Chapter Text
Ciri coughs again, the sound grating on her ears until she finishes with a groan, shuffling on her bed to look back at the strategy board in front of her. One of the pieces, the one representing Redania, has been knocked over in her movements. She reaches to set it straight again and takes in the rest of the board. Cintra is in the best position, to no one’s surprise, her protagonist in her imaginary conquest against Nilfgaard, whose territories have rescinded even farther during the jostling. She doesn’t bother to correct it.
The door to her chambers swings open and Ciri looks up through puffy eyes, watching as a maid scurries over to her bedside and hastily removes the chamber pot to dispose of its contents. Behind her, Ciri’s grandmother marches in, wearing a cuirass less suited to a castle and more to a battlefield.
Ciri shrinks back a little. Her grandmother doesn’t scare her, not normally, but right now with a splatter of blood across her torso and face and her eyes hard from the skirmish, she seems more intimidating than usual.
“You feeling any better?” Queen Calanthe asks, sweeping her gaze across the returning maid and landing briefly on the strategy board, before landing on her sick granddaughter.
Ciri jerks her head, moving to the side of her bed a bit so the maid has more room to fluff up the pillows. “A little bit,” comes her response, voice raspier than usual. Calanthe nods once.
“Guess what.” Her voice is stern, solid. Ciri knows this tone, knows that it means the queen is annoyed and won’t currently tolerate any fooling around by attempting to guess random unlikely scenarios. She’d be much better off with Eist.
She decides to go the safest route. “What?”
Calanthe sighs, watching the maid finish her task and then leaning against the side of the bed once the girl runs off to fulfil her other duties, justifiably terrified of irking the queen. “Vesemir is here.”
Ciri groans, slumping further against her pillows and undoing all of the maid’s hard work. “Gran, can’t you tell him that I’m sick?” she whines, not in the mood for his long-winded ‘lessons’.
“You’re sick, that’s why he’s here.” Calanthe rolls her eyes at her granddaughter’s dramatics, though Ciri finds that a bit unfair considering the foul mood the queen is in herself.
“He’ll punch me in the arm,” Ciri gripes. “I hate that.”
“Maybe he won’t.”
Ciri shoots her a look, one that’s cut short as her door slams open with more force than before. For half a second, Ciri entertains the notion that it could be Dara or Mousesack coming to visit her while she’s ill, but those dreams are crushed when Vesemir’s ever-present scowl graces her view.
The silver medallion and cuirass which has seen better days look the same as ever, his grey hair tied back and weather-beaten face the same as she’s always been able to remember. The difference this time, is that instead of the usual sheath or tome clutched in his left hand, ready to impart another boring but essential lesson, there’s a wrapped parcel.
Despite the intrigue she’s gained toward the simply-wrapped package, Ciri’s foul mood returns when he makes his way over to her and gives her arm a punch. She immediately levels an unamused gaze at her grandmother, one that Calanthe mockingly returns.
“How’s the invalid?” Vesemir grunts, pulling over a chair to sit right by the edge of Ciri’s bed.
“I’m not an invalid,” Ciri protests immediately, only to be cut off by Calanthe rising from her perch and making her way to the door.
“I think I’ll leave you two chums,” she grins, flashing a smug look over her shoulder at her granddaughter’s pleading gaze. “After all, uprisings don’t sort themselves out on their own.”
The door slams closed behind her, leaving an uncomfortable silence that stretches for almost a minute, until –
“I brought you a special present,” Vesemir says, shifting in his seat so he can hold up the parcel. Ciri sits up a little straighter, her curiosity piqued once again.
“What is it?” she asks eagerly, reaching to take it when he hands it to her.
“Open it up,” Vesemir encourages, and she does – he’s always bringing her fun things – like a new dagger or pieces for her strategy boards. She tears off the wrapping, only to find a sheaf of handwritten pages bound together with a leather cover.
She looks up disbelievingly. “A book?”
Vesemir takes the book back from her, lifting it and shaking it in her face. “That’s right,” he starts, a bit of an edge to his voice that Ciri recognises as one not to contradict. “When I was your age, I had to read books. And this is a special book, written by a friend of mine. He told it to me, and to your father, and today I’m going to read it to you.”
Ciri settles in against her pillows again, arms crossed grumpily, but she’s been raised by the Lioness of Cintra. She knows warfare, and knows a losing battle when she sees one. Despite that, she tries her luck one last time.
“Has it got any fighting in it?”
Eyebrow raised, and sensing that he’s won this round so far, Vesemir leans forward again in his chair. “Are you kidding?” His eyes gleam a bit. “Sword fighting. Torture. Revenge. Witches. Monsters. Chases. Escapes. True love. Magic.”
A bit more interested, but trying not to let it show, Ciri shrugs. “It doesn’t sound too bad. I’ll try and stay awake.” She does her best to retain the aloof appearance of royalty.
Vesemir doesn’t buy it, but then again, he never does. Nonetheless, he sits back and shakes his head. “Oh, well, thank you very much. It’s nice of you. Your vote of confidence is overwhelming.” The sarcasm practically drips from his voice, and Ciri shoots him an annoyed look. Luckily, this time he seems to get the message and opens the book on his lap. “All right. The Prince Bridegroom. By J.A. Pankratz. Chapter One. Jaskier was raised on a small farm in the kingdom of Nilfgaard.”
It’s very visual, the imagery of this farm. Ciri can almost see it. It’s small, Eist would graciously call it quaint, and there’s a narrow river running through the fields in the distance. Across them, a horse gallops, carrying a young man - probably in his late teens - towards the farmhouse.
