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Not all bards were magical. That’s the first thing a bard was told upon their acceptance into Oxenfurt. They could teach the theory, the practice, give the tools, but only a very few humans graduated from Oxenfurt as True Bards. And even then the majority of bards, True or not, kept close to the school.

It was rare to see a traveling bard from Oxenfurt, and even rarer to find a True Bard who harnessed the power of Chaos and sang magic into the air.

Jaskier didn’t advertise that he was a True Bard. It usually caused a lot more problems when people found out. For one, mages always wanted to dissect how exactly they manipulated Chaos with nothing but their voices and lutes without an equal exchange involved. So he kept his spells unassuming and subtle.

Toss a Coin was such a song. The Chaos in him begged to pour itself into the lyrics, to twist the minds of the listeners to treat all Witchers kindly. To manipulate them into paying them what they were owed. But Geralt would no doubt feel the surge of magic, so he weaved the magic through the words with a light hand and that was enough. Inn-Keepers gave them nicer rooms for a fairer price. Aldermens honored Geralt’s contracts and they rarely ran them out of town anymore.

He wondered how the Butcher of Blaviken was doing now, without him. It had been years since he slid down Caingorn, heart torn and eyes wet and stinging with tears. The magic would still work since he never stopped performing the songs, but it wouldn’t be as effective as it would’ve been if he was at Geralt’s side. Jaskier took vindictive pride in that.

He would’ve stopped sewing that particular magic across the continent if Geralt was the only one who would be affected, but he knew there were other Witchers prowling the world, slaying beasts and walking the Path alone. So he sang it. Even if he couldn’t put his heart and soul into it like he usually did.

Jaskier filled the emptiness over the years by composing other songs. Songs he sang on the road when he passed a particularly impoverished town, a little ditty about fertile soil and a strong yield of harvest to come. He wrote of rain and salvation in the south during droughts, and waxed poetry about Borch’s dragon egg when he visited him once, just to see if the baby had been born. (A few weeks later Borch sent him a missive thanking him for it. The egg had hatched healthy and strong, with golden scales).

But he wasn’t alone as he thought on his journey across the continent, through noisy taverns and sensual brothels that satisfied him not at all, for the people began to whisper about a True Bard. Blessing towns and the people wherever they went. Thankfully, he hadn’t given his name to anyone in the past months so there was no connection between him and this True Bard, given the moniker of Sir Dandelion. The strongest bard, they said, since the founding of Oxenfurt.

Jaskier kept singing, kept lacing his words with magic, kept writing about anything and everything to distract himself from the aching void in his chest, in the shape of a certain Witcher. Then in the middle of the night, he ran into a Witcher who called himself Coen in the middle of the Temeria forest.

The Witcher only got the chance to say, “Are you Geralt’s bard—?” before all the burning fury came back. Jaskier left Coen standing in a pile of kikimora guts, as his heart pounded and his face darkened. 

The song came to be called Burn Butcher Burn, but he shelved the song and didn’t dare to imbue it with an ounce of magic. The song was angry, ruthless, and cutting. Dangerous. A weapon. The only song of its kind.

“Bard,” Queen Calanthe said from her dias where King Eist and Princess Cirilla—Geralt’s Child Surprise—sat. “Sing us a song.”

“Did you have one in mind, Your Majesty?” Jaskier asked, plucking the strings of his lute idly, the sound hardly heard over the din of the ballroom. Plates and utensils clattered as men and women tore into seasoned thighs of meat and drank generously from their expensive goblets. The younger lords and ladies had already retired for the night after rounds of dancing. All except for dear Ciri who looked delighted at the mere mention of Jaskier singing something for them.

“Cirilla,” Eist murmured, leaning back in his creaking chair to catch her green eyes past Calanthe’s seat. “Do you have a request?”

