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When he was a child, there was a time—about a year, maybe a little less—where Jaskier lived near a river that led deep into the forest.
He'd been warned from it, of course. His nanny at the time had spoken of evil things that lured unfortunate souls into their grasps, that used song and voice to snare little boys like him and eat them. Don't follow the water, Julian, she'd said, or you'll be eaten, too.
Jaskier hadn't believed her.
He'd followed the river, scrambling along its bank as he darted his way into the forest. It was a warm summer day, and birds chirped merrily, and rabbits hopped through the grass. He doesn't remember what had drawn him to the trees in the first place, but he remembers distinctly being unafraid of the thought of glowing eyes in the shadows, of haunting melodies on the wind.
And haunting it had been—he'd stopped to watch the fish in the river, perched on a rock, when his ears pricked at the soft, sad song being sung from somewhere. He tilted his head, listening, and found himself continuing along the river, deeper and deeper into the trees.
It was pretty, he remembers that. A song of loneliness, of yearning, and his little heart ached with something he had no words for. Hand pulling at the hem of his shirt, he'd stepped through a circle of towering oak trees and paused at the edge of a large pool.
His eyes were wide as he took in the figure in the middle, sitting atop a large rock. She was beautiful in the most eerie way, blue-grey skin shimmering in the faint rays of sunlight that managed to slice through the thick canopy of leaves above them, dark hair cascading like waves down her back and over her breasts. The still water of the pool rippled when she moved her tail, a long, sleek appendage of the deepest black.
She turned her head at the sound of his approach, song fading as her white eyes landed on him. She had no pupils. Her nose was scattered with freckles. Jaskier could not look away.
What is your name? she asked. Her voice was musical, chiming through the air.
Julian, Jaskier told her. He wished his voice was the same.
Did you follow my song?
Yes.
Did you like it?
It was very pretty, but very sad. Why are you sad?
She did not answer, merely cocked her head. Her hair fell across her face like ink.
You are not afraid.
Jaskier was not.
No.
At that, she smiled, lips curling up to reveal sharp teeth.
You should be.
She was right, but Jaskier felt no fear standing at the edge of the hidden pool. It was silent, the twitter of the birds long gone, and there was no movement except for the way her tail swayed beneath the glass-like surface of the water. From the shadows between the trees around them, Jaskier felt eyes watching him, but even those did not scare him.
What are you? he asked, curious. She tilted her head the other way, tossed her hair from her white eyes.
Have you ever heard of sirens, Julian?
That was the first time Jaskier had met a siren. Her name was Nauleh, and she taught him how to sing, along with other things about her kind. He came to her many days that summer, stealing away from his nanny and his keepers to listen to her songs, sitting at the edge of the pool. Nauleh never moved closer than her rock in the middle, and Jaskier knew not to step into the water himself.
Do you eat little boys like me? he'd asked, and Nauleh had smiled her sharp-tooth grin at him.
As often as I can.
Looking back, Jaskier thinks that was probably the biggest indicator of how his life would go—namely that he'd be drawn to the things that everyone else shied away from, that he'd make company of monsters and friends of beasts, confidantes of things that would kill him and lovers of everything in between.
That he'd give his heart to a witcher.
Loving Geralt isn't a surprise, but realizing it had happened without him being aware of it is novel. Jaskier prides himself on falling in love as easily as breathing, but it's different with the witcher—deeper, softer, calmer, more all-consuming —and Jaskier knows he'll never love another like he loves his White Wolf.
Which is why, when Jaskier finds himself standing at the edge of a lake, watching in dawning horror as Geralt wades out into what he thinks is a selkiemore and turns out to be a siren, he feels his breath catch, tight in his lungs, his blood going cold in his veins, and thinks, wildly, hysterically, I could stop this, but can't make himself move.
It was supposed to be a routine hunt. The men that had approached them in the tavern had spoken of people disappearing by the lake not quite half a day's ride outside of town. None of them had mentioned anything about hearing singing on the wind, so Geralt had surmised it must be a selkiemore using the place as hunting grounds.
They'd offered a decent amount of coin if the witcher could solve their problem, because those were hardworking hands being taken from them, and their little town was struggling enough as it was.
