Chapter Text
Julian had very little idea what he was doing.
Par the course for him, really, but this was pushing it. His inability to look before he leapt had gotten him into this situation so relying on it to get him out probably wasn’t the best idea he’d ever had. This in no way meant he would attempt another way of fixing this... minor issue.
Standing in front of a mirror in a newly bought house in Oxenfurt hit that point home. While he may have overcomplicated matters at first he couldn’t help but be glad for it now. For the last few years had been some of the best of his life. He’d never have experienced them if he actually thought about whose throat he was about to slit.
He didn’t of course, and he had graduated from Oxenfurt Academy as a Master of the Seven Liberal Arts, made many enemies, a few friends, and a new name for himself.
Jaskier.
He supposed he should start referring to himself by his own name if he were to be using it for the foreseeable future.
It wasn’t hard to do so around other people, just with himself. He knew what went on in his own mind after all, and the suit of armour in the closet beside him did no favours when it came to establishing himself in a new life. When he locked the door to this house for the final time he suspected it wouldn’t be so difficult.
It was hard to feel like the monster when clad in silks. When he used song as his weapon instead of swords. When the eyes he met in the mirror had round pupils instead of slits. He’d been lucky in his travels, with the amount of his colleagues that earned a nasty face scar or blind eye, but the minor scar on his jaw had also vanished beneath a layer of magic.
He turned from the mirror, and looked towards the sprawling map he had pasted to the wall of his bedroom. Picking up one of the two knives he hadn’t locked away, Julian turned his back to the map and stared at the opposite wall.
The knife felt so familiar yet so strange. He hadn’t gone so long without holding a weapon since he was four.
He threw the knife over his shoulder with a flick. He could hear the way the lady that lived in the next house dropped her cup at the sound of the knife embedding itself in the wood.
Julian turned, approaching the map. He yanked the dagger out of the wall and slipped it into his puffy silk doublet in a single, practiced movement, leaning closer to the tear in the paper to see the closest settlement.
Dol Blathanna… Posada.
Fantastic. He couldn’t wait to meet all the charming locals in that shithole. Not to mention the time it would take to walk all the way across the Continent on foot, after selling his beloved steed that he’d had for about nine months after abandoning the last one in the mountains. He’d really loved that horse, but needs must. He’d left her with a herd and everything.
Anyway. Posada.
It might even be advantageous to go somewhere so out of the way. It would make for a fantastic bardic origin story, which would distract from his on-the-spot forged papers when he first convinced the nearest mage to equip him with a glamour in return for a not-insignificant amount of coin.
Posada. East. It would take about a month, which really was a waste of time and resources, but there would be no backing out from him.
Well then. Nothing held him down in Oxenfurt anymore. He’d need to return to teach the mandatory classes at the Academy, but that's what winter was for. All that was left was to pick up his bag and… go.
So that's exactly what he did.
Jaskier picked up his modified lute case, slung it onto his back, stepped out onto the street, and locked the door behind him.
His favourite part about the whole bard thing was the interaction. Distrust and disdain followed witchers wherever they went, even in some of the better towns. Bards, though? Annoyance, sure, but more welcomed him than not. People would cheer and dance, pat him on the back instead of launching a pitchfork as he leaves the farming village at a gallop.
Though, Posada .
Fuck, he hated the shitty place. Not even his years of education could give him a better way to disciple the place other than a fucking sewer, each individual piece of feces shat out contributing to such a stench that it seemed like a requirement to live there was being a dick .
At least he would eat for a while. It would take years to eat the stale bread those assholes threw at him. Talk about ungrateful.
And, if they couldn’t keep their mouths from insulting him, at least come up with a better insult. Abort himself ? Impossible and unoriginal. Even his old acquaintances had a better grasp on the Common tongue to come up with better than that pitiful attempt.
That's when he spotted the man in the corner.
White hair, black studded armour, two swords, and golden eyes that practically shone in the low light of the tavern. He couldn’t be more inconspicuous if he tried.
Geralt of Rivia. The Butcher of Blaviken.
Now, Jaskier knew more than a few people with uncomfortable monikers such as that one, and he’d bet his lute that something happened besides a witcher strolling into a market and killing a bunch of people like plucking grapes. Jaskier was not supposed to know those people, so going up and asking him about fun contracts wasn’t exactly something he could do.
