Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I’m not supposed to love you  

but I do  

I do  

I’m not supposed to love you  

but I do  

too much  

-Tora  

Jaskier knew, intellectually, that he had done nothing wrong. He hadn’t said anything out loud, he hadn’t actually said it. Not a peep about his embarrassing, overwhelming, ridiculous feelings. Not in so many words, anyway. Sure, he had made that tortured half-aborted suggestion that they go to the coast (his home/not his home) but Geralt had held to his end of their charade, their farcical dance around Jaskier’s obvious crush – he had ignored the subtext as usual and carried on.  
 
Jaskier knew that Geralt was just generally not good at feelings (was in fact possibly the pioneer of that particular myth about Witchers), got overwhelmed easily and resorted to stabbing his way out of emotionally difficult situations. It was almost definitely nothing personal, although it certainly felt personal when Geralt spat his rage at Jaskier with all the frustration and wounded pride of a broken heart.  
 

Jaskier  knew , he really did, that this was more about Yennefer and the child and Geralt’s own stubborn nature than it was anything to do with Jaskier himself. It was almost more mortifying that he wasn’t even significant enough in Geralt’s emotional landscape to warrant his own argument. He was just a convenient whipping boy, as he always had been. And then even that wasn’t enough to earn his place at Geralt’s side anymore.  

Jaskier knew all these things, he knew this little drama wasn’t even about him. He was just a bit player in someone else’s story. But it still felt like he had confessed all his humiliating, squirmy feelings, held his heart out raw and bloody only to see it tossed in the dirt.  
 
For all his lack of dignity, Jaskier still had pride. Or at least a semblance of it. He was well versed in the ways of rejection by now, he had practice at sweeping up the shreds of his jovial façade and weaving them back into place. When the Countess called him old and boring he hadn’t lingered for much longer than it took to grab his lute and several bottles of her finest Est Est.  
 
As a bard, he was quite used to throwing his heart at people and watching it bounce off. His work was his heart, after all. For Jaskier, there really wasn’t much difference in the way he loved and the way he performed.  
 
So it was with very little fanfare that he tooks his notes from the Dwarves (plus some of their profoundly strong homebrewed spirits) and set off down the mountain. He doesn’t really remember much of the trip south, only that he rather regretted leaving so much of his gear in Geralt’s saddle bags and that actually humans probably shouldn’t drink Dwarven spirits, no matter how diluted.  

While drinking his problems was Jaskier’s traditional method of getting over someone, he also found getting under someone to work well too. 
 
This is how he found himself at one of the seediest taverns in Novigrad (not the seediest as he’d already been kicked out of that one), considerably inebriated and debating whether he should try to go home with the behemoth he had just fucked in the privy or keep drinking until he fell asleep under the table. 
 
Very nearly pickled by wine at this point, Jaskier apparently took too long to ponder the matter. The retreating backside of his companion made the decision for him. He had completely missed any attempts at goodbyes. Oh well. 

“I’ll have another, my dear Anya. On my tab”  

Anya fixed him with an unimpressed glare. “You don’t have a tab, Bard, and you certainly don’t need anything more to drink even if you  could  pay for it.”  

Jaskier puffed his chest up, ready to launch into a diatribe on the injustices of surly barmaids when a hand reached in front of him to deposit several coins in front of him. “I’ll pay. Whatever our dear disaster Dandelion desires.”  

Oh god, thought Jaskier. I fucking hate alliteration.  
 
The alcohol muffled alarm that had started ringing in his mind when he heard the voice started to sound even louder as the owner of the hand sat down next to Jaskier. He refused to turn his head on principle, but in his peripheral vision he could see a riot of colour and silks that could only belong to someone deeply colourblind, fashion challenged or, well, a bard. 

Jaskier’s dread only grew when the newcomer seemed content to be ignored while Jaskier quaffed the drink the man had bought him. This suggested he knew Jaskier and was in no hurry to introduce himself. A bard who knew him, who called him  Dandelion , the nickname only his classmates remembered.  

Shit and fuck,  thought Jaskier succinctly, then turned to face his nemesis.  

“Hallo Valdo. Fancy meeting you here. Crippled Kate’s close early?” Jaskier patted himself on the back mentally for such a witty opening.  

Valdo’s unfairly attractive face creased in faux puzzlement. “But why would I be at a brothel when there’s a cheap whore right here?”  

There was a beat, a moment where Jaskier could’ve, should have responded with his own clever barb about Marx’s lack of talent in bedsports compared to Jaskier’s reknowned skills. But Valdo’s arrow had struck too truly, and that moment that stretched too long betrayed him. Jaskier buried his face in his cup and attempted to reach the bottom in record time.  
 
Valdo’s smirk dropped, his eyes narrowed. A predator smelling blood. He settled closer to Jaskier, slinging an arm around slumped shoulders. Jaskier knew he should throw him off, laugh in his face, dismiss the knowing smile with an airy wave. But he couldn’t. He was too drunk, and too sad, and too much in love with someone who wanted him off his hands. It was like watching a bad play he’d already seen before, but unable to tell any of the players to stop.  
 
“What’s this, Dandelion? Not up to your usual witty repartee?” Valdo leaned in, his dark goatee lending him a sinister air that should have been more comical than it was. 

 “ Oh  piss off Marx. I’m not in the mood.”  

Valdo snorted. “The great Jaskier, not in the mood to entertain his  adoring  public? You must be unwell.” He pressed a heavily  beringed  hand against Jaskier’s forehead, a mime of care.   

Jaskier half-heartedly batted at Valdo, wishing him away without the strength to enforce it. “I’d be a lot better if you fucked off back to  Cidaris  and obscurity where you belong.”  

The arm still wrapped around Jaskier’s shoulder tightened warningly, and Jaskier suddenly remembered with great clarity why he fucking hated Valdo Marx.  

“Is that any way to talk to your first love? Your  greatest  love? That’s what you called me in that charming little ballad you wrote in first year, wasn’t it?”  

Humiliation finally pierced the fog of misery and drink deeply enough that Jaskier felt incensed, and let the anger drag him to his feet.  

“You’re nobody’s greatest anything, Valdo. Greatest windbag, maybe. Greatest mista—oof!” Jaskier was abruptly cut off as Valdo yanked him back down to sit on his stool and leaned close to whisper viciously in Jaskier’s ear.  

“That’s very rich, coming from a washed up  forty-year-old  catamite who can’t even get a  witcher  to fuck him.”  

Damn him. Once again, Valdo had seen too truly what lay in Jaskier’s heart. Quite probably half the continent could have inferred as much from Jaskier’s dedication to his ‘muse’, but few would have realized that was what had currently brought the bard so low.  

But Valdo knew him, inside and out, from his pink soft bits to the relentless whirlwind of his mind. That’s what happened when you offered someone your whole heart blindly, as stupid youths often did. As Jaskier had, much to his detriment. His relationship with Valdo Marx had been a disaster from beginning to end, a mistake it seemed he was still very much paying for. 
 
Jaskier closed his eyes. He knew it was obvious the fight had gone out of him and he couldn’t bring himself to care.  

A low, ugly laugh crawled across his skin. “Ah, so that’s the way of it. The great white wolf finally told you to fuck off.”  

Jaskier couldn’t reply. He could barely breathe. He heard Valdo draining his own cup and setting it down on the bar with an air of finality. The hated arm returned to insinuate its way around Jaskier’s waist, far too familiar and invasive. He turned to glare at Valdo through slitted eyes.  

“Is that why you let that brute back there have you?  So  you could pretend? How sad.” Valdo’s face was all false sympathy. “You could’ve just asked me, Dandelion. You know I’d take care of you.”  

Jaskier almost laughed, but then realized maybe he would cry. Valdo’s idea of  care  would horrify most people. He felt sick at the suggestion.   

Maybe that’s all you get though,  said a hideous little voice deep in Jaskier’s psyche,  maybe you deserve that.   

Suddenly it was all too much, he’d had enough. Enough of this tavern, enough of the drink, enough of being sad little Jaskier pining over people he would never have.   

“Alright then. Let’s go.”  

It seemed this was the last response Valdo had  actually been  anticipating, judging by the genuine shock on his face as Jaskier made to stand again, this time inside the circle of Valdo’s arms. He recovered with admirable speed however, securing Jaskier to his side with his lightly muscled arm (nothing like a  witcher ) and steering them to the door.  

“How delightful! I knew you’d finally come to your senses and return to the best lover you’ve ever known. I can’t wait to get you all spread out and--”  

Jaskier cut him off. “Just shut the fuck up and take me home, Valdo. Your dirty talk is as uninspired as your poetry.”  

This was an incredibly unwise thing to say to a man like Valdo, but Jaskier had set his course for self destruction and was of a mind to compound his woes. He knew Valdo’s answering silence was merely a simmering resentment and Jaskier would pay for the insult later, but he was sort of counting on that. Might as well hang for a sheep as a lamb, as they said. Let it never be said that Jaskier the Bard didn’t commit to a bad idea. 
 
 

Chapter Text

Valdo’s rooms are a short walk from the tavern, made shorter by the fact that he was practically frog marching Jaskier with a too tight arm around the slighter man’s shoulders. Jaskier nearly laughed at the desperation he could feel in Marx’s clipped stride, as though the other man feared Jaskier would come to his senses at any moment.   

Small chance of that,  he thought bitterly.  I have made my bed and I fully intend to get fucked in it.  

Still, he kept his thoughts to himself and allowed Valdo to steer his body, floating outside of it in a pleasant cloud of intoxication. His thoughts had wandered off entirely by the time he was  maneuvered  through a doorway, so it was with mild surprise that Jaskier looked about himself.   

Still in the cheaper part of town, so despite his lack of wandering and  pandering,  Marx had not yet found the level of success he believed was his due. A small, smug part of Jaskier relished the state of the furnishings, all new and in style but obvious fakes. It was so very typically  Valdo to attempt to seem more than he was that Jaskier couldn’t resist commenting on it, but even as he opened his mouth to do so he found it abruptly full of somebody else's  tongue.  

Valdo shoved him up against the closest wall and proceeded to pin Jaskier in place with one hand gripping his  shoulder  while the other made quick work of his doublet, shoving inside to grope roughly at Jaskier’s chest.  

You always were absolute shite at this,  thought Jaskier meanly as Valdo plundered his mouth, all invasive and demanding, treating Jaskier’s mouth as simply a hole to be filled. Even as that thought occurred to Jaskier it seemed to strike Marx too, the hand on his shoulder rapidly migrating down and around to paw at Jaskier’s arse.  

Valdo broke the kiss, wine-sour breath panting obnoxiously. “Still so sweet, Dandelion. I can’t believe that mutant freak didn’t even try this.”  

White hot anger flared through Jaskier, a muddle of protective rage for Geralt and fury that Valdo was right about the Witcher not wanting him. With a grunt he shoved Valdo backwards and started ripping at the fastenings on his own pants, lust almost entirely absent within him even as he undressed. 
 
To his mild surprise Valdo wasn’t offended by the push, in fact he laughed and went with the motion, falling back onto a low couch and sprawling across it invitingly. “So touchy. Don’t worry darling, I still want your delectable derriere as much as the day I met it.” 

“ Meliteles  supple  tits , do you ever shut up?” Growled Jaskier as he settled atop the other man, hoping the press of his  arse  against the burgeoning erection beneath it would stop the  godsforsaken  alliteration.   

Valdo snorted unattractively and set about divesting Jaskier of his chemise. “ Isn’t  that what people usually ask you?”  

Irritated at the reminder that  yes actually Geralt asked him that quite a lot , Jaskier ground his hips down in a practiced move and elicited both a curse word and a responding upward thrust. Before Marx could open his gob to spill more inane chatter, Jaskier sacrificed his mouth once again by pressing it against Valdo’s and allowing the tongue fucking to continue.  

Valdo himself had not been entirely passive, his hands had slipped into Jaskier’s loosened pants and were already clutching at his bare buttocks possessively. This was probably intended to titillate, but it rather made Jaskier feel like overripe produce being squeezed at the market. He shifted uncomfortably, hoping to draw Valdo’s attention to another part of his anatomy (maybe he could get out of this with naught but a sloppy suck) but instead managed to spread himself enough that the other bard’s wandering fingers brushed against Jaskier’s hole.  

“Eager little slut, aren’t you?” Valdo’s voice was darkly amused and confident, but before Jaskier could correct him he found his mouth stuffed with two long fingers.  
 
Fuck it, he thought wearily and lathed the fingers with his tongue as best he could. Valdo’s fingers were long and calloused in exactly the same places Jaskier’s were, though not as generally roughened by the world. How a real Bard’s hands should be, he thought absently, gagging a little as they probed too far. Maybe his critics were right after all, and Jaskier’s wandering had always been a foolish affectation. 

Before his wine addled mind could follow this thread of self-deprecating thought any further, Valdo abruptly yanked his fingers from Jaskier’s mouth and flipped them over. The world spun for Jaskier, disorientating him and bringing nausea to the forefront of his mind. When the threat of his gorge rising finally  passed,  he found himself pressed face first into the fabric of the couch,  arse  bare to the world and Valdo’s weight pressed against his back.  

Jaskier’s thoughts continued to spin away from the situation at hand, he found himself  marveling  at how heavy Marx felt for a man not much bigger than himself. It may have been his extreme state of drunkenness, but Jaskier felt sure he couldn’t wriggle out from under the oppressive weight even if he had the heart to try.  

Valdo’s breath huffed heavily in Jaskier’s ear as his slick finger found the entrance it sought and pressed in with no further warning. They both groaned, Jaskier in discomfort at the sudden  intrusion  and Valdo in lusty surprise.   

“ You’re still full of that brute who ploughed you earlier. Filthy slut.” A second finger was hastily added as Valdo explored the slickness lining Jaskier’s insides.   

Jaskier himself was also mildly surprised, he had completely forgotten the sailor from Poviss who had obligingly stuffed him full of cock just before Valdo came along. It was a testament to how truly soused he was that hadn’t been aware of the seed still inside him or the lingering ache until Valdo pointed it out.  

Jaskier reluctantly groaned in agreement, that was rather slutty of him.   

Valdo took this as all the evidence he needed to stop fingering Jaskier and press his cockhead against the loosened rim. Jaskier found himself absurdly grateful for the sailor’s lingering spend, as it didn’t appear Valdo was interested in using any further slick or taking his time to ensure Jaskier’s comfort at all.  

With one long, excruciating thrust he plunged inside, drawing a weak whine from Jaskier’s throat and bringing tears to his eyes.  

Valdo cursed intensely but uncreatively, barely pausing to appreciate the still strong clutch of Jaskier’s  arse  before starting a punishing rhythm. Only his hips broke contact with Jaskier’s body, the rest of him still pressing heavily down and keeping the smaller bard in place. While the stretch of Valdo’s (rather average sized) cock was passably eased by the saliva and cum from before, it failed to approach anything near pleasurable for Jaskier.  

His own cock hung flaccid and disinterested, but Valdo either didn’t notice or didn’t care. Recalling their fumbles as students at  Ofxenfurt , Jaskier thought it was probably the latter. Marx had never cared for much outside his own pleasure.  

The fucking went on and on, Valdo sawing away at Jaskier’s  arse  with the  single-minded  determination of a slightly drunk man. The wine had evidently also increased his stamina, as Jaskier did not remember any previous encounter with the man lasting half so long. The already inadequate lubrication was drying out by the time Valdo’s thrusts finally quickened, so that Jaskier found himself making small noises as the sensation crossed the line from uncomfortable to  actually painful .  

Valdo mistook this for moans of pleasure. “You like that, huh, little whore? Like my fat cock filling your slutty hole?” He rammed in even more forcefully to punctuate this sentence.  

Jaskier nearly rolled his eyes.  Sure, Valdo.  Rather than bothering to correct him, Jaskier arched his back and pushed back to meet Marx’s staccato thrusts, hoping to hurry things along. This appeared to have the desired effect as Valdo let out a noise like a dying animal and stabbed his cock jerkily into Jaskier. He felt the rush of heat as Valdo spilled inside him, fingers scrabbling painfully at Jaskier’s hips.   

He waited patiently, silently, for Marx to be done. When the other man rolled off him with a squelch and a satisfied groan, Jaskier immediately made to roll over and reached for his clothes.  

“Where’re you  goin ’, Dandelion?” a vise-like grip locked around Jaskier’s wrist, preventing him from dressing and a leaving as he intended. “Do you even have somewhere to go?”  

Jaskier paused, considering. No, he didn’t have somewhere to go. But he didn’t particularly want to stay here. He moved to break Valdo’s grip but found it beyond his current strength. Valdo ignored his attempt and yanked him hard, pulling Jaskier down to mash his face against Valdo’s still clothed chest.  

“Stay. Plenty of room in my bed for a little thing like you.”  

Jaskier hated when Valdo acted like his scant few inches on Jaskier’s height and breadth somehow made him some tiny delicate thing. Valdo wasn’t even as tall as Geralt, and certainly not as massively proportioned. He hated it, but he also didn’t really want to get up right now. In the morning he would certainly leave, and tell Valdo how deeply disappointing he was to  humanity  on his way out, but right now he really needed to be unconscious and this was a damn sight more comfortable than a gutter.  

It appeared Valdo was already half asleep, hand still locked around Jaskier’s wrist. Jaskier would really have liked to wipe at the cum dripping out of him, or at least move into a more comfortable position, but the bruising tight grip prevented any such thing. He sighed and let the smothering tide of sleep wipe his mind away.

Chapter Text

Morning broke like a glass bottle over Jaskier’s head. He groaned in agony even before opening his eyes, only to groan louder when he recognized his surroundings.  

Fuck me with an  Endrega  tail,  he thought wearily,  I’ve done it again.  

Levering himself up off the couch, Jaskier surveyed the damage. His trousers were somewhere around his calves, chemise and doublet tossed carelessly on the floor, his arse burned like the Eternal Fire and he had one of the worst hangovers he’d ever experienced. 

He had not however had the good fortune to forget the events of the previous evening, so he was not surprised even angry to find himself in Valdo Marx’s lodgings. Not mad, just disappointed with himself. Sure, lately he had been trying new and dramatic ways to obliterate himself, but this was just pathetic. Marx, of all people. A two bit court singer who couldn’t get a room to dance if he cursed them himself.  
 
Mercifully, Valdo appeared to have left. Which made sense, both because of Valdo’s callous nature and the fact that judging by the light filtering through the tiny windows it was nearly noon. As he gingerly stood and tugged his clothes back on, Jaskier searched his aching head for any notion of what he was meant to be doing today.  

A vague notion surfaced of an appointment to speak to an innkeeper regarding a series of performances for the upcoming Beltane festivities. Jaskier had been working hand to mouth, or more specifically hand to tankard, but prior to last night’s binge he had genuinely been intending on getting back to a more productive lifestyle. 

He’d had his mourning period, it was time to get over himself and get back to working on becoming the continents most beloved troubadour. He had planned to stay in Novigrad only until the start of the upcoming winter term, when he was sure he could wheedle his way back into a comfy spot guest lecturing at Oxenfurt. A few nights worth of playing for the ever-generous crowds of the free city would set him up nicely, at least for long enough to get himself situated at the university.  
 
Wincing only mildly at the unpleasant sensations emanating from below his belt and behind his eyes, Jaskier set off to collect his lute and belongings from wherever he’d left them last night, determined to forget his ignominious encounter with Valdo and get his life back on track. 
 
Things went according to plan for approximately the time it took him to open the front door. There he was stunned to find Valdo, juggling several packages and a bouquet of flowers of all things. 
 
“Oh! You’re up. Thanks for getting the door, darling.” Valdo breezed in past Jaskier and kicked the door shut again behind him. Jaskier, still in a state of shock, accepted the bouquet that was pressed into his limp hands without protest. 

“I thought you’d want a lie in, after the state you were in last night. We were both in our cups like I haven’t been since we were students, ha!” Valdo continued, dropping his packages on the table and proceeding to unwrap a veritable feast.  
 
Jaskier narrowed his eyes. While he had certainly been drunk enough to pass for a Skellige preist, he was fairly certain Valdo hadn’t been all that tipsy. In any case, what was happening now was weird. “Be that as it may, I don’t recall you ever treating a hangover with flowers when we were students.” He gestured with the bouquet before abandoning them on the couch. 

“Or food--is that sausage from Ludolph’s?” Jaskier might be a bit daft at times, but he wasn’t stupid enough to pass up one of the famously delicious garlic sausages.  Mouth deliberately full to show he didn’t think Marx worthy of manners, he stared suspiciously at the other man. “Did you suffer some sort of head injury while I’ve been away? Kicked by a horse with good taste?” 
 

Valdo held a hand to his chest in mock pain. “Dandelion, you wound me. Can’t a handsome and very charming musician simply want to spoil his lover?” 

Jaskier nearly choked on his sausage, then really did cough a bit as he laughed at his own mental pun. As he struggled not to die at the hands of a particularly delicious bit of charcuterie, Jaskier eyed Valdo’s sincere expression. It didn’t sound or look like he was jesting. “Lover? Really? I thought last night was just a bit of fun for old times sake. You know, a bit of a hatefuck to confirm we still detested each other...” Jaskier trailed off as Valdo’s face fell.  

He immediately felt like a cad. He stuffed another bit of sausage in his mouth to prevent any further insertion of his feet. 

“Oh.” said Valdo softly, uncharacteristically avoiding Jaskier’s eyes as he sat heavily at the table and picked unenthusiastically at his own food. “I thought you knew... it was only teasing, Dandelion. I didn’t -- I  don’t  detest you. Far from it.” 

Sorrowful green eyes suddenly looked up at Jaskier, unbearably sincere. He swallowed thickly, regretting his sausage decisions. “You don’t?” He asked uncertainly. “What happened to calling me a talentless wastrel who panders to the taste of the masses?” 

Valdo winced and dropped his head again. “You must know I spoke only out of jealousy, Dandelion. I never could compete with your knack for pleasing the crowds.” 

Jaskier felt that comment could still be taking as calling his work  pandering , but he was so baffled by this turn of events that he let it go. “Jealous? Of me?” 

Valdo spread his hands, “Wasn’t it obvious? Everyone loves you, Dandelion. Who wouldn’t be jealous? Who wouldn’t want to be your lover?” 

Jaskier scanned Valdo’s face for any hint of irony but found none. He wasn’t quite sure how to handle sincerity from a man he had previously thought incapable of it. “Well, uh, that’s very flattering, Valdo, but I’m really not in the place to be taking any er....  lovers , right now. In fact I’m only in Novigrad til the end of the season.” 

Valdo reached across the table enthusiastically and grasped Jaskier’s slightly sausage greasy hands, his face practically radiating earnestness. “Any amount of time with you is time well spent, my Dandelion. I’d like nothing more than to have you here in my bed, as long as you’re in town.” 

Jaskier resisted the urge to extricate his fingers from Valdo’s grasp as he considered the offer. Normally it was one he would refuse on principle, but beggars can’t be choosers and right now Jaskier’s purse definitely didn’t belong to a chooser. Staying with Marx would save him coin on accommodation, meaning he could perhaps afford to furnish his homely professor’s rooms with some finer things come winter. 

 It was a mercenary way to evaluate a prospective lover but he didn’t feel particularly bad about taking advantage of a man like Valdo, however delicious his sausage was. “I suppose it could be nice to have a familiar face to come home to. While I'm here, that is,” he offered tentatively. 
 
“Excellent!” declared Valdo, a tad overenthusiastically. “Where are you staying now? We can go fetch your things right away, then we’ll be back in time to see that delightful mummers troupe performing this evening at the Wounded Hart.” 
 
Jaskier slipped his hands from Valdo’s grip at last under the pretext of tearing himself a hunk of bread to nibble on. “Oh... that’s very thoughtful of you Valdo, but I was actually on my way to speak to Red Szymon about arranging some work for the festival.” 

Something flashed across the other bard’s face, too quickly for Jaskier to catch it. He averted his eyes back to his meal and spent a moment chewing thoughtfully. At length, he finally replied as though he had been struggling to recall something and finally remembered it. “Red Szymon? The great ginger menace who runs the big place near the docks?” 

“The very same,” replied Jaskier cautiously, sensing Valdo had more to add. 

“Well it’s a good thing you ran into me first, you  absolutely  shouldn’t be wasting your talents at his dingy den of derelicts.”  

Jaskier did his best not to wince at more of Marx’s trademark alliterative tendencies. “Oh? Last I was there it looked rather well to do. They even change the rushes more than once a year.” 

Valdo scoffed, running his index finger and thumb over his well-groomed facial hair in what looked like a habitual movement. “I’m sure you know well that appearances can be deceiving.  I heard from a very reliable source that Red Szymon regularly cheats his entertainers or fails to pay them altogether! The bastard would rather spend his coin on prettying up his Inn than being fair to us poor musicians.” 

Jaskier frowned. This sounded nothing like the big ginger bearded man he had met, though admittedly it had only been a brief introduction to set today’s meeting time. Still, he had been out of civilization long enough that he was utterly out of the loop on bardic gossip, so Valdo definitely had better information than Jaskier himself. 
 
“Well bollocks to that then. I guess I need to find somewhere else to play. I don’t suppose you know of anyone in need of a talentless wastrel?” He tried to let the last bit sound more fond than bitter.  

 Valdo looked contrite anyway. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am that I said that. I never realized you’d take it so seriously. But no, I haven’t heard of any work going lately. There’s been a lot of new talents migrating here since Sodden, what with Nilfgaard moving north. It’s a competitive market and most places secured their festival players weeks ago. I am myself already booked right through midwinter.” 

Jaskier knew his face betrayed his disappointment but couldn’t bring himself to care. He had squandered his time in Novigrad so far, often too drunk to advertise his skills or negotiate any sort of work. He felt a sudden compelling urge to drink after hearing this news, too.  

Marx made a concerned noise and moved to wrap up the remains of their meal. “Not to worry, Dandelion.  You needn’t pay for anything as long as you’re staying with me, and I’m sure you can pick up some work playing accompaniment to those mummers if we see them tonight. Shall we go back to that dreadful tavern and gather your things then? We can stop for a quick drink too. That’ll cheer you up.” 

Jaskier would rather skinny dip with drowners than play accompaniment to anyone, but the drink part did sound good.  He was still dubious about this sudden turn in Valdo’s nature, but Jaskier had learned a long time ago not to look a gift horse in the mouth (especially if its name is Roach) and he didn’t have a surfeit of options just now.  

If it was merely an act to lure Jaskier into giving his heart away once more so that Valdo could spurn it, well, he was shit out of luck – Jaskier didn’t have any heart left to give. So Marx could woo him or wound him, it would make no difference. Despite his apparent sincerity Jaskier seriously doubted that a bed companion was all that Valdo was after, so Jaskier would take advantage of whatever Valdo had to offer with only the slightly twinge of guilt.  

“How very generous of you, Valdo. Let us depart with haste and vigor.” 

Several hours later, through a haze of alcohol and the numbing fuzz of fisstech, Jaskier lay unmoving under Valdo’s ravening hands and wondered who was really taking advantage of whom.  

Chapter Text

“Another round, Dandelion?”  

Jaskier struggled to focus his gaze on Valdo, squinting one eye to stop his vision sliding off to the side. “I think, actually, I’m good. Good. Great. I don’t, I don’t need another...drink, just yet.” He felt he had delivered this confidently and clearly, but the look on Valdo’s face suggested he either didn’t understand Jaskier’s slurred speech or simply had trouble believing it. 
 
“Are you sure? The night is young. Well, relatively speaking. She’s looking good for her age, anyway.” 

Jaskier  was  sure. He couldn’t remember being this drunk since he first discovered anything stronger than small beer. “I’m sure, really Valdo. I’m good.”  

Valdo laughed. “Whatever happened to the Jaskier that could outdrink the entire arts department, including the philosophy professors? He was fun.”  

“I  am  fun,” he scowled. “I am the most fun. I am  all of  the fun. I just, I don’t want to be too drunk for the thing.”  

“The thing?” the laughter in Marx’s voice was barely restrained.  

Jaskier drew his brows together in concentration. “The  thing.  The one they asked me to play at. ‘s important.”  

“ Oooh , the  thing .” Valdo nodded as though this was perfectly self explanatory. “Well we wouldn’t want you to mess up something as dreadfully important as the thing. How about some fissy then? That’ll sharpen you up.”  

Jaskier wanted to argue his point, clarify that the  thing  was indeed a big deal, it was a birthday for some noble’s son and would do quite a bit to bolster Jaskier’s fading reputation. He somehow hadn’t been able to find much work even after the Beltane festival had passed, so he needed to be on form for every opportunity that came his way. But the mention of  fisstech  immediately drew his attention and chased the thought of work from his mind.  

“That might help, actually.  Y'have  some?” He tried not to look overly interested. Prior to the dragon hunt, Jaskier had only rarely indulged in the popular drug. Long term use tended to have negative effects on the entire respiratory system, which as a bard Jaskier felt was simply not worth the risk to his voice.   

Geralt also seemed to have little tolerance for people visibly suffering the characteristic side effects, so Jaskier had deemed it better to stick to the traditional methods of getting intoxicated while in the Witcher’s company. But Geralt wasn’t here. That was half the reason Jaskier even wanted (needed) the damn stuff. True, he had been indulging in it increasingly since arriving in  Novigrad , but he was hardly a drip-nosed addict.   

“For you my darling, of course.” Valdo always seemed to have some, or know someone who had some, though he rarely did more than a few bumps himself. He produced a small vial from his sleeve with a flourish, tapping out a hefty dose on the table right in front of them. Given the nature of the tavern-cum-gambling den they were currently dicing in, this was not considered unusual or even rude.  
 
Jaskier felt the amount Valdo had poured out was a little heavy handed, but then he reasoned that he really was quite drunk and needed to stay awake long enough to get to the party and perform without betraying his inebriation or heartbreak. Nobody liked a morose bard, and when he was in his cups Jaskier found it difficult to keep his entertainer’s face in place. With a shrug he leaned over and snorted the whole line, then swiped at the powder left around his nostrils, fighting the urge to sneeze. 

He was startled by a finger abruptly shoved into his mouth, but realized what Valdo was about when the finger rubbed over his gums. “There’s a good boy,” he cooed, moving his finger to the pad of Jaskier’s tongue. Jaskier  deeply  resented being called ’boy’ (given they were both of an age and that age was best described as ‘middle’) but obligingly sucked the finger clean. Waste not, want not, after all.  

Still, the moniker rankled. “’m not a boy. Haven’t been for some time.”  

Valdo shrugged, wiping the saliva off on his pants. “Could’ve fooled me. Have you looked in a mirror lately? Your  unrecorded  ancestry   is showing.”  

The phrase stabbed through Jaskier like cold lightening. Amongst the nobility,  unrecorded ancestry  was a polite way of saying there was some mixed heritage in someone’s background, usually of the elf variety. Since such things had fallen out of fashion, it was considered the height of ill manners to accuse anyone of having anything but the purest of human blood.  

 Jaskier knew there were some old  rumours  about his family, but he thought he had left that behind safely in  Kerack . As a youth he had dismissed them as peasant gossip, but lately he had been increasingly forced to consider there might be something to his relative lack of wrinkles or grey hairs.  

Valdo must have noticed how pale Jaskier had gone as he leaned closer and wrapped a reassuring arm around him. “Relax, Dandelion. It was just a guess. A good one, I take it, by how you look like you’ve seen a wraith. Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.”  

Despite the soothing tone, Jaskier felt anything but reassured. Yes, Valdo had been nothing but considerate, friendly and pleasant since that first night, but he still found it hard to trust the man. This kind of information was career ending, even life threatening in the wrong hands. “I might have that drink after all, I’m suddenly feeling much more sober.”  

Valdo laughed and let go of Jaskier’s shoulders to stand. “Fair enough, sorry to give you such a fright. I’ll get you an extra, shall I?”  

“Yes, please. Hurry back.” It was a terrible idea, but the  fisstech  already had Jaskier flying and he would do anything to forget that Valdo could out him to the world right now. Jaskier sniffed, swallowed to encourage the acidic drip in the back of his throat to pass, then turned his attention back to the dice game he intended to join.  

…  

Stairs.  Why are stairs so difficult? Who invented the damn things anyway? Surely  sorceresses  were involved, no mere human could devise something so diabolical.  Jaskier was halfway through pondering this when he suddenly realized he didn’t know why he was climbing stairs in the first place.  

He paused, leaning against the wall heavily for support. He knew these stairs. He was at home, or at least at Valdo’s home. This was confirmed by the appearance of the man himself in the stairwell behind him.   

“Oh ho, having a bit of trouble there darling? Let me help you.” Without waiting for a reply, Valdo seized Jaskier under his arms and hauled him bodily up the rest of the staircase. It shouldn’t have been so easy for him to be manhandled this way, but Jaskier was both very drunk and considerably slighter than he had been just months before. A diet of ale,  fisstech  and the occasional sausage or pastry did not exactly make one the picture of health.  

“How--?” was all Jaskier was able to manage. He was very, very confused. He had no idea how he had ended up back at Valdo’s. It was jarring to realize he was missing memory but had not been unconscious. It was like his brain simply stopped recording.   

Valdo deposited Jaskier on the bed and began removing his boots for him. “How am I so strong? So handsome? Able to put up with a lush like you? I don’t know  darling;  it will forever remain a mystery.”  

Jaskier scoffed irritably. “How did we get here? What, what happened to my performance? Am I late?”  

Valdo genuinely looked surprised, pausing as he set aside Jaskier’s boots. “Late? It’s nearly dawn! You don’t remember?”  

Jaskier started to shake his head, then thought better of it as the room lurched alarmingly. “No. I don’t... I remember winning at dice. A lot.”  

Valdo barked a laugh and started to strip Jaskier of his chemise. His doublet appeared to be missing in action. “You  are  drunk. Yes, after you  completely destroyed  those Dwarves at dice you demanded a bottle of  Erveluce  and had most of it to yourself. After that you were in no state to perform, not that it stopped you singing half the way home.”  

As Valdo relieved him of his shirt and started on his pants, Jaskier strove to weave the fragments of memory into a shape he could understand. He did recall a bottle of  Erveluce , but he didn’t remember ordering it. Why would he sabotage himself that way? He had really needed the  favour  of that Lordling, pulling a no show like this would have precisely the opposite impact on his career he had been hoping for.  

“Why did I do that?” He asked vaguely, falling back on the bed without a protest when Valdo pushed him.   

“Why do you do anything, Dandelion? Because you wanted to.” A rustling sound indicated Valdo was shedding his own clothes.  

Jaskier frowned. He didn’t remember wanting that at all. Why would he ever want to feel this wretched? His stomach was roiling, his skin crawled with the exhausting buzz of  fisstech , he barely felt connected to his limbs at all. He was about to ask for a cup of water when he felt Valdo start to crawl up his body, rubbing his nude form against Jaskier’s as he went. The wet tip of his prick left a trail uncomfortably  like  the sensation of a snail.  

“Valdo, I don’t think I can--”  

“Shh, relax darling. I’ll take care you. I know how much you want this; you couldn’t shut up about sucking my cock earlier.” Valdo’s breath fell heavily in Jaskier’s face as he reached the head of the bed, then kept climbing to sit on Jaskier’s chest.  

He squirmed under the weight of the bigger  man;  arms effectively trapped under Valdo’s knees. “I  really  don’t remember that, and I don’t think it’s a good idea--”  

Jaskier was cut off by the cock shoved unceremoniously in his mouth. He made a muffled noise of protest, but Valdo seemed to take this as encouragement and settled further forward, pressing the meat of his straining erection deeper into Jaskier’s mouth.  

Tears spring to Jaskier’s eyes immediately, he tried to move his head backwards but was preventing by a firm grip in his hair and a hand squeezing his jaw painfully. “That’s it Dandelion, take it all. Let’s make that mouth useful for something tonight, at least.”  

A sharp yank pulled Jaskier’s head up and forward, allowing Valdo to press into his throat. Jaskier sputtered and gagged against the invading presence, but this only seemed to excite Valdo more. He started fucking Jaskier’s face in earnest, never pulling out enough to give Jaskier any chance to breathe or escape.  
 
This is what you get, Jaskier couldn’t help thinking. This is what happens to slutty bards who can’t even make it to a piddling birthday party. He knew it was partly the fisstech encouraging these thoughts, it always filled him with darkness towards the dawn. At the same time, he knew this was wrong, all wrong, Valdo had to know he didn’t want this. 

He couldn’t breathe, he was choking, he wanted this to stop. His arms starting to go numb, Jaskier tried to thrash his way free with his upper body alone. He managed to rock Marx enough that the other man  noticed  and paused.  

“Need a breather, love? Of course, here you go,” said Valdo as he pulled Jaskier’s head backwards by the grip in his hair, slipping his cock free of Jaskier’s mouth momentarily. Jaskier sucked in deep lungful of air, coughing and gasping for breath. Just as he drew a breath to tell Valdo to get the fuck off him, his head was dragged forward again, and the drooling prick was forced right back in. 
 
Jaskier moaned in frustrated misery. Valdo moaned in response, sinking deeper into the tight heat of Jaskier’s throat. It was painful, and Jaskier couldn’t stop a sob from bubbling up. It didn’t matter, the noise only seemed to encourage Valdo to thrust harder.  

“God, we should do this more often. You look so good like this, stuffed full of my cock.”  

Blue eyes lifted to meet green, Jaskier trying to convey his anger and pain with a teary gaze. How could Valdo not tell he wasn’t enjoying this? Did he even care? 
 
Valdo tipped his head back and started using Jaskier’s hair to pull his head back and forth to meet the thrust of Valdo’s hips. Jaskier closed his eyes in defeat and stopped straining against the grip, letting Valdo manipulate his head like a doll. 
 
After two more breaks for air, neither long enough for Jaskier to do more than gasp, Valdo finally seemed to reach the end of his stamina and sped towards his climax. Jaskier felt the spurt of his cum hit the back of his throat and immediately gagged, but Valdo only forced his prick further in while he rode out the waves of his orgasm. He seemed to enjoy the gagging even more. 

Finally, finally Valdo pulled back and off, pausing only to tap Jaskier’s check fondly. “That was lovely, Dandelion, just what I needed. Thank you.” He then rolled over and seemed to drop off to sleep immediately. 
 
Jaskier lay in stunned silence for an interminable moment, wondering what had just happened. Bits and pieces of the night swirled in his mind, culminating in the thought: you let him do that to you. 
 
He scrambled for the edge of the bed and the chamber pot below it, barely pulling it out in time to catch the contents of his stomach as he heaved over the side. His throat and nasal passages were already raw from the fisstech and rough face fucking, the acidic vomit mostly comprised of strong alcohol burned viciously as it came out. 
 
Over and over he vomited, almost stuck in a loop of gagging. He hadn’t stopped crying since Valdo made his eyes water with those first stabbing thrusts, but now he sobbed in earnest between bouts of emptying his guts. He wasn’t quiet about it, but Valdo snored on undisturbed. 

Eventually the vomiting subsided, as did the anguished tears, but now Jaskier felt nothing but numb. A brief longing for the safety of leather and white hair stirred him, but he shut it down ruthlessly. Geralt couldn’t save him now, probably wouldn’t even want to. He had gotten himself into this situation and thoroughly deserved every shitty part of it. 
 
Despairing, Jaskier curled on his side and tried very hard to not exist for a while. 

Chapter Text

Dawn came and went, but sleep did not. Jaskier lay awake, relentlessly going over how he had brought himself so low. He could see the individual decisions he had made, all the way back to leaving the mountain, but he struggled to fully understand how it had all gone so wrong. How did  one self  pitying bender turn into months of ruin? He was on the verge of permanently marring his career, all for what? A little unrequited crush?  

This was hardly the first time he’d felt the sting of rejection. His habit of loving and leaving was born directly out of the handful of true relationships he’d had; it was far easier to be the one who leaves than the one who is left. Even in his youth, that first bright flush of infatuation with Valdo, it had been his clingy  behaviour  that had led the other bard to declare him insufferably needy and kick him out of their shared student rooms.   

He distinctly remembered Valdo chastising him for being so upset over something as trivial as infidelity. Bards, Valdo had said, were meant to be free to love and be loved by their audiences. It was foolishness to tie themselves down before their careers had even begun.  
 
Jaskier wondered for the first time if Valdo still felt that way. They hadn’t even really discussed what they were to each other this time, other than house mates and lovers.  Jaskier had been too wrapped up in his own heartache to seek other beds since he’d fallen into Valdo’s, but he hadn’t thought to wonder if that was a mutual state of affairs. 

With a clarity he hadn’t felt in months, Jaskier left Valdo snoring in bed and made his way to the public baths. Marx’s house was not quite upscale enough to have its own water closet, but the neighbourhood boasted a set of public amenities only a stones throw from his front door. 
 
He completed his ablutions efficiently, avoiding looking at his own body for too long. He had lost a disturbing amount of muscle mass, but even more distressing was how alienated he felt from his own skin. This could not be his flesh; he would never have let anyone use his body the way Valdo did. Where was the capable body that had followed a damn Witcher across the continent? This was certainly not the same man. 

Anger rose and crystalized in his breast. He was done being pathetic, done hurting himself with Valdo’s callous idea of love, or whatever they were doing. He had money in Vivaldi’s bank, the proceeds of his poetry books that he had been quietly saving for his retirement. He was loath to use those funds, knowing he was unlikely to inherit anything of his parent’s estate, but needs must when the devil drives.  

He needed to stop being dependent on Valdo Marx and leave this city, its gambling dens and taverns. There was still time to get to Oxenfurt before the term started, if he left right away. He was Jaskier the Bard, master of the seven liberal arts and famed from Toussaint to Poviss for his work. He was not some drip-nosed addict one could use like a street whore. He would not be treated this way, by himself or Valdo.  
 
He laid out a plan in his mind, step by step. Go back to Valdo’s rooms, get his lute, composition books and what clothing he still had, then the bank. From the bank he could easily hire his way into a caravan heading south, or failing that, walk. There was no point getting a horse he would only have to sell after a few days travel.  
 
The formation of his scheme occupied his mind right up until he opened the door, full of righteous anger and ready to tell Valdo where to put it if he tried to stop Jaskier from leaving. He was therefore entirely unprepared for Valdo to look up from where he was lounging over breakfast and forestall Jaskier’s plot by holding out an envelope.  
 
“Oh good, you’re back. This came for you while you were gone.”  

Non-plussed, Jaskier slowly walked over and took the proffered letter. The paper was smooth and pale, the kind of thing only nobles could afford, rather than relentlessly scraping and reusing scraps of vellum like the common people. He broke the wax seal and scanned the contents, but his confusion only grew.  

“It’s from Lord Dalibor. He wants me to play at his cousin’s wedding feast a fortnight from now.”  

“ Well  that’s good news, Dandelion! Why do you look like a stunned mullet? Have you tried this cheese yet, I got it from the new  Toussaintois  stall at the market.” Valdo offered a wedge of cheese as Jaskier sat down heavily across from him.  

Jaskier took the cheese but simply held it, still staring at the letter in his other hand. “It was Lord Dalibor’s son who hired me to perform last night. It makes no sense for him to want me after that. No one wants a bard who gets too drunk to show up.”   

A mischievous smile played across Valdo’s face. “Alright, I’ll confess. I may have sent word to Lord Dalibor last night that you had come down with a simply  dreadful  case of the flux after eating some bad fish. His wife also has a fondness for my  Kings of  Redania  Cycle, so that might have helped too.”  

Jaskier privately thought Valdo’s efforts at epic poems were the most potent sleep aid known to mankind, but it would follow that a Redanian noble enjoyed stories about their own ancestors. It was far more unbelievable that Valdo would have done him such a great favour, perhaps saving Jaskier’s reputation from a serious blow.  
 
He gaped at Valdo, utterly bewildered. “But why? You could have simply gone in my place. Or done nothing at all.” 

The other man’s jovial expression faded, he stopped chewing and set his cheese down slowly. After swallowing his mouthful, he looked back at Jaskier with a somber face. “Really, Dandelion? You still think I’m that petty cad you went to school with? I thought we were done with that. I thought you knew... I would never let your reputation suffer like that, if there were anything in my power to stop it. I don’t need you to fail for my career to succeed.”  

Jaskier felt completely wrong-footed. He had read Valdo completely wrong, even half suspected the man of sabotaging him with the strong liquor last night. Maybe he hadn’t meant to be so cruel in bed, perhaps he was simply a bad lover after all. Had Jaskier’s dark thoughts twisted everything so thoroughly? He really needed to lay off the fisstech.  

“I’m sorry Valdo. Really. I misjudged you.” He dropped the letter and reached a tentative hand across the table to rest lightly on Valdo’s own.  

But Valdo was not so easily soothed. His withdrew his hand, raising it to swipe at his hair in a gesture of frustration. “It’s partly my fault, I suppose. I know I can have a sharp tongue, especially when it’s wine-soaked. I had hoped it would be clear to you by now that you aren’t a rival to me, or even just a friend. I do care for you, Jaskier.”  

The use of Jaskier’s chosen name shocked him further, indicating the depth of Valdo’s sincerity. He had often teased Jaskier about it, deliberately using ‘Dandelion’ to nettle him since they were students. For him to drop the longstanding moniker was startling, and perhaps showed the truth of his words.  

“It is clear. Old habits die hard, I suppose. But thank you Valdo, really, playing at this wedding is exactly what I need to get back on—on track.” He nearly said the Path. Fuck that, he wasn’t treading any Path. “What you’ve done for me... it means a lot.” 
 
The smile returned to Valdo’s face and he busied himself adding cheese to bread as he replied, “I’m glad you’re keen to go then, because I’ve already sent some of my old performance outfits to Madame Druzjana to be updated and made an appointment to get them tailored to your size. I thought we could go this afternoon, if that’s agreeable to you?” 

The reminder that much of his wardrobe had been depleted stung, between leaving half his belongings in Geralt’s bags and simply not having the coin to commission new pieces Jaskier was down to a few summer weight doublets that were almost shamefully out of style.  He’d never intended to stay in  Novigrad  long enough to need winter performance clothes. He was embarrassingly grateful that Valdo had already thought of this  quandary  and resolved it on his behalf, all before Jaskier had finished his bath.  

“I don’t know how to say thank you without sounding like an  arse  for not expecting such thoughtfulness from you. Truly, I have misjudged your character and I am, well I’m not proud of it.”  

“It’s no matter, Dandelion. We all make mistakes, and my character was not always as sterling as it is now. You had every right to doubt me. Let us not dwell on it and instead discuss something more pleasant.” Valdo patted Jaskier’s hand reassuringly and pushed a cup over to Jaskier, filling it with watered wine. “For example, what kind of trim do you think will work with a maroon velvet? I hear  Koviri  lace is set to be the mode this winter.”  

Jaskier nodded along and was already halfway through formulating a question about how much embroidery was too much when another thought interrupted him, causing him to choke on his mouthful of ale. “Oh gods, I completely forgot. I  can’t  stay in  Novigrad  another two weeks, I’m already late if I want any chance of lecturing at  Oxenfurt  this season. But how can I say no to Lord Dalibor now? It’ll ruin me.”   

“Don’t fret, dear. Is there any reason you  must  teach this year? Why not stay here? I’m sure once the town hears of your no doubt amazing performance at the wedding, you’ll have plenty of work to see you through spring at least. I’m sure the university can manage without their favourite son for a term.”  

Jaskier frowned, thoughts spinning. There wasn’t any real reason he had to go to  Oxenfurt , it was more of a habit he’d developed while travelling with Geralt. It had made it easier for them to meet up after the Witcher came down from Kaer  Morhen , and over time Jaskier had stopped accepting offers from various nobles to winter at their estates solely so he could be sure not to miss Geralt’s return.   

It was pathetic, and no longer necessary. Jaskier was done arranging his life around someone else’s schedule. “You’re right. I could stay here. That is, if you’ll have me?”  

Valdo laughed. “Of course, darling. I’d much rather have you here warming my bed than freezing your bollocks off in the drafty halls of academia. Why, the two of us will set the city alight with merriment, not a soul will notice the cold this year.”  

Jaskier felt a tentative smile return to his face as he considered the proposition. A season of parties, performing and delighting crowds beat the pants off trying to drill iambic pentameter into reluctant students. “It’s settled then.  Novigrad  will host  both  of the Continent’s best bards this year.”  

