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Chapter Text

“Don’t do this!”

His pleas meant nothing to the man, Julek can see it in the strangers eyes as he stalks towards his father, a coldness he had never quite seen in anyone before. Even in the nobles who seemed untroubled and care-free, there had always been a certain lust within them, a gluttony. This man before them seemed empty, like his insides were all carved out and never replaced.

“I have money, more than whoever is paying you!” The Viscount was shaking as he took a step back, his hands coming in contact with the desk. The stranger remained silent, approaching at a snail’s pace, blade in his hand dripping with blood. Julek stood silently to the side, head tilted, not entirely sure what was happening or who this man was that struck such fear into his father. The father that had always been hard-hearted, the father who had no problem striking Julek or the servants - anyone weaker than him really - yet he cowered in front of this stranger.

“I don’t need money,” The man finally spoke, his voice cold and rough with disuse.

“There must be something I can-” The Viscount stopped mid-sentence, eyes drawn to Julek who stood in the corner, blinking mildly as his young mind tried to comprehend what was happening. “The boy! You can take the boy. I know your order, I recognize the symbol on your hand. Your kind is always looking for fresh bodies!”

“I can find a recruit on the streets,” The man continued, hand now fisting into the Viscounts silken shirt, blade raised.

“He’s different! He’s not- not human! He’d be better. I can give you the boy and money if you let me live,” The Viscount’s eyes were squeezed shut, flinching away from the blade inches from his face. The movements stilled as the stranger turned to look at Julek, icy eyes flicking over the boy a few times before returning back to the Viscount.

“You’d hand over your son for your life?”

A slight sneer came to the Viscounts face as he looked at Julek. “He’s not mine. Not really.”

“Interesting,” The man hummed and in one quick movement he had brought his blade across the Viscounts throat, the only sound in the room was the gurgling of a dying man and the sound of his body hitting the floor.

The stranger turned to Julek. He was a tall, taller than his father had been and his face was covered by a mask, though his dark hair was cropped short, specks of blood spattered through it. He wore leather armor, different from the bulk that Julek’s family’s guards wore, lighter and darker stained, though this too was splattered with blood and viscera. The man leaned down so that he was eye-to-eye with Julek and pulled his mask down, showing sharp features and eerie blue eyes.

Julek blinked a few times, a sort of shimmer coming over him as his eyes, green to emulate the Viscount, now swirled and changed to the same icy blue the stranger had. This earned him only a quirked eyebrow in response. Soon his soft brown locks changed to a similar shade of black to the strangers, the pair of them looking almost related now.

“Very interesting,” the Stranger spoke in his deep rumble. “What’s your name?”

“Julek,” He replied.

The stranger gave him another once over, pointing to the fading green bruise that bloomed on Julek’s jaw. “Did the Viscount do that?”

Julek peered around him at the body of his father, something in his innocent mind trying to reconcile the bloody corpse on the floor with his lack of experience with death and the image of his furious father, always seeming bigger than anyone. He looked back at the stranger. “It was ‘cause I talk too much.”

The strangers expression turned pinched and he stood up, pulling the mask back to cover the lower half of his face while he stretched out his hand, fingers wiggling in offer. Julek looked between the Viscount’s body and the stranger in front of him, hand outstretched like a lifeline.

His little hand clasped into the much larger one, his now blue eyes looking up at the stranger. “What’s your name?”

“Ciaran,” The stranger answered as he put his blade away in a sheath on his hip and led the boy out of the office.

The manner was silent, completely still. There was no hustle of skirts as servants rushed by, no clanking of armor as guards patrolled, no shrieks of his mother and whatever it was she was displeased with. There was only silence and the acrid scent of something like copper that reminded Jaskier of when he had scraped his knees on the front steps of the manner.

His eyes searched around, occasionally noticing someone lying on the floor, though he wasn’t sure why. The stranger, Ciaran, ignored it all as he tugged him towards the front of the manor, the pair of them walking out of the large doors and into the moonlight. They trailed away from the property towards the woods nearby that Julek’s mother had made him swear he would never go towards. He could very distinctly remember the pain in his arm as she squeezed it, eyes frantic and words even harsher than usual. The bruise had lasted weeks.

For the first time in the whole evening, the boy felt fear. His footsteps faltered and he resisted the pull of Ciaran’s hand, causing the man to twist to look at him. He half expected the man to strike him for his disobedience, like his father always had. Instead, he looked down at Julek, eyes flicking over him once again, appraising.

“Are you afraid, boy?” Ciaran asked, leaning down once again to be within eyeline. He received a slight nod as an answer. “It’s fine. You won’t always be afraid. But we’re going into the forest. You can be afraid, but you still have to go.”

“My mother said-”

“Your mother’s not here,” Ciaran chided, his voice coming out firm. Julek blinked, looking back at the manor behind him and the strange man in front of him. He nodded slightly and Ciaran put his hands under the boy’s armpits, lifting him up and carrying him into the forest.

He looked over the man’s shoulder at his home, the estate fading away as they entered the forest and trees began to block his way. They stalked through the greenery for a while longer before they stopped and Julek twisted in Ciaran’s grasp to look in front of them once again. In a small clearing was a pair of horses, one black and another grey, illuminated by the moonlight. Atop the grey mare was another boy perhaps a couple years older than Julek. He was thin and tired looking.

“Done then?” the boy asked, looking towards the pair. His brows furrowed as the moonlight revealed Julek being carried by Ciaran. “Who’s that?”

“Julek,” Ciaran answered, approaching the boy on the grey mare and handing him over to the boy. “He’s coming with us.”

“Oh,” the boy scooted back, helping Julek settle in the saddle while awkwardly trying to keep him up right. Julek had yet to begin his riding lessons, so he was unsure of how to sit on the horse, but the older boy kept a hold of the back of his shirt to steady him. “I’m Damir.”

“Enough with the pleasantries,” Ciaran chided as he hauled himself onto the black horse, pulling the hood of his cloak over his head. “Be silent and be quick. It’s a long trip.”

“Where are we going?” Julek asked, his voice as soft as he could make it, having never been one for whispering.

“I’m taking you boys home,” Ciarain answered.

This caused Julek to wrinkle his nose, confused at the implication. “But this is my home.”

“Not anymore.”

Chapter Text

There was something wrong with him. A deep ache in his chest that Jaskier hadn’t felt in all his years on this earth. It ate at him, whether he drank, feasted, walked, slept. The hollow feeling inside didn’t seem to fade no matter what he tried to stuff it, what he tried to use to cope.

At first, he thought it was because of the mountain. That horrible interaction (if you could call Geralt screaming and Jaskier taking it an interaction) had left Jaskier wanting to wretch, his stomach rebelling against him as his feet carried him down the mountains and his eyes released floods of emotion.

For days after he made it to the base of the mountain, he drank. He spent nearly a week in and out of consciousness, fueling himself with cheap liquor and guilt as he walked the roads between towns, no destination in mind and not a care in the world if someone found him in his inebriated state and killed him. In fact, he would have preferred that to what had actually happened.

