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They were not playing together—the group was not a troupe. Rather, it was simply a gathering of bards, and as far as Jaskier knew there was no specific word for that—though the terms layabouts, drunkards, raucous fools, and hedonists had all been leveled at them over the course of the night. All apt enough descriptions, Jaskier thought, because the plates were full, the wine was flowing, and the lot of them alternatively yelled for even more sustenance or burst into song or wild, free laughter.
And, of course, they told tales.
They regaled one another with stories, of travel, of adventure and conquests, until, eventually, they turned to boasting. Someone praised the food. It was decent enough to begin with—the establishment they were in wasn’t half-bad—but the alcohol made it better, in Jaskier’s opinion.
Adrianna, tall and wiry and with a husky voice that made the audience lean in, listen closer, laughed. “You think this is good? Your palate needs adjustment, my friend.”
“I didn’t say it was the best,” came the irritable, slightly slurred response. “I said it more than edible.”
Jaskier, who knew both hunger and also the taste of things far less than edible, strummed his lute and hummed in agreement. “Yes, this will definitely stay down.”
There was a round of too-hearty laughter—they were all deep in their cups. Pietr slammed his empty glass onto the table, making the trays rattle. He was a little older than the rest of them, a little grayer, a little thick around the waist, and quite handsome. “Here, I’ll tell you all a story. The best meal I ever had. I came to a town. Had been wandering for a long while. Too long—the horse was ready to drop dead with me on his back, so I’d taken to walking beside him. No sooner had I stepped foot onto the cobblestone road did I receive a most unwelcome greeting. A young pup, fresh from university, who shall remain nameless, was already there, caterwauling and screeching his insipid ballads for everyone to hear. The good people told me, in no uncertain terms, that they had a bard in town and had no need for another, so I best be on my way. And I tell you truly, I received no support from this greenhorn, who would have let them throw me out on my ass with nary a backwards glance. ”
Pietr paused for audience participation. They booed and hissed with vigor. All of those in the troupe had been chased out of town for one reason or another—Jaskier for more reasons than most—and it was an unwritten rule that when bards crossed paths on the road they stuck together. To make another walk farther for their meal and bed—simply unthinkable. Encouraged by his listeners, Pietr continued. He’d suggested a duel, of sorts. Both bards would play and the townspeople would judge them, and the best one would get to stay the night.
“He wasn’t bad. I’ll give him that. But he was young still, and didn’t know nearly as many songs, or how to gauge the audience’s interests. In another decade perhaps he might’ve given me a challenge. But as it was I won easily.” Pietr grinned. “Oh, the food—excellent, it was excellent. I ordered a cut of veal with roasted vegetables, a fine wine—too fine a vintage for that town, to be sure—and an entire charcuterie plate. But watching that boy eat slice after slice of humble pie—gods, that was good.”
They applauded. Pietr stood up, swayed, and bowed dangerously low to the ground before he righted himself. Adrianna said, “Here, now. I think I tasted a far better meal than that.” She cleared her throat. “I was hired to tutor a baron’s children in song and dance. And the children had the most delectable governess. I spent months teaching those little terrors how to twirl in time and sing a few notes in tune, and I worked even harder to get that woman to let her hair down. The baroness held a concert—absolutely horrid, but the parents were delighted with what little progress their children had made. The dinner afterward—there was so much food we’d be completely sober before I could list it all. But, dear gods, the roasted pork—the skin so brown and crisp, the meat so tender and succulent. And a bowl of dates, each the size of your thumb! Afterwards that pretty governess took me by the hand and led me to her room. Finally let her hair down and got her dress off and her legs open, all in one night. That was the best meal I ever had. Dinner and dessert.” She winked.
Pietr rolled his eyes. “Here I tell you a fine tale of musical mastery and you give me a story of cunnilingus. Our companions want to hear of overcoming obstacles, of great feats of skill—”
“Actually, I could hear more about the cunnilingus.”
“You want to hear about food? I’ll tell you about food—”
The tales did not so much continue as they did escalate. As a general rule bards, being performers, always wanted the last word and refused to be outdone by a rival. The free-flowing wine only added more fuel to the fire. Soon the room was filled with shouts, cheers and jeers alike, and impromptu songs.
All except Jaskier, who stared at his reflection in a silver platter that had, just half an hour before, been filled with bunches of green and red grapes and slices of melon and thin slices of ham. He swirled his wine in his goblet and carefully considered the question.
His best meal.
Well, he’d had a number of rich, delicious ones. He was no stranger to feasts and banquets, be they at a castle or a festival or a wedding, be he a guest or a performer, all the roasted meats and fresh fruits and vegetables and towering trays of tarts and pies both sweet and savory. But he could not say any of those had been the best.
“You’ve been unusually quiet, Jaskier,” Adrianna said. “Surely you have a tale to tell.”
Jaskier drained his goblet and flashed her a smile. Everyone was more drunk than he was, so no one minded terribly when it took him a few more moments to ruminate on an answer.
There was the meal he’d been served after his first successful performance. A bowl of stew, decently seasoned, a bit of cheese, a small plate of dried fruits and nuts, and the admiring, bright green eyes of the waitress.
