Work Text:
Ciri gives both Geralt and Yennefer a quick hug when they dismount, like she does every time one of them gets back from any hunting mission, as if she’s still waiting for the day they won’t return. Jaskier takes Roach’s reins from Geralt, eyeing the scorch marks on his shirt. “What happened?”
“We ran into the fire fucker,” Yennefer spits out.
“He had your lute,” Geralt says slowly, looking bewildered. “He said he’d trade it for Ciri.”
Jaskier’s heartbeat picks up wildly as Ciri frowns and looks between them. “A lute?” she asks in surprise.
“What did you tell him?” Jaskier squeaks – he means to sound natural, but he feels like all the air has been punched out of his lungs.
“Nothing,” Yennefer answers, while Geralt frowns at him, probably picking up on the way his heart seems to want out of his chest. “He portaled out immediately. We didn’t have time to do anything. He knew he was no match for both of us together, not on his own.”
Jaskier turns his back to them, taking care of Roach as an excuse to hide the anguish gripping at him. Of course, he’s known since escaping Rience without the lute that his life was forfeit. He can feel the constant tug at the back of his mind, the tiredness that weighs his bones, the brand new gray hairs no one else has noticed. Being apart from his lute is taking its toll on his body. He’s been living on borrowed time, an astonishing six months surviving with the knowledge that the keeper of his very life energy is a monster who could burn it at any point if it struck his fancy.
A monster who wants Ciri.
Jaskier eyes the girl he’s grown so unfairly attached to. She’s busying herself pulling bowls out of their packs for dinner, deftly scooping up spoonfuls of the stew Jaskier made over the fire, but the lines of worry never leave her face as she asks Geralt and Yennefer more questions about their mission. Jaskier tunes them out, trying to think.
Rience wants to bargain his lute for Ciri. That’s not an acceptable bargain in any way, and Jaskier wouldn’t even entertain it, but it means that his time is up. When they fail to deliver Ciri, Rience will undoubtedly burn the lute, if only to show he’s serious.
It also means his secret will be out.
He’s not sure anymore why he kept it to himself. Back when he first got the lute, it was out of fear. It took him several years and a visit to a druid to fully understand the implications of Filavandrel’s gift. The elf’s parting words were cryptic and confusing, something about music coming from the soul. Although Jaskier felt the magic coming out of the lute whenever he played, progressively seeping into him, it was only after some time had passed and he realized that he didn’t seem to age or get ill that he sought out someone who could tell him what it was actually doing.
“Don’t lose it,” the druid told him. “It’s not just tied to your soul – at this point, it is your soul. Your fate is tied to it.”
At the time, Jaskier thought it poetic. The old luthier of Oxenfurt always said that instruments have their own soul – it seemed fitting that Jaskier’s soul would be made of wood and strings and beautiful sounds. Still, he kept it close and kept his mouth shut, knowing just how easy it is to break a lute, even an elven-made one. He never even told Geralt.
It just became a fact of life. The lute breathed in rhythm with Jaskier and his music took on a magical edge that entranced audiences like never before. It was a source of pride, this osmosis with his instrument. He took good care of it, though it didn’t seem to ever lose its varnish or age any more than Jaskier did. He had nightmares of monsters or disgruntled husbands taking the lute and smashing it, but it just led him to be more protective and secretive.
Rience found out by accident. He almost smashed the lute when he got the jump on Jaskier at the docks, but he saw Jaskier’s sudden panic and probably felt the magical energy coming out of the lute. All Jaskier knows is that when he woke up tied to a chair with blood running down his face, Rience stood over him with the lute in one hand, threatening to burn it down.
Jaskier shudders, remembering the uncontrollable terror that overtook him. If Yennefer hadn’t shown up…
But Yennefer doesn’t know about the lute, and so she didn’t think to grab it as they escaped. By the time Jaskier realized, in his terrified daze, it was far too late.
And now here he is, faced with what may be his last choice. Should he tell them, and unfairly put that burden on them, or risk dropping dead and leaving them with unanswered questions?
