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Chapter Text

Borch Three Jackdaws heard the horrible things Geralt yelled at the bard. He saw the Witcher’s face go red from misplaced rage, he heard the slow and steady heartbeat turn thunderous. The hunters and treasure-seekers had traveled together for nearly a week in search of the golden dragon, and Borch regularly observed Jaskier’s dedication to the Witcher. The bard nearly jumped at every opportunity to bandage or tousle or argue; all things that made the Witcher’s mouth quirk into a near-smile. 

To hear such venomous words pouring out of the White Wolf was disheartening, especially since they were aimed at Jaskier. The dragon wasn’t surprised when he smelled heartbreak come rolling off the mortal only moments later; he’d suspected as much of the bard’s true feelings. No human had ever seemed so comfortable around a man of Geralt’s occupation, much less The Butcher of Blaviken. Jaskier truly loved the Witcher with every inch of his delicate, short-lived being and Geralt had just blamed the bard for every bad thing that destiny had thrown at him. Borch shook his head in disappointment. 

He thought Geralt was better than this.

The Witcher spat his final goodbye, “If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!” 

Borch observed silently. The bard, unable to take any more of the seething hatred in Geralt’s tone, turned his face away from the Witcher. He took a deep, steadying breath and spoke softly; the dragon knew that if Jaskier spoke any louder his voice would crack: “Right...uh. Right, then. I’ll go get the rest of the story from the others. See you round, Geralt.”

The bard took a few shaky steps away from the Witcher, knees knocking together from the adrenaline no doubt screaming through his system. Despite how often he stood up for his friends, the bard absolutely hated confrontation when it came to his own feelings. In the breadth of a moment, the citrusy smell of shock on Jaskier turned sour, shifting into sadness and desolation. Geralt’s banishment seemed to push the bard’s usually proud shoulders down; they rolled forward and shielded the lute he had clutched against his chest. Slowly, like a baby deer taking its first steps, Jaskier parted from the Witcher and made his way down the hill towards Borch’s small campsite. The dragon knew that the bard wouldn’t make it very far down the road in this state. He’d be robbed or murdered or worse. Although it wasn’t usually his place to meddle with mortal affairs, this man seemed different. His jolly nature and incessant chatter had brightened Geralt’s lonely life considerably and Geralt had in turn saved Borch. So it made sense to Borch that repaying Jaskier was also repaying the Witcher. 

“Jaskier?” Borch called out. He made sure to keep the tone light and friendly, bordering on overly welcoming. “Come here, my boy, and I shall tell you of the battle in glorious detail.”

The Witcher flinched when Borch said the bard’s name. Ah, so this love isn’t unrequited, then? The sorceress may hold a piece of the Witcher’s heart, but how big of a piece? From the slow and deliberate way Geralt was packing his things, waiting for Jaskier to come back and argue some more, it must not have been that big of a piece after all. All Borch could smell on the Witcher was apology and pain and self-loathing. Those wouldn’t solve the problem any faster. Jaskier, meanwhile, was still despondent and sour-smelling. 

As the dragon subtly watched the Witcher’s movements and drew his conclusions about their feelings, Jaskier perched on the log across from him. The mortal’s startingly blue eyes were glassy and unfocused. He swayed slightly and he tried not to meet the dragon’s concerned gaze, “Hmm?” 

“Shall I tell you what I saw of the dragon?”

“Sure.”

Jaskier leaned forward to gather his journal and quill from his pack. Laying the book open across his lap, he leaned again to rummage for his inkwell. “Where is it? Where? Where the hell is it?! ” Panic seeped into his voice as his hands scrabbled through the well-packed bag but found no purchase. His eyes scanned back and forth in a desperate search but saw very little. The dragon noted his overly-heightened heart rate a moment too late: Jaskier lost consciousness. With a dull thud and a puff of dust, he collapsed forward into the dirt. His notebook fell to the side and his body slumped into an awkward heap. 

“Oh shit,” Borch gasped, rushing across the short distance to kneel beside the bard. He hadn’t been expecting that to happen. Geralt walked by, seemingly unphased by the whole situation. Borch pretended not to see the concerned glance he spared for Jaskier on his way past. Instead the dragon asked: “Aren’t you going to help your friend?”

“Friend? He sure has a funny way of showing friendship.”

Borch scoffed, pulling Jaskier forward slightly and laying the man’s head gently against the overstuffed leather bag. He straightened out the bard’s splayed legs and set the closed notebook on his chest. The poor thing was exhausted, both physically and emotionally. It was hard work to walk fifteen miles a day and yet he did it for the Witcher’s sake; he did it for love. At the end of some days he even gave full performances to pay for room and board. The dragon narrowed his eyes at Geralt and gestured to the bard, voice low and deep with conviction: “He made you famous, didn’t he? This is the lad who wrote Toss a Coin, correct? Who made you suddenly seem welcome in taverns, beer halls, and castle keeps across the land? Some places give you a room and an ale before they even think of gathering their pitchforks. Who finds the ointments that keep your cuts from scarring? Who braids your hair and sings you to sleep? He has done more for you than you care to acknowledge or understand.”

“He’s cursed. Every time I’m near him I seem to fall into trouble.”

“You get yourself into trouble, Geralt of Rivia. You’re doing it right now. If you don’t learn to pull your great silvery head out of your ass and address your feelings then you’re going to lose sight of your destiny forever.”

“I don’t want to hear any more about destiny or fate or whatever the hell kind of force keeps people from exercising free will. I have to go find my Child Surprise! Yennefer was right for once. I need to take some responsibility for my actions...and he can take responsibility for his.”

“What are his actions exactly? Being your friend? Offering you support without asking for anything more than friendship in return? He cares for you, comforts you, quarrels with you when you feel the most frustrated. I’ve seen the way your shoulders relax after you’ve bantered around with your bard for a few minutes at the end of a long day. I’ve watched him gather firewood without being asked and without a solitary thank you in return. I’ve watched him lay out your bedroll and braid your horse’s mane so it doesn’t tangle. The bard writes song after song about your heroics and your nobility. Where is that nobility now?” Borch took a deep breath. He lowered his voice and imbued his words with magic so that Geralt couldn’t possibly miss or ignore them: “He eases the strain of the Path, Geralt, and you know it. Yet here you stand, glaring down at his unconscious body, which has been rendered completely broken by your heartless words.”

That last bit seemed to take the Witcher by surprise. Some of the anger in his face was replaced with confusion and perhaps a bit of remorse. “I did this to him?”

“You’ve destroyed him for now, Geralt. Mortal hearts are tender things and you have utterly shattered his. I heard it myself. Can’t you sense it? Smell it? Surely your great Witcher senses can pick up on the clues of a broken heart.”

For a moment, Borch thought he’d gotten through to the Witcher. The lines on Geralt’s forehead rippled through several different patterns before returning to their angry incline. His voice was gruff and thick when he spoke again. If Borch had known any better he would have assumed the Witcher was about to cry. But this was Geralt of Rivia. There would be no tears where knowing eyes could see. “Jaskier loves easily. He will forget me quickly once I’m not around anymore.”

“Oh Witcher. How wrong you are,” the dragon muttered. “He will not forget you so willingly.”

“Then make him forget,” Geralt growled. “I’m sure we’d both be happier apart.”

“Consider your wish granted, then,” Borch shrugged. He pretended not to notice the panic that flashed through Geralt’s eyes. Panic and fear cling thickly to your skin, Geralt of Rivia. The fear of losing him. The panic of never seeing the recognition in his eyes again. 

At that moment it was decided. Borch Three Jackdaws, one of the last golden dragons left alive, was going to teach the White Wolf a lesson. 

Geralt turned away from Borch and kept walking, his hypersensitive eyes feeling oddly wet at the prospect of Jaskier completely forgetting him. All these years and the one person he could always count on for a bright greeting was Jaskier… He blinked the prickling sensation away before the dragon could smell it and call him out again. Jaskier would be better off without the Witcher’s presence in his life. He’d be safer. He could find another mortal and fall in love with them, live out his short life with them, sing them to sleep and wash their hair and clean their wounds and…

Geralt shook his head to clear the bard from his thoughts. He had to find his Child Surprise first and foremost. He would gather Ciri and make his way to Kaer Morhen in time for winter. Jaskier would be able to take care of himself just fine. “Witcher!” the dragon called out one last time. “Will you be able to forget him so easily?” 

But Geralt had already reached Roach. He lifted himself into the saddle, turned her onto the road, and took off at a gallop. The braids Jaskier had wound into her mane would need to be removed as quickly as possible, but he had to get several miles away first. He didn’t want to be anywhere close when Jaskier woke up. He’d seen the dull and broken look in the bard’s eyes when he’d shouted those horrible, terrible lies. He’d seen the glow of love go dim and distant behind the usually bright cornflower blue. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to take the weight of his own shame when the bard regained consciousness, so he did what any good monster would do: he headed into the woods.

Jaskier sat up with a gasp. His hand clutched desperately at his doublet just above his heart, trying to wrench the stupid organ free of his chest and stop the pain of the dream he’d burst forth from. That had been a dream, right? There was no way Geralt had said those things to Jaskier. The bard breathed shakily as he sat up, hand still clenching and unclenching against his clothing as he tried to calm down. The sky was dark and full of stars, his eyes blinked the remaining sleep away as he rubbed at the ache in his chest, “Oh gods, this hurts.”

“I expect that it does, but it will heal in time.”

“What the fuck!” the bard cried, scurrying away from the sound of the voice. His eyes hadn’t adjusted to the flickering light of the fire quite yet and Borch’s bright tenor had frightened him. He was used to Geralt’s deep baritone rumbling under starry skies like these. 

“My apologies,” Three Jackdaws smiled softly. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Borch? Where’s Ge-oh.” 

So it was real. The ache in his chest really was there to stay. Geralt had abandoned him for the last time. Jaskier was well and truly alone in the world now.

“Hmm,” the old man nodded. “The Witcher is well on his way to Cintra to collect his Child Surprise by now, I expect. He took to the road several hours ago.”

Jaskier took a moment to collect his thoughts. Even one of the most recognized poets on the continent had nothing to say in the face of a broken heart. Every word in every language he’d been painstakingly taught as a spoiled Viscount’s son seemed to die in his throat the moment he recalled the image of Geralt’s hideous, angry glare. My cheeks are wet, he eventually realized. I’ve been crying for quite some time now and I haven’t said a word. Horrible manners, Jaskier. Get your shit together. 

“Don’t you dare berate yourself for this either, bard,” Borch ordered. His tone was stern and Jaskier took it to heart. “You’ve had quite the day and you deserve a chance to let your body catch up with your feelings.”

“I never knew he blamed me for his bad luck.”
“He doesn’t. He’s just a big dumb wolf who doesn’t know how to use his words or process his feelings.”

“He does yell a lot when he’s not being completely monosyllabic.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” Borch teased. Jaskier cracked a small smile from beneath his waterfall of tears. The older man reached forward and placed a firm hand on the bard’s shoulder. It was a steadying experience and Jaskier released a sigh from deep within his chest. 

“He doesn’t like talking about his feelings, the big lummox, but I learned how to read his face years ago. He probably would have gotten rid of me after the first month if I hadn’t adapted, so I did the best I could as quickly as possible. The look in his eyes just now, though...it was horrible, Sir Borch. I thought for a moment that he might just kill me and get it all over with. Rid himself of my cursed existence forever and move on with his long, Witchery life.”

“He loves you too much to kill you,” Borch said offhandedly. The words alone nearly knocked Jaskier back into unconsciousness, much less the man stating something so crazy with so confident a tone. Jaskier’s laugh sounded like the last wheeze from a failing set of blacksmith’s bellows.

“Loves me? He just abandoned me in the middle of nowhere and disappeared at Yennefer’s all-powerful behest.”

“He left to prove her wrong. And to prove himself worthy of you. Although it probably would have helped his case to explain himself to you, bard.”

“Your joke goes too far, Borch,” Jaskier whispered. A new batch of tears poured forth from his eyes to stain the collar of his doublet and shirt. A silent fountain to commemorate Geralt’s greatest blow. He didn’t need Borch adding fuel to the already raging fire of shame and disappointment blazing away in his chest.

“You don’t have to believe me, but I may know a way to solve all your problems at once.”

“Which problems?”

“I know a way to remove your hurtful memories of Geralt, boost your status across the continent, and lengthen your lifespan considerably.”

“A djinn couldn’t answer those wishes! A genie couldn’t answer those wishes! Hell, not even the golden dragon could grant such incredible wishes,” Jaskier scoffed. “Although I do appreciate you trying to cheer me up.”

“You’re right to say that I can’t grant you these things, but I might be able to introduce you to someone who can.”

Jaskier took a moment to consider his options. He could travel back to Oxenfurt and teach for a year. He could lick his wounds in the privacy of a cushy wingback chair and write three or four lackluster ballads about Princesses or monsters or something else that was equally boring and teach classes in the meantime. Or. Or he could take Borch up on his promising offer of happiness and adventure. At the very least he might be able to dull the ache in his chest. 

Borch noted the determination in the bard’s startlingly blue eyes when he at last glanced up from where his hands rested on the tops of his thighs. The sour smell was fading from the air around them. “Alright, Sir Borch. Tell me how to meet the great being that can take these memories from me.”

“You’ll need to make your way west, to the Dancing Boar Inn. You’ll need to perform on the Solstice. Do your best jigs but end with something sad. That should do the trick. If a lass with copper braids approaches you, answer her politely and mind your words. She’ll try and trick you but you must outsmart her if you are to come out of this with your wits about you.”

“I’ll do anything, Sir Borch.”

“Good. Because the way of their people is very particular. You’ll get what you wished for, but it may come about in a less than conventional way.”

Jaskier owed Borch many thanks for his advice about this particular inn, regardless of its magical wish-granting qualities. The barmaid was overly generous when pouring the ale and the patrons were not shy with their tips. Not shy in the least. From the growing pile of coins in his hat, Jaskier could surmise that the merchant audience was decently drunk and in good humor. 

He had traveled quickly to perform at the Dancing Boar on the night of the Solstice as Borch instructed. Even without the promise of getting his memories of Geralt erased, the long and strenuous walk was proving to have been well worth the blisters for all the coin he was earning.

The blisters and the lonely self-reflection. Jaskier had weighed every pro and con about losing his memories of Geralt. Sure, he had years worth of ballads to write...but he’d never be able to sing them. Even thinking of “Toss a Coin” made him want to throw up. It hurt so badly to think of his Witc- the Witcher wandering across the continent without him. Bandaging his own wounds. Making his own fires. Dressing his own rabbits. Jaskier could be doing those things. Should be doing those things. He loved Geralt, after all. Through every heavy silence and every blood-filled bathtub, Jaskier loved nothing more than Geralt of Rivia. His White Wolf. 

Brushing such thoughts aside, Jaskier knew it was time for his final song of the evening. He measured the drunkenness of the gathered crowd against the soft glow of the firelight and made his decision on exactly which song to perform. The bard made his way to the table nearest to the fire and perched lightly on the edge. He positioned his elven lute delicately in his lap and strummed softly to get everyone’s attention focused again. In order to win over Borch’s mysterious friends, Jaskier chose the most heart-wrenching ballad he could think of and softened his voice to a gentle alto:

“How cold the wind does blow, sweetheart,

And gently falls the rain. 

I only had but one true-love

And in Greenwood he lies slain.

“I'll do as much for my true love

As any young lass may.

I'll sit and mourn beside his grave

For twelve months and a day.”

The audience was fully captivated by the second verse. Jaskier cast his eyes around the room, looking for a glimpse of copper hair or green velvet. Borch had explained exactly who to look for and the bard didn’t want to make any mistakes. This was too important. 

The next verse began the Lover’s dialogue, which nearly drove Jaskier to tears every time he sang through it. Trying to force the image of a certain silver-haired man from his mind as he dropped into the Lover’s silky baritone singing voice, he pushed firmly through the next two verses: 

“The twelve months and a day being gone

His voice spoke from the deep

‘Who is’t that cries upon my grave

And will not let me sleep?’

“Tis I, tis I, your own true-love

That sits upon your grave

I beg one kiss from your sweet lips

Just this, a kiss I crave.”

The barmaid began to sob. She sniffled and wiped her eyes with her apron as she poured ale for the customers at the bar. Two drunk men were leaning heavily against each other in the back row, hiding their wet eyes by keeping them pointed at the ground. Even the portly village Alderman, who had been sitting stoically through Jaskier’s saucier jigs and drinking songs, was looking forlornly into his chalice of mead as he listened. The next verse was the hardest for the bard to perform, no matter how many times he sang through this ballad. It tore at the still-fresh wounds on his heart but oh how beautiful it was when performed correctly.

“‘You beg one kiss of my cold clay lips

But my breath is earthy strong

If I to you a kiss did give,

Your time would not be long.’

“My time be long, my time be short;

Tomorrow or today. 

May God in Heaven have my soul

For I’ve kissed your lips of clay.”

Jaskier bowed three or four times to tearful applause and gathered his upturned hat from the bar. He slipped the coins into the purse around his waist and placed the hat back on his head. It was pulled off just as quickly, however, when Jaskier turned around to find himself gazing into a set of intense green eyes. The woman, whose fiery red hair was gathered into two thick braids, was gazing up at Jaskier in amusement. “You are a very clever bard.”

“Thank you, my lady,” he bowed. 

“Please stand, sir bard. Such deference is unnecessary.”

“I wouldn’t want to offend, dear lady.”

“You do not offend. And you may call me Áine, for now. May I have your name, sir bard?”

Jaskier heard the satisfied smirk in her voice and paused before answering the question. Nice try, my lady. “You may not have my name. But you may refer to me as Jaskier.”

“You are such a clever boy!” the young woman beamed. She clapped her hands together as she bounced delightedly on the balls of her feet. The action reminded Jaskier of an excited child discovering a new toy or form of entertainment, “Borch was right about you!”

“He mentioned me?”

“He knows that I usually frequent this area during the Solstice,” she shrugged. “He suggested I stop in and listen to your performance tonight. He also mentioned that a conversation with you might amuse me for years to come.”

“I hope he didn’t promise anything too spectacular. I am but a travelling bard, sweet lady Áine, and my talents lie mostly with singing or storytelling.”

Her name was familiar. Áine. Where have I heard that before? A song? A poem? A story? No matter, there are many popular baby names that come from balladry and legend. He shook his head to clear it and focused on her next question.

“Do you not compose your own songs? Sir Borch told me you wrote ‘Toss a Coin’, a favorite mine.” 

“That I do, my lady. I compose most of my own material. I try not to let my performances grow stale by repeating whatever popular ballads are going around. Although I do admit to playing a few secondhand verses tonight.”

“Nothing about this evening was stale by any means, which is why I’m coming to you with a proposition for employment.”

“What would the nature of this employment be?”

“I would like you to live at my court for seven years, where you shall teach classes on composition and give two performances a year at specific social gatherings.”

“These conditions of employment are amenable to me and we can discuss payment momentarily, but first I’d like to know which court shall I be serving at, lady Áine?”

“The Seelie Court, of course.”

Chapter Text

Jaskier felt like a complete fool. Of course he knew why her name sounded so familiar. Áine was the name of the Faerie Queen in a handful of famous historical ballads. Thank the gods his professors from Oxenfurt weren’t here or they’d be beating him over the head with his own lute for not recognizing her faster. Jaskier gathered his courage and looked his powerful new acquaintance in the eye, “So you are Áine, the Fae Queen?”

“You have guessed correctly.”

Jaskier released a shuddering breath and glanced around the room. The barmaid was ruddy-faced and sleepy looking. The Alderman was settling his tab with that same serious expression he’d been wearing all night. I’d like to talk about this and ask some questions but this may not be the best spot to do so. 

“I am willing to accept your terms of employment, My Queen, but I’d be more comfortable discussing this momentous decision somewhere slightly more quiet. And private.”

“A bit presumptuous, aren’t we, mortal?” she smirked. Jaskier’s face went red with a potent combination of fear and embarrassment. Fuck. I’ve fucked up. I’ve insulted the Fae Queen herself. The ruler of the Seelie court, the goddess of summer! Surely her offer is null and she’ll steal my voice away!

“My lady, I didn’t mean! Of course, I would never suggest-! I-”

Áine cut him off with a laugh. The sound, like that of a hundred silver bells ringing in unison, shocked Jaskier back into silence. “Sincerest apologies, my sweet bard. You are too innocent for your own good. Let’s go upstairs and speak somewhere more quiet, as you suggested. This is a rather serious matter, after all.”

“Many thanks, Your Highness.”

The odd couple made their way up the short flight of stairs and down the hall to Jaskier’s room, paid for with a handful of coins from his earlier performance. They sat across from each other at the low square table near the fireplace. The fire's flames reflected in Áine’s deep green eyes and made her seem all the more ethereal. The Fae Queen spoke first, both to ease the tension and to reassure the nervous mortal of her benevolence. “So, Jaskier, Borch has informed me of your terms and they seem more than reasonable. Although I would like a chance to alter them with your consent.

“May I hear the terms he presented? And may I know why you’re being so kind?”

“I shall answer your questions in reverse order but they shall both be answered well. Firstly, very few of my tricks are meant to cause harm. The Seelie Court enjoys having fun and playing pranks, sweet bard, but we like a happy ending even more. If you’d rather have your hair braided through with stinging nettles or awaken nude in the town square, I’m sure the Unseelie Fae would love to help you. The Summer Court is full of kind creatures, even if they may be a little tricky on occasion.” Jaskier nodded so she knew he was following along. Áine nodded back with a small smile and continued, “So when Borch told me your tragic love story, it seemed like a good opportunity to both create a little mischief and bring two worthy people some happiness. As for the terms, would you like to hear them as Borch spoke them or as I hope to carry them out?”

“May I hear both?”

“You may,” she smiled. Jaskier, of all people, could recognize an indulgent glance when it was sent his way. “So very clever indeed for a human. Alright. Borch’s version of your request is as follows: For seven years of service at the Seelie Court as a teacher and performer, Jaskier the Bard shall be compensated with an elongated lifespan, fluency in the Faerie Tongue, and all of his memories containing Geralt of Rivia shall be erased or altered.’”

“What kind of changes would you make to these terms?” Jaskier inquired. Sir Borch really hit the nail on the head, I don’t see how they could be improved. 

“I am the Fae Queen, you see, and I do so love messing around with you foolish mortals. I thought it would be more fun if I compensated you thusly: For seven years of service at the Seelie Court as a teacher and performer, Jaskier the Bard shall be compensated with the elongated lifespan and magical powers of a dryad lieutenant. He shall be given fluency in the Faerie Tongue as well as knowledge of music-based magic. Finally, all of Jaskier’s memories containing Geralt of Rivia shall be altered or erased until Geralt of Rivia proves his worthiness of and devotion to Jaskier the Bard. With their consent, Geralt and Jaskier shall then be handfasted by Fae law and live under our protection for the rest of their days.”

