I’d advise you to better tell him how to behave.”

Jaskier feels a growl curl behind his teeth, barely keeping himself from stepping in between the pair.

Meanwhile, Geralt sighs quietly, like a suffering mother and for a brief moment, he looks at Roach before he turns his head to look at the bard. “Jaskier,” he simply says.

“Geralt,” Jaskier mocks irately. 

They stare at each other, Jaskier slighted and irritated and Geralt resignedly, with the hint of a plea in his gaze.

Jaskier snaps his mouth shut.
He grinds his sharp teeth.

Fine then. 

Infuriated, the bard turns on his heel and leaves the pair to their own devices, heading over to the next best company, which turns out to be a bunch of dragon hunters. 

And isn’t that ironic. 

He waits to introduce himself, lingering between a bunch of large pines, warily eying the round of dwarves bustling about their waggon, while he fidgets with his lute strap.

Most likely they are the heroic subjects of the rather boring ballad - something about them already having slain a dragon once - that flowed off the feather of some uninspired minstrel. 

A few of the bearded bunch shoot him glances until one of them steps forward. A broad axe is shoved into his belt and his arm bracers are studded to the nines. “Yarpen Zigrin and you are?” the dwarf says, stretching out a calloused and tattooed hand. 

Jaskier shakes it after the barest moment of hesitation. “Julian Alfred Pankratz at your service,” he introduces himself with old ingrained manners, “Better known as Jaskier.”

The dwarf spits a brown glob onto the ground. “Jaskier eh? The famous bard,” he says, while he pulls forth a small pouch from behind his belt, which after opening causes the telltale smell of tobacco to waft through the air.  

“The one and only,” Jaskier replies as the dwarf portions a bit of the mixture, rolls it into a small ball between his fingers and pushes it beneath his upper lip before he lets the pouch disappear again. 

“You gonna play later on?” another dwarf interjects from where he’d been unloading a kitbag from a donkey.

The bard adjusts the lute strapped to his back and straightens up. 

At least someone here seems to appreciate his company.

“I suppose so,” Jaskier says, his mood somewhat lifted.

“But don’t expect us to pay even a copper for ya strumming around,” Yarpen interjects then, effectively tearing through any semblance of optimism still residing within the bard. “That’s no royal court here.” 

Jaskier sighs, taking in the mosquitoes buzzing around his ears, the smell of horseshit, sweat and garlic as well as the arguing Reavers - who from the looks of it are in the middle of deciding which weapons to take up the mountain and which to leave here - and Sir Eyck of Denesle who sprouts something about the unnaturalness of non-humans to a squire at a spot nearby. “You can tell,” he says.

The initial stage of the trek up the mountain is exhausting and the physical exertions aren’t even the worst of it.  

In the beginning, Jaskier is still a bit miffed by Geralt’s earlier dismissal and so he resentfully avoids him in favour of the other people taking part in the hunt.
A mistake, as it turns out.

The majority of the conversations taking place between the Reavers and the dwarves are dominated by them trying to one-up each other by comparing the ways they have taken down dragons and detailing the best technique to skin them - ideally alive so as to not damage the hide with unsightly stab wounds - in a way that makes Jaskier hope that they aren’t skimping on embellishments.

Despite seemingly being disgusted by this particular aspect as well, Borch manages to grate on his nerves for indeterminable reasons anyhow, which makes him also unsuitable to walk next to.

Sir Eyck of Denesle manages to catapult himself fully out of Jaskier’s good graces in the ten short minutes he’d thought the man might be worthy of his time despite Yennefer accompanying him, by elaborating on his religious views, subsequently deeming dwarves depravities, who’re worshipping dark forces, mages heretics - which raises certain questions about his intelligence and choice in travel companions - Witchers perverse repugnant changelings and dragons the evil incarnate. An evil which, to quote him, he won’t walk idly by but will crush under his heel. 

The latter is an opinion Yennefer apparently shares, as she vocally agrees with him by adding that dragons are humanity’s greatest foe, which Geralt thankfully argues against but which still doesn’t change much in the tone of the overall discussion. 

The whole thing ends with Yennefer and Eyck walking ahead and Jaskier falling back into step next to Geralt, who’s mentioning something about the knight being a rascal, who spoils his business by taking no coin for his fanatic monster hunting.

Which, by the way, is about the highest degree of talkativeness Jaskier is faced with afterwards, as the Witcher otherwise doesn’t acknowledge his presence bar a few absent hums, seemingly too caught up in his own mind.  

Considering the way Geralt's eyes are burning holes into Yennefer’s shapely back, the subject demanding all of his attention isn’t all that much of a mystery.

Véa and Téa are the only tolerable company and Jaskier’s only half sure whether that’s because he can’t understand what they’re talking about or the fact that they’re easy on the eye. 

Probably a mix of both.

The view is the only thing Jaskier can say that he truly appreciates and that hardly rectifies any of the other vexations he has to endure.

They stop to make camp shortly before the sun sets and Jaskier exhaustedly drops down on a log next to one of the campfires that have been stoked, stretching out his sore feet with a small sigh. 

So far he’s the only one, as some people are still occupied with setting up their respective camps, the dwarves have set off into the forest to procure something edible and the majority of the Reavers are gathered around their own fire a bit further away. 

An air bubble pops in one of the logs, causing a shower of sparks to shoot towards the dawning sky and the rustling trees overhead. From time to time, whenever the wind changes direction, the smell of smoke almost overpowers the scent of earth, pines and rotting wood, forcing Jaskier to shift to a better spot unless he wants his doublet to smell like a bloody smokehouse.

Once he’s finally settled, he’s scribbling into his notebook, quietly strumming his lute to work on the melody to his new song - inspiration struck quite unexpectedly and rather harshly in the form of a violet-eyed presence - and trying to get the words that have been stuck in his head for about half a day now on paper. 

The fairer sex, they often call it…

He hums the melody to the lyrics that are already half-finished, adding another note between two lines. 

He’s so wrapped up in his task, that he doesn’t notice Geralt until he speaks up. “Composing a new song?” the Witcher asks. He is standing behind Jaskier, his scent obscured by the smoke and the way the wind blows, a bag slung over his shoulder and his sword belt in hand. 

Jaskier snaps his notebook shut. “When am I not, dear Witcher? The muse never rests,” he replies lightly. Perhaps he doesn’t quite manage to overplay his true mood because the pair of golden eyes shoot him an unreadable look through the milk-white lashes. 

“Mhm,” Geralt says and he sets down his stuff. 

The fact that he’s still wearing his light silver-studded armour alludes to the fact that he also doesn’t feel as at ease among all these people as he appears. Like most of his clothing, the leather is dyed a rare black colour which borders on being unaffordable - a fact that had Jaskier puzzled for quite a while until he’d learned that most Witchers make a good living off of cutting out various monster organs that ooze black ichor and selling them to the dye houses for a nice commission and - in Geralt’s case - also some dye jobs.

The Witcher nudges Jaskier in the side. “Move a bit, will you?”

Jaskier shifts so that Geralt can also find a place on the log where he doesn’t have to directly hold his nose into the smoke. 

After sitting down, the man begins to rummage through the bag between his legs and following another moment he wordlessly offers Jaskier some dried jerky as well as some oatcakes that are just as edible to Roach as they are to them, but which one party tends to enjoy significantly more. 

Jaskier wrinkles his nose as he eyes the offered food.

Geralt huffs amused. “Not fancy enough, oh famous poet?” he asks with a crooked grin, his mood apparently lifted a bit.

Jaskier is about to open his mouth to reply when he notices Borch approaching their campfire, flanked by Véa and Téa. Immediately something has him tense up and he watches Borch like a hawk as he picks a seat near their fire. Thankfully he didn’t choose the spot closest to them but Jaskier is still sitting rigidly next to Geralt.

Borch stares at the bard for a moment before he stretches out his legs dangerously close to the burning logs. 

Jaskier pettily pictures a spark lighting up his shiny leather boots.

In all the watching, he even forgets to reply to Geralt, who spares him a long look but doesn’t ask and instead digs for his own ration. 

Meanwhile, Jaskier begins to absently chew on his jerky, his eyes tracking Borch’s every move, daring him to come closer. He doesn’t even realise that he’s begun to shift even more towards Geralt until the Witcher himself leans forward, which comes with a sudden lack of tingly contact, foreboding Yennefer's arrival and unfortunately that of her knightly appendage. 

Short minutes later, they are all sitting around the fire in uncomfortable silence, bar Eyck of Denisle who sprouts some self-righteous horseshit about slaying beasts for honour and glory and tries to appeal to Borch and his two companions, until Véa outright tells him to fuck off in her heavily accented voice, reaping Borch’s and Téa’s laughter as well as a smirk from Geralt. 

Unfortunately, the knight then shifts his attention to the bard, whom he had apparently recalled being human and thus deemed as some kind of ally. 

Jaskier in response and under Geralt’s amused glance begins to passive-aggressively reply by solely quoting lines from his songs about the Witcher’s heroic deeds, which is met with the knight's strident approval. It lasts for an impressive fifteen minutes before the man finally catches on. It ends with Eyck of Denesle storming away from the campfire, his handsome face a bright red, running right into the hollering crowd of the returning Dwarves, who’re dragging in two dead deers, which under great brouhaha end up being roasted over the fire.

The lack of Eyck's knightly persona and Yennefer who fucked off shortly after for her beauty sleep - which Jaskier interprets as her still being pissed at Geralt - combined with the presence of food and alcohol the dwarves brought in wise foresight, makes way for casual conversation and cheerful storytelling. Jaskier even gets to play a few ballads, though they earn him a rather sparse applause. 

No court indeed.

Slowly but surely, the tall trees surrounding them turn into black pillars stretching towards the sky and the faces of the gathered crowd become shrouded in flickering shadows, solely illuminated by the waning fire. 

After the night has truly fallen, the topic inevitably shifts towards Nilfgaard and the promise of war that creeps through the air like an ever-stronger growing scent in the south. 

The sudden change of mood, causes the majority of the groups to head over to their respective tents or bedrolls afterwards, leaving only Borch, the two zerrikanian girls, Jaskier and Geralt at the campfire.

For a while, it’s quiet, apart from Jaskier’s soft strumming of his lute, who, despite being tired, feels uneasy leaving Geralt alone in the presence of Borch, even though he seems to do nothing more but brood over the flickering fire.

As it turns out, he was right to remain as a few minutes later and out of the blue Borch starts back up on dragons.

“So you Geralt, don’t hunt dragons,” the man says, breaking the silence, “Green ones and other coloured ones. I take note of this. But why, if one may ask, only those three colours?”

The latter statement causes Jaskier to unintentionally slip and mess up the sequence of notes on his lute. 

“Four if you come right down to it,” Geralt says, while the bard fights to not fumble the melody to ‘Stars above the path’. 

He knows what kind of speech comes now. He’d pestered Geralt with questions about dragons long before he’d learned about his own nature, though he never really came around to correct the Witcher that there were in fact five colours of dragons. 

In his defence, it’s not exactly a topic to be introduced casually over dinner. 

And it’s not like he hasn’t contemplated telling him before. 

But in one particular self-aware moment, he’d acknowledged the fact that he’s afraid that Geralt will see him as a monster regardless of the fact that hunting dragons isn’t part of his daily schedule and then shoved the thought of telling him so far down that he’d never have to touch the notion again.

“Regarding the colours,” Geralt continues and shifts on his spot, “they are usually used to describe the real dragons. Although the description is not exact. The green dragons, the best known, are rather grey, like ordinary flying drakes. The red ones are practically reddish or brick-red. For the large dragons of dark brown colour, the term ‘black’ has become common. The rarest are the white dragons, I've never seen one of those. They live far to the north. They say.”

“Gold dragons are rarest.” 

Jaskier’s heart misses a beat and his stomach drops. He sucks in a hissing breath at Borch’s words and barely keeps from letting his head snap up on instinct.

Still, he apparently doesn’t manage to hide his reaction as well as he thought because Borch’s gaze flicks from Geralt to the bard.

Jaskier endures the piercing look, blood frozen in his veins and his hands sweaty, all the while he’s feverishly trying to figure out what the man knows. 

“Gold dragons are a myth,” Geralt replies, oblivious to the crisis Jaskier is currently going through. “For a gold dragon to exist, it would... have to be the result of... an accidental, unique mutation. And in my experience, mutations, they're intentional. But it doesn't matter. Mutant or myth, gold dragons met the same fate as anything too different to endure.” When the bard pulls his gaze away from Borch and looks at Geralt, the man is solemnly staring into the fire.“They died out.”

Jaskier feels like breaking into hysterical laughter. 

He would beg to differ. 

The following morning, Jaskier gets rudely awoken by Geralt, who extracts himself from where during the night, the bard had shifted away from his own bedroll and sprawled his limbs all over the Witcher. 

Still half asleep, Jaskier grumbles over the loss of the tingly contact and warmth that usually comes with it. He vaguely takes note of Geralt’s amused snort, who after pushing away his leg fully gets up. 

And while the Witcher does whatever Witchers do at ungodly hours like this, Jaskier rolls over and buries his face in the still warm spot of Geralt’s bedroll, falling back asleep. 

The bard once and for all wakes up when Geralt pulls away his blanket and throws his breakfast at him - dried jerky and oatcakes. 

“How can you be so cruel,” Jaskier groans into the cool morning air and presses his palms into his eye sockets to shield himself from the light. “The sun can barely have risen.”

“Come on, bard. Get up.” Geralt says with a voice that betrays his grin. “Or we’re setting out without you.”

“Slave driver,” Jaskier mutters. 

He gets up. 

Once Jaskier has overcome his grogginess and brought himself in a passable shape, he takes note of the fact that Geralt - the bastard - had woken him when there’d still been more than enough time to pack their stuff twice over and he could’ve fit in warm-ups for his voice as well. 

It all takes a turn for the worse when they find Eyck of Denesle dead in a ditch. Throat slit while he’d been in the process of his morning toilette.

That for some reason sours Yennefer's mood, which in turn makes Geralt chase after her and ends with Jaskier being more irritable than usual. 

“Do I have something on my face?” he snaps at Borch, just after Geralt has fucked off, most likely to tell Yennefer about the dwarves’ trail. The man hasn’t stopped his annoying habit of staring at Jaskier, it might even be worse now - having gained a curious edge, which Jaskier feels rather threatened by after yesterday’s mention of golden dragons. 

“You’re rather protective of the Witcher, aren’t you?” Borch asks him with a tilted head. 

Jaskier ignores the urge to grab his lute tighter. “That is the nature of friends,” he retorts and after a moment he adds, “We go way back, Geralt and I. Twenty years, it must be at that point,” just to make sure that Borch doesn’t get any funny ideas. He already has to deal with Yennefer in his life. He doesn’t need a prick like Borch vying for Geralt’s friendship. Purposely he picks up his pace to close up to the group of dwarves leading the way. 

He’s warmed up to them considerably - considering the circumstances - and he can appreciate the raunchy jokes they keep telling each other to keep up the morale. 

They also have home-brewed spirits with them, which Jaskier can appreciate even more. 

The alcohol tastes like it’s been stored in barrels alongside scorpion stingers and he earns himself a bit of laughter when he sputters, but it’s something to take the edge off. 

Once Geralt and the sorceress have caught up to them, the tension is almost palpable. Yennefer even ends up walking closer to Jaskier than Geralt, which says more about their current relationship than any words ever could.

At Jaskier’s inquiring look, Geralt simply shakes his head. 

As they continue on, past the treeline and the trail steadily turns rockier, Jaskier begins to feel a bit uneasy. He can’t put his finger on it, but he feels kind of wary about his surroundings. It’s only after they reach the end of the trail and stare down a steep windy mountainside that the dwarves expect them to climb through narrow wooden planks mounted to the cliff and Borch says, “We’re very close,” that he realises that it’s been the smell that has grown in intensity the closer they came to their destination. 

The dragon marked its territory and Jaskier feels like an intruder. 

“Ladies first,” he tells Yennefer once the dwarves have already recklessly started their climb on the rather dangerous looking trail up the cliffside. 

Yennefer scoffs and pierces him with such a glare that he ends up stepping on the planks, but not before throwing a long look into the cloudy abyss.

He doesn’t mind the height, rather the supposed lack of it. Jaskier knows that if he falls he has the best chance of survival because as far as he knows, neither dwarves, nor sorceresses or Witchers can grow a pair of wings, but after a year-long break from his draconic form, it’s rather difficult to tell how long the transformation would take and whether he’d have the coordination to pick up flight before hitting the bottom. Considering he can’t see the ground because of all the clouds, he concludes it comes down to about fifty-fifty.

That imagery gives way to a real possibility very soon when a plank breaks down and Borch as well as the two zerrikanian girls end up hanging on barely a chain with Geralt being the only one standing between them and death. 

A mean little spark within him doesn’t mind Borch falling down - he’s a dragon murdering bastard anyway - but the girls, he does mind. 

And then the plank beneath the Witcher gives way as well. 

Jaskier’s stomach drops and his eyes widen in terror. 

“Geralt!” Yennefer yells, and for a brief moment, they share each other’s panic. 

They watch in shock as Borch lets go to save the Witcher and how the girls follow. 

Jaskier feels frozen on his spot. 

He hesitates for no longer than a few seconds, but seconds are all it takes to realise that it’s too late. 

Jaskier tries to go after them anyway in newfound determination, but Yennefer of all people grabs him by the belt when she sees him move and pulls him back from the yawning chasm. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?!” she almost yells at him and Jaskier feels strangely taken aback by the fact that she apparently cares, if only for Geralt’s sake. He doesn’t delude himself into thinking that Yennefer might actually give a shit about him. But still. 

Geralt’s face is a stone-cold mask. He stares into the abyss. “Let’s get going,” he rasps. 

“Geralt-” Jaskier hesitantly begins.

“Let’s go,” Geralt snaps. Jaskier can see the pain in his eyes. 

“Go,” Yennefer says. 

The bard gets going. 

They don’t exchange another word until they’re off the damn path and reach the spot where the dwarves have already begun to make their camp. 

At their inquiries about Borch and his escort, Geralt simply says, “They fell,” and then he walks away. It falls to Jaskier to relay the circumstances while Yennefer pisses off to put up her tent. 

He doesn’t embellish for once, the story being shocking enough without the circumstances. Afterwards, he wanders a bit around until he spots Geralt sitting on a rock and staring at the setting sun that’s painting the sky in warm yellows and fiery reds. He observes him for a moment from afar. His lean form, his tense shoulders and the white hair that reflects the light from the sky. 

Jaskier thinks about confessing to him. He doesn’t quite know what… perhaps about being in love with him? That would be rather useless. And being a dragon? Well, that gains another shitty edge considering the earlier happenings. 

Hesitantly, Jaskier approaches him and sits down next to Geralt so that their shoulders are knocking together. For a second, he simply breathes in his scent, ignoring the hint of gooseberries and lilac and instead relishes that Geralt is still alive and didn’t fall down like he believed he would for a brief second. 

“You did your best,” Jaskier says. “There's nothing else you could have done.” 

The bitter words ring true. If someone is to blame for not doing more it’s Jaskier, not Geralt. He might’ve even had a fighting chance to save them. But now…

A cool breeze brushes over them, tugging on Jaskier’s hair. He takes in the spectacular view and then glances at Geralt. He inhales, fidgeting a bit with a loose thread near his thigh where the seam wore away. “Look, why don't we leave tomorrow?” he proposes. “That is if you'll give me another chance to prove myself a… worthy travel companion.” 

He lightly bumps into Geralt’s bicep, his whole side getting warm with the tingles of the touch. 

“Hm.” 

“We could head to the coast,” Jaskier suggests, a faint smile tugging on his lips. “Get away for a while.” 

He hasn’t been to the sea in ages.
Jaskier still remembers the feeling of warm sand around his naked feet, his habit of collecting seashells and the sensation of smooth waves lapping at his shins from when he was a child.

He hadn’t been particularly fond of the flat vastness then either, but in hindsight, the memory seems peaceful. 

An unwitting smile tugs on his lips, as he recalls in sudden clarity his fascination for the high cliffs lining the majority of Kerack’s coast, the smell of salt and foamy splashes of white glittering through the air. The dark crevices had been speckled with harpies’ nests, which was the reason why he’d never been allowed close. Still, while travelling alongside the coast, he’d watch the dark silhouettes circling overhead, occasionally plunging into the greenish depths with drawn up wings. Their inhuman voices had carried over the water then, not quite drowned out by the sounds of the waves battering against the rocks. 

He wonders whether Geralt would find the beauty in them too.

”Life is too short. Do what pleases you... while you can,” he adds.

“Composing your next song?” Geralt asks with the hint of a smile, referencing their conversation yesterday. 

Jaskier looks at him. Instead of taking the bait and lightly sprouting something about that of course he is, he swallows. “No, I'm just, uh... Just trying to work out what pleases me,” he says, his chest swelling with emotions, while he takes in Geralt’s profile. 

“Hm.”

Shortly after, Geralt heads for Yennefer's tent and Jaskier feels his heart breaking all over again.

As he watches the sun disappear behind the horizon, taking with it the light that had bathed the trees, the valleys and gorges in its beautiful colours, he thumbs at a smooth black pebble he picked up years ago and feels crushingly alone. 

He ends up staying up long past the others until he finally discards the idea that Geralt will still come to spend the night outside next to his own bedroll like he did the previous ones. 

Jaskier falls asleep, looking at the vast dark sky speckled with the cold light of the stars.

Chapter Text

The following morning he wakes to an empty camp and smouldering fire pits. Confusion makes way for bitter acceptance but Jaskier refrains from wallowing in self-pity and instead grabs his lute and follows the lingering scent of lilac and gooseberries as well as something distinctly Geralt. 

The first station that slows him down in his pursuit is seeing the crowd of dwarves frozen on the spot, mid-movement. Like a painting in real life. 

Jaskier walks bemused and a bit disturbed past them, throwing the occasional look over his shoulder even once he’s passed them. After that, it’s barely five minutes until he hears the distant sounds of a battle, carried down to him by the wind.

He picks up his pace, almost staggering over the rocky path and what he eventually comes to witness is carnage. 

In front of the large mouth of a cave or crevice in the mountainside, his eyes immediately pick out Geralt, who is slashing his way through the Reavers like a silver whirlwind, soaking the ground with blood. Jaskier also gets a vague glimpse of Yennefer casting spells left and right while she slips around on light feet. Despite their capabilities, they have a hard time keeping the upper hand against the valiantly fighting crowd.

When he suddenly spots Téa emerging from the mouth of the cave, only to split a man from his head to his groin, confusion sets in fully.    

A thundering roar echoes from the cave and it makes Jaskier grow rigid. There’s no doubt that there’s a dragon in there. The first one apart from himself he’ll ever lay his eyes on. It’s then that he moves towards the cave without conscious thought. 

He gets stopped halfway on his path though, by something catching his attention. He doesn’t quite know what it is - perhaps a scent, perhaps a noise or perhaps movement, but his eyes fall upon a spot in the high grass near a few rocks, barely out of reach of the battle. There, where the plateau drops down on a slope, something small, sand grey and distinctly alive is just so hidden from the view of the fighting crowd.

In moments like these, he’s glad that he’s a bard. 

The people fighting no less than twenty feet away from him barely pay him any mind and so Jaskier ends up unbothered as he veers off the path and straight into the high grass. 

As he gets closer, the subtle scent he picks up - like smoke and warm earth - gets stronger. 

Before he’s all the way there, Jaskier feels a sound climb up his throat that’s not quite a growl but not quite a chirp either. 

However, the answering noise he receives is a chirp. 

A small triangular head appears in the tall grass between the rocks, crowned by barely developed nubs where horns have yet to grow in and tiny wings flexing as the small dragon hatchling stretches towards him. 

Jaskier stops where he stands, his breath catching in his throat. He stares at the godsdamned baby dragon , barely able to comprehend the situation.

It chirps again and Jaskier squashes down the instinctive answering rumble building in his chest. After a moment, it emerges fully from its hiding place, grass rustling as it makes its way towards him in small curious steps. 

Wide-eyed, Jaskier finds himself crouching down when the small dragon is right in front of him. It gets on its hind legs, small wings fluttering as it innocently snuffles around his neck. Perhaps Jaskier should be more concerned with the needle-sharp teeth near his jugular, but instead, he finds himself mirroring its behaviour, inhaling to scent it as well. 

He finds himself wholly overwhelmed when he’s suddenly got a lapful of baby dragon pressing into his thighs and bumping its head into his stomach in an attempt to nestle closer. 

Melitele, it’s barely the size of a dog. 

It starts purring when he awkwardly pets over its smooth scales - still much softer than he knows his own to be. 
Jaskier watches on in awe and a bit helplessly - perhaps even slightly panicking. 
He has no experience with children whatsoever apart from a few interactions then and there and even less with dragons, even if he counts his own biyearly months spent as one.

The battle meanwhile hasn’t lost intensity, although the Reavers are slowly but surely getting pushed away from the cave and towards the edge of the plateau and subsequently them. Within a split second, Jaskier considers the situation and it’s more of an instinctual than a conscious decision that he decides to take the small dragon with him and to gain some distance from the whole bloodshed.

He throws a sceptical look at the small hatchling, wondering how in Melitele's name he’s going to get it to go where he wants it. 

As it turns out, he shouldn’t have worried as the nipper follows after him like a duckling after its mother. 

“I’m afraid you’ll have to keep your head down now, lest it gets cut off by one of those zealous cutthroats,” he tells the small dragon, who is barely towering over the highest grass blades, while he himself has to crouch to avoid detection. Jaskier isn’t sure whether it understands him or not, but a lack of wordy replies has never deterred him. 

It chirps at him, which is truly more of an answer than he can expect from Geralt these days. 

He leads them downhill for a bit, not caring for a path, just straight away from the battle and out of sight. Nevertheless, Jaskier doesn’t feel comfortable getting too far away from the happenings and leaving Geralt alone in the fray, so he eventually circles back in a loop parallel to the slope.
He’s torn between trying to aid the Witcher and getting the small dragon to safety and so they end up carving their way in a wide arch around the cave, climbing up again until they're on a small hill on the other side of the dragon's den from where they can still hear the battle but don't have to fear being spotted.

Jaskier finds himself sitting on a rock, smooth from decades of wind grinding it down, anxiously chattering at the small dragon, though mostly for his own benefit.

Worriedly, he fidgets with the black pebble in his pocket. 

Geralt is a great swordsman, but even he has a hard time going against more than five opponents at once. As far as Jaskier knows, he isn’t drugged up on potions and from his first impression, he guesses that there were at least a dozen professional fighters. There’s also no saying how the dragon feels about people invading its territory. Yennefer might turn the tide, but Jaskier isn’t about to entrust Geralt’s fate in her hands. 

The way the muffled sound of swords clattering against each other has died down does nothing to ease his anxiety.

Meanwhile, the small dragon has begun to explore its surroundings with childlike curiosity. Jaskier proceeds to watch it shuffle through the grass, climbing atop rocks and stretching its tiny wings into the wind before its attention is captured by a small bug, which it chases after.

It doesn't wander off too far, but Jaskier is wary and anxious and he still recalls the dwarves’ and Reavers’ passionate conversation about skinning various draconids and so he proceeds to reach into a small bag tied to his belt and pulls out a rare shard of green glass. 

It's about the size of his thumb, edges smoothed down by the waters of the Braa before he spotted it between a few rocks mere days ago and pulled it out. 

After a moment of contemplation, Jaskier lifts it up so that it catches the sunlight. The pretty green fleck of light it throws onto a rock immediately catches the hatchling’s attention.

After a few fruitless attempts of catching it, the dragon is pretty swift in finding the true source of the shimmering spot and it pesters Jaskier with increasingly insistent chirps, while simultaneously attempting to use his body as a stepladder before he lets go of his small treasure.

Jaskier parts from the glass shard less easily than he’d thought but as he bemusedly witnesses how the hatchling carefully carries it away in its teeth, emitting a distinctly proud sounding rumble, he can’t help but snort amused.

He watches on for a while, noting somewhat impressed how the small dragon expertly nudges the glassshard around on a rock of its choosing, until it lays in a position where it perfectly catches the light.

It doesn’t last for long though, as out of nowhere a large shadow blocks out the light overhead.

When Jaskier looks up, he needs a moment to realize that he is staring at the belly of a large form framed by gigantic golden wings that shimmer reddish where the light breaks through the skin.

Jaskier freely admits that he’s gaping, because before all other clashing emotions the sight evokes, his awe takes presidency. 

Meanwhile, the golden dragon folds in a wing to sharply circle back around.
Its form rapidly grows bigger, cutting through the air like a winged serpent as it heads straight in their direction. 

Jaskier has half a mind to jump aside, before the dragon abruptly flares its wings to halt its flight. It lands with the elegance of a jungle cat, muscles flexing beneath its hide, strong legs cushioning its impact with the ground and flattening the grass beneath.
A gust of wind blows Jaskier’s hair out of his face, the scent of smoke and blood wafting through the air.

Vaguely, he’s aware that he has jumped to his feet, while he stares at the enormous head of the dragon, mere horse lengths in front of him. 

There’s no doubt that he's bigger than Jaskier in his draconic form and of a rich golden colour that shimmers warmly instead of a pale silvery way. When the dragon lowers its head closer to the ground like a wolf on the prowl, the armour-like bone plates lining his swan-like neck shine golden in the light. It stalks slowly in a half-circle and the bard mirrors the motions as they gradually take each other in. 

Overall, he appears broader and more massive compared to Jaskier’s lithe draconic form, but he’s still streamlined and agile in a way that seems to be inherent to every dragon - if the way the bard can already spot certain similarities in the still developing hatchling is anything to go by. 

Razor-sharp teeth are bared at Jaskier and a low rumble reverberates through the air. That is until the slitted eyes take note of the sand grey dragon tumbling forth behind a rock and Jaskier seems almost forgotten.

It chirps excitedly at the massive form and the golden dragon rumbles in response. 

A pleasant breeze tugs on Jaskier’s hair. Among the smell of grass, earth and the distant aroma of the forest carried up by the warm air, the bard is able to filter out a hint of an underlying familiar scent beneath the smell of blood and smoke that dominates the dragon’s presence. He reels as he connects the dots. 

"Borch," he croaks.

The dragon tilts its head at him. "You've recognized me much quicker than your companions," his voice suddenly echoes through Jaskier’s mind.

"Ah, well," the bard says, trying to distract from the way he almost stumbled in surprise, "l might have access to certain background information that makes coming to this conclusion much easier."

The golden dragon lets out a deep rumble that would’ve made any animal go silent, but still sounds suspiciously like a laugh.

Not quite knowing how to handle the situation, Jaskier nervously fidgets with the lute strap running over his chest, smoothing it down in a useless motion.

"I imagine you do. I am the dragon Villentretenmerth"

Villentretenmerth . Three black birds. Three jackdaws. 

"Did you know?" Jaskier blurts out the question that has been on his mind from the moment he recognized who exactly this dragon was. His curiosity though doesn’t change the fact that he’s rather disdainful of how awestruck he finds himself in the face of this golden dragon.  He clears his throat and trying for a more casual tone he adds, "From the beginning, I mean.” 

The small hatchling bumps into Villentretenmerth’s legs, demanding attention with a chirp and it takes away some of the regal aura surrounding the golden one’s persona. 

It also makes Jaskier feel a little less self-conscious about the fact that he’s currently facing the dragon in his comparatively measly human form and regaining some of his pride.

"Considering you are speaking in riddles, bard, and I have to rely on my assumptions as well as the small chance that we are speaking of the same thing, can you truly expect me to give you a good answer?" the dragon replies with a tinge of amusement.

Jaskier’s cheeks heat up in embarrassment and perhaps indignance.

"But no. I didn't. I dared to suspect, but even that seemed outlandish to me." Villentretenmerth is arching his magnificent head towards Jaskier, who barely refrains from taking a step back. "Now tell me, bard,” the voice echoes through Jaskier’s mind, while a cloud of hot steam spills forth between the gaps of the dragon's dagger-like teeth, “was I right to suspect? Or is this just a pointless trading of words?" 

Suddenly the bard's mouth feels dry. He swallows. "I'm a dragon," he voices, more of a whisper than anything else. "You were right,” he admits for the first time aloud. Yet as he stares into the pair of slitted eyes, he suddenly feels a strange kind of kinship. He doesn’t like Villentretenmerth, but they are still the same, in a way. 

Jaskier finds himself straightening up, letting go of the lute strap and meeting the golden dragon’s gaze head-on. Because suddenly it doesn’t matter anymore that he currently isn’t sprouting wings or a tail or teeth. “I'm a dragon," Jaskier repeats louder, no longer afraid.

Villentretenmerth rumbles. "How curious. I've only ever met one other like me. What, if I may ask, has made you choose to live among humans?"

Jaskier frowns. "I was born human, as far as I know."

Now it’s Villentretenmerth’s time to sound confused. "You were born human?"

Jaskier refuses to squirm under the scrutinising gaze. “I mean it’s not like I can know for sure, but my parents certainly never mentioned anything of the likes. I doubt they would’ve kept me if I had slid out of my mother’s womb with teeth resemblant to daggers.” He glances at the small hatchling, who’s currently trying its best to climb Borch’s golden tail, chirping in an attempt to show off its green glass shard. 

“And you are sure that you weren’t stolen somehow?”

Jaskier shifts, somewhat uncomfortably. “Well, people used to say I quite resembled my father as a child,” he voices somewhat reluctantly.

“Hm. So you’ve lived among humans for all your life?”

“Pretty much,” Jaskier replies curtly. Kinship aside, there is still a certain indeterminable dislike for Borch simmering under his skin.

The dragon shifts in a serpentine motion. “I only ever knew of another dragoness, who had the ability to change her form. Though she enjoyed humans more for their gold and jewellery than for their nature. I recall her seducing different nobles in order to expand her hoard, but she didn’t take a liking to their race. I am quite the rarity in that regard …as are you as it seems.”

Jaskier takes the words in, barely noticing how he freezes. 

It’s a small possibility, a tiny one, but he knows that his father used to uphold an affair before he was born. His elder sisters still remembered the mistress. And his mother had always struggled to produce the male heir his father had wished for. 

Jaskier looks at the dragon. “Has she ever been to Kerack? To Lettenhove?”

The dragon rumbles and tilts his head.

“I heard she died at the coast, but whether she ever was in Lettenhove, I don’t know.”

It doesn’t prove anything, but Jaskier’s knees still grow weak. His mind is spiralling, trying to fit together the pieces of the shattered beliefs about his past. He thinks he might have to sit down.

“Perhaps it will always remain a mystery,” Borch projects into his mind, effectively pulling him out of his thoughts. “ You might be her legacy, you might not. It doesn’t do well to dwell on things that cannot be changed or solved. We are who we are.”

“We are who we are,” Jaskier echoes and he looks at the hatchling at Villentretenmerth’s feet. Does it really change anything? He stripped himself of his past anyway the day he picked his own name and stepped out onto the road. It’s just like Borch said. What does it matter if his mother were someone different…

“I thank you for protecting mine.” 

“What?” Jaskier looks up, pulled out of his thoughts.

“My legacy.” The golden dragon licks over the small one which flutters with its wings and purrs. “The only way that I’ll prevail. I’ll have to thank the Witcher and the sorceress as well.”

Jaskier huffs, mostly out of habit at the latter and because it’s easier to focus on that than everything else his mind has yet to comprehend. 

Within the blink of an eye, instead of a golden dragon, there stands the man. 

Borch Three Jackdaws. 

Jaskier gapes. He feels a spike of annoyance at how Borch can change so fast. It only increases when the man takes him in and a knowing smirk appears on his face. The bard wrinkles his nose.

“You aren’t very fond of the sorceress, are you?” Borch asks, while he casually crouches down to scratch the small dragon behind its barely developed horns, wrists brushing against the soft scales, undoubtedly leaving a trace of his scent there.

The bard huffs. “What gave it away?”

“The Witcher,” is the amused reply to the rhetorical question. 

Jaskier opens his mouth and closes it again. That is certainly a sore point.

The dragon hatchling is rubbing its head against Borch’s legs once the man has straightened up again. “He’s a part of your hoard, isn’t he?” Borch asks, rousing the bard’s immediate suspicion.

  So in response, he shrugs noncommittally, partly because he doesn’t want to give anything away and partly because he’d never really thought to put a label on his odd habit of collecting people and certain objects. It makes sense though. 

Jaskier also can’t help but latch onto the fact that Borch’s interest in Geralt apparently hasn’t waned. A rather bloodthirsty part within him pictures stabbing the man right where he stands. 

Something seems to have shown on his face because Borch chuckles. “Don’t fret. You have your treasures, I have mine.” When Jaskier stares confused, he indicates the small dragon at his feet.

That certainly lifts a weight of Jaskier he hadn’t even known was there. 

Although Borch still grins at him a tad too smugly for Jaskier’s tastes. 

During their short hike down to the cave, the small dragon runs ahead, goes this way and that way, till eventually Borch picks the hatchling up and makes it sit on his shoulders where it’s perched like an odd bat-winged bird, holding its snout into the breeze to better catch the scents. 

They follow the natural curve of the slope and so it’s only after rounding a particular elevation that they lay eyes on the battlefield.

The mouth and immediate environment of the cave are littered with bodies. Of some, there are only charred and blackened remains left, while others are split in half. A few look like they’ve been struck by lightning, some have been torn apart by magic while others seem to have been dealt with by a simple stab through the throat. 

Where the ground is made up of stone, small rivers of blood have formed only to seep away into the earth next to burnt patches of grass. 

With it comes the typical odour of death. 

A metallic, sickly sweet scent mixed in with the slightly acidic tinged stench of shit where their  bowels were opened. A part of Jaskier believes to be able to take a good guess as to what they had for breakfast. Though that could also be caused by the smell of burnt flesh hanging in the air which for some reason makes him picture a pig on a roaster.

Borch doesn’t bat an eye. Jaskier takes a moment, pausing as he stares at the gruesome remains before he sets himself in motion. 
Grim, animalistic satisfaction coils in his gut when he recalls the conversations the Reavers held on their way up the mountain.

Téa and Véa are nowhere in sight but he spots Geralt, who is standing a bit further away next to a pacing Yennefer. 

Worriedly, Jaskier watches from afar. The wind howls in the wrong direction for him to hear what they speak about but the one or other snippet managing to make its way towards him lets him know it’s everything but pretty.

Geralt’s body language is the best indicator for him to estimate how dire things are. And they are dire - if the bowstring tension the Witcher displays is anything to go by. 

He’s inhumanly still, like a statue while the sorceress is gesturing wildly and yelling. Yesterday’s hairnet is gone, instead, she’s repurposed a white scarf, which she folded and tied around her forehead. It’s that exact scarf which she now rips off her head and throws onto the ground where it goes up in flames.

The small fire goes by unnoticed when Geralt takes a step towards her, arguing back. 

Sparks spray from Yennefer's fingers and the smell of ozone permeates the air.

Jaskier feels no particular desire to get involved in that and so he remains behind, distracting himself by paying attention to the hatchling, who’s snuffling through the grass. That in turn makes him miss the way Borch casually makes his way over to the pair. 

As soon as he does, though, he lets loose a string of curses and jogs after him, scorched grass and gravel crunching beneath his boots. It’s just in time for him to witness Yennefer storming off, leaving Geralt and Borch to exchange a few words. 

Even before Jaskier’s halfway into crossing their distance, Borch heads back, barely twitching at the glare the bard sends him when they pass each other. 

Still, the instinct-driven desire to get over to Geralt is more urgent and thus Jaskier leaves Borch to his own devices in favour of heading over to the Witcher. 

Geralt is staring at the horizon with tense shoulders, his face an emotionless mask. While approaching him, Jaskier takes to sweeping his eyes over the Witcher’s form in a now old ingrained habit. He’s glad to see that Geralt doesn’t seem injured by the initial scuffle, apart from a few scrapes here and there.

Jaskier inhales, wrinkling his nose at the lingering trace of ozone, lilac and gooseberry that overpowers Geralt’s inherent scent apart from a hint of sweat and whatever splattered his clothes in the fight earlier.

The bard spots a small cut above Geralt’s eyebrow, which irks him but has already stopped bleeding thanks to the Witcher’s enhanced metabolism.

It will be healed fully soon, Jaskier tells himself, just like the other marks that were left on Geralt by the Reavers. 

With the confirmation that Geralt is mostly unharmed and the Reavers dead, the intense cocktail of anxiety, tension, nervousness and worry that had kept him on the edge for the last two days seeps out of Jaskier, leaving behind a type of exhaustion that doesn’t sit in his bones but reaches just as deep. 

Only now Jaskier is able to recognize how nervewracking the last 72 hours had truly been. 

He restrains himself from imprinting Geralt with his own scent - a rather prevalent urge after the day he’s had, especially with Borch in this close proximity - but just about. 

“Phew,” Jaskier begins to distract himself from his inappropriate instincts, considering whether Geralt would really mind if he at least brushed his hands over his shoulders, “What a day. I imagine you're probably-”

The expression on Geralt’s face shatters like the silent surface of a lake disturbed by a skipping stone and he whirls around. “Damn it, Jaskier!” he exclaims and the bard freezes mid-motion. “Why is it whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it's you, shovelling it?!” 

Jaskier stands wide-eyed, a hand unconsciously curling around the lute strap running across his chest at the sudden outburst. “Well, that’s not fair,” he manages, thoroughly taken aback. Where the sting of words hit, a flower of hurt seems to bloom in his ribcage.

“The Child Surprise, the djinn, all of it!” Geralt spits, “If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands.”

The words are like a punch to his chest. For once, Jaskier doesn’t feel the urge to break the silence. He swallows every empty platitude that might’ve possibly built in his throat and simply looks at Geralt. He sees the tense lines of his shoulders and face, as well as the aura of anger and hurt surrounding him but they aren’t taken into account. 

Not this time.

Slowly but surely Jaskier feels a shard of ice piercing his heart and spreading its cold into his arms and legs like a lake that’s freezing over. 

His instincts which had seemed so hard to overcome mere moments ago, warring against his rational mind, now barely seem to weigh in.

The moment draws out like a lifetime. Geralt’s words sink into him, not unlike the blood in front of the cave seeping into the scorched earth.

Jaskier feels cold and unmoving as ice. 

He doesn’t even hear himself reply. 

He’s vaguely aware that he manages a, “See you around, Geralt,” before he’s already turning on his heel and numbly walking away. 

A wind is tugging on his clothes and hair and he realises that instead of going back to the camp to join some of the others on their way down the mountain, he’s heading further up, climbing it through non-discernable paths amidst the rocks.
Above him, the sun is standing high in the sky and sweat is pearling down his back.

Eventually, he ends up on a small plateau, legs dangling from the edge as he stares down at the vast expanses of the mountainside with its green forests, gorges and rocky outcrops. A lonely eagle is sailing the winds somewhere over the treetops.

Jaskier stares, taking in the beauty of the sight but feeling like a stranger outside of his skin. He hugs his lute closer, petting its familiar surface. It doesn’t help to ground him.

The sound of boots against gravel alerts him to a presence approaching. For a brief moment, he believes it might be Geralt, who’s come to apologise, but when he looks over his shoulder it’s Borch, who’s illuminated by the setting sun. 

For some inexplicable reason, he feels the urge to laugh. A joyless chuckle makes it past his lips and he turns his attention back to the eagle over the forest.

The steps come closer and eventually, Borch sits down next to him. Jaskier wrinkles his nose. 

“I overheard your conversation,” the other man tells him.

“Privacy’s apparently a foreign word for you,” Jaskier says, but his words lack bite. He absently traces his fingertips over the decorative carvings of his lute.

“I’m sorry for what happened.” 

The bard snorts bitterly at those words. A moment goes by that is spent solely in silence. “What do you want, Borch?” the bard asks and he looks at the man. 

Bright eyes peer at him from beneath chestnut curls. “I find myself curious about you. You and your treasures…” 

Jaskier turns back to look at the horizon. The eagle is gone. 

“My fosterling is quite taken with your glass shard,” Borch adds with certain humour in his voice.

“It was a gift,” Jaskier retorts curtly, barely a trace of emotion in his voice. He just feels weary at this point. It’s like he’s been stripped down to his bones, leaving an empty sack of skin stretching over a fleshless skeleton. 

Hollow, perhaps, would be the word to describe it. 

Borch hums. “For what it’s worth-” he eventually breaks the silence - “I believe the Witcher was wrong.”

Jaskier scoffs bitterly. “Does it change anything, though?” 

“That is up to you, now, isn’t it?” 

Jaskier turns to look at Borch and a spark of annoyance creates a crack in the shell of numbness enveloping his core. Abruptly, he stands up. “I’m leaving,” he announces. 

Taking himself off Geralt’s hands indeed, he thinks with a snort.

“I know,” Borch says and stands up as well. Neither of them bothers to brush the dust off their clothes. Jaskier looks at him, eyes narrowing when he doesn’t make a move to head back to where he came from. Then the bard laughs in sudden and somewhat bitter realisation. 