The last months have been harrowing in many ways, but none of it more repulsive than knowing that his soul is in the hands of that monster. Geralt and Yennefer noticed that he was subdued, but neither of them really called him out on it – they’ve had more important things to deal with. Yennefer seems to think that Rience’s torture left him emotionally scarred, and his relationship with Geralt isn’t what it was before… before .
Ciri asked him once why he hasn’t tried to buy a new lute at one of the villages they pass through, but Jaskier just told her that they haven’t been anywhere large enough to have a proper luthier and he doesn’t settle for mediocre quality. It’s not like he sings very often, these days.
He’s scared. He can’t deny that. But he’s been scared for months, and the ice-cold grip on his guts hasn’t so much loosened as it has become something he can simply ignore. Is that growth, or just denial?
“Why the fuck would the fire-fucker think a lute is more important to us than Ciri?” Yennefer ponders as she drops unceremoniously to the ground of their campsite to eat, once Roach is taken care of.
Jaskier swallows back the hurt – she doesn’t know. “It’s a very good lute,” he tries to play at mock-offense. But the joke has too many layers of lies and pain and it falls flat.
Even Ciri looks mildly disturbed, so Jaskier apologizes in a whisper.
“It doesn’t matter,” he lies with a shrug. “Maybe he’s so far gone he doesn’t understand the value of human life, or something.”
It’s a weak argument even to his ears, but he’s not exactly at his best. He’s sweating, he realizes. He straightens away from the fire, hoping that the darkness of dusk turning into night will hide the moisture on his brow, but the flames catch his eye and make him shudder again.
What will it feel like? Is he going to burn alive in invisible flames, go up in smoke and the stench of scorched meat? Is he just going to drop dead at Geralt’s feet, leaving no trace of the cause of his sudden attack? Will he feel the connection snap, like he can feel it tug at him even now, or will he already be gone?
He’s read all the books he found about magical tethers, but none of them talked about how it feels to have one’s very soul stolen.
“Jaskier,” Geralt says suddenly. “What are you not telling us?”
Jaskier starts and tears his eyes away from the fire. “Nothing,” he answers too fast. “I love my lute, but it’s not a great sacrifice to make for Ciri’s life.” I’m not a great sacrifice to make for Ciri’s life.
It’s not even that he lacks self-preservation, whatever Geralt says about that. It’s just basic math. Ciri is young and full of life, powerful and untethered. She’s a child of destiny, she has an important future ahead of her, even if they don’t know what that is yet. She’s needed. Jaskier is just a bard.
Besides, losing Ciri might well be the end of Geralt. It’s like she’s turned your world upside down, Jaskier told him once. He was right. She and Geralt and Yennefer are a family now. Geralt has already proved that losing Jaskier won’t destroy him, but Ciri is everything to him. As she should be.
She’s everything to Jaskier, too. He’ll gladly give his life to keep her safe.
“The lute, it’s enchanted, isn’t it?” Yennefer pulls him out of his rather morbid thoughts. “Elven-made, I’ve felt the magic. What does it do? Maybe he knows something we don’t.”
Jaskier shrugs. “It doesn’t really need tuning, I guess.”
Yennefer gives him a long look, and he knows his lies aren’t cutting it. But what can he do? The truth won’t help anyone. He puts down his bowl, his appetite cut. He’s lost weight since leaving Oxenfurt, unable to enjoy any of the food he eats. He doesn’t know if it’s because of his anxiety or if being separated from his lute also affects his senses.
“Jaskier. What’s wrong?”
Geralt’s voice is low and grave, as he grips Jaskier’s shoulder to make him face him. Jaskier leans into the touch without meaning to, feeling cold. It could be the last time, his mind sings. The last time he feels Geralt’s hand on him, the last touch of human warmth before the pyre. Every breath could be the last.
“ How long do we have?” he asks. How long do I have left to live?
Can he find a way to say goodbye without them catching on? They’re perceptive. He doesn’t want them to carry the guilt of making the choice. It’s his decision alone.