“Your offer is more than generous, Your Highness,” Jaskier half-laughed, half-wheezed. His mind was utterly boggled by the knowledge and power she was offering him so offhandedly. Like it was a secondhand tea kettle or a kitten she’d found under a bridge. An elongated lifespan, a whole new language, magic, and she’s just offering these things to me because it would be...entertaining? “I’m not opposed to any of it, but may I inquire as to why you included all that stuff about Geralt at the end? I thought he wanted to be rid of me for good. I wouldn’t want to drag him back into my life after he so clearly wanted out.”

“You have written such wonderful ballads about the human realm and of your many adventures with this Geralt,” the Queen’s emerald eyes flashed when she said the Witcher’s name. Her expression didn’t contain lust or anger like Jaskier was used to seeing in relation to his old friend; instead she seemed almost wistful. “I would like the chance to help mend things between you. I would like to hear more songs about him someday and you can’t write them if you’re too heartbroken to hum a chord. Not to mention I do so love a good charade. It’s been at least three hundred years since we’ve meddled in a mortal love affair and this would be so much fun for everyone involved. Plus it’ll be easier to arrange than Arthur and Guinevere's wedding. Ugh, that was a nightmare.”

“ You were responsible for the Legend of King Arthur?”

“I mean, technically yes?” the Queen smiled guilelessly. Jaskier met her eyes and in that moment he forgot exactly who he was talking to; she looked so young and full of life, like a teenager playing her first joke on her sweetheart. He couldn’t deny her and he couldn’t deny his own feelings, either. He wanted Geralt back just as badly as the Queen wanted them back together (probably twice as badly, all things considered).

“And I’ll have a part to play in all this?”

“Of course! You have a leading role in this act, Jaskier, and we can’t put on a good farce without you.”

“It may be quite fun if I think of it as my greatest performance yet. I’ve always dreamt of taking the stage in a tragic lover’s role,” Jaskier beamed, thoroughly interested now. Even if Geralt fails the trials Áine sets for him, this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity! This is what makes great balladry! He did have one last question regarding her terms, however: “I am amenable to your offer, but may I inquire as to the powers of a dryad lieutenant, my Queen? I am not as familiar with the Fae court as some of my countrymen. My sincerest apologies.”

“Do not worry about offending on account of ignorance, little human,” Áine beamed. She was overjoyed that he was playing along. “It is not common knowledge among mortals and I wouldn’t dream of hurting you. A dryad lieutenant of the Seelie Court can grow flowers at will, commune with animals, manipulate water, speak with certain tree spirits, and they’ll never lose their way even without a map or compass. They are the caretakers of the forests, where I know for a fact that you and your White Wolf spend many long nights. A dryad also lives for three to five hundred years. Although I must warn you that the magic we teach you may...alter your looks a bit.”

“What do you mean by that, my lady?”

“Your ears may become slightly pointed and your features may become more youthful. Our magic is the Spring and Summer kind, so it rejuvenates and lightens you. I am nearly twelve centuries old, yet I look no older than thirty, do I not?”

“I don’t mind those factors at all!”

“Excellent. So, Jaskier the Bard, what do you say?”

The deal she offered was beyond kind, especially for a mortal like himself. “If the Witcher doesn’t succeed in these tasks or if he fails to wake me from your spell, will you let me stay ignorant? Will you keep my memories of our life together to yourself and let me stay on with you a little longer?”

“Is that what you wish?”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“Then we agree?”

“I, Jaskier the Bard, do hereby accept the secondary set of terms and its amendments laid before me by Queen Áine of the Seelie Court. In return for seven years of music lessons and performances, I shall be granted the boons listed by her on this day.”

“So mote it be.” 

As he shook hands with the Fae Queen, Jaskier felt a prickling sensation on the skin of his right wrist. When she released his hand, the bard pulled up his sleeve to take a glance. “VII” was printed onto his skin in pale green letters. Seven. For Seven years. 

“Ah yes, my apologies. I should have warned you about that. This tattoo will work as a countdown clock for your years at court. Time moves differently amongst the Fae and I don’t want you getting confused or becoming alarmed when seven years is up and it feels like only a few months have passed. This will help.”

Jaskier stood and bowed deeply, sweeping his bangs against the floor in an effort to be overly respectful. He wanted to show his gratitude. The tears in his eyes said even more than his words when he glanced at the Fae Queen to say, “I am most incredibly thankful, my Queen. I am truly blessed by your gifts and your instruction.”

“Sleep well for tonight, Jaskier. Tomorrow we travel to the Seelie Court and you begin teaching classes and performing for my subjects. Tomorrow, seven beautiful years shall begin.”

“I am being most honest when I say that I cannot wait.”

Geralt had nearly turned Roach around three times after storming away from Borch and Jaskier, but he was a stubborn Witcher. Perhaps the most stubborn of all his adopted siblings. Despite the fact that it hurt like hell to distance himself from the bard after screaming such cruel things, Yennefer had been right. He hadn’t been taking responsibility for his actions. He’d even gone and blamed Jaskier for his misfortunes like a selfish prick. Jaskier, who had taken care of him for years and whose complaints were only vocalized to ease Geralt’s already self-loathing conscience. 

And what trivial complaints they were, the Witcher realized; they were intended to make him smile rather than upset him. The bard needed new soap for travelling, Geralt smelled like onions again, the braid in Geralt’s hair had come loose, Roach’s saddlebags needed mending. ..never once did Jaskier complain about walking fifteen miles in a day or sleeping on a worn bedroll under the stars in the cold of autumn. He never groaned about their lack of funds or whined about the weather. The things he requested were simple enough to procure and he’d paid for more than his fair share of meals. Plus, it seemed that his little bard knew the name of every edible berry across the continent, often gathering them in his belt-pouch and giving the majority to Geralt like a parent with a particularly grouchy child. 

When did Jaskier become my bard? The Witcher questioned himself. No matter. Now his presence is lost to me forever because of my own stupidity. I have made the greatest mistake of my life and the only person I could usually talk to about it is the one I hurt and pushed away. Why can’t I bite my damned tongue? Why can’t I say the things I really feel about him to his beautiful, bright face? For a man with monosyllabic tendencies, Geralt’s inner monologue was as flowery as any Velenese ballad. With a startled and unbidden cry, the Witcher remembered wishing that Jaskier would forget him. Even more terrifying to consider was Borch’s parting statement: “Consider your wish granted, then.”

He spent the next two months berating himself for his foolishness as he followed the stories of a fair-haired child further into the countryside. The search for Ciri seemed endless but the Witcher was determined. He would win Jaskier back later. For now he needed to find and protect his Child Surprise. The Lion Cub of Cintra was lost and alone in the world; that was something Geralt could fix immediately. First he’d find Cirilla, then he’d find Yennefer and she would scry for Jaskier’s whereabouts. Geralt would apologize when he could. Later.

For now he had to focus. Had to bury the feelings of loneliness and heartbreak welling up inside of him. Witchers don’t feel love like humans do. You did him a favor. Even if it may have hurt you in the process; that’s what Witchers do. They get hurt so that regular people don’t have to. You put yourself in mortal danger every week so that Jaskier doesn’t have to. 

Despite Geralt’s firm resolution to be responsible and his determination that he was doing the right thing for everyone, the Witcher often found himself reaching out in the night for a body that was no longer present. He sought out taverns that promised bardic performances. He bought a cheap pamphlet with the lyrics to 'Toss a Coin' printed on it. He’d never tell anyone, but on more than one occasion he could even be seen wide awake in the middle of the night, staring into the fire as silent tears made their way down his cheeks and mixed with the dirt beneath him. I miss your stupid chatter, bard. I miss the sound of you composing new songs. I miss the way you set up camp; I can never get it quite right. I miss you more than you’ll ever know, Jaskier. May the Gods curse me, for I am an utter fool.

Jaskier was seated on a stone bench at the edge of a glowing pond, surrounded by curious Fae of all types and ages. Just over a dozen sets of eyes tracked his fingers as they tapped across the neck of his lute in slow, lazy movements. He had finished his lesson for the day but his students were inquisitive creatures. They were determined to learn everything from him. They wanted to mimic the way his heart bled out through the strings when he played. The way his very soul filled the air around them as he sang. The way his voice pitched and undulated with his emotions. 

Jaskier had been at the Seelie Court for what felt like mere weeks, yet he already had a solid grasp on the Faerie Tongue. He was picking up musical magic from his tutor at an alarming rate and he was befriending nearly every nymph, faun, or faery that crossed his path in the meantime. Áine often teased him for being impossible to get alone. More often than not there was a baby faun perched on his lap or a small collection of faeries braiding flowers into his hair. This place was the bard’s own personal heaven and he thanked the Queen for her kindness every time they met. 

Alas, good things cannot last forever. After what felt like only a couple months, one of the marks on his wrist disappeared, leaving him with only: “VI”. Time truly did move differently in the realm of the Fae and Jaskier wished he could slow it down. He was savoring his time away from humanity. They had wars and heartbreak and Witchers in the outside world; here in the Faerie Realm there was only his music and his magic lessons and his devotion to Áine.

He pulled his mind from such sad thoughts and regarded the crowd still gathered in the grass before him. The bard stopped messing around with tuning chords and began to pluck out a soft, rippling melody. As soon as his students (and a few wandering fauns who had joined the audience out of boredom) had settled into anticipatory silence, he began to sing: 

“Are you going to Scarborough Fair? 

Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme.

Remember me to one who lives there,

For he was once a true love of mine.

“Tell him to make me a cambric shirt;

Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme.

With no seams nor fine needlework,

Then he shall be a true love of mine.”

The whole court knew of his love for Geralt so there was no need to sing the wrong pronouns in his balladry. In fact, the Queen had rather insisted that he include male lyrics in all the love songs he performed for her or her guests. The Fae were far more accepting of Jaskier’s preferences than humanity had ever been; yet another reason he wished he could stay beyond his seven years.

“Have him wash it in yonder well;

Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme.

Where nary a drop of rain ever fell,

Then he shall be a true love of mine.

“Tell him to dry it upon yonder thorn;

Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme.

Which never bore blossom since Adam was born,

Then he shall be a true love of mine.”

Áine had wandered out of the palace to join the audience of nymphs and dryads listening to Jaskier sing. The bard was exceedingly pleased that she wasn’t a conceited queen like so many ballads had insisted. She allowed her subjects to speak with her on plain terms, avoided confrontation at any cost, and paid Jaskier handsomely for talents that could have been provided by someone far more prestigious. The mischief and terror he’d expected from the lesser faeries was absent from his day-to-day life (aside from a few harmless welcoming pranks) and he’d found a home here. I need to write some ballads declaring her kindness and welcoming nature. Or perhaps she enjoys her role as antagonist; I’ll ask later. For the moment, he thanked his Queen for her generosity by singing his very soul into the final verses:

“If he tells me he can’t, then I shall reply;

Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme.

Tell him at least that he should go try,

If he wishes to stay a true love of mine.”

“Love imposes impossible tasks;

Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme.

Though not more than any heart asks,

Then he could stay a true love of mine.”

“When thou hast completed the three;

Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme.

My hand is thine if thou canst find me,

Forever to stay a true love of mine.”

He bowed to the sound of heavy applause. This is truly a blessed life, he thought. After another ballad or two, the Queen motioned for him to join her at the back of the crowd. The bard smiled and stood from his seat, handing his lute to one of the younger faeries. “Can you keep an eye on this for me?” The small girl nodded, amazed at her good fortune, and watched as he made his way to where Áine was standing and dusting off her skirt. 

Áine greeted him warmly, as always, “I’d like for you to walk with me, Jas.”

“Of course, my Queen.”

She looped her arm through his and guided him towards the back of the palace. The two passed easily through the enchanted wooden gate that led to her private garden, which only the Queen could open or close. Jaskier gasped. It’s so beautiful here. 

The pathway was lined on both sides by smooth, immovable marble orbs. There were flowering trees hung with twinkling lights to the left and a well-organized maze of rose bushes on the right that seemed to glow all on their own. A fountain or river bubbled in the distance. “Jaskier, my darling, I believe the time has come to remove your memories of Geralt.”

The bard paused his gaping to look Áine in the eye. “So soon? I still have six years left.”

“You have five years and three months.”

“ Already?” 

“Do you wish to stay longer or do you wish to flee sooner?” she teased. They moved down the path slowly, allowing Jaskier to take in more of the scenery as he thought through his answers. 

“I wish I could say forever,” he sighed. “But that wasn’t the deal.”

“No, it wasn’t,” she smiled sadly. “I know you miss your Witcher, darling. I hear it in every song you play. Every ballad screams of your yearning and love for him. Every jig seems to incorporate his mutant heartbeat.”

Áine didn’t miss the way his eyes narrowed and his fists clenched when she said the word “mutant”. Ah, protective little bard. You so deserve all the happiness I am about to bestow upon you. 

“I do miss him, but I also wish the pain in my heart would go away.” Jaskier’s chest decompressed as he released a long sigh. “I know he won’t come back for me this time so I suppose it would be better to get it over with.”

There was a beat of silence as they walked. Then: “What does it feel like?” 

“Excuse me?”

“What does it feel like to have your heart broken?” Áine asked again. The question startled Jaskier into stillness; they had stopped beneath the sheltering branches of the Queen’s favorite willow tree. Convenient, she smiled. And quite private. The bard does seem to enjoy his privacy. The answer to her question tore itself out of Jaskier before he could try to stop it. 

“When he told me that the best thing the universe could do was take me off his hands,” he began, tears already prickling to life in his eyes, “I thought all the air had left the atmosphere. That’s how quickly it was struck from my lungs. I thought I was drowning, like I’d been pulled under a huge and heavy wave of darkness.”

He paused, waiting for her to interrupt or make a comment, but the Fae Queen remained silent. Waiting. Listening. Her wide green eyes drilled straight into his blue ones and they both took a moment to seat themselves in the soft, cool grass. The bard pulled his legs against his chest and wrapped his arms around his knees. To Áine it looked like he was trying to keep himself from falling apart. He’d never seemed so fragile, so mortal. 

“In that moment, I thought the ground had opened up and swallowed me straight to Hell. It had to be Hell, right? Geralt, my Geralt...my sweet, quiet, noble, grouchy, caring, tired Witcher-” he gulped in a breath in order to continue, “Wanted me gone. Had the djinn been present I surely would have been turned to ash on the spot. I wish that stupid creature had been there. Dying quickly would have been better than this. The pain is so intense, Áine . I awaken in the middle of the night with a strange feeling, like he’s just left the room and I’ve barely missed him. That makes it so much worse, somehow. As if he knew I would wake up and he didn’t want to be seen. It must be some kind of punishment from the gods to have this longing in my soul every moment of every day. Must be Hell.”

“Breathe, sweet Jaskier,” the Queen encouraged. She moved closer, smoothing her hand down his arm and encouraging him to take several slow breaths. The touch was reassuring and calming, so the bard continued his heartbreaking confession.

“Every time I speak his name or think of his face it feels as though a Siren has reached her icy hand inside my chest and ripped my heart out. There’s a hole there where Geralt is supposed to be; but he chose to leave and now I am empty. He is a fresh spring on a hot day. He is every one of the stars, my lady. He is the full moon in the night sky, my Witcher, and I’m merely a lute with broken strings.”

“My sweet bard,” the Queen sighed, placing her palm gently against his forehead. “I shall free you of your pain in just a moment. But I have one last question to ask you.”

Jaskier closed  his eyes and felt the cool skin of her palm shift into a more comfortable resting position. “Yes, my lady?”

It hurt Áine to question Jaskier, whose presence at court had lightened everyone’s lives. She heard nothing but praise from every dignitary, foreign monarch, and peasant subject she’d spoken to about the human bard. He deserved happiness and she couldn’t give it to him properly without hurting him a little more right now, just as Borch had done for Geralt and Yennefer all that time ago. The cause of Jaskier’s pain would be gone soon, anyway.

“What do you miss the most about Geralt? Or about traveling with Geralt?”

“I miss washing his hair and braiding it back. I miss the way he’d absentmindedly touch the braids when he was nervous; like they were his talismans. I miss the soft way he’d look at me from his dark tavern corner when I performed his favorite songs. I miss the feel of his leather armor under my hands when I cleaned or mended it between jobs. I miss the way it felt to have him shove me out of harm’s way. I miss the smell of him, even if it was sometimes rather rank.” The Fae Queen winced when his last sentence came out as a hysterical giggle, but she allowed him to keep going, “I miss the way he’d let me bandage him up after a fight. His eyes would sometimes be black or milky white from his potions but he still let me care for him. He was always so tense when Yennefer healed him, but with me he was so relaxed, so soft. I miss my soft, amber-eyed Witcher.”

As he continued to list the things he missed about Geralt, Áine pressed her palm against his heated skin and focused. A pale blue light shone from Jaskier’s teary eyes and his lids flickered tiredly. “Sleep, sweet bard,” she urged. “Sleep deeply and when you wake your pain shall be gone.”

Chapter Text

“He’s...well, he’s gone.”

“What do you mean he’s gone ?” Geralt growled, hands clenched into fists at his sides. 

“I mean that he’s gone, Geralt! I mean that I can’t see him anywhere! He’s not dead, but his presence has been very heavily cloaked or perhaps altered in some way,” Yennefer placated. “I hate to disappoint you, I really do, but the bard is out of reach for the time being.”

This was their third consecutive day of scrying and the sorceress couldn’t find Jaskier anywhere . He wasn’t at Oxenfurt either teaching or learning. He wasn’t participating in the bi-annual Bardic Championship in Velen. He wasn’t at any of his favorite performance venues or brothels. Geralt had even questioned several small lords on his way to Vengerburg with Ciri; perhaps Jaskier had slept with their wives (or them) recently. He’d come up empty handed yet again and it was growing increasingly worrisome. Geralt growled lowly and glared into the fire. 

“Well if he’s not dead then he must be around here somewhere,” Ciri shrugged from her seat at the worktable. “Perhaps he’s visiting another realm. Mousesack did that sometimes.”

“What do you mean by that?” Yennefer inquired, eyebrows raised. Geralt could read the sorceress like a book; Ciri was actually on to something with her offhanded theory.

“Maybe he’s visiting the trolls to the south. Or the Fae to the East,” she shrugged again. “Their realms are not visible to scrying bowls, are they?”

“How do you know that?”

“Mother told me once, when I was quite young.”

“Your mother was right,” Yennefer nodded. “And it makes perfect sense. We can’t see him because he’s not currently living among mortals. I can only see the human world with these particular tools, Geralt.”

“Do you have any others? Anything powerful enough to see into the Fae realm? Or the Troll Realm or whatever?”

“Let's be totally honest, if anyone has Jaskier, it's the Fae. And to answer your question about my tools: no. Not here. I let Triss borrow some of my supplies years ago and she often forgets to return things.”

“Hmmm.”

“So we must wait,” the child decided, ending Geralt’s opportunity to be frustrated. Ciri's demeanor was no-nonsense; just like her Mother and her Grandmother before her. In some ways it warmed his heart but in others it was downright frustrating. This was an example of the former.

“Why must we wait?” Geralt asked. “We could just gather Yen’s supplies and go get him.”

“If he’s been taken to the Fae Court of his own free will then he’s their guest. If he’s there on a contract then there is no way for him to return until the terms are met,” the bright-eyed child explained. “He belongs to them for now.”

“Why are you two so sure he’s in the Fae realm?”

Ciri and Yennefer gave him matching tired looks and the sight nearly drove him to laughter. The gravity of the situation tamped down his amusement, however. 

“Can I go after him?”

“You could. But you might end up getting tricked into a hundred years of servitude. Or something equally silly. Mousesack got roped into a baking competition once.”

“Shit,” the Witcher growled.

“Language,” Ciri and Yennefer chimed in unison. 

The Fae Queen summoned two of her guards. She instructed them to take the bard to his quarters and leave him on the bed and not on the floor or in the bathtub (instructions were very important when it came to prank-prone sprites). After handling Jaskier's care, Áine retired to her own private chambers and began to put her plan into motion. This is where things get interesting. This is where we set the stage.

“Alright, Witcher. It’s time that you learned a lesson or two about loyalty and love,” she smiled. The Queen pulled her own scrying bowl from its place in the cabinet and set it on her dressing table. She filled it with water that had been blessed under the light of a full moon and passed her hand over it in each of the four cardinal directions while muttering a quick transference spell. 

She summoned one of Jaskier’s most potent memories from her borrowed store of them and focused its energy into the bowl. Áine watched an image materialize on the surface of the water as she fell into the spell’s trance. The foggy reality of spiritual transference slowly solidified and she discovered that the white-haired Witcher was alone in a spacious bathing chamber. This could not be more perfect. Oh Geralt, I am the goddess of luck indeed. She stepped silently forward into the chamber and reached for a strand of the Witcher’s white hair...

Geralt had been relaxing in Yennefer’s large marble bathing pool when he felt a soft hand grasp at the base of his neck. His eyes shot open in surprise. There hadn’t been any approaching footsteps. He leapt from the water and reached for his silver sword, scanning the room for any sign of an enemy. Nothing but the softly swirling mist that rose steadily from his rippling bathwater. He cast a low-powered Aard and felt it pass smoothly through the room, shaking Yen’s collection of lotion jars on their shelves. The force certainly would have knocked the wind out of any living being, yet the only sound in the room was the soft echoing of water droplets falling from Geralt’s body onto the stone floor. So I must have imagined it, he decided. He sank nervously back into the water and kept his sword within arm’s reach. He wasn’t about to be taken by surprise; especially not in the nude. 

The bath would not be a peaceful one, regardless. As soon as Geralt closed his eyes to resume his soak, the phantom hand returned to the back of his neck. He jolted forward for a moment but quickly realized that there was no sense swinging his sword around. He’d already proven that there was nobody else in the room with him, so it must have been some kind of enchantment. A second invisible hand joined the first and together they continued their soft caresses. The Witcher wondered at how familiar their movements seemed. They ran through his hair to untangle the knots, gently rubbed at the sore spot where his skull met his spine, and pulled a few of the white strands into short braids... what the fuck. He sat up again, eyes darting open and scanning the room. “Who’s there?”

No answer.

“Are you invisible? Most ghosts don’t braid hair, you know.”

Silence.

