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Chapter Text

Ah, well. Coin and companions are gained as well as they are lost. It wasn’t as if Jaskier hadn’t become accustomed to unkind words from bitter tongues. Scorned lovers, cuckold spouses. Upset audiences, perhaps. In fact, the prettiest words Jaskier would ever get in life were lies in bed. And certainly he’d never get that from Geralt…. Jaskier paused in his hurried scramble off the mountain, losing his footing with his valiant attempt at physically outrunning an increasing number of traitorous thoughts.

No, he was used to bearing the brunt of others’ foul tempers. It’s not as if his Witcher’s repertoire of barbs had ever evolved otherwise. It was what Jaskier expected, was it not? Still, he had been rather offended this time. Quite. Constipated bastard had no right to take his ire out on poor old Dandelion. Had they not both suffered enough? Were they not bonded by pain and the road? Evidently non .

Still, Jaskier bore the sting of it as a deliciously tender bruise upon his heart. “Oh, sure,” he muttered under his breath, “kick the bard. That’s what he’s good for. Nothing but filling-less pie, a thorn in the White Wolf’s paw.” Or - he had to stop to ponder a moment, breathing ragged and calves sore from marching and sliding downhill - wasn’t he more the muskrat who removed the thorn? Yes, that was it. Jaskier was the muskrat, and instead of Geralt letting him soothe over wounds inflicted by the world… he trampled said muskrat and blamed the world on it. No, that wouldn’t make for a good ballad at all. Bollocks.

With a sigh, Jaskier continued his trek, this time minding his pace. Not that Geralt couldn’t catch up to him if the witcher wanted to. It’s just that he wouldn’t want to. So Jaskier had gotten the tale of the noble golden dragon protecting its species from the others, no details spared. What an epic that would be, instead. The lengths which one will go to in order to adapt, to defend the helpless, to fight evil! Out of love, out of destiny…. Ah, shite. As he tuned his lute, recalling this most recent adventure, Jaskier’s mind quickly replaced Borch with Geralt, the egg with himself, the hunters with Yennifer. All of which was unhelped by the memory of that concerned, curious look Borch had given him just as he’d departed. At least Jaskier should have taken time and asked… he hadn’t even gotten to say goodbye to Roach!

Right. Well. What Jask needed was a stiff drink. He swung his lute back, crossing his arms and stomping the rest of the way to town. He could just as easily revisit the tune after a hot meal and a rest. Besides, he had yet to finish Her Sweet Kiss. “I am weak, my love” he bit out, ignoring the hot prickle threatening at the corners of his eyes. “....There’s no time to cry, yet.” he laughed sourly. “Not yet.” The sun hadn’t sunk low enough for waterworks.

---

Unfortunately, come supper hour, Jaskier only found himself wallowing all the more. Three pints deep in what Geralt would surely call ‘piss-water’ ale. Meager fare of old cheese, stale crust, and what had to be rancid mutton, untouched in front of him. Jaskier scoffed at the centerpiece vase filled with wilting meadow flowers, hands fisted on the table beside it. Gaze distant. He could be forgiven, then, for startling as nimble fingers not-his-own plucked a bruised musk mallow from the poor bouquet and presented it under his chin. 

Jaskier hadn’t noticed the man sit across from him and pushed himself back so hard the table rattled as his chair scraped. Words of indignant surprise bubbled to his lips- and then died. Frozen dry upon his tongue as his eyes met this stranger’s- one a silver as chilled as ice floes, one a piercing hawk’s eye orange. It was the noble’s hair - and the man must have been a noble, wearing such elegant purple and silver brocade - which did him in. For it was his Witcher’s hair. Though admittedly this man had a sun-touched glitter of golden wheat about the roots and tips. Said locks were also worn a little too short to be Geralt’s, Jaskier admonished his upturned heart. Surely his poor wits needed strengthening.

For while when the man spoke it was lyrically deep, the poor bard was too lost comparing this stranger’s facial bone structure to that of Pavetta of Cintra to hear. He didn’t find the decency to clamp his jaw shut until he heard the man’s rumbling chuckle at his expense. Well, Jask decided weakly, perhaps he was naught but a court fool after all. What meager appetite he had maybe possessed completely lost, Jaskier gestured to his plate.

“I do not hunger,” the man merely shrugged. Drawing Jaskier’s attention to the fact that he was still holding out the musk mallow. Cheeks coloring in embarrassment, Jaskier took the flower and twirled it between his thumb and forefinger. At this, his companion seemed pleased, letting out a pleasant hum and smiling at him.

Now, Julian Alfred Pankratz had never been the wisest man. He was a pretty thing, so drawn to pretty things. And also, yes, okay , seeking a balm for the seeping wound currently draining his heart. So when his tongue finally seemed to thaw, and his words tumbled out in an undignified “would you care to grace my bed tonight?” One could excuse Jaskier a particular lack of decorum.

Certain this would be a tryst like any other, Jaskier ignored the niggling sense of foreboding as the stranger took his hand.

And as the two unlikely bedfellows made their way up the stairs from the tavern, musk mallow pocketed and forgotten, neither turned to watch as one by one all the other flowers in the room crumbled away. Jaskier’s dinner reduced to acrid mold.

