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It’s another grey day at Kaer Morhen when Ciri sidles up to him and, almost bashfully, admits, “I’ve always wanted to learn how to play.”
Jaskier’s practiced fingers still from where they’d been strumming and testing out some chords, the lute’s final notes fading against the barren walls of the keep. For a place so distressingly monotone and poorly lit, the acoustics were rather wonderful.
“Really?”
He’s genuinely surprised, and it must show, because the girl fidgets a bit under his gaze. Still, she gives him a nod, even as she watches him with something like trepidation. His heart softens immediately, and the surprise melts from his features, even if it lingers in his mind. For all his playing, he hadn’t considered that any of the denizens had any true appreciation for his talents.
He realizes immediately how hard it must be for the poor girl, to admit to such a refined interest, when day-in-and-day-out she’s subjugated to the presence of so many callous witchers. He can only imagine how they must mock her.
(That’s a lie, he’s very well acquainted with the scorn of the uncivilized masses. It doesn’t bother him, but she is but a young girl, and it must be so much more jarring for her.)
“I could probably teach you a thing or two, if you find the time.” He offers a sincere smile, hoping to charm the girl from her doubts. He is nothing if not generous and will certainly not discourage her from a few civilized interests.
(True, she is Calanthe’s heir, and Geralt’s child surprise on top of that, but really, it’s not healthy for a child’s only hobby to be stabbing things.)
“I’d love that,” she replied, far faster than he’s prepared for, and he’s almost startled by her bald enthusiasm. He had no idea she was so starved for proper entertainment, or perhaps she just longs for the bygone days of her court.
She seems to catch on to how eagerly she had responded, because she looks away, the slightest blush on her fair cheeks. She goes on to say more, but before she can get the words out Geralt calls her away for another training session. The sigh she gives is frustrated, and so eerily reminiscent of her father-by-surprise, that Jaskier’s lips quirk in amusement. She offers a small smile of her own before scurrying off to stab gods know what, and he returns to strumming and plucking away at his lute.
It’s just after his first teaching session. Ciri had been a smart, if somewhat distracted student, her fingers somewhat fumbling as he guided her hands to correct her grip and strum properly. She seems a bit impatient for music, but he knows she is a dedicated child, and is certain she will adapt with time.
“You are so fucked.”
He jumps, hitting a sour note, and twists around to find Yennefer distressingly close.
“Fucking balls! What pit did you crawl out of this time?” He laments. Why everyone here is so opposed to making noise when they move about the keep, he will never know.
Yennefer ignores his outburst, her eyes alight with something he would firmly categorize as “unholy glee”. Her lips are even upturned, something she so rarely allows. She doesn’t respond to the taunt, and at her silence he quirks a brow. He tries to temper his curiosity, mostly fails, but does a better job concealing the ounce of the dread already seeping through him at her obvious cheer.
“Care to share with the class?” He drawls, feigning ease, and is entirely floored when she outright laughs and pats his shoulders.
“He,” she grins, fully and unabashed, “is going to kill you.”
She leaves him with that, sweeping out of the room in an enviously dramatic fashion. Now alone, he doesn’t repress the shudder that travels up his spine, both baffled and vaguely terrified.
To be fair, it doesn’t take Jaskier too long after that to figure it out.
“Oh, I never noticed your rings!” Ciri reaches out during one lesson, but just manages to hold back respectfully, “They’re lovely.” She offers with a smile.
“Thank you,” he revels in all praise, particularly on the subject of his fashion. Seeing her compliment landed, Ciri continues, “No one else ever really wears jewelry.” Her smile is a bit sheepish, “I still find it strange, sometimes. After growing up in court.”
“My darling, I can fully commiserate,” gods know she is being too kind, “These witchers are quite lacking in personal décor, but then, they tend to be lacking in even the basic necessities. Soap, for starters…”
She laughs, and it’s bright, almost too bright, really, and now she does brush his hand, just over the rings, barely making contact. He almost falters, almost frowns, brows drawing together just the faintest bit, because he knows that laugh, and no one laughs like that unless-
Everything clicks into place, and it’s all he can do not to cartwheel backwards out of his seat entirely, to put as much space between them as possible as panic hits him like a punch to the gut. He wraps the lesson up early, barely managing to keep his cool, face blissfully neutral as he makes gentle excuses.
It’s only after she’s gone that he runs his hands through his hair, for once mindless of its appearance. Oh gods, but he is rightly fucking fucked.
Alright, no worries; he can handle this. He was the youngest professor that Oxenfurt has ever seen. He is a famous troubadour that is well renowned around the continent; he teaches poetry and the arts, and has penned some of the greatest romantic ballads of the age. He is well-used to being the target of schoolgirl crushes.
Crushes are an endearing, fleeting part of growing up, he knows. Are something to be cherished as they so quickly fade with age. Normally, being adored by the youth is a lovely compliment, something he is well capable of kindly rebuffing without causing too much hurt.
But this not any regular schoolgirl. This is Geralt’s child. And there begs the question of how best to handle the affections of a magical child, when he’s trapped in a castle, on top of another fucking mountain, in the midst of winter, with her aggressively murderous pseudo-family. There are several ways he can handle this:
- Turn her down gently and hope for the best. Pray to all the gods that she doesn’t cry, because then he will most certainly be killed by either Geralt or Yennefer, if not one of the other witchers.