He had been somewhere in the dead center of nowhere, almost a month after the mountain, slinking through alleyways with a bottle of vodka in his hand and his lute waiting for him in his room at the Inn. He didn’t know why he kept it with him, he didn’t play it anymore, unable to find that inspiration to perform without his muse around. Muse. The thought was laughable now.

A hand had grasped his shoulder, coming out of the darkness like a wraith. Even in his inebriated state his instincts had kicked in and he was able to throw back in elbow, connecting with his attacker’s nose and earning a sickening crunch, though dropping his vodka in the process. He twisted in the man’s grasp, using his free arm to throw a strike to his attacker’s throat, stunning them as the grip on his arm loosened enough for Jaskier to slam his boot into the attacker’s abdomen. His attacker released Jaskier fully as his back hit the wall of a building.

Jaskier had been content to dust his arm off, pick up his vodka, and be on his merry way had it not been for the familiar voice that sent a shiver through his spine. “Good to know you haven’t gotten soft.”

With a resigned sigh, Jaskier twisted around to face the voice, a wry smirk coming to his lips. “Hello, Father.”

Ciaran looked unimpressed, his wrinkled features contorting into minor irritation, a look Jaskier was whole-heartedly familiar with. It had been aimed at him every time he mouthed off to an instructor, completely ignoring the looming beating he would receive for it each time. He supposed he never learned. “Don’t call me that.”

“Papa?” Jaskier jabbed, knowing he was pushing the old man’s buttons, but he could never resist. Of all his instructors, of all the men that had loomed over Jaskier in his whole life, Ciaran was by far the gentlest, physically at least. He would never strike the bard for his disobedience, but he was able to give a thoroughly chastising tongue-lashing. “I could call you grandfather? It suits you, since you look old as fuck.”

“I’m sixty-seven years old,” Ciaran spoke through clenched teeth. It showed as his once inky hair had now turned white and wrinkles lined his face like roads on a map. Still, as old as he was, he was still rigid and strong. Whatever the mages fed him and his other assassins, it did wonders for their longevity and physicality.

“Well you don’t look a day over eighty-five,” Jaskier gave a tip of his head, ignoring the disapproving glance he got. “If you’ll excuse me-”

“You’ll stay right here if you know what’s good for you, boy!” Ciaran barked, stopping Jaskier in his tracks. “I may be old but I can still whip your ass.”

“What is it you need, you rotten old bastard?” Jaskier hissed, his drunken state making him mouthier than usual. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

“Oh yes, it must be very taxing, drinking and whoring your way through every small town on this side of the continent,” the old man rolled his eyes. As much as Ciaran hated when Jaskier called him ‘dad’ or any variation, it seemed he couldn’t help his paternal instincts as he was almost always parenting the bard.

“Quite and I’ve not nearly made the progress I’ve wanted to, so I best get back to it.”

“Julek, you’ve been missing for two months,” the man sighed, bringing a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “You’ve ignored our correspondence. You’re lucky they sent me and not someone else!”

“Yes, so lucky to see you and-” The brunette looked at the young man still leaning against the building, just beginning to move again. “Who is this?”

“Trainee,” Ciaran sighed, seemingly out of patience with the young man in question.

“Ah, I see,” Jaskier actually felt bad for hurting the young man now. He remembered the first time he got his ass handed to him in a fight. Granted it was during a sparring session and the boy had been both bigger and older. It didn’t stop the instructors from dropping him in the pit, water lapping at his chest as they closed him in, effectively blocking out all light and silencing his screams for them to ‘please wait’. It still gave him nightmares.

“Get back on track or they’ll send someone else next time,” The implication of what would happen was understood as Ciaran pulled an envelope out of his cloak and handed it to Jaskier. The brunette sullenly took the envelope, seeing no other option unless he wanted a bounty on his head that he really didn’t want to deal with. As he tucked it into his doublet, Ciaran placed a hand on his shoulder that was likely meant to be comforting, yet did nothing for Jaskier. “Whatever is wrong with you, don’t let it get in the way. Keep your wits about you, son.”

Jaskier took a deep breath, listening to the retreating footsteps of the man as he gathered his trainee and disappeared into the shadows like the expert that he was. “Goodbye, father.”

Really, there was no other choice than to pick up his blades again and return to his old work. He couldn’t compose anymore, couldn’t bring himself to sing. He needed the coin and there was always the chance that one of his assignments would end with his death, which seemed like a less and less unappealing prospect as the days passed by.

Jaskier began killing again, not that he had ever really stopped. He had taken assignments here and there while traveling with Geralt, whenever he could get a few days to himself without alerting the Witcher of his upbringing and long-term employment. Keeping up with his work was the only way to prevent his brothers-in-arms from turning their energy on him and leaving him in a hole in the ground for Geralt to find. Now, without the Witcher to run back to, without that eagerness to return to someone, he had no excuse not to throw himself into his work completely.

Truthfully, he thought it would help. He thought the constant vigilance, the movement and the adrenaline would keep him going. It did for a moment, until it became monotonous. Jaskier was not the best assassin in his brotherhood, but he was definitely up there in terms of skill. He was quick with a blade, nimble and flexible. There was also the added benefit of his fae-parentage, helping him disguise himself and slip into certain places unseen. All of it made him exceptional at his craft, which is perhaps what made it boring.

Everything was boring, really. Traveling no longer held the promise of adventure, food felt like ash in his mouth and the alcohol barely numbed that pit of despair that replaced his heart. He couldn’t bring himself to pluck the strings on his beloved lute, the only thing he had ever had any true passion for. He thought it would get better, the more time had passed. He thought the heartbreak would pass and he could start anew, but it did not. Instead it turned to anger, then self-hatred, until it contorted and left him with this darkness in his chest and a deep fatigue that had settled into his bones.

Still, he threw himself into his work. He picked up the hardest assignments, the toughest kills in the hope that something would catch him unawares and put an end to his misery. If not, it would at least provide something of a challenge. When he wasn’t working he drank and he fucked, looking for something to touch the emptiness inside of him and make him feel again.

The man had been content to drown himself with all the sinful pleasure of flesh and drink as well as the vindicating feeling of blood on his hands while pushing all thoughts of Geralt to the back of his mind. Of course, destiny being the traitorous bitch that she was, saw fit to throw a stone in his plans.

It was a relatively mundane night, he had returned from his latest assignment, discarding his bloodstained chemise and shifting his features back to his own along the way. A bath had been ordered and one of the barmaids who had been batting her eyelashes so sweetly at him that morning had even kindly sucked his dick after readying his bath for him. Now, he sat at a table with a glass full of some slightly sweet dwarven spirit, the bard that played in the corner wasn’t completely butchering the song Jaskier had composed all those ages ago. All in all, a perfectly fine night.

The only abnormality was the girl in the corner, hair stained black with bits of blonde poking through. She looked no older than thirteen, far too young to be sitting in a tavern alone, but this place also functioned as an Inn, so he hoped she was here with family. Her behavior was what set Jaskier off the most, the twitchy way she pulled her hood down, though not managing to cover her frantic eyes as she scanned every patron that came in or out.

