Archive of Our Own

To be fond of dancing was a certain step towards falling in love. There was nothing quite like a dance, the back and forth between partners, the glances, the touch. It was thrilling on its own, being able to look without admonishment, to talk without a chaperone, to flirt, if one was willing. A dance was what Jaskier would describe as the highest form of social enjoyment and activity. It was why he had made it his profession.

Having been disowned at the tender age of sixteen, Jaskier had nothing. Not a name, not a fortune, nothing that would allow him to participate at life in high society. But he had a passion, a passion for music, for movement, and he had always enjoyed his dancing lessons. So he applied for apprenticeship with the best dancing master Oxenfurt had to offer. He got accepted.

It was a bright sunny day when Jaskier exited the mail coach at the gates of Kaer Morhen Manor. It made quite the impression, with its grey stone walls, a huge garden that certainly needed not only one but two gardeners’ attention. It was bordered by trees, and had the gentleman of the post not known the area, Jaskier was sure he wouldn’t have made it on time if at all. Lord Geralt of Rivia and his ward seemed to live secluded.

Jaskier took the narrow path towards the main building, the gravel crunching beneath his feet. The air smelled of freshly cut grass. It was a fine day.

Something barrelled into his side with a squeaal, and Jaskier could barely brace himself for the fall, already tumbling towards the ground. He had half a thought to curl his arms protectively around whoever had run into him before his back and elbows connected with the gravel. Jaskier hissed.

“Oops,” a high voice said above him. “Sorry.”

Jaskier groaned and sat up. Scrambling up and off him was a small girl, maybe twelve years old. She was lean and wiry, holding a hand out to him. Jaskier took it, not sure whether to be amused. She hurled him up with surprising strength.

“It’s alright, young lady. I am fine. Are you unharmed?”

“I’ve had worse,” the girl said, shrugging. Jaskier chuckled.

“And where exactly did you come from?”

The girl grinned and turned towards the forest. “It’s a game. My father tries to catch me, and if he does, I have to fight him.”

“Oh really?” Jaskier raised his eyebrows. “Has he ever caught you?”

“Every time.” She didn’t seem annoyed or bothered by her father’s success.

“Cirilla.”

Oh, what a voice. Jaskier turned towards the speaker who just emerged from the treeline. The man looked like he’d been built from Jaskier’s most private dreams. He wasn’t much taller than Jaskier, but his shoulders were broad, and his waist narrow. He wore a frock coat that fit just so, his long white hair pulled back into a braid. His brown eyes were so light they seemed almost golden, and they were fixed on his ward with an admonishing glance.

The girl dropped into what Jaskier thought had to be the worst curtsy he’d ever seen. He was delighted.

“Apologies, sir, for running into you.”

“I already told you not to worry, my dear. No dancing masters were harmed.”

“You’re Julian Pankratz?” The man sounded surprised. Jaskier grinned.

“The very same. Though I prefer Jaskier.”

“Jaskier … ?”

His smile turned sharp. “Just Jaskier, sir.”

“Hm. Geralt of Rivia.”

Jaskier moved into a bow gracefully. “My lord.”

“Shall we go inside, then?”

Rivia led him to a sitting room and left to advise the maid to serve tea. Jaskier hummed a tune and inspected the room. It was tasteful, if minimal. Jaskier’s mother, the honourable Lady Euphelia Pankratz, would have complained about the lack of luxury displayed. Jaskier loved it. The couch he sat on was comfortable, there were tasteful paintings on the wall, and on one side, just across from Jaskier, stood a piano forte.

It was a beautiful instrument, well maintained, gleaming at him, beckoning. Jaskier was still saving money to buy his own, he hadn’t played since he left Madame de Stael’s dancing studio.

“It’s an heirloom,” Rivia said behind him. Jaskier jumped. How the hell did the man move so quietly? When he turned around, he saw Rivia smirking. “Tea will be brought up in a minute.”

“Tea,” Jaskier said, still grasping for his heart. “Excellent.”

“Let us discuss payment.”

Jaskier chuckled. “Straight to the point, alright. As we have already discussed in the letters, I will be teaching your ward twice a week, on Mondays and Thursdays, from ten to twelve. One lesson is twelve shilling. I know this sounds like a lot, but I may remind you that Cirilla will receive the best dancing education available this side of the Yaruga.”

“You’re very confident in your abilities,” Lord Rivia said. “Very well. You will find Cirilla to be of strong will, and I wish that there will be no attempt to train that out of her.”

Jaskier studied Rivia’s face. The man’s eyes were hard and his jaw set. This was a man who would not only raise a ward, but protect her as if she was his blood. It was a becoming feature.

“I had no intention of doing so,” Jaskier said truthfully. Rivia nodded.

“Then we shall have no problem.”

Jaskier smiled. Rivia was intriguing, his daughter a whirlwind. He had no doubt that his time here would be interesting.

“The first thing I’d like you to do before every lesson,” Jaskier said, “is warm up. We don’t want you to sprain an ankle, or trip and hurt yourself.” They stood in Kaer Morhen Manor’s ballroom. It was a Monday morning, and Jaskier was motivated. He loved being able to show others the hidden secrets of dancing. Cirilla seemed less enthused, though. Jaskier hoped he could somehow interest her.

Lord Rivia stood to the side, watching his ward and the new dancing master with eyes like a hawk. Jaskier flashed him a smile. He wasn’t about to disappoint his new employer.

“Now that we’ve warmed up, I’ll teach you the basics of the cotillion. It’s one of the most common dances, usually danced with just one partner. You’ll have plenty of time to get to know them.”

