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"Hello gorgeous." It started when Filavandrel placed the most beautiful lute Jaskier had ever laid eyes on in his hands. It… tingled would be the wrong word, but that was the best one Jaskier could come up with. There was something off about the instrument. It wasn't until they were walking back down out of the mountains that Jaskier brought it up.
"Ah, Geralt?" Jaskier called, struggling over a boulder. The Witcher paused and looked back at him, but nothing more. "You can tell when things are magical, yes?" He asked, unsure as he managed to make it over the boulder and land on his feet. He didn't even rip his pants or doublet.
"Yes. Why?" The man asked, wary, and Jaskier just held out his lute. The instrument looked comically out-of-place in the Witcher's hands, but he inspected it carefully before handing it back.
"Well?"
"Nothing dangerous." He finally admitted, causing Jaskier to sigh in relief. "Probably just enhancements worked into the wood to keep it from breaking."
"Oh! That's convenient." Jaskier smiled as he slipped the instrument over his shoulder and onto his back. The Witcher picked up his horse and continued on, away from Posada. Jaskier followed until he could no longer take the silence. "Credit where credit is due."
He tried to compliment the Witcher, though it seemed to irritate him more than anything. And then, he had the nerve to tell Jaskier that they were parting ways!
Without even letting him try to change the public's opinion! Well, that certainly would not do. A melody jumped into his head and he hastily pulled the lute around. A chord popped into his head and he strummed it lightly, enjoying the way the notes sounded on this amazing new lute.
"When a humble bard…" The words and music spilled from his lips and fingers and there was something different about the strange not-tingling sensation that ran up his fingers and into his chest. He felt full of inspiration, letting the music tumble from lips that now tasted of magic.
"That's not how it happened." Geralt interrupted, a scowl on his face as Jaskier turned toward him. "Where's your newfound respect?" Jaskier stared up at this man and let the performer's facade fall, for just a moment.
"Respect doesn't make history." A brief look of surprise flashed across the Witcher's face, and Jaskier took that as a win. He turned around and continued playing. It felt good, natural, in a way that these early stages of composing never had before.
It was slightly terrifying, if he was being entirely honest. But Geralt had said the magic wasn't anything to worry about, so he wouldn't. He grabbed hold of that feeling and didn't let go.
It was as if a dam somewhere deep inside him had been broken open, allowing his music to flow freely for the first time in his life.
No. That was wrong.
If he thought about it long enough, he could remember this feeling. It had been so long ago it had been forgotten, buried under his years in Melitele's temple school and then Oxenfurt Academy.
There had been a mage once, invited by his father, that examined Jaskier when he had been tiny Julian. He didn't remember what the mage had done or said, but that feeling of music rushing from his soul had been blocked, diverted. The mage had built a dam across his soul, allowing his music to back up and up and up until it overflowed, a trickle leaping into his fingertips, his voice.
And now that dam was irreparably broken open, and all that music was allowed to burst forth. He embraced it, singing with all his heart and soul.
Jaskier wasn't surprised that 'Toss A Coin' became popular. It had all the earmarks of a popular song. Jaskier was surprised at how fast it became popular though. His name was quickly being spread throughout the Continent as Master Jaskier, The Witcher's Bard.
He… didn't mind that at all. If it kept one person from calling Geralt 'Butcher' ever again, he'd gladly take any moniker thrown at him. The best part was that it was working.
People no longer spat openly when Geralt rode into town. Innkeeps and tavern owners let him rent rooms and eat at the tables. Geralt was paid fairly for his work; he was no longer cheated and run from town with stones, especially if Jaskier took over the negotiations.
People still watched the pair warily, untrusting eyes following them wherever they went. That was better, and Jaskier and Geralt both counted it as a win.
For as good a poet Jaskier was, he couldn't make songs from absolutely nothing. Which is why he was so happy when the village alderman had described Geralt's fight with the selkimore in such gruesome detail.
Of course Geralt was fine. There was no question in Jaskier's mind. Geralt had fought selkimores before and came away disgusting but uninjured every time. He'd already asked the innkeep for a bath the moment Geralt arrived back.
He would need to pull out every last trick in his rather thick book to bribe Geralt for what he wanted.
He'd been asked specifically by royalty to perform. Princess Paveta's betrothal feast. A bard's dream gig, the performance of the next decade, at least.
Unfortunately, it turned out to be rather shit. Calanthe had only wanted him because he was an easy ticket to a Witcher.
Jaskier had never really met a mage or sorceress until one literally had him by the balls, after waking up from some very confusing dreams. Her name was Yennefer, and she had immediately claimed all of Geralt's attention.
That was fine. It was one hundred percent fine.