Geralt swiped a hand over his face and felt his fingertips nudge against a small but intricate braid that rested just above his ear. The kind that Jaskier used to-

Jaskier. That’s why the disembodied sensations had felt so calming and familiar. The invisible force playing with his hair had mimicked Jaskier’s talented fingers perfectly. It had only taken him so long to realize it because Jaskier had been missing for nearly two years. He hadn’t felt those calloused fingers against his scalp in so long. The Witcher’s heart cracked in a new and terrifying place as he gazed down at the tiny braid caught between his thumb and forefinger. I will find you. I will save you. I…

He couldn’t finish the thought. He didn’t deserve to love Jaskier. He didn’t deserve to be loved by Jaskier or by anyone like him. His bard was like the sun; always so bright and full of joy. When Geralt wanted nothing more than to drown in his loneliness and self-pity, there was his Jaskier with a joke or a song or a subtle calming touch. Nobody had lain their hands on Geralt so gently before. Almost reverently. Like Geralt deserved to be touched so intimately and unassumingly. Nobody had been brave enough to half-carry the Witcher to bed, his eyes still monstrous from whatever potion he’d needed to survive the job. Nobody had stared him down with as much confidence and compassion as his brave little bard, whose steady hands could apply bandages or stitches or lingering caresses unlike any other. Only Jaskier was able to calm the White Wolf when he was truly angry. His voice had pulled Geralt out of trouble more times than the Witcher could count. Gods, I fucking miss his voice.  

As if he’d been taken over by some primal force that begged to hear his bard again, Geralt began to sing quietly to himself; one of his old favorites. One that Jaskier only sang on stormy nights in port towns. He said a song like ‘Loch Lomond’ deserved the right ambiance. Such a rare but beautiful occurrence, when it happened. Geralt’s deep baritone filled the wide stone chamber, echoing back to him like a choir of brokenhearted Witchers:

“By yon bonnie banks and by yon bonnie braes,

Where the sun shines bright on Loch Lomond,

Where me and my true love will never meet again,

On the bonnie, bonnie banks of Loch Lomond.

“Oh ye'll take the high road, and I'll take the low road,

And I'll be in Skellige a'fore ye,

But me and my true love will never meet again,

On the bonnie, bonnie banks o' Loch Lomond.”

His voice was growing raspy but he refused to stop. 

“Twas there that we parted, in yon shady glen,

On the steep, steep side o' Ben Lomond,

Where in deeply purple hue, the highland sights we viewed,

And the moon coming out in the gloaming.

“Oh ye'll take the high road, and I'll take the low road,

And I'll be in Skellige a'fore ye,

But me and my true love will never meet again,

On the bonnie, bonnie banks o' Loch Lomond.”

Tears made silent tracks down his cheeks as he sang, the whites around his amber irises reddened from finally spilling out so many years of unshed misery. Every fear that plagued him about Jaskier’s mortal body being damaged, every nightmare about the bard being injured or killed, every flash of contentment when Jaskier soothed his aching body, every sweet, absolutely beautiful daydream of him and Jaskier sleeping side-by-side at Kaer Morhen; they poured down his face and into the bath water below. Now, alone in the tub, Geralt swore that if he could hear Jaskier’s voice one last time, he’d give up the ability to hear forever. He’d willingly go blind into every fight for the rest of his miserable life if he could sit in his dark tavern corner and watch his bard play the audience as well as he played his lute. 

Jaskier had been missing for so long now, and Geralt wasn’t getting any closer to finding him. He’d managed to rescue Ciri and bring her to Yennefer. That task was simple enough. Find the Child Surprise. Avoid danger. Escape to Yennefer’s hidden mansion. He could put his head down and check the tasks off his list. 

Now there were no more distractions. Now he was pressed for time, since the longer it took him to find his Jaskier, the longer his bard believed that Geralt hated him. That Geralt wanted him dead. It was torture. But he’d hurt his true love in an act of selfishness, so the Witcher felt that he deserved this pain. It was only fair.

As he choked on the last few words of the chorus he heard the door open. The creaking of its leather hinges was followed by Ciri’s tentative footsteps across the damp floor. Her eyes were carefully averted from her adoptive father’s place in the pool but she continued bravely into the room. She seated herself on one of the benches along the wall, angled lowly so that all she could see were Geralt’s head and shoulders. The young princess spared her Witcher a soft glance. For a moment it was awkward, but as Geralt struggled to break the tension Ciri took up the next verse:

“The wee birdies sing and the wildflowers spring,

And in sunshine the waters are sleeping.

But the broken heart, it kens no second spring again,

Though the woeful may cease from their grieving.”

Geralt joined her for the final chorus with a surprisingly unwavering baritone:

“Oh ye'll take the high road, and I'll take the low road,

And I'll be in Skellige a'fore ye,

But me and my true love will never meet again,

On the bonnie, bonnie banks o' Loch Lomond.”

There was a beat of silence as their final note rang through the spacious chamber before Ciri smiled wistfully, “Grandpa Eist used to sing that to me.”

“Hmmm.”

“Did Jaskier sing it to you?”

Geralt pooled some of the bathwater in his hands and gently raised them to rinse the tears from his face. “Me. And many bar patrons.”

“Does he have a pretty voice? Yen says you loved it when he sang even though you were mean to him about it.”

“I once told him that his performance was like ordering a pie only to find that it had no filling,” he rasped. His voice was raw from both the crying and the singing. “It was a terrible lie.”

“Why lie to him if you love him?”

“Ciri, I-”

“Don’t.” The girl raised her hand in the air to demand silence and her palm faced Geralt in a way that reminded him so much of Yennefer. This child will have her way no matter what. I guess we don’t have to train her on how to command attention. “My Grandmother always got this way when Eist went on a trip to Skellige. He taught us that song during Midwinter and Grandmother sang it every time he had to go away for diplomatic missions. Eist was only away for a few months at a time and Jaskier has been missing for two years. I know you miss him, Geralt. No matter how many times you roll your eyes and deny it.”

“Hmmm.”

I know I’ve been training her to stay observant but I wasn’t expecting her to turn it against me. 

“You’ve spent all this time looking for him through magical means like scrying and meditative trances. I’ve spent two summers here and one winter with you at the keep. My magic is getting stronger and my control is better. I refuse to let you hover around like a worried mother bird any longer. Yen and I can survive without you for a year or two; go find Jaskier. By the time you return I might even be able to scry for him myself.”

“You ask too much of me, Ciri. Next summer I’ll go back to the Path, but it’s nearly winter already and I don’t want to risk getting trapped in some frozen mountain pass. We’ll winter at Kaer Morhen once more before I go off on your quest, Princess.”

Now it was Ciri’s turn to Hmmm in her own disappointed way. Geralt hid his fond smile. Ah what a child I have been blessed to raise and protect, Jaskier. You’ll love her if you ever meet her. 

The princess left a few moments later, allowing Geralt some time to think as his bathwater cooled around him. She’s right, you know. Yen is more than capable of keeping her safe for a couple years. Jaskier deserves the love and attention just as much; he’s been on the Path with you for longer than Ciri’s even been alive. The Witcher knew there was no point in arguing with either Cirilla or his own logic, so instead he tied a short strip of leather beneath his magically acquired braid to keep it safe as he dunked his white head beneath the water. He might as well enjoy Yen’s enormous tub while he still had access to it.

When Jaskier opened his eyes for the first time after having his memories altered, Áine almost went into a fit of hysterics. His smile was twice as wide as usual and there was a shine in his eyes that she’d never seen before. All of the light he’d been shedding before was his dimmest? That is most unusual for a mortal man and yet… “Good morning, bard,” she smiled from her seat beside his bed.

“My Queen,” he gasped, and leapt nimbly to his feet. He bowed deeply. “My sincerest apologies. I had not meant to sleep in so late but something came over me last night that truly exhausted me.”

“You’re in no trouble, darling Thomas.”

His sigh of relief made her crack an indulgent smile. So his mind has accepted the false memories. My spell worked!

Áine saw Jaskier’s eyes flicker towards the sundial just outside his window and widen in surprise. He shot across the room and flung open the wardrobe, rustling through it in search of a passable outfit. I should send him more Faerie clothing so he fits in better, the Queen decided. Perhaps he’d even like a tattoo. 

“I mustn't be late for my lessons, Your Highness. Please pardon me to get dressed for the day.” His request was followed by several quick bows and the redheaded woman only rolled her eyes affectionately in response.

“Of course.” As Áine swept from the room she couldn’t help but congratulate herself. This was going to be the Seelie Court’s greatest performance yet! 

As she passed Jaskier’s personal attendant in the hallway he asked, “Did it work?”

“Aye, good Mustardseed. We must plan the Summer Solstice celebration soon and we must include our darling Thomas the Rhymer. Give him whatever resources he requests and let him plan to his heart’s content. I have a feeling this will become quite the tradition.”

“Yes, my lady,” Mustardseed bowed, eyes shining with mirth. There would never be anything like the feeling of playing a particularly interesting part in one of the Queen’s games. 

“Tamlane! Wait up!” 

“Ah, Thomas! Where have you been?” 

“In the library,” the bard blushed. “I’ve been studying up.”

“You always have your head in a book these days, darling Thomas,” the faun chuckled. “If I didn’t know any better I’d say you were trying to impress someone.”

The bard scoffed, ignoring his friend’s second statement completely. “Darling Thomas? Since when have you called me that?”

“Do you dislike it?”

“I don’t think it quite fits me.”

The faun tapped his pointer finger against his short blonde goatee and feigned deep thought. Jaskier bumped his shoulder against the faun’s, “Don’t be mean, Tam.”

“True Thomas, then.”

“Ah, now that’s the stuff of legend! True Thomas I can work with.”

“So why have you been studying?” 

“It’s my uh...it’s…”

“I’m not going to say anything to anyone if you don’t want me to,” Tamlane reassured him. “Not even Áine.” 

Jaskier let out a shaky breath and pulled a lock of his brown hair away to reveal that his ear had become slightly pointed. “And my face, it looks...younger, somehow.”

“Must be the magic,” Tam shrugged. 

“Can I speak to the Queen about this? How do I schedule an audience?”

“We can go to the throne room. She might be receiving today. If not, I’m sure she’d be more than willing to meet for tea. You are her personal bard, after all.”

“Thank you,” Jaskier smiled nervously. “I’m a little frightened.”

“No need to be frightened,” Tamlane asserted, grasping Jaskier’s hand and squeezing it. “You’re safe in Faerie Land.”

Chapter Text

Geralt watched Ciri grow steadily from a bull-headed child to an even stronger-willed teenager over the course of seven years. The transition happened so quickly, it seemed. He’d disappeared when she was thirteen to look for Jaskier and returned a year or so later to find a completely different princess staring up at him. She’d grown six inches and her magic was notably more powerful. He surmised that the quick changes must have something to do with her mother’s elven blood, but that was mostly an excuse to forgive himself for missing so much time. He’d barely recognized the sound of her voice.  Seeing just how quickly she sprouted up made the Witcher realize that he needed to rethink his previous decision about priorities. This wasn’t about whether or not Yen was capable of taking care of Cirilla; this was Geralt avoiding his responsibility for the princess again and that was unforgivable. 

“No luck?” Yennefer had asked him. He’d shaken his head silently, unable to speak for the desolation that echoed in his chest. Another long year without his bard and without the joy of seeing Ciri grow. 

The Witcher had tried just about everything he knew to fall across the path of the Fae. He’d walked into mushroom rings. He’d crossed in front of every black cat he’d seen. He’d braided Roach’s mane with silver bells when he traveled near bodies of water. Surely he could summon something that knew where Jaskier was. A nymph or a sprite or even a fucking brownie would be helpful. Anything at all. But there was nothing. Nobody had seen Jaskier, apparently. From the southern border to Skellige, Jaskier’s disappearance was a surprise to most and a problem to few. Renditions of ‘Toss a Coin’ had gotten even more popular in the bard’s absence, proving that the best fame was posthumous. 

He’s not dead, Geralt had reassured himself. He’s gone to the Fae court like Ciri said. He’ll reappear on the doorstep someday with that stupid grin on his face and that hard-earned lute in his arms. Just like always.

The year between Ciri’s thirteenth and fourteenth summers was the last year that Geralt sought out Jaskier. The Witcher decided to stay at Kaer Morhen during the winters from then on, training the princess in archery and sword handling. In the summer months they traveled to live with Yennefer so that Ciri could learn to control and improve her magic wielding. Geralt worked on building his friendship with Yennefer, which she referred to as developing interpersonal skills. She also told him that being kinder would make his bard proud, so he worked to be the kindest Witcher on the Continent. Jaskier never faded from Geralt’s mind; the bard was ever present in the way he talked to his daughter. In the way he doted on her. Bought her a set of panpipes for her fifteenth birthday and grinned through many terrible concerts until she grew skilled and artistic with them. Oh Jaskier, you’re going to love her. Like I do. Like a father. 

Winters were Geralt’s favorite. Not because he had his little Lion Cub to himself, but because he got to watch her enchant the other Witchers who stayed at the keep with him. There was not a soul in Kaer Morhen that wouldn’t come running at Ciri’s beck and call. Even the most serious of his teachers had fallen under the girl’s metaphorical spell. 

After their first meeting, Vesemir had been uncharacteristically taken with the slight young woman. He let her borrow any number of volumes from his extensive personal library, which he’d been collecting for hundreds of years. Tomes that the three Witchers had been banned from ever laying eyes on. She had grown wise from Vesemir’s teachings, intelligent from Yennefer’s instruction, and despite the fact that her adoptive father didn’t quite realize that the attribute came from him, Ciri had been fully imbued with Geralt’s deep compassion for others. 

Five more years passed in this way and before anyone realized what had happened, the Lion Cub had grown into a Lioness. When Cirilla’s nineteenth spring arrived, she sat Geralt down for an important conversation. 

“Father?” 

“Hmmm?”

“Do you still miss Jaskier?”

Geralt’s shoulders tensed and his eyes flickered away from hers for a moment. “Of course I do.”

“You should go back into the world and search for him.”

“You ask too much, cub. Who will look after you if I return to the Path?”

“Me. And Yen if you insist.”

“I will insist.”

“There was no doubt in my mind that you would,” Ciri teased. “But I’m nineteen. Most girls are married by my age. Some have children. Or, gods forbid, several children. I have no real interest in marriage or babies right now, of course, but I do want to have a few adventures of my own. Perhaps I can recruit my very own bard, who will write stunning ballads about my noble deeds and never shut up. Return to the Path, Father. Find Jaskier and let me grow a little more in your absence.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Geralt sighed. He cupped her cheek in his large palm and she leaned into the comforting touch. Ciri had been an affectionate child, and the experience of being her father had changed the Witcher. He wasn’t afraid to request an embrace or rest his tired head on Yennefer’s shoulder. He hugged his brothers and Vesemir when they parted ways every April, something Geralt never would have done in his first seventy years of life. “Maybe next year.”

But the Queen of the Fae had other ideas. 

A mysterious summons appeared at Yen’s door exactly one week before the seven year anniversary of Jaskier’s disappearance. Geralt’s services were needed in a village no more than ten miles away. Ciri insisted that he take the job. “It’s been at least two years since you’ve hunted anything other than drowners.”

“I only took easy jobs because you were young,” he grunted in reply. “I didn’t want to leave you alone with Yennefer.”

“I detest that,” Yen interjected. Ciri shook her head tiredly. I swear to the gods, if they weren’t my parents...

“You take the job,” she pointed at Geralt. Then she turned her finger towards Yennefer, “And you make sure his potion bag is well-stocked. I’m going to find him a book to take along.”

“A book?”

“Always take a book. Perhaps when you find Jaskier you can talk about it. I’ve also been thinking of calling him Papa when he arrives. If he agrees.”

“ Papa? ” Yennefer giggled.

“Well, I call Geralt Father. I call you Mom. I certainly don’t like the word Dad. From the stories you’ve both told me, Papa would fit Jaskier perfectly.”

“I don’t think you-uh…”

“Even when I was a child I just assumed that Jaskier was your one true love . The way you spoke about him sounded just like the way Grandma spoke of Eist. So whether or not you intended it, I’ve viewed this bard as my third parent for seven long years. Go polish up your Witcher skills with this easy pest control job and then go fetch Papa, Father. Hurry back. I want to meet him.”

There was no point in arguing with his Lion Cub. Geralt and Yen had taught her a little too well (not to mention Vesemir and his brothers) and now there was no fight she couldn’t win, verbal or otherwise. The Witcher merely nodded his acquiescence and went to saddle Roach. No sense in putting it off.

Thomas watched as the final line on his wrist faded away. His heart ached; he had nearly forgotten about his life outside the Fae Realm. What was the world like now ? “Must I go?”

“Of course not, darling Thomas,” Áine reassured him. Hope flared to life in his chest. “But I must ask you to do something for me if you are to stay.”

“Anything, my Queen.”

Anything to stay here. Anything to bask in the happiness and peace of this blessed Realm. Anything to avoid... To avoid... I was escaping something in the human world, but now I can’t remember what it was.  Thomas tried again to focus on the Queen's instructions.

“There is a village two miles north of here whose children are rather badly behaved. They keep wandering into the woods at dusk, which is a rather dangerous time for children to be alone in the forest. Regardless of pesky Unseelie Fae, the woods are no place for a bairn at night. Would you mind taking care of that?”

“How do I go about disciplining some rowdy village children? Hit them with my lute until they promise to stay away from the forest?”

“You must go into the meadow at the edge of the trees and grow all sorts of new flowers. Things they’ve never seen before. You must sing your most frightening songs while you do it; this way the children will think the forest is haunted and stay away from the dangerous animals that live within it. Humans fear us, child. It helps us to keep them safe.”

Jaskier wrinkled his nose, “I don’t want to be feared.”

“ You shan’t be feared, gentle Thomas. Only the flowers you grow and the songs you sing. Your physical form shall be disguised by my glamour and you will be able to pass among the humans as if you were invisible.”

“Thank you. It shall be as you command, my Queen,” the bard bowed. It was a habit she’d never managed to break. In fact, she’d grown rather fond of Jaskier’s proclivity for bowing all the gods-damned time. It was...charming. 

Geralt set himself up in a large oak tree at the edge of the apparently haunted forest . From here he could observe the field bordering the woods without garnering any attention for himself. Other than the insistent hum of his wolf medallion, which signaled that there was a source of magic in the vicinity, Geralt wasn’t sure what had frightened the villagers so badly. None of the children had been taken or killed. Apparently they’d been going into the field to pick posies like usual and coming home with their hair in intricate braids or carrying flowers that didn’t belong in the meadow. Plants that grew inside volcanoes or on the shores of an ocean. No death, no murder, just harmless pranks from some kind of sprite, no doubt. 

His certainty that this was just pesky young sprites faded as the pull from his talisman grew stronger. The Witcher felt his medallion vibrate violently against the skin of his chest just before he heard the singing: 

“For to see Mad Tom of Bedlam,

Ten thousand miles I’d travel.

Mad Maudlin goes on dirty toes,

For to save her shoes from gravel.

“Still I sing bonnie boys, bonnie mad boys,

Bedlam boys are bonnie.

For they all go bare, and they live by the air,

And they want no drink nor money.”

Geralt nearly fell from his hiding spot among the thick tree branches. He knew that voice. Jaskier! But the field was still empty. Wasn't it? Geralt needed to be sure that he was just hearing things. 

The Witcher yanked a bottle of De Vries from his bag and downed it in a single swallow. He needed to know exactly what kind of creature was taunting him with Jaskier's voice.   As the potion took effect, revealing the previously-invisible singer to him, Geralt realized that this thing also looked exactly like Jaskier. Well, almost. This creature’s hair was the same shade as his bard’s, but was much longer than Jaskier usually wore it. It was pulled into a loose braid at the back of the faerie’s neck and tied with a pale green ribbon. Rather than primary-colored velvets, this person was dressed in a pair of light brown linen breeches and a loose white tunic. The material of the shirt was thin enough that Geralt could see the outline of the tattoo that wound its way from the back of the man’s right shoulder-blade to his wrist. The shape seemed familiar but the Witcher couldn’t get a clear look from this distance and angle. The strangest thing of all were the man’s ears; they were pointed. This person was definitely the source of the strange flowers and residual faerie magic. 

On instinct, the Witcher inhaled deeply. 

Fuck the source of the magic. The field and surrounding woods were brimming with energy. It was overwhelming to the Witcher’s finely honed senses and he shook his head to clear it. Beneath the overwhelmingly floral bouquet of Fae power and blooming flowers was something else, though. Something that tugged at Geralt’s heartstrings. He could smell it all the way from his hiding place; the usual honey-cinnamon scent of Jaskier. Now that Geralt knew this mysterious Fae really was the mortal bard he had several concerns. How did he get the magic? Why are his ears pointed? If he has been in the Fae Realm all this time and now he’s out in the world, why hasn’t he contacted me? 

Pushing the questions aside, especially that last one, Geralt took a moment to observe his old traveling companion. The bard's walk was unusually graceful now and every footprint he left behind immediately sprouted with flower blossoms. His short path had quickly become carpeted with dandelions, violets, daisies and forget-me-nots. As Geralt squinted into the light, the Witcher realized how young this new Jaskier looked. When they’d parted on the side of that damned mountain seven years ago the bard was nearing his thirty-eighth birthday. Now he seemed to be no older than twenty-five. Jaskier’s voice was unearthly soft as he serenaded the flowering grasses around him.

“I went down to Satan’s kitchen

For to get me food one morning,

And there I got souls piping hot

All on the spit a-turning.

“Still I sing bonnie boys, bonnie mad boys,

Bedlam boys are bonnie.

For they all go bare, and they live by the air,

And they want no drink nor money.

“Me staff has murdered giants, 

And me bag a long-knife carries;

For to cut mince pies from children’s thighs

With which to feed the faeries.”

As he sang out the last line, Jaskier’s eyes darted to the tree where Geralt was sheltered. The Witcher’s breath froze in his chest as the bard enchanted him with another gentle chorus. His pointed at Geralt and curled his finger forward slightly in a ‘come here’ movement:

“Still I sing bonnie boys, bonnie mad boys,

Bedlam boys are bonnie.

For they all go bare, and they live by the air,

And they want no drink nor money.

"The spirits white as lightning,

Would on me travels guide me.

The moon would shake and the stars would quake

Whenever they espied me.

"Still I sing bonnie boys, bonnie mad boys,

Bedlam boys are bonnie.

For they all go bare, and they live by the air

And they want no drink nor money."

Before he could register what his limbs were doing, Geralt had climbed down from his perch in the ancient oak and revealed himself to this strange version of his old friend Jaskier. The bard’s eyes were bright with mirth and so, so beautifully blue. Cornflower blue. A color so deeply embedded in Geralt’s soul that he nearly burst into tears just from seeing it again. The Witcher’s gaze was then drawn to Jaskier’s lips as he spoke, “Ah, yes. You must be Geralt of Rivia?”