For the most part, Jaskier tried to ignore her, sending a flirtatious wink to the barmaid he had encountered earlier and went back to his drink. Of course, it was just his luck that a group of men, bandits by the look of it, entered the tavern.

“Listen up!” The first man, a grimy little weasel with oily skin and a balding head, began to shout. Every patron turned towards him save for Jaskier who did not want to get involved, he was very tired, thank you, and the young girl in the corner who seemed to huddle further into herself, if that was possible. “We’re looking for a couple of folk! A Witcher and a girl. If you’ve seen ‘em, tell us now and we set this place on fire with you lot in it!”

The room was silent, everyone looking between each other. Finally, a cowardly man shrugged his shoulders and pointed to the girl in the corner. “That’s a girl? She might have come in with a Witcher. Thought I saw one on the road in.”

The band leader whirled around, looking to the girl in the corner who’s hood had fallen back, revealing her thoroughly frightened gaze. Jaskier really didn’t want to get involved, his back hurt and his had already slipped and cut his finger on his blade earlier. Besides, this was a small establishment with no real room for movement, there were five of those guys, the whole fight would not end well for Jaskier. Of course, then he had to glance one more time at the girl.

He knew who they were looking for, he knew why they were looking for her. Whether this girl was the lost Princess traveling with Geralt (Jaskier sincerely hoped not), or just some girl about to be victimized by a group of men, he couldn’t help but feel sympathy.

“We are not merciful and we are not kind.”

The words of his instructor rang in his ears, but Jaskier had been nothing if not a rebel. He placed his glass on the table and stood up. “Fuck.”

“Tell us where the Witcher is, girl, and come with us. Promise we’ll be nice if you do,” the Bandit leader sneered, a predatory smile on his ugly face.

“Gentlemen,” Jaskier interjected, bringing his hands up to tie his hair into a ponytail at the base of his neck. “There’s no need for this. I’m sure she’s just a girl traveling with her father.”

“Fuck off,” the sneer was turned on Jaskier now, earning a slight eyeroll. “This is none of your business.”

Jaskier sighed, tilting his head back a bit as he groaned before trying another tactic. “Look, I’ve had a pretty good day and I’d kind of like to keep that energy rolling. So, if you’ll kindly turn around and fuck right off, we can forget all about this.”

“Are you going to make us?” The leader laughed, earning similar guffaws from his crew. Jaskier knew what he looked like, slim and unassuming, no one privy to the lean muscles under his clothes as well as the skill and experience he carried.

“Fine, I guess we’re doing this. Darling,” Jaskier sighed and began to take off the black leather coat that he bought two weeks ago, handing it to the girl in the corner. “Do hold onto this for me and please guard it with your life. That’s Skellige leather, very expensive.”

“What the fuck do you think-” the bandit leader was cut off as Jaskier gripped the fabric of his shirt and dragged him forward, Jaskier’s forehead slamming down into the leader’s nose with a loud crack.

The assassin twisted the man in his arms to the left slightly so that Jaskier could kick a leg out at one of the other bandits, a blonde with one eye, his heel landing squarely in the man’s balls. It took a moment for the others to recover from their shock and try to attack. Jaskier had managed to shove the leader into one of them, sending them both toppling to the ground.

A shriek rang through the air as the other tavern patrons raced to the exit. Momentarily distracted, Jaskier was unable to stop the hand that grasped his ponytail, tugging his head back and pushing him off balance. His hair was momentarily released only for a pair of arms to wrap around his waist, trying to grapple him to the ground as another bandit approached, this one a redhead.

With great strain on his already sore muscles, Jaskier managed to leap enough to shoot both of his legs out, connecting with the redheads chest and sending him into a table. The moment his feet met the floor again, Jaskier whipped his head back, a headache forming as his skull connected with the nose of the bandit holding onto him.

The release of being gripped would have been a relief had the one eyed bandit and the leader not both gotten to their feet. The pair of them rushed forward, each grabbing one of Jaskier’s arms and pinning him to the bar. The leader pulled a knife out, ready to plunge it into the brunette’s chest. Had Jaskier not been so quick witted and experienced, this might have been the end of him. Only it wasn’t as he was able to lift his legs high enough to wrap around the leaders neck, pulling him off of Jaskier and throwing him off balance.

With his right arm free and no threat of being stabbed, Jaskier was able to push himself off the bar, twist behind the bandit holding his left arm and grip him into a sort of headlock. Out of the corner of his eye, he could have sworn he saw a flash of white.

“Hey!” a gruff voice shouted, one that Jaskier would recognize even in a crowd.

The brunette lifted his head to the front door, seeing the Witcher standing in all his glory, swords strapped to his back, young girl at his side and an expression that read as absolutely pissed. The whole thing caught Jaskier by surprise, momentarily distracting him from his quarry, which is probably why the bottle to the back of his head had been such a surprise.

All he remembered was hitting the ground and his vision going black.

Chapter Text

”I’m sorry.”

When Julek looked up into those grey eyes, they truly did look sorrowful, almost brimming with tears. His stomach twisted both from the pain of the blows and from the conflicted look on his best friend's face. Julek tried to muster up a comforting smile, but it only came out as a twisted grimace.

”Don’t apologize, Damir. Julek should be begging forgiveness for his weakness.”

Gritting his teeth, the young boy tried to stand, ignoring the hand offered to him by Damir. The instructor was right, Julek had been weak. That was why Damir won the fight. That was why he would get to sleep with a full belly and Julek would suffer through another punishment, another attempt at beating the weakness out of him.

”Julek, stay here. The rest of you go to supper,” The instructor ordered, the boys obediently forming a line and leaving the sparring room. The man made a disapproving sound. “When will you learn? At this rate, you’ll die before making it out of your apprenticeship.”

The words were spoken in distaste and Julek ignored them, eyes facing the wall and carefully not looking at the man who loomed over him. He was so tired of men looming over him. The thought could not be dwelled on for long, as his bicep was gripped too harshly, like the way his mother used to grip it as she scolded him. The familiarity could have been comforting, he supposed.

Tossed to the ground, Julek was made to lay with his feet straight. He knew what was coming, this punishment. It was not the first time, he had the scars to prove it. Yet no matter how many times it happened, he still felt the sting anew when the switch came down on the soles of his feet, cutting and flaying the skin there. It was never deep enough to debilitate, but always deep enough to be painful for a few days, especially when he walked.

That night, he lay under his thin blanket, head pillowed on the lumpy mattress as he sobbed. His shoulders and chest wracked with the heaving wails that he tried to stifle. None of the instructors cared if they heard, the crying was white noise to them at this point.

”Julek,” Damir’s soft voice called and the boy could feel the mattress dip as his friend clambered onto it. “I’m so sorry!”

The young shapechanger lifted his head from under his blanket, taking in the ruddy cheeks and red eyes of his best friend. Damir’s hand was on Julek’s ankle, rubbing soothing circles into the bone there while not daring to touch the mottled skin on the bottoms of his feet. With a sigh, he sat up fully, reaching forward to grab Damir’s hand and still its movements.