“Why do I need to dance to get to know them?” Cirilla asked. “That doesn’t make any sense. Can’t I just talk to them?”

Jaskier laughed. “Normally, I’d agree with you. And maybe you’re still a little young to think about boys or other girls, but there’s many young men and women like you who don’t have the luxury of having Lord Rivia as their father. For them, any contact with children their age is strictly observed, or even prohibited.” He thought back to his own childhood. High collars, tightly buttoned up to the top, strict tutors and cold parents. A cane to his butt or his fingers if he misbehaved. Oh, and how often his parents saw his actions as misbehaving.

“Dancing,” Jaskier continued, “is the only way for them to talk without a chaperone.”

“Father always lets me play with the servants’ children,” Cirilla said. She looked up at Jaskier. “Do I really have to learn how to dance?”

Lord Rivia leaned forward, and Jaskier knew he had to be careful with his answer.

“Your father teaches you self defence, doesn’t he? And he practices swordplay with you?”

Cirilla nodded to both. “Father fights monsters.” Jaskier smiled.

“Now imagine you’re fighting someone, and they have a different fighting style than you do. You’d want to be prepared for that, right? So you know what to expect, how to react to their strikes, and how to win the fight, correct?”

The girl nodded again.

“Every fighting style is like its own dance. And sometimes, you’re dancing with your enemy, and you need to know how they dance.”

“So dancing is like fighting?” Cirilla’s eyes lit up. Jaskier chuckled.

“It can be. If you’re good enough at the steps I’ll even teach you the secret language of dances. How to insult someone during a dance, how to compliment someone. How to make sure you don’t have to dance twice with a person you don’t want to dance with.”

“Why would I have to dance with someone I don’t want to dance with?” The girl’s nose was scrunched up adorably. Jaskier was amazed at how little this girl seemed to know about Redania’s high society. Then again, maybe this was why Lord Rivia had hired him.

“There’s rules for the ballroom. Declining a dance is frowned upon. Dancing twice with someone is almost scandalous. But,” Jaskier’s smile turned cheeky, “I’ll show you how to get out of dancing with someone in a way that’s still accepted by all those stuffy people who stand by, judging you.”

Cirilla shrugged. “Alright.”

Jaskier raised a brow. “Alright?”

“It sounds alright.”

Jaskier laughed. “Oh darling Cirilla, I think we’re going to have a lot of fun!”

“Just Ciri,” Cirilla said. Jaskier nodded. “Just Ciri, then. Let’s start with asking or being asked for a dance.”

They went through the social etiquette — how to ask, how to respond, how to curtsy. How couples were lined up before the dance based on their social hierarchy. And then began the steps.

Throughout the lesson, Jaskier felt Lord Rivia’s eyes on him. He didn’t say a word, just observed. His gaze was intense, but then again, his presence alone seemed to fill the room, even as big as it was. After two hours, Jaskier was barely breaking a sweat, but Ciri was panting.

“I didn’t expect it to be so tiring,” she said, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. Jaskier handed her a handkerchief.

“Oh, they never tell you that,” he said with a smirk. “But don’t worry, it’ll get easier the more you practice. In a couple of weeks one cotillion won’t make you sweat, I promise.”

Mondays and Thursdays quickly became Jaskier’s favourite days of the week. Ciri was a gem to work with, a girl that was capable of following his instructions while keeping him on his toes by asking questions and voicing dislikes. On their fourth lesson, she crossed her arms in front of her chest and said, “I won’t continue learning these steps if you don’t show me what they are for in the final dance.”

Jaskier blinked at her. “I will need a partner for that.” Ciri looked at Lord Rivia, who raised a white eyebrow.

“Absolutely not,” he grunted.

“Oh come on, father, it’ll be fun!”

But none of Ciri’s encouraging words got her father into participating, so in the end Jaskier placated her with promising to show her the steps in both the role of the leading person and the following.

Ciri had gone off to her language tutor with a wave and a curtsy of higher quality than a week ago (she took great care to always stick her tongue out whenever Jaskier asked her to perform a curtsy. The dancing master had just laughed and promised her to show her a courtly bow if she promised to only do it when wearing trousers. Ciri had promised with a very serious expression. The girl was a menace) when Lord Rivia stopped him from leaving the building.

“Master Pankratz,” he said quietly, throwing a glance over his shoulder. “On a word, please?”

Jaskier swallowed, but nodded. “Of course, my lord.” He wasn’t aware of having made a mistake. He’d taken great care to make sure that Ciri knew he didn’t want to force her into a role that society dictated. He hadn’t insulted any of Rivia’s family, or breached the rules of decorum. What could he have done to warrant Lord Rivia’s displeasure?

The man led him through the hallways into a small study. Jaskier followed him with a queasy feeling. Rivia closed the door, then turned around to look at Jaskier with those peculiar golden eyes.

“I — ” he stopped, closing his eyes. His shoulders were drawn up, his whole being tense in a way that Jaskier associated with uncomfortable aches. He performed stretches every morning and evening to avoid his muscles locking up like that.

“Fuck,” Rivia groaned. His hands flexed around the edges of the desk he was leaning against. Jaskier took a step forward.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.”

He didn’t look fine.

“Is there something I can do to help?” It seemed as if Lord Rivia wasn’t angry at Jaskier, more at himself. Though Jaskier couldn’t say what had caused the man such unrest.

“Do you — “ Rivia bit his lip and tried again. “Do you happen to teach adults as well?”

Jaskier blinked. The man had uttered his question quietly, eyes locked on the shiny tips of his boots. Slowly, it entered his mind what Rivia had said.