Not like Jaskier hadn't spent the last sixteen years following after the bastard, singing his praises. Nope. Didn't matter at all.
Didn't fucking matter than the bard had singlehandedly changed almost the entire damn Continent's opinion on Witchers in general and Geralt in particular.
He was a little salty.
And if he was singing a rather nasty song about an evil witch and the brave Witcher who'd rescued a town from her evil spell when Geralt caught up to him in the tavern at Rinde, well, he fucking knew better than to bring it up.
At least Rinde saw Geralt as it's savior now instead of the asshole who assaulted half the city council.
The damned dragon hunt happened. At first it was fine. Geralt was angry and tended to lash out at everyone and everything. That wasn't unusual. Jaskier had gotten the story from the dwarves, who were great company that day. He got the whole story into a song. It was beautiful, and would dazzle the crowds at Oxenfurt.
Then the dwarves left and Jaskier stayed.
Because Geralt hadn't come back yet.
Geralt always came back for him, no matter where the Witcher left him before. Geralt never forgot about him.
Geralt forgot about him.
Jaskier was nothing if not petty. The entire time he was tripping hiking crying down the mountain he worked on a new song. It would be catchier than 'Toss A Coin' ever dared to be. He'd sing it in every tavern between that mountain and Oxenfurt and the entire Continent would be singing it within the month!
He'd show Geralt 'life's one blessing' and make it so the whole damned world didn't forget what he'd done. He'd never be able to live it down.
"...Burn, Butcher, Burn…"
Only…
That didn't feel right. It wasn't true, anyway. Jaskier would never be able to just burn twenty-two years of friendship away.
He stumbled back into that shitty little tavern in Caingorn at the base of The Mountain, and yes it deserved that capitalization, thank you very much. He started his set and very carefully played through his repertoire, avoiding all the songs about Witchers.
Eventually, he did have to play a few of them; otherwise he would have been booed off stage. He played the more straightforward ones; the selkimore, the Djiincident, the werewolf in Lyria.
The tavern was nearly empty by the time he started finishing up his set, and decided to debut 'Burn, Butcher, Burn' here.
It was the first time in twenty-two years that he held himself back. The music sounded just as good, his voice strong and filled with rage at being left behind, but there was a hollow-ness to it.
It didn't ring true.
People clapped at the end of it, but there were no cries for an encore.
He felt off for days afterwards, unsure of himself in a way that he hadn't been in decades. He traveled to the next village, and performed for them. He didn't play 'Burn', didn't have to hold back, and that uncomfortably full feeling went away.
Jaskier didn't go straight back to Oxenfurt. It was still summer enough for travel to not be too difficult, so he headed into Velen of all places. It was simple enough to find the great tree Bleobheris; there were always travelers nearby. Always a willing crowd gathered, eager enough for news and stories and music.
The druids kept the peace despite being in the middle of Velen, and all were welcome to the Seat of Friendship. Jaskier nursed his heartbreak by singing there, with all sorts of other performers.
Until Foltest's men raided the grotto.
Jaskier had to watch first-hand as the troupe of elvish mummers he'd been performing with the past several nights were dragged from the grove, kicking and screaming and crying, loaded into wagons to be carted off. He'd never see them again.
It wasn't right.
Jaskier practically flew back to Oxenfurt, trying to get caught up on the news. War had come, and the elves were being persecuted unjustly. He used every connection he had, every contact in the network to get ahead of this.
He became the Sandpiper, a name he chose again. If he could help just one person, just one elf, escape the hell that his beloved alma mater was becoming, the risk would be worth it.
He played at the bar, and learned how to pull himself back. Not every performance could be filled with his love, his energy. He turned 'Burn' into an upbeat song. It could be a signal to others. He only played it at the end of the night, a last call. It gave the elves hidden in the basement a timestamp, an 'I'm almost done, then you'll be on your way to freedom.'
Yennefer of Vengerburg needed out. Jaskier was her only best way out. It was getting too dangerous, anyway. Dijkstra told him this ship would be the last they could get. Jaskier would get Yennefer on that boat, go back to the bar, and quietly disappear into the wilderness for a while. He'd probably head north a little; maybe to Kovir. He had friends up there, and that should be far enough from the war that no one would think to look for him there.
He didn't make it.
He got captured by a mage.
His hands were burned badly, but he refused to give up Geralt. He made up some bullshit and then thank all the gods above, Yennefer managed to rescue him.
Only for him to end right back in a different prison.
He sang for the mice in his cell; he sang to annoy his jailers. Maybe they would turn him loose if he were annoying enough. He played spoons while he sang. It wasn't his lute. Nothing would ever be his lute. She'd been smashed to pieces by the fucking Fire Mage. At least he knew he was a good artist even without her. Having to reign in the magic for the last several months in Oxenfurt proved that.