”Don’t be sorry. You’re better and that’s good! It means you’ll survive,” Julek tried to assure him, never one to let another be sorrowful on his behalf. “I wish I could be better.”

“Fuck,” Jaskier groaned as the light hit his sensitive eyes, cursing at both the pounding in his head and the memory that decided to invade his nightmares. Gods above he wished he had more to drink before he was knocked out.

“Jask,” There was an affirmative hum from above him and Jaskier had to blink many times until his vision adjusted enough for him to make out a head of white hair and a pair of golden eyes. “Are you alright?”

“No, I think I’m still dreaming,” Jaskier groaned, tilting his head back and rubbing his eyes again. Hopefully when he opened them again, Geralt would be gone. Of course his luck was never that good and the man was still leaning over him when Jaskier reopened them. The sight of the Witcher above him was so startling to Jaskier that he had to fight to keep his eyes from changing color to match Geralt’s, an annoying quirk that happened to him when he was either around someone he admired or feared. At this moment, he wasn’t sure which one Geralt was. “Fuck!”

“Easy,” The moment that Geralt’s hand touched his shoulder, Jaskier was suddenly lucid enough to slap it away.

“Don’t touch me,” Jaskier hissed, sitting up rather rapidly. His head began to spin at the sudden movement, hands coming to cradle it as his stomach lurched. “Where am I?”

It became clear that he was no longer at the Inn. Wooden walls and a sturdy roof had been replaced by green trees and shining stars. He was lying on a bed roll that definitely wasn’t his own and there was a warm fire nearby, managing to chase the chill away from him.

“Camp,” Geralt answered, his eyes never leaving Jaskier’s face as he began to explain. “I finished off the bandits, then Ciri and I dragged you out of the village before the guards could arrive.”

“Yes, away from the guards and the very plush bed and half-decent ale that I had just procured,” The ex-bard groused, pushing his hair out of his face as he took in his situation. A few feet away, the young girl from the bar sat on a rock, staring hard at Jaskier as if he were some sort of puzzle to be solved. It was reminiscent of the way that Geralt would stare at him when he was trying to weasel information out of Jaskier when the bard was uncharacteristically quiet. “So they were right then. This would be the princess?”

The young girl stuck out her chin, nose tipped up as she did her best to present an air of authority. “Princess Cirilla of Cintra. Pleasure to meet you.”

“Right,” Jaskier huffed, irritation creeping up on him to be found in this situation. “Jaskier, Julek. Call me whatever you want as long as it’s preceded by ‘goodbye’.”

“Jask-”

“I mean really Geralt,” Jaskier hissed, standing from the bedroll and beginning to search for his things. “I was having a perfectly good evening before you showed up! Job done with minimal issues, my stress taken away by a nice bath and a very well endowed barmaid, and a warm bed waiting for me. All of that thrown out the window because you two were stupid enough to show your faces when half the continent is looking for you! Gods, and you said that I was the one shoveling shit.”

“Jaskier, I’m sorry-”

“Save it for someone who cares, Witcher.” The ex-bard turned his back to the silver-haired man. “Did you at least manage to get my things before you ruined my very lovely evening?”

At that moment, Ciri disappeared into the shadows before reemerging with Jaskier’s things. She handed him his pack as well as his lute, though the brunette barely looked at his instrument before grabbing the pack and making sure his weapons and armor were still inside. He breathed a sigh of relief when he found the items unharmed.

“Perfect,” He sighed with relief, pulling out a few knives and securing them to his belt. Ciri once again approached him, this time holding the leather coat he had entrusted to her. She looked slightly unsure as she handed it over, eyebrows quirked and a slight shake in her hands, like she wasn’t entirely sure she could trust him.

A pang of sympathy ran through the assassin. Unfortunately, he could relate to what it felt like to lose your home, to be dragged around with a stranger who was in the business of money for blood.

“I kept it safe for you,” She muttered, thrusting it forward. “Skellige leather and all.”

For the first time in months, Jaskier allowed his lips to curl into a genuine smile as he gingerly took the coat from her grasp and shrugged it on. “A thousand thanks, Princess. You’ve no idea the work I did to buy this.”

He received a curt nod before the girl retreated back to her seat, tugging her cloak tighter around herself to stave off the cold. Jaskier dragged his eyes away from her shivering form and managed to turn his gaze to Geralt once more, the smile instantly falling from his lips.

“Right then,” Jaskier grasped his pack and slung it over his shoulder, dropping into a mocking bow. “It has been a true displeasure. Now, if you’ll excuse me I’d best be off.”

“Jaskier, you can’t leave,” Geralt protested, taking a step closer. Of course, with each step forward that he took, the brunette took one back, keeping just out of reach.

“Uh, can. Will. Am about to, actually,” Jaskier huffed and spun on his heel. Before he could more than a step away a hand grasped his elbow tightly.

“Jaskier, those bandits aren’t dead. They recognized Ciri, they saw you defend her. Word will spread that you helped and you’ll be wanted as well,” Geralt spoke through gritted teeth, his grip tightening with every word. If Jaskier didn’t know better, he’d assume the Witcher was worried. But of course, that couldn’t be true. Geralt rarely worried, certainly never about Jaskier.

”If life could give me one blessing”

“You need to come with us, Jaskier. It’s safer-”

“Oh, but of course,” The brunette began to laugh mockingly, tearing his arm from Geralt’s grasp and spinning to face the mutant. “I’ll just pack up my things and follow you around for another twenty fucking years! No, I’m not in the habit of making the same mistake twice. Besides, I have things I need to do.”

“Like what?” Geralt growled.

“I do have a job, Witcher, I need coin,” Jaskier crossed his arms, earning an eyeroll from the other man.

“Singing is exactly the kind of thing that will draw attention-”

“I’m not planning on singing! I’m not a fucking bard anymore,” Jaskier nearly screamed the admission. For the first time, Geralt looked shocked. His yellow eyes widened and his lips parted with an intake of air that might have been considered a gasp. Taking a deep breath, the ex-bard pushed his hair out of his face and tried to remain civilized. “Look, incase it escaped your notice, I have no problem defending myself. I don’t need your protection and I have no interest in traveling with you again. I suggest we just part ways as strangers and pray we never cross paths again.”

“Julek,” Geralt huffed, reaching forward to grasp Jaskier’s wrist, his grip much softer than it had been on his elbow. The touch was unfamiliar and Jaskier was sure the other man could feel his racing pulse through his skin. When yellow eyes met blue, they were filled with sincerity and true fear. “I don’t want to do that. I don’t want you to go.”

With a scoff, the brunette jerked his hand from the Witcher’s grasp. “Really? I distinctly remember you calling my absence a blessing.”

“Julek…” Geralt could say no more, the words trapped in his throat as always, hand extended just slightly as if to reach for Jaskier one more time.

“Master Bard,” Ciri interrupted, standing from the rock and approaching the two adults. “You may not need protection, but I do. Geralt and I have been traveling alone, trying to avoid them as best as we can, but it’s difficult by ourselves. I saw you fight those bandits. You’re strong! You could help us.”