“Her Sweet Kiss,” Ciri replied, a bittersweet smile pulling at her lips. Jaskier had been a visitor in Calanthe’s court long enough for Ciri to like him, long enough for Ciri to piece together the meaning of Jaskier’s songs about a Witcher and mage.

“Ah, not that one!” Queen Calanthe slammed her goblet down. Her face was pink from too much drink. “It’s depressing. Pick something happier, Cirilla. This is a party,”

“Then Toss a Coin?” Ciri tilted her head slightly, the beads hanging from her ash-blonde hair clinking clearly. “The one about the White-Wolf, Geralt of Rivia.”

Jaskier’s smile nearly slipped off his face. His eyes flicked over to Queen Calanthe who looked livid at the mere mention of Geralt, but nodded anyway. So he sang without an ounce of magic, as he usually did when he was in the presence of Mousesack who would no doubt feel even the faintest flicker.

When a humble bard / Graced a ride along

Cirilla’s face lit up in satisfaction.

With Geralt of Rivia / Along came this song

The strings of his lute rang and he could feel the magic building on his fingertips, waiting for his instruction. Jaskier’s tongue felt heavy as he reached the chorus.

Toss a coin to your Witcher / Oh Valley of Plenty

The ballroom sang along with gleeful smiles as Jaskier finished up the song. It was after many a song request after that, that the party began to wind down.

Eist was the one who approached him, brow furrowed with worry. It was alarming because usually, Eist couldn’t even get up from his chair without Calanthe’s assistance. “Jaskier,” he whispered, catching his elbow to guide him into a dark alcove.

Jaskier felt his stomach drop out from under him, and sweat began to build and trickle down his spine. Eist only ever called him bard, just like his Queen did. “Nilfgaard is marching on us as we speak. You’re Geralt’s bard—” Jaskier flinched imperceptibly and clutched his lute harder. “—and everything’s still up in the air. Calanthe and I will meet Nilfgaard on the battlefield to try and stop them, but I think you should leave. Tonight. Get as far away from here as possible. Geralt would be upset if you got caught here.”

“He wouldn’t be,” Jaskier said before he could seal his lips shut. Eist’s brow furrowed further and there was a flicker of confusion there in his eyes. “We separated a few years ago. I’m not his bard.”

“But you still sing the Toss a Coin song?” Eist questioned, “If you’re not on good terms why would you—”

It was probably rude of him to interrupt a king, but Jaskier never really cared for decorum among friends. And Eist was definitely a friend. “I’m a bard, Eist. I make money playing songs and my most requested song is that one. If I want to eat, I sing Toss a Coin.”

“I see.” Eist patted his shoulder a bit too roughly, but Jaskier was used to his startling Skellige strength. “Well.” the king’s throat bobbed. “As a friend I’m telling you to run. Just in case.”

“What about Ciri—Princess Cirilla?” Jaskier asked, insides tightening in fear.

“She will remain here. She is the Lion Cub of Cintra and Nilfgaard will know if she leaves the palace.”

“Then I’ll stay too.”

“Jaskier—”

“This is my decision to make Eist. Geralt might not want anything to do with me or his Child Surprise, but it was my fault for bringing him to Cintra in the first place. It’s my duty to be by Cirilla’s side in these dark times if Geralt won’t do so,” Jaskier’s expression had shifted from fear to shaky determination.

Eist searched his face, before realizing that Jaskier was serious. “You’re too good. Too kind for this shit-shoveling world.”

Jaskier snorted and muffled a hysterical laugh behind his hand.

“What?” Eist asked, breathless with a laugh of his own pushing up his throat.

“It’s just— Just funny you say that. In Caingorn where Geralt and I parted ways he said:  “Dammit Jaskier. Why is it that whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it’s you shoveling it!” It’s nice to hear the opposite.”

Eist’s face darkened, lips downturned into an angry frown, jaw set. “Well then. It’s a good thing Geralt isn’t here for me to spear on my sword.”