“Are you telling me that you don’t know how to dance?”

Rivia glared at him.

“It’s not an admonishment,” Jaskier hurried to correct. “I just was surprised. I assumed, since you’re … ” He gestured to the tastefully furnished manor. The man had a title and made ten thousand crowns a year, for Melitele’s sake! Lord Rivia sighed.

“I’m a witcher,” he said quietly, as if it was a shame to admit. Jaskier frowned.

“A what?”

“A witcher,” Rivia repeated. “I … fight monsters.”

“Ooh,” Jaskier said. “So Ciri wasn’t exaggerating when she said that.”

Now was Rivia’s turn to frown. “Why would she exaggerate?” Jaskier threw his arms into the air.

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe because monsters don’t exist?”

Rivia’s frown deepened. Jaskier swallowed. “My lord,” he added, as if that would save him from the fact that he’d just yelled at someone who was his better. Rivia’s face turned murderous.

“Don’t do that,” he said.

“I apologise, my lord. It won’t happen again,” Jaskier promised quickly.

“You just did it again.”

“I did what?”

Lord Rivia sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “The honorific. I don’t like it. Just call me Geralt.”

Jaskier blinked, surprised.

“You’re nobility,” he said. “I am … not.”

“Do I look like I care?” Lord Rivia replied. Jaskier ducked his head. “No, my lord. You don’t.”

“No,” Rivia said, sounding exasperated. “I was not born noble,” he said after a while. “Witchers are made for one purpose only. I find monsters, I fight them. The government grants me a noble title and enough money to pass as one of the gentry so nobody suspects that I am not human. If it wasn’t for me and my brothers, cities would be overrun with monsters. As it is, we can hold them at bay enough that you folk don’t get to see any. Which is why humanity has forgotten about them. And us.”

“So, you’re telling me — and correct me if I’m wrong because what I’m about to say sounds like Mary Shelley had written it — that monsters are real? And you are some sort of enhanced human who fights them?”

“A mutant,” Rivia said, “yes.”

“Alright,” Jaskier said, sinking down on one of the chairs in front of the desk. “Just, uh, give me a second to process this.”

Rivia gave a curt nod. “Of course.”

After a moment, Jaskier said, “So you’ve never had the opportunity to learn how to dance?”

“I am nearly a century old, Master Pankratz, I have had plenty of opportunity. I just never saw a benefit in knowing how to dance.”

“Hold on a second,” Jaskier blurted, “there’s no way you’re a century old. You look like you’re less than ten years older than me.”

“Told you,” Rivia said. “Not human.”

“So you were around for the First Nilfgaardian War?”

“I was.”

“And Rivia’s War of Independence against Lyria?”

“Yes.”

“And when Ethain of Cidaris had a song written about his massive di— ”

“Yes,” Rivia stressed, glaring. Jaskier laughed. “Wow. I did not expect that when I walked into this study.”

“What did you expect?”

Jaskier shrugged. “I thought I’d somehow offended you, or had done wrong to your daughter, though I could not imagine how.”

“You haven’t,” Lord Rivia ensured him. “In fact, I have come to ask you something. A favour, if you want to call it that.”

“Oh?” Jaskier leaned forward in his chair.

“Would you be,” Rivia cleared his throat and started anew. “Would you be interested in teaching me dancing as well?”

Jaskier opened his mouth and closed it again. An image popped unbidden into his head, of him and Lord Rivia moving together through a quick waltz. He could almost feel the hard line of the man’s body against him. He blinked. Bad time. Very bad time.

“Uhm … yes?” He didn’t miss the way Rivia’s shoulders slumped in relief.

“May I ask why the sudden change of heart, my lord?”

Rivia shrugged. “Ciri asked me to join her.”

Monster hunter or not, Jaskier couldn’t help but find him endearing.

“She’s very lucky to call you her father, if I may be brazen enough to say so, my lord.”

Lord Rivia looked up. “So you’ll teach me?”

Jaskier didn’t try to fight the smile that widened on his face.

“Yes,” he said. “I’ll teach you how to dance.”

Jaskier had taken up humble lodging in an inn near Kaer Morhen. It was a nice little village, of the kind where word of mouth travels quickly, and where rumours thrive. It was where he met the Countess Yennefer of Vengerberg for the first time.

Lady Yennefer was known for dismissing decorum wherever she went. It started with the way she dressed. Jaskier had never met her in person, but he’d heard from different sources that the Countess’ dresses showed more skin than the current Redanian fashion called for. She was also said to be a woman of sharp wit and cutting remarks. Many a man had been slighted by her easy dismissal. It seemed like the Lady Yennefer had high standards. She was in her late twenties, and still unmarried.

She sounded like exactly the kind of person that Jaskier preferred for company.

“So you’re Geralt’s new obsession,” she drawled. Jaskier startled and turned around, a hand on his heart. What was it about beautiful people scaring the shit out of him?

“My lady,” he said with a tilt of his head. “I know of no obsession.”

“So you don’t,” Lady Yennefer said with a sharp smile. “But I do.”

She invited herself to sit at his table at the inn, and Jaskier made no move to tell her to leave. She was his better, and thus could do as she pleased.

“I have heard many things about you, Viscount Julian Alfred ‘Call me Jaskier’ Pankratz.”

“No longer a viscount,” Jaskier replied, his smile mirroring Lady Yennefer’s. “I haven’t been for a long time.”

Eleven years, to be precise, but Jaskier didn’t point that out. He got the feeling that the Countess knew that perfectly well.

“So,” he said, “to what do I owe the pleasure of your company, my lady?”