“Listen, Ciri-”

“Master Bard, surely destiny has brought you to Geralt just as it brought Geralt to me,” The young girl tried, worrying her lip as she looked up at Jaskier with doe eyes. “Would it not be prudent to continue with us for at least a little longer? Until you are able to go about your job as you say? We could split expenses?”

Sighing, Jaskier looked from the young princesses wide eyes, to the open expression of hope on Geralt’s face. The latter seemed to fill him with more rage than anything, but the former was beginning to break his resolve. How could he say no to someone so clearly in need, especially when he had been in a similar place in his own youth, scared and confused with home far behind him.

“Fine, fucking fine,” Jaskier groaned, tipping his head back to exaggerate his contrite expression before turning to look back at Ciri. “You’d have made a fine negotiator in another life, dear Princess.”

The young woman broke out into a grin, happily skipping back to the fire as if she had just won some sort of prize. She sent a knowing look to Geralt before she picked up a stick and began poking at the fire.

“Thank you, Jaskier,” Geralt spoke, tone low, a relieved expression crossing his usually passive features. “I know you didn’t want to stay. It will be easier with you here.”

“Eat glass, Witcher,” Jaskier flashed a false smile before shouldering past the silver-haired man with far more aggression than Geralt had ever thought him capable of.

Geralt grumbled to himself, going to where Roach was and beginning to pack up their things. He watched as Jaskier kicked a rock and dug through his pack. It became very apparent that the bard hadn’t asked after or looked for his lute, which Ciri had with her things.

“Are we leaving already?” Ciri approached him, a frown on her face.

“We have to. Nilfgaard could be on our tail already. The fight at the tavern wasn’t exactly…quiet,” Geralt muttered, casting a suspicious look at Jaskier.

“On our way then?” Jaskier butted in, having obviously been eavesdropping. “Where are we heading?”

“Kaer Morhen,” Geralt answered, nodding North of them.

“Wonderful,” came Jaskier’s snide reply. “Don’t worry Witcher, I’m sure I can find somewhere to pop off to on the way. Twenty years without an invite, I’d hate to break your streak now.”

“Jask-”

“Let’s be off then,” The other man ignored him, grabbing his pack and his jacket before wandering off, leaving Geralt to lift Ciri onto Roach and lead the horse after him.

Geralt turned to Ciri, the young woman looking down at him from Roach’s back with a raised brow. The Witcher tried to give her a reassuring look. “You heard him. Off we go.”

Chapter Text

“Fight me, you cock-sucking bitch!”

Geralt was ninety-nine percent sure there was something wrong with the bard. It wasn’t just the fact that he had just witnessed Jaskier hit a man in the face with a barstool, it was more than that. Geralt and Ciri had been traveling with the ex-bard for a week now and the Witcher couldn’t exactly call his behavior normal.

“Should we do something?” Ciri asked, watching as Jaskier picked up a mug and hurled it at another man’s head, one of the friends of the guy he had hit with a barstool. She was wide-eyed and entranced by the way Jaskier moved and, Geralt had to admit, he was fascinated by the ferocity with which the bard could fight.

The Witcher had witnessed it when they first reunited, the way Jaskier moved with a practiced fluidity, dodging hits and anticipating movements like a professional. Geralt had wracked his brain to try and remember if Jaskier had ever been like that before, but he couldn’t remember ever paying seeing Jaskier display combat skills of this caliber. He had threatened a few back-alley thieves with a knife, but for the most part he seemed to rely on Geralt for protection.

That was not the case anymore.

“Maybe,” Geralt grunted, yellow eyes tracking the movements of his companion as Jaskier danced around the bar, dodging fists and countering with his own hits. “If it gets dangerous.”

The Witcher wasn’t entirely sure what had started the bar brawl, only that Jaskier insisted on going inside to barter for a room, stating that he would not sleep on the ground one more night and if Geralt didn’t like it he was free to trot along somewhere else. It had stung that his once-friend had dismissed him so easily, but Geralt was nothing if not stubborn.

With the bard busy with his fight and Ciri busy watching it like an event, Geralt was free to ruminate on the other eccentricities he had noticed thus far. For one, Jaskier had weapons now, blades and a small crossbow that he kept tucked inside his pack, along with armor. Geralt had found them when he was searching for something to tie Ciri’s hair back, assuming the bard would have something. He was always ridiculously proud of his hair.

The second thing was the nightmares. Jaskier tossed and turned in his sleep more often than not, sometimes grumbling. Geralt had even heard him cry in his sleep once, though when he woke the other man with a worried look on his face, Jaskier had nearly shouted at him to get away and marched off into the woods. When he came back, he smelled of sour fear and earthy grief. After that, it was not uncommon for Jaskier to stay up late and rise early. Geralt was afraid of receiving a verbal tongue lashing if he reached out again, yet he couldn’t brush away those horrible scents emanating from the man.

Thirdly, Jaskier was angry. There was a shimmer of rage that settled over him like a heavy blanket, wrapping his once effervescent bard in something dark and wrong. Geralt supposed that it was his own fault, his own actions that caused Jaskier to be so spiteful. The Witcher had left him on that mountain, though he hadn’t intended to. He had yelled, said horrible things, but he hadn’t intended for the shorter man to actually leave. He assumed Jaskier would wait around like he always did. Perhaps they would share a few days of awkward silence before Geralt could give a passable apology and then all would be well. But that hadn’t happened. Jaskier had left and never looked back, leaving Geralt behind, as he rightly should. Jaskier was still angry over it and Geralt couldn’t blame him one bit.

The Witcher was pulled abruptly from his thoughts when he saw the glint of a knife being pulled. He heard Ciri’s intake of breath and the way that she stepped back in fear. One of the men Jaskier had upset drew a knife, bringing his free hand up to wipe blood from his mouth. Jaskier was in the process of nearly breaking another man’s arm, back turned to the armed one. It was the moment that the knife swiped that Geralt saw red.

The silver-haired man let out a primal roar and shot across the room like an arrow, grabbing the knife-wielding man by the throat and slamming him against a table. The man was so startled he dropped the knife, the putrid scent of fear filling the air and for once, Geralt was satisfied with it.

“Geralt,” Jaskier’s voice was concerned, but his attention quickly returned to the fight at hand. Between the two of them, it was over in the blink of an eye. The floor was soon littered with men nursing injuries and the air was filled with the furious shouting of the Innkeeper.

“Get the fuck out!” The Innkeeper shouted, a burly man who looked as if he had the strength to make them leave or at least put up a good fight. He had a ladle in his hand and it was pointed threateningly at Jaskier. “Get out!”

“Good sir, I was only defending myself-” Jaskier tried to put on a charming smile, but it was offset by the bruises on his knuckles and the blood on his lips.

“I don’t give a fuck! Take your mutant guard-dog and get the fuck out of here!” The Innkeeper shouted, red in the face.

It was at that moment that Geralt began to recognize his old friend once again as Jaskier’s posture drew tall and his expression turned to one of indignation. His tone pitched higher as it always did when he was offended. “Mutant? You listened here you old pox-faced dick-juggler-”

Jaskier was once again cut off as Geralt chose this precise moment to wrap his arms around the ex-bard’s waist and toss the slightly shorter man over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. The brunette was still shouting obscenities as Geralt carried him out of the Inn.

