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Stefan has vaguely heard of the witchers' bard, even though he spends most of his time at sea and far from what he understands are the bard's usual routes. Still, word travels, and songs travel faster still, so he knows of Jaskier, even though he’s never met him.
He spots the bard at the market, having heard whispers of Jaskier and the White Wolf’s presence in Lan Exeter. The bard is dressed in a bright blue doublet, a lute case slung over his shoulder, and he is haggling over supplies at a nearby stall. Stefan drifts closer, curious about the man he's heard so many strange rumours about.
“You must be the witchers' bard,” Stefan says, as the bard walks away from the stall with a bag in hand. The bard’s gaze meets his and he brightens - a very unusual reaction to seeing a strange witcher out and about.
“My reputation precedes me. Please, call me Jaskier, and who -” the bard stops short as his eyes land on his medallion, smile fading. “You’re a Crane.”
“Last I checked, yes,” Stefan says, amused.
The bard goes pale, and his scent turns ashy with sadness. “Oh, I - I have something of yours. Something that should’ve been returned to your school some years ago. Can we - can we discuss this somewhere more private?”
Stefan narrows his eyes at him. “Why would you have something of mine?”
“It’s a medallion,” Jaskier says. He looks around them at the busy market, as though he'd rather not have this conversation in public. “I’m afraid I ran into one of your kinsmen on the road to Ard Carraigh, about ten years ago, now.”
That that kinsmen was now dead went unsaid, but how else would Jaskier have a Crane’s medallion in his possession? Suddenly, Stefan doesn’t really want to be doing this in public either.
“Would you - would you come back to my camp with me?” Stefan asks. “I’m just outside of town, I’m not far from the road.” He expects to be refused, or at least for the bard to be apprehensive about following a stranger into the woods, but Jaskier just nods and follows him without question.
As soon as they sit down at Stefan’s camp, Jaskier is digging through his bag. He pulls out a notebook and flips through it. “Sorry, I just want to make sure I get it right - my memory is fallible and it’s been so long…He had dark hair, he was clean shaven, about as tall as me but much broader in the shoulder. Nose looked like it’d been broken a few times. Very bad scar on his right forearm, looked like something bit it and tried to tear it to shreds. And he had a small portwine stain on the edge of his jaw.”
Stefan’s stomach twists. “His name was Alec,” he says quietly.
“Alec,” Jaskier repeats. There is something like relief that floods his scent, or maybe catharsis is the better word for it. “I’m sorry to be the bringer of bad news.”
And then Jaskier opens up a pocket on the side of his bag and pulls out a medallion with its chain wrapped neatly around itself. Stefan holds out a hand, not trusting himself to speak, as the bard presses the medallion into his hand and then withdraws.
“You’ve carried this for ten years?” Stefan asks softly.
Jaskier nods. “I was the last person to see him and I didn’t even know his name, and…I didn’t know what else to do with it. I’d never met another Crane, and all the witchers I knew hadn’t crossed paths with one in several decades. So.”
“There’s only five of us left, and we spend most of our time on ships,” Stefan says. A dull ache spreads through his chest as he realizes: “Well. Four now.”
He’d never been close to Alec, hadn’t seen him in close to thirty years, but it still felt like someone had carved off a piece of him with a dull knife. Another brother gone, and perhaps one day Stefan will the last. He prays the gods will take him before the rest of his brothers, because the prospect of being the last is a terrible, terrible thing.
“I am very sorry for your loss,” says Jaskier.
It is impossible to ignore the emotions pouring off the bard, all of them so tangled up together it's hard to make sense of it. “You mourned for him,” Stefan says, realizing.
“There was no one else who could.”
What kind of person mourns a stranger for ten years, simply because there is no one else who can?
The same kind of man who decides to show kindness to witchers frequently enough to get a reputation out of it, probably.
“Where do you winter?” Jaskier asks suddenly.
“On ships, mostly,” says Stefan. “The seas never freeze over, and so there’s always work for us.”
“Well. If you ever get tired of it, and you need a place to hole up for the winter, you should know that Kaer Morhen is still standing, and I think you and your brothers would be welcome.”
Stefan lets out a laugh despite himself. “Does the Grandmaster of the Wolves know you’re inviting strange witchers over to his keep?”
Jaskier grins. “As long as I don’t bring anymore Cats to his door, Vesemir is content.”
“More Cats?”
Jaskier shrugs and waves him away. “It was a whole thing. Lot of bad bloods between the Cats and the Wolves.”
“Lot of bad blood between the Cats and literally everyone.”
“Fair enough, but I’m quite fond of a few of them,” Jaskier says. “If you do decide to join us, there is one Cat who is a regular resident over the winter, just so you know.”
What the hell were the Wolves up to? “Who else winters in Kaer Morhen?”
“Oh well, myself, the four remaining Wolves, a Griffin named Coen, a Cat named Aiden, and a couple of winters ago, Letho of Gulet joined us - Vesemir almost had my head for that one, actually. Also occasionally a sorceress, but Yennefer doesn’t like staying at the keep very much.”
Oh, the Wolves are running a madhouse, good to know. Still, it’s a generous offer. The prospect of rest and safety in the mountains sounds as sweet as a siren song right now.
“Is the White Wolf waiting on you back in town?” Stefan asks.
“Not 'til nightfall.”
“Then perhaps…perhaps you can share dinner with me, and I can tell you about my brother. Let me - let me tell you about the man you mourned in my stead for the last ten years.”
“I’d be honored,” Jaskier says with a smile that is, despite everything about this situation, still genuine.