He couldn’t help the tiny slip-up, sure that the Countess had heard the sarcastic tone in his voice. Having a silver tongue sometimes came with risks.

“Geralt and I have known each other for a long time,” Lady Yennefer said. “And I want you to know that I deem you neither worthy of him, nor good for his health. Yet, he is his own man and I shan’t tell him what to do. Just let me say this, Jaskier: If you hurt him, I will ruin you.”

Jaskier blinked, momentarily stunned. He had not expected that. “Rest assured, my lady,” he said, “that your concern for Lord Rivia is speaking for you as his friend, yet totally unnecessary. Whatever obsession you think he has for me does not exist. Lord Rivia has neither pronounced nor indicated any interest in me. I have been hired to teach his ward to dance, and that is all I’m doing.”

Lady Yennefer raised a delicate eyebrow. “That remains to be seen,” she drawled and stood.

“Master Pankratz.”

“Lady Yennefer.”

She disappeared just like she had appeared, silently and suddenly, leaving Jaskier with a storm of thoughts, all of which confused him to no end. What the hell had just happened?

The first dance lesson took place in the evening. Lord Rivia was a quick learner, the control he had over his body impressive. When Jaskier had asked him about his preference for the leading person’s steps or the following person’s, the man had shrugged.

“Just teach me the steps you like less.”

So Jaskier started showing him the leader’s steps (he was doing everyone Rivia was going to dance with a favour. Who would not want to be held and guided by those fucking arms? Not that Jaskier was looking). It was in the same first session that they were capable of going through one third of the dance without errors.

“I’ve never had such a good student before,” Jaskier said, beaming. “If you continue being quick like this, we’ll be able to start the waltz in less than a month.”

Rivia didn’t blush which Jaskier thought was a loss to the world. The man would look pretty with a bit more colour in his face. Not that he wasn’t looking pretty like this, tall and pale and broody.

Rivia’s hum brought him back into the present. “One more time?” Jaskier asked weakly and got a silent nod in reply. Someone ought to make this man talk, he thought. Such a good voice, and nobody could appreciate it because of his taciturn nature.

Lord Rivia led him smoothly through the steps, and Jaskier let himself be guided, his own feet quick and steady. Soon they ended up in their end position, stopping just shy of touching each other. During a ball, this would be scandalous. Jaskier felt a blush rise to his cheeks.

“That’s good,” he muttered. “Very good.”

Lord Rivia let out an amused hum. Jaskier nodded. Neither stepped back.

“You’ll have to expect to be involved in Ciri’s lessons, now that you know the steps,” Jaskier said. Lord Rivia’s eyes twinkled. “Have I now?”

“O-or not, if you don’t want to, my lord.”

How did this man manage to turn him into a stammering mess? Jaskier excused himself and hurried back to the inn. There, he let himself fall into his bed, groaning.

The first rule Madame de Stael had beaten into him when he’d started his apprenticeship was ‘Don’t start a thing with your clients.’ It was a rule that was easy to follow. It was a good rule because it kept the dancing masters from stumbling headfirst into an emotional disaster. It was a rule that Jaskier — no matter how attractive the parents of his students, or in some cases the students themselves when they were his age, had been — had always lived by. And there Lord Rivia was, that prick, and managed to make him want to forget that rule. Jaskier screamed into the pillow. This was going to end horribly, he knew it.

Lady Yennefer was hosting a ball. That on its own was not a surprise. Jaskier had been in the neighbourhood for long enough to know that the Countess loved hosting balls. It was a way for her to show everyone her wealth and power, which she did with absolute pleasure. No, Lady Yennefer hosting a ball was not a surprise. The invitation that waited for Jaskier one morning when he came down from his room for breakfast however was.

He’d managed to hide his embarrassing crush effectively, keeping all interactions between himself and Lord Rivia strictly to business. He still joked with Ciri and taught her and her father the basics of the ballroom dance, but he tried to reign himself in. The goal was to do his job and get paid. Jaskier thought he was doing a remarkable job.

Lady Yennefer’s invitation had to be some kind of jest, or a jab, Jaskier wasn’t sure. He’d never been to one of her balls before, and inviting him was a risky move — he was after all far below her in social ranking. He didn’t even have a title! It was nothing that had ever stopped Jaskier from attending a party, though, so he prepared his best clothes, ready to flirt, drink, eat, and have fun.

Lady Yennefer never did anything by halves. Jaskier had to catch a ride with someone else, not having a coach of his own, and the lovely elderly couple was happy to share their coach with him. It was luck, too, since the sky promised rain for the evening, if not a heavy storm if they were out of luck. He listened politely as the lady explained that they were only attending because they were hoping to talk the Countess into meeting their son who was currently on urgent business in Tretogor. Jaskier nodded and smiled, and was very glad the moment they arrived at Lady Yennefer’s and he could escape the tight space.

He knew nobody in the area other than the Countess herself, and of course Lord Rivia and Ciri. She was too young to be introduced to society, though, so Jaskier’s only hope of being introduced himself were the unpredictable hostess, and his employer, though Jaskier did not hope to see him at such a social gathering. He’d found Lord Rivia to be a private man who avoided social events if possible.

Jaskier greeted Lady Yennefer with a bow and a kiss to her glove which she raised an eyebrow at.

“It’s nice to see you as well, Master Pankratz. I wasn’t sure if you’d come.”

“For you, my dear lady, I’d come wherever you wish,” Jaskier shot back, remembering too late that he was trying to be tolerable tonight. But instead of being offended, Lady Yennefer threw her head back and laughed, a real, open laughter.

“You’ve a quick mind, young Pankratz. Come, let me introduce you to the important people around here.”