“You wanted to see, didn’t you? Witness it with your own eyes…”

“Can’t blame a man for being curious,” Borch replies with a shrug and a toothy smile that lacks the sheepishness someone else might display at being seen through.

“Fine,” Jaskier huffs and he sets down his lute with a clang. “But it isn’t gonna be as pretty,” he adds, already unlacing his doublet. 

Borch raises an eyebrow. 

“Not everyone gets to transform within the blink of an eye, like some bloody sorcerer,” Jaskier adds, taking off his belt, pulling first his doublet and then his sweat-stained chemise over his head. His bedroll and blanket are still somewhere at the camp, as are most of his belongings which haven’t been stuffed into Roach’s saddlebags before the hike and which had been considered non-essential, like his razor blade, some of his notebooks and a supply of ink.

He tugs on his boots, first the left and then the right one follows after he’s taken out the dagger. He hesitates a bit to take off the last layer, but then he decides that at this point it hardly matters. Every piece of clothing, he ties around his lute, securing it with his belt. 

Jaskier already knows he won’t come back to collect anything else. Goosebumps ripple over his naked skin but he won’t feel cold for long. 

He always runs hotter as a dragon.

Borch watches on as Jaskier tilts his head to the left and right to stretch his neck. He breathes deeply to overcome his hesitation and then he lets himself fall into the transformation. Jaskier leans into the pain, bones cracking and air tingling around him from the magic. 

It’s a painful process after all those months and he can’t quite muffle all the sounds, but the heat of it all chases away the numbness in his chest. By the time Jaskier has fully shifted, the sensation has subsided, making way for a familiar soreness and he stares down at Borch from above. 

“Magnificent,” the man says, staring at him with an expression that almost borders on awe.

Meanwhile, Jaskier stretches like a cat and spreads out his wings to get used to the sensation again. He flares his nostrils, scenting the air and enjoys the sun warming his back.

He scoops up his belongings rather carefully and then looks at Borch. A moment of silent understanding passes between them and then the man nods at him and Jaskier dives off the plateau. 

It’s a brief fall and the swooping sensation halts when he snaps out his wings and is immediately met with the resistance of the air. 

The sensation of flying is as instinctual as it is familiar, even after all that time. He flaps his wings a few times until he hits an air current that carries him high up into the sky. Not sparing Borch’s shrinking silhouette another glance, he heads into the sunset.

Chapter Text

Jaskier ends up further west than he’d originally considered, namely in Pont Vanis. A journey that on foot would take him at least a few weeks, but only took mere days as a dragon. 
The city lies directly at the coast, with considerable breakwaters forward the sea, over which the high walls and stocky roundels of the fortress are guarding its entrance. 

With Jaskier’s reputation, it isn’t hard to weasel his way back into King Esterad’s court. He’s left most of his belongings with Ger- with the Witcher, a fact that irks him to no end and which is why he’s forced to line his pockets with coins in order to restock - well - on everything.

After the mountain, it hadn’t taken Jaskier long to go through the motions of denial before they had flipped over into anger. 

So what if Geralt had only lashed out because he was still wound up from his fight with Yennefer?
So what if he hadn’t truly meant those hurtful words?

Well, fuck him, because he still said them. 
He threw two decades' worth of friendship back into Jaskier’s face. 

Twenty fucking years he has been Geralt’s friend and now he calls him a shitshoveller?!
Who was it that wanted to go to that goddamned dragon hunt in the first place?! Certainly not Jaskier! And it’s not like he asked Geralt to invoke the law of surprise or to storm into that fucking house in Rinde! 

But if Jaskier’s really such a burden to Geralt, he’ll take himself off his hands. 

He did well before the Witcher, hell - he is a fucking renowned bard - adored all over the continent! He doesn’t need anyone, who doesn’t appreciate his company because he is a fucking delight to be around.
Fuck Geralt and his self-righteous bullshit! 

And that is exactly the approach Jaskier follows. 
That and a hefty amount of vodka aids him in suppressing a feeling that is distinctly not heartbreak. 

No one ever claimed that he was someone who dealt well with emotions either.

It’s rather ironic that his parting from the Witcher and his ensuing steady presence at a royal court catapults Jaskier’s popularity to unrivalled heights. He receives a letter from Valdo of all people, praising him, which is more than he can truly take. 
Days bleed into each other and the nights blur in a breathless frenzy of balls and banquets accompanied by flowing wine, high-pitched giggles and wandering hands. 

Jaskier thrives.

On the occasions when the attention becomes too much and his honeyed smiles and sugary words turn to ash in his mouth, he sheds his courtly finery, dons his worn travel doublet and heads down into the city to wash away the taste with simpler ale and homebrewed spirits in one of its many taverns until he’s either ended up in someone's bed or being complimented out of the door at daybreak. 

He feels a bit like flotsam those days. Free from all ties and bounds weighing him down, aimlessly drifting, simply going where the current guides him. 
And just like flotsam gets washed ashore, many a day he ends up drunkenly staggering along the coastline under a greying sky, filling his pockets with shells and smooth pebbles he finds on the way.
Inevitably, he comes to sit on the sharp rocks, overgrown by barnacles, covered in molluscs and lichens and the tiny crabs crawling around in the small pools, where he stares out at the vast sea in a mocking echo of the time he proposed Geralt to head to the coast together. 

He listens to the crashing waves, the smell of fish and salt in his nose until the sun has concluded its ascent over the horizon.
Only then does he head back to the castle, shedding his melancholy and leaving it in the awakening streets, where he feels like a ghost beneath the rose coloured sky.

The time blurs, winter comes and goes and Jaskier entertains the court, carelessly sleeps around, sings and drinks and indulges in various materialistic trinkets, drowning himself in alcohol and opulence alike.

He is living the hedonistic lifestyle he always envisioned in his youth, but beneath all the pleasures, the trinkets and the trivialities, incongruous but constant anger has settled low in his bones and it simmers just below the surface, where it curls under his skin and behind sharp smiles. 

On the rare occasions when he doesn’t find himself hung-over, Jaskier takes to strolling through the busy markets, mingling with the crowd and admiring the sparkly displays. 

Because apart from the people who are living off of fishery, the majority of the locals are metal workers, miners, goldsmiths or jewellers, whose wares - and the taxes attached to them - make up over a third of the riches collecting dust in King Esterads treasuries.  

It’s inevitably really, that after a while and not in part thanks to his impulsive purchasing, Jaskier finds himself in possession of an assortment of bracelets, sparkling necklaces, silvery rings and even a pair of garish bejewelled earrings he can’t bring himself to get rid off. 

It’s not like Jaskier hasn’t worn jewellery before, but this indulgence usually lasts for about as long as he takes to gamble away his coin and is forced to pawn it or - when that isn’t the case - until he’s travelling off the main roads where any symbol of wealth would only paint a target on his back. 
Now the former indulgence becomes a habit that also comes with the unpredicted but not unwelcome advantage of adding some bite to his punch.

He’s already gained somewhat of a reputation in the taverns and brothels he often frequents, partly as a drunk and partly for his promiscuous nature, but he grows more reckless in his endeavours, picking fights and bedding married women for the thrill and spite of it.

Predictably, it ends with Jaskier drawing the ire of various husbands and suitors and him learning how to work around the tightness of perpetually raw or scabbed knuckles when playing his lute. 
Moreover, the occasional split lip aids him in seducing the usually stuck up female nobility in search of some adventure to spice up their boring lives, which starts the whole circle anew.
It speaks for his skill as a bard and his glowing reputation that he isn’t put out the door - or worse - hanged. 

Still, Jaskier is aware that he’s toeing a line, but it’s not until one particular evening about eight months after the dragon hunt that his recklessness inevitably gets the better of him.  

Namely, the moment he gets jumped by the three brothers and husband of a recent conquest after drunkenly staggering out of his usual brothel shortly before midnight.

His reactions are slowed by the liquor running through his veins, but even if they weren’t - four against one is a rather futile fight. He doesn’t even have time to draw his dagger before he already catches a fist with his mouth.
Afterwards, he’s left, bereft of both his coin and dignity, half-conscious in an alleyway amidst a puddle of his own blood and vomit as well as the stagnant piss of strangers who deigned to use this spot as a toilet earlier.

Jaskier lies there for long moments before he finally finds the energy to sit up.
He groans as he struggles to get upright. 

His head is pounding and the way it hurts whenever he sucks in a breath alludes to the fact that he wasn’t mistaken when he heard a crack upon receiving a kick to his ribs earlier. 
The doublet is sticking to his side, damp from various liquids - he can’t really tell whether it is blood or something else in the lack of light. All he can see is that it’s wet and glistening. 

Jaskier tries to get to his feet, but the ground beneath him is spinning and he lands painfully on his knees.

He remains where he is. 

Eventually, he drags himself over to the nearest wall to lean against, where he takes stock of his injuries. His face feels hot to the touch. His nose might be broken. It sure seems like it. Jaskier can feel his heartbeat through the hot throb of his veins over his torso. 

His mouth is dominated by the taste of blood. 

He spits. 

Idly, he blinks at the tooth in the mud. 

Slowly Jaskier traces over the aching gap and the wobbly one next to it. At least that will be rectified once he’s turned into a dragon and back again. Or gotten really pissed. 
Anger is one hell of a tool to make his teeth grow.

The scabs on his knuckles have opened again. 

Jaskier snorts wetly. 

He got in a few good punches as well. 

Geralt would be proud. 

Jaskier doesn’t know when it starts, but from one moment to the other, the tears in his eyes are no longer caused by the physical aches and reactions of his body. 

He had denied, had distracted himself by burying himself in finery, women and vodka and when that had no longer worked, he had cursed Geralt in righteous anger.
Yet it’s in this filthy alleyway, between a brothel and a spinning house, surrounded by dirt and the stench of his own alcohol-tinged vomit, that the last barriers finally crumble.

Out of the blue, an all-encompassing wave of grief floods Jaskier’s chest. It steals away his breath and chokes his airways with a force that makes him want to vomit.

Perhaps it’s also because of the pounding in his head that doesn’t seem to want to let up. 

The result is the same. 
He coughs and gags, feeling like someone took a knife to his ribs as he expels what’s left in his stomach between his legs. 

When it’s over, Jaskier buries his head in his palms and sobs. 
He cries his eyes out in a way that he hasn’t since he’s been a child.

He doesn’t know how much time has passed when a quiet scraping sound from above echoes through the night, catching his attention. 
Slowly Jaskier looks up. He feels a bit dizzy. 

A dark shape is materialising above the eaves. 

The bard blinks. 
His mind feels like it’s wrapped in silk and his thoughts are only moving sluggishly, but he still narrows his eyes, trying to pierce through the dark.
Jaskier is almost sure that the thing isn’t a hallucination. 

The stench prevents him from picking up on any kind of scent, but the shadowy shape moves quietly alongside the roof. 

Its eyes shimmer a tiny bit lighter than the rest of its body and they stare at each other, Jaskier and the creature. 

It doesn’t attack, curiously enough. Not immediately at least. It just stands, simply staring. Almost… calculating. 

Jaskier wonders whether this is the moment that he’ll die. 
Far from all glory and battlefields but penniless and alone in the gutter next to a brothel. 

Looks like his father was right, after all, Jaskier thinks a bit hysterical.

Within a second everything changes. 

It jumps without a warning. 

Suddenly.

Silently.

Yet instead of Jaskier, it charges at a figure the bard hadn’t even noticed appearing in the alleyway. 

An inferno of flames lights up the night and an inhuman screech tears through the silence. 
For a brief moment, Jaskier can see the creature that is no longer just a shadow. 

It is fucking ugly.

Overall, somewhat resemblant to a naked overgrown bat; sinewy and starved looking with a sunken stomach and long claw-like fingers that seem to possess more joints than humanly possible. Leathery skin flaps like underdeveloped wings connect its arms with its torso and it screams and howls as it’s being burned, wide toothy maw open, displaying crooked rows of sharp yellowish teeth, spittle evaporating in the sizzling heat.

A silvery blade glints golden in the light, attached to it, a person with a chalk-white face and eyes as dark as his hair. 
He moves with light fluid steps, forcing the squirming and screeching creature to stay down with a never-ending wall of flames. 

Jaskier can feel the heat on his skin. Vaguely he notices that the mud beneath his hand hardens and cracks as the raging fire leeches out every liquid in close proximity. 

Suddenly it cuts off, making way for all-encompassing and cold darkness.

He can hear how the scorched creature moves with a last desperate battle cry, followed by the telltale swish of a sword cutting through the air and then a dull thump when its head is being separated from its body.

Jaskier blinks, his eyes slowly getting used to the darkness again, while he’s trying to wrap his mind around the happenings.

There’s some shuffling and a disgusted snort coming from the blurry silhouette standing over the beheaded monster. 

Jaskier finds himself staring at the sword handle sticking over the man’s shoulder, ever so faintly shimmering in the dark. Just like the blade, he holds in his hand. 

A long moment goes by. 

Then another. 

A Witcher, he realises.

Somehow, Jaskier finds this fact terribly funny. 

An amused snort makes it past his lips, although it sounds more like a ragged wet breath.
His ribs ache painfully with the movement.

The dark silhouette of the Witcher tenses and then his head distinctly turns in his direction. A second goes by. Then- 

“Aw, fucking hell.”
Within the blink of an eye, the man has sheathed his second sword, crossed the distance and then he’s crouching down in front of Jaskier. “Where’d it get you?” the Witcher asks.

Jaskier’s halfhearted attempt to bat the gloved hand away is ignored as the Witcher grabs his aching jaw and turns the bard's head.

Eventually, he finds himself staring at twin black voids, where the Witcher’s eyes should be. 
Somehow though, the man still manages to project that certain constipated look that edges on being a mix of annoyance and worry. 

Jaskier can’t help it. 

He bursts into laughter. He laughs and laughs at the hilarity of the situation and he can’t seem to stop, even when snot tears and blood are running down his face in a disgusting mix. 

The Witcher curses quietly. “You were here before, weren’t you?” 

Before the monster appeared he means.
Jaskier wants to congratulate him on his deductive skills, but he’s still too busy laughing hysterically. 

Saved by a Witcher. Again. 

The man mutters another few curses under his breath until he suddenly says, “Get up, you’re coming with me.”
Jaskier doesn’t even have the time to process when he’s already being hoisted up. 
He groans as with the movement his whole side lights up in pain once more. “Come on,” the man says, “help me a bit here,” while he pulls the bard’s arm around his shoulder to support his walk. 

Fucking Witchers…

“You know,” Jaskier slurs, “the one time I try ‘n avoid your kind, you s’ill come and find me...”
He giggles. 

“You’re having a concussion,” the Witcher tells him. 

“Hm,” Jaskier says and considering the pounding in his head is rather hard to ignore, he adds, “Makes sense.”
He breaks into laughter again. Then he groans when his body is jostled. 

The bard blinks once and realises that they’re in another district of the city. He doesn’t recall moving.   

While they’re walking, Jaskier finds himself idly staring at the rows of shiny buttons decorating the Witcher’s jerkin.
“D’ y’ve a tattoo?” he questions, trying and failing to look up at the Witcher’s face.

“What?” the Witcher says, huffing as he readjusts his grip.

“D’you have a tattoo,” Jaskier asks again, more pointedly and rather angry that he has to repeat himself. 

“Why?”

“‘Cause ‘i'm tryna figure’ out, wheth’r you’re that friend of Lambert’s,” Jaskier explains irately and – “Whoa.”

Jaskier almost drops to the ground, the Witcher’s grip slipping before he just so catches him again. 

“You know Lambert?” 

At the questioning tone, Jaskier’s irritation evaporates. “I’m ‘s friend too,” he declares proudly. 

“Lambert has friends?” the Witcher asks, with a hint of humour while he still drags the bard along.

Jaskier snorts. “I know.” He pokes one of the many metal pieces of the Witcher’s chainmail.

“-ey. Come on. There you are.”

Jaskier blinks groggily. “Wha…”

“You almost passed out on me,” the Witcher says. 

“I did not,” Jaskier lies. 

“We’re almost there,” the Witcher tells him. “Why don’t you tell me about how you and Lambert met?”

“Lambert, Lambert…” Jaskier says. Then he giggles. “I wrote him a limerick once, you know.”

The Witcher snorts amused. “Really? I think I might have heard of it.”

“Hmm. Students travel. Songs travel…” Jaskier blinks. Some oil lamps illuminate their way now. “That’s a very shiny necklace you’re wearing,” he compliments the Witcher. “A’fully pretty, really.”

“Hm.”

“You’re supposed to say thank you.”

“Thank you.”

Jaskier tries to fish for the medallion. “Is it a cat?” he asks. 

“No,” the Witcher says and he’s manoeuvring the bard through a stable door. It smells like straw and horses are huffing, some dancing nervously in their presence. “‘s it a horse?” Jaskier asks and then he’s laughing again. “I know it’s not a horse,” he reveals to the Witcher in a whisper. “Horses are for riding.”

“Hmh.”

“And for talking,” Jaskier adds, thinking of Geralt. His mood plummets and he grows quiet. The dark-haired Witcher leads him further, taking him through the stables into the inn attached to it. “Lambert calls his horse, ‘Horse’. Moronic, ‘sn’t it?” Jaskier voices eventually.

“It is,” the Witcher replies

“Do you have a horse?” the bard asks him then, wiping his nose only to regret it immediately because it flares up in pain and they have to make a brief stop during which Jaskier lets loose a colourful string of obscene curses that in that constellation have probably never been uttered in Pont Vanis before. 

“Come on,” the Witcher says eventually, preventing Jaskier from leaving a bloody smear on the wall. “Careful with the steps.” Somehow, he managed to get his hands on a candle, which now illuminates their way. 

Jaskier bristles while the old wood creaks beneath his feet.

He doesn’t need help. 

“‘m always careful,” he replies snippily, as he climbs the steep staircase with the help of the Witcher. 

“Sure you are.”

“You’re all terrible,” Jaskier tells him. “Terrible, terrible Witchers.” 

The Witcher guides him towards a room at the end of the hallway, unlocking the door, while Jaskier is only kept upright by the wall he was placed against. 
When the Witcher turns around to pull him into the room, his silver medallion glints golden in the light of the candle.

“Lambert has a cat,” Jaskier says and promptly bursts into giggles. 

“I doubt that,” the Witcher replies. 

“‘s called Aiden,” Jaskier tells the Witcher, who proceeds to ignore his ramblings completely. 

“You should get out of those dirty clothes.”

“Oho.” Jaskier tries to pull up a flirtatious grin. “You takin’ advantage of a c’ncussed person?”

“You’ve got vomit on that doublet and blood,” the Witcher replies deadpan. “And who knows what else.”

“Piss probably,” Jaskier helpfully adds. 

“Come on.” 

Jaskier peels himself out of his filthy clothes, not without the aid of the Witcher, who eventually puts him into the bed. 

“You should probably see a healer.”

“M’fine,” Jaskier says. “‘s' gonna sleep.” He doesn’t even hear the Witcher replying before he’s out cold. 

“Mhm… what?!” Jaskier grumpily mutters with his eyes closed. There’s a hand shaking his shoulder. 

“Just checking whether you’re still alive,” a vaguely familiar voice says. 

Jaskier squints one eye open, only to be greeted by complete and utter darkness. It’s in the middle of the fucking night. He vaguely gets the impression that this isn’t the first time he’s been woken. 
“You lookin’ to rectify that state?” Jaskier utters into the shadows, uncaring about anything but going back to fucking sleep.  

“No,” the voice says after a moment of silence.

“Good,” Jaskier replies curtly and he nestles himself closer into the sheets, drawing his blanket around his body. “Then, I’d request most kindly for you to f’ckoff.” 
He doesn’t hear the answer that he receives, already drifting off again, but he distinctly catches the name ‘Lambert’.

The first time Jaskier truly regains consciousness and this time all by himself, his whole body seems to ache.
“What in Melitele’s name…” Jaskier sits up, the bed beneath him creaking all the while he’s shielding his eyes from the glaring sunlight which feels like it’s stabbing right through his pupils into his skull. “Urgh.”
His head hurts like someone had tried to use it as a battering ram the other day. 

“Back among the living?” says a somewhat amused voice. Jaskier’s head snaps around. 

In the sole chair next to the dingy table sits the Witcher, his legs casually stretched out in front of him, ankles crossed and a book – Jaskier does have to take another look to confirm that particular item - in a tattooed hand, which he lowers to his lap once the bard looks at him. 

Piece by piece the memories of last night return, from the blurry ones to the somewhat less blurry ones. 

“Gods be damned,” Jaskier mutters and for a brief moment contemplates whether it’s really too late to finish off himself with the dagger he usually keeps on his person. Unfortunately, he concludes as he takes stock of himself, he appears to be more or less naked, which strips him of this possibility. 
Still, he has half a mind to just get up and leave, because he did not sign up to run into another one of these goddamn Witchers. 
Not when he’s already got his hands full with dealing with a headache of this calibre and especially not when his formerly perfectly repressed feelings about a certain other Witcher no longer reside within carefully constructed walls of impassivity.

His breath catches in his lungs at the reminder and bitter sorrow spreads through his torso like a sheet of ice flowers forming beneath his skin. 
Yet it wanes in face of the re-surging irritation at the white-haired bastard who abandoned him on the mountain, as he pointedly reminds himself. 

Jaskier exhales, glancing at the dark-haired Witcher, who’s still sitting in his chair and silently observing the bard.

Fuck. Geralt. Jaskier thinks in sudden indignance. 

His relationships with Witchers didn’t start with the man, so why should he allow him to be the end of it? Just because one of the bunch is a fucking asshole doesn’t mean that the rest of them are hopeless… Lambert after all did come around. And there’s Aiden as well, who has been the charming exception from the beginning, even if he’s a little deranged. 

The Witcher in the chair looks young, despite the dark beard behind which a few pockmarks peak forth and Jaskier can’t help but notice the air of familiarity that encases him. 

Although the man– so far – politely refrained from commenting on the conflict that must’ve been evident on Jaskier’s face, his facial expression betrays his amusement in the way his eyes crinkle at their corners. They are bloodshot, perhaps from the potions he took yesterday and his irises are of a poisonous yellow-green colour. 
He’s met him once before, Jaskier recalls. More than a decade ago but he still remembers the Witcher, if only vaguely. Lambert’s friend. The one with the tattoos who helped him out with a song. 

Coën, his mind suddenly supplies. 

The Witcher keeps silent, patiently enduring Jaskier’s staring with a raised brow. His lips quirk. 

Determined, Jaskier swings his legs over the edge of the bed – and promptly groans almost as much as the roughly timbered frame, bruises he hadn’t even known he’d possessed flaring in hot pain.

“Need any help?” the Witcher asks, casually leaning forward and putting an elbow onto his thigh. Jaskier waves him off, breathing through his clenched teeth as he fights a wave of dizziness.

“Nah, everything’s …perfectly alright. I’m just… gonna sit here for a moment,” he bites out and tries to focus on his breathing.

The Witcher raises his brows but doesn’t comment. 

Good. The least he needs now is someone questioning his choices. 

When a sheen of cold sweat is coating his naked back and the room starts spinning in front of his eyes as he tries to stand up, Jaskier finds that he probably does need some help. 

He is about to admit his prior wrong assessment, when his stomach lurches, bile rising in his throat and he can’t even blink before he’s kneeling on the ground, vomiting into the washing bowl the Witcher had shoved underneath his head in a movement so quick it could’ve been missed.

Jaskier gags as he expels what’s left to throw up from his bowels – that is to say not much apart from bile, whose acidic scent burns in his nostrils. 
The bard blinks away tears, panting heavily before he spits out for the last time, his nausea having abided for the moment. 

His head is still pounding and his body is wracked by shivers. Last day’s drinking bout does nothing to make him feel better. Neither does the beating he received. Both his arms are black and blue with bruises. Exhausted, he drops his sweaty forehead against the cool floorboards while shoving the reeking bowl away from his face. The tinny noise sounds unbearably loud.

He takes a moment for himself. Then, with a raspy voice he utters, “I figure you’re able to point me in the direction of the next best healer. Being a Witcher and all that.” 

“Looks like that’d be for the best,” the man says. 

Once the bard has dragged himself over to the bed, he throws a mournful look at the heap of crusty clothes sitting at the foot of the bed. 
They are caked with vomit, blood and general filth that has dried overnight, which still does little to disperse the stench clinging to them. 
Coën seems to get his dilemma and after a moment offers to lend him one of his shirts. 

Jaskier gratefully accepts and watches Coën dig through his belongings, before he tosses a greyish piece of clothing at the bard. 

The bard doesn’t comment on the state of the tunic, even though it really isn’t the best. Its seams are frayed at the edges and the fabric is thin from wear, especially near the armpits. There’s a hole in the stomach region, surrounded by a stain of indeterminable origin, which Jaskier doesn’t allow himself to question. It also smells enough of herbs and horse to let him know that it had been stuffed into a bag for a while. 

That being said, it’s still more than he expected from what is basically a stranger and it’s soft and mostly clean – unlike Jaskier, who must smell like the fucking alley Coën dragged him out of – and long enough to get away with wearing it without hosen or something of the likes. He girds it with his own belt and slips barefoot into his boots. 

While Coën turns to strap on his two swords, Jaskier pulls loose an offending thread hanging from the sleeve of his tunic and looks around the meagre room to distract himself from another rising bout of nausea. 

He turns his attention to the few belongings strewn about, the saddle leaning against the wall, the rolled-up bedroll placed next to a pair of saddlebags smelling vaguely of herbs and spices, the small vials of scented oils and the book that Coën had to have discarded on the table sometime earlier. 

Were he not still in considerable pain and probably suffering from a head injury accompanied by a horrible hangover, Jaskier might feel awkward. 

After all, Coën pulled him out of the literal gutter yesterday, brought him to his own room where he let Jaskier sleep in his bed and even checked on him. All in all, though, he’s lived through situations way more embarrassing, so this shouldn’t even graze the top five. 

Still, he feels exposed. Perhaps it’s because of last night or perhaps because of the Witcher but his parting from Geralt and the emotions interwoven with this experience are sitting a bit too close to the surface for his comfort at the moment. 

Thus Jaskier’s somewhat relieved when they head outside.

The inn Coën dragged him to is rather close to the sea which means that despite the noises of a busy city and the occasional cry of a seagull, they can hear the distant sound of waves crashing against the shore. The smell of salt and fish overlays the smells of Pont Vanis and the sky is as blue and cloudless as one could wish for on a day in early spring. 

Unfortunately, Jaskier barely has an opportunity to appreciate any of this and they have to stop more than once thanks to the constant state of nausea dominating his already battered condition.

In the instances Jaskier actively fights against throwing up, the Witcher quite chivalrously waits for the bard who finds himself leaning against various buildings, praying to not add another puddle of indeterminable liquid spreading beneath the grooves of the cobbled streets. 

Considering he’s yelled at thrice, once barely avoiding a chamber pot being emptied over his head, it’s quite good that he doesn’t.

Coën eventually leads them to a witch operating from the back of a shady yet well-stocked herb shop, who determines that Jaskier has cracked at least two ribs and indeed broken his nose and is also still suffering from the remnants of a concussion. And that doesn’t even include all the bruising. 
She orders him to rest at least for a week and to abstain from any kind of physical activity, which leads to Jaskier countering with a joke so filthy that the witch looks like she’s one second away from worsening his wounds by a threefold, but which has Coën choking on his own spit as he tries to reign in his own startled laughter. 

After that, the treatment is the opposite of what Jaskier would describe as one administered by a gentle hand. Still, thanks to Coën’s intervention on his behalf and Jaskier taking off two of his more expensive rings to leave as payment, he manages to convince the witch to speed up his healing with a little bit of magic. 

Once they’re unceremoniously thrown out of her door and Jaskier’s headache is solely the relict of a hangover instead of an injury, he takes a minute to collect himself.

His limbs are still tingling with the remnants of magic coursing through his body and he feels his aches wane, even the ones the witch hadn’t paid as much attention to. His concussion feels like it has disappeared completely and his nose appears more bruised than broken now. 

The tooth next to the gap in his mouth is no longer wobbly and when he’s breathing it no longer feels like a hot iron is being pressed to his ribs.

She’d been a surprisingly competent healer, after all. 

That being said, he will have to abstain from performing for at least a week at courtly gatherings because while makeup might be able to hide the unsightly black bruises underlining his eyes – courtesy of his broken nose – the swelling, it certainly won’t hide. 
It wouldn’t do to upset the high born ladies, after all.  

Meanwhile, Coën has taken to casually watching the people walking past, leaning right against the sunlit part of the wall like an overgrown cat. 

For a moment, Jaskier follows his gaze, briefly letting his eyes trail after a woman with a nicely cinched waist who’s hoisting a basket with fresh fish through the street before turning his attention back to the Witcher.  

As if he’d known that he’d been observed, Coën’s poisonous eyes abruptly snap over to meet Jaskier’s. 

The bard clears his throat. “I suppose I should express my thanks, Master Witcher,” he says after a moment. “For all intents and purposes, you probably saved my life. I find myself in your debt.” Coën has turned to face him fully now and if him shifting his weight the way he does is the same tell he shares with Geralt, he is a bit flustered. “Although, given the circumstances and my good fortune, I would advise against the law of surprise, despite the well-known practices of Witchers… In all likelihood,” Jaskier adds after a moment of contemplation, “the unexpected awaiting me is a punch in the face, and while I certainly wouldn't be opposed to giving it up, it would be the least of all courtesies to settle a debt like this with a black eye.”

Over the duration of Jaskier’s unexpected addition to his speech, a mirthful spark has appeared in Coën’s eyes. “Ah,” the Witcher says, casually hooking his thumbs behind his belt as he stretches his face to bask a bit in the sun. A few inked lines decorating his skin peek out from beneath the collar of his jerkin. Even his neck is tattooed. ”I guess I'm not too in the mood to tempt fate today anyway. I'd be content if you joined me for breakfast,” he says, eyes flicking back to look at Jaskier. “What do you say?”

The bard, once having overcome his bewilderment, pulls a face. “I’m afraid, I don’t have any coin to spare at the moment,” he says, granting a mournful glance at his bare fingers, where rings used to sit, while he recalls the pitiful state of his coin pouch. He could go back to the castle, he supposes, to retrieve-

“Paying for one additional meal won’t set me back to the brink of poverty,” Coën replies lightly and Jaskier can’t help but stare at him with a look of incredulity.

“It’s really no trouble,” the Witcher says as if he could smell Jaskier’s scepticism, “Any friend of Lambert’s-”

“Is a friend of yours?” Jaskier intercepts with a raised brow.

“-must have some interesting stories to tell,” Coën corrects and his smile turns into an infectious smirk, causing the moustache portion of his beard to take on a bit of a lopsided shape. 

Jaskier feels his lips quirking into a grin. “Well, if it’s stories you are looking for, my friend, you’ve found yourself at the right place.” 

Over the duration it takes them to stop by and make a purchase at a stall selling freshly smoked salmon – the first one at that, which doesn't try to turn them away with a horrendously inflated price – Jaskier learns that Coën is blessed with the patience of a mother and that he haggles with a politeness that makes the bard look like he’s been brought up in a pigsty. 

Coën also smiles a lot. Genuinely smiles, and rather different from the dangerous thing Aiden calls his own or Lambert’s perpetual smirk. 

By the time they have sat down on a crumbling wall by the shore that smoothly merges with the piled-up stones forging one of Pont Vanis’ breakwaters – each picking apart their respective smoked salmon – Jaskier has yet to overcome his bemusement.

It is quite strange to re-encounter a Witcher whom he hasn’t instinctively already added to his hoard, but Jaskier surprises himself by coming to terms with the fact that he wouldn’t mind Coën joining his merry band of Witchers, which, thanks to his draconic tendencies, he is unlikely to ever get rid of. 

He has also, at this point, relayed a significant amount of his more than questionable adventures, skirting expertly around the topic of Geralt by sticking mostly to his sexual escapades during his early twenties. 

It probably also helps that when they went about their introductions earlier, he panicked and introduced himself as Julian.

“So, you mentioned you were a friend of Lambert’s,” the Witcher says conversationally, taking advantage of Jaskier’s brief bout of silence while he’s attempting to remove a particularly stubborn fishbone from the mouthful he’s chewing on to change the topic. 

When the bard looks up, he’s met with an investigative look that even Coën’s oh-so casual stance can’t hide. 
“Oh that. Yeah,” Jaskier replies, before swallowing.

Coën looks at him expectantly.

“It was a process,” the bard adds then, gesturing vaguely. “After a while-” he picks another few fishbones out of the meat before wiping his greasy hand on his borrowed tunic - “he does somehow manage to grow on you.” 

“Like a tick,” Coën says, rather unlike the persona he displayed earlier, startling a laugh out of Jaskier. 

“Well, he wasn’t too fond of me either in the beginning, to be honest,” the bard admits. “He did send me away with an Axii the first time we ever met if you must know.” 

“That sure sounds like him.”

“Well, I suppose you would know,” Jaskier elaborates. “You were there also, after all.” 

Coën, who’s just been about to start on the second half of his fish, looks up at him surprised. 

“Your aid was very much appreciated by the way. The ballad was quite the success in certain cycles, but it never quite caught on in the taverns and inns. Pity, that,” Jaskier muses, suspiciously eyeing the seagull that has started to circle overhead.

“I’m afraid, I don’t remember you,” Coën says apologetically after a moment. 

“Lambert didn’t either back then,” Jaskier waves him off and then proceeds to lay out the whole story of his second meeting with Lambert. Quite smugly, he relays how he demolished the red-haired Witcher in Gwent, though he does skip over the part where he ended up unconscious in an alleyway. 

After all, Jaskier isn’t actually all that interested in reaffirming the opinion that this is an occupation he pertains to in his free time.  

They are then interrupted rather abruptly by the seagull – Jaskier had unfortunately forgotten about – launching an attack with a nosedive towards a piece of salmon the bard had been gesturing with.

“Shoo- fuck off you bloody beast!” Jaskier curses at the bird, just in time managing to pull his hand out of reach. The seagull caws at the affront and tries to hack at Jaskier’s feet. “Melitele’s dangling-” The bard stops his fruitless attempts at kicking the bird away and turns to look at Coën. “Isn’t that your job?”

“Killing birds?” the Witcher replies amused, leaning back onto his hands. He, unlike the bard, has already finished his meal and thus has little to fear from the bloody bird.

“Ridding the world of pests threatening human existence,” the bard replies in between fighting off the vicious attacks of the cawing beast.

Coën hums, feigning thoughtfulness in a display that reveals that the inherent witcherly trait of being a bastard didn't fully pass him by like Jaskier had originally assumed. “I suppose I could make an exception,” he says. “Though I’ve never fought a seagull before.” Coën grins. “How much do you think the kill would be worth? Twenty bizants, thirty?”

Jaskier curses and Coën laughs.

All in all, they survive the encounter with the seagull unharmed and the bard, rather satisfied, watches it choke a bit on the leftover fishbones after they’ve abandoned their spots. 

For one reason or another, while they head back to the inn Coën is staying at, they somehow end up having a surprisingly in-depth conversation about how King Esterad’s recent trade policies influence the local jewellery guilds and their economic impact on the locals. 

After that the topic shifts to that of literature – Jaskier having recalled the book Coën had read earlier – which leads to the Witcher freely admitting that it’s a pasttime he only recently picked up. 

The bard doesn’t hesitate to recommend him some works, sharing details about various authors he’s had the pleasure as well as displeasure to get to know personally, not failing to mention his own ‘dabblings’ in the craft, as well as the two volumes of poetry he’s had published.

As it is, Jaskier as a bard at court has certain obligations, the most pressing of which being that he actually has to be present during mealtimes at the castle to provide suitable entertainment or at least a good excuse for his absence, which is why he has to part from Coën sooner than he finds himself wanting to.

Nonetheless, Jaskier makes sure to lay it on a bit thick when he returns to relay his story, which culminates in an errand boy being sent out to track down and present Coën with a sizeable pouch of coin for saving King Esterad’s beloved court bard from a group of thugs in addition to his earnings from his contract for the Fleder. 

On a whim, he dedicates a small song to the Witcher, which becomes quite popular with the locals under the title “The knight of Poviss”. Jaskier supposes it’s the least he can do to make the man’s life a bit easier. 

Chapter Text

In hindsight, the day he met Coën is a turning point for Jaskier. It’s both the waymark indicating his lowest point since the dragon hunt and a new beginning of sorts. 

He stops sleeping around as much by refraining from bedding the – majority of – married nobility and manages to restrict his excesses to once a fortnight. Instead, he channels his feelings into composing with almost feverish zeal. He fills two journals, with drafts, melodies and poems and resumes his correspondence with various old acquaintances, discussing his creative progress and the rising political tension in the south. 

And if the one or other deprecating ditty regarding a certain white-haired fighter and his lack of prowess in the marital chambers find their way into his repertoire, he is not to blame.

All in all, Jaskier spends a rather productive year in Pont Vanis before the beginnings of a new winter make themselves known by leaving him drowsy and with the urge to hide away his growing collection of shiny trinkets in the Mahakam Mountains. 

He hasn’t yet overstayed his welcome at court, which is a surprise as well as not considering King Esterads fondness of him. Jaskier wisely had never even attempted to bed his wife, which might have played a significant part in this. Still, it won’t hurt to leave before he does. 

Thus, in late October, Jaskier packs his stuff, as well as a sizable pouch of his earnings and heads out into the countryside. Once he deems himself far enough away from any human society he shifts and heads for the old familiar gorge in the south. 

Life as a dragon is simple in a way that being a human is not and it’s something he hadn’t even known he’d been craving.

The first thing Jaskier does after he arrives at the familiar rocky outcrop is adding to the collection of pebbles, glass shards, colourful pieces of cloth and the occasional gemstone crowding the natural shelves in the inner wall. 

He makes a place for his collection of seashells, granting the hardened remnants of a starfish a special place up top, as well as his accumulated heap of round pebbles he fished out of the shallows of the ocean. Jaskier takes his time to organize his treasures until everything is placed accordingly, even the few pieces of jewellery that are a surprising but not unwelcome addition.

When he turns his attention to the collection of journals and drafts he keeps in a wooden trunk he managed to haul up here some winters ago, he notes somewhat sadly that it’s been a while since he added some flowers to his hoard as well. He pets over the dried remnants of a pressed dandelion stuck in between the pages of an old journal before he puts it back, stowing away his most recent notes alongside the five bottles of wine he swiped from the castle prior to his departure. 

Once he’s more or less rubbed himself over every available surface to renew the faint scent marks surrounding the area of his gorge, he falls into a routine of hunting, flying and sleeping, only interrupted by the occasional visit to the village a bit further down the mountain whenever he craves company. 

Days bleed into weeks, snow begins to fall until it cloaks everything in a glittering layer of white. Soon the dark lake where he first spotted his reflection as a dragon has frozen over as well. 

The winter solstice comes and goes, only noticeable by an increase of magic in the air and the fires that have been lit in the distance.

Jaskier spends a few good days working on his songs and learning of the rumours in the village, speculating about him being some kind of minor forest deity, which is really the most interesting thing to happen to him all winter. 

It’s around early January that Jaskier’s comfortable routine gets disturbed by a new scent invading the area. 

At first, it’s barely noticeable. Only a hint carried up solely by the winds. But the more he flies around, the more Jaskier stumbles upon it, yet is never quite able to pinpoint it.

It irks him, like a pesky fly buzzing around his head. The closest comparison he comes up with is the memory of when Geralt missed a piece of monster gunk after cleaning his amour that got stuck during a hunt. It turned from an almost overlooked smell to a horrendous sour odour of constant rot and it took them six days to find the source of the stench. Afterwards and on Jaskier’s insistence – though Geralt hadn’t complained much either – they had cracked open a celebratory bottle of vodka simply for the hell of it.

Just like then it’s a smell that’s as unpleasant as it’s annoying and Jaskier finds himself growing restless with it. 

It goes like this until the temperatures slowly rise, sunlight thawing the frozen lands and creating rivers and streams that wash away the debris and rotten leaves that have accumulated before the first snow fell. 

His frustration borders on aggression when he finally picks up on a fresh trail and is able to track the scent down to a cave a few miles north of the village he occasionally frequents. 

All in all, it appears like a small rock formation sticking out of the mountain, as such creating a natural clearing between the evergreen trees. Jaskier arrives just in time to spot a movement at the dark mouth of the cave entrance. 

At first, it simply appears as if a shadow were separating itself from the dark. From this distance, it looks no more threatening than a black dot in the green landscape. 

Jaskier dives down a bit further and his initial impression is that a wyvern has made itself comfortable on his mountain, but rather soon he realizes that it’s something else entirely. 

While it does have wings like those of a bat, black and sleek, there is dark fur that somehow turns shinier and shinier until it smoothly bleeds over into a tail that resembles that of a scorpion.

It also seems to be struggling with something, too occupied in its task to notice the threat circling overhead and Jaskier is rather glad about the low standing sun; otherwise, his shadow below would’ve betrayed his presence. 

The bard then flies another circle and suddenly he can see that the beast isn’t struggling with something but rather someone. A person the creature has apparently dubbed its most recent meal. There’s a ripping sound and then Jaskier watches the bloody remains of an arm flying through the air, landing on the ground next to the other bones strewn around the cave entrance.

Jaskier feels his stomach drop. Before he’s made a conscious decision, he’s already shifting his wings so that the winds carry him up further into the clouds and away from this horrid creature.

He avoids the area in which the beast is living afterwards. Still, as time goes by, he encounters the scent of the monster in regions closer to his own lair and it becomes apparent that the beast is growing bolder and bolder alongside the rising snowline.

Jaskier knows he has to act, because as things are currently he feels uneasy leaving his gorge and especially the hoard in there vulnerable. He even cuts out his visits to the village in order to keep a keen eye on the surroundings of his own hideout. 

That turns out to be a rather grave mistake as one day when Jaskier is out hunting, he hears the shouts of an angry mob and sees torchlight flashing through the trees.

When he flies over the beast’s clearing four days later, it’s been turned into an unholy graveyard, the ground churned and littered with bodies.

Jaskier knows then that he can’t wait any longer. He allows another day to go by in which he decimates the penultimate bottle of his wine stash, knowing there is no solution but to confront it. 

Still, waiting at the creature's lair for it to return seems rather foolish. There he’s out in the open in an area he’s not really familiar with. 

The best course of action would be to stalk it and attack when it’s distracted or at least, doesn’t see him coming, which is why two days after he’s made a decision, he’s circling around the area of its lair, in an attempt to find a spot where he can lie in wait, preferably downwind so as to keep the thing from smelling him. 

He flies a bit around till he finds a stream close by where he lands more or less gracefully on the rocks next to the gurgling body of water. His silvery scales aren’t really a practical disguise amongst the evergreens. Especially now that spring has taken over and wiped away even the last traces of snow in these parts of the mountain.  

Overall, Jaskier more or less hopes that the greyish rocks and glittering waters serve as sufficient replacement. Even if they don’t, he figures that the fact that he can take off quickly without being hindered by the trees is advantageous enough.

Jaskier takes his time inspecting the area, which would actually be quite nice with the gurgling stream, small beach and sunlight warming it, were it not for the foul smell of the creature hanging over it all like a repulsive omen of death.

As if on cue, the sound of an unholy screech tears through the air, effectively silencing every bird in the area. 

Jaskier rises with a fluid motion, every sense of his focusing on the sound echoing from the mountains.

It seems as if his time of idle sitting around has run out. 

It’s maybe half a mile to the den of the monster and so he takes off and lets his wings do the work. Once he’s attained the height where the different currents of air mix it’s easy to simply sail on the winds. 

Yet even before he completely reaches his destination, he can already tell that he isn’t the only one in the air. 

Immediately Jaskier works to gain some height, to hide from the monster that circles the clearing like a vulture. 

The reason for it isn’t hard to detect. Because right amidst the carcasses of the creature's former victims, a dark figure is standing in the clearing, the glinting blade of his sword catching the light. 

Abruptly, the monster dives down and swipes after the man.

Bat-like wings obscure Jaskier’s sight. 

Just when the fatal impact seems inevitable, the monster veers off course with a piercing screech, crashing into the ground. The sound of its impact echoes from the mountainside. 

It’s already back on its feet while Jaskier is still trying to wrap his head around what unnatural force could’ve compelled it to fail so spectacularly.

The creature proceeds to retreat with a beat of its wings, somehow managing to use its claws to climb the almost vertical wall of the rock formation.
It hangs like the mockery of a terrible and dangerous spider, earning itself a – what the fuck – from its human opponent before whipping its tail in a swift stabbing motion.

An acrid smell spreads through the air. 

The Witcher - because who else would be idiotic enough to fight a beast like this on his own - jumps and rolls in an attempt to dodge whatever attack the creature has launched, cursing when he crashes through the remains of a human ribcage and shaking off the slimy remains of rotten flesh with a disgusted expression on his face. He is quick. But the beast immediately follows up its first attack by launching a second, diving at its opponent. 