Jaskier waved his anger away. “Don’t worry about it. Focus on Nilfgaard’s forces. I’ll stay with the Princess and Mousesack while you’re gone.”

Eist pulled him in for a hearty hug, complete with slapping his broad hands on Jaskier’s shoulder blades. “I should get going. Calanthe wants to ride out as soon as possible. Will you see us off?”

Jaskier nodded, wracking his brain for a war march song he could play to aid in their endeavor. Eist disappeared into the reaching shadows of the palace corridors, and soon enough, Jaskier was strumming his lute beside Mousesack who had also come out to see Calanthe and Eist off.

He weaved a little more magic than he usually dared into the few verses he’d come up with.

Toward Nilfgaard they ride / They’ll be on the winning side

The Lion of Cintra’s strength cannot be denied / Victory they will find

It needed a little work, but with the time constraint he’d been given, it was better than nothing.

Queen Calanthe and Eist didn’t seem to notice or acknowledge the blanket of magic that washed over them and their forces, but Mousesack jerked in surprise next to him. 

It wasn’t until both of them were long since out of earshot that Mousesack gave him a small, but pleased smile. “You’re the True Bard who's been wandering the continent.”

Jaskier tried to mirror Mousesack’s relaxed posture as he replied, “I’d appreciate it if you don’t tell anyone, it’s a secret,”

“I wouldn’t dare. Not if you sing such helpful songs for the people and the King and Queen in such dark times. True Bards are hard to come across. Much less a True Bard who uses their Chaos to help soothe the wounds in the world.”

Jaskier hummed in acknowledgment, and then both he and Mousesack headed toward Ciri’s room to keep her company through the perilous night.

Queen Calanthe and King Eist came back wounded, but alive. The same couldn’t be said for the small forces they’d taken with them, but they both assured Jaskier that the Nilfgaardians had been worse off before General Cahir arrived with reinforcements, and the ships from Skellige had not.

Both of them would live, but both of them seemed rather discomfited by the fact that Nilfgaard would be at their steps at any moment. After all, they said, they would live but for how long? Nilfgaard would come marching, and then they’d all be killed on the blade regardless.

“Run now, bard.” Calanthe commanded, laying down on a divan right next to Eist whose eye was wrapped in soaked bandages. He’d have to start wearing an eyepatch if they all survived the siege. “Take Ciri. Please. Find Geralt of Rivia.”

If Jaskier was human, just a mere bard with no magic spinning in his chest and flowing through his lungs, he would’ve done it.

But this was Queen Calanthe and Eist. They invited him here every winter back when he would wait for Geralt to return in the spring from Kaer Morhen. They let him hold Ciri when she was a babe, and gave him a room to stay in free of charge as long as he played music for them.

Eist played Gwent with him. Queen Calanthe liked to listen to Her Sweet Kiss when she and Jaskier spent the day admiring the courtyard gardens in secret because the fearsome Lion of Cintra liked to keep it a secret that she liked flowers and loved songs about heartbreak. They were his friends. And they welcomed him those first few weeks after her Caingorn happened, even if they didn’t know why he was so hurt.

“No.” Jaskier snapped, full of hatred for that defeated gleam in Calanthe’s eyes. “You’re the fucking Lion of Cintra. The Sea Serpent of Skellige. My friends. If you cannot defend your kingdom, I will do it myself.”

Calanthe looked taken aback by the steely determination in Jaskier’s tone. “You are just a bard, Jaskier. What can you do?”

Mousesack turned to him then, a flicker of hope. “What’s your ugliest song, Sir Dandelion?”

Jaskier glanced down at the Elven lute Filavandrel had given him. A precious tool that helped him channel his Chaos even better. Calanthe and Eist swore colorfully.

“You’re a True Bard?” Eist asked.

“He’s the True Bard,” Calanthe responded. “So tell us, Jaskier, which song makes you confident enough to speak of defending Cintra? Do you have anything that could destroy Nilfgaard’s forces?”

