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Jaskier had two instincts when the world gets too much, when everything piles so high it's overwhelming and something, large or small, causes it all to come tipping over. He has two conflicting instincts, never able to tell which will come out stronger, and has worked long decades to suppress both. It works the vast majority of the time, he can't afford for it not to.
The first is to shrink, give in to feeling too small to make a difference, that everything is spiralling out of control and all he can do is cling on and go with it and hope you survive the ride. To be a mouse and sneak into a dark corner or, later Roach's saddlebags, and let everything pass him by. Or be a hare, finding the cracks in the earth to hide in, safe and warm and blanketed in shadows. Or be the songbird that people call him occasionally, soar above everything and gain the distance to make it manageable, passing the time with snatches of song, stolen by the wind.
The second is to grow, become too large for anything to affect or, failing that, large enough to fight back. To be the bear that stands between Geralt and the pack of drowners, or a wolf pack and its prey. The stag that runs through the trees when last night's tavern was a little too busy, a little too loud. The dragon that burns the bandits that invade his home and threaten his family, or roars futilely at the cruelty of the world.
But both those instincts will reveal him, endanger him, so he stays quiet and projects calm and, when he can, heads to the nearest space without people.
---
He's five the first time he shifts, the youngest anyone in his village has ever heard of. But he's always loved freely. That's what does it really, the adults call it something else; faith, devotion, worship. But they're all a type of love really, occasionally misplaced sure, but The Lord doesn't mind.
He's five the first time he shifts, following Him through the thick undergrowth, legs too little for him to keep up. The Lord of the Forests, the adults call him, but the child who is not yet Jaskier doesn't realise the importance of that title, that the spirit walks freely in the surrounding woodlands.
He's five the first time he shifts, stumbling over a branch and caught by gentle hands that become paws a few moments later. He's so entranced by The Lord's shape that he doesn't realise his own has followed until The Lord turns and pads away and he scrambles to follow, finding too many legs and too few arms. Finding extra limbs along his back as his wings flare for balance, and The Lord returns with an amused huff and picks him up by the scruff of his neck.
He's five the first time he shifts, into His Lord's sacred animal, the great winged panther, smokey patterns barely visible on his dark fur.
He's five the first time he shifts, His Lord's gift to his chosen, to those who follow him, to those who worship him, to those who love him.
He's five when his life changes, but he'd been too young to remember what it changed from.
---
He's nearly thirty when his life changes for the second time, but it's his choice this time. To leave his family and his home, to travel, to refine his music, to learn every story (every shape) he can.
So he goes with his parents' proud smiles, his siblings requests for presents, his village's well wishes. His Lord's blessing, a token strung round his neck made of antlers shed by them both, a kiss on his brow and whispered words as he's held close.
But it's not a parting, His Lord walks in all forests across the world. Jaskier will never be far from him.
He takes a deep breath, sets down his youngest sister from where she's perched on his shoulders and heads down the path to Oxenfurt.
---
He's forty-one when his life changes again, not looking much older than twenty and only a couple of years out of university. He doesn't realise straight away this time, as he looks across the backwater tavern at a man with silver hair and golden eyes.
It changes faster than it ever had before, and he explores further, sees more mountains and plains and oceans than he could ever have imagined. More forests. He sleeps under wide oak canopies, on beds of pine needles, on boughs wider than he is tall, on the woven roots of mangrove trees. He sleeps beside a man who doesn't see his own goodness, his own kindness; first with a fire between them, then beside him for warmth and companionship, then tangled together in their bed. He wakes to fingers dancing across his skin, kisses pressed to his neck, a low rumble in his ear.
Geralt is a quiet man, for all his affection is loud in his actions, and Jaskier never knows if he realises who -what- Jaskier is. Or who watches over them from the dappled shadows between the branches.
Winters are always the hardest in some ways, lovers parted for the season, and easier in others, the chance to truly shed his shape and be beholden to no one but himself and His Lord. He roams as he chooses, he flies with the winds, and swims under moonlit skies. He visits friends from Oxenfurt, the best crafts folk he can find, nobles and labourers. A thousand lives brush against his, with all their stories and songs and hopes and dreams.
He finds himself in the royal garden in Cintra, a handful of years after he last visited for that fateful banquet, looking at a white haired child, one thumb in her mouth and surprise on her face. He pads towards her on silent fox’s paws and she giggles, burying a gentle hand in his soft fur. She tells him about her day, the dresses she hates and the new fruit she’d tried, and he’s endlessly, effortlessly charmed.
He doesn’t leave until a druid walks through the trees, eyes wide as he takes in the sight of them, bowing deeply to Jaskier and informing little Ciri of her bedtime.
He returns year after year.
---
He's sixty-five when his life changes again, still looking as he did before he left his quiet village, and this is one of the days he most regrets leaving at all.
He heads to the coast alone, because it's something to focus on besides the empty space beside him. A destination set, even if it wasn't the way he'd hoped for. But a benefit of travelling without Geralt has never changed, even if the season has, the freedom to travel how he wishes to. One day a wolf running through the thick woodlands, another as a hawk that skims to clouds, another as a horse following a wild herd across the open plains. Sometimes the shadow of someone keeping pace and a quiet sense of belonging, sometimes fur pressing close as someone settles beside him to rest, His Lord's quiet presence reminding him that he is never truly alone if he wishes not to be.
When he finally reaches the shoreline the itch to go further still hasn't left him, and he heads to the nearest port to look into passage to Skellige. He definitely doesn't pay enough attention as he should to the boat he ends up on, head and heart both still back on a mountaintop weeks behind him, in the dubious care of his- a white haired witcher.
It's the largest form he's ever taken, a serpent that crushes the ship that the crew had just thrown him off after relieving him of his valuables. He coils his massive body around it and it feels like little more than a toy as it falls apart, crew frantically clinging to planks of wood or swimming desperately for the shore just visible through the mists.
He dives to the bottom of the bay, resolving to look through the shipwreck for his belongings after it settles, and shrinks slightly heading for the forest of kelp that blankets the sand. His Lord greets him, as comfortable in the water as on land, all forests are his domain after all, and presses a hand to Jaskier's forehead with a gentle command to sleep, to heal. He does.
---
He's nearly seventy, and really should stop counting, when a wave of magic washes over him from his token, granting him a vision of Geralt and Ciri in a forest, the witcher's face pressed to pale hair as her hands clutch at his shirt like she'll never let him go. It's accompanied by a strong pull northwards, not compelling, just offering a direction to follow if he chooses.
Jaskier had two instincts when the world gets too much, when everything piles so high it's overwhelming and something, large or small, causes it all to come tipping over. He has two conflicting instincts, never able to tell which will come out stronger, and has worked long decades to suppress both.
Today he chooses not to, and a griffin rises into the sky with steady wing beats and a steadier heart.