It's not much, they'd said, handing over a bag heavy with coin, but we're all family here. Help us, witcher.
At the time, Jaskier had been pleasantly surprised by their easy acceptance of Geralt's presence and general friendly treatment toward him. It warmed his heart that at least one place welcomed him if not with open arms, then at least not hostile ones.
Geralt had told them he'd take a look the next day, as it had been rather late, and he and Jaskier had retired to bed not long after. He'd taken time to craft a Killer Whale potion for the fight, and then laid with his head in Jaskier's lap as he scribbled in his notebook, working out the lyrics for his next song, trying not to think about how his heart was attempting to beat out of his chest and how Geralt could most definitely hear it.
Gods, but he's so in love he aches.
They set out bright and early that morning, planning to reach the lake just after midday. The river keeps them company and on track, and Jaskier, briefly, thinks back to that year as a child when he'd met a stunningly beautiful creature hidden in the forest that called to him with song.
He hasn't told Geralt about that yet. For one, Geralt thinks he lacks a sense of self-preservation as it is—which is not untrue, per se, but more that he feels the risks are worth it more often than not, because what good is life if you don't live it?— but also because how do you tell a witcher you've preferred keeping the company of monsters since you were a child and not implicate a confession in there?
So he bites his tongue on that memory and talks instead of the current hunt, and the song he wants to write, and how Geralt will need to give him details because he wants it to be accurate but also an engaging tale and I can't do that with so few things to tell, Geralt, really, you need to open up more, and Geralt just hm s and keeps leading Roach down the path, Jaskier trailing beside him.
They reach the lake as the sun crests in the sky. Geralt ties Roach to a tree several meters away before drawing his sword and the potion from his pack. He downs it in one swallow and hands the empty vial to Jaskier, and Jaskier takes it carefully, watching as he lets it work before turning to the lake to draw out the selkiemore.
Except it isn't a selkiemore.
It's a siren.
Her song is just as haunting as Nauleh's had always been, low and quiet over the stillness of the lake. It curls around his ears, digging into his chest and pulling at something tucked carefully behind his ribs. It's yearning and pleading and begging and wanting and Jaskier feels it so viscerally in his own heart he nearly steps forward as well; it's gold eyes warm in the flames of a campfire, snow white hair around his fingers as he combs it, a rough laugh teased from such a stoic mouth that Jaskier desperately, longingly wants to press his own to and taste on his tongue.
He forces himself to a stop, fists clenched against the urge to come closer, Julian, come closer and instead focuses on Geralt. His witcher is thigh-deep in the lake and moving closer, sword limp in his hand, focused completely on the emerging form. Her hair is as dark as Nauleh's, though her skin is a lighter baby blue where Nauleh's had been like storm clouds. Her eyes are white, pupil-less, and her full lips spread in an enchanting smile as Geralt comes closer.
Jaskier feels panic in his chest. "Geralt!" he shouts, moving to the edge of the water. Do not enter the water, Nauleh's voice warns him, even now. That is how we get you. "Geralt!"
Geralt is lost to him, though, and that thought hits worse than the yearning in his chest. The siren doesn't move, but her song continues, the witcher fully in her snare. He's getting closer, and his sword has slipped completely from his hand.
No.
Jaskier freezes where he is, the water inches from his boots. He looks at it, Nauleh's voice loud in his ears.
In the water, you are ours.
But he can't lose Geralt. He can't.
Jaskier makes a choice. He steps into the lake, the chilled water immediately pulling him in, and there's no going back.
"Hey!"
The siren glances over at him, her song lingering in the air. Her gaze pierces him, but Jaskier isn't afraid—not of her, never of monsters—and he wades further in.
"Let him go!" he shouts, following the same path Geralt had taken. Geralt is still, now, expression lax in a trance, the water at his hips. The tight knot in his chest loosens ever so slightly, knowing his witcher is still alive. Jaskier moves his foot along the lake's bed, searching.
The siren cocks her head to the side, curiosity in her expression. Jaskier recognizes it in her white eyes.
"Why are you not affected?"