“What’s a True Bard, grandmother?” Ciri asked, her wet eyes glancing uneasily between Mousesack, Eist, Calanthe, and Jaskier.

“A mage who channels Chaos through compositions.” Calanthe murmured, looking both disgruntled at having a mage in her castle and immensely grateful for it. “There hasn’t been a True Bard like Jaskier in centuries.”

Jaskier almost opened his mouth to object. To tell her that there were a handful of True Bards in Oxenfurt right now, but none of them had even thought of leaving the academy to help the people so instead, he said, “Burn Butcher Burn.”

“I’ve never heard that one,” Calanthe replied, “Is it about the Butcher of Blaviken?”

“The very one,” Jaskier mumbled bitterly, trying to forget the sheen of white hair and glow of amber eyes that kept him awake at night when he wanted a comforting touch. “It might do some damage to the army if I redirect the magic at them.”

Calanthe rose from her spot on the divan and reached for her blade slicked in blood. “I will be at your side, dear bard.”

“As will I,” Mousesack proclaimed, magic swirling around his fingers.

“Don’t leave me out of this!” Eist whined, “I may only be able to see out of one eye, but my sword arm sure as hell works. If my Lion fights, so do I.”

Ciri shifted uncomfortably. “I could—”

“You’ll have to stay in the castle, dear child.” Calanthe cut her off. “Prepare the court should it seem like we’re losing. The guards are already aware that you need to be evacuated should the fight sour. This is your duty as the Lion Cub of Cintra.”

Ciri’s eyes blazed with anger, but she nodded curtly anyway. “I won’t have to. You’ll win.”

“Maybe we will. Maybe we won’t. But the ballads will be extraordinary either way,” Jaskier said with a boyish grin that lit his entire face up.

“Ah yes. Of course you’re thinking of ballads right now,” Eist remarked playfully, shoving Jaskier’s shoulder.

“I am a bard, after all.”

“A magical bard,” Ciri remarked.

Jaskier only started to doubt himself when they arrived outside the capital gates. His lute was creaking in his grip, as Calanthe readjusted Eist’s bandages. Then, the black darkness in front of them rippled with soldiers in Nilfgaardian armor. Feathered helmets and shoulder pads gleamed in the silver shine of the coin-shaped moon in the sky.

This could go two ways. One, the magic would do something unintended and not work at all in the way he wanted, or two, he could set himself and the world ablaze. Either way it was a nightmarish outcome, but this was Cintra he was doing this for. Ciri, Geralt’s Child Surprise. Even if Geralt hurt him, he couldn’t fathom being vindictive enough to leave his destined child to die just to get back at him.

He whetted his lips and then walked down the dirt pathway cutting through the rolling fields surrounding Cintra’s moat.

“Bard, what are you doing?” Calanthe asked, reaching for his shoulder.

“I’m not sure how strong the song will be.” Jaskier admitted, with a pleasant smile. “It’s better if I’m a little farther ahead. You, Mousesack and Eist can catch any stragglers if the spell even works.”

“You could die if it doesn’t.” Eist said.

“Cintra will fall if the spell doesn’t work. What does it matter if I'm the first to go?”

“You’re stronger than I gave you credit for, Jaskier,” Mousesack mumbled, giving him a slight bow in respect. “May you raze Nilfgaard to the ground.”

He gave the three of them a slight nod and then stopped far enough away that he was sure any misfiring wouldn’t get to them.

Then, he waited.

The people of Cintra would spread the word first. Of the thunderous marching of Nilfgaard on their capitol. Of Cintra’s Last Stand.

They would tell any travelers who passed through their gates in the following weeks, months, years, that their kingdom was saved by one True Bard with fiery hatred and sorrow in his heart for Nilfgaard. They would tell them that the Phoenix of Song, Sir Dandelion, razed General Cahir’s army to the ground. Emerged from the violent flames Remade, Other. Hen Ichaer.

