Chapter Text
There was something wrong with him. A deep ache in his chest that Jaskier hadn’t felt in all his years on this earth. It ate at him, whether he drank, feasted, walked, slept. The hollow feeling inside didn’t seem to fade no matter what he tried to stuff it, what he tried to use to cope.
At first, he thought it was because of the mountain. That horrible interaction (if you could call Geralt screaming and Jaskier taking it an interaction) had left Jaskier wanting to wretch, his stomach rebelling against him as his feet carried him down the mountains and his eyes released floods of emotion.
For days after he made it to the base of the mountain, he drank. He spent nearly a week in and out of consciousness, fueling himself with cheap liquor and guilt as he walked the roads between towns, no destination in mind and not a care in the world if someone found him in his inebriated state and killed him. In fact, he would have preferred that to what had actually happened.
He had been somewhere in the dead center of nowhere, almost a month after the mountain, slinking through alleyways with a bottle of vodka in his hand and his lute waiting for him in his room at the Inn. He didn’t know why he kept it with him, he didn’t play it anymore, unable to find that inspiration to perform without his muse around. Muse. The thought was laughable now.
A hand had grasped his shoulder, coming out of the darkness like a wraith. Even in his inebriated state his instincts had kicked in and he was able to throw back in elbow, connecting with his attacker’s nose and earning a sickening crunch, though dropping his vodka in the process. He twisted in the man’s grasp, using his free arm to throw a strike to his attacker’s throat, stunning them as the grip on his arm loosened enough for Jaskier to slam his boot into the attacker’s abdomen. His attacker released Jaskier fully as his back hit the wall of a building.
Jaskier had been content to dust his arm off, pick up his vodka, and be on his merry way had it not been for the familiar voice that sent a shiver through his spine. “Good to know you haven’t gotten soft.”
With a resigned sigh, Jaskier twisted around to face the voice, a wry smirk coming to his lips. “Hello, Father.”
Ciaran looked unimpressed, his wrinkled features contorting into minor irritation, a look Jaskier was whole-heartedly familiar with. It had been aimed at him every time he mouthed off to an instructor, completely ignoring the looming beating he would receive for it each time. He supposed he never learned. “Don’t call me that.”
“Papa?” Jaskier jabbed, knowing he was pushing the old man’s buttons, but he could never resist. Of all his instructors, of all the men that had loomed over Jaskier in his whole life, Ciaran was by far the gentlest, physically at least. He would never strike the bard for his disobedience, but he was able to give a thoroughly chastising tongue-lashing. “I could call you grandfather? It suits you, since you look old as fuck.”
“I’m sixty-seven years old,” Ciaran spoke through clenched teeth. It showed as his once inky hair had now turned white and wrinkles lined his face like roads on a map. Still, as old as he was, he was still rigid and strong. Whatever the mages fed him and his other assassins, it did wonders for their longevity and physicality.
“Well you don’t look a day over eighty-five,” Jaskier gave a tip of his head, ignoring the disapproving glance he got. “If you’ll excuse me-”
“You’ll stay right here if you know what’s good for you, boy!” Ciaran barked, stopping Jaskier in his tracks. “I may be old but I can still whip your ass.”
“What is it you need, you rotten old bastard?” Jaskier hissed, his drunken state making him mouthier than usual. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”
“Oh yes, it must be very taxing, drinking and whoring your way through every small town on this side of the continent,” the old man rolled his eyes. As much as Ciaran hated when Jaskier called him ‘dad’ or any variation, it seemed he couldn’t help his paternal instincts as he was almost always parenting the bard.
“Quite and I’ve not nearly made the progress I’ve wanted to, so I best get back to it.”
“Julek, you’ve been missing for two months,” the man sighed, bringing a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “You’ve ignored our correspondence. You’re lucky they sent me and not someone else!”
“Yes, so lucky to see you and-” The brunette looked at the young man still leaning against the building, just beginning to move again. “Who is this?”
“Trainee,” Ciaran sighed, seemingly out of patience with the young man in question.
“Ah, I see,” Jaskier actually felt bad for hurting the young man now. He remembered the first time he got his ass handed to him in a fight. Granted it was during a sparring session and the boy had been both bigger and older. It didn’t stop the instructors from dropping him in the pit, water lapping at his chest as they closed him in, effectively blocking out all light and silencing his screams for them to ‘please wait’. It still gave him nightmares.
