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Jaskier wouldn’t say he had an ego. Or rather, whilst he might acknowledge he had a bit of an ego, he’d never admit it out loud, and he hadn’t thought it was particularly undeserved. He’d flirted his way across half the continent, his songs were sung in every tavern in every town, and he’d performed for queens and princes alike. Well, not exactly alike, but he’d done it nonetheless. And as such he genuinely had believed that his name carried enough weight to convince the guards who’d found them on the edges of the Northern army camp that he was not a nilfgaardian spy.
Now, his hands were tied tightly behind his back, he was cold, hungry, and his ribs hurt from where Geralt had elbowed him earlier in an effort to shut him up. Milva had split up from them several hours before they’d been captured and so he supposed there was still some chance for a dramatic rescue, but he wasn’t getting his hopes up. Milva was practical to a fault, she wasn’t likely to storm an entire army camp by herself for them. Not for Jaskier at the very least.
“One day, you’ll actually listen when I tell you to let me handle the talking.” Geralt grumbled, although his tone was closer to fond than frustrated, so Jaskier didn’t let the comment bother him much.
“We both know you’ll marry an alghoul before that happens.” Jaskier replied with a grin.
“Alghoul would be better company.”
“Rude.”
“Oi, quiet, the both of you.” One of the guards jabbed his pike in their general direction and Jaskier tried not to roll his eyes. These guards were not only clearly uncultured, but twitchy too.
“Where did your friends disappear to anyway?” Jaskier asked the guard. When they’d been apprehended it had drawn the attention of all the nearest part of the camp, and there had been close to a dozen soldiers surrounding the tent at first. Now they were left with only the four surliest and most ill tempered, and Jaskier was already bored.
“Wouldn’t you like to know.” The guard snarked back.
“They’ll have gone to get the Queen.” Geralt said matter of factly. “You said yourself when we first saw the camp, insignia of Lyria and Rivia.”
“Queen Meve is here you think?” Jaskier asked sceptically. “I thought royals didn’t get involved with the ins and outs of actual warfare. Well, except Calanthe I suppose.”
“Depends on the Royals.”
Jaskier tried not to picture Radovid riding out into a battle and found it a very easy task. His thoughts were often preoccupied with the former Prince, but he could hardly imagine Radovid lifting a sword, nevermind leading soldiers. What little he’d heard of Queen Meve however, painted a different story.
“Quiet spies, I won’t tell you again.”
“For the last godsforsaken time-“ Jaskier argued. Geralt growled at him again, but he ignored him, “shush, for the last time we are not spies. I told you, I’m-“
“Jaskier.” A voice said softly as the tent entrance was pulled aside.
In the back of Jaskier’s mind he realised Geralt had been trying to warn him, that he had probably heard the boots approaching outside and wanted Jaskier to stop talking before he incriminated them any further. But none of those thoughts seemed able to fight for space in his mind when he was struck with the realisation that Queen Meve was not the only northern monarch in the camp.
The man standing before him was a complex patchwork of contradictions. His broad shouldered silhouette was an illusion painted onto him by plate armour and a thick red cloak that Jaskier knew hid a slight frame. His face was set in a stern and indifferent mask, all trace of softness and vulnerability gone, weighed down by the crown upon his head. Jaskier would have almost sworn he was looking at a different man entirely, but he’d recognise those eyes anywhere.
“See,” Jaskier declared, turning back to the guard, hoping the false bravado would disguise the sound of his thundering heart. If Geralt’s face was anything to go by, it wasn’t working, but he was a Witcher with enhanced hearing so that wasn’t a fair measure anyway. “I told you I wasn’t a spy.”
“Oh I don’t know about that.” King Radovid of Redania said, a sort of twisted smile playing on his lips. “But I think we can let him go this time.” He said turning to his guards. “He’s one of ours.”
The words sent a strange chill down his spine. He knew it wasn’t intended that way, but it felt claiming somehow. He didn’t dislike it as much as he suspected he should.
As the guard untied Jaskier’s hands he watched the king carefully, but he found the man nearly impossible to read.
“Your majesty?” The guard asked. “What about the Witcher?”
For the first time Jaskier saw a crack in the king’s mask. He hesitated, looking almost afraid for half a second before his face returned to perfect indifference. But he still didn’t speak, clearly turning the issue over in his mind.
“Your majesty,” Jaskier said softly, the words heavy on his tongue. “He’s with me, please.”
“Untie him.” Radovid said sharply before turning on his heel and striding out of the tent.
There were then several minutes during which Jaskier scrambled to untie Geralt, swatting the guards aside as he freed his friend. The two of them exchanged a look that encapsulated both relief and caution. Clearly neither one of them had any idea what was going through Radovid’s mind, and they both knew that this whole situation could potentially turn south at any moment.
They were escorted out by the guards and into the central tent of the encampment where Radovid was waiting. He was in conversation with another guard, although this one was unarmed. After a few moments the guard turned and left, not looking once at Jaskier or Geralt. Radovid then turned to a map in the centre of the room and motioned them over.
