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It happens like this: Geralt so rudely decides he’s better off without the company of his very best friend in the whole wide world, and Jaskier thinks, well, fuck this, and goes to find the nearest tavern.
And then—because the gods love to hate him, it seems—he sets one foot inside, sees raven curls and expensive clothing, and immediately turns around and leaves. He’s had enough rejection for one day, thanks, and he’s not sure his poor, sensitive, bardic heart can handle any more barbed words, be they in unlikely jest or not.
“Where are you going, bard?” Yennefer calls, and every eye in the place turns to him. Shit. Well, he knows how to play a crowd, at least.
“Well, you see, I—I’m due a visit to my, um, my elderly grandmother, she—she needs my help, um, corralling her chickens—”
Or not. Why do his stunning intellect and quick tongue always disappear when she’s around?
Yennefer snorts. “Sure you are, and then I assume there’s a cat on a stove somewhere that you need to go save?”
Were it not for years of barding training every and all sense of embarrassment out of him, he’s sure his face would be aflame by now.
“Come have a drink. You’re better company than anyone else in this shit town,” she grumbles, and it’s then that Jaskier spies the numerous empty wine glasses on the table before her.
Misery loves two things—company and copious amounts of alcohol. And if she’s offering…
“You’re buying. I left my coin pouch with G—well. You’re buying,” he says, but he’s already sliding into the chair across from her and flagging down the barman.
A drink turns into two turns into ten, and shit, he can’t even remember why he ever thought maybe this wasn’t the best idea. Yennefer turns out to be much more tolerable when her inhibitions are lowered by drink, uncharitable though it is to think, but really, she’s so much more open, and her cheeks flush so prettily in the candlelight, and she even laughs—not the mean, bitter laugh she does whenever she’s mocking him (which is frequently), but a small flash of teeth, a breathy thing that turns into full-on cackling as it goes.
“I never knew—is this what Geralt sees in you?” Jaskier muses, running a finger along the rim of his glass. Then he pales, realizing what he's just said, and looks up to see that every trace of amusement in her face is gone.
“Whatever he felt for me, it wasn’t real,” Yennefer says harshly, pushing her chair back so fast that it tips backwards and falls to the floor with an audible THUD. She starts towards the stairs, presumably to her room.
Jaskier winces and follows after her, still a bit unsteady, but sobering up quickly in the wake of his gaffe. “Yennefer, wait—”
She’s too fast, and he only barely manages to stick his foot in the doorway before she can slam the door in his face. “Ouch,” he complains, and knows he’ll be feeling it much worse in the morning.
“Go away,” Yennefer hisses. “Don’t you know when a woman has had enough of your company? Or is that why Geralt had to scream it from a mountaintop, to get rid of you?”
Ouch. He flounders, every possible retort dying on his lips. “That’s not fair,” he almost wants to say, except that hurts even worse, so he says nothing. He does withdraw his foot, though, and she’s quick to slam the door, the lock clicking audibly into place moments later.
He thunks his head against the door. Why does he do this? Every time he thinks that someone might tolerate him, might actually want him around, he sticks his foot in his mouth and fucks it up.
“Fuck me,” he mutters to himself, then gathers the strength to peel himself away from the door. He debates for a moment just sleeping right here in the hallway, curled up in front of her door, rather than facing the mortifying ordeal of begging for a room with no coin to promise. But he's just as likely to get hexed as he is thrown out, and, well, at least if he’s thrown out he can sneak into the stables or something. He shudders to think what sort of nasty spells Yennefer could cast on him if she were to trip over him on her way out in the morning.
He sighs and turns to leave, only to hear the lock click again, followed shortly by the knob turning. The door swings open on its own, and, half fearing for his life, Jaskier peeks inside. Yennefer is sitting at a vanity, taking her makeup off, her back to the door.
Her eyes meet his in the mirror, and he yelps, tripping over himself in his haste to retreat. Yennefer rolls her eyes. “Are you going to come in, or are you going to flail around like an idiot?”
“Are you going to harvest my organs and use them for your magicks?”
“No.” He feels a bit better at that, only for her to immediately follow up with, “Your organs aren’t anywhere near good enough.”