“Get back on track or they’ll send someone else next time,” The implication of what would happen was understood as Ciaran pulled an envelope out of his cloak and handed it to Jaskier. The brunette sullenly took the envelope, seeing no other option unless he wanted a bounty on his head that he really didn’t want to deal with. As he tucked it into his doublet, Ciaran placed a hand on his shoulder that was likely meant to be comforting, yet did nothing for Jaskier. “Whatever is wrong with you, don’t let it get in the way. Keep your wits about you, son.”
Jaskier took a deep breath, listening to the retreating footsteps of the man as he gathered his trainee and disappeared into the shadows like the expert that he was. “Goodbye, father.”
Really, there was no other choice than to pick up his blades again and return to his old work. He couldn’t compose anymore, couldn’t bring himself to sing. He needed the coin and there was always the chance that one of his assignments would end with his death, which seemed like a less and less unappealing prospect as the days passed by.
Jaskier began killing again, not that he had ever really stopped. He had taken assignments here and there while traveling with Geralt, whenever he could get a few days to himself without alerting the Witcher of his upbringing and long-term employment. Keeping up with his work was the only way to prevent his brothers-in-arms from turning their energy on him and leaving him in a hole in the ground for Geralt to find. Now, without the Witcher to run back to, without that eagerness to return to someone, he had no excuse not to throw himself into his work completely.
Truthfully, he thought it would help. He thought the constant vigilance, the movement and the adrenaline would keep him going. It did for a moment, until it became monotonous. Jaskier was not the best assassin in his brotherhood, but he was definitely up there in terms of skill. He was quick with a blade, nimble and flexible. There was also the added benefit of his fae-parentage, helping him disguise himself and slip into certain places unseen. All of it made him exceptional at his craft, which is perhaps what made it boring.
Everything was boring, really. Traveling no longer held the promise of adventure, food felt like ash in his mouth and the alcohol barely numbed that pit of despair that replaced his heart. He couldn’t bring himself to pluck the strings on his beloved lute, the only thing he had ever had any true passion for. He thought it would get better, the more time had passed. He thought the heartbreak would pass and he could start anew, but it did not. Instead it turned to anger, then self-hatred, until it contorted and left him with this darkness in his chest and a deep fatigue that had settled into his bones.
Still, he threw himself into his work. He picked up the hardest assignments, the toughest kills in the hope that something would catch him unawares and put an end to his misery. If not, it would at least provide something of a challenge. When he wasn’t working he drank and he fucked, looking for something to touch the emptiness inside of him and make him feel again.
The man had been content to drown himself with all the sinful pleasure of flesh and drink as well as the vindicating feeling of blood on his hands while pushing all thoughts of Geralt to the back of his mind. Of course, destiny being the traitorous bitch that she was, saw fit to throw a stone in his plans.
It was a relatively mundane night, he had returned from his latest assignment, discarding his bloodstained chemise and shifting his features back to his own along the way. A bath had been ordered and one of the barmaids who had been batting her eyelashes so sweetly at him that morning had even kindly sucked his dick after readying his bath for him. Now, he sat at a table with a glass full of some slightly sweet dwarven spirit, the bard that played in the corner wasn’t completely butchering the song Jaskier had composed all those ages ago. All in all, a perfectly fine night.
The only abnormality was the girl in the corner, hair stained black with bits of blonde poking through. She looked no older than thirteen, far too young to be sitting in a tavern alone, but this place also functioned as an Inn, so he hoped she was here with family. Her behavior was what set Jaskier off the most, the twitchy way she pulled her hood down, though not managing to cover her frantic eyes as she scanned every patron that came in or out.
For the most part, Jaskier tried to ignore her, sending a flirtatious wink to the barmaid he had encountered earlier and went back to his drink. Of course, it was just his luck that a group of men, bandits by the look of it, entered the tavern.
“Listen up!” The first man, a grimy little weasel with oily skin and a balding head, began to shout. Every patron turned towards him save for Jaskier who did not want to get involved, he was very tired, thank you, and the young girl in the corner who seemed to huddle further into herself, if that was possible. “We’re looking for a couple of folk! A Witcher and a girl. If you’ve seen ‘em, tell us now and we set this place on fire with you lot in it!”