“One day. He’ll be at the main square of the village tomorrow at dusk.”
Jaskier swallows. So little time.
“No need to show up, right?” he says shakily. “Not like we’re handing in Ciri.” He tries to smile at the girl, but it probably comes out more like a grimace.
He’ll find a way to slip away, maybe, meet Rience just to see him do it. Or maybe he should just treasure every moment he has with his family…
His family.
He hasn’t let himself use that word, even in his head. He’s known since the start that he’s a liability, that his days are numbered. He didn’t mean to get attached to Ciri. He didn’t mean for Ciri to get attached to him.
She doesn’t deserve another loss.
He lets out an involuntary whimper, and suddenly Ciri’s eyes bore into him from across the fire. “Jask, why are you being all weird?” she asks seriously. “What’s going on? Is it about the lute? We already knew that Rience was after me, that’s not news.”
How she can be so flippant about people wanting her dead or in their hands, Jaskier will never understand. She’s so young, but it’s not naivete, rather a stubbornness born of hardships. She may not be Geralt’s by blood, but she’s so much like him sometimes that it’s hard to remember that.
He’s grown close to her over the last few months, staying behind with her every time Geralt and Yennefer go out to deal with human and non-human monsters alike, and he loves her so much already that he could choke on the feeling.
“I’m just…” Jaskier works his jaw, searching for his words. “Scared.”
“It will be fine,” Geralt says. “We’ll get him eventually. Yen, could we lay a trap for him tomorrow? Get him stuck in the square so he can’t just portal away?”
Yennefer thinks about it for a moment, and Jaskier is glad that Geralt’s question took the attention away from him. But Ciri is still watching him.
“He’ll light the whole village on fire before allowing himself to be captured,” Yennefer judges. “It’s too dangerous.”
Jaskier nods. They can’t endanger other lives. Enough have been lost already.
He stands up to start putting their bowls away, and he misses the looks his companions share. He makes quick work of wiping the bowls and spoons clean, thankful for having something to do with his hands. His teeth are chattering, even though it’s not cold. He clenches his jaw to quiet the noise.
“Jaskier.”
Geralt’s hand settles heavily on his shoulder from behind. Jaskier freezes, stopping himself from flinching. “Um?”
“What are you hiding from us?”
Jaskier sighs without turning. “Is it that obvious?” he asks, his voice pitched too high.
“Well, yeah,” Ciri pipes up. “You’re not a very good liar.”
Jaskier doesn’t have the energy to try to act offended and banter with her like he usually would. Instead, he pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs again. He gently slips out from Geralt’s grip and drops back onto his spot by the fire, next to a still sitting Yennefer. Her face is too kind, too understanding, and he doesn’t really know what to do with that.
“Alright,” he says tonelessly.
“Alright,” Geralt repeats. “What’s going on?”
Jaskier takes a breath. They won’t accept another lie, and they’re nothing if not relentless. Resisting is pointless, even if he was trying to protect them.
“Have you ever wondered why I don’t seem to age?” he asks, his gaze following Geralt as he sits back down.
Geralt frowns. “Good skincare routine?” Yennefer offers. “I wondered, but we haven’t known each other that long.”
“I met Geralt more than twenty years ago,” Jaskier points out.
“I don’t really keep track of how fast humans age,” Geralt admits.
Ciri makes an impatient gesture at them. “What are you getting at?”
“Filavandrel’s gift wasn’t just an amazing musical instrument,” Jaskier breathes. “It was more than that. Eternal youth, music imbued with true life, osmosis. An enchantment nearly forgotten.”
“A tether,” Yennefer whispers. “The lute is your tether.”
Jaskier averts his eyes and nods.
“Jaskier…” she starts. “You were going to let us—”
Jaskier stops her with a raised hand. “It doesn’t change anything,” he says.
“What does it mean?” Ciri asks before Yennefer can protest.
Geralt looks just as confused, but Jaskier can see the realization slowly dawn on him, before the explanation comes.
“The lute is essentially my soul,” Jaskier says tonelessly.
“If it’s destroyed, you’ll die,” Geralt hisses.