- Let her continue to hold onto this little crush, and hope it dies out before Geralt notices and throttles him with his own lute strings.
- Escape into the night with naught but his lute and a few desperate prayers as he makes his way down the dangerous pass in the slightest hope of reaching civilization.
He glances out a window, notes the vicious swirling winds and thick snowfall. Altogether, not the worst option. But he really does need a new pair of boots.
Dear gods, Yennefer was right. He is so fucked.
“You brought this on yourself, bard.” As predicted Yennefer is the worst sort of witch, entirely unsympathetic and openly reveling in his pain. She looks very much like a cat watching a mouse squirm in a trap.
“Don’t say that!” he cries, but is also perilously curious, “Why would you say that?”
She fixes him with a dry look, looking up from her botany project, “Geralt may have the social upbringing of a rock, but I’m civilized enough to know that you’re one of the most adored musicians on this bloody continent.”
The ‘gods know why’ isn’t explicitly stated but is rather apparent by her expression. Jaskier manfully does not acknowledge it, preening before he remembers the severity of the situation.
And yes, Jaskier has never been unaware of his own charms, being as handsome and dashing and well-read as he is, but this is Geralt’s daughter, his slightly feral, princess daughter that still prefers stabbing to most other activities.
“I rather think I wouldn’t be her type.” He confesses, getting down to it.
Yennefer rolls her eyes, “It’s a crush, Jaskier, it doesn’t have to be practical. You’re a celebrity, you understand courtly etiquette, and you actually possess manners, when you deign to use them.”
He’s not entirely convinced, even if he is quite a specimen, “Honestly, I didn’t peg her as very much caring for such things.”
Yennefer finally sets down whatever weird, dangerous-looking plant she had been examining. Palms on the table, she leans in.
“You are also the youngest man here by a good 50 years, you bathe three times as much as the next person, and I quote from you, “the only man that uses soap in this whole damn keep”.
And fuck, but she’s right.
“Poor girl doesn’t really have many options, does she?” Hands on his hips, he turns to stare out the window once more, still contemplating the path down the mountain. Oh, if only he were less beautiful, how this whole mess could have been avoided.
“Geralt is going to murder me,” he laments. Yennefer makes an a vaguely agreeable noise, back to examining whatever bioweapon she’s currently fascinated with.
“He might not catch on. Gods know he has no experience with children, much less puberty.”
It’s a dim hope, but one he clings to religiously.
“And I really think I’ve been getting the hang of it, if you want to come watch me sometime –”
He really couldn’t be less interested in that idea.
“Oh? Well, I suppose I’d, uh, be able, not- not that I understand much of all that jumping around and swordplay.”
Cirilla is standing far too close right now, given the size of the great hall. Jaskier is doing his best to ease away without her notice, but the girl has become bolder as of late – seeking him out even outside of lessons. Still, he’s certain he can rectify this. If he can just manage to get to the table’s end, he’s certain he can put it between them without being too obvious.
“That’s alright! I can explain it to you.”
But then, maybe it’s time to be a little more obvious. He’s contemplating his options when the doors burst open, sending a snap of cold air that has him grimacing. Several witchers file in, and he really has absolutely no interest in whatever they’d been up to. But the distraction allows him to edge backwards without catching Ciri’s eye. He’s all too aware that Geralt is one of the witchers shaking off snow.
Not that he’s picked up on anything yet, bless Melitele’s buxom bosom and her sumptuous, limber…
“Oi!”
Many in the hall turn, including Jaskier, easily accosted by Lambert’s loud presence. Jaskier instantly doesn’t like the shit-eating grin on his face, the jovial tone as he spreads his arms wide. Lambert never sounds half so happy as when he’s about to ruin someone’s day. And he’s looking directly at Jaskier. Most days Jaskier doesn’t mind the abrasive, ill-mannered –
“If it ain’t Geralt’s future son-in-law!”
– pig-fucking, unwashed whoreson!
“Son-in-law?” Geralt rumbles, his eyes following Lambert’s to Jaskier, brow furrowed. He then takes stock of Ciri, who really is very close, (when did she get so close??) her hand just about brushing Jaskier’s arm. For a moment he just looks politely baffled, as much as his inexpressive face allows.
Then something darkens in his expression. Something darkens quick as fuck. Jaskier suddenly feels sweat on the back of his neck, and dear gods, why isn’t Ciri backing up?
“Jaskier,” Yen whispers, somehow right there, pulling Ciri back gently by one shoulder. Her other hand she holds out. Ciri is looking back and forth between Jaskier and Geralt, and now her brows are gathered, her mouth setting with a mixture of mild embarrassment and confusion.
“Jaskier,” Yennefer hisses, snapping her fingers. The air really does seem to be growing denser, as if a storm was building indoors. Is that the crackle of lighting, or Geralt’s teeth grinding?
“Yennefer,” Jaskier returns, handing off his lute to her, as calm as you please. He rolls his shoulders, cracking his neck as he stretches his limbs a bit, limbering up.
“Run.”
No need to tell him fucking twice.