Chapter Text
Jaskier is still sitting on the desk when Magdalena comes in, watching the construct melt. He glances up without worry – the quiet little bells that would alert him of enemies approaching are still. He studies her and feels something in his chest ease.
She hasn't changed out of her ruby and gold-colored performing garb yet – her upper arms are still scandalously uncovered in a way that would get her tsked at on the streets. Her elbow-length gloves are stage lace – if one isn't looking closely enough, it almost looks real – and is neatly tied on the underside to make them fit as if made for her. Her lips are still the bright red only seen on poisonous things in nature. The lip tint is perfect after all the singing, though he can see that the heavy kohl around her eyes is starting to blur. She flashes him a smile and he can't help but return it for a moment. His smile fades as soon as he remembers the last person in the room.
“Is he gone?” he asks.
He listens as Magdalena hums in response and finishes off the last of the blackberries before taking a cloth from the desk and wiping the inside of the bowl clean. She then flips it over, revealing a dark mirror in the hollow underside. The reflected light catches him in the eye as she sets it down and he watches her movements. She runs her fingertip around the edge of the mirror before singing her spell.
“Oh, let the world come at you, love
Like distant toms a-drumming
Love, run! The song you know's begun.”
The mirror chimes and Jaskier can't help but glance down at the spelled glass. The surface of the mirror ripples like a stone dropped in the middle of a lake and they both breathe a slow breath of relief.
“Fuck.” The word's ripped out like a hard cough.
Magdalena lets out a throaty laugh. “You weren't ready for him, were you, songbird?” She leans against him, her hip propped against the desk.
“Not in the slightest,” he agrees, resting his head beside hers. They curl up with one another like two lonely alley cats. One of her arms snakes around his waist and he inhales the smell of her hair. “Did you get a good look at him?”
“Mm, yes, Lovely bone structure, your witcher.” She nudges him with the side of her head. “Looked like a kicked dog, though. I take it you had something to do with that?”
He sighs in response. “As soon as he came in, the bells started ringing. I was expecting another fucking assassin, not the bastard who tried to rip my heart out on a mountaintop.”
“And how'd the new charm work out?” Her free hand heads towards his navel and he flinches away.
“Still sore as hell, thank you very much. But the damned thing did work.” He presses his palm gently around the ring piercing his navel, feels the tiny bells hanging from it. “It was a strong enough vibration to feel, and weak enough that I don't think he even noticed it.”
“Hmm, that's right – witcher senses.” She laces her gloved fingers through Jaskier's, squeezing gently. “Well, I'll be letting the Grasper know that the test run was successful.”
He squeezes her fingers back. “Thank you.” He starts to pull away but she reels him back in with the arm around his waist.
“I'm not done with you yet, my lad.”
He lets out a soft amused noise and settles against her again. “Oh, really? How may I be of service, my lady?”
Magdalena hums for a moment, then untangles their fingers. She retrieves a folded piece of parchment from where it was tucked under her chemise, held in place by the strap of her kirtle. “He left this for you.”
Jaskier takes it with a faintly amused smile. His dear friend has a dreadful tendency to tuck things everywhere except in her actual belt pouches, and this was no exception. He begins to unfold the parchment. A whiff of both her hard sweat from the set earlier and the smell of leather and horse that anything of Geralt's catches after mere seconds in his care rises to his nose.
It is an... interesting odor, but Jaskier's amusement fades as he reads the note.
I have no desire to impose on you further, but I thought that this might prove helpful to you in the future. I know now that you're much better able to protect yourself than I first assumed. With the war coming however, I thought any extra bit of protection would be useful.
More than anything, I want to make sure that the people I care about are safe, and while I have been terrible about expressing it, I count you as one of those people. I hope we meet again, and that by then I can prove myself to be a more worthy companion.
Be safe. Please.
“Oh, you bastard,” Jaskier breathes. He blinks hard for a moment and thinks about just how his twenty-five year old self would have responded to such a declaration.
He would have been a mess. To be honest, he probably would have been a mess no matter how old he was if Geralt had actually spoken the words. As it is, he can tell that the spiky, carefully-printed words – had he ever seen Geralt's handwriting before? - will be seared in his mind for years to come.
Magdalena laughs softly. “Such a complete and utter sod, clearly.” She nudges him with the pouch that appeared in her hand as he'd read the note. “This was the other thing he left for you.”
He sets the note aside on the desk and takes the pouch. He can feel the gentle hum of magic through the cloth, and with fingers that shake ever-so-faintly he opens it.
Silver gleams gently in the darkness, but as Jaskier hooks his fingers around the item and pulls he sees that it's not just silver. Supple leather and shining silver slides out and keeps sliding out until he has a beautiful lute strap in his hand. The leather has clearly been worked by a master – the stitches along the edge are evenly spaced, and the detail on the design is intricate without being overdone. The coin-sized silver studs are more amateur – unevenly flattened, and the symbols are irregular in their depth. They are, however, placed well, filling the spaces left by the leatherworker in an aesthetically pleasing pattern. The studs also thrum with power, and if he's not mistaken Jaskier thinks that the symbols have been darkened with blood.