Instead of jumping away, the Witcher this time heads for the creature, diving and rolling beneath its outstretched wing, before immediately slashing at the monster from behind. 

It whirls around, black and silver clashing. 

A shout. 

Jaskier feels a spike of hot anger curl in his stomach. 

In a split-second decision, he dives down, just as the beast turns to strike again. Quick as lightning he tears into the monster’s wings with his talons before he lands on the rock formation that towers over the clearing, stones toppling beneath his claws as he turns in a serpentine motion.

The creature screeches and hisses, pained and furious, trying to lick at its wounds.

For a brief moment, Jaskier finds himself meeting the black-eyed gaze of the Witcher before the latter shakes off his bafflement and uses the opening the monster’s distraction grants him.

Like a silver whirlwind, he moves, but the monster is just as fast. The Witcher has to abort his attack before, sloppily jumping aside and the monster’s jaw snaps shut around nothing but air.
But only just. 

The Witcher staggers and only now does Jaskier notice that he must be injured, a red stain developing on his chest. He feels a brief predatory spark jolting through his limbs. 

In his distraction, he almost misses the monster whipping its tail in another aborted movement.

The Witcher doesn’t. He forms a sign, which manifests in a distortion of air, creating an intriguing shimmer where the light breaks, in an attempt to shield himself from the projectiles whistling toward him.

It’s not enough. A curse, the smell of acid and fresh blood and the Witcher drops down onto a knee.

The creature hisses victoriously and Jaskier’s head instinctively turns. 

The fucking audacity…

It isn’t only hate that has his muscles tautening, but an animalistic territorialism that reaches its peak when the monster stalks towards the Witcher and clouds his mind in a red haze. A low thunder-like rumble builds in his chest and tears free in a bloodthirsty snarl. 

A vortex of air is created when Jaskier rips open his maw, magic humming around his head as an inhuman heat begins to crawl up his throat. Not even a second later, the energy erupts like a volcano and a wall of flames cuts through the air.

It engulfs the creature and it screeches again, twisting in the fire, shrivelling, attempting to get away, but its wings are too damaged and Jaskier is relentless in his attack. The Witcher behind it doesn’t waste his opportunity to create some distance but even he must feel the intense heat on his skin.

After the first burst, Jaskier leaps onto the clearing. The monster is spitting and hissing, the remnants of its lion-like mane still smoking and full of glimmering sparks.

A low growl vibrates in Jaskier’s throat as the creature turns to face him.

Greenish spittle is dripping from its fangs as it roars, displaying the three consecutive rows of teeth it possesses. The scent alone is so awful, so wrong that it’s easy as breathing to let fiery destruction rain down upon the unwanted aberration once more.

The creature squirms and howls in the flames for a few, seemingly endless, moments. It lashes out again in a desperate attempt, but Jaskier dodges before he can think about it. It misses. 

It can’t match his agility, not in this form and not when it’s that damaged. With a beat of his wings, Jaskier shoots forward, snapping his teeth and the monster pulls back hissing. 

They circle each other like prowling wolves, baring their teeth, growling. It shakes its damaged wings, stretching them to the sky and the movement obscures the motion it makes with its scorpion-like tail. But Jaskier can smell the acid when it shoots its venom. 

The projectiles that still hit him bounce harmlessly off his golden scales. Jaskier’s lips curl back revealing even more of his teeth in the mockery of a vicious grin. 

It’s his turn now. A skull cracks beneath his claws when he digs his heels in and then pounces.  

The beast meets him head-on, but Jaskier has predicted this. He twists out of the way in a fluid motion, using his wings to his advantage and strikes. 

The monster howls as it’s partially blinded by his sharp claws. Jaskier doesn’t wait another second. 

Fangs meet flesh.

A yowl dies in the monster’s maw when Jaskier clamps his teeth shut around its throat. Its spine crunches under the force of his jaw.

Hot blood wells forth, pouring into his mouth, contrasting strangely with its repulsive tasting skin.

Muscles straining, Jaskier tosses the creature aside, its neck fully snapping with the motion. 

Unable to move, it crashes into the bone-littered ground, where it lies limp, shallow breaths interrupted solely by the occasional whimper. 

Meanwhile, Jaskier takes his time licking the remnants of its spicy blood from his fanged maw. A satisfied rumble builds in his chest. 

Suddenly, a quiet groan disturbs the air. 

Jaskier had almost forgotten about the Witcher. 

He turns his head with renewed focus and there he is. Barely sitting upright and shakily pointing his sword at Jaskier. 

The silver blade glints prettily in the light. A few drops of dark blood are still clinging to its tip. 

Intrigued, Jaskier slowly prowls closer. 

Red wells forth behind the grooves between the Witcher’s silvery armour, creating small rivulets made of blood. Its scent hangs in the air like a metallic veil even more penetrable than the sweet odour of the carcasses left and right. 

Meanwhile, the silver blade has begun to almost sparkle in the light. It glitters in the sun like rippling water, drawing him in.

It takes Jaskier a long while to realize that the effect is caused by the Witcher’s wavering grip. He’s grunting with the effort it takes him to keep his weapon up. 

The heady scent of blood wafts through the air like lilac in summer. 

Jaskier looks at the Witcher. With a dull sound, the sword hits the ground. It no longer shimmers in the shadows. 

Jaskier huffs. Slowly he motions closer to the man, till he almost noses at his grimy boots.

Beneath all the blood, filth and rot, he smells like horse and leather and dried herbs in a way that comes remarkably close to Geralt. 

With new unwavering focus, Jaskier proceeds to take the man in, staring at him as a cat might stare at a point of light.

An interested rumble reverberates in his chest. 

In his head, a small voice reminds him that he probably should stop what he’s doing as the Witcher holding his attention captive is currently looking rather shaken despite the fact that he steadfastly meets the gaze of a being that with a little effort probably could swallow him whole. 

“Fuck,” the Witcher grunts. He blinks at Jaskier, his eyes as black as the night from all the potions that he took, pupils swallowing up an eye colour that would’ve otherwise certainly been lovely. “’guess it could be worse,” the Witcher rasps and lets out a delirious chuckle. “-least it’s not ghouls…” 

Jaskier flares his nostrils to catch more of the scent, causing a few strands of the Witcher’s hair to flutter in the breeze caused by his breath. 

“A manticore, a Witcher and a dragon meet in a clearing…” the Witcher slurs. A hoarse laugh spills over his chapped lips, making him sound a bit mad. 

He stares and suddenly raises a hand, resting it in the space between Jaskier’s nostrils. A pleasant warmth radiates from the man’s palm and the vibration of the magic he emits hums all the way through his skull. 

Jaskier freezes. 

For a brief moment, his instincts retreat, and his more rational mind regains footing. 

This is the first touch he’s felt in weeks and it’s from a delirious Witcher who’s probably in the throes of dying from blood loss. “I guess it would be too much to ask you to leave a leg or so so that the locals don’t think I took off with their money, would it?” the Witcher utters. Then the hand slips from Jaskier’s scales, his eyes roll back and he loses consciousness.

Jaskier blinks and then a distressed sound tears out of his throat.

His instincts go haywire for a brief moment but thankfully, before he goes through with licking the Witcher’s lifeless form to wake him up, he manages to pull himself together enough to force himself into the transformation.

A tingle jolts down Jaskier’s spine and spreads over his skin before he feels the telltale crack of his bones. He growls in pain as his skeleton shifts beneath his skin, shrinking and taking on another form. 

When it’s finally over, his body is aching with the aftershocks and Jaskier is breathing heavily as he presses air out of his burning lungs. 

Blinking away tears and spitting, to get rid of the taste of strange and acidic blood in his mouth, he tries to stand. Almost immediately, he falls again, having yet to get used to not overbalancing for the missing wings and tail. 

Hoarsely, Jaskier curses and tries again while he grits his teeth against the penetrating odour of the manticore and the rotting bodies, which - while having faded into the background - bother him much more as a human. 

Apparently, Jaskier muses once he’s back on his feet - somewhat apathetic towards it at all at this point - it doesn’t take much more than being a bloody Witcher these days to evoke an instinctual wave of draconic protectiveness to well up within him that comes with the territory. 

Literally. Because the man in front of him is undeniably injured. And with every sluggish wave of metallic smelling blood, something sour and acidic wells up as well.

Suddenly the Witcher groans, his eyes rolling feverishly behind their lids.

Shit. Right.

With his draconic instincts no longer dominating his every move, Jaskier is finally able to take stock of the true extent of the Witcher’s injuries. 

His legs are trembling as he kneels down next to the unconscious man. 

The Witcher’s dark hair is stopping short a little below his ears, the strands at the front just long enough to be tucked behind them, would he want to. Right now they stick to his sweaty skin, partly obscuring a disfiguring facial scar. 

It looks a bit like the remnants of some sort of claw mark. 

There’s a diagonal somewhat jagged line trailing over the Witcher’s nose and carving through an eyebrow, but that is nothing compared to the twisted counterpart running parallel to it.
Although this one too still starts out as only a small nick between dark stubble on his chin, it soon turns deeper, cutting right through his mouth where it etches a permanent nook into his upper lip before the knotted tissue on his cheek splits into two wicked grooves curving all the way to his ear, contrasting starkly against the already sickly pallor of his skin.

They must’ve been grave wounds once upon a time, but right now more gruesome is the fresh injury on his chest.

Somewhat hysterical, Jaskier notes that he hasn’t been in a situation like this since he left Geralt’s side over a year ago. 

“Alright,” he tells himself, voice still a bit rough around the edges. “You can do that. Come on.” Jaskier inhales deeply to calm himself but regrets it immediately, wrinkling his nose at the stench prevailing in the clearing. 

Still, he focuses. “So. Injuries…” Jaskier starts anxiously, as he attempts to remove the remains of the man’s torn leather jerkin. At this point, it is soaked with blood and the chainmail shirt beneath is obviously punctured. A few wicked looking spines are embedded in the flesh of the Witcher’s thigh, which Jaskier only now notices. But he’ll deal with that once the man is no longer bleeding out right where he sits.

Jaskier continues to struggle a bit with the Witcher’s jerkin before he finds the man’s knife. After that, he’s simply cutting it off, which goes a lot smoother. 

The chainmail shirt, on the other hand, proves to be more difficult. It looks to be an old thing, patched more than once and with frayed edges betraying that it hasn’t been sleeveless from the get-go. In the end, Jaskier has to pull it over the unconscious Witcher’s head, alongside his blood-soaked shirt. The man, apart from a few groans, doesn’t stir once.  

Still, Jaskier finds himself rattling off apologies with the one or other curse strewn in between. Yet it all stops cold when he’s confronted with the man’s wounds.

Jaskier’s stomach feels like it’s been dropped into a bucket full of ice at the sight. 

He curses violently.

Eventually, Jaskier’s pulled himself together enough to get a good view of the situation. From what he can see once he’s wiped away the majority of the blood, four gory punctures decorate the Witcher’s chest. At least two of the marks appear fairly shallow after that, but the other two… less so. 

Another surge of dark blood wells forth, obscuring the gory edges of the wound.

Fuck. 

Jaskier has nothing to stitch them nor something to wrap them with. A fact which he only notices when he wants to reach for the bag he usually keeps on his belt but instead has to realize that he’s stark naked. 

If his chuckle sounds a bit hysterical, there’s no one here to point it out to him. 

Cursing and for lack of anything he can do, Jaskier takes stock of the second injury. 

With a relieved sigh, he notes that it doesn’t look as brutal as the claw marks. Still, the slim spines sticking out of the Witcher’s thigh do have a vicious quality to them. He isn’t bleeding much there, but Jaskier knows that Witchers generally do better if the foreign object is pulled out of their body if it’s not plugging up a vital artery or something of the like. 

Jaskier considers the spines for a long moment, their almost translucent quality and the smaller spikes branching out from them. 

Determined, he eventually picks up the pieces of the already ruined leather jerkin. He doesn’t particularly feel the urge to impale himself with them, so he cuts off two strips and wraps them tightly around his palms. 

Only then does he starts to pull the spines out. One at a time. Each one comes out with a gross sound accompanied by a small gush of blood. It takes more effort than he thought, especially, since the things are longer than they originally appeared, but he thankfully manages to get them all without one breaking. When he’s gathered them, Jaskier tosses them into what looks like the remains of a human ribcage a little further away. Grossed out, he wipes his hands on the grass. At least this way he knows that he won’t step into them later on.

The Witcher doesn’t complain throughout the whole ordeal. He doesn’t even twitch. Jaskier checks if he’s still breathing and when he does, he stands up. Anxiously, he notices that there isn’t a bag with potions anywhere. Only two empty vials on the Witcher’s belt.

Said Witcher still smells a bit of horse which means that he must have left it around somewhere. And if he’s only the slightest bit like Geralt, that does mean that he’s got his supplies there too.

Now only to find this damn animal. 

It shouldn’t be too far away. Steeling himself, Jaskier looks around. Inevitably his eyes fall onto the manticore. The monster’s still lying on the clearing where he tossed it. Its chest is moving shallowly. 

A bitter wave of revulsion wells up in Jaskier’s stomach. He finds himself baring his teeth at the creature, limbs trembling with anger. 

Bloody Skamelar.

He doesn't really question what drives him to do it, but within a few strides, he’s picked up the Witcher’s silver sword.
It scrapes against the ground with a metallic sound when Jaskier pulls it up, both heavier and much lighter than expected. The bard’s hands are still slippery from the Witcher’s blood.
A cold kind of fury takes hold of him as he looks at the manticore.
Determined he steps over the remains of men and animals alike as he makes his way over to the beast.
Jaskier stops in front of its head. It’s gigantic now that he’s looking at it from a human scale.
Cold wet eyes stare at him.
It hisses while its tongue is hanging out of its maw and it breathes shallowly. 

Death and decay are all that it exudes.

Jaskier doesn’t feel pity when he raises the sword. 

The blade sings when it cuts through the air before it meets resistance in form of flesh and bone. The sword gets stuck halfway through and Jaskier has to pull it out again and swing once more. He hacks away, just where the mane is the thickest. 

Its head rolls one - two feet away from the body, soaking the ground with blood and gore. 

Jaskier stares for a moment and then averts his eyes. His gaze falls upon the Witcher and determination replaces the conflicting feelings within him.

He shoulders the sword, blood dripping from the silvery blade. He has to find a horse.

The bard heads downwind as he weaves his way through the trees. The sweat that had stuck his hair to his nape slowly cools and goosebumps travel over his spine. 

The forest is silent here. No living being stayed around the manticore’s den.

Pine needles poke Jaskier’s naked feet as he walks, and he grows painfully aware of how slow he is moving when he’s not relying on four limbs to do so. 

But it wouldn’t do to spook the horse so he just hurries up. 

In the end, luck is on his side. It doesn’t take long for Jaskier to stumble upon an abandoned camp, with a cold firepit and a grey gelding in a full bridle, with saddlebags on its back. There is a steel sword strapped to its side.

Jaskier approaches it slowly and despite the fact that he is not wearing clothes and that he’s smeared with blood the horse approaches him readily.

“You are awfully trusting for a Witcher’s horse. Someone ever tell you that?” Jaskier mutters as he grips the horse’s reins. It huffs on his face with a bored look. “Let’s hope you are a bit quicker on your feet than your mind…”

Jaskier rounds the horse until he’s standing on its side and he takes a moment to rummage through the Witcher’s belongings till he finds a second pair of braies. 

Jaskier is open to many things, but even he draws the line at riding a horse with his dick flapping in the wind. He puts them on quickly and then swings himself into the saddle. It’s been a while since he’s ridden, but it’s not like it’s a skill one forgets. 

The horse’s ears flick back and it whinnies nervously at the unfamiliar weight, but its trusting attitude enables Jaskier to calm it down with only a few soothing words. 

“Come on, now,” Jaskier tells it and the animal obeys readily when he clicks his tongue. He can’t ride too fast with all the trees in the way, but despite that, he’s back in the clearing relatively quick. The horse gets more nervous the closer they get to the fighting ground, prancing in huffing - Jaskier can’t really fault it with the stench of death everywhere, but it obediently follows his command despite it.

When they break through the treeline Jaskier can already tell that something is wrong. He doesn’t know what it is but the Witcher is just too motionless.

“Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Jaskier curses and virtually jumps off the horse’s back and grips the saddlebags. He doesn’t even care that the Witcher’s bedroll falls onto the muddy ground.

The horse throws its head back and it shies away at the rough treatment, but Jaskier ignores it.

He sprints over to the Witcher, stepping into a carcass along the way, bones breaking beneath his feet like dry leaves, and something sticky clings to his skin. “Oh gods, oh gods,” he says and he drops down next to the unconscious man. “Urgh, this is so gross. You are going to hear all about that once you’ve stopped bloody dying on me! Fuck!”

The man’s chest is no longer moving. His lips are blue, causing Jaskier to let loose a string of curses. 

His mind is racing. Blood loss shouldn’t do that to a person. Then his eyes fall onto the man’s thigh. Apparently, the claw marks aren’t the problem here. “Venom…” Jaskier mutters in a sudden epiphany. Good thing he pulled out the spines. Frantically, he rummages through the saddlebags. 

Food rations, a razor blade, ink, a few books - one of which a volume of rather scandalous poems if the glimpse Jaskier got of the title is anything to go by - various herbs and then what he was looking for. A smaller bag containing a sewing kit and finally there are the potions.

The bottles clink together while he’s agitatedly searching for the right one. “Shit, shit-” Jaskier curses under his breath until he finds the one he’s been looking for with a triumphant, “Yes!”

It’s the same rust-coloured concoction, that he’s seen Geralt downing dozens of times and he palms it like a treasure when he turns to the Witcher, whose eyes stare up at the sun, glossy and unblinking. He knows he needs another potion for the venom, but Geralt always took this one to heal faster so he doesn’t think it will do any bad.
“Hope you don’t bite me now,” Jaskier says and he grits his teeth when he tries to pour the potion down the Witcher’s throat. He spills some because of the shaking in his hand and the intense tingle flitting over his skin. He ignores it while massaging the Witcher’s throat and simply hopes that nothing got into his lung. 

Then he rummages through the bags again. There has to be another potion, one he’s seen Geralt drink after he’s been poisoned by some kind of creature and he curses himself for not having paid closer attention.

He can only take a wild guess and picks one of a pale golden colour, which reminds him of watered-down ale. Its smell is somewhat familiar which has to be good enough. 

This time, Jaskier takes great care to not spill anything as he makes the Witcher drink it and just hopes that he didn’t accidentally kill him by doing so. 

It can’t be a good sign that man still isn’t moving.

“Fuck, come on. Breathe you fool!” Jaskier yells after a long moment of staring, which probably isn’t the best solution to this problem. The claw marks on his chest are still bleeding. “Shit!” The bard wipes a hand over his face, and then suddenly the Witcher’s chest rises as he inhales with a raspy sound. “Fuck yes! Here we go. Good Witcher – yes!” Jaskier says relieved, a weight falling from his chest.

After that, the man breathes irregularly and shallowly but at least he breathes. Jaskier grips the sewing kit. He finds the telling curved needle and pulls a thread through the small hole. He wishes he had some alcohol to disinfect the wounds on the man’s chest, but all he finds is a waterskin. 

Still, he begins to clean the claw marks as best as he can before he starts to stitch the frayed edges of the wounds together.

The tingle he feels whenever his hand brushes against the Witcher’s skin surprisingly helps to calm him once he’s gotten used to it despite still being somewhat distracting.

Jaskier’s fine motor skills apparently haven’t suffered from the lack of practice during the last few months but it’s not his best work. Still, wonky stitches are better than no stitches and after a bit of rummaging, he manages to find some bandages in the bag too.

Although he can’t wrap the Witcher’s chest as long as he’s lying down, he can at least take care of the man’s leg. What he sees of the punctures appears red and infected. He washes out these wounds too and a sickly-looking viscous fluid oozes out of them alongside blood. Jaskier grimaces at the sight and he’s rather glad when he’s covered it all up.

When he stands up and looks at the Witcher, his face has regained some colour and his breathing has evened out. 

Jaskier exhales relieved. He stuffs the man’s belongings back into his saddlebags and throws them over his shoulder to get them back to the horse.

He spots it near the trees. This time he takes great care to avoid the carcasses on the ground. 

His diet and lack of squeamishness as a dragon aside, half-rotten torsos aren’t exactly a pretty view and he wouldn’t want anyone to step into his dead body either.

The sight of the dead Manticore on the other hand fills him with an inappropriate amount of satisfaction. 

“Here we go,” Jaskier mutters once he’s reached the horse when it suddenly tosses its head and takes a few steps away from him. 

Jaskier pauses deadpan and stares at the animal. “What? Seriously? Now you’re suspicious of me?!” He throws his bloody hands in the air. “I saved your owner's life, you know. A bit of gratitude would be appreciated,” he tells the horse and snatches its reins, which is commented by a snort. “Come on,” Jaskier says, thoroughly done and not at all in the mood to deal with an unsociable horse. “Gods, you probably have a horrible name too, don’t you?” He leads the gelding over to a tree which is thin enough to tie the reins around and when he’s done that, he throws the saddlebags over its croup behind the saddle.

A noise behind him has Jaskier turn around abruptly. He curses when he sees the Witcher who appears to be convulsing on the ground. “What the fuck is wrong now?!” He sprints back and then he sees the foam forming at the Witcher’s mouth. His whole body is tense and covered with cold sweat and when Jaskier takes a look his eyes are only showing whites.

In the end, the only thing Jaskier can do is stem the man’s jaw open with a stick before he puts a bloody leather strip between his teeth to prevent him from cracking a tooth or worse.

After that, Jaskier sinks down next to the Witcher who is still twitching uncontrollably. The time passing by seems endless but eventually, the man falls motionless again.

Jaskier shivers as a cold breeze brushes over his naked skin. He looks at the Witcher and puts a hand on his forehead. It’s sticky with sweat and the temperature indicates a fever. 

“You’re a lucky bastard, know that? I might have just decided to wait a day longer to take care of this bloody beast and you, well you’d be dead,” Jaskier tells him. “Probably some odd way the Universe rights itself,” he mutters as he recalls his encounter with Coën in Pont Vanis during the prior summer. “Who knows? Perhaps this was predetermined by destiny? A fated meeting, out in the woods. Dragon and Witcher.” Jaskier chuckles hysterically. In his mind, he can already hear the first chords of a new ballad, yet he doubts it will ever see the light of the day.

Eventually, Jaskier stands up and takes a look around the clearing. There’s no birdsong still. Apparently, they avoided the manticore’s lair too. He feels the urge to take the Witcher back to his rocky outcrop, but his rational mind wins out, reminding him that the nearby camp of the man will have to suffice. 

He wrinkles his nose at the stench hanging over the clearing. Setting it on fire sounds like a rather good solution to the problem. 

Turning his attention back to the unconscious Witcher, Jaskier sighs. 

Moving the man is frustrating. Even more so, because dark clouds gathering in the sky indicate that it’s going to rain soon. After the short inspection Jaskier forces himself to go through, he finds out what he has already known. Namely that the cave that the manticore has housed in is so disgusting that Jaskier is rather certain that he wouldn’t even consider seeking shelter within it if he wasn’t aware of the circumstances around them.

Once he’s outside again, a raindrop hits his face. The Witcher has started to shiver as well. His wounds are blood red against his skin and his torn and cut clothes only hang on loosely on his frame. 

Among the man’s belongings, Jaskier finds a worn shirt which he pulls over the man’s head. It gets dirty and bloody, but at least it’s some kind of protection for the wounds on the man’s chest.

Through trial and error and a lot of cursing and dragging, Jaskier is somehow able to get the Witcher onto his horse. It takes him half an hour and he is soaked with rain by the time he’s finished but he’s not about to question his luck.

His only hope is that the man’s stitches haven’t torn. The Witcher is thrown over the saddle like a sack of potatoes and Jaskier risks only a curt look to be sure to have gathered all of the man’s belongings before he takes the horse’s reins and leads it into the forest.  

They wander around aimlessly and eventually, Jaskier decides that it’s of no use to look for the abandoned camp of the Witcher, instead, he stops under a few old pine trees which keep most of the rain from hitting them.

Jaskier grunts with the strain as he pulls the man off his horse, barely avoiding dropping him. He spreads out the Witcher’s bedroll close to the tree trunks and then pulls the unconscious man onto the old pelt he’s using. After he’s covered the man with his woollen blanket, Jaskier unsaddles the horse and starts to build a fire.

Only when he’s done does he realise that he’s got nothing to light it with. No flint, no steel, nothing. His eyes wander over to the Witcher. He appears to be sleeping now, more than he’s unconscious but his face is still sweaty from the fever. His eyes move behind his closed lids and he is just as wet as Jaskier is beneath the blanket. Jaskier doesn’t think that Witchers can get pneumonia but the cold will hardly help his healing process along.

Jaskier shivers in the cold. He isn’t so sure about himself unfortunately and he’s still only wearing the braies he borrowed from the Witcher who’s still knocked out cold. And the night is coming soon too.

With clattering teeth, Jaskier considers the horse that is chewing on its bridle. “You know, Roach was a way better conversationalist than you,” he tells it, shivering. “I hope you keep that calm composure.”

He checks on the Witcher for lack of another thing to do and puts the almost empty waterskin next to his head. 

Then he slips out of the borrowed braies - it would be quite rude to destroy them now - and distances himself a bit from the camp.

Jaskier bounces on his feet and he stretches his arms towards the sky before he lets them fall to his sides and he leans into the shift

Distantly he hears the horse's panicked whinny and thinks that it couldn’t have hurt to walk a bit further.

A few agonizing moments later, a golden dragon is sitting among the trees where a human had been standing before.

Jaskier shakes his head when sensations of his surroundings intensify. From the strong scent of the wet pines’ to the smell of earth, horse and acrid sweat coming from the Witcher.

When Jaskier prowls towards the camp, the horse is stomping its hooves in distress at the – now bigger creature approaching. Distinctly Jaskier notes that the horse smells a lot more like food now. But then his eyes fall onto the Witcher.

He walks over to the man, ignoring the horse and before he knows it, he scents him. The Witcher beneath the sour sheen coating his skin smells mostly of blood. He’s still shivering.

It’s much harder now to ignore his instincts now that he’s done everything that he can and the small voice that tells him that he should wrap himself around the Witcher is getting much louder. Maybe he should take him to his lair. Where he has flint and steel and doesn’t have to worry about setting the whole forest on fire while trying to light the pile of wood.

Jaskier huffs and pulls himself together. The Witcher in front of him won’t thank him if Jaskier dies of pneumonia and that is a rather likely outcome if he doesn’t fly back to his gorge, fetches some clothes and returns in due time, to make sure the man himself hasn’t kicked the bucket in the meantime. 

With a huff, Jaskier turns away.

Something he’s learned over the past years is that nothing can be so annoying than trying to start to fly from the ground in a forest. Yet there’s nothing to be done about this now, so he finds a tree that appears solid enough to carry him and starts the annoying climb. Digging his claws into the bark, he scales the trunk, branches breaking under his weight and huffing at the twigs poking at his nostrils and eyes till finally there is an opening. He stretches his wings and with one powerful movement, he is in the air.

The rain in the sky is irksome, but at least as a dragon it’s no longer freezing and Jaskier makes a good time to the gorge. His scent is clinging to every crevice there and an animalistic part of him regrets not having dragged the Witcher here, but then he shakes off the notions and goes to collect his things.

Jaskier has lost track of how many hours have gone by the time the Witcher finally stirs. The rain has stopped a while ago and only a few stray droplets of water are still dripping from the heavy branches overhead. A fire is burning merrily in a somewhat scorched pit between them  - sue him for not wanting to deal with damp tinder -  while the horse is still eying him from the distance.

Jaskier tried to bribe the gelding with some dried oatcakes he found in the Witcher’s saddlebags and while that didn’t work out quite as well as he thought, the time he spent in its proximity without abruptly turning into a dragon has managed to calm it to the point where it no longer tries to bolt on sight. Jaskier books it as a win. 

The Witcher wakes as many soldiers do when they are caught unawares, abrupt but silent, muscles tensing and then relaxing again when consciousness returns.

Still, the Witcher doesn’t bother feigning sleep for more than a second, before his face twists into a grimace, and a reflexive hand finds its way to his bandaged thigh.

“What the-“ he starts gruffly and abruptly sits up, the blanket Jaskier had so carefully covered him with slipping from his torso. He hisses, evidently having noticed his wounded state.

“Oh good, you’re up,” Jaskier says, accompanied by a practised open smile. 

The Witcher stops taking stock of his injuries in favour of swiftly turning his head and fixating the bard over the fire.

Jaskier finds himself going rigid as his draconic part tunes in on the bright honey-gold irises, cataloguing every nuance and committing it to memory. The similarities between this Witcher’s eye colour and Geralt’s are uncanny. There’s a darker ring around their edges, taking away the pale albino-like quality of Geralt’s eyes but apart from that, they are almost the same. 

The wave of possessiveness washing over Jaskier is something he isn’t prepared for. He consciously has to force himself to sit still, which still doesn’t do anything to keep a deep rumble from building in his chest. 

He has to fake clearing his throat in order to disguise it.

In general, there is a strange likeness to Geralt to be found in this Witcher. And despite their similar eyes, it’s not the Witcher’s physical traits, the bard notes after a moment, that is the driving force behind this impression. 

While their built and even certain facial features might as well have indicated them as distant cousins, it’s the way the Witcher carries himself that has the bard stunned into silence. 

All these small habits, the peculiarities that until now he had always believed to be solely inherent to Geralt, he spots in this Witcher. The slight head tilt, the frown, even the way he shifts.

Jaskier isn’t aware that he’s staring, too caught up in dealing with all those reeling feelings - until the man suddenly breaks the illusion of resemblance with a surprising quirk of his own. Namely when he raises a hand to the prominent scar on his face and rubs it almost self-consciously. 

“Not that pretty of a sight, I imagine,” the Witcher says dryly and completely oblivious to the fact that Jaskier is way too occupied with admiring the way his golden eyes change their shade in the light to even think about his scar.

Still, Jaskier pulls himself together and after briefly acknowledging the notion that Witchers do truly possess a somewhat skewed view on life if the man opposite him deems his scar and not the bloodsoaked shirt the feature to focus on first when confronted with someone staring, he manages to come up with an answer. “Something that can be said about a lot of people… But I am a fair judge of character and from what I have witnessed so far, Master Witcher, it doesn’t apply to the present company.” 

Jaskier grins and adds a wink for good measure. 

Though in the man’s defence, he’s lost quite an amount of blood and is drugged up on rather toxic potions, which could justify his odd reactions.

“Then I shall trust your judgement,” the Witcher voices after a long moment, his eyes scanning Jaskier’s face warily.

“A wise decision,” Jaskier promptly retorts and because he isn’t oblivious to how the Witcher’s eyes are trailing over his surroundings in a way he probably deems subtle, he adds, “There is a waterskin next to your bedroll, I took the liberty to refill earlier - it’s a miracle you slept through the sound of the rain because I tell you, it was fucking loud - not surprising, to be honest with how it was pissing down from the heavens. Your swords, by the way, are with your horse, if you were wondering.” 

The Witcher stares at him with - what Jaskier recognizes from the many years of learning how to read similar expressions on Geralt’s face as - bemusement. Though it reminds him somewhat of their early days when Geralt hadn’t been yet comfortable with Jaskier and their friendsh- 

Jaskier clears his throat. 

“Ah. I should probably mention I took your stiletto as well. It’s at the foot of your bedroll, beneath the pelt.” The bard wets his lip in a nervous tic. “Um, I wasn’t quite sure when you would wake and who knows whether you’d have stabbed me on instinct while I would’ve unsuspectedly went up to you to check on your wounds or something, I mean you never know with you Witchers and your, um, …habits.”

Awkwardly Jaskier trails off, while the Witcher is already retrieving the aforementioned weapon. He feels a bit wrongfooted here, his mind dragging forth memories of Geralt, comparing the Witcher in front of him to the man and muddling his emotions. 

The dark-haired Witcher briefly looks over his stiletto, easily flipping it in his hand and Jaskier notes that despite him putting it down, it’s still in close reach. 

Now that the Witcher’s normal skin colour has returned - a warm bronze shade - his golden eyes stand out even brighter. Even to others, they would’ve probably been his most prominent feature, were it not for his scar. 

Blindly yet purposeful, the man reaches for the waterskin next to his hip - Jaskier can’t help the amused twitch of his lips when he sees him smell it - before he starts to drink. 

Throat bobbing, the Witcher assesses Jaskier with a penetrating gaze while he gulps down what looks to be half of what remains in the waterskin.

Jaskier just pretends to be oblivious to it. 

Undoubtedly the Witcher must wonder how a man seemingly not made for the wilderness - the fancy blue doublet he wears doesn’t do him any favours in that regard -  has ended up in the middle of the mountains, merrily making camp next to the den of a manticore.

“What happened?” the Witcher asks him after he’s wiped his mouth with the back of his fingerless glove, replacing the droplets of water with a smear of dried blood. The Witcher’s voice has turned from raspy to a surprisingly pleasant bass. 

“Um, you’ve got something-” the bard says then, mostly to buy some time while he motions at his own face. 

The Witcher just stares him down. 

Awkwardly Jaskier clears his throat.
He thought about coming up with a story, but his strength usually lies in improvising, which is why he didn’t exactly think this far. Something he regrets a bit when the best thing he comes up with is a rather questionable version of the truth. “Um, I found you at the clearing with this monster. Horrible creature. Urgh. The scent, I can’t even tell you – gods I will never forget it.”

“And you survived…” the Witcher says in a tone betraying that he found Jaskier’s story anything but convincing. 

“Well, the manticore is dead.”

“Dead.”

“Well, it was dead already,” Jaskier hurries to add, “You were pretty out of it when I found you.”

“Hm,” the Witcher says deadpan.

“Yeah. Well.” Jaskier drums onto the smooth wood of his lute to keep his fingers busy. “I guess you must’ve killed it in the end?”

The Witcher seems to digest that for a moment. Whether he believes it is another story altogether. “What about the dragon?”

“Dragon?” Jaskier’s answer comes a bit too fast and he makes a conscious effort to reign his voice. “What dragon? I mean, I didn’t see a dragon.” He looks at the Witcher, trying to subtly ascertain whether the man is still as out of it as he hopes. The man’s blown pupils indicate a rather drugged-up state that hopefully plays to his advantage. 

Frustratingly and predictably the Witcher still only hums in response. 

“Maybe you’ve hallucinated it,” Jaskier suggests lightly.

Another absent hum. 

Out of frustration and perhaps a lingering resentment for Geralt, Jaskier blows a curl out of his face and says, “Do you Witchers ever speak in full sentences?”

The other man startles. “What?”

Jaskier stares at the man, taking note of the small tremor in the arm he uses to prop himself up. “Never mind,” he waves the Witcher off. “How are you feeling? I hope the stitches haven’t torn. I did what I could but well,” the bard shrugs, at the same time making a point of reminding the Witcher of who exactly saved whose arse out there. “It’s admittedly not my best work.”

“No,” the Witcher says. “No, it’s fine,” he says as if the hand he raised to his chest earlier and the minutely twitches of his face weren’t enough of a giveaway of his true state of being. 

“Figures, you’d call that fine,” Jaskier bites out, suddenly irritated. “Not like you stopped breathing for a minute…” Abruptly, he puts his lute away. “You know,” he says as he stands up. “You are lucky that you aren’t the first idiotic Witcher crossing my path!” 

“What?” For the first time, the Witcher shows another emotion on his face that isn’t something blank or rooted in distrust. 

“Because it turns out you’re all bloody self-deprecating idiots, aren’t you!? You let people cut your pay without complaint, hook up with questionable sorceresses or - or you walk around with fatal wounds like it’s nothing! And then it’s always like, ‘I’m fine, Jaskier’ or ‘’tis just a scratch Jaskier’. You know what?! Fuck. You! No one ever thinks about the bard in this equation, do they?”

The Witcher blinks, taken aback by Jaskier, who doesn’t even bother to halt in his rant. 

“It’s like none of you has the single most idea of how to properly take care of themselves!” he raves on, “The one I actually harbour some hopes for, I haven’t even known for a day, which only leaves Aiden. And that says something.” Fuming, Jaskier picks up a stick from the ground, while the Witcher just stares at him speechless. “Oh, and by the way,” Jaskier adds once he’s upright again and he gestures at the bemused Witcher with the stick, “this is just the tip of the iceberg. Self-preservation instincts? Null. Zero-” the stick whistles through the air as Jaskier opens his arms. “I’m not the prime example of that and I’ve got a high tolerance, but even I know that you don’t go fishing using fucking bombs! …on that note, let’s scrap Aiden from the list too because I know for a fact that he condones this.”

The Witcher shifts on his bedroll. 

“And while we’re already at it; it was a real pain to find the correct potions inside your pack,” Jaskier rants, while he proceeds to stoke the waning fire with somewhat more force than needed. A spray of sparks ascends to the sky. “Labels, ever heard of that?! I mean one blow to the head or someone cursing you to lose sight or smell and just like that-” Jaskier snaps his fingers - “gone. Dead! Poisoned by your own concoctions.”

Silently glaring into the flames, Jaskier doesn’t raise his head before the Witcher speaks up. “Wouldn’t labels be rather useless in that particular case too?” the man voices dryly, a hint of amusement streaking his voice.

That pulls Jaskier out of his state and suddenly he feels his face heating up in embarrassment. “It’s more of a principle of the matter,” he shoots back.

The Witcher’s hum that follows instead of a reply doesn’t exactly ooze conviction.

Jaskier finishes poking around in the fire in silence and eventually, he sits back down at his previous spot, feeling a bit wrongfooted. 

This man isn’t Geralt, he has to remind himself, despite how much they might resemble each other. In other words, he basically yelled at a stranger. Fidgeting with his embroidered sleeve he says, “Um, I set up a snare, but I don’t harbour too high hopes. I wouldn’t want to hop around in this area either if I were a rabbit, with that beast around… So a proper meal will probably have to wait until you’re back in the village. Or a town.”

“Hm.”

The bard can feel the Witcher’s gaze on him as he picks his lute back up and resumes his absentminded playing to distract himself. 

They keep silent for a while, listening to the crackling fire, the rustling of the trees overhead and of course the melody Jaskier weaves in-between. 

“You’re Geralt’s bard, aren’t you,” the Witcher suddenly says and Jaskier butchers his chord so badly he can be glad he didn’t break a string while his head snaps up.  

His expression must’ve betrayed something because the Witcher’s golden eyes study him extensively for a moment. Thankfully the man doesn’t prod further. “The name’s Eskel,” he says then, surprisingly introducing himself. 

This revelation though does nothing to ease Jaskier’s anxiety. 

He’s heard of the man, both from Lambert’s offhanded mentions and Geralt’s occasional stories. Geralt, who isn’t exactly the most forthcoming but still managed to slip memories of his fellow Witcher in, pieces of conversation that built up to a rough picture in Jaskier’s mind from which he could draw his own conclusion.

All in all, it comes down to the realization that this is not only a random Witcher resembling the famous White Wolf but the man who grew up alongside Geralt like a brother.

Fuck. 

And while Jaskier’s still fighting down an existential crisis, Eskel is already talking again. “What did he do?” 

“What?” 

“I know Geralt. And since I don’t recall sleeping with any questionable sorceresses, I figure you’re projecting a bit here.” Eskel’s mouth is twitching. His sudden change of demeanour is somewhat unsettling.

Jaskier clears his throat and awkwardly rubs his hands. “Well, it’s not exactly a pleasant tale.”

Eskel meanwhile doesn’t seem dejected. Instead, he raises an eyebrow. “Is it perchance a tale that is related to the song about the lacklustre swordsman I’ve been hearing rather a lot about?”

“It might?” Jaskier says, swallowing. He hadn’t actually mentioned Witchers or Geralt’s name in any part of the rather questionable and scandalous song, but if you’ve had the pleasure to know the White Wolf personally, it’s rather obvious to whom this new piece has been dedicated. He’s only played it a few times before he’d taken off for his winterly hibernation, but apparently, it has caught on in the taverns around the northern continent if a Witcher of all people is already mentioning it to him. 

“It’s become quite popular,” the dark-haired Witcher mentions and Jaskier feels sweat pearling in his nape. “Very catchy. I suppose I should be grateful for you not having included the profession of your subject.” During the meaningful pause that follows, Eskel stares at Jaskier intently. “Or any recognizable names.”

“Oh, well,” the bard replies, shifting uncomfortably and restraining himself from tugging on his collar, “I hoped to have kept it vague enough. I wouldn’t want to needlessly complicate your work. If you are offended by any of those works, it certainly was never my intention… Though of course, poetry does play by its own rules… ”

Jaskier trails off when he realizes that during his rambling, a smirk has appeared on Eskel’s lips. It comes with a snarl-like quality thanks to his scar but it’s evident that the Witcher is amused. The smirk turns into a boyish grin once the bard has halted his speech and Jaskier realizes that he’s been messed with. “The opposite, actually,” Eskel says grinning, “I found myself quite entertained.” 

Jaskier laughs, relieved and a bit amused and when he gets another glimpse of Eskel’s smile, he finds himself reevaluating what the man’s most prominent feature truly is.

It isn’t long after that, that Jaskier abandons their camp in order to check on his snares. He returns empty-handed as expected, but when he does, Eskel has changed into a mostly clean natural linen shirt and some utilitarian leather trousers, which show obvious signs of wear from riding and various monster hunts if the patches are anything to go by.

It also looks like the Witcher has sorted through and organized his things and both of his swords have found their way onto the man’s bedroll. 

Unfortunately, Eskel turns out to be not quite the thrilling conversationalist Jaskier had hoped for after all those weeks spent in solitary since the Witcher is still a lot weaker than he originally let on and ignores him in favour of spending the following hours meditating. 

Come nightfall he looks a bit better, though Jaskier strongly suspects that Eskel took another potion while he went away to relieve himself. 

While the Witcher tends to his horse, the bard finds himself collecting more firewood to prepare for the cold night. 

In face of the dropping temperatures, Jaskier selflessly offers one of his doublets to Eskel, although it’s perhaps backed by the tiniest slither of the ulterior motive of wanting to mark the man with his scent. 

When Eskel just silently pulls a rolled-up cloak from somewhere near his saddlebags, Jaskier sighs quietly, wondering why he even still bothers. 

They share some of the Witcher’s meagre ration, which isn’t even half bad because apparently, Eskel knows how to season, which concludes the rather strange day they’ve both undoubtedly had.

The next morning, despite having been injured, the Witcher is up before Jaskier, who only wakes when he hears the noises of Eskel roaming around their camp. 

Bleary-eyed and still somewhat groggy, Jaskier blinks at the burnt-down remains of the fire, before he eventually pushes himself up, shivering in the cold morning air and the dew covering his blanket.

A few sunbeams are breaking through the thick branches overhead, but if their angle is anything to go by, the sun has barely even risen.

Jaskier groans and flops back onto his bedroll. 

Eventually, he does get up, but he is granted rather little time to gather his bearings before Eskel already proclaims his intention of tracking back to the manticore's den to do gods know what. 

“You want to go back to the hide-out of the bloody beast?!” Jaskier voices after an impressive array of curses have already tumbled from his lips. “To do what?” 

Eskel doesn’t even look up from where he’s checking on his horse’s tack. It huffs uneasily when Jaskier gets closer. 

“I don’t know if you’ve listened to anything I told you before - and it seems like you didn’t because if that were the case, I wouldn’t have to point out the obvious,” Jaskier tells him, “Namely, that it’s a bloody useless endeavour. The manticore is dead. Gone. Headless. So I don’t get what you want to do on that clearing. Pick some bones, fashion it into a little bouquet, perhaps?” 

Eskel does snort amused at the latter, but in the end, he doesn’t relent. “You don’t have to accompany me,” he tells Jaskier as if he hadn’t been packing his own belongings during the last ten minutes either. “I’d actually rather you didn’t. Even if the manticore is dead, there’s no telling whether it had a mate.”

“It’s dead.”
And it didn’t.
“And I’m coming with you,” Jaskier says sternly, frowning at the quiet grunt the Witcher lets out when he sits up on his horse.

It’s truly his own fault for confronting the bard with his idiotic ideas at this ungodly hour.

Despite his big declarations, Jaskier is still rather displeased with finding himself on this involuntary hike, under a sun that has barely dawned, while fog still hangs over the treetops like veils. 

“Gods, you Witchers just can’t let things rest, can you?” Jaskier pants sometime later - he’s been practising scales while walking to get his voice back in order after the long time spent in his draconic form, which now pays him back in form of an annoying stitch in his side. The scent of petrichor and pines is heavy in the air and he just hopes that the smell at the clearing has been washed away by the rain, at least partly, as well. 

“You generalize a lot, don’t you bard,” Eskel retorts from where he’s riding his grey gelding a few feet ahead. The horse is still rather uneasy around Jaskier, which leads to their current constellation.

“Yeah, well…”

“That anything to do with what happened between you and Geralt?”

Jaskier stumbles over a root. 

Here it fucking comes. 