It had been months on the road for Geralt, since the mountain. It’d been months without the chittering bard and his melodies. Months without running into Yen, too. Which suited him just fine. Even if he found sleep unforthcoming more often than not. Even if every forsaken inn seemed to have a bard playing Toss A Coin or Her Sweet Kiss with varying degrees of talent (see: lack thereof). Spitefully, Geralt had avoided civilization even more than before, if possible.

It was the same as ever, anyway. There were people, and there were monsters. There weren’t many witchers left, and of them all… only one Geralt of Rivia. Another Roach, another shoddy camp. But it was; a witcher's life, anyway. So Geralt surrendered to it. And for months, that was enough.

Months turned into a year, and the seasons changed. Bringing yet another stormy winter. Geralt was in Velen, on his way north. The local town had gathered enough coin to tempt Geralt into eliminating the Nightwraith he was currently hunting. His tracking of it led him a little too close to Olena’s Grove for comfort, the full moon there illuminating an entire meadow of snowdrops in an eerie glow. In the middle, nearly translucent, stood a woman. A witcher might mistake her for human, and a commoner might mistake her for a Nightwraith. At the slightest rustling of Geralt’s footsteps, however, she turned toward him. Dark hair, cut just below her ears, luminescent. She wore a long dove-grey gown.

Taken back, Geralt forgot for a second what he was there for. Allowing her a few steps towards him before he stiffened, broadening his stance with fingers twitching for his sword. She stopped, inclining her head. Then, everything went black.

Chapter Text

Geralt woke slowly, allowing himself the luxury of stretching his muscles one by one. Deriving pleasure from the warm sun shining on his eyelids before opening them. Down the hall he could smell simmering bacon he knew would be accompanied by fresh orange juice. Just as there had been quail eggs and goat milk the morning before.
Truly, the menagerie of rich foods allotted by the palace had fettered him as a stuck pig.He spent his afternoons training in the meadow, yet without hunts or constantly fighting for his life, Geralt had lost muscle mass and grown slower. More inclined to unwind in the hot springs or hold court by his beloved's side.
He could vaguely recall a time when this wasn't his life, but nothing in this kingdom guided him to desire any change of lifestyle. So he dismissed troubling memories as they'd come. Perhaps, even, this glittering life of his was a reward for a previous one, the one laden with strife, which he caught only glimpses of.

As Geralt moved to free himself of his down comforter and twisted to sit, in came his beloved. She was happy, though she didn't look it. She never looked it. Always dressed in colours drear, her eyes a second from weeping. though she never did. "My dear, you are awake!" She said, her voice a little strained, though still strong and bright. The Liberty Bell complete with crack, if you will. "I am resigned to inform you that we have a matter which must precede breakfast. Come," she beckoned, abandoning fretting with her curled strands of Walnut hair to gesture towards Geralt's court finery. Dismissed haphazardly the day (days?) before on a chaise lounge, his pants  were now folded and billowing undershirt with red waistcoat pressed, draped thereon. Geralt nodded his assent, yet headed towards the woman instead of finery as he rose.

"It's not important enough." He intoned, gently cupping her chin and whispering kisses along her jaw. Not import enough it can't wait, not more important than you, he thought. Though the thought rang hollow in his chest and he felt the rather irrational certainty that there was something more important than Persephone. He shook the feeling when she kindly pushed him away, glancing pointedly at his clothing.

Knowing not to instigate a fight, Geralt easily withdrew. Hoping whatever situation had drawn his lover from bed earlier than he, would have the decency to be shortly resolved.

---

The situation, in short, was not one to be taken lightly or made short of. An Elven noble bowed on bent knee before the throne, his jaw sharp and set. Spear held in one fist. "My Lady," he addressed the Queen, baring a side eye towards Geralt after a beat, "Queen's Consort..." he bit out. To which Persephone did naught but incline her head for him to continue, decidedly not reprimanding her subject. The man drew a breath and continued. "Though the influx of my kind has lessened, more lands are being allocated to the victims of Niflgaard, and though we work well enough together, they are taking more than their share of our resources. My Lady, we have not yet ourselves recovered enough to-"

His plea continued, but Geralt was struck by an odd unease. Listening to tales of people and history lost, he couldn't help but curiously pore over the way his heart twisted- like the curl of a broken lute string. And it frustrated him, this feeling as if he were missing something important.

Jaskier was in the tavern, writing another sonnet for Aidoneus. His new traveling companion being a tremendous source for material, yet his fingers remained twitchy with his quill. Mind agitated and heart aflutter. That was love though, right? Not like the calm and security and fondness which Ger- his- the Witcher instilled.
It had been almost the same as with the Countess de Stael. Jaskier and Aidoneus bickered, parted for a season, and came back to one another anew. This time he and the Lord - for he was sure Aidoneus must be one of some such title - had been on the coast for a fortnight. It was the end of summer and the man had been gone on 'diplomatic missions' more nights than he deigned to grace Jaskier's bed. The bard was also starting to notice that whenever his lover was in town, the people suffered for fish and the taverns grew increasingly morose. Until Aidoneus would pull Jaskier away from his performance and back to their rented cottage. A frown on both their faces.