“Yes.”
“We can’t let him destroy it!” Ciri exclaims immediately. “We have to get it back!”
“No,” Jaskier says. “Your safety is more important.”
“We’re not just going to let you die!”
There’s a beat. Jaskier can almost hear Geralt and Yennefer processing the new information, weighing the risks, seeing the outcomes. They’re parents, now. In a second, they’ll come to the same conclusion as Jaskier, the same knowledge that they have to do everything for Ciri, even if it means making sacrifices.
Jaskier’s life is an acceptable sacrifice. It’s always been.
He yearns for their reassurances and in the same breath wishes that he could have just gone without a bang, quietly disappearing from their life and leaving them unburdened.
“No,” Geralt finally says. “We’re not.”
“Of course not,” Yennefer adds, fire dancing in her eyes.
Jaskier looks between them uncomprehendingly. “We can’t put Ciri at risk,” he mutters.
“We won’t, but we’re not going to let you die, you fool,” Yennefer glowers at him. “We’ll give the fire-fucker what he deserves and get your lute back.”
“But—”
“We’ll have to trick him,” Geralt says, ignoring his protests. “Keep the fighting to a minimum, so he doesn’t have a chance to burn the lute or the village. We need to get the jump on him right away.”
“I could disguise myself as Ciri,” Yennefer thinks out loud. “Get close to him before he realizes, grab the lute, then we take him down together.”
They keep hammering at a plan, while Ciri’s gaze never wavers from Jaskier. As it sinks in, Jaskier sags. It’s too dangerous , he wants to shout, but he doesn’t, because the words won’t form in his throat. The relief is an ache in itself. He’s been carrying this secret on his own for so long that letting it out is wrenching and yet he can feel nothing but overwhelming love for them.
Geralt and Yennefer, jumping into danger to save his soul – it’s somehow nothing surprising and more than he ever hoped for all at once. His lute is still in Rience’s hands, still a wrong move away from being burned to ashes, and yet the crushing weight seems to have lifted from his chest.
When Jaskier looks up, Ciri has made her way to his side quietly. She sits beside him, legs crossed and gathered between her arms, bumping into his shoulder as she rocks softly from side to side.
“You know you’re just as important to me as they are, right?” she asks in a low voice, nodding her chin toward Geralt and Yennefer.
Jaskier opens his mouth, and closes it again. He can’t lie to her, not now. After a moment of hesitation, during which Ciri’s gaze tells him she knows exactly what he’s thinking, he settles for draping his arm over her shoulders. “I love you, cub,” he murmurs.
“You’re not allowed to die for me,” Ciri says sternly.
Jaskier laughs weakly. “I’ll do my best.”
She nods and lays her head on his shoulder. Geralt catches Jaskier’s eyes over her head and nods approvingly. Jaskier manages a small smile back.
Later, when they’re all settled for the night in their rolls, Geralt and Yennefer on either side of Jaskier – Geralt is usually in the middle, but not tonight, not when they both seem to need to make sure Jaskier stays put and out of danger – Yennefer pokes at Jaskier’s shoulder.
“Did you really think we’d trade your life away without a thought?”
“For Ciri?” Jaskier asks the sky, from where he’s lying on his back. He lets a beat pass, making his point. “I wasn’t going to make you choose. It was an easy call, really.”
“Oh, Jask,” Yennefer sighs.
“You love her,” Geralt murmurs.
“I love all of you. I’d give my life for every one of you. And Ciri’s too precious to put at risk.”
Yennefer rolls over to curl up against his side. “You’re part of our family,” she says. “We’d never give you up without a fight.”
“You’re ours,” Geralt adds from his other side. “Don’t ever hide something like that from us again.”
Jaskier chokes out a laugh. “Don’t worry, I’ve only got the one soul,” he whispers, blinking back tears.
“We’re going to get it back tomorrow, and we’ll make you sing all night for our troubles, bard,” Yennefer says.
Jaskier smiles at the stars. “That’s not a chore at all. I already have a song in mind.”