He considers Eskel for a moment before he opens his mouth and closes it again with a frown. “He - well, he and I had a falling out,” he says after a moment. “It probably comes down to us having differing opinions of our respective roles in the other’s life.”

“Hm.”

They walk a few more steps under the cool shadow of the trees, nothing but the sound of their soft steps on the springy forest floor and their breaths accompanying them. The silence grates at Jaskier, but before he can say something, Eskel inquires further. “And what does that mean?”

“Ah,” the bard smiles a joyless smile, “as it turned out, I considered him my friend and he, me… not so much.”

For a brief moment, the only sound they can hear is the horse’s huffing breaths and the rustling branches above.

“Somehow, I doubt that,” Eskel says then, breaking the silence. “Geralt usually doesn’t stick around people he doesn’t like.”

Jaskier chuckles bitterly. “There’s nothing to doubt here. It just is. I am better off by myself and so… so is Geralt.” Another laugh spills past the bard’s lips when he realizes that this is the first time he spoke Geralt’s name in months. 

“Hm.”

Deep down, Jaskier knows that Eskel is right. Of course, Geralt liked him. You don’t spend the better half of two decades travelling, laughing and fucking together without being friends. But isn’t that what makes it so much worse?

“I mean,” Jaskier finds himself saying, “what would you think if your best friend called you a shit-shoveller and blamed you for everything bad in his life?”

“He did that?” Eskel sounds surprised. 

“Mhm.”

A heavy kind of silence stretches between them. “Harsh,” Eskel says after a long moment and Jaskier can’t help but burst out laughing at the ridiculousness of it all. 

“What’s so funny?” Eskel eventually asks, causing Jaskier to laugh even more. 

“It’s just…” he begins between breaths, “Here I am, lamenting and sharing my woes with this Witcher, who’s…” Jaskier pauses.
-equally shitty at consoling people as his white-haired brother in arms?
“ You’re just so alike, in a way.”

Because he is a Witcher Eskel doesn’t falter in his step, but he does fall silent briefly. “Not exactly a compliment, coming from you.”

“Oh, I didn’t… I didn’t mean that. You’re just…” he’s struggling to find the right words for a moment. “The way you carry yourself alone just reminds me of him.”

“We trained under the same masters,” Eskel says after a moment with a shrug. Jaskier would’ve liked to see his facial expression. 

“But it’s more than that,” the bard disagrees. “I might be biased from what Geralt told me, but …I can see the influence you had on him if you know what I mean. You might as well be brothers.”

“Geralt said that?” Eskel sounds surprised. 

“Yeah, well. Not so much in words,” Jaskier replies with a huff. “You know Geralt. He isn’t exactly the sharing type. But I drew my own conclusions.”

“Huh.”

“Yeah.”

Eskel keeps silent for a long moment. “There aren’t many people around to point it out,” he offers after a moment. “It’s …interesting.”

“To hear an objective opinion?”

“I have a feeling that you’re hardly ever objective,” Eskel counters with a small smirk.

“Well,” Jaskier huffs. “Who can truly claim to be objective. We all see the world through our own eyes and like a colourful painting or a lovely ballade, everyone will recall a different part of the piece with greater clarity.”

“Hm, true.”

“If it makes you feel any better,” Jaskier says eventually, “You do fare much better than Geralt during our first meeting.” 

The bard uses the short bout of silence that follows to catch up to Eskel.
He’ll have to work on building up his stamina again. Flying does wonders for his dorsal muscles but anything else just gets neglected during that time. Jaskier isn’t proud of it but a part of him is glad that Eskel is still somewhat impaired by his wounds, which keeps him from setting the punishing pace he would’ve otherwise had to expect.

The gelding snorts nervously, but Eskel doesn’t seem to notice when he looks at Jaskier with golden eyes. “Why? What happened then?” he asks curiously.

“He punched me.”

“Huh.”

“I called him the Butcher of Blaviken.”

“Ah.” Eskel hisses sympathetically. “That’ll do it.”

“In hindsight, it was a stupid idea, but how could I have known that it wasn’t a title he was fond of at the time? Although I was barely eighteen so, really, he could’ve granted me some leeway.”

“You were eighteen when you met?” 

“A rather eventful time in my life. Though not the best, if I am truly honest,” Jaskier replies wistfully. Despite everything, he finds himself smiling fondly at those old memories. It’s bittersweet, to think of it, but also kind of cathartic. “Passionate, youthful, full of life and dreams-”

“A decade ago?” 

The bard laughs. “Ah, no. I was freshly out of the academy. We met around 1240 I think.” Melancholically, he pets over his worn lute strap. He’s had to swap it a few times already, but the instrument itself is as pristine as it had been the day he was gifted it by Filavandrel.

“You look quite young, considering.”

“Hah, thank you,” the bard says with a broad grin, flicking a curl out of his face. “A combination of good genes and I believe the one or other elf in our family tree some generations back-” he winks at Eskel - “not that my father would’ve ever admitted to it. He abhorred everything inhuman. Obviously, he was a right bastard. May the gods rest his cold, indifferent soul…”

“Ah.”

“Though,” Jaskier continues, “I can’t claim my good looks stem entirely from me doing nothing. Caring for oneself is after all caring for one's health. I moisturize regularly - when the opportunity arises, that is. It does wonders for the skin. I’d highly recommend it to you-” he trails his eyes up the Eskel’s shapely figure - “but you Witchers fare rather well without in keeping your youthful and fresh appearance.” 

Eskel turns his golden gaze to look at Jaskier with a raised brow. “Youthful and fresh appearance?” he asks, a dry smirk tugging on his scarred lips. 

Jaskier clears his throat, staring interestedly at the bark of a mossy tree. “Or, so I’ve heard… To my great regret, it’s a habit which is also rather expensive. You know, in Vengerberg they have the most renowned alchemists perfecting those creams. The gods only know what goes in there, I doubt I would even want to know. I once encountered an otherwise delightful seeming lady who swore on oxblood as a beauty treatment. Rather macabre, isn’t it? But to each their own I suppose.”

Eskel hums.

Unfortunately, all hopes Jaskier had harboured, in regards to the rain having washed away the manticore's scent are destroyed when the distinct stench of it announces their closeness to the clearing. 

They stop for Eskel to put on his damaged chainmail, a task about whose uselessness Jaskier keeps tactfully quiet about before they go on in silence. 

The trees thin, the stench grows and then they’re standing at the edge of a field full of corpses.  

Jaskier doesn’t have to fake his aversion at the sight and smell of carcasses littering the clearing, but an entirely inappropriate smirk appears on his lips when he spots the headless manticore. His tongue traces over the sharp points of his teeth, while his mind unconsciously conjures the memory of him licking its blood from them yesterday.

Still, he does his best to play oblivious to the claw and bite marks on what remains of the monster's neck which the Witcher takes great care to investigate. 

Jaskier kicks a bit at the scorched earth while Eskel rounds the corpse and hums then and there as if confirming things to himself. 

They spend all in all probably half an hour on the clearing if not more, before Eskel eventually takes out his knife and proceeds to break some teeth out of the manticores maw in order to prove his kill. And that only after Jaskier managed to talk him out of logging the whole head back to the village like a hunting trophy.

He has no desire to see the damn thing for longer than he has to. Dead or not. 

“And you are sure, you didn’t see a dragon?” he asks Jaskier again once they’re already a good hour into what the bard supposes is the way back to the closest village. Eskel’s been silent ever since the clearing and he quite effectively manages to shatter Jaskier’s calm demeanour.

He’s about to deny seeing anything once again when he changes his mind. After all, he can hardly deny his own existence and he still needs a plausible explanation for why he simply showed up at the clearing out of the blue. He can’t skirt around that topic forever so better to use this opportunity now. “As sure as the black death,” he says, “Although I have of course heard of certain rumours. Only that the mystical flying beast turned out to be a bloody manticore… I had actually planned to catch you before you fought it.”

“Me?”

“Well, the Witcher said to come through,” Jaskier says, lying through his teeth and with a more dramatic sigh he adds, “Material for good songs is scarce since Geralt and I split if you know what I mean. Not to say, that I couldn’t work with anything else, I mean a true poet is able to create a brilliant story even with the poorest of tools-”

“I get it.”

“Do you? Because I get the impression that-”

“You painted a thorough picture,” Eskel says. It’s not exactly a lie. Jaskier might have relished in regaining his voice a bit. 

Soon after, the outskirts of the village with all its sounds and smells where it’s nestled into the mountainside greets them. A few snot-nosed brats are the first to welcome them. Barefoot and wide-eyed they end up trailing after them like a rather loud shadow, carelessly abandoning the geese they should be herding in favour of whispering among each other, arguing about who should approach the scary Witcher and ask about the monster.

If Eskel’s twitching lips are anything to go by, he can too.  

After questioning a few passersby - Eskel seems thankfully oblivious to the fact that a significant share of the curious looks he earns are courtesy of him being accompanied by Jaskier - Perhaps, he should’ve put a stop to the rumours about him being some kind of forest spirit when he had the chance to - they are given directions to the small tavern where the alderman is currently said to reside. 

On their way there, Jaskier does his best to intimidate everyone with glares who even look like they’re thinking about mentioning anything to Eskel.

Ducking through the low entrance of the building, eyes adjusting to the dim candlelight, they are greeted with curious glances.

The alderman is a man in a man in his late forties, grey hair at the temples but spry and with a mirthful spark in his eyes. 

Jaskier has played many a game of cards against him and let it be said, the man plays like a devil. 

The roughly timbered bench creaks when he stands up to greet them. “Ah, Master Witcher!” He spreads his arms, attentive eyes flicking back and forth between Eskel and Jaskier. “You ran into Jaskier, I see.” 

“Hm. I’d say it was the other way round. He found me and patched me up.”

“Did he now.” Brown eyes look at Jaskier curiously. 

“It was nothing,” Jaskier says waving him off, quickly shifting the attention away from his persona. “This fine Witcher here slew a manticore,” he says instead, patting Eskel’s muscular shoulder, simultaneously giving into his draconic instincts of leaving his scent on the Witcher. He almost flinches though, at the strong buzz of magic jolting from his hand all the way to his torso. Eskel is fucking tingly. “I believe some ale on the house wouldn’t be amiss.”

“And the rest of my payment,” Eskel adds, producing the forearm-sized fangs he broke out of the manticore’s jaw. 

“Of course,” the alderman says, staring wide-eyed at the impressive teeth. “The second half, like promised.” He turns to yell over his shoulder. “Dyzec, fetch me the rest of the Witcher’s coin.” 

A pimply youngster jumps up from the bench where he’d been sneaking some schnapps from a bottle that was distinctly not his and hurries to comply. The older man shakes his head over him. “Come, sit with me,” he invites them then, motioning for the table.

After a brief moment of hesitation, Eskel follows. 

“So a manticore you say?” the alderman begins, nudging two empty tankards towards Jaskier and Eskel respectively and pouring them some ale. 

Jaskier is already well into having downed half of his, while Eskel is still suspiciously sniffing at the liquid. 

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, the bard curiously waits for the Witcher to confirm. 

“Yes.”

“And it’s dead? It won’t bother us anymore?”

“I haven’t ever heard of one flying around headless,” Eskel replies dryly. “So probably not.”

“Good,” the alderman laughs as if some tension finally fell from him and some of the wrinkles on his face seem to smooth over. “Very good.” He leans over the old table. “I can’t thank you enough, Master Witcher, truly. It- It’s been tough times. If it hadn’t been for you we’d still live in fear for our lives and our livestock.”

Eskel, who’s finally turned to sip at his ale, licks some foam from his upper lip. “I can’t exactly claim sole responsibility for that.”

The alderman leans back. “What do you mean by that?” he asks with a frown. 

Eskel hums. “Did you ever encounter a dragon in your mountains?”

Jaskier makes a conscious effort to not hold his breath. He does notice the brief look the alderman throws into his direction though. And he isn’t the only one if Eskel’s expression is anything to go by. 

“Not a dragon, no,” the alderman voices slowly. “But a silver glint then and there among the clouds. Nothing more. Though there had been rumours among the woodcutters some years back… Why do you ask?”

“I saw it,” Eskel states matter of factly. 

“A dragon…” the alderman mutters and hums into his own tankard. 

“Has it ever bothered you?” Eskel asks, leaning forward all business-like. 

“Nah,” The alderman laughs and looks up at the Witcher, “It’s a bit of a story…” His eyes flick back to Jaskier, who does his best to feign interest in a mouldy spot on the straw roof. “The loggers, they thought it to be a kind spirit of some sort. It kept away the wolves, you know.”

Jaskier hadn’t known that. Though he supposes that it would make sense that no wolves would dare to approach him. And he’d spent an awfully long time spying on people the first year when he’d still not been aware that he could turn back. 

“And after that…” the alderman trails off with a shrug and a small smile. “I suppose you could say that there hasn’t been anyone complaining about it.”

“A lucky dragon,” Eskel says, shaking his head before he snorts. He raises his tankard inclining it towards the alderman. “There’ve been stranger things I suppose.”

“To dragons then.”

“To dragons.”

They lift their tankards. 

Jaskier downs his own in one go.

When Eskel leaves the village, Jaskier accompanies him. 

The bard’s respect for the Witcher grows minutely this first day of their trek down the mountain and not solely for the reason that he offhandedly mentions his encounter with a succubus that lasted three whole impressive days, but also because he simultaneously and rather enthusiastically provides rhymes, essentially aiding Jaskier in completing a rather humiliating manifesto dedicated to his fellow white-haired Witcher.  

It’s a risky thing to do, asking the brother of your formerly-best-friend for their opinion on one’s ballads about said former friend, which paints a less than flattering picture, but the dangerous grin on Eskel’s face and the “It would be my pleasure,” should’ve been enough of an indicator that the man is bloody ruthless. 

Also, when that is done and over with and Jaskier inevitably starts ranting about the passages of another ballade he’s currently stuck on, Eskel provides rather insightful answers, assisting the bard in overcoming certain poetic difficulties.  

Before he knows it, on the second day, they are discussing poetry penned during the early eleventh century, followed by the topic of more modern and rather promiscuous editions by certain authors and their educational merits.

Merits, which the one or other nobleman could very well profit from as Jaskier argues, citing firsthand experience as both the receiving party of such lack of skill and the one who has more than once lent a sympathetic ear to the wives of such men.

Once they reach the outskirts of Carbon, Jaskier learns that Eskel, for all his superficial politeness and eloquence he pulls out of gods know where when haggling, manages to pack a surprising amount of insults into his interactions, delivered so smoothly and deadpan at that, that even Jaskier has a hard time wrapping his head around what he just heard. 

All in all, when it’s time for them to part ways, Jaskier has become quite fond of the man. 

“I’m glad to have run into you,” the bard tells Eskel when they say their goodbyes. He’s sitting atop a weatherworn fence, lute on his back while the Witcher is waiting for his gelding to finish drinking from a fresh puddle in the roadside ditch.

“It would be rather hypocritical of me to not return the sentiment, considering you saved my life,” Eskel says with a handsome grin. His golden eyes are sparkling. 

Jaskier feels a smile tugging on his lips. For a brief moment, he entertains the thought of what would’ve been if he’d met Eskel back then in the small town of Posada. Undoubtedly he would’ve fallen in love with this man as well. He fell quite easily in love back then. 

But he didn’t meet Eskel. He met Geralt. And his heart has been the Witcher’s for a long time now. 

Despite everything. 

“Well, I’m even gladder then. I wouldn’t have wanted to deprive you of the pleasure of meeting me,” he voices out loud.

Eskel laughs. “Thank you, Jaskier.”

The bard feels his face grow hot. “It was nothing,” he waves the Witcher off, staring at the hilly landscape for a moment, the wildflowers speckling the windswept grass and the workers slogging away in a field not far away.

“I owe you something, bard,” Eskel says. “If there’s ever something I can do for you…”

“Just try to stay alive,” Jaskier retorts with a half-smile.

The Witcher grins back at him. “I’ll try my best.”

“Good,” Jaskier says and after a moment he bites his lip, hesitating. “And look after Geralt.”

Eskel raises his brows. 

“He can’t do it himself after all,” Jaskier voices, somewhat melancholically. There’s the hint of a joke in there, a memory he only shared with Geralt. 

Eskel tilts his head the slightest bit as he considers Jaskier. “Alright,” he says. 

Both turn their head when the grey gelding has finished drinking, bridle clinking as the horse shakes its head. 

Jaskier jumps from the fence. He offers a hand. Eskel clasps his forearm in a strong grip, tingles shooting down his nerves. “Good travels, Jaskier,” he says earnestly.

“Farewell,” Jaskier replies. He finds himself smiling. 

Eskel nods and lets go. After he’s sat up on his horse he pauses for a moment and then looks at Jaskier. “I could talk to Geralt if you wanted me to,” he offers.

The bard feels his breath catching in his throat. But then he exhales. “I appreciate the sentiment, Eskel, but to be honest, if Geralt stepped out of a portal right this moment to apologize, make amends or whatever it’d be, I’d probably punch him.”

Eskel barks a surprised laugh. “So you don’t want me to talk to him?”

Jaskier keeps silent for a long moment, taking the time to truly consider it. “I don’t want your pity. And I don’t want Geralt to seek me out because he feels obligated to do so or is guilt-tripped into it. I don’t know if we’ll ever be friends again, but I know that if I’m to consider it, he’ll have to come around of his own accord.”

Eskel hums. “I haven’t seen him in a while,” the Witcher says after a moment, “but from the way I know him, I believe he’s sorry.”

Jaskier smiles a bittersweet smile. “Not to offend you, but from your mouth, they’re nothing but empty words.”

Eskel nods. “Farewell, Jaskier.”

“Farewell.”

Chapter Text

With the progression of spring into summer, there come rumours of movements of soldiers in the south. The tension at the border between Nilfgaard and the Northern Kingdoms is no longer tension but something akin to a forming maelstrom that is not yet seen but felt by currents churning underwater. 

Slowly but surely, Jaskier starts to deck himself out with supplies. Quietly he exchanges his coin for salt, which will be a better currency in these dire times than metal ever will and travels down the Ina. He buys a new dagger in Dorndal and spends a few insightful weeks in Maribor where he inserts himself into the circles of upper nobility to catch up on the rumours circulating the lands. 

He tells himself he’s heading south for the stories, to witness the battles firsthand but truly there’s another reason for it. Namely a restlessness that keeps him searching and listening for rumours about a certain white-haired Witcher. 

Three months to the day have passed since Jaskier parted from Eskel when King Eist Turseach is felled by a Nilfgaardian arrow on the Marnadal Stairs. 

Cintra falls the same week. 

It goes down in blood, pain and sweat and the nights are alight for weeks with the huge funeral pyres lit to burn the bodies that won’t be retrieved by the dozens. 

Ashes rain from the sky like snow. 

Jaskier isn’t there to witness the battle, but he is close enough to be one of the first to hear of the whispered news of the slaughter of the city and to see the processions of refugees that follow shortly after. 

Hundreds of people travel through the lands, haggard, flea-bitten and desperate, razing north like a swarm of locusts. 

Cintra falls and all Jaskier can think of is Geralt. Because if there’s something he’s sure of, then it’s that Geralt went to see his child surprise before Nilfgaard attacked.

He feels it in his gut and he hates it.

Worry has become his constant companion and eventually, he finds himself actively seeking out and combing through various refugee camps. 

That being said, Jaskier isn’t stupid. He dresses down quite a bit and acquires a rag of a cloak simply for that purpose. A wild beard obscures his identity, though he’s always been good at blending in if he truly wanted to. Like an eyelash. Always in sight but never noticed. It’s what makes him so good at his …other occupation. Not that he gives a fuck about Dijkstra right now or any of his letters. 

He has more of a hard time not getting stabbed over wearing a decent pair of boots. 

Still, he is welcomed rather warmly for the music and stories he brings. 

His lute is his most prized possession yet it’s ironic that he has to fear more getting robbed of his ragged cloak than his instrument. 

A lute doesn’t do much to ensure your survival after all. 

Jaskier kills two men during that time. One in self-defence, the other because he tried to take his bag.
He aimlessly wanders, plays music and warms his hands on the campfires like any other refugee and he listens. He listens and learns. 

Jaskier mingles with the groups of travellers, stays at camps and keeps his eyes open for a young girl, the lion cub which is rumoured to have been killed by Calanthe herself before she took her own life to not be felled by the swords of the enemy. 

Yet there is one man who swears he saw her leaving the castle on horseback accompanied by a guard. 

It is the only thing giving him hope. Yet, there’s no trace of either of them. 

Weeks pass by and turn into months, and Jaskier has to admit that his endeavour is fruitless.

Sodden turns into another field of corpses - a victorious one this time - and Jaskier writes a song, a ballade about the battles he’s heard about and gives it his own twist in the hopes that the outcome he wrote into it is the one that is true. It’s the first song in a long while in which he mentions Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf. 

Its debut takes place far from any war in the south, under the Bleobheris, the great oak in northern Velen. 

Mere hours later, he’s quietly escaped his teary audience in favour of selflessly reinvesting his coin into a certain establishment in the nearby town. 

"Hey, minstrel," Madame Lantieri says as she comes into the room without knocking, driving an odorous cloud of hyacinths, sweat, beer and smoked meat in front of her. "You have a visitor," she continues before talking over her shoulder, holding the door open. "Come in, honourable sir."

Jaskier swiftly fixes his dishevelled hair and straightens up in the huge carved armchair that has seen better days. The two girls, meanwhile, jump hurriedly from his knees, drawing their revealing shirts back over their scarcely clad bodies in sudden shyness. 

Only then does he stand up, tightening his belt and casually putting on his doublet while eyeing the nobleman standing on the threshold. 

Undoubtedly another of Dijkstra's errand boys he’s been hounding Jaskier with for the last few months.

"Indeed," Jaskier voices out loud, "you always know how to find me, though you rarely choose the right moment. Lucky for you, I had not yet decided which of the two beauties I preferred. And at your prices, Lantieri, I cannot afford both,” he adds with a look.

Madame Lantieri smiles sympathetically at that and claps her hands. The two girls - a fair-skinned, freckled one from the islands and a dark-haired half-elf - hurry out of the room. Jaskier watches them leave with a sigh. The man standing on the threshold meanwhile takes off his coat and hands it to Madame Lantieri together with a small but bulging pouch. 

"Excuse me, Master," he says, stepping closer and sitting down at the table. "I know I am troubling you at an inopportune time. But you disappeared so suddenly under the oak tree... I didn't catch up with you on the road as I had intended, and I didn't immediately find your trail in the town. Rest assured, I will not take up much of your time..."

"You always say that, and it's always bogus," Jaskier interrupts him. Briefly he chews at the inside of his cheek, turning his gaze upon the madame who's still lingering in the doorway. "Leave us, Lantieri, and see to it that we aren't disturbed," Jaskier says and settles back in the chair as he looks at the nobleman. He has dark, moist, watery eyes, a pointed nose and narrow lips which twist in an unattractive way. "I am listening,” he voices, resigning himself to a lengthy and boring conversation, while Madame Lantieri ducks out of the room.

"I will come to the point without delay," the stranger declares as soon as the door has closed behind him. "I am interested in your ballads, master. More precisely, certain people, you sing about. I am interested in the true destinies of the heroes of your ballads. For if I am not mistaken, it was the real fates of real people that inspired you to write the beautiful works that we have experienced under the oak tree? I mean... I mean the little Cirilla of Cintra. The granddaughter of Queen Calanthe."

Jaskier looks up at the wooden ceiling contemplatively, drumming his fingers on the table. "Good sir," he says dryly. "You're interested in rather strange things. Strange things, that you're asking about. I'm getting the impression that you aren't who I thought you were."

"And who did you take me for, may I ask?"

"I don't know if you may," Jaskier voices somewhat obnoxiously, but sue him, that wasn't how he pictured his evening going. "It will depend on whether you’ll relay greetings from our mutual acquaintance." He watches the man's expression closely and warily. "You should've done so earlier, but it seems, you somehow forgot."

"I haven't forgotten at all." The stranger reaches into an inside pocket of his sepia-coloured velvet jacket and pulls out a second pouch, slightly larger than the one he had handed to the bawd, but sounding just as plump and promising as it hits the tabletop. "We just don't have any mutual acquaintances, Jaskier. But perhaps this pouch is able to make up for that deficiency?"

Jaskier huffs through his nose, looking at the object. "What do you intend to buy for this meagre purse?" he voices sarcastically, "The whole of Madame Lantieri's brothel and the surrounding land?"

"Let us say I intend to promote the arts. And an artist. To be able to chat with the artist about his work,” the stranger says as if Jaskier can’t smell the bullshit on his breath from all the way over here. 

"You love art that much, sir?” Jaskier inquires with an obnoxious and feigned stupendous smile. “And you are so keen to talk to the artist that you try to force money on him before you've even introduced yourself, thereby violating the most elementary rules of decency?" 

"At the beginning of our conversation" - the stranger narrows his dark eyes a tiny bit - "my incognito did not disturb you.”

"But now it is beginning to bother me,” Jaskier retorts lightly, brushing imaginary dust off his cuff.  

"I need not be ashamed of my name," the man says with a small smile on his thin lips. "My name is Rience. You do not know me, Master Jaskier, and no wonder. You are too well known and famous to know all your admirers. But it seems to every admirer of your talent that they know you, know you so well that certain familiarity seems entirely appropriate. This also applies to me, to the fullest extent. I know that this is an erroneous assumption and I beg your kind pardon."

"You are kindly pardoned.”

"I may also count on your willingness to answer a few questions-"

"No, you may not," the bard cuts him off. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I dislike discussing the themes of my works, the inspiration, the characters, both fictional and otherwise. For that displaces poetry from its poetic stratum and favours triviality."

"Is that so?"

"Most decidedly,” Jaskier says, making up a story on the spot to support his earlier statement which should’ve really been the end to this uncomfortable conversation. “Just think, if after reciting the ballad I were to announce that it is really about Zvirka, the wife of miller Schlammbeißer, and to add the message that you can fuck her to your heart's content every Thursday because the miller goes to market on Thursdays, then it would already cease to be poetry. It would be either pandering or vile slander."

"I see, I see," Rience says quickly. "But I suppose that's a bad example. After all, I don't care about anyone's sins or transgressions. You will not expose anyone if you answer my questions. I just need a little information: What really became of Cirilla, the prince's daughter of Cintra?” Jaskier’s fingers stop drumming on the table. “Many people claim that she died during the conquest of the city, there are even eyewitnesses to this event. However, it follows from your ballad that the child survived. I am really interested to know if this is your invention or a fact. Truth or fiction?"

"Your interest pleases me immensely," Jaskier replies with an obnoxious smile, while a more animalistic part in him fixates the stranger with predatory intent. "You'll laugh, Sir what's-your-name, but that's what I was after when I wrote the ballad. I wanted to edify the listeners and arouse their interest."

"Truth or fiction?" Rience repeats coldly. 

"If I revealed that, I would ruin the effect of my work. Farewell, friend,” Jaskier says with a dramatic sigh. “You have taken advantage of all the time I could devote to you. My inspirations wait."

Rience keeps silent for a long time, by no means prepared to leave. He regards the bard with his unsympathetic moist gaze. Jaskier feels a growing uneasiness and in response he can feel his molars turning into fangs. From downstairs, from the common room of the brothel, comes a cheerful babble of voices, now and then interspersed with high-pitched female giggles. Jaskier turns his head as if to demonstrate haughty disgust, but in fact, assesses the distance that separates him from the corner of the room and the tapestry that shows a nymph pouring water from a jug over her breasts. 

"Jaskier," Rience finally lets himself be heard, slipping a hand into the pocket of his sepia brown jacket. "Answer my questions, I beg of you. I must know the answer. This is immeasurably important to me. And believe me, for you as well, for if you answer in good-"

"What then?"

A reluctant grin appears on the thin lips. "Then I won't have to force you to talk."

"Watch it, you gallows trick," Jaskier stands up, equally done with playing this game. "I abhor violence and coercion,” he tells Rience sweetly and mostly for effect, “But in a moment I will call Madame Lantieri and she will send for a certain Klumpner, who holds the honourable and responsible position of the bouncer in this establishment. This is a true artist in his field. He'll kick your arse and you'll be flying over the rooftops of this city so beautifully that the few passers-by at this hour will mistake you for the Pegasus."

Rience makes a quick motion with his hand and something silver flashes in it.

"Are you sure," Rience asks, "That you can still call?"

Jaskier stares at the weapon, a nervous tongue flicking over his lip as he considers his position. There’s a dagger in his boot, but it’s questionable whether he’ll be quick enough to draw it. There’s also the fact that Madame Lantieneri will be sure to charge him if he gets blood on the floor. And he doubts that murder will enable him to revisit this establishment at a later convenience.
Thus Jaskier doesn’t intend to find out if he still can. Nor does he intend to wait. Even before the stiletto twirls and clicks in Rience's hand, he makes a long leap into the corner of the room, dives under the tapestry with the nymph, opens the secret door with a kick, and plunges neck over neck down the winding stairs, deftly following the smoothly scrubbed bannister. Rience chases after him, but the bard is sure of himself - he knows the secret passage like the back of his hand, he has used it many a time on the run from creditors, jealous husbands and violent competitors from whom he steals rhymes and sheet music now and then. He knows that there is a revolving door on the third slope, behind which a ladder leads to the cellar. He’s sure that the pursuer won’t be able to brake but will run on and step on the trap door, whereupon he will land in the pigsty. He’s sure that the painfully fallen pursuer, covered in dung and harassed by the pigs, won’t have any desire to continue the chase. 

Jaskier is wrong, as usual when he’s sure of something. Behind his back, something bluish suddenly flashes, and the bard feels a spasm run through his hands and feet, making them numb and stiff. He does not manage to brake in front of the revolving door, his legs failing him. He curses and tumbles down the stairs, hitting the walls. With a dry crack, the trapdoor opens beneath him and the troubadour falls down into darkness and stench. 

Before he hits the floor and loses consciousness, he remembers that Madame Lantieri had said something about repairing the pigsty. 

He comes to from the pain in his bound hands and in his arms, which have been cruelly twisted in his shoulder joints. He wants to scream but can’t; he feels as if his mouth has been covered with clay. He kneels on a clay floor and a crunching rope pulls him up by his arms. To ease the pain in his arms, he tries to stand up, but his legs are also tied. Breathless, he still manages to get to his feet, helped greatly by the cord that pulls him mercilessly upwards. 

In front of him stands Rience, and his evil moist eyes gleam in the light of the lantern held by an unshaven fellow standing there, nearly six feet tall. A second guy, no smaller, stands behind him. Jaskier hears him breathing and smells the stench of old sweat. It’s this second, smelly one, who pulls on the leash that is attached to the bard’s wrists and ran over a beam. 

Jaskier's feet come off the ground. He is no stranger to pain, but that still doesn’t make it pleasant. A noise climbs up through his nose, a mix of a growl and a pained whimper as he’s unable to do anything else. 

"Enough," Rience says at last, almost immediately, but to Jaskier it seems like an eternity. He touches the ground, but he can’t kneel down for the life of him - the tight leash keeps him taut as a string. 

Oh, how he hates that slimy bastard.

Rience steps closer. His face shows no emotion, the watery eyes have not changed their expression in the least. The voice in which he speaks is also calm, quiet, and almost a little bored. 

"You lousy verse-smith. You scum. You piece of filth. You conceited null. Did you want to escape me? No one has ever escaped me. We haven't finished our conversation yet, you joker, you moron. I asked you a question under much more pleasant circumstances. Now you will answer my question, but under far less pleasant circumstances: you will answer, won't you?"

Jaskier glares at him, the dragon within his skin picturing how he will devour the man whole. Thus the true character is revealed. In response, Rience smiles. And gives a sign.

A strangled whimper turned growl climbs up Jaskier's throat, as he feels the leash tighten and his arms twist backwards, grating their joints. 

"You can't speak," Rience states, still with his fake smile. "That hurts, doesn't it? You must know I'm pulling you up for my own pleasure, for now, I'm awfully fond of watching it hurt someone. Well, a little higher."

Oh, he will so enjoy setting this man on fire. 

"Enough," Rience finally orders, whereupon he approaches the poet and grabs him by the jabot. "Pay attention, chicken. I'm going to release the spell now so you can talk. But if you try to raise your pretty voice any louder than necessary, you'll be sorry."

He makes a hand motion, brushing the bard’s cheek with his ring, and Jaskier feels the sensation return to his jaw, tongue and palate. 

Rience’s fucking mistake. Jaskier bares his teeth in the mockery of a grin and he can see the look of surprise on his torturer's face when he uses the leverage of Rience’s hands on his clothes to jerk his head forward and bite down on the next best piece of flesh he reaches, which turns out to be the mage’s forearm. 

“ARRGH!” Rience screams and pulls back, blood streaming down his elbow. Jaskier spits out the gooey gob, while the draconic part within him purrs.

“You-” Rience’s face is distorted by fury. Suddenly the gory wound above his wrist is forgotten. He takes a step forward and then another and then he’s punching Jaskier in his face. Hot pain spreads from the spot where Rience’s ring tore open his lips. 

He receives another punch, this time to the gut. Then another. And another. And another.  

Jaskier doesn’t know how often but when Rience finally steps back he’s hanging limply in the ropes, bloody saliva dripping to the ground. 

He should’ve gone for the dominant hand, he thinks deliriously. 

"Now," Rience continues panting, brushing his hair out of his face before he wraps the wound on his arm with a silken handkerchief. A hint of lavender joins the dominating smell of blood. "I will ask you a few questions, and you will answer them, fluently, quickly and exhaustively. But if you hesitate or falter for even a moment, if and when you give me the slightest reason to doubt the truth of your words... Look down."

Jaskier is already looking down. From the shackles around his ankles a short cord leads to a bucket filled with lime, he notes vaguely.

"If I give the order to pull you higher," Rience says with a cruel smile, "And together with you this bucket, you will certainly not be able to use your hands. I doubt that you will be able to play the lute afterwards. I really doubt it. So I suppose you will talk. Am I right?"

Jaskier imagines what Rience’s face will look like when he changes into his draconic form.  

Rience does not give the impression that he cares much for the confirmation either way.

"I, of course," he informs, "will know at once whether you are telling the truth, I sift through every subterfuge on the spot, am not deceived by peotish tricks nor by quaint generalities. That's a small thing for me because it was a small thing to paralyse you on the stairs. So I advise you, scoundrel, weigh every word. But too bad about the time, let's get started. As you know, I am interested in the heroine of one of your beautiful ballads, the granddaughter of Queen Calanthe of Cintra. The prince's daughter Cirilla, known by her nickname Ciri. According to eye-witness accounts, this little person died two years ago during the conquest of the city. In the ballad, on the other hand, you vividly and touchingly describe her encounter with that strange, almost legendary individual, this ...Witcher Geralt. Leaving aside the poetic drivel about predestination and the ways of fate, it follows from the ballad that the child survived the battle for Cintra in one piece. Is that true?"

Jaskier pauses. He’d like to do nothing more than to break his restraints by turning into a bloody dragon right on the spot, perhaps take the head off this bastard of a man, but if he does that, there’s no chance to ever find out what those people want from Geralt, or the girl - his child surprise. His resolve breaking, Jaskier curses inwardly as he resigns himself to this ordeal for a little longer. "I don't know..." he presses out between his teeth. "By the gods, I'm only a bard! I've heard this and that and the rest..."

"Yes?"

"The rest I made up. Invented! I know nothing!" the bard growls as he sees Rience signal the stinker, and feels the leash tighten. "I'm not lying!"

"True." Rience nixes. "You don't just lie, I'd feel that. But somehow you're talking around it. You wouldn't have just made up that ballad for no reason. And you know this Witcher. You've been seen in his company repeatedly: So speak, Jaskier, if you value your joints. All that thou knowest."

"This Ciri," Jaskier presses out, contemplating what he can reveal, "was predestined to the Witcher. A so-called child surprise... Surely you've heard of it, it is a well-known story. Her parents had vowed to give her to the Witcher..."

"The parents were supposed to hand the child over to this mad mutant? This hired assassin? You lie, verse-smith. You can sing such tales to the women."

Fuck. You. Jaskier thinks. Out loud he says, "So it was, I swear on my mother's soul… I have it on good authority... I was there with the Witcher..."

"Talk about the girl. I am not interested in the Witcher for now."

And isn’t that at least partly a relief.

"I know nothing about the girl,” Jaskier pants. “I heard that everyone has died in Cintra, that not a soul was left alive in the last bastion..."

"Speech. Fewer metaphors. More facts!"

"I parted from the Witcher in Barefield over a year ago. I haven't seen him since... But I knew of the predestination... So I wrote this ballade. That's all I know, I swear!"

"Rience looks at him from under lowered brows. "And where is this Witcher currently?" he asks. "This stout murderer of monsters the poetical butcher, who is so fond of destiny?"

Jaskier wants to laugh at the latter. "I said that last-"

"I know what you said," Rience interrupts him. "I listen attentively to what you say. And you listen to me attentively. Answer precisely the questions put to you. The question is as follows: If no one has seen the Witcher Geralt for over a year, where has he been hiding? Where does he use to hide?"

And oh, isn’t he painfully aware of where Geralt went every winter.

"I don't know where that is," the Jaskier says quickly. "I'm not lying. I really don't know..."

"Too quick, Jaskier, too quick." Rience smiles wickedly. "Too fast. You're clever, but you're careless. You don't know, you say, where that is. But I bet you know what it is."

Jaskier grits his teeth in an attempt to keep his draconic side at bay. He can feel his spine shift beneath his skin. 

"Well?" Rience signals to the stinking one. "Where is the sorcerer hiding? What is the name of this place?"

The poet stays silent. The leash tightens, twisting his arms painfully, his legs detaching from the ground. 

"You know, Jaskier, I could magically probe your brain, but that's exhausting. Besides, I like to watch how eyes pop out of their sockets in pain. And you're going to tell me after all." 

Jaskier knows that it’s only a matter of time until he feels Rience’s bones crack beneath his teeth. A part of him wonders whether a human will taste different than a deer. 

"Master," says the second fellow suddenly, covering the lantern with his cloak and peering through a crack in the stable door. "Someone's coming. Apparently one of the girls."

"You know what to do," Rience hisses. "Put out the lantern."

The smelly one lets go of the line. Jaskier abruptly falls to the floor, but he can still see the one with the lantern standing by the low door, while the smelly one lurks on the other side with a long knife. The light of the brothel shines through gaps in the boards, and the bard hears voices and singing there. 

His body aches as he curls up to pull his dagger from his boot with his bound hands.

The stable door creaks open and a not very tall figure appears in the opening, dressed in a cloak and wearing a round, tight-fitting cap. The girl hesitates for a moment and then steps over the threshold. The stinker attacks her and thrusts his knife at her with a flourish. And falls to his knees, for he meets no resistance, driving through the figure's throat, not unlike smoke.
Because the figure is indeed a puff of smoke that is already beginning to dissipate. But when it has completely disappeared, another figure rushes into the stable, indistinct, dark and nimble as a weasel.
While Jaskier starts to saw on his bonds, he sees her throw her coat at the lantern and jump over the stinker, sees something flash in her hand, and hears the stinker start to gasp and howl wildly. The other guy frees himself from the coat, jumps, lunging with a knife.
From the palm of the dark figure, a fiery bolt of lightning shoots out with a hiss, spilling over the man's face and chest with a ghostly crackle like burning oil. The man gives a piercing roar, and the sickening stench of burning flesh spreads through the stable. 

That is when Rience attacks. The spell he casts tears the darkness apart with a dazzling blue light, in which Jaskier catches sight of a slim woman in men's clothing, gesticulating strangely with both hands. He barely sees her for a second, for the blue light disappears abruptly amid the roar and blinding flashes of lightning, and Rience falls backwards in a cry of rage, crashing into a wooden partition wall and smashing through it. The woman in the man's clothes comes after him, flashing a stiletto in her hand. 

Meanwhile, Jaskier has finally removed the bonds from his hands and frantically turns his attention to the ones binding his ankles, all the while spitting curses under his breath.

Again light fills the stable, this time yellow, emanating from a glowing oval that has suddenly appeared in the air. Jaskier sees Rience rise from the dirty floor. And jump into the oval, where he instantly disappears. The oval loses its brightness, but before it is extinguished, the woman is with him, shouting something unintelligible with her hands outstretched. Something begins to crackle and rustle, and the dying oval flares for a moment in blazing flames. From far away, from very far away, an indistinct sound reaches Jaskier's ear, something that sounds very much like a cry of pain. The oval goes out completely, darkness reigns in the stable, just when the cord around Jaskier’s legs snaps as well.

He stands up groaning, with aching limbs and rubbing at his numb arms. His stomach is pounding. Still, he only curses when he recognizes the smell wafting through the air. "Yennefer?” 

"Surely you remeber what I look like,” she says with a mocking smile distorting her shapely face. He wrinkles his nose at the scent of lilac and gooseberry growing more intense when she approaches. “And my voice shouldn't be unfamiliar to your oh-so-musical ear..." Her sarcasm dies off as she swiftly rakes her eyes over him. "Did they break any bones?" she asks, while offering him a hand to help him up. 

Jaskier proceeds to deliberately overlook it, getting up by himself.  

Yennefer doesn’t seem bothered by it. 

“He was more concerned with my organs than my bones,” the bard offers, hands pressed into his aching middle. “What about them?" he presses out and jerks his chin in the direction of the bodies lying on the ground. 

"We'll find out." The sorceress lets the collapsed stiletto snap open. "One of them's gotta live. I'd have a few questions for him."

"That one-" the bard stops in front of the stinking one, nudging him with his boot - "seems to be alive." The man’s chest moves shallowly, ragged wet breaths spilling over his lips. 

"I don't think so," Yennefer comments equanimously." I cut his larynx and carotid artery. Maybe there's still some life left in him, but not for long."

Jaskier doesn’t exactly feel pity. 

Yennefer seems equally pragmatic. "Let us look and the other,” she says already turning away, “…Damn. Look, such a lump of a fellow and couldn't stand it. Too bad, too bad..."

"He's not alive either?" Jaskier says and turns around as well, looking over Yennefer’s shoulder. What lies on the ground is barely recognizable as a human. 

"He couldn't stand the shock,” Yennefer concludes, “Hmm... I roasted him a bit too hard... Look, even the teeth are charred…” She turns her head when she realizes that Jaskier has turned away. “What's the matter, Jaskier?" He can hear the smile in her voice. "Do you have to throw up?" 

The bard waves her off, trying to hold his breath. He would gladly admit to it, were this the case, but in truth, the reason why he had to distance himself is the fact that Yennefers perfume isn’t enough anymore to keep the smell at bay and now he’s having a rather hard time keeping his draconic side at bay, which tries to convince him that the scorched man would make a rather good meal. 

“Let’s just get out of here,” he presses out, already trailing towards the exit.

"Is that all?" Yennefer says once they’re comfortably seated in a nearby inn, putting down her cup and reaching for the spit of chicken. "You didn't lie? Leave anything out?" 

"Nothing,” Jaskier lies, looking at her over his own cup. She healed most of his wounds, which he’s grateful for but he doesn’t owe her the truth. 

The sorceress looks him in the eye and indicates a nod, her shiny black curls rippling, dropping to her shoulders. She places a roasted chicken on the wooden plate and begins to deftly disassemble it. She uses a knife and fork. Jaskier watches on for a moment, unwillingly reminded of Geralt doing the same.

Eventually, he forcefully pushes the memories away and pulls the second chicken off the spit, tearing off a drumstick without a second thought and begins to gnaw it off, demonstratively holding it with both hands. 

"How did you know?" he asks. “That I was there, in the stable?"

"I was under the Belobeheris during your performance."

Jaskier looks up, surprised. "I don’t recall seeing you."

"I didn't want to be seen. Afterwards I followed you to the little town. I waited here at the inn, I couldn't very well follow you to this establishment of questionable pleasures and an unquestionable tripper. But finally, I became impatient. I was looking around the farm when I thought I heard voices coming from the pigsty. I sharpened my hearing, and it turned out that it was not a sodomite at all, as I had first suspected, but you.”

Jaskier snorts over his chicken. Either Yennefer is truly not aware that he and Geralt have fucked on occasion for longer than she’s known him, or this is an odd way of her getting a dig at him.

“Hey, innkeeper! Some more wine, please!" Yennefer orders.

"Very well, noble lady. Comes at once!"

"The same as before, please, but this time without water. I tolerate it only in the bath; in wine I find it repugnant."

Reluctantly, Jaskier has to admit to himself that he can appreciate this side of her. 

"Very well, very well!" the innkeeper pants and hurries into the back. He returns with a sloshing carafe, placing it on the table, sweating nervously under Yennefer’s glance before turning away.

 Only then does the sorceress push her plate away.