Jaskier forces a laugh past his lips, taking another step. His foot collides with something hard and metal. "You think you're the first siren to try? I've never seen the appeal, honestly."
Something lights in her white eyes, and though she has no pupils, Jaskier knows she looks between him and Geralt. Her teeth are razor-sharp when she bares them.
"Everyone is tempted by something," she says, her voice ringing like bells in the late afternoon air. "Even you, bard."
She isn't wrong—as a child, Jaskier was tempted to Nauleh by her song, the way her voice carried on the wind, the promise of adventure by chasing it through the trees. Sad and longing it was, and as he grew older, Jaskier recognized it as the yearning for experience, for life, and he's always been tempted by it.
The song calls to you because you want what you think you do not have, Nauleh had told him, during one of her many lessons on her kind. Jaskier was so, so curious, and he'd asked many questions about sirens.
What did I want? Jaskier had asked. His bare toes stayed at the edge of the lake, desperate to dip in, but held back carefully.
Nauleh had given him a soft look.
You want freedom.
And she'd been right: Jaskier had thought he didn't have freedom as a child. He'd been under the watchful eyes of nannies and keepers and his distant mother and father. He'd had expectations that weighed on his shoulders and kept him down. He'd been shackled by the responsibilities waiting for him once he'd grown older.
But he did have freedom—the freedom to choose to change his circumstances.
So he'd left, and he hadn't looked back as he chased his freedom.
The siren now continues watching him, pinning him in place with her white, empty gaze. Geralt remains motionless just before him, staring unseeing into the distance. The sword he'd dropped is next to Jaskier's foot beneath the water, and Jaskier thinks frantically how he might reach it without giving away his plans.
"Let him go," he says again, pleading. He lifts his foot slowly, slowly, hoping to raise the hilt enough to grab it. "Let him go, find other hunting grounds, we'll leave you be."
She laughs at this, and the sound travels up his spine. Jaskier shudders, not quite unpleasantly.
"I like you," she says, "but you won't be leaving at all, bard."
And she begins singing again, this time for Jaskier specifically. It's a song about heartache, and longing, and lust, curling around his heart and weaving through his mind, urging him to stay, rest, let all your cares wash away, he's here for you, and Jaskier's gaze slides to Geralt, who has turned to face him, gold eyes lidded and empty.
He could be yours, the song whispers. You want him. Come to him.
But—
It's not right.
Geralt is his. The White Wolf belongs to Jaskier, as his muse, as his best friend, as his greatest companion. Perhaps he hasn't said it with his words, terrible as he is with them, but Jaskier knows Geralt loves him, in his own quiet, tender way.
The song calls to you with what you think you do not have.
But Jaskier knows he has Geralt's love. Perhaps there is more he wants, but he has Geralt, and that is enough.
As quick as he can, Jaskier hefts the sword from the water. It's weighty, and he nearly stumbles with it—too heavy for him, balanced for a witcher, not a human—but it's enough to shock the siren into silence, the spell of her song breaking completely. Geralt breathes in suddenly, deeply, and collapses into the water, coughing, and Jaskier moves forward as fast as he can in the waist-high water, falling back into ingrained movements he hasn't had to use in years to swing the sword forward at the siren's head.
She ducks, baring her sharp teeth and screeching, the pitch grating against Jaskier's ears and making him flinch, nearly losing his grip on the sword. He grits his teeth, pushes through it, and swings it around again in moves he's seen Geralt use, though his witcher is leagues more graceful than he is. It catches the end of her tail as she lifts it from the water to push him away, and she screeches again, this time in pain. Jaskier moves back then, a tactical retreat, because he's still waist-deep in the lake and he won't be able to move fast enough if he doesn't get back to shallower water.
"Geralt!" he shouts, looking for his witcher. Geralt has moved away, most likely thinking the same, and Jaskier scrambles after him.
"Wretched bard!" the siren shouts, and the musical quality of her voice distorts in her fury, clanging like off-key bells. "You and your witcher will die!"
Jaskier trips back, avoiding the long tail that swipes at him, and finds himself steadied by strong hands. He looks up to see Geralt, gold eyes alive with fury once again, and his heart beats faster behind his ribs. Without thinking, he holds up the sword, offering it to his witcher.