He pouts, but edges inside, the door shutting itself behind him. “My organs are perfectly harvestable,” he argues, and then feels quite ridiculous, and shuts up before she actually does harvest them.
“Gods, this was a mistake,” Yennefer mutters under her breath, finishing with her makeup and pulling back the covers on the bed. “You can have the floor. Don’t touch my stuff.”
He gleefully sets his lute case down to claim a space before she can change her mind. He’s touched, really, that she cares enough to offer him this. “Can I have a pillo—” he starts to ask, sneaking a hand up towards the bed, only to yank it away when she smacks it.
“No. Good night, bard.”
Never mind, he’s not as touched.
He sighs and lies down, curling around his lute case like he does on the road. It’s warm, at least, the heat from the kitchen below rising up to warm the floor beneath him. He falls into a deep sleep, hastened by the alcohol, and stays that way for several hours, before his bladder makes its needs known.
Upon waking to see the moon still high in the sky, he groans, reaching a hand up onto the vanity to pull himself up. His questing fingers brush against a vial—whoops—and in his blind fumbling to catch and right it, he ends up knocking over several more bottles. Fuck.
“Sorry, sorry,” he hisses, when Yennefer stirs in bed. Gods, if he's just spilled something important, she really will hex him.
Something important begins to drip onto his hand. Gods fucking damn it. He tries to scrub it away, only for it to begin tingling and burning, quickly spreading up his arm. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
It’s encompassing his entire body, now, itching and prickling like his skin is too small. “Bard? What are you doing?” Yennefer asks sleepily, sitting bolt upright when she spots the overturned bottle and him scratching frantically as if that will make the sensation go away.
“I didn’t mean to,” he pleads, suddenly very scared, and not just of her. Whatever this enchantment is, it’s spreading fast—will he survive it?
“Is that my fucking anti-aging serum?” Yennefer demands. Jaskier, who has no idea what an anti-aging serum looks like, continues to panic. Even his insides feel weird, guts writhing and bones aching. It’s becoming more and more painful, too, until he can’t stand it anymore, and his vision narrows and darkens and his back hits the floor and then he knows no more.
That fucking idiot. That stupid, fumbling imbecile! Yennefer should have known better, really, should have known that the blundering, blithering bard would immediately find the only potentially dangerous thing in the room and spill it all over himself. Really.
She rolled out of bed, a headache already pounding behind her eyes—partially the wine’s influence, yes, but more at the sight in front of her: Jaskier, no longer a long-limbed adult, instead a small, slight child, swimming in silks.
“For the love of fuck,” she sighs, pinching her brow. Her anti-aging serum—which is meant to be used in small doses, one or two drops at the most—she never knew it would have this kind of effect. And now she has to play babysitter to the most annoying person on the Continent, all because he couldn’t keep his hands to his fucking self.
“Wake up,” she orders, refraining from kicking him like she might if he were an adult. She’s mean, but not mean enough to kick a child.
“Hm?” he hums, eyes blinking open, only to freeze when he sees her towering over him. “You’re not Mama,” he says, voice trembling.
Oh, fuck. It’s taken his mind as well. For a brief moment, she dares to hope that perhaps he’ll be less trouble like this.
Then he scrambles to his feet and tries to dive out the window.
“Oh no you don’t, you little shit,” she curses, and sends a small spell to trip him up before he can escape. “Stop that.” He stumbles, little palms meeting the wooden floor when he tries to catch himself. She finishes by flicking a finger and latching the window shut, same with the door. The last thing she needs is a de-aged, runaway bard.
Well, if he were to run away, technically he wouldn’t be her problem anymore…
But that’s too heartless, leaving a child on his own like that—and Yennefer can’t deny that her hardened heart has always held a soft spot for children.
That soft spot grows a little softer when Jaskier scoots back against the wall and bursts into loud, messy tears.
She doesn’t know what to do, really, doesn’t know how to comfort him—she can’t remember when she last comforted anyone. “Stop crying,” she orders instead. “Those tears won’t get you anything.”