Geralt could only nod dumbly. This couldn’t be Jaskier. His movements were too fluid and his voice was too gentle; but nobody else could have these eyes. His hand wanted nothing more than to reach for his long-lost friend, his long-lost love . To pull the other man close and apologize for all the years of hurt he’d inflicted onto both of them with his cruel words and stupid decisions. But he couldn’t move his hand no matter how hard he tried. Or really any of his other limbs. Oh fuck. 

“Well then, follow me. My Lady needs to speak with you.”

The Witcher was compelled to follow Jaskier, who rolled his eyes fondly as if this was all a game. The familiar sight sent Geralt’s heart racing with happiness despite the circumstances. Why doesn’t he recognize me? Is he under a spell? Has he been cursed or kidnapped? Is he just being polite for now so that he can yell at me later? It wouldn’t be undeserved in the least. I’ll stand there and take it. I’ll listen. I’ll apologize for every solitary hurt I’ve caused him. On the other hand, how is he controlling my movements and enchanting me so easily? I’m resistant to magic, for fuck’s sake. Mind whirling with confusion and panic, Geralt continued to followed Jaskier through the woods against his will in silence. He was waiting for the bard to say something, say anything about what happened between them seven years ago; but the bard was only humming an unfamiliar tune to himself. Something lilting and smooth; inhuman. He knew the Faerie Tongue.

After nearly an hour of walking, Jaskier came to a sudden halt. He waved his hand in the four cardinal directions and spoke a string of quick words under his breath, resulting in a flash of green light. Geralt fell to his knees with a shout, crossing his arms in front of his face as if that could fend off the brightness engulfing him. When it faded, he was kneeling before the throne of the Fae Queen.

Áine was reclining comfortably in her chair of woven tree roots. Behind her, its branches reaching ever skyward, was the Crann Bethadh. Geralt bowed his head respectfully, the greasy white strands falling in a curtain around his face. “Your Highness.”

“Ah, the White Wolf of Rivia,” she smiled. “Finally we meet. I have heard so much about you.”

The Witcher cast his eyes to the bard, who had taken a seat on the arm of Áine’s throne. Her hand played idly with the end of the man’s braid and he leaned calmly into her touch. He’s played those ballads at the Seelie Court? Wrenching his gaze from Jaskier, the Witcher narrowed his amber eyes at the Queen. “What business do you have with me? I’ve never known the Fae to employ my kind before.”

“Don’t be subtle with me, Witcher,” the Queen scoffed. “I’m sure you have other, more pressing questions to ask.”

He nodded grimly, “What’s wrong with Jaskier?”

She gave her eyebrow a measured raise and laughed. The sound felt sharp to Geralt’s fine-tuned ears and he winced away. “Who’s Jaskier?” 

The Witcher glanced between her and the bard, whose steady gaze carried just as much curiosity as the Queen’s. He gestured in the brunette man’s direction, “This is the mortal bard, Jaskier, is it not?”

“My apologies for not introducing myself sooner, good fellow,” Jaskier laughed, springing from his seat and making his way over to the Witcher. He held out his right hand to shake, “My manners are severely lacking today. I am the official bard to the Seelie Court. Most call me Thomas the Rhymer, but since you’re cute you can just call me Thomas. And I do so resent being mistaken for a human; after working so long at my magic I am now officially a dryad .”

The Witcher was floundering. No. Please, gods, no. Jaskier, it has to be you. It must be. There isn’t a mage alive who could copy you so well. No doppelganger could steal your voice like that. Fucking hells Jaskier, wake up and see that it’s me, your Witcher. It’s Geralt. I’ve been searching for you.

The queen’s gaze was stormy and dark as she took in the look on Geralt’s face. He’s just as distraught as we’d suspected. He really does love his bard more than anything else. Besides maybe the Child Surprise I can smell all over him. Regardless, the time has come to lay the trap with honey and put on the performance of a millennia. We’ve never had a Witcher to play with before; what a deserving person to grant a happy ending to. Ah, sweet Witcher, you’ve suffered nearly long enough. But not quite.

Thomas returned to his perch on the arm of her throne and rested one leg on the rim of a nearby vase. Filavandrel's gifted lute was balanced delicately on his outstretched leg. The Queen spoke again, “I would like you to stay for our Midsummer celebration, Witcher.”

“I am honored to receive such an invitation, Your Highness,” Geralt said. Shit. Fuck. Now I’m trapped here for at least another week. 

“Would you allow Thomas to show you to your room, or would you prefer a female servant attend you?”

“To be granted the guidance of your personal bard would be yet another great honor, Your Highness.”

The Queen nodded, her eyes going dark and cruel. She tilted her head to the side, mocking Geralt with the lightness of her tone when she said. “Consider your wish granted, then.”

Chapter Text

“Before you take him away, sweet bard, I need to speak with the Witcher privately.”

“Yes, My Queen,” Jaskier bowed, dipping quickly out the room. Her other attendants made themselves equally scarce. Geralt was still frozen horribly in place by the words she’d just spoken. Borch’s words from seven years ago. When he’d-

“So, Witcher, I’m sure you know why I summoned you here.”

“You’ve captured the bard and taken his memories away like I asked of the dragon. Now you intend to taunt me with him because there’s very little I can do against you or your powerful magicks.”

“Not quite. I am not the villain you cast me as, Witcher. Jaskier came to my court of his own free will. He gladly handed over his memories and seven full years of his life in return for lessons in Fae magic and music. He didn’t even want the magic at first. I offered that to him out of kindness, and because after hearing him play I wanted him to stay connected with my Realm for the rest of his many days. Despite what you may want to believe, I didn’t take anything from Jaskier that he didn’t readily offer. He asked for freedom and I granted it to him.”

“Freedom from what?”

Her tone dripped with poison when she queried back: “Care to take a guess, Witcher ?”

“He asked for you to make him forget me, didn’t he?” A vice-like terror crushed Geralt’s heart within his chest; he felt it cracking violently... “I cut him so deeply with those lies.”

“Come here, Wolf.”

Geralt stood and stepped closer, within arm’s reach of the seated Fae Queen. She grabbed him by the wrist and yanked him forward another step. Áine was incredibly strong for one so lithe and the startled Witcher dropped back to one knee on instinct. The Queen lifted her hand and pressed the pads of her fingers softly but threateningly against his temple. “Would you like to know what you did to your little lark, Geralt? Would you like to see the memories he gave to me so freely? Memories that caused him enough pain to seek out indentured servitude at the hands of the Fae ? He thought he would be tortured, that first day. He was honestly and truly prepared to endure physical pain and endless pranks just to receive some solace from your heartless words. Magic was our gift out of kindness. The music he earned through merit. The loss of twenty years of his life was voluntary. ”

Geralt floundered. This couldn’t possibly be happening. He’d only been angry when he asked Borch to take the bard’s memories of him away. Everything he’d yelled at his poor, sweet Jaskier had been a lie. 

“You see, Geralt,” Áine continued breezily, “I rather like my sweet Thomas and I am loath to return him to the mortal realm. If you want him back, which I’m sure you do, you must prove yourself worthy of his love and companionship.”

“How can I do that?”

“Ah, so eager,” Áine pulled her hand away from Geralt’s face. “I will be sharing his memories with you, Wolf, but not today. For now I shall explain the tasks. There are three; much like your Witcher trials, yes?”

Geralt bit back a shiver. Those had been the worst experiences of his life. This is for Jaskier. You can do anything for him, no matter how painful or deadly it is. He straightened his spine and narrowed his eyes. The Queen did not miss his determined look. “What is my first trial?”

“Each task is meant to teach a lesson, my Witcher. A lesson in patience, because you raised your voice to him in anger. One requires perseverance, because to protect him you must be willing to go against all odds, no matter what. And, of course, the final test relies on your tenderness. You must prove that you can feel for Jaskier as deeply as he feels for you. Are these agreeable terms?”

Geralt nodded.

“Out loud, Witcher, or the deal won’t stick.”

“I agree.”

The Queen smiled blandly in order to mask her growing giddiness at how well things were going according to plan. “For the first task you shall collect all the firewood for our Midsummer bonfire. We only burn what we can gather from the forest and the flames must stay alive from dusk until dawn on Midsummer night. I will give you a day to rest and acquaint yourself with the area, but on your second morning here, your task will begin. You will have until the following sunrise to gather enough. If the Midsummer Night bonfire burns out too early, though, then I shall cast you from this Realm and you will never see Jaskier again.”

Geralt bowed his head and nodded. He knew the bard was impossible not to love and he knew that Áine would make this hard on him. Geralt was going to have to fight hard to get Jaskier back and he was more than ready for it. “I accept this task, My Lady.”

“Excellent. Before I introduce you to the court tonight, you need a bath and a fresh set of clothes. Thomas!”

“Introduce me?”

“Aye. I can’t just have some random Witcher wandering around in my court without a purpose. I intend to inform the other Seelie. Just play along.”

“Yes, My Queen.” Geralt was apprehensive but he didn’t really have a choice. I will bring him home, no matter what it takes. She can dress me as a bear and have me dance for her guests. I don’t give a shit. I’ll prove my love to him until he remembers and then I’ll never let him go again.

As the Queen and the Witcher came to their agreement, Thomas the Rhymer re-entered the throne room. “Yes, My Lady?”

“Please make sure our guest is given a bath and new clothing. I believe he’d prefer something dark, right, Witcher?”

“Yes, My Lady,” Geralt rumbled.

Jaskier’s toes practically curled at the deep, masculine sound of the Witcher’s voice. He’d never heard anything so utterly indecent in his life. He wanted to hear the Witcher sing. Fuck it, he’d make the Witcher sing for him. The bard shot a quick pre-apology glance to the Queen, who recognized the look and granted him permission with a secretive smile. Ah, the Faerie Tongue was tricky! Not all agreements need to be spoken aloud; not when it’s two against one. 

The dryad took Geralt gently by the hand and raised him to his feet. The Witcher’s golden eyes were wide and focused intently on Thomas’s face. Aww! He’s like a big puppy! So eager to follow, just like in the woods. The jovial bard led Geralt from the throne room and out into the courtyard. A wide circle of grass split off into branched pathways. Thomas took Geralt by the wrist and dragged him down one to the left.

As Geralt followed silently behind Jaskier, he pondered his current situation. 

He really doesn’t remember me at all. The exhausted Witcher allowed his old friend to drag him down the short dirt road, lined on either side with oaks so gigantic that not even Geralt’s impressive arms could have wrapped around them. It came to an end by splitting into three shorter paths. One to the left, another to the right, and the third branching out straight ahead for another hundred yards or so. At the end of each branch was a low stone pavilion, which Geralt suspected were the communal bathhouses. “Always use this one,” Jaskier stated, pointing to the right. “If you try and go into the other one, the faerie ladies will scratch your eyes out.”

“Noted,” Geralt grumbled. “What about the third?”

“That’s for the faeries that aren’t girls or boys.”

“Alright.”

By the time Geralt had finally undressed to his smallclothes and untied his hair from its usual pony-tail in the private antechamber, another body had taken up occupancy in the large stone bathing pool. Jaskier was lounging comfortably in the water at the center of the room. 

Geralt moved to sit in a more private area, one of the smaller tubs near the wall, but Jaskier’s voice stopped him. “Ah, Sir Witcher, are you avoiding me because I’m not this Jaskier person you’d hoped to find?”

“No,” Geralt answered. He didn’t want to raise his eyes. He just didn’t want to see the disgust on Jaskier’s face as his true love rediscovered the many scars he carried across his body. “And my name is Geralt.”

“Then join me, Geralt,” he bard ordered. The white-haired man was glad he’d worn his smallclothes into the bathing chamber. Partly from an unusual sense of shyness and partly because he was afraid the Fae might steal them if he didn’t. He was too tired to chase after some fauns in the nude because they’d taken off with his pants. As he lowered his aching body into the welcoming embrace of magically-heated water, however, Geralt realized that Jaskier wasn’t wearing anything at all. 

Keeping his eyes above the waterline, the Witcher took a moment to observe the changes that had been previously hidden by the bard’s clothing; most notably the tattoo. On the back of his right shoulder blade was the head, ears, and pointed, howling snout of- holy fuck it’s a wolf. Jaskier has a fucking wolf inked into his precious skin. “Why,” he rasped out, throat suddenly tight with emotion, “Did you choose a wolf?”

“Huh?”

“Your tattoo. Isn’t it a wolf?”

“Oh, yes. Her Majesty asked if I wanted a tattoo. She said that the magical ink they used would help my skill develop faster. I wanted to learn as much as I could as quickly as possible, so I agreed to let myself be marked. When she asked me what I wanted the image to be, I decided to get my favorite animal.”

“Why are wolves your favorite?”

“Because they’re so dynamic! Big and scary but also soft and playful. Have you ever held a wolf cub in your lap while its mother lets you scratch her behind the ears? It’s incredible!" There was a pause and a visible shift in Jaskier's emotions. "And sometimes I have these, uh, dreams.”

“Dreams?”

“Áine said they’re nothing to worry about but I’ve been having the same recurring dream ever since entering the Faerie Realm. I’m always rescued by the same white wolf. He’s my friend. He protects me.”

“Sounds nice.”

“He is." Jaskier swishes his hands through the water, caught up already in telling his story. "It’s always very cold where I am in the dream. I’m surrounded by stone walls and I know I’m in trouble. I’m trapped in a tower. I realize it every time, just before the wolf saves me.”

“Saves you?”

“He bursts through the big wooden door and wraps himself around me. I can hear footsteps on the stairs but I know as soon as the wolf arrives that I’m going to be okay.”

“Ah.”

“I wanted to name him,” he said, caressing his wrist where the wolf’s tattooed tail wrapped around it, “But nothing stuck.”

“Names give things power.”

The bard giggled at Geralt’s serious tone. It was time to lighten things up. “Alright, my turn!”

“Hmmm?”

The Witcher raised his eyes from the bard’s hands to meet Jaskier’s curious gaze, “I have so many questions for you!”

“Alright.”

“A man of few words, I see,” Jaskier teased. “Alright. First question. What’s your favorite color?”

“Wha-?”

“What. Is. Your. Favorite. Color?”

Geralt blurted his answer, “It’s blue.”

“You said that awfully fast.”

“The answer has been the same for many years.”

“How many?”

“Close to thirty,” Geralt answered promptly. Frustrated with his own awkwardness, Geralt felt his face heating up. Why the fuck am I blushing like a maiden? It’s not like he knows why my favorite color is blue. Although I’m sure with a mirror it wouldn’t take him very long at all to figure it out. 

The Witcher hadn’t even thought to pick a favorite color until one particularly strange night in Posada’s shittiest tavern. After that night, though, his answer had always been blue. 

“Second question, what’s your favorite song?”

“I have to think about that,” Geralt replied. He pondered his answer while watching the bard dip his mop of brown hair beneath the water. When he came up gasping it startled Geralt, who reached out to steady the other man. “Are you okay, Ja-Thomas?”

“Yeah,” the bard chuckled. “I don't think I can drown in a bathing pool. So, what’s your answer?”

“I don’t have a favorite song yet.”

“Well, now you’ve given me a challenge, Witcher.”

“Hmmm.”

Jaskier winked. “You’d better get your hair wet. It needs to be washed.”

The Witcher didn’t need to be told twice. He plugged his nose with his fingers and dunked his head below the surface. He waited for a moment to make sure it was soaked through before sitting up and swiping the now-damp hair from his face. “Shit. I didn’t bring my soap.”

“Áine keeps the bathhouses stocked since they’re communal. Use some of our supplies. You’re a guest here, after all.”

“Hmmm.”

There were small, raised trays stationed around the edge of the circular bathing pool. Each one contained a plethora of soaps, potions, and oils. Praying for good luck, Geralt scooped a small amount of soap from one of the stone crocks and ran the strange substance through his hair. The smell was subtle, floral, and altogether pleasant. Like Jaskier used to smell back when they traveled together; like he’d just been rolling in a field of flowers. 

“Do you have a sweetheart?” the bard questioned.

“No,” Geralt winced. “I do love someone but I would not exactly call them my sweetheart.” 

“They must be very important to you.”

“He is.” 

The searing look Geralt gave him made Thomas break eye contact. He dove beneath the water under the pretense of rinsing his hair, but really the bard was hiding from that gaze. So intense and meaningful that it pulled at something buried in Thomas’s chest. Something he vaguely remembered but couldn’t quite call to mind. 

When he surfaced again, Geralt was taking a turn beneath the water. The Witcher’s hair was so beautiful, floating there like strands of undyed silk. He wanted to play with it, braid it, run his fingers through it endlessly. Perhaps the Witcher would let him do it up for the Midsummer celebration? At the very least he could manipulate his way into touching it a little.

“Geralt?” he asked, once the man had returned to breathe air. “It must be hard work to wash your hair after such a long day of travel and Faerie kidnapping. Let me condition it for you.”

“Condition?”

“Hush, before you break my heart with your lack of a hair-care routine.”

“You could have just asked if you wanted to play with it,” the Witcher teased. Thomas laughed brightly. Ah, so you aren’t a frozen lump, after all. I see now why the Queen invited you to stay for Midsummer. The air filled with the scent of shame as Geralt spoke his next words; it stung Thomas deeply for a reason the dryad couldn’t quite fathom, “I know that it is an...unusual color.”

“Last question for today then, Geralt of Rivia: May I play with your hair?”

Thomas didn’t know that Geralt had only meant to nod. He had meant to say that it would be fine for Thomas to play with his hair. The bard could braid it to his heart’s content. Or comb it. Or pull it. He could yank it all out if he felt like it. Instead, the Witcher let out a breathy, “Yes.” 

Thomas stared at Geralt for a charged moment. He hadn’t been expecting such a strong reaction from the Queen’s stoic guest. Thomas could feel the desperate longing rolling off of Geralt in gentle waves; his recently matured magic was practically overwhelmed by the Witcher’s intense emotions. When he stood to move closer, however, the white-haired man gasped and buried his face in his large hands. Thomas glanced down. “Oh is it...is it because I’m naked?” 

Geralt nodded. Thomas let out a bellowing laugh, his eyes watering from the force of his outburst. “Who would have thought of monster slayer so bashful ? Truly, darling, you are such a curiosity!”

“Ja-Thomas, please.”

The bard lowered himself back into the water and pouted dramatically in Geralt’s direction, “Fine. But I’m combing it and braiding it once we arrive at your chambers.”

“Deal.”

“Her Highness told us that you were sent to gather the Witcher so that he could pay penance for offending her, but how did you get him to follow you to the edge of the Veil?"

“Ah, now that was a special kind of magic,” Jaskier said. The nymph who’d asked this question happened to be one of the bard’s favorite students. Certainly one of his brightest. 

At the back of the small gathering sat the Witcher in question. His hulking mass of muscle and stark white hair cut a very peculiar picture among the slender, colorful bodies of the Fae. “I used my music and compelled him to do my bidding. This kind of power is easiest to use on simple creatures, like animals. We use it to communicate with them all the time. We use it to make flowers spring up from the ground and bloom out of season. It is much harder to persuade humans to play along and harder yet with humans who are resistant to magic. You will have to practice for years to perfect your own method of doing so, like I did.”

“Was it hard to enchant a Witcher?”

“Aye.”

“Because he is a human who can resist our kind?”

“Correct. You’ll learn quickly.”

Geralt stifled the urge to speak up and correct Jaskier’s student. Witchers aren’t human. We’re just as monstrous as the creatures we fight. 

“Can you do it again?” a faun piped up. 

“I don’t think that would be very polite. When the Queen asked me to fetch Geralt I was using this power to serve a purpose. Manipulating another being just for fun is selfish and rude. You wouldn’t like it very much if I forced you to dance like a chicken for the class’s entertainment, would you?”

“Probably not,” the faun shook his head. 

“Exactly.”

“Will you sing for us anyway?” a water sprite begged.

“I suppose there isn’t much more teaching to be done today, anyway. Only one song, though, loves. Tamlane and I need to work on some plans for the Midsummer celebration and I need to save my voice.”

There was a murmur of grumbling acceptance. Thomas smiled. 

“Any requests?”

There were a few shouted titles that Geralt recognized, a few he didn’t, and a few in the Faerie Tongue that he couldn’t even begin to decipher. The Tamlane fellow who’d just been mentioned raised his hand and the noise of the crowd died to silence. “It’s been awhile since you’ve done ‘All Around My Hat’, Thomas.”

“Your wish is my command,” Jaskier smiled towards the other man. Geralt’s heart stuttered to a full stop in his chest. The look in his bard’s eyes was affectionate. It was a look he used to share only with Geralt. Seeing the way he flashed it so easily at Tamlane renewed the throbbing pain in the Witcher's chest. Gods does this fucking hurt. The aching sense of loss and the bright burn of jealousy were both washed briefly from his mind, however, as Jaskier plucked out an upbeat tune on his lute and began to sing:

“All around my hat I will wear the green willow;

And all around my hat for a twelve-month and a day,

And if anyone should ask me the reason why I'm wearing it,

It's all for my true love who's far, far away.

“Fare thee well cold winter and fare thee well cold frost,

Nothing have I gained, but my own true love I've lost.

I'll sing and I'll be merry when occasion I do see,

He's a false, deluded young man! Let him go, farewell he!”

Jaskier’s students gathered into two large rings to dance. The inner ring moved in one direction while the outer circle did the opposite, bobbing and weaving back and forth between each other as they jigged and spun. Tamlane was the most enthusiastic, throwing meaningful glances at Jaskier from his place amongst the other dancers. Jaskier’s voice rang through the grassy courtyard as he playacted the innuendo of the next verse: 

“The other night he brought me a fine diamond ring,

But he thought to have deprived me of a far better thing,

But I being careful like lovers ought to be,

He's a false deluding young man! Let him go, farewell he!

“And all around my hat I will wear the green willow;

And all around my hat for a twelve-month and a day,

And if anyone should ask me the reason why I'm wearing it,

It's all for my true love who's far, far away.”

Geralt allowed himself to be hauled to his feet by a handful of eager and brightly colored flower spirits. They spun him into the circle of dancers and rather than put up a fight, the Witcher began to mimic the movements of those around him. They clasped his hands in passing as the dance required, not a single sign of fear or repulsion on their faces. They were too wrapped up in the joy of Jaskier's music. Before he realized what was happening, Geralt was thoroughly enjoying himself.

“Here's a half a pound of reasons, and a quarter pound of sense.

A small sprig of time and as much of prudence,

You mix them all together and you will plainly see,

He's a false, deluded young man! Let him go, farewell he!

“And all around my hat I will wear the green willow;

And all around my hat for a twelve-month and a day,

And if anyone should ask me the reason why I'm wearing it,

It's all for my true love who's far, far away.”

