Chapter Text
There’s something different about the way the bard sings.
There is something underlying his voice, his music.
It bothers Geralt.
(“You don’t want to keep a man with bread in his pants waiting, do you?”)
It’s not a good line. Yet there’s still something enticing in his voice. There’s something magical in his voice, a more poetic man might say.
Geralt has no time for poets, though.
And he especially doesn’t have time for a poet like this one (even if Geralt wants to compare his eyes to a cloudless day or a shimmering lake).
Geralt looks down the road and sees that the bard is still trailing behind.
Geralt has no fucking idea why the bard is following him.
(Who would ever want to follow a witcher?
Emotionless. Soulless.
If the bard knew what’s best for him, he’d stay away-
Like everyone else.)
Is the bard seriously just following him so he could write some fucking folk songs?
Stupid. Stupid, stupid.
(Geralt doesn’t live a fucking fantastical life. Not like the bard knows that.
Geralt wonders if the bard would be willing to die just for a good story.
Geralt doesn’t want the bard following him around.
Geralt can’t protect everyone.
It’s dangerous to travel with him.
Geralt says “come here” and the bard follows him like a puppy.
The bard shows no sign of turning back, even after Geralt punches him in the gut.)
There’s a tussle with a Sylvan, and Geralt somehow ends up on the ground, his hands tied to the bard’s.
The elves beat them around a little, the bard winces as one of them destroys his lute as if feeling physical pain.
Filavandrel walks in.
“Oh hello there!” the bard says in a sing-song voice, though he sounds a bit panicked. “Look, we can all be friends here!” the bard frantically says. There’s something odd in his voice- The same sort of oddness as whenever he sings. “There’s no need for you to have us all tied up, friend! Now if you can please just let us-”
Filavandrel suddenly kicks the bard in the stomach, hard enough that Geralt can almost feel it through his back.
“How dare! The audacity of trying to charm me.”
...Charm?
“Leave off!” Geralt orders. “He’s just a bard.”
“...Just a bard,” the bard mutters bitterly after a minute of wheezing. “And who, exactly, are you?” the bard asks his captors.
“He’s Filavandrel, king of the elves,” one of them says.
Filavandrel shakes his head. “Not a king. Not by choice.”
They talk. Geralt tries to bargain with them, tries to insist to them that humans are not, necessarily, the problem.
“...Even chaos is polluted. Synthetically enhanced so humans can make magic,” Filavandrel says.
“There are other ways to cast magic,” the bard suddenly says. In perfect Elder.
Filavandrel stares at him. “You speak Elder, human?”
“Uh- I- Uh, I dabble.”
Filavandrel blinked at the bard, and something like recognition flashed in his eyes.
“Oh,” said Filavandrel. “Oh, I know who you are.”
...What a twist. How the hell does the king of the elves know this lowly bard?
“Look, just- We really mean no harm! Okay?” the bard said to them. “And, just think about it! My friend here totally could’ve killed your Sylvan friend. But he didn’t! That’s gotta say something, right?”
The Sylvan stepped forward. “He’s right, Filavandrel!” he insisted. “The bard’s friend is different. Like us.”
“If it’s food you need, I think I can help,” the bard muttered. “If you give me eight hours and some plants. You wouldn’t have to steal grain anymore after a bit.”
“I promise you,” Geralt said. “Killing us will not make you feel better. You’ll come out the other side with blood on your hands and regret in your soul.”
Filavandrel and the other elf looked at each other.
Filavandrel took out his sword, and severed the binds that tied Geralt and the bard.
Jaskier stays behind. Geralt’s form keeps getting smaller and smaller down the road until he’s out of sight, and Jaskier lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.
“I’m surprised you didn’t go with the witcher,” Filavandrel said to him.
Jaskier shrugged. “I can write a ballad another time. Right now, I need to prance around a field for eight hours. You know how it is.”
Filavandrel just looked out at the soil before them, hands behind his back.
Then his hands appeared from his back and he was holding a lute, a beautiful thing of elven craft. He looked at Jaskier expectantly.
“...For me?”
“No, I’m just showing it to you,” Filavandrel said dryly. “Yes, it’s for you, Dandelion.”
Jaskier’s eyes widened. “Oh- Thank you! Thank you. Truly.”
Filavandrel just nodded.
Jaskier put the lute strap around his shoulder, giving the lute a simple strum.
Jaskier smiled. “Now this…” Jaskier looked out at the field. “We have some work to do.”
Filavandrel nodded. “I’ll leave you to it, bard.” Filavandrel hesitated. “I would like to know more about these other ways to cast magic. ...Though, I think I know what you mean.”
Something in Jaskier’s chest got warm. “Good. Good.”
“...You’ll see your White Wolf again. Destiny, and all that.”
Jaskier snorted. “He’s not mine.”
“No, not yet.”
Jaskier glanced at Filavandrel. “I’ll try to keep in touch, you know. I could write a ballad for you.”
The corners of Filavandrel’s eyes crinkled. “Now I’d like to hear that.”
Jaskier nodded, and Filavandrel turned and walked away.
Jaskier looked out at the dirt before him.
And then he began to sing.
“...And when all your ziggurats have crumbled down
And every stone is thrown like seeds across the ground
A new Arcadia will come around
And multiply until the binds of death have been unbound.
Cause see, the ground all around
It was always holy.
Leave the ruins where they fall
Leave them all.
And let the wild take over!”