“The camp is here.” He said, pointing at a red marker near the river. “Queen Meve is in command of a second encampment to the west, here. And these are the last known locations of Emhyr’s approaching army and scouts.” He continued, pointing now to the black markers scattered across the border.
“They’re closing in.” Geralt murmured, his fingers drawing a line across the map between each of the black markers. It made a clear net, slowly drawing up around the northern army.
“Yes.” Radovid admitted, his voice perfectly steady. “We’re expecting reinforcements from Temeria in a few days time but…” there was no way of knowing if they would arrive in time.
“What are we supposed to do?” Jaskier asked.
“You are going to follow this trail through the woods to the south west.” Radovid said simply. “It’ll allow you to skirt the edges of Meve’s encampment without being caught, and without crossing paths with Nilfgaard. I’ve asked for two horses to be brought to our southern border for you, along with supplies for your journey.”
He turned and walked across the tent, retrieving something from a chest and then turned back to them with Geralt’s sword in his grasp. Less awkwardly than Jaskier might have suspected he held it outstretched towards Geralt. It occurred to Jaskier suddenly that there were no other guards in the room. Radovid had placed himself entirely at Geralt’s mercy in a matter of seconds. Geralt took the sword cautiously and buckled the scabbard back on his belt where it belonged.
“You’re letting us go, why?” Geralt asked.
“Consider it amends for a promise I once broke.” Radovid’s gaze lingered on Jaskier for a few moments before it flickered back down towards the map. “You’ll need to travel fast. Philippa will know you were here.”
“Radovid-“
“If there are any further supplies you need only notify one of the stewards before you leave.” The king interrupted. He was refusing to look at either of them now. It felt strangely like being in that classroom at Thannedd all over again. Just like then he knew what he had to do, who he was going to follow, and yet there was a part of him that couldn’t stand the thought of leaving.
“Go check the horses,” he told Geralt quietly. “I’ll join you in a minute.”
The Witcher gave him an odd look, but nodded and left anyway. The silence lingered in his wake, Radovid’s head still bent over the map, a wave of golden hair cascading past his face like a curtain.
Jaskier took a hesitant step towards him, and then stopped himself. If he had imagined how his day was going to turn out when he woke that morning, he never would have pictured the events that had transpired. He hadn’t thought he’d never see Radovid again, but to be stood in the same room as him like this… he almost couldn’t believe it. He certainly couldn’t believe that Radovid had spared not only him, but Geralt too. To let Jaskier himself escape would have been one thing, the continent was only after him because of his connection to Geralt and Ciri, perhaps some lingering fondness of their time together would have been enough to justify it. But to free Geralt too was something else entirely. Radovid was right that Philippa would find out and when she did who knew what retribution she would invent.
“I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you for this.” He whispered. Radovid finally looked up and smiled ruefully.
“You don’t have to.” he replied, his voice quiet so the guards wouldn’t over hear. “Jaskier I’m so sorry, for everything.”
“Are you?” Jaskier asked. It wasn’t meant as mockery or even scepticism, it was a genuine question. “I’m not.”
“What-?”
“I’m not sorry to have met you. And whilst I will always blame myself for losing Ciri, I’m not sorry for the night we spent together either… not really.”
He’d thought about what had happened too many times. Wondered over and over again if he would make the same choices again knowing what was going to happen, knowing that it would be his fault. And he’d never quite settled on an answer, which in a strange way told him everything he needed to know to know. Despite the cruel words and accusations he’d thrown at the man, he’d never met anyone like Radovid. He’d never felt seen like Radovid saw him. He’d never wanted so badly to be able to trust someone. He knew that time couldn’t be rewritten but he would still trade almost anything for Ciri’s safety. The mere fact that his memories of Radovid weren’t something he could easily give up for her told him everything he needed to know about his own feelings.
They were standing so close to one another now that Jaskier didn’t have to move, so much as tilt his face slightly to brush their lips together. Only softly at first, but when Radovid made no move to escape him he pressed closer, cradling the king’s face between his palms. It had been an impulsive decision the first time he did this, one that nearly cost him everything, and yet he was making the same choice all over again, without hesitation. Poets through the ages had described a hundred different ways of falling in love, and Jaskier had never really understood it for himself, but whilst he wasn’t necessarily willing to assign the word ‘love’ to this experience yet, being with Radovid felt exactly like falling. He had no power in him to resist it.
Then Radovid pulled away.
He didn’t go far, but his fingers gently encircled Jaskier’s wrists, removing his hands from Radovid’s person with careful determination.
“You don’t have to do that.” He said, eyes fixed firmly on where their hands met.
“You don’t want me?” The question was almost rhetorical. Radovid might have decided to take the noble path and push him away before anything had gone too far, but he’d accepted Jaskier’s kisses easily enough. Too easily in fact, like he’d been drowning, swept away by the same tide Jaskier was caught in.