Geralt threw his head back and laughed. At the song, at himself, at the way his life had turned out. Thirty years ago he'd been an angry, lonely man with no real place in the world. Now he had a child, a best friend, and his love was standing before him, basking in the attention of his students and friends. The bard's strong tenor filled the air and wrapped its warm sound around the Witcher's heart like a bandage.

Jaskier sent him an unusually pointed glance as he sang the final chorus and the Witcher slowed his dancing to keep eye contact. There was something stirring ominously in the bard's blue eyes, the faintest light of recognition:

“And all around my hat I will wear the green willow;

And all around my hat for a twelve-month and a day,

And if anyone should ask me the reason why I'm wearing it,

It's all for my true love who's far, far away.”

Would you guys mind taking This Poll and helping me figure out what to write next? I'm already mostly through with writing this so I'm ready for another project!

Chapter Text

I used this translation/explanation of Celtic Woman's lyrics to inform part of the plot of this chapter.

When Áine swept into the throne room on the morning of Geralt’s first task, the Queen was unsurprised to find him already kneeling at the center of the stone floor. Mustardseed had informed her that he’d been awake long before dawn, anxiously pacing the floor of his private chamber and muttering to himself. Now, though, he seemed very calm and collected as he waited for her to open the court. “Good morning, my Witcher; are you ready for your task?”

“Yes, My Lady.”

One of the lesser faeries handed two thick lengths of rope to Geralt, who accepted them with a gracious nod. Each piece had a loop tied on either end meant for him to use as handles. He could lay the ropes down next to each other, fill the space between with sticks, and roll the bundle up to carry back to the log-pile. It was similar to the way things were done at Kaer Morhen. “Here are your tools. When the sun rises again tomorrow, your time to complete this task will be up. How you choose to fill the hours between now and then is up to you, but remember that the Midsummer fire must last all night if the rites are to be completed. Be on your way, Witcher.”

“Yes, My Lady.”

He stood, bowed at the waist, and turned to make his way out of the throne room. The Fae Realm had a large and abundant forest, surely he’d be able to find enough wood to keep the Midsummer fire stoked for one full night; the shortest night of the year. He had to. For Jaskier. 

“Why don’t you go and keep him company?” Tamlane asked, nudging Thomas’s shoulder with his own. “I see you staring at him."

“The Queen forbade it.”

“When did you last listen to the Queen? I know he intrigues you.”

“I do love wolves,” Thomas sighed. He gazed longingly at the Witcher’s approaching figure in the distance. “I suppose just saying hello wouldn’t get me into too much trouble.”

“There’s my Mad Tom!”

“Shut up, Tam.”

“Never.”

Thomas shoved his friend off their shared bench and laughed at Tamlane’s shocked expression. The faun stuck his tongue out at Thomas, who reached out to help him up for an embrace. The Witcher glanced over, eyes bright with jealousy. 

It’s working, Tam thought, his arms wrapped tightly around the bard’s trim waist. They’re gravitating towards each other just as the Queen predicted. Just as intended. This truly is an amazing part I’ve been cast in. Tamlane had never smelled jealousy as powerful or as overwhelming as the Witcher’s. It battered his delicate Faerie senses. Even Jaskier, whose magic had only recently come to full maturity, was picking up on the distant but potent scents of yearning and jealousy. Tam stepped away from the hug but rested one of his hands on the bard’s shoulder to keep the Witcher agitated.

“I don’t even remember why we’re supposed to steer clear of him in the first place,” he lied. 

“She said it was a punishment and that he offended her."

"I wonder how."

"Probably broke a Faerie Ring or something. This isn't too bad of a punishment, all things considered."

“I heard you telling Mustardseed that you found the Witcher rather attractive," Tam teased, jostling Thomas's elbow. "Something about all that dark leather and white hair, sound familiar?”

“Shut up!” Thomas whisper-shouted, clapping a hand over Tamlane’s mouth. Witchers had notoriously good hearing and Geralt was making his way back to the woodpile with another bundle of sticks. 

“This would be a good chance to get to know him,” Tamlane muttered from between Thomas’s fingers. 

“Fine.”

Thomas dropped his hand from Tam’s face and picked up his lute instead. He shot a nervous glance back at his friend, crossed his fingers for good luck, and approached the rather imposing Witcher. 

Geralt was practically dripping with sweat after a full five hours of carrying wood back and forth from the forest to the Midsummer woodpile and Thomas ached to tell him about the trick Áine was playing. Every time the Witcher added a new bundle of kindling to the pile, the mischievous Queen would turn nearly a third of them invisible. Geralt would return from another trip only to discover that some of his supply had gone missing already. It was a cruel game but it was designed to test his patience. And now Thomas was going to test it just a little bit more, Áine forgive him .

“Geralt!”

“Thomas.”

“May I keep you company during your ordeal?”

“Didn’t you hear the Queen threaten everyone with a day in the stocks if they so much as spoke to me?” the Witcher asked. Thomas shrugged. 

“Never was one to take threats seriously.”

“Hmmm.” Thomas heard the man’s deep hum but was ignorant of the thoughts it shielded: That’s the fucking understatement of the century. You’d threaten a striga to her face if it meant protecting the ones you love.

Thomas walked quietly at Geralt’s side as they made their way back towards the forest. He couldn’t help but ogle the handsome stranger. The way his white hair shone in the dappled sunlight was ethereal and the bard could drown in those molten amber irises. His shoulders were broad, his legs were to die for and his hands were surprisingly gentle with everything they touched despite their size. Thomas was, all things considered, highly attracted to the Witcher. Except that he makes for a horrible conversational companion. “Tell me a story of your adventures, Sir Geralt.”

“Just Geralt.”

“Tell me a story, then, Geralt.”

“Aren’t you the storyteller?”

“Yes, but I get to tell them all the time. Now is an opportunity for you to share.”

“I suppose.”

“Tell me something sad and happy.”

“Can a story be both sad and happy?” Geralt asked, raising an eyebrow in honest curiosity. Thomas snorted.

“Of course! Every good story with a happy ending has a sad part somewhere in the middle. Rapunzel’s prince has his eyes stabbed out by thorns but her tears return his sight. Cinderella returns to a life of servitude after the ball and has to wait three whole weeks for her prince to arrive. Snow White lays in a glass coffin for a year!”

“Oh, I see.”

“Now that you know it works, you can tell me a proper story.”

“How about the story of the Bard and his Witcher?”

“I like it already!”

“They met in a small tavern in Posada. Have you ever been?”

“Once or twice, I believe. A long time ago. I don't remember much of my life outside the Faerie Realm”

“Alright, then I suppose I should begin it like a real story,” Geralt laid his ropes on the ground and began to pile sticks onto them. Thomas was eager to help, his eyes never straying long from the Witcher even as he gathered firewood. “A long time ago, in a small village far from Faerie Land, a tired Witcher sat alone in the corner of a shit tavern. He was drinking quite possibly the worst ale of his life and listening to a young bard get bread thrown at him.”

“Did they speak?”

“Yes. The bard was bright and full of life. He approached the Witcher smelling of springtime and confidence, not an ounce of fear in his posture, and asked for a review of his performance. ‘Three words or less’ he demanded. He’d stuffed all the bread the crowd had thrown at him into his pants, the fool; but he was sweet and very determined. Even though the Witcher didn’t like to answer his questions or speak much, the bard stuck around. He followed the Witcher everywhere and wrote many ballads about their adventures. Popular ballads. They parted ways in the autumn and met back up every spring for nearly twenty years.”

“That’s a long time,” Thomas whistled. 

“Aye. And it wasn’t nearly long enough,” the Witcher sighed. 

“What happened to them?”

“The Witcher was a selfish idiot. He thought he was meant to be unlovable, but the bard was proving otherwise and he hated it. He wasn’t used to being looked after or taken care of like that. He had been taught that feelings were a weakness, so he ignored them in an effort to save them both. It backfired. The bard’s touch would make the Witcher’s world light up and his voice made the monster-slayer feel safe for the first time. But alas,” Geralt sighed again. Heavier this time, like the weight of the world had settled onto his shoulders alongside the bundle of logs. “The Witcher still thought he could not be loved. He sought out the company of a sorceress, whose powers made him feel a little more human. More vulnerable. He pursued her but it wasn’t made to last; their passions were too hot and they scalded each other.”

“Was the Witcher okay?”

“He was angry. One day, after fighting with the sorceress for the last time, the Witcher lost his patience with the bard. The young man had only been trying to cheer him up, but the Witcher knew that if he let things continue then he’d eventually lose this love, too. So he screamed at the bard and told him so many lies about how the young man had ruined his life. This beautiful creature who had spent twenty years fighting alongside and defending a Witcher. Perhaps even loving him.”

“Oh, Geralt.”

“The bard and the Witcher parted ways. The Witcher thought it was for the better. He went to find his Child Surprise and let the bard alone to live out a good life.”

“And then what?”

“What do you mean? That’s the end.”

“That can’t be the end! I said I wanted a happy ending and this is not happy, Geralt. Does the Witcher ever find the bard? Does he apologize? Does he confess his love? Do they end up together? What happens, Geralt?”

“I hope he gets the chance to do those things. To apologize and confess and be together.”

“You hope so?”

“Hmmm.”

“So this story hasn’t even come to an end yet? Why would you tell me an incomplete story!?”

Geralt shrugged and upended their full bundle onto the slowly growing Midsummer pile. “Thomas,” A disappointed female voice intoned. The dryad flinched and turned to greet the queen with a sweeping bow. 

“Your Highness.”

“I said no fraternizing with the Witcher during his punishment, didn’t I?”

“You know how I like to interrogate your visitors for stories, Lady Áine, and a Witcher must be absolutely full of them. I am deeply sorry to have broken your hest to do speak with him,” he apologized. 

“For a fool, you’re not fooling anyone.”

“I shall go to the stocks,” Thomas nodded. “My apologies.”

“I’m not about to have my head entertainer stuck in the stocks on Midsummer Day,” the Queen scoffed. “ See you tomorrow for the festivities.”

“May I continue to speak with the Witcher?”

“I suppose it’s too late to stop you now.”

Áine had quite the giggle when she revealed her wood-hiding spell to Geralt on Midsummer morning. The Witcher felt far more comfortable with the result of his day-long task when he saw just how much extra kindling she’d kept squirreled away under the invisibility glamour. He was also exhausted from working all through the daylight hours and well into the night. She escorted the tired Witcher to the throne room for a private conversation as the sun rose over the courtyard. “Your first task was a success.”

“Thank you for the opportunity to right my wrongs, Your Majesty.”

“None of that famous Witcher self-loathing at the party tonight, Geralt. It is a celebration of summer, after all. Thomas will be hosting the festivities.”

“A true Lord of Misrule.”

“He is a very particular Master of Ceremonies,” the Queen stated. Her gaze softened when she took in the Witcher’s hunched shoulders and near-limp from working so hard. She knew he wouldn’t have ever let himself come close to losing Jaskier, but his patience at the lengthy task had certainly won her over further. Especially with Thomas babbling along at his side for most of the afternoon, wheedling for stories and bits of Witcher trivia. “I think you’ll be impressed.”

“He’s always impressive.”

“But tonight he’ll be in full Faerie regalia. This is his first Midsummer night as a completely matured dryad with rather impressive Fae powers, after all.” 

“Hmmm.”

“I would groom yourself well, Geralt,” she teased. “True Thomas seems to have taken a liking to you. He may pay you extra special attention at the festivities.”

Her words were a warning as much as a suggestion and Geralt couldn’t help the nervous breath of air he gulped down. His face flushed with the implications. Oh god, what the fuck is that bard planning to do with me? As if she could hear his thoughts, Áine remarked, “I would keep my eyes on him whenever possible, Witcher, or you may find yourself in a vulnerable position. We both know how much you hate those.”

Geralt grunted in response and bowed his way out of the room. He needed rest, he needed a bath, and he certainly needed an outfit fit for a party.

A soft but insistent knocking woke Geralt from his slumber later that afternoon. Someone was at the door of his private chamber. “Come in,” he half-slurred, eyes still blurry with sleep. Jaskier’s head poked around the edge of the sloping wooden door-frame.

“May I do your hair for the party?”

“It would be an honor to have you do my hair, sweet Thomas.” Geralt rose from the bed and watched his usually assertive bard go pink in the face as his eyes traced down the lines of the Witcher's body. Geralt stretched languidly, as lazy as any housecat, and moved to pull a light chemise over his head for modesty's sake. The Witcher didn’t miss the way Jaskier was worrying his lip with his teeth and clenching his hands against the empty air as he watched Geralt’s abdomen flex and twist through his movements. 

“May I also pick out your outfit?”

“I thought I might surprise you later, actually.”

“That pleases me fine,” Jaskier smirked, “I do so love surprises.”

“Shall I sit in front of the mirror like usual?”

“That would be lovely. And you shall be too. Lovely. My lovely, dangerous, serious Witcher.”

“Hmm,” there was an unusually soft light in the Witcher’s eyes as they met Jaskier’s through the mirror, “Your Witcher, indeed.”

The Midsummer feast table was circular, with a large grassy expanse in the middle dedicated to the evening's performance. Áine sat in the northernmost chair, the seat of honor, her layered dress of gold and pale pink silks shimmering ephemerally in the light of the setting sun. Geralt was seated at Áine’s left since he was her guest and his table partner was a slender Fae youth. The man was flirtatious and talkative, but the Witcher’s yellow eyes were too busy roaming the room to look at him for long. The Queen knew he was looking for the bard. Jaskier wouldn’t be making his appearance until after the fire was lit. 

As her guests found their places, Áine took in the Witcher’s appearance. Jaskier had clearly done his hair for him; sweeping it out of his face with two winding braids that met at the base of his neck and continued down between his shoulder blades. The rest of his hair had been brushed through and detangled, left to hang in a silvery curtain around his face. It was simple, elegant, and utterly dashing. The outfit intrigued her the most, however. It didn’t seem like anything Jaskier was likely to pick but it also seemed slightly too flamboyant to fit the Witcher’s tastes. She called for Mustardseed.

“The Witcher’s clothing, who provided it?”

“Me, your Majesty. He selected the ensemble himself to impress Master Thomas this evening.”

“You have proven to be most helpful through these seven years and tonight is no exception. I shall knight you when our farce comes to an end.”

Mustardseed kissed the back of the Queen’s hand in appreciation and stepped back into the crowd of servants. 

Thomas certainly would appreciate Geralt’s effort. When the bard saw just how low the neckline of the Witcher’s deep-blue tunic fell, the Queen doubted he’d be able to keep his composure. If it weren’t for his broad shoulders and massive height, Geralt's silvery mane and strange eyes could have made him an Unseelie Prince. Well, there’s no point in holding off the ceremony any longer, Áine decided, standing from her chair and holding out her arms. “Welcome,” she called. What few guests remained standing quickly found their seats and the circle of Faeries fell into silence. “It is my honor on this Midsummer night to play host to the mortal hero, Geralt of Rivia.”

“Are you going to do it?” Tamlane asked, swinging his hooves beneath the bench he’d perched upon. “Are you going to use the spell?”

“It feels like cheating,” Thomas sighed, tuning his lute absentmindedly. 

“It’s not cheating, Thomas. We're the Fae, after all. It's our job to play tricks on the mortals. Plus, he’s a Witcher. It might not take as firmly anyway. If it does take .”

“I suppose.”

“What’s the word again, Thomas? If you mispronounce it the spell won’t take.”

“ Seata-Ceatía, ” Thomas repeated quietly. Tam nodded enthusiastically. 

“And you must look at him while you say it. Look him deep in the eyes and focus all your intention into the words.”

“And you promise that it only takes if he’s willing?”

“An unwilling partner cannot be charmed, especially not a Witcher.”

“Thank you for teaching me, Tam. I owe you.”

“Careful, Thomas.”

“I owe you one small raspberry tart after the celebrations are over.”

“Much better. I agree.”

After the Queen gave her introduction toast and officially lit the Beltane fire, Jaskier made his way to the center of the circle to begin the evening's entertainment. Geralt's heart flew into his throat as soon as he set eyes on the bard.

Jaskier was barefoot as always, but his outfit had been catered beautifully to the occasion. Geralt supposed it had something to do with his role as primary entertainer. The bard’s deep purple linen pants were embroidered at the seams with violet buds and he’d rolled them up to just below his knees. His flowing white tunic was cinched at the wrists with a series of pearl buttons but its neckline was open far enough to reveal his sharp collarbones.

Jaskier looked like one of the wood nymphs painted alongside the verse in Vesemir’s ancient poetry books. I should have studied them more closely. Then perhaps I’d have something to talk to him about, to share with him. Geralt’s train of thought was quickly derailed as a small troupe of flower faeries in colorful dresses entered the circle's center and formed a tight ring. The young women joined hands, struck a pose, and Geralt nearly fell over in his seat when the bard began strumming his lute and singing in the Faerie Tongue.

Thomas watched the young initiates of the Fae Chorale form their tableau and took his place outside it, standing near the Queen to show his respect. He strummed the opening note of their first song on his lute and made direct eye contact with Geralt. All at once, he and the Chorale burst into the Faerie Tongue, eyes flashing with magic as he attempted to enchant the Witcher: 

“Seata-Ceatía sciamh-ne riabhanach,

Seata-Ceatía nuige Tír na nÓg.

Seata-Ceatía sciamh-ne riabhanach,

Nuige, Tír na nÓg.”

He felt a rush of energy pass between himself and the Witcher. The spell had taken! Geralt was willing. Geralt had affection for him! Thomas was overjoyed. He sang the verses of the song by himself, dancing around the circle of gathered guests and elders with a wide, boyish grin on his face.

“Come, my love, our worlds would part

The gods will guide us across the dark.

Come with me and be mine, my love

Stay and break my heart!”

As he continued around the circle and grew closer to his silver-haired target, Thomas let his tone grow breathy and light. He made eye contact solely with Geralt as he sang the next few lines: 

“From the shores, through the ancient mists,

You bear the mark of my Elven kiss.

Clear the way, I will take you home

To eternal bliss.”

He winked at Geralt and nearly crowed in exultation when the Witcher blushed in response. Behind him, the choir picked up again perfectly on cue, dancing around each other as they did. The circle of women spun in an intricate reel that Thomas couldn’t even hope to keep track of. He focused on his connection to Geralt, singing his desire and excitement into the lyrics.

“Seata-Ceatía sciamh-ne riabhanach,

Seata-Ceatía nuige Tír na nÓg.

Seata-Ceatía sciamh-ne riabhanach,

Nuige, Tír na nÓg.

“Tír na nÓg, oh,

Come beyond the ancient fog!

Tír na nÓg, oh,

Come with me to Tír na nÓg!”

Geralt knew the song spoke of the Faerie Realm, referred to among the northern tribes as Tír na nÓg. He shouldn’t have known the other lyrics, but after Jaskier had called to him with those words, “ Seata-Ceatía”, he felt as if he understood their meaning. Come with me, my beautiful, handsome young man. Come with me to the Land Beyond the Mist. His head felt foggy and his arms ached to hold Jaskier. The bard was occupied with continuing his song, so Geralt contented himself with watching the bard perform:

“Far away from the land you knew,

The dawn of day reaches out to you.

Though it feels like a fairy tale,

All of this is true.

“Run with me, have a look around,

We built our life over sacred ground.

Come, my love, though our worlds may part,

We'll be safe and sound!

“Seata-Ceatía sciamh-ne riabhanach,

Seata-Ceatía nuige Tír na nÓg.

Seata-Ceatía sciamh-ne riabhanach,

Nuige, Tír na nÓg.”

The sound of those two words coming from Jaskier’s mouth struck Geralt in the center of his chest every time, elevating that warm yearning feeling to a nearly maddening level. Stop it please, love, you’re driving me insane! The Witcher’s mind was a foggy mess of thoughts, all of them focused on Jaskier, Jaskier, Jaskier and the sound of his perfect voice surrounding Geralt. Holding him still in his chair; enchanted and spellbound in every way.

“Tír na nÓg, oh,

Come beyond the ancient fog!

Tír na nÓg, oh,

Come with me to Tír na nÓg!”

“Time won't follow the path we came,

The world you left, it forgot your name.

Stay with me and be mine, my love;

Spare my heart the pain.”

And then, as if to put him in a frenzy, the bard gazed deeply into Geralt’s eyes, half-lidded already from the impact of the dryad’s magic, and repeated the chorus a final time:

“Seata-Ceatía sciamh-ne riabhanach,

Seata-Ceatía nuige Tír na nÓg.

Seata-Ceatía sciamh-ne riabhanach,

Nuige, Tír na nÓg.

“Tír na nÓg, oh,

Come beyond the ancient fog!

Tír na nÓg, oh,

Come with me to Tír na nÓg!”

Thomas finished out the evening with ‘Scarborough Fair’, which was perfect to settle the Faerie guests. The fire was still burning bright, as it would be for the remainder of the night, and couples were breaking off from the crowd of dancers to drift in the shadows. Thomas put his lute away and magicked it back to his room with a flick of his wrist. He jumped in surprise when a large hand encircled that same wrist a moment later. The Witcher's gravelly voice breathed a question in reverent wonder, “How did you do that?"

“Simple transportation spell,” Thomas shrugged. The Witcher’s eyes were focused intently on the bard's hands. He stroked his finger across Thomas’s palm and the bard suppressed a shiver at the tingling sensation that trailed behind. “You seem distracted, darling Geralt.”

The gold eyes flashed to meet his. Geralt's pupils were blown wide from the force of Thomas's enchantment. “Sorry, Jas.”

“You’ve been in the cups, eh, Witcher? I’m Thomas, remember?”

“Right, yeah. Thomas.”

From the slight sway in his stance, Thomas could tell that the spell had affected the Witcher even more intensely than he’d expected, which meant… “Do you love me, Geralt?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

“I am totally under your spell.”

Thomas released a guilty sigh and placed his unoccupied hand on Geralt’s leg. He knew the Witcher was enchanted, that he'd only chosen a very particular metaphor to use, but it still wasn't fair to hold him like this. To force Geralt to admit things. “I release you, Geralt. Enjoy the rest of the party.” 

“Thomas, wait.”

The dryad turned back to face the Witcher and the smell of Geralt’s yearning nearly bowled him over. That certainly wasn't from the spell. In fact, as far as Jaskier was aware, his magic had masked the burnt-honey scent of desperation clinging to the Witcher's skin. The bard’s step faltered for a moment as he regarded the white-haired man before him. “Yes?”

“What did the words of that song mean? Why did I feel...like you were calling to me? Calling me things, kind things?”

“Ah,” the bard’s face was smiling but his eyes seemed sad, “That is Faerie knowledge. Not meant for you.”

The Witcher lowered his eyes and reached absently for the braid at the back of his neck. Thomas wasn't sure why the gesture pulled at every corner of his heart, but the familiarity and sadness of the sight chased him all the way back to his dreams. His dreams of the white wolf.