Incredibly, it works. Whether it’s the shock of being spoken to so harshly, or they were only crocodile tears, she doesn’t know, and doesn’t care. What matters is that he’s finally stopped, and she can actually try and fix this mess now.
“Where’s my mama?” he demands, glaring at her distrustfully. Good, that’s an instinct that will keep him alive someday. “If you want a ransom, then—then Papa says that he won’t pay. Says I’m too much trouble, so you should—you should really just take me home, or else—or else he’ll come here and he’ll kill you.” He lifts his chin defiantly to punctuate his statement.
Well. That’s a lot to unpack, but she’s going to go ahead and shelve that for now. “I haven’t kidnapped you,” she says irritably, then considers the best way to break it to him.
…There is no best way, so she decides not to.
“Then where am I? And who are you?”
“That’s not important. Now come here,” she says, advancing on him and readying a spell that will hopefully reverse the effects of the serum.
He shakes his head, shrinking back further against the wall. His eyes flick between her and the door, and she’s guessing he’s about to make a run for it.
She stops, sinking into a crouch so that they’re on eye level. “Jaskier. It’s very important that I do this. You have a spell placed on you and I need to break it,” she explains.
“A spell?” Contrary to what any sane person would think when told they’ve been bespelled, Jaskier is wide-eyed and excited, the same look he gets as an adult whenever he senses a good story coming on. “What kind?”
“A dangerous one.” She hates to squash that light in his eyes, but it’s true—she doesn’t know what other side effects it might have. She needs to reverse it sooner rather than later—gods forbid it becomes permanent. “Now will you please come here? I’m a sorceress, and I can help.”
He nods, pushing away from the wall and coming to sit in front of her, legs crossed.
“You might feel a tingling, or even a bit of hurt,” she warns, and he nods again, his face creasing in worry and determination.
She’s just about to start when—“Can I hold your hand?” he blurts out. “Mama lets me hold her hand when I—”
She takes his hand before he can launch into some inane explanation. His hand is warm and delicate in hers, no trace of lute callouses to be found. He brightens immediately, gently squeezing their fingers together.
Her eyes, traitors, are getting misty. She angrily clears her throat and begins to cast—the sooner she can reverse this, the better.
Yennefer tries a simple reversal, first. Generic, easy, and evidently not likely to work. No matter. She lets it go and pulls forth another—a spell of speed, to hasten his aging. It fights against her, like drawing a bow, getting more and more difficult as she progresses—she lets that one go, too, lest it snap in her hands like a bowstring rebounding.
Spell after spell after spell, getting more and more complex as she goes, but none work. “Fuck!” she roars as her latest attempt fails, once again.
“Madame Sorceress?” Jaskier asks, brow creasing, worry creeping in. “Is it—did it work?”
“No,” Yennefer replies, and sighs, because she knows what she has to do. Who better to break a curse, after all, than a witcher?
“You’re shitting me,” is the first thing Geralt says after Yennefer explains the situation.
“Does it look like I’m kidding?” Yennefer yells, while Jaskier cringes behind her skirts. Despite his excitement at getting to meet a real life witcher, the actual experience has since proven to be a bit much for him. “I wouldn’t be here if I had any other choice, believe me,” she bites out, and Geralt winces, but wisely chooses not to comment.
“De-aged, then?” Geralt asks, sinking down onto his heels. “You can call me Geralt,” he says, and Jaskier peeks out at him.
“Julian,” Jaskier answers, and Yennefer remembers him introducing himself as such to the dwarves. “You’re a witcher?”
“I am,” Geralt nods. “I’m here to help. Did Yennefer explain what’s going on?”
“She said I had a spell on me. But I don’t feel spelled.”
“Mhmm. They can be tricky like that,” Geralt offers.
“Can we get on with it?” Yennefer asks. “This is all very nice, but we still don’t know what the side effects may be.”
“Fine,” Geralt says, standing up and holding out a hand to Jaskier. “Julian, why don’t you come meet my horse.” Jaskier lights up, latching onto Geralt immediately. Yennefer tries not to mourn the loss—why would she? She’s glad to be rid of the annoying little shit, she tells herself.