Valdo stuffed more bread into his mouth in lieu of reply, but his satisfied grin spoke volumes. For the first time in months, Jaskier felt that perhaps his life was not a permanent downwards spiral. He could never have imagined this scenario for himself, but perhaps it was just what he needed to get over his heartbreak. Grinning back, he tucked into his own breakfast with enthusiasm and felt a glimmer of that rarest emotion; hope.   

Chapter Text

As winter tightened its grip on the northern kingdoms and the trees lost their foliage, it seemed Jaskier himself was finally starting to bloom again. The stylish new clothing lifted his spirits immeasurably. Though it was not so fine as having a new set commissioned to his own designs, Valdo’s modified castoffs were nothing to sneeze at. With the clever updates made by Madame Druzjana, Jaskier was once again feeling every bit the peacock in his fine threads, ready to take on the high society of Novigrad and the surrounding Redanian nobility.

He still went to taverns and drank, sometimes to watch friends of Valdo’s play and occasionally even performing a little himself. He no longer drank to excess however and steered clear of fisstech entirely. He didn’t need the manic energy to keep drinking if he wasn’t planning on staying out all night. He had also decided that his initial misgivings about Valdo were the product of too much time spent around an extremely negative minded Witcher and far too much fisstech.

No, he was done with all that nonsense, done with being Jaskier the White Wolf’s bard. He was done being a side character in someone else’s story. Now he was once more his own man, just Jaskier the bard. Or Dandelion, if you asked Valdo. He felt free, strong and surer of himself than he’d been in years. He had forgotten how good it was to be appreciated for his hard-earned skills; forgotten what it was like to have an educated ear listen to his music and offer useful critique.

Rather than grunts or complaints, Valdo offered actual suggestions. Yes, it sometimes stung to hear his work thoroughly dismantled by an expert, and Valdo’s tongue still sometimes tended to sharpness. But Jaskier could not deny the technical improvements to his songs, lifting his oeuvre from mostly bar room stompers to contain more fully fledged ballads and content more suitable to court settings.

The wedding of Lord Dalibor’s cousin was an unparalleled success. Jaskier commanded the attention of the entire party from the minute his fingers touched his lute strings. He knew the traditional dances and played them with vitalizing new twists, delighting the young nobles who were starved for novelty. Later he played requests, even the inevitable ‘Toss a Coin’ and white wolf works.

He had been avoiding playing them for months, but he had decided not to let Geralt ruin what had been the foundation of his career. He had worked hard on those songs, they were his, and It was clearly what the people expected of the famous Jaskier.

The crowd was eating out of his hand (some literally) by the end of the night and Jaskier was overwhelmed with requests to play at various upcoming functions. If even half of those offers turned into solid jobs, Jaskier would be busy and well paid for months.

But not even one of them did. He waited, working on composing new works blissfully witcher-free, but the days came and went without any official invitations arriving. He allowed that the nobility were flighty and generally terrible at administration, but by the third week with no mail Jaskier became despondent.

“I don’t understand,” he said morosely, staring into the bottom of his cup. “They were all so desperate to ask me at the wedding. I should have gotten at least one job off the back of that. It doesn’t make sense!” He slammed his empty cup on the table and flopped full length on the couch in a fit of pique.

Valdo made a conciliatory noise, looking up from where he was reviewing his own correspondence as he often did in the evenings. He refilled the cup with a generous measure of Est Est and brought it over to Jaskier while he perched on the edge of the couch. “Did you tell them where to find you? Maybe your letters have gone to Oxenfurt?”

Jaskier accepted the wine and drank deeply. “I told them I was staying with you. Was that alright? You don’t think it bothered them, do you?” A thought struck him, “It doesn’t bother you, does it? I didn’t ask before I told the whole world we’re... attached.”

Valdo looked down fondly at Jaskier and petted his hair gently. “Dandelion, there are deaf blind beggars on the docks that know we’re ‘attached’. A couple of bards shacking up together is hardly scandalous. It’s practically expected.”

Jaskier huffed an angry breath and pouted, he knew he was being childish but was too far into this (second) bottle of wine to really care. “It’s not fair. I was good. I was really good!”

Valdo tsked. “Nobility are fickle, you should know that – you are one.”

Jaskier stuck his tongue out and made a rude gesture. “Yes, but I got better and no longer have that particular illness. Even as a lowly bard I have better manners than to renege on a pledge!”

Laughing, Valdo moved to kneel in front of Jaskier. “I know what will take your mind off it. Something special.”

It took a moment for Jaskier to fully understand, it wasn’t until Valdo had his leggings unlaced and hand around Jaskier’s cock that he caught up with the idea. In his defense, he was fairly drunk, and Valdo had never shown much of an interest in that part of Jaskier’s anatomy.

“oh, that’s nice, but I’m not sure the old man’s up to it--”

“Shh, relax,” Valdo interrupted his protest. “Let me take care of you. You deserve it.”

Jaskier wasn’t about to argue that he didn’t, but the overly rough, short strokes were not enough to overcome his inebriation (and Valdo’s general lack of skill). His prick remained stubbornly soft, no matter how he tried to focus on the fact that an objectively attractive man was touching him.

After a few painfully long minutes, it became apparent to them both that the flag would not be raised through these efforts. “I’m sorry,” Jaskier said, full of shame at his failure to even get hard for his lover. “It’s not you, it’s the damn wine. I could suck you, though?”

“Nonsense,” Valdo declared, withdrawing his hand and reaching for something in his belt purse. “You just need a little help. Here.”

Jaskier stared skeptically at the proffered vial. The white power fairly sparkled in the firelight. “Oh no Valdo, I’m trying to stay off it. Besides, that stuff only ever makes it more difficult to get a decent cockstand going.”

“Not necessarily,” replied Valdo with a mysterious smile. He held a finger out in the universal gesture for wait, retrieving a cup and pouring a scant inch of water into it. He then tapped out a portion of the fisstech into the water and swirled it around as he returned to kneel in front of Jaskier.

He set the cup down, then tapped another measure out onto his belt knife and held it in front of Jaskier’s nose.

“I just said--”

“Trust me,” insisted Valdo. “This works.”

Jaskier was drunk, upset and truthfully missed the euphoria of the drug. Resigned, he steadied the knife with his hand and snorted sharply.

“There’s a Good boy,” said Valdo smoothly, bringing the knife to his own nose to have a small bump himself.

Jaskier was busy sniffing and twitching his nose, so he didn’t notice at first what Valdo was up to until his cock was once again seized. Valdo carefully pulled back Jaskier’s foreskin to expose the head, then held it steady while he used his other hand to hover the cup of dissolved fisstech over it.

“What in Metlitele’s sweet name are you doing?”

“This,” came the reply as Valdo simultaneously started dribbling the water directly into Jaskier’s slit. He massaged the head with his thumb as he went, spreading the water around. Jaskier watched dubiously but offered no further protest. He was curious to see where this was going. He’d never heard of anyone putting fisstech on their cock.

The sensation was strange, simply wet and a little cold at first. But slowly, as Valdo dripped more water and kept up a steady massage of the shaft, it started to change. It started with the typical numbness one experienced when putting fisstech on the gums, which Jaskier didn’t see as a particularly desirable effect for someone who was suffering from a lack of sensation. But the numbness passed, replaced with a flush of heat.

To his immense surprise, Jaskier’s cock started to fill rapidly, not only getting hard but throbbing. “Good gods,” he uttered in astonishment. “Where did you learn this?!”

Valdo laughed, setting the empty cup aside and redoubling his efforts at stroking Jaskier’s now thoroughly rigid erection. “You’re not the only bard to ever travel, Dandelion. You’d be surprised what those Nilfgaardians get up to in their spare time. Truly, a civilized nation.”

Jaskier nodded as though this was great wisdom, now feeling both the effects of the fisstech he’d snorted and the incredible sensations in his dick. It was a dizzying combination. His cock now felt like it was alive with pleasurable buzzing, precum drooling from the tip and adding to the wetness left by the water. The now slick grip of Valdo’s calloused hand felt more than just adequate, it felt amazing.

Jaskier threw back his head and moaned, losing himself to the intense feelings as Valdo set up a pleasing rhythm, swiping his thumb over just the right place with every stroke. Sex with Valdo had never been much to write home about, Jaskier had been responsible for stroking his own peak out of himself if he wanted one at all. It turned out that Valdo did have some skills up his sleeve after all, or perhaps anyone’s hands would feel good with enough fisstech.

He couldn’t remember ever having been this hard in his life or feeling so good from something as simple as a handjob. It felt like golden fire swirling up from deep in his balls, spiraling out through his cock and his whole body. It tingled and throbbed delightfully, pulsing in time with his heartbeat. His tip was now gushing an almost alarming amount of fluid, it looked like he’d already spilled his load, yet he was still climbing to new heights of pleasure.

An embarrassing involuntary groan escaped Jaskier’s lips and he heard Valdo’s low chuckle in reply. He tipped his head forward to meet the other man’s eyes, finding them filled with something dark and possessive. He wanted to examine this further but he caught sight of his own prick in Valdo’s rapidly moving hand. Jaskier found himself mesmerized by the sight, his absurdly wet, pink cock looking desperate and debauched in Valdo’s beautiful hands.

It was this that finally sent him over the edge, overwhelmed with his own excess. He couldn’t help the cry that ripped from his throat or curling over himself as the pleasure became almost unbearably intense. Valdo kept stroking him through the waves of orgasm, which seemed to go on and on. Finally, it slowed, and Valdo gentled his touch.

“Messy boy,” he admonished teasingly, lifting his cum soaked hand to Jaskier’s mouth in a clear indication that he should lick it clean. This was not something Jaskier usually enjoyed at all, but he was still so dazed from that mind-blowing climax that he lapped at Valdo’s hand like an obedient kitten. It felt like the least he could do after all that.

When his hand was clean, Valdo started tugging at Jaskier’s pants again. Jaskier was confused to find him pulling them off though, not on.

“Come on, Dandelion. We’re not done yet,” he said, easily lifting Jaskier’s lax form to tug off the garments.

“We’re not?” Asked Jaskier, a bit lost. He looked at his bare lap and realized his cock was still, improbably, hard as a rock. “Oh. We’re not.”

Valdo laughed again and tugged Jaskier’s legs forward and up, leaving him spread and exposed. He then swiped his hand through the mess still left on Jaskier’s prick. His earlier load had been prodigious, and it seemed he was still dribbling precum. The now slick fingers reached down and started circling his rim gently.

Jaskier opened easily under Valdo’s touch, accepting the long artist’s finger with ease. Within a few curling strokes Jaskier was pressing back down, wordlessly asking for more. The second finger however was not as perfectly delicious as the first; while Jaskier was more relaxed than usual, his own spend wasn’t quite enough to slick the way (no matter how hot he found the idea.)

“Oil, please Valdo.” Jaskier was a little proud of himself for actually asking. In the past he had put up with inadequate prep and simply dealt with the discomfort. Tonight, he felt comfortable enough (and high enough) to ask for his own pleasure.

For a moment it seemed as though this displeased Valdo, but then he smiled indulgently and withdrew his fingers as he stood to grab their cooking oil.

As he returned, he unlaced his own breeches and poured a measure of oil into his hand. Setting aside the bottle as he knelt again, he split the oil between his hands, returning his fingers to Jaskier’s arse while he stroked his own cock. With the added slickness the fingers went from good to great, that glorious swirling fire starting up again deep in Jaskier’s groin.

It seemed the sight of Jaskier thoroughly enjoying the finger fucking was too much for Valdo as he impatiently withdrew his hand and pulling Jaskier around on the couch to accommodate them both. There was some rearranging to be done, but in short order Valdo was pressing his girth into Jaskier’s slippery hole, the smaller man’s legs over his shoulders.

He started thrusting powerfully with no preamble, sliding deeper with every stroke. The angle wasn’t exactly comfortable for Jaskier’s back, but his arse thought it was perfect. He watched his own cock drool and bob in his face, once again throbbing and buzzing with maddening pleasure. He’d never thought Valdo’s technique particularly effective, but now his whole body seemed made to take Valdo’s cock specifically. It hit every hidden spot inside him, lighting up his skin with shocks of sensation.

In a moment of readjustment, Jaskier wondered if it was so damn good because some of the fisstech had transferred from his cum to his arse, but then he was too far gone to care. Whatever the reason, it was incredible, and he wanted Valdo to keep pounding him forever. He felt almost delirious, the wine and the drugs and the sex overwhelming him and locking him into a mindless state of sheer sensation.

His second climax took him entirely by surprise, set off by the insistent press of Valdo’s cock against his sweet spot and the mere tapping of his own prick against his stomach. This time it felt wrenched out of him, like his soul was coming out his cock, deep and intense and rendering him thoroughly insensate. When the sparks finally started to die down, he was astonished to find himself covered in yet more of his own cum, Valdo still hammering away inside him.

He moaned, overwhelmed, and this seemed to give Valdo the idea to spread a hand around Jaskier’s throat. This wasn’t unfamiliar to Jaskier, but it wasn’t something he usually enjoyed, and Valdo had never tried it before. Still, this seemed a night for firsts and after those two glorious orgasms he was happy to let Valdo do as he wanted.

When Jaskier didn’t try to remove the grip, Valdo squeezed harder and speed up his thrusts, now moving with an animalistic motion. The squeeze soon turned tight enough to actually restrict Jaskier’s air, and he started to grow a trifle concerned. He tried to speak and found he couldn’t, in fact couldn’t breathe much at all.

He grabbed at Valdo’s arm, tugging weakly, but the other man was consumed with his own pleasure. He snarled and put more of his weight on top of Jaskier, pushing him further down as his hips snapped with heightened vigour.

Just as Jaskier felt his vision start to fade and real panic set in, Valdo came with a snarl and a several violent thrusts. He released his grip immediately and sagged forward, cock still pulsing inside Jaskier.

Gasping for air, Jaskier lay stunned and confused. His body still tingled with the after images of pleasure, the fisstech leaving him feeling loose and shocky. His own cock was now thankfully soft, he didn’t think he could survive another round. As Valdo pulled out with a groan and a gush of slick, Jaskier tried to piece together how he felt.

It had been good sex, great sex even, but he wasn’t sure about that bit at the end. Before he could clarify in his mind what exactly had gone wrong, Valdo was scooping him up and carrying him up to their room. This wasn’t something he would tolerate normally but he genuinely didn’t think he could walk right now so was quietly grateful.

Deposited in their bed, Jaskier still wasn’t sure what to make of the evening.

Valdo seemed to sense his pensiveness. “Still coming down, Dandelion? Did you like it?” He asked as he tossed a damp cloth to Jaskier.

“Oh, yes. Yes indeed,” he answered reassuringly. He didn’t want to discourage Valdo from trying to actually pleasure him during sex. “i’ve never felt anything like that.”

“Well, you can write a letter to the Emperor and thank him for the fruits of Nilfgaardian culture.” Valdo settled into bed himself and snuffed the candle with an air of deep satisfaction.

“I’ll do that, right after I ask if he needs an entertainer for his coronation when he conquers the north,” scoffed Jaskier.

Valdo chuckled sleepily; it was clear he was nearly out, probably exhausted by his energetic fucking.

Jaskier wasn’t sure how the man expected him to sleep when he was chock full of fisstech, but to his own surprise it seemed the combination of two astounding orgasms and rather a lot of Est Est soon proved sufficient to pull him under too.

Chapter Text

In a typical year, an entertainer could expect a slight dip in bookings before midwinter as the weather kept people at home more. This however could be made up for by securing work as the resident musician at an establishment for the feast week, playing every evening leading up to the solstice and right through the night on the event itself. There were of course a limited number of venues, so competition for a placement could be fierce.

In previous years Jaskier had been content to leave the jockeying for positions to his more ambitious colleagues, preferring to while away his winters with the small but steady stiped from the university and use his summers to further his reputation instead. He had always harbored the belief that if he did want to perform at a midwinter feast, his status as a well-known bard and academic would be more than enough to secure him work without much effort.

He was wrong. Novigrad seemed to be full to bursting with every kind of entertainer this year, not just musicians but poets, mummers, contortionists, sword-eaters, fire dancers, illusionists and performers even Jaskier wasn’t quite sure how to categorize. It seemed the encroaching war in the south had finally become real with the fall of Cintra. Refugees were flocking to the north, seeking sanctuary from the ever-expanding Nilfgaardian Empire.

He wondered briefly if Geralt’s child surprise could be among those hollow faces fleeing from Cintra, then dismissed it as wishful thinking. It was extremely unlikely that Nilfgaard would be so foolish as to allow Calanthe’s heir to survive. There were rumours that the young lion cub’s body had never been found, but Jaskier also knew there were plenty of ways a body could go missing that did not include the possibility of her being alive.

In any case he was far too busy to spare the child much thought. He spent every day visiting increasingly dodgy establishments seeking employment, but was turned away from each one. At times it seemed he had impressed a proprietor with a demonstration of his jigs and drinking songs, only to have them practically throw him out when he so much as mentioned his Witcher themed repertoire.

Radovid was becoming more rabid about his hatred of non-humans, but Jaskier was baffled that the common people should be rejecting his tales of Geralt’s adventures so thoroughly. Most of them were about killing non-humans, after all. But as soon as he confirmed he was the Jaskier, barker to the White Wolf, it was as though the tavernkeepers couldn’t get rid of him fast enough. There were certainly more than enough entertainers waiting to take his place, so he supposed the people of Novigrad could afford to be picky this year.

He soon found himself unable to secure any kind of work, even after midwinter ended and the more festive Imbolc approached. The best he could do was to perform on street corners as he had not done since his student days, hat upturned at his feet to catch coins from passersby. He carefully avoided any mention of Witchers or non-humans entirely, sticking to the traditional (and boring) selection of crowd pleasers.

This was not enough to live on, so with great reluctance Jaskier went to Vivaldi’s bank and withdrew a portion of his savings. He took Valdo with him, so that he could tranfer some funds to the other man to pay him back for food, lodgings and the refurbished clothes. Valdo protested vociferously, but Jaskier hated to be indebted to anyone and stubbornly held his ground. Eventually, Valdo capitulated and allowed the transfer, only to surprise Jaskier barely a week later with an entirely new spring wardrobe.

When Jaskier tried to refuse this generosity Valdo replied, "I'm hardly struggling for money, my dear. Besides, you gave the coin to me to do with as I pleased. It pleases me to see you dressed as befits your talents and beauty.”

This was hard to argue with as Valdo himself spent nearly every night at some Lord’s household or another, entertaining the brightest stars of Novigrad’s nobility with his poetry and traditional ballads. He was handsomely rewarded for his work and seemed to have no end of gifts arriving on top of that, keeping them both almost ridiculously oversupplied with fine wine through the entire winter.

So Jaskier was not going hungry or sober, he had a warm home and good company, but he still felt a creeping unease with his situation. Since leaving Oxenfurt at the completion of his studies Jaskier had never been unable to earn a living with his music. It wasn’t always a comfortable living, sometimes only stretching to cover a meal or a shared room for the bard and his Witcher, but it was something.

It also left him with far too much time on his hands, hands that were all too eager to pick up cards and a tankard. It would have been better to spend his time at home composing, but Jaskier found his inspiration had fled and he loathed to impose his company on Valdo too often. He couldn’t risk yet another lover finding him too clingy or overwhelming. The rejection of his beloved public made Jaskier even more grateful for the scraps of affection Valdo gave him, but he was painfully aware how desperate he was becoming. The last think he wanted was for Valdo to see how truly pathetic he had become.

These thoughts went around in his head like a dog chasing its tail, the need to work and be emotionally independent warring with his need for human contact, round and around until he found himself drinking again just to block it out. He gambled a little, only because he was confident enough in his skills to be sure he won more often than not and saw this as another venue for income.

But the drinking dulled his card sharp edge, so in truth he was barely breaking even most days. His mood sank at the same rate as his stash of coins diminished, so that by the end of winter he spent most days in the roughest part of town, drinking shitty ale morosely and waiting listlessly for someone to ask for a game.

This was how Priscilla found him, just days before Imbolc. The tavern he was currently in could barely live up to the name, but the owner was still rushing about trying to ensure enough candles and rushlights were available for the feast. The room was crowded with refugees and traders in town for the festival, so Jaskier didn’t pay much mind to the sharp elbow he received to his ribs until the second time it landed.

“Hey now, leave off – Priscilla! What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you, you great buffoon! What are you doing in this shithole? I’ve been searching the city for days!”

Jaskier, somewhat worse for wear after day filled with endless ale refills, still had the sense to be slightly ashamed of his situation. He tried to make light of it anyway. “Oh you know, it’s good for a bard to mix with the common people. Get a feeling for all walks of life so we can be authentic with our work and whatnot.”

Priscilla did not look particularly convinced, but she only nodded slowly and waved down a serving girl to order her own drink. “Did it really have to be here? I think there’s an authentic cockroach on the table.”

Jaskier followed her pointed finger to find she was correct and slammed his own empty tankard down on top of it. “It adds flavour, the grittier the lyrics the more the people can connect. Speaking of which, I hadn’t heard Callonetta would be in town for Imbolc. I thought you would still be holed up in Tretogor for the winter.”

Priscilla frowned at the mention of her stage name. “Callonetta is not. I'm only here to see my idiot friend who hasn’t replied to a single letter since midsummer and has abandoned his position in Oxenfurt, where I went first I might add.”

Jaskier, abashed, avoided her accusing gaze. He did remember receiving one of her regular letters on his way back from Caingorn, but hadn’t had the will to put down in words what had happened. He’d intended to catch up on his correspondence once in residence at Oxenfurt, but that had obviously never occurred.

“I’m sorry ‘Cilla, I really am. Things have been... difficult.” Jaskier’s throat closed, unsure how to put his profound sorrow into words that wouldn’t worry his friend more. A quick glance over at her face proved she was already more concerned than angry.

“I can see that, Jaskier. But when things are hard, that’s when we talk to our friends. Ask for help. The least you could have done is reply to just one of my letters and let me know you’re alive.

“Oh! There’s been a problem with my mail. I think much of it must still be going to the university or getting lost, Valdo said he’d speak to the postmaster about putting my name on his address officially but so far nothing has come through.”

Priscilla’s face wrinkled like Jaskier had made a particularly loud and foul stench. “Valdo? Valdo Marx?”

Too late, Jaskier realized his mistake. Priscilla had been his shoulder to cry on back when he and Valdo had first parted ways, she had heard the worst of his resentment and bile towards the man. He winced. “Yes, Valdo. I’ve been staying with him. He’s different now ‘Cilla, I swear.”

Her eyebrows remained raised like someone was telling her Nilfgaard was a peaceful nation. “Did someone finally cut out his tongue? That’s the only way I can imagine him becoming tolerable. Was it you?”

Jaskier sighed, turning away from Priscilla as he negotiated another refill with the reluctant bar keep. He had to actually show the coin from his pouch before his drink was refilled. He was aware of Priscilla’s assessing eyes on him the whole time. When he turned back to her, taking a deep draught of his ale, her face was still filled with consternation.

“He got older, I guess. Matured. I know you won’t believe me, but I swear he’s a good man under all the, well you know. If it weren’t for him, I’d probably be on the street by now.”

Jaskier realized he’d once again let slip more than he intended when Priscilla’s reacted to that statement by grabbing his arm and stopping him from lifting his tankard again. “What do you mean?” She demanded. “What’s happened?”

Letting her pull his ale wielding arm back down, Jaskier brought his other hand up to scrub over his face, hiding it briefly from his friend. At length, he answered, “I don’t know, exactly. It seems all of Novigrad has been infected with Radovid’s views. Nobody wants to hear songs about a Witcher or monsters anymore. They don’t even want a bard who happens to have been in proximity to a Witcher, even if that association has ended.”

“Ended? You’re not travelling with Geralt this year?”

Jaskier closed his eyes wearily. “No, and I’d really rather not talk about it if that’s alright with you.”

To his immense surprise, Priscilla actually seemed to respect this request and went quiet. She stayed silent long enough that Jaskier opened his eyes to see if she had left him altogether.

A shadow seemed to have settled in her eyes, her expression more somber than he had ever seen her. She wet her lips with a sip of her own drink, as though she needed the courage, before finally speaking again. “Jaskier... I’ve heard some things. It might not be about Geralt, this problem you’re having.”

Jaskier’s brows drew together, confused. His ale clouded mind was having trouble processing this. “What things? Isn’t everything always about Geralt of fucking Rivia?” he added bitterly.

Priscilla’s mouth twisted. “It’s just rumours, but they are about you. They’re not good.”

“Well then bloody well spit it out, what are they saying? It can’t be the Valdo thing, no one cares about that, and I haven’t slept with anyone else scandalous in over a year.”

Taking a deep breath, Priscilla lowered her voice and leaned in so as not to be overheard. “They’re calling you Jaskier the Half-elf.”

Stunned, words fled him. He sat back heavily in his set and stared sightlessly at the table. “How...?” was all he managed, but she took his meaning.

“Well, we all knew there was probably more to your eternal youth than a really good skin scare routine. A smidge of non-human blood here and there is tolerated, even amongst nobility, if it’s far enough back. But then around Saovine, there was a wedding. You performed for a Lord Dalibor’s family?”

Jaskier nodded wordlessly, emptying his tankard almost unconsciously.

“Well, someone at the wedding said they saw scars on your ears,” she continued. “Like you’d had them cut. That’s why you wear the hats all the time, to hide the scars. That’s what they said, anyway.”

“But that’s ridiculous!” he burst out at last. “Plenty of people wear hats! It’s fashion. Half the Redanian court has sucked on my ears personally!”

Priscilla shrugged helplessly. “People believe what they want to believe. Right now the tide in Tretogor is turning against non-humans, a famous bard lying about being half-elf is exactly what they expect. Especially as that court probably remembers sucking on those ears twenty years ago, when you looked the same as you do now.”

“But that’s-- I--” he sputtered, unable to express his outrage and incredulity with the combination of ale and shock muddling his brain. “Why does anyone care? I understand the nobility, but the common folk...how could they turn on me so quickly?”

Priscilla did not look like she was enjoying her role as bearer of bad news. “Commoners can be pricks just like nobles, worse sometimes because they’re hungrier. And, well... there’s more. They’re saying the reason you don’t travel with the Witcher anymore is because he saw through your magical illusions and recognized you as an elf, so he, well, left you. Those that admired Geralt from your songs felt that you betrayed him.”

Jaskier had always thought that people describing words as hitting with physical pain were simply being melodramatic. Now he realized with painful clarity that they were correct; some words did fall like blows against the skin. “How cruel,” he said at length, not really talking to Priscilla. “How cruel, that they should guess the shape of it but not the face. Fate really does have a sense of humour.”

A gentle hand reached out and brushed against his face, wiping a tear that Jaskier was unaware he had shed. “I’m sorry, Jaskier, I really am. I know he meant a lot to you. I wish there was more I could do for you.”

She left unsaid the fact there was no coming back from this, his career was over. The world was only growing to hate non-humans more, not less. A bard who had tricked a hero was practically a villain in a song already. Perhaps he could write a comedy about his own downfall.

“No, Priscilla,” he said with finality, standing up and slinging his lute over his shoulder. “Thank you, but you’ve already done me a great favour by telling me the truth of it. I am in your debt for that, I’ll buy you a drink while you’re in town.”

“Wait, you’re leaving? Now?” She hurried to finish her drink and stood too.

“Yes. I find I have a pressing need to become very unconscious very rapidly. Where are you staying? I can meet you there tomorrow.”

“I haven’t found lodgings yet, but I’ll send you a messenger when I do. Are you sure you won’t stay for a little longer?” she added hopefully.

Patting her shoulder in a manner he hoped was reassuring, he shook his head. “Thank you, truly, but I must be going. We can talk about it more tomorrow.”

It looked like she was going to say something more but Jaskier deliberately pretended not to see, turning instead to weave his way through the crowded room towards the exit.

As he wandered somewhat unsteadily in the direction of Valdo’s house, he found himself hoping both that the other man was home and that he wasn’t. He hated Valdo to see him in this state, but he was also desperate for some form of comfort. Jaskier’s reputation had officially gone tits up, his prospects were ruined, his career probably ended. He deserved a little comfort.

Chapter Text

It wasn’t quite full dark by the time Jaskier made it home, so he wasn’t sure if Valdo would be there or not. His engagements often lasted well into the evening, as Jaskier’s used to, so he was usually more likely to find his lover at home during the day or very late at night. Still, he hoped that perhaps Valdo had taken a rare night off, to rest his voice before the upcoming feast night.

He didn’t really believe this would be true though, so he was genuinely surprised to open the door and find the living area already occupied not just by Valdo, but two other men he didn’t recognize. The hearth was already lit and a spread of half-eaten dishes indicated they had been there for some time already.

“Dandelion!” cried Valdo over-loudly, evidently having indulged in some of the many open bottles on the table. “What excellent timing. We were just bemoaning the lack of a fourth player for our game! Come, do sit down.”

Jaskier allowed himself to be steered into a seat at the table and accepted the cup pressed into his hand, still tipsy from earlier but not opposed to further libations in his time of need. He felt oddly shy in front of these strangers, his usual confidence vanished in the face of Priscilla’s revelations. “What are we playing then, Valdo?”

Valdo had sat down next to Jaskier and now slung an arm heavily around his shoulders. “It’s a new game, the very latest from Cidaris. What was it called again, Rasz? Dead man’s blind?”

“Dead man’s bluff,” replied the taller of the two strangers. He was dark of hair and eye, with a strong build but clothes that betrayed he was no laborer. At another time, Jaskier might have found him quite appealing.

“Thats right,” replied Valdo, “Dead man’s bluff. It’s a little more sophisticated than anything you’d find here, of course, but I’m sure our wily Dandelion will pick it up in no time. He’s quite the card sharp, aren’t you my dear?”

Valdo’s good mood was infectious and Jaskier latched on to it, deliberately suppressing the complex mess of his own emotions. Plastering on a smirk, he answered, “A child would be considered a master gamesman compared to you, Valdo.”

Valdo gasped in mock outrage and reached for another bottle. “Just for that, I’m drinking the last of the Touissantois red. I was saving it for you, Dandelion, but only true companions like Chleb here deserve it.” He poured a generous measure into the cup of the shorter man, then belying his words, refilled Jaskier’s cup anyway.

“Oh! where are my manners, I’m nearly as rude as you are,” continued Valdo. “These here are Rasz and Chleb, my dear friends from Cidaris. Neither one of them is a musician, but I promise you they can drink like one. They’re here to experience Imbolc in the city.”

Introductions were made, more wine was poured, and the game commenced. Valdo’s friends were quiet at first but soon warmed up to Jaskier, quickly helping to fill the room with laughter and good cheer. They were well educated but held no fancy airs, Jaskier guessed they were probably second sons of lesser nobles, used to mixing with a broader slice of society.

They moved on to other games, eventually finding dice and placing wagers. Jaskier really was a bit of a card sharp, but he was drunk enough and kind enough to let the others win their share of rounds. As the evening progressed so too did their intoxication, working their way through an impressive array of fine wines. Chleb produced a tiny but intricately engraved silver spoon and matching snuff box, which was actually filled to the brim with fisstech. At first Jaskier demurred, but soon found himself accepting the box as it made its rounds and wiping his nose like the rest of them.

As their spirits and voices rose, so did their restlessness. They soon decided coin was a boring thing to bet with and started making increasingly outrageous dares instead. Chleb, the more outgoing of the pair, happily wore his smalls on his head, while Rasz manfully ate an entire jar of pickled horseradish. Even Valdo, usually too prideful to lower himself in such a way, ended up shouting out the window how shapely he found the Hierarch's buttocks.

Warmed by the sense of camaraderie and not a small amount of wine, Jaskier forgot his woes and eventually found himself sprawled across Valdo’s lap with his head supported on Valdo’s shoulder, feeling deeply relaxed and enjoying the way the other man's hands started to roam his exposed bits of skin. Rasz and Chleb had clearly deduced the nature of the bards’ relationship and appeared not to care, carrying on drinking and dicing like Valdo’s hand wasn’t quite obviously tweaking a nipple inside Jaskier’s loosened chemise.

A few rounds later, however, Jaskier noticed that Rasz’s eyes kept returning to his chest and below, where Valdo was making inroads to Jaskier’s breeches. Valdo apparently noticed this too. “Like what you see, Rasz? Jealous?” he asked with a smirk in his voice.

Rasz scoffed, wiping at his nose and sniffing deeply. “A man has every right to look when you’re putting on a show like that. You should be charging admission.”

Chleb laughed, laying down his cards triumphantly. “And you’ll need to be, if your man here keeps losing like this. Come on then Dandelion, pay up.”

Jaskier roused from his slightly dazed state, “what were we playing again this time?”

“I do believe it was your turn for a dare, my darling. I guess it’s up to Chleb to ask it of you.” Valdo’s voice came from just behind Jaskier’s ear, and he nipped at it after speaking.

A mischievous look came over Chleb’s face then, and he looked briefly at Rasz, who raised his own eyebrows in some sort of silent communication. Looking back at Jaskier and Valdo, Chleb grinned widely. “I dare you, Dandelion, to show us that prick Valdo’s been fondling all night.”

A stunned silence held for a moment, then broke as Valdo laughed raucously, shaking the man in lap with the motion. “Well, my dear? Melitele knows you’ve never been the shy type.”

Jaskier hesitated. While he was indeed known to flirt with public encounters, he had always enjoyed the thrill of nearly being caught. He had never actually exposed himself on purpose and he wasn’t quite sure if he wanted to now.

As if sensing his hesitation, Valdo’s hand dove deeper into Jaskier’s pants and caressed his cock with an encouraging hand. “Come now love, don’t tell me you of all people have stage fright.”

Summoning his bravado and emptying his cup before slamming it on the table emphatically, Jaskier forced a laugh himself. “Hardly. You know I live to serve my adoring public.” Before he could second guess himself, Jaskier swiftly set about unlacing his breeches. Before he could fully open them, Valdo was assisting him by grasping his now half hard cock and drawing it out himself.

“Ahh, there we go. Give us a moment lads, I promise you it gets even prettier.” Valdo started stroking as he spoke, using far more technique than he usually did in his efforts to fill Jaskier’s cock further.

Jaskier found himself watching as though in a trance, every bit as mesmerized as Rasz and Chleb. The other men had gone silent, as though speaking or laughing would risk breaking some sort of spell. He felt their eyes on his reddening prick like a patch of sunlight, illuminating and warming. He felt a confusing mixture of embarrassment and arousal, even a slight twinge of pride at how enraptured the men looked.

Valdo’s ministrations had for once had the desired effect; Jaskier’s cock stood full and proud, a droplet of fluid leaking from the tip like the jewel on a royal scepter. Valdo’s hand squeezed tight at the base and Jaskier could not contain a moan. He closed his eyes but could still hear the two men shuffling restlessly in their seats across the table.

“Chleb,” said Valdo conversationally, like he was suggesting another round of drinks, “I dare you to suck this sweet thing. I’m sure it won’t be a hardship, you’re practically drooling.”

Jaskier startled and tried to shift around in Valdo’s grasp to stare at him. Valdo held him fast though, and instead talked into his ear; “I know you’ve been wanting to play with others, Dandelion, it’s alright. I don’t mind.”

His mind slowed by drink, Jaskier struggled to parse what was wrong with that statement. Yes, he had been something of a flirt and a tomcat, but he had thought Valdo understood Jaskier’s desire to be monogamous with him. Before he could explain this though, a warm wet heat enveloped his cock and swept his protests away.

Chleb had apparently taken Jaskier’s lack of complaint as an open invitation and gotten straight to work. He was clearly no stranger to the art of fellatio, taking Jaskier deep and rippling his throat around the bard’s hard length. Jaskier was unable to stop himself from thrusting up in surprised pleasure.

Valdo, meanwhile, took this opportunity to ruck Jaskier’s chemise up around his shoulders and set to roughly pinching his nipples with enthusiasm. Jaskier usually didn’t like too much of that, but the alcohol and fisstech running through his blood dulled the edge of the pain and brought it well into the realm of pleasure. He twitched helplessly, torn between the twinned sensations at his groin and chest.

“Gods, he’s gorgeous.” Rasz’s voice came deep and rough, Jaskier opened his eyes to see the bigger man openly caressing the bulge in his own pants.

“Isn’t he just.” Said Valdo with satisfaction, obviously pleased at the effect it was having on his friend. “Rasz, why don’t you fetch us some oil?”

At this, Jaskier came back to himself enough to speak up. A suckjob was one thing, but he wasn’t sure he liked the direction this was heading. “Oil? Valdo, what--”

Valdo took one hand from Jaskier’s nipples to shove two fingers in Jaskier’s mouth, effectively silencing him. “Don’t worry darling, we’ll take good care of you. In fact, I bet Chleb can sort out some fisstech for your pretty cock, can’t you my good man?”

Chleb released Jaskier from his mouth with a wet slurp, nodding his head enthusiastically as he reached for the snuff box. He took a large sip of wine, dumped a spoon of fisstech in his mouth and swirled the mixture in his cheeks. Jaskier’s muffled attempt to speak around the fingers in his mouth was abruptly cut short as Chleb resumed sucking him, using his tongue to spread the fisstech mixture into the slit of Jaskier’s cock.

The swirling tongue and now roving fingers on his balls distracted Jaskier enough that he started sucking Valdo’s fingers when prompted, and barely noticed the numbing effect of the fisstech before its dazzling heat started to radiate through him. He groaned around the fingers, saliva escaping his mouth as he sucked almost desperately, his thoughts scattered.

He sensed the approach of Rasz and heard the clink of a bottle but was still surprised to feel a slick finger at his entrance. When had Chleb gotten his pants totally off? He couldn’t remember. At first, he thought the finger caressing his rim must be Valdo, but when a hand lifted his leg for better access Jaskier realized that was Valdo, plus the hand still in his mouth left the man full occupied.

Looking down, Jaskier saw that Chleb had moved to the side, still bobbing his head on Jaskier’s erection, to make room for Rasz, who was pressing an oiled finger to Jaskier’s hole. His gaze was intense and focused as he pressed steadily forward, his other hand pinning Jaskier’s hip in place.

He wanted to take a minute to breathe, to assess what was happening and what he actually wanted, but the other men seemed far too caught up to even pause for a moment. The fisstech applied to his cock now spread firey tendrils through his entire lower body, delightful curls of pleasure flickering from his toes to the tip of his cock and back again. He couldn’t help but grind down on the finger inside him, eliciting a pleasant throb deep inside him.

“Look how much he wants it,” muttered Rasz almost reverently as he added another finger. “I’ve never seen the like.”

Valdo’s chuckled darkly behind Jaskier’s head. “Yes, he’s a greedy little slut isn’t he. Here Rasz, hold him open for me, will you?”

The hand left his mouth while Chleb pulled off his cock. Before Jaskier could quite grasp what was happening, he was being lifted by the hips then pulled down onto Valdo’s cock without warning. He hissed at the pain and tried to scrabble back from it, but gravity and several hands pulled him down further. Valdo’s dick was not especially large, but Rasz’s fingers hadn’t been very thorough and the surprise tensed Jaskier’s entire body, making the hard length inside him feel painfully huge.

“Valdo, please, no—it hurts, I don’t want--”

“Shhh, shhh, just relax. It’ll feel better in a moment. Chleb?” Valdo’s voice soothed even as he held Jaskier’s hips in a punishingly firm grip, not letting him have even a chance of wriggling off his cock.

Chleb obediently went back to swallowing down Jaskier’s cock, and after a moment it became apparent that he’d filled his mouth with fisstech again. He even lathed his tongue over Jaskier’s balls, spreading a numbing trail of fisstech that soon turned to fire. Jaskier sobbed, trying to pull his vulnerable bits away from the intense sensations but only pushing himself further onto Valdo’s cock.

“There we go, now we’re getting somewhere,” came the far-off sound of Valdo’s voice. Jaskier was too consumed by the world of pleasure/pain that was engulfing him to really hear Valdo, but he certainly felt the other man begin to lift and drop him, simultaneously thrusting his hips upwards to shove deeper into the smaller bard.

At some point Rasz had also opened his breeches to pull out his own cock and was now stroking it in time with Valdo’s thrusts into Jaskier. He blearily noted that Rasz’s member was considerably bigger in both girth and length than most of the cocks he’d ever seen. Perhaps it was the wine talking but he briefly thought of it as true monster, worthy of being slain by a witcher.

He’d hardly finished his thought when Valdo managed to shift him into a better position and dragged his invading cock across Jaskier’s sweet spot, making him moan and involuntarily shove up into Chleb’s ceaseless sucking. This set off a loop of Jaskier pushing into the other man’s throat until the pleasure became too much, then grinding down onto the cock inside him until that likewise overwhelmed him, then back again and again.

Jaskier felt the fisstech turning the physical feelings into brighter, sharper things, explosions that left aftershocks zinging up his spine. It was like one continuous orgasm, or thousands of tiny ones, he couldn’t decide. In the back of his mind, he felt some notion of resentment at these strange men seeing him so vulnerable, nearly insensate with pleasure, but the rest of his consciousness was too awash with the feeling to care all that much.

Just as the waves of intensity seemed they were about to crest and form some greater beast, Valdo abruptly stopped moving and simply held Jaskier spread open on his cock. “Here, Rasz, give us that bit of leather from your hair.”

Bemused, Rasz left off stripping his own monstrous erection and pulled the binding from his hair, releasing the dark waves to fall forwards. He offered the strip of leather to Valdo, whom Jaskier felt shake his own head behind him.

“No, my hands are full of slut right now. Be a good man and tie that around the bottom of his prick. I don’t want him spilling before me.”

Chleb had obligingly moved off to watch, now also openly stroking himself, so Rasz had plenty of room to wind the leather around the base of Jaskier’s prick and tie it off tightly. It seemed he couldn’t resist stroking it a bit too, his big hand almost able to grasp the full length of it. Valdo grunted approvingly and resumed his fucking, growing more enthusiastic and erratic as his own peak approached.

Rasz stopped stroking Jaskier’s now throbbing cock and instead set his hands about the bard’s hips, taking over the task of moving him on top of Valdo. He was strong, and his movements showed it; he started to slam Jaskier down harder and harder, his grip no doubt leaving bruises.

Valdo picked up the pace and for a long moment they were locked into a furious flurry of movement, heavy breathing and moaning coming from all around. Jaskier cried out wordlessly as he felt his cock throb and ache with denied release, tears springing to his eyes in frustration.

Whether it was the cry or simply his time, Valdo was finally spurred to his own peak, swearing loudly as he fucked up into Jaskier a few last powerful jerks of his hips. Jaskier felt his ass become slicker and warmer with Valdo’s release, the heat blending in with the fire of the fisstech.

Valdo sat back, apparently catching his breath, before lifting Jaskier off him and pushing him forward into Rasz’s arms. Rasz caught him easily, lowering them both to the floor and stroked Jaskier’s trembling back like he was calming a skittish horse. Jaskier couldn’t find the energy to move on his own just yet and he found himself craving the comforting touch, so he allowed it to continue.

“Gods, I need that. Here, Chleb, pour us some more wine, I’m parched. It’s thirsty work keeping this slut satisfied.” Valdo’s voice was full of mirth, but it rang harshly in Jaskier’s ears. He was so confused, how had this happened so fast? What had he done to make Valdo think this was what he wanted?

Before he could gather his wits enough to stand up, Rasz was lifting Jaskier and turning him around, arranging him onto his elbows and knees. He let out an unhappy groan as two large fingers pressed into him, pushing Valdo’s cum deeper inside.

“Cor, you’re filthy Rasz,” came the voice of Chleb. “Here, put some of this in him. I bet it’ll drive him crazy.”

Jaskier struggled to see what they were talking about and tried to twist around to escape Rasz’s grasp, but the hand between his shoulders was heavy and immovable, simply forcing him further to the ground so his chest was pressed to Valdo’s favourite tacky rug.

The fingers left his hole for a moment then returned, stroking and scissoring with a purpose, twisting round and round like they were trying to touch every inch of Jaskier’s passage. After a few minutes it became apparent what that purpose was as the numbing tingle of fisstech spread through his ass completely.

Jaskier whimpered, shuddering as the feeling morphed from numbness to heightened sensitivity, the probing digits now igniting what felt like a sea of sparks. His noises seemed to motivate Rasz, who hurriedly removed his fingers and replaced them with the head of his absurdly fat cock. Jaskier was loose and wet from Valdo, but he still feared the hefty weapon Rasz was wielding and tried to scramble away from it.

Valdo seemed to find this extremely funny, barely able to speak between peals of laughter. “Chleb, haha, Chleb you have to hold him. Anyone would fear that beast Rasz calls a cock.”

Chleb seemed to heed his words and appeared in front of Jaskier, grabbing his shoulders and pinning them down. Rasz gratefully moved both his hands back, one to grasp Jaskier’s hips and one to guide his monstrous member inside the bard’s dripping ass.

The head slipped inside, and the big man groaned, his deep voice rumbling. “Still pretty fucking tight, Metlitele save me.” He pressed inexorably deeper, slowly pushing his immense girth into Jaskier’s channel inch by endless inch.

Jaskier realized he was crying, eyes leaking continuously, but found himself unable to make any kind of words. He felt humiliated by the situation, but simultaneously desperate for more. He couldn’t understand why his body was betraying him so thoroughly, even with the fisstech. Surely chemicals alone couldn’t make a body sing like this. The press of the massive cock was uncomfortable, but also felt so right, his ass squeezing rhythmically with a pleasurable throb. His own straining cock was once again leaking fluid copiously, pouring onto the rug in a mortifying puddle.

Finally, Rasz was seated completely inside the bard and he started up an impatient rhythm of his own, strong thighs powering his relentless movements. Jaskier sobbed into his arms, hiding his face. The feeling was so much, too much. He thought that Rasz’s huge cock must certainly be doing damage to his innards, but it was far more pleasurable than painful. The fisstech made his ass feel completely alive, buzzing and tingling in time with each thrust in.

The size of Rasz meant he dragged against Jaskier’s prostate constantly, setting off small explosions that ran all the way back to Jaskier’s cock, causing it to jerk and leap even as it dripped on the carpet. “Please, please, pleasepleaseplease” he found himself moaning involuntarily, not sure what he was asking for but wanting it desperately.

“Sounds like he wants it harder, Rasz” came Chleb’s voice. Jaskier realized that the other man was no longer restraining his shoulders, and from the sound of it was aggressively stroking his own cock somewhere over Jaskier’s head.

Rasz grunted in reply and started to thrust with abandon, the sound of skin slapping against skin picking up speed. Jaskier cried out in one continuous low moan, the pummeling of his prostate translating to fireworks all through his body. He felt his existence reduced to a hole, just a hollow thing to be filled, made to be used. He felt like his ass was actually sucking the massive cock back in with each stroke, a hungry mouth desperately swallowing.

He heard a curse and felt a warm spatter over his back; Chleb had climaxed at the wanton sight below him. Jaskier both hated and loved the sensation, the part of his mind that was thoroughly absorbed with pleasure saying this was right, this was good; this is what a pleasure object like Jaskier was for.

The thought broke him, Jaskier sobbed and the intensity peaked into what felt like a hot white light, filling his body with pure sensation. Waves pulsed from his ass to his cock and back again, balls drawn up so tight they would surely never loosen, while his whole body writhed mindlessly on the cock inside him.

The buzzing, bursting pleasure crested and broke, too powerful for the leather strap to hold back. Jaskier came and came, mind whiting out in shock as he spilled endlessly. Distantly he heard Rasz peak with a roar, rabbiting his hips into Jaskier and causing the wave of pleasure to crash over him again and again.

Sometime later, Jaskier roused to the sound of quiet laughter and conversation, somewhere over in the direction of the table. He realized he had been unconscious, as he took stock of his body, he found it sore and filthy but now lying on the couch rather than the floor. He didn’t open his eyes, unwilling to even contemplate facing the other men still in the room. Instead, he curled into a tighter ball and pretended sleep until it finally claimed him.

Chapter Text

Jaskier awoke in the predawn light with a shiver, apparently it wasn’t yet spring enough to be sleeping naked without a blanket. He got up from the couch gingerly, testing stiffened muscles and grimacing at the feeling of the mess between his legs. He stumbled towards the wash basin, bumping into the debris of the night before as he went.  
 