He suffered polite introductions, somehow avoiding the topic of his heritage which had to be mostly luck. Jaskier even enjoyed himself, sipping on a goblet of punch while listening to a lord’s tale of how one of his horses had won a race a week back. He made it through the first dance without calling too much attention to himself, flirting subtly with a young lady who’d accepted his offer for the dance. He should have known that his luck wouldn’t last.

“You say the former Viscount de Lettenhove is here?”

Jaskier froze. Approaching him directly from the central doors, was Lord Valdo Marx.

The man was a prick, an absolute bastard. He’d stolen Jaskier’s work when they’d still had the same tutor back in Lettenhove, and later, in Oxenfurt, things had become even worse because unlike Jaskier, Marx hadn’t lost his title. And even though Marx had been below Jaskier in rank before, now that Jaskier was disinherited and his name struck from the Pankratz family books, he was fair game. Jaskier clenched his jaw.

“Lord Marx,” he spat through gritted teeth. “It’s been too long.”

“Julian! Had I known you would attend, I would have brought more mutual friends!”

Jaskier closed his eyes and prayed for mercy. Outside, the first rolls of thunder exploded in the night sky. A storm it was going to be, then. Fine by him. Marx threw an arm around his shoulders. Jaskier breathed.

“Tell me, are you still busy doing that childish teaching thing?” Marx asked, shaking Jaskier in what was supposed to look like a friend’s encouragement.

“That childish teaching thing is my profession, as you well know,” Jaskier replied coolly.

“Oh right,” Marx laughed, “I forgot that you need to work.”

Jaskier hated him. The gentlemen and ladies around them started to throw glances, giving them a berth with tasteful little steps. Jaskier wanted the ground to swallow him up.

“I am glad that his lordship is amused by my occupation.”

“Don’t be like that!” Marx said, “We’re all friends here, isn’t that so?”

From afar Jaskier could see Lady Yennefer with what looked like a sympathetic expression. Next to her, a maid was whispering something.

“Well, I’m surprised that the Countess invited the likes of him,” a lady said to her husband. The man nodded furiously. Other guests joined in. Marx beamed.

“If you’ll excuse me, my lord,” Jaskier said, the words tasting like bile. The world was spinning. He was going to be sick. “I’m afraid I feel unwell. I must have eaten something bad for breakfast.”

“It is too unfortunate,” Marx called after him, “if you can’t afford high quality food.”

Jaskier rushed towards the exit, past the old couple that despite their blandness had been so forthcoming. Now they regarded him with disdain.

“Jaskier,” Lady Yennefer called after him. Jaskier ignored her. He had to get out, he had to breathe, he had to be away. From all of them. If he had to see any kind of noble ever again, it’d be too soon.

“Jaskier, wait!”

Jaskier lengthened his stride. He didn’t even stop to grab his coat, hurrying out of the Countess’ manor and into the night. It was raining. Inside, he heard the musicians play their next song. Jaskier fled.

The rain was beating down on him, and even though autumn had not yet set in, Jaskier was quickly cold, his whole body shivering violently. Yet, he hadn’t gone far enough. It was dark, dark and cold, and the rain was heavy. A flash of lightning illuminated his surroundings for the blink of an eye. It was enough for Jaskier to see the black silhouette of a rider at the horizon.

Away from people. Away from everyone. Jaskier thought he’d done a good job at forcing the memories of his childhood away, but apparently, he hadn’t. They slammed back into him, with a force far greater than anything he’d ever experienced. Jaskier stumbled on, the shivers strong enough to force him to his knees more than once.

He is seven, busy with tuning his first lute. The new boy, Valdo Marx, short and mean, snaps at least three strings.

He is nine, practising swordplay with his fencing master and the other noble children. When no adults are looking, he’s shoved into a lake after beating Valdo at fencing.

He is ten, and Valdo burns his homework in the fireplace.

He is twelve. Valdo sees him kissing the stable boy and Jaskier is caned and locked into his room for gross indecency.

He is fourteen, and Valdo and his friends steal Jaskier’s horse, claiming later that Jaskier gifted Pegasus to them.

He is fifteen, and Valdo claims to have seen Jaskier knock up the daughter of the Pankratz’ business partner.

He is sixteen and disowned, Valdo and the others beating him up after a miserable night at the bar. Jaskier wakes up in a ditch somewhere, bloody and aching, and utterly alone.

He was twenty-seven, and still a complete and utter failure.

Jaskier lost track of time. At some point he started crying, fat angry tears running down his cheeks, mingling with the rain that ran in rivulets down his face. He was soaked through, wet to his bones, and so very cold. Yet he couldn’t move. At some point, his legs had given beneath him. He was somewhere in a place he didn’t know, and he was alone.

“Jaskier!”

He hadn’t heard anyone approaching, and thus startled violently when a hand touched his shoulder. Jaskier whimpered and the hand disappeared.

“What the fuck happened to you?”

“Leave me alone,” Jaskier said.

“Absolutely not,” the voice replied. “Jaskier?”

“Fuck off, Valdo. Haven’t you done enough?”

“It’s me, Geralt.”

Jaskier stilled, then blinked. Water had fallen into his eyes and everything was blurry for a while, before he managed to focus on the person kneeling in the mud in front of him.

Lord Rivia had shrugged out of his coat and was gently pulling it over Jaskier’s shoulders. His hair was sticking to his face, drops of water caught in his eyelashes. In one hand, he was holding a lantern, the other was reaching out to Jaskier, just shy of touching him. His eyes displayed a worrying amount of concern.