“Not if it’s an obligation, or a trade.” Radovid told him, shaking his head slightly. “I don’t care if you don’t want me anymore Jaskier, I just want you safe. I just want to help. I don’t need anything in return.” His brow was furrowed in uncertainty, and despite the harsh glittering edges of the armour he wore, he looked strangely vulnerable. Jaskier twisted his wrist in Radovid’s grasp, to instead tangle their fingers together.
“And what if I want you?”
“After everything?”
“I was wrong about you. And I still want you, if you’ll have me?”
Radovid kissed him again, unreservedly this time. It was delightfully overwhelming and familiar in a way Jaskier couldn’t quite describe. The closest he could put it was it felt a bit like coming home.
After Thannedd he’d tried so desperately to push all his memories of the former prince to the back of his mind. And then in the months that had followed, as his anger had washed itself away, he’d frantically tried to reconstruct those memories from the pieces that he’d been unable to forget. But nothing his mind had held onto compared to the real thing.
It was imperfect, all good things were. Radovid’s armour was digging into his shoulder, but somehow it only grounded him in the moment. But like all good things it had to end.
This time however Radovid parted from him much more reluctantly. Even as the king pulled away he kept pausing to trade additional kisses, as if determined to squeeze every last moment of intimacy out of the little time they had together.
“You should go.” Radovid told him, although Jaskier suspected it was the opposite of what he really wanted to say. “Your Witcher will be waiting for you.”
“I would stay if I could.” Jaskier said honestly. Too honestly.
“I wouldn’t have you stay.” Radovid shook his head and stepped back. “Redania isn’t safe for you. For anyone.”
Jaskier didn’t know what to say that so he simply kissed the man again. Only quickly, he knew that Radovid was right. The day was wearing on they needed to travel far enough to be safe from Meve’s scouts by nightfall. He glanced back at the map and saw the nilfgaardian net Geralt had drawn out. He wondered how long Radovid had before it closed in on him. Days? Weeks? And what of Philippa? Radovid was waiting in the open jaws of monster that Jaskier didn’t know how to save him from. So he knew he had to make the sacrifice worth it.
He straightened his coat, neatened the wayward strands of his hair, and turned towards the entrance to the tent.
“Will I ever see you again?” Radovid asked. His voice was so quiet Jaskier wasn’t sure if he was supposed to have heard.
“Gods I hope so.”
Radovid smiled, seemingly despite himself, and Jaskier decided that he much preferred parting like this, than the way he’d left Radovid the last time they’d seen each other.
Geralt was waiting for him at the camp’s edge with two horses, their bags already secured. When he laid eyes on Jaskier, the two of them mounted up and rode out without exchanging any words. Half an hour later Milva emerged from the undergrowth, cursing and ranting at them for being a pair of reckless idiots. Jaskier just plastered on a smile and let her and Geralt’s bickering wash over him as they journeyed further south.
Jaskier could still feel the lingering sensation of lips against his own, of hands on his waist, strands of golden hair against his fingertips. His mind kept jumping to all the things he could have done had they only had a little longer together. He imagined peeling Radovid out of his armour, one plate at a time, revealing all the soft and tender parts of him beneath it. He was so lost in his own memories he almost didn’t notice the sun descending towards the horizon.
The three of them set up camp quickly and efficiently. They didn’t light a fire, too concerned it would be seen by either the nilfgaardians or Meve’s forces, but their new supplies contained enough non-perishable food that they didn’t have to worry about hunting or cooking dinner.
As Milva sorted through and compiled their supplies, Geralt pulled Jaskier to one side.
“Jaskier…” he started, his face already showing clear exasperation, tempered only with slight confusion, “what the fuck was that?”
“What?” Jaskier asked innocently, although he suspected he already knew.
“With the King of Redania.” Geralt clarified. “Tell me you didn’t.”
“It’s complicated.” He tried sheepishly.
“That’s not an answer. Explain.”
“Remember Rinde, when I got held hostage and threatened by the clearly unhinged sorceress and you decided to fuck her anyway?” Jaskier reminded him, not at all using Yennefer to deflect the conversation. Geralt merely growled at him. “It’s a bit like that.”
The look Geralt gave him could have made a lesser man wet himself. The only reason it didn’t work on Jaskier was because he knew by now that if Geralt was going to kill him in a murderous rage, he would have done it a decade ago.
“What? Don’t give me that look. Everything with Yennefer worked out fantastically in the long run didn’t it?” He insisted. “I know what I’m doing. Sort of. Mostly. He let us go at least.”
Geralt was quiet for several long moments as he weighed his irritation with Jaskier against the facts of the matter. They were alive, and they were alive because Radovid had interceded in their behalf, to his own detriment. Eventually Geralt just sighed.
“You’ll be the death of me, bard.”
“You can say I told you so after we rescue Ciri.”
He only hoped they would get to her in time.