As he washed himself, avoiding examining his body too closely, he turned the events of the previous night over in his mind. The meeting with Priscilla felt like a fresh wound, sensitive to even the slightest attention. Even skipping over it lightly made his chest ache like it was full of glass shards. He tried to push it out of his mind again, but it was still hard to make sense of the night after that. 

He hadn’t been drunk enough to black out, he remembered the facts of what happened and how each moment led to another, but he struggled to add meaning. He had been having fun with Valdo and his friends from Cidaris, taking his mind off that thing that happened before. It could have been any other night, with any mix of faces. 
 
But then it changed. Valdo had changed. Or had he always been that way? Had he planned this all along, or was it just the drink and fisstech that had brought it on? Why hadn’t Jaskier himself stopped it if he didn’t want to do all of...that?  They hadn’t talked about it, no one had really asked him if he wanted to fuck these strangers, especially not all at once.  
 
Was it really that bad? He had come his brains out, after all. If someone had proposed it to him beforehand, he probably would have said yes. It wasn’t an unreasonable assumption for Valdo to have made, knowing Jaskier as he did. So why did Jaskier feel so bad about it? 
 
Locating some fresh laundry and dressing mindlessly, without a shred of his usual flair for it, Jaskier examined his aching heart. As a poet and a romantic he was accustomed to the bloody business of investigating one's inner self and forced himself to think with brutal clarity. Was he truly upset about the sex, or was he deflecting his feelings about the whole world calling him a half-elf and rejecting him outright for it? 

He was still wrestling with the turmoil of his thoughts when Valdo sauntered in, yawning and stretching. He puttered about looking for a hair of the dog and had filled two cups with wine before apparently noticing Jaskier’s state. 
 
“Dandelion? You look ill. Had a bit too much last night, did we?” Valdo held out a cup of wine questioningly. 

Jaskier did not move to take the cup, fixing Valdo with a blank stare. “We did.” 
 
Sensing Jaskier’s loaded meaning, Valdo set down the cups and took a step towards Jaskier, stopping abruptly when Jaskier also took a step back. “Are you alright? I know things got a bit rough--” 

Jaskier barked out an ugly laugh. “A  bit?”  

Valdo frowned deeply, concern in every line of his face. “Are you hurt? You didn’t say anything, is there blood? I can call for a healer, let me--”  

Jaskier threw up a hand, unable to hear that line of questioning. “Stop. I’m fine. It’s fine. I just didn’t... I didn’t expect any of that. It wasn’t what I wanted when I came home.”  

This time Jaskier didn’t step back as Valdo approached, and allowed the other man to rest a tentative hand on his arm.   

“I’m so sorry Dandelion, I am. I didn’t realize you were that far gone; I was too blinded by drink myself. And the  fisstech ! Gods, I never need to see that white death again. Truly, we went too far last night.”  

Jaskier wanted to say more about the sex specifically, but he found himself nodding in agreement. If he’d needed a divine sign to tell him to sober the fuck up, this was it. “I could do without seeing a bottle of wine for a while too.”  

Valdo’s face set in determination. “You’re absolutely right, Dandelion. We’ve let ourselves be seduced by the vices of the city. It’s high time we got back on the straight and narrow. Stop trying so hard to destroy our livers and get back to being the best bards on the continent. Perhaps a change of  scenery , we could go back to  Cidaris , even!”  

But Jaskier’s face had frozen at the mention of being the  best bards .   

“Dandelion?” questioned Valdo softly, bringing his hand up to Jaskier’s face to brush a lock of hair back.  

“We can’t,” he replied faintly. “I’m not... I can’t be a bard anymore, Valdo.”  

The words hung in the air, the ones he had been doing his best not to think ever since Priscilla told him his reputation was ruined.  
 
“Whatever do you mean, Dandelion? You can’t give up because of a bad season--” 

“Its’s not just a bad season, Valdo!” exclaimed Jaskier. “It’s worse. So much worse.”  

Valdo pulled a chair from the table and motioned to Jaskier to sit down, doing so himself. “Come, tell me, what do you mean.”  

Jaskier sat down heavily. “It’s all over  Redania , maybe further. They’re calling me  half-elf.  Some thrice cursed  pig-fucker  at that wedding said they saw scars on my ears.”  

Valdo looked pole-axed, eyes wide and mouth agape. “But who...  why  would anyone say such a ridiculous thing! You’ve clearly got barely a drop of elf in you!”  

Jaskier flinched, hating the reminder that his heritage was anything other than invisible. “That’s the rub. Protesting that I’m only a  little bit  of an elf is like saying I’m only a  little bit  of a Drowner, to them. To those that care about such things, I’m a monster who deceived them all.”  

Valdo was silent for a moment, contemplating. “ So  who spread these rumours? All these lost engagements, the public turning against you – someone has to answer for it!”  

Jaskier sagged back in his chair, staring sightlessly at the ceiling. “It doesn’t matter Valdo. The damage is done, I’ll never play in  Redania  again, possibly nowhere else either. In any case Priscilla didn’t know who--”  

“Priscilla!” Valdo’s face twisted in dismay. “Why were you talking to  her!  That vixen hates me.”  

Too late, Jaskier remembered that Priscilla and Valdo had exchanged more than their share of heated arguments in their student years, their mutual antagonism had been nearly as legendary as Valdo and Jaskier’s rivalry.  
 
He waved a had placatingly. “She just came to see if I knew about the rumours. Which I didn’t, so she did me a favour actually. I was a bit rude to her when I ran off, I really ought to go see her today. That reminds me, did a messenger come? She said she’d let me know when she found a place to stay last night?” 

Valdo had set about clearing the mess from the table, clearly unimpressed with the direction of the conversation. “No, but perhaps she forgot. Or didn’t really mean it, maybe she doesn’t want to associate with you  now  that she can’t cling to your coat tails.”  

Jaskier didn’t reply, struck by the idea that one of his closest friends could have turned on him. Maybe Priscilla really didn’t mean to see him again, perhaps she had just said that to be polite. Being seen with him in Novigrad really could hurt her reputation, and as Callonetta her star was still rising. 
 
Valdo saw Jaskier’s fallen expression and rushed over to gently take his hands. “I’m sorry, Dandelion, I didn’t mean that. I was being petty. I’m sure Priscilla will send for you today. And even if she doesn’t, you’ll still have me. I’ll always take care of you, you know that don’t you?” 

Jaskier nodded and ducked his head, ever unsure how to take such words from Valdo. “I know I just... wish you didn’t have to.”  

Valdo squeezed Jaskier’s hands then stood up, gesturing broadly. “Well, I like doing it. In  fact  I’ve decided that we  shall  go to  Cidaris , where I can take care of you properly. You’ll love my estate  there;  the beds are all goose down and I’ve just had the most marvelous tiling finished on the main hall. I’ve more than enough offers there to work for a year and keep us in style while I’m at it!”  

Cidaris. Jaskier had only passed through, never spent any length of time there. It held no attraction for him other than not being in Redania and the possibility that the rumours about his lineage had not reached there yet. After imagining doors close on him all night, this felt like one finally opening. 
 
An end to Novigrad and all the mess that had followed him here. Yes, Jaskier decided, this was his only option. “I guess we should start packing then. What’s the summer like there, do you think I’ll need new boots?” 

***  

Having made their decision to leave, Jaskier and Valdo spent the next few days in a whirl of activity. The city itself seemed to leap to life after Imbolc, as though the ritual lighting of fires had lit a metaphorical fire under their collective  arse . Valdo sold off whatever excess furniture and household goods he had acquired, reducing their packing to clothing, instruments, books and luxuries. He was also out most days saying his goodbyes to his patrons, making promises for next year and accepting various gifts  

They did both stop drinking so much, too busy to loiter in taverns in any case. They stuck to finishing off the last few bottles of their wine collection in the house, choosing not to stock up on anything new. Jaskier was faintly impressed to see Valdo regifting the many precious bottles that came his way, knowing that he himself was pained to see such fine vintages go untouched.  

Jaskier watched anxiously for a messenger every day, attempting to stay at home and accomplish what tasks he could there. He tried to keep his mind occupied with thoughts of Cidaris, how he might establish himself there and perhaps live more independently from Valdo. 
 
Finally, the question of whether Priscilla had subtly ended their close friendship drove Jaskier to leave the house in search of her. He was tired of these indirect games, he’d had more than enough of that with Geralt. If she wanted rid of him, she’d have to say it to his face. 

Thus fueled by indignation, Jaskier systematically asked for both Priscilla and Callonetta (in case she was performing after all) at every inn, lodging house and tavern he could think of. He had a notion of what sort of establishment she would prefer, knowing her tastes, so it only took a handful of tries before he found her. 
 
She was halfway through her lunch and looked very surprised to see Jaskier, quickly turning to indignation. “Oh, so now you want to see me?” 

Jaskier had worked up quite a head of steam during his search, so it was rather confounding to be confronted by Priscilla’s own anger.  

 “Err.. Yes? I mean yes, I do! I searched half the city to find you and If you don’t want to see me anymore, you’ll have to say it to my face!” he declared, finding his own outrage again. 
 
Priscilla now looked more confused than annoyed. “Why wouldn’t I want to see you? You’re the one who told the messenger you weren’t interested in coming to see me!” 

Now equally confused, Jaskier helped himself to a chair at her table and sat down. “What messenger? I’ve been waiting for days, no one came!”  

“I sent one to you that same night I saw you,” she said slowly. “He told me that a bard answered the door and asked him to convey his regrets.”  

“I was home, but I never said that. I don’t even remember anyone knocking at the door, but I was a bit, well its possible I missed it.” Jaskier was abashed, recalling the state he had been in.  

A cold certainty settled over Priscilla’s face. “Valdo,” she spat, “it had to have been him.  Of course  he wouldn’t want you talking to me. You might realize what a total shitstain he is.”  

This suggestion sent a sick feeling through Jaskier, his world suddenly off kilter. Logically, this was the only explanation, it fit with the Valdo that Priscilla knew and that Jaskier had known in  Oxenfurt . It clashed terribly though with the Valdo that had supported Jaskier through this nightmarish period in  Novigrad , never judging or scolding him, showing him such  generosity ...  

It was impossible to hold the two realities in his mind at once. He shook his head in denial. “No, Priscilla, he’s not like that. He’s just, he gets a little jealous. I’m sure he meant no harm by it.” Even as he said the words his own mind contradicted them, reminding him of how Valdo had watched Jaskier be distraught over the idea that Priscilla didn’t want to associate with him anymore.  

Priscilla looked skeptical, clearly not believing a word Jaskier said. He couldn’t blame her, it sounded weak even to him.  

“I think you’ve been spending far too much time with him, and certainly too much time at the bottom of a bottle. You should come back to  Oxenfurt  with me for a week or two, take some time to clear your head of that hack. See some of our old friends, everyone’s been missing you this winter.”  

Jaskier shook his sharply and stood up, backing away from the table as though it represented  Oxenfurt  itself, a city of full of people who might not love him anymore. “No, it’s fine, I’m fine. I’m going to Cidaris. You can write me there.”  

Priscilla stood up as though to stop  him or  follow him. “ Cidaris ?! Not with Valdo, surely--”  

“You can write me there. I’ll send a letter. I’ve got to go, I’m sorry. Lots to pack, errands to run. Goodbye, Priscilla. I’ll send a letter, I promise.”  

He turned and fled; his mind alight with conflicting thoughts. Could he really go to  Cidaris  now, with Valdo? Knowing of this small betrayal with the messenger, how could Jaskier trust him? But what would he do otherwise? He couldn’t go to  Oxenfurt , that was certain. He had no desire to find out which of his friends and colleagues hated his mixed blood.   

But where else could he go? His welcome in various courts was no longer certain, nor could he rely on his reputation or repertoire of popular  witcher  songs to support him on the road anymore. All he had really was his lute and whatever was left of his savings in the bank.  

The bank ,   realized Jaskier. It was a logical step to take, whether he was leaving for  Cidaris  or anywhere else. He would need those funds to support himself if he didn’t want to rely on Valdo entirely, which was seeming like an increasingly dubious plan. He let his feet carry him to  Heirarch  Square, mind still flitting about trying to make sense of it all.   

The bank was not busy, but when he made his withdrawal request at the window it seemed to take an age for the teller to return. When she did, it was not with any coins but with a set of papers that she was squinting at fiercely.  

“This account has been  closed;  this withdrawal cannot be processed. Did you want to make a withdrawal from a different account?” Her voice managed to convey boredom and intense scrutiny at the same time, a marvel.  

“Closed?!,” exclaimed Jaskier, baffled. “But I never closed it. I’m the account holder, this is my only account.”  

She gave him a flat look. “Julian Alfred Pankratz? Viscount de Lettenhove?”  

He huffed in irritation. “Yes, that’s me. This is my account; it had all  my  money in it. I never closed it. I think I would remember seeing your  lovely  countenance when I withdrew my life savings, my dear.”  

The bank teller narrowed her eyes, and an unfriendly set came over her face.  Apparently,  sarcasm was the wrong route to take. “No one can close an account except the account holder.  So  you must have closed the account.”  

Jaskier bit his tongue to stop the curses spilling out. He took a deep breath and schooled his face to serenity. “If I did not personally come to this building and close the account, how was it closed?”  

She examined the papers more closely. “It says here you sent a signed and sealed message by verified courier. About a week ago.”  

“Wait,  sealed?”  Jaskier snaked a  hand out  and snatched the papers, ignoring the affronted noise the teller made. He saw a letter made out in an unfamiliar hand, indeed stating a request for withdrawal and account closure. The heavy wax seal affixed to the bottom was  his  seal, made by  his  signet ring. The one at the bottom of his travel bag in a small box of stationary, back at... Valdo’s house.  

His grip went slack, allowing the bank teller to snatch the papers back and close her window on him abruptly. He stepped back in a daze, eventually wandering out into the bright sunlight of the square.   

He wouldn’t . It was the only thought Jaskier could allow himself to think.  Valdo wouldn’t have done that.  Valdo could not have done this thing and be the man that Jaskier had thought he was living with. This was cruel, this was wrong, this was  theft .   

After he let that word cross his mind Jaskier couldn’t help but follow it with why. Why would Valdo want Jaskier’s money? The man clearly made more than enough coin on his own, plus he had land and an estate back in Cidaris. The sum that had been in Jaskier’s account wasn’t insignificant, but it paled in comparison to what Valdo could earn as a well-established bard in the types of noble circles he ran in. 
 
Then a terrible, poisoned thought occurred. What if Valdo wanted something other than money? What if he wanted Jaskier in a desperate position, with no money to support himself. An ever-darker thought followed it – had Valdo engineered Jaskier’s downfall entirely?  

Unable to think clearly, Jaskier walked mechanically to a wineseller and exchanged one of the few coins in his purse for a skin of cheap red. He started downing it automatically as he forced himself to walk back towards Valdo’s house.  
 

It was madness, his own mind had finally turned against him completely. He must have had some sort mental malady after the mountain, maybe losing Geralt had broken him more thoroughly than he had ever realized. How could he be imagining Valdo to be such a storybook villain? It was ridiculous to think the man had the desire, or even the  capability  to single handedly ruin Jaskier this way. But there were no other explanations, when one laid out the facts.  

Tormented, Jaskier fairly flew the last few streets and slammed his way through the door. “Marx!” he cried, uncaring if the whole street heard him. “Where are you!”  

Jaskier wobbled a bit as he stalked through the lower rooms, having finished and tossed aside his skin of wine. He’d just knocked a chair over when Valdo appeared, looking puzzled and irritated by the noise. “Calm down, Dandelion, I'm right here. No need to wake the city watch.”  

“Is it true?” cried Jaskier, too caught up in his whirlwind of emotion to bother with niceties. “Did you send Priscilla’s messenger away?!”  

Frowning, Valdo came closer and tried to reach a hand for Jaskier, but the other bard batted it away angrily.   

“What on earth are you talking about, I told you no messenger came.” His tone was beyond certain, as though stating the sky was blue and irritated to be questioned on it.  

Jaskier hesitated, having expected Valdo to confirm it. “That’s not what she said. Priscilla said--”  

“You saw her? I told you she hates  me,  she’d say anything to make me look bad. Why would you believe her over me?” Valdo was now moving from irritation to actual anger.   

Jaskier took a step back. “I don’t-- I don’t believe her  over  you, that’s not--”  

Valdo abruptly turned and hurled a lamp at the wall in a sudden explosion of violence, shocking Jaskier into stunned silence.  

“After all I’ve done for you, all it takes is a set of tits and a pretty face to turn you against me! How fickle can you possibly BE!”  

He flinched back from the raw fury in Valdo’s voice, his entire body screaming at him not to move. “It’s not  like  that Valdo, not at all--”  

“I bet you were out all this time fucking her silly, laughing at me while she sucked your tiny cock. I don’t know why I expected better from a slut like you!”  

Hurt by the accusation, Jaskier dared to raise his voice back. “I did no such thing! We just  talked .”  

“Don’t FUCKING LIE TO ME!” Suddenly rushing forward, Valdo’s face was a mask of rage and hatred like nothing Jaskier had ever before. He closed his eyes, anticipating a blow. 
 
Instead, he heard wood splintering. Startled, Jaskier opened his eyes to see Valdo staring down a pile of broken wood, the neck of Jaskier’s lute still clenched in his fist. It took Jaskier a moment to parse what he was seeing, to understand what had happened. His lute had been smashed. Valdo had smashed his lute. 

Jaskier let out a wordless cry and fell to his knees, hands hovering over the hopeless wreck of his instrument. Valdo dropped the remains of the neck and stalked away, snorting derisively when he heard Jaskier choke back a sob.   

“That’s what happens to little lying sluts. You won’t see that whore again, and don’t even think about lying about it either. I’ll know.” He moved through the room, gathering his own instrument and jacket,  “I’m  going out, I have better things to do than watch you be pathetic.”  

His words barely reached Jaskier, still sifting through the shards of wood. He was numb, a ringing hollowness in a place where a person should be. He couldn’t quite grasp what was happening, what to think or feel. Still, some spark of fury deep in his soul valiantly reached through the fog to spur him into speaking.  

“Did you take my money, Valdo?” asked Jaskier quietly, not looking to see if Valdo heard him.  

He heard Valdo pause anyway, stopping with the door open. “ Of course  I did,” he replied in a manner of fact tone, “you’re far too much of a mess to be managing your own affairs right now, darling. Especially given that  elves  can’t legally own anything in  Redania . Don’t worry, it’s safe with me. I’ll take care you.”  

With that parting remark, Valdo sauntered out the door and let it bang shut behind him, leaving Jaskier to mourn over the broken body of his lute.  

Chapter Text

“Hurry up, get dressed. The caravan leaves from the Southern Gate at first light.”  

Jaskier heard Valdo’s words but the was still working on understanding them when a pile of clothes was dumped on his head, further complicating matters. The bard had never been a morning person and was particularly opposed to  this  morning, when he wasn’t even properly hungover yet due to still being rather drunk.  

As the world and its contents started to settle into meaningful patterns, Jaskier was hit with the unforgiving memory of the night before. Seeing Priscilla, finding out that Valdo had not only prevented Jaskier from going to his friend but had also  stolen  every coin in his bank account. Then he remembered the lute.  

Anger had been building as Jaskier recalled the other events, but remembering the  lute  took the wind right out of his sails. A crushing numbness filled him, flattening out his rage entirely and making his mind unnaturally quiet. Valdo had smashed his lute,  Filavandrel’s   lute. What was the point of being angry about anything else when Valdo had already destroyed the most precious thing Jaskier owned.  

Jaskier dressed in the dark automatically, following Valdo downstairs to find the last of their belongings had been packed. He picked up the bags that Valdo indicated and mutely walked through the city behind the other bard. It was still full dark, the silent streets reflecting the empty deadness in Jaskier quite satisfactorily. It was a fitting mood to be in when leaving Novigrad.  

They located the caravan and found their place in it, a semi covered cart with room amongst their belongings for a sort of bed and modicum of privacy. As was typical of these arrangements, no one was ready at first light. In the growing illumination of dawn, Jaskier sat across from Valdo and stared at him, willing the other man to say something.   

Something, anything to start a fight. An outlet for the restless rage crawling up and down Jaskier’s spine. He was furious with himself for being fooled by Valdo, but even angrier at Valdo himself. Jaskier wanted to  hit  Valdo, he wanted to smash that fucking face like Valdo smashed the lute. The tension between them was palpable, it felt almost like a physical force.  

Eventually, Jaskier couldn’t stand the impassive mask looking back at him any longer. He didn’t want to set off the same sudden rage as the night before, but he couldn’t resist poking the bear a little. “I thought we were going to travel by sea. Won’t it take weeks, going through  Temeria  on a  cart ?”  

Valdo fixed Jaskier with a look that suggested he was both surprised that someone so stupid could possibly exist and offended that such a person would dare address him. “Does anything actually stick in that empty head of yours? Or is it all Witcher Fairy Tales and dirty limericks in there?”  

Jaskier scowled and prepared to fire back, but Valdo cut him off. “I told you days ago, the attacks from Skellige have grown too bold. It’s far too dangerous to approach Cidaris by sea. I would have thought your own family would have written to you about it, I’ve heard Kerack is struggling with the same.” 
 
The last comment stuck home: Valdo knew very well that Jaskier’s family didn’t write him about anything. They’d be even less likely to do so now, if news of Jaskier’s recent troubles had reached them. Jaskier took the hint and shut up. If they had travelled by sea Jaskier would have been trapped on a ship with no one else for company but sailors, who had little time for bards.  At least travelling overland gave him options; they would no doubt be staying at roadhouses and inns the entire way, if he could perform just once or twice, he’d have enough money to leave the caravan and be leagues away before Valdo noticed.  

Even as he thought it Jaskier was surprised to realize he had already made the decision; he was going to get the hell away from Valdo fucking Marx. The details he hadn’t quite formed in his mind yet, but the intent was clear.   

***  

Unfortunately for Jaskier, it seemed that Valdo could already sense his intent. That tiny seed of defiance that he nurtured in his heart had barely formed, yet something had changed in the way Valdo treated Jaskier. Gone were the long conversations about technique and history, no more word games or teasing puns. They barely held civil conversations; every exchange charged with suppressed anger. Even the casual touches (which Jaskier hadn’t noticed that much) abruptly stopped – no more steadying hands on his back or shoulder squeezes.  
 
Valdo barely even looked at him, except to sneer. The change was shocking in its suddenness and totality, it was as though Valdo had physically peeled off his face to reveal another, entirely different countenance beneath it. Except it wasn’t an unfamiliar face now revealed, it was the same exact version of Valdo that Jaskier had complained about to Priscilla for years. How Jaskier had ever stopped seeing that was a mystery to him now. 

Every night, the train of carts and wagons had barely stopped moving before Valdo alighted, heading directly inside as thought he had very important appointments waiting. By the time Jaskier had seen their overnight belongings to their room, Valdo had always managed to find some company and be well into his cups.  
 
It was confounding. Jaskier had expected Valdo to be possessive, or hovering. Instead, he behaved as though Jaskier was a vaguely ill-mannered servant, ignorable except when he made the most egregious of errors. It threw him off balance, but Jaskier resolved to focus on his own plans and ignore Valdo right back. 

At first, it wasn’t so difficult. He introduced himself as Dandelion, a singer who had played as part of a larger troupe for most of his life, now striking out on his own to start a solo career. It was a tidy excuse that explained why he was unheard of at his age, without much of his own original oeuvre to play yet. Cutting out Geralt or anything else too closely related to  Jaskier the Bard  left him with a rather scant set list, but he was nothing if not a professional and quickly came up with a few bar room ditties that were popular enough to earn him a few coins, if not applause.  

After ten days  travel  they were far enough into  Temeria  that it was plausible that no one would have heard that Jaskier the bard was half-elven, or that they would particularly care, but he still didn’t want to risk it. Once it was known that Jaskier was travelling with this specific caravan it would be harder to leave that identity behind.   

As they travelled further through  Temeria’s  more coastal region and closer to  Cidaris , Jaskier pondered this point with increasing frequency. Did he even want to be Jaskier the bard anymore? Once he left Valdo behind in one of these highway towns and got far enough away from  Redania  that no one really gave a damn if their bard had pointy ears or not, was  Jaskier  even who he wanted to be now?  

Jaskier was a foolish, lovesick boy who followed a Witcher around for twenty years. His career was built on half-truths, fairytales and wishful thinking. Jaskier, the ‘white wolf’s bard’ was fickle, flighty and capricious. There was nothing stable or steady about him. Far too fixated on romance and what he  wanted  to see, not the world that was before him. Being  that  Jaskier was exactly how he ended up in this mess.  

Selling a bard without an instrument was difficult, but he had picked up a tin whistle in one of the first towns they stopped in and made do with it. Such a minor inconvenience as losing his primary instrument was no obstacle to a master bard. Every time he pulled off a tricky song on the tiny pipe, he felt a surge of smug satisfaction. Surely Valdo could not have anticipated that destroying Jaskier’s lute would not be the crippling blow it would have been to Valdo himself.   

But then suddenly it became difficult to get permission from the innkeepers to play. Instead of welcoming the relief of a travelling bard to keep the customers in a drinking mood, it seemed that the proprietors of every establishment south of the  Pontar  had become averse to making money. They didn’t want Jaskier to play drinking songs, they didn’t want romantic ballads or jigs or even  lyricless  melodies. They didn’t want any music whatsoever.  

Stumped after a third rejection in as many days, Jaskier stormed back to the table where he had eaten dinner with Valdo and the  friends  he seemed to have made among the caravanner's.  He was used to Valdo talking only to the others and  pointedly  ignoring any contributions to the conversation that Jaskier himself might make, so it took him a moment to realize that this time Valdo really was addressing him.  

“Dandelion,  Dandelion! Y es  you  silly tart I mean you. Was the  innkeep  not in the mood for your little whistle songs?”  

Valdo’s tone was light, but Jaskier sensed the menace lying beneath it. Wary, he replied truthfully; “No, he wasn’t. No one in this part of  Temeria  seems to be keen for it. It’s such a shame I lost my lute, isn’t it?” He couldn’t resist the jab, though he instantly regretted it when Valdo’s face dropped any  pretense  of civility.  

“Hmm, that is strange. I wonder if it’s anything to do with the  rumours  I’ve been hearing about that bard.” Valdo said this last part to the merchant beside him, as though discussing some choice bit of gossip they had discovered together earlier.  

“Ah yes, the monstrous Jaskier. Last I heard he was part Leshen, with antlers and all. You’d want to watch out for that one.”  Jaskier rolled his eyes and sipped at his ale, the only kind drink he’d allowed himself since leaving Novigrad, and in much lesser quantities than before. He hadn’t wanted to be off his guard in front of Valdo, though it was proving unnecessary.  
 
“Oh no, I’m not sure this is the same bard. Although it could be, I suppose.” Valdo’s hand danced delicately around the rim of his cup as though he were deep in thought, laying it on thick as he pretended to recall the details of the scandal. “The one I’m talking about is much less popular though. Even less popular now that everyone knows what he’s been doing!” 

The merchant sitting next to Valdo tittered as thought this was very witty, only irritating Jaskier further. He was thoroughly tired of this game. “And what has this bard been doing, Valdo? Seems like you’re dying to tell us.”  

Valdo’s face settled into a satisfied smirk, as though he had just secured the last slice of honey cake and it was very large indeed. “ Oh  you know, just a little espionage. This bard,  Dandelion  I think they’ve been calling him, it turns out he’s been selling  Temerian  secrets to Nilfgaard! Can you imagine? The very nerve. Some say he’s still trying to work in  Temeria , as ridiculous as that sounds. No true man of  Temeria  would hire a traitor.”  

Ice water spread through Jaskier’s veins. He felt fixed in place, staring into his ale. He could feel the merchant’s nervous eyes on him, obviously not stupid enough to have missed the fact that this bard in front of him was  also  called Dandelion.   

Jaskier wanted to scream. He wanted to dash his drink in Valdo’s face and roar at the injustice.  Why , he railed in his mind,  why would you do  this.   What more do I have left for you to take?  

Instead, Jaskier ignored the eyes on him and drank his ale, barely finishing it before  signaling  for another.   

***  

He had only meant to get a little drunk, to block out the newest installment in the long running tragic episodical that was his life. Perhaps his woe was a little deeper than he thought, or the ale a little stronger, but somehow Jaskier found himself much more than a little drunk. He tried to eat a little food to soak up the alcohol but somehow it only made the rising nausea worse.  

Valdo had been watching him closely all night, clearly waiting for Jaskier to react to his latest cruelty. Jaskier had intended to deny him the pleasure, focusing on getting just drunk enough to sleep early and soundly. Instead, Jaskier found himself holding a cup of wine he didn’t remember ordering, then somehow playing a card game he didn’t remember starting.  

The night fragmented further after that. Feeling sick and alarmed at the state he was in, Jaskier stumbled dizzily in the direction of the room he was meant to be staying in. Somehow he kept getting delayed, losing time, finding himself talking to people with no clear idea of how he had gotten there. He was overheating, hot and dizzy, sweat slicking his hair to the nape of his neck. 
 
Finally, blessed relief; he made it to the cool darkness of his room. It was supposed to be shared with Valdo, but Jaskier didn’t expect the other man to retire for hours yet. He fell into bed fully clothed, clutching the bed sheets for stability and waited for the drunkenness to fade into sleep. 

It did not.   

He did lose consciousness, for a time, but then was jostled awake by someone moving his legs. It seemed his state had worsened, the room now spinning away from him as he tried to blink open impossibly heavy eyelids. His whole body felt like it was under water, or somehow disconnected from him. Everything felt syrupy and slow to respond.  

Feeling cold air on his lower half, Jaskier made sense of the situation. “Valdo,” he muttered.  

“Yes dear, it’s me. I’ve come to give you a treat, since I was so mean earlier.”  

Valdo’s voice sounded soft and sweet, but the illusion was ruined by the rough way he clutched at Jaskier’s body. Jaskier tried to sit up but found the task inexplicably difficult, barely able to roll his torso up enough to see Valdo crawling up the bed.  

 “ Dn’t  want  anythin ’ from  you ,” Jaskier protested weakly, fluttering his hand ineffectively in Valdo’s general direction.  

“Ungrateful,” came the reply, sounding more like Valdo’s true imperious self. He continued to grasp at Jaskier, taking his cock in hand and massaging life into it. “You know how much you like  it,  you always end up begging.” There was a sound like Valdo taking a sip of something.  

Putting the dots together, Jaskier started to protest; “no, no Valdo I don’t want to--”  

He needn’t have bothered, as Valdo paid no attention. In one swift move he had applied his mouth to Jaskier’s cock and started using his tongue to swish around the  fisstech  mixture he had concealed inside. Jaskier went rigid then tried to struggle away, finding his efforts laughably weak. He bit back a sob as he admitted to himself that he wasn’t just drunk, he was  drugged,  and it had stolen all his strength.  

After a small eternity of sloppy sucking, Valdo appeared  statisfied  with his work and crawled up Jaskier’s body. He tore at Jaskier’s chemise as he went, batting off Jaskier’s defensive arms as though the smaller bard were a particularly feeble kitten. It was humiliating and frustrating, but Jaskier couldn’t stop himself from continuing his futile swipes.  

Apparently  it was finally enough to irritate Valdo, as he suddenly reared up and backhanded Jaskier soundly. “Cut that out. You’re being ridiculous,” spat Valdo.  

Jaskier did cut everything out for a bit after that, the blow to his head untethering his consciousness from its mooring. He came back in bits, awareness but not control, sound but not vision. Then blackness again, for a time, then a snatch of something else – when Jaskier could put the bits together he found a confusing mess of sensation.  

Someone was inside of him, that was constant. It wasn’t sore, really, it was wet and buzzing,  fisstech  no doubt at work. But someone was also sitting by his head, stroking his hair and neck. He rather enjoyed the hair stroking and leaned into it, but fell instead into blackness.  

Some time  later Jaskier realized he was propped up on his stomach, his head on the mattress but his ass in the air. There was still someone inside him, but it didn’t feel or sound like Valdo. No, Valdo was standing somewhere over to the right, laughing and talking. The cock inside Jaskier felt huge and hot, agonizingly random in its pattern.   

Jaskier tried to move, tried to speak, but found himself immediately held down and a cloth held over his nose and mouth. Within a few  moments  he was swallowed up by darkness again.   

He came back again to a sensation of pain, a burning and stretching that was beyond uncomfortable. He groaned, trying to move his limbs but finding every single one held or supported by an unyielding grip. Lifting his head, Jaskier realized he was in fact resting on top of someone now, a man he did not  recognize  yet undoubtedly felt his cock inside him.  

Lifting his head, Jaskier made sense of the rest of it – the painful sensation was  another  man pressing a cock against Jaskier’s hole, forcing it inside alongside the cock already there. They had clearly been fucking him for a while, he was loose and wet with both cum and slick. But this was still an extraordinary stretch, a feeling so huge it was hard to encompass with words. He sobbed wordlessly instead.  

Panicking, Jaskier writhed as violently as he could. His strength had still not returned and moving his head too sharply caused a wave of  veritgo , but he still tried. The tightening of his muscles was apparently not an undesirable effect, if the groans released by both of his attackers were any indication.   

Jaskier could feel that his own cock was erect, though he felt no pleasure from it. As the men inside him started to thrust and moan at the intense tightness, the discomfort remained too strong to rate as pleasurable to Jaskier. He wanted them out,  out  out   out , he wanted far away from here and gone. The fact remained however that every time his prostate was  nudged,a  jolt of fire would go through his cock, causing it to leak copiously – the trademark effect of fisstech.  

The man beneath him cursed suddenly and thrust up a  handul  of times with abrupt strength. Jaskier realized he must have climaxed only when the slide of the other cock suddenly felt much smoother, its slide aided by the other man’s cum.  In the aftermath of his own  orgasm  he seemed to think it would be a good idea to facilitate Jaskier’s climax, despite Jaskier trying his best to fend him off.  

Jaskier turned his head to the side and buried it in the  strangers  chest, sobbing noiselessly. He felt the cock in his ass pick up speed as it gained a little room to move, pressing him down relentlessly onto the body beneath him. Surely enough, between being pinned with two cocks in his ass and someone expertly jerking him off, Jaskier was soon lost to a blistering orgasm.   

He was aware of when the other men pulled out, because the flood of cum was rather hard to ignore, but he didn’t make any movements of his own once they rolled him to the side. The drugs were still running through him strongly enough that it would be comical for Jaskier to attempt to walk, so he simply lay still and listened.  

The two strange men dressed leisurely as they exchanged ribald jokes with Valdo, who had apparently been watching the whole time. Jaskier let their pointed comments flow over him and away, never even perceiving the meaning of them. They applied to someone else, some other foolish slut. Then he heard the clink of coins, and his hearing grew  acute .  

“Here you go Valdo, he was worth every damn coin, just like you said. I hope you come back this way again, I could do with a decent ploughing like that more often!”  

There was more small talk after that, as merchants are wont to do with  customers . Jaskier thought he might be entirely made of paper, and perhaps at any moment would fly away, or dissolve in the rain. He found it hard to remember what he was trying to think about. Something to do with Valdo, maybe.  

The three men left the room laughing, closing the door to leave Jaskier in darkness. Wet, used and alone again.   

Chapter Text

Jaskier wasn’t sure if he was awake or asleep. Whatever he had been dosed with left him feeling out of touch with reality, unsure where dreams ended and wakefulness began. Terrible dreams mixed with memories and phantoms as he drifted in and out of consciousness, an interminable cycle of fantastic nightmares and the more mundane horror of his actual situation.  
 
At one point he thought Geralt was kneeling next to him speaking softly, but when he rolled over to grasp at the Witcher's hand the vision melted into nothingness. Bereft, Jaskier succumbed to the half-waking nightmares again. Minutes, or perhaps hours later he saw another figure enter the room. He ignored it at first, assuming it was another phantasm, but it persisted. Jaskier thought the glowing yellow eyes were a particularly perverse touch on the part of his subconscious. 
 
Much to Jaskier’s surprise, the figure spoke; “They told me there was a whore here who didn’t charge extra for Witchers.” 

Stunned by the fact that he could clearly understand this figment of his imagination, Jaskier simply lifted his head and stared in response. He couldn’t make out much in the dim glow leaking up from the common room below, but the imposing figure certainly  looked  like a Witcher's silhouette. But why his imagination should conjure a  Witcher  other than Geralt completely baffled him.  

After a long moment of mutual incomprehension, Jaskier started to giggle. He had realized that this was not another too-real nightmare, it was just his regular shitty life. He threw back his head and laughed, a little hysterically.  

The man, the  Witcher  looked immediately offended by this response, drawing his shoulders up and setting his face in an aggressive sneer. “Should have fuckin’ known. ‘ lets  play a joke on the big ugly Witcher, ho ho ho.’ Fuckin’ bards.”  

His words were clearly directed at himself, but Jaskier caught them anyway and abruptly stopped laughing. “Bards? A bard sent you?” He lifted his head to stare piercingly at the Witcher. He did not think anyone would have referred to Jaskier himself as the bard in this situation.  

The scowl on the Witcher's face shifted into deeper suspicion. “Yeah, peacock looking motherfucker. Nice face, no brain. Guessing you know him.”  

“ Valdo ,” spat Jaskier with such venom it clearly surprised the Witcher, who took a step  back.  Jaskier allowed his head to fall back and covered his eyes with an arm, entirely done with the scene. “He  would  think it was funny. I’ll fucking kill him.”  

This last part was said almost conversationally, but it seemed to silence the Witcher. Jaskier expected him to leave, and waited to hear the door click, but instead heard an odd huffing noise. It was familiar, but it took Jaskier a moment to put his finger on what it reminded him of. The man was  sniffing  the air, like Geralt used to do to trace a scent.  

Jaskier barely had time to wonder why the fuck this  Witcher  would be doing that when it hit him exactly what smells would be in the room right then, and the subsequent mortification nearly finished him off on the spot.   

There was silence as Jaskier did his best to spontaneously evaporate and the Witcher presumably contemplated Witchery thoughts.   

Eventually, the Witcher spoke up, “You didn’t want this.”  

Jaskier couldn’t help the noise that escaped him in response to that incredible understatement. Halfway between a sob and laugh, he stopped it before it became something he couldn’t suppress. The Witcher stayed silent, so Jaskier assumed he was waiting for a reply. Bitterly, he gave it; “No, I didn’t want this.”  

This t im e he did hear the door close after the Witcher left, and he wondered if he was glad of it. It had been especially cruel for Valdo to send a Witcher in to look at Jaskier’s ruin, he had to hand it to the man. A hand truly well played. Jaskier lay back in the darkness and wondered if life could possibly shovel any more shit onto  h im.  

Despite himself, Jaskier managed to fall into a dreamless doze for a time, only waking properly when he heard a small noise near the foot of the bed. Sitting up groggily, Jaskier noted the light had changed enough that it must be near dawn, also there was a Witcher sitting on the floor watching him.   

Having just awoken, Jaskier found himself lacking his usual way with words. While he stared at the Witcher blankly, the other man shifted uncomfortably. It looked like he had been sharpening some knives, which Jaskier already knew was sort of a Witcher idle mode. This was however almost the only thing about him that reminded Jaskier of Geralt.  

Finally  able to see his features clearly, Jaskier could now tell there truly were no physical similarities between this man and Geralt except the eyes. This Witcher was slighter, though still impressively built, with short dark hair and a pronounced widow’s peak. He was not unattractive, though his face seemed set in a perpetual sneer, like he already hated what you were going to say before you said it.  

Appearing to have had enough of being gawped at, the Witcher spoke; “Your caravan is leaving in an hour, if you still want to travel with it. They did unload your gear when your  friend  took off with  all of  his shit, but I’ve had a word with them and they’ll still take you as far as  Cidaris , if you still want to go.”  

Jaskier blinked, nonplussed. “My friend?”   

The Witcher put his knives away, his face twisting unpleasantly. “The bard,” he replied shortly.  

“He... he left?” Jaskier cast about the room, realizing they had never unpacked anything so Valdo’s belongings weren’t here to be missed.  

Looking supremely uninterested, the Witcher crossed his arms. “Woke everyone up to get his things unloaded, made a big deal about having to leave suddenly. Annoyed the tits off the whole place. Noisy cunt.”  

Jaskier drew his brows together, failing to make sense of the story. “In the middle of the night? On his own? But that’s... dangerous. Stupidly dangerous.”  

The Witcher was started to look mildly exasperated. “Yes, especially with all those bandits he met.”  

“Bandits?!” exclaimed Jaskier, still not following.  

“Yep, bandits. Mean ones.” The Witcher rolled his eyes. “I expect they’ll find his body in about two days, so if you aren’t leaving with the caravan today you should probably get out of here by then.” With that, he turned towards the door to leave.  

“Wait!” cried Jaskier as he scrambled to stand up and preserve his modesty with a grubby sheet. “Wait, what did you—how—why? Why did you...help me. I can’t pay you.” 
 
The Witcher didn’t leave, but he did frown fiercely back at Jaskier. “I don’t want payment. I didn’t do anything. You should get out of here before they decide you did.” He jerked his chin towards the small fireplace. “There’s warm wash water there. Thought you might want it.” 

Stunned and confused, Jaskier’s stared at the bucket he indicated and entirely missed the man’s exit from the room. He looked around, observing the empty mundanity of the room that had played host to his own personal hell. There was no one and nothing to keep Jaskier from slipping back into the nightmarish landscape of his own mind.  

Valdo was gone. His unlikely  saviour  was gone. Jaskier was alone again, and he wasn’t having a bar of it.  

***  

“What the fuck is this.”  

It was phrased as a question but pronounced as a statement. The Witcher clearly knew what the fuck this was and did not approve. Undeterred, Jaskier hefted his pack and quickened his step to catch up with the mounted Witcher.  

“It’s me, your charming and grateful new friend come to provide companionship and entertainment on your journey to... where is it we’re going?” 
 
The Witcher scowled. “We’re not going anywhere. You’re going to fuck off.” 

This felt almost familiar, in a perverse way. Jaskier grinned, wondering if it was the first time he’d done so in months. “But it’s so dangerous to travel alone!” He  exclaimed;  voice full of mock concern. “Didn’t you just tell me there are some really mean bandits in the area?”  

If possible, the Witcher’s scowl deepened. He clucked to his horse to walk on. “There are no fucking bandits. You’ll be fine.”  

Used to walking beside a horse, Jaskier fell in step at the man’s stirrup almost automatically. “No bandits? Then whatever happened to dear Valdo?” He asked innocently, laying it on thick enough to deliberately rile up the Witcher.  

He refused to look down at Jaskier, but still smirked to himself. “Probably tripped and fell. Repeatedly. On some rocks.”  

The bloody satisfaction in the man’s voice gave Jaskier pause, making him realize how casually they were talking about  murder . This man, this Witcher had very likely lured Valdo out of town and killed him in cold blood (if Jaskier understood the situation correctly). He still wasn’t sure how to process that, so elected not to think about it. A  tried-and-true  coping strategy.  

He should be more concerned that this Witcher would also murder him, but for some reason Jaskier felt at ease around this stranger. It was probably the stupid wolfs-head medallion, which Jaskier had spotted and opted not to comment on. He knew it meant the Witcher was from the same school as Geralt, but he also knew every Witcher was different and essentially invented their own code of conduct. There was no reason this one should be any safer than any other stranger. 
 
He hadn’t realized he’d gone quiet until he heard the Witcher heave a sigh, apparently interpreting Jaskier’s silence as him being upset about the violence. His voice took on a slightly more conciliatory tone. “I’m sorry about... the mess. I mean, I’m not sorry he’s dead. Fucking cunt deserved it. But I’m sorry you had to be, well... involved.” 

Jaskier frowned at the not-really-an-apology. “I was involved a long time before you showed up. I still would be, if it weren’t for you. I mean I was going to  leave,  I was trying but... I don’t think he was going to let me go.  So  thank you. Truly.” He could tell the other man was getting increasingly uncomfortable so he cut himself off before the thanks could get effusive.  

“Men like that don’t let go. Need their fuckin hands cut off first.” He grunted. “You’ll be fine now. He’s gone.”  

Jaskier knew that last bit was probably supposed to be reassuring, but it filled him with fear. In desperation he took a gamble, letting his true feelings fill his voice with sincerity; “You know, Witcher, I don’t think I will be.”  

The Witcher slowed his horse a fraction and looked down at Jaskier directly, but he didn’t return the assessing yellow gaze.  

“I know it’s an imposition, and you’ve already done so much—everything for me, it means everything. But I would ask one more thing of you. Let me travel with you for a time, just until we get somewhere... somewhere not here.”  

When Jaskier gathered the courage to look up, the Witcher wore an expression of consternation. “Why? It really isn’t dangerous territory right now. Every man and his dog  is  busy playing fucking toy soldier in the south. If you’re really worried about  bandits  you would have been better off with that caravan.”  

It was a terrible card to play, but it was the only card Jaskier really had. “It’s just—after everything I’ve been through... I don’t feel safe with other men.”  

The Witcher looked at him skeptically. “But you feel safe with  me,  a Witcher?”  

Jaskier shrugged. “You’re not one of them,” he replied simply.  

The Witcher appeared to think hard for a moment then finally shrugged back. “You’ve got me there. I’m not a man,” he nudged his horse into a faster walk, calling back over his shoulder; “and I don’t travel like one. If you want a hot meal tonight you better hurry the fuck up.”  

Jaskier didn’t quite believe it for a moment, stunned that it had been so easy to convince the man to let him tag along. His luck had been so bad for so long that anything good happening felt surreal. He really did have to hurry to catch up, but he did so with a spring in his step. He had no idea where they were going, but for the first time in forever Jaskier really did feel safe. He didn’t know how long it would last, but for now he savoured it.  

Chapter Text

The lift to Jaskier’s spirits brought on by his newfound freedom lasted until approximately lunch time, at which point he thought he was dying. In the morning he had still felt a bit floaty, but no more hungover than after an average night of heavy drinking. As it turned out, walking at Witcher pace for any length of time was precisely the opposite of a hangover cure.

Whatever drug he had been slipped last night; it was wreaking havoc on his system on its way out. He felt ill to the point considering a dash to the bushes several times, the world felt over loud and overbright; the early summer sunlight stabbing his eyes and making his head throb. His time in the city had left him thinner than ever, with little stamina to begin with. Now he felt pitifully weak as the gentle walk set every muscle to aching and a deep fatigue overcame him.

He thought he’d been doing a very good job of being a quiet travel companion, holding in the small talk and complaints he would usually have voiced. He really wasn’t in the mood to wear down a surly Witcher right now, if ever again. So was surprised when the Witcher nudged his horse off the road and towards a copse of trees, breaking the silence.

“We better make camp before you expire. There’s water over this way.”

Jaskier stared after the Witcher in bafflement, then hastened to follow. “Expire? I’m perfectly hale. Just a bit hungover.”

The Witcher snorted, without looking back. “I can literally hear your body struggling to perform basic functions. You need to sit down before you fall down.”

There was something intensely embarrassing about being reminded that Witcher’s had access to information about you that you didn’t even know yourself. Geralt did his best not to bring it up, knowing how it discomfited humans to be made aware of his extra sensory capabilities. This Witcher apparently didn’t care and maybe even found it mildly funny, by the tone of his voice.

Jaskier’s embarrassment about it served to keep him quiet while they set up camp, right up until he was sitting in front of a well laid but yet unlit fire and the Witcher thrust a water skin into his face.

“Drink. All of it. You need to flush out whatever poison they gave you.”

Jaskier made a face, but obediently took the water and drank deeply before replying. “It wasn’t poison. Just some drug. Something to make me... pliant. He wasn’t trying to kill me.”

The Witcher sat down, utilizing their idle daylight time to work on armor repairs. He didn’t look up as spoke, dismissive of Jaskier’s claims. “Just about anything is poison in the right amount. Even too much water.” Seeing Jaskier move to put the water skin down, he added; “Lots of water. You still need to drink that, and probably another before you sleep tonight.”

He already felt somewhat like a water skin himself, but Jaskier nodded and kept guzzling. At length, the Witcher appeared to turn something over in his mind and paused in his work, finally looking at Jaskier with that familiar yellow gaze.

“You know he would have though, right?”