“May I touch you?” Lord Rivia asked. After a moment, Jaskier nodded.

Rivia’s hand was like a furnace on Jaskier’s frozen skin. Subconsciously, Jaskier curled into Rivia’s body heat. The man helped him up, letting him lean heavily against him. He was wearing hard leather. Jaskier blinked.

“You’ve two swords,” he said.

“I do,” Rivia said.

“That’s funny.”

“Hm. How so?”

Jaskier giggled. It was either that, or another breakdown. Or would it be the continuation of one? He didn’t know.

“You’re warm,” he sighed, another giggle escaping him when suddenly his knees folded. Rivia cursed and dropped the lantern to catch him before he hit the ground again. Everything was dark once more. From somewhere above Jaskier came a whistling sound. Then his feet left the ground.

“It’s alright,” Lord Rivia’s voice suddenly came from much closer. “I’ve got you.”

“Hm,” Jaskier hummed. “Has someone told you you’re pretty?” He rested his head against the man’s chest plate.

“No,” Lord Rivia said.

“Pity,” Jaskier decided. “I’d tell you every day if you let me.” He was tired and cold.

“Jaskier?” There was an edge in Rivia’s voice. “Jaskier, stay awake. At least until I’ve had a chance to see if you’re wounded.”

“’M fine,” Jaskier said. “They never leave permanent damage.”

Lord Rivia muttered something that sounded like, that’s certainly not fucking concerning. Jaskier closed his eyes. He was aware enough to realise he’d been lifted into a saddle, and the gentle up and down of a horse’s back that lulled him into darkness.

He floated.

“Kasia, please get the medicine kit. As soon as the storm leads up, send for the doctor.”

“My lord?”

“Yes?”

“Will Master Jaskier be alright?”

“I hope so.”

Jaskier slept.

Fuck. He felt like his head was going to pop like an overly ripe apple when it fell from the tree. Headaches like these should be forbidden. Jaskier’s thoughts were sluggish, as if they were stuck in a jar of honey. It had even managed to stick his eyelids together. He felt ill.

A cough rattled him, forcing all air out of him as he tried to breathe. A broad palm came to steady his back.

“Easy,” rumbled a deep voice. Jaskier gulped in air like a maniac. A thumb started making tiny circles on his back.

“Fuck,” Jaskier gasped. Everything hurt.

“I’ve sent for the doctor,” Lord Rivia said next to him. “For now, try to breathe.”

Jaskier wanted to roll his eyes, but it hurt too much. He waited for the world to stop spinning, and then allowed Rivia to lay him back down on the bed. The witcher (Jaskier faintly remembered leather armour and two swords) carefully covered him with the blanket that had pooled in Jaskier’s lap at his sudden waking.

“Fuck,” he repeated. Lord Rivia hummed in agreement.

“I am so sorry,” Jaskier said.

“What for?”

Jaskier frowned. “I really didn’t mean to inconvenience you.”

“Jaskier,” Lord Rivia said, “you’re not inconveniencing me.”

“But … ”

“You’re sick,” Rivia interrupted him, “and you have no one to take care of you.”

“I don’t want to be a burden,” Jaskier rasped. Talking hurt.

Rivia shook his head. “You’re not burdening me. I want to help you.”

“Are you sure? Because I can leave if not. It’s not that far a walk from here to my lodging.”

“You must be out of your mind if you think I’d let you walk anywhere other than the privy in a state like this.”

Jaskier sighed. He wasn’t up for a fight right now. His only hope was to get well enough to travel, so he could take himself off Lord Rivia’s hands. The man didn’t deserve having to care for him.

“Are you hungry?”

Jaskier shook his head. The witcher sighed.

“Try to sleep some more,” he said. “I’ll wake you when the doctor arrives.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

Something akin to sadness rushed over Rivia’s handsome features. It was gone in just the blink of an eye, but Jaskier was fairly sure he hadn’t imagined it.

“Will you really not just call me Geralt?”

Jaskier looked away. “I have lost that privilege when I lost my name,” he said.

“Is that all there is to you?” Lord Rivia asked. “A rigid social hierarchy, and a reputation to be sullied by actions that come from the heart?”

“It’s all I’ve ever known,” Jaskier replied softly.

Rivia sighed, and Jaskier felt like he’d disappointed him. It pained him, maybe even more than the headache. He didn’t want to be the cause of this man’s grievances.

“Sleep well, Jaskier.”

Jaskier barely kept himself from automatically replying with, you too.

The doctor ordered him a week of bed rest. Jaskier tried to protest, but Lord Rivia was just as stubborn as he was handsome, and Jaskier didn’t want to make his illness worse. He was visited by Ciri at least once a day. She regaled him with adventures she’d had, times she’d hidden from her tutor, and the one time she’d thrown Jarre to the ground over her shoulder when he’d tried to pull her braids.

“He’s a real whoreson,” she said proudly.

“Language,” Jaskier admonished her gently, but Ciri laughed. “Uncle Lambert uses words that are way worse.”

“I must have a serious conversation with your uncle Lambert then,” Jaskier said with a stern expression. Ciri broke into giggles, bending in half with delight.

“Ciri,” Lord Rivia said from the threshold. “You have horse riding in ten minutes. Go get Kelpie, I’ll be with you in a moment.”

Ciri pouted.

“Oh don’t be sad, princess,” Jaskier said, offering her a hug. “I’m sure horse riding with your father is just as much fun as talking about pranks with me. Even more, if we’re being honest.”

“Please get better soon, Jask,” she said and Jaskier ached with affection for her.

“I’ll do my best, my dear.”