The absolute slop placed in front of him after a two-day shortcut through a forest turned into a week long trek. He’d stumbled into the village, exhausted and starving—and he’d thought he’d known hunger before—clothes and skin cut by brambles as he sprinted away from a nest of nekkers, lips cracked and bleeding, throat almost too parched to be able to ask for some water and food, please. The dry hunk of bread soaked in well water they’d given him had tasted very nearly divine and with a hint of mold.
And then, as he was wont to do, he thought of Geralt.
“The best meal I ever had,” Jaskier said, “was a bowl of porridge, with a handful of raspberries, foraged from some brambles in the forest.” Soft and nearly overripe, oozing juice when plucked, practically disintegrating on his tongue. He could still recall it, the berries sweet and heady like wine, the porridge thick and hot and with a pinch of salt. How Geralt had offered the bowl—tentative, almost shy, like a schoolboy giving a hand-written poem to the object of his affections. It had been a declaration, but an apology as well.
A young bard by the name of Aleksy, who Jaskier had thought lost consciousness an hour earlier, lifted his head with a frown. He blinked, bleary, drunk, and grumbled, “There’s more to it than that. That can’t be the whole thing.”
Jaksier cleared his throat. “You’re completely correct, my friend. Allow me to provide context. The porridge was made by a traveling companion who I had once called a very dear and intimate friend but who, after an unfortunate incident, chose to take his anger out on me. Now, as we all know, I do not stay where I’m not wanted, and I’m wanted in many other places by many other people, so I acquiesced to his rage and left. For some months I had a very enjoyable time traveling without him." That was true. The sting of Geralt’s behavior was soothed by a few months in the arms of those who appreciated his presence. Pietr, for one. The older bard gave him another wink and a lascivious smile. “But then, because this continent is far too small, we crossed paths once more.”
A lone, ill-used road—those were the ones that Jaskier traveled. Those were the places where, if the tight-lipped residents could be swayed to speak, the most interesting stories were revealed.
And it was those same roads that Geralt walked in search of contracts. They’d wandered into each other early in the morning, Geralt on Roach and Jaskier on Pegasus, both comically surprised at the sight of the other’s face, and then Jaskier had sniffed as haughtily as he could muster and spurred his steed on.
Geralt had followed.
“He called after me, insisted that we travel together, and when I asked how he knew we were going to the same place he said that he would go where I would. When I said I was thinking about stopping to rest and that he ought to continue on, he said that a rest sounded just fine.” That had stopped Jaskier in his tracks. Softened his heart, just a little. He allowed Geralt to set up camp as he brushed the horses. The witcher set up a small fire, rolled out the blankets, and, after some time watching Jaskier sit and rest and studiously ignore him, sighed and went off to collect ingredients for their breakfast.
Jaskier was no stranger to porridge. It was a simple dish, easy enough to make while traveling. But Geralt labored over it as if it were the first course for some great feast. Fresh oats boiled in clean, fresh spring water, with a smidge of salt and ruby red raspberries full and ripe to bursting and coloring the porridge pink. It was served in a scrupulously clean wooden bowl along with a scrupulously clean wooden spoon. Jaskier had watched him wash and polish the both of them.
When Geralt offered him the bowl of porridge he’d refused, primly stating that the witcher had more need for it, and that Jaskier would eat when their paths diverged in town. He’d seen the man scowl and snarl and growl and sneer, sometimes he’d seen him smile, occasionally he’d made him laugh, but when Jaskier turned away from the breakfast Geralt’s face had fallen and taken on the countenance of a miserable little puppy.
Please, Jaskier, he’d said, so quiet and mournful. If you’re hungry, I’d like to you to eat. And then, as he set the bowl on the grass at Jaskier’s feet, he mumbled, I’m so sorry for what I said. You don’t—have to forgive me. But I just want you to know that I am sorry. And if you don’t want my company, then I hope I can offer you a—a rest before you continue on.
Some men brought flowers to apologize, some jewelry, but his witcher brought him a bowl of porridge and a plea and Jaskier had been both touched and infuriated. Even now, it riled him. “I nearly turned the porridge over in my haste to stand. I told him never, never, in my entire life, had anyone ever spoken to me in such a way.” Not someone that I love, he’d cried. Not someone who was supposed to love me.
But that part of the story he kept to himself. “He apologized again. And again. And again.” And then he’d said, I do love you.
Then you’ve a funny way of showing it, Geralt.
I know. I’m sorry. I was angry, but that’s no excuse for how I acted. For how I treated you. I will do better. If you—if you stay with me, I promise you, that I won’t—take you for granted. Not again. But only if you still want to, Jaskier.
“I told him I would think about it. I sat back down, and I ate the porridge. Every last spoonful. I licked the bowl clean. And then I told him that if he wanted to make it up to me he ought to start with a kiss.” Geralt’s eyes had lit up. The witcher had practically crawled on his knees to reach his berry-stained lips.
“That apology. That porridge,” Jaskier said. “That kiss, and afterwards. The sweetest, best meal that I ever had.”