Jaskier frowned, having lost the thread of conversation. “Would have what?”

The Witcher rolled his eyes in irritation, but it passed quickly. “He would have killed you, eventually.”

“Oh, no, that’s ridiculous! I don’t think Valdo could successfully kill a houseplant. He would never--”

“They all do, eventually,” interrupted the Witcher with a voice like cold steel. It froze Jaskier’s tongue. “Whether they mean to or not,” he continued, “they do. Once they cross a certain line, show a certain disregard for your life... sooner or later they won’t be able to stop themselves. Those marks on your neck show me he already crossed that line.”

Jaskier put his hand up to his neck, not having to actually touch the bruises to know what the Witcher was talking about. He had been trying so very hard not to think about last night that he had avoided cataloguing his injuries, but he couldn’t completely stop feeling them. He only had the vaguest memory to go with the sensation, but he knew without a doubt that it had been Valdo’s hands around his neck, so tight he thought he was dying. It was, after all, a favourite act of his.

Now that attention had been drawn to them, the bruises ached and seemed to close Jaskier’s throat entirely, stopping him from speaking at all. They were proof, hard evidence that he wasn’t imagining how bad it had been. He both hated that it exposed him and was desperately grateful for the validation. Jaskier stared at the Witcher silently, helplessly begging for something he didn’t really understand.

To his astonishment, the Witcher seemed to comprehend him anyway and didn’t try to press him further on the subject. He put the armor down and went to his bags, fetching out a small jar and tossing it to Jaskier, who caught it automatically.

“That should help. Arnica. Some other stuff. Mild enough for humans.” He returned to his armor, focusing on it with the air of someone deliberately trying to act casually.

Jaskier held the little jar in his hands, staring down at it intently. He was afraid that if he looked up he would not be able to stop the tears from spilling. Eventually, he was able to calm himself with slow, steady breaths and started applying the salve to his bruises. When he was done with his neck, he dared to apply it to the bruises he knew were lurking on his wrists too but avoided looking too closely as he did so.

Finally, he stood up and approached the Witcher, holding out the jar. “Thanks. It’s good.”

“Don’t mention it,” replied the Witcher, looking as though he sincerely meant it. He took the jar and tucked it into a pouch.

“Really, you’ve basically saved my life, I can’t even begin--” started Jaskier.

“No, no, shut the fuck up. I mean it, I don’t want to hear any thanks. Say it again and I’ll leave your scrawny arse here.” The yellow eyes glared so fiercely that Jaskier was inclined to believe him.

He raised his hands placatingly and moved back to sit down. “Alright, alright. I won’t. But for the sake of convenience, could we at least introduce ourselves?”

The Witcher stared at him suspiciously for a long moment but was evidently unable to think of a good reason against this notion. “Lambert,” he spat out, moving his attention back to his task.

“Oh, that’s nice,” replied Jaskier. “Land-bright. Or bright home, I suppose. I’m, well I guess I’m just Julian now.”

The Witcher grunted but otherwise did not acknowledge this. Jaskier thought it was rather a good start, considering his history of relationships with Witchers, but then hurriedly clamped down on that thought. This was not a relationship with a Witcher, he did not know Lambert and wasn’t going to. They weren’t going to be friends; he wasn’t going to wear down this rough rogue with his bardic charm and form a beautiful companionship for the ages.

Jaskier was simply travelling with a strong, capable fighter for a few days until he was well enough to feel safe on his own. That was all. The overwhelming gratitude and warmth he felt towards Lambert was simply what he would feel towards anyone who helped him out of that nightmare. He mustn’t let it overwhelm him, let his loneliness and sorrow lead him to attach himself where he wasn’t wanted. He would never do that again.

***

They slept early that day and set out equally early the next morning. Despite sleeping well, Jaskier somehow felt worse when he woke and only progressively more ill throughout the day. He couldn’t summon any appetite for the travel rations Lambert offered, the nausea overwhelming when he tried so much as a bite of bread. He also started to feel feverish, clammy and sweating at the same time.

The last thing he wanted was for yet another Witcher to see how pathetically weak he was. So, he sucked it up, soldiered on and did his best to keep the pace up. He knew he couldn’t conceal the state of his body from Lambert’s heightened senses, but he could avoid annoying him by complaining about it.

His head felt heavy and foggy, it was hard for him to make conversation anyway. Lambert was apparently not the strong silent type at all though, offering the occasional commentary on the landscape, weather or opinions about the local nobility (of which the latter ranged from negative to extremely negative.) He didn’t seem to mind that Jaskier was barely responding, unaware how uncharacteristic it was for the bard.

By noon, when they stopped to eat and rest Lambert’s horse, Jaskier was seriously considering telling the Witcher to continue without him. Once he sat down he was suddenly aware that standing up again was perhaps not within his abilities today. He mutely shook his head when Lambert offered food, drinking water somewhat desperately instead.

Lambert gave him a long, considering look. “The poison should be out of your system by now. Shouldn’t be getting worse like this, not that kind of thing.”

Jaskier shrugged helplessly. “I’ve always had a delicate constitution, and I haven’t exactly been taking care of myself lately. Perhaps it’s catching up to me.”

The Witcher looked unconvinced but didn’t press the issue. He did spend a suspicious amount of time readjusting his horse’s tack and organizing his saddlebags though, so that by the time he was ready to leave Jaskier felt rested enough to continue.

He genuinely did feel better thoughout the afternoon, though he redoubled his efforts to conceal any discomfort anyway. Despite the myriad issues he expected to have just being around a Witcher after the mess with Geralt, he found that Lambert hardly reminded him of a Witcher at all. He was gruff, sure, but also quick witted and funny, not just in the dry, understated manner of Geralt.

For once, Jaskier didn’t want to hear about any Witchering adventures and Lambert seemed content not to pry into Jaskier’s own story. Instead, they discussed Lambert’s destination; Vizima.

“Vizima? Does Foltest have a beast needing killing?” he asked, trying not to sound as curious as he felt. He had been wondering how and why a Wolf Witcher was in Temeria so early in spring but didn’t want to reveal he knew that they mostly wintered in Kaer Morhen on the other side of the Continent.

Lambert looked at him askance. “Foltest? He’s probably busy arming every fuckin’ farmer south of the Pontar. No, we don’t often deal with Kings anyway. Well, most of us don’t,” he amended, obviously thinking of Geralt.

Not wanting to delve into that subject, Jaskier moved on. “So why Vizima then? Don’t tell me you have a stall to set up at the market.”

Lambert scoffed. “No, I have to see a ploughing mage, of all things. I picked up a job from one in Ban Ard, he brought me here to fetch some ingredients for him. I fuckin hate these errand boy jobs, especially for those pigfucking mages, but they pay well.”

“He portaled you here?” Jaskier asked, surprised. Geralt had always demonstrated an extreme distaste for portals, Jaskier had assumed it was a Witcher thing in general. “Isn’t that... uncomfortable?”

Lambert waved a hand ambivalently. “Tickles a bit, but they’re convenient. Beats the shit out of taking months to do a job. The only downside is that you have to deal with magic users, which sucks hairy goat balls.” He spat for emphasis.

“I can’t say I have much fondness for them myself,” admitted Jaskier, definitely not thinking about a particular sorceress.

“Smart man. I knew you had taste, despite that get up you’re wearing.”

Jaskier gasped in mock outrage but was quietly pleased to be the subject of friendly ribbing. It had been a while since someone had done that without actually intending to sting him. “I’ll have you know this is Koviri, and it’s the absolute height of fashion in Novigrad.”

Lambert nodded in understanding. “That explains why it’s so hideous then. Fashion.”

They made good time that afternoon, only stopping when the light was fading enough to make it a pressing issue. Jaskier was proud of himself for pushing through his morning illness and was quite optimistic that by the next day he’d have his travelling legs back under him.

They were only a few days out from Vizima, where he anticipated parting ways with the Witcher. He hadn’t quite figured out what he would do from there, but it was a large enough city that he expected another bard playing a pipe would not be immediately connected to the one named Dandelion that Valdo had been spreading rumours about, if the rumours even made it that far.

He drifted off to sleep, trying not to dwell on the twinge he felt when thinking of leaving his new found travel companion. He would be fine on his own, he would not burden this Witcher with a useless bard or even hint that he might want to. Lambert had been kind to him, in his way, and he didn’t deserve to be weighed down with a mess like Jaskier.

***

Someone was screaming. The sound was one of pure terror, ripped from a panicked throat. Jaskier struggled to make sense of it, were they being attacked? He realized he was being held firmly by the arms at the same time he realized that he was the one screaming, which only set him to struggling against the grip. In the darkness he could not see his attacker, but he cursed and spit in the general direction he thought the head would be.

“Julian! It’s me, it’s Lambert. Calm down!”

Finally, Jaskier registered the words and realized Lambert had been saying them for a while, as he tried to contain Jaskier’s flailing limbs. He stopped struggling and stared into the dark, breathing heavily.

“Lambert?” he asked weakly. Now that he was fully awake, he felt deeply wrong. Sweat coated his body, which ached like he had been thoroughly beaten. His head throbbed and his tongue felt thick in in his mouth. “What...?”

The arms released Jaskier and a moment later the fire flared back to life, obviously with a little help from Igni. Lambert’s face was unreadable in the low light, but he didn’t look prepared for a fight. He picked up a waterskin and wordlessly offered it to Jaskier.

Putting the pieces together himself, Jaskier sighed and accepted the water with shaking hands. “Just a nightmare. Right. Well, that’s not embarrassing at all.”

Lambert grunted, sitting back down by the fire. “’s not embarrassing,” he said, contradicting Jaskier’s sarcasm. “Happens to the best of us.”

Jaskier was surprised by the admission; he had seen for himself that Witchers do have nightmares, having witnessed Geralt do so many times. But the other Witcher had never acknowledged it, certainly not to Jaskier.

“Well, I’m sure yours are about things much scarier than a bard with overly groomed facial hair,” said Jaskier, still self-deprecating.

Lambert didn’t laugh though. He gazed steadily back at Jaskier, face somber. “Not always. Sometimes I dream about a farmer who beats his family.”

The fire crackled loudly in the following silence. For once in his life, words failed Jaskier completely. He had never imagined Witchers having families, though he knew now well enough that the law of surprise had once been a key source of recruits. He realized not all of them were princesses before a Witcher claimed them, but he hadn’t previously considered they could come from a situation more violent than their adult job.

He drank the water quietly, hoping it would settle his still roiling stomach and cool him down. It seemed the nightmare had taken quite a toll on his body, he felt wrung out, aching and exhausted. Still, he was grateful and stunned that Lambert had shared such an intimate thing.

“I’m... I’m sorry,” he offered weakly, immediately berating himself internally for such a stupid response.

The Witcher's gaze had been directed at the fire for a while and he didn’t look up and he grunted dismissively at Jaskier. “Nothing to be sorry about. You should get some sleep. Might help with your delicate constitution.”

The reference to Jaskier’s condition could have been taken as an insult, but it was said gently and Jaskier couldn’t really disagree. It still took him a long time to get to sleep, and what little rest he did get was shallow and broken, fraught with half formed terrors. Lambert himself only meditated; the feeling of a kneeling guardian watching him while he slept uncomfortably familiar to Jaskier.

Near dawn he gave up the attempt at sleep altogether and they got an early start instead. His body didn’t ache quite so heartily during the day, but the brain fog and headache never really went away. The nausea retreated enough for him to eat a little bread and jerky, but not enjoy it. The illness was starting to wear on his mood, making him irritable and morose.

He was aware of his demeanor darkening and tried to keep conversation to a minimum so as not to unleash his mood on Lambert, who himself seemed to retain something of the night before, quieter and more subdued.

At one point Jaskier even considered asking if Lambert had any spirits handy, just to relieve his headache. He knew Witchers generally had strong alcohol on them for potion making. Perhaps even a spot of fisstech to help with the fatigue. Surely the man would be pleased if Jaskier had the energy to walk at a faster pace.

His mind spun with a thousand ways to casually ask Lambert about having a drink, but he eventually quashed that line of thought with immense self-disgust. He couldn’t bear to have the Witcher think of him as lush from the city, unable to go a few days without indulging. So he grit his teeth and pushed on, even as his body and mind simultaneously deteriorated towards the evening.

Declining dinner, Jaskier wrapped himself tightly in his blanket and tried to sleep. Though he did his best to ignore it, thoughts of how pathetic and weak he was overwhelmed him. All his worst memories of the last year vied for attention, jumping from heartbreak to humiliation at dizzying speed. His tumultuous thoughts merged seamlessly into nightmares, so that he was surprised to be awoken again by Lambert, in much the same manner as the night before.

This time though, the feverish trembling did not abate and Jaskier found it impossible to speak through the confusion clouding his mind. Lambert had to hold the waterskin up for Jaskier to drink from, as his limb felt weak and disconnected. He tried to wipe his own mouth and realized his entire body was soaked with sweat, the blanket too.

Lambert looked deeply troubled as his golden eyes assessed Jaskier’s worsening condition. He leaned close and inhaled deeply, ignoring Jaskier’s weak attempts to push him away. Eventually, he sat back with a grim set to his face.

“How much do you normally drink?” he asked, voice blank and featureless as wall.

Frowning, Jaskier struggled to find his voice. “As much as anyone, I suppose. More recently.”

Lamberts face didn’t change. “And the white death? How much of that?”

He couldn’t meet that yellow gaze. “Too much,” he admitted, shame colouring his voice.

The Witcher nodded, as though Jaskier was only confirming what he already knew. “You’re an addict. Fisstech and alcohol both.”

A stronger shiver ran through the bard. He wanted to reject the label, unable to picture himself like the snot dripping fisstech addicts that lined the seedier streets of Novigrad. But at the same time he knew it was true. “But... I stopped. I haven’t touched anything since I met you.”

Lambert tossed a log into the fire and stood to retrieve a pair of bottles from his bags. “That’s the problem. You can’t just stop drinking like that. Not if you’ve been at it that fucking heavily. Human body can’t handle it.” As he spoke, he tipped a little of a clear fluid, spirits from the smell of it, into an empty bottle. He filled the rest with water and handed it to Jaskier.

“Isn’t this going to make it worse?” he asked, baffled.

Lambert shook his head. “It’ll help, for now. You need to taper off slowly. Doesn’t mean you’re safe though, this could get worse.”

If possible, Jaskiers face grew paler. “Worse? I already feel like day old corpse.”

“If you’re unlucky, you might actually become one.” It sounded ridiculous, but Lamberts tone was perfectly serious.

Jaskier looked at the bottle in his hand and started drinking it desperately, barely pausing for breath. Lambert watched silently.

“Our best bet is to get you to Vizima as soon as possible. Plenty of healers there, plus a mage who owes me now. We’ll move at first light. With any luck this will be the worst of it and you’ll be better tomorrow.”

But Jaskier had never had very much luck.

Chapter Text

Jaskier was never sure if he really slept that night, the line between full consciousness and dreams becoming blurred. He had started to hear whispering voices, snarls and grunts coming from shadows that flickered and moved, out of time with the firelight. His logical mind knew that no creatures would dare come so close with a Witcher at his side, but it took all his strength not to startle or alert Lambert to the beasts his mind was conjuring.

As the dawn light grew, the sounds and visions retreated, though they never entirely left Jaskier’s mind. He was now more aware of a general sense of unease, as though he could feel creatures waiting to pounce now, even without hearing or seeing them. He felt stronger in his body now, not so feverish, but it was almost impossible to concentrate between his growing anxiety and the fogginess clouding his mind.

Mercifully, Lambert took care of breaking camp mostly by himself, letting Jaskier take his time trying to get down a bowl of porridge. Jaskier avoided eye contact and conversation, feeling deep mortification over his condition and what he assumed the Witcher felt about it. Another weak human, succumbing to the dangers of over-indulgence.

Lambert seemed to sense his reticence and kept mostly to himself, so they passed the day quietly. After lunch Jaskier started to feel progressively worse again, losing track of time and getting lost in too-real daydreams. Lambert had him mount the horse at some point, though he remembered this later as though it happened in a dream.

The light had barely started to fade when Jaskier slumped over the saddle and nearly fell off the horse. He had a brief moment of lucidity, looking down at Lambert’s worried face, the Witcher’s arms preventing him from falling completely off the saddle.

“I’m sorry,” he managed to say, with a great effort of concentration.

The worried yellow eyes grew annoyed. “Don’t be sorry, be alive. If you die on me I’ll fucking kill you, stupid bard.”

Something about that sentence bothered Jaskier. “How... how d’you know I’m a bard?”

Lambert snorted as he heaved Jaskier upright and swung up behind him in the saddle, settling his arms around the slimmer man to reach the reigns. “You mean, aside from the outfit?”

Even through the haze of confusion slowing his mind, Jaskier felt mildly affronted. “What’s wrong with my outfit?”

Lambert’s rough voice came from somewhere behind Jaskier’s ear; “What isn’t wrong with it? Now shut up and hold on, if we ride through the night we’ll make it to Vizima before dawn.”

Jaskier blinked down at the arms that had appeared either side of his waist and decided to hold onto them. “Through the night? Why.. Why're we goin’ so fast?”

Lambert rearranged Jaskier’s limbs into a more sensible grip then clucked to get the horse moving again. “Because if we go any slower you’ll soon be a dead weight. Emphasis on the dead.”

Jaskier wanted to protest that he didn’t feel all that sick, but the rhythm of the horse and the warm body holding him up had already lulled him back into a daze. He dreamed they arrived in Vizima several times, once to a cheering crowd, once to an angry mob. Every time he thought he was lost to mad visions forever, a jolt of the horse would send him reeling back to reality, securely tethered by the Witcher’s arm.

Eventually even the rough riding couldn’t wake him, and his dreams dissolved into a furious blur of faces and places that couldn’t possibly be real. Fantastic and nonsensical scenes appeared before him inspiring terror and wonder in equal measures, filling Jaskier with the conviction that he would surely die, or perhaps was already dead and suffering in the afterlife.

Several times he found himself back at the roadside inn with Valdo, only this time he knew his drink was drugged and he declined it. Valdo inevitably grew enraged, seizing Jaskier’s jaw and trying to force the liquid down his throat despite Jaskier’s desperate pleas and thrashing limbs.

At one point he regained enough awareness to realize at least some of this was inspired by someone trying to give him medicine or water, but he couldn’t stop the instinctual fight response. He knew someone was trying to help him, not poison him again, but he couldn’t even reach through the layers of fog to thank them.

Later, it was hard to pin when the visions ceased and reality resumed. It seemed as though he swam up from a great depth, pushing through featureless blackness to catch glimpses of a world above. At first the things he saw were as meaningless and incomprehensible as the madness that had preceded them, but slowly the semiotics of existence returned to him.

Thus he found himself finally awake, confused but tentatively certain he was truly lucid. For surely, not even his perverse mind could have conjured the hideous pattern on the quilt swamping his bed. It was a riot of colours and mismatched fabrics, as homespun and basic as everything else in the small room. Early afternoon light peeked in through a shuttered but not glassed window, a packed earth floor supporting rough wooden walls.

Despite its humble appearance, the room was exceptionally clean – as was Jaskier. He noted he was scrubbed clean of the accumulated road dirt, someone had done a very thorough job; he could tell because he was also entirely naked.

Though he felt like he’d gone several rounds with an angry Chort, there was no sign of any injury. Even the bruises Valdo had given him were long faded. When at last he sat up tentatively, Jaskier’s head spun, his stomach rebelled and he immediately regretted waking up at all. Just as he was wondering if it would be ruder to throw up on the floor or himself, Lambert walked in.

The Witcher looked different without his armor, smaller and bigger at the same time. He was less bulky without it, less intimidating, but now his densely muscled frame was revealed, and he seemed somehow more intense. Those golden eyes pierced Jaskier far too keenly for his comfort.

“You’re awake?” Lambert asked in a gruff voice, setting down the pitcher of water he had been carrying.

“Regrettably, yes I think that is the case.” Jaskier was surprised to hear how rough his own voice came out, clearly unused for some time. “How long have I been... indisposed?”

The Witcher carefully poured out some water into a clay mug and offered to Jaskier. “Bit over a sennight or so. Ten days since we reached Vizima.”

Jaskier took the water gratefully but was stopped from drinking it by the shock of hearing how much time had passed. “Ten days?! Just to dry out a bit?”

Lambert just gave him a flat, unreadable look. “You nearly died. Several times. If Imbrych wasn’t so fucking good at healing spells you’d be on a pyre right now.”

Somewhat chastened by the reminder of how serious his condition had been, Jaskier drank the water gratefully. “Imbrych?” He asked politely.

Lambert grunted in reply and sat on the only other piece of furniture in the room, a woven wicker chair. “The shit-head mage who brought me to Vizima in the first place. He didn’t want to heal you, but he fuckin’ owed me so he had no choice. A little more arm twisting and he portaled us here too.” He seemed rather smug about that.

Jaskier looked about, as though the bare walls could tell him more. “Where is here, exactly?”

Lambert gestures out the shuttered window, somewhere pointlessly. “Not far from Ban Ard. Closer to the ruins of Loc Muinne. A safe house.”

Jaskier drew his brows together, perplexed. “A safe house?”

“Yeah, you know. For when I need to lay low. Heal, recover. Avoid authorities.”

The bard flapped a hand dismissively. “I know what a safe house is, I just don’t understand why I’m here. I don’t understand why you’ve helped me so much at all, really. You don’t know me, and I can’t pay you back, not right now, but I will, I promise ---”

“You don’t need to pay me anything,” Lambert replied, looking profoundly uncomfortable. “Woulda’ done the same thing for any cunt stupid enough to cross my path and try to die on me. ‘s Not your fucking fault you got sick.”

This only confused Jaskier more. “Isn’t it? I mean... I chose to drink like that. For so long. And the fisstech...”

Lambert made a decisive cutting gesture with his hand. “It looked to me like you had plenty of help with that and more than enough fuckin’ reasons to be drinking your sorrows. You didn’t get there on your own, stands to reason you shouldn’t have to come back on your own either.”

Stunned into silence by this profound oration from a Witcher of all people, Jaskier could only gape at Lambert. This clearly became too much for the man very quickly, as he abruptly stood to leave and nearly made it to the door before Jaskier gathered his wits.

“Lambert, wait.”

The Witcher turned around, raising an eyebrow laconically.

“I... thank you. I can’t really express how grateful I am to you—yes I know you probably don’t want to hear it,” - he noticed Lambert’s face souring - “but you saved my life and I owe you a great debt. If there’s anything I can do for you, anything, please allow me to attempt to replay what you’ve done for me.”

Lambert seemed to contemplate this for a moment. “I’ll think about it.”

Before Jaskier could reply, the Witcher had left the little room and Jaskier was once more alone with his thoughts.

***

He saw little of Lambert over the next few days, but rather too much of Jolenta, the local woman who had apparently been hired for the care and feeding of Jaskier. She was a large, brusque woman with chapped red hands that manipulated Jaskier’s body like it was no heavier than a straw doll. In truth, he didn’t feel much stronger than a straw doll anyway, so it was just as well that he had Jolenta to help oversee his first tentative trips to the privy.

She also had him on a terrifyingly strict meal program that involved great quantities of food, but all of it in near liquid form. He felt he was being punished with a cup of thin gruel for every cup of wine he had ever consumed. As a deterrent, it was very effective. Jaskier never wanted to so much as look at a grape sideways ever again.

Between cups of water and soup, he was also fed a constant stream of herbal tea, the purposes of which he could only guess at, as Jolenta spoke as rarely as she smiled. She seemed to have little time to answer the questions of an invalid, but she reserved her true reticence for Lambert, whom she avoided like a particularly virulent plague.

Jaskier tried to amuse himself by spinning Jolenta increasingly absurd tales of Witchery Evil, most of which involved chickens at some point, all of which painted Witchers as charmingly incompetent fools rather than malicious mutants. She never cracked a smile, but occasionally he was able to detect a wry huff, which he supposed was as close to a laugh as the surly woman ever came.

It had been five days since he’d awakened in this tiny cottage, two since he’d last seen Lambert when he began to grow anxious about the Witcher’s whereabouts. It wasn’t that he thought the man had absolved himself of his obligations regarding Jaskier and abandoned him without saying goodbye, except it was a bit. It wouldn’t be surprising to him, to say the least. Truthfully, he couldn’t be angry about it either, Lambert having gone above and beyond for a perfect stranger already.

So it was he found himself ensconced in front of the hearth in the Cottage’s only other room, the main one, having walked the short distance from the bedroom under his own power for the first time. He was doing his best not to get lost in the waves of anxiety and despair that arose when he considered what he was meant to do next. He had an instrument, lowly as it was, and his voice; he could still make a living as a bard.

Perhaps not as Jaskier the bard, although maybe this far east no one would have heard the rumours. Given how close they were to the blue mountains, where elves were said to dwell, perhaps the cities on this side of the Continent may not even care about his mixed heritage. The uncertainty paralyzed him.

He’d thought that at his age, after all his years wandering, he knew everything a man needed to know to become a successful bard from scratch. But now he was forced to view everything through the lens of his blood; questioning what had once been an assured welcome in nearly any town. He had no way of knowing how many of his adoring fans would turn on him for being not quite human enough.

Once, he had found the prospect of a hostile audience a challenge. A battle to be fought and won, winning hearts through his hard work and sheer talent. Now, older, exhausted, and with nothing left to fight with after all he had been through. He didn’t know if he could bear to do it all again, this time with the threat of prejudice hanging over his head.

But if he wasn’t a bard, what was he? At this point, he barely felt like a person at all. Jaskier had just about worked himself up to the pinnacle of self pity when the rickety door was thrust open by an armored arm.

“Fuckin’ drowners. It’s always fuckin’ drowners. So much as spit on a damp patch of dirt and you’ve got drowners in it.” Lambert strode in, dropping gear as he stepped inside the cottage. Spotting Jaskier, he paused in the act of taking off his sword strap. “Where’s the mean bitch?”

Jaskier blinked, puzzled. “You mean Jolenta? She went home.”

Lambert grunted in acknowledgement and continued to divest himself of his armor. An improbable amount of bombs appeared out of several hidden pouches and all went into a covered bucket. If his complaint about the drowners hadn’t been enough of a clue, the amount of gear Lambert was unloading spoke of the hunt he had just concluded.

Feeling a smidgen of loyalty to his gruff natured nurse, Jaskier continued; “She’s not mean, you know. I think she’s just superstitious, she probably doesn’t know much about Witchers.”

“Not like you, eh?” Lambert scoffed, retrieving some bread from the table and sitting down heavily in one of the two chairs, his cat like sprawl threatening to overwhelm the simple piece of furniture. “You’re not scared of me at all. You’re either a total fuckin’ idiot, or I’m not the first Witcher you’ve met.”

Jaskier felt the urge to freeze, ice creeping around his heart but instead let his theatrical training take over, carefully affecting a jovial tone he didn’t feel. “You would not be alone in believing the former, but you’re not wrong about the latter either. I’m a bard, or I was at least. We meet a lot of people, of all kinds. Witchers aren’t the strangest kind of people I’ve met either.”

Lambert laughed around his mouthful of bread, then took a swallow of water to clear it. “Most wouldn’t call us people.”

Jaskier sniffed, waving a hand dismissively. “Most are ‘total fucking idiots.’ More geese than swans now live, more fools than wise.”

The Witcher laughed openly at this. “You really are a fuckin’ bard huh? Full of poetry and all that horseshit.”

His mouth twisted, mixed feelings rising. “More horseshit than poetry these days. I think it might be time for me to retire or... take a break.” He turned his head back to the fire, unwilling to let the Witcher see his face.

In the awkward silence that followed, the chair creaked loudly under Lambert’s weight. “Well, you’re welcome to take a break here, for however long you like. I’m only here a few weeks a year, the place sits empty the rest of the time and could use someone hanging around a bit more.”

Startled by the offer, Jaskier turned to meet that golden gaze and found it perfectly sincere. “I don’t understand. That’s... that’s far too generous. You’ve already done so much for me, been so kind, and I don’t deserve any of it. I don’t know if I can even pay you back, maybe not for years--”

“Let me say this once;” Lamberts voice cut in loudly but calmly. “This isn’t about you. This is for me. You don’t owe me anything, because I’m not fuckin’ doing it for you. ‘s for my own reasons.”

“And they are?” Jaskier dared to ask, unconsciously holding his breath.

Lambert sighed and ran a hand over his head, smoothing his hair back to its customary sleekness. “Let me put it this way; once upon a time I really needed someone to help me, and there wasn’t anybody. Now I’m someone. I can’t go back and be that someone who helps that kid—me, but it’s the best I can do.” He held up his hands to express the futility. “Like I said, it’s not about you. Do not thank me again.”

Suitably chastened, Jaskier held his tongue for a long moment and simply regarded the Witcher thoughtfully. “Well, at least let me do something in exchange. Not for you, for my own sense of usefulness. I can do some basic cooking, cleaning, laundry, mending – whatever needs to be done around here.”

Lambert chewed another mouthful consideringly. “Can you knit?”

“Knit? Well yes, I learned the basics from my nurse but--”

Jaskier was interrupted by the perplexing sight of Lambert retrieving something from a saddlebag. A ball of wool and... knitting needles. They were thrust into Jaskier’s face and he took them with a strong sense of unreality.

“Need some new socks,” Lambert explained, sitting back down to finish his meal. “Drowner hunts are pure fuckin’ nightmares on the socks.”

Jaskier looked at the knitting supplies dubiously. “You.. Normally knit your own? Do all Witchers do home crafts?”

“Of course we do. Witchers don’t take wives. You think we get whores to mend our smalls after they suck our cocks? If we don’t want to buy everything new all the time, we learn to sew and yes, fuckin’ well knit. I even do a bit of macrame, to pass the time on boring hunts. It’s fuckin’ beautiful.” Lambert’s voice was low and intense, just waiting to be challenged.

Jaskier decided that discretion was indeed the better part of valour and busied himself setting up the wool and needles. “It sounds lovely, you’ll have to show me that later. For now, I might need some help remembering how this goes...”

Chapter Text

Jaskier had built an image in his head of what it was to live a simple country life, inspired by a combination what he had observed of the peasantry and reading rather too much pastoral poetry at Oxenfurt. He was mildly dismayed to discover this image had been fundamentally flawed; lacking as it was an accurate representation of the sheer amount of shit involved.

His own shit, he could deal with. Once he became more surefooted Jolenta dispensed with helping him to the outdoor privy and it became his job to empty his own chamber pot (or bucket, as it was) too. This much he could have lived with, however as it happened Jolenta had unfortunately taken his tales of Witcher mischief involving poultry to mean that Jaskier himself had a great love of chickens – resulting in a flock of seven somewhat bedraggled hens showing up one morning unannounced.

Jolenta had not been particularly helpful in her instructions; “Feed chickens. Get eggs.” Unsure how much or what to feed them, Jaskier went with ‘lots’. Any of his own table scraps, dried grains from his own stores, plus all the foraged insects their little hearts could desire. The logical and regrettable outcome of feeding the chickens so well was a veritable flood of chicken shit.

The little cottage was not particularly well lit or ventilated, so Jaskier had the habit of keeping the front door propped open during the day. The chickens took this as an open invitation and made themselves immediately at home, quickly becoming so accustomed to Jaskier’s presence that they frequently hopped into his lap, upsetting his attempts at knitting. It was rather adorable at first, and Jaskier was pleasantly surprised to find just how sociable chickens could be with their demands for pats and adorable burbling chatter. The eggs, laid in whatever discarded piece of Jaskier’s clothing they could find, were also a delicious bonus.

But the shit. Chickens did not distinguish between indoors and outdoors, purely human concepts as they were, so Jaskier’s feet were in permanent danger of squishing something foul between their toes. Jolenta was showing up less and less frequently as Jaskier became more visibly healthy, and Lambert had taken off weeks ago for a contract, so he was left to his own devices to conquer the chicken shit problem.

It turned out that the cottage had once had something resembling a boundary fence, long fallen in most places but not rotted. His primary goal was to keep the chickens out, not aesthetics, which was fortunate as the resulting structure barely resembled a fence at all. It had a functioning gate, which was the important bit, but he supposed it could do with a little tidying up.

Jaskier was just leaning back to admire the wildflowers he’d been fixing to the posts when a low snickering made him turn to look behind him.

“If you’re considering becoming a Builder as a new career, I’d advise against it.”

Lambert was still holding his horse’s reigns, but much of his armor was already stowed away. Clearly, he did not feel the need for it so close to home the cottage. The late autumn light limned his figure with warmth, and Jaskier felt an answering warmth in his chest that he squashed down immediately. He was just a bit lonely, even with the chickens. It was just nice to see another human, even a rude one with no appreciation for art.

Getting to his feet and standing primly, Jaskier played up his cultured accent in reply; “I wouldn’t expect a Witcher to understand good home décor. You probably want to hang that Goblin’s head over the mantle.”

Lambert laughed, walking his horse over and hitching it to the sturdiest looking post. “Grave hag, actually. And it’s worth more on my saddle than on any wall. Gives the people something else to fuckin’ stare at.”

“I’d rather have a Witcher than a Grave hag. The smell isn’t nearly as bad.” Jaskier sniffed dismissively and started to help unloading gear, without asking first. If lambert was bothered by the presumption he didn’t say so, simply getting on with the business of unburdening his mount and following Jaskier into the cottage.

“Speaking of smells, I take it you have --”

“Chickens!” Jaskier shouted at the same time as two brave, half-feathered hens made a dash through the gate Lambert had left open. He dropped the bags he was holding and raced towards the chickens, making large swooping motions with his arms to herd them back out the door.

Lambert stood bemused, watching as Jaskier alternately cursed and cooed at the chickens while he secured the gate.

“Those are some ugly fuckin’ chickens. Where’d you get ‘em? Jolenta?”

Jaskier was already back and stowing Lambert’s things in his improvised shelving system. “Yes, actually. I think she rescued them from some abandoned farm or some such. That’s why they’re so...well, ugly. She says the feathers will grow back when they’re less stressed.”

Lambert grunted as he sat down in one of the only two chairs, shedding weaponry as he went. “Maybe that’s why Witchers are so ugly. Stress.”

Jaskier made a disapproving noise as he set out a jug of water, some fresh fruit and his latest attempt at a loaf of bread. “I don’t know why you all think you’re so ugly. You’re not, just different.”

Lambert arched a brow at Jaskier across the bread he was tearing off. “Right, I forgot you’ve met so many Witchers you know exactly how pretty we all are. How many have you met, again?”

Jaskier frowned at the teasing, uncomfortable with how close it got to topics he’d rather not dwell on. “Enough. One doesn’t have to see every rose in existence to know roses in general are beautiful. Speaking of which, did you bring me any oils? Soap?”

The segue was painfully forced, but aside from a long look Lambert didn’t press it. Instead, he leaned over far enough to reach a saddle bag and dug around for a moment, eventually producing a small wax cloth package. He tossed it to Jaskier, who caught it with glee.

Holding the package to his nose, Jaskier inhaled deeply. “Lavender!” He exclaimed, as though it were the rarest of exotic scents. Opening the package quickly but carefully, he extracted a rough hewn brick of soap about the length of his hand. Barely restraining his joy, he held it to his nose again and closed his eyes to lose himself in the smell. When he’d asked Jolenta about the possibility of soap, she’d only stared at him more blankly than she usually did.

“Melitele’s sweet creamy bosom, Julian, if I’d known the soap would get you off like that I’d have bought another bar.”

Lambert’s voice cut through Jaskier’s impromptu fantasies of hygiene, finding himself a little embarrassed to be so obviously delighted with such a simple luxury. He was once a fucking viscount, how far had he fallen that soap was the highlight of his week? Tucking it away safely for later, he tried to act like he wasn’t deeply, mortifyingly grateful for the prospect of a proper wash.

“Some of us like to smell like flowers more than rotting corpses, or gods-cursed chicken shit. It’s not my fault I was born with such good taste.”

Lambert snorted. “Good taste? Is that what’s happening with the gate outside then?”

Crossing his arms, Jaskier fixed the Witcher with a challenging stare. “Its a gate, it works, now it’s pretty. I’d like to see you do better.”

Lambert nodded, finished the water in one long gulp and stood. “Alright then. Where are your tools?”

***

To Jaskier’s astonishment, Lambert turned out to be nearly as fair hand with a hammer as he was with a sword. He made quick work of the small fence and gate Jaskier had (attempted to) erect, then proceeded to restore the old boundary fence to such a state that it might actually deter the flock from wandering.

“Where do they roost?” asked Lambert, wiping sweat off his brow.

Jaskier shrugged, gesturing expansively. “Wherever they deem fit, I suppose.”

Lambert sighed with exasperation, then spent the rest of the evening muttering about how he intended to build a proper covered roost, with nesting boxes.

He was still at it as Jaskier served their simple evening meal, fish from the nearby river, another wobbly loaf of bread and a staple of Jaskier’s menu; boiled eggs.

“Nesting boxes will help you find more of these,” Lambert held up an egg for emphasis, “so you won’t have to go hunting around in your laundry for them.”

“I feel a little bad, putting them outside for good. I think Bernadette really loves laying on that hideous quilt.” Jaskier contemplated this solemnly, staring into the fireplace.

“Bernadette?” Lambert’s voice held a barely restrained laugh.

Jaskier shot him a dirty look. “Don’t judge me. Yes, I named them. I needed the company, it gets lonely here.” He had draped a knitted blanket (his first project) around himself earlier, now Jaskier pulled it close, feeling the humor turn into melancholy inside him as it so often did lately.

Lambert seemed to sense the turn in mood and didn’t needle Jaskier about the chicken any further. Instead, he was quiet for a long moment.

“Still not sleeping for shit?” he asked eventually.’

Jaskier huffed bitterly. “Barely a wink. Between the nightmares and the insomnia, it’s almost enough to drive a man to drink...” He held up a hand at Lambert’s sharp look, “...almost.”

Lambert grunted, unimpressed with Jaskier’s theatrics. “I don’t sleep much anyway. Don’t need to. So, Gwent?” he asked, already pulling out his deck.

Jaskier sighed, sounding heavily put upon, but agreed; “Gwent.”

***

Time passed surprisingly quickly between construction projects like the roost to fill the days, and rounds of gwent and improbable story telling to fill the nights. Lambert had nearly as many bullshit tall tales as Jaskier himself, so he found himself deeply impressed with the Witcher’s creativity and flair for the dramatic. It was always nice to meet a kindred spirit who didn’t object to a little artistic license.

After building a tidy little home for the chickens, Lambert proceeded to find and repair a dozen small problems around the cottage, coming up with improvements and additions too, like digging out a root cellar. He didn’t notify Jaskier of his plans, so the goat shed and subsequent appearance of a goat was a true surprise. Even more surprising was his expectation that Jaskier should milk said goat.

“You mean you want me to squeeze its nipples?! That’s... barbaric!”

Lambert threw up his hands, already done with this argument, “How can you not know how to milk a goat? It’s the same as sheep, or a cow!”

“What part of this,” Jaskier gestured to himself emphatically, “made you think I know anything about farming?”

“Everyone knows how to milk, not just farmers. Children do it.” Lambert grumbled but had clearly already decided the fight was lost, as he had turned back to finish milking the goat himself.

“Not where I’m from. Well, probably we actually did have a milk maid, now that I think about it.”

Lambert cast Jaskier a look over his shoulder. “You’re nobility? I should’ve known.”

Jaskier frowned. “And what’s that supposed to mean, hmm?”

The Witcher stood and passed the now full bucket of milk to Jaskier. “It means you really need to learn how to milk a goat before winter.”

Following Lambert back to the main house, Jaskier frowned, puzzled. “What do you mean, before winter? Do goats hibernate?”

Lambert laughed and gestured for Jaskier to put the milk in the root cellar to keep cool while he went to the fireplace himself to check on his stew. “No, they don’t hibernate. But Witchers do. In a month or so I’ll need to head up north. Won’t be back til’ spring.”

Jaskier came back up out of the cellar nodding, mind still focused on the prospect of so much nipple squeezing in his future. He could only blame the nipples for the absent minded reply he gave; “Ah yes, Kaer Morhen.”

As soon as it was out of his mouth Jaskier gave himself away further by stopping abruptly and staring at Lambert, knowing he wasn’t meant to know anything about the Witchers’ secret school.

Lambert stopped stirring the pot and looked at Jaskier very slowly. “So you know a Wolf, then.”

Jaskier bit his lip, well aware that lying to a Witcher was a terrible idea. “I’ve met one, yes.” he hedged lightly.

Yellow eyes glinted in the firelight, reminding Jaskier he was not talking to an ordinary man. “Must have really liked you, to tell you about the valley,” he observed in an even voice.

Finding that piercing gaze a little too sharp, Jaskier busied himself finding his two bowls and preparing for their meal. “Well, I thought he did. Turns out he really didn’t. Not surprising, a lot of people don’t like me. Comes with the profession.”

There was a long, considering silence, but eventually it seemed Lambert had decided to let the matter lie and went back to stirring the stew with an ambivalent grunt.

Jaskier breathed a silent sigh of relief. He tried to affect a light tone but knew his thumping heart and sweaty palms would be glaringly obvious to the Witcher anyway. He held out the bowls to receive their portions. “So, I don’t suppose we could bribe Jolenta to come milk the goat?”

Lambert generously ladeled the hot stew into bowls, the warm scent of venison rising from it pleasantly. “Not a chance. The passes around here get a lot of snow, you’ll be on your own for a while. Just you and the goat.”

“And the chickens.” Jaskier added, retreating to his chair with his food.

“And the chickens,” repeated Lambert solemnly.

Chapter Text

At first, Jaskier felt optimistic about his upcoming season alone. After Lambert’s departure, Jolenta came around for a few last visits, mostly to supervise Jaskier’s dairy farming education and make sure he knew how to feed himself for a couple of months without outside help. She brought several heavy packages on each trip which turned out to contain a variety of smoked meats, courtesy of Lambert apparently. The Witcher had taken the time so show Jaskier a few easy snares, but clearly didn’t think much of the bard’s ability to actually catch anything.

More perplexing was the delivery of a truly industrial amount of yarn, in several eye-wrenching colours. It turned out Jolenta farmed the sheep and dyed the wool herself, so she was less than thrilled with Jaskier’s commentary on the colour palette. Eventually, he deduced that this abundance of yarn was presumably to keep him busy in the long winter nights and produce some quantity of socks for the absent Witcher.

And busy he was kept. To Jaskier’s immense irritation the chickens kept a strict schedule; they had to be locked in their roost at dusk to keep predators out and let out of the roost at dawn to forage. They demanded food constantly between these two times, burbling their hunger at him through the windows, and woe betide him if he ever slept in. More than once he startled out of a post-dinner doze to go and check he had put the chickens to bed, a process that involved tracking, stealth, a fair amount of reverse psychology and short improvised lullaby about mealworms (their favourite).

Mastering the art of goat milking, feeding and avoiding bites was another entirely more embarrassing story. Jaskier didn’t want to dwell on it.

The chicken lullaby was the first time he sang in months, and it was out of pure desperation, not any sort of inspiration. His voice sounded weak and foreign to him; an abandoned instrument gone awry with disuse. It got the chickens into the damn roost, but it sparked no joy in his chest, it was not a delight to anyone’s ear. For the first time in his life, he didn’t want to write a better song. He didn’t want to write any songs.

As a bard, Jaskier had long held the belief that great suffering creates great art. While studying at Oxenfurt he dreamed of his poetic idols, all lamentably cursed with illness, misfortune, doomed romance or a combination of all three. It seemed to him that truly gifted creatives spun sadness into beauty, wove their worries into something that would bring happiness. Jaskier had been waiting half his life to find out what personal tragedies would inspire his greatest works.

Unfortunately, he was rapidly learning that perhaps these famed artists he so admired were great despite their pain, not because of it. Sometimes great suffering was simply just... suffering. It didn’t inspire any ballads to spill from his lips, it didn’t make his fingers itch to write stanzas. Instead, he felt voiceless, hollow. Some days he didn’t feel like there was anything inside him at all.

His little tin pipe sat somewhere in the bottom of his travel bags, with the remains of his bardic finery. It was as out of place in his new life as the silks would be, how could he possibly tend his flock in anything other than the rough homespun tunic and breeches he now wore? How could music fit into this rustic little life, or come from this husk of a man?

He tried to avoid these thoughts, turning his mind away from the dark paths it seemed prone to wandering down. The chickens and the goat, which he still refused to name on principle, did provide a needed distraction, but there was truthfully only so much time one could spend absorbed in the day to day needs of animals. The knitting helped too, although he suspected he was getting worse at it over time rather than improving. It was still somehow rewarding to work on a project and have a useful result, even if the resulting garments were pushing the boundaries of functionality.

The nights when he couldn’t sleep were the most agonizing times for him, and those nights were getting longer and longer. What little sleep he did get was fraught with nightmares and he often awoke sweat-soaked and confused, anxious to the point of shaking over something he couldn’t define. Something he didn’t want to define. In the darkest, quietest hours, he could admit the thing he wasn’t thinking about was Valdo, but he could barely bring himself to acknowledge that much.

Nausea twisted his gut when he so much as felt around the edges of the topic in his mind. The sheer self-loathing and shame attached to the name stained every memory of Oxenfurt Jaskier had left, every notion of music and friendship and l—not love. No, that was attached to an even more taboo topic; Geralt. Lambert’s brother-in-arms, whom he was no doubt comparing notes with at that very moment.

It’s fine. Jaskier told himself. Don’t think about that. Lambert is coming back in spring, you made him some ugly socks that he will hate but must wear anyway. Everything is going to be just fine.

It was not fine.

***
Things seemed to be going well as the season set in and the truly heavy snows began to fall. Jolenta had long ceased to visit, and Jaskier felt proud he was managing to keep himself and his animals alive on his own. Blessed with more than enough dried stores to survive the winter, Jaskier spent a lot of time inventing new variations of pottage (with varying degrees of success) and both he and the chickens regained some of their lost weight as a result.

The chickens had thankfully all grown in some fluffy feathers overly their bare patches, so they had at least some barrier to the cold. All the same, as midwinter approached Jaskier felt increasingly guilty at the comparative warmth of his cottage to their unheated roost. Eventually his conscience got the better of him and he took some of the rushes stored under the roof and laid out an extra layer on the floor.

He would have to beg more off Jolenta to replace them come spring, but at least this way he could at least sweep out the cottage regularly to help with the impending chicken shit situation. The hens were delighted to be returned from their long exile and settled in happily, burbling their approval of the fire in the hearth.

Mean Goat, as Jaskier had finally dubbed the old nanny, joined them soon after by the first truly stormy night, Jaskier’s guilt overcoming his personal dislike of the beast. Despite the close quarters and overwhelming smell of barn yard, having the animals indoors during the increasingly long nights was rather cozy, and made him feel slightly less alone.

If it hadn’t been for worsening of the weather and series of storms, he might have made it through the winter quite comfortably. But by the third storm, after the temperature dropped so low that the well froze and he was reduced to melting snow for drinking water, Jaskier’s tenuous optimism was almost extinguished.

The straw that broke the proverbial camel’s back was when a tree fell during another vicious storm, crushing the chicken roost completely. When he came out that morning to survey the damage his heart ached at the sight. He knew Lambert probably wouldn’t think much of it, but to Jaskier it was somehow a symbol of the Witcher’s kindness towards him. He built it for Jaskier’s chickens, without being asked or expecting any kind of repayment. Now it was gone.

Morose, he brought the animals in early that night and went to bed. He slept long into the next day, startled to realize upon waking that it wasn’t still night, rather a storm had begun that was heavy enough to block almost all the daylight out. The door sucked itself shut when he tried to open it, so he resigned himself to a day in with the animals.

One day became two, then three. It started to feel like one endless night, a sense of unreality taking over. It was hard to shake the thought that the rest of the world might no longer exist outside of those walls. He slept as much as he could, to avoid the boredom and his increasingly dark thoughts. But his dreams betrayed him, taking him back to being powerless and tricked and held down--

He rarely woke up without crying. The chickens seemed to sense his distress and often settled around him on the bed, babbling quietly amongst themselves. Still, his mood could not be raised, spiraling ever further down the longer the storm went on. He grew desperate for some relief from the constant barrage of memories, the relentless cold creep of his guilt, shame and sorrow.