Ciri judged him for a moment, but deemed his promise worthy. She nodded once and then slipped past her father to go tack up her horse.

Lord Rivia stood awkwardly in front of Jaskier’s bed.

“Yen is here,” he said.

“Yen?”

“Yennefer,” he elaborated. “She wanted to see you earlier, but I told her you weren’t ready to receive visitors yet.”

Rivia looked guilty. Jaskier shook his head to hide his fondness.

“Thank you, my lord,” he said. “I assume you’re telling me now because you’ve deemed me fit enough to endure her company?”

“Yen is really not that bad,” Rivia said. “I think she cares about you, in her own way.”

“She told me she’d ruin me,” Jaskier pointed out. “She’s awfully protective of you.”

“Yennefer and I,” Rivia started, then shook his head. “It would never have worked out between us. We’re too much alike.”

Jaskier didn’t question that, though he wished to do so. Sometimes, even he knew when to shut up.

“I’ll send her up when I go downstairs,” Rivia said. Then he left.

Jaskier looked after him, playing with the seam of his blanket. It was only a short while before Lady Yennefer entered his sickroom. She was, for once, clothed in a simple black and white dress.

“My lady,” Jaskier said. “I’d bow, but I’m afraid Lord Rivia has forbidden me from leaving the bed.”

“Jaskier,” the Countess said. “I’m glad to see that you’re well enough to bicker.”

“For you, always.”

Lady Yennefer took a seat on one of the chairs that had found their way into the room over the last few days. She looked mildly uncomfortable. Jaskier took pity on her.

“I am pleasantly surprised by your visit,” he said.

“I came to apologise,” the Countess said. She looked like she’d never said those particular words ever before. Jaskier felt oddly touched. “Had I known that Lord Marx was a man from your past, with such an unbecoming personality as well, I would not have invited him. He has never behaved like that ever before.”

“You could not have known,” Jaskier said gently. “Marx is a master in crafting lies. Nobody in Lettenhove questions his version of the story. Believe me, I tried to convince them.”

“Still,” Lady Yennefer said, “you were my guest, and he slighted you while in my home. I am sorry for that.”

“I forgive you, my lady,” Jaskier said. “Though there is nothing to forgive.”

“Please,” she said, “call me Yennefer.” She stood and turned towards the door.

“May I ask what motivated your change of heart?” Jaskier asked. Yennefer contemplated him for a moment.

“I have always thought myself to be a good judge of character,” she finally said. “But I have been mistaken with yours. Ciri barely stops talking about you. Geralt is … softer, now that you’re around. Don’t think I wouldn’t still ruin you if you hurt him, though.”

“I have no intention of hurting him,” Jaskier said. Yennefer inclined her head.

“I hope you’ll get better, quickly.”

“Thank you, my dear.”

Yennefer left, her skirts swishing around her, simple nature or not. Jaskier let his head fall against the pillow and sighed. What was happening?

Lord Rivia came home late at night. Jaskier had, under Ciri and Kasia’s watchfulness, left the sickbed. He rolled his eyes at the overprotective way they seemed to hover at every of his steps.

“I just had a cold,” he reminded them, but Ciri said, “Father said you shouldn’t stress your body yet.”

“I am fine,” he said. It was dreadful to just spend all day in bed. He was a dancer. He needed to move. But, Lord Rivia had been right, curse him. Jaskier felt tired quickly. Maybe he was better, but he still wasn’t well enough to go through his usual routine. With a sigh, he walked to the library, carefully sitting in one of the armchairs, a book in hand.

He lost track of time, probably dozed off, too. When he woke, it was cold and dark outside. Jaskier stood, groaning at his aching muscles, and froze.

Heavy steps in the hallway. The dull sound of a door falling closed. A curse.

Jaskier’s curiosity won over the rabbiting fear in his heart, and he left the library, creeping closer to where he imagined to have heard the sounds. It was Lord Rivia’s study. Jaskier exhaled, closed his eyes, and raised his hand to knock.

“Come in,” Rivia said, even before Jaskier’s knuckles had touched the wood. He blinked in surprise and entered the room.

Rivia looked horrible. He was clad in leather armour, the two swords from the night of the ball were on his back. There was blood everywhere.

“Melitele’s tits, what happened to you?”

Rivia shrugged. “A griffin.”

“A — ” Jaskier swallowed, opened his mouth, closed it again, then managed to say, “a griffin?”

“I’ll be healed in a week.”

“You’ll be healed in a — wait a second, where exactly are you injured? There’s blood everywhere.”

Jaskier rushed to his side, hands fluttering nervously. There really was a lot of blood.

“You’re fussing,” Rivia said. “I’ll be fine.”

“I’m fussing? You’re the one who told me not to get out of bed because I had a cold. Now, you’re going to shut your pretty mouth and let me take a look at your wounds!”

Rivia smirked. “You think I’m pretty?”

“Shut up.”

The witcher allowed Jaskier to help him out of the armour (it looked like it belonged into the middle ages. Jaskier wondered why the man wouldn’t just use modern armour. But then again, what did he know of monster hunting?), and let him clean the scratch at the side of his torso. Jaskier almost threw up at the idea of having to stitch the wound closed, but in the end he just became very pale. He finished his ministrations with some extra disinfectant and a healing ointment, as well as some bandages. Wherever he faltered, the witcher’s gentle instructions helped him. Lord Rivia just leaned against the desk and let Jaskier fuss.

“There we go,” Jaskier said quietly, tying off the last of the bandage.

“Thank you,” Rivia said. His intense golden eyes were fixed on Jaskier’s face. Jaskier blinked, suddenly flustered by the proximity.