It's when he looks at the strap in its entirety and he registers the repeating patterns that he has to close his eyes and focus on breathing in a slow and steady pace.
Dandelions and forget-me-nots. His favorite flowers, for all that the first is considered just a weed.
He's forcibly tugged against Magdalena's side, and only then can he tell he's shaking and weak-kneed. Did he start to fall?
“I think,” Magdalena says quietly as she adjusts her hold on his waist, “that your witcher knows you better than you thought he did.”
Jaskier rasps out a laugh.
They sit in silence for a short while before Jaskier stirs. “Do we have any nightingales due to be retired?”
“Mmm,” Magdalena responds and releases him from her hold. “I think Horatio is. But I'd have to check with the flock tenders.”
“Please do. I have a message to send, and it's going to be a long one.”
“And what will you be doing while I play your little cockerel?”
Jaskier chuckles at the use of Nightingale slang. “I'll be talking to the Mothers. I think we're due to move some of the more precious cargo out of Oxenfurt for the time being.”
Magdalena makes an unimpressed noise. “Yes, I'll gladly play messenger if it means not talking to the Mothers.” With one more squeeze of his shoulder, she steps away and heads for the door. “Don't forget to turn off the silencing charm.”
He hums in response, already planning what he's going to say to Geralt.
The first sign of ill wind comes a week after Geralt leaves, from a lovely juvenile sparrowhawk sent by the mage Triss Merigold. It finds him in his quarters at his desk, his song book before him and his head in his hands as he fights his brain for the perfect turn of phrase for his latest song. The raptor flies in the open window and lands clumsily on his desk, sending his quills and notes scattering. It's a welcome distraction, and Jaskier takes in a breath to blast the silly young thing away when he registers the raptor's colors and what it carries. A slim ribbon of gold – Triss' favorite color – is wrapped around one leg, and it has a small black mirror clutched in its claws. The elegant, yet graceless, raptor drops the mirror before the bard and leaves as suddenly as it arrived, knocking yet more papers and quills to the floor.
As soon as Jaskier brushes his fingers across it the mage's image appears in the glass. Triss' hair is messier than Jaskier's ever seen it – strands stick out as if she's been running her hands through it over and over again. That added to the lack of makeup or any sort of enhancement magic is concern enough. When her first words to him are, “Have you seen Geralt?” Jaskier feels something clutch in his chest.
Under normal circumstances, such a question wouldn't faze him in the slightest. Geralt has an unerring ability to survive for many, many years no matter how many men and monsters have tried to put him out of their misery. However, with war in the air Jaskier can't help but wonder if an army would be more successful at eliminating the witcher.
“He was headed to Cintra, last I heard.” He tries to keep his voice level. “Why?”
Triss' eyes widen and she hisses in a breath. “I was going to tell him that Nilfgaard is approaching Cintra, and you that the Brotherhood has called a conclave.” At Jaskier's curse she nods. “You know what this means, I think better than I do. Have your birdies been speaking?”
Jaskier feels his mouth twist. “We know war is coming. The Mothers have already spoken with the few spies that have managed to get out of occupied territory.” He pauses, undecided for a moment, then continues. He is well aware that Triss holds more loyalty to her friends and family than those who trained her. “It's a genocide, and from what I've heard in whispers they plan to take the North. They conscript anyone that they can, including – maybe especially – weaker magic users. And from the sounds of what the spies have said, they...”
He hesitates, then says it. “They've been doing something to the conscripted's minds. They're loyal to the point of insanity, and that includes any spies that have gotten close enough to see what happens. One of the spies who got away swore they saw a mage turned to ash from what had to been the overuse of their magic.”
He sees Triss swallow. She closes her eyes and speaks in as quiet a tone as she can and still have Jaskier hear her. “The Brotherhood won't do anything. They've seen Cintra as a lost cause for decades, and I doubt even Tissaia de Vries herself can talk them into stopping the destruction.” She looks up through the mirror again. “Some of us have already started planning what to do if the Nilfgaardians continue north.” She stares at him, and after a breath he understands.
“Sodden Hill.” The gateway to the north, and the only way over the Yaruga big enough to support an army.
Triss nods. “I don't know how many mages will come, but...” Under her beautiful gold silk robe, her shoulders settle into a stronger line. “We'll need help. I've already talked to Foltest – he'll move his army South as quickly as he can, but I fear he won't be able to move fast enough to meet them as they pass over the bridge-”
“I can't promise anything,” Jaskier interrupts. He's not a Mother, and there's only so much power he can wield without coming into conflict with them.
“I know,” Triss responds immediately. “All I wanted was for you to pass the message on to the Mothers. And I want them to understand – this is not the Brotherhood asking. It's just me.”
And you're a daughter of one of the Mothers, Jaskier almost says, but that's not supposed to be something that he knows. Hells, the only reason he's aware of it is because he'd seen Triss' mother unmasked once. They look startlingly alike.
His stomach churns, but he nods. “I'll tell them.”