Chapter Text

“It’s time for your second task,” the Queen announced, glancing down from her throne to the ever-kneeling Witcher. Jaskier with his bowing and Geralt with his kneeling, these boys are so old fashioned it nearly puts the Fae to shame. She smiled benignly, “Do you wish to hear the terms?”

“Yes, My Lady.”

“There is a castle three miles to the north that once belonged to my grandmother. Since her death several centuries ago, it has been haunted by a group of very particular Unseelie Fae. Their terms of surrender are thus: a champion of my choosing must stay three full nights within the castle walls and endure their torture. If this champion survives without leaving the castle grounds or going mad, the Unseelie will depart and our rightful land will be returned to us. Will you do this for me, Geralt of Rivia?”

“I do accept this task, My Lady. I will be your appointed champion.”

“You have two days to gather supplies and ready your horse for travel. It’s nearly a full day’s ride from here to the castle.”

Geralt heard the word horse and bristled at the memory of Roach. She had probably been sold off or adopted by the innkeeper of the supposedly haunted village where this whole adventure began. “My horse is back in the Mortal Realm, My Lady. I must leave sooner if I am to go on foot.”

“Do you think I am so incompetent a Faerie that I cannot find your darling Roach? I would like to think that I’m a respectable hostess, if not a good one.” Geralt’s heart lightened at the words and the Queen continued. “She really does love you, Sir Witcher. She told me about it just this morning. She also said that you should give the chatty man a turn on her back every once and awhile now that you’ll be traveling together again.”

“Admonished by my horse,” Geralt deadpanned, trying to hide his excitement over seeing Roach again. “Wonderful.”

“Yes, and as I said, you have two days to prepare. Then you shall set off to free my land from this curse.”

“Yes, My Lady. I will succeed.”

“These monsters cannot be fought or destroyed, Sir Witcher. They can only be endured. You can't cut them with swords or burn them with fire, so until the sun rises you will have to persist. ” 

“I understand.”

“As motivation to complete this particular task, I’ve added some incentive to the final night.”

“What do you mean?”

“Think of the Mortal Realm's faerie tales, Witcher,” The Queen’s wording was specific as she spun the clues out for Geralt to decipher later. “When you think you can no longer stand it, when the Unseelie's words have pierced your armor and entered your heart, remember the dreams of your sweet bard. He’s always there for you in times of darkness, after all.”

Geralt nodded. 

“Dismissed.”

With the Queen’s permission the Witcher stood, bowed at the waist, and exited the throne room. He made his way to the courtyard on impulse, heading for the area where Jaskier usually taught his afternoon classes. When he glanced around, however, the bard was nowhere to be seen. Itching to relieve some energy, Geralt made his way to the training grounds. 

“True Thomas,” the Queen welcomed her bard into the otherwise empty throne room. “I have a favor to ask of you.”

“Lady Áine?”

“It is in regards to the Witcher’s second task.”

“Yes, Your Highness?”

“The Witcher has feelings for you, as I’m sure you discovered with your little prank at the Midsummer celebration.”

“I’m so sorry,” the bard blushed. “I couldn’t help myself.”

“No need for apologies,” she smiled. “It was a very good trick and a thorough test of your new magic. I’m glad you decided to try it on someone who had the option of resisting; it means that you’re careful and considerate.”

“I don’t know if considerate is the right word.” 

“This is not the matter I summoned you to discuss, regardless. Your party trick revealed much about the Witcher’s heart.”

“I don’t know how he fell in love with me so fast.”

“That is relevant to the favor I’m about to ask of you, Thomas, but don’t worry your lovely head about it. The Witcher has many secrets.”

“Alright.” The bard shuffled his feet, nervous for the first time in years.

“I need you to stay in the castle on the third night of the trial. I’ll lock you in the tower, far away from the Unseelie trespassers; you can even have your lute to play. Your only job is to act frightened and force the Witcher into action.”

“I thought you said this was a trial that could only be endured, not fought against?”

“And so it is. But what the Witcher does when he discovers your presence is going to decide something very important for me.”

“If your Majesty wishes for me to aid in the Witcher’s task, then I am happy to oblige. Anyone who has offended my Queen deserves a fitting punishment.”

If only you knew that this wasn’t about me, Áine sighed inwardly. If only you could guess how much he really loves you. How much he’d be willing to give for you, to keep you safe. This trial was not set on my behalf, sweet bard, but on yours.

“Come to me at sunset in four days time. It will be an easy task, Thomas, and I would not ask it of you if it were not so important.”

“I’ll be there, My Lady Áine. I swear it.”

“Thank you, Thomas. You have been the sweetest and most wonderful addition to my court in a thousand years. I am so glad that we are friends.”

“As am I, my Queen.”

As the young dryad traipsed from the room, the Queen sent his back an apologetic look. I’m sorry that I have to erase this memory, too, but I need you to be genuine for this to work out. You’ll forgive me, I’m sure, but I’m going to have to scare you a little to get through to both of you. Soon my True Thomas will be gone, and only Jaskier will remain. 

Geralt was happy to discover that the stables of the haunted castle were still in good condition. He chose a comfortable stall for Roach and loaded it up with plenty of water and hay. “Wish me luck, girl. I might be a total mess when morning arrives.” She knickered and nosed impatiently at his shoulder. He smiled indulgently and slipped a handful of oats into her feed trough. “You’re getting spoiled.”

It was hard to leave her alone where he wasn’t totally sure she’d be safe, but he had a job to do. He had to win Jaskier back, and after three nights in this castle he’d only have one task left. Failing this task wasn’t an option. Geralt straightened his back, set his shoulders, and made his way through the heavy front door of the seemingly abandoned keep. 

He explored the building carefully. Every door on all three floors had been tightly locked except for one, which led to a small stone room. It was empty, and the walls were circular and devoid of windows. An oubliette, he decided. The sun had set only moments before and the Witcher was wary as he entered the small space with his dagger drawn. His eyes carefully scanned the walls and floors for any traps or pitfalls. So far, nothing. He took another step. Then another. When he reached the center of the chamber, the solid wooden door slammed shut behind him. Any remaining light was cut off. The Witcher blinked desperately, trying to get his eyes to adjust to the darkness, but matter how he focused the night-vision would not set in. Taut as a bowstring with anxiety, Geralt whipped his head towards a faint scuffling noise along the wall, “Who’s there?”

“Nobody important.”

“Whose voice am I hearing, then?”

“Clever Witcher, playing word games.”

“Stupid Fae, taking on a Witcher.”

“Didn’t the Queen tell you that there is nothing you can do but endure? We cannot be killed with your little silver dagger, boy.”

Geralt bristled at being called ‘boy’ but ignored the feeling in favor of searching out the stranger’s location. Even his heightened sense of smell seemed null and void in this room. “So what are you going to do, then? Beat me? Pull my hair? Scratch out my eyes?”

“No,” Geralt’s own deep, gravelly voice answered. “ We’re going to put on a performance you’ll never forget.”

“Yes,” replied another voice from behind him. Geralt spun on his heel, trying desperately to make out any sort of shape or form in the dark; that was Jaskier’s voice. “ We’re going to put on quite a play.”

“Don’t you dare fucking touch the bard,” the Witcher threatened. “I’m the one Áine chose as her champion. I’m the one you’re after.”

“ Yes,” Jaskier’s voice answered. A hand brushed against the back of Geralt’s shoulder and he whirled towards the sensation. It disappeared again. “ We know that. But it wouldn’t be any kind of performance without Jaskier, now would it?” 

“Shut up, bard,” his own disembodied voice said. “Fuck off.”

“You don’t mean it, Geralt.”

Suddenly a cold, bark-rough finger pressed against the center of the Witcher’s forehead. A pulse of dark and unfamiliar magic rushed through his body and forced him to go still. He was paralyzed; frozen in place. “ Are you ready, Witcher?”

Geralt couldn’t even open his mouth to answer.

“ Alright. Let’s begin.”

“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!” 

“ Do you know what happened to me after that?” Jaskier’s voice questioned. Geralt’s unseen doppelganger kept repeating himself, time and time again, throwing that hated sentence back at the frozen Geralt from every available angle. The stone room echoed his words in a constant loop. He still couldn’t move or answer. “ Borch gave me supplies, because you had all the food rations in your saddlebags. He told me where to go to meet Áine. He let me cry and held me against him for many hours while I tried to figure out why you’d left me, alone and unprotected, in unfamiliar territory.”

The sting of tears burned in Geralt’s eyes but he couldn’t stop the false bard from speaking. Couldn’t move a muscle to fight back or even just cover his ears against the onslaught. He knew he deserved it, though, so he listened even as the words tore at him. “ I dreamed of you every night, my gorgeous Witcher. I loved you, Geralt of Rivia. Me, a humble bard, who dared to ride along with the White Wolf. Who dared to befriend him, and sing his praises, and make him so heroic that he was welcomed into towns rather than merely tolerated. I cared about you so much that I risked life and limb every day to make you feel like you weren’t a monster. Every day I walked at your side, every night I performed for our room and board, and every moment in between was filled with thoughts of you. Geralt, always Geralt. Always my gorgeous White Wolf.”

Hearing this hurt more than the sting of any whip or the bite of any blade. 

“ I thought about returning to Oxenfurt to teach. Or maybe going back on the road to perform. But then I ran the risk of meeting you again, somehow. I knew you’d never want me back, so I went to the Fae. Perhaps now that the Queen likes me so much, she'll keep me here forever.”

“I’ve...always...wanted...you,” Geralt ground from between his teeth. It took every ounce of willpower in his body but he had to let Jaskier know. Even if this was merely a facsimile of the real thing. 

“No, you wanted Yennefer. You wanted Triss and Renfri. Fuck, Geralt, you would take a common whore before you’d come to me with such desires.”

“You deserve better.”

“ But aren’t I pretty enough? I always thought it was because I wasn’t good enough for you. Too loud, too frail, too annoying, too immature, too me. ” 

The room was suddenly awash with light and a long glass coffin appeared, sat atop a waist-high table. Jaskier solidified inside it. His hands were resting gently atop his abdomen and his eyes were closed; Geralt’s heart crashed against his ribcage. “Jas? Jaskier?”

“ Is it because I’m too soft?”

The coffin seemed to move closer. Geralt tested his limbs and found that he still couldn’t budge from his position.

“ Is it because I love you so openly and you don’t know what to do about it?”

“No. That’s not-”

“Foolish Witcher, to think that you could protect me from all the cruelties of the great wide world. Interesting how the thing I needed protection from the most was always you, huh, Geralt? You, the man who pushed me away and always told me to shut up. The grouchy, self-centered Witcher whose moping and sulking never made for good ballads but whose heart was always at the forefront of my weak mortal mind.”

The coffin was close enough for the Witcher to touch now. Certainly he could see Jaskier inside it, lit up by the Faerie’s magic. He seemed so peaceful when he was asleep, his long lashes resting against his cheeks and his mouth only barely parted. But the glass wasn't fogging…”Fuck. Jaskier! Let him out!”

“ Ah, ah, silly Witcher. You cannot free him from death.”

“No! Jaskier! Jas! Wake up! He can’t breathe in there, let him out!” Geralt strained with all his might against the power of the immobilizing spell but it didn’t work. His muscles clenched and tightened beneath his skin but he still couldn’t move. Couldn’t save Jas, couldn’t-

“ I’ll never wake again, sweet Witcher,” Jaskier’s voice sighed. “ You said you didn’t want me anymore. You left me all alone. Abandoned me. Don’t you remember what it felt like to be abandoned? The pain of wondering if you just weren’t good enough for anyone to want? To keep? To love ? And still you inflicted that on me, the one who’s always been at your side.”

Frozen at the center of the oubliette, Geralt of Rivia began to sob. The sound was primal, animalistic, and came from the very center of the Witcher’s being. He howled like a wolf in pain, like a man whose whole reason for living had been suddenly swept away before his eyes. It had, really. He’d never known true happiness without the minstrel at his side. Raising Ciri was a different kind of experience, too bittersweet to be anything like spending time with Jaskier. “Take me instead. Kill me and let him go.”

“ That’s not how it works, Witcher. You know that.”

The Unseelie left the coffin there, within reach. It also left Geralt immobilized. The door of the chamber opened and shut, but the Witcher knew he wouldn’t be alone for long. This must be endured, he remembered. There is nothing I can do but pray for daylight. 

The first night had been brutal and Geralt feared the coming of the second. He’d spent the day grooming Roach and feeding her treats, trying to calm his racing mind and soothe his aching heart. They’d killed Jaskier in so many ways. Every single one of Geralt’s fears was paraded before his mind’s eye while the bard’s body lay there in the glass coffin. He knew what the point had been: he couldn’t always be there to save Jaskier. He had to stop holding himself accountable for every scratch and bump. He had to acknowledge that sometimes Jaskier would risk his life and maybe get injured...just like Geralt. He didn’t have to keep the bard at arm’s length because Jaskier wasn’t going to let him. 

As he entered the oubliette to begin the second night of his trial, Geralt took a deep breath. It was not going to be easy. In fact, he assumed that it would only get worse.

He was right.

This time they finally revealed Jaskier’s lost memories to him.

“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!” 

Those words ripped into Geralt alongside the most intense pain he’d ever experienced. A searing burn tore through his chest and forced the air from his lungs. He dropped to his knees, too consumed by the agony to even make a sound. The false Jaskier whispered in his head again, “This is what it felt like. This is what he was feeling when you got on Roach and rode away from that campfire.” 

The Witcher didn’t think he’d survive another moment of it; and Jaskier had lived like that for weeks. Years, even. He didn’t know exactly when Áine took the bard’s memories away. Another throb of heartache echoed in Geralt’s ribcage and he buried his face in his hands, curling against himself as if he could squeeze tight enough to make it disappear. Like a bad cramp or a pinched nerve.

The Unseelie paused the sensation to share a happy memory; one of Geralt’s secret favorites. 

“ Look what I’ve learned to make,” Jaskier beamed, holding up a rather impressive circlet of yellow flowers. “Brilliant, yes?”

“Hmm.”

“Well, put it on. I still have to make mine so I need my hands free.”

“For me?”

“Well yeah, my head’s not that big.”

“Hmm.”

“Here,” Jaskier gently placed the ring of dandelions over his dirty white hair. “Oh Geralt, you're absolutely lovely!”

Just when his heart was lifting, when his vision had cleared slightly, the Fae flooded him with the heartbreak again. Geralt groaned, curling up on the floor and waiting it out. You must endure just the same as he did, he reminded himself. You did this to him. 

The second night felt longer than the first, but Geralt learned another lesson: treating the ones you love with respect means communicating with them. Jaskier couldn’t read the subtext of every facial expression and noncommittal grunt. He needed to learn to talk about things. Jaskier deserved that much, at the very least. 

How much easier would it have been if Geralt simply said what he was feeling that day? How much easier would their lives be now if he’d blurted out I love you like he’d so desperately wanted to with that circle of yellow weeds perched on his head? Much easier, he figured. But then again, when did the Witcher not sabotage anything that could possibly make him happy? But punishing himself in this case meant punishing Jaskier as well, and that wasn’t fair. To either of them.

He spent the night curled up on the floor like that, reliving his brightest moments with the bard only to have wave after wave of sadness batter him in between those memories. It was the purest form of hell he'd ever experienced, and there was still one night left.

Geralt wasn’t sure how much more he could take.

Thomas didn’t know where he was and couldn’t quite remember getting there, either. The tower was tall, with bars over the only window to keep him inside. Not that he would have ventured out, anyway. He’d probably fall to his death from such a height. Where the hell am I? What’s going on? He was resting on a small pile of straw and his lute had been tucked in beside him. “Guess we should get out of here.”

He stood, grabbed the neck of the lute, and took two long strides towards the door forward before something yanked at his right ankle and halted his progress. The bard glanced down and saw an iron manacle clamped around his leg. A short, semi-rusted chain connected him to the wall. Chains. They’ve chained me in place. I can’t leave! I can’t escape!  Panic set in immediately. 

“Help! Somebody help me please, I’m trapped!”

This is just like your dream, something dark and frightening whispered against his skin. Isn’t it, bard? The one where your wolf comes bursting through the door to save you? He could only nod, frightened of whatever invisible force was speaking directly into his mind. Too bad you’re all alone this time. No wolf in sight. No wolf here to save you. 

Thomas returned to the pile of hay with shaking hands and burning eyes. “Fuck.”

Why don’t you play me a song? If you give me something nice and sad I’ll consider letting you go. C’mon bard. Show me just how fucking sad you are without your precious wolf! 

He was aching for...for… something. Some one. He saw a vague figure forming at the back of his mind; a broad-shouldered man in a hooded cloak, sitting astride a magnificent brown horse. My wolf. My White Wolf. It was a familiar title, a nickname, and something important was floating so close to the front of his mind, but the dark voice interrupted.

Play! Let me hear your broken heart, it demanded. The bard’s trembling fingers managed to settle themselves onto the lute’s fine strings. A Faerie ballad came tumbling out of him before he could stop it:

“Siúil, siúil, siúil a rún.

Siúil go socar agus siúil go ciúin,

Siúil go doras agus éalaigh liom.

Is go dté tu, mo mhuirnín slán.

“I wish I was on yonder hill,

Tis there I’d sit and cry my fill, 

‘Til every tear would turn a mill.

There was a flurry of footsteps on the staircase outside. Thomas was terrified of whatever was hiding in the stairwell and sang even louder to drown out the sounds of chaos from beyond the thick wooden door. If he was going to be horribly murdered, he might as well go out singing.

“I’ll sell my rod, I’ll sell my reel,

I’ll sell my only spinning wheel,

To buy my love a sword of steel.”

Two crossed swords. One silver, one steel. Long white hair pulled back from two wild, yellow eyes. A deep voice. A campfire. Stars. His own legs stretched out next to a longer, thicker pair in leather pants. A crowd of tavern patrons, chanting his name. No, not his name. The were shouting for “Jaskier” and he was...he was…

The images shook through him, dragging forth another verse of the song.

“Siúil, siúil, siúil a rún.

Siúil go socar agus siúil go ciúin,

Siúil go doras agus éalaigh liom.

Is go dté tu, mo mhuirnín slán.

“I’ll dye my petticoats, I’ll dye them red,

And ‘round the world I’ll beg my bread

Until my parents should wish me dead."

“You fell in love with a what ?”

“A Witcher. His name is Geralt. You may also know him as the White Wolf.”

“Or the Butcher of Blaviken.”

“Don’t you ever fucking call him that again.”

“Oh, you really do love him. Well don’t bother coming to visit again, then. It’s bad enough to have a son with such proclivities, but to have him confess to loving a Witcher ? You’re disgusting, Julian. Get out of my house.”

Something was beginning to fray in Thomas’s mind as he continued his terrified performance.

“Siúil, siúil, siúil a rún.

Siúil go socar agus siúil go ciúin,

Siúil go doras agus éalaigh liom.

Is go dté tu, mo mhuirnín slán.”

From downstairs, Geralt could hear the sound of singing. Jaskier! His voice was loud but shot through with fear. The Witcher strained with all his might against the Unseelie spell holding him still. He fought and struggled until he was on his feet, shuffling toward the door as if he was one of the undead. 

It felt like swimming through stone, but Geralt would be damned to every hell in existence if he couldn’t find and comfort Jaskier this time around. As soon as he stepped from the room he saw them: shadows with wings flitting from wall to wall. Unseelie. He made for the staircase, physical movement becoming significantly easier as he stepped away from the oubliette. The staircase leading to the tower, where he had no doubt that Jaskier was being held, was full to bursting with Unseelie shadows. They grabbed at his ankles and legs to slow his progress, yanked his hair, pinched him where they could, and tore at his shirt in an effort to scratch his skin. 

He pushed his way through.

The singing grew louder as he ascended the staircase. Jaskier sounded absolutely fucking terrified. The words didn’t wobble or break but the melody felt off. It felt wrong. It was far too sad. Fuck. 

Although it was in the Faerie Tongue, Geralt could make out a few of the words here and there. They reached out and coiled around him, guiding him through the horde of angry Unseelie Fae and up to the tower. The unfamiliar chorus seemed as if it were meant for him. Walk to me, my love. Fling the door open and take me away from here. We can be safe but you must rescue me first. 

With a final burst of strength, Geralt mounted the last few steps and flung the door open with a mighty kick. Jaskier stopped singing and looked up at the Witcher with wide, knowing eyes. “I knew it,” he whispered, voice tight and body trembling, “I knew my White Wolf would come for me.”

Áine’s words made sudden and absolute sense: “Remember the dreams of your sweet bard.”

Geralt remembered the dream. “It’s always very cold where I am in the dream. I’m surrounded by stone walls and I know I’m in trouble. I’m trapped in a tower. I realize it every time, just before the wolf saves me. He bursts through the big wooden door and wraps himself around me. I can hear footsteps on the stairs but I know as soon as the wolf arrives that I’m going to be okay.”

He was going to make sure Jaskier was okay. 

Without a second thought, he broke the ancient chain that tied Jaskier to the wall and swept the shivering bard up into his arms. “I've got you. You're safe, Jas. Let’s get out of here.”

Thomas buried his face in the Witcher’s chest and allowed himself to be carried from the room. “Close your eyes, they won't be able to touch you,” Geralt's deep voice rumbled into his hair. "I'll keep you safe."

 I know, he thought. You always have. 

He didn’t know why he knew that the Witcher had kept him safe before, but the warm feeling spreading through his chest was familiar somehow. They were regular partners in this dance. 

“You can’t leave yet, the sun hasn’t risen,” a high, feminine voice stated. 

“Let the bard go,” the Witcher snarled. “He’s not the Queen’s champion.”

“Fine! But only the bard leaves!” 

Thomas clung tightly to the front of Geralt’s shirt, hands fisting into the black fabric. “I’m not leaving you.”

“There’s no time for this, Jaskier.”

“I’m not leaving you, Geralt,” the bard asserted. He glared up at his rescuer, jaw clenched and blue eyes full of fury. “Whoever I am, Jaskier or Thomas, I'm   not leaving you.”

“Thomas, please,” Geralt pleaded. His name sounded wrong in the Witcher’s mouth this time. Sounded false.

"Say my name again."

"Thomas."

"No," the bard whispered. The Unseelie might as well not have been in the room. The Witcher and his love were suspended in time, far away from the trial and the torment and the dangerous magic. Only the two of them.

"Jaskier," Geralt murmured. Like it was a caress. Like it was a fucking godsdamned prayer.

He shook his head and held onto Geralt even tighter. There was a desperate, wild look in his White Wolf's amber eyes...those eyes…

“Jaskier, you idiot. You’re going to get hurt. Please just stay at camp.”

“Jas, not now. I don’t want you getting in the way. Or getting injured.”