They called it the Slaughter of Nilfgaard.

“ I hear you're alive, how disappointing.”

The sky rippled with each strum of his lute. The strings glowed gold with the honey-thick feeling of his magic, and the air projected his song, the angry melody of his strings, the visceral anger in his voice.

“I've also survived, no thanks to you.”

Jaskier directed it at Nilfgaard and their audacity to attempt to destroy Cintra in his presence. To destroy Ciri who would one day be important to Geralt, because that’s how destiny worked, darling Witcher.

He channeled every minuscule ounce of anger into his song. Anger at Yennefer for fucking Geralt in that crumbling building where he could see. Anger at Geralt for leaving him on a mountain brimming with monsters, and anger at himself for letting Valdo Marx gaslight him when they studied at Oxenfurt and started a relationship together. His anger at the world for treating Witchers like shit on their shoes. Anger at his mother for dumping him in a river when he was a babe because she didn’t want his father to find out he was different. That she was different.

“Did I not bring you some glee? Mister, oh, look at me!”

He put everything into the song. Admittedly, he didn’t think it would work. For the first few verses, he only felt the magic bubbling in the air. And then.

“Now I'll burn all the memories of you,”

The air turned stifling hot, as the rumbling of Nilfgaard’s forces stamping the ground stopped before him.

“All those lonely miles that you ride, now you'll walk with no one by your side. Did you ever even care, with your swords and your stupid hair?”

The Nilfgaardians regarded him as if he was mad. Jaskier sneered at them.

“Now watch me laugh as I burn all the memories of you!” 

His voice was raw and tight with anger, morphing into a vicious yell that cracked through the air with a wave of searing fire. The grass and wildflowers died, curling black as the Chaos in him sought for an exchange for the very first time, since it was such a powerful spell. The Nilfgaaridians screamed as the sky turned bright and the fire consumed them.

“What for d'you yearn? It's the point of no return. After everything we did, we saw…You turned your back on me! What for d'you yearn?” Another pulsating wave of destruction, so hot his doublet was soaked with sweat and he could see the heat rippling the air. 

“Watch that butcher burn.”

The sky turned black, horses neighed and reared and tried to run but the fire consumed everything in sight. Melted armor and flesh and hope. Jaskier felt the anger burn through him, felt the fire reach into him like curling talons, feeding on the ball of hate in his chest. These Nilfgaardians were the butchers. They were the ones who deserved to be burned.

“At the end of my days when I'm through, no word that I've written will ring quite as true as "buuuuurn!"”

His doublet caught fire, crumbled to ash like his trousers.

“Burn, butcher, burn!”

The fire blasted forth.

“Burn, butcher, burn!”

The smell of burning human flesh filled his nostrils and the screams reached a harrowing crescendo. But there were still some fools who rushed forward with their ridiculous feathered armor, and Jaskier waved a hand. The red flames, licking up his arms and legs, glowing beneath his skin with a deep red-orange, turned them to ash before him.

“Burn, burn, burn, burn, burn, burn, burn, burn…”

All he knew was fire. All he knew was death, carnage, power, and flame. Waves of Nilfgaardians fell to his song. He sang it until the sun peeked over the horizon, and the only Nilfgaardians left were Fringilla and General Cahir.

“Watch me burn all the memories of you…”

He didn’t even need to think it. They turned to ash, screaming for their White Flame that would never arrive.

His eyes stung from the billowing columns of smoke in the air, his head swam, his throat felt utterly parched.

Then, as he gulped down air, he collapsed into a heap and let unconsciousness claim him, unaware of the fields of Feainnewedd that had blossomed underfoot around Cintra. Jaskier didn’t even know that he’d been bleeding in the first place.

Yennefer was called by Tissaia to the Chapter meeting out of the blue. Her conversation with Istredd went well. They’d patched up their relationship, and agreed to start anew, even if that meant she would be studying Monoliths for the rest of her Immortal life.