Jaskier considers her for a long moment. "I owe you my gratitude," he reluctantly says, "for helping me.” After all, she did heal the worst of his injuries. And her interference prevented him from having to turn into a dragon within the confines of a stable. While probably effective, the drawbacks to it are obvious and there would’ve still been the chance that one of the men escaped, reporting to their higher-ups and doubling Jaskier’s problems. “That cursed Rience wouldn't have left me alive if he’d gotten the chance.” He stares grimly at his wine before downing it. “If it were up to him, he would have taken everything out of me and slaughtered me like a mutton."

"I think so, too.” Yennefer refills both their cups before raising hers. "'Here's to your preserved health, then, Jaskier."      

"To yours, Yennefer," he returns the toast. “I can already hear a ballade singing of the myth of how sorcerers are not indifferent to foreign suffering, how they do not hesitate to come to the aid of strange, poor, unfortunate mortals.”

"Well." She smiles, suggesting a wink with those beautiful violet eyes. "The myth would have its justification, it wouldn't have sprung up without reason. But you are no stranger, Jaskier. After all, I know you and I like you."

Jaskier barely avoids spitting wine all over her. "Really,” he finds himself saying after he’s swallowed and overcome his brief coughing fit. “How cleverly you have hidden that so far. I've actually come upon the impression that you dislike me, and I quote: ‘ like the plague’. " He stares into her violet eyes.

"Once, perhaps.” Yennefer suddenly becomes serious. "But I changed my opinion. I'm grateful, actually."

Jaskier scoots back on the bench and considers her suspiciously. "For what, if I may ask?" 

"It doesn't matter," she says, playing with the empty cup. "Let's get back to the important questions. The ones you were asked in the stable, with your arms twisted out of your joints. What was it really like, Jaskier? Did you really not know that Geralt returned to the south at the end of the war? That he was badly wounded, so badly that there were even rumours of his death? You didn't know about anything?"

Jaskier feels his throat drying. "No. I didn't know… I enjoyed myself for a long time in Pont Vanis at the court of Esterad Thyssen. And then in …Temeria.”

"You didn't know..." The sorceress nods, unbuttoning her jacket. On her neck, a brilliant-studded obsidian star sparkles on black velvet. "You didn't know that after Geralt cured his wounds, he rode off to the Riverlands? You can't guess who he was looking for there?"

"I can take a good guess,” Jaskier says, “but whether he found her, I don't know."

"You don't know," Yennefer repeats. "You, who usually know everything and sings about everything.” 

Jaskier bristles under her gaze. He feels a growl building in his throat.

“Even of such intimate things as someone's feelings,” Yennefer continues on. “Under the Belobheris I listened to more of your ballads, Jaskier. Some pretty verses you have dedicated to my person… Hair like a raven's wing, like a storm by night," Yeneffer quotes exaggeratedly pathetic, "lightning slumbers in the violet-blue eyes....' was that how it went?" 

"That's how I remembered you." The poet smiles sharply. "If anyone wants to claim that this account isn’t accurate, let him cast the first stone at me."

"I just don't know-" the sorceress presses her lips together for a moment - "who authorised you to describe my internal organs. What was it they said? 'Is not her heart like the jewel that adorns her neck, like a diamond so hard, like demant so callous, sharper than obsidian, it strikes wounds deep......' Did you make that up yourself? Or did perhaps..." Her mouth twitches, twists. "Or maybe you listened to someone's claims and complaints?"

Jaskier restrains the scoff that threatens to burst over his lips. 

A predictable pattern of broody silence, gruff interactions with innkeepers and efficient if a bit more bloody kills during contracts had usually alerted Jaskier to the state of things between Geralt and Yennefer mere hours into whenever he’d reencountered the Witcher. 

Voicing his thoughts on the matter had been the least of Geralt’s concerns in those times. Actually, more of the opposite, for when this kind of mood took hold of Geralt, talking, in general, seemed to be dismissed in favour of silent staring. 

There were brooding, contemplative looks directed at the landscape or dark glares penetrating tankards of ale. And of course, there were the unreadable stares piercing Jaskier. 

A lot of stares, sometimes going on for weeks to the point where Jaskier almost grew uncomfortable with the golden eyes resting on him. Coincidentally, this was usually also the moment - if it came at all - when he and Geralt would fall back into bed with each other. They’d fuck around for a while until inevitably their arrangement would end and the whole circle would start anew.

"Tell me, Yennefer, when was the last time you saw Geralt?" Jaskier asks instead of voicing any of his thoughts out loud.

"It was a long time ago,” Yennefer replies, staring at the cup she twirls between her fingers

"After the war?" Jaskier inquires, leaning forward as he looks at her intently. 

"After the war..." Yennefer's voice changes slightly. "No, I didn't see him after the war. For a long time I... didn't see anyone at all. But to the point, bard,” she says resolutely and looks up. “I'm a little puzzled that you don't know about anything and haven't heard anything and yet someone pulls you up by the beam, of all people, to get information. Doesn't that trouble you?"

"It does,” Jaskier admits seriously.

"Listen," she says, setting the cup down on the table with a firm clink. She fixates him over the table. "Listen carefully. Strike that ballad from your repertoire. Don't sing it anymore."

Jaskier bristles. "You mean..."

"You know exactly what I mean,” she cuts him off. “Sing of the war with Nilfgaard. Sing of Geralt and of me, you do us neither harm nor good, you make nothing better and nothing worse. But do not sing of the lion cub of Cintra."

Yennefer subtly looks around, making sure that none of the few guests is eavesdropping at this hour, and waits until a girl has cleared the tables and gone into the kitchen. 

"Also try to avoid private encounters with people you don't know," she says quietly. "With those who forget to greet you first from common acquaintances. You understand?"

The bard looks at her in surprise. Yennefer smiles a knowing smile. "Greetings from Dijkstra, Jaskier."

Now it is Jaskier’s turn to glance around, startled. His astonishment must have been obvious and his expression comical, for the sorceress allows herself a rather mocking grin. 

"Speaking of which," she whispers, leaning over the table. "Dijkstra hereby requests a report. You come from Verden and Dijkstra would like to know what is being talked about at King Ervyll's court. He has asked me to tell you that this time the report should be factual, detailed and definitely not in verse. In prose, Jaskier. In prose."

The bard can hear his throat click when he swallows and he nods.

"Hard times are coming," Yennefer said softly, "Hard and dangerous. A time of change is coming. It would be a shame to grow old believing that nothing has been done to ensure that the coming changes are for the better. Wouldn't it?"

The implication is obvious, the suggestion as well, but he nods in agreement, either way. "Yennefer?" Jaskier asks, clearing his throat. 

"I'm listening, bard."

"The ones there in the stable - I'd like to know who they were, what they wanted, who sent them. You killed them both, but rumour has it that you can extract information even from the dead."

"And of the fact that necromancy is forbidden by an edict of the Chapter, the rumours say nothing? Give it a rest, Jaskier. Those executioners didn't know much anyway. The one who escaped... Hmmm..... That's something else."

"Rience. He was a wizard wasn't he?"

"Yes. But not a very experienced one."

"Still, he got away from you. I saw how. He teleported, didn't he? Does that mean anything?"

"It did. That someone helped him. That Rience didn't have enough pointer or strength to open the oval portal that was floating in the air. A teleport like that is no small feat. It's clear that someone else opened it. Someone incomparably more powerful. That's why I was afraid to go after him without knowing where I'd come out. But I sent a pretty high temperature after him. He'll need a lot of spells and elixirs that help against burns, and still, he'll be branded for a long time."

"You might be interested to know that it was a Nilfgaarder."

"You think?" Yennefer straightens up, takes the stiletto out of her pocket with a swift movement, and turns it in her hand. "Nilfgaarder knives are carried by many people. They are comfortable and practical, you can even conceal them in your décolleté..."

"It's not about the knife. When he questioned me, he used phrases like 'the battle for Cintra' and 'the conquest of the city’ or something like that. I never heard anyone call these events that. For us, it was always the Slaughter of Cintra. No one says it any other way."

The sorceress raises her hand, mustering her fingernails. "Clever, Jaskier. You have a fine ear."

"An occupational disease,” Jaskier offers with a weak smirk.

"Hmm, I wonder which occupation you mean?" She smiles fleetingly. "But thank you for the information. It was valuable."

"May that- “ he twists his lips into a somewhat disdainful smile - "be my contribution to a change for the better... Tell me, Yennefer, why is Nilfgaard so interested in Geralt and the girl from Cintra?"

"Don't stick your nose in there,” Yennefer says with a suddenly serious expression. "As I said, you must forget what you ever heard about the granddaughter of Calanthe."

"I'm not looking for material for a ballad,” Jaskier replies pointedly, a muscle in his jaw twitching. 

"So what the hell are you looking for?” Yennefer shoots back, leaning over the table, her whisper almost a hiss. “A beating?"

"Supposedly," he says quietly, leaning forward as well, his arms resting on the table while he looks the sorceress in the eye. "Let us suppose that Geralt did indeed find and save this child. Let us suppose that he did eventually begin to believe in the power of destiny and took the child he found with him. Where to. Rience tried to force that out of me with torture. But you know, Yennefer. You know where Geralt has holed up."

"I know,” Yennefer states curtly. 

"And you know how to get there?"

"I know that too."

Jaskier wets his lip with his tongue. It takes him some effort to voice the request and a part of him growls at relying on Yennefer, but even his lingering resentment towards Geralt or his inherent dislike of the witch in front of him isn’t enough to eradicate his worry for the man. "Don't you think you should warn him? Tell him that people like this Rience are looking for him and the girl? I would ride in, but I really don't know where it is... The place whose name I don't voice liberally..." 

And not to speak of the fact that Geralt quite vocally announced how he stands to Jaskier.

"Draw the conclusion, Jaskier," Yennefer says impatiently.

"If you know where Geralt is, you must ride there and warn him. You owe him, Yennefer,” Jaskier says, gritting his teeth against the bitter feeling churning in his chest. He can feel blood well up in the back of his mouth where his fangs have grown so long that they pierce his own flesh. Rarely is he torn this much between his instincts and what he knows is rational. “After all, something connected you to him,” he voices hoarsely.

"Certainly," Yennefer confirms coldly. "Something connected me to him. That's how I know him a little. He didn't like it when help was forced on him. And when he needed help, he sought it from people he trusted. More than a year has passed since these events and I... have not received any news from him. As far as guilt is concerned, I owe him as much as he owes me. No more and no less."

For some reason, Jaskier feels like laughing. 

So Geralt didn’t only fuck things up with him that day on the mountain.

Strangely this thought manages to alleviate some of his resentment towards Yennefer. 

Still, if she isn’t willing to warn Geralt, there’s only another option. "Then I will ride there," Jaskier decides. "Tell me-" 

"I won't tell you," she interrupts him. "Far too risky for you, Jaskier. They might come after you again; the less you know, the better. Get out of here. Ride to Redania, to Dijkstra and Philippa Eilhart, attach yourself to the court of Visimir. And I warn you again: forget the lion cub of Cintra. Forget Ciri. Pretend never to have heard that name. Do as I ask. I don't want anything bad to happen to you. I care for you too much, owe you too much."

"That's the second time you've said that,” Jaskier blurts out and he stares at the sorceress. “What do you owe me, Yennefer?"

Yennefer turns her head and he studies her profile while she keeps silent. She purses her lips, frowning for a moment. "You travelled with him," she says at last. "Thanks to you, he wasn’t alone. You were a friend to him. You were with him."

Jaskier can’t help but stare at her in disbelief. A second goes by. Then he laughs. 

The sorceress stares at him, her surprise and confusion evident on her face. 

"Yennefer,” he voices, once he’s caught his breath, “I haven’t seen nor spoken to Geralt since the dragon hunt in Barefield." 

“What happened?” she asks, her eyes wide and fixated on the bard.
It’s the first time this day, that Jaskier truly believes that she’s seen her real unguarded emotions. 

He picks up his goblet, taking a sip before swirling the remains in his hand. Then he looks at her with a bitter smile and lets her draw her own conclusions. “We aren’t friends, Yennefer,” he says. “You helped me. You healed me and I appreciate that. But I don’t owe you this story. Ask Geralt for all I care.”

She pulls back, her expression once again completely under control as she studies him. She seems colder now in a way, but it’s not quite the obvious disdain he’s usually used to seeing on her face. "Ride to Redania," she repeats after a while. "To Tretogor. There you will be under the protection of Dijkstra and Philippa. Don't try to play the hero. You've got yourself into something dangerous, Jaskier."

Jaskier scoffs. "I noticed that." He frowns and rubs his aching shoulders. "That's why I think you need to warn Geralt. Only you know where to find him,” he voices with a bitter smile. You know the way. I assume you have been... a guest there."

Yennefer meanwhile turns away. Jaskier sees her press her lips together, a muscle twitching on her cheek. 

"Yes, I've been there," she says, something incomprehensibly strange in her voice. “I have been a guest there. But never uninvited."

Their conversation doesn’t last much longer. They finish off their respective goblets in silence. Afterwards, Yennefer leads them upstairs, leaving him the room she rented for the night, while she portals out. 

Alone, in a room smelling of lilac and gooseberry, Jaskier resigns himself to a sleepless night.  

As he leans against the rough wall of the inn, staring into the darkness and reflecting on the encounter with Rience and his conversation with Yennefer, a thought invades his mind.

He told Yennefer that she was the only one who knew where Geralt would be holed up. But that isn’t exactly true, is it?

After all, Jaskier knows more than one Witcher, who spends his winters in Kaer Morhen, doesn’t he?

Chapter Text

As it turns out, tracking down Witchers isn’t as easy as his dynamic with Geralt had always made it seem. One would expect that someone with a recognizable facial scar like Eskel would leave a lasting impression or that Lambert would’ve made some life-long enemies in at least a few of the towns he travels through.

Yet, nothing.
Of course, there’s still Coën, but from what Jaskier can tell, he is neither an antagonistic arsehole nor possesses any true recognizable features sans his mostly hidden tattoos, which doesn’t exactly fuel his hopes of tracking him down. 

Still, that doesn’t make the lack of leads any less frustrating. 

September turns into October, October into November and then the snow forces Jaskier to slow down his travels to the point where he heeds Yennefer’s advice and attaches himself to King Vizimirs court, where he uses all of his resources, stretching out his feelers in order to find out anything about the Witchers he’s looking for.
It takes him an embarrassingly long time to grasp that he’ll have more luck finding a Witcher by questioning the local washerwomen than remaining at court, where he is widely regarded as the leading expert on that topic, which - thanks to his own efforts throughout the years - has taken on more of a romanticized notion than drawing actual factoid interest anyway. 

Apparently, a local feud about the setting of boundary stones weighs heavier in the political world than a mere monster-slayer passing through the lands. 

Thus Jaskier bids his goodbyes even before the fields have completely thawed and he spends three useless months in the cesspool of vice that is Novigrad because Lambert once mentioned that he usually combs through the city during spring in search of contracts. 

At this point, it has turned less into a mission of warning Geralt, than finding out whether the man is safe. The political unrest and tension have revived some protective instincts within Jaskier that extend much further than only Geralt and come Litha, a considerable amount of his time is spent thinking about his other Witchers as well. He feels his skin crawling with worry at all times of the day and his legs are itching until he’s combing through the many streets of Novigrad in search of a sign or a familiar scent. 

That being said, he isn’t above enjoying the opportunities the city offers to him. As much as the so-called free city is known for people freeing others of their coin - be it through gambling, bawding, betting, thievery or plain-old creditors who do not shy away from violence to collect their extremely high interest rates - it is still Novigrad, a pearl of the north. 

With its impressive fleet and guards, high city walls, as well as salty waters in the moat beneath the bridges ebbing and rising with the sea it is connected to, it is more secure than any fortress. 

Busy and lively almost nothing here indicates the brewing conflict with Nilfgaard.
But it is brewing.
Jaskier unlike the one or other ignorant local isn’t above calling out that the brittle peace that has come with the black-coats staying behind their Cintran borders is nothing more than that. Brittle.
A breather before the inevitable storm. 
Yet he is pragmatic enough to make the most of this breather and thus Jaskier takes his time strolling through the cobbled streets lined with half-timbered buildings and the occasional masonry hinting at the ancient elven structures it was built on. He reconnects with a few old friends, visits brothels, bathhouses, taverns and theatres and takes part in a bardic competition at a music festival where he singlehandedly wipes the floor with his competitors. 

It is the last time in a long while that Jaskier performs this publicly. 

Because apparently, he isn’t the only one who has trouble tracking Geralt or any of his associates down. 

Unlike Jaskier though, the other interested party counts his humble persona among the latter. 

If it weren’t so worrying, he might even be somewhat flattered by the fact that his head is evidently worth enough to Rience’s employers, for them to place a bounty on it. 

Jaskier leaves Novigrad head over heels mere days after what has turned into his grand dernière, but he learns rather quickly that even if he doesn’t draw attention by avoiding performing as a whole, his name - as much as he had tried to deny it at one point - is still very much connected to Geralt. 

He has to rinse the blood of two more men off his trembling hands and the fresh scar on his shoulder blade is now a vivid reminder of the fact that it’s become quite dangerous being known as the Witcher’s bard. 

By the time an early winter has rolled over the lands, Jaskier has been forced to abandon all his carefully laid plans. He’s started performing again to make ends meet, but his most recognizable songs have been scrapped out of his repertoire and he’s picked up the mantle of the name Dandelion once more. 

Currently, he’s sitting at a small table in the corner of a humid taproom, the hood of his cloak pulled deep into his face. He plays with the remnants of what is supposed to be stew, his lute, untouched, next to him. All in all, he feels about as miserable as the pitiful people living in the backwater town he’s lying low at for the time being. 

A week ago he pawned off a glittering ruby from one of his rings in order to stock up on coin he desperately needed.
It irks him to this day.
He still wears a few silvery bands on his fingers, not willing to give up on the advantage it brings in a fight. Perhaps also because he enjoys the sight of the pretty metal glittering just above his knuckles. No doubt the locals think him some kind of disgraced noble on the run - not that it isn’t an assumption far from the truth. Still, at this point, the settings for the more valuable jewels of his rings sit empty, instead, the cut stones reside within a carefully hidden pocket sewn into the lining of his rather ratty doublet, right next to a set of lockpicks and a letter of safe conduct adorned with the red seal of the Redanian King himself, which he carries on his person at all times. It’s not like he can and will use it since it’s issued in his full name, but it’s still a reassuring weight.

Despite his stomach still gurgling with hunger, he grimaces in disgust when an indistinguishable drop of something drips from the ceiling into his bowl. That truly concludes his meal and Jaskier lets the wooden spoon drop into the murky liquid with a splash, before he pushes it away with a sigh. Absently, he traces over the dry and split skin of his aching knuckles, while directing his glance at the people around him. 

Here in Brugge, the war isn’t all that far away. 

Resources were already scarce thanks to the groups of refugees having settled down in the region and in need of mouths being filled, but at this point, the stationed army isn’t being looked upon with fondness either.

On top of that continuous rain has ruined this year’s harvest only to make way for the early frost. Disease and hunger are reining in the refugee camps and nests of all kinds of vermin have popped up.
From rats feasting on the rotten corn in the granaries to wolves roaming around the houses and ghouls desecrating the washed-out graves. 

The only reason why Jaskier is truly even spending his time in this hellhole. Because if there are monsters, there’ll inevitably be some Witchers. 

At this point though, he would gladly fuck off to anywhere else. And he would have already, were it not for the bloody snowstorm keeping the lands in its icy grip. 

For four days now, it has been wreaking havoc, raging across the fields and lashing against the thatched roofs. 

It whistles through the cracks in the shutters, turning the nights into frozen nightmares. At night, as he tosses and turns sleeplessly in his bed, Jaskier hears the child screaming next door. If he couldn't draw heat from the ambient air thanks to his draconian heritage, he wouldn't know how to deal with the situation. 

During the day, he gets drunk and numbs himself with spicy schnapps, which warms his stomach and wakes his stiff fingers.
No one comes to hear him play. 

Today, the tavern is more or less empty bar a few reckless locals who still dare to take a step outside their homes in the howling winds. 

The innkeeper's daughter nodded at him sometime earlier, scarves wrapped tightly around her body as she went to check on the goats, which is the greatest amount of human interaction he can hope for and really all the attention he allows himself to draw this far south.

Two days ago had seemed to be the exception as almost half the tables in the tavern had been occupied, if only because the people were sick of sitting at home.

The wind had been still whistling outside, tossing around the flickering oil lamps, but inside had reigned laughter and exuberance fuelled by schnapps and dwarven spirit. 
It all came to a halt though, when a frantic local had stormed in, shivering and with a terrified face, announcing that his son hadn’t returned from where he was sent to check on their fences. 
As it turned out, all that had remained of the youngster had been a bloody smear in the snow and the broken remains of his cracked bones. 

Today the mood reflects the happenings of the past and the few people strewn around the taproom are either drinking in silence or talking in hushed voices. 

Jaskier contemplates whether it would be wise to start drinking around noon or if he still wants to get some writing done that evening when the door suddenly slams open.
Immediately a cold wind is chasing through the room, causing the few candles to flicker dangerously and blowing snow over the threshold. This is followed by an imposing figure ducking through the doorway, blocking out the harsh light behind. It makes it hard for a moment to take in anything more than the hulking silhouette created by a rough woollen coat. Still, Jaskier doesn’t need any help in distinguishing the twin sword handles jutting over the newcomer’s shoulders. 

The room has grown quiet, but when the wind slams the door shut a few people flinch.

Uncaring of the stares, the stranger pulls back his hood as he makes his way over to the counter. Where the floorboards creak under his heavy steps, he leaves behind a trail of snow like breadcrumbs.

“Vodka,” he rasps once he reaches the bar. The innkeeper’s daughter hurries to comply, a terrified spark in her eyes. 

While the girl is rummaging with something beneath the counter, the Witcher turns around, scanning over the taproom with a scrutinizing look.
Half of his face is still obscured by a scarf he has wrapped around his mouth and nose, grey from the snow that has caught in between the fabric and frozen stiff from the cold. Ice crystals are clinging to every piece of clothing, from the bottom of his thick furlined cloak all the way up to his scarf. He looks like he travelled right through the snowstorm.

The only part that betrays him as anything other than a winter demon itself is his distinctly human head. Old scars are decorating his hairless skull and his left ear is marred by what must have been one hell of a hit. 

Suddenly and for a brief moment, slitted eyes meet the bard’s, displaying a colour that is almost more bronze than gold. 

Jaskier can’t help but stare back, the sleepy draconic part of him stirring from its hibernation at the sight. 

The Witcher doesn’t possess even a single eyelash. 

His interest piqued, he unconsciously sits up a tad straighter, contemplating whether he can risk it to approach the man. 

Abruptly, the Witcher turns away just in time to take the offered cup from the girl behind the bar. 

Tugging down his scarf, he downs the hard liquor in one go. Then he faces the gathered locals again. His face is all harsh lines and angles, nothing soft about him, with thin lips, a nose that is slightly crooked - broken at least once - and a broad jaw with hollow cheeks.
It’s a face that has been weathered, worn down by time and the unkindness of life. “Jutrowuj. Where is he?” the Witcher asks, his voice almost quiet, but commanding like steel. A hoarse quality swings in it, as if he hadn’t used it in quite a while. 

Jaskier wets his chapped lips, shifting his weight to angle himself to get a better look. The small bench he’s sitting on creaks under his thighs. 

No one speaks. 

“At- at his home, sire,” a lanky young man provides courageously and rises from his seat, only to be pulled down and jabbed in the ribs with a hissed, “That’s a Witcher, not a knight. …fucking dulbert ,” by one of his peers.

“I’m here for the contract,” the Witcher announces dismissively. “So someone either fetch him or provide a decent description of where I can find him.” 

He motions for the girl to pour him another vodka before his eyes once again flick over to meet Jaskier’s. 

The moment is shattered when an elderly man stands up from the table. “I’ll lead ya to him, Master Witcher.”

Said Witcher downs his second helping of the vodka just as easily as his first before nodding. He digs around in a pocket hidden beneath his stiff cloak. Jaskier catches the metallic flash of a hunting knife strapped to his torso before the fabric once more obscures its existence. The Witcher drops two silver coins on the counter and then he turns to the local. “Go ahead.”

The snow on the floorboards hasn’t even melted yet when the door slams shut again. 

Four hours later, Jaskier still sits at his table, anxiously biting at a thumb, his open journal untouched in front of him. He snaps it shut with a sudden motion, hiding the accusingly blank pages from his sight. Unlike it, the bottle of mead he retrieved alongside the booklet has seen its fair share of usage. 

He stows away his quill, while he mulls over the conversation he overheard earlier when the elderly local had returned on his own. 

According to him, the Witcher had deemed the issue a minor one. After a short inspection of the surrounding area, he had pronounced that it should be an easy enough contract to handle for an expert. Probably just a couple of ghouls who’d become frustrated with the frozen corpses in the ground and as such had tried their luck with a livelier prey.
And since the sheep had been locked up in the stable… 

An hour, perhaps two, the Witcher had estimated. But at this point, the man must’ve exceeded his original assessment of his timeframe by a double.

More people have found their way into the tavern since the Witcher’s abrupt arrival and they are talking in hushed voices, deep frowns on their faces and occasionally throwing glances towards the corner where the grief-stricken couple - whom Jaskier assumes to be the unfortunate parents of the slaughtered son - is sitting.

“Do you think he took off with the coin?” the formerly courageous youngster whispers rather loudly.

The conversations still for a moment before picking up again with new vigour. 

An old man spits. “Last time you’ll pay upfront, hah Jutrowuj?” he addresses the man in the corner with dark humour, purplish underlined eyes briefly flicking up, distaste and pain flashing in them before the emotions give way to apathy. The man’s lips still turn into a thin line and his jaw clenches.
Meanwhile, his equally grieving wife quietly sobs and he puts a hand on her shoulder. 

“Maybe he’s dead,” another woman suggests from where she’s standing with crossed arms among her peers. It earns her a scoff from the old man. 

“Wouldn’t make much of a difference,” someone else interjects hoarsely, voice dispersing into coughs. 

“Can’t trust them, those Witchers. No better than the otherlings, if you ask me. They only want your coin and if you can’t pay up they curse you with the plague.”

A few hums are the only answer but no one speaks up.

Without his conscious permission, Jaskier’s eyes pierce the old hag who spoke, his mouth curling with distaste. Something is burning through his veins and he gnashes his sharp teeth, biting back a growl. Abruptly, he stands up, swipes his journal from the table and climbs the narrow stairs to his room. Bar a few glances, no one pays him any mind. Once up there, he takes a moment to rummage through his belongings, hiding away his lute and journal in the corner behind the door and exchanging them with the dagger he secures behind his belt. 

If no one down there is going to look for the Witcher, then he is. 

“You plan to go out there?” the innkeeper's daughter asks him with wide eyes when he’s back downstairs and striding towards the door. Other people are looking up as well. “The wind is still blowing as if it were the wild hunt itself rode out there.”

With a strained smile, he turns to face her. “Oh. How very thoughtful of you, milady to point this out. What an oversight on my part. I hadn’t noticed.” He’s one step away from cursing them all out for dismissing the life of this Witcher like it isn’t worth more than the dead rat in their pantry. She stares at him taken aback, clutching at the scarf thrown across her shoulders, apparently seeing something in his expression that she didn’t before.

He forces himself to loosen the tense muscles in his face a bit and ignores the taste of blood where his tongue met one of his razor-sharp teeth. The last few months have taken their toll on his patience.
He got rained on, spat on, slept atop mouldy straw sacks only to get directed to another bleak tavern with horrendous prices for watered-down wine, where he couldn’t even use his name to talk himself into a better room because then it would only be a matter of time till the bounty hunters would come knocking onto his door. 

Jaskier is fed-up, cold, tired, hungry and all in all miserable. On top of that, now he has to deal with his anxious instincts, urging him to look for the Witcher, whom everyone views as expendable.

Not trusting himself to let loose a string of insults, he doesn’t bother with another word before he turns towards the exit.

As soon as the door has slammed shut behind him, he’s hit by a wall of icy air cutting into his nose and lungs. Whirling snowflakes are blown into his face by the wind like mocking kisses. Jaskier grimaces, squinting his eyes at the bright light, while the cold is creeping into any crevice between his clothes and skin. 

The wood cladding of the inn behind him is rattling ominously thanks to their exposure to the elements, but those sounds are soon swallowed up by the noise of the wind and crunch of his boots on the snowy ground as he makes his way towards where he guesses the main road is carving its way around the houses.
Shoulders hunched, cursing and grimacing, he adjusts his coat, barely catching his hood before it's blown from his head. Spitting insults at the gods and the weather they sent, Jaskier lifts his hands to breathe into his palms like he’s done so often during the last few days. But not even the magical heating up of his limbs can lift his mood under these grisly conditions. 

At least this way the cold no longer burns his lungs but the rest alone is enough of a moodsetter.

Muttering complaints to no one but himself, he sets himself in motion, dragging his feet through the thigh-high snow and cursing whenever a handful of it ends up between the shaft of his boot and leg.
All the while he has to fight an eternal fight over the hood of his cloak with the grappling elements. 

Eventually, he finds his way to a narrow path trampled into the snow, the last footprints already in the process of disappearing again. It’s a harder feat than anticipated to stick to it, thanks to the whirling snow obscuring his sight. 

All around him, the low roofs of the houses are drifted by the snow and like sunken ships, they rise out of the white sea where the wind has uncovered them again. 

A few skeletal trees bend in the strong wind, the most resilient ones still displaying some brown leaves. Jaskier can empathize with their trembling branches. 

In moments like these, he detests his own impulsiveness. 

Gods, why does always find himself in those situations?
He just wants to sleep.
In a nice dry place. A small room with a bed and furs where no wind can reach him. Or a cave. Anything really to get out of this fucking storm. 

Jaskier huffs, kicks at the snow, yells in frustration whenever his boot almost gets stuck and warms his hands in an ongoing cycle.  

His mood has reached an all-time low when some endless fifteen minutes later, he’s reached the field adjacent to the outermost buildings of the small settlement, where the boy got killed. 

Only then does it cross his mind that he has no idea how to find the Witcher. Any tracks are long covered by new snow and his sense of smell is as good as useless in this windy weather. Jaskier has a good mind to ram his own dagger into his chest simply to escape this situation.

With gritted teeth and a grim look, he nevertheless tries to spot any kind of clue. 

His coat whips around his legs as he walks along the snow-covered fence. He knows it’s of no use. Resignedly he looks up. Through the wild snow flurry, he stares at the dark silhouette of the small shed. In front of it, a timbered shelter sways in the wind, like a particularly lively canopy. 

There at least, he’ll be granted a little more protection from the wind. Muttering curses, his ungloved hands stuck under his own armpits for warmth, Jaskier trudges on. 

He approaches the building from the windy side, waist-high snowdrifts covering almost the entire surface of the barred gate. Not particularly wanting to fight his way through the heaps of icy snow, Jaskier circles the building. 

He breathes a sigh of relief when he’s finally out of the worst of the weather when he spots a faint trail of red in the snow. 

A faint trail that has turned into a considerable puddle where the Witcher from before is slouched in a sitting position against the outer wall of the shed, eyes closed and his legs already half-buried by snowdrifts. His face is as pale as death.

“Melitele’s tits,” Jaskier breathes. Ice crystals are clinging even to the man’s pallid skin. A gloved hand is loosely resting next to twin knives strapped to the Witcher’s stomach, right above a dark stain on the man's thigh where the cloak has fallen open.

Jaskier feels a shallow breath puff out from his lung before he quickly moves to the Witcher’s side. “Gods, you aren’t dead? Are you?” The Witcher’s skin is ice-cold when Jaskier touches it. 

Fuck.

Wide-eyed, he brushes the snow and ice crystals from the man’s head and shoulders.
A faint tingle runs up his limbs at the touch and Jaskier exhales relieved. 

He’s alive. 

Still, he feels for a pulse and it takes a small eternity before the bard can feel the sluggish and inhumanly slow beat of the Witcher’s heart. 

There’s no doubt that if he remains any longer out here, he’ll freeze to death. 

Jaskier struggles to get a good grip on the Witcher. He grunts as he pulls at the unmoving man, creating furrows in the snow. The man’s bulk, as it turns out was not an illusion created solely by the thick cloak, because the Witcher is indeed a giant. He’s still wiry in a way that many Witchers are but that doesn’t do much to take away from his body mass. His bone structure has blessed him with an unusually tall frame and his already broad shoulders are packed with muscle - probably in order to compensate for the longer and thus heavier swords he carries. And boy is he heavy.

In the end, Jaskier has to resort to rather inelegantly dragging him through the snow, grunting and cursing as he pulls the man after him and if the Witcher ever wakes up, he will definitely get an earful about it. 

Jaskier curses even more, when he stands before the barred door, wading through the progressively higher stacked snow, invisible needles prickling his ice-cold thighs. He grunts as he lifts the heavy bar locking the door and throws it to the ground.  Panting, he rubs his hands to regain sensation in them before he tugs on the door. 

It budges the tiniest bit, but the high snowdrifts do enough to block it. Sighing deeply, Jaskier turns to shovel away the blockade with his hands, while the Witcher is lying spread eagle on the ground, useless and unconscious, probably half-dead and exposed to all elements. 

At least, he doesn’t seem to be bleeding. Finally, Jaskier is able to open the door with his trembling hands. All the while, the skin beneath the cold metal of his rings feels like it’s burning. 

Once he’s tugged it open, the smell of dust and hay joins the biting scent of the snow. Behind the entrance lies what appears to be a small hayloft, straw and dried grass stacked up on the one side, while flails, ploughs and other tools take over space on the other. 

It’s not a small feat to drag the Witcher into the shelter and once it’s done, Jaskier is sweating under his cloak and he’s confronted with the difficult decision of whether to light a fire in here.

Looking at the stiff and frozen garments the Witcher is still clad in, Jaskier truly considers it but when he takes a look at the dry hay and the wooden flooring he finds that it’s not really a choice. He might survive being burnt alive but the Witcher, he knows, won’t be this lucky. 

Uncertain, Jaskier resorts to the only other option he has, namely to draw heat out of his surroundings with his own breath. 

He removes the Witcher’s heavy cloak and the stiff shawl that hides half his face. Then, for lack of a better word, he breathes onto the Witcher. He blows a hot current of air up his sleeves, rubs the ice-cold skin with his hands to get the blood flowing while doing his best to calm himself by babbling about various topics as he does so. It helps, that his draconic nature is quite pleased with the realization that whatever the outcome of this ordeal, the Witcher will undoubtedly smell like him. 

On the upside, the man doesn’t appear to be truly bleeding - if he still even was when Jaskier stumbled upon him - and thus the bard forgoes dressing the wound in favour of keeping the man warm.

Jaskier doesn’t know how much time has passed - it can’t be all that long though - when the Witcher finally stirs. His fingers twitch, and then his nose scrunches before he blinks his eyes open. It’s a slow process in a way that Jaskier has never witnessed in a Witcher before, but eventually, he has to sit back on his haunches because the man pushes himself up. 

The man stares, stunned and silent for a moment, dark, slitted pupils expanding to accommodate the lack of light as they fixate on Jaskier before a mask settles over those features. “Back off,” the Witcher commands quietly, with a tone that might as well imply that he has no problem gutting whoever crosses his path. 

So Jaskier backs off, coming to stand awkwardly in some distance. Small clouds of breath dissipate in the air in front of him with every exhale. The Witcher meanwhile takes in their surroundings, not bothered by the dull light, slightly nodding as if confirming something to himself before his gaze returns back to Jaskier. His eyes rest deep in their sockets, the impression even more pronounced by the lack of hair where his eyebrows should be. 

“Why?” he asks, then, simply. 

“Wh- W- Excuse me? Why did I drag you-?” Jaskier stares disbelievingly. When the Witcher makes no attempt to elaborate Jaskier blurts, “You almost froze to death!”

At that, the Witcher huffs. He looks at his bloody glove, then pokes at the red stain on his stomach, wholly dismissing Jaskier’s presence.

“That doesn’t - I don’t know - trouble you?!” 

“Someone would’ve found me eventually,” the Witcher retorts.

Jaskier sputters for a moment before his rational mind kicks in again. “Oh. Yeah…” he voices, nodding along. “Sure. And I can even tell you how: Gnawed on by some ghouls, frozen to death behind this dilapidated shack they call a hayloft.” He underlines this last statement with a wide gesture of his arm. 

“Doubtful. I killed the ghouls,” is all the Witcher has to add to this comment. Hay rustles beneath him when he checks on his weapons and belongings. 

“Unbelievable,” Jaskier mutters as he stares at the Witcher, not able to wrap his head around the fact that he found another one who’s this indifferent about his own death. 

Apart from the arm-long daggers strapped to his torso, and his swords, the man inspects a handful of long and thin needles, which he extracts from a hidden pocket of his sleeve. 

They resemble rather closely the manticore spines Jaskier pulled out of Eskel’s legs and when the Witcher turns to trail his fingers over the small flacons shoved into a custom belt, which Jaskier had barely paid attention to before, he takes a good guess as to what those are for. 

Outside the wind still rages.
“Why did you end up outside that shed anyway?” Jaskier questions a bit louder, the lack of words between them grating on him. “Five steps, a little clearing of snow and you would’ve had at least a roof over your head.”

The Witcher considers him for a long moment. “Ghoul bit me. I took the antidote and the toxicity knocked me out. I would’ve been fine.”

“Oh. Oh, sure. Fine .” Jaskier resists the urge to laugh hysterically, absently scratching at this beard. “Not like I have heard that before,” he mutters under his breath. 

“My body regulates temperature differently,” the Witcher offers. “One day, two days in the snow. That’s nothing.” He stretches his arms and legs and curls his fingers into a fist as if to chase away stiffness.

“You’re insane. I don’t know what they fed you at that Witcher school,” Jaskier says half in jest, half-serious to bridge his nervousness, “but clearly, you have to be aware of that.”

The Witcher suddenly straightens up and his dark golden eyes find Jaskier. “I might owe you, bard, but I won’t let myself get insulted.”

Jaskier stops, his smile drops and he stares at the Witcher, reconsidering. The steely edge in the man’s voice reminds him that he has to tread carefully. Somehow, he appears a lot more dangerous now, and not like Aiden, whose eyes get that manic glint when his mood swaps like the tide, but more a controlled version of the same insanity.

“Do you-”

“I know who you are.”

That effectively shuts Jaskier up. He swallows. “Ah, but I haven’t even had the opportunity yet to introduce myself. You have me intrigued, Master Witcher,” he eventually manages. His voice sounds shaky even to him. Perhaps he can blame it on the cold. 

The Witcher shoots him a look that betrays his annoyance. “The Witcher’s bard, they say. Jaskier.” He doesn’t blink when he stares at Jaskier. It’s somewhat unsettling. “The look on your face tells me that I’m right, aren’t I?”

Jaskier doesn’t nod. He doesn’t have to. 

“I recognized you in the tavern,” the Witcher says and that is worrisome.

“You recognized me? How? Were there any posters?”
So far they’ve only released written descriptions of his persona, but if someone drew a portrait of him… Unconsciously, Jaskier starts to pace. It comes with the advantage of loosening some of his stiff limbs.

“Hm, no. You were too curious. You had that look in your eyes. And you had a lute.”

“And that is enough to recognize me?” Jaskier says, stopping to turn and look at the man. 

“It is for me,” the Witcher states. He inspects his swords, humming as he wipes off some blood from the silver blade with a handful of hay.

“Huh.”

“You also don’t ooze fear with every breath you take in my proximity,” the Witcher says and snaps his sword back into its sheath.

“Oh.” Jaskier fidgets with a few haystacks on the ground. A small cloud of breath dissipates in front of his mouth. “So, did you know then that I’m looking for someone?” He glances at the Witcher who’s standing up with a grunt.

“The wolves… Yes,” he says with a strange smirk.

“Why didn’t you approach me?” Jaskier asks with a frown. 

The Witcher picks up his cloak, shakes it out once and throws it over his shoulders. Dust whirls through the air and some stalks of hay are still stuck to it. “I wouldn’t have spoken to you at all had you not followed me out here in the first place.”

“What. Why?” 

The Witcher has finished fastening the clasp of his cloak and he stares at Jaskier from above, ready to leave. “I don’t like to be in debt,” the Witcher says. “But I owe you. So if I answer your question, will you consider us even?” He stares at Jaskier, unblinking like before. 

“Well, I mean, if that’s what you want?” Jaskier replies uncertainly. 

“Yes.”

“In that case,” Jaskier clears his throat, “I shall accept these terms, and grant you …absolution, …Witcher.”

“You know that Nilfgaard has put a bounty on your head,” the man says bluntly.

“Oh, so we skip over the pleasantries,” Jaskier mutters, “That’s fine. Completely fine…”

The Witcher doesn’t look like he appreciates his sense of humour. 

“I for my part will try my best to avoid you.”

“Whatever for?” Jaskier stares up at the dark silhouette of the Witcher, his eyes barely visible in the light. 

“Personally, I don’t believe it is in my interest to be seen around any bards or wolf Witchers for that matter. They want that girl Cirilla. But no one knows what she looks like, which is why they’re attempting to find you. You or that Witcher. Or someone who can lead them to either. I doubt you’ll have much luck finding any of those wolves, bard. You’d do well to head north and hide away, far far from this border.”

Jaskier stares at him with a gaping mouth. 

“Farewell, bard.” The Witcher is already halfway out the door when Jaskier jumps up. The wind outside is howling.

“Wait!”

The Witcher turns around. 

“What’s your name?”

Slitted eyes take him in for a moment, considering. “Letho,” the Witcher says eventually. And with that, his hulking figure disappears into the white flurry, fluttering cloak trailing behind him. 

Jaskier stares after him with tightly pressed lips, white-knuckling the wooden support beam as the grave implications of what Letho told him slowly sink in. 

Chapter Text

The months that follow after Jaskier’s encounter with Letho catapult him back into a time before he was known all over the continent. He feels like the fumbling eighteen-year-old once again - at least in terms of how he’s being regarded in the taverns and villages he travels through.
He hasn’t actually forgotten what it means to work a crowd, but for years now he has stuck to mostly performing in front of the high society; lords and ladies, counts and countesses as well as kings and dukes.
The ordinary folk at that is simultaneously harder and easier to please. Especially since he can’t draw too much attention. He’s forced to stray from his signature ballads and whenever someone requests a ballade that was actually composed by him, he’s forced to feign mediocrity .
It might just be one of the worst things his current life has him dealt with, evenly tied probably with the flea-infested sacks people call beds.  

To summarise, it’s been a while since he’s had to work so hard to keep himself afloat. 

It’s a dangerous and difficult game he’s playing, dancing upon knife’s edge as he tries to maintain the balance between performing well enough to earn his keep and staying out of Nilfgaard’s watchful gaze. Or at least the gaze of those interested in Nilfgaard’s coin. 

After Brugge, he returns to his mountain gorge, but even up there he feels restless and uneasy. In the end, he stays for no longer than perhaps a month before he heads back down. 

He changes out his flashy doublets for something more subtle, forgoes looks in favour of blending in - as much as it pains him - and revives his rusty sleigh-of-hand skills. 

He could lay low as a dragon and the chances of someone finding or bothering him at all are slim to nil. On the other hand, the restlessness that worms its way through his bones like a colony of ants doesn’t do much to make this option feasible either. 

Something keeps him moving, keeps him seeking for his Witchers. 

Like an air bubble that’s forming at the bottom of a kettle with slowly boiling water. It’s only a matter of time till it will be big enough to rise to the surface and burst.
And it’s this foreboding feeling, that intuition which drives him on because at this point Jaskier knows better than to ignore these premonitions that his younger self had so easily dismissed. 

Thus, he travels, he walks till his feet are sore, crosses through towns, haggles for rations and sleeps in barns alongside other vagabonds just like when he’d merely left the academy.
There are a few close calls during which he encounters bounty hunters - the most memorable time of which being when he’d boldly claimed to be a distant cousin of himself upon their confrontation. Jaskier had never found out whether their argument about the truthfulness of his statement had ended in his favour, as he’d done his best to leg it the next chance he got. 

He doesn’t know how he managed to get away, but they had been a bit of the dimmer sort. 

From time to time he stays with friends, relishing the soft beds, bread that isn’t stale and especially the flavourful wines, yet those days filled with small luxuries are few and far between. Partly because the road calls to him whenever he lingers for too long and, partly because he’s parted from most of his former … acquaintances under less than favourable circumstances . From neglecting to respond to certain letters, disappearing with a selection of their shiniest jewellery and or coin, having drawn the ire of various spouses or vanishing by climbing through a window in the middle of the night to avoid uncomfortable conversations and on one occasion even having faked his death. 

Not intentionally, that being said, but the circumstances had aligned and Jaskier isn’t one to waste an opportunity. 

He earns four more scars as well, during that time - a slim, almost invisible line on his jaw from when he drew the ire of a local baker by being too friendly with his son and a deeper one on his forearm by managing to accidentally stumble into the middle of a knife fight. The other two, he’s already assigned a few more interesting origin stories to, because his pitiful attempts at sculpture are nothing to brag about and the loose shingle that came closer to collecting the bounty for his head than any sentient being ever was doesn’t exactly make a riveting tale.