The room was silent, everyone looking between each other. Finally, a cowardly man shrugged his shoulders and pointed to the girl in the corner. “That’s a girl? She might have come in with a Witcher. Thought I saw one on the road in.”
The band leader whirled around, looking to the girl in the corner who’s hood had fallen back, revealing her thoroughly frightened gaze. Jaskier really didn’t want to get involved, his back hurt and his had already slipped and cut his finger on his blade earlier. Besides, this was a small establishment with no real room for movement, there were five of those guys, the whole fight would not end well for Jaskier. Of course, then he had to glance one more time at the girl.
He knew who they were looking for, he knew why they were looking for her. Whether this girl was the lost Princess traveling with Geralt (Jaskier sincerely hoped not), or just some girl about to be victimized by a group of men, he couldn’t help but feel sympathy.
“We are not merciful and we are not kind.”
The words of his instructor rang in his ears, but Jaskier had been nothing if not a rebel. He placed his glass on the table and stood up. “Fuck.”
“Tell us where the Witcher is, girl, and come with us. Promise we’ll be nice if you do,” the Bandit leader sneered, a predatory smile on his ugly face.
“Gentlemen,” Jaskier interjected, bringing his hands up to tie his hair into a ponytail at the base of his neck. “There’s no need for this. I’m sure she’s just a girl traveling with her father.”
“Fuck off,” the sneer was turned on Jaskier now, earning a slight eyeroll. “This is none of your business.”
Jaskier sighed, tilting his head back a bit as he groaned before trying another tactic. “Look, I’ve had a pretty good day and I’d kind of like to keep that energy rolling. So, if you’ll kindly turn around and fuck right off, we can forget all about this.”
“Are you going to make us?” The leader laughed, earning similar guffaws from his crew. Jaskier knew what he looked like, slim and unassuming, no one privy to the lean muscles under his clothes as well as the skill and experience he carried.
“Fine, I guess we’re doing this. Darling,” Jaskier sighed and began to take off the black leather coat that he bought two weeks ago, handing it to the girl in the corner. “Do hold onto this for me and please guard it with your life. That’s Skellige leather, very expensive.”
“What the fuck do you think-” the bandit leader was cut off as Jaskier gripped the fabric of his shirt and dragged him forward, Jaskier’s forehead slamming down into the leader’s nose with a loud crack.
The assassin twisted the man in his arms to the left slightly so that Jaskier could kick a leg out at one of the other bandits, a blonde with one eye, his heel landing squarely in the man’s balls. It took a moment for the others to recover from their shock and try to attack. Jaskier had managed to shove the leader into one of them, sending them both toppling to the ground.
A shriek rang through the air as the other tavern patrons raced to the exit. Momentarily distracted, Jaskier was unable to stop the hand that grasped his ponytail, tugging his head back and pushing him off balance. His hair was momentarily released only for a pair of arms to wrap around his waist, trying to grapple him to the ground as another bandit approached, this one a redhead.
With great strain on his already sore muscles, Jaskier managed to leap enough to shoot both of his legs out, connecting with the redheads chest and sending him into a table. The moment his feet met the floor again, Jaskier whipped his head back, a headache forming as his skull connected with the nose of the bandit holding onto him.
The release of being gripped would have been a relief had the one eyed bandit and the leader not both gotten to their feet. The pair of them rushed forward, each grabbing one of Jaskier’s arms and pinning him to the bar. The leader pulled a knife out, ready to plunge it into the brunette’s chest. Had Jaskier not been so quick witted and experienced, this might have been the end of him. Only it wasn’t as he was able to lift his legs high enough to wrap around the leaders neck, pulling him off of Jaskier and throwing him off balance.
With his right arm free and no threat of being stabbed, Jaskier was able to push himself off the bar, twist behind the bandit holding his left arm and grip him into a sort of headlock. Out of the corner of his eye, he could have sworn he saw a flash of white.
“Hey!” a gruff voice shouted, one that Jaskier would recognize even in a crowd.
The brunette lifted his head to the front door, seeing the Witcher standing in all his glory, swords strapped to his back, young girl at his side and an expression that read as absolutely pissed. The whole thing caught Jaskier by surprise, momentarily distracting him from his quarry, which is probably why the bottle to the back of his head had been such a surprise.
All he remembered was hitting the ground and his vision going black.