Geralt needed him. Geralt came and rescued him. Jaskier couldn't turn his back on his best friend, not now. He'd need a proper apology at some point in the future, but now was not that time.
There was a battle in Kaer Morhen, and Jaskier tried to stay out of the way. He tried to help. Yennefer believed in him. Geralt would too, if he wasn't so worried about his child surprise.
Battle fought and battle won, though it was a hollow victory.
The great hall had finally been cleaned up completely. It left Jaskier restless and useless. But, he could maybe entertain the princess. He grabbed a couple of the nice spoons as he plopped down on the table next to the girl.
"Why do you have spoons?" She asked skeptically, and Jaskier just smiled at her.
"Anything can be an instrument with proper imagination." He said, imitating the lesson she'd been learning earlier that morning, though Vesemir's speech was more like "anything can be a weapon". He held them to his knee, debating for just a moment.
He launched into a lovely rendition of 'Queen Marienn and the Black Raven,' one of his more popular competition songs. It actually took top honors in the Novigrad competition two years prior.
He sang softly along with his impromptu percussion, not wanting to distract heavily from the rest of the Witchers, wherever they might be. He smiled and sang and let the music fill up his soul again. It had been too long. He would miss the way Filavandel's lute made all his music seem magic, but this would be enough.
The small smile on Ciri's face was a victory.
He sang, growing bolder and more confident as he made his way through the second round of the chorus, face cracking into a grin as Ciri joined in the third time. He nodded at her, encouragingly, leading his voice to complement hers.
She was giggling by the time the song was through and he launched into another comic song, one about a princess who ran away from home to become the best archer in the land. He sang, and Ciri sang once she heard the chorus, her smile growing wider with each verse.
He could taste the magic on his tongue, feel it pulsing in time with his rapid tapping of his spoons. He was surprised, but continued on, unwilling to stop his performance and ruin Ciri's smile. He caught movement out of the corners of his eyes, but he ignored them.
Right now, all that mattered was one scared and lonely little girl.
He sang through some of his favorite songs about Geralt then, because Ciri deserved to hear how wonderful a man her surprise-father was. Coën had taken up a spot on Ciri's other side, singing along to some of the songs. Jaskier smiled at him and continued singing until his throat was sore and his voice cracked.
Someone from his side pushed a mug into his hand and he didn't even smell it before he tossed it back. A quick glance over his shoulder revealed it to be Geralt, who had a complicated look on his face. He contemplated singing 'Toss a Coin' just to annoy and embarrass the man.
"Geralt! You fucker!" Coën sprang from his seat and tackled the white-haired man before he could disappear. "You didn't tell us your bard was magic!"
Jaskier stared at the Witcher for several tense beats. Geralt did too.
"He's what?"
"I'm what?" Coën turned toward Jaskier, a look of shock on his face. It looked very strange with his mis-matched eyes.
"When you sing. You weave magic with it." He turned to Geralt. "Don't fucking tell me you didn't notice!"
"You're magic, too, Jask?" Ciri asked quietly, hopefully as Geralt had the decency to look ashamed.
"I thought it was his lute. Never heard him before without it."
"That's bullshit, Geralt, and we both know it. I sang all the time on the road without my lute." Jaskier defended himself. Geralt shot him a very angry glare and Jaskier rolled his eyes. "That glare stopped being scary twenty years ago."
"Oi! Lambchop! Bring your scarf!" Coën was waving down Lambert now. "Geralt's bard's got magic too." The red-headed Witcher was looking at Coën like he was crazy before he disappeared down the corridor that led to his and Coën's room.
"What the fuck?" Jaskier just whispered and sat down onto the bench he'd been using as a footrest for the past several hours. "What do you mean I'm magic?" He was staring at Geralt, whom Coën was preventing from running away with a strong grip on his shoulder.
"So, you know what Chaos is, right bard?" Coën asked as he forced Geralt to sit down on the bench opposite the bard and the princess.
"Yes. It's what mages use to do magic or something." Jaskier said cautiously. He saw Ciri open her mouth to give a better answer, probably, but Coën just shook his head.
"Close enough. Mages have a natural connection to Chaos, it's what makes 'em mages. Druids and sorceresses, too." Coën said.
"They're all the same thing, just taught different things." Geralt added in a low voice.
"Witchers have a forced connection to Chaos. It's why you can only do your signs." Jaskier spoke up, waving his hand in a fairly accurate Igni. He knew that much from following Geralt. Coën was surprised at that, giving Geralt an unreadable look before looking back at the bard.