“His favourite pastimes,” Vesemir continued to narrate, “were playing his lute, riding his horse, and tormenting the farmhand that worked there. His name was Geralt, but he never called him that.” The old man looks at the young princess. “Isn’t that a wonderful beginning?” His eyes flash as if to challenge her to say otherwise.
Ciri gives him a half-hearted smile that ends up more like a grimace. “Yeah. It’s really good.” Her voice lacks any sort of luster, but Vesemir ignores it and continues reading.
“Nothing gave Jaskier as much pleasure as ordering Geralt around.”
Jaskier stands, holding the reins of his horse and detaching his precious lute from the saddle, cradling it as he notices the farmhand standing in the doorway, watching her. He sniffs, once, then holds it out to him.
“Farmhand,” Jaskier calls, holding out the instrument. “Polish my lute. I want to see my face shining in it by morning.”
Geralt steps forward and takes the lute, still watching him. “As you wish.”
Jaskier holds his gaze a moment longer, something flipping strangely in his stomach as he stares into those golden eyes before blinking and turning away.
“As you wish,” Vesemir reads, “is all he ever said to him.”
Geralt is chopping wood. Ciri can almost hear it, so similar to what she’s seen the lumbermen do when she plays in the forest with Dara.
Jaskier walks over, dropping two buckets next to the stump. Geralt looks up slowly.
“Farmhand, fill these with water,” Jaskier orders, then hesitates. “Please.”
Geralt inclines his head a little. “As you wish.”
A little shaken, with that strange flipping feeling in his stomach again, Jaskier turns and leaves. Still, though, he feels those eyes on him. He turns back, only to be caught with the full force of Geralt’s stare. They stand like that for a minute more, the flipping morphing into soaring, before again, Jaskier averts his gaze and turns away. Geralt’s eyes follow him all the way to the farmhouse.
“That day,” Vesemir briefly locks eyes with Ciri, who’s trying her best to pay attention, before flitting back to the words in front of him. “That day, he was amazed to discover that when he was saying “as you wish,” what he meant was, “I love you.”
Jaskier is in the farmhouse this time, chopping vegetables for a meal that Ciri imagines smells just like the one the cook makes for her on her birthday. Warm, earthy, with a little bit of spice. Geralt enters the building, firewood piled in his arms, and Jaskier whips around to look at him.
“And even more amazing was the day he realised he truly loved him back.”
Jaskier watches as Geralt turns to leave, suddenly desperate for him to stay. “Farmhand,” he calls, and Geralt turns. Now, though, Jaskier is for once at a loss for words. He casts his eyes around in order to find something, an excuse for Geralt to stay. “Fetch me that pitcher,” he says quickly, and immediately curses himself for being an idiot. The pitcher is right in front of him, he could literally get it himself, he didn’t need to –
To his surprise, though, Geralt steps forward and grabs the pitcher, handing it to him but not releasing it quite yet. He shuffles a little closer and Jaskier’s breath catches.
“As you wish.”
This time, they stand that way for even longer before slowly Geralt turns to leave. Jaskier, again, finds himself wishing he wouldn’t.
As Vesemir describes the next scene, one which finds Jaskier and Geralt now kissing – something adults seem to irrationally enjoy, Ciri might add – she has to stop him. A slow build-up is one thing, but this is a step too far.
“Hold it, hold it,” she interjects, pointing at accusatory finger at the gruff man. “What is this? Are you trying to trick me? Where’s the fighting?” She drops her hand, eyes going wide and nose scrunching as an unsavoury thought pops into her head. “Is this a kissing book?”
“Wait, just wait –“ Vesemir starts, trying to placate her, but Ciri isn’t having it.
“Well, when does it get good?” She demands, trying to look like the lion cub of Cintra that she’s supposed to be.
“Keep your shirt on and let me read,” Vesemir growls, eyeing her into complacency before he continues. “Geralt had no coin for marriage. So, he packed his few belongings and left the farm to seek his fortune across the continent.” He turns the page. “It was a very emotional time for Jaskier.”
Ciri huffs and flops down again. “I don’t believe this.”
Locked in embrace by the edge of Geralt’s hut, Jaskier is reluctant to let the man in his arms go, lest he never return back to them. “I fear I’ll never see you again,” he admits, tightening his grip.
“Of course you will.” Geralt’s voice is low and calm, but he too pulls Jaskier in closer.
“But what if something happens to you?”
“Hear this now: I will come for you.”
“But how can you be sure?”
Geralt leans back a little bit, wanting to look the smaller man in the eyes. “What do you always say this is?”
Jaskier sniffles, wiping his nose. “True love.”
“Hm,” Geralt agrees, and though the next words come out a little strained, it is with no less feeling behind them. “You think this happens every day?” He grins a little, the soft, happy one that only comes out when he’s around Jaskier.
Jaskier can’t help but smile back, pushing up on his toes a bit and pulling Geralt back in before kissing him senseless. If this is to be the last one for a while, he’s going to make damn sure the giant oaf remembers it.
“Geralt didn’t reach his destination.” Ciri perks up slightly, hearing the change in Vesemir’s voice and hoping that something exciting is finally about to happen. “His envoy was attacked by the Butcher of Blaviken and his bandits, who never left captives alive. When Jaskier got the news that Geralt was murdered –“
“Murdered by bandits is good,” Ciri enthuses, hardly quailing from the exasperated look Vesemir aims her way this time.
“Jaskier went into his room and shut the door,” he continues. “And for days, he neither slept nor ate.”
He’s staring out the window, the one that he used to watch Geralt work through, filled with so much happiness. Now, though, his gaze is blank and there’s an empty void where his emotions used to be. Jaskier will keep them under lock and key, he decides.
“I will never love again.”