“What a miserable old-shite,” Jaskier grumbled, having given up in his struggles and now allowing himself to be carried around like day-old laundry. Ciri trailed behind the pair, giggling at the behavior of the two men. “Can’t believe he was so upset over a minor disagreement. And to call you a mutant!”

Truthfully, Jaskier’s outrage warmed his heart. A part of him had worried his friend was truly lost to him, but Geralt was relieved to see that the other man still took issue with him being insulted. That had to mean something, surely.

“Where are we going to sleep now?” Ciri asked, jogging to catch up to Geralt’s long strides as they made their way to the stable where Roach was held.

“Another night on the dirt, I suppose,” Jaskier groaned, thoroughly upset to have his plans to rest in a soft bed ruined.

“Who’s fault is that?” Geralt reminded, taking a moment to sit the ex-bard down now that they were far from the Inn and he had settled down. The man dusted off his orange shirt as if it had been ruined by Geralt’s rough handling and not the spit and blood from the fight.

“It was those good for nothing hooligans! They started it!” Jaskier huffed, examining his nails with a critical eye.

“You sound like a child,” The Witcher rolled his eyes before putting Roach’s bridle on and leading her out of the stable. He saddled the old girl and loaded up their bags, all while keeping an eye on both Jaskier and Ciri, unsure of which was the most concern at the moment, a princess with a bounty on her head or an ex-bard who was desperately trying to fight the whole world.

“What did they do that upset you so much, Jaskier?” Ciri asked, trotting over to sit on a bale of hay near where the man in question was leaning.

Jaskier frowned and Geralt could scent the discomfort and irritation on him like rotten vegetables. Still, the ex-bard turned a sweet smile to Ciri and ruffled her hair affectionately. “Nothing to worry your sweet little head over, Darling. Some people just need to be taught a lesson or two on manners and those boys were far overdue."

“Let’s go,” Geralt interjected, assisting Ciri in getting on Roach.

He and Jaskier walked next to the horse as they marched out of town and into the night. Geralt kept a tight hold of Roach’s reins as they walked, being the only one who could see the trail passably. Jaskier had nearly tripped at one point and the Witcher was quick to grab onto the other man’s hand and drag him closer.

“What are you doing?” Jaskier practically hissed at the touch.

“Holding onto you so you don’t get lost,” Geralt answered in his usual gruff tone.

“Do you have to hold my hand?”

“I’m not holding your hand!”

“You are, you might as well lace our fingers together!”

“Do you want to fall into a ditch?”

“It would be a nice reprieve!”

“Fine, you can traipse around on your own in the-”

“Oh, of course, what else is new,” Jaskier spoke snidely, earning a look of pure fury from Geralt. Perhaps if he could see in the dark, the ex-bard might feel a bit sheepish at the way his once-friend was looking at him, but at this moment his nose was turned up in the air and he looked ridiculously haughty. When next he spoke, his tone turned deep and rumbling in an obvious imitation of the Witcher. “I’m Geralt and I like to leave innocent Bards to fend for themselves every time they don’t follow orders like a trained dog or a sorceress with a mediocre pair of tits walks by!”

“Make up your mind, you little-”

“Go on, Geralt, finish that sentence. I fucking dare you.”

“Did you guys used to be…er, together?” Ciri interjected from her position atop Roach. Both Geralt and Jaskier swiveled to face her, the pair almost tripping over a branch. The princess didn’t look ashamed at all of her question, merely curious as she tilted her head and raised an eyebrow.

Jaskier, however, looked rather shy for once, biting his lip and refusing to make eye contact with either of them. When he spoke he was careful to keep his voice even and Geralt could sense the anxiety rolling off of him in waves. “What on earth gave you that idea, princess?”

Ciri shrugged innocently. “I mean, you fight a bit like my grandmother and Eist would. And you look at each other weird?”

Jaskier scoffed. “Weird how?”

“Like sad. Like, you think the other isn’t watching and you both look…sad.”

“My dear, I am never sad,” Jaskier once again turned his nose up. “I have the finest life in the world. I have coin, freedom, and nothing and no one to hold me back.”

“Nothing and no one?” Ciri parroted back, scrunching her nose up with distaste. “Is that freedom or loneliness? Having no one to talk with or share experiences with.”

For a moment Jaskier was silent and Geralt watched him carefully out of the corner of his eye. The shorter man tugged his hand free of Geralt’s and sighed. “Princess, cohabitation does not equal companionship. You can share a road or a journey with someone, but it does not mean that they care for you or hold you in any high regard. You’re young and these are things you learn from experience, so I don’t expect you to understand.”

Geralt felt his heart clench. The ex-bard reeked of sadness and the Witcher knew it was because of him, knew his words were about Geralt and the way he had treated Jaskier over the last two decades. He couldn’t feel any more like a monster than he did at that moment, but as bad as he felt he wasn’t quite sure how to reach out and bridge the gap. Anytime he had tried to approach the other man over the course of this last week, Jaskier had either ignored him and walked away or snapped at Geralt to fuck off.

The Witcher was torn from his thoughts when he realized they had gone some distance from the village and were in a clearing perfect for camping. The trio broke into their respective jobs, Jaskier gathering firewood and setting up Ciri’s tent while the Princess went about unsaddling Roach and brushing her down. Geralt disappeared into the woods to hunt.

He managed to track down a few hares, though it took him considerably longer than he had wanted it to. By the time he had arrived back at camp, Jaskier had set up the fire and both he and Ciri were relaxing by it.

No matter how many days in a row they camped together, seeing Jaskier sit around the fire without his lute never sat right with Geralt. It was like watching a king without his crown, a Witcher without his silver sword. Jaskier without his lute was just not natural.

The pair leaned close together, Jaskier sharing some bread and jam from his own supplies with Ciri. Whatever they were saying had the Princess tipping her head back with laughter and it warmed Geralt’s heart to see his two favorite people getting along so well, even if one of those people despised Geralt like a stone stuck in his boot.

Silently, so as not to disturb the pair, Geralt went about skinning and roasting the hares. As he approached, he could make out bits of the story that Jaskier was telling Ciri, the girl’s eyes wide and her smile bright as she listened.

“And he had to fight the vampire drunk, which was actually fairly impressive,” Jaskier finished, drawing a laugh out of Ciri. Despite the fact that Jaskier was clearly telling a story about one of Geralt’s hunts, he clammed up like an antisocial old maid the moment Geralt was within sight again.

“Tell me another one,” Ciri urged, completely unaware of the ex-bard’s change in demeanor.

“I’m afraid it’ll have to wait for another time, Princess,” Jaskier flashed her a false smile, eyes slipping towards Geralt for only a moment. “I think your dinner will be ready before long.”

The brunette was right on track as a minute later Geralt deemed the hares done. He gave Ciri a whole one, his instincts telling him to provide for his daughter. The second hare was split between him and Jaskier, Geralt sneakily placing the bigger half on the other man’s plate.