Istredd had been called upon too, so they arrived in the same portal, conjured by herself. The discussion was not what she was expecting. Something of Nilfgaard finally attacking Cintra and winning, perhaps. 

Nothing prepared her for what Stregobor had to say.

“Cintra was attacked by Nilfgaard this last evening.” He said, “They were destined to fall, as we all know, but… they were hiding something. From us and Nilfgaard. They had a True Bard with them. He alone burned Nilfgaard’s forces to the ground.”

“A single bard?” Tissaia repeated, and it took Yennefer an embarrassing amount of time to place her tone. Surprise.

“A True Bard,” Filgefortz told her. “With one song. He killed them all with one song.”

Yennefer and Istredd exchanged looks. “Any luck that the bard was your bard?” Istredd asked, which gained the attention of the entire Chapter.

“No,” Yenneger was confident in this. She would’ve known if Jaskier was a True Bard. The lost puppy was too trusting, too open, to hide something like that. “He’s just a regular bard. Nothing magical about him.”

This made people lose interest in her, which was good. “Well,” Stregobor plunged on, as if Istredd hadn’t said a word. “The people of Cintra have all but deified the man. Gave him the moniker Phoenix of Song, but he was previously known as Sir Dandelion.”

“And his real name?” Tissaia asked.

“Jaskier,” Stregobor smiled, “And I’m itching to know how he harnessed fire magic as a mere bard.”

Jaskier.

Yennefer went ghostly pale. She took Istredd by the arm and left the room as quickly as possible. “That is my bard,” she snapped in a low whisper. “I need to get to Cintra before Stregobor. You know what he’ll try to do to him.”

“Right.” Istredd’s face was tight with worry. “I’ll keep an eye on him for you. Go to your friend.”

“He’s not my friend,” Yennefer said as she conjured a portal.

“Yes. He is.” Istredd replied before she stepped through the glassy oval in the air and landed in front of Cintra’s gates.

She passed the field of flowers and was stopped by disgruntled guards manning the gates. “Halt!” said one, “State your purpose and your name!”

“I am Yennefer of Vengerberg, and I’m here to see the bard.”

“Queen Calanthe has proclaimed that none can see Jaskier. Not even the bard’s Witcher, Geralt of Rivia and his mage acquaintance.”

Yennefer clenched her fists and whirled away, the spell already on her tongue to track down Geralt.

Geralt first heard Burn Butcher Burn when he arrived at the nearest tavern in a small town, looking for a contract. A sinuously curvy lady playing the lute had been singing the song, to the utter delight of the townsfolk.

Which was strange because the song was hateful, spitting, and… most certainly about him .

“It still baffles me that this song saved Cintra from slaughter,” a bulbous man said, drinking generously from his tankard with a hiccup. “I never heard of anything called a True Bard until that song,”

“I hear that Queen Calanthe is guarding the bard from mages. The Chapter wants a piece of him, probably to dissect him to see what the devil he’s made of,” Another said, face streaked with dirt and exhaustion. “What was his name?”

“He’s got too many names,” The bard playing interrupted. “I went to Oxenfurt with him. Before he was known as the Phoenix of Song the people called him Sir Dandelion, but even before that his name was called the Witcher’s bard, Jaskier. Before even that his name was Julian.”

“Shit ton of names for one guy.” The dirt-streaked man said, unaware of the air being stolen from Geralt’s lungs. “Ain’t he the one who wrote Toss a Coin?”

“Yea he was, wasn’t he? Play that song, girl!”

The conversation drifted as the bard began to sing, but Geralt was stunned. Jaskier , a True Bard? Jaskier, full of magic, full of hate and anger strong enough to write a song firmly about him, and use it against Nilfgaard to raze them to the ground?

Geralt’s breath came out tremulous. Jaskier. Jaskier. Jaskier .

He missed Jaskier. Truly, traveling without the bard was difficult. And not only because the jobs got harder, the pay lower, and the hospitality a little more hateful, but because he was lonely.

