Chapter Text
Okay. Fine. He’ll admit it. Jaskier is a little- no actually, beyond pissed. Miffed. Enraged. Peeved. Furious. A bit resentful. He could sit here all fucking day and pull synonyms out of his ass to describe what he was feeling, but frankly he was experiencing too much of that feeling to do that. Geralt, the bull-headed shit stained son of probably multiple evil demons that hated Jaskier specifically, told him to fuck off. On a cold, tall, in the middle of buttfuck nowhere mountainside cliff no less.
Yeah. He was a little mad.
Jaskier rolled the memory around in his head bitterly, as if it was a bruised fruit he was considering eating. It happened like this: Jaskier tried to comfort Geralt through a very weird pseudo-breakup, he offered a get-away! A vacation, a break from all the monster slaying and stress of having to save the world from shitting its trousers and dying. They could have travelled together peacefully for once in their godsforsakened lives but no. Nooo, no. Geralt of Fucking Rivia told him, in a more or less eloquent way, that if Jaskier had taken a dive off the very cliff they stood on that moment he would not care a singular bit.
It hurt. The words were icy knives shoved into his ribs, twisted around, somehow burning hot and freezing cold all at once. Jaskier thought maybe in another reality an evil witch had finally caught him and flayed him open and cooked his insides in front of him. Perhaps that would provide a reason for his luck to have suddenly tipped its hat and go to the market for a few months. Possibly forever to never return. He would be stuck in a loop of terrible tragic events for the rest of his awfully long life.
No matter, he thought. If he wants me gone I’ll go. Jaskier wouldn’t miss his constant smell of monster guts, ash, dirt, and rotting fish when he returned from a contract. He wouldnt miss the intense glare he got from Geralt every time he sang on the road. He definitely would not miss how gravely bereft of speech and emotionally constipated Geralt was.
Really, he didn’t care. He wouldn't miss it.
Jaskier tripped over a tree root and snapped out of his daze. His face stung, his feet hurt and he was thirsty. Apparently the sun had gone down as well, which was a tad worrying as it was noon when he set off from the last inn. A blister on his foot and a tacky feeling in his mouth drew him to a cool, deep stream that was almost a small river.
His bag dropped to the ground and he stripped with the ease of a man who has been in situations that called for being fully naked, very very fast.
Wading into the water, the chill woke him and he relaxed at the feeling of water washing away the grime and sweat of the day. Ideally, he would have been in a room with a hearth and a hot bath enriched with oils and herbs. He splashed water on his face. Not even all of his earnings combined could afford that, however. Not for long.
Jaskier sat in the water for a long time, scrubbing at the worst of his bruises and various nicks and scratches. He should have made camp beforehand, he realized. Perishing the thought he moved on to the lower half of his body and halfway through trying to pick a rock out of one of his bandaged wounds a sharp snap of a twig rang through the clearing.
Jaskier stilled and listened for any other signs of something- or someone- coming near. The odd crow cawed, water bubbled along the rocks, and a breeze rustled the tree leaves. Nothing out of place. Except-
There was a strange scent. Wildflowers, smoke, and the faintest tinge of an expensive perfume Jaskier recognized from his time among the nobles. There was someone here, and they were... Wealthy?
Fuck his life.
“I know you’re there, whoever you are. Very obvious with the snapping and crunching. Plus, you stink.”
A beat passed.
The man reached for the rest of his clothes. His undergarments, having worn them in the stream, were thoroughly soaked. He didn’t mean to be indecent in front of this person, even if they were going to try to kill him.
As Jaskier began dressing the crunching of footsteps rang out like the clashing of steel swords in the otherwise peaceful environment.
He braced for the worst. A hunter with his sword at the ready, prepared to strike down on Jaskier and kindly separate his head from his body.
In the hunter’s place came a small figure in a silky blue robe dirtied with dry blood, mud, and other various substances Jaskier did not want to know the name of nor the origin.
She was a small girl. Green eyes, pale skin. Freckles. Silver blonde hair cascaded in waves out of her hood, poorly tucked away shining brightly in the full moonlight.
Holy. Fucking. Mother. Of Shit Balls.
This little girl was the spitting image of Pavetta of Cintra.