"I do believe this is yours."
Geralt grunts, taking the sword and gently—oh, so gently—pushing Jaskier behind him. "Go get Killer Whale for me. Whiskey-colored vial. Watch her tail."
He doesn't have to be told twice—Jaskier moves as fast as he can towards the shore, turning back once he's there to watch Geralt. He stands in the shallows, sword ready and waiting. He's on guard now, won't be taken under the spell so easily again should the siren attempt it. She's wise, though, and Jaskier knows she won't be rash to attack.
Not yet.
He makes it to Roach in record time, calming her with soothing words when she snuffs and jitters in place anxiously, smelling the panic on him. He digs into Geralt's pack as soon as she's settled, looking for the indicated potion.
Geralt has been teaching him about the potions, the concoctions witchers make and consume to help them during hunts, explaining their uses to Jaskier in low murmurs around the campfire while they rested. It's intimate, how they sit close, heads together as Geralt points out the ingredients, what they do, how to mix them to get the desired effects in the potions.
It's a look into Geralt that Jaskier hadn't thought he'd get, and he treasures it every time his witcher opens up with him, shows him more.
Jaskier shakes himself and grabs the vial of Killer Whale, a honey brown color similar to whiskey, like Geralt had told him. He gives Roach one last reassuring pat, then rushes back toward the lake where Geralt still remains in the shallows, eyes trained solely on the siren. She remains mostly submerged, watching him in return, waiting, waiting.
As if sensing him, Geralt holds his hand out as Jaskier reaches him, and Jaskier puts the vial, opened, into it. He throws it back in one swallow, tossing the vial away after, and swings his sword around.
"Get back."
Jaskier does as told, even though his heart is racing and his blood is pumping heavily through his veins with adrenaline. The siren sees the shift, and bares her teeth once again, a sharp yell piercing the air as she opens her mouth.
"I will not be moved!"
The fight is a masterpiece as it always is when Jaskier watches Geralt in action. He moves like he's dancing, long limbs and hair flying as he spins and slashes his sword. Even in the water, he moves effortlessly, unhindered, and the siren finds her tail nearly cleaved right in half after a long stroke goes right down the middle of it. Her blood immediately spreads in the lake, turning the water silver and shimmering like moonbeams.
She screeches, long and anguished, full of pain and anger, and Geralt ends it with a quick strike to her neck, her head falling back into the water with a splash and her body following shortly. He stands still, breathing heavily, and Jaskier watches him until he turns around.
There's a slash of silver blood along his cheek. Jaskier feels the urge to wipe it away surge in him and he lets it loose as Geralt approaches him, reaching up and using his thumb to clear it. His witcher remains motionless, gold eyes staring intensely at Jaskier. Jaskier avoids his gaze, feeling hot beneath the collar, heart still racing. His fingers tremble ever so slightly against Geralt's cheek.
"Jaskier."
Jaskier bites his lip, keeping his eyes on Geralt's collar. His hand stays on Geralt's cheek, thumb caressing softly against the rough of his stubble.
"Yes, Geralt?"
One of his big, warm hands comes to cover Jaskier's. "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine." His voice cracks.
Geralt hums. His eyes haven't left Jaskier, he can feel them boring into him, into the deepest part of his soul.
"That wasn't your first siren, was it?"
Jaskier shakes his head, still reluctant to look up at his witcher. "Her name was Nauleh," he says quietly. "I was, oh, six, maybe? Very young. And she lived in a lake hidden in the forest around our manor at the time."
He tells Geralt of a summer day spent in the woods, of hearing a song on the wind and following it to its source, curious child he was. He describes the storm cloud color of Nauleh's skin, the inky darkness of her hair as it fell in waves over her shoulders. Speaks of the way her voice chimed in the air like crystals, drawing him in, right to the edge of that lake, and how he'd wished his voice was like it, too.
"She was the most mesmerizing thing I'd ever seen," Jaskier tells him, wonder still in his voice all these years later. "The first creature I'd seen that I knew could kill me, would kill me were she so inclined. It was...awe-inspiring."