It came to a head that third night, Jaskier driven beyond his breaking point. He could no longer eat or sleep, he could barely even sit down. He paced around the cottage in short loops, resisting the urge to examine the walls for secret hiding places – caught up in the absurd notion that Lambert or a previous owner could have stashed a bottle of wine somewhere. He didn’t know what he would do if such a miracle did occur; did he really want a drink?

Yes. Anything to make it stop. And why shouldn’t he? It wasn’t like he wanted to obliterate himself for months like before, he just wanted some nice dreamless sleep, just a few hours without feeling like he was rotting from the inside out. There was no one here to see him or judge him, except Mean Goat, and she did that anyway.

Would it really be so bad to indulge just this once, to save his mind? Maybe even his life? It was midwinter after all, the whole reason for the traditional festivals of fire and light was to fight the type of darkness that had seized him. It seemed only appropriate to have his own midwinter celebration, to carry him through to spring.

By the time dawn broke, clear and crisp, he had made up his mind. Pulling on several pairs of lumpy socks and one that had turned out to be a hat, he went over his very simple and reasonable plan; follow the path Jolenta usually took to the cottage, over the hills she had indicated her sheep grazed on, find Jolenta’s house and charm her into sharing whatever the local peasantry considered fine liquor.

Perhaps he could offer a song in exchange, or maybe just a poem. Some dirty limericks? They were always popular. He set off, letting the animals out to forage as much as they could in the snow-covered yard. As he picked his way through the surprisingly deep snow towards the hills, Jaskier could almost taste the fortified wine. Or maybe apple brandy? Did they grow apples this far east? It was no matter, he’d never met a farmer who didn’t know how to ferment something, especially in a place as cold as this.

Lost in thoughts of what beverages might await him, it took Jaskier longer than it should have to realize he wasn’t quite where he expected to be. The shape of the hills seemed different under the snow, the landmarks he thought he knew well suddenly foreign and hard to find. The sun seemed to be moving far too quickly in the sky; it was slow going through the heavy snow in his wholly inappropriate footwear, but even so he had expected to be able to see signs of Jolenta’s farm already.

Convinced it was always just over the next rise, he climbed half a dozen ridges before he admitted he was perhaps going off course. He tried to backtrack and found where he thought he had gotten turned around, but a few hours on his new track also proved fruitless. The landscape seemed less inhabited, not more, with fewer remains of fences or tilled fields. It was well past noon and rapidly approaching dusk when he could no longer deny something was very wrong.

Finally he saw a suspiciously regular looking stone and a suspicion formed in mind. What if instead of heading towards Ban Ard and the direction of Jolenta’s farm, he had instead gone the other way? The snow was so much heavier than he had expected, the white blanket turning everything into a strange unknown world. Could he really have gotten so lost? He continued a few minutes more, dread clenching his gut when he spotted a carved archway and confirmed his suspicion.

Loc Muinne.

Rebuilt by Elves, the graceful white stone spoke of its creators with every elegant line. Under other circumstances Jaskier might have been interested to explore the ruin, investigate what remained of the once glorious stronghold. But in the fading light all Jaskier could think of was how far he was from the cottage, and just how many Elves had died in the massacre here at hands of the Redanians. Elders, women and children; everyone.

That was a lot of bodies. A lot of angry, lost spirits. Jaskier had followed a Witcher around for far too long to linger anywhere there might be less than peaceful dead. Cursing himself for a fool and a drunk, Jaskier turned around and immediately began following his own footsteps back the way he had come. Snow had begun to fall again and obscure the tracks, Jaskier hurried in an attempt to outpace the weather.

But it was not the weather that caught him, though it indeed felt like he had suddenly been doused in freezing water. The cold and panic paralyzed him, stopping him from taking another step. The air seemed painfully cold against his skin, charged with an icy energy that sucked warmth from his lungs. He held felt the touch of the uncanny before, the way the world felt oddly too-real the moment before a spell was cast or a monster attacked, and he felt it now.

Something was behind him.

Forcing his muscles into motion, Jaskier lurched around to face the threat and felt his heart skip a beat in his chest. A dark shape stood, no, it hovered only a stone’s throw away. It moved and rippled in place; dark rags of a cloak stirred by a wind far stronger than the one driving the snow. Jaskier’s mind stuttered, unable to fathom a response to this unholy vision.

Frantically he tried to think of anything Geralt had ever taught him about wraiths, recalling the process of locating the object it was bound to and burning it to force an appearance, but that wasn’t helpful at all. The damn thing had already appeared, and he had neither the swords, signs nor oil that Geralt would usually employ to fight such a creature.

The rank stupidity of his accompanying a Witcher on any hunt was suddenly incredibly obvious to him; he was just a weak, frail little human with almost no ability to defend himself against other humans, let alone supernatural monsters. How insane he must have seemed to Geralt, all this time. No wonder the Witcher had been so eager to be rid of him.

Before Jaskier could draw breath to scream, the wraith was already moving towards him. Between one blink and the next it was upon him, terrible in its swiftness. A ghastly face emerged from the dark hood, dark rotting flesh peeling away from pale bone. Jaskier could not take his eyes off the gaunt visage as it leaned down towards him, close enough to taste his terrified gasping.

Suddenly gripped with the sure knowledge that this was his final moment, he was going to die, Jaskier had the profound realization that he didn’t actually want to do so. He had spent the last year chasing death in a thousand tiny ways, tempting oblivion to take him under for good. For all the dark times with Valdo when he had wished himself to a long dark sleep, not caring if he awoke, he never truly understood what it would be like to face non-existence, nor how much he feared it.

Jaskier squeezed his eyes shut, desperately hoping for a rescue that could not come. No silver coated Witcher blade would come swinging to save him this time. He felt the thing come even closer, its head almost touching his own. Jaskier tensed, waiting for the sudden and final blow that was sure to follow.

But it never came.

He heard a strange sound instead, very close to his ear; a huffing, chuffing kind of noise. Like air passing through a very inefficient windpipe. Was the thing... sniffing him?!

“Aen Seidhe.”

The words formed in his head even as he was struggling to understand the wheezing wreck of a voice speaking them out loud. Startled, Jaskier opened his eyes only to find the wraith was retreating, back turned as it rapidly fluttered away into the gloom of the ruins.

It took his mind a moment to catch up and parse the meaning of what the thing had said, sorting through the languages he had learned at Oxenfurt. It was Hen Llinge, the language of elves, and it was the name they called themselves; the hill folk.

Jaskier could not resist letting out a sharp, hysterical laugh as he realized the blood he had cursed over and over for ruining his career had just saved his life.

Chapter Text

“What in the name of all the gods have you done to these fucking chickens? They’re obese!”

Jaskier looked up from where he was mending the fence of his new vegetable garden to see Lambert standing in the middle of the yard, looking down at a plump hen incredulously.

“They’re not fat, you’re just not used to seeing them healthy. Hold this for me?” Jaskier asked, indicating the upright sapling he was trying to tie in place. This was his fourth fence, and third attempt at a vegetable patch since Jolenta had made her first visit after the thaw. She had been the one to provide the seedlings, the chickens and goat had made a joint taskforce to demolish the first two gardens. Hence the increased height of the fence; it turned out the chickens were not yet too fat to fly.

Surprisingly, Lambert obliged and held the wood in place without bitching about Jaskier’s construction skills. “I don’t know about the chickens, but you certainly look less like a scarecrow. Figured out the milking alright then?”

Jaskier sniffed as though offended but knew very well that he had regained some of his lost weight. He wasn’t yet back to the lean muscle that he had sported while walking the path with Geralt, but his bones were no longer distressingly visible.

“Yes, I did, thank you very much. It wasn’t that hard. I even make cheese, now.” Jolenta was largely responsible for the cheese, but Lambert didn’t need to know that. Finishing off tying the horizontal fence post in place, Jaskier pointedly looked the Witcher up and down. “You don’t look so bad yourself. Not a bad season for you either then, I take it?”

Lambert grunted and waved a hand vaguely. “There was a... complication. Had to stay at the keep longer than usual. ‘s why I’m late.”

Jaskier fought to keep his breathing and heartrate steady, studiously avoiding thinking about what that ‘complication’ could be, and if it involved Geralt. He walked briskly back towards the cottage instead, gesturing for Lambert to follow. “Well, if you aren’t too fattened up from lying about all winter, there’s some soup on. I’m having lunch anyway.”

Lambert was apparently hungry enough to eat several bowls of Jaskier’s eternal soup, which had become a staple of his diet since midwinter. After the incident with the wraith, he had finally acknowledged the death wish he had been carrying around and let it go. He had realized that if he wasn’t going to die, he should work on living properly, and eating better was one of the first steps he had taken. The soup was left over the coals of the fire at night, and he added more grains, water and vegetables as necessary every morning. The result was a nutritious and ever-changing meal, which the chickens seemed to enjoy as well.

Lambert shared the chicken’s opinion on the soup and kept his mouth occupied with eating while Jaskier chattered about the improvements he’d made around the place over the winter and early spring. He grunted here and there but didn’t make any complaints, not even about Jaskier’s choice to paint the shutters an eye searing shade of yellow.

He was halfway through an absent-minded rant about not having anything to read, especially poetry, when Lambert finally interjected.

“If you miss being Geralt’s barker so damn much you can always leave. You’re not a prisoner.”

Jaskier dropped the bowl he was rinsing into the bucket with a noisy clatter. He looked up to meet Lambert’s piercing golden gaze, his heart in his throat. “I don’t-- I’m not...” he stopped, knowing any further dissembling was a waste of time. Lambert was clearly done with pretenses.

Jaskier sighed. “When did you know?” he asked in a small voice.

“There aren’t many bards who know Witchers well. Only one that’s familiar with a Wolf. You think we haven’t been singing that fucking song at the big blonde fuck for years? You think I'm too dense to put two and two together?”

Jaskier winced, mentally adding that to the pile of shit he had unintentionally shoveled on Geralt for two decades. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to lie to you. I just...” he paused, swiping a hand over his face wearily. “I didn’t want to talk about it.”

Lambert’s ire seemed to pass, satisfied with Jaskier’s honesty. “Understandable. That asshole doesn’t need more people talking him up anyway. If his head swells anymore it’ll explode.”

Jaskier had never known Geralt to be a vain man, except for the hair thing, but he wasn’t about to argue with the man’s brother. He clearly knew Geralt better than Jaskier ever had or would. Instead, he summoned the courage to ask the question that had been burning on his tongue since Lambert first mentioned the other Witcher.

“So he’s... alright then?” Jaskier wasn’t sure what answer he wanted, whether he would prefer to hear that Geralt was heartbroken and fallen into misfortune, or hale as ever.

Lambert snorted. “He’s fine. Busy,” he added cryptically, dumping his own bowl into the wash bucket and taking over the rinsing.

Jaskier hesitated, but could not resist pressing further, “Did you talk to him about me?”

Pausing, Lambert looked at Jaskier with an unreadable expression. “No. Did you want me to?”

Confused by a rush of mixed relief and disappointment, Jaskier shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know. No. No, it’s probably for the best that you didn’t.”

***

Despite his suggestion that Jaskier could leave, Lambert made no further comments about the subject and instead helped Jaskier with small tasks that would set him up for the summer, as though he had every expectation that Jaskier would stay. And Jaskier did want to stay; this little life was never something he had imagined wanting, but since everything that happened with Valdo, he no longer felt like the person he had been and struggled to imagine himself back in his old life.

Here, with the company of his chickens and even Mean Goat, he felt comfortable. Safe. He had never realized how precious a thing it was to feel safe until he lost that feeling, somewhere in Novigrad. Now he wasn’t sure he would feel safe anywhere else ever again, which was a depressing notion he tried not to dwell on.

Lambert was a welcome distraction, often hunting or fishing during the day to supplement the ever-present soup, and ruthlessly critiquing Jaskier’s knitting attempts in the evenings. They often played Gwent long into the night, swapping stories like old drinking buddies until Jaskier was tired enough to fall asleep without his anxious thoughts keeping him awake.

He still didn’t sleep well or much, often disturbed by nightmares and startled awakenings. Lambert did not complain about the bard’s noisy night habits, though whenever Jaskier wandered into the main room in a fit of restlessness Lambert’s eyes were already open and alert. He even took care of feeding the animals if Jaskier overslept as a result of an especially rough night and didn’t even rib Jaskier about it later.

As the season warmed, they settled into something of a routine. Lambert would go off on contracts for few weeks, then return for a handful of days rest at the cottage. Jaskier was always pleased to see him, and he felt reasonably certain that the Witcher returned the sentiment. It was hard to tell under all the insults and swearing, but there was a certain affection hidden in the barbs, the insults never close enough to the bone to sting.

Jaskier didn’t want to call it a friendship, he never wanted to overestimate his value again – but he thought they were at least amicable acquaintances. In his darker moments he felt certain the Witcher was only doing any of this out of pity or obligation, but most of the time he was willing to allow that Lambert was getting something else out of their companionship too. Perhaps he simply liked talking to someone who didn’t hate or fear him, rare enough for a Witcher, or maybe he really was trying to resolve his own issues retroactively. Either way, Jaskier was simply grateful to not be alone.

He was doing a fairly good job of pretending he was nothing more than a hermit and never had been, concerned only with his hens and the progress of his vegetable crop. He carefully kept his mind off the future and the past, living as much in the day-to-day details as possible. This was working out well for him until the day Lambert rode up with large package strapped to his saddle. The Witcher tossed the package to Jaskier as he dismounted and set about untacking his horse.

Catching the surprisingly heavy, square parcel in his arms, Jaskier stared down at it in bewilderment. “What’s this then? Very big soap?”

Lambert shrugged off the question, busy with the horse. “Open it and see.”

Intrigued, Jaskier took the package inside and cut the twine holding it closed. He was still staring at the contents a good half hour later when Lambert finished brushing down his horse and ambled inside.

“That good, huh? Stunned you silent. I knew you’d like it, after all that whining about poetry--” Lambert cut himself off as he rounded the corner of the table and could see Jaskier properly.

Tears poured down the bard’s face, his expression not pleased but devastated. He knew he looked terrible but couldn’t even bring himself to wipe his eyes, frozen in a sort of numb shock. Lambert immediately looked contrite and no small amount of panicked – it was clear that this was not at all the reaction he had anticipated.

On the table in front of Jaskier sat a pile of books, poetry, songs and history by the titles, a variety of writing implements and sheath of creamy paper. There was even a small travelling kit with inks. It was beautiful, a treasure beyond measure in this remote rural setting, but Jaskier could not contain his despair at the sight.

“Fuck,” gasped Jaskier, “I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong with me... this was so thoughtful, I should be happy, I should be thrilled-”

“Fuck ‘should’,” said Lambert emphatically. “There’s no right way to feel your fuckin’ feelings. I should have asked if you wanted it first.”

He made to sweep the books and paper off the table but Jaskier grabbed his arm, stopping him.

“I do want it. Or at least, I want to want it. I just... I don’t know how to be that person anymore.” Sighing, Jaskier released Lambert’s arm and stroked the cover of the topmost book, a beautifully bound volume of Kaedweni folklore.

“It was all I ever wanted to be, a bard. Jaskier the bard, famed throughout the whole continent. But I’m different now. So much has happened.” He gestured to himself, indicating his pathetic lack of composure. “I don’t know how to get back to that from this.”

Lambert sat heavily in the other chair, frowning. “You don’t have to. I’m sure as fuck not gonna make you.”

Jaskier leaned against the table and cradled his head in one hand. “But I want to, I think. Maybe. Eventually. I really loved it, you know. I was good at it, it’s the only thing I’ve ever been any use at really.”

Lambert huffed. “You’re pretty good at making chickens overweight. The knitting isn’t the worse I’ve ever seen either.”

Despite himself, Jaskier laughed. “Liar. I may be a mess but I’m not an idiot. My knitting is an abomination and a stain on the entire textile industry.”

“Alright, yes, it’s fuckin’ terrible. But your determination to keep working on it in the face of complete failure is inspiring, at least.”

Jaskier swatted Lambert’s arm playfully but was quietly grateful for the lift in mood. Sniffing, he wiped his face roughly and looked at the unwrapped package again. “Well, I could at least put this away for later. I don’t want it gone. I’m just... not ready yet. If that’s alright?”

Lambert rolled his eyes. “Of course it’s all-fucking-right, it’s yours. I’m certainly not about to start writing my autobiography.”

Jaskier's eyes lit up with interest. “But surely that would be a best seller! I don’t think a Witcher has ever recorded their life before, certainly not in first person!”

“There’s a fucking good reason for that too. A Witcher’s life can be summed up in one word; bullshit.” Standing up, Lambert walked away from the table, clearly done with this line of conversation.

Before he made it to the door, Jaskier stopped him by speaking his name quietly. “Lambert. Thank you for the gift, even if I’m too fucked up to use it yet.”

“I thought we agreed no thanking me for any of this. Remember, I’m not doing it for you--”

“--you’re doing it for yourself.” Finished Jaskier, nodding. “I know, I know. But still. It was kind.”

Lambert harrumphed and stalked out the door, but Jaskier thought he caught the tiniest hint of a smile on the Witcher’s scarred face.

Chapter Text

Spring gave way to summer, and with it came more time away for Lambert. He ventured further afield, without mentioning why but Jaskier was sure it had to do with his own improving mental state. He hoped at least that Lambert felt less obligated to check on him quite so often. When the Witcher did stop by, he inevitably brought small trinkets and luxuries, though never again books or paper. He even occasionally gave Jaskier the odd tooth, claw or feather from a hunt, always with a story to accompany it.

The vegetable patch was proving surprisingly bountiful, or at least the plants that survived the predations of the chickens seemed to thrive. Jaskier’s diet grew more varied, and he was more than a little proud of his growing pantry. As midsummer approached, he even started to contemplate putting together a small feast to celebrate, perhaps even have Jolenta and her husband over for a meal. He wasn’t sure if Lambert would be in the area at the time though, he would have to ask the next time the Witcher stopped by.

He was lost in thoughts of pies and roasts, perched precariously on a barrel as he attempted to hang a flower garland for the upcoming holiday. The barrel was old and lopsided, requiring careful footing to stay balanced – so it was perhaps not so surprising that in his daydreaming Jaskier mis-stepped and felt a sudden lurch as the barrel tipped. His arms wheeled frantically as he fell backwards, bracing himself for impact.

But the impact never came. Instead, a strong hand gripped him at shoulder and waist, arresting his fall and allowing Jaskier to get his feet back on the ground. The stomach churning panic that had gripped him when he lost his balance didn’t stop though, it only seemed to grow stronger. There were hands on him, strong hands, turning him around now to face their owner.

It was Lambert of course, back early from a contract. He was saying something, but the words slid from Jaskier’s mind like eels. All he could think, all he could feel was the sensation of those hands, one still gripping his shoulder while the other came up towards his face. Fear surged inside Jaskier, his own hand seeming to move without him willing it, batting Lambert’s reaching hand away and wrenching the other off his shoulder. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t think.

He stumbled backwards, clutching his chest to ward off the sudden sharp pains, like burning cold needles stabbing his heart. Feeling the wall of the cottage behind him, Jaskier collapsed against it and sank to the ground. He still couldn’t get any air, and now the stabbing pains seemed to be all over his body. Was he dying? It felt like poison, or a curse – memories of the Djinn blocking his throat overwhelmed him with terror.

Just when his vision was starting to darken and he was sure this was the last moment of his life, a sudden much sharper pain drew his attention to his foot. Henrietta, the chook with the most speckles and attitude, looked back up him, then pecked his foot again. It was always a risk to walk around barefoot, as the chickens universally found toes to be irresistible, but today he had forgotten. A startled laughed escaped Jaskier and he managed to finally take a desperate, gasping breath.

The laugh sounded a little hysterical even to his own ears, but he could finally breath again. Henrietta did not appreciate the significance of this and drove her sharp little beak into his toe several more times in quick succession until he was forced to pull his leg away from her attack. Filled with absurd gratitude, he reached to pet her and she tolerated it for a long moment before bustling off on important chicken business. Jaskier realized his face was wet with tears, and while the strange pains had subsided as suddenly as they had come on, he felt achey and exhausted.

Looking up, he finally he registered the presence of Lambert again, squatting a few feet away and watching Jaskier quietly. Jaskier groaned and buried his face in his hands, overwhelmed to be seen in such a mess.

“Back with me, Julian? You alright?” asked Lambert in a remarkably quiet voice. He wasn’t even swearing.

It was so out of character for the Witcher that Jaskier couldn’t hold back a snort. “No. No I’m not alright. Obviously.” He still couldn’t bear to look at Lambert, instead pressing his hands hard against his own eyes.

“I’m sorry I startled you. I forgot you can’t hear me coming.” Lambert’s voice was still soft and careful. It made Jaskier want to start crying again. Instead, he swiped angrily at his eyes and finally looked back at the Witcher, who looked unbearably contrite.

“Oh, don’t fucking apologize for catching me, Lambert. You did nothing wrong. I’m the idiot who scared himself to tears over a little fall,” Jaskier spat, self-disgust filling his voice.

Lambert was quiet for a long moment, considering. Finally he offered; “I don’t think it was the fall.”

Confused, Jaskier tried to search Lambert’s face for his meaning but the Witcher was looking off to the side, not meeting his gaze. “What do you mean?”

“Your heartbeat. Your scent.” Lambert shrugged, clearly as uncomfortable talking about his heightened senses as Geralt ever was. He lifted his eyes to look directly at Jaskier. “You were surprised when you fell, panicked, but not... terrified. That didn’t happen until I touched you.”

“Oh.” Jaskier couldn’t argue with that, it was true, and there was no point lying to a Witcher. He suddenly felt acutely embarrassed, and it was his turn to look at the ground. “That’s strange. I love being touched. I’m practically famous for it.”

He could feel the weight of Lambert’s regard as the other man took his time answering. Lambert usually had a fast, sharp tongue, but it was clear he was trying to pick his words carefully. “It’s not so strange for a person to not like being touched anymore after... things have happened.”

A profound sense of vulnerability and helplessness settled over Jaskier like a heavy blanket. He had tried so hard not to think about what had happened, to forget it all and move on. He thought he had succeeded, all that pain put neatly away in a box. But his body had betrayed him in this endeavor. One touch and he fell apart like a spun sugar confection, brittle and bright.

In a very small voice, he finally asked; “What’s wrong with me?”

Lambert sighed heavily. “I don’t know. I'm not—I'm no good at this shit. But I think I might know someone that can help.”

***

‘Someone’ turned out to be an elderly hedge witch living in Ban Ard. As Lambert explained, she was a sort of healer of the mind, who offered medicines and services to those whose injuries were more than just physical. Lambert did not say how he knew of this woman but alluded to having known her since she was not nearly so elderly and appeared to place a good deal of trust in her abilities. Jaskier was less confident about the whole idea but staying the way he was feeling was not an option.

It took some arranging, but Jolenta agreed to take over care of the hens and Mean Goat while Lambert and Jaskier made the trip to the city. It was only about a day’s ride away, but they only had the one horse and riding double was not even raised as a possibility. Instead they took their time, mostly walking while the horse simply carried their supplies, and arrived in Ban Ard an extra day later.

Jaskier was uncommonly quiet during the journey, but Lambert took up the conversational slack by bitching at length about Ban Ard’s various flaws and drawbacks. Chief amongst which was that it was full of fucking mages, whom he seemed to have a strong prejudice against. Jaskier, thinking of a certain violet-eyed enchantress, could not really blame him for it.

As they drew closer to the city the farms became hamlets, then villages, and finally the outskirts of the city engulfed them. Having been so isolated for the last few months Jaskier found himself overwhelmed with the sheer quantity of people, buildings and noise. It was dizzying, and he unconsciously walked as close to the Witcher as he could without touching him. All his life he had loved cities, the vibrancy of life when so many different people lived their lives on top of each other. It was disorienting to realize he didn’t feel immediately at home in this bustling cosmopolis.

Perhaps sensing Jaskier’s mood, Lambert steered them around less populous streets, avoiding the busy markets and the mages’ district. Their destination seemed to be in a quieter part of the city anyway, mostly residential with only a few taverns and shops interspersed. Lambert finally came to a halt outside an unassuming house with a charming blue door. There was nothing to indicate any kind of magic user or healer lived inside, except for a bundle of herbs drying over the door.

“This is it. Knock thrice and wait, she’s always here.”

Confused, Jaskier turned to Lambert in puzzlement. “You’re not coming in?”

Lambert looked more awkward than Jaskier had ever seen him, avoiding the bard’s questioning gaze. “I have some business to take care of in the square. Besides, she doesn’t really like me. Thinks I’m rude or some bullshit.”

Jaskier waved this away with exasperation. “You are rude. And mean too, are you really going to make me go in there on my own? Will she even see me, if she dislikes you so much?”

“She’ll help anyone who asks. It’s kind of her thing. Besides, she owes me a favour so she’ll probably jump at the chance to fulfil it without actually having to see me.”

“Are you sure?” Anxiety started to colour Jaskier’s voice. He hadn’t pictured facing this situation alone. “I don’t have any money, I can’t pay her if she doesn’t believe you sent me.”

Frowning, Lambert appeared to think hard for a moment before reaching into a saddlebag and retrieving a small object. He held it out to Jaskier expectantly. “Here. ‘s worth more than enough and she’ll know it's from me.”

“Lambert. That’s a bomb.” Jaskier stared at the small round explosive in shock.

The Witcher rolled his eyes and pressed the bomb into Jaskier’s hand. “I know it’s a ploughing bomb, I made it. No one else makes them like this, and she knows that.”

“But this could explode.” He tried to convey how absurd this concept was, but Lambert was already tugging at the reigns of his horse and turning to leave.

“Of course it could, wouldn’t be a very good bomb if it didn’t. Best not to drop it.”

“But that’s-- I don’t--- LAMBERT!”

The Witcher had already turned his back and headed off in the direction of the city center. “I’ll be back in an hour,” he called back over his shoulder, ignoring Jaskier’s protests. “Try not to burn the place down.”

Giving up on the Witcher as a madman and a lost cause, Jaskier resigned himself to his fate. He tucked the bomb carefully into his belt pouch and approached the blue door, knocking as instructed. There was no answer for a long time, so Jaskier was left wondering if he should knock again or give up and try to follow after Lambert. Just as he turned to leave, the door swung open to reveal the most grandmotherly looking woman Jaskier had ever seen.

Tight grey ringlets tucked into a colourful headscarf framed a round face with rosy cheeks, complimented by a bright patchwork apron with a plethora of pockets. A delicious smell of fresh baked bread wafted out of the house behind her, practically shouting a warm welcome to Jaskier’s nose. A ginger cat peered around the voluminous skirts, missing one eye but the remaining one matching the old woman for curiosity. Her warm brown eyes regarded him intensely, scrutinizing him from head to toe.

“What’s this then? Who are you?”

Abruptly remembering his manners, Jaskier swept into a bow with a flourish, ducking his head deeply as he introduced himself; “Julian Afred Pankratz, here to seek the aid of the renowned goodwife and healer--”

“No, stop that. Look at my face when you talk, I can hardly hear you. My ears have gone the way of my tits and arse; absolutely knackered.”

Flabbergasted, Jaskier straightened up and shut his mouth with a click. It took a few tries for him to start again, entirely thrown off by the woman’s unexpected bluntness. “I uh, I’m Julian. I was told you might be able to help me?”

She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms with an air of exasperation. “Help you with what? Who told you that?”

He was starting to think this had all been a terrible idea, but the tone of the old woman’s voice gave him no choice but to answer. “Lambert. He’s a friend of mine, he told me you might be able to give me something for my... for the troubles I have. With sleeping, and, well, that sort of thing.”

The old healer unleashed a raucous snort. “Ha! That little brat doesn’t have any friends. No doubt you overheard him mocking me in a tavern and thought you could swindle an old woman for her life savings, eh?” Her eyes looked much less warm now, piercing Jaskier with a sharp glare.

Fumbling for his belt pouch, Jaskier produced Lambert’s bomb and held it up gingerly, trying not to think about the potential for explosions. “He said to give you this. As proof and well, payment I guess.”

Grey eyebrows shot up with surprise, and the bomb was plucked from Jaskier’s with alacrity, examined briefly then tucked into one of her many pockets. The woman’s expression turned thoughtful, assessing Jaskierr anew. “A Witcher’s secrets aren’t given lightly. He trusts you deeply. That’s good enough for me, come on then. Get your arse inside, don’t let the bloody cat out.”

Still stunned and a bit off balance, Jaskier followed her inside obediently. The interior of the house was a riotous clutter, every available surface stacked with earthenware pots, arcane artifacts tucked in alongside the more mundane detritus of someone who really enjoyed preserving fruit. Dried herbs hung from the rafters in such abundance he had to duck and weave like a boxer.

Following the muttering of the woman, he eventually found her settling at a table laden with what appeared to be a variety of dead insects in the process of being pinned to a large board. Picking up a beetle and a pin, she gestured toward an empty chair. “You can call me Najmila, none of that goodwife nonsense. Sit down and tell me what’s been bothering you so much you took advice from a Witcher, of all people.”

Jaskier sat, keeping his hands to himself lest he disturb the bugs. He wasn’t sure where to start, or how much to say. It hung in his throat like a great ball of hair, unwilling to be purged. “I... well, like I said before, I haven’t been sleeping well. I have bad dreams.”

Najmila cocked an eyebrow at him. “Everyone has bad dreams. Most just drink an extra cup of vodka before bed to settle the matter. You wouldn’t be here if that was the extent of it, and Lambert certainly wouldn’t have gone to the bother of sending you.”

Jaskier winced. “Drinking isn’t really an option for me, not anymore.” He looked away as he said it, unable to meet her eyes.

She made a considering noise. “Hmm, so whatever’s got you twisted up already sent you to the bottom of a bottle and back again, eh?”

“You could say that, yes. But I’m better now.” He fiddled with the fraying edge of his sleeve, suddenly acutely aware of how rough his peasant attire appeared. Without his silks and colourful bardic camouflage he felt more naked than he ever had in bare skin.

Najmila made a clucking sound as she pinned the beetle to the board. “So much better you can’t sleep and a rude old woman gives you the shakes. I can tell this won’t be a small endeavor for either of us.”

Jaskier hadn’t realized he was trembling and knotted his hands together to stop it, abashed. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be a bother. I can go, I’ll just--” he made to stand but a thump on the table stopped him.

“I didn’t say I won’t help you. It simply won’t be a one and done. It’ll take time, and effort.” Najmila’s sharp eyes pinned him as effectively as her needles had done to the beetle. “I don’t like time wasters. This won’t be easy, it will take a great deal of bravery and perseverance on your part. Do you have the stones for that, Julian?”

He wanted to say no. He wanted to make his excuses, flee the house and go home to his chickens. Make up some story for Lambert about how Najmila thought he was fine and just needed more exercise. But he couldn’t. He knew, deep in his bones, that he was not fine. As tempting as it sounded, he couldn’t spend the rest of his life hiding from the world and fearing even a friendly touch. He’d spent the last two decades following a Witcher into mortal peril, surely having a few conversations with a somewhat belligerent old woman was within his capabilities.

He was terrified of what those conversations might hold, what Najmila might ask of him, but he was even more afraid of staying in this mental no man’s land. He nodded slowly. “I do.”

“Good!” Najmila reached to the shelf behind her and set a jug of what appeared to be herbal tea on the table. “Now, tell me about your mother.”

Chapter Text

The blue door closed firmly behind Jaskier, leaving him blinking in the relatively bright light of day. He was surprised that it wasn’t closer to dusk, having felt like several eons had passed while in the crowded interior of Najmila’s house. But then, perhaps all interrogations felt interminable to the victim. Chiding himself for the uncharitable thought, he started towards the direction Lambert had gone earlier. She hadn’t been that bad, not really. She hadn’t even pressed him on the sensitive topics he had expected; rather most of the time had been dedicated to admin and a general description of his life.

He didn’t get very far from Najmila’s house before he spotted the Witcher, who stuck out in the crowd due to leading not one but two horses, which was twice as many as he had that morning.

“Ho there, Lambert, what’s this?” asked Jaskier as they drew near.

Lambert scowled. “’s a fucking Wyvern, what does it look like? What have you got there?” He gestured to Jaskier’s arms, which were cradling a hemp sack.

“Najmila gave it to me. Some medicines, one to sleep and one for... difficult situations. You didn’t tell me she was so--”

“Fucking blunt?” Finished Lambert. “It's one of her many charms. That’s a big bag for two potions.”

Jaskier looked down at the bag awkwardly. “Well, she also gave me some um, seedlings. Roses. She said I should try growing something.”

Lambert arched a brow. “Didn’t you tell her you’re already growing enough vegetables to fill a giant’s larder?”

“She said I needed to grow something that isn’t food. Something just for pleasure.” Jaskier felt terribly silly repeating this out loud to Lambert of all people, but the Witcher simply nodded as though this were sage advice.

He indicated to the horse behind him. “Tie it to the saddle then, can’t ride ‘til we get clear of this crowd but you might as well have your hands free. I know how much you like to make rude gestures to strangers.”

Examining the plain but serviceable saddle and the horse underneath, Jaskier drew his brows together in a disapproving frown. “Did you really buy me a horse? I can’t possibly pay you back for this, and I can’t accept a gift so ridiculously generous. This must have cost--”

“It didn’t cost me anything, so shut up and hurry up,” interrupted Lambert, tossing the new horse’s reigns to Jaskier and steering his own horse towards the city gates. “I want to get a few leagues between us and the city before we make camp.”

Jaskier made an aggrieved noise and hurried to follow the Witcher. “Lambert, did you steal this horse?!” he hissed in alarm, trying to avoid being overheard. Horse thieves were universally reviled and generally hanged with great enthusiasm.

Lambert huffed. “I didn’t steal it. I liberated it.”

“Those two concepts are dangerously similar, my dear Witcher, and I’m afraid the city guards might not have my ability to distinguish between them. In fact, I'm not sure I do know the difference, even with my illustrious education. Enlighten me?”

The Witcher slowed, allowing Jaskier to draw up alongside him now that they were in the outskirts of the city and the streets less crowded. He pitched his voice lower as though imparting a secret. “I liberated the horse from a cockroach of a man who had just beaten his other horse nearly to death. Judging by the state of this one, he was more interested in feeding his own fat arse than his livestock, too. So I stopped him from killing his one too.”

Jaskier looked over the horse he was leading, he could indeed see rather more of its ribs than he ought to have been able to see in a living animal. “I can’t imagine he took that well.”

A nasty smirk twisted Lambert’s face. “He didn’t. Nor the beating I gave him first. Seems he was happier to dish out a walloping than receive one.”

“Lambert!” cried Jaskier, alarmed. “You can’t just beat a man and steal his horse, no matter how poorly he treats it. It might be morally correct but legally, it sure as fuck isn’t!”

“Hence why we’re putting as much distance between us and this mage’s cesspit as quickly as possible. Here’s the gates up ahead, once we’re out of sight of the fucking helmet heads be ready to mount up and ride hard.” With that, Lambert started moving purposefully forward again, Jaskier’s protests appearing to fall on deaf ears.

“Well, at least he didn’t make me call you Roach,” Jaskier muttered to his horse as they passed under the gates and the watchful eyes of the guardsmen manning it.

***

Despite Jaskier’s misgivings, they made it out of Ban Ard uneventfully and were still not followed the next day. The horse, a gelding as it turned out, seemed to take to Jaskier quickly. He liked to think it was his universal charm and affable nature, but it was probably the endless stream of oats, apples and other snacks he felt compelled to give the half-starved beast.

Lambert proved himself a barbarian by revealing he never named his mounts, not seeing the point in doing so at the rate a Witcher went through them. Jaskier announced his new horse was named Pegasus and would not be available for any witchering ever, if Lambert couldn’t promise the horse would come back in one piece. This didn’t seem to bother the Witcher at all, who claimed the whole point of liberating the damn creature was to let Jaskier fatten it up, due to his skills in the area of making animals overweight.

The rest of the journey back to the cottage was peaceful, as much as it could be between two foul mouthed jokers who couldn’t resist constant verbal jousting. So it was Jaskier found himself in a far lighter mood than he had expected when they set forth, the visit to Najmila not nearly so distressing as he had anticipated. In fact, he felt a long-forgotten fluttering in the region of his chest, something he didn’t quite dare name lest it disappear upon examination.

Right before they crested the last hill, Lambert halted suddenly, sniffing the air. “Someone’s there.”

“Well, maybe you’re just smelling Jolenta? She did say she’d been by this morning to take care of the animals.” She’d also made a fuss of Pegasus, cooing over the gelding’s dappled colouring and giving them a bag of her own apples to contribute to the restoration of his flesh. The horse was already well on its way to being spoiled rotten.

Lambert shook his head vaguely, attention still focused on whatever his heightened senses were telling him. “No, it’s someone else. With a horse, big one by the size of those tracks. It’s almost like—but it can’t be. Not here.”

Jaskier wanted to enquire what the Witcher meant, but the other man was already off, spurring his horse to a trot and disappearing over the hill before Jaskier could even get Pegasus moving again. By the time he could see the cottage himself, Lambert was already dismounting, and a figure was emerging from the darkened doorway.

For a moment Jaskier’s heart stuttered in his chest, hands going lax on the reigns and leaving Pegasus to amble towards the house unguided. The man, no, the Witcher now greeting Lambert looked so much like Geralt it stunned Jaskier right down to his bones. Tall, well muscled and broad, his square jaw was similar enough to the white haired Witcher’s so as be mistaken for an actual relative. But no, he had dark hair, and far more significant scarring to his face.

“Eskel!” cried Lambert with genuine delight in his voice. “You pigfucker, what the devil are you doing here? I thought you were going to stay at the keep all year!”

As Jaskier dismounted himself, he tried to make himself as inconspicuous as possible. Think boring thoughts. Such a boring, completely uninteresting person right here. The Witchers were thoroughly engrossed in each other anyway, much slapping of backs and looking each other over for wear.

“That was the plan, but I was sent on an errand and I thought I’d stop by on the way back and see if you were hiding out in this old dump again. I see you’ve cleaned the place up though; yellow shutters? Really?”

“Wasn’t my doing. This here’s the colourblind one.” Lambert nodded over his shoulder towards Jaskier, drawing the other Witcher’s attention. Jaskier waved offhandedly and tried to look very engrossed in untacking his horse.

Eskel looked at Jaskier inquisitively. “Who’ve you got here then? Finally found yourself a wife, Lambert?”

Lambert snorted. “Hardly. This is Julian, he’s been taking care of the place for me. Julian, this is Eskel, my brother.”

Jaskier swallowed hard, hoping his heartbeat seemed appropriate to meeting another Witcher and not like meeting the spitting image of his long lost love. “Err, hello Eskel. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He held his hand out for Eskel to shake, mostly managing to conceal its trembling.

Eskel took Jaskier’s hand in a firm grip and shook it, raising an eyebrow as he did so. “You’re a musician? You don’t get callouses like that stewarding a cottage.”

Surprised, Jaskier found himself replying without thought; “Yes, a lutenist. Though it’s been quite a while since I played. Not much call for it out here.”

Eskel seemed genuinely interested, curiously assessing Jaskier’s humble farmer’s clothing. “And how did a musician get tangled up with a Witcher? That doesn’t happen very often--” he cut himself off, eyes flying to Lambert.

Lambert tensed, avoiding Eskel’s searching gaze and continuing to attend to his horse as though nothing was amiss.

Eskel swore colourfully, almost matching Lambert for creativity. “Lambert, tell me this isn’t him. Tell me this isn’t Geralt’s bard.”

Grabbing his saddle bags and pushing past Eskel to enter the cottage, Lambert replied tersely; “He’s nobody’s fucking bard.”

Patting Pegasus on the rump and quietly telling him to go meet the chickens, Jaskier felt Eskel’s heavy gaze fall on him. Trying to hold his nerve, he twisted his hands together and met the yellow eyes in return. “I’m really not. A bard, that is. Not anymore. I’m just—just me.”

Hands on his hips, Eskel heaved a great sigh. “He’s really done it this time. Of all the clusterfucks Lambert’s gotten himself into—ah hell, we might as well have this out over a meal. Come on, bastard’s probably helping himself to supper already.”

As the entered the cottage they saw Lambert was indeed already spooning stew into two bowls, offering one to Jaskier and keeping the other for himself. He took his meal to the table and sat with an angry thud, clearly anticipating a row. Jaskier sat himself carefully across from Lambert, trying to evaluate the tension between the two Witchers surreptitiously.

Rolling his eyes, Eskel fetched his own bowl from his pack and served himself, pulling up a stool to the table. They ate in a charged silence for several minutes, the air practically thick enough to cut with a knife. Finally, Eskel broke the quiet. “So how long have you been taking care of Lambert’s little safe house, Jaskier?”

Lambert thumped a clenched fist on the table, barely containing his irritation. “He prefers to be called Julian.”

Trying to mollify the increasingly irate Witcher, Jaskier interjected; “It’s quite alright, Jaskier is fine. And I’ve been here, oh, nearly a year I suppose.”

Eskel fixed his brother with a hard stare. “Since before winter then?”

“Yes, I--” Jaskier’s reply was cut off by Lambert throwing down his spoon angrily.

“Just fucking say it, Eskel! Spit it out and stop beating around the fucking bush.” His eyes flashed and his face set stubbornly, for all the world reminding Jaskier of a child daring a parent to punish them.

“You knew!” exclaimed Eskel. “This whole time, you had the bard tucked away here and you said nothing about it! Not to me, not even to Geralt!”

“It’s none of his fucking business! Nor yours, you nosy great lout.”

An exasperated noise escaped Eskel, not unusual in people speaking to Lambert. “Jaskier’s his friend! You didn’t think to mention you’d not only run into his bard but practically kidnapped the poor man?”

Jaskier felt he had to defend Lambert, though he was loathe to get between the two furious witchers. “He didn’t kidnap me--”

“Some friend Geralt is, he didn’t give a damn about Julian,” Lambert interrupted. “Too full of his own self-aggrandizing bullshit to even ask if I’d seen him!”

“He thinks Jaskier is dead! He mourned him!” cried Eskel, outraged on his brother’s behalf.

Both witchers froze, the wind taken out of their argument as they heard a small, distressed noise escape Jaskier’s mouth. His face had drained of colour, and his spoon dropped from his hand unheeded. “Geralt... thinks I’m dead?”

Eskel’s face immediately softened and his voice took on a conciliatory tone. “Everyone does, near as I can tell. Word reached us that a bard named Valdo Marx was travelling with you to Cidaris, but you never showed up there. Bandits killed you, rumour had it. They found Marx’s body but never yours. That’s actually why I left Kaer Morhen, at Geralt’s request. To find your body and lay you to rest properly. He couldn’t stand the thought of you becoming some undead thing, but he couldn’t leave.”

Silence stretched between them, Jaskier’s unfocused gaze staring into the table as if he could see the scene Eskel described etched into the wood. “Oh,” he said faintly. “Of course. I never sent any letters... I didn’t think anyone would care.”

In hindsight, he realized how pathetically self-pitying that sounded. He hadn’t thought of the people he’d left behind, Priscilla, Essi, his family – not since his mind had healed enough to realize they would care. Shame immediately filled him as he thought of the anguish he had unintentionally wrought, even as a small mean part of him curled with satisfaction at the idea Geralt had been even the slightest bit perturbed by his supposed passing.

Lambert was quiet, but Eskel spoke up with what sounded like genuine compassion. “Of course he cares! I don’t know what happened between you, what idiocy Geralt visited upon you, but you’ve been his best friend for years. He never shut up about you, even though we teased the fuck out of him for it. Hell, I thought he was going to ride out to kill every Bandit in Temeria when he heard the news.”

Jaskier made a punched out, wounded noise. Did Geralt truly care for him still? Had he been wrong, when he thought his friend had never been his friend at all? Did he throw his whole life away over a simple misunderstanding, a few angry words said in haste that were never truly meant to wound?

This was too much, too soon. He couldn’t handle this. Shoving his chair back abruptly, he grabbed the bag Najmila had given him and retrieved the medicines. “I can’t-- I don’t want to talk about this right now. I’m going to bed. I’ll see you in the morning, Eskel. It was... it was good to meet you.”

As he closed the bedroom door and fumbled for the sleeping potion, he could still hear the witchers in the room beyond.

Eskel sounded resigned, and disappointed. “You never could keep your hands off Geralt’s things. Always wanted what he had.”

“Shut the fuck up, Eskel. He’s not a thing, and Geralt never fucking had him.” By the sound of it, Lambert had also left the table and slammed the door of the cottage open as he made to leave. “Don’t fucking wake him up. I’ll be back in the morning.”

Jaskier downed a gulp of the sleeping potion and curled up in his bed, trying his best not to think any thoughts at all.

Chapter Text

It took a few tries for Jaskier to wake up properly – the potion Najmila had given him proved to be both effective and hard to shake off. When he did finally emerge from his bedroom, groggy and unshaven, he found the cottage empty, the room filled only with the late morning light. Very late morning, as it turned out, nearly noon. As he stepped out into the unexpectedly bright day, he nearly tripped over Eskel’s booted foot.

The Witcher sat propped against the outside wall, quietly repairing various pieces of leather gear. He looked up and nodded at Jaskier in acknowledgement but went back to his work without comment. He seemed more subdued than the night before, almost pensive. Lambert was nowhere to be seen, and while Jaskier was reluctant to talk to the other Witcher he knew it was an inevitability he might as well get on with.

Clearing his throat awkwardly, he tried his best to sound like a normal person and not a high-strung emotional wreck, as he was sure he must have appeared to Eskel last night. Gods, he thought, what a great first impression that was.

“Good morning, Eskel. Is Lambert about?”

Eskel responded with the universal Witcher grunt of ambivalence. The he apparently reconsidered and gestured towards the rear of the cottage. “He’s training. Or rather, what he thinks passes for training. I expect you’ll have a healthy supply of kindling this winter.”

Jaskier nodded in understanding. While all Witchers trained relentlessly at every opportunity, Lambert’s methods had a distinct tendency to resemble a form of anger management. When he stayed at the cottage for any length of time he set up a stout wooden post, sometimes with sacks of straw tied to it, and attacked it with blades until the post or his arms gave out. He seemed to keep a supply of dull training swords specifically for this purpose, as it would be hell on any blade one actually wanted to keep useable.

“Ah. Did he milk Mean Goat?”

Eskel laughed lightly. “No, I milked the goat. She isn’t all that mean, just has a bit of personality. I like goats.”

“Oh, well thank you for that. You have my undying gratitude for dealing with her personality.” Unsure what he wanted to say or how to say it, Jaskier dithered. “I’m sorry about last night,” he finally said. “It was just all a bit of a shock. I really didn’t think Geralt, well... gave a shit.”

Casting a sideways glance up at Jaskier, Eskel took a moment to reply. When he did, his voice was understanding, even a bit wry. “That’s the White Wolf for you. Never can use his words when he really needs to. Wastes them all on philosophy and shite jokes.” A smile caused the scar to pull his lip up tightly for a moment, then his expression faded into something more somber. “He really is mourning you though. Cut his hair and all.”

An invisible hand seemed to squeeze Jaskier’s chest so tightly he couldn’t breathe for a moment. He remembered what Najmila had said about the breathing exercises and inhaled slowly through his nose to a count of three, then out through his mouth for another count of three. When he felt the squeezing subside, he realized he’d sat himself down next to Eskel like a puppet with its strings cut, right in the doorway.

While he had stopped working, Eskel hadn’t moved an inch towards Jaskier. “You alright there, bard?” he asked carefully, obviously having seen and heard Jaskier’s reaction.

Jaskier swallowed and nodded jerkily. “I’m fine. I just, I can’t picture it. His hair... he does let it become a terrible mess sometimes, but I’ve never seen it short. Did he truly cut it?” He knew it was a tradition in some northern lands to cut a lock of hair or even shave one’s head as a sign of grief, but he struggled to comprehend that Geralt could feel so deeply about him.

“Right to the scalp. He looked like a startled porcupine for at least a month.” Eskel seemed to find this amusing but held his laughter at the devastated look on Jaskier’s face. “It’s not so bad, it will grow back quickly. Mutagens tend to help with that.”