Sometimes he would think he heard Jaskier’s voice on the wind, singing Toss a Coin, but then he’d turn and there would be no bard at his side. No one at all, when there once had been someone who seemed so eager, so content to just write ballads about their adventures. But he had ruined that. The way he also ruined the relationship he had with Yennefer.

And it took him a long, long time to realize that what he felt for Yennefer and Jaskier was different, not in terms of love and friendship, but of lust and love respectively.

He lusted after Yennefer, but what he had with Jaskier was more enduring than that. Something he only realized he had after he told him to go away. But he couldn’t find him, no matter how hard and fast he chased the rumors about where he was.

And now, the final nail in the coffin was Burn Butcher Burn, and the revelation that Jaskier wasn’t just some mortal who would die slowly in front of him over the years. He was Immortal in the same way he and Yennefer were. Still susceptible to grievous wounds, but age wouldn’t kill them.

So there went his only reason not to get attached to Jaskier—even if it hadn’t been a reason at all, seeing as he’d been attached since Toss a Coin was birthed. He stood from his seat, oblivious to the murmurs running through the crowd or their stares.

He needed to go to Cintra, even if it meant he could avoid destiny and his Child Surprise no longer.

Geralt burst out of the tavern, looking for Roach, and instead met the gleam of purple eyes.

“Yen.”

“Geralt.”

“You heard about Jaskier?”

“Everyone’s heard of it. The Slaughter of Nilfgaard, they call it. Queen Calanthe won’t let anyone in to see him. Not even me. Not even you.”

Geralt narrowed his eyes. “Hm,”

“You’re going to go anyway, aren’t you?”

“Jaskier,” was all he could grind out.

“Such an eloquent response, Geralt. I’m coming too. I can portal us there. Together, we might just convince Calanthe to let us in.”

Queen Calanthe nearly killed him as soon as he awoke. Jaskier couldn’t even say he was surprised. Plenty of spouses tried to kill him over their own spouse’s infidelity, but that didn’t exactly apply this time.

Eist was the one to pull her off of him, so he could breathe and get his bearings.

“Nice eye-patch, Eist.” Jaskier said instantly, “If you weren’t married to the Lion of Cintra I’d ask—”

“Nice to know you’re the same old Jaskier,” Calanthe muttered darkly. “Even after all that magic.”

“Nilfgaard,” Jaskier rasped, struck by the reminder, throat aching and tight and smelling of fire and smoke. “Are they—?”

“Dead.” Calanthe assured, “Just like you almost were, if not for Mousesack being friends with a girl named Triss. It’s your damned fault that I made an exception to bring her here to fix you.”

Ah. So that’s why she was so angry. Mousesack spoke up then, and Jaskier finally had the presence of mind to look about the room and spot dear old Ciri at his bedside.

“You’re of Elder Blood,” he stated, “Did you know?”

Jaskier hummed and then decided that today was a fine day to die. “I knew just as Queen Calanthe knows about her own.”

Calanthe growled at him, and Jaskier threw her a lovely smile. “Grandmother?” Ciri asked weakly.

“After this, cub,” Calanthe replied, ducking her head.

Eist didn’t look phased, which at the very least hinted that he was in the loop regarding that fact. “Would you like some water, Jaskier?” The king didn’t wait for him to reply, just thrust the goblet in his face and tiled it.

Jaskier nearly choked on it, but only nearly. The sweet coolness of the water on his aching throat soothed him.

“So my song worked?” He asked, making to sit up before Ciri assisted him.

“I’d say it more than worked,” Ciri muttered. “I saw the flames from the castle,”

“I didn’t need to kill a single straggler,” Calanthe told him, “Cintra would’ve fallen without you, Jaskier.”

Jaskier scratched his cheek sheepishly and opened his mouth to say that it wasn’t true when the captain of the royal guard opened the door and ducked down at Calanthe’s side to whisper to her secretly.