“You...can go, if you want. I know you’d rather be at Oxenfurt. Just be safe.”

“Jaskier! Watch out!”

Images, so many familiar images of Geralt, the man he’d only met last week, were flitting across his mind at an unbearable speed. His heart was beating all too fast. His head was spinning with thousands of previously buried moments; things he’d paid to forget. His vision danced and faded, his words slurring in his mouth, “Geralt he-help.”

Then everything went dark and quiet and warm.

Chapter Text

“What do you mean this is the third test?” Geralt growled, still clutching Jaskier’s limp body against his chest. The Unseelie had let them go as soon as the first ray of sunlight broke over the horizon, maybe two or three hours ago. The Witcher had saddled Roach in record time, galloping back to the Seelie court with the bard held in his lap, unmoving and barely breathing. Now the Queen was telling him she wouldn’t wake him up ?

Not couldn’t, wouldn’t. 

“I mean exactly that. This,” the Queen gestured at the unconscious bard, “Is your final test. Wake him up.”

“How?”

“That is for you to find out, Witcher. Think of the stories you’ve gathered on your travels and remember what I said when we first discussed your trials. Perhaps that will help.”

He suppressed a snarl from low in his throat. His arms were growing sore from supporting Jaskier and his mind was still foggy from getting so little sleep. “May I take him to his rooms?”

“Mustardseed will show you the way. His apartments aren't far from here.”

Geralt bowed wordlessly, keeping a firm grip on the lanky bard, and followed the smaller Faerie from the room. He couldn’t be mad at the Queen; this wasn’t her fault, after all. Jaskier had made a deal with her and so had Geralt. They would have to live with the consequences, regardless of what those happened to be. He had no doubt that she would let him wither away and die at Jaskier’s side if he didn’t figure out a way to break the spell. 

“These are his rooms,” Mustardseed announced, arriving in front of a green-painted door. They opened it for Geralt and stepped away again. "If you need me, just call. This is the only set of guest rooms being used in this wing, so I'll be nearby."

Geralt nodded his thanks and watched the nervous creature disappear from sight. The Witcher turned, carrying the sleeping bard over the threshold and into the room. The chamber was was lavish, of course. Jaskier had a four-poster bed with green velvet curtains and a plush mattress, a private bathing chamber tucked into one corner, and a beautiful hand-carved wooden desk standing against the wall. Why would he ever want to leave here and return to the Path with me? I could never spoil him like this so regularly or wonderfully.

Geralt laid Jaskier on the bed and went about removing his bard's boots and clothes. He bandaged the cut on his ankle from the manacle and dressed him in a pair of loose linen pants. There was no point in wrestling a shirt onto him; it was warm enough with the late summer climate and Jaskier hated sleeping with one anyway.

Seeing him there so pale and unresponsive had something pinching in the Witcher's chest. He’d seen the bard laid out like this once before, when Yenenfer was undoing his idiotic wish from the djinn. He looked so peaceful. The world was out here and Jaskier was in there, safe and probably dreaming. Geralt leaned forward to press their foreheads together.

“What are you dreaming of, little bard? Is it me? Is it Tam?”

“Oh, I’m sure he’s not dreaming of me,” a familiar voice piped from the doorway. Geralt whirled to face him, a look of guilt written plainly across his features. Tamlane took a few steps into the room. “May I?”

“He’s your friend too,” Geralt shrugged. Tam sat at the end of the bed, looking over at the Witcher with a curious expression. “What?”

“I never thought I’d see the day when a Witcher fell in love with a dryad and then got jealous of a faun.”

“Jaskier has owned the majority of my heart since he was just a sniveling baby bard, barely nineteen and still full of poorly rhymed shanties. Even when he was mortal and breakable and stupid, I loved him. His magic changes nothing for me. He is irreplaceable. The jealousy...I'm sorry for it but I cannot stop the feeling.”

“I know. I don't blame you for it," Tam said, waving a dismissive hand in Geralt's direction. "But we’re going to miss him once you figure this thing out and return to the Mortal Realm together.”

“Her Majesty will really let him leave?”

“That was the agreement. If you could complete these tasks and win him over, he would be free to go as he pleased. If you failed, the Queen would keep his memories of you and your adventures and let him stay on as her Royal Bard.”

“He would have forgotten me permanently?”

“Of course. That's what he wanted.”

Geralt felt fear prickle down his spine. I’m not going to lose you again, Jaskier. I’m not. I’ll prove myself worthy. I’ll figure out what’s wrong and break this stupid curse. You’ll wake up soon.  “Hmm.”

“Well, I just wanted to make sure he was safe and sound.”

“I’ll always keep him safe.”

Tamlane paused, halfway out of the room already. The faun turned to give Witcher a searching glance and, after a long moment, seemed to find what he had been looking for written in Geralt’s expression. “I don’t doubt that.”

“Each task is meant to teach a lesson, my Witcher. A lesson in patience, because you raised your voice to him in anger. One requires perseverance, because to protect him you must be willing to go against all odds, no matter what. And, of course, the final test relies on your tenderness. You must prove that you can feel for Jaskier as deeply as he feels for you. Are these agreeable terms?”

Geralt wracked his brain for what those words could mean. Patience; the log-bearing task he’d been assigned for Midsummer. Perseverance; the suffering he’d experienced at the hands of the Unseelie and (he assumed) a handful of Áine’s cronies armed with Jaskier’s memories. Tenderness? How was he supposed to prove his tenderness? There were so many ways.

Three days passed. Long days, during which Geralt tried every imaginable thing that could wake Jaskier from his enchanted sleep. He tried admitting his love before the whole Seelie court, as Prince Siegfried had once done for his Swan Princess. All that did was turn the Witcher's cheeks an unfortunate shade of red in front of everyone. He tried wishing on a shooting star. Or on the first star of the evening. He tried finding a four-leaf clover. He even went in search of some talking fish a few miles upriver from the Court, which he’d heard could grant wishes if it was honestly caught. Alas, he returned empty-handed.

His desperation grew with every passing moment.

"Geralt," Mustardseed greeted him on the morning of the fourth day. "Come with me, I think you need a moment to think."

"Hmm."

"Let's make flower crowns. The job will give your hands something to do; he always said you focused better when your hands were busy. You can give it to him when he awakens."

Geralt knew the faerie was right. It would be easier for his mind to process things if his hands were occupied by mindless work. He nodded and stood, following Mustardseed out of the palace and out into a sprawling meadow of wildflowers. Twenty minutes later and the Witcher was engrossed with his task.

“What does this one mean?” he asked, holding up a fat pink blossom for Mustardseed to inspect. “Wild rose, for pleasure or for pain.”

“Hmm.” Geralt picked a handful.

“This one?”

“A buttercup, for childishness and humility.”

Another handful.

“Hmm?”

“Bluebell, for constancy.”

Two of those. One for him, one for Jaskier. So they would be constant to each other and only each other. He wove a small string of chamomile blossoms into the wreath of the crown for added softness. 

“Chamomile is for patience in adversity,” Mustardseed piped up. Geralt paused. Seems appropriate that Jaskier always picked chamomile oil over any of my other various healing and grooming supplies. He’s always so patient with me, even when I’m being a downright monster to him. The Witcher added a little more.

“Last one,” Geralt announced, peppering some small pink-and-purple blooms in among the interwoven stems. The finished crown was beautiful, colorful, and bordered along the edges with Forget-Me-Nots. He gave the faerie a meaningful glance, “You don’t have to tell me what these mean.”

“No, I’m sure I don’t.”

“Thank you for the help,” he smiled, patting the back of the small faerie’s hand. “You are very kind.”

“Of course, Sir Witcher. Any friend of Jaskier’s is a friend of mine.”

“You called him Jaskier.”

“That is his name.”

“Not Thomas?”

“Oh no, he is no longer Thomas. Once you break the spell he will know his true name again. He will have his memories back. Thomas was merely a facade we built to bring Jaskier happiness and keep his mind safe during your trials. If you’d failed and left for good, he could’ve made the name Thomas into his own with time. Your bright little bard would have been a welcome presence at court for all his many years.”

“He might just sing for you, yet,” the Witcher sighed, standing carefully to keep the flowers from being damaged. “If I fail him again.”

“You won’t,” Mustardseed asserted. The faerie’s pale hand fluttered over the ring of blooms and Geralt watched as the petals seemed to firm up and sparkle. “And this will last until the end of his days. To remind him of you. Consider it my parting gift.”

“Thank you, Mustardseed."

“You are most welcome, Witcher.”

There was a beat of comfortable silence.

“Will he outlive me, then?”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. Whatever the will of the Gods may be today, you are meant to be together in this and every lifetime. Not even death can stop true love.”

Those words struck something distant in Geralt’s mind. Something important.

"Hmm."

All through the night Geralt paced the floor of Jaskier's room, those two words circling his mind like sharks in bloodied water: True Love. 

The next morning arrived all too quickly, and it arrived without answers. Desperate and exhausted beyond his physical and mental limits, Geralt could only kneel at the bard's bedside and watch the man breathe. It was comforting. The only true sign that Jaskier was alive. "You’ll wake up soon,” he murmured. “I’ll figure out what’s wrong, what curse they put on you, and then you’ll be free.”

The declaration was met with silence, of course.

“I’ll understand if you decide not to love me back, you know,” the Witcher continued. His voice was thick and scratchy with thirty years worth of unspoken love, “But I hope you do. Remember the day you made me that flower wreath on the side of the road near Redania? I kept it for weeks. I kept it until the stems started to mold in my bag. I remember wishing that I knew how to press flowers so I could keep it forever. Keep you with me forever. Every moment that you were at my side brought me true happiness. But then I went and said all that stupid shit after the dragon hunt. I hurt you more than you ever deserved and I am so incredibly sorry, Jaskier. Just please wake up so that I can start making it up to you. Whatever you want to do, we’ll do. Wherever you want to go, we’ll go. The coast, even.”

“And I’m sorry for being with Yennefer. It was always supposed to be you, but she made me feel human somehow. Powerless. Like I had no choice but to love her, you know? If only I could have realized what we had wasn’t love. Not like this. Not like it is with you. Not the way it’s meant to be. Your love is so beautiful, Jaskier. It flows like a river and warms like a wool blanket. I could live with your voice as my only sustenance for the rest of my days. I would give myself to fucking Stregobor if you’d wake up and look at me one last time, knowing who I was. Please wake up, my love.”

He was crying by the end of his impassioned speech, dripping tears onto the collar and sleeve of his shirt. He didn’t care. The only thing Geralt wanted in the whole world was to have Jaskier wake up. It didn’t matter what the bard did after that so long as he was alive and moving. Talking. God, Geralt missed his voice so much. Missed the way he bit his lip when he was nervous, the way he’d spend two hours getting ready for a performance even if it was just at some shitty tavern, the way he preened over Geralt while singing ‘Toss a Coin’. 

Without thinking about it, the Witcher leaned down and placed a gentle, insistent kiss against Jaskier’s lips. God, he’s so soft. I knew it would be wonderful but fuck... Geralt pulled back, slightly ashamed of himself for kissing the bard when he couldn’t consent, and ran a hand through his soft hair. “Gods, Jaskier, I love you so much.”

A thunderous, deafening boom echoed through the bard’s chambers, blowing back the curtains of his bed and throwing the windows and door open. Geralt was knocked to his ass and sent flying across the smooth marble floor. The shockwave of sound reverberated outwards; a wall of magic rippling away from where Geralt’s mouth had met Jaskier’s. It shook the court of Faerieland. 

The Witcher rushed back to Jaskier’s side and used the pads of his thumbs to brush across the bard's cheekbones, searching for injury. Thankfully, he was fine. What in the nine hells was that?

A familiar pair of cornflower blue eyes slowly fluttered open. “Your hands feel so nice, darling.”

Geralt made a half-strangled sound before practically sobbing out, “Fuck! Jaskier, you’re awake!”

“I thought you were just going to sit there and wax poetic about me forever,” the bard teased, shy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “When all you needed to break the curse was True Love’s Kiss.”

“True Lo- what are you talking about?”

The bard sat up and flung his arms around Geralt’s neck, nuzzling against it in a way that had the Witcher’s stomach tied in knots. His arms went around Jaskier’s middle automatically, pinning their chests together as he raised the bard into his arms. Jaskier didn’t seem to mind, chuckling as he ran his nose along Geralt’s lightly stubbled jaw. “You’re my true love, silly. Only your kiss could break the spell. And your apology is accepted by the way. I’d love to return to the Path with you. I’d love to meet your daughter and see the keep; and possibly kick Yennefer’s ass with my new powers.”

“I’ll take you anywhere you want to go. Just say the word and I'm at your service, Jas.”

“Oh.” Jaskier removed his face from Geralt’s neck and looked into the Witcher’s golden eyes. He searched them for a moment before releasing a breathy, disbelieving laugh.

“You really would take me wherever I asked, wouldn’t you?”

“I love you,” Geralt confessed. It was the first time he’d gotten to say it to Jaskier. It felt amazing . 

“I love you, too.” 

Hearing it back felt grand. Felt... spellbinding.  He belonged to the bard entirely.

“I’m all yours, you horrible Fae trickster.”

“Careful, or I’ll tie your hair into knots while you sleep.”

“Not if I’m laying on top of you, you won’t.”

“Is that a threat or a promise?”

“Well, it’s good to see you two getting along,” the Queen interrupted, stepping into the bard’s private chamber. Jaskier blushed a deep magenta and wriggled in Geralt's arms but the Witcher didn't let him down. She continued on as if they had greeted her with a decorous bow instead of a domestic tousle. “Welcome back, Jaskier.”

“Thank you, My Lady, but how did you know I was awake?”

“The whole kingdom felt the force of that kiss; what you two share is strong. Stronger than even Fate or Destiny could have predicted.”

“Isn’t he wonderful?” Jaskier sighed, running the tips of his calloused fingers down the side of Geralt’s neck and across his shoulder. The Witcher bit back what may have been a purr, still holding the bard bridal style as if he’d never let go and gazing at him with adoring eyes. “My handsome Witcher?”

“He has certainly proved himself worthy of your affections,” Áine nodded. “Thank you, by the way, for your faithful service at my court. I will miss having True Thomas around to keep me company or sing me horribly naughty shanties.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Jaskier glanced between her a his Witcher, slight blush still painting his cheeks. “For everything. All of it. The magic, the music, the language, Geralt ...It’s more than I deserve.”

The Queen held up her hand for silence, “It’s exactly what you deserve.” She turned her head slightly to gaze at the Witcher with newfound respect and friendliness. “And you, Sir Witcher. I am thankful to you as well. Without you I would not have met such a clever musician. My court would be sorely lacking today if he hadn’t come to teach the Seelie his wonderful ballads and jigs.”

“You have done me a great honor,” Geralt bowed, finally setting Jaskier back on his feet. Áine rolled her eyes in amusement, “And for that I will be eternally grateful. Should you ever need the services of a Witcher, which I somehow doubt you ever will, I am at your beck and call, My Lady.”

“Noted. Now, I’ll let you two have some privacy for the rest of the evening. Your handfast will be held tomorrow at noon in the courtyard, with your permission?”

“Oh, lovely!” Jaskier clapped. “But could we do it next week, My Lady? I need time to gather an ensemble fit for a handfasting.”

“Don’t worry,” Áine grinned. “I have both of your wardrobes already prepared. We've had seven years to plan, after all. It’s going to be a lovely ceremony. Worthy of any spoiled prince.”

“I don’t know that my prince is spoiled,” the bard joked, cuddling up to Geralt’s side and leaning his head against the Witcher’s shoulder. “But he is charming, and that’s all that matters.”

“Prince Charming,” Geralt chuckled. “Sounds like a character in a Faerie Story.”

“And so you are,” Áine winked. “See you tomorrow."

“My Lady.”

And then she was gone, leaving Jaskier and Geralt alone to talk.

The Witcher fell to his knees as soon as the door closed behind Áine, brought to heel by all the emotions he'd been hiding for so long. He sobbed openly for the first time in front of Jaskier. “I’m so sorry, my love."

Jaskier tilted his head up and wiped the tears from Geralt's eyes. “As I said before, you are forgiven.”

“I don’t deserve to be."

“Foolish Witcher,” the dryad sighed. He took a few steps back and laid back down on the bed, patting the space next to him. Geralt understood the gesture and settled into a sitting position on the edge. This idiot simply will not listen to instructions, will he? The bard rolled his eyes impatiently and used his rather impressive faerie strength to pull Geralt down onto the mattress. He pressed his chest against the Witcher’s and fiddled absently with the wolf medallion hanging between them. “You belong with me. I’m just glad you see it now, too.”

“I saw it before. I just didn't want to hurt you. I didn't think I deserved you or your love.”

“Well no more self-loathing, I won’t have it. No moping, either. You just broke a curse by kissing me; it doesn’t get more romantic or ballad-worthy than that. ”

"Hmm."

"Not to mention the handfast."

“We are to be handfasted?”

“Did you miss that whole part of my conversation with Áine just now? It was in the terms of my agreement with Áine. If you managed to make it this far, which I didn’t doubt for a moment mind you, then we would be handfasted under Faerie law and have their protection for the rest of our days.”

Realization dawned slowly on Geralt's face. His eyes widened and his spine straightened; please don't reject me, Jaskier begged silently.

“That’s...that’s…”

“Unheard of? Amazing? A blessing? I know, I am quite the catch," he beamed. Please agree. Please, Geralt.

“So then we are to be…”

“Husbands, yes. But only by Faerie law, and only if you agree to it.”

“I’m not disagreeing, ” the Witcher shrugged. “I’m quite pleased by the thought of having you all to myself.”

Oh, thank gods. Jaskier gave his love a secretive smile, “You are rather possessive. I like it; even though I won’t need you to protect me from every rude bar patron or wayward bandit anymore. You're more than welcome to snarl at strangers for me and keep their hands off my ass during performances.”

“Hmm. But I always fight them off while you hide. Why should it be any different now?”

“I can grapple with you and win, my darling. I’m a dryad. ”

“Your magic,” Geralt realized. “What can you do with it besides play excellent music and order me around?”

“As you saw in the meadow where I ensnared you, I can grow flowers at will. I can also communicate with animals, manipulate water, and speak with certain tree spirits. Oaks are particularly talkative, in my experience,” the bard paused to enjoy Geralt’s stunned expression, “I can find my way through any terrain without a compass and I’ll probably live for close to three hundred or four hundred years. Five if I eat only fruit and never leave the Fae Realm.” 

“And yet you would go back to the Path with me? When you could live for so long?”

“I don’t belong at court singing tragic ballads,” Jaskier snorted. “I belong with you, to you, keeping you alive and bragging to a tune about your exploits.”

“It will be a joy to hear your voice again and know that it’s really you singing.”

“Did you not like my other performances?”

“I always love your performances,” Geralt insisted, “I just didn’t like them as much when you were Thomas. They didn’t feel right...or sound right.”

“Then I shall sing again at our handfasting ceremony.”

“And I will hang on your every word. As long as I live.”

“Let’s take a nap, Geralt,” the bard yawned, stretching like a cat against the Witcher’s broad chest. Geralt bit his lip to keep from making a sound; it felt amazing to have Jaskier move against him that way. “Being under a curse is exhausting.”

“Only if you promise to have sweet dreams,” the Witcher murmured against the crown of his head. “My love.”

And Jaskier did.

The sun rose very slowly on the morning of their handfasting ceremony, or so it seemed to Jaskier. Every moment away from Geralt was like torture now that they’d both admitted their feelings but Áine had insisted that seeing the bride before the wedding was bad luck. The Witcher had been barred from this wing of the castle. Magic Witcher-proof barrier and all. 

“Calm down, little one,” the Queen grinned. "I know you can't wait to leave me, but hold still."

"I don't want to leave you at all! If I could have my way, we'd never go back to Kaer Morhen."

"You don't mean that. You want to meet Cirilla just as badly as she wants to meet you. Not to mention I'm sure you want Yennefer to see your wedding bands."

"You know I've always been a jealous creature," Jaskier huffed. "Wait, does Ciri really want to meet me?"

"She intends to call you Papa."

"That's adorable. Alright, you're right. I am excited to leave."

"Bring her to visit me, won't you?" Áine asked. "I'd love to meet the Lion Cub of Cintra."

"You know of her?"

"I might have known her mother once," she shrugged. "Pavetta would have made for lovely Fae."

"She would have," Jaskier nodded. "And I will try to convince Geralt to let me visit with her."

"You are soon to be his bride. I'm sure you can get him to agree."

"Speaking of which, I'd like to be married already. When is the wedding going to begin?" the bard whined. 

“You’ll be married soon enough.”

“It’s not soon enough,” he huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’d have married him twenty-five years ago if it weren’t for his insufferable lack of communication skills. And probably the legality of such a bond.”

“Well your souls are about to be bound together eternally by the highest court of magic in the world, so even the Mortal Realm can’t separate you now. Alright, what do you think?” Aine asked, turning the bard around to face his mirror.

“Oh, Áine…” Jaskier, for the first time in many years, had been shocked into silence. The Queen had made him look ephemeral .  Glorious beyond the comprehension of mortal eyes. 

She had trimmed his long brown hair, returning it to the length it had been when he’d first stumbled upon the Witcher in Posada. She’d swept his bangs to the side and secured them with Geralt’s magically-preserved flower crown to keep them out of his eyes. A dusting of something sparkly and sweet-smelling rested atop his cheeks and eyelids, making him seem to shimmer in the soft light. He could have been easily mistaken for a nymph on her way to seduce Pan, really. 

The doublet Áine gifted to him for the occasion was white brocade, embroidered along the seams with Forget-Me-Nots and lined along the throat with soft lace. His linen pants were a plain, pale blue and rolled up to just below his knees like always. He’d forgone shoes, happy to be barefoot for as long as possible, and instead wrapped two white ribbons in a criss-cross pattern around his ankles and up over his calves. He’d seen a group of dancers decorated like this before and had always found it rather flattering; he was sure Geralt wouldn’t mind a bit of extra decoration on their wedding day. 

Their wedding day. 

It almost didn’t feel real. And it wouldn’t quite be, not in the outside world. Sure, they’d be tied together always in the eyes of the Fae, but to Ciri and Yennefer...he was just a goofy bard who followed the White Wolf around and wrote ditties. 

He would sorely miss the Faerie Realm. 

“Don’t be sad,” Áine said, gently placing a hand on his shoulder. “It’s a lovely day.”

“I just don’t want things to go back to the way they used to be,” he sighed. The Fae Queen shook her head.

“They certainly won’t. Do you really think, after enduring all of my trials together, that Geralt would ask you to stay only as his barker? That he would have agreed to this marriage?”

“I...You're right, I sound foolish.”