Jaskier stared into the yard, unseeing. “I never intended for anyone to think I was dead. I didn’t mean to just disappear like that.”

“So why did you?” asked Eskel gently.

“I don’t know. It was just... easier. For a while I think I felt dead.” He pressed his lips together firmly to stop a sob from bubbling up or blurting more embarrassing truths.

The Witcher seemed to take this confession with equanimity, as though it weren’t a shockingly pathetic thing to say. “It must have been hard. Seeing your friend killed like that, getting attacked by those bandits. Did they leave you for dead?”

A startled laugh escaped Jaskier. “Oh! It wasn’t bandits. That was Lambert.” Seeing Eskel’s eyebrows raise comically high, he hurried to explain. “He saved me. From Valdo. He wasn’t my friend at all, as it turned out. Quite the opposite.”

This seemed to give Eskel quite a lot to mull over, though it was clear he didn’t want to press for details. “Well,” he said finally, “I guess the little bastard did something right after all. Maybe Geralt won’t murder him outright after all.”

Recalling the accusations of the night before, Jaskier felt guilty for his part in the misconceptions and rushed to clear it up. “I never told Lambert who I was, before he went to Kaer Morhen. He didn’t know, or at least knew I didn’t want him to know. He probably didn’t think it was his secret to tell. It’s not his fault.”

Eskel’s face showed consideration, but he clearly didn’t completely agree with the statement. “A man can have bad reasons to do a good thing. And good reasons to do a bad thing. Lambert can have multiple reasons to do any one thing, complex little fucker. I guess we’ll find out.” He nodded towards the corner of the house, obviously having heard the cessation of steel thunking against wood as Lambert appeared only moments later.

Customary scowl in place, Lambert stared down at both of them, sweaty and clearly not having burned his mood out on the poor post yet. “You two done gossiping about me like fishwives?”

“Not yet,” answered Eskel with a smirk. “We haven’t gotten around to speculating on whether or not it’s the size of your prick that makes you so angry all the time.”

Sensing someone was about to get punched, Jaskier stood up and placed himself between the two Witchers, hands held up placatingly. “I was just clarifying some events for Eskel. He didn’t know I'd asked you not to tell Geralt about me.”

Lambert looked at him quizzically. “You didn’t.”

“Well, no, but I would have, if I had gotten around to telling you who I was, and I’m absolutely certain you’re smart enough to have guessed that.” The Witchers seemed unconvinced, but Jaskier persevered. “And of course, you weren’t there when Geralt heard I’d been killed, right?”

Lambert’s scowl returned. “Of course not.”

“Well, there you are then,” announced Jaskier as though this was the key point of his master’s thesis. “Lambert wasn’t intentionally withholding anything from Geralt, so there’s no need for the two of you to be at odds. Especially over such an insignificant matter – why, I can hardly understand why there’s been such a fuss at all.”

Eskel shot a look at Lambert. “Is he always like this?”

“Usually worse,” replied Lambert.

Jaskier huffed but carried on as though the Witcher’s sniping were beneath his consideration. It was surprisingly easy to fall back into the rhythms of his bardic personality, though he was far more aware of how much of a performance it really was. “Well in any case, I think it’s high time we broke bread together properly and Lambert can welcome you as a brother should. Err, except that we weren’t here yesterday, and I didn’t put any bread on this morning, so it might be more metaphorical than literal.”

Waving a hand, Eskel set aside his leather and stood up, turning to head back into the cottage. “Don’t worry, I baked some this morning. There’s still stew left too.”

Lambert snorted. “Now who’s the fucking housewife, eh?”

In reply, a rag came flying out the door and hit Lambert squarely in the face. Jaskier was fairly certain this was a sign that the brothers were back to an ambient level of sibling rivalry, so he followed them inside for lunch with a lot more peace of mind than when he had awoken.

***

After the initial tension of Eskel’s unexpected arrival, it settled into a pleasant visit. Despite the near constant ribbing and insults thrown back and forth, it became clear to Jaskier that the Witchers truly did consider each other brothers and shared a deep affection. It was surprising to see two hardened warriors, usually stoic and fearsome, tussle in the dirt like children. While they had not grown up together, Lambert being of a later Kaer Morhen training cohort to Geralt and Eskel, it appeared the long years of familiarity and perhaps being the last of their kind had formed a bond much like any other siblings.

It made Jaskier’s chest ache to think of his own sister in Kerack, especially now he could not avoid the knowledge that his friends and family thought him dead, that he had allowed them to think that. So while Eskel and Lambert trained together, hunted and helped with minor farm work, Jaskier unearthed the precious paper and inks Lambert had bought him. As an academic, he was used to having access to this quality of paper, but he was still aware that it was expensive and far above the parchment, vellum or hide that Witchers would probably use themselves. He allowed himself a small surge of warmth at the idea that Lambert thought his poetry was worthy of this material.

He wasn’t ready yet to use it for lyrical purposes, however. For now, he only wanted to write a few letters. Deciding what those letters should contain proved to be a task far more agonizing than composing any ballad had ever been for him. He wanted to pour his heart out to Priscilla, to try to confess, explain, but he was so ashamed of how he had doubted her in Novigrad. He didn’t know whether to tell Essi the whole story or to fabricate an entirely different reason for his disappearance. His family, well, he wasn’t very close with them, hadn’t been in years, but he knew they deserved better than to believe him lying in an unmarked grave.

In the end he wrote three very similar letters, stripped down to the essentials; he was alive, he was well, he was living near Ban Ard. He did prevaricate a little around the nature of his disappearance, deciding to stick with the tale of bandits rather than get into the messy details of his relationship with Valdo and incriminating Lambert. He decided to say that the horrors of the violent bandit attack had led him to take a sabbatical, to work on his long-anticipated anthology of poetry. He always had been good at stretching the truth so thin it was practically transparent.

The night before Eskel was due to depart, they sat around the fire playing Gwent and making bets on who would wind up with the shittiest contract this season. Eskel brought out some wine, a fine Toussaint Red that Jaskier would have happily given up his kneecaps to taste. Despite his desire, he politely declined the drink when offered, and after sharp look from Lambert, Eskel didn’t offer again. It was amazing the amount the Witchers seemed to communicate to each other without words, if he didn’t know better Jaskier would have thought them capable of telepathy.

In lieu of liquid courage, Jaskier simply forced himself to retrieve his letters and hand them to Eskel so quickly he couldn’t think better of it. Eskel raised an eyebrow. “You want me to send these for you?”

“Yes, please. If it’s not too much trouble.” Jaskier hated how much he sounded like a small child asking for a treat, but it couldn’t be helped.

“Of course, it’s no trouble. I have a letter to deliver to the mages at Ban Ard myself.”

Lambert’s noise of derision spoke volumes, but he still had more to add; “What are you bothering the pox cursed magicians for? If they had a contract worth taking I’d have already heard about it.”

Eskel flicked his eyes towards Jaskier for a moment before answering. “It’s the other reason I left the keep. Vesemir wants me to send an invitation to Triss Merigold.”

The effect of this statement was not unlike Lambert swallowing one of his own bombs. “Merigold!” he exploded, “What the fuck does he want her for?”

Again, Eskel seemed to look to Jaskier before replying. “He has his reasons. You can ask him when you get there this winter.”

Finally Lambert caught on that there were things Eskel was not comfortable saying in front of Jaskier and let it go, but not without his expression doing a convincing impression of a gargoyle. “Well, you’d best head straight to the mages and avoid the livestock market in any case.”

“Why? What have you done?” asked Eskel immediately.

Jaskier couldn’t help but snort a laugh and interject; “Just a little furthering of animal rights. Nothing to worry about.”

To everyone’s surprise, Lambert’s face could indeed look more mulish.

***

In the morning, after exchanging a series of brutal backslaps with Lambert that apparently counted as a goodbye, Eskel mounted his horse (whom he had actually given a name like a normal person) and made to leave. Lambert had already waved him off and headed back to torture the wooden post some more, so they were alone when Eskel stopped and gestured for Jaskier to come closer.

“Forget something?” enquired Jaskier lightly.

“That’s actually what I wanted to ask you,” replied Eskel. “No letter for Geralt?”

Gut twisting, Jaskier looked at the ground. “I tried but... I can’t. Not yet.”

Eskel sighed heavily. “I understand. But what do you want me to say to him, if anything?”

This was a loaded question, Jaskier knew Eskel was really asking if he wanted the Witcher to lie to his brother. “I won’t ask you to lie for me, Eskel. Of course you can tell him you saw me, that I’m alive and well. I would prefer it if you didn’t tell him where I am, but that’s up to you.”

Cocking his head, Eskel waited for Jaskier to meet his eyes so he could investigate them directly. “I fear that telling him you’re ‘well’ might not be the truth though, Jaskier. Are you sure you don’t want me to tell him exactly what I’ve seen of you, as I perceive it?”

Jaskier closed his eyes for a long moment. “That’s the problem, you’re rather too perceptive for my comfort. I don’t know what I want Geralt to know about me now. I leave that in your hands; I trust your judgement.”

“Fair enough,” replied Eskel gently. “I’ll try to do right by you, to the best of my judgement. Until we meet again, fare thee well.”

Jaskier raised a hand in his own silent farewell as Eskel rode off, full of foreboding and second thoughts about what he had just told Eskel to do. For now, it was out of his hands. All he could do was wait and see.

Chapter Text

Only a few short days after Eskel’s departure, Lambert also headed out to make the most of the warmer months when contracts tended to be more plentiful and travel easier. Before he left, he finished off the shelter attached to the cottage that he and Eskel had built for Pegasus. It only had two walls and a roof, but it would suffice until the heavy rains came in a few months. He also gave Jaskier several lectures on appropriate exercise and care of said horse, apparently unwilling to believe that Jaskier’s noble upbringing had afforded him true knowledge of animal husbandry.

As the late summer days stretched out, Jaskier followed Lambert’s advice and took the skinny gelding out for short rides around the surrounding hills and valleys. At first he didn’t go very far, unwilling to push Pegasus past his endurance, but as a steady diet of oats, foraged grasses and vegetable scraps put meat on the horse’s ribs, they started to go for rides lasting an hour or more.

Jaskier became more familiar with the area, locating a stream that was clearly too far away to be the cottage’s water supply but was a delightful spot for swimming and fishing on a hazy summer afternoon. He found the occasional broken pieces of stone foundations sticking up like the stumps of teeth in an old man’s mouth; most likely all that remained of long abandoned farms. Curiosity about the ruins compelled Jaskier to finally crack open some of the books Lambert had bought him – particularly the volumes about local history and folklore.

It was with mixed emotions that Jaskier realized most of the long lost farms had probably belonged to an era when elves and humans co-existed more peacefully, as no humans had ever settled this close to the mountains on their own, and elves had never farmed without the co-operation of humans. Likely they were satellite farmers that supplied Loc Muinne. He tried to picture the two races living alongside each other in contentment and found it hard to do, even though he knew that even in his own youth there had still been such places.

He followed Najmila’s directions, planted his roses in a new flower bed and returned to Ban Ard on Pegasus every two weeks for another conversation with the old hedge witch. The first time he returned to see her he braced himself for the hard questions he was sure were bound to ensue, but instead she simply asked him to describe his daily life and the emotions he was currently experiencing. That wasn’t exactly easy, given how out of control he felt about those feelings and the shame he felt about that, but something about the way she listened made it feel less difficult.

Najmila listened in a way Jaskier had never experienced, even from his most attentive audiences. She was constantly working on some household project, sorting herbs or mixing tonics, but it was clear he always had her attention from the way she occasionally asked clarifying questions or repeated back his words to make sure she heard them (or lip read them) correctly. For a woman who claimed to be going deaf, she made Jaskier feel profoundly heard.

It wasn’t until his fourth such visit that she finally asked him to tell her his story. Not his early life, education or travels (which they had already covered), but the story. The story of why he was seeing her in the first place. He was terrified and certain the words would get stuck in his throat, but somehow he found himself spilling it all out anyway. He knew she wouldn’t laugh or call him overdramatic for how he reacted to Geralt’s harsh words on the mountain, so he didn’t hold back on detailing the abject sorrow and self-pity he had drowned in while drowning himself more literally with drink.

His tale held nothing of his usual flowery prose as he described meeting Valdo again, and the rapid descent into hedonism and creative applications of fisstech. He thought she might stop him when he got too detailed about the sex, but her sharp eyes remained steady and unflinching. He was compelled to tell her of his shameful self-awareness, how he knew he was using Valdo to hurt himself but did it anyway. He expected her judge him then, to throw him out for daring to ask for help for a wound he’d self-inflicted, but still she listened with the same gentle air of concentration.

At some point he realized his face was wet, he had begun weeping without realizing it. When he tried to apologize Najmila merely waved him off, offered him a kerchief and another cup of hot tea. It was clear she was waiting for him to continue, so he did. The days just before leaving Novigrad and the time that followed were the hardest to relate, but sniffing and choking he spat the words out, painting as pathetic and despicable picture of himself as he could. He let all his vilest condemnations of his stupidity come out, the words of hatred he whispered to himself at night when wracked with memories. Still, she listened.

Finally, when he reached the end of his tale of woe, explaining how Lambert had rescued him (but leaving out the probable murder) he stopped and waited for her judgement. To his complete surprise, she thanked him instead.

Wrung out, feeling hollow and drained, Jaskier could only stare at her in bewilderment. “Why are you thanking me? I don’t understand.”

Threading another seed onto a long string, Najmila responded plainly; “I’m thanking you for doing something very hard, for making yourself vulnerable and sharing honestly with me. I am honoured that you trusted me enough to do so.”

He could only gape at her for a moment before he felt a sweeping wave of tears overcome him, bursting out in a fit of violent sobs. He couldn’t regain control over it and felt even more overwhelmed with shame about his lack of composure. He could feel panic setting in, tightening his chest and blocking out the world, when suddenly a smooth round object was pressed into his hand.

Jaskier blinked his eyes open, staring at the perfectly round sphere Najmila had deposited in his palm. It was a reddish-yellow fruit, with a smooth waxy skin.

“It’s called an orange,” Najmila explained. “From Nazair. Go ahead, peel it.”

The unexpected interruption and bizarre fruit halted his panic in his tracks, leaving Jaskier gasping for breath but suddenly back in his body and the room. Sniffing, he did as he was told and pierced the skin with a nail, releasing a pungent aroma that he instantly recognized.

“I’ve heard of this, had it in perfumes and oils. But I’ve never seen a fresh one. How did you come by such a treasure?” he finally managed to ask, curiousity overcoming the self-consciousness of the tears he could still feel dripping from his chin.

“People give me all sorts of strange things as payment. Sometimes even explosives,” she replied wryly. “Go on, eat it. They’re not so rare that I can’t get another easily enough.”

Obediently, he peeled the rest of the skin off and bit into the flesh, making a noise of pleased surprise when the juices burst on his tongue. Najmila nodded approvingly and threaded another seed onto her string, which she had explained earlier was a sort of harvest charm she often made this time of year.

They sat quietly while Jaskier ate, consumed with the experience of eating such a strange yet delicious new thing. It was messy, but so was he, so he didn’t mind the juice mixing with the tears even as they finally stopped falling. When he had finished the orange and was attempting to lick the traces of it from his fingers, Najmila finally spoke again.

“Better?” she asked gently.

Taking stock of his physical and emotional state, Jaskier nodded slowly. He felt tired, exhausted even, but not on the verge of panic or terror. It was almost like the satisfying ache of muscles after a long day of work, or the tiredness that set in after writing all night.

“Good. I want you to remember this; paying attention to strong physical sensations can help calm and center you when things get overwhelming. Taste, smell, sight, touch, hearing – these things can be your anchors in a storm. I’ll write you a short exercise to practice at home, it's important to get used to grounding yourself through your senses before you get in a tight spot, so it’s a reflex.”

It made sense, but Jaskier couldn’t help asking; “How did you learn all this, Najmila? I’ve never heard of a healer or even a mage who knew of such things.”

Looking at him directly with her unfathomable dark eyes, she smiled. “The wisdom of women has always been overlooked in the places of learning, though some holy men recognize it. If you went to a temple of Melitele I think you’d hear much of this same wisdom – mothers have always known how to calm their children, and themselves when dealing with the storms men bring into their lives. Melitele is the mother of us all.”

Squinting at the old herb woman, Jaskier tried to picture her in a priestesses’ garb. “Were you trained in a temple?”

Najmila barked a deep, throaty laugh. “Far from it. My temple has always been the fields and forests, though I’ve had many friends take vows over the years. I’ve learned much from their journeys, as they have from mine. Now, wait a moment while I find some vellum and write down that exercise for you.”

He took home that scrap of vellum and practiced the odd instructions faithfully, trying several times a day to stop and identify five things he could see, four things he could hear, three things he could touch, two things he could smell and one he could taste. Over time it stopped feeling foolish as it became natural to him, and he could feel how it centered his mind in the here and now. His respect for Najmila grew once more, and he applied himself thoroughly to the exercises and instructions she sent him home with on later visits.

By the time Autumn had truly arrived, Najmila had revealed to Jaskier how much of his symptoms and experiences were perfectly normal for someone who had been through the things that he had. It was challenging to think of himself to belong to a category of people that could be termed victims, preferring to think of himself as a survivor, but it was also reassuring to know he wasn’t going mad. The nightmares, the insomnia, the vivid recollections and being so easily startled – he wasn’t alone in this, nor was he afflicted with an incurable insanity.

One of Najmila’s assignments was the absurd suggestion to write down the things he used to enjoy doing, then do them. Not only did this sound ridiculous, but in practice seemed to be impossible; his top three activities before Valdo were drinking, writing and fucking. Two of those were immediately off the table, both for lack of opportunity and desire, so Jaskier found himself sitting at his table with his fine paper and inks spread out before him, utterly stymied.

This used to be easy, he thought to himself. This used to be as natural as breathing. I used to write from dawn til dusk, on horseback and in rowdy taverns. The hard part was stopping!

Feeling the uncomfortable squeeze beginning in his chest, he counted off the things he could sense until calm returned. Inked quill in hand, he hesitated over the blank page in front of him. Love poetry, his old standard, was obviously right out. So too were tales of Witcher prowess. What else did that leave him?

History. It had always been his favourite subject, despite what he told people about the globes in geography lectures being useful for hiding bottles. He had spent the summer drinking in the landscape around him on long rides, reading the scattered accounts of the peoples who lived here before, and the folklore they left behind. Surely with all his education, all his fine words, he could write a better summation of the story of these hills than anyone had done before.

Breathing in deeply, slowly breathing out, Jaskier set ink to paper and began to write.

Chapter Text

Autumn flew by in a flurry of activity; having been perhaps a little too enthusiastic with his spring planting Jaskier now found himself with a surplus of produce to harvest. His writing had to be reserved for evenings by the fire, as his days were now fully occupied with preparations for winter such as chopping wood, insulating the hen house and stable, acquiring and storing hay, and perpetually collecting vegetables as they ripened.  

The garden was so productive that he soon found that even between all the animals and himself he had far too many fresh vegetables to be consumed before they rotted. With a little prodding from Jolenta, Jaskier set about learning the valuable arts of preserving and pickling, and upon discovering several varieties of edible berries near the stream he even tried his hand at making jams. Before long, he had a pantry brimming with clay jars that could probably feed a whole village through winter. 
 
With this in mind, he approached Jolenta about the possibility of trading some of his goods with the locals for dried meat and other sundries he could not produce himself. He was already bringing Najmila a regular supply of eggs, vegetables and jams, but he didn’t fancy trying to sell anything at the Ban Ard markets – the prospect of dealing with that busy crowd gave him a headache. 
 
Jolenta suggested he instead tried the farmer’s market at the nearest hamlet, it only occurred once a month but drew enough folks from the surrounding hills that she was certain he would be able to find more than enough trade to suit his needs. He felt nervous about the idea, feeling like an imposter; a lordling playacting at being a farmer, sure to stick out like a sore thumb. But with some gentle coaching from Najmila and less gentle insistence from Jolenta (who wanted him to trade some of her own wool on her behalf, saving her a trip) Jaskier found himself loading up Pegasus despite his misgivings. 

The hamlet was small and nameless, the locals simply referring to it as ‘the town’ and had probably never been on any maps. It was barely more than a cluster of houses around a communal well, existing purely because a blacksmith had set up shop there and the main highway wasn’t too far off. Still, it managed to draw a respectable variety of stalls to fill its small square, and by midmorning it was clear that every soul within a day’s ride had gotten up before dawn to attend.  

To Jaskier’s surprise, no one made a fuss of his presence or showed much curiosity about his accent or manner of speaking. They were far more interested in the state of his livestock, the conditions his vegetables grew in and what sort of curses or beasties were plaguing him up in the Loc  Muinne  hills. He felt it was better not to mention the wraith and claimed his regular prayers to  Melitele  kept his farm free from harm (they didn’t need to know the prayers were mostly exasperated yelling) and instead turned the question back on them.  

The farmers were almost too eager to share tales of the brownies,  leshies ,  drowners , rusalka, werewolves, will o’ the wisps, imps, alps and trolls that seemed to grace the area in great abundance. From what Jaskier had gleaned from his travels with Geralt, most of these tales were exaggerated or complete fabrication, but he listened to them all with a practiced ear. He was particularly interested in the tales that seemed unique to the area, and the memories of those who had lived there for generations.  

He stayed long after he had traded the last of his goods, collecting stories and writing quick notes about pieces of historical gossip. The market itself closed in the late afternoon, but the people remained – bringing out barrels of locally brewed beer and even setting a pig on a spit over a fire. The mood seemed festive, with a handful of villagers producing instruments and playing lively music, which the youth soon started dancing to. It was basic stuff, standard peasant tunes played on a pipe to the accompaniment of makeshift percussion, but it made Jaskier’s chest ache with fondness. Something in him thawed at the simple joy on the faces of these people as they nodded along to the melody.  
 
The scene stuck in his head long after he returned to his cottage, and Jaskier found himself humming bits of the songs he had heard at the market as he tended to his cabbage hoard. On his long rides with Pegasus he found the rhythm of the drums in the horse's steps, the cooing of his flock echoed the singing of the village girls, even the rain on the cottage roof seemed to fall in a syncopated pattern. Before long Jaskier was singing not only to the chickens, but to Mean Goat, Pegasus, his roses, the vegetables and any errant birds visiting his garden. 

He tried not to examine it too closely, feeling as though the return of music to his life was something delicate that may crumble if he looked at it directly. Like a  fae  or fantastic vision, he kept it in the corner of his mind’s eye and let it bloom undisturbed by scrutiny. When he finally mentioned it on a visit to  Najmila , the old woman showered him with enthusiasm he wasn’t sure this development deserved. Still, with her encouragement he dug out the pipe he still had from  Temeria  and tentatively began to play it again.  

Eventually he developed a habit of playing in the evenings when his eyes grew too tired to keep writing but he wasn’t yet tired enough to sleep without  Najmila’s  medicine, he preferred to exhaust his mind and body rather than rely on the potion too much. This was how Lambert found him one late Autumn evening, playing through a simplified rendition of  Elaine Ettariel.  

The Witcher had frozen in the doorway as though struck by a paralyzing curse, face blank in surprise.   

“Well, make up your mind, in or out Lambert – you're letting the warm air out,” chastised Jaskier as he paused his playing.   

Blinking, Lambert stepped into the cottage properly and obediently closed the door behind him, apparently too preoccupied to complain about being told what to do as he usually would. “That was you?” He asked in an uncertain voice, eying the pipe in Jaskier’s hand.  

Jaskier rolled his eyes. “No, it was my great aunt Dorothea, you just missed her.” Putting the pipe aside, he refilled the tea kettle and hung it over the fire to heat, rummaging through his pantry for some bread and cheese to serve his no doubt ravenous guest.  

Setting his saddle bags aside in their usual spot, Lambert approached the fire and sat down gingerly, keeping his eyes on Jaskier as though watching an unpredictably skittish horse. “I thought... I didn’t know you were playing again.”  

Snorting, Jaskier waved a hand dismissively as he placed a plate in Lambert’s lap. “Well, things change. I’ve been singing and writing again too. Not composing, but just a little gathering of local history here and there.”  

Lambert chewed thoughtfully for a moment, clearly processing this development. “So I take it you’ve still been seeing the old hag?”  

Jaskier threw a plum at the  witcher , nailing him squarely in the forehead. “Don’t be rude,  Najmila  deserves your respect. I owe her a great debt and you probably do too.” Taking the kettle off the fire, Jaskier was quiet for a moment as he concentrated on adding the herbal tea  mix  he had gotten from the woman in question. “But yes, I’ve been seeing her. She really has helped me. I guess I also owe you thanks for making me go.”  

Lambert frowned, biting the plum that had recently assaulted him. “Don’t thank me, I did nothing. What she does, it doesn’t work if you don’t work hard on it too. Really fucking hard. I’m impressed that you managed to do that and half the work I see you’ve done around here too. Must’ve been busy.”  

Nodding in acceptance, Jaskier tilted his head thoughtfully. “True, I’ve been practically working myself to the bone keeping up with the place. Who knew the peasant life is actually mostly backbreaking  labour  and not sitting around aesthetically pleasing fields of wheat? Not I. Tell me, was it a busy season for you too?”  

Lambert nodded in turn, launching into a catalogue of the various contracts he’d been engaged in the last few months, peppered with cursing the nobles and farmers who had cheated him or been especially stupid. Jaskier shared his own trials and triumphs of the season, which mostly revolved around cabbage moths and burning jam, but Lambert listened just as attentively as Jaskier had to his tales of monsters and mayhem.  

Eventually the bread was reduced to crumbs, the kettle was empty and the fire burned down to coals. Jaskier was wondering if he was tired enough to retire for the night yet when Lambert broke the comfortable quiet with a question.  

“Would you... that is, only if you want to, would you... play for me?” It was clear the  Witcher  was uncomfortable asking the question, but had summoned the bravery to ask it anyway.  

Touched, Jaskier couldn’t help but comply. “Of course. Anything in particular you’d like to hear?”  

Lambert shrugged awkwardly. “’don’t know much about music. Usually run out of taverns before I hear much. Whatever you were playing earlier was nice.”  

Swallowing down his indignation that anyone would treat his  Witcher  so poorly, Jaskier took up his pipe and started  Elaine  Ettariel  again. He pretended not to see the way the music transformed Lambert’s face, the scarred, scowling  Witcher  suddenly an enchanted little boy, lost in the story of elvish romance.   

When the song was over Lambert sat perfectly still, lost in thought. Not wanting to disturb his reverie, Jaskier quietly set the pipe aside and started clearing away the evening’s dishes. Just as he was finishing and about to announce his intention to head to bed, Lambert suddenly stood up and strode over to the large chest in the corner, which had been there since before Jaskier’s arrival. Lambert used it to store extra weaponry, rare potion ingredients, odds and ends he picked up in his travels – Jaskier privately thought of it as the Witcher’s ‘loot chest’ and kept his nose out of it.  
 
He watched as Lambert rooted around in the depths of the chest, muttering to himself as he moved a couple of short swords and a broken rake out of the way before finally retrieving a wrapped bundle and returning to the fireside. 

He thrust the bundle at Jaskier awkwardly, clearly uncertain of how whatever it was would be received. “I found this a while back, in a haunted manor in Brugge. I don’t know if it’s any fucking good, or if it still works, but... I figured you might know what to do with it better than me.”  

Trepidation filled Jaskier even as he reached forward and took the lumpy cloth parcel out of Lambert’s hands. From the Witcher’s intimations he had already some idea of what it could be, which was confirmed as he felt the familiar weight and shape of it. He was half tempted to hand it back without unwrapping it, but one look at the tentative hope in Lambert’s face and he knew he couldn’t do that. 
 
Holding his breath, he unwrapped the cloth to reveal a worn but serviceable lute. It couldn’t compare to Filavandrel’s lute, nothing could, but it was still beautiful in its own right. The soundboard and neck were crafted of a warm honey gold wood, with a darker belly complimenting it. It was unornamented save for a four-fold rosette, but it was elegant in its simplicity. 

Interpreting Jaskier’s stunned silence as a negative reaction, Lambert reach an arm out as though to take it back; “I knew it was too busted, of course you don’t want it--”  

“It’s fine!” Blurted Jaskier, snatching the lute to his chest protectively. At Lambert’s raised eyebrows, he realized he may have overreacted a little and relented, holding the lute up again for examination. “It’ll need new strings of course, and maybe new frets. The pegboard is a little loose, and I’ve not played on a six course before but—those are all minor concerns. I can fix it up and have it ready to play in a few weeks at most.”  

A hesitant smile curled the edges of the Witcher’s mouth, normally reserved for sneering. “So... it’s good? You like it?”  

“It’s beautiful. I love it,” replied Jaskier, infusing his voice with warm sincerity. He was mildly surprised to find he really meant it. He looked down at the instrument, running his fingers over the familiar lines. “When Valdo smashed Filavandrel’s lute I thought I’d never pick one up again, but somehow... this seems right.”  

Lost in admiring the craftsmanship, it took Jaskier a moment to realize Lambert was silent. Looking up, he saw the Witcher’s face had turned dark and ugly.  

“He fucking  what?”  The words were delivered in a menacing growl, a rare reminder that the man was not entirely human and far more dangerous than most creatures.  

Forgoing common sense, Jaskier placed a hand on Lambert’s shoulder in a calming gesture. “It doesn’t matter,” he declared. “He’s gone and I’m here. Because of you,  you  brought me here. You gave me this lute, and helped get me well enough to play it again. Nothing else matters.”  

Lambert did not look convinced, but allowed himself to be steered towards the fire again and sat in irritable silence as Jaskier unpacked his bedroll and laid it out.  

“Come now, enough of that brooding. Keep scowling and your face will set that way. Get some sleep, I’ve a long list of heavy lifting for you to do in the morning.”  

Turning his back on Lambert’s grumpy huffing as he prepared for bed, Jaskier went to his room and set the lute on the chair in the corner, where he could see it while lying in bed. As he drifted off, he kept the image of that humble instrument steady in his mind, repeating to himself what he said to Lambert;  

Nothing else matters.  

Chapter Text

With the last weeks of Autumn closing in, Lambert said his goodbyes to the chickens and prepared to head north for the winter. Jaskier loaded the Witcher’s saddlebags with the spicy pickled vegetables that Lambert seemed to enjoy  most and  gathered his courage to face the conversation he knew could no longer be avoided.  

Watching Lambert adjust his horses girth strap one last time, Jaskier gave himself a mental shove and spat it out. “You can tell him, you know. Whatever you want.”  

Lambert paused mid movement and shot a sharp look at Jaskier over his shoulder. Dispensing with any games of who and what, he got straight to the point; “I don’t particularly feel like telling  him  fuckin’ much of anything.”  

Jaskier sighed. “How were you planning on explaining the abundance of radish pickle, then?”  

The Witcher grunted, turning around and crossing his arms  mulishly . “Got paid in produce by a very poor village, maybe. ‘s happened before.”  

“You don’t have to protect me anymore. I’m fine now, it’s all fine. Geralt doesn’t deserve all this.” Jaskier gestured vaguely to indicated what he meant by ‘this’; his own silence, Lambert’s disdain for his brother, the general state of affairs.  

Scowling, Lambert replied with irritation; “It’s not always about Geralt of bloody Rivia. Maybe I like having something that’s nobody else’s fucking business!” He immediately looked like he regretted saying so much, turning his face away and pulling his gloves on with more force than necessary.  

Jaskier’s face softened as he regarded the Witcher in this new light. Keeping his tone gentle but trying not to annoy Lambert with too much softness, he tried again. “I just meant I didn’t want to cause any trouble between you. I don’t want to bring any more strife into your life, Lambert. I’ve already brought more than enough. I don’t want to be a source of tension for you, after all you’ve done for me.”  

Looking aggrieved, Lambert made a sharp negating gesture. “That’s just— godsdamned   poxing  horseshit. I’m sick of this self-deprecating nonsense. Look around! You’ve turned my sad little hovel into a fairy tale cottage, complete with roses and  cheerful fucking shutters . You’ve given me someone to—something to come back to, when I'm waist deep in mud and ghoul guts. You’re not a source of ‘tension’, Julian, you’re a source of fucking joy!”  

Lambert looked both furious and embarrassed at the same time, leaving Jaskier no option but to throw himself forward and hug the man. He did it quickly, knowing that the Witcher would  fend  him off if given a chance, and clasped his hands securely to the straps crossing the broad back so he couldn’t be easily shaken off. To his surprise, Lambert didn’t immediately try to back out of the embrace, but rather stood there with his arms at his sides, apparently in shock.  

Taking advantage of his proximity to the Witcher’s ear, Jaskier lowered his voice and said softly; “Thank you. I forgot that was my job, what I was good at. Bringing joy.”  

Feeling the tension increase in Lambert’s body and the grumbles brewing in his throat, Jaskier swiftly released his embrace and stepped back, clear of any possible retaliation for the physical affection. While he enjoyed the thought, the reality of the backslapping and shoulder punches that  Witchers  seemed to prefer would probably break something in his more human physiology.   

Lambert regarded him with consternation, clearly unfamiliar with how these things were meant to go when the other person was not your brother. Eventually, he nodded brusquely and mounted his horse. “I’ll see you in spring,  bard .”   

Smiling wryly, Jaskier took the hint. “I’ll have a song ready for you to hear on that lute, Witcher. Safe travels.”  

***  

On his last trip to Ban Ard before the snow would make travel too difficult, Jaskier shared his progress on refurbishing the lute with  Najmila . She let him chatter away about the repairs and bringing it up to pitch, describing the adjustments to his old  oeuvre  that would be necessary to play with the additional string.   

Finally, his well of enthusiasm ran dry and  Najmila  found space to speak, her sharp eyes assessing. “And will we be composing any new music? Something to debut when  Jaskier  returns to the stage?”  

Jaskier’s cheerful countenance abruptly fell. The old woman really did have a knack for seeing through him. “I don’t know if I ever will perform as Jaskier again – I don’t know if I can  be  Jaskier again. After all that’s happened, after everything Valdo did... I’m too damaged, I think. Too broken.”  

Najmila  huffed in disagreement. “You don’t look broken to me, no more than that lute you’ve got there. Don’t you think you’ve repaired yourself? Maybe even grown into something more, a man that can support himself, clothe himself, keep warm and grow his food with his own two hands?”  

Jaskier looked at the lumpy sweater he was wearing ruefully. “Well, maybe not clothe himself. I see what you mean, but still... I’m not the same bard that wandered the continent and sang about heroes and romance. I’m not that innocent anymore, not half so naïve. I’m different now. I don’t know if anyone wants to hear from Jaskier the depressed bard.”  

Waving a hand at her wall of preserved insects,  Najmila  persisted. “Being different does not mean worse. Do we value the butterfly less because it is no longer a caterpillar? Do we mourn the egg because it dared to become a bird? No one remains an egg forever, Julian.”  

“That’s not the same thing at all! Those are natural progressions,” he replied with exasperation. “What I did was not natural at all. An egg is  meant  to hatch. No one is  meant  to become a drunkard and an addict with a habit of spreading their legs for the wrong people.”  

Najmila’s  gaze turned deep and searching. “Perhaps we need a better metaphor. Your chicken house, then. Is it worse because it had to be  rebuilt?  Do you blame it for having a tree fall on it, and now it will never be an adequate home for your flock?”  

Annoyed and haunted by his own mention of his past, Jaskier scowled. “ Of course  I don’t-- if anything, the damn roost is better now. But that’s still not the same thing! It didn’t ask for a tree to fall on it! It didn’t go begging for someone to take advantage of it and destroy it completely!”  

At this outburst,  Najmila  fell silent, considering. Jaskier stirred his tea aggressively, unsure quite who he was angry with.  

Finally, the hedge  witch  sighed. “I see we still have work to do. Tell me everything that happened since you arrived in Novigrad, but this time tell me it as though it happened to your friend Priscilla.”  

“Priss! But she would never be so stupid--”   

Najmila  held up her hand. “It’s not about her. I just want you to see this from an outside perspective. It could be your other friend, Essi, or even Lambert. The point is that I want you to see yourself with the same compassion you view your friends with. So, Priscilla arrives in Novigrad, heartbroken and unhappy. She’s at a tavern, vulnerable and alone, when she meets an old friend...” She trailed off, raising her eyebrows expectantly at Jaskier.  

After a long moment of glaring at  Najmila  stubbornly, Jaskier finally relented. “Alright, I get it. Fine. But he wasn’t an old friend, whatever that prick said. Priscilla is  accosted  by an old nemesis, who sees an opportunity to kick her when she’s down, destroy her reputation and steal all her  worldly  goods.”  

Glorying in his own righteous indignation, it took a moment for Jaskier to realize Najmila was smiling with a hint of smugness. The copper dropped, and the point of the exercise finally sank in properly. Jaskier scoffed, laughing a little at himself. “Yes, now I really get it. I would never blame a friend for their misfortune the way I blame myself. You are the wisest and most cunning hedge witch in all the lands. Laugh it up.” 
 
Najmila merely smiled serenely and grabbed another bundle of herbs to add to the pile she was sorting through. “I’m glad you’re getting the point. But continue, I want you to hear all of this from your own mouth. Go on.” 

Jaskier sighed but acquiesced, knowing that once again the old woman had outwitted him, but unable to be angry about it when it was after all, for his benefit. “ So  Priscilla goes home with Valdo, and the scoundrel makes it seem like a good idea for her to stay with him...”  

***  

When winter found its teeth and began to bite that year, Jaskier found himself more than prepared for its ravages. The animals had their housing warm and insulated against the chill winds, with the cottage itself now repaired of any holes or weak spots in the roof, so all the inhabitants of the little farm were snug and secure. The pantry was full to bursting, with casks of salted meat and sacks of grain taking up space outside of it, and yet more provisions hanging from the rafters.  
 
With little to do outside of the house once the snows really set in, Jaskier occupied himself with writing and playing, filling the pages with his refined temple school-trained handwriting just as he filled the air with music from his newly repaired lute. The tone was not so beautiful as Filavandrel’s lute had produced, but that was to be expected from a mortal made instrument. Still, it provided a more than fair accompaniment to Jaskier’s own voice as he experimented with his old songs and even tinkered with a few new compositions. 

He stuck to simple ditties describing pastoral scenes and reworking the peasant songs he had learned from the villagers, still unsure how to bring his new emotional landscape into verse. He wasn’t sure yet what he would want to say with any new compositions, or if any of it would be worth hearing. He continued to dwell on  Najmila’s  advice and kept up his regimen of mental exercises, knowing how vulnerable this season had left him last year.  

Fearful of the long nights bringing another wave of depression, Jaskier was surprised to realize the middle of winter had passed him by unnoticed. Perhaps the storms were less fierce this year, or he was simply more prepared for their depredations, but it seemed the snow began to melt earlier, and the hints of green returned to the hills sooner this time around.  

On his first visit to Jolenta after the thaw, she mentioned the little hamlet market would be recommencing for the year, celebrating the upcoming Imbolc holiday and that Jaskier should attend with his new lute. He expected to feel daunted at the prospect of a loud festival full of near strangers, but instead found himself craving the company and festivity after so long indoors by himself. Jolenta herself promised to come along with him and bring a few of her famous apple tarts, apparently a greatly anticipated annual treat. 
 
Both the tarts and his lute were well received, with farmers of all ages immediately requesting their favourite songs while offering Jaskier a plethora of traditional savory treats. Imbolc was celebrated slightly differently out here in the rural backwoods of Kaedwen than he was used to in the western cities; the focus was more on the ‘sprouting’ aspect of the feast day, with the women crowned in wreaths of early spring violets, crocuses and snowdrops. Many had brought a token of their fields blessed, or milk to represent their herds.  
 
The hamlet was practically ablaze with every doorway and window hosting a candle or lamp, and several smaller bonfires dotted around the outskirts while a larger central bonfire drew the crowd to dance and leap around it. The last of the winter stores of beer and mead were flowing in abundance, Jaskier having to turn down many a well-intentioned offer of libations. Staying sober did not dampen his mood, instead he found himself enjoying the mood of the intoxicated crowd vicariously, feeling almost drunk himself on the sheer joy present in every face. 

A group of youngsters seemed to be enjoying the beer a little too much, daring each other to jump over the bonfire with increasingly precarious leaps as the blaze grew higher. Jaskier tried to gently suggest that someone tell them to stop, or at least get a bucket of water to hand, but it was waved off with laughter.   

“Let the youth be wild while they can!” cried a  red-faced  pig farmer, looking increasingly like a pig himself as he helped himself to his fourth serving of apple tart. “In a few weeks they’ll be so busy with the planting they’ll have no time for games.”  

Resolving to mind his own business, Jaskier instead tried playing a few slower ballads like  Elaine  Ettariel ,  only to discover the locals did not appreciate hearing the elder speech nor any translations that depicted elves  favourably . Chalking that up to cultural differences, Jaskier went back to playing the popular bar room foot stompers and lewd ditties that he knew were surefire crowd pleasers. The villagers responded with enthusiasm and kept yelling for ‘just one more’ until well after midnight.  

The fires, food and drinks were still going strong when Jaskier decided to retire for the night, taking up Jolenta on her offer of staying the night at her house rather than travelling the extra distance to his cottage. Replete with good food and good cheer, Jaskier fell quickly into a dreamless sleep, kept warm by the Imbolc fire in the hearth that Jolenta intended to keep burning all night. 
 
Expecting to be allowed a lie in, Jaskier was annoyed to be woken only a scant two hours later by raised voices. Noting it was still dark, he went in search of Jolenta and found her out by the stable arguing with three angry looking middle-aged farmers. 

“Julian!” she cried, spotting his approach. “These men, they want to take your horse to Loc Muinne. I told them he’s not mine to give, but they won’t listen!”  

Blinking owlishly in the light of the farmer’s torches, Jaskier tried to make sense of the scene. “Loc  Muinne ? Now? Why in the  gods  green earth would you want to go there in the middle of the bloody night? I hope this isn’t some mission to a holy well or some such nonsense--”  

“We go to find our boys!” The biggest man cut him off angrily. “The damned fools heard your fucking elf songs and got it into their heads to test their bravery by bringing back some bones. The idiots are likely to fall off a cliff or break a leg in the snow. They snuck off hours ago, if we don’t leave right now, we’ll never catch them! Give us the damn gelding already, we’re wasting time!”  

Jaskier felt a swooping in his stomach and the familiar tightening in his chest. He knew very well there were darker things to worry about than merely getting lost or injured by accidents in the dark. The drunken youths would have no defense against the wraiths, if they even believed such creatures were present.   

“No,” he said calmly, belying the panic scratching at his chest. “I’ll go. I know the area and my horse better than you do. Besides, you said it was my songs that stirred them. I ought to be the one to fetch them home.”  

The farmers looked at each, clearly not willing to trust the outsider but also unable to argue with his logic, given that they looked like they’d been imbibing a fair amount themselves. Not giving them a chance to come up with any excuses, Jaskier grabbed Pegasus’s tack and raced to ready his horse.  

As he mounted, Jolenta came running out of the house with his cloak and boots that he had left by the fireside. Awkwardly pulling his boots on, he desperately asked if anyone had silver on their person. A sea of blank stares was his reply, of course they had no silver. Cursing himself for a fool, he told the men to fetch whoever passed for the village healer and follow his tracks on foot. Not waiting for a reply, he grabbed one of their torches and tore off into the night.  

His familiarity with the landscape had improved since his last winter jaunt to Loc  Muinne , though the cloak of snow still rendered it tricky to discern landmarks.  Fortunately,  the moon was still out and bright, lighting up the hills enough that he needn’t fear getting lost himself. Handling the reigns and the torch at the same time wasn’t easy, but he wasn’t about to give up the only light and possible weapon that he had.  

Just when he was starting to wonder if  perhaps,  he had gotten turned around, he spotted an outcropping of worked stone that could only be part of the ruins. Urging his horse on, he realized that the area that the ruins covered was quite large and he had no idea which part the youths might have been heading for, or if they had made it this far at all. It was possible he had plunged headlong into danger for no reason at all.  

Indecision and anxiety seized him as he halted to reconsider, Pegasus snorted and stamped at his hesitation. Just as he became certain the boys hadn’t made it this far, a scream rent the still air. Jaskier swung about to follow the direction it came from, cursing as he guided the horse through the snowbound ruins, dodging around the fallen slabs and crumbling pillars. Screams echoed through the night as Jaskier urged the horse to greater speed, chest nearly bursting with pain while he tried to breathe through the terror.  

Suddenly he was upon them, a tableau of horror; three boys already lay in crumpled lumps, their  blood spattered  dark across the snow. Another two were struggling to run through the deep drifts, hopelessly slow compared to the wraith floating behind them in pursuit. This one held a sword, black with blood it had already spilled.   

Pegasus reared back at the sight of the wraith, screaming his protest. Jaskier fought to bring the horse under control, dropping the torch to get a better grasp of the reigns. He squeezed his legs tightly and forced the gelding towards the wraith, yelling wordlessly to try and draw its attention. The wraith ignored him, instead swinging its sword with terrible force and striking the nearest youth cleanly across the back, throwing him to the ground.  

Pegasus balked again upon hearing the terrified scream of the fallen boy. Jaskier gave him up as a lost cause and threw himself from the saddle, landing heavily in the snow. He immediately started towards the wounded boy who was still screaming, sounding inhuman in his desperate howls. Jaskier’s boots sank knee deep in the snow, making his progress painfully slow. He watched in mute horror as the wraith moved over the wounded boy, lifting its sword to strike again. He could do nothing but cry out as the sword drove down squarely through the boy’s chest, piercing deeply and abruptly turning the shrieking into a cut off gurgle.  

Jaskier’s cheeks were wet, he had started crying at some point. His body felt hollow with shock and terror, muscles screaming in pain as he pushed them to carry him further, faster. He staggered closer to the wraith now hovering over the body, trying to put himself between it and the last youth who had now also fallen to the ground, sobbing with grief and fear. Jaskier had no idea what he could possibly do to stop the furious creature, he had no silver sword, nor specter oil to coat it with. He knew no spells or signs to cast.   

There was no guarantee that the wraith would spare him again, or that this was even the same one. He wasn’t even sure why it had spared him the first time, wraiths were supposed to hate all the living, regardless of race. Still, he had no choice but to throw himself in its path, blocking its path to the last boy with his own body.  

Close up, the wraith looked more terrible than ever; the moonlight showing clearly through holes in its shroud and flesh both. Jaskier’s stomach twisted painfully, filling him with the urge to vomit and void his bowels simultaneously as the ghastly visage of the wraith came to bear on him. He gasped for air, chest heaving painfully as he struggled to take a breath.  
 
“Stop!” he cried out, voice thin and pitiful. “Please... don’t. Don’t kill him. Don’t kill us!”  

The wraith seemed not to hear him, drifting inexorably closer over the pristine snow. The air seemed to grow colder as it approached, Jaskier’s gasping breath crystallizing in the air. He felt the tears on his cheeks freeze even as they poured freely, trails of cold fire climbing to his eyes.   

Desperate, he tried again in elder speech, hoping his translation skills were good enough. He was far more used to deciphering texts or repeating poetry, not conversational fluency, but he was out of options.  

“ Do not kill us, my brother. Have mercy! MERCY!”   

Jaskier wanted to close his eyes against what was sure to be a killing blow, but the fear paralyzed even his eyes. The wraith raised its sword high, bracing with both skeletal hands. The sword hovered, terrible and bright in the moonlight. But it did not swing towards him.  

Silence reigned between the wraith and the bard, broken only by the hitching sobs of the boy behind Jaskier. The moment stretched thin and brittle, time itself seeming to hold its breath. Finally, the wraith lowered its sword. Its hissing, dry voice rattled forth from within the crypts of its rotting body.  

“ Va   aen  het  creasa ,” it said, sounding like the last breath of a dying man.  Go from this place.  

Jaskier was unable to move even as the wraith turned and evaporated into the night, he still couldn’t breathe. The threat was gone but his body hadn’t gotten the message, or rather had decided now was a good time to really freak out. His chest seized up sharply and Jaskier groaned, falling to his knees as vertigo made him dizzy.  

He could still hear the boy sobbing behind him, but it sounded distant. This would have been the perfect time to try out  Najmila’s  second potion, meant to calm him in emergencies, but it was safely tucked away in Pegasus’ saddle bag. Time seemed to slip away from then, they could have been sitting in the snow for minutes or hours when the sounds of the search party reached them, screams and cries ringing out as they spotted the fallen bodies.  

