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Travelling with a witcher to the edge of the world had been the last thing Jaskier had expected when he’d started his day. He’d just been excited to have been relieved of his courtly duties. Prince Julian of the Lettenhove Fae Court, a dull job that made him completely unbearable to his kin. He’d finally been thrown out after playing a particularly nasty prank on his sister, but really in his defence, she refused to call him Julian, stating that Julia was his true name.
Jaskier knew that was a load of bollocks. Julia no longer held any power over him, it hadn’t for a few years but his family were stubborn little shits, stuck in their ways.
So, good riddance to them.
As long as he could hide his real identity from the witcher he’d decided would be his new best friend, then all would be fine. He just needed to not get killed, play the part of the hapless bard, let the bloody elves rough him up a bit.
And if he let loose a teeny weeny little bit of magic to stop Filavandrel from killing Geralt then… Well, could you blame him?
Luckily, Geralt didn’t seem to notice, hopefully too preoccupied with not dying to make any connection between the vibration of his medallion and Jaskier. He was probably more likely to blame Torque or one of the elves. Jaskier was just a bard after all.
Filavandrel gifting his lute to Jaskier had been a surprise though, and he’d worried for a moment that he’d released more magic than he’d realised, but the stoic elf just raised an eyebrow and cocked his head towards the witcher. In return, Jaskier had furrowed his brow, and Filavandrel let out a long sigh.
“You may go witcher, I need to speak with your bard. This lute may be different than he’s used to, old elven magic. It would be quite dull for you I’m sure.”
The witcher just grunted, murmuring a quiet “Not my bard,” before fleeing the cave, picking up his twin swords as he went.
Jaskier spun round to face the King of the Elves, letting his glamour slip enough so he was taller than the elf, his bones hollower and longer than before. “Your highness,” he bowed deeply, winking at the elf.
“Travelling with a witcher is risky business for a fae, Julia,” Filavandrel stated, his face stoic and unmoving even as he said Jaskier’s given name.
“That won’t work, elf,” Jaskier hissed, dropping his glamour completely, including his shirt and doublet, revealing the two scars that ran across his chest, lined with shining golden ink that decorated and embellished them. He shook his hair as it grew, falling below his chin, then tucked it behind his newly pointed ears with long claw-like nails. Finally, he let his wings unfurl in the cave, beating them so he rose above the elf, delighting in the fear that shone in his eyes. “Julia doesn’t exist. I take it you know my mother.”
“An old friend of mine. I was there when you were crowned princess as a babe.”
“Prince, now I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t try to manipulate me, Filavandrel,” Jaskier smirked as he wove magic into the name. The elf stood up straighter, his arms dropping to his sides like a toy doll.
“Release me,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “I mean you no harm, bard. My sincerest apologies.”
Jaskier smiled too sweetly and released the elf. “Good. So, tell me about this lute?”
The elf scoffed, “Only if you tell me about that witcher of yours, I knew one of his kind a long time ago.”
The smile broke into one of sheer delight, genuine and shining. Jaskier clapped his hands together, his glamour falling back into place in a snap. “See, I knew we could be good friends, you and I.”
“Likewise, Master Bard,” Filavandrel agreed, reaching out for the lute that Jaskier had in hand. “Now, let’s see what you can do.”