They ate in near silence save for Ciri regailing them with a few random thoughts and some stories from her childhood. She had become far more chatty since Jaskier joined them and while Geralt felt slightly insulted that the princess hadn’t felt comfortable to open up as much around the Witcher, he was relieved that there was another person she felt comfortable with, someone to bring her out of her shell.

Before long, the princess had surrendered herself to sleep, tucked into a bed roll close to the fire and between Jaskier’s and Geralt’s own bed rolls. Without the young blonde to act as a conversational buffer, the camp fell silent. The only sounds were that of the forest and the cracking of the fire.

“Jaskier, about earlier-”

“Don’t,” The brunette cut him off, the mask of contentment he had been displaying for Ciri’s benefit finally falling away now that the princess was no longer conscious. “Just leave it, Witcher.”

Perhaps it was the clear dismissal for the hundredth time this week, perhaps it was the fact that Jaskier was still referring to him as ‘Witcher’ while refusing to say his name, or perhaps it was just that Geralt had never been an exceptionally patient man and this whole display was stomping all over his last nerve. Whatever it was, it was most certainly the last straw.

“For fucks sake, I’ve been trying to apologize for a fucking week and you won’t even give me the time of day!” Geralt growled, though his pitch remained low so as not to wake Ciri.

“Oh, I’m sorry, are you suddenly interested in me speaking? After twenty years of ‘shut up Jaskier’ and ‘quit bleating at me Jaskier’ you want to have a conversation?” The laugh that Jaskier let out was humorless and his lips had twisted into a cruel sneer. “Let me just rearrange everything, bend to your will, answer your beck and call just like the good ol days. Here you have my full attention, Geralt, as you always did. Speak, go on.”

The Witcher felt his face flush with humiliation, not sure how to react to being so openly mocked by his once friend. “You’re being an ass. I’m trying to apologize.”

“Try,” Jaskier raised one brow expectantly. “Go on. I’m waiting.”

Feeling as if he were a jester on stage, Geralt took a deep breath and tried to steel his nerves. Even if Jaskier was determined to be a bastard about it, Geralt would make his apologies. “I’m sorry for leaving you on the mountain. I’m sorry for hurting you. Please forgive me.”

Geralt’s words were met with a derisive scoff. “That’s it? You’re serious? You wish me away, tell me all your problems are my fault, and then abandon me at the top of a mountain and that’s all you have to say?”

“I-” The Witcher was at a loss. He had never been good at apologies, never had much need of them in Kaer Morhen. Most disagreements were settled with a brawl in the yard. “I can try-”

“Look, Witcher,” Jaskier’s shoulders slumped and for the first time, when he looked at Geralt it wasn’t with anger or betrayal, it was with a heavy exhaustion, as if the weight of the world were on his shoulders and the burden was finally bringing him to his knees. “I’m not interested in a half assed apology and to be honest, I don’t know if I would have it in me to forgive even a real one. I’m tired and things are…different now. Not just between us, but for me. I have commitments, things I have to give my full attention to. We’ve made it into Kaedwen, you won’t have a problem protecting Ciri on your own. I think it’s best if we part ways. I have business in Daevon, I’ll make my own way in the morning.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt took a step closer, reaching out one hand to grasp the ex-bard’s shoulder, forcing the other man to look at him. “Please. Stay with us. Come to Kaer Morhen with me.”

Jaskier was already shaking his head and his eyes looked suspiciously wet. “I can’t. I won’t do it again. I won’t let myself… I just can’t.”

The shorter man slipped out of his grasp and began to back away. There was a flash of something in his eyes, a change that Geralt twisted to try and track, but the other man ducked his head and trudged over to his bedroll, flopping down on it with surprisingly little flair.

It took the Witcher longer to settle onto his own bedroll, his chest aching and his lungs tight. He couldn’t relax with his mind abuzz at the fact that Jaskier planned to leave. The first time had been his fault and Geralt would give anything to take it back. This time, he couldn’t let it happen again. He would try to talk to Jaskier in the morning, maybe a good nights sleep would help them both gain a clear head.

Yet, as Geralt settled in for bed, he couldn’t help but think of the way that Jaskier’s eyes had looked before he went to bed. Something about them had changed, shifted unlike before. For a moment, Geralt could have swore they changed from their usual beautiful cerulean color to a deep amber.

Chapter Text

It was still dark when Jaskier managed to rouse himself. Geralt was on the other side of the campsite, blissfully asleep. The assassin had managed to reawaken his sneaking skills since the incident on the mountain, thus he was able to gather his things with little concern for waking his old friend.

By the time the sun rose, Jaskier was nearly to Daevon. He tried not to think of anything that had happened the past week, tried to wipe Geralt from his memory and cling onto the anger and hatred he had left the mountain with and cradled like an injured dog favoring its wounded leg. He refused to think of how Ciri would feel when she woke and the brunette was gone.

Still, Jaskier had little time to ruminate on these thoughts. He hadn’t been lying to Geralt when he said he had business in Daevon. Yesterday, before the bar fight that got them kicked out of town, Jaskier had been able to receive word from one of his people’s crows. It was a short letter, just a name and a town. Daevon, Erling Helvig.

The assassin knew that he would have to make his way there and he preferred to do it without the weight of a man he loathed (not really, said that traitorous voice) and a princess he couldn’t take responsibility for at this precise moment.

Daevon itself was a modest city, not especially large and not especially small. The moment civilization was in sight, Jaskier stepped to the side of the road and sat in the dirt.

Being a changeling in his line of work, was especially useful. However, Jaskier had never mastered the art of an easy change. Since most changelings could only shift into something they had already seen, he often had to take a moment to meditate and contour his body into that of another. It wasn’t a particularly long or arduous process, it merely took a moment of concentration that was often a bit of struggle for someone as flighty as he was.

This time, feeling a bit vindictive, Jaskier conjured the image of another recruit he had known when he was younger, a nasty boy who had often mocked Jaskier for his sub-par combat skills and had once even pissed on Jaskier’s pillow after the young changeling had bested him in one of their stealth courses. Rainier, was the little bastard's name.

The last time Jaskier had seen him had been almost a year ago when he and Geralt had been hunting a Bruxa in a town outside Novigrad. Thankfully, Rainier hadn’t outed Jaskier’s…side job, but he had been as snide and pompous as he was when they were training. The little shit had even attempted to flirt with Geralt before the Witcher excused himself to his room and Jaskier dragged Rainier into the alley and kicked his ass. Sub-par combat, sure. Jaskier was sure it didn’t feel so sub-par when he was picking his teeth out of the mud.

After a moment of pure concentration, Jaskier’s hair took on an orange tone and freckles littered his cheeks. Blue eyes turned green and his skin took on a paler tone. Satisfied, the ex-bard grabbed his things and finished the last trek into the city. At least now if he got sloppy or caught, Rainier would likely catch the flack for it instead of Jaskier.