“He has suffered much to win you back; forgive him Jaskier. Trust him. I know that you used to; I felt it in your memories.”

The bard let out a heavy sigh and squared his shoulders, giving himself one last once-over in the mirror. “You’re right. That’s my husband and I should trust him.”

“Much better, my darling bard.”

Jaskier blushed. “Is it time yet?”

“Your groom awaits. Shall we?”

“Thank you,” Jaskier bowed, taking Áine’s arm in his and escorting her from the room like a proper gentleman. His heart was nearly vibrating out of his chest from a mixture of anxiety and excitement. What if Geralt didn’t like his outfit? What if Geralt left ? No, no. Áine was right. He had to trust his Witcher. 

Geralt stood in the shade of an elaborate arbor, unsure of what exactly he was meant to be doing. A group of unfamiliar nymphs and sprites had accosted him in his room this morning, where he'd slept by himself the night previous. Áine had insisted that he stay away from Jaskier until after the handfasting ritual, going on about bad luck and love omens. His surprise visitors had no doubt been carrying out her orders, dressing him up and doing his hair for the ceremony. Now he was here, waiting for something to happen as he stood in the comfortable atmosphere of the Fae Realm, surrounded by giddy strangers. It almost felt a little unreal, getting married.

Married. By Fae law. To Jaskier.

It wasn’t an unpleasant thought in the slightest. If what Áine said was true, that his faint Witcher magic would now be tied forever to Jaskier’s rather impressive store of nature magic, then he was the luckiest man alive. To be eternally bound to the one person who’d never treated him as Other was - it was…

Overwhelming. Wonderful. Incredible.

“Here he comes,” Mustardseed whispered excitedly from the crowd, pointing to a spot in the distance. “Look away, Witcher.”

“Hmm.” Geralt averted his eyes slightly. He was only allowed to look at his bride once Jaskier was being handed off to him by the Queen; those were the rules. It took every ounce of self control and training not to spin around and drink in the sight of his beautiful bard. Every curve and curl and stitch of him. No, he had to wait.

He could hear their steps approaching from behind now and didn't jump when the Queen tapped his shoulder. 

“Geralt of Rivia,” Áine smiled as he turned to face them. When those blue eyes locked with his gold, Geralt doubted any sword on earth could have severed their gaze. “Do you accept the love of this man, Jaskier the Bard?”

“I do accept it, and I shall return it threefold.”

“Do you, Jaskier the Bard, accept the love of this man, Geralt of Rivia?”

“I do accept it, and I shall return it threefold.”

“Then we may begin the handfasting.”

Gods, my love. You look even more amazing than I could have dreamed, Geralt thought, taking in the soft flush of Jaskier’s shimmering cheeks and the gentle curl of his shortened hair against his neck. Geralt’s gifted crown of meaningful flowers was perched on his head, a splash of bright color against his otherwise pale ensemble. The bard seemed entirely too delicate, dripping in brocade and silk and flowers that would never die. He was ephemeral.  Truly Fae.

Áine listened to them swear to love each other, defend each other, and stay together no matter how hard life became. She wrapped a strip of deep green velvet around their joined hands and placed her own atop them. The clearing was filled with bright light for two long seconds as she focused her powers. The love that bound them was stronger than nearly anything she'd seen before, and the spell she recited took to their hearts with ease: “May the road rise to meet you. May the wind be always at your back. May the sun shine bright upon your face, and the rain fall soft upon the Path.”

Geralt certainly did feel different once the light of Áine's magic faded. He felt connected to Jaskier in a way he never had before. Like the bard’s emotions were somehow flowing through the back of his mind, flickering across his consciousness as they occurred: joy, surprise, joy, anxiety, joy. He was so lucky to get to spend the rest of his life like this. “My Lady,” they bowed together. She took their bound hands and turned the couple to greet the Faerie crowd as one soul. 

“Now, to complete the ceremony and bind you truly, you may kiss your love.”

Geralt wrapped his free arm around Jaskier, pulling him close. The bard tilted his head back slightly and surged up to meet the Witcher’s lips with his own. It was a sweet kiss, something firm and meaningful. Pure and true.

“I’ll never leave you again,” Geralt whispered as they parted, pressing another soft kiss to the bard's temple. 

“I believe you, husband.”

“Husband,” the Witcher rumbled, and connected their mouths again. 

Jaskier would never tire of hearing Geralt call him that. Not in all of their hundreds of years together, he knew.  

As he settled onto the familiar stone bench for his final performance in the Faerie Realm, Jaskier tried not to shed any tears. He would miss it here, of course, but he’d be with Geralt. The man who had proven himself to be, above all else, the bard’s True Love.

Of course, he had promised to bring Ciri back to visit.

Spirits brightened and soul flying with the joy of being in love, Jaskier began to sing his goodbye:

“Farewell, farewell to you who would hear

You lonely travelers all.

The cold north wind will blow again,

The winding road does call."

He shot Geralt a meaningful glance at that line, smiling when the Witcher's eyes lit up.

“And will you never cut the cloth

Or drink the light to be?

And can you never swear a year

To any one of we?

"No, I will never cut the cloth

Or drink the light to be

But I'll swear a year to one who lies

Asleep along side of me"

Tears pricked at the back of his eyes. I get to spend every night for the rest of my days sleeping next to Geralt of Rivia. My White Wolf. My Witcher. My True Love.

“Farewell, farewell to you who would hear,

You lonely travelers all.

The cold north wind will blow again,

The winding road does call.”

That night they camped in a clearing just off the road to Kaer Morhen, laying their bedrolls out beneath the stars. They'd feasted with the Fae until nearly sunset, only leaving when they did because Áine insisted. "Be off, young lovers. Our paths will cross again."

It already felt like a lifetime ago.

Now, in the gentle heat of a summer night, Jaskier looked on as Geralt slept. The Witcher's hair shone like silver in the moonlight and his pale pink lips were slightly parted, soft and begging to be kissed. The bard resisted. Instead, he ran his fingertips across his husband's cheekbones. Down his strong arm. Along his ribs. Over to his heart. 

The beat was slow. So slow. 

A familiar tune with new and splendid words worked through him, bubbling quietly out of his eager mouth before he could stop it:

“How bright the moon does shine, sweetheart,

How sweet the owl's refrain.

I only have but one sweetheart

And in Greenwood I’ve laid claim.”

Chapter Text

“It’s gloomier than I expected,” Jaskier decided. Geralt shrugged; it was Kaer Morhen, a place where Witchers were raised (or rather created) what had the bard been expecting from his childhood home? “But now that your wife is finally here I’m sure we can brighten things up a bit.”

“Alright, that's enough. I’m turning Roach around. We're heading back down through the pass and into town before you say something embarrassing in front of my daughter.”

“Geralt of Rivia don’t you even th-”

“Father! Papa!” a slim blonde woman came flying out of the keep and across the yard, arms flung open wide. Jaskier’s heart filled to the brim with joy and pride as he watched Geralt meet her halfway, the two figures slamming together but somehow staying upright despite the force of their collision. The Witcher lifted the strange girl into his arms and spun her around a few times, both of their laughter filling the air. Ah, this must be Cirilla. When at last she was returned to solid earth, Ciri came jogging over to where Jaskier was still perched in Roach’s saddle. He swung himself down and smiled shyly. Her giddy tone left no room for awkwardness, however: “Welcome home, Jaskier! Father has told me so much about you. I’m so glad that we finally get to meet!”

“Cirilla,” he beamed, folding her easily into his arms. He was only a head taller than the ex-princess. “I am most honored. I have been eager to meet you for many years.”

“Well Papa, and I do hope you’ll allow me to call you Papa, I have so many stories to tell you about what happened while you were away.”

“Ciri,” Geralt groaned, face buried in his hands already. “Please do not make me turn back to the Path before my first night at home has even begun.”

“I’ll be merciful to you and wait until tomorrow to make you reconsider your decision to visit,” she teased, “But Yen may not.”

“Speaking of which, where is that insane but incredibly sexy witch?” Jaskier piped up.

“She’s inside, probably debating what to wear to dinner. Would you like to see her?”

“Absolutely, my darling girl. Please lead the way.”

The bard looped his arm through Cirilla’s and together they started for one of Kaer Morhen’s heavy wooden doors. 

“Hey!” Geralt called. “Aren’t you going to help me unpack?”

“Unpacking is the husband’s job,” Jaskier shouted back over his shoulder. The arm he didn't have entwined with Ciri's gesticulated wildly above his head as he continued, “Lots of heavy things to carry and tote. Use those big muscles of yours for something useful. That would be so noble of you my delicate summer peach, my delectable and frightening lover, light of my life and stars on my moonless night. I’m going inside to see Yen and let Ciri show me around.”

The bard's overly flowery language rang an alarm bell in Geralt's head and the Witcher glared up at Jaskier's receding form. “Don’t rile up the sorceress! I know you have seven years of bickering to make up for but please don't push all of her buttons at once.”

“No promises!”

By then the duo had reached the door and slipped inside.

“You can order Father around?” Ciri giggled. The giddy princess was practically jumping up and down at his side.

“I may very well be the only person alive who's allowed to give the great White Wolf any kind of orders,” Jaskier winked. “And hopefully it stayed that way in my absence. Now, where’s the darling Yeneffer?”

“You stink like nature magic,” the witch greeted, appearing from around a corner as if summoned by the sound of her name. For all Jaskier knew or cared, she absolutely might have been. “I’m sure we’ll duke it out and test our powers soon, bard. But not today. Today we're celebrating your and Geralt’s safe return. Mostly yours.”

“Why, my lady Yennefer,” Jaskier beamed. “You’re being sincerely kind to me!”

“Don’t get used to it,” she and Ciri said in unison, for completely different reasons. His smile somehow grew even wider. He wouldn't trade his time in the Faerie Realm for anything but gods he wanted know what kind of havoc Ciri and Yennefer had wreaked on the white-haired Witcher in his absence.

“It’s so good to know that Geralt was outnumbered and outmatched while I was away on business.”

“I’ve always been outmatched. The odds are meant to be against us Witchers,” that same man grumbled, entering with his and Jaskier’s travel bags. “Here. Take your pack, wife. It's heavy. ”

“Thank you, darling.”

“I’m...I’m going to finish getting ready for dinner,” Yennefer sighed wearily. She glanced between the silver bands on Geralt and Jaskier's fingers with an almost confused expression on her face. “And not because I need a private moment to process everything that I just heard and saw.”

“Of course,” Jaskier nodded, completely straight-faced. She had been kind to him and now it was time to return the favor. Surely she had a lot of emotions to deal with in relation to his being with Geralt on a permanent basis. Not to mention that now he was significantly less human than he was when last they met. 

“Kitchen’s this way,” Ciri said, continuing her tour as if the interruption had never occured. Geralt peeled off in the opposite direction, toward a set of winding stone stairs. The young woman answered his unspoken question: “He’s probably taking your bags up to his room. Your room now, I guess.”

“Where do you and Yennefer sleep?”

“Opposite side,” she explained. Her tone and gaze were pointed and Jaskier struggled not to blush too brightly under her joking scrutiny. She jogged his arm with her elbow and giggled. “We used to stay just down the hall so Father could keep a closer eye on me, but while he was off finding you again we moved our things to the other tower. You deserve some semblance of a honeymoon, anyway.”

"It was very sweet of you to consider us."

"Don't misunderstand me, Papa. Yen wasn't considering you at all when she asked if I wanted to move; our motives were purely selfish in nature."

"I can't fault you for that in the slightest."

“This is the kitchen,” the princess announced with a quick non-sequiter, guiding Jaskier into a modest but well-stocked little room. “And the pantry is just through that door.”

“Ciri, may I ask you a slightly personal question?”

“Of course, Papa. I’m sure I’ll shortly do the same.”

“Why do you call Geralt ‘Father’ but call Yen…well, ’Yen’?”

“While Yen may love me dearly and act as my mother in many ways, she was never as strict with me as Geralt, believe it or not. She was my best friend and confidante. Even when she pushed me to my limits and helped me through the pain of honing my magic, she was patient. She was a wonderful mother, but that word never seemed to fit right with us. Father was, well...you know Geralt. You married him,” she chuckled at the end. “I cannot believe that he’s married. To a bard. A dryad bard, of all things.”

“How did you know I was a dryad? Did Geralt mention it while I was zoned out?”

“Ears,” she pointed. “I was raised by a Witcher, Papa. I know how to tell you apart from a human.”

“Right, of course.”

“I call you Papa because it suits you,” she added. 

“Well, Ciri my newly adopted and much beloved daughter, shall we get to work on making the dinner Yennefer is dressing for?”

“Way ahead of you. The stew should be done in half an hour or so and I have a loaf of Father's favorite crusty bread in the oven."

“Truly you are a marvel, Cirilla. Since you seem to have the victuals under control, I suppose I should wander my way through the castle until my sweet beast of a husband finds me and finally shows me where I’ll be sleeping tonight.”

“You don’t have to lie to me,” the young woman smirked, “There won’t be much sleeping done in Kaer Morhen’s left tower tonight, will there?”

“You really are my daughter,” Jaskier teared up, wrapping the princess in another tight hug. She laughed brightly and embraced him with equal strength. “I’m so happy to be home.”

“You enchanted him?” Yennefer all but gawked. “On your first try?”

“It’s so easy to command Geralt when he’s already willing,” Jaskier sighed. He feigned boredom. “It was just another task from Her Majesty, anyway.”

“ Áine was very pleased with his work,” the Witcher openly bragged. “She wouldn’t stop talking about it, actually. He taught a whole class about how to do it and still refused to control me again without my consent.”

“Well do you consent to it now? ” Ciri asked, eyes wide and curious. They were all gathered before the fire in what may have once been a parlor or study. Jaskier and Geralt were reclined against the longest of the couches while Yen took the love-seat and Ciri flung her legs over the arm of a padded wooden chair. Her eyes twinkled with mischief and she pouted dramatically, “C’mon Papa, for me? And Yen? We’ve been getting bossed around by him for seven long years. The least you can do is put on a little show now that you’re back. I've heard so much about your singing from so many different people.”

“I hate to say it, but I did miss your rather entertaining performances,” Yennefer agreed. “Be a good sport, Geralt, and let your lovely wife use you like a puppet for our entertainment.”

The Witcher did not respond verbally but Yennefer noted the vein that pumped in against the skin of his neck. 

“Absolutely not,” Jaskier crossed his arms. “I won’t do it even if he allows. It’s rude and unnecessary.”

“Go ahead,” Geralt shrugged. 

The bard turned to look at him, pink mouth forming a surprised ‘O’. He had been expecting an argument. A fight. Anything but resigned acceptance. The Witcher merely shook his head and shrugged again. 

“No.”

“ Please, Papa? You have seven birthdays to make up for, after all. So does Father, really.”

“I got you a horse, Cirilla,” the Witcher argued.

“One horse that I had to capture, break, shoe, and train at the age of sixteen does not make up for seven missed birthday presents, Father dear.”

“Hand me the lute,” Jaskier sighed, acquiescing at last. He still shot the Witcher another nervous and apologetic glance before he started. “Are you sure, Geralt?”

“Go ahead, love. Just don’t make me do anything too horrible, yeah?”

“Easy enough. Ciri had a good idea; I'll just stick to a basic puppet show. Nothing too fancy.”

Cirilla clapped, giddy with wonder and excitement already. Yennefer looked amused and mildly pleased (perhaps, though she would never admit it aloud, she was also slightly jealous). Jaskier adjusted his lute on his lap and began to strum a steady tune:

“A holiday, a holiday, and the first one of the year;

Lord Donald’s wife came into the square, the music for to hear

And when the evening it was done, she cast her eyes about

And there she saw little Matty Groves, walking in the crowd.”

Geralt stood rather suddenly from his seat behind Jaskier and crossed the short distance to Yennefer. He bowed at the waist, a ridiculously formal and sweeping gesture, and made Yen giggle almost girlishly in response. She looked horrified at herself for making such a noise but continued to do so nonetheless. There was no escaping the joy and laughter that Jaskier's farce provided.

“'Come home with me, little Matty Groves, come home with me tonight!

Come home with me, little Matty Groves and sleep with me ‘til light.'

‘Oh, I can't come home, I won't come home and sleep with you tonight!

By the rings on your fingers I can tell you are Lord Donald’s wife.’"

Geralt shook his head and turned away from Yen, who was tapping her foot in time to the rhythm of Jaskier’s song. The bard continued, smiling as he alternated through his character voices for the parts of Matty Groves, the narrator, and Lord Donald’s wife. 

"’But if I am Lord Donald's wife, Lord Donald's not at home.

He is out in the far cornfields bringing the yearlings home.’

And a servant who was standing by and hearing what was said,

He swore Lord Donald he would know before the sun had set.”

Jaskier stood and danced a quick jig, playing the part of the servant by himself. The bright joy in Ciri’s eyes was well worth the effort of this particular spell.

“In his hurry to carry the news, he bent his breast and ran

And when he came to the broad millstream, he took off his shoes and swam.”

Little Matty Groves, he lay down and took a little sleep;

When he awoke Lord Donald was standing at his feet

Saying ‘How do you like my feather bed and how do you like my sheets?

How do you like my lady, who lies in your arms asleep?’

Jaskier moved to the side and revealed Geralt, who was laying back against the arm of the couch with a blanket slung over his lap. Yennefer was impressed with how well Jaskier had distracted them with his dance while simultaneously using his magic to manipulate the Witcher into place. It was a delicate skill, indeed. She would readily admit to jealousy now.

"’Oh, well I like your feather bed and well I like your sheets,

But better I like your lady gay who lies in my arms asleep!’

‘Well, get up, get up,’ Lord Donald cried, ‘Get up as quick as you can!

It'll never be said in Lettenhove that I slew a naked man!’"

Ciri squealed and covered her eyes with her hands when Geralt suddenly threw the blanket aside but Yennefer only laughed. Of course he was still fully dressed. Jaskier had played up the drama of Matty Groves' nakedness so much with his voice that the princess had been easily frightened by the thought of seeing her father nude. It took everything in the bard not to stop his song immediately with a burst of laughter and break his control over the Witcher right then and there.

"’Oh, I can't get up, I won't get up, I can't get up for my life!

For you have two long beaten swords and I’ve not a pocket knife.’”

Geralt was shaking his head emphatically now, mouthing along to the words of Matty Groves’ dialogue. Yennefer was absolutely gobsmacked at the amount of control Jaskier had gained.

"’Well it's true I have two beaten swords and they cost me deep in the purse,

But you will have the better of them and I will have the worse;

And you will strike the very first blow and strike it like a man!

For I will strike the very next blow and I'll kill you if I can!’”

Geralt picked up one of his swords and swung it at Jaskier. His expression was mildly horrified, but he knew that the dryad was firmly in control of his movements. The performance had to be excellent, of course. This was The Fae Queen’s personal bard after all. The slim brunette dodged the swings easily, singing and smiling like an idiot the entire time.

“So Matty struck the very first blow and he hurt Lord Donald sore,

Lord Donald struck the very next blow and Matty struck no more;

And then Lord Donald took his wife and he sat her on his knee

Saying ‘Who do you like the better of us, Matty Groves or me?’

Geralt dropped his sword delicately onto the couch where he'd just been laying and fell to the floor, playing out Matty's rather dramatic and overly long death at the hands of an invisible Lord Donald. Jaskier perched on Yennefer’s lap and played Lord Donald’s Wife as he continued to sing.

“And then up spoke his own dear wife, never heard to speak so free:

‘I'd rather a kiss from dead Matty's lips than you or your finery!’”

He stood again and made his way over to Geralt, who was lying still against the stone floor as if truly dead. The dryad knelt and paused his performance for the express purpose of pressing a quick kiss to the Witcher’s unmoving lips. At last Jaskier finished out the song, ready to release Geralt from his musical hold.

“Lord Donald he jumped up and loudly he did bawl,

He struck his wife right through the heart and pinned her against the wall.

‘A grave, a grave,’ Lord Donald cried, ‘To put these lovers in;

But bury my lady at the top, for she was of noble kin.’”

As the last note died out Geralt’s body suddenly went lax. He sat up and groaned, rubbing his fingertips against his temples. Yennefer clapped slowly and loudly, clearly impressed. “That was quite a first show, eh Cirilla?”

“I have the most wonderful and talented parents in the entire world,” the young woman practically crowed, flinging her arms around Yennefer’s shoulders. “That was amazing, Papa! You have to teach me how to do that, if you can! And thank you for playing along, Father. You’d make a talented thespian if you ever decided to quit being a Witcher.”

“I’m going to go bury myself in the peat bog. Why did I agree to do that?”

“Can’t say,” Jaskier shrugged, setting his precious lute down on the table. “But you were wonderful. Cirilla was correct in her statement about your acting talents.”

Geralt could only groan again in reply. 

“What a lovely first night together as a family,” Yennefer grinned. “Truly delightful. I can’t wait to spar with you, Jaskier. Think we can give the Witcher enough of a panic to knock him straight out?”

“Probably. We can certainly try.”

“Alright, wife,” Geralt growled, finally standing and slipping a firm arm around the bard's waist from behind. “Off to bed. That’s enough of your antics for one day.”

Jaskier batted the Witcher’s roaming hands away and waltzed over to give Yennefer and Ciri their respective good-night hugs. He gave them each a kiss on the cheek for good measure. “See you in the morning, sweet ladies.”

“I’m going to sleep ‘til noon,” Geralt huffed “So I’ll see you when I see you. Sweet dreams, Cirilla. And you, Yennefer.”

“Sweet dreams, Father.”

“Goodnight Jaskier, Geralt.”

The foursome broke in half, either group of two traveling to their respective set of rooms.

As they sat before the fireplace in Geralt’s private chamber, Jaskier with his notebook and the Witcher with his armor mending kit, neither had ever felt more complete or at peace. This was a home now, completed in its entirety after seven long years. 

“Come to bed with me, husband,” the bard yawned. He reached out for Geralt, who immediately dropped what he was doing and took his bard into those strong arms. The Witcher breathed in the gentle magic of his love's scent and cradled Jaskier close to his chest. “I am but a weak and sleepy mortal whose long day of travel has worn him out.”

“You’re no more of a mortal than I am anymore,” the Witcher snorted. He pressed a gentle kiss to Jaskier’s forehead and settled the bard against his blankets, watching as the man stretched out like a cat. "Perhaps even less mortal than I. It could certainly be argued that way."

Geralt did not miss the hungry glint to Jaskier's probing gaze. It send a shiver down his spine that the dryad did not miss. 

“Ciri was right.” One of those playful blue eyes winked at him. “We probably won’t be getting much sleep tonight, will we, husband?”

“No, my darling bard,” the Witcher growled, falling on top of him with that lovely canine-heavy grin of his, “I suppose not.”