Which reminded him that he couldn’t exactly show that he could fight off said witcher if he needed to.
All common sense told him to run as fast as possible in any direction. For he knew who that was, had heard about him from various sources, and even saw him from a distance on one memorable occasion before Julian stuck a sword through a king’s throat.
But, he thought to himself, where was the fun in that? The story? The adventure?
It’s not like the other witcher will have heard of the price on his head anyway. He’s a Wolf, not a Viper or Cat. if he doesn’t know about the price, he can’t even tip another off to his location. That’s if he recognised him at all. So there’s very little chance of him losing anything if he indulged in his curiosity. What could he gain? Emotion, satisfaction, amusement -- something along those lines.
“I love the way you just… sit in the corner and brood.”
Not the best thing that ever came out of his mouth. He could see the irritation hanging around the witcher like a cloud.
“I’m here to drink alone,” Geralt growled, trying his damnedest to make Jaskier give up. He didn’t even look at him. Rude.
“Good, yeah, good,” Jaskier mumbled. He wasn’t getting out of it that easily. “No one else hesitated to comment on the quality of my performance, except, for you.” He would admit to no small amount of bardic swagger in his stride as he moved towards Geralt. “Come on… you don’t want to keep a man with… bread in his pants waiting.”
Now that was up there for the worst thing ever to come out of his mouth, and he’d vomited up half-digested siren innards. It was unsurprising that Geralt didn’t respond, especially when Jaskier gave him so little time to even think about it.
“You must have some review for me,” Jaskier continued as he slit into the seat across from Geralt. “Three words or less.”
There was a stretch of silence. Jaskier stared into golden eyes. A lesser man might have said it was uncomfortable.
“They don’t exist.”
Jaskier blinked.
“What don’t exist?”
“The creatures in your song.”
Yes, that was kind of the point. Bringing attention to himself by singing about things he had no right knowing would be a one-way track to being beheaded. Now he had to act casual.
“And how would you know?” Not that casual, you dumb fuck.
He didn’t know anyone else with the ability to get themselves into stupid shit like he did, and this whole situation really encapsulated that better than Jaskier could ever explain himself. He ended up following the witcher out of the tavern. An idea had struck him, and he would make sure that this big witcher stereotype allowed him to see it through. That's how he found himself trailing the witcher up the path, doing his utmost to project the aura of a harmless annoyance.
“Need a hand? I’ve got two of them. One for each of the, uh, devil’s horns,” Jaskier babbled, making sure to stay a step or two behind the witcher.
“Go away,” was the gruff response he received for that one.
“I won't be but silent backup,” he promised. “I heard your note, and, yes, you’re right, maybe real adventures would make better stories. And you, sir, must be chock-full of them. Amongst other things. I mean, what is that? Is that onion? You smell very strongly of onion. Doesn’t matter. Whatever it is, you smell of death, and destiny. Heroics, and heartbreak.” What Geralt actually smelled like, below all that, was confusion and irritation.
“It’s onion,” Geralt interrupted. The only reason he’d spoke up at all was probably to shut Jaskier up. He should’ve known by then that it wouldn't work.
“Right, yep. I could be your barker!” Not likely, that would give him more witcher-related attention than he was willing to go through for him. Still, a song or two wouldn’t hurt anyone. “ - spreading the tales of Geralt of Rivia, the Butcher of Blaviken!”
Jaskier had put his foot in his mouth with that one. He knew some got tetchy whenever a peasant-gifted nickname got brought up. Geralt had stopped too, and the displeasure under the onion had changed to outright anger.
He ought to work on his filter.
Geralt turned. “Come here,” he beckoned with a finger.
And, wow, okay, did people usually fall for that one? Maybe, if they couldn’t smell the change. It wasn’t like Geralt’s face had after all. Nevertheless, he would have to take it for the good of his cover as an unintelligent, musically talented annoyance.
“Yeah?”
The punch to his stomach hurt a lot less than he was expecting. The witcher must have held back a lot, but more out of respect for his presumed-human innards instead of actually wanting to hurt him. He gasped, doubled over, and prayed his choking was realistic.
If nothing else, he would get a song out of this.