Still Jaskier couldn’t move, frozen in place as surely as if he had been struck down himself. He knew he was breathing  now but  couldn’t feel it. He couldn’t feel much of anything, feeling strangely untethered from his body. Someone seized his shoulder and asked him a brusque question, but he couldn’t make sense of the words. By the time he understood he had been asked what had happened, the asker had already given up and moved on to the hysterically crying youth.   

Things seemed to blur together then snap back to reality at odd moments, Jaskier feeling like a leaf on a river snagging on obstacles then being swept along again. Small things caught his attention; the smell of blood overpowering as the bodies were gathered up and slung over the assorted mounts, the terrible low moaning of a father carrying the body of his son, the clink of Pegasus’ tack as they loaded a corpse across his broad back.  

Jaskier knew he followed the group back to the village but remembered none of what  was surely a grueling journey in the early morning darkness . Jolenta’s worried face appeared before him, mouth moving but the words not reaching him. She guided him back to his blanket roll by the fire, wrapping the blankets around him like a child and muttering soothing noises. He stared into the fire for a long time, unable to think or process anything beyond quiet snapping of the logs as they succumbed to flames.   

He wasn’t aware that he fell  asleep , so was surprised to find himself being shaken awake roughly. Twice in one night was terribly rude he thought, before opening his eyes properly and realizing that it was now truly daylight. He blinked blearily, seeing the person shaking him was Jolenta and she was extremely upset.  

“Julian! You must wake up; you must come now. Your farm is burning!”  

Even as he understood the  words,  he felt fear grip him again, spurring his body into motion. He stood and shook her off, frantically trying to get his bearings. Jolenta was saying something, talking at him as he once again donned his boots and cloak.  

“I’m so sorry Julian, I tried to stop them. It’s because you spoke their tongue, the boy said you talked to that creature and called it off, the men decided that meant you set it on them in the first place!”  

Jaskier swung to face her, confused and angry. “That’s insanity! No one controls a wraith!”  

Jolenta sobbed, anguish stark in her face. “They’re mad with grief Julian, they care not for reason. They just want someone to blame!”  

He cursed and rushed outside, finding Pegasus still saddled and ready to ride; clearly, he had been too dazed last night to even put him away properly. It was just as well, for it meant he could mount him immediately and ride towards his homestead, ignoring Jolenta’s cries for him to wait. He flew over the familiar track, his mind feeling blank and cold. The night before had pushed him beyond shock, beyond fear, and he had no capacity to feel anything much in response to this new danger.  

He saw the thick black column of smoke over the hill, long before he could see the cottage. It billowed high into the morning air, obscenely black in the  snow-white  landscape. He had thoughts of using the well to stop the flames, maybe even the snow itself – but these flew away as the farm came fully into view and he understood he was far too late.  

The damaged was profound in its completeness. The bones of the structure were still smoldering, producing the smothering black smoke, but the flesh had long been consumed by the fire. Even the stable had gone, Mean Goat presumably burned up with it. Only a collapsed stack of charred wood marked where the chicken coop had been, all the hens having been locked securely inside when Jaskier left for the Imbolc festival.  

There was no sign of the culprits, they had probably left when it was clear there would be no saving the building or animals. They had achieved their goal; their message had been sent - Jaskier was not welcome here. This was not his home, not anymore.  

Chapter Text

Later, Jaskier would find it hard to remember the days that immediately followed Imbolc. He knew he spent some time in the ruins of the cottage that first day, picking through the smoldering remains for things that could be salvaged. A bowl, half a book, a clay jar. Things he picked up and carried around for a while before realizing that the damage was too severe and even If he could rescue anything, he had nowhere to take it to.  

  At some point he covered the remains of the chicken house and stable with dirt and rocks, unable to dig effectively as the fire had consumed the hafts of all his tools. It was a half-hearted burial, but there wasn’t much to bury. Eventually, he found himself back at Jolenta’s house, reeking of smoke of sadness. The look on her face was too much for him to bear, so he focused instead on methodically cleaning himself with the  wash water and rags she provided.     

Looking at the silt and soot left in the water, he had the odd thought that this was all that remained of his little life here, and he was washing it away. His garden, his chickens, Mean Goat and even the stupid yellow shutters. Gone, as though they had never been. This should have brought him to tears, but he felt instead a deep absence of emotion. He was simply tired, beyond  tired,  exhausted to his bones.    

It was no surprise then that he slept for nearly a full day and night, right in front of Jolenta’s hearth where he collapsed. When he awoke with the same chill numbness of spirit, Jolenta urged him to eat. He ate slowly, mechanically, but with enough awareness to notice there was a certain agitation to the way Jolenta was busying herself with housework around him.  

Slowly, so slowly, the words came to him. “What’s wrong, Jolenta ?”  

The woman paused in her busywork, clearly having been waiting for the question. She looked distraught, unwilling to answer but also unable to hold it in. “I’m so sorry Julian. This terrible thing has happened to you, and none of it your fault. You did nothing wrong. You were just an outsider, a convenient place for them to hang their grief and blame.”  

He blinked owlishly, sluggish mind trying to process what she was really trying to say. “I know that, Jolenta. It’s not your fault either. You tried to stop them, you took me in. I don’t blame you for any of it.”  

Twisting her hands in her apron, Jolenta looked agonized. “It’s just… we don’t have much, Olaf and me. We have the herd, and the house, and you know I’d gladly share that with you. You have been a good  neighbour . I know you’re a hard worker too, you’d be a great hand to have about the place. But…” she trailed off, her anguished voice hanging in the air.  

Finally, Jaskier got it. “You’re worried they’ll come after you. For helping me.”  

The guilty look on her face was all the confirmation he needed. He wouldn’t have needed her to say anything at all, had his normal faculties been in place. It was a sign of how badly his mind was addled that it had taken so long for her concerns to become apparent, given how perceptive he normally was. He set his bowl down abruptly and stood, shedding the blanket he had wrapped around his shoulders for comfort. Jolenta made a noise and tried to settle him again, but he brushed her off.  

“I understand, Jolenta. It’s fine. I won’t have you suffer on my account. I’ll go.”  

The relief mixed with concern on her weathered face. “But where… do you have somewhere to go?”   

Jaskier shrugged. “I was a troubadour for years, my good woman. I can make my way on the road just fine.” At her unconvinced expression, he added; “I might go to Ban Ard first. See my friend, get my bearings.”  

This finally seemed to sooth the worried woman, she knew enough of Jaskier’s visits to Najmila that she believed he had someone to rely on there. Jaskier only wished he had the same certainty.  

***  

Najmila  took one look at him and ushered him through her blue door without a word. She practically shoved Jaskier into a chair at her table and proceeded to set out enough food and herbal concoctions to satisfy a village. At her urging, he drank two sharp smelling herbal draughts and started on a cup of hot chamomile tea, only picking at the bread and cheese.  

She didn’t ask him to explain himself right away, instead keeping up a chatter about the various projects she was working on, the petty complaints and dramas of her  neighbours , even a long diatribe about the increasingly lazy  behaviour  of her cat. By the time Jaskier had finished his tea, he realized that he finally felt something approaching normal. He was warm, tired but not exhausted, and he was  actually hungry  enough to start eating.   

Noting the difference,  Najmila  finally asked him a direct question. “What’s all this about then, Julian? I see poor Pegasus has rather more supplies loaded on him than usual, and you looked half dead when I brought you in. What’s happened?”  

Jaskier finished chewing, and paid attention to his breathing for a moment before answering. “It’s gone,  Najmila . It’s all gone. The farm, the animals… everything.”  

The old hedge witch looked more concerned than he had ever seen, all traces of good cheer vanished from her face. “Oh, my poor child. I’m so sorry. Tell me everything.” 
 
And he did. Slowly, sparingly, avoiding describing things in too much detail or pondering the motivations of the villagers, he explained what had happened. He felt grief rise in his throat and choked it down, knowing he would be lost to tears again if he acknowledged it. For a moment, he saw a deep anger flash over her face, but it was smothered quickly as Najmila arranged her expression back into one of concern and care. When he didn’t have anything left to say, she sat back in her chair and folded her arms, silent for a long time. 

Finally, she got up and busied herself with making him another cup of tea, this time a different herbal mix. “ So  what are your plans from here, Julian?” She asked, setting the tea down in front of him and pouring one for herself.  

He shrugged, wrapping his hands around the mug of tea. “I don’t know. I thought perhaps I’d head west, find work as a bard on the way again. Maybe head to  Oxenfurt , but I don’t know if I’d be welcome there.”  

Najmila cocked an eyebrow. “You still think your reputation as a half-elf is the end of your career?” They had talked about this before, Najmila had expressed great doubt in his assessment of his audiences and patrons. Jaskier had not been completely swayed by her opinions. 
 
“Not the end perhaps, but certainly a great change. I know you think sentiment against non-humans is not so widespread and dire as I do, but it does block my access to certain circles. I doubt I’ll ever work in a court again.” 

She shrugged. “ So  don’t. You can’t tell me you enjoy rubbing shoulders with the kind of people you worked so hard to escape from in Kerack. Your destiny has never been amongst the nobility, you are a man of the common people, Julian. You’ve told me so many times yourself.”  

He sighed, rubbing his forehead. “It’s much harder to earn coin reliably as a travelling bard. Even harder when you’re trying to keep your elf blood a secret.”  

“So don’t do that either!” she exclaimed. “How many times have I heard you rail against the treatment of your Witcher friends, how many songs have you written to help improve their  reputations?  Why can you not do the same for yourself?”  

Jaskier frowned. “It’s not so simple.  Witchers  aren’t actively involved in a guerilla war like the  scoia’tael  are right now. It’s not centuries old prejudice anymore, this is current affairs. People have good reasons to be suspicious and angry towards non-humans. Blood is hot, hearts are wounded. I’d be fighting an uphill battle, even more so than when I was Geralt’s barker.”  

Najmila  regarded him evenly. “ So  fight. Perhaps this is the perfect time for a bard with elven blood to be singing songs about the relationships between humans and elves. Maybe that’s what these hurting people need to hear most, before their pain turns to more violence.”   

Seeing the doubt on Jaskier’s face,  Najmila  reached out a hand to clasp his. “What if everything in your life has been preparing you for this? You’ve worked so hard to help  Witchers , and done a marvelous job of it. Many now think of Geralt as a hero, not a butcher. What if all that was just a  warm up  for helping your own people?”  

Despite his instinctive rejection of this idea, the fear, scorn and dismay that rose inside him, Jaskier couldn’t help but feel maybe  Najmila  had a point.  

***  

As the snow left the ground, so Jaskier left Ban Ard. He had told Jolenta to relay what had happened to Lambert, should the Witcher arrive, and to direct him to  Najmila . He left a long letter with the hedge witch for Lambert, explaining the circumstances of his departure and his deep apologies for getting the Witcher’s safe house burned down.  Najmila  tried to convince Jaskier that Lambert wouldn’t blame in the least, but Jaskier still felt compelled to apologize and  harboured  his own doubts about how the man would react.   

Nevertheless, he laid out his plans to return westward and the probable route he would take, should the Witcher want to find him. He still felt he owed Lambert not only for saving his life and helping him recover, but now also the cost of the cottage itself weighed on him. He intimated in the letter that he would try to earn some coin to compensate Lambert, but he was less than sure in his ability to actually do that.   

So it was that Julian the farmer was left in the ashes of the cottage, and Jaskier the bard took to the road again. His lute was different,  he  was different, but the rhythms of travelling and playing were much the same. He tried to travel with merchant caravans and traders when he could, less confident in wandering alone on foot than he had been as a young man, but otherwise it was all as familiar as his own teeth.  

He even started playing his old songs again, including his famous Witcher ballads. It still hurt, in a way, to sing about Geralt, even obliquely as he did, but it was more the ache of a wound long healed than a fresh injury. With  all of  his courage and  Najmila’s  words ringing in his mind, he forced himself to start composing new songs too. First, he  trialed  a new installment of his cycle about the Witcher and the Sorceress, hinting at Geralt’s quest to find the lost lion cub of Cintra. He didn’t truly know if the Princess had survived the sacking, or if Geralt was remotely interested in finding her, but the  rumours  were compelling enough that he couldn’t resist.  

When that song proved unexpectedly popular, Jaskier finally turned his hand to writing about Elves. It was a complicated and difficult subject to navigate, not just due to his own feelings about his heritage either. It wasn’t as simple as a story about an oppressed people fighting back against colonizers; after all, the Elves themselves were not the first to arrive in these lands and had done plenty of colonizing of their own. From what he understood of the  Scoia’tael , they were a controversial subject among non-human as well. Many saw them as foolish and short-sighted, inciting more anger and violence, while others sympathized with their loss and rage.  

But in the centuries of interactions between humans and elves, there was more than war. There was love, and quite a lot of it. One only had to dig back a few generations to find hundreds of stories about love affairs between members of the warring races, and the very real struggles they faced in the name of love was practically a bard’s wet dream in terms of writing material.  

As he drifted westward through  Kaedwen , following the  Pontar  through Ban Glean, Hagge and  Murivel , he found himself with increasingly large audiences. His songs were controversial, but whether they loved or hated them the people  listened  to them and paid him well for his time. Jaskier finally felt like himself again, a true bard, and more importantly he was independent in it. No Geralt, nor Valdo, nor Lambert, not even  Najmila  to support him (though he still wrote her letters), he was living his life on his own terms again and he was living it well.  

There were still times of sadness, moments when the memory of all that had happened to him and all he had lost seemed overwhelming. But instead of running from these feelings or trying to drown them in drink, he applied the lessons of Najmila and breathed through it, accepting the difficult emotions and sitting with them. He spent nearly as much time meditating and sitting quietly as Geralt ever did, an irony not lost on the bard.  
 
This too was one of the major differences in his return to the troubadour life; he was no longer an icon of hedonism. Though the women (and more than a few men) found him as charming and attractive as ever, he had no desire to go to bed with them and politely excused himself from their fluttering eyelashes and warm suggestions. People still bought him drinks as he played, and he developed his skills in sleight of hand as he learned to pretend to sip ale without imbibing so as not to offend. He went to bed every night clear headed, alone, and oddly grateful for it. 
 
Being immune to the temptations of the brothels and winehouses ended up saving him quite a lot of coin, so by the time summer began to breathe its first hot breaths Jaskier found himself past Rinde and wealthy enough that he was considering making the rest of the journey to Oxenfurt on the river. He still wasn’t entirely sure of his welcome at the University, but he knew he owed his old friends and colleagues the pleasure of seeing his face and reassuring them that he still lived. 
 
He had just finished up a performance, leaving the audience to argue amongst themselves over the contents of his ballads, instead choosing to sit quietly and ponder whether to approach the bargeman and broker passage down river. He was so lost in his considerations that he did not at first realize that the man standing next to his table was waiting to talk to him. It wasn’t until a full mug of wine and a platter of vittles were set before him that he looked up noticed the dark cloaked stranger. 

Without waiting for permission, the man sat opposite Jaskier and picked up a second mug, waving away the barmaid waiting for further orders. “Greetings, Master Bard. I greatly enjoyed your songs. Please, let me return the  favour  of pleasing my ears with pleasing your stomach, surely you are hungry and thirsty after such a tiring performance.”  

The man was slender and pale, with watery eyes set in a face made of stone. He was trying to smile superciliously, but it was clear his face wasn’t used to emoting much. His appearance and  demeanor  instantly raised Jaskier’s hackles, but he was a seasoned performer and confident in his ability to defer the grasping nature of fans, whatever their goals might be.   

He picked up the mug and raised it in acknowledgement, pretending to take a sip. “My thanks, fellow traveler, it is indeed thirsty work. But I need no payment from you for my songs, the knowledge of a well satisfied audience is all a poet truly needs.”  

The stranger quirked an eyebrow and nodded towards the purse that Jaskier had tucked away. “A bit of coin doesn’t hurt either though, surely? Poets are still men, are they not? And men have needs. To make love and war, like in your songs.”  

Uneasy with this line of questioning, Jaskier plastered a wry smile on his face and raised his mug for another faux sip. “You are right of course, master... I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”  

“ Rience ” replied the man shortly. “But my name is not important, it will never be sung of by great poets. Not like Calanthe, or  Cirilla.  These are great names of important people, very important. I’m particularly interested in the lion cub of Cintra, the one you sang about. Is it true she survived?”  

Jaskier shrugged eloquently. “Ah, but what is truth? In a hundred years, no one will know if she was ever a real child. Only the stories will remain, and for the purposes of stories it is a lovely fiction that the girl lived.”  

This answer did not seem to please  Rience . “But for the purposes of  now , it could be rather important if the rightful heir to the crown of an occupied country should still be alive. A great many people would be interested in her fate, if she truly made it out of that burning city.”  

“Ah, but that’s precisely why I included it in my song! It gets people interested, whether it’s true or not is immaterial. As long as it gets them talking, my job is done.”  

Rience  was clearly becoming increasingly frustrated with these non-answers. Leaning forward, he dropped all pretense of friendliness. “Whether or not it’s true is profoundly material to  me . Why would you sing of such a thing if you had no notion of its veracity? Surely you heard something, saw something that gave you the idea.”  

Jaskier pushed his mug away. “My inspiration comes from many places, from  rumours  and hearsay on the roads, from the beauty of nature and the very air itself! Who can say where the truth really comes from, in these turbulent  times.  What’s true for me right now is that I’ve had far too much to drink and must seek the privy, forgive me Master  Rience . It was a pleasure.”   

Before the man could reply Jaskier was up and away from his chair, nimbly navigating the press of bodies in the crowded tavern as he sought the back door. It was indeed the direction of the privy, but more importantly it was also the way to the stables and his escape route. Pegasus was still loaded with his bags, he hadn’t yet decided if he was going to stay the night in town and with Rience’s too-pointed questions, Jaskier now thought it better if he left immediately. 
 
Bypassing the privy, he walked straight on to the stables and started preparing his horse to ride. Lute stowed securely; he was checking the girth strap one last time when he sensed someone approaching behind him.  

“Hey, Bard.” A gruff voice called out, not the hissing tones of  Rience  that he had feared. Perhaps it was merely another fan wanting to wish him well, maybe  Rience  was not as dangerous as Jaskier had presumed.  

Turning, Jaskier regarded the owner of the voice; a tall ruffian reeking of stale sweat and ale. Assessing the stature and attitude of the man, he realized very quickly that he would not in fact be leaving town that night. He practically had ‘hired thug’ tattooed on his forehead.  

“Bollocks” Jaskier said with great feeling.  

“Yes, bollocks,” repeated the ruffian sagely, and raising a great meaty fist, knocked Jaskier out cold.  

***  

Jaskier awoke as suddenly as he had passed out, coming to sharp and abrupt awareness of the pain radiating down from his hands through his shoulders. His arms were above his head, hands tied too tightly with coarse rope, holding him in a kneeling position. He opened his eyes and looked around blearily, noting he appeared to be in some sort of shed, lit only by a lantern carried by one of three men regarding him.  

“ Awake  are we?” Came the hissing voice of Rience, standing directly in front of Jaskier. He made a gesture and one of the other men, the stinky one he had met in the stable, tugged on a rope. It turned out to be the other end of the rope attached to Jaskier’s hands, resulting in his body being wrenched higher in the air by his arms, until his feet lifted off the floor.  

His body weight hanging from his wrists was pure agony, and Jaskier tried to scream his pain out, only to find he could not. His mouth and tongue were numb, his throat felt stuffed full of invisible cloth. Tears sprung to his eyes and he blinked frantically against them, unwilling to shed them in front of these men.  

Rience  laughed roughly and gestured again, causing the rope to be lowered enough for Jaskier to regain his feet and relieve some of the strain. “Enough. While I enjoy seeing your pain, pathetic cretin, I do have a purpose here. I asked nicely before, but you wouldn’t speak. Now I’m forced to ask in a different way. Tell me where the girl is, and you might not find out all the ways I can make you suffer.”  

Rience  leaned closer to Jaskier and brushed his ringed hand against the bard’s cheek, vanishing the numbness holding his tongue prisoner.  

“I don’t know!” cried Jaskier desperately. “I wasn’t lying, I have no idea what you’re talking about! Everyone knows no one in the citadel escaped!”  

The ringed hand backhanded Jaskier with sudden but fierce strength, knocking his head back and making him sway against the rope. He felt a sharp pain and the drip of blood on his cheek; one of the rings had cut him.  

“Save your bullshit for someone who can’t sense when you’re dancing around the truth. It is well known that you kept company with the mutant scum Geralt of  Rivia , you would know where he went to ground in times of danger. Where would he take the girl? Speak, you idiot clown.”  

Panting with fear, Jaskier tried again. “I haven’t seen Geralt in—in years. I’ve been east, I can’t possibly know where he is!”  

Fury sparked in  Rience’s  watery eyes. He nodded to the other man, the one holding the lantern, and the well-muscled thug set aside the lantern so he could punch Jaskier in the gut, twice in quick succession. The blows were short but powerful, making Jaskier unable to breath with the sudden pain. He gasped and gagged, sagging in his bonds. Tears now ran from his eyes freely, long past the point of his control.  

“Look down,” said  Rience . On the floor, attached to Jaskier’s ankles with another rope lay a bucket full of lime. Nausea and panic filled Jaskier as he realized the purpose. “Continue to play games with me, and I’ll have my friend here lift you higher. With all that weight stretching out your hands, I doubt if you’ll ever be able to play an instrument again.  Where did the Witcher take the lion cub?”  

Desperation spurred Jaskier’s tongue.  “ I don’t know, I don’t know where it is! I wasn’t lying, I haven’t seen him--”  

“Uh ah, little bard,” interrupted  Rience . “You’re too quick, too clever for your own good. You just said you don’t know  where it is . This implies that you know  what  it is, this secret hiding spot. And now you will tell me.”  

Jaskier shook his head, both in dismay at his own error and a denial.  Rience  shrugged and motioned to the stinky man holding the rope, who immediately started  pulling.    

“No! Please  please  don’t, please stop!” cried Jaskier as the rope lifted him off his feet again, the painful stretch starting anew.   

Just as the slack was taken up in the rope bound to his ankles and the bucket started to lift ominously, the lantern-man spoke up. “Master, someone’s coming.  A man,  looks like.”  

Annoyed,  Rience  turned on his employee. “Well put the fucking light out then! You, drop the bard and keep him quiet.”  

Jaskier was abruptly returned to earth, a large hand smothering his mouth before he could even cry out in relief. The light was  shuttered,  and the holder moved to the door, brandishing a mace in  readiness .  Rience  was muttering to himself, perhaps preparing a spell. Jaskier only hoped whatever poor fool was coming to investigate the noises in the shed was at least armed.  

They were expecting a knock or for the door to open, judging by their postures, but instead the door shattered abruptly. The thug nearest the door raised his arm to swing his mace but it never fell, halted by a dagger through his neck. The cloaked figure in the doorway didn’t wait for the body to fall, moving forward with inhuman speed and throwing a black gauntleted fist to the face of the man holding Jaskier.  

The stinking man swore and dropped his hand from Jaskier’s mouth, blocking the blow with one hand and trying to grapple with the cloaked man instead. It was futile, his strength and speed hopelessly outmatched. The gloved hands struck several cruel blows to the  thugs  body, then while the man was trying to defend his torso, seized his head between two large hands and twisted sharply, the echoing crack signifying a broken neck.  

Rience  had clearly read the room the second the door had burst and had opened a portal to escape. He dashed towards it, trying to outrun the  igni  cast after him. He nearly succeeded but reached the portal with his cloak aflame and screamed in pain as the fire licked around his face. He fell forwards, vanishing into the portal’s voice leaving only his panicked screams behind him.  

The cloaked figure cursed thoroughly, clearly frustrated that his quarry had escaped him.  

Jaskier hung by his hands, exhausted and terrified, but as the remaining man turned, the moonlight streaming in from the broken door caught the man’s eyes. Golden eyes, pupils rounded in the darkness.   

Shocked, Jaskier could only stare in disbelief as he finally recognized his saviour.  

“Geralt?”  

Chapter Text

Stunned and speechless, Jaskier wordlessly allowed Geralt to cut him down and prop his body against a barrel, gently lowering the bard’s aching arms to rest. The pain from finally having his weight off his arms was almost worse than being hung by them in the first place. He flinched when he tried to breathe too deeply, then remembered Rience’s hired man hitting him with the hams he called fists.  Possibly some bruised ribs then , he reflected sourly. 

Geralt hovered awkwardly, clearly uncertain what to say or do. “Jaskier,” he said finally, but did not continue. He seemed at a loss, kneeling uncomfortably next to Jaskier in this strange tableau, two extremely dead and smelly men strewn around them.  

Jaskier started to roll his shoulders and gently massage the ache out of his wrists. “ Geralt ,” he repeated back, mildly irritated. “I should thank you for saving me, I suppose. Although as they were only after me to get to you, apparently, so that probably evens it out.” 

He tucked his legs up and tried to stand, only wincing and staggering once. Geralt made to offer a hand to steady Jaskier but dropped it when he saw the incredulous look on the bard’s face.  

“You’re bleeding,” stated Geralt flatly, in his signature gravelly tone. 

“Brilliant observation. Must be those enhanced Witcher senses eh?” Jaskier knew he was being a little spiteful, but the shock and pain had already caused him to reach his emotional limit for the day. He had nothing left to deal with this new situation. Of all the people he could have imagined saving him, it had to be the one man on the Continent he wasn’t sure he ever wanted to see again. 

Making an executive decision to end this conversation before it began, Jaskier walked out of the shed and back towards the Tavern and its stable. Rience had not thought to take him very far after all as it turned out – only just to the edge of town. Geralt did not immediately follow him, mostly likely because he was rifling through the dead men’s pockets (one of his favourite activities). Inevitably though, just as the tavern’s stable came into sight, Jaskier felt the silent presence of the Witcher again, following a few steps behind. 

“Jaskier, wait. I need to talk to you about Rience.” 

Jaskier did not wait but did deign to cast a look over his shoulder at Geralt as he replied, “Ugly. Bad manners. Terrible taste in jewelry.” 

He heard the sigh of exasperation but chose to ignore it in favor of entering the stable and locating Pegasus, who was exactly where Jaskier had left him. He whickered in greeting as Jaskier stroked him reassuringly, clearly anxious after being prepared to ride and abruptly left again. The bard busied himself with checking over all the tack again, even though probably it was fine, but he really didn’t want to deal with the great hulking Witcher who was now lurking behind him. 

“Jaskier, please. It’s important. I need to know why he’s after Ciri.” The genuine pleading in Geralt’s voice was so strange and unexpected that Jaskier was forced to stop and look at the man. The Witcher looked profoundly tired, and somehow older, despite his unchanging face. Whatever had happened to Geralt in the years that had passed since Jaskier last saw him, it had changed the man on a deep level.  
 
Relenting, Jaskier finally softened his expression and tone. “He didn’t say much about why, only banged on about her being ‘important’. He knows you have somewhere you go, though.” Jaskier paused, swallowing hard against the guilt that rose at this confession.  “I think he knew before I gave it away, but I’m sorry if that compromised you, or Ciri’s safety. He doesn’t know where, but he knows it exists.” 
 
Geralt waved a hand as though to wipe away Jaskier’s guilt. “It’s fine. He would have already assumed I had somewhere to go to ground. Ciri’s not there anyway, she’s safe. Did he say anything else?” 

Jaskier sighed. “I’m glad she’s safe but no, he didn’t say anything much. Didn’t have much time. How did you find me so quickly anyway?” 

It was Geralt’s turn to look guilty and faintly embarrassed. “I’ve been tracking him for a few days. Saw him talking to you. I thought I’d catch him after you’d left, but... I underestimated how much he wanted to talk to you. I didn’t realize you hadn’t left of your own accord until I saw your horse still here.” 
 
“Wait... was I bait?!” Jaskier looked at Geralt incredulously. 

Wincing, Geralt had the grace to look chagrined. “Not exactly. I just thought things would be.... easier if I didn’t interrupt. I didn’t think you wanted to see me.” 

Exasperated, Jaskier scoffed. “Correct I don’t want to see you, but I think  not  being tortured would have been  easier  for me personally.” 

Looking pained, Geralt replied with anguished sincerity; “I’m truly sorry, Jaskier. I never meant for you to get involved, to get hurt like this. I thought I could keep you out of it.” 

Rather than pacifying Jaskier, this only made him furious again. He turned his back on Geralt and tightened the girth strap one last time. “Well, now I’m out of it,  off your hands.  You’re free to hunt bad tempered wizards to your heart’s content.” 

“Where are you going? It’s not safe to travel alone.” Concern filled Geralt’s voice. 

“I hardly think that’s any of your business, Witcher. And I’m sure it’s a damn sight safer than travelling with  you.”  

“ Jaskier-” started Geralt, but the bard didn’t hear the rest. All his attention was immediately consumed by the hand resting on his shoulder, large fingers draped near his neck. Geralt had probably meant to turn him around, to plead to his face directly, just a simple physical touch with no malicious intent. Jaskier tried to tell himself that, but his body and his heart were only hearing  danger . By the time he realized what was happening and told himself  do not panic  it was already too late. 

His entire body stiffened, rigid with fear. A strange wave of heat and cold flushed over him from head to toe, leaving pin-like stabbing pains in its wake. His breathing stuttered, catching in his chest, and he could feel his heartrate racing – no doubt Geralt could hear it.  

“Don’t fucking touch me!” he startled himself by yelling. Almost of its own volition, Jaskier’s arm came up and thrust Geralt’s hand away from him, taking a few steps back himself and unintentionally bringing Pegasus with him, hand still entangled with the reins. 

Angry but also ashamed of this outburst, he continued; “Just don’t. I don't fucking need this from you right now.” The look of confusion and concern on Geralt’s face was too much. Shaking, Jaskier turned to his saddle bags and fumbled with the buckles with trembling fingers. Geralt said nothing, silently watching as Jaskier retrieved a small glass bottle from the bag and downed the contents in one hasty mouthful. 

He hadn’t needed the calming medicine often before, preferring to use his breathing skills and mantras to defeat an episode. But in his current state all Najmila’s wisdom had abandoned him, his careful rituals out of reach of his frantic mind. He couldn’t calm himself down without help, and he recognized that this exactly the kind of situation in which Najmila would expect him to use the potent calming draught.  

The medicine would take a quarter hour at least to start working, but he wouldn’t be able to ride safely after that. Bearing that in mind, he ceased fussing with the tack and lead Pegasus out of the stable, heading towards the main road out of town. He couldn’t help but listen for Geralt’s footsteps, which sure enough followed him only moments later, accompanied by the clop of Roach’s hooves.  

“Jaskier... what did you just drink?” 

“Magic potion,” replied Jaskier shortly. “It turns my ears the most fetching shade of green.” 

Geralt heaved a sigh. Jaskier wasn’t looking at him, but he could practically feel the concern radiating from the Witcher. “It’s getting dark. Are you planning to camp by the road?” 

“No, I plan to camp on the moon. You are not invited.”  

The adrenaline surge from the panic had not yet faded, making Jaskier irritable and jumpy. He wanted to rage at Geralt, tell him to get fucked and fuck right the fuck off, but he was too focused on trying to calm down. With the way he was feeling, he was equally likely to start crying as shouting, so it was better to keep his answers flippant and short anyway. 

Geralt probably wanted to express further sentiments about safety, but wisely kept quiet for the length of time it took them to leave town and for full dark to fall. The moon was out, but not full, and the cloud layer obscured the light. The potion was working well enough that Jaskier was able to admit he could not walk all night in the dark without hurting himself or his horse and steered off the road to find a suitable campsite. 

Wordlessly, Geralt went about picketing Roach and setting up camp in an eerie parody of their old routine. Jaskier realized there was no chance of getting rid of the Witcher that night, and simply ignored Geralt as best he could. It was strange, tense and awkward, but the gentle drowsiness brought on by the calming potion allowed Jaskier to endure the situation with equanimity.  He lay down on his bedroll, across the fire from Geralt, and was almost asleep before he thought to take his boots off. 

Boots off, clothing loosened, Jaskier was about to settle in for sleep properly when Geralt finally spoke up from his own bedroll, where he had been kneeling in a meditation pose.  

“Valerian. Chamomile. Passion flower. Poppy. Something else. A calming draught, a strong one.” 

Sighing, Jaskier snuggled deeper into his blanket and closed his eyes. Finally his body felt quiet enough that he could remember his relaxation exercises, so he proceeded to tense and release every muscle in order from the top of his head down. It felt excellent to stretch his toes. 

 “Yes, it’s very strong.” he replied lazily, enjoying the lassitude he had slipped into. “Delightfully so.” 

The fire crackled and popped in the quiet night. “Why do you need a calming potion, Jaskier?” 

Jaskier snorted, a half laugh escaping him. “To calm me down, obviously.” 

“Jaskier--,” Geralt started to say, but Jaskier interrupted him. 

“Goodnight, Geralt! I’m going to sleep now,” he said brightly but firmly, and then did so. 

*** 

The morning dawned bright but still cloudy, which rather suited Jaskier’s mood. Geralt had, true to form, woken absurdly early (if he had even slept), performed several camp chores and cooked a small hot breakfast. The breakfast thing was unusual, normally Geralt only cooked at night and in certain conditions, if he felt the urge to cook at all. Assuming the meal was some form of apology or guilt laden act of service, Jaskier ate it anyway. He was hungry, and there was no sense snubbing Geralt if it meant missing out.  
 
He did not however thank the Witcher or talk to him over breakfast. For all his questions the previous night, Geralt seemed hesitant to initiate any conversation now. Jaskier was fine with this, as this was proving to be one of the rare occasions in his life where he truly didn’t know what to say. Having had a night’s rest to settle and restore his mind, he was able to process the events clearly. He felt a little foolish for having sung about Ciri and expecting nothing to come of it, but he couldn’t have known Rience would be so dangerous nor so determined.  

He  could  be a little angry with Geralt for literally watching him get kidnapped and not noticing, but the Witcher  had  saved him from torture shortly thereafter, which perhaps cancelled it out a bit. It was clear Geralt hadn’t intended for Jaskier to be hurt, though it was thoughtless in the extreme. But he wasn’t truly angry with Geralt, not really. The old wound ached, but only faintly now. He almost  wanted  to be angry with Geralt more than he truly felt it.  

Najmila had told him that anger was often a secondary emotion, something our feelings transmute into when it’s too difficult to bear them. So what was the original emotion here? Hurt? Sadness? Did it even really matter, after all this time? Jaskier wasn’t so sure. There seemed to be a great gulf of time and events between Geralt yelling at him on that mountain and making him breakfast here. It was difficult to relate one Geralt to the other, and if they weren’t going to see each other again, perhaps not much point to it either. 
 
It wasn’t until they’d packed up camp and Jaskier was readying Pegasus to ride again that Geralt finally broke the silence. 

“Jaskier,” he started quietly. “Where are you going? Oxenfurt?” 

He shrugged a shoulder. “Where else? I have some things in storage there and a number of people who need to be convinced I’m not dead before they release my belongings to me. I imagine a feast to celebrate my resurrection will follow, and I wouldn’t want to miss that.” 

An unfamiliar expression twisted Geralt’s face for a moment. “I’m glad. That you’re alive. When I heard you were gone, I-- “ he stopped, appearing to have difficulty speaking. “It was one of the worst days of my life, Jaskier.” 

He didn’t know how to respond. It was shocking, hearing Geralt speak with such sincerity. Jaskier was so used to Geralt’s dry, mocking humour that he expected a punch line any moment now. But Geralt simply looked at him, face solemn and eyes burning with intensity. He was serious, and that meant... Jaskier didn’t want to analyse that further. 

"Well come now,” he replied lightly, trying to brush off the moment. “It can’t have been any worse than the day you saw a mirror after that haircut.” 

He hadn’t really taken it in until now, but the short hair wasn’t truly that awful, just different. Geralt had clearly at least seen a barber to shave the sides down, letting the top grow out, but it was a far cry from his usual flowing silver locks. Jaskier had intended the joke to lighten the mood, deflect the heavy emotions he sensed from the Witcher, but Geralt didn’t laugh – not even a smirk.  

“That was the same day.” Said Geralt shortly, moving past Jaskier to mount Roach. 

 It was only then that Jaskier remembered Geralt had shorn his head as a symbol of grieving for  him , so it probably sounded extremely callous for him to throw it in his face like that.  

Ah, buggery, thought Jaskier. As he mounted Pegasus and brought the gelding round to stand by Roach, he thought furiously about how to soften up what he had just said, or if he even should. This minefield of bullshit was exactly why he’d been so loathe to see the Witcher again, he always felt his usually gifted tongue tied itself in knots at the sight of Geralt.  
 
Before he could find the right words, Geralt himself spoke up again. His jaw was tense, and he carefully didn’t look at Jaskier, but his tone was even. 

“I’ll escort you to Oxenfurt, if that’s acceptable to you. I have business there, and it seems you are a target of those who are hunting me.”  
 
Jaskier sighed. “So it would haunt your honour forever if you let me go alone and get kidnapped again. I get it, it’s fine. It’s only a few days in any case.” 

Geralt seemed to take this as all the conversation required, and clicked to Roach to get her moving down the road. Jaskier followed, immediately dreading the coming days. He’d never been a fan of Geralt’s long silences in the past, and now that they came filled with bonus guilty looks and angst ridden subtext he didn’t know how he was going to survive it.

Chapter Text

The first day wasn’t so bad. Geralt kept quiet, as was his natural inclination, but Jaskier no longer felt compelled to fill the long silences with chatter. He didn’t need to tease information out of Geralt, he didn’t want to jibe and coerce for little scraps of stories. It was obviously too dangerous to write any new Witcher themed compositions for a while, and besides that Jaskier already had a wealth of new material sourced from Lambert.  
 
More importantly he simply didn’t feel like working for any kind of friendship with Geralt. Before, he had always been the pursuer, breaking down Geralt’s walls and making himself at home. He had forged their association through sheer perseverance, despite the Witcher’s indifference and even resistance at times. But Jaskier was tired of all that, tired of everything if the truth were told. He had nothing left to give in the pursuit of friendship, he had no strength to keep battering down walls. If Geralt wanted anything beyond light conversation, that was on him. 

This did however leave them at something of an impasse, reduced to communicating only about road hazards, weather, and appropriate meal break times. It was awkward, and left Jaskier with far too much time to dwell on things in his own head. By the second day of travelling with Geralt, he had reached his limit on silent reflection and decided to do something productive with all this time in the saddle. 
 
Composing while riding was difficult, but well within Jaskier’s ability, especially as Pegasus was content to follow Roach without any input from him. He pulled out his lute and set about tuning it – unlike Filavandrel’s lute this one required constant maintenance and care, but he didn’t value it any less for it. He found the process meditative, putting him in a relaxed frame of mind where the music could flow without his brain getting in the way. 

He fell into playing as mindlessly as getting dressed in the morning, only realizing he had begun singing when he noticed Geralt doing that head tilt thing that meant he was listening intently. He finished the song and continued strumming aimlessly, waiting for Geralt’s inevitable complaint about the noise. It never came, though the fact that the Witcher never moved his head proved he was still listening. Eventually, Jaskier gave up waiting for the critique and moved on to playing through a ballad that still needed finessing.  

He played most of the day, partly to work on new music for his fabulous return to fame, partly to see how far Geralt’s new-found tolerance for the arts could stretch. Jaskier couldn’t resist playing a few songs he  knew  sparked ire in the Witcher’s gut, but Geralt still kept silent, even in the face of an endless round of ‘fishmonger’s daughter’.  Whatever was weighing down his tongue, it was powerfully heavy.  

He set the lute aside when they made camp for the evening, but reached for it again after dinner. Finally, this seemed to break the Witcher, who made a cut off noise. Jaskier smirked to himself, finding satisfaction in the old familiar feeling of annoying Geralt.   

“Not in the mood for another song?” he asked innocently, adjusting the tuning pegs coyly.   

Geralt looked constipated, which Jaskier had long ago learned meant he was experiencing more than one emotion at a time and didn’t know how to express either of them. He frowned, seemingly frustrated with himself, and to Jaskier’s surprise, spoke.   

“I like it. Your music.”  

Jaskier resisted the urge to look heavenward and check if the sky was falling. “I’m sorry, I think I’m experiencing auditory hallucinations. I thought I heard you say you  liked my music . Were those mushrooms we had with dinner actually human-safe??”  

The joke only seemed to pain Geralt further. “They were fine. I’m just trying to be honest. I do enjoy your music. I always have. I thought that was obvious, but I think now.... perhaps it wasn’t.”  

Floored by this pronouncement, Jaskier floundered. “If I thought you really hated my songs I would have stopped,” he offered quietly. “I knew you liked some of it, sometimes, but mostly I thought you just tolerated it for the coin I could bring in.” 
 
Geralt looked serious, considering. “Jaskier, I have never tolerated your presence just for the money, it was wrong of me to let you think that was true.” 

Jaskier was struck dumb, stunned by the simple sincerity. He wasn’t sure how to handle such direct, honest communication from  Geralt  of all people. Fortunately, the Witcher wasn’t done.  

“Besides which,” he  continued, “ I doubt there’s enough coin in the whole continent to compensate for the pleasure of your company.”  

Jaskier squinted. “That was really sweet for a moment there, I think. But did you just insinuate that no amount of money could bribe you to put up with me?”  

Geralt’s tiny smirk was the only reply.  
 
*** 

It would have been barely a week’s travel by the main roads, but by mutual agreement they stuck to the less travelled paths through the woods and wilds. If  Rience  and his minions were still hunting them, which seemed likely, it was better to minimize their chances of being sighted by fellow travelers or innkeepers. It made the journey seem all too much like their old habits of wandering backwoods roads in search of contracts and trouble.   

This time though, Geralt was not interested in finding work and Jaskier wasn’t either. They didn’t stop at crossroads or noticeboards, Jaskier did not strike up conversation with bar keeps or village elders. It meant their journey was relatively quick, but lonely. Jaskier played and composed freely, feeling strange to know that Geralt might actually be enjoying it. They still spoke only rarely, but the fraught atmosphere seemed to have settled after that first night. 
 
Jaskier’s face and body had mostly recovered from the run in with Rience, though the place where his ring had caught Jaskier’s cheek would leave a small scar. Geralt had wordlessly left a tin of salve by Jaskier’s bedroll which had gone a long way towards reducing the swelling and bruising, so that by the time they were approaching Oxenfurt Jaskier couldn’t feel the injury at all anymore, though it still looked nasty. He could tell Geralt still had feelings about it by the way his gaze lingered on Jaskier’s cheek, but the Witcher kept his thoughts on the matter to himself. 

They made camp a final time about a day’s journey outside the city. Reflecting on their time together, Jaskier felt surprisingly calm about it. It wasn’t the same as how it had been, they were both different now, but it wasn’t terrible either. Perhaps they weren’t quite friends, but they weren’t enemies either. Geralt hadn’t gone probing indelicate fingers into Jaskier’s wounds, and Jaskier hadn’t poured out all the hurt and venom over everything that had happened to him since the mountain.  

Despite the ample opportunities for them to eviscerate each other verbally, they had not done so. He felt they had both grown and matured immensely, and was rather proud of them for being able to make this journey amicably, like adults. Relaxing with a full belly in front of the fire, Jaskier allowed himself to feel pleased, to enjoy this small peace they had made. This was of course the exact moment that Geralt noticed the lute, or rather, decided to tell Jaskier that he had noticed the lute.  

“That’s not  Filavandrel’s  lute.”  

Jaskier stopped strumming, startled by the abrupt declaration. “Well, no. It’s not. It hasn’t been this whole time. Did you not realize?”   

“I realized.” Geralt started to make a gesture, then stopped, frustrated.   

Confused, Jaskier watched the other man for a moment before clarity settled. “Ah. This is that thing where you make a statement because you don’t know how to ask a question, isn’t it?”  

Geralt’s frown, impossibly, deepened. “I know how to ask a question. I just don’t know if it’s the right one to ask, or if I should. If I have the right to ask at all.”  

It was clear to Jaskier that Geralt was  trying  to change, to communicate better, but it was painful to watch. He decided to have mercy. “Let me put you out of your misery. You want to know what happened to Filavandrel’s lute, is that it?”  

Geralt nodded, then paused. “Eskel said... you stopped performing. Playing, singing, everything. Was that because you lost the elven lute?”  

Jaskier studied Geralt, turning the question over in his head. It seemed a simple enough question, but Geralt’s mind was a mystery wrapped in an enigma wrapped in a puzzle adorned with a bear trap. He wouldn’t have brought it up unless it was weighing heavily on his mind. It wouldn’t be weighing on his mind if he didn’t feel guilty about it. Did he think Jaskier lost the lute and stopped singing because he hated Geralt all that much? Was it possible to be that egotistical and self-effacing at the same time?   

He waved a hand in a carefully ambivalent gesture. “Yes and no,” he said eventually, weighing his own words out. “I didn’t stop performing until after  Filavandrel’s  lute was broken. I had a little pipe for a while. But the fact that I lost the lute was part of why I eventually stopped everything too, I suppose.”  

Geralt, predictably, got caught on one small detail. “You  broke  it?”  

Jaskier rolled his eyes. “I never said that. Valdo broke it.”  

Incredulous, Geralt stared at the bard with wide eyes. “Is that why you killed him?!” 
 
“What? That’s ridiculous! Who told you such nonsense? I didn’t kill him, I had nothing to do with that. Lambert killed him, I think.” It was possible that Lambert had only beaten the other bard severely and left him for dead, but Jaskier thought that might still count. 

This did not appear to relieve any of Geralt’s consternation. “Why did Lambert—no,  nevermind . About the lute; why did Valdo break it? Could it not be salvaged?”  

Jaskier cast his eyes away, unwilling to bear scrutiny as he answered. “No, it was smashed. Completely. He was so angry with me, I hardly even remember what about... Ah, yes; he thought I’d been out fucking Priscilla.”  

Geralt’s voice was quiet but intense. “You hadn’t been.”  

Jaskier laughed bitterly and shot the Witcher a look. “Another question pretending to be a statement. No, I hadn’t been out fucking Priscilla. Not that it really mattered. I think now that he just wanted the excuse.”  

“To do what?”  

It felt strange, suddenly. Jaskier had imagined telling Geralt about this so many times that it felt like an over-rehearsed play. It was hard to take it seriously, though they were discussing weighty matters. Even as some part of him protested, he felt compelled to continue speaking his lines, vomiting them up from a great murky depth.   

“To hurt me,” he said quietly. “Any excuse, any reason to yell at me or hit me, get too rough... how much did Lambert and Eskel tell you about this?”  

The Witcher’s face was stoic and unreadable in the firelight. “Not much. Lambert said your bard friend wasn’t respecting you, so he died. In those words. Eskel said he thought that Valdo was probably your lover, and things were not good between you.”  

 
Jaskier laughed humourlessly. “Eskel truly is the perceptive one. I wonder why he isn’t better at Gwent?” 

There was silence for a while, as Jaskier regarded the fire intently and Geralt in turn regarded Jaskier. He knew the Witcher still had more lines yet to say, and waited patiently. Sure enough, the creaking of leather armor soon signaled Geralt shifting uncomfortably as he prepared to pontificate.  

“Jaskier,” he started in a soft, serious tone. “If my actions – if anything I said to you on that mountain, those stupid, untrue,  vile  things – if any of it led you to where you felt you deserved to be hurt, or wanted to be... I am truly sorry. I will never regret anything more than I regret what I said to you there.”  

It was sincere, sweet and moving. It was clear that Geralt truly understood the depth of his mistake and its impact on Jaskier. His pain and regret over it were genuine. These were all things that Jaskier would have once given his left testicle to hear. But it was a little ridiculous.  

“Geralt, dear, I appreciate what you are saying, it’s a lovely apology and all but, well – not everything is about  you .” Seeing Geralt looking stunned over this seemingly cold reception to his heartfelt confession, Jaskier hurried to continue.  “Yes, you hurt me, and that probably did help me down the road a bit, but I also chose some very poor options all on my own. But that doesn’t make what happened with Valdo my fault, and it especially doesn’t make it your fault either. The only one to blame is Valdo, and he’s dead, so best to address any angry letters about it to the underworld.”  