“Hmph. Geralt of Rivia and Yenneger of Vengerberg at my doorstep?” Calanthe muttered, casting a look his way. “One here to apologize, another here with a warning about a mage named Stregobor. How… interesting.”

Jaskier froze from his sitting position on the plush bed he’d been laid to recuperate in. Geralt. Yennefer. Here. In Cintra? For him?

“This is a cruel joke, Queen Calanthe,” He said with an air of impassiveness that didn’t suit him at all. “Geralt? Apologize? Surely you could’ve come up with something better as punishment. Something more… I don’t know… believable?”

Eist and Calanthe gave him terrifyingly identical expressions of exasperation. “Why, dear bard, would I lie to the savior of Cintra?”

Jaskier sputtered. “I am not the— the savior of anything—”

“Our savior must’ve bumped his head when he fainted,” Eist mumbled conversationally to his wife and grandchild. “Geralt of Rivia is truly here and so is Yennefer. Do not doubt us on this.”

Melitele’s tits. Okay. Now was the part where he ran the fuck away. Because even if Geralt was here it wasn’t to apologize.

He surged up from the bed, eyes wild and face stricken, made for the door and instantly his legs buckled under his own weight. “Shit!”

“We won’t let them in if you don’t want to see them,” Eist said after he darted to catch him under the armpits so he didn’t crack his skull on the marble floor. “No need to kill yourself in an attempt to run away,”

“Ah. Well. Running wouldn’t have worked anyway. Geralt has an amazing sense of smell—”

“He won’t get in,” Calanthe told him.

“Your Majesty!” Another guard burst through the door, looking frazzled.

“ What? ” Calanthe growled. “Can’t you see I’m—”

“The Witcher and his mage got in!”

“Oh for fuck’s sake!” Jaskier wanted to disappear into the floor. Maybe even die.

“Jaskier!” That was definitely Geralt’s deep, rumbling voice. Damn it all.

“I’m not here!” He shouted back, “Go away!”

Of course, both of them appeared at the doorway a moment later. They never considered what he wanted in any given situation.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said again, this time softer as his amber eyes scanned Jaskier’s body with concern, or something resembling it. “Jaskier I— I’m sorry. About Caingorn. I looked for you. After.”

Jaskier blinked owlishly up at him, utterly astounded and nearly… relieved. He was angry. Oh god, he was still angry, so mad he might hurl his lute that was sitting in the corner—unharmed, thank Melitele—right at Geralt’s beautiful head and then cry.

But his eyes were too dry from the smoke of the flames he’d conjured. The lute too far away for his exhausted body to reach.

“You’re sorry,” he stated, disbelief tinging his voice.

Calanthe, Mousesack, and Ciri remained quiet. Out of respect for whatever decision he was about to make. Eist was silent too, and awkwardly extracted himself from Jaskier’s back. 

“Yes.” Geralt replied, “I missed you.”

“Burn Butcher Burn is about you, you know.”

“I know.”

“I killed an army with that song.”

“So I’ve heard,”

“What if I want to set you on fire?” Jaskier asked, lips quirked up into a real smile. “I’m Hen Ichaer. Elder Blood. I could do it,”

“I would let you, Jaskier. I want you to walk the Path with me again, so I’d let you.”

Jaskier did not forgive Geralt, but he accepted the apology. He did not forgive, but he opened his arms anyway. Geralt stepped forward haltingly, unsure and looking more vulnerable than Jaskier ever knew him to be.

Then, his strong arms were pressing around him, just as comforting as he remembered. He did not forgive Geralt, but when they pulled away, and Geralt planted his lips on Jaskier’s, he didn’t pull away.

He would later worry about whatever it was that Yennefer wanted to tell him.

He didn’t forgive Geralt, but he could. Maybe. Someday. Eventually. If Geralt let him see Kaer Morhen this winter.