By the time he encounters another of the infamous monster slayers, it’s been a while since the summer solstice has passed and the seasons have almost gone full circle.
Swarms of birds blacken the sky in their journey south, days are short and alongside the waning sunlight, the air has cooled even more. 

The cicadas have long sung their last lament and instead, the caws of crows can be heard in the abating foliage crowning the trees. 

It won’t be long till winter is upon them. 

Jaskier is following the old familiar roads in the heathlands of upper Velen - on horseback, thanks to a lucky hand in Gwent - idly taking in his surroundings which nature has tinted in smears of browns and reds.
It’s been days since he’s actually travelled through the swamp, but the gnarled trees and willows lining the road are enough of a reminder of the awful sulphury smell of rotten eggs that still seems to linger in his nose. 

Bless the gods for him having left that cursed bog behind. 

The sky is set aflame in brilliant colours by the sinking sun and his gelding is huffing rhythmically in time with the dull sounds of his hooves hitting the trampled earth of the path. A few mosquitos and horseflies are still buzzing through the air but it’s by far no longer as bad as it had been a few weeks ago.  

Once the sun has disappeared behind the horizon, it doesn’t take long for the temperatures to drop even further.

Jaskier hums under his breath as he lazily rides on, allowing his mount to set the pace. Almost absentmindedly he scans the dry grass for flowers, though this late into the year his search won’t bear much fruit. Besides, his saddlebags are already stuffed to the brim with dried yellow horn clovers, dandelions, buttercups and the likes. 

A murder of crows takes to the air in the distance and the horse's ears pivot even before Jaskier’s eyes snap towards the movement. The bard looks up, squinting his eyes at the tiny black dots standing out against the greying sky. Judging by their caws and fluttering wings, they have been startled by something. 

Jaskier takes a moment to tighten the strap of his lute on the horse’s back and to readjust the dagger in his belt. Only then does he click his tongue to let his gelding resume some tempo. 

As it turns out, what startled the birds in the first place is the noise made by a group of about a dozen travellers that have made their camp on an apparently often used site near a crossroad, with overturned and worn down logs surrounding a wide firepit that contains about as many scorched bones and old coals than new logs stacked atop to keep up a merrily burning fire. 

He’s barely curbed his horse when heads shrouded in equal parts of golden light and flickering shadows are already turning in his direction, suspicious eyes glancing up at him from under their hoods. 

A heavyset man in a worn gambeson, with a flushed face and round cheeks, turns to address him. “How fare ye’, traveller and where do you hail from?” he asks with an accent that betrays him as a native from the isles. 

“Anywhere and nowhere,” Jaskier replies with a mysterious wink. In a habit he’s developed alongside the growing length of his hair over the last year, he shakes his head to rid himself of an annoying strand falling into his face.

“Hmm.” A hum and a nod. 

A man wearing a heavy hauberk lounging next to the greeter takes a drag of his pipe and eyes Jaskier over the bluish smoke he expels from his lungs. “Quite a nice horse you’ve got there,” he voices. 

Jaskier indicates a small bow, flashing his teeth in a practised smile. “Why, thank you. I wouldn’t liken myself to be an authority on the matter but I’ve been said to have a good eye.”

“You’re in luck that we here aren’t a bunch of scoundrels,” the smoker says with a crooked smile.

Meanwhile, the first speaker sits up straighter upon noticing his lute, a bottle of sloshing liquor in one hand and an inviting smile appearing on his face. “You play?” he asks with a jerk of his chin towards the instrument strapped to his saddle. 

Jaskier’s gelding snorts impatiently, flicking its tail to drive away a few persistent horseflies circling around its hind legs. 

“And if I do?” he asks cheerfully, his eyes scanning over the other groups scattered around the fire. Their expressions and shifty behaviour tell him that the openness and jovial manner in which he was greeted is most likely a front. An expertly crafted bow rests on one of the traveller’s crossed legs, not raised but definitely eye-catching.
Elven made. 

Despite there being nothing unusual about wearing hats or having their hoods pulled up over their heads, there is a notable fraction present who all appear to have taken care to cover their ears. The only two women present sit among them. Equally armed.
Jaskier doesn’t let his gaze linger. He’s witnessed more than once how the tensions and stresses of the war have been vented by targeting the wrong crowd. 

His lack of commenting also seems to settle something. 

“Then you’d be welcome to sit at our fire,” the spokesman tells Jaskier. 

The bard flashes another smile that he knows makes him look like a naive wimp, but it has served him well more than once. “My thanks, good man.” 

He jumps off his horse with a flourish, bribes it with a few oats and sees to it accordingly before he rummages through his saddlebags and pulls forth a few apples he swiped from an orchard some days ago. Then he grabs his lute and makes his way over to the fire. 

The tension is palpable at first, but Jaskier pretends to be oblivious to it. He plays a few songs, chatters and flirts and once the hour mark has passed, he’s been introduced to the majority of the people gathered around the fire. 

It isn’t hard to deduce that some of them are sell-swords even though they haven’t outright stated it, including the two men who invited him to sit with them. The rest of them are probably entertainers and Jaskier does his best to not inquire too closely about the occupation of the armed group of half-elves.
Still, he isn’t stingy with his food and when it becomes evident after a few well-placed comments that he’ll neither flinch away from pointy ears nor from swords, they all settle a bit easier.

At a certain point, stars have begun to sparkle up in the dark sky and the occasional hoot of an owl disturbs the nightly song of nature. 

Jaskier’s cheeks are warm from the fire and a healthy flush must be creeping past his collar thanks to the liquor that was so generously shared with him. Smiling, he staggers away from the pit, talking over his shoulder. “It’ll be but a minute before I shall return to regale you with the thrilling tale of my encounter with the Duchess of Toussant and the reason for why I was banned from Beau- loody buggering fuck!” 

His boot catches on an unfortunate recession in the ground and Jaskier is halfway into introducing his face to the rocky ground when a hand shoots out and catches him by the back of his doublet. 

“Holy mother of Melitele,” Jaskier blurts out once the initial shock has worn off, swiftly righting himself. He turns to swipe his gaze over his saviour while brushing non-existent dirt from his doublet.
It takes him a moment to realize that he’s looking at one of the assumed mercenaries, a lean man in light armour beneath a worn cloak, who’s sat silently in the shadows for the duration of the bard’s stay at the campsite.
Somehow, Jaskier managed to stagger right into his path and now he’s squinting his eyes to get a look beneath the drawn-up hood. 

The man appears older than him, grey hair already peppering his maroon brows and he’s got dozens of laugh lines surrounding his upturned eyes. 

A pair of eyes of a rather interesting rose gold colour, that seem to reflect the light even here in the shadows.

Jaskier falters. 

It doesn’t mean anything. 

And yet, he can’t help his eyes darting towards the man’s chest in search of a medallion or a pair of swords on his back, both of which he doesn’t find. Still, the subtle energy of a familiar tingle in the air at this proximity is enough for Jaskier to take a double-take.

“You should watch your step, boy,” the man says, thin lips drawn into a rascal smile and an amused spark in those eyes which vaguely reminds him of- 

“Do you know Aiden?” Jaskier blurts out, the slight buzz he feels enabling his mouth once more to be faster than his mind. As quickly as the smile on the man’s face had come it turns into something tense and calculating. 

“That’s a rather vague question, isn’t it?”

“I-” It’s also a dangerous question, Jaskier reminds himself and he pauses. Nervously wetting his lips, he briefly looks past the man’s shoulder over the dancing shadows and towards the crowd gathered around the fire.

Only then does his gaze return to the man in front of him, the slim groove in his cheek and his casual stance. 

If he is… but Jaskier has to be sure first. 

He moves before he can think about it any longer.

If the tingle in his palm where he’s got it curled around the stranger’s arm a second later weren’t indicator enough, the tip of his own dagger pressed against a spot right beneath his belt cements his opinion. 

“You’re a Witcher,” Jaskier whispers, his stomach swooping in his belly. From excitement or simple fear, he doesn’t know. 

The force on his gut grows as the Witcher increases the pressure with the stolen weapon. “An astute observation,” he says with narrowing eyes, ”Though, now I’d be rather interested in knowing who would come to this conclusion, Dandelion. ”

Jaskier swallows, stares into the eyes whose pupils have widened inhumanly to take him in in the dim light of the fire and tries to think of anything he could say in response. In the end, the other man beats him to it.

“I believe, a conversation is in order. So why don’t you lead the way?” the Witcher says conversationally. 

“Ah well, there is a perfectly burning fire just over-” A tiny gasp spills over Jaskier’s lips when he feels the bite of his own dagger piercing through his clothes and skin. It’s more than enough to underpin the threat. “But some privacy will probably be preferred,” he utters then, opening and closing his palm which is still tingling with the aftershocks of the magic the Witcher in front of him emulates. He didn’t even notice when he let go. 

Still, his mind is racing. He could scream, but of what use would that be? No one around the crackling fire pays them any mind. And those who do, take care to not get involved in their business. Even his two new companions avert their eyes when he catches their gaze. An odd calm takes hold of him. “Sure,” he says, “I’ll lead the way.”

The Witcher’s thin lips split into a smile. It’s not exactly a very reassuring smile. 

“Very well… What are you waiting for then?”

Jaskier doesn’t need to be told twice. He turns around his neck prickling uneasily at baring his back to this potential enemy. A muscle in his jaw jumps as he exhales through his clenched teeth and casually makes his way past the underbrush into the shadows of the nearby trees. 

A few nudges into his back keep him from stopping and thus he trudges on for an uncomfortably long time, barely avoiding roots and thorns poking out from the ground. If it weren’t for the smell of stale sweat and smoke behind him he could almost make himself believe that he was alone. The Witcher doesn’t make a sound as he moves.

The notion of simply sprinting away into the wilderness and hoping for the best has barely occurred to him, when without any warning, Jaskier is suddenly slammed against a tree. “Gods fucking-” he starts, his cheek scraping against the rough bark. He abruptly shuts up when he feels cold metal pressed against his neck, hissing at the sting of his hair being used as a handle to keep him in place. The dull aching throb right beneath his belt is enough of a reminder that this is not an empty threat. 

And why in all the gods’ names, does it have to be his own fucking dagger? 

His father would be appalled. Hell, Jaskier is appaled at himself. 

Lambert would never live it down. 

He groans inwardly at the last thought. The only saving grace is that he’ll probably never know. 

… no one will ever know.
Oh, gods… He’ll fucking die here, get stabbed by a goddamn Witcher - with rather interesting eyes at that-

“How’d you come to the conclusion that I am a Witcher?”

“What?” The man’s question pulls Jaskier out of his thoughts and his voice almost cracks at how taken aback he is by the inquiry. 

“A very dangerous accusation to make in these times. One could almost say …an offensive one.” 

“I don’t suppose you will believe me if I tell you that this is just an unfortunate mix-up?” Jaskier chokes out, trying to subtly free his arm where it’s uncomfortably pressed between the bark and his body, only for the blade to nick his skin when the pressure is increased. “I thought so,” he croaks, the subtle scent of his own metallic blood wafting through the air. 

The Witcher’s breath smells of garlic and stale beer when he whispers directly into his ear. 

“Some might even justify me gutting you here and there for this insult. Just imagine, you dying in a heap of your own wastes, choking to death on your blood with the smell of shit in your nose.” The Witcher’s voice is curling just so around his words that it betrays his grin. 

Any trace of fear that might have kept Jaskier’s body frozen is abruptly replaced with a fit of glimmering anger flooding his veins. “Kiss my arse, you dastardly hypocrite,” Jaskier spits in an almost growl, fingers clawing into the tree. He can’t even bring himself to regret his words even if it means that he just signed his own death warrant. “Deny it all you want, Witcher, but know that ‘twas I, Jaskier, who fucking saw through your pathetic disguise! I hope you choke on your words, you white-livered skitterbrook! Slit my throat, but don’t you for one single second dare believe that I won’t haunt your cowardly arse for the rest of my non-existence, you bloody bastard!”

Instead of a dagger in his throat, the reaction he earns instead is a silent chuckle that soon turns into a guttural laugh. 

Still furious, Jaskier takes a leap back, as soon as the weight keeping him pinned has disappeared. 

Half glaring, half bewildered he stares at the Witcher, who stands and laughs like a bloody maniac. Jaskier shifts from one leg to the other, trying to subtly lean down to pull his backup dagger from the shaft of his boot. Halfway down, he freezes in the awkward position with his hand outstretched when he catches the flash of a blade. It takes him a moment to realize that the Witcher points it at him with a loose grip in a gesture more than a threat and that the spark in his eyes is a mirthful one.  

“You’ve got balls, boy,” he says, “I like it,” as if he didn’t just try and kill him a moment ago.
As if this all was just a fun misunderstanding. 

“Fucking Witchers,” Jaskier mutters in response and he straightens up, giving up all pretence of a fight. Rubbing his neck he hisses when his fingers meet the shallow and sluggish bleeding cut he was gifted. 

The Witcher tilts his head in a considerable motion. “Jaskier, huh.” 

The bard’s eyes snap up. 

Fuck. 

In the throes of what he’d thought his dying speech, he hadn’t exactly considered that he was currently travelling under an assumed pseudonym. 

“So you’re the bard,” the Witcher concludes. 

“How come every single Witcher I stumble upon these days seems to know who I am?” Jaskier huffs, not seeing the sense in pretending he’s someone else at this point. 

“No denial?” the Witcher still asks. “Careless,” he tsks. Still, a hint of amusement swings in his voice. 

“What for? You already tried to end the existence of my humble persona - which, rude, by the way - so I don’t exactly see how much worse matters could turn. Besides, the cat’s out of the bag, so…” Jaskier shrugs, still somewhat miffed, while warily eyeing the Witcher who’s chuckling again for no discernible reason except-

“You’re a cat Witcher aren’t you,” he states as if his assumption was already a well-known fact. 

Red-golden eyes glint in the dark. A broad grin gets flashed at him, a dark spot amongst the crooked rows of teeth where one is missing. Jaskier almost overlooks how the Witcher slips his fingers beneath his collar before he drags forth a chipped silver medallion on a greasy leather cord with a crudely carven depiction of a hissing cat’s head in the centre. 

Jaskier stares for a moment as it turns hypnotically before the Witcher stuffs it back behind his clothes. His hood has dropped, the bard only now truly realizes, revealing his greying temples and the equally streaked hair that is pulled up into a tight bun. 

“Rather informed aren’t you… I’m still wondering how you came about discovering my identity.”

“Yeah, actually, why are you travelling …like this? Incognito, I mean,” Jaskier inquires, expertly avoiding answering the Witcher's own question. 

“For the same reasons as you are, I imagine, Dandelion,” the Witcher replies, saying everything and nothing at once, with a knowing smirk.

“Oh,” Jaskier says still because he understands. Especially with what Letho told him all those months ago. He doesn’t feel guilty, not truly because he knows it’s not his fault - also the man tried to murder him a mere moment ago - but he still feels for him. 

After all, they are sharing the same plight, aren’t they? 

“It isn’t exactly advisable to be travelling as a Witcher these days,” his would-be killer reveals then, “They are looking for the lone wolf, the stray white one, and his pack. But there are not many of them left, barely a handful. And those wolves still have a place. Their dilapidated hideout, that ruin of a cave…”
The Witcher’s mouth twists into something that Jaskier can’t quite read. In his hand, the dagger flips and spins, glinting in the dim light while he absently plays with it as if it were a toy.
“Yet once they seek answers outside of this little group… Witchers are plucked from the streets like apples from trees-”

And isn’t that a horrible notion?

Jaskier feels frozen on the spot, his muscles tense, trembling with rage all the way down to his clenched fists. The dragon within him roars in iron hot fury, while the Witcher continues.

“Ambushed. Through cunning, shrewdness and deceit. By daggers in the back and by magic. Money paves many ways and if it didn't affect us all, then brother would fight against brother. Truly, being a Witcher these days reminds me of times past. And I have lived through many times, Jaskier …
Once the world was overrun by monsters and they made us.
Mutants versus beasts.
Grateful they were, for a short time, yes, but how time flies.
There were good times, but they have passed. And now there are bad times. But those too shall pass.
Time is your ally. Good times, bad times… they come and go like the tide.
They've hunted us before and now it’s time again.”

“That's- That's terrible.”

“It is what it is,” the Witcher simply replies. “There aren't many who care about our extinction. Especially us cats.”

Unblinkingly, the man suddenly stalks towards Jaskier, who doesn’t move an inch. He can feel the man’s breath on his face when leans forward and says, “We know how to survive, know when it is wiser to save our own skin. Cats have nine lives, they say, but not an infinite number. Here in the north, most people are indifferent to us. They only care if we exist or not when there is something or someone to kill. It has always been that way. The war has not yet arrived here. So who will vouch for our kind?” he asks and Jaskier feels the question like a bone-deep ache.
“Heereward? Foltest? Vizimir or Niedamier the little upstart?” The Witcher laughs. “No. Warmongers they are, all of them.” 

And then a grin splits his face, wide and sharp like that of a shark and he flips the dagger up into the air, catches it without looking, blade first.
The cat Witcher grins at him with those manic eyes, staring at Jaskier, while the bard himself can’t tear his own away from the bony fist that is curled around the blade.
The Witcher tightens it under his gaze, scarred knuckles growing white until blood wells forth beneath the skin, a glistening drip, drip, drip, as it makes its way down the shimmering silver edge, staining it red.
“When the battlefields are soaked in blood, the bones shattered by ghouls, the marrow sucked out by graveirs; only when the pitiful, starving peasants, knees raw from how they are cowering, beg before their lords because their fields are haunted by noonwraiths, only then will they remember us.
And then we who are left will crawl out of our holes and have them beg. Pleading on their knees, with ringing pouches filled with gold… Then our blades will sing again. Dubhenn haern am glândeal, morc'h am fhean aiesin. ”

Like spellbound by the Witcher’s speech, the elven words take a moment to sink in and even Jaskier, who’s a wordsmith by trade needs a second for his mind to comprehend their meaning.  

My gleam cuts through darkness, my light disperses the shadows.

Those are the same elven words that are inscribed on Geralt’s silver sword - and Jaskier would know. He’s traced the runes no more than a handful of times, but he remembers the feel of every single one. 

Perhaps, he thinks then, perhaps, he didn’t understand at all. 

“I’m sorry,” he says then, surprising even himself with how hoarse his voice sounds. 

The Witcher throws back his head and laughs. A true laugh this time, instead of the cold and dangerous grin. “Whatever for, little flower?” he asks and Jaskier doesn’t know what to reply. 

“Wouldn’t be wise to travel without a weapon in these times, would it?” the Witcher says, and as if in an afterthought he tosses the bloody dagger at Jaskier, who only thanks to his draconic instincts manages to catch it before it impales his own shoulder.

The Witcher just cackles in a type of humour that seems to be an almost natural reaction. 

It occurs to Jaskier, in a sudden terrifying notion that Aiden is one of the sane ones of the bunch. 

“You’re a good lad, Jaskier of anywhere and nowhere,” the Witcher says and grins, referring to his earlier introduction to the group around the fire that he barely even remembers, while he turns to lean against a tree. “A tough weed, you picked as a namesake for your alias. Harmless, but tough. The other name though… Poisonous, aren’t they, buttercups?”

Jaskier swallows, mouth dry. “Never thought of it, to be honest.”

“Hmm.” The Witcher blinks slowly as he looks at him. “Blistering in the mouth, mucous membranes and gastrointestinal tracks, vomiting, shitting, full-on colic if you’re particularly lucky. Vicious little flowers, those buttercups. Toxic …but not to Witchers.” 

Jaskier doesn't know whether to be confused or flattered.

“My name is Guxart,” the Witcher then introduces himself out of the blue, “of anywhere and nowhere as well,” he adds with a crooked grin. “Formerly hailing from the School of the Cat.” He inclines his head in an old-fashioned little bow that seems anything but sincere.

Jaskier contemplates whether now is the time to wipe the bloody dagger in his hands clean or whether it would be wiser to hold on to it. Dismissing his rational mind, he drags it over the rough fabric of his coat, once, twice before he sticks it behind his belt. His stomach is still aching where he was nicked by said blade, courtesy of the very man in front of him. Perhaps, Jaskier is truly going insane. He can’t even blame it on the alcohol as the pleasant buzz from before has all but disappeared. 

“You know Aiden, don’t you?” Jaskier asks, posing the question that catapulted him into this whole mess in the first place.

Guxart considers him. “Vaguely,” he replies after a moment. 

“He’s a cat Witcher as well.”

“Is he, hmm. I might have run into him once or twice.”

“Do you know where I can find him?” Jaskier asks, his skin brimming with unchannelled excitement. His first trace in gods know how long. 

“Hmm,” Guxart taps his bottom lip with a bony finger. It’s wrapped in bandages that thanks to his scene earlier are soaked with fresh blood. “Witchers, I’m sure you’ve heard, don’t work for free.”

Jaskier blinks. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Guxart cackles. “It is what it is, lad. Coin has paved many a way. I believe there is substantial evidence supporting the notion that you won’t try to and reap the bounty for his head, which is the only reason why I’m even considering revealing what I know to you. That doesn’t mean I work for free. Business is business, Jaskier.”

“Fine. What do you want?”

“I don’t think that this is a question you should ask a Witcher,” Guxart responds mirthfully like the crazy old coot that he is.

“Alright. Then let me rephrase,” Jaskier says, feeling his nerves wear thin, “what do I, a bard on the run have to offer to someone equally on the run from the same people hunting us down?!”

“A mount.”

“What?”

“I saw that gelding of yours. It’s a nice horse. I have use for it.”

Jaskier gnashes his teeth. This horse right now is worth more than the glittering emerald that is the only stone left from his hidden treasures sewn into his doublet. Consciously, he exhales losing the tense muscles of his jaw, as it’s not really a choice.

“Alright,” he proclaims.

Guxart grins. “Very well.”

“So?” Jaskier says with an impatient gesture when the Witcher makes no move to reply, instead of tugging on the sullied bandages wrapped around his fingers. 

“We’re on a similar quest, Jaskier,” Guxart says after a moment, looking up. His cat eyes flash in the dark, reflecting the dim light. “You are looking for Witchers. So am I.”

Jaskier’s mouth drops open. 

“Bad times shall pass. But until then, we have to survive those times.” Guxart flashes a dangerous grin. “What remains of Stygga may lay in ruins, but that doesn’t mean that what remains of us can’t rally.”

“Okay, I have no idea what you are talking about, but from the gist of it… I’m gathering that you’re trying to assemble your …forces?”

“The days of fratricide lie behind us. Strength lies in numbers, boy, that is something that shan’t be forgotten.” 

The bard clears his throat, nodding along in what he hopes appears to be a meaningful manner. 

“Cats blend in better than wolves, but I have my ways. And so it seems, do you… As fate wills it, I upheld correspondence with a variety of my cats. Aiden was one of them.”

“Was?” 

“The last falcon of his I received was two weeks ago. I have yet to receive word from him. He was headed for Oxenfurt, from what I know. To take care of some business.”

“What business?”

“Not my business that much is certain. I didn’t care. I didn’t ask. I’m not his minder. Nor anyone else’s for that matter.”

“So Oxenfurt.”

Guxart crosses his arms and nods. “Oxenfurt.”

Chapter Text

Jaskier is on the road for almost a fortnight, forced to carry his own saddlebags like a particularly sad pack mule, while he does his best to avoid questioning his actions. 

Unfortunately, the thoughts he’s so stoutly banished to the back of his mind catch up to him in the most untimely manner, namely when he’s standing atop the cobbled bridge leading up to the Western Gate of Oxenfurt, surrounded by cursing merchants, huffing cattle and pitiful looking refugees all equally forced to huddle before they’re able to squeeze through the gate currently being blocked by a few obnoxious shepherds trying to separate their mingling flocks of sheep.

Nervously swallowing, Jaskier unconsciously traces over the frayed stitching of flowers on his woven lute strap, doing his best to look inconspicuous while watching everyone around him with keen eyes. 

He’s had his reasons to avoid Oxenfurt, hasn’t dared to come to the city out of his own volition since the bounty on his head had been placed over a year ago.
And yet, here he is.
Trusting in the words of a Witcher who’d seemed to harbour no repercussions in killing him, his hopes placed on a piece of information that had already been a fortnight old when he started his journey.
And if he’s truly being honest, his chances of tracking down Aiden are abysmal.  

His arrival overlaps with the upcoming Mabon festivities, meaning that the people all over the adjoining lands are flocking to the city, buying and selling livestock at the annual cattle market. Everything, from ale in the taverns to rooms in inns will be twice as expensive and people will want to spend their hard-earned coin by getting drunk in the former and hiring whores to spend their nights with at the latter.

None of those newcomers will be able to tell him where he finds Aiden, nor will they make his search for the man easier.
At least under these circumstances, his own arrival might go by unnoticed.

Famous as Jaskier may be, he’s worked hard on the persona that he portrays on stage. Without the smile, the exaggerated gestures and the flashy clothes, it isn’t all that hard to disappear in a crowd. Years of having to dodge scorned lovers and irate spouses have done their part in aiding him to refine that skill.
But Oxenfurt is different. 

It’s his Kaer Morhen, his place of making more than the Pankratz family estate ever was.
Oxenfurt is where he first learned to be independent, it is the place where he fell in love with poetry and where he would return to whenever the exertions of the road seemed no longer worth the effort.
Jaskier is on a first-name basis with half of the city’s nobles, has earned a life-long ban from one of its bathhouses and also lectured at the Academy long enough to be randomly recognized by former students on the streets.
He knows the best places to get food, knows which innkeeper will let him chalk it up on the board if he’s short on coin and who sells the finest brocade.
Jaskier knows Oxenfurt’s nooks and crannies, but in turn, the city knows him. 

There is not a shred of doubt in his mind, that if someone is keeping an eye out for his reemergence it’s here. 

A bounty is still out on him and he wouldn’t put it past the one or other rival musician or former lover - one not necessarily excluding the other - to try and cash in on that prize.  

Mournfully, Jaskier shifts his weight from one sore foot to the other and rolls his shoulders in a useless attempt to get rid of the hardened knots where the strap of his bags digs into his muscles.

It’s a harsh truth he has to confront when he thinks about the many places he can’t visit if only because his appearance would be on everyone’s lips. There’s no way he’d be able to visit the Academy unnoticed. Nor would it be wise to stop by his favourite tavern or brothels.
There are few people who he can truly trust. It’s been years since he visited some of his old acquaintances and those like Essi he wants to avoid drawing into his mess. 

A scrawny knight on a horse a bit further ahead barks at his knave to keep up when the crowd once more sets itself in motion.
Joining the scuffle of people streaming into the city, Jaskier resigns himself to the fact that if he wants to play it safe he’ll have to avoid seeking out any of his old haunts for the foreseeable time. That in turn unfortunately means he has to forsake the comforts that come with them. 

More than reluctant and with quite a bit of resentment, Jaskier swallows his pride, ignores his aching feet and desire for a bed and seeks out the office located behind the facade of a tailor shop where he introduces himself as a 'friend of a common acquaintance’ and asks for a favour.

What follows is an arduous process stretching over the duration of four long days, involving grovelling, some errands he is forced to run - which Jaskier is sure were assigned to him out of spite - and hourlong conversations with various people over some kind of magical box that border on being interrogations.
It all pinnacles in Jaskier reminding Dijkstra that he has a lot of knowledge about certain going-ons he will, unfortunately, be forced to spill once he is snatched up by the Nilfgaardian troops.
After lying through his teeth about various safety measures put in place which would leak said information should he be found dead or missing, it culminates in a wrested promise that one would be looking into the matter. 

Jaskier struts out of the place tossing a scathing goodbye at the elderly man upholding the front of Djikstras outpost and with the resolution to resort to blackmail much earlier should he ever find himself in a similar situation. 

Perhaps because of the threats or perhaps because Dijkstra simply knows Jaskier, he’s assigned a dwelling in the attic of a brothel, where he is to stay and lay low until he receives word from Dijkstra’s men. 

By day three of his confinement - lest he misses the messenger if he leaves - Jaskier is everything but grateful.
His hair frames his face in oily strands, and the small room he occupies still stinks of old sex, smoke and a heavy lilac perfume that prevails despite his best attempts to try and drown it out by adding his own. In all likelihood - and it’s hard to tell with how much his nose has been exposed to that particular aroma - his clothes reek more of the room than his own sweat.
Not to mention that the sole table stands lopsided, his bed creaks and the old bawd who brings him food every so often seems to despise him for no discernible reason. 

The only saving grace is knowing that Jaskier won’t pay a single copper for anything. So far he’s racked up what must be quite the bill and even if Djikstra is above settling his debt, the bard isn’t all that afraid seeing as he took care to loudly introduce himself as Valdo Marx the first time he requested a bottle of wine to be brought to his room. 

He’s lounging on the dingy bed, sampling his third goblet of surprisingly good muscadine and listening to the muffled noises of the whores going about their business on the floor below him when a knock resounds from the door. 

Sighing, Jaskier sets down his goblet next to the bed before he swings his own legs over the creaking edge. 

He takes his time strolling to the door, intent on making that miserable old hag wait before he tugs it open with an anticipatory, “What is it?”

But instead of a wrinkly bawd that looks like she just licked a gall bladder, a heavily tattooed halfling stands in the hallway.

At Jaskier’s appearance, the surprise visitor wrinkles his nose and his pointed look has the bard subtly sniff at the collar of his own unlaced doublet to assess whether it’s really gotten that bad. All he gets is the smell of lilac, wine and a hint of sweat. “Dijkstra sends his regards,” the halfling declares, producing a thick scroll from behind his girded jerkin.
It is tied together with string and sealed, the imprint of a nondescript eagle pressed into the unstained beeswax.

“I am to tell you that this better be the last favour you ask for. And that it was worth it,” the halfling says, basically shoving the scroll into Jaskier’s hands. He also takes a notable step back immediately after, with a constipated expression on his face. 

Jaskier’s mouth twists. “Certainly. I’ll take that under consideration,” he replies coolly before he promptly shuts the door in the man’s face. 

After muttering a few insults under his breath about the rudeness of certain people, Jaskier heads over to his bed, roughly breaking the seal in the process. He unwinds the string and unrolls what turns out to be a stack of papers. He thumbs through them, frowning as he’s skimming over their contents, while he absently reaches for his goblet. 

That is, until his eyes catch onto an eyewitness report, specifically the description of a well-clad man sporting a burn scar, moving around places where such clothing draws attention. 

His hand freezes mid-motion and his breath falters. Within the blink of an eye, he’s spread out the papers on the lumpy straw mattress, his wine forgotten as he frantically shuffles through the rest of the parchments.

He finds his fears confirmed in what looks to be another report, the name mentioned in connection to a crumpled notice requesting sellswords for hire. 

Rience.

The parchment crumples under his tightening fingers. Consciously exhaling, Jaskier puts it down, swallowing around the knot forming in his throat. 

“Gods be damned,” he says and then promptly reaches for his goblet and downs the rest of his wine. 

To his great distress, the longer he spends pouring over the documents, it becomes apparent that Dijkstra's spy had deemed it appropriate to include multiple mentions of Rience’s activities during the last week even though all Jaskier had asked about was Aiden. 

Because evidently, Jaskier isn’t the only one on the hunt for a Witcher. 

It is truly his luck that Dijkstra is a meticulous bastard and makes it his job to know everything, or otherwise he wouldn’t hold in his hands what he is currently holding.

Because there, on crisp parchment written out in bland yet precise handwriting are the pieces describing an operation that is nothing more but an ambush on what the sellswords had been briefed to be a dangerous person with great fighting skill and enhanced stamina.  

For a long moment, Jaskier just stands, staring at the papers spread out in front of him before the sound of a moan welling up through the floorboards startles him into action. 

Curses that would make even sailors blush spill over his lips as he drops to his knees and pulls his bag out from under his bed. The loose pebbles at its bottom rattle as it drags over the floor before he hurriedly jumps up and grabs whatever is in reach of his meagre belongings.

He abandons the papers, not even bothering to burn them and leaves behind his second favourite doublet and an assortment of drunken poetry drafts.
Still, he couldn’t care less. Not when he just learned that Aiden is headed straight into a trap, lured to a location by a forged letter that - to his cursed luck - is located about five leagues northwest of Oxenfurt to satisfy a Witcher’s inherent paranoia. 

Ignoring the yelping whores and drunken patrons, he storms through the brothel, bursting out of the door and right onto the busy streets of Oxenfurt.

After all those days spent enveloped by clouds of cheap perfume, sex and sweat, the smells of the city are like a punch to the face.
Overhead, heavy and foreboding, dark clouds are gathering in the sky. Already, distant thunder rumbles and he can feel the first raindrops hitting his skin.
A storm has been brewing and now its time has come. 

If it were another day, Jaskier would laugh at the irony and perhaps try and fashion a ballade under the theme. Instead, he curses as he starts to sprint as if the dogs of the Wild Hunt itself were snapping at his heels. 

Hours. They must have set out hours ago!  

Because according to the information brought by Dijkstra’s man, the meeting with Aiden was to take place at sunset! Not even a horse would enable Jaskier to make the journey in time.  

“Shit, shit, shit!”

His lute slaps painfully against his ribs with every jostle and something in his bag clangs ominously as he barely cuts a corner. Panting, he pushes through the ache of his lungs and the stinging ankle where the impact with the ground came a bit too hard. 

Fuelled both by possessive anger and sheer anxiety, his emotions must tear whatever remains of his sanity because the only thought coursing through his mind is that of course, a dragon wouldn’t have to worry about such limitations as distance. 

Jaskier grits his teeth, the metallic taste of blood coating his tongue where his molars are developing points. Already, he can feel his bones stretching beneath his skin. 

His restless instincts have already made a decision for him.

Thus clinging to the last shreds of his common sense like a bug in water to a leaf, Jaskier attempts to get out of the city and the ensuing eyes of witnesses as fast as he can. 

Turning another corner, he stumbles over a loose cobblestone and instinctively catches himself by grabbing the tunic of a nearby merchant with his free hand, promptly pulling him to the ground. The man wastes no time cussing Jaskier out but the bard is already back on his feet.

“Make way!” he yells, as he pushes his way through a crowd of idle scholars, almost using his lute as a club, before thinking better of it and falling back on his pointy elbows to speed things up. 

Still, the narrow streets don’t do him any favours and in his haste, he jumps a waggon, nearly killing a goose in the process.
Not that it stops him. 

Panting heavily and ignoring the stitch in his side, Jaskier takes two steps at a time on the broad stairs leading to the outer city districts. 

Thankfully the rapidly increasing frequency of the raindrops hitting the ground means that the crowds blocking the streets are swiftly thinning and he pushes on with renewed vigour.

Inwardly, Jaskier cheers when he finally gets a glimpse of the twin watchtowers bracketing the Novigrad gate.

His hair is plastered to his head in dark strings and his clothes stick uncomfortably to his skin when he makes his way to the bridge.
Only a few people are still out and about, mostly trying to get into the city instead of heading out.
At this point, the usual noises coming from the city are muffled, almost completely drowned out by the sound of the rolling thunder and heavy rain.

By the time he’s reached the dirt trodden road marking the outside of Oxenfurts bounds, he feels like a drowned cat.

He walks on, jogging whenever he catches his breath until he’s passed the first accumulation of houses.

Panting heavily, his heart pounding from the exertion, he slows down, coming to a standstill as he stares at the forest in the distance. He’s torn between trying to reach it, knowing he would sacrifice even more time by doing so and his draconic mind, which urges him to simply abandon everything and take flight here and now. 

Throwing a sharp look over his shoulder Jaskier compromises and veers off the path aiming for a nearby assemblage of trees and shrubbery.

Thanks to the heavy downfall, the grassy ground has gained a swamp-like quality, suction pulling down his legs with every step.
Inwardly though he’s singing the gods’ praises when he notices the foggy veils that are slowly rising from the fields. Because despite the rain soaking through his clothes, the squelch in his shoes and the cold that comes with it, this weather is a godssend. The heavy downpour alone should be enough to limit the line of sight and with the fog, the likelihood of his detection decreases significantly. 

He’s shivering when he’s reaching his destination and Jaskier quickly rounds the copse of trees and underbrush, hands curling around low twisting branches as he ducks into the next best opening, following what is most likely a game trail forged by deer or other wildlife. 

The sounds of the rain immediately quiet down and the dense tree crowns above him dull the light. Dry twigs crack beneath his feet as he ventures further.
A hint of sweetness wafts through the air, most likely stemming from a dead animal that is rotting nearby. 

He ducks below another tilted tree, before he stops among some brambles, no longer able to wait. 

It’s not exactly a nice feeling, peeling himself out of his wet clothes. Jaskier grimaces at the sensation and there’s an honest to gods squelching sound when he pulls off his left boot.
Still, it’s somewhat of a relief when everything’s off.

Though that impression is shortlived and he yelps when a raindrop hits his shoulder, trickling down his back and leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. 

Quickly, Jaskier rolls up his damp clothes and locates what he deems without a doubt the most unwelcoming looking spot in the area.
A thicket of thorny bushes, surrounded by a conveniently placed assemblage of stinging nettles.
Cursing at the thorns scratching at his skin and a stray pinecone trying to stab through his foot, Jaskier gingerly tries to round the nettles to get to the mostly dry part near the overhanging thorns.
He doesn’t spare any insults as he attempts to hide his belongings as best as he can, stuffing them under the overgrown branches while simultaneously getting stung and scratched.

His arms and legs take the brunt of nature's innate defences, his calves itching while pinpricks of blood are welling up from the many scratches marring his forearms.

Jaskier isn’t proud about insulting a bush before he sucks on a particularly painful cut on his palm, but he doesn’t exactly regret blowing off some steam either. 

Haphazardly, he tosses a handful of leaves atop his belongings, his annoyance at the local fauna at least taking the edge off his anxiously wandering mind, which still provides him with images of Aiden falling prey to his ambushers.

Guxart’s speech is ghosting around his brain like a wraith and Jaskier desperately hopes that this looming premonition doesn’t turn out to be true.

The draconic part within him is growing more insistent with the second. He has to go now, and Jaskier hurries to take a few steps back, sizing up the space around him and hoping for the best.

Shivering he rubs his over his gooseflesh-plagued arms and braces himself. 

Moments later, bones crack, skin expands and muscles ripple. 

Jaskier can’t quite hold back the inhuman sound of pain that melds into the noise of the pattering rain. A young beech tree bends around where his body grows while another one is not so lucky. With a drawn-out creak, it tilts until half its roots are exposed. 

Not that Jaskier pays them much mind. 

Once he’s shaken off the pains of the transformation and stretched his sore muscles, he shakes his head, a quiet growl rumbling through his teeth. 

As always it takes a moment to get used to the vividness of the impressions his senses pick up on, be it scent or sound. 

His mind jumps from the anxiously fluttering and cawing crows overhead to the rustling of leaves from where rodents are scattering into their hideouts. Twin puffs of hot air disperse above his nostrils as he huffs around the penetrating aroma of wet earth and the telltale scent of the brewing storm. 

Aiden, he remembers and his attention snaps into single-minded focus. Jaskier doesn’t think as he prowls around the trees, his thick hide unbothered by the brambles and branches breaking against his skin while he instinctively looks for an unobstructed opening to the sky.  

He can smell his own footprints overlapping with the faint impressions of some deer who have stalked along the same paths as he creeps along the natural windings of the trail. 

Annoyed he growls when a wing gets caught in some branches and he has to crawl almost with his belly on the ground to get ahead.

Then, suddenly, he’s past the treeline. 

Jaskier doesn’t hesitate and he takes flight accompanied by the sound of rolling thunder. 

It’s hard work to gain height, the falling rain obscuring his sight like a curtain of strings.
Jaskier beats his wings, his chest expanding with every heavy breath until a forceful current tugs him up high into the clouds. Barely, he’s able to make out the impressive city walls encircling Oxenfurt, but it’s enough to reorient himself. 

The world tilts when he circles around. Soon, the landscape moves along below him. 

Dirt-stomped paths turn into dirty slides under the heavy downpour and the patchwork pattern of brownish squares made up of fields, woods and villages bleed together in an indeterminable blur. Once again, Jaskier remembers that he hates flying in the rain. 

He rides the increasingly violent winds, struggling to keep his wings steady and his stomach swoops whenever he hits an unexpected air pocket. 

Thunder booms often followed by a lightning bolt cutting through the air so close to him that he can feel the static on his skin. 

Jaskier huffs as he beats his wings again, pushing for speed. 

He really hates flying in the rain.

It is dark when he reaches the coast. The smell of salt in the air had foreshadowed it, but now he hears the sound of rolling waves overlapping with the whistling wind. 

Every now and then he sees lightning flashing over the wild sea and he flies lower so as not to accidentally miss the place of the meeting. 

A tree should mark it at a fork in the road near the coastline he is now following. 

But Jaskier shouldn’t have worried. 

In a random turn, the air currents shift, a biting gust of sharp wind blowing into his face. 

He tastes the particles of ash on his tongue, nostrils instinctively flaring as he takes in the new component in the salt-permeated air. 

When he turns his head, gaze pulling away from the ground, he spots them even through the sight-obscuring rain. 

Small sparkling dots, reds and golds, almost like dancing fireflies, flickering upon a ragged cliff in the distance.
His eyes are drawn to them like moths to a lantern. 

Smoke rides with the winds. And something else. Something more subtle, barely there but heady and metallic.

Jaskier’s wings whip as he flies high, heading straight towards the jagged ridge crowned by dancing flames.

Upon the weather-worn hilltop, backed by a rapid drop where the ocean is thundering against the serrated rocks, a skirmish seems to come to a head. 

And in the centre of it all, a dark swaying silhouette backed by the churning sea, while half a dozen men are slowly closing in from downhill. 

They are kept at bay, for now, valiantly flickering flames licking away at the damp grass of the windswept heath, barely holding up against the continuous rain and surrounding the lone figure in an unnatural half circle. 

Even awash by the rain, Jaskier can pick up on the smell of the blood that has soaked the earth. 

Bodies lie on the ground, their gleaming breastplates reflecting the firelight like glowing coals. 

“Come on, you bastards-” the lone figure yells. His voice is torn apart by the wind, half buried under the noise of the waves eating away at the cliff and yet, Jaskier recognizes him - “don’t be so shy! I have yet use for you to sharpen my claws at your flesh!”

Aiden. 

He stands alone in the pouring rain, mud and bloodstained from his legs up to his neck, his hair plastered to his forehead in an eerie reflection of his and Jaskier’s first meeting. With madly flickering eyes and not a sword in hand he’s facing the crowd of enemies who’re slowly closing in on him as the flames around him die. 

And yet, Aiden is grinning, his teeth tinted red thanks to a cut on his lip as he’s taunting the men surrounding him.

Metal glints in the light as one of the sell-swords shifts and Jaskier’s eyes zoom in on the silvery weights fastened to a net he holds between his hands.

Iron-hot fury burns through Jaskier. 

Caught up in his discovery, he misses the projectile that whistles through the air, but not the way Aiden staggers back with a grunt. “Hah- even your friend had better aim!” he yells out, unceremoniously ripping the bolt out of his thigh and waving it jauntily. “Pity I killed him!”

A giant of a man lets out a roar and more crossbow bolts fly towards Aiden, who - this time prepared - swiftly twists out of the way.
Even incapacitated, his movements are something else entirely. Forms ingrained through years of training are strung together in an effortless dance as he dodges and contorts with an almost acrobatic flourish.
Compared to him, Geralt and even Lambert’s somewhat more dramatic strikes appear almost monotonous in their efficiency. 

The Witcher comes to a stop once the volley of arrows has passed him by, grinning and-
Jaskier can feel it more than he can see it; a bluish shimmer zigzags through the air, rippling and leaving a wave of ozone in its wake.
Within the flash of a moment, Aiden has crossed his arms in front of him, forming an invisible barrier. A pearlescent explosion illuminates the dark when the spell bursts against the magic shield.
Despite Aiden’s quick reaction, the force of it still rattles his frame. 

The widening of his eyes betrays what’s happening before anyone else picks up on it. But then, his injured leg gives way. He slips, falling hard. 

For a brief moment, no longer than the pause between breaths, time slows down. 

Jaskier sees the men readying themselves. 

How they tighten their grips around their weapons.
How their heels dig into the mud as they prepare to launch themselves forward.
How Aiden struggles to lift himself off the slippery ground.  

Something within Jaskier clicks into place.
A single-minded instinct to protect takes over as his mind is plunged into an all-encompassing animalistic rage directed at those daring to attack the Witcher. He swoops down from the stormy sky, silent in his wrath.  

In virtue of facing his way, Aiden notices him first.
Shock is inscribed on his face but not for long as it makes way for an exhilarated and manic laugh.
It’s the only warning anyone gets. 

Then come the screams. 

Amours turn into ovens, glimmering like iron still forged when Jaskier rips open his maw and lets his fire tear through the night. 