"Correct. It's why Ciri's having such a hard time learning them, too. We only know how it works on a forced connection, not a natural one."
"I'm not just extra bad at it?" Ciri asked, a small smile on her face.
"No, cub. Lambchop was just teasing you."
"Was not." The red-head yelled as he re-entered the great hall, a bright red scarf piled up in his arms. "You're extra terrible at signs. Even worse than Geralt." He sat down next to Coën and piled the scarf onto the table in front of the bard. He was avoiding eye contact with everyone, hackles raised like a wild dog's.
"There is another type of magic, one that's not reliant on Chaos." Coën broke in, interrupting the brewing verbal sparring match between the red-head and the cub. "Pick up the scarf but don't put it on."
Jaskier glanced at Geralt skeptically, but did as Coën asked when he offered no objection. The scarf was soft over Jaskier's still healing fingers, and very light. It didn't look that way, knitted thick and bulky to keep out the cold in this frozen old keep.
"It's very soft and well made. A scarf like this would fetch a decent price in a city like Novigrad or Ard Carraigh."
"Thanks." The prickly asshole's voice was soft, and he still was stubbornly looking at the table.
"Now put it on." Coën demanded, and Jaskier wrapped it around neck several times, feeling just a little foolish. Immediately the dull chill that had been a constant throughout his stay in Kaer Morhen was gone. He could still feel the cool air against his face, his fingers, but it didn't bother him any more. It was like he'd been cocooned in the warmest nicest blanket ever made.
It felt like a hug.
"What the fuck?" Jaskier demanded, running a hand over the tails.
"Nice, right?" Coën, the cheeky bastard, just grinned and nudged Lambert in the side affectionately.
"It's enchanted?" Jaskier asked, confused. He knew there were mages who specialized in this sort of thing.
"Yes and no. Lambert made it."
"But he's a Witcher!" Coën pulled his medallion over his head and placed it on the scarf, and laid one of Jaskier's hands over it gently. The medallion was completely still, not even the faintest traces of movement.
"It's not Chaos. It's something different." Coën pulled his medallion back on.
"It's weird to describe. When I make a scarf, I think really hard about wanting to keep the person warm." Lambert said, softly.
"You made this?" Jaskier asked, surprised. He wouldn't have pegged the asshole Witcher to do fibrecrafts. "It's lovely."
"And you think Jask can do that?" Ciri asked, getting the spotlight off her favorite trainer.
"With music, yes."
"I thought it was just the lute being enchanted." Jaskier said softly, looking at Geralt. "You told me it was enchanted to not break or something so I went with it."
"I said it was probably enchanted." Geralt argued back. "I wasn't sure other than it was safe." He paused, tilting his head to the side slightly, examining Jaskier like this was the first time seeing him. "Where is it?" Jaskier frowned.
"Broken." He gave a little wave toward Geralt's face, which had that constipated look again which meant he was blaming himself for it. "Before you rescued me from jail, and during a completely unrelated encounter."
"Hmm…" Geralt grunted, not believing him for a minute.
"Describe what it's like, when you play?" Coën, the brave lad, pulled them back on track again. It was so easy for Jaskier to follow after all these interesting other leads.
"Like I am a lake, filled to the brim with music. When I play, I open up a dam across the river leading out, letting the music flow." Lambert snorted and rolled his eyes.
"Trust a bard to make it eloquent." Lambert huffed, but Coën pinned him with a very serious expression. "But yeah, that's it."
"So when I sing, I create magic?" Jaskier asked, wanting to be sure. It was something mind-boggling and at the same time, completely expected. He had a name for it now, and knew that not all his talent came from it. But if he could do more than just sing silly songs; if he really could change people's hearts and minds with his music...
"Basically." Coën concluded.
"Come on, bard." Lambert called, pushing off the bench gracefully. "Vesemir found me and Eskel a couple o' books. Don't know how much help they'll be for you, but you need to start somewhere." Jaskier followed after the red head willingly, curious and excited all the same.
"So, Lambert, guess this means that I'll get to be a part of this family after all." Jaskier said it, meaning to be cheeky. Instead, Lambert looked him over carefully, assessing him.
"Guess so." Lambert said with a smile. "Could do with some music around this place. Old Vesemir'll hate it."
"I've just thought of a limerick. Want to hear it?" Jaskier asked as they stepped outside the great hall.
"Sure." Lambert answered cautiously, one eyebrow raised curiously.
"Lambert, Lambert - what a prick!" Several barks of laughter echoed out of the hall behind them, and Lambert couldn't help but add his own. Lambert draped an arm around his shoulder, like he would one of the other Witchers. The trust in that gesture warmed Jaskier in a way the magic-not-magic scarf never could.
"I think you'll do just fine, bard."