Triss exhales a long slow breath. “Thank you, Jaskier. I know things aren't going exactly well in Oxenfurt.”
Jaskier feels his mouth twist in an unpleasant expression. “Well, you know how it goes.” He perks up as a thought occurs to him. “If you could, by chance, slip a poison into Stregabor's drink at the conclave we'd be much obliged. I know the bastard is the one responsible for the crackdowns on, and disappearances of, bards breaking the so-called 'Tenants.' He's got a weaselly minion I've caught a few glimpses of – wears a lot of sand and neutrals , for Melitele's sake, and I'd be willing to bet my second-best lute he's the one who's been tracking artifacts and making them 'vanish.' We've had to start scouting safer locations for some of the older, Elven-made pieces because that fool keeps on looting sacred burial sites. We've been damned lucky the druids are so willing to help with the curse-breaking and laying the disturbed dead back to rest.”
Triss grimaces. “Unfortunately, Stregabor knows just how much I dislike him, and he's not stupid enough to let me close to his wine.” She pauses. “I think I remember hearing that Yennefer was close to Istredd – at least, that's who I'm assuming you mean when you refer to Stregabor's minion? And they had some sort of falling out. If I can ever get in contact with her, Yennefer would probably be willing to... assist in making his life more complicated.”
Jaskier fights to keep his face blank at the mention of Geralt's ex-lover. “Any help on that front would be appreciated.” He glances away from the mirror to peer out towards the sun. “I should probably see about getting in to speak to the Mothers.”
He turns back in time to see Triss nod. “Thank you, Jaskier.” She hesitates, then says, “I'll let you know if by some miracle the Brotherhood decides to step in. Please keep this mirror on you whenever possible, and contact me after you've spoken to the Mothers.”
“I shall. Good luck, Mistress Merigold.”
“The same to you, Master Jaskier.”
The Mothers listen to what Jaskier learned from Triss and dismiss him to talk amongst themselves.
That evening, Triss contacts him through the mirror. The Brotherhood have chosen to do nothing.
Jaskier spends hours tossing in bed that night, and when he finally sleeps he dreams.
It is dark. His names ring through his head
JaskierJulian
He stands in the fog, and then it lifts and he is in the plains and the sky is devastatingly beautiful and there is a tree-
Taedh, the tree says.
He can't move, until he can. He drops to his knees, his gaze locked on the tree. “W-what?”
Tell your hen maithreacha they need only ask.
When he wakes, he finds a sprig of something in his hand that he's only seen pictures of in old botany books. Conynhaela, he thinks it's called. It's an herb only found in one place.
Brokilon.
He lingers long enough to pull on some breeches and a chemise before yanking his door open and bolting down the hallways. The slaps of his bare feet echo down the halls as he runs harder than he has in a very long time.
Two weeks after Jaskier sees Geralt, Oxenfurt receives word of Cintra's destruction. Things happen quickly after that.
Birds of all shapes and sizes fly through the city and the college ground, all silent as death. Jaskier sees an albatross land clumsily on the balcony of one of the higher towers; a large flock of sparrows take up residence with the nightingales after delivering their news. Pigeons ranging from the pure white of racing birds, to the drab speckled grey of most of Oxenfurt's home flock to the midnight blueblack of the birds from Lyria, settle in one of the largest parks. Crows from the northern territories perch on the lamp posts of the main thoroughfare, and Jaskier even spots some of the brightly colored lapwings only bred in Beauclair perched outside the Headmaster's window.
It's almost a relief to return to his rooms to find a nightingale waiting on his desk. After the eerie silence of the other birds, Jaskier feels his shoulders relax when the little bird flits over to his offered hand and chirps in a friendly manner. He murmurs a greeting to the little fellow, then strokes his free hand down its head and back.
The bird immediately starts to speak. “We travel to Sodden by the shadows. Be there in a week's time. Tell no one.” The bird pauses, then says flatly, “Prepare for war.”
Jaskier hisses out a breath then takes the little bird to the window to send it on its way.
He goes to his wardrobe and fumbles in it for a moment before pressing a knot at the back. A panel shifts and reveals a set of simple hooded charcoal grey robes with soft leather boots dyed to match. On the same peg hangs a blank porcelain mask from a black ribbon.
For all that it's been a decade since he wore any of the gear, he knows they will still fit perfectly.
He leaves the robes and mask where they are and, after carefully making sure the hidden compartment shuts fully, he exits the room. He hesitates, thinking.
Of all the weaponry he can use, he suspects that Filavandrel's lute will be the most effective. The tricky part will be lifting it from the Hall of Historical Musical Instruments with none the wiser.
Ah, well. With the amount of chaos in the air, Jaskier doubts anyone would notice a dusty old lute missing from a display cabinet. And if anyone does comment, he brought the damned thing to the college to begin with.
He's just... borrowing it back.
Although, honestly, with all the other artifacts he and the other Nightingales were removing to safer locations, the lute would probably just be considered one of many to have disappeared.
He takes a slow breath then heads determinedly down the corridor.