He paints a stripe of destruction, leaving only scorched earth in his wake before he lands on the wet grass. There he turns around like a snake as he growls at those pesky humans, daring to threaten his hoard…

Smoke is spilling forth behind his teeth, his head swinging akin to a pendulum as he hisses at his foes, daring them to come closer. 

A strangled yell suddenly stands out, so different from the panicked shouts and clattering armour that Jaskier had regarded as mere ambient noises.
He pinpoints the sound almost immediately, whipping around his head as swift as a kestrel’s flight.
There, Jaskier meets the wide-eyed gaze of the giant from before. Really, he looks like a surprised child as he sinks to his knees, a waterfall of blood pouring from a wound in his neck, rippling over his breastplate like a burgundy river on a silver bed. 
Aiden looms behind him like a nightmarish shadow, hands dripping red around a blink of steel, his teeth bared in a mad grin. 

Jaskier can’t help the pleased rumble tearing through his throat. 

Mere seconds later, a flash of movement grazes his field of vision and he’s gone. Upon it, before he can think, he’s pouncing, crushing a man’s ribcage under his weight. 

There are more yells and shouts and sudden, sharp pain slices into Jaskier’s flank.
One moment, he roars in hurt and rage, the next, he’s already lashed out on instinct.

A cut-off scream, a crunch beneath his clamping jaws. Then, nothing. 

Jaskier pulls back, licking hot blood from his teeth. 
Humans as it turns out, taste differently than deer. 

Leaving the headless corpse where it is, he beats his wings, taking to the stormy sky once more.

The minutes that follow are a red haze, dominated by bloodlust and sadistic delight in punishing those daring to take what is his. 

It’s only when he turns towards the last man standing, fully intent on hunting him down as well that he realises that it’s over. 

Aiden stands with wide outstretched arms in the pouring rain, laughing while lightning flashes above the foamy sea. 

“Come on! I’m not afraid of you!” he yells with a crazed grin, “What is another life lost!? I’ve still got three more left!”

Jaskier cuts through the air like a blade, shifting his wings at the last possible moment. He lands with a heavy thump right in front of the Witcher atop the smouldering grass, his tail swishing like a snake as he towers over the man who doesn’t even flinch. 

Still, when Jaskier lowers his head, Aiden’s body seems to tense like a drawn bowstring. The former doesn’t pay any mind. He noses around the chest, taking in the cloud of blood, sweat and mud, that surrounds the Witcher. It rises and falls with every heavy breath, soaked fabric brushing against his snout in a rhythmic sensation.

“Shit,” Aiden says and laughs a breathy laugh. Jaskier barely hears him, all his attention dedicated to sorting through the various unfamiliar smells clinging to the man. A fresh pulse of blood wells forth from somewhere beneath the Witcher’s hip and Jaskier huffs, locating the source of the fresh metallic smell. He nudges against it, earning a pained hiss.
“Shit,” the Witcher says again, a disbelieving note in his voice. “Lambert’s never going to believe this…”

Jaskier snuffles around Aiden’s hair, satisfied with the inspection before he starts to lick off all the foreign blood splattered over the man’s clothes and skin, simultaneously proceeding to replace it with his own scent.
A deep rumble starts to vibrate through the air. This time its source is not the thunder.

“Fucking hell…”

A palm ends up on the bridge of Jaskier’s nose, the tingling hand petting over the rows of golden scales. Purring, Jaskier presses into the touch, bumping his massive head against the Witcher’s torso, who staggers back under the force.
Not quite knowing what he wants, but grasping that it isn’t quite feasible even caught up in the throes of his draconic instincts, Jaskier throws all caution in the wind and leans into the transformation. 

It’s a faster process than he’s used to, or perhaps it just feels like it because the pain barely registers. What feels like mere seconds later, he rises, stretching to alleviate the soreness somewhat before he already staggers forward and catches himself by grabbing onto the Witcher.

The more animalistic part of his mind that has barely had the time to fade from the alchemistic concoction of emotions still drenching his brain after this adrenaline-fuelled fight purrs pleased at being able to smell his mark on the man. 

Still, like always his rational senses slowly regain footing and after a moment, Jaskier pulls back and stares at Aiden’s slackjawed face. 

“What the actual fuck.”

The whispered words register and with a jolt, Jaskier startles back into awareness.
Whatever smugness and possessiveness had coursed through his draconic mind take a backseat when he stares at Aiden who’s blinking at him just as stupidly. Not knowing what to do, Jaskier jumps to fill the silence before the Witcher regains his bearings.
It just so fits that his eyes have noticed the silver dagger stuffed into Aiden’s belt - and nothing else that could count as weaponry - which is why the first words out of his mouth aren’t declarations of perhaps joy or relief but instead, “I sure hope they hit you over the head with a mace or something of the likes because else you’re just a godsdamned lunatic!” Jaskier’s voice cracks, still hoarse from the recent transformation, but that doesn’t stop him. “‘I’m not afraid of you’?! What kind of idiocy is that?! Who stands in front of a bloody dragon with open arms, just waiting to be killed?!” Jaskier pants. “I just bit some guy’s head off!” he yells and then stops dead in his tracks, his flailing arms freezing in mid-air.
Jaskier rights himself.
Takes a step back.
“If you’d excuse me for a moment,” he chokes out, turning away in a deliberate motion before he bends over and vomits on the ground. 

“Urgh,” he voices when it’s over, wiping a hand over his face and getting mud all over himself in the process, “that was by far the most disgusting thing I’ve ever done.”

“What the fuck,” Aiden repeats again. 

Jaskier awkwardly clears his throat, his nakedness suddenly much more prevalent in his mind. Also, there are a bunch of corpses laying on the field they’re standing on, for which he is responsible to no small extent. On top of that, he has just revealed his greatest secret to a man who slays monsters for a living. 

May the gods help him.  

“I, um, can explain?” Jaskier utters and - oh fuck - Aiden seems to have finally shaken off his stupor. 

The Witcher leans forward and his eyes have taken on a dangerous glint. “I sure hope so,” he looms over Jaskier, while he says almost in a casual tone, “because I for my part am fairly sure I haven’t accidentally ingested a bunch of hallucinogenic mushrooms lately, which throws the door to some questions wide open.”

Jaskier swallows. And because you don’t mess with a cat Witcher like Lambert once put it, he does his best to launch into an explanation. 

Aiden listens to him with almost uncharacteristic silence. Eventually, though, he bounces back from his initial shock and then Jaskier finds himself on the receiving end of some questions, from, ‘If you’re in this form, are you adhering to the same hunting tactics as a common Wyvern?’ and ‘How long can you spit fire if you try to keep up a continuous burst?’ to ‘Do you think we could make Lambert believe that I’m a dragon tamer?’, which Jaskier answers in what comes down to an array of ‘I don’t know’, ‘Never tried it' and ‘Sounds like a fun afternoon’ s.

“A bloody dragon, buttercup!” Aiden exclaims when their conversation has finally reached a lull, a giddy laugh spilling over his lips as he knocks against Jaskier’s shoulder with a bony hand. “You’re a real fucking dragon!”

“Well, I suppose at this point denial would be futile,” Jaskier retorts with a relieved grin. It’s oddly freeing to finally be able to share this part of his that he’d kept hidden for so long. Especially learning that his fears about being shunned or worse killed have been unfounded, at least in that particular case. 

Aiden shakes his head, already more his own self. “And to believe I’ve had money bet on you not surviving your first years of travel…” He winks flirtatiously at Jaskier, though the impression is somewhat diminished by his filthy state and the blood smeared around his split lip.

“Well, to be honest, I wasn’t quite aware of this particular quality of mine until after we met,” Jaskier supplies, hiding his worry behind a smile. “And a few times, I came rather close to grazing the knife's edge anyway.”

Aiden opens his mouth, closes it again and stares at Jaskier before he breaks out in laughter again. A full-on, belly laugh that turns into a pained hiss when he bends over.  

Jaskier looks on worriedly, not knowing whether he should reach out. “I’m glad you’re alive,” he blurts out instead. “I thought I might come too late.”

“Took your sweet time,” Aiden shoots back with a mirthful spark in his eyes once he rights himself. “Though I guess your dramatics don’t only extend to your storytelling,” he adds with his oily voice.

Jaskier splutters. “Excuse you?” 

“Well,” Aiden drawls leaning back as he absently waves with a hand, “I mean your entrance, with the thunder and all, at a point where all seemed lost - quite dramatic. That’s just all.” The corners of his mouth twitch.

“Lambert was right,” Jaskier says, sniffing haughtily, “you’re an ass.”

Aiden laughs but then abruptly, his expression falls. “Did you see him?” he asks, his tongue flicking over his split lip. 

Jaskier frowns. “Who, Lambert?”

“Yeah.”

“No, I’m afraid not. It’s been quite a few years since our last encounter,” Jaskier replies and tries to gauge Aiden’s expression even here in the dark.

“Ah.”

“Why do you ask?”

"No particular reason."

“Oh,” Jaskier replies, because what else can he say?

Aiden turns his head and stares out at the foamy ocean. The storm has let up sometime during their earlier conversation and it’s no longer raining. Still, the windswept depths are churning. 

“I missed our last meeting, got held up, which is why I was headed to Oxenfurt in the first place. To leave him a message, let him know I’m alive and so on.” 

A smile flashes over the Witcher’s face when he adds, “Lest I earn myself another punch," as if it were a particularly fond memory he was recalling.
He trails off then, a bit forlorn.
Yet moments later he’s already looking mischievously at the bard again. “Heard about the bounty put on your head, buttercup. Impressive.”

Jaskier who’s an expert in skirting around topics he doesn’t want to talk about pretends not to notice the sudden switch and retorts, “I aim to please in all areas,” with a smug grin.

Aiden slowly lets his gaze trail down his torso. “I’m aware,” he purrs in that tone of his.

Swallowing, Jaskier shifts his weight from one shivering foot to the other …and yet- “As much as I do enjoy our conversation,” he voices with clattering teeth, “I do prefer not freezing half to death during it. How about we continue our lovely chat over a fire or something of the like?”

Aiden smiles. “That to me sounds like an idea that’s not half-bad.”

“What can I say,” Jaskier sighs, hugging his torso to keep himself warm, “my head’s a beacon for inspiration. Although… It might be prudent for me to, um, fetch my belongings. As long as it’s still mere starlight illuminating the paths. I don’t really fancy robbing those bodies for some of their clothes.”

“Fair enough.”

It’s an irksome trip and not even Aiden fawning over his draconic form makes up for the time it takes to fly back and forth. Not to speak of the scratches he earns by having to dig his possessions out of their hiding spot in complete and utter darkness. 

By the time Jaskier is finally sitting next to the fire at the camp the Witcher set up while he was gone, he is frustrated, tired and still feels sore from the recent transformations. Not that he dares to complain, seeing as Aiden is currently doing his best to stitch up his own thigh with a hot needle. 

He watches on for a while, listening to the sounds of the sea and the crackling fire. For lack of anything else to do, he begins to idly strum on his lute, weaving a soft melody that echoes into the night. From time to time, his eyes flick towards Aiden and his brows furrow. 

The firelight reveals things that the darkness had kept hidden before. 

From the shabby state of Aiden’s clothes to the way his cheekbones jut beneath dark circles underlining his eyes and the bruises under his stubble that have turned yellowish ever since he swallowed a disgusting-smelling potion. He might as well be one of those stray cats, hissing at people from behind a barrel, making one wonder how they made it through the winter. 

Not that Jaskier looks like the courtly epitome of eloquence he usually likens himself to be either, having travelled for the greater part of the last months, urged on by his own restless state of mind and the constant looming threat of capture.

Yet, having found Aiden must be a turning point in some way, must it not? Jaskier halts in his playing and looks at the Witcher. “What do you plan to do now?” he asks, perhaps looking for an answer for where he himself is at a loss right now. “Where will you go? Because surely-” he gestures into the dark - ”where they came from, there will be more.” He rubs his cold hands and stretches his palms towards the fire. “I just hope that fucker Rience was among them.”

“An acquaintance of yours?” Aiden asks without so much as looking up.

“Much to my regret,” Jaskier replies grimly.

“Pity you burned most of their faces off then,” the Witcher replies conversationally, finishing off his gory cross-stitch and bending his leg, probably to gauge whether it will impede his mobility. “Will be hard to pick him out from the others.”

“Yeah. Pity.” Jaskier exhales shakily. For some reason, his -skin is riddled with goosebumps again and he shuffles a bit closer to the fire.

A siren cries in the distance.

Staring into the flames, Jaskier misses when Aiden stows away his belongings, but when he looks up again, he finds the Witcher’s eyes on him. 

Tinged with golden firelight, the injuries visible on his face no longer seem as harsh. Instead, Jaskier’s gaze is drawn to the shadows thrown by his dark lashes, dancing on his skin like a particularly lively spider.

Briefly the Witcher’s tongue darts over his swollen lip. “I believe, I’ve got myself into a bit of a mess, buttercup.”

The bard’s gaze snaps back to Aiden’s eyes. What he finds there has the quip that had been lying at the tip of his tongue die. He pauses for a moment, studying the Witcher’s face. “From your expression, I gather that that’s-” he nods towards where the bunch of dead sell-swords are littering the ground - “not all you’re referring to, are you?” 

Aiden hums. “I don’t know how much you know, but lately… Let’s just say, things haven’t been all that easy for Witchers.”

Jaskier nods grimly. “Yeah, I’ve heard.” And not only from Guxart and Letho. Drunk patrons aren’t the most reliable of all gossipers, but they are the most honest. And Jaskier’s always had a penchant for overhearing interesting conversations. Be at a royal court or a tavern.

“I’ve been further south, for the most part, this year. Spent a while in Toussant, before skipping up and down the Jaruga, taking the one or other odd job… It wasn’t all that bad, actually.”

The bard, who had been nodding along so far, scoffs. “Not to offend you or anything,” he interrupts the Witcher, “but I’ve seen minced meat in better shape than you. Scrapes and bruises from this encounter aside-” He waves his hand at the Witcher, “You look like you’re in dire need of a place to rest. Get some sleep maybe and some food.” The bard’s eyes flick up from Aiden’s bony hands to his face. “Emphasis on the food by the way. Because right now, you might as well try your hand in earning your living by standing in a field to scare off crows instead of slaying beasts.”

“More easily said than done, considering every other contract these days seems to be a front for someone actually trying to collect a bounty on a Witcher.”

Jaskier gapes. “Gods…” he says when he’s regained his voice. “I hope this is your attempt at a joke, because else-”

“Eh,” Aiden waves him off. “Assassination is still an untapped market. As safe of a business as it ever was.” A smirk curls around his lips.

“Don’t tell me they’ve been forging contracts?” the bard insists, the Witcher’s attempt at lifting the mood not hitting its intended mark. 

Aiden shifts his legs. “One or two,” he reveals after a moment and then in a somewhat disparaging tone he adds, “They were mostly amateurs anyway. Overheard a few rumours and tried their luck. It’s not that big of a deal.”

The bard sputters, both shocked and absolutely furious on Aiden’s behalf, but before he can utter any of the many thoughts buzzing through his head like angry wasps, the Witcher cuts him off. 

“How about you?” he asks, “You don’t look like you’ve seen the better half of a washing bowl recently either. Though I suppose being able to turn into a fucking dragon might make things easier in terms of dodging unwelcome pursuers.”

“Well,” Jaskier starts, distracted for the moment, “I do have a rather nice gorge in the Mahakam Mountains I tend to occupy for a part of the year whenever the urge for solitude hits if that is what you mean.”

Behind dark lashes, Aiden’s eyes glint at Jaskier. “Somehow, I can’t tell whether you’re joking or serious about that mountain cave,” he says, the hint of amusement visible in his quirking lips.

“It’s not a cave-” the bard objects, oddly indignant. 

Aiden’s lips twitch. “Sure. Whatever you say, buttercup-” 

“-and short of dragging you up there,” Jaskier continues poignantly, leaning forward to pierce the man with a look, “I have no idea where we could lay low on short notice. And I doubt it’s a very habitable place for someone who’s not actually able to sprout a pair of wings, even when the temperatures are more forgiving.”

“A few pricks trying to collect a prize are nothing I can’t deal with. I wouldn’t spare them another thought, but…” Aiden pulls a face. “Considering where things seem to be headed, you have a point.”

Abruptly, Jaskier sits up straighter, studying Aiden’s expression. “What are you talking about?” 

“Say,” Aiden voices, firelight dancing over his face as he returns the bard’s gaze just as intently. “How did you know where to find me? Not that I’m complaining about your intervention,” he adds, almost like an afterthought.

As much of an expression of gratitude as Jaskier will receive, most likely. Still, that’s not why the bard's brows furrow. “I suppose,” he starts contemplatively, “it began when I ran into this Witcher.”

Aiden’s expression flickers like a wraith. His body seems to tense while his pupils dilate the slightest bit as he fixates on the bard over the fire. “Tell me.”

And so Jaskier tells him. About his run-in with Guxart, how he was almost killed with his own dagger and the odd conversation that followed after as well as whereto it led him. 

A grave silence stretches between them. 

“And you say, you’ve encountered this Rience before?” 

Jaskier nods. “He and I held a conversation that if it were to be described as uncomfortable would be an understatement.”

“Hm. That makes this whole thing appear more complicated than it originally led on.”

“And with ‘that thing’ you refer to what exactly?” Jaskier asks. 

Amber eyes reflect the light of the fire as Aiden turns to stare into the everchanging flames. “From what I’ve gathered, Guxart told you the truth. For the most part.”

“For the most part?” Jaskier inquires, scowling.

“Which is a curio in itself, believe me,” Aiden responds, absently carving a furrow into the ground with his heel. “He likes to keep his options open, to play safe. He’s a paranoid fucker, the old man. If you were able to relay what he told you word for word I might be able to gauge some of his intentions, but as it is-” he shrugs - “you’ll just have to take his words with a grain of salt.”

“But why would he send me after you then? If he didn’t trust me anyway?”

“Hell if I know,” Aiden retorts, startling a laugh out of Jaskier. “Your guess is as good as mine. But he didn’t kill you, so he probably took a liking to you.”

“A liking?!” Jaskier splutters. “From the impression that I got - and it was quite the impression - it hardly seemed that way. What is it, actually, with you cats immediately going for the most threatening option of pressing a blade against my throat? Do you know what that does to a bard? Knowing not only your life is at stake but your vocal cords as well?!”

“And that’s where you draw the line…” Aiden dryly interjects his rant.

“I was traumatized. Again,” Jaskier insists, sitting up straighter to stress his point.

“Sure you were.”

“Not a slither of compassion. Really, you disgust me-” 

“What about your compassion for the guy whose head you bit off today?”

“Oi, I resent that!” Jaskier retorts, gagging a bit as the image resurfaces. 

“My point exactly, buttercup,” Aiden states, a smug smirk painted on his face. 

Jaskier sniffs, turning his gaze towards his lute which is in dire need of his attention. “Fine,” he admits, brushing imaginary dirt from the honey-coloured wood of his instrument. “So Guxart told me the truth. Mostly. And what part would that be?” He hears fabric rustling as Aiden stretches out his legs. 

“He’s rallying us Cats, for one.”

Jaskier looks up. “Witchers?”

“No. Woodnymphs.”

The answer is delivered so dryly that even Jaskier, who’s spent his fair share of time with various Witchers needs a brief second to overcome his confusion. 

“Gods, I hate how Lambert’s rubbed off on you.” 

Aiden grins. “Nah. You’re just confounded because his company makes everyone appear as exalted as a priestess of the Melitele.”

“Then you’ve never been to the temple in Ellander-”

A log in the fire pops, startling them both. Sparks spray toward the sky and they blink stunned for a moment.

“So,” Jaskier clears his throat, breaking the sudden silence. “You’re being rallied. Why? Wouldn’t it make more sense to just wait for the winter to, um…”

“Meet up?” Aiden finishes with a knowing smirk.

Jaskier’s shoulders twitch in a half-shrug in lieu of a verbal answer.

“We Cats are more strays in that regard than our darling Wolves, believe me,” the Witcher replies over the sounds of the crackling fire. “The ones who can afford it probably have a few safe-houses strewn over the continent, the others… let’s just say you don’t return to Dyn Marv if you don’t have to.”

The mention of the unknown place has Jaskier perk up. “Dyn Marv?”

Aiden grins a dangerous grin, pupils strangely dilated as he fixates on the bard in a fluid motion of leaning forward. “I better not hear something about this in a song, buttercup, you hear me?”

In response, Jaskier’s experiencing a mix of rather conflicting emotions. A hint of fear, fond amusement - which is mostly supplied by his draconic side as it’s the only part not intimidated by the stare - and a strange flicker of arousal deep in his gut. “I hear you,” he says, swallowing.

Gods, it’s been a while, hasn’t it?

“Good,” Aiden says and leaves it at that.
It’s warning enough.
“Dyn Marv is the name for what we usually refer to as the Caravan,” he says after a moment, “It’s probably what you could consider the headquarters of what remains of our school as well as a training centre ever since we’ve been driven from our citadel. A waggon trek, as nomadic as any of us and just as hard to track down for someone who doesn’t know the patterns.” Aiden smirks. “Like a bunch of travelling minstrels only that they take down monsters for entertainment.”

Jaskier scrunches his nose at the comparison. The Witcher’s grin just broadens. 

Bastard.

“Headquarters, so you say,” Jaskier speaks up, dismissing his indignation, “and yet you don’t like to return there. How come this disparity?”

Aiden shrugs. “When you’ve shared the tiniest space with ten other pubescent trainees, who’re barely able to regulate their emotions and have access to all kinds of weapons you learn to appreciate a bit of privacy. That aside, it’s a fucking caravan. It only has the capacity for so many resources. Procuring food and other things is a hassle, just like the constant upkeep of the waggons. The availability of hot baths is equal to none. Winter is hell most of all. If you're smart, you'll hole up in a barn with some critters for a couple of coppers a week and you'll be better off than in the fucking trek. If you've never seen a Witcher with frozen-black fingers, you don’t know how fucking cold it can get. And that is me not even scratching the surface of what a bunch of starving men can do to each other. No, it’s better, that the majority of us keep to the path.”

“Pardon my language, but whatever goal Guxart has in mind seems to be a fucking horrible idea considering what you just told me.”

“You’re not wrong ...if the Caravan was what the old man had in mind. He’s a crafty bastard and he’s smart. Mad as any cat, but resourceful. And how things look right now, even the Caravan wouldn’t be the worst option.”

“And what is the other option?”

“Stygga.”

“Stygga?” Jaskier’s brows furrow. “I’ve heard of it, I think.”

“It’s a castle,” Aiden says, “The original base of the School of Cat.”

A memory scratches at the surface of Jaskier’s mind. “I think Guxart mentioned it was lying in ruins,” he recalls. 

“Well, for all he knows it does. Perhaps, he deliberately tried to lead you on a false trace; perhaps he was just in a melancholic mood. Hell if I know what goes on in the old man’s head,” Aiden says, observing a glowing spark as it sails towards the ground, landing right next to him where it keeps glimmering in the grass. The Witcher licks his pointer before extinguishing it, his deliberate movement accompanied by an almost soundless hiss. “Whatever he told you, I bet he didn’t fall over himself mentioning how he considers reclaiming that ruin,” he adds while inspecting his sooty finger before wiping it on the grass. Then he looks at Jaskier over the fire. “I ran into a fellow cat a bit under a month ago. Rasz,” he provides out of the blue. “I don’t know him much. He’s a bit older, a bit odd. Even going by our standards, if you know what I mean-” 

Jaskier doesn’t and he shudders to imagine what definition of odd that might be. Still, he daren’t interrupt Aiden either - 

“Lost his left eye when he took down a bog-witch and rumour says he was cursed because he’s been fucking jumping from his own shadow ever since. He sprouted some shit about someone being after him, the usual shtick. Told me that he’d gotten his hands on some information that was too dangerous to share. Well and I-” Aiden shrugs - “I was bored.” 

Jaskier swallows around a suddenly dry throat, already guessing where the story will end. “What did you do?” he asks, only noticing that he scooted even closer to the fire when the heat begins to lick at his legs.

Aiden grins wryly, just as Jaskier folds in his knees to save his pair of boots from the flames. “What do you think?”

“He told you,” Jaskier concludes, “didn’t he?”

“I’m charming like that,” Aiden agrees. “As far as the short version goes, apparently, he and two others were sent on a recon mission, to check out the citadel. To gauge what state it’s in, to see whether a rebuild would be feasible and so on. 
As it turns out, the castle isn’t as uninhabited as they assumed. Instead, they stumbled upon some fucked up shit within those walls. Magical experiments and the likes. Rasz was sure, they triggered some kind of magical alarm.
A sorcerer showed up and he wasn’t amused, so much I can tell you. Rasz got one good look at him before he legged it. Climbed out of a bloody window of all things and scaled down the fucking wall like a spider. Resourceful fucker…” Aiden trails off, staring into the flames. “Not that it would’ve made much of a difference in the end if he didn’t tell me.” The Witcher's eyes flick over to the hilltop where the ambush took place.
“Whoever followed him must’ve tracked him all the way from Ebbing. Sending a few sell-swords after me, even if they weren’t sure whether I knew things should hardly be an effort.”

“Are you certain,” Jaskier muses, his hands absently wandering over the body of his lute in random patterns, “that it’s related? You said Rasz was paranoid. And there have been attempts to sabotage contracts before. What if this is just a continuation of that? I wouldn’t put it past Rience to extend his search to other Witchers just to get …what he wants.”

“Hell of a coincidence, isn’t it though?” Aiden questions intently. Abruptly he pulls back, his serious tone replaced with a conversational one as he plucks a few blades of grass from the ground and feeds them to the fire. “Either way, I’ll probably drop off the map for a while.”

“Where will you go?” Jaskier asks, already knowing that the Witcher will not go alone if he has a say in it.

“That’s the question of all questions, isn’t it?” Aiden says, a breathy laugh spilling past his lips. 

For a brief moment, the sound of the rolling waves alongside the crackling fire blends into a hypnotic song. 

“I’ve still got some connections,” Jaskier muses. He hums contemplatively. “Maybe I could talk our way into a court?”

“A Witcher as a royal entertainer. Whatever could go wrong?” Aiden expresses sarcastically.

“Alright-” Jaskier raises his palms defensively - “I admit, our options are somewhat limited, but King Vizimir-”

“Yeah, no,” Aiden cuts him off mid-gesture, scratching the small scar running through his beard, “I fucked up an assassination in Tretogor about five years back.” 

The bard blinks at the cat Witcher. 

Aiden stares back. “You don’t want to know.”

That pulls Jaskier out of his frozen state. “Excuse me,” he inquires, stemming a hand into his thigh, “but did you even once pay attention when we spent some time together?” 

Aiden sighs. “Let’s just say a man fitting distinctly my description is searched for the murder of four men formerly employed as the King's personal guards. Before you ask, it was a mix-up and I won’t elaborate. And if you ever try to wrestle the story out of Lambert you can tell him that I won’t have any qualms about sharing the beetroot incident whenever the opportunity arises should he tell you.”

“You know, that only makes me want to ask more questions,” the bard admits intrigued.

Aiden pierces him with an unblinking stare. 

Jaskier clears his throat. “Um, so what about King Esterad and his court in Poviss-”

Aiden raises his brows “-Esterad Thyssen whose relative I impersonated until a rather public trial led to the beheading of a noble in Aedirn? I don’t think so.”

Jaskier’s shoulders slump and he tries to come up with another solution, coming up with nothing better than the foolish notion of perhaps attempting to show up at his former family estate to beg his sister for help when Aiden stops him. 

“Come on, buttercup, me staying at a royal court? It would end with a stabbing sooner or later. Let’s face it. I’m fucked. My last safe-house has been compromised. Tracking down the Caravan will take me weeks if not longer. And if Rasz was right, then I’ve got a bloody mage breathing down my neck sooner or later.” Aiden laughs again, his eyes flickering madly in the firelight. His hand opens and closes where it rests on his thigh as if he were twitching for a weapon.

The sight hits Jaskier like a punch. 

Aiden looks … vulnerable .  

A deep growl born from frustration builds in his stomach. 

This, how things are, it’s …unacceptable. 

Jaskier’s instincts are doing him no favour. The general urge to hole up somewhere during the winter has quietly grown more insistent with the progressing seasons and it returns with an insistence that even he can’t ignore akin to an itch beneath his skin.

If he’s honest with himself, Jaskier knows that while for him it wouldn’t be all that hard to sidle up to a noble family for the winter, alongside Aiden, a Cat Witcher nonetheless it’s a near impossibility. Any other solution that comes to his mind needs time. And time is of the essence, considering it can’t be long till the dead sell-swords will be found. 

Even knowing that it’s an unattainable solution, the draconic part of his mind would love nothing more than to haul Aiden up to his hide-out in the mountains-

The bard freezes. His hand accidentally brushes a string of his lute and it still vibrates when he seeks out the Witcher’s gaze over the fire. “Aiden.”

“What?” the other man says. 

Jaskier swallows. “What about Kaer Morhen?” 

Aiden tilts his head, the fire painting flickering shadows onto his face. “If you haven’t noticed, us Cats are not exactly popular.”

“You’re Lambert’s best friend.”

“And yet, I doubt any of the other wolves even know of my existence,” Aiden shoots back. “Besides, you forget one important thing. It’s too late anyway.”

“What?” Taken aback, Jaskier meets Aiden’s golden gaze.

“Here it might only still be raining,” the Witcher says and leans back onto his hands, “but up in the mountains winter has settled. The paths are snowed in, the trails hidden. No one leaves, no one comes. Unless you manage to draw up a portal there is no way in.”

Jaskier deflates. He sighs and leans over his lute, abusing it as a makeshift pillow. “It was a foolish idea anyway,” he voices in a summary of the many conflicting thoughts that come with the idea. “I don’t even know the way.” He stares into the ever-changing flames, falling and rising and curling towards the sky in flickering shapes.

“You don’t?” Aiden asks, pulling Jaskier out of his thoughts. 

He raises his head and gapes at the Witcher. “What? You do?”

If he didn’t know any better, he could almost believe that Aiden appears a bit sheepish. “Lambert. He uh, sort of offered it once. A, um, standing invitation.”

“To Kaer Morhen?” Jaskier repeats, still with an open mouth. 

Aiden shifts, sitting up straighter. “It’s not like the thought hasn’t crossed my mind. But I’m fairly sure it was a joke,” he says, dismissing the idea. “Besides, that was years ago.”

Jaskier can’t believe this man. He shakes his head, tugging on the strands of his hair with nervous hands. “But you know where it is?” he prods, tilting forward. His face warms under the heat of the fire.

“Kind of.” 

Jaskier stubbornly stares the Witcher down. “Kind of meaning …you do know where it is, don’t you?”

Aiden sighs. “He described the way. Once,” he reveals. “But that was years ago.”

“'Years ago' he says,” Jaskier parrots, resisting the urge to pull out his own hair and then his eyes snap to Aiden’s. “Aiden, you know the fucking way! Not even I know the bloody way to this place!”

The Witcher looks deadpan at Jaskier. “And?”

“I was friends with Geralt for twenty fucking years! And it’s not like he never invited anyone else-” 

And doesn’t that still sting…

“And your point is?”

Jaskier wants to throttle the man out of exasperation. “My point is,” he spells out, “Lambert wouldn’t have told you how to get there if he didn’t want you to know!”

Aiden seems stumped for a moment. “You think?”

“Considering that this is the obvious conclusion; yeah I bloody think!” Jaskier exclaims.

Aiden hums. “Be that as it is, that still doesn’t change anything.”

Disillusioned, Jaskier sinks back. 

For a long while, they stare into the fire, watching the logs slowly burn up.
Still, the idea doesn’t leave Jaskier’s mind and it stays there like a particularly persistent melody stuck in his ear.
The ambush on Aiden alone is enough of an indicator that certain things have come to a point. Be it, the mage in Stygga, or what Jaskier deems more likely, Rience’s relentless search for Geralt and the princess of Cintra. 

In his quest for a place to stay, he’s contemplated reentering the courtly life. Mostly for Aiden’s sake, but it’s not like he isn’t sick of being on the run as well.  

What Aiden doesn’t know is that it’s not exactly a voluntary choice to keep to the streets and backwater towns - that there’s a reason for it other than bloody Rience and whoever the Nilfgaardian prick is, who employs him.
Because there are only so many steps one must take to stumble upon Jaskier’s connection to Geralt of Rivia and subsequently the latter’s child surprise.
Nilfgaard isn’t the only one looking for the lost princess.
Jaskier isn’t stupid.
He’s heard the whispers and he didn’t wait for the nobles ambitious enough to find a way to lay claim on the Cintran throne to turn their attention on him. 

After all, perhaps he would know where the lion cub ended up – the sole heiress of Calanthe’s blood and more importantly what must be a girl of marriageable age by now…

The northern Kingdoms are just another potential threat under the spiderwebs of danger silently being woven from invisible hands down south. 

Suddenly, Jaskier clenches his teeth in anger.

Gods, he’s so sick of it. The constant travelling, while the days get shorter. Always being forced to keep incognito, not even able to perform his own songs.
He’s sick of the nervous itch in his neck whenever he feels a gaze linger, the constant looks over his shoulder and the backwater towns offering overpriced kasha and beds he has to share with three other vagabonds that seem to never even have heard of hygiene. 

And now with the winter, all he wants is a place where he can sleep for a week without having to worry about pay or food or a Witcher being killed off as soon as he turns his head. 

A sudden, crazy thought crosses his mind. “What if-” Jaskier speaks up and he fingers at the neck of his lute - “I mean, I can’t draw up a portal, but… I can fly?”

His eyes seek out Aiden’s who stares at him for a long moment before a slow grin grows on his face. 

“I’ve never exactly tried carrying a human,” Jaskier hurries to elaborate and yet inwardly he’s already picturing how it could work, “but I guess that bit of weight wouldn’t make much of a difference.”

For once, Aiden looks his usual self again, a maniacal grin splitting his face. “I knew there was a reason why I liked you, buttercup.”

The next morning, Jaskier still does not quite believe that they’ll actually go through with that insane plan of his, but even after a night of sleep, Kaer Morhen still seems like the best option. If not for him, then for Aiden’s sake. Besides, it would be a lie if he claimed that he wasn’t intrigued by the notion of visiting the mysterious keep.
A part of him aches to see Geralt again. It’s been years and he still misses him.

The prick. 

Sighing, Jaskier pulls his gaze from the grey-tinted sky that slowly takes on colour and looks at Aiden who currently stalks over the remains of the soaked battlefield, whistling a cheerful tune while he’s stripping the corpses of whatever tickles his fancy.

While last night’s rain has extinguished all fires, the blackened stripes and laid bare earth tell the stories of Jaskier’s deeds.
It’s a grim sight and yet he can’t bring himself to feel sorry. Nonetheless, he doesn’t exactly feel the need to get closer than he already is.
Although the only reaction the view evokes so far is an inappropriate smugness and the instinctive response of trying to pinpoint Aiden’s current location. 

Even if he wanted, Jaskier doubts that he’d be able to leave the Witcher now. 
The thought alone causes an uncomfortable lurch of his stomach.
Back when he’d been travelling with Geralt, he had no problem with only running into his other Witchers occasionally, but now? 
Four years of not knowing whether they were alive or dead… 
It’s like a bowstring in Jaskier has snapped, a tension he hadn’t even known to be there having unravelled. 
He can’t go back to that. 

Jaskier jumps at the loud cheer Aiden lets out only to see him wave with his swordbelt he recovered somewhere among the carcasses. 

“Melitele help me,” he mutters and puffs up his cheeks. Because that means there’s nothing standing in the way of them attempting to go through with their plan. 
Steeling himself, Jaskier picks up his bag and heads over to Aiden. 

As it turns out the logistics of riding a dragon are much trickier than anyone could’ve anticipated. The whole awkward part with Jaskier having to undress to even get to the point of transformation aside, it still takes them over an hour, four practise flights, and interjectional discussion with Jaskier in human form as well as the creative usage of a rope one of the dead sell-swords carried on his person to find a feasible solution. 

The only true upside is that Aiden is apparently thrilled by the whole experience. Jaskier not so much. 

He shakes his head, huffing at the uncomfortable feeling of the rope tied around his neck and side-eyes the package consisting of his and Aiden’s tied-up belongings that are lying on the windswept grass right next to the cliff. 

“You ready?” Aiden asks him with a grin.

Jaskier bumps his snout against his torso in lieu of an answer. It comes with the added advantage of leaving a faint imprint of his scent on the Witcher’s shirt. 

“Very well,” Aiden says and after petting Jaskier’s neck as if he were a horse - it earns him an indignant huff - proceeds to climb atop his back before he scoots forward so as to not get in the way of Jaskier’s wings. 

He can feel the tension of the rope around his neck when the Witcher grabs onto his makeshift hold. “Onward, my noble steed,” he proclaims laughing. 

In retaliation, Jaskier doesn’t give any warning before he launches himself off the cliff. 

They race towards the sea in a jarring nosedive, but instead of being scared shitless, Aiden just lets out a loud whoop. His laughter bounces from the steep face of the cliff when Jaskier snaps his wings out just before they hit the undulating turquoise of the water.

He sails up, circling around before he snatches up their possessions with his claws and then he lets the winds carry them north. 

Their arduous voyage starts out not as such. 

In fact, the first time they stop at an uninhabited strip of a tributary to the Pontar to discuss their journey so far, the weather has held up nicely. And although Aiden does bitch about the itch in his healing leg and reveals his observation about it being quite drafty up in the sky, not much else is there to complain about. 

They take short breaks multiple times during the day and once night falls, set up their camp at the shores of a small lake.

Jaskier spends his evening scribbling away in his journal, absently listening to the everchanging strings of curses Aiden mutters under his breath from where he’s perched on an old tilted willow, whose long branches are reaching far over the water. 

His curses take on a multilingual quality the longer he stays out and with the increasing number of times he’s forced to untangle his fishing line from the dangling limbs of the tree.
Jaskier is quite surprised that after a while he can pick up on a slight Toussant accent in Aiden’s usually suspiciously bland common.

Still, his efforts are not for nought, since at the end of the day, they’re sitting around a merry campfire, a couple of fat basses spitted over the flames.  

Their troubles begin only in the latter half of the second day when they reach the foothills of the wild and stony heights of the Kestrel mountains. 

They find snow on their path for the first time, sailing overhead those jagged rocky peaks where it hangs as a harbinger of a winter that has yet to take in the flat planes down below. 

Even Jaskier can feel the bite of the icy air. It numbs his wings and freezes his tail and every breath cuts like a knife unless he heats it up. In the late afternoon, they’re forced to make a stop to get the Witcher warmed up if only to ensure that his shivering hands are no longer threatening to slip at any moment. 

Once they are finally gliding over the desolate solitude that is the glacier-covered pass bracketed by the Great Kestrel and Harbinger’s fang - two mountain peaks that rise mightily into the air side by side - Aiden is wearing three layers of clothes to keep his stationary limbs warm.

They push through the ice-cold night and around the forenoon of the third day, they have finally crossed the border to Kaedwen.
Tired and exhilarated at the same time, they stop once they can make out the glittering waters of the Buina in the distance. 

With the looming shadows of the mountains in their back, they set up camp. While Aiden goes through the motions of securing the perimeter, Jaskier doesn’t do much more than simply spread out his bedroll underneath some trees before he lets his limp body drop down onto the old fur. He dozes off almost immediately, napping till late into the afternoon. 

In an unspoken agreement, they head into Beeches, a mid-sized town about half an hour from their makeshift camp come evening.
Barely bigger than the surrounding villages and resemblant of a hundred other places, it would be a mere flyspeck on the map, were the town not a bastion of tar exportation in Kaedwen. 

The grubbed-up hillsides in the area are peppered with tar kilns and their telltale smell accompanies them all the way into town. 

Half of Beeches is populated by dwarves and as such, the town is a notable exception in Kaedwen’s usual unkind treatment of non-human folk. 

Not even Aiden has much trouble stocking up on necessities and they end up at a lively tavern where they scrounge up what little coin they have left to afford a decent meal and on Jaskier’s insistence a bottle of the locally distilled dwarven spirit. 

Not that Aiden complains much.
Their laughter and rejoicing last until midnight and they stumble back to their camp on a starlit path, with warm bellies, loose-limbed and pleasantly buzzed. 

By day four, they pass over Ard Carraigh and Aiden's disposition has turned as such that the novelty of flying has fully worn off. According to him, he’s developed sore muscles where he didn’t even know he had ones and even the feeling of soaring high up in the air doesn’t rectify the fact that he is freezing, whenever Jaskier so much as even grazes a cloud.

It doesn’t help that they get caught in a small hailstorm and by the time they finally find shelter, Jaskier doesn’t even try and pretend that he isn’t irritated.
The continuous flying takes it out of him and he feels perpetually hungry since he has yet to hunt while he’s in his larger form.
Aiden’s fuse is no less short and they end up sniping at each other to the point where weapons are being drawn. 

To sum it up, when they head for their respective bedrolls, neither of them is in a very jovial mood. 

The following day is nothing short of miserable. 

Neither is very talkative during the brief breaks during the day and the air is pregnant with the scent of the coming snow. It’s a relief when the daylight comes to a close and they set up camp just below the snowline, with the white peaks of the Blue Mountains a mere stone’s throw away.

They take a well-deserved rest at the foothills of this already wild enough mountain range and come nightfall they have buried all their grudges. 

Over a merrily burning fire, they share jokes and stories, Aiden tapping into a seemingly endless well of tales about his and Lambert’s shenanigans that have Jaskier rolling with laughter. Despite his best attempts though, he never learns what the ‘beetroot incident’ is really about, nor does Aiden relay any more information about his contract in Tretogor.

That night, they’re forced to huddle for warmth and when they are woken the following morning by pale sunbeams, Jaskier can’t feel his toes. 

Despite the cold, it becomes apparent in the early daylight, that he picked a rather lovely spot for what he knows is probably their last breather before they truly set out for Kaer Morhen.

A little further up the mountains, the Gwenllech comes out of rugged rocky gorges, falling steeply, but at their stony plateau the river loses some of its wildness and the fresh snow water plays over the clean gravel banks. They delay their departure till way into the forenoon and Jaskier doesn’t refrain from taking advantage of the desired opportunity to refresh himself in the rushing waves.

A friendly splash of water aimed at a very dry Aiden ends with Jaskier being dunked twice by the Cat who doesn’t even bother taking off his boots before he launches himself at the bard in retaliation.

Crowding around a small fire, they go over the directions again and both can't help feeling a certain nervousness. Aiden turns snappish, while they pack their bags, hands flitting repeatedly over his daggers and by the time they have covered the tracks of their camp, Jaskier is quietly imagining the worst possible outcomes their sudden appearance at Kaer Morhen could call forth.

He’s almost glad to be able to lean more into his draconic mind when it’s time to take to the sky since that makes his greatest irritant his persistent craving for venison.                                 

Beneath them, seriously and terribly, an ancient spruce forest fills the incalculable gorges they are lucky not to have to ascend by foot. 
The area in which Kaer Morhen lies, according to the Cat Witcher, is wild and inaccessible to anyone who doesn't know the way. Or at least, anyone who doesn't have wings. 
It's harder to follow the markers Aiden remembers, both because neither has seen them before and because the bird's eye view doesn’t lend itself all that much to a description meant for humans. 
The cleft in the granite wall that the ordinary traveller has to orientate himself by is barely visible even to the eyes of a Witcher. 
Soon, however, they leave the snow-covered treetops behind and below them stretches a wide, scree-covered valley that reaches the steep slopes on the opposite side. In the middle of the valley, the Gwenllech, the White Stone River, flows swirling and foaming between boulders and washed-up tree trunks. 

Here in those parts of the upper reaches, the Gwenllech is a shallow, albeit wide, watercourse one could easily cross on horseback. At its source as well as downstream in Kaedwen, in the middle reaches, the river is an insurmountable obstacle, rushing and flowing at the bottom of deep gorges. 

Wind-swept scraps of Aiden's curses on his ears tell Jaskier that the freshening wind he feels beneath his wings must have carried an unpleasant chill with it. 

He stretches his nostrils into the breeze and the smell of snow drifts toward him. 
No sooner have they crossed a high crevice than the first snowflakes fall, whirled away by the howling wind. 

Jaskier hopes they are on the right track. If not, Aiden will have to brace himself for a cold night.
He's a fool if he thinks Jaskier will do this to himself again in human form. 

But Aiden's whoop shortly after tells him more than enough. He feels a tug on the rope around his neck and so he looks down through the blowing snow only to see the crevice they are following widen. Despite the layer of deep snow hiding it, he can still see how it turns into a holloway, and then finally into a valley, a large, round, wooded dell, between jagged boulders where the path is lost under the old pines that have taken root here.

A few flaps of his wings and they fly away over a round hill. And suddenly, as if growing out of the stone, the hulk of Kaer Morhen appears nestled on the rocky slopes. 

Its sight steals Jaskier’s breath away. Sure, it is a ruin, with the partially destroyed trapezium of the shield wall, the remains of the ward and the gate and its cracked stump of the keep. 