Geralt was silent for a few minutes after this little speech, clearly taking his time to process it. Eventually he seemed to accept something internally and settled into his evening routine to prepare for sleep. When he was resting on his bedroll, watching Jaskier strum the (new) lute absently, he finally seemed to have something to say about it.  

“Jaskier,” he started.  

“Yes, my dear Witcher?” replied Jaskier, still strumming.  

“If I see Marx in the underworld, I’ll use his kneecaps to scoop out his eyes.”  

“Oh. That’s nice Geralt, thanks for that. Appreciated. Have I satisfied your curiosity about the lute yet? Any further questions?”  

Geralt seemed to take that literally and think on it for a moment. “Where did you get the new one?”  

“Lambert gave it to me. He said he salvaged it from an abandoned house on a hunt but I’m not sure I believe that, it was hardly damaged. He probably paid for it, the idiot.” Jaskier said the insult fondly, full of affection at the memory of his contrary friend.  
 
Geralt was quiet for such a long time that Jaskier actually looked over to check if the Witcher had fallen asleep. He hadn’t but he was staring at the night sky with great intensity. 

“I didn’t know...” he started to say, but stopped. “You’re very close, with my brother. Lambert.” 
 
“Yes, I suppose I am,” replied Jaskier carefully. He could tell there was something here Geralt wasn’t asking directly. “I owe him a great deal. Besides which, I like him. He’s an arse, but he’s funny.” 

Another long pause. “I’m glad. It’s good that you have each other. You deserve to be happy, to be with someone who won’t hurt you. Lambert would never do that, he’s a good man. Annoying little shit, but a good man.”  

It took a moment for Jaskier to understand what on earth Geralt was talking about. When he did finally realize the Witcher thought he was romantically involved with  Lambert , it took all his strength to hold in a laugh. Only Geralt would think a broken lute was a declaration of true love. He was about to clear up the confusion, then decided that actually this was hilarious and probably Lambert would enjoy the joke too. He wouldn’t lie, but he didn’t have to deny something that Geralt couldn’t even bring himself to ask outright.  

“Yes, he is a good man. I’m very fortunate that he saved me, gave me a home and something to do with myself. I owe him my life, my health, and quite a lot of money in Gwent debt. I thank  Melitele  every day that she sent him to me.” It was laying it on a little thick, perhaps, but it was all true. Besides, Jaskier loved needling Geralt and Lambert wouldn’t know about it until he next saw Jaskier, which could be months away.  After such a heavy conversation, his mood needed lightening anyway.  

It seemed to be working to annoy the tits off Geralt in any case. He rolled away from the fire moodily. Apparently satisfied with having given his blessing to Jaskier and Lambert’s faux relationship, the Witcher settled in to sleep.  

***  

The following day saw them make good time on the road, reaching Oxenfurt before late afternoon. To forestall any conversations about goodbyes or the ongoing nature of their association, Jaskier awkwardly offered Geralt a bed in his suite for the night. Geralt accepted, and while he was taking their horses to the university stables Jaskier went to see the Chancellor, where he had the unique displeasure of arguing both his status as alive and his right to said university suite.  
 
He was so irritated by the conversation that he barely paid attention to the wizened Chancellor’s mutterings about the Witcher already making himself right at home, but he didn’t think it was worth addressing. Arguing about Geralt using the stables would lead to arguing about Geralt actually staying there, which wasn’t something Jaskier wanted to bring up with the Chancellor at all.  

It seemed  someone  at the institution had believed the  rumours  of Jaskier’s imminent return, as when he inquired about getting the rooms opened the Chancellor waved him off, saying it had already been seen to. Thanking the good sense of house staff everywhere, Jaskier said his farewell to the Chancellor, relieving them both, and collected Geralt from the stables.  

His rooms were small but well furnished (or were before everyone thought he was dead and probably nicked his furniture) and Jaskier was quietly eager to show Geralt his  Oxenfurt  home. He’d spent a lot of time here over the years, both as a student and a teacher, this was a part of his life – a part of him. He couldn’t help but want Geralt to see it, to  like  it.   

Geralt was silent as they crossed the campus, if he thought anything of the architecture, he kept it to himself. Jaskier was nervous as he approached the door, fumbling as he turned the knob. “It’s probably a bit dusty, if no one’s been using them during my demise. We’ll also need to lay a fire- oh look, one’s been lit already--” he stopped, halfway through the door.   

“Lambert’s here,” observed Geralt from behind Jaskier, though he could not possibly see his brother from his position. He had probably been smelling Lambert since they set foot on university grounds but for Geralt reasons had not seen fit to tell Jaskier about it.  

“Yes, thank you for letting me know,” replied Jaskier snidely, stepping inside and depositing his bags with a huff. “Lambert!” he turned towards the other Witcher with a cry. “How in  Melitele’s  sweet name did you get here before me!”  

Chapter Text

Lambert himself stood from his chair by the fire, taking a few steps towards Jaskier. “There’s still a mage or two in Ban Ard who don’t hate me. With the way things looked at the cottage, and your letter from  Najmila ... I figured it was worth owing a sorcerer a  favour  to come check on you. I did think  you’d  be a little fuckin’ faster though, did you hit  every  tavern on the  Pontar  or did this big fuckwit slow you down?”  

Lambert gestured towards Geralt, who had entered the room and quietly put his own gear down. He said nothing to the  jibe , only staring at Lambert silently. Sensing the rising tension, Jaskier closed the distance to Lambert and settled a hand on his shoulder.   

“You didn’t need to do that for me!  I’m  fine! Not so much as a  singe . But I am glad you came,  it’s  good to see you, truly. I’m so terribly sorry about the fire, your cottage--”  

Lambert stopped him, shaking his head. “It wasn’t your fault, don’t apologize. I heard everything from Jolenta. Stupid fuckin’ peasants didn’t deserve you saving that kid!”  

“What fire?” interrupted Geralt abruptly. “Did Jaskier burn down your safe house?”  

Two sets of eyes turned to regard him with slightly different degrees of irritation. Jaskier diplomatically chose to answer before Lambert had the chance to roast Geralt alive, as he looked likely to do.  

“I didn’t burn it down personally, no. I wasn’t there at the time. It was done to drive me away, I think.”  

“Why?” asked Geralt, lip quirked in a  smirk . “Whose  pantry  did your sausage end up in this time?”  

Lambert shot Geralt a furious look and stepped forward, but Jaskier’s hand across his shoulder halted him.   

“No sausages, nor pantries this time, I’m afraid,” said Jaskier quietly. Stepping away from Lambert, he ran his left hand through a finger exercise nervously. It was strange, not being who Geralt expected him to be. He felt oddly out of character and had no idea how to explain what had happened.   

“It’s a long story, but essentially I had been singing some elf songs at the Imbolc festival and some of the youths decided to test their courage by chasing ghosts at Loc  Muinne . Only one survived. The locals blamed  me,  I suspect in part due to my elven heritage. Everyone loves to blame a non-human.” He tried to keep it light, but the bitterness in his tone betrayed him.  

“You’re an  elf?”  asked Geralt,  incredulous .  

Jaskier and Lambert both looked back at him with an equal measure of  incredulity . “Really? The great fuckin’ White Wolf never noticed his bard was part-elf? For  years ??”  

Geralt held up his hands. “A lot of humans have a drop of elf blood in them. It's near impossible to pick out in a scent.”  

Lambert scoffed. “And you didn’t think the whole never aging thing was a bit fuckin’ suspicious?”  

The white haired Witcher managed to look sheepish. “He does age. A little.”  

“It’s true, I do age. Sort of. I think.” Jaskier waved the subject away, not wishing to dwell on it. “In any case, it would appear I’m enough of an elf to piss off most humans. Enough that  they’d  risk the wrath of a Witcher by burning down his property, anyway.”  

Lambert shrugged it off. “They never much wanted me around to begin with. I  would  have shown them the wrath of a fuckin’ Witcher but I figured your highness wouldn’t approve.”  

Jaskier smiled at Lambert, pleased at the consideration. “I wouldn’t have, you were right. I  don’t  need any more blood on my conscious, thank you. Now, I don’t know about you two but I’m exhausted and more than ready to see a night’s sleep in a real bed.”   

He picked up his own bags and headed toward the bedroom. “There’s only one bed I’m afraid, you’ll have to sleep by the fire, Geralt.” Jaskier kept his head forward and resisted the urge to  revel  in Geralt’s reaction to that statement, going to his long unused bedroom and dumping his travel bags on the floor.  

Lambert followed him in shortly, looking confused. “Are you sure--” he started, but stopped when he saw Jaskier hold a finger to his lips in the universal gesture for silence. The Witcher watched in  bemusement  as Jaskier used some of the more than ample supply of pillows to construct a wall down the middle of his bed. Finished, he gave Lambert a  smirk  and nodded his head in the direction of Geralt in the living room.  

Understanding seemed to dawn on Lambert then, who smirked in return and started readying himself for bed, shedding his armor. When they were both settled in bed with the pillow wall between them, Lambert turn his head so his voice could be heard closer to Jaskier’s ear. “You really like winding him up, don’t you?” he  muttered ,  presumably below  what he estimated his brother could overhear.  

“No,” replied Jaskier equally softly, “I  love  it.”  

***  

Jaskier had expected to get  very little  sleep, sharing a bed with another person for the first time in two years was sure to set off his nightmares.  However  to his surprise, something about Lambert simply registered as  safe  to his crazy little bard brain,  failing to put  Jaskier’s body into high alert at all. He slept soundly,  perhaps  moreso  than usual, and woke to an empty bed.  

Somewhat predictably , the  Witchers  were already awake and training. The small courtyard adjoining Jaskier’s campus rooms was not at all designed for combat practice, but it was big enough and had a flat surface so it seemed to suffice. Having washed and dressed, Jaskier peered out into the courtyard to survey the battlefield.   

Both men had dispensed with armor and even shirts, but were fighting with their steel swords. As usual, watching a Witcher fight was entrancing to Jaskier,  two   Witchers  made it doubly mesmerizing. Though their movements were graceful and elegant as dancers, the force betrayed by the meeting of their swords was shocking in its strength. It was hard to follow at times, their speed exceeding what the human eye could easily  comprehend , but the occasional breaking apart let Jaskier take stock of who had  actually landed  any strikes.  

They both had small abrasions and cuts, but it looked like Lambert was coming out slightly worse in terms of damage taken. There was swelling coming up around his cheek and eye,  indicating  that Geralt had  probably gotten  a bit of dirty boxing in at some point. Lambert  didn’t  seem upset or frustrated however, a  glint  in his eye and a  smirk  on his lips showing he was  rather enjoying  himself.   

Geralt, on the other hand, looked extremely frustrated. His savage flurries and repeated attempts to go for fight ending moves seemed to speak of anger to Jaskier. He wondered if Geralt was always this irritated when he trained with Lambert (understandable) or if his little charade last night had truly rankled the Witcher this badly.  

He watched the brothers trade advances and parries for a while longer, appreciating the view. Eventually though, his stomach reminded him of other priorities.  

“Sorry to interrupt, gentlemen, but I have pressing business at the mess hall. You’re welcome to make your own way there when you’re... less sweaty, just tell them you’re a guest of Professor Pankratz and they’ll make sure you’re taken care of.”  

The two  Witchers  had broken apart to listen to Jaskier, only lightly panting despite the hour of intense exercise. “I’ve business in town to take care of, and I’m sure that one does too,” Lambert indicated Geralt with his sword, “but shall we meet again this evening? I’ve a mind to break bread with you properly before I hit the road again.”  

“But of course!” exclaimed Jaskier. “I have to spend all day negotiating my status as  undeceased  with the administration, so I’ll be in dire need of  sustenance  after that. Do you know the Three Little Bells? We can meet there. You too, Geralt, of course.”  

Geralt looked disgruntled, whether it was over being an afterthought or a dislike of the establishment was difficult to  determine . He simply nodded and moved into a cooling down kata,  apparently done  with the conversation.  

Lambert rolled his eyes and saluted Jaskier with his sword, before starting his own routine. Satisfied with the arrangement, Jaskier set off to do battle with  bureaucrats .  

***  

The day was long and hot, Jaskier having forgotten that he  wasn’t  usually in  Oxenfurt  in the summer season and  failing to dress  appropriately for the  stuffy  rooms of the University. Much of the faculty and staff had left for a semester break as midsummer approached, which only  exacerbated  the difficulties Jaskier was having with legitimizing his resurrection. Aside from reclaiming his property, he also had to  finagle  some classes to teach for upcoming semester, having decided to stay in  Oxenfurt  for a while and re-establish himself.  

He had a headache brewing by the time the sun was setting, but Jaskier  didn’t  want to miss seeing Lambert before the Witcher headed off on his Path again. He dutifully headed to the Three Little Bells, noting with some pleasure as he entered the inn that the smell of beer no longer made him uneasy. He spotted his  Witchers   immediately , naturally against the back wall in dark corner.   

He joined Geralt and Lambert, helping himself to the bread they were already eating and summoning the  barmaid  to order more food. They exchanged small talk about their errands and the absolute state of  Oxenfurt  this time of year, the smell of the sewers in summer making parts of the city  nigh  unpassable for the sensitive Witchers. As they were finishing their meal, Lambert fixed his gaze on Jaskier and a serious cast came over his face.  

“Julian,” he started, prompting a quirked eyebrow from Geralt, “Geralt has been telling me about this  Rience  son of a bitch who came after you. Sounds like an absolute fuckin’ cunt.”  

Jaskier blinked. “Well yes, I agree with the sentiment. But  I rather think you  do cunts a  disservice , my dear Witcher. They are things of great glory, which that shit stain of a wizard could never aspire to, don’t you think?”  

Lambert rolled his eyes. “ Well,  whatever you want to call him, he’s dangerous and could still be after you.  I’m  thinking I could stand to pick up a few local contracts, stay in the area for a while. Keep an eye out.”  

“Oh, thank you for the offer, but I’m well protected here. I have friends in powerful places, ones that like to keep eyes on me too. I rather expect a visit from them any day now.” Jaskier  didn’t  want to mention his dealings with the  Redanian  spymaster too overtly, but hoped the  Witchers  understood enough.  

“I’ve a plan to draw  Rience  out,” came Geralt’s rough voice. “A ferry company is looking to hire a Witcher to guard their interests on the  Pontar ,  Novigrad  to Flotsam. If  he’s  hunting me,  Rience  should leave you alone, Jask. You’ll be safe.” He sounded  rather like  he was trying to convince himself more than Jaskier, but the bard  elected  to let it lie.  

The topic moved on towards where Lambert planned to go this season, and what  rumours  of contracts each Witcher had been following. This devolved into shop talk that was so full of arcane Witcher jargon that even Jaskier’s academic interest soon waned. His mind drifted, and he excused himself to go inquire about the  likelihood  of some herbal tea. Inns and taverns in rural areas were less likely to carry this sort of thing, but here in the heart of Northern civilization there was sure to be some sort of leaves ready to be dipped in hot water.  

He had nearly reached the bar when a shoulder attacked him. It  couldn’t  be called being bumped into, though that was  probably the  intention, as the force an angle of the shove  were  so direct. Jaskier was spun around by his own momentum and  consequently  faced his attacker, who had also turned around. His stomach dropped through the floor as he recognized the leering face looking him over.  

“I’ll be damned, it  is  you!” declared the man. “Dandelion! Alive and kicking!”  

Jaskier  couldn’t  move,  couldn’t  breathe. The man was  fairly  non- descript , of  middling  stature and brown of hair and eye. But Jaskier would never forget his face, his grasping fingers, his filthy chuckle. Chleb. Valdo’s friend from  Cidaris , who had so enjoyed his night with Jaskier.  

Chleb  strode forward and grasped Jaskier by the shoulders, ignoring the way the bard shrank back from him. “I thought you must’ve died with Valdo,  Melitele  rest his soul. Come, we must drink to his memory together!”  

Chleb  tried to steer Jaskier towards the bar, but the bard somehow summoned his strength and broke away from the other man’s grip, throwing off his hands angrily. “No thank you,  Chleb .  I’d  rather piss on his memory. Alone.”  

The man had the  temerity  to look surprised. “ What’s  this, Dandelion? Did you two have some  sort of falling  out before the bandits got him? What happened? Valdo finally go too far, actually charge someone admission to your pretty little hole?”  

Rage enveloped Jaskier like cold fire. He shoved  Chleb  away from himself  roughly, barely   containing  his fury. “Fuck off!” he  snarled , anger robbing him of his usual vocabulary. He wanted to retreat to the table and his Witchers, but the press of bodies flowed the wrong way and kept him within reach of Chleb.   

This only inspired  Chleb  to laugh and raise his voice. “Oh ho, I hit the money with that guess didn’t I! He always talked of whoring you out but I never thought the bastard had the balls to do it. He must’ve had you high as a kite to keep those kitten claws from scratching his fucking eyes out!”  

Jaskier snapped, throwing a punch at  Chleb’s  nose before he was entirely conscious of what he was doing. The blow landed, but  Chleb  had already brought his hands up to grab Jaskier’s arms. He was bigger than the bard, and stronger, having no trouble at all restraining Jaskier’s flailing arms and flipping him around into a bear hug. His head hung over Jaskier’s shoulder and blood dripped from his nose onto Jaskier’s shirt,  rather ruining  the  embroidery .   

“Easy there, kitten. Looks like you need a firm hand to keep you in line. Aren’t  you  lucky uncle  Chleb  is here to take care of you? Didn't you like what we did last time? It certainly looked like you did, coming buckets like that. Don’t you want to have fun with me again?” While speaking,  Chleb   maneuvered  both of Jaskier’s arms to be trapped by only one of his own, leaving a hand free to snake its way into Jaskier’s trousers.   

“Get your fucking hands off me!” Frantic at the touch, Jaskier writhed and struggled away from the hand  roughly groping  him. He tried to throw his head back and catch  Chleb  with a headbutt, but the other man was too wily for that. Jaskier felt a scream rising in his chest, tears pricking at his eyes.   

Suddenly, he was free. The arm that had been restraining him disappeared, the hand in his pants abruptly vanished. Jaskier stumbled forward, confused. It took him a moment to realize that  Chleb  was now on the floor, and the incredibly scary man in the dark armor standing over the body was Geralt.   

He stared at the scene, baffled and unable to process what he was seeing. A touch on his arm made him startle and jump. Lambert was talking to him. Jaskier tried to concentrate on what the Witcher was saying, but once again it seemed his ears and his brain were not co-operating. He  couldn’t  focus, eyes drawn back to  Chleb  and Geralt.  

Geralt was kneeling over  Chleb  now, bringing his metal studded gauntlet down with fury into the man's face, over and over. Jaskier could only watch, transfixed. Blood was spattering upwards,  seemingly relishing  its freedom from skin. It spattered wetly on Geralt’s face and hands.  

Jaskier only realized that Lambert had been cursing about stopping Geralt after the younger Witcher had already left to intervene. This time lag he seemed caught in was terribly annoying. Lambert grabbed his brother and pulled him off the man beneath him, dragging him away towards the door.  Chleb  was a mess, a mosaic of blood and bone unrecognizable as a face. His skull  didn’t  seem to be deformed in any way and he was moaning weakly, so he would  probably live .  

Lambert called Jaskier’s name, breaking the silence of the aghast crowd.  Fortunately,  he  didn’t  need to communicate further for the bard to understand the need to leave the scene urgently. They burst out into the evening air and seemed to instinctively head towards Jaskier’s rooms without discussion. Geralt was breathing heavily, more likely from trying to master his rage than  exertion . Even in his anger the Witcher had held back and not truly tried to kill  Chleb , as  evidenced  by the fact that the man was still alive.  

Jaskier drifted, his mind  neither here nor there . It  wasn’t  a long walk back, but it took  all of  that time for the bard to practice his grounding skills and bring himself back to his body. He felt  nearly normal  as they spilled into his sitting room, each of them sitting heavily in the  overstuffed  furniture. They sat quietly for a while in the darkened  room, before  Lambert  apparently tired  of the gloom and shot a quiet  igni  at the  hearth .  

“Thank you,” said Jaskier over the crackly of the flames, “for stopping. For not killing him.”  

Geralt grunted. “Still might.”  

“What, I don’t get a thank you for stopping Geralt from getting arrested for murder?” Lambert grumbled.  

Jaskier smiled at him, tired but genuinely. “Yes, thank you too. Please  don’t  kill him though, really. After tonight, it would be too easily traced to you.”  

“We could make it look like an accident. Lambert’s good with explosives.” Geralt looked  truculent .   

Lambert stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Lots of things explode at docks. City like this, things could go up at any time.”  

“ No.  No murder. No accidents, explosions,  poisonings  or other methods of  unaliving  anyone. He’s nothing, no one.” Jaskier’s tone brooked no argument, though the  Witchers  looked very much like they would like to continue doing so.  

Irritated, Jaskier stood up and stretched. “I may not look like I’m aging but by the gods do I feel it.  I’m  going to bed, you two do what you want. Except murdering.”  

He pretended not to hear the soft voices as he closed his bedroom door.  

“He didn’t say no  maiming .”  

“It’s an obvious loophole. He definitely wants us to maim that goat fucker.”  

“Remind me, which organs can humans live without?”  

Chapter Text

Jaskier woke late, having taken the sleeping draught the night before. He knew that after the encounter with  Chleb  nightmares were practically guaranteed, so wisely chose the dreamless oblivion of the potion. He had a moment of panic before he remembered the farm was gone and there were no chickens to riot about not being let out at dawn. It ached to recall his lost animals, but in a familiar way now.  

He was alone in the bed and looked like he had been all night as Lambert’s side of the pillow wall looked untouched. He washed and shaved, wondering if he was too late to catch breakfast at the hall or if he should simply go out for food, he had a mind to take care of some errands in the city that day anyway. There was no sign of Geralt  or  Lambert in Jaskier’s rooms, even the coals in the fire were long cold.   

Jaskier might be a fool, he would be the first to admit it, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew what they were probably out doing – maiming Chleb – he just wasn’t sure if he was ready to confront that reality. He was pondering whether to leave a note or simply let the Witchers follow their noses when the very subject of his contemplation walked in.  

The two Witchers strode casually, as though they hadn’t been out terrorizing a civilian all night. Their armor, clothing and skin were free of blood too, though the nails were suspiciously dirty – was that blood under them? Hard to tell with the general state of their nails anyway. Jaskier narrowed his eyes at them.  

“And just where have you two been?” he asked sharply.  

“Relax,” said Lambert amicably, “we come bearing gifts. Catch!” He tossed a bread roll at Jaskier, still warm to the touch. It came from a stack of other breads and pastries, cradled carefully in Lambert’s arm, presumably bought to complement the smoked fish and cheese Geralt was carrying.  

“My good  favour  cannot be bought so cheaply,” lied Jaskier, “you’ll have to do better than just breakfast. Tell me you haven’t been out all night torturing that man.”  

Geralt set the vittles down on the table and looked at Jaskier with a perfectly straight face. “We have not been out all night torturing that man.”  

Jaskier made an enraged noise, muffling himself by biting into the bread roll viciously. It was annoyingly delicious. He chewed furiously, glaring at each Witcher in turn as they sat at the table and set about breakfast for themselves.   

Sighing in frustration, Jaskier sat himself down at the table and shredded the rest of the bread roll anxiously. “You ignored my wishes, meddled in my affairs. If there was any vengeance to be had, it ought to have been at  my  discretion! You don’t get to just, just  take  that from me!”  

Geralt looked faintly guilty. Lambert paused in his chewing. “Are you truly angry with us, Julian? Do you really care if we pulled that bastard’s lungs out of his back? After what he was saying about you?”  

“His  lung?!”  cried Jaskier, aghast.  

“I said liver. People don’t need their whole liver, you know.” Lambert’s tone was sincere, but his face wasn’t entirely convincing.  

“That’s -- that’s still horrible. I think. Fuck, I don’t know.” Jaskier rested his elbows on the table and cradled his head in his hands, pressing his fingertips into his skull. “After all this time, I still don’t have a taste for violence. I know what he did – what  they  did was unforgiveable, but I don’t want them to have the power to make me a worse person. Or at least, a more violent person.”  

Am uncomfortable silence reigned at the table, except for Geralt’s discreet chewing – he was never one to pass up food due to inconvenient social cues. Eventually, Jaskier sighed again, taking mercy on the stoic Witchers.  

“I guess half of me wants to thank you. I don’t know if I could make that decision, and you took it out of my hands. Now I’ll never have to know if I’m that kind of man after all. And it does feel good, I admit, to know Chleb is suffering.”  

“Suffering  a lot ,” interjected Lambert, waving a long bread stick for emphasis.  

Jaskier snagged the bread stick and broke it in half, appropriating some smoked fish to accompany it. “Well thank you  a lot , I suppose. For the post-torture breakfast too, this is good. Did you stop by the market?”  

“What he said. Was it true?” interrupted Geralt abruptly, true to form. Seeing the identical looks of puzzlement from Lambert and Jaskier, he hurriedly tried to clarify. “ You  said what  they did  was unforgivable.  I heard what he was saying at the Three Little Bells. Did those things... really happen?”  

The moment spun out, thin and taut as a bowstring. Jaskier felt the tendrils of panic flicker at his mind and firmly pushed them away. Lambert looked as though he was ready to punch his brother squarely in the teeth. Geralt, for his part, looked like he immediately regretted every asking any question ever.  

“There you go, ruing our nice post-torture breakfast. What the fuck kind of question is that, Geralt--” Lambert started, but Jaskier held up a silencing hand.  

“It’s fine, Lambert, it really is. A year  ago  I couldn’t have handled that question at all, it’s true, but I think I’m ready now.” Jaskier looked down at his meal contemplatively, not really seeing it. “Things with Valdo... got out of hand rather quickly towards the end. I was drunk, and high a lot of the time, and I think now that he kept me that way on purpose. It made it hard to tell if it was all in my head or...” he broke off, rubbing at his head as though it could help the memories crystallize into words.  

“ Jask ,” said Geralt in a soft voice, the kind he used to speak with young children and horses he liked. “You don’t have to tell me anything. I don’t need to know. It was selfish of me to ask.”  

“No,” said Jaskier slowly. “No, I think I want to. I need to. After everything, you’re still one of the people who knows me best in the world, Geralt. Who knows me  truly.  I want you to know.”  

Geralt raised his hands, signaling his acquiescence, and instead produced a demijohn of what proved to be apple juice. He poured three mugs and offered one to Jaskier, who sipped it and, determining it to be non-alcoholic, accepted the mug with a smile. Lambert scowled incredulously at his own mug of juice, as though he could ferment it via force of indignation.   

“Where was I... right, of course. Valdo. Yes, he really did those things. The night I met Chleb and  Rasz , Valdo’s friends... I don’t remember all of  it,  I don’t think but – it was bad. They filled me up with  fisstech  ‘til I didn’t know up from down. I couldn’t stop them. At the time I thought it was maybe a misunderstanding, somehow, but I know better now. He most likely planned it all out. He was like that, Valdo, always a schemer.”  

The remains of the bread rolls were abruptly demolished by Lambert’s fist. “Slimy little rat. I should’ve killed the fucker slower.”  

Jaskier smiled mirthlessly. “Yes, well. I can’t say he didn’t deserve it. I would have liked to get my hands on him myself, to be honest. Wrap them around  his  neck for once, see how much he liked it.”  

There was a strange sound then, a sort of tiny wooden creak. Geralt’s wooden mug was under a lot of structural pressure. “He choked you?” he asked in a quiet, dangerous voice.  

Jaskier waved it off with false bravado. He didn’t really want to talk about these parts, but he also felt compelled to spill them out as starkly as possible. Almost like he was challenging Geralt to flinch, to be disgusted. To blame or doubt him. “Oh, a few times. Got a few sucker punches in too, when the wheels started to come off the whole affair. It wasn’t that bad though, really. Not until that last time, in  Temeria .”   

He didn’t really want to talk about these parts, but he also felt compelled to spill them out as starkly as possible. Almost like he was challenging Geralt to flinch, to be disgusted. To blame or doubt him. Jaskier  barrelled  on, not daring to look at either of the Witchers.  

 “Chleb wasn’t lying about the whoring me out thing, though. That happened in  Temeria  too. That’s  actually how  I met Lambert – Valdo told him I was a whore with a penchant for Witchers. His idea of a joke, you see.”  

Finally looking up, Jaskier could judge the effect his words had on Geralt. He had never seen such an expression on the Witcher’s face, it was alien and unfamiliar, hard to read for a moment. It was total devastation. Jaskier had seen Geralt’s eyes water  before  so he knew Witchers had tear ducts, but he had never seen them used for crying – he wasn’t sure if Geralt ever had.  But the look on Geralt’s face could only ever be accompanied by tears in a human.   

“Jaskier... I have no words. I am  so sorry  I wasn’t there to protect you. I’m sorry I drove you away in my foolish anger, this is my fault--”  

“No. Nuh uh,” cut in Lambert, “you overgrown mangy mutt. This is not yours. You do not get to make it about you. Despite what the bard’s songs might have implied, not everything is about  you .”  

“Lambert,” admonished Jaskier gently. “He’s trying. He meant well.”  

“No, Lambert is right,  Jask . I still think about how everything affects me first; it’s how I've survived so long as a Witcher. We learn to be alone because we must. But I have other people to think about now, who need me to put them first.” Geralt’s eyes shone with earnest emotion. “I should have just said how sorry I am that happened to you. The rest is... not important.”  

It was still bizarre to hear Geralt speak this way, to be so open and honest about his  emotions  of all things. The Geralt that Jaskier used to know had only ever been forthright about his anger, the singular emotion he seemed to experience in great amounts. This was strange, and fragile in its newness. Jaskier sensed that for once in his life this was the time to take things sincerely and respond without any deflecting  humour .  

He struggled to find the right words, then settled for simplicity. “Geralt, thank you. I appreciate that, truly.”  

Lambert huffed, but Jaskier ignored it. Lambert could sort his sibling rivalry out some other time. Deciding he was done with breakfast and the conversation, Jaskier stood up and started clearing up his mess.   

“That’s enough dwelling on the past, I’ve reached my quota for being maudlin today already and I haven’t even walked past the poetry department. Are you two staying in town another night?”  

“Not I,” replied Lambert, helping to clear the table. “I’ve already stocked up on supplies at the market, fuckin’ ripped me off well and good too. I was planning to hit the road after breakfast.”  

Jaskier paused, unable to hide disappointment at the news his friend was leaving already. “Will you write? I don’t really know where I’ll go this year, I've a feeling the administration may not want me to stay on after summer classes. If I travel, it would be pleasant to catch up with you on the road some time.”  

Lambert nodded agreeably. “Of course, Julian. You’ve yet to write  my  epic fuckin’ ballad, so it’d be a fine time to start. I’ll be sure to have a few good kills under my belt by the time I see you next, I’ll tell you all about it.”  

They cleaned up quickly and walked Lambert and his gear to the stables to load his horse. Jaskier and Lambert bantered, made plans and jokes and eventually said their goodbyes. In contrast, Geralt was quiet and only exchanged a cursory farewell with his brother. It was apparently not out of character for him and didn’t seem to bother Lambert, who rode off with a jaunty finger gesture, but it concerned Jaskier a little.  

“Geralt?” he asked, as they walked back to his rooms. “You’re quiet.  Moreso  than your usual level of manful stoicism.”  

The Witcher huffed in irritation. “It’s not manful stoicism. I just know when it’s better to keep my fool tongue in my head.”  

Jaskier raised a brow. “And this is one of those times?”  

Geralt did not reply, staying silent as they reached Jaskier’s door and went inside again. Jaskier allowed the silence to stretch, deciding not to attempt to drag it out of Geralt as he once might have. Instead, he was trying a tactic that  Najmila  had used many times on him; let the silence do the work for you. Jaskier focused on the errands he meant to accomplish today, picking up items necessary to his day out and gathering them in a  fashionable  satchel.   

The Witcher stood motionless in the middle of the room, eyes tracking Jaskier but otherwise as still as the elven stone foundations they stood on.   

“Geralt?” asked Jaskier finally, standing at the door. “I’ve some things to take care of today, but I should be back by dusk. Will you be here?”  

The white haired head inclined slightly, the smallest of nods.   

Shrugging, Jaskier called a light farewell over his shoulder as he left. Whatever was stuck in Geralt’s craw might come loose if he left him alone long enough. Experience told him that with Geralt this might be  a very long time  indeed, but ever an optimist, Jaskier hoped that perhaps this new version of the Witcher might be more loquacious.  

***  

The small university press offices were cramped and stuffy in the midday heat, but it was well worth the discomfort – after speaking with a clerk Jaskier was assured that press had decided to hold his royalties in a local bank after receiving word that his  Novigrad  account had been closed.  So  while Valdo had succeeded in wiping out much of Jaskier’s savings, he still had roughly two years of royalties waiting to be collected. It wasn’t a princely sum by any means, but enough to ensure Jaskier could travel in relative comfort if his university job dried up tomorrow.  

Bolstered by this news, Jaskier went about his other errands with a sense of satisfaction. Some of his belongings had indeed been held safely by the university, but it was mostly related to his work. Much of the small furnishings from his room had been appropriated by other staff or sold off, so Jaskier was now busy replacing what he had lost.  

Between finding out he wasn’t truly destitute and picking out new cushions, rugs and furniture, Jaskier had the feeling he was metaphorically piecing his life back together. He had been afraid he wouldn’t be able to function in  Oxenfurt , paralyzed by anxiety, but that was turning out to be an unnecessary fear. He wasn’t yet fully immersed in the life of the University or city yet, but he could almost feel the path to that life under his feet again.   

He was in such a bright mood after his shopping expedition that he decided to have the goods portered back to his rooms while he had a late lunch. He went to a winehouse, not for the drink but because the food there tended to be cut above the standard tavern fare and the clientele far quieter.  

Halfway  through his (indeed delicious) meal, the chair opposite him was pulled out and a body  thunked  into it unceremoniously.  

“And here I thought I’d be the first person you called on in  Oxenfurt ! But it seems a – is that venison? - a  venison  pie holds the highest regard of your heart.” Pricsilla feigned devastation, pouting obnoxiously.  

“It’s a very good pie,” answered Jaskier with a straight face, taking another bite.  

Priscilla leaned over to poke him in the shoulder. “ I’m  a very good pie. Person. Whatever, where have you been?! From your letters I’d been expecting you here weeks ago!”  

“Complications arose,” replied Jaskier with what he hoped was a mysterious air.  

“Witcher shaped complications?” asked Priscilla archly. Jaskier had always found her a tad too perceptive for her own good.  

He frowned. “Something like that. Nothing to worry about now, I’m back here for a few months at least,  as long as  the administration lets me stay on. We’ll have plenty of time to catch up, if you’re staying in  Redania  long.”  

“What do you mean, if the administration lets you stay on?” Priscilla’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “I thought you were their golden son! Their  favourite  famed alumni!”  

Jaskier’s mouth twisted. He tilted a palm, indicating he wasn’t so sure. “Things are different now, 'Scilla. I’m a half elf back from the dead, and who knows what harm Valdo’s rumours have done to my reputation. I don’t know that good will towards me in Redania will hold that much longer, the way things are going.”  

The blonde woman looked near to combustion with impotent fury. “That  rat fucking bastard!”  she cried, loud enough to draw attention from nearby tables. “That day I was told you didn’t want to see me, I should have tried harder. I should have known that scum sucking whoreson was –” she stopped, realizing from the look on Jaskier’s face that her rage was not helping. She sighed. “Sweet mother  Melitele , Jaskier. I’m so sorry I didn’t see what was going on. I’m sorry I didn’t help you.”  

Reaching out, Jaskier covered her hand in his gently. “My dear friend, you have nothing to be sorry for. You tried. I wasn’t ready to be helped. You know I've always had to do things the hard way.”   

His wry smile seemed to loosen something in Priscilla then, and she swiped a tear that had escaped from her eyes. “I still feel terrible. And I wish those bandits hadn’t gotten him, at least not before I had a chance to rip his balls off and stuff them down his throat.”  

Coughing on his last bite of pie, Jaskier tried to dismiss that rather vivid mental image. “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that, ‘Scilla. It wasn’t bandits, and I have it on good authority that Valdo suffered at least a little before he escaped this mortal coil.”  

Priscilla’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, gears clearly turning in her head. “It wasn’t your Witcher, was it! Good gods, and here I thought you weren’t even on good terms with him anymore. He must really have cared for you a great deal after all, to slay your foes when you hated him so!”  

Wincing, Jaskier waved his hand frantically to stop Priscilla’s theorizing. “No, no it wasn’t Geralt at all, and I never hated him. We’re fine now, I think. It was Lambert, a different Witcher, and I don’t think it was because he cared for me personally at the time. He’s just sort of a violent person who doesn’t like, well, people like Valdo.”  

Eyes goggling, Priscilla gaped at Jaskier. “You have  two  Witchers now? Are you – are you  collecting  them? Is it a sex thing? Are you starting a Witcher harem? This is perverse, even for you Jaskier.”  

He felt a headache coming on. “I don’t  have  two Witchers. I simply know them, a little. It’s not a sex thing.”  

Priscilla tilted her head, a knowing smile playing on her lips. “Are you sure? This thing you’ve had for Geralt has been going on an awful long time now, Jaskier.”  

“It’s not like that,” he sighed. “Whatever...  feelings  I might have had towards Geralt were never returned, and even if they were...” he stared down at his hands, unable to meet his friend’s gaze. “After everything with Valdo, I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to bear the touch of another man again.”  

Priscilla was quiet for a long moment, then gently squeezed the hand that Jaskier had left holding hers on the table. “I understand, Jask. I’m sorry to have made light of it. I’ve known a few people who are like that, for various reasons. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. And I still love you well enough to marry you even if I never share a bed a single night with you.”  

Jaskier flushed, unusually touched by the reminder of the common half-joke they shared; that they would one day settle down and be the most famous composing duo in history. Neither of their  flighty , wandering natures made it a particularly likely future, but it was nice to think about now and then.  

“Well, I can’t say that isn’t nice to hear my dear ‘Scilla, though I still doubt either of us are much of the marrying type. I know Geralt isn’t likely to get down on one knee any time soon, at any rate.”  

A cheeky grin lit the blonde singer’s face. “You don’t know  that,  Jaskier. Have you asked?”  

Jaskier rolled his eyes and threw a crust of bread at her, breaking any somberness left over from their conversation. “That’s enough out of you. I’ve better things to do than be mocked for my fickle heart. I must be off, but you should come by my rooms tomorrow and we’ll make a day of it, yes?”  

“Better things?” she asked slyly. “Or better Witchers?”  

Lacking any more bread to throw, Jaskier flipped her off and  stalked  out of the winehouse.  

***  

The sun was only just beginning set when Jaskier made it home, but the location of his rooms in the labyrinth of the tall stone university buildings meant it was already dark indoors. No fire had been lit, and the various lamps and candles remained dark. At first Jaskier thought Geralt must have gone out and not yet returned, but as his eyes adjusted to the  gloom  he realized the Witcher was in fact sitting in an armchair near the fireplace, perfectly still.  

“Really?” asked Jaskier with exasperation. “Sitting in the dark alone? What next, are you going to compose sonnets about the disquiet in your soul?”  

He had an oil lamp going already, with which he managed to locate the necessaries and start the fire. Geralt sat in silence, watching the ritual intently. Once the flames were burning merrily, Jaskier sat back on his heels and turned to look up at Geralt, ready to reprimand the Witcher for spending all day inside like a very sad rock.  

Instead, Geralt beat him to the punch by speaking.  

“I’m sorry, I didn’t notice it was getting dark. I was thinking.”  

Jaskier’s eyebrows could not have been any higher. “Thinking? Dare I asked what weighty matters occupied your mind so thoroughly? Did you even eat anything?”  

“I didn’t need to eat. I was thinking about... it’s hard to put into words.” He sighed, clearly frustrated.  

“I’m a master of the common tongue and at least familiar with a dozen others. I think I can parse out what your meaning is, however strained the words might be. It alright Geralt, just try.”  

Geralt ran a hand through his hair, loose for once, and blew out hair harshly through his teeth. “I don’t know how to explain myself Jaskier, but I’ll do my best. I’m different know, I know that. Ciri has changed everything for me; I can no longer pretend I don’t care about anyone, that I don’t  need  anyone to need me. I’m feeling things I’ve never felt before, emotions I don’t know how to deal with.”  

“Like what, Geralt?” asked Jaskier gently.  

Geralt rubbed his head with one hand and blew another huff of air out with frustration. “like -  helplessness . I’m a Witcher, we are never helpless. Helpless Witchers are dead Witchers. It seems like there are a sea of foes with schemes involving Ciri for some reason... foes and forces I don’t know how to fight. I’ve been in over my head since that day I so foolishly claimed the law of surprise.”  

The bard was silent in response, but Geralt read his thoughts all too easily.  

“No, Jaskier, I didn’t mean it like that. I might be in over my head, but I wouldn’t take it back for the world. Having Ciri in my life is  good . I should never have thought her a burden, or myself a curse to her, and I should certainly never have blamed you for bringing us together. If anything, I want to thank you.”  

Blinking, Jaskier sat in a stunned silence for a moment. Only a moment, though, of course. “Geralt, did that hurt? All those words together at once?”  

Scowling, Geralt made to stand up but stopped when Jaskier tugged at his arm. “Sorry, sorry,” he continued apologetically, “it was a lot to take in. I’ve never heard you talk like that before. But, I guess, you’re welcome. For Ciri, that is. I always knew you’d be an excellent father.”  

Geralt sounded like someone was stuck in his throat, coughing a little at the word  father . “I don’t know about that,” he grumbled in a low voice, “but I’ll fucking try.”  

“I’ve never known you to fail at anything you set your mind to, Geralt. I have a great deal of faith that this endeavor will not prove to be the exception. Was that all that was weighing on your mind? For I think we can settle that matter for now; helplessness is part of the universal experience. You’ll get used to it, and maybe it will help you understand Ciri a little better too.”  

“Thank you, but no, that wasn’t all that was on my mind.” Geralt knit his brow deeply and stared at his large, rough hands. “I was thinking about how easy it is, between you and Lambert. You aren’t afraid to make plans to see each other, to get too attached. You aren’t afraid to show each other that you mean something to one another. I envy that. I... regret that I held myself apart from you, for so long. I fear I have robbed myself of you, because of my own foolish fears.”  

Jaskier held very still, trying very hard to determine if he was reading too much into Geralt’s words. “I hope you realize – Lambert and I, we’re not... lovers. Just friends. Not  that friends  can’t be attached to one another.”  

Geralt eyed him suspiciously. “But... he bought you a lute. And you sleep together.”  

Jaskier felt the faint tingle of embarrassment creep up his spine as he remembered how funny he had thought it would be to prickle Geralt about Lambert. It seemed a lot less funny now. “Friends give each other gifts. That’s a perfectly normal thing to do. In fact, you probably owe me a lot of gifts.”  

The expression on Geralt’s face was anything but convinced. “You share a bed with a lot of your friends?”  

Jaskier bristled. “I’ve shared a bed with  you  plenty of times on the road! Besides, I’m sure you’d be able to smell it if we’d actually been up to anything.”  

The Witcher had to acknowledge this as a fair  point, and  nodded his head slowly. After a  moments  thought, he appeared to reach a conclusion. “ So  I haven’t robbed myself of you yet?” he asked, voice soft and tentative.  

Jaskier kept a firm reign on his thoughts that threatened to spill out of control and out of his mouth. He kept his voice controlled and even, though tense. “I’m going to need you to be very precise about what you mean here, Geralt. I think I’ve had enough ambiguity for one lifetime.”  

The Witcher’s unusual eyes met Jaskier’s, holding them steadily with an open gaze. “I care for you Jaskier, more than I ever dared to admit to myself until I lost you. When I thought you were dead... I hated myself for squandering my days with you. My feelings for you run deeper than mere friendship. I would like to do more than simply sleep beside you, if you were to share a bed with me ever again.”  

Stunned, Jaskier could only sit on the floor and desperately attempt to check if he was dreaming. His mind reeled, going off in several panicked directions at once. He wished he’d sat in a chair earlier, he was sure he looked very undignified, practically kneeling at the Witcher’s feet and gaping like a newborn calf.   

“Jaskier? Are you well? I’m sorry I upset you--”  

Coming back to the moment with a start, Jaskier waved off the hand Geralt was extended to him and gathered his own feet under him. Standing up, he moved a few steps only to collapse into the chair opposite Geralt.  

“It’s fine Geralt, you didn’t upset me. I’m just a little shocked. I’m sure it’s no surprise to you, my feelings towards you have probably been obvious since the day we met.”  

Geralt looked a little ashamed, ducking his head. “I... knew,” he said in a strained voice. “But I had feared... I still fear that my actions on the dragon hunt have hardened your heart towards me. And you would be well justified in it, I deserve nothing but your scorn.”  

Annoyed, Jaskier rolled his eyes. “No, none of that self-deprecating bullshit. We’re done with all of that. You’ve apologized for  that  and I’ve forgiven you.”  

“You have?” asked Geralt, a tentative hope in his voice.  

“Well yes, of course. Did I not say that?  Well  I meant to say it.  You’re clearly  a changed man, Geralt, and I can say I honestly don’t  harbour  any resentment towards you about the whole affair anymore.”  

“So... you do  harbour   favourable  feelings towards me?” The Witcher’s face held a rare expression for him, uncertainty.   

Jaskier sighed. “It’s complicated, Geralt. I would love nothing more than to fall into bed with you right now and not come out for a month. But there’s other problems.”  

Looking a little poleaxed by the glib comment about marathon sex, Geralt took a moment to catch up. “Problems?”  

“Well, for one thing I would  really  like to keep my genitals attached to my body, and I’m not completely confident that a certain sorceress would continue to let that state of affairs stand if you and I were to canoodle, as it were.”  

“Yenn?” asked Geralt, surprised. “We’re not... like that. We're not good at being exclusive. It’s what drove me out of her house in Vengerberg, her possessive nature. She understands now that I can’t be that for her, or for anyone. I’m not made to be owned like that. I was hoping you might... be more understanding.”  

Jaskier perked up a little at the news. “That is a relief, as long as ‘ Yenn ’ is on the same page as  you  there. I must admit, I’ve never been one to hold much stock in traditional monogamy, I’m sure you noticed I had a penchant for disrupting it often enough. I would never begrudge you the pleasures of lovers in my absence. But that’s... not the only issue.”  

Geralt had been looking more and more relieved by the conversation up until this last point. “What else can there be? With your elven heritage you’re sure to live a longer span than a human, we could have many happy years together. It’s not – it's not because of Ciri, is it?”  

“Of course not!” yelped Jaskier. “I haven’t even met the brat and I’m already certain I’ll hold her as dearly in my heart as I do you, Geralt. She’s a part of you now.”  

Mollified, Geralt nodded his understanding. “Then what is it, Jaskier?”  

It was Jaskier’s turn to struggle with his words. “I’ve had... some trouble. Since Valdo. With people touching me. It’s gotten a bit better, but I still... I don’t know when I’ll be ready to be intimate with anyone. Right now, I can’t even touch my damn self! How’s that for irony; the  perpetually  horny bard can’t even wrestle his own weasel.” He laughed bitterly, using the dark  humour  to cope with being full of shame and disgust with what he saw as his failings.  

Geralt leaned forward, his voice low and rough with sincerity. “Jaskier, I’m not in love with what’s between your legs. I’m in love with  you . Nothing that bastard did can change that. I would happily spend the rest of my life without touching you, if only I could be near to you.”  

Jaskier found his eyes were wet. It was hard to fully comprehend that his darkest shame, his foulest secret meant so little to the Witcher. So little that he could overlook it, could say that--  

“Geralt, I don’t know if you realized but you just said you were in love with me.”  

The Witcher nodded gravely. “Yes, I did realize that.”  

“Oh,” said Jaskier softly, full of wonder. “I feel I should tell you I’m in love with you too, but I think you know that already.”  

“Aye,” answered Geralt equally softly. “I do.”  

“So...” started Jaskier, hope fluttering in his chest. “Perhaps a little touching?”  

A slow, warm smile bloomed across the Witcher’s face. “A little touching sounds good.”