First, he had to get information. He had to find out who Erling was. As a rule, Jaskier never looked into why he was supposed to kill these people. Often it was just a result of petty politics. ‘This person had slighted this woman at a ball and so her husband wanted him killed’ sort of thing. Other times, they were actually guilty of something horrible and Jaskier’s higher ups were contacted by a victim. Rarely, it was a good person who just so happened to be on the shit list of a horrible person. Ciaran had once been tasked with killing a Kaedwan Commander who refused to lead a raid through a friendly village. The elder man had told Jaskier that story over dinner one evening with a distinct frown on his usually smirking lips.

In search of information, the best place to stop was a local tavern. The first one in sight was a shambly little place named The Bear Cave, which didn’t make Jaskier feel as if he would be particularly welcome there, but he could hold his own.

Inside was warm, warmer than Jaskier had felt since they crossed into the Northern Territory. The walls were decorated with hunting trophies and the place looked surprisingly clean, despite its outward appearance. It looked to be a slow day, only a few patrons littering the tables. One in particular caught Jaskier’s eye, a large body covered by a thick fur-cloak, the hood tugged up over any identifiable features. Choosing to ignore the ominous person, Jaskier approached the bar and schooled his features into a look of apprehension, his performance skills shining through during moments like this.

“Excuse me, good sir,” His tone was meek, eyes wide like an innocent lad. “Could you tell me where I could find an Erling Helvig? I’ve been contracted to work for him.”

The barkeep looked apprehensive, raising a bushy brow at Jaskier. “Hired without knowing where to go?”

Jaskier flashed a sheepish grin, scrambling for an explanation. “I took a bit of a tumble crossing a creek. The papers with his information were ruined, I’m afraid.”

It was a long moment before the barkeep grunted and nodded towards the door. “His father owns a manor east of the city. Old fort that they refurbished. It’s easy enough to spot.”

“Ah, thank you, sir,” Jaskier gave a slight bow of his head and left the tavern, not noticing the lack of a cloaked figure in the corner. The chill hit him almost instantly and Jaskier suddenly wished he had picked a more practical coat. With the money from this contract, he would likely need to buy some supplies to fight the oncoming winter. Whether he stuck around in Kaedwen awhile or not, he would have to fight the cold sooner or later.

Of course, life could never give Jaskier a break, Destiny was a tenacious bitch. He had made it no more than three feet when he spotted a familiar head of silver hair astride a chestnut mare, a small hooded figure riding behind him. Hanging from the saddle was Jaskier’s lute, which he had surprisingly not even realized he left behind.

Oh how he had changed.

Jaskier let out a groan, unsure as to why the Witcher was in Daevon. Kaer Morhen was Northeast and more than once Geralt had told him that he preferred to cut through the forests to lessen the journey. Surely now that would have been the logical move, especially since keeping Ciri from being recognized was top priority.

Thankfully, Jaskier was still disguised and so Geralt paid absolutely no attention to him as he passed by, even brushing against the assassin as he dismounted Roach and headed towards the tavern Jaskier had just exited.

Suddenly, Geralt stopped and began to scent the air, his nose twitching a bit before those amber eyes whirled around and zeroed in on Jaskier. It took all of his training to keep calm, to prevent his heart from hammering out of his chest.

“Hey,” Came Geralt’s gruff voice as the Witcher approached, looking Jaskier up and down like he was prey, and not in the salacious way Jaskier had always dreamed of being looked at by the other man. This seemed more like Geralt was going to eat him. “Where did you get those clothes?”

“Oh, er…” Jaskier stumbled over his words for possibly the first time in his life, eyes shifting like a child trying to lie to their mother for the first time. “A man gave them to me. Traded, actually. He said he didn’t want to be noticed and they were too…flashy?”

Geralt’s lips curled and he snatched the lapels of Jaskier’s jacket, dragging him closer. “You’re lying.”

If he were any other man, the assassin might be scared. But, Jaskier could never fear Geralt, even if the man looked as if he were going to lop the brunette’s head off. If anything, Jaskier found the whole thing infuriatingly arousing, but now wasn’t the time to dig into that. Right now, the idiot Witcher was about to blow Jaskier’s whole plan and disguise to shit if he didn’t get out of this right now.

“Look, I promise, I am being one hundred percent-” Without finishing his sentence, Jaskier gave a sharp kick to Geralt’s shin. While it didn’t do any serious damage, it did startle the Witcher enough the Jaskier was able to wiggle out of his jacket, grab his bag and make a break for it.

The ex-bard zig-zagged through alleys at a break-neck pace until he was sure that the Witcher would lose his trail among the late afternoon foot traffic of the city. When he finally stopped to catch his breath, Jaskier tried his best to formulate a plan.

It occurred to him as much as Geralt blamed him for his problems, it wasn’t as if the Witcher had never caused issues for Jaskier. Today was not especially out of the ordinary. It would take both hands and feet to count the amount of times Geralt had unwittingly ruined many potential contracts for Jaskier, yet the ex-bard had never mentioned it.

Shaking the bitter thoughts from his head, he took the first step to getting rid of Geralt, which included ditching his clothes. A young man of roughly the same shape and build passed by and Jaskier quickly grabbed his elbow.

“Excuse me,” Jaskier batted his eyes and tried to seem unassuming. “Would you trade clothes with me?”

“What?” The young man seemed startled.

“Look,” Jaskier tugged at his fine silks. “You could trade these for a lot of money. This is Temerian silk!”

“Are you wanted or something?” The young man asked with apprehension.

“Only by an annoying old…traveling…person,” Jaskier answered awkwardly. “Not by anyone who could get you in trouble. I’ll even throw in three coins if you like.”

The young man shrugged and followed Jaskier into a nearby alley before beginning to strip. Before he knew it, Jaskier was short of good silk and three coins, but he was inconspicuously dressed.

Next, he had to change his face. After a few moments of observation, Jaskier was able to shift and change to match a passerby. He knew he would have to change once again before making his move on Erling as he wasn’t willing to get an innocent villager in trouble, but for now it would help him escape Geralt’s eyes.

If he hadn’t been in the middle of a shift, Jaskier might have been more observant. He might have heard the crunch of footsteps on stale snow. However, he was soon made acutely aware of a knife against his throat and a hard body pressed against his back.

Caught off-guard, Jaskier took a deep breath and tried to think of a way out of this. The knife was too close to his jugular for him to make any sudden moves, his best chance was to verbally disarm his opponent.

“Good sir,” Jaskier started, his tone neutral and calm. “I assure you that you don’t wish to do this. If it’s coin you’re after, we can work something out, but I can promise you that trying to harm me will not end well for you.”

“You think it will end badly for me?” That voice was familiar, a deep rumble that sent a shiver down Jaskier’s spine and set his heart to thumping. “You could never beat me as kids, I can’t imagine that’s changed now, Julek.”

With trembling fingers, Jaskier grasped the hand holding the knife and gently tugged it from his hands. The hand moved easily enough and the brunette was able to twist in the other man’s grasp to look into familiar steel blue eyes.

“Damir?” When Jaskier spoke, it was full of wonder, his heart beating a rhythm into his chest so hard he was sure if he opened his shirt his sternum would be blue.

“Hello, Julek.”