And yet.
It’s impressive, this former stronghold, the cradle of witchery and Jaskier can imagine the bustling life that once existed behind those fences.

Unobstructed, they sail over the remains of the bridge and the moat, right over the battlements crowning the highest parts of the still-standing shield wall.
He draws a circle above the ground plan as he descends, heading for the most unobstructed open spot. 

Jaskier lands in the forecourt, his beating wings whirling up snow as he does his best to cushion his impact. Steam spills forth from behind his teeth and nostrils when he huffs, feeling like he ended up at the bottom of a kettle despite the space between the high walls surrounding him.  

Aiden meanwhile wastes no time and throws his leg over his neck, jumping down from his elevated seat as soon as he’s safely able to do so, promptly dropping the heavy pack of both their belongings onto the partially snow-obscured stone slabs.
“Gods, am I glad this is over,” he mutters, groaning as he stretches, while Jaskier’s draconic mind struggles to distinguish any building from the other safe for the longish stables a bit off to the right, where he can smell the distinct scents of manure, horse and goats.

Nervous whinnies and bleating noises sound through the icy air. Noises, which promptly grow louder when the stable door is thrown open and a dark-haired figure appears in its frame, storming out, only to freeze amidst the falling snowflakes at the sight that welcomes him.

Vaguely, from the corner of his eye, Jaskier notices how Aiden slowly pulls back his arms from where they were stretched towards the sky and behind his neck, but most of his attention is directed at the other Witcher. 

A wave of warmth rolls through his chest, taking on a more physical character as it vibrates through his throat in a delighted purr. 

Instinctively he shuffles his wings, stretching his head in Eskel’s direction, who blinks stunned.

“How fare ye’?” Aiden starts nonchalantly, just as a slender speckled goat sticks its head out the stable door and bleats.

“What the fuck,” Eskel says.

Chapter Text

For a brief moment, everything is silent on the snowy frontcourt. Then Aiden lets out an amused snort.
It pulls both Eskel and Jaskier out of their stupor. 

The former takes a step forward, his mouth no longer slacking with shock, but instead pressed tight with intent. 

Jaskier meanwhile shakes off his initial fascination with the Wolf Witcher. 

For a brief moment, he entertains the thought of staying in this form, but then he remembers his desire for warmth, food and a decent bed and wills himself to change.

Whatever waning notions he’d still harboured in regards to keeping his draconic side a secret upon his arrival in Kaer Morhen die a swift death when he imagines a whole winter spent feeding on unseasoned venison with Aiden as the only and rather one-sided conversational partner. 
Besides, who knows whether Aiden would keep his secret? It's not like they discussed it beforehand.
Eskel has already spotted them anyway and Jaskier is fairly sure that how ever many things can be explained away - the sudden departure of a dragon shortly followed by the appearance of a bard in a fortress that should be inaccessible isn’t one of them.
Thus, he wills himself to change.
At least, the shedding of one form for the other is by far no longer as cumbersome thanks to the short successive transformations he undertook during the journey here, making the whole thing run a little smoother. 

Still, that doesn't mean it's a pleasant process, or that it happens in a flash. 

Cursed be Borch with his pretentious instant transformations. 

Vaguely he hears Eskel's and Aiden's voices - one more agitated than the other - but most of his attention is taken up by his tearing bones and shrinking limbs. A sound akin to cracking knuckles accompanies his transformation and when he finally comes to, his bare knees and forearms resting atop the cold hard ground, it takes him a few moments to acclimatise. 

The icy winter air is driving into his lungs with every heavy pant as he heaves himself off the ground, somehow managing to get drawn into a brief battle with some pesky strands of his hair that for whatever reason catch in his mouth and beard. Puffing and blowing, Jaskier grumbles under his breath at the annoyance, when-

“I fucking knew it!” Eskel stares at him, both in shock and astonishment, a disbelieving huff spilling over his lips. 

“Uh…” Bemusedly, Jaskier finds himself seeking Aiden’s gaze in a silent question. 

But before any kind of exchange can happen, Eskel already exclaims, “You fucker!” and he’s piercing Jaskier with an intense golden stare. “You absolute yaldson! You must’ve hallucinated it, my ass!”

It dawns on Jaskier, what the Witcher might be referring to.
“Yeah,” he admits with clattering teeth, “that one was perhaps a little too bold.”
Gods, his feet are freezing in the snow. His toes seem to shrink in on themselves and they are not the extremities following that example. 

“'Too bold’,” the scarred Witcher huffs. “And, who might be that?” he demands to know with a jerk of his chin into the Cat Witcher’s direction. 

“Ah, he’s… um,” Jaskier starts, but Aiden straightens his shoulders and looks Eskel dead in the eye, a tight grin spread over his face. 

“Aiden of the Cats,” he states curtly, seemingly daring Eskel to say anything.

“A Cat, huh.” 

An uncomfortable tension seems to build in the air as the Witchers eye each other.

“He’s a friend of Lambert’s,” Jaskier interjects, stuffing his hands under his armpits to keep them warm. Shifting his weight from one frozen leg to the other, he adds, “So, now that that’s out of the way, may I suggest that we save the pleasantries for indoors? In case you haven't noticed - I'm a little freshly dressed.”

“Really? Lambert?” Eskel doesn’t even turn away as he speaks, completely dismissing Jaskier’s dire situation. “As far as I’m aware, Lambert doesn’t have any friends.”

As if on cue, a wide iron-framed door opens in a building slightly offset from the stables. “Talking to the goats again, Eskel, or have you finally gone mad- Oi!” Lambert halts in his humorous speech, “Who the fuck are you?!” he barks out, stomping over the snowed-in forecourt in a way that seems to imply that he’s ready to throw hands any second, until-

“Are your eyes that bad or have you actually just gotten dumber since the last time we saw each other?” Aiden says, turning to face Lambert. He’s grinning, genuinely this time, his posture lacking a tension Jaskier hadn’t even noticed until its newfound absence. 

Lambert freezes, his eyes going wide. Eskel’s on the other hand dart back and forth between the two, frowning. Even Jaskier can’t help but watch on curiously. Never before has he seen Lambert speechless. 

“Fuck, Aiden…” the copper-haired Witcher utters.
His voice sounds wrecked.
He stands there unmoving, but that doesn’t seem to be a hindrance. Because within a moment, Aiden is sprinting, bodily launching himself at Lambert and almost tackling him to the ground in a body-wrapping hug - which at first is returned hesitantly but then just as tight. “You bastard, I thought you were dead,” Lambert manages, his voice muffled against where it’s buried in the crook of Aiden’s shoulder.

Eskel looks like he just witnessed a pig taking off the ground with wings it grew from its arse. 

Jaskier clears his throat. “As I said. Friends.”

“Why is he naked?” a suspiciously high voice suddenly inquires. 

Jaskier turns and just outside the door where Lambert originally emerged from a lanky ash blonde child of about twelve years blinks at him intrigued with its striking green eyes.
Not that it holds his attention for long.
Because right behind it, stands the man Jaskier had both feared and looked forward to seeing the most. 

Geralt.

Just as he remembers him. 

Pale as the winter, his hair the perfect match to the whirling snowflakes. A little too gaunt maybe, as if the last few months hadn't been kind, but his hair looks soft where it falls over his shoulders, his woollen tunic is clean and seems well cared for and the day-old stubble decorating his features blunts a bit the sharp line of his jaw. Now, he stands like a marble statue, frozen - in what - shock, anger? Jaskier can't tell. 

Pale gold behind milk-white lashes seems to flicker with unspoken emotions, unblinkingly fixed on the bard.

Jaskier's throat feels dry all of a sudden. He can hear his own blood rushing in his ears, feels his breath catching in his throat. 

For a moment, his heart seems to stop.

“I was wondering the same,” a gruff voice cuts through their moment and a man - without a doubt another Witcher - appears beside Geralt. Jaskier tears his gaze away, instinctively sizing up the newcomer. 

He looks to be similar to Lambert in stature, a little taller though, coming just between him and Geralt. His distinctive brows are drawn together in a frown as he stares directly at Jaskier.

And yet what makes him exceptional is not his intense stare, nor the ease with which he carries himself. It's the fact that his eyes are surrounded by a multitude of crow feet, his mouth is framed by accordion lines and most importantly, his well-kept beard is grey from age just like the hair on his head.                                                                                           

He might not look much older than a man in his late fifties, but for a Witcher, he truly must be ancient.

“It’s a rather long story," Jaskier says then, because even his superficial intrigue won't be able to keep him out in the open any longer, "So, how about we continue this riveting conversation inside?”
His feet are burning at this point and the whistling wind above mercilessly drives snowflakes down into the forecourt.

The old Witcher raises his brows. His eyes are of a dark golden colour, warm if it weren‘t for the unyielding stare still piercing Jaskier. 

A moment goes by. 

“I vouch for them.” 

It’s almost eerie how everyone turns their head to stare at Lambert. 

He stands next to Aiden now, so close that their shoulders are almost brushing. The Cat Witcher appears to have relaxed quite a bit in the meantime, seeing as his rigid stance from earlier has turned into an almost artful seeming slouch.

Jaskier, who's bombarded with emotions he’s not able to name - not to speak of the fact that he’s feeling like he’s slowly turning into an icicle, with no one in the world to care about his unfortunate fate, takes this as a cue to escape these broody dramatics.
With a, “Why, thank you, Lambert, you are a dear. I shall pay you back in due time with a bottle of Mahakamer spirits,” he strides towards the heavy iron-clad door. 

“My apologies,” he mutters as he slips past the child - he’s fairly sure about its identity after all, despite the boyish haircut - who just stares at him with unabashed curiosity. 

He finds himself then faced with the grey-haired witcher, whose steely stare could’ve driven even a wyvern back to its den. Yet standing still and remaining where he is, is by far the more intimidating option, seeing as Geralt is still rooted to the spot right next to the former. 

From this up close he looks more like he just saw a ghost. And not perhaps a wraith or a beann’shie he would’ve faced with the nonchalance of a farmer dealing with a rat, but a true spectre of his past coming to haunt him. 

Not that it’s much of a metaphor. 

So before Geralt can do much more than open his mouth, Jaskier acknowledges him with a polite, “Geralt,” and he uses the moment of stunned silence that follows to promptly and somewhat awkwardly manoeuvre himself through the gap between the two Witchers and inside. 

The stone floor his bare feet meet isn’t exactly warmer, but it’s a vast improvement from the cold wet snow. 

For a second, he marvels at how smooth the hewn granite feels under his soles, the many things it must have seen, generations of Witchers having worn it down by simply walking across.

Yet, he doesn’t stop in his stride, already breathing more freely now that he’s past Geralt. So caught up in his thoughts, it takes him a moment to truly take in his surroundings. 

As his eyes slowly get used to the dim light a sharp contrast to the glaring white of the snow and clouds - on either side, silhouettes of wide columns peel out of the darkness. Old wooden beams act as buttresses to some of the more cracked-looking walls and ceiling areas. Once probably temporary, they now seem to be a more permanent installation. Almost faded murals decorate the crumbling plaster, half hidden by crudely carpentered shelves that line the walls. Crammed with jars, crates, bridles and even barrels blocking access to the dustier areas, the once impressive entrance hall now seems to be functioning like a storage room. 

Iron torch holders that are mounted to the walls stand empty bar a few unlit ones. He can make out the dark silhouette of a door on the opposite end of the room. The latter being more wide than long, it wouldn’t take him long to reach it, but already behind him, he can hear a commotion as the others evidently resort to not letting their unexpected guest roam unsupervised. 

He knows the little time he had to breathe is over even before they pool into the room like raindrops into a puddle.

“Forget something, didn’t you?” 

Jaskier turns around, faced with a bunch of Witchers whose intimidating silhouettes are backlit by the glaring light - and one that is slightly smaller yet seemingly trying to cut just as an imposing figure - as they find themselves in the entrance hall.
Aiden unceremoniously sidesteps Geralt and the older man and immediately Jaskier’s eyes fixate on the tightly tied pack the Witcher’s holding out.
There are his saddlebags, his bedroll and the lute they had fastened together for their journey here and which he so carelessly left outside. 

All forgotten in face of the situation. 

Aiden’s amusement is evident on his face, his own belongings already separated from Jaskier’s and shouldered while he’s offering the bard’s possessions with his free hand.
Something in Jaskier’s chest lurches and before he knows it, he has already darted forward, snatching them from Aiden’s grasp. 
It soothes some deep-seated instinct within him but he’s also met with a bunch of incredulous expressions, golden eyes blinking at him from the dark.
Realizing his odd behaviour, Jaskier awkwardly clears his throat, his fingers digging tightly into the worn leather as he holds his belongings close. A rather fruitless attempt to shield himself from everything going on. Apart from maybe concealing his privates from straying gazes… which reminds him.

Abruptly, Jaskier pulls himself together and resorts to loosening the rope keeping his belongings together and starts to dig through his saddlebags as if nothing were amiss

“So,” Lambert drawls from where he backs up Aiden, his head seemingly aflame with how the light breaks through his reddish curls, while Jaskier is in the middle of stepping into a pair of braies. “Do you plan on perhaps sharing why you decided to let your prick flap away in the icy breeze outside or…” 

His face is shrouded in shadows but Jaskier can vividly imagine the infuriatingly amused smirk painted on his lips. Swiftly, he rights himself and while tying the laces he retorts, “I would tell you, Lambert, if it were any of your concern.”

“Isn’t it? I’m scarred,” Lambert retorts dryly. “Not to speak of the children.”

“Any child that has spent time in your immediate vicinity is bound to be scarred by other means,” Jaskier shoots back without missing a beat as he pulls out a shirt from his bags.

Aiden snorts. 

“More like transmutation with his clothes on lies outside of his abilities,” Eskel interjects dryly, effectively cutting through the banter. 

“What?” Lambert’s head has whirled around to stare at Eskel, whose arms are crossed over his chest as he stares at Jaskier unimpressed. 

“Yea, well… Turns out I can turn into a dragon. Who knew?” Jaskier voices with feigned joviality, while dread sits in his lungs like a clump of ice. He does his best to avoid looking at Geralt. Instead, he busies his hands with his belongings, tracing the carvings of his lute and tugging on the sleeves of his shirt to smooth out invisible wrinkles. 

“Fucking- Are you pulling one on me right now?” Lambert gawks at Jaskier, then turns to seek out Aiden’s gaze in confirmation. 

“Can you really turn into a dragon?” the green-eyed child pipes up at the same moment Aiden says, “Flew me all the way up here.”

The copper-haired Witcher curses. 

“Lambert.” The gruff words of the old Witcher shut Lambert up. He pierces the younger man with a look. “You still vouch for them?”

Lambert turns to look at Jaskier, with a constipated expression. That in itself is nothing out of the ordinary, but Jaskier can tell that he’s hesitant.  

“I do.” This time it's Eskel who spoke. He sighs when everyone turns to him, his arms sliding out of their position as he deflates. “I don’t know about the cat or what to think of this, but I trust him-” he jerks his chin in Jaskier’s direction - “not to kill us.”

Even Jaskier, who rarely possesses the self-discipline to keep his mouth shut, stays silent after that. The look the old Witcher sends in his direction a second later only confirms his rationale. “An explanation is in order. But not here,” the greying Witcher says sternly. A moment later and somewhat more gruffly he adds, “I’m freezing my arse off as it is.”

They end up heading through a doorway Jaskier had initially overlooked as it lies obscured in the shadows in a blind spot of the entrance, just to the right. It leads to a stairwell and Jaskier can’t help his curiosity as he subtly tries to peer around.
There’s not much to see though, bar the ancient stonewalls and the worn steps beneath his still naked feet.
No wonder Jaskier is still shivering.
They all drive clouds of breath in front of them, like small swirls of smoke quickly dissolving into the air.
Jaskier's neck prickles uncomfortably, feeling the stares behind him almost like a physical sensation, but he refuses to turn around. Steadily, he keeps his eyes on the old Witcher’s back, the movement of the greyish fabric, as he takes one step after the other.
Jaskier is panting at this point and the sound feels unbearably loud to him in the stifling silence. Even over the noise of the echoing steps. He’s painfully aware that none of the Witchers nor the child seems to breathe as loud as he does.

Instead, he’s all alone with his embarrassment and his thoughts. 

Eventually, they end up in a broad hallway on the upper floor, where an invitingly warm strip of flickering light penetrates through the crack of a double door. 

Jaskier follows the old Witcher, slipping through the winged door and entering a great hall, which finally provides his frozen limbs with a smidge of warmth.
It smells of smoke as several braziers are scattered around the room, only two of which are lit. Most of the heating is provided by the open fire burning in a wide hearth, in front of which lies the tattered skin of what once must have been an enormous specimen of a bear.

A little off to the side, a long table functions as the central piece of furniture, with worn wooden benches on either side. A few candles in wrought-iron holders provide additional light, but the most surprising addition is the young woman who is seated at said table, with long chestnut-red hair and cornflower blue eyes not unlike Jaskier’s which she has immediately darting over to them as soon as they enter. 

“Unexpected guests, I gather?” she says after a moment, standing up, her tasteful dress rustling. 

It takes a lot for Jaskier to not falter in his step. He recognizes her, even though it must be half a decade since he saw her last flitting around King Foltest’s court.
A sorceress. In Kaer Morhen. 

Something bitter goes down Jaskier’s throat. He reciprocates her curious gaze warily. There’s a joke somewhere in that since if Jaskier had expected a mage to be here it would be Yennefer. Thankfully her eyes don’t linger too long on him, instead, they dart over his shoulder.

“You can say that,” Eskel mutters while Jaskier gravitates toward one of the braziers. It’s only a coincidence that it provides an additional barrier between him and the table.
Gingerly, he sets down his belongings right at his feet before stretching his palms towards the flames. 

“Triss,” the child excitedly exclaims and it is the first to hurry over to her, “Triss, they say that he can turn into a dragon!”

Cornflower blue eyes, which have paused on Aiden and Lambert in a piercing way - the latter sneering in a way that rivals the facial expressions Jaskier was served with when he and Lambert still hated each other - turn to the girl and then Jaskier. 

The bard wrinkles his nose, interestedly staring into the flames, pretending to not pay attention whatsoever, while sneaking the one or other look. A needling sensation has begun to spread through his thighs as they warm up. 

“Is that so?” Triss’ smile appears kind at first glance but Jaskier has spent long enough at court to know the difference. 

He smiles back spitefully, just as polite and just as feigned. 

He remembers her name now. Triss Merigold. Merigold the Fearless, they called her after Sodden. She’s supposed to be dead. Slain during the battle. 

The poet within him stirs intrigued at the tale that undoubtedly lies somewhere beneath the surface. On the other hand, Jaskier is vividly aware of how the academic interests of mages rarely seem to be limited by ethical concerns. And unlike Borch, he can’t rely on two Zerrikanian warriors to behead people on his behalf. 

The Witchers meanwhile have headed for the table, Aiden hoving slightly behind.
He appears comfortable, at least superficially but his shoulders are tight. Lambert stands at his side, a steady and silent presence not unlike a jagged rock in the foaming sea bracing the rolling waves. It’s rather unlike him, though the way his eyes dare anyone to speak a word makes up for that. 

The older Witcher drags a ceramic liquor bottle off a shelf, joining Eskel at the table. Geralt sits down as well, slowly.

Jaskier has felt his gaze, tried to ignore it, but despite knowing better he looks. Geralt is staring at him, his expression unreadable.

Distantly Jaskier wonders when he unlearned how to interpret his face. 

The moment shatters when Merigold touches Geralt’s arm. He turns to look at her and if he didn’t know it better, Jaskier would think he was startled by the sorceress's touch. “Care to introduce us?” she asks almost mirthfully and despite himself, Jaskier’s eyes narrow at the familiarity of her tone. Something animalistic rears in his stomach, climbing up his stomach and scorching his insides. He tastes blood in his mouth, having it cut open on the sharp points of his molars. 

How dare-

“You alright?”

Jaskier flinches. He turns his head and there’s Aiden, who unbeknownst to him sidled up to him; soundlessly as always - bloody cat. 

The bard sniffs. “Why wouldn’t I be?” he retorts somewhat miffed. Aiden quirks his brows and with a smirk, he inclines his head. 

Jaskier follows his line of sight only to stare at his own hands curled around the burning hot iron of the brazier's frame. Every so often, flames lick at his fingertips. He hadn’t even noticed. It’s not like the heat bothers him and yet he lets go as if he got burnt.
He’s lucky his sleeves didn’t catch fire. 

“Neat trick,” Lambert states from where he materialized behind Aiden. “Guess you can’t teach that.”

Something swings in his voice, a nasty note that hasn’t been there in a while. There’s a harsh twist around his mouth. Jaskier’s stomach drops. He opens his mouth to retort something - anything when a loud knock sounds through the room. 

The old Witcher has set the bottle back on the table with a finality and his golden eyes cut through the room as he looks right at them. 

“So. I’m listening,” he says. Vaguely, Jaskier notes how Aiden stills. All eyes are on them. The only one fidgeting is the child with her green eyes, peering unguardedly curious at them. 

At this point, Jaskier thinks, being run through with a dagger would be preferable to being in this room. As soon as the thought has been completed, he feels ugly spite clawing itself up his neck. 

Fuck Geralt. And fuck being wary of the sorceress. 

He straightens his shoulders, looking the old Witcher dead in the eye. “We came here to ask for refuge,” he says. 

The man studies him for a moment. “What’s your name, lad?” 

“Jaskier.”

The brows of the old Witcher rise a tad. He hums. “And you?” 

“Aiden. Of the Cats.”

“I see.” The old Witcher absently tugs at his beard. The bench creaks when he shifts. “You turn into a dragon?” 

“When the mood hits,” Jaskier shoots back, refusing to waver under the scrutiny. He does his best to avoid looking at anyone but the old Witcher. Especially Geralt. Next to him, he can hear Aiden snort. 

“A golden one?” the old Witcher continues. 

“Well,” Jaskier replies, “if you go by colouring I’d say it’s more of a gold-palladium blend with a hint of-”

“Gold then.”

Jaskier sniffs affronted. “If you will.” 

“Interesting,” the old Witcher says. 

It’s not the reply Jaskier had expected, neither Aiden as it appears, but everyone else doesn’t seem surprised.

“Can you spit fire?” the child blurts out. No one admonishes her, instead, the question seems to be a curio to the others as well, the way they ever so slightly lean onto the table.

“When I’m a dragon,” Jaskier admits. 

“Can I see?”

That on the other hand is somewhat more inconvenient. “It’s quite a process, actually and I’d rather not-” Jaskier trails off, uncomfortably. 

“Shouldn’t transmutation such as this happen in an instant?” Triss says a small frown marring her otherwise smooth forehead. “I’ve heard-”

“Well, what you’ve heard then was utter gryphonshite,” Jaskier cuts her off in reawakened ire.

Lambert barks a laugh while Merigold stares at Jaskier both taken aback and somewhat offended before she schools her expression into something more neutral.  

Geralt has tilted his head. The only one who should be able to speak on the topic as he knows Borch, but he keeps quiet. “It didn’t look very comfortable,” Eskel interjects thoughtfully from right next to him. “More like a transformation than a transmutation. But the change in size does indicate the latter.”

“Curious,” the sorceress muses, “You saw?”

“I saw him change shape, yes,” Eskel admits and he studies Jaskier for a moment.

Lambert curses under his breath.

The old Witcher hums. “It’s not up to me, whether you stay,” he says eventually, though Jaskier rather doubts that that’s true. “I’ve heard of you,” he tells Jaskier. “But it’s been a while since your name fell.”

Jaskier can’t help the sharp inhale nor the icy feeling in his chest.

“And although Lambert did vouch for you, he obviously wasn’t aware that you could turn into a dragon. As for you-” the old Witcher turns to look at Aiden - “You’re a Cat. I have my reservations,” he states bluntly. “But I trust the judgement of these lads.”

Lambert sucks in a hissing breath. Jaskier meets the old Witcher’s gaze. 

“As I said,” Eskel begins slowly. “I don’t know the Cat. I do know Jaskier. I owe him a life debt.” The gazes around the table shift towards the bard. Jaskier swallows as he looks at Eskel. “I don’t think there’s anything to add.”

“I trust Aiden with my life,” Lambert declares. “He stays.”

The old Witcher hums. “Geralt?” he says eventually. Everyone looks at the white-haired Witcher. He looks at Jaskier instead. 

The bard’s breath catches in his throat. Emotions ebb and swell in his ribcage like the tide. 

If life could give me one blessing it would be to take you off my hands. 

His fingers clench as he braces himself-

“Stay,” Geralt rasps, barely louder than a whisper before he clears his throat and repeats himself. “They can stay.” 

Hearing it, for the first time in years, does something to Jaskier. His heart twists in his chest.

“Then it’s settled,” the old Witcher says. “You can stay but you’ll have to pull your weight. Unlike Triss, you weren’t invited so you’ll have to earn your keep.”

“Leave ‘em be old man,” Lambert says with an eye roll and only then does Jaskier realize how the tension in the room has dispersed. At least for the most part. “They look like they’ve been through the wringer, you can tell them all about shovelling snow and chopping wood another day. For now, we shall be breaking in that beer keg I’ve been haulin' up the mountain.”

“Thought you’d wanted to save it for when the snow starts to melt,” Eskel says smartly. 

“Well, obviously these are exceptional circumstances, but I should’ve known that a blithering idiot like you wouldn’t know the difference,” Lambert shoots back as he heads for the table. 

Eskel just smirks. “I didn’t know you knew the definition of 'exceptional'.”

“He picked up on it when I called him 'exceptionally idiotic' last time he almost got himself killed,” Aiden jumps in, earning himself a surprised smatter of laughter from Eskel as he follows after Lambert.

“Now that’s a story I wanna hear.”

“I’d rather that one over there, elaborate a little on that whole dragon thing.”

Abruptly, a bunch of faces turn back in his direction. Jaskier frowns when he notices a distinct white-haired Witcher missing. 

The winged door to the hallway falls shut. Jaskier presses his lips together. Well, that explains that. 

He notes, that the sorceress appears rather conflicted when he heads for the table. Eyes flicking from the door back to him. He, of course, ignores the gaze and slips onto the bench opposite the vacated spot and next to Aiden. After a moment, she stands up and heads out as well. 

Jaskier watches her disappear through the exit, wondering whether Geralt has branched out his tastes to other sorceresses once things with Yennefer turned sour after the dragon hunt. He wrinkles his nose. 

Lambert snorts loudly and Jaskier snaps his head back around. The man grins knowingly at him. “From what I know, they fucked some years back, but she’s been running into a wall ever since.”

“Lambert,” Eskel hisses, his eyes on the green-eyed child Jaskier had almost forgotten about. 

“I know what fucking means,” she says defiantly.

Aiden grins. 

Eskel opens his mouth and closes it again.

The child shrugs and sniffs. Then she squints at Jaskier. “I think you’re lying about being able to turn into a dragon.”

Jaskier for one is too taken aback to retort anything. 

After that, it isn’t long before Lambert gets out the cups and Jaskier is peppered with questions. The old Witcher, as it turns out is called Vesemir and he keeps quiet, for the most part, only interfering with the one or other question about his dragonism but otherwise seemingly content to observe. 

For all that Jaskier is elated to finally being able to share his story, he skims over the less than prestigious parts. He skips the tale of his first disastrous attempt at flying entirely and barely mentions the discomfort and the fear he experienced when he had no idea what was going on. Hindsight is one thing, but the conversation carries him back to those first days when he grew scales beneath his skin and thought himself cursed and doomed to die by Geralt’s hand. All in all, he keeps his tale concise and once it’s all said and done, he realizes that it’s the first time he’s kept a story so bare to the bones. 

That being said it’s still more than enough to rouse the child’s curiosity. Jaskier does take note of how no one calls her by her name or makes any move to introduce her to him. Lambert for all he knows simply doesn’t care to but Vesemir seems wise like that. His eyes crinkle at the corners whenever she blurts out a question and Eskel… Jaskier doesn't quite deduce what he thinks of her but he is Geralt’s brother in all but blood and she is his child surprise. 

By the time they have concluded this topic, Lambert also seems to have warmed up to Jaskier more. Whatever slight he seems to have felt in the beginning about not being told about the bard’s draconic side seems to be washed away by the copious amounts of liquor he tosses back.
As time goes on he reclines more into Aiden’s side, which is nothing out of the ordinary, considering Jaskier has seen them invade each other's space countless times although it appears to be an abnormality to the other Witchers. The child is oblivious to it all but Jaskier isn’t blind regarding the glances Vesemir and Eskel exchange in a way they probably deem subtle. 

“So, but I really have to ask,” Lambert starts up during the first lull in the conversation, noisily setting his cup onto the table. “How come that you owe him a life debt?” He looks between Jaskier and Eskel with a raised brow. 

Vesemir shifts on his seat and leans onto the table. 

Jaskier not quite knowing how to approach the topic opens his mouth and closes it again. 

“The manticore I dealt with, some years back,” Eskel graciously provides. His upper lip comes away wet, glistening in the candlelight as he takes a sip from his cup. He wipes it with the back of his glove. “It was a bit different than how I told you.”

“You said you almost didn’t make it,” Lambert says. “You didn’t kill it after all?”

“It was beheaded by my sword, that’s for sure. Though it was also scorched beyond belief beforehand.”

Eskel turns to look at Jaskier; there is intrigue shining in his eyes. His lips twitch, his scar distorting it into a snarl making it hard to decipher what it actually expresses. “To this day I don’t actually know whether I was responsible for the killing blow.”

“You were pretty out of it,” Jaskier recalls. He puts his chin in his hand as he leans his elbow on the table. “I broke its neck, I think just about when you fainted.”

Lambert chortles. “You, bardling?! A fucking manticore?”

“I can see it happening,” Aiden mentions, dragging his finger over the rim of an empty cup, before tipping it back and forth in a dangerous gamble as to the contents inside spilling. He smirks at Jaskier undoubtedly recalling how exactly their re-encounter went.

Lambert seems sceptic. 

“That doesn’t explain the lack of head.” Eskel stares intently at Jaskier. 

“Your leg was perforated with its poisonous spines and you were bleeding out from a gash on your chest. What do you think?” Jaskier shoots back, perhaps somewhat indignant about Lambert’s lack of faith. 

“Venomous,” Eskel says as if he can’t help himself, before the words register. “So you truly went through the trouble of beheading it? Whatever for, if you already broke its neck as you said?”

“Were you even listening to what I said?! You were bleeding out. It was still breathing. I admit I might have gotten carried away. But,” he wrinkles his nose and toys with the cup in his hand, twirling it between his fingers, “the stench it spread all over the area should be justification enough. It was disgusting. A good beheading was the least it deserved.”

He halts at the latter statement, bristling at himself. Gods, Jaskier didn't think he would ever utter something that might as well have stemmed from the mouth of his late father.

Perhaps it's the age...

In response Jaskier immediately lifts his cup to his mouth, pulling a face at the burn of the vodka, but he doubts even that is enough to wash that revelation away. Every swallow burns the scrapes where his teeth cut him open earlier. It’s somewhat of a pity that Lambert didn’t get around to fetching the promised keg of beer after all.

Eskel stares at him for another long moment before he lets out a disbelieving laugh and pulls back to take a sip of his own. 

“That vodka, by the way, is horrid,” Jaskier declares, the aftertaste of it lingering at the back of his throat. “Don’t you have mulled wine or something?”

“You can fetch yourself some water from the well,” Vesemir states dryly, breaking his silence. 

Jaskier takes one look at his face. “I think, I’m good,” he doubles back. 

“Can I have some vodka?” the child says, where it sits with both its elbows set on the table diagonally from both Eskel at the head of it. Royalty indeed.  

“No,” Lambert and Eskel say at the same time. Aiden cracks up while Jaskier inhales a bit of vodka.

“Yeah, yeah, make fun of it,” Lambert says gruffly. “You try herding a drunk child.”

“I’m not a child!”

“You’re a little runt and you know it,” Lambert tells it. The girl sticks out her tongue at Lambert. He pulls a face at her. 

Jaskier can’t see Aiden’s facial expression as he’s turned towards Lambert but something has to be happening there because the latter looks at the Cat Witcher. “What?!” he snaps. 

“Nothing,” Aiden says and then he turns to drink. He’s smiling into his cup. 

Vesemir’s brows have inched all the way towards his hairline. 

Eskel smirks. 

Lambert is scowling into the round. “Piss off.”

“So, how’d you know Lambert?” Eskel asks, for the first time addressing Aiden. 

The Cat Witcher grins sharply. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“That’s why I’m asking,” Eskel replies deadpan. The firelight throws eerie shadows on his face, seemingly carving his scar even deeper.

“Contract for an ogre,” Lambert says curtly. He still sounds prickly. “He’d been hired to kill it and I to lift the curse from it. My employer insisted to tag along and after that idiot got himself killed, that idiot-” he gestures at Aiden - “offered to work the job together and to split the pay. Hasn’t left me alone since.”

Aiden turns his head. “You’re no fun,” he complains.

“And you’re a pain in my arse,” Lambert shoots back immediately. 

“My, my, Lambert, aren’t you forward,” Aiden drawls, the abrupt change in his tone almost jarring as he leans towards the copper-haired Witcher. “If you’d just said-”

He’s cut off swiftly as Lambert places his hand over his face and pushes him away. “Fuck off.” 

Jaskier witnesses intrigued how Lambert’s complexion suddenly clashes quite awfully with his hair. Meanwhile, Aiden is cackling to the point where he almost falls off the bench. 

Eskel’s deep bass echoes in his laughter. Even Vesemir appears amused. 

Just when Aiden has almost composed himself, Lambert grouches, “Why’d you always have to lick me?” as he wipes his palm on the table with a disgusted expression, setting Aiden off again and he wheezes with laughter. Jaskier snorts.

“You’re not bad,” Eskel says eventually and regards Aiden with a mirthful spark in his eyes. He tips his cup in the Witcher’s direction. “For a Cat.”

“Gods, that’s just what I need,” Lambert mutters. “You two getting along. Bad enough that you and the bardling are friends.”

“Oi”, Jaskier speaks up. “I resent that. For all you know, we met before you two ever did!”

That halts Lambert in his tracks. “Did you?” he asks Aiden. 

The Cat Witcher looks at Jaskier. “Eh. Couple of months difference. It was August when we met in Ellander, I think,” he tells Lambert, “which would place our first encounter that coming spring,” he adds talking to Jaskier. 

“Hah,” Lambert says triumphantly. 

“So how long do you know each other?” Eskel asks, leaning forward. 

“Bout two decades, give or take,” Lambert says. Jaskier can’t help but draw the comparison between him and Geralt. 

“Shit,” Eskel replies. 

“That’s a long time,” Vesemir adds as well. He seems thoughtful. Somewhat bitter, the bard stares into his cup, watching the small waves rippling over the surface of the liquid. Being here, meeting Geralt… It pulls feelings forth he’d thought he’d long been over. 

“You never thought to mention that?” Eskel inquires with a look at Lambert. 

Aiden stills next to Jaskier. 

“You never asked,” Lambert replies gruffly and proceeds to promptly down about half of his drink. 

An awkward silence grows between Lambert’s obvious excuse and the memory of Eskel upon their arrival mentioning that he didn’t think Lambert even had friends. 

“Fair enough,” Eskel eventually says. They all sit in silence for a while, sipping on their drinks. Jaskier contemplates whether it’d be rude to reach for the bottle himself to refill his cup. His mind has taken to wandering in the unwelcome direction of wondering where Geralt and the sorceress are. 

As if he’d projected his thoughts, the girl voices that exact question. It’s obvious that she’s bored.

Nobody answers and her expression turns into something hilariously disgruntled. 

“We’ve wasted enough time as it is,” Vesemir abruptly declares and stands up. “The goats still need tending to and you have to finish reading that chapter about bruxae.”

Eskel rises while the child groans. “Theoretical knowledge is important,” Vesemirt tells her, “it’s the-”

“-basis to survive an encounter with a monster and mindless sword waving is for fools, I know,” the girl whines. “You’ve told me at least a hundred times.”

Vesemir hums. “And I stand by what I say.” He turns to look at Lambert. “You’re on cooking duty today, don’t forget about it.” 

“I’m not an idiot.” 

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“Old wanker,” Lambert mutters quietly enough that probably only those with enhanced hearing can pick up on it. 

Vesemir simply huffs. 

“Come on.” Lambert swings his leg over the bench. “We'll put the cups away and then I’ll show you around.”

“This is where we sleep,” Lambert declares a while later after they’ve climbed another set of stairs, their belongings shouldered. Jaskier has also finally completed dressing accordingly, having put on his boots, and the sole lined doublet in his possession. He’s forgone his cloak as neither Aiden nor Lambert wear one, but he questions his decision, now that they’ve left the knight’s hall with its crackling fire. The abandoned halls of the fortress are drafty and cold, the old stones leeching all the warmth from their surroundings.

“Vesemir’s got the bower,” Lambert explains as he leads them through a broad hallway. “Age before beauty and all that. Lucky bastard. But there are more rooms over there. The brat’s closer to Vesemir in terms of layout as it’s right above the hall. Ours are a bit further away.”

He leads them around a corner. “That one’s Geralt’s.” He motions at a plain door and Jaskier barely has the time to stare at it before he has to follow Lambert who hasn’t stopped walking. “Eskel’s.” He motions at another door to a room not quite adjacent to Geralt’s chamber but not too far away either. They walk for quite a while till they turn another corner. “That one’s mine,” he eventually says. After a moment of hesitation, he opens the door. It’s a small room. Plain in terms of furniture. A chair, a chest and a bed. Jaskier doesn’t get much further than taking note of a scorch mark on the ceiling and an impressive warg skin hanging on a wall before Lambert has reemerged with an armful of pelts and kicked the door shut with his foot behind him. 

“You can pick any room you want, I guess. Not much population here. I’d steer clear of that one though,” he jerks his chin in the direction of a door near his. 

“Why’s that?” Jaskier asks intrigued. 

“Give it a try,” Lambert says. Jaskier stares at him somewhat suspiciously while Aiden has already crossed the distance to it with his long legs and opened the door. He lets loose a bark of laughter. 

Jaskier joins him swiftly. The walls are blackened with scorch marks, some seemingly older ones hidden behind crates and there appears to be some kind of working area littered with alchemistic equipment. The window has been barred with wooden planks. The opening itself looks a bit misshapen as a chunk of the stone there seems missing. In the corner lies a heap of what might’ve once been furniture. 

“It looks like a bomb went off in here,” the bard states after merely a moment of peering over Aiden’s shoulder. 

“Multiple,” Lambert confirms. Aiden closes the door, still grinning. “Nice work.”

“Vesemir wasn’t thrilled,” is all that Lambert replies. “Come on. Take your pick.”

Aiden hums, already in the process of opening various doors and peering inside. Jaskier simply trails after him. As it turns out, the rooms don’t look all that different from Lambert’s. There’s some variation here and there. There are larger rooms, with two or even three beds, most of them lacking bedding. Some miss furniture altogether, yet are decorated with rather explicit writings on the walls and moth-eaten pelts. From time to time, a room stands out by the decorative carvings in the wood of the door and bedframes. 

It hits Jaskier then, that they’re looking at the chambers of Witchers who’ve long since ceased to be alive. 

“Why does that one smell used?” Aiden says before he’s opening a particular door.

“Because it is,” Lambert says. “It’s Coën’s, I forgot. It’s his first winter here. Guess you’ll meet him soon enough. He went out to hunt earlier but he should be back by the time it dawns.”

“Coën’s here?” Jaskier turns to stare at Lambert in a surge of pleasant surprise. 

Lambert stares at him. “You know him?”

“Of course,” Jaskier counters. “If you recall, you were present the first time we ever met in that questionable establishment. Though, I should probably not be surprised, considering you deigned to forget that you so rudely compelled me to leave you alone after all.”

Lambert scowls. “That hardly contests as a meeting.”

“Well, I did run into him in Poviss. It was quite lovely. He was very polite… unlike some others,” he adds with a pointed look.

“Oi!” Aiden exclaims from the other end of the hallway, from which he evidently was eavesdropping on their conversation.

“You are one to talk,” Lambert shoots back at Jaskier. “If you recall, you made me spill my ale. Moreover, the second time I had the misfortune to encounter your ugly mug, you tried to cheat me out of my coin.”

“Tried, being the keyword here,” Jaskier retorts and he wrinkles his nose. “You left me on a bunch of kitchen wastes and robbed me while I was unconscious!”

“You were the one who fucking cheated-”

“I think I’ll take that one,” Aiden declares unbothered. Both Jaskier and Lambert turn around to where the Cat Witcher is sticking his head out of a doorway of a room almost adjacent to Lambert’s chamber. 

Jaskier smirks at Lambert who hisses, “Not a word.”

“Why Lambert, I didn’t say anything,” the bard replies in feigned surprise. 

Lambert glares daggers at him. “Get your arse in gear and pick a fucking room bardling.”

“You don’t perchance know of one with a fireplace?” he asks, partly out of genuine preference and partly to rib Lambert. 

The copper-haired Witcher doesn’t bite. “Sure,” he says with a smirk, “if you wanna share a bed with Merigold.” 

The image alone might be enticing were it not for the fact that Jaskier has already found himself despising her on an instinctual level and Lambert is certainly aware of that. “A balcony then, perhaps?” 

“I suppose if you want to freeze to death during the night, I can point you in the right direction,” Lambert drawls condescendingly. 

Jaskier huffs. He looks around for another second and considering that this is about as far away from Geralt as he can get, he plucks a door open at random. “That one will have to do then,” he says and peaks into the chamber. Lambert steps towards him, heavy boots scraping over the floor and takes a look inside. 

He hums as he takes in the bedframe and the chest that’s pushed against a wall. A layer of dust is covering it all. “You’ll need a tapestry or fur for the window, else it gets drafty. The shutters won’t be enough, but otherwise, it’ll do.” Lambert turns around. “You can leave your stuff here for now.” The Witcher heads over to where Aiden is lounging against the wall. 

Jaskier meanwhile turns to step into his new sleeping chamber. It is as good as any, he supposes even if it’s a bit bleak for his tastes.
The air is cold and stale, despite the slight draft.
After a moment, he sets down his pack next to the wall and heads over to the window.
The old shutters stick when Jaskier attempts to open them, the wood tanned by weather and time. He almost impales himself on a splinter and cursing, he bangs against them until they open. 

It takes him a moment to get used to the harsh influx of light but once he does, he’s met with a magnificent view. He’s looking towards the south, he realizes, making out the impressive mountain pass in the distance. The old forest is stretching over the rocky slopes, deep gorges cutting through the hillsides like veins. A little higher only a few dots of green speckle a scree plain until it disappears into the clouds. Everything is covered by a blanket of snow.
Jaskier has never been one to fear heights and so he freely leans over the window ledge, peering down. There’s not much to see. The roof of a building he doesn’t know the purpose of, thick castle walls and he can make out part of the southern ward before the rock it was built on grows steeper and plunges into faraway depths.

The winter wind is whistling around his ears, tugging on his longish hair. Snowflakes melt against his skin and the icy air cuts into his lungs. He takes a last peek at the horizon, drinking in the sight before he pulls back and closes the shutters. 

Blinking until his eyes acclimatise to the sudden lack of light, he barely spares the bed any attention, instead, his curiosity gets the better of him and he turns towards the chest. He wipes away the dust having settled atop it. At first look, it appears plain, but there are some decorative carvings on the sides and front. He trails over them for a moment before prying open the lid. 

The result is somewhat disappointing. His findings consist of a moth-eaten blanket and a single leather shoe that might as well stem from the last century. Jaskier digs around for a moment, but his fingers only meet the bottom. He pauses though when his little finger catches on a groove. He slides his hand further and after pulling out the blanket he confirms what he felt. A word is carved into the bottom, rough lettering but still clear. The runes are slightly outdated.
MILON it spells.
A name.
Jaskier traces over the letters, an odd emotion growing in his chest.
This room belonged to someone once. This chest, the shoe. And all that is left of it are those carvings. They might’ve been hidden for decades until Jaskier stumbled upon them. 

A sound behind him alerts Jaskier and he raises his head only to find Lambert standing in the doorframe. 

“We’ll have to look for proper bedding for you both,” the Witcher says. “Maybe we can scrounge up some better mattresses as well.” He tosses the only pelt at Jaskier which he still held in his hands. It’s a fox's. “You’ll have to ask someone to stock you up on those. It gets cold at night. And considering Eskel already lent Coën half of his…” Jaskier stares at the pelt in his hands. It’s soft and vaguely smells of Lambert. The Witcher doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t have to. 

Jaskier’s rather adept at figuring out when he’s shit out of luck. 

“Thank you,” he says because he isn’t an ungrateful mongrel. 

“Don’t let it go to your head,” Lambert replies. “Now come on. You’ve yet to see the library. Bet someone like you’ll wet yourself at the sight of it.”

“For a moment, you almost had me thinking that you liked me, Lambert,” Jaskier replies sweetly, the corner of his mouth twitching.