“Any time,” he stammered.

“Hm,” Rivia said. “You were worried.”

“Of course I was worried! You come home, in the middle of the night, blood all over you and then sneak past me without a word.”

“You think of Kaer Morhen as home?”

Jaskier stilled. It was what he’d said, wasn’t it? He’d never felt more comfortable than when he was teaching Ciri, or listening to her anecdotes. Or watching Lord Rivia go through the new steps, his face concentrated. And yes, the man was infuriating in the way that he seemed to steal Jaskier’s breath every time he saw him, the way he was gruff and socially inept, yet so full of love for his daughter, and caring towards Jaskier as well. There was only one answer Jaskier could give.

“I believe I do.”

Rivia stood and pulled on his shirt. It was stained red with blood. Then he turned towards Jaskier and performed a perfect bow.

“Master Pankratz,” he murmured, “would you honour me with a dance?”

“Geralt, you’re injured,” Jaskier protested.

“I’m a witcher,” Geralt said. “I’ll be fine.”

“It’s late. We’ll wake the entire house.”

“That’ll only be my daughter and the maid.”

Jaskier cursed. “You’re absolutely infuriating.”

A small smile appeared on Geralt’s face. “So I’ve been told.”

Jaskier took the offered hand and let himself be hauled close.

“If you ruin my stitches I’ll be very cross,” he muttered. Deep laughter rumbled through the witcher’s chest.

There was no music, but they hadn’t practised to music either because Jaskier couldn’t dance and play at the same time. He’d taken to humming the song whenever he could, but right now, he felt like he was barely hanging on. It had to be a dream. He had to be caught in a fever, he was hallucinating, there was no way Lord Geralt of bloody Rivia was cradling him close, moving him through the familiar steps of a waltz. Jaskier sighed, and lost himself in the dance. It was a simple choreography, but Geralt remembered it perfectly. They stopped exactly how they had ended up at the end of last lesson.

“Thank you,” Geralt said quietly.

“Whatever for?” Jaskier asked, confused.

The witcher took his hand and brushed his lips against Jaskier’s knuckles.

“For indulging me.”

“Oh, Geralt,” Jaskier breathed. Geralt seemed sheepish as he ducked his head.

“Would you allow me to ask another indulgence, perchance?”

“Anything.”

Geralt looked at him through white lashes, his eyes glowing in the candlelight. “Kiss me?”

“What a scandalous request, my lord,” Jaskier whispered. “We haven’t even courted, yet.”

Geralt’s eyes widened. “You’d want to court me?”

Jaskier wanted to punch every person who’d made this man believe he wasn’t worthy of the most thoughtful courtship he was able to come up with.

“Of course I would. You’re an enigma, every word you say has to be pulled from you like it’s torture for you to speak. You’re gruff and socially awkward, and you love your daughter with such fierceness, even if she is not your blood.” He swallowed. “You look at something that’s been cast aside as useless, as detrimental, really, and you deem it worthy of attention and love. I am drawn to you like a moth to the flame, like Icarus to the sun. And it scares me, Geralt. It scares me because even if I know that I’ll be burned, I don’t care if it means I get to be in your presence for as long as you’ll allow me.”

Geralt kissed him. It was not a particularly spectacular kiss. It wasn’t even very long. Geralt had to break apart with a hiss, a hand clutching his side.

“Melitele, Geralt, you could have told me you’re hurting!”

“I’m fine,” Geralt grunted, leaning heavily against the desk. “I’m fine.”

Jaskier scowled. “I made those stitches. And they may be crappy stitches, but they’re what’s holding you together right now. I should not have danced with you. What if we just made it worse?”

“Jaskier,” Geralt said softly. “I’m fine. Let’s just go to bed. I promise, I will wait with further physical activity until the wound has healed.”

Jaskier glared at him. Geralt pulled him close and gave him another kiss.

“You know that kissing me won’t work in distracting me from my anger at you.”

“Hm,” Geralt said. “Then I’ll just have to try again.”

Jaskier sighed into the kiss and let the witcher pull him along, out of the study and towards the master bedroom.

Geralt kissed along Jaskier’s jaw, nipping at the skin with his sharp teeth, his hands divesting Jaskier of his clothes. He bat his hands away.

“No,” he said. “No physical activity.”

Jaskier was pretty sure what Geralt uttered next was a whine. He laughed and booped his nose.

“Focus on healing, my dear. Then we can talk about being improper.”

“Fine,” Geralt said reluctantly. Jaskier felt a wave of fondness wash over him. He loosened the witcher’s hair tie.

“Let me get a basin of water so we can clean the rest of the blood and grime off you.”

Geralt hummed and let Jaskier do as he pleased. When they were finally settled, Jaskier rested his head on Geralt’s chest and sighed contentedly. The witcher’s fingers were painting circles on Jaskier’s shoulder, grounding him.

“I was scared,” Geralt said. “When I saw you lying in the storm.”

“I didn’t mean to worry anyone.”

“I’ve never been that scared for any other person than Ciri,” the witcher confessed. Jaskier turned his head up to look at him.

“One day,” he said, “I will tell you about what exactly happened. But not today, if that’s alright with you.”

“Of course,” Geralt said. “I have some things to confess as well.”

Jaskier yawned.

“In our own pace, then.”

Geralt hummed in agreement.

“Sleep well, my lord.”

“Told you not to call me that.”

“Precisely why I’m doing it.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“That’s why you love me,” Jaskier said, smug.

“Let’s not jump to conclusions.”

Jaskier had never thought that someone would be able to make him want to tie the knot. He’d never been so happy to have been wrong.