"You were lucky," Geralt says, just as softly, "that she wasn't so inclined."
"She told me she was. She told me she ate little boys like me as often as she could." Jaskier chuckles. "Looking back, I probably should have been scared, but I was just awestruck."
"You've always been strange." Jaskier looks up to see Geralt grinning. "Part of your charm."
"Yeah, well."
They stand quietly for a moment longer, until Jaskier finally pulls his hand away, fingertips trailing over Geralt's cheek, burning where their skin makes contact. They tingle even after he drops it down to his side, gripping at the hem of his jacket. Geralt sheaths his sword and continues watching him with a look in his gold eyes that Jaskier is too nervous to examine too closely.
"There aren't many people," Geralt starts, "that can successfully avoid a siren snare. It's a particular magic, very picky."
"Only works if you think you don't have something," Jaskier confirms, eyes askance. "Yes, I know."
Nauleh had explained the particularity of their song magic, how it worked only on those deeply yearning for something, whether they realized it or not.
If you know you have it, she'd said, then we cannot tempt you with promises of it. You will not be fooled by the song.
So it's a trick? Jaskier had asked, weaving together a crown of dandelions. It's not real?
It is real enough.
"What did she sing to you?"
"What did she sing to you?" Jaskier counters, desperate to change the subject, to push the spotlight off himself. His chest is tight, his lungs suffocating behind his ribs, and he feels exposed, vulnerable under the intense gaze of his witcher, who sees all of him as he is.
Surprising him completely in a show of vulnerability of his own, Geralt answers, "Of you."
"What?"
"She sang of you," Geralt repeats, and now he looks away when Jaskier looks up at him. "Her song was of blue eyes and sweet lullabies. Calloused fingers with the gentlest touch. It couldn't be anyone else."
It couldn't be anyone else.
No, Jaskier supposed, it couldn't. The tight feeling in his chest releases, and suddenly he feels light, like he might just float away, buoyant and unchained and unshackled by anything on the earth.
Oh.
"Oh."
"Oh, indeed," Geralt agrees. He looks back at Jaskier, gold eyes—beautiful gold eyes, pure rays of sunlight in the afternoon, the most precious of metals, so, so precious to Jaskier—warm and lit with hope.
Hope that Jaskier will be kind with his battered and aching heart that feels so much and holds so much caring and compassion and love even though the world would say it shouldn't, and that he will handle it gently even though he doesn't want it.
Oh, but I do—I do want it.
"She sang to me of adventure," Jaskier says, because Geralt must know, "of bravery and kindness. Of loneliness and yearning. Of you."
Despite the confession, Geralt's brow furrows. His hand reaches for Jaskier, hovering just inches from his jacket, wanting to touch, to grasp, but holding back. Jaskier aches for it, for him.
"But—how?"
How did you escape the song? How did it not affect you as it did me?
How did you know I felt the same?
"You've always spoken more in actions than words," Jaskier says, kindly. "I suppose I was bound to learn your unique language at some point."
"Why didn't you say anything?"
Jaskier smiles a little helplessly. "I guess I thought I was being obvious and you were just being kind to spare my feelings. Even you wouldn't stoop as low as mocking me for that."
The way Geralt growls at just the idea of it reassures Jaskier, tells him he's right. "Idiot bard," Geralt grunts, and Jaskier scoffs in offense, words on his tongue ready to shoot back, but they're caught and thrown aside when big, warm hands wrap around him, pulling him into a broad chest and holding him tight.
Jaskier is stunned for a moment, then curls into Geralt, wrapping his arms around his witcher and pressing as close as he can get. It's not close enough. Geralt tucks his nose into his hair and breathes deeply, scenting him, and Jaskier relaxes into his hold.
We give promises that do not mean anything, Nauleh tells him. She lifts her tail from the water, droplets running in rivulets back to the lake and making it shimmer. Her expression is almost bored as she looks at it. Like a parent might promise a child that there is no monster under their bed, waiting to eat them. A song to calm them, reassure them they need not fear.
Like a lullaby?
Nauleh grins at him, her white eyes glowing in the late evening light.
Yes, Julian. Exactly like that.
A sweet, empty lullaby.