Geralt gets him situated with Roach, petting gently over her neck and mane, before returning to Yennefer. “I’ve only ever heard of this happening once before,” he begins. “Woman walked into the woods on An Skellig, came out a little girl.”
“And what happened to her?”
“Locals were stumped, until they remembered the old songs. Tír na nÓg.”
Yennefer scoffs. “Skellige fairy tales? That’s all you’ve got?”
“It’s not just a tale. They took her to the bridge during fog season, let her walk across, and she returned three days later all grown up, and no memory of it.”
Yennefer closes her eyes. It’s the only lead they’ve got, and they both know it. “Skellige it is, then. I can’t portal us all and Roach there, though.”
“Good. I hate portals. We’ll head to Novigrad, catch a merchant ship.”
Setting out on the road together is surprisingly easy. Though the fiery passion between them has simmered down, Yennefer still finds she enjoys Geralt’s company, when she forgets to be angry at him. It helps to have Jaskier there as a buffer, oddly enough—Geralt seems to sense her moods keenly, and often makes himself scarce, taking Jaskier with him to identify herbs as they walk, or carrying him on his shoulders as Jaskier tries to reach the lowest branches of the fruit trees they pass.
And sometimes she finds herself alone with Jaskier when Geralt is off hunting, or tending to Roach, or doing whatever the fuck it is he does when he’s alone. He proves to be, if not a scintillating conversational partner, very eager to learn, especially when she explains magical theories to him.
“When I grow up, I want to be a sorceress!” he proclaims one night, and she can’t help but smile.
“What about a witcher? Last I recall, you wanted to be a witcher yesterday,” she teases.
“I can do both!” Jaskier insists. “A witcher-sorceress. They’ll write songs about me!”
He never really has changed, has he?
The journey to An Skellig is largely uneventful—there’s one exciting moment, when they spot a blue whale off the bow of the ship, but other than that, it’s a monotony of rolling waves and bouts of seasickness for Jaskier.
They’re all glad to set foot on dry land when they finally do. They’re so close that Yennefer can taste it—though she can’t deny that young Julian has grown on her, and she’ll almost be sad to see him gone.
She swallows her feeling and continues on, trekking through the woods as Geralt leads them to the bridge to Tír na nÓg. The temperature drops as they go, until Jaskier is shivering atop Roach. Yennefer conjures a cloak for him with hardly a thought, and he throws a grateful smile at her.
They keep on, the forest growing darker, and just when she’s about to demand that they stop for the night and continue on tomorrow, the trees before them break, revealing a breathtaking view.
An arched bridge spans a perfectly placid lake ringed by trees, a fine mist overlaying the whole scene. This must be it—the bridge to Tír na nÓg, the land of youth.
Geralt has instructed Jaskier on what to do over the course of their journey, of course—for neither of them can accompany him. He has to face this trial alone. “Are you ready?” Geralt asks, helping Jaskier down from Roach. Jaskier nods, little face screwed in determination.
Anxiety flutters at Yennefer’s throat as she watches him cross the bridge, and she’s about ready to call it off, but Geralt holds her back. “Let him go,” he says quietly.
Jaskier disappears into the mist, and they begin their wait.
It turns out to be not very long at all. The sun is just only beginning to rise when Geralt rouses from his meditation, waking Yennefer as well. He looks out across the bridge, witcher senses focused on something Yennefer can’t.
And then Jaskier appears, back to his normal, adult self, grinning brightly. “Geralt! Yennefer!” he shouts, and breaks into a run. Geralt catches him as he leaps, drawing the witcher into a tight hug. It only lasts a few seconds, and then Jaskier is turning to Yennefer and pulling her into a hug as well. She stiffens, but doesn’t pull away.
“Thank you both for taking care of me. I know I couldn’t have been the easiest child,” he says wryly.
“You were fine,” Geralt says, at the same time Yennefer replies, “I don’t know, you might have been preferable as a child.”
“Rude,” Jaskier pouts, but he’s still hugging her.
There’s still so much they need to talk about—that damned mountain, for one—but right now, it doesn’t feel nearly so important. It’s enough to have this moment of peace, the three of them all reunited and as they should be.